It's been a while since I've written anything at all, so here's a little something to get back into the groove. It's a little late for his birthday, but... Here it is, presented without further comment.

Ailment

Ailment had a peculiar effect on people—one that was justified in appreciating the fragile beauty that was life. Uchiha Itachi, who throughout his short twenty-three-year-and-one-hour existence (as he had been born at five in the morning and had risen just as early ever since) had received pity and coddling when injured, now questioned the nature of grieving. Since his last ailment and now observing his brother's, reactions of those around him had twisted in such a way that he determined grief was an existential recognition—a selfish concept in which one mourned for his own fleeting mortality than that of the afflicted.

Admittedly, he felt himself affected, for while the house usually remained still and quiet until the sun had broken over the horizon and burst with radiance that painted the skies pale blue, over the past week, it had been bustling with nervous activity. Some mornings, particularly this one, he felt his own life so acutely that he became painfully aware of how the disturbance in these early, meditative hours made him want to end it.

The kitchen, at least, was unoccupied, with nothing but dawn thinly trickling in through the windows. Itachi opened a white wooden cabinet, his eyes glossy with sleep and searching through the contents within. At last, he reached up and curled his fingers around a translucent orange container. Just then, the lights flickered and jumped to life, and the silence shattered around him.

"Good morning, Itachi!"

In one fluid motion, his grip tightened on the bottle while he slammed it onto the counter—and from the force of the arc, the pills inside leapt out and scattered noisily across the marbled surface.

His breath passed through his lips in a tight stream; he closed his eyes and calmed himself after acknowledging the building agitation. "Good morning, mother."

"I'm sorry, dear. I didn't mean to give you something to clean up so early—I don't have time to do it. It's going to be another busy day, but I think he's starting to get better."

"That is good to hear." Carefully, Itachi brushed the pills off the edge of the counter and into his cupped palm. He poured them back into the bottle, rewarded with the hiss of their weight against each other and the plastic.

"I have a good feeling about today. He's got his color back and he's in a decent mood—well, for his standards." Mikoto smiled gently and smoothed her hands over her apron. "What's today? June ninth? This is a landmark day for the Uchiha Clan's heir after this awful week."

Motionless save for the muscles stiffening almost imperceptibly in his back and shoulders, his eyes lowered slowly onto the counter and stared through it. "Yes. Today is a happy day for Sasuke."

From behind him, Itachi could almost feel the pleased upturn of her lips, certainly sensed the aversion of her gaze, and supposed he did not terribly miss the steady admiration and pride that had long since disappeared from her expression.

Neither hers nor his father's absent favor ached, though childhood memories of Sasuke's ignored complaints arose: mother's obligatorily tender affections and father's stony mien that hid an edge of disappointment.

Itachi ran the pad of his calloused thumb along the pill container's white label. It was inked with print too small to read unaided but with a message strong enough to reiterate itself through touch alone.

Two months ago, the anxious energy had thrummed through every inch of the complex for his sake. Two months ago, after that anxiety had run its course, like the disease that had gripped him, nothing remained for him. His strength returned and his abilities remained at their peak after his recovery, but among the Uchiha, the name Itachi meant nothing.

His battle with sickness had taken the one thing more important to the Clan than his honor: his fertility.

Itachi retrieved a glass from another cabinet and filled it with tap water. Popping two pills into his mouth, he swallowed back his medication and his hope. According to the doctors, the prognosis was grim. His expression barely twitched at the bitterness that filled his mouth.

Should it have mattered so much? Itachi considered it as he replaced the medicine on the shelf. Besides his softness for children, he supposed it hurt more stereotypically. Existentially. It was permanence—or more accurately transience.

He turned just when ice began creeping its way up his spine to meet his father's impassive gaze.

"Itachi."

"Father."

"Your brother wants you."

Itachi bowed his head slightly and clenched his jaw, and he headed for the exit. His father stood in the doorway with his arms crossed. Every fiber seemed to contract and press together as he began to pass the older man. Ice melted into an intense fire when a hand grasped him on his shoulder.

For a moment, the two men locked eyes. Itachi didn't breathe. Fugaku's touch grew vaguely painful.

"Don't look that way," he said at last. "He's feeling well, and I won't have you ruin it with your mood."

"Yes, father."

"You know better to show that anyway."

"Yes, father."

As the hold on his shoulder was released, Itachi slipped away and down the hallway. Every footfall was muffled with careful precision as he treaded down the hall and broke the warm, window-filtered light with his shadow. His chin was tipped downward as if to watch his steps, though his dark eyes, fixed upwards and outwards, caught the light without truly absorbing it.

He opened a wide rice paper door in the center of the corridor which led into Sasuke's room. The previously simple décor had transformed during his bout with death into something either too clinical or too close to home to be lovely. His white pallor and shock of black hair contrasted starkly against the arrangements of flowers on the available table space and windowsills. Balloons drifted lazily in midair as they deflated. Others, still buoyant, reflected the sunlight on their silvery plastic backs. A stack of cards rested on the table beside the door, still bound by a delicate red ribbon, which Itachi picked up and looked at lingeringly.

