middaeg | [closed] wish there was something real

Entry tags:

[closed] wish there was something real

Who: Itachi Uchiha & various.
When: Throughout Maiuril.
Where: Several locations.
What: Catch-all.
Warnings: Probably some violence in at least one thread, will update as necessary.

[ooc: Feel free to send me a PM if you'd like to plot something! Open to 4th wall characters.]

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[Those words, the physical body language, the heavy implication... Itachi lets out a breath. His whole body is tight with tension as if on the verge of some unrealized battle. Having gone this long without combat, real combat, he's surprised at its impact upon him. Individual practice and training is not the same as the adrenaline of a true battle. To know that, on some level, he is being tested and challenged. To know his goal is to completely incapacitate his opponent. To win, whatever the cost.

It's not something he should miss. That he does is a deeply discomfiting realization.

Itachi's eyes narrow onto that smile, and he remains still and statuesque despite the man's quiet, airy laughter. Everything about it is confusing, the mere suggestion of intimacy so outside the bounds of anything he's attached to violence... but is it so foreign, as a concept? Can it be blamed?]

... It excites you.

[This comes a low, even assumption. At last the picture is clearer. Further still, Julian has died once, so they share that experience in common.

The blade in Itachi's hand flickers, then flares hot, and his grip slips — it cuts down Julian's throat and grazes his collar, singing any fabric in the way. Not enough to badly hurt, but Itachi's expression twists as he flings the weapon to the right and out of his hand. It ripples, then bursts, an explosion of heat and fiery light. With the height of the new moons comes greater magic; however, his ability to control that magic is too wild, too unstable.

When he looks at Julian to see his reaction, there's no apology. His own hand is raw red from holding the sword, but its stinging pain is a background irritation as he forms his fingers into a fist.]

[It excites you, he says, an assertion rather than a question, and for all that it's true, for all that Julian's words of mere moments before had held the shape of flirtation, heat rises in him now. Colour cuts across his face, a warmth that has nothing to do with the blade, and - briefly - his teeth catch at his bottom lip. He reaches after a response, for some blasé confirmation--

--and that's when the other man's grip on his magical sword slips. Heat sears his skin, sudden and swift, and for a moment his head is filled with a white-hot light; it blazes behind his eyes. He makes a sound around an indrawn breath, a fractured gasp as his eye falls closed and his heart beats hard and all the clattering convoluted thoughts in him go blessedly silent.

There's a thin red welt scored across white skin where the tip of the blade had skimmed him, and he raises one hand instinctively, the tips of leather-clad fingers pressing hard against the slim wound. Chasing after that bright feeling. He turns his head to watch the sword burst apart in a red-hot detonation, but his mind - for all that, thicker than fear, brighter than the burning - is still on that small, sweet ache.

When Itachi turns back towards him with his hand balled into a closed fist, something quickens in him. Does the other man mean to hit him? He half-hopes that he will. Perhaps that's the real reason he'd wandered out here tonight, when the thoughts had become too vicious, too loud. To find something harder, fiercer, more violent than the rough back-alley fucks he's resorted to on those nights when his concerns had threatened to consume him. To lose himself in something purely physical, something clean. A self-obliteration that goes deeper than drink ever could.

He meets the other man's gaze, and there's little of apology in him, either.]

If you're looking for someone to hurt, I'm your man.

[Julian's reaction is evidence: this is a dangerous proclivity. Dangerous and personal, a suggestion of intimacy within a realm he has never traversed. The concept of violence is one Itachi has endured most of his life, but he was trained to regard it as a tool, a measure of power over someone else — and he had witnessed firsthand the detachment most shinobi held toward their opponents on the threshold of death. Committing acts of pain and violence were easier when the humanity of the enemy disappeared.

Yet there were others who seemed to derive satisfaction, perhaps even pleasure, at bloodshed and brutality. He had known men personally of that kind. Comrades, however distanced and professional those relationships were kept.

