scraps

a bunch of 500 words-drabbles prompted on tumblr. contains fluff, smut and angst, is set in multiple verses.

i hereby disclaim any rights.

i. (canon)

There's a sense of familiarity to how they're standing: Itachi with his back to him, so deceptively close the actual distance between them seems like something that would disappear in a stifled gasp, if he would just reach out and touch his shoulder or his elbow and whisper the words on the forefront of his tongue. His brother casts a glance at him, narrowed eyes, thin bloodless lips and the thick black fracture lines flaking apart his sallow skin, standing out so clearly even in this forsaken cave. No, he seems to murmur, a ghost of a word, before he shakes his head and slowly turns around, lets the palm of his hand slide off Kabuto's and drop back to his side.

"You must still have questions. I.. We should have some time left, for this at least." The words I owe you this much are apparent without being said, something his brother has always been good at; concealing what he truly means. Maybe Sasuke's finally learned to spot them, all these black implications canopied in white lies.

Sasuke stares at him in disbelief, tries to ignore the tremble of his bottom lip or the nausea low in his belly. His sandals' soles grind down on a jackstone as he shifts his stance, squares his shoulders in an effort to look as undaunted as possible and sets his jaw with such painstaking carefulness the defined bone structure of his face almost breaks. Itachi offers him a gentle smile, it seems like a prelude to the moment where one of them is going to burst into tears. He rubs his right eye with the heel of his hand as his older brother regards him somewhat sorrowfully.

"Can we…" He scrapes his throat awkwardly, tries to ignore that his nose started running and that he feels like a five year-old who skinned his knees and wants his older brother to carry him home, "Can we get out of here first?"

His expression softens and it's obvious that he's struggling with what to do with his hands. Sasuke turns around, towards the part of the cave skewered through with light, and waits for his older brother to come stand next to him. All the confidence of the fight, his fervor, his adrenalin-fueled anger slowly bleeds the tension out of his posture. Itachi presses a feather-light touch to his lower back, so soft it could've been mistaken for the draft instead, but it wasn't, three fingertips, the brush of his wrist.

They're looking at each other for a moment—Itachi takes a step forwards and Sasuke falls into line not entirely next to him, but close to him, like he'd hold onto the sleeve of his reddish coat and never let go. His hand reaches out, clutches onto the fabric like a lifeline; Itachi pauses for a fraction of a second, casts a glance over his shoulder and the air in the cavern doesn't seem so cold to breathe in anymore.

ii. (seaside-verse)

Dawn or something like it; streaks of pink through gray skies and the contrast gives the horizon a purplish border to canopy the golden sunrise, his hands shift through the white sand idly with stretched fingers as he leans back into his younger brother's chest. He's settled between Sasuke's knees, his sleeping shirt riding up his lower back and his calves covered in sand, but he doesn't mind. It's so peaceful here, he muses silently as he leans into the palm of his brother's right hand, pressed to the underside of his jaw. With half-lidded eyes, he watches the horizon as Sasuke plays with the strands of his hair.

"You're not too cold, are you?" Itachi asks, wanting to tilt his head backwards but not daring to bump against his brother's collarbone. He feels the weight of an unfinished braid in his hair.

Sasuke huffs non-commitedly as he rakes his fingers all the way from the crown of his older brother's head to past his shoulders. "It's the middle of summer, it never even cools off." His voice still carries the remnants of sleep, a sleep he disturbed with his hacking and retching and dry-heaving—Sitting upright on their shoved-together futons, one palm around his throat, hair spilling from his manbun, a fire fanning way down his lungs.

"Unfortunately." He murmurs with a chuckle, moving around until his chest presses against Sasuke's tummy and his back faces the rising sun; his elbows casually bracketing his brother's flanks, his chin resting on the endpoint of his brother's sternum, and a smile splayed on his lips.

Humming—a hum that begins from the cavern of his belly, Sasuke draws his side-swept bangs behind each of his ears, touches his fingertips to the sensitive skin around the arch of them, then downwards to the base of his neck, to the roots of his hair. "I should've brought a brush." He remarks softly as he begins to card his fingers through the long strands again.

