#no23

The smell of expensive perfume and overpriced wine flavor the air when Itachi steps into the room. Dozens of Konoha’s finest fill the space, offering fake laughs and false smiles. He blows a breath through his lips. I can do this, I don’t have a choice, he whispers, snagging a flute of champagne from a passing waiter. He doesn’t plan to drink it, but it gives him a clever excuse to avoid conversations that he doesn’t want to have. Family members dot the space, milling about before the art auction is set to begin.

Uncle Madara is speaking to someone that Itachi doesn’t recognize, but he’s pretty sure it’s a buyer from Kumo. Events like this are exclusive, but he wasn’t the one to vet the patrons. He adjusts the tuxedo that he’d been forced to wear. Mikoto had been adamant that Itachi at least put in an appearance. Though his mother doesn’t say it, she’s worried that he’ll be alone forever unless she orchestrates the perfect match. Being the eldest son carries responsibilities that Itachi never wanted.

“Are you here for pleasure, or duty,” a familiar voice asks by Itachi's shoulder. He turns, unsurprised, to find Uncle Izuna running an appraising eye over him.

Itachi shrugs. “I’m here because mother said I had to be.,” he answers as honestly as he dares.

Izuna laughs, a deep, rich sound that pulls a flush onto Itachi’s cheeks. He’s not sure if he’s being made fun of or not, with Izuna it’s hard to tell. The man claps him on the back and nods. “Mikoto rarely takes no for an answer, does she?” When Itachi shakes his head, Izuno looks thoughtful. “I think you might be the only person to defy her and get away with it.”

The words carry a weight that Itachi is familiar with, but it stings all the same. Nearly all of the Uchiha have followed Uncle Madara into one branch or another of the judicial system. You can’t throw a stone in the room without hitting half a dozen lawyers, judges, and policy makers. It had been expected that Itachi would follow in his family’s footsteps. But, he’d wanted something different..

The badge on Itachi’s side feels like a brand, burning his hip. He hasn’t made detective yet, mostly because he refuses to use his family name for influence. It’s just one of the ways that he’s failed them. He’s twenty-nine and unmarried, with no kids to carry on the family name and no prospects. It isn’t Itachi’s fault that work keeps him too busy to breathe most days or that his standards are impossibly high. His mother has tried to set him up dozens of times, but it always falls through for one reason or another.

“I’m just here to put in an appearance,” Itachi hedges, lifting his drink to his lips. The champagne is too sweet for his tastes, but it gives him something to do with his hands.

Before Izuna can respond, he’s swept up in a conversation with a couple that Itachi doesn’t recognize. He uses the distraction to get away from the probing questions that he doesn’t want to deal with. If he can find his mother and satisfy the requirement of coming, he can leave. He needs to go through the notes on the robbery case down on—

Someone bumps Itachi’s side, startling him from his thoughts. “Excuse me, I was—”

The words die in Itachi’s suddenly dry throat. He finds himself staring into the most vivid emerald eyes he’s ever seen. They’re no less striking for their familiarity, though he hadn’t expected to see her here. “Haruno-sensei,” he breathes, chest tight. He gives himself a mental shake. “I’m terribly sorry, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

Sakura’s laugh is light and airy as she waves away the apology. “No harm done,” she smiles and toys with one of her earrings. “I didn’t expect to find a familiar face here. These things are kind-of overwhelmingly snobbish aren’t they?”

Chuckling, Itachi nods. He’d never say those words in his family’s hearing, but the stuffy atmosphere at these events is exhausting. Itachi wears a mask when he comes here, pretending to be something he’s not. Sakura is a breath of fresh air in the midst of that. “Can I get you a drink,” he offers.

“I shouldn’t, I’m on call,” Sakura responds, tucking a pink curl behind one ear.

Itachi is transfixed by the movement of Sakura’s fingers, momentarily forgetting to listen to the words. He gives himself a mental shake then nods. “Of course. How have you been?”

Six months ago, Itachi had been called to the hospital to take statements after a mugging. Sakura had been the doctor on call that night. She’d had evidence and assumptions ready, and she was angry at the increase in violence she’d seen lately. Their first meeting had been a coincidence, the second and third were orchestrated. Or rather, Itachi looked for any excuse to stop by the hospital in uniform to catch a glimpse of the pink-haired medic when cases call for it.

