[For a while, they walk in peaceable silence, Wei Wuxian gathering his thoughts knowing that Itachi will wait patiently as he does so. In the end he isn't sure he manages to figure out how to put his thoughts to words, but he has to start somewhere.]
I'm at peace with my death. Maybe even with my life. I don't feel any sorrow over its end. When I got here, I was eager to do what I could for my regret and then fade away to nothing.
[He pauses in his steps for just a second and then resumes walking, fingers curling around his mug.]
It feels so selfish to want anything more than what's already been given.
（ he gives his friend a sideways look. and then: ）
It isn't selfish to want to live.
（ his own feelings are... complicated, but in truth, he still has no especial desire to be alive. what he does have a desire for, ultimately, is to serve. to be useful. and if that means living, he will do so unflinching.
but. as far as wei ying knows — his end is final. and itachi knows it is not. ）
[There is something hidden there and it isn't the first time Wei Wuxian has begun to suspect. It is the first time Itachi is the one to engender the feeling. He has purposely ignored the signs, glancing away at anything that didn't add up, but now...so close to the end and with Itachi the one to encourage him, he nods.]
Okay. [A sigh.] In truth, I've been thinking I should, for a while. [Wei Wuxian has always been best at lying to himself until he isn't.]
But whatever Nie Huaisang has to say is...that isn't what this is about.
It isn't that I want to live, not exactly. It's that I'm happy. Or, I'm at peace. Here, aboard the Ximilia, with you and all the others. I never expected that. It's the first time I've felt like this.
If it's my choice it's no choice at all. [The smile he fixes Itachi with is warm with affection.]
I want to stay.
But I'm afraid that it may not be a choice the orbs allow me to make. And if this is the end, I...[He pauses, closes his eyes and takes a shuttering breath, calming the sudden surge of emotion rising in him.]
I don't want to lose this. I want...I want time. Time for us. Time to learn more about myself. Time to tease Viveca and do a thousand other things.
[He lets out a shuddered breath of relief. That makes it a little easier he guesses, even if it isn't real. It would be real to both of them and that's something.]
Can you take us somewhere now? Do you need privacy to use it?
It would be a poor weapon if one required privacy, Wei Ying.
（ his own fault for guarding his secrets so well. he hardly begrudges the man his lack of knowledge. ）
No one watching would be aware of what transpired. We could live decades, and return mid-sentence if that was what I wished. Where would you like to go?
（ the only house he has ever cared for is one where blood once soaked into tatami. but it does not occur to him to take the man anywhere else — it is still his home. it will always be his home. the mangekyō spins to life in a blink, its blades sharpening in a way that would drive most men to madness, but wei ying has never feared at all.
one word, a whisper: tsukuyomi.
and then they are there. it is not the room where he killed his parents — though he might have chosen that location once without divulging its meaning, they are instead sitting at the kotatsu just adjacent to the kitchen. the air is warm, although snow is visible beyond frosted window panes. something is simmering in a pan, and the air is filled with the clean, sweet scent of rice and the umami spice of the dish.
the house is peaceful. it feels full — occupied and lively, though presently they are the only ones within the walls. what he built into the foundations of the illusion is the promise of others. a sense of security, of family, of love.
it is exactly as he remembers it from his childhood.
the scar in one floorboard where a knife once fell from sasuke's small hands. the areas that showed the pacing of urgent, worried feet, where both his parents wore away the laquer awaiting the outcomes of his many missions. the overlay of nostalgia has deepened the warmth of the colours, and sharpened the edges of the uchiha emblem on the walls. but it is exactly as it was, right down to the marks of his and sasuke's height on the nearest doorframe.
but it is a shinobi house, so beneath the smell of fragrant, cooking food there is also the sharp scent of oil used to hone the edges of weapons. the lingering breath of fire that he and his father and mother all carry in their clothing after practice, after missions. more distantly is the intermingling of sweat and of blood, because this room has served more than once as an emergency treatment center in a crisis, and as the head of the clan fugaku's residence is the largest private dwelling in the compound.
they are both kneeling at the kotatsu, the thick blankets pulled over their laps. itachi is wearing his clan colours, and the kamon of the uchiha is stitched with care into his clothing.
