I assumed as much. Thank you for them. [Because he'd figured out that while that other version of Guanshan might have orchestrated the hunt across Sumarlok, he couldn't have found all of those items in a day. The perfume and weapon were too intimate and premeditated.] ... Excluding that last one.
[ success!! between a knife and a perfume, the one he was more anxious about was certainly the latter. now he just wants to... smell it on him... is he a creep ]
i figured u wouldnt want somethin too strong everything about u is kinda.....
[ wait he needs to think is the right word ]
quiet
oh yea its the last character in my name shan
[ read the same in both of their languages: mountain. ]
[Almost stiffly formal in comparison, the conversation drops off there. He sends no other message for nearly two full days—and when word does finally come, it is strategically timed on an evening Guanshan is alone at home, off work. Like a phantom materializing from thin air, he appears on his balcony identical to that past encounter, except he is far more composed, and the sky is dry of rain.
There was no right time to discuss this. Yet those gifts had reminded him that, unless he did this soon, Guanshan would only be continually disillusioned about him.]
I'm here.
[His stony, set expression reveals nothing—yet he will be still betrayed by the faintest trace of sweet, smoky perfume.]
[ leave it to Uchiha Itachi to know how to give a man anxiety. he's never before experienced the "we need to talk" ploy despite wielding it himself on more than one occasion — a sentence he suddenly considers removing from his lexicon entirely. ]
[ days pass and he self-medicates with a mix of alcohol and marijuana like a nail house occupant who refuses to join the modern world as it goes brilliantly flying by. when Itachi announces himself, Guanshan emerges from his bedroom in joggers and a shorn-open tank top barely looped around his neck and hips, red-eyed and still wreathed in the cloying, herbaceous scent from his freshly stubbed-out joint. his hair is getting scruffy on the buzz, fringe bleeding down towards his hard brows. ]
Hey. [ forcefully casual, his hands tuck into his pockets after he's opened the balcony door. ] Tea?
[ something with honey to mortar the oncoming break. ]
[By record of past experiences, this situation is as best it could be: it is under his control, and he is initiating the conversation as planned. Better than Jonas, better even than Stiles—although in comparison to those two situations, he does not recall the same dread now. Perhaps testament of how much he's changed; it sits heavy as stone in his gut, turning over with each moment that passes, knowing and accepting it could very well be his last time here.
Only black eyes turn onto Guanshan at the greeting. He doesn't move, remaining still as displaced shadow on the balcony.
Uncharacteristic in the refusal:] No, that's all right. [... but this discussion is better indoors. As if a man walking to the noose, he enters the apartment to the strong scent of smoke. Guanshan's bloodshot gaze tells him the rest.]
If this isn't a good time in your current state, I can return later.
Waitin's worse, [ his voice his a croak of something — burn-raw throat or emotion or even some kind of callow determination, he can't quite discern. there are a lot of bad things Itachi could have loaded in the chamber; a flavor less caustic than gunpowder on his tongue is the least of his concerns. it only makes him slower, smooths his usually anxious, slatted movements, muffles the familiar chalkboard scratch of suspicious paranoia to which Itachi is not usually privy. ]
[ feet tucked up under him on the first corner of his couch, there's enough room for Itachi to claim the other with the comfortable distance he usually requires. Guanshan only looks at him expectantly with those glassy eyes, offering him no further conversational lubricant; he isn't good at it, and it wouldn't help. ]
[ never one to be gently enticed to the slaughter, he'd rather see the barrel against his brow. ]
[The delivery of difficult news is no new phenomenon to him. In some tucked-away, cobwebbed corner of his mind it is the same as surrendering a report of mission failure to a superior—or mission success at the cost of lives—which is everyday life of someone like him. Yet never has he been forced to put this exact confession into his own words. Always, before, there were holes filled in the person's mind, assumptions drawn, a sort of knowing that already existed. Jonas saw. Stiles hunted the information, then dragged it out of him the rest of the way. Everyone else had his reputation, infamous enough to carry over country border.
Itachi lowers dark eyes onto the other end of the couch, but he doesn't move to claim it. He is more comfortable standing as a dark pillar close to the wall, close to the window he came through, as though there is some invisible comfort in having an easy path back out.]
... I've told you before that you should not wish to know me. That was never an idle warning. [He looks over Guanshan in a cold, piercing survey; if nothing else, he deserves to see the effect this has on him. Already he can feel a defensive crystallization of detachment begin to form in his gut.] You're aware of what I am, and what sort of abilities I possess. I have killed many others before on condition of that.