"You're doing just fine.. Sasuke." His name comes out half-way between a purr and a groan as his little brother settles the heels of his palms on the sides of his neck and massages him there.

His little brother actually looks smug; looking down on him with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, showing off his teeth and a flash of mauve gum. He undoes the unfinished braid carefully, smoothing the hairs flat against his skull and tracks the pad of his thumb over his cheek. Sunlight warms the soles of his feet and the swell over his calves, sand sneaks in between his toes and covers the sharp points of his elbows, but Itachi can only focus on how his little brother caresses his brittle skin and drags his fingers ever so slowly through his hair.

Itachi rests his forehead against his little brother's chest, wraps his arms around his waist and glances at the changing skies with a sleepy smile, feeling at peace.

iii. (fillers-verse, nsfw)

"Open up." His tone of voice short-clipped as he hooks his thumb around the corner of his mouth, scrapes over the sharp of his teeth; eyes half-hooded and glinting like a mirror in an almost completely dark room.

This has been a long way coming, ever since Itachi decided to manipulate him into staying, into circumventing his ambition around the silver lining over his older brother's shadow and how to break through it.

He groans and tilts his head back; the edge of the headboard digging into the skin under his shoulder blades, the insides of his elbows and his palms and the space in between his slightly-spread thighs sweaty, his hands shivering over the pronounced jut of Sasuke's hipbones. The tip of his tongue flicking against his brother's thumbnail, dragging all across the knuckle.

Grinning, Sasuke grabs a handful of hair at the base of his head and tugs to make Itachi curve his neck even more backwards—the back of his head thunk-ing against the wall; the lights in his rooms are out, but the moon is large and bright tonight and slivers of silver light wash over the exposed column of his throat, his heaving chest, the sheets of Sasuke's bed and the bottle of lube on the floor.

He starts to move again after keeping still for so long, grinding down on his older brother's cock, keeping him caged in between his knees, sinking his thumb into the hollow between gums and the inside of a cheek and dragging his bottom lip down. Itachi rubs the palms of his hands over his younger brother's flanks, not in an effort to coax him into a different pace—no, his little brother needs to think he's in control; but to burn warmth into his pale flesh, leave evidence of what they're doing for his own sake. Sasuke's fingers twist around strands of dark hair, edging into the skin around the knuckles like snares; he moves the nail of his thumb along the front of his teeth, pushes against a canine hard as he takes him to the hilt and keeps him hot and needy within him.

"Suck." It's not a command, not when they're nearing the last rung of the steps; the shallow rocking of his hips, the grip he has on his older brother's hair let up so that the roots aren't aching anymore, the stifled gasps trying to keep the aniki please please from spilling from his wet lips.

Itachi opens his mouth for his little brother's index and middle fingers, all the while moving one hand to stroke Sasuke's cock; he hollows his cheeks obediently, wets the underside of his fingers and in between his fingers as he jacks him off, trying to withhold himself from his own orgasm. He comes crashing apart in a few hot spurts of cum, over his brother's hand and abdomen, steadying himself with one hand in the juncture of Itachi's neck and shoulder, panting and close-eyed. Come undone.

.

iv. (non-massacre!au)

"Wah, your hands are so soft, 'ttebayo!" His voice rings loud and clear throughout the ramen stand and Sasuke grits his teeth in annoyance, wrists digging into the sharp edge of the wooden counter, head tilted downwards to obscure his scowl.

Itachi offers a diplomatic smile, the same one he uses when he's surrounded by their pushy aunts on the compound and can't make a timely escape, and gathers both of his hands in his lap. His bowl stands forgotten in front of him; the square-cut tofu pieces soggy in the oily broth, the cooked egg floating in between the vegetables, his wet chopsticks on a paper napkin, right knee bumping against the leg his grumpy younger brother.

