i'm ready to hope, swing me out of the low
wide awake in the glow, can't do it alone
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The first time Itachi met little Haruno Sakura, she was a bundle in her mother's arms. Mother, who held a similarly swathed Sasuke, cooed and reached over to smooth her fingers over her head—drawn by some inexplicable trait that he couldn't see. Intrigued, the boy stood on the tips of his toes to catch a glimpse.
His growth spurt had yet to come.
"Oh, do you want to see her, Ita-chan?" Mebuki, he thought her name was, smiled gently and knelt to offer him a look at her baby girl.
She had pink hair.
Not the blood-stained peach fuzz that Sasuke had—father still talked about watching the birth as if it were a great battle; something to be won—but pink, the shade of sakura petals and strawberry yogurt. "What's her name?" He asked politely, leaning in to watch her nose crinkle in the warmth of the sun.
"It's Sakura, dear."
He straightened, levelling an inquisitive stare at the older woman. She smiled back and shifted the baby in her grasp, humming almost absently.
It wasn't a joke.
With as much pretense as a five-year-old could offer, he nodded and turned back to his mother, who watched the entire exchange with an amused look. Mikoto gave a rejoinder in the midst of her laughter, "He means to say it's a beautiful name. Don't you, Ita-chan?"
Itachi's cheeks warmed—shame shining bright as he dipped his head and lifted his forgotten dango to his mouth. He chewed it over and nodded, "Yes."
It was a beautiful name.
She would be teased for it.
Three days later, Mebuki and Sakura appeared again. Only this time, they were in his living room, and there was another baby lined up on the blanket-covered couch—cheeks adorned with whiskers, a blonde mess of hair atop his head.
Idly, Itachi wondered if his name was sunshine or something equally as obvious.
"Come over, Ita-chan." Mikoto waved him over with a soft smile, clutching his shoulder and giving a small squeeze. He stared at the babies, who stared back at him with varying degrees of interest. Ironically, it wasn't Sasuke who seemed to be fixated on him, but the girl instead. Sakura gazed at him with stunningly bright green eyes, examining his every move.
Sasuke slept peacefully, unaware.
"This is Naruto—" He chanced a look at the blonde child, squirming a little in his mother's grasp. To her credit, Kushina soothed him quickly, running her fingertips across his temples while singing a foreign lullaby under her breath.
Itachi glanced back at Sakura, only half-listening to the chatter among friends. Hesitantly, he took the few steps forward and stood before her—watched, as she lifted a tiny hand and waved it in the air, fingers curled. He extended his own, and observed as the infant grasped his fingertip with an astounding amount of force.
A laugh burst from his lips, short and surprised.
"Hello, Sakura-chan."
—
By the new year, Sakura had grown by about six inches. Itachi knew because she liked to be held—because more often than not, she insisted that it was him; despite the fact that he was hardly bigger than she was. It made little difference, though—he'd been taught from the start on how to hold a baby.
Itachi cradled her head in his tiny palm, stared down at her and rocked her until she dozed soundly enough to be given back to her mother. If he held onto her even after she'd fallen asleep a time or two, neither Mikoto or Mebuki said a thing.
He caught up with her sooner than later, gaining an inch or three after a few restful weeks between missions. His bones ached from time to time—his muscles sprained, energy drained by training sessions that played on every growing pain he had.
If, at the end of the day, he could come home to a cooing Sasuke planting a kiss on his cheek, or an especially affectionate Sakura crawling onto his lap grabbing at his face, he was fine with that.
Itachi eased into a routine with them; even Naruto, who was occasionally placed in Mikoto's care when his parents were especially pre-occupied with their respective jobs. Their infantile babbling filled the silence on those days, as they crawled from one end of the room to the other. He sat in the corner of the couch and divided his attention between the scroll in his hand and the kids, who seemed to find every sharp corner and electrically charged device in the place. He spent hours plucking them out of danger, and shushing them into well-deserved naps before he sunk into the cushions with them and closed his eyes.
Often, he would wake to find his mother staring down at them, hands on her hips and an open look of wonderment on her face. She looked ready to scoop him up and start cooing.
With a huff, Itachi slipped off the sofa and padded into his room—feeling warmth spread all the way to his ears.
How embarrassing.
The first time Itachi left the village for longer than a single night, it was an escort mission to Suna—the diplomat in question was a little known name, but paranoid enough to request a genin team to accompany him. It turned out that his suspicions held water—at the border, Izumo was wounded in an ambush, and Itachi carried his bloodied body all the way to Suna for treatment.
They made it, by the skin of their teeth. Izumo survived, but Itachi dreamed of blood every night after.
When he returned, almost two months later with a barely-recovered teammate, it was to a semi-eaten family lunch on the table and a babbling Sasuke, grasping his shirt sleeves to haul himself to his feet. Itachi reached out and held him, perhaps a little tighter than normal, while listening to his half-comprehensible speech about missed adventures with his stuffed animals.
