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The morning sun streams gently across the windshield, washing the car in soft gold. Light catches in the tiny creases of the black leather interior, glinting in scattered specks.
As if the car holds its own memory, the smoky scent of heated leather and old summers rises through the stale air—the air conditioning long broken—until Itachi cracks the windows. A cool morning breeze drifts inside, thick with petrichor and the traces of last night's rain.
The radio doesn’t work; it hasn't for years. The low hum of the engine muffles the quiet instead.
"Where are we going?" Sasuke asks, his voice rough with sleep.
The road ahead is boundless, its faded yellow lines reaching toward the pale blue horizon. A thin mist clings to the low ground, slowly dissolving in the sunlight. Sasuke shifts beside him, the leather creaking softly as he moves. He glances over, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair slightly mussed from sleep, falling into his face in uneven strands. Itachi flashes him a small smile.
"You'll see."
"Jesus, Itachi," Sasuke huffs, dragging a hand through his hair before letting his head fall back against the seat. He turns back to the window, watching the landscape slide past in a haze of greens and blues softened by morning light. "You drag me out of bed at nine in the morning and won't even tell me where we're going?"
"Precisely," Itachi says, one hand loose on the wheel, thumb tapping absently against the worn edges. "I don't see the problem. You used to love road trips."
"When I was twelve," Sasuke remarks.
"Growing up doesn't mean we stop liking things," Itachi says, and for once in his life, he hopes Sasuke will listen.
At sixteen, the first thing Itachi did after getting his license was take Sasuke on a road trip.
It had come to him all at once on a summer afternoon, when the sun had already begun to wane, casting long shadows across the cracked floors of a barely furnished house. Hazy stripes of fading sunlight bled across the walls that otherwise held nothing. He watched Sasuke, who stood silent in front of the windows, aglow in the amber sun. Itachi noticed how little of it touched his eyes, as though nothing could pass through him.
It was quiet. Birds called somewhere in the distance. No one else was there, and hadn't been for a long time. For what felt like an eternity, Itachi couldn’t seem to breathe.
The keys dug into his hand, the metal cold and sharp.
It was painful in its intensity, breathtaking in its suddenness—how it rattled through his bones, a restless, visceral need to leave and never come back. And so they packed their bags, climbed into his car, and left.
The trips were rare, spread thin across the years. Money slipped through his fingers like water, gone faster than he could hold onto it. The days their father was away made it easier; more often than not, Itachi knew exactly where he was. He was lost, staggering in some alleyway, drunk and bitter over all the ways he’d been wronged. His wife was dead and gone, taken away the moment Sasuke was brought into the world, and something in him had been taken with her. The road was more forgiving.
Itachi supposes that was the beauty of it. Brief, almost blinding moments of sunshine and never-ending roads beneath a blue sky, where Sasuke could glimpse a life beyond his own.
Itachi had taken a photo that day—the first since buying a camera at a thrift shop years ago. He had waited, and waited, because it had to be perfect, because he knew that something worth remembering would come eventually. And when it finally came, his eyes had grown a little damp, and he couldn't quite see straight. It sits tucked into the sun visor above him now, edges slightly curled, colors just beginning to fade. A quiet celebration that belonged to him, and more importantly, Sasuke.
The car itself—a dented, rattling thing that groans a little too loudly when it starts—was a gift from Shisui, who had tossed him the keys with an easy grin and eyes that seemed to know everything. You’ll need it for Sasuke, he had told him.
At the time, Itachi hadn’t fully understood what he meant.
Sasuke is in the passenger seat, the sunset spilling radiantly through the rolled-down window behind him. He’s grinning, wide and all teeth in a rare display, and the wind tousles his hair. The sun surrounds him, glowing with oranges and reds, and Itachi thinks this is the happiest he’s ever seen him. It’s his favorite picture.
The world blurs into infinity beyond the windshield. The mist has almost fully lifted now, leaving behind clear skies and streaks of shadow that glide past the car in steady intervals. Trees line the roadside, tall and dense.