Next to him, Naruto grins widely with faintly flustered cheeks before bringing the noodles clenched between his chopsticks to his mouth. He starts to slurp them up loudly and messily, splatters of soup splashing all over the button of his nose, his whisker marks and chin. Itachi looks bemusedly at him, while Sasuke admires the curve of his older brother's craned neck and the shell of his pale ear from his peripheral.

"Hey, Itachi-nii, you wanna come spar with me this evening?! It'll be real fun!" He exclaims suddenly as he puts his bowl back on the counter with a dull clank. His face is so open, slightly suntanned from those three long years training with Jiraiya.

Sasuke clenches his fist so tight that the he snaps one of his chopsticks in half; his features are pulled together in an angry snarl—corners of his mouth tugged downwards to show off a hint of teeth, his nose scrunched and brows furrowed, dark eyes narrowed, a trace of a shadow on his cheek from the way his hair falls. His older brother regards him warily and digs the full weight of his kneecap into his leg, a gesture meant to comfort.

"No Naruto, Itachi can't spar with you this evening." It's a growl, low and warning; he leans forwards over the counter to glare at his friend.

He looks startled for a moment, but then a sly smile curls up his lips and he asks innocently, "Why not?" Then he turns to Itachi and repeats his question, "Itachi-nii, why can't you spar with me?"

Itachi seems calculating for a moment, glancing between the two boys and putting the palms of his hands on the smooth surface of the counter. Before he can formulate a proper response to defuse the situation, Sasuke beats him to the punch, "Because he promised he'd spend the evening with me." He backtracks for a moment then, searching his brother's face for disapproval, murmuring weakly, "Right?"

It's that fearful glint in his eyes that makes Itachi reach out and take his younger brother by the hand, smiling so terribly tender and soft. "Right."

"Another day then, 'ttebayo!"

Sasuke wants to fucking strangle him, but he doesn't want to cause a scene and embarrass his older brother. When he gets him alone, though.

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v. (modern!au)

In the winter before Itachi left for college, he wrote a short story and sent it in as his entry for the literary contest of the Asahi Shinbun; the award ceremony took place in the city hall, which was dressed up with burgundy curtains and rows upon rows of wooden chairs—there was the Minoru Muraoka's shakuhachi rendition of Take Five playing on the backdrop as everyone got to their seats and it was so incredibly warm inside in comparison to the freezing temperatures outside, the coldest winter Sasuke could remember. He was thirteen at the time and had gotten used to feeling like nothing special next to Itachi. His brother's story got second place, won the approval of the professional jury and had gotten published in a collection.

His room looks so untouched; clean because their mother makes sure to dust and vacuum every weekend, but nothing seems out of place and the sheets smell less like detergent and more like lavender—Sasuke rolls over onto his stomach and props the manuscript on the pillow, reading it again after three years, stuck on the second chapter line five. They said it was an ode to the isolationist youth, reminiscent of the Chinese literature of the early nineties, but he doesn't see that in his older brother's work. It's just a story about a young man who likes people, but only from a distance. He brings the pad of his thumb to his mouth and tastes the oranges he'd been peeling with his mother in the kitchen this afternoon, his brows are furrowed and his nose scrunched.

Sasuke did the most stupid thing in his life when he turned fifteen and his older brother spent golden week with them, at home: he'd kissed him on the mouth and more or less told him that he loved him in a way he wasn't isn't supposed to and Itachi had reacted the way he thought he would so he kissed him again. Dinner that evening was awkward as fuck, to the point he all but fled from the house to buy apple juice at the convenience store five blocks from their house. Itachi had cornered him the next day, looking so infuriatingly gentle that he wanted to punch him and make his nose bleed, break. He perks up when he hears a door open and close in the hallway; could his father be home already from work?—but there are no other sounds so he turns the page.

There's a boy who the young man likes in the story and Sasuke can't help but compare himself to his own impressions of the boy. His older brother would berate him, recycle the arguments he used a year ago and tell him that he's confused, trying to look into things that aren't there. But, fuck aren't they just both on fire, Sasuke wonders as the tip of his index breaks off half-way the sentence, aren't they burning so subtly you just can't smell the smoke yet?

