Kalliel (kalliel) wrote,

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[Fan Fic] Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance - Itachi, Shisui; biker!AU

Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance
Naruto fan fiction

Genre: AU, gen (implied, largely unrealized slash), post-massacre
Characters Shisui, Itachi
Word Count: ~1000
Summary: Summaries are for stories that mean something. This is a mirage.
Notes: For Itachi's birthday. Because when you see something that looks like

on your f-list, what are you supposed to do? Art by the lovely and talented nthcoincident, who has used her dark powers to spawn more biker!Uchiha than fandom ever knew it was capable of. XP The big, fancy version can be found here.

Itachi smells like Neatsfoot and lube.

(They both do.)

He looks like a black, black shadow over red, dressed up in oiled leather and a smoky disposition as the sun falls down to the highway. (--Bleeds.)

Shisui says as much, takes a hit of weed. Home-grown, home-rolled, and This is what I really miss about home, you know? Your mother always worked so hard to make you happy. She had the loveliest garden.

Itachi doesn't look up. "That's not what you miss," he says.

Shisui blows out smoke down onto the crown of Itachi's head, his sleek hair tied back. Itachi doesn't look up. Keeps his head bowed over the motorcycle. Shisui plants a quick, dry something--the mirage of a kiss--in the middle of his smoke, in the middle of Itachi's head.

Itachi doesn't look up.


"I don't understand you, I really don't."

Itachi hands him a bouquet of ragged newspaper. The date puts them at last July. Shisui puts them around Itachi's rear wheel rim. His hands are black with newsprint, which sluices from the paper like skin. It is hot, and he is sweaty, and they're still grounded.

Itachi takes to the bike chains as though he's inflicting a violence upon them, and oil flies out in a light spray as he tests the back tire. Oil flies out like blood from a wound.

The rim spins like a kaleidoscope.


"Why didn't you just leave?"

Itachi nearly wipes his face with his hand, before he sees the black filth, and thinks better of it. He doesn't need newsprint and bike oil--there's enough dark around his eyes. It's like nihilism painted on, exhaustion daubed on in blue-purple places. Shisui would tell him so, but Itachi speaks first.

"I was taking care of things."


Itachi kicks dust over the flecks of oil sprayed all out over the ground. It sticks to his boots and his pants in red-black patches.

"What about Sasuke? Are you going to take care of him?"

Itachi is fast. Has him pinned up against the gas station's plastered adobe, newly wet with lime, in just under a heartbeat.

(Don, don, don. You remember that sound, Itachi. You remember the tempo. Dondondon, dondondon, dondon------and quiet.)

"I can kill you."

"Itachi, my dear cousin. You already did."


In July, Uchiha Shisui makes headlines, if not quite the way his family had hoped.

In August, Itachi makes them, too; he and little Sasuke both. Sasuke is a survivor. Itachi is a monster.

Death gives a guy a certain appreciation of black humor, so when Shisui reads the news report--scandal, nightmare, tragedy--he shrugs. "Monster, huh? I'll still call you 'cousin.' Synonyms, anyway; wouldn't you agree? Though I wish you'd 'taken care of things' more effectively. You could have turned the air conditioning on."

It's difficult to get the reek of dead people out of curtains. Worse still to scrape them from the floor. They leave a white-brown ring on the linoleum, like the bruised, sagging bodies of overripe fruit. Run your fingers over parts of the floor even today, and you can feel the slightest ridge.

That's skin. Invisible (but you can see it still, can't you? Itachi. You know you can).

"You dumped my body in a river and I festered at the bottom of a reservoir for three days before they dredged me up. And you know what? I still looked prettier than your mother, by the time they found her. Don't underestimate summer in New York City, Itachi."


"Why did you kill them? Oh, careful with that--brake fluid is nasty stuff. There are two of those--the reservoirs. Make sure you fill them both."

Itachi gives him a look that says he no longer requires Shisui's concern, nor his advice.

"It's my bike. Don't shrink from the responsibilities of riding her, if that's what you're planning."

Silence, silence. Itachi is black on white, now. The sun is all bled out, and all that remains is a bleak pallor--gas station fluoresence.


"Why did you kill them?"


"When Sasuke finds you--you know he will--what are you going to tell him?" What are you going to say?

"What you told me."



Itachi holds Shisui under the water. Itachi is just barely thirteen, but it's not as though Shisui hadn't been All-State himself, at that age. He's aware of what a little leverage can do.

Still, Shisui laughs. He's a little high--just enough to steal the edge from betrayal, let him focus on the Now and not the I thought you were going to be different, Itachi. Fuck everyone else. You were going to be--

Itachi is still asking questions of him; Shisui can see his lips moving like white worms, beyond the warped pane of water above him. He still wants to kiss them. Shisui keeps laughing, small explosive detonations of bubbles and froth, because this is that ridiculous. But if there's anything Itachi will not flush from Shisui, it's answers.


"My advice to you, cousin? Make it up." Make it all up. "You loved him, you hate him, you forgot about him--it doesn't matter. Just make it up. He won't know tthe difference."

Shisui takes Itachi's face in his hands, draws oily smudges down his cheeks like tears and leans in for one last kiss. Itachi tastes like Neatsfoot and lube, newsprint and brake fluid. (They both do.)

Itachi allows the advance but does not reciprocate.

"What's the matter, Itachi?" You love him, you hate him. It doesn't matter; it's all make-believe anyway. "Ah. I see. But surely you understand by now, Itachi. That's just something you won't ever know.

"There's a reason I've got Mirage painted on her ass," he says, gesturing toward the motorcycle. "You've played with her enough. Get on."

Itachi does. His lips are still squirming from the kiss, and they look like they did that night, at the river.

"Now go. And don't crash."

Itachi goes. And for the first hundred miles, Shisui watches Itachi's taillights, red on black.

For the first hundred miles, he does not crash.


a/n: If anyone asks, I didn't write this. :F

Oh, life's ambiguities. Sorry, Itachi. In other news, two more exams, and I am DONE for the spring.

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