[From within the shadowed depths of his apartment, nothing has changed much in the time since Stiles left it. Little out of place, little moved, as bare in personal decoration as it was when he first came to this dimension—so few signs someone lives here at all. Lights remain off, curtains drawn against the hot summer daylight threatening to spill in.
He's in the living room when the text arrives, lying across the couch, dark eyes on the ceiling. He stares at it for a moment with a squinting, uncertain expression. His gaze slants toward the door, then the window. That immense chakra would be difficult to miss even if he didn't know it so well, although he can't determine its exact location.
Can he justify being cruel to Kisame in the same way he was cruel to Stiles and Sasuke? How quickly could he leave the apartment, and would his partner pursue him?]
[ "Busy," hm? Not too busy to answer a text, though. Any other time, Kisame would likely respect his partner's desire for space — but he has been patient for long enough. ]
It will only take a moment.
[ As soon as he sends the message, he moves. However, he doesn't walk to Itachi's door: he travels with a speed usually reserved for hasty retreats, appearing on his partner's doorstep in an instant. It is a deliberate signal of his impatience, a sign that he is not about to leave without a very good reason. ]
[The message goes unanswered, although the checkmark in the corner confirms it has been opened and read. Itachi remains on the couch; he shifts from a still, statuesque, horizontal position only when he senses the immensity of Kisame's chakra approaching closer.
Darkly shadowed, tired eyes slide from the window to the door as he estimates where his partner is and whether he has the energy to escape.]
[ Kisame gives his partner a very generous ten seconds after that checkmark appears. When there is no indication of Itachi typing a response, a tight, angry smile stretches across Kisame's face. He tucks his network device into the pocket of his trousers, brushes a bit of dust from his shirt, and adjusts Samehada's strap across his chest.
Then Kisame kicks Itachi's front door clean off its hinges. ]
[The resulting slam of the door knocked back off its hinges doesn't alarm Itachi; part of him was waiting for it, primed to expect his partner's violent presence. Truthfully, there is no place for surprise in him. The world is gray-tinged and faraway in his perception. The strength he's mustered to sit up has left him dizzy and lightheaded, blinking black spots at the sight of Kisame's intimidating figure in the doorway's open threshold.
He knows he's a sight to see—hair long and untied, unbrushed but for a few pass-throughs with fingers, shadows around eyes suggesting lack of sleep, face gaunt and pallid more than usual—but there is some comfort in the knowledge that it won't be new to Kisame, who has been with him during many phases of illness in the past. The difference will be the heartache of emotion now present in him, but if he's careful, it will remain disguised.
The apartment itself carries the stench of blood, source pointing toward the bathroom if pursued. A crow swoops over to greet Kisame upon his entrance, cawing noisily, hopping around the man's ankles with behavior more like canine than avian.]
[ There is a moment just after the door crashes down in which Kisame expects a flying kunai — or a fireball if his violent entry has sufficiently upset his partner. He is prepared for it, muscled tensed to spring, sharp teeth still bared in that outraged smile. But … nothing happens. Nothing but a crow (that may or may not be real) swooping over to dance about his ankles.
The continued silence is worse than any violent retaliation. ]
… Please don't ignore me, Itachi-san.
[ His smile adds a cheerful lilt to the words, but his voice trembles with anger.
He ducks through the doorway. As his own bulk blocks less light, he finally catches sight of his partner … and he pauses. Yellow eyes dart from lank, unkempt hair to hollow cheeks, then to the drawn curtains, and then, with a subtle flaring of nostrils, to the bloody bathroom. Comprehension reveals itself in the twist of his lips; his smile gives way to the sort of thin-lipped scowl that says, "I want to be angry, but there are more important matters at hand."
The crow must be real, then, as Itachi is apparently in no condition to use genjutsu. Kisame crouches down and (not unkindly) ushers the bird out of the way, then picks up the door one-handed and shoves it approximately back into place. It is a concession to the need for privacy, not a sign of remorse at having broken in. ]
So, you're busy pretending that you live in a cave…? [ he asks as he unbuckles Samehada. ] Though I think we've stayed in airier caves than this.
[An apology should be forthcoming, but Itachi finds that he can't manage it, dark eyes narrowed onto his partner's appearance to gauge his current state. Unchanged since their last encounter—a memory which sticks in his mind more vividly than most, but with all mental energy exhausted he has not been able to address it.
Meanwhile, Russell continues to fuss around the other man's ankles with enormous curiosity once the door is set back into its frame, her feathers fluffed up as though to make herself appear larger. Still only a fraction of Kisame's greater size.
