The dusty road definitely swirls on its way up to meet his face, but even though he feels the jolt of earth meeting his cheekbone, he feels no pain. Instead, he feels the jostling of his ribs as he belly laughs, the sound of it trailing off in a way that lets everyone on the busy street know that he is intoxicated – if they couldn't figure it out from the heavy fall to the street.

"Ha ha, that was tragic. You okay?" One of his companions (what was his name again?) must have hauled him off the ground, because he's suddenly on his feet again – for all of two seconds before he keels backward, his own cackling the only thing he can hear.

Someone grabs the front of his shirt, and another hand grips his shoulder. Neither let go until he wobbles, but does not topple.

"C'mon, Shisui," a different voice guffaws somewhere behind, no...beside (no...in front) of his head. "You cant be this fucked up, already. We've only been to one bar!"

Well, excuse him! He's never taken drugs before, let alone taken a drug with alcohol, but he thinks he's doing just fine with all of that considered. It would probably bite him in the ass, but there's a first time for everything. Why not do all the firsts at the same time and get it over with? The high will probably wear off as the night goes on, anyway.

As of now, though, he's grinning from ear to ear – he can tell even though his face is numb. Riding the whim to fuck all of his responsibilities is just the thing he needs. He has a marvelously difficult time remembering that he was supposed to meet Itachi an hour ago to figure out what they would do about their conniving clan members, and even when he does recall for a split second, he can't remember to care, thanks to whatever the hell these guys gave him to mix into his drink.

The clan can rot. If they weren't such arrogant pricks, he wouldn't even be in this situation – everything riding on his Kotoamatsukami, and failure ending in the death of more than just a handful of people he cares about–

Oh. Yeah. Shisui doesn't care right now, does he? How can he when the pebbles under his feet make him think himself something of a giant walking across mountain tops? He digs his heel on a particularly large rock until it bends to his will, letting itself be buried into the dirt beneath it.

"Are you good?" Someone asks again, the underlying worry going unnoticed by Shisui.

"M'good." he manages to slur.

"'Atta boy!" Another hollers, slapping Shisui square between the shoulder blades.

That solid hit radiates throughout his skeleton, and causes his bones to vibrate into goo. He'll be fine, though, because even as he melts beneath his skin, he isn't even hot. In fact, he feels light. Instead of the expected need to drip, his melted bits are floating, like a lava lamp – all blobby and free yet contained by his flesh, able to come back together as one after they're done dancing.

Someone tugs on his lava arm, and Shisui laughs because he thought it would disconnect from his shoulder, but it doesn't. He totters down the sidewalk and lets himself be guided into a building with dim lighting and bright sounds.

People are everywhere, dancing to the music that pounds Shisui a new heartbeat, one that emanates from his brain rather than his chest. It nearly sends him into a trance, but he's tugged again and he stumbles into a seat, and an ice cold drink is shoved into his hand.

Everything is moving so fast, and is only getting faster. He's got to keep up, so he tries to drink whatever is in his cup as if that will help, but must have put it to the wrong mouth (he's sure he grew an extra one in the last two seconds) and chilly liquid runs down the side of his jaw.

"Hoo!" He shouts, wiping at the river running down his neck and missing.

More laughter comes from all around, and one chuckle comes in close to shout over the music, "You just goofed in front of Watari-san, man."

Watari? Who the hell is that? All Shisui can think about is how, ever since he sat down, he can feel the pounding of bass through the chair. Every rhythmic beat or stomp of a nearby foot sends a vibration to his asshole, and he isn't into guys, but...maybe? This butt stuff is kind of cool...he's already getting a little hard–

"Dude, she's coming this way!"

Who's cumming? Not him! It was just a tickle, damn, not enough to–

"Wow. Never thought I'd ever see the great Uchiha Shisui so far gone."

Whatever drugs he took made every noise sound muffled yet thundering, but he can tell a woman just spoke despite its distortion.

His head seems to be connected by a thread with the way it lolls around on his shoulders until he can look at her beneath heavily lidded eyes. Her own sets of four (is he seeing double?) honey colored irises are bloodshot, but manage to be seductive (or would be, if Shisui could register the intent behind the gaze) as they climb down the plains of his chest, over his toned stomach hidden by the fabric of his shirt, pausing at the junction where his spread thighs meet, and down to his toes that peak out of his sandals.

