I don't stay the night. I find I can't sleep in any bed other than Itachi's. I don't tell Naruto this of course- but he probably knows it intuitively. I don't want him to stop looking at him like he does, with love and regret. I wonder if I looked at Itachi like that. If that's why he spared me.

I arrive home, climb the stairs to the second floor and pad down the hallway making a right at the end. Itachi's room. I strip off my clothes and fall into Itachi's bed. I showered at Naruto's before I left, kissing him chastely on the cheek. I know it's stupid, for someone like me, a trained ninja, an Uchiha, an orphan, to think about such things, but I can't stand the idea of Naruto's scent (yellowy orange, like a sun setting) and Itachi's (ice blue, like the hottest flame) mixing. They'd clash, I'm sure. But I don't want to find out. And though it's more than Itachi deserves, even though I've every right to loathe him…I can't. He's hurt me in every possible way (emotionally, mentally, physically). And I still can't do anything more than clutch at his pillow, trying my hardest to find his scent that has long worn away. And this, the idea that Itachi, my brother not the genius, is gone. He's gone, and I don't know how to bring him back.

Every mission I'm assigned I take seriously. Whether it be protecting someone or delivering a message, I do it with all I've got. I try so hard, maybe, because I think if I do an exemplary job, somewhere, he'll hear about me. And he won't be ashamed to call me his brother. That, wherever he is, he'll smile. And of course it's for me too. I know Itachi wouldn't. I know he would do only sort of apply himself, and the results would still be spectacular, record breaking.

It's my little ritual, I guess you could say. Before I fall asleep, I think of Itachi as he used to be. It helps me, not with sleep as it continues to elude me, but it helps me hold onto that feeling. That feeling of what I once might have called love.

*

My eyes blink open. I know instantly that someone is the room. Better yet, I know who it is. My eyes have already adjusted to the dark, but I don't need any confirmation. Except...I pinch myself on the arm, hard. It hurts. He's real.

"Sasuke." He quirks an eyebrow at me. I feel the shift in the air as I glance toward the open window. I know we're both thinking the same thing: Was I waiting for him subconsciously? A stream of moonlight falls through and my eyes adjust quickly.

His cape flows from his thin frame and I see, with a jolt of fear that I try to pretend doesn't excite me, my brother is naked. His face is young, but his body is that of a man.

"That's my bed."

I shrug. "Been keeping it warm for you."

"Still sleep naked?" His tone is casual, but I can see the crimson highlights in his eyes. He's aroused. He's crossing to the bed and even if I lie (which I don't plan on doing) he'll discover the truth for himself.

"I'm cold," I say. I wanted to say it as a statement, but it came out like a whine. I'm ever so slightly appalled.

It's so strange. I'm older, not a man yet, but I'm not naïve. I'm not that impressionable child anymore. But Itachi's presence has made me shy, made me yearn for acceptance and praise. Not just because of his own superior talent, but because he's my brother. My lover.

"Really cold," I repeat. And it's another lie. Embarrassed, ecstatic , thrilled, and, yes, a bit afraid. Horny? Definitely. But no, not cold. Quite the opposite, really. I feel a blistering wave of heat all over my torso. I feel like my heart, what's left of it anyway, will burn itself out until it's nothing more than a charred jumble of apologies and regrets.

"Lair." The bed creaks and dips as more weight is added. He lies down on top of the covers and we spoon. He's hard, I can feel it through the blankets. I reach for him, itching for contact. But Itachi stops me with a single word.

"No." He must feel my body go rigid as he amends, "Maybe later. I'll definitely take you up on your offer."

I'm not mad, not really. How can I be? Itachi's smell is here, all around me. Earthy tones layered with charcoal and mint, all sharp and dangerous. There's a new smell that I don't remember; it's new. And it takes me a few seconds before I can place it. Metallic.

Like he's read my mind (who knows, maybe he can) he says in a low murmur, "No matter how many times I wash, I can't scrub all the blood off. If it bothers you, I can shower…"

He actually starts to untangle himself by removing his arm from where it lay across my middle. But I press myself back against him and say, "Don't go."

He settles back and I fall asleep, listening to the even pattern of his breathing. It feels right.

"Good night, my angel."