[naruto, giftfic] the magic position
Jul. 3rd, 2011 05:08 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gigantomachyArchiving; a ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
bitter_nakano secret santa tradefic.
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
www
Recipient:akitotsubaki
Title: the magic position
Summary: to live, to learn, to love in the major key.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: All Naruto characters herein are the property of Kishimoto Masashi. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Sex, swearing.
Word Count: 5,047
Author’s Notes: So, uh. For AkitoTsubaki -- music is totally up in my DO WANT field, and so music love you get! I openly admit to being deeply under the influence of Patrick Wolf's The Magic Position because that's what hit me when I saw the prompt and it seems like a good feeling to carry through a happier sort of Shisui/Itachi fic. :D AU, because I'm fairly certain one thing clan Uchiha wasn't interested in was the quality of their pipes. Hoping this finds you sated at the end; I gave it my best shot! (And apologies for the occasional bits of music-wank -- I'm kind of hopeless when I get going.)
the magic position
(to live, to learn, to love in the major key)
There's a special moment in song, when two voices hit notes at the exact same frequency, a synchronicity that's so intense and so perfect that it rattles through a person's head like an epiphany. Shisui remembers exactly the first time he felt it: he was seven years old, in the midst of a half-hearted effort toward cleaning his room, singing along to a well-worn cassette tape of old power ballads that his mother had given him (and regretted within the week, she told him later, since it was all he'd listened to for months) when his own small voice found that perfect resonance with the singer. He'd stopped immediately, puzzled and amazed by the mysterious thrill that rippled up his spine in the wake of it, eyes wide and staring at the cassette player like it had cast a spell on him.
Perhaps it had.
His parents hadn't questioned him when he'd decided to join the middle school choir. The gym teacher (and junior varsity football coach) had been somewhat loud in his unhappiness, however, and the track captain had nearly decked him after realizing his two and a half weeks of ferocious sucking up (and several packets of sno-balls) had all been a wasted effort. And anyone else's opinion was as good as worthless, as far as he'd been concerned; Shisui had never been the sort of child that had required the validation of his peers -- a fact which had made him something of a school oddity, an aloof mystery that classmates both flocked to and whispered about in his absence.
Shisui had found love in music, in the hidden language of chords and progression, the map of notes across finger-printed, weathered booklets. Show choir, honor choir, district and state and even national music festivals -- he took on each assignment with energy and enthusiasm, pouring himself into the music as his voice evolved through the awkward stumbling of puberty from a steady tenor to a rumbling, tempestuous baritone.
Though he could still outrun anyone on the track team, and danced around football players like they were towers of stone, he never once felt he made the wrong choice. High school slid into a blur of pleasant memories, parent-free parties in houses far more spacious than his own and the dazzling smile of Elaine Paige after the last London performance of Cats (by far the most exciting of the choir's trips) as he confided behind a long-fingered hand that he'd cried himself stupid for a full half hour the first time he'd heard her sing Memory, long rides slouched in well-worn charter bus seats with one arm slung lazily around the bony shoulders of a dark-haired boy that he sometimes thought meant more to him than music itself.
--
"Again."
Shisui stands straighter, lifting his chin under the scrutinizing glare of Professor Van Hout, a German stage legend feared and loved throughout Harvard's choral department. An elemental force in an already strange part of campus, the good professor takes to his new charges like some heinous and half-senile grandfather, all grabby hands and a vicious mouth that could crush a man's ego or make him howl with laughter. Shisui still doesn't know if he loves him or hates him, but he has enough respect and common sense to listen, even when it takes him a few extra moments to parse his words, blanketed as they are beneath a thick East-German accent.
The professor's gaze slides past Shisui, and he fights back a grin. It's the first session of the new semester, a new bunch of hopefuls waiting for the chance to be initiated into the choir -- the absolute best of the best from hundreds of towns across the country -- at least half of which will be frightened away by the end of the day. Already, a wide-eyed blond is edging back from the edge of the risers, a few sharp words away from a nervous breakdown. The professor pretends not to see it; it's the most magnanimous thing he's done since calling for attention, three hours ago, and Shisui -- one year in -- is used to it.
"Your posture needs work," he says instead, narrowing his eyes at his current target (victim, Shisui thinks instinctively -- as if). The young man stares back, offering a solemn nod, and the urge to laugh rises again.
Because he knows Itachi is made of far sterner stuff than that. Shisui has lived his entire life with that knowledge, and that swell of laughter turns into something that feels a lot like pride.
--
Itachi's father was far less understanding. Fugaku Uchiha was a three-star general, a man with expectations so high he couldn't help but be perpetually confused by the fact that his son wasn't redefining excellence in West Point at the age of five. (Which wasn't to say that Itachi wasn't gifted -- quite the opposite, really, but there were extenuating circumstances within the Uchiha clan, considered sort of a weird family even in the old days. Descended from the remnants of Iga shinobi, the Uchiha clan kept training in ninjutsu long after the Sengoku era had seen most of their kind wiped out of existence, all the way up through the bakufu, reveling in its reputation as shadowy warrior types until Commodore Matthew Perry waltzed in and impressed Madara -- the clan's current head -- by, as Shisui sometimes put it, punting Japan's ass straight into the modern age. Or so Madara seemed to think, and promptly offered his clan's services to the confused commodore with little more than a cheery wave to the beleaguered shogunate. Shisui used to wonder why the Uchiha family ended up tied to the army as opposed to the navy if Madara had really been so hot for Perry, before he realized that above all else the man had possessed a strange and mostly unfathomable sense of humor, and dearly loved a good rivalry.) Itachi's mother, Mikoto (and it was always kind of funny to Shisui, that as much as the Uchiha had never been very impressed with the philosophy of sonno joi they still had a rather inclusive attitude when it came to choosing spouses -- always military, always pure Japanese, and any sort of deviation meant the family reunion memos somehow consistently managed to get lost in the mail) just smiled and offered her quiet support.
Shisui knew something Fugaku didn't, though, something Fugaku would likely have never understood; Itachi had found that moment of perfect resonance as well. It had taken Shisui a few months of careful prodding after Itachi's surprising attendance in the choir room the first day of freshman year, but he knew it had been moving and surprising and had involved -- oh, Itachi -- Linda Ronstadt. But despite the mild teasing, he'd been elated to find something else to share with his best friend and distant cousin, something else to bind them together. And Shisui could tell that, despite Itachi's usual quiet demeanor, he was every bit as excited as Shisui felt.
--
"What do you think?" Shisui elbows Itachi in the ribs, offering a brilliant grin as they make their way down the stairs in front of the music building. "I know it's just the first day, but-- well. Impressions?"
