Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dream first occurred three days after the end of the civil war, and it plagued him for almost two years straight, beginning with the same view of a rough, russet-colored planet, and ending with an aurora that bathed the baked planet in shimmering pinks and purples. Naturally, he thought he was losing his mind. Between grappling with his own guilt and shame, navigating the intricacies of grief, and finding his place in the world, he couldn’t handle the added weight of something more. He told himself he would find some hidden meaning in the dream that greeted him night after night, but no part of the scenery was familiar to him. It wasn’t until he saw the red, dying sun that he realized his dream wasn’t something conjured by his damaged psyche. On the night of his seventeenth birthday, the red sun glowed brighter, like a last burst of life, a surge that he felt in his whole body, and the rinne sharingan took up the entire night sky. The light revealed a russet planet covered in God Trees, all of them in full bloom, an orchard for the only inhabitant of the planet.

Otsutsuki.

He woke up with a scream lodged in his throat, unable to see anything around him through the blood that clouded his eyes and coated his cheeks. Fear was familiar, something he could work through, so he leaned to his right and felt for the switch on the bedside lamp. The light did nothing to help him when everything was distorted by the blood in his eyes, so he had to feel his way along the wall, taking careful steps that still left him feeling like a stumbling wreck. The bathroom door was open, welcoming him into the start of his morning routine, even though it was three in the morning and he felt like death. His right hand slapped the wall beside the door and he wrinkled his nose when his wet palm slid across the slate tile before connecting with the light switch. Blood. Of course there was blood on his hand. The ethereal quality of the dream had vanished the moment he saw the rinne sharingan that dragged him right back to the civil war and reintroduced all of the darkness he’d worked so hard to keep from flooding back into his life.

The moment he fully entered the bathroom, he turned to go to the sink and ran into the partially open bathroom door. Without thinking, he reached out with his hand and left a swipe of a handprint on the lattice-work and fine paper. When he stumbled forward, he bumped into the bathroom vanity, where he left more blood behind in the form of his fingerprints on the granite sink. Then he felt a presence in the doorway, a few feet from himself, when he was sure he’d been alone the entire time. The moment he felt a hand on his right elbow, he whipped his head in that direction, as if he could see the person. He tried to activate his sharingan and his rinnegan, but the stabbing pain he felt had him doubling over, almost vomiting. He felt as if his skull had been cracked, as if the bone had splintered and each little piece had been driven right into his brain. He couldn’t hear over the loud ringing in his ears, even when he tried to focus, because he couldn’t move beyond the pain that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He still struggled when he felt someone try to steady him.

“Hey. It’s me. Calm down. It’s me.”

Fifteen minutes later, he was seated on the bathroom floor, cool slate beneath his bare legs, his back flush against the wall. His eyes were closed, his head tipped back, to allow the warm washcloth to carefully swipe across his bloodstained skin. He should have woken up alone, but he’d failed at so many things in life that he found himself asking what was one more. Sleeping around wasn’t his style, even though he could brush it off as experimentation, just a boy growing into manhood. His father would have beaten him with a switch for such behavior, even if he was seventeen. He was old enough to know better. But it wasn’t quite sleeping around. But it wasn’t quite experimentation. He could have tolerated promiscuity, except it wasn’t solely for the sake of sex, nothing to do with instant gratification. He was sleeping with his deceased brother’s mate, something too complicated to break down, something not exactly forbidden but certainly frowned upon. It was Shisui who had held him as he’d mourned for his brother, for his parents, for his clan. It was Shisui who cupped his chin just so and made smooth, careful swipes of that warm washcloth across his face.

He opened his eyes, one blood red and one vivid violet, mismatched since the conclusion of the civil war, and Shisui offered him a partial smile, where they both knew he needed something more to draw him out of the nightmare. It was the prophecy told to him by the blind woman in the northern mountains of fire, where aging itako told tales of the world before and the world after, mediums for kami his clan still worshipped. She’d spoken many things during the lunar eclipse, when he’d seen her for a blessing before he claimed the role of clan head, but the name Otsutsuki was spoken with an indescribable combination of fear and rage. And then the fourth war had begun, continuing the cycle of war and peace that had stretched across the years, continuing where the third war had left off, where sides drawn in history were drawn again. And he hated it, but he was helpless to do much else than fight. Just like the people before him. Just like the people after him. That was how the world worked.

“It was worse tonight. Maybe staying at my place would have been better,” Shisui shared, hesitant to touch on the fact that his birthday and holidays were hardest. Two years of mourning wasn’t enough for him, and it wasn’t enough for Shisui. He knew that the moment their eyes met. They’d complicated what was already complicated. “Hey.” Shisui drew his attention away from the sharingan staring back at him, at the eyes that slowly shifted back to black. The man’s voice was softer, smile fuller. “Happy Birthday, Sasuke.”

That was why he loved Shisui.

“Hn,” he managed, distracted by the fact that Shisui was straddling his legs. And again, it wasn’t about the sex, though it would have been so much easier if it were. Proximity alone left him feeling as if he were basking in warm sunlight, a perfect combination of Shisui’s scent and personality and body language, something no one else could ever replicate. “Thanks.”

That was why he loved Shisui.

Leaning his head back against the wall, he closed his eyes once more, the blood fully gone from his vision and his skin tingling from the heat slowly leaving him. The warmth of the washcloth was replaced by the warmth of Shisui’s palms against his cheeks. He hummed as Shisui brushed both thumbs over his cheeks, then down to his jaw. It was the light touch of heat against the column of his throat. It was the light touch of those perfect lips against his left scent gland. He wrapped his arms around Shisui and focused on the steady, soothing sound emanating from the man, a soft rumble, a purr that sometimes left him feeling almost boneless. Shisui knew how to coax him back to sleep, to fight and win the battle against insomnia that had caught and held him since the civil war. It was happiness, something he thought he’d lost when he’d lost everything else, when he’d discovered his parents’ gruesome double suicide, when his brother had succumbed to a childhood illness at the height of the war. And it was another warm breath against his neck. And it was another kiss pressed against his scent gland.

Shisui collected him from the floor and carried him back into his bedroom, the bedroom that had secretly become theirs. He didn’t complain about the princess carry or the soft nuzzle against his jaw or the arms that quickly found him underneath the covers. He could be prickly. He could be impossible. Shisui endured the worst of him, promising that it was worth it, even when he felt that it wasn’t. He fell asleep to the murmured “happy birthday” against the nape of his neck, repeated between featherlight kisses, and woke up alone, the necessary price of sneaking around, of pretending they were nothing more than friends, nothing more than a clan head and his loyal guard. Waking up alone wasn’t always easy to bear, not when he recalled a childhood spent crawling into bed with his older brother, sure that there were monsters in his closet, sure that there was a ghost who lived in the corner of his room. They had been inseparable, at least until his brother had presented during the boy’s first meeting with Shisui. It was love at first sight, such a rarity in a world wrapped around arranged marriages and forced bonds.

He lay on his back, twisted up in sheets the color of cream that smelled of honey, vanilla, and cedar, a combination of scents that didn’t belong to him, a problem to remedy when he was fully awake, when he wasn’t so reluctant to move. He breathed in Shisui’s scent like a starving man, taking it into himself and holding it in his lungs until he felt a pleasant burn. Outside, the sun had risen, matching the time displayed on his digital clock. Shisui had let him sleep in, something of a tradition when it came to his birthday. Itachi had always been the one to wake him. His mother had always been the one to present him with breakfast. His father had always placed a cup of fresh coffee alongside his plate, black, plain, perfect. But he spent that morning squinting at the sunlight from a parted shoji door he was sure that he’d closed. He couldn’t refrain from rolling his eyes, because it was a sign that Shisui was on guard duty, a sign that he had to drag himself out of bed and step onto the engawa to greet the man.

Sighing, he carefully untangled the sheets from around his legs and threw back the thick comforter the color of golden sand. He sat on the edge of his bed, one hand raised to rub his eyes, another idly scratching his bare stomach. He ignored the bird call that was too convincing, knowing it was a ridiculous signal. Shisui was impatient, which meant the man had likely bought him a birthday gift, something he hated, something he secretly loved. Forgoing his robe, he stood and padded over to the parted shoji door, which he pushed open further to reveal his slice of paradise, a private side yard that had always been his, becoming more and more to him as the years had passed. He crossed his arms over his chest, nose wrinkled at the heat that air conditioning had fought and won in his bedroom. Shisui peered down at him from the rooftop, offering him a cheeky grin and a bag holding what looked like takeout containers, where the bag bulged in an unnatural shape.

“You could have stayed. My advisors won’t be here until noon. I told them that I wanted the morning for myself.”

“You neglected to mention that. Mind if I join you then? I brought more than enough.”

“If it’s something sweet just to piss me off—”

“Nah. Chuka ryori. I made a tomato egg stir fry and threw it over some rice. I also have your favorite supermarket coffee, the disgusting suntory brand. Wait. What else could be in this bag?”

He snorted and shook his head at the man’s antics, then he pointed at the ground, a silent command that Shisui join him on the engawa. His low table was small enough to make the meal more intimate, so he moved his small pile of books and the candle that was too strong when lit but perfect when unlit. As he sat on one side of the table, Shisui carefully unpacked the plastic bag, revealing nice bento, not cheap takeout containers. Shisui made a show of laying out the food, and he chuckled, amazed that so much had fit into the bag without it bursting at the seams. At the end, Shisui had a slightly crushed piece of what looked like loaf type cake, blueberry and lemon with a graham cracker crumb topping and no icing. Clever. Thoughtful. Naturally, he ate the dessert first, devouring it while listening to Shisui sing him “happy birthday” offkey. Shisui could cook well, and the man loved showing off. Shisui had been the one to teach Itachi to cook. He’d never forgotten the utter chaos in their kitchen.

