Chapter Text
Itachi was uninjured.
After a two-week mission followed by a three-day delay, and what the locker room conversations at the Anbu headquarters deemed a bloodbath, his brother was completely and unquestionably uninjured.
A rare occurrence, given the deadly nature of their profession. Sasuke could not remember the last time his brother arrived from a mission without a single wound. He refused to be healed for non-lethal injuries until his team was safe and sound, and even then, he braved his supposedly minor pain and treated himself in the comfort of his home, in the privacy of his own bedroom. Itachi did not allow others to touch him, unless life-threatening circumstances removed his ability to refuse. Itachi did not consume any medication, drugs, man-made substances, and he refused to explain why.
At twenty-three years old, Sasuke knew better than to waste his time worrying over his older brother’s missions. He had the opportunity to join Itachi’s squad, once. The one and only time, since Itachi compromised himself and damned protocols to save his little brother. A mistake. Perhaps the only one he ever made.
Sasuke was Itachi’s only weakness, after all. He knew this much now.
He could not control the fear that surfaced whenever his expected day of return prolonged indefinitely, but he rationalised himself out of this anxiety when it happened. He reminded himself that Itachi did not fail. Not that he wouldn’t, not that he couldn’t, but that he simply didn’t.
That was a fact.
A fact that used to nurture suffocating envy and resentment inside of him as a boy, growing like a poisonous vine as he watched his older brother breeze through everything he ever attempted. As he watched his comrades, his superiors, and his friends revere Itachi like a god-given gift. As he watched his father create a bigger chasm between the two children with every expectation and every disappointment that Sasuke delivered due to his inability to reach his brother’s standards.
He didn’t dwell on that too often, though. He was a man now, a man that had long learned that his brother was not the cause nor a living reminder of his feelings of inadequacy. That was a monster of his own parents’ making. There was no fixing that.
Itachi’s streak of success was a blessing that allowed him to walk through his front door mission after mission. That was what mattered.
Sasuke observed him the moment he stepped into their family house, as his mother frantically rushed to check on his brother. His hair was dishevelled, his face and clothes covered in grime.
The excessive red splattered across Itachi’s body would have worried him, except there seemed to be no opening the blood could have come from. His posture was too relaxed, his body sagging with nothing but exhaustion. There were no visible wounds, and he did not flinch at his mother’s touch. However, the darkening of fabric in specific places pointed at the blood being his.
His brother directed a tender smile at him as he continued reassuring his mother.
Sasuke quickly blinked his Sharingan to life twice, barely perceptible to someone who wasn’t looking closely. A code they had agreed upon in order to keep each other informed of the other’s state. A code that only the two would catch amidst battles, or at the dinner table.
“How many wounds?” The gesture would translate.
He tilted his head with curiosity as his brother’s index finger and thumb subtly joined at the tips.
None.
No, Itachi was not injured. Anymore.
Their mother gently patted Itachi’s cheek once she was satisfied with smothering her eldest and retired to her bedroom for the night with a squeeze to Sasuke’s hand on her way out.
With a nudge of his head in the staircase’s direction, Itachi headed towards his room, Sasuke following and closing the door behind them.
They often shared conversations late at night, after their tiring assignments allowed them some peace and rest. They patched up the worst of their bruises and simply talked.
Itachi took a small sip from a flask he hid in his nightstand for these occasions and passed it to him afterwards. He indulged more than Itachi, generally, throwing his head back as the liquid burned its way down his throat.
“You’re late,” he couldn’t fully contain the bite in his tone.
Itachi hummed and poked his forehead, a gesture from their childhood that remained as strong as their bond, “Worried?”
He ignored his brother’s gentle taunt with a scoff, but as always, his face warmed up, “What was the mission? What went wrong?”
“You know I cannot answer that,” Itachi said with a tsk while Sasuke stared at him. He budged slightly, “Outnumbered. Six to one.”
“Where?”
He was met with the usual silence and then, “Try again.”
“Casualties?”
“None,” that again.
He raised an eyebrow. It was one thing for Itachi to leave an overwhelming battlefield unscathed, which was unrealistic already, but it was another matter entirely for an entire squad to suffer no damage.
“Really? Amuse me,” His tone was disbelieving at best, mocking at worst, “You’re not that good.”
Sasuke watched as his brother disarmed himself from his weapons and placed them on his desk, metal landing on the wood with a quiet thud. His feline-shaped mask and maroon-soaked vest followed. On the side, soldier pills.
