Chapter Text
The list of things Shisui Uchiha regrets in his life is pretty small.
A handful of ill-considered one-night stands, several embarrassing bets with members of his family, the summer he decided to turn emo, oh—and one particularly notable fuck-up early in his career that very nearly ended it prematurely. But, for the most part, it’s been smooth sailing.
Sure, maybe the odd rival takes a pot shot at him here or there. Ancient booby traps try to kill him, or the local wildlife steps in where they’ve left off. He and spiders are categorically never going to get along. But he’s never had cause to regret his career itself. He loves everything about treasure hunting—the adventure, the danger, the intellectual challenge of it all. The way his heart races when he finds some ancient artifact supposedly lost for good.
So, all in all, his current position—perched twenty feet up a silk cotton tree in India, surrounded by about two-dozen armed thugs personally out for his blood—well, that’s just another day at the office.
Two of the men walk below Shisui’s hiding place and he holds his breath, watching. They’re thick-built meat-heads; improbable amalgams of every jackbooted thug to ever grace a movie screen, with jawlines Chuck Norris could break a fist on, and brows that would make a Neanderthal proud. Supressing the snicker that threatens to escape him at that thought, Shisui wonders where Gato keeps finding these idiots. Some sort of steroid-fuelled body building conference maybe…
Comfortable they’re far too stupid to realise he’s here, he relaxes, checking his bag to make sure his prize is still undamaged. Thankfully, despite having beaten a hasty retreat through the crowded city streets, the jewel-encrusted golden elephant winks up at him like a winning lottery ticket. One that’s going to pay for fancy canapes, champagne and extra leg room on Shisui’s flight home. Then a lot more afterwards.
But karma, as they say, is a bitch.
And karma, for Shisui, makes itself known in the form of a fluffy grey creature that plops down onto the branch beside him, joined in short order by half a dozen other partners in crime. At first, the macaque just fixes its intelligent gaze on him, as though assessing what to do about the human in its tree. Then, one very pregnant pause later, after the realisation that no food is immediately forthcoming, the ringleader opens its mouth and screams. Loudly.
Shit.
“No, shhh…” Shisui orders in a loud whisper. “Oh come on, don’t be an asshole.”
The screaming continues, swelling to a cacophony as the rest join in.
“Shoo!” he pleads, waving his arms around to try and scare them off. “I’ll buy you a bag of bananas or something when I get down from here, just please shut up…”
But the little bastards don’t stop and, if anything, Shisui’s heated objection only seems to be pissing them off more. Which is fantastic, because truly the last thing he needs is to catch rabies or—
From the bottom of the tree, someone clears their throat. “Ahem.”
Or that.
It’s smug, officious, and quite frankly, about the last voice Shisui wants to hear right now. Every part of him sinks. On reflection, maybe it was a bit arrogant to think he wouldn’t have been followed to the temple. To think he was just going to walk in, pilfer a several-centuries old treasure, and walk out again a comfortable five-figure sum the richer for it.
But then, it wouldn’t be the first time.
Sighing, he looks down to see his least-favourite human approximation of a turd. “Gato.”
“Well, well, if it isn’t my favourite globe-trotting Uchiha. Fancy seeing you here,” Gato says, looking inordinately pleased. His trademark sunglasses sit awkwardly atop his bulbous nose, straddling a pencil moustache that looks like a worm met its unfortunate end on his face some years ago, and he never bothered to wipe it off.
For reasons he can’t currently articulate, it annoys the shit out of Shisui. Possibly because if there’s anything he hates more than someone getting the better of him, it’s someone who’s as much of a waste of space as Gato getting the better of him.
