Instead of finishing any of my current WIPs, I present to you: Itachi having a psychotic break.

TW: this fic features depictions of suicidal ideation. If this topic makes you uncomfortable or if you find yourself having similar thoughts, I'd recommend that you not read it. And if you're going through a hard time, I want you to know that this stranger on the internet is rooting for you ❤️ Your life has value. Never forget that.


It's his father that ends up finding him. Deep in the depths of ROOT's hideout, the full weight of the village's decaying, rotten foundation resting above their heads. For it to all end here is fitting, Itachi thinks. Poetic, that he will suffocate beneath the very establishment he has devoted his life to, the very thing that has molded him into what he is today.

Even more fitting that the person who put him in this position will be the one to do it.

What Itachi expects to happen as soon as he senses his father's chakra signature is this: he will feel a sword driving through his back, or a sharp edge dragging across his throat. Either way, Itachi has faith that his father will be quick about it, that he won't leave any room for hesitation to bleed into his actions as he takes his eldest son's life. Itachi, for his part, will do nothing to stop him. He'll stand there and let it happen, will even have the audacity to be grateful as he crumples to the ground, relishing how the burn in his eyes grows duller and duller as the life seeps out of him, how the pain and anguish squeezing at his insides disappears along with his Mangekyou. Death, Itachi is convinced, is the kindest thing anyone can offer him right now. Perhaps it's the only thing anyone can offer him.

It's a shame, then, that instead of feeling his flesh being ripped apart, Itachi just hears the sound of his own name being spoken. "Itachi."

Still, Itachi waits. Prays for a stabbing pain to shoot through his body, for his father to tear through his organs and give him the relief he so desperately craves. The relief he wonders whether S̵̛̟̦ḧ̴̜́̓i̶̲̭̓s̶̮̟̈u̶̻͑i̵̺̮̎ felt when he let himself fall from the cliff.

Don't worry, Itachi. It'll be fine.

In what can only be regarded as an act of pure cruelty, Itachi's salvation never comes. And so he looks behind him to see his father standing at the entrance of the room, still wearing his police uniform, a sword in his hand. Not the one he typically uses, Itachi realizes a bit dully — this is the standard-issue weapon, the one his father has long refused to carry in favor of using his own father's sword. Foresight, Itachi thinks. After all, it would be unfortunate to taint a family heirloom with the blood of the one it was theoretically meant to be passed down to. Bad luck, perhaps.

Itachi stares at the weapon for another moment, takes in the gleaming edge of the blade and adjusts the image of what he expects his own death to look like before forcing his attention up to his father's face.

If there is one thing Itachi has had to get used to over these past few years, it is the way his father looks at him. It's not so different from the mask of passive authority he always seems to wear, but there's something more to it, a hidden emotion lurking beneath his features that Itachi has come to recognize for the trepidation that it is. As if he doesn't know what to make of Itachi, doesn't know how to handle him. He expects to see a similar expression on his father's face now, especially given the bloodbath they're both standing in. Either that, or outright horror at the carnage his own son has caused. But Itachi stands there, looking into his father's eyes, and he finds an utterly foreign emotion sitting there instead.

It's only then, as his father unflinchingly meets his gaze, that Itachi realizes his Sharingan isn't even activated.

"Itachi," he says again. "Come here."

Itachi doesn't move. His father straightens, jaw jumping as he takes a step towards him. "Now," he demands, as if Itachi is no more than a misbehaving dog.

That's all you are, though, isn't it? a small voice says. A well-trained pet, desperate to please his village and his clan. Mindlessly following orders, willing to do anything to bring about even a semblance of peace. The perfect soldier. The perfect child. And all he has to show for his efforts is a power he never wanted and a hole the size of his best friend's hands torn through his heart.

Itachi keeps his eyes trained on his father. He shakes his head.

His father's face grows tight, his lips pinched. "Step away from Danzo's body, Itachi. I won't tell you again."

Danzo.

