[It doesn't surprise him to hear Kisame is since settled, practicality and productivity a shared trait of their years-long partnership. Gaze yet guarded, he simply nods his head and begins to walk, fine to be led. Silence dominates the air between them for the duration of this journey. Once, it would have been comfortable, a slice of normalcy cut out of an abnormal, violent way of life. Now he discovers himself discomfited—almost unusually restless. Kept under a outward guise of composure, his mind spins through predictive thoughts and evaluations: if this version of his partner remembers nothing, they will have to go through the conversation of his death a second time. Should he conceal it as he did before? Or, in the months since, practice newfound honesty?
He doesn't discard the possibility that Kisame is from a future moment in time. After all, Sasuke was, in both circumstances of their reunion. This unsettles him the most. He does not like to imagine a world of more prickly unknowns, but perhaps it would be the logically preferred option. Less to explain.
When they reach the townhouse, he slows, a look taking in the size of it. Easily much larger than his own studio on the top level of an apartment building; he would not know what to do with so much space. He also notes the traps, and the disarray of furniture. How strange to think his own paranoia has been waning in the recent days by comparison. Perhaps something he should work on correcting.
Picking a path down the hall and into the kitchen, he goes to stand by the counter with a stillness that speaks of finality. A posture meaning: we need to talk.]
What do you last remember, before you came to consciousness in this place?
[ Although this is ostensibly Kisame's space, it doesn't surprise him in the least when Itachi takes charge within. His partner chooses where they'll speak and leads the conversation directly to the most pressing matter. It's reminiscent of their first meeting in Hell so many months ago. Kisame was warier then, confused to the point that he wondered if he were trapped in Itachi's genjutsu — or, alternately, if Itachi was truly Itachi at all. He recalls his own silence and his calculating stare as he weighed whether or not to believe his partner. Could he pantomime such a reaction again?
Kisame sets his bag of samples on the kitchen table, stealing another few seconds before choosing his path. ]
… Hell, if you can believe that.
[ And if Itachi can't? Well, their positions in Hell will be reversed: Kisame will have knowledge of another dimension, and Itachi will not. Either way, it's not a complete answer, but it's a place to start. ]
[From the dense, richly tangled greenery of the island of Harasaka, on plateaued land overlooking a steep vista of shrines and mountainous terrain, Itachi watches the sun come down. It sinks like a red blister into its western grave and fades in bruised colors on that horizon. His back is against stone, one of the elaborate temples erected to worship Emerald behind him, cool stone structures slanting the last daylight in stripes across dark, surrounding wilderness. He takes in a thick breath, feeling the familiar pressure on his chest as lungs struggle to filter oxygen, then exhales slowly, one hand lifting to wipe a smear of blood on his mouth like gory red lipstick. Fingers fall to his throat reflexively, painted nails clicking against crystal that has begun to encase skin. The creeping line of amethyst is brilliant purple, surface glinting in a smooth sheen as he lowers his head. Callused fingertips follow it south, down the column of his throat to a collar where he stops, cystrallization vanishing down ribs and chest beneath the black fabric of his long-sleeved shirt.
Somehow, chakra drained and body afflicted with terminal illness, he’d brought on manna starvation much earlier than predicted.
Should he have expected it would reach this point? If he was more careful, could he have avoided it? The answer is impossible to guess. Perhaps if he hadn’t overexerted himself as he and Kisame had confronted the problem at the lake, he wouldn’t be in this position. But even that isn’t certain. The only fact of the matter is he’ll need to resolve this problem soon, because time won’t last him the return trip.
With Stiles in Sumarlok, the obvious candidates are his brother or his partner. Yet Synchrony with Sasuke would reveal the secret he’s so desperately concealing, and Synchrony with Kisame remains uncharted, dangerous waters. The latter of which is likely worth navigation for the sake of his life—if he could only manage the energy to seek the other man out.
Coming to this place was almost instinct beyond the iron roots of his own control, a desire to be alone and far away like some wounded animal looking for a place to die in peace. Is it permanent here? Itachi doesn’t reasonably know that. It feels as though he should.
Snapped sharply from the rumination of thoughts, he straightens against stone at the noise of nearby approach. Eyes leech red, wasting chakra on fumes, necessary now—the aura he senses is dark and oppressive, carrying the unreadable signature of otherworldly magic. Itachi’s fingers slide a kunai out of one pocket with preternatural stealth, and waits.]
[ Overgrown ivy creeps jagged stone, clustering stark evergreen against earthy brown and faded gray. A sprawling cacophony sprawls ahead—chiseled bedrock, slanting shrines erected by autarchic hands, masterless neon spotted wild flora. Darkness picks 'em off one by one, night's fingers stretching against the last sigh of light, orange and pink inevitably fading into comfortable dotted black.
A sight that pulls the daemon's mouth up at the corners, sharing a glint of sharp teeth from between taut lips. Silvery, dripping navy makes it all the same, a once size fits all cloak. The terrain beneath his zori doesn't change but yet feels disparate for the way it sings now, breathing fresh heat into his veins. Dusk falling on the wild gives him a charge, electric starlight snapping at his senses—and that charge comes a touch of adrenaline.
It's after night falls that you find the best monsters, after all.
The Rangetsu had rooted their style in stealth, but Rokurou puts very little of his clan's penchant for subterfuge to use as he traverses forward. It's only curiosity and a restless spirit that brings him so deep, happy pit viper draped in shades of purple looking for something to sharpen his blade against. Never a religious man, any house of God is as sacred to him as the branches snapping beneath his zori. Yet he can't resist scouting out ruins and temples, taste for both having grown on him courtesy of his travels back home. With a lack of a need for sleep and restlessness having plagued him for weeks now (a mood, always this mood, whenever he thinks of him), what else is a daemon to do but do what daemons do best?
The air's grown cold. Each inhale is a brisk punch, makes the lungs expand and ache with chilly bite. Fresh, away from the bustle of port and trains, reminding him of the isolated mountains back in Midgand where only monsters slither—all it lacks is the thick mist to clam against warm skin. Which is why on another deep inhale, the slight change of note pauses his steps. Crisp greenery along with something all monsters have a taste for, be it willingly or unwillingly so: blood. Rokurou's reveled in so much tacky copper tang that the scent's imprinted on his senses—which are sharp as a tack, a daemon blessing beneath its curse. ]
Dead? [ the voice somehow manages to be smooth with its touch of rasp, low hum a drawl as an errant hand slides against the stone the other man's against—Rokurou leans, a waterfall of inky hair that doesn't manage to hide how his eyes are mismatched when the crimson one stands out in the shadows, simmer of red with spiraled back. both focus in, curiously. ] ... No, dying.
[Up to this point, he has had little difficulty maintaining a decent physical condition with the aid of Synchrony and this world’s superior medicinal technology—excluding the incident that had occurred in Primavera. Regular checkups and prescribed drugs have done the work to moderate the worst of his symptoms. The rest is his own care: striving not to overexert himself, not expend too much chakra, and to conceal everything from the most important people in his life. Stiles, Sasuke, Kisame… the latter wouldn’t be unfamiliar to his situation, but since they’re no longer in each other’s presence most of the time, it seems useless to share. This is his own burden.
Yet there’s a reason he has set out now, through the streets of the Emerald District with a specific location in mind, conversations and circumstances heavy on his mind. What Noctium lacks is knowledge specific to his body’s unique chemistry—chakra. And there’s an individual currently present in this dimension who can help.
Dusk turning the sky cool and blue, Itachi finds the medical-nin on the way home from an errand, and here he launches a quiet, deliberate ambush, dropping into her path on the sidewalk like a black shadow suddenly materializing from empty air. His figure is as imperially slim and remote as usual, no less identifiable even in modern clothing. Noteworthy is the fact his eyes are black as well.]
[Itachi is in one of the dark, dense forests on the outskirts of Sumarlok when the stray bubble—wafting long distance on some unseen wind—lands on his shoulder. He turns his head, eyeing the filmy, oily exterior with a curiosity that borders intense caution the longer he stares at it. He can just make out the smallest images on that translucent surface: black burning flames, wide open mouths full of sharp animal teeth, pools of blood, expressions twisted in terror.
Only seconds seem to pass before he falls into a sudden trance. Mind wiped clear, Itachi finds himself leaning back on a nearby tree in shadow, possessed by the sudden swoop of magic.
Around him, the world is red—sky painted crimson from one horizon to another, the low hanging orb of the sun turned vivid with that color, eerie, nightmarish. He's standing on what appears to be a surface of water. The depths below are endless, fading darker and darker with distance, chakra in his feet all that keeps him afloat as he begins to walk.
The landscape is familiar; it looks and feels intimately like Tsukuyomi, like a corporeal illusion, and he knows he is not awake, possessed of awareness through the sheer fact of his own skill. Genjutsu can be discounted, because he could have already broken free from that—this must be the magic of Noctium's inhabitants.
Itachi doesn't know how long he walks before he finds the boy. Submerged in water, Eren looks barely afloat, easy to pick out from the terrain because he is at the center of countless dead bodies, all drifting in water without movement, swollen and floating. Eren is the only one here alive. Kneeling, a hand finds the boy's hair and snares into it, dragging his head up, forcing eye contact; Itachi's irises are as brutally red as the sky.]