[It's too detailed not to be real. Or maybe 'detailed' isn't the right word. Itachi's illusions have always been perfectly detailed to resemble realness, but there's a weight to this one—in the type of details he'd included. This house is heavy with history and affection, and it doesn't take Wei Wuxian very long to figure out why.
He shifts until he is pressed against Itachi's side beneath the blanket and he finds his hand, twining their fingers. He'd wanted Tsukuyomi to allow him the freedom of expressing his affection like this, but it's more than just the promised privacy that drives him to reach for Itachi now.
Wei Wuxian has never known a house like this and he is all at once painfully happy that Itachi once did. (It makes the thought of what came later hurt all the more, but it doesn't erase the happiness in knowing that he'd had this once.) With his free hand, he trails his fingers across the wooden floor and this too feels warm, perhaps from the nearness of the kotatsu.
If the multiverse is infinite, is there a world where some Wei Wuxian and Uchiha Itachi got to have this? Where the Uchiha lived, where Wei Wuxian belonged impossibly to this world, where they met and fell in love and got to sit at this kotatsu just for a moment out of an otherwise busy life while their families bustled around them?
(The Uchiha crest on his robes hasn't escaped his notice but he knows that if he pays it too much attention he might make a fool of himself.)
He reaches his hand out to smooth down Itachi's collar. It doesn't really need it but he does it all the same, hand coming to a rest over his sternum.]
You always look good, but I especially like you in these.
（ there are a few individuals among the ximilia that can touch him without a physiological response — but moreover, who evoke no negative reaction in him at all. even mccoy's hands he would often have to steel himself beneath, to endure whatever warmth and affection the man deemed him worthy of now. wei ying simply touches him, and there is no expectation of violence, no tolerance for the sake of appearances or social grace. warmth bleeds through the fabric from his palm, and itachi's mouth quirks up halfly in a smile.
he does cover wei ying's hand with his own, but it is a brief gesture. even here, his comfort with physical proximity is limited. ）
Blue has always been one of the more commonly associated colours of the Uchiha. It is a strange thing, when you consider our provenance.
（ so much about them is steeped in red. their eyes, their hands, the fire, the madness. blue, by contrast, is calming as water and soothing as sky. ）
You can borrow my red robes sometime if you'd like to test them out. [His eyes glimmer with mirth as he teases and the hand on Itachi's chest returns to his own space.]
I didn't wear Jiang purple. I didn't even wear the Jiang disciple robes. I no longer remember if that was my idea or hers. [There is no point in clarifying who he means. He does remember thinking that it was the safer choice, setting himself apart. It didn't free him from her ire, but it was one less thing to incite it. The less Jiang he appeared to the outside world, the better.]
I wear my mother's colors. [And now that he thinks about it, maybe that was worse than wearing purple. He huffs softly under his breath and plays with the hem of one of his sleeves.] Still, I've grown fond of this shade of blue.
[He takes the light correction in stride, warm smile unfaltering. At Itachi's words, he ducks his head to hide the widening of his smile, reaching for his tea to have something to do with his hands.]
Does it? Then I should wear it more often. [He raises his tea, blowing on it gently before taking a sip.]
About what I was saying before, about living. I want to stay. But if I can't for any reason, then...then I'm still grateful for the time.
I think I understand myself better now. Even if I've long relinquished my regret, being here is still a gift.
（ he makes a soft murmur of agreement, less words and more just an especially meaningful exhalation, and he reaches over to brush an errant lock of the man's hair back behind one ear. it has been a gift for both of them — and although he does not articulate the same, it's clearly evident in the way his expression is, for a moment, achingly soft.
They have spoken of his parents on a handful of occasions, all before he'd known the truth. He looked more like his mother, he remembers. His father had been stern, but loving. A good man and a good father in spite of what the world demanded of him and the burdens lain on his shoulders. And Wei Wuxian has thought of Sasuke so often he can almost imagine him without needing any help. But sharing them like this is different.