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vi. (vampire!sasu-verse)

"You left your phone at home." He says in lieu of greeting, standing behind his crouched form and clutching the handle of the transparent plastic umbrella with both hands while the wind whips into his face.

Sasuke watches the dirty water slosh wildly down the sewer grate in front of the edge of the curb, his palms curved over his knees, his wet jeans sticking to his cold skin, his unruly mop of hair slick-stuck to the nape of his neck and his forehead and the outline of his cheeks. He's accustomed to being cold, but he thinks it somewhat touching that Itachi holds the umbrella over the both of them the best he can. It's gray all over; the sky, the rain, the buildings and even the usually white markings on the street seem faded. He pushes himself up to stand, ignoring that his sneakers and socks consequently are soaked through.

He mutters lowly, "I forgot to leave a note, 'm sorry."

"I figured as much." There's no reproach in his voice, just that warm understanding Itachi has for all his idiosyncrasies, for all the blood sport in the dead of night when the hunger becomes so palpable he shakes. "Let get you back home."

Sometimes the walls of their apartment become too much like the bars of a cage during daytime, when Itachi has to go to work and he has no distractions aside from Doraemon reruns on the television—and he's already read all the books on the shelf, it's so difficult to sleep through a monsoon, always has been. Itachi leans into him, even though he isn't shivering from the cold or anything, and he's so alive. The dome of the umbrella looks like the windscreen of a car, covered in droplets of rain; a gush of wind threatens to get underneath and blow the iron ribs of the dome apart, but Itachi holds firm and positions the umbrella a bit sideways, to block off the wind. Sasuke feels bad for making him come out here to get him.

"Did you see anything interesting?" He asks conversationally as he presses up against Sasuke's side, wraps an arm around his shoulder. His woolen hello kitty gloves are glinting from the dirty rain.

Leaning his head against the side of his boyfriend's chest, he answers tiredly, "Someone's been doing heroin in the kid park around the block. Gonna find and kill 'em." He's interrupted by Itachi's chuckles, causing his chest to rumble a bit, but he continues, "What are you having for dinner tonight?"

"Sukiyaki. I'll come along, Shisui said he'll deal with the shipment of the ECNUP tomorrow morning so I don't have to come in 'til noon." Itachi explains before putting a chaste kiss to Sasuke's wet temple—and Sasuke wants to push up on his toes and chase his mouth.

They're close-pressed, sides glued together as they walk back home, and the normalcy of it all makes Sasuke hide his smile into Itachi's coat.

.

vii. (canon)

He's been running for so long that the moment he skids to a halt to catch his breath, he can feel the sweat sliding down the trail of his spine—lungs burning as he gasps open-mouthed, palm of his hand sliding off the bark of a tree; his eyes still stinging with unshed tears, the cool air fans his heated cheeks and… It's close to dawn, a reddened sky rolling out above the treetops, golden light eclipsed by the thick foliage, the forest slowly awakening from a long night and he feels like he's intruding on something entirely too peaceful for a person like himself.

Itachi simultaneously feels too old and too young, a sense of wrongness being pressed into his skin as he realizes the full weight of the ANBU armor he's still wearing; the shin and forearm guards, the chest plate, the washed-off black undershirt that's sticking to his torso, and his forehead protector, from which he tied the knot too hard so it becomes something palpable and coarse against the base of his head. His fingertips press into the tree stem and itty-gritty tree bark pushes into the crescents of his nails, but he's too caught in his own thoughts, light-headed as his balance tips over and he leans forwards, exhausted.

What if they killed Sasuke anyway?—his pupils blow wide and the grassy ground becomes blurry as tears roll down the corners of his eyes and over his cheeks and if he reaches the tip of his tongue to his upper lip he could taste; but what if his little brother is dead, what if Danzō decided to get rid of him because he could. Something twitches in a bush close to him and he spins around on his heel, looking around in a daze, but his feet don't really cooperate and he slumps against the pine tree with his right shoulder.

