Author's notes: for those of you who wondered why Sasuke's the way he is? This is a story within the story…this is "Celestial Bodies," a memory in first person present, Sasuke's point of view.
Summary: When Itachi takes advantage of a young child Sasuke, numerous effects occur. Don't read it if you don't want to.
WARNINGS: There is non-consensual incest in this story, and violence. Sexual themes and sexual acts involving a minor are implied.
This is NOT a bubblegum-cutesy topic, so I'm hoping you don't read this and get offended. My goal isn't to offend anybody, it's to open windows to a perspective most people don't see. I don't expect anyone to love this, but... I think this is a topic people ought to be familiar with.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
Celestial Bodies
Brother, I call, and my voice is higher than usual, but I don't really care. I ask if he will teach me to pitch today. Itachi says nothing, simply waves me forward. He's sitting with his legs folded over each other at the table. Happily, I run towards him, and he extends one hand, index finger outstretched. Before I can pull back, I run into it. Causing a sharp tap that makes me lose my balance. Itachi is silent, but looks towards my backpack. I sigh, go to it, and I retrieve the palest notebook. Itachi doesn't wave me away, so I sit with him, my back to his chest.
He doesn't notice, and a small frown tells me he's concentrating. I open my notebook, and wonder what I'm supposed to write. My gaze wanders back to Itachi, and I wonder again whether the "q" faced right or left.
I flip the page back one, and peer at the previous exercise. Every worksheet I glued into the notebook, and I am proud, because this is something the older students do very often. But the worksheet from last week doesn't help me, and I sigh once before realizing Itachi might have noticed. I cover my mouth with one hand as I glance up at Itachi, but he still hasn't really realized I'm here. I relax, and return to my worksheet, and snuggle against his warmth.
Itachi is very warm where I sit, but his arms, especially his hands, are cold. My pencil is cold, too, until I hold it. I wonder if Itachi needs me to hold him, and smile at the thought. I am needed. That is enough to keep me in Itachi's cool grip, arms hidden by the loose folds of yukata. The fabric is blue, a very deep blue, but unlike most of our family's yukata, there is no pattern. It's just blue. I frown, and inspect it more closely. Nothing of Itachi's is so simple, nothing is just one thing, and not another, too. Itachi is like that.
I want to be like that, too.
The yukata is not just blue, I find and smile. It is purple, too, with some red thrown in like it's part of the purple—but not the blue—and it shines sometimes. Shines like the sun. The sun isn't red, like the flag or the old paintings, but it's not a yellow flower, either, not like the westerners draw it. Itachi's like that, too. Neither one nor the other. So I smile, and return to my homework, and the "q."
I look down at my hands, holding the pencil, remember its warmth, and look back at Itachi's arm, loose around my shoulders. I take his hand, and hold it in mine. He looks down at me, and I smile.
Itachi looks away.
My brother is different from everybody else, and what's more amazing, everybody knows it—but they don't mind. Itachi is someone others can look at and admire, I heard Mama say he takes after her and she's very pretty, so maybe Itachi's pretty, too. I hope so, because if you're smart and pretty, then you can conquer the world—Daddy said so. Sometimes I wonder why he says "conquer," but he's never explained it to me. He just told me that one day I might be able to, if I turned out like Itachi.
Itachi never had problems with English, writing, speaking or anything like that. He just knows things, but I have to study. Itachi must be really smart, to be able to do that. He wouldn't have problems with the q. I lick my lips, and quietly slip my hand from Itachi's, and pull myself out of his grip. Itachi, busy with his studies, doesn't notice. I walk into the kitchen, where Mama washes dishes. She smiles at me, but when I ask her about the q, she doesn't know, and says she's busy with the dishes. I look for Daddy, but he's not there, so I go back. Back to sitting with Itachi, and I listen to him breathe.
Itachi breathing is like the wind is sometimes; soft and not really much to listen to. But I like to hear it, because it's so quiet. If it weren't for that, I would forget he was there. Well, if he weren't holding me. I lean against Itachi to keep from falling, but he still doesn't seem to realize I'm here. I settle back into his warm lap and cold arms, and take his hand. I only need one to write; Itachi says so. I think he likes it when I hold him.
I picked up a cat once, who liked to be held, too. She was soft, a gold kitten with blue eyes. Mama said she wasn't gold at all, that she was white, but I know she was gold. . .a pretty gold like the sun is sometimes, too bright for you to realize its color. My cat was gold, but to everyone who didn't know she was white, with blue eyes. More than her golden hair, I loved her eyes. Blue, blue eyes, not like all my family. Not black, like every Japanese person I've met.
