smut log 3/4
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.
It’s idiocy, a part of him thinks.
No. Pause, breathe, ration.
He owns nothing of either of them, nothing. He controls nothing of either of them, nothing. He only owns himself, and even then, he cannot constantly direct and conquer each fleeting sensation that he is burdened.
This dark sense of jealousy is wrongly placed, and Itachi fights it away, pure willpower pulling his body into a stand and his eyes drawn to the window, the dull shine of the afternoon sun glittering through. He recalls the look of beaded sweat over pale skin, the look of widened eyes, of a heaving chest. He recalls it all, as it all is sacred to him.
I’m not the only victim, who’s stubborn, foolish pride.
With another soft moan, the two boys headlocked in their own flooded worlds pull away from each other, and Shisui glances up at his cousin’s movement from the couch. “’Ta-san?”
He casts a look over at them, and Sasuke whimpers, tugging at Shisui’s sleeve, seemingly oblivious to his idol’s sudden misplacement. Itachi’s gaze is oddly shielded, but he smiles, and his lips are hard-pressed.
(How are you breathing now?)
“I’ll make us all something to eat.” And he leaves the room, a vague flash of red-flecked eyes in his wake.)
Reverently, the two gentle fingers that press lightly inside of his cousin’s warm body (because while ice on the outside, he becomes unbearably scalding within) mock-thrust, and the action sends blood rushing throughout his body. They aren’t simply children anymore with awkward urges with barely the capability, they’ve grown. Itachi has, at the least, his reactions no longer childish or clumsy in any way. He is aware of what he does now, in control, pressing and stretching the muscle while distracting the pain with his skillful lips and tongue upon the expanse of his cousin’s neck. Dominant. Possessive. Attributes newly acquired. Because Shisui is here now. No where else. No where lost to him.
His own legs strain against the constricting fabric of his pants as Itachi spreads his thighs to further accommodate the body above him, his only free hand smoothing over Shisui’s flat stomach, tracing lightly over scattered scars, and weaving down to touch his cousin where he knows he wants it the most. Itachi’s movements are quick, in rhythm with his puncturing fingers, hardly alleviating the pressure building up between them along with the steady drum of their pulses. Through it all his kisses only harden, not losing any of the intimacy about them, teeth doting on Shisui’s pulse point momentarily before moving on.
All I ever wanted was you here with me.
(Shisui’s reaction to his flee from the living room is immediate and honest, and he sweetly tells Sasuke to stay seated on the couch (eyes straying to the noticeable swell gracing the younger one’s lips; so pretty, it is, the redness), before tailing after his cousin into the kitchen.
“’Ta-san--” he starts, only to be interrupted by Itachi’s deadpan tone.
“Do you want tea?”
Shisui falters, and then smiles. “Yes, please.”
Silence follows as Itachi moves to retrieve the tea bags he knows his cousin will prefer over the others, placing them into the already boiled water of the bronze kettle as though he had only asked Shisui because he’d showed up. As though he would’ve made the tea anyway.
“’Ta-san?” Shisui questions the quiet, knowing that it usually doesn’t feel as empty as it does now. Any silence between them feels like it is meant to be so, but not this time.
Itachi glances over before responding. “Hm?”
“I…” Pausing, he chews lightly at his bottom lip, and then goes on, “I forgot to ask you about how the mission went, with you and Uncle. Was it well?”
“It was fine.”
Another silence, and Shisui dislikes this one even more. Instead of pressing further, he takes a few steps forward, determinedly wrapping his arms around Itachi’s thin waist and settling up against his cousin’s back. “My apologies, ‘Ta-san. I did not realize you felt left out.” He wonders if Itachi can feel his smile through the thin material of his shirt.
Itachi does reply for a few long moments, and briefly Shisui believes he’s gone ignored, sighing slightly. Then, he feels Itachi turn to face him, moving to wrap his own arms around his cousin. “You’re forgiven, Shi.” Glancing at Itachi’s expression, he can see the playful smirk there, and can’t help one himself.
“Cute, ‘Ta-san. Cute.”
“Do you want your tea now?”)
Shisui groans, and he flexes his insides in rhythm with Itachi's fingers, jerking downwards so he could hit a nerve and sighing in a pleasure that could make the scene (-dirty, or beautiful? But it has to be dirty. It's wrong. It's so wrong-) and they love it in that mannerism. His chest rises in falls in his quickening breath, and Itachi's fingers against just a few of the million scars that decorate his body make him too hot to be real. (Shisui has never been warm. Always. Cold.) He can feel his lips, where bruises begin to form, grow warm as he touches them with a finger, the slick clinging to the pad of his index for a second before returning to usual.
(Too beautiful.
Too beautiful.)
(His knuckles pop, and the sound rings out in a series of loud snaps as he pulls his guitar from where it hides in a place behind his bed, in an area of his room he’d cast to appear as one way, always. To appear empty. To appear as only a rug and a suitcase, along with a backpack filled with schoolwork. (He is far more talented with spells that his parents give him credit for, but his parents really don’t give him credit for much, not when they have the great prodigy, Uchiha Itachi, to compare to. (But Shisui is not Itachi. His parents make him know this well.)
There are a series of off rules in his home regarding the arts. Shisui isn’t allowed to play any tasteless instruments. He is only allowed to play the piano, the flute, or the violin. Anything else is bulky, out of order, or just disliked by his parents, and when he’d displayed talent in none of these fields, his parents had been so disappointed, and Shisui had been so very ashamed. When he’d been given a guitar by his aunt Mikoto (-she had been unaware of the rules of the house-) Shisui’s mother threw it away, and out of curiosity, he pulled it from the garbage in the night and snuck it up to his room.
His talent had been somewhat unnatural. In a week he could play medium difficulty pieces. In a month he could play very difficult pieces. In three months he could play any beat, not perfectly, because Shisui hates the concept of perfection, but perfect in a Shisui sort of way. A good way. His way. (But because of his parents could he never practice without spells laced around his room to kill the sound, and even then it was a very dangerous idea. If his mother ever knew…)
He smiles a little as his pops his knuckles, and he tests the pick to the strings, the strum of sound a soft echo in the space of his bedroom. Itachi sits across from him, and Sasuke on the edge of his bed, and when Shisui plays, neither of them speaks. No one ever speaks. No one ever needs to. He can tell when to pick up the pace or slow it down in body language, he can tell when the tone needs to be somber or not by the look in their eyes, and sometimes, he can even tell when he needs to sing with it. (These times are rare, but he can tell when Itachi’s lips tighten a little, and when they do, Shisui sings, and the tightness loosens and no one protests.)
He can taste Itachi’s aggression in the sweat he kisses from his cousin’s neck, he can feel the dominance in his actions, and he can tell that Itachi wasn’t his baby cousin any longer. (-Is he the younger one now? Is he the immature one? Were either of them ever immature?) He’d grown up too fast. (Both of them. Much too fast.) He tilts his head back in a startled moan, somewhat desperate in Itachi’s teasing movements, and he can see through the ridged stained glass the moon through the trees. (Had they spent all day together? Was it night time already?) Through the colored glass of the ironically placed virgin Mary, with her blessed child, the color is red.
(“What color is the moon?”)
“-Make me…” Shisui mumbles quietly, and as the streaks of reflected color crisscross over their forms, he closes his eyes. “…remember.”
(Shisui sighs as the song draws to a close, and his fingers are warm with fast movement, the quick changes of tone as his complex piece closes. The wooden pick drops to the fabric of his bed, and Sasuke is sprawled upon it, gazing at the ceiling, almost listlessly, and Shisui doesn’t remember how or when he got there, but the look in his eyes is far too sad. (That look is reserved to Shisui alone. He wants desperately for Sasuke to not be who he is.)
“You’re good.” Itachi comments, and the two words make Shisui smile, because as short a statement as it is, there is a million words beneath it, and Shisui can hear them all. Sasuke nods, and turns his head to his older cousin in agreement. “Mother is home.” Shisui says quietly, and his shoulders go rigid as he feels the house go cold as his mother and father step inside. “I’m house ridden right now, go on out the back door.”
Itachi eyes him. (I’m house ridden right now, go before they kill you too.) He nods, and the slip of paper he tucks between the strings of Shisui’s guitar passes in silence as he and Sasuke slip down the hall and out the back door for their own home in the Uchiha manor, Itachi walking quickly in hopes that Sasuke does as well, so maybe his brother can go on without realizing why Shisui always makes them leave so suddenly.
(Twelve o’clock.
Place.
Tonight.)
When Shisui meets Itachi at midnight in the secret room, bruised black and blue, he doesn’t cry. He smiles a little. (It’s so fragile, and Itachi wonders how much more it will take before to breaks.) “It hurts.”)
(God is dead.)
And no one cares.
“Make me… Itachi.”
Shisui’s soft request stirs something inside of him, something buried and forcibly forgotten over those long eleven years, and Itachi closes his eyes, resting his head against his cousin’s shoulder, eyelashes ghosting over smooth, marred skin. Something inside of him that he had once strived to erase, a welling of emotion in his chest and in his skull, somehow overwhelming the usual current of absence. Different from a headache, but it pains him to experience the unfamiliar sensation, and Itachi draws in a shuddering breath to level himself. It is instinct that has his arm wrapping around his cousin’s waist, fingers digging deeper, pushing in and pulling back out in a seamless rhythm, and it is instinct that has him kissing Shisui again, mouth to mouth, lust to lust, the cold metal of his ring pressing against the swell of Shisui’s lips.
He will make him remember.
He will.
(It is rare that the fire country will shed not liquid tears of the cool, cool rain, but instead something more solid, more real. Snow. It is rare that his country will allow the phenomenon, and one can go a lifetime without glimpsing the beauty of the white miracle. But when fate bestows the freezing moment of one December’s dawn with the snow from above, Itachi is in a state of awe.
