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Bed of Ash	By : Lykomancer Category: Naruto > Yaoi - Male/Male Views: 911 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. My fanwriting is for entertainment purposes only, never for profit.

Chapter List
- 1-Bed of Ash
- 1
--

“You cook?” Sasuke sneered from the doorway, arrogance masking his surprise at
finding the silver-haired medic in the kitchen hovering over a series of
various steaming pots and bottles. (Or at least, what he took to be the
kitchen, though it had looked little different than Kabuto’s laboratories,
right down to the microscopes and Bunsen burners occupying most of the counter
space.) It’d been the scent of curry that had drawn the young Uchiha down the
hallway, his stomach clenching almost painfully at the promise of food.

“Of course. Cooking is merely an extension of my work; there’s little
difference between food preparation and biochemical experimentation.” Kabuto
didn’t turn around immediately. He stirred the foremost pot with one hand and
adjusted the heat under a beaker of some kind of simmering green-tinged liquid
with the other, and then cocked a calm smile over his shoulder. “And
Orochimaru-sama trusts me.”

Sasuke didn’t respond. If Kabuto was convinced that such menial work was a
position of respect and honor, that was his own business; if Orochimaru trusted
his slippery subordinate to prepare his food and not try to kill him with it,
Sasuke cared only so far as to hope that his judgment was correct— the sannin’s
death would be inconvenient for his education.

Kabuto ignored his lingering presence, indulgingly tolerating the stare that
burned into his back as he moved from the curry to the vials of blood hung
neatly in their rack awaiting testing and back again in a purposeful,
gracefully timed rhythm.

The neck of the hot beaker was clamped skillfully with metal tongs and the pale
chartreuse-colored fluid poured into a cobalt glazed teapot; blood was measured
out and dripped onto glass slides with tiny plastic eyedroppers, spread and
capped with delicate cover slips, and laid out in neatly labeled rows; tobeyaki
tableware was set out on a sturdy bamboo tray, filled with ladlefuls of curry,
and almost artistically garnished with pickles.

Kabuto paused to wash his hands, then picked up the tray— set for three,
Sasuke’d noticed— and smiled at the younger nin still hovering suspiciously and
hungrily in the doorway.

“Coming, Sasuke-kun?”

There was a lacquered bento box waiting by the side of his bed that evening,
topped with a note that skipping meals was both a careless neglect of his own
well-being and an inexcusable rudeness which would be overlooked just this once
and no more.

Breakfast would be at eight sharp.

Sasuke glared sulkily across the polished wood table at Orochimaru with little
effect; the sour stare and stony silence certainly didn’t dissuade the man from
carrying on a conversation with (or without) Sasuke in between precise, almost
delicate bites of his breakfast, and the younger nin seethed at first at both
the list of what Orochimaru expected of him and each deliberately lengthy pause
with which he was baited.

He shot a dark look Kabuto’s way when he placed matching dishes in front of him
before vanishing off to the warren of his labs, but eventually hunger and basic
logic forced him to pick up his chopsticks. He couldn’t not eat, and if the
medic wanted an opportunity to experiment on him…well, Sasuke suspected that
there would be plenty of other chances for him to do so, just as he’d had quite
a few already.

Sasuke didn’t appreciate the pleased smile that curved Orochimaru’s lips when
he finally took his first bite; he smiled too often, too artfully artlessly,
distractingly, disconcertingly, and Sasuke’s eyes narrowed and he’d taken a
deep sip of tea as though responding to an unspoken challenge.

He refused to acknowledge that food was actually surprisingly good.

“Why do you care?” Sasuke asked finally, coldly annoyed at the way Orochimaru
had watched him, slitted eyes glittering. He shoved the nearly empty bowl away
from him. He didn’t remember eating all of it.

“It’s hardly unusual for teachers to be concerned about the welfare of their
dear students,” Orochimaru drawled, his mocking tone honeyed with indulgent
amusement, but then leaned back in his seat, elbow on the chair arm and fingers
curled at his lips. “You want power but yet you are careless, and your
impatience is a weakness. It is in your best interest to learn to pace
yourself, Sasuke-kun.”

