Hello there my faithful readers, my ladies and gentlemen who tune in for another segment. I am so so so so so so so sorry for this long gap between this and the last chapter. Although this is the longest chapter so far, bordering along 13 pages.
Here is… chapter 11? I have had trouble knowing if this was chapter eleven or twelve. I have been avoiding Kisame's sector for a while, because writing it is extremely difficult and each time I approached the keyboard I left hot and flustered thinking 'I'll never be able to write this!'.
This chapter isn't rated M, I don't think. And just to add, thank you PaperBows for giving such an amazing review that inspired me to get my shit together and write this damn chapter!
Enjoy. XXX
There is a thing named the seven stages of grieving, and is what it implies itself to be. Seven steps towards the place in the stairwell where the light shined brightest. We ask ourselves if there is a more direct route, like simply climbing over the banister. Must we all mourn in the same way? We also display the query that some do not want to be cured, as their suffering leaves room for feeling itself to occur, and for the lost soul to be forever remembered rather than cast aside into the unknown darkness of the afterlife.
XXX
A silhouette burst through the veil of red and orange, collapsing on the floor gasping for a breath of air to purify his smoky lungs. He trembled madly, from not only the burns and blisters but the abrupt cold that seemed to freeze his skin. Hoshigaki tried to stand on two feet, but fell on the first try. Small flames still clung to his jacket, dissolving to nothing when they saw that the fun was over. Kisame could taste nothing but the stench of the smoke, burning the decomposed bodies to ash.
Itachi had been right: this had been the way out.
Without knowledge he ran; blind in the clouds of smoke that laced the suburban area as he followed only a misjudged instinct. Kisame could feel his legs, slowing to instinctly turn him around and run back into the flames. He cursed himself continiously as he ran, calling himself the coward he'd never been before.
He could've been in the fire, it wouldn't have been hard. All it took were some precise steps in the other direction. Although, deep down...
He stopped and looked back the way he came, paranoia biting at the walls of his stomach. The sick sensation travelled to his head and caused the woozy feeling to spread until he leaned upon a ledge before he toppled down. The trail ahead held hope, and a safe Itachi without burns upon his skin. Going behind, he knew he would vomit; just thinking about what lay back. The choice was enough to drive him mad.
Soon enough, he began running forward.
Itachi wasn't in that fire. I searched and there was nothing, he must've been saved or never in there in the first place. His running thoughts caused his legs to tremble underneath him and it seemed his whole body was against itself. The sick feeling passed, but its memory remained. It was trapped upon the path towards the fire where...
He had always been in love with Itachi. It seemed ridiculous that he'd ever denied the accusation. The maze of streets he'd mapped this way through before were a mess of lines and shapes in eyes that had been lensed with misty vision. He fell on his knees as the sun peeked from behind the smoke drawn curtain and tasted the sensation of blood from his newly busted lip. Drugged by his mellowed hysteria Kisame crawled on all fours to lean against the brick wall, trying to stand. His lover's name was stuck on his tongue, he croaked it much like a record that continuously looped.
If I keep muttering, he'll come. Like a Shepard and its flock. He's not dead, he can't be. Am I just trying to convince myself?
The man's legs were as heavy as lead and only persisted in weighing him down.
Kisame would've considered chopping them off if he had a knife, or even a pair of scissors. He would drag himself through the streets until he found Itachi; curled up in a bus shelter snoring softly and as safe as he wished he would be. Either that or he'd arrive at the scene where a body bag was filled with the ashy remains of the man with many masks.
"Itachi" he whispered and tried to move. He hoped Itachi would do the same for him if he was missing. Saying that Itachi definitely would was unknown with a man so cold, even if he loved Kisame.
A dark sensation crept up from the deepest depths of himself, engulfing him in a place away from the world were the only tragedy was his own existence.
He recalled Itachi's face, his mouth, his skin. His hair that was more strong than soft. Had his eyes really been so rouge? And to think, he hadn't seen him smile: yet.
"Damnit" he swore "Get up" yet all he did was fall to the floor. The tar was warm against his cheek, the fire's heat travelling down roads even this far away. The sensation could've lulled him to sleep and took his consciousness.
"Get up, for fuck's sake! Itachi! Get up and find him!" he hissed, and with one mighty step leaped out into the sun. The area was filled with white light, as first he believed himself to be dead until he saw a black and white taxi with a smoking exhaust. There was the slam of a door and his eyes were drawn to the back window. A white face stared at him, free from expression.