Including my own family. [Sharp, precise as a knife between the slit of ribs.] My parents, cousins, and friends. My entire clan.
[Guanshan, if he is aware enough of it, may notice that brother is not on the list. Itachi moves on either way. This dark and slippery truth that will weigh him down forever, permanently, every waking moment that he is forced to remain alive. Saying it here freshens the wound; he feels unreachable, suspended somewhere deep below in a void of thought, unfeeling.]
That is what I am capable of, what I've done, and it will never change. You cannot trust me. Don't try.
[ stuck sedentary, this news washes over him slow, Guanshan lingering on every calculated word with intention. his eyes lower from Itachi, two shifting orbs he can feel in his scratchy skull, shifting between thoughts and emotions that feel just out of reach, behind a mesh of cotton balls. he watches himself pick at a hangnail without any awareness of it. ]
[ family is a familiar cross to bear. if ever it truly wounded the body, he'd have scars in the same place he's given them on Itachi. he remembers Sasuke primarily in reference to his brother, but also as a handsome older stranger who saw him hurting and did something about it, applied his sapphire to fix the damage he couldn't with needle and string. whether it was altruism or quid pro quo, Guanshan never learned — and it wasn't fratricide that robbed him of the opportunity. ]
[ Clan Killer isn't even a new epithet in his life. on some level, he's always been aware of the similarities between Itachi and Rokurou. it would be harder not to be. at some point, his idea of the shinobi had separated, formed its own path of nuances and experiences; now, he latches onto the humor of it and snorts, low and amused. he does not share the joke. ]
I decide what I can and can't do. [ it feels important to say, to remind to Itachi of his own stubborn will. what he offers in return isn't rejection; he knew the night he met the man, down to bottom of every cell, that he was a killer. ] And I ain't tryna change the past, that'd be stupid.
[ when he unfolds long legs out from under him again, they stretch out from beneath him as he settles back, his half-sprawl reaching towards him. the danger has passed. ]
Wanna tell me why? [ his choice. Itachi isn't one for baseless killing; if he were, Guanshan would've been dead a long time ago. ]
[In the minimal space of one silent moment, emotion itches at him vaguely, and then slowly begins to nag, growing into larger irritation—Guanshan's snort of amusement wedges into the edge of steely, numb composure. A roving thought wonders what it means and where it came from; how humor can be uncovered in such a confession. Misunderstanding festers. Itachi's dark, watchful eyes turn to narrow slits, then fall away, sweeping across the floor. His body stiffens and turns half toward the balcony.
His own reaction—upset, surely, a keen sting along the bed of nails that is his sense of control—surprises him. It is stronger than he has ever felt previously. With Jonas it was an ambiguous disappointment, with Stiles it was a cold sense of judgment. In comparison, this is hot and frustrated, and he does not know what to do with it. A tongue of that emotion flashes across Synchrony like the burnt tail of a firework, very quickly gone.]
It's complicated. [At some point, his gaze had come to rest on the bottoms of feet, long legs stretched out toward him, eating into distance.] I am not here to justify it. The choice was still mine.
[Could he turn Guanshan against him, as he had Sasuke? Lying is easier, always, but that guise has long since unraveled; it would be meaningless. And he is exhausted at the idea of wearing it again.]
What I did to you on the beach is nothing compared to the suffering I have inflicted upon others. [I am not a good person.] Knowing this, I would advise you to be more cautious how you approach me. We should limit our relationship to one another.
[ it isn't an angry bite or a vehement cry in fighting for what he wants. he could, if it came to that — he will, if Itachi argues with him on the point. rather, it's a cool single syllable that attempts to leave no room to argue the contrary. ]
That isn't what I want, an'I don't think it's what you want either. I care about the bad things you done, but only 'cuz it made you who you are today.
[ sentiments that roll off his tongue easily. he's had this conversation before — albeit with someone who didn't express the same kind of weight. is it guilt? Guanshan can't read him well enough to know either way. ]
[ he's used to others willingly, enthusiastically pulling him into their sins. truth be told, it's what he prefers — to bond over the darkest pools and sharpest edges until he's soaked, bloody, and seen. ]
So can we just skip the part where you try'n push me away over some shit in your past? 'Cuz the man I want is right there, right now.
