Adoration

People died every day.

Really, Itachi would know. As an ANBU, as a ninja—no, as a man born to a clan as bloody as the Uchiha—how could he not?

He couldn't escape the topic. When someone passed away, it was gossiped about in the streets by civilians. Everyone wanted to know what happened, how, why, and what came next. Even by ninjas, death was tossed around like nothing. The wiser ones in his profession, those with more tact and more decency, avoided the subject when possible, but those younger, those with something to prove talked about it openly.

They went into gruesome detail about how exactly they'd maim their target. Some even went so far as to count their kills; either to boast or to atone in some way. Itachi didn't. Though he used to. He did so when he was young, engraving the number to memory. But when the number had grown too terrifying, he forced himself to stop—it had reached 87 by the time he became a jonin. He'd been 10 then.

Now approaching 29, he didn't even want an estimate.

Itachi was a trained killer, and he used those skills the way they were meant to be used... in awful ways. He'd offed people in every fashion imaginable. Quick and effortless, like his blade slashing diagonally across a man's face. Slow and painful, like the poisons he favored when he needed to get a rise out of the enemy. It blackened lungs and crippled movement, until his targets were left frothing at the mouth and bleeding through their eyes. He'd even managed painless, somehow. By trapping a man he'd once considered an ally in a deep sleep, before ending him and leaving him on the floor in a puddle of his own blood.

He'd massacred enough to know the exact shades their skin turned as they lost their vitality, to tell at a glance when it would just be better to kill someone immediately rather than prolong their suffering. He could even accurately guess where someone had been sliced based on the loudness of the scream that ripped through their throats.

Hardly anything could surprise him anymore. The last time he'd been caught off guard was when members of his cell had their blood painted on the walls in an underground basement. Heinous sacrifices to a heinous god.

In the face of this, however...

He was just left staring.

Because for all of his strength, for all of his genius, why couldn't he save her?

The cause had been a civilian.

Nothing more.

Some petty thief that shouldn't have posed a problem in the first place. But he did. His wife had been tired. And exhaustion, coupled with an innate kindness towards those less fortunate, bred nothing but negligence.

When the thief procured a stake of cracked wood from the row of poor houses he'd been thrown against, Itachi, having arrived late to the scene, only had time to shield a passing boy in the way—a no-name he'd happily die to protect—but fate had other games in store. Games of sorrow that forced time to still. As he turned to find the stake embedded in the chest of another. Someone far dearer to him than life itself.

"Hinata," Itachi whispered. His breath hitched, and though he saw it happen, his mind hadn't fully registered the action.

Hinata tilted her head just enough to look at him. A glance that lasted for no more than a second, before she touched the stake, and with incredible strength, chipped a piece of it in half. Only to embed it into the shoulder of the frightened thief responsible for her injury. The no name man fell on his butt, screaming. Still not dead.

That wasn't right.

Before Itachi could even register, his eyes spun red. More out of instinct, than real fury... and then the man was silent. The world halted, as another number was added to his unknown sum.

But when Hinata fell forward, time began again. The boy in his hold screeched, pushing him away and running into the unknown distance. The rain began to pour over his already drenched clothes. The winds howled, chilling him to the bone.

He hated all of it.

The skies did nothing but spread drear over a place that didn't need any more.

This was it, a part of him realized, numb to it all. This was how it would end. Face down on the ground in some nameless place with the scent of iron strong in the air. Lifeless and without glory.

He'd seen death, he knew how it looked when—

Those eyes he loved so much suddenly shifted, and Itachi bit back a curse.

No.

"Hinata," Itachi called, trembling, as he grasped her small shoulders.

"I... Itachi," she muttered back.

Her breaths were slow by his ear, and slowing more by the second. He barely registered a nearby barmaid, short and thin with long dark hair, shakily running off in search of a doctor. Hinata watched the woman go, grasping out like she thought she was someone else. Itachi stilled her hand, harshly ordering her to cease her actions. To not waste her energy.

His mind, still analytical, despite the unbearable ache in his chest.

