Smut Log, Part 2/4
WHO: Uchiha Itachi (insultthedevil) and Uchiha Shisui (terminalmadness)
WHAT: Itachi comes back from his first meeting with Gaara, Shisui scouts him out, and then they have sex, as well as go through pretty much their life story's worth of memories.
WHERE: Akatsuki castle, first on the grounds, then in Itachi's bed room. (In memories, Christ, they're all over the place.)
WARNINGS: Erm, Yaoi. Oral, Anal, 69. Incest. In the memories? Graphic descriptions of giving and recieving piercings and tattoos, bondage, graphic descriptions of suicide and self abuse, ItaSasu, ShiSasu, death, angst, EXTREMELY LONG SEX (80 FUCKING PAGES)and mine and Stacie's general ability to make sex pretty without using euphemisms.
--
He feels the heat rise to his cheeks as his cousin dips between his thighs, kissing at the (-scarred, skin twisted, mauled, burned, cut, tattooed- and for all those times Itachi had walked in to see him crying, bleeding, scalded, unconscious- for every time their lives ended a little bit more there is-) flesh so religiously kept covered, kept away from a world with prying eyes and easy judgments. (-A scar.)
Good things die all the time.
(Itachi sounds too beautiful when he moans Shisui's name that way. The way he did when they were younger, when Shisui wasn't coated with scars or bruises all the time and after school he and Itachi could shut themselves in the room they'd found in the Manor, with the books and the bed they'd hauled in from the guest bedroom. When Shisui'd kiss every aspect of Itachi and strip away every layer of him until Itachi was a writhing body beneath him and Shisui had him completely.
"-Oh god, Shisui!")
God bless your heart.
Shisui's hair clings to his shoulders, and the audible heartbeat echoes with a word from the mantra inked permanently into Shisui's back. (Though neither of them really hears it. Shisui listens to Itachi's lips, he listens to the way they touch him and he listens to the words that form, and he doesn't know what Itachi is listening to, but it doesn't matter, because even if Itachi doesn't listen now-
(Which he is.)
… He listens to Shisui always.)
A shudder and he can feel the burning heat inside of him. (The boiling water he scalded himself with so many times? Or perhaps Shisui has his own fire.) Though such seems out of place. (Much too hot. Much too angry. Shisui is neither of these things. His words are distant, in a warm way, and his anger doesn't surface.)
It has drowned.
"…my cousin…my Itachi…"
(Mine.
And I will never leave you alone again.)
Vengeance is mine.
(The sky is falling, a piece at a time, and Itachi is transfixed on the sight above him, the clouds that invade the expanse of pearl blue in crosshatches, staining it an almost ethereal black and gray. The essence of fall is fading, slowly, leaving summer at its back and welcoming the chill and ache of winter. Itachi hates it.
He lays spread out on the field, the grass whipping around his still form as the wind commandeers the air around him. A sigh flees his lips, and he isn’t the least bit surprised when a body takes the place beside his own, the heat of the other soaking into his skin. Shisui curls up to his side, his eyes closed, for they both know that their summers are becoming less and less, and soon there will be no more. And they mourn the loss of something so dear to them.
Rarely does it snow in their country, for its name contradicts the concept of such a thing, but the cold of winter is adequate to them, and the absence of snow is nearly enough to have them wishing for it. They suffer the cold but do not get the snow in return. Unfair to them, but years from now, they won’t even remember how the seasons had cheated them.
“Shisui,” he whispers in a flat voice, eyes shifting to the form beside him, and he turns, folding their bodies together with his arm wrapped around the other’s waist. “Don’t ever leave me.”
But nothing can be helped. Shisui replies with a weak smile.)
Moaning softly against his skin, Itachi levels his eyes with his cousin’s, listening to the gentle beat of his heart. Slowly, he trails his lips across his thigh, fingers sliding and gripping the juncture of his knees, not moving them apart but rather keeping them in place. He kisses every inch of Shisui that he can get to, savoring the taste of him, taking his time reaching the aching spot between Shisui’s legs.
(At one point, Itachi had wondered of the wrongness of the fire that thrived between him and Shisui, doubting the possibilities of the relationship he truly wanted. The curiosity hadn’t lingered long, evaporating each time he glimpsed Shisui’s naked body, whether it be in the bath or of his cousin’s own free will. Then, all he felt was the overpowering urge to take him, claim him, make him his. It worked itself out in the strangest of ways, but after a while, Itachi never found himself caring.)
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, the exertion of his inner struggle to move unheedingly of his own desires taking its toll. Then, he caresses Shisui, a calm kissing that transpires into licking, his tongue falling to trace patterns into hardened flesh. Itachi does not divert his heated gaze from his cousin’s, lusting for the contact of Shisui’s eyes with his, the warped way his stomach tightens with arousal completely disregarded.
(It looks as though the past is here to stay…)
Once, Shisui had no scars.
(I'm in the basement.
…You're in the sky.)
But that was a long time ago.
(The flickering flame that swallows the gas soaked cloth wrapped around the head of the stick flashes before Shisui's eyes, and his lips quiver slightly, the feel of the scorching heat so close to his skin making the bottom of his stomach fall out from beneath him, and the weakness (-fear) cracking into his black eyes for less than a moment.
He closes his eyes and moans into the smell of burning flesh and the pain that follows, listening to his flesh tear and burn and waiting patiently until he couldn't take it anymore before he rips the flames from where they'd destroyed a spot on his shoulder and panting until his arms stopped shaking and he didn't want to throw up.
Destructive.)
Shisui tilts his head back, the uppers of his thighs shaking a little and the edges of his teeth clamping onto the swollen flesh of his lips in silent, weary protest. A quiet noise escapes his throat, and he closes his eyes, the shadows of his eyelashes streaking down his cheeks in the dancing light of the fire that brings neither of them warmth. (-In comparison to the heat of Itachi's tongue on his-)
The sea's evaporated.
(Though it comes as no surprise.)
(He runs his hands through his hair, pulling a little at the strands of black that cascade at any and every direction, curving around his cheeks in the end and seeming out of place in the formal school he attends day after day.
(Though Shisui always seems out of place.)
His gaze sweeps to the glass window, the autumn sun glazing the world outside a haze of browns and yellows and reds. (A cold sun. But not too much so. Not like winter.) And there's a unattached longing in his eyes as he breathes in the manicured air of the building and stares through the window to the children that play on the creaking swing-set and the dying leaves strip away from the trees.
Summers are better, but Autumn is-
"Shisui."
A snap. (A voice that sounds like the dark glass of his father's beer bottles, though void of the ease of break.)
"Yes, sensei?"
Eyes glance to him, and he twirls a lock of his hair lazily in one finger.
"Do you know the answer?"
Shisui sighs.
"-Whether or not I know the answer is irrelevant, sensei. It is written on the board."
A laughter dances through the room, and Shisui isn't surprised when his teacher sends him to the principal's office that hour. (He is surprised when Itachi purposely gets caught skipping class so Shisui isn't alone in the office for the rest of day.) He smells like dust and tightening air when he arrives home, and his mother whips him until Shisui can fake his tears.
Tsh.)
The clouds we're seeing are explosions in the sky.
He moans softly, fingers edging into his mouth to bite back the noises and a heated flush on his cheeks. (So little composure. So unlike him.) Beads of sweat clings his hair to his neck and shoulders, and his sharingan are glassy as a name flutters from that place beneath his heart where he keeps his secrets. (Because the heart is too easy to break apart.)
"…Itachi…gods…"
(It seems it's written, but we can’t read between the lines.)
(A glittering sun masks the sky of any impurities, and the enlightened atmosphere nearly draws a smile to Itachi’s lips as he stands, fingernails scraping against rough bark, and observes the land around him. The same field, littered this time with wild flowers, the mass of them dotting across and ensnaring within the tall strands of grass that sway with the wind.
It’s summertime again. He basks in the quiet rays of sunlight.
Shisui balances on the branch just beside him, biting onto his lip and attempting not to flit his gaze toward the intimidating ground below. It’s cute, the way he pads his way along, gripping on the trunk of the tree, back stiff like his arms and legs. Itachi smiles, watching him now instead of the grass, admiring the way he is able to portray such an innocence even though the both of them knew he is far from such a thing.
“Be careful,” he advises in a soft voice, before he eases himself to sit on the branch, eyeing the ground. With a laugh, Itachi drops back to the earth, catching himself on bent knees, and the impact sends a jolt of adrenaline and vague pain up his legs.
When he goes to look back up, he notices that Shisui has not moved to follow him, though he had thought he would. “Shi?” Itachi questions, standing up straight and keeping his gaze trained on his cousin.
“I-I can’t get down, ‘Ta-san.” The waver in his voice carries enough through the wind to Itachi that he can hear it, and he frowns.
“Do you trust me?”
“Of…of course I do…”
“I’ll catch you. Let me catch you.”
“B-but…”)
A shuddering moan, and Itachi can stand the wait no longer, all at once taking Shisui into his mouth, smooth lips sliding and tightening over a part of his cousin that is so forbiddingly sweet it has his head reeling. The vibrations of the sound course from his throat to the sensitive flesh of Shisui’s skin, and he knows that he can feel it, feel it throbbing and coursing, like a living thing. His voice is a living thing. (Shisui is a living thing.)
(-Didn’t you, didn’t you?)
Here, he feels as though he is reliving the past, the past in which each day had been filled with laughter and smothered secrets, secrets they both had enjoyed in innumerable ways. It had burned itself into their skin, the past, those countless summers spent dozing and smiling and kissing and…
(He stretches his arms out, lips pressed into a firm line (-because if he misses--but no, that will not happen) as he gazes upward. “Trust me.” He can nearly hear his cousin sigh, though the action is seemingly forced. “I’ll always catch you. Always.”
