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[from here.]
[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?
[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. ]
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. ]
[Something like relief bleeds into him, easing the rigid figure of his posture against the counter’s lip with enough subtlety to go unnoticed—by anyone but perhaps the man in front of him now. Red eyes hang down, slant away. He considers dispelling Sharingan; after a moment’s thought he does, color fading to pale, dormant black like dusty coal. The chakra drain isn’t worth it in his current state. He is safe, here, more than most other places.
They both remember. Pretenses can be lowered.]
I can. It was the dimension I occupied previously as well. [Words he wouldn’t use with strangers: dimension and occupied, alluding to the transient, changing nature of their habitation in other worlds. He's learned now.] … You must have remained longer.
[Black eyes are turned onto Kisame, unspoken question lurking somewhere in the look, unwilling yet to be asked.]
They both remember. Pretenses can be lowered.]
I can. It was the dimension I occupied previously as well. [Words he wouldn’t use with strangers: dimension and occupied, alluding to the transient, changing nature of their habitation in other worlds. He's learned now.] … You must have remained longer.
[Black eyes are turned onto Kisame, unspoken question lurking somewhere in the look, unwilling yet to be asked.]
[ The significance of those black eyes is not lost on Kisame. He knows that the Sharingan's absence is a show of trust, a sign that Itachi has chosen to let down a fraction of his guard. It has never gone unappreciated. But given all that lies between them now — time, death, different dimensions — Kisame wonders if it has ever meant so much. Coupled with the subtle signs of relief in Itachi's stance, Kisame finds that his answer comes easily: ]
Yes, I did.
[ … Or at least, that part comes easily.
Faced with a choice between frankness and deception, Kisame delays yet again. He unfastens the strap holding Samehada in place, disarming himself just as Itachi has done. Realistically, he knows that he can't hide the truth from Itachi forever. His partner is a genius, after all. And even if Kisame were to play his role to perfection, he's learned that these dimensions have a way of unearthing even the best-kept secrets.
So, after a few seconds that betray his indecision, he continues. ]
I spent several months there after you vanished, and a few more in our world. In total, it's been perhaps six months since we last spoke.
[ A more comfortable choice of words than, "Since you died." ]
Yes, I did.
[ … Or at least, that part comes easily.
Faced with a choice between frankness and deception, Kisame delays yet again. He unfastens the strap holding Samehada in place, disarming himself just as Itachi has done. Realistically, he knows that he can't hide the truth from Itachi forever. His partner is a genius, after all. And even if Kisame were to play his role to perfection, he's learned that these dimensions have a way of unearthing even the best-kept secrets.
So, after a few seconds that betray his indecision, he continues. ]
I spent several months there after you vanished, and a few more in our world. In total, it's been perhaps six months since we last spoke.
[ A more comfortable choice of words than, "Since you died." ]
[A few more in our world: this alone carries undeniable implication, giving Itachi the ability to read through those polite, impersonal words. A few months would, without question, place Kisame after the event of his own death. If memory serves, they had only just parted when Kisame was pulled into the dimension of Hell—there he lingered, then went home, and then at last arrived here. What is it that dictates their travel through different worlds? Itachi can't say, but there's no ignoring the significance that Kisame remembers. He's one of the few who has.
The greater question, then, is what does this mean for Kisame’s knowledge of him? He has no timeline that isn’t murky based on what he learned from Sasuke; at some point, his younger brother unearths the truth. But does Kisame?
It has been longer for his partner than himself since they spoke. What he wants to ask is what happened? yet the question never entirely materializes.]
Sasuke is here. [Dark eyes watch Samehada slide off that broad back, set aside. It doesn’t escape his notice that Kisame has been reunited with his weapon.] Haruno Sakura as well—his teammate.
[If he should need the reminder. There’s more there, namely about his brother’s future and the fate of his own clan, but it feels distant in his mind, shrouded in mist. Itachi levels his gaze on the other man.]
… And the boy, Stiles. Do you remember him? He was with us in Hell.
The greater question, then, is what does this mean for Kisame’s knowledge of him? He has no timeline that isn’t murky based on what he learned from Sasuke; at some point, his younger brother unearths the truth. But does Kisame?
It has been longer for his partner than himself since they spoke. What he wants to ask is what happened? yet the question never entirely materializes.]
Sasuke is here. [Dark eyes watch Samehada slide off that broad back, set aside. It doesn’t escape his notice that Kisame has been reunited with his weapon.] Haruno Sakura as well—his teammate.
[If he should need the reminder. There’s more there, namely about his brother’s future and the fate of his own clan, but it feels distant in his mind, shrouded in mist. Itachi levels his gaze on the other man.]
… And the boy, Stiles. Do you remember him? He was with us in Hell.
[ Sasuke is no longer such a mysterious figure to Kisame — an enraged boy who challenged Itachi; a disciple of Orochimaru whispered of in rumors; a young man glimpsed as Kisame blocked his path. They've become allies since then, albeit tenuous ones. And though they've never held a private conversation, Kisame has watched Sasuke over Madara's shoulder with interest.
Kisame's lack of reaction to those first two names may be telling. Sasuke is significant primarily in his importance to Madara — and to Itachi. Sakura is mostly an unknown element, though not one to be dismissed: her involvement in Sasori's death made that apparent. Kisame won't make the mistake of underestimating her.
Just two names… Could it be possible that Madara is here as well, carefully hidden until the right moment? Or is that wishful thinking on his part?
Once Samehada is set aside, Kisame reaches up to begin unfastening his cloak. It's a calculated move, one aimed to coax his own mind into a more relaxed state. He is with his partner; he can unwind a bit. This shouldn't be difficult. He shouldn't dwell on the fact that Itachi has been dead for months.
(He shouldn't.) ]
Yes, I remember Stiles. He was the inquisitive one you wanted to remain unharmed… [ And who must have vanished around the same time as Itachi, come to think of it. ] So, is that still the case?