For just a moment, his stomach flutters foolishly with the echoes of nerves. Would they have liked him? Itachi's parents at least, he already knows winning Sasuke's affections would have ben an uphill battle. He'd like to think he'd have won him over eventually even if it took years.]
（ itachi captures one of the man's hands and lifts it, pressing his lips to its back before he releases him. he does not say a word. no words are needed, really — but the house is suddenly alive with the release of all that promised energy. it's subtle at first. little sounds (someone is sharpening weapons in another room) and little smells (the astringent smell of a laundry soap designed to get blood out of clothing) but the first and perhaps most important thing is this:
sasuke walks through the front door.
he's silent (he learned from the best) as he pads through the house, and when he enters the kitchen itachi's attention swivels to him, and. stops. there was a part of him that had expected — that his own mind would manifest sasuke at seven, the way he is permanently etched on the fabric of memory. he never needs to spare much conscious thought for the shape genjutsu takes, and tsukuyomi less so. the disconnect is startling.
but the sasuke that ducks into the kitchen is taller, broader, has a sword slung over one shoulder. he's wearing a gray shirt, with a purple obi belted around his waist. his hair is a bit longer, swept back with one hand as sasuke drops down beside them both. his gauntlets come off, the sword is leaned up against the table. no manners to speak of, but then — could a child orphaned at seven subsequently abandoned by the ninja world truly be expected to maintain decorum?
his heart has all but seized in his chest, and he is barely breathing.
sasuke pours himself a cup of tea without ceremony or preamble, and gives wei ying a sideways glance without comment. there is annoyance briefly visible in his features, but it's mutable. controlled.
he looks exactly as he did in that final fight against kabuto. except his eyes are dark, the weapon of the sharingan sheathed. ）
[Wei Wuxian too had been expecting the young Sasuke of Itachi's memories that Itachi had spoken of before, and the presence of the young man nearly of age with them takes him by surprise. They look so alike it would be startling if he didn't expect it, and it draws his lips up into a smile, amusement tugging his lips up at one corner at the vague annoyed look tossed his way.
He isn't anything like Jiang Cheng, and yet the words are so much like Jiang Cheng he has to raise a hand to muffle a soft laugh.
Little brothers, he thinks with so much affection his whole chest swells with it.
His eyes flicker to Itachi's in conspiratorial amusement, and the amusement immediately fades away into something softer. Ah. The hand under the kotatsu squeezes Itachi's once.]
I can make you something if you'd like, Sasuke, although if your spice tolerance is the same as Itachi's here, I probably shouldn't. [There's a soft teasing look in his eyes.]
（ it's subtle. to almost anyone else, it would mean nothing that itachi does not pull his hand away. but wei ying will know the value — and the cost.
sasuke just snorts, jerks his thumb towards itachi. ）
That's his problem, not mine.
（ it's clearly a challenge. delivered with a tip of his chin, appraising. his speech is rough and rude, so much coarser than itachi's measured, politely chosen words and formalities. ）
[Delighted and doing his best not to show it—he knows how skittish unruly teenagers are, you can't let them know you're having a good time—Wei Wuxian gives Itachi's hand one last squeeze before he rises from the kotatsu, slipping his feet back into a pair of discarded house slippers and following his nose and ears to the kitchen.
It's empty at the moment which is probably a good thing as he isn't sure he's ready to face Itachi's mother while he's still trying to process Sasuke's everything, and he shoots him a sunny smile as he begins tinkering around the kitchen, learning where the various pots are kept and what kind of spices are on hand.
In the end he settles on congee because it's easy, customizable, and all of the ingredients are present and accountable.]
May I? [He gestures towards a wok, mentally working out how he'll season it. Definitely salt, ginger, and garlic, an egg to make it heartier. Perhaps some pork if he can find it, and chopped peanuts and green onions for garnish. Simple but tasty.]
（ the kitchen always seems to have what he needs. will he notice it? that, when reaching for something, it's simply there? will he recognize the power it suggests? yet, he has never flinched from what itachi can do, how many ways he could break him down in mind alone much less in body.
itachi closes his eyes. just listens, for a moment. to a conversation that can never happen, but feels so real to him that it's almost as if he had cast the genjutsu on himself. ）
Use what you wish, Wei Ying.
