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Sasuke misses Naruto, he thinks.
There is someone speaking to him—someone with the Sharingan, like himself, like Itachi—and Sasuke does not want to hear it. Can’t hear much anyway, over the incessant ringing in his ears. He does not want to be here in the first place, in this dingy, sweltering cellar dimly lit by a single candle that is somehow still too bright for his aching eyes.
His head is pounding, limbs moving syrupy-slow as if weighed down by the stale air. There’s a piercing burn across his torso; it’s bandaged, he realizes upon looking down. A lot of him is bandaged, actually, but the wounds are still fresh, meaning he can feel the grating texture of the fabric against his raw flesh.
One of his eyes really hurts. It’s a torturous, pulsating throb that travels through his skull. It’s the same one that bled earlier, when he looked up at that Orange Fucker.
The Orange Fucker had given a name, right? Sasuke vaguely remembers that it was something important. His hands were warm and slippery with blood; when he looked down at them, they twitched erratically in his vision. Huh. He didn’t think he was moving his hands, couldn’t feel the muscles in motion, so—his sight must be failing? Or he was stuck in a Genjutsu, without the strength or chakra to escape. For his own sanity, he’d accept the former hypothesis.
He didn’t have the Mangekyo to blind him, so this didn’t make any sense. He did have the regular Sharingan, however, because he was seeing things and therefore had eyes. Itachi hadn’t gouged them out, although the pain had felt very, very real. If he slid a hand across his face, tracing across his sweaty skin to feel for full eye sockets, nobody needed to know. Because Sasuke had defeated Itachi, and he was dead.
Right? What was that Spiral Guy saying again? Something about Amaterasu, and secrets, and how Sasuke needed to listen, which he wasn’t doing right now.
Squinting his eyes, he tried to bring the blur of his vision into focus. His hands eventually steadied—blue-black, cracked knuckles sharpened first, then the tendrils of scarlet marring his pale skin. His stomach churned unpleasantly.
Unbeknownst to anyone, Sasuke had a mild case of hemophobia.
When he saw blood, he saw it spurt from his mother’s mouth as she uttered her last word, Itachi, even then without venom in her voice (only fear, sadness), before crumpling to the ground. He saw his father’s eyes blown wide with horror as he looked down at the shuriken piercing his chest, blood saturating his entire vest maroon, slowly swallowing him whole.
Throughout his life, he’d forced down the nausea, maintaining a facade of indifference when all he wanted was to screw his eyes shut and run. He was Sasuke Uchiha; he was the sole survivor of the Uchiha massacre; he would not be taken down by fucking blood, which even the weakest of shinobi tolerate without issue.
Still, like a coward, he relived those moments over and over again. As if the first 500,000 times weren’t enough.
At age eight, he’d picked up the book How to Overcome Yourself in Three Easy Steps in an attempt to stop crying himself to sleep every night. It was decidedly a failure when the first step was prioritizing hygiene.
Sasuke didn’t think hygiene would fix whatever was wrong with him. Besides, he brushed his teeth. Twice a day, even—well, not in the last few years, he’d admit.
Then came pleading with the Leaf’s administration to keep tabs on Itachi’s whereabouts. Maybe knowing where he was would improve his confidence, allowing him to focus fully on training.
He’d stomped his way over to the village center, eyes trained on the Hokage’s glistening window.
“Oh, it’s the poor Uchiha boy,” the guard outside the Hokage Residence cooed.
“I need the Hokage,” Sasuke demanded, furrowing his brows into his most intimidating glare. “And,” punctuated with a stomp of the foot, “I’m not a poor boy.”
He received a sympathetic pat to the head before a hand covered the clan symbol on his jacket, gently guiding him backwards.
“Don’t touch me!” Sasuke brushed off the guard, reaching into his pocket to grab the handle of his kunai, the cool, hard metal grounding him. “Are you deaf? I said I need the Hokage!”
“It’s not that simple, kid,” the guard sighed, voice dripping with a dizzying amount of pity, which Sasuke did not need, because he was not weak, damn it. He was not weak.
Digging his heel into the ground, dust settling on his shoes, he whipped back around in one decisive movement. “I need to know where Itachi Uchiha is. I need someone to—”
The guard turned away, speaking to another chunin in a hushed tone. They murmured unintelligibly for a few more moments, Sasuke tapping his foot to emphasize his impatience.
Finally, they turned towards him, a mix of disdain and resignation on their faces. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.