You are too far removed from it. [Quiet enough not to betray a sudden, uncharacteristic shiver to the words, uncertainty beginning to manifest gnarled roots.] You have no comprehension of the man I am.
[It is easier to talk to Guanshan this way—not deliberately condescending, because this is what he believes and it is too terrifying to consider anything else, but there is a shade of insistence to the words. As though he can convince Guanshan through this urging alone.
Being wanted may never feel like anything but misguided ignorance. He still has not looked him in the eye, behavior at odds with usual staring.]
My presence in your life comes at a cost. [He has never said the words explicitly aloud—a belief ingrained in him since he was a child, that he is cursed, that anyone around him will suffer—but it's close to his heart. Without being conscious of the action, his hands fold together, rubbing the thin scars on center palms with thumbs, rubbing the matched lines on the other side with fingertips.] Why would you willingly choose to endure that?
[ the question comes calm and cool, an inquiry what asks for confirmation, eyes level and observant. are those inklings of frustration Itachi's slipping in because he's feeling misunderstood — or because he's afraid of not being able to chase him away? ]
I don't think you let anyone in recent enough to understand that cost, so how can you even know what it is? How can you know f'I'm willin' to pay it or not?
[ he stands, slow, careful, hands tucked into his pockets — but his presence comes closer as he speaks, a low murmur that attempts to challenge without threat. he isn't practiced at it, nor at the words he wrestles with to get his feelings across — but he tries. and he doesn't stop trying. ]
You've changed a little since we met. Or at least, you seem like you wanna. Like there's... potential there.
[ slouching, he interrupts Itachi's fallen eyeline, leanes forward with his chin tilted up to take those dark depths. fearlessly. ]
I wanna see it through. Like there's a magnet inside'a me that points to you. Yeah?
[For once, however, the words do not carry the same concrete certainty intrinsic to his nature. He has seen it, but only in a few, yielding outcomes not identical. How difficult it has become, making these predictions on such limited ground. Perhaps it's only an excuse. And he doesn't enjoy that—not knowing what it is that guides the people around him, what motivates them, casting him unmoored by the unpredictability of their actions. Guanshan more than most.
He senses the approach before that lean, angular form dips into his sightline, copper-eyed, shoulders sloped.]
... If I have changed, it was not intentional. [The hook of panic tugs at him, although he manages to soothe it away. Whatever influence the gem in his throat has over him is impossible to avoid. It doesn't mean he enjoys that truth. And how much worse is it if he's changed because of his own decisions?
Dark eyes fix onto Guanshan, like a wild cat cornered.] I told you before that I have already died. I was never supposed to live this long, and any additional time spent here is borrowed. Anything you attempt to pursue with me is meaningless. The ending will always be the same.
The ending will always be the same, [ agreed in a parroted murmur, straightening back up as he mulls the words over, distracted. proximity has brought another sense into the churning gears of Guanshan's reality, and a sharp chef's olfaction picks out familiar notes from beyond his noseblindness to herb and his own home. understated tea and smoke and cold earth wetting the dry cotton on his tastebuds, damp and bright. ]
[ his pupils dilate with the realization, darkened gaze slipping over the few pale strips of Itachi's exposed skin: adam's apple, jugular, the darkest corner of the jaw. a furtive entreaty, it feels taboo. he licks his lips and continues, feeling even more confident in his point: if Itachi came truly intending to push him away, why do something that would make him yearn to be so close? he's well-read in mixed signals. ]
You're not wrong about that, but it don't make it meaningless. It makes it more meaningful. Itachi...
[ what Synchrony allows through the muffle of clothing is filtered and staticky but earnest and truthful as he graps Itachi's forearm and presses his hand deadcenter to his chest. palm to bone, lifelines crossing lungs, it feels like a purr in time with his voice. ]
Everyone's fucked up, and everyone's on a time limit that no one knows. We'll feel that hurt no matter what. I'm willin' to suffer a lot if it means I get to feel the other shit, too.
[Even Itachi does not understand the compulsion of what he's done. It acts against trained nature, erases secrecy, brings him into the light where he is visible and exposed—easily hunted, easily found. And on an occasion like this where he is trying to put distance between them with the reality of his actions, there's no sense to the decision. The truth is that he'd simply liked it and wanted to wear it.