—lungs burning as he gasps open-mouthed; but he can't seem to breathe anymore, there's just his ribcage being pulled open as the contents of his chest spill all out, raw and bleeding and it hurts, everything hurts so much. Sasuke's dead, isn't he? Sasuke's dead, Sasuke's dead and all he did, planning, scheming, killing take care of sasuke for us mother father… His chin digs uncomfortably into the black earth. Itachi worked himself in such a frenzy that he fell down and his limbs are immobilized, heavy bones heavy burden, the guilt a stone on his back.

No, he thinks as he puts his palms on the ground and slowly pushes himself up, gets his feet back under him, stands up and tries to clear the fog out of his head. Sasuke's alive, Sasuke's alive; wide scared eyes looking up at him, a frightened voice, a boy that doesn't recognize the brother before him. It's time to move forwards, the board's set and all Itachi has to do now is what was intended for him: the only road he can follow leads to death.

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viii. (fillers-verse)

Sasuke's fingers card through the strands of his hair, trying to shake them loose and wild from the bun, get them a bit of everywhere, stuck to his cheekbones, the outline of his face, the handle of his jaw. Teeth rake over slightly suntanned skin, down to the hemline of his white sweatshirt and nip at the juncture of neck and shoulder, roll some flesh in between and a wanton whimper dies stillborn on the tip of a tongue in the chasm of his open mouth as cheeks hollow and suck, mark, bruise—darker and uglier than the petals of the bougainvillea their mother grows outside in the garden, purplered tinged paler at the edges, a drop of ink spread in thick parchment. Palms come to curve over his upper arms, not in an effort to push away, because his back is already flush against the wooden pillar in the walkway and his brother's whole weight leans onto him, but to hold steady, still.

There's the hollow clunk of the bamboo spout dropping down to stone and the loudness of the sound eclipses the breathy stutter that chips itself on the edge of his teeth when Sasuke bites down, sinks his want into him and fingertips follow, wrinkle the fabric of his rolled-up sleeves until he feels him everywhere, a hurried drum of his heart and he tips his head back, shows off the vulnerable make-up of his throat. Sasuke has to push up on his toes to reach the underside of his chin, to swipe a quick lick there, wet and slick and he rubs his own hands over his brother's flanks, sunlight skewering the movement with white and faint-gray.

"You're going to be the death of me." He murmurs when his little brother puts distance between them, a hairbreadth, the rise and fall of his chest—hurried because breath burns on the flat of his tongue.

Sasuke smiles up at him, half-hooded eyes rimmed with dark lashes, the predatory edge there in the tilt of the corners of his mouth. His lips are glimmering and he runs his tongue along the seal of them, teasing, tempting. Itachi responds with a sly smirk, presses the pad of his thumb underneath his brother's lower lip to wipe off some spittle in one slow swipe; the juncture of his neck and shoulder feels cool to the draft, impossible to conceal to their parents' curious gaze at the breakfast table. Another clunk, footsteps on the floorboards of the walkway, voices outside of the compound walls soft at first but then louder, and Itachi slinks away from his spot, touches the elastic band of his bun and pulls the dark strands completely free.

As his older brother reties his hair, Sasuke watches contently, arms crossed, head against the wooden pillar (still warm from his brother's back); spots a fading bite mark he made at the nape of his neck two evenings ago, when Itachi taught him how to write his reports according to the new guidelines. This new one is bigger.

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ix. (non-massacre!au)

Somehow it was much easier to excuse it in the dark, the way he sank his short-clipped fingernails into the pliable flesh stretched over his little brother's hips, the way he raked his teeth flat and blunt over his little brother's collarbone, a curt hungry nip, and the way he fisted his little brother's hard cock, jerking him off to the cadence of his own thrusts—Sasuke divine above him, head dipped forwards, close-eyed, a breathy laugh between beestung-swollen lips, one hand perched on his kneecap as he rode him without reticence, paperpale in the skewered moonlight slipping through the blinds of Itachi's bedroom. He's groggy from sleep, pushes himself up on all fours before he settles back, sits with his legs curved underneath him, a fist propped against his forehead, still tired. His little brother stirs next to him, rolls over on his back with his forearm draped over his face, neckline curved to show off the marks Itachi left there last night.