Itachi.
Itachi, Itachi's alive!
For a moment where his prince was going was unimportant and the simple knowledge of his existence lit a fire in Kisame's mind.
If only that interpretation could've lasted for longer.
Kisame began to slur out his name but the taxi was gone before he could finish.
At first he thought Itachi was being taken by a monster whose claws would rip him to ribbons, but it didn't seem right here. Something appeared almost... willing? The taxi didn't stop, even when the pool of blood that formed under him was visible.
They didn't care, not in the slightest.
"Itachi… " he whispered again, finally resting upon the soft road.
He lay sprawled in the middle of the street like a dead man would, both arms outstretched with his bad knee twisted uncomfortably. His suit was covered with holes from air born umbers, small blisters forming on blue skin. To others, the taxi would only be a figment of his imagination, given life by the smoke that clouded his sense of reason.
XXX
Only when the sky roared with the volume of ten lions did the rain hammer upon Tokyo and wake Mr. Hoshigaki from his deathly slumber. He gasped for breath, slamming his body forward to look down at his wounded legs. Kisame greedily stole the air to fill his black lungs. He tried establishing reality from the memory of what he desired to have happened. The ash that stained his skin fell along with the rain, and danced in circles with the watered down blood. Slowly, the wounded man let his blistered fingertips feel across his face and hair, seeking out the places that had been scarred. There was a cluster of hair that had been burnt to his scalp and his fingers were stained red when he touched his ear. Smoky lenses still remained over his eyes, made hazier by the veil of water that had fallen like a drape over a banister. All in all, there was an overall sense of pain that seemed impossible to heighten, yet he was proved otherwise as the knowledge of Itachi Uchiha -who didn't stop the taxi, even when he was dying- slowly began the erosion of all he knew.
All this pain and Itachi hadn't stopped the taxi, hadn't even made a move to. Did he even care?
Kisame relived his past as he walked through the streets that bathed in the wet dawn. It wasn't the first time he'd walked down the streets with the reaper slowly catching up to his slow pace; it used to be a regular occurrence. He would've spat a comment at another man's back, with them turning and wearing a look that would make the devil shudder. Although he'd been young, and only demanded that his opponent tries to even lay a scar upon his body.
They always did. Always.
He'd been left in an alley, with laughter slowly fading along with the amount of blood flowing from his bleeding wounds. The cuts would always heal, and most scars were simply there. He'd hobble back to wherever he came from, with a redhead with skilled fingers placing antiseptic on all his wounds and muttering how stupid he really was.
He pulled out his phone, numb to the rain and its effect upon electronics. The time was 4:01 AM. Going through his contacts, he scrolled through the letter I and couldn't help but know Itachi Uchiha should have been there. If he had been there, things would have turned out so differently. He'd be in a bed for two filled by a duo that pressed against each other and moaned uncontrollably. He'd cause the Uchiha to scream and challenge the lightning with the volume. After they'd released their pent lust, Itachi would hold onto his tinted blue skin as if afraid to let go and Kisame would pat his head full of black horse like hair. He would wonder how something so small as a smile could make him want to scream sonnets to civilization.
That was how it was supposed to be.
"God, why didn't I get his number?" he yelled with the bottled rage, and threw his phone through the storm in a sense of hysteria. He heard it smash somewhere to his left and began walking in a twisted circle the way a trapped animal would. It would bare its teeth and sharpen its fangs when the only threat was itself.
He grabbed his hair that had started to grow over his eyes and began walking in the direction the taxi had gone but stopped. It was long gone and there was no way of finding it again. What was there to do, with the knowledge that Itachi didn't hesitate but leave when Kisame -the man he'd shared a tear and his body with, something so small but so impactful- was injured? The younger man should've bolted out the door, foolishly leaving a moving vehicle and fallen to his lovers side. He would have stroked his head where the blood was at its least, cooing sweet sympathy while the ambulance arrived.
Why has everything gone so wrong? Kisame asked himself, wishing he knew the answer.
He turned to the sky and then began walking back whatever way he came. There was nothing here to stay for: Itachi was gone. He was gone and he'd left a bullet hole between Kisame's eyes that tripped him in circles while he tried to decipher what he could've done to make Itachi Uchiha hate him so. Had it been his cockiness when he had given the man his address? Was it the meeting itself, and its contents that both men knew it would've held. Or was it...
