FanFiction.Net - unleash your imagination|
Author of 31 Stories |
Warnings: shota, violence, Sasuke-torture
A/N: OH GOD. You may remember this being briefly posted for a brief time last summer, but it is a VASTLY different creature now. In progress from May 22 06 to April 15 07, phew. And it's just a first chapter, it's not even done...argh... But yeah. I've been writing for the past three and a half hours, the last 4000 words or so I just feverishly added today. So many hours have gone into this fic, I don't even want to tell you guys, seriously. BUT. I hope you all enjoy. It's a start, definitely. I'm SO glad to have this part of the story done. -huge sigh o' relief- I'll start working on the next part...er...soon-ish. I'm still all reeeeeling just from this part. Gimme time. XD
EDIT: Version 2.0, lol! Just made some little changes. Nothing warranting a reread.
But that would mean staying in the house.
And that’s where Itachi is.
Sasuke doesn’t want to be where Itachi is right now, so instead he braves the summer air, sitting a little ways from the house under a tree—even if the mottled shade of the leaves offers not much relief. He took a popsicle from the freezer on his way outside, and he eats it now quickly, battling against the force of nature that is the blindingly bright sun, but having the confection melt in sticky drips down his hands regardless. The sugary treat—rare in their house—cools his mouth down, at least.
When he’s done he lets the wooden stick fall to the dirt and sucks at his fingers slowly, not that it does him much good; he’s still sticky. Sasuke leans his head back against the tree trunk behind him, letting his eyes fall shut with a gentle sigh. The bruise on his left cheekbone is ugly, he thinks. He doesn’t like pain. He’s young and not used to it and hasn’t felt enough of it to realize how truly superficial it is most of the time. Of course, the bruise doesn’t really compare to the stripes on either hip.
Hand marks. Gripping him. Holding him still. Sasuke’s fingers tighten, clenching into fists, a burning sting as his nails push at the soft flesh of his palms. Gradually Sasuke opens his eyes, the tenseness of his body relaxing bit by bit as he does. He’s come to the decision that those are just memories, not monsters that can hurt him, so he should let them go. His childish form of denial. But no matter how much he believes in his philosophy, the memories are too stubborn, playing again and again in his mind.
Sasuke watches a mass of black rise out of the trees, a veritable swarm of some small birds; he’s not sure what they are. Looking closely he can spot the desperate flapping of individual wings, and Sasuke wonders how it must feel working that hard just to stay in the air. The flock of birds is constantly changing, moving, writhing, and Sasuke’s glad when they fly into the distance, because watching them was disturbing to him. A cool breeze blows past, just as dark, heavy clouds roll into the sky. The weather change is abrupt and violent, as often happens in summer.
But though the sky is no longer blue, the heat is still present, and Sasuke stares up at the whorls and columns of gray and black, hoping for them to burst open and spill rain. At least that would cool him down. Sasuke stands up, using the tree as leverage, and walks out of its protective canopy, throwing his arms out wide once he’s standing in the open. His mind is all prayers for rain, fervent wishes, and he wonders why he wants it so badly; he’s not even sure himself. Just wants it, maybe in the hopes that it will wash away everything that’s been happening in Sasuke’s life.
But his hopes don’t go unfulfilled; a gentle pitter-pattering sound begins shortly, dirt speckled by dots of darker brown. Sasuke gives a tremulous laugh as a drop splatters on his forearm, warm and fat as it slides down his skin. It feels good, makes him feel lighter, freer, and he throws his head back, letting more fall on his cheeks and forehead, another laugh ripped out of him. Nothing’s funny, nothing at all is funny, but yet he can’t seem to stop his gentle, shaky laughter as he becomes slowly soaked by gradually increasing raindrops.
After a while, serious obsidian eyes trail to the house, and he decides that it’s time to go inside. With the rain lessening and the world around him beginning to come back to life, Sasuke takes what seems to be a painfully long walk through their backyard, slipping in the backdoor quietly. His expression is one that is twisted into something fearful, dripping rainwater on smoothly varnished wood floor. If he can just make it to his room without—a soft voice interrupts his thoughts.
“You’re all wet,” Itachi says, eyes half-lidded as he gazes down at Sasuke. Sasuke glances up, shyly, a drop of water rolling down his cheek from his hair. After a moment, he nods tensely.
“Don’t just stand in the rain next time, come in right away,” Itachi’s voice hardens slightly, though it retains its quiet flow, and Sasuke flinches away from it. Itachi just laughs one of his soft laughs that are not really amused, but cold.
“Alright, Nii-san,” Sasuke promises, meaning it, because maybe if he just does what Itachi wants him to, he’ll be left alone. Sasuke flinches away more as a harsh hand reaches out, gripping under Sasuke’s chin. Itachi tilts Sasuke’s face up to the light, examining it slowly, eyes making lazy paths. Eventually, Itachi’s thumb slides up to the corner of Sasuke’s mouth, pressing down slightly. Sasuke winces, realizing with the jolt of pain that comes that he must have a bruise there as well, though he’s not as sure what happened to cause that as he is what happened to cause the dark mark on his pale cheek.
He had been outside. Playing. Amusing himself, because Itachi, who used to make time around his missions to play with Sasuke, had become so very busy, hardly ever even at home any longer. Sasuke didn’t even notice him until he was practically in front of Sasuke’s face, because his steps were so very silent.
“Nii-san!” Sasuke cried out, startled but delighted—he hadn’t even seen Itachi at all for at least a week. Itachi simply tilted his head to the side, eyeing Sasuke quietly. After a moment, he took several more steps, until he was standing with Sasuke no more than an inch away from himself. Itachi lifted a hand, and Sasuke blinked, looking at it.
