Erebus on the Cusp of Dawn
by Hic Iacet Mori
Man's greatest enemy is the man in the mirror—he watches your every move, listens to your every thought, observes your every heartbeat and what disrupts its rhythm. He knows what you don't and accepts what you can't—he shows what you refuse to see and shouts what you refuse to hear. He knows you inside out and he waits for your fall, and then he pulls you up to safety to throw you into the sea—a just victim of your pride, your lust, your selfishness, your self—and you may choose to swim to sanity or drown to your darkness.
If she didn't stop, he would come.
Sasuke was floating aimlessly in the darkness when his ears picked up a faint sound. It gnawed at his consciousness, those sounds, made him wonder why he was hearing such things inside the black hole conjured by his mind. Soon the whiteness of his ceiling revealed that the sounds he heard weren't crafted from sleep—he was awake, eyes wide like so, as if he hadn't been sleeping at all.
His eyes darted around, silently asking the shadows for an explanation to this curiosity. He knew he didn't make those sounds, knew he wasn't supposed to hear such sounds, because there were only two people in his house and he knew that the other person would rather die than be heard making such—such strange sounds.
He found himself hesitating on his brother's door, not entirely sure if he should go in, wondering, waiting, listening in trepidation as he stood with his ear pressed to the door. It was bewildering, those sounds, small gasps and low moans, faint whimpers and soft cries—something in him was stopping him, at the same time that something in him, something dark, something terrifying, was urging him to go in. A sharp gasp decided for him.
Anger, ice blue, blinded him for a moment.
Was someone hurting her?
He quietly opened the door, his heart racing in anxiety and his fist clenched with shaking fury. He didn't know what he would see on the other side and he braced himself—whoever it was would pay for trespassing in his territory and for daring to lay a finger on hi—her. No one messed with Uchiha Sasuke and his propertie—property.
The door swung open. He cautiously stepped inside, his arms raised. His eyes instinctively sought her.
Air rushed out of his lungs in a painful gush.
Of all the scenarios that had flashed swiftly behind his eyes, of all the blood and gore and destruction his vivid imagination had provided, never had he imagined to stumble into something—something—something like this.
And so he stood, frozen by the door, watching her flushed face twist in desperate pleasure as she arched up into the air.
Something tight and hot smoldered painfully below his stomach. He swallowed, his throat dry.
She was panting as her head thrashed against a red pillow, her parted lips red and full and wet, her hips thrusting up and down fastfasterfaster. Strands of yellow stuck to her sweaty brow, a red lace on her hair coming undone, rays of gold spilling on the left side of her face. A hand was squeezing her right breast through her jacket, her other hand rubbing between her thighs as she writhed on the black sheets, a wild cat trapped in the night sky.
Sasuke didn't realize he was doing the same until he felt his hand—cool, sweaty, trembling—wrap around his hot, throbbing member. He choked on a groan when a tentative squeeze brought a spike of pleasure racing up and down his spine.
His eyes, dark and burning, watched in helpless lust and fascination as she undulated on silky sheets, her lips parting once more to give a low groan that he felt all the way to his groin. He thrust into his hand, his palm slick with precum, his breath fast and shallow, his legs weakening his belly aching his sweat pouring his heart racing so so painfully it would be merciful if someone ripped it out of his chest because it hurt so damned much.
His dilated eyes widened as an unbidden moan left his lips. A groan. A gasp.
He didn't know he could make sounds like that.
His thumb accidentally brushed on his slit. His eyes rolled to the back of his head and he staggered backward, hitting the wall. He did it again. He hissed.
He couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop watching. Couldn't stop thrusting into his hand and breathing faster faster faster faster oh-so-faster.
He had never done this before.
Liquid fire coiled in his belly, swirling and twisting and aching, burning hotter and hotter as his fist pumped in desperation. It hurt and he needed his release and he needed it now.
She whispered. The world stilled.
And then Sasuke bit down on his hand, smothering his first cry of completion, as blinding whiteness ripped through his being behind the darkness of his stinging eyes.
She waved her hand from his periphery, demanding his attention. It was on the tip of his tongue, the urge to yell at her—he was filthy, he was revolting, and his attention was the last thing she should ever ask of him.
