smut log 4/4
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.
There’s the violent beat of his heart, ripping at the muscle and pulsing through his solid, burning veins like the paths of water through a winding stream, not bothering to carve itself a new trail into the inexorable earth. There’s the violent beat of his head, something muffling to the strain and exertion, and a sweet kind of lightheadedness that leaves him winded. There’s the violent beat of his body, rocking harder and harder into his cousin’s once-virgin body, once-perfect soul, and for a moment, he feels the touch of a god. And there’s the violent beat of his words, cutting and caustic and eccentric on his tongue, grinding together like mismatched puzzle pieces, fitted together just to put on a good show.
But nothing scathes quite as much as the flesh-on-flesh euphoria of taking his cousin this way, of how wrong it is, of how his parents are more than likely rolling in their graves and choking on the soil by which they had been buried and packed beneath. A twisted, twisted thought, and the pads of Itachi’s calloused fingertips (ones that had been accumulated far too early, far too young) press out bruises into Shisui’s pale shoulders. The shadows, even the ones stained of reds and oranges and yellows, are sharp in contrast of their skin, and Itachi knows what sort of image the both of them portray.
Once, a passing stranger had even told him, while he and Shisui had stood side by side (like a pair of diamonds, they are; how hard it is to break them, but how beautiful they really can be, even if only on the inside) before the great, towering oak doors of the oh-so familiar cathedral. She had been a fairly old lady, and at the sight of them, a crinkled smile broke across her wrinkled face, withered and dusted with an age Itachi had not wished to think about facing. He knows, somehow, that he will die before succumbing to time, and it is better that way. The old lady had been smiling, though, as if the world cherished her above all others, and in a raspy, weathered voice, had said the words, “You two young boys are gems among pebbles, you know. Fine men you one day shall become. God bless you both.”
Shisui had been somewhat flattered, but Itachi stood unyielding, indifferent to her words.
And as he wraps his tense arms around the thinned waist of his cousin, pulling him down with his taut body as Itachi lies out on his back across the bed sheets, rocking up into Shisui hard, not a waver of unrelenting stamina, he knows that those words had been false. So false, even, it makes him sick to recall them. Or even the words that had followed her amorous compliments.
Shaking himself free from the memory, Itachi groans as he feels Shisui contract around him, each thrust becoming something separate, something desperate and immeasurable to him. He clings to his cousin in assurance of the current, of the hear-and-now, but he knows that the both of them are plagued by their pasts, plagued black and blue until they hardly can see straight at all anymore.
Itachi knows a lot.
He knows things he doesn’t want to know, as well. (--like the percentage of those that die from murderings weekly, like the percentage of those that die from starvation, again, weekly, like--)
Let me see you
stripped down to the bone.
Let me hear you
speaking just for me.
There’s a certain nostalgia in his kisses now, mapping out familiar plains and recalling heaven-bent remembrances of their bodies pressed together, pressed together through the rain and through the sunshine, absorbing it as though it is their last and final resort. He doesn’t let go of Shisui now, not for anything, rocking into him and pulling out faster, steadying the rhythm until he can hear it in his head (and in his heart and in his body and in his blood and in his words, pounding pounding pounding).
“Shisui,” he whispers, the hushed sound silvery and sharp, spearing the air around them straight through the middle of the reds and oranges and yellows, rupturing the surface. It glitters, wavering. “Shisui,” and the plead is desperate, a mutter so intense it sears his lips and paints them cherry-red, not with any visible blood, but with the currents of it rushing beneath the surface of skin too thin not to notice.
Itachi knows a lot.
He knows where to pressure his cousin to get a scream, a scream raveled finely around his own name. He knows where and even what to brush his fingers against to emit a moan, a soft one, against the curve of his ear, a moan that sends a shiver spiraling down his spine. He knows where to cut his nails into, at the spots and areas he knows Shisui likes it most, and he knows where everything is on his cousin’s body.
He knows this because he shares one the same, or almost the same, but their blood is the same, and it courses through their bodies the same, it pumps fast and faster and always the fastest, just the same.
And he knows this because Shisui knows this.
Let me see you
stripped down to the bone.
Let me hear you
crying just for me.
And he knows right where to thrust inside of Shisui, knows right where it will feel the best. But this came through countless practice, done and done and done again. He’s proud of it.
The woman’s words do not matter any longer, because they’re both diamonds in their owns ways-not gems, they’re much too valuable to be such a thing. No, they are diamonds, scratched and blackened on the surface, as though burned from a thousand suns, but on the inside…
On the inside, they are beautiful
The violent beat of his heart is patient, flowing with the violent beat of his body and the violent beat of his head, and it aches something lovely. The violent beat of his words have hit a lull, but he doesn’t stop driving deeper into his cousin’s body, not for a second.
You’re breathing in fumes
I taste when we kiss.
From where Itachi has positioned him, Shisui presses his palms onto his chest, thrusting himself hard over his cousin into his own heated moans as the flush in his face grows heavier and the lust in his tone grows thicker. He jerks himself into an unsteady rhythm, not out of lack of experience, but in reminder that Shisui is not perfect. (Never, ever, and even if he can smile like an angel, he’s still Itachi’s slut in the very end.)
Grinding his hips in a certain direction, into where Itachi’s fingers are bruising his thin waist and his tattoos glitter with sweat reflecting colors from the stained glass (where the self-expense of Shisui’s demented masochism begins, and it hurts, everything hurts-) he thrusts himself there and lets out a beautiful little scream from his vividly scarlet lips. (What is sex but the destruction of connection? The severing of the tie between you and yourself in favor of yourself and another, and somewhere between is you, and the thoughts that race are only somewhat there.) What a twisted definition of intimacy.
(The spell that is laced around Shisui’s room both amplifies the grinding, beautiful noises of his guitar, and silences them as well, and from where Itachi’s back is pressed into Shisui’s do his insides rattle. The deafening tones of the music and the roar of lightening crashing into the earth outside is an oddly harmonic combination, and the wooden walls and decks of the Uchiha manor patter with the falling rain. Torrents of water slosh from the gutter systems into a rain ditch near the manor, from where it lies beneath the building and the children could swim in if there is ever a flood (but there is never enough rain for such, and the Uchiha parents would never allow their children to behave in such a way.)
If Shisui is singing, Itachi can’t hear it, not against the heavy tones of the guitar, the sounds of crashing rain against the walls of their extensive home, and the white noise of god’s wrath into the ground. A small vial is in his hands, and a slab of thinly cut wood is stirring something thick and black within, a familiar black box that clinks when the weight on the mattress shifts a little adjacent to Itachi’s left hip. The time moves slowly, and the uncharacteristic anger in the tones Shisui emits comes to a sharp, abrupt halt when Itachi’s shoulder blades move a little. (A sign of inhaling breath, clearing of throat, preparation of-)
“The ink’s ready.”
A loud snap of thunder makes Shisui’s “Ara” seem even a bit quieter, and he slips the instrument from his lap, letting it onto his floor rather gently into the black guitar case and nudging it back under his head with the left side of his foot. (It’s Monday. Monday, as everyone is groggily returning to work and school; Monday, as Itachi and Shisui are pretending (convincingly) to be ill so they can stay home and listen to the rain. So they can stay home and corrupt themselves a little bit more.)
Shisui calmly rolls to where he is lying on his back, taking off his shirt once finding himself in a more comfortable position and tossing it loosely on the floor. (It is rare that they do something like this outside of the safe room. Because in the safe room, no one is watching, no one can watch, and it is all so perfect in the way that only incestuous sadomasochism can be.)
Each time a needle jabs into Shisui’s collar as Itachi steadily stamps letters into his body, he winces, and the more common the short pain becomes the more it hurts, and by the time the thin layer of skin that stretches over his collar and shoulders is raw and tattooed, there are silent streaks of tears from both of Shisui’s black eyes, and Itachi kisses them sadly, pressing his forehead to his cousin’s and breathing quiet words of comfort.
“You did well.” All those things the Uchiha could never tell him. “You’re okay.” All those things he is not.)
We are building a religion.
We are building it bigger.
Shisui grinds hard into Itachi, an almost-perfect rhythm with his cousin’s hard strokes, and the unabridged scream of his name cuts through the semi-silence of moans and gasps in their love-making. He presses his palms harder into Itachi’s chest and thrusts again, and his insides contract erratically, making him shiver and shake into the tugging want from somewhere within his body. The flush in his face, the sweat down his body; it’s something sick and deceptively innocent, and perhaps it is this that makes the scene in and of itself seem sweet.
(And that is the point of the word deception. Because there is nothing sweet or pretty about it, only two boys so incredibly out of place in distorted realities they can find comfort, and only such, in needed touches and desires. In the end, they are still cousins. In the end, it is still wrong.)
We are building a religion.
A limited condition.
I am thinking it’s a sign that the freckles
In our eyes are mirror images and when
We kiss they’re perfectly aligned.
(It is a late autumn afternoon, during which the sky is the color of washed up copper, streaked through with flecks of gold and splotches of orange. The sun hasn’t yet gone, the moon hasn’t yet arrived, and the air itself is heavy with the foreboding winter staked ahead. But even with an undertone of cold, the evening holds a charm of the summer it has recently left behind beneath shreds of dewy grass, melted ice cream, and warm rainstorms. Times spent wrapped in blankets under the stars, times spent inhaling the sweet scents overwhelming the night, times spent without questioning life and death, without questioning judgment and without questioning purposes. A one-time world without contradiction or guarded insecurities. A paradise.
