Deity

Chapter 6: пробовать

пробовать - probovat (proh-boh-vyah-ts) – to taste

Notes: When Mikoto says "It's minus ten!", she's talking about -10 degrees Celsius. (Silly Americans and your Fahrenheit…) Reviews are greatly appreciated.

A wounded dear leaps highest,
I've heard the hunter tell;
T is but the ecstasy of death
And then the break is still.

- Emily Dickinson

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There were dirty dishes piled on the counter beside the dishwasher, covered with sticky-sweet puddles of maple syrup and breadcrumbs. It was a Saturday morning, with sunlight bursting in through the window over the sink to tinge the entire room yellow and glint sharply off the stainless steel tap as Mikoto scrubbed at the counter. She was telling Sasuke about the movie she had seen the night before with her friends, laughing and smiling at all the right parts and some of the wrong ones too. He hadn't seen her looking so happy in a long while.

"Ah, it looks so lovely out today," she said, sighing wistfully. "It's just too bad it's actually so cold. It's minus ten, can you believe it!"

And she laughed, pitches ringing like the sound of bells only much more raw.

"Do you need any help with the dishes, Mom?" said Sasuke.

"Oh no, Sasuke, it's fine," Mikoto said in return. "You've got much better things to spend your Saturday on than cleaning the kitchen with me, right?"

And then, just like every other Saturday morning, the sounds of rapid scale runs played on a piano began from the living room. Itachi, hair still wet and hanging down in long damp strings from his shower, had his eyes closed as he ran through the exercises. His fingers knew the keys well enough, by that point, that he did not need them open to play. Both hands were going then, playing scale after scale in movements like clockwork, sometimes going up four or five octaves or running through formula patterns.

"Itachi."

He heard his Father's voice, but his hands only slowed down a little. A major.

"What time did you get in last night?" Fugaku asked, leaning against the side of the piano.

"Eleven or so."

F sharp minor, Melodic.

"I see. So, what did you two do?"

"Watched a movie. Had dinner. The usual," Itachi responded, his voice almost drowning within the swiftly climbing tones that fell swiftly like daggers through the air between them, stiff and anxious as if each atom were loaded with extra electrons (all that negative charge). Itachi knew how long it had been since genuine words had come from his Father's grimly set mouth – he knew it down to days, even hours – but he told himself no longer missed it, no longer yearned for that approval that filled him right up with satisfaction. Did his Father feel it too? The staleness, a bitter aftertaste impossible to wash down…

Itachi's fingers played a cadence at the end of the scale and let the notes tremble on until the sound stopped ringing out. Faded.

"I'm done some of my university applications," he said quietly.

"Oh?" At this, Fugaku perked up a little. "Have you… decided on what you plan to study?"

Itachi nodded, shaking a few more droplets of cold shower-water from his hair and onto his lap.

"Yes. Medicine. I think… I'll be a doctor."

(Doctor (noun) - 1. A person licensed to practice medicine; physician, dentist or veterinarian. 2. A person who has been awarded a doctor's degree. 3. See 'Doctor of the Church'. 4. A practitioner of folk medicine or folk magic. 6. A rig or device contrived for remedying an emergency situation or for doing a special task. 7. Any of several brightly coloured artificial flies used in fly fishing.)

Fugaku gave a smile that portrayed approval quite well, leaning his weight forwards as to put him within reach of Itachi's shoulder. The dark-haired man clamped a hand firmly on his son's shoulder, and Itachi averted his eyes, though in his peripheral vision he could still see Fugaku's clean fingernails and olive-skinned knuckles. After the smooth hands of his Mother, the chapped and begging lips of Shisui, and the gentle, forgiving warmth of Sasuke, it was a little surprising just how cold his father felt…

"A good decision," Fugaku said proudly. "I know you'll do well, Itachi; you've just got so much potential."

(Doctor – a person who makes a living out of stealing from Death; playing with it. It's a game everyone will lose, eventually. Only God can defy death.)

Fugaku gave his son a little bit of a squeeze, fingers pressing into flesh before he released.

"Aren't you going to work today?" Itachi asked.

"I've got the day off," Fugaku announced without looking back, making his way out of the room.

"You haven't taken one of those in a while…" Itachi muttered under his breath, bringing his hands from where they had hidden in his lap and placed them back on the keys. Looking up a little, he could see a small layer of silvery dust forming on the top of the piano.

F sharp minor, Harmonic.

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Sasuke was still in the kitchen when the doorbell rang, splitting through the thoughts he had been content to sit and sift through up until that point. He still felt a little sore from sleep, as if his body were still resisting his mind's command to wake up.

"I'll get it!" Mikoto called, sauntering through the hall and towards the front door. Her feet were bare despite the chill she had pointed out earlier, her body adorned with a pink fleece shirt and a loose black skirt that swung back and forth about her knees with her lively walk. As he watched her quickly smooth her hair, which had been left down and looked only half-combed that particular morning, Sasuke couldn't help but smile.