“So will you bring me to him?” he asked expectantly, taking a preemptive step forward.
“You need to schedule an appointment for that, kid,” he began, raising a hand before Sasuke could ask how to do that, exactly. “And appointments can only be scheduled by adults.”
“I don’t have an adult,” he muttered, voice betraying distress despite his best efforts.
Five years later, he’d watched Naruto march into Tsunade’s office without so much as a second glance. Apparently, appointments only applied when you were an Uchiha.
“—if you’d just focus, Sasuke. I’m telling you about my life, the life of Madara Uchiha.”
He glanced up to see the bastard standing over him, arms crossed as he seemingly waited for Sasuke’s response.
“Shut up,” he muttered, because why was he being so loud. Naruto was getting a run for his money.
“Oh? I supposed you’d have known something about me thanks to Itachi,” he said casually, shrugging his shoulders. “Let me introduce myself properly this time. I am—”
“Stop it,” he spat, louder this time, ramming an arm in Madara’s direction to increase the distance between them.
Right, Madara Uchiha.
U-chi-ha. Fuck.
This was the man Itachi had spoken about, so to Sasuke’s dismay, he’d been telling the truth. A co-conspirator in the massacre. Itachi’s mentor, according to him, and the original brother-eye-gouger. Perhaps a body stealer like Orochimaru, possibly something worse, because he was seemingly immortal.
It was eerie to confront him in the flesh; seeing those vacant, hardened eyes through Genjutsu had been sinister enough, and the weird mask and Akatsuki uniform weren’t helping his case now. Madara should’ve died generations ago; the Fifth is Hashirama Senju’s granddaughter, for fuck’s sake.
He was still standing there unflinchingly, and Sasuke could feel the oppressive weight of his gaze.
“Wait,” he whispered to no one in particular, heart beginning to thump wildly in his chest.
Right now, Sasuke was in the talons of an eagle flying a hundred feet above the ground. He didn’t have chakra—Orochimaru’s help wasn’t in the picture anymore—nor did he possess the strength to perform decent Taijutsu. Not that it would do much in the face of this thing.
He’d just—he’d just killed his brother. He’d spent the last nine years keeping himself alive for what he did in the last hour. And it didn’t feel good; he felt empty, maybe, and the sight of Itachi’s limp body was stuck in his mind.
Sasuke needed one fucking moment to think.
Which is difficult to do when the last remaining member of his clan has kidnapped him after assisting in the genocide of his family.
The air was became thick and suffocating, burdening his lungs with every breath. The previously scorching cellar suddenly felt awfully chilly, the cold imprisoning; he shuddered violently, wiping the cool sheen of sweat pooling in his palms onto the thin blanket covering his legs.
Madara is grabbing his chin now, and Sasuke feels himself pull away with a hiss because he cannot breathe, is probably about to die, and needs to be alone. Why couldn’t anyone leave him alone, for fuck’s sake? There was always something or someone chasing after him, some ulterior motive or a grand scheme Sasuke had to be the center of.
Did you know, Sasuke wanted to announce to the world right now, that I don’t give a shit about any of you?
He is tired, has been since he was seven years old, and it is all finally over, so he thinks some rest is warranted. Which is really fucking hard with this Madara up in his face, yelling about Itachi, and Sasuke does not want to hear that bastard's name anymore. He can’t hear it anymore.
Sometimes, he wondered if Itachi even existed and wasn't an illusion he came up with to cope with the massacre. To be fair, he’d acted like a ghost for the last nine years—morphing into every reflection, sneaking into his nightmares and sometimes his dreams, whispering foolish little brother every time Sasuke paused for a breather while training.
I'm always going to be there for you, even if it's only as an obstacle for you to overcome.
After graduating from the Academy, he wondered if pursuing revenge and strength was just playing into what Itachi wanted. After all, he was waiting for Sasuke to approach him with power, and suddenly the idea of doing anything Itachi expected—even if it would result in vengeance—felt worthless. In the Hidden Leaf, he had a future: Kakashi-sensei, who could teach him to master the Sharingan. Naruto and Sakura to continue measuring his strength against. Eventually, if an opportunity presented itself, he’d finish off Itachi. It would be over, just like that.
That didn’t sound so bad, until Itachi came back and crushed him without a care in the world, smearing the remains on his sole. Wouldn’t even look at him properly because he was focused on Naruto.
Look at me, bastard, he’d tried to scream back then, while his mouth was dry, throat burning with rising bile. Look at me. Look at who you’ve created, whose life you ruined.
