Xxx
When we concentrate solely on one motion after another, our actions weather down into the technicalities. We focus less on our wants than on our needs, and eventually they begin building until one craves after their lusts almost as much as their survival. What most don't realize is that the details matter almost as much as the solid facts; the shinobi were known for their trust in the law. And though relationships during times of war were forbidden, most didn't bother at all with the rules. Laws sometimes overcame orders, and when that happened, they knew they were no better than anyone else.
Xxx
We say we've almost made it, and realize we're all alone in our statement. Proud we stand, chest deflated, if not the tiniest bit, broad shoulders straight as we were told to have them, stretched a few inches over the wide horizon, in the hopes that the upturn of the sun rising would wash away the slivers of doubt dug up to fit over our skins. Chest heaves, as breathless as we'll ever be, and with each breath comes the realization of failure at the pressure tightening in our lungs. We rise over the ground, and acknowledge we're falling just as quickly.
We've worked hard, but not hard enough, because with perfection comes the hope that you could get just a little bet perfecter, a little bit worthier to praise. We dwindle in our footsteps across the forest floor to watch the leaves fall with a grace we wanted to achieve, wanted to believe. It was Autumn, the October months passing away into November and the trees giving just a little bit more, dieing just a little bit more, in a system we've yet to come across. We're young yet, still dazzled by the sight of a blue moon, still tucking the inspiration in your pocket a little bit deeper, hoping, praying, knowing we'll be better. If moon's could blossom in Konoha twice in time, you believe it'll be just as simple to pull down the stars. Maybe we wanted a little bit more than that, maybe we wanted to go just a little bit farther, but it still won't be far enough.
We rise over the ground, and we're falling just as quickly.
Xxx
Shisui was a man, ironically enough, who, mindless of the copying techniques of the sharingan he possessed, could not be plagerized as easily. Shisui, Itachi discovered, liked to differenciate himself from anything and everything: his clan, his classmates, his friends, and even his name. Itachi discovered his cousin's habits whenever the occasion came of offering the boy a glass of water, or even to join him by the lake. Shisui would constantly swirl the water in his cup, tap his fingers against the sides to force the liquid into tremors, kick his feet against the surface of the lakes and sometimes jump in himself. Sasuke, Itachi remembered particularly clear, found it funny how his cousin would completely forget treading the water and decide upon any method of creating whirlwinds and waves and droplets spattered against the sides of the dock, swimming back and forth, sideways, diving, leaping, skidding, sometimes outright running across the tops to create deep trenches of where his feet had sunk during his pauses.
They were spread out carelessly, if not as careful as they always were, across the hilltop, arms stretched as wide as their shoulders over the sunset. The grass was drying into a dark yellow, stringy and brittle as their souls, and Sasuke was uprooting individual blades between his short, pale fingers. Fugaku had raised an almost judging eyebrow at the lack of their grace, although Mikoto had rushed to her son's side to assure her husband they would grow into slender, boney fingers. Uchiha fingers. Itachi couldn't help but compare Sasuke with some sort of god, an angel of death sitting aboard the hill as if he owned it, which Itachi didn't doubt he did. The way he sharply wrapped the grass around his hands and -killed them off- tugged with a child's intent of murder, (always curious which designs who's blood would make, and if it'd be good enough for their liking) looked as if he were simply another shinobi with kunai slipped in between his fingers. Uchiha fingers. Fingers not quite long and slender, not quite good enough for Fugaku or Shisui or Itachi, fingers too short and stiff to hold any blade, though Itachi had started training three years prior Sasuke's own age.
A late bloomer-that's what he was. How shameful.
Mikoto had convinced Shisui, more or less so for Itachi, to take Sasuke along. It was a good experience, staying in the company of killers, because even though Mikoto would not admit it through all of her maternal insticts that seemed to dominate her now-a-days, (but never when Itachi was a child) Sasuke just wasn't quite set out to be one, and she wanted to shape him while she still could, before the water (Shisui-'Still Water') could wash out from beneath his toes and he'd get a chance to plant his feet firmly to the spot. Itachi noticed that Sasuke had been eight since July, and that he probably wasn't just a late bloomer anymore. Maybe next he would be a very late bloomer, and then a very late bloomer, and then if he ever even made it that far Fugaku (and Itachi too, for sure) would slay him with his own bare hands and not bother honoring him with a katana.