Pushing her lips into a pleasant sort of expression (the kind you see in magazines; the kind you know took a lot of practice to master), Mikoto swung the door open.

"Hello! Ah… Sachiro." The brightness in her eyes faded a little as she recognized their visitor, leaning outwards so that Sasuke could no longer see her from the shoulders up. "Sachiro, what's wrong? Are you okay? My God… come in, alright?"

From the kitchen, Sasuke watched as his mother ushered a woman slightly smaller than herself inside, an arm wrapped around tense shoulders. He recognized her instantly. She was his aunt, his father's older sister, and Shisui's mother. She was a hard-working and stubborn woman, one who had all-out refused to take her husband's last name (eventually, he gave in and took her name, Uchiha, as his own). Sasuke had seen her many a time before, on holidays and birthdays and other such events, but he had never seen her like this.

"Come on," Mikoto said, her voice having reverted to a soft and maternal one as she helped the distraught woman past the doorway to the kitchen and on into the living room. "Just sit down, now, alright? I'll make you some tea."

There were long, wet streaks running down the woman's thin face, her dark eyelashes glistening with the tears caught in them. Beneath her eyes were dark smudges from where her make-up had dripped down, some going over those lovely high cheekbones Shisui had inherited. Her hair, cut short and curled about her head, had become messy and tangled from the wind outside, and the usually serious and fine-set features of her face were distorted in pain. Through the walls, Sasuke could hear her sobbing, gasping for breath.

"Mi-Mikoto…" she said weakly as her sister-in-law turned away, reaching out a hand suddenly to catch the lacy hem of Mikoto's skirt. "Please… P-please, just-"

"What's going on?"

Both women looked up to see Fugaku enter the room, the noise having reached him all the way in his study. The expression of annoyance he wore quickly morphed into confusion. All the electricity that had been building and building up in the air of the room seemed to snap all of a sudden, frenzying a moment before it was all gone, and even from the kitchen where he was listening, Sasuke could feel the emptiness of it.

"What…?"

"He's dead," Sachiro whispered then, her voice cracking as the words came out. "Shisui… is dead."

The sunlight in the window seemed dull and cold (fake), before glaring brightly once more in Sasuke's eyes. Had he heard right? There was no way to rewind the moment and tell. There came a few mumbled words from the living room, intentionally obscured in the adult type of whispers that always felt guilty. He could find sense in none of it, and then:

"They think it was a-a suicide."

Murmured, uttered like a curse from a mother's lips, her mouth feeling tainted with just the sound of it released from her mouth (and oh, the bitter aftertastes…). Sasuke knew that word, though he wasn't quite sure it was he had learned it first.

"My husband, he… he dr-dropped me off here be-before… going down to…" Sachiro's susurrations began to fade and crumble, the remnants covered by the creaking of furniture and Mikoto's footsteps over their flowered carpet. A few seconds past, Sasuke saw her face (gleaming, worried) pop in the doorway.

"Boys…" she said quietly. "Could you go upstairs for a little while? Please?"

"Of course."

It was only then, with the cold touch of a hand to his shoulder and those two quick words, that Sasuke noticed Itachi's presence behind him, causing a jolt of fright to slide through his body. It pushed up the delicate hairs on the back of his neck from beneath the skin, the stir much greater than Sasuke would have expected from himself.

"Mikoto, don't you think Itachi should stay?" came Fugaku's stern voice then, and Mikoto gave her children an apologetic smile despite it.

"Please… just go for now…"

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The funeral was the following Thursday, taking place in the afternoon. This was a bad time of year for funerals, the gravediggers could be heard saying to each other, shaking their heads while they warmed their fingers with the small flames of their lighters. The ground was too hard, and the winds were harsh, but Shisui's parents insisted on being there when their son was buried. The stared down into the grave as the coffin, made of a beautiful light-coloured wood, was lowered down into earth. Ashes to ashes, and all that jazz.

Their uncomfortably dry eyes matched their suits just perfectly, and Itachi wondered if he was the only one who saw shredded pieces of disappointment resonating from them.

The church pews were cold and hard against Sasuke's back, and a few times, he had to stop himself from giving an audible shiver as he became unable to get rid of the chill that had settled over him. Then, when they all stood to sing with their open hymnbooks in hand, Sasuke found his mouth moving along to the sound, but the words refused to come out. He just couldn't convince his throat to elicit any sort of sound, and his eyes soon became fixated on the coffin (a closed one, thankfully).