He reaches his hand outward, struggling to enfold a flake in his palm, wishing to return it inside before it could find the will to melt into oblivion. Of course, it is impossible for him to capture the innocence of the snowflake, but Itachi will ignore this for now. If there is ever a time to tell himself that he can do anything, just like everyone had always told him, it is now.
‘Shisui…please be alright.’
The cold had gotten to his cousin, and he is now inside, away from the unbearable weather, tucked under a pile of blankets Itachi had especially provided. When the both of them had seen the beginning of the snowfall, Shisui had been ecstatic, wanting desperately to experience the marvel that would likely never happen again. Itachi couldn’t allow his cousin to go outside with a cold, so he had told him he’d catch the snowflakes and bring them back.
Shisui had believed he could do it.
Thus, Itachi believes he can too.
That’s simplified but when your complexion dries, you wake up cold and think, you’d wish it’d been this way.)
“Shisui…” he manages, fingers sliding idly up the base of his cousin’s spine, inching high enough to cradle the back of his head, coiling into silky strands of familiar black hair. It is a dream, another one of those twisted dreams of his that always result in him awakening with a start, panting and sweating and uncomfortable in the empty of his room. Too empty. (Too lonely. Too long eleven years had been. Can they ever recover?)
He thought he’d entirely disengaged himself, locked it all away in a smear of nightmares, but apparently he did not. It haunts his every memory, and he has done all he can to rid his mind of it, even when nothing before had prevailed. Shisui cannot see the strained expression on his face, coming to terms with a want far too immense to be okay, recognizing his need, and he prefers it this way. Shame is the only thing he can possibly offer to his cousin now; shame for lost, murdered family, shame for the deep red of his eyes, thickening black around the center, far more broad than what is supposed to be normal to any Uchiha. A sign of deceit and perfidy, a burden he takes thoughtlessly, selflessly, away from Shisui. Because Shisui needs nothing more to worry of.
There had been a price; there is always a price for living, for being the one alive.
I’ve felt the hand of god and that’s the last thing that I felt…
(Itachi doesn’t know what he had been expecting, but it certainly never was this.
“So why’d you do it, Itachi-san? Hm?”
What is he doing here?
A red-hazed glare isn’t enough to quiet the man; only seems to encourage him further. Itachi allows him room to keep talking himself into a hole, because it would only be a matter of time.
“Seriously, c’mon, couldn’t have just done it for the kicks. Fucking hilarious, sure, but get real.”
The silence from his side sharpens between them, and eventually the other man rolls his eyes in their sockets at the lack of returned discourse, stalking off in the opposite direction to wherever it is he now resides. Itachi doesn’t particularly know.
“Nothing personal,” he mutters to the space Hidan had previously occupied, before leaning against the heavy door to his room and pushing it open, wood swinging back on sturdy hinges. The darkness of his room meets him almost earnestly upon sight, impatient to swallow his tired form in stillness and silence, and Itachi willingly complies. Despite the cold, he makes no move to slip under the warm sheets, instead glaring searing red holes into the ceiling above.
Five long years, it’s been, since the threads had finally come apart once and for all. At the unexpected sight of Hidan, it had immediately resurfaced in his mind, a now vivid ghost of his past.
Five long years since he’s last seen…
At least Shisui does not have to endure the loneliness, and a part of him is thankful for this. He doesn’t believe in a heaven or hell, but wherever it is Shisui is now must not be too…unbearable, not like reality. He wonders if Shisui prefers death over life; having never to deal with anyone ever again, anyone that used to…hurt him. It all feels like a bad dream to Itachi, some nightmare claiming his mind in painful waves each time he dares to imagine it over again, but Itachi can cope with the solitude. He can, and he will. He will shield everything as best he can. Itachi had known what he was doing the night he’d soiled his blade with the blood of his parents, had known he’d bought himself into exile.
Yet does that matter much to him now, at the loss of his cousin?
No, it doesn’t.
Five long years; many, many more to follow. His eyes fill with bitter, angry, exhausted tears, reflecting the red of his eyes, repressed but sustained. Dealt with.)
The heat wrapped around his fingers is stifling, consuming his awareness rapidly and completely, and Itachi sucks in a breath, pulling his lips away from Shisui’s. His other hand fists weakly in dark hair, nails pressing softly against his cousin’s scalp, but he makes no move further with this hand. Instead, Itachi abruptly removes the warmed digits from his cousin’s body, shivering at the sudden feel of cooler air upon his skin. Shisui feels so real against him, spread out across his lap, and it takes all of his self control not to push into Shisui without another thought.
But patience. Control.
He breathes in deeply, pulling his cousin closer to him and groaning as his naval piercing brushes Shisui’s stomach. The erotic contact sends another shock of arousal coursing through his blood, and his head feels light.
“Shisui… please, now. I can’t wait any longer.”
He pushes himself forward, and fleetingly does Shisui kiss Itachi’s sweaty forehead, a wordless, thoughtless, and unwaveringly trusting action, and he wraps his arms around his cousin’s neck, the feel of metal of modifications done in the dark under the light of matches and followed with kisses between splayed legs and sharp, outward groaning is something cold and jittery against his skin, sending a shiver, anticipating yet delicate, through his body, and he presses his lips to a place at Itachi’s ear.
(“It reminds me of someone…”
Shisui stares at the snow Itachi has brought to him, brushing over it’s loose surface with the pads of his fingers, his skin almost colorless from what the sickness he’d come down with had brought to him, and the tattoos on his knuckles violently evident against the purity of the opal frost that rested in cakes in Itachi’s stiffening hands.
Itachi eyes him, eyes not frozen into Sharingan as they cold be, only in a relatively soft expression, the flush of Shisui’s fever and the way his eyes were half closed in an exhausted daze making him only slightly perturbed. The flesh of his hands that tightened up, and he could feel the water of the snow beginning to melt, the warmth of his hands too great for the precious purity to last very long.
(And that is reality, isn’t it? Purity only lasts as long as it’s surroundings can allow. Shisui had mastered flame at five. Itachi at four. He wonders, vaguely, if they had stripped themselves of their own innocence then.)
Shisui’s finger digs into the ice, almost hesitantly, a little of it wavering on the tip of his finger before he licks it away, closing his eyes and shivering a little at the jerk of cold deviating so greatly from the warmth Itachi had emphasized. (To keep him alive, even? Pneumonia is winter’s curse.) “Reminds me of…”)
Let’s pretend we don’t exist.
If I were to die today;
(He kisses the patch of skin between Sasuke’s bangs that is glowing red from where Itachi has poked it, and his giggle is soft, against the pout on his little cousin’s lips from where Shisui kneels before him. (It is sick that neither Fugaku nor Mikoto could take their son to his first day at kindergarten, so Shisui and Itachi skipped to take him to the Elementary school themselves.)
“Do you have your lunch?”
Sasuke rolls his eyes and nods.
“Anything you need? Pencils? Paper? Moral support?”
Sasuke shakes his head, and from where Itachi stands, the tiniest of amused grins on his lips, Shisui is Mikoto and Itachi is Itachi, for even though there is a physical resemblance between he and his father, the difference between them is vast and torrid. A hand ruffles Sasuke’s hair into a further array of erratic spikes at the back of his head, and Shisui attracts stares as he hugs his little cousin (-with too much affection, and nobody but Itachi can see it.)
“Good luck today, Sasuke.” Itachi’s voice is harder than Shisui’s, but it carries something in it, a care distant and recognized in vague.
“Yes, good luck! Have fun! Don’t talk to strangers on your way home!”
“Thank you Nii-san. Bye, Shisui!”
His form, adorned in black, disappears between a hoard of school kids, though Shisui can still see him up until the point that he slips into the building, and Shisui laughs a little to himself when greeted by Itachi’s stern expression. “’Ta-san, someone needs to do it.”)
Against the odds;
(The sun glistens above them, streaking colors that aren’t really there into their hair and eyes, and in the August afternoon do Itachi and Shisui appear of four seasons, the slight smile on Shisui’s face an easy mask over the fresh wounds on his thin hips that sting something terrible as he walks.
“Oh…?”
They stop abruptly and stare at a small brown bag that lays in discord on the dirt path where small footprints tread permanent marks into the ground, and Shisui kneels to it, eyeing the Kanji with a certain lurking depression in his eyes that weighs heavy against Itachi’s form when they make love in hidden places and play god in the open.
“He dropped his lunch…”)
I would just want to tell you that…
(“…it reminds me of you.”)
He takes in a shaking breath, and it rattles in his lungs, echoing about in his weak, reforming body and some sort of quiet, desperate announcing of his life, and for a second, Shisui is a child in Itachi’s arms, innocent and clinging to life in the moment it is so suddenly forced into it. (Because a baby does not play with fire. And for a second…) Shisui is innocent again. The words are almost a whimper, and he doesn’t know if Itachi hears them or not, and uncharacteristically does he find himself unable to care.
The sweat on his back glistens, and he falls back again, weakly, his inflamed nerves sending fire into every fiber of his body, and jolt of agony so out of place he wants to make a noise, that of pain, that of another annotation of his humanity, like the blood that he can taste in his mouth of the throb of the bites Itachi had covered him with, marks they’d have made too much of a point to cover up as children (-but, uncharacteristically, almost, does Shisui find himself unable to care.)
For they aren’t children anymore.
He closes his eyes.
Itoshii hito.
Every movement of his is measured, every single one precise, Itachi easing his hands over his cousin’s hips, gripping them gently and pulling his body closer, positioning the both of them. A spot he should not have any knowledge of, but it is far too familiar to him by now, too right, and it doesn’t seem to matter. He doesn’t recall breathing, the butterflies clustering, suffocating some part of him deep in his chest as he eases Shisui over him, as he pushes in. The gasp at the first true contact sends a flood of shocking intensity throughout his body, and Itachi is scattering kisses across a landscape of scarred skin, a battlefield of memories. A battlefield he knows all too well.