Itachi had never told him. That one traumatizing afternoon on the summer of his twelfth year, that one and only time his brother spouted embarrassingly scientific terms with vivid illustrations in a clinically detached voice to explain the birds and the bees, Itachi had never told him once that it would make him feel shame.
Don't, his mind whispered. Don't look at me.
Or guilt.
Don't don't don't.
"...Did I do something?"
His brother had successfully sucked out all his curiosity, and interest, in sex. It was hard to be excited when he remembered how mortified he was, especially when Itachi had helpfully answered all his "hidden questions" using hardcore pornographic videos. It had taken him a month before he could look at his brother and not see those scenes, hear those explanations, almost permanently burned behind his eyes and his ears.
"Observe the woman, otouto. She is performing fellatio, a stimulation of the penis with the use of the lips, the tongue, and sometimes the throat when the person is especially talented. When a man is as fortunate as this one, his scrotum gets the same treatment... This is normally called a blowjob, or getting head. It is easier to convince a homosexual man to perform this act as opposed to a heterosexual woman. This man is certainly fortunate. Listen at her low hum and analyze the man's reaction."
His eyes were too wide in shock—and not because his brother was speaking in paragraphs!
"That is cunnilingus. Notice how the man stimulates her clitoris with his mouth. The vulva may also be stimulated, like what he is doing now with the tip of his tongue. This is a wise decision as the clitoris is very sensitive, which accounts for some women orgasming simply from clitoral stimulation, though there are women who orgasm from stimulation of their breasts alone... In oral sex, cunnilingus is to a woman as fellatio is to a man... Also, observe the alignment of their bodies. This position is called soixante-neuf, more known as 69. You will hear a host of humorless jokes about it among your peers in the future."
He was waiting for the floor to open up and swallow him. Or his brother.
"The receiving partner, in this case a woman, is on top of the penetrating partner. This is known as the cowgirl position. Now notice how she turns to face away from her partner. That is now called the reverse cowgirl position."
His brother seriously thought he appreciated this discussion?
"They are lying on their sides as the man penetrates the woman. That is the spoon sex position. Now the man penetrates her again with the missionary position, but notice how the woman wraps her legs around his waist to draw him closer. That is the stopperage... Froggy style... Viennese oyster... lotus position... lateral coital position... she is quite an adventurous woman, otouto, and full of stamina. Ah, of course. The blurb describes her as a nymphomaniac... Now that is the suspended congress..."
And when would the movie end?
"Now we will watch homosexual pornography as I would prefer it if we learn your preference early on to preempt unnecessary theatrics. We will first watch sex between homosexual men and then homosexual women, which is admittedly a more pleasing view. We will then move on to orgies and bestiality, among others, paraphilias and fetishes, then we shall tackle sexual crimes, the most notorious of which are voyeurism, exhibitionism, and pedophilia. The last will be discussed completely with this child pornography an acquiantance of questionable taste had lent me. Now I must warn you, otouto, that pedophilia is a crime, and if you turn out to be a pederast, I will have no choice but to schedule a meeting for you with a psychologist."
He's just twelve!
"Incestuous sex is a sexual act between siblings, though it can also occur between parent and child, and extended family members like cousins, uncles, and aunts. We shall watch such pornography as well, though I shall say this—if you harbor any hint of incestuous feelings for me, foolish otouto, then I shall do everything in my power to destroy it. I refuse to corrupt our souls by performing sexual acts with you even if you simply desire a manual stimulation of the penis—which we had discussed early on in masturbation."
Sasuke threw up on his brother.
"... Teme?"
... Perhaps they were Itachi's way of deterring him from any sexual inclination—?
"Yarou!"
But he had watched her, last night. And not just watched—
I'm dirty.
"Oi!"
Don't.
An empty stare. He could express so much with a mere look.
Can't you see?
"I'm not really sure, teme... but I feel a—a weird tension," she gestured to him, to herself, her eyes dimmed by the shadows twining from her hair, "Between us. Y'know?"
I know.
She wasn't looking at him, never had, but he could feel her piercing look as he leaned by his window. He wondered how she could do that.
Dobe...
He wondered if he could ever look at her again.
It's so dark.
His eyes idly traced the moonriver on his skin. He observed his arms crossed over his chest. He looked so pale, almost translucent, the wash of reflected light lending him an air of impermanence. Like snow against the windowpane on a quiet winter night.