"It's different," Itachi says with a shrug, dark eyes roaming towards the science center directly ahead. "When you said ... glee club, I thought of something a bit more -- festive?"
Shisui laughs as he steers Itachi onto Oxford, nodding to a pair of well-dressed girls on their way toward the bus stop shelter. "That'll teach you to believe everything you see on TV, 'Tachi. No cheerleaders -- at least, no obvious ones -- though there are more than a few sweet-voiced young men wandering around, looking for a big, strong --"
"There's no need to be vulgar," Itachi says quickly, leveling a brief, unreadable look on Shisui before squinting up at the sky, and it's enough to shut Shisui up -- for a moment, at least, while he considers how best to tease Itachi, how best to carefully extract one of those rare, careful smiles he prizes so much.
It's a beautiful day, just cloudy enough to be comfortable. A light breeze whispers through the autumn leaves of oaks and maples that line the avenue, ruffling Shisui's already unruly mop of black curls. It's an uncommon moment for Shisui, to be unencumbered by the weight of textbooks and stacks of notes, and he's determined to enjoy it while he can.
"Are you disappointed, then?" Shisui asks, glancing over at his cousin, who is currently pushing back the dark, uneven wings of his bangs back behind his ears -- a futile attempt, it seems, as the slightest tug of wind sets them tickling his cheeks and nose once more. "I mean, if I knew you were expecting a show choir thing, I could have arranged something." But Shisui knows better; despite everything, they both understand that the Harvard Glee Club is arguably the most prestigious choir in the country, and though they are not the soldiers their family may have wished for, they are still Uchiha and therefore must be counted among the elite, no matter their choice of pursuits.
Itachi shakes his head, and Shisui just barely restrains the impulse to push that sleek fall of hair back himself. "It's fine. I'm ... I think this is more--"
"I understand," Shisui interrupts this time, saving Itachi the effort of struggling for a word to convey his feeling without sounding either weak or nervous. And god knows, Shisui does understand -- unlike himself, Itachi doesn't like to do anything too noticeable or flashy, perfectly content to be a nameless, faceless voice in the crowd.
There are good reasons for this, but the largest part of it is that Itachi is -- as much as he is allowed to be -- quite shy; it's a quality that manages to be both endearing and absolutely frustrating. Shisui has tried to break him of that since high school, a futile quest to drag him to every solo audition available, from eighteenth-century hymns to Broadway medleys and all points in between. The most Itachi had ever bent was been the much rarer duet, which had been an unexpected concession and a great pleasure; their voices, paired together, all too-often drifted into a space where that magic sound was easy, twin tones perfect in harmony, resonating as one whenever they met on the scale. Eventually there had been no need to audition at all.
"I'm glad you're here," Shisui says fondly, bumping Itachi's bony shoulder with his own. The younger man just smiles, dipping his head in acknowledgment that he's never been good at voicing aloud.
--
Shisui remembers the sensation of shock, the day that he'd been called to the administrative office from sophomore honors english, where the heavily-perfumed, huge-breasted school secretary sat him down on an uncomfortable plastic chair before announcing in a sickeningly sympathetic voice that his cousin had been rushed to the hospital. He caught gym and collapse and not breathing and there had been more, but he'd tuned out completely, horror and fear sending the adrenaline surging through his veins.
Surely there had been more, but he was already pushing his way out of the crowded office, breaking into a sprint as soon as his feet touched the sidewalk -- disregarding traffic lights and joggers and even vaulting over the hood of one terribly surprised Camry owner's pea-green car, a one-man race that lasted the entire four-and-a-half mile distance to Lakeside General Hospital -- his imagination running frantic circles around itself the entire time, coming up with increasingly more horrifying scenarios featuring Itachi in mortal peril.
Shisui nearly tripped on the second stair after dodging a swearing man in a leg cast, dragging himself back upright by the rusting metal handrail to stumble through the revolving door; the receptionist stared at him for a moment, one long look at the shaking, gasping teenager with wild hair and eyes before reaching for the phone.
"Ma'am -- please. Please." Shisui forced out, pressing his forehead against the edge of the cool marble desk. "Itachi. Uchiha -- Itachi. I need to..."
A moment of silence, while Shisui attempted to catch his breath, impatience warring with panic in his mind. "Please. They just brought him in a little while ago -- I don't know what happened to him."
The receptionist sighed quietly, like it was a familiar situation, and when she finally spoke her voice was quiet and reassuring. "Are you family, young man?"
"I--" Shisui blinked at her, trying not to chafe under the sympathetic look she was giving him. "Yeah. Yeah. He's my cousin." Distant cousin, maybe, but he wasn't going to bring it up, not now. She didn't question further, only turned her attention back to the old IBM in front of her, the clatter of long nails against the keyboard almost startling in the tomb-like stillness of the hospital.
"He's being moved from emergency to 304," she said at last, glancing up at Shisui. As if noticing his unease, she smiled faintly. "A recovery room."
Shisui felt his knees go weak beneath him and braced himself against the high desk, the faintest rush of relief breaking through the haze of steady fear. "Good -- that's good. Thank you, ma'am."
She nodded, her smile widening just a fraction, then inclined her head towards the elevators. "Third floor -- take a right at the first hallway past the nurse's station, and a left after the drinking fountain. You won't miss it, promise."
He managed not to run, steering a clear course all the way to the last hallway, when he nearly ran into a larger figure striding purposefully in the other direction. He had just enough time (and sense) to back away, flattening himself against the wall, stilling completely as the furious glare of Fugaku Uchiha speared him where he stood.
His uncle's face twisted for a moment in pure hatred, as if Shisui were the cause of all this fuss, then turned and stormed away without another word. Shaken, Shisui paused to catch his breath and make certain his heart hadn't in fact escaped down his pantleg and into the floor before, then continued on.
A young doctor stood outside the room, writing something into his book. Shisui stopped, suddenly uncertain, and fidgeted uncomfortably until the doctor looked up.
"Itachi?" He asked softly, gaze darting towards the closed, windowless door, trying not to betray all that was threatening to spill out in his tone.
The doctor's eyes flickered down the hallway, then back to Shisui, softening after a silent, hopeful moment. "He'll be fine. Once he gets used to his new medication..." Looking away again, as if he was expecting someone to jump out at any moment.
Shisui sighed. "The general -- Itachi's father -- he, uh. Has that effect on people. It's fine," Shisui said with a wry smile. The doctor paled, but nodded, reaching up to run his fingers through short, closely-cropped blond hair. "What happened?"
