part ii of the desecration series.
warning(s): sibling incest one-sided, necrophilia, suicide, canon divergent.
pairing(s): itachi/sasuke
summary: With his eyesight so troubled he might as well have been a blind animal, but Sasuke is solid in his hold, under his fingertips, in between his legs, a dead weight against his chest.
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The palms of his hands are wet and bloodied, franticly pushing the bunched-up shirt against the wound, trying to keep his little brother from bleeding out completely. His gaze is unfocused and frighteningly empty, and his jaw left open unhinged, exposing the dark cavern of his mouth bracketed by unclean teeth.
Kusanagi lies forgotten on the floor; the bandages that were wrapped around the blade are soaked through and have largely come undone. The muscles in his arms are straining; from pressing the shirt against his little brother's abdomen for what feels an hour or perhaps even longer, from holding him upright. His bare back and shoulders covered in goosebumps, his trousers slick with darkened patches going from his kneecaps to his ankles, and his lips moving ceaselessly, in a silent prayer. The air inside the chamber is cold, but he feels like he's burning up from the inside, a forest fire that's oh-so familiar, razing his lungs and his throat and his innards and his time left, here. It takes so much of his self-control not to reach out for Sasuke's cheek with one hand, but he can't stand to mark that pale skin with his bloodied fingertips.
"Sasuke. Stay with me." Itachi beseeches in a voice that's smoked through and out, the croakiness making way for a higher-pitched hysteria when he rambles, "Stay with me. Look at me. You're supposed to fight me. Sasuke, fight back." Cracks on an endearment he once used as a threat. "Little brother, stay with me please."
He's afraid to let go, afraid to remove his shirt from the gash Sasuke carved into his own abdomen, afraid to stop the intestines from spilling out onto his brother's lap. It's nothing short of a paralysis, this panic, screaming that as long as Itachi can maintain the stalemate, his little brother might still be alive. Even if those eyes have gone dark and dry, the blood is still warm, hot, scalding beneath the crowns of his fingernails.
Somewhere in his foggy state of mind, there's the realization that this too shall pass; his brother's skin will discolor to a bruised purplish blue and perhaps blisters might form, the pliancy of his limbs will get lost to rigor mortis, and his body will grow cold as stone. Sasuke had come to hate him so much he denies Itachi the absolution of dying by his hands. He blinks slowly, forgoes the clarity his Mangekyo Sharingan gives him, and looks at the distorted silhouette of his little brother, a blur of black hair and a pale face. Tension leaves his shoulders and like a string cut loose, the muscles in his arms go slack, and his balled-up shirt ends up in Sasuke's lap.
He moves even closer, the squelch squelch of his knees dragging through the pool of blood sounds impossibly loud throughout the chamber, entombed between the thick stone walls. Sasuke threatens to slump sideways, but he redirects him, forehead thumping against his shoulder, spine so supple still, dark hair matted down with sweat and grime. Itachi winds his arms around him and presses a palm to the back of his head. In his mind, a memory rears its ugly heads in taunt; of two boys sitting outside on the veranda at night, close-coiled together with tears burning in his eyes. It's been so long since he's held his little brother.
Involuntarily his lips brush upon the crown of his head, his hand presses his face against him a bit harder, his legs accommodate his right knee between them. It's too dark in this room, even the chair he used as a throne falls prey to the growing shadows, and the only warmth he feels—aside from the black-glistening blood soaked through his trousers, cooling on his hands—is the button of Sasuke's nose against his skin. His hand slinks down the back of his brother's neck, fingers crooked around the neckline of his shirt, dragged downwards to skim the skin between those shoulder blades with his knuckles. Breath puffs out of his mouth almost uncertainly, back in again when he maneuvers himself against Sasuke's kneecap.