“Yeah well, you know how it is,” he says, glancing around for a quick exit. “Ancient treasures to find, damsels in distress to rescue…”
Unfortunately, the crowd of highly armed thugs around Gato is growing by the second, and Shisui’s options are looking somewhat thin on the ground. At least, all the ones that don't end with him riddled in bullet holes. Damn macaques…
Gato grins. In the pre-monsoon heat, sweat rolls down his neck and spreads like an oil stain across his collar. “Oh, I’m well aware of how you operate... you’re a businessman, just like me. Always taking jobs for the highest bidder.” Before Shisui can open his mouth to disagree, Gato holds up a hand, adding, “I know, I know… you don’t see yourself that way. Moral code or whatever it is you like to call it. But in reality, the only difference between us is that you have the air of legitimacy that comes with an academic backing, whereas I’m willing to admit what I really want.”
“And what do you want, Gato?” Shisui asks flatly, already knowing the answer. The tired old game they’re playing here.
“That trinket you have in your bag.” Gato licks his lips, as though he can taste the champagne he’s going to be drinking once he returns the statue to whoever hired him, to disappear into some private collection and never see the light of day again.
“What do I get in return?” Shisui asks, even though it’s obvious from Gato’s expression that he’s not going to like it, whatever it is.
A mirthless laugh assaults his ears. “I’ll let you live to cross paths with me another day.”
As offers go, it’s not very believable. But as much as Shisui hates to admit when his luck’s run out, even he can see the writing on the wall. Today really isn’t his day. Sure, he might trust Gato about as far as he could throw him, but even Gato isn’t stupid enough to shoot him on a main street, in broad daylight. Probably…
Retrieving the golden elephant from his bag, Shisui tosses it carefully down.
Turning the trinket over in his hands, Gato lets out a hum of appreciation. “Very nice. My client will be pleased.” He hands it off to one of his many thugs to box up, then peers back through the branches, looking more like a slug than Shisui would have thought possible. Reinforcing the impression, his lips twist with a slimy smile. “Well, as always, it’s been nice doing business with you Shisui. But I think, unfortunately, you’ve caused me trouble for the last time.”
Looking far too pleased for Shisui’s tastes, Gato steps back, raising his hand in a gesture that looks awfully like it’s intended as a final farewell. Or a smug ‘fuck you.’ Either way, the message is perfectly clear.
Shisui rolls his eyes, mentally scratching off another predictable villainous turn on his treasure hunting bingo card. “All right,” he calls after Gato’s retreating back. “Nice doing business with you too! See you next time...” Under his breath he mutters, “Chinga tu madre, asshole…”
Truly, Gato doesn't have an original bone in his body. It's like he once read ‘The Idiots Guide to Being a B-Grade Movie Villain,’ then simply internalised it on the spot to make up for a lack of anything remotely resembling a personality. But, pathetic imitation of a villain or not, his bullets are still just as effective.
The leaves around Shisui shred beneath the pop of gunfire as he sucks in a rushed breath, bracing himself for what he’s about to do. The branch wobbles precariously as he races along it, pushing off into air that rushes past, disconcertingly empty. The slender gap to the adjacent building seems to widen to the span of a gaping abyss—
He hits the rail of the apartment with a thud, clambering over it to fall on his back on the balcony, winded, but mercifully unharmed. A macaque peers over the guttering, leering with a grin that threatens more screaming.
“Don’t you start,” Shisui warns, waggling a finger at it.
But there’s barely a moment to catch his breath before the sound of splintering wood below indicates another problem. Or an extension of the same one. Bounding to his feet, Shisui scoops up his fedora, settles it back on his head, and peeks over the railing. A bullet clips the plaster nearby—a pretty good indication that Gato’s men have every idea where he’s gone. That, combined with the way they’re currently pushing through the lower doors to the complex probably doesn’t mean anything good.
“Mierda!” he spits to no one in particular. “Hijo de puta…” It’s times like these he really wishes he carried a gun…
Forcing his way into the mercifully empty apartment attached to the balcony, Shisui slips quickly through it. Cracking open the door on the far side, he checks to see if the coast is clear. It is.
Of course, it doesn’t stay that way for long. Halfway along the open air corridor that borders the internal courtyard, there’s a cry of discovery from his pursuers, followed by more shooting. Seriously, why are the bad guys always bringing guns to Shisui’s knife fights?