“Shisui,” the richly dark voice mumbles, his arms locked around his cousin’s thin waist as the two hold onto each other tightly, a single pair of entities enfolded beneath the autumn’s murdered, dying, lost sunlight.
There’s a tired mutter in reply as the older boy nuzzles against Itachi’s neck, the words lost on soft lips and rendered inaudible. Itachi smiles gently, and goes on, “Can I ask you a question?”
Shisui’s never heard his cousin speak in such a quiet voice before, and curiously he lifts his head, blinking lidded black eyes, tipping his head in a brief nod. “Always.” A lull of comfortable silence passes between them after he speaks, and Shisui deems it necessary he lay his head back down, which he does, but slowly. For whatever reason, he believes Itachi would prefer not to be watched at this moment. And he’s always known Itachi best.
A heavy sigh, and the younger boy whispers, “Do you know how much you mean to me?”
Feeling his heart jump, Shisui’s fingers clench weakly onto his cousin’s loose shirt, though he does not give an answer for several long moments. He doesn’t look up at Itachi either, preferring to hide the light blush gracing his pale cheeks.
“It is…overwhelming,” Itachi breathes, cradling the other against him and absently gazing at the bleeding sunset before them, at the greedy horizon that absorbs it all in, leaving not a drop for the moon. And though the words are never spoken, and though the confession is never voiced, Shisui knows. He knows because it is his welcomed duty to.
“I love you too,” Shisui then whispers, because he knows Itachi can never say it himself. At least not yet. Not now. Not here, in this place, among these people.)
And I have to speculate that God himself
Did make us into corresponding shapes like
Puzzle pieces from the clay…
At the unexpected change of position, Itachi lets out a ragged gasp, feeling his throbbing arousal ache at the missed placation of his cousin’s lips and tongue working against it. Automatically his fingers slip into the damp strands of Shisui’s hair, tangling there as he urges the attentions to continue. Though this arrangement of their flushes bodies is not something he has experienced often, Itachi knows precisely what to do, wrapping one arm around his cousin’s waist and rolling onto his back, supporting Shisui’s lighter frame above him. His own lips seek out one of his cousin’s pale, soft thighs, teeth grazing lightly over skin before sliding to the steady pulse point of Shisui’s cock.
He presses his mouth gently against the head, the taste of Shisui enticingly familiar to him, willing him closer more, before parting his lips to encase the throbbing length, sucking roughly on a couple of inches of the hardened muscle and then easing it back out of his mouth. The combined sensation of Shisui’s lips around him and his own around Shisui is intoxicatingly erotic, forcing a dark moan from his throat as he swirls his tongue around his cousin’s length, pausing to brush along it with his teeth. He lathers this attention, at the same time circling his cousin’s waist with a pair of strong arms, holding Shisui there with each of his legs braced to either side of his head. Hands fall away from bruised hips, sliding along Shisui’s sides and then back down to stop at mid-thigh, before repeating the path up again. Itachi maintains this pattern, simultaneously stroking his cousin’s lithe body as he continues to suck him off with equal vigor.
Their bodies press together in a mesmerizing and flawless outline, the dim curtain of colors washing over them to create the appeal of a glossy, painted picture - an entirety of beauty and sweet, sinful love-making. Their paradise.
It’s thoughts like this that catch my troubled
Head when you’re away, when I am missing you to death,
When you are out there on the road…
(Itachi once told Shisui he would take him to paradise. The only paradise found in entangled limbs beaded with sweat and lust-coated names shouted aloud, unhearing of the moon’s own separate song of broken reprise to the lost years.
And when they had finished, the older of the two wound strong arms around the younger of the two, rolling them to switched positions and leaning to whisper darkly into Itachi’s ear, skin flushed with spent passion, voice hushed of moans and panted breath, “I will show you a paradise now, Ta-san…”)
Shisui moans against Itachi’s skin, hard, dipping his cousin down the back of his throat and returning him into the cold air with a casual, yet forced flick of the tongue, the heat and color in his face making it a painful obvious at how hard he was trying to not come right then. The fingers in his hair are expected, almost routine, almost routine for something he’d taken for granted; not the sex itself, but having Itachi touch him at all. (Because the streets of your own mirrored death are harder to walk on than expected, and Shisui knows greater than anyone. And maybe if Itachi knew as well, they wouldn’t be in this castle.) Maybe.
(The idea that Shisui is something besides his gentility is something most people forget. Upon getting to know him, he is kind and bright and confusing, but it is not to be dismissed of his surname; Uchiha, and being an Uchiha, there is no true gentle. Shisui is a murderer. And Itachi and Sasuke are reminded of this in a dull October evening of some year when Sasuke had yet to see a corpse before in his life; a naiveté Itachi and Shisui could both find themselves envying.
“Good job.”
There’s a resolute Thud, and a man falls from where Shisui had carried him fifteen or sixteen miles on his back, a noise that’s both quiet and dull, but loud enough to send a spark of pain through Shisui’s temple. “It was a messy job.” He says, shortly, and it’s a stating-the-obvious that could have been funny if not for the situation, the blood coating Shisui from head to toe tracking earth-red footprints mingled with erosion and dirt through the clean wooden floors of the Uchiha manor.
“He was persistent. I apologize for what is left of his face.” The man’s tongue hangs limply from a mouth open in an ‘O’, one eye removed completely and a gap of dark red from within, a flurry of cuts and scratches all over his cheeks along with a fine slit at the jaw. The blades at Shisui’s hip glimmer softly under the oil lamps dancing flames, scarlet and more of a statement as to exactly what he had done than the blood all over him or the corpse lying before him.
“Go clean yourself up for dinner.”
I’m like a bullet through a flock of doves.
To wage this war against your faith in me.
Your life will never be the same.
On your mother’s grave I say a prayer.
Shisui stares at the mangled body before him, licking at the ring in his lip as though to check as to whether or not it had been ripped from his face, and he bows his head in respect, turning his back to the Uchiha elders and retreating to his room. Sasuke is watching from behind a banister, small hands clutching into the wood and eyes widened with horror, and Shisui glances back at him, eye contact made with something that little Sasuke had never seen before, and he shrinks back a little, Shisui’s pause in step lasting only a moment before continuing down the hall.
And Itachi is standing in the corridor, waiting for him, the Sharingan eyes and insane body of his older cousin that brushes past him making him stop dead, the look in the eyes identical to the foreign blood coating Shisui’s body something he found as disturbing as Sasuke did (if not more so). And neither of Fugaku’s sons forgets that look, not even after Shisui returns from a hot bath, clean and smelling no longer of death, but of the Lilac he had washed himself in, and wearing a neat black and white outfit so he can blend in with the rest of the family at dinner that night. Itachi and Sasuke don’t forget it, because it is uninsurable as to if Shisui’s mask is the smile and calamity in his expression, or the insanity upon that face, and a mask broken is an identity violated.
Because, in the end, Shisui is an Uchiha, and therefore a storm in a teacup.)
Now, but I can't!
And I don't know how we're just two men as god had made us.
Well I can't, well I can't!
Too much, too late, or just not enough of this pain in my heart;
For your dying wish I’ll kiss your lips again.
He sucks at the pre-come leaking heavily from the tip, the bitterness of the taste something forgotten in time (in the loss of a nervous system, in the only so steady return of taste) ghosting fingers against the skin of thighs that are far smoother than the rest of his body, a place so rarely touched or disturbed that it only grows so much rougher from the point in which the child is pulled from the waste of the womb. (But Shisui’s thighs…) And he doesn’t scratch, nor cut into anything, only having an amount of selfish clinging to the body of his younger (older? Had his cousin now been alive more years than himself?) cousin.
“Itachi…” Shisui groans, softly, eyes watering slightly as his chest begins to ache, in that place deep inside of him that is taking too long to heal, and licking up his cock between breathy words and the little dirty nothings that have them be where they are. “Gods…” His body throbs, blood moving at an alarming rate within himself, and the mouth around him giving such no tourniquet (it’s hardly desired) - only a recollection of a life led before the innocence was lost completely. (Had it ever existed?)
Life is but a dream for the dead.
I won’t go down by myself, but I’ll go down with my friends.
No, innocence has never existed, not between the Uchiha children, not within their spreadsheets of sin upon sin upon sin. Innocence is something lost at just an age too young to be of the universal good, too soft yet to become hard. A conviction of stealing the jewels from beneath the feather-down pillows before the boy or the girl whose head rests atop it can perceive any assault. A conviction of thieving dreams from gentle banks of golden waters, lapping the young one’s consciousness, and in its place materializing rivers of red in the wake of ruination left behind. Itachi wonders when his infantile innocence had first been robbed of him, as he can hardly comprehend that bundle of flesh, sinew, and bones he knows he once was, once upon a time upon the birth of his first horizon. He cannot fathom ever having been so vulnerable, and will not ever wish that susceptibility that children inevitably possess onto any other. In some way, he is glad that his innocence no longer plagues him (and Itachi says plague as easily as he allows the negation of the Sharingan’s capacity to contain his own misgivings, however unsound that may be). In some way, Itachi misses not the absence of awareness, misses only the world of red bleeding into black bleeding into red. Because at the absence of conscience and rationality, comes the replacement of mistake.