Itachi lifts an arm, fingers combing hair off his brow and behind an ear. Then the pale hand drops to his lap. Crystallization from lack of Synchrony has begun to creep up his throat from the gem in the divot of collarbones, gleaming briefly, subtle in the darkly shrouded apartment.]
I'm not in a state for company right now. [His voice is thick, roughened from coughing, yet remains even and almost a little sharp—it wouldn't be Kisame's imagination if he notices the frayed, irritable tone.] What did you need to show me?
[ The roughness of Itachi's voice further confirms Kisame's suspicions. That stench of blood is not from some hidden injury as it was in Hell: it is from something far more insidious. And here Kisame ignorantly believed that death and new dimensions had healed his partner. Why didn't he ever ask…? Perhaps, unconsciously, he didn't want to know. ]
Yes, I can see that. Good thing it's just me, hm?
[ A challenge lies behind his words, daring his irritated partner to label him something so common as "company." Not that Kisame would leave even if he were so insulted. He toes off his sandals and sets them by the broken door alongside Samehada. Then, after giving the crow a curious look — will it attack his toes? steal his sandals? how soft are its feathers? — he steps forward and produces something small and circular from his pocket.
… It is a bottle of purple nail polish. Stickers proclaim that it is vibrant, long-lasting, and fast-drying. But it is possibly the flimsiest excuse for stopping by that Kisame could've devised.
Utterly unapologetic, Kisame puts the bottle down on a nearby table, then crosses to the window. He has yet to notice the unnatural shimmer on Itachi's neck, but he doubtless will as soon as he opens the curtains. ]
[Familiar eyes track Kisame through his motions, face a mask that gives nothing away except impenetrable fatigue. No, Kisame is not so meager a presence in his life as to be defined as company, and yet... frustration gnaws at him regardless of that. The sentiment is foreign where it concerns his partner; he has rarely felt this way, and while it's likely most attributed to his current physical state, he knows it goes deeper still. He has felt so emotional lately. He cannot shut it down.
Meanwhile, Russell trades her attention to Samehada—flighty and easily distracted as ever—and has begun barking at it. Itachi glares at the bird until she stops and takes off, landing on her favored spot perched upon the back of a chair that bears noticeable scratches from talons.
The nail polish is set down, and he finds himself staring at it blankly. He is snapped from the daze only when curtains are drawn back, a wash of summer daylight so bright it is almost painful, forcing him to shade squinted eyes, head angled away. Crystallized skin catches light in brilliantly rainbowed color.
The question is met with a heavy stretch of silence, until finally:] ... This isn't your responsibility anymore. [Was it ever? Why had Kisame seen to his needs without question in the past, far beyond the expectations of Akatsuki partnership? They never spoke of it.]
[ In the silence that follows the swish of sliding curtain rings, Kisame looks first out the window, gauging the likelihood of eavesdroppers should he open it. Itachi needs fresh air as much as sunlight; opening the window would be more convenient than hauling his partner out to the countryside. Then Kisame turns back to Itachi. For an instant, he thinks that the rainbow sheen is like the paints in Filia, then the truth hits: it is a sign of Chrysalis.
Things are even worse than he thought. How did this happen? Why is Itachi in this state? Why did Kisame wait for weeks before forcing his way through the door…?!
Something heavy settles on his shoulders when Itachi speaks. The knot of grief twists, and Kisame is grateful that his face is hidden in shadows cast by bright sunlight. ]
Is that really what you think? [ His voice sounds oddly hollow without a smile or anger to support it. ] Do you believe I found another partner, or that I would've accepted one assigned to me? Did you even wonder…
[ He trails off, unwilling to voice what he wants to know. Cursing himself for saying even that much. ]
… You're in the early stages of Chrysalis, Itachi-san. You need to Synch, and you need food.
[Eyes level to the floor as if sunk by heavy weight, unwilling or unable to face his partner at those words. If he ever wondered, it was short-lived, greedy and self-interested thoughts quickly cauterized by their circumstances. It wouldn't matter what Kisame chose to do once he was dead, whether the other man aligned himself with another partner or not—as expected of their inherent allegiance to the organization. It shouldn't bother him. He shouldn't care for an unknown future that has nothing to do with him, that he cannot influence, and especially not when he has concealed so much from Kisame to begin with.
And yet.
What should he do now? Fight against Kisame's efforts to help him stay alive in this dimension, when his own passivity would see to the opposite, even if it was a slow crawl to a second death? He doesn't belong here. Itachi is quiet, painfully quiet, a silence he has only worn at those worst moments between them when speaking hurt his chest, when it became too difficult to try and be human, when simple existence was exhausting. The bad days. Worse, without even the purpose of fighting Sasuke left.
