Chapter 14 – Such Beautiful Eyes
After parting ways with Shisui, Uchiha Itachi didn't return home.
Instead, he wandered alone through the quiet streets of the village.
Following the curve of the Naka River, he walked the perimeter of the Uchiha compound, step by step tracing the boundaries of the clan that had raised him—watching as the lantern lights that burned through the night began, one by one, to dim.
It felt less like a walk and more like an inspection.
An examination of what might soon be gone.
Just as Shisui had said—
He was an Uchiha, yes, but more than that, he was a shinobi of Konoha.
If the choice had been presented to the younger him, Itachi knew what he would have done.
He would have given up his name, his bloodline, his entire clan—without hesitation—if that was the price to serve the village.
But now, after seeing more, learning more, feeling more, he found himself hesitating.
So many had already sacrificed everything for Konoha… yet, had the village truly become better?
Or had such devotion simply become something taken for granted—something expected?
That contradiction twisted and writhed inside him, refusing to let him rest.
The long night passed like a blur, and before he knew it, dawn arrived.
Without having slept a moment, Itachi carried on with his duties as if nothing had changed.
He stood guard beside the Third Hokage, reported on the clan meeting with his usual calm, and quietly assisted with the endless paperwork in the Hokage's office.
Everything appeared as it always was—
but inside, everything had changed.
When the day's work was finally over, and he stepped through the doors of the Hokage's office, Itachi turned toward the man walking beside him.
"Captain Kakashi," he said, hesitating slightly. "Do you… have time this evening?"
Kakashi glanced at him, puzzled—then remembered his sparring match with Guy that night. He tilted his head slightly.
"Is it something urgent?"
His tone implied, If it's important, say the word—I'll cancel the match right now.
"No," Itachi quickly shook his head. "It's nothing serious."
The truth was, Itachi didn't have many friends.
And for someone like him, whose mind was far too sharp and far too cautious, even asking such a question was an act of vulnerability.
At the faintest hint of rejection, his instincts made him retreat.
Besides, it really wasn't anything serious.
He had only wanted to talk to someone—about something, anything.
Kakashi sighed quietly, watching him fumble for words.
"…You really are," he murmured, "too much like me."
He didn't press further.
Some walls, he knew, a man had to climb alone.
In many ways, they were the same kind of person—
too self-aware, too burdened, and too young to be so old inside.
As Itachi bowed politely and stepped back, Kakashi waved once, hands in his pockets, and strode toward the training grounds.
He had a match to prepare for—and Itachi, as always, had thoughts he could not share.
The corridors of the Hokage's tower grew emptier as Itachi wandered aimlessly, his footsteps faint.
Unknowingly, he found himself before the door of Laboratory Three—the same one he'd once visited with Kakashi.
Through the small window, he saw Aizen Sōsuke.
Gone was the easy charm of the man he'd met at the banquet.
Now he was all precision and composure, dressed in a spotless white coat, scribbling something in a report while calmly instructing two fellow researchers beside him.
The lab bustled with energy; everyone was busy, focused.
Just seeing that scene made Itachi shrink a little inside.
'Better not disturb him,' he thought.
He turned, ready to leave—
But as if sensing the weight of that lingering gaze, Aizen suddenly turned his head.
Their eyes met through the glass—Aizen's calm, knowing; Itachi's caught in surprise.
Then, Aizen smiled.
He said something to his colleagues, and at once a few of them cheered, apparently celebrating the end of their work for the day.
Before Itachi could even step away, Aizen was already walking toward the door, his coat fluttering lightly, that same warm, disarming smile back on his face.
"What a coincidence, Itachi-kun," he said pleasantly.
"We've just finished up here. Would you care to join me for dinner?"
Itachi's lips pressed together.
Aizen had clearly set his work aside the moment he saw him. A small guilty warmth rose in Itachi's chest at the thought, but he still felt awkward when he spoke.
"Sōsuke-senpai…" he began, faltering. "It's… actually not anything urgent—"
"An empty stomach is the most urgent thing of all!" Aizen said with mock solemnity, clutching his heavy spectacles and regarding Itachi's flustered face with amused kindness. "I know a good place. Come on."
Itachi hesitated only briefly before nodding decisively. "Yes."
…
"Hand-pulled noodles—one large bowl of soy-milk ramen, no egg. And one bowl of sweet miso ramen."
"Got it!"
The noodle stand's owner grinned as he called the order back, glancing at Aizen. "Aizen-san, early day for you—Aya said she hasn't seen you around much lately."