Frustration continues to climb inside his chest, wringing the muscle of a tired heart. Guanshan doesn't understand the complexity of his confession because he has not seen it, or experienced it, or intimately known someone involved. Someone who is not him. Someone who was hurt, badly, by his choice. Someone who deserves empathy.
It is not acknowledgment, let alone forgiveness, because their perspectives are just too different from the start—as much as Guanshan attempts to peel back those layers. He wonders how long it will take. How much trying and effort, wasted on someone like him. Can he prevent it when everything has already gone so wrong? It seems he continues to allow himself to be backed into this corner.]
You talk of meaning without fully comprehending what it is I have told you. You're ignorant, but rather than try to understand the other perspective, you value your own hedonism instead.
[The words are quiet, but not gentle; something sharper edges his tone. His hand is lifted and laid against Guanshan's chest—it's almost as though he's put the knife into his hand. Itachi closes his fingers into a fist, gathering the shirt's fabric, and uses this hold to yank hard. The movement is a quick blur. He's pulled Guanshan around, slamming him against the wall. That deceptively strong hand slides up to hold him around the throat. There's no real supernatural strength involved; he doesn't even need it.]
How much are you willing to suffer? What is it you really wish to feel?
[ tossed around like he weighs nothing isn't a new sensation, his back smarting in familiar places, notches of his spine and wings of shoulderblades, a sharp-boned body with edges that always go to battle. his palms stay on Itachi's forearm, feeling the flexed muscle beneath as if they were made of steel cord; powerlessness has been his bedfellow since the days of virginity. none of Itachi's accusations are wrong, nor are they deemed especially important. ]
[ wearing his flaws on his sleeve has always been a little like armor, a little like bait. an insurance policy for when humans inevitably let each other down — I told you so — but also dripping meat the right (wrong?) person wants to take a bite of. it's more relief than alarm that Itachi shows him some teeth, something like irritation starting to brighten his tone, enliven it. anything that deviates from his calm and collected baseline feels like a victory, and Guanshan licks his lips to the honeypot. ]
[ and then there's his Pavlovian response to violence: the pulse, the breath, the coil. ]
Alive. [ the good and the bad, the hard and the soft, dark and light, painful and ecstatic. to be simultaneously wanted and rejected is the rollercoaster he craves, with the right intensity. it's a work in progress. ] Everything.
[ the tightness of Itachi's fingers on his throat impresses the shape of both words into his palm. he has to look down over angular cheekbones and a long nose to see him now, finding the darkest point of his eyes. ]
My interest don't come with any qualifications that sound like "I'm a good person who's done nothin' wrong", and I won't punish you like you want me to. [ and then, a concession, because Guanshan is loyal to nothing if not family: ] Even if you deserve it.
[There's no fear to feel in this. He isn't aware that is what he seeks until Guanshan's emotions spill across Synchrony in their usual bleeding effusiveness—potent, run dark with sincerity and intensity. He's crashed against this wall enough times that it no longer bludgeons him. It burns, hot and quick.
He can feel the vibration of voice against the shackle of his hand, palm on skin, fingers constricted over the long, vulnerable column of Guanshan's throat. Physical contact brings a clarity to Synchrony that is, as always, difficult to shake. Those words assail him; not a threat, not mean or afraid, just honest.
There is the difference: he cannot bear to endure the sensation of being alive. He hates it, unlike Guanshan. And it is most often with Guanshan that he is forced into this painful wakefulness. How could anyone enjoy it—the sticky, tacky frustration and longing both boiling up inside of him like tar, clouding his head, slowing his judgment. How it prevents him from making the right decisions. How it hurts. How could anyone want to feel this when the alternative is blissful peace, and nothing.
His fingers tighten, pressure hard enough that the impression of a hand-shaped bruise is just beginning to form, and Guanshan's air supply is just beginning to be choked off, before he releases the hold. Steps back. Turning around, he heads for the balcony to leave unless he's stopped.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
I assumed as much. Thank you for them. [Because he'd figured out that while that other version of Guanshan might have orchestrated the hunt across Sumarlok, he couldn't have found all of those items in a day. The perfume and weapon were too intimate and premeditated.] ... Excluding that last one.
Are you all right?
no subject
yea im fine
got a headache n im not finishin my shift but
coulda been worse
[ ... ]
did u like how it smelled
no subject
You surprised me. I expected something... stronger. Is the signature on the card your name?
no subject
i figured u wouldnt want somethin too strong
everything about u is kinda.....
