[ LOG ]

[crimson_prose]

Who: Akasun Sasori (this-mannequin) and Uchiha Itachi (crimson-prose)
Where: Sasori's apartment complex.
When: May 25.
What: Itachi - listless, hopeless, proverbially homeless and soaking wet - arrives at Sasori's apartment with bad intentions and worser ailments. Sasori is a decent friend about it, if a very alienated one.
Warnings: To be added as things progress

Comments

[this_mannequin]

(Dearly Beloved, are you listening?)

He's already ingested over the fatal dosage of Fox Trot laced vodka, tainted a green color in mix with the poisonous plant he'd managed to grow in his small Solarium for poisonous, illegal, and medical drugs. (That room is always locked, and covered with a down-roll tapestry. Because there are some things he grows Tayuya and the rest of his small number of occasional visitors don't need to walk into.)

His experimentation is dangerous, after all.

He hears Itachi from the moment the door opens (It's always locked. It's always locked because Sasori is always cutting things open, making things scream in agony, or because he's just a little bit paranoid of the human race in it's entirety, in all of himself that hates to be apart of such a cliche.) It's always locked. And the movement, the centimeter of air that circulates from beneath the door when it's closed brushes a gust of heat into his living room, and he's not in there, but he registers it all the same, with a keen from the bed he sits on

[crimson_prose]

Itachi neither looks up, nor does he say anything - not at first and not for a while. He is studying the patterns his wet is making on the floor. The puddle that's collecting at his feet reflect a pattern of intricate lighting - like an oil painting - and the black-black-black of his hair, of his eyes, of his outfit, of his shadow. His has neither will nor way to explore his reasons for having come here. He does not stubbornly remain, having been turned out (even if he could've cleaned the stains of his blood from the carpet fibers better, he would tell himself, if he were in the mood. But Itachi is no mood - not in a bad mood, not in a good mood; his mood is non-existant, unimportant, completely negligible, and that isn't humbleness because Itachi has never been humble, does not understand the meaning of the word. Itachi has always braved every compliment, every hardship with a depraved indifference, the one that's just shattered beneath him on the floor. What he can't possibly know is that Sasori left it behind simply to irk him,

[this_mannequin]

There's a wide space between them, but Sasori can still see Itachi clearly, the night's rain dancing movement across his colorless complexion in a flawless movement that streaks lines of shadow across him. It is a token image, and his generally white room is blue with the colors of the outside clouds, and the scene is all too damned set for him to appreciate. He stares at Itachi, dressed in black pants that showed off just how skinny he really is, but he is still somehow so perfect looking with his ribs clinging to his skin

[crimson_prose]

(And in that same way Itachi is right, he is completely unalive.)

There is a rigid backbone that's twitching somewhere along the length of his skeleton where Itachi thinks his (heart) spine would be, but he dragged it out with his bones a fortnight ago. (Glass shatters, the knife said stainless steel but stainless does not apparently apply to the mechanics of 'broken' or 'unbroken'. Itachi is a wrecking ball that's now wrecked itself, and it's a real pity. That's what Itachi is, save empty like a murderer's chest of drawers; insides gouged out with thick blades, thick strokes, thick black ink and tar-like blood. Itachi is-)

Itachi steps forward, away from the foyer, and suddenly the dizziness makes things effortless - things float in the space around him, his legs shake unnoticeably and its messed up the way what's simple pertains to him, pertains to this. It's suddenly making sense, it's suddenly blind, the way he went his second day of running. (Black-black-black went the world and Itachi went deadly quiet and slammed his head

>> Icon.

[this_mannequin]

There are a million situations where Sasori would pull a knife from within his clothing, walk straight up to Itachi, and drive it so far into his chest that it would strike the spinal chord, and if it somehow didn't kill him, he would be paralyzed for the rest of his life until some merciful doctor preformed euthanasia. And in those million situations would Sasori feel no remorse or regret for what he is doing, because he never feels. Not when he is having sex, not when he is killing the (sinners) innocents, because that is who he is: the epitome of a dangerous apathy (and all that jazz