He'd copied so many jutsu. Some so obscure that even ninjas that fancied themselves scholars had been surprised by what he showed them. He'd even copied medical ones. Which his lightning fast mind tore through in an instant. Efficient, even in his desperation. As he tried to find one that could save her.

Itachi almost screamed in despair when he realized just how many could.

Though they were far beyond his capacity to perform. Maybe... if he had time. A day? Two? Hell, six hours. He could learn them. He was sure of it. He could bring himself up to the necessary level and... and...

That was too fucking late.

In his current state, the success of such a procedure would be low—most bordering on less than two percent, he reckoned. But he was Uchiha Itachi, and he could try. He would try. But as his hand glowed green, lighting up the soft contours of her graying face, he already knew that there was no chance. That a lethal area much too close to her heart had been stabbed, and if he even attempted a procedure, all he'd do was smother her final moments.

This was the sort of fatality only the likes of Senju Tsunade could heal. The only reason Hinata was still with him was through miracle alone.

He had an inkling that she knew it, too.

That didn't stop him from biting his lip and screaming at his summon to find the woman.

"I—Itachi," Hinata suddenly tried her best to call. It was a mere whisper amidst the squall descending upon them, but he heard it. "... Are you okay?"

His grip tightened, his face morphing into an awful snarl.

"I'm frustratingly okay, Hinata," he said, struggling for composure. "Just... wait. I'll find a way to properly move you, okay? I don't think I can right now. You're—"

"That's good," she interrupted, ignoring everything else he said after his initial answer.

She looked like she wanted to say more, but the words ended in a cough instead. Blood flecked over her lips. She felt numb, the world was fading, and her vision was worsening with each passing second—the deep red eyes she loved were beginning to blur—until she no longer knew if what she saw was real or merely a memory.

"Listen to me," he mumbled, dragging her closer. Gently. Up to his chest where she sighed in unfeeling content. "Hold on. Please."

"I... I'll try."

No, not try. Promise me you will! You will hold on! he wanted to shout, but bit his tongue, not wanting to hurt her with his voice.

A moment passed like that. The rain kept her blood wet. It swirled in the water. Tendrils that tainted, twisted in and out, and unfurled like petals. But the way her blood curled wasn't as beautiful as flowers. It wasn't wondrous or terrifying or melancholic.

It was just red.

And the smell was so strong, he could taste rust in his mouth.

He knew what came next. Itachi knew—the struggling gasps, the ashen skin, the numbing senses—and that made it all the more unbearable.

Itachi bent over her, trying to shield her from the rest of the world. Even as profanity danced along the tip of his tongue when Hinata's eyes kept closing. Each time longer than the last. She blinked away the heavy dregs of sleep almost like an afterthought.

How long, he wondered, until she forgot to?

"... Does... Does it hurt?" he asked, not quite knowing why he did. Perhaps it was to make sure she could still speak. To see if death was still being kind to him for reasons unknown. To reassure himself that she wasn't living her final moments suffering because he'd been half a second too slow. And... deep down, his naturally inquisitive mind wanted to know. A sort of morbid curiosity.

Her breathing stilled for a moment, and Itachi couldn't fully contain the rise of panic that burned his blood.

"It doesn't," she finally answered.

The silence that settled over them was deafening.

Her lack of feeling was a sign of life slipping, he knew. And though she did her best to smile up at him, her eyelids drooped even lower. Her hands were limp by her side at this point. Itachi squeezed her to his frame. As if that would piece her back together again. She didn't complain when the plank of wood delved just a little deeper, stretching her wound—she couldn't. Not anymore. Her throat had gone dry.

"A little longer, Hinata," Itachi whispered, pleading. "Please."

She didn't reply, afraid it would be little more than a gasp against his skin, afraid she'd exhale blood over someone who was already bathed in so much of it. But, in the end, she still tried to. Because Itachi was waiting for a response... and she never liked to keep him waiting.

Her mouth tilted upward, trying to form his name.

But her fears gave way to reality.