Maybe the only eyes I love more are Itachi's. His eyes are dark, but in a different way than Mama's or Daddy's. They're shaped like mine, but he says his are smaller. I know that's not right, because he's bigger than me, taller and stronger. I asked why mine would be bigger, but he couldn't say. He didn't say.
Sasuke, Itachi says. I start, and look quickly at my brother. He doesn't say anything else. Just my name, and I am confused again. I fidget in his arms, and he tightens his hold. I cough, and he pulls back a little. That hurts, I tell him, and he looks at me. His arms are higher up than I remember, instead of around my waist they were close to my shoulders, brushing against my neck. I try to turn around, try to look at him, but his arms keep me still. He lets go of my hand, and it immediately goes to his. I try to pull him away from my neck, to let me breathe. I cough again, and hope Mama tells him to quit. The water in the kitchen stops, but Mama doesn't turn around.
Maybe she doesn't hear me.
Brother, I say, and Itachi doesn't respond. Then he looks at me, removes his hands, takes my notebook and puts it on the floor. Silent, he puts his hands around my chest to help balance me as I get up. I walk with him, but not far. He's almost carrying me when we get to the other side of the room, and when I look at him he's looking at me. I smile, but he doesn't.
The sunlight isn't gone yet, but he closes the shutters. Mama stops her washing, still as Itachi was until now. Itachi says nothing, but he slowly pushes me down, two hands on my shoulders until I'm sitting, and my brother can't reach. Mama starts to wash dishes again, this time faster than before. Itachi stares at me, his eyes the same as always. Mine, I know, seem bigger.
They are bigger, like the sun is bigger than the dandelion. We only want the dandelion to be the best, the biggest, but it's the sun. Not the flower. Flowers die.
The sun does too, Itachi said once, and I hear Mama leave the kitchen even though her dishes aren't done.
Itachi's hands are around his belt, and his blue yukata—not solid at all, but many colors, like the sun that does not die—falls. His cold hands touch my face, and I take one with mine. His hand is gone, down my shirt, pulling at my clothes—before I notice, and he looks at me, the same as always. My eyes are bigger.
He is taller than me. Bigger.
Stronger.
I know this. But he doesn't stop, and he whispers in my ear, quiet, still quiet, but he isn't silent. The wind isn't ever silent, either. Not if it's there. Sasuke, he says, and I realize I was the one making noise, small, sharp gasps and—
I do not whimper. I do not beg.
I am Uchiha Sasuke.
He isn't gentle, he isn't as slow as I remember him, he's fast—much faster than I can be. Itachi, patient, rarely moving from his studies, is slow to do anything at all, but he isn't now.
He isn't.
One, two, three. . .one, two, three. . .he moves in rhythm, he moves me with him, harsh, mechanical as a waltz—the silly dance Mama made me learn once, done in three-four time. It is as real as that, the silly music lilting from one side of the room to the other, and Mama laughing as she holds my hand. Itachi's hand is cold.
Cold like me.
Stop crying, Itachi tells me, and I curl away from him. I want to hug my knees, I want to be hugged by Itachi—want to be told I love you, but he doesn't say anything. I am not crying. Uchiha do not cry. So Itachi picks me up, and I try to move, but he is stronger. I am only me.
He carries me, but leaves my clothes. He carries me to the bath, and I try not to get him wet with tears that aren't there. He closes the doors behind him, the wooden one in front of the baths, and then the glass one in the tiled room. The bath was drawn earlier than usual, today, I saw with eyes that do not see. Eyes that do not leak.
It's only the two of us. Itachi isn't gentle at all. Except for there. He doesn't hurt me there. He washes me, and he washes himself as we sit on the two stools, taking water from the bath to rinse the soap, and then the shampoo. In our house, there is no shower head for quick bathing, not like my friends, who say their families are better than mine—I know it isn't true. There's only a bowl for retrieving water from the hot, comfortable bath. We are fully clean before entering the steaming water, Itachi and me.
I want out.
Itachi won't let me.
When we leave, the smell of dinner fills the house, salmon, sekihan, and... I don't know. I don't want it. He dresses me in his clothes, but they're too big. Pajamas for me, and the same yukata for him. Only I changed. He didn't.
As soon as he lets me go, I run to Mama, to Daddy. They sit at the table, waiting for us to begin the meal. Itachi comes up behind me, and I don't say anything. We eat in silence.
It is morning before I see them again and Itachi too. I didn't sleep in my room. I slept alone in the kitchen because I knew he would leave me there. I would have slept on the tatami, but I didn't want to be in that room. Mama and Daddy look at each other, and they don't speak but their eyes do. I know that, but their faces are blank. Like Itachi, and like me, too. I'm cold, I say, but Mama tells me I should wear a sweater. Nobody else is, she snaps.
She's just tired.