While Shisui was slowly stirring the tomato and egg mixture with the rice, focused on the bento they would share, he looked at the scar on the man’s right scent gland, the scar that would have lined up with his brother’s teeth, the scar that had bonded them. He did his best to avoid being caught, to avoid admitting that the mark reminded him that he’d lost his brother, that he’d never had Shisui, that he’d never really have Shisui. Mixed emotions clouded the air, contrasting with the bright summer sun shining down on his cared-for yard. Without his scent blockers, he was an open book, not because he meant to share such feelings but because he’d grown accustomed to being himself, at least with Shisui. He was a rich combination of pomegranate, plum, and amber, and Shisui immediately looked up when he noticed his scent in the morning air. There was a moment where their eyes met, and he made a point of looking down at the mixture of eggs, tomatoes, and rice, avoiding the man’s gaze.

“It looks disgusting.”

“You look disgusting.”

“You can be so childish.”

“Hm. I don’t think I’m having childish thoughts right now though.”

“You smooth fucker.”

He laughed and reached across the table to snatch the chopsticks from Shisui’s hand. There was a brief war between them, but Shisui slapped the chopsticks down on the table and stood, quick to pull him to his feet and drag him back into his bedroom. His legs hit the end of his bed and he fell back onto the mattress in a mixture of a gasp and a laugh. Shisui grasped the end of his own shirt and tugged it up, revealing more of the man’s toned stomach, revealing more of the man’s toned chest. And then the shirt was gone. And then his hands were at the waist of Shisui’s pants. His sharingan and rinnegan took in every moment, as if he could replay the moment over and over again for the rest of his life.

That was why he loved Shisui.

Chapter Text

“This is what you bring me?”

“This is the culmination of six months of careful negotiations. You must know they say the clan is cursed.”

“Hn. And do you think the clan is cursed, Yakumi?”

“I—”

“The only curse is this pathetic attempt at gaining favor from the same government that cried for our extermination. The only reason we have some semblance of peace now is because my former sensei rightfully slaughtered Hiruzen.”

“Sas—”

“Don’t interrupt me!”

The meeting with his advisors went from bad to worse, and it ended with him cracking his meeting room table by striking it too hard with his clenched fist. He recalled his father behaving the same way. He recalled the number of meeting room tables that came and went. But his father hadn’t been a horrible man, not as a clan head, not as a father. He fully understood the crushing weight that came with leading the clan, the remainder of the clan, at least. He was often exhausted before noon, where his two advisors and the three elder councilmembers rose before the sun and greeted him with the most unwanted news. His advisors had worked hard to secure decent marriage options for him, but no marriage would ever be acceptable. He was dragging his feet. Most people his age had successfully bonded based on marriage contracts drawn in early childhood and driven by a desire for political gain. It wasn’t that he hated the potential candidates, only that he didn’t want to bind himself to someone other than Shisui. Just the thought of agreeing to formally mate with someone else made him feel like a traitor, like a heartless bastard. And despite Naruto’s crude nickname for him, he wasn’t that kind of bastard.

He shifted out of seiza to sit with crossed legs and scrubbed his hands over his face, unable to process the fact that his unwanted marriage could put his clan back into favor after two years of wading through darkness. The sanctions were strangling what was left of his clan. After the civil war and the successful assassination of the Hokage, the village had been thrown into chaos, and it was Danzo, an authoritarian monster, who had picked up the pieces and made something of the mess. Everything became worse. Isolation was punishment, but not enough, not quite right, so the clan estate was policed by outsiders who had taken over the military police, the streets were lined with cameras and wired for audio—trust was hard won, especially after uncovering spies within the clan. Sometimes, he found himself longing for a world in which his clan had won. He kept such thoughts to himself, until he couldn't, until he spoke the words against Shisui’s skin.

The papers looked up at him from the cracked table, splayed across the wood because of the heated exchange, because he couldn't burn them, even though he wanted to see ashes, not offerings. His advisors, Yakumi and Taiko, like night and day, warred with each other to provide options, to give him both sides of the proverbial coin. Taiko was cruel, swift to demand action, swift to support him when he showed anger instead of patience. Shisui didn't approve of Taiko, stopping just short of hating the man, but Yakumi had softened with time. Yakumi had lost a wife and three children. Taiko had lost a marriage, due to his own hands. Taiko was short-tempered and believed in an eye for an eye, but the man was loyal and respected his family, repeatedly tested during the civil war. Yakumi sought stability and wanted him to marry within the village, if not within the clan; Taiko wanted him to form deeper bonds with Kumogakure or Sunagakure, established villages with enough power to make a statement. He saw more of the same or something worse.

Sai—one year his senior, a former Root agent released into the general pool, clearly a spy.

Omoi—one year his senior, a loyal Kumogakure shinobi, student of its prized jinchuriki.

Neji—one year his senior, trapped in a similar situation with clan sanctions and a broken marriage contract.

Kankuro—two years his senior, advisor to the Kazekage, sympathetic to his circumstances.

“Sasuke?”

“Get in here, usuratonkachi.”

“You blew me off for some—whoa. What's wrong?”

Naruto slid open the door and surveyed the mess on the table, blue eyes quickly taking in the long crack in the wood, one clearly born from his anger. With his anger, he could be hot or cold, and he'd embraced fiery rage when he'd lost his temper, something that lingered in the room with leftover killing intent and his overwhelming scent. The scent blockers had failed when he'd forced his scent outward in a deadly crescendo. Naruto frowned, but the boy still entered the room and closed them into the sea of pomegranate, plum, and amber. His scent didn’t bother Naruto, not after spending so much time with him, not after Naruto presented as an omega too, making them the strongest in history, making them unappealing to the worst kind of alphas. Naruto sat across from him at the table, eyes glued to him, not his confidential papers, as if he would have cared about security with his best friend, his brother in all but blood. Wordlessly, he placed his palm across the scattered papers and slid them across the table, baring himself with the carefully written words.

Naruto had no marriage contract. His friend was forbidden from marrying another or bonding with another, a law written into existence when Naruto showed loyalty to him, to his clan, instead of Danzo. He believed the disgust and the hatred had existed for longer, much longer, simmering inside of Danzo, waiting for the moment when the man could declare such madness. Naruto knew that he was secretly seeing Shisui, like he knew that Naruto was secretly exchanging letters and promises with Gaara, the Kazekage. It was all about escaping the invisible chains. It was all about escaping the laws carved into the high wall surrounding the village, so similar to the wall around his clan’s estate, except the wall around his clan’s estate was topped with thick layers of barbed wire, more symbolic than threatening. He didn’t want Naruto to leave. He didn’t want to feel more alone. But he’d already promised to help his friend escape, to do whatever necessary, whenever necessary. Kankuro could be his own kind of escape. But leaving left a sour taste in his mouth.

The Uchiha clan had helped found Konohagakure, and he refused to leave.

He’d proven he would rather die than surrender.

“I know what I should do,” he admitted, reluctant to say the words aloud. His confession was expected. He was no fool. He knew he should do what was necessary to forge connections. Each candidate brought something to the table. But he found himself staring out one of the windows, looking through the decorative latticework as if he could escape, as if looking outside really brought him some peace. “There was talk of a marriage contract, but it was so long ago, and there’s no sign that it ever really existed, so my advisors brought me this. They gave me options.”

“They could be a lot worse,” Naruto began, fading into silence that turned awkward. He glanced at his friend, then the papers in the boy’s grasp. Naruto was slowly reading the pages, so he gave the boy more time, knowing Naruto had problems with reading, some kind of learning disability no one had ever cared to address until it was too late. “Omoi and Kankuro? You planning on picking up and leaving?” Naruto was joking, the tone light, like a gentle prod that matched the playful grin. But it wasn’t a joke, even though it should have been a joke.

“It’s—it’s complicated. I would tell you everything, but I think you already know. You know my heart. Isn’t that right?”

“You’re damn right! Which is why you shouldn’t fold. You don’t back down—we don’t back down. This is no different. Do you remember the last time you were happy, really happy?”

He thought of his morning with Shisui and slowly nodded. He refused to share the details, since Naruto hadn’t asked for any details. He could remember specific instances of happiness because the last years of his life had been terrible. His early childhood had been better. Days spent with his group of friends. Days spent studying and sparring at the academy. Days spent swimming and fishing and hiking. The memories came easily, summoned by Naruto’s simple question, and they quickly overtook the moment and clouded the air between them. It was as if he could see those moments play out in front of him. His mother repairing his clothing after vicious spars. His father teaching him how to fish and how to hunt. His brother teaching him everything he knew about the weapons he’d mastered. And the love, so much love. Where he’d once thought greed had driven his clan to a coup d'etat, he’d learned that his clan only wanted freedom and hard-earned trust. Fighting his own clan had broken some part of him, a large part of him, and he swore that it was his brother’s true killer.

Happiness.

“You’re such an idiot,” he finally said, his small smile enough to cut off an angry retort. Naruto always knew how to reach him, even without seeing the entire picture. Naruto slapped the papers back onto the table, planting his own palm atop them, smearing some of the ink with sweat and wrinkling the parchment. “I blew you off for some boring meeting. I know. Give me ten minutes. I’ll change, and we can spar for a few hours at the clan grounds.”

Naruto carefully peeled his own hand from the papers and he couldn’t keep from snorting at the boy. He said nothing as Naruto scrubbed the hand on his own pants. After he collected the slightly wrinkled papers, he left his zabuton and went back to his bedroom. He kept heavily classified items at his family’s shrine, including records of every clan member since records were first kept, including details of the coup and the civil war, but he found a temporary place for the papers in his hand. His platform bed had a small space beneath it, so he kneeled on his side of the bed and felt beneath the bed, counting fingers until he felt a small rise in the tatami. He was able to loosen the corner and slide the wooden floorboard. The papers slipped beneath the flooring, a temporary haven for the information he longed to forget. It was then that he heard a bird call, convincing, except for the fact that there were no birds nesting in the trees in his yard. Shisui had noticed him. The only eyes on him when he was home alone belonged to Shisui. He’d made sure of it.