His posture draws forward, shoulders bowed, arms across knees and hands hanging limp and useless, hair hanging like a curtain. He doesn't want Kisame to see him like this. It feels so much harder to hide. His voice comes from somewhere deep, delayed.] ... It seems my body consumes manna inefficiently for some reason. [Burns through it quickly, perhaps due to his illness or something else. He doesn't know. He hasn't asked any of the scientists in this world; he'd rather not endure tests.] You should leave me alone, Kisame.
[ Itachi has always been physically smaller than Kisame, but rarely has he ever seemed frail. Yet that is what he appears now: fragile, as though some inner fire has been sapped. There is nothing relaxed in the curved lines of his posture. Instead, Itachi looks as though he would like nothing more than to vanish in a flock of crows, only he lacks the strength to do so.
Kisame does not look away. He can't. He bears silent witness, suffocated by his own powerlessness. Twice, he has lost his partner; he knows what pain awaits if he fails again. But what can he do? He cannot reach into Itachi's chest and rip out the illness. He cannot breathe fire back into those eyes. He cannot force Synchrony. But even the thought of doing as Itachi requests is…
An ugly, bitter laugh breaks the silence. Kisame barely recognizes it as his own; it seems to echo from a time before he found his purpose. ]
That would be a new way to kill a comrade, wouldn't it?
[ Because that is what Itachi is asking of him, isn't it? Abandoning Itachi like this would be less direct than wielding the blade himself, but it would lead to the same end.
Kisame turns his back, giving his partner a moment of privacy. Giving himself a moment to banish the phantom sensation of sticky blood running hot over his hands. The stench of the apartment doesn't help. He opens the window to release it, then narrows the opening as he remembers that fat crow.
After fiddling a second longer than necessary, Kisame faces Itachi once again. His broad smile is devoid of cheer, but it feels more like his own. ]
If you object to my presence, you know how to get rid of me … though I won't make it easy for you.
[ If Itachi wants blood spilled between them, he can do the deed himself. ]
[It isn't the first time the idea has occurred to him. It would have been easy, perhaps, to turn Kisame against him—to force him into violence against a comrade as the nature of Akatsuki partnerships promised. In the circumstances of betrayal, Kisame is supposed to kill him. Knowing that, during those initial years of brutal consequence in the wake of the massacre, he could have devised a way out, a way to find long-sought death quicker through his partner's sword. If only he did not have to ensure Sasuke's life and the safety of the village at large—although now he suspects such thinking was flawed, wrong and selfish, serving only to give him a sense of purpose because he did not want to die uselessly.
In this moment, it would be too little too late. And he cannot make Kisame do something so pointless and cruel no matter his own want. That means he must decide an alternative... so, then, what? And how? Why should he continue to live past his intended expiration? Why does no one else seem willing to allow him that end? In Kisame's case, the question of how much he knows is reasonable; at this stage he cannot guess if there's any other reason for Kisame to care if he's alive or dead. That avenue of thought alone is too treacherous. And yet necessary now.
Dragging himself up from the couch with difficulty as though weighed by an anchor, Itachi manages to stand upright, vision swimming half-black with the abrupt plunge of blood pressure. He doesn't have the energy to rail against the other man with the thick emotion in his throat, mixed anger and vitriol of being denied this final peace.
Instead he turns on Kisame, expression weary and bleak, black eyes like faded flint stone. He knows the question will sound sharp, a kunai all its own pointed to his partner's throat.]
[ It may be the cruelest question that Itachi has ever asked him. It is innocent on the surface, a mere voicing of a perfectly reasonable curiosity. Yet in these circumstances, it is cruel — because, in these circumstances, Kisame has no choice but to answer.
Kisame's muscles snap taut, the strong lines usually hidden by his cloak made apparent by his fitted, sleeveless shirt. His body curls subtly inward as though he's been punched in the chest. More telling still, his chin ducks slightly in an instinctual move to protect his neck, betraying his defensiveness.
(A kunai pointed at his throat, indeed.)
Yellow eyes hold coal black, burning with fury and hurt. How dare Itachi ask him that? How dare he do it here and now? How dare he ignore Kisame for weeks, fall into this condition, and then demand an explanation when his partner comes to drag him out of it? Sharp teeth flash as Kisame's lips twist in a grimace, his mind scrambling for a way to avoid answering. Terrified by the thought of honesty; more terrified still by what may happen if he chooses silence.
His eyes drop to the crystallized skin spreading from Itachi's amethyst. A necklace lies there, plain and innocuous. He recalls wrapping it around his wrist with trembling fingers, the only physical evidence that his partner ever existed. He wore it pressed against his skin for months, and yet when he returned it to his partner, he failed to say the words, "I'm so thankful that you're alive."
