Work Text:
“How was your summer?” Konan asks politely.
Since Konan doesn’t do anything— no, seriously, anything, not even acknowledge Hidan’s existence— unless she’s contractually obligated to, Itachi concludes that the assigned HR liaison is curious. This is something that Itachi has, until this very moment, believed to be impossible. After all, he’s seen footage of her staring blankly into the distance, sipping on a Vanilla Triple Thick while Deidara brought out a baby raccoon to Azuma and Yahiko’s drunken fistfight in the parking lot of a McDonald's.
Apparently Itachi showing up three hours late on the faculty’s first day back, wearing women's sunglasses and double-fisting diet RedBulls meets the Konan criteria for “mild curiosity”. He kind of wishes that it didn’t feel like a win, but currently Itachi is a man in desperate need of a win.
There are a lot of reasons for this, generally speaking. In the grand scheme of things, Itachi flushed the rather decent hand he’d started life with to fuck about desperately trying to find new cards in life’s equivalent of a gutter. This is… fine.
Itachi is a fighter. Itachi is a survivor. In all likelihood, most people probably feel this way. Until they fly Air Canada.
The summer ends with a trip to visit Shisui, who for all intents and purposes is dead to the rest of the Uchiha clan. See, Shisui Uchiha made the cardinal sin of moving to Western Canada. Not for a cushy corporate law job at some firm in Vancouver, which might have lessened the magnitude of his crime. No, Shisui had gone to Galiano Island to work as a freelance consultant and spend 78% of his time surfing in the glacial Pacific waves.
This is something Itachi and Sasuke take advantage of this with growing regularity. Most recently, over the last three weeks, where they too found themselves committing unspeakable transgressions against Uchiha expectations: shirking their academic and professional responsibilities and escaping the endless, terrible, attendance-not-optional family picnics being held all over the goddamned GTA to instead eat inhuman quantities broccoli sandwiches and collect shells on various rocky beaches.
And so, the universe sentences them to damnation. At a YVR gate kept at approximately the temperature of Cocytus, they are informed that they have inexplicably been placed on standby, but that their bags are already en-route to Edmonton, not Ottawa, and oh, we’re so sorry but it looks like the next fight has been canceled and we’ve had to move everyone who isn’t on standby as priority to the following flight, so we’re not really sure when you’ll ever leave beautiful British Columbia!
Six hours at the airport bar later, the whiskey convinces them to first class tickets on the next flight to Ottawa.
The Itachi of twenty-four hours ago had been almost happy, if extremely sunburned. The Itachi standing in front of Konan has a raging hangover, is out $8000CND, and wants to throw himself into the Rideau. Oh, and he’s still extremely sunburnt.
“It was fine,” Itachi croaks.
Konan’s eyebrows twitch. Contract and curiosity battle briefly. The contract wins. “That’s nice.” With one last look at the burnished, pink stripe across Itachi’s nose, she takes his employee tax form and returns to her game of Solitaire. “If you see Kakashi, tell him he doesn’t get paid unless he submits his paperwork before noon.”
Itachi wouldn’t mind the stale box of TimBits that Kisame passes him without fail every time they meet, except there’s only ever chocolate glazed by the time he’s scheduled to meet his thesis advisor, and Itachi hates chocolate glazed.
Shisui is convinced that this makes Itachi a sociopath, but Itachi is deluded enough to convince himself that all it means is that he doesn’t like chocolate glazed TimBits.
“While I enjoy our sessions tremendously ,” Itachi ignores Kisame’s pleasant lie, “I wish you'd just have submitted this six months ago and finished with distinction.”
Getting distinction isn’t hard. Deidara is on track for distinction, for crying out loud. No, what is almost unspeakably difficult was getting a recommendation to Intelligence Services through Carelton’s well-known academic backdoor. The familiar urge to throw the stack of books, all of them murder mysteries out of the 1950s, teetering precariously on a corner of the Eames desk at Kisame’s head is a fitting homecoming.
“There’s a reason you’re my advisor and not Hiruzen.” Kisame knows this; knows that Hiruzen would have rammed Itachi's dissertation defence through, even at the cost of his aspirations.
Kisame’s beady eyes glitter over the rims of his glasses. For someone with the equivalent energy of a great white shark, and a grin to match, Kisame is remarkably well put together. Itachi always wonders what he does as a side gig, because there is no way that a tenure-track professor of his age could afford the cashmere Tom Ford being unfairly stretched out over his shoulders otherwise.
“About that.” Kisame reaches for the TimBit box with sudden enthusiasm. Itachi would raise his eyebrows, but his face had long ago stopped responding to cues that enabled normal human reaction. “There’s a faculty council meeting in February, for which—” Here Kisame focuses on the depths of the box with near-predatory intent, which is ridiculous because there is only chocolate glazed in the goddamned box, “—they only send out invitations early if there’s a vote.”
From the way Kisame is staring at him, Itachi knows that this should ring a bell. The Leafs scored their bi-annual goal kind of bell. But Itachi’s brain is currently functioning at the speed of a handicapped snail. His only consolation is that Sasuke is suffering twice as much, and has the distinct displeasure of being in an interview for his winter co-op. Surely, if he’s quiet long enough—
“A vote for a new Dean.”
Oh. Oh. God. Oh god. That vote. The one that signifies the light at the end of the long, hellish tunnel which has been Itachi’s experience with higher education. That vote. The snail upgrades from crutches to a wheelchair. He manages: “Hn.”
It’s nice that they’ve known each other long enough that Kisame isn’t disappointed by his reaction, or lack thereof. He smiles his cold, shark-toothed grin. “Feel free to take our weekly meetings off your calendar until the end of the semester. Email me if you need anything, but this is already better than anything I’ve ever submitted.”
Itachi blinks. “Thanks?” He tries. It sounds like he's never had to use the phrase before. "Thanks," Itachi repeats, mustering an iota of conviction.
“Anytime. I’ll let you know how it goes,” Kisame wiggles his fingers dismissively, preoccupied with fishing for a TimBit from the depths. “Have a good semester, Itachi.”
Itachi arrives home to discover Sasuke facedown on the near-immaculate floor of their apartment. The suit he stole from Itachi is in a state of dishevelment that screams been here least an hour. Sasuke has managed to optimally angled himself so that most of him is on the living room rug, but his cheek is pressed on the cool tile of their kitchen. If this was any other day, Itachi might be concerned, but as it stands, he’d quite like to join Sasuke.
“How did it go?”
A wheeze. It sounds a bit like “I threw up in a wastepaper basket on the way in and blacked out for the entire thing.”
“You’re probably fine.” Itachi’s show of confidence isn’t unfounded: Sasuke has yet to fail at anything. His brother would probably send five follow-up emails and a gift basket. Itachi sincerely hopes that whatever government agency Sasuke has chosen as the victim of his over-competence is ready for what’s coming.
Sasuke slowly raises an arm in a manner not unlike a blow-up floppy man, and flips him off.
It takes everything to not laugh. “You want some omurice?”
A relieved hum.
“And a Psych rewatch?”
The middle finger turns into a thumbs up.
Itachi nudges Sasuke’s ribs with a slippered foot. “You’re getting my suit wrinkly.”
“M’yeah.”
“Five more minutes.”
Sasuke considers this. “Yeah,” he whispers, pressing his cheek harder into the floor and closing his eyes.
To: Carleton-IR-Department
Subject: Fall Semester - TA REMINDER
Student attendance for all 300-level course labs is now mandatory. TAs are encouraged to prepare supplementary class materials in addition to providing core class support.
---
Kakuzu Takigakure
Department Director
International Relations
Carleton University
Sometime during his summer break, likely in a strawberry margarita-induced haze, Kakuzu must have found some regulatory loophole on how to cut down departmental spending and reduce the teaching load for tenure professors. Doubling the workload for underpaid TAs was just a bonus. Wins all around.