"Dad!" a teenage girl nearby scolded, cheeks reddening as she swatted him playfully. Then she plastered on a shy smile and welcomed Aizen warmly. "Aizen-san! I saved some soft tofu for you—no soy sauce?"
"Thanks, Ayame."
Aizen returned her smile and led Itachi to a seat at the counter.
Watching the noodle chef move with practiced ease, and noticing the girl who had stared at him earlier, Itachi felt a small, unfamiliar warmth. People like Aizen—gentle, attentive—seemed to have a way of making everyone comfortable.
Then Aizen ordered the sweet miso ramen, and Itachi's ears perked. He turned toward him, surprised. "Sōsuke-senpai, how did you know—?"
Aizen sat down and shrugged as if it were obvious. "At the barbecue the other day, I noticed you avoid heavy salt. You ate more of the meat than you let on, so I figured a sweeter soup would be better. I meant to make it up to you."
He had noticed such a small thing. Itachi bowed his head. His parents' care had always been wrapped in duty and expectation—the love aimed not at "Itachi" but at a role: the promising eldest son, the heir. Only once, with Shisui, had he felt a more personal warmth.
"Sōsuke-senpai, I…" he started, then faltered.
"Alright, enough," Aizen said, patting his shoulder. "You came to find me—there must be something on your mind. Is it something you can't say to Kakashi?"
Itachi's look dropped again. He swallowed and spoke haltingly. "I—recently… I had a falling out with my closest friend."
Even with Aizen's soft, accommodating presence, the subjects of the Uchiha and of Root were too sensitive to name outright. So he couched his confession in a different guise.
"A few days ago, with those attacks from the Cloud's ANBU… we clashed over what to do. He argued that anyone from Cloud should be wiped out—no mercy—only then could we remove every potential threat. The others in his circle think the same." Itachi's voice quickened, pouring out a torrent of things he'd held back. "But my family has business ties with the Cloud, distant relatives there. If war can be avoided, if we can keep peace with less bloodshed—surely that's better for both sides."
He had bottled it up for too long; words tumbled out in a rush. Aizen listened quietly, occasionally nodding as he spooned tofu into his bowl. When Itachi finally ran out of breath, his noodles had clumped into a heavy mass. Embarrassed, he apologized.
"Sorry, Sōsuke-senpai—I've said too much."
"It's fine. I understand," Aizen replied, but his eyes had darkened.
He picked up his chopsticks and spoke slowly, as if recounting a memory. "You weren't in the Third Great Shinobi War, were you? My generation saw it up close. I wasn't on the front lines—I was a medical shinobi in the rear—but I still saw what war does."
Hearing the word "war" sharpened Itachi's attention.
"When we were deep inside Wind Country, we were thousands of kilometers from home. Secrecy is impossible when whole armies move. Intelligence leaks happen—sellers turn informer, supply caravans get poisoned, relatives on the other side pass messages. Men under that pressure sometimes vent hatred on civilians. It's not rare."
He turned the noodles between his chopsticks. "How did Orochimaru handle it when soldiers killed civilians?" he asked.
Itachi shook his head. Aizen smiled faintly and set the noodles down.
"Mutual surveillance," he said. "If a squad commits a crime, the whistleblower lives. If an entire detachment mutinies, the whole detachment is executed—and the informer survives. Set rules like that, and the rest fall in line."
Itachi's eyes widened. The methods were brutal, but they kept the worst of collective violence in check. He swallowed the word "cruel" and let it pass.
Aizen's voice softened. "People label others by morals—good or bad—and by position—friend or foe. Those lines blur, and confusion follows. Like your situation. In times when you can't choose, that's when you must be most resolute. Decide clearly who you must kill—seriously. Whether friend or foe, good or evil."
Itachi repeated the phrase under his breath: "Decide… seriously… who should be killed."
Who, then, should he kill? The coup-minded Uchiha? The rebels? Danzō, who stoked the conflict? Or even the Third Hokage, who tacitly allowed things to fester? Ordinary villagers and people who only wanted a peaceful life were not the targets—innocents lay outside the equation. Could he, a person like himself, really carry such a choice through?
Unnoticed by Itachi, Aizen's gaze behind his glasses had grown deeper, darker. For a single blink, Itachi's black eyes shimmered, and the faintest red began to creep around the edges—like the first hint of tomoe staining the pupil.
What a beautiful eye.
But do we need to add one more spark to the fire?