v.
Itachi is doing his best not to cough. If he does, it will be bloody and it will make Kisame worry, and he's already plenty worried. Any more and it would be annoying, he thinks, and he wants nothing more than to be left alone with his thoughts after such a stressful encounter.
Sasuke had grown so much. He could hardly believe it when he'd seen him, already shot clean into pubescence, but his distinct lack of power to match the physical growth had been such a letdown that it felt like whiplash. Itachi had thanked his past self for preemptively hardening his heart to it. He'd ensured that his brother was safe and managed to keep his cool while doing it, further instilling that hatred that was so necessary for Sasuke to survive and to, one day, kill him. Though their mission to capture the Nine-Tails had failed, the trip was a resounding success in his eyes.
But he is so lost in his thoughts that he hasn't noticed how far behind he's lagged; Kisame is trudging back towards him. When those big hands press against his shoulders he realizes how far he'd been leaning over, and that tall frame bends at the waist to peer into his eyes.
And then—to his great horror—he feels that piercing sting in his lungs, shooting up to his throat and tearing out from his mouth in an awful cough. It is tinged with blood immediately, its metallic taste heavy at the back of his tongue and he knows Kisame can smell it in the air.
"You're ill," he says, and there are a thousand other things Itachi thinks that he'd rather say, based on the look of concern plain on his face.
He'd chosen the mountain pass knowing Leaf nin would likely send reconnaissance into the valleys first and foremost, but he regrets it to feel the cold seep in even through his cloak. He is cold down into his goddamn bones; he shuts his eyes, pushing into the fabric and breathing in shaking breaths into his collar. There is no way he can answer Kisame, because it is obvious that he is ill and because to speak would only further agitate his throat.
"Well," Kisame muses quietly, "it's a good thing I've strength enough for the both of us."
He's unhooked Samehada's holster and takes the hilt in one fist, then kneels with his back to Itachi—who can hardly believe the older man is willing to humble himself quite so deeply to be offering a piggyback ride, of all things.
But Itachi is weak and breathing is growing more difficult with each passing second, and so he bends with little grace and presses himself to that wide back. He feels pathetic when he loops his arms around his neck and brings his knees around his middle, but he nestles his face into Kisame's neck and his ear, the skin of him a warm relief. He swallows to feel one of those calloused hands grab onto his thigh, but then he stands and they're off again.
Itachi has been on a boat exactly once in his life, but it'd made him so sick that he swore he would sooner cross an ocean on foot rather than get back onto one. The way it'd swayed atop the waves had thrown off his balance to such a degree that even remembering it was enough to churn his stomach. But as he rocks back and forth atop Kisame's shoulders, he finds the other man to be steady in a way the boat hadn't been, his steps careful, Itachi's weight taken into full consideration to balance his gait. His head moves slightly this way and that in search of a place to rest—of course someone with an affinity for water could smell the rain soon to come before Itachi, who subconsciously pushes himself further into the man. But a small shiver shoots down Kisame's spine, and it stirs something inside of Itachi that he cannot put to name.
"You're trembling." He does not know why he's made this observation aloud, and Kisame does not bother answering.
His thoughts keep circling back to the look of heartbreak in Sasuke's eyes, replacing for the evening the usual loop of his family's many deaths. It feels like only mere moments have passed when Kisame approaches a shallow outcropping, but Itachi is aware he's been fading in and out of sleep for some time. As rain begins to fall his partner props him against the rocky wall and drapes him in his cloak before setting off. Itachi, for reasons he cannot discern, monitors his chakra signature and finds him not wandering too far off, pausing here or there—when he returns it is with a small bundle of sticks, and he sets to work on making a fire that soon glows calmly and warms his toes.
Another wave of those coughs are upon him then. They feel as if shredding his throat to such a degree that he's not sure where exactly the blood is coming from, and Kisame scoots closer and quickly pulls their pack into his lap and digs for the small pouch of medicinal pills they nabbed from a shoddy drug store in a village before they'd set off for Konoha.
"That old frog shinobi," he murmurs as he finally pulls it from the bag. He produces a medium-sized pill deep green in color and holds it in the small space between them. "He must have done something. Here, Itachi-san."
But tears are spilling from his eyes, ones he knows deep down are not entirely sourced from the convulsions. He sniffles once, a pathetic thing, and hangs his head. He cannot take medicine; he does not deserve it.
"Sasuke...despises me," he mutters flatly. He is too weak to go on, but in his mind he cannot stop chanting over and over: Did you see the way he looked at me?
Kisame says nothing at first, dropping his hand with the pill still between his fingers. The fog of their warm breaths in the cold night air mingle briefly before vanishing into nothing at all, and then he waves his free hand dismissively.
"There's nothing to be done about that," he says, and his tone does not sound unkind, not necessarily. He cocks his head and looks down at Itachi, those shark-sharp eyes searching his face like he's trying to uncover all of his secrets—and there are many of those. "Why would you bother to leave the kid alive in the first place?"
Kisame must think Itachi horribly cruel. But that is what he wants, he reminds himself. Cruelty is the carefully crafted mask he's worn for years now, so why does the thought of the other man thinking so poorly of him make him want to claw his heart out of his chest?
"He is the only one who can kill me," he answers dumbly. Because it is true and because it is the better cover than I love him so fucking much that the mere thought of what I put him through makes me want to maim myself upon your blade.
The groan Kisame gives is tired, but he is quiet thereafter. He does not press for details, and likely there's not much more he can say on the matter. He has never pushed so deeply into Itachi's business before, and his chakra flickers not unlike the fire before them. He has given up for now, but Itachi does not know if it's because he does not care or because he wants to spare his partner from further misery. "He won't have that opportunity if you die to pneumonia first."
He pushes just a fraction of an inch closer, but it is enough so that their sides are pressed together. Itachi tries not to shiver when Kisame holds the back of his head, and fails when his fingers press against his mouth. He slides the pill between his parted lips, and Itachi feels so tangled up inside that he shuts his eyes. It takes some effort to snap the pill between his molars, and he is not so sick that he doesn't grimace at how bitter it is on his tongue. There he lets it sit and dissolve, swallowing it down bit by bit.
Kisame, though, does not move away his thumb from his lips for quite some time. Itachi is is surrounded by him in nearly every sense of the word: his cloak is wrapped around him, his muscled arm is supporting him. The scent of him is in his nose, easing the horrid ache in his lungs—never mind the medicinal pill—and their breaths are synchronized in a rhythmic way that is quickly putting him to sleep.
He wakes in the dead of night. Though the fire had fizzled to nothing but smoldering embers, he is warm: his face is in Kisame's chest, those mighty arms wrapped tightly around him as if, even in sleep, to protect Itachi.