Slowly, Kisame releases a long breath between his teeth. He swallows once, then forces himself to speak. ]
You're as cold as ever, aren't you? Does it really matter why…?
[ Reluctantly, he meets Itachi's eyes again. And then, quieter, as though frightened by his own confession: ]
You're the person most important to me. Isn't that enough?
[The silence drives between them like a blunt weapon, its maw consuming the remainder of the energy that he may have possessed. Waiting, Itachi's eyes do not leave that familiar face, its every chiseled line as known to him as his own, if not more for how many years he's spent looking at it next to him, always at his side. Impenetrable now as a gaping black trench underfoot. He doesn't know what Kisame is thinking. Perhaps he never did, and every guess was a lifeline cast out in the dark, both of them trying to reach across—never quite making it but pretending they didn't need to.
Does it matter why? Perhaps it shouldn't. Perhaps he should simply continue to exist for no reason, surrendering to his partner's silent demand that he care for the vessel of a useless, dying body no longer needed as a tool to carry out higher goals.
As painful as it is for Kisame to speak, it is just as painful to listen. Does it matter? It does, Kisame's words more violent than the prior silence, not a sledgehammer but a sword across the stomach, across a vital place. Itachi abruptly severs their eye contact and looks at the floor. It doesn't feel as though he's breathing. You're the most important person to me. Why? Why? Why? What did he do, and why had he never seen it, and why would Kisame make such a claim? It's undeserving. It's absurd, and as dangerously vulnerable as though Kisame has spelled out every weakness he's ever had in just those words. It doesn't make sense. It isn't what he thought Kisame would say. You're strong, maybe. You're interesting, instead.
Not that.
Dizziness hits him as a reminder that he isn't breathing, and the next inhale is agonizing through sick lungs, thick and clogged. A hand reaches up to cover the middle of his chest, pale fingers fisting into a tight curl as though he might press down the sudden, aching pain there as it radiates outward. It isn't entirely physical.
Unsteady feet carry him forward, driven by impulse that narrows the distance between them. And then his head knocks against Kisame's collarbones. A gentle collision that the rest of his body soon follows, caving in toward the other man's solid, larger frame as if the strength to hold himself up has disintegrated all at once. The intent to connect through Synchrony flickers between them, fragile enough that it might yank away in the next moment of indecision. His amethyst gutters pale purple in his throat and brings crystallized skin into sharp relief.]
[ In the wake of his confession, Kisame braces himself. He doesn't know what Itachi's reaction will be; he has no context for this. Countless times, he has witnessed Itachi's coldness and cruelty, and the merciless, methodical way his partner exploits weakness and ruins people from the inside out. He knows the same thing could happen to him; he knows precisely how foolish and dangerous this is. And yet, here he is, stretching out his neck and handing his partner a blade.
Itachi looks away, seemingly holding his breath. Kisame listens to his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the only sound in the silence, and he struggles to shoulder the weight of his vulnerability. Erratic thoughts flash through his mind, each more nonsensical than the last, until one bubbles up above the rest: "Master Fuguki would be so disappointed in me." The inane urge to laugh rises; with effort, he bites it back.
Then Itachi breathes again — a sick, painful sound — and a pale hand clutches his chest. Kisame's fingers twitch at his sides, betraying the urge to reach out and try to help. But he doesn't move. Instead, he waits, as still as he was weeks ago when Itachi knelt over him on the beach. His partner steps forward, shaky but determined, closing the distance until his head thumps gently against Kisame's collarbone.
And Kisame is there to steady him. Strong arms rise to encircle his partner's form, curling around shoulders and back, a movement so automatic it is as though Kisame has done it every day. Even when Itachi's strength seems to fail, Kisame doesn't waver; he merely tightens his hold and keeps them both on their feet. His head bows over Itachi's like a man in prayer, and with each slow, steady breath, he wills his partner to live.
Synchrony is not a conscious decision from Kisame. The desire to connect to his partner is ever-present, impossible to shake. So when Itachi tentatively reaches out, he finds Kisame already waiting. Synchrony blooms less like the opening of floodgates and more like an outstretched hand. Kisame's emotions are turbulent things, a veritable ocean filled with just as many dangers — but overlaying it all is the bone-deep loyalty that even death couldn't touch.
The truth is irrevocable: Kisame couldn't kill Itachi if he tried. Leaving his partner to die is not an option. So all Kisame can do is try to keep Itachi alive.
