It was unnatural, the way those eyes took in that which could not often be discerned by the average person. Whether black or red, they bore deep into the subconscious, sought minute shifts in the subconscious. He was a being who, despite the seemingly pretentious air he bore, was someone that deserved the utmost respect, if not just general reverence. If one was lucky, this dangerous, striking man would allot a single glance in their direction; if one was not, they would be struck down without the slightest shift in those powerful optics.
Kisame was on the better end of the raven's moods, but that did not change the fact that he walked a treacherous path. Being Uchiha Itachi's partner was like placing his neck on a guillotine and handing the younger the rope with which he held ultimate power over the sharklike man's life. It was his words that Kisame hung off of, his behaviours that Kisame was forced to pay attention to if only to keep himself alive- for Itachi was even more dangerous as he grew older, indicated only by the intensity in beaten optics.
To view the prodigy bruised was a gift- and one that was not to be squandered by asserting the other needed assistance. If he needed help tending to whatever injuries he garnered, he would allow Kisame closer- if not, a single flicker of those eyes was enough to send the shinobi elsewhere. Should Kisame abuse the trust Itachi placed in the figure by allowing him even somewhat close to him while he was hurt by insisting he be allowed to tend to the afflictions, Itachi would certainly teach the male what exactly he was capable of doing while weakened and it would not be a pretty sight.
In knowing this, however, Kisame was also made aware that Uchiha had a certain irredeemable pride that would cause the raven to act incessantly stubborn. Without being conscious of it, Itachi would evaluate his logic in a way that favoured his pride. Kisame's duty, as the weasel's partner, was to ensure Itachi's pride failed to affect either of them in a negative way. Naturally with his own flaws, an objective stance was difficult to adopt when a certain teen stumbled his way back into their safehouse.
In fact, it was entirely too difficult to stop himself from wrapping muscular arms around the body of someone who seemed far more fragile than he ought to be and hold him, simply hold him. Not a word was offered, not a single nerve twitched as Itachi tried to fend the other off by catching his eye. Kisame's nose was buried into the raven's silky hair, breathing in the scent of shampoo until his protests subsided, replaced simply by a weary shell whose mind had receded.
He wouldn't speak of it come morning, and Kisame wouldn't bring it up. His instincts were honed enough that he wouldn't venture into that rabbit-hole, wouldn't dredge up the situation to gloat.
Pride was a funny thing.
