[There's no answer. Rokurou will have to wait and see if the appointment's kept.
True to word, Itachi drags himself from the depths of a dim apartment into the bright, glaring light early the next morning, summer heat not yet at the day's height. Finding the location takes little guesswork; he's familiar with much of the Ruby Underground by now, and in particular the vast majority of teahouses native to Sumarlok. He's never visited this one, but he doesn't struggle to find it—arriving at eight on the dot.
... Looking somehow worse than their previous exchange. Sleeplessness rims eyes with shadow and pallor on skin, all of the sun from Marilla washed out, mouth a grim line shaped slightly down. Still straight-shouldered, composed, cold as ever. There's no visible sign of blood, although the scent clings to him like a shroud, easily picked up by a sensitive nose.
He enters the teahouse and searches for the daemon's familiar face silently.]
[ Regardless if Itachi shows or not, the daemon's there at a small table toward the back corner with a view of the window. A cup of tea on the right and a small bowl with anmitsu on the left, shogi board propped up against the leg of his chair to keep the table clear in the meantime. In stark opposition, Rokurou's bright eyed and fresh off morning training, more olive-gold in deeper tan than the last time they met from soaking in sun.
He glances up from his cup of tea when a breeze tickles his skin; mismatched eyes find exhausted visage and Rokurou greets his unwilling and unhappy companion with a raised salute and a smile. ]
Hey there! [ he waves that hand, ] You look like shit.
[ Which tracks with the last time he had seen the ninja, though he somehow manages to look worse than when he'd been stranded, starving, and coughing up blood in the middle of nowhere. More than worried, Rokurou's impressed. It's like taking looking terrible to a dramatic new art form. ]
[No words exchanged in the obedient crossing of the room, shadow more than man taking residence in that table's open seat. Flat, black eyes complete a circuit between tea, dessert, shogi board, and daemon's smiling face—gauging each one in inexplicably weighted decision as though his current focus cannot split so many ways at once, not evenly. He chooses Rokurou's face, looking on, expression like a glare without heat.
Have some tea. He isn't thirsty; he wouldn't taste it. Slender hands come to rest on the glossy surface of the table, wrists deceptively brittle as long black sleeves hitch up (at odds with summer weather), knuckles curled.]
Let's begin.
[Words that mean, "Let's get this over with," in an attempt to circumvent idle commentary.]
[ Unperturbed, the daemon helps himself to a sip of tea, at peace even under Itachi's withering stare. At his own pace the bowl and mug are set aside, each clacking gently against the tabletop when shifted to make room for the board. Carefuly, deliberate movements, but such things are old habit rather than some sort of intentional show.
It fits well on the table. Nearly a perfect fit, it leaves just enough perimeter for Rokurou to keep his dessert and drink nearby. With it come the pieces—neatly bagged for travel. When he puts those little bags on the table, he doesn't peel them open to start setting up.
A pause—mismatched eyes search the ninja's face, trying to unravel the weight of lines and discoloration. Silence drags as he sits and looks without moving to begin, finally broken when eyelids lower with a soft exhale. When he reaches across the table, his hand doesn't stop over one of the bags for pieces; single finger extended, he gently pokes its tip against a curled knuckle.
The channel of Synchrony is small. Yet, like water, even the smallest leak is enough to dribble cooling desensitivity. ]
[Eyes fasten next onto the bagged pieces, expectancy setting his posture rigid as though touched to some live wire; the moment of inaction that follows is disruptive. Itachi returns his gaze, sightline narrowed onto that single visible eye gold as a coin. His mouth has pressed itself into a frowning, downcurved line so tight it might snap like an overwrought string.
The touch is startling. Furthered, still, by sudden trickling of muted Synchrony through magically tethered gems. Cold as an anesthetic, he can feel the edges of his mind blissfully numbed—his own reaction is automatic and unthinking, hand latching over Rokurou's like a trap, pressure of his grasp a bruising degree of strength. Slender white fingers over the daemon's tanned, battle-worn knuckles, skin chilled hot as if with fever, thumb digging a divot into the side of a wrist. His own emotion pours in hot gouts—too much—grief and anger standing out as bright spots ringed by more tepid impatience, frustration, weary fatigue. His head bows forward, long strands of hair sliding to conceal part of his face, mask cracked, composure struggling to refix.
