"Forgive me, Sasuke. Maybe some other time."

He feels the heavy weight on his shoulders, the pain that comes with the orders given to him, the pain that comes with the knowledge that you are the destruction of your family, your clan, your blood. But as he walks through the door, he lets none of this show, as he is ANBU, and he is nothing if not loyal.

His mother asks him about his day, and he replies with a bland answer that satisfies her nonetheless. She gives him his dinner after he sits down, and he thanks her, eating the food without tasting it. He will not miss her.

His father sits at the table and speaks of things that are happening, events that are changing the village that he is living in and yet not. He addresses his father, asking questions and not listening to the answers, discussing without thinking. He holds no mercy for the man he speaks to.

But Sasuke, little Sasuke, comes running in, smiling, so happy to see his older brother. Sasuke runs up and hugs him, and has his silly grin on his face (surrounded with small burn marks, he notices).

"Aniki, I did it! I did it!" Sasuke giggles and he feels completely euphoric.

"And what, exactly, did you do?" He asks in a teasing tone, aiming to find the root of his brother's happiness.

"I finally used the Great Fireball Technique! I did it!"

And he laughs, and congratulates his little brother, while he rots on the inside and his mind swirls in anger.

Look what you have done to my little brother, my little Sasuke. Look and see what you have done.

"I've lost hope for this pathetic clan."

He runs, legs burning, eyes stinging and crying and bleeding from overuse, arms tired, but he still runs. His vision begins to blur red and clear, and warmth streams down his face, but his heart is tired and gives more reason to stop.

He runs more, knowing he cannot stop after what he has done. Blood stains his clothing and his face and his eyes—oh how Shisui's blood stains his eyes, blood red with black wheels that can stop even the strongest in their tracks—but he knows that blood cannot hurt him, that nothing can hurt more than the rejection from his little brother, Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke.

His arms cry out in pain, and his legs almost buckle, but he does not fall. He continues to run, listens as the voices grow louder, and mindlessly wraps up the knees and elbows that betrayed him. He realizes, seconds, minutes, hours—days in the space of moments, Shisui would brag to him, you better be ready to fight me because I'll give the clan honor with your eyes—that he bleeds from all of his limbs, and that he will most likely get an infection.

He still does not care.

His mind spins as the world begins to blend into greens and browns and blacks and reds—don't overwork yourself, you'll faint from exhaustion, Shisui would say, after all, you are smaller than most nin your age, never mind your rank—and his lungs begin to burn with the fire in his mouth, his throat, his lungs—his heart burns the hardest, having to torture Sasuke with that red and black inverted world—as he pants—never got tired this fast, always got tired this fast, where am I, what am I, I am ANBU.

He almost misses the man, being black and red like his vision, but manages to stop just in time to greet him. The man motions and he follows him, aching feet going where his mind will not. Though his heart still may be beating, and his body is still moving, he is dead on the inside. But the inside does not matter to this man; only whether he can be an effective tool or not.

But a tool he was, a tool he is, and a tool he shall always be, and he follows the man obediently and willingly.

"Go away. You don't interest me at the moment."

He meets his new partner, the man that is supposed to work with him—the man who wants to replace Shisui but never will—and gives him a glance of acknowledgement before ordering him to follow. His partner voices his objection before he tells the other that he already knows what they are to do, and for now they are to gather information. He wastes no time in running into a sprint, and the shark follows behind him.

His hair flies behind him, his cloak fluttering in the wind, the air rushing up his body—and an odd prickling sensation as well, he notes—and his legs feel fine—although the burn is a bit more than normal—and his arms are well in order—but his elbows aren't quite bending all the way as fast as he needs them too—but he does not care.

The leaves fly past his head as he rushes through the trees—smaller than the ones at home, the ones in Konoha with Sasuke-chan—and a twig cuts right beside his right eye—the eye that Shisui tried to jokingly take when he spoke of using me, using my eyes, using me for the clan—and blood rushes down his cheek yet again.

Salt and fish quickly join the scent of copper as his teammate—what is a teammate, what is a team, I am only a tool, a weapon to be used, not an equal to be honored—tries to help him, gives him a bandage, but he pushes him away—just as he always has, just as he always will, no help for the lost, no help for the wounded, no help for the broken—and puts some antibiotic on the wound.