Close the lips and kiss, divine submission.
Nothing but a hiss, we've got ignition.
The way by which he cradles his cousin’s slight body against his own is almost slightly off, something derived from a small shred of himself, some part of him fenced off and forgotten years and years ago. It is insubstantial and unknown to and of him, and while a voice whispers fear in treachery, Itachi doesn’t run from it. He embraces the overwhelmingly vivid sensation of possession and something much, much more immense, cheeks hollowing out as he continues to pleasure Shisui in acquiescence of his own strongly mutual desires. He wants this now, this liberation and release, more than the souls of the damned by which his own existence feeds the flames burning with him. He’s wanted this for the past eleven years - no, he’s wanted this his entire life. A feeling of pleasure in ease coils in the pit of his stomach, running thicker than that of his rushing blood, his body tightening up as a wave of arousal pulses straight to his groin. Itachi moans, returning his cousin’s actions of pleasuring each other in such a way that calls for the redemption which they cannot have - the redemption beyond that of vengeful younger siblings. He is closer, closer still, every sensation threading into one unwavering focus, until his eyes only see Shisui, not the world of red bleeding into black bleeding into red; that which he’d been brought to embrace by birth. (And if Sasuke is his salvation, then Shisui is his greatest weakness.)
Caskets come to court their corpse companions.
Deceased, but we still report for our abandon.
(The room is obviously overcrowded, choked to its fullest extent by the clusters of chatting family and friends, words floating high over heads and too entangled to be discerned. The attire is much too formal, yet is somehow exclusively suiting to the overall atmosphere. At one end of the room, a man stands proud, his face inexpressive as he recounts the details of the recent ANBU mission to a few of the other men (other fathers, jealous men they are) gathered, lathering prideful comments centered around a certain son of his that seems to be amiss at the moment. Not that anyone notices, and that’s been the problem all along; they settle for less, settle for only the words they are told. None seek the truth out themselves, none seek the source.
Itachi eyes the room blandly, having just entered, dressed in something his mother had insisted he wore. The kimono is white and loose, pooling around his ankles, and the rich material appears much too smooth to the eye, even from a distance away. The cuffs are wide, trimmed in black threading that flows out and directly into a spiral of designs, sharply contrasting against the white silk backdrop. It stops at about the elbow, and the neckline is trimmed in much the same way, with the same pattern picking up and setting its own mess of elaborate spirals in the form before ceasing. The bottom hem repeats this theme, and the waist is tied by a black obi that appears much too loose-fitting, as though threatening to fall at any given moment. Of course, it stays rightly where it has been tied, and will never dare to drop. This is as it always is with perfection.
The glare of the heir’s eyes is sobered and almost harshly black, accenting his attire faultlessly, not a hint of red dotted anywhere upon the entire portrait. His gaze falls upon a familiar face, and instantly softens. Watching his cousin, he is not surprised to soon have his stare returned, and a soft smile graces those lips from yards away, through throngs of people. Glances and secret looks kept only for each other.
After a while of apathetic hellos and how-do-you-dos, Itachi at last is able to slip across the living room, reaching his older cousin’s side. The taller boy notices him almost immediately, and the gentle smile continues to hang there by a thread. The two easily slip off to one side of the crowded area, their attention diverted from anyone else. When Shisui stops, it is before a white lace-draped table, adorned in silver platters of food as well as a few pitches of some sort of liquids. He sees Itachi eyeing one particular glass bottle set off to the side, and the amber fluid visible through it is obvious enough to guess its contents without much effort. The younger Uchiha reaches for a glass and slowly dips the neck of the bottle against the crystal rim, and the liquid swirls down, filling it up halfway. He sets the bottle back.
“You shouldn’t drink that, Itachi,” his cousin says softly in concern, easily avoiding the affectionate nickname he usually calls the younger boy when the two are mostly alone or in the presence of less ‘critical’ people.
Itachi doesn’t say anything, his long fingers curling around the stem of the wineglass as he tips it up, and the alcohol burns its way down his throat.)
You’ve choked out the air, burned up the water .
Your sin is yourself, a slave to your youth,
Too caught up in deceit to come close to a truth…
Lips curl against hot, hot flesh, hardened under his kisses and throbbing to each heated pulse that claims their bodies. He’s far too tense by now, wound up too tightly, going to explode, implode, going to burst too soon, far too soon… Hands pressing harder against supple hips, Itachi groans around the length his cousin, feeling a trickle of beaded sweat roll over his body, tickling his skin. The sheets are stiflingly hot against him, and the warmth of Shisui’s presence only appends to this, feeding the fire inside of him as it eats away at everything and anything.
“Shisui…” he mutters, mouth drawing back from wet, hard muscle just long enough to whisper feather-soft against the tip. “Shisui…” His tongue laves over it, catching the bittersweet taste of precome, before he swallows thickly and takes Shisui’s length back inside, tightening his mouth around his cousin almost unbearably so. Oh, how he’d missed this touch, this fire of skin on skin contact, of lips on lips or lips everywhere, compensating for years lost to cold summers and hot winters.
He moans again, the tremors reaching even Shisui.
Infinitely infantile,
But ultimately worth each and every while…
(Itachi’s posture of perfection, of beauty and grace and malignant pride; it is removed with a clean sever between sanity and the antagonist to it after too many glasses of one of the few things, aside from himself, that Shisui detested. Alcohol was a relentless poison, a stupidity, an indulgence for human that isn’t even really an indulgence. Just a propaganda of what could be great but isn’t. And Shisui pulls Itachi from the party when he’s successfully intoxicated, the stumbling and occasional snag of foot to expensive kimono fabric slipping the garment lower and lower on his shoulders.
There’s a disappointment in Shisui’s glance as he drags his younger cousin along the hall, the loss of color in Itachi’s face and the slur of speech making him both worried and frustrated. (Fool.) “Itachi, stop moving-” he said, sharply, restraining yet another attempt of going in the opposite direction entirely, and greeted by an only half threatening sharingan glare. (It is returned, except Shisui’s isn’t clouded with booze, and the wheel spins with more vigor.) “I’m not drunk, Shisui.”
The statement is ignored entirely, Shisui’s hair beginning to fall from the neatly erected piece he’d worked to make (presentable, as it would be said, because at a party like that, you must be-) perfect for the event. His own Kimono was beginning to shrug itself down his chest, the weight of Itachi’s body not exactly heavy, but not really light either. (Though hardly a problem, of any sort. Shisui is an Uchiha, and therefore, Shisui is unbreakable. That is the naïve little unspoken law of their overprideful family.) “We’re almost to your room.”
The wooden door is pushed back, catching for a moment on the doorframe before being pushed all the way back in annoyance, Shisui moving forward into the dimness of a bedroom door lit with a lone oil lamp, Itachi almost completely leaning on him, and Shisui can tell he’s going to be sick. He patiently holds Itachi’s hair back when his cousin’s last three meals and three bottles of different alcohols come spilling into the toilet in Itachi’s bathroom.
Shisui adjusts him to his side for the night, so if he throws up and can’t get to the bathroom he won’t choke, and stays awake until it’s six in the morning and he can’t afford to play insomniac any longer. The next day is devoted to working Itachi out of his first, last, and only sickness, and Shisui strikes him across the face when the day is over. “You are so-”)
This night, walk the dead.
In a solitary style and crash the cemetery gates.
In the dress your husband hates.
Back home off the run.
Singing songs that make you slit your wrists.
It isn't that much fun.
Staring down a loaded gun.
Shisui’s body goes rigid in Itachi’s grasp, and there’s a rush of heat and his head leaving Itachi completely, jerking forward from the waist down and his head tilting back. “Itachi, god-” A rush of heat, his arm around Itachi’s creamy thigh, a moan, and flesh, and- (“Itachi?”
A pause from the book he is reading and the younger of the two looks up, questioningly, the text balancing neatly on his leg from where he sits in the wrong direction of his desk chair. The appraising look in his eyes indicates acknowledgement, and Shisui rolls on his back, hair tumbling off the end of the moth-eaten bed and certain strands almost hitting the dirty floor.
A pause. “… Nothing.”) “Oh god.” Shisui says, in a groan, hand at Itachi’s head and the orgasm shaking his entire self, a tiny, starved frame so rigidly filled with life as it had not been in too many god damned years. Heat and flush and only momentary embarrassment, a fleeting thought against a thousand memories of a life less lived(died.) Panting, red, the ring in his lip tickling Itachi’s thigh, the grip, however light or hard it may had been, released almost entirely, he breathes heavily into his cousin’s skin, lower body quivering, but a lust in his eyes as his tongue snakes slowly back to where it had been before.
Touched by angels though;
I fall out of grace.
I did it all so maybe.
I'd live this every day.
(“What color is the moon?”)
His head dips back over him, and he moves back a little so Itachi doesn’t choke, licking up and down his cock and letting his eyes water and moans go unstifled.
We’ll love again, we’ll laugh again; And it’s better off this way.