Itachi does a double take and almost falls off the bed when he sees; the abused nipples, the planes of his tummy smooth and unhurt until the hipbones, where a series of glaring red spots and half-circles begin, the straight structure of his collarbones punctuated with bite marks. Breath stutters stuck in his throat and he quietly shifts, so his legs dangle off the bed and then he's up on his feet, the carpet soft and fuzzy under his soles. He presses his fingers to both of his temples and sighs, rushes the air through his nose, gaze pinned to the crumpled heap of clothes on the floorboards. This was a mistake, he thinks panicked, i hurt him i hurt him i…

He needs to talk to him, but the trust in his own rationality took a serious blow; Sasuke had cornered him and pushed all of his buttons until the button-up came off, arms trapped in his sleeves, his little brother clutching the straps of the wifebeater he wore underneath, kissing and pawing like the horny teenagers they aren't supposed to be, not for each other at least. Itachi shimmies into his black capri's, forgoes the socks and softly opens and closes the door, a sweatshirt clutched against his bare chest. After a quick stop to the bathroom, he hurries to the entryway of their house, shoves his feet into his old pair of espadrilles, puts on a coat and closes the front door behind him, hair still untied, mind in a daze.

"Itachi?" His voice is scratchy, one arm behind his head, a shirt riding up his belly.

"I did something stupid." Itachi says, looking morose in the open doorway of his cousin's flat, and he can't even remember the walk here, the whole village a blur, a whirl of colors and faces and cacophonic sounds and smells.

Shisui looks like he just woke up himself, slightly surprised at how utterly disheveled Itachi looks and he realizes wholly instinctually that something has gone terribly wrong.

.

x. (non-massacre!au)

It's snowing lightly, the winter slowly chasing away the remnants of autumn with a nip of its teeth and this only serves as a taster for what the following weeks will have in store. He's holding the two plastic grocery bags against his chest, enjoying the mellow crunch of fresh-fallen snow under the soles of his shoes. His nose is sensitive to the cold, slightly swollen and bright red, just like the tips of his ears. Sasuke trudges a bit behind him, carrying the last bag of groceries by the handles with his left hand, a blush spread out over his cheekbones and along the slope of his nose. They've been talking to that Yamanaka girl in the supermarket a few minutes ago and it was difficult to keep the conversation flowing in between heavy bouts of flirting and the almost petulant silence of his little brother.

Itachi pauses so that his little brother can walk next to him, casting a quick glance over his shoulder, the line of his jaw cradled by his too long woolen knitted scarf. "Sasuke. Didn't you like talking to Yamanaka-san? She was very.." He smiles at him, indulgently, "Enthusiastic to see you."

"Yeah, she usually is." His response came quickly, with a bit more fire than intended perhaps. He huffs then, mutters quieter, "Always wants to hug me for some reason."

They round the corner, leaving a trail of dirty footsteps behind on the white ground; the lights of the street lanterns are already on, glowing a warm orange in their glass cages. Ichiraku seems crowded, he muses as they pass the ramen stand, the smell of broth and spices barely getting through his stuffed nose. He's looking forward to the shabu shabu their mother intends to prepare for dinner this evening, it's perfect for this type of weather. His gaze falls on the profile of his little brother's face and he can't help but think he looks a lot more relaxed out here than he did with that girl in the supermarket. You're projecting, Itachi grabs onto the bags more surely, you're just hoping he doesn't like that Yamanaka girl.

He tries to keep his tone casual as he addresses him again, his little brother's name comes out a bit more throaty though, and then he asks, "Do you like it when she comes talk to you?"