[ wait he needs to think is the right word ]
quiet
oh yea its the last character in my name
shan
[ read the same in both of their languages: mountain. ]
1/2
[Mountain... immovably stubborn and dumb as rocks. Meant fondly.]
I'm not certain I will have the occasion to wear it often, but perhaps someday soon.
no subject
Guanshan. There is something I need to discuss with you in person the next time you are available.
no subject
yea ok
late morning or early night works best
no subject
[Almost stiffly formal in comparison, the conversation drops off there. He sends no other message for nearly two full days—and when word does finally come, it is strategically timed on an evening Guanshan is alone at home, off work. Like a phantom materializing from thin air, he appears on his balcony identical to that past encounter, except he is far more composed, and the sky is dry of rain.
There was no right time to discuss this. Yet those gifts had reminded him that, unless he did this soon, Guanshan would only be continually disillusioned about him.]
I'm here.
[His stony, set expression reveals nothing—yet he will be still betrayed by the faintest trace of sweet, smoky perfume.]
no subject
[ days pass and he self-medicates with a mix of alcohol and marijuana like a nail house occupant who refuses to join the modern world as it goes brilliantly flying by. when Itachi announces himself, Guanshan emerges from his bedroom in joggers and a shorn-open tank top barely looped around his neck and hips, red-eyed and still wreathed in the cloying, herbaceous scent from his freshly stubbed-out joint. his hair is getting scruffy on the buzz, fringe bleeding down towards his hard brows. ]
Hey. [ forcefully casual, his hands tuck into his pockets after he's opened the balcony door. ] Tea?
[ something with honey to mortar the oncoming break. ]
no subject
Only black eyes turn onto Guanshan at the greeting. He doesn't move, remaining still as displaced shadow on the balcony.
Uncharacteristic in the refusal:] No, that's all right. [... but this discussion is better indoors. As if a man walking to the noose, he enters the apartment to the strong scent of smoke. Guanshan's bloodshot gaze tells him the rest.]
If this isn't a good time in your current state, I can return later.
no subject
[ feet tucked up under him on the first corner of his couch, there's enough room for Itachi to claim the other with the comfortable distance he usually requires. Guanshan only looks at him expectantly with those glassy eyes, offering him no further conversational lubricant; he isn't good at it, and it wouldn't help. ]
[ never one to be gently enticed to the slaughter, he'd rather see the barrel against his brow. ]
no subject
Itachi lowers dark eyes onto the other end of the couch, but he doesn't move to claim it. He is more comfortable standing as a dark pillar close to the wall, close to the window he came through, as though there is some invisible comfort in having an easy path back out.]
... I've told you before that you should not wish to know me. That was never an idle warning. [He looks over Guanshan in a cold, piercing survey; if nothing else, he deserves to see the effect this has on him. Already he can feel a defensive crystallization of detachment begin to form in his gut.] You're aware of what I am, and what sort of abilities I possess. I have killed many others before on condition of that.
Including my own family. [Sharp, precise as a knife between the slit of ribs.] My parents, cousins, and friends. My entire clan.
[Guanshan, if he is aware enough of it, may notice that brother is not on the list. Itachi moves on either way. This dark and slippery truth that will weigh him down forever, permanently, every waking moment that he is forced to remain alive. Saying it here freshens the wound; he feels unreachable, suspended somewhere deep below in a void of thought, unfeeling.]
That is what I am capable of, what I've done, and it will never change. You cannot trust me. Don't try.
no subject
[ family is a familiar cross to bear. if ever it truly wounded the body, he'd have scars in the same place he's given them on Itachi. he remembers Sasuke primarily in reference to his brother, but also as a handsome older stranger who saw him hurting and did something about it, applied his sapphire to fix the damage he couldn't with needle and string. whether it was altruism or quid pro quo, Guanshan never learned — and it wasn't fratricide that robbed him of the opportunity. ]
[ Clan Killer isn't even a new epithet in his life. on some level, he's always been aware of the similarities between Itachi and Rokurou. it would be harder not to be. at some point, his idea of the shinobi had separated, formed its own path of nuances and experiences; now, he latches onto the humor of it and snorts, low and amused. he does not share the joke. ]
I decide what I can and can't do. [ it feels important to say, to remind to Itachi of his own stubborn will. what he offers in return isn't rejection; he knew the night he met the man, down to bottom of every cell, that he was a killer. ] And I ain't tryna change the past, that'd be stupid.
