[ The sort of familiarity that the man in front of him springs is born from nostalgia and impossible things. Things like long, quiet halls lined with tatami mats and shoulders broader than his own, long falls of dark hair and old notoriety proudly pinned to their backs, and the sweet taste of anmitsu which he didn't favor but ate because someone else had. It's a strange prickle along his nape—the Rangetsu had been a clan unlike most others on their continent, foreigners in a western land who served and executed the orders of a lofted lord. A family laden in shadow and specializing in subterfuge, purebred tools that were only worth as much as they could accomplish before they died young.
Intriguing, but not unsettling. Rokurou is well confident that the rest of the Rangetsu are no more, a bloody legacy that's ready to die with him since he has no plans to continue the line. But it piques; he's unable to resist similarities despite the sordid history. It's enough to have him cock his head with that more interest, bad habit hole digging deeper (because once he really decides he needs to dig his claws in, there's no letting go). Mismatched eyes are quick to flick from cool tapered fingers wrapping his wrist to meet the other man's, fully taking in the scope of alluring red that grows more obvious against battered purple backdrop. Bold of an absolute stranger to stare you directly in the eye, perhaps, but Rokurou doesn't shy away from studying their hue.
That similarity narrows the scope, since the Rangetsu offspring all inherited brilliant gold—which is the eye he's left uncovered and the one that obviously searches the other man's, the other hidden beneath a thick fringe that conceals swirled crimson aside from small slivers broken with motion. Not that it's any less focused because it's hidden, black spiraling into red. If it tells the daemon any secrets, he says nothing about them.
Though it's the fledgling thread of Synchrony that splits open between them that offers more answers. Small ones, quiet ones, restrained ones. A rivulet that he finds much more palatable than most others, if only because of how much cooler it runs—though if that's by nature or suspicion or the fact that he's in the middle of dying, Rokurou doesn't know. It's palatable because it matches his tempo; most others feel so much, and when it meets his lack, they blend to create symphonic cacophony. What opens now is a slow pluck of a string instrument, or slow exhale into a keening flute. Strangely euphonic. Maybe he should try Synchrony with more dying guys.
Rokurou's response is muted not out of restraint, but because he doesn't feel much. They flutter across in tranquil breeze—not the tablecloth snapped out over a table but the aftermath downward float, fabric a slowed, draping billow before settling. His curiosity is the clear ting of a wind-chime, a stronger pulse against the backdrop of dulled emotion. There's no attempt to hold himself back because there isn't much to overwhelm to begin with.
The placement of the man's grasp draws an amused huff, one which comes with a light flushing tickle across that fresh thread. He hadn't held his hand out that way for his wrist to be grabbed—with tilted lips, the daemon deliberately waits to answer as he places his other hand on top of the man's and slides the bottom one up. A decisive move to press their palms together and broadening the scope of contact while wedging his foot in the door of control.
He should enjoy being caught between two warm hands, anyway. Rokurou always run on the warm side, a convenient portable furnace. ]
I see. I imagine they wouldn't be too happy if you starved to death out here.
[ Sentiment flutters across their small brook: despite the thick drench of miasmic aura and obvious hunger to kill, there's a cool cut of morality. That he wouldn't leave someone like this here to die, just as he wouldn't leave someone out there with questions as to what may have happened to them. He simply doesn't like it, that's all. ]
.... You should save the questions for when you have more energy. [ gentle chastisement, yet he doesn't deny the man his answer— ] Rokurou Rangetsu.
[ Pressing hands together while keeping the stranger's between them, the daemon gives those knuckles an unhurried graze with his fingertips. A subtler gauge, because a man's hands can tell you a lot about them. ]
I came out here looking for something interesting to kill time with. [ mouth twitching again, ] Guess I kind of did, aah?
[ Though his use of kill in that idiom has more weight than it might for most. ]
More importantly, who are you? If you die anyway I'll deliver a final message to that partner for you.
[ The gallows humor draws a broader smile, sharing teeth and a tickle of amusement across their growing emphatic bond. When death means so little in your line of work, sometimes a macabre sense of humor comes along with it. But if you can't laugh about death, what can you laugh about? ]
[The experience of being looked in the eye is, each time, uniquely alien. He’s endured it far more in these off-world places than he ever had home, where the greater population understood the danger of such a simple, automatic action as eye contact with a man of his blood and took measures to preserve their own lives by avoiding it. So it comes that he’s unused to how free strangers are with this behavior here, ignorant of the threat of black tomoe circling the rich red of irises. And perhaps that is how he’s found himself most unveiled: now when he looks, he almost always finds someone else looking back.
Gold is unfamiliar, its intensity like a heavy marble despite the singular focus of its individuality—when Itachi seeks the other eye, he finds it concealed under dark fringe, secret, though it does not feel blind or unseeing to him. He attempts as best he can to scrutinize every detail of the other man’s face while it is in front of him. The familiarity burns with the heat of a wall of fire; not touching him with hot flame, but close to it, near enough to feel that scalding impression. Even knowing the sort of world he could drag this stranger into with eyesight alone—eternal screaming pain, inverted colors, a high undying red moon—he finds himself wondering if it would matter. Perhaps the man would not care.
