Erebus on the Cusp of Dawn
by Hic Iacet Mori
Darkness hides in shadows behind enlightened eyes—it conceals truth in every blink and lulls the mind with false light. But the heart that can be blinded can touch far beyond the night—it is the soul that sees, not the eyes, the soul that chooses bitter truth over lies. For as much as lies could be seen, heard, as much as lies are believed, worshiped, it is only the truth that can touch and be touched, and this is infinitely sweeter than any story a lie could weave.
Murdered. His brother was murdered.
His breath came out harsh, fast. He couldn't believe it. Itachi allegedly dying from a gang war was already hard to fathom, but murdered? It was damned inconceivable, so bloody unbelievable. Murder happens in movies. In books. In TV. Not in real life and not in his life.
And yet he could feel it, the icy fingers of bitter truth. They had been clutching at his chest, squeezing his heart until it ached so much he felt nothing. His brother, Uchiha Itachi, 25, was murdered. Itachi was murdered and he couldn't feel anything.
The words kept running in his head, voices within repeating them with varying tones and varying pitches, his mind attempting to see which would make the truth seep into his heart. Yet even as he tried to make sense of what he just learned, something angry clawed in the edges of his mind, something ominous and feral and wild, something dark and seductive that threatened to consume him.
His soul screamed for revenge.
Sasuke didn't know what to do, could only hear whispers, shrieks. He could see nothing but darkness. Could see nothing but the closed white coffin of his brother because he refused to see Itachi lying in a glorified box, because he refused to accept Itachi was dead, because he refused to see Itachi beyond his reach forever. He couldn't see anything and it was—
He tried to breathe deeply. There was a speck of light in this darkness and she was here, with him. He would deal with this later, when he was ready to think, ready to decide on a course of action. There were more pressing concerns right now, like the fact that his body was screaming.
Screaming for air.
He swallowed, his breath still uneven. She had him in a tight hold once against and he wondered faintly why he kept doing this to himself, even as his mind whispered the answer in the same breath. He knew how she would respond, knew she hated being snuck upon, but did he have to make it a contest of sorts, see how much of her he could touch before she stopped him with a headlock? If he could, at all?
He didn't understand why but his heart screamed for her skin and he never liked lying to himself, even when he swallowed denials for as much as he had to. Truth rarely comforts, he had learned, and it was the security of lies that helped him sleep at night.
But the truth of her skin against his made him want to wrap himself in it—
"What is wrong with you?" she growled as she released him, pushing him backward with an annoyed scowl. He knew he was staring but he couldn't help it, couldn't help the response she evoked in him. She was so gorgeous by the gossamer ribbons of the moon, her hair a wild tumbling pair of white-gold waterfalls, her eyes silver-blue oceans of anger rolling past where he stood. If there ever was an angel of fury, he thought, with lightning for eyes and thunder for words, it would have been her.
... Did he just think that?
"What, teme?"
"Why aren't you in bed?" he asked calmly. Why did she insist on dozing on the floor when there was a perfectly serviceable bed nearby? He wanted her in bed, comfortable. In bed with hi—
Hn. There are nine square root days in each century.
He caught her flinch and he immediately understood. He almost sighed. "He wouldn't mind, dobe," he said softly, and he knew he was telling the truth. His brows furrowed, perplexed, when she shook her head in response.
"No, you don't understand," she said, suddenly appearing like a lost child in his eyes. "I—I just can't."
He stared. He was analyzing her response in his head and he came up blank.
... Perhaps it was because of something tender stirring in his chest, something that made him want to put his arms aro—
"Elaborate."
She raised a hand to her face, seemingly frustrated. "I just really can't, 'kay? What's it to you?"
Because it looks uncomfortable for you. Because I want you to feel safe enough to be in bed, asleep. He hurriedly pinned a stupid dobe at the end, inwardly shaken at his thoughts—they weren't supposed to feel true. "You should be in bed, not the floor," he intoned. When she made to protest, his body moved on its own and he swiftly grabbed her wrist, pulling her.
His fingers burned from where he touched her, reaching his chest, making him shudder against the numbing ice slowly melting within him, shiver against something deliriously hot overwhelming the cold. His heartbeat sped up and he felt lightheaded, as if he had just won something after an arduous race, as if he had won something ultimately precious and longed for.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
What. the. hell. is. wrong. with. me.
She was struggling and he had to admit it was close to impossible to force her to do something she so obviously didn't want to do, but he was equally stubborn and with his frustration at how she was acting like an idiot choosing to endure the cold floor—yes, carpeted, but still colder—when there was a warm bed nearby, at how she refused to look at him, at how he still didn't know her, at how he could feel heat burn behind his eyes at the slew of feelings wakening in him, confusing him, scaring him, he managed to drag her to bed and, with a mighty shove, pushed her down.
She fell down with a soft cry and then, she stopped moving.
"Dobe?"
She raised her forearm over her eyes.
"I'm in bed now, teme," she said after a moment, her tone irked, her mouth curved to show she wasn't, her bottom lip quivering as if she was trying to stop from laughing, or crying, "So now go sleep, evil bastard overlord."
He grunted and, with a last look, turned to leave. It was oddly one of the hardest things he had ever done and it left him more confused at the pang in his chest.
"Good night," he said gruffly. He paused when he reached the door, hesitating.
"Night, yarou!" she returned cheerily.
He left.
He didn't leave because she told him to. He left because, before she had covered her eyes, he saw the shards of blue shattering a bit more.
Her eyes were too bright from the slivers of the sky.