[ he’s literally, quite literally, drowning in his own demise. or perhaps— he was dead already, the flimsy, paper thin skin around his neck only barely hanging around his shoulders when his head is yanked up by a fistful of silky black hair grown long and unkept. it tears and exposes muscle pale from blood loss and a gnarled spine with abnormally wide tendrils, dormant and unmoving as it’s jostled out of its sockets and body. the spine is not of bone, it’s something else, and like a creature not quite keen on exposure, it retreats its coils like that of a centipede crawling back into its hole, and with it, it keeps the young man’s head indefinitely attached to the body it hosted itself in with a slithering series of cracks.
one of the last succulent clouts it leaves behind brings a gurgling, short inhale back to eren’s lips, and the slightest of twitches from lifeless eyes that began to focus, fixate—
he couldn’t move his arms, his hands or his legs yet, they still adjusted to his awakening consciousness like a dusty marionette. if anything, their eye contact spoke loud the more he focused. the more his eyes thinned and slanted. the more he’d repel this encounter with the eyes of a creature fierce like fire, bright, bright emerald dashing into ice pool-blue. it’s very clear in its silent demand as he’s forced to take a dragging breath that birthed foam at his nostrils— from breathing water into his lungs.
he’d rather be sleeping than see any of this again. the screaming, the trampled bodies, floating hair attached to unknown masses and teeth in between. he could see itachi, but he didn’t actually want to. not here and not in the spiraling decline of his psyche. ]
[The tug is subtle at first, nearly missed, a flutter of red from the corner of one eye on an especially hot, dark night in greater Sumarlok, after he's left the humid beaches of Filia and returned to the city. When he looks down, seeing the string that unspools off into the distance like a long vein, he doesn't need a native to tell him what it is. Evidently, such cultural ideas overlap even with his own world. Itachi may not identify it as a soulstring, not in that single evocative word, but the sense of purpose—a spiritual tether made real—isn't any new concept.
This recognition doesn't ease the cold shock he experiences in any way.
The decision to follow it to the other end doesn't immediately occur to him as an option; an entire day passes, slender crimson string knotted to his right index finger for all of those twenty-four hours, gently tugging as if pulled by some distant, invisible force. The area around his finger begins to ache after that day, skin pink and chafed, irritated, a message that ignoring it will not make it go away.
Itachi possesses no true expectation for who might be on the other end—whether it will be a face he knows or a stranger's eyes, looking back at him blankly. When the string leads him down below the city, into the choked, dark streets of the Ruby Underground, he finds that his body is taken with tension, primed for a threat. Neither has this other person sought him out; perhaps they don't know what significance the string carries culturally, here or in any other dimension. Perhaps they don't care.
The building would have been difficult to find without the string, tucked in a derelict corner of the neighborhood, barely lit, dank with moisture. It leads down into a basement level. With red eyes, Itachi descends, perceiving the crowd hemmed-in around a raised platform: an illegal fighting ring, as soon becomes obvious. The string vanishes somewhere into this chaotic scene.]
[ one morning, he wakes up to a curious red string tied around his finger, leading to some(one)where unknown. this is probably the first time six has encountered anything like this so of course the first thing he tries to do is cut it off, figuring it was rokurou's attempt of playing a trick on him. when it becomes clear that this isn't the case, he does the next best thing: he ignores it.
for the rest of the day.
he winds up in the heart of the ruby underground one way or another, every inch of him itching to work through the the tension in his bones. there are only a few arenas around here that allow the gembonded to participate and this is one of his usual haunts. the organizers already know by the look on his face just how badly he wants to be here (he doesn't) so of course they toss him right in.
the first round goes by pretty easily; a rookie fighter who doesn't know any better. the second one gives him a bit of trouble but he manages to take the guy down in less than ten minutes. the third one would have ended up the same as the latter two, but something is different this time. something else catches his eye — the string feels taut, almost as though it can snap at any moment.
his opponent takes this opportunity to swipe at him, catching him off-guard, knocking him off-balance. the crowd goes wild because it's the first time anyone has been able to land a hit on him, but that barely bothers the erune.
what does bother him is how he has a clear line of sight to who it is he's attached to.
who is that person...?
without hesitating, he wanders away from the ring much to the dismay of everyone watching. the boo's are loud and vicious but he's only got one thing in mind — a straight beeline to the one on the other side of this string. ]
... You. What is the meaning of this?
[ you know, just in case it was this guys' idea. ]
[He would not have been willingly talked into this by anyone else. At the entrance to Eden, the wide open, black, rippling ocean at their backs, Itachi stands with an irregular tension—one that clearly denotes some spectrum between discomfort and hesitation. He has borne the necessities of dress code like a soldier weathering war: rigid and near-silent, allowing bioluminescent paint to be scrawled up the length of his right arm, covering scarred flesh from the bicep down, even to the tips of fingers. The native Haembohedra has also tucked a few gleaming, neon strokes just under his chin and down his throat, long bold lines that end at the amethyst in his collar.
It would be more comfortable, he realizes, if he was wearing the mask he had at Club Penance. A familiar comfort of disguise and concealment. The thought is strange to have, but not surprising when the rest of his outfit is almost identical: half-sleeve fishnet, its mesh less durable than what he's accustomed but a decent enough replacement (under duress of limited options at the time) considering the warm air wafting out of Eden's front entrance. Due to Filia's tropical humidity, he has also tied up his hair into a full bun at the back of his head to keep it off a flushed nape. All of it feels unnatural, stripped down a degree of composure even if he's not showing it in his expression or outward body language.
Dark eyes slide right, landing on the boy responsible for his current situation. As always, the thread of Synchrony between them is bright and alive, communicating everything that isn't said. A burn of blame, how dare you bring me here, softened by deep fondness and less familiar playfulness.]
They're painting your entire back. Are you aware?
[Released from the volunteer artist, he draws closer to Stiles' side, near enough their elbows touch in deliberate contact. The pulsing noise of music from inside the club requires him to lean in to be better heard.]
[ The cool, wet stroke of the brush elicits a shiver from him as it passes again down his spine, painting the naked expanse of his back in dark blue hues. It tickles, but not in a way that has him giggling uncontrollably; instead, it heats the low-grade arousal that’s been simmering in his blood since first seeing Itachi’s outfit – the mesh shirt doing little to hide the dusky nipples set in clearly defined pecs or the ripple of muscle trailing down a slender, firm abdomen. Stiles licks dry lips, a not entirely unconscious gesture, and belatedly forces his gaze up to his boyfriend’s face. The illusion of shorter hair on the man does strange things to his already overburdened libido; as much as he prefers the long waterfall of black locks to hang loose, seeing it swept up off that graceful column of a neck has Stiles itching to press his mouth there.
Bottomline? Itachi looks positively sinful tonight, and Stiles is ready to debauch himself at the altar. ]
She “has a vision,” [ he explains, glancing over his shoulder in an attempt to watch the woman. ] Whatever that means.
[ From behind him, the gem hums in amusement but continues painting in silence. She has a large canvas to work with; Stiles has donned a sleeveless, backless hoodie for the occasion. While he can’t see what she’s doing, the gem has decided to render the night’s sky across his skin, with only the stars done in the bioluminescent paint. As she puts the finishing touches on it, the woman glances at Itachi for approval before announcing she’s done.
Stiles immediately unfolds from the unnaturally still position he’d been holding, shaking out stiff limbs and reaching forward to grasp his boyfriend’s hand for the simple, sweet joy of touching Itachi. The physical contact only boils his blood hotter, Synchrony betraying his worked-up state. His thumb pets along the raised edges of old scar tissue, now disguised with paint, in a rhythm set by the music from the club. ]
Ready? [ asks Stiles, voice husky and eyes hooded. Without waiting for an answer, he’s pulling them through the front entrance of Eden. ] Don’t let go.
[ They’re admitted. Humid, recycled air heavy with the scent of sweat greets them as soon as they pass inside, while the glare of colorful spotlights reveals the writhing mass of bodies dancing on the floor. The thrumming bass has its own pulse, its powerful vibrations interrupting the natural cadence of his own heartbeat. Stiles can’t even hear himself think, feet guiding them away from the most populated areas of the club toward a bar in the back. It doesn’t escape his notice the way some clubgoers stop and stare – not at him, of course, but at the shinobi in his wake – their gazes as hungry and predatory as Stiles himself feels.
At the bar, he orders two double shots of hard liquor, absently pushing away a foreign hand that slides down his arm suggestively. ]
[When Alex arrives at the quaint teahouse on the edge of the Farmer’s Market in Emerald District, not far from the government residential area, she is first met by an elderly gem couple—a man named Fern (slouched, smiling, pale complexion) and a woman named Paprika (tall, chatty, dark rouged skin), the current business owners going on quite a few years now. At their side is a leashed dog on a halter, energetically nosing around Alex’s feet for all the interesting scents she’s carried in from outside. “Oh, sorry about the little one, we’re babysitting for a bit… please, can you take the delivery into the back? Someone will be there to help you with it.” They’ll point to a doorway with a short hanging curtain serving as the divider.
And that someone is Itachi Uchiha, at a counter sorting out boxes of locally sourced tea leaves with an impassive expression. If she is perceptive enough to see it, she may spot the dark sleepless circles under his eyes and the pallid shade of his complexion, as though drained of every shred of vitality left to it. Standing rigid, he doesn’t turn at the sound of footsteps. A few moments pass before black eyes glance over one narrow shoulder.]
Alex. I didn’t expect you here. [Low, quiet, and resiliently even.] Are you making a delivery?
[ The cold, wet nose against her ankle startles Alex from behind the boxes in her arms, but not enough for her to drop them. She reassures the couple it’s no problem, only regretting that she had no free hands to pet the adorable puppy with. Moving along as directed, it’s the familiar voice that registers first, her gaze immediately finding its source and brightening instantly.