Kisame doesn't speak. However, it is not the weaponized silence of before. It is deliberate, an attempt to give his partner some degree of peace lest they wound each other with words once again. ]
[The lack of words is less alarming than the sudden flood of sentiment, far more than he ever anticipated feeling from the other man. Like sinking feet-first into a deep, unseen ocean, he's swallowed up in sentiment—the most prominent of which leaves him breathless and aching. Loyalty. Not something he deserves, least of all from Kisame. Not after all of his lies. Perhaps it is shared; perhaps his partner understands without explanation. That is the nature of what they are in this world. And yet...
All he can offer in return is surrender. His own emotions are sharp things, little shards of painful feeling—anxiety, lethargy, grief spooling between them in endless threads of connection. Cool relief, too, brought by the simple act of Synchrony after weeks bereft. Bared and vulnerable, he gives himself to the arms that encircle his body, to the solid pillar that props him up, brow resting feverishly warm against Kisame's collar. Several long moments pass uninterrupted as the tide of mutual emotion washes out, almost illicit for how much they've kept from one another. Some boundary has been irrevocably crossed.
Eventually he manages to take in air—swallowing a whole lungful as if for the first time in hours, desperate as it feels. Synchrony does not sever; crystallization is still present along his throat, although it has begun inching back down, receding toward the purple dime-sized gem where it had originated. His head is clearer, less foggy. Fatigue has managed to sweep past anxiety and grief. He's exhausted.
Without word or direction, one of Itachi's slender hands sinks down to bracelet the other man's own, thick in his hand. Then he withdraws only to steer them away from the window, out of the living room. Into the bedroom. There is nothing sexual about his behavior as on the beach. Instead he attempts to maneuver Kisame down onto the bed, then lowers next to him like a cat seeking a comfortable spot to sleep, loath to lose the physical connection funneling Synchrony between them. Please don't ask me what is wrong stands in the ongoing silence. For now, let us stay like this.]
[ Grief is a familiar shadow for Kisame, a creature that lives in his chest and attacks when his guard is down. He has learned to endure it. Yet feeling that emotion from Itachi right now is altogether unexpected. It is sharp; it is fresh. What is his partner grieving? What could have happened that Itachi refuses to share? Despite his curiosity and concern, Kisame doesn't ask. To do so would be profane, a weaponization of shared vulnerability. And while Kisame will prod and push his partner, and even kick down Itachi's front door when slighted, he won't violate this show of trust. He won't spit in the face of this surrender.
So Kisame remains solid, breathing for both of them until Itachi finally manages a deep breath of his own. Still, they stay connected. Kisame follows when Itachi leads him toward the bedroom — a scenario he has played out countless times in idle fantasies … but never like this. There is a slight stiffness to Kisame's movements as he settles down onto the bed, yet there is no hesitation in him; this act, lying beside someone with no sexual element, is simply something with which he has little experience. Under different circumstances, it would be frighteningly intimate. But Kisame is already revealed; he has exhausted that fear — at least for now.
Once Itachi settles down beside him, Kisame wraps his free arm around his partner's slender form, answering Itachi's silent plea with one of his own. I'll stay with you, says that steady strength. So please stay with me. ]
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no subject
He's in the living room when the text arrives, lying across the couch, dark eyes on the ceiling. He stares at it for a moment with a squinting, uncertain expression. His gaze slants toward the door, then the window. That immense chakra would be difficult to miss even if he didn't know it so well, although he can't determine its exact location.
Can he justify being cruel to Kisame in the same way he was cruel to Stiles and Sasuke? How quickly could he leave the apartment, and would his partner pursue him?]
I'm busy. What is it?
no subject
It will only take a moment.
[ As soon as he sends the message, he moves. However, he doesn't walk to Itachi's door: he travels with a speed usually reserved for hasty retreats, appearing on his partner's doorstep in an instant. It is a deliberate signal of his impatience, a sign that he is not about to leave without a very good reason. ]
no subject
Darkly shadowed, tired eyes slide from the window to the door as he estimates where his partner is and whether he has the energy to escape.]
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Then Kisame kicks Itachi's front door clean off its hinges. ]
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He knows he's a sight to see—hair long and untied, unbrushed but for a few pass-throughs with fingers, shadows around eyes suggesting lack of sleep, face gaunt and pallid more than usual—but there is some comfort in the knowledge that it won't be new to Kisame, who has been with him during many phases of illness in the past. The difference will be the heartache of emotion now present in him, but if he's careful, it will remain disguised.
The apartment itself carries the stench of blood, source pointing toward the bathroom if pursued. A crow swoops over to greet Kisame upon his entrance, cawing noisily, hopping around the man's ankles with behavior more like canine than avian.]
no subject
The continued silence is worse than any violent retaliation. ]
… Please don't ignore me, Itachi-san.