Kisame's lack of reaction to those first two names may be telling. Sasuke is significant primarily in his importance to Madara — and to Itachi. Sakura is mostly an unknown element, though not one to be dismissed: her involvement in Sasori's death made that apparent. Kisame won't make the mistake of underestimating her.
Just two names… Could it be possible that Madara is here as well, carefully hidden until the right moment? Or is that wishful thinking on his part?
Once Samehada is set aside, Kisame reaches up to begin unfastening his cloak. It's a calculated move, one aimed to coax his own mind into a more relaxed state. He is with his partner; he can unwind a bit. This shouldn't be difficult. He shouldn't dwell on the fact that Itachi has been dead for months.
(He shouldn't.) ]
Yes, I remember Stiles. He was the inquisitive one you wanted to remain unharmed… [ And who must have vanished around the same time as Itachi, come to think of it. ] So, is that still the case?
[Telling enough, speaking to a rift in his knowledge as it concerns two very central individuals and his life: his younger brother, and the partner who stood at his side for the latter half of his life. What had happened after his own death? Surely Kisame knew who was at fault for it—or who Itachi had posed at the executioner's place, intent to have Sasuke take all of the glory for his defeat. It would not have been a secret. That was intentional, but now his wondering is useless; he had never planned to survive in any capacity where he could consider a future.
Itachi's eyes are inevitably drawn to that cloak, so familiar despite all of these months he's gone without it, a feature of a life he no longer lived. He watches each clasp loosen and slide open. Hunting for something, perhaps a glimpse of a gleaming gem, to tell him which one Kisame was given.
The question shouldn't surprise him, yet Itachi finds himself at momentary loss for a reply. Another failure of prediction: he'd never thought he would have to discuss Stiles with his former partner again. Short-sighted, now.]
Yes. [He feels divided into three—the part unable to exist easily in the same room as his younger brother; the part most comfortable and secure at Kisame's side more than any other; and the part reluctant to share what Stiles means to him now.] We are… involved.
[His tone is almost uncertain in its halting execution. Saying it at all feels unnatural on his tongue, like chewing wet cotton, never before has he admitted anything so personal. Dangerous, they both know. Perhaps this is another demonstration of trust—to see what Kisame will do.]
Itachi's eyes are inevitably drawn to that cloak, so familiar despite all of these months he's gone without it, a feature of a life he no longer lived. He watches each clasp loosen and slide open. Hunting for something, perhaps a glimpse of a gleaming gem, to tell him which one Kisame was given.
The question shouldn't surprise him, yet Itachi finds himself at momentary loss for a reply. Another failure of prediction: he'd never thought he would have to discuss Stiles with his former partner again. Short-sighted, now.]
Yes. [He feels divided into three—the part unable to exist easily in the same room as his younger brother; the part most comfortable and secure at Kisame's side more than any other; and the part reluctant to share what Stiles means to him now.] We are… involved.
[His tone is almost uncertain in its halting execution. Saying it at all feels unnatural on his tongue, like chewing wet cotton, never before has he admitted anything so personal. Dangerous, they both know. Perhaps this is another demonstration of trust—to see what Kisame will do.]
[ Even if Itachi wasn't watching him so closely, Kisame's reaction is so instantaneous that he has no hope of hiding it. His fingers abruptly still midway through unfastening a clasp, the task temporarily forgotten as he stares at Itachi in dumbfounded silence. That silence stretches on as he searches his partner's face, foolishly looking for some inkling of humor. There is none. Itachi is serious, and Kisame's expression slides from stunned to perplexed.
He wants to ask, "How?" and, "Why?" He wants to press Itachi for information, so that he can put the pieces together one at a time until he understands. He wants to know how his cold partner could have hidden this part of himself so completely—
And then Kisame laughs — a half-breathless, half-strained sound that is unlike him. Of course Itachi concealed it. He should have expected no different. ]
Goodness, that's something I never thought I'd hear you say…
[ Finally, he moves again, his fingers unfastening the last of the clasps on autopilot. Then he slides his cloak off, revealing his customary dark pants, sleeveless shirt, and arm warmers. There is still no sign of his gem. However, Itachi might glimpse a new scar on the inside of his left bicep: the word "betrayal" in kanji, neat and precise, carved by an unfamiliar hand. ]
I suppose you are "inexplicably fond" of him, eh?
[ Those were the words Stiles used all those months ago. They'd nearly cost Stiles his life. Kisame echoes them now in a tone that may be a bit too light, given his utter bewilderment moments before. ]
He wants to ask, "How?" and, "Why?" He wants to press Itachi for information, so that he can put the pieces together one at a time until he understands. He wants to know how his cold partner could have hidden this part of himself so completely—
And then Kisame laughs — a half-breathless, half-strained sound that is unlike him. Of course Itachi concealed it. He should have expected no different. ]
Goodness, that's something I never thought I'd hear you say…
[ Finally, he moves again, his fingers unfastening the last of the clasps on autopilot. Then he slides his cloak off, revealing his customary dark pants, sleeveless shirt, and arm warmers. There is still no sign of his gem. However, Itachi might glimpse a new scar on the inside of his left bicep: the word "betrayal" in kanji, neat and precise, carved by an unfamiliar hand. ]
I suppose you are "inexplicably fond" of him, eh?
[ Those were the words Stiles used all those months ago. They'd nearly cost Stiles his life. Kisame echoes them now in a tone that may be a bit too light, given his utter bewilderment moments before. ]
Edited 2021-03-13 01:25 (UTC)
[The reaction is fairly expected, although he had no idea what its exact shape might be, so rarely have they ever discussed anything of a personal nature. Hell had propped open that door; still they hadn't fully walked through it. He finds himself studying Kisame's expression to memorize it exactly. Neither of them are so open - he recognizes that he may never see it again quite so plain on the other man's face.
Even that laughter sounds unnatural, or at least nothing he's heard with any frequency in their long years together, a representation of the strangeness now between them. Not distance - that had always existed by necessity - but almost a recognition of it instead. An acknowledgement of everything hidden.
The question causes Itachi's brows to furrow, but the confusion is sidetracked immediately by the sight of his partner's arm. That vivid, violent scar takes all of his attention. Betrayal.
