Coexist
One
The landscape was dotted with tiny pointed trees and flecked with little shards of ice that cascaded downward. On the ground, the snow was light and sunken in places where sets of footprints had already filled. It seemed that all of Konoha was bathed in the lucid beauty of early, pristine winter.
A boy and his mother scooted along the slippery path in the village's heart, and watched in childlike fascination as their breath became puffs of white in the air, mingling with scents of freshly baked cookies and the pungent smell of smoke. Itachi trailed behind the two silently, and merchants called out to them, pipes in their mouths and cheap trinkets in their fists.
He was taller than either of them, and urged the woman ahead with a hand on her elbow.
"Ignore them," He said coolly, for she was his mother as much as she was the younger boy's. Unfortunately, they were all family. (And this was very good for Sasuke, and yet Itachi knew it killed—smothered—him at the same time.)
Mikoto's head turned back as she flashed her eldest son a quick smile, and then she settled her hand atop Sasuke's head.
For a while, they were each content to march against the wind, not speaking.
Then, Sasuke became fidgety, and he shrugged his mother's hand away when she did not remove it herself. In a moment he was off running, dark hair flying wildly, and then he was falling, slow in his descent as if acting a part in some drama.
He hit the ground noiselessly, and all around him the ice gleamed as if someone had scattered sequins there. Huffing, he crossed his arms and sat, allowing coldness to seep into his clothing.
Itachi had watched with steely black eyes, unblinking, and with the faintest traces of a frown drawn along the corners of his mouth. Mikoto watched him watching, and blinked when at last she realized what had happened. Suddenly finding her chest tight, she exhaled deeply, feeling very much like an inflated balloon.
Three seconds passed.
Mikoto ran to his side, scooping him up. Fussing.
When she was completely and entirely assured beyond any small doubt that Sasuke was okay and more than okay, she let him go.
They continued home and Sasuke slipped twice but never fell.
Two
The Uchiha household was warm, and the parlor was lit by a flickering orange inferno that danced in the fireplace.
Fugaku sat stiffly, resting, and the firelight danced across his eyelids.
Something in the room cracked—a flame lashing out, perhaps—and Sasuke paused in the doorway, biting his lip. Creeping (clumsily), he crossed over the floorboards as quietly as he dared, and climbed into his father's lap.
He was too old for such comfort, and he'd been told time and time again that he was, but his day had been especially bad and he felt he was deserving of some acknowledgement.
This was the moment when Fugaku was supposed to open his eyes a bit and say, "You are my son indeed," but he didn't say anything. Nothing at all.
He startled awake, his features rough as if angered, but then he half-smiled when he saw Sasuke.
(It was enough.)
Sasuke curled against his chest, hesitantly, and almost allowed himself to fall asleep. The fire hissed again, and then he knew that the embrace was just not meant for him.
Fate was funny like that.
He waited until his father's chest began rising steadily, and then he carefully slid off of the chair, into the other room.
In the kitchen, he made to sit on one of the wooden stools but missed. Itachi, at the table, watched indifferently.
Three
It was snowing, and he and Itachi sat on the steps, bundled in sweaters that Mikoto had knit for them lovingly.
For a moment, Sasuke entertained the idea that Itachi's sweater was larger and therefore their mother must love him the most, but then he remembered that Itachi was older and taller and stronger (and better), and so, really, he needed a larger sweater.
It had nothing to do with him. He was not a problem, not a hindrance.
He hummed, cutting through the silence, and Itachi eyed him in only the most detached amusement.
"What is it, brat?" He asked slowly.
Sasuke smiled and pursed his lips, putting a finger to them in order to hush his sibling.
His eyes flicked over Itachi, who had paper-white skin and ashen hair. A pale blue vein shot across his forehead defiantly, and it would have looked odd on anyone else, but this was Itachi. His cheekbones were prominent and there were weary lines on either side of his nose.
His shoulders were strong and oblique, and he was slight but powerful. Bony, but not awkward.
Sasuke couldn't help but envy him.
"Nii-san," He asked, "Will you help me with my shuriken practice?"
Itachi seemed to think, but then he angled his hand towards Sasuke and poked him in the head.
"Tomorrow," He answered softly. It was a promise that would go unfulfilled.
Rising gracefully, attempting to get away from Sasuke, Itachi stepped into the snow. Right under the surface, there was a rock.
Sasuke watched his expression as he descended, wondering if his own face had ever been so transparent.
Fin.