But if there was something Alex was adept at, it was observing others. The dark circles and pallor of his face do not go unnoticed, and even the steadiness of his tone had a different weight to it. ]
Yeah, I…am…
[ She trails off as she walks towards him, placing the boxes on the nearest counter top before stopping right before him. Her focus was already elsewhere, wondering what could possibly have gotten him to such a state. Without saying much else, she pulls off one of her gloves and presses a hand against his forehead. ]
[Days have passed. Bland, tedious, unending days and sleepless nights, world turned into a permanent grey state of ennui—as before his long-sought death, only made worse by a return to feeling, sensation and emotion like devils on his back. That awful, mired nightmare of loss. He had thought he would never feel this way again. Tenma’s death was the first taste, a brutal slaughter in front of his eyes; then Shisui, then his parents, then the countless bodies of men and women and children like a miniature battlefield of war recreated by his own hypocritical hands, stains across a tattered soul. Except that even death offers a kind of finality. A corpse, sometimes even motivation, logical cause to the effect.
This doesn’t. Stiles is just gone, vanished upon his return to Sumarlok from Filia. The house is cold and empty, Sophia left behind (whining where she lays curled on top of a discarded flannel), everything where it should be, is meant to be, in the absence and stillness of one person, now seeming strange and shadowed and wrong—cast out of an orbit lacking its center point of gravity. By the time he returns to the house, much later and with Sophia turned over to capable babysitters, there is no real reason to be there. Yet he lingers for an hour. Upon final exit, there’s a newly black-scorched mark across the back garden, greenery turned to ash in a wide scar of ruin, and the air still shimmers with supernatural heat where Amaterasu nearly took down the building.
Across the Emerald District, he lifts a hand to wipe his face and can’t tell if the moisture that smears underneath the palm is blood or rain, or if it matters. The rainstorm has moved swiftly across greater Sumarlok, clouds swollen and sky bruised in the ominous hallmarks of vengeful weather, choking the city in a wet-hot blanket of humidity and saturating air like some thick sponge. He finds himself balancing on the lip of the balcony before reason can chase the tail of instinct. Red, aching eyes can see the energy signature through apartment walls—a familiar lick of warmth, dark and guttering like a torch-flame, alone. Still he doesn’t go in, perched outside in the torrential rain until his body is soaked to bone, surrounded by potted plants whose leaves gleam slippery green, a vitality at odds with his own lack.
His chest aches from an earlier fit of coughs. His shirt collar is tacky with blood, chin and cheeks smeared in the mess made slick with rainwater, gaze narrowed hard on the unopened glass door. Will Guanshan see him? Does he want to be seen, or would it be better to slip away now, carrying this burden with him into solitude, guilty for even the want of companionship? He had thought he would be prepared for this.
That fathomless ocean of unguarded grief grazes Guanshan, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing inside—vulnerable evidence of a presence on the balcony.]
[ through the static, buzzing onslaught of a wall-turned-television full of explosions and quippy one-liners, a humid gloam reaches out to him through the walls of his apartment and beneath his blankets, soaking it all in the mood falling from the sky. it encourages him to nervous action; what had started as a self-indulgent day off spent alone in bed quickly takes a turn south as he emerges from the hallway of his bedroom and casts his eyes upon the raven that comes knocking on his door. he acts before thinking. ]
[ the patio door slams open and Guanshan, with a blanket in his hands and his heart in his throat, steps out into the downpour and whips it around Itachi's shoulders. pulling him bodily off the ledge by his fists in the fabric, the balcony above is the only thing keeping him from getting as drenched as the inky wet shadow spilling in. ]
[ it isn't remiss on him that he's never told him which apartment specifically he lived in, nor that Itachi is not the type to arrive unannounced. it means there's only one possibility: ]
What happened?
[ the first thing he does after securing him on solid ground is start looking him over for wounds. there's blood — droplets and smears of it, rivulets run pink in the torrent — but he can't place the source. there's no cut or bruise visible, and his hands start hastily moving through the wet fabric suctioned to Itachi's chest to search for further damage. someone else's? ]
[ The shuttle is packed with new Gembonded, fresh from their trials in the Burnished Crater. Stiles – even now an outsider who does not belong – sits quietly among them, ignoring each kind attempt to draw him into conversation. Gaze pinned on the floor between his feet, he looks without seeing, eyes glassy and unfocused. Eventually, the neighbors on either side of him take a hint, allowing his presence to melt away into the background. And there, he broods. According to the GemSci researcher he spoke with, a week has passed on Noctium since the date he was returned to Earth. But in the span of that single week, three months unfolded for him in California. It feels as though he’s leading two distinctly separate lives, his identity struggling beneath the cumbersome weight of mixed memories. He no longer can say with certainty where “home” is anymore – if it’s in Beacon Hills with the pack and Lydia or Sumarlok with Sophia and Itachi. Who is he?
Stiles has reached no conclusion by the time the shuttle lands. Expression carved from stone, he exits with the crowd but leaves the other Gembonded behind as they’re guided toward the Embassy for processing. Walking along the sidewalk to the Emerald District, summer sun flaying him alive in his long-sleeve flannel and dark pants, he stumbles under a nauseating surge of déjà vu. Like simultaneously months have passed versus only a day since he last traveled these streets. That sticky, unpleasant sensation clinging to his awareness only intensifies on his way to the house. When he eventually arrives, it’s to the sight of withering plants that have baked beneath the humid heatwave without regular watering. The house itself is empty, a thin layer of dust just beginning to visibly collect on shelves. Sophia’s dishes and lead are both missing, the first cause of relief for Stiles; he’d worried how she had fared during his absence.
Movements mechanical, he changes into clothes more appropriate for the season and collects his phone from where he last left it: charging on the nightstand beside the bed. There’s no sign of the Akatsuki ring. It pains him to think that it might have disappeared between dimensions, but the pressure to meet with Itachi as soon as possible keeps him from mourning the loss. He lingers just long enough at the house to notice the black scorch marks that have dug trenches in the backyard garden. Curiosity sealed behind a wall of cold, haunted misery, he doesn’t investigate.
There’s no text sent ahead to let Itachi know he’s coming. No touch of long-distance Synchrony to warn the shinobi that he’s returned. He hangs on the precarious edge of a breakdown, thoughts scattered like a whiteout blanket of snow across the landscape. Nothing feels real anymore. Nothing, except the hot torrent of instinct driving him with increasing pace toward a single man – a man he forgot existed while back in Beacon Hills. Stiles needs to see Itachi, face to face, immediately. He needs to confirm that their relationship wasn’t some misguided delusion he dreamt up, that the time they spent together happened in spite of his conflicting memories.
When he next surfaces from his thoughts, Stiles finds himself standing in front of the door to Itachi’s apartment, fist raised as if to knock. A moment of hesitation locks his limbs in place, freezing him. What if he really did fantasize the whole thing? What if the man has already moved on? What about Lydia? “Remember that I love you,” he’d told her seconds before the Ghost Riders had abducted him. How can he possibly look Itachi in the eyes again after betraying their relationship, intentionally or not? And isn’t this itself a betrayal to Lydia?
[It wasn't his intention to remain long in the apartment. He had returned only an hour ago with nothing significant to do, as everything in this second life now was; hours passed at enduring, burdensome increments he hardly tracked. The Nightmare needed watering, and he could bathe himself in peace and privacy. Bare minimum maintenance. Perhaps even that was more than he had done in a number of days. He can't fully comprehend why he has been reduced to this state—he knew this would be the eventual outcome. But perhaps not in such a twist of uncertainty; it is easy to consider what would happen if one day they were returned to their origin worlds, or if he and Stiles arrived in another place, but less bearable to consider that he might be left behind permanently, forced to drag out some half-hearted, unwanted existence in this place. Each moment is a question: will tomorrow deliver a new dimension? Will he ever see Stiles again? Will he wake up at all?
What would he prefer?
The knock comes as a surprise, so that Itachi goes still in the threshold of the bathroom, counter streaked in blood from another coughing fit. He stares hard at the door—his mind turns, struggling to make a decision, reluctant to. He is halfway committed to the judgment that he will ignore it when Russell swoops over, pecking determinedly at wood, scraping floorboards with impatient talons. So he wipes off the counter with a towel, tosses it bloody into the laundry bin, runs the sink, closes the bathroom door, and walks over.
Nearly five minutes since the knock had first elapsed, he opens the door. Black eyes widen—a flicker of vivid shock—then narrow onto the boy, expression shut up like a tomb as he steps aside to allow entrance.
Never has either of them left and come back. Too exhausted, too sunk behind the shutters of himself after a week alone in his own mind, day-to-day normalcy uprooted as he always knew it would be and now sensing something different, he does not speak first. Stiles will find the interior of the apartment as bland and undecorated as ever, shadowed, sepulchered, curtains drawn to blot out the summer daylight.]
[After Malachite's most recent tantrum, the world is plunged into a temporary darkness—alarming enough to turn everyone's attention onto the immediate problem of solving the extensive power outage. Strange, then, that anyone would choose to go to Sumarlok's public library located within the city center, blackened out like a blot on a map. Normal functions of daily life disrupted, the library is a deserted building sepulchered in dark, its hallways empty but for the lonely echo of silence. Yet Itachi arrives some time after that initial loss of power unperturbed by the lack of traffic—perhaps even grateful for it. He does not want to endure the obligation of social interaction with some friendly librarian now.
Moving with preternatural stealth through the antechamber into a large room shelved with countless books, Itachi's path is illuminated with a small, handheld lantern fueled by some internal power source, given to him on the street by a helpful Diamond Guard. The rest of his figure dissolves easily into the surrounding shadow of the library. As he walks, he lifts the lantern to read the glossy spines of books along his path, evidently searching for one in particular.
