Naruto One-Shot (Yaoi)

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By: firefly

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The fascination was born the day he held Shisui's head beneath the clear, cold current, staring into the pristine depths and at the bubbles streaming from his cousin's wordlessly gaping mouth. He watched the surreal motion of black hair billowing underwater, the accumulating tinge of blue in his skin, the water that felt like fluid, rippling glass, and the eyes.

They flickered between red and black, wide and endlessly staring, watching, pleading, continuing to gaze beseechingly, despairingly, long after the bubbles had dissipated and the water no longer frothed with his thrashing.

Itachi remained by the riverside, fingers loosely clutching the front of Shisui's shirt to keep him steady, returning the corpse's unblinking gaze.

The terror was eminent and vivid in the black depths of his eyes, and something almost akin to marvel crossed Itachi's features as he used mangekyou sharingan for the first time and the facets, features, and colours of his surroundings burst into vivid clarity.

With his free hand, he ran his fingertips over his closed eyelids, marveling at the fragility of the constructs beneath, appreciative of their use, awed by their complexity and structure, the fascination blooming into a calculating interest as he opened his eyes and stared down at Shisui's corpse.

They are a marvel, he decided, lifting the body out of the water, reaching down with curious fingers. A feat of design. Complex. Strange.

The texture of Shisui's dead eyes was oddly cold and slick beneath his prodding fingers, firm and monochrome in colour, fragile little mechanisms, plain little globes, constructs that hardly gave justice to their awe-inspiring capabilities. They were paradoxical, simple and weak in appearance and feel beneath his searching fingertips, yet capable of being the most dangerous weapons.

Discolourations bloomed in the cold whites of Shisui's eyes, grayish bruises mottling the tender tissue beneath the touches, and eventually Itachi lowered him back into the water.

For the first time in his life, he truly felt like he could see.

Night became inconsequential in the light of his new gift.

He'd lay awake, red irises and a distorted, jagged pupil rapidly searching the dark ceiling and every facet of the room, darting towards the window, towards the door, counting the grains in the wood paneling, the individual specks of dust illuminated on the blinds by faint moonlight, the distinct ridges in his fingerprints as he touched his eyelids repeatedly, examining and admiring, fervent with purpose.

My eyes, he thought. They do more. They see more.

His gaze darted rapidly to the slightly ajar door, catching the barest glimpse of a darkened night robe and recognizing his father as he lingered silently in the hall outside his room.

They are more.

He continued his role in the home, obediently helping his mother prepare dinner, cutting vegetables at the counter as she prepared the seasonings. Broth bubbled in a copper pot, the aroma of fresh fish and the clang of dishware saturating the kitchen atmosphere.

Fugaku called for his wife from somewhere in the hallway, and as Mikoto left the kitchen, Itachi's gaze fell on the fish lying on the cutting board.

As if compelled to compare, contrast, and criticize, he unconsciously stepped closer to it, peering down at the dull, yellow eye that lay on the silver head like a flat, useless embellishment, a disc of God's design with no other purpose save aesthetic appeal and mediocre perception. He stared at it in contempt.