For a moment Itachi is questioning whether Shisui actually will take the jump, but the next Itachi is entirely convinced, and he watches as the other boy turns slightly more to face him, teeth abusing his lower lip in nervous anticipation. “A-alright.” There is a hint of desperation in his voice-- (pleasecatchmepleasecatchmepleasecatchme--)
He lets go. And he drops.
When Itachi catches him, he realizes he is smiling, and that he has been holding his breath this entire time. Taking his cousin into his arms, Itachi pulls him tight against his chest, maintaining his weight (-because Shisui’s always been light) easily enough.
“’Ta-san…t-thank you.”)
Itachi’s cheeks are flushed, and his lips move faster over his cousin’s pulsating skin, his fingertips pressing brutally hard into the soft spot of the juncture of his knees. It hurts to breathe, but the pain is relished by him. He moves faster and disregards the gathering heat in the pit of his stomach, signaling the release he will not acknowledge, and it escalades into something unbearable.
(A Ruiner’s a collector, he’s an infector.)
(Let me see you. Let me have you. Let me catch you.)
Shisui's body is hotter than it had been in (-years. There's still a faint smell of earth and decomposition under his skin. But it's hardly detectable anymore) and he groans, biting down on the fingers in his mouth to stifle the noise a little further. (The noises he makes when he and Itachi make love are never the same. But there's always a sadness in his tone and a longing he doesn't care to mask.
Because Itachi can see through him anyways.)
His fingers curl into Itachi's hair, stringing into it and tightening the grip in sync with his panting and sweat beads down his hips, streaking against the tattoos his younger cousin (-though it is so easy to forget) had given him too many years ago. ("A-ah…") The heat of Itachi's mouth around his- (-"…pl-please.") is enough to make him scream (-but he doesn't. But he won’t. Self control is a virtue.)
("Itachi?"
They are both young, and Shisui sits adjacent to his cousin as the pair of swings tied into the big oak tree behind the Uchiha manor, hair tied in a high ponytail, though whipping in every direction as he moves up and down against the backlash of air and the forces of gravity.
"Yes, Shisui?"
(Itachi's manner is a little more stoic. His swings are low to the ground and his own ponytail is low as well, and the constant seriousness Fugaku has forced to him remains, even with Shisui.) Except those times when they can laugh or smile together. (-Such actions can be daring anymore.)
"Have you ever kissed anybody?"
His swing jerks to a halt.
"What?"
Shisui's follows, his feet digging into the earth and the rope digging a little more bark off the point in the tree where it had been tied. He eyes Itachi with a certain amount of curiosity. (Interest. He'd always been able to find interest in what is generally overlooked.) A blink.
"I asked you if you ever kissed anyone."
Itachi is silent for a few moments.
"… No. Why?"
Shisui smiles, looking almost relieved to this notion, and he bobs his head in a nod.
"Neither have I."
A pause, and he studies the barely present beads of sweat on Itachi's forehead that hadn't been there before. ("Sweating is perspiration. It is a means of cooling the body off, and occurs when the internal body temperature is above normal, or when there is a sudden rush of blood to a certain area. Sweat is usually hot, but on occasion does one perspire a cold sweat, usually exhausted because of hypothermia-") He tilts his head.
"Can I kiss you?"
Shisui asks it like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
Itachi stares.
"… Fine."
Shisui grins.
"Okay. Close your eyes.")
Didn't you, didn't you?
Shisui moans loudly, ripping his fingers from his mouth and pulling Itachi off of him by his hair (-and he knows that it hurts, and silently, he apologizes, but they've given each other so much pain over the years that it has become scattered in memory, hazing into pleasure and sick little sins too morbid for even their own left-handed perceptions.)
But a person is only their memories.
"Itachi, gods…" (-He pulls at his cousin so they are jerked at eyeline, and there's a desperation in both of their revolving sharingan eyes that stripped everything they'd been forced to be all of their lives down to size.)
"Fuck me."
(Light footfalls echo off the walls of the hallway, and Itachi’s eyes dart to each side, inspecting every hung picture, surprised to see that not a single one has Shisui in it. He frowns with disapproval, then tears his gaze away to acknowledge the door at the far end of the hall, tucked into a dark little corner. Arching a brow, he steps toward it.
Itachi had been early getting home from his day out with Fugaku, and as usual, the first thing he had done was seek out Shisui. Only, his cousin was no where to be found, at least, back at his own house. So he’d finally made his way to the Manor in a desperate search for the missing Shisui, and yet, the entire way there he had felt like he was losing time.
As he reaches the door, his eyes fix on the dark puddle gathered just below it, seeping from beneath the wood. It is the first call for dark suspicions and bubbling hysteria.
(What have you done?)
It is blood. Itachi knows this when he leans to inspect it, and the coppery scent numbs his senses. (Oh how he hates this smell.)
“Shisui?” He hardly realizes how soft his voice is, how fragile (-without you I’d be lost). Gently, Itachi nudges the door back on its hinges, prying eyes sweeping across the smaller room, and his feet making a rather unpleasant squish sound in the puddle of thick liquid.
Suddenly, he stops dead, frozen.
“SHISUI!”)
His breath comes in short gasps, and a moan exposes the obvious arousal that Shisui’s words provide him. Everything is tightening up, becoming a blur of colors, a blur of painful desire… And he will fulfill his cousin’s request. He will. With a guttural sigh, Itachi spreads himself over the body pinned below him, smoothing his hands over Shisui’s scarred thighs and then forcing them to wrap around his still-clothed waist.
(Maybe it’s a part of me you took to a place I hoped it would never go.)
They fit together too perfectly, their bodies shaped by the same blood, bonded by the same traits, by the same secrets and the same lies. Curving into a match set in hell, even. It does not feel wrong to Itachi. Instead, it feels too right, laying here between his naked cousin’s legs, aroused and craving something filled to satiety. A shudder caresses his body briefly as his stomach slides over Shisui’s hardened flesh, and for a moment, he feels weak with his need. A sort of weakness he’d thought he would never come across ever again.
(Need you. Dream you. Find you. Taste you. Fuck you. Use you. Scar you. Break you. Lose you. Hate me. Smash me. Erase me.)
(The moonlight is absent from the floorboards as Itachi throws himself into the room, his black eyes wide and vivid with a ghost of desperation. The door slams at his back (-to keep the rest out, always out, always away.)
“Y-you…no…”
Dark eyes slide up to meet him, hazy, lost, and Itachi is immediately by his side, taking him into his arms as the blood seeps into their clothing.
(I died today.)
“No…no…no, no, no, NO.”
It takes several towels to soak up all of Shisui’s blood, several bandages to get everything fully under control, several weary stitches, and even then, Itachi feels as though he’s lost his cousin. The only person he’d ever think to protect wished to destroy himself in the end.
He thanks whatever gods Shisui dares to believe in that his heart is still beating. Dead, but it’s beating.
But I’m still breathing.)
"Ah…ah…"
(Shisui's first suicide attempt had been erotic in the idea that he kissed a death so erratically close to him, and was ripped back into existence in a blur of reds, blacks, and the distant recognition of a gauze bandage secured around the long severs into his Cephalic Vein in his wrists and Saphenous veins in his thighs.
You could have it all.
When he is fully recovered a week later from massive blood loss and blood thinning, as well as a weakened immune system, Itachi is beside him, and he smiles with a certain fragility in it. "Itachi…"
My empire of dirt.
(Itachi's eyes spun with the Mangekyou Sharingan for forty-eight hours before he figured out how to return to the regular Sharingan. The magic takes most several weeks and often costs the holder their life. He wonders if this means Shisui killed himself - because he knows the heart stopped once or twice - because of him.
He hopes not.)
"Shisui." (His voice doesn't waver, but his black eyes fade in an out of Sharingan and he fights away anything that could hurt his cousin further.)
I will let you down.
"I'm sorry.")
I will make you hurt.
He wraps his legs tightly around Itachi, forcing himself up, gripping onto the fabric of his shirt and working somewhat awkwardly with the buttons. (-he manages to unhook two before he gets frustrated, tearing the rest of them off from the flimsy string and ripping Itachi's shirt open.) He pulls the material away from Itachi, the sweat clinging it to his back before he works it off of Itachi's shoulders and discards somewhere on the floor amidst gathering dust and the trailing fabric of the canopy bed.
Shisui trails his tongue down Itachi's collar, sucking at a place under the bone where he'd always been sensitive, and which Shisui had always covered with hickeys discreet enough to hide, but dark enough to not fade for a while. (Because they'd always like to create marks and modifications on the other. So damn beautiful-)
His fingers run down Itachi's back already slicked with sweat, and he plays the piano he'd always had such a talent for against his spine, under the ridges of bone and discovering scars and wounds fresh from the years Shisui hadn't been there to clean them up and kiss it better. (-And he sucks further down his collar, the imperfect skin flawless under lips craving with such a chaste desperation
(He'd never liked alcohol.)
Hiding in the shadows, waiting for the sun.
"Itachi…"
(The eve of Shisui’s death, they had been out walking.
An enflamed sort of fading sunlight leaks through the thin veneer of the woods, alighting the path beneath their feet as they continue on toward no destination in particular. Itachi’s hair is loose around his collar, and he feels at peace with the weightless atmosphere about the two of them. The sky is void of obstacles, clean of the suffocation of clouds, and it seems to smile, stretching from one end of the world to the other, as far as even his eyes can see. He focuses his gaze on the burning horizon.
“’Ta-san?” Shisui questions as they walk side by side, cracking open the shell of silence, their fingers occasionally ghosting together in a show of quiet intimacy. He likes the contact. He likes it more when Shisui incites the contact.
“Mm?”