It wasn't just a coffin, though. Inside of it was Shisui, or at least the body of the person formerly known as Shisui. And it was the same Shisui who had bought Sasuke ice cream on hot days, and who had made Itachi laugh, and who had sung along to the radio too loudly, smiling, as if to try and prove himself louder than all the other sounds in the world combined. The Shisui who, as hard as it was for Sasuke to grasp even then, wasn't coming back. That was the meaning of being dead, after all. Being without life. Of course, some people could be dead inside even though their bodies were still alive and moving, Itachi had told him once when speaking in reference to a book.

And that is the worst kind of death of all.

It was hard to imagine things without Shisui. And in a way, it was hard to imagine Itachi without Shisui. But he wouldn't have to imagine it, Sasuke realized, because it would be that way no matter what he did, and it was going to take some getting used to, that was for sure.

Without Shisui. The concept still felt foreign, and the hurt that came along with it was strange and constant, aching, a whole avalanche of emotions raging against him all at once. Everything was mixed and blurred during that time, days bleeding into each other as if they were the same and his body feeling suddenly heavy, his voice weak and his heart… well, his heart didn't know.

Dead, and gone, and lifeless, and never-coming-back; all those unfair words.

Everyone closed their hymnbooks, snapping in the silence as they sat down, and the hollow cold was muffles when Sasuke felt Itachi's naked hand slide gently to rest on his lower arm. Tugging gently – asking permission, and daring – it seemed to draw him in a bit closer to his brother's body until Sasuke could feel his temple resting against Itachi's jutting collarbone, lying jusr beneath the soft black of his dress-shirt (everything was black those days, black or white or a dirty undertone somewhere between, he remembered later. You were lucky to find any colour at all). The press of their bodies drew out the small bits of warmth they still had and savoured them. Sasuke let himself close his eyes, feeling Itachi's marble-like cheek against his crown, hand squeezing Sasuke's arm (reassurance, and a sense of real): flesh to flesh.

Sasuke remembered vaguely the way Itachi's lips remained still while everyone around him sang, and had thought to himself, "I've got to be strong for Nii-san now, I have to…"

After the service, Shisui's parents went to the graveyard to watch the coffin be put into the ground. There were many people there – people Shisui had known from school and those he hadn't, teachers, relatives, friends of the family – but it was only Fugaku and Itachi who went along with them.

The wind whipped around them, staining their faces in shades of raw (fleshy) pink against sharp ice whites, hands shoved in their pockets for warmth. Cold, the cold was seeping in from all directions no matter how tightly they pulled their coats and scarves around themselves, their bodies. There were times, peering through the thick veil of snow that had descended in a bitter sweep, that Itachi's sore eyes nearly saw something, darting in and out. A shadow, was it?

He pressed his lips together, noticing with displeasure they were becoming chapped.

Winter is the temporary death of the world. Just a small taste of it before spring, and everything is reborn so bright and giddy. Without death there would be no life, and without life, no death either. Everything has a balance.

This was just a taste.

Following the funeral, coffee and tea were served, with hot chocolate for the children. Itachi had none. He had remained silent through the entire ceremony and even when he returned from the graveyard with Fugaku, he only spoke a short greeting to Sasuke and Mikoto before settling into another bout of raw quiet. People stayed for a while, but slowly they began to leave, piling on the apologetic smiles and condolences until they hardly meant anything to here. Sasuke watched them, but somehow felt like he wasn't there anymore. He still couldn't get the idea through his head.

And then, in the stuffy and distant elegance of the funeral parlour where everyone gathered afterwards, there was only Shisui's parents and Sasuke's, respective grandparents having just left, and Itachi standing by the window. The vent shooting warm air upwards caused the lacy curtains to stir, the windows behind them showing only the snow-covered parking lot. The silence was no longer just Itachi's; it had drawn all of them in, pressing against their skulls in soft torment. Teasing.

"It was you."

Sachiro, hunched over in her chair, glared at Itachi. He didn't respond, and Sasuke found this didn't surprise him.

"You were the one," Sachiro hissed, uncaring of the cautioning hand her husband had placed on her shoulder. "You were there before he did it."

"I was." Itachi responded simply, but this only angered her further.

"It was your fault! You drove him to it, didn't you! He was close to getting what he wanted, but you had to step in and ruin it for him!" She spat the words like acid. "Did you convince him to do it? Is that what you wanted? You were already the best, so why did you have to get rid of your competition, huh? Tell me!"

At this point, Sachiro looked hysteric, pushing her husband's arm away as she came out of her chair. She rocked forwards a little, losing balance in her desperation and black, low-heeled shoes, but she found her centre and walked recklessly forwards a few paces. Every mention was filled with a great sort of pain, sort of burden. Sort of regret?

Itachi smiled to his transparent reflection in the window.

Perhaps.

