Chapter Text

The dining room smells like his mother's cooking—miso soup, grilled mackerel, pickled vegetables arranged with the precision that Mikoto Uchiha brings to everything she touches. Itachi sits across from his younger brother, chopsticks moving with practiced ease, while his father's disappointment fills the space between them like smoke.

"So." Fugaku's voice cuts through the pleasant scrape of ceramic and quiet chewing. "Any progress on the job front?"

Itachi doesn't look up from his rice. He knew this was coming. It always comes. "I've been looking."

"Looking." His father repeats the word like it tastes bitter. "You've been 'looking' for six months now. You graduated top of your class. You have a degree in business from one of the best universities in the country. Recruiters were calling you before you even walked across that stage." Fugaku sets down his chopsticks with deliberate care. "And yet here you sit, in your childhood bedroom, sleeping until noon, contributing nothing."

"Fugaku," Mikoto says softly, a gentle warning.

"No, Mikoto. He needs to hear this." His father's dark eyes—the same eyes Itachi sees in the mirror—bore into him. "You have potential, Itachi. More than most people will ever have. And you're wasting it. Wasting your intelligence, your education, your opportunities. Do you know how many young men would kill for the advantages you've been given?"

Itachi takes a sip of tea, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be noticeable but not quite disrespectful. He's perfected this dance over the months since graduation. The truth is, he doesn't want any of those corporate positions, those soul-crushing office jobs where he'd spend his days in meetings that could have been emails, pretending to care about quarterly projections and synergistic paradigm shifts. He has money saved. He has time. And he has other interests that occupy his thoughts far more thoroughly than career advancement ever could.

But he can't say any of that.

Instead, he does what he does best—redirects.

"Speaking of potential," Itachi says, his voice smooth as silk, and he turns to his younger brother with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Sasuke, when is Sakura visiting again? I thought she might join us for dinner tonight."

The effect is immediate and deeply satisfying.

Sasuke, who had been eating in blessed silence, grateful to be out of the spotlight for once, goes rigid. His chopsticks pause halfway to his mouth. A muscle twitches in his jaw—that tell he's had since childhood, the one that screams guilt to anyone who knows how to look.

And Itachi always knows how to look.

"She's... busy," Sasuke says, setting down his chopsticks. "Medical school. You know how it is."

"Do I?" Itachi tilts his head, that knowing smile still playing at his lips. "I wouldn't know, actually. I only have a business degree. Not nearly as impressive as medical school."

"Sakura is such a dedicated girl," Mikoto says, her face lighting up the way it always does when Sakura's name enters the conversation. The disappointment that had creased her features during Fugaku's lecture smooths away, replaced by genuine warmth. "How is she doing? Is she still top of her class?"

"Yeah," Sasuke says, reaching for his water glass. "She's doing great."

"And her clinical rotations?" Fugaku asks, his attention successfully diverted from his eldest son's failings to his youngest son's accomplished girlfriend. "She must be in her third year by now."

"Second," Sasuke corrects, and Itachi watches a bead of sweat form at his brother's temple. "She's in her second year."

"Oh, that's right." Mikoto clasps her hands together. "Time flies. It feels like just yesterday she was starting. You must be so proud of her, Sasuke. Supporting her through such a demanding program—that takes dedication too."

Itachi takes another sip of tea, savoring the moment. He knows exactly why Sasuke is sweating. He knows about the girl from his engineering classes, the one with the long legs and the easy laugh. He knows about the late-night study sessions that involve very little studying. He knows because he makes it his business to know things about his little brother, the golden child, the one who can do no wrong in their parents' eyes.

Well. Almost no wrong.

"She's working really hard," Sasuke says, and there's an edge to his voice now, a warning that only Itachi can hear. "We don't get to see each other as much as we'd like."

"That's what makes it special though, doesn't it?" Itachi says, his voice light, conversational. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Or so they say."

Sasuke's eyes meet his across the table, dark and sharp with understanding. Shut up, that look says. Whatever game you're playing, stop.

But Itachi just smiles wider.

"You should bring her by this weekend," Mikoto continues, oblivious to the undercurrent of tension between her sons. "I'll make her favorite—that strawberry cake she loves. We haven't seen her in months."

"I'll ask her," Sasuke mutters.

"Don't ask, insist," Fugaku says, and there's approval in his voice now, the kind of approval that never colors his words when he speaks to Itachi. "A man should be decisive. Sakura is a good girl from a good family. Smart, beautiful, kind. You're lucky to have her."

"I know," Sasuke says quietly.

