He had said he didn't care.
None of it mattered if it got him the end he desired.
But. . . .
The urge to twist around was fought against valiantly. Because he knew it was expected of him, wanted even. Because it meant retribution would be hard in coming, and Sasuke simply did not play into that. Revenge. Retaliation. Those were his words, the concepts he lives for.
The very concepts he would die for.
Was dying for, his pride retorted with a bitter snarl.
The thing was he hated every second of it. Hated the way those hands crawled over his flesh, arms like malformed snakes slinking around his waist and claiming. Mine. Mine. Mine.
And Sasuke choked down the cry that fought against that declaration. He couldn't give in to it. Not because he would have been powerless in the face of those frighteningly talented fingers, but because it would destroy all hope of giving him the power he needed. Power to decimate the image of a man who stood so triumphant in the midst of death that it drove him insane (certainly this was insanity, to push against every little ounce of reason, of that scrap of true desire and deal with this abomination of genius).
Even so, there were moments when he balked, when he couldn't help but flinch as a flash of skin (all blue-grey ashen, limbs of a corpse left to freeze in the snow) snaked into the corner of his vision. Every minute twitch of muscle that gave him away earned a sinuous chuckle, more gloat than amusement, from the man behind him. Beside him. Before him.
But he whispered nothing. When words dripped, venom dipped, into his ear, he sealed his lips and uttered no cry. Let his eyes say everything, flooded with hate for not just his brother but for every little act that he had taken in the pursuit of revenge. And when those words splashed down, hitting his soul with their caustic caress, Sasuke shut it all out.
He would fix his gaze on some shapeless point before him (or on that serpentine face that took far too much delight in watching his practice in restraint) and count down the hours until revenge sat red and warm in his hands.
Until betrayal came in a parting of lips and a rush of heat-doused air.