Every time, the horizon pulls at him. Some days, Itachi resented it; the dangle of an airy, impossible promise in front of his eyes, so tangible he could almost wrap his fingers around it, taste freedom on his tongue. And then it's gone.
One day, he thinks. He will claim the wind, the sky, and every possibility waiting in that vast distance, and he will give it all to Sasuke.
“I still do,” Sasuke says suddenly.
“Hm?” Itachi glances over.
“Love the road trips,” he finishes, voice quieter this time.
He doesn’t turn to face Itachi. Instead, he rests his chin in his hand, elbow propped against the door—Sasuke has always been a window watcher. The wind slips through the cracked window, lifting a few strands of his hair, bringing the scent of sun-warmed leaves and the fragile promise of the morning. He misses Itachi’s tiny, relieved smile.
“Me too.”
On either side, the land feels forgotten. Small towns drift past in fragments, lost between endless stretches of open fields. Vines have claimed the houses and their worn buildings, sprawling over them in twisted patterns, like the veins of nature. The overgrown stalks of grass bend and sway in delicate unison—it might as well have been the only sign of life they've seen in hours.
Nothing but dead-end towns, Sasuke would remark lowly every time his gaze slid to the window. Nothing there, just like home.
Itachi had learned to ignore the dull ache in his chest a long time ago. On his better days, he thought this was as beautiful as the world would ever be.
It’s still beautiful, he wanted to tell Sasuke. At its simplest, the places they passed were like rolling oceans of green, stretching tirelessly to the horizon, broken only by the dark maze of trees looming in the distance. Somewhere untouched, where wildflowers bloom freely, dotting the landscape with color in spring’s wake, as if placed there with intention. Itachi had come to envy these places beyond his hometown, where the laws of man did not seem to reach them, powerless and irrelevant. Out here, he sometimes wondered if time even existed; there was no one there to count the seconds.
He could almost forget what it truly was—almost find peace in the dead-end town he lived in, surrounded by even more dead-ends. Yet with every fiber of his being, he knew it was impossible. No amount of optimism could change it, nor could it brighten these lonely roads trailing through the discarded fringes of the world.
When the fields give way to wet, marshy patches, a motel finally comes into view. It sits low beside the road, old and tired, the large sign out front worn down by the years.
“We’re here,” Itachi announces.
Sasuke whips his head around and stares at him, wide-eyed and full of disbelief.
“Only three hours?” he scoffs. “You once drove us across state lines just to try a café you found on the internet.”
“It said they had the best pastries.”
The air smells faintly of salt, carrying with it the distant rustle of waves crashing against the shore, a sound and scent that belonged only to the sea. Through a stroke of luck and shaky trust in his navigation skills, he’d found it; a small, sleepy beach town resting on the jagged edge of the coast, lonesome and almost untouched.
"We're on a beach," Sasuke says quietly, craning his head to look through the trees. "I think I can see the water from here."
There's always a subtle tell in his face, a twitch in his lips and a flicker in his eyes, when he's excited. His body goes slack with relief, as though a perpetual weight has been lifted from his shoulders, and that's when Itachi knows Sasuke tastes it too—his lost freedom.
"You told me you wanted to see the ocean one day," Itachi says. "This is all for you."
The clerk is an elderly woman whose smile tugs at something unnamed inside Itachi. He imagines she has probably never left this town, nor this dingy, old motel. Her hands, adorned with rings and the lines of her age, tremble as she passes him the keys to their room.
The room’s decor is quaint but old-fashioned, with a faded burgundy carpet and off-white walls that have nearly yellowed with age. Lace curtains billow softly above the humming air conditioning, the sun filtering brightly through their sheer fabric and casting delicate patterns across the floor. A single bed sits in the center of the room.
“One bed,” Sasuke remarks flatly.
“She must have given us the wrong room,” Itachi replies. “Does it bother you?”
He shakes his head, but a faint pink colors his cheeks, betraying him. Itachi lingers on it, watching him for a long moment before his lips curve into a small smile. Out of habit, he reaches over and ruffles Sasuke’s hair.