Do you? Itachi thinks, watching his brother squirm. Do you really know how lucky you are? Do you appreciate what you have, little brother, or do you take it for granted like everything else that's been handed to you?

"Well, at least one of my sons is making good choices," Fugaku says, and just like that, the attention swings back to Itachi. "Maybe you should take some lessons from your younger brother, Itachi. Sasuke has direction. Purpose. A future."

"Sasuke has always been the better son," Itachi agrees easily, and he means it, though not in the way his father thinks. Sasuke is better at playing the part, at being what their parents want him to be. Itachi stopped trying years ago. "I'm well aware."

Mikoto makes a soft sound of protest. "Itachi, that's not—"

"It's fine, Mother." He stands, collecting his dishes. "I'll help you clean up."

He can feel Sasuke's eyes on his back as he carries his plates to the kitchen, can feel the weight of his brother's suspicion and resentment. Good. Let him wonder. Let him sweat. Let him think about all the secrets that could spill out if Itachi decided to open his mouth.

But he won't. Not yet.

Some things are better savored slowly.

The kitchen is warm, filled with the sound of running water and the gentle clink of dishes. Itachi stands at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands submerged in soapy water. His mother moves beside him with practiced efficiency, drying each plate he hands her and putting it away in its proper place.

This is their ritual, has been since he was tall enough to reach the sink. After dinner, while Fugaku retreats to his study and Sasuke disappears to his room, Itachi and Mikoto clean up together. It's one of the few times they can talk without his father's judgment hanging over them like a storm cloud.

"You shouldn't let him get to you," Mikoto says softly, drying a bowl with careful circular motions. "Your father... he just worries. He wants to see you settled."

"I know what he wants." Itachi scrubs at a stubborn bit of rice stuck to a plate. "He wants me to be someone I'm not."

"He wants you to be happy."

"No." Itachi hands her the plate, meeting her eyes. "He wants me to be successful. There's a difference."

Mikoto sighs, but she doesn't argue. She knows he's right. She's always known, even if she won't say it out loud. Instead, she changes the subject, her gaze drifting to the refrigerator where a collection of photos hangs, held in place by an assortment of magnets.

"Do you remember this?" She nods toward one photo in particular, and Itachi follows her gaze.

He knows the photo without looking. He's looked at it a thousand times, maybe more. But he looks again anyway, because his mother expects it, and because some part of him can never resist.

It's from three summers ago. The lake house. Sakura is perched on their shoulders—Sasuke on the left, Itachi on the right—her arms spread wide like wings, her head thrown back in laughter. She's wearing a pink bikini top and denim shorts, her hair longer then, falling in waves past her shoulders. Sasuke is scowling at the camera, annoyed at being forced into the photo. And Itachi is laughing, his head tilted up toward Sakura, his hands wrapped around her ankle to keep her steady.

He remembers the weight of her, the warmth of her skin under his palm. He remembers how she'd squealed when they'd lifted her up, how she'd gripped their heads for balance, her fingers tangling in his hair. He remembers everything about that weekend with a clarity that borders on obsessive.

"You all looked so happy," Mikoto says, and there's a wistfulness in her voice that makes Itachi's chest tighten. "Sakura has always been like a daughter to me, you know. Ever since you boys were children and she'd come over to play. I used to imagine... well." She laughs softly, setting down the dried bowl. "I suppose I'm getting ahead of myself. But I'll be so happy when she finishes medical school and they can finally plan the wedding."

"Sasuke would have to propose first," Itachi points out, his voice carefully neutral.

"That stupid boy." Mikoto shakes her head, but there's affection in her exasperation. "Dragging his feet. He's going to lose something good if he's not careful. Girls like Sakura don't wait around forever."

"No," Itachi agrees, still staring at the photo, at Sakura's smile, at the way the sunlight caught in her hair. "They don't."

His mother doesn't hear the edge in his voice, the darkness that underlies those simple words. She's already moving on, talking about wedding venues and how beautiful Sakura would look in white, how she hopes they'll have the ceremony in spring when the cherry blossoms are blooming.

Itachi lets her talk, making appropriate sounds of agreement at the right moments, but his mind is elsewhere. His mind is three years in the past, in a cabin by that same lake, in the dark hours of the night when the world was quiet and his brother's girlfriend climbed into the wrong bed.

The memory rises up like a wave, pulling him under.

The cabin was silent except for the gentle lap of water against the dock outside and Sasuke's soft snoring from the bed across the room. Itachi lay in the darkness, not quite asleep but not fully awake either, floating in that liminal space between consciousness and dreams.

