Interlude - Anonymous - Naruto [Archive of Our Own] (2024)

You’re upset with me? That’s fine. That’s one path, isn’t it…?

It’s just the two of us, Sasuke. I’ll always be there, like a wall you need to climb over. Even if it means being hated.

That’s what big brothers are for.

Itachi’s head hits the wall with a dull, wet smack.

Then: there is only silence.

The air is thick with the acrid scent of burnt flesh and ozone. The sky, now devoid of their fight’s tumultuous storm, hangs in a cold, sullen gray. Deadly, eerily quiet. The conscious silence of a funeral.

The only sound for miles is the far-away shrieking of of crows, the hollow wind whistling through debris.

Sorry, Sasuke… but this is it.

The silence is broken by Sasuke’s ragged gasp for air. Each inhalation feels like shards of glass scraping his insides.

He stumbles forward, crumpling to the ground alongside his brother.

Itachi’s body is still warm.

Sasuke cannot imagine ever having wanted to feel it cold. Lifeless.

With all the strength he has left in his body, he lifts his body on shaking arms and drops against his brother’s side noiselessly. The wind covers them like a blanket, picking the damp fringe of Sasuke’s hair up off of his forehead. His sweat cools rapidly on his skin, and he shivers. How long until that warmth is gone? He presses his face to Itachi’s neck. Sasuke can almost pretend he feels the hot pulse of blood beneath. The skin is flushed, dewy. Coated with a layer of dust and grime. So very like Sasuke’s own.

The boy who arrived at the abandoned hideout hours earlier did not anticipate that anything could make Uchiha Itachi sweat. The Sasuke of then hardly thought of Itachi as a man at all. There was only the thought of hate. The thought of blood.

Now there are only questions—and the hollow ache that gnaws at Sasuke's soul.

His tongue darts out, tasting. The same salt that could be found on any other man. The red streak Itachi painted down his cheek drips into his mouth, souring the flavor, and Sasuke’s stomach turns.

How long has it been? Sasuke cannot remember closing his eyes. The exhaustion of the fight must have finally kicked in.

All the adrenaline is gone from his body. His limbs ache and burn, all the way down to his fingertips. He feels so very cold. His fatigued muscles twitch involuntarily, bumping him up against the solid weight at his side.

Still warm—thank the heavens. Sasuke must only have been out for a few minutes.

He shivers, again, and instinctively shuffles closer to the dwindling heat of Itachi’s body.

He snakes a hand up underneath Itachi’s shirt, seeking warmth. The jut of Itachi’s ribs below his mesh undershirt startles him. Had his brother always been so thin? He remembers when he came up no higher than Itachi’s chest. Remembers running towards him, wrapping both arms around his waist for Itachi to spin them both around. He had always been slender, but nothing like this.

The memory feels far away, now. Feverish and fuzzy. He remembers the press of Itachi’s chin to the top of his head better than anything else.

He tucks his head beneath Itachi’s chin and tries to ignore the way the motion causes Itachi’s head to loll backwards. It is easy to snake a hand beneath Itachi’s emaciated body, to hold the back of his neck and to press his head back into place.

They are chest-to-chest, and Sasuke’s wheezing exhalations seem to breathe life into the both of them.

It is too much. Sasuke hears his own voice, small as when he was a child. Begging his brother for attention. He takes Itachi’s black-nailed hand between his own, presses icy fingers to his forehead, crying out when they fall away limp.

The boiling frustration he's felt for the past decade, all that useless rage—it comes to a head with a hacking sob that tears itself from Sasuke’s throat. Their fight was hard, as challenging as Sasuke expected. But it should have been harder. Why didn’t Itachi strike him down? Why leave him in this limbo?

“Look at me,” Sasuke begs in what’s left of his ruined voice, pushing himself up so he hovers over Itachi’s lifeless body. That unseeing, foggy gaze evades him. “Look at me,” he sobs, voice cracking around the words. “You’re supposed to— to fight me. Fight me, Itachi,” He takes Itachi’s hand in his, again. Scrapes it down his face.