With our last joys.
With our wings with our stars.
With the life as with death.
We will fall will still dream ourselves.
With our stolen hearts.
With our arrows in scraps.
He pauses, even as his self-control gradually fades away, even as the pads of his fingers press hard enough to bruise into his cousin’s thin hips, even as he wants to bury himself inside of Shisui as deep as possible and let go. A sanctuary to the both of them, but nothing innocent, nothing as sinless as every word fallen from his mouth had originally been designed to be; fallen from the ledges of heaven, falling broken to the concrete, breaking open, fissures of blood spreading everywhere. The colors strewn across his cousin’s body are breathtaking, the same hue as the moon as Shisui sees it, and he closes his eyes to preserve the image. It is almost unlike the many times they’d stripped away their defenses among the colorless chrysanthemums at the altars of the churches they’d been taken to so frequently.
But he knows he’s held this out far too long by now. This state of emergency is overwhelming him, choking him until Itachi at last realizes that this is as long as he can endure. With a shuddering jerk of his hips, angling himself just right against Shisui, he pushes inside the rest of the way, fully seating himself. At the final movement, Itachi exhales sharply, adjusting to the suddenly overpowering desire to persist. But he waits, again, breathing softly against the pale skin just below Shisui’s ear, waiting for the permission to continue. (Though nothing is preventing either of them from that.)
We would be thousand.
We would be two.
The beating heart.
The glorious heart.
(“Ara, ‘Ta-san…”
His eyes are drawn up to meet a mirror of his own, and he smiles a bit, unable to help the feeling of contentment at the sight of his cousin. “Yes?” Somewhere far off, the church bells ring high-strung notes over the fields spread about, and muffled laughter of schoolchildren can be heard through the thick walls closing them in this secret place of theirs.
“Why is the window broken like this?”
Itachi glances downward directly at the multi-colored shards littering the ground around them, and one catches the fleeting light of the sun through the naked window, casting a glare into his eye. He looks away. “They were careless.”
“Who was?” Shisui is balancing on the stone ledge beside him, legs swinging gently with some nonexistent wind, heels hitting the bottom of the structure soundlessly.
“The angels.”
Curiosity brings Shisui’s gaze back to Itachi’s, as though he is absorbing this information avidly, accepting but still in a state of wonderment. “I thought angels are never careless.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
Itachi’s words are valid, and Shisui can never find any contradiction, but that doesn’t cease their conversations. No, their words are endless when pieced together in each other’s presence. Vindicated.
For a moment, Shisui wavers, teeth worrying the bottom of his lip in a way that has his younger cousin watching him intensely. “Not everyone, ‘Ta-san,” he finally whispers.
A smirk from Itachi is all it takes to get Shisui smiling as well, though their eyes do not meet in understanding this time around.
’I’m not perfect, cousin, but I’ll let you dream for the both of us.’)
We will find a sky.
A sky without the love of god.
With our secrecies with our treasures.
With the life as with death.
His soft breathing is all that can be heard within his own head, clouding over his eyes even as they remain shut to the treacherous world around them. It feels so… so incredible, he can hardly find the right words to describe it. The coils in his stomach are too tight, too unbearable even now, and Itachi holds his cousin in his arms, as if to make sure he’s truly here, not wanting any part of him too far away. “Beloved one,” he mutters breathlessly against Shisui’s ear, wondering if any of his actions are causing him to hurt; the last thing Itachi wants for him. Only now would he wholly let himself be liberated to express the rifts of torment and ecstasy ripping him to pieces at once--only now, buried inside of his cousin, could he forget.
Forget the things remembered, and remember the things forgotten.
“Beloved, beloved one…” A laugh, strained and raw from their deprived desires, pulls free from his throat. “Isn’t it the same as always? It’s fine just like this.”
(“We are all equal in the end,” Itachi says after a while, slipping his foot forward to nudge at the damaged shards scattered by the angels who had supposedly left obliteration in their wake. As they always do.
Shisui isn’t so sure he agrees, but he finds solace in the warmth of the summer sun over his body from the shattered window, enough to keep him in silence. In some way, people are equal, but in the way, people keep others either above or beneath them, controlling to sate their own insecurities, ruining the parity they could have had. No one really is equal, because some souls are much too corrupted to be considered of such a standing.
He wonders how he and Itachi would be considered in the court of a god. Would they be cast out? Shunned? Abandoned? Or worse, destroyed? Ruination.
When Shisui looks to where his cousin’s eyes have fallen, his brows furrow in concentration. The sunlight glosses over the stained glass, reflecting it back onto their skin in a kaleidoscope of colors, and he feels like a child again, enthralled by the simplest of the world’s creations.
“But then…” A brief pause, enough to catch Itachi’s attention, and he smiles. “What are we in the beginning?”)
Of it was once never.
Of it was once wounded.
But we will still bleed.
With the life as with death.
(He lays as some sort of Christ across the floor, the sheets of opal strewn across his form and skin preserved as snow during the winter, when the sun is hidden behind clouds and the sky is only an endless streak of gray, bringing cold and pain to those who lie beneath it, testing those for if they can remember that eventually, the sun will return.
His flesh, marred, tattooed, pierced, is so untouched for a few seconds, and his lips are painted red, a beautiful, sinless red against endless white, occasionally intervals in his cascading hair and soulless eyes, and he is so damned beautiful for one sweet moment, when nothing is touched and everything is white, back to the start, back to the everything and back to the nothing.
Shisui is a suffering angel the last time Itachi makes love to him before he dies.)
A moan, hard, startled, gasping for breath, and Shisui’s heart rate escalades, pounding against his ribcage and bringing flush to his (dead, for he is only-) skin, existence, proof of life in the beating heart and the reactions of touch, when Itachi penetrates him and the pain lasts for a few seconds, and the nerves hit and there is reaction, and with that does Shisui understand he exists. (And he isn’t sure how this justifies reality, but it does, and he cannot spend much of his thought process dwelling upon it.)
I think I used to have a voice;
Now I never make a sound.
(And I just do what I’ve been told,
I really don’t want them to come around.)
His eyes snap open, and his fingers tighten into his palms, sweating and gasping into Itachi’s jerks of movement inside of him, and he hangs his chin over Itachi’s shoulder, grinding his body onto his cousin, the cold metal of the naval ring he’d pierced so long ago brushing into his chest, and another belated groan as a nerve was hit, and he forces words from memory, triggered in Itachi’s words, triggered in Itachi’s movements and what is.
(Shisui strums his guitar from where he reclines on Itachi’s bed, staring at the plaster ceiling and tuning a soft, delicate acoustic tune in ad-lib, and his voice is soft, a delicate one, something sad and remorseful, and his cousin’s back stiffens a little, not out of anything negative, just in listening.
“Beloved one...”
And he slows down the pace of the chords in sync with the words, and vaguely does he wonder if anyone else on the floor could hear him (but he doubts it. He is good at being quiet.)
“-Don't open your closed eyes…”
(He closes them tightly, and the feel of a needle against the crease of his nose makes him swallow, a nervous preparation for the promised pain to come with another modification, another proclamation of something romantic and even a little demented from Itachi to Shisui and back again, and the feel of his cousin’s lips against the bridge of his nose before a sterilized needle is forced through it is almost deceiving, in a distant way, and it makes the tears that well automatically in his eyes seem a little more unjustified.
“It’s perfect.”
Appealing only because they’re just that unappealing.)
The chords of the song slow down further, and Itachi is watching him with an intensity that he would only let Itachi look upon him with, because Shisui can only allow himself to be received from him. (Only.) “That way, that way…” (Only, because he does not like to be watches, because he does not want others to see the flaws in himself with the brilliance that he can.)
(Sweat, a tangle of kisses, flushed faces, and Shisui’s uncanny ability to hide scars and Itachi’s even more uncanny ability to always find them, and what are they, a tangle of dying children in sheets that aren’t as white as they used to be, and chastity fallen just a little bit further.)
Just a little.
Inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy.
“-You can’t sleep.”)
He rocks his hips onto Itachi’s, body thinned and frail, seeming so desperately fragile in Itachi’s arms (-it is what is fragile that is treated with the most care, and it is what is cared for that is precious to us,) and he kisses at the spot at Itachi’s shoulder, licking at the skin and trapping it between his teeth, not quite biting, but tasting him, and working his way up to his ear where rings penetrate (-they are both covered with them, and never will such be forgotten,) biting a little at the cartilage and clearing a pant from his throat.
“Beloved one-”
(His hips twist, delicately, and his legs move in sync, and as he dances across the stage of “Almost as good as Itachi” with his mother and father as the most scrutinous of judges, he can see the pinwheel in the back of the room, and he dances faster and faster, because he must be beautiful, if only for this-)
“Not 'For you I would die'-” (And when he falls he will bleed and bleed and bleed, but eventually they will scar and he will be able to dance again, and the scrutiny will become more and more intense and just as he is dancing in circles does it continue to spin, and the wheel never stops and it never stops) “-but 'For you I live'.”
He sings, and it is quiet, desperate, an uncensored wanting and adoration, and he freezes the moment in his mind, freezes it into his memory (-for that is all a person is; their memories. Experiences.) something poetic and eternal, and it is his, and he rocks into a nerve, letting a delicate, pretty moan into Itachi’s ear into the words, lacing them with memory, and he can taste the blood that wavers in Itachi’s kisses on his tongue (-and he wonders if Itachi can taste it in his words.)
“Of course we’ll be together, before this, before that.”
Itachi’s eyelids flutter at the moan breathed thoughtlessly into his ear, drinking the sound up with everything in him, the once gentle and testing movements becoming faster, becoming more desperate. The lips upon his skin trace patterns that cause him to tilt his head to one side, panting a soft, caressing moan of his own, their bodies together like silk against velvet. The electric in his blood is threatening a short circuit, pulsing and throbbing to a rhythm he only dreamt about for so many years since he’d last tasted Shisui on his tongue.