When he does speak after several long seconds, it comes surprisingly steady. Low and evenl in its articulation.]
It has not always felt like this. [This left nebulous, illustrated by what Rokurou will find through Synchrony.] ... Since coming to this dimension, I believe my ability to control myself has diminished as a result of the gem's influence. Have you experienced anything like it?
[ Taut snare enclosing over his hand, the daemon barely blinks when pale fingers pin him to the table—only a fool wouldn't expect to get bitten when sticking an arm into a fox's den. In comes acrid grief and parching anger, bitter emotions seeking an old home in charred out grooves; they bubble up against his ribcage, prickle across his skin in cold flush, thread and knot with tight impatience and slogging fatigue.
Strong feelings that daemon swallows with some effort, adam's apple bobbing through tight throat under empathetic onslaught. Despite distaste, he leaves it alone, sacrificing his hand as helpless prey beneath Itachi's grip while the other shifts to begin fondling around in his bag of pieces. He draws a piece one by one, setting them into place on the board around the stretch of his arm. Pieces drawn for a obscured square are put to the side with soft click. ]
Yes. [ click, click, click—it stops when he rolls a piece between his fingers, rubbing an edge into knuckle and joint in idle stroke, ] I'm not unaffected by the gem's influence, but that isn't what tests my restraint.
[ Not like this, this flurry of splotch hot mania and press-coiled grief. No, there's only one thing that's ever really made him feel like what Itachi fosters upon him now, but it was such an all encompassing thing that they may as well be his own, risen from cold graveyard dirt. ]
It's always been a particular person. [ he hums, digging the corner of that piece into the pad of his thumb, ] But my clan was notorious for being hot-blooded, so I suppose I was inclined toward it anyway.
[ The admissions come fairly easily, only spike of peppery hot popping in antiseptic born on the thought of that particular person. A gnarly ball of twisted, tangled feelings that he snuffs out with a twitch of eyebrow, lips thinning for a moment before ticking with his trademark smile. ]
[Under ordinary circumstances, he might have taken a generous conversational exit in the distraction of pieces laid out on the board—different circumstances, ones which might have seen and recognized the need to funnel emotions into a constructive game of shogi. He wonders when first he suffered that pattern of behavior: allowing thoughts to follow threads of logic, of strategy, plotting out future scenarios as a means of circumnavigating a difficult feeling. Always easier, almost second nature against a world of disarray, confusion, darkness. If he didn't... nothing would be justified.
Those words seem to reach him through a gauzy film, layered distance in dark eyes that travel across the board as pieces click into proper alignment, two armies on opposed sides, joined hands stretched over the imaginary battlefield. There is no reason to tell the truth. As cold Synchrony leeches from Rokurou, he can feel the deep, hurt channels of sentiment in him begin to ice over, returned to numbness. He can think without feeling. When was the last time he was able to do that?]
No. [Who is the particular person? Perhaps that parallel is what cuts him open at the root, although even now he can't easily disentangle the real answer.] My brother is gone. I've met him in two dimensions, and he's left each one before me. I...
[Cannot continue like this.]
I fear that if I see him again, I will not know what to do. [Only half of the hurt, but simpler to say than anything related to Stiles. Loss instead of betrayal. Loss he knows, hate and anger and pain he knows, has lived his whole life; love he doesn't, hasn't.] I don't want him to return.
[I do. Blisters of feeling between them like firecrackers soon burnt out by a chill, duller sense of conflict and disorientation. His head hangs down, expression concealed by a sweep of loose unbound black hair straight as silk. He considers telling Rokurou about his own clan's reputation. He can't manage another word. This honesty has cost him, even if he no longer cares who knows—it has ceased to matter.]
[ No—there's no reason to tell the truth, and yet Rokurou feels as though that's what he receives regardless. Itachi's admission sluices through his system, low confession becoming a resonant echo too close for comfort. One single word (brother) disturbs cool detachment; tan fingers beneath the ninja's pin twitch and gut knots on its utterance, hot vibration pinballing across nerve endings and Synchrony both. Unfortunate tells that he can only hope go undetected while the man's wrapped up in his own tribulation.
