[The "HOMG IT'S FINALLY DONE" Roleplay Log of Doom] Part III

[crimson_prose]

Who: Uchiha Itachi [crimson_prose], Uchiha Sasuke [inirritative], and Uchiha Shisui [whispered_flow]
Where: IN BED. The infamously gay Shisui-Itachi apartment.
When: ...we started this before the DeiTayuDei smut started. YEAH I KNOW IT TOOK US A LONG TIME STFUKTHXBAI. I don't think I have a specific time, anymore because it took so damn long. Which was entirely my fault. I LOST MY MUSE THREE FOURTHS OF THE WAY THROUGH MY GOD I AM SUCH A HO. I guess...I don't know. PICK A DATE FUJI.
What: In which Itachi is drunk and abusive conflicted, Sasuke is not hesitant enough, and Shisui decides that the time has finally come.
Warnings: Explicit incestual homosexual threeway sex, cursing, alcohol, mild violence. BUT OTHER THAN THAT, WE'RE CLEAN DIEGO. I LEFT THE SMACK IN MY OTHER PANTS.

Part I;
Part II;

There is a sensation that something has dipped into him - that he, himself, has bent at a new angle - but it is not true. (The bruises on his face have disappeared beneath his skin, even over the course of only a few events of ill-timing, and he thinks that she hit him too hard for that. For it to not hurt afterwards. But then, whether she aimed at him or not, she was the one pained by it the most and in a sense he feels guilty for that, and for a second, it shifts and then he is back, so painfully aware of everything as it pushes, as it slides and there is a new level of awareness, and his pulse has thickened.) Itachi swears that there is no pain, and at the same moment it overwhelms him he denies it passage. He won’t let it inside but- (Shisui can always part the waves. There is no reason to compare Shisui to Moses, not really, but if Itachi is not a statue, he cannot deny that he is turbulent and impassable except for that.)

He swears, quietly, in the back of his throat, and it comes as an unintentional keening. Not high-pitched, not shrill, but a broken sound that is overly versatile, that cuts through the silence - the labored breathing of three different people in one room, on one bed that is not small but that is not big. (They are so close together, they are all so pressed. It is torture and illness - a want that will never stop. Every inch of Itachi is full of an unsteady ache and he is struggling. He is struggling to breathe, and to recognize the answers as they are. Everything aches, and he is never certain, he has never been certain, but the fact that Itachi is intentionally smarter than most people has kept him from stumbling for quite sometime. He would count the minutes if he knew what way was up. The slick texture is hot and crowded and he swears.)

He keeps his arms painfully still and he can feel the sheets cling to his skin, because there is a thin sheen of sweat that’s covered him, and he knows it because his insides are liquid fire and his outsides are frozen still by the air that he cannot recall being quite so cold. (The feather must have something to do with it - the clock tower that shakes with the earthquake-induced need to vomit, and forgets as the thousands of wings explode from its mouth. Japan is nothing like London. Itachi’s English is all but flawless. But it means that language barriers are not his true frailty. His true frailty lies in communication, it’s true, but it is not because he doesn’t know. He does know. But he is incapable. There are no words for the way he feels about himself and about Shisui, no way to properly combine all the anger, and distrust, and maddening love and subdued infatuation. The dark care with which he tends to move. He does feel betrayed. He feels-)

(There is no way to fly fast enough, you know.)

He swears again, so quietly, and he feels so hot. (It’s stifling. It’s tight. The world is tight. The world is constricting. How far is the drop?) His spine is what really shifts and he feels as though the skin between his fingers might tear. (He holds on so tightly. So tightly. He’s past begging, past speaking, and he doesn’t know whether or not it is Fate. He doesn’t know if it matters, because there is no way to pretend you are so stone when-)

He stomach muscles contract. (Everything inside of him - he clamps down, but not too tightly. Just enough for it to be visible. Just enough for everything to tighten, but slightly. He could clench down harder, but the energy is diverted because of the way his knuckles are so tightly bunched in the bedclothes.)

His hair is splayed beneath his neck and sticks to his face, and it is ink on paper. (Watered down ink that is a watercolor on rice paper. A delicate procedure. No one recognizes you for what you are?) He thinks that world moves too (quickly) slowly.

(But he can’t breathe.)

Shisui wants to know what it means to really laugh.

(He gets ready for every day the same every day. And before the mirror he ties the bow careful, red as apples. Red as blood. The radio playing softly in the back news or even classical music he tries no to read into. “Can I play that on the piano?” There’s no point if he can, ‘cause he can.)

But now isn’t the time. It’s time for weaving it’s time to take that toppled balance and replace. Lack of refrain there is lack of definition in his words and he pays no mind. (He steps out of the door, darken cherry wood, hanging rafters of old black metal, too thick to be called wire. The morning is new and the orbit is out of arrangement. What cruel thing to say?)

Sasuke is so pressed deeply into Itachi that is hard to deferent one from the other under the dark, under whatever provided light and long had his eyes adjusted (to being blind?) it’s like he’s the surveyor (but there is no meaning here either, how can he see with eyes that can no longer see? They’ve already seen every thing.) And as such he is allowed to walk (but not to stretch his legs) a stroll down an alley is more dangerous at night. Moonlight differences everything.

(Those smooth tunes, they fade into disastrous news too easily, too casually. Whose wife has died? Suicide? Murder? Why? Clicking heels, they are so close to the floor.)

Shisui owes Itachi an apology. (He owes him nothing, everything, he would not be here is-) But there is no way he can give one. Regret does not fester in him and he never causes any action to make him feel such. (“Shed all that is meaningless, there are many paths I want you to have. Yet I still want you to choose the right one.”) And he sheds, he could shed skin, he could shed another life, he could shed a thousand truths and it still will not equal an apology.

He is incapable of those words.

(So how can he say what he really means?)

He kisses Sasuke’s moving back, suddenly stilling (his own conclusion and it is gratifying and horrifying and lovely, distorted- imperfect, the motion of continued amateur feeling; sliding himself out from what he wanted having it and losing it all at once, does the blink of an eye follow it?) a sigh and troubled moan, others are capable of what Shisui disregards as already done (so many times, too little a time).

He wants to cradle Itachi’s head upon his lap and spread those sticky strands of hair away, smooth it from his face and press cool kisses across his face until it’s time for them to be warm again, but he doesn’t and instead presses himself into Sasuke, continuously kissing along the spine, hands swerving under the boy, touching is stomach in a similar fashion he’d done to Itachi’s earlier- but he does not feel for a heart beat, he doesn’t need to. And easy does he peel his coat from himself, invariant display from behind, Sasuke doesn’t have eyes on the back of his head, shown is only the curve of an eye that could not be contrasted as he regained from certain dizziness of heighten pleasure and Itachi beneath him, just beneath him for once- in the most literal way possible. Shisui peels it all away, the skin from the apple, and so long had he been-

(“What’s my name?”)