So Kisame had continued to suffer in that dimension.]
… Was that what he said? [A mild, quiet tone.] It's complicated, but he requested an official status. He also understands that it is not permanent.
[Something made clear to Stiles before he'd even agreed to such an absurd, uncharacteristic, painfully tender decision.]
How recent is your injury?
Even that laughter sounds unnatural, or at least nothing he's heard with any frequency in their long years together, a representation of the strangeness now between them. Not distance - that had always existed by necessity - but almost a recognition of it instead. An acknowledgement of everything hidden.
The question causes Itachi's brows to furrow, but the confusion is sidetracked immediately by the sight of his partner's arm. That vivid, violent scar takes all of his attention. Betrayal.
So Kisame had continued to suffer in that dimension.]
… Was that what he said? [A mild, quiet tone.] It's complicated, but he requested an official status. He also understands that it is not permanent.
[Something made clear to Stiles before he'd even agreed to such an absurd, uncharacteristic, painfully tender decision.]
How recent is your injury?
[ An official status, eh? As he mechanically sets his cloak aside, Kisame thinks back to his meeting with Stiles, picking through the memory for details he may have dismissed. He recalls that one of the teenager's first questions concerned the exact nature of his partnership with Itachi. Of course, Kisame had declined to answer; even if that were something easily explained, he wouldn't share it with a stranger. Now, he wonders if there was more to Stiles' question than mere nosiness.
"How" and "why" continue to swim in Kisame's mind, joined now by questions about the relationship's impermanence. He voices none of them. This territory is too unfamiliar, and he is acutely aware of how much Itachi can hide. Better to make his own observations first — and this plan, hastily constructed as it is, serves to help him regain his composure. ]
Ah, this?
[ It could be nothing else, yet Kisame still glances down at the scar. He has done so often since that young woman carved it. His injuries usually heal cleaner, leaving only faint traces behind. Perhaps the vividness of those proclaiming his sins was some trick of Hell. ]
I received it a few weeks ago. Strange that it's so clear, don't you think?
[ As he looks back to his partner, his eyes fall briefly on Itachi's sternum. Does Itachi still bear scars of torture…? And then, as he brings his gaze up, he catches a glint of something half-hidden by Itachi's collar. It is a gem; it must be. But its location reminds Kisame of his partner's necklace, and the fingers of his left hand twitch very slightly.
There's no way to ask about the necklace itself without raising suspicion. So instead, ]
Is that your gem, Itachi-san?
"How" and "why" continue to swim in Kisame's mind, joined now by questions about the relationship's impermanence. He voices none of them. This territory is too unfamiliar, and he is acutely aware of how much Itachi can hide. Better to make his own observations first — and this plan, hastily constructed as it is, serves to help him regain his composure. ]
Ah, this?
[ It could be nothing else, yet Kisame still glances down at the scar. He has done so often since that young woman carved it. His injuries usually heal cleaner, leaving only faint traces behind. Perhaps the vividness of those proclaiming his sins was some trick of Hell. ]
I received it a few weeks ago. Strange that it's so clear, don't you think?
[ As he looks back to his partner, his eyes fall briefly on Itachi's sternum. Does Itachi still bear scars of torture…? And then, as he brings his gaze up, he catches a glint of something half-hidden by Itachi's collar. It is a gem; it must be. But its location reminds Kisame of his partner's necklace, and the fingers of his left hand twitch very slightly.
There's no way to ask about the necklace itself without raising suspicion. So instead, ]
Is that your gem, Itachi-san?
[It's no surprise that he finds nothing easily read in the other man's outward demeanor and spoken words. They have both learned, perhaps in different ways, to mask true thoughts and intentions. It is more than a necessity given their profession. In most cases, it means survival. Yet in this moment Itachi is struck by the realization that he wishes his partner were somewhat more transparent to him now than normally—that it was easier to know Kisame's opinion on Stiles, and the vulnerable admission he has surrendered in an uncharacteristic move. If it means anything to the other man.
But the want is impossible. Truthfully, he doesn't even know what inspires it, outside the fact that they've operated for so long as a unit, making decisions and adjusting to outside variables together. It feels strange, wrong, to have gone on without Kisame. What did it change between them? What was changing, or had already altered past the point of recognition?]
… Unusual scars seem common in that dimension. [He feels that gaze, doesn't even need to confirm where it's pointed, inclining his head slightly. A hand reaches to tug down the collar with one slender finger and bare the small, dime-sized purple crystal, set in a bare throat. No necklace in sight.] Yes, it is. Amethyst.
[And his own look sharpens, dark eyes weighing heavy.]
Where is yours? Which of the four cardinal gems were you given?
But the want is impossible. Truthfully, he doesn't even know what inspires it, outside the fact that they've operated for so long as a unit, making decisions and adjusting to outside variables together. It feels strange, wrong, to have gone on without Kisame. What did it change between them? What was changing, or had already altered past the point of recognition?]
… Unusual scars seem common in that dimension. [He feels that gaze, doesn't even need to confirm where it's pointed, inclining his head slightly. A hand reaches to tug down the collar with one slender finger and bare the small, dime-sized purple crystal, set in a bare throat. No necklace in sight.] Yes, it is. Amethyst.
[And his own look sharpens, dark eyes weighing heavy.]
Where is yours? Which of the four cardinal gems were you given?
[ Before now, Kisame has had no way of knowing if the necklace he carries is really Itachi's. It could have been a mere fabrication created in Hell. His partner's bare throat confirms that his (foolish, sentimental, potentially dangerous) decision to treat the necklace as genuine wasn't wrong. That ought to be reassuring, yet it presents a new complication: now that he knows the necklace is Itachi's, how does he go about returning it? Should he roll up his arm warmer and hand it over, revealing that he has worn it all this time? Should he fabricate a lie and pretend to retrieve it from another room? But if he does that, how should he explain its presence when only the items on his person came with him from Hell?
