It was apparently nighttime.

Anko was asleep beside him, so he carefully sat up, found the wall, and leaned on it. Keeping their fingers interlocked, Itsuki shifted into a lotus position and closed his eyes.

He hears. Wind breezing in from the open window, the whistling of the leaves and the chirp of crickets. If he strained, he could hear the rolls of a gurney, the indecipherable whispers of nurses and doctors.

He smells. The waft of petrichor, of soil and earth and summer. Fresh fruit on the trees-- was that a persimmon tree? The numbing waft of medicine and oils dominated his senses, and he frowns in distaste. Anko smelled lightly of sweat, with a hint of pumpkin spice.

He's been holding her hand for the entire day because he wouldn't let go.

But who could blame him? Being blind was a frightening thing.

So he breathes in-- breathes out-- and sinks into himself.

—

It comes naturally to him. Close off your mind-- and imagine yourself in a body of water. He reminds himself of the sequence Inoichi-san had guided the assassination division through, as a form of therapy.

He takes a deep breath, pulls into a nosedive-- and goes in further.

He stands up in his mindscape-- and hesitantly, opens his eyes.

Colours fill his vision, and light filters through his eyes. He takes a shaky breath, almost emotional at the thought of colours and being able to see.

It's just as he remembers-- a traditional Japanese Manor, with full wooden flooring lining the polished dojo. From the door he could see a Zen Garden furnished grandly, yet he's never tried going outside.

It's same old, same old.

After every mission, Itsuki was required to sit down in the dojo of his mindscape, kneeling on his knees, swords on either side of him as he meditates.

He would listen to the rhythmical, clear clang of the shishi-odoshi. He would immerse himself in the noise of the timely bamboo hammer, and compose himself from the strain and anxiety of the mission.

Except, this time, instead of mediation, he kneels down and just sobs.

He's done this a few times too. In future, when his teammates die, or they leave someone behind to fend for themselves. It was that kind of work, after all. He came here when Hiruzen died too, because here he had privacy.

There was a reason why the ANBU were outwardly unemotional.

Itsuki looks over himself again.

To his much too tiny hands, to his uncomfortable thin wrists, to his skinny arms and beansprout limbs and-- and yeah, what the fuck is going on?

His own chakra is white to him. A weak orb swirling nervously inside his veins, stemming from his heart yet flickering so bashfully he should be ashamed at the weakness it exuded.

Underdeveloped. Untrained.

"Oh god-- " he whispers to himself, "why time travel?"

Let's put aside the fact that it's possible-- holy hell it's possible-- but why him?

Why not-- Why not Tsunade-sama? Or, or that jinchuuriki everyone's buying time for, Naruto? Or even Kakashi-niisan or the other Kages, (fuck, Shikaku-san and Inoichi-san just died, didn't they? They would've been perfect for this job) or... or just someone, anyone else would've made a better candidate to send back in time. Whoever was planning this bullshit really didn't think things through, did they?

Itsuki's not too sure when he started laughing, but he clumsily brushes his hands through the tears and cries out as much as his ten or eleven-year-old body let him.

He was never one to be so expressive.

Maybe the age regression actually did something to his psyche, because he's pretty sure he cried less when all his fingers were broken one by one.

—

He lifts his head to the sign framed high on the front wall of the dojo. In neat, calligraphy brush strokes-- the kanji for Perseverance 忍, the accompaniment of Words 言.

認

"Discern," he reads it.

He scoffs, because that's just ironic.

He stands up, and wipes his tears away one last time. His breathing is much smoother now, though his eyes feel raw from the tears and his head hurts from all the crying.

To perceive, to recognize. To persevere as a Shinobi.

It's never different. These were the words that pulled him onward in life, he would read it over and over again to remind himself what exactly he could do, how, and why. It was a motto that meant enough to him that it shows up in his mindscape, framed and hung high.

He slaps himself in both cheeks, and with renewed resolve, he jerks out of his mindscape.

—

The first thing he attempts is to shakily let go of Anko's hand.

He fights the darkness that threatens to swallow him, and his hands close in front of him like a prayer, fingers interlocked.

Right thumb over left, because this wasn't a hand seal.

(It was a habit. His mother, who he barely remembers the face of, had always done this when she taught him chakra sensory. It always helped her focus-- it helped him, too.)

He takes a deep breath.

His chakra swirls like an orb-- dancing gently like flames, he extends.

And he senses it clearly.

Before him, Anko is a gentle wave, calm and undisturbed. Strong and unfaltering. Outside, a myriad of nurses and doctors are calm and their signatures are thick and strong.

His shoulders are tense as he tries to reach further, but a sharp pound begins to in his head and he gives up, tired from the exertion. His chakra shrinks back into its portal in his chest, and he finds himself shrinking back into the eating hollows.

He parts his hands, and sighs.

Reaching down and feeling around the sheets, he finds Anko's hand and wraps his own around it, smiling at the little warmth as Anko's body snuggles closer.

His sensory skills are back to shit, that sucks. And now, he's blind to top it off. As if training isn't hard enough already, every cell inside him fears the immediate future.

What if his Genin rank got revoked for this? What if he was told he couldn't become a ninja anymore?

But Dan is alive, he remembers.

And Orochimaru is his teacher.

What if he, if even just him, could change things for the better?

Itsuki thinks it sounds ridiculous. What could a blind ANBU grunt like him do? Save the world? Pfft, as if.

If he was eleven now, he didn't even have half the things and skills that earned him his place as an ANBU at all.

This was all such a pain in the ass!

Itsuki lay down beside the girl, reaching for the sheets and covering them fully.

Leaning his forehead dearly into their interlocked hands-- for now, there really isn't anything else he wants to do.