Clammy hands grasped him by the collar of his shirt, yanking him skyward. He experienced a vague sense of vertigo, and was unable to process much more than that above the resounding echo of roaring water. His thoughts did not allow him to assess his current situation clearly, yet in the back of his mind he knew something was terribly wrong. The roaring did not cease, and his head pounded with unspoken questions and the pain of a heavy blow. The questions were those which he could not verbalize in his current condition, a shivering mass of blood-soaked clothing and broken will. The thoughts that did come to him were blurry, painful to see even though his eyes were closed. Throughout these scattered scenes he could detect the taste of blood, and its coppery trace still rested upon his wind-cracked lips. He saw the fiery red flashes that told of great fury, and the darkest, murkiest grays that suggested the pain of untold loss. And through it all remained the steady, agonizing throbbing of his head, which only worsened with the thundering of the falls nearby.
He could not clearly distinguish the figure that had hold of him now, as his eyes stung from the blood and sweat that drenched his face. The fabric of his own clothing was choking him now, and he fought to breathe properly. Was it wise to fight back in this condition, he wondered, or allow himself the luxury of a quick, somewhat merciful death? He no longer had any desire to be brave, for he no longer had anyone to whom he felt the need to prove himself. Perhaps after so many long, disastrous years, he could finally opt out of existence with whatever dignity that remained within him. But was he truly ready to give in just yet? He was still very young, despite what his appearance suggested, and the animalistic urge to fight was still raw within his blood-but for what did he truly desire to fight? And why was the urge so diluted, as though pacified by an unseen force? But, of course, Itachi finally realized, he was staring that reason directly in the face.
The iron-like vice that held him was not the metal jaws of binding chains, nor the grasp of an enemy-it was Kisame who held him, and Itachi was fighting, flailing and thrashing violently, clawing frantically at what he had taken to be a foe in his blind confusion moments before. He ceased all movement at once upon this realization, panting heavily from exhaustion. The burning fury dissipated, evaporating much of the haziness in his head. He still saw through a film of red, and realized it was not only blood that ailed his vision, but the prolonged effects of his sharingan. Kisame, looking thoroughly disgruntled and a little more than slightly perturbed, released him. Itachi would ask if he needed further assistance, end of story. Kisame knew better than to insist on aiding him any further unless explicitly asked to do so. As though nothing out of the usual had occurred, Kisame made himself busy with anything that kept him out of the Uchiha's way.
Itachi was not the type to disappoint. He methodically treated his own wounds, with an expression void of any hint of discomfort. One could never tell what he was thinking, or whether he was thinking at all. If any of his injuries were burdening him in the least, it did not show. His scars, emotional or otherwise, were effortlessly concealed by what one could only describe as his impenetrable façade.
His jaw twitched spasmodically every so often, the only indication that he had been through any real ordeal, but it appeared as would any other normal tick, such as the occasional twitching of the eye. What could not be seen were the inner workings of Itachi's mind, deciphering each and every detail as though it were a puzzle in need of a solution. He silently surveyed his surroundings, with no need to look up from his task in the process. The scent of blood, carried to him on the slightest of winds, indicated that he and Kisame had entered this cavern recently, from the right of the falls. The falls themselves were still deafening, their magnificent cascading waters tumbling restlessly into the depths below. The cavern was sloped awkwardly, such that some of the water had been retained in a mass that resembled a lake towards the edge of the cavern. His mouth suddenly felt very dry, but he would not make the effort to drink until satisfied in all other aspects of his mind. He wondered vaguely of his actions moments ago, in which he had been ever so keen on mauling his companion. He had thought that such savage instinct would have dispersed long ago, but a trace of it still lived on. His vision had cleared for the most part, but was blurry from a mixture of exhaustion and overuse. He examined the various scratches and bruises marring his pale skin of his arms, noting that many of them had resulted from Kisame's attempt to restrain him. His gaze softened slightly, and he left those alone. A scar or two couldn't hurt…
All other injuries were wrapped in gauze or otherwise concealed, lest an enemy, or more importantly, Kisame be wise to his condition. However, these small scratches…
"I don't suppose one small fish and a measly serving of rice will be enough to split evenly. 'S all Kakuzu let me bring, the cheap-ass bastard. You want this, Itachi-san? This just isn't enough to fill me up."
The statement in itself seemed harmless, but Itachi was well aware that Kisame was blatantly offering what little food was available. He was breaking an unspoken rule, offering that which had not been asked for, for the sake of Itachi. For once, caught up in the midst of his thoughts, Itachi let this one slide. He nodded in assent as the rations were pushed in his general direction. Without needing to glance to determine its whereabouts, Itachi swept the bundle into his lap. Whether or not he truly intended to eat it, he had not decided. With his stomach in turmoil as it was, he debated as to whether eating right now was a wise decision. At best, he could always save it for later.
Only after bandaging whatever he could reach did Itachi finally make an effort to retrieve water. He only did so hours later, when a rhythmic rumbling indicated that Kisame was asleep. With a small flask in hand, he crawled gently down the awkward slope, skimming the water's surface to collect it. Once full, he set it aside, and splashed more of the water on his grimy face, rinsing it clean of the impurities that had been bugging him ever since he'd regained consciousness. It was accurate to portray the Uchiha clan to be of a fickle and so-called "prissy" nature, for they were known to be very keen on their flawless appearances. Itachi seemed to be the very epitome of those traits.
And it sometime throughout this process that Itachi's mind began to wander, as it so rarely did. In the silent cloak of night, his thoughts drifted to his partner. As absurd as he thought these wanderings to be, he had begun to allow himself this privilege more and more often as of late. He honestly wished he could claim these thoughts to be innocent-mere fragments or muses that occurred throughout the day. But if he were to be completely honest with himself, he knew that these "musings" were far from innocent wanderings. To contemplate Kisame's fighting techniques and questionable taste in weaponry was one thing, but to try and decipher the meaning behind the man's every statement? To daydream of his muscular, yet somehow slender form on a disturbingly regular basis? To imagine his partner's smooth hands caressing his face, his neck, and sliding across the oh-so-sensitive skin of his-!?!?
T-t-that is to say, his broad, smoothly paned chest-eh, his tightly packed abs….!! His…uh…brilliant…personality?
Several ludicrous thoughts later, Itachi found that his cheeks felt warm with embarrassment. He found himself denying that any such thoughts had crossed his mind, but to no avail. He could feel his cheeks getting warmer by the second. And then he realized it was quiet; Kisame's snoring had stopped. Itachi's whole body stiffened moments before one of those smooth hands rested lightly on his shoulder. Then he cringed under what he imagined must be a very inappropriately amused gaze. To find him like this, red in the face and eyes wide, and what if his eyes still reflected the fantasy he'd been imagining only moments ago?
Mischievously, and with as much arrogance as he dared to reveal, Kisame answered his questioning gaze. His facial expression was nothing less than one of satisfied triumph.
"You talk in your sleep; you do know that, right Angel?"
Thoroughly mortified, Itachi opted not to reply.