[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
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]