"Damn it!" Kisame moaned, and knew he must have scared the boy off with the three dreaded words of I love you. Three stupid words he'd let fall from his mouth when he reached what he believed was the peak. That must've been it. How could he have been so stupid?
The rain suddenly turned deafening and he was feebly stumbling through the veil with his hands over his head. He considered himself stupid, but knew Itachi Uchiha had been – and was- the most brilliant mistake of his life.
XXX
There was silence. Beautiful, undisturbed silence complimented by the rain. People slept so soundly, buried deeper in their dreams than they'd ever be in reality. The voices and cars from the early workers were almost muted; as if the world had been trapped in a paper bag, Kisame thought. His heavy steps were reduced just to keep the tranquility stable. The hall held home to many doors, one being room 478. As he walked, a dark stain from his shoe was left behind him. Soon there was a trail to follow the man from where he stumbled in front of room 457 and regained his composure at 469. Small speckles of blood stained the crème carpet. His breath came out in hard gasps. He fumbled for the key lodged deep in his pocket, the task seeming impossible with his large cumbersome fingers. Before entering the room Hoshigaki touched the wood of the door, remembering when he had been standing upon the other side, waiting for a mysterious nymph to return. It felt as if it happened years ago, had it only been a month at the least? The memory felt so far away, like a distant island that shone upon the horizon.
The door opened slowly, and lonesome feeling did not leave his side. There was no-one waiting for him, but then again, there never was and never had been. The blinds were still open, with a thick sheet of rain flooding the streets and proving a challenge for those with only a newspaper as cover. He avoided looking at the spot where Itachi had stood.
The towels from the night before were thrown in a pile amongst a small plinth of garments. The glass was placed on the arm of his chair, only hours ago he had been swishing the contents wondering what Itachi will have placed upon his skin that he could take off with equal happiness. There was a dark shadow flown across the complex that caused Kisame to keep the lights off. Sighing slowly, he pulled off his dress pants and boxers and stumbled to the kitchen to find salt.
Salt water heals wounds, he thought with minor understanding as he picked up a small white salt shaker I'll just bathe in some and I'll be fine.
But then what?
His own mind left him intimidated. The question was blatant but something he had wished to avoid. What would happen? Can I simply keep living?
Kisame couldn't recall his habits before he met the man wearing a porcelain mask. His manner of speaking and his way of eating with a sense of style hadn't seemed important when Itachi had been present. They were petty things that only got into the way of his musings. He had despised consumption and did so now, but who had he been? The only thing he saw when glancing into a looking glass was his physical reflection, the husk of a man whose name was Kisame Hoshigaki. Where had he gone?
The tap hands were spun until water spurted from the spout. Steam began to dance alongside the ceiling that was painted mysterious lavender. The injured male was absent to the action of pouring the salt into the water, only coming to his senses with the saltwater scent filled his nose.
For the first time that new day he smiled softly yet the burns on his face still wept pus from the small facial gesture of small satisfaction. He'd remembered running along the beach when his tiny child feet sunk into the sand. The sun had set long ago and the tourists he despised had left to suck the colour out of the rest of New Orleans. His parents sat in armchairs, holding each other in a suggestive manner with the flames warmed their skin. He'd been innocent to the corruption of humans then. Kisame ran across the sand until he hit the first waves that reached up to the shore. It suddenly became too deep to run and had fallen face first into the water, swallowing a mouthful of seawater with his eyes open wide, mouth still fixed in a sharp grin. Once he had imagined Itachi and himself, sitting in an armchair made for one as his voice deep with the effects of liquor told his lover the tale of how he'd ran cross the sands many tides ago. It had seemed like a plausible lie to himself before everything had fallen. Kisame sighed, a sigh full of heaviness in his chest; it was not necessarily from his heartache, simply from the weight of it.
There was frost now, the weather had changed. It had gotten so cold so quick. Kisame placed his hands upon the glass and saw the frosted outline of his fingers and the swirls upon them. He remembered Itachi's own fitting in the cold spaces between.
How long ago had that been?
The gaps between his large hands were so small, how could the boy have such tiny frail fingers?
The steam slowly painted another cover upon the transparent canvas and the empty hand disappeared.