Can you see?
He's so colorless. Even Itachi had more color than him.
Look at me.
Was he even real?
Is that why you never looked at me?
Or was he a lie too?
Look, I'm here.
"Well?"
Is it so dark you can't see me?
He snorted, straightening up, banishing his fanciful thoughts—he wasn't the snow, he was dirty, he was a lie, he was lying—pulling at his rational side—he couldn't reach his goal with his head on the clouds, his eyes on her, on her since the first time he saw her—before slouching in his typical posture, his eyes on the floor. He turned away, hiding for as much as he could, the clouds over the moon his temporary refuge, the hair over his eyes his permanent sanctuary.
I can't see.
"Not everything is about you, dobe." I'm lying.
An annoyed huff. She could express so much with a mere breath.
Look.
"Fine, I'll bite. What's the problem then?"
Look.
"Nothing." I'm lying.
He walked past her, his hands in his pockets, his back straight. He could feel her eyes narrowing.
I'm lying I'm lying Look at me Don't look at me I'm here It's so dark I can't see I'm lying I'm lying So dark I'm lying—
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
He was a sick, sick man.
He had taken to standing by Itachi's bed, her bed, just watching her the way he had watched her behind the maple tree in the cemetery. His watcher had become the watched and the irony wasn't lost on him. He took care to stay a distance from her, though, as she appeared to be a light sleeper—he didn't dare approach her unless he had to, because she never went back to sleep when her eyes were forced awake.
There were nights she had her nightmares. He didn't know what she dreamed about, they didn't talk about it, but something within him told him with certainty that his brother was a part of it. Also, her eyes, always averted from his, would resolutely refuse to look in his general direction when he woke her up from a nightmare—as if she feared the phantom in his shadows, the ghost in his skin.
After that first time he woke her, when she snatched her hand away from his as if he was fire to her touch, Sasuke never woke her that way again. Instead, he would grab her hand, forcefully so, and wait for her reflexes to kick in, and then he would find himself underneath her once again with her favored Swiss army knife to his throat. When she cuffed him in the head for not stopping her and being a pansy-ass wuss who couldn't block to save his life, he began to half-heartedly fight against her spinning-and-pinning technique that he had come to secretly enjoy.
He had managed to stop her once with a chop to her right wrist. The knife didn't fall but it had stopped her, and though she still wouldn't look at him, the approval in her sleepy smile had been reward enough. He didn't get to feel her body against him that time, but that smile warmed his heart so much he began to take her advice more seriously.
A soft moan. He shuddered.
Some nights, like tonight, he watched her touch herself and he couldn't tear his eyes from her.
His hands moved along with hers—his breathing, his thrusts, his being in time with hers. Yet even as he rode the waves of pleasure from watching her and touching himself, he couldn't stop the shame that washed over him as he came.
He was sick, so so fucking sick. And he had to make it worse by turning her into the star from where all his nightly fantasies revolve. It wasn't enough to watch her, no—he had to dream about her. He had to dream about touching her the way she touched herself, dream about twisted sheets and lustful sounds, the sweat of her skin against his, his hot flesh inside her as they came together, broke apart to start again, and again, and again, and again until daylight spilled through his curtain, their sated bodies bathed in the blessed glow of the sun.
And sometimes, in the daylight, when he couldn't blame his subconscious whims and desires, he imagined her underneath him, doing all those things and more that would cause those sinful sounds to tumble past her lips and cause her face to twist in unbearable pleasure.
What was happening to him?
It crashed into him, so suddenly, and a cry ripped out of his throat as his hot seed covered his fist. He bit hard on his lips, against the heat searing his eyes and threatening to fall down his flushed cheeks. He swallowed the hot lump on his throat and turned away, disgusted with himself at how he watched her, at how he wanted her, at how he wished it was him causing her to come undone like this.
I'm sorry, he wanted to say. A choked gasp of completion came out of his lips instead.
It's so dark.
He hated himself. How could he use her like this?
I can't see myself anymore.
And he hated himself more, for hating the fading scent of chamomile and the faint scent of jasmines, mixed together in this room like they were meant to be.
Pull yourself together and flail for all your worth—even the noblest had been coerced by the man in the mirror—and it is what you learn in the darkness that shines the brightest in the end.