#forced isolation

Itachi was a man who had already sacrificed everything, and in you, he found something he couldn't bear to lose.

He wouldn't explain his past; he'd simply make you feel the weight of his gaze,the silent understanding that he knew more than you ever could, and it was completely okay...in his opinion, this didn't make you any less intelligent.

His Sharingan wasn't just an eye; it was a window into your soul, and a gateway to his own meticulously crafted reality. After a particularly brutal mission, or a moment where the sheer terror of the shinobi world threatened to break you, he wouldn't offer comfort in the traditional way...he's not the best at that anyway.

Instead he'd draw you into his Tsukuyomi. Not as a punishment, but as a twisted gift; If anyone ever asked him, he was doing what was best for you, and he genuinely thought so.

In that illusion, time bent to his will; days could pass in moments, years in hours. All spent in a world where every fear was soothed, every desire met, every threat neutralized. You were safe, cherished, and utterly, completely alone with him.

This wasn't just a conforting dream; it was a sorta of re-education. Within the Tsukuyomi, he wouldn't exactly lie, but he'd reshape your perception by showing you the futility of fighting, the pain of independence and the endless cycle of suffering outside his perfect world. He'd be your only companion, your only source of truth, slowly eroding your memories of a life beyond his illusion.

Any flicker of doubt would be met with a gentle, almost paternal guidance back to the blissful ignorance he provided. He was your protector, after all.

As we know, he has lost so much because of the wickedness of those who populate the world, and he doesn't want the same to happen to you. You have to understand, he's very scared that someone will notice his attachment to you and perhaps decide to present him with an ultimatum... maybe, one similar to the one he was given when they discovered how much he cared about Sasuke.

For this reasons and more, he wouldn't call it imprisonment: he'd call it salvation, the ultimate act of love from a man who understood suffering.

He was more than ready to bore the burden of your isolation, believing it a small price for your eternal peace. And besides, the loneliness you felt wasn't something he couldn't fix... for example you could have lots of children, they'll keep you company.

But at the end of the day you have the freedom to do whatever you like! It doesn't matter if it's drawing, composing music, or simply working. The point is, you can do it! and you won't even notice any difference from the real world.

If it weren't for the fact that...well, people don't really talk to you. It's almost as if they've been set up NOT to make you feel like they're your friends, but you couldn't bet your life on that.

Or maybe yes... you see, if you don't realize anything and believe you're still living in the real world, it's truly for the best. But what if you were to understand what happened?

Talking to him about it is...an option, sure. As long as you don't make him repeat his explanation more than once and simply...accept it with a smile, or at least pretend to.

I mean, if you don't accept the thing right away nothing will happen. After all he doesn't want to become like the people he wants to protect you from, so he'll try to be very patient with you but obviously there's a limit. And the sooner you understand it, the better is it.

But if you don't understand how to behave well despite the passage of time, there is no problem. It just means that the illusion might begin to subtly shift...the vibrant colors would dull, the comforting sounds would become distorted, and the perfect peace would be replaced by a creeping sense of unease.

He would just look at you remaining apparently calm,while the world around you would slowly start to reflect your defiance. A beautiful garden might wither, a beloved pet might fall ill, or a cherished memory might twist into something painful. He wouldn't directly punish you; the illusion would do it for him, a constant psychological pressure until you broke and sought his guidance once more. He would simply watch as a silent presence, waiting for you to understand that your suffering was a direct consequence of your own stubbornness.

The worst experience with him would probably be the soul crushing realization of your own helplessness. If you ever really disappoint him,he could perhaps allow you a brief tantalizing glimpse of the real world,just enough to ignite a desperate hope. Then, he would snatch it away plunging you back into his illusion, maybe making you relive that moment of hope, that brief taste of reality, over and over, until the hope itself became a torment. He would detachedly watch; his eyes filled with a quiet understanding, as if he truly believed he was saving you from a greater pain.

Your purpose in his eyes, is to exist as the singular proof that his sacrifices were not in vain. You are the one he saved and protected, the one who truly understands the depth of his burden. He practically sees you as a precious flower cultivated in the sterile environment of his illusion, safe from the harsh winds of reality.

Let's be honest...stockholm syndrome is inevitably going to knock on your door, and when it happens it's safe to say he would deeply cherish your dependence and your reliance on him, ensuring that every aspect of your being (from your deepest fears to your most fleeting joys) was filtered through his perception, or in others words controlled by his will.

_ _ _

He had friends, a few casual dates, hell, even coworkers. People who saw him every day and yet—

He sighed as he scraped the last bits of oatmeal from the bowl. Ever since George had been taken away, Elliot hadn’t been allowed breakfast with the others. That, also wasn’t rare, but at least before, he and George could sit together in their room. They kept each other company.