The business man clumsily stumbled into the bath, with his limbs outstretched over the edges. The water was too hot and burned him. The window, however, was open. Raindrops fell from the open cavity and over his toes and into the steaming water. The designer would lose their job over the small flaw in design, and even when it cooled the blackened soles of his feet. The water took him in an ironic cold embrace, but he didn't care. Its vines slithered through his skin and took his heart in a muscular grip. That must've been why his heart felt like it was separating in two. Itachi could lodge himself into memories and thoughts, but turning Kisame against himself, was this young man a general or war or simply the devil is disguise? How could Itachi weave so deeply into his system that pulling him out would require the strongest of strengths?
Kisame covered his face, the steam burning his watering eyes. He turned himself around with difficulty so the rain fell down his cheeks and caused him to sigh –not with sadness, simply with the weight of it all-. Once again he saw his skin, separated into light and shadow like when he'd sat a room way, naked and wondering if Itachi would ever return. This was the same thing, really, although Itachi probably wasn't coming back. Everything he considered something circled around the nymph. Everything that was something seemed to have black hair and red eyes. Even when thoughts did not concern him he would still invade.
Hoshigaki breathed deeply. It escalated until he threw his head back, chuckling softly with rain drops running down his face that he mistook for tears. The answer was so simple, it had always been the answer with Itachi. Kisame had been such a fool dreaming up descriptions to notice the real reason that he'd constantly forgotten.
He loved Itachi. More than he'd loved anyone, most probably. He kept foolishly forgetting. It almost seemed comical as he admitted it to himself once again, but he brushed away the stereotypical doe eyed interpretation of love and hacked away with good intentions until a beating heart remained in his hands. That was love, pure and simply feelings rather than words.
Love wasn't in the heart, or the head. It was the same instinct a fish felt to swim upstream: only to be caught between the jaws of the bear. It was simply there, and that was the trouble. If it was simply there, then what else could be there? Kisame stopped himself before he went too far, wincing with the pain in his legs.
Some things were simply there, even without knowledge and denial of them. Itachi was supposed to be one of those things.
"I love Itachi Uchiha" he tasted the words upon his tongue along with the raindrops dripping down his nose. They were sugary with a razor sharp edge. They caused a small shock to travel through his bones.
Could he still say those words? Even when Itachi probably despised the ground he stood on. Why else would he have left him for dead? Why in the first place, Kisame thought, unable to avoid the topic. Why did everything have to go so wrong? Did he even like me, or was he playing a game? Had he simply been tied to the younger man's feet? Did Itachi care, or even remotely close to such a feeling? Was this simply a case of boredem taken out on a helpless victim? He remembered holding him when a simple tear fell down his cheek, the small body shivering from the winter that had stayed by his side. Itachi could've used him, maybe he wasn't the first and simply one of many in the line. He couldn't imagine himself in a line, of hundreds -maybe thousands- of people who were faceless to the God. It sounds arrogent when I knowthat I wasn't one of many, I was special to him: I must've been. It was all the concept of string, with Itachi holding all with each strand of black cotton upon his head.
His hair was far from feathery, it was simply and utterly animalistic. It would catch between his fingers like bits of twine as he pushed into a tight entrance with little hesitation. He remembered the texture, the smell and the way it stuck between both of them with sweat and semen. It was hard to believe that the idea had been a memory, that Itachi Uchiha -this angel made of marble stone- would even approach Kisame Hoshigaki with sexual intentions. Although each time they had made love-
"Had sex" Kisame corrected himself, who felt up in the air about most things at this present moment. It seemed everything had changed its name, with Itachi's delicate hand striking him across his face to knock some sense in him; since the only stable place he seemed to be sitting was a Wonderland where the Japanese man was his lover. How had he ever considered the prince of all after even taking a second glance in his direction? Although he could be looking at a situation more than expected, drawing senseless ideas from a simple turn of events. He could've caught a taxi home, and not recognized him.
Was this simply an overreaction from a simple taxi ride home?
Kisame shook his head grimly and wiped the drops out from his eyes.
It was far from that. He was was no way he couldn't recognize Kisame Hoshigaki, his blue skin had said it all if Itachi had not recognized the desperate gaze in his azure eyes.
The weather had looked so promising this morning. What had happened? An angel left, that's what...
What could I have done to make him hate me so badly that he'd leave me dying on a road? I thought... and Kisame let his thoughts trail off because saying the 'L' word to describe Itachi Uchiha was ridiculous in itself. All this time he had been strung along like a spider slowly ascending up a line of web, only to be cut off and left to fend upon the ground. The act of living didn't seem right, past memories of his string of one night lovers was static.
