This I just an note, I might add it as a chapter if I feel like elaborating, but in this story there is incorporated some symbolism. The most prominent is red and white, which is (awesomely) the Uchiha Clan symbol, but also represents unity.

Warnings: SPOILERS, set after chapter 489. yaoi, Uchihacest, Incest

Notes: I'm pulling Itachi a bit out of character, but I hope he's still recognizable

Review please

Resurrection

The foot steps are labored and very slow. The ravens take flight, breaking free from the fragile form. They are his eyes, his ears; his everything. He can feel his flesh turning cold as he moves forward. He can feel his chakra withering like a flower, petals curling and sepals falling away. His blood is coagulated and oozing from every pore and orifice. His heart is still beating, his lungs still rasping, and, right now, that's the only part of his self that is alive.

The sky arches overhead. The blue is unbroken by neither cloud nor star nor moon. It is simply perfect; the sun doesn't even seem to mar it. The heat, unbelievably warm, drenches his chilled flesh. The ground becomes uneven and he stumbles. There are gravestones, which had been carefully tended until up to four years ago. All tended by his younger brother, who loved and lost and lived. The ravens perch atop a tombstone, falling feathers covering all epitaphs. He doesn't need them though, he remembers them. The blood is even hotter as he cries, the sun burning into his back. The life is disappearing- again.

He had lost. He had lost so much. Why couldn't he have won any of it back? He was resurrected, but that was useless. The world decayed and fell away further, drowning in his clan's depravity.

The blood pools thick around his scarred knees. He sees his reflection, urging his eyes to open one more time. He sees the numerous lines of his face- reminiscent of the aged Madara. He sees the sharingan glaring with a terrible hatred and pain, which is the exact expression of his brother. But those lips are his own; they are trembling and dripping his life's necessity. And he thinks how fitting because never had they helped in his attempts to save his brother. Words, in the Uchiha clan, are never enough.

Nothing was ever enough.

He remembered being awakened. He was trapped in his body, his mind sealed somewhere. He couldn't turn his head, open his eyes, but he could feel the others beside him. He heard the voice of Madara, discussing plans with Kabuto. The voices seemed distant though, as if he was behind glass and they were on the opposite side. He tried to use his chakra, but he could not connect. Where was his brother? Why does Kabuto suddenly want him? Why can't I move?

He had died; he remembered that painfully and tenderly. He tried to push that from his mind though, because he had to focus. He tried to move again, but the effort was fruitless. The coffins (yes this was most definitely a coffin) were moved underground. The chakra that surrounded them was familiar and, if Itachi was more alive he would have absorbed the chakra. It was so much like his own, so familiar, that he could do that sort of thing. It would also, to suck this man dry, be his own form of revenge. Where is my brother? You promised.

The puppets, yes he was a puppet, the seals even ached, were left in a cool, underground chamber. Kabuto left, mentioning how he must 'take care' of a few loose ends. Konoha had been following them, Itachi knew that as well. Even in his stupor he could smell the death and sense the approaching chakra. Kabuto was such a show off that it was disgusting. Madara lingered in the room, his sharingan was activated.

It felt like a thousand suns, pointed and distilled, when it landed on Itachi's eyes. Did he even have eyes, didn't he have them stolen? Didn't his brother have them now? He tried to suck in a breath, which normally helped him abort his thoughts, but he was still paralyzed. The gaze intensified, but there was no way he could stop it or make a move or tell him that it hurt. All he could do was lie there and wait, in the corner of his mind, and wonder if this was what the Kyuubi ever felt like.

"Tch, I hate puppets." Madara muttered and walked out of the cavern. Itachi heard the grind of a stone being rolled in to place and the complete darkness was cool on his decaying flesh. His heart was beating slowly; his cells were beginning to regenerate. It'd be a long process, though, before he was up for proper fighting standards, when he wouldn't fall apart and just display maggots to the enemy. The jutsu would take a few days at least. And then what? Would he be fully resurrected or merely a puppet?

He thought about Sasori- Oh, the irony!

