Penance

It's Itachi's turn to jack off.

I hereby disclaim any rights

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Itachi finds himself unable to fall asleep. He brings his hands up from under the sheets and holds them up in front of his eyes. His side-swept bangs slide over his forehead down to his temples as he turns his head to look upwards directly. The outline of his fingers, the vertex between thumb and index, the pallor of his skin, the slender shape of his wrist, all of this contrasts nicely with the darkness of the ceiling above them. He takes a shaky breath as he allows himself to be immersed in the familiarity of a corridor with a delicate young boy at the end of it, glaring up at him. There's anger in his eyes, anger in his voice – and oh, hadn't his voice deepened? Every ounce of his rage, and then some, is carefully aimed at him and it seems to him that the boy only sees him, that in that instant nothing else existed besides the two of them. Itachi hates how much this thought thrills him, how much sick satisfaction he can get from recreating the awful memory in the cover of darkness.

Throwing the covers off of his legs in resignation, he first rolls over on his stomach and shoves his pillow to the side, then he lifts his hips off the mattress and worms himself out of his loose pajama trousers and his underwear. His movements are practiced and patient. This isn't the first time he's done something like this, much to his own shame and disappointment. Once he's settled upright against the wall, he allows his head to fall back. His eyes are closed. There's a certain tenseness in the straight line of his shoulders, the way he slowly sucks his bottom lip into the cavern of his mouth and rakes his teeth over it before letting go. His legs are crossed and his pubic bone is pushed forward as he trails skittish fingertips over the insides of his thighs. The wall feels so unforgivably cold to his naked back and ass cheeks.

Are we going to do this again? - Sasuke sneers as he straddles him, with the flat of his palms pressed against Itachi's shoulders to keep him down, his upper body curved over him. The darkness envelopes him, makes his hair blacker and his skin lighter and Itachi can't help but soak up every little detail (his face, his chest, his white thighs, his cock, the modest patch of curly pubic hair). He's spent so much time imagining what Sasuke would look like and even more time chastising himself for doing so. As if all this darkness gathered inside of him only furthers Sasuke's brightness. It's a sinful thought and he pinches the base of his cock in punishment. Do you want me atop of you that badly, big brother? He snaps his hips forwards at the cruel words, in a phantom thrust. Itachi turns his head to the side and presses against the hard wall and some stray hairs get caught between his left cheek and his shoulder. Little pants break through the seal of his lips.

Sasuke chuckles darkly as he rubs his ass against Itachi's hard cock; his hands slide downwards to come rest upon Itachi's pectorals, playfully catches his nipples between the cracks of his index and middle fingers. Itachi brings his right hand up under his shirt to sweep over his chest, exposing the flat planes of his belly and the underside of his ribcage to the room, as he tries to recreate the motion that enraptures him in his mind. You're sick, you know that? He's nodding, yes, yes he knows but he can't stop jerking off his cock. His hair sticks to the side of his neck, curls along his clavicle.

And guess what, Itachi? He's canting his hips against a boy that isn't there. The mixture of shame and guilt and pleasure pricks at the inside of his thighs like little needles. In his mind, he's rutting against Sasuke's backside, holding onto the handle of Sasuke's hipbones as he feels the weight of his little brother on his abdomen. You make me sick too. His lips part and his own hot breath blows through the thin fabric of his sleeping shirt. As always Itachi feels torn between the building heat in his gut and a sensation close to nausea in his stomach when he envisions himself surging up to touch his little brother's face only to get harshly pushed back down again. His shoulder blades push against the wall in reflex.

Sasuke becomes stone-faced again as if the simplest affection from him would set him off into a tirade. How could you ever think I'd want you. He doesn't know, but the delirium of the impending orgasm eats away at his mind and his cognitive function unravels in twines and threads. A rasped apology dies on his tongue when he rubs his precum open over his slit with his thumb. He pushes the side of his head against the stone of the wall, stuck between reality and a place that doesn't exist and the intensity of his own self-hate. Where do you get the guts to believe I'd ever give myself to you like this. Itachi begins to chant his little brother's name like a mantra (Sasuke, Sasuke, Sasuke, please), he loses himself in the white in front of his eyes and the clenching of his balls and the curling of his toes and the sharp push of his pelvis as he rubs himself to completion.

Usually this is the point where Sasuke laughs at how desperate the rutting becomes, at how the grip on his hipbones becomes like steel. You're so pathetic. I really do hate you, Itachi. Even within the blackness of the room, he can see the way his little brother pronounces the words, the way his lips pull back over his gums to show off his teeth at the last syllable of his name. There's nothing but acid in the statement as it's spat into his face like a confession. The hateful expression on Sasuke's face is enough to tip him over the edge. His spunk gets squirted all over his abdomen in quick sticky swipes. Itachi takes a moment to collect himself, to detach his hand from his cock. He heaves a shuddering sigh, pulls his bare knees against his chest and wraps his left arm around them.

You'll die by his hand, Itachi reassures himself as he stares into the blankness of the room, and then all this sickness will die along with you. There was some truth in what he told Sasuke after all, he supposes. His stomach cramps up at how he close he was to his little brother back then, how the button of his nose barely brushed against a silken cheek. Sasuke could never hate him as much as he hates himself. Itachi gets up from his spot and collects his pajama trousers and underwear from the floor.

The sheets are left abandoned next to his futon. The guilt presses down on his insides like a stone and he's afraid he might throw up blood. It would serve him right for having done something like this, again. He stands unsteady on his feet, even more so when he has to put on his pajama bottoms again. There's an ache in his ankles, but he walks it off on his way to the washing quarters.