Wonderful.
The horrible fluorescent light in the closet-sized office that he shares with Kakashi flickers ominously. Itachi wonders if he could bribe Nagato to, if not do his job as the head of the TA union— which he clearly wasn’t doing given the email he’d just received— at least firmly ask maintenance to fix the lights.
“Just once,” Kakashi murmurs from across their shared desk, “it might be nice to receive more than four day’s notice that we have to come up with a semester’s worth of curriculum for our overgrown toddler.”
“Pretty sure you’ve never set up a curriculum in your life,” Itachi says, eyes glued to his screen, reaching for his half-congealed coffee from Second Cup; a sugary monstrosity courtesy of Deidara that Itachi despises, but can’t get himself to throw away. He’s been nursing it for about eighteen lifetimes, each sip colder and sweeter and more disgusting than the last.
Kakashi leans back in his chair, scratching at the back of his head with one corner of whatever dubious reading material he'd reached for this morning. Itachi definitely, definitely doesn’t glance over the top of his computer to watch the lazy, effortless performance. “It would still be nice,” he replies mildly.
Unlike Kakashi, he’s going to spend the next three days putting his insomnia to good use: getting high on Rockstar and doing what he can for Orochimaru’s new batch of sacrificial lambs to scrape their GPA out of the gutter. Despite his best efforts, Itachi had at some point grown a heart which now frequently, tragically, inconveniences him.
“Is there a reason your little brother is in my class?” This would sound innocent if only Kakashi hadn’t leaned over his laptop, chin resting on his crossed fingers, practically batting his eyelashes at Itachi.
A lifetime of Uchiha family dynamics. “He needs the trade policy credit,” Itachi deadpans. “Do not try to transfer him.”
“What, you gonna come after me, Uchiha?”
If only. “No. But he will.” Itachi drags his eyes away from his screen long enough to throw Kakashi what might pass as a smile. Kakashi blinks. Itachi takes another vomit-inducing sip of coffee to mask a laugh.
TA assignments are decided by bureaucratic bidding wars between tipsy professors in Centertown bars that none of their students can possibly hope to afford.
Kabuto knows this. Itachi knows that Kabuto knows this. And yet Itachi walks into his classroom on Thursday afternoon to discover Kabuto lurking ominously in the back of the lecture hall. For the last three semesters, Kabuto has coveted Orochimaru’s TA-ship— all of which have gone to Itachi.
It’s not Itachi’s fault that Orochimaru has a hard-on for collecting what he considers to be star students. Despite Itachi’s best attempts to get moved to Tsunade’s global diplomacy seminar or even Sasori’s international cyberconflict class, Orochimaru continues to slither his way through hell and high water to lay claim to Itachi.
“I hope you don’t mind if I sit in, Uchiha.”
Itachi has been doing this for almost two years and he’s the only reason Orochimaru’s students ever pass. Orochimaru’s penchant for tangential monologues riddled with metaphors rooted in Stanley Kubrick's least-known works make his lectures a psychological hazard for any undergrad.
“I’ll just email you my class notes for when you finally snap the next time you get overlooked,” Itachi drones, turning on the computer and setting up his PowerPoint. The first slide is a meme of a sleepy kitten swatting at a hand putting a bow on its head. A perfect analogy for the horrible state of Canadian intelligence services if there ever was one.
Kabuto’s dry laugh is the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. “I'm here to audit your class, Uchiha.”
Of course it was. Of fucking course. Kabuto settles into a seat at the back of the class, insufferably smug. Itachi stares his best winter-in-Northern-Quebec Uchiha stare until students start to trickle in. He wishes, not for the first time, that looks could kill.
The Indian takeout is cold by the time Sasuke storms in. In lieu of a “hello” Itachi receives a vague growl of acknowledgement before Sasuke not-quite slams the door to his room. He reappears a few moments later looking like a duckling that’s been dunked in ink courtesy of the ruffled hair and a One Ok Rock t-shirt that he’s been stealing from Itachi for years.
“He’s. So. Annoying.” Sasuke snarls so viciously that Itachi is shocked into hitting pause on his True Detective rewatch.
“Who’s this now?” Itachi cranes over the back of the couch to watch in mild fascination as Sasuke crashes around the kitchen. Once he plops down at the coffee table next to Itachi, he takes a moment to glare at his meal and Itachi and the world at large.
“Just. Some idiot in my seminar.” He stabs at his rice with a spoon. Itachi’s mild curiosity is finally too much to bear, so Sasuke just takes a deep inhale and forces his features into some semblance of disinterest. “Loud. Obnoxious. Never sits still and never shuts up.”
So, like, every undergrad of all time. Usually Sasuke complains about the deep injustices of the world at large rather than directing his wrath so singularly. This is… new. Itachi hopes that his silence is appropriately sympathetic.
Sasuke glares. “I can’t afford any distractions. You might have crashed and burned, but that doesn't mean I want to.”
Crashed and burned was a pretty rude way of saying “politely turned down a second-year law internship” and “gave up on law school to pursue an academic career in intelligence policy” and “yeah, the pay is shit and Canadian intelligence is a joke, but at least I don’t have to spend eighty hours a week with uncle Madara shedding on my desk and eyefucking me into doing his case research”.
Sasuke’s identity crisis had been an unforeseen outcome. Admittedly, it had been pretty vindicating that, after the dust had settled, Sasuke had also opted out of Uchiha clan nepotism in favour of doing his own thing. Even if that thing happened to be following Itachi to Ottawa (why couldn’t he have gone to Western, their undergrad program was way better), living in Itachi’s spare bedroom (rent free) and eating Itachi’s butter chicken (most of it).
“I didn’t mean that,” Sasuke mumbles, before Itachi has a chance to open his mouth. He looks like he’s chewing on glass, not the best Indian food Alta Vista has to offer.
Itachi stares at a yellowing spot on their ceiling for five full seconds. “Kakashi gets all of his quiz material from the footnotes.”
“Hm.”
“And Jiraya’s specialty is diplomatic repercussions of trade policy so don’t fuck up on modelling.”
“Okay.” A thank you might actually kill him, but Itachi can hear it anyway.
There is a low-budget tragi-comedy unfolding in the TA lounge. It’s probably a near-daily occurrence, but Itachi adamantly refuses to visit the TA lounge unless he has no other options.
Sasori has a secret microwave in his office, whose use he extorts those sorry individuals (Itachi) unwilling to use the one in the TA lounge (Itachi) because it smells like Konan’s stinky broccoli and whatever fermenting monstrosity Hidan was concocting that week (Itachi).
Today, in a universal conspiracy against him, said microwave exploded.
Now he has to watch Gai and Deidara do backflips— no, actual backflips— while loudly arguing over Architecture and Material Politics in Twentieth Century Canada. Over by the tables, Asuma and Kurenai have been cornered by Hidan waving a stack of pamphlets about le culte du jour . On what little counter space is visible under the thousands of threatening Post-Its from Nagato about the latest departmental compliances going unmet, Yahiko is making a valiant attempt at the world's tallest tower made entirely of abandoned food containers.
Any hope Itachi had of making it to the kitchenette unscathed evaporates.
“Yo.” Kakashi materializes beside him from god-knows-where, leaning against the wall, nose buried in some faded paperback with Fabio in his heyday on the cover, and smelling faintly of dog shampoo.
It probably says something about Itachi that he isn’t surprised. God knows what, but something.
“You want an escort?” Itachi blinks. Kakashi blinks. “To the kitchen,” Kakashi adds very slowly.
