Aesthetics - Itachi, Tayuya - Naruto
Title: Aesthetics
Pairing: Itachi/Tayuya
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied sexual content
Summary: AU. She is concerned and he is even more so.
Words: 1,284
Her smiles are worried ones, forced half-grins tilting her pinked lips to match the mood of her eyes, the fiery blaze charred to that of a smoldering, even dead flame. Her words are hushed and quick, muttered between kisses and mouthed between insults. Her thoughts flicker frequently and not one stays long enough around for anyone to correctly discern what is on her mind.
She is concerned and he is even more so.
When they reach the college, she’s already screaming at him and he’s no longer listening. Effectively tuned out one-sided arguments on her part, endless accusations of his constant cold shouldering, something she will not realize until later that he gives her even when she preaches him against it. Back and forth the scale is tipped, until she is sated to the belief that she’s won even when he’s the one shaking his head behind the scenes, walking off to class without another word.
Though Itachi hasn’t said one all along.
And then they’re back together again, skipping lunch as he shoves her against the wall of one of the theatre building’s side corridors, lips finding purchase along her neck and teeth digging for something else, something deeper. Here she still curses him, but in an entirely different manner. Here, she is pleading and cursing and demanding him to keep going, to get on with it, don’t stop don’t ever stop, damnit, keep going don’tstopdon’teverstop.
And Itachi doesn’t.
The fact that after class Tayuya is yelling at him again, the fact that on the drive home she is silent - nothing proves to register in his mind. The fuel for her fire are the insults, this he knows, and to stop such expressions would only be to douse them with water, something that will still rather build to it than deplete it to the weakened ash of her eyes. So this he will not do.
Their bed is cold, even with the both of their bodies pressed together tonight, arms wrapped around one another, breath soft and visible in the winter’s vindictive night. That he should wake to find her watching him does not happen. That he should wake to find her crying does not happen.
That he should wake to see her gone does not happen.
Upon the light of morning, Itachi is always the first to rise, pulling clothes from drawers and slipping into the warm watered shower, washing away the prior night’s tell-tale fits of passion. Tayuya is soon to follow, her pace more gradual and slow, waiting him to take his leave before entering the steam-filled bathroom herself. The mirrors are clouded over, obstructing the image of herself.
Routines, and sometimes Tayuya hates it.
In the kitchen, he is already nursing a steaming cup of coffee when she enters, wrapped in a towel and copper hair clinging to her neck in damp patches. “Itachi, you fucking bastard, did you even make me a cup?”
He gestures vaguely behind him to where another glass sits, amusement momentarily flashing in his eyes, and she glimpses the murky liquid over the white rim almost instantly, though refusing herself to take back any insults. As it always is with her. Tayuya simply scowls and strides over to grab the mug roughly by the handle, wincing as the hot fluid splashes over and onto the skin of hand, burning her.
Accidents, and sometimes Tayuya hates it.
The drive to class is silent for once, but he does not mind. She does. She hates the silence; it isn’t comfortable to her, it isn’t normal to her. But she sits it out.
Class comes and goes, and Itachi does not show up for their usual plans in the same old building, in the same old hall, by the same old, empty classrooms. Tayuya wonders if she should be disappointed, and grudgingly, she realizes that she is. Horribly so.
He does not meet her after their final classes either, out by the end of the seemingly barren parking lot, where he always would offer her a fleeting half-smile before unlocking the car and opening the passenger’s door for her. Yet the sun is low in the sky by now, and Itachi isn’t here.
The walk home is a long one.
The apartment that they share is an empty one.
The bed, that night, is a cold one.
That he should wake to see her gone never happens. That she should do so, does happen, and too often for her to understand.
The next day Itachi is back, balanced upon a stool at the kitchen counter when she awakes, her hair mussed and eyes lidded with exhaustion. He is sitting there as though he’d never been gone before. He is sitting there as if he belongs.
In her heart, she knows he does. In her head, she doesn’t want him to. And through her lips, she follows her head.
“Where have you been?” comes from her mouth, sharp and shedding all signs of fatigue left over from seconds before.