Sasuke made little effort to keep the sullen hostility from his face.

“My best interest?”

That elicited a laugh from the older nin, and he pushed out of his seat with a
sweeping gesture, indicating that Sasuke was to follow.

“Our best interests, then.”

--

“In ancient times, snakes were worshipped as bringers of rain and fertility,
blessing and good health.”

Kabuto spoke casually, lightly, no particular emphasis on his words; his
fingers were less callused than a shinobi’s should be, soft and smooth. His
expressions were bafflingly opaque, like clear water clouded with matcha,
more than what they seemed and yet nothing less; his smiles were like cryptic
puzzles which held poisoned senbon needles within them.

“Serpents have been the allies and companions of gods and saints, guardians of
wisdom and of creation itself.”

His family had been killed when he’d still been a child as well, but Sasuke
doubted him when he’d calmly said that he sought his own revenge against Konoha
and the people who’d murdered his parents and siblings, those who’d had
deprived him of his own kin and then tried to replace what they had taken.

“Though the world’s moved on and humans no longer believe the same stories, the
snakes have not forgotten the dignity and homage they were once paid.”

Kabuto reminded him that there was often more power in leverage than in blunt
force.

--

Sasuke had anticipated hating Orochimaru’s lessons; he had expected to resent
the double-edged comments he’d known he’d hear, sharp and sure as weapons,
regarding his flaws and mistakes, the inevitable jibing comparisons to his
brother. He already disliked the feel of the sannin’s tight focus on every
detail of his movement and expression, though as he grudgingly acknowledged
that such scrutiny was of course essential for analyzing his combat skills.

Sasuke had anticipated hating each moment he spent with Orochimaru, but he’d
understood that it was necessary— both the training itself, and the cold
loathing that accompanied it. He’d left Konoha to break all ties but those of
hate, and he wanted to feel nothing more than that toward anyone ever again.

He’d hate it until he simply didn’t care at all anymore: the best possible
outcome of all.

Orochimaru surprised him, and both the seemingly endless patience which the man
had while demonstrating and explaining new jutsu to his young protégé and the
cordial, good-humored mannerisms he displayed while Sasuke rolled in the dirt
in agony so extreme he couldn’t even scream set the Uchiha’s teeth on edge and
made him twice as wary as he’d been of Orochimaru when he’d first arrived in
Sound.

“Sasuke-kun, I’m disappointed in you,” and Sasuke thought through the haze of
pain that he almost sounded as though he’d meant it, and rage shot though his
chest with suffocating heat. “You were less innovative than you’d been during
our first fight.”

Sasuke’s response sliced through the space the sannin’s face had been occupying
a half-second previous, and then he grimly forced himself back to his feet.

He would be no one’s disappointment.

--

Kabuto merely glanced up from his clipboard when Sasuke’d staggered into his
lab, barely even raising a brow at the boy’s condition, unhurried by the amount
of blood or the Uchiha’s crimson glare. He gestured toward a steel table and
had jotted down a few more notes while he waited patiently for Sasuke to
acknowledge the silent order, then resettled his glasses and dropped his
clipboard off on the counter and turned to Sasuke with a small rueful smile.

Sasuke would have punched him if his wrist wasn’t broken.

Kabuto’s chakra-enhanced touches tingled like menthol on his skin, radiating
soothing heat deep into his aching, battered body, and Sasuke closed his eyes
and breathed easier as the band of agony wrapped around his chest loosened.

“Have you been sleeping well, Sasuke-kun?”

Sasuke sighed when the warmth spread out over his torso receded, but Kabuto’s
hands lingered a moment more, pressing against his throbbing ribcage as though
verifying his work from the outside. It took a few minutes before Sasuke—
focused on the conflicting sensations welling up in response to the cool
physician’s touch— registered the question.

“Fine.”

“Mm. Your appetite seems good. Has the food been to your liking?” Sasuke
flinched from Kabuto when he reached for his face, but he didn’t radiate
harmful intent as he caught the younger man’s chin, and Sasuke begrudgingly
held still as Kabuto held his eyes open and flashed a pen light into them.