Naruto always had some smart comment about how he looked like a pretty boy or a pansy, and it drove him insane, not from anger but from embarrassment. It was a tradition, something that set the tone for their spars, where he turned his embarrassment into fuel. So when he met Naruto outside, dressed in black pants and a black, sleeveless, fitted shirt, he was prepared for the snort and the grin that almost split the boy’s face in half. He’d been ANBU at fourteen, and his captain had been Kakashi, briefly their genin sensei before he moved on to Orochimaru. The clothing was for the sake of movement, which he proved by taking a cheap shot and punching Naruto right in the gut. Before Naruto could recover, he took off down the stone path, skipping stones as he went, before disappearing in a body flicker. Fast, always fast enough, until Naruto inevitably tackled him from behind after they broke into training ground two. Training ground two was like a home, not unlike the village’s training ground three. They tore it apart, natural disasters in themselves, but it was a release for both of them.

Lightning and wind clashed. Fire and wind clashed. Naruto had mastered wind nature to such a degree that it had become the boy’s signature move, but he could always draw out other moves, especially when he moved between lightning and fire to branch off into water. Naruto was learning earth jutsu, still learning, but capable enough to use it in a spar, maybe in a real battle. And the war was waiting, always waiting. They were the most important pieces on the board, and Danzo handled them with care. Their former classmates, their friends, weren’t so lucky. He was able to win two out of three, then it became three out of five, and they ultimately wasted the entire afternoon before collapsing onto the ruined ground. He would have to request a team to repair the training ground, but he idly waved his bloody left hand, where he’d split his knuckles open on Naruto’s hard head. Naruto let out a long groan and managed to turn towards him, flopping over like a dead animal.

“I think you should come out.”

“It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

“Bastard. You know what I mean.”

“You’re leaving soon.”

He turned onto his right side so that they could clearly see one another, and he couldn’t resist reaching out with his left hand. He brushed his bloodied fingers through Naruto’s dirty, sweaty hair, brushing the blonde hair back and to the side. He’d known—he’d always known—but it didn’t lessen the ache. Naruto took his left hand and threaded their fingers together, and it was always like they became one person, completely connected. Gaara would treat Naruto well, but the distance between them would always hurt. The ache he felt in his chest would never fully fade. But he wanted the best for Naruto, because Naruto deserved the best. The boy had suffered for twelve years, unable to be adopted, trapped in the orphanage, trapped in foster care, trapped in a rundown apartment they’d tried to clean and repair but could never quite repair. He turned away when he felt the tears gather in his eyes, but he was sure that Naruto had seen them as they ran from the corners of his eyes.

“I love you, Sasuke.”

Spoken with such warmth.

Spoken with such certainty.

It took him several seconds to respond, where he struggled to keep his body from shuddering with a barely contained sob, when his lungs wanted to curl in on themselves, when his eyes burned with tears and blood.

“I know.”

I love you too.

Chapter Text

He dreamt of his brother, just another horrific nightmare to add to his growing collection. Because he’d made mistakes, a dozen little mistakes, and he felt partially responsible for his brother’s death. He didn’t understand why Shisui didn’t hate him, why Shisui never attempted to kill him when he was at his weakest. In the beginning, he’d fought alongside his clan, angry with the traitors, furious that Itachi and Shisui would ever stand against the clan. There had never been a right side or a wrong side, just two groups suffering under the same oppression, just in different forms. His nightmares used to be generic, especially in childhood, but they’d expanded, adding elements from the passing years. It wasn’t the Otsutsuki nightmare—how he wanted to have that nightmare again, just to escape the scene unfolding in front of him.

The sky was almost black, not from the promise of night but the promise of a thunderstorm, of rain that would never wash away all of the blood. And it was Itachi again, shuffling forward, stumbling over pebbles, over his own two feet. And he cried the entire time, quietly begging himself to wake up from a nightmare that was nothing more than reality. Their fight had been the single grain of rice that tipped the scale. His brother had never fully recovered. He watched his brother reach for him, right hand bloodied, practically blind but not done, never done. He jerked away from the fingers that barely touched his forehead, leaving a smear of blood he could actually feel, the warmth, the viscosity—and he could smell it, sharp, metallic, a tang that hung up in the back of his throat. His brother tipped forward and he moved without thinking, catching the man in his arms, holding on for dear life, screaming for help.

No one could hear him over the steady roll of thunder.

No one could hear him over the intermittent cracks of lightning.

But he never stopped holding Itachi.

He woke up drenched in a cold sweat, a blood-curdling scream torn from his throat, joining the tears streaming down his face. He tried to move, but he fell off the side of his bed and banged his head off his bedside table. Shisui looked down at him, panic in the man’s wide eyes and open mouth, panic that quickly translated to action. He didn’t need to see his head to know that he’d injured himself on the corner of his bedside table. His scream brought unwanted attention, but he couldn’t think straight, feeling lost in a fog, most likely from the head injury. Shisui stayed when the man should have left, so two patrolmen burst into the room and found them together. The patrolmen weren’t loyal to the clan, just more spies employed by Danzo, so he gripped the edge of the fitted sheet and pulled himself up enough to make eye contact with the two men. When he used his sharingan, he had a sharp pain in his head, but he endured it just long enough to trap the men in a genjutsu.

Shisui helped him untangle his legs from the top sheet and pulled the sheet and comforter back onto the bed. He lay on the floor for a few seconds before he noticed the man’s outstretched hands, then he slowly clasped both hands and let Shisui lift him from the floor. There was blood at his temple and down the side of his face, and there was a smear of his blood on the corner of the nightstand, so Shisui helped him to the bathroom and had him sit down on a wooden bench against the wall, just in case he lost his balance while standing alone. In the mirror above the twin sinks, he saw his bloody head, but it was his brother’s face staring back at him. Maybe he should have screamed, but he found himself studying his brother’s face, finding comfort in the insanity.

“Fuck!”

With Shisui’s angry curse, his brother faded from the mirror, leaving him staring at his own reflection. More than likely, Shisui was in the midst of blaming himself, when it wasn’t Shisui’s fault. He pressed his left hand against the cool wall and slowly forced himself to his feet, then he let his hand trail along the wall until he reached the doorway. Shisui was in the midst of building on the mental manipulation he’d begun. It wasn’t kotoamatsukami, not when using the technique required downtime that neither of them could afford. He didn’t know if others would show up, if the two patrolmen had signaled for help, so they settled for careful manipulation, creating an entire narrative to explain the evening. He believed in himself, and he believed in Shisui, so he released a sigh of relief and slowly lowered himself onto the hardwood floor on that side of his bedroom. Shisui looked back at him and he was distracted by the spin and glow of the man’s mangekyou sharingan, eyes given before Itachi had been taken, unlike his own.

“It’s not your fault. I’ve never screamed out loud like that—”

“No, it’s alright. It’s—it’s alright. They won’t remember anything. We really have to stop doing this though. Is it going to be a weekly thing?”

“I love it when you wash the blood from my face. What can I say?”

“Ha. Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up then.”

Shisui crossed the room, bare feet passing from tatami to hardwood so the man could help him to his feet again. He looped an arm around Shisui and leaned into the man’s side, making movement more difficult, making the short walk take much longer, but Shisui didn’t complain. And he asked himself how it was possible that Shisui didn’t hate him, the silent question that circled around and around, begging for him to spill his guts on the slate tile of his bathroom. Instead of sitting on the floor, he sat on the wooden bench, the slats of wood pressing hard into his behind. Like the week before, Shisui ran a washcloth under warm water, wrung the excess water out, and carefully cleaned his temple and down the side of his face. Shisui smiled, never quite meeting his eyes, because he couldn’t stop staring. The smile dimmed when Shisui’s fingers brushed against his sweat-dampened forehead, and he wondered if he’d injured himself worse than he’d thought. He leaned into the man’s touch, finding comfort in the way Shisui pressed a palm to his forehead.

“Sasuke, you’re really warm. Are you close?”

Shisui slowly pulled the hand from his forehead and he frowned, brow furrowed as he carefully counted the days. A normal omega had heats four times a year, but he wasn’t a normal omega—his heats had lacked regularity, even before he’d ever slept with another person. He would have two or three heats, then four or five, which meant he often started suppressants to limit the number of heats and find some kind of regularity in the irregularity. His last heat had been in April. He recalled hanami, viewing the multiple cherry blossom trees in the village, traveling outside of the village for a few days for a meeting about the Land of Waves. Eyes closed, he released a long breath and nodded, the motion slow to avoid making his headache worse. There was no other explanation. The nightmares grew more vivid, more personal, more cutthroat, before his heats began, something that had become routine for him. He always chose to isolate himself on the second floor, in a heat room designed for him when he’d been forced to remodel. Shisui always had to leave. Just part of the routine. Just a very annoying part of the routine.

He sat on the bench, hands braced on the edge, leaning forward as if he meant to look down at the floor when he was frustrated with his own body. Naruto had vanished three days ago, making the long, three-day trip to Sunagakure in the dead of night. Stress could have acted as a kind of trigger, thrusting him into a heat he may have avoided until the fall, into a heat he may have avoided altogether. His body never quite behaved. He recalled Naruto laughing at him whenever he treated his physical body like a separate entity, only because he hated the entire process, because heats without a partner were torture, and he’d never cared enough about anyone to invite someone into the process. He wanted Naruto to call him a pansy so he could let out his frustration by punching someone, but Naruto was gone. His head hurt, but Shisui caught his hand before he could prod his injured temple. Shisui cleaned up his wound, utilizing a first aid kit, and he continued watching his unofficial doctor during the entire process. He wet his lips when Shisui smiled and pulled away, pleased with the fact that the shallow wound had stopped bleeding without stitches or butterfly bandages.

