Disclaimer: Don't own Naruto, please don't sue.
Rating: M for safety.
Comments: I don't know what the hell this is about. I just sort of wrote it. Riza wanted post-massacre ItachixSasuke, even though I was intending to write pre-massacre. It's all her fault for it coming out this... weird. Screwy. Slightly insane. Backstory? Use your imagination. :)

Seasons
Itachi/Sasuke

Itachi does not like being unable to do anything, and so he closes his ears and lightly tangles his fingers in short-cropped black hair, thick and wiry to his touch; he does this often, for he finds it interesting that their hair is so different when the rest of them is so similar.

"It tickles," Sasuke murmurs, rolling over to blink up at the face of his brother, no matter that he cannot see it.

His voice has been cold and emotionless for years, but it is soft and oddly carressing now. "Did I wake you?" he asks gently, when gentle is not in his nature.

Sweet words are nothing more than tools.

Unable to see the flat eyes that accompany these words, yet fully aware of them, Sasuke shakes his head and lifts his hand, fumbling from chest to shoulder to chin, and frowns when he feels thin lips slightly curved in a smile. "Don't do that," he orders, sounding much like a child pouting at a parent, and bites back disappointment when that smile so easily fades, without even hesitation. He drops his hand quickly and can't quite explain that he wants real smiles and real emotion and his real brother, the one that went into hiding so long ago, the one that had been there so briefly that night--

And again he shuts off that thought, hating the sound of the wind and all the memories it brings. He pretends he cannot smell the snow and he pretends that he is not shivering in the cold air. It is summer, it is always summer, and the sun is always shining.

The dark is too cunning and it steals his sanity a little more each day.

Itachi continues to lightly stroke his hair, an act more honest than any, and lets his fingers stroke his brother's scalp every so often - it is nights like this where both of them relax a little, both of them lie a little, and both of them are blind. He pretends the wind does not blow as fiercely as it does, pretends snow does not fall as it does, and pretends that they are back to one summer ago.

They can do this because reality never intrudes in this little place. It is haunted, the locals say, and they are frightened of these bedraggled people who live in this broken down cottage, never saying a word and staring coldly at any who come by with well-wishes and concern about the winter weather and food and heat and life.

Life is not welcome here.

"It's snowing."

Itachi's voice breaks that pretty haze of illusionary reality and Sasuke jerks away, sitting straight and stiff. "It's too cold to sit out here. I'm going inside." Not that it helps, for there are holes in the ceiling and holes in the walls and their clothes and blankets are battered and ragged and overused. Maybe they'll die this winter of the cold. He won't mind; they're long overdue for death.

They've been dying a long time now.

A blade feels too cold to his hands, and he cannot kill with it any longer.

He wraps a blanket around his little brother, standing blankly in the middle of the room, probably lost in thought, probably remembering things like hatred and fear and anger and revenge.

Itachi smiles faintly, and this time it is a real smile - real, cruel, hard, sharp. It has been a year since they came here, battered and bleeding and Sasuke weeping, with memories of the far past and the near past and family. He knows that Sasuke sees him now as a mixture of brother-before and brother-after, and it is a fun game they play.

Sometimes it is a game with teeth and tongue and hard hands, of gasps and whispers and pain and sweat, of forbidden kisses and Sasuke's mouth on his shoulder, perfect teeth biting into his skin, drawing blood. It is far more fun a game than mere fighting and killing, for Itachi is in control of his little brother's mind once again, and he is letting it decay moment by moment.

Insanity can only be judged by the insane.

Sasuke leans back automatically, unsurprised when he collides with Itachi's chest. He knows that his brother stepped forward to catch him.

It annoys him, because the move is too caring.

It warms him, because it is like brother-before has returned.

He hates this back and forth feeling, hates how sometimes he just wants to kill that body always beside his, warm and hard and just a little bigger than his own. It is an odd feeling, how his brother is not overly large and looming anymore. It makes Sasuke feel more powerful, and it makes Sasuke feel helpless.

They are slaves to time, and time has broken his vengeance.

Time has taken his sight.

Time can be stopped if you just ignore it.

"I hate the snow," Sasuke mutters. It is not a whisper and it is not a mumble; it is simply a grumbled statement of fact as he forcefully tries to make light of the entire thing.

They hate seasons.

Itachi doesn't answer - it is rare that they actually hold anything resembling a conversation - and guides him gently toward their little bed in the corner, nothing more than blankets provided by caring neighbors who left them on their doorstep and ran. He finds that he wants to feel Sasuke beneath him, to overpower and overcome. He wants to be harsh and cruel and taste blood on his tongue, and he wants to hear his little brother cry.

These days come more and more often, lately.

They're addicted and they'll never stop.

"You tried to kill me in winter," Itachi reminisces in a calm voice.

Sasuke flinches and gasps as he falls to his knees on blankets, soft and chilly against his skin. He shudders and immediately burrows beneath them, unsurprised when Itachi does not follow. It will come soon enough - he recognizes the atmosphere - but, as always, he feels a bit of apprehension because he cannot see, and thus cannot be quite sure what night this will be like.

Will he fight and struggle and swear, or will he be brought down to beg?

He shudders and tries to ignore those words, harsh words of a reality he has always ignored.

He wants skin against skin, wants the warmth of life, despises living.

No surprise touches his thoughts when Sasuke does not respond to his little lure. His little brother has always been good at silent rejection.

Itachi remembers clearly those days, of hunting and fighting and running, of playing the little game of cat and mouse, playing devils and angels and turning it around until neither was sure of what the goal really was. Sasuke started with the intent to kill; Itachi ended with the intent to break.

Ruthless killer, loving brother? Itachi had brutally made it so Sasuke could never be certain - all it took was that gentle smile, before taking his little brother's sight and leaving him with a memory of an Itachi long ago. A living, breathing memory that took him in, nurtured him to health, soothed and catered and murmured, all the while breaking down that mind that wasn't sure what to grasp any longer.

And here Sasuke is now, shivering beneath the blankets and staring a little to Itachi's side, unable to see and hating that weakness - and here Itachi stands, alive, scarred, still powerful, and the only thing Sasuke can cling to. Perhaps his vision is grayer than before, but he has his little toy to brighten his day.

Brother, toy, pet, game - Sasuke is many things, whereas most can be only one.

Even then, all games must come to an end.

His toes curl into the blanket, hands flexing to warm his fingers. Both thrill and fear shiver down his body, warming and chilling, and he grasps at the excitement it brings. His lips are dry and his breath is warm, and Itachi's tongue is hot beneath his ear, teeth hard against his neck.

He moans without thinking of things like subservience and power; he just thinks of heat and hands and sex, and he has to admit to that little corner of his mind that he's been broken since long ago, since that summer he woke from fever and dreams and faded memories of soft words and gentle hands against his forehead. He knows that Itachi is nothing more than a fake, and he knows that he should still have that hatred in him - but it's gone somewhere beyond his grasp, and he doesn't recall his mother's smile anymore. He just remembers pain, and now he remembers pleasure.

There's something too real in these touches, and realization comes too late.