Itachi doesn't touch himself.
Itachi doesn't touch anyone. When he fights, he uses genjutsu or ninjutsu. When forced to use taijutsu (unlikely), he uses his legs.
Itachi is not a hands-on person. When slaughtering his family, he uses his blade. Because touching is too personal.
Unless it's Sasuke.
Itachi eschews pleasure. Physical pleasure is especially off-limits. When you're a matricidal-patricidal-redredred-handed-murderer, you don't deserve pleasurable distractions. One more sin and Itachi would sink straight through the earth into hell, if he hasn't already.
But Itachi is so young.
He's never been with a girl, nor does he expect to. He doesn't think he likes them. Their soft bodies and floral smells are all wrong. He doesn't want that.
He's never been with a boy, nor does he expect to. He doesn't think he likes them either.
Lonely lonely. Cold beds, colder showers. Cold faces everywhere. The one in the mirror is coldest of all.
But he likes the one in the mirror.
Itachi stares at himself. It's the coal-black eyes that intrigue him. The hair is the right color, though too long and too fine. But the eyes he could get lost in. He lifts a long finger and strokes the reflection's cheek. The glass is hard beneath his purple-painted fingernail. Itachi brushes it under that perfect eye. This is the closest he ever gets to wanting. He pulls his hand back as though burned.
When Itachi is awake, he is safe. No one has self-control like Itachi. His thoughts are not dangerous when he is aware.
Nights are different. Not even Itachi can control his dreams. He sees black eyes, closed windows to a blacker soul. He sees smaller hands and spiky hair and that jawline justlikehis. He sees fear morph into hatred. He smells the familiar scent of sweat, familiar justlikehis except notquitenotquite — perfection. The frame moving above him is lighter than his own, calloused touches cold and brutal. Pinching, bruising, mean. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts so good because Itachi loves it and deserves it and don't stop just like that —
Itachi wakes up to wet sheets and wants to die.
Yet still —
Itachi doesn't touch himself.
Sasuke touches himself. He thinks of Itachi; of Itachi's dead body, Itachi bloodied, Itachi cold. And he touches himself.
Sometimes he thinks of Itachi alive and smiling like he used to, before the redredred. And still, he touches himself.
Sasuke can't help it.
Sasuke has tried girls, but they were too weak. Sasuke has tried boys, but they were not what he needs. The only thing that works for Sasuke is his hands.
He watches them while he does it. He studies the way his curved fingers are long and pale and thin justlikehis. They're still too small, but they grow more right every year. Closer and closer to the hands he needs. He imagines his nails are painted purple and can't help himself; he loses it in a toe-curling-earth-shattering-starry-eyed-blaze-of-glory.
Sasuke needs his hands. They are the hands that will kill his brother someday. Sasuke knows he won't do it with genjutsu or ninjutsu. He will use his hands. The same hands that stroke, he will wrap them around Itachi's throat. He will squeeze until he hears that delicious pop, until Itachi's red eyes fade to black justlikehis. Then Itachi will be Sasuke's. He will claim him with his hands.
Sasuke cries when he touches himself.