“Why don’t you stay?” The words tumbled out of his mouth, but he’d put serious thought into the question. Shisui wasn’t the kind of person to doubt him, to think that he’d spoken with little thought, but he still waited for the question about his certainty, one that never came. “I want to spend my heat with you,” he stated, leaving no room for doubt. Shisui collected used items from the kit and disposed of them in the bathroom trash, then the man set the first aid kit on the edge of the vanity. He caught sight of his own reflection and winced when he saw his sorry state. He would have refused someone in his situation, in his condition.

“You know I haven’t been with anyone since,” Shisui carefully replied, choosing silence to fill the space at the end of the sentence, space that belonged to his brother. He knew. Of course he knew. Shisui had spent an entire year alone before they’d ever slept together, and they’d never spent his heat together. It was a line they hadn’t crossed. “You should save that for your mate.” Shisui was deflecting, but the words reeked of thinly veiled jealousy that had him opening and closing his mouth. It took him too long to gather that Shisui had likely overheard the meeting with his advisors. The sparks of jealousy made him feel as if he were seeing Shisui for the first time.

“And if I am?”

“Someone else would be better, Sasuke, almost anyone else.”

“Hn. Are you refusing me?”

“No. I'm not.”

“Let me court you.” He tipped his head to the side as if he were sizing Shisui up. Omegas could court alphas, but it was rarely done. He wanted to show interest first, to set the tone, to let the world think he was the one to seduce, the one to manipulate. He could handle any backlash. He was confident, a little arrogant, and already in love. He was selfish, a bit reckless, and ready to commit. Because it was his choice, his desire shared through a simple statement, one he dropped at the man’s feet.

Shisui wanted what was best for him, like anyone who had ever cared about him, but the lengthy silence that followed was like a harsh slap. His eyes went to the mating bite on Shisui’s right scent gland and he felt his tense muscles slowly relax, working in time with his gradual acceptance. Shisui wanted to honor the bond with his brother, even though his brother was gone, and he couldn’t hate the man for following tradition rumored to be as old as time. Without thinking, he reached out with his left hand and lightly pressed his index finger and middle finger against the scar that was a perfect fit for his brother’s teeth. Shisui flinched, as if he’d burnt the man, like every time he’d ever dared to touch the mark. If he had been older. If he had been bolder. He thought of a million reasons to blame the world, to blame the gods, to blame the existence of fate. But Shisui never would have wanted him, not then, not after locking eyes with Itachi. And he hated the latent jealousy that surged through him.

The love confession lived in a space inside of him that constantly constricted, forcing the words up his throat until they were trapped behind his teeth, so close to spilling forth, too close to spilling forth. His fingers found Shisui’s pulse, then he pulled away, begrudgingly accepting that he couldn’t win, that he would never win. Naruto had given him the push he needed to drag his unorthodox relationship into the light of day, but he couldn’t do that if there was no relationship to drag into the light of day. Shisui wanted him, but not enough. He cleared his throat, cutting through the tension, and forced himself to his feet.

He told himself that the courting would have been pointless, just tradition that no longer applied to them. Their parents were dead, so there was no way for either of them to ask permission. Courting always involved asking for permission from the family, because courting was meant to start early, but such old rules had faded over time, since war had begun to claim the young. He had no family left, not after he’d lost his brother, and Shisui’s parents had died before the civil war, suffering from dementia and succumbing to kidney failure and a stroke. They could announce the intent and host the midnight gathering on the night of the new moon and bond on the full moon, but there would always be something missing, someone missing. Courtship would have been a lonely affair, just a reminder of their loss, but he’d proven himself willing to follow the tradition for the sake of selling their relationship as something other than Shisui manipulating him, other than him seducing Shisui.

He wanted Shisui to stay the night, as planned, even after the abandoned conversation that had wounded him, but they had to clean up and put distance between them. Just in case. So Shisui took care of the patrolmen, and he took care of cleaning his room. He cleaned the blood from his bedside table and changed his bedding, like every morning, reluctantly removing Shisui’s scent. And it was as if Shisui had never been there. If he ignored the scent that still clung to his own skin—how he couldn’t ignore the scent that still clung to his skin.

Chapter Text

The curfew loomed over them, a crushing reminder that their freedom was a strangled thing, slowly suffocating since the first cast stone. The meeting took precedence over what should have been trivial, but his eyes still found the ticking antique clock, still followed the movement of the second hand and the slow slide of the minute hand. The late-night meeting was unusual, almost unheard of, but a second clan member had gone missing within the week, and the clan was bleeding out financially. And their clan had always been meant to die, to be murdered, even in broad daylight, but he’d thought that even ruthlessness had a limit.

Flickering lamps lit the hidden room, sending shadows dancing along the walls, cutting through the darkness, but not the chill. His advisors, to his right and left, listened to the three elders go back and forth about the possibility of retaliation when their clan knew nothing but retaliation in the form of forced restitution and crippling sanctions. He easily followed along with the conversation, even though he was a silent figure in the room. The disappearances hurt them more than their dwindling clan funds, because he believed they could network and negotiate to survive another month, another season. They couldn't replace two people snatched from their beds in the middle of the night. They couldn't force Danzo's military police to file proper reports or conduct proper investigations when the disappearances only worked in the village’s favor. Two less mouths to feed. Two less spawn to procreate.

The village was plagued with cold cases, so a lapse in reporting skewed the numbers. The military police had an outstanding record, and the level of crime was at its lowest in over half a century. On paper, Konoha was a prosperous village filled with opportunity. In reality, Konoha was hell colored by exaggerated stories of success, where the media was tightly controlled, just another arm of the authoritarian regime. The innocents kept him from fighting back and seizing power. His family's memory kept him from fighting back and seizing power. Danzo had more loyalty than Hiruzen in his prime. Danzo appealed to the worst human qualities, and the state of the world made it seem as if those qualities were what guaranteed survival. He'd never wanted to take a leadership role, but it was his power, his negotiations, and his threats that kept the entire clan from being destroyed. By that point, Itachi had succumbed to his debilitating illness. He'd had three hundred clan members left, all depending on him, and he'd chosen to save them when mounting anxiety and anger intermixed with grief told him to resume the war.

“Yakumi, meet with the other major clans in the village. Secure a meeting time for the clan council. The sooner, the better.”

“Yes, Sasuke-sama.”

“Taiko, I want you to reach out to the Kazekage and the Raikage, since we are on good to decent terms. Without revealing the disappearances of our own members, enquire about a rise in missing persons.”

“Of course, Sasuke-sama.”

The chill in the air did nothing to stop the sweat from gathering, where two days had passed since his first signs of his impending heat, where two days had passed since Shisui refused him without refusing him. He focused on the carefully drawn seals over the scent glands along his neck, both concealed with scent blockers, trying to keep himself level. His scent always grew thicker and sweeter as his heat approached, so he often layered seals and scent blockers to provide extra days for any emergencies. And losing Izumi was an emergency. Her mother had been found in the bath, dead of an apparent drowning, which was the only part of the event recorded by the police. The woman's death was ruled a suicide, but they knew the woman had been murdered. All he could think about was Izumi. She had been more present for him after Itachi's death, dropping by once a week with treats that amounted to a new book he loved or hated, or a freshly cooked meal he usually gave to Shisui, or flowers he ultimately killed. But that had been their relationship. Someone had taken her, and it was like losing another part of his childhood.

He stayed in the underground room, even after his advisors and his council members had gone, unwilling to leave what felt like safety, even though he knew there was no such safety in the world. Footsteps overhead captured his attention, so he tipped his head back to look at the ceiling, eyes narrowing. The wood was old, so tiny bits of dust would occasionally drop from overhead and land upon the aging tatami. Chakra suppression seals layered on the floor, walls, and ceiling kept his existence hidden, so there was no chance at discovery. The person entered the shrine, steps light but not light enough to go undetected, and it was a blessing. He tracked the person to the right wall and along the tatami, silently counting from one to nine. The person knew about the existence of the room, so he extinguished the lamps in the room, closed his eyes, and waited in the darkness for the lone person to find him.

He heard the tatami shift, heard the latched entrance open, and heard the slow, careful footsteps on the wooden ladder just outside of the room. The liquor display in the tiny room, racks of old, expensive liquor still aging away, did nothing to distract the person. The wall panel shifted, and he opened his eyes as a silent threat. Shisui activated his own sharingan, so he lit the lamps once more with a small katon jutsu. Shisui had spent countless late nights with him as he'd sifted through old records, trying to match names and faces to corpses to properly bury the dead. Then he'd had his advisors join him as he tried to match names and faces to the missing, the number guaranteed to continue growing. He opened his mouth to ask why the man suddenly decided to initiate a secret rendezvous in the middle of the night, but he noticed the large spots on Shisui’s black shirt and pants and the wide tears in the fabric. The smell of blood and smoke hit him when he took a deep breath, trying and failing to pick up on the man's scent.

All he could smell was blood, the sharp, metallic tang that always caught in the back of his throat, and the scent that spoke of a roaring campfire that he was sure had nothing to do with a simple campfire. The shrine was far enough away from homes and businesses that he couldn't hear outside noises, or he might have heard, he might have known. Shisui rarely adopted formalities that came with the position of his guard, so he steeled himself when Shisui took a knee before him. Smoke. Blood. Sweat. He didn't care for formalities from Shisui, so he left his spot and kneeled in front of the man, quickly sliding his hands over the man's body. Smoke. Blood. Sweat. His hands came back with a layer of blood that colored his skin red, and he scowled as he tightened his hands into fists.

“I apologize—”

“Tch. Don't. Who did this? What happened?”

