And that was how things continued for another week.

I'd bring Karin and Suigetsu with me down to him, and they'd unwrap and unplug all the IVs, hookups and bandages, and I'd watch. Madara had stayed true to his word in both no sedatives and teaching Suigetsu and Karin how to re-plug everything.

They'd been quick to learn, despite their protests.

Although, having been in contact with my brother seemed to have given the both of them some sort of sense that they could advise me what and what not to do with him.

For example, lunch on the third day after that first one.

"You know, Sasuke," Karin pressed the edges of the chopsticks against her upper lip in a pondering expression, "If you keep taking and putting back on Itachi's bandages, he's not going to heal."

I ignored her.

And then sparring during late evening the next day.

"How much longer do I have to fucking take off Itachi's hookups and put them back on?" Suigetsu whined. "Granted, he looks 'xactly like you, but having my hands on his body isn't the same."

I threw a kunai at his direction before ignoring him.

But that wasn't all I had to worry about.

The Konoha gang was staved off at the moment, due to the fact that they had useless talents and didn't know Itachi was still alive—and probably thought I'd come running back through a field of flowers into their arms some time soon.

However, Madara had apparently had enough rest and relaxation and wanted to get back to business. He needed extra hands—rather, feet and eyes—for searching for the Eight Tailed Beast.

I had three pairs of each—well, four, if it included me.

It was well and good. I didn't care what Karin, Suigetsu, or Juugo did during the hours I had no use for them if they were back by the time I needed them for his unplugging and unwrapping.

Unfortunately, about halfway into that following week, I happened across a dead end.

"Where's Karin?" I demanded of Madara.

"Scouting."

I felt the vein in my forehead throb. "Suigetsu."

"Scouting."

I was getting desperate. "Juugo."

"Scouting."

"Zetsu." I must be really desperate to be this insane.

"Guarding."

"Kisame." I knew the answer before it was said.

"Spying."

"Why are we the only ones in here?" My voice rose slightly, and the lamps above our heads suddenly looked very appealing to use to kill the man before me. Perhaps they'd fall down on us and kill us both.

"We aren't."

In spite of myself, my ears perked up hopefully.

"Itachi's still here, too."

Screw hope.

"Unplug and unwrap him," I said, knowing full well the response I'd get.

"Anything I can do, you can do just as well." And I swore he was grinning behind that damned mask. He ruffled my hair in a way that made me want to punch him, and then traipsed away brightly. "You just don't want to touch him," he called back. "And how come you haven't taken off his eye covers? I think they're about healed. Great news, huh?"

Dignity, composure, and maturity would just have to wait. I chucked a kunai and a handful of shuriken toward the back of his head just for the sake of having something to throw at him. He caught them all on his fingertips, of course.

My teeth ground together, as I stalked toward his room.

I slammed the door closed after I entered and dragged the chair, its legs screeching on the floor, beside the bed.

By now, I was perfectly used to seeing him curled in on himself, tangled in blankets and IVs, scratches—Madara had said this was because the medicine set in the IVs caused the feeling of internal irritation (the sort of itch that bothers you to your very core and just wouldn't go away)—and perspiration.

As I stood up to get a closer look, my eyes narrowed at his hair—it was damper than usual with sweat.

"Who are you angry at, Sasuke?"

He always did this. Every time I'd come in, he wouldn't acknowledge Karin or Suigetsu, or even Juugo—not even Madara—he'd only ask me some question that wasn't altogether random, but something that no one was supposed to notice. He was blindfolded, and I barely made any sound, how was it that he saw everything?

"You."

I expected he was going to do the usual and half smile, or give some sort of voiced affirmation he heard me, or most likely just nod and drop it. I didn't expect for him to say what he did.

"I know."

He wasn't smiling. His voice wasn't indifferently casual as it always was. It was as serious as the words he'd said to me—the words I'd thought would be the last he'd ever say to me. But the thing was, even when he was being dead on serious, he still said things with a…an undeserved kindness that made it seem not so horrible or serious at all. At least, if he was doing it truthfully it did.

When I didn't respond, I swore I heard him sigh slightly. But I wasn't able to be sure if it was a sigh, or just a very soft moan, considering that his body shuddered and curled in further, fingernails grating at arms.

"Sit up," I said abruptly.

He didn't sit, but his head shifted toward my direction.

"Sit up," I ordered again. "Sit up. Now. Do it."

After about three seconds of shocked silence, he grabbed hold of the mattress and pushed himself up like a wounded animal. His arms shook slightly, and the tubes moved with him, almost hindering his actions.

I would've demanded that he take off his hookups and bandages, but then he'd have to remove his blindfold, and that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

It was the lesser of two evils, I decided, and reached out.

The IVs on his torso went off first. His body was feverish, too warm, and the skin and bandages were damp with sweat, and specks of blood—fresh blood. The oxygen mask was next. I pulled it off with some difficulty, as the thing was attached to his face securely. His face was feverish as well, the perspiration beaded on the bridge of his nose.

As I undid the wraps around his main wound—the one on his lower abdomen—I observed that it'd healed relatively. I knew that Karin was right in saying it wouldn't heal as quickly if I kept undoing and redoing the bandages. But who said I wanted it to heal swiftly?

"How does it look?" Yet another surprise. His voice was timid, though it somehow managed to retain the Itachi-like quality.

I was about to ignore the question, tossing it off with all the other ones he'd asked me. But there was one thing that kept me reeled in to his query, something that made it different from the others.

It was the first question that was concerned on himself.

"It's healing," I answered shortly. The half-smile twisted his mouth.

I stared at the smile—stared at his face—and I thought I would go mad. Again, the lesser of two evils. Madara surely wouldn't be happy about being bothered twice in a row today, I had time to kill, and besides, how harmful would this be?

"Take off the eye coverings," I told him.

And for the first time…

"No."

"What did you say?"

"They aren't coming off, Sasuke."

"Take them off."

"No."

His voice was purely stubborn, but there was an underlying edge to the reason for the hardheaded determination.

"Take them off, or I'm taking them off."

His mouth hung open slightly for about a second before he closed it. "Go ahead."

The phrase "empty threat" rang around in my head. My hand twitched at my side. The beginnings of that smile were starting to appear on his face. I decided to stop it before he confirmed to himself that I wasn't going to take the covering off myself.

The piece of cloth and the IVs that'd been attached to it were flung toward the floor, and my hand came into brief contact with strands of his hair—hair that thankfully covered his eyes and my line of sight into them.

But he lifted his head, and I knew that I was trapped. Unprepared. Uncalled for.

The eyes that I'd grown so used to seeing red, black and cold, were nothing but the same arsenic as mine. Only there was one remaining difference.

Now my eyes were the ones that were cold.

I'd killed my heart just to kill the man before me. I'd killed my heart without batting an eye to get that goal because I knew that the man before me had abandoned his own heart long ago.

Or at least I'd thought he did.

Because in reality, he'd tried to abandon and kill and lose his heart, but it insistently kept returning to him. His heart wouldn't go down without a fight.

Mine hadn't even protested.

Shadows clung in semi-circles beneath his eyes, evidence that he hadn't been able to get sufficient sleep due to the lack of sedatives.

I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. It had been nearly a decade since I'd been able to truly see him without the Sharingan, without wanting to kill him, without hating him.

Instead, I envied him.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

During the battle, Itachi had barely looked at Sasuke—truly saw him.

Now that he could…he didn't know whether to smile or shout.

His brother had grown so much.

But his brother had grown to look like him.

In both senses physical and emotional.