He heard the door creak open, so quiet he might have imagined it. Footsteps, barely a whisper against the wooden floor. He kept his eyes closed, his breathing even, some instinct telling him to wait, to see what would happen.

The mattress dipped. Someone was climbing into his bed.

Itachi's first thought was that Sasuke was having a nightmare, coming to his older brother for comfort like he used to when they were children. But the body that pressed against his was too soft, too curved, too small to be his brother. The scent was wrong too—not Sasuke's deodorant and teenage boy smell, but something floral and sweet. Strawberries and vanilla.

Sakura.

His mind went blank, then sharp with understanding. She thought this was Sasuke's bed. She'd snuck in to surprise her boyfriend, and in the darkness of the unfamiliar cabin, she'd chosen wrong.

He should have said something. Should have stopped her immediately. Should have been the responsible adult, the good older brother, the person everyone expected him to be.

He didn't.

Instead, he lay perfectly still as she molded herself against him, her body fitting against his like a puzzle piece sliding into place. She was wearing something thin—a tank top and shorts, maybe, or a nightgown. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the fabric, could feel every curve and dip of her body as she pressed closer.

"Sasuke," she whispered, her breath warm against his neck, and something in Itachi's chest twisted at the sound of his brother's name on her lips.

Then she was kissing him.

Her lips found his in the darkness, soft and tentative at first, then bolder. She kissed like she was trying to wake him gently, little presses of her mouth against his, her hand coming up to cup his jaw. And Itachi—

Itachi was only human.

He groaned, low in his throat, and his control shattered like glass. His hand shot up, fingers tangling in her hair, gripping the back of her head as he kissed her back with all the hunger he'd been suppressing for longer than he cared to admit.

She made a small sound of surprise that turned into something else, something breathless and wanting. Her lips parted under his, and he took advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting her. She tasted like mint toothpaste and something sweeter, something uniquely her. His other hand found her waist, spanning the narrow curve of it, feeling the softness of her skin where her shirt had ridden up.

She responded like she'd been set on fire. Her body arched into his, her hands moving from his face to his shoulders, his chest, exploring with an urgency that made his blood sing. They tangled together in the sheets, a mess of limbs and heat and desperate, fumbling touches. Her leg hooked over his hip, and he gripped her thigh, his palm sliding up the smooth expanse of skin, feeling her tremble under his touch.

He was nineteen years old, home from his first year of university, his body honed from varsity soccer and hours in the gym. He was a man, not a boy, and he knew exactly what he wanted. What he'd wanted for longer than he should have.

His hips rolled against hers, and she gasped into his mouth, her fingers digging into his shoulders. He was hard, achingly so, and when she ground against him—whether intentionally or instinctively, he didn't know and didn't care—he thought he might lose his mind. His hand on her thigh guided her movements, showing her the rhythm, and she followed, her body moving against his with an eagerness that made him want to flip her onto her back and—

Her hand slid up to his hair, fingers threading through the strands, and she froze.

His hair was longer than Sasuke's. Much longer. He'd grown it out his first year away, liking the way it fell past his shoulders, the way he could tie it back when he played soccer. Sasuke kept his short, neat, the way their father preferred.

Her fingers traced down from his hair to his jaw, and she felt the stubble there. Sasuke, at fifteen, was still smooth-cheeked, still waiting for his body to catch up to his brother's.

She jerked back so fast she nearly fell off the bed. In the darkness, he could see her eyes wide with shock, her hand pressed to her mouth.

"Oh my god," she breathed, and even in a whisper, he could hear the panic. "Oh my god, oh my god—"

Itachi made a show of stirring, of blinking slowly like someone just waking up. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, and looked at her with carefully crafted confusion.

"Sakura?" he said, his voice rough with sleep—and other things. "What—"

She was scrambling backward, her face pale even in the dim moonlight filtering through the window. She looked terrified, looked like she might scream or cry or both. Her eyes darted to the other bed where Sasuke still slept, oblivious, then back to Itachi.

He could see the moment she realized how bad this was. If Sasuke woke up and found her here, in Itachi's bed, there would be questions. Accusations. The end of their relationship, probably. The end of her place in this family that she'd been a part of since childhood.

Itachi held her gaze and slowly, deliberately, brought one finger to his lips. Shh. Then he jerked his head toward the door, toward escape.

She understood. Relief and gratitude flashed across her face, mixed with lingering horror at what had just happened. She nodded frantically and started to move toward the door.