The very name grates against Itachi's eardrums, tears at him like a million shards of glass. His breath catches and, slowly, Itachi looks back down. Danzo stopped twitching long ago, the wound in his throat no longer gurgling. His spine is broken, twisted at such a cruel, unnatural angle that Itachi almost wonders if he'd see bone sticking out if he were to lift up the man's robes. Clearly, he's dead. So terribly, fantastically dead, and yet there's an admittedly delirious part of Itachi that isn't convinced this is over. That somehow, against all odds, someone will manage to save Danzo, that they will swoop in and bring him back to life the second Itachi leaves. The possibility, as unlikely as it may be, is sickening. Intolerable.

Belatedly, he realizes he's shaking. He sees it rather than feels it, the way the hand holding his sword is trembling, his fingers barely able to stay wrapped around the hilt. He doesn't know when it started. Doesn't know how to stop.

He shakes his head again.

"Itachi —"

"Please…" he ends up rasping, a thousand requests dying at the tip of his tongue as Danzo blurs in front of him. Pleas for death and oblivion and absolution and for someone — anyone — to take this pain away.

He thinks he's going to get his wish when he hears his father move behind him. Just the barest rustling of fabric, but it's enough to have Itachi gasping in utter relief.

kill me kill me kill me

Still, when the hand descends on his shoulder, Itachi reacts. Even though he tells himself he's not going to, even though he thinks he's prepared to face his demise with all the dignity someone of his stature and renown should. But Itachi feels the sudden pressure and he flinches, of all things, the sword falling from his hand and his eyes blown wide as his father turns him around and crouches down in front of him.

He doesn't give his father as much credit as he should for the next question he asks, for understanding exactly what led to this moment without Itachi having to say a word about it. Part of him hates him for it, all the same. Part of him will always hate him for it, he thinks.

"Where is Shisui?"

For as much as he prides himself on his composure, Itachi can't hide his reaction. The grief boiling in his chest rises in a fever to his face, twisting at his mouth and making his vision wet and blurry the second he hears the name.

Shisui.

All of a sudden his father is exhaling, the air ghosting across Itachi's face, and before Itachi can even understand what's happening he's being crushed against his father's chest, his arms wrapping around him in a vise. "Okay. Okay, Itachi. Just breathe."

The sword would've been less painful. Itachi does not want comfort, does not want tenderness — he wants blood, his own blood, wants to claw his eyes out and flay his skin and break his own bones until the physical agony eclipses his grief, until he's in too much pain to remember Shisui at all. But his father doesn't let go. And so Itachi does the only thing he feels capable of at that moment.

He cries.

• • •

(This isn't what we need — you have to go back farther.

I'm trying, but he's blocking me. I can't see what happened before this.

You can't get through at all?

I can, but — this is all still too fresh. I could cause major damage if I force anything. I'm going to have to find a different way inside.

And how long is that going to take?

Not long — I think I know what to use.)

• • •

It was hard not to love Shisui. Anyone who met him would agree with that, Itachi thinks. He was something of a golden child, wild and wonderful in ways Itachi could never even dream of being. He was smart, sure, but he was also kind and gentle and breathlessly passionate about what he believed in, courageous and so charmingly optimistic it made even Itachi wonder if better days weren't ahead. He was the type of person who could inspire someone by simply being in the same room as them, by occupying the same space. He made people believe in the impossible, made them want to work towards something better.

So, yes — it was hard not to love him. In that regard, Itachi was no different from the masses. What made him different, perhaps, was the fact that Shisui — against all logical reason, it seemed — chose again and again to spend whatever free time he had with Itachi, of all people.

"Why don't we take a break?" Shisui says to him one afternoon, once they're a few hours into training and both of them are covered in dirt and soaked with sweat. Itachi is breathing hard and vaguely lightheaded from the heat; admittedly in need of said break, though the suggestion alone still has him frowning.

Shisui just laughs. "Don't make that face. Just a short break — look, I brought food and everything."

He procures two containers from his bag, handing one to Itachi. "Leftovers from my dinner last night," he says with a sheepish little smile. "I hope that's alright."

It takes Itachi less than a second after opening the lid and peering inside to realize that the food he's holding can in no way be categorized as leftovers. The ingredients are all fresh, likely put together that morning.

He pictures Shisui alone in his kitchen making this. Wonders if he just so happened to have extra, or if he planned it that way beforehand.

Itachi doesn't ask. "Thank you."