Ducking, he runs faster, bursting into another apartment filled with hazy cigarette smoke and shocked faces.
“Sorry!” he yells, pushing through them and exiting to the exterior stairwell on the far side. Looking at the next building over, it’s immediately apparent that the gap is too far to cross with the same trick he used earlier. But with Gato’s men advancing from below, maybe he can make it to street level and bypass them altogether…
A thicket of power cables criss-crosses the span between buildings, with one nearby running almost to the level of the shop awnings below. Sending a rash of silent prayers to whatever gods take care of Indian power line maintenance, Shisui detaches a length of rope from his belt and flings it over the wire, gripping each side like a makeshift zipline. Holding his breath, he pushes off into empty space. To his considerable surprise and delight, the line holds.
He sweeps across the street, picking up more and more speed, until the other building is rushing at him like—
Shit.
He impacts it with his shoulder, hard, coming to a sudden and jarring stop. Pain shoots down his arm and he loses grip on the rope, crashing through a fabric awning and landing ungracefully in a huge stack of bagged flour. It explodes into a cloud of white and Shisui groans, moving each of his limbs in turn. By some miracle, nothing seems broken. Not even the tantō in its leather holster at his back.
Oh well. Nana korobi ya oki. Fall down seven times, stand up eight…
It appears his exit was none too subtle though, because Gato’s men are leaning over the stairwell, yelling and pointing at the mess he’s made. Dragging himself to his feet, Shisui evades the angry store owner, brushes flour off of his clothes and resumes running for his life. Never let anyone tell you archaeology is boring.
As he emerges back onto the main street, searching for an exit that’s least likely to get him killed, the sound of screeching brakes and angry honking carries from the road. Cutting a wild path through the traffic is an old open-top olive-drab Jeep with several gold charms dangling from its rear-view mirror. It jerks to a stop just before hitting Shisui, both side wheels riding up on the curb.
“Need a ride?” the female driver asks, grinning.
Her windswept hair hangs past a fashionable silk scarf tied at her neck. Unmanicured nails wrap around the slender metal steering wheel, like they couldn’t be more at home there. She wears a well-travelled linen shirt, rolled neatly up to her elbows, with matching pants. Speckled with dirt, the ensemble looks like she’s probably traversed half the country to get here and been up to her elbows in the grease of the vehicle’s engine at some point to do it. She’s a walking contradiction—albeit one Shisui is delighted to see.
“Izumi!” he exclaims happily.
Eyes sparkling, she waves. “Hey.”
“I thought you were practicing on the course in Reno this weekend… What’re you doing here?”
A shot rings out, kicking up dust near one of the rear tyres. Shisui yelps. Glancing down the alleyway behind him, Izumi rolls her eyes, reaching across to throw open the door. “What am I always doing? Saving your ass, you idiot... Now get in before one of us gets shot, or I have to find out whether my rental insurance covers illegal firefight damage.”
Shisui leaps into the Jeep, holding tight as Izumi floors the accelerator before he’s even closed the door. Falling into the seat, he buckles up, all too familiar with the manic nature of her driving. “How did you know where I was?”
“How? You’re not exactly subtle…”
In the rear-view mirror, about a dozen of Gato’s thugs spill onto the street, joined by a small crowd of disgruntled vendors whose trade Shisui has probably just ruined for the day. Okay… so maybe she has a point.
“It’s good to see you too,” he says.
By way of an answer, a glossy magazine hits the side of his head. As Izumi takes the nearest corner like a complete maniac and the sound of shooting fades behind them, Shisui examines the cover. He grins.
On it there’s a flattering image of himself—his trademark battered fedora set at a jaunty angle, smile just slightly on the side of rakish as he sits amongst the Mayan ruins of a Mexican dig site with a bright pink, blue and purple striped flag draped around his shoulders. ‘Shisui Uchiha,’ the title announces in bold lettering, ‘Treasure hunter for a new generation?'
The trip was hands-down the most boring of his life—the ruins already picked clean, and with a gaggle of students to babysit along the way—but it had provided the opportunity for an eager camera crew to document Shisui’s every move. And to pay handsomely for the privilege.