He does not care about the stinging. He never has, and never will—for a tool does not care, a tool has no will.

He spots the target that the leader, the true one, not the imposter, ordered him and his partner to kill. He signals to go in and kill the man, and between the two of them, the target's life has ended quickly. He looks through the man's clothing, finding the item—a necklace, just like the one Shisui had—and pockets it, realizing that there are two pieces to the puzzle that he has, not one.

And for the second time in his life, he considers mutiny.

But he does not, because he is only an ANBU, a missing-nin, a tool to be used.

"You aren't even worth killing, foolish little brother."

He has all seven pieces, finds that one is a copy—thank you, Shisui, for not getting one unique—and gives the six necessary to the man in front of him. He acknowledges him, and then gives him his next assignment: find the nine-tails. And he accepts, because he is nothing if not a tool.

He sets off with the shark once again, jumping up—and landing rather harshly on his right ankle, which has gotten worse over the past year, must have been that break—and leads the other to the three-tails, passing through his former—and current allegiance, and always home—allegiance, making sure the nine-tails is still alive and there—and maybe drop in on Sasuke-chan, Sasuke-chan, how has he been doing?

He keeps running and running—because all he has been doing in his life is running—and doesn't notice the sun going down—Shisui was used one too many times this week, month, year—or the growing pain in his right leg—that ankle never did quite heal properly, and it's only making that leg worse—or the sounds of his partner asking to stop—after all, he was always in his own little world, wasn't he?

And he thinks as he runs, thinks of Sasuke—oh little Sasuke, how have you grown in the year past, how have you dealt without me (or mother, or father, or anyone else his brain bites at him, cling to life for me, run for me, come before me and end my pain)—and his home—because no matter what, the village was always home, even if the council wanted him dead and the hokage didn't care and the villagers were oblivious because little Sasuke was there, and he's the only one that matters.

He only stops when there is no more light—after all, though Shisui's sacrifice caused greater night vision, his partner does not have it—and sleeps—because he needs more sleep than he did to recover, though he never did need much at all, one hour every two days is still more than one hour a week—to wake up later.

But he will not stop, because he cannot, or else his hate will drown him and his sorrows will stab him in his bleeding heart.

"You are still too weak. You don't have enough hate. And you know something? …You never will."

Presents litter his floor, cards opened and forgotten, apart from one in his trembling hand—because the pain has only gotten worse with age, and it will only get worse from here—written in quick, shaky writing—which he knows all too well, helped that hand write, look what Sasuke's turned into—addressed to no one, only one word written on the envelope: Aniki.

He opens the letter carefully, as if one wrong move would break it—break his heart, bleeding out before he died—and unfolds it—what have you sent me, little brother?—with the utmost grace.

Three words were written on the letter:

Happy birthday, Aniki.

A picture falls out—Sasuke-chan has grown older without me, he realizes—and a small sewn bag falls out as well. He opens the bag —just like Sasuke has torn his heart back open, ripping it to shreds for nothing but love—and a scrap of paper falls out along with a homemade bracelet:

Meet me by the river for your present, Aniki.

As he places the bracelet around his wrist—just like the ones they made when they were younger, just like the one he gave Sasuke and promised to never hurt him—his vision begins to blur—but it wasn't because of Shisui this time—and his nose begins to run—but he's never had allergies, never had a cold, always fever, always fever—and warmth starts to stream down his face—but he never cries, for he is ANBU, he was ANBU, he was ANBU, he is not anymore—but he is still a tool—and the door opens.

He does not care, as noises begin to wrench themselves from his throat—sounds just like mother when she cried, just like Sasuke when he cried—and arms wrap around his shoulders—just like when Shisui would be upset with him, or missed him, or just wanted some company—and tears are running faster—just like mother before I killed her, just like father when he begged for his life, just like Shisui before I choked him—and he wraps his arms around the man in front of him.

And for the last time, he truly cries.

"If you want to kill me, despise me, hate me, and live in an unsightly way... Run, and cling to life, and then some day, when you have the same eyes as I do, come before me."

He is running—always running, always running, don't fight it, don't fight it, just run away again —to meet his little brother—little Sasuke, little Sasuke, where have the years gone?―and finally, he drops down—and almost twists that bad ankle, and he is suddenly hit by a lack of air, can't breathe—and takes a deep breath.