The glimmer of sweat over the contrasting black ink tattoo on his upper arm, the only inking Shisui hadn’t been the one to give him, is shimmering in the dimness of the afternoon that has finally worn into night. It catches the light vividly, but Itachi is not focused on that now, couldn’t possibly be. The warmth flooding his mouth burns his tongue, scorches the back of his throat, and with a slight shudder, he swallows the bitter liquid in large gulps, each action causing his lips to only tighten around his cousin.
That Shisui has finally come only faintly registers in his mind, but the build-up has gone on for far too long as it is, distracting the prodigy Uchiha almost uncharacteristically so. The fire inside of him has grown nearly to such an intensity that is painful, feeling Shisui’s lips and tongue work over him, and with a violent shiver, he frees his cousin from his mouth in favor of gasping in much-needed mouthfuls of air. The end of it all is looming, only breadths away, and the sensation of release is practically tangible to him, existing within his reach as it never had before. Like a memory, but not quite as transient to him, lingering for seconds upon seconds until the instant he gives in is obtained.
And it feels, I’m getting to the end.
And it’s hard, to figure out what’s real,
And what’s pretend.
(Underwater, there is peace, a soothing sort of peace that washes out your mind and clings to your soul. A soothing sort of heaven that wakes the dead with its promises of immortality in love and in joy. Itachi has learned to hold his breath for great amounts of time now, something which is only gained through rigorous, endless training, but he finds it easy enough to master once confronted. The water soaks his skin, and as his head breaches the surface, a spray of cold droplets fly, creating a mock rain shower that lasts only for a split-second.
Sharp and subdued black eyes flicker to the tentative form of his cousin, wearing only his undergarments and stepping carefully into the lapping waters at the river’s shore. Itachi watches with a mild bit of amusement as Shisui mutters, bothered by the iciness that stings his pale skin as he wades further out, testing. The sun reflects off the rippling surface, sending a dazzle of light into the younger Uchiha’s eyes as he slides his fingers through the cold waters, shivering slightly and sinking deeper until his knees rest on the rocky bottom.
“Ara, ‘Ta-san,” his cousin whispers, arms pressed tight around his own chest as he fights a shiver, enjoying the water as best he can. Itachi lets a small smile tilt his lips as he waits for Shisui to continue. He does. “You have a mission tomorrow, don’t you?”
Gentle hands reach forward to grasp thin elbows, and Itachi pulls his older cousin closer, setting another ripple of tension that quakes the river’s surface. The fading sunlight glints off of it, and the patterns that cast are momentarily mesmerizing. “Here. Let me warm you.” He doesn’t reply to the question, but the lack of an answer is one enough in itself. Shisui is frowning, and Itachi leans to lightly kiss the corner of his mouth, smoothing over the expression and feeling it doesn’t quite fit his precious cousin’s lips.
He feels a soft exhalation of breath ghost his jaw as Shisui nudges closer into the embrace, greedily accepting the invitation of body heat. “’Ta-san…” he mumbles, lying his head down on Itachi’s broad shoulder and nuzzling his cheek tenderly over the skin there. “Please be careful.”
Sometimes it’s better, when Itachi has nothing to say. Sometimes it’s better when Shisui doesn’t know.)
To break from what we’re tied to.
God knows how much I’ve tried to.
In the nullity, in the absence of everything, there is always a flaw, breeding and consuming, corrupting the system as it grows and grows and grows. The black sheep of a family is not this flaw, is only the excuse the mothers and fathers use to divert attention away from the real source, the real flaw eating away at their own lives. To direct the blame to someone else, anyone else but themselves.
The flaw of the Uchiha clan is not a true fault; in fact, there is nothing corrupt about him. On the outside.
With a sharp inhale, Itachi’s nails cut down into his cousin’s hips, and he feels a rigor mortis tightening of his entire body, reeling him up to unexhausted heights. Behind his closed eyelids, the memories seem to dissipate, leaving a faint sensation of white, of smooth, smooth white, like the crumpled wedding dress on the eve of one summer’s night, pressed between body and bed and bound by some lethal version of love. With one last exhausted moan, Itachi reaches for the long-awaited liberation and release, his mind whirling back into reality, away from his dreams and his memories in a finale of red-bathed light. The orgasm is over all too soon, and Itachi is left gasping, his knuckles white from gripping so very hard onto the lithe form of his cousin, attempting to regain the control he’d been known to persist so tirelessly before. Gently, he nudges Shisui off of him. His vision is dotted black with fatigue and spent exertion, and after regaining his breath, Itachi simply lays there, half-draped over his cousin’s body and feeling the dull ache set into his muscles.
Everything
Is catching up with me…
Shisui doesn’t gag when Itachi’s come rushes into his mouth, only swallowing it in a gasp and rolling over onto his back, panting as the marks begin to bloom on his skin and the heat of the night was fading. Sweat going cold. The fire inside beginning to weaken, and the trail of come on his chin wiped away from the back of his hand. Chest moving up and down, body aching, bliss and the dazedness of a form spent from orgasm. Sharingan slow from the spin that seemed too fast for even god, slow to a stop, and the red retracts into the center of his eye, replaced with endless black. Replaced with the curvy signature of every Uchiha’s hand. (Can we go back there? You wouldn’t like it. I never liked it. … Please, ‘Ta-san? … Fine.)
The light was gone. There was nothing reflected through the towering colored glass windows, only darkness, and his body burns (not out of pain, never out of pain. Shisui doesn’t burn. He is too much to burn any longer, not even Deidara-) warm from the dying embers of lust and internal agony from within him. On hand and knee does he make it to where his head could rest against the pillow, adjacent to Itachi’s, and he kisses him briefly, an innocent connection of lips where he could barely taste his orgasm on Itachi’s lips.
(An inhale of water. A sputter, choking, dirty, scream silenced by liquid rushing into his nose. Crawling forward, nails into mud, thin, colorless, silent, choking, blind. Wake up, crawl, eyes open, sight, words come, slowly, steadily, food eaten and rejected in a rush of acid, perseverance, life clung to, waiting until that woman comes and saves him. Legs can walk, voice can talk, tea houses, money, medicine, pain, and then…
You.
A cry of frustration. A fresh wound at the wrist. Run, run, run as fast as you can, because I’m so afraid of the Tommy knocker man! No You. No He. ShisuiiamextremelydisappointedinyourpreformanceDOBETTERNEXTTIME. Red, anger, yell, run. Bridge come, bridge come, bar in hand, it’s over, it’s over, it’s fucking over. “I’ll be praying(preying) for you.”
Shuddered breaths, white figures, lips upon lips, twist of bodies, kissfuckkissfuck, and the pouring of Shisui’s instabilities into Itachi. Blood, kiss, pierce, mark, don’thesitateandgo, bodies between sheets, mumbled I Love Yous among harlot screams of HARDERHARDER and a million other incestuous extremist things. Lips, touch, want, and don’t leave mes, “Come back safe Itachi.” Guitars played, words softly sung, laughter only half there, bruises forming, and innocent lips bruised and flushed. At church, when Shisui’s supposed to be babysitting, when Sasuke is too naïve to know what he was doing when either his brother or cousin kissed him like that. In the room, with needles forced through lips, eyebrows, ears, noses, and a Sutra carved into Shisui’s scarred back. Schools excelled and detested, “No, mama, I’ll be good!”s, passing sharingan glares, ice cream, summer suns, and all that could have been.
And then there were none.
And when there was nobody left, Shisui peaks from out of the shadows. Shyly, dangerously, from the point where he’d been cut to pieces and his burial had been rushed and concealed. Peaking from beneath the waters, a silhouette of the defiance of god, and his battle scars scream a million stories of the war. Shisui is at war with everyone in the world, including himself, and Itachi. Itachi and Shisui’s war is a war of genius. A seeing of things that others cannot, a justification of something unspoken, a mesh of lips lingering with the taste of strawberry. A love and a hate that tasted of razorblades ripped open with teeth, filling the mouth with blood and the eyes watering in pain of inflamed nerves. A fan that’s white and red and black all over, stamped all over Shisui, into his eyes, raping him of his innocence and forcing him to be someone.
Someone.
Of the time when Shisui’s skull crunched upon being crushed into cobblestone. Of the time when Itachi nearly lost his mobility to the damage done to his Achilles tendon. Of the first time Itachi killed, and of the first time Shisui did, and how much it hurt both of them to see Itachi become a murderer two years before Shisui had. Of the Uchiha clan stripping the innocence from the bones of their prodigies, and retaliating in fury upon the quiet rebellion of their ways, in the form of a cup of tea and a half-fake smile.
When Itachi slaughters his clan, he doesn’t smile. There is no deliriousness in it, no psychosis, for Itachi is not insane whatsoever. He’s brilliant, and had been from the time he was pulled from the waste of Mikoto’s pregnancy. He didn’t take joy in killing Mikoto, not even Fugaku, who he had grown to hate with a deeper vileness that imaginable, and, if anyone, he did enjoy killing Shisui’s mother. Revenge for the death of his cousin, amidst blood and a horizontal slash of blade from the woman’s ear to ear. The way she looked when her head tilted back and split open wasn’t the satisfaction as he had hoped it to be. Leaving Sasuke to become just as he had wasn’t either, really. It simply was.
An inhale of water.
A hard kiss and a tear.
A pair of eyes gazing at a moon so far above him in listlessness, and eyes sweeping back to a pair identical to his own.
“Itachi…?”)
“I...”
(“… It’s always been red.”)
--
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.