“They finally published it,” he says, pleased.
He doesn’t even need to look at Izumi to know she’s making a gagging face. Pointedly, he ignores her, flicking through the article instead. It includes several more high-quality photos, including his own personal favourite, taken at an after-hours dinner party at a museum in Mexico City where he’d worn a particularly flattering suit. They’d even allowed him to keep it afterwards. Something about it conveyed a sense of professionalism and gravitas that seemed lacking in Shisui’s usual dusty shirt and khaki pants combo—at least if the way most of his fellow academics treated him was anything to go by.
“I have to ask…” Izumi says, glancing over, clearly not as impressed as she should be, “Are you trying to get laid?”
Raindrops splatter onto the page and Shisui tucks the offending publication away, offering a typically insincere shrug and roguish grin. “I’m not not trying.”
The look she gives him couldn’t be less impressed if it tried. “Uh huh. And how many of the women on that so-called ‘academic field-trip’ were actually there for the archaeology?”
Shisui makes a show of counting on his fingers. “There was…” He taps his pinkie a few times, trying to settle on a figure, before giving up. “I mean… Sakura seemed pretty focused. She told me she’s going to med-school after summer’s over.”
The silence before Izumi answers speaks volumes. “I hate you.”
Throwing a friendly arm over her shoulders, Shisui winks. “Oh, come on… I know you don’t mean that. Otherwise you wouldn’t spend so much time with me.”
Unfazed, she shrugs him off. “I only spend time with you because you’re family. That means I don’t get a choice.”
“Mmmm, sure.” Shisui tucks his hands behind his head and savours the slight dip in temperature the rain brings with it. “So are you going to tell me why you’re really here then?”
At last, something truly excited possesses Izumi. Her eyes light up, face softened by the beautiful smile that always draws people to her, like moths to a flame. A trait they both share.
“I think I found it.”
“Found what?”
“The Key. Asura’s key,” she repeats, gesticulating excitedly, as though the first statement could possibly mean anything else. “Or at least… a clue to it.”
Shisui’s stomach executes a giddy flip. “Come on…” he challenges, trying to sound far less excited than he feels. “We both know that’s just a myth. Asura’s treasure is like the Holy Grail, or El Dorado. Everyone looks for it, no one finds it. It’s a dead end.”
Izumi shakes her head. “Not this time. Check my bag. In the glove box.”
Shisui hesitates, trying to gauge if she’s serious, or just having him on.
“Go on,” she says, nodding.
There’s something in her manner that stirs a corresponding thrill in Shisui’s blood. Izumi’s good at being understated, but he knows her well enough to know when she’s truly excited. The eager lines of her body and the restless way she’s bouncing in her seat… it’s the same kind of energy she had the night before her first flying lesson, when she skipped around the room with a model airplane, reciting the different controls and how they worked to Shisui at length.
Opening the glove box he fumbles in her bag, retrieving a fresh square of hotel notepad paper with a handwritten string of numbers. He frowns at them, wondering what the name ‘Arjun’ has to do with anything. Oh…
Snorting with laughter, he waves the paper in Izumi’s face. “Remind me again, which one of us is trying to get laid?”
Scoffing, she shoves his hand away. “Not that!”
“No?” he teases, holding the paper just out of her reach. “Who is he? Is he hot? Should I call him?”
He knows better than to think she’ll care about his teasing. Truthfully, neither of them is known for their subtlety or discretion with relationships. Not that Shisui can blame her for it. Both of them might have chafed at the world’s expectations of them, but at least he never had to put up with people demanding he embody a traditionally demure female stereotype too. Naturally, the more people pressured Izumi with that expectation, the more she pushed back against them. Truth be told, Shisui loves her for it. They’re both unconventional, and he would have it no other way.
“I can already tell you you’re not his type,” she says bluntly.