“Two spies posed as a clan member and they set fire to your home. I was too late to save anything. It's gone. I'm sorry, but it's gone.”

“I don't give a damn about that place. Let's go. You're bleeding.”

He had to prioritize. He had to compartmentalize. He had to mourn as the lamps were extinguished, as the panel was slid shut behind them, as the shrine shrunk in the distance, forgotten with the smoke still curling into the air from the last place he'd called home. Rebuilt. Remodeled. Reduced to ashes that twirled in the warm, evening breeze. He turned his head away and signaled for Shisui to follow him, all done with a single ANBU sign. The curfew meant the village streets looked deserted without being deserted. Root owned every inch of the village, operating under Danzo like mindless puppets, so they'd grown accustomed to clinging to shadows, to slipping between buildings, to using their eyes born of love and built for hate. Only when it was safe did he use the rinnegan, the ace up his sleeve, the secret that he would use to fix their world, to fight and win. Things he thought in the dark. Traitorous. Righteous.

Smoke.

Blood.

Sweat.

Mine. Mine. Mine.

She had saved him multiple times over the course of their time as teammates turned friends, first because she loved him, then because she still loved him. She lived in a house the color of her hair, something hers since her parents had died during Orochimaru's failed invasion. Property claimed the place of people, though never quite good enough. Shisui stood at his back, exhausted but still on high alert, acting as protection while he knocked his knuckles against her front door. ANBU code transformed to their code, and he felt her reach out with her chakra. The home stayed dark, even with her awake and moving, and it was still dark when she physically dragged them inside and closed and relocked the front door. Messy hair. Crooked clothes. Teeth marks. Her green eyes, even in the light of streetlights filtering through lace curtains, dared him to judge her. A beta sneaking around with a prized alpha, the Yamanaka clan head.

“Sakura-chan,” Shisui greeted, more blood and sweat than anything. Meanwhile, he said nothing, though he took her hands to let her feel the dry blood on his palms. Always the same. He relied on her too much. “We appreciate your help,” Shisui continued, trying for politeness. It was wasted on her when they went back so long, from childhood to near adulthood. She slapped his hands away and sighed at Shisui.

“Would it kill you to visit more during the daylight? A girl will get the wrong idea,” Sakura replied, playing sassy for them to hide the worry that her light scent still betrayed. He snorted, while Shisui chuckled and suffered for it. She caught the wince, the grimace, the slow, pained exhale.

He trusted her, with Shisui's life, with his life, with everyone who mattered to him. Though he would never say such things to her. She motioned for them to follow her. It was always to her bathroom, the room with the smallest window, to maximize privacy. Shisui leaned against the sink, so he sat on the edge of the bathtub, barely able to prevent murdering the two with his scent. He felt half mad with rage and fear. What if he'd lost Shisui? When would he lose Shisui? Everyone died—everyone he cared about would eventually die. The thought had him gripping the tub, knuckles pale white in the light that had quickly blinded them. And he hated how being there, bathed in the warm light, stuck in Sakura's cramped bathroom, made everything more real, made everything worse. Like every time, it was like a back alley surgery, even done perfectly. She cut Shisui's shirt to reveal the three, smooth slashes from a blade sharp enough to cut clean—a small blessing sparing them from stitches uniting uneven flesh.

“Thank you.”

“You never have to thank me, Sasuke-kun. I've told you that you're always welcome here, both of you.”

She didn't look away from Shisui, entirely focused on channeling healing chakra that flowed green and radiated calm. It was painless. She was always careful, even before becoming a prized medic for the war machine, even before achieving the white coat of a well-respected physician. He'd been healed enough times by her hands. She liked to remind him that he wasn't invincible, that he was human, just like the rest of them, their former classmates turned true comrades. The civil war had divided them, but it hadn't broken them. The fourth war was slowly chipping away at what remained. Whenever he met with her for her medical assistance, she encouraged him to step back, to take time, because he was stressed from sun-up to sundown. She knew the basics, not the worst of it. Everyone saw the barbed wire, the laws engraved on the village wall, on the clan wall, but not beyond that. Everyone entering was monitored, their presence timed. She hadn't seen the inside of his clan estate since before they'd graduated the academy at seven, a whole decade.

She was positioned in front of Shisui, but not tall enough to fully shield the man, so he saw everything, a witness to mended flesh. Shisui looked down at her as she explained that he would have bruising and general soreness, but that was common. She said the words for him, and they both knew it, though there was no need for clarification or denial. She was observant, brilliant, and she knew how to keep secrets. Few people had retained that ability. Few people put any weight on trust when it was easy to betray, when it was lucrative to spill secrets like blood.

“You should take it easy.”

She cared.

“I always take it easy, Sakura-chan! I'm an easy-going kind of guy.”

They knew.

“You're such a bullshitter. You're not as bad as Sasuke-kun, but you're getting there.”

Shisui dragged her into a hug that had her withholding a squeal, and he couldn't help but smile at the sight, even if it was just a subtle upturn of his lips, something there and gone. Shisui had a solid five inches on her, so it was always amusing when Shisui hugged her, sometimes sweeping her off her feet. Spending time with them put her in danger, so they met mostly under darkness. It was the same with others. Danzo had successfully isolated his clan, doing a better job of it than Tobirama. They were a clan composed of social pariahs. And yet, he and Shisui were somehow more removed than that. He blamed himself for Shisui’s downfall, more than he blamed Itachi. After his brother died, Shisui had shown loyalty to him, where they were both on the same side at the end, the side craving peace. Shisui should have stood with Danzo. Maybe life would have been easier.

“Can you stay for a few?” Sakura cleaned up, washing her hands at the bathroom sink as Shisui moved towards the door. That was their routine, the safest way for all of them. But he didn't move from his seat on the edge of the tub. “I just need to know, well, not everything, but something. Should I expect another visit soon? Are you okay? Are you safe? You know I'd do anything for you,” Sakura said, her head bowed so he couldn't see any part of her expression in her reflection. It was just the sound of her washing her hands and the scent of cherry blossoms gathering in the closed bathroom. Closed doors. Always closed doors.

“I know,” he replied, no hesitation in his response. He knew. Of course he knew. Love. Romantic love had shifted to familial love, and it had been a relief for both of them. But it was love all the same. And it was still a death sentence. “The media will report a fire in the estate. It was my house. You can see that I'm fine, so don't panic and don't get pissed off. It's a house. It can be rebuilt. We're fine.” He glanced at Shisui, their eyes briefly meeting before Sakura turned to face them. And it was hard to see the crushing sadness on her face because it matched exactly how he felt. He was angry. He was scared. He was wrecked. And it was just another sign of diminution in the village.

“Can we have a minute?” Sakura directed the question to Shisui, her green eyes cutting to the man for just a moment, just long enough to catch Shisui’s confusion and reluctant agreement. Sakura didn't want Shisui to witness her berating him for such a brazen lie. She hated when he lied to her; she preferred a lack of response to a lie. The moment the door closed, her eyes narrowed and he was faced with her skeptical expression. “You aren't fine. You come here wearing his blood, smelling up my house with your damn scent—”

“Damn it.” His right hand went to the scent blocker on the right side of his neck and he pressed down on it hard enough that he hissed in pain, his own anger turned on himself. He didn't have time for stress to worsen things. Stress could make a heat into something downright torturous. Instantly, his mood plummeted and recovered. He tried to appear calm when he wanted to sweet talk her and rationalize. “I need stronger suppressants. After tonight, I don't have time for this. I have meetings I need to hold. I have official letters to draft and respond to. I'm short on time, Sakura.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Do I have to pay you now?”

“If you ever insinuate that you can buy me, you'll be paying to repair my wall when I punch you through it.”

He clenched his jaw, refusing to continue the line of bickering that could end in an explosive argument. They could fight, but not then. He couldn't force her to listen to him or seduce her to force her to listen to him. The days of her fawning over him were long gone. He had to accept that his life would pause and resume like with every other omega. The world would continue turning, though not for him. Lost in the throes, the five days spent suffering seemed outside of time itself, dragging on and on until he was sure the partial week would never end. That was the natural course, the best course. She wanted what was best for him when he didn't care what was best for himself. He was an omega in a position of power, and he knew that it was a strength and a weakness. He could train himself to resist alphas. He could train himself to manipulate his pheromones. He couldn't train away his own heat. He couldn't train away his own body.

“I liked you better when you worshipped the ground I walked on.”

“I liked you better before I realized that you were a prick.”

“I didn't let you die on that mission!”

“You left me and only came back because you came after Naruto!”

“I was eight years old!”

Shisui knocked on the door, so the hissed exchange came to a sudden halt. They glared at one another, though there was no real anger in their narrowed eyes. He was the first to relax, and she was quick to sigh and mutter an apology. Their arguments could turn ugly, but they always forgave one another, whether the apology was spoken or implied. He forced himself from his place on the edge of the tub and stood in front of her as if he meant to embrace her, but she turned her head away, her nose wrinkling. His scent. She hated his sickeningly sweet scent when he was close to his heat. He clicked his tongue, flicked her forehead hard, and turned to leave, but she caught his left hand. When he looked back at her, her brow was furrowed, and she was gently biting her lower lip. She was hesitating, something that spoke of the seriousness of what she wanted to say to him.

“Don't be stupid, okay? Promise me. Naruto is already stupid enough for both of you.”

“Hn.”

Chapter Text

His home was a total loss, as expected, and the morning paper that arrived before dawn blamed a homeless man seen sneaking through the streets, nothing but a blurry figure photographed on main street in the center of the village. Flowers poured in from outsiders unaware of the tension beneath the surface already pulled taut, while his clan stared in silence as he stood before the burnt remains, nothing but the stone steps and the pathway covered in muddy footprints left by clan members braving the rain to show their support. And it could have been any of their homes, such a hard truth to swallow, the bitter pill they never wanted. He was drenched and suffering from a climbing fever induced by a heat crawling through him like a virus, attacking him at a cellular level, vicious but necessary, present but unwanted. The house had meant a great deal to him, though property paled in the comparison of human life. Shisui's life mattered more than objects, but he still longed for items devoured by the flames that meant so much to their clan. The two spies responsible weren't dead, the real consolation.