（ tacit permission — and more fully, there is an implication there. that this house, that he would have inherited as the heir to the clan, that this place where his family had lived and still do live in memory, is as much his friend's as his alone.
while the man works, sasuke talks to him. it feels indulgent. perhaps it is, in a way. but the complicated tangle of hurt and love and loss and anger and fury and shame and hate are still there, reflected in every word. it's in the way he asks about his last mission. in the way he pours itachi another cup of tea. it's just so completely, fundametentally who he is — beneath blood and bone and marrow. every word a barb, but not just to wound — to draw in.
sasuke asks him to train after they've eaten — and he starts to say maybe later— before he stops himself short.
nothing here is real. but it costs him nothing at all, to be kind. to his brother, who received so little of it from him.
and... to himself, who in his own mind had never received any consideration for such a sentiment at all.
so, he simply says all right. after breakfast, and leaves it at that. ）
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Yes.
（ it's said as they fall into step side-by-each. he maintains a polite distance — mindful of watching eyes and his own preference for privacy. ）
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I'm at peace with my death. Maybe even with my life. I don't feel any sorrow over its end. When I got here, I was eager to do what I could for my regret and then fade away to nothing.
[He pauses in his steps for just a second and then resumes walking, fingers curling around his mug.]
It feels so selfish to want anything more than what's already been given.
cw: suicide mention
It isn't selfish to want to live.
（ his own feelings are... complicated, but in truth, he still has no especial desire to be alive. what he does have a desire for, ultimately, is to serve. to be useful. and if that means living, he will do so unflinching.
but. as far as wei ying knows — his end is final. and itachi knows it is not. ）
You should speak to Huaisang.
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Okay. [A sigh.] In truth, I've been thinking I should, for a while. [Wei Wuxian has always been best at lying to himself until he isn't.]
But whatever Nie Huaisang has to say is...that isn't what this is about.
It isn't that I want to live, not exactly. It's that I'm happy. Or, I'm at peace. Here, aboard the Ximilia, with you and all the others. I never expected that. It's the first time I've felt like this.
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it is a subtle movement. it would not be discernible at a distance. but for a moment, he laces his fingers with wei ying's, and squeezes.
it is over as quickly as it came, and then he is drinking his cocoa left-handed again like a sleight of hand. ）
Mm. （ it's a neutral noise. agreeable in its own way. ）
So, what will you choose?
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I want to stay.
But I'm afraid that it may not be a choice the orbs allow me to make. And if this is the end, I...[He pauses, closes his eyes and takes a shuttering breath, calming the sudden surge of emotion rising in him.]
I don't want to lose this. I want...I want time. Time for us. Time to learn more about myself. Time to tease Viveca and do a thousand other things.
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then, softly: ）
I can give you that.
（ wei ying is the only person still aboard the station who knows that tsukuyomi can affect one's perception of time. ）
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Maybe. Not yet. We aren't there yet. [Maybe he'll get to stay.]
What would it feel like for you? Do you experience it the same way I do?
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（ he has lived so many more years than he ever intended to, within tsukuyomi. ）
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Can you take us somewhere now? Do you need privacy to use it?
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It would be a poor weapon if one required privacy, Wei Ying.
（ his own fault for guarding his secrets so well. he hardly begrudges the man his lack of knowledge. ）
No one watching would be aware of what transpired. We could live decades, and return mid-sentence if that was what I wished. Where would you like to go?
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And anywhere will do. Some place peaceful. Maybe with snow like this? No, you don't like the cold. Make it somewhere warm and cozy.
A house, perhaps. Of your design.