[ His smile adds a cheerful lilt to the words, but his voice trembles with anger.
He ducks through the doorway. As his own bulk blocks less light, he finally catches sight of his partner … and he pauses. Yellow eyes dart from lank, unkempt hair to hollow cheeks, then to the drawn curtains, and then, with a subtle flaring of nostrils, to the bloody bathroom. Comprehension reveals itself in the twist of his lips; his smile gives way to the sort of thin-lipped scowl that says, "I want to be angry, but there are more important matters at hand."
The crow must be real, then, as Itachi is apparently in no condition to use genjutsu. Kisame crouches down and (not unkindly) ushers the bird out of the way, then picks up the door one-handed and shoves it approximately back into place. It is a concession to the need for privacy, not a sign of remorse at having broken in. ]
So, you're busy pretending that you live in a cave…? [ he asks as he unbuckles Samehada. ] Though I think we've stayed in airier caves than this.
no subject
Meanwhile, Russell continues to fuss around the other man's ankles with enormous curiosity once the door is set back into its frame, her feathers fluffed up as though to make herself appear larger. Still only a fraction of Kisame's greater size.
Itachi lifts an arm, fingers combing hair off his brow and behind an ear. Then the pale hand drops to his lap. Crystallization from lack of Synchrony has begun to creep up his throat from the gem in the divot of collarbones, gleaming briefly, subtle in the darkly shrouded apartment.]
I'm not in a state for company right now. [His voice is thick, roughened from coughing, yet remains even and almost a little sharp—it wouldn't be Kisame's imagination if he notices the frayed, irritable tone.] What did you need to show me?
no subject
Yes, I can see that. Good thing it's just me, hm?
[ A challenge lies behind his words, daring his irritated partner to label him something so common as "company." Not that Kisame would leave even if he were so insulted. He toes off his sandals and sets them by the broken door alongside Samehada. Then, after giving the crow a curious look — will it attack his toes? steal his sandals? how soft are its feathers? — he steps forward and produces something small and circular from his pocket.
… It is a bottle of purple nail polish. Stickers proclaim that it is vibrant, long-lasting, and fast-drying. But it is possibly the flimsiest excuse for stopping by that Kisame could've devised.
Utterly unapologetic, Kisame puts the bottle down on a nearby table, then crosses to the window. He has yet to notice the unnatural shimmer on Itachi's neck, but he doubtless will as soon as he opens the curtains. ]
When is the last time you've eaten?
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Meanwhile, Russell trades her attention to Samehada—flighty and easily distracted as ever—and has begun barking at it. Itachi glares at the bird until she stops and takes off, landing on her favored spot perched upon the back of a chair that bears noticeable scratches from talons.
The nail polish is set down, and he finds himself staring at it blankly. He is snapped from the daze only when curtains are drawn back, a wash of summer daylight so bright it is almost painful, forcing him to shade squinted eyes, head angled away. Crystallized skin catches light in brilliantly rainbowed color.
The question is met with a heavy stretch of silence, until finally:] ... This isn't your responsibility anymore. [Was it ever? Why had Kisame seen to his needs without question in the past, far beyond the expectations of Akatsuki partnership? They never spoke of it.]
no subject
Things are even worse than he thought. How did this happen? Why is Itachi in this state? Why did Kisame wait for weeks before forcing his way through the door…?!
Something heavy settles on his shoulders when Itachi speaks. The knot of grief twists, and Kisame is grateful that his face is hidden in shadows cast by bright sunlight. ]
Is that really what you think? [ His voice sounds oddly hollow without a smile or anger to support it. ] Do you believe I found another partner, or that I would've accepted one assigned to me? Did you even wonder…
[ He trails off, unwilling to voice what he wants to know. Cursing himself for saying even that much. ]
… You're in the early stages of Chrysalis, Itachi-san. You need to Synch, and you need food.
no subject
And yet.
What should he do now? Fight against Kisame's efforts to help him stay alive in this dimension, when his own passivity would see to the opposite, even if it was a slow crawl to a second death? He doesn't belong here. Itachi is quiet, painfully quiet, a silence he has only worn at those worst moments between them when speaking hurt his chest, when it became too difficult to try and be human, when simple existence was exhausting. The bad days. Worse, without even the purpose of fighting Sasuke left.
His posture draws forward, shoulders bowed, arms across knees and hands hanging limp and useless, hair hanging like a curtain. He doesn't want Kisame to see him like this. It feels so much harder to hide. His voice comes from somewhere deep, delayed.] ... It seems my body consumes manna inefficiently for some reason. [Burns through it quickly, perhaps due to his illness or something else. He doesn't know. He hasn't asked any of the scientists in this world; he'd rather not endure tests.] You should leave me alone, Kisame.
