[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
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. ]