"Leave them. I'm tired of reading them."

Itachi's attention snapped to Sasuke's bed, where the young man lay with his eyes squinted against the sunlight. Carefully, Itachi replaced the stack of paper on the table.

"How are you feeling, Sasuke?" he asked gently.

"Fine. Will you draw the blinds?" Sasuke frowned and covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

Itachi pulled down on the cord hanging beside the window and the blinds slid shut with a light clack. Silently, he regarded his brother and noted the surly air about him, emphasized in the firm downward curve of his lips and the impatient tension in his fingers. Yes, it seemed he was feeling better.

"I'm hungry." Sasuke broke the silence at last and moved his arm so that one narrowed eye peered out at him from beneath the shadow.

Itachi nodded, satisfied at the vast improvement from the quiet and corpselike, albeit uncooperative, boy they had dragged home not very long ago. His gaze drifted from him to the pile of cards on the table, and his brow creased as he studied the colorful well wishes written carefully in feminine print.

When he looked up again, he saw Sasuke staring at him in concentration, and if he looked hard enough, Itachi believed he could see recognition. Unconsciously, he swallowed down the anticipation. "Anything else?"

Sasuke tilted his head. After a long second, he averted his gaze and waved his hand dismissively. "No. You can go."

Itachi let out the breath he'd been holding. When he blinked, nothing remained but the patient smile that barely touched his eyes. "Very well, Sasuke."

Ailment had a peculiar effect on Sakura—one that made her head swim with facts and stole her attention away from the world around her. Words danced through her vision: the invisible ink imprinted on her mind's eye from hours of poring over patient files. Blood types and karyotypes, immunization dates and birth dates.

She carried a large paper bag at her hip and a wealth of information in her head. And at the moment, she focused on the name 'Uchiha' after one of the nurses had informed her that Sasuke was no longer in critical condition and no longer in spirits sour enough to deter her from visiting. But, she supposed it was wise to come bearing gifts, although her old friend with his aversion to sweets and color was nearly impossible to please.

As she walked through the marketplace, content in the morning sunlight bathing her skin, she scanned the carts until at last she spied a collection of red tomatoes, shiny and inviting. Smiling to herself, Sakura took a few brisk steps forward. However, her trained senses shattering the fixation on her patient's information, she stopped suddenly, gripped her bag tightly, and put her hand forward.

Her palm rested on something firm, and she muttered a quiet 'sorry' as she looked up to meet an intense, black stare.

"Oh! Itachi." Sakura quickly swallowed the embarrassment and smiled sheepishly instead as she withdrew her hand from his chest. "I didn't see you."

"It's all right." He turned from her to pick out another tomato and place it into his bag. "Are you well? You seem distracted."

"Yeah; I get like this when I get off work," she replied with a light laugh. Absently, she studied his profile: the slight tension at his brows and lips, the darkness in his eyes even though the light warmed them enough to see traces of blue. "Are you okay?"

His lips parted; the tension relaxed enough in his forehead to let his eyebrows lift. "I'm fine."

Sakura looked at him sternly. "Okay."

She looked back at the tomatoes. Sasuke. Uchiha. Medical information.

"Hey!" She rounded on him, and Itachi regarded her with a peculiar expression. "Happy birthday!"

"What?"

"Happy birthday. It… is your birthday, right? I was doing paperwork today, and it's the ninth…" The words came slowly, almost uncomfortably. She trailed off under his incredulous stare, his absolute stillness.

"Thank you," Itachi said at last. He smiled a very small smile, appearing shyly, lingering uncertainly.

Sakura grinned back at him and pushed some of her hair from her face. "You're welcome. Well… I guess I'll see you later. I'm coming over to see the baby." Her eyes glittered faintly, and her lips quirked up in a smirk. His own gentle smile remained, vaguely amused.

"I'm sure he'll be happy."

Her smile turned a little shy, and she averted her gaze. "Bye, Itachi."

"Goodbye, Sakura."

Itachi watched her turn and move away. He relaxed, placid but surprised, and when he could no longer see her, he returned the tomatoes to where they had been: neatly stacked and arranged precisely on the wooden cart.

A moment of deliberation passed before he moved through the crowded streets, mutedly greeting those who recognized and acknowledged him. After purchasing a small box of dango, he returned home and laid in the shade of a cherry blossom tree to enjoy them. The green leaves strained out the heat of the summer air, and for the first time in a very long time, he drifted into peaceful sleep.

When he woke up, he crept silently into the house and into his room. And there, on the bedside table, lay a card bound in a delicate red ribbon with well wishes written in feminine print. Itachi traced his fingertips over the cover, pulled loose the bow, and read the short and simple message signed, with kind regards, from Sakura.

He glanced out the window and judged by the dim light that it was early evening. Setting down the card, Itachi acknowledged the empty twist in his stomach and realized he hadn't eaten and recalled he hadn't had a birthday dinner in years.

He pursed his lips thinly. What could it hurt?

Itachi moved down the hallway to check if Sakura had left.