There’s the violent beat of his heart, ripping at the muscle and pulsing through his solid, burning veins like the paths of water through a winding stream, not bothering to carve itself a new trail into the inexorable earth. There’s the violent beat of his head, something muffling to the strain and exertion, and a sweet kind of lightheadedness that leaves him winded. There’s the violent beat of his body, rocking harder and harder into his cousin’s once-virgin body, once-perfect soul, and for a moment, he feels the touch of a god. And there’s the violent beat of his words, cutting and caustic and eccentric on his tongue, grinding together like mismatched puzzle pieces, fitted together just to put on a good show.
But nothing scathes quite as much as the flesh-on-flesh euphoria of taking his cousin this way, of how wrong it is, of how his parents are more than likely rolling in their graves and choking on the soil by which they had been buried and packed beneath. A twisted, twisted thought, and the pads of Itachi’s calloused fingertips (ones that had been accumulated far too early, far too young) press out bruises into Shisui’s pale shoulders. The shadows, even the ones stained of reds and oranges and yellows, are sharp in contrast of their skin, and Itachi knows what sort of image the both of them portray.
Once, a passing stranger had even told him, while he and Shisui had stood side by side (like a pair of diamonds, they are; how hard it is to break them, but how beautiful they really can be, even if only on the inside) before the great, towering oak doors of the oh-so familiar cathedral. She had been a fairly old lady, and at the sight of them, a crinkled smile broke across her wrinkled face, withered and dusted with an age Itachi had not wished to think about facing. He knows, somehow, that he will die before succumbing to time, and it is better that way. The old lady had been smiling, though, as if the world cherished her above all others, and in a raspy, weathered voice, had said the words, “You two young boys are gems among pebbles, you know. Fine men you one day shall become. God bless you both.”
Shisui had been somewhat flattered, but Itachi stood unyielding, indifferent to her words.
And as he wraps his tense arms around the thinned waist of his cousin, pulling him down with his taut body as Itachi lies out on his back across the bed sheets, rocking up into Shisui hard, not a waver of unrelenting stamina, he knows that those words had been false. So false, even, it makes him sick to recall them. Or even the words that had followed her amorous compliments.
Shaking himself free from the memory, Itachi groans as he feels Shisui contract around him, each thrust becoming something separate, something desperate and immeasurable to him. He clings to his cousin in assurance of the current, of the hear-and-now, but he knows that the both of them are plagued by their pasts, plagued black and blue until they hardly can see straight at all anymore.
Itachi knows a lot.
He knows things he doesn’t want to know, as well. (--like the percentage of those that die from murderings weekly, like the percentage of those that die from starvation, again, weekly, like--)
Let me see you
stripped down to the bone.
Let me hear you
speaking just for me.
There’s a certain nostalgia in his kisses now, mapping out familiar plains and recalling heaven-bent remembrances of their bodies pressed together, pressed together through the rain and through the sunshine, absorbing it as though it is their last and final resort. He doesn’t let go of Shisui now, not for anything, rocking into him and pulling out faster, steadying the rhythm until he can hear it in his head (and in his heart and in his body and in his blood and in his words, pounding pounding pounding).
“Shisui,” he whispers, the hushed sound silvery and sharp, spearing the air around them straight through the middle of the reds and oranges and yellows, rupturing the surface. It glitters, wavering. “Shisui,” and the plead is desperate, a mutter so intense it sears his lips and paints them cherry-red, not with any visible blood, but with the currents of it rushing beneath the surface of skin too thin not to notice.
Itachi knows a lot.
He knows where to pressure his cousin to get a scream, a scream raveled finely around his own name. He knows where and even what to brush his fingers against to emit a moan, a soft one, against the curve of his ear, a moan that sends a shiver spiraling down his spine. He knows where to cut his nails into, at the spots and areas he knows Shisui likes it most, and he knows where everything is on his cousin’s body.
He knows this because he shares one the same, or almost the same, but their blood is the same, and it courses through their bodies the same, it pumps fast and faster and always the fastest, just the same.
And he knows this because Shisui knows this.
Let me see you
stripped down to the bone.
Let me hear you
crying just for me.
And he knows right where to thrust inside of Shisui, knows right where it will feel the best. But this came through countless practice, done and done and done again. He’s proud of it.
The woman’s words do not matter any longer, because they’re both diamonds in their owns ways-not gems, they’re much too valuable to be such a thing. No, they are diamonds, scratched and blackened on the surface, as though burned from a thousand suns, but on the inside…
On the inside, they are beautiful
The violent beat of his heart is patient, flowing with the violent beat of his body and the violent beat of his head, and it aches something lovely. The violent beat of his words have hit a lull, but he doesn’t stop driving deeper into his cousin’s body, not for a second.
You’re breathing in fumes
I taste when we kiss.
From where Itachi has positioned him, Shisui presses his palms onto his chest, thrusting himself hard over his cousin into his own heated moans as the flush in his face grows heavier and the lust in his tone grows thicker. He jerks himself into an unsteady rhythm, not out of lack of experience, but in reminder that Shisui is not perfect. (Never, ever, and even if he can smile like an angel, he’s still Itachi’s slut in the very end.)
Grinding his hips in a certain direction, into where Itachi’s fingers are bruising his thin waist and his tattoos glitter with sweat reflecting colors from the stained glass (where the self-expense of Shisui’s demented masochism begins, and it hurts, everything hurts-) he thrusts himself there and lets out a beautiful little scream from his vividly scarlet lips. (What is sex but the destruction of connection? The severing of the tie between you and yourself in favor of yourself and another, and somewhere between is you, and the thoughts that race are only somewhat there.) What a twisted definition of intimacy.
(The spell that is laced around Shisui’s room both amplifies the grinding, beautiful noises of his guitar, and silences them as well, and from where Itachi’s back is pressed into Shisui’s do his insides rattle. The deafening tones of the music and the roar of lightening crashing into the earth outside is an oddly harmonic combination, and the wooden walls and decks of the Uchiha manor patter with the falling rain. Torrents of water slosh from the gutter systems into a rain ditch near the manor, from where it lies beneath the building and the children could swim in if there is ever a flood (but there is never enough rain for such, and the Uchiha parents would never allow their children to behave in such a way.)
If Shisui is singing, Itachi can’t hear it, not against the heavy tones of the guitar, the sounds of crashing rain against the walls of their extensive home, and the white noise of god’s wrath into the ground. A small vial is in his hands, and a slab of thinly cut wood is stirring something thick and black within, a familiar black box that clinks when the weight on the mattress shifts a little adjacent to Itachi’s left hip. The time moves slowly, and the uncharacteristic anger in the tones Shisui emits comes to a sharp, abrupt halt when Itachi’s shoulder blades move a little. (A sign of inhaling breath, clearing of throat, preparation of-)
“The ink’s ready.”
A loud snap of thunder makes Shisui’s “Ara” seem even a bit quieter, and he slips the instrument from his lap, letting it onto his floor rather gently into the black guitar case and nudging it back under his head with the left side of his foot. (It’s Monday. Monday, as everyone is groggily returning to work and school; Monday, as Itachi and Shisui are pretending (convincingly) to be ill so they can stay home and listen to the rain. So they can stay home and corrupt themselves a little bit more.)
Shisui calmly rolls to where he is lying on his back, taking off his shirt once finding himself in a more comfortable position and tossing it loosely on the floor. (It is rare that they do something like this outside of the safe room. Because in the safe room, no one is watching, no one can watch, and it is all so perfect in the way that only incestuous sadomasochism can be.)
Each time a needle jabs into Shisui’s collar as Itachi steadily stamps letters into his body, he winces, and the more common the short pain becomes the more it hurts, and by the time the thin layer of skin that stretches over his collar and shoulders is raw and tattooed, there are silent streaks of tears from both of Shisui’s black eyes, and Itachi kisses them sadly, pressing his forehead to his cousin’s and breathing quiet words of comfort.
“You did well.” All those things the Uchiha could never tell him. “You’re okay.” All those things he is not.)
We are building a religion.
We are building it bigger.
Shisui grinds hard into Itachi, an almost-perfect rhythm with his cousin’s hard strokes, and the unabridged scream of his name cuts through the semi-silence of moans and gasps in their love-making. He presses his palms harder into Itachi’s chest and thrusts again, and his insides contract erratically, making him shiver and shake into the tugging want from somewhere within his body. The flush in his face, the sweat down his body; it’s something sick and deceptively innocent, and perhaps it is this that makes the scene in and of itself seem sweet.
(And that is the point of the word deception. Because there is nothing sweet or pretty about it, only two boys so incredibly out of place in distorted realities they can find comfort, and only such, in needed touches and desires. In the end, they are still cousins. In the end, it is still wrong.)
We are building a religion.
A limited condition.
I am thinking it’s a sign that the freckles
In our eyes are mirror images and when
We kiss they’re perfectly aligned.
(It is a late autumn afternoon, during which the sky is the color of washed up copper, streaked through with flecks of gold and splotches of orange. The sun hasn’t yet gone, the moon hasn’t yet arrived, and the air itself is heavy with the foreboding winter staked ahead. But even with an undertone of cold, the evening holds a charm of the summer it has recently left behind beneath shreds of dewy grass, melted ice cream, and warm rainstorms. Times spent wrapped in blankets under the stars, times spent inhaling the sweet scents overwhelming the night, times spent without questioning life and death, without questioning judgment and without questioning purposes. A one-time world without contradiction or guarded insecurities. A paradise.
