Disjointed
A/N: Because Orochimaru's almighty DNA can totally overpower a nerd with glasses, gain control of his body, and restore his former self's memories. Because Sasuke is an asshole and this author just wants him dead. And because this author has been feeling a lot of pedo-vibes since the producers decided it would be cute to put cat ears on Itachi of all people. Are you happy now, Universe?
I want your hands.
The elegance, coordination, accuracy in them are frightening. Your fingers are elongated and delicate, the curve of each nail smooth.
Each cell is sensitive to the lightest touches, the slightest contact. The skin is so thin, the frames of your bones peeking here and there, the broken lines of life etched so deeply.
They are the hands of a true artist, able to trace a perfect spiral in ink, swivel and dance in effortless choreography. They memorize themselves, and after one trial, they will deliver flawless executions.
It is unfortunate that you hide your hands, fold them together and tuck them close to your chest.
I want your feet.
They are key to your balance and control. They know how to distribute your weight, root you into ground even when you wish to collapse.
Like those of a child's, the base is still soft and defined, as if they have never endured the northern snow, nor the Iwa mountains. They can are a performer's feet, able to land on its toes, carry the stress to the heels, plant the burden into the earth.
And yet, in a simple arch, they gracefully launch you into the air, allowing you defy gravity for the slightest moment and fall free of the fates.
But then you lace bandages from toe to calf, protecting them from the world.
I want your back.
It grants you the ability to endure. It allows you to shun instead of hide, tense and relax in accordance to pain.
The hints of your spine traces down indefinitely, exposed and vulnerable. The concavity of the small of your back, the muscles that tighten in anticipation.
It is the back of a warrior's, reveals the tree of your history. Each scar is carved into a blank canvas, torn but still innocent. The branches soon looks like the fragile wings of a bird, broken, its feathers plucked.
Before I can examine the pattern further, you silently drape the yukata over your lacerations and bow to your superiors.
I want your shoulders.
A glimpse of your shoulders is the only trap you need for seduction. The way you tilt your head and the cloth slips down so subtly.
His ears flush red, his eyes darts away, pretends to focus on his work. But your yukata only slides lower, and when you lean forward, innocently glancing over his scroll, your clavicle becomes more prominent.
Those nights, you have shoulders of a geisha, inducing temptation, knowingly making your own best friend lust for you.
But you are merely a tease in the end, and you nonchalantly pull up the fabric.
I want your neck.
Your neck reveals your commitment. The sickening bruises that have collected there over time is your own personal curse mark, imposed by someone unwelcome, someone controlling.
But the silver chain that continues to hang there after his death is a reminder of your loyalty, something you will wear till your last breath. The very pulse in your jugular, life flowing through your veins, continues because and only because of your dedication.
These details belongs to the neck of a lover.
No one else will ever notice them, but you cover them behind a cloak nonetheless.
I want your lips.
Your lips contain nothing but secrecy. The way they curve upwards in an all knowing smile, mysterious but aesthetic.
They seal away knowledge, truth. They reveal hidden intentions and motives, sly and cunning.
And even when red begins to trail down, your smile does not falter, because you know that despite what happens to you, the thing you protect is safe. You carry the lips of a chessmaster.
And not a single whisper will ever escape those lips of yours.
I want your eyes.
In your eyes shines the brilliance of a scientist, the wisdom of a philosopher, the serenity of a monk, the power of a deity.
And they overshadow everything else about you, makes your hands, feet, back, shoulder, neck, lips all insignificant. Makes you a dispensable obstacle.
Because of your eyes, you cease to be human.
You have no objections revealing your Sharingan to anyone and everyone.
I want your body. To experiment, to wear, to preserve. I want to halt your heartbeat and lay you in a coffin of formaldehyde.
But I could not steal you away at five, when I first noted your hands in the training field.
Nor seven, when I saw you kick your feet and plunge down into the earth.
Nor ten, when you undressed and revealed your bare back for your first punishment.
Nor twelve, when you exposed your shoulders to test the willpower of your friend.
Nor fourteen, after you exited the inner chambers of Akatsuki with bruises on your neck.
Nor seventeen, when your lips pressed together and gave me a smile before you vanished with my medical scroll.
Nor twenty-one, when your eyes bled profusely, a corporeal god summoned to serve you.
And it is a pity, because your body was absolutely perfect, a body that might only reemerge every other millennium.
"Is something wrong, Master Orochimaru?" you ask me, your voice flat, hollow.
You reveal everything to me, but I only see the body of a shadow, a ghost, even though every part of you is the same. The same structure, same DNA, same mind, same soul. You are an absolute replica, so what went wrong, what changed...
When did you become so empty, so dead...
"Yess nii-san," I hiss. "When did you stop being perfect?"