The clan head’s house is traditional, large, and impeccably kept.
Miyu is led to the low table where she offers a deep bow, and takes her seat beside Itachi. Sasuke sits opposite him, and before Miyu the matriarch sits. Her makeup has been done artfully, highlighting her timeless beauty.
The woman’s kimono is one of the most exquisite things Miyu has ever seen. Rich purple silk accented with deep red intricacies. The sleeves are long and luxurious, and the cut of it is undoubtedly expensive.
Miyu struggles not to feel washed out and plain before such opulence.
“Good evening,” Uchiha Fugaku breaks the silence from where he is seated to Miyu’s right, at the head of the table.
“Good evening,” Miyu bows her head briefly, glad that she doesn’t sound as intimidated as she feels.
“I trust you had no issues finding your way here?” Uchiha Mikoto is smiling, but her eyes are cold.
“Not at all,” Miyu mirrors the expression directed at her, “your guide was very accommodating. Thank you for having me.”
“It is our pleasure.” The word drips with poison.
Miyu refuses to fidget as their trays are set before them. She allows herself only a moment to remember the order in which to eat. She’s done this a few times back in the early days of her time at the Okiya, when she was still receiving geisha training with Nanami.
Kaiseki was an expense that Mother typically preferred clientele to cover, so while Nanami was well practiced in the art of fine dining, Miyu isn’t.
She doesn’t need prior experience to know this spread is expensive. The appetizer sits beside three different types of sashimi and an array of seasonal vegetables. In the centre of the table sits grilled snow-crab, hot-pot with some kind of fish, an array of various meats, and soup.
It’s all displayed beautifully, with an elegance befitting of the head of this noble clan.
“We gratefully receive this meal,” says Uchiha Fugaku, voice low and deep.
The rest of the table repeats it, and they begin to eat.
“So,” Uchiha Mikoto’s dark eyes sweep the table, briefly before darting up to Miyu’s face, “we have heard that you teach at the shogi school, Sugawara-san.”
Miyu waits a beat to see if the woman is going to add anything before she responds with, “Yes, I teach the younger children.”
“Ah,” Mikoto nods, and after taking a delicate bite of sashimi says, “you must be talented.”
Unsure what angle to approach from, Miyu tries to stop herself overthinking. This is another game of sorts. She needs to treat it the same way she treats unplayed opponents.
“She is,” it’s Sasuke that speaks up, not shifting his gaze from the plate before him. “She’s the best player in the elemental nations.”
Deciding to eat a small mouthful of rice instead of address the topic, Miyu wonders why Itachi has barely seemed to breathe beside her.
“You play in official tournaments?” the matriarch raises her perfect brows, and sips delicately from a glass of water.
“Yes,” Miyu responds blandly.
“Ah… and how do you make money, as a shogi champion?”
Miyu only blinks at the unassuming tone.
“I receive a stipend from the shogi association alongside prize money at every tournament.” She divulges before taking a sip of the rather exquisite tea.
“And should you fail to win a tournament, this income would disappear?”
Miyu’s neutral expression is polite. It helps her gain distance from the unease stirring in her chest.
“It would,” she confirms.
“Interesting,” says the Uchiha matriarch with a barbed smile. “That would be such a terrible shame for you. I can’t imagine the lengths you’d go to secure a stable future for yourself.”
Miyu continues eating as though the entire family isn’t analysing her every micro-reaction.
“I do not worry about my financial situation, Uchiha-sama,” she says evenly, and pointedly doesn’t look to Itachi’s silent form.
“Oh?” The woman looks intrigued, but Miyu offers no more information.
Let her ask.
The clan head clears his throat, and wisely changes topics to the state of trade in the village and the effects of the new Daimyo’s tax regime.
“The weapons tax is getting ridiculous,” Sasuke speaks up for the first time since he greeted her. “Namikaze-sama must be getting frustrated.”
“Perhaps,” Mikoto says, turning her eyes to Miyu, “and what do you think of the Daimyo?”
Taking a careful sip of tea, Miyu meets the woman’s predatory gaze evenly.
“It’s hard to say,” she smiles politely and hopes it’s not too sharp, “he’s younger than the late Daimyo. It’s rather too soon to make anything of him.”
He’s young, foolish. Has not yet done anything of note, and may not be around long enough to accomplish a single thing.
A slow smile spreads on the painted lips of the matriarch and Miyu keeps herself steady under those sharp, dangerous eyes.
“A very diplomatic assessment,” Fugaku grunts, “I believe he will face much opposition soon. There are a few industries that may soon face collapse under pressure from his regime.”
“Probably the arts,” Sasuke says, sighing, “but I hear land tax is skyrocketing.”
“And your thoughts, Sugawara-san?” Mikoto draws her into the fold again.
“The possibility of Fire facing an economic crisis soon is very real,” Miyu agrees mildly.
“You are educated on the economy?” The matriarch questions, and if Miyu hadn’t seen Nanami feign innocence with the same finesse, Mikoto might have had a chance of appearing genuinely surprised, “I thought you just worked in an Okiya, dear.”