This, on the other hand... what he sees in Julian's actions, how he deliberately exacerbates his own wound, how the gleam of his eyes is brighter and alive for it. Itachi finds himself frowning. He holds that gaze, voice cool as pooled water.]

You should better regard your own safety.

[Julian does not know him, does not know the wealth of real and true violence he is capable of doling out, the wasteland of bodies beneath his feet and his conscience. The darkness of instinct and power heightened to such a crystallized extreme on a night like this, that for a moment he truly does consider it — hurting this man as he seems to request, simply because it would be easy. And perhaps then he would become afraid, and run, and never come into these woods again.

Magic is blistering up inside of him, hungry. He feels irrationally agitated. Angry, even, at the idea of this careless behavior. It comes over him in a tide and while he recognizes the fault of the moons, his body doesn't obey his mind.

Itachi lifts one hand, forefinger and middle pointing up, holding Julian's gaze. It's almost reflexive. He hasn't always required eye contact, but there's a strange comfort in it. As if witnessing the play of emotion through the man's eyes will tell him what he needs to know. Will scratch some burning itch of his own.

The surrounding area falls to preternatural silence, a dark plane where nothing seems to live or breathe, not even the distant chitter of insects, not even the cold wind. Shapes become difficult to see as the air grows hazier with rolling fog. Itachi's monochrome silhouette is almost entirely consumed by it.

Out of this heavy quiet comes a whispering, invisible and ethereal: Julian, Julian, Julian.

Wraith-like figures begin to emerge on all sides, slow and heavy-limbed, faces blurred, all white and ghostly and grim as they hem Julian in where he's now seemingly alone in the forest.]

[Itachi utters his warning and Julian is tempted to laugh, feels it bubbling up inside his throat, pressing behind his teeth. Perhaps he should better regard his own safety, should think of the people he's left behind, of Portia and her big exasperated love of a man who remains ever incapable of staying out of trouble. He should be better, different, than he had been during those dark days when his memory lay in glittering pieces and he believed that he'd killed a man in cold blood. That's all over now, it's gone, and yet--

--and yet.

It's still in him. The whisperhiss of voices that say he's a liability, a fuse just waiting for a spark. There's the new, ugly susurrus that - despite all the time he's spent with the Monsters here, getting to know their ways, seeing them as people like anyone else with wants and desires and goodness in them - suggests his oncoming transformation is a judgement. That his warped and twisted insides will show on the outside, at last.

And so he doesn't laugh. Only holds the other man's gaze as his hand begins to rise, lips crooked into the beginnings of a smile, anticipation thrumming through all the long lines of him. His heart beats frantic-fast, there's the rush of blood inside his head, and for a moment he thinks he'll get what he wants, that Itachi will hit him, hurt him, something.

Something. It is this, ultimately, that he gets. Out of nowhere, the fog rolls in so thick that his vision begins to blur, and out of that marshy darkness there comes the sound of voices. Low and dark, indistinct at first, but then he catches the shape of his name and abruptly he twists towards the sound, body strung taught as a bowstring.]

What...what was that? Itachi, so you see--

[See the figures that come crawling out of the mist, the indistinct shapes coalescing into more distinct forms as they creep in closer, closer. Suddenly all the heat in him, the aching beat of his heart, the need that had crawled white-hot through his veins, it turns to ice instead.]

...oh, hell no. No, not...what are those things!

[He takes a step back, two...fucking ghosts! Why did it have to be ghosts?]

Itachi...

[But a swift spin on his heel reveals that he is - abruptly, indecipherably- alone, and that the things, the ghosts, they're circling him on all sides now. Sliding ever closer.

The sound he makes, it's something panicked, something fearful, as his hands fumble desperately at his belt in an effort to draw out his knife.]

[Through it, Itachi can see the other man perfectly clear: he watches Julian's retreat, he watches the change in demeanor from careless desire to icy dread, and he sees that fumbling for... a weapon, perhaps? Defense would be at the front of anyone's mind when confronted by a manifestation of their own fear. Because that is all it is—an illusion. One constructed on top of two spells, neither of which he's yet tested on another individual.

