[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. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
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?
no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]