A/N: An idea I borrowed (with permission) from the wonderfully lovely and talented mjolklizard. Please go check out her amazing KisaIta art on Twitter! 3
It's among the first few times Kisame touches someone without malicious intent. He isn't gentle — Kiri nin aren't raised to be, but the fingertips he presses into his partner's neck are soft with little effort, and Itachi melts against him with all the willingness and trust of a longtime lover.
They're only partners, though, shackled together by how well they each can kill and Kisame still has a killer's hands, cold and rough and strange and bloody. The skeptic in him wants to say it's flirting with danger, Itachi's masochistic streak intermixing with fever's delirium. It's in the way Itachi tips his head back, exposing the slope of pale throat, Sharingan inactive but it doesn't matter because his eyes are shut anyway. The way he offers himself as prey, in a silent almost-invitation to free him from the gnaw of disease. He suffers unconditionally and for all they both might deserve, Kisame hates to see it.
He has never wanted to hurt Itachi.
So he offers what he can.
Rests one hand benignly on Itachi's knee as he leans against him, drinking in the coolness of Kisame's bare skin. Delicate fingers wrap around Kisame's wrist and it's an exercise in self-control to not pull them away and press them to his lips instead. Kisame supposes he ought to be used to it by now, this little ritual of theirs: Itachi will fall into fever and come to Kisame's cool body for relief. Give himself to his partner's hands in almost keen fashion.
The very first time it'd happened by accident. It took but a simple admission from Itachi to feeling unwell and Kisame was reaching toward him without thought, just a brief touch to the forehead — gauge his temperature, as partners do. He was quick to realize his mistake but Itachi was quicker, caught his hand before he could recoil, those shinobi reflexes still ingrained in tired limbs.
It felt… nice, Itachi had explained, and Kisame had just looked at him stupidly, still trying to process the way Itachi was applying his hand to his flushed cheek like a salve. Kisame lifted his other hand, slow and tentative, and when Itachi welcomed that too Kisame would search for any opportunity to touch him ever since. If he were any braver now he'd coax Itachi into removing his shirt. He'd cool every inch of pyrexic skin that Itachi would let him and taste the heat rolling off of him with his tongue.
Partners, Kisame has to remind himself time and time again. It's the only time Itachi seeks out his touch and he does so out of necessity, and Kisame himself is nothing if not professional. Courteous in spite of his savagery.
So he settles for the trust his partner places in him. Settles for caressing the tension between them as he rubs his thumb gently against hot skin. Savors the light sigh that escapes Itachi's lips, fingers tightening on his forearm.
Some nights later Itachi is under his hands again. They're staying at an inn this time, but seeing his partner suffer on a futon rather than dirt makes Kisame pity him only fractionally less. The fever's high and they've used the last of the dodgy black market medicine that Kisame never trusted; if it's working at all it's working far too slowly for comfort. Itachi lies shirtless, per Kisame's suggestion, feverish face cradled between Kisame's hands as he kneels beside him. Kisame can hardly celebrate the small victory, though; it's dreary seeing his partner like this, small and pining away under that refractory illness.
It doesn't help that Kisame is out of his element — they both know it, but his own capacity for tenderness never fails to surprise him, and in the time it takes for them to wait out this fever he's grateful for the trust and… need that Itachi displays in him. That his own brutal hands can provide even an ounce of solace. His thumbs run idly across Itachi's cheekbones, the warmth of him sapping the coolness from Kisame's palms.
And Itachi stirs.
"Kisame."
"Hm?"
"Your hands," he murmurs. "They feel nice."
"Do they." Kisame tilts his head, trying to gauge just how out of it his partner is; it isn't like him to state the obvious, or make small talk for that matter, especially when he's sick like this. "How are you feeling? Do you need anything?"
"Mm," Itachi hums, head lolling in Kisame's direction, eyes fluttering open. They're unfocused, dark and lidded, like twin half moons as they fall on Kisame. "Touch me."
Kisame blinks at him. Worry slinks up his spine. Definitely out of it. "I am, Itachi-san."