A throb of pain roots itself in his head; Itachi winces, feeling the world sway and tilt around him, but he's satisfied to see that the illusion hasn't come apart yet.

Julian will find himself confronted with those twin phantoms, curling in through the fog, white wispy figures that hem him in on both sides, seemingly weightless over the earth. They will be incorporeal to the touch (or to the panicked lash of a knife) and instead will attempt to drape themselves over Julian's shoulders and back, whispering in lowly hissed voices:]

Julian, what are you doing here? [at the same time as,] You shouldn't be here!

[In the lightless dark, Itachi steps closer. He watches the other man. Will he run, or will he stand his ground and fight? Will intervention be necessary? It's as though Julian himself is a puzzle put into his own hands—a pair of hands that should not have been given the opportunity to hold him.]

[His searching fingers find the hilt of his knife and, with a half-strangled cry, he drags it forward into the night. The bright arc of the blade coruscates in the dark and he whirls, quite abruptly, on the heel of his high leather boot. It's a wild, flailing defence and it's one that meets no resistance, the blade passing through one of the ethereal shapes as though it has no more substance than air. It does nothing to halt its advance.

His heart beats hard and his eye flares wide, desperation building in him as he takes another blind swipe through the dark. A blind swipe that achieves precisely nothing, and there's a bitten-off sound of ugly terror as the incorporeal forms drape themselves against him.]

I...I...I...

[Is all he manages to stutter out as he abruptly folds at the knees and sinks down to the loamy ground, arms flung over his head. Because perhaps if he can't see them, pretends they're not there, they'll eventually give up and go away.]

[An ineffectual fight, and one that doesn't last long, Julian's panicked swings of a knife cutting nothing more than the wispy mirage of fog and ghostly figures that seem to surround him. Itachi watches all of this. When at last he sees Julian buckle to the ground in defeat, tall posture reduced to that of a cowering child's — a parallel to easy to draw the memory of his brother — he dispels the magic. The illusion melts to nothing; those ghosts were never really there.

The air feels electric, a calm aftermath in the endless night's dark. Itachi's feet are quiet on the cold earth as he approaches.]

Julian. [His voice, too, is quiet. Almost as intangible as those phantom figures until he comes nearer, but even then there's a vagueness to his dark outline, a dreamy quality ] We're alone now.

[A short distance away, Itachi kneels, bare feet on the frosted ground. His crow familiar wheels down out of the black sky as if summoned and lands close to Julian.]

As I said, you're vulnerable here. This is not something you should seek.

[The air around him has that sparking, ozone quality that comes in the aftermath of a storm, but it's something he barely attends to in his curled position on the ground. His heart is still a heard hammer in his chest, panic like pain, contricting his lungs, and it takes him a moment to register the soft sound of Itachi's voice in the dark. He mistakes it, briefly, for the murmuring of the ghosts, the ghosts that somehow know his name, that press in on all sides and bear down on him and--

--and. Recognition insinuates itself against his consciousness at last, the familiarity in the soft-spoken words, and with wary underwater movements, he uncurls his arms from around his head. One eye - wide and bright with his fear - peers out until it settles on the familiar lines of Itachi's face.]

Itachi, thank the gods.

[The words shape themselves around an outbreath, and quickly his gaze darts about, hunting out the ghostly figures and finding - thankfully - nothing.]

Did you see them? Did you chase them off?

[The other man's words have yet to entirely sink in.]

[So he doesn't realize.

It would be easy enough to walk away from this conversation now. Perhaps he could steer Julian in the direction of the city, and out of the woods, where he would be safer and preserved from all the dangers on the night of new moons. He can play along with Julian's perception, even if it isn't the most honest.]

They weren't real. It was illusion magic meant to frighten you.

[He remains kneeling close by, while the crow investigates Julian's feet, nosing with its sharp beak around his ankles.]

Will you go back now?