He parts those weaken, woozy thighs, subtle flesh to make his way (“This isn’t my path.”) It isn’t his way at all, though and when he thrusts his dick in Sasuke it’s odd and unusual and he realizes it only feels this way because his body is so utterly aware that it isn’t Itachi he’s fucking. But he won’t stop till the end, pumping, (like blood?) calm uneven sounds rising from his throat, his younger cousin’s body is soft in many more places from a younger age- and Itachi used to be as this as well. A little startling difference here, sprinkled on almost like pepper. If Shisui continued like this would Sasuke in years to come be the same? (“No. It-“)

He can only conclude that he won’t be the one to find out (that he won’t find out at all.)

And his body curled atop of Sasuke, sinking deeper (deeper) into Itachi, the warmth is sticky over bearing what weight is there to calculate still? Sasuke’s face pressed against Itachi’s throat, his neck- a collarbone Shisui likes to kiss here and there, and most especially he does on trains. (They haven’t boarded one for some time now.) He cannot because it is covered (by snow) and instead because he can, because they are so near to one another (it will no longer be as this as it all ends, and this is a fairytale, twisted, like murder, like sin, like evil, where is the happy ending?) so instead leans to kiss Itachi’s brow slick with sweat. (Where has the crown gone from your brow?)

(He walks by a river, flowing slowly. Sunlight illuminates it and it hurts his heart more than his eyes. Because it helps give evidence to the fact that the heart isn’t there.)

His eyes flutter shut and he curves for remorse.

(“This is dangerous.”)

Sasuke shifted his palm so that he was no longer holding himself up (not that he’d done much good,) and instead willed his body to relax against the torso of his brother-his fingers curled and clasped at a shoulder, and his breaths came in short jagged gulps; a flush to his face would be yet another signal of his anxiety for the matter, yet he did nothing to aid himself give or take a shift or two against Itachi’s chest. (He couldn’t lie, get up and stumble away-he frowned at this inability and rested his chin neatly in that same crook of his sibling’s neck.

He didn’t want to think what his mother would… no, he couldn’t. (Would she be cross?) He frowned, fingers flexing inadvertently in unison with a shiver shooting down his spine; a grace of fingertips against his skin (he let out a breath and pushed himself back against Shisui’s touch-) while his hand clenched at Itachi’s arm and shoulder. (He wanted to hold on, anchor himself to something-)

“Nh.” His mouth was dry; he knew in a sense what was coming-yet, even without fear (or with it, but that would be something he would deny,) he couldn’t do much to suppress his surprise. How could he, it wasn’t as if he’d been close to this on any occasion beforehand-and with a sharp breath he pressed his head against Itachi’s neck and throat with a choked gasp and a moan; he didn’t know what more to do with himself opposed to moving with it - it took a second but he caught on to the rhythm or what he could grasp of it as his skin grew hot and he stuttered in to skin syllables to words he didn’t know.

Another moan (he’d since ran out of breath and was forced to gasp for it,) escaped his lips and he opted to silence himself by yet again taking a sharp hold of the skin of his brother’s neck presented so nicely (warmly, closely?) to him. To think he’d grown so accustomed to biting seemed repulsive, but he could not think of anything else to do when tension built and his body surged with impulses.

“Ah-” He breathed, his jaw shifting open a degree to allow him to breathe through his mouth but not quite release (he decidedly did not or could not,) with perhaps good reason as it was but seconds later after a more vivid of noises did he clamp his jaws down again.

The undecided pain - Itachi feels his brother’s cock pulse shortly within him and he clamps down and the circumstances are unforeseen, and he doesn’t know if this is his fault or not. (If he should admit to the pleasure, if he should admit to the coursing regret.) Ebony on ebony, steel on steel. Unreluctantly, he thrusts down against, slamming Sasuke in to the hilt, so that he can feel it when thebase twitches. (An unashamed moan that echoes soft from his lips but means everything. He is slick and sticky with sweat.) It is profound, the way it electrifies him and shoot up his spine and he can feel Shisui’s weight through his brother. (Can feel the pressure of both of them through their aching connection. Jealousy courses, but it makes him all the less hesitant. Itachi, after all, does not flourish in being hesitant.)

“Goddammit,” he hisses through his teeth. “Move, you fucking idiot.”

He does it again - lifts up with his hips, sliding Sasuke’s shaft out of him almost entirely and only the sensitive head is left inside, and then slams back down, so that the plates of their hips grate together in a way that is almost uncomfortable. (But momentary discomfort - broken bones - can’t make up for the way Itachi has angled him, and he feels it twitch and vibrate inside of him appreciatively, as if he has done it a good service, and it’s doubtless that he has. This is a learning exercise, is it not? Teach your little brother how to fuck you - how to fuck anyone. The virginity is the hardest thing for Itachi not to regret breaking. It’s unorthodox, perhaps.)

In and out and in and out and he refuses to do this on his own, he refuses to Sasuke get away with this any longer. He refuses to let his brother sit back and impassively watch as his life happens, without any guidance or interference on his part.

(I will make you grow. I will make you change.)

He slams down a third time and barks another order, reaching up to grab Sasuke’s hair and yank him back from his skin, staring him in the face. (And he is breathing harshly - he has not failed to notice the way Sasuke is avoiding his eyes.)

“If you don’t move,” he growls, “I’m going to kill you.”

Every movement, every shudder and every word felt amplified (he couldn’t keep his breath, no, not even for a second,) and he couldn’t distinguish his own noise from that of his cousin or his brother-Yet, he could feel when he was choking on groans as electric jolts flood his senses and he could almost laugh; he doesn’t, though, for he is instead he has to listen and comply; his brother’s eyes meet his own. (His own low lidded eyes, filled near to the brim with aroused lust and pleasure; he can’t lie on that part, but the flicker of fear is also present, just pushed aside.)

“N-Nii-San…”

(It took every part of him not to look away, to the corners of his eyes so that he didn’t have to-) He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t said a name, familiarity from the past rising up as it had, it couldn’t be blamed (perhaps,) that the first word he could choke out would be something he was familiar with… yet, he had to doubt his choice. (He should have said Itachi, shouldn’t he?)