The man, whose name is Rokurou Rangetsu, attaches identity to a conversation shared days ago now. And gradually pieces snap into clearer alignment, chastisement sliding easily off and excused as unnecessary, the same as two large warm hands closing over his own fingers like trapping a butterfly for the quick twitch of restless white fingers. He almost yanks himself free of the hold. He does not like the sensation of feeling caught, but the dragging syrupy lethargy of low energy hasn’t eased, and neither has Synchrony yet recovered him. So his irritation is no more than a dull scrape through their connection, animal fur pet against the grain.
He only finds his shoulders have tightened at the pass of touch across spindly knuckles; his whole body made tense, again, and wanting to pull away. His hand stays rigid, though pressure constricts around Rokurou’s wrist like an iron band.
Rokurou will discover the hand seemingly blemishless, no scars or marks, at odds with distinct calluses formed on fingertips from weapon use. However, the sleeve of his arm has slipped an inch to reveal an ugly line of burnt scar tissue beginning above the wrist.]
… The Yaksha. [The war demon, the monster only good for fighting with no clan left, the man Guanshan is in love with, talking enough for both of them in that easy friendly grace palpable even over the network.] We’ve spoken.
Itachi.
[He doesn’t give his own last name again, cast aside already in their first introduction.]
You won’t need to deliver any messages. With this, I shouldn’t die. [His own emotions over the joined channel remain subtle, cool and weak, the starved stream of a river restraining the flood.] I only require some of your time. Once I regain enough strength to walk, I can return on my own. I apologize for the inconvenience.
[Polite and well-mannered even as he uses Rokurou’s arm harder now to pull away from the stone completely, testing strength in the powerful tug forward, a step closer to keep standing.]
[ The name draws a dragged rumble of an exhale, rich baritone raked over the coals. There's a whit of recognition with a sprinkle of amusement, a silvery thread that spindles across arid emotions. Indeed, he remembers—and not because of the man's reluctance to answer a silly, drunken bar-urged question. There's a thought in that golden eye as his gaze takes on tilted weight, openly appraising with a slight tick pulling up at the corner of his mouth.
Polite indeed, as he had been even through text, but that's nothing he simmers on when the man manages to pull with as much strength as that; the daemon's feet remain squared and solid on the ground, impeccable posture long since beaten into him, but there's strain on his muscles to keep himself there.
Curious and curiouser—an itch prickles at his nape, new parchment sits on his tongue. Again, mismatched eyes wander. Soaking in hands that have known a weapon but without scars from having been driven through, eyeing an alluring catch of ugly marred skin, wondering at such restraint even when the man's clearly hungry and exhausted...
How strong could this man be when he isn't stranded and starved? ]
No need to apologize. It's a swordsman's duty to lend a hand when needed. [ a soft laugh as he squeezes right back, grip tight as he bends his elbow and pulls right back. there's strength to that, too, flex of a monster used to pushing around heavy weight. ] Though it seems that you're doing better than I thought.
[ Spry as he may seem, Manna generation is slow. Unsurprising, as they're virtual strangers outside of a single conversation over the network. What was it that makes it faster? An emotional connection, if he recalls correctly—or something along those lines. Without some connection it's a slog, even with that fresh spark of recognition giving it a kick. Energy and heat trickle in thinly; it's like offering a parched man a few raindrops to wet his mouth. ]
This might be easier if you relax your guard. [ of course he's noticed that this Itachi doesn't seem to care for too much contact—of course he moves his hand from over spindly knuckles to press and support against a sleeved elbow, always so damn curious about how much he can wrest from someone that's caught his eye. ] You don't have to hold back.
[Met with an equal leverage of strength, to no surprise—he doesn’t need the Sharingan’s analysis to read the posture of a warrior, language learned and spoken by the best and worst of his own world, as fluent as blood. A swordsman’s duty is further confirmation, even when it feels more like a promise, some hint of moralistic nature that he would like to flay open and better understand.
Not now, at least not yet. He is tethered by the current needs of his own body, and as grudging as the admittance might be, he cannot deny the truth in what’s said. Unless he wishes to be here for the next several hours, resigning this stranger to the fate of his company until then, he will need to allow this process more freedom. Even as Itachi comes to that recognition, discomfort is the claw down his spine leaving welts from its stinging drag. His hesitation is bare in his face: furrowed brows, a frowning mouth, a wide reluctant silence, staring eyes.
If he is doing better, that much is a disguise. Shreds of strength are pulled up around him in a shroud, disguising vulnerability, smothering weakness, unwilling to display an inch for the miles it would yield. Itachi’s red eyes narrow to ruby slits when a hand finds his elbow; his arm goes taut, almost fully extended, as though trying to shift away from the hold without completely dislodging it, wedging physical space between them in the effort. Touch makes this easier, he knows, but he will only bear it at a minimum.]
You seem confident telling a stranger to relax their guard around someone clearly dangerous. [He isn’t blind; far from it. He can see and feel the darkness leeching from this man, Rokurou, and he doesn’t trust it.] Others have lied for less.