What?
His brother seemed to think for a moment, the corner of his lips turning up as if he remembered an inside joke Sasuke was not privy to.
“Not me,” he said, taking a soldier pill in his mouth without hesitation.
“Itachi—“ Sasuke’s eyes snapped open despite his tiredness.
“I can hear your cogs turning, little brother,” Itachi interrupted, “Let’s have an easy night. Please.”
Sasuke dashed through the dense forest, branches sinking under his feet as he sloppily made his way into the safety of the Fire Country. The four-man cell struggled with only three left standing, while one laid unconscious on the back of their squad mate.
The moment the reconnaissance mission had gone south, the team retreated from Ame territory as per previous instructions. Tora had sent for backup with one of his ink beasts, but they had been running for an unbearably long time. The damage was nearing lethal levels with every step.
The downpour seeped through the holes of his Anbu mask. His breath came in short bursts, which he tried, and failed, to regulate due to his low chakra reserve and current state. The gash at his side ironically prevented him from slowing, the pain a throbbing incentive to keep going.
It was not fatal, yet, but the wetness and heaviness of his vest pointed towards the risk of bleeding out. He could not stop. He had to battle the numbness that threatened to overpower his senses. If not for his sake, then for the sake of his team. The others were fairing much worse.
A tree branch snapping caught his attention, and he saw a body with a tiger mask falling to the ground in slow motion. A sure death, at that height.
He did not waste a thought. Even with his Sharingan deactivated, his vision and reaction time were better than most. He launched towards Tora with as much agility as he could summon, and tackled him mid-air. The impact against a neighbouring tree caused his vision to whiten, but he held their weight as he slid down the tree with only his hand and foot for support. The skin at the back of his ribs ripped open at the exertion. The yet was becoming the now.
Once on the ground, he dropped Tora and fell to his knees. His hands followed, supporting his weight through coughs filled with red.
“Let’s rest now,” his captain decided, not that there was much of a choice. Sasuke could hardly distinguish his silver hair amidst the blood.
He laid on his back, his forearm covering his eyes from the rain.
The vastness of the forest was filled with low grunts and harsh breaths, lulling him into unconsciousness. The noise was disappearing into the distance, his squad a mere memory in the back of his head.
There was nothing but the buzzing in his ears, until his chest was harshly lifted off the grass. His eyes failed him, but he could feel his upper garments being torn off him.
His body was yanked into a sitting position, his head dropping against the nearest surface.
Something soft.
He was unable to fully gather his bearings, but he knew he was leaning against a shoulder. Hand came into contact with his wound and he recoiled from the immediate shock.
The pain steadily calmed with the help of a pleasant, foreign chakra flowing through his channels.
“Taka-san, I am healing you now,” a soothing voice brought him back to reality. He blinked groggily, and with difficulty, and saw tresses of pink by his cheek.
He was too tired to wonder why an Anbu agent could wear something as ridiculous as pink hair.
The last of his energy drained out of him, and he closed his eyes.
A whisper, “Sasuke…”
His sleep was seldom peaceful.
Carrying the weight of a shinobi on duty, of a child raised in a system full of violence, death lurked closely behind every time he closed his eyes. Peace was an unknown concept to him.
Guilt wasn’t.
The lives he had taken, willingly, unhesitatingly. The smell of blood permeated his senses long after it was washed off his uniform. Long after he had laid the sword at his doorstep. Long after a calming shower and a cap of sake. He was too familiar with it.
Some ninja were unaffected, or at least, wore a mask so unshakable that it was not possible to discern whether their duties weighed heavily on them. Perhaps that was his case.
He never remembered his dreams, but his body would wake up tense with anxiety, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead. When he was young, he would whimper as tears ran down cheeks, just loud enough to alert Itachi across the hall. His nightmares were so overwhelming that his brother would lay on a cot on the side of his bed and coax him back to sleep.
Throughout the years, the intensity lessened. The sobs became quiet words that he never recalled hours afterwards, until eventually the images in his mind became nothing but a fever dream.
This night was different.
His upper body shot from the bed, his heart rate drumming its way out of his chest. His eyes adjusted to the dim light of what looked like a Konoha Hospital room. He felt seven again, as his throat constricted and he clutched his chest.
He never remembered his dreams.
Until now.
Something lingered.
Pink.