[ 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. ]
[The blade of red through the dark has his immediate, singular attention. It is trained into him, no more apart from his skills as a shinobi—this ability to sense power, rife with familiarity even if it is not exactly another Sharingan staring back at him now. The feeling might be unsettling under other circumstances; instead it just burns into him with an intensity he's tempted to relish for the sake of nostalgia alone. He wonders if he will ever see another set of Sharingan again.
Itachi feels the flutter of those childlike emotions, simple as if being robbed of a toy or entertainment. It almost startles him. He cannot recall the last time he's felt it, or if he ever had.]
Not well.
[He can hear in the darkness, can perceive the bustling movement of the staff clear as bells. Finely honed senses don't rob him of an almost preternatural awareness of his surroundings. That said, he doesn't possess night vision, regardless of whatever else his eyes might give him. Seeing the board between them would be difficult.
Yet the offer still takes him aback. Itachi stares hard, searching the daemon's face, shadowed except for that glittering point of scarlet.] ... What about the game? [Reluctance is, as always, a heavy anchor inside him. Rokurou has pinned that well: this is an excuse to disengage and retreat.] Do you mean to continue it there?
[ Vision isn't necessary to feel the weight of Itachi's stare needling through the darkness. The heightened senses of a Yaksha haven't failed him yet—though he doesn't stare back, mismatched eyes downcast onto the board in contemplation, every other sense narrows in on the ninja's presence. Cool fingers. Low voice. Tremor across Synchrony.
—no, but not scent. Most people have a definitive one, which is usually distinguishable for a daemon when sitting this close—yet there's a distinct lack. With only the faint aroma of blood, he would be a difficult man to track. ]
Or start over, though I may be able to carry the board all the way without jostling the pieces. Even if the electricity is out I know I have candles.
[ There's the weight of expectation in his gaze when he finally looks back up at Itachi from beneath his lashes. Red is a constant hue, glow of that eye unwavering against dark backdrop. ]
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no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.]
no subject
—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. ]
no subject
Itachi feels the flutter of those childlike emotions, simple as if being robbed of a toy or entertainment. It almost startles him. He cannot recall the last time he's felt it, or if he ever had.]
Not well.
[He can hear in the darkness, can perceive the bustling movement of the staff clear as bells. Finely honed senses don't rob him of an almost preternatural awareness of his surroundings. That said, he doesn't possess night vision, regardless of whatever else his eyes might give him. Seeing the board between them would be difficult.
Yet the offer still takes him aback. Itachi stares hard, searching the daemon's face, shadowed except for that glittering point of scarlet.] ... What about the game? [Reluctance is, as always, a heavy anchor inside him. Rokurou has pinned that well: this is an excuse to disengage and retreat.] Do you mean to continue it there?
no subject
[ Vision isn't necessary to feel the weight of Itachi's stare needling through the darkness. The heightened senses of a Yaksha haven't failed him yet—though he doesn't stare back, mismatched eyes downcast onto the board in contemplation, every other sense narrows in on the ninja's presence. Cool fingers. Low voice. Tremor across Synchrony.
—no, but not scent. Most people have a definitive one, which is usually distinguishable for a daemon when sitting this close—yet there's a distinct lack. With only the faint aroma of blood, he would be a difficult man to track. ]
Or start over, though I may be able to carry the board all the way without jostling the pieces. Even if the electricity is out I know I have candles.
[ There's the weight of expectation in his gaze when he finally looks back up at Itachi from beneath his lashes. Red is a constant hue, glow of that eye unwavering against dark backdrop. ]