"No…" Itachi says, and for a second his eyes sharpen, as if he's just broken the fever and arrived at a moment of clarity. "Touch me."
Kisame barely gets the chance to let it fully register because suddenly Itachi's hands are claiming his. He feels a kiss being planted into his palm, light, strangely sweet, but heated, and before Kisame can register that too he sees his fingers being dragged over Itachi's lips. To creep down his throat, skim over his necklace and finally splay over his bare chest.
Kisame freezes as he watches it happen, Itachi slowly guiding his hands over the outline of him, briefly pausing over his breastbone. Kisame doesn't miss the way he feels Itachi's heart racing underneath his palm. The way his nipples perk under his touch and bumps raise on his flesh in spite of his body temperature.
"Ah," Kisame starts. "Are you — "
Sure? he plans to say, but Itachi answers prematurely, tugging Kisame closer to him. Kisame is forced to shift his balance and winds up looming over Itachi awkwardly, unsure of how to position himself without full-on straddling him.
Itachi's gaze swims in a furnace of delirium and desire. "You want this."
Kisame chuckles nervously, as though he's embarrassed to be caught, but he should have known Itachi's eyes could see right through him. The way they see through almost everything — every little gesture, stripping them of all pretense. "Was I that obvious?"
Itachi doesn't answer, confirmation playing on his face as his hands move to lift the hem of Kisame's shirt. "And I want," warm fingers graze Kisame's abs, raising needles, "to feel more of your skin."
Kisame would be a fool to deny him. He obliges, helps Itachi pull his shirt over his head and toss it aside. Itachi's arms start to snake around his back. "Closer."
Kisame lets himself be reeled in, lets himself straddle the smaller man, thighs on either side of his waist. He keeps himself propped up out of courtesy, one hand braced on the pillow and the other carefully mapping the constellation of light scars on the pale body below him.
For a brief moment he's taken by the fascination that is Itachi's hands — nimble, controlled, elegant — more suited perhaps to making art than stealing lives. He thrills at how Itachi touches him in that same way, reverence in place of force, as Itachi traces the muscled contours of him.
His cheeks are flushed with fire and his pupils are wide as stars and Kisame thinks he might be the most gorgeous thing he's ever seen.
"I like it," Itachi admits.
Kisame can't help a sheepish grin. "So I've gathered."
He stoops lower, drawn in by the temptation to feel his partner's skin on his lips, add to the markings of scars with his teeth. Itachi's touch creeps upward, along the pulse in Kisame's neck to play at his jawline.
"I — Kisame, I…" Itachi trails off. His eyes go murky again as he tries to find the rest of his sentence, hinted at in the breath of air between them.
Kisame doesn't wait. He kisses him.
Melts into him.
Licks into the heat of his mouth without warning. Itachi's fingers still on Kisame's jaw for a second, then they're tangling in his hair as he opens to Kisame. Reciprocates. Kisame returns a hand to cup Itachi's face as they kiss, the other snaking down the light sculpt of his stomach to the hem of his trousers.
Kisame has to fight a little to break the kiss, Itachi's grasp firm at the back of his head. He huffs out a laugh when he's finally free. "May I…?"
Itachi nods, licking his lips and breathing heavily. He raises his hips, aiding Kisame as he works Itachi's trousers down his legs with both hands. He's already hard, Kisame doubly so, but he wants to take his time. Runs calloused hands leisurely up lean legs, massages circles inside impossibly warm thighs. Revels in watching Itachi tremble like a flame beneath his fingertips and leaves soft kisses in their wake.
"Kisame…" Painted nails bite into flesh, impatient. Kisame smirks against him but heeds the warning. Takes it as invitation.
Itachi gasps as finally — finally those cool, large fingers wrap around him. Kisame is no less overwhelmed; it's far more than he ever could have asked for but he wills himself to remain ever patient, ever selfless. Works Itachi with all the slow care as he would his sword. Itachi writhes restlessly under him all the while, a solar flare on his fingertips, lips parting.
"Kisame," he says again.
Kisame dips forward, tasting the sweat on his neck. Teasing the flesh with his teeth and drawing forth another shudder. "Whatever you need, Itachi-san."
