Obito's Funeral (yes, I'm weird!)
Title: “Faceless”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG
Summary: Little Itachi reflects on destiny and death during the funeral of Uchiha Obito. Years later a small accident makes him remember that day again. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: belongs to Kishimoto Masashi and whoever else that is not me…
A/N: Absolutely no idea where this came from. ;) It’s kind of weird and it supports T-Obito theory. At least looks like that.
FACELESS
An hour before the ceremony Itachi cut his finger over the kunai. He felt unusually restless and failed to notice the sharp edge peeking out of the sheath. It hit him then that he must have accidentally stuck the kunai in upside down.
The boy stared at his injured finger. Blood welled up thickly and ran down his hand. A silly little wound. As meaningless as the death of another Uchiha. But if bacteria should get in, the pain would be intense.
He tore off some plaster and bandaged the cut carefully. The ceremony was about to begin.
The clan had decided to hold it inside the compound. There was no body to bury so it was more of a symbolic memorial service. A few alien faces were present, such as the Yellow Flash, and Sarutobi-sama, and a slim fair-haired girl with sad eyes.
The small square was a vast pool of black. Silky raven hair, glazed obsidian eyes, black garments of mourning. It looked like a feast of black crows. A mixture of sorrow and revulsion wormed its way into Itachi’s heart.
He strained his memory, trying to picture the face of the person who’d caused all this commotion. Uchiha Obito… The name didn’t have any impact. It refused to associate itself with any appearance. The man was just a name, a few words spoken in his honour - and a deed. A great deed, for which he’d been praised as a hero.
Father placed his hand on Itachi’s shoulder. Mechanically, as Itachi thought. The boy looked up cautiously; a touch of strange sadness flared upon Father’s hard features. Mother lowered her head solemnly.
People moved in a column to lay flowers over Obito’s lot in the family crypt. Itachi looked at the little white blossom clutched in his hand. What were those flowers for? It’s not like the dead ones could enjoy them.
With each step he felt more reluctant to go near the crypt. He didn’t feel linked to Uchiha Obito in the least. He didn’t know him. He wondered if he wanted to see all those people at his funeral. The same flowing black robes, the same white flowers on the tombstone, the same imprint of tired sorrowful respect upon the ghostly pale faces. Unity in despair. Sameness. Weakness…
Itachi never feared death. Itachi never feared anything at all. But…
It was finally his turn. He stood over the tablet that bore a few simple hieroglyphs to mark the hero’s final resting place and couldn’t help thinking: ‘This is not real. He’s not even in there.’
Little by little memories began to resurface. A face dived out of the haze; smooth-skinned, round and merry, complete with familiar dark eyes and full lips with some kind of a toothpick compressed in between. Spiky black hair stuck up at the back, and in addition to the regular Leaf forehead protector he used to wear dim orange ski glasses. A weird guy. A loud one, too. Always running around, tripping, falling into dust, springing up and running forth again.
“I’ll show the lot of you what I am worth as soon as my Sharingan awakens!” he used to brag. But he had been way older than Itachi, and the Sharingan still hadn’t revealed itself.
The flower lay on the cold stone. Itachi lowered his head. He had never been farther away from his family than that day. As if that parody for an Uchiha had died and taken something important away. Itachi unwrapped the plaster swiftly, jerking the soft healing skin apart again, and brushed the moist pad of his finger against the tablet. Blood of one Uchiha on the memorial of another.
Those who moved in line behind him never noticed a dark stain of red smeared over the hieroglyphs. Itachi walked away, lost in the crowd of his clanmates, his hurt finger throbbing annoyingly. ‘Don’t we break free even after death? Do we still belong to one family? Do we still have one purpose? Is there a change at all? Or do we finally get to choose our own path…’
Itachi halted, having noticed a lone silver-haired youth by the gate. He didn’t come to the crypt; instead he watched the procession solemnly, half of his face hidden beneath a dark cloth, his headband tied aslant over the left eye. His shoulders tensed as he placed his hand over that eye in some sort of salutation. The next moment the Yellow Flash was by his side, gripping his shoulder in a dry comforting manner. Oh yes, Obito was the Yellow Flash’s team member. So must have been this one. And the girl, for that matter.
Itachi turned his back on the company and made his way home. The cut was slowly healing.
* * *
It wasn’t often that you could see a new face in the Akatsuki organization. One left, one died - that was about it. Whenever a new face appeared, a certain amount of interest towards his abilities was shown, but agitation passed rapidly. The new person became a team member and was soon treated just like any other member of the group.
With Tobi, things had been a little different. No one had noticed Tobi at all. Tobi just didn’t stand out in spite of his ridiculous orange mask that left only one eyehole or his immature behaviour. It was only when the Leader assembled the group for some sort of strategic discussion that Itachi spotted a newcomer.
“Who’s that?” he asked Kisame in a low voice, watching Tobi go from one wall to another in a sort of a weird dance. This must have been his first time in the Akatsuki hideout.
“Deidara’s new partner,” Kisame replied. “What a shame, after Sasori. It’s Deidara unleashed now - this fool wouldn’t be able to keep him in check.”
Itachi grunted a few non-committal noises and went on to his shuriken kit. As he passed the newbie he couldn’t help but wonder: what was there behind the mask? Multiple scars? Just a very ugly face? Something meant to be hidden?
Darkness peered at him through the single eyehole as Tobi looked at him and averted his gaze quickly. For a moment Itachi thought he saw a flash of crimson in the dark. Tobi whispered something that sounded like “Hi!” and turned moved a few paces away, obviously mortified by the grave look Itachi gave him.
Itachi reached out for his kit and withdrew his hand abruptly. Damn! A kunai sticking out of it, blade first. The sharp razor slid over his finger and split the skin. Itachi looked at the small wound, curiosity building up inside him. Many years ago he’d had the same cut under the same circumstances. It didn’t mean anything. Itachi was far too pragmatic to take that as a sign, and frankly speaking, there was absolutely no logic in seeing a sign there. But…
Simply but.
Itachi cocked his head slightly as he regarded Tobi with a dazed look. The man was sitting on a rock swinging something small and sharp between his fingers. A toothpick. Why would a masked person need a toothpick? How would you get a toothpick into your mouth without removing a mask (which obviously Tobi was not going to do)? Itachi noticed that Tobi’s short spiky hair was practically the same shade of black as his own and wondered briefly if his eyes were black too.
And the mask was orange. Somehow Itachi wondered if Tobi had ever worn ski glasses. How much imagination did it take to picture a faceless newbie wearing orange ski glasses? Probably more than Itachi had.
He chuckled coolly to himself. He rarely did things without knowing why he did them, but sometimes his subconsciousness would play cruel tricks on him. For a moment he could picture the man in the orange mask lying on the ground with a white flower sprinkled with the Uchiha blood upon his chest.
That was curious. However, the meeting began and Itachi had no time to concentrate on the strange long-forgotten fantasy. Any faceless black-haired person could have been a representation of it, that unity in despair.
Besides… the cut was already healing.
August 29, 2007