Miyu indulges in just one, slow blink.
Of course this woman has done her research.
“I managed the financials,” she hopes she manages keeps the dryness out of her tone, “as well as the correspondence and inventory.”
The woman blinks and Miyu thinks she may have actually surprised her, but she wouldn’t bet on it.
“I’m rather lucky my own investments do not rely on just one trade,” she holds tight to the urge to gloat, and keeps her voice soft and unassuming, “an old friend once told me to never keep my eggs in one basket.”
The woman opposite her narrows her eyes just a fraction, and Miyu’s heart almost stops. She’s hasn’t felt terror this real since the night of the fire, since she realised she was trapped with black smoke rising around her ankles and –
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Taking a slow, steady breath, she pushes it down. Hides it beneath her careful, practiced smile, the smooth motion of reaching for her teacup again, the rustle of her sleeves as she moves.
It eases off so sharply she almost gasps.
She doesn’t, though. Only sips at her tea, and lowers her gaze, hoping that her hand doesn’t tremble as she sets the cup back down.
Itachi is so still beside her he could be a statue. His eyes are locked to his untouched tray, and if it wouldn’t draw attention, she’d reach out to him.
But here, with three pairs of overly observant eyes on her, she settles for keeping calm and taking this interrogation in stride. It’s the only way she knows how to show them she’s not what they think she is.
“Investments?” Mikoto continues as though her eyes hadn’t just made Miyu feel like she was about to die.
“Yes,” Miyu doesn’t intend to be inflammatory, but she thinks the slight cock to her head when she asks, “are clans familiar with it?” might just set the woman’s blood alight.
The matriarch’s smile is tight.
“We have no need for them,” she says, because rubbing their generational wealth in Miyu’s face seems to make her feel like they’re even, “but yes, we are familiar.”
Again, Miyu doesn’t elaborate on her own business despite the expectant look Mikoto is giving her.
But Miyu won’t do what they want her to do. Refuses to let them push her around. Can’t let them have any more control in this situation where it’s blatantly obvious that they hold all the power.
She may be worthless to these ninja, with ancestors that co-founded the village whose walls protect them even as they sit around this traditional dinner table. But she won’t let anyone dictate her next move.
Sasuke is the first to turn his gaze from her, and she reads something like an apology in his body language.
“Stop this, Mikoto,” Fugaku’s voice is low, “let us end dinner in peace.”
Miyu watches as the matriarch turns her steely gaze to the clan head. They have a battle with just their eyes, and she’s so focused on observing them that she almost starts when Mikoto speaks.
“Just one more thing, Sugawara-san.”
Husband and wife are still locked in a staring competition.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
Miyu stays still, hands folded in her lap as those dark, heavy eyes land on her again.
“Because it seems to me that a woman with nothing,” she grits her teeth around the word, “is aiming higher than her station. Threatening the stability and legacy of an ancient clan. Trying to usurp the rightful matriarch-”
“Enough.”
Itachi’s voice is so cold Miyu almost flinches. His mother does, even as her jaw snaps shut and clenches.
The heavy silence doesn’t get any lighter.
“Thank you for the meal,” Miyu says, proud that her voice maintains the same level of polite calm despite the swiftly rising tension in the room. Of course, she can’t leave without retaliating to accusations that she never got the chance to defend herself against.
“You have honoured me with your hospitality.”
She pushes back from the table, bows low, and then stands gracefully and leaves the room with the family still sitting very, very still.
It feels as though she’s walking away from a shogi board mid-game, just as she was gaining the upper hand.
Incomplete.
She lets herself out and barely makes it ten steps from the front door before Shisui appears suddenly beside her.
Strung tight as she is, she jolts and almost stumbles, but doesn’t scream. It’s an improvement.
“How did it go?” he asks with an easy smile that doesn’t reach his observant eyes.
Miyu presses her lips together and chooses not to comment. He wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t felt she sharp spike in tension that had made her feel like she was going to die in that dining room.
“That bad, huh?”
Miyu keeps quiet, breathing a little easier as they step outside the compound’s gates.
“It was a pleasant evening,” she says after too long a gap.
Shisui barks out a laugh, running his good hand through his wild hair as he slants her a fond look.
“Ever the diplomat, Miyu-chan. It’s alright. You can be honest.”
Her jaw clenches involuntarily and it takes her a moment to school her expression again.
“I was offered the finest hospitality by the Uchiha clan head and his honourable matriarch.” She says, unable to smooth the stiffness out of her tone.
Shisui’s smile drops.
“Miyu-”
He cuts himself off, head whipping to the road ahead of them, and Miyu follows his gaze as it lands on –
Itachi.
“I, uh. I just remembered I need to water my plants. Bye.”
And Shisui disappears in a flash.
Miyu continues walking, not stopping even as she reaches Itachi. He falls into step alongside her, silent and brooding.
When she enters her apartment, he steps in behind her.
She goes into her room, and then into her ensuite, without sparing a glance for where he remains standing in the entrance.
She brushes her teeth and washes her face. Decides to take a quick shower, and dresses in her pastel yellow sleep yukata.
