[I want to live. The sentiment burns through him, bewildered gaze open in the shock of its vulnerability as he looks at Eren, more painful in the moment when he’s faced with their similarities. What does it feel like, to want to live? He nearly asks that question. The only way to make it stop—so excruciating a truth he finds himself wishing he could pursue it now, untethered from the burden of connections to other people as he once was. Not anymore.
He had a purpose, too. But he’s lost even that. So how can he ever want to live in the vacancy left behind?
The hand on his chest is a surprisingly delicate touch, black eyes sliding down as he makes the executive decision to release Eren to himself, lowered onto his own feet. Full freedom is reluctant; he finds that he has taken the boy’s wrist in a tight, shackled hold of fingers, unwilling to let go. That clinginess, that want of physical contact—it is all unlike him, but perhaps he’s unwilling to lose the first person he believes has ever truly understood him on a level that isn’t simply acceptance but painful empathy.]
… No. I don’t believe I would have been buried.
[Used, perhaps, for parts. Stored somewhere. Not worthy enough for a real grave.]
[ so many people have asked him that. so many wonder and still befuddle over what makes his muscles move beyond their limits, what drives him so relentlessly to self-destruction if that meant he’d be breathing. conceivably it was his purpose to, and he hadn’t lost that yet, hadn’t gotten it wrapped around his fingers . . . and what if he did achieve it? would he be the same as itachi, living on with a profound sensation of feckless drifting? exhausted?
eventually, he’d get his rest as a head dead in the soil only because one person loved him, but he didn’t know how to compute, exactly, how it would feel like to crave a deep sleep and never being able to plaster your eyes shut or sound your mind into unconsciousness for it. he remembers some years into the future, that feeling— and the internal brawl would always be of two wolves gnawing themselves apart. his selfishness, his wish, and the humanity in him that couldn’t keep up.
he’s on his feet, his wobbling knees tense and squeeze to raise him up, the hand keeping his wrist in place is even used to crutch his rise, clapped at the shinobi’s own wrist and pulling to meet his height. it’s only afterward that he realizes the inclination it holds. eren too, with his mouth dry and stringing the words to speak them, feels that he can’t let go yet either, doesn’t want to, and keeps a mutual lock. when has anyone felt this akin to what went on in his head? ]
I was born into that world. It’s my right. No one’s going to take that from me. [ there was nothing to hide here though, and there was a spot that still ached, and bled if he kept silent like he had for so damn long. ] And the one’s who try— I’ll take theirs. I think . . . That’s what I have to do while I’m alive.
[ until he served that end well. he doesn’t know how else to explain it. it was a compulsion. a deeply embedded need. if asked too much, he’d even go with the worst of answers: I don’t know. ]
[How different would his life be if he followed a similar pattern of thought? He can't understand it. Survival might have mattered to him more if there was any weight or value to his own individual life. But that isn't true. A shinobi only exists to serve their village—at all costs—and to live otherwise is selfish, detrimental to the well-being of others, those uninvolved in the world of darkness he's come to know intimately. Perhaps if the context of his upbringing was different… but shouldn't it be easy to see from someone else's perspective? Has he ever struggled with it this badly before?
Dark eyes close, tired, uncertain. To relate himself so strongly with another person as he does with Eren in this moment, and yet find himself against a barrier further in, unable to cross that last line of empathy because he doesn't know what it's like to possess that drive. It is alien to him. It's my right. By comparison, is it his right to die? No. He has never felt in control of his own fate, no matter how hard he's fought with it. He has never held that power. He's gone so long like a puppet on strings, a tool sharpened for one purpose alone.
Itachi looks over at the boy, silent for a long moment, still holding onto him with a grasp tight enough to bruise.]
Then I hope you achieve it. [His own voice sounds remote and far away to himself.] … Have you recognized it yet? That this is a dream.
[ the words brought about a conflicting case that made eren’s heart wrench like it was about to be pulled into halves of halves instead of feeling integral. it was a cruel joke. he lived to fight, and fight, and fight because he wanted hope somewhere, hanging onto a false notion that he would one day see that sight of romanticized freedom. deep within him, what overlapped contradicted, and he knew that. he wanted to achieve his peak and never would. he would die a monster and a tragedy. in the end, what made him any different than a puppet on strings? the notion that he wanted something different? or the choice of believing instead of accepting? he was no better and possibly no worse.
his whole existence is based on a contradiction, and even now, he relives the words he spoke and feels contravening. the pressure is tight around his wrist— he tastes many things at that moment: a rising anger particular for rubies, frustration, (self)loathing, a hot, hot bubbling thing that screamed to be let out, or perhaps pull something out of what prodded plenty at him—
he’s in the same place as he’s recently always found himself: there was no one that possibly understood him more than itachi, no one that shared as close to each other’s nightmares as he had— but itachi continues to know so much about eren, yet eren feels he knows next to nothing despite sharing the in depth proximity. ]
It doesn’t feel any different than when I’m awake. I’d bet you’re not different. [ this. was always there. the silence began to grow uncomfortably, and so did eren’s hold, from pressed fingers to digging nails and leaving whites to hold his fire from popping. a dream, a dream, a dream— it doesn’t make sense. look at me says eren’s sudden yet short jerk of nibble hands, almost sickly. ] How do you know?
