knock me off track
summary: a rewrite of naruto ep. 443: itachi decides to curb sasuke's ambition and make it focus on, well, him.
i hereby disclaim any rights.
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It's already late when he walks outside of the Hokage's office, the sun having long dropped low behind the high buildings of the village and bleeding its orange and pale pink colors along the prim and proper line of the horizon. He'd wanted to be home when his little brother returned from that three year-long training he'd undertaken with Shisui, but circumstances didn't allow him a moment of spare time; there had been a scuffle with a S-ranked outlaw at the outskirts of the forest and the resulting paperwork had fallen squarely on his shoulders, followed by an audience with the Fourth regarding the precarious situation with his clan. His gaze trails along the straight lines of the window ledges and the eaves of the opposite buildings, before he blinks slowly, owlishly and turns his gaze upwards at the darkening sky. In less than a second, he's leapt onto the rooftop of the udonya, positioned in a crouch with the cypress-wooden sheath of his katana hard-pressed against his back, then he moves homewards.
When he slides the shoji door of the entrance hall open, he's greeted by the sight of his mother's back, as she sits sunken on her knees to rearrange the sandals on the rack.
"Tadaima."
Her long hair falls gracefully around her shoulders as she moves about and takes a peek at him, offers him a smile, delicate as a kokeshi doll. She should get out more, Itachi thinks to himself as he returns the gesture, her face would welcome the sunshine.
"Okaeri."
He tugs off his sandals and takes his weapon off his back, his fingers automatically sliding up and down the smooth leather strap as he holds it to his chest. Several questions about his little brother come to the forefront of his mind—how is he? where is he now? how much has he changed? It seems however that Mikoto could see past his cool façade with no effort at all and she pushes herself up and rights her back.
"Sasuke's home." There's a tinge of relief in there, there on the back of her tongue. "He's resting from the journey. You can go see him in the morning." She pushes some stray strands of hair behind her ear as she says this, then she offers him a comforting expression and continues, "Itachi.. Are you hungry? I have some dinner left for you."
Itachi draws in a breath and tilts his head to the right, glancing down at his mother and her chalk-white face, then he smiles slightly and nods.
"I'd like to change first, mother. I'll be back in a few minutes." He says before he makes his way to the corridor.
For the past three years, he feels as if someone pushed the bars of his ribcage outwards, leaving an emptied-out concave behind in their thoroughness. It's not entirely dark in the hallway so he can see the sepia-hued shapes and silhouettes flickering on the rice paper of the walls. Somehow the knowledge his little brother has returned to them leaves him with a sense of fulfillment. There's a tremor settling inside his right ankle when he halts in front of Sasuke's room, tempted to open the door and glimpse inside, just to string together his ribs again and to be able to pull them back where they belong and this all from the mere sight of his little brother, sleeping and well. And yet he doesn't, he shakes his head in self-chastisement and walks onwards to his own room, where he changes out of his ANBU uniform.
His katana lies on top of his futon and its outline leaves wrinkles in the whitish sheets. His back is turned to his bed out of ingrained habits to keep an eye on all the entry points in case of an attack. His elbow guards and chest plate come thudding onto the floorboards. With his left hand he pulls loose his ponytail and holds the elastic as he ruffles his hair with his right. Sand has matted the shine and he grimaces when his fingertips brush against a few twigs. Itachi continues by stretching his arms above his head and rolling his neck from right to left, front to back and again. He'll take a shower before he goes to bed, but first he pulls the black undershirt up and over his head and puts on his usual shirt. There's no point in changing out of these pants, he muses, but he does take off the shin guards.
At dinner, his mother is his only company; she sets the table with the small jade-green bowls of food, fills him a glass with water and a cup with kocha. The kitchen is permeated with the heavy smell of cooked pork, the cabbage leaves wrapped around them and of the light citrus in the ponzu sauce, is permeated with the steam of the rice cooker and the fresh tea. Mikoto joins him at the table and sits daintily with her knees pressed together and her hands curved around her own cup. He picks up his chopsticks and digs in, complimenting his mother after the first few bites. The corners of her mouth twitch into a small smile, her mouth above the brim of her teacup.
"How did Sasuke look?" Itachi asks softly, reaching for a slice of celery in the bowl furthest to the left. "Was he very tired?" His concern soaks through the tone of his voice.
