vii.
It is a beautiful day in mid-autumn when their leads—which have thus far found them no success—bring them to a well-off village nestled in one of the smaller countries between Fire, Earth, and Cloud.
They are shrugging off their cloaks in a lavish inn; Kisame couldn't stop glancing in its direction, which led Itachi to correctly guess that there was a water source within its walls. The steam from the hot springs at the center of the estate can be felt all around them even through the closed space of their room, but when Kisame rolls open the back door the combination of the heat and the crisp air is nothing short of heavenly.
"The weather is perfect for tea," he muses quietly, setting the coals of the hearth aflame in preparation. But Kisame is not listening, entranced in an endearing way at the scenery just past the baths. It is breathtaking, to be sure, but Itachi is transfixed on the way his partner stares, his outstretched arms braced on the threshold, the slight twitch in his calf as if he wants to break into a sprint and feel the wind in his hair before plummeting into the hot water below.
Itachi smiles, then bends at the waist to carefully dislodge the tea table from its spot there in the room. It would simply not do to tear Kisame away from the view, and having tea outdoors on the walkway is a lovely idea he is suddenly eager to start. His partner turns at the sound and watches with a confused look as he sorts the small bowls and other utensils necessary for a tea ceremony. It is for the first time in months that Itachi sighs in relief when he steps back into the room, away from Kisame. Gingerly he takes the steaming kettle by its handle and draws all of his courage to go back outside.
He pretends not to notice how the other man watches his hands as he scoops small piles of matcha powder into their bowls. Amid the black of the porcelain, the green sticks out sorely—he hopes to heaven the blush on his cheeks is not so obvious as that. There is that pounding in his heart he was so sure he'd long since conquered, and whatever tension he's feeling is apparently not isolated to his own mind, because Kisame swallows hard before speaking in a tone that sounds forced.
"You Leaf..." He shakes his head with a smile, leaning in slightly and tilting his head to the side as he watches. His voice gains sincerity the more he says. "You all make me feel like some mere rube from the country."
While he works Itachi smiles up at him. "Tea ceremony is an important custom for many clans, but the Uchiha hold it in especially high regard. We have our share of country bumpkins in Konoha as well, rest assured."
"What do you mean, as well?" Kisame laughs at that, a rich sound like the tide rolling in at one's ankles after a long day at work. "So that means you do think so poorly of we Water folk, doesn't it?"
Itachi does not answer, glancing up at him and giving him one last teasing smile before reaching for the kettle. He dips a long ladle into the hot water and pours it slowly and directly over the powder in both bowls, then gestures to one of the two whisks on the low table.
"It's best if you move your wrist just so," he explains as Kisame takes the small instrument in his big hands. "Too wide a motion and you'll splash it out from the bowl. Too small and you risk the powder settling and turning the tea chalky."
The other man says nothing, instead watching Itachi's hands closely and mimicking his movements as closely as he can. For someone without a Sharingan, he's doing quite well—it's a comfort to know that when Itachi dies, perhaps the tradition will live on somehow; Sasuke had been too young to attend and learn before the massacre. Even though true traditional ceremony takes hours, this was a substitute equal parts as pleasant. As long as the feeling remained, the little details could be skirted, he decides.
But such thoughts weigh too heavily for such an occasion. The sun is shining, the air is chill and fragrant, the mood is calm and intimate.
"There's plenty to admire about those from Water," he starts quietly. "You are a tenacious people, more than most others. I know you have your superstitions as we have ours, but your familial ties run deep." He pauses, trying to find a better way to phrase it. "What I mean is...it's noble to be loyal to one's village, but from all that I've seen of Water natives, you aren't afraid to speak your minds. Not even to authority."
It had certainly been true of their first meeting. Kisame rarely seemed to hold back on comments of any sort—even when he was caught staring he would have something to say, no matter how unrelated. Itachi can tell, though, that his partner realizes he's being confided in: he's weighing what he's just been told, sifting through it in his mind.
If it is true that Kisame killed the man who'd ordered the slaughter of his comrades, then he surely will understand. Maybe he will understand the inner feelings of Itachi's heart better than Itachi himself, and maybe he could even help the younger man come to grips with it as he's claimed to've done.
They sit in silence, watching each other in brief bouts of not-so-awkward flickers of their gazes. Itachi, satisfied enough with his tea, sets down his whisk while Kisame follows in kind. He sucks in a breath, and as he takes the bowl in his hands and brings it to his mouth, he smiles in a way that makes Itachi ache somewhere other than in his heart. One eyebrow is raised and his head is cocked to the side, and his lips part around the hot ceramic. One of those shark teeth clinks against the rim, the sound small and hypnotic.
Instead of taking a sip, though, that grin turns into something Itachi had never before seen.
"Well, you would do well to remember," he says smoothly, "that Water is the only thing that can truly calm a Fire."
Itachi swallows. He is tired of pretending, tired of fighting against everything his body is telling him about this man. But there is no way he could possibly voice the first thing that has come to mind; it is far too bold and too meaningful for him to acknowledge even privately. But in spite of that, it does not keep him from thinking it over and over, imagining all manner of things it could mean:
And how badly I want you to pour yourself all over me.