But fine. [Fine, like it’s agreement, like this is a real choice. It isn’t. Itachi’s grip tightens until his knuckles are a bloodless white, and Synchrony floods open—the harsh, hot, dragging sensation like sucking paste down a straw, trying to take everything the man will give him. Rokurou will feel tunneled frustration and vivid pain most of all, physical pain where every breath is ragged and thick and every joint aches, throbbing, muscles sore to the peak of exhaustion. Deeper than that emotion, if Rokurou chooses to sort it out, is dark and complex sorrow like an eternal night, opaque from every angle.
He can taste blood in his mouth, and despite a furtive swallow, it soon leaks from the corner of pursed lips to trickle down his chin. At least he isn’t choking on it.]
If at some point you can no longer handle this, stop.
[ Vivid crimson, acrid rust. Nostalgic nightweb knit from spidery spindle. They weave into a complexion that the daemon doesn't need to decipher—rather than a fresh jacket that's stiff at the elbows, what comes is familiar as an old pair of sandals. Certainly no full understanding (or even half), it's an instinctual twitch of muscle toward what was lost when mottled blight seized and overtook human contour.
Mimicry comes with shadows of bonedeep ache and copper tang. Rokurou exhales shortly, rolling shoulders and neck into a body battered too far too well—and relishes it, brow furrowing tick proof that he weighs upon him, but that killer smile doesn't falter. Pain isn't something he minds sharing because that, too, is familiar. The beast between the two he would prefer to weather if given the choice of one.
If what comes across through Synchrony is the full scope of what this man is feeling, Rokurou doesn't know. The lack within himself could be curbing it, an encompassing curse that buries everything beneath cold graveyard dirt. What's left when you've lost your humanity?
—numbness. Which is exactly what he can give in return; it spreads a cresting swell of unfeeling fingers over what fits so comfortably in old, hollowed out alcoves. It eats sorrow, swallows regret, sweeps smothering ash over still-burning embers. The physical pain is poignant and shared, a daemon's physical senses heightened to thrall in battle, but what meets those complex and dark feelings is an anesthetic salve. One he gives freely, making no effort whatsoever from stopping them man from draining what he wants. He's a man of his word, after all. ]
It's fine. [ he sniffs with mild offense at the implication that there's anything he can't handle—but it fades just as quickly, melding back down into tempered ease. ] Rather than that, don't we count as acquaintances? I'd say you know a bit about me.
[ It would be more comfortable to move, but he's stubborn, refusing to move his hands from land they've claimed. But he doesn't try to take more either, palms pressing against cool pale skin and clothed elbow, sharing a warmth that doesn't extend in the pour of muted emotion. ]
You're right, of course. Others have lied for less. [ a shrug, another roll of shoulderblade and tilt of head as though the pain is actually his to bunker down through instead of a phantom gift, ] But everything I told you then was true.
[ .... and he likely knows more, if Rokurou's general observations and understanding of a certain someone's intimate tendencies are on point. ]
[The relief is an immediate balm, rushing cool water through nerves charred and burnt by a permanent darkness, its presence sore and throbbing long after the wound was made. It surprises him. More than any echo of familiarity—persistent, nagging nostalgia like the black hallways of his childhood home—he isn't expecting that sinkhole of numbness to swallow up every hurting part until there is only nothing. Consumptive, anesthetic reprieve washes out clotted arteries, swollen with suffering, until all he feels is the physical pain: a clear and crystal focal point shared between them like any good distraction. Easier to latch onto, to hold.
He can hear the other man speaking, but it takes a moment to translate words into sensible logic, thick eyelids hanging low over red eyes with a drowsiness inspired by his own injured state. Fatigue from stamina run down to a dry riverbed, Itachi finds himself studying those large, battle-scarred hands for some signal deeper than the amiable attitude he’s confronted with on the outside; trying to read by the patchwork of scarred flesh.]
I know as much as you would tell someone publicly. [The low vibration of voice is still a thick rasp, almost wet, free arm lifting to wipe fingers across the smear of blood on his chin. Messy.] A war daemon, Yaksha, inhuman, monster.
[Descriptors listed in a running tally he remembers Rokurou had used to name himself.]
I cannot decide yet whether that is through your own recklessness or indifference. However, I believe you. [This admission is given less like an avowed personal confession and more a statement of fact, direct enunciation, direct eye contact, flatly level.] … We also have an individual in common.
Mo Guanshan.
[He says little else on that, although a steel-bladed gaze never strays from Rokurou's half-hidden face as if to discern its reaction (any reaction, a flare thrown straight into Synchrony), emotions lurking like dark shadows in deep water beneath the tight, refined rein of self-control—and then melted within the cold fire of their channel. Soon he begins to feel stronger, can stand straighter.]
[ The sleek coating of ice across that numb-cool lake doesn't crack with that name. Mo Guanshan—there's nothing special in the flux of Synchrony between them and the daemon's expression remains relaxed. Genial, with crooked mouth, keen attention drawn more toward the messy ooze of blood that stains the other man's mouth. A smudge of color he hawks for a lengthy moment, unblinking.
Despite the disinterest he does finally tilt his head to assent to the comment, visible eye lidding with a brush of thick lashes against angled waterline.]
I know.