“What is it?” Sasuke asked gently, a bit cautiously. Itachi’s expression was so blank.
Itachi sighed, not giving any response to Sasuke’s question. Sasuke wasn’t stupid; he saw things. He noticed things. He noticed how weary and dulled Itachi had become in the past month, how there seemed to be something seething beneath the surface. Sasuke had a nervous apprehension of late, a tension that seemed to settle over everything in his life, increased every time Itachi said something mean or treated Sasuke, of all people, poorly. Lately, Itachi had been acting normally enough around everyone else, but when Sasuke was with Itachi, his older brother seemed so different.
Sasuke let out a meek hum under his breath, stumbling several paces backwards, because Itachi’s proximity didn’t exactly make him feel comfortable, not then, when there was such a malicious gleam in Itachi’s eyes.
Itachi moved swiftly forward, gripping Sasuke’s upper arm in a tight, cruel hold.
“Nii-san, that—that hurts,” Sasuke whined, wincing and feeling his eyes brimming with tears; tears of confusion, of loss.
“Don’t cry,” Itachi commanded coolly, “You have no reason, yet.” Itachi’s fingers tightened until his muscles trembled with the strain, and Sasuke cringed away, a sudden desperate sob escaping him.
“Stop,” Itachi breathed, the hand that was not holding Sasuke tight moving to his right cheek, brushing away at the moistness that spilled from Sasuke’s wide, young eyes.
“Tears are for the weak,” Itachi continued, “You don’t want to be weak, do you?” Sasuke shook his head quickly, tensely.
“Say it!” Itachi shook Sasuke near viciously, a slight whimper of fear escaping Sasuke at that.
“I d-don’t want to be weak,” Sasuke struggled to get the words out, and his voice shook.
“Good. That’s good,” Itachi breathed, calming down, grip on Sasuke loosening.
“Can I—can I go now?” Sasuke asked, pulling away and taking several more unsteady steps backwards, unknowingly backing himself against a tree trunk.
“Why?” Itachi asked flatly, crossing his arms across his chest.
“I—because you’re scaring me,” Sasuke mumbled, lowering his eyes to the ground.
Itachi’s mood—so unsteady, it seemed—rose suddenly, and before Sasuke could realize what had happened, he was on the ground and there was a stinging, burning pain in his cheek. Itachi stepped back, loosening his hand from the fist it had clenched into and flexing it before relaxing the hand entirely. Sasuke’s eyes filled with hurt tears, and Itachi made a low scoffing sound.
“I told you to stop,” Itachi said, voice low, crouching down next to Sasuke, almost bursting into laughter at how god damned pathetic the boy looked, scrabbling to get away. Like an animal. Like a rat.
Already an angry red mark blossomed on Sasuke’s cheek like a hateful rose, and Sasuke bit back any more hiccupping sobs that wanted to be released, because he’d never been touched like that, he’d never been hurt like that.
“Come, little brother, stand,” Itachi murmured, lips close to Sasuke’s ear, hand eventually finding its way to Sasuke’s hair, soft, black, silken, and tugging the much slighter frame up with him. Sasuke winced in pain at this, and gave a sigh of relief as, once they were standing, Itachi released him entirely, giving a slight shove to Sasuke’s back, leaving Sasuke to stumble towards the tree, bracing his hands on it to avoid with having his face collide with the rough bark. Itachi once more stepped forward, once more violated Sasuke’s space, his very state of being.
Itachi was oddly silent, hardly seeming to even breathe, as his hands slipped to Sasuke’s front, crawling up the boy’s shirt to stroke at a soft, fleshy stomach. Not even Itachi himself knew what he was doing anymore; he had all of this anger, hatred, inside of him and was tired of keeping it so strongly suppressed and yet he couldn’t let himself go completely and tell the clan just how much he hated them. So instead, it seemed, he’d chosen Sasuke as a target, because he knew that the boy would never tell. And because he wanted to. Sasuke veritably squeaked as Itachi’s fingers stroked and pinched and rubbed as they pleased, and he squirmed against Itachi, though the older boy had him firmly pinned against the tree. He could feel something hard pressing against his back, at Itachi’s waist, but Sasuke was too young to know much of anything about that.
A growing smile spread upon Itachi’s lips like a cancer as Sasuke struggled against him.
“Sasuke,” Itachi breathed slowly, before pulling his hands free of Sasuke’s front and taking a step back, coolly gazing at Sasuke for one more moment before turning and walking completely calmly away, as though nothing had even happened.
Sasuke slumped wearily to his knees in the dirt, still clinging to the tree for support; he felt so dizzy and sick and he didn’t even know why. Itachi had just—touched him. But yet it seemed so awful, and his cheek was still throbbing in awful pain, upper arm hurting even worse. He’d never felt so much pain, used to little things like scrapes and scratches. After a while Sasuke forced himself up, half stumbling in the house, careful to avoid his parents on his way to his room, collapsing to his bed and hiding under his covers, where he could almost feel safe.
Sasuke blinks, bringing himself back, back to here and now and those memories are bad, bad, he doesn’t want to think about them anymore. Hadn’t he already decided not to?
“You were just remembering it,” Itachi remarks lightly, for he always had a very keen intuition, after all. Sasuke shrugs. There’s no point to denying it.
“Don’t forget, then,” and Itachi’s hand drops back to his side, ending his fingers probing of Sasuke’s face, ending his silent appraisal. Itachi isn’t even sure how that bruise ended up in the corner of Sasuke’s mouth. He didn’t kiss Sasuke, after all, nor did he strike him past the one time. The bruise is completely unrelated. It doesn’t matter much to Itachi at all, just one more way to cause pain for Sasuke. Itachi wants to cause Sasuke pain. He wants to steel the boy, get him used to what the world will be. It’s not a pleasant place, Itachi’s come to find, and he’s become rather disillusioned with it.