He could feel different people coming in and out of the cavern during the following days. They'd take their pulse, check their chakra levels, and then disappear in a breath of air. Whose shadow clones were these? Itachi attempted to recognize the chakra, but no such luck. He was weakening in his will as he continued to be catatonic. He could feel that fine web of chakra he had before, that could possibly do some damage or at least sense another's chakra, was failing. His mind, too, was melding with his body. He was becoming inseparable, indistinct, and that meant once someone controlled his body they'd control his will. Itachi, though, wasn't scared. He couldn't be. Or so he assured himself.

It wasn't until five days had passed, or what Itachi had assumed were five days (he could not tell, he could not see). The shadow clones had stopped coming and the puppets were left alone for two days. Oh, Itachi thought, reassessing his own assumptions, It's actually been five weeks. Time was a notion, it felt, and since his body was being reborn instead of aging, it didn't make any sense. Nonsensical, it was all completely absurd. He'd laugh, which he found out recently doesn't become him, if he could, but his body and mind were melding, merging, and new chakra was being fed into his system. It was Madara's chakra. But I thought I was Kabuto's puppet…

The stone was rolled away, the angel of darkness entered. That chakra was strong and he felt the bits in his system pull at him, as if by a gravitational force. He groaned, but it was only inward and he knew he only continued to look as if he was sleeping. The sure footsteps came closer and the pull became stronger. It was galvanizing, his whole flesh singing to this man some sick siren song. Or was it the other way, was the man pulling Itachi towards him?

"Wake up, my dear." Madara whispered: his breath a hot plume on the attentive ear. It was still muffled, and Itachi wasn't prepared to respond, but his eyes snapped open on their own accord. His body rose, stiff from rigor mortis, but flowing with new blood and power. The world was dim and the only light was from a paper lantern in Madara's hand.

My gods! Itachi exclaimed inwardly, it sounded muffled as well: I can see!

He was worried, momentarily, his expression may have faltered, but nothing had changed. In fact, he couldn't change it if he wanted to. He wanted to look at himself (what have I become?), but his head would not move. His lips were dry, he wished to lick them, but his fierce will was a mere flicker beside the raging fire in his belly.

"Follow me." Madara commanded. Itachi rose, the chakra pulling his limbs (a bit awkwardly he'll admit) into a direction and kinesis to follow Madara. They walked down a corridor of stone, which looked flawless, but he could hear people behind the walls, above the walls, and within the walls. Some were screaming for a fight and others for salvation. He wanted to get closer to his old teacher; perhaps the proximity would unlock something, like it used to. But he could only stay at his mechanical pace, his legs striding unequally and his arms not swinging.

The made it to a room, the wall disintegrating. No, wait, that was a genjutsu. Madara stepped through and Itachi followed. He wanted to turn his head, to look around, but he could do nothing. He was ordered to sit and he collapsed in a heap of limbs on the floor. Madara chuckled lightly, "This is a lot harder than I thought. Itachi, sit on the couch."

He hadn't even seen a couch. He gets up and collapses, similarly, on the cushions. He can see more of the room now, shelving with scrolls and ancient text. A desk with ink spilled across it, a thousand pens awaiting use. Madara pulls most of his attention, though, and he's riveted. His face isn't sagging, as he remembered, but was pulled taught over a fine bone structure. His eyes were cool obsidian and his mouth a lush red. His tongue darted out, teeth flashing brilliantly in the subdued lighting, his canines a bit too long. He was in a fishnet shirt, black, standard pants, but he carried no weapons on his person. Itachi was confused at first and then realized, in a few flashes, he was Madara's weapon. The kunai pouch seemed like an anvil against his leg.

Why'd you change? He wanted to ask. Even when Itachi had went to Madara, for aid to kill the clan; he had lines on his face. Even when Itachi, on his first few days in Akatsuki, would wander into Madara's sleeping chambers, the wrinkles were entrenched. And, even when Itachi was escaping Akatsuki to find his brother and Madara cursed him to the far reaches of hell; it was wrinkles that lined a blasphemous mouth. Then, suddenly, he didn't care so much. By gods, where is my brother?

