Inside-out
“Who’s this, Orochimaru-sama?”
Itachi cocks his head like the birds he’s so fond of. Sasori peers over Orochimaru’s shoulder, the barest hint of a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“He’s a friend of mine,” Orochimaru answers, deliberately ignoring the sudden invasion of his personal space. “Sasori, this is Itachi-kun.”
“Oh. I-it’s nice to meet you,” Itachi mumbles.
“So that’s who you’re always muttering to,” Sasori remarks. “Here I’d thought you just lost your mind.”
His deadpan tone means it takes Orochimaru a moment to realize he’s joking. The way Itachi’s brow furrows, though, he doesn't seem to have understood.
“You had something to tell me?” Orochimaru prompts him.
“Right!”
Itachi leans forward on his hands, breaking out in a grin.
“My team got picked to be the Daimyo’s escort for this year!”
“Oh?”
“Yeah! We’re leaving today, actually! I’ve got all my stuff packed, and I’ll be meeting up with Shinko and Tenma in an hour!”
“Hm. Your parents must be very proud of you.”
Itachi’s cheeks turn pink, and he nods an affirmation.
“Sensei says he’s got something special planned for when we get back,” he says, gathering his hair back into a ponytail. “But he won’t tell us what it is.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fun for you, Itachi-kun.”
Itachi looks over his shoulder.
“I should go. I’ll see you when I get back!” he chirps.
A small poof later, and all that’s on Orochimaru’s desk is the set of dusty old scrolls he’d managed to retrieve on their last mission.
“You seem fond of him,” Sasori remarks, going back to the puppet he’s been busy repairing.
“What of it?” Orochimaru asks.
“I wouldn’t get too attached, if I were you.”
“Hm?”
Sasori yanks a broken cable out of his puppet’s back.
“He looks like the type to die young.”
“What makes you so sure of that?” Orochimaru asks, raising an eyebrow despite being turned away from his companion.
“Sometimes you just know,” Sasori replies.
There’s a brief interim of silence between them. Orochimaru goes back to his scrolls, copying bits he finds interesting into a leather-bound notebook. The repetitive, familiar sounds of Sasori’s craftsmanship are oddly comforting.
“...I bet I could make a good puppet out of him,” Sasori muses, out of nowhere. “He’d make a pretty one.”
Orochimaru bristles; perhaps Sasori catches that he isn’t keen on the idea, because he doesn't say another word on the matter.
They lapse back into the companionable silence which comprises most of their time together. The sound of pen on paper mingles with the sound of Sasori working as they fall into their familiar rhythm.
This new research should be more than enough for him to plot out his next batch of experiments. All he has left to do is gather up his test subjects and he should be set for the next month or so. Sasori will be glad to make use of whoever doesn't make it through. Danzo will probably be more than happy to point him toward convenient lab rats.
There’s no clock in their shared room, but he can guess it’s very late at night. He stretches out, feeling his back crack in a satisfying way (he really hates being still for so long).
“I think I’ll get some air before I turn in for the night.”
“Whatever you want.”
The air outside is pleasantly warm. Far out in Rice Country, the world is quiet apart from the soft sounds of nature. It’s perfect for when he just wants to sit in the grass and let his mind wander to nothing in particular.
The full moon is so bright above him. He wonders if Itachi and his little genin team have stopped for the night. Maybe he’s looking up at the stars too, those wide eyes full of curiosity. Surely that adorably awkward charm of his will have won over the Daimyo by now.
“He looks like the type to die young.”
No. He shouldn’t concern himself with Sasori’s musings. How could he presume to know anything about a child he hadn’t even met in person?
Besides- Itachi looked better during their last conversation than he had in ages. So Orochimaru is pretty sure that Sasori is pulling his prediction straight out of his-
Well.
Running his hands along the soft grass, he decides he won’t waste any time worrying about it. He’s got plenty to keep his mind occupied for the next long while, anyway.
It’s rather remarkable that, despite the different uniforms and headbands of each village’s ninja, despite the wild variants in ideology, the chest-beating declarations of superiority- they all look the same once he’s got them cut open.
About two months have passed, and his experiments all but concluded, before he realizes he hasn’t heard from Itachi in a long time.
Normally, he waits for the kid to approach him on his own terms- he doesn't seem like the type to like any surprise intrusions into his private life. But he can’t shake that nagging worry in the back of his mind that maybe something awful happened.
So, when he can’t bear to wait any longer, he forms the seal and makes contact himself. The snake pokes its head out from under Itachi’s bed, slithering up onto the sheets and nudging the boy gently.
He’s a bit surprised, to say the least, when Itachi grabs the serpent rather roughly, and shoves it against the wall.
There’s a wild panic in his eyes which, rather than their usual charcoal color, are the familiar, bloody crimson of the Sharingan.
After a moment, Itachi realizes who it is. He releases a pent-up breath, and lets the agitated snake go.
“What on Earth is the matter, Itachi-kun?” Orochimaru asks, gently.
Itachi lets out a sharp whine of distress. He presses a hand over his mouth; his wide, red eyes are luminescent in his dark bedroom.
“...Tenma’s dead.”
“Hm?”
Hugging his knees tightly to his chest, the boy fights against the urge to cry.
“Tenma’s dead. Sensei, too.”
Orochimaru blinks, brow furrowed in confusion.
