Five days of roaming in search of the Four Tails Jinchūriki blur into exhaustion—Itachi refuses to admit to his impairment. He hides his limp well enough, but even he is not ignorant enough to believe that Kisame will not notice.
They stop at a fork in the trees on an off path, avoiding main roads and taking to the wilderness to ward off detection. Many travelers—including shinobi alike—prefer an easier route whilst commuting to Iwagakure.
The intelligence that Kisame and Itachi have is lackluster except the Jinchūriki’s name is Roshi, and he is a citizen of Iwagakure. They have no idea what the man looks like, nor the temperament of the beast within him. They know next to nothing of his abilities—and, to make matters worse, finding him will be like searching for a needle in a haystack.
Iwagakure shinobi are a ruthlessly unyielding bunch, too. Itachi has encountered plenty of them during his days of Anbu. Thinking about the mission makes his head swim. He will need a break before long—another thing he will not easily admit.
Kisame pauses, stopping abruptly. Had Itachi not possessed his Sharingan, he would have probably smacked into his partner’s broad back.
Neither of his crows collects enough information as they glide through the skies in the Land of Lightning’s hidden village. Nothing worthwhile, anyway.
“The clouds are heavy,” Kisame observes. Itachi hears a distant rumble.
A storm is picking up, with trees bowing and limbs cracking. A flash of lightning zips through the sky.
“It’ll rain before long,” Kisame comments with finality. He pivots on his foot to face Itachi.
Itachi finds himself too close to Kisame’s chest; he does not realize how much he gravitates toward the taller man. Instinctively, he takes a step back.
Kisame’s brows pucker. Itachi feels warmth creeping up the back of his neck.
“You’re pale,” Kisame says flatly, lips drawing to a frown.
“I have a fair skin tone,” Itachi states coolly.
Something vague in his heart tugs. Kisame’s attention lingers longer than necessary. The realization settles somewhere uncomfortable beneath Itachi’s ribs.
Years of travel have taught them how to read one another without words.
Itachi relaxes a little until Kisame suddenly pushes the back of his hand up to his forehead, disheveling his headband and wiping away the line of sweat that has collected.
Itachi’s shoulders hitch up. He has not expected such from Kisame. The touch lingers in his thoughts longer than it should.
“You look terrible,” Kisame comments. “You’re slowing down and have a fever. If you collapse, I’ll have to carry you.”
Itachi averts his eyes from Kisame’s gaze. He suddenly feels weakness sap into his limbs, or it was always there and he feels it just now.
“Have you overexerted your eyes?” Kisame asks, expression severe. He does not say anything else on the subject.
When Kisame drops his hand, Itachi takes a step forward as if searching for the touch again. He is so tired that he does not even bother to adjust his headband that hangs loosely over his brow.
“Mm. I think I will be fine—” Itachi says at last. “I appreciate your concern—”
Kisame barks a laugh at that, cocking his head. Itachi counts each tooth as the other grins. Despite Kisame’s foreboding appearance, Itachi finds the smile oddly reassuring.
“‘Fine?’ I don’t care for liars, Itachi. You were not fine after your encounter with the Nine Tails Jinchūriki and Kakashi of the Sharingan. You are not fine now,” Kisame chastises lightly.
Itachi deflates as Kisame reminds him of his own limitations, whether he likes it or not. Sympathy is not necessarily one of Kisame’s strong points, so Itachi appreciates the gesture.
“There is an inn close by in these parts. We will rest for three days—and that means you. I am not carrying you,” Kisame finishes with a tease that Itachi has lost his own retort.
By the time they reach the inn, night has fallen and rain comes down in blankets, drenching both Kisame and Itachi to the bone.
They step through the sliding doors, puddles collecting at their feet. Itachi is burning up, eyelids heavy. He has nearly fallen a few times on their voyage with Kisame stopping to catch him before he stumbles.
Itachi shakes, chilled and dizzy. He takes a seat on a stool by the door as he watches Kisame at the counter. Words are exchanged along with a sack of money, and Kisame receives a key to their room in a transaction that he pockets.
When he returns, Itachi looks up at him through stringy dripping bangs. Kisame sighs.
He does not even ask Itachi if he can stand, and instead kneels down.
“I thought you said that you weren’t carrying me,” he comments. A slight flush burns his cheeks, whether from the fever or something else entirely.