A cough escaped her mouth. She was already too weak to stop it, and before she could register, blood spilled over her dear husband's skin. In areas she never wanted to see her blood spilt. It was deep and black over stark white. The sort of crawling darkness only he was allowed when he donned his ANBU gear in the middle of the night and whispered his farewells in her hair.

Itachi noticed her fright, but he didn't seem to mind. Perhaps that was the scariest thing of all. That he just stood there, unconcerned, despite the flecks of blood over his pale skin. Was he panicking in his mind? Hinata hoped he wasn't. But that mask of his was in place, making it impossible for her to tell. It would surely slip soon. She just hoped that he wasn't alone when it did.

"Do you remember," Itachi suddenly began, trying to distract himself from her blood on his skin. As if that had ever worked before—even when he was bathed in the blood of strangers, he couldn't take his mind off of it. But he had to try. "When I fell asleep for the first time in four days after my ANBU cell was slaughtered and when I awoke, all you did was push a plate of food towards me?"

She didn't answer.

"Or when you rubbed salve on my wounds after I refused to go to a hospital because of all the squealing women?"

God, why wasn't she answering?

"I loved that you know." He exhaled. "I love you."

I love you, too, was her unspoken reply.

Hinata tried once again to open her mouth, to reassure him properly. She wanted to believe that she mouthed the words, to believe that she spelled each one lovingly out with her lips, though she wasn't fully sure if she was able to. But his eyes watched her with such rapt interest that it felt like she did.

She isn't moving, Itachi thought, feeling like a slow, ignorant child. That was new. Why isn't she moving?

"Itachi," Hinata breathed against him.

He squeezed her tighter. As tight as his arms would allow. Where was his summon? Was he close? Did something happen? Was Tsunade even on her way? He hoped so. Itachi wanted to go himself, knowing he'd be faster. But he couldn't just leave Hinata here. Cold and alone. His conscience—the blighted thing, showing up only during the worst of times—wouldn't allow it.

He could send a clone, but he didn't want to put a piece of himself through that. Didn't want any part of him away from her. Not when Itachi knew what was about to happen.

"Don't leave me," he cried desperately.

All things considered, Hinata thought she had a good life. It wasn't ideal. She could have had a better childhood, but what ninja couldn't? Her first decade had been rough. Along with the few years when puberty was kicking in. But then after a few more, she'd gotten enough confidence to hold her own, gotten a husband to call hers; one that she loved dearly and without restraint.

One that loved her back.

Itachi was strong. He'd be alright. Soon. Given time, patience, and a nudge of guidance. Once he allowed his steely composure to crumble into nothing and break down in tears, he'd wake feeling empty, but renewed. He would. Because she knew him—enough to also know that he might never love another woman again. It was at that moment that she wished that she at least left him with a child to keep him company throughout the years he'd be spending without her.

But she didn't want to think about that now.

Hinata was proud of herself. She didn't want to dwell over the 'ifs.' Many died having accomplished less.

She squeezed him back then... she tried to.

She failed.

In the distance, she watched a blond-headed blur and a pack of people in white running towards her. Medics, perhaps? Itachi didn't relinquish his hold, even as they neared.

Her vision was blurry and their surroundings were gray from the rain, but she'd never forget that look of conflicted desperation that decorated her husband's face. It was the same one she'd unwittingly fallen in love with.

She felt something warm against her chest. And she wondered for a moment if Itachi would take her away, trap her in a second-long genjutsu where they'd live their lives together. Perhaps he'd even lock her soul away—keep it for himself. He must've known some kind of jutsu that could do such a thing. She'd happily give it to him for safe keeping. Hinata didn't want to be parted from him. Not now. Not ever.

She wanted to tell him that she'd agree to whatever he decided to do with her body, that he needed to take care of himself—eat properly, get enough sleep, don't walk under the rain—to relish in the presence of those he loved and cared for, and most of all, to find reasons to laugh.

"Thank you," Hinata muttered instead. It was barely a whisper. "Thank you isn't enough."

Itachi stiffened in her arms. The last thing she felt, before she was enveloped in black.