"You can't speak." Madara said. Perhaps he noted the frustration in the eyes or knew Itachi far too well. Granted, Itachi never spoke much, but with the loss of his sharingan, the boy must be looking for another avenue to gather information. The elder looked at the pale lips, tinted blue forever no matter how much blood rushed through the capillaries. It seemed like such a loss, at first, but Madara realized, with a relish, it only added to the youth's beauty.

"I need your help though." He looked askance, but Itachi knew Madara wasn't looking for approval. He was looking for betrayal, hatred, or any emotion that could jeopardize this objective. He found none: "Kabuto may believe he has an ace, but he does not. I was careful, as you can see (at this he motions to his face), so no one knows my full power. I, though, can't do this on my own. I need you Itachi."

Why? Why after so many years of me needing you have the positions reversed? Why, when I was confused and lost and had nowhere to go did you leave me behind? Why would I help you? The thoughts were bitter and cold and foreign. His body and mind were one and the restraints of his mind were dissolving into his skin.

"Oh, it's not help I'm looking for." Madara said flippantly, beginning an achingly slow pace towards the younger: "Someone else does. He did not heed you before and he's still hellbent on destroying the village. Do you know of who I speak?"

He was inches away, his hands on his hips, face to Itachi's level. Itachi could not move, but his eyes were fascinated by those lips that moved, that seeped such a poison to his soul. He wanted to get away. Madara wasn't like this. Or he was, but Itachi refused it. Madara was getting under his skin. He couldn't let him get under his skin, but he already was. The seals were on fire, his face didn't change, but inside he was screaming:

Sasuke! Sasuke! You speak of Sasuke!

The fire abated, Madara placing a tender kiss on the seal at his neck, his canines scraping the inscriptions. "Good boy." He muttered, "Now wait here. I will pay you for your duties soon."

With what?

"Control. I'll give you control of yourself."

Itachi was left behind, thinking of what it'd feel like to be able to have volition. He could run a hand through his hair when frustrated, scratch the itch behind his ear, and maybe retaliate against his hellish position. He fell into a daze, all thoughts disappearing. The chakra was dissipating, he could not remain animated. It was just like the past five weeks, in his coffin, rotting and restoring all at the same time. It's a shame, though, that he didn't know how much control he'd get back.

But I'll find my brother…

Sun didn't permeate the walls; the moon wasn't casting shadows across the earthen floor. What time was it? Dusk, dawn, midday, midnight? Itachi stirred, in his mind only, his body was lame. He had been laid delicately back in his coffin, with a noted edition of cushions. A shadow clone came in and a hand hovered above his beating heart. The face was a hybrid of both Kabuto and Orochimaru and, if Itachi had any will, he would tear that face right off its bone structure.

"Almost complete." It muttered, writing something in a notebook, which disappeared in a puff of air. The other attendants rose simultaneously, the same motions occurring, and the same pop crackling the dim silence. They, then too, disappeared in a burst of air and Itachi was left here. He wasn't alone, but he could not speak and could not see the others. Were they like him? Were they yearning to get out? Or was their something different about his position?

Madara only came by once in the next week. He performed a series of hand seals and tenderly rested the fingers on the seal already marring Itachi's skin. The pulse of the chakra was painful. He felt the other seals- on his arms, his legs, his abdomen- release. They were replaced by a network radiating from this one master seal. He was still a puppet, he reflected, as Madara retreated. Yet, time was of no importance to the immortal: he'll eventually free me. Itachi let the darkness soak into his eye lids and sunk into a slumber.

And soon I will see Sasuke.

The end of the week was when he woke from this slumber. He was measuring time involuntarily- noting the periods of high traffic and low traffic above his head. Right now, although it should be night, there was clattering and screaming occurring. The walls were shaking (he felt the gravel hitting him in the face) and people were breaking free from their stone prisons. They had lost their mind in the solitude and went screeching, attacking, and clawing at whomever they could grab. Itachi felt two strong hands clasp his arms and he thought well, this sucks. But he came face to face with Madara, sharingan burning deep in his eyes.