"More," Itachi breathes.
"More?"
"It's too warm… Need you closer."
Kisame tightens his grip around him just a little, teeth at his throat. "How close?"
Some sadistic, selfish side of him wants to hear Itachi beg, an old fantasy roaring to life. But Itachi has never been the type and Kisame loves that about him, too: that hot stubbornness within him that makes him difficult to restrain. Itachi is a forest fire as he bucks up into Kisame, sparking friction against his crotch and causing him to exhale.
"I want you against me," Itachi says, and there's no room to argue. He raises his hips again, pulling Kisame in at the waist until they're flush against each other, practically trapping Kisame's hand between them. The heat roiling between them and pooling at Kisame's groin is nearly enough to make his head spin.
"Is that what you want?" Kisame asks, planting kisses to his jaw. He's drawing it out as much as he can. Gives an experimental thrust just to hear Itachi groan. Then another. Until there are hands at the hem of his pants messily trying to shove them down.
"Take them off."
And Kisame obeys, always. They're partners but Itachi could order anything of him and he'd do it. He wastes no time in peeling them down to his knees, freeing his own twin aches.
Then Itachi is pulling him back in. Slotting himself against Kisame as best he knows how, or at least can manage, in this state. Itachi's movements are all careless, hurried as his self-restraint melts away and he comes undone; another look into his eyes tells Kisame that his partner is gone, lost in some fever dream that he's dead set on dragging Kisame with him into.
"I want you," Itachi says, "on top of me. Around me. It feels — "
Incredible, Kisame thinks, grinding against him again, this time bare. And that's all it takes for Itachi's head to fall back, a salacious noise rising up from the back of his throat. Kisame shifts, trying to position Itachi's cock more comfortably between both of his. If the anomaly fazes Itachi he doesn't show it.
He's too busy writhing and wrapping himself around Kisame, like he's trying to climb inside of his skin, shed his own. Kisame does his best to pretend that he isn't losing his own mind, to that sheer heat, to the reality that he's touching his partner like this, simultaneously unraveling and remaking him whole with his own hands. He holds Itachi close, cold hands trying to mold the shape of him to callouses. Commit him to memory. His mouth latches onto burning skin, tongue swiping fire.
It isn't long before Itachi arches off the futon. Comes with Kisame's name on his lips and Kisame swallows it with a kiss. It's enough to bring Kisame over; a few more thrusts against his cock and Kisame spills over him with his face buried in his neck.
In the moments after Itachi still doesn't let him go, but he's too weak to stop Kisame from eventually untangling himself with the purpose to get up and fetch a cool washcloth. When he returns, Itachi still hasn't moved. He lies there slicked in a sheen of sweat, flushed and looking utterly dazed and Kisame figures they achieved the opposite of what they had intended.
"My, my, you're burning up even more than before," He notes with a frown, back of his hand to Itachi's forehead.
Which Itachi attempts to grab to weakly pull Kisame back onto the futon with him.
"Suppose you'll have to stay here, then," he slurs, words laced with fatigue and fever. He shuts his eyes and Kisame just shakes his head with a chuckle, but folds himself around him regardless and it's like holding summer. Itachi wastes no time burrowing into Kisame's chest, shrouding himself in that cool skin. Kisame runs the washcloth over him, that sheer tenderness he still isn't used to seeping back into his hands. Thrumming up his veins and kissing the top of his partner's head.
"Please rest, Itachi-san."
In truth he's worried. There's a bittersweet feeling weaved into these nights now, as they serve as a reminder of this new reality: Itachi being ill, falling ill more frequently, more severely, his time ticking fast in spite of his youth.
But for now, the minutes stretch. Languid as they lie there and Itachi seems to be rapidly cooling off — due to the medicine finally kicking in or Kisame's skin or both, Kisame isn't sure. As he strokes soft, black hair he laments that this is the best he can do, but at least he's allowed these opportunities for easing suffering after a lifetime of orchestrating it. He can be there when Itachi is struck with another fever.
Because they're partners, of course. And so Kisame will burn with him.