"Anytime." Shisui's smile grows. "I'm not convinced you'd eat if I didn't bring something for you, anyways."

Itachi wrinkles his nose at the accusation. "I eat."

"Not enough," Shisui argues as he sits down. "You're so skinny, it's no wonder you can't pin me down."

"…I won our last spar, Shisui."

"Yeah, but not by pinning me down."

Itachi rolls his eyes and takes a seat beside Shisui, choosing to be gracious and start eating his food rather than dignify Shisui with a response.

Shisui, however, doesn't open his own container. Itachi tries to ignore him at first, but he predictably doesn't last long — he takes maybe three or four bites before he's all but forced to look over and see what Shisui's gotten distracted by.

Shisui's staring at him.

"What?" Itachi asks, automatically swiping at his face before Shisui can laugh and tell him he has rice or kelp on his chin.

Instead of that familiar mischief in Shisui's eyes, though, Itachi is forced to watch them fill with a warmth tender and gooey enough to make his entire face flush. "You're my best friend, Itachi. You know that, right?"

The words catch at something inside Itachi's chest, throw him off kilter. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say to that, and settles on a very lackluster, "Am I?"

"Yeah." Shisui's expression manages to soften even further. "You are."

You're my best friend.

You're my best friend, the only one I can ask this. Please protect the village…and the Uchiha name.

You're my best friend, the only one I can ask this. Please protect the village…and the Uchiha name.

You're my best friend, the only one I can ask this. Please protect the village…

You're my best friend…Please protect the village…

You're my best friend…

You're my best friend…

You're my best friend

You're my best friend

Y̷̻̓ȯ̸̡u̶̻̟͘'̸̙̙͗͑r̶̳͑ẻ̷̳̗̆ ̸̫͝ḿ̴̟̗y̸̱͌ ̷̹̕b̵͚̚ë̸̡͓́̐s̴̯̜͝͠t̶͓̏͋ ̵̨̓͠f̷̦͗͝r̶͔͂͌i̵͓̽̆e̸̡̠̓n̴̹͓̑͛d̵̬͓͗

"You weren't supposed to be there."

Itachi stops. Looks up to find a person standing before him, a beady eyed mask covering their face.

ROOT.

His eyes sting, are burning so hot in his skull that he swears he can feel his brain melting behind them. His vision has never been clearer, the energy boiling in his pathways never more potent.

Everything hurts, down to the marrow in his bones.

There's a breeze. Gentle and soft, yet it makes his entire body shiver, makes him feel like he's going to fall over. He takes a careful, shuddering breath. "Where is Danzo."

"Danzo ordered us to stand down," the man says. "He doesn't want us to touch you. Take that for the blessing that it is and go home. The fight is over."

The fight is over. Except it isn't. It's not even close.

Danzo stole my right eye.

A spasm shoots down Itachi's arm, his neck jerking with the motion. He takes a deep, heavy breath through his nose.

"Danzo," he repeats.

The man shakes his head. "Go home, Itachi."

The problem, though, is that Itachi can't quite conceptualize the word at that point. Logically, he knows the man is referring to the compound, to his house with his mother and father and brother. But in that moment, home feels like it's somewhere at the bottom of the Naka River.

Itachi's arm doesn't truly feel connected to his body when he reaches for his sword.

It's only then that the others emerge. Five of them total, surrounding him completely. "I'm giving you one last chance," the first man warns. "Before it's too late."

Itachi just tightens his hand around the hilt. In that moment, he swears he's floating. "It's already too late."

• • •

(We know what happened there, already. Skip ahead.

You're sure?

Yes; we're taking too long as it is. The Hokage wants an answer.)

• • •

The forest bleeds that night. That's all Itachi explicitly remembers. The leaves are painted red and the bark is oozing and the grass is littered with pieces of flesh and the sky is entirely devoid of light. The air sits thick and heavy in his windpipe, calcifies in his lungs. His vision, at one point, blacks out completely.

By the time he makes it to Danzo's hideout, he can barely breathe. When he finally lays eyes on the man, he nearly stops outright.

Danzo isn't impressed. He remembers that.

"Itachi," he sighs. "I was hoping it wouldn't come to this. Though I suppose it's my own fault — I shouldn't have been foolish enough to think you'd be above succumbing to your clan's curse."

