#I know it super prose but blame that on all the margaret atwood I've been reading

[acatskey]

Itachi & the love letter - part 1

As you ambled forward, through a flurry, your eyes landed on one half of the team you were to meet up with- Itachi. With him things were always in the longing phase; the phase of uncertainty and careful footing and satisfaction. The sort of things you think of while trying to drift off to sleep.

You had made the first move but what were you to do next? He was so quiet, so unapproachable. Entirely unreadable. You had to come to him first. Those dark eyes never found you without prompting, only when you had smiled at him would he smile back; all warmth had to be kindled. The beginning of your interactions likely looked like bad news about to be shared, from a bystander’s perspective. Or so you imagined.  

Everytime the two of you talked you initiated the conversation, though he seemed glad to carry it on, and he would listen to you talk about mundane things like they held importance. Regardless, he hadn’t reach out.

Time offered no help. He didn’t ease or smile any easier or even soften his expression as the two of you chatted about innocuous things for the hundredth time. His face read just the same as it usually did, which is it to say, he either seemed angry or distracted by something treacherous to his soul.

This didn’t dissuade you though. At the core, all you wanted was to know him well, as a friend or otherwise.

“How are you?” You asked, gaze flickering between his eyes and the snowflakes collecting  in his hair.

“Well enough,” He always answered with that, you didn’t mind, “my hands are cold though.”

“Forgot your gloves?”

“Forgot my gloves.”  

This confession was sheepish. And so you smiled at his foolishness, so he did the same. So you took his hands in yours, so he let you. But allowing isn’t wanting. One allows themself to cry, one never wants to. Though sometimes you thought it may very well be just the opposite for him.

The sound of snow crunching. Kisame came over, smirking. “Love birds,” he was almost snickering.

“Kisame,” Itachi said, like a reprimand. His hands loosened around yours, he took a step back.

“Sorry, sorry,” you heard Kisame say as you let go of Itachi’s hands, slowly. The older partner was clearly distracted, now focused on something to do with the mission. Quickly, the moment you had been waiting for was whited out by the weather and more pressing tasks. Perhaps this is how a groundhog feels in the weeks of almost spring.

There had been once, though only once, when he had reached out to you first. But, to be fair, it held more significance than any of your attempts.

There had you sat, young and gravely misplaced, with the abilities of a rogue but not the heart of one, feeling like the world was ending. The sky seemed darker, the sun duller, the wind agitated- you pulse matching it’s rueful drum-

A noise sounded out! Shrill and demanding. A couple feet away a cat stood, watching you with a tail straight up, rubbing it’s side against a tree. It ran away the moment you shifted in your seat. You let this affect you more than perhaps it should have, you owed yourself some wallowing- all things considered. But the pity party was quickly interrupted by the arrival of Itachi. You could make out his vague form in your peripheral.

“Hello,” he said curtly. Feeling bitter and far from in mood for company, you didn’t reply but just kept looking  at the tree where the cat hand been. In your head you grew harsh, ‘Why does everyone fawn over him anyway? He isn’t that handsome. He’s strange and cold- an unfamiliar place at night.’

You heard him repeat his greeting. Giving up you turned to answer when you saw him holding the cat in his arms. Despite your lack of reply he sat beside you and the two of you petted the feline, initially in silence.

“You’ll be fine,” he reassured, not looking at you but at the animal in his lap, “you always will be, somehow. You persist subconsciously, you find a way because you have to.”

“Does it get easier?”

“It becomes bearable.”

This exchange gave you a flash of something human in him. You were both only thirteen when you first joined. A kid living as an adult. Maybe he missed playing pretend just as you did. Maybe he missed being able to walk away when it became too much- to say stop and for the world to listen. Even a closet can become unifimilar with lights turned off. Sometimes, you could swear you saw someone hiding in there and sometimes you were right.

This memory gave you drive and affection. So, when the mission ended you followed after him forcing yourself to extend a hand again. “I’m bored, we should hang out,” You complained, lying. “We could take a walk.”

“You can come into my room if you like,” Itachi offered, you had no reason to say no but the idea turned your confidence sour. You were quick to recover.

“Please, I need to know how many neopet stuffed animals you have in there.” He rolled his eyes, but it was his own fault for admitting he still used the website in the first place.

“I can’t let my pets starve,” he had explained in exasperation when you had first found out and went on about teasing him.

“But they never die!” 

“All the more reason to keep up on them!” This concept had felt ill fitting for him but you didn’t say anything to the effect at the time.

Entering Itachi’s room was odd, it smelled of incense and the lighting was dim.

He didn’t fully follow you in, he stood by the door with one hand on the knob. “Feel free to look around, I’ll be back shortly. I need to archive this scroll.”

You took the opportunity with greed, looking at every surface that was covered but not opening any drawers or moving anything around. It became clear he had a unkempt side- bed unmade with blankets sprawled about, books left on shelves and by his pillow and stacked on the floor, surfaces littered with papers that seemed to vary widely in origin based on the variety in size and color. This last observation led to a discovery, one that took you straight back to being a young teen.

It was a note comprised of neat, uniform handwriting. Your handwriting.