[ Stealth may be the name of Itachi's game, but a light within such a dark room – casting shadows onto already inky walls – sabotages his efforts. It's a beacon in the largely abandoned building, a siren's song to the Vulcan moving silently from lower floors to spot the flicker by chance.
It blends into green-tinged walls, illuminated in patches by the aurora forcing its way through the occasional window, but not well enough. And so Spock answers the call.
He does not attempt to muffle footsteps that are light already by nature and so his words are not what he anticipates will first betray his presence, but that seems to be of little concern. Most things seem to be of little concern to the Enterprise's emotionally dysfunctional first officer. ]
Uchiha-san. [ A far politer and more appropriate form of address; after all, he is teaching the man's significant other Japanese for a reason. ] If you are seeking out a certain book in particular, perhaps I may be of service.
[Early one morning, mid-month, Itachi wakes up in a bed he doesn’t know, in a world he doesn’t recognize. The alien fear that seizes him is terrifying. He’s quick to calm it down, walking himself through the mental paces of a young shinobi’s training—he needs to investigate his surroundings and piece together what’s happened.
Still, the sole thought of Where’s Sasuke? screams louder than the rest. He can’t fully relax, going through the apartment with a rapidly rising sense of dread only to have none of his questions answered. The clothes are too big for him. The weapons are familiar, but he can’t carry them all, so he straps a few kunai to his leg with a makeshift holster instead. There’s a foreign ring on a long, black tether near the bed, ‘vermillion’; he doesn’t know what it means, so he leaves it there.
Hunger eventually drives him outside after finding little of substance in too-tall cabinets (he’d had to climb up on the counter to reach). The city is dazzling and disorienting to an eight-year-old who has never seen even the world outside his own village. Yet he navigates unfamiliar streets with determination, intact hitai-ate gleaming silver in the daylight, tiny height easily swallowed by afternoon crowds.
It’s only by random chance that Itachi decides to approach Yuta, choosing randomly—someone who appears more familiar than the individuals with strange, brightly colored features.]
Excuse me. [Polite, quiet, well-spoken despite his age.] Can you tell me where we are?
[It’s the first full transformation he’s experienced in some time. Perhaps something has slid loose in him, allowed him to succumb to Malachite’s adolescent tantrum where an indomitable will prevented it before; or perhaps he’s simply so worn down, ground to gravel and dust by weeks of emotional grief, that reverting to such a feral state is inevitable. Guessing doesn’t make the reason any clearer. It just happens—that sudden splitting, curdling pain of change powerful enough to drive him out onto the balcony of his apartment, forced to witness those first few moments of transformation. His hands twisting, mangling into black claws; his skull narrowed, pointed into a dark and slender muzzle, horned, eyes bright red and slitted; his body bent at the waist, elongating, sprouting a cascade of wispy immaterial hair like smoke; his spine growing two huge, elegant black wings, blunt feathers fluttering in the catch of a wind; his legs becoming two clawed hind limbs, a long tail uncurling, lashing with anxious little flicks.
The balcony holds his weight but it can’t contain his size—he leaps upward, forced into sudden flight, wings beating hard at air. His mind is last to make the change as it slides into animalistic nature, fully possessed, hardwired into instinct and emotion and made unreachable by reason. Now a dragon several times his original size, he streaks across the cloudless midnight sky with energy borne out of wildness, initially directionless. Russell, cawing her head off, manages to follow her owner for several streets until sheer speed brought by size carries him too far away.
He arrives suddenly at the house. Empty, empty, empty for hours—flared nostrils to the ground tell him this as he circles the property, a fruitless endeavor except for some comfort, finding the black charred grass in the garden and clawing at that spot in a fit of anxiety. Digging up mounds of dirt, covering evidence of a mistake. Then following the faded trail of scent from the doorstep down the sidewalk, oblivious to native gems who throw themselves out of his way, running to hide. He doesn’t see them. He is glued to the hunt: navigating a path through the Emerald District to one of the entrances of the Ruby Underground, clearance too low and cramped to allow further passage.
The howl is terrifying as it splits the air, anguished and infuriated, rattling nearby window glass in their frames. A leap up, another flap of black wings, and he finds a perch on the nearest building roof, claws grasping its edge and tail whipping back and forth like a cat’s. Waiting.]
[ Deep within the bowels of the Ruby Underground, Stiles pauses in his slow, mechanical march back to the surface. The faint echo of an inhuman howl rends the night, sending local gems scurrying out of the Red-light District in search of refuge. He watches listlessly as their figures disappear inside nearby buildings, making no move to join them. After a moment of silence, the young man resumes walking. Fear demands a level of energy he simply does not currently possess. Three weeks of violent nightmares and unshakeable suicidal ideation have hollowed him out until he’s become little more than a wisp of his former self, evident just by looking at him: an unhealthy pallor has leeched all the color from his face, dark circles bruise the fragile skin beneath dull eyes, and clothes hang off a dangerously thin body – the right side of which is encased in a sheet of pale green crystal, hidden behind a baggy sweatshirt despite the summer heat.
Stiles is deeply unwell. Every morning that he stirs from restless sleep, bitter disappointment floods his mouth. If only he might never wake. Only a few close bonds he’s formed with certain people prevent him from taking the matter into his own hands, though even his motivation to honor those relationships is swiftly fading day after miserable day. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go on like this, living this pathetic excuse of an existence. Nothing but lonely eternity in the Wild Hunt awaits him back on Earth and nothing he does here on Noctium seems to matter anymore. “Did you remember me?” Itachi had asked him lowly, a question that’s since taken on a warped, accusatory tone in his mind. Stiles hears it repeated in the writhing shadows of his worst dreams, whispered over and over again. “This was a mistake.” And he’s started to believe it.
Four somber moons greet him from the late evening city skyscape when he finally emerges from the Ruby Underground. Gaze dragging heavily along the ground, he doesn’t notice the skulking presence of the dragon also looming overhead. ]
[It is not the first time he's lost hold of himself in this place. The experience is neither pleasant nor painless—forced to feel his sanity slip like fine ash between his fingers, left grasping at reason until his awareness of the world pinholes into the dark. Worsened, this time, by a strange and excruciating discomfort that carves red lines across his body, scars like stitched veins around his throat and down his chest, arms, abdomen. The change isn't usual; this is not the beastly transformation he's endured a small handle of times these past several months. This is something else—ravenous and cursed, rooting feral hunger in his mind that seeks only a warm source of Manna for its satiation. In the dwindling clarity of those final minutes, he recognizes that even this transformation is not complete, even as fresh fangs taper teeth to a pearly-white point. He could not say why. Then the thought is gone, quick as it comes.
Greater Sumarlok is still, preternaturally silent. Night has not yet set in, although darkness has begun to leech the sun's colors from the sky, bleeding into the cool and crisp air of late evening. Leaves have scattered streets and sidewalks as dying greenery welcomes the change of season; he hadn't noticed that change much before. It had seemed, for so long, as though so many features of daily life were occurring to someone else—only occasionally would he wake up to feel the rain, startling icy needles on his skin, in reminder of being alive.
Now he is primed to this, a creature of nature that uses otherworldly stealth to navigate rooftops of Primavera in hunt of prey. The autumn breeze is clear enough to carry scent well; he is not cognizant to orient himself by his surroundings as he would normally, using landmarks or street names. Everything is instinctive, predatory. And perhaps that part is one and the same. He did this before, back when grief was the world he lived in and there was only one person he wished to see.
Except, twisted as he is in this state, Itachi makes a mistake.
The small boy isn't Stiles. He smells like Stiles, but he is in the wrong place, too far from the areas of Sumarlok that Itachi has since memorized to routine and schedule. There is a forest close by; that too is new, although his eyes—vivid, bloody red—are continually drawn to the tempting shadow between trees.
Instead he follows Emil home, a ghost at his back, until the boy has entered his manor and disappeared. In this state, it doesn't occur to him to associate who he's found with the person Stiles described to him, and the animal part of his mind doesn't particularly care yet, even if it is irritated not to have found Stiles. Hunger is more important.
Prowling around the perimeter of the yard, he eventually seeks its balcony. He doesn't try to find the handle of the door. The obstruction, locked or not, doesn't matter in the moment; there are many other ways inside for someone of his capabilities. What he's trying to see is a glimpse of his prey on the other side of the glass. Sight, or scent, or more obscure movement that will tell him where the boy is in the building. He needs that, first, before he can act.]
A sense of unease permeates the last few days, most of it awash in a foggy, vague desperation. Emil thinks he dreamt that Stiles had paid him a visit? The day after he felt.... not right. Not himself. But some of his friends needed his help (or specifically needed access to the nearby forest and its rumored effects on Synchrony within) and he was more than happy to answer that request; the hulking Exo named Saint-14 and his wizened warlock partner Osiris wanted to stay on the grounds, and Emil accommodated their request by setting up a canvas tent for them just inside the forest.
Decorations of carved gourds and pumpkins flank the door and even part of Emil's balcony, though these ones in particular more closely resemble jack o'lanterns, but painted in stripes and swirls of purple, green, and marigold. There are also three unique candles there, though they are unlit by the time Itachi reaches the balcony. Their purpose doesn't align with the usual traditions of the season, but seem to be a memorial of sorts.
That hardly matters in the face of the hunger that has brought him here.