Itachi's only half listening. Because it's then that he sees Shisui's eye, floating in a jar on the table right next to Danzo.

Danzo stole my right eye. He doesn't trust me…

Danzo follows his gaze. "What exactly do you think this stunt of yours will accomplish?" he asks, equal parts curious and condescending. "Surely you don't believe it will solve anything. Shisui is already dead; nothing you do will change that. All you're doing now is bringing more shame to the Uchiha name."

Itachi's throat feels like sandpaper. "Shisui's plan would've worked," he murmurs, laying it like an accusation directly at Danzo's feet.

"Shisui's plan would've destroyed the village," Danzo corrects easily. "For Hiruzen to have agreed to it at all was ridiculous. I had to take matters into my own hands."

"By killing him."

Danzo scoffs. "Shisui killed himself the moment he set his idiotic plan in motion. If it wasn't by my hand, it would've been by your clan's once they realized what he had done. Really, Itachi, you should be glad I interfered. A bit of poison and a missing eye is a much kinder fate than what Fugaku would've afforded him."

Itachi's ears have started ringing. High and shrill, his vision narrowing until all he can see is Danzo and Shisui's eye. He tries to make the connection, to find Danzo's professed kindness somewhere in the memory of blood pouring down Shisui's face, in his gorged, sunken sockets.

Danzo's still talking. "Has it occurred to you that Shisui's legacy is still intact because of my actions? That he will not be known as a traitor because of how I handled his treachery?" Danzo rakes his gaze down Itachi's body. "Your treachery, on the other hand, I'm still deciding how best to deal with."

"Treachery," Itachi repeats, letting it burn his tongue like acid.

"Are you trying to suggest that what you did tonight was not treachery?" Danzo chuckles. "Itachi, how many of my men did you kill? How many good, loyal shinobi are dead because of you?" He shakes his head. "You could be executed for this. I could have you executed for this."

Itachi doesn't care. "You killed a loyal shinobi."

"And you think Shisui's life is commensurate to all the lives you took today?"

Itachi can't help it: his eyes drift to Danzo's throat and, without thinking, he sheathes his sword, reaches instead for his shuriken and kunai. He's always been better with them. After all, he learned from the best. "No. I don't."

Danzo's face hardens. His voice, when he speaks this time, is practically a snarl. "Do you truly believe this is what Shisui would've wanted?"

Itachi's fingers curl around the metal. Home.

"It doesn't matter what Shisui wanted," he says, every inch of him numb. Every inch of him, except for his eyes. "He's dead."

• • •

(Is that enough?

Ibiki — is that enough?

Find Shisui's death.

What?

I want you to find his memories of Shisui's death.

I…I wouldn't recommend that. That part of his mind is extremely delicate right now; if we push at it the wrong way —

Pull back if you feel any resistance, then. Danzo's own confession should be sufficient for the Hokage.

So why have me look at all?

I want to see something.)

• • •

He's too late he's too late he's too late he's too late

"— I tried to stop the coup d'état by using Kotoamatsukami —"

It wasn't supposed to happen this way, Shisui was supposed to wait, they were supposed to do this together, it wasn't —

Shisui's smiling. He shouldn't be smiling, but he is, why is he smiling why is he smiling w̸͈̹͆͒h̸̐͜y̵̭̓ ̴̻̙̌i̴͎̕s̸̢̗͋ ̵̡͈̙̅̃h̶̳͆ḙ̸̭͊ ̴͔̠̒̏ŝ̸̪̙̺m̴̗̿̈́i̵̻͂̋͛ḷ̵̈́͋͝i̸̛̗͙̥͒́ṇ̴̱̐g̷̘̼̋́ —

"I need to do this. Don't try and stop me."

