Kisame/Itachi
Title: “Half-words”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG-13
Summary: [Kisame/Itachi] They don’t need words to understand each other. They can take hints. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: belongs to Kishimoto Masashi and whoever else that is not me… *theatrical sigh*
A/N: Inspired by artsatalex’s pic “By The Fire” - http://artsatalex.livejournal.com/12865.html#cutid1
HALF-WORDS
The smell of the forest was thick and heavy with rain and so intense that it was almost impossible to breathe, and the darkness oppressed. But the sky cleared up eventually; a few pallid stars twinkled, strikingly white against the dark velvet of the sky.
“Just drop him there,” Itachi instructed, knowing that Kisame was the last person to be trusted to leave the victim alone when he was bored. And stranded in the damp forest, he was bored for sure. “He’s not getting anywhere.”
That was true. The man remained unconscious, his legs were broken, one arm was twisted viciously and his weak body still bore dark scorch-marks inflicted in the heat of the battle. Kisame smiled, baring his intimidating teeth, and tied the man to one of the trees.
Knee-deep in high wet grass, Itachi examined the clearing. Wind rustling in the trees. The sparkling bend of the river, slippery banks covered in cane and sedge. And suddenly the scenery went blurry, the ground swapped places with the sky, and Itachi collapsed, releasing a slow quiet breath, almost a hiss of dismay. Sudden piercing ache rebounded through his body and disappeared without a trace.
A blade of grass grazed Itachi’s cheek softly. Everything was coming back in circles; red flashes before his troubled eyesight died down, and he crawled up on his knees, feeling if only a bit nauseous. Kisame paid no attention, treating him like he’d treat any other group member. If they didn’t want you to notice, you didn’t. And Kisame was exceedingly good at it.
“Too much…” Itachi muttered under his breath.
Kisame’s hand grasped his shoulder. It was heavy and very solid and bound him to reality like the best of ties.
“I told you you should be careful with it,” the Mist ninja said casually; that seeming indifference was hiding so much concern and warmth in it that Itachi wondered briefly if he had really deserved all that attention. They had never discussed it. They never wanted to.
Itachi got up and shook, his legs wobbling. He placed his hand flat on Kisame’s chest for better balance and breathed:
“I’ll be all right.” The chakra almost spent, he shouldn’t have activated Mangekyou Sharingan; the enemy could have been overthrown without it. Itachi sighed. His eyes hurt, everything shimmered, and ache radiated into his head. “We’ll spend the night here,” he said and pulled back.
Kisame shrugged. He collected some brushwood in the grove that spread along the bank of the river and tossed it in front of his partner with a hint of a smile.
“It’s wet. Wet wood doesn’t burn.”
Itachi snorted. It was hardly reasonable to use the fire technique under these circumstances, but he blew out some fire regardless, drying the wood, making it cackle cheerfully in flames, and hung his wet clothes over a branch to dry. Layers of fabric came off like damp peel. He wrung out his pony tail and undid the headband. Behind him Kisame was making dinner.
It had only been once that Itachi had expressed curiosity about Kisame eating fish. They had only been assigned to each other and halted by the river pretty much like this time. Seeing the shark-like man plunge his teeth into the juicy fish had made Itachi arch his eyebrows quizzically.
“Natural selection,” Kisame had shrugged. And Itachi hadn’t pursued the matter.
Food had no taste now. Air felt hot and dense, and the smell of the wet foliage was disgustingly overwhelming. Itachi dropped the remains of the dinner and came to stand by the river, letting the wind take his exhaustion away bit by bit.
Kisame turned his head and frowned slightly. Before Itachi could protest, he took a place by his side, their hands almost brushing each other. They never needed words. A look, a touch, half a word was enough.
What are you thinking?
He never said anything out loud, but it was quite enough for Itachi to snort wearily. “You don’t want to know.”
“I didn’t even ask.”
A shade of a smile glimmered in the corner of Kisame’s lips. Itachi closed his eyes, and turned around abruptly, and leaned forward until his forehead met Kisame’s shoulder. The Mist ninja’s skin was cool to touch; it sobered Itachi, chasing the hideous haze in his mind away.
He never bothered to explain Kisame why he used the Sharingan over and over again, knowing well enough how it affected him. You could do anything for power. Simply anything. Even if it killed you.
“Hmm,” Kisame said noncommittally.
He ran his tongue over the curve of Itachi’s shoulder, nuzzling the skin softly. With a sharp inhale Itachi turned back to the water. Kisame nipped at his skin gently; he had some skin compressed between his lips, and he grazed it with his teeth lightly, driving them into it, increasing the pressure of the bite before Itachi whispered his customary, “Mind the teeth.”
Kisame snorted against Itachi’s shoulder. That phrase… It wasn’t even funny anymore. But it was a necessity. It sounded like an invitation.
Yes.
Out of all half-words, this one was truly essential.
It was a permission to sweep his hands over the young Uchiha’s body, to explore it like a foreign landscape, each time anew, with a newborn passion. To lap playfully at the hollows and tiny dimples scattered all over his body, and glide his tongue over Itachi’s spine. Lower. Lower. Lower. Trying - really trying - not to leave bruises.
Itachi’s jaws clenched; a low growl escaped his lips. Somewhere along the way he demanded that tenderness should go to hell. Not with words. Kisame had his own ways to interpret the set of the young man’s jaw, the fierce fire in his eyes, the way his body felt underneath his own.
The scenery shifted again. His senses high, Itachi writhed in ecstasy, feeling the world around his acutely. A splintered chip beneath his palm pressed flat to the damp ground. A rough bark of the tree against his cheeks. The warmth of the fire a few paces away. Kisame’s felt cold and smooth, while his own was heated, almost feverish. Drops of late rain clung to his eyelashes.
Harder.
He closed his eyes, adjusting to the rhythm. Just… harder. Until starbursts exploded beneath his heavy eyelids. There was an indescribable pleasure in losing yourself this way.
He didn’t so much scream. He released a small breath of excitement as the feeling inside him was building up slowly, and then every cell of his body exploded in bliss.
He was shaking, but it didn’t last. He ran his hand over his sweaty forehead. The vision improved, the nausea subsided. The chakra was restoring itself, and the eyes were coming back to normal. Dark patches over the alabaster of his skin would soon fade. Besides, he didn’t have to take the cloak off in front of others.
“Why do I always look worse after our halts than if I’d met a hundred of hostile shinobis?” Itachi muttered.
“Ah, but you don’t feel worse,” the answer came.
Itachi put his headband back on and felt about for his clothes. Almost dry. He put the trousers and the tunic on and turned to regard the prisoner who was slowly coming to and moaned quietly.
“So he’s still alive,” Kisame chuckled. “I’m impressed.”
“He has too little time to impress you any further,” his partner observed. The sky was clear, no sign of upcoming storms. “We’d better not waste our time.” Never talk after that. Not a word.
But then again, whenever did they need words?
August 20, 2007