Yes, Itachi revised, this sucks very much.

He was taken through the forest, actually carried rather than his mechanical run. The others were left behind. Itachi was curious as to why, but it wasn't like he could ask. He simply assumed Madara had done something to him in particular that made him more viable for this purpose. The others, however obedient, would have been a burden.

They landed without a sound, Itachi was dropped from the shoulder he was slung over and carried like a bride. Madara needed to see his charge to maneuver accordingly. The forest was thickest here and he could not risk losing any progress whatsoever. Itachi's skin had almost reached its old resistance, but he could not risk letting any wound occur that could drain precious chakra. He ducked into a net of vines, settling Itachi beside a moss covered rock.

This was as good a place as any, Madara assumed, setting up a genjutsu deterrent and a few traps. He returned to beside Itachi, who looked as still as ever. He's all mine, Madara thought while running a hand through the long, loose hair. His fingers were light on the cheekbone as he guided the head to rest in his lap. Then, he fixed the body of his old student to a comfortable position, Madara's legs acted as two bent barriers on either side of the lean, scarred torso. The eyes were curious as they looked up into Madara's, a hint of cold still caressing the irises that time could not erase. But there was no hatred, to Madara's utter relief- there was no hatred.

"I suppose I should explain." Madara said. His fingers trailed the jaw bone, relishing the pulse of his own chakra beneath the chin of his kin: "Your eyes are the first matter. They are not yours, I gave yours to Sasuke- before I knew you'd come back. Danzo was kind enough to act as donor."

There was a pause. Itachi squirmed on the inside, feeling uncomfortable. In his skull were eyes that were in someone's arm. It also meant these eyes came from one of his kinsmen. But who could it be? Was it his father? Or was it his uncle? Or was it Shisui? He didn't know and suddenly he realized how powerless he was, even if he did get control back- he would not understand this level of sharingan (what ever it was).

"Your brother is safe. I'm taking you there now. What I need you to do is very important. I need you to help him control his sharingan. I also need you to get him off his god-damned revenge arc. If he is this crazy, this out of control, everything will be for naught. Itachi- your sacrifices will be for naught."

Definite. Final. Those words had a haunting ring, a paradoxical undertone. The clan's objectives, as corrupt as they were, could be lost. Could he risk losing his? Were they as depraved as all the others? Did it even matter? His life was coming to a close, he wouldn't survive this, why should he fight for a better world when he knows none will come even if he destroys all evil. Because he wouldn't be able to kill his brother and the clan would still live…

Will you free me, if I help you? A form of surrender whispered by the withering voice- why was he so tired? Madara must be weakening.

"I'll give you control when we get there." He reassured, his fingers running over dry, motionless lips. They were hot and dry and blood was oozing from them they were so desiccated. It was his blood, now, infused in that body. All this was his, everything: his. No one, not Danzo, not Kabuto was going to take it away. "You will remain my puppet until arrival."

Sasuke will be safe?

"Yes."

Then, I agree.

Itachi receded into a warm darkness. It was the same abyss he was cradled in when he had died; the rain and aftermath pelting his flesh. A warm feeling fluttered in his stomach- completion. But he was no where near complete now. He was far from it. A void was swelling and yawning in his arms, his legs, and his eyes. The chakra rushed and swirled in these voids; searching for power. It wasn't his search though, nor his voids, but the burden transferred by Madara who was holding him delicately and savoring the safety of his student. Madara would never admit to such sentimentality. Itachi felt it though, a growing, warm completeness in the pit of his stomach.

He awoke alone. He found out he could indeed move, but he could only raise himself, the air rushing from his lungs immediately. He sucked a few gulps in and then let out a groan. He tried to activate the sharingan, but a singing pain coursed through his system. He collapsed backwards. I thought I was going to be his puppet. He tried to rise again, his feet shaky and weaker. His muscles were still there but they had no memory of such movements- they were not regained yet. The jutsu is not complete- I'm not completely revived.