Where did you go, aniki? Sasuke asked, and he had no answer. Instead, Itachi smiled faintly and walked with him to his room, as if he'd been gone for no more than a few hours. He paid little mind to his father's dissecting stare, or the fear written so cleanly across his mother's face, this time.
Sakura was less charitable. She focused her fantastic eyes on him and padded over, releasing her hold on the bundle of flowers held clumsily in her grasp. As Itachi watched the sunflowers spill over the sunlit floor, her tiny body stretched upward to wrap her arms around his shoulders. Once he picked her up, little Sakura grabbed the sides of his face.
"Ita-nii!" Then she gave him a sweet smile, and pulled his cheeks.
He winced. Her grip was as strong as ever.
—
After graduation, the missions became that much harder; bloodier. His first kill came no sooner than he earned his chunin vest—a nameless shinobi deep in the crags of Iwagakure. Though the killing blow had been delivered by the mountains themselves, Itachi still remembered the crack of his spine bending the wrong way over the stalagmite below; still felt the warm spray of blood that shot heavenward across his lips and eyelids.
He still tasted the bile in his mouth when he entered the village gates; still felt his hands shake with the anger and anxiousness of the choice. Perhaps, it might've been easier to slice his head off, than to watch the terror enter his eyes as he plummeted to the earth.
The effort it took to remain composed as he stepped into his home was a weight on his shoulders; on his soul, the moment he met Sasuke in the halls, gazing up at him with nothing but trust, innocence embodied. Nothing had changed, but everything had changed.
"Welcome home, aniki!" Sasuke greeted from behind his mountain of toys; figures of shinobi poised to battle on the dining room floor. He lifted one and released the other, jammed even more into each other while making whooshing sounds—clicking his teeth to mimic the sounds of kunai clashing.
Itachi's stomach dropped.
"Thank you, Sasuke."
He slipped into his room soon after, shuttering his windows and sliding beneath cold sheets to clutch at unconsciousness. Behind his eyelids, he replayed the scene of that nameless man's demise and hoped for the ache to fade, the churning of his gut to subside. Instead, he learned to sleep in fits—between dry heaving into the toilet and scrubbing his hands of phantom blood.
By the time he turned eleven, Itachi knew better to than to close his eyes following those kind of missions.
.
.
.
Though he'd hoped otherwise, Sakura became the teased little girl Itachi envisioned as a child. His quiet journey past the academy was interrupted unceremoniously, by soft laughter and softer cries—it was the latter that stopped him in his tracks, perched high in the trees nearest to the playground.
Dusk had long arrived, but the children still huddled around the swings, circling like birds of prey upon some poor soul.
They started young.
He remained a curious observer—nothing more than a weasel mask peeking out between the leaves. With his katana digging into his back, positioned precariously between wounded shoulders, it was all too tempting to leave them as they were and head home—a shower was in order, hot enough to wash away the tell-tale splatter of blood arcing across his forearms.
It was the peek of pink in the center of their little circle that made him snap to attention; had his teeth sinking into his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Copper on his tongue kept him at bay for the moment, if only to listen as the girl scuttled backward in the dirt—tiny palms kicking up clouds of earth-dust.
"You really think you can become a shinobi?" A chorus of snickers followed the question, posed by the presumed leader of the group; a girl with dark eyes and a darker stare. She leaned down with her hands on her knees, and Itachi swore then that he'd never heard something more insidious than her whispered words as he moved from treetop to treetop—"You'll die out there before you even reach chunin, civilian."
She spat the word out.
The sentiment echoed the murkiest dynamic between protector and protected. He'd heard the rhetoric, drawled in bar corners after bleak missions; orated to the youth of the clans to prevent fraternization among the populations.
Because civilians were only good for farming and breeding, as the saying went.
"Besides, you can't even hide your giant forehead."
Sakura, normally so defiant, only whimpered and lowered her head—obscuring glassy eyes behind a curtain of pink. Itachi braced himself and dropped from his post with a heavy thump. His injured body protested the movement, every muscle screaming from overuse. Still, he approached purposefully, adjusting his mask to regard the star-struck children.
They watched him with parted lips and wonder in their eyes.
Itachi ached to dash their every hope—every dream—the way they so ruthlessly dashed hers.
"Leave," He bit out, vaguely placated by the way each of them jumped, lithe little bodies stumbling to obey his order. Though, Sakura wasn't among them. She stared at her fists and kept her head low, sniffling every few seconds.
Some part of him was proud, that she alone—distracted or not—hadn't folded like the rest. But his heart broke for her just the same; for the innocence in her eyes when she'd told him long ago of how she wanted to be a shinobi for the village, just like him.
For the first time, Itachi wished he had discouraged her.
He moved silently, knees sinking into the ground across from her. Itachi towered over her petite form, and hunched to meet her eyes behind the shelter of his mask, "Crying will not make them stop."
The years had changed him, more than he ever wanted to admit. Gone, was the inclination to coddle the crying girl, even when some small piece of him wanted nothing more than to sweep her up as he always had—to absorb her warmth into his bones and offer what he could in return. At thirteen, Itachi was lukewarm at best.