‘I love you’
so much the lips I kiss with
are wearing away.
Everything is tightening around him, this asphyxiation painful in the most pleasurable of means, engulfing him each time he pushes all the way inside, releasing him each time he pulls all the way out. (Sinful, sinful enough to rivet him and pin him down, enough to ensnare him in a devil’s fist.
Oh angel won’t you help me? Won’t you help your son?)
(The silver knife falls to the plate with a clatter of glass and porcelain, surprisingly remaining unbroken upon connection, and the noise splinters a silence so deep and consuming Itachi can’t find the will to breathe. He doesn’t understand what he is hearing, cannot comprehend it. Worried black eyes flicker over to him, then gradually slide to the ground.
He knew it. He knew this was bound to happen.
“Itachi? Did you hear what I said?” the firm voice demands, shocking the quiet of the dining room, and Itachi can hear the cracks fracturing further across the portrait of calamity.
“No,” he mutters, so abrupt and so unshaken Mikoto has to bat an eye, glancing at her husband, expression full of concern.
“I do not like repeating myself.” Sasuke sits off to the side, hands clenching and unclenching against the lace tablecloth, eyes diverting attention from his enraged father. Fugaku continues, oblivious to his youngest son’s discomfort in the situation. “What have you and Shisui doing to waste so much of your time from your own family’s company? It is angering.”
Another shattering of silence, and Itachi hardly reacts, leaning back against the chair and placing his palm down against the tabletop. “I do not see how it matters.”
It is obviously something he should not have said, because his father’s face is twisted into an angry scowl, and his eyes flash with indignation. “Yes it does very well matter! This is your family, and you are a part of it! You may not see Shisui anymore, do you understand me!”
Itachi’s world ruptures, but he tunes out the destruction’s detailed finale.
That same night, he meets Shisui, in secret. After a while, Fugaku’s mind drifts from the matter, and things seem to fall back into the oddly disjointed place they had become so accustomed to.
Whether the suspicion had faded or not, however, neither could be too sure.)
‘Let us always be together’
so that we never part.
With a tilted smile, Itachi’s hands slide up over his cousin’s bare back, tracing the lines of his sculpted body with reverence and adulation, because this is his beloved one, his Shisui, and no amount of aversion from the angels looking in on them could change such a thing. He rocks hard up into Shisui, moaning more loudly, the sound slipping from his lips too faultlessly, too flawlessly. The way they look when they’re together, as their secrets become a fleeting memory and their scars a forgotten mess. One hand slipping to catch Shisui’s chin, he seizes his cousin in an abrupt kiss, swift and sudden, holding it for a moment as he pushes in hard, and it feels too good like this, feels too obscene, that he’s losing himself.
‘I love you’ I kiss
so as to not attract attention.
I held to you as if possessed,
to keep you from going anywhere.
(The candlelight seems to flicker with Shisui’s laugh, and Itachi feels himself grinning as well, laying side by side with his cousin upon the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, their fingers laced tightly together. “Mm, ‘Ta-san?” Shisui whispers softly, turning his head to the side, and Itachi watches him from the corner of his eye, admiring his childlike beauty.
“Can I show you something?” There is a flicker of something in his eyes, and Itachi is consumed by anticipation. Nights like these, locked inside a secret of a room, basking in one another’s company, Itachi forgot the meaning of despair.
He doesn’t answer Shisui, only offers a slight nod, but knows his cousin wouldn’t need a reply either way.
Sitting up, Shisui smiles down at him, and Itachi remains stretched out across the bed, opening his eyes a bit more out of curiosity. It is when he feels soft flesh seal over his lips does reaction catch up to action, and his eyelids widen even more, though he makes no move to push Shisui away. They’d only kissed on one other occasion than this, but that had been offhand and brief. Now, Shisui lingers, tasting his cousin’s lips for several long moments before pulling away.
“Sh…Shisui,” Itachi mutters, his hand lifting to curl against the sleeve of the older boy’s shirt. “Will you…will you do that again?”
Shisui laughs, and the sound is almost evanescent, brushing his awareness before being choked out by another kiss, and this one is much more suffocating, much more sweet. Their tongues collide, gently caressing, and then it is over, and Itachi is left panting, realizing what sort of sensation began to claim him. His bangs fall back away from his eyes that had somehow slipped closed during the intimacy of the kiss, and slowly, he blinks them open again, regarding Shisui’s form above him.
“Cousin…” He hears the whisper in his ear, hot breath brushing his skin, and Itachi can hardly find the will to speak. Shisui’s hand is touching him, set lightly against his chest, and he can feel his cousin move over him, shifting into a more comfortable position. When he comes to a pause, poised over Itachi, the younger boy’s eyes flash in the darkness with some twisted form of surprise and expectation. Calm, soothing fingertips rove downward, and his skin shivers at the touch. “Cousin, does this feel good?” Shisui mutters, lips braving the slope of his pale neck, laying gentle kisses here and there. The hand falls to an abrupt halt, resting upon his clothed thigh, and Itachi shudders.
When Shisui at last brings his younger cousin to the precipice of bliss, it’s with his soft lips wrapped around Itachi’s cock.)
Love has just now, died before my eyes
Love has just now, died as if to going to sleep…
Shisui moans, and Itachi’s name flutters somewhere between collections of panting and hard gasps, eyes opening and closing again within his cousin’s rhythm (-in and out again, and it hurts-) so beautifully, pain a fleeting, almost unregistered reaction between the nerves hit and the paroxysms of contact. He rocks in a sync, not perfect (-as nothing is. It took Shisui a while to figure out, but nothing is completely flawless.) - but hardly inexperienced, and the differences between their bodies of what time had done is barely felt, what was to be only the fingers digging into sweaty backs and Itachi working deeper into Shisui’s body (-and distantly does Shisui wonders if his younger cousin could find all his secrets hidden in that place underneath his heart, all the things re-concealed upon re-animation.
He doesn’t doubt it.)
“A-ah…Itachi…!”
(Shisui’s laugh is soft, elegant, sad, and naïve in all of the same tone, and it rings quietly as he tugs Itachi by the hand into the town square, the evening setting in on them against the tall bonfires fires contained with rocks and spells and the warm calamity of the Halloween festival settling down into everyone.
Shisui is not allowed to go, and Itachi is ordered to stay in his room and study, but neither of them much care for rules when they know that this is their first and last chance to attend. (They can sense the finality of the Uchiha clan in the cold stares and the brushed looks, and it is when Fugaku tells Sasuke he did a good job that Shisui is worried.) But not now.
He’d found the most beautiful thing he could in his parent’s closet, a long violet gown and a black corset, and fumbled himself into it before tossing a rock at Itachi’s window and helping him climb out. (“What are you wearing?”
“It’s Halloween, Ta-san. What are you?”
“…”) The black cloak Itachi is wrapped in rushes behind him, and Shisui’s dress catches dirt and grass in his path, and neither of them really much care if anyone knows who they are or what they’ve done, if only for a single night to go unbothered. To be children.
For a night, they dance under the moonlight like everyone else. Shisui is the girl and Itachi is the boy, and they are two people who met somewhere far away, and they are not in a homosexual, and they are not in an incestuous relationship. The first time Sasuke watches his brother and older cousin kiss is when he sneaks out to the Halloween festival at seven years old.)
Pressing his arms somewhere into his cousin’s hips and biting a lip, Shisui thrusts into his pace, a bit weakly, the color in his cheeks vivid now as it had ever been and his sing-song moans growing more erratic in Itachi’s ears. The mattress supporting his weight feels light, and with every sporadic stroke does the heat in Shisui increase and the desperate, sinful want in his tone grow more evident. (Dirty, dirty, boy’s a naughty one.)
Round we go
The world is spinning
When it stops
It’s just beginning
(Shisui is steadily drowning within his own waters, and so fretfully does he gasp and sputter for his breath, grabbing hold of anything solid that maintains balance for his inner storms. His essence and being is fast, the unconscious, unending speed, the blink of an eye and he is gone and another blink and he is behind you, and this is only Shisui’s essence because no one is as fast as he.
Not even Itachi.
So when he inhales the salt-water of his ocean or chokes on the bathwater diluted with the blood gushing from his severed veins, the water is moving too fast for anyone to catch him. The waves crash and he is submerged and rejected from the ocean in a horribly erratic sync, and because he is too fast, because he is faster than everyone, no one is there to catch up with him.
No one can pull him out.
Not even Itachi.
And when Shisui comes to this horrible realization is when he leaves the Uchiha manor without permission for the last time, and he runs and runs until he can’t feel his brain giving out because of the lack of oxygen or how much his legs hurt from every dehydrated stride. He runs and he runs, and when he finally stops is when he is ready to throw himself off of an old bridge forty miles from where Itachi is searching room after room for him.
The connection of flesh had been a burn of awakening when Shisui crashes headlong into Hidan, and his lips mouthing the words “I’ll be praying for you.” Is the last thing Shisui sees before the water drags him under and he can’t swim back out.)
Sun comes up
We laugh and we cry
Sun goes down
And then we all die
Itachi hits him hard from somewhere inside of him, and Shisui reacts something beautiful, a heated gasp escaping his lips and incoherent words leaving them breathily as he jerks his body down in rhythm and moans in effect. (Between their bodies clashing against each other can he feel the same barbell Itachi was wearing the last time that they did this, and everything is the same and everything is a million times different than it had been before.) A startled cry as Itachi hits him in that place again, and the beads of his cousin’s sweat taste almost sweet when Shisui kisses them away, between teeth (lust) to deafen the noise.
(Subdue the want.)
Guilty by hallucination.
--
All lyrics (c) the respective 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.
