56 ::: Uchiha Izuna 彡 Video
An entire year of this ...
[Tricky, tricky PCD. It enjoys showing this clan at their shining moments, like ... this one.
The house he's kept in such immaculate order is in disarray. It looks like a tornado swept through his kitchen and demolished everything in sight, and the source of the temper flare perches innocent on the counter. A simple cast-iron teapot that has the markings of Hashirama's ownership, and a dish towel stained rust-red in places, the victim of Itachi's coughing episodes that still hasn't bleached clean.
Izuna's already expended all his rage, and he's left slumped in the middle with both hands fisting the bangs from his eyes. The lenses have fogged but his stare is unblinkingly clear, and fixed on the floor with its broken-star pattern of shattered pottery and spilled tea.
He gasps a tired laugh and rubs his hands down his face. His fingers smudge up the lenses of glasses he can't remove when they smear his dampened cheeks and settle at his temples, knotting into his hair again for lack of anywhere else to put them.]
[He casts around in a daze, frowning absent-mindedly down at the destruction, and then sinks tiredly down to his knees to begin collecting up all the broken pieces.
His kitchen feels too small this morning.
Everything feels stifling, restrictive, he's trapped in a spiral of endless familial tragedy and heartbreak, and there's not a thing he can do to escape it, to end it.
So he picks up the mess.
It's what he does best. He fixes and mends, and tidies what's broken. (His brother might still be blind ... he can't leave the room this way, for Madara's feet to find when he wakes.) Something hisses off-screen and he turns his head to watch it, then reaches for his PCD, tiredly thumbing through a list of names until he finds the right one. The feed cuts abruptly when he makes a private call.]
[[ Locked to Snape: ]]
I have something here that might interest you.
[Tricky, tricky PCD. It enjoys showing this clan at their shining moments, like ... this one.
The house he's kept in such immaculate order is in disarray. It looks like a tornado swept through his kitchen and demolished everything in sight, and the source of the temper flare perches innocent on the counter. A simple cast-iron teapot that has the markings of Hashirama's ownership, and a dish towel stained rust-red in places, the victim of Itachi's coughing episodes that still hasn't bleached clean.
Izuna's already expended all his rage, and he's left slumped in the middle with both hands fisting the bangs from his eyes. The lenses have fogged but his stare is unblinkingly clear, and fixed on the floor with its broken-star pattern of shattered pottery and spilled tea.
He gasps a tired laugh and rubs his hands down his face. His fingers smudge up the lenses of glasses he can't remove when they smear his dampened cheeks and settle at his temples, knotting into his hair again for lack of anywhere else to put them.]
[He casts around in a daze, frowning absent-mindedly down at the destruction, and then sinks tiredly down to his knees to begin collecting up all the broken pieces.
His kitchen feels too small this morning.
Everything feels stifling, restrictive, he's trapped in a spiral of endless familial tragedy and heartbreak, and there's not a thing he can do to escape it, to end it.
So he picks up the mess.
It's what he does best. He fixes and mends, and tidies what's broken. (His brother might still be blind ... he can't leave the room this way, for Madara's feet to find when he wakes.) Something hisses off-screen and he turns his head to watch it, then reaches for his PCD, tiredly thumbing through a list of names until he finds the right one. The feed cuts abruptly when he makes a private call.]
[[ Locked to Snape: ]]
I have something here that might interest you.