[In prison, he has had enough time to think. He has already determined his next move, assuming Kakashi's confidence is correct and that he will be freed; and in those limitless hours, in the dark of that cell, he has imagined his first destination beyond the confining boundaries of Konohagakure. The Uchiha compound is no more than a ruin, rotting wood and overgrown weeds and broken beams. His brother doesn't have a grave. The last place he saw Itachi's body was in the Uchiha hideout, after their fight, as it lay cooling beside him under the bleak sky in the rain. If he goes back to that place, he won't find anything but more wreckage. But it's the last place he had Itachi alive. The wall marked with the symbol of their clan is the only gravestone left.
He's thought about what he might say to Itachi, if he could be heard, during the worst moments — when even prison became too much to bear, and he couldn't meditate his mind to equanimity — and what Itachi might say back to him. As he is now, an adult, older and wiser. He'd structured his words for his older brother in a reasonable way. He imagined they would come to an understanding, at last, and that Itachi might be able to guide his steps forward in redress of every wrongdoing. They could overcome the past together. Itachi had promised, after all. He'd said he would love him no matter what.
Only now does he realize all of that was just fantasy, the imagined dreams of a child again, and maybe he hasn't grown at all. And. Composure is quickly wicked away by hot-white anger, embedded as deeply within him as his own blood.]
Is that all you have to say? [His hand is shaking, barest tremors that cause him to set the cup aside on the desk, tea untouched.] 'And'? I could tell you the rest, but none of it matters. You know it doesn't. Why not take it directly out of my mind? That method seems more efficient by your standards.
[He needs to calm down. His reaction isn't justified, not toward Itachi, but he's become so volatile in his brother's presence that it's difficult to tame.]
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He's thought about what he might say to Itachi, if he could be heard, during the worst moments — when even prison became too much to bear, and he couldn't meditate his mind to equanimity — and what Itachi might say back to him. As he is now, an adult, older and wiser. He'd structured his words for his older brother in a reasonable way. He imagined they would come to an understanding, at last, and that Itachi might be able to guide his steps forward in redress of every wrongdoing. They could overcome the past together. Itachi had promised, after all. He'd said he would love him no matter what.
Only now does he realize all of that was just fantasy, the imagined dreams of a child again, and maybe he hasn't grown at all. And. Composure is quickly wicked away by hot-white anger, embedded as deeply within him as his own blood.]
Is that all you have to say? [His hand is shaking, barest tremors that cause him to set the cup aside on the desk, tea untouched.] 'And'? I could tell you the rest, but none of it matters. You know it doesn't. Why not take it directly out of my mind? That method seems more efficient by your standards.
[He needs to calm down. His reaction isn't justified, not toward Itachi, but he's become so volatile in his brother's presence that it's difficult to tame.]