An intake of air, and Shisui seems to be inhaling the very firefly particles of the dispersing afternoon. “What would you do if I died?”
Itachi pauses, casting his cousin a curious glance, and signaling him to go on. He does.
“I mean…well, everyone, at some point in time, wants to know if they’re…wanted. Right?” The question is posed in such a way that Shisui appears to be almost desperately correct. “Haven’t you wondered what your life truly meant to the world? To…others?”
It takes Itachi a moment to reply, but when he does, he looks as though he is consulting the sun above their heads. “It would depend, wouldn’t it?” A slight smirk. “I would…I would miss you, I think.”
Shisui smiles here, an expression of pure delight etched into his dark eyes.)
“Oh gods, Shi…” As his shirt is pulled from his body, Itachi closes his eyes, the red burning against the back of his sealed eyelids, carving a memory beneath the surface. He needs Shisui. He always has. It is strange that he’s just come to terms with this face.
Eleven years takes its toll on one in the end.
A breathy moan escapes his throat as Itachi pulls himself up, balancing most of his weight on his elbows and knees, and peers down heatedly at his cousin.
(What brought you to this?)
Slowly, his eyes open now and spin scalding patterns into the pale, scarred skin below him. He lets out a sigh, backing off of Shisui’s body before leaning back against the bed and taking his cousin against his chest, wrapping his arms around his waist. Gently, he nudges at Shisui’s thighs, parting them across his waist until the other is entirely spread out against him. With a coy smirk, he meets Shisui’s eyes, laying a serene kiss on the corner of his mouth. “What would be the best way for me to fully possess you?” Itachi whispers in a dark voice, exhaling a breath of warm air against the curve of his ear.
(A well lit drowning…)
(The eve of the Uchiha clan’s destruction, he had been out walking.
Hadn’t shed a tear. Oh no, oh no.)
Shisui wonders if Itachi has ever cried.
(He stands in front of the shards of his bedroom mirror, and the rain that pounds outside against the hard glass windows covers up the sounds of his screams as his Mangekyou spin and the blood pours from his eye sockets, mingled in with tears and erratic sobs and his knuckles imbedded with pieces of what was once his mirror. Dripping hair rips in chunks as he tears at it, the messy black strands clinging to the space between his fingers, and he doesn't feel it when he stumbles around, shards carving through his flesh, striking nerves and hitting the bone, and the puddles of blood beginning to edge from his body.
The guard around his room abridges the sounds of his slipping into insanity when Shisui Uchiha is found dead.)
And though Shisui has never liked alcohol. (-At the end of the night he is intoxicated.)
He holds Itachi closely, possessively, his heated aroused gasps in an erratic array with his cousin's words, quietly carving scratches into his back, his own modifications, his own testimony that however much blood he'd lost on his morbid little attraction to death and his own desperate loathing of himself. (And the loathing has subsided somewhat, but a hate as strong as Shisui's never dies.
A sin never dies.)
"I want to see your eyes…" Shisui gasps, hungrily, though laced with a devotion thicker than blood (-though bound by such.) "I want to see your eyes when you're…"
(When Shisui dies, he does not go to heaven. He does not go to hell either. His afterlife is a personal, twisted purgatory, ridden with gray skies and dead flowers and broken glass and pictures of the Uchiha children that were once so very innocent, in the loosest tense of the word, littering the grounds he steps on. Pictures of he and Itachi and Sasuke at festivals when they were younger with the faces torn out, or pictures of distant memories of things he has never been able to tell, and they are everywhere, staring facelessly at him in wordless demand of something he could never giver.
He walks on a road that smelled like dirt and decay for eleven years before death is ripped from him and when he inhales water that tastes of fish and manages to crawl onto the bank of the river, it takes him a day before he can open his eyes again and a week before he can stand, and two more before he stops vomiting blood and things he doesn’t want to know from the sickness of his insides.)
He still tastes a little like blood.)
Fireflies illuminate your eyes.
He presses his legs back, spread, and he moans into a jerk of his hips that grinds him against Itachi, his arms positioned over his head, the tattoos and scars obvious, even emphasized under the dancing firelight, making the scene even a little dirtier than it already is.
(-But it's not.)
Chaste.
(Because he never did go to hell.)
(The house seems so empty, yet alive and throbbing with a suffocating sort of secret, like ashes smeared across a white block of marble. Itachi paces down one end of the hallway, eyes flitting from right to left, recognizing this specific corridor with painful ease. He forces himself to avoid looking off to the very end, as the door there jabs at his memory, and it hurts just to think of it.
(Summer days…stretched out in a field…body heat…
A guilty conscience grows.
“Can I kiss you?”
It’s quick. It’s everlasting.
It’s sweet. It’s sinful.
It’s right. It’s wrong.
I feel a guilty conscience grow…)
His eyes spin, and it seems almost as though they’ve been burned a permanent red, the pinwheels whirling. with each turn, the nail wedges sharply into that point inside his head, steadily deeper, sparking the headache situated behind his eye sockets that pulses with the lulled heartbeat of the house. He is gone, and Itachi doesn’t understand. What happened? What went wrong?
(You said you’d stay with me…
My or may we be this way forever?)
Eyes narrow as he kicks open the study room’s wooden door, and it goes reeling on its hinges, slamming into the wall to the left.
“I-Itachi? What is the meaning of this--“
“Shut up.”
“--w-what? What is wrong with you? Your eyes, Itachi, they’re--“
“Shut up.”)
At Shisui’s words, he groans, hands gripping at the curve of his cousin’s ass slightly as Itachi tilts his head back, pushing their hips together forcibly. The friction overwhelms him, and for a second, Itachi is convinced that a fire has been struck in his eyes, consuming him from within, melting every sin and lie that has been manifested inside of him. (Fireflies illuminate your eyes.)
Desperately, he gasps for breath, holding the both of them closely together, their bodies barely having room to breathe, and Itachi trails his nails upward and over Shisui’s naked back. Frequently will he come across a scar or a tattoo, and upon the contact, he sighs, tracing over the familiar imprint with something akin to reminiscence.
Two of hearts…
He will allow Shisui to see his eyes, of course, to see his Sharingan spin patterns wildly when he claims back what had been his all along. When he fucks his cousin, slow and hard and fulfilling both of their twisted desires through the corrupted ways that they have always come together. “Shisui…”
…two hearts that beat as one.
(The corpses appear to blink their glossy eyes, and the horror is ‘minute and lasting a moment.’
“B-brother…” Frantically, the young boy searches for his idol’s stained eyes, shielded in a curtain of darkness, searching and searching and coming up vain in the end. “Y-you…”
The speech here on in seems too rehearsed to Itachi. He hisses under his breath, clutching his head, nails digging into his forehead, and as he leaves the Uchiha Manor, the moonlight greets him and melts away the façade, though never enough to ever clean away the blood beneath his nails.
Somewhere behind him, Sasuke screams.)
He watches the spinning Sharingan above him, the pinwheel curse (-It is considered magick of the highest level, but Shisui considers it a curse and a gift. When his heart stopped beating for a few seconds during his first suicide attempt in Itachi's name (-not in pain, because Itachi cannot hurt him. Shisui is the only one who can hurt himself.) he blessed and cursed Itachi with the Mangekyou eyes. (He hopes with a mild desperation Itachi doesn't hate him for it.)
He jerks hard into Itachi's hips, the fabric of his pants the only tangible thing separating them (-self control cannot be touched and is something the both of them tread thinly on-) and the notion making Shisui moan in protest to it. (He never swears. It sounds so awkward on his tongue. But when he's flushed, sweating, and naked beneath is younger cousin, Fuck Me leaves no awkward or space for question.)
He feels his fingers hook into a place into Itachi's back, and he pushes his body down, jerking his fingers up into his cousin's spine, making sure the both of them felt the grind into his quiet moan as black hair spills and clings to his skin, mixing with Itachi's the way they always had. (-When Shisui's skin didn't look dead they were almost identical. The physical difference between Itachi and Shisui was that Shisui was a good number of inches taller and he always had some goofy grin on his face. Itachi never wore such a smile when anyone was watching.
But Shisui.)
"Gods…"
(-Burns like the sun and I can't look away.)
(He clutches his eyes as he hunches over, closing them and opening them in sync with the horror in the reflection of his bathroom mirror, the Sharingan staring back at a ten year old Shisui repulsing him and angering him in such an uncharacteristic way that he climbs out the bathroom door and runs straight for Itachi's room in the Uchiha Manor.
"Itachi!" (He covers his eyes with one hand as he bangs on the door. He hates these eyes.) "Itachi! Open the door! Itachi!"
When the door slowly recedes, Shisui tries to not start crying (He would never do that to Itachi. But so much does he hate-) and his eight-year-old cousin stares at him in confusion, quickly scanning over him for any injuries and stopping where he is frankly covering his eyes.
"Itachi! I-"
"-You too?"
When Shisui peeps through a part in his fingers, Itachi is watching him sadly, and a pair of revolving red eyes stare back at him, distantly, his pupils bloodshot just as Shisui's are upon the first activation. (He forces himself to not cry, to not overreact, to enjoy the seconds when Itachi embraces him and shuts the door behind them so they can wait until they can control the magick enough to seal the Sharingan away until necessary.
(Shisui would never cry for Itachi.)
But he nearly-)
He likes the Red now. How very pretty it has become in time.
Shisui works his hands to Itachi's waist, working them off his hips with haste between lusty kisses and mumbled, dirty, desperate demands, and he jerks the material as far off of him as he can, the sweat and the tight of the material making it difficult when all of his limbs are constrained, though he manages to get them around to Itachi's mid thigh (-Enough, and he knows it's dirty to think that way-) before breaking the kiss and moving to one of Itachi's ears, the want in his tone making his voice shake a little as he forces something out between a grind.