[ An avenue Rokurou has no intention of pursuing; the small exhale earned is by mention of his alleged benevolence. Half a laugh, noise cusped on short air as he lifts his chin, amusement creasing itself into the well-worn laugh lines at the corner of that golden eye. Synchrony remains tepid from his end, unrestrained yet washed out to white, apathy's teeth quick to crush what ghostly shadows it can lure and fish from the other man. ]
That's generous. [ gold peeks from beneath line-sketched black, feline-languid in its study, heavy weight of hungry prying left to what's hidden behind thick bang, ] You don't even know what I want as payment.
[ Phantom pain creaks through the daemon's chest. An unpleasant ache roots and blooms beneath his ribs, knocking against each bone with every slight movement. A decaying bed for red camellias; their velvety petals tickle his throat with each breath.
The man stands straighter and the daemon's grip on his elbow loosens in turn. Drifts, curve of rough thumb moth drawn to bloodied chin—precise, Rokurou brushes its pad beneath the curve of that stern mouth. A slow swipe of crimson collection taken hostage, quickly drawn back to tilted mouth and curled tongue. He presses the digit against the crease of his teeth, streak of red blurring against jagged white. ]
[Synchrony bleached to unfeeling remnants of numb apathy between them, that blank flush of nothing clears out his head—all of its thick, clotted tangles webbed over in the last several months by a teenager’s experience, by the knot of souls, by friendship and attraction and affection. It is less that he feels himself again and more that he recognizes himself again, looking into Rokurou’s face for the mirrored reflection of his own. Slit-eyed, narrow, dangerous, animal in the familiar dark.
Itachi is not expecting to be touched, yet possesses the harness of self-control enough not to flinch as that callused thumb swipes his chin. First thought goes to long-lost colleagues; second to the failure of foresight which has lowered the gate of his guard and allowed a stranger (a strange beast) into this personal space, violation in the red flicker of tongue clearing blood off, essense of himself stolen.
The next movement is quick, blurred. Free arm flashing out, snatching the wrist of the hand that had touched him, yanking it like a rope—reeling the daemon in close, gleaming silver now in his other palm as if summoned from thin air. He tucks the tip of the blade beneath Rokurou’s strong, handsome jawline. And now attempts an angle to see beneath the fringe of thick black hair, to get a better view, near enough for breath to tickle.]
You should have stated your demands prior to my agreement. [Low, gritty, articulate words like whispered ash between them.] I would consider this a new condition entirely.
[ —so there's the line. Didn't require much toeing to find it.
That rapid-fast hand blurs but isn't impossible to follow; too caught too close too interested to pull away, the daemon's smile crooks into a smirk as pointed steel scrapes beneath his chin. His arm's a snatched sacrifice but his tongue's still loose; it curls over his teeth to sweep up smeared blood left to stain. A dour copper, off from how it tastes when licked from a freshly gouged wound. ]
Don't blame me for your lack of forethought.
[ Mean to mock a sick man for not considering consequences, but amiable and petty are attributes that clasp and lace like lovers' fingers. It's a mildly spiteful jab back at that livewire toss—for mentioning his name when none of those feelings belong in the palms of an interloper.
With his chin pressed up at a new angle, the dark fringe of Rokurou's bangs splits and parts. What's seemingly tattoo isn't tattoo at all—monstrous black stain mottles the right half of his face with a rough, broken texture. It's a matte carapace that crawls over cheek and forehead, making seamless connection into scalp to blend into silky black hair. Veining down from his hairline are crags of ruby, old blood split across unfortunate terrain in eerie fingers that seep down toward where an eyebrow should be.
Where that veining begins to taper off is a brilliant red eye set upon a black sclera sea. A bright, crimson hue with black rings laced into the color—they shift, a slow spiral as his vision focuses in to accommodate the lack of distance between them, close enough now that their breath mingles. Whereas gold remains friendly ease, that red is nothing but detached calculation. ]
Do you know shogi? [ a seemingly random question while glancing down the sharp edge of a blade, ] Been a long while since I had a game. Play me sometime, that'll make us even.
[ Itachi is air and ash—Rokurou is gravel and brimstone. ]
That's all I can think of wanting from you.
[ Right now is the implicit lure in his tone, a sultry hint against sulfur as he makes use of the hand freed when their dance changed tempo to press the edge of his obsidian kukri against the ninja's clothed rib. A romantic position between the fourth and fifth, though killing intent doesn't resonate through Synchrony. ]
[He has stared into the faces of enough monsters to feel no ill ease in this, scrutinizing those corrupt black lines like a living creature fused to skin, uninterrupted, unlike the tattoo he's seen on Guanshan's arm because this one is real. Beneath the perceptive glare of Sharingan, he sees the source of that ominous, oppressive, lurking darkness in the daemon. Perhaps not the full writ story—perhaps only the middle, or the beginning, or the end. Yet it is enough to witness physical evidence of what must be the yaksha right in front of him. Breathing close, breath a humid gust at his chin, gaze layered as a muddy pool iced over for winter. A tongue that had licked up his own blood in a gesture made almost vulgar. Mysterious and dangerous and unknown. He does not have enough information.
Severing the heavy hang of eye contact only long enough to glance down and confirm the presence of a blade at his ribs—an intimacy of violence threatening to slide right between delicate bone, into sick lungs—Itachi remains still for several seconds. He does not possess the stamina yet for a fight, even armed with Sharingan, even after this thirsty Synchrony. Neither is there any sense this man intends to strike a first blow unless properly motivated.
