A/N: Last chapter. Oh, Itachi :[

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Little brother is unmoving, when the times comes, and so is he. This was it, and it was a knowledge that was not lost on either of them. More than a decade had gone by, and for all intents and purposes they were right back where they started. So close to the finish, with still too many secrets, yet he can only nod silently; a pathetic reply to that more vehement, Let us end this, Nii-san.

It was his own choices that led to this, a sequence of events so inevitable it was bordering on humorous, in a cynical sort of view. It was his own actions that unfolded this, and he had been ready for the consequences since he saw that first flash of rage blossoming in those eyes. So, really, given that everything had worked according to his devices, this was actually yet another victory to add to his list. He had won.

Yet somehow, he couldn't feel more defeated if he tried.

He vaguely wondered if his half-heartedness was evident in the fight, or maybe those so-called perceptive eyes just missed it. There was so much he didn't know, so much that couldn't be told, if the task was still protecting him. It had been his thread of reason, the only thing he hung onto as he severed the rest, from the very start.

He could smell sweat now, a thin layer of exhaustion as power was drained from every aching pore. Minutes wore on, then hours, and the grunts or yells, so rooted in violent passion, became softer heaves of breath. Moves became slower, bodies slowly grew weaker, techniques were revealed, but still… that stare didn't become any less hateful.

There was vengeance written so visibly on his features, he almost congratulated him. Everything he has done, everything he was to leave behind—the shame, the dishonor, and nothing else, really—was for him, and he well earned it for complying so well with the plan.

Sometimes, an idle fantasy wills him to tell, tell him, tell him everything, tell him the truth he needs to know, tell him that he had built his life on a lie that was facing its death. But then genius takes over. Of course, it was unfathomable. What little world he had would shatter once more, and he cannot take that away, yet again.

He has become so redundant, so cliché, it's unreal. A backwards kind of routine: to be saved he had to be scarred, and in order to be loved, the payment was to be hated. He would have given up something else, a sacrifice that didn't require so much from him, but it was the only one he had.

The disease overwhelms him, and to the rest of his injuries, he succumbs; how tragic that the final thing he sees are those eyes, so blinded by vengeance and deceit. He feels the humanity left inside him dissipate, and knew that it was worth it, maybe. He had spent a lifetime protecting one who made it his goal to slay him, and he wouldn't have had it any other way if it meant that one would be alive. Foolish, but alive.

He lays down an offering, and raises his hand in a gesture so mysterious and arbitrary; it brings a wave of surprise on those dirt-specked lips.

He realizes that this was all worth it, now, as he taps that forehead once more, the only reminder of childhood between them. And then he smiles, a strange, quiet smile, as he dies to fulfill another's dream.

There is no response that can justify his parting, Sorry; this is the last time,

Little brother.

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