But Itachi reaches out anyway and his fingers glance off of Shisui's but he isn't fast enough and Shisui's falling, back and back and back and back —

I'll never betray you, except this is the greatest betrayal of all, to leave Itachi here alone, to leave him here all a̷͕͗̄l̸͓̦̂̎ơ̷̭̞ń̸͔e̸̦̋̊ —

"You can do it…I know you can…"

He can't, he — he doesn't want to. He needs Shisui, he — he can't — h̵͙͓̓͌e̷̖͎͊̚ ̷͓͗c̵̲̈́a̷̳͈͑͝n̶̼̻͑'̸͙̖͘t̴͚͝ͅ —

Y̷̻̓ȯ̸̡u̶̻̟͘'̸̙̙͗͑r̶̳͑ẻ̷̳̗̆ ̸̫͝ḿ̴̟̗y̸̱͌ ̷̹̕b̵͚̚ë̸̡͓́̐s̴̯̜͝͠t̶͓̏͋ ̵̨̓͠f̷̦͗͝r̶͔͂͌i̵͓̽̆e̸̡̠̓n̴̹͓̑͛d̵̬͓͗

He's dead he's dead he's deadhe'sdeadhe'sḍ̷͉̉ê̶̬̾́a̴͕̣̰̕d̵̹͓̀̃̏h̷̛̗́̔ẽ̴͎'̴̹̞̝̿̕s̴͚͌͐d̵̺̳͈̑ë̸̮́̋a̴̼̠͒̇͝d̷̬̣́h̴̺͉͚́̄e̶͓̰͋̿'̴̞̮͂̍̔s̶̞̭̎̍͜d̸̯̈́̃e̷̯̫̘̾̕a̸̳̅̀ḑ̵̹̦̈͂̊h̴̠̽e̵̻̬͑́̋'̸̱̤̂͋ͅs̸̬͓̒d̴̼͚͋̈́e̸̻̜͑ã̴̳͇̩͠d̷̙́̔h̴͎̼͖̃̚e̸̹̅'̸͔̯̬̀̀s̶̯͝ͅ —

• • •

(That's enough. Wake him up.)

• • •

The first person Itachi sees when he regains consciousness is Ibiki.

"You should drink," he says gruffly, pointing to a glass of water sitting on the table by Itachi's bed. "Nurse's orders."

Drink. It makes sense and it doesn't, what Ibiki just said to do. His mind goes startlingly blank when he hears the word, and suddenly all he can think about is how the last thing Shisui drank was water from the Naka.

Shisui.

It shocks him, the way the mere thought of Shisui roils through him. He squeezes his eyes shut immediately, like he can physically expel the thought, like he can stop his mind before it pulls up memories of Shisui's bruised face and his broken smile and how his body looked falling over the edge of the cliff before he undoubtedly drowned in the river beneath it and —

When Ibiki moved, Itachi doesn't know. But he's there at the side of the bed with a bucket when Itachi rolls over and vomits.

"It's a common side effect of the Mind Transmission," he mutters when Itachi's done, dropping the bucket unceremoniously on the ground before straightening. "Doesn't last more than a few days. You'll be fine."

Itachi just wipes a hand over his mouth. He's still leaning over the side of the bed, staring into the vomit-filled bucket, the metal railing digging into his forearms as he tries to catch his breath.

"I didn't consent to that," he mumbles, voice hoarse.

"You're an ANBU. We didn't need your consent."

Technically, it's true. That doesn't lessen the sting of it. A well-trained pet.

How could he have been so stupid?

"Killing Danzo was an act of treason," Ibiki says then, and it's all Itachi can do to flick his eyes up, to look at him through the hair hanging in his face. "You understand that, don't you?"

And what was killing Shisui considered?

"Yes," Itachi murmurs.

Ibiki's hard to read, harder still when Itachi's mind still doesn't feel like it's working correctly, but something about him seems to soften at Itachi's answer. "The Hokage has decided to pardon you. Seeing a confession from Danzo himself was your saving grace. Still, I'd prepare yourself for a demotion."

A demotion is the least of Itachi's concerns. Something else starts prodding at the back of his mind, something he knows he should be concerned with, would be concerned with, if…

He makes himself ask, anyway. "What else —" he has to stop, clear his throat. Almost reaches for the glass of water but doesn't. "What else did you see?"

"Anything else I came across is none of my business. I was ordered to investigate Danzo's death, nothing more."

Itachi doesn't think he reacts, but he must make some sort of face because Ibiki is sighing immediately. Either that, or he just knows exactly what Itachi's thinking. After being inside his mind for who knows how long, maybe he does. "Your father has been meeting with Lord Third," Ibiki tells him. "I believe they've coming to something of an agreement in light of everything that's happened."