He swallowed hard before making a small attempt at a nod, a yes-he shifted, beginning to push himself harder; the hollow space in his stomach was not untying itself, but instead momentarily replacing with a lurching desire to get closer, faster and deeper-with a groan he made another attempt at just that, his hips aching at the awkward movements he would (most probably) have to endure and adjust to (albeit the first, it’s not the last,) gradually. He dug his nails in again, raking at the skin within reach as he drew higher in to a climax; disregarding his earlier attempt, he screwed his eyes closed. “P-Please…”

Such pretty words (but still he prefers his mother tongue). And with all his sinks deeper into his cousin, to his hilt, riding out on Sasuke’s thrusts into Itachi. Liken bulk, and pulp. He doesn’t drink juice often, and Itachi’s voice had sent chills down his spine, untouched by any fingers (except from another time, picking at his names in the classroom rearranging the books in his bag and shifting his feet. He’s always the last out but before he can decide to leave for the day, the record player starts up again and truly-)

His neck is long, and curves as he in turn kisses the side of Sasuke’s pleasure flushed face. (Under rain, how long does one have to hide in the game of hide and seek, “Don’t be so agitated, you really admire Itachi-kun…? So I think in turn Itachi-kun will surely admire you too.” He doesn’t know very much how it is supposed to be with siblings, he is now an only child, he only knows how to be an only child. Or rather, does he know how to be a child? Sasuke makes as if to go, lip quivering. So Itachi won’t seek him out? A hurtful thought. Melancholy and nasty, Shisui continues, “Of course this means you have to be better than him. Can you do that?”) He first learned, when did he first learn? Shisui almost laughs at how he is too old to remember now. (But still young to remember what it was like to be taught.) To play a game- he doesn’t ask what Sasuke means, and hot flowing, the rest of him is used to being cold, so rather this brings a displeasure, almost pain (but it so long since he’s felt happy, felt that enjoyment far more chaste to what he sought now) and he’s long learned to take enjoyment from this feeling, however bad it may be. When only present by pain one can’t help but learn to enjoy it. (Is that what this really is? Or is it disappointment? There are things you can only do once.)

Shisui pulls out, pumping in again, lightly compared to the jostled rough movements of Sasuke moving into Itachi, coming ever so closer to a higher edge, ready to fall, ready to loose all comprehension besides the feeling (Surely he would be fulfilled soon with Itachi’s attention upon him, with Itachi around him and only him, with Itachi’s hands, that heat. Akin to what is needed and what is wanted. The lines remain distinct however the viewer may find them blurred.) Sasuke is slick from his ejaculation and he breathes hollow breaths now, finally pulling away completely and rather more content slips to the side to lie side of Itachi as Sasuke fucks him, and he can only see half of Itachi face, and barely any of Sasuke’s as he presses on ward with knitted brows.

“Sasuke, you don’t need to ask.”

(“Sasuke you don’t have to thank-“)

And he brushes what hair, long and damp out of Itachi’s eyes , his face, to over his ear, off to the side (so he can see better?) and just admires. (For all is wrong and right in his world, it is almost blank and the music still plays but when it-)

He whispers more to himself than to any one, any thing. Broken glass could not even intercept his words, “Itachi will give it to you.”

(-it stops and Shisui knows what has come.)

Rather than soft now, the cushion, the futon beneath him isn’t soft, but it isn’t hard and of all things (and not the mingling sweat and noise louder in volume, pitched, better music than what has been abrupt to halt) that brings a smile to his face. And fingers still feeling at Itachi’s hair, he curls some around his fingers.

Sasuke choked on his breath, gasping for air with each thrust of his hips. (He assumed this normal,) Every passing second he drew in sharper and shallower breaths of air- and he didn’t open his eyes at first, instead allowing the room surrounding him to mesh in to darkness; tight, hot darkness.

He felt Shisui withdraw and move off of his back, and he opened his eyes to look at said cousin-the relief of the weight on his back throwing his mind askew (briefly he felt at loss,) until he pushed himself against Itachi again; and he took a deep intake of breath (a first in the past few minutes,).

He had yet to grasp in entirety the fact (despite how obvious it was, his mind had taken to skipping over this realization momentarily, a lapse most certainly due to the oncoming orgasm which was already beginning to render his head thought-less,) that he was having sex with his brother and his cousin; another shy glance to Shisui (confirming that he was still there,) engraving said comprehension in to his mind, albeit slowly.

“N-Nii…” He clenched his teeth, words (more or less just the singular,) cut off abruptly as the muscles in his lower abdomen seized for a second while his senses flourished in a flow of sensation-he came, moaning as he collapsed with a shudder against his brother’s chest for the flicker of a second when everything paused; he heard his own labored breathing, which eventually drew himself back to ‘reality’-drawing up his arm to shakily push himself up, making use of what mobility said ‘good’ arm would allow in terms of pulling out of Itachi with a dazed blink and slower breaths.

“Nnh.”

(He bit his tongue.)

Itachi hisses to himself, swears beneath his choked, stuttering breath, feeling as if he’s going hoarse, and his hair is everywhere, and he clamps his muscles down but it’s not enough, and he weeps precum and tightens but not enough to come, and nothing is quite as sweet as it should be. He can feel it in perfect clarity as his brother releases inside of him and his thighs are immediately slicked with fluids that are not his own. Sasuke gasps and shudders and he can see it in his eyes, the orgasm to counter his own. (His own release is yet to find him, but is that because you are caged or because you are-)

The only thing he can think of is-

“God, you’re quick.” A harsh whisper.

(“That’s all it took…?”)

And there are millimeters between them for the first time in what seems like eons, and every inch of him has something it wants to do. (For the first time in a while-) He wants all the same things as his body, and the flames don’t frighten him anymore because he embodies them so well, so well, and he isn’t going to hesitate anymore.

(Itachi is convinced that hesitation won’t work. If you aren’t able to fight them, let them think you’re beat. Then-)

There is room for the maneuver - the stunt he pulls - whipping out his left leg to just clip Sasuke’s side (he can feel Shisui’s fingers in his hair and just once he meets his eyes, and there is honesty steeped in them, honesty that tears him apart, it is the only admittance he will ever make - “…don’t tell me you’re right, I know it already.”) and slams the boy down on the bed back-first.

His strokes were uneven.

His rythym was terrible.

The way he kisses is sloppy and inexperienced.

Itachi won’t tolerate it.

They are so close, yet again, and Sasuke’s legs have caught themselves, propped open.

“Sasuke.”