“Out,” he answers off-handedly, nursing another mug of strong, black coffee. He stares at the liquid, and the color reflects back upon his eyes. He looks tired.
“Where, goddamnit? Stop doing this motherfucking shit to me! How the hell am I supposed to know just where the fuck you are!”
He tips her a blank look, and she wants badly to smash his face in at it, to get some sort of reaction from him, the sort of reaction she never fails to receive when he’s the one inside her and he’s the one who’s moaning her name.
“I was out. Duty.”
Tayuya hates, sometimes most of all, when he decides to be so vague with her. Because she knows he could very well tell her more, it is simply his choice to keep it all hidden. “Duty? The fuck about? Someone dying or did you just feel like fucking up and leaving for nearly a whole fucking day?”
Then she pauses for half a beat when Itachi fails to response, before muttering with a flash of anger, “Not about that fucking organization again, is it?”
The slow inclination of his head is enough to have her punching down walls. “I was called in,” he intervenes impassively, meeting the infuriated glare that Tayuya directs at him. “I had to go. I would have informed you, but you know that I am unable to do so when notified on such short notice.”
Tayuya’s steps are slow and deliberate as she approaches the opposite side of the counter, and then she slams her palm down onto the white surface, causing the glass of his coffee-filled mug to clatter before calming. “I don’t give a fuck about it anymore. Stop hiding things from me, goddamnit. I’m sick and tired of it.”
What must have been several minutes after her outburst, Itachi’s eyes divert from her own, glancing off to the side almost in distraction, or even consideration of her words. Struggling to speak, if she even dares herself to think it. But she doesn’t. Then at last he replies, “I cannot. You know that.” He is standing before she can stop him, with words or even otherwise, and with one final look in her direction, filled with disappointment and unveiled regret, Itachi leaves the kitchen.
Tayuya leans heavily against the counter in a near-collapse, scowling furiously and a burning sensation welling up in her eyes. In her anger, her hands fist into bed-ridden red hair, and her teeth grind down on her lower lip, drawing the coppery taste of blood onto her tongue.
That he should wake to see her gone will never happen, and sometimes she curses herself at this revelation.
Pairing: Itachi/Tayuya
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied sexual content
Summary: AU. She is concerned and he is even more so.
Words: 1,284
Her smiles are worried ones, forced half-grins tilting her pinked lips to match the mood of her eyes, the fiery blaze charred to that of a smoldering, even dead flame. Her words are hushed and quick, muttered between kisses and mouthed between insults. Her thoughts flicker frequently and not one stays long enough around for anyone to correctly discern what is on her mind.
She is concerned and he is even more so.
When they reach the college, she’s already screaming at him and he’s no longer listening. Effectively tuned out one-sided arguments on her part, endless accusations of his constant cold shouldering, something she will not realize until later that he gives her even when she preaches him against it. Back and forth the scale is tipped, until she is sated to the belief that she’s won even when he’s the one shaking his head behind the scenes, walking off to class without another word.
Though Itachi hasn’t said one all along.
And then they’re back together again, skipping lunch as he shoves her against the wall of one of the theatre building’s side corridors, lips finding purchase along her neck and teeth digging for something else, something deeper. Here she still curses him, but in an entirely different manner. Here, she is pleading and cursing and demanding him to keep going, to get on with it, don’t stop don’t ever stop, damnit, keep going don’tstopdon’teverstop.
And Itachi doesn’t.
The fact that after class Tayuya is yelling at him again, the fact that on the drive home she is silent - nothing proves to register in his mind. The fuel for her fire are the insults, this he knows, and to stop such expressions would only be to douse them with water, something that will still rather build to it than deplete it to the weakened ash of her eyes. So this he will not do.
Their bed is cold, even with the both of their bodies pressed together tonight, arms wrapped around one another, breath soft and visible in the winter’s vindictive night. That he should wake to find her watching him does not happen. That he should wake to find her crying does not happen.
That he should wake to see her gone does not happen.
Upon the light of morning, Itachi is always the first to rise, pulling clothes from drawers and slipping into the warm watered shower, washing away the prior night’s tell-tale fits of passion. Tayuya is soon to follow, her pace more gradual and slow, waiting him to take his leave before entering the steam-filled bathroom herself. The mirrors are clouded over, obstructing the image of herself.
