could you fall in love with someone who took everything from you?
The second part of _kinoko's story. One more part to go.
he is gaining on them, and itachi knows it. he knows that this is their last stand--their last sprint down the stretch of tragedy littered with blood and lust that they had been travelling. the air is damp about them as decomposition floats into his nostrils, reeking of late autumn rains that floods the tiny leaf boats scattered over the forest floors. a crisp, cool wind plays by him, taunting him gently as it knocks away the decaying cinnimon of soggy leaves from his mind. itachi sudders as he feels the cooling temperature of his spilt blood seep against his skin. abyssal-black eyes, rimmed with remorseful red, chances upon the sky, which was now steadily darkening into an ominous night that clung to the branches of the trees like a smothering tent. lips, pale and sickly, press together thoughtfully as he gazes into glowing blue, which penetrates the darkness like two insufficient halogen lamps. they are wandering again, scouring the laybrinth for a face that was not his own.
yes, itachi thinks grimly, tonight would be the last.
he looks up again, and finds it to be starless. And he says, though, mostly chokes:
"naruto."
typhoon blue snaps away from the dimming dusk fractured by a million tree branches and instead focuses on itachi's withering voice that is stinging and sore and desolate upon his ears. he knows what he is trying to say in the dying twilight of the forest.
naruto. pretend.
and so he does. he pretends like he has always done with itachi, who peers down at him over the bridge of his nose, eyes flashing lustfully. he looks up at them and traces his fingers over the buldged and darkened spaces beneath the lashes, stretching down to his cheeks. he traces them as if he were trying to hide them with scotch tape, and, when he finally does, he thinks to himself that it's almost as good as the other one. yes, this one is like the other one. not a lot like the other one, but enough so that naruto can pretend that it didn't happen in the morning.
itachi hates it when naruto pretends, with his fingers drawing down over his cheeks, trying to mark them out. he hates it when those eyes become unfocused and glazed so when they stare back at him, they're hollow and lifeless and not really there. he hates it, so he takes naruto's hand and holds it there by his side, fingers digging into his wrists, telling them to stay.
"naruto."
he's saying it again, but this time naruto doesn't think he knows what it means.
"yeah?"
before he knows it, they're flying again, at a maddening pace, exploding into the sky like a colony of butterflies, faintly there but slowly dissociating into the trees. itachi's arms are around him, clinging as if he were losing everything he ever had.
the innkeeper smiles at them behind the cherry of his desk, shadows dancing lividly about his aged face, and hands them the key with a clink.
the bed is too small for them both so they lay on the floor, shrouded by cascades of crimson curtains, a single flickering candle in the center of their tiny flamable haven. and they're playing some childish game, making naruto howl in disappointment everytime he lost and yelp everytime he won. they're playing rock paper scissors in the darkness of their makeshift tent and then just as the boy was about to win, itachi's fingers wrap about his hand and holds, not restraining, but gentle, desperate.
"naruto."
blue gems are downcast. he knew.
"stay." please.
"don't make me." choose.
the wind howled as their unfinished sentences drifted in the space between them.
"naruto."
the wind groaned.
"do you love me?"
he is gaining on them, and itachi knows it. he knows that this is their last stand--their last sprint down the stretch of tragedy littered with blood and lust that they had been travelling. the air is damp about them as decomposition floats into his nostrils, reeking of late autumn rains that floods the tiny leaf boats scattered over the forest floors. a crisp, cool wind plays by him, taunting him gently as it knocks away the decaying cinnimon of soggy leaves from his mind. itachi sudders as he feels the cooling temperature of his spilt blood seep against his skin. abyssal-black eyes, rimmed with remorseful red, chances upon the sky, which was now steadily darkening into an ominous night that clung to the branches of the trees like a smothering tent. lips, pale and sickly, press together thoughtfully as he gazes into glowing blue, which penetrates the darkness like two insufficient halogen lamps. they are wandering again, scouring the laybrinth for a face that was not his own.
yes, itachi thinks grimly, tonight would be the last.
he looks up again, and finds it to be starless. And he says, though, mostly chokes:
"naruto."
typhoon blue snaps away from the dimming dusk fractured by a million tree branches and instead focuses on itachi's withering voice that is stinging and sore and desolate upon his ears. he knows what he is trying to say in the dying twilight of the forest.
naruto. pretend.
and so he does. he pretends like he has always done with itachi, who peers down at him over the bridge of his nose, eyes flashing lustfully. he looks up at them and traces his fingers over the buldged and darkened spaces beneath the lashes, stretching down to his cheeks. he traces them as if he were trying to hide them with scotch tape, and, when he finally does, he thinks to himself that it's almost as good as the other one. yes, this one is like the other one. not a lot like the other one, but enough so that naruto can pretend that it didn't happen in the morning.
itachi hates it when naruto pretends, with his fingers drawing down over his cheeks, trying to mark them out. he hates it when those eyes become unfocused and glazed so when they stare back at him, they're hollow and lifeless and not really there. he hates it, so he takes naruto's hand and holds it there by his side, fingers digging into his wrists, telling them to stay.
"naruto."
he's saying it again, but this time naruto doesn't think he knows what it means.
"yeah?"
before he knows it, they're flying again, at a maddening pace, exploding into the sky like a colony of butterflies, faintly there but slowly dissociating into the trees. itachi's arms are around him, clinging as if he were losing everything he ever had.
the innkeeper smiles at them behind the cherry of his desk, shadows dancing lividly about his aged face, and hands them the key with a clink.
the bed is too small for them both so they lay on the floor, shrouded by cascades of crimson curtains, a single flickering candle in the center of their tiny flamable haven. and they're playing some childish game, making naruto howl in disappointment everytime he lost and yelp everytime he won. they're playing rock paper scissors in the darkness of their makeshift tent and then just as the boy was about to win, itachi's fingers wrap about his hand and holds, not restraining, but gentle, desperate.
"naruto."
blue gems are downcast. he knew.
"stay." please.
"don't make me." choose.
the wind howled as their unfinished sentences drifted in the space between them.
"naruto."
the wind groaned.
"do you love me?"