Maybe his true reasons are a bit more selfish than that, but what do the reasons really matter?
“Can I go dry off, nii-san?” Sasuke mumbles quietly, staring rather determinedly at the wall. A brief smile twists on Itachi’s lips.
“No,” Itachi says, silken smooth, not reacting in the least to Sasuke’s pout which forms right away. It’s all just a game, and to allow Sasuke to leave would be giving the boy an extra point that he doesn’t deserve—and besides, there’s something Itachi’s decided that he wants to do. Itachi goes to his knees before Sasuke, getting himself more even with the boy’s level. His fingers dance to the back of Sasuke’s neck, touching the soft, downy hairs there, before he tugs Sasuke forward, connecting their lips softly. When he pulls back, Sasuke stares at him with wide, surprised eyes.
That had felt, honestly, good. Had made him feel loved, cared for, because it was just so gentle and soft and everything Itachi isn’t, these days. Itachi smirks at the confusion in Sasuke’s eyes, and leans forward once more, slanting his lips against Sasuke’s and sucking a small bottom lip into his mouth, worrying it between pearly white teeth, before his tongue coaxes it’s way into Sasuke’s mouth, and his hands fall to Sasuke’s damp shoulders, fingers twisting in the wet fabric. Sasuke tugs away after a brief moment with a long gasp, cheeks flushed deep red from holding his breath for so long—and maybe from something more than that as well.
“You can leave now, Sasuke,” and Itachi stands, patting the top of Sasuke’s head briefly. Sasuke, still confused, turns on his heel, hurrying to his room, to his sanctuary.
Later, when the sun goes down, the fireflies come out, floating, hazy green-yellow dots drifting along. Sasuke slips into the kitchen, glancing about nervously, staying only long enough to grab a jar and a lid with holes already cut into it, for this is not even close to the first time he’s done this. Back outside, he begins capturing them, one by one, a smile on his face; strained, of course, but there, at least. The way they drift about lazily, glowing, is so beautiful, and once the jar is full enough, he sets it down, laying down on the cool green grass and glancing at his glass cage from time to time, mainly just watching the bugs still in the air. Maybe he’s glad to finally have control over something—someone.
The fireflies glow like the stars, and the bugs in his jar remind him of pieces of the night sky, captured for him only. Shards of blue-purple-black and faint yellow and white and the glowing orb that is the moon, and Sasuke wonders, if he tried hard enough, if he could get it all in his jar, steal the night sky away because it’s so beautiful, too beautiful, he wants to covet it, he doesn’t want anyone else to have it. Sasuke’s eyes drop from the sky with a sigh, a gentle puff of moist warm breath over soft lips.
Lips, which just yesterday Itachi kissed, sucked, licked, bit. Sasuke doesn’t know how to feel about that. And he doesn’t know how to feel about what happened the other time, either. All he really knows is that it felt strange and Itachi’s behavior hurt him, in a mental way—a deep ache stemming from his heart and making its way to every bit of him. Sasuke’s young mind is stained with the betrayal of it, the cruel things Itachi was doing to him, someone he’d been so close to, looked up to so strongly. And perhaps that stain will remain there always. Sasuke isn’t sure if these feelings are ever going to fade, he can feel them so strongly. Sasuke clenches his eyes shut, willing away the tears that haven’t quite come yet, and when he opens them again, he fixates his gaze on his jar of captured, hazy, floating stars.
On and off, on and off, the fireflies glow faint green, and after a while, Sasuke stands, picking the jar up. It’s late. He wants—needs to go sleep and be taken away from all of these noisy thoughts in his head. He doesn’t even think Itachi’s been home today, and this whole thing, staying outside, is stupid. Still, he feels vaguely comforted by the fact that he can take the fireflies with him. He wants to watch them, lying in bed, because he’s not sure if he’ll be able to sleep otherwise. It’s not that he’s scared of the dark, he just—he’s not even sure. Sasuke feels sick to his stomach a lot lately, Sasuke feels like passing out a lot lately, and right now he just needs to sleep, to dream, to get away. He wants to fall asleep to the glow of his personal stars.
The jar falls from his hands and rolls slightly away in the dirt as hands grab him suddenly from behind, pulling him back against a lithe, firm body covered in stiff, thin armor, slick with blood. Itachi is in his ANBU uniform, the crimson liquid splattered on his face, his arms, his hands, his hair. Itachi got to kill, tonight. Got to kill a lot of people.
He had laughed as he did it. He’d danced amongst the poor, outclassed shinobi as they fruitlessly tried to defend themselves and he killed every last man. The scent of death was thick in the air when he left the small clearing, devoid of the bodies, and is still thick on him now.
Itachi is hunched over so that his lips are close to the rim of Sasuke’s ear, spilling hot breaths over the delicate skin. Sasuke shakes slightly, but forces himself to stand relatively still.
“Nii-san?” Sasuke questions, staring straight ahead, voice small and meek and hardly there at all.
Itachi pointedly ignores this mouse-like question, and his fingers creep slowly to Sasuke’s lips, pushing past them, prying open Sasuke’s jaw, probing at the moist cavern of Sasuke’s mouth.
Itachi’s fingers taste bitterly of blood, salt and copper, and Sasuke turns his head to the side, struggling to get Itachi’s fingers out of his mouth, but Itachi just pushes deeper, determined, feverish, feeling the soft muscle of Sasuke’s tongue twitch and spasm against his fingers. Sasuke, choking, does the only thing he can think to, and bites down, as hard as he can. Itachi pulls back with a startled jump, glancing at broken skin on his fingers. He lets out a soft chuckle.
