Once, when Sasuke still resided with Orochimaru, he had made a turn into the wrong corridor. He was fifteen then, as bold as he had ever been, and opened the chamber door without hesitation.

It was inside that he met a woman. A woman, her silhouette outlined behind layers of fusuma screens, the low strings of a koto echoing from a source unknown.

Sasuke had stepped closer because her outline had been daring to the eye, her hair just grazing the tatami, her toe a shy touch from the ceiling. Every curve of her flesh, fold of her kimono, weave of rope… she was supposed to be art, he realized.

Orochimaru had a twisted sense of aesthetic.

Sasuke supposes his is just as sick.

He steps back to examine his work. The woman's suspension was meant to be an act of defiance. Orochimaru was trying to help her fly. To give her wings.

Here, Sasuke has done everything to take them away.

Itachi kneels immobilized, both arms bound together behind his back, ankles locked. Rope traverse from his wrist upwards, crisscrossing diamonds and cages, a kaleidoscope of interlocking webs, before collaring around his neck.

The position is not meant to be a comfortable one. His upper body is left unsupported, his head forced to hang low. Bowed. It is difficult to breathe, and impossible to move, not even a finger.

Then again, Itachi does not need to lift a finger to escape. It is not the rope keeping him there.

In calculated steps, Sasuke approaches the bed. He knows his brother is listening to his movements.

Under the sudden touch, Itachi tenses, but then unwinds.

The caresses are slow and gentle, the way Sasuke knows his brother likes them.

Itachi accepts the rough treatment because that is what Sasuke wants. He will give Sasuke whatever he wants. But what Itachi wants is something different, something he doesn't verbalize but Sasuke can feel. Sasuke can feel it on his fingers, the way his brother molds to his touch, how he craves it, craves it more desperately than the addicting high of sex.

Sasuke wonders why he has such difficulty giving Itachi what he wants. Why he makes his brother endure these humiliations for something so simple. Why he savors taking away his pleasure more than giving it to him.

The splashes of water is almost violent.

Wordless, Sasuke empties the contents of his bottle, watching the water drip down his brother's skin, along the ridges of the rope, before it blossoms out across the bed sheets.

The stain is reminiscent of a flower, only the pattern is too mature to be a daisy, too quiet to be a violet, and too chaste to be a rose.

Droplets fall down Itachi's hair, under his blindfold, along his neck. No matter what Sasuke does, Itachi is immune, whatever filth rolled off him like the mud off the petal of a lotus.

Sasuke smiles, bringing their lips together. A lotus. That's what it was.

"Nii-san..." Sasuke breaks apart their kiss, his breath in a whisper. "How long can you kneel for me."

He already knows the answer. Nonetheless, he wants to hear it from Itachi's mouth, and when he does, his smile widens. He collects the bags and leaves for the kitchen.

The door is left open, an unobstructed view of the bed as he prepares their lunch. In the past, the open door was a sign of doubt, some residual fear that Itachi would disappear. That he would come back to an empty bed of loose ropes, a reminder of his powerlessness.

Sasuke doesn't have that fear anymore. Now, he just likes the view, the sight of his own personal masterpiece.

After so many years of chasing perfection, there is something so indescribably gratifying to have finally caught it.