Surely that can’t have happened? The Daimyo’s escort is one of the safest missions one could ever be sent on. He remembers doing it himself once upon a time, with Jiraiya and Tsunade and Sarutobi. The worst that’d happened on that mission was Jiraiya’s constant whining about being bored. It was just ceremony, a way to honor talented genin teams. Surely nobody has ever died on it. Let alone a jounin instructor and one of his students.
“...I-I was a coward. I c-couldn’t even move-” Itachi hiccups. “Orochimaru-sama, I couldn’t move-”
“Shh, it’s alright. Did you get hurt at all?”
“N-no. Me and Shinko are okay. But Tenma-”
He chokes, pressing his little hands to the sides of his head and screwing his eyes shut tight.
“-I know what Tenma’s guts look like,” he whimpers.
(Orochimaru feels an invisible, icy hand grip and twist his insides.)
A knock at the door sends Itachi’s head snapping upward.
“Itachi, honey-” the boy’s mother calls, gently. “I know you aren’t feeling well, so I’ll leave your dinner here, okay? You should at least try to eat something.”
When Itachi doesn't answer, Mikoto’s footsteps retreat from his door.
“...You really should eat,” Orochimaru urges him.
Itachi shakes his head.
He’s very familiar with the sort of feelings Itachi is enduring right now, so he doesn't nag the poor child further.
(Poor little bird. He’s trying so very hard not to cry in front of Orochimaru.)
Again, Orochimaru finds himself contemplating snatching Itachi away from that awful village. And again, he has to squash that thought down. Before he can even contemplate it for too long, Itachi has sent his serpent away, anyway.
He writes out a letter he intends to send to his contacts back in Konoha, probing for details on what happened. Maybe try to get the information from the Daimyo himself, if he can manage it. He’ll coordinate it so there’s no chance of word getting around to Shimura. Then he’ll decide what he needs to do next.
(If there's anything he can do.)
Once Itachi is alone again, he’s crying.
He curls up into a tight ball of misery, letting the sobs rack his tiny frame while the suppressed tears finally overflow.
Coward. He’s a dirty, rotten, no-good coward. He froze up when his team needed him, and now his Sensei and his friend are both dead.
He can still see his sensei try desperately to stay calm, throwing out an arm in some vain attempt to shield them from danger. Still sees how red his blood is when he’s cut down by that masked figure like he were just a paper doll.
Tenma’s panicked screaming still rings in his ears. Shrill and afraid and panicked but Itachi still can’t move-
“Itachi! Shinko! Come on!”
But Shinko couldn’t move, and Itachi couldn’t either. He can’t even twitch a muscle through the blinding, overwhelming fear in his veins.
Tenma, charging forward foolishly, plays out behind his eyelids. The slash of the masked man’s blade, the horrible, horrible sound it made-
Tenma’s torso, falling a meter or so from his lower half, a few last spasms running through it before it goes still.
That man crouching down to look Itachi over. Not saying a word, but laughing at him. The man pinched his cheek in a sickeningly playful gesture before getting up to leave.
Itachi finally had been able to move again. He lunged after the man, but the Daimyo had grabbed his wrist with a shaking hand.
“...Let him go,” he managed, his face bloodless, his voice unsteady. “There’s nothing you can do.”
They’d all sat on the ground for a good, long while, after the Daimyo had sent out a signal for help. Shinko couldn’t stop shaking.
Itachi bites down on his wrist to stifle a sob.
It isn’t fair. Tenma didn’t deserve to die.
“Niisan! Niisan, I wanna play!”
Itachi whimpers at the sound of Sasuke’s voice on the other side of the door.
“Your brother doesn't feel well right now,” he hears their mother scold softly. “You should let him rest.”
“But Mom-”
“-Come on, Sasuke. Let’s go out in the garden instead. I think some of the tomatoes are ready to pick.”
“One sec-”
He hears Sasuke’s little hands press against the door.
“Niisan, dinner was really yummy tonight. You should eat some!”
With those words, his tiny footsteps retreat with their mother’s.
After a brief hesitation, Itachi gets onto his hands and knees, then onto his feet.
Peeking out of his door, he spots the still-steaming bowl of curry and rice Mom left for him, sitting on a tray next to a glass of water and a few of the strawberry mochi she knows he’s fond of.
He brings the tray into his room and sets it on his desk. He stares at the food for a long time, trying to convince himself to eat it.
Orochimaru-sama said I should eat. And Sasuke said it’s delicious. I should at least try-
Itachi takes a deep breath, and pops a spoonful in his mouth.
...Sasuke is right. Of course he’s right. Mom’s food is always good.
After he swallows the first mouthful, he finds his appetite. The bowl is empty in a matter of minutes, and Itachi turns his attention to the mochi.
The mochi are sweet and wonderful and everything he had expected. He’s crying again, but more from happiness, this time.
Because he’s glad. Glad that, even when the world has turned inside-out, and he worried he couldn’t return to normal life, his mother’s food is still as delicious as ever.
He waits a few hours before he brings the empty tray into the kitchen to wash the dishes. Mom is sitting at the kitchen table like she’s been waiting for him.
“Mom-” he mumbles, fidgeting in discomfort.
Mom rises to her feet, taking the tray from him.
“...It was good,” Itachi says sheepishly.
Without a word, Mikoto gathers him up into her arms and hugs him tightly.
(Crying together somehow makes him feel less lonely.)