We go on, but I remember. Itachi is behind me now, days later, on that side of the room. I tell my parents, Brother hurt me, and their faces are blank. Smooth. White. I don't like it when he's with me, I continue. Nothing. They look at each other, and move towards the door. Mama doesn't say anything, and neither does Daddy. I try again, and again, but they don't notice.
Mama! Daddy! I cry to them, but they're too fast for me, too. They're already moving, already gone from where they'd been. Only I'm here. I'm the one who hasn't moved on. They're ready, but I'm not, so I wonder what that makes me. I try again to catch them, but they're gone again, quick as anything. I fall, but I'm not helpless at their feet. I am not crying.
Uchiha do not cry.
Mama looks at me, but there is no love in her eyes. They've gone black; they're black like Itachi's. Don't be ridiculous, she tells me, and I hear the water from the kitchen running. She turned it off before. You are Uchiha. You do. Not. Lie, she fumes, Itachi would never hurt you; he's your brother.
He's family.
They moved, and I lay on the floor, not crying. Mother told me to stay in the house; she told me that Itachi would look after me while they went away. Itachi is a good older brother, she says, and they're gone.
Gone.
There are no more waltzes for us—not for my mother and I. I do not like being hugged, and I don't want to be close. I don't want anything.
My hands are cold at first, despite the washrag, but the friction made them warm easily. Fast, quick movements up and down stimulate pleasure, but it isn't right... not yet. It feels good; it makes my stomach tingle in anticipation, my muscles tense and mind seize that one sensation. I want it. I want. But it isn't right, this isn't how it's supposed to be... faster now, I drop the cloth. It's just my hands now, just my hands creating this feeling. It's close. I'm so close... but it doesn't feel right.
Sasuke, I hear my mother call from the hallway, and her footsteps become clearer as she nears me. I know what I need. It's pleasurable, but there is no pain. I need the pain too if it's to be right. I want it right. I want... Sasuke! My mother's voice is terse, her expression frozen between shock and horror. She knows I've seen her, heard her coming, even, but she thinks I'll stop.
I won't.
I'm too close for that...
The sunshine on the walls made the white seem as gold, but I wanted moonlight. No dandelion petals for me, no cheerful heads turning their faces to the sun. I drink the light, and wait for the feelings to escalate.
My mother calls my name again, sharply. She urges me to stop, telling me I'll ruin my ability to think if I continue. I snort quietly, knowing she's wrong. I'm thinking now, as my hands move. My vision glazes over as I reach it, and I begin to lose track of my mother's voice. I gasp, and she is running forward, allowing me to see the hall clearly now. He's standing there, watching, silent as ever. His lips quirk upwards, but only I see his amusement, only I see him as he is.
It's over, but my hands remain in place, and my mother shakes me, yelling now. I do not hear her words. Just her tone. She is angry, confused, and she blames me for it all. She hits my hand. It smarts, but still I do not move... eight years old, she accuses, but I don't reply. She doesn't want me to, and I have nothing to say.
It hurt, but that would pass. I could cherish this memory for a while longer... until the need rose again. Next time, mother wouldn't get in the way.
We were playing outside after school, Keisuke and me. I pass him the ball, and he clumsily kicks it towards me. He doesn't understand the point of the game, not really. He just plays. We kick the ball back and forth some more, until I call for him to stop. I have a better game, I say, and he smiles at me.
His mother has dyed his hair blonde and brown at the age of nine—my age, too—and he is the only one in our school who looks like that. Like the sun, he holds everyone's gaze when we're together, and he loves it. I don't mind at all, so long as they're not looking at me. Keisuke says they are—at me— but I know they're not. If they were, I'd be happier. I know that.
Keisuke reminds me of my cat, the one who disappeared two years ago. I wonder where she went, and if her eyes are still blue. Blue like the sky above us, touched by golden rays... maybe she's playing in the clouds.
Here, I say, and we sit under the huge pine tree. Last year, we had a pinecone war with the other class, and Keisuke and me were classmates then too. We won. I know Keisuke remembers, and he grins at me. What kind of a game, he asks, and I smile a little.
I don't say anything, but he doesn't expect me to. I wave him forward, and he comes. My smile is gone now, and he waits impatiently. Just follow my lead, I say, and he nods. I glance at him, and put my hand between his legs. Keisuke jumps, and now I smile again. Don't, I warn, and he looks at me.
His eyes are bigger than mine, and they reflect the yellow-gold sun.
I pull him up with my other hand, but I haven't moved yet. Keisuke realizes this is a different sort of game, and he waits for me, uncomfortable. He thinks I'll hurt him, but I won't. He's not me. I'm not Itachi. I press closer to him now, and I move my hand to his backside. I manage to move his shorts out of the way as I press our hips together, rocking gently.