“Shisui,” the richly dark voice mumbles, his arms locked around his cousin’s thin waist as the two hold onto each other tightly, a single pair of entities enfolded beneath the autumn’s murdered, dying, lost sunlight.
There’s a tired mutter in reply as the older boy nuzzles against Itachi’s neck, the words lost on soft lips and rendered inaudible. Itachi smiles gently, and goes on, “Can I ask you a question?”
Shisui’s never heard his cousin speak in such a quiet voice before, and curiously he lifts his head, blinking lidded black eyes, tipping his head in a brief nod. “Always.” A lull of comfortable silence passes between them after he speaks, and Shisui deems it necessary he lay his head back down, which he does, but slowly. For whatever reason, he believes Itachi would prefer not to be watched at this moment. And he’s always known Itachi best.
A heavy sigh, and the younger boy whispers, “Do you know how much you mean to me?”
Feeling his heart jump, Shisui’s fingers clench weakly onto his cousin’s loose shirt, though he does not give an answer for several long moments. He doesn’t look up at Itachi either, preferring to hide the light blush gracing his pale cheeks.
“It is…overwhelming,” Itachi breathes, cradling the other against him and absently gazing at the bleeding sunset before them, at the greedy horizon that absorbs it all in, leaving not a drop for the moon. And though the words are never spoken, and though the confession is never voiced, Shisui knows. He knows because it is his welcomed duty to.
“I love you too,” Shisui then whispers, because he knows Itachi can never say it himself. At least not yet. Not now. Not here, in this place, among these people.)
And I have to speculate that God himself
Did make us into corresponding shapes like
Puzzle pieces from the clay…
At the unexpected change of position, Itachi lets out a ragged gasp, feeling his throbbing arousal ache at the missed placation of his cousin’s lips and tongue working against it. Automatically his fingers slip into the damp strands of Shisui’s hair, tangling there as he urges the attentions to continue. Though this arrangement of their flushes bodies is not something he has experienced often, Itachi knows precisely what to do, wrapping one arm around his cousin’s waist and rolling onto his back, supporting Shisui’s lighter frame above him. His own lips seek out one of his cousin’s pale, soft thighs, teeth grazing lightly over skin before sliding to the steady pulse point of Shisui’s cock.
He presses his mouth gently against the head, the taste of Shisui enticingly familiar to him, willing him closer more, before parting his lips to encase the throbbing length, sucking roughly on a couple of inches of the hardened muscle and then easing it back out of his mouth. The combined sensation of Shisui’s lips around him and his own around Shisui is intoxicatingly erotic, forcing a dark moan from his throat as he swirls his tongue around his cousin’s length, pausing to brush along it with his teeth. He lathers this attention, at the same time circling his cousin’s waist with a pair of strong arms, holding Shisui there with each of his legs braced to either side of his head. Hands fall away from bruised hips, sliding along Shisui’s sides and then back down to stop at mid-thigh, before repeating the path up again. Itachi maintains this pattern, simultaneously stroking his cousin’s lithe body as he continues to suck him off with equal vigor.
Their bodies press together in a mesmerizing and flawless outline, the dim curtain of colors washing over them to create the appeal of a glossy, painted picture - an entirety of beauty and sweet, sinful love-making. Their paradise.
It’s thoughts like this that catch my troubled
Head when you’re away, when I am missing you to death,
When you are out there on the road…
(Itachi once told Shisui he would take him to paradise. The only paradise found in entangled limbs beaded with sweat and lust-coated names shouted aloud, unhearing of the moon’s own separate song of broken reprise to the lost years.
And when they had finished, the older of the two wound strong arms around the younger of the two, rolling them to switched positions and leaning to whisper darkly into Itachi’s ear, skin flushed with spent passion, voice hushed of moans and panted breath, “I will show you a paradise now, Ta-san…”)
Shisui moans against Itachi’s skin, hard, dipping his cousin down the back of his throat and returning him into the cold air with a casual, yet forced flick of the tongue, the heat and color in his face making it a painful obvious at how hard he was trying to not come right then. The fingers in his hair are expected, almost routine, almost routine for something he’d taken for granted; not the sex itself, but having Itachi touch him at all. (Because the streets of your own mirrored death are harder to walk on than expected, and Shisui knows greater than anyone. And maybe if Itachi knew as well, they wouldn’t be in this castle.) Maybe.
(The idea that Shisui is something besides his gentility is something most people forget. Upon getting to know him, he is kind and bright and confusing, but it is not to be dismissed of his surname; Uchiha, and being an Uchiha, there is no true gentle. Shisui is a murderer. And Itachi and Sasuke are reminded of this in a dull October evening of some year when Sasuke had yet to see a corpse before in his life; a naiveté Itachi and Shisui could both find themselves envying.
“Good job.”
There’s a resolute Thud, and a man falls from where Shisui had carried him fifteen or sixteen miles on his back, a noise that’s both quiet and dull, but loud enough to send a spark of pain through Shisui’s temple. “It was a messy job.” He says, shortly, and it’s a stating-the-obvious that could have been funny if not for the situation, the blood coating Shisui from head to toe tracking earth-red footprints mingled with erosion and dirt through the clean wooden floors of the Uchiha manor.
“He was persistent. I apologize for what is left of his face.” The man’s tongue hangs limply from a mouth open in an ‘O’, one eye removed completely and a gap of dark red from within, a flurry of cuts and scratches all over his cheeks along with a fine slit at the jaw. The blades at Shisui’s hip glimmer softly under the oil lamps dancing flames, scarlet and more of a statement as to exactly what he had done than the blood all over him or the corpse lying before him.
“Go clean yourself up for dinner.”
I’m like a bullet through a flock of doves.
To wage this war against your faith in me.
Your life will never be the same.
On your mother’s grave I say a prayer.
Shisui stares at the mangled body before him, licking at the ring in his lip as though to check as to whether or not it had been ripped from his face, and he bows his head in respect, turning his back to the Uchiha elders and retreating to his room. Sasuke is watching from behind a banister, small hands clutching into the wood and eyes widened with horror, and Shisui glances back at him, eye contact made with something that little Sasuke had never seen before, and he shrinks back a little, Shisui’s pause in step lasting only a moment before continuing down the hall.
And Itachi is standing in the corridor, waiting for him, the Sharingan eyes and insane body of his older cousin that brushes past him making him stop dead, the look in the eyes identical to the foreign blood coating Shisui’s body something he found as disturbing as Sasuke did (if not more so). And neither of Fugaku’s sons forgets that look, not even after Shisui returns from a hot bath, clean and smelling no longer of death, but of the Lilac he had washed himself in, and wearing a neat black and white outfit so he can blend in with the rest of the family at dinner that night. Itachi and Sasuke don’t forget it, because it is uninsurable as to if Shisui’s mask is the smile and calamity in his expression, or the insanity upon that face, and a mask broken is an identity violated.
Because, in the end, Shisui is an Uchiha, and therefore a storm in a teacup.)
Now, but I can't!
And I don't know how we're just two men as god had made us.
Well I can't, well I can't!
Too much, too late, or just not enough of this pain in my heart;
For your dying wish I’ll kiss your lips again.
He sucks at the pre-come leaking heavily from the tip, the bitterness of the taste something forgotten in time (in the loss of a nervous system, in the only so steady return of taste) ghosting fingers against the skin of thighs that are far smoother than the rest of his body, a place so rarely touched or disturbed that it only grows so much rougher from the point in which the child is pulled from the waste of the womb. (But Shisui’s thighs…) And he doesn’t scratch, nor cut into anything, only having an amount of selfish clinging to the body of his younger (older? Had his cousin now been alive more years than himself?) cousin.
“Itachi…” Shisui groans, softly, eyes watering slightly as his chest begins to ache, in that place deep inside of him that is taking too long to heal, and licking up his cock between breathy words and the little dirty nothings that have them be where they are. “Gods…” His body throbs, blood moving at an alarming rate within himself, and the mouth around him giving such no tourniquet (it’s hardly desired) - only a recollection of a life led before the innocence was lost completely. (Had it ever existed?)
Life is but a dream for the dead.
I won’t go down by myself, but I’ll go down with my friends.
No, innocence has never existed, not between the Uchiha children, not within their spreadsheets of sin upon sin upon sin. Innocence is something lost at just an age too young to be of the universal good, too soft yet to become hard. A conviction of stealing the jewels from beneath the feather-down pillows before the boy or the girl whose head rests atop it can perceive any assault. A conviction of thieving dreams from gentle banks of golden waters, lapping the young one’s consciousness, and in its place materializing rivers of red in the wake of ruination left behind. Itachi wonders when his infantile innocence had first been robbed of him, as he can hardly comprehend that bundle of flesh, sinew, and bones he knows he once was, once upon a time upon the birth of his first horizon. He cannot fathom ever having been so vulnerable, and will not ever wish that susceptibility that children inevitably possess onto any other. In some way, he is glad that his innocence no longer plagues him (and Itachi says plague as easily as he allows the negation of the Sharingan’s capacity to contain his own misgivings, however unsound that may be). In some way, Itachi misses not the absence of awareness, misses only the world of red bleeding into black bleeding into red. Because at the absence of conscience and rationality, comes the replacement of mistake.
