Here's a tiny two-shot mostly meant to exercise my writing. Itachi would look good in a hard rock band, yes? I'll finish it up another night, loves.

Sleepless

His voice quivered behind the microphone. It was like the Ronnie Radke squeak, the Matthew Bellamy inhale. Shisui discovered that he loved it, the vulnerability, the shakiness of the scream. He stood on his toes in the living room crowded with buzzed young adults, littered with amplifier wires, to sneak a view of the lead singer.

He, long-haired, sported a black muscle shirt with vague lyrics spray painted in white on it. No one could criticize him for wearing eyeliner, because he rocked the sweaty, smudged look better than any girl Shisui had the pleasure of meeting. His arms were thin, but showed strength as he grasped the microphone and screamed his soul out.

Shisui couldn't take his eyes off him. Perhaps this is how girls feel at a One Direction concert? Absolutely glued, needing to take multiple photos instead of enjoying the moment? He ripped his eyes off – it hurt like duct tape – and jostled his way deeper into the crowd, pushing another excited guy, starting a mosh pit, the usual.

The guitars took over for the finale, and Shisui stole a final glance at the stage. The lead's hair was swept across his face as he bent over, rocking his head up and down to the beat of the drums. When the last, long chord faded out, he stood straight, index finger pointing up, and a smile gracing his features.

"Again, guys, I'm Itachi, and we're The Crows," he yelled out. The sweaty crowd clapped their hands appreciatively.

He was heaven sent. He wasn't talented enough to be a rock god, but was stunning enough to leave Shisui itching to get to the other room, where Itachi was heading. He squeezed himself through the crowds, eyes on the singer's long, raven hair. "Wait, man," Shisui called out, shoving an unhappy girl and her boyfriend apart before seizing Itachi's arm. "Man, you're fucking beautiful; I just wanted to tell you that."

A slow smile spread on Itachi's face. "Ah – I just screamed my heart and soul out and you want to tell me I look good?"

Taken aback, Shisui released his arm. "I didn't mean it in that way. I mean, you—"

Itachi, looking half exasperated, half amused, took a step closer to him only to stand on his toes and point to the other side of the room. "I think you want to go there," he said. "My friend's selling our records. Anyway, thanks for coming out." He gave Shisui's arm a squeeze before disappearing into the other room with his bandmates.

Dumbstruck, Shisui left the venue early, album in tow. He didn't quite understand what this Itachi character wanted, but he would gladly listen to the record – gladly fall asleep to that shaky yet firm voice.

Lying in bed, half tempted to touch himself (he never masturbated to hard rock before; he figured it was a weird thing to do), he pushed the tape into his radio and upped the volume. A low cello began; Itachi spoke vaguely about what was, literally, a bloody red and white nightmare. Turned off by the depressing start, Shisui nearly, well, turned the damn radio off.

Then the guitars kicked in, loud enough that Shisui and his cat both jumped a few inches. The music was loud yet pained, just like the growls of the lead. The tracks grew more panicked as the tape progressed, so much so that it nearly scared Shisui. It was as if something was chasing Itachi, something dark yet eerily too-bright.

The final track, which Shisui recognized as the final song of their setlist, seemed pointlessly noisy at first. With a sense of foreboding, Shisui snatched a pen and paper. He rewound the tape once the song ended, and focused hard on the masked lyrics. He put his pen down come the morning, having listened to the song so much that he could recite every riff with an air-guitar. The lyrics were there, and were, undeniably, what Itachi wanted him to know.

Despite his nighttime perseverance, Shisui would not see Itachi ever again.