“If it helps,” he says lightly, “we can pretend you’re having night terrors again. I’ll scare away the monsters.”
As he watches Sasuke's face soften into quiet recognition, he sees the sweet sorrow underneath and thinks about the beauty of remembering—the hazier, but no less cherished, form of taking a photograph of something precious. If only he had his camera then. He'd have a picture for every simple thing of the past, of every cold night made a little warmer when Sasuke would crawl into his bed, burying his head into Itachi’s chest with such force that Itachi wondered if he was trying to disappear entirely. It could have been night terrors some nights; it could have been their father on others. Itachi would never ask.
Sasuke bats his hand away, face burning hotter. “Shut up, how old—”
His voice breaks off into a soft exhalation, his eyes widening only a sliver as Itachi catches his hand, wordlessly intertwining their fingers together. It’s barely audible, the stutter of his breath when Itachi’s other hand presses flat against his chest, stopping just above his heart. He applies a gentle pressure, nudging Sasuke to sit on the edge of the bed. Slowly, his hand glides up Sasuke's sternum, long fingers brushing the dip of his collarbones, before slipping behind his neck to cup his nape.
Itachi devours everything: the firm set of Sasuke's mouth, the subtle tension in his neck, how his eyes can’t quite meet his. Sasuke is carved from stone, unmoving and stiff, the warmth of his skin beneath Itachi’s fingers the only evidence of life.
“No matter how many years go by, you’re still the same,” he says softly, almost too quietly to be heard. You still need me goes unsaid.
Lately, he finds himself surrendering to these moments of selfishness, overcome by an inconsolable urge to press himself as close to Sasuke as possible, until he can disappear alongside Sasuke, until they are swallowed by the memory of those countless nights. It comforts him to be needed; it scares him to need. He wonders how long it's been like this.
Itachi untangles their hands, though he isn't ready to let Sasuke go, not yet. His hand rises instead to cup Sasuke's face, letting his fingers wander across his skin. He traces his lips, then the high slope of his cheekbone, before gently tipping his chin toward him. From the nape of his neck to the curve of his cheek, Sasuke is in his hands.
“Sasuke,” he calls, a silent look at me edging his voice. When Sasuke does look up, the sunlight catches inside his eyes, a pale scatter of streaks across dark irises.
Itachi thinks this is it. This is where he should be—here, above Sasuke, where nothing else can exist, where those eyes can see him completely, holding all the awe and fear in the world.
“Are you happy? I know it’s not much.”
“That’s a stupid question,” Sasuke breathes.
Itachi doesn’t move. Sasuke hesitates, lips parting, then faltering. Itachi’s gaze follows the bob of his throat as he swallows, sharp to the slightest hint of hesitation, deliriously aware of the way his skin is burning.
Say it, say it for me.
“Anything is fine, as long as you’re here,” he says, barely above a whisper, but it’s the only thing Itachi can hear. Every time, something tender shifts and fractures a little deeper within Itachi’s chest when his voice goes quiet like this. It reminds him of Sasuke's fragility, that he is still young, still so feeling—nothing like the hardened thing Itachi had become a long time ago.
Sometimes, he thinks that part of himself isn’t entirely lost, though. Sasuke would never know it, his way of piecing together Itachi’s humanity. He’d never know how gentle he is, when he strips away every bit of wrongness and filth within his bones and, for a moment, lets him be young again too.
Then, Sasuke's hand rises and closes over Itachi's, and the sight of their joined hands cradling his cheek quickly burns into his retinas. Another photograph; he hopes this one won't grow dull with time. Sasuke presses his face into their palms, a small, secretive smile on his lips as he looks up at Itachi through his lashes.
“Are you happy?” he asks.
Itachi doesn’t say anything. The effort to speak is lost. Instead, he simply smiles, pouring every bit of love into a look only reserved for Sasuke, a resounding yes. Yes, I’m happy.
“Let’s get something to eat,” Itachi says softly.