Itachi is practically proud of Sasuke; the boy is learning, is learning that life is and always will be a struggle for survival, and you have to hurt others to get through it, you have to thrash and kick and claw and, bite, and kill, and that’s the only way you’ll ever survive it. Sasuke trips as he stumbles forward after being so suddenly released, going to his knees in the dirt, one hand ending up on top of the dropped glass jar; the weight of his body, slight though it is, shatters the glass with a sound that seems deafening in the quiet of the night, crunching and tinkling. Sasuke cries out in pain as shards punctures his palm and his stars flutter away, his hope leaving him. He turns his hand up to the light of the night and looks at it, scattered with sparkling clear shards of glass, embedded in his flesh, blood welling up around them, trickling down his skin. He looks up at Itachi, biting his lower lip to stop its trembles.
Itachi sighs, speaking his first words to Sasuke, “Go—go bandage that.” He takes several steps backwards before turning, jumping up to the most nearby branch and leaving. Sasuke is almost painfully grateful he is gone.
Once inside the house, Sasuke locks himself in the bathroom, nearly falling to the tile floor, his hand gripping the wrist of the injured one, glass turned up to the light still, and the tears just won’t come. He bows his head, trembling, offering a prayer to any deity listening. Praying for what, he’s not sure. He doesn’t want Itachi to go away, he loves Itachi, he just wishes that Itachi would go back to how he was, not this quiet, wraith-like being, existing only to kill and hurt others; especially Sasuke, anyway.
After awhile, Sasuke composes himself, sitting down against the wall and using tweezers to pluck broken glass out of his skin. It hurts, and but a week ago, he would have been crying and whimpering and going to mother to help him. But now, it seems so inconsequential, everything seems inconsequential, seems to fall by the wayside, and he tugs the sharp cruelties out without a second thought, dropping them in a pile at his side. Once they’re all out, he wipes the hand down with alcohol, biting his lip at the sting.
How many times has he seen Itachi go through this process? And how many times will Sasuke do this again, this process of getting hurt and healing and getting hurt again and healing once more? He doesn’t know what life has in store for him, he just knows that it’s too early, too early for him to be used to such pain.
Above all else, Sasuke wants his normality back.
Sasuke tightly wraps pristine white bandages with a distant gaze.
“What?” Sasuke whispers, voice cracking slightly, and Itachi lets the hand drop down to the mattress limply.
“I just wanted to watch you sleep, little brother,” Itachi returns softly, the slightest of smiles upon his face.
“Well I’m not sleeping anymore, so leave,” Sasuke nearly snaps, using irritation to cover up the tremor in his voice. After their last incident, Sasuke wants nothing to do with Itachi. Itachi just raises his hand once more, reaching down and clenching Sasuke’s wrist, turning his palm up to the light. The bandages are gone, and the marks are practically healed, though they’ll probably leave small scars at the points where the glass punctured deepest.
“Did it hurt?” Itachi breathes, bringing the palm to his lips and pressing a gentle kiss to it. A kiss to make it all better. The kiss doesn’t accomplish what it’s supposed to, though, just makes Sasuke’s skin crawl, makes his leg twitch with the impulsive urge to kick Itachi away.
“Of course it did,” Sasuke mutters, pulling out of Itachi’s grasp.
“Of course,” Itachi parrots, moving his now unoccupied hand to Sasuke’s cheek, cupping it lightly. His movements are surprisingly gentle, but Sasuke knows better than to be at ease. He’s not forgotten Itachi’s mood swings, sudden and violent like the summer storms. He doesn’t really understand why Itachi is being so randomly tender with him, and he doesn’t care, either.
Itachi’s other hand tugs at Sasuke’s pajama top.
“Take them off,” he orders flatly, referring to Sasuke’s clothes. Sasuke’s eyes widen a bit.
“I don’t want to,” he says quickly, turning his head to the side and pushing Itachi’s hand away from his cheek.
“Do it.” Itachi’s voice is low and threatening and angry and Sasuke brings trembling hands to the black buttons of his pajamas, sitting up as he unbuttons his top. He shrugs it off his shoulders, dropping it to the ground once it has entirely disengaged itself of his limbs. Then he stands, easing his loose pants off of his hips, teeth digging harder and harder into his lip as he exposes himself to Itachi.
“Good, Sasuke, very good,” Itachi whispers, burying his face in the pale white of the front of Sasuke’s thighs. Sasuke glances down slowly at Itachi, and reluctantly brings a hand to his elder brother’s hair, petting it hesitantly and gently. Itachi shivers. They remain in this position for a while, Itachi kneeling in front of Sasuke; praying to him almost, Sasuke thinks, which disturbs him. It’s almost nice, if only in that Sasuke is not being hurt in any physical way. But that can’t last long, and eventually, Itachi’s tongue slips out, leaving a wet path on Sasuke’s white skin, trailing to his inner thigh. There, Itachi bites down suddenly, without warning, leaving an inflamed red mark. Sasuke jerks in pain, letting out a small cry, and stumbles backwards clumsily, but Itachi’s arms are around the backs of his knees and he only falls, falls over onto his mattress.
“N-nii-san,” Sasuke stammers out, as Itachi crawls over him, straddling his waist, fingers going to Sasuke’s chest, cruel nails raking long red painful lines there, streaks of dead sun on Sasuke’s skin.
Itachi’s sun has faded and died long ago.