He has called the shark off, told him to go elsewhere—because he is my tool as I am that man's, nothing but his little Uchiha tool—and now he is alone. He strolls up to the river—this is where I drowned Shisui, this is where his neck collapsed to my hands, where his blood poured into my soul—and sits down—and his ankle does not like that, and it almost snaps on him, as it is sprained now—and puts his feet into the water—his aching feet, hurting much more then they have a right to, just like his lungs and his heart and his eyes.

The water rushes by his legs—bringing odd tingling sensations to them, they shouldn't hurt this much, they shouldn't hurt this much—and he hears footsteps behind him—always graceful, always soft, but you could never sneak up on me, Sasuke-chan—and turns around—just his torso, because his ankle's still sprained, but his eyes are hurting now as he tries to see his little brother, oh how he's grown, and his back screams in agony at the action—and waves.

Sasuke walks up beside him—oh Sasuke, how you've grown, how are you today?—but he can't get his lips to speak, because if he did he would be screaming his apologies—and hugs his older brother—Sasuke-chan, Sasuke-chan, even after all I've done you still love me?—and he hugs back—Sasuke, Sasuke, you still love me, but I love you more, so much more.

"Happy birthday, aniki." Sasuke whispers in his ear, and Sasuke begins to cry as his eyes blur a little—but he does not cry, he will never cry after that night—and they sit together, neither wanting to break the silence, neither willing to break the silence.

Sasuke's head goes on his shoulder, and he sleeps there, and they sleep together again—always sitting up, and then our mother would come and take us to bed, and we would sleep so soundly, but now she's the only one sleeping in the ground—and his eyes bleed once more—and he cannot see as well as he could before, Shisui gets vengeance again—before he whispers to his little brother, little Sasuke, one last time.

"Foolish little brother, love me for one last time, give me all of your love so that you may hate me tomorrow, hate me, so that way I can hate myself."

And he lays little Sasuke—little brother, you have grown so much without me—down on the ground, gives him his shirt—his bloody shirt, blood from his lungs and his eyes and Shisui and his soul—as a pillow, and leaves that spot.

No matter how many times he returns to Konoha, he never returns to that river.

He just moves on, jumps into the trees and goes forward.

"We are brothers. That is a unique bond. I am the barrier you must overcome, so you and I will continue to exist together, even if you hate me. That's what being a big brother means."

He walks with his teammate—slowly now, can't rush that ankle, but just fast enough to stay ahead—through the town they are searching—for the nine-tails jinchuuriki, for Sasuke-chan's teammate, for my ticket out of hell and into despair—and does not stop—though his legs ache, and his back and head ache, for he has been walking for too long, far too long.

His eyes burn again—sizzling pain this time, new pain that wasn't there before, but now, there is always pain that wasn't there before—as his ears begin to ring again—been doing that for a bit, needs to stop soon—and his mind throbs with every step.

He begins to wobble as he feels the familiar warmth—blood, blood, yet again, how long will I bleed before I end?—run slowly down his neck, and his balance begins to swerve as he tries to find a place to rest.

The world blends as his eyes take the opportunity to further worsen the situation—reds, blacks, blues, whites, greens, reds, too much red, too much blood—

Hate me, hate me, hate me for I cannot destroy myself with my hate no matter how hard I try—

He closes his eyes as he supports himself on the table—leaning on the weak arm, leaning as his hand feels every point in the wood table, feels as it makes his nerves scream in agony as he collapses onto the wooden bench—and he rests his bleeding head on the table as he closes his eyes and tries to regain his balance.

After a few minutes, he sits up, the world spinning around him—spiraling, spiraling, just like his world, just like his life, just like his body, mind, and soul—and reaches into his pocket, hand shaking—still shaking, never still, even as a child, you and me and I was never still—and takes his pills, his medication—his drug, his life, his Sasuke-in-a-bottle, for you are not the only one who has to run away and survive, cling to life so that you may kill me, end my pain—and takes a deep breath.

The pain in his lungs subsides—though it is still there, always there—and his vision returns to normal—still blurry, but better than before, and stiller than before—and he can properly hear again.