Yet again, Kisame finds himself at a loss. And yet again, his distraction causes a slight delay in his response as his gaze lingers on Itachi's throat. It's not so blatant that a stranger would pick up on it. But between the two of them, it is a hesitation where there should be none; a stumbling block in what should be the natural flow of conversation. When did he allow himself to start caring this much? Why does it matter what Itachi might think of the necklace?
Some part of him whispers, "Itachi is dead." Another part counters, "But not here." ]
… A sapphire, [ he says, bringing his eyes back up to meet Itachi's. ] It's on my lower back, so it's a bit harder to see.
[ Kisame has craned his neck around to check in a mirror, of course, but that's hardly a convenient way to inspect it. ]
Yet again, Kisame finds himself at a loss. And yet again, his distraction causes a slight delay in his response as his gaze lingers on Itachi's throat. It's not so blatant that a stranger would pick up on it. But between the two of them, it is a hesitation where there should be none; a stumbling block in what should be the natural flow of conversation. When did he allow himself to start caring this much? Why does it matter what Itachi might think of the necklace?
Some part of him whispers, "Itachi is dead." Another part counters, "But not here." ]
… A sapphire, [ he says, bringing his eyes back up to meet Itachi's. ] It's on my lower back, so it's a bit harder to see.
[ Kisame has craned his neck around to check in a mirror, of course, but that's hardly a convenient way to inspect it. ]
[Predictably, that hesitation is noticed: they can both be read in their silences, years of practice aiding the art of subtle communication. They are not men of many genuine words. Kisame may speak more, but what he says is not often what he means, a passive speaking-past the point that matters, sidestepping the root of truth in order to stand on its outskirts and gather more information. It's a tactic that has served them well before. A strategy that gives nothing of his real mind away; one that makes it difficult, now, to know what he's thinking.
Intuiting these smaller details—the hesitations—are perhaps one of the only ways he can understand Kisame. It feels like reaching both hands into deep, brackish water, searching for slippery hints to grasp hold and pull out. So he always pays attention.]
I see. Sapphire suits you. Its innate water alignment may bolster your own natural abilities.
[He doesn't ask to be shown the gem. And whatever Kisame may be withholding, whether his own personal thoughts about their situation or something else, he will not corner him or make him confess. Better to leave it alone. Itachi's eyes drift to the ground, body shifting slightly away as his hips lean against the counter.]
Have you learned of Synchrony, and how it is used here to generate Manna? It seems to be the primary energy source of this dimension.
Intuiting these smaller details—the hesitations—are perhaps one of the only ways he can understand Kisame. It feels like reaching both hands into deep, brackish water, searching for slippery hints to grasp hold and pull out. So he always pays attention.]
I see. Sapphire suits you. Its innate water alignment may bolster your own natural abilities.
[He doesn't ask to be shown the gem. And whatever Kisame may be withholding, whether his own personal thoughts about their situation or something else, he will not corner him or make him confess. Better to leave it alone. Itachi's eyes drift to the ground, body shifting slightly away as his hips lean against the counter.]
Have you learned of Synchrony, and how it is used here to generate Manna? It seems to be the primary energy source of this dimension.
[ They agree where water is concerned: it suits Kisame better than any other element. But the other part of Sapphire, the healing, strikes Kisame as laughably inappropriate. He's about as far from a medical-nin as it's possible to get. His talent lies in inflicting pain, not easing it. And while it is true that he can heal his own wounds using Samehada, the idea of healing some stranger's injuries is absurd.
Is Itachi's gem likewise both suitable and distinctly not? He can't immediately recall any details about Amethyst. An oversight on his part; he'll have to educate himself.
Itachi shifts then, his normally rigid posture seeming to relax a bit more as dark eyes turn away. Kisame remains as he is, seizing upon a moment to observe his partner without being watched in turn. Itachi looks … well, just as he does in Kisame's memory. Just as he has for years and years, save for the changes that come with age. Perhaps Kisame should be grateful he never saw Itachi's body: there is no image of a cold, motionless corpse to which he can compare Itachi's living, breathing form. ]
I've heard about it.
[ "Heard," though not yet experienced. And then Kisame hesitates once again, catching himself before he asks, "How has that been going…?" His immediate assumption is that Itachi would be struggling with the process — but Itachi is "involved." Although questions still swim in Kisame's mind concerning that 'involvement,' he presumes it involves Synchrony. Wouldn't that be most efficient?
So rather than asking a question, Kisame merely comments, ]
It seems inconvenient.
[ It sounds half-distracted even to his own ears. Kisame presses his lips together as annoyance and frustration rise. Why is this so difficult? Itachi is his partner; talking to him ought to be easy. So why is he so uncertain? Why is he letting his emotions interfere?
Fueled by irritation with himself, Kisame's caution wavers. If this were a fight, he might switch to some powerful, potentially reckless attack. Here, standing with his dead partner in another dimension, Kisame admits, ]
I have something of yours. I wasn't sure if it was genuine, but … you're missing your necklace, right?
Is Itachi's gem likewise both suitable and distinctly not? He can't immediately recall any details about Amethyst. An oversight on his part; he'll have to educate himself.
Itachi shifts then, his normally rigid posture seeming to relax a bit more as dark eyes turn away. Kisame remains as he is, seizing upon a moment to observe his partner without being watched in turn. Itachi looks … well, just as he does in Kisame's memory. Just as he has for years and years, save for the changes that come with age. Perhaps Kisame should be grateful he never saw Itachi's body: there is no image of a cold, motionless corpse to which he can compare Itachi's living, breathing form. ]
I've heard about it.
[ "Heard," though not yet experienced. And then Kisame hesitates once again, catching himself before he asks, "How has that been going…?" His immediate assumption is that Itachi would be struggling with the process — but Itachi is "involved." Although questions still swim in Kisame's mind concerning that 'involvement,' he presumes it involves Synchrony. Wouldn't that be most efficient?
So rather than asking a question, Kisame merely comments, ]
It seems inconvenient.
[ It sounds half-distracted even to his own ears. Kisame presses his lips together as annoyance and frustration rise. Why is this so difficult? Itachi is his partner; talking to him ought to be easy. So why is he so uncertain? Why is he letting his emotions interfere?