Sasuke tries desperately to let his mind slip away, tries to block out what’s happening to him, feeling that—hardness against him again. And when Itachi rubs his hips, stuttering jerky motion, against Sasuke’s, the tears start rolling down Sasuke’s cheeks.
The tears start falling even quicker when Sasuke’s realizes, with horror, that it feels good, and can feel himself getting hard just like Itachi and—and oh, God. He lets out a shuddering sob, biting down on his lower lip. Itachi laughs softly, slightly strained.
“Does that feel good, little brother?” Grinds down on Sasuke, and Sasuke clutches his sheets desperately, fearfully. He doesn’t answer, just absentmindedly shakes his head back and forth, back and forth, trying to deny that this is happening.
“I asked you a question, Sasuke,” Itachi drawls lowly, and his hands are reaching down between them, tugging open his own pants, getting the cloth out of the way and it’s warm, skin, hard and heavy weight pressing on him, and Sasuke’s gasping, eyes clenched shut, trying to stay quiet, quiet, because he wouldn’t be able to stand it if someone walked in on this, feeling painfully ashamed of himself just for liking it, feeling like—a—freak.
“N-no,” Sasuke stammers quickly, letting out a small squeak as Itachi’s fingers—wrap around them both and. Slide up and down. Teasing and. Feels good. And. He can’t—can’t. Sasuke feels hot all over and miserable and can’t stop crying, and he wants to crawl away and never wake up again when a low moan is pulled out of his throat.
“So cute, little brother,” a soft murmur, Itachi’s voice close to his ear, breaths heavy and hot and Sasuke shudders hard as a moist tongue drags along the rim of it.
“Please, p-please, stop,” Sasuke stutters, Itachi rubbing them together like that, so wrong, but yet, Sasuke’s just allowing this, isn’t he? Should be—should be doing something more to stop this than just begging like that.
“No.”
Harder rub, Itachi’s entire pace speeding, speeding, and it feels—so good, so good, and Sasuke hates himself when his hips start moving on their own, rocking up, trying to match Itachi. Sasuke bites down harder and harder and harder on his lower lip, needing to feel it, pain. Sasuke lets out a choked moan, feeling something in him peaking, heating, whiting out, back arching up slightly before his skinny frame collapses entirely, feeling so sensitive and odd and Itachi just keeps on thrusting against him, Itachi still hard, relentless.
And then. Itachi’s hand fists in his hair, clutching the dark locks, before he lets out a long breath, Sasuke feeling—something. Hot and warm and sticky. Splattering on his skin. He breathes out shakily, head falling down to the side as Itachi lets go of his hair, staring blankly at his wall, rolling over as much as he can with Itachi still partly slumped on him.
“You are such a good boy, Sasuke,” Itachi says teasingly, and Sasuke can perfectly picture his smirk. Sasuke can’t bring himself to say anything in response, just lets his eyelids slowly slip shut, shivering as Itachi untangles from him, standing up. Itachi’s foot, bare, pushes at Sasuke’s hip, forcing Sasuke to lie flat on his back. His foot plants on Sasuke’s stomach, smearing the strange, thick warm liquid there, and Sasuke forces his eyes open, staring down at his stomach, pale, with grayish-white-something on it. He doesn’t understand what just happened, and he stares up at Itachi with desperately confused eyes. Itachi lets out a derisive noise, shaking his head a bit.
“You’re dirty. Get cleaned up,” Itachi mutters, removing his foot from Sasuke’s skin and wiping it off on Sasuke’s sheets before turning and leaving, fixing his pants as he goes. Sasuke lets out one last shaky sob before he wipes away his tears, refusing to allow anymore to spill.
But really, worse than the scabs, the bite marks, the bruises—worse than all that is Itachi himself. Because now Itachi never leaves him alone. Whenever Itachi isn’t away on a mission, he spends his time with Sasuke. Unrelenting. Trails after Sasuke maybe like a puppy except Sasuke’s never had a puppy, never had a pet, and—and it seems somehow sick to compare Itachi to something that small, that innocent.
Their parents haven’t noticed that anything is wrong—they just think that Itachi and Sasuke have finally grown close again. Itachi and Sasuke used to be inseparable like this before Itachi became twisted, and Mikoto and Fugaku, they just think that surely it’s an improvement, now that Itachi and Sasuke are close again.
Sasuke could almost laugh, or maybe cry, at how wrong they are.
He doesn’t even get privacy in the bath. Itachi is kneeling on the tiles next to the bathtub, staring down into the clear water with an unreadable expression. Sasuke doesn’t really mind Itachi looking at him naked like this, he is far past that embarrassment, but he just wishes he could get some time to himself. He needs his privacy back. He needs Itachi to leave him alone. He needs, he needs, he needs.
Itachi reaches out and drags his fingers through Sasuke’s hair, wet and warm, small drips of water rolling off the ends.
“Your hair is getting too long, Sasuke. You should get it cut,” he speaks, frowning.
“Your hair is long,” Sasuke points out.
“That’s different,” Itachi snaps, fingers tightening in Sasuke’s hair, “Tomorrow, we’re going to get it cut.”
“You have a mission tomorrow, nii-san,” Sasuke snaps back easily, more used to getting into these arguments with Itachi.
“Fine! Tell Mikoto to take you!” Itachi is angry now, eyes narrowed.
“I won’t,” Sasuke says, pushing Itachi’s hands away from his hair, “And you can’t make me.” Sasuke doesn’t know when he became so rebellious. He’s too young for this, he thinks to himself for the hundredth time. Itachi glares at Sasuke, seething; he doesn’t like the fact that he’s allowing Sasuke to get to him, and his face suddenly goes blank.