His butler and maid are only expected to work during daylight hours and have since returned to the nearby town; this was decided out of a mutual wariness of the rumors of late, fretful memories of the Siren's lethal call still fresh in many Primaveran minds. The days are shorter, and Emil insists on cooking dinner for himself and his guests, so he had deposited a picnic basket to the tent, spent some time in their company, and returned to the manor feeling much more like his usual self.
Their friendly Synchrony had indeed been boosted incredibly by the storied effects of the forest, and now that his hunger for Manna has been satisfied, he realizes the cause of his malaise even if Emil can't recall why he ran so low in the first place. As he's feeling better now, it hardly seems important enough to puzzle over it when there's so much else that still needs to be done.
As he passes through the manor, he extinguishes the lights, at last arriving at his room. The hour and solitude of the house makes the silence loud and any noise louder for breaking it, so his movements are gentle, hanging a light coat in his wardrobe and shucking off his boots. When his silhouette passes the small part in the heavy drapes over the windowed balcony door, his profile is tipped down to an open book in his hands, still dressed in dark pants, a matching waistcoat with bright brass buttons, and a high-collared dress shirt with sleeves puffed at the shoulders.
He scoots his chair closer to a writing desk, his hand keeping his place in his reading open as he extracts a notebook from inside a drawer to his right. The paper is due soon--
Emil startles a little as he sees his notebook already has his essay written out entirely, his own handwriting unmistakable. Flipping back and forth between these pages, he speaks his thoughts aloud: ]
Wha-? When did I... finish this?
[ It isn't like his shaky memory is new, but it rarely results in an immediate benefit, and what he reads seems familiar. Well.... all's well that ends well? Thanks, Past Emil, for really doing him a solid. With a wondering shake of his head, he shuts his book, sliding it over the cover of his notebook. ]
[Sleep falls deep and immediate that night on the heels of physical exhaustion. It is a rare experience for him to sleep this heavy, vivid dreaming an infrequent occurrence alongside it—and even less often is the quality of those dreams pleasant. Better to feel nothing than to face the monsters from the dark. That black veil of unconsciousness shrouds his mind in the comfort of nonexistence, almost a caricature of death; it doesn't last long.
Next he is aware, he is in the bedroom of the small, plain apartment where he had fallen asleep. The light on the wall looks strange. It tilts in through the window like new daylight, yet its color is the bloody red-orange of sunset, casting the room in dark, romantic, apocalyptic hues. He's kneeling at the foot of the mattress. Half-dressed, he realizes that the shirt hanging off his upper torso isn't his own—a few sizes too large, its hem skates the flesh of his bare upper thighs, its collar drooping to reveal most of his shoulder. The scent on fabric is all the confirmation of ownership he needs. His partner bears no obvious markers, usually, but this he knows, he could not mistake it otherwise, that natural musk of a powerful body kept fastidiously clean. Kisame is too close to him not to be recognizable.
That, and the vivid, red, circular bitemark on his exposed shoulder is proof of the rest. He can feel other bites throbbing raw and warm on his body; there's one on his inner thigh, another at the meat of his calf, another on the ridge of his covered sternum. And Kisame himself is right there—laid back on the bed, stripped fully naked, scars on pale display. He has enough reach to be able to touch fingertips to the Japanese inscription of wrath beside Kisame's toned abdomen; one of the few he can read. Impressions left by other people. Where is his own?
Itachi blinks, seeing more details: his partner's strong wrists are tied above his head to the bedpost, and his cock juts up between bare, muscular thighs, swollen and shiny with the evidence of lube. His own hand is slick, sticky; he was using it on Kisame. The bindings cannot be a true confinement—Kisame is too powerful for that—which means he submitted willingly.
Bright, yellow eyes watch him as he shifts up the mattress, straddling his partner's thighs, forced to widen knees to accommodate the position. He's bare from the waist down. There's a wet and slippery feeling between his own legs that he recognizes, and is not humiliated by. Reaching out, a slender hand takes hold of Kisame's cock at the base, where he simply cradles it in the loose cage of fingers, marveling at its size, wondering how it is possibly going to fit inside of him.]
You've held on this far. [It seems natural to speak this way, in a low and velvety voice, dark, humming. It's not the way he would address just anyone, as a phantom of who he pretended to be for years; Kisame is different right now.] How much longer will you last?
[ Kisame's dreams are abstract, fueled by emotion rather than memory or fragmented logic. They are amplified to an unrealistic degree, allowing him to easily differentiate between the dreaming and waking worlds. So when he finds himself in Itachi's apartment, stretched out on the same bed in which he once curled with his partner, he does not suspect that this is a dream. Nor is there a twitch of tension when he realizes his position, or a crawling sense of self-awareness at how he is on display. Instead, there is only half-giddy anticipation, and beneath it, a quieter feeling akin to peace.
This feels natural. This feels right. This is precisely where he wants to be.
The tip of his tongue traces sharp teeth as he takes in that bold bite marking Itachi's shoulder. The memory of inflicting it (and many others) seems clear, sitting at the edge of his thoughts — but Kisame does not reach for it. Why would he? It is so much better to remain in this moment. So much better to drink in the sensation of slender fingers brushing a precious scar. So much better to watch, entranced, as Itachi moves up the mattress, the oversized shirt failing to mask smooth, controlled motions. It is his shirt, Kisame knows, and that fact fills him with heat — some in his chest, light and fluttering, and some pooling at the crux of his thighs, making his cock ache with longing.
A part of Kisame desperately wishes to reach out and touch Itachi, to slide his hands up those pale, widened thighs and nudge aside the hem of his shirt, exposing the lovely cock tenting dark fabric. But although his wrists test their bonds, Kisame does not break them. There is freedom in this confinement, in this surrender to his partner, and he does not wish to relinquish it.
Still, he cannot entirely suppress the way his hips twitch, muscles flexing with the restrained urge to thrust up into Itachi's slick, teasingly light grip — or rather, Itachi's touch, as it can hardly be called a "grip" yet. He exhales a laugh that masks nothing; at this moment, he is genuinely happy. ]
Oh, I don't know… Quite a while, perhaps. [ His tone is light, a contrast to his partner's that compliments rather than clashes, underlaid with the slightest tremor betraying the depth of his desire. ] I'm sure that you could change that if you tried. But is that really what you want to test…?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@samebito
[It doesn't surprise him to hear Kisame is since settled, practicality and productivity a shared trait of their years-long partnership. Gaze yet guarded, he simply nods his head and begins to walk, fine to be led. Silence dominates the air between them for the duration of this journey. Once, it would have been comfortable, a slice of normalcy cut out of an abnormal, violent way of life. Now he discovers himself discomfited—almost unusually restless. Kept under a outward guise of composure, his mind spins through predictive thoughts and evaluations: if this version of his partner remembers nothing, they will have to go through the conversation of his death a second time. Should he conceal it as he did before? Or, in the months since, practice newfound honesty?
He doesn't discard the possibility that Kisame is from a future moment in time. After all, Sasuke was, in both circumstances of their reunion. This unsettles him the most. He does not like to imagine a world of more prickly unknowns, but perhaps it would be the logically preferred option. Less to explain.
When they reach the townhouse, he slows, a look taking in the size of it. Easily much larger than his own studio on the top level of an apartment building; he would not know what to do with so much space. He also notes the traps, and the disarray of furniture. How strange to think his own paranoia has been waning in the recent days by comparison. Perhaps something he should work on correcting.
Picking a path down the hall and into the kitchen, he goes to stand by the counter with a stillness that speaks of finality. A posture meaning: we need to talk.]
What do you last remember, before you came to consciousness in this place?
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Kisame sets his bag of samples on the kitchen table, stealing another few seconds before choosing his path. ]
… Hell, if you can believe that.
[ And if Itachi can't? Well, their positions in Hell will be reversed: Kisame will have knowledge of another dimension, and Itachi will not. Either way, it's not a complete answer, but it's a place to start. ]
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@swordhardy
Somehow, chakra drained and body afflicted with terminal illness, he’d brought on manna starvation much earlier than predicted.
Should he have expected it would reach this point? If he was more careful, could he have avoided it? The answer is impossible to guess. Perhaps if he hadn’t overexerted himself as he and Kisame had confronted the problem at the lake, he wouldn’t be in this position. But even that isn’t certain. The only fact of the matter is he’ll need to resolve this problem soon, because time won’t last him the return trip.
With Stiles in Sumarlok, the obvious candidates are his brother or his partner. Yet Synchrony with Sasuke would reveal the secret he’s so desperately concealing, and Synchrony with Kisame remains uncharted, dangerous waters. The latter of which is likely worth navigation for the sake of his life—if he could only manage the energy to seek the other man out.
Coming to this place was almost instinct beyond the iron roots of his own control, a desire to be alone and far away like some wounded animal looking for a place to die in peace. Is it permanent here? Itachi doesn’t reasonably know that. It feels as though he should.
Snapped sharply from the rumination of thoughts, he straightens against stone at the noise of nearby approach. Eyes leech red, wasting chakra on fumes, necessary now—the aura he senses is dark and oppressive, carrying the unreadable signature of otherworldly magic. Itachi’s fingers slide a kunai out of one pocket with preternatural stealth, and waits.]
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A sight that pulls the daemon's mouth up at the corners, sharing a glint of sharp teeth from between taut lips. Silvery, dripping navy makes it all the same, a once size fits all cloak. The terrain beneath his zori doesn't change but yet feels disparate for the way it sings now, breathing fresh heat into his veins. Dusk falling on the wild gives him a charge, electric starlight snapping at his senses—and that charge comes a touch of adrenaline.
It's after night falls that you find the best monsters, after all.