(“You’re an idiot.” But that isn’t to say-)

He doesn’t prepare him. He won’t soothe the pain, and he won’t paint the walls white, because he knows that there are other colors of him, and if Sasuke sees one of them he should see others. (He should know that Itachi can’t always protect him. That he has to get stronger, that he has to grow into something independent of him so that Itachi can help them let go of one another. Even if they are irreversibly entwined, the mistake Itachi has made - he wants to erase them. He wants to help - “You’ve got to grow.”)

He enters him slickly, suddenly, sharply, and his own way is paved by Shisui’s cum. (His brother’s passage is soft and unused and tight - quick to close, and hot and so slick, and he feels so different from Shisui. Like his cousin. Itachi is very much aware of it.) He growls and thrusts all the way in.

(I’m not showing you any mercy.)

There is no hitch.

Itachi knows this. Itachi understands this. Not well, but he does, and he knows Shisui is watching him, and his goal is-

The birds fly helter-skelter in all directions. (“What were you thinking about…?”)

Were it not enough already, Sasuke found himself caught up again in another movement just seconds after he had finally caught his breath and his muscles took false hope and had relaxed, be it even in the slightest of ways. (Surprise, surprise?)

He winced (to the slightest degree, holding in what he could but failed to withhold it all due to a lethargic lapse of his brain in tune with his body-could not and would not do him much good,) his back stung from previous welts by roaming hands and muscles were pulled as it were-dark eyes peered up at his sibling for a prolonged moment as he came to his conclusions (aid being actions, which came but moments later,).

It hurt now; no longer was the daze or the heat (not even his mind,) clouding the sensation with adrenaline; much rather he fell in to the ache and the pain from where-ever he had previously ‘been’ with an abrupt cry as Itachi entered in to him so suddenly. His teeth sunk in to his lower lip as he squirmed, hips shifting from a side to the other in minor (and again, perhaps vain,) attempt to relieve his burning insides of the pain. (A building pain, shooting as far as his sides.) His hand groped and clasped at bed sheets below him while his head lolled back to rest more soundly as his eyelids fluttered open.

“Nii-San-” (Again, the only word he could muster; the only thing he could think of to address Itachi with-) He gasped, startled at the scratch of his voice and the weak tone it hit; his eyes were dead set on his brother’s face, no longer dancing around his eyes. His back arched slightly and he stifled another noise by digging his teeth in to his lip until he tasted blood.

(Mother, I’m sorry…)

Itachi’s goal isn’t to-

(-yes it is. Don’t lie.)

There is no way for Itachi to teach Sasuke everything he knows in one sitting - no way. (Itachi knows far more than anyone would anticipate of him, because he knows how to treat his own family, and ironically-) He sits still and analyzes for a second and gets his bearings. (He thinks he knows.) He distracts Sasuke by pressing hands to his chest and mouthing his neck. He can feel his pulse, and it runs through his, the frozen, sour knowledge that they are synchronized in the one second he can really feel the heat pulsate.

(Sasuke’s having trouble readjusting. He doesn’t care. “I’m going to teach you-“ I’ll teach you better, I’ll make you grow, I’ll make you grow, and you will get stronger. I will teach you what this means, I will teach you the things you should not know because whether should or not, you need to, and I do not confuse want with necessity, and you should know that.)

He knows Shisui’s eyes are on him.

(A part of him whispers acidic things. He wonders if maybe this is what he truly wants.)

He pulls out half way and angles himself differently and slams in hard against what he knows to be Sasuke’s prostate.

(It’s the layers of jealousy that penetrate his brother anew.)

It’s not as different as it should be and he doesn’t know what he wants, doesn’t know what he’s feeling, but he knows this, he knows what he’s doing and he enters him again and again, deep and hard and powerful because it’s what he knows. (Overwhelming pleasure. Ecstasy that half-kills you. This is why sex is the solvent for pain and blackness. Not a solvent - an additional, kinesthetic medium? A means of communication. I love you. I love you so much and I have never said it and you don’t know, you don’t know, and you never will because I will never, ever tell you, and I know that if no one tells you, you will never know the difference. The distance. The people I would kill to keep you safe. The promise I made, the promise I won’t let myself- “Grow. Grow. You’ve got to. If you’re going to survive, you have to get stronger.)

It isn’t a spring mattress, and so all the rocking, and the creaks of the wooden bed frame are their own and Itachi is quick and merciless and dives without fear, without hesitation, without restraint. (“I’ll make you scream.”) A blinding pleasure - the sweat is new, the strength is refined, and the grace is so fluid, so fatal.

(I won’t let go.)

To be empty. It comes back to is he full? Does this make him full? This was what he’d trailed after for ages, wanting to lead all those red threads to the end, that knot. Does he try to untie it? (No- rather he will wrap the ends of the two strings made one around the stem and from it cut the fruit, and he will eat it) When Itachi’s eyes had met his, a full smile almost gracious almost breathless had curved at his lips. And he knows what is to come longer still, Sasuke roughly turned over and Itachi acting as an older brother should (this is the same, this is the same thing I was taught) and teaching what should be taught. (You held out for too long, you understand what overflow is right? Of course Shisui had taught Itachi that and he with half crosses his arms, a hand braced fathomed upon the futon, fingers pressing into it as he would tender flesh continues to smile until it can only fade in the overlay. The other curling to hold against a hip, aching for the movement he saw.)

The spinning wheel (I told you that too, it does not stop, it cannot stop)- Shisui’s breath wants to catch as he witnesses (the fruit falling from its place upon the branch, from the tree, so how far would it fall?)

(“You can’t even tell me what devotion means yet, can you?”)

Itachi wouldn’t have to and he knows that as well. And Shisui is in denial of his own overflow, he’s too used to there never being any fill. (He absolutely adores their expressions, the pace, the fight, the need. There has never been any thing more satisfying. There has never been any thing satisfying.) This is different from those glass eyed dolls and he is warm, he is warm by just being near them.

Everyone is always so focused on the relationship between the moon and the sun but what is-

A wet shuddering breath. (This is pleasure; he is no longer the blind man.)

He wants to touch them but frets that by merely doing so he’ll disfigure a second of perfection. (The impossible, the unavailable, who was to tell him otherwise? No one.)

(You’ll try not to.)

He closes his eyes, lashes dark against white skin, the afterthought etching out of his lips caught between groans of gratification and a silent scream, “…but you will.”

-the world in comparison?