It’s idiocy, a part of him thinks.
No. Pause, breathe, ration.
He owns nothing of either of them, nothing. He controls nothing of either of them, nothing. He only owns himself, and even then, he cannot constantly direct and conquer each fleeting sensation that he is burdened.
This dark sense of jealousy is wrongly placed, and Itachi fights it away, pure willpower pulling his body into a stand and his eyes drawn to the window, the dull shine of the afternoon sun glittering through. He recalls the look of beaded sweat over pale skin, the look of widened eyes, of a heaving chest. He recalls it all, as it all is sacred to him.
I’m not the only victim, who’s stubborn, foolish pride.
With another soft moan, the two boys headlocked in their own flooded worlds pull away from each other, and Shisui glances up at his cousin’s movement from the couch. “’Ta-san?”
He casts a look over at them, and Sasuke whimpers, tugging at Shisui’s sleeve, seemingly oblivious to his idol’s sudden misplacement. Itachi’s gaze is oddly shielded, but he smiles, and his lips are hard-pressed.
(How are you breathing now?)
“I’ll make us all something to eat.” And he leaves the room, a vague flash of red-flecked eyes in his wake.)
Reverently, the two gentle fingers that press lightly inside of his cousin’s warm body (because while ice on the outside, he becomes unbearably scalding within) mock-thrust, and the action sends blood rushing throughout his body. They aren’t simply children anymore with awkward urges with barely the capability, they’ve grown. Itachi has, at the least, his reactions no longer childish or clumsy in any way. He is aware of what he does now, in control, pressing and stretching the muscle while distracting the pain with his skillful lips and tongue upon the expanse of his cousin’s neck. Dominant. Possessive. Attributes newly acquired. Because Shisui is here now. No where else. No where lost to him.
His own legs strain against the constricting fabric of his pants as Itachi spreads his thighs to further accommodate the body above him, his only free hand smoothing over Shisui’s flat stomach, tracing lightly over scattered scars, and weaving down to touch his cousin where he knows he wants it the most. Itachi’s movements are quick, in rhythm with his puncturing fingers, hardly alleviating the pressure building up between them along with the steady drum of their pulses. Through it all his kisses only harden, not losing any of the intimacy about them, teeth doting on Shisui’s pulse point momentarily before moving on.
All I ever wanted was you here with me.
(Shisui’s reaction to his flee from the living room is immediate and honest, and he sweetly tells Sasuke to stay seated on the couch (eyes straying to the noticeable swell gracing the younger one’s lips; so pretty, it is, the redness), before tailing after his cousin into the kitchen.
“’Ta-san--” he starts, only to be interrupted by Itachi’s deadpan tone.
“Do you want tea?”
Shisui falters, and then smiles. “Yes, please.”
Silence follows as Itachi moves to retrieve the tea bags he knows his cousin will prefer over the others, placing them into the already boiled water of the bronze kettle as though he had only asked Shisui because he’d showed up. As though he would’ve made the tea anyway.
“’Ta-san?” Shisui questions the quiet, knowing that it usually doesn’t feel as empty as it does now. Any silence between them feels like it is meant to be so, but not this time.
Itachi glances over before responding. “Hm?”
“I…” Pausing, he chews lightly at his bottom lip, and then goes on, “I forgot to ask you about how the mission went, with you and Uncle. Was it well?”
“It was fine.”
Another silence, and Shisui dislikes this one even more. Instead of pressing further, he takes a few steps forward, determinedly wrapping his arms around Itachi’s thin waist and settling up against his cousin’s back. “My apologies, ‘Ta-san. I did not realize you felt left out.” He wonders if Itachi can feel his smile through the thin material of his shirt.
Itachi does reply for a few long moments, and briefly Shisui believes he’s gone ignored, sighing slightly. Then, he feels Itachi turn to face him, moving to wrap his own arms around his cousin. “You’re forgiven, Shi.” Glancing at Itachi’s expression, he can see the playful smirk there, and can’t help one himself.
“Cute, ‘Ta-san. Cute.”
“Do you want your tea now?”)
Shisui groans, and he flexes his insides in rhythm with Itachi's fingers, jerking downwards so he could hit a nerve and sighing in a pleasure that could make the scene (-dirty, or beautiful? But it has to be dirty. It's wrong. It's so wrong-) and they love it in that mannerism. His chest rises in falls in his quickening breath, and Itachi's fingers against just a few of the million scars that decorate his body make him too hot to be real. (Shisui has never been warm. Always. Cold.) He can feel his lips, where bruises begin to form, grow warm as he touches them with a finger, the slick clinging to the pad of his index for a second before returning to usual.
(Too beautiful.
Too beautiful.)
(His knuckles pop, and the sound rings out in a series of loud snaps as he pulls his guitar from where it hides in a place behind his bed, in an area of his room he’d cast to appear as one way, always. To appear empty. To appear as only a rug and a suitcase, along with a backpack filled with schoolwork. (He is far more talented with spells that his parents give him credit for, but his parents really don’t give him credit for much, not when they have the great prodigy, Uchiha Itachi, to compare to. (But Shisui is not Itachi. His parents make him know this well.)
There are a series of off rules in his home regarding the arts. Shisui isn’t allowed to play any tasteless instruments. He is only allowed to play the piano, the flute, or the violin. Anything else is bulky, out of order, or just disliked by his parents, and when he’d displayed talent in none of these fields, his parents had been so disappointed, and Shisui had been so very ashamed. When he’d been given a guitar by his aunt Mikoto (-she had been unaware of the rules of the house-) Shisui’s mother threw it away, and out of curiosity, he pulled it from the garbage in the night and snuck it up to his room.
His talent had been somewhat unnatural. In a week he could play medium difficulty pieces. In a month he could play very difficult pieces. In three months he could play any beat, not perfectly, because Shisui hates the concept of perfection, but perfect in a Shisui sort of way. A good way. His way. (But because of his parents could he never practice without spells laced around his room to kill the sound, and even then it was a very dangerous idea. If his mother ever knew…)
He smiles a little as his pops his knuckles, and he tests the pick to the strings, the strum of sound a soft echo in the space of his bedroom. Itachi sits across from him, and Sasuke on the edge of his bed, and when Shisui plays, neither of them speaks. No one ever speaks. No one ever needs to. He can tell when to pick up the pace or slow it down in body language, he can tell when the tone needs to be somber or not by the look in their eyes, and sometimes, he can even tell when he needs to sing with it. (These times are rare, but he can tell when Itachi’s lips tighten a little, and when they do, Shisui sings, and the tightness loosens and no one protests.)
He can taste Itachi’s aggression in the sweat he kisses from his cousin’s neck, he can feel the dominance in his actions, and he can tell that Itachi wasn’t his baby cousin any longer. (-Is he the younger one now? Is he the immature one? Were either of them ever immature?) He’d grown up too fast. (Both of them. Much too fast.) He tilts his head back in a startled moan, somewhat desperate in Itachi’s teasing movements, and he can see through the ridged stained glass the moon through the trees. (Had they spent all day together? Was it night time already?) Through the colored glass of the ironically placed virgin Mary, with her blessed child, the color is red.
(“What color is the moon?”)
“-Make me…” Shisui mumbles quietly, and as the streaks of reflected color crisscross over their forms, he closes his eyes. “…remember.”
(Shisui sighs as the song draws to a close, and his fingers are warm with fast movement, the quick changes of tone as his complex piece closes. The wooden pick drops to the fabric of his bed, and Sasuke is sprawled upon it, gazing at the ceiling, almost listlessly, and Shisui doesn’t remember how or when he got there, but the look in his eyes is far too sad. (That look is reserved to Shisui alone. He wants desperately for Sasuke to not be who he is.)
“You’re good.” Itachi comments, and the two words make Shisui smile, because as short a statement as it is, there is a million words beneath it, and Shisui can hear them all. Sasuke nods, and turns his head to his older cousin in agreement. “Mother is home.” Shisui says quietly, and his shoulders go rigid as he feels the house go cold as his mother and father step inside. “I’m house ridden right now, go on out the back door.”
Itachi eyes him. (I’m house ridden right now, go before they kill you too.) He nods, and the slip of paper he tucks between the strings of Shisui’s guitar passes in silence as he and Sasuke slip down the hall and out the back door for their own home in the Uchiha manor, Itachi walking quickly in hopes that Sasuke does as well, so maybe his brother can go on without realizing why Shisui always makes them leave so suddenly.
(Twelve o’clock.
Place.
Tonight.)
When Shisui meets Itachi at midnight in the secret room, bruised black and blue, he doesn’t cry. He smiles a little. (It’s so fragile, and Itachi wonders how much more it will take before to breaks.) “It hurts.”)
(God is dead.)
And no one cares.
“Make me… Itachi.”
Shisui’s soft request stirs something inside of him, something buried and forcibly forgotten over those long eleven years, and Itachi closes his eyes, resting his head against his cousin’s shoulder, eyelashes ghosting over smooth, marred skin. Something inside of him that he had once strived to erase, a welling of emotion in his chest and in his skull, somehow overwhelming the usual current of absence. Different from a headache, but it pains him to experience the unfamiliar sensation, and Itachi draws in a shuddering breath to level himself. It is instinct that has his arm wrapping around his cousin’s waist, fingers digging deeper, pushing in and pulling back out in a seamless rhythm, and it is instinct that has him kissing Shisui again, mouth to mouth, lust to lust, the cold metal of his ring pressing against the swell of Shisui’s lips.
He will make him remember.
He will.
(It is rare that the fire country will shed not liquid tears of the cool, cool rain, but instead something more solid, more real. Snow. It is rare that his country will allow the phenomenon, and one can go a lifetime without glimpsing the beauty of the white miracle. But when fate bestows the freezing moment of one December’s dawn with the snow from above, Itachi is in a state of awe.