Sasuke shrugged.

The examination of the curse seal was cursory but still preformed; the seal
vibrated like a struck bell when touched, and Sasuke couldn’t help the shudder
that ran down his back.

“Bandage yourself up and take the next few days off to rest. I’ve patched up
the mess you’d managed to make of your ribs, but they still need time to set
and heal properly. Take it easy with your left hand.”

“Are we finished here?”

Kabuto stepped back with a mild smile, allowing Sasuke the room to slide off
the examination table.

“Of course.”

--

Sasuke liked the smell of steel and ozone, fresh sweat and crisp sunlight-laced
air; he enjoyed the sound that metal made when it cut through the air, sharp
and clean. He could lose himself in the graceful motions of his morning
training kata, dancing through timeless time when the world seemed new and
pure, showered in brilliance which reflected off his sword in dazzling flashes;
he was hyperaware of the smooth grip in his hand, the tang that that rooted the
blade in the hilt, and the weapon became a part of him, as graceful and
controlled as the rest.

He didn’t have to open his eyes to parry Orochimaru’s sudden blow; he’d gotten
used to his teacher’s slinking silence and when his instincts prickled his
skin, he obeyed his body’s urge to turn and raise his blade, unsurprised at the
metallic clang and vibration of swords meeting.

Sasuke’s dark lashes lifted, and ringed red sharingan flicked first across the
sannin’s face— Sasuke noted the silent praise in the pleased narrowing of his
eyes and twitch at the corner of his lips; he’d been fast enough, the motion
made to counter executed perfectly— and then dropped to study Orochimaru’s
posture, to watch and record his every movement as they sparred.

The morning’s swordplay ended with Sasuke’s katana embedded deeply in a tree
trunk and the disarmed Uchiha himself pinned bare inches from his own quivering
blade, bound in the cold coils of a large serpent and dripping blood from the
slash that crossed his cheek.

Another loss, another lesson.

Sasuke wouldn’t forget.

--

“What’s this?” Sasuke stared at the pungent brew placed in his hands
suspiciously, mouth tensing as though he wanted to curl his lip at the smell of
it.

“Poison.”

Kabuto chuckled at the sharp look his blunt answer received, but then he
shrugged, clarifying, “In trace amounts. It might make you a little sick at
first, but gradually you’ll build up immunity to it.”

Sasuke sniffed quietly at the smile on the med-nin’s face; he looked wearily
amused, as though he expected to him to put up more resistance, and that was
enough reassurance.

“Bottoms up,” Kabuto murmured as he reached for the cup before Sasuke dropped
it in his struggles not to retch.

It tasted worse than it had smelled.

--

Orochimaru was ambitious, and had the cunning foresight necessary to develop
plans which stretched far into the future, coupled with both the time and the
patience to see them through to fruition; his actions outside of combat
appeared to Sasuke unrushed, his decisions almost capricious— everything
hinging on a moment’s humored whim, unplanned and unthought-out.

Sasuke watched as each seemingly casual choice slid pawns into wide, far-flung
arrangements, their victories and defeats occurring on cue perfectly timed and
executed.

“I know what people want,” Orochimaru said, smiling in his usual unpleasant
manner as he steepled his hands together. “Everyone wants the same thing.
Everyone has the same desire.

“Everyone wants power.”

He laughed softly at the look on his student’s face: Sasuke’s lips tightened
and he involuntarily recoiled as though he’d been struck— the sannin had
touched a nerve, and it had been obvious even before he’d spoken that he’d
known the reaction his words would cause.

“To protect their family or clan. To prove their worth and be honored. To
destroy their enemies…” His pale hand drifted through Sasuke’s too-long hair to
run down the smooth curve of his cheek and rest there. “There are many reasons.
All valid, and all…valuable. Isn’t that right, Sasuke-kun?”

Sasuke’s eyes narrowed aggressively; he resented the unexpected contact and the
way that it made him feel: it made his stomach tense up and his seal throb with
an ache that ran down deep into his belly. He resented it, but he didn’t dare
pull away; it would only encourage Orochimaru further if he did.