For a while he forgot he even has toes, and wiggles them – just to be certain they were indeed his.

Watari (oh, yeah! This is Watari. Total bombshell.) looks up from his dancing toes to his coal eyes, sliding closer and taking his half empty cup from his palm.

He doesn't fight to keep it (he kind of forgot it was there), and finally catches on to her mood. He watches with an uncharacteristically haughty smirk as she kicks a leg over both of his, and raises his arms to make room for her. He settles them on her thighs when she gets comfortable in his lap – the heat of her snatch pressing right over his cock which is rapidly shifting from half mast to full fucking throttle.

Watari takes a mouthful from her stolen glass, but does not swallow. As cheers erupt around them, Shisui feels a small fist grip his curls, tilting his head back.

The shinobi in him does not like this, his neck was horrifyingly open to attack, but...his brain is a heartbeat. His bones are lava. His asshole still tickles. He feels too good to stop her (or just doesn't care to).

He lets her angle his head until he's looking up at her. Long fingers poke at the place where his jaw connects, and he understands, and he obeys.

Opening wide, he's still shocked at the sensation when her lips connect with his, and his mouth fills with liquor. He gulps it down, groaning at the way the burn makes him shiver – or is that just the way Watari is rubbing their tongues together?

This has to be a jutsu – the way their mouths move in tandem with no hiccups. Right? It isn't always this smooth, can't be. The way she turns her head to taste him deeper and the simultaneous movement he makes to let her do it – the way her hips roll down and his roll up. It's unnatural how perfect this is, as if he's a half second into the future.

Maybe it's the drugs sending him to another plane of existence, one where he always shared a mind with this woman but couldn't access before, but can do so now, because he's blitzed out of his pulsing head.

He's sure he's onto something nuclear with that multidimensional thought, but loses his focus when Watari starts whimpering into his mouth, most likely a direct result of his finger on her clit. Somehow, a hand found its way around her ass and under her skirt – all without telling his brain it was going to do it.

Neither of them are as discreet as shinobi ought to be, but nobody stops them, or the many other pairs of bodies hidden in dark corners around the room. The cheering has died down as people lost interest, and Shisui – at some point – forgot he showed up with a group of men, none of which he's ever considered himself to be friends with. That lot is always caught up in shenanigans he considers a bit shameful, yet here he is – shenaniganing. Shisui never thought he would be one of these people (his dead mother might just be rolling in her grave), but what does that matter when there's a tit to be nibbled? At the thought, Shisui pops one right out of Watari's shirt to shove as much of it in his mouth as he can.

Dragging the tip of his finger down (or up?), he slips into the mess he's making of Watari's panties, and groans into her breast, rolling the beaded nipple around his hot tongue.

The throbbing of his dick is so strong on his mind that for a moment he forgets how to move his hands, despite how desperately he needs them to remove the cloth barriers between him and the gushing pot of honey just waiting for him.

"–sui."

But finally something in his brain reconnects and he moves quickly, one hand tugging her underwear to the side, the other freeing his member, so rock hard he can't help but pump it a few times to ease the ache.

"–isui."

With the crotch of her panties hooked on his pinkie, he grips the fat of her ass and lifts with one hand, ready to bury himself as deep as she'll let him-

"Shisui."

The warbled voice he thought was Watari's (or maybe the drugs he vaguely thinks have been chanting his name the entire time), finally registers for what it is - and it belongs to one of the things he set out to ignore with this whole crossfaded excursion.

Watari rips away from him with a startled squeak, but to Shisui's addled brain, she all but disappears. He blinks dazedly, forgetting the voice that caught his attention a moment ago, and smacks his lips – now void of tit. His eyes stare at the space where a woman's body used to be, then lazily take in the other patrons beyond, their silhouettes being nothing but dark masses of swirling paint in somewhat human shapes.

The flushed yet pale skin of his dick stands out in contrast to the dark colors, calling his eyes' attention. Once he remembers his hand is still wrapped around it, he strokes his pipe without thinking, and forgets there was ever a woman in his arms to begin with.