Mikoto lowers her gaze; the kitchen lighting adds to show off the beginning wrinkles around her almond eyes and her mouth, her long eyelashes lower upon the skin under her eyes as she blinks and eventually she looks at her eldest son again with a touch of kindness to her features. Her teacup clunks as she sets it back upon the table.
"If anything, Sasuke looked quite determined." Wistfulness takes over his mother as she gathers the empty celery bowl with both hands and drags it over to her side of the table, "He's growing up with a sense of seriousness I would never have expected when he was six and all he ever wanted was for you to…" She sighs deeply, giving him a look that indicates that he knows well enough what she's talking about.
And he does of course—a pair of pudgy arms thrown around his waist the moment he stepped through the doorway, a mop of unruly hair snug underneath his chin, the warmth of a small body pressed tight against him. Itachi swallows down his food and reaches for his bowl of rice, holding it in his left hand as he starts eating from it. It's quiet for a while; the past acting as a transparent filter pasted over the inside of the kitchen, his childlike form sliding the door open as Sasuke almost stumbles over his own feet to rush towards him, the thud of their small bodies colliding, their mother scolding them over at the sink with her hands on her hips. His private smile goes unnoticed.
"Ah, Itachi. You're home. Nothing to report I assume." His father's deep voice cuts through the silence like a blunt blade; causing an upset of the balance. Itachi puts the half-emptied bowl back on the tabletop.
The legs of his mother's chair scrape gratingly over the floorboards as she rises to stand. Her dainty hands look so bright, offsetting against the poor kitchen lighting. Soon enough she's at the sink, putting all the used bowls away. Itachi regards his father; he looks exhausted and the dimples around his mouth seemed to have gotten deeper.
"No, father, nothing you don't already know. How did your affairs proceed?" He asks as he puts his chopsticks down, having finished his meal entirely. Mikoto comes to clean up and presses her hand to his right shoulder for a brief moment after he asks if he could be of any help, her palm is warm and soapy and she shakes her head no, some strands of hair stuck to the underside of her jaw.
Fugaku offers his eldest a simple shrug and that conveys everything there needs to be said. His footsteps are muffled by his socks, as he trudges to the kitchen counter and reaches for a glass in the cabinet.
"Do you want me to get you anything?" His mother asks, coming to stand next to him, elbow to elbow almost. There's a slight hunch in his father's shoulders, making him slump forwards a bit.
They've all been working hard, Itachi muses as he listens his parents murmur amongst each other; his father had been capable to appease the most obtuse and callous of their clan members, the ones clamoring to the pride and name of their clan, but he's relieved to see that his father also understands that an absence of war isn't true peace. It will take even more diligence to smoothen all friction between the village and his clan, but he's cautiously optimistic.
Fugaku leans against the kitchen counter with a glass of water in his hand. His features portray a kind of worried pensiveness as his gaze is pinned to a spot between himself and Itachi on the table.
He eventually lifts his head to stare at his eldest son directly and declares, "Your brother has returned earlier from his mission."
Itachi feels the strings tangled around his ribs tighten, dig into the bone like steel and pulling—pulling until his torn-open chest becomes once more enclosed. His tongue sweeps over his lower lip and tastes the remainder of the ponzu sauce, salty with a hint of bitterness.
"He shows promise." There's emphasis on that word, colored in with a touch of fatherly pride. "I've promoted him to lieutenant. He'll be assigned a squad next thing in the morning." He takes a long sip after he's said this and gives Mikoto a sidelong glance.
His throat becomes dry and his fingers slide off the tabletop and his hands fall into his lap. For a moment nobody speaks and the only sounds inside the kitchen are those of the splashing dishwater and his father kicking his heel absentmindedly against the counter. He casts a look outside of the window, at the dark sky.
Then Itachi breaks the silence and says softly, "I'm happy with your decision, father. Sasuke will surely not disappoint you." The only acknowledgement his declaration gets is a low grunt. His mother turns around to look and smile at him, before she touches his father's upper arm with wet fingertips.
Soon enough he excuses himself; first he goes to take a shower to wash off the grime and sweat from his body, takes his time in soaping up and rinsing off, then he changes into his nightwear and brushes his fingers through his wet and tangled hair, before putting a pig bone comb to the strands. He gazes at himself in the fogged-up mirror as he brushes his teeth, but his mind is scrambled. Fatigue gnaws at the bowstring tautness of his muscles and as soon as he's crawled under the sheets, his eyes slide shut. Thoughts of Sasuke linger along the sharp edge of his consciousness, like silver-lined shadows.