Everything that's happened. A succinct way to summarize the implosion of Itachi's entire world, all things considered.

He forces himself to focus on the former part. "An agreement," he repeats, and Ibiki nods.

"It seems tensions between your clan and the village may finally be allayed. At least to some extent."

Why that statement settles bitter and heavy in Itachi's stomach, he's not sure. It's exactly what he had fought so hard for. What he and Shisui had fought so hard for. He should be thrilled. Ecstatic.

All he feels, though, is that this peace was hardly worth the price he paid for it.

When he doesn't reply, Ibiki starts moving towards the door. "Your father is right outside. I'll send him in so he can escort you home. You can ask him all about it then."

Itachi doesn't think he wants to ask all about it. Doesn't think he really cares, anymore. Still, he finds some sense of relief in the idea that this is going to be the end of his interaction with Ibiki for the time being. He'd like to be alone, he thinks. Would prefer it, actually.

Ibiki pauses right before he walks out, though, his hand resting on the door, his shoulders tense. He doesn't look at Itachi when he speaks. "I want to assure you that I've purged everything superfluous from our reports," he says. "Only the parts of your memory deemed strictly necessary for the investigation are on record."

Necessary. Itachi wishes he believed Ibiki was just referring to the coup, that he was merely telling Itachi that nothing he saw has been given to the Hokage to use as leverage against his father. But even in his current state, Itachi knows that's not it.

You're my best friend, the only one I can ask this.

The comfort hidden in the sentiment stings more than it should. Still, he forces himself to sit with it, to accept it for what it is. It's not until Ibiki glances back at him, actually, that Itachi feels his entire stomach turn inside out. He knows what he's about to say just by the curve of his lips alone, and he nearly yells at him to stop, to just leave and let it be. That he doesn't want to hear it, doesn't want to hear any of it.

He clenches his teeth and closes his eyes. Braces himself for the blow.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Itachi," Ibiki says. And then he's gone, the door shutting quietly behind him.

Itachi stays there, frozen on the bed, the bucket still underneath him. He eventually peels his eyes open and looks over at the glass of water. Sees Shisui's eyeball floating in it for the briefest of moments.

He's still throwing up when his father walks in a few minutes later.

• • •

The day after Itachi is released is also the day of Shisui's funeral. No one tells him this until the sun has already started to set and the preparations have already been made. Not that Itachi really gives anyone the chance to tell him. He's hidden himself away in the shadows of his room, unwilling and unable to do anything more than stare blankly at his floorboards. A state akin to death without Itachi having to actually go through the effort of killing himself. Still, there are times when he wonders if he should just do it. If he'd feel better floating in the Naka, the water lapping at his limbs, pulling him beneath it's current. Wonders if he'd finally feel whole again with water flooding his lungs.

He supposes someone had to take the plunge and knock on his door eventually. He's not at all surprised that it ends up being his mother. "Itachi, dear."

He doesn't have the energy to acknowledge her when she steps inside the room. Just listens to her make her way over to him, taking note of the caution and hesitation of her movements, like she's worried he'll get spooked if she moves to fast.

She's still about a foot away when she kneels down and carefully pushes a pile of folded clothes towards him. Itachi barely has to glance at it to realize it's funeral attire. "Would you like to come with us?" is all she asks, and Itachi has to fight against every instinct he has not to recoil from it.

No, he wants to say. No, no, no, no. As if the funeral is going to be what makes this nightmare he's living in a reality. As if it's going to be the thing to make Shisui's death permanent.

As if it's not already.

Slowly, Itachi reaches out and ghosts his hand over the fabric. He nods.

Getting to the funeral is a daze. Itachi feels utterly detached as he changes his clothes and walks over with his family, like there's a disconnect somewhere between his mind and body that's making everything appear like it's happening far away. It's not a bad place to exist, in all honesty. Makes everything seem almost bearable.

Everything gets worse when he sees the pyre.

It's a large structure, wholly impressive in its construction given that Itachi imagines the clan didn't have much time to build it. A fitting send-off for a shinobi like Shisui, even without a body there. Honorable, Itachi thinks as he walks up to it. He should be proud of his friend: proud to have known him, to have fought by his side.