Gozu and Mezu, the two impostors. Their names were fake, just like their scientifically altered faces, but he had to call them something, even if the names matched the demon brothers from Kirigakure, not the two men currently housed in the senbei bakery owned by Teyaki and Uruchi. The two were like family, always slipping Itachi experimental sweets, senbei, always senbei, while slipping him only the savory. They had volunteered to hold Gozu and Mezu, because he never would have asked them to risk punishment just to temporarily house traitors he planned on torturing during what he hoped would amount to a lengthy interrogation. He wanted to dirty his own hands with their spilled blood, but he had to entrust someone else, so he assigned Tekka, Inabi, and Yashiro to the task, while he planned his own isolation. The three were ruthless, where the civil war had worsened their views, drawing forth more rage instead of resignation. And Shisui didn't care for them, thanks to how they'd treated Itachi. It was all about necessity. It was all about unity. They'd all learned tough lessons.

He didn't think it was possible to mourn a house in the way that he mourned human beings—it was yet another tough lesson. Shisui stayed steps away as clan members offered condolences, some of them knowing the destruction that had come from the attack of the nine tails. And that had been a tipping point, the tipping point, the moment the heavy monitoring began, the moment Itachi and Shisui chose to act as double agents. His thoughts bounced around in his skull, his attention drifting before always returning to the remains right in front of him. Staring wouldn't rebuild, especially when he couldn't spare the money to rebuild. He kept the worst of the information on clan finances between Yakumi and himself, refusing to share the truth with Taiko or his council. Yakumi's softer personality allowed for freer communication, and he could let genuine worry crease his brow. He didn't want to discuss the possibility of bankruptcy when their clan had once been the wealthiest in Konoha. Rock bottom was the worst place.

Soaked to the bone, his hair plastered to his head, falling down over his face, clinging to his cheeks, he couldn't bear to continue looking at the stinking collection of ash, conjuring images, conjuring a layout, in thin air. Shisui rested a hand on his left shoulder and squeezed, reassuring him and comforting him, but also communicating that it was time to turn and walk away, to say goodbye to memories that had escaped with the smoke. Danzo had taken pictures at the gates to the clan estate, promising justice by killing an innocent man, the man's only crime being homeless in a village plagued with homelessness. His head began to throb, so he reached up and placed his right hand over Shisui's fingers for a fleeting touch, an agreement that it was time to go, time to forget, even though he could never forget. He walked alongside Shisui as they traversed the familiar path to the man's home, his temporary housing, possibly his permanent housing. It came down to money that he would never spend on a house for himself when it meant cutting funds to the orphanage or rationing.

“Don't apologize again—I know you want to. It's a bad habit you picked up from my brother, who liked to apologize for existing whenever our father gave him a disapproving look.”

“Alright.”

Shisui still stayed steps away, body language screaming that they were together but not together, old friends but barely, their relationship hanging by a thread. Because his scent was stronger in the rain, in the fog that crept along the Naka and rolled along the shore. Pomegranate. Plum. Amber. His scent transformed him into a ticking time bomb, where his heat licked at his insides and flowed from his pores. He was temptation walking, crowned with a silent threat communicated by his hard gaze. And it wasn't him, just a result of a never-ending nightmare he'd inherited, one promised since birth, where he had become more than the spare.

“You're breathing through your mouth,” he pointed out, sighing. He had no pockets, still dressed in the navy yukata he'd worn for his clan's council meeting, so he couldn't properly hide the fact that he'd clenched and unclenched his fists. Shisui wouldn't even look at him, another bad sign. “Is this going to work out? We've never been in close proximity during—you leave, and I get it. I'm not kicking you out of your own house, Shisui.” Shisui relaxed, and that was the only response he received.

Shisui had briefly shared a home with Itachi, a traditional home with a more modern interior, where time had required updates to old infrastructure. It was a time capsule, left vacant since his brother's death. Because Shisui had refused to stay with the ghosts, the love of the man's life, and their past and destroyed future. He said nothing about the familiar turns, even when they reached the half stone wall around the small home. The roof wept, the rain flowing down like the tears they'd wept at the cremation, the ones left at the grave. The stones leading up to the double doors had once been covered in blessings written in colorful chalk, little gifts from children too young to have been thrown to the war machine. Itachi had been impressed, touched, and embarrassed.

“Did you ever notice that you share some part of his scent?”

“Is that why you—”

“No. That isn't why I like you, but it's hard—sometimes it's so hard. When your heat is close, I just want to sink my teeth into you, but you aren't mine. Sasuke, you're going to make someone happy, and it isn't some widower like me.”

“I see. So you're an idiot. I have no intention of marrying or mating with someone my advisors pick. I choose. And I chose an idiot. Tch.”

They stood on the stone path, unable to move forward, refusing to turn back. Shisui’s curly hair was a mess, flattened curls refusing to fully straighten, even when soaked, so he reached up to push some of the man's hair back. Shisui caught his left hand and lightly pressed a kiss to the scent gland on his wrist. Their eyes met, and he guided the hand to his waist, where the other hand quickly mirrored, leaving both hands on his hips. Shisui leaned in, and he was drawn in, like a magnetic pull that left his whole body humming, nothing but an electric current given flesh. He draped both arms over Shisui's shoulders and turned an innocent kiss into an exploration, like Shisui's hands on his body.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Shisui growled, the low grumble sending new heat washing over him, even in the summer rain, wet in more ways than one. His choice would inevitably incite the elders, but the madness made perfect sense to him. A clan built on love and hate fed on the same, and when he called for love, Shisui answered. The kiss began and ended several times before they entered the home, like the hands on and off of his hips, his lower back, his cheeks—how he needed those hands. But they were bare feet and water in rivulets down bodies undressed in a dance through the one story home that smelled of old parchment and orchid and amber, markers of Itachi that made the dance dizzying. He shared the amber glow, like resin covering him, built over his brother's ashes. Though he craved, they stopped outside of closed doors that called him in two separate directions. And still, he smelled Itachi, warm amber in every direction.

“I can smell him.”

“All I smell is you.”

“All I want is you.”

Smoke.

Blood.

Sweat.

Shisui ran a bath while he walked through the house, looking for a man he could smell but would never find, and it made him feel fresh loss. He knew that Shisui had already made plans, that they would have likely walked the same path to the house and fallen into a world half frozen in time. The cabinets had groceries, just like the fridge, and every surface had been wiped clean. He ran his right index finger along the granite island and his finger remained clean. The exchange, the last ounce of Shisui's restraint, was their first step forward since they'd slept together. He saw a future, possibly their future, but clan tradition still called for a blessing from the itako, the women who convened with spirits, the mouthpieces of gods. And he would embrace even the worst—there was nothing worse than their reality.

He was in the bedroom, inhaling the scent of fresh linen that hid every lingering bit of his brother's scent, calmed by the sound of running water, soothed by the steady presence of Shisui’s chakra. His brother had loved art, and the bedroom had an entire wall covered in an image depicting cherry blossoms in bloom in the pre-dawn light. The bed was against the wall, so it was as if the falling petals were meant to tumble onto the platform bed. He was a piss-poor stand in. He'd never been able to compete. He couldn't even win in a competition with a dead man. It was when he grasped the meaning in Shisui's words—he would always be a second love, regardless of their feelings for each other. Shisui found him in front of the shoji that hid a tiny sunroom with windows bathed in gray and covered in rain.

“I left you the robe and you still chose to walk around naked,” Shisui greeted him, lower half covered by a gray towel. He smirked at his reflection in the windows and felt arms wrap around his middle. All it took was Shisui holding him and he relaxed. There was no competition anymore. “You're having second thoughts.” Shisui pulled away, so he turned his back to the windows to see Shisui’s blank expression, so unusual for him to see.

“I won't lie to you. This place was yours, both of yours, and his scent is still here, everywhere. I'm jealous. Ridiculous.” He rolled his eyes at his own emotions, fed by raging hormones, all spoken in the spike of his scent, where he unknowingly reached for an alpha who wasn't his, but one who responded. Shisui took his right hand, turned, and led him to the bathroom. “I don't want a bath. No. Shisui. No. Get in the bathtub before I break your legs.”

He waited until Shisui settled in the steaming bath, then he kneeled on the hardwood, beside the large tub, and showed softness by helping Shisui clean. The soap had no scent, so the smoke, blood, and sweat was washed away with every pass of the soapy washcloth. He didn't stop touching Shisui, even when the man washed his own hair, craving contact in any form. The light over the vanity gave off light that reminded him of honey, and the warmth from the light and the heat of the bath kept him relaxed. In the end, Shisui drew him in and showed him the same tenderness. His doubts were washed away before they were dry and wrapped in silk robes, both of them slowly taken by the mixing of their scents. Amber and honey. Pomegranate and cedar. Plum and vanilla.

Powder blue blankets and cream sheets embraced his body, cool against his heated skin, soft against his skin, and comfort for his aching hips and lower abdomen. Time he thought he had was snatched from him, leaving him wanting, empty hands reaching. Shisui held him as he drifted in and out of sleep, marking the end of his pre-heat. The discomfort ruled him during the evening and into the night, where fever dreams made him king, the god among a world of peasants. He awoke drunk on power and desire, and Shisui forced juice and toast and eggs down his throat before ever touching him, and it was only to massage his sore body. Shisui hadn't fallen into his rut, and it was possible the man never would. Widowers had varying reactions.

