"Are you saying you wouldn't?" he challenged lightly back, voice low, quiet. "Would you spare my life on the battlefield if we met tomorrow?" These were questions he knew he shouldn't ask; had they already discussed this in their false memories anyway? Had they talked about how nothing could really stay their blades? Was this part of their payment for this lifestyle?
But it wasn't true. None of it was true, and he had to remember that. He had to remember that this wasn't real, that Tobirama was nothing but a pawn for his own goal. That he didn't matter. That these fake recollections didn't matter.
It really was too good.
In the darkness, Izuna could make out the scars, their placement, their size. Did he really need to, however, when he was the illustrator on the canvas of his body? His weapons had placed them like an artist, each one his own design, a work he helped create. Until they were both laid to the ground to rest, Izuna's mark and memory would be on this world, dug permanently into that flesh.
In that way, Tobirama was his long before this genjutsu had ever begun.
Fingers drifted over the one on his arm, slowly, carefully. It had healed beautifully, hadn't it? It had been a stunning shot, a perfect slice caught between his armor. For a moment, Izuna had been surprised; it was a lucky shot at best, but then Tobirama had moved and taken his blade with him, and Izuna knew. He knew. Blood was in the air, thick and cloying in his nose, and he knew. His brother had congratulated him that day, had been proud.
Izuna was a map of scars as well, though, the skin dotted with them. There was a circle over his hip where one of those damn water projectiles caught him, a line down his narrow back where the other cut him with his cursed sword; that had bled for hours, oozed for days. His knee made noises still from when it was dislocated in a fight with the damn Senju, a little symphony when the world was quiet. He wondered, then, if that made him as much the other man's, too.
This was so trying.
And so was the genjutsu. He realized his own error too late, that question settling into Tobirama's mind and making him question. Izuna pulled away for an instant, trying to keep his own face curious and hiding the cautious pensiveness that lurked beneath. He funneled a little more chakra into the genjutsu just in case, trying to stitch up the seams lest they break and spill out, trying to take him a little deeper. Izuna wasn't ready yet, dammit. He wasn't--
"Hmm, leave it to a Senju to not have a clear course of action," he teased, trying to draw him back into the goading, into the respective roles. That was comfortable, that was familiar, and--and Tobirama was kissing his neck. There was a shiver that ran through his body, unexpected, as he gasped softly. So, that was what it felt like? No wonder Tobirama made just the most beautiful of sounds.
And his hair... Was he touching his hair? In the jutsu, it was carefully brushed, each knot removed, each strand neatly washed. Thick, heavy, but all Uchiha had those thick manes, hair that one could touch and braid and make a home in. The feeling of someone toying with it aroused him more than he could admit; it was his pride, it was his banner, it was his acknowledgement that no matter how strong an opponent thought they were, Izuna disagreed. It was his arrogance and it was being touched. No one had dared to before.
Did Izuna just utter the other man's name, whispering it against his neck? He might have, just like hands hand might hand dipped down, beneath the waistband at his hips, feeling the bone and muscle there. Nerves kept him from moving his hand forward, towards the front, but he pushed himself against it slowly, rolling his hips like a wave against him. His legs were shaking. The bedroll might be necessary soon.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-08-23 03:41 am (UTC)But it wasn't true. None of it was true, and he had to remember that. He had to remember that this wasn't real, that Tobirama was nothing but a pawn for his own goal. That he didn't matter. That these fake recollections didn't matter.
It really was too good.
In the darkness, Izuna could make out the scars, their placement, their size. Did he really need to, however, when he was the illustrator on the canvas of his body? His weapons had placed them like an artist, each one his own design, a work he helped create. Until they were both laid to the ground to rest, Izuna's mark and memory would be on this world, dug permanently into that flesh.
In that way, Tobirama was his long before this genjutsu had ever begun.
Fingers drifted over the one on his arm, slowly, carefully. It had healed beautifully, hadn't it? It had been a stunning shot, a perfect slice caught between his armor. For a moment, Izuna had been surprised; it was a lucky shot at best, but then Tobirama had moved and taken his blade with him, and Izuna knew. He knew. Blood was in the air, thick and cloying in his nose, and he knew. His brother had congratulated him that day, had been proud.
Izuna was a map of scars as well, though, the skin dotted with them. There was a circle over his hip where one of those damn water projectiles caught him, a line down his narrow back where the other cut him with his cursed sword; that had bled for hours, oozed for days. His knee made noises still from when it was dislocated in a fight with the damn Senju, a little symphony when the world was quiet. He wondered, then, if that made him as much the other man's, too.
This was so trying.
And so was the genjutsu. He realized his own error too late, that question settling into Tobirama's mind and making him question. Izuna pulled away for an instant, trying to keep his own face curious and hiding the cautious pensiveness that lurked beneath. He funneled a little more chakra into the genjutsu just in case, trying to stitch up the seams lest they break and spill out, trying to take him a little deeper. Izuna wasn't ready yet, dammit. He wasn't--
"Hmm, leave it to a Senju to not have a clear course of action," he teased, trying to draw him back into the goading, into the respective roles. That was comfortable, that was familiar, and--and Tobirama was kissing his neck. There was a shiver that ran through his body, unexpected, as he gasped softly. So, that was what it felt like? No wonder Tobirama made just the most beautiful of sounds.
And his hair... Was he touching his hair? In the jutsu, it was carefully brushed, each knot removed, each strand neatly washed. Thick, heavy, but all Uchiha had those thick manes, hair that one could touch and braid and make a home in. The feeling of someone toying with it aroused him more than he could admit; it was his pride, it was his banner, it was his acknowledgement that no matter how strong an opponent thought they were, Izuna disagreed. It was his arrogance and it was being touched. No one had dared to before.
Did Izuna just utter the other man's name, whispering it against his neck? He might have, just like hands hand might hand dipped down, beneath the waistband at his hips, feeling the bone and muscle there. Nerves kept him from moving his hand forward, towards the front, but he pushed himself against it slowly, rolling his hips like a wave against him. His legs were shaking. The bedroll might be necessary soon.