"He had an asthma attack. We ran some tests--"
But Shisui's brain stopped, sputtered and came back to itself, his eyes widening in horror. Asthma.
"No wonder the old man was so pissed," he muttered.
Oh, god.
"Will it get better?" He hoped desperately, if only for Itachi's sake.
The doctor sighed. "It's not like that, son," he said carefully. "If treated, it can be controlled, but it's not like a bug you just get over. He'll have to be very careful, to keep the damage from growing any worse."
Shisui closed his eyes, the weariness from the entire day catching up to him in one vicious rush. He slumped against the wall, bitter and dispirited, tracing the odd shapes in the flooring with his eyes. "I -- can I see him?" he asked finally.
"Of course," the doctor replied, soft and gentle and Shisui wanted to shake him for the sheer injustice of it.
"You're sure? It's not just -- I don't know, bronchitis or something?"
One hand came to rest, just barely, on the drooping line of Shisui's shoulder. "We're sure. The, er -- the general insisted we run the tests again. There's no denying it."
"Thank you," Shisui said softly, feeling anything but grateful. "I'll -- go see him, now."
The doctor nodded. "There's a button in there; push it if he needs anything. We'd like to keep him tonight for observation, because of the incident this afternoon, but he's as well as he can be, given the circumstances."
Shisui snorted, mumbling a near-silent I doubt it, forcing himself upright, pasting an easy smile on his face before pushing the door open.
It was cool inside, even by hospital standards, stark white and antiseptic-smelling. Shisui noticed none of that at first, the entirety of his attention focused on the too-small seeming figure propped up on the reclining bed. "Itachi," he whispered, making his way to his cousin's side. "Hey."
Those dark eyes, often veiled but always hinting at something beneath, flickered up towards him, wiped clean of anything but a soul-deep, aching misery.
Asthma, he thought bitterly, reaching out to press his hand against Itachi's clammy forehead.
No response; not even a glimmer of recognition.
Shisui stood there until his legs threatened to give out on him, and when he moved it was only to appropriate one of those uncomfortable guest chairs from the far corner so he could drag it to Itachi's bedside. When he reached out again, he took one of Itachi's hands in his own, and felt the fierce pressure of Itachi's fingers curling against his own, the sensation as gut-wrenching as a drowning man holding on to a lifeline.
They sat in silence for hours, each caught up in their own thoughts, Shisui's mind reeling from the implications.
Asthma.
It was no wonder Itachi was so miserable, really. No matter how manageable, it was a death knell to any chance of a military career.
--
Shisui knows to tread carefully during Itachi's Regina Spektor (who came along shortly before Itachi grew out of his long-lived Tori Amos phase) days. There's a lot that Shisui can tell about Itachi's moods from his playlist, however baffling or unlikely the tracks might be. Itachi looks like an NPR sort of guy -- and he is, really -- but his tastes run far beyond the usual semi-indie/classical/intellectual fare.
Good days are punctuated by cheerful sounds, Bis and Los Campesinos and one-hit wonders of the nineties; melancholy days saved for men like Rufus Wainwright and Joshua Radin and Eliott Smith -- unless there's something particularly stressful on the horizon, in which case he'll unwaveringly tend toward Jeff Buckley, whom Shisui secretly loathes (he's never been fond of scat singing, considering it an irritating replacement for proper lyrics and simple song-padding in general) but never has had the heart to tell Itachi. Massive Attack, Björk, Röyksopp and/or Goldfrapp is a pretty good sign that Shisui won't be sleeping alone. Bad -- spectacularly bad days -- are often a swing between Tom Waits, Fiona Apple, and Nick Cave (but never Grinderman, because ugh), most often Murder Ballads, which can be a bit creepy, but seems weirdly natural to Itachi.
It's six thirty-four pm, and Shisui can hear the strains of On The Radio coming from the other side of their shared two-bed dorm room, and immediately thinks rough day, but not god-awful. He's sheathed in a light sweat, the product of a relaxing five-mile run that winds along a few of the campus' many scenic pathways. He pauses to catch his breath, steeling himself for what may or may not be A Situation.
It's a good thing Itachi has Shisui to take care of him, Shisui thinks, because Itachi is fussy in ways that would drive most roommates insane. He taps his nails against the door (a familiar pattern instituted after what started as a slightly embarrassing incident involving Shisui and a distinct lack of pants and his left hand, and Itachi and a cancelled evening class -- and though it had ended with a rather brilliant mutual handjob and two hours of lazy necking, it helped to be given some warning) and waits a beat before opening the door. He scans the room, precise and ordered in the way they'd been taught since they were kids, and there's a brief second where his heart is caught in his throat, because Itachi is slumped over his desk, the accusing shape of an inhaler dangling from pale, skinny fingers. The terror rises, briefly, the same rush of adrenaline that hit him that day in the secretary's office, and --
He nearly trips over the foot of his twin-sized bed in his haste to reach Itachi, fingers skittering wildly over the back of Itachi's pale neck, scrambling to find the pulse. And it's there, steady beneath his fingertips, and he lets out a ragged sigh of relief as he leans against the desk, looking down.
"Wha..." Itachi lifts his head from an open history textbook, one cheek red and creased from the edge of the thick book, reading glasses knocked askew and a few strands of dangling hair caught up in the thin wire frames. Not passed out, not dead, just -- just sleeping, and it's so strange to see this moment of too-human vulnerability in a man Shisui often feels is anything but. And Shisui can't help but grin down at Itachi, sleep-tousled and bleary-eyed, and use that position of leverage against Itachi's neck to tug him over until his forehead rests against the sharp flare of Shisui's hip, running his fingers through the long sweep of Itachi's hair.
The clatter of the inhaler hitting the floor is loud, even over the music, but Itachi doesn't pull away, one hand clenching loosely into the damp t-shirt close to his face.
"You must be exhausted," Shisui mutters, sympathetic. "I told you you'd taken on too many credits. You'll burn out by the end of the second month, for sure."
"It's fine," Itachi counters sleepily, and his breath is warm through the thin fabric of Shisui's running pants.
It might be, but Shisui wonders. Itachi, doing what he can to hold to family tradition despite his limitations, has immersed himself in a gauntlet of punishing military history courses; war theory and strategy and tactics and the like, and even if he is a natural, the sheer amount of information makes Shisui's head swim. It's a little heartbreaking, too, because Itachi would rather be doing more, because this is all that's left to him of the life he'd been trained for from birth. He shifts, just enough to pull the glasses from Itachi's face and set them down on his desk. "Come to bed," he says.
"Essay, tomorrow."
