Martyr

Blessed are those who suffer for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Itachi's back arches, a sharp and involuntary movement, and he coughs violently with both manicured hands gripping the sides of the sink, the hollow white basin pristine, until blood splatters the surface and sticks, rather than flowing down the drain. His already-pallid knuckles are practically giving off a white glow—he is clutching the sink that hard, as if for dear life. The wrinkles on his face, the results of years of stress and strife, are thrown into sharp relief by the fluorescent light given off by a single lamp hanging over the cracked and dirty mirror he gazes into between convulsions, panting. His red-rimmed eyes are tired, and his black hair is glued to his face and neck by cold sweat.

Even in this state, Madara reflects in awe, he looks pretty hot.

The older man watches from the darkened doorway of the small bathroom conjoined to Itachi's bedroom, a smirk playing his features as he witnesses the younger's suffering. He's certain that Itachi can see his reflection, even in the murky glass of the mirror, even in his condition—the boy is gravely ill, but he is also among the most skilled ninja in the world, and that's not to mention that his eyes work just fine. His eyes, those which are second in power only to Madara's own…and that is a problem easily remedied. However, as well as Itachi knows this course of action, maybe even contemplated it, it is a course he refuses to take.

And this is why Madara watches him now, with a mixture of amusement and fascination, as Itachi vomits fountains of crimson blood uncontrollably into his bathroom sink, letting himself be destroyed slowly and painfully from the inside-out. It is amazing to Madara that anyone would choose this way of dying, would choose death at all, considering the alternative.

Again Itachi's head snaps down; there is a retching sound as he coughs on his own blood, dripping sickeningly from his open mouth. He is shaking. If Madara didn't know him better, he'd say the boy was trembling out of fear. But that idea was laughable. Itachi would be fearless until the day Deidara gave up on his "art" and Kisame's gilled face turned bright pink. The day Madara died.

Never.

When Itachi groans, and his eyes clamp shut in pain, his head bowed over the basin now half-full with blood, Madara leers and sidles up behind him, curling his pale, slender arms around Itachi's neck, his mane of ebony hair voluminous in contrast to the younger man's oil slick of a ponytail. "Looks like it's time for your meds, Itachi-kun," he chirps with a broad grin.

Itachi flinches monumentally, his entire body jerking away from the touch while blood dribbles down his chin. He glares upwards at the man, his eyes slits. "Get off of me," he hisses. Even at his weakest, he is menacing, he is dangerous. But Madara, though less of the former, is more of the latter than even his young apprentice.

Gauging his reaction, Madara keeps his arms around Itachi and twirls a strand of sweaty black hair, purposely trying to push him off the edge. A muscle in Itachi's jaw twitches, but he says not a word, not letting himself be provoked. He isn't playing this game tonight. However, when Madara gives up on the hair and starts to gently trace Itachi's smooth jawline with lithe fingers, then moves on to his lips, he snaps, more forcefully, "Get off me now," and this time, his eyes glow red.

Madara smiles. There was the fiery Itachi-kun he was looking for. He tended to get bored with the one with saintly patience.

"Now, now, Itachi-kun," he murmurs, feigning sweetness. "I only want what's best for you." When his fingers move to Itachi's lips again, the younger man moves his head away sharply to the side, only to have it grabbed by Madara's left hand, nimble but strong, and turned back to face him. Madara simpers at him. "So stop trying to fight me." Ignoring him, Itachi starts to struggle against his grasp, but immediately starts coughing harshly again; Madara lets go of his face just in time for him to make it to the sink again, blood pouring from his throat and out his mouth again.

When he's done, he stands up straight, but shakily so. There's a white rag of a towel hanging on a metal bar protruding from the wall, which Madara takes in his hand and makes to wipe the blood off his face. When Itachi shrugs away from the advancement, he says softly, grabbing the boy's wrist and squeezing, "Hold still." For once, amazingly, Itachi doesn't argue, and lets Madara wash the blood off of his chin and lips until his face is immaculate again.

When he's done, Madara smiles at him coyly. "There. Isn't that better, Itachi-kun?" Itachi glowers at him, though there's something off in his face.

Immediately, Madara spots what it is. Itachi is not just his ordinary pale, but a sickly, unhealthy off-white. "You have a fever."

"Leave me alone" is Itachi's warm reply, as he storms into his bedroom.

Deciding to ignore this request, Madara follows him and asks, "Where's your medication? You should be taking it regularly."

"I'm asking you to get out of my room."

"And I'm asking you why the hell you haven't taken your medication today," Madara counters, unfazed.

Itachi turns his head and mutters, "Ran out. I have to get more from—"

"I know your supplier," Madara interrupts. "I'll get it for you."

Itachi's eyes flash. "I don't need—" He breaks off, erupting in another fit of coughing, though this time, no blood gushes out. Unable to stand, he stumbles backwards onto his bed, feverish.

Silently, Madara sits himself down next to Itachi just as he chokes out, "I don't need your help."

Madara smiles wryly. "The hell you don't," he says, rubbing Itachi's upper back in slow circles. Then he leans in closer, whispers in his ear: "You always did."

An hour later, heavily medicated, Itachi is lying on his bed, trying to sleep off the fever, when Madara, standing over him, asks the question that will quench the burning curiousity inside him: "Why not just kill the boy?"