"Only when we talk about school. She's pretty smart, I guess." Sasuke responds, burying his chin into the warmth of his scarf. The snow just keeps falling around them, crowning their heads with fragile white flakes.

Itachi hums lowly and prompts, "You just didn't look so happy to see her."

"We were spending time together." His little brother says, tilting his head a bit so he could look at Itachi. "I like spending time, with you."

He almost stops walking at those words, because the alone was so heavily implied it was almost spoken out loud and all the knots of pent-up anxiety just dissolve inside his belly.

"I'm glad, Sasuke."

.

xi. (seaside-verse)

How much longer can he live on borrowed time? It's a question he's frequently asked himself, but it presses painfully at the forefront of his mind as he's curved over the kitchen sink, shivering like a small child who has the flu. Dry coughs rack his body, forcing his shoulders to slump inwards, his chest to constrict, his flanks to tremble along the movement. Sometimes the coughs come from so deep down his belly, he's afraid he's going to throw up whatever's left in his stomach. This time it's only some blood, trickling a slick trail down the his chin. As his eyesight has deteriorated to the point he can hardly see anything anymore without his glasses, he moves mainly on memory, something Sasuke had a lot of trouble accepting, but they're managing now, to put things back in the exact same spot.

Water runs the bit of blood and slime down the drain and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and washes both of them, then he turns off the tap. He doesn't have to look up to know Sasuke's standing in the doorway.

"It won't be long now." Itachi murmurs lowly, out-of-breath, his voice sounds hoarse and misused, as if he's been pattering prayers the whole night. There's the flick of the light; the soft sound of footsteps shuffling over the floorboards, and he puts both of his hands flatly on the counter, looking upwards where the cabinets are, but they're a brownish blob, blurried.

Sasuke heaves a deep sigh, a worried one and rebukes, "Don't say that. You still have time."

It's a lie, blown out of proportion by the wandering hands massaging the tension from his sides, pressing the heels of his palm into the muscles. Itachi knows he's gotten even skinnier than before, barely holding onto a red thread that's wound itself so tightly around his ankle it hooks and sinkers him into living, breathing.

"You still have time." It's said in a tone that's trying to convince the both of them, but it lacks persuasiveness, only that bleak desperation that occurs when a fact cannot be denied any longer.

They've argued about this before, in the dead of night under the covers, after dinners Itachi couldn't finish because he lacks any appetite he once had left, after coughing fits that rankled them both to their toes. And as always there's this darkness spreading in between his organs, started from behind his collarbone, whispering the guilt and taint to the marrow of his bones. Sasuke's anguish is your fault your fault your fault until the brightness behind his eyelids takes on the shape of characters in red ink.

Itachi allows the embrace, the security of arms caging him in, that warmth he's always craved, still craves, will always crave. "I was always meant to die before you." It's a hushed confession and he can feel his little brother stiffen.

He doesn't comment on the tears he feels between his shoulder blades when Sasuke buries his face there.

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xii. (seaside-verse)

Afterglow, the soft colors of certain fruits split open and splattered across the sky, the twining of fingers pale, their bodies coiled into one another like cats bedding together on a haystack, close, closer, his cheek pressed firmly against the crown of his little brother's head. tell me you love me, unspoken demands exchanged from mouth to mouth, a gentle press of dry and pinkish-chapped lips, but no the love is there in how they move together, languid like liquid mercury, hot and bright like a ribbon of magnesium set on fire. i will love you forever, a promise tucked away under his tongue and Sasuke trying to draw it out with his own, open-mouthed and a spittle-slick line between them as he pulls back, a bit of teeth peeking from underneath his upper lip.

He was dead once, flat-lining on the ground with his hair sprawled underneath him like a misguided offering, the blood drying on his face in rust-flaked lines, the darkness a form of consciousness on its own, but now his heart is racing and his mind struggles to follow the rundown tracks as his little brother trails skittish fingertips down the length of his arm, along the faintest of bluish lifelines that cross over his wrist and then to the open palm of his hand next to his flank on the bed. Sasuke's on his stomach, his bare shoulders peeping from out under the white covers and his ruffled bedhead hair stands in stark contrast with the pallor of his skin. and he wants to kiss the pointed curve of his shoulder so he raises himself upright, feeling the hunger for breakfast stretch through his stomach but it takes but a small dip to press his lips to Sasuke's shoulder, an even smaller one to chase the sheets off his brother's shoulder blade.