"Just a few hours," Shisui replies, and he reaches down to rub his thumb along the crest of a high cheekbone. "You'll feel better, I promise."
Itachi huffs quietly, rolls his head enough to peer at Shisui with one dark eye. "You always say that."
Shisui just grins. "I always mean it."
And that's the end of any argument Itachi might have. He's loose and pliant as Shisui undresses him and manhandles him into bed, making a noncommittal noise when Shisui asks if he'd had another attack. No argument when Shisui strips down to his boxers and slides in behind him, pressing close, tracing the smooth, warm curves of chest and belly. Only a sleepy, contented murmur when Shisui's fingers curl around the base of his cock and work him slowly, pressing slow, damp kisses along the long, pale line of his neck, leaving gentle bites along the line of his shoulder. When he comes quietly (like he usually does), Shisui wipes his hand on the thin duvet and tucks Itachi's head beneath his chin, folding up around him like origami.
By the time he's settled completely, Itachi is asleep, and Shisui spends almost an hour listening for the tell-tale rattle deep in Itachi's chest.
It's a sound that haunts him, chases him all the way into his dreams.
--
When Shisui wakes up, Itachi is sitting at his desk, typing away on his worn laptop, Begin to Hopestarting once more on the playlist. He looks serene and untroubled, and Shisui watches him with the natural, oblivious hunger of a man in love.
It's a good thing Itachi has someone to look out for him, Shisui thinks.
He's glad he's that someone.
And he shifts his assessment of Regina Spektor from bad day to I can totally work with this, knowing that Itachi has done the same.
--
"He won't be able to make the performance," Itachi says softly, without inflection.
"But we're in the same city the entire week; he's -- fuck. Seriously?" Shisui might be growling, but his hatred for Itachi's father has only grown worse in the years since Itachi's entirely un-asked for fall from grace.
Itachi closes his eyes, smiles like Buddha, like it's no skin off his back that his father is so actively disregarding the other thing that Itachi loves, that he's not been forced to turn away from? "It's Sasuke. He's -- it's West Point. He's been accepted; a nomination from the president, himself. He'll be touring the campus."
One that should have been yours, Shisui thinks viciously. "Still..." He's keeping himself calm; he's not throwing the contents of his desk out the window in a burst of hot-headed rage, and he thinks he deserves a few bonus points for that.
"I should go," Itachi says haltingly, like it takes something out of him to say it. Like he knows he won't be entirely welcome, because theirs is a military family and Itachi has been shut out forever by his traitorous body, a slight not even his own mother can work past. Shisui was a misfit by choice, still loved by his parents despite his break with tradition, but Itachi--
Oh, Itachi. Stupid goddamn Uchihas and their stupid traditions, and Shisui wants to wipe clean the whole ugly thing and replace these people with actual creatures that function with anything at all resembling human decency.
"He'll be fine," Shisui murmurs, a little softer than he intended because even with the family prejudices, Sasuke still adores his brother like he's really some secret god, pushing himself where Itachi cannot in hopes of another of those morsels of approval Itachi doles out like penny candy and chokes on in silence. "You'll call him, and you'll talk for hours and he won't mind; I know he won't." Which isn't exactly true, because they both know Sasuke'd rather have Itachi than their grim-faced father, but it's worth saying anyway, if only to maintain the illusion.
"Of course," Itachi says, and reaches for another sheet of printer paper, and Shisui's heart breaks just a little more.
--
It's brilliant, Shisui thinks, this strange and wonderful life of theirs. For all the trouble and misery they've faced, there are moments when Shisui thinks he'll burst apart from the sheer joy of it. The Glee Club has had a fantastic tour, free of the nervous hiccups of the year past, Van Hout a radiating ball of absolute joy at the after-concert banquets. And Itachi -- Itachi -- has been more magnificent than Shisui has ever seen him, carrying himself with an ease despite the dismissal of his family.
Shisui needs time to compose himself after each concert, a fact which Itachi cannot help but tease him for, quietly and subtly, but Shisui doesn't mind because it's obvious he's not the only one.
Itachi's just better at hiding it.
It's Manhattan, and their room is lit by the glow of the city as Shisui presses his face to the glass. He's humming Leonard Cohen's Chelsea Hotel #2 as he waits for Itachi to finish in the shower. He feels strangely invincible, an unstoppable force that can break past any opposition, no matter its form -- a feeling he gets, sometimes, but not often so pronounced.
Itachi comes to stand beside him at last, draped in nothing but a damp towel, shoulder to shoulder as they stare out at the skyline. And still, still, Shisui can feel it, down to his very bones.
Shisui turns and his grin is vicious, victorious, half-predatory; Itachi's answering smile is silky-smooth, as subtle as you please, but Shisui can see right through.
They meet in the middle like it's inevitable, like it's always been; wildness and restraint and a weird sort of balance, two voices so obvious in their differences yet always finding that perfect middle ground where they meet as one.
Perhaps this is only an extension of that; the way that worn-at-the-edges, easy familiarity draws them together in perfect cadence, Shisui moving against Itachi to draw out that well-loved sound of consensual surrender. Perfect, easy harmony, from the first brush of dry lips to the last shiver in the afterglow, and Shisui thinks he'll never forget this, never take it for granted, no matter what.
Life is coming for them. Even as Itachi absorbs generations upon generations of war history, Shisui is studying to be a biochemist, and music will not support them forever. But now, this, is worth living, worth experiencing for every fragile treasure they can eke from it, something to sustain them long past their school years, when they are each alone in their respective offices and struggling separately under the censure of their family and the world at large.
But for now --
For now, Shisui nearly purrs as he nips at the tender skin beneath Itachi's chin, smiling against the faintest hint of stubble, tugging Itachi upwards until his legs wind around Shisui's waist, his back pressing against the cool glass and offering up soft gasps of pleasure as Shisui rocks up against him, all heat and friction and the maids are going to blush tomorrow when they come to clean the empty room, Shisui's going to make sure of that.
For now, this is all that matters, and it is enough.
-fin
08.25.10
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bitter_nakano secret santa tradefic.Author:
www Recipient:
akitotsubaki Title: the magic position
Summary: to live, to learn, to love in the major key.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: All Naruto characters herein are the property of Kishimoto Masashi. No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): Sex, swearing.
