Disclaimer: Don't own Naruto or its characters. Not even close. Don't sue the poor college student for having some fun.
Notes: I have absolutely no idea where this came from. Just randomthoughts that wouldn't leave me alone, and forced me to write a drabble. I hate drabbles…there's no plot and I like plot, damn it.
Warnings: It's ItaSasu...expect angst and wrong, sinful, incestuous thoughts. XDD
Musings
He hadn't always been unconscious as they thought he was. Far from it. Sakura sat there, peeling her apples, bringing her flowers that left the scent of spring in the otherwise unpleasant hospital room, but she had no idea of the façade that got him through the days in her presence. Dark eyes closed to the world, back turned to her so that he could glimpse out the window once in a while. He had tried to sleep on many an occasion, but the thoughts that assaulted his mind of all sanity were far too strong to allow him to drift into peaceful sleep.
The light throb at his wrist was a constant reminder of that afternoon, over a week ago. It didn't so much hurt as it bothered him…he could still feel the snapping of bones and tendons as if it had never been mended by the Fifth. It wasn't a broken wrist that had bothered him, really. It was the implications that came with that broken wrist…he hadn't even been able to touch him, much less cause any harm. How could he still be so weak even five years later? In that moment, he felt so small. Felt as if he had been back home, gazing up at his treasured older brother that had meant the world to him. His idol, his inspiration. It felt like one of those many afternoons he'd pouted and begged him to help him practice or anything that would involve spending time with him. Back then he had just received a hard two-fingered poke to the forehead that'd leave a red mark he'd attempt to rub away. There was no red mark to rub away this time. The memories were vivid in his mind; the effects of the tsuyomi were not completely erased – he knew they never would be despite the Fifth's numerous efforts. It hadn't faded after the first time and it would still not fade after the second. Those red-stained images would forever be branded into his mind, adding not only to his resolve but also to the endlessly cycling feeling of imprisonment between torn emotions – the constantly welling love-hate that threatened to tear him apart.
Sasuke lay there, watching the sun's dying hues filter through the blinds into the room. His previous efforts to sit up had failed him when the pain shot up his spine, causing him to wonder just how much damage had been inflicted by those seemingly effortless punches and kicks that had beat him into near unconsciousness in that rundown motel hallway. Giving up for now, he merely watched the colors the sun's rays made through the window and sighed, pressing those dark eyes shut moments later as teeth dug into his lower lip. Why couldn't he find the hate he needed, even after all this? Had he been so defeated to the point of having no other emotions than the gut wrenching sensation of weakness, accompanied by the churning deep within him every time he recalled the fingers that wound around his throat as coherency was slipping away; the softness of that cloak as it brushed against his limp arms; the rush of warm air that escaped those lips so close to his own; the black strands that brushed his cheeks as that face leaned closer to his own to whisper condescendingly into his ear.
"You don't hate me enough," Itachi had whispered to him; that voice a low murmur as he had always remembered it.
He had said it then, just as he had said it five years ago. It was still the same, the gap between them, his wish to get better only to watch his brother grow stronger and leave him behind. But there was more to it this time – had he known? Had Itachi felt the way his body had tensed as the space between them diminished? Had he been able to tell that his beaten muscles reacted to the closeness of that warm, strong body even though he knew that they shouldn't have?
Sasuke felt the sudden rush of blood boil in his cheeks at the thought. The embarrassment was greater than the defeat. The mockery was even stronger – not enough hate to kill him, but enough delusional lust to fantasize about being fucked by him.
Perhaps tsuyomi had affected more than one area of his brain, he mused sardonically, settling to glare at the ceiling instead. He would later on blame the uncomfortable churning in his gut on the non-existing hunger sated by sliced, peeled apples.
No, I have positively no idea where that came from or why I'm sharing it since there's little to it, but there it is. Maybe it'll motivate me to write more. ...I swore I wouldn't touch the fandom with a ten foot pole, too. -.- Damnit. They're angst fodder, I can't resist.