The Rangetsu had rooted their style in stealth, but Rokurou puts very little of his clan's penchant for subterfuge to use as he traverses forward. It's only curiosity and a restless spirit that brings him so deep, happy pit viper draped in shades of purple looking for something to sharpen his blade against. Never a religious man, any house of God is as sacred to him as the branches snapping beneath his zori. Yet he can't resist scouting out ruins and temples, taste for both having grown on him courtesy of his travels back home. With a lack of a need for sleep and restlessness having plagued him for weeks now (a mood, always this mood, whenever he thinks of him), what else is a daemon to do but do what daemons do best?
The air's grown cold. Each inhale is a brisk punch, makes the lungs expand and ache with chilly bite. Fresh, away from the bustle of port and trains, reminding him of the isolated mountains back in Midgand where only monsters slither—all it lacks is the thick mist to clam against warm skin. Which is why on another deep inhale, the slight change of note pauses his steps. Crisp greenery along with something all monsters have a taste for, be it willingly or unwillingly so: blood. Rokurou's reveled in so much tacky copper tang that the scent's imprinted on his senses—which are sharp as a tack, a daemon blessing beneath its curse. ]
Dead? [ the voice somehow manages to be smooth with its touch of rasp, low hum a drawl as an errant hand slides against the stone the other man's against—Rokurou leans, a waterfall of inky hair that doesn't manage to hide how his eyes are mismatched when the crimson one stands out in the shadows, simmer of red with spiraled back. both focus in, curiously. ] ... No, dying.
[ A light comment, but not a dispassionate one. ]
You're not what I expected to find here.
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@decks
Yet there’s a reason he has set out now, through the streets of the Emerald District with a specific location in mind, conversations and circumstances heavy on his mind. What Noctium lacks is knowledge specific to his body’s unique chemistry—chakra. And there’s an individual currently present in this dimension who can help.
Dusk turning the sky cool and blue, Itachi finds the medical-nin on the way home from an errand, and here he launches a quiet, deliberate ambush, dropping into her path on the sidewalk like a black shadow suddenly materializing from empty air. His figure is as imperially slim and remote as usual, no less identifiable even in modern clothing. Noteworthy is the fact his eyes are black as well.]
Haruno Sakura.
@flatten
Only seconds seem to pass before he falls into a sudden trance. Mind wiped clear, Itachi finds himself leaning back on a nearby tree in shadow, possessed by the sudden swoop of magic.
Around him, the world is red—sky painted crimson from one horizon to another, the low hanging orb of the sun turned vivid with that color, eerie, nightmarish. He's standing on what appears to be a surface of water. The depths below are endless, fading darker and darker with distance, chakra in his feet all that keeps him afloat as he begins to walk.
The landscape is familiar; it looks and feels intimately like Tsukuyomi, like a corporeal illusion, and he knows he is not awake, possessed of awareness through the sheer fact of his own skill. Genjutsu can be discounted, because he could have already broken free from that—this must be the magic of Noctium's inhabitants.
Itachi doesn't know how long he walks before he finds the boy. Submerged in water, Eren looks barely afloat, easy to pick out from the terrain because he is at the center of countless dead bodies, all drifting in water without movement, swollen and floating. Eren is the only one here alive. Kneeling, a hand finds the boy's hair and snares into it, dragging his head up, forcing eye contact; Itachi's irises are as brutally red as the sky.]
Can you see me, Eren?
🔥🔥🔥 (cw for body horror)
one of the last succulent clouts it leaves behind brings a gurgling, short inhale back to eren’s lips, and the slightest of twitches from lifeless eyes that began to focus, fixate—
he couldn’t move his arms, his hands or his legs yet, they still adjusted to his awakening consciousness like a dusty marionette. if anything, their eye contact spoke loud the more he focused. the more his eyes thinned and slanted. the more he’d repel this encounter with the eyes of a creature fierce like fire, bright, bright emerald dashing into ice pool-blue. it’s very clear in its silent demand as he’s forced to take a dragging breath that birthed foam at his nostrils— from breathing water into his lungs.
he’d rather be sleeping than see any of this again. the screaming, the trampled bodies, floating hair attached to unknown masses and teeth in between. he could see itachi, but he didn’t actually want to. not here and not in the spiraling decline of his psyche. ]
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cw discussion of suicide
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@wray
This recognition doesn't ease the cold shock he experiences in any way.
The decision to follow it to the other end doesn't immediately occur to him as an option; an entire day passes, slender crimson string knotted to his right index finger for all of those twenty-four hours, gently tugging as if pulled by some distant, invisible force. The area around his finger begins to ache after that day, skin pink and chafed, irritated, a message that ignoring it will not make it go away.
Itachi possesses no true expectation for who might be on the other end—whether it will be a face he knows or a stranger's eyes, looking back at him blankly. When the string leads him down below the city, into the choked, dark streets of the Ruby Underground, he finds that his body is taken with tension, primed for a threat. Neither has this other person sought him out; perhaps they don't know what significance the string carries culturally, here or in any other dimension. Perhaps they don't care.
The building would have been difficult to find without the string, tucked in a derelict corner of the neighborhood, barely lit, dank with moisture. It leads down into a basement level. With red eyes, Itachi descends, perceiving the crowd hemmed-in around a raised platform: an illegal fighting ring, as soon becomes obvious. The string vanishes somewhere into this chaotic scene.]
crawls here slowly...
for the rest of the day.
he winds up in the heart of the ruby underground one way or another, every inch of him itching to work through the the tension in his bones. there are only a few arenas around here that allow the gembonded to participate and this is one of his usual haunts. the organizers already know by the look on his face just how badly he wants to be here (he doesn't) so of course they toss him right in.
the first round goes by pretty easily; a rookie fighter who doesn't know any better. the second one gives him a bit of trouble but he manages to take the guy down in less than ten minutes. the third one would have ended up the same as the latter two, but something is different this time. something else catches his eye — the string feels taut, almost as though it can snap at any moment.
his opponent takes this opportunity to swipe at him, catching him off-guard, knocking him off-balance. the crowd goes wild because it's the first time anyone has been able to land a hit on him, but that barely bothers the erune.
what does bother him is how he has a clear line of sight to who it is he's attached to.
who is that person...?
without hesitating, he wanders away from the ring much to the dismay of everyone watching. the boo's are loud and vicious but he's only got one thing in mind — a straight beeline to the one on the other side of this string. ]
... You. What is the meaning of this?
[ you know, just in case it was this guys' idea. ]
opens arms
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@mensrea
It would be more comfortable, he realizes, if he was wearing the mask he had at Club Penance. A familiar comfort of disguise and concealment. The thought is strange to have, but not surprising when the rest of his outfit is almost identical: half-sleeve fishnet, its mesh less durable than what he's accustomed but a decent enough replacement (under duress of limited options at the time) considering the warm air wafting out of Eden's front entrance. Due to Filia's tropical humidity, he has also tied up his hair into a full bun at the back of his head to keep it off a flushed nape. All of it feels unnatural, stripped down a degree of composure even if he's not showing it in his expression or outward body language.
Dark eyes slide right, landing on the boy responsible for his current situation. As always, the thread of Synchrony between them is bright and alive, communicating everything that isn't said. A burn of blame, how dare you bring me here, softened by deep fondness and less familiar playfulness.]
They're painting your entire back. Are you aware?
[Released from the volunteer artist, he draws closer to Stiles' side, near enough their elbows touch in deliberate contact. The pulsing noise of music from inside the club requires him to lean in to be better heard.]
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Bottomline? Itachi looks positively sinful tonight, and Stiles is ready to debauch himself at the altar. ]
She “has a vision,” [ he explains, glancing over his shoulder in an attempt to watch the woman. ] Whatever that means.
[ From behind him, the gem hums in amusement but continues painting in silence. She has a large canvas to work with; Stiles has donned a sleeveless, backless hoodie for the occasion. While he can’t see what she’s doing, the gem has decided to render the night’s sky across his skin, with only the stars done in the bioluminescent paint. As she puts the finishing touches on it, the woman glances at Itachi for approval before announcing she’s done.
Stiles immediately unfolds from the unnaturally still position he’d been holding, shaking out stiff limbs and reaching forward to grasp his boyfriend’s hand for the simple, sweet joy of touching Itachi. The physical contact only boils his blood hotter, Synchrony betraying his worked-up state. His thumb pets along the raised edges of old scar tissue, now disguised with paint, in a rhythm set by the music from the club. ]
Ready? [ asks Stiles, voice husky and eyes hooded. Without waiting for an answer, he’s pulling them through the front entrance of Eden. ] Don’t let go.
[ They’re admitted. Humid, recycled air heavy with the scent of sweat greets them as soon as they pass inside, while the glare of colorful spotlights reveals the writhing mass of bodies dancing on the floor. The thrumming bass has its own pulse, its powerful vibrations interrupting the natural cadence of his own heartbeat. Stiles can’t even hear himself think, feet guiding them away from the most populated areas of the club toward a bar in the back. It doesn’t escape his notice the way some clubgoers stop and stare – not at him, of course, but at the shinobi in his wake – their gazes as hungry and predatory as Stiles himself feels.
At the bar, he orders two double shots of hard liquor, absently pushing away a foreign hand that slides down his arm suggestively. ]
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@sing_for_me
And that someone is Itachi Uchiha, at a counter sorting out boxes of locally sourced tea leaves with an impassive expression. If she is perceptive enough to see it, she may spot the dark sleepless circles under his eyes and the pallid shade of his complexion, as though drained of every shred of vitality left to it. Standing rigid, he doesn’t turn at the sound of footsteps. A few moments pass before black eyes glance over one narrow shoulder.]