“Awww…” Feigning disappointment, Shisui returns the note to her bag. He rummages around some more, finally locating his actual target—a small leather-bound notebook in handwritten French, tucked with a photo of a palm-sized stone haft covered in Egyptian hieroglyphs. Curiously, it’s pitch-black.
It sends a shiver down Shisui’s spine. Between himself and Izumi, they’ve always agreed Asura’s treasure was nothing more than a myth. The kind of thing people waste their entire lives searching for. But this…
It makes him wonder if she could be right. Because whatever this thing is—it looks an awful lot like the descriptions of Asura’s treasure they’ve both been reading about since the days of their misspent youth.
“See what I mean?” Izumi says.
Serious in a way he only can be when cryptic ancient artifacts are involved, Shisui squints at hieroglyphs he can’t make heads or tails of.
“It could be,” he concedes, dropping the picture into his lap and turning to the notebook. It contains a series of illustrations, maps and notes in French, signed by someone called ‘Vivant Denon’—a name that rings familiar enough to add weight to Izumi’s claims.
If Shisui’s knowledge of history is on point—and it usually is—Denon was the artist and scholar who accompanied Napoleon’s failed mission to Egypt to document the ancient ruins there. Or, to search for something else entirely, depending on whose accounts you believe.
“It could also be literally anything else,” he says, just to be contrary. After all, one of the most important parts of academic research is scepticism. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Izumi shakes her head. “It’s the same kind of stone as the old man’s paperweight though.”
Returning to the picture, Shisui raises an eyebrow. “First of all, please don’t call a four thousand year old funerary offering a paperweight. And secondly, how can you tell from a photo?”
Laughing lightly, Izumi cuts off a speeding truck in the next lane. It beeps angrily at them.
“Because I’ve got the real thing, obviously.”
It feels like someone’s punched Shisui in the chest. “What! Where?”
Izumi tosses her head like he’s dumb. “In a safety deposit box in Mumbai. I’m not stupid enough to actually bring it with me.”
Releasing a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, Shisui relaxes. “Oh, thank God for that.”
“Why? Are you having sudden moral qualms about your choice of career?”
Giving her the scathing look that statement deserves, Shisui folds his arms. “Hey, I might be in the business of acquiring ancient artifacts by questionable means—”
“Stealing. You steal ancient artifacts,” Izumi says flatly.
“I acquire ancient artifacts. But I’m not a barbarian. I know how to look after them.”
Unsurprisingly, Izumi seems unmoved. She raises one brow. “You know, a pig with lipstick on it is still a pig…”
Ignoring her jab, and the urge to suggest that lipstick-wearing pigs still being pigs can only be bad news for her, Shisui peers at the hieroglyphics again, as though more time spent staring at them might somehow force them to translate themselves. “What does it say?”
Izumi gives a snort of derision. “How am I supposed to know? I don’t read ancient Egyptian.”
“You didn’t get a translation?”
“Before I came to you? You would never have forgiven me.”
That makes Shisui smile. “True enough,” he agrees, putting the photo and notebook away just as the rain really starts coming down.
The car bounces through a deep pothole, its old suspension creaking in protest. The rain floods the gutters, turning streets into rivers. Checking behind him, Shisui is bitterly disappointed to find the Jeep’s canopy in tatters. He sighs. Just great… it’s going to be a hell of a long trip to Mumbai…
“But,” Izumi adds slyly, signalling to take the turnoff out of town. “I do have someone in mind. We’ll pick up the artifact and fly out to meet the language expert I’ve contacted. Someone who can tell us if it truly is connected to Asura.”
“Great. Where?” Shisui asks, flicking water out of his eyes and pushing dripping hair off his forehead. Why didn’t he think to bring a rain coat?
The windscreen wipers fight a losing battle against the deluge while Izumi hesitates. As though it’s a loaded word, she says carefully, “Japan.”
A deep and long-buried dissonance turns over unpleasantly in Shisui’s stomach. He groans. “Not Japan... Couldn’t you find someone based literally anywhere else?”
