Erebus on the Cusp of Dawn

by Hic Iacet Mori

It was such a thoughtless act, breathing, that you forget its importance until someone breathes his last. You stand next to him, gazing at his shell, taking an unconscious deep breath in hopes of capturing more of his life now lost to him. You close your eyes, inhaling air he used to breathe, air you once shared, and time stands still as you hold your breath, as you hold the last air you would ever share, as you hold him for the last time in your lungs, in your chest.

He growled lowly, annoyed, as he delivered a vicious uppercut on a bearded moron, his growl getting louder when he caught an incoming wrist and used it to propel a bald tattooed idiot to him for a direct punch to the face. He was tired from school, from walking from school because his bicycle had a flat tire, from walking uphill wheeling a bicycle with a flat tire from school. It was late, he was hungry, and he was in no damned mood to be surrounded by six different human incarnations of stupidity intent on milking him out of his last yen, of all damned things.

He had tried to surrender peacefully—it had been ingrained in him by his instructor, his brother, to avoid confrontation as much as possible. Just because he knew martial arts didn't mean he had to engage. It was just money, after all, material, essentially worthless—there was no need to waste his life over an object that allowed itself to be passed from one person to another. He find it inconceivable to lay down his life for something treacherous and fickle.

But then, the retard with the cowlick decided he wanted Sasuke's bicycle, too. He pointed out, as politely as he could, that his bicycle had a flat tire. When that didn't work, he tried argumentum ad misericordiam—it was special, a gift from his brother who had recently passed away, could they please not take it away from him? It galled him, having to stoop to that low, so much so that when cowlick-retard grabbed his bicycle and the imbecile smelling of onions called him a pansy pretty flower boy, all intention of "I (do not want to) come in peace" flew away and he shoved his foot at onion-imbecile's fetid orifice dubbed mouth.

Sasuke now called him toothless onion-imbecile. The utter idiot.

Then the scrawny midget took out a switchblade and all of the frustrations of the past days, the past months, spilled into his veins like lava rushing from a volcano on a ruthless assault against humanity. With a sinister light in his eyes, he grabbed the hand toting the switchblade and used it to nick the pimply-faced asshole in a pimpled cheek because the latter thought it was funny to kick his bicycle. He then pushed said scrawny midget to said asshole, yelling "Suck pus!" in his head as he delivered a side kick on cowlick-retard.

He was rarely rational when pissed.

He found it morbidly amusing when one by one, they took out so-called weapons from their pockets. He felt like a hero in one of their shows, his and Itachi's, surrounded by incompetent waterbags wielding arsenals of inanity, except this was a real—and serious—situation, and he was currently sporting a cut on his hand from bearded moron's lucky stab. Tch.

Sasuke just wanted to go home and sleep the day away.

As one, all six muggers attacked. He thought it was immature, the way they yelled. What were they, the stock high school jocks ganging up on the stock geek? And whoever screamed "Charge!" in this day and age?

He parried a kick and knocked out a butterfly knife with a well-timed chop, kneed someone in the groin and smirked in satisfaction at the high-pitched chipmunk-esque squeal that he heard. He grabbed someone by the nape and banged the person's head to the wall, using the same person as a shield against another bearing down on him with a steel bat. He was holding himself pretty well, for someone facing six men, when someone managed to grab his arms from behind and painfully forced his hands to his back. He twisted as much as he could, snarling as the five idiots stood before him, grinning. Cowlick-retard, who he assumed to be the leader, looked especially happy with his steel bat, twirling it like a baton, of all the badass things he could do.

Damn. Not good. The fact that it was six against one from the start wasn't good already, but now he couldn't move.

Then suddenly, the man behind him was gone and all five men in front of him were gaping. Sasuke didn't think to look as someone appeared beside him—he knew this presence and he also knew it shouldn't be there with him, but he decided not to dwell on it as he eyed the five remaining muggers now glaring at him, them, with death in their eyes.

For a moment, nothing moved. And then, the stillness was shattered with curses and yells.

Stop with the "Charge!" already, dammit!

They moved well together, he realized, as if they had been doing this for a long time. She bent backward, capturing the idiot's head between her legs and throwing said idiot to the wall. As she kipped up, he swerved around for a roundhouse kick to the moron behind her, punching said moron for good measure in the flabby gut with a barrage of fists. She proceeded with a headbutt to the retard behind him and a sidekick on the same retard's stomach, and then he delivered a flurry of palm strikes on the second to the last imbecile standing just because.

Huh. So it was powerful.

Sasuke turned around when he heard a groan. She was holding cowlick-retard by the short hairs on his nape, her eyes dark with the promise of slow pain. His body, high with adrenaline, shook lightly against her slow smile.