This was different. That was obvious, too obvious, yet another thing that sent Sasuke squirming against his brother; not in any form of displeasure, but much rather the opposite. A pained enjoyment he can’t lay still through, just as his brother wishes, he would have to think. (Why else would he-?) Crashing thrusts ushered noises from him, the depth his brother forced himself down in to was profound (he was much more aggressive than Shisui; he was at a loss as to which, if either, he ‘preferred’ ) and he shivered, Itachi came down again-this time hitting the nerves; he spasmed, another startled moan following a gasp as he arched his back further whilst hooking his arm around Itachi’s side. (His fingers dug in and clawed at his brother’s shoulder blades, trying to take hold-just hold on to something…)

The solid realization came to him that even though this burned, this ripped and this stung-every thrust deeper than the last-he could not say without a lie that he wanted it to stop. Like, dislike; it was all the same for several carnal seconds when Sasuke was crying out in staggered moans and shattered cries as he moved with each drive (as best he could, he was but an amateur who had-oh, time to learn?) by shifting his hips and having his muscles scream back at him come a time when he overexerted a place; he didn’t stop, the pain was already overshadowed with much more.

He pulled at Itachi, wanting him closer (could he bear it, he wanted more-the unachievable, perhaps, but one could never receive were they not to ask;) th feeling so… unified(? Given, it could only be so were this shared; a link was only complete if both sides met evenly. That said, it had to be so-did it not-if not he could see no reason in truth as to why Itachi would do just that. There had to be something,) he relished in said feeling for but a second before he parted his lips to stutter out another excuse for a word, his vocabulary thus far (since it began, this is,) only reaching two words and many pitches.

“A-Ah,” He wanted to (beg,) ask for something, but he didn’t know what to request; what he could handle, more over, regardless he stuttered out another gasp and a stifled ‘please-’ (It came to him then that he’d grown hard again, another surprise that ought not really be surprising, given-) “Nii-san…” He groaned, his hand slipping an inch over his brother’s smooth back.

Itachi wants to moan into his mouth, but he restrains himself, opting to suck hard at the junction of his brother’s neck and shoulder, and tasting that it is oddly pliant beneath his lips, and he almost distractedly explores it, knowing that his brother’s sensitivity is significantly virginal in its quality. He feels Sasuke’s hands on his back and wants to (break him - this fragile trusting doll, who would really have to know, just once, just once, just-) suck the blush from his cheeks. The world is overly warm, and a disconcerting humid haze has intercepted him. (His brain is filled with clouds but he parts them with each…repetitive…slamming…motion. He is rough and refined in the same instant and it does not bother him.) Each surge is deeper, his brother’s moaning after him making him heady and drunk (with blood and water and smoke and wasted sake. “I hate sake, I hate sake, I hate sake.” He’d swallowed it down, used it to beat off the birds, and he’d screamed at them; silent prowess, silent servitude, what use are you, what use are-) When their thighs slam together once and again, and the slick flesh connects and smacks and leaves a soft burning in its wake, Itachi realizes how much caution he’s thrown away from him. (There is not a bit of hesitance, not a bit of mercy, in the way he fucks him, in the way he drives in, each time faster, harder, deeper. There is nothing safe or sacred about this, this is the semblance of unabashed pleasure sought and stolen, this is a ripping, this is a tearing, this is the intoxicating blood that Itachi can see, that he can see in everyone and everything. He’d spit up something resembling tar when he was thirteen and he had been glad, in being rushed to the hospital to know that the doctors could find nothing wrong. He had been smug.) He has always wanted him. (To fuck him. But never once had he thought-)

He bites down harshly and enters him particularly deep, sliding slick and hard across his insides, and reaches down to stroke at Sasuke’s thus far disregarded erection. The thing he has yet to teach, but is still smug about. The narcissism, the vanity that has been instilled in his cold blood by years of (not) facing truth. (The swollen pettiness. “Yes, I know I’m pretty, yes, I know I’m good, recognize it, let it fill you up, let me fuck you, because I’m not going to ask permission, and you know that, don’t you?”) It is an angry red-purple color and it makes him laugh silently, it makes him slide in even deeper, it makes him slip away from Sasuke’s neck to mouth his ear, to fondle it with his tongue and with his teeth, and he is determined to- (make him scream, make him moan, make his little brother twist and buck and cry out, and he recognizes that he’s achieved most of this already and realizes that in wanting it still he has admitted to wanting more, and he pumps his brother’s cock in unison with his own rhythm because that - by doing so - he’s both shortened Sasuke’s endurance - his lifespan - and doubled his pleasure, and he’s coming to the realization that teaching games are still games and so maybe that is also cruel?)

It hurt. Fuck, yes, it hurt.

Sasuke could no longer pick apart the subtle things in the room; the walls meshed together and the floorboards were invisible as he found his eyes tightly closed and his nails digging in to the skin, dragging over his grip of Itachi’s shoulder blades. His teeth were clenched tightly in a minor attempt to gain better control over his breathing (breaths that were inconsistent, gasps-breath he didn’t have, couldn’t get back-) and or just keep himself from screaming out in louder pitches than what he had already hit. (Did he even have the air to scream?)

He arched his back further, lolling his head back and straining his neck with a ragged gasp; he had no time in these tangled moments to think of what was happening-it was in itself too fast. (Or was it just on time?) He pushed his hips up, a noise in his throat an indication that he was indeed feeling these deeper thrusts, and that although he was not yet in the mind (or about to fall to it,) to complain or make it stop (if he could,) it was hurting him; a flicker of dread manifested itself briefly, foreshadows of what might come when all was said and done.

“Uwah…” His hand slipped again, falling to the bed along side himself when he couldn’t keep his hold any longer-his fingers twisted in the sheets and he shifted them around unable to keep hold of anything (the feeling kept him shifting uncomfortably while at the same time he couldn’t anticipate the ending; a shameful pleasure?). He felt hot, hot all over; the temperature was soaring.

Another gasp slipped through his lips.

“Nnh…” He shifted his hips again, groaning at the growing tension as his brother’s fingers moved over his member and he again arched his back sharply-shots of feeling shooting through him.

Itachi finally gives in and moves to lick and suckle at his brothers lips. (Those sounds are so irresistible. His thighs. Sasuke’s thighs are so beautiful, so endlessly attractive, so white - they’re made of pearls, they’re opalescent and oblique and so soft and Itachi has never thought of anything in a fashion that’s similar. Itachi has a repellent quality about him, and always has, and he knows that Shisui knows why, because there is not any way to break through it completely without understanding it the way Shisui does. Shisui has always understood and Itachi thinks that he hates him for it when really he’s just-) They are too pretty and curvaceous - like Shisui, there are so few parts of Sasuke that actually belong on the body of a boy that it is almost surprising, but androgyny is in their blood. Itachi doesn’t bite this time, but slides his tongue in and out along the beats of his cruel pace.

