November::28
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Itachi and Madara
Summary: Do you remember how we pulled stars from the sky? Do you remember how they burned out hands? Do you remember when we opened our hands and found only crushed fireflies?
Warnings/Ratings: Madara
Do you remember when we opened our hands and found only crushed fireflies?
Madara meets Itachi for the last time a week before he dies. He only knows his protege is about because of the wracking wet cough that issues from the darkness. Madara waits for his eyes to adjust and sees Itachi sitting in the starlight. Itachi doesn't glance to the side, but he must hear Madara.
"I see you, Madara."
"Do you? With those eyes?" Madara takes up a perch on a rock to the left of Itachi, the higher vantage giving him some security.
Itachi's lips curl into a gentle smile. "It would be most rude of me to say I smelled you."
"Humor. The well of the self sacrificing is indeed deep," Madara returns, watching Itachi's silence and stillness. He isn't fooled by Itachi's collection. He knows the trials of the everyday. He's seen the
collection of track marks on Itachi's arm, Kisame's sudden carefulness around Itachi--that watchfulness that has never been there before, even when Itachi was small enough to crush.
Itachi has come a long way since ten and the river. Madara had thought the child put together at thirteen, but now he sees the whole of it. Oh, he is too thin, too agile, too weak in the joints, but to see him in motion was true bueaty. True terror. Oh, what he could have been without moral constraints.
Itachi dips his head. He coughs--a deep wet sound that brought up the smell of blood and rot. Madara looks at the boy and smiles. Oh, what he could have been.
Oh, what he is, withered and burned away to the barest essentials of a human being. Still--still he is more than a match for Madara. That is why he sits to calmly, his face to the stars.
"Such peace for a man whose brother is running loose in the world, plotting his death," Madara adds.
"Sasuke will learn what he needs to after my death," Itachi's reply cuts easily through the night. The young, dying man looks at his blood smeared hands. "It's almost over. . ."
"Such joy--do you find life a burden?" Madara presses.
Itachi closes his eyes. "I've been lying dead in a river bed for eight years now. It's past time I stopped walking the restless earth." Those red eyes open. Madara refuses to flinch as they touch him, dissecting him from head to foot as he had once dissected Itachi. "Did you feel it, when your best love died?"
Itachi's turns of phrase, the fluidity he seems to have between the idea of friend and lover, often annoys Madara. Love. Love is not something for the Uchiha. "No."
"When you brother was killed?" Itachi wears no smile, but Madara feels it as the barb sinks in.
When his brother died. When his lifelong friend was found half dismembered in the trees. . . Did he feel it?
"You could have been the greatest and settled all these petty wars with your own hands," Madara muses.
"No," Itachi clears his throat. "I only learned to kill people to solve my problems. The world needs someone with a different solution if things are ever going to change." Itachi coughs again, deep, wet, wracking. Madara waits for the fit to pass, scathing comment for the soft pacifistic sentimentality. It doesn't pass. It doesn't end. He can see Itachi's lips going blue, but the coughing does not stop.
For a dazzling moment, Madara thinks Itachi will die right here.
"Itachi-san." Kisame brushes by Madara (something he never would have done before, such disrespect), crouching down by his wheezing partner, pressing something to Itachi's face. The young man's hands are filled with the sludge from his lungs--blood and necrotic tissue and pus. Madara sneers at the smell and turns, leaving the two crouched in the faint starlight, whispering faint assurances to each other.
Madara feels he has bitten a promising apple and found only worms and canker inside. The idea of Itachi sours in his mind, fretful and disgusting. Wasted. Wasted on foolish sentiments.
If Izuna were alive. . .
But he lies dead, and has for a count of more than eight. Unlike Itachi, Madara still lives. He shakes his head. Itachi is dead.
Now.
It is tome for a new protege.
If Izuna were alive, he would laugh because his protege overcame Madara's in the end.
Characters: Itachi and Madara
Summary: Do you remember how we pulled stars from the sky? Do you remember how they burned out hands? Do you remember when we opened our hands and found only crushed fireflies?
Warnings/Ratings: Madara
Do you remember when we opened our hands and found only crushed fireflies?
Madara meets Itachi for the last time a week before he dies. He only knows his protege is about because of the wracking wet cough that issues from the darkness. Madara waits for his eyes to adjust and sees Itachi sitting in the starlight. Itachi doesn't glance to the side, but he must hear Madara.
"I see you, Madara."
"Do you? With those eyes?" Madara takes up a perch on a rock to the left of Itachi, the higher vantage giving him some security.
Itachi's lips curl into a gentle smile. "It would be most rude of me to say I smelled you."
"Humor. The well of the self sacrificing is indeed deep," Madara returns, watching Itachi's silence and stillness. He isn't fooled by Itachi's collection. He knows the trials of the everyday. He's seen the
collection of track marks on Itachi's arm, Kisame's sudden carefulness around Itachi--that watchfulness that has never been there before, even when Itachi was small enough to crush.
Itachi has come a long way since ten and the river. Madara had thought the child put together at thirteen, but now he sees the whole of it. Oh, he is too thin, too agile, too weak in the joints, but to see him in motion was true bueaty. True terror. Oh, what he could have been without moral constraints.
Itachi dips his head. He coughs--a deep wet sound that brought up the smell of blood and rot. Madara looks at the boy and smiles. Oh, what he could have been.
Oh, what he is, withered and burned away to the barest essentials of a human being. Still--still he is more than a match for Madara. That is why he sits to calmly, his face to the stars.
"Such peace for a man whose brother is running loose in the world, plotting his death," Madara adds.
"Sasuke will learn what he needs to after my death," Itachi's reply cuts easily through the night. The young, dying man looks at his blood smeared hands. "It's almost over. . ."
"Such joy--do you find life a burden?" Madara presses.
Itachi closes his eyes. "I've been lying dead in a river bed for eight years now. It's past time I stopped walking the restless earth." Those red eyes open. Madara refuses to flinch as they touch him, dissecting him from head to foot as he had once dissected Itachi. "Did you feel it, when your best love died?"
Itachi's turns of phrase, the fluidity he seems to have between the idea of friend and lover, often annoys Madara. Love. Love is not something for the Uchiha. "No."
"When you brother was killed?" Itachi wears no smile, but Madara feels it as the barb sinks in.
When his brother died. When his lifelong friend was found half dismembered in the trees. . . Did he feel it?
"You could have been the greatest and settled all these petty wars with your own hands," Madara muses.
"No," Itachi clears his throat. "I only learned to kill people to solve my problems. The world needs someone with a different solution if things are ever going to change." Itachi coughs again, deep, wet, wracking. Madara waits for the fit to pass, scathing comment for the soft pacifistic sentimentality. It doesn't pass. It doesn't end. He can see Itachi's lips going blue, but the coughing does not stop.
For a dazzling moment, Madara thinks Itachi will die right here.
"Itachi-san." Kisame brushes by Madara (something he never would have done before, such disrespect), crouching down by his wheezing partner, pressing something to Itachi's face. The young man's hands are filled with the sludge from his lungs--blood and necrotic tissue and pus. Madara sneers at the smell and turns, leaving the two crouched in the faint starlight, whispering faint assurances to each other.
Madara feels he has bitten a promising apple and found only worms and canker inside. The idea of Itachi sours in his mind, fretful and disgusting. Wasted. Wasted on foolish sentiments.
If Izuna were alive. . .
But he lies dead, and has for a count of more than eight. Unlike Itachi, Madara still lives. He shakes his head. Itachi is dead.
Now.
It is tome for a new protege.
If Izuna were alive, he would laugh because his protege overcame Madara's in the end.