Fueled by irritation with himself, Kisame's caution wavers. If this were a fight, he might switch to some powerful, potentially reckless attack. Here, standing with his dead partner in another dimension, Kisame admits, ]
I have something of yours. I wasn't sure if it was genuine, but … you're missing your necklace, right?
[Heard. He can correctly infer that this means Kisame hasn't yet experienced the emotional link of Synchrony. No large shock, as he imagines he would be in quite the same situation as his partner without the past history of the Bond in Aefenglom—firsthand exposure to the discomfort of vulnerability, the linking between two people bared to their most honest bone. In fact, he is certain the Bond is the real reason that he and Stiles have come to where they are now, messily intertwined.
What will it be like for Kisame? How will it feel for his partner, previously as closed off and emotionally withdrawn as he once vowed to remain forever? An impulse tugs at Itachi, the desire to offer Syncing; it's a practical need, after all, and one Kisame will need to learn for the sake of survival. Yet he is also self-aware enough to comprehend his own selfishness, having leaned on tactics such as the Bond and Synchrony to read emotional states, using that form of connection as a means of communication that supersedes the necessity of actual words. A useful tool. It was much easier to know what Stiles was thinking and feeling when they were Bonded than it is now, unless they are Synced.
What will Kisame be feeling? Could he access that side of him, for the first time in their years-long partnership?
The possibility is sidelined immediately by what is said next. Itachi blinks, expression almost owlish in its confusion, head turning to stare hard at the other man.]
… Yes, I am. [He'd assumed the necklace was lost somewhere in the leaps between dimensions. The piece of jewelry isn't necessarily a sentimental or meaningful item, except perhaps the fact that it is one of the few things he's ever purchased for himself on a whim with no practical reason to possess it. He had simply liked it.] You have it?
[More significantly, Kisame kept it. The admission is vaguely paralyzing. It may be too much to believe that he thought they would cross paths again, so he could return the necklace to him, when there's truly no promise it would ever happen, particularly knowing his own fate. An unusual self-consciousness touches Itachi; his eyes lower to his own feet, and he's silent for a long moment. Should he ask where Kisame found it? What would he say?]
I assumed it was gone. [A dark gaze lifts, but slowly.] Where is it?
What will it be like for Kisame? How will it feel for his partner, previously as closed off and emotionally withdrawn as he once vowed to remain forever? An impulse tugs at Itachi, the desire to offer Syncing; it's a practical need, after all, and one Kisame will need to learn for the sake of survival. Yet he is also self-aware enough to comprehend his own selfishness, having leaned on tactics such as the Bond and Synchrony to read emotional states, using that form of connection as a means of communication that supersedes the necessity of actual words. A useful tool. It was much easier to know what Stiles was thinking and feeling when they were Bonded than it is now, unless they are Synced.
What will Kisame be feeling? Could he access that side of him, for the first time in their years-long partnership?
The possibility is sidelined immediately by what is said next. Itachi blinks, expression almost owlish in its confusion, head turning to stare hard at the other man.]
… Yes, I am. [He'd assumed the necklace was lost somewhere in the leaps between dimensions. The piece of jewelry isn't necessarily a sentimental or meaningful item, except perhaps the fact that it is one of the few things he's ever purchased for himself on a whim with no practical reason to possess it. He had simply liked it.] You have it?
[More significantly, Kisame kept it. The admission is vaguely paralyzing. It may be too much to believe that he thought they would cross paths again, so he could return the necklace to him, when there's truly no promise it would ever happen, particularly knowing his own fate. An unusual self-consciousness touches Itachi; his eyes lower to his own feet, and he's silent for a long moment. Should he ask where Kisame found it? What would he say?]
I assumed it was gone. [A dark gaze lifts, but slowly.] Where is it?
[ In another situation, Kisame might chuckle at his partner's clear confusion. It is a rare sight, after all. As it is, his brief flicker of amusement shows itself in a quick, thin smile that vanishes as soon as Itachi's gaze drops. Then Itachi is silent, and Kisame watches and waits.
Years ago, Kisame was forced to leap off a cliff while fleeing from a squad of Konoha's Anbu. He had no idea what lay at the bottom, nor could he be sure if he would survive the fall. He feels rather like that now: as though he's stepped off a ledge and is plummeting toward some unknown fate. A bit dramatic, perhaps — but what good has ever come from admitting vulnerability? Kisame can think of only one time such a thing was for the best … and Itachi is not Madara.
"Where is it?" That's too direct a question to avoid, particularly when a lie could fall apart so easily. So Kisame raises his left wrist, then looks down at it, avoiding Itachi's gaze. (Is that cowardly of him? Perhaps. But for once, he doesn't want to meet those eyes.) He slides his right index finger beneath the band of his arm warmer and pulls the fabric up. And there, wrapped carefully around his wrist, is Itachi's necklace. ]
I found it sometime after you vanished. Lucky thing, eh?
[ It's an attempt to explain how he has it without touching on why. Will Itachi let him leave it at that…? He doesn't know, but he offers nothing more.
Kisame keeps his gaze on his work as he gently unfastens the clasp and unwinds the necklace from his wrist. His skin feels oddly bare without it. Ignoring that sensation, he finally looks up and holds the necklace out to his partner. ]
Years ago, Kisame was forced to leap off a cliff while fleeing from a squad of Konoha's Anbu. He had no idea what lay at the bottom, nor could he be sure if he would survive the fall. He feels rather like that now: as though he's stepped off a ledge and is plummeting toward some unknown fate. A bit dramatic, perhaps — but what good has ever come from admitting vulnerability? Kisame can think of only one time such a thing was for the best … and Itachi is not Madara.
"Where is it?" That's too direct a question to avoid, particularly when a lie could fall apart so easily. So Kisame raises his left wrist, then looks down at it, avoiding Itachi's gaze. (Is that cowardly of him? Perhaps. But for once, he doesn't want to meet those eyes.) He slides his right index finger beneath the band of his arm warmer and pulls the fabric up. And there, wrapped carefully around his wrist, is Itachi's necklace. ]
I found it sometime after you vanished. Lucky thing, eh?