Close the lips and kiss, divine submission.
Nothing but a hiss, we've got ignition.
The way by which he cradles his cousin’s slight body against his own is almost slightly off, something derived from a small shred of himself, some part of him fenced off and forgotten years and years ago. It is insubstantial and unknown to and of him, and while a voice whispers fear in treachery, Itachi doesn’t run from it. He embraces the overwhelmingly vivid sensation of possession and something much, much more immense, cheeks hollowing out as he continues to pleasure Shisui in acquiescence of his own strongly mutual desires. He wants this now, this liberation and release, more than the souls of the damned by which his own existence feeds the flames burning with him. He’s wanted this for the past eleven years - no, he’s wanted this his entire life. A feeling of pleasure in ease coils in the pit of his stomach, running thicker than that of his rushing blood, his body tightening up as a wave of arousal pulses straight to his groin. Itachi moans, returning his cousin’s actions of pleasuring each other in such a way that calls for the redemption which they cannot have - the redemption beyond that of vengeful younger siblings. He is closer, closer still, every sensation threading into one unwavering focus, until his eyes only see Shisui, not the world of red bleeding into black bleeding into red; that which he’d been brought to embrace by birth. (And if Sasuke is his salvation, then Shisui is his greatest weakness.)
Caskets come to court their corpse companions.
Deceased, but we still report for our abandon.
(The room is obviously overcrowded, choked to its fullest extent by the clusters of chatting family and friends, words floating high over heads and too entangled to be discerned. The attire is much too formal, yet is somehow exclusively suiting to the overall atmosphere. At one end of the room, a man stands proud, his face inexpressive as he recounts the details of the recent ANBU mission to a few of the other men (other fathers, jealous men they are) gathered, lathering prideful comments centered around a certain son of his that seems to be amiss at the moment. Not that anyone notices, and that’s been the problem all along; they settle for less, settle for only the words they are told. None seek the truth out themselves, none seek the source.
Itachi eyes the room blandly, having just entered, dressed in something his mother had insisted he wore. The kimono is white and loose, pooling around his ankles, and the rich material appears much too smooth to the eye, even from a distance away. The cuffs are wide, trimmed in black threading that flows out and directly into a spiral of designs, sharply contrasting against the white silk backdrop. It stops at about the elbow, and the neckline is trimmed in much the same way, with the same pattern picking up and setting its own mess of elaborate spirals in the form before ceasing. The bottom hem repeats this theme, and the waist is tied by a black obi that appears much too loose-fitting, as though threatening to fall at any given moment. Of course, it stays rightly where it has been tied, and will never dare to drop. This is as it always is with perfection.
The glare of the heir’s eyes is sobered and almost harshly black, accenting his attire faultlessly, not a hint of red dotted anywhere upon the entire portrait. His gaze falls upon a familiar face, and instantly softens. Watching his cousin, he is not surprised to soon have his stare returned, and a soft smile graces those lips from yards away, through throngs of people. Glances and secret looks kept only for each other.
After a while of apathetic hellos and how-do-you-dos, Itachi at last is able to slip across the living room, reaching his older cousin’s side. The taller boy notices him almost immediately, and the gentle smile continues to hang there by a thread. The two easily slip off to one side of the crowded area, their attention diverted from anyone else. When Shisui stops, it is before a white lace-draped table, adorned in silver platters of food as well as a few pitches of some sort of liquids. He sees Itachi eyeing one particular glass bottle set off to the side, and the amber fluid visible through it is obvious enough to guess its contents without much effort. The younger Uchiha reaches for a glass and slowly dips the neck of the bottle against the crystal rim, and the liquid swirls down, filling it up halfway. He sets the bottle back.
“You shouldn’t drink that, Itachi,” his cousin says softly in concern, easily avoiding the affectionate nickname he usually calls the younger boy when the two are mostly alone or in the presence of less ‘critical’ people.
Itachi doesn’t say anything, his long fingers curling around the stem of the wineglass as he tips it up, and the alcohol burns its way down his throat.)
You’ve choked out the air, burned up the water .
Your sin is yourself, a slave to your youth,
Too caught up in deceit to come close to a truth…
Lips curl against hot, hot flesh, hardened under his kisses and throbbing to each heated pulse that claims their bodies. He’s far too tense by now, wound up too tightly, going to explode, implode, going to burst too soon, far too soon… Hands pressing harder against supple hips, Itachi groans around the length his cousin, feeling a trickle of beaded sweat roll over his body, tickling his skin. The sheets are stiflingly hot against him, and the warmth of Shisui’s presence only appends to this, feeding the fire inside of him as it eats away at everything and anything.
“Shisui…” he mutters, mouth drawing back from wet, hard muscle just long enough to whisper feather-soft against the tip. “Shisui…” His tongue laves over it, catching the bittersweet taste of precome, before he swallows thickly and takes Shisui’s length back inside, tightening his mouth around his cousin almost unbearably so. Oh, how he’d missed this touch, this fire of skin on skin contact, of lips on lips or lips everywhere, compensating for years lost to cold summers and hot winters.
He moans again, the tremors reaching even Shisui.
Infinitely infantile,
But ultimately worth each and every while…
(Itachi’s posture of perfection, of beauty and grace and malignant pride; it is removed with a clean sever between sanity and the antagonist to it after too many glasses of one of the few things, aside from himself, that Shisui detested. Alcohol was a relentless poison, a stupidity, an indulgence for human that isn’t even really an indulgence. Just a propaganda of what could be great but isn’t. And Shisui pulls Itachi from the party when he’s successfully intoxicated, the stumbling and occasional snag of foot to expensive kimono fabric slipping the garment lower and lower on his shoulders.
There’s a disappointment in Shisui’s glance as he drags his younger cousin along the hall, the loss of color in Itachi’s face and the slur of speech making him both worried and frustrated. (Fool.) “Itachi, stop moving-” he said, sharply, restraining yet another attempt of going in the opposite direction entirely, and greeted by an only half threatening sharingan glare. (It is returned, except Shisui’s isn’t clouded with booze, and the wheel spins with more vigor.) “I’m not drunk, Shisui.”
The statement is ignored entirely, Shisui’s hair beginning to fall from the neatly erected piece he’d worked to make (presentable, as it would be said, because at a party like that, you must be-) perfect for the event. His own Kimono was beginning to shrug itself down his chest, the weight of Itachi’s body not exactly heavy, but not really light either. (Though hardly a problem, of any sort. Shisui is an Uchiha, and therefore, Shisui is unbreakable. That is the naïve little unspoken law of their overprideful family.) “We’re almost to your room.”
The wooden door is pushed back, catching for a moment on the doorframe before being pushed all the way back in annoyance, Shisui moving forward into the dimness of a bedroom door lit with a lone oil lamp, Itachi almost completely leaning on him, and Shisui can tell he’s going to be sick. He patiently holds Itachi’s hair back when his cousin’s last three meals and three bottles of different alcohols come spilling into the toilet in Itachi’s bathroom.
Shisui adjusts him to his side for the night, so if he throws up and can’t get to the bathroom he won’t choke, and stays awake until it’s six in the morning and he can’t afford to play insomniac any longer. The next day is devoted to working Itachi out of his first, last, and only sickness, and Shisui strikes him across the face when the day is over. “You are so-”)
This night, walk the dead.
In a solitary style and crash the cemetery gates.
In the dress your husband hates.
Back home off the run.
Singing songs that make you slit your wrists.
It isn't that much fun.
Staring down a loaded gun.
Shisui’s body goes rigid in Itachi’s grasp, and there’s a rush of heat and his head leaving Itachi completely, jerking forward from the waist down and his head tilting back. “Itachi, god-” A rush of heat, his arm around Itachi’s creamy thigh, a moan, and flesh, and- (“Itachi?”
A pause from the book he is reading and the younger of the two looks up, questioningly, the text balancing neatly on his leg from where he sits in the wrong direction of his desk chair. The appraising look in his eyes indicates acknowledgement, and Shisui rolls on his back, hair tumbling off the end of the moth-eaten bed and certain strands almost hitting the dirty floor.
A pause. “… Nothing.”) “Oh god.” Shisui says, in a groan, hand at Itachi’s head and the orgasm shaking his entire self, a tiny, starved frame so rigidly filled with life as it had not been in too many god damned years. Heat and flush and only momentary embarrassment, a fleeting thought against a thousand memories of a life less lived(died.) Panting, red, the ring in his lip tickling Itachi’s thigh, the grip, however light or hard it may had been, released almost entirely, he breathes heavily into his cousin’s skin, lower body quivering, but a lust in his eyes as his tongue snakes slowly back to where it had been before.
Touched by angels though;
I fall out of grace.
I did it all so maybe.
I'd live this every day.
(“What color is the moon?”)
His head dips back over him, and he moves back a little so Itachi doesn’t choke, licking up and down his cock and letting his eyes water and moans go unstifled.
We’ll love again, we’ll laugh again; And it’s better off this way.
The glimmer of sweat over the contrasting black ink tattoo on his upper arm, the only inking Shisui hadn’t been the one to give him, is shimmering in the dimness of the afternoon that has finally worn into night. It catches the light vividly, but Itachi is not focused on that now, couldn’t possibly be. The warmth flooding his mouth burns his tongue, scorches the back of his throat, and with a slight shudder, he swallows the bitter liquid in large gulps, each action causing his lips to only tighten around his cousin.