"So this is it" he whispered, and asked himsrlf how he had ever thought of it as the beginning. He wanted to bring both hands down onto the mirror and crash it to shards. He wanted to furiously shake the angel's petit body and ask why. Why do you hate me so much!
Yet all he seemed to be doing was wandering in circles, passing over the same thoughts and conclusions again and again and again.
Suddenly, the yearning for an old habit combined with his heartache. It sucked the living life from him and caused him to once again sit upright, with his hair now blinding him.
"I need a cigarette" he muttered, almost unaware of his voice.
It had been the first time he'd muttered those words in years. Of course, the thought had tickled him occasionally but now, here, he said it aloud with no guilt or overlaying. It was plain and simple, there was no meaningful undertone.
He just really wanted a cigarette.
So much this desire was that Kisame pulled himself from the bath with his wounds still aching, and wrapped a towel around his waist. He remembered a packet that Sasori had offered him once upon a time, when they'd had chairs facing the lap dancers while discussing topics that should've been found in a courthouse rather than a brothel. They'd always done such stupidly clever things. Taking one first, Sasori had offered the open box to Kisame. They smelt of strong lavender and fresh soil. They were dark sienna in colour with a purple ring placed where it was held. He'd taken it, of course; denying Sasori was an offence in itself. He couldn't remember for the life of him what they'd tasted like, only how easily it drew in and out of him like a knife with a blade sharpened to perfection. Itachi had that same grace, and took the metaphor of the weapon and plunged it into Kisame's heart, with the edge so sharp Hoshigaki could not feel the pain. It simply slid deep within him, taking his inner self, and drew out just as fast.
Although the after effect was raw, the feeling was not heightened. Itachi had simply stabbd him, and that is what he felt. His absence had turned into a murder trial in Kisame's head and even he knew his imagination was beginning to fly out of its cage.
Slowly, he pulled his clothes back upon his burnt body. He avoided eye contact with the window, which Itachi had looked out of before they had come together. What had he been looking at anyway? There wasn't much to see, simply Toyko. It was beautiful, but not precious. Although was it better this way? Kisame wondered which he would prefer, Itachi displeased and missing or Itachi silent and dead.
The question made him gag, leaning over the chair hoping that the stain he spat from his lips was merely saliva rather than blood. In this light, it was hard to tell.
He walked out the door, letting it slam closed. The silence was broken and the dream lifted. In any case, it didn't matter anymore. They were all heading to an apocalypse, the downward spiral to Hell when something God had placed especially was removed. Kisame looked up to the sky, a large grey palet of all the colours that had gone wrong. It reminded him of a colour that the sky would be when the last man walked earth.
XXX
He was no doubt the stupidest man in Tokyo.
Not only had he been losing blood steadily for the last hour, he had foolishly wasted four cigarettes while smoking in the rain. Kisame believed the latter was far more important.
He had walked down to the edge of the water, in a place that looked like a beach but seemed to lack the sheer spirit. He'd wanted to share his half empty pack with the memories of Itachi, staring out into the water as if there were something actually to acknowledge rather than the patterns that rain made against the abused surface.
When he finally sat down on a bench covered by a pitiful excuse for a roof he noticed a hazy figure standing upon the edge of the pier that almost moved along with the tide. They stood almost unnaturally still for the harsh wind's strength. Maybe it had been the man's sudden wooziness that caused him to stumble over to the pier, his feet catching midst the sand and causing him to fall face first.
A mesh of midnight blue caught his eye and realization hit in. It was her, the woman who'd smiled and told him the joys of being in love. She wore gym clothes and running shoes, standing on the very tip of the planks that threatened to send her barreling over into the sea. Her stupid reasoning and beautiful cleavage may not have gotten Kisame into his own disaster, but he still despised those stupid ideals.
"Konan?" he called out, surprised at the placid tone that slipped from his lips.
She didn't turn or acknowledge him. Kisame would've seen her as an apparition if it had not been for the hair, now falling in blue talons around her shoulders. Her stance was still, with a sense of lightness on her lifted arms but weights upon her bare feet. Close up, she appeared to have something missing, like dragging a soul from its shell and leaving the body to roam. When she finally turned, her golden eyes seemed to lack something… or everything. All they appeared to be were what they were, realistically. Two, pupils and irises, half lidded and looking towards something farther than she herself couldn't even see.