For how much George got into Elliot’s nerves, he hadn’t expected to miss him this damn much. 

He glanced at the corner of the room. The water was running low, so were their preserves. It should worry him, but it didn’t; Elliot knew it wasn’t past Peter to starve him. He knew what to expect. 

What he didn’t know how to handle was this emptiness.

His throat tightened as his eyes fall to the spot on the floor where George would usually sit, legs crossed, that stupid wide-eyed expression glued on his face. His eyes somehow still bright bright, despite the hell they both were trapped in. His voice was a little high pitched, he an had annoying cadence.

George was obnoxiously dependent, always was terrible at reading social cues. Too clingy, too eager. Too talkative. 

Too familiar. Too needy.

All of it was better than this silence.

This silence felt suffocating, this silence that allowed Elliot to dive into his darkest thoughts. He drew his knees up to his chest, locking his arms around them, his chin rested on his knees. His heart hammered against his chest as he stared at the spot on the floor in front of him.

He was going to die here, like this.

No one will come for me. No one knows I’m here. Worse —no one cares.

“Groceries delivery,” Peter sang as he entered the room. He carried in a big pack of water bottles and a handful of canned food.

Elliot’s eyes burned. His eyes stayed in the same spot. He didn’t need to look. No George. Just Peter.

Thank Peter. “Thanks, Peter.” Elliot muttered, his voice was raspy from days of silence.

Peter frowned at the tone—Elliot’s voice lacked the usual, weary edge that that Peter loved. He walked up to him and squatted down in front of him.

“What’s wrong?” Peter asked.

Elliot would’ve laughed at that if he could, if his throat wasn’t a knot and his eyes were watering. This was the first time Peter sounded kind. He needed that.

“I want George back,” he said, blinking hard to keep the tears from falling. 

Peter tilted his head, fighting back a smile. “You want Georgie back, mmmhm.” Peter repeated, brushing back the wavy strands of Elliot’s hair. “You don’t look too good, georgeous. I’m sorry.” Peter tucked a loose strand behind Elliot’s ear, his touch tender.  “I have neglected you these days.”

Elliot hated the goosebumps in his skin. He hated how nice that felt. He hated how the brief contact left him shuddering.

“I’ve just been enjoying George’s company lately, he just gets me…” 

Elliot looked at Peter. He clenched his jaw as he swallowed. No.

“I’ll come back to you, eh— eventually. You don’t have to get all emotional, Elliot.” Peter gave him a disapproving look. “There’s plenty of me to share and right now, well— right now just is not your turn.” He stood up and headed to the door. “I’ll make sure to send Georgie your regards.”

The door slammed shut.

Elliot looked up, he didn’t want to cry but his eyes burned with unshed tears.

No. He wouldn’t cry, not for this.

Alexander Caldwell was standing in the doorway, staring right at him.

Henry’s heart dropped into his stomach as he stared back, all the wind sucked out of his sails. He couldn’t keep running. He didn’t know how long Alexander had been staring at him, if Mariana was nearby, and it would be stupid to keep running. 

He was caught.

It was over.

Again.

Henry swallowed hard and raised a hand in a sort-of wave. He started to walk back, slow and easy, as inconspicuously as possible. His backpack felt heavier with every step, spiking worry so intense he could taste it on his tongue. He couldn’t throw it into the trees while Alexander could still see him. It was full of food and money, completely incriminating. He had pushed his luck back at the Facility and he didn’t think it would be on his side again so soon.

Henry kept walking back towards the house. Water dripped out of his hair, down his face, into the neck of his raincoat to soak the shirt underneath. The wind now at his back, pushing him forward all the way to the front steps. 

Alexander watched him, arms crossed and glaring, the whole way. 

Henry tried a smile. “Hi.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Alexander said, just over the howling wind.

“Looking,” Henry pointed up at the churning clouds. “I wanted to see it up close, you know?”

“Sure you did,” Alexander scoffed. He reached out, grabbing at the strap of his backpack and yanking Henry forward. He slipped on the wet wood, shins connecting hard with the edge of the stairs. “And what’s this? Is this your little go-bag, is my little slut walking off again?”

“N-No, no!” Henry protested, trying to plant his feet on the ground again. His teeth were gritted against the pain now and the rest he knew was about to break over him. He didn’t have an explanation, only a denial, and he kicked himself for not planning that far.

“Don’t waste your breath, kid.” Alexander shook the backpack and Henry with it. “Did you really think it was going to be that easy? Perhaps you forgot, but we learn from our past mistakes around here.”