“Yes, I can,” Itachi speaks, voice oddly calm and oddly soft, reaching into the pocket of his pants. When he pulls his hand back out, there’s a razor cradled gently in his fingers, the straight sort barbers use to shave men, and Sasuke wonders if Itachi had been planning this the whole time; Itachi likes games like that, pretending to give Sasuke the choice when he’d never really planned to. Itachi’s other hand shoots out, grabbing Sasuke’s hair tightly, painfully so.
“What—what are you doing?” Sasuke asks, eyes widening a bit. He wills himself to stay still in the bathwater that’s become lukewarm by now. Itachi tugs Sasuke over to the side of the tub, head over the bathroom tiles. It’s a painful position for Sasuke, neck and back forced into odd angles, but he’s afraid to attempt to shift into a more comfortable position, afraid to even move, which suddenly strikes him as very pathetic. Itachi pulls Sasuke’s hair tighter still, raising the -razor and going to work at Sasuke’s hair, slicing away soft black strands and letting them fall to the ground. Sasuke’s pale, nude frame shakes a bit, his eyes clenched shut. Itachi could hurt him so easily, and he doesn’t doubt for a second that Itachi would do it.
Itachi concentrates on this for a while, just cutting Sasuke’s hair—uneven and choppy and odd, but Itachi doesn’t care, as long as it’s short. Then he moves on to the back, pushing Sasuke’s head into another, equally uncomfortable position. As Itachi is cutting the back of Sasuke’s hair, the razor slips, digging in to the pale, delicate skin at the nape of Sasuke’s neck. Sasuke hisses in pain and Itachi lets out a quiet hum, transfixed by the way Sasuke’s blood beads up to the surface before dribbling down his skin, mixing with the water and small bits and pieces of hair on Sasuke’s skin.
Itachi leans down and stares closer at the broken skin, before reaching out with his tongue and licking the length of the bloody cut. Sasuke shudders, squirming, fingers clutching the edge of the bathtub.
Sometimes he wonders about what would happen if he just asked Itachi to stop. To leave him alone. Maybe Itachi would. Sasuke knows he wouldn’t, but he likes to imagine.
And sometimes, Sasuke can delude himself into thinking that the things Itachi does actually feel good. Like now. Itachi’s tongue tickles, is warm and almost comforting, taking away the sting of the sliced open skin. Almost feels bearable. Almost feels good. Then Itachi pulls back, folding the razor shut and slipping it back into his pocket.
“You’re so beautiful when you bleed,” Itachi murmurs with a faint, disturbing smile. Sasuke just stares at his hair strewn on the bathroom floor and suddenly wishes he could cry.
“Go away, Itachi,” Sasuke says lowly, voice numb. Itachi shrugs and stands up from his kneeling position.
“You look much better,” Itachi says, before turning and leaving the bathroom, moving as silently as he always does. Somehow, Sasuke doubts that. He’ll have to get it fixed tomorrow. As he climbs out of the tub and starts cleaning up the floor, he’s already making up excuses to tell mother.
He’s always making excuses for Itachi’s behavior; he’s not even sure why anymore.
Because if he loses that, he won’t have anything at all but bruises and broken skin.
Of course, it’s hard to remain hopeful when a delicate hand with long fingers is shoving down on the back of his head, pushing his face into his own pillow. He can’t breathe well, in and out pained gasps. Itachi’s heavy weight is straddling the back of his thighs, Itachi just—holding him down. Not doing anything else but restraining Sasuke, two thin white wrists held in Itachi’s other hand. Arms wrenched painfully to his back. It hurts, but worse is that he doesn’t know why Itachi is doing this. There’s not a reason he can see, and it’s all so nonsensical, he can’t stand it.
“Struggle,” Itachi’s hisses, fingers tight in short, choppy black hair, “Try to fight me! Why would you just lie there so pathetically?” Because he’s scared. He’s scared, so scared, of Itachi. Sasuke’s sobbing into his pillow, unable to stop it, even though he hates himself for it. And then something in him realizes that there’s nothing more to be scared of, nothing worse Itachi can do to him that his child’s mind can think of, and he kicks his legs feverishly, arms pulling hard, straining and hurting himself, in a desperate attempt to escape Itachi. Itachi laughs lowly, wrenching Sasuke up off of the pillow by the hair.
“Better, much better. But you’ll have to try a little harder. No one is home—fight without restraint.” Without restraint? Sasuke could almost laugh at that, sliding his eyes open slowly, vision blurred from hot tears. He kicks harder, gnashing his teeth together, trying to throw an overbearing weight off of him. He manages to wrench his arms out of Itachi’s grasp, angry red marks left behind on his wrists.
Sasuke braces his hands on the mattress, pushing himself up, levering his legs out from under Itachi. He’s gasping, hyperventilating, when he turns around and throws himself at Itachi, tackling the larger frame to his mattress. Sasuke’s hands find their way to Itachi’s throat, squeezing as hard he can, nails digging in to pale white skin. But they’re too small, too small, and Itachi’s breathing is hardly hindered at all.
“Are you going to kill me, Sasuke?” Itachi asks in a voice that is mock sweet. Sasuke can’t see, can’t think, can just feel warm skin under his hands.
“N-no, no,” Sasuke stammers, pulling his hands away, trembling.
“Mm. How disappointing. All that fire gone,” Itachi murmurs, eyes on Sasuke’s blank, drained expression. Sasuke slumps a bit, still straddling Itachi’s stomach, hands lying limply on Itachi’s upper chest.
“I’m sorry,” Sasuke mumbles, the guilt crushing him. Even if Itachi had deserved it, he’d done—a bad thing.