That Shisui has finally come only faintly registers in his mind, but the build-up has gone on for far too long as it is, distracting the prodigy Uchiha almost uncharacteristically so. The fire inside of him has grown nearly to such an intensity that is painful, feeling Shisui’s lips and tongue work over him, and with a violent shiver, he frees his cousin from his mouth in favor of gasping in much-needed mouthfuls of air. The end of it all is looming, only breadths away, and the sensation of release is practically tangible to him, existing within his reach as it never had before. Like a memory, but not quite as transient to him, lingering for seconds upon seconds until the instant he gives in is obtained.
And it feels, I’m getting to the end.
And it’s hard, to figure out what’s real,
And what’s pretend.
(Underwater, there is peace, a soothing sort of peace that washes out your mind and clings to your soul. A soothing sort of heaven that wakes the dead with its promises of immortality in love and in joy. Itachi has learned to hold his breath for great amounts of time now, something which is only gained through rigorous, endless training, but he finds it easy enough to master once confronted. The water soaks his skin, and as his head breaches the surface, a spray of cold droplets fly, creating a mock rain shower that lasts only for a split-second.
Sharp and subdued black eyes flicker to the tentative form of his cousin, wearing only his undergarments and stepping carefully into the lapping waters at the river’s shore. Itachi watches with a mild bit of amusement as Shisui mutters, bothered by the iciness that stings his pale skin as he wades further out, testing. The sun reflects off the rippling surface, sending a dazzle of light into the younger Uchiha’s eyes as he slides his fingers through the cold waters, shivering slightly and sinking deeper until his knees rest on the rocky bottom.
“Ara, ‘Ta-san,” his cousin whispers, arms pressed tight around his own chest as he fights a shiver, enjoying the water as best he can. Itachi lets a small smile tilt his lips as he waits for Shisui to continue. He does. “You have a mission tomorrow, don’t you?”
Gentle hands reach forward to grasp thin elbows, and Itachi pulls his older cousin closer, setting another ripple of tension that quakes the river’s surface. The fading sunlight glints off of it, and the patterns that cast are momentarily mesmerizing. “Here. Let me warm you.” He doesn’t reply to the question, but the lack of an answer is one enough in itself. Shisui is frowning, and Itachi leans to lightly kiss the corner of his mouth, smoothing over the expression and feeling it doesn’t quite fit his precious cousin’s lips.
He feels a soft exhalation of breath ghost his jaw as Shisui nudges closer into the embrace, greedily accepting the invitation of body heat. “’Ta-san…” he mumbles, lying his head down on Itachi’s broad shoulder and nuzzling his cheek tenderly over the skin there. “Please be careful.”
Sometimes it’s better, when Itachi has nothing to say. Sometimes it’s better when Shisui doesn’t know.)
To break from what we’re tied to.
God knows how much I’ve tried to.
In the nullity, in the absence of everything, there is always a flaw, breeding and consuming, corrupting the system as it grows and grows and grows. The black sheep of a family is not this flaw, is only the excuse the mothers and fathers use to divert attention away from the real source, the real flaw eating away at their own lives. To direct the blame to someone else, anyone else but themselves.
The flaw of the Uchiha clan is not a true fault; in fact, there is nothing corrupt about him. On the outside.
With a sharp inhale, Itachi’s nails cut down into his cousin’s hips, and he feels a rigor mortis tightening of his entire body, reeling him up to unexhausted heights. Behind his closed eyelids, the memories seem to dissipate, leaving a faint sensation of white, of smooth, smooth white, like the crumpled wedding dress on the eve of one summer’s night, pressed between body and bed and bound by some lethal version of love. With one last exhausted moan, Itachi reaches for the long-awaited liberation and release, his mind whirling back into reality, away from his dreams and his memories in a finale of red-bathed light. The orgasm is over all too soon, and Itachi is left gasping, his knuckles white from gripping so very hard onto the lithe form of his cousin, attempting to regain the control he’d been known to persist so tirelessly before. Gently, he nudges Shisui off of him. His vision is dotted black with fatigue and spent exertion, and after regaining his breath, Itachi simply lays there, half-draped over his cousin’s body and feeling the dull ache set into his muscles.
Everything
Is catching up with me…
Shisui doesn’t gag when Itachi’s come rushes into his mouth, only swallowing it in a gasp and rolling over onto his back, panting as the marks begin to bloom on his skin and the heat of the night was fading. Sweat going cold. The fire inside beginning to weaken, and the trail of come on his chin wiped away from the back of his hand. Chest moving up and down, body aching, bliss and the dazedness of a form spent from orgasm. Sharingan slow from the spin that seemed too fast for even god, slow to a stop, and the red retracts into the center of his eye, replaced with endless black. Replaced with the curvy signature of every Uchiha’s hand. (Can we go back there? You wouldn’t like it. I never liked it. … Please, ‘Ta-san? … Fine.)
The light was gone. There was nothing reflected through the towering colored glass windows, only darkness, and his body burns (not out of pain, never out of pain. Shisui doesn’t burn. He is too much to burn any longer, not even Deidara-) warm from the dying embers of lust and internal agony from within him. On hand and knee does he make it to where his head could rest against the pillow, adjacent to Itachi’s, and he kisses him briefly, an innocent connection of lips where he could barely taste his orgasm on Itachi’s lips.
(An inhale of water. A sputter, choking, dirty, scream silenced by liquid rushing into his nose. Crawling forward, nails into mud, thin, colorless, silent, choking, blind. Wake up, crawl, eyes open, sight, words come, slowly, steadily, food eaten and rejected in a rush of acid, perseverance, life clung to, waiting until that woman comes and saves him. Legs can walk, voice can talk, tea houses, money, medicine, pain, and then…
You.
A cry of frustration. A fresh wound at the wrist. Run, run, run as fast as you can, because I’m so afraid of the Tommy knocker man! No You. No He. ShisuiiamextremelydisappointedinyourpreformanceDOBETTERNEXTTIME. Red, anger, yell, run. Bridge come, bridge come, bar in hand, it’s over, it’s over, it’s fucking over. “I’ll be praying(preying) for you.”
Shuddered breaths, white figures, lips upon lips, twist of bodies, kissfuckkissfuck, and the pouring of Shisui’s instabilities into Itachi. Blood, kiss, pierce, mark, don’thesitateandgo, bodies between sheets, mumbled I Love Yous among harlot screams of HARDERHARDER and a million other incestuous extremist things. Lips, touch, want, and don’t leave mes, “Come back safe Itachi.” Guitars played, words softly sung, laughter only half there, bruises forming, and innocent lips bruised and flushed. At church, when Shisui’s supposed to be babysitting, when Sasuke is too naïve to know what he was doing when either his brother or cousin kissed him like that. In the room, with needles forced through lips, eyebrows, ears, noses, and a Sutra carved into Shisui’s scarred back. Schools excelled and detested, “No, mama, I’ll be good!”s, passing sharingan glares, ice cream, summer suns, and all that could have been.
And then there were none.
And when there was nobody left, Shisui peaks from out of the shadows. Shyly, dangerously, from the point where he’d been cut to pieces and his burial had been rushed and concealed. Peaking from beneath the waters, a silhouette of the defiance of god, and his battle scars scream a million stories of the war. Shisui is at war with everyone in the world, including himself, and Itachi. Itachi and Shisui’s war is a war of genius. A seeing of things that others cannot, a justification of something unspoken, a mesh of lips lingering with the taste of strawberry. A love and a hate that tasted of razorblades ripped open with teeth, filling the mouth with blood and the eyes watering in pain of inflamed nerves. A fan that’s white and red and black all over, stamped all over Shisui, into his eyes, raping him of his innocence and forcing him to be someone.
Someone.
Of the time when Shisui’s skull crunched upon being crushed into cobblestone. Of the time when Itachi nearly lost his mobility to the damage done to his Achilles tendon. Of the first time Itachi killed, and of the first time Shisui did, and how much it hurt both of them to see Itachi become a murderer two years before Shisui had. Of the Uchiha clan stripping the innocence from the bones of their prodigies, and retaliating in fury upon the quiet rebellion of their ways, in the form of a cup of tea and a half-fake smile.
When Itachi slaughters his clan, he doesn’t smile. There is no deliriousness in it, no psychosis, for Itachi is not insane whatsoever. He’s brilliant, and had been from the time he was pulled from the waste of Mikoto’s pregnancy. He didn’t take joy in killing Mikoto, not even Fugaku, who he had grown to hate with a deeper vileness that imaginable, and, if anyone, he did enjoy killing Shisui’s mother. Revenge for the death of his cousin, amidst blood and a horizontal slash of blade from the woman’s ear to ear. The way she looked when her head tilted back and split open wasn’t the satisfaction as he had hoped it to be. Leaving Sasuke to become just as he had wasn’t either, really. It simply was.
An inhale of water.
A hard kiss and a tear.
A pair of eyes gazing at a moon so far above him in listlessness, and eyes sweeping back to a pair identical to his own.
“Itachi…?”)
“I...”
(“… It’s always been red.”)
--
All lyrics (c) the respective artists.