Every sentiment feels like dragging on a custom glove—all except having their met again. The edge of that piece presses hard into the pad of his finger, blotching into red and white. While he offers numb, Itachi offers dissension, a heady drag that makes it difficult to quell the conflicting contention that bubbles in his chest whenever he thinks of his brother. A stark reminder that he's still susceptible to all of those feelings even with the gaping hole of gutted humanity; the smile that curves on his mouth is humorless, habitual over intentional. Along with it all comes a strange hint of sardonic humor at himself when he realizes that he's borderline envious of a man that looks like death's unemployed cousin.
Those emotions return to a mild simmer as they always do in the end. He sets the piece into place on the board. It's prepared. ]
What's more difficult? [ he studies the empty board, contemplating his opening move. ] The dread of seeing him again or knowing that's the last time?
[ A question for the man sagged forward against the other end of the table? Maybe. Despite the phrasing, Rokurou's tone lacks inquisitive inflection of one. A strange little musing as he selects his first piece, hovering over a first square while considering the strategy of it. An easy way to deflect, old reliance whenever boiling Rangetsu blood threatened to wild-fire rage and burn him out. ]
I don't know. [ he answers himself; he expects nothing from Itachi, already gutted from unexpected honesty's knife. he finishes his opening move and draws back, finding himself inclined toward saying something he had no intention to share with this bemusing man. ] I killed mine.
[ He doesn't even really like anmitsu. It's too sweet. ]
[Black eyes snap up, observing the man—daemon, in reminder to himself—with a dark look of consideration. He does not confuse the sharp stutter of Synchrony with anything generated on his own end; nor does he miss the twitch of fingers in an unyielding grasp, prisoner to his own powerful hand. Yet neither does he make comment of it. Always within his own nature to notice and observe others, there isn't enough information to determine what, exactly, has instigated that response. And the cool flow of frigidity soon returns; he welcomes himself beneath that tide, longing for return to numbness.
Something in that smile is compelling nonetheless. So too are those words, a question asked of him that he is not sure how to answer. Perhaps dread has no boundaries, and everything he feels toward Sasuke is all mixed into one sole reality—anything that could happen would hurt no more or less than anything else. Seeing him again, never seeing him again... All they do is continually wound one another. They aren't capable of neutrality. Not with each other.
That first move is made, but Itachi's attention is ripped away from it at the next confession. This time, eyes widen in visible surprise, though the expression remains mild on a dispassionate face. What is the story there? It is not his place to question, or pry, and yet the desire to do so blows through with force, bile in his throat, a want to know and understand all of the differences between them, whether this sense of familiarity is toward made-up ghosts of the past or whether it is real.
He falls quiet. A hand lowers, fingers sliding a piece on his side of the board into place. A conservative move.]
Mine killed me. [Low, blunt words he would not have shared otherwise with someone he does not know well, yet in the moment feels there is no choice.] ... Whether one or the other would be worse, I cannot say. I have no choice. He will either return, or he won't.
[If not for the empty pit of a sour stomach, appetite missing, Itachi might have eaten the anmitsu instead.]
[ Mismatched eyes flick up from the board at that blunt admittance. Quiet for a long moment, he studies the tired lines of Itachi's face, the pallor of his skin, and the blue of his veins that shows through at his temples. There had been no expectations to meet or miss and yet the daemon finds himself surprised anyway.
Maybe a man ending his brother's life isn't so uncommon a tale. Maybe they have more in common than expected. Maybe there's a story there worth digging for. Maybe—...
Surprise dilutes into intrigue, an interest quickly overwhelmed by the slapping force of Itachi's urge to ask. A windstorm that earns a dry chuckle as the daemon picks up a piece. It rolls between his fingers. ]
You're pretty curious for a dead man.
[ After scanning each piece over he finally selects a square to tap the piece down onto. A bold move leaning toward a risky gambit, but not one made without thought. ]
... Ichirou. [ saying that name feels strange despite it being so very much at home on his tongue, ] My older brother.