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one word, a whisper: tsukuyomi.
and then they are there. it is not the room where he killed his parents — though he might have chosen that location once without divulging its meaning, they are instead sitting at the kotatsu just adjacent to the kitchen. the air is warm, although snow is visible beyond frosted window panes. something is simmering in a pan, and the air is filled with the clean, sweet scent of rice and the umami spice of the dish.
the house is peaceful. it feels full — occupied and lively, though presently they are the only ones within the walls. what he built into the foundations of the illusion is the promise of others. a sense of security, of family, of love.
it is exactly as he remembers it from his childhood.
the scar in one floorboard where a knife once fell from sasuke's small hands. the areas that showed the pacing of urgent, worried feet, where both his parents wore away the laquer awaiting the outcomes of his many missions. the overlay of nostalgia has deepened the warmth of the colours, and sharpened the edges of the uchiha emblem on the walls. but it is exactly as it was, right down to the marks of his and sasuke's height on the nearest doorframe.
but it is a shinobi house, so beneath the smell of fragrant, cooking food there is also the sharp scent of oil used to hone the edges of weapons. the lingering breath of fire that he and his father and mother all carry in their clothing after practice, after missions. more distantly is the intermingling of sweat and of blood, because this room has served more than once as an emergency treatment center in a crisis, and as the head of the clan fugaku's residence is the largest private dwelling in the compound.
they are both kneeling at the kotatsu, the thick blankets pulled over their laps. itachi is wearing his clan colours, and the kamon of the uchiha is stitched with care into his clothing.
it is also, notably, present on wei ying's. ）
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He shifts until he is pressed against Itachi's side beneath the blanket and he finds his hand, twining their fingers. He'd wanted Tsukuyomi to allow him the freedom of expressing his affection like this, but it's more than just the promised privacy that drives him to reach for Itachi now.
Wei Wuxian has never known a house like this and he is all at once painfully happy that Itachi once did. (It makes the thought of what came later hurt all the more, but it doesn't erase the happiness in knowing that he'd had this once.) With his free hand, he trails his fingers across the wooden floor and this too feels warm, perhaps from the nearness of the kotatsu.
If the multiverse is infinite, is there a world where some Wei Wuxian and Uchiha Itachi got to have this? Where the Uchiha lived, where Wei Wuxian belonged impossibly to this world, where they met and fell in love and got to sit at this kotatsu just for a moment out of an otherwise busy life while their families bustled around them?
(The Uchiha crest on his robes hasn't escaped his notice but he knows that if he pays it too much attention he might make a fool of himself.)
He reaches his hand out to smooth down Itachi's collar. It doesn't really need it but he does it all the same, hand coming to a rest over his sternum.]
You always look good, but I especially like you in these.
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he does cover wei ying's hand with his own, but it is a brief gesture. even here, his comfort with physical proximity is limited. ）
Blue has always been one of the more commonly associated colours of the Uchiha. It is a strange thing, when you consider our provenance.
（ so much about them is steeped in red. their eyes, their hands, the fire, the madness. blue, by contrast, is calming as water and soothing as sky. ）
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I didn't wear Jiang purple. I didn't even wear the Jiang disciple robes. I no longer remember if that was my idea or hers. [There is no point in clarifying who he means. He does remember thinking that it was the safer choice, setting himself apart. It didn't free him from her ire, but it was one less thing to incite it. The less Jiang he appeared to the outside world, the better.]
I wear my mother's colors. [And now that he thinks about it, maybe that was worse than wearing purple. He huffs softly under his breath and plays with the hem of one of his sleeves.] Still, I've grown fond of this shade of blue.
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（ it isn't quite a rebuke. wei ying has never seen the akatsuki robes — but his meaning is still clear.
there is tea on the table, steaming gently, and he pours it as any good host would, each movement set and practiced. more mildly — ）
It looks good on you, too.
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Does it? Then I should wear it more often. [He raises his tea, blowing on it gently before taking a sip.]
About what I was saying before, about living. I want to stay. But if I can't for any reason, then...then I'm still grateful for the time.
I think I understand myself better now. Even if I've long relinquished my regret, being here is still a gift.
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then: ）
Would you like to meet my family?
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Would you like to meet my family?
They have spoken of his parents on a handful of occasions, all before he'd known the truth. He looked more like his mother, he remembers. His father had been stern, but loving. A good man and a good father in spite of what the world demanded of him and the burdens lain on his shoulders. And Wei Wuxian has thought of Sasuke so often he can almost imagine him without needing any help. But sharing them like this is different.
