In which I am unsubtle and take 'evil' a little too literally. Enjoy.
His uncle hasn’t the heart to kill him yet. The fact that he is still alive tells him all he needs to know of the man’s old weaknesses. It’s more the pity, really. He’s always despised indecision. /She/ was fraught with it, he remembers distantly; pulling the cloak over his shoulders warm and black and dwelling briefly on things that are pointless now. He doesn’t need to gaze into the mirror across from him to know he is not alone.
“Hyuga.” Uchiha Itachi murmurs from the door. His eyes are the color of fresh blood, and do a lazy rotation on occasion, black scythes tumbling over one another.
“Yes,” says Neji, as though conversation is already tiresome—which it really is. He fixes his arm in his sleeve. When he finally looks at the mirror it is not into the Uchiha’s eyes but his own, which are the color of a corpse’s. “That is what I was.”
“What you are,” Itachi corrects with no inflection at all. He lifts his hand. The motion is allowed and watched carefully—his fingers touch the side of Neji’s face. They are cold and they smell like they are rotting under those fine painted nails but this too is allowed. “I would kill you.”
The pure intention drips in the lips close to his ear. A fingertip slides to the corner of his eye. There is nothing to be misunderstood. Neji doesn’t quite scoff. “Are we leaving?” He doesn’t quite jerk either, when the mouth touches his jaw. There is no point in fearing the inevitable, he’s learned; but he can be a little irritated when he knows it is still some time in coming.
“Not yet.” Itachi’s voice rattles the air, like the wind once rattled a girl’s kimono, white and red and growing redder. Neji closes his eyes, forgets, and nods, reaching back and taking hold of Uchiha Itachi’s wrist. His grip is light and enough to bruise. The rest, of course, goes accordingly.
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Date: 2004-05-26 02:57 am (UTC)His uncle hasn’t the heart to kill him yet. The fact that he is still alive tells him all he needs to know of the man’s old weaknesses. It’s more the pity, really. He’s always despised indecision. /She/ was fraught with it, he remembers distantly; pulling the cloak over his shoulders warm and black and dwelling briefly on things that are pointless now. He doesn’t need to gaze into the mirror across from him to know he is not alone.
“Hyuga.” Uchiha Itachi murmurs from the door. His eyes are the color of fresh blood, and do a lazy rotation on occasion, black scythes tumbling over one another.
“Yes,” says Neji, as though conversation is already tiresome—which it really is. He fixes his arm in his sleeve. When he finally looks at the mirror it is not into the Uchiha’s eyes but his own, which are the color of a corpse’s. “That is what I was.”
“What you are,” Itachi corrects with no inflection at all. He lifts his hand. The motion is allowed and watched carefully—his fingers touch the side of Neji’s face. They are cold and they smell like they are rotting under those fine painted nails but this too is allowed. “I would kill you.”
The pure intention drips in the lips close to his ear. A fingertip slides to the corner of his eye. There is nothing to be misunderstood. Neji doesn’t quite scoff. “Are we leaving?” He doesn’t quite jerk either, when the mouth touches his jaw. There is no point in fearing the inevitable, he’s learned; but he can be a little irritated when he knows it is still some time in coming.
“Not yet.” Itachi’s voice rattles the air, like the wind once rattled a girl’s kimono, white and red and growing redder. Neji closes his eyes, forgets, and nods, reaching back and taking hold of Uchiha Itachi’s wrist. His grip is light and enough to bruise. The rest, of course, goes accordingly.
They leave at dawn.