“Make it up to me,” Itachi murmurs in a bored voice—bored by Sasuke’s sudden listless repentance. Sasuke had been interesting, for a moment, though. Itachi’s hands on flushed cheeks guide frowning lips to his. Sasuke allows the kiss—his first asides from the ones Mikoto gives, teasing playing smacking kisses, on the cheeks or forehead—because he’s too tired to fight anymore. It’s hopeless anyway. He’s not—he can’t—he won’t do anything violent because then he’d be no better than Itachi. And maybe it’s a clichéd, stupid philosophy, but he’s going to stick with it. Because he needs to hang on to any little thing he can.
A few hours later his parents come home. Itachi’s left him, left the house as well—gone out to do who knows what. Sasuke’s too scared to see them, paralyzed by fear, and he pretends he’s sleeping when his door is slipped open by Mikoto.
Maybe Itachi won’t ever end it. Maybe he’ll just keep on tormenting and tormenting until Sasuke breaks, and Sasuke can practically feel it already, his mind straining and creaking under so much weight, cracks spider webbing out from the first moment Itachi’s fist collided painfully with his cheek.
One afternoon, Fugaku out on clan business and Mikoto in the market (Sasuke not accepting her offer to take him with, feeling too weary to deal with the sun and the crowd), Sasuke slips to Itachi’s room, rifling around Itachi’s closet until he finds one old, slightly dull kunai. There’s a small amount of rust on its edges, but it’s still sharp enough, and he slips back out, leaving everything exactly as it was, before creeping into his room, kneeling down and hiding the kunai in his pillowcase, below the pillow itself.
Just in case.
Because if Itachi never ends this, Sasuke thinks that—he’s going to need a way to end it himself.
There’s only one person he feels as if he can understand. Bright blond hair and shining exuberant blue eyes and though Sasuke doesn’t reach out, doesn’t attempt friendship, he stops taking part in any childish bullying. Because sometimes Sasuke watches that boy when he goes off alone, sitting quietly, slumped, on the swings, and Sasuke sees there something he can identify with.
Listening carefully, straining, he can hear quiet breaths. Vaguely shaky. The slightest noise, a very gentle thud, and Sasuke can picture Itachi, leaned forward, eyes shut, resting his forehead against Sasuke’s door. Sasuke is tempted to call out to Itachi, but he just lays completely still, hand subtly snaking under his pillow, feeling the hard metal there.
Sasuke gives a small sigh of relief as the footsteps retreat.
“What have you learned in school so far?” A quietly asked question. Sasuke startles, glancing behind him, Itachi standing there, looking tired. Fugaku and Mikoto continue eating quietly. Sasuke swallows slowly.
“I—I don’t know. Just the basic stuff. We’re reviewing last year.” He shrugs. Itachi lets a hand settle on Sasuke’s shoulder.
“Have they taught you about killing yet, little brother? Have they taught you how to rip someone’s life away? How good it feels watching someone’s heart stop breathing?” Itachi asks lowly, voice quiet and meant for Sasuke but loud enough still for their parents to hear.
“I-itachi!” Mikoto cries out in a shaky voice, eyes widening with an expression that Sasuke realizes is fearful, shocked. Itachi’s actually letting his poison seep onto someone other than Sasuke; why is that such a relief to him—yet, at the same time, so frightening? Contradictory feelings, and he can’t decide which is stronger. Maybe it’s a sign that Itachi’s getting worse, or maybe better, or maybe Sasuke has no idea.
“No,” Sasuke speaks flatly, dismissively, not thrown by Itachi’s behavior in the least, used to this. Feeling bad for his parents, though. Itachi smirks, stepping away from Sasuke and sitting down at the table, getting himself a bowl as though nothing had even happened. Aiming a mockingly pleasant expression at Mikoto.
Does Itachi do this often? Watch him sleep? It makes Sasuke shudder in disgust, never wanting to sleep again. Itachi gazes flatly at Sasuke, stepping through the doorway and clicking Sasuke’s door shut again.
“You should be—getting sleep. Kids need sleep, don’t they?” Itachi questions quietly, sitting down on the edge of Sasuke’s bed. Sasuke just shrugs, shutting his book and placing it down gently. Is sure that Itachi won’t just let him continue reading. He knows Itachi well, by now.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he mumbles.
“Mm. Me neither.” Itachi’s voice trails off before he turns, tugging away Sasuke’s blankets, staring down at Sasuke, clad in dark blue silken pajamas. He smiles slightly, amused by Sasuke’s choice of clothing. Itachi’s wearing the same clothes as he was during the day, casual.
“Off,” he says gently, not quite as demanding as he normally sounds. Sasuke sighs, but obliges Itachi, quickly pulling off his clothes and tossing them to the side. He’s pale and thin, as usual, and Itachi lets out a slow, appreciative breath. At some point, Sasuke thinks, this became not entirely about tormenting him and all about Itachi’s own satisfaction. Itachi strips off his shirt, this startling Sasuke. They’re never “even.” He hasn’t even seen Itachi shirtless since they were children, bathing together. The scars scattered on Itachi’s chest further startle him, watching a bit wide eyed as the rest of Itachi’s clothes come off.
“I’m going to show you something interesting, Sasuke,” and Itachi’s grin is more than a little frightening to him. Itachi’s hands rest on Sasuke’s knees, pushing them up and apart, spreading Sasuke’s legs. Sasuke lets out a nervous, unsteady sigh. He stares up at his ceiling, holding his breath after a long shuddering inhale, as a long finger pushes at—at—at—there. He can’t even think about it, cheeks staining deep red, and he flinches in mild pain as Itachi’s finger pushes up and into him, wiggling and spreading and it doesn’t hurt nearly as bad as some of the things Itachi’s done to him and yet it’s far more humiliating, and his breaths quickly become unsteady, shaky. But then a second finger is pushing at him, shoving in next to the other finger, and now that hurts, the pain suddenly multiplied, Itachi’s fingers spreading and pushing, burning.