Alex. I didn’t expect you here. [Low, quiet, and resiliently even.] Are you making a delivery?
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But if there was something Alex was adept at, it was observing others. The dark circles and pallor of his face do not go unnoticed, and even the steadiness of his tone had a different weight to it. ]
Yeah, I…am…
[ She trails off as she walks towards him, placing the boxes on the nearest counter top before stopping right before him. Her focus was already elsewhere, wondering what could possibly have gotten him to such a state. Without saying much else, she pulls off one of her gloves and presses a hand against his forehead. ]
Itachi, are you alright…?
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@pushpin
This doesn’t. Stiles is just gone, vanished upon his return to Sumarlok from Filia. The house is cold and empty, Sophia left behind (whining where she lays curled on top of a discarded flannel), everything where it should be, is meant to be, in the absence and stillness of one person, now seeming strange and shadowed and wrong—cast out of an orbit lacking its center point of gravity. By the time he returns to the house, much later and with Sophia turned over to capable babysitters, there is no real reason to be there. Yet he lingers for an hour. Upon final exit, there’s a newly black-scorched mark across the back garden, greenery turned to ash in a wide scar of ruin, and the air still shimmers with supernatural heat where Amaterasu nearly took down the building.
Across the Emerald District, he lifts a hand to wipe his face and can’t tell if the moisture that smears underneath the palm is blood or rain, or if it matters. The rainstorm has moved swiftly across greater Sumarlok, clouds swollen and sky bruised in the ominous hallmarks of vengeful weather, choking the city in a wet-hot blanket of humidity and saturating air like some thick sponge. He finds himself balancing on the lip of the balcony before reason can chase the tail of instinct. Red, aching eyes can see the energy signature through apartment walls—a familiar lick of warmth, dark and guttering like a torch-flame, alone. Still he doesn’t go in, perched outside in the torrential rain until his body is soaked to bone, surrounded by potted plants whose leaves gleam slippery green, a vitality at odds with his own lack.
His chest aches from an earlier fit of coughs. His shirt collar is tacky with blood, chin and cheeks smeared in the mess made slick with rainwater, gaze narrowed hard on the unopened glass door. Will Guanshan see him? Does he want to be seen, or would it be better to slip away now, carrying this burden with him into solitude, guilty for even the want of companionship? He had thought he would be prepared for this.
That fathomless ocean of unguarded grief grazes Guanshan, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing inside—vulnerable evidence of a presence on the balcony.]
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[ the patio door slams open and Guanshan, with a blanket in his hands and his heart in his throat, steps out into the downpour and whips it around Itachi's shoulders. pulling him bodily off the ledge by his fists in the fabric, the balcony above is the only thing keeping him from getting as drenched as the inky wet shadow spilling in. ]
[ it isn't remiss on him that he's never told him which apartment specifically he lived in, nor that Itachi is not the type to arrive unannounced. it means there's only one possibility: ]
What happened?
[ the first thing he does after securing him on solid ground is start looking him over for wounds. there's blood — droplets and smears of it, rivulets run pink in the torrent — but he can't place the source. there's no cut or bruise visible, and his hands start hastily moving through the wet fabric suctioned to Itachi's chest to search for further damage. someone else's? ]
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cw for knives, blood, painplay, etc
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a million years late, i'm so sorry...
fwd dated to 06/27
Stiles has reached no conclusion by the time the shuttle lands. Expression carved from stone, he exits with the crowd but leaves the other Gembonded behind as they’re guided toward the Embassy for processing. Walking along the sidewalk to the Emerald District, summer sun flaying him alive in his long-sleeve flannel and dark pants, he stumbles under a nauseating surge of déjà vu. Like simultaneously months have passed versus only a day since he last traveled these streets. That sticky, unpleasant sensation clinging to his awareness only intensifies on his way to the house. When he eventually arrives, it’s to the sight of withering plants that have baked beneath the humid heatwave without regular watering. The house itself is empty, a thin layer of dust just beginning to visibly collect on shelves. Sophia’s dishes and lead are both missing, the first cause of relief for Stiles; he’d worried how she had fared during his absence.
Movements mechanical, he changes into clothes more appropriate for the season and collects his phone from where he last left it: charging on the nightstand beside the bed. There’s no sign of the Akatsuki ring. It pains him to think that it might have disappeared between dimensions, but the pressure to meet with Itachi as soon as possible keeps him from mourning the loss. He lingers just long enough at the house to notice the black scorch marks that have dug trenches in the backyard garden. Curiosity sealed behind a wall of cold, haunted misery, he doesn’t investigate.
There’s no text sent ahead to let Itachi know he’s coming. No touch of long-distance Synchrony to warn the shinobi that he’s returned. He hangs on the precarious edge of a breakdown, thoughts scattered like a whiteout blanket of snow across the landscape. Nothing feels real anymore. Nothing, except the hot torrent of instinct driving him with increasing pace toward a single man – a man he forgot existed while back in Beacon Hills. Stiles needs to see Itachi, face to face, immediately. He needs to confirm that their relationship wasn’t some misguided delusion he dreamt up, that the time they spent together happened in spite of his conflicting memories.
When he next surfaces from his thoughts, Stiles finds himself standing in front of the door to Itachi’s apartment, fist raised as if to knock. A moment of hesitation locks his limbs in place, freezing him. What if he really did fantasize the whole thing? What if the man has already moved on? What about Lydia? “Remember that I love you,” he’d told her seconds before the Ghost Riders had abducted him. How can he possibly look Itachi in the eyes again after betraying their relationship, intentionally or not? And isn’t this itself a betrayal to Lydia?
A shudder winds down his spine. Stiles knocks. ]
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What would he prefer?
The knock comes as a surprise, so that Itachi goes still in the threshold of the bathroom, counter streaked in blood from another coughing fit. He stares hard at the door—his mind turns, struggling to make a decision, reluctant to. He is halfway committed to the judgment that he will ignore it when Russell swoops over, pecking determinedly at wood, scraping floorboards with impatient talons. So he wipes off the counter with a towel, tosses it bloody into the laundry bin, runs the sink, closes the bathroom door, and walks over.
Nearly five minutes since the knock had first elapsed, he opens the door. Black eyes widen—a flicker of vivid shock—then narrow onto the boy, expression shut up like a tomb as he steps aside to allow entrance.
Never has either of them left and come back. Too exhausted, too sunk behind the shutters of himself after a week alone in his own mind, day-to-day normalcy uprooted as he always knew it would be and now sensing something different, he does not speak first. Stiles will find the interior of the apartment as bland and undecorated as ever, shadowed, sepulchered, curtains drawn to blot out the summer daylight.]
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cw: suicidal ideation
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cw: me hating itachi uchiha
cw: me loving itachi uchiha
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@tsansat
Moving with preternatural stealth through the antechamber into a large room shelved with countless books, Itachi's path is illuminated with a small, handheld lantern fueled by some internal power source, given to him on the street by a helpful Diamond Guard. The rest of his figure dissolves easily into the surrounding shadow of the library. As he walks, he lifts the lantern to read the glossy spines of books along his path, evidently searching for one in particular.
Surely no one will bother him today.]
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It blends into green-tinged walls, illuminated in patches by the aurora forcing its way through the occasional window, but not well enough. And so Spock answers the call.
He does not attempt to muffle footsteps that are light already by nature and so his words are not what he anticipates will first betray his presence, but that seems to be of little concern. Most things seem to be of little concern to the Enterprise's emotionally dysfunctional first officer. ]
Uchiha-san. [ A far politer and more appropriate form of address; after all, he is teaching the man's significant other Japanese for a reason. ] If you are seeking out a certain book in particular, perhaps I may be of service.
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@interacting
Still, the sole thought of Where’s Sasuke? screams louder than the rest. He can’t fully relax, going through the apartment with a rapidly rising sense of dread only to have none of his questions answered. The clothes are too big for him. The weapons are familiar, but he can’t carry them all, so he straps a few kunai to his leg with a makeshift holster instead. There’s a foreign ring on a long, black tether near the bed, ‘vermillion’; he doesn’t know what it means, so he leaves it there.
Hunger eventually drives him outside after finding little of substance in too-tall cabinets (he’d had to climb up on the counter to reach). The city is dazzling and disorienting to an eight-year-old who has never seen even the world outside his own village. Yet he navigates unfamiliar streets with determination, intact hitai-ate gleaming silver in the daylight, tiny height easily swallowed by afternoon crowds.
It’s only by random chance that Itachi decides to approach Yuta, choosing randomly—someone who appears more familiar than the individuals with strange, brightly colored features.]
Excuse me. [Polite, quiet, well-spoken despite his age.] Can you tell me where we are?
@mensrea (fwd dated to 7/20)
The balcony holds his weight but it can’t contain his size—he leaps upward, forced into sudden flight, wings beating hard at air. His mind is last to make the change as it slides into animalistic nature, fully possessed, hardwired into instinct and emotion and made unreachable by reason. Now a dragon several times his original size, he streaks across the cloudless midnight sky with energy borne out of wildness, initially directionless. Russell, cawing her head off, manages to follow her owner for several streets until sheer speed brought by size carries him too far away.
He arrives suddenly at the house. Empty, empty, empty for hours—flared nostrils to the ground tell him this as he circles the property, a fruitless endeavor except for some comfort, finding the black charred grass in the garden and clawing at that spot in a fit of anxiety. Digging up mounds of dirt, covering evidence of a mistake. Then following the faded trail of scent from the doorstep down the sidewalk, oblivious to native gems who throw themselves out of his way, running to hide. He doesn’t see them. He is glued to the hunt: navigating a path through the Emerald District to one of the entrances of the Ruby Underground, clearance too low and cramped to allow further passage.
