chokuto

[For all of the casual bravado of that remark, this time fear does hook itself somewhere deep inside of Sasuke—because if he's saying something like that, if there is even the slightest chance this will not work, what will he do? Doubt chases like a dog, because what if he has found someone crazy enough to hurt themselves past the threshold of capable return for the sake of... a point? A stupid point, nothing that even matters, curiosity and disbelief driven by sleep-deprived distress. Who knows the extent of how their abilities work in this dimension?

That guilty conscience is raw and eager to fester. The man was more right than he knows not to allow Sasuke's hand on the hilt.

It happens, and neither the Mangekyou nor the Rinnegan glimpse anything unusual but the hole of a wound, outpouring blood around the silver stake of a blade sunken into human flesh. And it stays there, immutably fatal, and the living man speaks. He heard flesh tear; he chose a spot that should create a waterfall of endless, gushing red. Yet it's like a blocked pipe. It doesn't bleed long at all.]

That...

[Stepping in, Sasuke lifts his hand to slick flesh around the embedded tantō of the man's chest, fingertips smearing in an exploratory touch.]

You healed? I've seen it before, but—this is too fast.

（ touchy little fucker. though he has the benefit of foresight here — he's willing to guess this is a rare moment for someone who looks like he'd rather eat a porcupine backwards than yield to anyone.

sasuke might find he runs hot, beneath that touch. hotter than a human, though not entirely beyond the tolerances of possibility. elevated body temperature like a constant glut of fever in a body that was never made to last as long as it has. he doesn't know if he was like that before iantha worked her magic. before she called dreaming into reality, and reality into dreams, and made him both prison and prisoner. ）

Yeah, it sucks. It sort of heals around the blade. Means it hurts just as much coming as going. You do not want to guess what decapitation feels like.

（ although, despite that caveat, he doesn't actually pull it out the old fashioned way, he just calls it back to his hand. the wound, barely bleeding, seals itself over with no evidence of violent passage save the sunset smear of blood beneath the kid's hand. but cy hasn't actually shooed him away this time, taking no issue with letting him poke and prod to his clearly traumatized little heart's content. ）

So, do the magic eyeballs say I pass muster?

（ look, the weird purple eye he initially assumed was some sort of stupid cosplay contact aside, he literally watched your other eye get weird red whorls. they are magic until further notice, thank u. ）

[Decapitation. It follows that if severing even the heart will not kill him, neither will decapitation, but Sasuke has never encountered an ability of regeneration so powerful. Immortality he has seen, though that too only through chakra; Hidan of the Akatsuki comes to mind. Sasuke's knowledge of him is minimal.

This is something else.

His hand drops away, taking a smear of hot blood with it, wiping it on the towel that hangs off one shoulder. Then he tosses it at the other man to use for the mess, head turned away.]

You shouldn't have done something so risky without being more confident in the outcome. If you hadn't tested the extent of your capabilities in this dimension before, you could have actually died. [Only Sasuke would tell someone to stab themselves and then criticize them for it afterward.] My eyes can't track you as well as they should, and they are unable to identify exactly what sort of power you wield. But yes. You aren't bluffing.

[Suddenly, he is exhausted. He doesn't know what this was truly meant to prove. That it is impossible to hurt this man? He shouldn't even have considered trying.]

（ he catches the towel, one corner of it winds around his wrist and makes a damp smack against his wrist. it gets used to wipe the blade first, which he sheathes, and then the messy smear across his chest. his thumb fans out against the cotton fabric as it pinks with the stain, and then he shakes his head and balls it up. it gets tossed to the nearest bin. ）

Oh, I was plenty confident in the outcome, don't you fret. I've been at this a while. It was an 'infinitesimal' in the mathematic sense. 'An indefinitely small quantity, a value approaching zero'.

（ look he has been a math nerd for as long as he can literally remember, no he will not apologize. ）

Name's Cy. Cyram if ya nasty.

Cyram.

[He's trying the foreign name, managing it well on a first attempt, due in part to the activation of the Sharigan as it mimics movement of the man's mouth. He is tempted to argue—that even abilities he was certain he possessed had failed to work in the past, and certainly here, but all of the energy seems to have drained out of him like a sieve.

A step back. His hand lifts, rubbing his face, leaving a print of Cy's blood on the ridge of a cheekbone where he'd failed to wipe all of it off his fingers.

And finally he lifts his head, looking at Cy directly. The red bleeds out of the right eye but the left remains strange, steadfast purple.]

Do you recognize me? [It's an abrupt question he's likely to soon regret.] Have you seen me before?

（ that is... an interesting question he's probably going to turn over in his mind later. truth is, his memory is so fucking shitty at the best of times he has no idea if that's a legitimate possibility or not. even his grasp of the last few days is shaky, mostly spent drinking (not drunk) or finding people to fool around with in dark corners.

was this kid one of those random conquests? that would make this a weird fucking encounter, if so. cy crawls his way back into his shirt, and then leans back again, palms flat on the bench, legs outstretched. he fills space comfortably, without seeming to have done it on purpose at all. clucks his tongue once, and then: ）

Buddy, I don't know you from a hole in the ground.

（ he makes a little 'eh' gesture with one hand, palm-up in something that's almost a full body shrug. ）

Doesn't mean much, though. And you've got blood on your face （ he touches the same spot on his own cheekbone, smudging his thumb in the direction of the smear on sasuke's. ） — might wanna tidy that up. Or don't. Sometimes it pays to be that guy who'll walk around wearing somebody else's blood, man, fuck if I know.

[He keeps the question non-specific enough that Cyram won't know that he means in a dream. Of course they have never met, physically, in person. Yet he can't risk revealing the plague of his nighttime hauntings of thought, so this is the test.

The outcome is one of disappointment, but it isn't pointed directly toward the man. Of course it is only this place toying with his mind. It could be nothing else. Sasuke's expression closes, eyes falling away, demeanor coiled once more into a knot of directionless frustration. Unthinking, he scrubs at his cheek with his forearm to remove the blood but comments no further on it.]

Forget it, then.

[And he whips around, intent on ending the interaction by walking out the door now that the way is unbarred.]

Okay, World's Most Cryptic Bitch.

（ but it's said with an amused huff of breath. there's no real exasperation there, just a roll of his eyes and a wow, was I that bad in my hot topic bitch era, actually? and as the kid beats a hasty retreat — ）

Literally stabbed myself to satiate your curiosity here, pretty sure that ought to at least warrant a name. Otherwise I will call you CeeBee, forever. （ as he lights up another cigarette (just be thankful he didn't light it off the dying embers of the last one, in his usual custom) ） Fair warning.

[He stops at the threshold of the room, holding himself there—unwilling to turn back around, as if it might trap him.]

You offered.

['CeeBee'... what a stupid name.]

Sasuke. [Short, blunt. He's not trying to hide his identity; there would be no point.] Uchiha Sasuke.

[And then he walks out.]

+

cw: blood/kinda gore HOW DID WE GET HERE

I HAVE NO IDEA ACTUALLY BUT JUST (CW FOREVER)

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