[Please.]
no subject
Kisame does not look away. He can't. He bears silent witness, suffocated by his own powerlessness. Twice, he has lost his partner; he knows what pain awaits if he fails again. But what can he do? He cannot reach into Itachi's chest and rip out the illness. He cannot breathe fire back into those eyes. He cannot force Synchrony. But even the thought of doing as Itachi requests is…
An ugly, bitter laugh breaks the silence. Kisame barely recognizes it as his own; it seems to echo from a time before he found his purpose. ]
That would be a new way to kill a comrade, wouldn't it?
[ Because that is what Itachi is asking of him, isn't it? Abandoning Itachi like this would be less direct than wielding the blade himself, but it would lead to the same end.
Kisame turns his back, giving his partner a moment of privacy. Giving himself a moment to banish the phantom sensation of sticky blood running hot over his hands. The stench of the apartment doesn't help. He opens the window to release it, then narrows the opening as he remembers that fat crow.
After fiddling a second longer than necessary, Kisame faces Itachi once again. His broad smile is devoid of cheer, but it feels more like his own. ]
If you object to my presence, you know how to get rid of me … though I won't make it easy for you.
[ If Itachi wants blood spilled between them, he can do the deed himself. ]
cw: a lot of suicidal ideation in this thread
In this moment, it would be too little too late. And he cannot make Kisame do something so pointless and cruel no matter his own want. That means he must decide an alternative... so, then, what? And how? Why should he continue to live past his intended expiration? Why does no one else seem willing to allow him that end? In Kisame's case, the question of how much he knows is reasonable; at this stage he cannot guess if there's any other reason for Kisame to care if he's alive or dead. That avenue of thought alone is too treacherous. And yet necessary now.
Dragging himself up from the couch with difficulty as though weighed by an anchor, Itachi manages to stand upright, vision swimming half-black with the abrupt plunge of blood pressure. He doesn't have the energy to rail against the other man with the thick emotion in his throat, mixed anger and vitriol of being denied this final peace.
Instead he turns on Kisame, expression weary and bleak, black eyes like faded flint stone. He knows the question will sound sharp, a kunai all its own pointed to his partner's throat.]
Why do you care what happens to me?
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Kisame's muscles snap taut, the strong lines usually hidden by his cloak made apparent by his fitted, sleeveless shirt. His body curls subtly inward as though he's been punched in the chest. More telling still, his chin ducks slightly in an instinctual move to protect his neck, betraying his defensiveness.
(A kunai pointed at his throat, indeed.)
Yellow eyes hold coal black, burning with fury and hurt. How dare Itachi ask him that? How dare he do it here and now? How dare he ignore Kisame for weeks, fall into this condition, and then demand an explanation when his partner comes to drag him out of it? Sharp teeth flash as Kisame's lips twist in a grimace, his mind scrambling for a way to avoid answering. Terrified by the thought of honesty; more terrified still by what may happen if he chooses silence.
His eyes drop to the crystallized skin spreading from Itachi's amethyst. A necklace lies there, plain and innocuous. He recalls wrapping it around his wrist with trembling fingers, the only physical evidence that his partner ever existed. He wore it pressed against his skin for months, and yet when he returned it to his partner, he failed to say the words, "I'm so thankful that you're alive."
Slowly, Kisame releases a long breath between his teeth. He swallows once, then forces himself to speak. ]
You're as cold as ever, aren't you? Does it really matter why…?
[ Reluctantly, he meets Itachi's eyes again. And then, quieter, as though frightened by his own confession: ]
You're the person most important to me. Isn't that enough?
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Does it matter why? Perhaps it shouldn't. Perhaps he should simply continue to exist for no reason, surrendering to his partner's silent demand that he care for the vessel of a useless, dying body no longer needed as a tool to carry out higher goals.
As painful as it is for Kisame to speak, it is just as painful to listen. Does it matter? It does, Kisame's words more violent than the prior silence, not a sledgehammer but a sword across the stomach, across a vital place. Itachi abruptly severs their eye contact and looks at the floor. It doesn't feel as though he's breathing. You're the most important person to me. Why? Why? Why? What did he do, and why had he never seen it, and why would Kisame make such a claim? It's undeserving. It's absurd, and as dangerously vulnerable as though Kisame has spelled out every weakness he's ever had in just those words. It doesn't make sense. It isn't what he thought Kisame would say. You're strong, maybe. You're interesting, instead.