Would he be satisfied, now? After three painstakingly long years of training—his body will surely be different, taller probably, more muscular, perhaps his voice will have finally lost that crack he got so awkward over.. Itachi smiles and rolls over onto his side and presses his fingertips into his pillow, maybe Sasuke will feel more accomplished, less unsure about the power balance between them, be happy again to see him. His fingers curl, grabbing onto his pillow as he dips his chin and moves his knees against his chest.
Morning light whitens the cypress-wooden floorboards all the way to his bedroom door, falls upon his sleeping face and the things on his nightstand, the warmth of the slow-rising sun rousing him awake. Itachi brings a hand to his forehead and takes a deep breath, then he settles himself in a sitting position and looks over to his wardrobe with bleary eyes. Soon enough he shakes off any remaining tiredness, gets up and changes into his casualwear, reties his ponytail and makes his way to the kitchen for breakfast. His footsteps falter when he nears his little brother's room, but it's quiet inside and he can't make out any moving silhouettes, so he continues onwards.
"Where's Sasuke?" It escapes him just like that, after one quick glance at the empty seats around the kitchen table. He turns his gaze expectantly towards his mother, who's tending to the teakettle.
Steam spews from the spout of the reddish brown teakettle and the ceramic lid quakes from the intensity of the boiling water, the shrill sound engulfs the kitchen and Mikoto rushes to take the kettle from the stove with a dishcloth in her palm. Once she's put the kettle on a coaster on the tabletop and turned off the fire, she gives her son a small smile and curves her hand over her hip, the dishrag fisted into a ball.
"Out. To train, he said." She says this without much decorum, a hint of exasperation folded neatly underneath her tongue. "He took some fruit and left… Where do you think you're going?" Her question is accompanied by shifting her weight around, on her left leg.
Itachi drums his fingers on the doorframe and answers curtly, "I want to go see him. I'll be back short—"
Effortlessly, his mother cuts his sentence off at the end and interjects, "One of your aunts is coming around during breakfast and I need help with setting everything up. You should also eat first, your father told me you're not on duty today anyway." Her tone softens considerably when she speaks the next part, "Sasuke isn't going anywhere, he's back now."
He knows this and the strings he's looping around each and every one of his ribs are getting tighter because of this knowledge but his chest has been so open and raw for these last few years. The left corner of his mouth twitches involuntarily and he knows he makes this expression whereby the furrows along the slope of his nose deepen, much in the same way the dimples next to his father's mouth would deepen if he made a similar one. His chest is so open and raw, hollowed-out. It smells like broiled fish in here, of green tea too. Itachi tries to give his mother a kind smile, but it probably looks as stilted as it feels.
After a while the pace of the morning changes and he finds himself swept up in the motions; first he helps his mother prepare an extensive breakfast, sets up the table, welcomes his oldest aunt and indulges her aimless chattering—oh you haven't any plans for marriage? yes, well your father wasn't very young either, i suppose.. Mikoto interrupts at the right moments to lighten the burden of his aunt's noisiness, ever so diplomatic with feminine giggles and needle-prick verbal jabs. Impatience simmers underneath his stoic façade and his wrists tremble lightly as if there are daggers underneath his skin, a tremor he hides expertly by holding his teacup with both hands.
Fugaku eventually joins them in the kitchen, looking only slightly less haggard than he did yesterday evening. He faintly smells of cigarette smoke and even if his mother pretends for politeness sake not to notice, but the slight raise of her right eyebrow betrays her real thoughts. Itachi tilts his head to the left, chin brushing against his knuckles, as he observes the three talk amongst themselves about trivialities.
"May I be excused?" His voice cuts through the conversation like a current, emphasized by the slight rattle of his teacup being put to the tabletop. His aunt stares at him wide-eyed, before realizing her rudeness, coughing lightly and turning her attention back to his mother.
His father dismisses him with a curt nod, arms crossed sternly over his chest and corners of his mouth dragged downwards. As an opposite, his mother smiles broadly at him, her high cheekbones illuminated by the warm orange sunlight that bounces off the blank kitchen walls. Itachi pushes his chair backwards, pads over to the entry hall to get his sandals, slips them on quickly and slides the front door open. It's nice and quiet outside, the kind of weather that calls for a stroll or getting some reading done out on the courtyard. He rounds the corner and sees his little brother leaning against one of the wooden pillars, head tilted downwards and shoulders slumped forwards.