Shogi.
An odd and almost absurd request to make. Mild, unassuming. Why then does he feel as though he's lost his hold on this encounter, if he ever had it at all?]
... Yes, I know it. [When had he last played? It seems a lifetime ago. Perhaps against his father, or Shisui, while they were both still alive.] Fine.
[If that's all you want. It is his nature to suspect ulterior motive, even now, eyeing Rokurou with communicable distrust. Then the kunai is pointed down; his hand draws away, tucks it into a hidden pocket. And he makes to step back—demanding release from physical touch.]
[ The kunai scrapes his chin lightly as it draws away, leaving only the slight rub of red irritation from its point. With it goes his own dagger, slid back into the hilt in tandem.
It's a shame to give up the Synchrony. In all the pain there's something to relish. Full body aches that stretch with each breath, exhaustion from coming back from starvation's brink, a fluctuation of intensity and restriction. Restraint that the daemon wants to break, hungry to soak in the lashes of what Itachi had finally given him a taste of at the end. A familiar and strange darkness he wants to plunge his hands into and have ooze out from between his fingers. Keenly human.
The craving to crack it open and expose its underbelly doesn't fade when they step apart. Synchrony's remnants only remain for a few moments after, a fading ghost flush across his skin before it's gone. But he lets it go without complaint, offering another genial smile at that curt agreement. ]
Great. I look forward to it.
[ If that's all he says as though he hadn't been the leech. Regardless, Rokurou shrugs, stepping around the ninja toward deeper, thicker forest. He has no interest in following to make sure Itachi makes it out okay, or even offering to get him there. If he's weak, he'll die.
Ah, but Rokurou doesn't think he will. It'll be a fun game of shogi. ]
Until then, Itachi.
[ And just like that he's gone, a quick step before melting into shadow. ]
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no subject
Intriguing, but not unsettling. Rokurou is well confident that the rest of the Rangetsu are no more, a bloody legacy that's ready to die with him since he has no plans to continue the line. But it piques; he's unable to resist similarities despite the sordid history. It's enough to have him cock his head with that more interest, bad habit hole digging deeper (because once he really decides he needs to dig his claws in, there's no letting go). Mismatched eyes are quick to flick from cool tapered fingers wrapping his wrist to meet the other man's, fully taking in the scope of alluring red that grows more obvious against battered purple backdrop. Bold of an absolute stranger to stare you directly in the eye, perhaps, but Rokurou doesn't shy away from studying their hue.
That similarity narrows the scope, since the Rangetsu offspring all inherited brilliant gold—which is the eye he's left uncovered and the one that obviously searches the other man's, the other hidden beneath a thick fringe that conceals swirled crimson aside from small slivers broken with motion. Not that it's any less focused because it's hidden, black spiraling into red. If it tells the daemon any secrets, he says nothing about them.
Though it's the fledgling thread of Synchrony that splits open between them that offers more answers. Small ones, quiet ones, restrained ones. A rivulet that he finds much more palatable than most others, if only because of how much cooler it runs—though if that's by nature or suspicion or the fact that he's in the middle of dying, Rokurou doesn't know. It's palatable because it matches his tempo; most others feel so much, and when it meets his lack, they blend to create symphonic cacophony. What opens now is a slow pluck of a string instrument, or slow exhale into a keening flute. Strangely euphonic. Maybe he should try Synchrony with more dying guys.
Rokurou's response is muted not out of restraint, but because he doesn't feel much. They flutter across in tranquil breeze—not the tablecloth snapped out over a table but the aftermath downward float, fabric a slowed, draping billow before settling. His curiosity is the clear ting of a wind-chime, a stronger pulse against the backdrop of dulled emotion. There's no attempt to hold himself back because there isn't much to overwhelm to begin with.
The placement of the man's grasp draws an amused huff, one which comes with a light flushing tickle across that fresh thread. He hadn't held his hand out that way for his wrist to be grabbed—with tilted lips, the daemon deliberately waits to answer as he places his other hand on top of the man's and slides the bottom one up. A decisive move to press their palms together and broadening the scope of contact while wedging his foot in the door of control.
He should enjoy being caught between two warm hands, anyway. Rokurou always run on the warm side, a convenient portable furnace. ]
I see. I imagine they wouldn't be too happy if you starved to death out here.
[ Sentiment flutters across their small brook: despite the thick drench of miasmic aura and obvious hunger to kill, there's a cool cut of morality. That he wouldn't leave someone like this here to die, just as he wouldn't leave someone out there with questions as to what may have happened to them. He simply doesn't like it, that's all. ]
.... You should save the questions for when you have more energy. [ gentle chastisement, yet he doesn't deny the man his answer— ] Rokurou Rangetsu.
[ Pressing hands together while keeping the stranger's between them, the daemon gives those knuckles an unhurried graze with his fingertips. A subtler gauge, because a man's hands can tell you a lot about them. ]
I came out here looking for something interesting to kill time with. [ mouth twitching again, ] Guess I kind of did, aah?
[ Though his use of kill in that idiom has more weight than it might for most. ]
More importantly, who are you? If you die anyway I'll deliver a final message to that partner for you.