XXX
Pein looked out the window, colours and shapes summoned by the alcohol still playing tricks upon him. His psychedelic eyes shined with the dizziness and he once again called to his lover in the bathroom. She was showering, and it seemed to take her so very long. Couldn't she step under the water and step back out, like all normal mortals did?
The party –or meeting as it had first been called- had been fun. For the first time in a long while he'd had fun, danced and enjoyed his job. There had been one thing wrong. Konan hadn't been herself, and she seemed as if the life had been ripped from her. Pein tried to remember if she was always like that when she drunk.
He slowly progressed to change out of his suit and into a pair of black silk pajamas, tripping upon the trouser legs twice before remembering the proper procedure. Outside, the stars twinkled more than they ever had, even more than the night they had married.
He looked over to the bathroom door, still firmly closed.
"Konan" he called "Konan!"
She didn't reply. Pein knew his spouse was probably washing her hair, with the soap suds stuck in her ears.
Out of child's curiousity, he turned on the stereo seated upon the desk in the large bedroom. The tune was instantly familiar.
"Rock Lobster" he muttered under his breath, and then louder until he filled the room with lyrics from an outdated song. His limbs began to spasm into motion and a dance performed in a disco once upon a Saturday night kicked in action in Pein's body.
"Baby! Rock Lobster! Konan, remember this song? We used to dance to this every time it came on!" he cried out, and remembered the smell of marigold perfume that Konan had worn on their dates. It still made him hysteric with lust. They'd fucked in one of the bathrooms, and when one inquiring woman walked her face made both teenagers begin splitting their sides with laughter. Her hair had been blue since he had met her and the curls would always hit her face like serpents of a gorgon when they danced. How many dates had they spent at that club? That's how they named their company, from all those high nights with heroine, sex and the music. The club had been called Akatsuki: new dawn. Such an ideal name, he'd thought.
Just thinking of a young, delicious woman that he now shared a bed with made his blood begin to stir. He was suddenly desperate for Konan to get out the bathroom.
"Konan!" he moaned like a toddler. He pulled the silk pajamas off and decided he wouldn't need them on.
Konan sat on the toilet seat, her sobs disguised by the water of the shower. Her skin trembled even beneath her own touch. The dress was in the white plastic bag, with Konan telling herself not to look in that direction. The tears blurred her vision as she looked down to her stomach, placing a shaking hand upon the smooth skin. There was a subtle pain that sat in her womb and along her thighs, with Konan praying that it was not the seed of the bastard who'd come inside her. She knew that if there was anything that began to grow along with his essence, she'd plunge her fist into her stomach continuously until blood dripped from the womb.
XXX
She snapped back to reality with the calling of her name, yet some of her still seemed distant. She stared over her shoulder, towards the man with tinted blue skin. She couldn't help but see through him, and remind herself that she was now truly alone in a city full of people.
Kisame took a step forward and stood behind her. Something about the woman whose eyes had shone with such potential had changed.
"Oh. Kisame, right?" she asked, not pained by the fact that she sounded blatantly rude. A dull thud of hatred in her heart one could call a heartbeat didn't care for etiquettes.
"Um, yes" the other replied, and a pregnant silence fell over them both. He knew asking Konan what was wrong wouldn't amount to anything, she would brush him aside like all women did. It was in their nature to do so. He kicked the wet sand upon the dock, wondering if he should simply turn around and retreat. It seemed the better of the options, she wanted to be left alone and he wanted to smoke to Itachi's memory.
He turned, treading softly over the dock, when he turned back. The question left his lips before he could stop himself.
"I was wondering if you had Uchiha Madara's number?" he asked, hope so blatant in his tone. He cursed himself for increasing his own suffering for asking such a thing.
Itachi hates me, you are only killing yourself further.
Suddenly, like a cat that's hair raised upon its back, Konan's eyes widened. Her lips trembled and she stumbled back and almost off the pier. Kisame instinctively rushed forward to grab her but she backed away from his touch. She appeared threated, and almost terrified, her hands held in front of her chest.
