iii.

Kisame fared far better in the woods than he had in the field. They walk for another hour until Itachi declares their present surroundings to be their camp for the night, and Kisame is nearly giddy with excitement that it's near a wide river. He cannot stop glancing in its direction, so it is with a tiny smile that Itachi says,

"Go and swim, if you like. I will prepare our things."

Not that they had very much of anything. They split a rucksack that Itachi carries—the other man's shoulders are occupied with that gaudy sword of his—upon which are tied two simple bedrolls, and a campfire is a basic task for someone with an affinity for fire-style jutsu. Left alone he sets up their makeshift camp, folding his own cloak and Kisame's both before placing them in a neat pile beside that massive blade. Their straw hats get set on top, making a quaint image that doesn't quite fit with either of the men's personalities.

He forages for mushrooms and wild onions, well accustomed to roughing it in the woodlands from his time as a nin of the Village Hidden by Leaves. This spot he chose with purpose: one of the colossal trees had fallen likely a century ago, covered in moss and vine as it lay on its side. It offers a reasonable enough buffer from the north and west, and the river lies to the east—leaving their most vulnerable access point to the south. It is his night to stay on watch, and though the Sharingan would never fail him, he tries not to put himself in any position that will necessitate its excessive use. The migraines are simply not worth it.

It is his punishment, he reminds himself. That pain is the price any Uchiha must pay to use such power with any success, and Itachi has definitely had that. To kill the very people who brought him into this world and decimated the bloodlines that'd carried them there, well, the gods could not let that go unaddressed.

He wonders—and worries—for Sasuke. In the wake of Lord Third's death he cannot be too sure what he and Kisame will find when finally they arrive in Konoha, but he preemptively hardens his heart to it. He must pretend to be cold as stone if he has any hope of his brother ever being strong enough to turn his hatred into strength. It is a difficult task, though, as his nerves feel like live wires and his hands are trembling slightly as he tugs at roots, but then the sound of one snapping sends his mind into a panic, for it is far too similar to the tone of a neck being broken.

His stomach sours immediately, and as he walks back to their camp he comes to the conclusion that there is something wrong with him. Though he can smell the phantom blood and hear the long-gone hacking coughs of his clansmen, he does not feel sad. A bit lonely, perhaps, but he is well past those first few weeks of the very breath being taken from his lungs whenever he thought back on it, well past sinking to his knees and weeping into the earth before he joined ranks with the Akatsuki. He simply takes step after step and focuses on calming his anxiety over seeing Sasuke, then sits by the fire with his back against the hollowed-out tree stump and stares.

When Kisame returns, his gait is slightly strained; he's injured, Itachi realizes at once while watching his approach. He is without his shirt, that and his traditional Mist forearm sleeves gathered in one of his hands as he plops down without grace across the fire. He gives a sheepish wave of his hand, then sighs.

"Sorry about this. It's just that I got a bit carried away in the river, but it's only a scratch that will heal by morning. I hope you won't—"

But Itachi stands, and for some reason that's enough to silence Kisame as the distance between them closes. He kneels next to the other man and pries his arms to allow him better access and sees the wound is no mere scratch. It is a jagged thing, likely from swimming much too close to a rock. It would not do to let it sit overnight, oozing and possibly becoming infected.

Would it be wrong in a sense to think that Kisame should be a better swimmer? He doesn't seem like the careless type, and it is as Itachi sends his amateur healing chakra to his fingertips that he wonders what it was that caused his mind to wander. His skin is warm and wet beneath his touch, and he finds his anxiety over Sasuke is completely forgotten to be so close. The cut begins to stitch together, and Kisame stares down at the process. His chakra spikes once, and to Itachi it feels nervous, hesitant.

"You Leaf nin," he mutters, shaking his head with a slight laugh. "Can you all heal as you go? Wouldn't make for a very fun fight after a while."

Itachi does not say anything, for he is trying so hard not to stare at Kisame's body that he ends up staring at far more of it than he intends. His muscle protruding from beneath his otherwise thick frame, that he has even more gill slits than those on his face—though not on his neck as expected, but on his shoulders. They are fluttering only slightly in time with his breaths, and so he intuits that submerged in water they would truly be a sight to behold.

"I wonder, are you really a prodigy as they say? Or is the Leaf full of shinobi like you?"

He seems flustered, like he's trying to make conversation to keep from giving too much attention to straying thoughts. The idea of it makes him blush, and without really meaning to he glances up at him from beneath his lashes. His hair—free of its band—spills over his shoulders in a way that makes him break out in goosebumps. They sit like that for quite some time, until Itachi finally stands and speaks.

"No," he says in his best teasing tone, "it's just me who's the prodigy."

It takes a great deal of effort not to burst into laughter to see Kisame process that. Itachi is indeed the quiet sort, not known for joking—not to the Akatsuki, anyway. As his partner gives a bewildered grin when finally he puts two and two together, Itachi similarly can't help his smile. He can feel the spark of it reach his eyes in a way that feels...interesting.

He will not admit that it is in a way that feels good.