Itachi has never known Kakashi to do anything without ulterior motive. This extends— but is not limited to— letting Gai rent his basement suite (free dogsitter), buying Asuma a muffin every day (trying to win a bet with Kurenai that he'll put on ten pounds by Christmas), and letting Iruka make out with Itachi at parties (because it meant that Kakashi also got to make out with Itachi, something anyone except Itachi himself might have missed). Still, accepting any favour is essentially indebting himself for what could be life and quite frankly, Itachi isn’t sure he can go on with this hanging over his head. His stomach rumbles loudly. “Sure,” Itachi breathes through clenched teeth.
It takes four seconds for Itach to regret everything. Kakashi’s lanky, heavy arm snakes around his shoulders, Fabio dangling precariously close to Itachi’s face. The one visible eye crinkles in whatever approximation of a human smile Kakashi Hatake is capable of. “My pleasure.”
Thirty feet to the kitchenette. Gai clips the edge of the table and lands dodgily, arms waving.
“So, a little birdy tells me that you’re… not our esteemed dean’s favorite person.”
Twenty feet. Hidan steps backwards to avoid getting hit in the face, only to bump into Yahiko’s elbow.
Since Itachi never talks about anything with anyone, it stands to reason that he’s been betrayed by his brother. Given that Orochimaru went drinking with Jiraya who went drinking with Kakashi… A reel of creative deaths for Sasuke begins to play in the back of Itachi’s mind.
“There’s some history with an uncle.”
Fifteen feet. In a feat of superhuman speed, Kurenai manages to scramble out of her seat and neatly sidestep Deidara slipping on a puddle of spilled coffee in his haste to avoid Asuma making a grab at him.
“Ah. Family feud.”
Ten feet. Deidara, regrettably, goes careening headfirst into Gai, who fails to catch him princess-style and instead has him kick Yahiko in the head.
“Regrettably.”
Five feet. Half a semester’s worth of old takeout goes flying.
Itachi watches in fascination as Kakashi releases him to pick an old Panda Express noodle off his shoulder without batting an eye. “Condolences.”
They survey the apocalyptic disaster, arms crossed, leaning up against the fridge. From the floor, their colleagues attempt to disentangle themselves, howling unintelligibly at one another, all of them covered in various mystery gloops and bits of questionable-looking substances.
“Thoughts on Nagato having a conniption?” Kakashi asks with a kind of detached curiosity while the microwave lazily spins Itachi’s leftover salmon and rice.
“Absolutely.”
“Even with his boyfriend involved?”
Itachi pauses. Asuma peels what appears to be an entire slice of tonkatsu from one of Iruka’s endless ramen leftovers (Did he even like ramen?!) off his soaked head. Yahiko looks like his life might be over. Nodding, Itachi takes a demure bite of his fish. “Oh yeah. Absolutely. ”
Halloween week kicks off with horrors untold:
To: Itachi Uchiha <[email protected]>
Subject: Course Advisory Warning
Mr. Uchiha,
In reviewing our faculty auditor’s report for the first half of the semester, it is becoming clear that there is clearly cause for anxiety insofar as your performance as a teaching assistant representing the Norman Patterson school is concerned.
Please note that once classes resume after the Fall Reading Break, the faculty auditor will be in contact to set up a review of all class plans and materials. Student performance lags behind the acceptable Faculty standard, and every resource available to this Department will be used to ensure that none of our esteemed students suffer due to poor professorship.
Direct any questions you may have directly to your auditor.
---
Danzo Shimura
Paterson Chair in International Affairs, Director of the Canadian Defence and Security Network
International Relations
Carleton University
Itachi took up smoking when he worked for his uncle. In his defence, everyone took up smoking when they started working for Madara. It took him four years to quit. Turns out he quite liked the little moments of quiet and the act of it all. He’d have quit sooner, but his PhD was, and continues to be, a particularly hellish stint in academia.
(The only reason Itachi actually quit was Sasuke; so he wouldn’t have to endure the Buddhist monk lectures and hearing him loudly complain about how Itachi was going to leave him “all alone in the world” to Shisui on a weekly basis. The fact that he still, on occasion, succumbed to his one and only vice was now accompanied by a delicious pang of guilt. He’d do well as a Catholic.)
Still, the habit of skulking in his old smoking haunts usually helps; and right now Itachi needs to be brought back from the brink of committing a nuclear exorcism on his Faculty head. He stalks out behind the faculty office to a little green space with a bench, affectionately dubbed the “weeping ward”.
To Itachi’s surprise, he finds Konan and Iruka sitting on the wooden bench in companionable silence. Konan barely glances up from the origami flower that she’s finishing at light speed, while Iruka greets him with a wave that is— like everything Iruka does— entirely too warm.
Itachi offers them a little nod and leans against the just-too-cold wall with a shiver, closing his eyes and tipping his head back as he tries to get violent images of Danzo dying a grizzly death at the hands of Toronto’s feral racoon mobs out of his head.
“Rough day?” Iruka asks, sparkly and sympathetic.
Itachi cracks open an eye. They both work for university admin; Iruka even helped write some university-wide policy. “Do you know if I can sue the Faculty for harassment?” It might not hurt to have some alternative solutions rather than setting Richcraft Hall on fire.
“I wouldn’t recommend it.” Iruka smiles a pained smile. “Someone giving you trouble?”
To Itachi’s astonishment, it’s Konan who answers. “Danzo’s being a hoser,” she drawls, holding up her flower for inspection for a moment. A tiny nod of satisfaction. “That audit is totally bullshit.” She gets up and briefly leans on the grimy bricks next to Itachi, gazing up at the gray sky above. “It’s not Faculty protocol, and no one else is getting audited.” Her shoulder bumps Itachi’s. “Orochimaru would help you out.”
It’s painfully easy to forget that Orochimaru is actually one of the three highest-ranking members of the faculty. So Itachi did, frequently. It's true that this solution entails having to talk to Orochimaru— and Itachi has dedicated a full third of his academic career to avoiding Orochimaru— but he can't argue with the fact that it’s a pretty decent one.
“Thanks, Konan.”
She takes the finished flower and tucks it behind Itachi’s ear, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment with an absent hum before disappearing back into the building.
“Sorry that you’re having trouble with Danzo. He’s… not well liked.” Coming from Iruka, this is basically a declaration of loathing. Iruka smiles; the sun comes out. Itachi hates that he feels better. “Asuma’s trying to get something going at the Jackalope on Friday. You should come.”
Itachi’s Halloween plans currently consist of being as far away from campus as possible. It doesn’t matter that every year, without fail, winter arrives the previous weekend. It doesn’t matter that it's sub-zero and there’s two inches of snow. None of those things matter, because university undergrads will stop at nothing to wear as little clothing as possible, irrespective of gender, and individually consume enough alcohol to fill one of those interchangeable turquoise lakes out in Alberta.
The irony isn’t lost on Itachi, who could be the poster child for people obsessed with Halloween, albeit in a dark academia meets My Chemical Romance sort of way. But the terrible truth is that he’s been stuffed into one too many matching costumes with first the cousins, then Sasuke, to be able to ever enjoy the holiday again. The last time he’d been out on Halloween, Obito had blackmailed him into being his wingman at an undergrad party. They do not speak of That Night.
But Itachi feels uncharacteristically reckless.
“Do I have to dress up?”
“No.” Iruka grins. “But it might be fun if you did.”
Itachi doesn’t dress up. (Not even for Iruka.) But on Friday, he finds himself sandwiched between Asuma and Kakashi in a booth of the Jackalope, sipping on whatever Iruka keeps pressing into his hand. It’s bitter and sweet, and Itachi is tipsy, before Gai even threatens the bartender with the karaoke machine that he somehow smuggled into the bar.
The Jackalope is filled with people wearing costumes, and there’s shockingly good Gothic decorations, bringing some darkly festive energy to the usually laid-back bar. Itachi is, to his profound horror, enjoying himself. Right up until—
In a rather interesting feat of physics, Deidara leans the table and over approximately eight of their colleagues to yell unintelligibly in Itachi’s ear. In the same way that a natural disaster unfolding is impossible to comprehend, most of what Deidara says and does deeply perplexes Itachi.