[ It's an attempt to explain how he has it without touching on why. Will Itachi let him leave it at that…? He doesn't know, but he offers nothing more.
Kisame keeps his gaze on his work as he gently unfastens the clasp and unwinds the necklace from his wrist. His skin feels oddly bare without it. Ignoring that sensation, he finally looks up and holds the necklace out to his partner. ]
[A lucky, convenient thing to be sure. His gaze is measured, attempting to dissect the truer meaning of his partner's words - a second-sense telling him that there is more unspoken in the context of that explanation. But he cannot demand it. After all, concealing secrets is the heart of how they've operated for several years. It offers safety, a professional distance.
Yet some fissures have still developed, and looking at Kisame now, the urgency to know his partner's inner world is almost overwhelming. Especially as he comes to realize where Kisame has kept the necklace since they were last together.
Itachi stares, openly, at the chain looped around the other man's wrist. Is it there for security, so that it may not fall off or get lost? Wouldn't a pocket or bag have served the purpose? Endless questions race through his head unanswered. Part of him wonders whether Kisame won't lie, if he asked more directly.
Tentative fingers extend, accepting the necklace, allowing it to loop over his knuckles. The metal is warm against his skin. What would happen if he refused and insisted Kisame keep it - would he dispose of it, seeing the item as useless? Itachi has no need to possess the necklace now, but the thought that his partner might simply toss it into the trash holds any desire to give it back. He slides it into a pocket.]
... Thank you. [A brief, uneasy silence falls. Then he moves forward, hunting the kitchen and extended area for something to write on. He finds a pen and pad of paper on the counter. With a quick scrawl, an address is jotted down.] This is where I am currently staying, should you need to find me. It is not too far from here.
Yet some fissures have still developed, and looking at Kisame now, the urgency to know his partner's inner world is almost overwhelming. Especially as he comes to realize where Kisame has kept the necklace since they were last together.
Itachi stares, openly, at the chain looped around the other man's wrist. Is it there for security, so that it may not fall off or get lost? Wouldn't a pocket or bag have served the purpose? Endless questions race through his head unanswered. Part of him wonders whether Kisame won't lie, if he asked more directly.
Tentative fingers extend, accepting the necklace, allowing it to loop over his knuckles. The metal is warm against his skin. What would happen if he refused and insisted Kisame keep it - would he dispose of it, seeing the item as useless? Itachi has no need to possess the necklace now, but the thought that his partner might simply toss it into the trash holds any desire to give it back. He slides it into a pocket.]
... Thank you. [A brief, uneasy silence falls. Then he moves forward, hunting the kitchen and extended area for something to write on. He finds a pen and pad of paper on the counter. With a quick scrawl, an address is jotted down.] This is where I am currently staying, should you need to find me. It is not too far from here.
[ In the space of that uneasy silence, Kisame wonders if he ought to speak. But what would he say? Brushing Itachi's gratitude aside is an option, but that would be disingenuous even for him. He can't very well feign indifference, either; if he were indifferent, the necklace would still be in Hell. Some part of him — the reckless part — wants to offer an explanation. What would happen then? What would his cold partner think if Kisame were to admit that he had clung to the only piece of Itachi that remained?
The moment passes. Kisame keeps his useless sentimentalism to himself. The sensation of falling fades; in its place comes the dull, heavy weight of exhaustion. He tries not to let it show. He can rest later. ]
Thank you. I'll keep you informed of any interesting developments.
[ Those words feel strange to say. When was the last time he needed to 'keep Itachi informed' of anything? Not only is Itachi a genius, but they worked side-by-side for years. Even privacy was minimal, what with needing to watch each other for signs of treachery. There was no need for such updates when Itachi was right beside him.
But things have changed since then. Itachi died. Kisame has spent six months on his own or at Madara's right hand. Now Itachi is alive once more, living a second life in which he is "involved." And Kisame still has a mission to accomplish. A new world to create.
He releases a quiet breath. So, they'll reside in different places, and they'll find each other if needed. It could be far worse. ]
… I'm pleased that you're here as well, Itachi-san.
[ Words that skirt the truth: "I'm so thankful that you're alive." ]
The moment passes. Kisame keeps his useless sentimentalism to himself. The sensation of falling fades; in its place comes the dull, heavy weight of exhaustion. He tries not to let it show. He can rest later. ]
Thank you. I'll keep you informed of any interesting developments.
[ Those words feel strange to say. When was the last time he needed to 'keep Itachi informed' of anything? Not only is Itachi a genius, but they worked side-by-side for years. Even privacy was minimal, what with needing to watch each other for signs of treachery. There was no need for such updates when Itachi was right beside him.
But things have changed since then. Itachi died. Kisame has spent six months on his own or at Madara's right hand. Now Itachi is alive once more, living a second life in which he is "involved." And Kisame still has a mission to accomplish. A new world to create.
He releases a quiet breath. So, they'll reside in different places, and they'll find each other if needed. It could be far worse. ]
… I'm pleased that you're here as well, Itachi-san.
[ Words that skirt the truth: "I'm so thankful that you're alive." ]
[Kisame is not the only one who has noticed the implicit change. Were they still in Hell, he might have fallen easily to his partner’s side in living accommodations and regular company as before. The better to watch and monitor their surroundings. But there is no need now, in this world and its relative safety by comparison -- that, and he has already turned down Stiles’ offer to live together. How would it seem if he went to Kisame instead?
And the differences of time, environments, circumstances. Here, he is sick. He isn’t sure what would happen if Kisame discovered this; perhaps, as was the case while he was alive, nothing but quiet compliance. Yet he is no longer willing to put that burden on his partner if it isn’t strictly necessary. He can manage well enough on his own.
The comment stops him, head turning, attempting to gauge Kisame’s expression for its subtlest details. Whether or not he reaches some conclusion, the slight dip of his head reveals little.]