For just a moment, his stomach flutters foolishly with the echoes of nerves. Would they have liked him? Itachi's parents at least, he already knows winning Sasuke's affections would have ben an uphill battle. He'd like to think he'd have won him over eventually even if it took years.]
Yes, I would like that.
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sasuke walks through the front door.
he's silent (he learned from the best) as he pads through the house, and when he enters the kitchen itachi's attention swivels to him, and. stops. there was a part of him that had expected — that his own mind would manifest sasuke at seven, the way he is permanently etched on the fabric of memory. he never needs to spare much conscious thought for the shape genjutsu takes, and tsukuyomi less so. the disconnect is startling.
but the sasuke that ducks into the kitchen is taller, broader, has a sword slung over one shoulder. he's wearing a gray shirt, with a purple obi belted around his waist. his hair is a bit longer, swept back with one hand as sasuke drops down beside them both. his gauntlets come off, the sword is leaned up against the table. no manners to speak of, but then — could a child orphaned at seven subsequently abandoned by the ninja world truly be expected to maintain decorum?
his heart has all but seized in his chest, and he is barely breathing.
sasuke pours himself a cup of tea without ceremony or preamble, and gives wei ying a sideways glance without comment. there is annoyance briefly visible in his features, but it's mutable. controlled.
he looks exactly as he did in that final fight against kabuto. except his eyes are dark, the weapon of the sharingan sheathed. ）
Oy, nii-san. What's for breakfast?
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He isn't anything like Jiang Cheng, and yet the words are so much like Jiang Cheng he has to raise a hand to muffle a soft laugh.
Little brothers, he thinks with so much affection his whole chest swells with it.
His eyes flicker to Itachi's in conspiratorial amusement, and the amusement immediately fades away into something softer. Ah. The hand under the kotatsu squeezes Itachi's once.]
I can make you something if you'd like, Sasuke, although if your spice tolerance is the same as Itachi's here, I probably shouldn't. [There's a soft teasing look in his eyes.]
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sasuke just snorts, jerks his thumb towards itachi. ）
That's his problem, not mine.
（ it's clearly a challenge. delivered with a tip of his chin, appraising. his speech is rough and rude, so much coarser than itachi's measured, politely chosen words and formalities. ）
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It's empty at the moment which is probably a good thing as he isn't sure he's ready to face Itachi's mother while he's still trying to process Sasuke's everything, and he shoots him a sunny smile as he begins tinkering around the kitchen, learning where the various pots are kept and what kind of spices are on hand.
In the end he settles on congee because it's easy, customizable, and all of the ingredients are present and accountable.]
May I? [He gestures towards a wok, mentally working out how he'll season it. Definitely salt, ginger, and garlic, an egg to make it heartier. Perhaps some pork if he can find it, and chopped peanuts and green onions for garnish. Simple but tasty.]
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itachi closes his eyes. just listens, for a moment. to a conversation that can never happen, but feels so real to him that it's almost as if he had cast the genjutsu on himself. ）
Use what you wish, Wei Ying.
（ tacit permission — and more fully, there is an implication there. that this house, that he would have inherited as the heir to the clan, that this place where his family had lived and still do live in memory, is as much his friend's as his alone.
while the man works, sasuke talks to him. it feels indulgent. perhaps it is, in a way. but the complicated tangle of hurt and love and loss and anger and fury and shame and hate are still there, reflected in every word. it's in the way he asks about his last mission. in the way he pours itachi another cup of tea. it's just so completely, fundametentally who he is — beneath blood and bone and marrow. every word a barb, but not just to wound — to draw in.
sasuke asks him to train after they've eaten — and he starts to say maybe later— before he stops himself short.
nothing here is real. but it costs him nothing at all, to be kind. to his brother, who received so little of it from him.
and... to himself, who in his own mind had never received any consideration for such a sentiment at all.
so, he simply says all right. after breakfast, and leaves it at that. ）
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