Snares tug and pull at his ribs until they're slotted back in place, protecting his beating heart—and right now it's drumming, hard and restless inside his chest. He swallows inaudibly, tries to regulate his breathing and raises his chin as he approaches his little brother.
"Welcome back, Sasuke."
All his little brother's anger and ambition get directed to him in a coal black glare, a set jaw, gritted teeth, a hint of teenage disdain too, there in the tilt of his chin and the slight scrunch of his nose. Itachi takes the full brunt of it with a stoic face, afraid to ball his fists or heave a weary sigh. It's an ambition he recognizes, spurred on by a pride that bleeds red. His heavy footfall on the planks of the corridor are accentuated by the low clunking of the bamboo spout falling down on the stone.
Itachi regards his little brother's back as it walks away in front of him and rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, sucking it in and popping it back out again. If Sasuke truly seeks power solely for the sake of surpassing him, there's a way he can bend and curve that ambition, make it go around him in circles, to keep his little brother safe from repercussions. No, he doesn't deny the ink-drop of satisfaction that falls into the depths of his stomach at the thought of being the centerpiece of Sasuke's mind, but it's a dangerous feeling, one he should keep on a tight leash.
"Did Shisui train you well?" He asks out loud, shifting his weight on his other leg, staring at Sasuke with heavy-lidded eyes. "Little brother, have you learned much?" It's cruel to slip in the otouto with a tone that suggests it's equal parts endearment, equal parts warning. Three years.
Sasuke keeps walking, but then suddenly he spins around on his heels at the corner, steadying himself with one hand against the wall. Itachi apprises him silently, squaring his shoulders in a subtle challenge, regarding how his pale skin glows under the noon sun. It's enough to bring a sly smirk to his lips, the knowledge he still has power of his petulant brother breathing a ghost of heat into his chest.
"Do you wanna spar?!" Sasuke snarls, brows furrowed and a flash of teeth, bared.
It's the reaction he wanted. "Sure, I'm curious to see what you've accomplished after all." He carefully schools his features to appear unconcerned and as expected it further agitates his little brother.
They walk to the training grounds together, contrasting each other in poise and posture: while Itachi keeps a leisured pace, hands occasionally brushing against the fabric of his pants, holds his chin high and his face open, Sasuke on the contrary keeps his hands clenched into fists, his chin low and his eyes trained on the ground they're covering. Grind crunches below the soles of their sandals, a low sound drowned out by the whipping of the cool breeze through the treetops. Itachi comes to a standstill and turns to his little brother.
"Let's begin, then."
In an instant their sharingan blaze alive, soaking crimson through the dark of their pupils in a second, and then they move into action.
Itachi jumps backwards as Sasuke performs the set of seals for gōryūka no jutsu, but he's already preparing to counterattack with suidan no jutsu and he spews a stream of water at the dragon-headed fireball coming his way. Steam rises up into the air as the fire immediately dies down. He narrows his eyes when he spots a small smirk tugging on the corners of his younger brother's mouth and he soon realizes that it's probably because his attack left a large part of the grass wet. Recollecting the jutsu he saw Sasuke practicing shortly before he left the village, it seems his little brother thinks he has a reason to act smug.
Softly, Sasuke murmurs chidori, followed by a bundle of bright-blue sparks forming along his right wrist, encompassing his fist. His eyes settle on his older brother as his lips purse slightly in pronunciation of the next word, nagashi. Itachi observes how the lightning crackles all over the wet ground from around Sasuke's lower arm and floods over to him in a whimsical wave. He adjusts his stance and automatically makes the seals to create a water clone that'll take the damage in his place and explode upon impact.
His clone rushes forwards to act as a wall between him and the electric current, blowing up in between them, water splashing in all directions. Then it's Sasuke's turn to move, much faster than Itachi actually expected, darting towards him in preparation of a full-frontal attack. Wind tugs at the hemline of his shirt and accentuates his narrow flanks. It's time he brought an end to this mock-fight, Itachi thinks silently, as hands reflexively make the signs he copied off Kurenai during a joint-mission once for a genjutsu. In a play of shadows, his body waxes and wanes only to disappear entirely, without a trace.
