Kingpin
Author's Notes- Fairly quick oneshot about the massacre night, with spoilers from this point onward. There's also a lot of speculation about the Uchiha coup, Itachi's relationship with his family, and whether any Uchihas know about the eternal Mangekyou. Probably going to end up contradicting canon somewhere, and if Madara turns out to be a great big liar, then I guess this all falls on its arse then.
Disclaimer- I don't own any of the recognisable characters or concepts. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made.
It's too humid to sleep, the night hot and damp and somehow intimate, like sick and feverish breath or the heated pocket of air beneath a woman's heavy hair. That's why I tell myself I can't sleep, the heat and that dead, pressurised air slowly bearing down on us, as though someone's screwing a lid shut in a vacuum jar. Mikoto sleeps, but her face is troubled and her hands are screwed into the damp sheets as though her dreams are uneasy. Perhaps she knows Sasuke is still outside, training. I waited, for a while, as I said I would, but if he's anything like Itachi was at that age, he could be out all night.
I hope he's not like Itachi.
That's what keeps me awake, if I'm truthful. Not fretting- not exactly- but things keep turning over in my mind, slow and relentless, like clockwork grinding down over and over again. The village. The coup. And Itachi, always Itachi.
You are the police chief's own son, I told him, in the voice that makes Sasuke flinch, and Itachi regard me with calm contempt. I don't need this.
The question hangs in the silence that falls like a heavy curtain or the indifferent sweep of a guillotine whenever I enter a room. Did he do it? I don't know. I don't know if he killed Shisui. I don't think I even know Itachi at all.
Most of the clan wonder if my son has gone mad. The rest, the few who know our secrets, wonder who it was that put it in his head. Their eyes do not condemn, but they are careful. It's not the accusations the police made that leaves them wary, because it is no secret to them that sometimes one inferior Uchiha must die for another. It's the way that Itachi talked about the clan. I've never heard him talk like that before. I've never heard anyone talk about the clan like that before. Even our enemies have more respect for us than my own son does.
And perhaps he hates the entire clan now, so it isn't just me any more. If Mikoto agrees, I think it's time for Itachi to move out. It's getting so awkward around the house- in my own house- whenever we pass by and I can feel contempt in his eyes crawling over me. And there's nothing I can do about that. There's nothing anyone can do to people like Itachi. There's nothing that he cares about that can be taken away. There's no one he cares about to curb him. My words glance off him, both anger and praise bouncing back like pale flashes of light from a mirror, and he answers politely- apologises if that's what it calls for- and the Sharingan burns into my back as I walk away.
My hand, falling clumsily on his shoulder.
Well done-
-son
The words don't sound right when I try them, falling heavy and misshapen from my mouth. Itachi doesn't care either; he doesn't want anything more from me. I've already gave him this Sharingan, and that's all he needs. He knows what must be done. He will do it for duty, not love.
I think Mikoto hates me too, sometimes. She has this fierce and defensive look sometimes, when she sees me with Sasuke, and she keeps him so close as if she can shield him from what will come. I think she would gladly reject everything we have worked for to keep him safe, and keep their heads down in their little corner of the village. Mikoto and Sasuke, her healthy, normal little boy who still plays with friends and knows nothing of what it is to be an Uchiha, and doesn't learn anything too fast.
And me and Itachi, on the outside. Me, the husband that she blames for all of this, and Itachi, her strange and silent son who watches their normal family unit with remote, alien fascination. I don't think he's jealous. I don't think he's ever wanted affection. Whatever brilliant spark of genius he has seems to have burned him up like wildfire and this is what is left, a clean and honed weapon with light burning blue up two sharpened sides.
I think it used to hurt Mikoto, the way he seemed to turn over her affections in that strange and distant way, and put them carefully aside one by one as the years passed. It's only Sasuke he seems to show any interest now, and come to think about it, it was Sasuke that called Itachi back the day that they came for him. Would he have knelt down and apologised if I had been there, at the door, that day?
It's the next step, isn't it? Or so the clan's old stories go.
I remember when I told Mikoto that Itachi might be a jounin in two years, if he took the chuunin exam this year. I thought she'd be pleased.
"He's only seven," she said. "He's only seven, and he's already graduated the academy. What more do you want?"
"Kakashi Hatake graduated at five," I said, and she was silent.
And now she's going to hold Sasuke back too. Her voice always so insipid, telling me he's too young, too small, that he's not like Itachi. Not the same, perhaps. Itachi has that brilliant streak of genius, Sasuke has determination, a slower, steadier sort of son that won't burn out before his teens. Although sometimes, I don't even care if Sasuke isn't a genius, just-
-not like Itachi.
I sit up, head swimming gently in the humid air, thoughts blundering together clumsily like blind cave creatures in warm dark waters. It's late, and neither of them have came back. Sasuke's too young and innocent to be doing anything but training until he falls asleep from sheer exhaustion. I don't know about Itachi. He doesn't have a mission tonight, so perhaps he's out training too, wherever he goes. I don't know where he's started spending all his time.
Itachi's still learning, but I'm not teaching him.
The door whispers open with a slow and deliberate rasp I can feel through the house. It's just the sound carrying in the silence, but it feels like a stage whisper meant for me alone. Too quiet for Sasuke, and the door does not close again, and I don't hear any footsteps going towards Itachi's room. He's just-
-standing there.
Even the quick, feverish sound of Mikoto's breath fretting back and forward like air over a sawblade has been swallowed up by the silence as I wait for Itachi to go, to his room or back outside, and I don't care which, but he isn't moving at all. I don't know what he's doing. Waiting. He's never been normal, but it makes me uneasy now. I picture him in the doorway, his Sharingan burning low and sullen like coals, his eyes fixed on my room, on me. As though he is waiting for something.
I'm sorry, Mikoto. I don't know what you think I've done wrong.
I slide from sweat-damp sheets that cling like wet tissue, swaying as though drunk in air too hot and heavy to breathe, clotting and rolling around in my lungs like leaden storm clouds. Mikoto rolls over suddenly, lips parting as though she wants to cry out in her sleep, the small sound swallowed up by the silence crushing down over us like the eye of a storm. Each footstep across the floor makes no noise, but I can feel it shiver and sink right into the structure of the house, and I know he feels it too. I turn back, think about tearing away the skein of nightmares Mikoto has wrapped herself away, and then leave her asleep.
And downstairs, my son is still waiting.