[ The gallows humor draws a broader smile, sharing teeth and a tickle of amusement across their growing emphatic bond. When death means so little in your line of work, sometimes a macabre sense of humor comes along with it. But if you can't laugh about death, what can you laugh about? ]
no subject
Gold is unfamiliar, its intensity like a heavy marble despite the singular focus of its individuality—when Itachi seeks the other eye, he finds it concealed under dark fringe, secret, though it does not feel blind or unseeing to him. He attempts as best he can to scrutinize every detail of the other man’s face while it is in front of him. The familiarity burns with the heat of a wall of fire; not touching him with hot flame, but close to it, near enough to feel that scalding impression. Even knowing the sort of world he could drag this stranger into with eyesight alone—eternal screaming pain, inverted colors, a high undying red moon—he finds himself wondering if it would matter. Perhaps the man would not care.
The man, whose name is Rokurou Rangetsu, attaches identity to a conversation shared days ago now. And gradually pieces snap into clearer alignment, chastisement sliding easily off and excused as unnecessary, the same as two large warm hands closing over his own fingers like trapping a butterfly for the quick twitch of restless white fingers. He almost yanks himself free of the hold. He does not like the sensation of feeling caught, but the dragging syrupy lethargy of low energy hasn’t eased, and neither has Synchrony yet recovered him. So his irritation is no more than a dull scrape through their connection, animal fur pet against the grain.
He only finds his shoulders have tightened at the pass of touch across spindly knuckles; his whole body made tense, again, and wanting to pull away. His hand stays rigid, though pressure constricts around Rokurou’s wrist like an iron band.
Rokurou will discover the hand seemingly blemishless, no scars or marks, at odds with distinct calluses formed on fingertips from weapon use. However, the sleeve of his arm has slipped an inch to reveal an ugly line of burnt scar tissue beginning above the wrist.]
… The Yaksha. [The war demon, the monster only good for fighting with no clan left, the man Guanshan is in love with, talking enough for both of them in that easy friendly grace palpable even over the network.] We’ve spoken.
Itachi.
[He doesn’t give his own last name again, cast aside already in their first introduction.]
You won’t need to deliver any messages. With this, I shouldn’t die. [His own emotions over the joined channel remain subtle, cool and weak, the starved stream of a river restraining the flood.] I only require some of your time. Once I regain enough strength to walk, I can return on my own. I apologize for the inconvenience.
[Polite and well-mannered even as he uses Rokurou’s arm harder now to pull away from the stone completely, testing strength in the powerful tug forward, a step closer to keep standing.]
no subject
[ The name draws a dragged rumble of an exhale, rich baritone raked over the coals. There's a whit of recognition with a sprinkle of amusement, a silvery thread that spindles across arid emotions. Indeed, he remembers—and not because of the man's reluctance to answer a silly, drunken bar-urged question. There's a thought in that golden eye as his gaze takes on tilted weight, openly appraising with a slight tick pulling up at the corner of his mouth.
Polite indeed, as he had been even through text, but that's nothing he simmers on when the man manages to pull with as much strength as that; the daemon's feet remain squared and solid on the ground, impeccable posture long since beaten into him, but there's strain on his muscles to keep himself there.
Curious and curiouser—an itch prickles at his nape, new parchment sits on his tongue. Again, mismatched eyes wander. Soaking in hands that have known a weapon but without scars from having been driven through, eyeing an alluring catch of ugly marred skin, wondering at such restraint even when the man's clearly hungry and exhausted...
How strong could this man be when he isn't stranded and starved? ]
No need to apologize. It's a swordsman's duty to lend a hand when needed. [ a soft laugh as he squeezes right back, grip tight as he bends his elbow and pulls right back. there's strength to that, too, flex of a monster used to pushing around heavy weight. ] Though it seems that you're doing better than I thought.
[ Spry as he may seem, Manna generation is slow. Unsurprising, as they're virtual strangers outside of a single conversation over the network. What was it that makes it faster? An emotional connection, if he recalls correctly—or something along those lines. Without some connection it's a slog, even with that fresh spark of recognition giving it a kick. Energy and heat trickle in thinly; it's like offering a parched man a few raindrops to wet his mouth. ]
This might be easier if you relax your guard. [ of course he's noticed that this Itachi doesn't seem to care for too much contact—of course he moves his hand from over spindly knuckles to press and support against a sleeved elbow, always so damn curious about how much he can wrest from someone that's caught his eye. ] You don't have to hold back.
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Not now, at least not yet. He is tethered by the current needs of his own body, and as grudging as the admittance might be, he cannot deny the truth in what’s said. Unless he wishes to be here for the next several hours, resigning this stranger to the fate of his company until then, he will need to allow this process more freedom. Even as Itachi comes to that recognition, discomfort is the claw down his spine leaving welts from its stinging drag. His hesitation is bare in his face: furrowed brows, a frowning mouth, a wide reluctant silence, staring eyes.
If he is doing better, that much is a disguise. Shreds of strength are pulled up around him in a shroud, disguising vulnerability, smothering weakness, unwilling to display an inch for the miles it would yield. Itachi’s red eyes narrow to ruby slits when a hand finds his elbow; his arm goes taut, almost fully extended, as though trying to shift away from the hold without completely dislodging it, wedging physical space between them in the effort. Touch makes this easier, he knows, but he will only bear it at a minimum.]
