The darkness didn't make it any easier to listen to my brother. How was I expected to sleep? After hearing that he didn't hate me—or maybe even, that he'd never hated me.

But now…it'd be even harder on him when I went blind…harder on him when my body gave way to the illness that had been consuming me since these eyes had begun taking their toll…

My forehead throbbed from when it'd slammed against the tiles. I touched the corner and felt the blood still wet—but it was thickening slowly…drying.

I knew why he'd punched me, of course. I knew him too well to simply put it down to anger. He was frustrated. He couldn't see why I'd give in—give up—to the fate of going blind. And because of that, he refused to accept my last gift to him—my eyes, and the eternal sight and Mangekyou that came with them.

I needed to come up with a plan that would undoubtedly work—even if it involved coercing him to take the eyes and let me die.

And all these problems wouldn't even exist had I died the day I was supposed to. Sasuke wouldn't have to deal with this and I'd be long gone. But even my body wouldn't cooperate.

No. Moping was absurd. It would get me nowhere. I lifted the hair that I felt had fallen over my covered eyes and yanked them back. I should get it cut. It'd been soaked in more blood than water.

I paused when I heard footsteps. They weren't Sasuke's footsteps. They were…quieter, but denser. Juugo? I waited for a voice. The charka felt unstable, meaning I was close to certain it was Juugo.

My assumption was confirmed true when the deep, hesitant voice reverberated in my ears—it sounded like he was standing in front of me, near the bed.

"Sasuke's arguing with Madara," he said quietly. There was a soft clang, and I was pretty sure he was putting something down on the side table.

I raised an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

"I think he's threatening Madara in order to make sure that—in the case you ask—Madara won't perform the operation to remove your eyes."

I tried not to smile. Even now my little brother's antics to get what he wanted—what he thought was best—didn't fail to amuse me. Although, at times they did sadden me. I just wasn't worth that much.

"He's mad at you," Juugo informed simply.

"Madara?"

"Sasuke." There was a rustle of fabric—he'd most likely crossed his arms. "He's doesn't like it when you're hurt—especially if you are the cause of those injuries. If, when he was still obsessed with revenge, honestly didn't care what happened to you, he wouldn't have spent that much of his life searching for you. The one who does not care neither acknowledges nor pursues."

"I've never heard you express such opinion," I said dryly—an attempt in hiding my appreciation.

"I…" he sounded quiet again. "It's true. I didn't want to intervene. But it's frustrating to be a bystander—just as it is to be the ones working the problem out."

This generation was as amusing as they were naïve. I half smiled. "Tell me, then. Why is it frustrating to watch?"

I could tell he'd heard the thinly hidden sarcasm in my voice. "I haven't known Sasuke long. But for the time I have known him, he's not shown a single human emotion. Until now."

I shook my head, still smiling. "I was the person who killed those emotions. Now I'm the person that's resurrecting them. Inevitably, I'm going to kill them again—and this time, it's not even going to be voluntary."

Juugo didn't respond. I merely heard more clattering and rearranging of what sounded like glass bottles, before his footsteps faded. Barely a minute passed between the fading steps and new ones—familiar ones.

"Sasuke?" I murmured, oddly relaxed.

"You're forbidden to speak to Madara until he stops being unreasonable and imbecilic," he responded bluntly, angrily clattering something against the tray Juugo brought in.

"Since when does the younger brother order the elder?"

"Since now." I felt his body heat draw nearer, and a strange, sickening scent wafted around my nose. My chest was tight with the smell—I was afraid I'd start vomiting again.

His hand curled around mine, opening the fingers and wrapping them around a stone cup. It was heavy, a good deal of liquid inside it—the same liquid that was emitting that terrible smell.

"Drink all of it," I heard him say.

I considered it a God-send that I couldn't see the putrid medicine—I might've started hurling again. I could only wish that my sense of smell had been rendered useless, too.

And so, drink it I did.

The taste was worse than the stench. But I was someone who'd swallowed and thrown up and re-swallowed his own blood and other…such things. I could stand the taste. But my body spoke for itself.

The coughing wore my throat raw. It was closer to dry gagging than coughing. My body needed to heave something up, but it'd already spent everything. You couldn't throw up successfully on an empty stomach.

His hands were instantly on me, securing my frame, controlling the wracking movements of my body.

"You'll be fine," I heard his stoic voice say. "I won't let you be otherwise."

The blood scratched at my throat, filling my mouth with the familiar taste of salt and iron. I let it drain through my lips, onto the floor—hearing the splattering of liquid against stone. I coughed out the remnants of whatever was still in my mouth, and took a breath slowly.

"Finished?"

I nodded, staying as still as possible, and then I felt fabric touch my skin, "You'll get worse if you stay like that," he was saying so quietly I couldn't hear him. "Put it on." I tangled blindly for a moment with what he gave me, before managing to pull it onto my torso.

"Thank you." Behind the bandages, I blinked. Those were the words that I was about to speak to him. Why he spoke them to me, there was no reason. Thanking me for what?

I felt something else touch my lips. Something hard and sweet-smelling and curved. "It'll help you sleep," he whispered. His voice sounded agonized. "Eat it. Please." There was an edge of desperation to his tone. I parted my lips and let the pill fall onto my tongue. He placed a glass into my hands, and I drained the medicine down with water.

The bright lights that seeped through my bandages were dimmed until they resembled shadows, and one of his hands pushed me down hesitantly. I lowered my body, stopping when I reached the bed. The medicine was nearly instantaneous. A dull numbness was washing over my body from toe to head, I couldn't feel anything…weightless…and yet heavy at the same time…there was no longer a pain in my chest…just…nothing…


A/N: Sorry this was such a short chapter. Itachi's POV chapters kind of have to be short, unless you want, like, ten pages of blood, and vomit, and fevers, and blackouts, and more blood and vomit. After all, this fic is essentially about Sasuke. Brownies to the first review that states the right reason why Sasuke sounded so "desperate" to get Itachi that sleeping pill.