Written for Jon and Etch, who run the awesome badnarutofanfiction tumblr .

/

The room is spacious and the light softens the sharp lines of Itachi's face; dusk turns him into an ethereal being, a flimsy fantasy made of desires and optical illusions.

Sasuke crosses the room to settle before him.

'I am dead, Sasuke', Itachi's voice is soft, barely disturbing the tranquillity of this room, this place.

'I know'

Silence, again.

There are many things he wants to say to Itachi, but he can't find the proper words; the transition from all consuming hatred, the burning need to kill the man he once (and again?) loved above all else to - to this crushing sadness, desperation - left him feeling raw, torn apart. Small. Lost, once again. Alone, once again. (Sorry. I'm so sorry. For doubting you. For everything you had to go through.)

Here, though - he can embrace his brother - settle into his lap like he is a child again, breathe into his scent (sweat and shampoo fragrance and something intangible, unnamed, something he always associated with Itachi; no blood here, no cold metal, no ashes.)

Itachi's fingers gently ruffle his hair.

There is no need for words in the embrace.

/

Shadows deepen and turn the room into something more frightening - dark corners and a reminder that somewhere out there, his thirst for vengeance is not quelled - just shifted from one target to another. He still has his brother here, though, and he thinks nothing of the way Itachi stills when he brushes his nose along the tender skin of the neck, the underside of the jaw.

If Sasuke wishes for it, Sasuke knows, Itachi will allow it.

/

Rustling of the clothes is loud in the silence, but Sasuke doesn't hear anything past the drumming in his ears. Itachi's kisses are slow and tender, but sear far more than even Amaterasu ever could, and Sasuke knows that, whatever happens, he will never want anyone else as much as he wants his brother.

His brother, who is dead, but in his arms right now; his brother, who shouldered the burden of his hate just so he could be allowed to live and hate, who apparently never stopped loving him. It makes his head dizzy, his blood boil, thinking of these things again, so he tries to focus on Itachi:

Itachi, whose hair is coming undone;

Itachi, whose face is carefully impassive, but heartbeats as wild as Sasuke's;

Itachi, whose eyes are closed, but whose fingers trace every inch of Sasuke's skin.

He doesn't want tenderness (though he might need it) - feather-light touches and hair tickling his stomach - a subtle way of rubbing the salt in the wounds; this place is a fantasy, no substance, nothing he can hold onto.

He flips them over and Itachi's hair spils like an ink over the sheets.

/

He's never been with anyone, but it seems fitting, somehow, that he does this with Itachi - hadn't he already commited everything else?

He's never been with anyone, and he wonders if Itachi has, either, because they are both ungraceful and clumsy. It doesn't matter - somehow they work it out.

Sasuke tries to be careful, to cause as little pain as possible (hadn't Itachi suffered enough already, hadn't he had enough of Sasuke's hatred? Love shouldn't hurt this much) but Itachi still makes sounds of discomfort and grips Sasuke's shoulders tighter. Slower. Slower.

/

Itachi coming undone, mouth open wide and back arched: this is the image Sasuke wants to burn into his mind, retinas - the only image he wants to see for the rest of his life - but then he is waking up and his heart is already full of determination to raze Konoha to the ground.