Running his tongue across his lips, Itachi nods as Sakura tells him that the hospital has been busy. She hasn’t had much down time; in fact, this is the fist time that Sakura’s been out in weeks. In weeks, the words repeat like a gong in the back of his mind. Two weeks ago, there was a moment when Itachi thought that she was on the verge of saying something. He’d felt the tension between them, the tipping point underfoot, but he’d been too afraid to move and she’d been called away. He feels the same stress now.

Sakura is close enough that Itachi can smell the floral perfume she wore. The general buzz of the room makes it difficult to hear, but he has no trouble picking up her words. Something warm and unfamiliar swells in Itachi’s chest. He exhales. “Would you—”

“Itachi!” His confidence shatters at the call, crumbling to his feet like dust.

Itachi turns to find his younger brother cutting through the crowd. Sasuke wears his tuxedo better than Itachi, filling it out with wider shoulders and the confidence that always came so easy to him. He stops, glancing between Sakura and Itachi with a smile. “I see you’ve met Sakura.”

When Sasuke’s hand comes to rest low on Sakura’s back, Itachi’s heart stops. He feels like he’s been sucker punched, the air leaves his lungs with the same urgency. Sasuke brushes his lips against the same curve of cheek that Itachi had dreamed of touching. He swallows the pain and longing at once, pasting a smile on his face. If his family taught him anything, it’s the ability to fake happiness.

Sakura’s lips pull into a frown, and her eyes are far too knowing. Itachi takes a long gulp of his champagne to keep the emotion from being obvious. He’s had a lot of practice at that, too. The question hangs in the air when he’s finished, so Itachi tips his head. “I’ve met her, yes. She helped with a case a few weeks ago.”

Sasuke tips his head to the side, studying Sakura. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“I didn’t know,” Sakura breathes, voice small enough to get lost in the noise. Itachi manages to hear it over the roaring in his ears. “I didn’t know he was your brother.”

Sasuke says something else, but Itachi doesn’t catch it. He can’t escape the feeling that the ground just opened under him. Sakura’s eyes hold something like pity, and Itachi can’t bear that. He shakes his head. “It was so nice to meet you,” he offers, bowing to the pair. Manners are automatic, even with the pain blooming inside of him. “If you’ll excuse me. I need to get back to work.”

“You just got here,” Sasuke argues, but Itachi shakes his head. He should stay long enough to see which woman his mother has planned to match him with, but he can’t bring himself to face it. The sudden realization that he’s been nursing feelings for months leaves him breathless, especially to have them snatched away.

Itachi nods and turns away. He places his half full glass on the tray of a passing waiter and starts for the door. He almost makes it when an arm catches his. For half a heartbeat, he hopes to turn and find Sakura. But, it isn’t her.

Mikoto smiles and fuses over Itachi’s jacket, toying with the lapel. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you. There’s a girl here I want you to meet. Her family owns—”

Because Virgil was bleeding out and Gordon knew what it meant if he went to sleep. 

A soft grunt, a moan of pain as Gordon pressed down with both hands again cursing bloody unsafe buildings that never should have been inhabited in the first place. 

“Here,” Alan came running back, a pack of sterile instruments in one hand, intravenous fluids in the other. 

“Fluids first,” Gordon instructed, watching as Alan hooked up the line to the IV in Virgil’s hand. He hated that his little brother was all too experienced in what to do, with no medical training Gordon knew he should have done it himself but there simply wasn’t time. 

He hated that his little brother had to watch as he did everything a first responder was taught not to do, peeling away the gauze, removing the clotted blood and digging around in the wound. He hated that he had to listen to their big brother moan and protest as he clamped the bleeding vessel, slowing the flow. 

Virgil was still bleeding, but at least he wasn’t going to bleed out. 

Finally some time, a chance to pause and wipe his face across his sleeve, to take a breath and shake his head. Turning to his big brother, he leant over him, raising his chin slightly in question,

“You still with us bro?”

A swallow, and then a gentle breath, followed by a grunt and the smallest of nods.