[ Normally he would recline comfortably in the chair and cross his arms; Itachi's hand remains square over his own, leeching solace, so Rokurou settles on propping his chin up on his hand after plopping his elbow onto the table. ]
Win this game and I'll answer a couple of your questions. [ the gaze across the way is challenging, mouth still upturned even though he's given up another fact he had no intention on sharing, ] Lose and I get to ask you a couple of questions. How about it?
[The curiosity is unlike him. Information is a natural exchange, but each piece—as every piece laid out on the board between them—carries weight and value. Each can be used as a tool, to differing measures of effectiveness. Ichirou. Foreign name, but not in meaning. The bonds of family are something he understands to such an intensity that it is painful, sharded beneath skin, splinters of connection bred into blood that can never be undone. They will always have a brother, alive or dead.
Black eyes begin to scrutinize the board with acuity, wiping out some of the dusty webs of grief, returning him to logical terrain. That and the cold wash of anesthetic energy through Synchrony.
The wager spoken, Itachi allows it to sit between them, unaddressed, for several moments. He is thinking. Only after he's reached across, selected a piece, and clicked it into place—a move that seems rather cautious in context—does an answer finally come.]
You must be confident you'll win. [Contact between hands is gathering heat, hotter than any other point on his body. His fingers flex, then loosen, yet remain caged over the daemon's knuckles in a gesture that to some outsider lacking knowledge of the situation might assume is possessive.] Or perhaps you won't mind speaking of personal topics, in the context of a fair negotiation.
[...] All right. [Nails painted dark red are noticeably chipped, though still retain a glossy sheen under the warm teahouse lights.] I wonder if you'll come to regret your decision.
[ Rokurou surveys the board. A quiet study where he focuses on the moves he's made and eyes the moves Itachi has made, playing out the possibilities of next steps in his head. Nostalgic—no matter how hard he thought out his plays, his brother would always somehow be one step ahead. Frustrating but not surprising given that the man could master a weapon he'd only touched a mere fifteen minutes before. He can think and think and think about all the possible moves ... but it'll only distract him from the overall game. That was always a difference between them. ]
Maybe. [ he doesn't know how good Itachi is, but Rokurou's long since memorized all Shigure's old plays and come up with a few of his own—but in spite of his stubborn streak when it comes to his brother, his hand lofts over toward a piece in a move Shigure would have favored, ] I don't actually want to tell you about him ... but there are questions I want to ask you, too. There's no reward without risk.
[ He finally moves that reluctantly chosen piece. A different more from his earlier choices, a different play that feels like it's played from a different hand—but what are ghosts but memories gone walking?
A more conservative move. ]
I'm not confident I'll win, but I don't plan to lose.
[ Stubborn is as stubborn does. Bullishness bumps up against their channel of Synchrony, the kind of upstart kick that only a younger sibling could possess. In over his head? No idea. It won't stop him from trying, because that's all he knows how to do. Try, try, try try try. Get stronger, little brother. Try try, try try try.
The daemon's gaze falls to the pen of fingers over his hand. No longer pinning—he could pull it back. He doesn't. ]
What's your brother's name?
[ Thin lips go lopsided as he tucks his playing hand back beneath his chin. ]
[The nostalgia is sharp, blunt, like a kick to the head. Though they have met only twice now, he cannot easily accept how this familiarity pierces him, threatens to rend him apart—that dogged stubbornness, the determination to win against all odds, the confidence like a crack in armor glued resiliently shut. Is this how it might have felt, to play a simple game of shogi with his younger brother? Would they ever have reached an equilibrium where it might have been possible to engage in normal activities again, as brothers, without the clinging curse of their history?
Rokurou is not his brother. Yet for a moment, in this context, it is almost enough to pretend.
Dark eyes never stray from the board, analysis at busy work in a calculative mind, finding this much easier a task than discussion of family or the physical contact of joined hands. There's no reward without risk; a fact he understands well, even if he doesn't verbally agree. In fact, his expression has slipped back into a firmer mask of composure, such that the following question only causes long lashes to flicker briefly in a blink.]
His name, [starts like a low confession, hesitant, private and on the edge of unwilling when he has not lost the game,] … it's Sasuke.
[So strained and quiet it's nearly lost to the stutter of electric lights that happens next. The teahouse is plunged into sudden blackness; voices from the staff rise, confused, communicating with each other about what has happened, fumbling to find candles stored in the back of the shop. Itachi lifts his head to glance at the daemon across from him, and Synchrony fluctuates but doesn't sever. Neither does he yet remove his hand.