He reaches his hand outward, struggling to enfold a flake in his palm, wishing to return it inside before it could find the will to melt into oblivion. Of course, it is impossible for him to capture the innocence of the snowflake, but Itachi will ignore this for now. If there is ever a time to tell himself that he can do anything, just like everyone had always told him, it is now.
‘Shisui…please be alright.’
The cold had gotten to his cousin, and he is now inside, away from the unbearable weather, tucked under a pile of blankets Itachi had especially provided. When the both of them had seen the beginning of the snowfall, Shisui had been ecstatic, wanting desperately to experience the marvel that would likely never happen again. Itachi couldn’t allow his cousin to go outside with a cold, so he had told him he’d catch the snowflakes and bring them back.
Shisui had believed he could do it.
Thus, Itachi believes he can too.
That’s simplified but when your complexion dries, you wake up cold and think, you’d wish it’d been this way.)
“Shisui…” he manages, fingers sliding idly up the base of his cousin’s spine, inching high enough to cradle the back of his head, coiling into silky strands of familiar black hair. It is a dream, another one of those twisted dreams of his that always result in him awakening with a start, panting and sweating and uncomfortable in the empty of his room. Too empty. (Too lonely. Too long eleven years had been. Can they ever recover?)
He thought he’d entirely disengaged himself, locked it all away in a smear of nightmares, but apparently he did not. It haunts his every memory, and he has done all he can to rid his mind of it, even when nothing before had prevailed. Shisui cannot see the strained expression on his face, coming to terms with a want far too immense to be okay, recognizing his need, and he prefers it this way. Shame is the only thing he can possibly offer to his cousin now; shame for lost, murdered family, shame for the deep red of his eyes, thickening black around the center, far more broad than what is supposed to be normal to any Uchiha. A sign of deceit and perfidy, a burden he takes thoughtlessly, selflessly, away from Shisui. Because Shisui needs nothing more to worry of.
There had been a price; there is always a price for living, for being the one alive.
I’ve felt the hand of god and that’s the last thing that I felt…
(Itachi doesn’t know what he had been expecting, but it certainly never was this.
“So why’d you do it, Itachi-san? Hm?”
What is he doing here?
A red-hazed glare isn’t enough to quiet the man; only seems to encourage him further. Itachi allows him room to keep talking himself into a hole, because it would only be a matter of time.
“Seriously, c’mon, couldn’t have just done it for the kicks. Fucking hilarious, sure, but get real.”
The silence from his side sharpens between them, and eventually the other man rolls his eyes in their sockets at the lack of returned discourse, stalking off in the opposite direction to wherever it is he now resides. Itachi doesn’t particularly know.
“Nothing personal,” he mutters to the space Hidan had previously occupied, before leaning against the heavy door to his room and pushing it open, wood swinging back on sturdy hinges. The darkness of his room meets him almost earnestly upon sight, impatient to swallow his tired form in stillness and silence, and Itachi willingly complies. Despite the cold, he makes no move to slip under the warm sheets, instead glaring searing red holes into the ceiling above.
Five long years, it’s been, since the threads had finally come apart once and for all. At the unexpected sight of Hidan, it had immediately resurfaced in his mind, a now vivid ghost of his past.
Five long years since he’s last seen…
At least Shisui does not have to endure the loneliness, and a part of him is thankful for this. He doesn’t believe in a heaven or hell, but wherever it is Shisui is now must not be too…unbearable, not like reality. He wonders if Shisui prefers death over life; having never to deal with anyone ever again, anyone that used to…hurt him. It all feels like a bad dream to Itachi, some nightmare claiming his mind in painful waves each time he dares to imagine it over again, but Itachi can cope with the solitude. He can, and he will. He will shield everything as best he can. Itachi had known what he was doing the night he’d soiled his blade with the blood of his parents, had known he’d bought himself into exile.
Yet does that matter much to him now, at the loss of his cousin?
No, it doesn’t.
Five long years; many, many more to follow. His eyes fill with bitter, angry, exhausted tears, reflecting the red of his eyes, repressed but sustained. Dealt with.)
The heat wrapped around his fingers is stifling, consuming his awareness rapidly and completely, and Itachi sucks in a breath, pulling his lips away from Shisui’s. His other hand fists weakly in dark hair, nails pressing softly against his cousin’s scalp, but he makes no move further with this hand. Instead, Itachi abruptly removes the warmed digits from his cousin’s body, shivering at the sudden feel of cooler air upon his skin. Shisui feels so real against him, spread out across his lap, and it takes all of his self control not to push into Shisui without another thought.
But patience. Control.
He breathes in deeply, pulling his cousin closer to him and groaning as his naval piercing brushes Shisui’s stomach. The erotic contact sends another shock of arousal coursing through his blood, and his head feels light.
“Shisui… please, now. I can’t wait any longer.”
He pushes himself forward, and fleetingly does Shisui kiss Itachi’s sweaty forehead, a wordless, thoughtless, and unwaveringly trusting action, and he wraps his arms around his cousin’s neck, the feel of metal of modifications done in the dark under the light of matches and followed with kisses between splayed legs and sharp, outward groaning is something cold and jittery against his skin, sending a shiver, anticipating yet delicate, through his body, and he presses his lips to a place at Itachi’s ear.
(“It reminds me of someone…”
Shisui stares at the snow Itachi has brought to him, brushing over it’s loose surface with the pads of his fingers, his skin almost colorless from what the sickness he’d come down with had brought to him, and the tattoos on his knuckles violently evident against the purity of the opal frost that rested in cakes in Itachi’s stiffening hands.
Itachi eyes him, eyes not frozen into Sharingan as they cold be, only in a relatively soft expression, the flush of Shisui’s fever and the way his eyes were half closed in an exhausted daze making him only slightly perturbed. The flesh of his hands that tightened up, and he could feel the water of the snow beginning to melt, the warmth of his hands too great for the precious purity to last very long.
(And that is reality, isn’t it? Purity only lasts as long as it’s surroundings can allow. Shisui had mastered flame at five. Itachi at four. He wonders, vaguely, if they had stripped themselves of their own innocence then.)
Shisui’s finger digs into the ice, almost hesitantly, a little of it wavering on the tip of his finger before he licks it away, closing his eyes and shivering a little at the jerk of cold deviating so greatly from the warmth Itachi had emphasized. (To keep him alive, even? Pneumonia is winter’s curse.) “Reminds me of…”)
Let’s pretend we don’t exist.
If I were to die today;
(He kisses the patch of skin between Sasuke’s bangs that is glowing red from where Itachi has poked it, and his giggle is soft, against the pout on his little cousin’s lips from where Shisui kneels before him. (It is sick that neither Fugaku nor Mikoto could take their son to his first day at kindergarten, so Shisui and Itachi skipped to take him to the Elementary school themselves.)
“Do you have your lunch?”
Sasuke rolls his eyes and nods.
“Anything you need? Pencils? Paper? Moral support?”
Sasuke shakes his head, and from where Itachi stands, the tiniest of amused grins on his lips, Shisui is Mikoto and Itachi is Itachi, for even though there is a physical resemblance between he and his father, the difference between them is vast and torrid. A hand ruffles Sasuke’s hair into a further array of erratic spikes at the back of his head, and Shisui attracts stares as he hugs his little cousin (-with too much affection, and nobody but Itachi can see it.)
“Good luck today, Sasuke.” Itachi’s voice is harder than Shisui’s, but it carries something in it, a care distant and recognized in vague.
“Yes, good luck! Have fun! Don’t talk to strangers on your way home!”
“Thank you Nii-san. Bye, Shisui!”
His form, adorned in black, disappears between a hoard of school kids, though Shisui can still see him up until the point that he slips into the building, and Shisui laughs a little to himself when greeted by Itachi’s stern expression. “’Ta-san, someone needs to do it.”)
Against the odds;
(The sun glistens above them, streaking colors that aren’t really there into their hair and eyes, and in the August afternoon do Itachi and Shisui appear of four seasons, the slight smile on Shisui’s face an easy mask over the fresh wounds on his thin hips that sting something terrible as he walks.
“Oh…?”
They stop abruptly and stare at a small brown bag that lays in discord on the dirt path where small footprints tread permanent marks into the ground, and Shisui kneels to it, eyeing the Kanji with a certain lurking depression in his eyes that weighs heavy against Itachi’s form when they make love in hidden places and play god in the open.
“He dropped his lunch…”)
I would just want to tell you that…
(“…it reminds me of you.”)
He takes in a shaking breath, and it rattles in his lungs, echoing about in his weak, reforming body and some sort of quiet, desperate announcing of his life, and for a second, Shisui is a child in Itachi’s arms, innocent and clinging to life in the moment it is so suddenly forced into it. (Because a baby does not play with fire. And for a second…) Shisui is innocent again. The words are almost a whimper, and he doesn’t know if Itachi hears them or not, and uncharacteristically does he find himself unable to care.
The sweat on his back glistens, and he falls back again, weakly, his inflamed nerves sending fire into every fiber of his body, and jolt of agony so out of place he wants to make a noise, that of pain, that of another annotation of his humanity, like the blood that he can taste in his mouth of the throb of the bites Itachi had covered him with, marks they’d have made too much of a point to cover up as children (-but, uncharacteristically, almost, does Shisui find himself unable to care.)
For they aren’t children anymore.
He closes his eyes.
Itoshii hito.
Every movement of his is measured, every single one precise, Itachi easing his hands over his cousin’s hips, gripping them gently and pulling his body closer, positioning the both of them. A spot he should not have any knowledge of, but it is far too familiar to him by now, too right, and it doesn’t seem to matter. He doesn’t recall breathing, the butterflies clustering, suffocating some part of him deep in his chest as he eases Shisui over him, as he pushes in. The gasp at the first true contact sends a flood of shocking intensity throughout his body, and Itachi is scattering kisses across a landscape of scarred skin, a battlefield of memories. A battlefield he knows all too well.