He blames himself for not looking away then. For not taking this microscopic approximation of a good feeling and using it to propel himself forward, to make himself start a conversation with Sasuke or his mother or his father or any other member of his clan standing there in some attempt to appear fine. But Itachi doesn't. He keeps staring, and it doesn't take long for him to find a bit of white peaking out between the wood. Fabric, he realizes with a jolt. Wrapped around Shisui's body inside the pyre. A body that Itachi hadn't even been aware was recovered.

He forces himself to stand there for a few more minutes, for appearances sake more than anything else. It's not long, though, before the noise in his head gets so loud that he has to leave, slipping out of the crowd and moving silently towards the trees. No one stops him, thank the gods. But he can feel their stares. Hear their whispers.

"Rumor is it was Danzo. But do you think…?"

Still, Itachi stays close by, makes sure he can see the light and smell the smoke when the pyre goes up in flames later that night. It's the least he can do to honor his friend; even when the mere thought of his friend burning makes him sick to his stomach, he can't bring himself to shun Shisui's funeral completely. So Itachi stands there, and he watches. Doesn't try and stop the tears streaming down his face as he tells himself over and over again that Shisui died admirably, that his sacrifice was not in vain now that peace between the clan and the village is closer than it had ever been when he was still alive. This is what Shisui had wanted, after all. This is what they had both wanted, and so Itachi has no good reason to be standing here devastated, disgracing Shisui's memory by having the gall to think that he'd give it all up in a heartbeat if only —

"Hurts, doesn't it?"

Itachi doesn't even sense another person approach; he swings around, hand going to the place his kunai pouch should be as his Sharingan bleeds to life.

The masked man standing there doesn't react. "It doesn't get better, you know. People will try and tell you it does, but it doesn't. You'll feel this pain every day for the rest of your life." He gestures in the direction of the fire with a gloved hand. "Nice funeral, though. I suppose that counts for something."

Itachi stares at him. At the mask. He doesn't recognize it, not as ANBU or ROOT. "Who are you?"

"You don't know me," the man says, and Itachi tenses when his hand goes to his mask. All the man does, though, is pull it to the side — just by a few inches — to reveal a gleaming Sharingan underneath. "I'm a friend, though."

Seeing the eye is enough to make Itachi's skin crawl. Part of him instinctively wants to trust it, but then he thinks of Kakashi Hatake. Of Danzo. "That proves nothing."

The man hums as he slips the mask back in place. "Yes, I suppose you would think that. But I assure you, I am an Uchiha. And I'm on your side."

"…my side?"

"You and I understand each other," the masked man insists. "In fact, I am one of the few people alive who understands the pain you're in right now."

Itachi starts to shake his head, to ignore his own tear-stricken face and tell the man that he doesn't know what he's talking about. But the man's next words stop Itachi cold.

"You loved him," he says, and Itachi actually flinches.

"Perhaps not in that sense," the man continues, as if Itachi didn't react at all. "Or maybe you did." He shrugs. "It's not my business what Shisui meant to you. But you loved him, all the same — that I'm sure of. Your eyes are proof enough of it." And then, in what is either an act of calculated manipulation or startling vulnerability, the man reaches up and traces a finger along the edge of his mask. Answers a question Itachi didn't even need to ask. "I know, because I received the Mangekyou when the person I loved died, too."

The confession is enough to make Itachi feel like he's choking. He thinks he might actually be when the man drops his hand back to his side and takes another step towards him. "Did killing Danzo make you feel better?" he asks, and Itachi swears there's a hint of genuine curiosity in his voice.

It catches Itachi off guard, the abrupt shift in tone and topic. Thoroughly enough that he can't stop himself from actually considering the masked man's question. Did killing Danzo make him feel better?

Itachi hates that his answer is so simple. No.

The masked man, at least, doesn't force Itachi to actually verbalize it. Evidently, he can see the awful, disgusting truth of the matter clearly painted across his face. "No, I didn't think it would. Revenge never solves these things; it's why the person who killed my loved one is still alive." He sighs, almost as if he's disappointed. "I hate to be the one to tell you this, but I've found that there's nothing on this earth that will make you feel better."