Rokurou's face is difficult to see in the dark, shape of a curved smile like a blade, edges suffused, shifting shadow more than person.]
... It appears something has happened. [There's no urgency in his tone.]
[ Sasuke. A breath he hadn't expected Itachi to exhale. It's low enough that it could be nothing more than a wayward sigh or muffled sound within the thin trill of circuitry sputtering before everything falls dark. Rokurou leans forward to catch it, attention tunneled in on the other man's exhausted grit against the voices of staff and scatter-scrape of chairs. ]
—haa?
[ A perplexed grunt in response as he leans back in his chair, looking over his shoulder to peer through the dark. Bodies move about the shop in search of supplies and the door, with the other guests heading out onto the road while the staff fondles their way through the back room. The announcement of we'll be closing since we have no power manages to come over the din.
Rokurou turns back, raking his hand through the thick fringe of bang that covers the right half of his face. Red glints against the comb and parting of inky strands as his vision shifts—a world usually two-tone tilts, Itachi's pallor painted now in strokes and shades of pink. A beacon of contrast against deepening black as his reliance on his human eye diminishes in favor of the daemonic one. It brightens under new conditions, red hue gone from low simmer to ruby swirl; set against a dark backdrop, what was once easily hidden under hair is impossible to not notice with the faint glow it casts along his features. ]
I can see fine, [ he knows it's visible, well aware of what happens in the dark, so he doesn't think he needs to explain why the blackout is no problem for him, ] but ... you probably can't, huh?
[ Disappointment and petulance flicker through Synchrony, a childish sulk at having what he wants so swiftly taken away. There's no winner, it hasn't even been all that long—he isn't ready for the game to be over. Itachi hadn't even wanted to come in the first place; it's the perfect excuse to leave without finishing. Rokurou digs his heels in anyway, having always been the brother to reach out and grab for the back of a sleeve even after being told that's enough for today. ]
We could go somewhere else. [ a hopeful twinge. ] My place isn't far.
[ He doesn't know if they've lost electricity there too, but he doesn't want this to end. Not yet. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ᴛᴇxᴛ | ᴜɴ: 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜𝚜𝚜
I've come to collect.
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You never stated a deadline. Can it wait?
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But I'm in the mood for a game, so no.
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Or perhaps you'd prefer it that way, if it gives you an advantage.
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Or are you actually dying this time?
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But I am curious. Are you always in bad shape?
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If it isn't negotiable, fine. Where?
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How does a teahouse sound? There's one I like that's pretty quiet.
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What time?
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I like mornings. Tomorrow, 8 am.
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True to word, Itachi drags himself from the depths of a dim apartment into the bright, glaring light early the next morning, summer heat not yet at the day's height. Finding the location takes little guesswork; he's familiar with much of the Ruby Underground by now, and in particular the vast majority of teahouses native to Sumarlok. He's never visited this one, but he doesn't struggle to find it—arriving at eight on the dot.
... Looking somehow worse than their previous exchange. Sleeplessness rims eyes with shadow and pallor on skin, all of the sun from Marilla washed out, mouth a grim line shaped slightly down. Still straight-shouldered, composed, cold as ever. There's no visible sign of blood, although the scent clings to him like a shroud, easily picked up by a sensitive nose.
He enters the teahouse and searches for the daemon's familiar face silently.]
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He glances up from his cup of tea when a breeze tickles his skin; mismatched eyes find exhausted visage and Rokurou greets his unwilling and unhappy companion with a raised salute and a smile. ]
Hey there! [ he waves that hand, ] You look like shit.
[ Which tracks with the last time he had seen the ninja, though he somehow manages to look worse than when he'd been stranded, starving, and coughing up blood in the middle of nowhere. More than worried, Rokurou's impressed. It's like taking looking terrible to a dramatic new art form. ]
Sit, have some tea.
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Have some tea. He isn't thirsty; he wouldn't taste it. Slender hands come to rest on the glossy surface of the table, wrists deceptively brittle as long black sleeves hitch up (at odds with summer weather), knuckles curled.]