You seem confident telling a stranger to relax their guard around someone clearly dangerous. [He isn’t blind; far from it. He can see and feel the darkness leeching from this man, Rokurou, and he doesn’t trust it.] Others have lied for less.
But fine. [Fine, like it’s agreement, like this is a real choice. It isn’t. Itachi’s grip tightens until his knuckles are a bloodless white, and Synchrony floods open—the harsh, hot, dragging sensation like sucking paste down a straw, trying to take everything the man will give him. Rokurou will feel tunneled frustration and vivid pain most of all, physical pain where every breath is ragged and thick and every joint aches, throbbing, muscles sore to the peak of exhaustion. Deeper than that emotion, if Rokurou chooses to sort it out, is dark and complex sorrow like an eternal night, opaque from every angle.
He can taste blood in his mouth, and despite a furtive swallow, it soon leaks from the corner of pursed lips to trickle down his chin. At least he isn’t choking on it.]
If at some point you can no longer handle this, stop.
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Mimicry comes with shadows of bonedeep ache and copper tang. Rokurou exhales shortly, rolling shoulders and neck into a body battered too far too well—and relishes it, brow furrowing tick proof that he weighs upon him, but that killer smile doesn't falter. Pain isn't something he minds sharing because that, too, is familiar. The beast between the two he would prefer to weather if given the choice of one.
If what comes across through Synchrony is the full scope of what this man is feeling, Rokurou doesn't know. The lack within himself could be curbing it, an encompassing curse that buries everything beneath cold graveyard dirt. What's left when you've lost your humanity?
—numbness. Which is exactly what he can give in return; it spreads a cresting swell of unfeeling fingers over what fits so comfortably in old, hollowed out alcoves. It eats sorrow, swallows regret, sweeps smothering ash over still-burning embers. The physical pain is poignant and shared, a daemon's physical senses heightened to thrall in battle, but what meets those complex and dark feelings is an anesthetic salve. One he gives freely, making no effort whatsoever from stopping them man from draining what he wants. He's a man of his word, after all. ]
It's fine. [ he sniffs with mild offense at the implication that there's anything he can't handle—but it fades just as quickly, melding back down into tempered ease. ] Rather than that, don't we count as acquaintances? I'd say you know a bit about me.
[ It would be more comfortable to move, but he's stubborn, refusing to move his hands from land they've claimed. But he doesn't try to take more either, palms pressing against cool pale skin and clothed elbow, sharing a warmth that doesn't extend in the pour of muted emotion. ]
You're right, of course. Others have lied for less. [ a shrug, another roll of shoulderblade and tilt of head as though the pain is actually his to bunker down through instead of a phantom gift, ] But everything I told you then was true.
[ .... and he likely knows more, if Rokurou's general observations and understanding of a certain someone's intimate tendencies are on point. ]
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He can hear the other man speaking, but it takes a moment to translate words into sensible logic, thick eyelids hanging low over red eyes with a drowsiness inspired by his own injured state. Fatigue from stamina run down to a dry riverbed, Itachi finds himself studying those large, battle-scarred hands for some signal deeper than the amiable attitude he’s confronted with on the outside; trying to read by the patchwork of scarred flesh.]
I know as much as you would tell someone publicly. [The low vibration of voice is still a thick rasp, almost wet, free arm lifting to wipe fingers across the smear of blood on his chin. Messy.] A war daemon, Yaksha, inhuman, monster.
[Descriptors listed in a running tally he remembers Rokurou had used to name himself.]
I cannot decide yet whether that is through your own recklessness or indifference. However, I believe you. [This admission is given less like an avowed personal confession and more a statement of fact, direct enunciation, direct eye contact, flatly level.] … We also have an individual in common.
Mo Guanshan.
[He says little else on that, although a steel-bladed gaze never strays from Rokurou's half-hidden face as if to discern its reaction (any reaction, a flare thrown straight into Synchrony), emotions lurking like dark shadows in deep water beneath the tight, refined rein of self-control—and then melted within the cold fire of their channel. Soon he begins to feel stronger, can stand straighter.]
Are you always so benevolent?
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Despite the disinterest he does finally tilt his head to assent to the comment, visible eye lidding with a brush of thick lashes against angled waterline.]
I know.
[ An avenue Rokurou has no intention of pursuing; the small exhale earned is by mention of his alleged benevolence. Half a laugh, noise cusped on short air as he lifts his chin, amusement creasing itself into the well-worn laugh lines at the corner of that golden eye. Synchrony remains tepid from his end, unrestrained yet washed out to white, apathy's teeth quick to crush what ghostly shadows it can lure and fish from the other man. ]
That's generous. [ gold peeks from beneath line-sketched black, feline-languid in its study, heavy weight of hungry prying left to what's hidden behind thick bang, ] You don't even know what I want as payment.
[ Phantom pain creaks through the daemon's chest. An unpleasant ache roots and blooms beneath his ribs, knocking against each bone with every slight movement. A decaying bed for red camellias; their velvety petals tickle his throat with each breath.
