A Painted Face.
Prologue.
Itachi stood on the small balcony on the roof of the house filled with women and took a deep breath of fresh air. In the six years he's been there, he still couldn't call the blooming town of Kanazawa his home. His home was on the river banks his parents had their little shack and tried to give their sons a good life based on nothing but the straining occupation of fishing. He could remember it well, since he was already nine years old when his father sold him off to the city. And so he learned the hard way that maintaining them with nothing but a small boat and net was an impossible task.
The rows after rows of red and black roofs that spread as far and wide as he could see, and never failed to install fear into the pit of his stomach. This town had scarred him. It brought him just as much joy as pain, and for as long as he could remember his existence had been a struggling one. But all the conflicts going on in his mind were put on hold when he painted his face white and his lips red, the colours of the Japanese flag, the colours of his alter persona.
When he painted his face he belonged, he was loved, and he was wanted and desired. He could force himself to know this town, to become a part of it, but it would never become a part of him. He had to fight to protect his beloved from it, and fight he did. Because when his mother drowned in the muddy waters of a river whose nature seemed second to his own, his father lost himself with her. Every time he looked at his sons face she was all he saw, and thusly he sent him away.
Itachi was sold to a house where young girls were used as the matron's slave, and as a reward were trained in the most beautiful profession of all. The one of the painted face. Had he been older, or looked more boyish, the old woman surely would have sold him off to one of the child prostitution rings. But his long ebony hair, flawlessly pale skin and deep black eyes swayed her. After all, who would sell a diamond, without chiselling it first? His brother was not so lucky, though they looked similar to the point where it was scary, Sasuke had been no older that three years old, far too young to be of use to the matron.
The older of the two had to beg on his knees with his face to the floor and tears on his cheeks to keep he only family he had left. But she was a heartless woman, family meant nothing to her. Her own family sold her into prostitution when she was too young to even understand what it meant, and both loved and hated the young girls she took in herself. She raised them, trained them, found them a 'big sister' and became a motherly figure to them all. But she cared not for them, only for the share of the money they earned with their practices. So when the young boy offered her to pay back any money she ever spent on him and his little brother, she couldn't possibly refuse.
From that day on, Itachi's life was hell. There were no boys in this profession of pleasing men, only girls and young women, only the beautiful. Only the talented, hardworking and strong made it through the long and arduous training. He himself remembered that simply because he was a male he had to work even harder, and had to be even more gracious and perfect in their ways; the geisha ways. Cross-dressing was not a common thing, and certainly not something people were publicly accepting off, but his looks and soft voice favoured him. Most men never even noticed that he wasn't of their desired gender. They longed for his company, and he gladly obliged.
Sasuke's life was the exact opposite. The matron pampered him, stuffed him with food and bought him the most expensive clothes. The little boy gladly accepted all this, never having been spoiled this much in his life, and Itachi only watched with a smile. Yes, he would have to pay for all these things, probably with his body even, but it was worth seeing his little brother happy. And the other occupants of the house soon caught on that it was impossible to upset the new student through his sibling, no matter the sacrifice he had to make for him.
"Aniki? Are you up there?" a voice asked from inside the house. Itachi decided not to answer and climbed on top of the small water reservoir every okiya in this district seemed to own. Their okiya, or geisha house, was a small one. Compared to the massive clusters of buildings theirs was easily overlooked. Which was lucky for them, since males were strictly forbidden from entering this world of women. He could never raise his voice in public, and he and Sasuke always had to wear female clothes and cover their face around others, something he little boy never understood and Itachi didn't have the heart to explain.
The sun was setting, it would be time for dinner soon and he would be expected to get the groceries, as always. "Aniki?" Sasuke pushed open the hatch and climbed up onto the small balcony with his brother, only to get shushed immediately. "Hush Sasuke! I told you not to call me that, what if someone heard you calling me your big brother? Do you want to destroy our future?" the now nine year old boy hurriedly shook his head and clamped his hand over his own mouth. "Sorry 'Tachi, I keep forgetting." The elder ruffled his little copy's hair and hopped back on top of the wooden water reservoir, pulling the other up after him. They sat in silence for a bit. Sasuke had grown; he wasn't as innocent anymore as his protective big brother wanted him to be, thanks to the spiteful women in the house who told him horrific stories of their mizuage. A subject he wasn't quite clear on himself, and didn't want to be. Besides, his big sister told him he would find out soon enough.
"Sasuke, could you get the groceries today? I have a very important client planned for tonight and still need to get ready." It was true, and he was nervous; Konan, his mentor and the only decent woman he'd met around here told him to be on his best tonight, and that took some preparation. And of course the little raven was only too excited to help his big brother out, and within moments Itachi had a kiss pressed to his cheek and the kid stormed off on his quest. After a few more minutes of gazing over the city and drinking in the last of the sun's rays, the fifteen year-old slid off the wooden frame and headed downstairs. The time had come to paint his face once more.