When that hand curled around his arm, Izuna's eyes narrowed, waiting to be struck, to be fought, to become the adversary he always knew he was. But the blow never came, and suddenly he was touching that soft throat, vulnerable, open and poised for his grip. He could feel the heartbeat vibrating up his hand, so steady, so strong, so fucking alive.
"You don't think I will?" he whispered, hissed, and his fingers tightened. His other hand met the first, and he let both wrap around his neck, that pale column, that foolishly revealed part of him. "Do you think I'm the same person you destroyed? Do you think I'm anything like I was? The person that loved you is dead!"
He laughed, but it wasn't the laugh of anyone in their right mind. His grip tightened, veins protruding on the backs of his hands as he squeezed. Did he understand what he did? Did Tobirama even understand? Could he suffer in the same way? They said that strangulation was the crime of passion, of intimacy, but it was too fleeting, too short, not long enough. It didn't last for a week.
"You are such a fool! Such an arrogant fool!" he hissed, the laughter replaced with something angry, something hurt, wounded. "The world doesn't bow to your cold whims! You can't even control the monster you made!"
Izuna's heart that didn't really need to beat anymore, ached and screamed in his chest. Funny how useless pieces of himself could still splinter like when he had been alive. Those memories were flooding in: the fever, the loneliness, the ceiling he stared at, his brother's crying face. The pain. His utter agony and the way they promised to make him comfortable and always failed.
Nothing could dull the pain in his chest then, a wound far deeper than any blade could give him.
"For a week...I laid there for a week." His muscles clenched as he squeezed harder. "I called for you for a week. A week! Your name on my lips! I called and you-- you--never--you didn't--"
He felt sick. So sick. For every memory of the cruelest memories, others were there. Pleasant ones. The ones where Tobirama could pull his breath from his lungs with a deep kiss. The way he would touch his hair. The warmth of his body as they started to fall asleep. The way he cleaned his weapons and the exhilarating challenge he was to fight.
The way those red eyes watched him as they made love.
The way they hesitated when they knew they had to leave.
His fingers slowly loosened, loosening, loosening, falling away. All of him was falling down to his knees as he was caught between laughing and sobbing, some choked sounds coming from his lips as he bowed his head, hiding his shame from the other.
"I hate you," he whispered. But he didn't. He didn't and it was obvious, because he wouldn't be crying if he did.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-09-10 05:24 am (UTC)"You don't think I will?" he whispered, hissed, and his fingers tightened. His other hand met the first, and he let both wrap around his neck, that pale column, that foolishly revealed part of him. "Do you think I'm the same person you destroyed? Do you think I'm anything like I was? The person that loved you is dead!"
He laughed, but it wasn't the laugh of anyone in their right mind. His grip tightened, veins protruding on the backs of his hands as he squeezed. Did he understand what he did? Did Tobirama even understand? Could he suffer in the same way? They said that strangulation was the crime of passion, of intimacy, but it was too fleeting, too short, not long enough. It didn't last for a week.
"You are such a fool! Such an arrogant fool!" he hissed, the laughter replaced with something angry, something hurt, wounded. "The world doesn't bow to your cold whims! You can't even control the monster you made!"
Izuna's heart that didn't really need to beat anymore, ached and screamed in his chest. Funny how useless pieces of himself could still splinter like when he had been alive. Those memories were flooding in: the fever, the loneliness, the ceiling he stared at, his brother's crying face. The pain. His utter agony and the way they promised to make him comfortable and always failed.
Nothing could dull the pain in his chest then, a wound far deeper than any blade could give him.
"For a week...I laid there for a week." His muscles clenched as he squeezed harder. "I called for you for a week. A week! Your name on my lips! I called and you-- you--never--you didn't--"
He felt sick. So sick. For every memory of the cruelest memories, others were there. Pleasant ones. The ones where Tobirama could pull his breath from his lungs with a deep kiss. The way he would touch his hair. The warmth of his body as they started to fall asleep. The way he cleaned his weapons and the exhilarating challenge he was to fight.
The way those red eyes watched him as they made love.
The way they hesitated when they knew they had to leave.
His fingers slowly loosened, loosening, loosening, falling away. All of him was falling down to his knees as he was caught between laughing and sobbing, some choked sounds coming from his lips as he bowed his head, hiding his shame from the other.
"I hate you," he whispered. But he didn't. He didn't and it was obvious, because he wouldn't be crying if he did.