Let's begin.
[Words that mean, "Let's get this over with," in an attempt to circumvent idle commentary.]
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It fits well on the table. Nearly a perfect fit, it leaves just enough perimeter for Rokurou to keep his dessert and drink nearby. With it come the pieces—neatly bagged for travel. When he puts those little bags on the table, he doesn't peel them open to start setting up.
A pause—mismatched eyes search the ninja's face, trying to unravel the weight of lines and discoloration. Silence drags as he sits and looks without moving to begin, finally broken when eyelids lower with a soft exhale. When he reaches across the table, his hand doesn't stop over one of the bags for pieces; single finger extended, he gently pokes its tip against a curled knuckle.
The channel of Synchrony is small. Yet, like water, even the smallest leak is enough to dribble cooling desensitivity. ]
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The touch is startling. Furthered, still, by sudden trickling of muted Synchrony through magically tethered gems. Cold as an anesthetic, he can feel the edges of his mind blissfully numbed—his own reaction is automatic and unthinking, hand latching over Rokurou's like a trap, pressure of his grasp a bruising degree of strength. Slender white fingers over the daemon's tanned, battle-worn knuckles, skin chilled hot as if with fever, thumb digging a divot into the side of a wrist. His own emotion pours in hot gouts—too much—grief and anger standing out as bright spots ringed by more tepid impatience, frustration, weary fatigue. His head bows forward, long strands of hair sliding to conceal part of his face, mask cracked, composure struggling to refix.
When he does speak after several long seconds, it comes surprisingly steady. Low and evenl in its articulation.]
It has not always felt like this. [This left nebulous, illustrated by what Rokurou will find through Synchrony.] ... Since coming to this dimension, I believe my ability to control myself has diminished as a result of the gem's influence. Have you experienced anything like it?
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Strong feelings that daemon swallows with some effort, adam's apple bobbing through tight throat under empathetic onslaught. Despite distaste, he leaves it alone, sacrificing his hand as helpless prey beneath Itachi's grip while the other shifts to begin fondling around in his bag of pieces. He draws a piece one by one, setting them into place on the board around the stretch of his arm. Pieces drawn for a obscured square are put to the side with soft click. ]
Yes. [ click, click, click—it stops when he rolls a piece between his fingers, rubbing an edge into knuckle and joint in idle stroke, ] I'm not unaffected by the gem's influence, but that isn't what tests my restraint.
[ Not like this, this flurry of splotch hot mania and press-coiled grief. No, there's only one thing that's ever really made him feel like what Itachi fosters upon him now, but it was such an all encompassing thing that they may as well be his own, risen from cold graveyard dirt. ]
It's always been a particular person. [ he hums, digging the corner of that piece into the pad of his thumb, ] But my clan was notorious for being hot-blooded, so I suppose I was inclined toward it anyway.
[ The admissions come fairly easily, only spike of peppery hot popping in antiseptic born on the thought of that particular person. A gnarly ball of twisted, tangled feelings that he snuffs out with a twitch of eyebrow, lips thinning for a moment before ticking with his trademark smile. ]
Is this really just because of your gem?
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Those words seem to reach him through a gauzy film, layered distance in dark eyes that travel across the board as pieces click into proper alignment, two armies on opposed sides, joined hands stretched over the imaginary battlefield. There is no reason to tell the truth. As cold Synchrony leeches from Rokurou, he can feel the deep, hurt channels of sentiment in him begin to ice over, returned to numbness. He can think without feeling. When was the last time he was able to do that?]
No. [Who is the particular person? Perhaps that parallel is what cuts him open at the root, although even now he can't easily disentangle the real answer.] My brother is gone. I've met him in two dimensions, and he's left each one before me. I...
[Cannot continue like this.]
I fear that if I see him again, I will not know what to do. [Only half of the hurt, but simpler to say than anything related to Stiles. Loss instead of betrayal. Loss he knows, hate and anger and pain he knows, has lived his whole life; love he doesn't, hasn't.] I don't want him to return.
[I do. Blisters of feeling between them like firecrackers soon burnt out by a chill, duller sense of conflict and disorientation. His head hangs down, expression concealed by a sweep of loose unbound black hair straight as silk. He considers telling Rokurou about his own clan's reputation. He can't manage another word. This honesty has cost him, even if he no longer cares who knows—it has ceased to matter.]