Word Count: 5,047
Author’s Notes: So, uh. For AkitoTsubaki -- music is totally up in my DO WANT field, and so music love you get! I openly admit to being deeply under the influence of Patrick Wolf's The Magic Position because that's what hit me when I saw the prompt and it seems like a good feeling to carry through a happier sort of Shisui/Itachi fic. :D AU, because I'm fairly certain one thing clan Uchiha wasn't interested in was the quality of their pipes. Hoping this finds you sated at the end; I gave it my best shot! (And apologies for the occasional bits of music-wank -- I'm kind of hopeless when I get going.)
the magic position
(to live, to learn, to love in the major key)
There's a special moment in song, when two voices hit notes at the exact same frequency, a synchronicity that's so intense and so perfect that it rattles through a person's head like an epiphany. Shisui remembers exactly the first time he felt it: he was seven years old, in the midst of a half-hearted effort toward cleaning his room, singing along to a well-worn cassette tape of old power ballads that his mother had given him (and regretted within the week, she told him later, since it was all he'd listened to for months) when his own small voice found that perfect resonance with the singer. He'd stopped immediately, puzzled and amazed by the mysterious thrill that rippled up his spine in the wake of it, eyes wide and staring at the cassette player like it had cast a spell on him.
Perhaps it had.
His parents hadn't questioned him when he'd decided to join the middle school choir. The gym teacher (and junior varsity football coach) had been somewhat loud in his unhappiness, however, and the track captain had nearly decked him after realizing his two and a half weeks of ferocious sucking up (and several packets of sno-balls) had all been a wasted effort. And anyone else's opinion was as good as worthless, as far as he'd been concerned; Shisui had never been the sort of child that had required the validation of his peers -- a fact which had made him something of a school oddity, an aloof mystery that classmates both flocked to and whispered about in his absence.
Shisui had found love in music, in the hidden language of chords and progression, the map of notes across finger-printed, weathered booklets. Show choir, honor choir, district and state and even national music festivals -- he took on each assignment with energy and enthusiasm, pouring himself into the music as his voice evolved through the awkward stumbling of puberty from a steady tenor to a rumbling, tempestuous baritone.
Though he could still outrun anyone on the track team, and danced around football players like they were towers of stone, he never once felt he made the wrong choice. High school slid into a blur of pleasant memories, parent-free parties in houses far more spacious than his own and the dazzling smile of Elaine Paige after the last London performance of Cats (by far the most exciting of the choir's trips) as he confided behind a long-fingered hand that he'd cried himself stupid for a full half hour the first time he'd heard her sing Memory, long rides slouched in well-worn charter bus seats with one arm slung lazily around the bony shoulders of a dark-haired boy that he sometimes thought meant more to him than music itself.
--
"Again."
Shisui stands straighter, lifting his chin under the scrutinizing glare of Professor Van Hout, a German stage legend feared and loved throughout Harvard's choral department. An elemental force in an already strange part of campus, the good professor takes to his new charges like some heinous and half-senile grandfather, all grabby hands and a vicious mouth that could crush a man's ego or make him howl with laughter. Shisui still doesn't know if he loves him or hates him, but he has enough respect and common sense to listen, even when it takes him a few extra moments to parse his words, blanketed as they are beneath a thick East-German accent.
The professor's gaze slides past Shisui, and he fights back a grin. It's the first session of the new semester, a new bunch of hopefuls waiting for the chance to be initiated into the choir -- the absolute best of the best from hundreds of towns across the country -- at least half of which will be frightened away by the end of the day. Already, a wide-eyed blond is edging back from the edge of the risers, a few sharp words away from a nervous breakdown. The professor pretends not to see it; it's the most magnanimous thing he's done since calling for attention, three hours ago, and Shisui -- one year in -- is used to it.
"Your posture needs work," he says instead, narrowing his eyes at his current target (victim, Shisui thinks instinctively -- as if). The young man stares back, offering a solemn nod, and the urge to laugh rises again.
Because he knows Itachi is made of far sterner stuff than that. Shisui has lived his entire life with that knowledge, and that swell of laughter turns into something that feels a lot like pride.
--
Itachi's father was far less understanding. Fugaku Uchiha was a three-star general, a man with expectations so high he couldn't help but be perpetually confused by the fact that his son wasn't redefining excellence in West Point at the age of five. (Which wasn't to say that Itachi wasn't gifted -- quite the opposite, really, but there were extenuating circumstances within the Uchiha clan, considered sort of a weird family even in the old days. Descended from the remnants of Iga shinobi, the Uchiha clan kept training in ninjutsu long after the Sengoku era had seen most of their kind wiped out of existence, all the way up through the bakufu, reveling in its reputation as shadowy warrior types until Commodore Matthew Perry waltzed in and impressed Madara -- the clan's current head -- by, as Shisui sometimes put it, punting Japan's ass straight into the modern age. Or so Madara seemed to think, and promptly offered his clan's services to the confused commodore with little more than a cheery wave to the beleaguered shogunate. Shisui used to wonder why the Uchiha family ended up tied to the army as opposed to the navy if Madara had really been so hot for Perry, before he realized that above all else the man had possessed a strange and mostly unfathomable sense of humor, and dearly loved a good rivalry.) Itachi's mother, Mikoto (and it was always kind of funny to Shisui, that as much as the Uchiha had never been very impressed with the philosophy of sonno joi they still had a rather inclusive attitude when it came to choosing spouses -- always military, always pure Japanese, and any sort of deviation meant the family reunion memos somehow consistently managed to get lost in the mail) just smiled and offered her quiet support.
Shisui knew something Fugaku didn't, though, something Fugaku would likely have never understood; Itachi had found that moment of perfect resonance as well. It had taken Shisui a few months of careful prodding after Itachi's surprising attendance in the choir room the first day of freshman year, but he knew it had been moving and surprising and had involved -- oh, Itachi -- Linda Ronstadt. But despite the mild teasing, he'd been elated to find something else to share with his best friend and distant cousin, something else to bind them together. And Shisui could tell that, despite Itachi's usual quiet demeanor, he was every bit as excited as Shisui felt.
--
"What do you think?" Shisui elbows Itachi in the ribs, offering a brilliant grin as they make their way down the stairs in front of the music building. "I know it's just the first day, but-- well. Impressions?"
"It's different," Itachi says with a shrug, dark eyes roaming towards the science center directly ahead. "When you said ... glee club, I thought of something a bit more -- festive?"
Shisui laughs as he steers Itachi onto Oxford, nodding to a pair of well-dressed girls on their way toward the bus stop shelter. "That'll teach you to believe everything you see on TV, 'Tachi. No cheerleaders -- at least, no obvious ones -- though there are more than a few sweet-voiced young men wandering around, looking for a big, strong --"
"There's no need to be vulgar," Itachi says quickly, leveling a brief, unreadable look on Shisui before squinting up at the sky, and it's enough to shut Shisui up -- for a moment, at least, while he considers how best to tease Itachi, how best to carefully extract one of those rare, careful smiles he prizes so much.