“Does that hurt, Sasuke?” Itachi asks slowly, eyes flatly on Sasuke’s pained, closed off face. Sasuke nods jerkily, figuring there’s no point in lying.
“Good,” and Itachi chuckles. Sasuke grits his teeth, hating, hating, hating the way Itachi treats him, hating Itachi so much in that moment.
“It’s going to hurt more,” Itachi promises, fingers tugging harshly and suddenly out of Sasuke, before Itachi’s kneeling between his legs and Sasuke can feel—something hard and warm nudging at his entrance, and he clenches his eyes even tighter shut, pretending that this is just a nightmare, easily woken up from and forgotten. Sasuke lets out a gasp as that something forces, forces, forces inside, and God it hurts, and Itachi hisses quietly, Sasuke almost too tight, making this difficult. Sasuke’s hands tremble for a moment, before he clutches at his sheets to stop them.
Itachi pushes in more, going slowly out of necessity, but that just makes it even more painful, and Sasuke can feel something in him ripping, tearing, the slickness of blood allowing Itachi to push further in until he can’t go any farther, and they both stay still, frozen, chests heaving up and down.
“Sasuke,” Itachi mumbles lowly, almost, just almost, affectionately. Sasuke allows his lower lip to tremble, allows the hot tears pushing at his eyes to spill out and over onto his cheeks, sliding slowly down his skin, tickling. Itachi sighs, bending down with his hands on either side of Sasuke’s head, chests pushed close together, Sasuke’s legs spread painfully wide to fit Itachi entirely between them. He kisses Sasuke’s cheeks, licking up the moist, salty tracks, before he starts thrusting shallowly, rocking back and forth in Sasuke, and it hurts so badly, Sasuke keeps on clinging to his sheets, knuckles white and shaky.
What Itachi had done before had been humiliating, but at least had felt good. This is by far worse, and is so, so painful, and it’s just too much, overwhelming. He pants, expression twisting in a pained grimace.
“God, Sasuke,” Itachi grunts, and it sickens Sasuke how much tight pleasure is coiled in that voice. The thrusts get harder, deeper, not so shallow, and Sasuke’s starting to numb to the pain, but just wants this to be over, wants to curl up and sleep until it all goes away. Each thrust seems maddeningly slow even though Sasuke knows they’re actually quick, and speeding more, Itachi losing any sort of discernible rhythm and starting to move erratically, letting out strained, quiet moans. Sasuke lets his fingers uncurl from the sheets, joints feeling stiff and pained from having clutched so slightly. He lifts his hands up, one of them clinging to Itachi’s shoulder, nails digging in, the other hand lying limply next to his head, the hand eventually slipping to the side of the pillow, sneaking into the case.
Itachi’s eyes are shut, expression blissful, as Sasuke grips cold metal in a hand that’s shaky and sweaty.
“Ahh!” Itachi cries out softly, pounding into Sasuke unmercifully, actions starting to become more desperate, more hurried, more more more more more until. Itachi’s back arches, head tilted back, and Sasuke can feel something hot spurting into him, the feeling strange and making him shudder.
Sasuke pulls his hand free of his pillow, and, while Itachi is still clutched by lingering strands of pleasure, plunges the kunai into the side of Itachi’s neck, jerking it roughly sideways, arm trembling with the effort it takes to sever the thick artery in Itachi’s throat.
And when he does, blood sprays hotly, sticky, all over him and his bed, reminding him of Itachi dribbling pleasure onto his stomach.
Sasuke’s not crying anymore, is just staring blankly up as Itachi slumps over on top of him, his weight heavy and oppressive. Sasuke lets out shaky breaths before struggling to get out from under Itachi, wincing in the pain that just this much movement causes him. He feels oddly and utterly calm.
But—no one can know what Itachi was doing. No one, not ever, not—ever. He doesn’t want anyone to know, because they’ll think he’s weak, pathetic, just like Itachi proved over and over again, but—but he has to hide that, can’t let anyone know. Though there’s a slight hum of panic in the back of his mind, he calmly grabs Itachi’s pants, tugging them onto limp legs with only minor difficulty, before pulling on his own pajama bottoms, hiding the pinkish-white fluid trickling slowly down the back of his thighs, an unbearable feeling.
He pads out of his room, leaving a path of bloody footprints, and stops outside of his parents’ room, staring at the door pensively. He knows that he should clean himself up first, knows that this isn’t logical in the least. But he’s been shoving Mikoto away for weeks and he’s desperate to feel it again; her love, her comfort, her embraces. Her help—he needs her help. Sasuke desperately wants to have her again, so he forgets about cleaning himself up, forgets about all his troubles. He’s still just a child, even after it all. Despite everything. Eventually he slides the door open, squinting into the dark and spotting their figures, two completely still (but for the subtle rise of breaths, up and down—unlike Itachi, who’s not moving at all now, or ever again) lumps on a large futon. He walks quietly to the side of the bed, reaching out and tapping Mikoto’s shoulder. She blinks blearily, staring tiredly up at Sasuke.
“Mother? Itachi’s dead,” Sasuke murmurs quietly, and the wind blows a covering of clouds away from the moon, bathing Sasuke in shining, silvery light (that seems so much bleaker now than it ever did, the stars seeming meaningless to him) and revealing crimson splatters all over him, chest bare and moist from Itachi.
And then, a long and shrill, awful scream shatters the night’s silence.
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