"Listen here, teme," she said cheerily. With a movement so fast he didn't see it, Sasuke found her holding the leader by the throat against the wall of the alley, her grip punishing—he could almost see how little the amount of air the mugger could breathe in. Cowlick-retard struggled against her, throwing punches she didn't seem to notice, stopping all of a sudden when her face drew closer until they were a breath away from each other.

He frowned and stepped forward. Pure fear was written in the man's face, along with something like—something like—

"No one," she continued, emphasizing each word with a squeeze, "no one preys on mine." Her mouth landed on his ear. "Got that?"

Recognition?

Sasuke bristled. The hell she was doing, threatening a moron like he was some princess in need to be protected against morons? And mine?

Mine?

... And his heart was racing with annoyance. Unadulterated annoyance.

"Because," she added, her free hand snaking down, lazy. His eyes widened in shock when the hand harshly grabbed the now whimpering man's crotch, "if I see even a hair of his messed with, I will hunt you down and you will pee blood through your ass."

The hell? Why was she grabbing some idiot's crotch and not grabbing hi—Where the fuck did that come from?

"Yarou, let's go!"

He looked up, cheeks painted red, at her silhouette waving at him with impatience. He blinked when he realized he was alone in the alley, all six men gone, and gently picked up his bicycle, coming after the annoying blonde idiot who had just helped him fight. He inwardly slapped his forehead as he walked beside her. Damn. She helped him fight. How humiliating was that?

He paused, stunned. She could actually fight?

"Why are you here?" he demanded.

"You weren't home," was the easy answer. The voice quickly took a cold edge. "Did you think I was kidding when I said it's not safe here at night? You're lucky they're just six amateurs, bastard."

Sasuke glared. "I didn't ask for your help."

"Who said I was helping? Who'd want to help a stuck-up ingrate like you?"

He bristled at the jab, clenching his jaws. So he had been ungracious with her help. He didn't ask for it! He was fine, he was holding up well against those idiots. He could have overcome all of them even when she hadn't come.

He grunted, grudgingly conceding defeat and expressing his gratitude. He knew it was pathetic but he had lost so much already to this girl, his pride being the latest victim, and he didn't think he could handle giving anything anymore. She seemed to understand, though, because she settled with his bicycle between them, whistling a random tune, pretending not to see the small pot of jasmines in his bicycle basket.

It was silent until he broke it with a clearing of this throat, "Why did you say it, mine?"

She stopped whistling, blinking at him. "... I did?" She seemed to think back to her words as his face grew steadily warmer. Damn, why did he had to ask that?

"Never mind," he said abruptly. He ignored her yells of protest as he walked ahead, the scent of jasmines in his basket, in her, wrapping around him with a silent promise that she would be right behind him for as long as she had to.

It felt less lonely when he reached home minutes later, her shadow behind his.

He wondered why he was standing in front of the door.

He couldn't sleep, that much was apparent, and it was after an hour's brooding that he finally admitted to himself that he couldn't sleep because she wasn't watching him. It had been a few days since he had offered her his brother's room, since he had come to take an even longer time to fall asleep—and it frustrated him, how quickly he had gotten used to her, to her presence in his room. It had just been more than a month since he met her and he still didn't know much about her, so what was he doing, really, trusting a stranger inside his house?

So she was his brother's friend, or at least someone close enough to Itachi, but that wasn't reason enough, right? So why wasn't he kicking her out, or slapping her with a restraining order? Why was he standing in front of the door that separated her from him, wanting—wanting—

Wanting what?

He huffed, annoyed at him, at her. What was she doing to him? He didn't feel awkward anymore but what was she doing to him?

With a quiet sigh, he slowly opened the door, careful not to make a sound. He paused, waiting for her to speak up, but there was nothing but silence. His heart skipped a beat and he abruptly shook his head. There's no way she had left—he could still feel her presence, could still feel its effects overpowering the effects of stepping inside his brother's room. She's here.

His eyes traveled the length of the room, the absence of his brother making him more acute of his presence. This had always been Itachi's room—his personality, his style, even the faint scent of his conditioner permeated every inch of the room. He still remembered that day clearly, when Itachi bought a bottle of conditioner home—he had received a serious lecture from his brother about the menace of daily shampoos and the absolute necessity of using a conditioner at least twice a week. Their hair were almost perfect, Itachi had said gravely, and they only required minimum treatment. Since then, Sasuke had followed his brother's advice and discovered Itachi was correct—as usual—except he preferred green tea scent because it calmed him. Itachi stuck with chamomile and he had come to associate this scent with his brother, and it was the faint scent of chamomile that was weaving threads of Itachi's ghost in this room right now.