Itachi’s final touch had been gentler.

The once-warm blood on his fingertips is congealed, now. Cold and clammy.

Sasuke presses his mouth to his brother’s purpling lips. Soon, they will discolor to a pallid grey. Blister and peel. He exhales into Itachi’s mouth but his own breath comes back to choke him.

He buries his face in Itachi’s neck with a rasping gasp. Sages— the smell of his hair! Sasuke remembers burying his face in it when Itachi used to give him piggyback rides. Even through the layer of blood and sweat it is familiar. He never thought he’d smell it again. He drags his nose, his lips, against Itachi’s neck. Open-mouthed kisses pressed to his throat between quiet, rattling sobs.

He wraps his arms around Itachi’s shoulders, trembling. It’s been so long since he’s held him… so long since he’s held anybody. His crotch brushes the bony point of Itachi’s hip as he arranges himself over his brother. A sharp instant of pain—every point of contact aches, somewhat, his entire body battered and stripped of adrenaline—but on the heels of it a strange, warm feeling blooms.

It’s been so long since Sasuke has felt anything resembling good.An unfamiliar feeling rattles in his chest. Even now, he feels more numb than anything else. All that rage is gone.

What is left in its wake?

His head spins with possibilities, but Itachi is a solid weight beneath him. A firm, grounding pressure beneath his fingers, beneath his hips.

An anchor— a lifeline.

Another sharp intake of breath, a slow, agonizing drag of his pelvis against his brother’s.

Through his pants, his slowly-stiffening co*ck sheathes itself in the divot between Itachi’s taut stomach and his prominent hipbone. And then—there is no feeling left but pleasure.

It seems to tether him to this world as Sasuke slowly rocks them together. Careful. Measured. Any sudden movements will jostle Itachi from his arms and they will be back where they began: a cold, limp body on the ground. Another trembling above him.

But heat blossoms on Sasuke’s cheeks, and where Itachi’s face is pressed against his own, he can almost feel him flush, too.

Slowly, surely, Itachi warms with the friction of their motions, and they both come back to life. The wind is cold on Sasuke’s back but he is on fire where the skin of his stomach touches Itachi’s—his shirt rucked up and trapped between the two of them.

Sasuke pants into Itachi’s neck. His brother’s head is cradled in his arms and it feels like it’s being held up of its own accord. Sasuke doesn’t dare untangle his arms from Itachi’s shoulders to free himself from his pants. The chafing will have him sore tomorrow, but where won’t he be sore? Is it not right that this last part of him ache, too?

He has not masturbat*d since he was a child—and now he remembers why. Need claws at his throat and threatens to consume him. He pushes his mouth to brother’s face and peppers him with kisses, skims along his pale jawline with tongue and teeth. He could not have allowed himself to feel this, before. How could he have let anything stand in the way of his revenge? If he had felt anything like this back then it would have all been for naught. The warmth is like nothing he’s ever felt. Warmer than a fire release, burning his lips as his father stands by, a proud look on his face. Warmer than the sunlight, baking down on him, sitting on the porch of his parents’ home as his mother prepares dinner. He wonders for a brief moment if the inside of Itachi’s body would be even warmer, but he doesn’t dare move them enough to find out.

If he breaks the trance they are in, he is certain he will die.

But for now, he is alive— and in this moment they both are. Sasuke breathes and Itachi breathes with him. He loves and Itachi—cruel, heartless Itachi—loves him in return.

Sasuke closes his eyes. He feels the sweet exhalation of Itachi’s breath into his hair as he climaxes, shuddering into his embrace as they hold each other as close as they once had.

When Sasuke wakes, he is as cold as a corpse. With stiff arms he heaves himself off of the body he's fallen asleep on top of. He tries to shake Itachi awake but his head just lolls to the side, avoiding Sasuke’s pleading gaze one last time.

Sorry, Sasuke. Maybe some other time.