(And the pace is not the only thing that is cruel, not here.)

Itachi’s stomach muscles press and bunch hotly and he knows it the moment it happens, which is so like him (because it’s a lie, and they both know that he knew it the whole time) and his cock twitches and he makes a deep, almost-purring sound into his brother’s mouth as he coats his insides with another layer of cum and his vision blanks. (A blinding flash of coursing heat in his blood, in his bones. There is no screaming and his heart stops - starts? - for a brief, mind-bent second, and he throws his whole self behind the thrust that did it, and both lurches out and recedes into himself.)

But as he feels Sasuke twitch too (as if it is ready), he knows that he is not finished.

In the same instant that he pulls out, yanking his hips and his mouth back from his brother’s, he roughly grips the base of Sasuke’s penis and prevents anything from coming of anything that they have just done. (Dismay, dismay - maybe he thinks it is less painful-sinful-ugly this way? To put Sasuke in his place. “Only I can benefit from your pleasure. Only I will lavish in your pain. You may hate only me. Love only me.” Because I love no one.)

And he can see, between those pretty thighs, remnants of himself. (His estranged, distanced euphoria. Only momentary. He has learned to count the seconds of pleasure and he will add them up when he is about to die.) Sasuke’s saliva trails down his chin, and his eyes are dark and low-lidded and he watches him before lifting his hand away. He is unbothered by his own cruelty - he acts as if- (the movement is final.)

Itachi is not bothered by his brother’s pain unless he is not the one that causes it.

(You’re a liar.)

Sasuke’s breathing was labored still, not so much surprising given the circumstances. (He felt foolishly redundant with his responses, yet what more could he do than what he had already done?) His fingers curled and held tight to the sheets until it came the moment of his brother’s release and they gave the twisting fabric a taut pull as he made a soft gasp in to the lips atop his own; his eyes fluttering open to half mast soon after when it came the realization that his brother was finished; or so he thought until a moment passed and said sibling reminded him (once again) how his actions could be so brusquely cold.

“Nn…” He winced, exhausted to the point he just laid flat on his back, his breathing not yet settling mostly because of the fact he could not come care to a motion from his brother-(So kind, wasn’t he-) Sasuke attempted to repress a hurt look while in the motion of using his good arm to push himself up to an awkward seat (painful, no doubt,) with a keen aversion of his brother-not just now his eyes, but his figure in entirety- the opposing wall to his side seems a good interesting place to perch his attention on.

His brows knitted solemnly as he wrapped his arms (the casted one sitting all the same, he wondered if it was nearly done healing; the thought was so distant he couldn’t focus on it for more than a second in passing,) around his knees with a clench of his stomach (his muscles were screaming, protesting to what he had done; ) and a swirl of dismay added itself to the mix, choosing to freeze up the rest of his insides like ice.

(What did I do.)

His body felt heavy, and to keep his arms from slipping he dug his nails in to his knees and continued to stare with firm resolve (or flimsy, given-) at the wall; his eyelids low and his gaze shifting down to set on the floorboards after a time-it eventually would work itself back down to his crossed arms, his (bruised?) hips or anywhere else should he forget to continue to stop himself. (He didn’t want to see himself, he thought.)

Shisui decides, eyes closed, more relaxed than anything, as he hears more than he sees (“Itachi your eyes may not be darker than mine, but surely they can see-”) trapped in endless night, that when winter finally comes, when snow falls he will run even then. The envisioning of frosted over windows, fogged over from whatever heat that laid inside (“…all along you and Sasuke have been-“ is he capable of loneliness? And mother strokes his brow, sweat slicked as she touches him in every way a mother should and shouldn’t.) He wants the both of them and then there is the he that does not want either of them.

(Because only they can be together and the sight of them side by side, atop of the other, fills him with more joy that the traveled sea, a red flower in bloom. It can only bloom in the snow.)

He breathes out and tries to open them, those eyes- but he is worried that if he does, he will no longer be able to dream. (When was the last time he had a dream?) Shisui brings a hand up to touch lightly at his hair. He has changed so much, but inside, really- (her hand is cold, his mother is cold; Itachi is cold, and Sasuke rather than the intense hot he has assumed has been lukewarm. And he does not allow himself to long for that touch any more, the moment father turned his head away- how could he when he had never been looking?- Shisui had decided, had he really decided?)

Now, now he had.

And in a dream it would be a snowy landscape that would greet him and as the night it would be endless.

He opens his eyes, and when he turns his head he stares into whatever eyes he can. Always does he change his mind, has he never made it up. There is no reason to. They are fleeting and periodical as the season, “I was wrong Itachi, you’re eyes are darker than mine.” So he reaches a hand out, to touch the side of Sasuke’s face, palm held against his cousin’s cheek, and he hand is colder than his own mother’s cold hands. (What were father’s hands like?)

That cold, where it would turn his body so numb, he’ll forget how to breathe; then he would try to laugh, he will try to cry even. And these thoughts are so alien to him he chokes on the words he wasn’t even about to say. (“Would it be wrong to tell you again how much I love you?”)

“Don’t be angry with me.”

“Anymore.” His fingers fade away and the touch (is endless- “I won’t be able to bear it any more.”)

Itachi growls over the sound of his own breath (and it is odd that he should do so, because those breaths are usually silent, are they not? As if he were not truly alive, and what if he isn’t…? Shisui has never proved him wrong, so far as that, and Shisui has shattered nearly every opinion Itachi has ever had of anything, but he doesn’t hold those opinions dear because he doesn’t squander himself, and he never has.) His hair is draped across his skin, his neck, and he’s forgotten where he is. (They are embedded in stars - the three of them. The Earth is nowhere in sight and so it doesn’t bother him.) If you press yourself to the sky, if you fall into the moon, where are you going to land? What consequences can there really be for your actions if there is no one to reprimand you? If you are inexperienced in reprimanding yourself? (And Itachi is.)

“I won’t promise you that.”

(I will promise you every part of me. But you can take it for yourself if you’d like, and that is more like you, isn’t it, my Liege? To take what you want without permission. And is that because you do not require it or because you do not-)

He takes him by his thin wrist and drags him across the bedclothes to adjoin their mouths darkly, and unlike Sasuke Shisui tastes like Shisui rather than like Itachi’s cum. If Itachi was the embodiment of suicide, he would still ask Shisui to forgive him. (To marry him - if only the word did not carry such a negative connotation.) Whether he would or not, Itachi doesn’t know, and he kisses him all the deeper (more bitterly) as such, and the birds are a deep black and neither few, nor far between - to the contrary, there are two many and they bustle inside of his head and he wants to take his hand and knock the surface of it clean of debris, but now more than ever that is impossible, and he knows it, too.