The man stands straighter and the daemon's grip on his elbow loosens in turn. Drifts, curve of rough thumb moth drawn to bloodied chin—precise, Rokurou brushes its pad beneath the curve of that stern mouth. A slow swipe of crimson collection taken hostage, quickly drawn back to tilted mouth and curled tongue. He presses the digit against the crease of his teeth, streak of red blurring against jagged white. ]
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Itachi is not expecting to be touched, yet possesses the harness of self-control enough not to flinch as that callused thumb swipes his chin. First thought goes to long-lost colleagues; second to the failure of foresight which has lowered the gate of his guard and allowed a stranger (a strange beast) into this personal space, violation in the red flicker of tongue clearing blood off, essense of himself stolen.
The next movement is quick, blurred. Free arm flashing out, snatching the wrist of the hand that had touched him, yanking it like a rope—reeling the daemon in close, gleaming silver now in his other palm as if summoned from thin air. He tucks the tip of the blade beneath Rokurou’s strong, handsome jawline. And now attempts an angle to see beneath the fringe of thick black hair, to get a better view, near enough for breath to tickle.]
You should have stated your demands prior to my agreement. [Low, gritty, articulate words like whispered ash between them.] I would consider this a new condition entirely.
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That rapid-fast hand blurs but isn't impossible to follow; too caught too close too interested to pull away, the daemon's smile crooks into a smirk as pointed steel scrapes beneath his chin. His arm's a snatched sacrifice but his tongue's still loose; it curls over his teeth to sweep up smeared blood left to stain. A dour copper, off from how it tastes when licked from a freshly gouged wound. ]
Don't blame me for your lack of forethought.
[ Mean to mock a sick man for not considering consequences, but amiable and petty are attributes that clasp and lace like lovers' fingers. It's a mildly spiteful jab back at that livewire toss—for mentioning his name when none of those feelings belong in the palms of an interloper.
With his chin pressed up at a new angle, the dark fringe of Rokurou's bangs splits and parts. What's seemingly tattoo isn't tattoo at all—monstrous black stain mottles the right half of his face with a rough, broken texture. It's a matte carapace that crawls over cheek and forehead, making seamless connection into scalp to blend into silky black hair. Veining down from his hairline are crags of ruby, old blood split across unfortunate terrain in eerie fingers that seep down toward where an eyebrow should be.
Where that veining begins to taper off is a brilliant red eye set upon a black sclera sea. A bright, crimson hue with black rings laced into the color—they shift, a slow spiral as his vision focuses in to accommodate the lack of distance between them, close enough now that their breath mingles. Whereas gold remains friendly ease, that red is nothing but detached calculation. ]
Do you know shogi? [ a seemingly random question while glancing down the sharp edge of a blade, ] Been a long while since I had a game. Play me sometime, that'll make us even.
[ Itachi is air and ash—Rokurou is gravel and brimstone. ]
That's all I can think of wanting from you.
[ Right now is the implicit lure in his tone, a sultry hint against sulfur as he makes use of the hand freed when their dance changed tempo to press the edge of his obsidian kukri against the ninja's clothed rib. A romantic position between the fourth and fifth, though killing intent doesn't resonate through Synchrony. ]
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Severing the heavy hang of eye contact only long enough to glance down and confirm the presence of a blade at his ribs—an intimacy of violence threatening to slide right between delicate bone, into sick lungs—Itachi remains still for several seconds. He does not possess the stamina yet for a fight, even armed with Sharingan, even after this thirsty Synchrony. Neither is there any sense this man intends to strike a first blow unless properly motivated.
Shogi.
An odd and almost absurd request to make. Mild, unassuming. Why then does he feel as though he's lost his hold on this encounter, if he ever had it at all?]
... Yes, I know it. [When had he last played? It seems a lifetime ago. Perhaps against his father, or Shisui, while they were both still alive.] Fine.
[If that's all you want. It is his nature to suspect ulterior motive, even now, eyeing Rokurou with communicable distrust. Then the kunai is pointed down; his hand draws away, tucks it into a hidden pocket. And he makes to step back—demanding release from physical touch.]
If that's all, I can make it back on my own now.
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It's a shame to give up the Synchrony. In all the pain there's something to relish. Full body aches that stretch with each breath, exhaustion from coming back from starvation's brink, a fluctuation of intensity and restriction. Restraint that the daemon wants to break, hungry to soak in the lashes of what Itachi had finally given him a taste of at the end. A familiar and strange darkness he wants to plunge his hands into and have ooze out from between his fingers. Keenly human.
The craving to crack it open and expose its underbelly doesn't fade when they step apart. Synchrony's remnants only remain for a few moments after, a fading ghost flush across his skin before it's gone. But he lets it go without complaint, offering another genial smile at that curt agreement. ]
Great. I look forward to it.
[ If that's all he says as though he hadn't been the leech. Regardless, Rokurou shrugs, stepping around the ninja toward deeper, thicker forest. He has no interest in following to make sure Itachi makes it out okay, or even offering to get him there. If he's weak, he'll die.
Ah, but Rokurou doesn't think he will. It'll be a fun game of shogi. ]
Until then, Itachi.
[ And just like that he's gone, a quick step before melting into shadow. ]