The look on Izumi’s face is unsympathetic. The kind of unsympathetic that says if Shisui doesn’t like it, he can take a nice long hike. To Mumbai. Alone. “No,” she says forcefully. “Because if this is what we think it is, then we don’t just need an expert, we need a trustworthy expert. Someone who will translate it and keep their mouth shut afterwards. I did the research, he’s our guy.”
“Who?”
“Doctor Uchiha Itachi.”
“Uchiha!? Izumi…” It comes out considerably more shrill than Shisui intends, but clearly, there’s some part of the phrase ‘monumentally bad idea’ that Izumi doesn’t understand.
Finally showing some degree of understanding about the situation she’s getting them into, Izumi tosses her head dismissively. “Oh don’t be so dramatic, it won’t take long. We’ll get in, get the translation, and get out before we ever have to answer any difficult questions. It’ll be fine. It’s not like we’re asking for an invitation to the family Christmas party.”
Seriously doubting that anything involving the two of them will ever be simple or straightforward, Shisui scoffs, watching the rain bead and pool at the edges of the windscreen. “Yeah, well. It’d better be...”
When Itachi wakes up, there’s nothing to suggest his day is going to be anything but routine.
He gets up at dawn, as per usual, eating breakfast at the dining table alone, legs tucked beneath him on a comfortable zabuton. The solitude at this hour of day is something he prefers. It’s the only time the family home is quiet anymore: free of the cold disapproval of his father’s increasingly judgemental lectures, the anger of his younger brother’s rebellion, or the resigned acquiescence of his mother.
By now, Fugaku should have left for work and it’s still too early for Sasuke to be awake, given how late he’s been staying out at night recently. Either to irritate their father, or avoid him entirely, Sasuke has taken to frequenting the clubs and bars in Osaka. Mostly, he comes home. Some nights, he doesn’t. More often than not, even when he is home his door is closed, the thumping bass line of some song or another seeping out from beneath it. Likely because he knows this angers their father even more than the leather jackets and spiked punk-rock hair style he now sports.
Part of Itachi has been glad to discover his brother possesses more of a spine than he’s ever had. But at the same time, Sasuke’s rejection of every last one of their father’s rules has only brought more unwanted scrutiny to Itachi’s far more minor transgressions. It’s as though, having decided his younger child is a lost cause, Fugaku wants to be absolutely certain his eldest son and heir to the Uchiha family fortune is beyond reproach. To smother him with expectations until he emerges, a diamond from beneath the pressure.
But unbeknownst to Fugaku, Itachi has one flaw he can’t change. And it means that, no matter what, he’ll always be a failure in his father’s eyes.
Sighing, he swallows a mouthful of rice and fish, washing it down with the sweetened barley tea he favours. Pulling this month’s edition of Modern Archaeology across the table, he inspects its glossy cover and promptly chokes on his drink.
The face that smiles up from the page stokes a knot of hot irritation in his gut. Furiously, he skips to the article, skim-reading the text, despite the fact he knows it will only annoy him further.
“An up-and-coming star in the field of archaeology, particularly specialising in South-American cultures, Shisui Uchiha is an increasingly well-known fixture of the San Diego research scene. Curiously for someone so entrenched in the study of history, he is famously reticent when it comes to his own. ‘I did spend my early years in Japan,’ he confirms when pressed. ‘But I haven’t been back in a long time. The United States is my home now.’ Asked about his connection to the famous Uchiha family, he merely winks enigmatically. ‘Never heard of them,’ he says, before asking if we’d like a one-on-one tour of the dig site.
Equally at home in dusty ruins as surfing the palm-lined SoCal beaches, or scaling the cliffs of his native Joshua Tree National Park, he nonetheless shines in group settings too. At the party we attend that evening, to celebrate the opening of a new Aztec exhibit at the Museo Nacional de Antropología in Mexico City, he easily charms the crowd, finishing the night with at least half a dozen new admirers. It’s not hard to see why they like him. A conversation with Shisui is an exercise in passion and obscure historical knowledge. Even so, much like the dig sites he frequents, it’s hard to say just how much of what he presents to the world runs more than surface-deep.