Henry felt like a fish caught on a line, humiliated and soaked. Staring down at the painted wood and Alexander’s shoes, he grimaced and waited until the man was done. He would apologize, sure, but he would only if he could stand up. 

When he tried to push himself upright, Alexander threw him forward. Henry braced and rolled, sliding on his side to land at the open front door. He rolled onto his front, turning his head to look into the house. His heart slid even lower.

The power was on. He couldn’t hear the generator.

They had seen him on the stupid video doorbell.

He didn’t have much time to think before hands were back on him, this time gripping his ankle like a vice. Henry had only a second before he was being dragged forward into the house, across the marble floor towards the stairs. He tried to slide his hand, tried to put some distance between himself and the obstacles Alexander was steering him into -- the front door and coat closet, the leg of a table in the entry hall, flipping him onto his back at the foot of the stairs. Henry squeaked and gasped with every bump.

“Like I said, we learn from our mistakes,” Alexander continued, seething. “So, you know what, sweetheart? I’m gonna let you keep your backpack, since you want it so badly. I’m going to let you keep it, oh sure.”

Henry held his head as they rounded the corner off the top of the stairs. He smacked into the bannister and walls on the way up, his body bouncing painfully on each wooden tread. His shoulder collided with the newel post, sending him back into the wall, as Alexander dragged him towards his bedroom.

Henry tried desperately to pull himself free, to flip onto his stomach, to grab at anything. But he couldn’t. Alexander had too good a hold on him. Frustrated tears prickled in his eyes.

“You, Henry, can keep your precious backpack and your raincoat and whatever else you’ve got in your pockets and socks.” 

Alexander pulled him into the bedroom, but didn’t stop. Not until they were in the bathroom. Henry slid, then was stopped by Alexander forcing the backpack off his shoulders and tossing it into the tub. Next he pulled the raincoat from Henry’s shoulder’s, forcing Henry’s face into the tile floor as he twisted and tied the sleeves around him. Henry writhed and twisted, but it only seemed to help the man. 

Alexander flipped him one last time, on to his back, and shoved a balled up handkerchief into Henry’s mouth. He smiled haughtily at the boy. “There. You can keep all your stuff, because you’re not leaving this room for the next week. Got it?”

Henry screamed against the fabric, thrashing and trying to move towards the door. Alexander just chuckled and kicked him back. 

The bathroom door shut, the lock clicked into place and something set up in front of it. Alexander’s footsteps moved farther away, out of the bedroom, shutting that door, then back down the hall to the stairs.

Andy lets out a disgruntled squeak at the mention of his father, causing Remus to groan. 

“I know he can be a bit of a prude, but he means well! You know he only keeps me here for my safety, the first chance anyone gets they’ll try to steal my hair.” 

Andy lets out another set of disgruntled squeaks, which Remus chose to ignore as he got dressed in his tunic and pants. 

“Enough complaining, let’s get to cleaning, and maybe we can bake a few pies! Ohh or I can work on that little outfit of yours! We’d be matching, won’t that be cool?” 

‘He has to say yes… he just has to.’ 

Roman sighs as he rests his chin on his fist, he hated the tedious process that it took the maids to braid his overly long hair. It took them at least an hour to get it all braided and out of the way, he always got annoyed when the singular blonde streak would always somehow manage to slip free. 

“Well well, look at the pretty birthday boy getting his hair done.” Roman couldn’t help the smile that came to his face when his personal servant Janus came into the room. 

“If I had it my way, I would get all of this cut-off and have normal hair like my fathers, or at least have it cut to how papa Remy had it before he transitioned, always thought his hair was pretty then, unlike mine.” 

Roman never liked his hair, always hating the long ebony locks, well, at one point he didn’t hate his hair, he didn’t grow to hate it until it hurt a royal barber. His parents said that it wasn’t possible for hair to hurt someone, but Roman swears that as soon as the barber brought the sheers close to his hair, a shock sent the man flying and crashing against the wall. 

“I think your hair looks lovely, but that could just be because you’re the one wearing it,” Janus says flashing Roman a grin. 

The prince felt his face heat up as a goofy grin form on his face. 

“My prince, would you like us to try flowers again today?” One of the maids asks as she holds up a basket full of daisies. 

Roman wanted to say yes, but he knew that as soon as the flowers were placed within the braid they would die like they always did. 

“No, thank you, Tilly. I’ll just wear the braid… besides I need to get going my parents are waiting for me to join the birthday breakfast.” 

A breakfast that was always filled with grief because his parents were only worried about his long lost twin, the true heir to the throne. Roman’s hoping after eighteen years, his parents would finally get over their grief and appoint him heir because if they haven’t found his brother yet, they most likely never will.