Keisuke is confused, but I barely notice. I want him, but not for him... Itachi's not here, and I won't be alone. I won't be.
I'm not Itachi's.
Keisuke is about to ask a question, when the third year's teacher sees us. Sasuke, she yells, and pushes her students back. She tries to send the seven year olds inside, and at her frantic urging, the students obediently return. She saw my hand, my hips, she saw me. I don't stop. I will not stop.
Keisuke moans a little, and I smile. I am the moon to his sun, a pale shadow of his brilliance. Like the smaller cousin, I seem bigger now, but I am not... now I am the dandelion. Just the flower.
Sasuke, stop it, the teacher demands. I don't know her very well. I had the other teacher, and that was two years ago. Maybe she moved. She puts her hands on my shoulders, and I freeze as she pushes me down, down until she can't reach. But she does, because she moves with me. I stare as she forces me to the side, and takes Keisuke to her. She is a mother, protecting her child, and I am the bad one. I am Itachi for an instant, and I wilt.
Like a flower.
She's speaking, but there are no words, just sounds. Her voice has taken over the clearing, her loud, irritating voice demands answers I don't have. I move to clutch my knees. Her gaze doesn't soften, and she asks, Uchiha Sasuke, what were you doing? She wants me to laugh it off; she wants me to defend myself, so she can make me completely bad. Completely him.
I do neither. I do nothing. Just like Itachi.
This is wrong, Sasuke, children don't do this, she says, and I wonder what her name is. Yama... something. No, Takayama. She looks neither tall nor mountainous. You're hurting Keisuke, and I won't let you! Are you listening to me, Sasuke? I am. She fumes, and still stroking Keisuke's hair, she murmurs something about everything being fine.
This is wrong, Sasuke. This is bad. Very, very bad, Mrs. Takayama continued, her voice lower now. I don't look at her, and want to lie down, put my hand between my head and squeeze the pressure out. Make the hurting stop. The only way to stop it is to hurt, and I won't hurt someone else. I will not.
I can feel his lips on my forehead even now, as she lectures. I want those lips to be Keisuke's, to wash away the old memories. But they aren't.
I sit up, and my legs fall apart. I can see them, separate from my body like a different being. I close my eyes, and wait for the words to stop. Without a cloud in the sky, it rains, and only I can see the drops. Only I am touched, and water runs down my cheeks.
Keisuke looks at me, and his expression clears. He is confused, but he smiles shakily. I try to smile back, but I can't. Mrs. Takayama ushers us inside, Keisuke to one room, me to another. I wonder aloud if I'll ever see him again. The third years stare at us—two students in the principal's office after hours. Mrs. Takayama hopes I don't see him. I don't know what she wants me to see. Maybe she wants me to see the rain? I ask her this, and she stares at me, before leaving me to wait for my punishment.
My parents were called, and I wonder if it's good or bad that they're most often at home. We don't have to work unless we want to, as Uchiha, but my father will. He likes to appear productive, like he's building a new era. I know he isn't, and so does Itachi. I wonder if I should try, or if Itachi's way is better.
I wince as the door opens, and the principal enters. He is an old man, gray hair and wrinkled skin far too accented for my taste. He makes me uncomfortable, and he knows that. My parents start to apologize for my behavior, making promises of reform school, private tutors, anything the teachers deem necessary. The principal smiles kindly, and asks Mrs. Takayama to explain things. She does so, and my parents nearly die of shock. But they knew; they know I'm off. They know I'm wrong. Bad.
But they knew that about Itachi, too.
She kept the water running once, and turned it off before that. Maybe she will be harsher with me.
I hope so. I don't want to be Itachi.
Mother and father bow repeatedly, making no excuses just yet. Mrs. Takayama isn't done with them. Your child, she says, has tried to initiate completely age inappropriate behavior with his classmate, and caused him a great deal of emotional pain. He could have been hurt, and you apologize only for appearances. You would brush this off—like nothing happened—but your status keeps you from doing so. Why? She asks, but she doesn't mean about them. She wants to know why I'm the way I am now, why an Uchiha boy could be so very wrong.
Mother murmurs something indistinct, and her black eyes flash gray. I wince, but nobody notices. No... nobody cares. I am left alone to my thoughts, as the adults argue the best course.
I wrap my head in my arms, and wonder when I got so cold.
When we get home, mother and father don't speak to me. Itachi looks up when I enter, and I can see the smile that plays on his lips. I'm done. I'm not his anymore. I meet his gaze, to let him know, but he doesn't realize.
No. He does.
He just... doesn't care.
I pull out my homework, and stare at the exercises. Once, I wanted to be held, hugged tight. Loved.
I look up at Itachi, and say, "I hate you."
His smile turns to ice. "I love you too."
Thoughts?