Routines, and sometimes Tayuya hates it.
In the kitchen, he is already nursing a steaming cup of coffee when she enters, wrapped in a towel and copper hair clinging to her neck in damp patches. “Itachi, you fucking bastard, did you even make me a cup?”
He gestures vaguely behind him to where another glass sits, amusement momentarily flashing in his eyes, and she glimpses the murky liquid over the white rim almost instantly, though refusing herself to take back any insults. As it always is with her. Tayuya simply scowls and strides over to grab the mug roughly by the handle, wincing as the hot fluid splashes over and onto the skin of hand, burning her.
Accidents, and sometimes Tayuya hates it.
The drive to class is silent for once, but he does not mind. She does. She hates the silence; it isn’t comfortable to her, it isn’t normal to her. But she sits it out.
Class comes and goes, and Itachi does not show up for their usual plans in the same old building, in the same old hall, by the same old, empty classrooms. Tayuya wonders if she should be disappointed, and grudgingly, she realizes that she is. Horribly so.
He does not meet her after their final classes either, out by the end of the seemingly barren parking lot, where he always would offer her a fleeting half-smile before unlocking the car and opening the passenger’s door for her. Yet the sun is low in the sky by now, and Itachi isn’t here.
The walk home is a long one.
The apartment that they share is an empty one.
The bed, that night, is a cold one.
That he should wake to see her gone never happens. That she should do so, does happen, and too often for her to understand.
The next day Itachi is back, balanced upon a stool at the kitchen counter when she awakes, her hair mussed and eyes lidded with exhaustion. He is sitting there as though he’d never been gone before. He is sitting there as if he belongs.
In her heart, she knows he does. In her head, she doesn’t want him to. And through her lips, she follows her head.
“Where have you been?” comes from her mouth, sharp and shedding all signs of fatigue left over from seconds before.
“Out,” he answers off-handedly, nursing another mug of strong, black coffee. He stares at the liquid, and the color reflects back upon his eyes. He looks tired.
“Where, goddamnit? Stop doing this motherfucking shit to me! How the hell am I supposed to know just where the fuck you are!”
He tips her a blank look, and she wants badly to smash his face in at it, to get some sort of reaction from him, the sort of reaction she never fails to receive when he’s the one inside her and he’s the one who’s moaning her name.
“I was out. Duty.”
Tayuya hates, sometimes most of all, when he decides to be so vague with her. Because she knows he could very well tell her more, it is simply his choice to keep it all hidden. “Duty? The fuck about? Someone dying or did you just feel like fucking up and leaving for nearly a whole fucking day?”
Then she pauses for half a beat when Itachi fails to response, before muttering with a flash of anger, “Not about that fucking organization again, is it?”
The slow inclination of his head is enough to have her punching down walls. “I was called in,” he intervenes impassively, meeting the infuriated glare that Tayuya directs at him. “I had to go. I would have informed you, but you know that I am unable to do so when notified on such short notice.”
Tayuya’s steps are slow and deliberate as she approaches the opposite side of the counter, and then she slams her palm down onto the white surface, causing the glass of his coffee-filled mug to clatter before calming. “I don’t give a fuck about it anymore. Stop hiding things from me, goddamnit. I’m sick and tired of it.”
What must have been several minutes after her outburst, Itachi’s eyes divert from her own, glancing off to the side almost in distraction, or even consideration of her words. Struggling to speak, if she even dares herself to think it. But she doesn’t. Then at last he replies, “I cannot. You know that.” He is standing before she can stop him, with words or even otherwise, and with one final look in her direction, filled with disappointment and unveiled regret, Itachi leaves the kitchen.
Tayuya leans heavily against the counter in a near-collapse, scowling furiously and a burning sensation welling up in her eyes. In her anger, her hands fist into bed-ridden red hair, and her teeth grind down on her lower lip, drawing the coppery taste of blood onto her tongue.
That he should wake to see her gone will never happen, and sometimes she curses herself at this revelation.