Erebus on the Cusp of Dawn
by Hic Iacet Mori
In a paper lie stories waiting to be told, just as in a heart lie memories waiting to be recalled—in every object is a touch waiting to be claimed, in every room a scent waiting to be breathed in. They are pieces of a life now beyond mortal grasp, sharp and raw and wounding and they, like colors, fade against the waters of time.
He buried himself deeper in his book, graceless in his bed, stubbornly ignoring the presence by the shadows. It had been some days since that night and Sasuke was all manners of awkward that he didn't know what to do whenever she was around. He didn't know what to do with himself, with her—there were too many... too many feelings, too many she evoked whenever he saw her, sensed her, and they were all the harder to bear when night had fallen, when shadows came out to play with his mind.
They were easier to bear, the sadness, the despair, the shock, in daylight. Everything appeared the same, as if his brother hadn't died at all, as if he hadn't finally admitted to himself that his brother was dead. How could it be real when the sky remained blue? How could it be true when the sun remained high up in the sky? Even the geese were still flying in their familiar formation for the winter, the way trees continued to shed their leaves in preparation for the long season of cold. There were still the familiar strangers, there were still the daily faces and places he saw and went to. Nothing in the world had changed at all.
Yet as the day progressed, Sasuke began to see it—the shadows of his brother on the mundane, the ordinary. He would look outside the window in his classroom and see his brother looking back, a half-smile on his face with his forgotten bento in hand. He would open a book and trace the words of his brother's ghostly writing, a brief reminder of his turn to do the laundry for the week in elegant script. He would pass by a candy shop on his way home and pause, his brother standing beside him, nose pressed to the window like a child eagerly awaiting the arrival of snow. And then, cycling his way up to their house, his house, he could feel his brother beside him, riding another bicycle, quietly enjoying the last of the afternoon sun and the wind with the hints of night running through their hair.
Itachi was everywhere the way he had never been but Sasuke would give anything, anything in his power, to have his brother back with him—rarely there, hardly visible, seldom around, but alive alive alive.
At odd moments he would feel hot anger spilling through his veins, furious at his brother for daring to die and leave him, truly alone now, in an empty house in a world suddenly devoid of red. Sometimes he felt empty, bereft of emotions and wishing to wake up, cursing life because he was awake, eyes wide and dry, and cursing himself for not knowing what to do. And then he would feel a sharp stab of grief and he would wait for tears to come, longing for the promised relief, but nothing would come and he would feel it more, the emptiness inside him, and all he could let out were air, bitter air, carrying hints of salty tears he couldn't physically shed.
And she would find him, hunched by his bed, shuddering with every broken gasps and choked sobs he tried to hide behind a pillow, a book, a door. And he would ignore her, wounds still too fresh, humiliated at being seen in such a way, at being too weak, at insulting his brother with the absence of his tears, angry because he couldn't grieve well, because she had caused him to feel this way, because her shadow was entwined with that of his brother, because there was no red anymore, only the white of ghosts in his head. Had she not said anything, he would have—he would have—
Damn...
He would have remained blind, merrily making his way in a world carved of delusions and dreams, stained with cheerless colors and shallow smiles.
He owed her so much, this stranger, for forcing him to see the truth, the folly of his falsehood. He wanted to thank her for so many reasons—for forcing him to accept the truth, for showing him that he remained important to his brother despite the secrecy of some aspects of his life, for staying with him, for offering her silent comfort, for being there when he had nothing left. For letting him let go and not making him feel less of a man over it.
However, days later, he still felt awkward around her. Logically, he knew he shouldn't feel that way—he may be an Uchiha but he was still human, and it wasn't wrong to grieve over a loss, especially a loss as great as his brother. But he had never allowed anyone, even Itachi, to see him so painfully vulnerable before. No one had seen him in such a way, completely different, his face a ravaged mask of raw and silent grief. He had never been so bare before and it gnawed in his mind, this knowledge, whenever she appeared.
If only he could ignore her, completely ignore her... Since that night, he had become more aware of her presence it was almost a physical touch.
Maybe if she wasn't watching him—
He abruptly stood up, his newest book tumbling down his bed, and left his room. He returned minutes later with a mug of hot milk and made his way to where she sat, stopping in front of her. She slowly stood up, curious, and he pushed the mug to her hands. He himself wasn't very fond of milk but he knew it could induce anyone to sleep. His brother... His brother had sworn to it.
He turned back, confident at its anticipated effect, and paused when he heard a breaking sound.
Sasuke looked back. He blinked at the mess of broken porcelain and spilt milk on his carpet, watching as the carpet easily absorbed the hot white liquid. He then noticed something else dripping on the milk.
Red.
"You're bleeding," he commented, voice scratchy. He had been yelling in the cemetery earlier that afternoon.
White.
He was hypnotized by the redness of the blood against the milk.
The blonde head snapped up, as if suddenly broken from a trance. She smiled, sheepish, as she extracted an orange handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her hand. A cut ran diagonally across her right palm, blood oozing out of the wound.
"Un."
He went to his desk for his first aid kit. He wondered faintly how the mug broke—he thought it shouldn't have because his carpet was thick and soft, and it would have absorbed enough of the force of impact to ensure the mug wouldn't break. Also, she shouldn't be bleeding because she wasn't touching any piece of the broken porcelain.
After rummaging on his drawers, he scooped out the white box. He returned to see the carpet cleaned off the shards, with his nightly visitor returning to her corner after depositing everything in his trash can. The milk and blood on his dark blue carpet could wait.