[ when he unfolds long legs out from under him again, they stretch out from beneath him as he settles back, his half-sprawl reaching towards him. the danger has passed. ]
Wanna tell me why? [ his choice. Itachi isn't one for baseless killing; if he were, Guanshan would've been dead a long time ago. ]
no subject
His own reaction—upset, surely, a keen sting along the bed of nails that is his sense of control—surprises him. It is stronger than he has ever felt previously. With Jonas it was an ambiguous disappointment, with Stiles it was a cold sense of judgment. In comparison, this is hot and frustrated, and he does not know what to do with it. A tongue of that emotion flashes across Synchrony like the burnt tail of a firework, very quickly gone.]
It's complicated. [At some point, his gaze had come to rest on the bottoms of feet, long legs stretched out toward him, eating into distance.] I am not here to justify it. The choice was still mine.
[Could he turn Guanshan against him, as he had Sasuke? Lying is easier, always, but that guise has long since unraveled; it would be meaningless. And he is exhausted at the idea of wearing it again.]
What I did to you on the beach is nothing compared to the suffering I have inflicted upon others. [I am not a good person.] Knowing this, I would advise you to be more cautious how you approach me. We should limit our relationship to one another.
no subject
[ it isn't an angry bite or a vehement cry in fighting for what he wants. he could, if it came to that — he will, if Itachi argues with him on the point. rather, it's a cool single syllable that attempts to leave no room to argue the contrary. ]
That isn't what I want, an'I don't think it's what you want either. I care about the bad things you done, but only 'cuz it made you who you are today.
[ sentiments that roll off his tongue easily. he's had this conversation before — albeit with someone who didn't express the same kind of weight. is it guilt? Guanshan can't read him well enough to know either way. ]
[ he's used to others willingly, enthusiastically pulling him into their sins. truth be told, it's what he prefers — to bond over the darkest pools and sharpest edges until he's soaked, bloody, and seen. ]
So can we just skip the part where you try'n push me away over some shit in your past? 'Cuz the man I want is right there, right now.
no subject
[It is easier to talk to Guanshan this way—not deliberately condescending, because this is what he believes and it is too terrifying to consider anything else, but there is a shade of insistence to the words. As though he can convince Guanshan through this urging alone.
Being wanted may never feel like anything but misguided ignorance. He still has not looked him in the eye, behavior at odds with usual staring.]
My presence in your life comes at a cost. [He has never said the words explicitly aloud—a belief ingrained in him since he was a child, that he is cursed, that anyone around him will suffer—but it's close to his heart. Without being conscious of the action, his hands fold together, rubbing the thin scars on center palms with thumbs, rubbing the matched lines on the other side with fingertips.] Why would you willingly choose to endure that?
no subject
[ the question comes calm and cool, an inquiry what asks for confirmation, eyes level and observant. are those inklings of frustration Itachi's slipping in because he's feeling misunderstood — or because he's afraid of not being able to chase him away? ]
I don't think you let anyone in recent enough to understand that cost, so how can you even know what it is? How can you know f'I'm willin' to pay it or not?
[ he stands, slow, careful, hands tucked into his pockets — but his presence comes closer as he speaks, a low murmur that attempts to challenge without threat. he isn't practiced at it, nor at the words he wrestles with to get his feelings across — but he tries. and he doesn't stop trying. ]
You've changed a little since we met. Or at least, you seem like you wanna. Like there's... potential there.
[ slouching, he interrupts Itachi's fallen eyeline, leanes forward with his chin tilted up to take those dark depths. fearlessly. ]
I wanna see it through. Like there's a magnet inside'a me that points to you. Yeah?
no subject
[For once, however, the words do not carry the same concrete certainty intrinsic to his nature. He has seen it, but only in a few, yielding outcomes not identical. How difficult it has become, making these predictions on such limited ground. Perhaps it's only an excuse. And he doesn't enjoy that—not knowing what it is that guides the people around him, what motivates them, casting him unmoored by the unpredictability of their actions. Guanshan more than most.
He senses the approach before that lean, angular form dips into his sightline, copper-eyed, shoulders sloped.]
... If I have changed, it was not intentional. [The hook of panic tugs at him, although he manages to soothe it away. Whatever influence the gem in his throat has over him is impossible to avoid. It doesn't mean he enjoys that truth. And how much worse is it if he's changed because of his own decisions?