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Every sentiment feels like dragging on a custom glove—all except having their met again. The edge of that piece presses hard into the pad of his finger, blotching into red and white. While he offers numb, Itachi offers dissension, a heady drag that makes it difficult to quell the conflicting contention that bubbles in his chest whenever he thinks of his brother. A stark reminder that he's still susceptible to all of those feelings even with the gaping hole of gutted humanity; the smile that curves on his mouth is humorless, habitual over intentional. Along with it all comes a strange hint of sardonic humor at himself when he realizes that he's borderline envious of a man that looks like death's unemployed cousin.
Those emotions return to a mild simmer as they always do in the end. He sets the piece into place on the board. It's prepared. ]
What's more difficult? [ he studies the empty board, contemplating his opening move. ] The dread of seeing him again or knowing that's the last time?
[ A question for the man sagged forward against the other end of the table? Maybe. Despite the phrasing, Rokurou's tone lacks inquisitive inflection of one. A strange little musing as he selects his first piece, hovering over a first square while considering the strategy of it. An easy way to deflect, old reliance whenever boiling Rangetsu blood threatened to wild-fire rage and burn him out. ]
I don't know. [ he answers himself; he expects nothing from Itachi, already gutted from unexpected honesty's knife. he finishes his opening move and draws back, finding himself inclined toward saying something he had no intention to share with this bemusing man. ] I killed mine.
[ He doesn't even really like anmitsu. It's too sweet. ]
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Something in that smile is compelling nonetheless. So too are those words, a question asked of him that he is not sure how to answer. Perhaps dread has no boundaries, and everything he feels toward Sasuke is all mixed into one sole reality—anything that could happen would hurt no more or less than anything else. Seeing him again, never seeing him again... All they do is continually wound one another. They aren't capable of neutrality. Not with each other.
That first move is made, but Itachi's attention is ripped away from it at the next confession. This time, eyes widen in visible surprise, though the expression remains mild on a dispassionate face. What is the story there? It is not his place to question, or pry, and yet the desire to do so blows through with force, bile in his throat, a want to know and understand all of the differences between them, whether this sense of familiarity is toward made-up ghosts of the past or whether it is real.
He falls quiet. A hand lowers, fingers sliding a piece on his side of the board into place. A conservative move.]
Mine killed me. [Low, blunt words he would not have shared otherwise with someone he does not know well, yet in the moment feels there is no choice.] ... Whether one or the other would be worse, I cannot say. I have no choice. He will either return, or he won't.
[If not for the empty pit of a sour stomach, appetite missing, Itachi might have eaten the anmitsu instead.]
What is your brother's name?
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Maybe a man ending his brother's life isn't so uncommon a tale. Maybe they have more in common than expected. Maybe there's a story there worth digging for. Maybe—...
Surprise dilutes into intrigue, an interest quickly overwhelmed by the slapping force of Itachi's urge to ask. A windstorm that earns a dry chuckle as the daemon picks up a piece. It rolls between his fingers. ]
You're pretty curious for a dead man.
[ After scanning each piece over he finally selects a square to tap the piece down onto. A bold move leaning toward a risky gambit, but not one made without thought. ]
... Ichirou. [ saying that name feels strange despite it being so very much at home on his tongue, ] My older brother.
[ Normally he would recline comfortably in the chair and cross his arms; Itachi's hand remains square over his own, leeching solace, so Rokurou settles on propping his chin up on his hand after plopping his elbow onto the table. ]
Win this game and I'll answer a couple of your questions. [ the gaze across the way is challenging, mouth still upturned even though he's given up another fact he had no intention on sharing, ] Lose and I get to ask you a couple of questions. How about it?
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Black eyes begin to scrutinize the board with acuity, wiping out some of the dusty webs of grief, returning him to logical terrain. That and the cold wash of anesthetic energy through Synchrony.
The wager spoken, Itachi allows it to sit between them, unaddressed, for several moments. He is thinking. Only after he's reached across, selected a piece, and clicked it into place—a move that seems rather cautious in context—does an answer finally come.]