And when he’d finally grabbed Sasuke by the throat, shoving him mercilessly against the wall, all he could think of was the human warmth of Itachi’s hand. The same warmth that used to spread across his skin and settle in his chest when Itachi pressed two fingers to his forehead, causing Sasuke’s face to scrunch in reluctant affection as he stumbled back.
That foolish feeling he couldn’t crush betrayed him, because Itachi saw it when he narrowed his eyes and told Sasuke he was weak. That he didn’t carry quite enough hatred, even though he was brimming with it, felt it burning every nerve and stabbing every muscle.
Despite this, Sasuke thinks he might have been right, because: fuck, he wasn’t satisfied.
When Itachi slid down beside him, when he heard the sickening sound of skin scraping off his head, of the life leaving his body, Sasuke wasn’t happy. This was all he’d wanted. This was it.
He tried to smile; he really did, focusing every bit of energy left in him on tugging his lips upwards. There had been a weight lifted off his chest—a bone-crushing one that had been slowly killing him—and for a second, all he felt was peace and sweet relief.
However, no sooner did shame and dejection take its place. Emotions he couldn’t explain, but felt nonetheless.
Itachi Uchiha had massacred his entire clan. Sasuke Uchiha had killed the last member of his family.
Maybe he’d taken comfort in knowing his brother was out there. He wanted him dead more than anything, cursed him out a million times, but he was there, somewhere. Itachi existed for Sasuke to find, as he’d promised.
Unfortunately, killing his brother provided no defining, cathartic moment that allowed him to move on.
He’d imagined it a million times, tasting sweetness on the tip of his tongue and promising himself he’d have time to savour it later. Here later was, bringing only bitterness in its wake.
The second Tsukuyomi was worse than the first. Sasuke didn’t remember much from the first time around; mainly what he felt—the soul-crushing terror and grief—which was bad enough. Maybe it was because he’d finally found something in his life beyond revenge—Naruto—that Itachi had crushed the second time around.
Because what could matter more. What else could matter in the face of that. Nothing did, and especially not Sasuke’s desires.
When he finally forced open his eyes after the month-long coma, Sasuke realized, with the blinding white lights as his audience, that the only thing that would ever matter in this life was Itachi’s death. So when Sakura had thrown her arms around him, the touch stinging his skin and her blush-pink hair assaulting his vision, Sasuke wanted to scream.
You don’t fucking know anything. Get off of me. You haven’t seen anything. None of you know anything.
And it wasn’t fair, because Sakura cared about him and was the glue that mended Team 7 together when he and Naruto stretched it apart more often than not. But nothing had ever been fair in Sasuke’s life, and Sakura was strong enough to handle a little cruelty.
How far were they now, Sakura and Naruto? Have they reached the Uchiha Hideout yet? Were they looking at Itachi’s corpse?
Were they proud? Impressed by Sasuke’s abilities, or concerned about his current whereabouts?
Sasuke hadn’t allowed himself the luxury of remembering them. Especially not after killing Orochimaru, when every lingering attachment threatened the prospect of fulfilling his goal.
Now, he thought of Naruto, stuck to Sasuke’s side despite claiming to hate him because he was an overrated, arrogant show-off.
It didn’t take Sasuke long to realize that, unlike him, Naruto wasn’t capable of all-consuming hatred. He managed to find goodness in anyone—hell, he’d insisted that there was such a thing in Sasuke during their fight at the Final Valley.
Naruto saw his own loneliness—honestly, projected it—onto Sasuke, and maybe that’s the only reason he still couldn’t let go. Sasuke had steeled himself for Naruto’s pursuit, readied himself to be unrelentingly vicious, and he had been. He’d said things he didn’t believe, coated them with half-truths so Naruto would perceive them as full ones.
Yet here he was, almost three years later. A stupid pest that couldn’t be swatted away.
Selfishly, when Naruto first showed up at Orochimaru’s hideout, uttering Sasuke in the rough, fond way only he could, he’d felt something warm creep up his chest. Of course, he tamped it down immediately, because he was so close to Itachi and could not afford any distractions interfering with the success of his plans.
Despite this, he’d wanted the opportunity to fight Naruto properly, if only for the sake of spending more time with him. Days with Orochimaru were spent in only three monotonous ways: training, sleeping, and eating. Nothing more, nothing less. He’d been invited on more than one occasion to accompany Orochimaru on his excursions, but Sasuke had no interest in spending more time than necessary with the creep.
