Crossing Boundaries
Title: Crossing Boundaries
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance
Summary: What comes out in a mere session of hair tying?
A/N: Shisui's POV. About his feelings towards Itachi and Itachi's constant distance. What comes out in a mere session of hair tying? A favour to be delivered, a response to be received? Slightly poetic.
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I could've stared at him for one full hour, one whole day, keeping my gaze locked on that small frame for all of my life. Steady and well-controlled movements, slow at times and yet swift at others, as if even his subconscious state was being trained to the point of precise perfection. Those movements, graceful and elegant, slim fingers enclosing around the adjoining ends of wooden teeth and combing it through a veil of earthly black hair. Movements like these, dreamlike, somewhat hypnotic and yet, they never cease to awestruck me.
Thin fingers from petite hands ran nimbly through the waterfall of hair, unruffling and trailing the straight tendrils. A contrast to his fair and translucent skin, slightly sallow due to the lack of proper nutrition and an unconstant diet. A small and fragile frame, protruding collarbones, and the rare, sharpened chin of a child looking years over his age, kneeling on the wooden floorboards against his brittle kneecaps. After what felt like hours, the pale child reached towards the floor, thumb and forefinger closing around a red twine.
"Itachi.." I began chokingly, regretting my decision of breaking the serene silence with my unpolished voice. "May I- do that for you?"
Eyes that were previously staring blankly at the pine floorboards shifted in my direction, aimed into my very own eyes. The heat crawled up the nape of my neck, and I don't know what kind of a wretched look I'm wearing across my face at this point. His eyes gazed into mine, genetically black pupils, lazy eyelids dividing it into halves, shadowed by luxurious eyelashes. Itachi's face is plastered with his usual apathetic expression, unreadable emotions and intentions.
"Why did you offer such a thing?" my subconscious state screamed at the back of my mind, possibly due to the fear of aggravating the youth or receiving his rejection. "This isn't the first time you try to engage in any form of contact. You know it, its the blatant 'Hands Off Me', and nobody should try even as a suicidal attempt to lay any form of contact on him."
Itachi is still staring at me, fingers pinching away instinctively at the red cord. He's either going to ignore me and turn away as if nothing happened or if he's nice, probably say something like "No thank you."
Which is why his response startled me, no, shocked me and nearly shortened my lifespan by a year. His voice, low in its tone and yet with the unmistakable pitch of a child.
"Okay."
The simplicity of that reply, allowing, welcoming, possibly opening up from his shell of confinement, and yet I can almost feel the prideful sense of achievement, as though progress is unfolding in great leaps.
Rather clumsily and plausibly appearing ridiculous like a toddler taking his first few steps, I got onto my foot and walked behind the solemn child, descending to my knees and stretching out my uncertain hands to take hold of those ashy-black locks.
Itachi wasn't perturbed in the least, which is pretty astounding. Nevertheless, I started to stream my lightly tanned fingers through his hair. Silky. Lustrous. Long, and yet, thin. Is he distressed in some way or other? The delicate and refine strands, the gossamer feel of his celestial hair, tempting and enticing. Tempting to the point where I could almost feel the irresistible urge tightening in my chest, the impulsive desire to bring up a lock of that ethereal hair and inhale into it, the scent of nature and it's blossoming clouding sensory neurons. It would've put silk-woven kimonos to shame, those exquisite masterpieces I tested against with my skin when mother's still around. I would bury my face into her abdomen, rubbing against the silk and appreciating the comforting contact, the perfume scents of rose and lavender saturated in the fibers of the kimono. Feeling the dark strands of Itachi's hair against my fingers, it's unbelievable that anything would've been dearer than silk itself.
I just want to take a small whiff of his hair, and I'd call it a day.
Itachi, still and unmoving, head inches below my eye level. His expression will be inapprehensible, even if he faced me. I figured that I've been combing through his hair incessantly for the past few seconds, and it is amazing that Itachi is still patiently positioned, undistressed. Can it be, that he was actually- enjoying the moment? Of course, I've heard that hair combing equals to head massaging, with therapeutic purposes, aiming to calm and relax the nerves of the receiver. However- this is Itachi we're talking about. Itachi and excessive touching do not correspond harmoniously.
Still, I didn't want to give up on the contact just as yet. Racking my brains for an excuse, I decided to start up a conversation as a distraction.