There is the sound of a soft, tired sigh as Itachi is deprived of any hope of getting some rest. "You know the mechanics of my plan better than anyone, Madara."

Not 'Madara-sama' or 'Madara-san'? But he doesn't let himself get distracted by the subtle display of disrespect. "But I most admit I don't understand it," he confesses. "Why is the boy's life so important? Why is he worth what you're putting yourself through?"

There is silence, and he chuckles.

"Ah, that's right…you love your nii-san, don't you, Itachi-kun? That's cute."

Itachi glares at him again with half-lidded crimson eyes. But he makes no argument, for Madara's hit the nail right on the head, pinpointed his one great weakness: love for Sasuke, his little brother.

Madara gazes in wonder at his little former apprentice. What kind of shinobi is he, anyway? Coldhearted killers don't make such momumental sacrifices for their little brothers. And isn't this the man who'd slaughtered his entire clan…his parents? Why not Sasuke, too?

"You're strange, Itachi-kun."

Itachi looks away and says dryly, "You're one to talk."

Madara grins widely, glad of the absense of his mask so Itachi can freely see his amusement. "I'm not the strange one. I'm not the one coughing and sputtering and bleeding to death just so my little brother can finish the job before my illness does."

When Itachi decides not to respond, Madara creeps up next to him, on the bed, again; again, he recoils, though the expression on his face is one of exhaustion. "Get back," he warns, though halfheartedly. His words carry so little weight to Madara, he might as well have not said anything at all.

They are sitting side by side, now, though Itachi keeps his head turned straight forward while Madara plays with the hair by the younger man's ear. "You know what you are, Itachi-kun?" he murmurs, a smirk playing his features. He leans in, whispers so quietly that Itachi can barely hear him. "You're a martyr."

After a moment, Itachi says monotonously, uninterested, "Am I now."

"Why, Itachi-kun, you are the very epitome of a martyr." Taking the boy's silence for piqued curiousity, he continues. "You give up everything—your happiness, your honor, your health, your life—for your brother and your village. Every single thing you ever do, you do with their interests solely in mind, rather than your own."

With that, he playfully runs his right hand over Itachi's neck, his collarbone, his chest; and he laughs in his ear when he feels Itachi's entire body stiffen, every muslce tightening with tension. "I think that kind of righteous behavior deserves, say, a reward. Don't you, Itachi-kun?"

Itachi squirms against the touch. "What kind of—" he changes his question mid-sentence. "A reward for what?"

"Oh, just being you, Itachi. For being so noble. Selfless. Fearless." He punctuates each adjective with different gestures: a nibble on the ear, pulling down Itachi's black overshirt, fondling his chest. "Gallant. Heroic." Boldly, he turns Itachi's face towards his own, traces up from his neck to near his mouth tenderly with his lips, and watches Itachi's eyes tighten shut with the effort to keep from losing control.

"Are you quite done?" Itachi gets out as Madara's arms encircle him to place his hands on the headboard, pinning him against it. Their lips are inches away from each others now, and Madara is practically on top of him, grinning. He sees the faint, almost invisible flush arising on Itachi's cheeks, notices even the most carefully hidden longing in his eyes, though he tries to appear impassive. And this, like so many other things about the young Uchiha prodigy, amuse Madara to no end.

He wonders if his question refers to Madara's praise, or his actions.

Deciding to go with the former, he adds, "You're sexy, too, Itachi-kun."

Normally, he knew, this would set Itachi off, and Madara would find himself facing his Susanoo in two seconds flat. However, the medication he was drugged up on seemed to be working wonders for his tolerance, and Madara had absolutely no qualms about taking advantage of that.

Instead of reacting with anger, Itachi simply rolls his eyes and says, "I repeat: are you done?"

"With singing your praises?" Madara thinks. "Yes."

Without another word, he lifts one leg over Itachi's body and positions himself so that he is kneeling over the younger Uchiha. Delighted at the way Itachi's eyes widen slightly in surprise, he bends down to press his lips, finally, against the other man's.

His lips are so soft.

As Madara slips his tongue in, he finds that the inside of Itachi's mouth is flavored by a delicious mixture of onigiri and flesh blood. He allows himself to explore the cavern of teeth and tongue, and there are several moments in which he thinks Itachi will fight him, but these thoughts are banished when he finds both their tongues intertwined in a heated battle for control of the kiss. Itachi was giving in.

How interesting.

When they break apart for air, Madara says breathlessly, stating the obvious, "I'm not done with this yet, though."

"No kidding," Itachi replies hoarsely, as the older man straddles his front. He almost manages to keep in a small moan.

Madara smiles yet again. "You fascinate me, Itachi-kun," he says, and reaches for the top of Itachi's pants.

Sensing what is to come, Itachi mutters something that sounds suspiciosly like "Don't tell Sasuke—"

But Madara silences him with another kiss.

When it's over, Itachi again voices his thought, this time somewhat breathlessly.

"Don't tell Sasuke."

There's a short silence. "Tell him what?" Madara grins—then pretends not to when Itachi starts to cough. "That you were dying already after he kills you? That everything you've ever done, you've done for him?" He pauses. "Or that we've screwed each other."

"All three."

So, out of respect to Itachi's memory, when he's dead, Madara decides to leave out all but the latter when talking to his killer, Sasuke.

It's the least he could do for such an incurable martyr.