[No, he wouldn't be different. That much is true. Yet Itachi's eyes drift now, looking over the grave and the surrounding plain, noticing details a sleeper's ignorant mind might not have seen: blurred edges, smeared colors, incomplete lines and distorted shapes. He only knows because he has pulled the minds of countless others into worlds just like this, constructed out of intention alone. The machinations of an internal place where anything could be warped and changed.
Eren's nails are sharp in his skin, yanking his attention back like a thread. When he looks down, he can see them pressed in hard—so close to the scarred bitemark on his forearm. He finds himself staring at this longer.]
I have abilities that resemble it. Close to dreaming, but not exactly. In some ways it feels the same as reality. [Or so much that one would be convinced of its reality. He faces Eren directly, voice low and still quiet.] Do you want to wake up?
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no subject
He had a purpose, too. But he’s lost even that. So how can he ever want to live in the vacancy left behind?
The hand on his chest is a surprisingly delicate touch, black eyes sliding down as he makes the executive decision to release Eren to himself, lowered onto his own feet. Full freedom is reluctant; he finds that he has taken the boy’s wrist in a tight, shackled hold of fingers, unwilling to let go. That clinginess, that want of physical contact—it is all unlike him, but perhaps he’s unwilling to lose the first person he believes has ever truly understood him on a level that isn’t simply acceptance but painful empathy.]
… No. I don’t believe I would have been buried.
[Used, perhaps, for parts. Stored somewhere. Not worthy enough for a real grave.]
I don’t understand. Why do you try so hard?
no subject
eventually, he’d get his rest as a head dead in the soil only because one person loved him, but he didn’t know how to compute, exactly, how it would feel like to crave a deep sleep and never being able to plaster your eyes shut or sound your mind into unconsciousness for it. he remembers some years into the future, that feeling— and the internal brawl would always be of two wolves gnawing themselves apart. his selfishness, his wish, and the humanity in him that couldn’t keep up.
he’s on his feet, his wobbling knees tense and squeeze to raise him up, the hand keeping his wrist in place is even used to crutch his rise, clapped at the shinobi’s own wrist and pulling to meet his height. it’s only afterward that he realizes the inclination it holds. eren too, with his mouth dry and stringing the words to speak them, feels that he can’t let go yet either, doesn’t want to, and keeps a mutual lock. when has anyone felt this akin to what went on in his head? ]
I was born into that world. It’s my right. No one’s going to take that from me. [ there was nothing to hide here though, and there was a spot that still ached, and bled if he kept silent like he had for so damn long. ] And the one’s who try— I’ll take theirs. I think . . . That’s what I have to do while I’m alive.
[ until he served that end well. he doesn’t know how else to explain it. it was a compulsion. a deeply embedded need. if asked too much, he’d even go with the worst of answers: I don’t know. ]
I just— have to.
no subject
Dark eyes close, tired, uncertain. To relate himself so strongly with another person as he does with Eren in this moment, and yet find himself against a barrier further in, unable to cross that last line of empathy because he doesn't know what it's like to possess that drive. It is alien to him. It's my right. By comparison, is it his right to die? No. He has never felt in control of his own fate, no matter how hard he's fought with it. He has never held that power. He's gone so long like a puppet on strings, a tool sharpened for one purpose alone.
Itachi looks over at the boy, silent for a long moment, still holding onto him with a grasp tight enough to bruise.]
Then I hope you achieve it. [His own voice sounds remote and far away to himself.] … Have you recognized it yet? That this is a dream.
no subject
his whole existence is based on a contradiction, and even now, he relives the words he spoke and feels contravening. the pressure is tight around his wrist— he tastes many things at that moment: a rising anger particular for rubies, frustration, (self)loathing, a hot, hot bubbling thing that screamed to be let out, or perhaps pull something out of what prodded plenty at him—
he’s in the same place as he’s recently always found himself: there was no one that possibly understood him more than itachi, no one that shared as close to each other’s nightmares as he had— but itachi continues to know so much about eren, yet eren feels he knows next to nothing despite sharing the in depth proximity. ]
It doesn’t feel any different than when I’m awake. I’d bet you’re not different. [ this. was always there. the silence began to grow uncomfortably, and so did eren’s hold, from pressed fingers to digging nails and leaving whites to hold his fire from popping. a dream, a dream, a dream— it doesn’t make sense. look at me says eren’s sudden yet short jerk of nibble hands, almost sickly. ] How do you know?
no subject
Eren's nails are sharp in his skin, yanking his attention back like a thread. When he looks down, he can see them pressed in hard—so close to the scarred bitemark on his forearm. He finds himself staring at this longer.]
I have abilities that resemble it. Close to dreaming, but not exactly. In some ways it feels the same as reality. [Or so much that one would be convinced of its reality. He faces Eren directly, voice low and still quiet.] Do you want to wake up?