Sakura deserved more than that. She deserved the truth, offered in kindness—not spite.
"I know," She choked out, dragging her index finger through the dirt in meandering patterns. The effort to direct her thoughts elsewhere wasn't lost on Itachi. He lifted her chin with the tip of his finger, nudging her to meet his gaze—resplendent and sad, her eyes focused briefly on his mask before she released a heavy, shaky sigh, "Anbu-san, why don't they like me?"
Sakura always asked the impossible questions.
"They're afraid," Itachi settled on his answer with a soft hum, ignoring her bewildered look in favor of tugging her to her feet. Once she was safely settled, he reached up to pat her head; calloused fingertips sliding through her hair to flick away bits of dirt, "You are working for something that is innate to them, and if you attain it, you will have earned it on your own merit, rather than having it handed to you."
The itch at the back of his throat served as a stark reminder that he hadn't spoken so much in at least a week. Still, upon registering the tiniest flicker of hope held so precariously in her eyes, Itachi continued, his soft timbre nearly swallowed by the swelling dusk. "You will be stronger than them, in more ways than one."
Sakura seemed to think on his words, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. Only after a few quiet minutes passed did she nod, a hesitant sort of acceptance evident in her voice, "Where were you going, Anbu-san?"
Itachi smiled faintly, casting a look around the darkening playground. The hour had to be growing late; even the street in the distance was quiet, as streetlights began to flicker on.
Guessing the direction of his thoughts, Sakura leaned forward and clasped her hands in front of her. "I'm sorry if I stopped you from going home."
Mebuki taught her impeccable manners.
"You did not."
"Oh."
She turned then, moving quietly toward the swing set nearby. With her back turned, she wiped hastily at her eyes, and released one more quiet sniffle. When Itachi followed, absently so, Sakura offered a shy smile over her shoulder before settling onto one of the swings.
Everything from the tips of her nose to the tips of her toes glowed pink in the last rays of sunlight; the latter vanished into the colored gravel at her feet as she began to propel herself forward, and then back.
It lasted for all of a minute, before her lips parted—hesitant.
"Will you push me?"
Before the last of her words slipped into the summer air, Itachi had already slipped behind her. He laid light, gloved hands on her back and gave a small push. For once, he didn't focus on the stains embedded in the leather, but on the soft red fabric under his palms—on the white circle framed inside them that represented neither a beginning nor an end, but something in-between.
The journey.
Sakura had a remarkable one ahead of her.
—
She sought him out more often than not. Itachi knew because Mebuki worried when she didn't come home until after dark. Mebuki called when the habit of a night or two became the habit of the week, and it was him that was sent out to retrieve her wayward little girl.
Aspiring kunoichi or not, she was eight.
Sakura kept her eyes peeled for weasels, he learned easily enough. Her sharp focus remained trained on the shadows when he appeared on the playground's edge—almost ignoring his presence, in favor of a stranger.
He might've been hurt, if he hadn't known better.
Instead, Itachi accepted the situation with good humor and watched her wait for him, all while making him wait for her. Tucking his hands into his pockets, he approached her swing—she sat there often enough to stake a claim—and knelt at her side. His hand moved absently to her back, giving her a light push.
"Ita-nii," She spoke after a moment, kicking her legs to maintain momentum, "how many friends do you have?"
None.
He hesitated to answer, casting long looks into the open windows of the academy building before them. Empty classrooms called to mind more days spent alone than in the company of others; growing too fast for anyone to keep up. There was more resentment than admiration in their eyes when they looked at him; the same kids who would come to be his subordinates were his peers then.
Every once in a while, the old whispers resurfaced among them—he wasn't quite right, they said.
Too smart, too powerful.
Dangerous, in all the wrong ways.
"I have a few," The half-lie tasted bitter on his tongue, though the light that entered her eyes made it worthwhile—Sakura leaned forward, lowering her voice to a mere whisper.
"Who?"
He thought then, of Team Ro—the strange teammates who seemed just as out of place as he, hoping intellect could be an efficient stand-in for experience. Most times, it was an uphill battle. "My team, Sasuke… "
Sakura waited patiently enough, though he would've had to be blind not to notice the way she gripped the chains holding her aloft a little tighter; how she bent at the waist to level with him, eye to eye. He toyed with the idea of teasing her and pitched his weight onto his toes, before rising to stand. He held out a hand for her to take, "Ready to head home?"
She stood, staring at his outstretched hand with a thoughtful frown.
Her lips parted.
"I have another friend who I've come out to meet, as she stayed out past her curfew… again." His pointed look said enough, it seemed—since Sakura had the good grace to look sheepish, even as she offered a toothy grin and took his hand.
"Sorry, Ita-nii!"
Her mirth, captured in the brightness of her stare and the grip of her tiny fingers, only grew when he offered a soft smile in answer.
"Aa. Just be more careful next time."