From a bird’s-eye view, the town could be no more than a speck on an expanse of greens and blues. Its buildings, shops, and homes cluster tightly together, all within easy walking distance, as if the entire place chose to gather in one small corner of the landscape.
The streets were almost empty. Children on bikes whirred by, staring openly at them. They passed an elderly couple who glanced at them with curious eyes before whispering amongst themselves. With such a small population, it was impossible for them to go unnoticed.
“Do you think they’ll ask us to leave?” Sasuke asks.
“If they do, we’ll leave."
The sun-bleached pavement crunches beneath their feet, dusted with thin drifts of sand that the wind carried up from the shore. From any point they stood, the whole town laid out before them. Shops and restaurants sat along the edge of a weathered boardwalk, their doors opening straight onto the wood paneling.
Some houses disappear into the shade of the sprawling trees, where sunlight sifts through the large, draping leaves and dapples their walls. The others lean towards the shoreline, more touched by the sea than any other building. Their paint peels in strips, and the wooden surfaces were faded and rough from years of sun and salt. Wide porches wrap around them, facing the water, scattered with rocking chairs that creaked gently in the wind.
Here, it’s never completely silent like it is back home. The sea whispers faintly in the distance, a steady backdrop to the rustle of moss and leaves. Wind chimes sway with every breeze, each delicate ring joining the restless rise and fall of the waves like a wandering note.
They stumble upon a small restaurant at the corner of the boardwalk, sun-drenched with large windows that offer a clear view of the shore. The smell of coffee and fried food mixes with the salty breeze slipping through the open door.
Potted plants dangled from the ceiling, their overgrown leaves rustling gently in the rush of air. Sandy-beige walls held pieces of the town’s history, dotted with rusty license plates and black-and-white photographs of the beach in years past. The space is quiet, broken only by the soft clink of glasses as a woman pours an older man a drink at the bar, and the gentle hum of conversation between locals at the few occupied tables.
Naturally, Itachi chooses the window seat. Through the glass, the sun hangs high above the water, the white light glittering across the waves like shattered glass, the sand gleaming like a sheet of silver. Its rays stretch into that little restaurant, slanting through the windows’ frayed curtains and warming the chipped tables and faded floorboards. Their waitress is a kind woman who doesn’t mind asking questions.
“What brings you two here?” her eyes flit between them, the corners crinkling as she smiles wide.
“Just passing by,” Itachi replies, returning her smile. “Do you see many visitors?”
“Not really. This town isn’t much for outsiders, and outsiders aren’t much for it,” she says. “The people here tend to keep to themselves, and I like it that way. Peaceful, you know?”
“Yes,” Itachi says softly, glancing at Sasuke, whose eyes are adrift on the ocean. “It’s beautiful here. I can imagine it’s quiet most of the time.”
She nods. “Quiet is a good word for it. Nothing much happens here.”
“Some of the younger ones get bored and hightail it out of here,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Head off to college, chasing something bigger, and never come back. That’s what my boy did.”
Her smile softens, turning wistful and distant, as the warmth in her eyes dims by a fraction.
“While others never leave.”
In an instant, she perked up, slipping back into her waitress role. “Anyway, I won’t talk your heads off. What can I get you to drink?”
“Black tea with milk and sugar, please.”
“Water.”
Options were limited, mostly seafood caught locally. The menu featured grainy images of pan-seared fish, fried shrimp, and the occasional clam or crab special; Sasuke doesn't care for greasy food, and neither does Itachi, so they settle on the pan-seared fish.
When Itachi looks up from the menu, Sasuke is turned toward the window. He doesn't seem to notice, or care, that Itachi is staring, and he’s never been more grateful for it. He drinks in these rare moments with the hunger of a starved man, moments when Sasuke looks young, light—wholly untouched by the burdens waiting for them at home. He lets himself believe, if only for an instant, that Sasuke can remain like this forever.
The sun chases away every shadow on his face, his pale skin reflecting the light like porcelain. The dark circles under his eyes are softer, as if kissed by moonlight rather than worn from too many sleepless nights. Even so, he looks entirely too serious, too troubled, with his brows drawn together and lips pressed tight. Something has caught his mind. Privately, Itachi wishes he had his camera with him.