Madara emerged, fruits cupped in his hand and a string of fish slung over his shoulder. He handed Itachi a few berries as he set to creating a fire. He cooked the fish, never once looking at Itachi again. The younger edged forward, but his energy was failing him. He was about to collapse, but a strong arm twined around his shoulders and brought him to rest beside his ancestor. The hand also guided him to a better position and offered him a warm meal. He also felt the chakra being offered, openly, through their physical contact. It was the chakra he refused to accept.

"You have to regain strength if you plan on walking on your own- or do you like that I carry you, Itachi-kun?" Normally, a statement like such would be playful and fun and mood-lightening. It wasn't, the voice was lewd and dark and tempting. The mouth was far away, the eyes were watching him from behind a fringe of black hair, but he felt as if they were staring at him straight on (and he was naked and writhing and crying) and those lips weren't speaking words but pressing against his pulse point in a furious kiss (like so many times before- so many, so many, too many).

Itachi sucked in a breath and opened up the channels. The food was good and the water was clear and crisp. Madara lay beside him for awhile, just filtering chakra into the near-lifeless body. Itachi was tucked beneath the chin, pressed against the chest, and his legs were wrapped around two stronger ones. Where their stomachs met, the strongest exchange occurred: the pull so strong that if he tried to shimmy away they'd meet back together in a crash. He settled comfortably in the arms of the immortal, blushing ever so lightly when the zing of exchange sent a creeping pleasure to his groin.

The night filtered through the greenery and Madara pulled away. Itachi rolled onto his back, breathing easily for the first time in hours. He shut his eyes, trying to center himself. Then he stood and nodded to Madara. He was about to say "I'm ready", but Madara shushed him. "I know you don't speak normally, so this shouldn't be hard, but try not to speak at all. You'd be surprised how much words can take from you. Only use your mouth to breathe."

Itachi nodded, blinking, and followed Madara from their hideout. They climbed in the trees and began to make their way, jumping across limbs, deeper in the labyrinthine jungles. Towards the end of the night Itachi felt like he was deteriorating, or would deteriorate if he continued, So Madara carried him in the last hour right before dawn. Itachi was moaning in a pain he could hardly name. "Your body wants energy, that's why it hurts. I can't give you any, I need mine. Sleep."

At the final word, Itachi was thrown into unconsciousness. Madara carried him further, a few hours in the waxing light. He decided on a cave behind a waterfall, carefully hiding it further with genjutsu. He wiped his brow, and settled beside Itachi, who was sleeping peacefully. He fingered the lips- now that the boy had drank they weren't as chapped, but there still was some blood. He must have been coughing it up when he was weakening- Madara reasoned- and he didn't even complain. He settled his own lips upon those of his old student, relishing the familiar feel. He made a brief chakra bridge and began healing the scarred lungs and internal organs. Granted, he didn't have to shove his tongue into Itachi's mouth to heal him, but since the boy carried his blood and half his life-force now, he deserved to get a little bit in return.

Itachi realized he could dream. He hadn't dreamt since he had joined the Akatsuki. It was because he had nightmares about his clan and begged Madara to make them stop. Madara told him that the dreams hold answers for our present dilemmas; they should not be suspended or overlooked. That night was the night Itachi stopped dreaming- maybe his mind realized the horror-show really had no meaning.

But now he was dreaming, in vibrant color washed in the shades of memory. It wasn't memory per se because this was not his old home, but definitely Shisui's. But his parents were there, or were once there, but were out shopping. Sasuke was still at the academy. Itachi was home, alone, in the living room, reading over a mission statement. He'd had it for awhile- the hardest mission of his life. They only gave me three months to prepare- he lamented when normally he thought three weeks was too much preparation- How can I even pull this off?

The door opened and Itachi suspended all emotion. He watched himself like one does in the majority of dreams and silently went- don't do that, he likes that, don't do that. Madara came into view; his face was as it is now, not the old man it had been back then. Come to think of it- Itachi had seen this younger face, but only in the dark. He felt it when he had run his fingers across it, eyes firmly blindfolded. It was always there but he never saw it.