And he gets up, and walks forward, for he is a tool with a purpose, and he must not let trivialities like this sidetrack him.

"The people of this clan are all the same. You focus on the trivial, and lose sight of what's most important. Change is impossible, in this fog of ignorance. How can we evolve when regulation is all we know?"

He watches as his corpse-clone fights his target and his team—Sasuke's team, Sasuke's former team, Sasuke's team before he left for the snake, for the snake-bastard that wants his body, nothing more than Sasuke's body as I want nothing more than his love—how the fire mixes with the wind of the blond's attacks, how his genjutsu weave themselves almost on their own—for the gods always hated me, and so weaved me out and in where they pleased, and when did I start talking about the gods, and when had I dealt with them?

His vision blurs again as he sees the flashes of the attacks—lightning hits his nose with its sharp burning scent, pure chakra with its white pain—and his clone dies, satisfied and happy—for I do not have to live any longer, do not have to cling and hold anymore—before the corpse reappears. His ears ring—the blood will flow soon if he doesn't take the pills, the pills that make him shake at night and scream and won't let him sleep—and his nose begins to bleed—can't smell anything right now, can't breathe right now, lungs burning, blood drowning as he begins to try to breathe through his mouth—as his nerves fire up—so much pain, like lightning through his soul, like the pain of rejection, use, overuse—

for I am an ANBU, nothing but an ANBU—

for I am a tool, nothing but a tool—

for I am a genius, nothing but the Uchiha genius—

for I am a murderer, nothing but a murderer—

for I am a man, nothing but a mortal fool who thought he could surpass the world with his apathy—

for I am nothing, nothing anymore.

And as he takes the pills, the pills that let him cling and gasp for air as he can breathe again and let him wait for so long, hurry up Sasuke, hurry up and hate me, for I will not live for much longer, he realizes that he is mortal, finally realizes that he is normal and mortal, finally realizes that he will die, slowly and painfully just like everyone else.

And he laughs mirthlessly as the blood gargles in his throat, as blood stains his pale skin and his worn and bloody clothes.

But he still gets up, and he still moves forward, and he still laughs as he knows that he is nothing but a tool.

"People live their lives bound by what they accept as correct and true. That's how they define "reality". But what does it mean to be "correct" or "true"? Merely vague concepts ... their "reality" may all be a mirage. Can we consider them to simply be living in their own world, shaped by their beliefs?"

His head is spinning; his eyes are burning. He falls to the ground, breathes a wheezing breath. His lungs are blazing, his joints aching, his body feeling much older than it has a right to.

He feels hopeless, dulled, as the pain sears through his back, into his muscles and his not-old-as-they-seem bones and oh God, it hurts—and for a minute, he lays there, feeling the air rush under his cloak and make the pain all that much worse—

He closes his eyes, feels the pains and pins and needles—senbon riddling his back, pain going up and down as his eyes burn holes in his head—and he hears nothing but the ringing in his ears—though a faint cry is mixed in too, but he cannot hear, he has not heard or seen or felt in ages.

He opens his eyes and sees, the world blending into greens and blues and black and red and worry, and he knows that there's just one more thing that needs to be done, one more battle to go and fight.

He rises, wobbling, feels a hand trying to help him up, but pushes it away—he does not need help anymore, tosses his medication to the wind and the fire that comes with breathing returns with a vengeance.

But he breathes anyway.

And he walks forward.

"Forgive me, Sasuke; this is the last time."

-----------------------END

Finally! 3,525 words and 7 pages later, my first one-shot is finished. Some things that may require explanation:

(1) This is from Itachi's point of view (though it switches between first-person in thoughts and third-person limited in actions and some thoughts). Therefore, it shows his disdain and hatred for most people (including himself) by not mentioning names anywhere. The only people he cares about, Sasuke and Shisui, get special notice from Itachi by getting their names used.

(2) All of the italicized and bolded quotes are said by Itachi in the manga.

(3) The shaking and pains and bleeding (and all of that other stuff) are the disease caused by the mangekyou. No symptoms were ever canonized apart from the loss of vision, but for Itachi to die, there had to be other symptoms. I just made them up.

(4) Thank you guys for reading all of this stuff! Please review, and tell me if anything else confuses you!