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Over and over again you've tried.
1.
You're thirteen and the chance of a lifetime presents itself. It's easy enough, to offer up your body —your life— in exchange for ending his. You don't know why the others are so surprised. He says you've changed and it puzzles you; this was always how it was going to be. Your weakness had kept you alive, so you had to gain the strength to earn your death. Therein lay the misunderstanding: they were thinking of the after, but you never expected one. You had nothing to hold out for.
You think it's done with, but they are persistent. You had yet to give your remaining teammate his goodbye. You know words by themselves won't cut it. Now, here's your other chance, laid before you on a silver platter. All there's left to do is take it. Your stomach churns at the thought and your legs give out at the dizziness. You are closer now, inches apart, but you've never felt so far away. Staring into a face so usually filled with mirth looking so impassive is unsettling. It feels wrong, unnatural. And if you went through with it, it would be permanent.
You are far removed from this place. The stench of blood takes you to the land of waves, where the sacrifice was you— a willing one, at that. You would have died for his goal, could you kill him now for yours? But the stench of blood takes you to the forest of death, to the beast that was unleashed, to the stupor you couldn't shake at finding yourself helpless, again. Weak, again. Like that morning facing the water tanks and like looking into your brother's eyes, as he brought the memories to surface just as when he took part in forming them. Red eyes, tied to what brought you here, tied to what holds you here. They make you turn away from the valley.
He's more stubborn than you hoped for.
2.
You're fifteen when you meet again and you know the old excuse is useless before this. You make it clear, pronounce the speech you've convinced yourself to be true during the years apart. You shouldn't couldn't care more whether he listens. But for better measure, you stand closer for him alone to hear. The moment is reminiscent of your near death, but now it is you who holds him close as he seems to slip away, dazed by the sight of you. You remind him of his dream, of the path he has to follow, far away from you. It is as much a warning as it is a threat, but it fails to elicit a reaction as either. Someone else makes you pause this time. (It's your replacement, somewhat ironically). Your master/captor/pawn then steps in and puts a final stop to it. They are useful, he says. Dread gnaws at your gut thinking of a time when no excuse will cut it anymore, but this chance, you take — you leave.
In the end, at least the first excuse proves correct. You didn't need to kill him to reach your goal. You wish you had to, now. Maybe then, you would have kept postponing that other kill as well. You could've had more time to find out the truth before it was too late.
You've found a dead end for your excuses. He's not just an obstacle now, but a stepping stone to moving forward.
3.
You don't count that time at the river. You were weakened then. But you wonder if you could have done it and you're not convinced.
3.
The war was a means to an end. You say that's all there is to it.
3.
You're sixteen and, at last, the time has come. You are the most powerful you have ever been. You stand above the same valley where it all started. You look across the river, to the face engraved on the statue, and you harden your resolve to match the stone. You stand above your history (your ancestors' and your own) and you know the strength you'll need to stand against it is fate-defying: sturdier than the walls closing in on the river, than the statues you stand on, than the weight of your legacy and the burden of your calling. Sturdy enough to withstand inflicting it on the one before you, your one and only friend. This is where you falter (again).
Two lineages descend from saints as important as gods: yours and his. But you are not the same. He is the sun, offered the heavens, and you are the one cast aside to reign over the shadows. He is blessed and you are cursed, cursed with a power that needs loss to strengthen it and a temper that needs love to control it. A power that eats at you and forces you to remember all it witnesses. And this is why you falter. You couldn’t bear to hold this memory.
You could've killed him, eyes closed, lightning through his heart. What you couldn't stand was to see it, burned into your eyelids, fuel for your nightmares.
At thirteen you tried to avoid it, and when you saw it in the face, you retched and walked away. Fifteen might've been your chance, before it all started spiraling and led you here. (Every time in-between resulted in the same outcome). By sixteen, you've lost your family and the sympathy of all who ever gave it to you. All but him. You don't understand how he can still be here, but for all you try, you can't ignore it. You're not immune. You weren't impassive enough. (You don't have enough hatred, echoes in your head, and it does not matter that you know the true intentions behind the words now, they trigger you just the same).
You are Uchiha Sasuke, nothing short of a perfectionist, and the boy in front of you is a testament to your failures. You will cut the loose string.
He dodges your attack at the last second and sends you pummeling back to the wall. It begins shattering behind you. You explode.
Over and over and over again. You couldn't finish the job. You couldn't kill him.
Over and over again he stood his ground. He chased after you, made you doubt, made you believe he could be your friend.
You think your brother may be right now; you never had enough hatred. You used to look into his face and the red eyes brought you to the Murderer, but the faint smile reminded you of the Brother. The murderer was still your brother. A traitor but your brother. Even then, you got the job done.
This is the resolve you use to gather up the last of your strength and deliver the final blow. But you think you already know how it will end: the landscape destroyed, the river filled to the brim with debris, the statues disfigured beyond recognition. Could your faces replace theirs, and what story would they tell? Could he be strong enough to bare your burden? Could an Uchiha finally win? Could your bond withstand even this, this generational curse, this chasm between you and him?
In any case, this was it. The end.