"Why? Why would I have it? I don't know it. What did he tell you, he doesn't give his number to anyone?" she screeched. Madara had probably filmed it and shown other colleagues as a comedic laugh. Her tears would make them laugh harder. He promised he wouldn't destroy her, but that was lies. It was a barrel full of lies. He'd used her and was going to destroy her like children did when they got bored with dolls, tearing the limbs and then the hair strand by stand. This question was a test, or a joke. Madara wanted to know how far he needed to push her to make her fly over the cuckoo's nest.
"I know he doesn't give his number out, that's why I'm asking. There was something I needed to get from him" the business man asked, unable to interpret Konan's wild posture. Maybe the world was ending after all.
Konan let her heart slow, and a small 'oh' of realization escape her lips. Kisame would never tease her about something as cruel as rape. She'd met him twice but she knew he wasn't black hearted. She realized how insane her mind had become and raised her arms down.
"Oh… ok. I'm sorry I freaked out, it's just that he..."
"What?"
She paused, biting her lip.
"Nothing, never mind"
The rain didn't slow. It was ridiculous, almost. Japan was not a place of monsoons. Kisame remembered the packet his hand, covered in little droplets and protecting ten little cigarettes, so innocent and warm hearted. They just wanted to make people happy.
"Want a cigarette?" he asked, and offered the packet.
"No thanks..." she muttered, but stopped and actually considered the question. What harm would it do that had not already been done? "Actually yes, I would like one"
He handed her the cigarette, wary not to step over the hazardous line where Konan stood. His hands touched her fingers and she was idyllically warm. Just like Itachi's skin. He held his hand over the now lit cigarette until it reached her chapped and parted lips.
"Watch out, the rain might put it out" he warned her.
"Thank you" she took an unprepared dag of the cigarette. The smoke burned her throat and she coughed heavily. She could see her lungs turning black as she breathed in another breath of smoke, slowly easing into the burning touch. "So, what are you doing here?"
What am I doing here? He wondered, and answered the question in his head before speaking. What am I doing here, looking for neutral feelings towards someone who surely despises me. What am I doing here, on a dock in the middle of nowhere? What am I doing so far away from home, or New Orleans as others know it as? In all due respect, I have no idea what I am doing here, I guess I'm just a lost spirit like half of the people on this planet.
"Enjoying life, or something along the lines of that" Kisame said, and chuckled under his breath "Yourself?"
Her golden eyes travelled down his body, looking at the dark patches that stained the thousand dollar suit.
"You're hurt?" she noticed, catching his eyes once more "are you ok?"
At first Kisame was oblivious to what she pointed at, but laughed when he remembered the wounds upon the skin.
"They're just burns, I'll be completely fine in a day or two" he smiled and rubbed the back of his head. She nodded and the empty look in her eyes was directed towards the continuous ocean.
"If you're sure..."
There's that silence again, Kisame thought, and wondered if this was his chance to leave. As he turned, Konan's querie cut through the rain and stopped him.
"You saw it too, didn't you? The kind of man he was, that look in his eyes" Konan whispered, and at first Kisame knew nothing of what she spoke, they were the words of a woman whose mind was elsewhere. Although at this point he remembered a dark night, witnessed red eyes of a different context from that he was smitten for. The pupils were deep red like the contents of a wine glass, spilt upon virgin paper with the darkest intentions: Uchiha Madara. He shuddered at the memory.
"Yes, yes I did" he said, and remembered his wandering hands along Itachi's back.
He's not your business to tamper with. Leave the memory of Itachi behind.
"I only met the eldest son, but there was something so different about him" she muttered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. Kisame became nervous, peering over his shoulder at where he should've been.
You should be saying goodbye, not thinking of him. It is what's done with those who do not exist any longer.
His sense of reason was logical, in a way. His mind was his shield, protecting his soul and sanity.
"He had such sad eyes" she said, and he knew it as truth as everything became unfaithfully clear.
It was a choice. He had been approaching this crossroads and now he was here, still unable to choose a path to walk down. There was left, towards what he used to know and what he needed and should've wanted. This path was clear; he could see miles down this road. There were people he knew down this road, waiting for him. Down said road, he would live then die. The right path was simply a sign pointing towards the darkness that. It was the act of tossing his fear to the sticking place and following the only thing he believed. The road was dark, fading to black and he'd only need to take one step before he became a figment of nothing. Although somewhere on this path he knew Itachi was waiting, holding his chances and determining whether he was cast closer or pushed away to forever be lost, wandering in circles with a smitten sense of direction. Itachi was the reaper, the God and the only man who had a lantern. He was a sick sense of humour with a name in this imagination. Kisame wanted to fall to his knees, grasping his skull through blue hair and scream to the heavens I just cannot decide! There was life or death, easily displayed and hardly touched.