“You look so good, such a pretty omega. Fuck, Sasuke. You're perfect.”

“Shisui!”

Shisui did nothing but slide cool hands over his body and kiss him, though the kisses began to stray, like those sinful hands. He had to seize the moment when Shisui paused, quick to shove the man's robe aside, quick to press their bodies together, and he sighed as he parted his legs for Shisui, as if baring himself, opening himself, for the first time. Shisui rocked into him, though never entering him, only allowing their cocks to grind against each other, soon held in one of Shisui's hands. Pleasure and white-hot sparks collided as he turned his head on the pillow sliding away from his writhing body. All friction was wanted, needed, even the cool, soft bamboo sheets that caressed his bare body in time with kisses to his left scent gland. The scrape of teeth sent his heart racing, and he climaxed with a moan that fell into a pleased purr. Shisui kissed his lips, and they panted together as the man stroked his right side on the comedown.

“I'm a pretty omega, huh?”

“My pretty omega.”

“Say it again.”

Chapter Text

Sweet. His scent. His slick. The man draped over him, nose pressed against his left scent gland, breathing him in like a starving man between slow, deep thrusts into his eager cunt. Flushed from desire born from full-blown heat that wrecked him in the way Shisui wrecked him, he took and took, full, spilling over, and wholly claimed, even without Shisui's teeth biting just right into his ripe body. Experienced and equally inexperienced, Shisui guided him through the highs of every orgasm and cared for him through the lows of his coherency. And he slipped into satiation with Shisui buried inside of him, with tongue and teeth and cock. His thighs were peppered with kisses over bitemarks on scent glands revealed by his parted legs, and he always arched into every touch, his body craving more, craving everything. He purred and growled and moaned under Shisui's hands, under Shisui's body. And he was a spoiled mess, a collection of happiness brought about by the man he'd always wanted, always needed.

Honey.

Cedar.

Vanilla.

The thickness of Shisui's scent was a victory for them both, a sign that he'd triggered Shisui's rut, a sign that he'd earned all that Shisui's body could offer, every bit he could take. Clarity came and went, where Shisui demanded and took, took, took, until he was a whining, pleading omega at the mercy of an alpha who hadn't shared in such intimacy in what felt like forever. Compliments turned filthy, and his breathing amounted to gasps and sighs of his body's forced breath play. So often, their bodies were bound by Shisui's knot, joined into one, and they felt like one. After a sudden climax, like the crash of a wave against a rocky shore, there was a gradual come down, where he was warm and secure, locked in an embrace, his back against Shisui's chest. He closed his eyes and focused on their racing hearts and the heady mixture of their scents, overwhelming and nothing but appealing.

“I can't get enough of you,” Shisui confessed, words shared between kisses nudged to his left shoulder. He pulled Shisui's left arm around him and rolled his hips, drawing a breathy groan from them both. There was nothing but pleasure between them, raw passion between them. “I know choosing starvation and dehydration is wrong, but god do I want to.” He chuckled, but his laughter led into a moan when Shisui gently rocked into him, the man's knot hitting every spot and igniting another wave of desire.

“I'll care for my alpha.”

“Your alpha. All yours.”

“Mm. Prove it. One more time, alpha.”

The number of times they partook of one another faded to the background, where it was only the raw feeling, physically and emotionally, that warred and won. Always greeted by the calm of their afterglow, he tried to picture a life where they could always fall into one another, where they could take refuge in his nest and devour one another until the cusp of utter inebriation, both of them drunk on sex, both of them drunk on each other. On the third day, he found himself on his right side, leaning up on his elbow just to stare at the scratches on Shisui’s back, the red, angry lines that sometimes went too deep, peeling into layers of skin, drawing forth droplets of blood that eventually dried. He was an artist too, where Shisui’s body was his blank canvas, where blood was his ink. Shisui had left bite marks on both thighs, on the column of his neck, on his right wrist, all over his body, but he had also left his mark on Shisui.

For once, he was in no rush to have sex, where his body demanded breeding that wouldn't happen, not then, not yet. But his inner omega was thrilled at the possibility, where patience for such an outcome was fucking him until he forgot. And how Shisui could just make him forget when the haze from his heat ebbed and flowed. Right then, he ran the fingers on his left hand down the length of Shisui's spine, following the curve down to the top of the blanket that hid the man's ass from view. But he'd seen every inch of Shisui, like Shisui had seen every inch of him. Even though Shisui was resting for the first time in too long, he still considered straddling the man's thighs, getting lost in massaging the same back he'd abused. It was a tempting thought, one that came with vivid images, but he chose to quietly shove the sheet and blankets from his body and explore what the kitchen had to offer. He snagged Shisui’s robe, navy blue, where his own was a deep purple, only because he wanted more of Shisui’s scent on his body.

Taking care of his alpha who wasn't his alpha, who would be his alpha, meant preparing a meal while he could, before the heat intensified and his body demanded more. While he traversed the one-story home, he breathed in their mixed scents in the air, his omega pleased that it was their home, that it was their scents, even though it wasn't quite their home, even though it wasn't entirely their scents. He could never forget the fact that amber had colored his brother's scent, and that amber colored his own. He did what he could to ignore the similarity, not unheard of in families, because it was him, his scent, his body, that Shisui wanted. He had been the one to trigger Shisui’s rut, and that had him smirking, had his omega practically trilling.

The house was quiet, except for the light sound of his footsteps on the hardwood floor, but Shisui easily slept through the noise. The sunlight passing through the many windows highlighted the warm color of the wood cabinetry and flooring, reminding him of warm honey drizzled over his world, so he stood at the kitchen counter overlooking the backyard and carefully slid open the windows to let in the summer breeze. He could get used to days in the home that was constantly drenched in natural light, especially when he began preparing food and the breeze circled around the kitchen, spreading the scent of toasted shokupan for avocado toast. Shisui liked milk bread, which had a sweetness and softer texture, and he enjoyed avocado, so he made avocado toast several ways. Shisui wandered into the kitchen when he was preparing the third type, so Shisui took over for the remaining three, and they stood over the granite island to eat.

“Hmm. Not bad, my protégé. Trade you this shichimi and spicy mayo for your smoked salmon.”

“Hn. Throw in the furikake, since I like the seasoning, and I'll add in the ajitama, since you always steal the egg from my ramen.”

“Gasp! You really do care for your alpha!”

“Stupid.”

They laughed together and smiled at one another throughout their quick and easy breakfast, both of them high on hormones and pheromones circulated by the fresh air sweeping through the open windows. He was touchy as Shisui loaded the dishwasher, pressing himself against Shisui’s back, wrapping his arms around the man to loosen the knot on the purple robe. He slid his hands into the parted robe, but Shisui caught his wrists, ending his exploration early. He wanted to rock into Shisui, but they had never discussed him taking control, so he settled for continuing to remove Shisui’s robe, then his own. He went to his knees on the hardwood floor, and he took care of his alpha again, giving and giving until Shisui bent him over the granite island. His alpha took care of him too. And like that, the days fell away, each one better than the last, until they were exhausted lumps in a ruined bed, bathed in the sunset of the fifth day, a perfect goodbye to such secret intimacy.

He lay partially on top of Shisui, their legs entwined, his head against Shisui's chest, listening to inhales and exhales and the steady beating of the man's heart. The world awaited them, where they would transition into the esteemed clan head and his loyal guard, even with swollen lips, bite marks, and scratches. He wanted more, so much more, but he stared at the burning sky beyond the windows and let himself down gently. Shisui slowly stroked his back, down to his ass, and left the hand there. Brow arched, he felt Shisui's index finger trace down between his legs before the hand moved to his lower back. There was no second attempt at initiating another round of sex, so he closed his eyes and daydreamed about an easier life, one where they could feel the same happiness every day. But the obvious case of arson awaited. But necessary revenge awaited. There was always a beginning and a destined ending, with them, beyond them.

Let me court you.

Let me have you.

Finally.

“Sasuke.”

"Mm?”

“I've known, you know. I saw the way you looked at me, even before you presented, and it's the way you still look at me. I'm not good enough, but I can try. I'll treat you the way you deserve to be treated, and I'll love you—fuck will I love you.”

“You are good enough. I want you. I've always wanted you. I didn't, I tried not to. You loved Itachi, and I—”

“It's okay. Lie down. Be my good omega.”

He lay down on the wrinkled fitted sheet and parted his legs for Shisui, only Shisui. His eyes followed Shisui's every move, from the way the man touched himself to the way those same hands touched him, every inch of him. Fingers gripping the fitted sheet, blunt nails digging into his palms, he moved his hips to meet the warm wetness of a tongue, then the heavy petting of fingers, then the initial thrust of a cock. He suffocated and cried out and begged, equal parts demanding and pleading, and Shisui coaxed two orgasms from his body before he began to shake, overstimulated and still wanting. As he felt the beginning of a third orgasm, the most explosive with a slow, steady build, Shisui guided him over the edge and continued moving, dragging out his pleasure. He had his eyes clenched shut when he felt Shisui’s knot, when he was filled, when Shisui bit down on his left scent gland. And he clenched down on the man's knot as he cried out in a mixture of pain and pleasure. He felt entirely wasted as Shisui guided him to mark the man's left scent gland.

Feelings flooded their newly formed bond, and he gasped at the emotions so uplifting that he swore his teeth ached from the sweetness, even with Shisui's blood in his mouth. They shared kisses that tasted of blood, somehow the best of his life, as Shisui fully finished inside of him. He groaned at the fullness as Shisui strayed to his fresh mating bite to gently run his own tongue over the wound. He felt alive, every nerve firing at once, as Shisui kissed his lips, his cheeks, his jaw—writing love across his skin with those lips. When the high faded, he was boneless and drowsy, his mumbled compliments slurred from exhaustion, so Shisui cleaned him and cared for him. He felt comfortable as he curled into the mess they'd made of their nest, and it was better with a warm body holding him, pressed against him. And he was a good omega, Shisui's good omega, as he drifted off.

