The aftermath of the Mangekyō Sharingan throbs his eyes and head. It's karmic, and humbling, fatigue smothering Itachi like a heavy blanket before gracelessly tucking him against a tree.
"I'm fine," he lies, heavy-throated, and Kisame extends a look that's equal parts pity and amusement, an obvious I warned you, Itachi-san, but he's at his partner's side in a flash. Itachi expects an admonishing, still, after the theatrics. What he gets instead:
"Why don't we call it a day and get some rest? It's already sunset."
There's a crooked smirk, then Kisame hoists him onto his back, supporting Itachi with one strong hand and gripping Samehada with the other. The act is entirely selfless, compassionate—contradictory to their nature—but Itachi slumps forward without protest. Drapes his arms around Kisame's thick neck.
It continues to stir something in him, after all these years. He knows it's foolish: how vulnerable he lets himself get around someone with a reputation like the shark-nin's. But Kisame had long ago shattered all paranoias and assumptions, seemingly turning back on his own philosophies; Itachi could never forget their first warnings to each other, but now, he realizes, there are some things his partner values more than strength, more than the outcome of a mission.
The Uchiha never expected he'd be among them.
He feels the crows pick at his heart again, thinking that his days are only a quickly closing coffin, and that Kisame's undying devotion is better placed elsewhere, with a much more deserving class of person.
Kisame carries them off the dirt road and into the forest, some cold distance from civilization. Their refuge for the night is a clearing encircling a crystal pond—Kisame always insisted they camp near a body of water, for 'survival purposes.' He crouches where the shade is deepest, allowing Itachi to slide off and rest on the soft grass.
"I'll make some tea."
Itachi watches with bleary, sable eyes as Kisame sets up their camp for the night, gets a fire going, brews the tea. He moves with the virility and discipline typical of a seasoned swordsman, yet holds his own sort of deep heaviness about him, too. Though Kisame has always masked his burdens well, for the most part, and Itachi envies him for it, amongst the many other assets that make him an irreplaceable companion.
He offers Itachi a steaming cup of tea, and Itachi reciprocates by gently tugging him by the sleeve into an appreciative kiss. Kisame smiles into it. He always does, as if he almost couldn't believe that they're kissing. He's glowing when they part, haloed by the lowering sun behind him.
"I would've taken a sip first. What if the tea is awful?"
Itachi still would have kissed him. Probably. "Your tea is always decent, Kisame."
"Decent?"
Itachi brings the tea to his lips, unbothered by the scalding temperature. It has an earthy aroma, its taste a fresh marriage of grass, citrus, and a hint of oceanic promise. Just the way he likes it.
"It's very good."
Kisame chuckles. "You flatter me, Itachi-san."
When Kisame gathers him into muscled arms, Itachi sinks into him all too easily, tired bones burying themselves in the solid expanse of his partner's chest. Kisame has always drawn him in like a whirlpool—straight into the heart of the older nin, and Itachi has long since exhausted himself of trying to escape, thinking that he may very well be safer there than anywhere else on earth, from all outer foes and inner demons. All past woes and future suffering.
He wants to stay there for the rest of his life. Sheltered. Intangible.
"We're about a day out from Tanigakure," Kisame says, stroking his hair with calloused palms. "When we get there, we ought to stop and get some real tea."
Itachi wants to tell him that he prefers Kisame's tea, in truth, wants to drink Kisame's tea by his side for as long as they have together. It's the sheer significance of the gesture that Itachi clutches tight to his chest, like an age-old family tradition. Another slice of saccharine comfort that he secretly craved, though he had never asked for, and refuses to start now.
He'd never been able to find the words, anyway.
Then, Kisame plants a kiss on his head, tender and tranquilizing. The deathblow. And Itachi feels it rattle his skull, disintegrate his spine in only the most alleviating of ways.
He suppresses a sigh, resigned to the crushing debts that will come to reclaim him, in time. Yet it's in these moments of respite that the weight of all things seems insubstantial. Manageable.
The rest of the evening passes in silence, the sun taking her leave as fireflies, like lambent flecks of her own dust, fan out over the pond, spraying the scene in romantic hues. Itachi's insides hum with a rare warmth, breaths in accord with the strong, steady thump in Kisame's chest, its rhythm aiding the sleep dragging at his eyelids.
He curls in, and slumbers.