Noncommittal agreement seems like a safe option. Surely. Itachi hums, pointedly refusing to turn to look at Deidara who is so close Itachi can feel the relieved exhale through his twisted grin.
“You owe me $20, Sasori, you motherfucker, he said yes—”
Sasori sprays a mouthful of whiskey across the table. Disgusted groans ensue. Deidara ignores them, sticking out his tongue and flipping off the world. Then, with uncharacteristic— and frankly, terrifying— sobriety, he leans over to Itachi again. “Don’t worry, it’ll be chill. Just like. A friendly hangout. Or whatever. Doesn't have to be, like, a real date.”
Itachi opens his mouth to say something, but instead a tiny choked croak of disbelief emerges.
“We'll chat!” Deidara yells cheerfully before retreating to the other end of the table.
“You agreed so quickly,” Kakashi sighs. “I can’t wait to hear all about your whirlwind romance, Itachi-chan.”
“Die.”
Kakashi blows him a kiss. Itachi violently orders ten glasses of water, and vehemently refuses to acknowledge Deidara’s existence for the next several hours. By the time Halloween Horror Trivia is about to begin, Itachi is sober; sober enough to ignore the insistent buzzing of his phone through two Adams Family rounds as he, Asuma and Konan destroy the competition. But his right buttcheek is going numb, and Obito has ended up in Nat-Sec interrogation before, so Itachi resigns himself to stealing a celebratory cigarette from Asuma and stepping out into the frozen morning-night to answer the blocked number.
“Hello.”
“Is this Itachi Uchiha?” The voice on the other end is slow, authoritative. Itachi pauses in his attempt to light the cigarette.
“Who is this?”
“So sorry to bother you, sir. This is campus RCMP officer Stuart McLean.”
Itachi blows a plume of smoke, wondering why he ever quit. “This is Itachi Uchiha.”
“Sir, we’ve apprehended your brother for public indecency.”
The words public indecency echo through all of space and time.
“Sir?”
With a blink, Itachi returns to this plane of existence. Which, apparently, includes Sasuke Uchiha committing public indecency. A hitherto unforeseen possibility. “I’m here.” Then again, Sasuke has always been a little freak. Itachi grins to himself slowly.
“Halloween is a busy night for us, sir.” The RCMP officer sounds pained and mildly annoyed. “We’ve written him up with an official warning, but we need to release him into the custody of a civilian.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
A relieved sigh. “Thank you, sir.”
The lights of the RCMP car glow steady blue and red, a cheery beacon behind the Architecture building. Itachi pulls up behind the car and immediately spots Sasuke skulking against the enormous silver-white bin. There's a plumed pirate hat drawn over his eyes, and the neon parka he’s wearing is decidedly not his.
Itachi climbs out of his ancient 2010 Mazda Tribute that Shisui had sold him for a horrible deal way over a decade ago, and finds the RCMP officers playing UNO with a tall, blonde boy dressed as… Barbie cowboy.
There’s immediately too much tanned skin and blue eyes and blinding grin directed at Itachi.
“Oh, hi! You gotta be—”
Thankfully, campus RCMP officer Stuart McLean and his colleague immediately throw their UNO cards like confetti into the Hot Boy’s face (they were both losing, badly, and their relief is evident) and slap on their Authority Faces. It takes fifteen minutes for Itachi to sign all the paperwork they accost him with; and it isn’t until their vehicle disappears out of the lot that Itachi realizes that he has signed two release forms—
“So, like, you’re Sasuke’s brother!”
Resisting the urge to step back, Itachi slowly blinks at the sunny face that suddenly fills his vision. It’s the dimples, probably. And the fact that his vest buttons are about one shallow breath away from bursting open.
“Shut up,” Sasuke snarls, grabbing his boy— the blonde boy by the back of his skimpy vest and dragging him towards the car. “And for once. Just. Shut up.” The Cowboy goes flying into the back seat.
Sasuke rounds on his brother for a moment, venom in his glare, then disappears into the passenger seat.
Itachi stares up at the pearly glow of snow clouds against the night and vows to take up smoking again for good.
It’s a six minute drive to the frat house. For the Uchiha brothers, it’s more like six hundred years.
The Hot Cowboy, Itachi discovers within 0.9 seconds, is called Naruto. He lives in one of the frat houses (duh) just off campus. He has three pet frogs, each with a unique froggy handicap. He has a silver medal in snowboarding at the X Games. He loves ramen. No, seriously. He loves ramen. His favorite color is purple. He would like—
“This is me! Thanks again!” Naruto’s head pops between them, his grin twenty-seven million watts. Itachi and Sasuke wince visibly. The mood shifts tangibly as Naruto takes a deep breath and decides his next move. Before Sasuke has a chance to react, Naruto turns his head, places a shy, sloppy kiss on Sasuke’s cheek and scrambles out of the car.
“Please dive.” Sasuke croaks in a tiny voice, staring through the windshield so that he doesn’t meet Itachi’s pointed stare, because if he does he’ll combust or yell of both, and none of those options is remotely acceptable to Sasuke given the circumstances.
Itachi doesn’t move for another beat, then slowly shifts into drive. “He seems… nice,” he says mildly as he watches Naruto stand on the frat house porch, staring at the Mazda with the intensity of a thousand pining suns.
Sasuke twists away. He’s still wearing Naruto’s parka.
“Shagging behind the bins—”
“WE WERE NOT FUCKING SHAGGING, IT WAS A BLOWJO—”
“Hear that, Shisui? Only a blowjob—”
Orochimaru’s office isn’t a dungeon full of hundreds of glowing jars filled with dead things. In fact, the office of the Supervisor of Graduate Studies is exactly, exactly what comes to mind when the words “professor’s office” are thrown around. Suspiciously so, in Itachi’s opinion, given that it feels like walking into a morgue. The wall of leather-bound tomes behind the oversized desk and piles of books beneath a hundred different degrees and awards are all a facade to hide the entrance to some heinous biological facility which Orochimaru definitely, definitely, had access to.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Uchiha?”
Sasori still shits himself every time Orochimaru slithers up behind him at faculty events to ask whether he’s made any progress on his thesis. Itachi’s jaw twitches.
“Danzo’s having Kabuto do some bullshit audit of my classes.”
Orochimaru slowly glides to their enormous, throne-like chair behind the desk. “I wasn’t aware of any faculty audits.”
“Well, Kabuto’s been sitting in and harassing your students for the last six weeks.” Danzo is ultimately taking liberties with Orochimaru’s socio-political territory. And Orochimaru is notoriously… territorial.
There’s a creak as Orochimaru sits down and folds his hands on the edge of his ridiculous desk. The only sign of his fury is a flare of his nostrils. Not for the first time, Itachi shudders with the realization that Orochimaru would be beautiful if only their personality wasn’t fucking dreadful. “Are any other teaching assistants or professors being audited in our department?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
There’s a long silence, where Itachi stares at Orochimaru’s long, elegant fingers tighten around each other fractionally. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Itachi.” The cold, serpentine smile crinkles his eyes upwards but does not reach them. “If you see Kabuto in your classroom again, please send him to see me. Immediately.” Kabuto is never going to get into Orochimaru’s pants— take over his TA. “Please forward me any communications you’ve received about this audit to my class.” Orochimaru reaches for his ancient laptop, hands immediately flying across the keyboard, his earrings tinkling in time to the furious typing. After a moment, he remembers Itachi is still in the room. “Is that all?”
“Y-yeah. Yep,” Itachi grabs his bag and heads to the door before Orochimaru changes their mind and decides to try and mentor him instead of unleashing digital fury on Danzo. “Thanks.”
Gai definitely doesn’t see him skipping down the stairs.
“ITACHI! ARE YOU HAVING A PLEASANT DAY?” Gai’s distinct Quebecois accent booms through the stairwell and rattles Itachi’s eyeballs.