"-Gods, Itachi, you're still so beautiful."
(Maggots prey upon the living dead.)
(“Itachi?”
Call it a whisper that treads from the distance…
A knock echoes off the wooden walls, intruding the minds of any who would listen, but their moans swathe it over and it passes by unnoticed. In the candlelight, his cousin’s body is molded of melted wax, every curve on the still-child’s body young and hardly distinct, but sweet and naïve in whatever form of the word. The two of them simply lay together, their lips sealed, their bodies bare and touching, their breath relaxed. Within the web of absorption to every fine detail, every bead of sweat on this hot summer night, neither Itachi nor Shisui pay any attention to the continuous efforts of entry.
One more, one more, one more minute…
“Aniki? Are you in here?” The voice is hesitant, but slowly the brass knob twists, and later Itachi desperately tries to recall if he had locked the door or not. In the end, the simple crave to hold Shisui had been enough to cause him to forget the lock, and his fingers had peeled away each dense material of their clothes until there is nothing else left to bind them.
“…A-aniki…?” Sasuke topples into the room, and freezes in shock-ridden confusion.)
But there’s blood between their sheets now, and no one will know.
Oh - I can’t shut my eyes.
Desperation paints his movements (all comments aside, as he only ever sees beauty in Shisui, in…the dead-) and the faint memory recedes from Itachi’s mind in lieu of focusing on the body pressed down on him. With every grind, his vision swims and he jerks, the sane part of his mind (or what is left of the shattered system by now) calms his burning nerves, calms him from taking Shisui with a brutality that calls for control, at least at the moment. At least until he is well again.
(Is it my fault?)
Shallow breath. Heart pounding, wanting to rip free from the fragile cage of bone. Reeling. Slipping. Fading - black, red, black…
(Oh my god, I think I’m blind.)
He hisses a breath, catches a fluttering butterfly of oxygen, and swallows it again. It burns, prisoner in his throat, and Itachi smoothes his fingertips across the sharp bone of his cousin’s hip, gently, gently, hands shaking. A distraction. Calmly, his right hand trails from the top of Shisui’s scarred back and down, pressure increasingly only slightly as he moves further downward, touching the base of Shisui’s spine as though the body he holds is made of fine glass.
(I’ve found one color won’t suffice.)
The hand once previously massaging the soft curve of his cousin’s side removes itself, lifting as the right diverts the attention by sliding around to Shisui’s thin, pale thigh, and placing itself there, the palm imprinting into his skin. Sucking in a sharp breath, the tips of Itachi’s fingers nudge patiently against swollen lips, and his body shudders as another wave of arousal awakens his mind to his strengthening desire.
“Shi…” The name is lost as he sets his own mouth along his cousin’s collarbone, smothering any loose words, any disjointed meanings too delicate yet to reach the surface of all that is wrong in his touches. Wrong, simply because they will it, and they never should have done so in the beginning.
But what is done is done-
(and through the trees I scream your name)
-is done.
(A choking breeze wraps itself around his throat like a scarf set aflame, and Itachi breaks into a run, his footfalls pounding into the warmed earth beneath his bare feet, creating a ripple of power in the sudden outburst of fury.
Matchstick starts a fire…
Death. The displeasing taste of death stains his tongue, and Itachi cannot seem to rid it. Hadn’t been able to rid it for days on end now.
He now knows why. Now, when it would already be too late. A bleeding sun sets above him, stained red, as his eyes shine in the light of it.
Pinpoint the blame.)
Shisui's tongue brushes over Itachi's finger, sucking at it obediently, the quiet want in his actions and he raises a hand and it settles on his cousin's arm, and it's so intimate in the most subtle of ways, (-My or may we be this way forever?) He can hear someone singing in the back of his mind. (It could be himself, but he has forgotten what his singing sounds like in time.)
(He opens his eyes and, for a moment, the world just aches and something terrible of a pain hits him somewhere underneath his skull, pressing hard and reawakening his senses depressed in something like a coma. The rhythmic pounding of the droplets of water on his lower leg makes his ears ring, and as the world returns comes back into focus in a sharp snap he finds himself needing to scream. (But he won't. His throat hurts far too much.)
The walls of the tub are coated with crusted blood, and the rest has already drained among the water that clings under his limbs (-it is cold, much too cold-) and if he weren't so weak he'd be shaking, so he lays there until his vision isn't contradicting itself and he doesn't feel twice as heavy than he is. (He'd never been heavy. He'd always been athletic. Always been a runner. Always been good. Always been better. Never been-)
The empty bottle of arsenic on the side of the tub stares at him, and the vomit he'd thrown up in his unconsciousness while lying on his side is pungent of something terrible, and he can feel it against his skin, sticky, thick, sickening, but he can't move yet. Not just yet. The pipe that had long since gone out and rests somewhere on his chests wafts a deep scent, that deep, unmistakable one of tobacco and a million other things that can never not smell so very good.
His wrists ache.)
Doesn't matter, baby.
You were two steps behind.
He sucks a little at the second finger, lubricating it with kisses and lust, the lacework of modifications starting at his eyebrows and working too far down his body becoming more and more apparent to the both of them, under glassy sweat and hazy eyes. His nails dig slightly into Itachi's wrist, and it speaks of a protectiveness Shisui has only for the two of Fugaku's sons. (But the gesture doesn't speak anything of the difference in the affection Shisui has for Itachi over Sasuke. Gestures can be silent too.)
(Shisui smiles at Mikoto, and she smiles back, the expensive dress she and her husband both wear signifying the unspoken wealth of the Uchiha clan that speaks some twisted embodiment of greed. (He once wondered where all the money came from, but it was never spoken of to him. He never cared much after that. Shisui doesn't need the money. The children in the streets that he gives it to, do.)
"Thank you so much for watching over them, Shisui."
(Itachi doesn't know why he needs a babysitter, and neither does Shisui, but Mikoto was in a fret, and when the ages are fifteen, thirteen, and seven, the difference in the numbers seems massive.)
"It is my pleasure, Aunt Mikoto." (-Manners memorized so heavily the words don't even seem real anymore.) "Do take care, tonight. I'll make sure Itachi and Sasuke go to bed at a reasonable hour." (And when his Uncle follows Mikoto out the door, he doesn't miss the glare, and the suspicion in his eyes, but Shisui only smiles and waves, shutting the door when they are twenty-five feet away or so and he can breathe a sigh in relief.)
"Shisui."
Itachi is standing at the foot of the hardwood steps, and he eyes his older cousin with a certain serene, a look that only Shisui knows well, and is sure that Itachi is aware he gives it only to him.
"'Ta-san."
He smiles softly.
When they are upstairs a few hours later, reading books, talking in dreams, and eating something Shisui had cooked, a knock on the door interrupts the glowing red on Itachi's neck and the forming bruises on Shisui's neck. (They are still dressed, and the door is locked, so Shisui unlocks it discretely and answers with polite.)
"Come in~"
The lock untwists, and Sasuke's book bag slides a little off his shoulders, and there's a childish happiness as he recognizes the voice and hugs Shisui's legs. "Nii-san! Is Shisui babysitting tonight?" (Itachi smirks a little bit inwardly, because that is hardly what Mikoto pays him to do, but he nods nonetheless at watches his brother cling to their older cousin.)
"I am, 'Suke-chan." Shisui smiles and crouches down, hugging Sasuke around his small shoulders and kissing him softly (-swiftly, innocently, almost-) on the lips before ruffling his hair. "Is there anything you want for dinner? I made some cookies a little while ago, but we can have those for dessert."
Sasuke's face flushes and he grins. "Let's have noodles for dinner."
"Okay!")
Two steps behind.
He bites a little at one of Itachi's fingers before letting them go completely, tugging at Itachi's arm and eyeing him a morbid, suicidal innocence that could only seem beautiful on Shisui's face, and could suit no one else, because no one else could wear Shisui's scars just right. The metal of his lip ring brushes Itachi's finger as he moves his head, and the view of the ceiling shakes a little and for a second, the screaming of the flower's is quiet.
(Leave me dreaming on the bed-)
As the velvet of his cousin’s lips slide away from his now moist fingers, Itachi groans something wanton and dark, eyes focusing on the rise and fall of Shisui’s chest in a strange fascination. (-How are you alive, how are you breathing?) The heat gathering between their bodies is overwhelming, and his vision swims dangerously from the effort to catch his panting breath. Gradually, his hand moves down the angles and curves of Shisui’s body, dipping low and between splayed thighs as he leans forward, kisses showering pale skin. He moves quickly, now, in an attempt not to allow the wet of his fingers to dry.
How do we get out? Following, put out.
Inhaling sharply, one moist digit presses in shallowly, and the contact is well-deserved but strained. Itachi wants desperately to move faster, harder, but he lapses out his patience with the simple though in mind to savor this moment in time, as he’s done every other encounter between the two of them in the past.
(The past… why does it seem so far away to him? A thing well left untouched.)
The feelings are left out, and we give our best out.
(Itachi glances up with a sharp look hindering the calm black of his eyes, settling on the two bodies that were currently held together, on the opposite end of the couch. He sighs something listless, unable to pull his gaze away, watching as his cousin kisses his younger brother with veneration.
A venomous ghost of black weaves into the lining of his stomach, and the feeling is something bitter, something he knows he must rid himself of. Shisui continues to hold Sasuke close, at first kissing, and then pushing deeper with a moan that Itachi sardonically figures only he can hear in the calm air. The two are oblivious to it.
Mikoto and Fugaku? Away. As usual.
When envy comes, put on, all you do is lock on.
He admits to despising his seat here, so close to his two relatives, and Itachi wants nothing more than to get up and leave the room. (And his mind already has several excuses provided.)