Disease rides his entire body inside out and rid him of his virility, but the pressure of a knee against his crotch feels good, somewhat. Itachi wants Sasuke's body to cover him entirely, wants to be sunk into the dying heat of that body, even. He moves his arms; stuffs his left one underneath Sasuke's shirt to map the outline of his spine, curls his right one around his waist tightly. But, by doing so his right hand comes to cover the self-inflicted wound on his brother's abdomen, and the slick miscegenation there of cloth and flesh and blood. It's been so long since he's held his little brother. Another sharp intake of breath, an agonizing slow roll of his hips against his brother's kneecap, a movement that makes his brother's head loll onto his chest.
This position is difficult to maintain, but Sasuke feels so complacent, and for the first time in seven years, there's a hush in his mind. He takes his time in exploring the expanse of his little brother's back, chasing the warmth carefully, from his flanks to the dip of his spine in the middle. Presses his cock more directly against his kneecap and angles for friction. Every movement is accompanied by a soft wet sound, but they fall upon deaf ears, left to the long-lasting stone walls.
With his eyesight so troubled he might as well have been a blind animal, but Sasuke is solid in his hold, under his fingertips, in between his legs, a dead weight against his chest. No longer running towards him in a mad dash to avenge the clan members whose blood covered his hands. Itachi smothers the sob that threatens to erupt from his throat, balls his bloodied hand into a fist on top of Sasuke's lap. History has a sense of gallows humor, after all. He comes to rest his chin atop the crown of his brother's head as he continues to rub himself against his kneecap. On the outside, they're both slowly turning cold, but they must still be hot-blooded on the inside. Sasuke's blood is not yet curdling, clotting, congealing.
His body yields to his older brother's directions, unresisting to the hands cradling his cold cheeks, tilting his face towards his brother's face. Starkly contrasting with the last time Itachi had been so close-by, when the only touches were violent, angry, measured to be deliberately cruel.
He doesn't need to see Sasuke's eyes to know they are wide open, dimmed and dull, like an unpolished mirror. To know that bloody fingerprints now decorate his cheeks, the hinge of his jaw and the skin underneath there too. There's some poetic justice in this, like a snake greedily gobbling down its own tail and choking on it. Itachi as the root of all this taint, being tainted by his brother's blood and now returning it to his brother's countenance. Having choked on one another and their kinsmen blood. He rocks harder down against his kneecap, arching his back, accidentally swiping his thumbs down his brother's chin. Mouth half-open in exhale as his cock twitches.
Soon the rigor mortis will set in, even sooner the algor mortis will set in and leave the skin a spiteful frostbite to Itachi's touch.—And wouldn't he deserve it? Doesn't he deserve it? the spite, the anger, the hate, the blame— His hips buck up again, grinding his balls down the curve of the kneecap almost in desperation. One hand comes to push some of his brother's matted hair behind his ear, comes to rest on the side of his neck. The mark left behind by the heel of his palm resembles an uneven scallop shell, ribbed and red. He gently brushes their noses together, on the verge of tears because Sasuke can't pull away from him anymore. There's no need to claw at his throat and push him flush against a wall, to mold the flesh of his back to accommodate the bricks. All his loneliness and his longing won't dissipate at this effigy of trust, not when this refusal to retaliate sprung fort from an act of rebellion itself.
Sasuke's dead and Itachi's not and there's no one left to care. He pushes his mouth to brother's mouth and kisses him, skims the seal of his lips with his tongue, grinds his cock against his brother's kneecap in a punishing pace. Forgets about the bundled-up shirt on Sasuke's lap, about the fact Sasuke's torn guts are spilling out from his abdomen, about the blood on his hands and on his knees and on his shins. His orgasm whites out the image of his little brother driving his blade through his belly, gritting his teeth as he saws through the flesh there, his face blanched from the effort.
His breathing is irregular, forehead still pressed against his brother's. Then, Itachi moves and carefully guides him down to lie on the floor, outstretched. He can't bring himself to try and stuff his brother's innards back into his body, can't bring himself to touch him once more. No, what he does instead is search for Kusanagi with his hands.
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Tell me we're dead
and I'll love you even more
- Richard Siken, excerpt from the Torn-up Road
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