Chapter Text
"Where is he?"
Had he any room for such thoughts in his mind, Sasuke would have been proud of how steady his voice sounded. As it was, he didn't care about anything other than seeing Itachi. His question sliced the silence and faded, unanswered. He refused to repeat himself—the man lounging by the door of the stone room would give Sasuke what he wanted sooner or later. Time was of no essence to Sasuke, after all. Not anymore. The man behind the mask was smart enough; without another word he turned around and led the way.
Itachi was lying on a makeshift bed in the middle of a small stone room much like the one Sasuke had woken up in. His limbs were sprawled haphazardly, the position awkward and uncomfortable for anyone other than the dead, which is what Itachi was, of course—dead. Dead of his own design, by Sasuke's hand.
Sasuke knelt down at Itachi's side and began to rearrange his body; legs extended with feet pointing up and knees almost touching, elbows at the torso, hands resting on the stomach, fingers laced. Only the head remained to be righted; it was still turned sideways, the chin tilted down somewhat. Sasuke's hands hovered over it, wavered, then retreated. He couldn't bring himself to complete the ritual; besides, Itachi looked comfortable enough now, soft, as if he'd merely drifted off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Bending down until their noses were almost touching, Sasuke whispered, "I hate you," then pressed his lips against Itachi's for a brief, eternal moment.
He still hated Itachi, but now he hated himself even more.