The ancestor walked across the room, a trail of ravens racing from his wake. The perched on the furniture, tearing at the pictures, the upholstery, and everything that seemed keep this house together. His mother's home-made quilt was torn. The family picture was shattered. The family heirloom was broken into a thousand, shining shards. Itachi saw the tears well in the eyes and even felt them- suddenly he was pulled into that body, the couch firm under him and his world tilting.

"Look only at me." Madara commanded. (Oh, how he heard that so many times before, in the past. When he trained for this he had to look at him. When he learned the seals he had to look at him). Itachi dragged his eyes up, keeping his face in check. But Madara could see the faint furrow and the soft glisten on the orbs. He settled his legs on either side of Itachi's lap, lifting up the mission and burning it in his hand. He towered over the teenager, his black robe slipping back and revealing a hard-cut torso and low-riding pants. He was inches from Itachi's face, the boys breath (Itachi knew, somehow he knew) sent thousands of shivers down the elder's spine.

Suddenly they weren't in the room, on the couch, but now they were in the bedroom. He was 18 at this time, in Akatsuki a whole year. He was tied to the bed, a blind fold on, and Madara was all over him. The chakra burned his skin, making him writhe and cry out. A wet tongue traced the marks carefully. Itachi felt so immense a pleasure when two digits were placed in his mouth for him to give suck. He arched off the bed as he gave a gentle pull, earning a groan from the one above him.

"I love you." Madara muttered, and Itachi awoke. His eyes inches away from those he knew so well but could never understand. The hot lips caressed Itachi's again (a pinch on his side assured him he was awake): "Itachi, I will always love you."

Itachi shivered at the familiar words. The words that made him trust indefinitely in the man in no way he had ever before. He was never betrayed and, although he betrayed Madara, he was being helped by the one he had wronged. Madara was on top of him, covering him in hot kisses- the stone floor a cool relief to the heat above. He was insanely aroused so very quickly and, he wondered, was that Madara's doing?

His hands reached up to reciprocate. Gods, they were both naked, and this felt so good. He pulled their groins together and Madara, in a sheer act of exhibition, connected their chakras. The galvanizing effect of the bridge combined with the friction sent Itachi reeling through emotions he never knew he had. He felt so in love, so safe, so complete. But the question still stood, he was still a puppet, so it was only natural for him to ask, in the heat of the act:

Are these feelings my own?

They continued this pattern for what felt like months, to the tired Itachi, but were in fact three days. They would move through the forest, getting further and further into it, and then rest. The rest constituted Madara settling beside Itachi, tenderly touching his face, his hands, and his stomach. Then he'd begin to toy with other areas, this event becoming longer as the days progressed. Never did their clothes move or did they strip down, but Madara's hands would get under them, his chakra would push at points within Itachi as Madara pressed others outside. Itachi, also, became more active as the days progressed.

The fourth fling, the final fling, when they had only a day's journey to the hide-out, lasted until the small hours of the morning. Itachi was spent and uncomfortable- his pants were sticking to him uncomfortably and his shirt felt itchy on his sweat glazed skin. He tried to shift, but all his energy had left in the rush of his last climax. Madara was beside him, never sated, but somehow satisfied, face buried in the cold floor like some wasted drunkard. Itachi writhed further- his body wanted that energy that was burning beside him so badly.

He attempted to close his mind. What else could he think of? Sasuke. He was going to see Sasuke soon. His little brother he could not kill, his Otouto who he loved a little too much for his sanity. He looked at Madara. When his ancestor spoke of Sasuke he sounded short, exasperated, but endearing terms could be found. Madara showed his caring by telling you how much you suck because he knows, and wants you to be, your very best. Itachi licked his lips- wondering what it'd be like reuniting with Sasuke. Madara would be there, would it be any better? Would this continue to happen? Does Sasuke know about this relationship he and Madara share?

Or does Sasuke have his own special connection to Madara?