“You’re no different.” Sasuke cocked his head deliberately into the broad palm
still flush against his face, his words edged like a blade. “So what’s your
excuse for all this?”

Orochimaru’s fingers curled in the roots of his hair, blunt nails scraping at
his scalp, and his bloodless lips parted, showing the white gleam of his teeth.

“Excuse?” he repeated, the traces of laughter threaded through his tone
slipping loose like stray ribbons. “I need no excuse. The small-minded
hoi polloi have limited sight and seek power merely as a way to achieve some
petty end, a tool to be used carelessly.”

Sasuke’s lip curled at the implied insult, and his own fingernails bit
semicircles into the flesh of his hands as he steadied himself.

“But for those with vision… Well.” Orochimaru laughed. His caresses stopped for
a moment, and the pads of his fingers traced down Sasuke’s face to his jaw; he
lifted the younger nin’s chin up, forcing him to meet his gaze directly. “Power
is its own validation. It is not the means to an end; it is the end itself.”

Sasuke nodded slowly.

“You have that vision, Sasuke-kun. I knew when we first fought that you had it—
your eyes see what others’ cannot.”

Orochimaru had said once that Sasuke showed the potential to surpass Itachi,
but Sasuke’d forgotten the compliment in the wake of the disaster that chuunin
exam had become and Orochimaru never repeated that particular observation.

It wouldn’t do to give Sasuke the impression that he could do things on his
own.

Itachi was still more powerful than Orochimaru.

--

When Sasuke dreamed, everything was washed in shades of blue.

Like the sky, like the deep, endless ocean.

He thought that seeing the world in red would drive him mad; he was grateful
for the cool hues in which his subconscious mind painted.

Memories of old, familiar faces and voices were faded and far away. Through the
years their beseeching calls dimmed down into quiet static, meaningless sound
which was irrelevant to him, easily ignored.

He felt no loss, no regret, only a dim sense of satisfaction in having done the
right thing.

--

Sasuke had believed that Kabuto had been jealous of him when he’d first arrived
in Sound, but he hadn’t been there long before he realized he was more than a
little jealous of the older nin himself: Kabuto, for all of his obedience to
Orochimaru’s whims and wishes, had a calmly dignified sense of self; he was
exactly where and what he wanted to be, and had more than enough freedom within
a delicate framework for his own purpose and power and pleasure.

He hated the way that the medic touched him— the way that his fingers were
indifferent to the flesh under them as they traced smooth lines of well-formed
muscles and pressed in systematically to check internal rhythms. He fumed
helplessly, knowing that every instinctive, uncontrollable biological reaction
was sensed and noted, his attention drawn to the faint knowing smile Kabuto
wore by the way he resettled his glasses on the bridge of his nose.

Kabuto’s thumb dragged across Sasuke’s lower lip as he cocked his head back
slightly to measure his pulse; the throb in Sasuke’s throat was strong and
slightly elevated, and Sasuke tried to focus on the metronomic drip of a leaky
faucet he could hear in the background.

He could not afford to be distracted.

Sasuke would cut out all that was unnecessary to destroying his brother and
burn it all down until there was nothing left but a bed of ash.

Kabuto didn’t ask why.

Perhaps he didn’t ever have to. Perhaps he already understood the motivations
and desires of those he closely associated with well enough to predict the
actions which would precipitate from them.

Perhaps his fingers were skillfully occupied with more strings than his
previous master’s had ever been.

Kabuto gave him tea and poison in succession, brewing and serving them both in
identical fashion. Kabuto was more familiar with Sasuke’s body than Sasuke
himself was; his hands had both injured him and healed him and he acted as
though there was no distinction between the two.

Kabuto wouldn’t ask foolish questions like why.

Sasuke didn’t speak afterward; he merely closed his eyes and silently cursed
himself. He felt cold when it was over, small and young and foolish, and his
illusions of control slipped away like wind through netting. There was no
release, no closure.