There are seagulls whining in the distance, outside the window glass, but they're outclassed by the strong sea breeze, a howling that bashes and bangs against the walls of their cabin. Itachi touches the sunlight-gilded muscles of his back with the plush pad of his thumb, stripping away the layer of sheet until it crumples above his little brother's bottom, and Sasuke hums under his breath, a vibration that rumbles in the pit of his belly, like that of a content cat being petted and praised. i don't deserve you, a confession to the curve of his spine and his little brother hides his face in the safety of his pillow, with just the flustered tips of his ears peeking out from in between black strands of hair.

you do.

you do.

He'd repeat the words until they'd make sense, but he's hypersensitive now to the sensation of his older brother carving the poetry of his name into his skin with a brush of tongue. His profile stands out against the pillow as he tries to catch a glimpse of Itachi, but the play of shadow and light on his older brother's body is lost to him due to their positions and there's only the sight of a hunched torso and the knobs of his spine and the glossiness of his long loose hair spread out over his arm and back.

.

bonus. (canon, nsfw)

he needs itachi to

—soften the sharp edges he made when he broke the boy into pieces on that one night so many years ago and right now his older brother's hands are molding their palm print into the paperpale skin of his flanks as he fucks him open shallowly and he can feel the length of Itachi's cock sliding into, out of him, stretching him; under Kabuto's statuesquely-stuck gaze, on the spread-thin reddish cloak where he can still feel the hard uncomfortable solid-stone ground of the cavern underneath, pebbles grinding underneath his bare ass cheeks and the flat of his shoulder blades as he arches and writhes and under his elbows as he tries to raise his chest. Stilted gasps break open the seal of his mouth as Itachi presses his palms onto the handle of his hipbones and thrusts into the slick of him, jerks his hips to his, dips the button of his nose to the sweaty skin of the juncture between neck and shoulder.

he needs itachi to

—put those hands on his throat, like he did when he was thirteen and kept him suspended above the ground against a blank wall and slowly pushed the air out of his windpipe, made the corners of his eyes prick from lack of oxygen, made his lungs burn and smolder. He stares up at his older brother, wide-eyed, with dilated pupils and flushed cheeks, and he finds it easy to ignore the thick black fracture lines flaking apart his sallow skin, because itachi is perfect no matter what, especially framed by the eerie greenish light of the cave and the stalactites pointing their arrowhead tips down to them, like a dozen daggers. His cock throbs and bobs between their bodies when Itachi starts to move faster, harder, settles into a rhythm that drives him positively insane.

"Put.." Sasuke's out of breath, nails scraping wrinkles over the expanse of the cloak, "Put your hands on my neck. Do it." He coaxes, spine curved inwards in an arch when his brother fills him to the hilt.

he needs itachi to

—keep moving, don't stop big brother, a strangled please dies on the tip of his tongue when Itachi ever so gingerly pushes his fingertips in the skin of the hinge of his jaw, unnatural eyes regarding him owlishly, unblinking as he kisses him so tenderly his heart would break.

"Choke me, nii-san." Sasuke croaks out, voice strangled, lost in the heat pooling low down his belly, thighs spread a bit wider.

Itachi doesn't slam his palm flat over his throat like he did before, no but instead he keeps his hands on the sides of his neck and squeezes, softly ever-so-softly at first as he keeps driving his cock into him. It feels unlike anything he's ever felt before and he gasps as if he's drowning, still drowning as the warmth spreads throughout his entire body—but it hitches to a halt through his throat. Pressure builds, keeps building, until he feels needlepricks behind his eyelids, all along his thighs and his toes and then he cums all over his abdomen, satisfied.

.