Not that.
Dizziness hits him as a reminder that he isn't breathing, and the next inhale is agonizing through sick lungs, thick and clogged. A hand reaches up to cover the middle of his chest, pale fingers fisting into a tight curl as though he might press down the sudden, aching pain there as it radiates outward. It isn't entirely physical.
Unsteady feet carry him forward, driven by impulse that narrows the distance between them. And then his head knocks against Kisame's collarbones. A gentle collision that the rest of his body soon follows, caving in toward the other man's solid, larger frame as if the strength to hold himself up has disintegrated all at once. The intent to connect through Synchrony flickers between them, fragile enough that it might yank away in the next moment of indecision. His amethyst gutters pale purple in his throat and brings crystallized skin into sharp relief.]
no subject
Itachi looks away, seemingly holding his breath. Kisame listens to his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, the only sound in the silence, and he struggles to shoulder the weight of his vulnerability. Erratic thoughts flash through his mind, each more nonsensical than the last, until one bubbles up above the rest: "Master Fuguki would be so disappointed in me." The inane urge to laugh rises; with effort, he bites it back.
Then Itachi breathes again — a sick, painful sound — and a pale hand clutches his chest. Kisame's fingers twitch at his sides, betraying the urge to reach out and try to help. But he doesn't move. Instead, he waits, as still as he was weeks ago when Itachi knelt over him on the beach. His partner steps forward, shaky but determined, closing the distance until his head thumps gently against Kisame's collarbone.
And Kisame is there to steady him. Strong arms rise to encircle his partner's form, curling around shoulders and back, a movement so automatic it is as though Kisame has done it every day. Even when Itachi's strength seems to fail, Kisame doesn't waver; he merely tightens his hold and keeps them both on their feet. His head bows over Itachi's like a man in prayer, and with each slow, steady breath, he wills his partner to live.
Synchrony is not a conscious decision from Kisame. The desire to connect to his partner is ever-present, impossible to shake. So when Itachi tentatively reaches out, he finds Kisame already waiting. Synchrony blooms less like the opening of floodgates and more like an outstretched hand. Kisame's emotions are turbulent things, a veritable ocean filled with just as many dangers — but overlaying it all is the bone-deep loyalty that even death couldn't touch.
The truth is irrevocable: Kisame couldn't kill Itachi if he tried. Leaving his partner to die is not an option. So all Kisame can do is try to keep Itachi alive.
Kisame doesn't speak. However, it is not the weaponized silence of before. It is deliberate, an attempt to give his partner some degree of peace lest they wound each other with words once again. ]
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All he can offer in return is surrender. His own emotions are sharp things, little shards of painful feeling—anxiety, lethargy, grief spooling between them in endless threads of connection. Cool relief, too, brought by the simple act of Synchrony after weeks bereft. Bared and vulnerable, he gives himself to the arms that encircle his body, to the solid pillar that props him up, brow resting feverishly warm against Kisame's collar. Several long moments pass uninterrupted as the tide of mutual emotion washes out, almost illicit for how much they've kept from one another. Some boundary has been irrevocably crossed.
Eventually he manages to take in air—swallowing a whole lungful as if for the first time in hours, desperate as it feels. Synchrony does not sever; crystallization is still present along his throat, although it has begun inching back down, receding toward the purple dime-sized gem where it had originated. His head is clearer, less foggy. Fatigue has managed to sweep past anxiety and grief. He's exhausted.
Without word or direction, one of Itachi's slender hands sinks down to bracelet the other man's own, thick in his hand. Then he withdraws only to steer them away from the window, out of the living room. Into the bedroom. There is nothing sexual about his behavior as on the beach. Instead he attempts to maneuver Kisame down onto the bed, then lowers next to him like a cat seeking a comfortable spot to sleep, loath to lose the physical connection funneling Synchrony between them. Please don't ask me what is wrong stands in the ongoing silence. For now, let us stay like this.]
no subject
So Kisame remains solid, breathing for both of them until Itachi finally manages a deep breath of his own. Still, they stay connected. Kisame follows when Itachi leads him toward the bedroom — a scenario he has played out countless times in idle fantasies … but never like this. There is a slight stiffness to Kisame's movements as he settles down onto the bed, yet there is no hesitation in him; this act, lying beside someone with no sexual element, is simply something with which he has little experience. Under different circumstances, it would be frighteningly intimate. But Kisame is already revealed; he has exhausted that fear — at least for now.
Once Itachi settles down beside him, Kisame wraps his free arm around his partner's slender form, answering Itachi's silent plea with one of his own. I'll stay with you, says that steady strength. So please stay with me. ]