[He drags in a deep and fractured breath - a touch ragged around the edges - as the cool empty night settles down around him. As the realisation that they're quite alone out here, just the three of them, sinks down into his bones and grounds him back inside of himself. Slowly, he reaches out a hand to the crow pecking around at his feet, the gleam of black feathers reminding him - sudden and sharp, but not unpleasant - of Malak. He means to touch the bird, scritch its feathers, isn't sure whether it will allow it.]

Illusion magic?

[He says it, gaze turned towards the other man's face, slightly narrowed.]

Some trick of this place, or...?

[Or Itachi himself. Did Itachi do this to him? Just for the moment, the other man's question goes unanswered, and Julian makes no immediate effort to pick himself up from the ground.]

[The crow goes still as soon as a hand extends out to touch it, beady black eyes fastening onto Julian as though to gauge his intent with a remarkable intelligence. Or else deciding whether to peck at his fingers in search for a snack. It decides, in the end, to hop over and wiggle into those scritches, bizarrely affectionate for what appears a wild animal—particularly one belonging to such a severe, quiet man.

Itachi watches this, then drops his eyes to the cold forest floor. He can see a circle of blackened blades of grass and roots where he's been standing, ambient evocation magic at work.]

No. It was my own doing.

[So why do you still remain?]

I have no issue inflicting violence on you, whether it be physical or mental. [A lie or not, even Itachi cannot tell it of himself. He doesn't want to hurt Julian, but in the past he's used violence as an extreme motivator—bringing people to the brink of terror and death and dragging them back. Standing over Julian now, that person isn't gone even after death; he is still dangerous. Not someone from whom to seek pleasure.] I want you to leave this place and return to the city.

[There's a familiar comfort in it - subtle, but bright - as the bird accepts the movement of Julian's fingers. He's silent a moment, motionless but for the gentle curl of fingertips through feathers, eye sharp and slightly narrowed where it rests on Itachi's face.

Intentional then, those stretched-out minutes of gut-clenching terror, a horror that had reached him in a way no physical violence ever could. intentional-- but he'd invited it, hadn't he? Had all but asked the other man to subject him to whatever pent-up violence was brewing inside of him.

His silence breaks as he huffs out a laugh.]

My darling, if you wanted to force me into taking some action, threats of violence are quite the wrong way to go about it. Promises maybe, but not threats. [He flashes a small, wry smile.] A simple command might, however, have sufficed.

[It's then Itachi turns, pulling both eyes and attention away from Julian and the bird. A simple command, as though that is some measure of control being handed to him without cause or reason. He isn't certain where the tight feeling of conflict originates in his chest, only that it's difficult to dismiss, to rationalize away. Who has ever wished to be commanded? Perhaps the very same as an individual who would find thrill in threats and risk.

Julian cannot know how dangerous such a proclamation is; neither does Itachi feel prepared to address the rest of those implications. He's too tense, too agitated with excess magic in his blood—the black moonless limbo of the sky is testament to that.]

Then go. Now.

[This comes in a sharp, steely voice. One he has used in the past to command squadrons; his own teammates; the terrorist partner who obeyed his direction simply through will. He doesn't look at Julian.]

[The command sings sharply in his blood, bites down through flesh and muscle into bone, and something in him rises to it. He finds himself pulled up hard, lip catching between the bright gleam of his teeth, and though he considers finding it in him to refuse - he has a right, doesn't he, to be out here, to take his own life in his hands as he sees fit? - he finally lets out a sigh.]

Sorry, little fellow. [These words are spoken to the bird, fingers giving one last ruffle of feathers before sliding reluctantly away. Palms pressing flat to the earth now instead, he pushes himself to the feet.] Your friend here says I have to go.

[He straightens his clothes as he rises, before reaching for his discarded blade, gleaming dully on the ground.]

And I'll bid you goodnight, I suppose. You've rather put a damper on my plans for the remaining dark hours, but far be it from me to disobey an order.

[He says it to Itachi's back, eye lingering over him for just a moment, as though half-expecting the command to be rescinded--

--but then he's taking his leave. With a whirl of his coat, he heads off into the night, back in the rough direction of town.]

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[closed] wish there was something real

never apologize

You'll only encourage him!

just as planned

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