The howl is terrifying as it splits the air, anguished and infuriated, rattling nearby window glass in their frames. A leap up, another flap of black wings, and he finds a perch on the nearest building roof, claws grasping its edge and tail whipping back and forth like a cat’s. Waiting.]
cw: suicidal ideation
Stiles is deeply unwell. Every morning that he stirs from restless sleep, bitter disappointment floods his mouth. If only he might never wake. Only a few close bonds he’s formed with certain people prevent him from taking the matter into his own hands, though even his motivation to honor those relationships is swiftly fading day after miserable day. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go on like this, living this pathetic excuse of an existence. Nothing but lonely eternity in the Wild Hunt awaits him back on Earth and nothing he does here on Noctium seems to matter anymore. “Did you remember me?” Itachi had asked him lowly, a question that’s since taken on a warped, accusatory tone in his mind. Stiles hears it repeated in the writhing shadows of his worst dreams, whispered over and over again. “This was a mistake.” And he’s started to believe it.
Four somber moons greet him from the late evening city skyscape when he finally emerges from the Ruby Underground. Gaze dragging heavily along the ground, he doesn’t notice the skulking presence of the dragon also looming overhead. ]
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@inlutilis
Greater Sumarlok is still, preternaturally silent. Night has not yet set in, although darkness has begun to leech the sun's colors from the sky, bleeding into the cool and crisp air of late evening. Leaves have scattered streets and sidewalks as dying greenery welcomes the change of season; he hadn't noticed that change much before. It had seemed, for so long, as though so many features of daily life were occurring to someone else—only occasionally would he wake up to feel the rain, startling icy needles on his skin, in reminder of being alive.
Now he is primed to this, a creature of nature that uses otherworldly stealth to navigate rooftops of Primavera in hunt of prey. The autumn breeze is clear enough to carry scent well; he is not cognizant to orient himself by his surroundings as he would normally, using landmarks or street names. Everything is instinctive, predatory. And perhaps that part is one and the same. He did this before, back when grief was the world he lived in and there was only one person he wished to see.
Except, twisted as he is in this state, Itachi makes a mistake.
The small boy isn't Stiles. He smells like Stiles, but he is in the wrong place, too far from the areas of Sumarlok that Itachi has since memorized to routine and schedule. There is a forest close by; that too is new, although his eyes—vivid, bloody red—are continually drawn to the tempting shadow between trees.
Instead he follows Emil home, a ghost at his back, until the boy has entered his manor and disappeared. In this state, it doesn't occur to him to associate who he's found with the person Stiles described to him, and the animal part of his mind doesn't particularly care yet, even if it is irritated not to have found Stiles. Hunger is more important.
Prowling around the perimeter of the yard, he eventually seeks its balcony. He doesn't try to find the handle of the door. The obstruction, locked or not, doesn't matter in the moment; there are many other ways inside for someone of his capabilities. What he's trying to see is a glimpse of his prey on the other side of the glass. Sight, or scent, or more obscure movement that will tell him where the boy is in the building. He needs that, first, before he can act.]
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A sense of unease permeates the last few days, most of it awash in a foggy, vague desperation. Emil thinks he dreamt that Stiles had paid him a visit? The day after he felt.... not right. Not himself. But some of his friends needed his help (or specifically needed access to the nearby forest and its rumored effects on Synchrony within) and he was more than happy to answer that request; the hulking Exo named Saint-14 and his wizened warlock partner Osiris wanted to stay on the grounds, and Emil accommodated their request by setting up a canvas tent for them just inside the forest.
Decorations of carved gourds and pumpkins flank the door and even part of Emil's balcony, though these ones in particular more closely resemble jack o'lanterns, but painted in stripes and swirls of purple, green, and marigold. There are also three unique candles there, though they are unlit by the time Itachi reaches the balcony. Their purpose doesn't align with the usual traditions of the season, but seem to be a memorial of sorts.
That hardly matters in the face of the hunger that has brought him here.
His butler and maid are only expected to work during daylight hours and have since returned to the nearby town; this was decided out of a mutual wariness of the rumors of late, fretful memories of the Siren's lethal call still fresh in many Primaveran minds. The days are shorter, and Emil insists on cooking dinner for himself and his guests, so he had deposited a picnic basket to the tent, spent some time in their company, and returned to the manor feeling much more like his usual self.
Their friendly Synchrony had indeed been boosted incredibly by the storied effects of the forest, and now that his hunger for Manna has been satisfied, he realizes the cause of his malaise even if Emil can't recall why he ran so low in the first place. As he's feeling better now, it hardly seems important enough to puzzle over it when there's so much else that still needs to be done.
As he passes through the manor, he extinguishes the lights, at last arriving at his room. The hour and solitude of the house makes the silence loud and any noise louder for breaking it, so his movements are gentle, hanging a light coat in his wardrobe and shucking off his boots. When his silhouette passes the small part in the heavy drapes over the windowed balcony door, his profile is tipped down to an open book in his hands, still dressed in dark pants, a matching waistcoat with bright brass buttons, and a high-collared dress shirt with sleeves puffed at the shoulders.
He scoots his chair closer to a writing desk, his hand keeping his place in his reading open as he extracts a notebook from inside a drawer to his right. The paper is due soon--
Emil startles a little as he sees his notebook already has his essay written out entirely, his own handwriting unmistakable. Flipping back and forth between these pages, he speaks his thoughts aloud: ]
Wha-? When did I... finish this?
[ It isn't like his shaky memory is new, but it rarely results in an immediate benefit, and what he reads seems familiar. Well.... all's well that ends well? Thanks, Past Emil, for really doing him a solid. With a wondering shake of his head, he shuts his book, sliding it over the cover of his notebook. ]
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@samebito (nsfw)
Next he is aware, he is in the bedroom of the small, plain apartment where he had fallen asleep. The light on the wall looks strange. It tilts in through the window like new daylight, yet its color is the bloody red-orange of sunset, casting the room in dark, romantic, apocalyptic hues. He's kneeling at the foot of the mattress. Half-dressed, he realizes that the shirt hanging off his upper torso isn't his own—a few sizes too large, its hem skates the flesh of his bare upper thighs, its collar drooping to reveal most of his shoulder. The scent on fabric is all the confirmation of ownership he needs. His partner bears no obvious markers, usually, but this he knows, he could not mistake it otherwise, that natural musk of a powerful body kept fastidiously clean. Kisame is too close to him not to be recognizable.
That, and the vivid, red, circular bitemark on his exposed shoulder is proof of the rest. He can feel other bites throbbing raw and warm on his body; there's one on his inner thigh, another at the meat of his calf, another on the ridge of his covered sternum. And Kisame himself is right there—laid back on the bed, stripped fully naked, scars on pale display. He has enough reach to be able to touch fingertips to the Japanese inscription of wrath beside Kisame's toned abdomen; one of the few he can read. Impressions left by other people. Where is his own?
Itachi blinks, seeing more details: his partner's strong wrists are tied above his head to the bedpost, and his cock juts up between bare, muscular thighs, swollen and shiny with the evidence of lube. His own hand is slick, sticky; he was using it on Kisame. The bindings cannot be a true confinement—Kisame is too powerful for that—which means he submitted willingly.
Bright, yellow eyes watch him as he shifts up the mattress, straddling his partner's thighs, forced to widen knees to accommodate the position. He's bare from the waist down. There's a wet and slippery feeling between his own legs that he recognizes, and is not humiliated by. Reaching out, a slender hand takes hold of Kisame's cock at the base, where he simply cradles it in the loose cage of fingers, marveling at its size, wondering how it is possibly going to fit inside of him.]
You've held on this far. [It seems natural to speak this way, in a low and velvety voice, dark, humming. It's not the way he would address just anyone, as a phantom of who he pretended to be for years; Kisame is different right now.] How much longer will you last?
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This feels natural. This feels right. This is precisely where he wants to be.
The tip of his tongue traces sharp teeth as he takes in that bold bite marking Itachi's shoulder. The memory of inflicting it (and many others) seems clear, sitting at the edge of his thoughts — but Kisame does not reach for it. Why would he? It is so much better to remain in this moment. So much better to drink in the sensation of slender fingers brushing a precious scar. So much better to watch, entranced, as Itachi moves up the mattress, the oversized shirt failing to mask smooth, controlled motions. It is his shirt, Kisame knows, and that fact fills him with heat — some in his chest, light and fluttering, and some pooling at the crux of his thighs, making his cock ache with longing.
A part of Kisame desperately wishes to reach out and touch Itachi, to slide his hands up those pale, widened thighs and nudge aside the hem of his shirt, exposing the lovely cock tenting dark fabric. But although his wrists test their bonds, Kisame does not break them. There is freedom in this confinement, in this surrender to his partner, and he does not wish to relinquish it.
Still, he cannot entirely suppress the way his hips twitch, muscles flexing with the restrained urge to thrust up into Itachi's slick, teasingly light grip — or rather, Itachi's touch, as it can hardly be called a "grip" yet. He exhales a laugh that masks nothing; at this moment, he is genuinely happy. ]
Oh, I don't know… Quite a while, perhaps. [ His tone is light, a contrast to his partner's that compliments rather than clashes, underlaid with the slightest tremor betraying the depth of his desire. ] I'm sure that you could change that if you tried. But is that really what you want to test…?
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