“You could be one of those people,” Sasuke finally says, eyes locking with his.
Itachi hummed in question, fingers absently tracing his cup. He needs to ask for more sugar packets.
“People who leave and chase bigger things. Something better,” he clarifies.
Itachi pauses, his fingers stilling. “Do you think I should have?”
Sasuke tilts his head in thought, resting his cheek in his palm, elbow braced on the table. Then he smiles, a tired, knowing smile.
“There’s nothing for you in that town.”
There was a time he had thought about it. Three years ago.
In a cramped auditorium, he stood before a small sea of faces. The words to his valedictorian speech rolled off his tongue mechanically, impersonally. The lights above the stage were blinding, enshrouding him in harsh yellow, while a soft orange washed over the crowd. Applause rang in his ears, sharp and deafening, like raindrops drumming against glass. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear—and in that instant, his eyes sought beyond the small room, searching the world that had finally torn itself wide open for him. For once, the roads led to somewhere. The wind no longer escaped his arms.
Then he looked down. There was Sasuke, standing in the front, alone, wearing a smile so bright it eclipsed every high he had ever known, every one he could have imagined.
“There’s you.”
He sighs. “You know, I’m not your burden.”
“You wouldn’t miss me?” Itachi teases, and suddenly, he wishes he could be more like Shisui, who could let everything and anything pass through him within the blink of an eye.
“It’s not that,” Sasuke says quietly. “How long are you going to work at that shitty bar? Sometimes I think—I know—you’re meant for greater things, as cliché as that sounds.”
“Greater things, such as?” The cup has grown cold beneath his fingers. Images of city lights and suburban homes flicker in his mind. The view of that empty town receding in the car mirrors, shrinking into the distance.
“Go off to some prestigious college. Become a doctor or lawyer.” Even when the sun hits them, Sasuke’s eyes are a vivid black, ink clashing with white.
“Drive away and leave everything behind in the rearview.”
The tea leaves a bitter aftertaste on his tongue.
“Maybe one day.”
The food arrives and washes away the tea, lemony and briny but distracting all the same.
The sand is everywhere—sprinkled through their hair, clinging to their clothes, wrapping around their calves. The sun dips low, swallowed by the sea, casting a golden trail of light from where it lays. The sky has faded into a wash of colors, the pale blue bleeding into oranges and golds, streaked with lavender and pink. Waves roll in lazily, lapping at the shore, leaving behind soft, wet sand that mirrors the sky in blurred reflections. Their path of footsteps is swept away by the water, each imprint dissolving at the edges before disappearing entirely. Any trace they were ever there is quietly stolen into the sea.
Like the sky, Sasuke is painted in color, dark hair and pale skin standing out against the fire of oranges, pinks, and purples, waves of black and white crashing into the sunset. His eyes have left Itachi again, fixed on the horizon where the ocean meets the sun. Flecks of gold ornate their surface, pulling Itachi’s mind away from the same contemplative look he had worn earlier.
“What if we—”
Click. Click.
This time, he has his camera.
“Itachi,” Sasuke huffs, wedging a hand between his face and the camera.
“You’re in the way of the view.” Between the gaps of his fingers pressed up against the lens, there’s a faint smile on Sasuke’s face, almost hidden.
Click.
A finger points towards the ocean for emphasis. “The view is over there.”
“Is it?” Another click and a sly smile as his thumb adjusts the focus. “Sorry, Sasuke. I have to get creative if I want to take your picture.”
“Because you know I don’t like it,” Sasuke frowns, though it barely holds, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s fighting a smile. In Itachi’s eyes, it might as well be a pout. “Besides, you never take photos of us together—only me.”
“Really?” Itachi asks, amused, tilting his head to the side. “Is that all it takes?”