"Sa.. Itachi. Everything about you is neat and formal. The only thing that pretty much stands out from your business-like features is the length of your hair. Cropping it will make you look much more, um, modest! Ha, ha, ha.."
And I totally failed terribly at the conversation, specifically the dubious laugh that ended the sentence, because I felt the kid in front of me tense up, his relaxed neck jerking into a stiff posture and his back muscles tightening rigidly.
"If you feel that the tying of hair is a chore, I can always do it myself." was the cold reply.
Crap. What've I gotten myself into? My impulsive and blunt opinions just go on and on when I evolve into a nervous wreck.
"Aa! I-I mean.. I'm just commenting about the length of your hair! Maybe you should, um, cut it a wee bit shorter! I mean, the last time you cut it, was a really long time ago is't it? Four years, I suppose?" I stammered like a desperado, in a hopeless attempt to save the conversation, as well as keeping the miraculously open door from Itachi that allowed me to go about groping away at his usually intangible hair.
"I will cut it when I need to. Thank you for the kind reminder." he said in a monotone.
The conversation ended and the atmosphere descended into another round of unnerving silence. I could've slapped myself silly for the luck I was receiving from the heavens. Another miracle. I absolutely expected Itachi to pull away, get on his feet and glare down at me with killer intent, probably razing off my fuzzy hairs with a kunai.
Its wise to just shut up for now. Don't you let this opportunity slip.
Downward swipes of the wooden comb, parting the ashy locks and releasing the fragrant, voluptuous scent from behind the curtain of outer strands. The fragrance wafted into my nostrils, and I couldn't help feeling overwhelmed by it, the urge of closing the distance between hair and nose heightening at an insuppressible rate.
Just a brief moment wouldn't matter. Just do it quickly, he will not notice it. You're a skilled shinobi too, aren't you? Why are you called Shunshin no Shisui?
Doubts were vanquished by my overpowered enchantment, the gap between the lock of hair in my hand and my nose disappeared, what I knew of is that Itachi was waiting for a favour to be delivered while I, dropping my responsibility due to curiousity and crossing boundaries, invading the taciturn boy's carefully drawn lines.
The movement from the younger boy, elegant once more, his hand moving behind his head, slow, steady and yet frightening like a phantom. They didn't stop reaching, until his fingertips of small surface areas got into contact with the side of my face, and his fingers lingered there, contemplating what to do next. His face is still facing the front, the position of his head unchanged. The feeling of vigorous pounding increased in its intensity behind my ribcage. My mind swirled away in a mad vortex. Why isn't he turning around to say anything? To punish me, slap me, whatever. And yet, he's just simply leaving his hand on my face, torturing me with this ghostly suspense.
The light fingers on my cheek were hesitant and barely existent, as if merely hovering and taking an uncertain landing. When I decided the climax of awkwardness in this situation and reluctantly released the clump of hair in my hand, the cool hands on my face phased from an unaltered position to an abrupt grasping, pulling my face eagerly into the back of his head.
I could only stare straight ahead, wide-eyed, nose and lips buried in the ripples of his dark hair.
Another round of silence and stillness. I couldn't find anything in my mind to voice out and splinter this perplexing silence. Here I am, sitting in the Uchiha dojo alone with Itachi. Itachi, a distant cousin, a relative two years my junior. My cousin and bestfriend, and yet there are so many things so inexplicable about him. Me, my hands, clasped around Itachi's forbidden locks, and he, embracing my face with his slender fingers. Itachi, reticent and a loner by choice, is now allowing me to intrude into one of the territorial barriers he painstakingly set up. Opening a gate and letting me into one of his comfort zones.
"Where did you left off at, Shisui?" Itachi's voice is soft, illusory and musical, a childlike imploring, with an unfathomable undertone of contentment in it.
An open invitation. Should I even hesitate or hold back any longer?
I felt my eyelids slipping shut, fingers fisting into his hair as I pulled him closer, inhaling unabashedly into the lascivious threads of silk, strands prancing against my lips. Itachi's fingers drew into my face, fingers splayed out, thumb centimeters away from my closed eyes, a finger under my jawbone and another under the back of my ear. His scent is pleasantly lulling, light-headedness starting to seep into my consciousness.
Itachi. Typical Itachi. Reserved, intricate and distant, yet so enamoring, so alluring, his furtiveness instinctively drawing you in, undeniable and unscrutable.
This is the furthest I can get. But for now, this is enough.
This is enough.
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Did this in the hours of the morning, 4am. To be precise. I hope that it's passable.