Alas, there was only one thing clear. Itachi hated him, and that was that. Why else would he leave him to die midst the raindrops? Walking right would only be a death wish and walking left was the liable thing to do, living and eventually dying as each man did.
But… there was Itachi, planted in his memory, a lonely tear trickling down his cheek. No-one could fake something so sad. No-one would impersonate something so tragic. That meant Itachi was lonely. Itachi was broken. He was not this reaper of souls, rather a victim. Nobody else would see these tears but Hoshigaki and only the blue tinted man would know how lonely the man was, the man who wore a mask stronger than steel.
Behind a steel door, no-one can hear screaming, simply a soft whisper.
"I have to go now" the man whispered, oblivious to everything except the new scream that pierced through his train of thought like an arrow. It was a scream that only he could hear and comfort. "Do you know where the two sons of Madara have gone?"
"They fled to Paris, away from him I suppose. I hope he spares them"
Konan didn't appear distressed, she simply nodded her head with her full lips remaining in a frown.
"I'm sorry. I hope whatever you're waiting for comes" Kisame added, finally walking away from the dock on which the young woman stood.
"I doubt it will..." she whispered so only the closest waves could hear her.
"What?"
"Nothing, don't worry about it. Goodbye, Kisame" she whispered, and disappeared into the mist along the edge of the pier: waiting for something that would never exist: forgiveness.
At first his walk was brisk, strong even when he wounds said otherwise. Suddenly he found his feet gaining pace, and he was running over wet concrete back the way he came. Of course he could've tripped, wound himself onto a hospital bed, having to tie down his arms because he would scream Itachi's name and try and find him. He'd be his own protagonist, the thought was almost funny. Hoshigaki outran himself on the sandy beach from once upon a time, the bullets of rain abusing his broken skin. For a moment he saw a blurry figure, sitting upon one of the many beach chairs with the dissolving seats that had only been preserved to keep the memory of what once was. His eyes were shining ruby red through the curtain of grey. He stopped and the boy was gone. Yet the stranger had mouthed something, soft enough to sweeten by a look that tasted bitter. Had he said stop? Maybe this was the devil inside the shark, or just his common sense. It had begun to get hard to tell what reality was and what was not. It all seemed to fit now, with memories and imaginings combining to create one big picture.
Paris. He'd been there more than once, as a business man that was no surprise. The language was not his best but he knew somewhere in his luggage was a French dictionary, coated with dust; Sasori had always been brilliant at the elegant tongue of the French, so much that he hadn't needed the blasted thing until now. Unless… unless he dove into unknown waters and called the redhead and asked to meet him in the flesh. It was a daring move, particularly for someone whose patience was thinner than the exoskeleton of a grasshopper. Who cares? Kisame thought, once again feeling the smile toying at his lips and paining his already burning face, down to Hell with it all, everything is going to burn. And for once, the feeling of knowing was greater than intoxication. It toyed amongst his veins as he finally placed a fingertip upon the place where Itachi stood and muttered the words 'found you'.
What if he wants to be alone?
There he was, the reimagining of Itachi, whispering in his ear as he botled past a couple that cried out in surprise. Kisame could practically feel the hot organ of Itachi's non-existant tongue run over his lobe and dip into the shell as the man spoke.
"Nobody wants to be alone..." Hoshigaki whispered under his breath "... in a world full of people"
He pressed on further, squinting to desperately try and seek out a main road; when there's a main road there are taxis he told himself.
No good ever came from kicking a hornet's nest.
There it was again, pesky and... partially true. Was that why he batted away the whisper like a fly buzzing in circles atop his head?
"If I kick the hornet's nest and get stung, it's what I deserve"
He cried out in joy as a stream of cars appeared on the road ahead and sped up. The man he glided past looked dumb shocked.
What if he hates you?
It was only when he flew into the back seat of the taxi, barking out an address did he realize that he had a small amount of change on him, not enough to even take him down the street. Grasping the coins tight between his palm and fingers, he decided to think about the consequences when he got there: for both situations.
I am sorry, so very sorry. I haven't written in so long, but here it is, and the next chapter will be here sooner rather than later, I hope.
Read and Review please, you readers motivate me!
XXX