“I didn’t say I wou—”
Before he can finish, a hand is already tugging Sasuke by the arm, gentle yet insistent, turning their backs towards the beach. Sand shifts beneath their feet as they move. Itachi drapes an arm around his shoulders, drawing him in, his other hand lifting the camera in front. Its wide, round lens stares back at them. A soft breeze drifts through, brushing pieces of their hair, but Itachi clicks the shutter anyway. The sound barely rises above the hiss of the waves.
“Can I see it?”
“Not yet.” Itachi lowers himself onto the sand and pats the space beside him, already dismissing Sasuke’s peeved expression. Sasuke lingers for a moment before giving in, shifting closer until their shoulders connect. His skin is warm from the sun.
"Is this something you've always been interested in?" Sasuke suddenly asks. When Itachi doesn't answer, impatient hands gesture toward the clunky camera resting in his lap.
"Photography."
He wouldn't say interest. Not really. It’s closer to a pitiful grasp at something resembling normalcy. Not that he wants it—a normal family and their rigid structures, or their delicately framed photos that lined every wall and mantel—none of that. Still, in the dim, dusty aisles of a thrift shop, a glint of sunlight caught the camera lens just right, and a feeling, maybe just a whim, gently pulled him close. Close enough to see all its scuffs and tiny dents, the marks of use and care. His fingers traced over its edges, nails brushing each scratch. Briefly, he wondered about the person who owned it before.
Then he thought of Sasuke. The camera had cost twenty dollars. With all his spare change and crumpled bills piled together, Itachi had twenty-one.
Itachi tips his head toward the sky, eyes drifting through pink and lavender clouds, searching further and further as if they held the answer. A bloom of self-consciousness rises in his chest, barely there yet staggering nonetheless. He knew, with embarrassing clarity, there did not exist any answer, any string or meticulous order of words to explain why he took pictures at all, or why Sasuke ended up in every frame.
"I do like it," he finally settles on. "I like it a lot."
When he turns to look at Sasuke, an image of a younger Sasuke flashes in his mind, when he was small with a face full of wonder. Itachi can see himself in Sasuke's eyes, his reflection surrounded by complete darkness. How long has it been since he's seen that look? A fleeting, terrible second passes by where he wishes Fugaku had died alongside their mother. Sasuke's expression shifts as he retreats to his thoughts. He's thinking about something again.
“Earlier, you were going to ask me something. What was it?” Itachi asks.
Sasuke doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze returns to the sea. “I don’t remember,” he mutters.
“What if we… what?” Itachi leans closer, and his voice is soft, always is, when the world seems to trouble Sasuke so often.
Sasuke swallows thickly. His hands cup small piles of sand, the beads trickling through the cracks of his fingers in tiny, silky streams.
“Never went back home.”
Itachi falls quiet, weighing his words like a stone. A halo of light surrounds Sasuke’s face—down the slope of his nose, catching at the edge of his lips, lingering at the point of his chin, a golden outline of his profile. His hair is mussed, tangled by the wind and stiffened slightly by salt, the ends curling unpredictably. Looking at him, Itachi’s heart aches. It’s unbearable, swelling until it surges forward, reckless and dangerous, as if to say yes, to abandon everything, to take Sasuke away and disappear with him into the dusky horizon. Any other possibility feels so far away.
“There’s still two years left until you graduate,” Itachi finally says with all the gentleness he can muster.
Sasuke shrugs, jaw tight. “There are better places to take your pictures. Besides, education is a scam.”
It's not about the places, he wants to say. It's not about the places at all.
“You were telling me I should go to college only a few hours ago.”
“That’s different,” Sasuke says, his voice thinning.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”
“Don’t make me say it,” Sasuke sighs. There’s a long pause as his face tightens, lips pressing into a hard line, before he speaks again. “You’ll waste away if you stay home. You’re too good.”
“That’s not true at all,” Itachi says quietly, and he isn’t sure Sasuke hears him. A rush of warmth swarms his lungs, almost painful in its intensity; he can’t help the smile that spreads freely across his face. “It seems we want the same things for each other.”
You want the best for me. I want the best for you.
“It’s not a matter of want,” Sasuke murmurs. He finally turns to look at Itachi, his eyes holding the last light of the sunset and an indescribable grief, as if Itachi were a flame snuffed out before it could truly burn. There is something else, too, something Itachi cannot name.