Dark eyes fix onto Guanshan, like a wild cat cornered.] I told you before that I have already died. I was never supposed to live this long, and any additional time spent here is borrowed. Anything you attempt to pursue with me is meaningless. The ending will always be the same.
[A warning for a challenge.]
no subject
[ his pupils dilate with the realization, darkened gaze slipping over the few pale strips of Itachi's exposed skin: adam's apple, jugular, the darkest corner of the jaw. a furtive entreaty, it feels taboo. he licks his lips and continues, feeling even more confident in his point: if Itachi came truly intending to push him away, why do something that would make him yearn to be so close? he's well-read in mixed signals. ]
You're not wrong about that, but it don't make it meaningless. It makes it more meaningful. Itachi...
[ what Synchrony allows through the muffle of clothing is filtered and staticky but earnest and truthful as he graps Itachi's forearm and presses his hand deadcenter to his chest. palm to bone, lifelines crossing lungs, it feels like a purr in time with his voice. ]
Everyone's fucked up, and everyone's on a time limit that no one knows. We'll feel that hurt no matter what. I'm willin' to suffer a lot if it means I get to feel the other shit, too.
no subject
Frustration continues to climb inside his chest, wringing the muscle of a tired heart. Guanshan doesn't understand the complexity of his confession because he has not seen it, or experienced it, or intimately known someone involved. Someone who is not him. Someone who was hurt, badly, by his choice. Someone who deserves empathy.
It is not acknowledgment, let alone forgiveness, because their perspectives are just too different from the start—as much as Guanshan attempts to peel back those layers. He wonders how long it will take. How much trying and effort, wasted on someone like him. Can he prevent it when everything has already gone so wrong? It seems he continues to allow himself to be backed into this corner.]
You talk of meaning without fully comprehending what it is I have told you. You're ignorant, but rather than try to understand the other perspective, you value your own hedonism instead.
[The words are quiet, but not gentle; something sharper edges his tone. His hand is lifted and laid against Guanshan's chest—it's almost as though he's put the knife into his hand. Itachi closes his fingers into a fist, gathering the shirt's fabric, and uses this hold to yank hard. The movement is a quick blur. He's pulled Guanshan around, slamming him against the wall. That deceptively strong hand slides up to hold him around the throat. There's no real supernatural strength involved; he doesn't even need it.]
How much are you willing to suffer? What is it you really wish to feel?
no subject
[ wearing his flaws on his sleeve has always been a little like armor, a little like bait. an insurance policy for when humans inevitably let each other down — I told you so — but also dripping meat the right (wrong?) person wants to take a bite of. it's more relief than alarm that Itachi shows him some teeth, something like irritation starting to brighten his tone, enliven it. anything that deviates from his calm and collected baseline feels like a victory, and Guanshan licks his lips to the honeypot. ]
[ and then there's his Pavlovian response to violence: the pulse, the breath, the coil. ]
Alive. [ the good and the bad, the hard and the soft, dark and light, painful and ecstatic. to be simultaneously wanted and rejected is the rollercoaster he craves, with the right intensity. it's a work in progress. ] Everything.
[ the tightness of Itachi's fingers on his throat impresses the shape of both words into his palm. he has to look down over angular cheekbones and a long nose to see him now, finding the darkest point of his eyes. ]
My interest don't come with any qualifications that sound like "I'm a good person who's done nothin' wrong", and I won't punish you like you want me to. [ and then, a concession, because Guanshan is loyal to nothing if not family: ] Even if you deserve it.
no subject
He can feel the vibration of voice against the shackle of his hand, palm on skin, fingers constricted over the long, vulnerable column of Guanshan's throat. Physical contact brings a clarity to Synchrony that is, as always, difficult to shake. Those words assail him; not a threat, not mean or afraid, just honest.
There is the difference: he cannot bear to endure the sensation of being alive. He hates it, unlike Guanshan. And it is most often with Guanshan that he is forced into this painful wakefulness. How could anyone enjoy it—the sticky, tacky frustration and longing both boiling up inside of him like tar, clouding his head, slowing his judgment. How it prevents him from making the right decisions. How it hurts. How could anyone want to feel this when the alternative is blissful peace, and nothing.
His fingers tighten, pressure hard enough that the impression of a hand-shaped bruise is just beginning to form, and Guanshan's air supply is just beginning to be choked off, before he releases the hold. Steps back. Turning around, he heads for the balcony to leave unless he's stopped.]