--
All song lyrics (c) the artists.
WHAT: Itachi comes back from his first meeting with Gaara, Shisui scouts him out, and then they have sex, as well as go through pretty much their life story's worth of memories.
WHERE: Akatsuki castle, first on the grounds, then in Itachi's bed room. (In memories, Christ, they're all over the place.)
WARNINGS: Erm, Yaoi. Oral, Anal, 69. Incest. In the memories? Graphic descriptions of giving and recieving piercings and tattoos, bondage, graphic descriptions of suicide and self abuse, ItaSasu, ShiSasu, death, angst, EXTREMELY LONG SEX (80 FUCKING PAGES)and mine and Stacie's general ability to make sex pretty without using euphemisms.
--
He feels the heat rise to his cheeks as his cousin dips between his thighs, kissing at the (-scarred, skin twisted, mauled, burned, cut, tattooed- and for all those times Itachi had walked in to see him crying, bleeding, scalded, unconscious- for every time their lives ended a little bit more there is-) flesh so religiously kept covered, kept away from a world with prying eyes and easy judgments. (-A scar.)
Good things die all the time.
(Itachi sounds too beautiful when he moans Shisui's name that way. The way he did when they were younger, when Shisui wasn't coated with scars or bruises all the time and after school he and Itachi could shut themselves in the room they'd found in the Manor, with the books and the bed they'd hauled in from the guest bedroom. When Shisui'd kiss every aspect of Itachi and strip away every layer of him until Itachi was a writhing body beneath him and Shisui had him completely.
"-Oh god, Shisui!")
God bless your heart.
Shisui's hair clings to his shoulders, and the audible heartbeat echoes with a word from the mantra inked permanently into Shisui's back. (Though neither of them really hears it. Shisui listens to Itachi's lips, he listens to the way they touch him and he listens to the words that form, and he doesn't know what Itachi is listening to, but it doesn't matter, because even if Itachi doesn't listen now-
(Which he is.)
… He listens to Shisui always.)
A shudder and he can feel the burning heat inside of him. (The boiling water he scalded himself with so many times? Or perhaps Shisui has his own fire.) Though such seems out of place. (Much too hot. Much too angry. Shisui is neither of these things. His words are distant, in a warm way, and his anger doesn't surface.)
It has drowned.
"…my cousin…my Itachi…"
(Mine.
And I will never leave you alone again.)
Vengeance is mine.
(The sky is falling, a piece at a time, and Itachi is transfixed on the sight above him, the clouds that invade the expanse of pearl blue in crosshatches, staining it an almost ethereal black and gray. The essence of fall is fading, slowly, leaving summer at its back and welcoming the chill and ache of winter. Itachi hates it.
He lays spread out on the field, the grass whipping around his still form as the wind commandeers the air around him. A sigh flees his lips, and he isn’t the least bit surprised when a body takes the place beside his own, the heat of the other soaking into his skin. Shisui curls up to his side, his eyes closed, for they both know that their summers are becoming less and less, and soon there will be no more. And they mourn the loss of something so dear to them.
Rarely does it snow in their country, for its name contradicts the concept of such a thing, but the cold of winter is adequate to them, and the absence of snow is nearly enough to have them wishing for it. They suffer the cold but do not get the snow in return. Unfair to them, but years from now, they won’t even remember how the seasons had cheated them.
“Shisui,” he whispers in a flat voice, eyes shifting to the form beside him, and he turns, folding their bodies together with his arm wrapped around the other’s waist. “Don’t ever leave me.”
But nothing can be helped. Shisui replies with a weak smile.)
Moaning softly against his skin, Itachi levels his eyes with his cousin’s, listening to the gentle beat of his heart. Slowly, he trails his lips across his thigh, fingers sliding and gripping the juncture of his knees, not moving them apart but rather keeping them in place. He kisses every inch of Shisui that he can get to, savoring the taste of him, taking his time reaching the aching spot between Shisui’s legs.
(At one point, Itachi had wondered of the wrongness of the fire that thrived between him and Shisui, doubting the possibilities of the relationship he truly wanted. The curiosity hadn’t lingered long, evaporating each time he glimpsed Shisui’s naked body, whether it be in the bath or of his cousin’s own free will. Then, all he felt was the overpowering urge to take him, claim him, make him his. It worked itself out in the strangest of ways, but after a while, Itachi never found himself caring.)
It takes him a moment to catch his breath, the exertion of his inner struggle to move unheedingly of his own desires taking its toll. Then, he caresses Shisui, a calm kissing that transpires into licking, his tongue falling to trace patterns into hardened flesh. Itachi does not divert his heated gaze from his cousin’s, lusting for the contact of Shisui’s eyes with his, the warped way his stomach tightens with arousal completely disregarded.
(It looks as though the past is here to stay…)
Once, Shisui had no scars.
(I'm in the basement.
…You're in the sky.)
But that was a long time ago.
(The flickering flame that swallows the gas soaked cloth wrapped around the head of the stick flashes before Shisui's eyes, and his lips quiver slightly, the feel of the scorching heat so close to his skin making the bottom of his stomach fall out from beneath him, and the weakness (-fear) cracking into his black eyes for less than a moment.
He closes his eyes and moans into the smell of burning flesh and the pain that follows, listening to his flesh tear and burn and waiting patiently until he couldn't take it anymore before he rips the flames from where they'd destroyed a spot on his shoulder and panting until his arms stopped shaking and he didn't want to throw up.
Destructive.)
Shisui tilts his head back, the uppers of his thighs shaking a little and the edges of his teeth clamping onto the swollen flesh of his lips in silent, weary protest. A quiet noise escapes his throat, and he closes his eyes, the shadows of his eyelashes streaking down his cheeks in the dancing light of the fire that brings neither of them warmth. (-In comparison to the heat of Itachi's tongue on his-)
The sea's evaporated.
(Though it comes as no surprise.)
(He runs his hands through his hair, pulling a little at the strands of black that cascade at any and every direction, curving around his cheeks in the end and seeming out of place in the formal school he attends day after day.
(Though Shisui always seems out of place.)
His gaze sweeps to the glass window, the autumn sun glazing the world outside a haze of browns and yellows and reds. (A cold sun. But not too much so. Not like winter.) And there's a unattached longing in his eyes as he breathes in the manicured air of the building and stares through the window to the children that play on the creaking swing-set and the dying leaves strip away from the trees.
Summers are better, but Autumn is-
"Shisui."
A snap. (A voice that sounds like the dark glass of his father's beer bottles, though void of the ease of break.)
"Yes, sensei?"
Eyes glance to him, and he twirls a lock of his hair lazily in one finger.
"Do you know the answer?"
Shisui sighs.
"-Whether or not I know the answer is irrelevant, sensei. It is written on the board."
A laughter dances through the room, and Shisui isn't surprised when his teacher sends him to the principal's office that hour. (He is surprised when Itachi purposely gets caught skipping class so Shisui isn't alone in the office for the rest of day.) He smells like dust and tightening air when he arrives home, and his mother whips him until Shisui can fake his tears.
Tsh.)
The clouds we're seeing are explosions in the sky.
He moans softly, fingers edging into his mouth to bite back the noises and a heated flush on his cheeks. (So little composure. So unlike him.) Beads of sweat clings his hair to his neck and shoulders, and his sharingan are glassy as a name flutters from that place beneath his heart where he keeps his secrets. (Because the heart is too easy to break apart.)
"…Itachi…gods…"
(It seems it's written, but we can’t read between the lines.)
(A glittering sun masks the sky of any impurities, and the enlightened atmosphere nearly draws a smile to Itachi’s lips as he stands, fingernails scraping against rough bark, and observes the land around him. The same field, littered this time with wild flowers, the mass of them dotting across and ensnaring within the tall strands of grass that sway with the wind.
It’s summertime again. He basks in the quiet rays of sunlight.
Shisui balances on the branch just beside him, biting onto his lip and attempting not to flit his gaze toward the intimidating ground below. It’s cute, the way he pads his way along, gripping on the trunk of the tree, back stiff like his arms and legs. Itachi smiles, watching him now instead of the grass, admiring the way he is able to portray such an innocence even though the both of them knew he is far from such a thing.
“Be careful,” he advises in a soft voice, before he eases himself to sit on the branch, eyeing the ground. With a laugh, Itachi drops back to the earth, catching himself on bent knees, and the impact sends a jolt of adrenaline and vague pain up his legs.
When he goes to look back up, he notices that Shisui has not moved to follow him, though he had thought he would. “Shi?” Itachi questions, standing up straight and keeping his gaze trained on his cousin.
“I-I can’t get down, ‘Ta-san.” The waver in his voice carries enough through the wind to Itachi that he can hear it, and he frowns.
“Do you trust me?”
“Of…of course I do…”
“I’ll catch you. Let me catch you.”
“B-but…”)
A shuddering moan, and Itachi can stand the wait no longer, all at once taking Shisui into his mouth, smooth lips sliding and tightening over a part of his cousin that is so forbiddingly sweet it has his head reeling. The vibrations of the sound course from his throat to the sensitive flesh of Shisui’s skin, and he knows that he can feel it, feel it throbbing and coursing, like a living thing. His voice is a living thing. (Shisui is a living thing.)
(-Didn’t you, didn’t you?)
Here, he feels as though he is reliving the past, the past in which each day had been filled with laughter and smothered secrets, secrets they both had enjoyed in innumerable ways. It had burned itself into their skin, the past, those countless summers spent dozing and smiling and kissing and…
(He stretches his arms out, lips pressed into a firm line (-because if he misses--but no, that will not happen) as he gazes upward. “Trust me.” He can nearly hear his cousin sigh, though the action is seemingly forced. “I’ll always catch you. Always.”