It's a beautiful day, just cloudy enough to be comfortable. A light breeze whispers through the autumn leaves of oaks and maples that line the avenue, ruffling Shisui's already unruly mop of black curls. It's an uncommon moment for Shisui, to be unencumbered by the weight of textbooks and stacks of notes, and he's determined to enjoy it while he can.
"Are you disappointed, then?" Shisui asks, glancing over at his cousin, who is currently pushing back the dark, uneven wings of his bangs back behind his ears -- a futile attempt, it seems, as the slightest tug of wind sets them tickling his cheeks and nose once more. "I mean, if I knew you were expecting a show choir thing, I could have arranged something." But Shisui knows better; despite everything, they both understand that the Harvard Glee Club is arguably the most prestigious choir in the country, and though they are not the soldiers their family may have wished for, they are still Uchiha and therefore must be counted among the elite, no matter their choice of pursuits.
Itachi shakes his head, and Shisui just barely restrains the impulse to push that sleek fall of hair back himself. "It's fine. I'm ... I think this is more--"
"I understand," Shisui interrupts this time, saving Itachi the effort of struggling for a word to convey his feeling without sounding either weak or nervous. And god knows, Shisui does understand -- unlike himself, Itachi doesn't like to do anything too noticeable or flashy, perfectly content to be a nameless, faceless voice in the crowd.
There are good reasons for this, but the largest part of it is that Itachi is -- as much as he is allowed to be -- quite shy; it's a quality that manages to be both endearing and absolutely frustrating. Shisui has tried to break him of that since high school, a futile quest to drag him to every solo audition available, from eighteenth-century hymns to Broadway medleys and all points in between. The most Itachi had ever bent was been the much rarer duet, which had been an unexpected concession and a great pleasure; their voices, paired together, all too-often drifted into a space where that magic sound was easy, twin tones perfect in harmony, resonating as one whenever they met on the scale. Eventually there had been no need to audition at all.
"I'm glad you're here," Shisui says fondly, bumping Itachi's bony shoulder with his own. The younger man just smiles, dipping his head in acknowledgment that he's never been good at voicing aloud.
--
Shisui remembers the sensation of shock, the day that he'd been called to the administrative office from sophomore honors english, where the heavily-perfumed, huge-breasted school secretary sat him down on an uncomfortable plastic chair before announcing in a sickeningly sympathetic voice that his cousin had been rushed to the hospital. He caught gym and collapse and not breathing and there had been more, but he'd tuned out completely, horror and fear sending the adrenaline surging through his veins.
Surely there had been more, but he was already pushing his way out of the crowded office, breaking into a sprint as soon as his feet touched the sidewalk -- disregarding traffic lights and joggers and even vaulting over the hood of one terribly surprised Camry owner's pea-green car, a one-man race that lasted the entire four-and-a-half mile distance to Lakeside General Hospital -- his imagination running frantic circles around itself the entire time, coming up with increasingly more horrifying scenarios featuring Itachi in mortal peril.
Shisui nearly tripped on the second stair after dodging a swearing man in a leg cast, dragging himself back upright by the rusting metal handrail to stumble through the revolving door; the receptionist stared at him for a moment, one long look at the shaking, gasping teenager with wild hair and eyes before reaching for the phone.
"Ma'am -- please. Please." Shisui forced out, pressing his forehead against the edge of the cool marble desk. "Itachi. Uchiha -- Itachi. I need to..."
A moment of silence, while Shisui attempted to catch his breath, impatience warring with panic in his mind. "Please. They just brought him in a little while ago -- I don't know what happened to him."
The receptionist sighed quietly, like it was a familiar situation, and when she finally spoke her voice was quiet and reassuring. "Are you family, young man?"
"I--" Shisui blinked at her, trying not to chafe under the sympathetic look she was giving him. "Yeah. Yeah. He's my cousin." Distant cousin, maybe, but he wasn't going to bring it up, not now. She didn't question further, only turned her attention back to the old IBM in front of her, the clatter of long nails against the keyboard almost startling in the tomb-like stillness of the hospital.
"He's being moved from emergency to 304," she said at last, glancing up at Shisui. As if noticing his unease, she smiled faintly. "A recovery room."
Shisui felt his knees go weak beneath him and braced himself against the high desk, the faintest rush of relief breaking through the haze of steady fear. "Good -- that's good. Thank you, ma'am."
She nodded, her smile widening just a fraction, then inclined her head towards the elevators. "Third floor -- take a right at the first hallway past the nurse's station, and a left after the drinking fountain. You won't miss it, promise."
He managed not to run, steering a clear course all the way to the last hallway, when he nearly ran into a larger figure striding purposefully in the other direction. He had just enough time (and sense) to back away, flattening himself against the wall, stilling completely as the furious glare of Fugaku Uchiha speared him where he stood.
His uncle's face twisted for a moment in pure hatred, as if Shisui were the cause of all this fuss, then turned and stormed away without another word. Shaken, Shisui paused to catch his breath and make certain his heart hadn't in fact escaped down his pantleg and into the floor before, then continued on.
A young doctor stood outside the room, writing something into his book. Shisui stopped, suddenly uncertain, and fidgeted uncomfortably until the doctor looked up.
"Itachi?" He asked softly, gaze darting towards the closed, windowless door, trying not to betray all that was threatening to spill out in his tone.
The doctor's eyes flickered down the hallway, then back to Shisui, softening after a silent, hopeful moment. "He'll be fine. Once he gets used to his new medication..." Looking away again, as if he was expecting someone to jump out at any moment.
Shisui sighed. "The general -- Itachi's father -- he, uh. Has that effect on people. It's fine," Shisui said with a wry smile. The doctor paled, but nodded, reaching up to run his fingers through short, closely-cropped blond hair. "What happened?"
"He had an asthma attack. We ran some tests--"
But Shisui's brain stopped, sputtered and came back to itself, his eyes widening in horror. Asthma.
"No wonder the old man was so pissed," he muttered.
Oh, god.
"Will it get better?" He hoped desperately, if only for Itachi's sake.
The doctor sighed. "It's not like that, son," he said carefully. "If treated, it can be controlled, but it's not like a bug you just get over. He'll have to be very careful, to keep the damage from growing any worse."
Shisui closed his eyes, the weariness from the entire day catching up to him in one vicious rush. He slumped against the wall, bitter and dispirited, tracing the odd shapes in the flooring with his eyes. "I -- can I see him?" he asked finally.