Likewise.
[In the lingering silence, he turns to leave.]
And the differences of time, environments, circumstances. Here, he is sick. He isn’t sure what would happen if Kisame discovered this; perhaps, as was the case while he was alive, nothing but quiet compliance. Yet he is no longer willing to put that burden on his partner if it isn’t strictly necessary. He can manage well enough on his own.
The comment stops him, head turning, attempting to gauge Kisame’s expression for its subtlest details. Whether or not he reaches some conclusion, the slight dip of his head reveals little.]
Likewise.
[In the lingering silence, he turns to leave.]
[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.]
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.
[ A light comment, but not a dispassionate one. ]
You're not what I expected to find here.
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.
[Caught. Red eyes travel the intruder's arm where it bridges to stone too close, a diagnostic look examining their distance and finding it negligible enough to narrow his options dangerously. He meets that gaze without hesitation—an alignment as much to protect himself as it is to read the intentions of another animal. With scraps of leftover chakra, it is possible he could spin weak genjutsu and make an escape; running is likely wise, and Itachi has no pride to battle in the acknowledgment of that fact. Yet running may encourage a chase. What evidence does he have to calculate how possible this outcome would be? Mismatched eyes—curious, watchful—a weapon at hand, the low and indolent drawl, the great dark question mark of obvious strength, the fact he's found Itachi's hidden position with ease of effort...
A breath escapes him, wet and damp, evolving into a gritty closed-mouth sound as he clears his throat. He can taste blood on the back of teeth. A tongue swipes it away like a thick syrup, swallowing, metallic flavor lingering on gums. He can feel the ticklish creep of crystal beneath his jaw in a high, lavender-collared collar now, gleaming in the sheen of day's last light. The single kunai is a cold line pressed to an inner wrist.]
Manna starvation. [Flat, toneless explanation in the deep vibration of a thick voice, meant to stem any further questions on his condition.] I will be fine.
[Even now, after all these months, a lie is the easy reflex. Itachi straightens to his full height against the rigid stone at his back. He catalogues how difficult it will be to retreat, sidestep the arm, put space between them—but doesn't yet make the attempt.]
If you were seeking the natives who worship this place... they have already left.
[Or was it something else? If the man sought to kill him, to whet an appetite—like recognizes like, and Itachi has met many of a similar breed—should he even fight back? Perhaps it wouldn't matter, ready for the grave as he is.]
A breath escapes him, wet and damp, evolving into a gritty closed-mouth sound as he clears his throat. He can taste blood on the back of teeth. A tongue swipes it away like a thick syrup, swallowing, metallic flavor lingering on gums. He can feel the ticklish creep of crystal beneath his jaw in a high, lavender-collared collar now, gleaming in the sheen of day's last light. The single kunai is a cold line pressed to an inner wrist.]
Manna starvation. [Flat, toneless explanation in the deep vibration of a thick voice, meant to stem any further questions on his condition.] I will be fine.
[Even now, after all these months, a lie is the easy reflex. Itachi straightens to his full height against the rigid stone at his back. He catalogues how difficult it will be to retreat, sidestep the arm, put space between them—but doesn't yet make the attempt.]
If you were seeking the natives who worship this place... they have already left.
[Or was it something else? If the man sought to kill him, to whet an appetite—like recognizes like, and Itachi has met many of a similar breed—should he even fight back? Perhaps it wouldn't matter, ready for the grave as he is.]
[ Manna starvation. A curt voice, one flat and devoid of inflection to scrutinize. Rokurou hums as he idly rubs a callused thumbpad across the front of sharp teeth. Faint tang and metallic taste loll across his tongue, mild but just enough to coax a thicker sheen of saliva that promises that those words are a lie. Does manna starvation make one bleed at all, let alone enough to lure in a curious yaksha?
Haaaa, but who is he to call a stranger out on untruths? Nothing more than a daemon, a wayward monster playing ghost in the wild because there's no battlefield to haunt. One who's chosen to believe uglier lies for less. It doesn't particularly matter to him whether this man dying or starving—all life is ephemeral, death itself a concept ingrained deeply into him as a Rangetsu scion—but it is vaguely entertaining to watch him draw to his feet in spite of tribulation.
Rokurou smiles. Reflexive, a gesture fitting as easily despite its contrast to the keen scrutiny of mismatched eyes. Sizing up, assessing, judging everything from the favor in which the man leans his weight to the slightest twitch of finger. That smile might be a little stupid and friendly, but there's detached calculation underneath that amiable curtainfall. ]
I wasn't. [ another step around the stone, zori now gone estinto against the earth, ] But I wasn't looking for an easy target, either.
[ Not a threat, that's what he's decided. Not because of lack on the other man's part. There's a genuine pique of interest, Rokurou's long since learned how to glean a probable challenge in a matter of moments, but this is wounded prey. Starving or whatever else had him crumpled against stone, he won't find the thrill of fighting someone strong that he's always searching for in someone that's starting the game with half a deck of cards. And that's what he wants, that rush that only someone truly strong can give him. It's the only way a Rangetsu can meet their death, after all.
He isn't a monster that picks off the sick or weak, too used to being the little brother trying desperately to get stronger stronger stronger to kill the elder. When you're always nipping at better heels, why would you ever look backward? And, despite having long since shed the dredges of pinching humanity, his family's code still simmers beneath his breast. Protect the weak. Assist the wounded. Care for those who can't care for themselves. A working man, even when he's less than a man.
The arm between them rotates, turning from barrier to olive branch with upturned star-scarred palm and unfurled fingers. An offering. ]
I don't know you ... but I sense that it would be a waste for you to meet your end out here. [ his smile goes lopsided, expression a little gentler as the fine lines around his human eye crease, ] Unless you've come out here for that purpose?
[ Hey, he ain't gonna stop a man from doing what he wants, even if it's self-sabotage. ]
Haaaa, but who is he to call a stranger out on untruths? Nothing more than a daemon, a wayward monster playing ghost in the wild because there's no battlefield to haunt. One who's chosen to believe uglier lies for less. It doesn't particularly matter to him whether this man dying or starving—all life is ephemeral, death itself a concept ingrained deeply into him as a Rangetsu scion—but it is vaguely entertaining to watch him draw to his feet in spite of tribulation.