Rain clunks against the roof as the wind howls through the woods surrounding the inn. Thunder shakes the building. Weakness limits Itachi further; he tries to stand, only for the room to tilt as he catches himself on Kisame’s broad shoulders.
Giddiness overtakes Itachi, stomach suddenly queasy.
“I thought you didn’t care for liars,” Itachi says. He does not know why he is saying such things—perhaps to offset the sudden crest of nausea rolling through him.
Still, he does not resist. Itachi drapes his arms around Kisame’s neck as the other scoops his hands behind the joint of Itachi’s knees. He hoists him up easily.
“I did say that, didn’t I?” Kisame chuckles.
They wordlessly walk past the clerk counter and up a flight of stairs into a shabby hallway, stairs creaking beneath Kisame’s footing. When at the first door to the left, Kisame shifts and unblocks the door. The room is bare yet clean with sparse furniture and two folded shikibutons.
Kisame kneels once more, Itachi dismounting. The edges of his vision fray black, the room feeling suddenly claustrophobic, his wet clothes nearly suffocating him. He takes a seat at a polished wood desk and takes his headband off.
In silence, Kisame unfolds the futons as Itachi listens to him rustle around, the tranquility punctured by another gust of violent wind that rattles the wooden lattice. Lightning casts shadows through the room. Itachi turns his head when he hears the pops of clasps as Kisame sheds his water logged red cloud robe.
“These lodgings aren’t great,” Kisame huffs.
He pulls open a drawer and clicks his tongue before snapping it shut.
“There should be clean jinbei in here, just so our clothes can dry,” Kisame says to himself.
Itachi closes his eyes as he hears his partner shuck off his shoes and accessory bag.
Samehada gurgles softly propped against the wall as Kisame grunts, walking across the room and roughly sliding the closet door open.
Itachi closes his eyes, unable to think straight.
He just listens, and pretends not to notice when Kisame brushes up against his back. He pretends not to know why he leans against it and pretends to not know why Kisame does such a thing.
He traitorously wishes that Kisame will stay still when he does it.
Kisame places a set of jinbei robes in front of Itachi whose gaze drops down to them. They’re navy in color.
Itachi doesn’t turn around as Kisame steps back and starts shedding his own clothes. Itachi’s lips draw into a line as he fidgets with the fabric of the robe. Soon, Kisame returns, toned stomach flushed up against Itachi’s back who breathes in deeply. A hand cups Itachi’s jaw, and he strains his neck, leaning his head back to look up at Kisame.
“You should get dressed so we can sleep,” Kisame says, brow puckering as they lock eyes.
Itachi knows that concerned look, and rest sounds nice. He shrugs Kisame away as he draws his trembling hands to the buttons of his robe.
It is annoying how his fingers shake so much doing such a simple task.
He wilts when Kisame’s hands reach in front of him and steady his own. Resigned, Itachi drops his arms and lets Kisame undo his buttons.
For once, Itachi can allow the other to care for him. Kisame is so achingly gentle with how he rolls the cloak down Itachi’s arms and pulls it away from him. Next comes the shirt, though Kisame hesitates as calloused fingers ghost over Itachi’s ribs.
“I can dress myself,” Itachi finds himself protesting.
Kisame backs away almost instantly. The absence of his hands is immediate and unwelcome.
Itachi stands, balance uneasy. He nearly falls, catching himself on the table and landing back, seated in his chair.
Or I can’t, Itachi thinks, fully resigned that he has reached his limit.
Kisame’s expression is indecipherable, and Itachi wishes the other would stop looking at him like that. He feels exposed in a way he deeply dislikes.
Still, Kisame kneels without a word, which Itachi is grateful for, and begins with his shoes, pulling them off. Next, his pants, exposing him even more in a way he dislikes—not because of the nudity, but the fact that he is incapable currently.
There is care in how Kisame rolls the waistband down and steadies Itachi as he lifts himself off the seat.
His face treacherously burns pink as Kisame’s gentleness turns into something more deliberate.
Itachi gasps when the other lightly ghosts his fingers across his ribs again.
He inhales harshly when he looks up. Kisame sports a mischievous grin, clearly pleased by the reaction he draws from Itachi.
Itachi suspects that the care has become an excuse.
It’s not like he minds it.
“You’re teasing me,” Itachi points out flatly.
“It is easy to,” Kisame smirks. “You’re not that subtle, Itachi. I pity your condition, but now we’re alone and can afford a few days for your recovery. In the meantime, I’ll entertain myself.”