Itachi manages to arrange his expression from unbridled joy into careful indifference. “Can’t complain. You?”
“I AM FANTASTIC! THEY FIXED THE LEG PRESS MACHINE THIS MORNING, AND I’M GOING TO MONTREAL FOR A CONFERENCE ON NEW TECHNOLOGIES IN ARCHITECTURE TOMORROW!”
“That’s really great, Gai.”
Gai leans over with a grin Itachi realizes too late is supposed to be conspiratory. “SO WHERE ARE YOU TAKING DEIDARA FOR YOUR DATE?”
Itachi winces but manages to abstain from placing his hands over his ears. “We haven’t really talked about it.” He takes a polite step back, and then another one for good measure.
“L’AMOUR!” Gai’s laugh shakes loose Itachi’s plaque. “AH, BUT DON’T YOU HAVE A CLASS—”
Itachi breaks into a run. God forbid he arrives after Gaara again.
Itachi discovers his classroom to be blissfully Kabuto-free. There’s a distinct lightness in the air; the students loathe Kabuto almost as much as Itachi does. Even Neji’s usual twenty-minute bitch-fest about something in the reading material that is usually so mindblowingly inconsequential that Itachi often zones out while staring into Neji’s dead eyes feels more like a pleasant formality than an ordeal.
All of this lulls Itachi into a false sense of security, because he actually jumps a little when—
“Hey!” Deidara’s coffee is half-empty, so he’s been waiting for some time. “I was just on my way to my office hours, but, uh, remembered that we didn’t really get a chance to connect since—” He tugs at the end of his ponytail with a quiet bark of a laugh. “Fuck, look, I know that you didn’t really agree to anything, so if you—”
“It’s fine.” All things considered, Itachi is having a good day. So good, in fact, that Deidara’s awkwardness and his crooked smile and the little panda on his hair tie suddenly seem endearing rather than obnoxious. “I’m free on Thursday.”
Deidara looks up from where he’s been toeing a scuff on the linoleum with his Converse to stare up at Itachi like he’d just hung the moon in the sky. Itachi turns away with a scowl because what the fuck, Deidara, you can’t just look at people like that.
“Uh, yeah! Thursday is cool. Do you like steak? I make a really mean steak.”
“Steak sounds good.”
Deidara’s leather jacket creaks as he whips out his phone. “I’ll text you my address.”
This is the moment where Itachi beings to panic, just a bit, because surely Deidara making him dinner rather than going for coffee means something, probably, and Itachi isn’t really sure he wants this to mean anything—
“And, like, don’t read into it. I love cooking. You’re doing me a favour by coming over.” Deidara’s expression is inscrutable, but his eyes are twinkling as he meets Itachi’s wide-eyed surprise. “See you Thursday?”
Okay, so Deidara’s an obnoxious Albertan jock, but— as Kakashi loves to remind Itachi every time Deidara drops by their office to bring Itachi a cute trinket or disgusting coffee— he’s also a working architect who doesn’t actually need to TA. And, god forbid, there might actually be more to him than the Racoon Incident. Itachi ignores the ding of Deidara’s text in his back pocket.
“See you Thursday.”
“Can I borrow the car on Thursday?”
If there was an Olympic category for minding your own business, Itachi would not qualify. This would likely come as a shock to the world, but he is, unfortunately, an Uchiha, and the only way to survive the Uchiha aunties is to out-nosy them thereby establishing yourself as the Supreme Nosy Auntie in an attempt to get them to leave you the fuck alone lest their Christmas card include blackmail.
If pressed to disclose how he knows that Naruto Uzumaki is throwing a pre-reading break party which will almost certainly be in violation of every HOA regulation in Ottawa, Itachi might admit that Kakashi had been a little chatty the last time Iruka invited Itachi over for dinner.
(An instance in which Itachi found himself to be, figuratively speaking, the opening act. He would rather die than admit that he found the experience to be rather lovely; especially the part where he got to go home after warming up the crowd.)
“No,” Itachi replies evenly, flipping a page of a midterm paper with a nitrile glove, wrinkling his nose inside his mask as he braces against whatever Sasuke is going to throw at him next.
“But— I— I need it,” Sasuke stammers from somewhere in the kitchen. Whatever dish Sasuke had been washing slams into the rack and the water turns off with a snap.
“Sorry, Sasuke. Can’t one of your friends give you a ride? What about that pink-haired girl? Or Lee?” Shikamaru’s paper is filled with doodles in the edges, a sure sign that he needed to pretend that it didn’t take him twenty minutes of the two hours to write the best paper in the class.
There’s a sulky silence, followed by Sasuke coming to stand across the coffee table. Itachi finishes marking the paper and sets it aside, glad that the mask hides his amusement. “If you’re waiting for me to offer to chauffeur you to your boyfriend—”
“He is not my boyfriend—”
“Naruto’s party—”
“I wasn’t invited.”
Itachi’s world dissolves and re-forms around him in the span of half a second. He slowly pulls down his mask. “I’ll be back by ten.” It comes out softer, kinder than he’d intended; the honesty of it makes the pen in Itachi’s hand twitch.
Sasuke nods once, his jaw clenched, looking off into the distance above Itachi’s head miserably.
Itachi clears his throat. “Do you… want to… talk about it?”
For a terrible moment, Sasuke looks like he’s about to take Itachi up on his offer. “No. Thank you.”
“You— I’m, uh—”
“Itachi.” The implication being that if Itachi didn’t stop talking right now Sasuke would throttle him in his sleep.
Thank god.
Itachi adjusts his mask over his nose again and reaches for the next paper. He treats anything a student touches like it’s a biohazard because it fucking well is. Last year Kakashi had been hospitalized with pneumonia after marking his midterms and eating chips, like an absolute idiot. He wonders if he can blackmail Kakashi into giving Naruto an abysmal grade, or whether Naruto would survive being dropped from the top of the Confederation building five or six times.
When Sasuke brushes against Itachi’s shoulder as he trundles off in the direction of his room, Itachi pretends not to notice.
Go to LCBO, Kakashi said. They have a great selection, he said.
“— signature Chardonnay grapes are harvested from Fruithaven Vineyard in the Four Mile Creek sub-appellation of Niagara-on-the-Lake. Only 428 cases were made. Would you like to try it?” The middle-aged woman aggressively holds out the wine towards Itachi, her robotic smile and cold glare co-existing like terrible neighbors.
Itachi, afraid that if he doesn’t comply she’ll launch into another monologue, nods.
This turns out to be the wrong thing to do, as this only activates the bionic saleswoman with renewed energy. “The free run juice is barrel fermented and aged for 10 months in 100% French oak barrels (25% new oak). Battonage (lees stirring) was carried out for four months post-fermentation to enhance the flavor and texture of the wine.” An ice-cold glass is shoved into Itachi’s hands. The smile turns terrifyingly expectant.
The wine tastes like a stinky boot (because all wine tastes like stinky boots), but Itachi does his best impersonation of a white woman at a bachelorette on King Street as he takes a swig. “Very, uh, dry. Mhm. I’ll take a bottle.”
“Only one?” The bleached-blonde terminator scolds.
Wrong move on her part. Itachi doesn’t mind being bullied, but patronized— His stare sends her shrinking. “A bottle.”
The Glebe.
Deidara lives in the Glebe. And not in one of the shitty new infills that have been partitioned into eight townhouses. Itachi pulls up through the sleet to stop in front of gorgeously restored brick siding of a Colonial whose property value, according to his phone, is in the vicinity of 1.9 million dollars.
After squeezing into some street parking between a Maserati and a Porsche, Itachi turns off his car and takes a moment to re-evaluate his choices, and frankly, his life. Only his growling stomach lures him out of his car and off towards the engraved door.