He held up a hand, stopping her. Then he pointed to himself and then outside, mouthing the words: I'll meet you.

She hesitated, then nodded again. She slipped out of the room like a ghost, and Itachi was left alone in the darkness with his racing heart and his aching body and the taste of her still on his lips.

Itachi sat on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands, trying to get himself under control. His entire body was taut with unfulfilled desire, his cock straining against his boxer briefs, every nerve ending on fire. He could still feel the phantom weight of her against him, could still smell her perfume on his sheets.

He took a deep breath, then another. He needed to think clearly, needed to handle this situation carefully. Sakura was panicking, and a panicking Sakura was a dangerous variable. She might do something stupid, might confess to Sasuke out of guilt, might ruin everything.

He couldn't let that happen.

He stood, adjusting himself with a grimace, and pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He slipped his feet into sandals and moved quietly to the door, checking to make sure Sasuke was still asleep. His brother hadn't moved, still sprawled on his stomach, one arm hanging off the bed, dead to the world.

Good.

Outside, the night air was cool against his heated skin. The moon hung low over the lake, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow. He found Sakura standing near the tree line, her arms wrapped around herself, her whole body trembling.

She looked so young in that moment, so vulnerable. She was only sixteen, still in high school, still figuring out who she was and what she wanted. And he had just—

No. He couldn't think about that now.

He nodded toward the path that led away from the cabin, away from where anyone might hear them if they woke. She followed without a word, her footsteps quick and nervous behind him. He led her to a small clearing, far enough away that they could talk without risk of being overheard.

When he turned to face her, she immediately started babbling.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—I thought you were—I didn't know—" Her words tumbled over each other, her voice high and thin with panic. "Please don't tell Sasuke, please, I didn't mean to—it was an accident, I swear, I would never—"

"Sakura." His voice was calm, gentle, the voice of someone in control. "It's okay."

"It's not okay!" She looked like she might cry. "I kissed you, I—we—oh god, what did I do?"

"You made a mistake." He stepped closer, and she flinched but didn't move away. "An honest mistake. It was dark. You couldn't see. You thought I was Sasuke."

"But I should have known, I should have realized—"

"How?" He tilted his head, his expression sympathetic. "We're brothers. We sound similar, especially when we're half-asleep. And you've never been to this cabin before. You didn't know which bed was which."

She was shaking her head, tears starting to spill down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Itachi. I'm so, so sorry."

"Don't be." He reached out slowly, telegraphing his movements, and gently gripped her shoulders. She tensed but didn't pull away. "If anyone should apologize, it's me."

She blinked up at him, confused. "What?"

"I grabbed you." He made his voice soft, regretful. "I kissed you back. I—" He paused, looking away as if ashamed. "I thought I was dreaming at first. By the time I realized what was happening, I was already... I shouldn't have done that. You're Sasuke's girlfriend. You're practically family. I'm sorry."

"No, no, you were asleep, you didn't know—" She was shaking her head frantically, eager to absolve him. "It's not your fault. You thought you were dreaming. That's—that's totally understandable. I'm the one who climbed into your bed."

"Still." He met her eyes again, and he let her see sincerity there, concern, the face of the good older brother who would never take advantage. "I should have stopped as soon as I realized. I should have been more responsible."

"Please don't tell Sasuke." Her voice broke on his brother's name. "Please, Itachi. He'll never forgive me. He'll think—he'll think I did it on purpose, or that I wanted—" She couldn't finish the sentence.

"I won't tell him," Itachi promised, and he meant it. This secret was far too valuable to waste on a moment of honesty. "This stays between us. It was a mistake, an accident. There's no reason for anyone else to know."

The relief that washed over her face was almost painful to watch. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I promise it'll never happen again. I'll be more careful, I'll—"

"Sakura." He squeezed her shoulders gently, then let his hands drop. "It's okay. Really. Let's just forget it happened and move on. Okay?"

She nodded, wiping at her tears. "Okay. Yeah. Okay."

"Go back to your room. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, everything will be normal."

She nodded again and started to turn away, then paused. "Itachi?"

"Yeah?"

"You're... you're a really good person. Thank you for being so understanding."

He smiled at her, the kind of smile that had always made people trust him, believe in him. "That's what big brothers are for."

She smiled back, watery but genuine, and then she was gone, disappearing back toward the cabin where the girls were staying.

Itachi stood alone in the clearing, his smile fading as soon as she was out of sight. He looked down at his hands, the hands that had gripped her thigh, that had guided her hips against his, that had felt every curve and dip of her body.