"Sachiro," he could hear his mother saying. "Please, calm down. I don't think Itachi would ever–"

"Shut up, Mikoto! My son is dead. So don't try to reason with me and tell me Itachi had nothing to do with it, because he was there! God damn it, does no one here see it? What's wrong with you? How could you let him… how could you even…" Her voice began crackling, upper body jolting as she began to lode the battle for control with herself, and all the emotions pent up inside of her. Slowly, she sank down to her knees, letting her husband comfort her with mumbled words and support her as she continued to glower at the dusty red carpet. A marionette with its strings cut – she could no longer move.

"I just wanted… I wanted good for him, the best… I wanted him to be happy…," she sobbed, choking on the words, only half-audible. "They never appreciate it… he could've appreciated it…."

Itachi's fingertips pressed to the frigid windowpane, leaving hazy streaks to mark the paths they had taken.

"And do you really think you had nothing to do with it?" he asked then, though through her sobs, she could barely answer. His voice grew louder, more frantic with each question. "You looked at the autopsy report, didn't you? All those bruises and scrapes – and the cuts on his arms? On his hips? They were deep, weren't they? They looked like they bled quite a bit, didn't they? And how much blood did you find on his bed-sheets when you discovered him that morning, and why was it there? Can you tell me that?"

Sachiro's mouth moved, trying to form bitter phrases and curses for him, but only more cries came, growing louder and more desperate as she went on and on…

"I think we should go now, Mikoto, Sasuke," Fugaku said. And then to his sister, quietly: "I'm sorry, Sachiro."

They drove home in silence. Mikoto quietly told her children they could stay home from school the next day if they wanted, but Sasuke decided not to. Itachi did not answer, and by that point, no one expected him to. No more questions were asked, conveniently, since none of them really wanted the truthful answers just then.

The following night at 7:30, the police called to inquire about arranging a meeting ("Just a meeting, nothing more") with Uchiha Itachi. The only detail they would reveal was that it would concern the suicide of Itachi's friend, Uchiha Shisui, who had – according to the official report – taken his life with a myriad of his mother's sleeping pills and a bottle of vodka.

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A soft click ended the phone call, and Mikoto brought the phone back down into its cream-coloured holder with a sigh. Part of her desperately wanted nothing but to settle down in her bed and sleep, but she knew that there was still a small amount of housework she had put off that needed to be done. Cleaning usually cleared her head, and felt pleasant, satisfying, but lately she could hardly bring herself to empty the dishwasher, let alone dust anything. Every act felt tedious and meaningless…

"Don't worry about it," she heard Fugaku say as her eyes drifted towards the closet in which the vacuum was stored. "You can clean tomorrow, after you get some sleep."

"But I–"

"You're under a lot of stress, Mikoto," he told her, sipping at his drink. "Just go to bed. I know what's best for you."

Despite his words, Mikoto lifted herself onto a stool opposite him, folding her hands in her lap as she stared – brow furrowed and lips set anxiously – at the countertop.

"They want to see him tomorrow," she murmured, as if Fugaku didn't already know. "After school. I'll drive him there when his piano lesson finishes."

Fugaku gave an apathetic shrug. "I'm sure he can walk; it's not that far."

"I know, but… but I want to be there."

"He's not a child, Mikoto. And neither is Sasuke, if you were planning on babying him now too."

"I don't care!" she said with a sudden burst of frustration, twisting violently to stare at her husband. "Itachi is my son! And his best friend just… well, obviously he's not going to be okay after that. And now – and now they think he had something to do with it. Child or not, that's going to affect someone, Fugaku."

She could feel herself shaking, as if a great rush of electricity were pulsing through her. Her hands, her legs, her lips and the lean muscles of her neck… all of her, trembling. Full of emotion that had suddenly found a temporary outlet.

"He's your son too," she whispered. "Aren't you worried about him? At all? He needs time, and he needs help. I know he's capable and responsible – so so much more than anyone his age, and sometimes even us – but he's still human." And then, covered by the sound of an empty glass she let clatter down into their messy sink: "And so am I."

She looked up at him, now fully aware of how damp her cheeks were, and yet he still wasn't looking at her. No, he continued glaring straight ahead, as if she didn't matter, or exist at all.

"You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Silence.

"Fugaku…?"

Continuing.

"Please, dear, just look at me. I want to know that you can hear me… that you…"

Relentless.

"I thought," she choked, the sound strangled and warped, "that w-we had cleared all of this up… that you wouldn't be so hard on him, or Sasuke… or me… God, Fugaku, you're not even listening to me!"

Dishes were dropped loudly into the sink. Her husband didn't flinch.

"When was the last time you bothered to listen to me? Or… or kiss me? Or we that we made love, Fugaku, how long has it been? Do I even matter to you anymore!"

Up twenty-one stairs, face pressed hard into a pillow though his ears heard the noise anyway, Sasuke flinched at the screeching tremor of her voice. It broke through his barriers and forced him to listen, to really listen for once. But oh, it was so much nicer to pretend he couldn't hear any of those harrowingly familiar noises, no, not at all

"Does any of this mean anything, anymore?"