Itachi shimmied a bit, trying to get a better view of Madara's face. It was looking at him, sharingan activated. Then, Itachi realized in a rush that Madara could read his thoughts (He's been doing it the whole time, how stupid am I?) Suddenly Madara was on top of him, his breath abandoned him. He shifted his shoulders, feeling the strong hands directly above them. The ancestor was straddling his hips and they were connected in the most intimate of ways. Itachi could feel the chakra in his system pull a bit, simply aching for the raw power above him. Madara leaned down close, his sharingan a hideous red star within the moonlit face: "I've never done such with Sasuke." The chakra bridged and Itachi cried out at the surge: "You're the only one that makes me feel this way, Itachi." The youth felt the chakra seep in, setting everything on fire. He wanted to get away, so he could think, so he could be safe, but he was securely pinned. "And remember Itachi," Madara cooed softly, as he dragged his tongue over the torn ear: "You are my puppet."

"Sleep."

Itachi fell into that familiar oblivion. Why did he command him to sleep and not play to his fancies? Itachi didn't know; Itachi was sleeping. And, if he dared question in his waking hours, Madara could hear him. Also, if Madara could hear his thoughts couldn't he also invest a few? Make Itachi think that Madara is the nicest man there ever was to exist? He could, very easily. Yet, it would be precluded by any bitterness Itachi held, any hatred, because that sort of will was the strongest and hardest to penetrate. Thank gods- Madara thought; brushing the midnight hair back from his student's face- he does not hate me.

He awoke on a pallet bed. Alone, for the first time in five days, he was alone. He could make out distant voices filtering through stone. By the resonance, they were underground. Itachi rose, realizing happily (well for an Uchiha it is not happily, but something of a similar nature) that his full powers were restored and stable. He no longer had to borrow from Madara; he was his own free man. This was amazing, he thought, staring at his hands- battle scarred, but alight with his own chakra. Or, as close to his own as he could with this borrowed vitality. He was about to leave the room, but resigned himself to his bed.

He must find a way out. No, find Sasuke and then find a way out. There was something, always something, about Madara that never sat right with Itachi, He could ignore it, as he had when he was younger, and surrendering to lust thinking it was love. But he was older (and wiser and less hormonal driven) and understood the error of his ways and those of his ancestor. Sasuke was in danger- of what? Itachi didn't know- so he must get him out as soon as possible.

He lay down, closing his eyes, simulating his old state in the coffin. He heard a stream of curses; a girl screaming about how 'you shouldn't bring that sword around if you aren't training'; a man's voice telling them both to 'please be quiet, I'm trying to summon birds'; and, finally, within the mix was a grunt, a dissatisfied, but familiar grunt. Itachi focused on the location of the sound, delighted to realize his power wasn't draining with the effort. He felt the immense chakra of his younger brother and, much to his utmost joy; he had a bit of control over the eyes, his eyes. He chuckled a bit. Only look at me Otouto, he hummed in his head.

And Sasuke was beginning to get frustrated with how his eyes, by their own volition, were staring at the ground.

Itachi finally met Sasuke the next day, not by formal introduction, but by a very impromptu meeting. It was the middle of the night, around eleven, and Itachi had spent the whole day hidden away and checking his immense powers. Meanwhile, Sasuke was tripping over everything since his eyes didn't seem to focus very well. And it was by the mid-arch of the moon that both were hungry and trusted themselves to find food. Itachi was leaning in the refrigerator when Sasuke walked in.

Itachi turned around, the moonlight passing over his skin. Sasuke was shocked, his face expressing his surprise (the only Uchiha face that retained this quality), and he started to back away. He thought of asking his older brother why he was here, but realized this was probably a dream. If he talked, then someone would know he had a weakness. In all honesty, this wasn't the first time he had dreamt of his Aniki or even hallucinated about his Aniki. He didn't mind them, not in the least, but once someone knew of his Achilles heel –either by a shocked gasp or sigh in his sleep- Sasuke could lose any edge he had if his underlings were to turn on him.