He could still feel her. The softness of her thighs, the way they'd trembled under his touch. The taste of her lips, sweet and eager. The little sounds she'd made, breathy and wanting. The way her body had moved against his, instinctive and perfect.

He was still hard, still aching with want. He pressed the heel of his hand against his erection, trying to will it away, but all he could think about was how she'd felt, how she'd tasted, how she'd responded to his touch like she'd been made for it.

She thought he was a good person. She thought he was understanding, responsible, trustworthy.

She had no idea.

The sound of his mother's voice pulls Itachi back to the present. He blinks, realizing he's been staring at the photo for too long, his hands still submerged in the now-cold dishwater.

"Itachi? Are you alright?"

"Fine," he says, pulling his hands from the sink and reaching for a towel. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

About how everything changed after that night. About how Sakura stopped touching me.

Before the lake, Sakura had been comfortable with him. More than comfortable—she'd been affectionate in the way of someone who'd known him her entire life. She would grab his arm when she was excited about something, would demand he pick her up so she could see over crowds, would lean against him when they watched movies, would sit on his shoulders at concerts and festivals. She touched him with the easy familiarity of family, of someone who'd never thought twice about the contact.

After the lake, all of that stopped.

She became careful around him. Conscious of space and boundaries in a way she'd never been before. She would catch herself reaching for him and pull back. She would start to lean in and then remember, and the distance she'd put between them was almost physical in its weight.

He'd tried to bridge that gap, tried to tease her back into comfort, tried to act like nothing had happened. But she'd built walls, and no amount of casual charm could tear them down.

It was guilt, he'd decided. Guilt for enjoying his touch, his kiss. Guilt for the way her body had responded to his, for the sounds she'd made, for the way she'd ground against him with such desperate need. She couldn't reconcile that response with her love for Sasuke, so she'd locked it away and pretended it never happened.

But Itachi remembered. Itachi remembered everything.

He'd started watching her more closely after that. Not obviously—he was too smart for that—but carefully, cataloging every change, every development. He watched her grow from a girl into a woman, watched her body fill out and mature, watched her become more beautiful with each passing year. He watched her with Sasuke, analyzing their relationship, noting every crack, every moment of discord.

And he wanted her. God, how he wanted her.

It had started as simple attraction, the kind any man might feel for a beautiful woman. But it had grown into something darker, something more consuming. An obsession that lived in his bones, that colored every thought, every decision. He thought about her constantly—when he was supposed to be job hunting, when he was lying in bed at night, when he saw her photo on the refrigerator.

He thought about that night at the lake. He thought about how she'd felt in his arms, how she'd tasted, how she'd responded to him. He thought about how she'd looked at him afterward, terrified and guilty and something else, something she probably didn't even recognize in herself.

He thought about his brother, the golden child, the one who had everything handed to him and still managed to fuck it up. Sasuke didn't deserve Sakura. Didn't appreciate her. Didn't see what he had.

But Itachi did. Itachi saw everything.

"Itachi?" His mother is looking at him with concern now. "You seem distracted lately. Is everything alright?"

"Everything's fine, Mother." He hangs up the towel and leans against the counter, his eyes drifting back to the photo. "Just thinking about the future."

"Well, that's good." She pats his arm. "Your father is hard on you, but he's right about one thing—you do need to think about what comes next. You can't stay in limbo forever."

"No," Itachi agrees, his gaze fixed on Sakura's smiling face in the photo, on the way his hands are wrapped around her ankle, possessive even then. "I can't."

But he's not in limbo. He's waiting. Watching. Biding his time.

Because Sasuke is going to fuck this up. It's only a matter of time. His little brother is too arrogant, too careless, too convinced that Sakura will always be there waiting for him no matter what he does. And when it all falls apart—when Sakura finally sees what Itachi has known all along, that Sasuke doesn't deserve her—Itachi will be there.

He's always been patient. Always been willing to play the long game.

And some things, he's learned, are worth waiting for.

His mother moves away to put the last of the dishes in the cabinet, humming softly to herself, already planning the wedding that may never happen. Itachi stays where he is, looking at the photo, at Sakura's smile, at the ghost of a memory that haunts him still.

He can still taste her lips if he tries. Can still feel the weight of her body against his, the softness of her thighs, the way she'd trembled under his touch. Can still hear the little sounds she'd made, breathy and wanting, his brother's name on her lips while she kissed someone else.

Three years ago, she'd climbed into the wrong bed.

Itachi has spent every day since then planning how to make sure that next time, it's exactly the right one.