Itachi stares at the black steel kunai in his palm, the moon shining through the window as he tilts the weapon, the metal glinting. He brings his own black irises back to the mirror, mouth pursed as he ponders if he should do this. A pair of eyes stare back at him, the color dull but so very familiar, the same shade of inky obsidian that his brother also possesses, dark and deep, as expected of Izuna’s line. The slender fingers of his other hand finds the tie holding his ponytail, pulling it off, the strands falling gracefully, his silky hair falling straight, flowing like a curtain. He already did countless hairstyles before; messy bun, complicated braids, half-up half-down, space buns like the girl in the weapons shop, ponytails. The heavy weight on his shoulders and palm ground him to making this position, his other hand fiddling with the current length. It’s fine, right? It’s my hair. He thinks, absentmindedly untangling the knots, not that there’s much of it. Besides, it’s so boring. He’s gotten tired of the repetitive hairstyles, and worrying over his hair getting stuck in branches, only dragging him down in his missions. He’s internally laughing hysterically at himself, because, what the fuck, he’s never been this impulsive. He should be separated from the sharp edge of this kunai, because he’s gonna ruin the hair he meticulously grown, over a decade’s worth of progress. Not really, he’s always trimmed it, but no higher than his ribcage, the length always dropping until the back of his waist. His other hand encircles his whole hair, the not at all blunt edge of the kunai slicing through, strands separating like butter, cold air hitting the exposed skin of his nape. Oh fuck. I did it. Oh kami. He thought it would look bad, but honestly, he likes it, considering he did this with a kunai. He trims some strands, making his hair layered, instead of the short bob cut, the hair just tickling under his ear. He lets his mouth turn up, hand ruffling the hair messier, feeling light and free. He leaves the hair he cut off, organized beside the kunai he used. — Itachi lets his breathing calm, as he tugs on his bangs, the fluffy tuft of hair now present on his head a new but accepted change in his wardrobe, although he worries how the others would react, considering he didn’t even hint or warn them somewhat. He prays to kami that everything will go smooth. —
Fuck that, everything is not going smooth, and thrown out of the window, the moment he stepped in the confines of their dining room. He expected surprise or disappointment, not whatever Shisui is doing, his ears are pulsing because of how loud Shisui is complaining, his movements erratic and panicked and proud and grieving at the loss of his hair. His mother just choked at the sight of it, but reassured that it did look good, and that she wasn’t expecting it at all. His father woke up fully from where he was blinking slowly, staring at him intently, before passing out on folded arms, deeming it fine. Shisui, however, is a different story. He barged in the door, enthusiastic in greeting, before stopping on his tracks, brows drawed in confusion, with a mumble of “Did you have visitors Mikoto-san? And where is Itachi?” Mikoto just sipped at her tea, offering him a tired smile, with no words included. Before he went through five stages of grief, and denying, that no, that isn’t Itachi-kun. He only rolled his eyes at Shisui’s very dramatic complaining, the other Uchiha wiping a stray tear, and murmuring solemnly, “I need to take a seat, or I might faint,” which is an overestimation of his feelings, but what’s Itachi to judge, he only wanted a hair cut, for fuck’s sake. “THAT’S NOT A HAIRCUT, YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE GONE BALD.” “Shut the fuck up Shisui, now hurry, we need to go to Kakashi and Obito, and I need to buy some dango.” for stress, he wants to add, before looking up to a pale faced Shisui, realization dawning on him. “YOU’RE GONNA WALK OUT OF THE DISTRICT WITH THAT HAIR?” Shisui wails, he actually wails, the sound echoing through the main house, heard from miles away, the flocks of crows resting on the lines cawing and flying away. — Kakashi is leaning heavily on Obito, questioning his life when he saw Itachi, while the Uchiha stares blankly at the road, mouthing nonsense as they walk, Shisui hiding his face in his hands as Itachi whistles, civilians and shinobi alike staring at them like they’re corpses. — Sasuke is tired, and the fact that everyone seems to be malfunctioning is not helping whatsoever. He’s standing with no sleep, soldier pills and sheer amounts of spite as he lands in the Hokage Office, dropping his report in front of his uncle, Minato, who’s going through his paperwork mechanically, eyes dazed. He waves his hand in front of the man, only getting a quiet, “You can go home now Sasuke-kun, I’ll call you tomorrow.” He accepts that, shrugging in confusion before jumping out the window, disappearing out of sight. He nurses the cup of coffee in his hand, stifling a yawn as he walks around the market, buying a few mochi for his mother, and dorayaki for his father. He knows Itachi eats dango at least once every two days so he doesn’t bother with that. He continues on, shoulders slouched and exhaustion creeping on him, drowsily pushing his bangs out of the way, before stopping in front of team pyro, Kakashi murmuring to Obito’s ear as Shisui looks around quietly, which is so very uncharacteristic, since he knows they should be clingy. He stares at the man in front of him, looking at the familiar features of his brother, eyes trailing the fluffy hair, making his hair look so soft, but he’s so unfamiliar, that the shock made him freeze in his tracks. He deserves a raise, he murmurs tiredly to his coffee, offering no words of greeting to his team, only standing in the middle of the street with dirt-ridden clothes, flak jacket frayed and the edges of his pants torn. “Sasuke, are you okay?” Kakashi hesitantly questions, which he responds with a confused tilt of his head, only to be answered by Obito. “....you’re crying kid.” Oh, he’s crying. That only seemed to make it worse, as a sob tumbles out of his mouth, making Shisui panicked, his hands fluttering, wanting to help, but he doesn’t know how. Itachi questions his life, wondering if his brother is actually upset by something, or that his hair is so jarring that he brought a fully-grown man, a jōnin to tears, his brother nonetheless. He lets out a noise of worry, stumbling forward to catch his sniffling younger brother, the boy latching on to him with a tight grip, bawling on his shoulder. He can only rub his brother’s back, feeling a thousand eyes boring into him, feeling glares for making his younger brother cry, which he wholeheartedly agrees with because what the fuck, he just made his younger brother cry. — “At least it’s gonna grow.” Shisui comforts himself, before Sasuke intervenes, the youngest already fiddling with Itachi’s hair, “That’s if he doesn’t cut it again.” Shisui’s cry echoes again for the second time, the crows frenzied at the shrill voice. inspired by this fic : The day where Wilbur hid all the scissors in the house by @sircantus if you decide to check it out, it’s a sbi fic, and i really recommend you check all their other content. credits to them!! i just thought of this happening to itachi.