"Of course," the doctor replied, soft and gentle and Shisui wanted to shake him for the sheer injustice of it.
"You're sure? It's not just -- I don't know, bronchitis or something?"
One hand came to rest, just barely, on the drooping line of Shisui's shoulder. "We're sure. The, er -- the general insisted we run the tests again. There's no denying it."
"Thank you," Shisui said softly, feeling anything but grateful. "I'll -- go see him, now."
The doctor nodded. "There's a button in there; push it if he needs anything. We'd like to keep him tonight for observation, because of the incident this afternoon, but he's as well as he can be, given the circumstances."
Shisui snorted, mumbling a near-silent I doubt it, forcing himself upright, pasting an easy smile on his face before pushing the door open.
It was cool inside, even by hospital standards, stark white and antiseptic-smelling. Shisui noticed none of that at first, the entirety of his attention focused on the too-small seeming figure propped up on the reclining bed. "Itachi," he whispered, making his way to his cousin's side. "Hey."
Those dark eyes, often veiled but always hinting at something beneath, flickered up towards him, wiped clean of anything but a soul-deep, aching misery.
Asthma, he thought bitterly, reaching out to press his hand against Itachi's clammy forehead.
No response; not even a glimmer of recognition.
Shisui stood there until his legs threatened to give out on him, and when he moved it was only to appropriate one of those uncomfortable guest chairs from the far corner so he could drag it to Itachi's bedside. When he reached out again, he took one of Itachi's hands in his own, and felt the fierce pressure of Itachi's fingers curling against his own, the sensation as gut-wrenching as a drowning man holding on to a lifeline.
They sat in silence for hours, each caught up in their own thoughts, Shisui's mind reeling from the implications.
Asthma.
It was no wonder Itachi was so miserable, really. No matter how manageable, it was a death knell to any chance of a military career.
--
Shisui knows to tread carefully during Itachi's Regina Spektor (who came along shortly before Itachi grew out of his long-lived Tori Amos phase) days. There's a lot that Shisui can tell about Itachi's moods from his playlist, however baffling or unlikely the tracks might be. Itachi looks like an NPR sort of guy -- and he is, really -- but his tastes run far beyond the usual semi-indie/classical/intellectual fare.
Good days are punctuated by cheerful sounds, Bis and Los Campesinos and one-hit wonders of the nineties; melancholy days saved for men like Rufus Wainwright and Joshua Radin and Eliott Smith -- unless there's something particularly stressful on the horizon, in which case he'll unwaveringly tend toward Jeff Buckley, whom Shisui secretly loathes (he's never been fond of scat singing, considering it an irritating replacement for proper lyrics and simple song-padding in general) but never has had the heart to tell Itachi. Massive Attack, Björk, Röyksopp and/or Goldfrapp is a pretty good sign that Shisui won't be sleeping alone. Bad -- spectacularly bad days -- are often a swing between Tom Waits, Fiona Apple, and Nick Cave (but never Grinderman, because ugh), most often Murder Ballads, which can be a bit creepy, but seems weirdly natural to Itachi.
It's six thirty-four pm, and Shisui can hear the strains of On The Radio coming from the other side of their shared two-bed dorm room, and immediately thinks rough day, but not god-awful. He's sheathed in a light sweat, the product of a relaxing five-mile run that winds along a few of the campus' many scenic pathways. He pauses to catch his breath, steeling himself for what may or may not be A Situation.
It's a good thing Itachi has Shisui to take care of him, Shisui thinks, because Itachi is fussy in ways that would drive most roommates insane. He taps his nails against the door (a familiar pattern instituted after what started as a slightly embarrassing incident involving Shisui and a distinct lack of pants and his left hand, and Itachi and a cancelled evening class -- and though it had ended with a rather brilliant mutual handjob and two hours of lazy necking, it helped to be given some warning) and waits a beat before opening the door. He scans the room, precise and ordered in the way they'd been taught since they were kids, and there's a brief second where his heart is caught in his throat, because Itachi is slumped over his desk, the accusing shape of an inhaler dangling from pale, skinny fingers. The terror rises, briefly, the same rush of adrenaline that hit him that day in the secretary's office, and --
He nearly trips over the foot of his twin-sized bed in his haste to reach Itachi, fingers skittering wildly over the back of Itachi's pale neck, scrambling to find the pulse. And it's there, steady beneath his fingertips, and he lets out a ragged sigh of relief as he leans against the desk, looking down.
"Wha..." Itachi lifts his head from an open history textbook, one cheek red and creased from the edge of the thick book, reading glasses knocked askew and a few strands of dangling hair caught up in the thin wire frames. Not passed out, not dead, just -- just sleeping, and it's so strange to see this moment of too-human vulnerability in a man Shisui often feels is anything but. And Shisui can't help but grin down at Itachi, sleep-tousled and bleary-eyed, and use that position of leverage against Itachi's neck to tug him over until his forehead rests against the sharp flare of Shisui's hip, running his fingers through the long sweep of Itachi's hair.
The clatter of the inhaler hitting the floor is loud, even over the music, but Itachi doesn't pull away, one hand clenching loosely into the damp t-shirt close to his face.
"You must be exhausted," Shisui mutters, sympathetic. "I told you you'd taken on too many credits. You'll burn out by the end of the second month, for sure."
"It's fine," Itachi counters sleepily, and his breath is warm through the thin fabric of Shisui's running pants.
It might be, but Shisui wonders. Itachi, doing what he can to hold to family tradition despite his limitations, has immersed himself in a gauntlet of punishing military history courses; war theory and strategy and tactics and the like, and even if he is a natural, the sheer amount of information makes Shisui's head swim. It's a little heartbreaking, too, because Itachi would rather be doing more, because this is all that's left to him of the life he'd been trained for from birth. He shifts, just enough to pull the glasses from Itachi's face and set them down on his desk. "Come to bed," he says.
"Essay, tomorrow."
"Just a few hours," Shisui replies, and he reaches down to rub his thumb along the crest of a high cheekbone. "You'll feel better, I promise."
Itachi huffs quietly, rolls his head enough to peer at Shisui with one dark eye. "You always say that."
Shisui just grins. "I always mean it."
And that's the end of any argument Itachi might have. He's loose and pliant as Shisui undresses him and manhandles him into bed, making a noncommittal noise when Shisui asks if he'd had another attack. No argument when Shisui strips down to his boxers and slides in behind him, pressing close, tracing the smooth, warm curves of chest and belly. Only a sleepy, contented murmur when Shisui's fingers curl around the base of his cock and work him slowly, pressing slow, damp kisses along the long, pale line of his neck, leaving gentle bites along the line of his shoulder. When he comes quietly (like he usually does), Shisui wipes his hand on the thin duvet and tucks Itachi's head beneath his chin, folding up around him like origami.