“Once I graduate,” he says slowly, “will you leave?”
His voice trails off into a whisper. All he can see is Sasuke. All at once, the air feels stripped from him, oxygen an elusive thing, until his lungs are pleading for relief.
“After that, there’s nothing stopping you.”
Itachi feels like he’s drowning.
The waves are crashing against the shore. There’s sand in Sasuke’s hair. The grains scatter and fall when Itachi threads his fingers through it. For only the smallest moment, everything bleeds black and white, and that lonely beach is gone, the world sucked through a vortex. Sasuke is frozen before him, but his lips are warm, warm, warm.
For now, he is not mortified. Shame trickles down his back like cold water, but for now, all he feels is the gentle press of their foreheads and the soft brush of Sasuke’s lashes against his cheek. When he pulls away, Sasuke’s eyes are still open. Wide and unfocused, his mouth parted. His gaze lowers to Itachi’s lips, which have curved into a small smile.
Without a word, Sasuke turns away, looking out into the infinite distance once more. Then, trembling fingers find Itachi's, lacing them together.
When night falls, there are hands in his hair and thighs wrapped around his hips. The moon has replaced the sun, drenching sea and sand in black. Itachi cannot see much, but he can see Sasuke—and therefore, everything.
Sasuke is beautiful beneath the moonlight. It spills over him in pale grey, brushing the sharp angles of his face before dissolving into darkness along the curve of his body. When he tilts his head just so, the brightest light catches in the dark strands of his hair and gathers in his eyes like the moonlight rippling over the dark ocean water. Half of him is swallowed by shadow. Something about it frightens Itachi, as though Sasuke might slip into the endless black surrounding them.
Sasuke has sunk into the soft ground, eyes sealed shut as Itachi rocks inside him. Itachi keeps his open, too afraid to blink—the sick, gaping hole in his chest might deepen if he does. Like medicine, Sasuke’s warmth seeps slowly into him. The press of flesh against flesh is a fragile shield to the night’s cool air and the damp patches of sand clinging to their skin.
Resting his forearms on the sand, Itachi cradles Sasuke’s face, desperate fingers splayed across his cheeks.
“Look,” he breathes.
Sasuke’s eyes flutter open, half-lidded and hazy. His lips are parted, glistening with spit, opening wider with each sigh Itachi coaxes from him. The pads of his knees dig deeper into the sand with every slow, drawn-out thrusts of his hips; resting above them, the backs of Sasuke’s thighs press flush against Itachi’s front, the skin melded together in a layer of sweat and salt.
It's too much. His hips drive inside him faster, deeper.
“I won’t,” a strained whisper, ghosting above his ear.
The heat of Sasuke’s body wrapped around his cock is maddening. The taste of the sea on Sasuke’s skin is maddening. Sasuke is—
“I won’t leave.”
It’s only after he comes does he realize Sasuke is crying. Tremors shake him, tiny and unstoppable, with each breath, and his cheeks are flushed and tacky with wet trails. The waves crash, muffling his sobs, but Itachi sees the tears all the same. All he can do is smile, lean his head down, and kiss every drop away.
“Never leave me,” he chokes out, a shaky, thin plea lost to the sea. “Never, never—”
Somewhere ahead, the road curls and vanishes into black. The dull headlights slice through the dark with fragments of gold and orange. Wind slithers through the windows, carrying the scent of rain and asphalt, mingling with leather and smoke.
It was one thing to understand that some things are simply out of your control—another to experience it. Lately, the lines have become far too blurred, too ruined for Itachi to see them. Still, there are things he knows. He knows his hands are on the steering wheel. He knows Sasuke is beside him. He knows that they are going somewhere.
Itachi’s eyes flick up to the sun visor, where a photo peeks out. Half of it is obscured; only Sasuke’s smile against a golden-lit sky and Itachi’s arm around his shoulder can be seen. As the world dissolves into a blur of streetlights and shadow, he has never felt freer.