“Well, I think you could use at least one flower.” 

Roman blinks when Janus slips a yellow rose into his braid, Roman waits for the flower to die but it doesn’t. He looks up at Janus in awe. 

“How did you-?” 

“A certain purple-clad sorcerer owed me a favor.” 

Roman couldn’t help the giggle that slipped from his mouth as he allows Janus to help him stand. He huffs softly as he pushes the blonde streak behind his left ear. 

“Shall we be going, my prince?” 

Roman takes Janus’ hand and holds onto it tight. 

‘They’ll have to give me a chance… They just have to.’

“Remus~! Let down your hair, kiddo!” 

The newly turned eighteen-year-old perks up, his green eyes sparkling with excitement as he tells Andy to hide. His father would freak and possibly die if he saw a rat in the tower. 

“Coming father!” Remus calls as he gathers up his hair. 

He throws a hefty strand through the hook on the window sill, a thrilling rush goes through him when he feels his father pulling himself up. 

“Honestly, Remus you should move quicker, I don’t have all day to wait.” His father scolds once he’s up in the tower, Remus feels himself deflate a little but perks back up. 

“Sorry! But I was wanting to talk to you about some-.” 

“Remus, your hair is a mess and I’m feeling a bit weary kiddo, sing for me while I brush it?” 

Remus huffs and quickly rushes his father into a chair, dragging over his little stool as he does. He hands his father the hairbrush and a strand of his hair. 

“Flowergleamandglowletyourpowersshine-” 

“Remus-.” His father tries to interrupt, quickly brushing his son’s hair as the strands start to glow.

“Maketheclockreversebringbackwhatoncewasmine-”

“Remus!” 

“Healwhathasbeenhurtchangethefatesdesign-”

Remus couldn’t help the smile that came to his face as his father tried to keep up with his singing. 

“Savewhatasbeenlostbringbackwhatoncewasminewhatoncewasmine!”

Patton jumps when the magic from his sons’ hair washes over him, causing his round glasses to go askew on his face. He frowns and narrows his blue eyes at Remus. 

“Okay, now that we’re finished I was hoping to ask you something, it’s really important.” 

Patton takes a calming breath and offers his son a small smile. 

“Go ahead.” 

Remus hops up from his stool and rushes over to the curtain that hid the wall he painted. He pulls it aside to show his father mural he painted of himself watching the floating lights. 

“For my birthday, I want to see the floating lights. I… I’m eighteen now and I think I’m responsible enough to go out and see them.” 

Remus holds his breath in anticipation, he glances over and sees Andy giving him an approved wave of the tail. 

“Oh… Remus, you know that’s not possible kiddo… There’s too many thieves out there. Why, if I let you out there in that cruel world and something were to happen to you, I’d never forgive myself.” 

Remus feels himself deflate, his smile dropping 

“But I…” 

“At, no more,” Patton says as he grabs a strand of his son’s hair, looping it through the hook as he does. 

He flashes Remus a kind smile and blows him a kiss as he slips down the strand of hair and out of the tower. 

“I’ll be back soon, kiddo! Don’t get too lonely without me!” 

Remus waves halfheartedly as he watches his father disappear through the curtain of moss that kept them hidden from ruffians. He sighs and sinks down into the floor, his hair piling around him. 

The single black streak falls in front of his right eye, he feels Andy scurrying up to his shoulder, he smiles when he feels his tiny friend nuzzle against his cheek. 

‘When will my life begin?’ 

Roman moves his breakfast around on his plate, ignoring his parents discuss the plans of tonight’s lantern release. 

“Roman? Is there anything you’d like to contribute this year?” Emile asks. 

“Yeah, can this be the last year of this? It’s been eighteen years if my brother hasn’t returned now then he may never will.” 

Roman knows it was harsh, but he would like to have his parent’s attention for once. Their actual attention, not their stares of hope wishing that he was Remus instead. 

“Roman! You don’t know that your brother could be out there,” Remy scolds.

“Or maybe he’s dead, it’s been eighteen years, papa!” 

“Roman, that is enough! If you don’t want to partake in the lantern lighting then just say so, don’t be crude!” 

Roman stands from his seat and slams his hands down onto the table. 

“It’s my birthday too! But you two only care about the son that isn’t here. If you wish it was me who was taken then just say so.” 

Roman nor his parents didn’t notice the green glow that left the young prince’s hands when his parents don’t say anything, Roman huffs and leaves the room, not noticing the flowers wilting on the table. 

But a certain purple-eyed sorcerer did.

Roman roughly wipes the tears from his face and pushes the blonde strand of hair behind his left ear.