"Sasuke." Itachi reached out a hand, but realized how disturbing the gesture now seemed. After the fight, many things were now off limits. He recoiled a bit and sat himself down, making sure not to cross his legs or lean back too far. Instead, he studied his brother carefully, the pale chest covered in flurries of white scars, the dark pants a sharp contrast and riding low on his hips, and the bare feet with toes curling in anticipation of him. Sasuke seemed to be far from afraid (though his expression suggested nothing really), but rather to be passionately curious.

The younger inched off the wall- if it was a dream, why not enjoy it? A foolish thought, really, and Sasuke banished it after a few steps. He was about to turn away, to go back to his room, and wait until morning, but two pale arms opened. It was something that never happened before in a dream. Normally, Sasuke would have to beg for forgiveness and his brother would never grant it, or his Aniki would be about to but suddenly a gravestone would loom from the background and extinguish him like a flame. He stepped forward, feeling the familiar fingers clasp his upper arm and, swiftly, he was pulled into an embrace. Midway through it, as the hands on Sasuke's back became comfortable with stroking the chorded muscle, did he realize he was crying.

Itachi didn't mind, thought, he was crying, too.

The embrace lingered until Sasuke realized, with a horrible turn of his stomach, that this was not a dream. He backed away and glared, the sharingan looking harmless behind the film of tears. He pointed a finger, but couldn't speak, couldn't trust his voice. Instead, he just trembled as his older brother watched- enraptured. "Why are you here?" He asked, barely above a whisper.

"I don't know." Itachi replied coolly and grabbed the hand in front of his face. He could feel how cold it was and he cupped it between his own, and then blew hot air out of his mouth onto the chilled digits. He rubbed it, feeling it warm. Sasuke's face was also warming. Itachi's eyes returned to his brother's features, happy to see the color spread on the cheeks. Look only at me. The eyes, his eyes, Sasuke's eyes couldn't move from his face. The younger's will was weakening. He sank out of his rigidity and Itachi pulled him to his lap once more, sitting Sasuke on his knee and pressing his mouth to a small ear. "I love you, Otouto." He murmured.

Sasuke's eyes were closing and sleep was fast approaching. (Too opportunistically, Itachi thought momentarily) Nevertheless, Itachi carefully carried the precious bundle back to the room. He tucked him in like he used to when Sasuke was afraid of monsters under the bed. He tenderly laid a kiss on the brow and, tentatively, placed one on each eyelid. He now understood why Madara was so obsessed with power; with control- Itachi had never known it could feel this good.

Itachi was aroused from sleep in the early morning by Madara looming over him. Itachi checked he had made it back to his room and that everything was as he left it. He then looked at Madara- entirely sure this must not be for reprimand. Anyway, Itachi thought blithely- he wouldn't punish me for being hungry. The stronger sharingan came dangerously close to his onyx eyes and large hands were gripping the side of the bed. Itachi felt the mattress sink at the pressure, his skin was already singing from the surging chakra beside him. "You've met your brother." It was accusatory and, in his semi-asleep state, Itachi couldn't understand why.

He kept his face cold, jaw set, and refused to give an answer. Suddenly, Itachi was under the larger body, fear small clots in his airway- fluttering and catching. His hands were pulled above his head and he felt the immense power his ancestor had over him. He was prostrated by a single touch. He tried to resist, but eventually the life, quite literally, went out of him. Madara commanded him as he willed- stay still, take this off, touch here. When the punishment had ended, Itachi was sore, his skin as cold as the day he was revived, and his energy stores at dangerous lows. Madara's parting words were: "Power is not for everyone."

Itachi didn't much care for the slight at his abilities. No, he found it all to be very humorous. Madara, the greatest ninja to live and to never die, was jealous. Jealous of whom? One may ask. He was jealous of seventeen year old boy. Itachi felt laughter gurgle inside, which oozed from his lips not as chuckles but blood. He violently coughed, vomiting carmine over the floor. The metallic tang was familiar and incited memories, mostly, of his fight against Sasuke. Oh, how strong his brother had become. Perhaps, Madara did have reason to fear.