He raises his hand to knock, but the door swings inward mid-knock, which, unfortunately for everyone involved, means Itachi punches Deidara right in the face.
“Hi— OW!”
“O-oh my god, I’m so sorry—”
“Jesus—”
“Are you okay?”
He hadn’t meant to get in close, not close enough to stare up into the sparkles caught in blue through a curtain of dark blonde lashes, not close enough to smell the rosemary on the hand covering his nose, not close enough to have one hand awkwardly on the side of Deidara’s face in a gesture of concern…
Itachi jumps back, wielding the $49.99 bottle of wine as a shield. “Are you okay?”
Deidara shakes his head looking remarkably like a golden retriever, wrinkling his nose. “Startled the shit out of me, but I’m fine.” Aside from a bloom of pink, there doesn't appear to be any further damage, and there’s no blood, so Itachi internally breathes a sigh of relief.
“I was kinda waiting for you to cancel given the weather,” Deidara laughs, finally shutting the door.
Admitting that he’d starved himself today in anticipation for a steak dinner is not in Itachi’s repertoire. Instead he hands Deidara his coat and the wine, politely looking around the cozy foyer. Parts of the Uchiha clan (namely: Madara) had access to Real Wealth, so Itachi knew what to look for. Despite the proportions being modest, Itachi can confirm that everything he sees would incite a reaction along the lines of: “holy fucking shit, I didn’t know baseboards could cost as much as a townhouse in East Van.”
“I’m almost done— have a seat.” Deidara absently waves towards a kitchen island made entirely out of a single block of marble.
“Nice place.” Itachi’s voice goes up three octaves.
“Not mine,” Deidara says grandly, waving the potato masher and landing a splattering of buttery potato on a priceless vase teetering precariously close to the edge of the island. “One of my clients’ friends volunteered to rent to me. I just pay off the property tax and help them source art for their chateau near Marseille.” Itachi stares as Deidara pounds the potatoes, biceps uncomfortably well defined as they strain against his black t-shirt. “So, how’d you end up in Ottawa?”
Over what Itachi will not admit is the best steak of his life, he reluctantly recounts how he’s ended up an academic hostage of the nemesis of the head of his family. It isn’t lost on him that Deidara stands on the other side of the island rather than sitting next to him, or that after Itachi turns down wine he pours two glasses of water, or that he’s actively projecting an unshakable air of unfussiness well at odds with everything around him.
Oh, and that he looks good. All that thick dark golden hair spilling over his shoulder, purple-blue eyes sparkling in the overhead lights as he frowns while he listens intently, infuriating smirk dimpling his left cheek now and again.
“Your turn,” Itachi says, between bites.
Deidara stares down at his plate for a moment, then laughs wryly. “I guess we have more in common than you’d think. Dad was people around Calgary— an exec at one of the oil firms. A huge prick. I ended up doing all kinds of bad shit to try and spite him, including setting my high school on fire on Christmas Day. The only reason I didn’t do jail time was because my dad was drinking buddies with the Chief of Police, and he couldn’t have me stain his reputation.” He chases a tomato around the side of his plate. “After that, they sent me away to mum’s family in Tokyo. My uncle runs a gallery and thought art might be a nice outlet— he was right.” Finally, he meets Itachi’s eyes with a smirk that telegraphs no small pride. “So I started studying art in San Francisco. Mostly sculpture. But I fell in love with architecture too, and ended up studying both. Anyway, once I was done, I realized I missed winters and hockey and healthcare, so I took a job offer in Vancouver.”
“You didn’t miss it enough to go somewhere with actual winter,” Itachi points out.
“I needed some time to acclimate, yeah?” Deidara pouts defensively, then immediately laughs. “The rain is almost worse. I was happy to get out.”
“So you came to Ottawa and enrolled in a PhD?”
“Pretty much.” He runs a hand through his hair. “After a few years at a firm, I realized that so few people actually care about the artistry. They want trends and Instagrammable content, not actual homes. It fucking sucked and I hated it. I’d built a decent network through the art world, so I freelanced on private projects and that kept me going for a while. But I realized that I wanted to share my philosophy with the world. Maybe teach someday.”
Itachi has to reconcile this Deidara with the one who brought a raccoon to a fist fight. It doesn’t take as much imagination as he’d anticipated.
“Was kinda over the whole big city thing, but I also need to travel for work, yeah? And Ottawa kind of fit the bill. Never thought I’d end up here, but… glad I did.” Itachi meets the smile head on.
“Fuck, the winters suck,” he says with a serious shake of his head, a twitchy grin of his own pulling at the corners of his mouth.
“They sure fucking do,” Deidara agrees, stuffing his last bite of steak into his mouth with an enormous wink.
Itachi arrives home at 9:57pm to a dark and quiet apartment.
At 10:03pm, he chokes on a mouthful of toothpaste, scared to death by the sound of the front door slamming shut.
Tucking himself into bed at 10:28, he spares Sasuke a prayer.
“And then Naruto— twelve shots and 2 hours into a Molly trip deep— had to explain to him— in front of, like, two hundred people?— that he had invited Sasuke, but Sasuke had replied that he hated parties and people and crowds, so Naruto hadn’t pressed him.” Shikamaru snort-laughs out a plume of smoke. “Watching your brother crumble in real time was really something.”
Strictly speaking, Shikamaru is not allowed to smoke his stupid weed vape inside. He is especially not allowed to smoke his stupid weed vape in Itachi and Kakashi’s office, because Kakashi has threatened them both with bodily harm if he ever catches them again. But Kakashi is currently skiing with his dogs in Quebec for reading break. When probed as to why he was taking his five— all five— dogs on a skiing trip, given that dogs can’t ski, Kakashi , he was stricken temporarily deaf and became even more deeply engrossed in his porno-du-jour.
Itachi supposes there are some similarities in general movement and momentum between skiing and railing Iruka.
“So then,” Shikamaru goes on, leaning precariously backwards in Kakashi’s chair, “he just grabbed the three shots of Lee’s death juice, downed them and threatened the entire crowd to return to the party or else.”
Itachi silently laughs into his coffee. “He didn’t.”
“He sure did.” Shikamaru pops a chip in his mouth. “But I think he ended up having a good time. He was trying to climb onto the chandelier when I left.”
The handful of students who hadn’t immediately run to Mexico to escape the onset of winter actually had academic obligations to fulfill. In Shikamaru’s case, he’d used his academic obligations to get out of going anywhere, and was going to spend the week hanging around campus and playing the world’s most fucked up game of sexual chicken with Asuma.
He was technically Itachi’s student. Technically— because Shikamaru could have graduated a year ago if he wanted to, and was already working on his Master’s thesis. But he enjoyed buying himself time to fuck around and enjoy the stupider points of student life before he had to go follow his dad into politics.
They’d hit it off in Itachi’s first semester teaching and had developed a mutually beneficial relationship built on gossip and weed.
“Ah, so that’s how he got the black eye,” Itachi muses, staring up at the ceiling with what he realizes too late is a grin. Ah, fuck.
“How was your date?”
Gossip goes around. The grin disappears into a near scowl. “Very normal.”
Shikamaru gives him an odd look.
“What?” Itachi reaches for the bag of chips as a defence mechanism, glaring as the crunching echoes through the cottony feeling in his head.
“Nothing. Just… It’s Deidara. I’d have expected that he'd try to… go big.”
Deidara did not, in fact, go big. He politely gave Itachi a brief hug and a very absent, French-inspired kiss on the cheek and made sure Itachi didn’t slip on the three inches of ice that had deposited on the sidewalk in the last two hours and waved from the doorway as he drove away.
It took Itachi a long, long time and a lot of effort to work up an appetite; significantly longer than most people were willing to invest for just one meal. Deidara proved that he was willing to respect that, if nothing else.
“I invited him to go to a Sens game tomorrow.”