He shifted restlessly, and Kabuto’s smooth hands drifted up his bare back as
though attempting to ease some of his unease. The metal edge of his glasses
pressed uncomfortably into Sasuke’s cheek— the medic hadn’t allowed him to
remove them and, impatiently, he hadn’t cared enough to force the issue when
they’d begun.

Kabuto’d only laughed when Sasuke’s thwarted fingers had aggressively latched
onto his hitai-ate instead, tugging it free hard enough to tear the fabric
around the bolts and then flinging the engraved metal piece across the room
with unnecessary force. He’d let the Uchiha shove and bite, inelegant and
ungraceful and flushing with mingled embarrassment and anger as he’d fumbled to
undress the older nin despite— or because of— the way that Kabuto arched under
him to untangle his clothes from his limbs.

Sasuke’d buried his face against the vulnerable softness of Kabuto’s throat and
sucked until he’d pulled a trembling, unsteady gasp from him instead of
laughter; he’d bitten the arch of his trapezius until the long, loose spill of
his pale hair was sticky and dark with blood. The small wound healed in
seconds, and Sasuke thought again that there was nothing he could do to make a
mark on the other nin.

That was all the permission he’d needed to banish the last
of his lingering doubts.

But yet… It hadn’t been what he’d wanted.

He was disappointed and unrelieved; he drew away into
himself, unsurprised by his own discontent.

The itch tickled just under his skin, inflamed by the unsatisfying, tantalizing
friction.

He would scratch at it until he ripped himself open; he’d be unmindful of the
increasing pain caused by his desperate attempt at satiation. Deadening one’s
own physical and emotional needs was never comfortable, but Sasuke didn’t
care…perversely, he savored the sensations— the pain and bitterness, the
frustration and disgust. Dying almost made him feel alive.

Sasuke grabbed Kabuto’s wrists, pinned his hands down against the mattress, and
pushed his knee up hard between his thighs, a small grim smile gracing his
features at the way Kabuto’s dark eyes widened with momentary surprise.

He would fight the fire of temptation and lust by letting it rage until it
burnt itself out; he would glut himself to the point of sickened contempt and
then throw it all aside when he was through.

Sasuke would let Kabuto think he’d successfully manipulated him into acting as
he’d wanted, but he’d seen the hook buried in the bait and had taken it
deliberately. This was his own choice.

They were spinning in mad, senseless circles, and there was no winning this
game no matter how it was played out.

--

In the end, Sasuke understood, it didn’t matter if he added one more sin to the
already endless litany for which he would never repent. He’d sold his flesh to
the devil rather than his soul, but he was condemned nonetheless, and it was
pointless to be concerned about so trivial a weakness as physical desire,
especially when he could see so plainly what Orochimaru would do to and with
his body when he at last possessed it completely.

Now or later, it was all inevitable; Sasuke’s only choice in the matter was how
he chose to accept it.

His body was his weapon, and he would learn how to use it in every way that he
could; he would shrink from nothing; he wasn’t afraid, and if he abhorred the
primal rush of lust, his hatred was to his advantage until he learned apathy
for the act—he would be more capable of maintaining his own cold distance in
the most heated situation.

Sasuke’s body was his weapon, and weapons had no need for worthless, useless
things like emotions. He would let himself be used until he was numb and
uncaring, indifferent to every touch whether it was intended to cause pleasure
or pain, unmoved by either sensation.

In the end, there was only one thing that mattered, and that was death.

Sasuke would finish what Itachi had started.

--

“Sasuke-kun, you are still impatient.”

Sasuke opened one dark eye to fixate balefully on Orochimaru, ripples of
infuriation at the interruption of his meditation disrupting what little focus
he’d managed to achieve.

The faintly disapproving note in the sannin’s tone was not lost on his student.

“Trouble concentrating? Distracted? You don’t even know why, do you?”

Sasuke jerked his flushing face away, barely biting back an annoyed snarl. He’d
anticipated a reprimand for his actions, but Orochimaru didn’t seem angry; he
acted as though he was baffled by a sudden display of stubborn stupidity from
his otherwise intelligent protégé, his words spitefully condescending.