She was in bed lying to her left, her face marred with a frown, the messy tumble of her yellow hair stark against a red pillow. Her fingers twitched and she made a small sound every now and then, her lips forming silent words as her brows furrowed deeper and deeper. Something sparkled in the corner of her eyes and he leaned forward, studying her, steadfastly not concerned.
Was she having a nightmare?
A choked gasp.
... Should he wake her?
He sighed. Who was he kidding? He just wanted a reason to touch her without any protest on her part. He had yet to and his fingers were itching to brush against her skin, feel the honey against snow and see if it was as silky as he imagined it to be. He had been too distracted to completely enjoy last night.
He reached out. No, his hand wasn't shaking. No, he wasn't breathing fast. No, this was nothing, it was only him waking her from her nightmare. It was just being... sympathetic. He had nightmares too and he knew how it felt, waking up to nothingness, hands grasping blindly in the dark for an anchor of solace, assurance—Itachi had always caught his hand when he was younger, when the nightmares became too much, too much...
Something struck in his chest, something that hurt him beyond all understanding.
Who wakes you, dobe, when your nightmare becomes too much? Who holds your hand?
And so he reached out—his hand not shaky, his breathing not fast—waking her from her nightmare and promising to the listening silence that he would.
And then she was above him, his breath coming out in shallow pants, hazy dark eyes watching the uneven rise and fall of her chest. Her blade was held to his neck once again, her other arm blocking his airway, and yet he had the insane urge to grin at her as she held him immobile between her thighs. He wouldn't have moved even if she wanted him to and he didn't know why—he just knew that he liked his place right now, below her, trapped by her body.
He settled for a smirk to hide his confounding certainty.
"Usu -"
His words stopped. Her eyes were brighter than they were last night.
"Sorry," she whispered, a faint echo in the silence.
His smirk faded. His heart pounded painfully within him as he reached up, as he unconsciously sought to banish the blue rain in her eyes. His fingertips tingled as he brushed his hand against her cheek, a gentleness he didn't know he possess just ghosting over her scars—he was melting, again, snow against honey, coolness against warmth, and this was more than he had ever imagined.
It wasn't enough.
"... Teme?"
A touch and he knew it would never be enough.
She was thrashing.
He stood by the bed, wanting to comfort her, wanting to put his arms around her, wanting to pull the laces from her hair and run his fingers through the golden strands to soothe her, calm her. He was revolted with himself at these uncharacteristically sappy thoughts but he couldn't deny the yearning he felt to do all these things—he wasn't used to concerning himself with someone other than his brother, and that he was admitting to feeling this, right now, to this girl he had come to accept he was perhaps a little attracted to—
She frowned.
It was vexing.
Her right arm shot up. He stepped back in surprise, alarmed that she had sensed her so quickly as he stood by the bed so quietly, before mentally sighing in relief when it didn't land on him. He had experienced her punch once and it wasn't pleasant, both to his cheek and to his pride, especially as it wasn't from a spar he had come to taunt from her every once in a while before he prepared for bed.
She had apologized and berated him for sneaking up on her the first time, yelling loudly that she wasn't sleeping, but he knew she was annoyed with herself for allowing him to escape her guard so quickly even as she dozed. He could even take Itachi by surprise, a mean feat considering his brother had the sharpest senses around, though it had taken him years to master his current stealth. It was all thanks to his brother that he could sneak up on her now and he relished the knowledge—even if he could only do it when she was barely awake.
Her reflexes were still insane, though. At least, she had yet to nick him with the annoying pocket knife she carried around with her. How she could hold a blade against his throat so quickly was still a mystery to him—she could've accidentally held a corkscrew to his neck, or a screwdriver, or even the pocket knife keychain with the little orange frog grinning at him. This, though, went to show him that she was extremely familiar with its many tools that she could threaten him with a knife in a blink.
It made him wonder what kind of work she and his brother used to do—a question she adamantly refused to answer.
He watched her shift, watched her fingers curl around air. Despite how nearly she could've hurt—okay, kill—him, he found himself strangely unconcerned about it. Probably because—because—
Because those were the only times she ever held him to her body.
He swallowed a groan. He was really damned sick in the head.
His chest twisted when she whimpered, her hand grasping desperately. Watching her like this squeezed at his heart but he didn't want to wake her. She seemed to be getting more and more tired and he wanted her to rest—whatever it was she did with her time seemed to be taking its toll on her body—because, once woken up, she never went back to sleep. That much he was certain of, after that first night he woke her, when something tugged at his consciousness and woke him up at three in the morning, only to see her standing by his window, just watching the interplay of violet and blue in the dark canvas of night.
But he couldn't bear it, seeing her like this. She wasn't meant for bad dreams.
Hesitantly, he raised his right hand, hovering uncertainly over hers. He slowly stretched his fingers, his touch on her hand so light it could be mistaken for a brush of the wind. When his fingers tentatively landed on her hand, and stayed, he watched her face for any change.
Her thrashing had stilled though her frown remained in place. Encouraged, he slowly wrapped his hand around hers, watching her expression all the while. Then, because he could and because he wanted to, his index finger began tracing small circles on her palm. He felt a smile bloom on his lips when her features relaxed.
He was feeling stupidly happy as he raised his other hand, gently cupping her hand with his as he continued his actions. He felt his heart jump when she smiled and her eyes fluttered open.
"I—"
It's not real , he thought to himself. This wasn't real, because there's no way he'd feel something as painful, as deep, as sharp as this stabbing ache just because she had snatched her hand from his.
And it wasn't because of the sickening blue of her eyes, either.
Accept the hands reaching past the dark light of lies—the hands of truth may be colder, rougher, but its touch is light, gentle, never blinding, never letting go.