Shikamaru chokes on air. “You— excuse me? You did what?”
“He was nice,” Itachi shrugs, eyes fixed on a yellowing ceiling tile.
“He better be, after pining for three years.”
“Two years.”
“That’s what I said,” Shikamaru sniffs, checking his watch. “Alright, Asuma’s about to be done at the gym. Same time tomorrow?”
“I have to write the final,” Itachi says loudly as Shikamaru disappears into the hallway. “Don’t you dare show up!” With a sigh, he buries his face in his hands. Shikamaru will definitely be back tomorrow.
At least he’s high enough to go digging around the footnotes to come up with essay questions for the final. Itachi has to hand it to him: Orochimaru sure can smell a masochist. Turns out they smell faintly of vanilla-flavoured weed and whatever cologne Sasuke had doused the sweater he’d “borrowed” last week.
From: Kisame Hoshigake
9:34am
I don’t know what happened, but you got Tsunade to work with Orochimaru.
To: Kisame Hoshigake
9:35am
Kakashi sent me a photo of her making out with them last week.
From: Kisame Hoshigake
9:35am
Can you send that to me?
9:36am
That aside, they haven’t agreed to anything since Tsunade joined the faculty almost fifteen years ago.
9:36am
Do you think the sex is better because they hate each other?
To: Kisame Hoshigaki
9:40am
I accept e-transfers :)
9:42am
I just complained about Danzo siccing Kabuto on me. It was really anticlimactic.
From: Kisame Hoshigake
11:03am
Holy shit.
11:05am
You wouldn’t know this, but Danzo was a contributing factor in Tsunade’s brother leaving academia. Looks like Tsunade still has some feelings about him meddling with students.
To: Kisame Hoshigaki
12:25pm
Wish she’d had these feelings a year ago.
From: Kisame Hoshigaki
12:25pm
LMAO 🦈
12:32pm
I’ll keep my ear to the ground for you.
12:32pm
Wait, were you serious about that e-transfer? Because I need that photo.
12:32pm
For blackmail purposes.
To: Kisame Hoshigaki
1:48pm
Is THAT how you afford those Gucci loafers?
1:48pm
You can always try your luck with Kakashi.
From: Kisame Hoshigaki
1:52pm
Fuck.
You have received an e-transfer from SHARKMAN for $50.00.
Sasuke drops onto the couch next to him.
“Pretty sure Kakashi is trying to kill me with this research assistant thing,” he seethes, throwing his phone onto the coffee table.
Itachi pauses his episode of House Hunters International. “Probably. But he also helped you get that co-op.” There was no way the insufferable couple was going to be together longer than 6 months in their new Bahamian home.
“Don’t remind me.” He’s about to settle into a cross-armed sulk before catching himself and fussing with a pillow instead. “So. Like. Uhm.” Itachi sits up a little straighter, but otherwise doesn’t hurry his brother. “Are— are you going to kick me out after you start working for— I mean, when you—”
Itachi plucks the pillow from his hands. It forces Sasuke to look at him; he takes the opportunity to flick him squarely between the eyes. “Don’t think you can try to get out of paying rent next semester, Sasuke.”
It’s the cruelest thing Itachi can think to say. Sasuke blinks, then the corners of his mouth twitch upwards. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He settles into the couch and hits play on the remote in Itachi’s hand. “I’ll make dinner after this episode,” he says to no one in particular, his eyes glued to the TV. “These two are going to get divorced immediately.”
They’ve never been close in the way that made sense to other people. Itachi glances over at his little brother and grins behind his hair.
“— no, Neji, you aren’t required to cite sources on your final,” Itachi says wearily, nor even bothering to look up from handing out the essay booklets. “You have to be here for forty-five minutes.” He stares pointedly at Shikamaru. “I’ll let you know when you have a half hour left, and then five minutes. If you have any questions, please raise your hand and the professor or I will come over.”
Garaa’s hand goes up.
“Yes, Gaara.”
“Thank you, Mr. Uchiha. The quality of your instruction this semester has been exemplary; I’m extremely glad to have had the opportunity to learn from you.”
Itachi blinks in surprise. He and Kakashi are locked in battle to the death for good ratings on ratemyprofessor.com but he’d never had a student voice a compliment; much less in public. He is entirely unprepared for this, and to have it coming from Gaara borders on devastating . “Uhm.” He clears his throat, tries again. “Thank you, Gaara. I’ve enjoyed our time together.” Shit, surely he can smile like a normal person and not like a feral racoon—
“Cheers, Mr. Uchiha,” Shikamaru winks with an enormous shit-eating grin. It sets off a polite round of clapping.
He resists the urge to run out of the room screaming. “Your time starts now,” he says loudly and the clapping dies in a mad shuffle of paper and clatter of pens.
“Isn’t that nice,” Orochimaru hisses sweetly when Itachi comes to stand next to him at the front of the room. “A job well done, Itachi. You’d make a great addition to the faculty—”
Over Itachi’s dead body.
“I’m sure Kabuto will be an adequate lackey, professor.”
Orochimaru’s laughter is loud enough to startle the students at the front of the room. “Ah, well. I suppose we can’t always have what we want.”
It occurs to Itachi that very shortly he might finally be arriving at everything he’s wanted; he didn’t expect it to be so terrifying.
To: Carleton-IR-Department
Subject: Winter Break - Marking Deadlines
Note that all grading must be submitted by 12:00 am on December 23, including professor revisions to TA marking.
Have a pleasant holiday season.
---
Hidan Takigakure
Department Director
International Relations
Carleton University
“Do you think Hidan knows that Jiraya hasn’t graded anything since 1998?” Kakashi asks with what passes for exasperation by Kakashi standards. He runs a hand through his white hair which is 28% more disastrous than usual. The pile of finals spills from his desk onto Itachi’s. Itachi pushes one of the stray booklets back over the border with a pen.
One of the only upsides of TAing for Orochimaru is that he had enough integrity to grade finals himself. “Probably.”
“God, I hope when Tsunade takes over she makes him,” Kakashi scribbles in the margins of what Itachi knows to be Naruto’s paper with a red pen.
Itachi is willing to place the kind of bet for a sum which only an insane person— or one with an intimate knowledge of the workings of Kakashi’s disturbed mind— would make on the fact that once Kakashi got tenure he would never grade another paper in his life.
“Any plans over the holidays?”
“Heading home. Christmas with our parents. Going to a New Year’s party with a cousin.” Obito refuses to tell him what he has planned, but despite Obito’s numerous shortcomings, he's still the GOAT when it comes to finding best party around. “You?”
“Iruka wants to, uh, tell his nephew about us.” Kakashi stares heavenwards.
“I didn’t know Iruka has a nephew.”
“Not actually his nephew. But, you know.”
Itachi waits for a full minute. “Do you know him?”
Kakashi turns to him like a man haunted. “Yes.”
A horrible feeling sneaks up on Itachi. “Do I know him?”
“Yes,” croaks Kakashi with a single nod.
“Kakashi,” Itachi says very quietly, “tell me who Iruka’s nephew is.”
Kakashi turns to him. “Naruto.”
Deidara walks in two minutes later to find Itachi attempting— and partially succeeding— to throttle Kakashi across the span of both their desks, final papers flying, curses echoing out into the hallway.
“Uh— I’ll come back later—”
“N-no, stay,” Kakashi wheezes pleadingly. Itachi doesn’t stop, but he also recognizes that murder might actually drive Deidara off the deep end of smitten into eternal love.
“Hey,” Itachi says casually, dragging Kakashi an inch closer by his collar.
“I was wondering if you guys wanted to grab coffee, but it looks like you’re busy,” Deidara leans in the doorframe, crossing his arms and failing to grin. “Unless you’re looking for a third—”
Kakashi laughs softly; the kind of laugh that reminds Itachi of just a few of their additional benefits and what that does for really knowing someone. Itachi brings him eye-to-eye for a moment, then kisses him chastely on the mouth. Nothing makes Kakashi shut up faster; and, in this case, it has the added benefit of spelling out a few things for Deidara.