When she exits her room, Itachi is leaning against the back of her couch, arms crossed and brow furrowed as he stares at the row of barstools opposite him.
“I’m sorry,” his voice is so soft she has to strain to hear it even in the silence of her apartment.
Miyu says nothing, waiting.
“I allowed her free reign to ask you anything.”
Ah. Of course he did.
“I didn’t know she was going to do that.” His nostrils flare briefly, jaw clenching as he visibly reigns in his anger.
“I should have spoken up sooner. I’m sorry, Miyu.”
She takes in a deep breath, and when she exhales, she lets go of her anger at being put on the spot without any assistance.
He continues speaking, voice low and without inflection, “I understand if you’re angry.”
Really.
Miyu swallows down the surge of indignation and runs a hand through her loose hair, “I’m a little tired of having to prove to everyone that I’m not some-”
She takes another slow breath and releases it sharply. “Some homewrecker – clan-wrecker, whatever.”
He hasn’t shifted his stare from the stools.
“I am the clan heir,” he says it monotonously, “I cannot change that.”
Miyu presses her lips together, and then says, “I know.”
“My family has made it clear that they will not make this easy.”
She almost laughs at that.
“I believe it may be best to continue our friendship at its existing pace.”
Miyu blinks once. Twice. Struggles desperately to hang on to her composure as he pushes off the couch and turns his back to her.
“What.” The word is flat, even as she feels her panic rising with every step he takes towards the door, “Itachi, wait-”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, and he’s still ignoring her, damn it -
“Please-” she takes a step after him, suddenly desperately afraid that he’ll leave and never return.
Still, he keeps walking.
“Look at me!” Her voice raises and cracks, and she’s shaking – with anger and frustration and want, all the things she never lets herself show.
His back stiffens at the sound of her shout, and she watches as he turns slowly, entire body poised to blur into motion at a moment’s notice.
“I’m so tired,” she’s crying, she realises, eyes stinging and sight blurring as she forces the words out of her too-tight throat.
“Miyu…”
His voice is soft as he steps closer, like he hasn’t just told her that they’ll have to continue this stupid game forever, skirting around the topic like it’s not glaringly obvious every time they’re in each other’s vicinity.
“I hate this – that you – you keep me in the dark,” she has to pause, breathe around the hitch in her tone, “I feel like I’m blindly fumbling like a fool, wondering at your every action.”
Her tears feel hot against her skin, and her gaze falls to the floor between them.
“I don’t know what your plan is, whether this is just some kind of game I haven’t been aware that we were playing.”
Miyu swallows against the strain of her voice, and takes a step until they’re close enough that she has to look up to meet his eye.
“I’ve had enough,” she rasps, tone wavering as she reaches out slowly, “of pretending I don’t want this.”
She knows he’s aware of her every move, that he can probably hear the beating of her heart, smell the salt of her tears.
But he remains in place as her hand curls into the collar of his stupid clan shirt.
Lets her pull him down until their faces are inches apart.
“I don’t care about your clan.” Her breath ghosts over his lips, hand shaking as it fists tighter, no doubt uncomfortable for him now.
“I don’t – I don’t want their money.” Her voice is quivering but she tries to convey how much she means this. “I don’t want their power or their protection.”
She watches his pupils as they dilate, and knows hers are doing the same. Feels her breath hitch, even as she raises herself up on her toes.
Her lips skim the corner of his mouth, and she shuts her eyes as she murmurs –
“I want you, Itachi.”
And then he shifts, and Miyu makes a small, choked sound as their lips meet.
He tastes like green tea and dango, a spark igniting the countless doubts in her mind, burning them away to nothing in a single moment.
Miyu knows she’s got no hope here.
Because kissing Itachi? It makes the tears on her cheeks tingle, and the feel of his tongue against hers and cool, calloused hands at her face sends her stomach swooping.
She’s warm, alive, out of control but not without control, and immediately she knows this will become a vice because how could it possibly not?
His hands are on her, one woven into her hair now as the other settles on her ass to hold her against his firm chest. Knees unsteady, her fingers thread into his hair, gripping hard as she presses herself against him with a moan.
She squeaks against his mouth as he hoists her up by the single hand under her ass, her legs hurrying to wrap around his waist as her back meets the wall.
He pulls away just far enough to meet her glassy gaze.
“You have no idea,” gods, she can feel his breath fanning against her lips, “how much I want you.”
His eyes are dark and beautiful and focused so intently. On her.
“Itachi-”
She’s cut off by the blare of a siren – an alarm, she realises with rising dread as it echoes through the streets of the village.
Itachi sets her down swiftly, face suddenly grave as he looks out the balcony doors with a frown.
“What-”
“Stay here,” he says, Sharingan activating as makes a few hand signs. A katana pops into existence and he straps it to his back with swift, practiced movements. In the dark of her apartment his eyes glow red.
“Itachi, what-”
“Please,” he steps towards, leans in, and captures her lips with his for one desperate second before he pulls away. “Say inside. I have to go.”
And between one blink and the next, Itachi disappears.