For a moment Itachi is questioning whether Shisui actually will take the jump, but the next Itachi is entirely convinced, and he watches as the other boy turns slightly more to face him, teeth abusing his lower lip in nervous anticipation. “A-alright.” There is a hint of desperation in his voice-- (pleasecatchmepleasecatchmepleasecatchme--)
He lets go. And he drops.
When Itachi catches him, he realizes he is smiling, and that he has been holding his breath this entire time. Taking his cousin into his arms, Itachi pulls him tight against his chest, maintaining his weight (-because Shisui’s always been light) easily enough.
“’Ta-san…t-thank you.”)
Itachi’s cheeks are flushed, and his lips move faster over his cousin’s pulsating skin, his fingertips pressing brutally hard into the soft spot of the juncture of his knees. It hurts to breathe, but the pain is relished by him. He moves faster and disregards the gathering heat in the pit of his stomach, signaling the release he will not acknowledge, and it escalades into something unbearable.
(A Ruiner’s a collector, he’s an infector.)
(Let me see you. Let me have you. Let me catch you.)
Shisui's body is hotter than it had been in (-years. There's still a faint smell of earth and decomposition under his skin. But it's hardly detectable anymore) and he groans, biting down on the fingers in his mouth to stifle the noise a little further. (The noises he makes when he and Itachi make love are never the same. But there's always a sadness in his tone and a longing he doesn't care to mask.
Because Itachi can see through him anyways.)
His fingers curl into Itachi's hair, stringing into it and tightening the grip in sync with his panting and sweat beads down his hips, streaking against the tattoos his younger cousin (-though it is so easy to forget) had given him too many years ago. ("A-ah…") The heat of Itachi's mouth around his- (-"…pl-please.") is enough to make him scream (-but he doesn't. But he won’t. Self control is a virtue.)
("Itachi?"
They are both young, and Shisui sits adjacent to his cousin as the pair of swings tied into the big oak tree behind the Uchiha manor, hair tied in a high ponytail, though whipping in every direction as he moves up and down against the backlash of air and the forces of gravity.
"Yes, Shisui?"
(Itachi's manner is a little more stoic. His swings are low to the ground and his own ponytail is low as well, and the constant seriousness Fugaku has forced to him remains, even with Shisui.) Except those times when they can laugh or smile together. (-Such actions can be daring anymore.)
"Have you ever kissed anybody?"
His swing jerks to a halt.
"What?"
Shisui's follows, his feet digging into the earth and the rope digging a little more bark off the point in the tree where it had been tied. He eyes Itachi with a certain amount of curiosity. (Interest. He'd always been able to find interest in what is generally overlooked.) A blink.
"I asked you if you ever kissed anyone."
Itachi is silent for a few moments.
"… No. Why?"
Shisui smiles, looking almost relieved to this notion, and he bobs his head in a nod.
"Neither have I."
A pause, and he studies the barely present beads of sweat on Itachi's forehead that hadn't been there before. ("Sweating is perspiration. It is a means of cooling the body off, and occurs when the internal body temperature is above normal, or when there is a sudden rush of blood to a certain area. Sweat is usually hot, but on occasion does one perspire a cold sweat, usually exhausted because of hypothermia-") He tilts his head.
"Can I kiss you?"
Shisui asks it like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
Itachi stares.
"… Fine."
Shisui grins.
"Okay. Close your eyes.")
Didn't you, didn't you?
Shisui moans loudly, ripping his fingers from his mouth and pulling Itachi off of him by his hair (-and he knows that it hurts, and silently, he apologizes, but they've given each other so much pain over the years that it has become scattered in memory, hazing into pleasure and sick little sins too morbid for even their own left-handed perceptions.)
But a person is only their memories.
"Itachi, gods…" (-He pulls at his cousin so they are jerked at eyeline, and there's a desperation in both of their revolving sharingan eyes that stripped everything they'd been forced to be all of their lives down to size.)
"Fuck me."
(Light footfalls echo off the walls of the hallway, and Itachi’s eyes dart to each side, inspecting every hung picture, surprised to see that not a single one has Shisui in it. He frowns with disapproval, then tears his gaze away to acknowledge the door at the far end of the hall, tucked into a dark little corner. Arching a brow, he steps toward it.
Itachi had been early getting home from his day out with Fugaku, and as usual, the first thing he had done was seek out Shisui. Only, his cousin was no where to be found, at least, back at his own house. So he’d finally made his way to the Manor in a desperate search for the missing Shisui, and yet, the entire way there he had felt like he was losing time.
As he reaches the door, his eyes fix on the dark puddle gathered just below it, seeping from beneath the wood. It is the first call for dark suspicions and bubbling hysteria.
(What have you done?)
It is blood. Itachi knows this when he leans to inspect it, and the coppery scent numbs his senses. (Oh how he hates this smell.)
“Shisui?” He hardly realizes how soft his voice is, how fragile (-without you I’d be lost). Gently, Itachi nudges the door back on its hinges, prying eyes sweeping across the smaller room, and his feet making a rather unpleasant squish sound in the puddle of thick liquid.
Suddenly, he stops dead, frozen.
“SHISUI!”)
His breath comes in short gasps, and a moan exposes the obvious arousal that Shisui’s words provide him. Everything is tightening up, becoming a blur of colors, a blur of painful desire… And he will fulfill his cousin’s request. He will. With a guttural sigh, Itachi spreads himself over the body pinned below him, smoothing his hands over Shisui’s scarred thighs and then forcing them to wrap around his still-clothed waist.
(Maybe it’s a part of me you took to a place I hoped it would never go.)
They fit together too perfectly, their bodies shaped by the same blood, bonded by the same traits, by the same secrets and the same lies. Curving into a match set in hell, even. It does not feel wrong to Itachi. Instead, it feels too right, laying here between his naked cousin’s legs, aroused and craving something filled to satiety. A shudder caresses his body briefly as his stomach slides over Shisui’s hardened flesh, and for a moment, he feels weak with his need. A sort of weakness he’d thought he would never come across ever again.
(Need you. Dream you. Find you. Taste you. Fuck you. Use you. Scar you. Break you. Lose you. Hate me. Smash me. Erase me.)
(The moonlight is absent from the floorboards as Itachi throws himself into the room, his black eyes wide and vivid with a ghost of desperation. The door slams at his back (-to keep the rest out, always out, always away.)
“Y-you…no…”
Dark eyes slide up to meet him, hazy, lost, and Itachi is immediately by his side, taking him into his arms as the blood seeps into their clothing.
(I died today.)
“No…no…no, no, no, NO.”
It takes several towels to soak up all of Shisui’s blood, several bandages to get everything fully under control, several weary stitches, and even then, Itachi feels as though he’s lost his cousin. The only person he’d ever think to protect wished to destroy himself in the end.
He thanks whatever gods Shisui dares to believe in that his heart is still beating. Dead, but it’s beating.
But I’m still breathing.)
"Ah…ah…"
(Shisui's first suicide attempt had been erotic in the idea that he kissed a death so erratically close to him, and was ripped back into existence in a blur of reds, blacks, and the distant recognition of a gauze bandage secured around the long severs into his Cephalic Vein in his wrists and Saphenous veins in his thighs.
You could have it all.
When he is fully recovered a week later from massive blood loss and blood thinning, as well as a weakened immune system, Itachi is beside him, and he smiles with a certain fragility in it. "Itachi…"
My empire of dirt.
(Itachi's eyes spun with the Mangekyou Sharingan for forty-eight hours before he figured out how to return to the regular Sharingan. The magic takes most several weeks and often costs the holder their life. He wonders if this means Shisui killed himself - because he knows the heart stopped once or twice - because of him.
He hopes not.)
"Shisui." (His voice doesn't waver, but his black eyes fade in an out of Sharingan and he fights away anything that could hurt his cousin further.)
I will let you down.
"I'm sorry.")
I will make you hurt.
He wraps his legs tightly around Itachi, forcing himself up, gripping onto the fabric of his shirt and working somewhat awkwardly with the buttons. (-he manages to unhook two before he gets frustrated, tearing the rest of them off from the flimsy string and ripping Itachi's shirt open.) He pulls the material away from Itachi, the sweat clinging it to his back before he works it off of Itachi's shoulders and discards somewhere on the floor amidst gathering dust and the trailing fabric of the canopy bed.
Shisui trails his tongue down Itachi's collar, sucking at a place under the bone where he'd always been sensitive, and which Shisui had always covered with hickeys discreet enough to hide, but dark enough to not fade for a while. (Because they'd always like to create marks and modifications on the other. So damn beautiful-)
His fingers run down Itachi's back already slicked with sweat, and he plays the piano he'd always had such a talent for against his spine, under the ridges of bone and discovering scars and wounds fresh from the years Shisui hadn't been there to clean them up and kiss it better. (-And he sucks further down his collar, the imperfect skin flawless under lips craving with such a chaste desperation
(He'd never liked alcohol.)
Hiding in the shadows, waiting for the sun.
"Itachi…"
(The eve of Shisui’s death, they had been out walking.
An enflamed sort of fading sunlight leaks through the thin veneer of the woods, alighting the path beneath their feet as they continue on toward no destination in particular. Itachi’s hair is loose around his collar, and he feels at peace with the weightless atmosphere about the two of them. The sky is void of obstacles, clean of the suffocation of clouds, and it seems to smile, stretching from one end of the world to the other, as far as even his eyes can see. He focuses his gaze on the burning horizon.
“’Ta-san?” Shisui questions as they walk side by side, cracking open the shell of silence, their fingers occasionally ghosting together in a show of quiet intimacy. He likes the contact. He likes it more when Shisui incites the contact.
“Mm?”
An intake of air, and Shisui seems to be inhaling the very firefly particles of the dispersing afternoon. “What would you do if I died?”