Itachi releases him, then grabs his phone from his desk, then pauses in the doorway, chest to chest with Deidara, looking up at him through his lashes. “Well?”
Deidara’s stare is awe and terror. But he recovers in record time, a slow, crooked grin spreading across his face as he leans down. “Shit,” he laughs, “you’re full of surprises, Itachi Uchiha.”
To Itachi’s great surprise, and no small amount of annoyance, Deidara turns out to be a great kisser. A really great kisser. So good, in fact, that Itachi immediately drags him down for a second one, even as he vaguely registers Kakashi taking a photo, only to decide that he doesn’t really care.
To: Itachi Uchiha <[email protected]>
Subject: PhD Dissertation | Tentative Scheduling
Mr. Uchiha,
I trust you’ve had a pleasant holiday season.
Your PhD advisor has informed me that you have requested a special panel for your defence, which was previously denied. I am pleased to let you know that the Department has scheduled your dissertation defence (pending personnel changes) for March 2nd. We'll be happy to discuss any needs you might have in the coming weeks.
I’d like to apologize for the delay, and trust that this gives you adequate time to prepare.
Regards,
---
Tsunade Senju
Academic Chair
International Relations
Carleton University
“Itachi!”
Jiraya cuts a swath through the post-holiday crowd of students, which is more zombie-like than usual this first week of winter semester.
“Hello, sir.” Itachi defaults to professionalism. Jiraya has talked to him maybe three times and one of those times he mistook him for Iruka, so it’s a little alarming to have him put a friendly arm around Itachi’s shoulders and gently lead him to one side of the hallway.
“An ol’ friend told me that you’re passionate about NatSec,” Jiraya’s smile is pleasant and his tone is conversational. Kakashi is the most likely traitor, although Kisame might have been strong-armed into telling the three usurpers-to-be about Itachi’s plans. “You might know that there’s a board which makes recommendations regarding senior advisory positions based on academic merit.”
Itachi stares back calmly, because of fucking course he knows. He also knows that Jiraya basically runs that board; maybe he could drop to his knees—
Jiraya studies him, then flashes him a sharp grin and goes on. “We’ll be watching with great interest.”
Fucking wonderful. He nods with a pained smile, which only makes Jiraya laugh his booming laugh and clap Itachi on the shoulder. “Good luck, Uchiha.”
asuma
>> yooooooooooooo my grandad is live streaming this departmental election
>> its fuckin MAD
Kakashi H.
>> link???
yahiHOE
>> lmao we all know danzo is going DOWN
>> (Not automatically expanded because 24MB is too large. You can expand it anyway or open in a new window).
Konan 💮
>> Thank God. @itachiuchi drinks at yours later?
asuma
>> put a link to the live in my story
>> should i be alarmed that my grandad knows how to do an instagram live and i dont
🧨 Deidara🔥
>> Yes
>> Extremely yes
Kurenai
>> LMAO WHAT?? I’m leaving you @asumasaru
Konan 💮
>> call me @kurenai ;)
Kurenai
>> 😘
Iruka
>> Did Tsunade just call him a little bitch?
Nagato (NAGA-TO)
>> I’m don’t think this complies with the departmentally approved code of conduct
yahiHOE
>> do NOT be a nag-ato in the group chat dude
Kakashi H.
>> sweat 2 god i ‘l ban him again
>> also you @yahiko ur on thin ice
Uchiha I.
>> I was not expecting Jiraya to come with actual receipts.
MIGHT(Y) GUY
>> WOW!!! HE DOES NOT SEEM LIKE A VERY STAND UP GUY
>> UNLIKE ME (THE GOOD GUY HAHA)
Nagato (NAGA-TO)
>> Oh. Fuck. This is definitely not ethical.
>> Jesus Christ.
Konan 💮
>> Orochimaru ftw calling him out for student harassment whoo
asuma
>> at this rate the university board is going to get involved???
Kakashi H.
>> we can only hop 🙏
🧨 Deidara🔥
>> Chat is this real? Is he really trying to defend his bullshit?
Kurenai
>> Holy sheeeeeeeeet this is. a lot.
>> @itachiuchi did you know about the discriminatory scholarship withholding?
Uchiha I.
>> I did not.
>> But @here drinks at mine.
>> Since it looks like I can actually afford them.
Iruka
>> Yay! So happy for you Itachi! 😊
Kakashi H.
>> :)
🧨 Deidara🔥
>> 🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
asuma
>> bringing games!
>> @kurenai winning u back
Konan 💮
>> Can’t wait to see you try ~
Nagato (NAGA-TO)
>> I’ll bring pizza.
>> :)
Uchiha I.
>> Thanks, Nagato.
yahiHOE
>> FUCK YES dj stuff too
MIGHT(Y) GUY
>> PARTY! 🪩
Itachi remembers opening the door, after which he enters a fugue state in which he can only assume he speaks to his dissertation with enough confidence and eloquence to earn the approval of the 5-to-500 people sitting in the dark auditorium behind the panel. He is vaguely aware of Kisame and Jiraya, as well as several other people of whose positions matter very, very much to Itachi but he remains unable to register that real people ten feet from him and holding his future in their hands.
Once he is done and the stream of questions ends, they send him to the prep room. The universe bursts forth and dies several times over by the time Jiraya gently opens the door.
“Dr. Uchiha.”
Itachi staggers to his feet and reaches for the outstretched hand. He’s vaguely aware of Jiraya informing him that people from parts of the government which, strictly speaking, do not exist will be in touch shortly.
In the hall, he’s greeted by Obito, Shisui and Sasuke standing together, trying desperately to hold onto expressionless masks.
Itachi beams.
Sasuke crashes into him, Obito awkwardly stuffs a half-wilted $12 bouquet from Safeway into his free hand and Shisui ruffles his hair.
“Of course you did it,” Sasuke mumbles as he pulls away, suddenly hyper-aware of his display of affection, awkwardness settling in.
But Itachi drags him back. “Can’t wait for you to go even further,” he laughs into Sasuke’s hair.
“Okay, nerds, dinner on me,” Obito shoves them towards the end of the hall, where the sun is shining gloriously on a deceptive -20ºC.
“It’s March,” Shisui points out, “why the fuck is it so cold?”
“B.C boy,” Itachi nudges him in the ribs. “Gone soft.”
“Wimpy even,” Sasuke adds.
“Uncle Madara didn’t leave you out at the Uchiha Winter Camp long enough, clearly. Gotta just build tolerance to it,” Obito chirps.
Sasuke and Itachi both desperately make motions to Obito to stop going; Shisui had been left to fend for himself for two days in the dead of winter when he was thirteen. But it’s too late—
“What’s that?” Shisui murmurs sweetly, stepping closer to Obito. “I didn’t know you had a death wish, Obito Uchiha.” Like lightning he unlatches the door and manages to get Obito face down into the nearest snowbank.
Sitting cross legged on Obito’s back, grinning, Shisui winks at Itachi and Sasuke as they step outside into the pre-spring cold of Ottawa. “I think he might be right, you just gotta build tolerance.”
“I’ll probably be dead before I can tolerate him,” Sasuke nods to Obito, spitting snow and trying to shove Shisui off.
Itachi tips his head to the infinite blue, lets his euphoria drag him all the up to the stratosphere, lets himself dissolve, lets himself become everything—
It’s just another day; but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy it for everything it is and everything he can be.
Obito and Shisui are still scuffling, more fight than play. Sasuke watches him quizzically.
“You okay, Itachi?”
The world snaps pleasantly back into place. Itachi nods. “Yeah.” He tugs on one of the lapels of Sasuke’s coat. “Come on, let's go get donair.”