Life in the Hidden Leaf was exhilarating relative to traveling with Orochimaru. It’s not as if Sasuke had a plethora of hobbies, or free time at all, but the village had plenty of good walking paths and things to see: other people, for one. Specifically, normal, undisturbed civilians. Spending most of his time with Orochimaru and Kabuto made Sasuke feel like somewhat of a recluse.
That’s why seeing Naruto felt so good.
As to why he felt resentful when he saw that paper-white crop-top boy beside Sakura—it’s not like his chakra stood out that much, or anything—so he wasn’t really resentful. More amused that they’d needed a replacement for him in the first place.
He vaguely wondered if he’d be anything like that boy had he stayed in the Hidden Leaf. Early mornings training on jewel-beaded grass, the sky still kissed amber as he waited for the rest of Team 7. Then, the inevitable routine: Naruto loudmouthing his way through an uninteresting anecdote, Sakura hardly concealing her rage, and Kakashi-sensei arriving fashionably late, though with an air of nonchalance that he used to find unfairly cool.
It was the same bone-deep familiarity he had last felt waking to his mother’s cooking. He would stretch his limbs, sprint to the door to snag a few moments with Itachi, and then rush to the kitchen. He’d clutch the soft fabric of his mother’s apron as she kissed his head, wrapped in the warm scent of sandalwood and wisteria. She would set down a steaming bowl of rice, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables, laughing as he fumbled with his chopsticks in anticipation. He would watch his father with wide eyes, eager to catch every word and hold it close for the rest of the week.
Team 7 was comfort; a warm blanket cocooning him during a rainy day, blinding him to the storm outside. But an Uchiha needed his sight—and Sasuke was made of turmoil, of constant unrest and instability.
Maybe Konoha could forgive him for staying with Orochimaru. Naruto could, and would, because his heart swallowed everything in its path, coating them in sticky-sweet tenderness.
“This ramen,” Naruto said, speaking messily around a mouthful of noodles, “is the best. It’s soooo good. Right, Sasuke?”
“Don’t speak while you’re chewing, idiot,” Sasuke sighed, taking another bite, letting the hot, savory flavour mingle on his tongue. It was really good. For once, Naruto was right about something. “Yeah,” he relented quietly, “it’s pretty good.”
“Hah! I knew you’d like it!” Naruto pumped his fist up and down as if he’d achieved something truly great. He grinned at Sasuke, radiating warmth as his eyes closed into crescents.
Sasuke averted his gaze, cheeks heating, unable to get used to Naruto’s exorbitant reactions. “I’m surprised you have decent taste in anything.”
“Hey—you bastard!” Naruto crossed his arms, releasing one only to point at him accusingly. “I’ll have you know I have the best taste in everything. Ramen, girls, and, uh, yeah! Pretty much everything.”
“Right,” Sasuke drawled, biting back a laugh at the responding gasp. “That’s why you’re such a loser.”
Naruto screeched, petulantly planting his hands on his hips. “I’m not paying for this meal anymore!”
Sasuke raised a brow. Even if Naruto could afford to pay for this, he definitely wouldn’t be willing to. Especially not for Sasuke. “It’s not like you were ever planning to,” he deadpanned.
“Nuh-uh! Look!” Naruto pulled out his wallet—a fucking creepy-looking frog—and zipped open its mouth, dumping the contents on the table. There wasn’t a lot, maybe twenty or so coins, but it’d be plenty to cover their two bowls.
Sasuke’s eyes widened, and he lifted his eyes to meet Naruto’s ever-so-blue ones. Since when was he this generous? Had Orochimaru placed him under a curse or something?
Naruto rubbed the back of his neck, fidgeting with the coins on the table. “It’s, uh,” he began awkwardly, clearing his throat, “for the time you saved me from Haku. I never really thanked you for that.”
“Oh,” Sasuke breathed, suddenly finding the grilled meat in his ramen of utmost interest. He’d never been thanked like this before. And he hadn’t really thought about saving Naruto when he’d taken the hit for him—he’d just thought if he didn’t move then, he’d never be able to live with himself. Naruto was staring at him sheepishly, as if waiting for him to speak.
“Don’t think much of it,” he eventually said.
“Uh, well, as much as I hate to say it,” Naruto said, voice lifting into something fond, “you saved my life. It’s a big deal to save the future Hokage’s life, you know.”