With our last joys.
With our wings with our stars.
With the life as with death.
We will fall will still dream ourselves.
With our stolen hearts.
With our arrows in scraps.
He pauses, even as his self-control gradually fades away, even as the pads of his fingers press hard enough to bruise into his cousin’s thin hips, even as he wants to bury himself inside of Shisui as deep as possible and let go. A sanctuary to the both of them, but nothing innocent, nothing as sinless as every word fallen from his mouth had originally been designed to be; fallen from the ledges of heaven, falling broken to the concrete, breaking open, fissures of blood spreading everywhere. The colors strewn across his cousin’s body are breathtaking, the same hue as the moon as Shisui sees it, and he closes his eyes to preserve the image. It is almost unlike the many times they’d stripped away their defenses among the colorless chrysanthemums at the altars of the churches they’d been taken to so frequently.
But he knows he’s held this out far too long by now. This state of emergency is overwhelming him, choking him until Itachi at last realizes that this is as long as he can endure. With a shuddering jerk of his hips, angling himself just right against Shisui, he pushes inside the rest of the way, fully seating himself. At the final movement, Itachi exhales sharply, adjusting to the suddenly overpowering desire to persist. But he waits, again, breathing softly against the pale skin just below Shisui’s ear, waiting for the permission to continue. (Though nothing is preventing either of them from that.)
We would be thousand.
We would be two.
The beating heart.
The glorious heart.
(“Ara, ‘Ta-san…”
His eyes are drawn up to meet a mirror of his own, and he smiles a bit, unable to help the feeling of contentment at the sight of his cousin. “Yes?” Somewhere far off, the church bells ring high-strung notes over the fields spread about, and muffled laughter of schoolchildren can be heard through the thick walls closing them in this secret place of theirs.
“Why is the window broken like this?”
Itachi glances downward directly at the multi-colored shards littering the ground around them, and one catches the fleeting light of the sun through the naked window, casting a glare into his eye. He looks away. “They were careless.”
“Who was?” Shisui is balancing on the stone ledge beside him, legs swinging gently with some nonexistent wind, heels hitting the bottom of the structure soundlessly.
“The angels.”
Curiosity brings Shisui’s gaze back to Itachi’s, as though he is absorbing this information avidly, accepting but still in a state of wonderment. “I thought angels are never careless.”
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
Itachi’s words are valid, and Shisui can never find any contradiction, but that doesn’t cease their conversations. No, their words are endless when pieced together in each other’s presence. Vindicated.
For a moment, Shisui wavers, teeth worrying the bottom of his lip in a way that has his younger cousin watching him intensely. “Not everyone, ‘Ta-san,” he finally whispers.
A smirk from Itachi is all it takes to get Shisui smiling as well, though their eyes do not meet in understanding this time around.
’I’m not perfect, cousin, but I’ll let you dream for the both of us.’)
We will find a sky.
A sky without the love of god.
With our secrecies with our treasures.
With the life as with death.
His soft breathing is all that can be heard within his own head, clouding over his eyes even as they remain shut to the treacherous world around them. It feels so… so incredible, he can hardly find the right words to describe it. The coils in his stomach are too tight, too unbearable even now, and Itachi holds his cousin in his arms, as if to make sure he’s truly here, not wanting any part of him too far away. “Beloved one,” he mutters breathlessly against Shisui’s ear, wondering if any of his actions are causing him to hurt; the last thing Itachi wants for him. Only now would he wholly let himself be liberated to express the rifts of torment and ecstasy ripping him to pieces at once--only now, buried inside of his cousin, could he forget.
Forget the things remembered, and remember the things forgotten.
“Beloved, beloved one…” A laugh, strained and raw from their deprived desires, pulls free from his throat. “Isn’t it the same as always? It’s fine just like this.”
(“We are all equal in the end,” Itachi says after a while, slipping his foot forward to nudge at the damaged shards scattered by the angels who had supposedly left obliteration in their wake. As they always do.
Shisui isn’t so sure he agrees, but he finds solace in the warmth of the summer sun over his body from the shattered window, enough to keep him in silence. In some way, people are equal, but in the way, people keep others either above or beneath them, controlling to sate their own insecurities, ruining the parity they could have had. No one really is equal, because some souls are much too corrupted to be considered of such a standing.
He wonders how he and Itachi would be considered in the court of a god. Would they be cast out? Shunned? Abandoned? Or worse, destroyed? Ruination.
When Shisui looks to where his cousin’s eyes have fallen, his brows furrow in concentration. The sunlight glosses over the stained glass, reflecting it back onto their skin in a kaleidoscope of colors, and he feels like a child again, enthralled by the simplest of the world’s creations.
“But then…” A brief pause, enough to catch Itachi’s attention, and he smiles. “What are we in the beginning?”)
Of it was once never.
Of it was once wounded.
But we will still bleed.
With the life as with death.
(He lays as some sort of Christ across the floor, the sheets of opal strewn across his form and skin preserved as snow during the winter, when the sun is hidden behind clouds and the sky is only an endless streak of gray, bringing cold and pain to those who lie beneath it, testing those for if they can remember that eventually, the sun will return.
His flesh, marred, tattooed, pierced, is so untouched for a few seconds, and his lips are painted red, a beautiful, sinless red against endless white, occasionally intervals in his cascading hair and soulless eyes, and he is so damned beautiful for one sweet moment, when nothing is touched and everything is white, back to the start, back to the everything and back to the nothing.
Shisui is a suffering angel the last time Itachi makes love to him before he dies.)
A moan, hard, startled, gasping for breath, and Shisui’s heart rate escalades, pounding against his ribcage and bringing flush to his (dead, for he is only-) skin, existence, proof of life in the beating heart and the reactions of touch, when Itachi penetrates him and the pain lasts for a few seconds, and the nerves hit and there is reaction, and with that does Shisui understand he exists. (And he isn’t sure how this justifies reality, but it does, and he cannot spend much of his thought process dwelling upon it.)
I think I used to have a voice;
Now I never make a sound.
(And I just do what I’ve been told,
I really don’t want them to come around.)
His eyes snap open, and his fingers tighten into his palms, sweating and gasping into Itachi’s jerks of movement inside of him, and he hangs his chin over Itachi’s shoulder, grinding his body onto his cousin, the cold metal of the naval ring he’d pierced so long ago brushing into his chest, and another belated groan as a nerve was hit, and he forces words from memory, triggered in Itachi’s words, triggered in Itachi’s movements and what is.
(Shisui strums his guitar from where he reclines on Itachi’s bed, staring at the plaster ceiling and tuning a soft, delicate acoustic tune in ad-lib, and his voice is soft, a delicate one, something sad and remorseful, and his cousin’s back stiffens a little, not out of anything negative, just in listening.
“Beloved one...”
And he slows down the pace of the chords in sync with the words, and vaguely does he wonder if anyone else on the floor could hear him (but he doubts it. He is good at being quiet.)
“-Don't open your closed eyes…”
(He closes them tightly, and the feel of a needle against the crease of his nose makes him swallow, a nervous preparation for the promised pain to come with another modification, another proclamation of something romantic and even a little demented from Itachi to Shisui and back again, and the feel of his cousin’s lips against the bridge of his nose before a sterilized needle is forced through it is almost deceiving, in a distant way, and it makes the tears that well automatically in his eyes seem a little more unjustified.
“It’s perfect.”
Appealing only because they’re just that unappealing.)
The chords of the song slow down further, and Itachi is watching him with an intensity that he would only let Itachi look upon him with, because Shisui can only allow himself to be received from him. (Only.) “That way, that way…” (Only, because he does not like to be watches, because he does not want others to see the flaws in himself with the brilliance that he can.)
(Sweat, a tangle of kisses, flushed faces, and Shisui’s uncanny ability to hide scars and Itachi’s even more uncanny ability to always find them, and what are they, a tangle of dying children in sheets that aren’t as white as they used to be, and chastity fallen just a little bit further.)
Just a little.
Inside, what a wonderful caricature of intimacy.
“-You can’t sleep.”)
He rocks his hips onto Itachi’s, body thinned and frail, seeming so desperately fragile in Itachi’s arms (-it is what is fragile that is treated with the most care, and it is what is cared for that is precious to us,) and he kisses at the spot at Itachi’s shoulder, licking at the skin and trapping it between his teeth, not quite biting, but tasting him, and working his way up to his ear where rings penetrate (-they are both covered with them, and never will such be forgotten,) biting a little at the cartilage and clearing a pant from his throat.
“Beloved one-”
(His hips twist, delicately, and his legs move in sync, and as he dances across the stage of “Almost as good as Itachi” with his mother and father as the most scrutinous of judges, he can see the pinwheel in the back of the room, and he dances faster and faster, because he must be beautiful, if only for this-)
“Not 'For you I would die'-” (And when he falls he will bleed and bleed and bleed, but eventually they will scar and he will be able to dance again, and the scrutiny will become more and more intense and just as he is dancing in circles does it continue to spin, and the wheel never stops and it never stops) “-but 'For you I live'.”
He sings, and it is quiet, desperate, an uncensored wanting and adoration, and he freezes the moment in his mind, freezes it into his memory (-for that is all a person is; their memories. Experiences.) something poetic and eternal, and it is his, and he rocks into a nerve, letting a delicate, pretty moan into Itachi’s ear into the words, lacing them with memory, and he can taste the blood that wavers in Itachi’s kisses on his tongue (-and he wonders if Itachi can taste it in his words.)
“Of course we’ll be together, before this, before that.”
Itachi’s eyelids flutter at the moan breathed thoughtlessly into his ear, drinking the sound up with everything in him, the once gentle and testing movements becoming faster, becoming more desperate. The lips upon his skin trace patterns that cause him to tilt his head to one side, panting a soft, caressing moan of his own, their bodies together like silk against velvet. The electric in his blood is threatening a short circuit, pulsing and throbbing to a rhythm he only dreamt about for so many years since he’d last tasted Shisui on his tongue.
