Notes: Just a little something I drabbled while I was sick with a cold. Sorry for trolling your fandom again, you guys, and merry Christmas!

This Is War

"Why are you doing this?" Naruto asks, flames licking at his coat. They frame him; turn him into something from another world that doesn't belong here.

Sasuke doesn't answer. Instead he reaches for his sword, blade glistening solemnly. He feels nothing in the face of Konoha burning. He has absolved himself from the ties he had with this village and its inhabitants already long, long ago. Revenge and Itachi are the only things that have a meaning anymore.

He takes a step forward and realises how close they really are, trapped in this narrow alley by the fire drawing near them from all directions. The tip of his sword is only centimetres away from Naruto's neck, but he doesn't move. Doesn't even blink. His eyes stare intently at Sasuke, resolute and thick with colour.

"Why are you doing this?" He repeats, his uncharacteristically monotone voice resembling a broken record.

Sasuke takes another deliberate step and presses the point of his sword shallowly against the flesh of Naruto's neck. "This is war," he says, "so stop talking."

He didn't plan for this to take so long. He didn't plan for himself to hesitate. But he does. Naruto must have noticed. That's why he isn't budging. Sasuke grinds his teeth together. His palm sweats against the cool handle of his sword. This is war.

It's easier than he thought it would be. Almost a little disappointing. One swift motion of his wrist — and Naruto's neck is sliced open. Blood rushes outside in messy torrents. Naruto's expression is neutral and calm as he sinks down and his head hits the ground without a sound, his mouth contorted in the shape of a name.

Sasuke lets his sword slide back into its sheath, and doesn't bother to wipe it clean. It'll get stained again, anyway. Watching the blood ink the floor beneath his feet, he waits to feel something. Some huge emotional impact.

But this is just another corpse on the battlefield whose name will be forgotten within a one or two decades' time, and the blood has already stopped flowing. This is war.