But, Itachi thought with slight amusement, he could just be over annalyzing. He tended to do that a lot. Wasn't that, no, what Shisui had said?
-Late bloomer. How shameful.
Sasuke had strung the yellowed blades together into a circlet, and Shisui had grinned before placing it on Sasuke's head. It looked oddly like mustard against his hair, a perfect ring of it, for Sasuke had been careful and patient and not made a cut too big or a blade too long or pushed out too far. For someone with stubby, ungraceful fingers, Itachi decided, Sasuke could be dangerously...calculating. Numerous times had he corrected Mikoto in the kitchen, 'That's a tad too much flour.', 'You should stir slower; the flavor mixes in better.', or 'Just a little bit more and-Yup!'. Itachi remembered when Sasuke had been being taught to write in kanji, he had spent days in his room, simply sitting at his desk and memorizing every angle, curve, and slope of the designs, making his practice sheets look suspiciously like the book's instead of forming his own handstyle. Fugaku had even gone as far as to accusing Sasuke of cutting the signs from the booklet, but Itachi had stepped in and informed his father that he had seen Sasuke do it. For some reason, Fugaku had looked almost amused, giving a (praising, laughing, mocking) glance at his younger son before continueing his dinner ritual. (Bite, chew, swallow, drink, swallow, bite...)
Shisui had repositioned himself to face Itachi, glance hardly curious at Itachi's blank (if not just a little, tiny bit nostalgic) look. The Uchiha had never been known to wear his heart on his sleeve, almost anti-emotional, (almost exactly opposite of Sasuke) and Shisui never asked him why or what he thought of. Their conversations were normally one-sided, the same with Itachi and Sasuke's conversations, and it was oddly ironic that the only conversations not one-sided were when he spoke to Fugaku (Fugaku, Fugaku, hardly deemed worthy of the title, 'father', 'cept Sasuke never fails to address him like that anyway) and the only conversations he was the individual speaking, was when he gave orders to his ANBU squad. Shisui never seemed to mind (while Sasuke had taken to pouting at him instead of speaking, and he almost, almost missed the brother's voice-like an angel of death-) and instead spoke to him about his day or his missions or his home, politely asking questions that could be supplied with one-word answers (or less) to Itachi, mostly (because he felt like he needed to check if Itachi was even breathing) so he didn't feel like he spoke to a brick wall. (But in comparitive terms, that's not too far off, is it?)
Sasuke still had the delicate, grass crown, (a Summer child) and hardly acted like a king. He was studying his hands with stubborn determination, as if his glare could change their shape and make them (likeable) into fingers that held kunai and threw shuriken. Uchiha fingers. He'd never have them.
Xxx
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-And the moon is painted with every color of your furiosity, hanging dull and uninterested as it does so. Sticky sweet blood from blue veins, making me wonder how it got there; in my childlike curiousity I never questioned the shades of crimson our clan beared, and yet now I find myself doing so without once inquisiting why.-
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Author's Note: The last sentence is implying Sasuke will never truly be an Uchiha, if you didn't get it. The italics was a piece from Itachi's journal, that I made. So no taking it. I was going to make this chapter longer with a seperate piece for both Mikoto and Fugaku, sort of like an introduction of the main clan members, at least from Itachi's point of view, but it seemed like a good place to end it and any other parts I tried making never turned out right.
'Jim Crow' is a reference to some form of segregation, used before African Americans gained rights in the United States. Of course, that's not what I'm implying it is as this chapter name, I'm sort of using it to say how Itachi is so seperate from everyone in his clan. Had I carried on with the Fugaku and Mikoto parts, it probably would have made it more clear to you, but I didn't, so whatever. Enjoy, and review, please. Most grammer mistakes are very much intentiontal, so don't bug me about it. I know 'perfecter' isn't a word, but it IS meant to be that way in that particular sentence of MY story.
REVIEW PLEASE!!!