An equally pale hand slaps the back of his own hard enough to send his arm swinging, and he looks up to see an extremely unimpressed Itachi.

Shisui's high is ruined at the mere sight. His brain-heart goes from beating to a dull, aching throb. His lava bones turn to lead beads, weighing him down. And the tickle of bass in his ass feels more like a violation.

"Go 'way."

"You know you shouldn't be here," Itachi says, voice heavy with warning.

"Don' care." Back on his own plane of consciousness, Shisui has the presence of mind to put his dick away, or try to at least.

He continues to fumble with his now weighted hands as Itachi scolds him with well hidden, but not invisible, ire. "You'll care in the morning when you're sober. Or when the Clan Head hears about this." He leans in closer, careful not to be overheard, as if anyone could over the constant music. "Or even sooner, when certain someones catches you inebriated and unguarded–"

"'m fine!" Shisui barks, finally concealing his softening penis. "It's not like I came out alone!"

"But you ended up alone. Look around you."

Shisui does as he's told before he can think better of it, and before his brain gets distracted by the swirling ink of the crowd, he notices that his company is no longer in sight.

Wait.

Who did he come with?

"Let's go."

Itachi doesn't even look back to make sure Shisui follows, and it pisses him off, so he doesn't move a muscle. He's tired of being an obedient dog for Sandaime, Danzo, Fugaku – he doesn't want to do it for Itachi, too.

His cousin notices of course, and looks over his shoulder to give a look so exhausted, so dead tired that Shisui sobers for a full second to remember that Itachi is a dog, too – a puppy, even. And even though he's still bristling with defiant urges, Shisui gets up to follow Itachi out onto the street without any more argument.

The night breeze would be nice if Shisui wasn't getting chewed out.

"This was dangerous Shisui," Itachi starts, like Shisui doesn't already know that. "Nobody even knows anything about Watari, and-"

"I know!" Shisui growls, stumbling on his own shoes. He's saved from the face plant by Itachi's quick reflexes, but the touch is infuriating right now, and he tears his arm away, barely managing to stay upright against the violent movement. "I know, I know, I know, but I just didn't care and I get that I need to or shit falls apart but I just..."

He trails off, because he doesn't want to say it – that he was weak, that he cracked under the pressure, so he turns heel and unsteadily stalks away. Itachi lags behind to give him space.

Eventually Shisui forgets where he is, and comes to a stop at an intersection in defeat. Yet, he continues huffing and stomping clumsily, even as itachi wordlessly takes the lead, and guides him back to his house, where Shisui trips up the steps to the front door.

Itachi doesn't catch him this time, and the pain Shisui failed to feel from each tumble through the night seems to come all at once, and he doesn't get up, instead choosing to groan on the wood.

Itachi doesn't give so much as a sigh before dragging Shisui to his feet and half carrying him to bed, where he shows his innate kindness and gently helps his cousin under the blankets.

Itachi speaks so quietly, Shisui isn't sure he's meant to hear the words, yet he can't help but listen as intently as he can while his bed rocks like a boat in the ocean. "I'm sorry. I know it's hard on you." And quieter still, "I just won't make it without you."

Guilt splashes up from the sides of his boat-bed and soaks him. His first reaction is to push himself upright, and pull Itachi into a rare embrace.

"I'm sorry," Shisui says hoarsely, holding his cousin tight and trying to keep an even tighter hold on his emotions.

Itachi shows his forgiveness when he returns the embrace, and Shisui understands that he does not deserve it. Through all these troubles dumped into their laps, Shisui still feels blessed as long as Itachi is by his side, and he will be forever grateful to the kind hearted kid he got the chance to befriend.

Sighing, Shisui relents, and admits to himself that he's cared all along – no drug can change that. If it didn't matter to him, he would have just ran away from it all, and left it in Itachi's hands.

But he didn't, because he loves his clan, and he loves his village. He loves the way kids get to play in the street without a care in the world and the way old wrinkled couples get to relax in their final days without worrying about the next generation being devoured by war. He loves that men can provide for their families by fishing in a flowing river unpolluted by an enemy, and that women can be wooed in the flower fields unburnt by battle.

If he's the one with the best chance to do it, he would – will – do anything to keep it that way.

Even if it kills him.