Rokurou smiles. Reflexive, a gesture fitting as easily despite its contrast to the keen scrutiny of mismatched eyes. Sizing up, assessing, judging everything from the favor in which the man leans his weight to the slightest twitch of finger. That smile might be a little stupid and friendly, but there's detached calculation underneath that amiable curtainfall. ]
I wasn't. [ another step around the stone, zori now gone estinto against the earth, ] But I wasn't looking for an easy target, either.
[ Not a threat, that's what he's decided. Not because of lack on the other man's part. There's a genuine pique of interest, Rokurou's long since learned how to glean a probable challenge in a matter of moments, but this is wounded prey. Starving or whatever else had him crumpled against stone, he won't find the thrill of fighting someone strong that he's always searching for in someone that's starting the game with half a deck of cards. And that's what he wants, that rush that only someone truly strong can give him. It's the only way a Rangetsu can meet their death, after all.
He isn't a monster that picks off the sick or weak, too used to being the little brother trying desperately to get stronger stronger stronger to kill the elder. When you're always nipping at better heels, why would you ever look backward? And, despite having long since shed the dredges of pinching humanity, his family's code still simmers beneath his breast. Protect the weak. Assist the wounded. Care for those who can't care for themselves. A working man, even when he's less than a man.
The arm between them rotates, turning from barrier to olive branch with upturned star-scarred palm and unfurled fingers. An offering. ]
I don't know you ... but I sense that it would be a waste for you to meet your end out here. [ his smile goes lopsided, expression a little gentler as the fine lines around his human eye crease, ] Unless you've come out here for that purpose?
[ Hey, he ain't gonna stop a man from doing what he wants, even if it's self-sabotage. ]
[Eyes snap to sharp teeth, drawn by that white gleam in the falling dusk color of their surroundings, pale sky now a deepening bruise of purple like beaten skin. Whether or not his lie is seen through, he chooses to stand by it. If his words are examined—closely by practical or pushy hands, or further by a crossfire of questions—he already knows how he will respond. The instinct is ingrained and second nature after all of these years.
The greater problem, always, is his dedication to believing it himself.
There is no preexisting context for who this man may be. By observation alone, it feels as though he is staring through a sheet of glass, looking at himself only warped at edges and corners until familiar features become strangely misshapen. The broad glare of facts prevail: shadows of calculation, bloodlust, humor, and gentler sentiment that might be real or simple vagary all crafted into a dark stranger he's certain he has never met, yet the suggestion of recognition is like a needle underneath the nail. Instincts are important to shinobi. Itachi has never made spontaneous judgments of others—but right now, he wants to.
Vivid red eyes slide sideways, and he feels the guttering of chakra within him, roiling in an empty stomach, metallic bile at the back of his throat threatening to blister back up in a wet cough. He resists it.]
Not intentionally. [Heavy and low words, but rawly honest. He has orchestrated his own death before; it didn't look anything like this. Should he die here, it would be a coincidental hand, both merciful and ironic.] The… individual who would be my usual partner in Synchrony did not travel to Primavera.
[An admission that feels too revealing, but he cannot ignore the gesture made by one strong arm extended out. Gaze transitioning between a scarred palm, to mismatched eyes, to what appears to be an inked tattoo in tribal pattern—lingering there like a weight, longer, a sense of familiarity raking hot across nerves (has he seen that design before on someone else?)—he considers the option. To bring himself back from death's threshold... It would mean a deep, extended emotional connection with someone who is not Stiles. He hasn't even allowed Sasuke to Sync with him for so long. Yet perhaps, in allowing this, he is paying a debt to both of them. They would want this.
Itachi's hand reaches out, grasping pale and slender fingers around the man's thick wrist, using this hinge of momentum to lever himself away from the stone and stand upright. Their heights are closely comparable; he stares directly into that face. Synchrony opens like a vein barely nicked, its warm trickle tentative and cautious in the flow between them. Holding back.]
Who are you?
The greater problem, always, is his dedication to believing it himself.
There is no preexisting context for who this man may be. By observation alone, it feels as though he is staring through a sheet of glass, looking at himself only warped at edges and corners until familiar features become strangely misshapen. The broad glare of facts prevail: shadows of calculation, bloodlust, humor, and gentler sentiment that might be real or simple vagary all crafted into a dark stranger he's certain he has never met, yet the suggestion of recognition is like a needle underneath the nail. Instincts are important to shinobi. Itachi has never made spontaneous judgments of others—but right now, he wants to.
Vivid red eyes slide sideways, and he feels the guttering of chakra within him, roiling in an empty stomach, metallic bile at the back of his throat threatening to blister back up in a wet cough. He resists it.]
Not intentionally. [Heavy and low words, but rawly honest. He has orchestrated his own death before; it didn't look anything like this. Should he die here, it would be a coincidental hand, both merciful and ironic.] The… individual who would be my usual partner in Synchrony did not travel to Primavera.
[An admission that feels too revealing, but he cannot ignore the gesture made by one strong arm extended out. Gaze transitioning between a scarred palm, to mismatched eyes, to what appears to be an inked tattoo in tribal pattern—lingering there like a weight, longer, a sense of familiarity raking hot across nerves (has he seen that design before on someone else?)—he considers the option. To bring himself back from death's threshold... It would mean a deep, extended emotional connection with someone who is not Stiles. He hasn't even allowed Sasuke to Sync with him for so long. Yet perhaps, in allowing this, he is paying a debt to both of them. They would want this.
Itachi's hand reaches out, grasping pale and slender fingers around the man's thick wrist, using this hinge of momentum to lever himself away from the stone and stand upright. Their heights are closely comparable; he stares directly into that face. Synchrony opens like a vein barely nicked, its warm trickle tentative and cautious in the flow between them. Holding back.]
Who are you?
[ 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? ]
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? ]
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