It's foolish to allow an enemy to get so deep inside his head. To let him twist at his vulnerabilities until Itachi is hardly able to pay attention to him at all. But Itachi's gaze drifts towards the dirt all the same, his vision growing unfocused and a panic that's starting to become far too familiar collecting in his chest and throat. The desperation of his next thought makes him careless, makes him decide that, even if the man did attack, he wouldn't want the chance to stop him, anyway.

Then what am I supposed to do?

The man, for what it's worth, doesn't take the opportunity. He keeps his distance, and instead offers Itachi a gift. "What if I told you there was a way to get him back?"

Itachi's eyes jerk up. He knows that what the man's proposing is impossible. Knows Shisui is dead and that nothing Itachi does will bring him back. The man is manipulating him, weaponizing his pain against him. Shisui's dead. He's dead. He's dead. He's dead.

Still.

"How?"

The man just holds out his hand.

"Come with me, and you'll find out."

• • •

"Why didn't you kill me?"

His father pauses, the brush in his hand freezing above the scroll laid out on his desk. "Excuse me?"

"The day Shisui was murdered," Itachi explains, because he refuses to regard that night as anything else. "When you found me with Danzo."

Slowly, his father places the brush down. "You thought I would kill you?"

Itachi shrugs, shoulder glancing off the wooden doorway of his father's office. "It seemed like the best course of action at the time."

"You thought…" His father shakes his head. "Why would your death be a solution?"

"I put the clan in a bad position by killing Danzo and his men. I figured it would've been easier to dispose of me then."

His father opens his mouth. Itachi waits, but he doesn't actually speak.

Feeling decidedly self-conscious, Itachi shrugs again. "I was just curious," he mumbles. "Sorry to —"

His father cuts him off. "Itachi." He shakes his head again, wipes a hand over his face. Eventually, he gestures to the seat across from him. "Sit."

"The Mangekyou is known to make people act irrationally, especially when it's first awakened," he explains once Itachi is settled. "It's an unfortunate power to be gifted, in that sense."

In every sense, Itachi wants to argue. He doesn't.

"Shisui was a fine shinobi," his father says, and Itachi focuses his gaze on the space right between his eyes so he doesn't have to actually look at him, lets his mind detach from his body so he only half hears the words. "Cherish the time you had with him, and know that…it will get better." His father takes a breath. "With time, this pain you feel will get better."

It won't.

"Can I go?" Itachi asks quietly, holding himself so straight he thinks his spine might snap.

His father seems to hesitate. Then he nods.

Itachi is almost out the door when his father stops him again. "Itachi."

When he looks back over his shoulder, he's unfortunately present enough to take in the full image of his father sitting there, scrolls lining his desk and his own father's sword perched on the wall behind him.

"I will never hurt you," he says. "If nothing else, know that."

It's odd, the way Itachi has to force himself to nod, how he has to find the individual muscles in his neck to make it happen. He chances one last look at the sword before he walks out of the room.

That night, Itachi slips out of the compound and makes his way to the forest.

"I didn't think you'd come," the man muses when Itachi reaches the clearing. He's leaning against the side of a tree, his arms crossed as he gazes at the sky. "Thought the great prodigy might have gotten cold feet and changed his mind at the last minute."

Itachi ignores the goading. "I want him back," he says, and he relishes the way the declaration warms his mouth, the way it sets a fire in his gut. The way it makes him want to live to see another day.

Like Danzo, the man isn't impressed. "I'm sure you do," he sighs, almost bored. "That is not the issue. The real question is: what are you willing to do to get him back?"

It's not the first time the man has posed this question to Itachi. But he's had time to think about it, now, has spent days turning it over in his mind as he stared at the wide expanse of his ceiling, has had weeks to picture what his life could be like as he forced one tasteless meal after another down his throat. He knows what he wants. Knows what he needs.

When Itachi gives his answer, he makes sure his Mangekyou is awake and smoldering. The forest falls away. The masked man falls away.

All he sees is Shisui.

Itachi takes a breath. "Anything."

The man looks over at him. Pushes himself up from the tree. When he speaks, it sounds like he might be smiling. "Then let's get started."