Itachi pauses, casting his cousin a curious glance, and signaling him to go on. He does.
“I mean…well, everyone, at some point in time, wants to know if they’re…wanted. Right?” The question is posed in such a way that Shisui appears to be almost desperately correct. “Haven’t you wondered what your life truly meant to the world? To…others?”
It takes Itachi a moment to reply, but when he does, he looks as though he is consulting the sun above their heads. “It would depend, wouldn’t it?” A slight smirk. “I would…I would miss you, I think.”
Shisui smiles here, an expression of pure delight etched into his dark eyes.)
“Oh gods, Shi…” As his shirt is pulled from his body, Itachi closes his eyes, the red burning against the back of his sealed eyelids, carving a memory beneath the surface. He needs Shisui. He always has. It is strange that he’s just come to terms with this face.
Eleven years takes its toll on one in the end.
A breathy moan escapes his throat as Itachi pulls himself up, balancing most of his weight on his elbows and knees, and peers down heatedly at his cousin.
(What brought you to this?)
Slowly, his eyes open now and spin scalding patterns into the pale, scarred skin below him. He lets out a sigh, backing off of Shisui’s body before leaning back against the bed and taking his cousin against his chest, wrapping his arms around his waist. Gently, he nudges at Shisui’s thighs, parting them across his waist until the other is entirely spread out against him. With a coy smirk, he meets Shisui’s eyes, laying a serene kiss on the corner of his mouth. “What would be the best way for me to fully possess you?” Itachi whispers in a dark voice, exhaling a breath of warm air against the curve of his ear.
(A well lit drowning…)
(The eve of the Uchiha clan’s destruction, he had been out walking.
Hadn’t shed a tear. Oh no, oh no.)
Shisui wonders if Itachi has ever cried.
(He stands in front of the shards of his bedroom mirror, and the rain that pounds outside against the hard glass windows covers up the sounds of his screams as his Mangekyou spin and the blood pours from his eye sockets, mingled in with tears and erratic sobs and his knuckles imbedded with pieces of what was once his mirror. Dripping hair rips in chunks as he tears at it, the messy black strands clinging to the space between his fingers, and he doesn't feel it when he stumbles around, shards carving through his flesh, striking nerves and hitting the bone, and the puddles of blood beginning to edge from his body.
The guard around his room abridges the sounds of his slipping into insanity when Shisui Uchiha is found dead.)
And though Shisui has never liked alcohol. (-At the end of the night he is intoxicated.)
He holds Itachi closely, possessively, his heated aroused gasps in an erratic array with his cousin's words, quietly carving scratches into his back, his own modifications, his own testimony that however much blood he'd lost on his morbid little attraction to death and his own desperate loathing of himself. (And the loathing has subsided somewhat, but a hate as strong as Shisui's never dies.
A sin never dies.)
"I want to see your eyes…" Shisui gasps, hungrily, though laced with a devotion thicker than blood (-though bound by such.) "I want to see your eyes when you're…"
(When Shisui dies, he does not go to heaven. He does not go to hell either. His afterlife is a personal, twisted purgatory, ridden with gray skies and dead flowers and broken glass and pictures of the Uchiha children that were once so very innocent, in the loosest tense of the word, littering the grounds he steps on. Pictures of he and Itachi and Sasuke at festivals when they were younger with the faces torn out, or pictures of distant memories of things he has never been able to tell, and they are everywhere, staring facelessly at him in wordless demand of something he could never giver.
He walks on a road that smelled like dirt and decay for eleven years before death is ripped from him and when he inhales water that tastes of fish and manages to crawl onto the bank of the river, it takes him a day before he can open his eyes again and a week before he can stand, and two more before he stops vomiting blood and things he doesn’t want to know from the sickness of his insides.)
He still tastes a little like blood.)
Fireflies illuminate your eyes.
He presses his legs back, spread, and he moans into a jerk of his hips that grinds him against Itachi, his arms positioned over his head, the tattoos and scars obvious, even emphasized under the dancing firelight, making the scene even a little dirtier than it already is.
(-But it's not.)
Chaste.
(Because he never did go to hell.)
(The house seems so empty, yet alive and throbbing with a suffocating sort of secret, like ashes smeared across a white block of marble. Itachi paces down one end of the hallway, eyes flitting from right to left, recognizing this specific corridor with painful ease. He forces himself to avoid looking off to the very end, as the door there jabs at his memory, and it hurts just to think of it.
(Summer days…stretched out in a field…body heat…
A guilty conscience grows.
“Can I kiss you?”
It’s quick. It’s everlasting.
It’s sweet. It’s sinful.
It’s right. It’s wrong.
I feel a guilty conscience grow…)
His eyes spin, and it seems almost as though they’ve been burned a permanent red, the pinwheels whirling. with each turn, the nail wedges sharply into that point inside his head, steadily deeper, sparking the headache situated behind his eye sockets that pulses with the lulled heartbeat of the house. He is gone, and Itachi doesn’t understand. What happened? What went wrong?
(You said you’d stay with me…
My or may we be this way forever?)
Eyes narrow as he kicks open the study room’s wooden door, and it goes reeling on its hinges, slamming into the wall to the left.
“I-Itachi? What is the meaning of this--“
“Shut up.”
“--w-what? What is wrong with you? Your eyes, Itachi, they’re--“
“Shut up.”)
At Shisui’s words, he groans, hands gripping at the curve of his cousin’s ass slightly as Itachi tilts his head back, pushing their hips together forcibly. The friction overwhelms him, and for a second, Itachi is convinced that a fire has been struck in his eyes, consuming him from within, melting every sin and lie that has been manifested inside of him. (Fireflies illuminate your eyes.)
Desperately, he gasps for breath, holding the both of them closely together, their bodies barely having room to breathe, and Itachi trails his nails upward and over Shisui’s naked back. Frequently will he come across a scar or a tattoo, and upon the contact, he sighs, tracing over the familiar imprint with something akin to reminiscence.
Two of hearts…
He will allow Shisui to see his eyes, of course, to see his Sharingan spin patterns wildly when he claims back what had been his all along. When he fucks his cousin, slow and hard and fulfilling both of their twisted desires through the corrupted ways that they have always come together. “Shisui…”
…two hearts that beat as one.
(The corpses appear to blink their glossy eyes, and the horror is ‘minute and lasting a moment.’
“B-brother…” Frantically, the young boy searches for his idol’s stained eyes, shielded in a curtain of darkness, searching and searching and coming up vain in the end. “Y-you…”
The speech here on in seems too rehearsed to Itachi. He hisses under his breath, clutching his head, nails digging into his forehead, and as he leaves the Uchiha Manor, the moonlight greets him and melts away the façade, though never enough to ever clean away the blood beneath his nails.
Somewhere behind him, Sasuke screams.)
He watches the spinning Sharingan above him, the pinwheel curse (-It is considered magick of the highest level, but Shisui considers it a curse and a gift. When his heart stopped beating for a few seconds during his first suicide attempt in Itachi's name (-not in pain, because Itachi cannot hurt him. Shisui is the only one who can hurt himself.) he blessed and cursed Itachi with the Mangekyou eyes. (He hopes with a mild desperation Itachi doesn't hate him for it.)
He jerks hard into Itachi's hips, the fabric of his pants the only tangible thing separating them (-self control cannot be touched and is something the both of them tread thinly on-) and the notion making Shisui moan in protest to it. (He never swears. It sounds so awkward on his tongue. But when he's flushed, sweating, and naked beneath is younger cousin, Fuck Me leaves no awkward or space for question.)
He feels his fingers hook into a place into Itachi's back, and he pushes his body down, jerking his fingers up into his cousin's spine, making sure the both of them felt the grind into his quiet moan as black hair spills and clings to his skin, mixing with Itachi's the way they always had. (-When Shisui's skin didn't look dead they were almost identical. The physical difference between Itachi and Shisui was that Shisui was a good number of inches taller and he always had some goofy grin on his face. Itachi never wore such a smile when anyone was watching.
But Shisui.)
"Gods…"
(-Burns like the sun and I can't look away.)
(He clutches his eyes as he hunches over, closing them and opening them in sync with the horror in the reflection of his bathroom mirror, the Sharingan staring back at a ten year old Shisui repulsing him and angering him in such an uncharacteristic way that he climbs out the bathroom door and runs straight for Itachi's room in the Uchiha Manor.
"Itachi!" (He covers his eyes with one hand as he bangs on the door. He hates these eyes.) "Itachi! Open the door! Itachi!"
When the door slowly recedes, Shisui tries to not start crying (He would never do that to Itachi. But so much does he hate-) and his eight-year-old cousin stares at him in confusion, quickly scanning over him for any injuries and stopping where he is frankly covering his eyes.
"Itachi! I-"
"-You too?"
When Shisui peeps through a part in his fingers, Itachi is watching him sadly, and a pair of revolving red eyes stare back at him, distantly, his pupils bloodshot just as Shisui's are upon the first activation. (He forces himself to not cry, to not overreact, to enjoy the seconds when Itachi embraces him and shuts the door behind them so they can wait until they can control the magick enough to seal the Sharingan away until necessary.
(Shisui would never cry for Itachi.)
But he nearly-)
He likes the Red now. How very pretty it has become in time.
Shisui works his hands to Itachi's waist, working them off his hips with haste between lusty kisses and mumbled, dirty, desperate demands, and he jerks the material as far off of him as he can, the sweat and the tight of the material making it difficult when all of his limbs are constrained, though he manages to get them around to Itachi's mid thigh (-Enough, and he knows it's dirty to think that way-) before breaking the kiss and moving to one of Itachi's ears, the want in his tone making his voice shake a little as he forces something out between a grind.