You would have been fine, Sasuke almost said. If I didn’t die, you wouldn’t have either.
But something twisted in his chest, and there was a lump in his throat, so he stayed quiet, nodding slowly after a few moments.
There wasn’t a definitive moment when Naruto’s presence softened from a thorn in his side into something he looked forward to. It must’ve happened over time, through shared meals and training sessions, the chaos of the Chunin Exams, and, finally, in the melancholy of their final battle.
There were plenty of times Sasuke felt like he didn’t know himself; didn’t know what he wanted from this life, nor how to get it. Agency had been ripped out of his hands from the moment Itachi butchered his family. He’d lost what little he regained after submitting to Orochimaru’s desires. His whole life, he’d been grasping at any bit of control he could find.
But if there was someone he knew entirely, for certain, someone who would never fail to meet Sasuke’s expectations, it was Naruto. Despite his own struggles, growing up an orphan in an indifferent village, he loved and loved and loved.
“Sasuke,” Naruto muttered sleepily, rolling over on the futon. They were camping overnight for some C-rank mission he hardly remembered the objective of. Naruto and Sasuke had been made to share a tent—Sakura and Kakashi had their own, respectively—Sensei insisted it was a teamwork exercise.
He turned to Naruto, hands crossed beneath his head. Cool air filtered into the tent, carrying the clean scent of pine. It was late, but sleeping was difficult with a winter chill like this one. “What?”
“What are you gonna do for the New Year? Kakashi-sensei said he’s giving us a few days off,” Naruto said, sitting up on his elbows when he realized Sasuke was also awake. He blinked owlishly at him, expression bordering on gloomy.
Sasuke’s brows furrowed—he could count on his fingers the number of times Naruto seemed remotely sad. It was almost scarily uncharacteristic. “I don’t do anything,” he said plainly. There was nothing to do; he had no interest in celebrations with others. If anything, they only reminded him of things he’d rather forget.
“Oh,” Naruto said quietly, watching Sasuke carefully. He glared in return, a bit flustered at the concentrated stare. “I get it,” he finished, running his fingers through the thin blades of grass. Golden tufts of hair fell lower against his headband, framing his boyish features. His cerulean eyes were bright when he looked back at Sasuke—in the dark, they almost appeared to glow.
Pretty, he thought automatically, choking the moment he realized what the fuck he was doing.
Naruto looked at him sideways, chuckling at Sasuke’s struggle to catch his breath. When he finally managed to do so after Naruto almost broke his back, he turned and stared firmly at his lap.
There’s this festival in the town center,” Naruto said, and Sasuke thought he sounded nervous, oddly enough. “They have games, and stuff. And a lot of cool food. Ichiraku’s nearby too. We could go together.”
Sasuke hummed, trying not to make this more awkward than it already was. He’d clearly mustered up a ton of courage to ask Sasuke this; at this thought, he couldn’t help the smile that crossed his features.
“Stupid,” he murmured, watching as Naruto turned from flustered to frustrated in a matter of seconds.
Naruto narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“Fine, I’ll come.”
He’d seen Naruto light up before, but never quite like this.
Sasuke’s cheek stung; he blinked open his heavy eyelids, which he hadn’t remembered closing. Madara was gripping his face painfully tight, nails carving angry marks into his skin.
He jerked backwards, inhaling sharply when every bone seemed to protest.
“You need to hear this, Sasuke,” Madara seethed. “Your brother has only ever tried to protect you.”
Sasuke laughed wetly, trying and failing to take a deep breath. He is already screwed—didn’t Madara know that—there wasn’t any reason to make it worse with jokes in poor taste.
But Sasuke could not deny the sincerity in his voice, nor the almost pitiful tone he delivered the words in. He wasn’t good at reading people, but even he could see that this was not a lie.
Itachi’s corpse appeared in his periphery, blank eyes staring up at him, cold fingers tracing over Sasuke’s forehead in a poor apology for his existence. He is tired, can’t wrap his mind around anything anymore, but his body is moving in a terrified panic.
We only have each other as siblings, Sasuke.
Itachi never had him. He's full of shit.
Did you do that just so I could carry you?
He might’ve. There was not much in the world better than Itachi’s embrace.
Do you resent me, Sasuke?
He must. He will, he does.
“Just breathe, Sasuke.”
Madara is speaking, probably, but it’s coming from so far away. His vision is blurring at the edges, and he is burning hot, shivering, dying.
Sasuke is scared and thinks, I really do miss Naruto.