[ LOG ]

[crimson_prose]

Who: Akasun Sasori (this-mannequin) and Uchiha Itachi (crimson-prose)
Where: Sasori's apartment complex.
When: May 25.
What: Itachi - listless, hopeless, proverbially homeless and soaking wet - arrives at Sasori's apartment with bad intentions and worser ailments. Sasori is a decent friend about it, if a very alienated one.
Warnings: To be added as things progress

Comments

[crimson_prose]

Itachi neither looks up, nor does he say anything - not at first and not for a while. He is studying the patterns his wet is making on the floor. The puddle that's collecting at his feet reflect a pattern of intricate lighting - like an oil painting - and the black-black-black of his hair, of his eyes, of his outfit, of his shadow. His has neither will nor way to explore his reasons for having come here. He does not stubbornly remain, having been turned out (even if he could've cleaned the stains of his blood from the carpet fibers better, he would tell himself, if he were in the mood. But Itachi is no mood - not in a bad mood, not in a good mood; his mood is non-existant, unimportant, completely negligible, and that isn't humbleness because Itachi has never been humble, does not understand the meaning of the word. Itachi has always braved every compliment, every hardship with a depraved indifference, the one that's just shattered beneath him on the floor. What he can't possibly know is that Sasori left it behind simply to irk him, simply to- "You're so weak, Uchiha." And the real problem is-)

He looks up into his face, studies his miniature outline.

(-Sasori is never wrong.)

Red hair - it's rusty in it's colour, like ocher, like death - and Itachi's eyes measure the way it falls around his ovalene, perfect-perfect face, and his bright perfect-perfect eyes that match his pale perfect-perfect skin. (Sasori is ever-flawless. Ever-perfect.) Itachi is unaware of his own appearance, unaware of anything. (Everything.) Sasori has always been perfect. (They have always been parallels. Similar. "This is what you would look like wearing me. This is what I would look like wearing-") He studies him and the rain is hard on the high, wide windows.

(Suicide jumper-)

He has nothing to say.

No words come to mind.

He's a perfect blank.

(And makes no sound.)