Chapter Text

Sasuke smirked at the man's swollen, bloodied face and shook his left hand to remove the excess blood from his skin, flexing his fingers to relieve the cramp that had set in forty-five minutes ago, after just over two hours of ruthless interrogation. Gozu had started the interrogation with thirty teeth and had eleven remaining, where his goal was to knock every tooth from the man's mouth, since Gozu didn't need them to spit silence instead of guilty confessions. Gozu had transformed into Kagen in every obvious way, but the face that screamed Uchiha didn't earn an ounce of mercy or stir an ounce of guilt—Sasuke was too happy to torture the Root rat, like he hoped Shisui was too happy watching him spill blood for blood. Because he easily embraced the deadly cocktail of rage and insanity. He was drunk on power, and every punch was another injection of the same. In the corner, Mezu was bound and gagged, awaiting the same slow murder. He had plans for them, carefully crafted plans: He was going to set them on fire and leave them to burn alive outside of the Hokage’s manor.

When Gozu coughed up blood, he rubbed the man's face in the mess and chuckled when Gozu finally let out a shuddering groan, like a reward for his hard work. Where Tekka, Inabi, and Yashiro had failed, he’d succeeded. After the thirtieth tooth fell, he moved on to fingers, then to hands. He'd broken all ten fingers and both hands before he held out his hand for a tanto, its edge sharpened to the point of easily cutting off Gozu's hands at the wrist. The man's howling screams made his very blood sing, so he threw his head back and laughed. The forearm. The bicep. The shoulder. Rinse and repeat. And he learned the truth, the fact that there were others just like them, grand impostors; the fact that there were more midnight disappearances in store, for reasons even amputation couldn't earn; the fact that Danzo wanted him alive, just to break him and publicly execute him as a traitor for feeding information to foreigners.

As he stood before the brutally chopped remains of once proud Root members, he carefully wiped his face clean with a damp hand towel quickly stained red. He motioned for Tekka and Inabi to drag the groaning men to the rear of the bakery, to the door Yashiro held open. Shisui had volunteered to set fire to the two, so he walked alongside his mate through the monitored streets, greeted by closing doors from clan members who would claim to know nothing. It was a necessary message, more murder exchanged between the two parties, so he happily watched the flames encircle and eat away at clothing and skin doused in gasoline. Danzo watched the show from a second-floor window of the manor, and as soon as their eyes met, he smirked. Once the blinds slammed shut, the man's guards stepped in to extinguish the burning remains of the Root spies, and he and Shisui left in body flickers.

“This was a bold move, Sasuke.”

“Are you surprised? I'm not my father, and I'm not Itachi. I'm not hesitating. Now he knows not to touch what's mine.”

“Alright.”

“You don't approve. What the hell should I do, fall on my sword in the hopes it'll stop?”

Like his parents.

Shisui rounded on him the moment they were in their home, and he found himself flinching at the expression on Shisui's face and the anger surging through their bond. He automatically lowered his eyes and offered his neck, baring his mark to his mate, a gesture that cooled Shisui's anger and reminded him that his mate was his other half, a man that he loved and respected, not another subordinate, not someone to mistreat. With a sigh, Shisui gently took his hands, hands stained red with the remnants of blood and stinking like iron, and he almost pulled away. He felt unworthy of such softness, such concern, such love, especially after spitting on his own family. He truly didn't deserve Shisui. That thought had comforted him as Shisui had fallen madly in love with Itachi, but it wounded him then, suddenly a fatal strike. And Shisui felt his overflowing emotions, each one stronger than the last, drowning them both.

“I'm sorry, Shisui.”

“I know.”

“I didn't—”

“I know. Let's get you cleaned up, then we can talk.”

He sat in the stone tub filled with hot, steaming water that smelled of a terrible mixture of warm sandalwood and the sharp, metallic stench of blood. Water, once clear, quickly turned murky, a disgusting shade of reddish brown that left a ring around the interior of the tub, where the blood that had coated his skin collided with the bath oil and left its mark on the tan-colored stone. Even the amber lighting, warm and forgiving, couldn't disguise the mess he'd made, first of himself, then of the bathtub. He couldn't accept that he'd also made a mess of Shisui, an observer suddenly made guilty by his reckless decision to confront a man who knew exactly how to push boundaries and leave destruction in his wake. He'd put his mate in danger, highlighting their closeness with unmistakable rage given new life. And it wasn't that Shisui couldn't handle himself, only that the man shouldn't have to, not when any retaliation was due to his actions. Shisui always suffered. Because of their clan. Because of his father. Because of his brother. Because of him. He should have kept to the shadows instead of thrusting the fight into the light of day.

Shisui scrubbed his skin until it was pink, caring for him despite the current state of their relationship, where they stood on such unsteady ground. His parents had chosen seppuku in the hopes that they could redeem themselves and remove their mark of failure from the clan, but the fighting had continued. His brother had contemplated such an end, but the man had tried negotiating, clinging to hope until the end. And he'd seen their failure as a sign that he had to be different, that he had to fight tooth and nail to get anywhere. He'd saved those he could save, and that knowledge kept him from declaring war. He couldn't do that again. His clan couldn't do that again. They'd lost too much. They'd lost too many. Peace was strangulation for all the world to see.

Shisui leaned back from the tub, resting on his own heels, marking the successful removal of every speck of blood from his skin, even if he sat in water that stank of iron. He stayed silent when Shisui threw the used washcloth into the vessel sink, leaving pink water to drain down the bathroom sink. He stayed silent when Shisui emptied the bathtub just to refill it again, to add bath oil again, to scrub him with calloused hands instead of a rough washcloth, every pass a caress that grew softer until Shisui pulled him to the side of the tub to embrace him, dampening his own shirt just to hold him. And he felt like trash, worse than trash. There was a large target on him, one made larger by his violent acceptance of an eye for an eye. He'd driven them farther from his fantasy of a happy relationship, a steady relationship, one which would ultimately lead to them starting a family. There was no way to start a family in the midst of such upheaval. Itachi had wanted the same, had discovered the same, and died with the knowledge that the dream would remain unfulfilled.

“The clan is broke. I'll have to start making cuts to social services, and there may be widespread rationing. We're the living dead right now, Shisui. I don't know what to do. Tell me what to do,” he begged, clenching his eyes shut, crushing himself against the side of the tub in a failed attempt to be even closer. He was a child again, looking up to an older figure, asking for help when it was hard for him. Only twenty-two, Shisui needed to have all of the answers, where he'd once looked to Itachi for all of the answers. “We have a contact in Root. There's talk of a forced migration. You know what happens during a migration. The clan will be sent to slaughter.”

“I'll handle it.”

“You'll handle it?”

Skepticism quickly turned to concern, where doubt was easily overshadowed with a desire to protect. Shisui had the most powerful sharingan in three generations, a sharingan more powerful than his own, one with such strength that it rivaled the talents of his rinnegan. But power always came at a cost. He focused on their bond, picking apart the jumbled mess that was the collection of their feelings. Fear, something he could practically taste, something he swore he inhaled with every breath. Determination, what had led to the clan’s suffering over the years, where success was never quite success. Love, how he could drown in it, how he could feel it wrap so tightly around him that he felt as if it became him. Love, the emotion that rose above countless other emotions, the one that so often led to their downfall, from the beginning of time until the end of time. He didn't want Shisui to take control, to do something stupid and reckless that would destroy him. He couldn't pick up the pieces again, not again. But he knew, of course he knew, because their feelings and their thoughts aligned.

“I'll use kotoamatsukami. I'll accept the consequences.”

“Shisui, you were blind in one eye for six months, and you've only used it once. What if your sight doesn't come back? What if you end up blind for good?”

“This isn't about my eyesight. Find me an opening, a time slot of three seconds. That's all I'll need. Eye contact makes for a stronger genjutsu. I can go deeper into his mind.”

He drained the bath, yanking the plug free in a fit of barely controlled rage, because Shisui had clearly caught the same insanity that slept inside of him, yet another gift buried in their bones. The eyes that loved and hated eventually drove a man insane. The curse of hatred was very real, and everyone who used their eyes to their full extent was rewarded with infinite power and a mental break so severe that others were forced to put the person down like a rabid dog. That wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want to watch Shisui’s messy descent. He didn't want to slaughter his own mate. His selfishness stood between his clan's survival and its extermination, and he refused to surrender to common sense when it could cost him everything. If something went wrong, he could lose Shisui. His thoughts ran rampant, summoning scenarios and graphic images that left him curling in on himself, even as he slumped against the back of the tub. The water circled the drain. He circled the drain. And Shisui combed fingers through his damp hair, trying to draw him out of the horrific cycle of violent mutilation.

Danzo would eat Shisui alive.

Shisui would tear Danzo apart.

The two possibilities warred in total silence, his blank stare on the windows on the far wall that opened up to a maple tree with red leaves that suddenly reminded him of blood. Shisui’s blood. His blood. They mixed so well, like their emotions that surged through their bond, overflowing. He pulled himself back together as he planted his hands on the edge of the tub and forced himself to his feet. He was filthy, even when clean, stinking of the rotting corpses of their fallen clan members, even when smelling of fresh sandalwood. It was his scent that soon filled the bathroom, enveloping them in the way that his bath towel enveloped his body. Shisui held him as they stood beside the tub, while he dripped water on the hardwood floor that became freshly spilled blood in his eyes. Shisui needed him. His mate needed him. So he answered the call, like a mate, then like a clan head, because three hundred people were depending on him to do the right thing, even when it was hardest, even when no one was watching.

“I can get you a time slot. Give me three days to get everything in order.”

“Get me in, and I'll take care of him.”