"-Gods, Itachi, you're still so beautiful."
(Maggots prey upon the living dead.)
(“Itachi?”
Call it a whisper that treads from the distance…
A knock echoes off the wooden walls, intruding the minds of any who would listen, but their moans swathe it over and it passes by unnoticed. In the candlelight, his cousin’s body is molded of melted wax, every curve on the still-child’s body young and hardly distinct, but sweet and naïve in whatever form of the word. The two of them simply lay together, their lips sealed, their bodies bare and touching, their breath relaxed. Within the web of absorption to every fine detail, every bead of sweat on this hot summer night, neither Itachi nor Shisui pay any attention to the continuous efforts of entry.
One more, one more, one more minute…
“Aniki? Are you in here?” The voice is hesitant, but slowly the brass knob twists, and later Itachi desperately tries to recall if he had locked the door or not. In the end, the simple crave to hold Shisui had been enough to cause him to forget the lock, and his fingers had peeled away each dense material of their clothes until there is nothing else left to bind them.
“…A-aniki…?” Sasuke topples into the room, and freezes in shock-ridden confusion.)
But there’s blood between their sheets now, and no one will know.
Oh - I can’t shut my eyes.
Desperation paints his movements (all comments aside, as he only ever sees beauty in Shisui, in…the dead-) and the faint memory recedes from Itachi’s mind in lieu of focusing on the body pressed down on him. With every grind, his vision swims and he jerks, the sane part of his mind (or what is left of the shattered system by now) calms his burning nerves, calms him from taking Shisui with a brutality that calls for control, at least at the moment. At least until he is well again.
(Is it my fault?)
Shallow breath. Heart pounding, wanting to rip free from the fragile cage of bone. Reeling. Slipping. Fading - black, red, black…
(Oh my god, I think I’m blind.)
He hisses a breath, catches a fluttering butterfly of oxygen, and swallows it again. It burns, prisoner in his throat, and Itachi smoothes his fingertips across the sharp bone of his cousin’s hip, gently, gently, hands shaking. A distraction. Calmly, his right hand trails from the top of Shisui’s scarred back and down, pressure increasingly only slightly as he moves further downward, touching the base of Shisui’s spine as though the body he holds is made of fine glass.
(I’ve found one color won’t suffice.)
The hand once previously massaging the soft curve of his cousin’s side removes itself, lifting as the right diverts the attention by sliding around to Shisui’s thin, pale thigh, and placing itself there, the palm imprinting into his skin. Sucking in a sharp breath, the tips of Itachi’s fingers nudge patiently against swollen lips, and his body shudders as another wave of arousal awakens his mind to his strengthening desire.
“Shi…” The name is lost as he sets his own mouth along his cousin’s collarbone, smothering any loose words, any disjointed meanings too delicate yet to reach the surface of all that is wrong in his touches. Wrong, simply because they will it, and they never should have done so in the beginning.
But what is done is done-
(and through the trees I scream your name)
-is done.
(A choking breeze wraps itself around his throat like a scarf set aflame, and Itachi breaks into a run, his footfalls pounding into the warmed earth beneath his bare feet, creating a ripple of power in the sudden outburst of fury.
Matchstick starts a fire…
Death. The displeasing taste of death stains his tongue, and Itachi cannot seem to rid it. Hadn’t been able to rid it for days on end now.
He now knows why. Now, when it would already be too late. A bleeding sun sets above him, stained red, as his eyes shine in the light of it.
Pinpoint the blame.)
Shisui's tongue brushes over Itachi's finger, sucking at it obediently, the quiet want in his actions and he raises a hand and it settles on his cousin's arm, and it's so intimate in the most subtle of ways, (-My or may we be this way forever?) He can hear someone singing in the back of his mind. (It could be himself, but he has forgotten what his singing sounds like in time.)
(He opens his eyes and, for a moment, the world just aches and something terrible of a pain hits him somewhere underneath his skull, pressing hard and reawakening his senses depressed in something like a coma. The rhythmic pounding of the droplets of water on his lower leg makes his ears ring, and as the world returns comes back into focus in a sharp snap he finds himself needing to scream. (But he won't. His throat hurts far too much.)
The walls of the tub are coated with crusted blood, and the rest has already drained among the water that clings under his limbs (-it is cold, much too cold-) and if he weren't so weak he'd be shaking, so he lays there until his vision isn't contradicting itself and he doesn't feel twice as heavy than he is. (He'd never been heavy. He'd always been athletic. Always been a runner. Always been good. Always been better. Never been-)
The empty bottle of arsenic on the side of the tub stares at him, and the vomit he'd thrown up in his unconsciousness while lying on his side is pungent of something terrible, and he can feel it against his skin, sticky, thick, sickening, but he can't move yet. Not just yet. The pipe that had long since gone out and rests somewhere on his chests wafts a deep scent, that deep, unmistakable one of tobacco and a million other things that can never not smell so very good.
His wrists ache.)
Doesn't matter, baby.
You were two steps behind.
He sucks a little at the second finger, lubricating it with kisses and lust, the lacework of modifications starting at his eyebrows and working too far down his body becoming more and more apparent to the both of them, under glassy sweat and hazy eyes. His nails dig slightly into Itachi's wrist, and it speaks of a protectiveness Shisui has only for the two of Fugaku's sons. (But the gesture doesn't speak anything of the difference in the affection Shisui has for Itachi over Sasuke. Gestures can be silent too.)
(Shisui smiles at Mikoto, and she smiles back, the expensive dress she and her husband both wear signifying the unspoken wealth of the Uchiha clan that speaks some twisted embodiment of greed. (He once wondered where all the money came from, but it was never spoken of to him. He never cared much after that. Shisui doesn't need the money. The children in the streets that he gives it to, do.)
"Thank you so much for watching over them, Shisui."
(Itachi doesn't know why he needs a babysitter, and neither does Shisui, but Mikoto was in a fret, and when the ages are fifteen, thirteen, and seven, the difference in the numbers seems massive.)
"It is my pleasure, Aunt Mikoto." (-Manners memorized so heavily the words don't even seem real anymore.) "Do take care, tonight. I'll make sure Itachi and Sasuke go to bed at a reasonable hour." (And when his Uncle follows Mikoto out the door, he doesn't miss the glare, and the suspicion in his eyes, but Shisui only smiles and waves, shutting the door when they are twenty-five feet away or so and he can breathe a sigh in relief.)
"Shisui."
Itachi is standing at the foot of the hardwood steps, and he eyes his older cousin with a certain serene, a look that only Shisui knows well, and is sure that Itachi is aware he gives it only to him.
"'Ta-san."
He smiles softly.
When they are upstairs a few hours later, reading books, talking in dreams, and eating something Shisui had cooked, a knock on the door interrupts the glowing red on Itachi's neck and the forming bruises on Shisui's neck. (They are still dressed, and the door is locked, so Shisui unlocks it discretely and answers with polite.)
"Come in~"
The lock untwists, and Sasuke's book bag slides a little off his shoulders, and there's a childish happiness as he recognizes the voice and hugs Shisui's legs. "Nii-san! Is Shisui babysitting tonight?" (Itachi smirks a little bit inwardly, because that is hardly what Mikoto pays him to do, but he nods nonetheless at watches his brother cling to their older cousin.)
"I am, 'Suke-chan." Shisui smiles and crouches down, hugging Sasuke around his small shoulders and kissing him softly (-swiftly, innocently, almost-) on the lips before ruffling his hair. "Is there anything you want for dinner? I made some cookies a little while ago, but we can have those for dessert."
Sasuke's face flushes and he grins. "Let's have noodles for dinner."
"Okay!")
Two steps behind.
He bites a little at one of Itachi's fingers before letting them go completely, tugging at Itachi's arm and eyeing him a morbid, suicidal innocence that could only seem beautiful on Shisui's face, and could suit no one else, because no one else could wear Shisui's scars just right. The metal of his lip ring brushes Itachi's finger as he moves his head, and the view of the ceiling shakes a little and for a second, the screaming of the flower's is quiet.
(Leave me dreaming on the bed-)
As the velvet of his cousin’s lips slide away from his now moist fingers, Itachi groans something wanton and dark, eyes focusing on the rise and fall of Shisui’s chest in a strange fascination. (-How are you alive, how are you breathing?) The heat gathering between their bodies is overwhelming, and his vision swims dangerously from the effort to catch his panting breath. Gradually, his hand moves down the angles and curves of Shisui’s body, dipping low and between splayed thighs as he leans forward, kisses showering pale skin. He moves quickly, now, in an attempt not to allow the wet of his fingers to dry.
How do we get out? Following, put out.
Inhaling sharply, one moist digit presses in shallowly, and the contact is well-deserved but strained. Itachi wants desperately to move faster, harder, but he lapses out his patience with the simple though in mind to savor this moment in time, as he’s done every other encounter between the two of them in the past.
(The past… why does it seem so far away to him? A thing well left untouched.)
The feelings are left out, and we give our best out.
(Itachi glances up with a sharp look hindering the calm black of his eyes, settling on the two bodies that were currently held together, on the opposite end of the couch. He sighs something listless, unable to pull his gaze away, watching as his cousin kisses his younger brother with veneration.
A venomous ghost of black weaves into the lining of his stomach, and the feeling is something bitter, something he knows he must rid himself of. Shisui continues to hold Sasuke close, at first kissing, and then pushing deeper with a moan that Itachi sardonically figures only he can hear in the calm air. The two are oblivious to it.
Mikoto and Fugaku? Away. As usual.
When envy comes, put on, all you do is lock on.
He admits to despising his seat here, so close to his two relatives, and Itachi wants nothing more than to get up and leave the room. (And his mind already has several excuses provided.)
--
All song lyrics (c) the artists.