Sasuke almost crashes to a standstill and stares in disbelief at the empty spot, before whipping around, trying to sense his brother's chakra pattern in the air but coming up empty. Before he fully realizes it, a tree materializes behind him and its thick branches come to wrap themselves around his torso, his waist and his legs to immobilize him completely. Instinctively, he flinches and starts to squirm, writhing to break free from the deadlock.
"I heard father promoted you to the rank of lieutenant, Sasuke." Itachi says calmly, emerging above him, raising a kunai in his left hand, his side-swept bangs fluttering lightly in the wind. "Congratulations."
His little brother digs the sharp of his teeth in the sensitive flesh of his lower lip, drawing blood. With a slight oof, he falls to the ground into a crouch and as soon as he notices his older brother standing behind him, shoots upwards and slips around, holding up his wrists in a cross to block the incoming kick. Feet skid over the ground, but he's still standing, his forearms bruised from the power behind the kick, but otherwise he's fine. Sasuke depletes his chakra reserves for one more chidori. Some of the light blue sparks are blown carelessly to the dirt by the wind.
Itachi raises an eyebrow, it's obvious that this attack will lack the bite the previous one had, but that doesn't take the edge off completely. He balances his weight on his right leg, rubbing his left foot against the other ankle before readying himself in a defense stance. Speed is going to be the deciding factor. One half of his little brother's face is bathing in pale blue light, the other half somewhat obscured in dark. Sasuke growls lowly before pushing himself off and rushing towards his older brother, only to be side-stepped in the nick of time and held at his hurting wrist in a death grip. His attack digs up smoke and the snake-like hiss of the electricity dies down.
"Almost." He tells his little brother, their faces close together, ears fine-tuned to ragged breaths, "But not yet."
Sasuke huffs, but instead of pulling himself free like expected, he only presses closer and repeats in an annoyed mutter, "Not yet."
"You've improved considerably, but you just got a bit too hot-headed." There's a small, private smile playing along the corners of his mouth as he says this, then he lets go of his brother's wrist. "You need to take advantage of your opponent's weak points." Blinking slowly, he allows his eyes to return back to their original appearance. He watches how his younger brother furiously rubs at his wrist, paying extra attention to the angry flush of the skin.
He tries to ignore the small stab of guilt, but he feels it all the same.
"You never seem to have any weak points, big brother." Sasuke murmurs under his breath, before glancing at him from the corner of his eyes, still having his sharingan activated. "When we're fighting at least."
"You should look harder, Sasuke." He responds, not reproachful like their father would've, but simply to offer any advice. There's not much distance between their bodies, between their heaving chests.
There's a beat of silence then, before his little brother moves and grabs at the popped collar of his shirt with his left hand, the difference in height there but less obvious than before. His mouth is half-open, his eyes searching for something on Itachi's face. Strings snap broken, his ribcage fulfilling its function to contain his spilling-over emotions in check. He shouldn't put his palm to Sasuke's cheek, but he does and it's enough to spur his little brother on, gripping the collar of the shirt so tight his knuckles are bone-white.
"You've improved much." Itachi whispers, hushed like it's a secret, like a blow that will be dealt, "In time, you might even surpa—"
They're kissing then; hard and furious, teeth raking over lip, a dash of tongue, fingertips digging into the plush of a cheek, pale skin becoming a flustered and bothered red. He stares with enthralled how Sasuke kisses him, close-eyed, with a small scrunch of the nose. It's eerily quiet around them, or maybe that's just because of the sped-up beat of his heart, hammering away in his eardrum. When they part, his little brother's lips are delightfully bee-stung and slick with a sheen of spit.
"Itachi.. I will surpass you." He sounds so certain, so determined, the way he says his big brother's name like it's the ending sentence of an oath, the way his expressive eyes seem to shimmer with devotion. Sasuke lets go off the collar of his shirt and whips around, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his pale pants.
His tongue slowly tastes the aftermath of the kiss in between the seal of his lips. It would appear his younger brother has taken the bait and curtailed his own ambition to suit whatever his older brother has planned for him, to safeguard him. He will be safe and ever-close, to him. Itachi dips his chin and allows the breeze to cool his sweaty skin, then he smiles to himself, in secret.
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only the hand that tied the knot can loosen the tiger's bell
– cao xueqin
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