(-have any desire for it?)

The hand against Sasuke’s face, swiftly moves to curl, loop awkwardly (recessively) his left wrist, in place on the other cheek as he pulls his cousin in, closer so that he can feel Itachi’s breath alike to how Shisui does, and not and Shisui thinks perhaps if it were possible he’d want to be with the both of them. But as humans had decided god had decided the way of the world could be recreated in the number two (irony, man created numbers and numbers created man) and he however seemingly strong, seemingly immortal, seemingly inhuman. He is human, he (will always always think this, wish this, hope this- hope is a human existence it is- and so circle turning in the dark the light yearning-) he is not arrogant to think he can change that and rather rather- more so it is than be with them he wants solitary confinement he wants silence he himself can never perfectly recreate.

He must have reassurance, he must create this assurance. No one must think he is weak. (No one must think he is not the king and these two- these two stolen from their places, his place-) “Sasuke, heed my words.”

(- from the moment the crown is placed upon his head, it is the moment it will be swiped from him for-)

“Answer.”

(-there is always someone more fit to rule.)

“What did you hope to gain from this?”

(No. The thief’s hand is cut and blood blinds his eyes, there is no one but me.) But he is looking into Itachi’s eyes, unfathomed, shadowed and Shisui wonders if this mirage of his he so wishes for is still there, if he will still be able to see it- to carve it out of the dead shells to give new life when it is blind. (I was never the one blinded.) He did not open that door for freedom, nor capture, or justice. But confirmation.

The strong rather take over the weak than protect it and red from his eyes, red on his hands- his right hand curls against Itachi’s face and fingers skims across the lips that had kissed his. (Can you take life from me? I who am already dead?)

Sasuke took in a deep breath, his body feeling heavy - eyelids falling low and his senses beginning to dull in all areas minus the obvious aches of muscle’s stretched, pulled and in some cases (perhaps,) torn. While at the same time his mind was just beyond comprehending it all. Irises flickered to focus on Shisui’s hand, a light caress - reminding him again, in ways unspoken, of what had just come to pass. He lifted his chin and cocked his head to the side, looking to the familiar face (of a family member,) of his cousin through the fall of his bangs-a shield of sorts he hoped would mask the fact he was at a loss of what to think.

Even as he was drawn in again, he was still void of a thought deemed coherent, a silence lapsing over him for a moment as he simply observed and listened to what was said; downcast eyes watching lips as words were spoken.

He was doing what was expected; no less and no more. He had to wonder if that depended on whose expectations it was, but the thought was endless in itself and he chose not to dwell on it. Instead he put to focus on the question asked of him, a fine brow arching only a small bit higher than the other as his lips parted in response.)

“I didn’t hope to gain anything.” He murmured, voice feeling harsh and crackled-accounting of the noise he’d made previously. (He would assume if he was to hazard any guess, it was only logic-which ought to make guessing obsolete, didn’t it?) He felt strangely tranquil; he fell to further silence - musing whether or not he had made a mistake. (Did he care?)

Itachi wants to hit them, (both of them, but Shisui the most,) and his love of him is so deep, so fucking profound and it’s what really truly confuses him. Blindness is what confuses him the most - that misunderstanding of space, of placement, of knowledge and what it really is. Because Itachi is always the one who has seen and noticed what no one ever sees or notices; it is Itachi who knows, having only once seen the inside of Tayuya’s apartment when it was still just hers, and from having gone with her to the Laundromat more than once in a while when they were younger, that the girl always turns the washer on heavy. It is Itachi who - by noticing - has judged that Deidara’s favorite brand of clothing is Entered Self, and knows that Orochimaru always pushes his hair behind his left ear. It is Itachi who knows that his father wears a ring on the pointer finger of his right hand inscribed with the (terrible terrible) words “filius es pars patris,” (“the son is the father”) and that his mother wears a ring on the same finger, inscribed with the words “cras amet nunquam amavit” (“may he love tomorrow who has never loved before.”) He notices all the small details, and always has, and it is what makes the people around him look upon him with awe. (As if “he’s the Prodigy,” makes up for all disarray in the world.)

He is the red winged black bird, unsure of itself or of it’s bleeding heart (the blood that enters that lonesome cry, the cry of a coward, of a beauty with a soul hidden so deep beneath those layers of sickliness and grace, the cry of a person who has not said It yet, who cannot say It, because they are too afraid of what might happen if they do.) It is his own fault and he knows it, but there is still a buzz where his brain should be and so he acts as his carnal mannerisms dictate - his body doesn’t have anything to scream at and so it does not. The give in him is noticeable, as a person whose chair (throne) has toppled out from under them. It is not a daze that washes over him, but a gray passion that is listless, a pattern that is indistinguishable, and his intricacies will be his downfall. (He is not done falling. He cannot say that he is fallen yet. When he says It - if he says It, and he never will, he knows he never will - the feeling of plummeting will stop and then he is not sure what will happen, but he knows that everything will change. He is not still. He cannot stay still. But he is not running forward. He is running back, back into the wind, into the rain, into- “Shisui, what are you-”) He is jealous but not in a way that is threatening - not in a way that he truly feels. He is not delving into feeling, and mysteriously enough it keeps him peaceable. (And strange.)

He had expected such an answer from Sasuke - was glad for such an answer from Sasuke, was grateful for it - because it was not his brother’s doing. Whatever this was, he didn’t place blame on Sasuke’s shoulders. (Even though he should’ve resisted. Even though he shouldn’t have wanted it, shouldn’t have gone with it shouldn’t have let him, should have said no.) He wasn’t directing his anger, he wasn’t focused enough to know that he was really angry. (But he was. He was very angry.) He was going to chew on his lower lip, but he wasn’t paying enough attention to do so - and that way, they didn’t hate each other yet, which was something he was so grateful for. (“Shut up.” A sharp look. He had been proud when Sasuke hated him, because he knew that if Sasuke hated him, then Mikoto would never let him get away with anything selfish. He knew that if Sasuke hated him, Sasuke would get stronger. Itachi wanted so badly for Sasuke to get stronger. He wanted so badly for Sasuke to outdo him, wanted so badly to be fought off with claws and teeth and venom. Hate me. Hate me for your own goddamn sake you silly, silly child, because the way I love you has always been unholy.)

