verrottweil:

Uchiha clan aesthetics:

• Mikoto folds her hands and greets the clan elders with a formal bow. It’s an evening for hushed whispers and doors that are almost jealously closed. Through the shoji paper reflects the orange light of the irori and the darkened silhouettes of the men sitting around it, cross-legged. Above the dying embers in the sunken hearth, they stare at each other with red-dyed eyes and speak the red-dyed words of honor and treason. It is only when Mikoto quietly slides the door open and sits down next to her husband that the anger they’ve harbored reveals itself, the intensity like a storm wind against the household framework. At the far end of the hallway, two young boys try to fall asleep, one more easily than the other.
• Shisui casually leans against the doorframe, watching with wide unblinking eyes how Itachi zips up his sandals. There’s a barrage of footsteps resounding over the floorboards, accompanied by the boundless excitement in a child’s voice. Ni-san ni-san. His lips curve into an apologetic smile when Itachi has to cut the excitement short. They’re going on an important mission, he reminds himself as Sasuke’s face falls, crestfallen. I’m sorry but I’m going to borrow your brother for a bit. It’s the first in a string of apologies the boy will come to hear.
• Sasuke gets piggybacked home by his older brother, almost unable to keep his eyes open. I tried, ni-san. His voice betrays his exhaustion, the tone meek and soft from the smoke and fire he couldn’t yet breathe. Itachi tilts his head back and smiles, but the tilt of his lips has an almost solemn quality, a solemn quality that could be easily mistaken for sadness. I know, Sasuke. Wind breezes through the reeds aside the lake, the sun starts to set on the backdrop of the horizon. Back at home, their mother waits to scold them for being late to dinner.
  
• Fugaku frowns as he reads through the various reports, fully aware that somewhere across the village someone is surveying him, scrutinizing his every movement. In the ashtray on top of his desk, a cigarette is burning out to the filter, the smoke floating upwards to the ceiling of his office, the open doorway blurred but not obscured. It’s way past supper, with the sky outside having already turned dark. His police force vest hangs over the backrest of his chair. He takes a deep breath and rereads the last sentence, but the words don’t make much sense, reduced to meaninglessness as his mind wanders to the fate of his clan.
• Izumi doesn’t care her pale pink yukata is soaked through from the rain, that the split opened to display more of her legs than is supposed to be seemly. Rain clatters loudly on the wooden awning. She looks up at Itachi who is staring impassively at the downpour, with the strands of his bangs plastered to his wet face. It was his thirteenth birthday three days ago and she offered to treat him to dango. He hasn’t smiled in such a long time. I’m sorry. He clenches his fist. You shouldn’t be. It almost goes unheard due to the rainfall.
• Itachi sharpens the blade of his ANBU-issued katana with a black wetstone, seated cross-legged on his futon. His room smells of metal and sword oil, of parchment and ever-so-faintly of the orchids in a vase on his dresser. There’s a stone in the pit of his stomach, heavy, a thief of his appetite. Morning sunlight filters through the shoji paper of his bedroom wall, casts a silver beam on the floorboards. Footsteps resound softly outside, the framework of the door cuts the figure apart in neat boxes. His little brother sleepily pushes open the door. Ni-san, do you want to help me train today? Guilt flickers across his face, his index finger twitches voluntarily. You’re too busy, right? 
• Sasuke forgive me.