‘I love you’
so much the lips I kiss with
are wearing away.
Everything is tightening around him, this asphyxiation painful in the most pleasurable of means, engulfing him each time he pushes all the way inside, releasing him each time he pulls all the way out. (Sinful, sinful enough to rivet him and pin him down, enough to ensnare him in a devil’s fist.
Oh angel won’t you help me? Won’t you help your son?)
(The silver knife falls to the plate with a clatter of glass and porcelain, surprisingly remaining unbroken upon connection, and the noise splinters a silence so deep and consuming Itachi can’t find the will to breathe. He doesn’t understand what he is hearing, cannot comprehend it. Worried black eyes flicker over to him, then gradually slide to the ground.
He knew it. He knew this was bound to happen.
“Itachi? Did you hear what I said?” the firm voice demands, shocking the quiet of the dining room, and Itachi can hear the cracks fracturing further across the portrait of calamity.
“No,” he mutters, so abrupt and so unshaken Mikoto has to bat an eye, glancing at her husband, expression full of concern.
“I do not like repeating myself.” Sasuke sits off to the side, hands clenching and unclenching against the lace tablecloth, eyes diverting attention from his enraged father. Fugaku continues, oblivious to his youngest son’s discomfort in the situation. “What have you and Shisui doing to waste so much of your time from your own family’s company? It is angering.”
Another shattering of silence, and Itachi hardly reacts, leaning back against the chair and placing his palm down against the tabletop. “I do not see how it matters.”
It is obviously something he should not have said, because his father’s face is twisted into an angry scowl, and his eyes flash with indignation. “Yes it does very well matter! This is your family, and you are a part of it! You may not see Shisui anymore, do you understand me!”
Itachi’s world ruptures, but he tunes out the destruction’s detailed finale.
That same night, he meets Shisui, in secret. After a while, Fugaku’s mind drifts from the matter, and things seem to fall back into the oddly disjointed place they had become so accustomed to.
Whether the suspicion had faded or not, however, neither could be too sure.)
‘Let us always be together’
so that we never part.
With a tilted smile, Itachi’s hands slide up over his cousin’s bare back, tracing the lines of his sculpted body with reverence and adulation, because this is his beloved one, his Shisui, and no amount of aversion from the angels looking in on them could change such a thing. He rocks hard up into Shisui, moaning more loudly, the sound slipping from his lips too faultlessly, too flawlessly. The way they look when they’re together, as their secrets become a fleeting memory and their scars a forgotten mess. One hand slipping to catch Shisui’s chin, he seizes his cousin in an abrupt kiss, swift and sudden, holding it for a moment as he pushes in hard, and it feels too good like this, feels too obscene, that he’s losing himself.
‘I love you’ I kiss
so as to not attract attention.
I held to you as if possessed,
to keep you from going anywhere.
(The candlelight seems to flicker with Shisui’s laugh, and Itachi feels himself grinning as well, laying side by side with his cousin upon the mattress, staring up at the ceiling, their fingers laced tightly together. “Mm, ‘Ta-san?” Shisui whispers softly, turning his head to the side, and Itachi watches him from the corner of his eye, admiring his childlike beauty.
“Can I show you something?” There is a flicker of something in his eyes, and Itachi is consumed by anticipation. Nights like these, locked inside a secret of a room, basking in one another’s company, Itachi forgot the meaning of despair.
He doesn’t answer Shisui, only offers a slight nod, but knows his cousin wouldn’t need a reply either way.
Sitting up, Shisui smiles down at him, and Itachi remains stretched out across the bed, opening his eyes a bit more out of curiosity. It is when he feels soft flesh seal over his lips does reaction catch up to action, and his eyelids widen even more, though he makes no move to push Shisui away. They’d only kissed on one other occasion than this, but that had been offhand and brief. Now, Shisui lingers, tasting his cousin’s lips for several long moments before pulling away.
“Sh…Shisui,” Itachi mutters, his hand lifting to curl against the sleeve of the older boy’s shirt. “Will you…will you do that again?”
Shisui laughs, and the sound is almost evanescent, brushing his awareness before being choked out by another kiss, and this one is much more suffocating, much more sweet. Their tongues collide, gently caressing, and then it is over, and Itachi is left panting, realizing what sort of sensation began to claim him. His bangs fall back away from his eyes that had somehow slipped closed during the intimacy of the kiss, and slowly, he blinks them open again, regarding Shisui’s form above him.
“Cousin…” He hears the whisper in his ear, hot breath brushing his skin, and Itachi can hardly find the will to speak. Shisui’s hand is touching him, set lightly against his chest, and he can feel his cousin move over him, shifting into a more comfortable position. When he comes to a pause, poised over Itachi, the younger boy’s eyes flash in the darkness with some twisted form of surprise and expectation. Calm, soothing fingertips rove downward, and his skin shivers at the touch. “Cousin, does this feel good?” Shisui mutters, lips braving the slope of his pale neck, laying gentle kisses here and there. The hand falls to an abrupt halt, resting upon his clothed thigh, and Itachi shudders.
When Shisui at last brings his younger cousin to the precipice of bliss, it’s with his soft lips wrapped around Itachi’s cock.)
Love has just now, died before my eyes
Love has just now, died as if to going to sleep…
Shisui moans, and Itachi’s name flutters somewhere between collections of panting and hard gasps, eyes opening and closing again within his cousin’s rhythm (-in and out again, and it hurts-) so beautifully, pain a fleeting, almost unregistered reaction between the nerves hit and the paroxysms of contact. He rocks in a sync, not perfect (-as nothing is. It took Shisui a while to figure out, but nothing is completely flawless.) - but hardly inexperienced, and the differences between their bodies of what time had done is barely felt, what was to be only the fingers digging into sweaty backs and Itachi working deeper into Shisui’s body (-and distantly does Shisui wonders if his younger cousin could find all his secrets hidden in that place underneath his heart, all the things re-concealed upon re-animation.
He doesn’t doubt it.)
“A-ah…Itachi…!”
(Shisui’s laugh is soft, elegant, sad, and naïve in all of the same tone, and it rings quietly as he tugs Itachi by the hand into the town square, the evening setting in on them against the tall bonfires fires contained with rocks and spells and the warm calamity of the Halloween festival settling down into everyone.
Shisui is not allowed to go, and Itachi is ordered to stay in his room and study, but neither of them much care for rules when they know that this is their first and last chance to attend. (They can sense the finality of the Uchiha clan in the cold stares and the brushed looks, and it is when Fugaku tells Sasuke he did a good job that Shisui is worried.) But not now.
He’d found the most beautiful thing he could in his parent’s closet, a long violet gown and a black corset, and fumbled himself into it before tossing a rock at Itachi’s window and helping him climb out. (“What are you wearing?”
“It’s Halloween, Ta-san. What are you?”
“…”) The black cloak Itachi is wrapped in rushes behind him, and Shisui’s dress catches dirt and grass in his path, and neither of them really much care if anyone knows who they are or what they’ve done, if only for a single night to go unbothered. To be children.
For a night, they dance under the moonlight like everyone else. Shisui is the girl and Itachi is the boy, and they are two people who met somewhere far away, and they are not in a homosexual, and they are not in an incestuous relationship. The first time Sasuke watches his brother and older cousin kiss is when he sneaks out to the Halloween festival at seven years old.)
Pressing his arms somewhere into his cousin’s hips and biting a lip, Shisui thrusts into his pace, a bit weakly, the color in his cheeks vivid now as it had ever been and his sing-song moans growing more erratic in Itachi’s ears. The mattress supporting his weight feels light, and with every sporadic stroke does the heat in Shisui increase and the desperate, sinful want in his tone grow more evident. (Dirty, dirty, boy’s a naughty one.)
Round we go
The world is spinning
When it stops
It’s just beginning
(Shisui is steadily drowning within his own waters, and so fretfully does he gasp and sputter for his breath, grabbing hold of anything solid that maintains balance for his inner storms. His essence and being is fast, the unconscious, unending speed, the blink of an eye and he is gone and another blink and he is behind you, and this is only Shisui’s essence because no one is as fast as he.
Not even Itachi.
So when he inhales the salt-water of his ocean or chokes on the bathwater diluted with the blood gushing from his severed veins, the water is moving too fast for anyone to catch him. The waves crash and he is submerged and rejected from the ocean in a horribly erratic sync, and because he is too fast, because he is faster than everyone, no one is there to catch up with him.
No one can pull him out.
Not even Itachi.
And when Shisui comes to this horrible realization is when he leaves the Uchiha manor without permission for the last time, and he runs and runs until he can’t feel his brain giving out because of the lack of oxygen or how much his legs hurt from every dehydrated stride. He runs and he runs, and when he finally stops is when he is ready to throw himself off of an old bridge forty miles from where Itachi is searching room after room for him.
The connection of flesh had been a burn of awakening when Shisui crashes headlong into Hidan, and his lips mouthing the words “I’ll be praying for you.” Is the last thing Shisui sees before the water drags him under and he can’t swim back out.)
Sun comes up
We laugh and we cry
Sun goes down
And then we all die
Itachi hits him hard from somewhere inside of him, and Shisui reacts something beautiful, a heated gasp escaping his lips and incoherent words leaving them breathily as he jerks his body down in rhythm and moans in effect. (Between their bodies clashing against each other can he feel the same barbell Itachi was wearing the last time that they did this, and everything is the same and everything is a million times different than it had been before.) A startled cry as Itachi hits him in that place again, and the beads of his cousin’s sweat taste almost sweet when Shisui kisses them away, between teeth (lust) to deafen the noise.
(Subdue the want.)
Guilty by hallucination.
--
All lyrics (c) the respective artists.