Sasuke would have preferred the scolding.

Orochimaru sighed loudly, sounding frustrated and more than a little impatient
with the Uchiha’s sullenness himself. “Well, it makes no difference,” he said
finally. “It might be easier to teach you this now, anyway.”

The whisper of silk sliding against itself as Orochimaru untied his obi seemed
very loud in the tense silence. Sasuke’s ears burned from the sound of it, and
half disbelieving he watched from the corner of his eyes as Orochimaru sank
down gracefully to the floor and shrugged out of the loose spill of his kimono.

“Come.”

“There’s a serpent that lies within your body— here.” Sasuke didn’t
squirm against the fingers that stroked over sensitive, seldom-touched skin in
unceasing spirals. “Coiled in on itself, it sleeps…dormant energy. Untapped.”

There was wet heat against his ear, warm breath and the throaty grate of
Orochimaru’s words.

“When it’s awakened, it moves up the spine, spilling through the chakra system
like a torrent.”

“Power…”

“Mm…do you feel it?”

Sasuke’s breath hitched in his throat and his brow furrowed. “Nnn…” His tongue
flicked across his parted lips, and then he groaned suddenly, the sound
helplessly drawn from his throat in ecstasy of the rush pouring through him. “Yes.”

Orochimaru smirked and pressed his thumb up against the hui yin point, and
Sasuke hissed as the feeling was cut off, writhing against his mentor in
shameless frustration and longing.

“Damn it! I want…!” Sasuke’s eyes flashed a furious red. He’d been so close. It
was almost enough. Finally, he understood why he’d been so unstated before; he
knew what he’d been truly wanting.

“Want what, Sasuke-kun?” The tip of Orochimaru’s tongue dragged across his
shoulder to trace the triplicate embryonic curls of his curse seal.

“More…”

Orochimaru laughed and pushed the boy down to the floor. “So impatient…”

The lesson was continued at his leisure, not Sasuke’s.

--

The first time Sasuke had sparred with Kabuto, he’d lost badly and had to spend
the remainder of his afternoon being bandaged up by the man who’d cut him down,
in too much pain to be angry or rebellious about the situation.

The first time he’d won against him, a not quite a year later, Orochimaru’d
nearly had to intervene to keep the Uchiha from permanently damaging his
subordinate; Sasuke’d gained in strength but still lost to his temper,
especially when he let the seal sink its dark claws into his skin.

Releasing the seal was no longer necessary for victory. Sasuke fought with
unerring, eerie silence, swift as a striking snake, and the match was over
almost too quickly.

Sasuke rubbed at his injured bicep absently and stared down at Kabuto for a
moment, his head held arrogantly high and face blank as he watched the older
nin’s expression contort with a moment’s unchecked bloodlust before settling
into a calm, wary watchfulness.

“Get up,” he said. “You aren’t wounded that badly.”

“This is a spar, Sasuke-kun, not an actual fight. I think…”

Kabuto was cut off by his need to dodge the line of fire that blazed across the
field.

“I didn’t ask for your opinion.” Sasuke didn’t raise his voice as he leapt
through the wall of flame, a handful of kunai gleaming in the light before they
thudded into the ground, barely missing.

“I gave you an order.”

--

Icy rain tore the dying leaves from the skeletal branches of melancholy trees
and lashed at the building. The world outside was smudged in wet monochromatic
grays that leeched the color even from the autumnal foliage, and Sasuke often
fell into meditative trances as he stared through the pane of thin glass at the
dark, dismal scene, his mind lulled by the steady beat of rain on the window.

The chill promise of winter in the air smelled metallic, like blood, and Sasuke
dreamed with his eyes open.

The scarlet whirls of his sharingan didn’t make the memories any sharper; they
didn’t allow him to see past thirteen year old Itachi’s smiles and wistful,
contemplative silences to the murderer within nor could they change the outcome
of the brothers’ last tragic battle.

Sasuke didn’t feel the cold that seeped in through the wooden pane. The embers
of his hatred radiated heat enough to keep him warm, even banked down under a
bed of ash.
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Bed of Ash