His motto in life? ‘Fall down seven times, stand up eight,’ Shisui says with a charismatic smile. Where did he learn it? Chuckling, he brushes us off. ‘The school of hard knocks.’
Love him or hate him, one thing is certain—we haven’t seen the last of Shisui Uchiha’s brand of archaeology.”
Hate him, Itachi thinks, sipping his tea viciously enough to scald his tongue and immediately regretting it. Definitely hate. Hate how reckless, impulsive and irresponsible he is. The way he doesn’t seem to take a single thing seriously. Hate that it looks like he’s never had to work hard for anything a day in his life—people only too happy to hand him whatever he wants on a silver platter, charmed by a pretty smile. Hate the fact that, despite their shared family name, he’s free to do whatever he likes. Hate the way people flock to him, falling into his orbit—and by all accounts, bed—like it’s somehow an inevitability. And hate, most of all, that there’s a small part of Itachi that understands why.
Because love him or hate him—and it’s definitely hate—there’s no denying that Shisui Uchiha is objectively, a very attractive man.
Itachi comes back to his senses, realising he’s been leaning over the magazine and frowning so hard his forehead hurts. Straightening, he closes his eyes and massages the knot of tension out from behind it.
“Itachi—”
The tension sinks in even deeper. He opens his eyes. “Father.”
Fugaku takes in the magazine, then his son, and Itachi really hopes his cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel. It’s stupid, but merely knowing he feels the way he does about the man on the page makes him fear being caught. As though his father might somehow divine his deepest darkest secret, just by looking. Truthfully, Itachi sometimes wonders if he might not already know, or at least suspect. But if he does, it’s clearly a truth he’s chosen not to acknowledge.
“I take it you’re prepared for our meeting this evening?” Fugaku asks, grim as ever.
Attempting a composed sip of his tea, Itachi nods. “Yes. Of course.”
Mouth a hard, unyielding line, Fugaku makes some indiscernible noise of disapproval, sweeping an appraising glance over him. “Well, I suppose it’s too much to hope that anything can be done about your hair between then and now. But they’re a modern family. New money. Perhaps it won’t matter so much.”
Fingers tightening against the flesh of his thigh, Itachi has to remind himself to breathe. “I will do my best to make a good impression.” He inclines his head, penitence for his innumerable shortcomings—not least of all the choice to grow his hair out. It’s a small act of rebellion compared to Sasuke’s effort, but one his father seems determined to curtail as promptly as possible.
Poker face softening ever so slightly, Fugaku’s brows trend downwards, though their slant is still severe. “I know. You are my son, after all. And it is high time you were married with a family of your own. Perhaps then you will see the value in giving up these frivolous academic pursuits, and taking your rightful place at the head of the family business.”
He might as well build a box and stuff Itachi into it. Mold him to fit his own vision of the future. But Itachi has long since learnt that what he wishes he could have from life, and what he can have, are two very different things. So, just like his infrequent clandestine trips to the less desirable areas of Osaka’s nightlife, this too, he realises he will have to sacrifice. Duty before self.
“Yes Father, I’m certain you’re right,” he says, bowing once more as Fugaku leaves for work, closing the front door behind him with a click that reeks of finality.
As his footsteps crunch away on the gravel path outside, Itachi can’t help clenching his fists, until long after his knuckles turn white.
Theoretically, it’s a good match. From a family of good standing, his potential bride is quiet and well spoken—the perfect future housewife and mother. Their marriage would kill two birds with one stone, giving her father the son he never had, and Itachi—and therefore by extension Fugaku—control of their biggest competitor’s business.
All it requires is for Itachi to spend the rest of his life pretending to be something he’s not.
The weight of the responsibility burns tight in his throat, threatening to break free on a rising tide of bile. He longs to cast off his gilded shackles, take a leaf from Sasuke’s book and do something completely crazy.
With a sigh, he rises from the table, collecting his dishes and depositing them circumspectly into the sink. Another day of work awaits.