What drew Shisui to Itachi, what drew him to Sasuke, were two entirely separate things. Unnatural beings that knew not the meaning of shape or word. He pulls entirely away from Sasuke and only looks at Itachi, hands cupping Itachi’s head, whispering touches, clutching about his neck and ears as he kisses his cousin’s blinking eyes, his brow. So tender, deception. Drawing closer and closer, there is no real truth in the world and its denial of real birth- Shisui pulls back, lying down hair darker than it usually seemed against the sheets. (“Itachi you know dawn so well, but what say you on that that is called dusk?”)

Itachi does not compare to that man, but fleetingly, unlike storm clouds, unlike rain, unlike mountains should they move- there are times, in his voice, in his words, in his eyes that reminds Shisui of him from Sasuke, and he wonders if this comes from the influence his younger cousin had been under from that roommate of his or rather- (how long has it been there? He wants to know he has to know, he must-) Shisui is sick with himself, too busy trying to find what wasn’t there. Too busy trying to find him in everything. But he is not mad, there is no one who is truly mad.

(This world calls for too much.)

And just for a little while he holds Itachi close.

Sasuke’s eyes flickered closed after a second of staring at pale sheets until they all blurred together with the white of his cast-his focus on things was long since askew and he didn’t have any clue as to any idea or means to get it back. Were it long lost like other things he had to wonder if he could. Time would smooth things out were he to pay mind to past philosophies-if at all it would give him time to look over the puzzle pieces. (And jam them back together.)

He exhaled deeply; his head was swimming - swimmingly blank. Too little, too many, however many thoughts were there seemed to gravitate mainly on the fact that he was too peaceful for him to think of it as normal; hah, normal.

His head switched periodically from light to heavy, and as he sat-his stomach tightened coldly when he thought about returning back to his apartment. (He didn’t want to face him-not have to lie nor explain.) A side glance to his brother and Shisui warranted a flutter of lashes and only the smallest sliver of parting between his lids as he studied the m feeling entirely too much of a foreigner.

(He had that feeling; he wouldn’t fit in entirely.)

Were he to be expressive at the point he would have frowned, yet such a motion felt like he was asking too much of himself and he much rather remained oddly stoic as his fingers curled over the sheets, independent gestures as he tugged a decent pull atop him-his mind did not deny embarrassment in exposure, however foolish it was after what had finished mere seconds ago-and he fell in to a disquiet moment. A wince was held in with a bitten lip as he settled down on his side; back to them. His jaw was clenched and he only then came to realize it, his eyes closed again.

(Tiredness is not a scent, because songs do not have a scent, but tiredness must be a scent because you must both hear and smell it at the same time for it to truly become you, for it to truly become what it is. Itachi cannot smell tiredness, because Itachi is always tired, and the same you will overlook something until it is tugged out of place on will not recognize a scent that is always in the air, because they’ve adjusted to it. Itachi has long been adjusted to constant tiredness, and so he does not recognize it at all. Itachi does not smell tiredness. Itachi smells sex all over his own body and the bodies of his younger brother and his cousin, and it is a blend of sweat and cum and musk, and it mixes between the three of them, and the uniqueness of each boy’s body becomes less unique because it transforms into another person’s before it is real.)

Exhaustion is not a scent (either) and it is not a song, and Itachi does not sing it but he knows his brother does. (And he hears it and it makes his ears ache sharply, but not with pain of their own.) Itachi is never exhausted by sex, never exhausted (except by himself, by Shisui) and his breath has calmed itself. He knows he has an unused surplus of stamina, and he knows that it is because these intervals are not uncommon enough. (Again and again and again. It’s not a question, it’s not an order, it is simply the way that it has become - it is simply the way that he and Shisui communicate. And it is strange because they are born of a family - a devil - that does not glorify sodomy and does not like to be touched, as things go. And yet, the only way Itachi can say it is through his skin. If anything truly hates Itachi, it is his own turncoat mind.)

Shisui is warm and it’s not surprising - it’s not, he swears it’s not - because Itachi can recognize when the coldness is in him and when it is out. (“Is this what you wanted? Is this what you-”) And then there is Sasuke (who he can feel sticking everywhere, on his thighs - the harassment of your own mind cannot reach you, can it?) whose warmth he can still feel from a distance, and he feels-

(Cursed. Blessed. Empty. God, so empty.)

He wants so badly to be the type of person to truly value and relish that warmth. He wants so badly to be the type of person to let it infect him (just as Shisui has infected him), wants so badly to- (be there. Be whole. Why can’t I let myself touch you?) He wants to be the person to curl up in it, he wants to not be older than Sasuke. (Switch place with me.) He wants to be a child. (But Shisui, the months are a bigger distance than I thought they were. It’s not the months, is it? It’s-)

He wants to- (feel safe laying down atop him. Feel safe at all. But he does not.)

In the dark, everything is supposed to look the same.

But bias is what humans are really gifted with, isn’t that right?

He leans and kisses Shisui’s neck (and he is languid about it, and it is not because he’s vanquished his fear but because he is entirely unsure of himself, but it hasn’t caught up with him entirely,) and he lays down and his limbs are not really his own. (He knows that they are not really his own.) The blankets hold a new depth, and he takes them (like his brother,) pulling them up over his skin, and he is not himself. (Because his real self would frown upon it. Cleanliness disregarded as punishable by death. His real self wouldn’t have-)

He cannot breathe. (But he is breathing.) He can’t think what to do with his eyes and his shuts them but slowly, and they open again and he stays calm and feels as if he is an imposter in his body - feels like a glass blade beneath silver skin. (Unpolished and ugly. “I don’t want it.” But you do.)

Itachi is not thinking and he is not debating and he is really truly not himself.

(You’re such a coward.)

And Shisui places himself between them, ushering Itachi to lay aside him as he lays by Sasuke, all the reverence gone as it flies away as a flock of crows may before the synagogue as the wind shifts and all control and life is lost to the utter control of another. The galloping of hooves, Sasuke with his eyes closed and Itachi looking like he wanted to prove that night was not as long as everyone thought. But Shisui, Shisui understands the importance of which piece goes where, not only that but why. And a pause that sucks the nectar from clematis. He with his right hand (it is strange) touches at the briefest edges around Sasuke’s eyes as he closes them (as if sleep is as the sea, engulfing all encompassing and Shisui’s heart would ache if he could have one) his gaze shifting to Itachi, not remembering what a weary sleep is if it can be warm- his arms wrapping tighter around him, further contradiction, further- “Good Night.”

Shisui tells him and that is the only response to anything.

To everything.

(A King wants nothing. Only to be the cause of the happiness of his people. That is his only responsibility. Even if he must carry all of their misery.)