You must be confident you'll win. [Contact between hands is gathering heat, hotter than any other point on his body. His fingers flex, then loosen, yet remain caged over the daemon's knuckles in a gesture that to some outsider lacking knowledge of the situation might assume is possessive.] Or perhaps you won't mind speaking of personal topics, in the context of a fair negotiation.
[...] All right. [Nails painted dark red are noticeably chipped, though still retain a glossy sheen under the warm teahouse lights.] I wonder if you'll come to regret your decision.
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Maybe. [ he doesn't know how good Itachi is, but Rokurou's long since memorized all Shigure's old plays and come up with a few of his own—but in spite of his stubborn streak when it comes to his brother, his hand lofts over toward a piece in a move Shigure would have favored, ] I don't actually want to tell you about him ... but there are questions I want to ask you, too. There's no reward without risk.
[ He finally moves that reluctantly chosen piece. A different more from his earlier choices, a different play that feels like it's played from a different hand—but what are ghosts but memories gone walking?
A more conservative move. ]
I'm not confident I'll win, but I don't plan to lose.
[ Stubborn is as stubborn does. Bullishness bumps up against their channel of Synchrony, the kind of upstart kick that only a younger sibling could possess. In over his head? No idea. It won't stop him from trying, because that's all he knows how to do. Try, try, try try try. Get stronger, little brother. Try try, try try try.
The daemon's gaze falls to the pen of fingers over his hand. No longer pinning—he could pull it back. He doesn't. ]
What's your brother's name?
[ Thin lips go lopsided as he tucks his playing hand back beneath his chin. ]
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Rokurou is not his brother. Yet for a moment, in this context, it is almost enough to pretend.
Dark eyes never stray from the board, analysis at busy work in a calculative mind, finding this much easier a task than discussion of family or the physical contact of joined hands. There's no reward without risk; a fact he understands well, even if he doesn't verbally agree. In fact, his expression has slipped back into a firmer mask of composure, such that the following question only causes long lashes to flicker briefly in a blink.]
His name, [starts like a low confession, hesitant, private and on the edge of unwilling when he has not lost the game,] … it's Sasuke.
[So strained and quiet it's nearly lost to the stutter of electric lights that happens next. The teahouse is plunged into sudden blackness; voices from the staff rise, confused, communicating with each other about what has happened, fumbling to find candles stored in the back of the shop. Itachi lifts his head to glance at the daemon across from him, and Synchrony fluctuates but doesn't sever. Neither does he yet remove his hand.
Rokurou's face is difficult to see in the dark, shape of a curved smile like a blade, edges suffused, shifting shadow more than person.]
... It appears something has happened. [There's no urgency in his tone.]
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—haa?
[ A perplexed grunt in response as he leans back in his chair, looking over his shoulder to peer through the dark. Bodies move about the shop in search of supplies and the door, with the other guests heading out onto the road while the staff fondles their way through the back room. The announcement of we'll be closing since we have no power manages to come over the din.
Rokurou turns back, raking his hand through the thick fringe of bang that covers the right half of his face. Red glints against the comb and parting of inky strands as his vision shifts—a world usually two-tone tilts, Itachi's pallor painted now in strokes and shades of pink. A beacon of contrast against deepening black as his reliance on his human eye diminishes in favor of the daemonic one. It brightens under new conditions, red hue gone from low simmer to ruby swirl; set against a dark backdrop, what was once easily hidden under hair is impossible to not notice with the faint glow it casts along his features. ]
I can see fine, [ he knows it's visible, well aware of what happens in the dark, so he doesn't think he needs to explain why the blackout is no problem for him, ] but ... you probably can't, huh?
[ Disappointment and petulance flicker through Synchrony, a childish sulk at having what he wants so swiftly taken away. There's no winner, it hasn't even been all that long—he isn't ready for the game to be over. Itachi hadn't even wanted to come in the first place; it's the perfect excuse to leave without finishing. Rokurou digs his heels in anyway, having always been the brother to reach out and grab for the back of a sleeve even after being told that's enough for today. ]
We could go somewhere else. [ a hopeful twinge. ] My place isn't far.
[ He doesn't know if they've lost electricity there too, but he doesn't want this to end. Not yet. ]
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