A/N: Wow, I wrote this in like an hour under the influence of very depressing music. And it's bad. Not bad as in hideous writing – though I am writing in stream of thought style here, so that is the reason for the ridiculously extended sentences, not poor English. It's a stylistic thing. – bad as in, it is about necrophilia. Specifically, Sasuke/Itachi rapetastic necrophilia. You have been warned. I suppose this could be counted as the spiritual sequel to 'Buried Alive', although it's only a taste of what I'd write in full if I were to write it properly.
Even angels have their wicked schemes
And you take that to new extremes
But you'll always be my hero
Even though you've lost your mind
"How could you?" he asks me. I don't look up; I don't want to see his face. It is too much to see the disappointment, the hatred that I know will be there. So instead of telling him the truth – that I need him, that I don't know what to do without him, that I can't be without him, that I don't exist unless he does – I lie.
"Because I hate you," I reply.
I pick at a stray thread of the rug we rest upon. The cave is cold, but I won't dress myself warmly. He doesn't need it, anyway. Neither should I, even if we are different now. I don't care about that – he's still him, and I still need that.
"Sasuke," he says softly. My head jerks up. That voice. Like he's speaking to a child, a child that barely comprehends the difference between good and bad. Like the child that I was, and the child that fucking died every day and every fucking night because- "What did I do wrong?"
And I'm ripping at my clothes and I'm ripping at his, and he isn't resisting me, he can't resist me, because of that stupid darkness in his eyes and the cracks and because I'm me and because in his eyes (those black, black eyes, but they're wrong, they're all wrong) I'm still the child who doesn't know what he's doing.
So he lies there and lets me rape him.
The back of my hand connects with his face, and I feel his nose break then re-form as my blow connects. I can see it in his eyes. I don't want to see it. I don't want to see that betrayal-hatred-failure-loathing-defeat-burning, and I don't want to feel his body underneath mine because it's cold. I wanted him warm – wait, I don't want, I don't fucking want my brother. It isn't him anymore, it's a shell, and it's okay to do this because it isn't him.
At least, that's what I say when I'm inside, and I'm moving back and forth and I'm not really enjoying it.
"Tell me-" another hard shove, and his head connects with the rough stone wall behind him. He doesn't bleed. "-what I did wrong-" I growl at his speech, digging my nails into his soft thighs. They're still soft, they shouldn't be soft, he's a fucking corpse and I'm- "-so we can fix it,"
I stop. Still buried in him, I lean forward to prop myself on my elbows so my face is directly over his. The stone hurts my elbows, but I ignore it.
"Fix it," I repeat. "Fix it?"
I'm up again and my hands are around his throat, though he's already dead and this won't kill him anymore, but I'm not going to let him die again because he can't fucking leave me again ever and I don't know what to do without this cunt, and I can't help but see his face and there are tears in his eyes and I swear they aren't supposed to be able to do that. But I keep forcing myself in and out. It isn't good. It isn't like it should be, I should be feeling something, anything but this emptiness that I have to fill with hatred because without that hatred there isn't anything left that I can feel because we burned and buried it years ago.
But there are tears in his eyes.
Brother, he mouths. Why are you doing this to me?
I don't have an answer, really. I don't have a fucking answer. Why don't I have an answer? This is crazy. What am I doing? Why is this happening? Why is any of this happening? What is the point of doing all this, if I can't have what I want? What is it that I even want anymore, now that it's all gone and all I'm left with is this shell – no, these two shells, his and mine, only difference is that my heart beats and his doesn't.
My heart fucking beats and that's the problem. My heart beats and it bleeds and it burns and it is sick. It has always been sick. And it is his fault.
Lips collide, mine on his, and I can taste blood and it must be mine because he can't bleed like I do anymore. He doesn't bleed and that's my fault, it's all my fault, and if there's anyone that should be a corpse it should be me because I'm the one that is fucking his brother's corpse and thinking all this shit. I bleed and I want to bleed more.
I finish without pleasure, and fall onto his chest. It doesn't move. I want it to. There isn't anything in that moment that I wouldn't give for that chest to move up and down to prove that he's alive, that he's there, and that I'm not alone anymore.
But it doesn't. And I am alone.
"Sasuke," he says again. My eyes burn and it isn't the Sharingan. It isn't that bloody, cursed flaw in our biology that is proof of our own corruption. We're all corrupt with it and blind without it, and anyone will choose a curse over blindness.
I release my grip on his throat and let my hands tangle in the cloak still covering parts of his shoulders and it hurts to touch it. It's cold. Nothing is warm in this cave. His shoulders don't move, either. I just raped him. Surely it's natural to move away from the person who just violated you, but of course, he can't. I took that away. He can't even flinch away from his rapist, and now I'm sorry and-
"I'm sorry," one of us says but I don't know who anymore. If it's him, I hate him for apologising and if it's me I hate myself for my weakness.
I know it's cold and that it doesn't breathe and its heart doesn't beat but it's still him. And at last, I can cry.
'Cause you feed me fables from your head
With violent words and empty threats
And it's sick that all these battles
Are what keeps me satisfied
A/N: The end. Um. Who's up for killing themselves with me?
(Lyrics from 'Love The Way You Lie Part 2' by Rihanna ft. Eminem)