Author's note: this is obviously really different than how I usually write. Just an experiment, so we'll see how this goes.
.
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
.
"What is this?" you ask, and your hands trace lazy circles against the red-stitched moons on black fabric, and Itachi breathes, "clouds," red clouds on a black sky, and you laugh softly against his neck, "that's so weird," and that same shy grin you've known pushes its way to the surface. Your fingers trace the small glass beads of the necklace around his neck, then reach to peel away the layers of his cloak.
You think nothing as you do this, unspooling that silver thread of his desire and twining it around your hands. "I've always wanted this," you say, you breathe into his neck, soft curls of your hair falling over your face, and he stiffens at a memory - your body sinking into the cold water, dead gray eyes staring up into the sky - and you murmur against him, "Shh," and "it's all right," and you hold him and let him bury his face against your neck, feel him shake with the effort not to cry.
"This is as real as you want it to be," you say, and his eyes fall closed - you know this without looking - as your lips brush softly against his skin. Small hands rest lightly against his chest, move lower and skim up the fabric of his shirt. You are still fifteen, and smaller than he is now, but you still know the map of his body like you know your own.
You reach up and kiss him in one fluid, languid movement, your hand reaching up toward his cheek and tangling into his hair. It is a soft kiss, the barest brush of your lips against his, and he melts against you, his initial resistance falling away like caked-on sand.
"Shisui," he says, but you can hear the catch in his voice; your fingers slowly brush the clasp at his neck, touches feather-light and resting at his throat. The light from the moon outside makes ghosts of shadows on his skin, and in the murky darkness, you can just make out the hurt at the corners of his eyes.
"I missed you," he says. His voice is rough, jagged. "Shisui, I-"
"Shh," you say. You kiss his cheek. "Shh, stop it, it's okay," and you kiss his eyes and you kiss his mouth, your hands growing more insistent. Somehow you back him up against the edge of the bed, and he sits backward, the shabby mattress caving in the middle with your weight.
The darkness shifts. You lean forward and kiss him harder now, hot mouth colliding against your own. Your hands pull off his shirt in one clumsy, hungry movement, and you let your head fall onto his bare chest. His heart hammers beneath your cheek, and when you kiss that pulse, you're rewarded when you feel his hands roughly digging into your side. He smells like sweat and rain and loneliness, and he's breathing harder now, breath hot against your face as you grind against him, reaching down and thumbing the tip of his cock in your hands.
He takes a sharp breath - he isn't expecting this - and you grin and kiss him behind his ear, you've always wanted to try this, right? You yank down the waist band of his pants, then dip forward, taking him into your mouth.
He inhales sharply, and his breath tightens, jagged and uneven, and you feel his hips straining not to thrust. This pleases you, leaning forward into his lap. You work on him, head dipping low and sweeping your tongue across the underside of his cock, marveling at the soft, desperate sounds you are coaxing from his throat. You silently commit to memory the subtleties of his movements, how his head falls back, eyes closing and his mouth parting in a soft 'o,' or how his hand softly rests on the back of your head, his fingers pressing into your hair.
He strains against you, and you know he's about to come, but he hauls you up by the arms anyway and kisses you hard on the mouth, his hand reaching down and gripping around your length. A reciprocal movement. You scramble out of the rest of your clothes and take him into your hand. "Please," you say, and Itachi freezes.
"I can't," he says.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to hurt you," he says; he's speaking into your shoulder. "I already hurt you before."
"Just do it," you say, and you bear down, forcing yourself to submit. He enters you with one harsh thrust, and you cry out, your face pressed down into the mattress. Your fingers clench into the sheet, and Itachi stops, appalled.
"I'm hurting you." A horrified whisper. You start to feel the room shift, the corners distorting like a burning film. "You're not," you say, and you strain your neck to look behind you. The image is fading; you struggle to take control. "Let me do it then," you say. Breathlessly, you turn and lay your body against his; your hands smooth down his skin and you kiss the space between his shoulderblades, the hard muscle of his back. He lets you take him as he knows you've always wanted to, squeezing his eyes as you shove his face roughly against the mattress, because you know this is what he wants; this is what he thinks he deserves.
You are inside him. You have always been inside him; the Mangekyou swirls and sighs your name.
xXx
.
Not two minutes have passed before you let your Tsukuyomi fade into a washed-out gray.
Kisame watches and waits as you kneel beside Itachi's body, pressing a hand against his open eyes. You have taken it upon yourself to make his last moments like this; you bow your head as if in prayer, your Eternal Mangekyou turning silently. It flows over him like a healing balm.
"Let it be said that I am not unkind," you say finally, when you see the flame-flicker of Itachi's life finally begin to extinguish. Foolish, you think. Only the weak cling to those child-like fancies, but you know Itachi has never had the luxury to dream.
You end the image like this: Shisui reaching up and holding him close, face pressed against the crook of his neck. You have him whisper that he forgives him, that he loves him and he is the one who knows him best; that he understands what Itachi did, that he believes in him, that it wasn't wrong.
Itachi dies. You adjust the straps to your mask - garish, orange whorl - because even if he was broken, it was your doing that has made it so.
end.