By the time he's settled completely, Itachi is asleep, and Shisui spends almost an hour listening for the tell-tale rattle deep in Itachi's chest.
It's a sound that haunts him, chases him all the way into his dreams.
--
When Shisui wakes up, Itachi is sitting at his desk, typing away on his worn laptop, Begin to Hopestarting once more on the playlist. He looks serene and untroubled, and Shisui watches him with the natural, oblivious hunger of a man in love.
It's a good thing Itachi has someone to look out for him, Shisui thinks.
He's glad he's that someone.
And he shifts his assessment of Regina Spektor from bad day to I can totally work with this, knowing that Itachi has done the same.
--
"He won't be able to make the performance," Itachi says softly, without inflection.
"But we're in the same city the entire week; he's -- fuck. Seriously?" Shisui might be growling, but his hatred for Itachi's father has only grown worse in the years since Itachi's entirely un-asked for fall from grace.
Itachi closes his eyes, smiles like Buddha, like it's no skin off his back that his father is so actively disregarding the other thing that Itachi loves, that he's not been forced to turn away from? "It's Sasuke. He's -- it's West Point. He's been accepted; a nomination from the president, himself. He'll be touring the campus."
One that should have been yours, Shisui thinks viciously. "Still..." He's keeping himself calm; he's not throwing the contents of his desk out the window in a burst of hot-headed rage, and he thinks he deserves a few bonus points for that.
"I should go," Itachi says haltingly, like it takes something out of him to say it. Like he knows he won't be entirely welcome, because theirs is a military family and Itachi has been shut out forever by his traitorous body, a slight not even his own mother can work past. Shisui was a misfit by choice, still loved by his parents despite his break with tradition, but Itachi--
Oh, Itachi. Stupid goddamn Uchihas and their stupid traditions, and Shisui wants to wipe clean the whole ugly thing and replace these people with actual creatures that function with anything at all resembling human decency.
"He'll be fine," Shisui murmurs, a little softer than he intended because even with the family prejudices, Sasuke still adores his brother like he's really some secret god, pushing himself where Itachi cannot in hopes of another of those morsels of approval Itachi doles out like penny candy and chokes on in silence. "You'll call him, and you'll talk for hours and he won't mind; I know he won't." Which isn't exactly true, because they both know Sasuke'd rather have Itachi than their grim-faced father, but it's worth saying anyway, if only to maintain the illusion.
"Of course," Itachi says, and reaches for another sheet of printer paper, and Shisui's heart breaks just a little more.
--
It's brilliant, Shisui thinks, this strange and wonderful life of theirs. For all the trouble and misery they've faced, there are moments when Shisui thinks he'll burst apart from the sheer joy of it. The Glee Club has had a fantastic tour, free of the nervous hiccups of the year past, Van Hout a radiating ball of absolute joy at the after-concert banquets. And Itachi -- Itachi -- has been more magnificent than Shisui has ever seen him, carrying himself with an ease despite the dismissal of his family.
Shisui needs time to compose himself after each concert, a fact which Itachi cannot help but tease him for, quietly and subtly, but Shisui doesn't mind because it's obvious he's not the only one.
Itachi's just better at hiding it.
It's Manhattan, and their room is lit by the glow of the city as Shisui presses his face to the glass. He's humming Leonard Cohen's Chelsea Hotel #2 as he waits for Itachi to finish in the shower. He feels strangely invincible, an unstoppable force that can break past any opposition, no matter its form -- a feeling he gets, sometimes, but not often so pronounced.
Itachi comes to stand beside him at last, draped in nothing but a damp towel, shoulder to shoulder as they stare out at the skyline. And still, still, Shisui can feel it, down to his very bones.
Shisui turns and his grin is vicious, victorious, half-predatory; Itachi's answering smile is silky-smooth, as subtle as you please, but Shisui can see right through.
They meet in the middle like it's inevitable, like it's always been; wildness and restraint and a weird sort of balance, two voices so obvious in their differences yet always finding that perfect middle ground where they meet as one.
Perhaps this is only an extension of that; the way that worn-at-the-edges, easy familiarity draws them together in perfect cadence, Shisui moving against Itachi to draw out that well-loved sound of consensual surrender. Perfect, easy harmony, from the first brush of dry lips to the last shiver in the afterglow, and Shisui thinks he'll never forget this, never take it for granted, no matter what.
Life is coming for them. Even as Itachi absorbs generations upon generations of war history, Shisui is studying to be a biochemist, and music will not support them forever. But now, this, is worth living, worth experiencing for every fragile treasure they can eke from it, something to sustain them long past their school years, when they are each alone in their respective offices and struggling separately under the censure of their family and the world at large.
But for now --
For now, Shisui nearly purrs as he nips at the tender skin beneath Itachi's chin, smiling against the faintest hint of stubble, tugging Itachi upwards until his legs wind around Shisui's waist, his back pressing against the cool glass and offering up soft gasps of pleasure as Shisui rocks up against him, all heat and friction and the maids are going to blush tomorrow when they come to clean the empty room, Shisui's going to make sure of that.
For now, this is all that matters, and it is enough.
-fin
08.25.10
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BONUS: THE MAGIC POSITION - ITASHI EP
1. Duran Duran - Hungry Like the Wolf (yeah, that'd be Shisui's song)
2. Linda Ronstadt - Somewhere Out There (aaaaand Itachi's. I totally imagine little kid-Itachi would totally love the Feivel movies. Well, Don Bluth animations in general.)
3. Death Cab for Cutie - We Looked Like Giants (unreferenced, but that year or two with Shisui in college and Itachi still in high school must have been worth a separate fic on its own, and ... instead you get a song.)
4. Harvard Glee Club - Spaséñute Sodélal (Salvation Is Created) (because the Harvard Glee Club is fucking amazing, and I love this song, and this is totally what they're getting into.)
5. Regina Spektor - On the Radio (Because I wanted Samson originally, but eh, also she is amazing.)
6. Slow Six - The Night You Left New York (an instrumental, and the song I was thinking about in the last scene -- well, except for Chelsea Hotel Number Two, a Leonard Cohen song which I completely forgot to put in here, crap! and, um -- here's the youtube version, Regina Spektor style.)
7. Patrick Wolf - The Magic Position (the song this whole thing started from. It's so - cheerful and giddy and you know Shisui is singing this whilst getting entirely plastered on girl drinks at the end of finals week.)