He took a deep breath, his eyes drifting shut. It was smell, perhaps, that was the cruelest among the senses—he could close his eyes, cover his ears, shy from a touch, refuse to taste, but stopping himself from smelling would be stopping himself from breathing.

He opened his eyes, still inhaling the scent. It was purely his brother, the way this room was purely Itachi.

His brother's room was like his own except for the colors. Where he preferred a dark blue and white color combination—as manifested in his blue curtains, dark blue wallpapers and carpeting, white bed sheet and blue pillows and blankets—this room had a red and black theme. Across the door was a full-length closet, on its right and to the wall a shelf of books and an office desk. A sleek black laptop rested atop the desk, beside which stood a series of picture frames. Across the desk was an empty bed with silk black sheets and red pillows, beside it a bureau. To the bed's left was a red divan, and to its right was an open window framed by translucent red curtains fluttering with the wind.

Directly below the window, touched by moonshine and starlight, was her.

Something seized in his throat. His dark eyes drank in her sight, pupils dilating to see as much of her as he could—he had never seen her without the shadows before, and if he had been mesmerized before, he was downright entranced. She wasn't beautiful—her cheeks were lean but faintly scarred, her nose was slightly crooked, her lashes were neither long nor thick, and her face wasn't heart-shaped or oval-shaped or anything remotely feminine. Her jaws were quite angular and he knew she was stubborn, her lips too wide and he knew she was meant to smile, her eyes set apart and he knew she had seen more of the world than he had ever had. She was so damned imperfect, so strange, so unreal, and her questionable attire wrought of atrocious colors and textures didn't help her a bit. But—

The wind blew. The curtains fluttered around her, casting dancing red lights over her sunshine-yellow hair as jasmines teased the edges of his senses.

—she was so gorgeous and he had never been drawn to anyone in his whole life.

He found his hand inches over her face and he wondered at the contrast of their skin. It was sickening, it was dazzling, it was snow over honey and he was melting and thinking that it was meant to be. What it was was something he didn't want to think about right now—what mattered was this girl before him who was everything he wasn't, this girl who lit up the shadows with her secret smile.

And then blue sparks burst into his eyes and he had lost the ability to breathe, an arm wound tightly around his neck and a firm softness burning hot on his back. It took him a dazed second to realize he was flushed against her body, that a blade was held against his neck, that his heart was beating too fast too loud too much it was all he could hear, that she was holding him, that he was bathing in moonshine and starlight and jasmines and he was snow melting with honey and it was warm. So, so warm.

She was all he could feel and he wanted—he wanted—

He felt her start behind him and she abruptly let go, the image of shards of blue glass imprinted in his mind. He felt a keen sense of loss at the distance she put between them, at the arm swiftly releasing him from the confines of her body.

Freedom had never felt so painful.

"Don't ever do that again," she said, her voice low. She groaned behind him and he felt a jolt in his spine. "I could've hurt you, you fucking bastard!"

He forced himself to move, to face her. He caught a glint of silver on his periphery. He woke up at its smile.

"You carry a knife," he intoned. He felt her eyes slide past him with a curious blue glance.

"It's a Swiss knife, nothing fancy," she pointed out. Then, she sighed. "What're you doing here?"

Beneath his dark hair, his eyes slowly widened.

"Well?"

"I couldn't sleep," he blurted out. His eyes grew round at what he just said. Damn, he didn't mean to say that!

He was surprised when she nodded—he could feel her gaze soften and something squirmed in his chest, something that wanted to swell, to explode. "What's on your mind?"

He considered her for a moment before replying honestly, "You are."

She hummed. "Go on."

He took a deep breath and exhaled. He felt oddly let down at her response. "You won't tell me your name. Your part in my... brother's life. What you do, where you live, why you're here every night..." He shook his head. "I don't know you at all."

He was holding his breath, waiting for her answer. It was taking a long time and he was beginning to feel dizzy. He couldn't smell anything.

"Anou..." he saw her close her eyes and breathe deeply. He knew he would hear truth the moment he had been honest himself, "He and I are partners at work, teme. We go on missions, sometimes dangerous ones. And I'm here... not just 'coz of my promise, but because it's my latest mission."

She turned away. "It's not an accident," she murmured. He felt his blood freeze in his veins.

A chill gripped his heart at her next words.

"They're after you."

Breathe in as much of his scent as you could, as much of his presence permeating your air—he lingers through the scent he had when he lived, and he lives through the scent he left when he died.