"Sorry for the mug. And the carpet," she said, reaching for the kit. He lifted the white box out of her reach, ordering her with his eyes to sit down. He raised an eyebrow when she simply sighed and obeyed.
He gently held her hand and inspected the cut. It was deeper than he had thought. When he looked closer, he could see more cuts on her palm.
"Idiot," he muttered. He could feel a strange alarm at the back of his mind, though. The thought he didn't want to entertain reared itself at the forefront of his mind.
Did she break the mug on purpose?
He poured antiseptic on a cotton ball, ignoring the shaking of her hand. He pretended he didn't see how her body jerked, as if ravaged by a ghost haunting her body. He told himself it didn't matter—the rough softness of her palm, the heat from her fingers, the shadows on her face. She probably just felt... felt as awkward as he did.
It couldn't be because of something else, right?
Three nights later and it was sharper now, the awkwardness. He was ready to stab himself with a pencil to make it go away.
He cleared his throat for the nth time. An annoyed huff from the shadows overrode his embarrassment and he snapped. He was tired of it. Uchiha were never made to be awkward. "Do you have to be in my room?" he asked without thinking.
She bolted up, stark against the shadows—he had to blink at the sudden onslaught of colors. "Well, teme, if you stop opening your window, I'd stop misinterpreting." She swiftly made her way to the window, raising a foot on the ledge. "So sorry to be bothering, your ass-ness."
"Wait!" he shouted. The blonde did pause but she didn't turn around. He faltered. He didn't mean it to come out that way. He just wanted her to—to not watch him because she had seen him break down and everything was different and awkward and he didn't know how to act around her anymore and she was going on like nothing had happened and it pissed him off that she didn't seem to be so affected or awkward the way he was and damn, he's just so tired, so damned tired...
He deflated. "I mean... do you have to see me to—" he swallowed thickly, feeling his face flame up, "w-watch over me?"
She did turn around this time, regarding the pillow behind him with a thoughtful look. Look at me! he wanted to shout. Not the damn pillow, not the book or the bed! "The hell's wrong with you, bastard? I know it's kinda humiliating to have a girl watching over you and shit but that's kinda sexist, don't you think?"
He hadn't even gotten around to asking what she really meant, about someone not coming after him while she was here, but he had more pressing concerns. Like why the hell he was making a mountain out of a molehill.
She cocked her head. "Now about seeing you... I guess not really. I don't see much of you from the tree, anyway, but I can, I dunno, sense you inside?" She shrugged. "That's what matters to me, anyway. That you're here in your room at night?"
He nodded as his heart sank. He felt disappointed. "Hn."
She laughed but it sounded hollow to his ears—his eyes had seen how she flinched. "Soooo, is that it? You're bothered that someone sees you sleep?" She nodded, not waiting for an answer. "The tree it is."
"YoucanstayIhaveanotherroom."
She frowned, trying to make sense of the rush of words. A skeptical eyebrow. "So uh, you'd make me stay in another room?"
He turned away, a scowl covering the faint hue in his cheeks. He really didn't mind it, her watching him—it was emasculating, having a girl a few months younger than him literally looking after him, but he had come to... come to expect it, even like it. After what he had said, though, he couldn't retract his words without explaining himself. So he had done the next best thing—offer her a place where he was still near her.
Besides, he was actually concerned—he had yet to catch her sleeping at night. He had tried staying up late a few times but he always ended up sleeping earlier than her, unused to being awake late at night, and maybe she slept after him but he couldn't be so sure. What he was sure of, though, was that she was always gone by the strike of four.
"Why?"
He felt heat burning on his ears. "You need sleep," he replied, hating this shyness he was suddenly feeling. The hell was wrong with him? His tongue felt so strange, like it was knotting itself with every word he said. There wasn't anything particularly embarrassing with what he was saying, was there? "I would have offered this bed but I'm sure you won't be as comfortable." Beside me, he added silently, and he felt warmth flare up on his cheeks. He almost slapped himself at his weirdness.
She waved a hand. "Thanks for the generous offer, teme, but I sleep during the day so it's cool."
He bit the inside of his cheek, feeling unaccountably put off by her swift disregard. She didn't even think about it, the irritating idiot.
"I insist."
He watched her glance outside and then, shaking her head, made her way to him. He turned to his left, his guest on his heels, and opened the door.
Across his room was another room, a room he hadn't been into for quite some time now. He swallowed the sudden heat blocking his throat, and blinked away the burning in his eyes as he twisted the doorknob. The door quietly swung open.
His legs suddenly felt weak and he clutched on the door jamb, an acute sorrow stabbing him in the heart as a familiar scent embraced him.
He's gone.
He took a shuddering breath.
He's not coming back.
He found his face burrowed in the crook of her neck, smelling jasmines and hoping everything was a dream. He wondered why she smelled of the flowers Itachi used to bring to their parents. Attachment, it meant in the flower language. Divine hope, a symbol in religious offerings in India. I promise you, a pledge of mutual love among the Filipinos. Used against depression in aroma therapy, used to attract spiritual love, used by the likes of Cleopatra and Louis XVI. Dubbed moonshine in the garden, said to penetrate the deepest layers of the soul and opens emotions. Only releases its fragrance at night, long after the sun had set, sweet and soothing like her warmth against the coldness seeping in his body, his soul.
It ached, ached his heart in a good way. The white of the flower against the black of the night. It was her.
Would you like it, Nii-san? Jasmines on your grave?
As his breath evened out, Sasuke wondered why jasmines looked like the stars in the sky and the shine in her blue eyes.
Embrace all the colors for as long as you could, for just as a touch cools, a scent fades, and a memory is forgotten, so does the story of a life end the way it had begun—white.