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Loss was a constant in their lives. There wasn’t a day Takeomo remembered that someone whose name he knew hadn’t passed, battle and illness and mission and the world constantly stealing kin and ally alike away from their lives. Shinobi were meant to be numb to it but he’d never met someone who’d truly managed, and for the Uchiha especially it was simply a non-option for those they loved.
Perhaps that’s why he cared for so few.
For one who had grown up in the same war, Shōkashi had ever found it harder to adapt to the loss. Each hit him stronger than the last, some taking him full days to recover enough to leave the house, his eyes as soulless as the dead’s during that time.
It was when his dearest friend passed that he took it the hardest.
Takeomo didn’t know how to comfort people. Despite being the eldest of five brothers the lot of them had always ran to the second eldest over hurts, Madara’s brashness being shoved to the side in order to soothe and coo over the siblings he practically mothered since the moment they were born.
Faced with being the sole comfort for Shōkashi, then...he was at a loss.
He held the smaller man tighter, up against his chest, under the covers to try to make him feel safer. Beyond that he had no idea how to fix his hurts or soothe his shaking, left staring wide-eyed across the room, stiff as he felt the tears soak through his thin summer yukata. All he could do was ride out the storm along with him, a poor companion to help him through, frustrated at himself more over his lacking ability than the loss of a clan member.
It was hours before Shōkashi calmed enough to sleep, his breathing still hiccuped from stress, body twitching as he rested. Takeomo held him even closer, wishing he could do better - be better - for the man sleeping fitfully in his embrace.