xii.
Kisame is fighting.
He loves it; not only does he sometimes speak of battle the way other men speak of visiting brothels, there is a shift in the air unmistakable whenever an unlucky nin is stupid enough to challenge the two of them. Itachi of late has taken a great interest in listening for the slight wet sound that is Kisame's grin widening, and there is a distinct thrill in watching their less confident opponents flinch when they catch sight of those sharp teeth catching the light of the day.
Whenever it happens, Itachi cannot stop the thought that whispers, All mine.
Presently, three men had thought they'd ambushed the Akatsuki pair, but of course their positions had been known for some time before they'd moved to strike. They are S-class spec-ops agents from some backwater hidden village, and though that doesn't mean they aren't dangerous, well, it would take more than that to strike fear into either Itachi or Kisame.
It was the latter who leapt into the fray first. Despite his size—and that his shark's skin makes him much more a threat in the water—he is quick. Though with the Sharingan, Itachi watches the bone and muscle tense beneath his partner's skin as he grips Samehada with expertise in those powerful hands. It takes just one swing filled with most of his strength to lop the head clean off the shoulders of one of the men.
What follows should be abrupt chaos, and it almost is. The smallest of the three is predictably the quickest, and he's closed in on Itachi in barely half a second. Impressive, no doubt, but he's made the mistake of looking up into the pinwheels of his eyes, and he freezes in shock for just a moment before crumpling to the ground. Whether comatose or dead, Itachi does not know.
He tells himself he does not care, that the pain in his chest is merely his lungs acting up from the kicked-up dust of the road.
There is a great clashing sound: Samehada has collided with the fortified armguards of their last enemy. It snaps Itachi back to attention, and he stands there unmoving. To intervene is not necessary, not yet, and so he will watch. The other shinobi is tall, nearly as massive as Kisame himself, their strengths even as they clash and leap back and rush at each other time and time again.
That sharp grin comes again; he is drawing out the fight because it's a fun one. The moment he resorts to using his arsenal of jutsu, the other ninja stands no chance. It's been too long since he's been in a skirmish like this. To Itachi it feels almost paternal to realise that he's, in some way, allowing this—the way his mother would let him and Sasuke spar in the garden for just five more minutes, please! even though dinner had long since been ready.
When a shuriken slices Kisame across the shoulder, that feeling in his chest tightens like a fist squeezing his heart. From his throat comes a cough that feels fake, a small and pathetic thing, and to his great surprise Kisame's head jerks to the side. Their eyes meet, and he feels as if falling apart to understand that Kisame is checking to see if all is well.
But it is a stupid move, because another star speeds at him and splits the skin on his cheek beneath the gills. Itachi can feel his entire body flinch in response; the enemy moves in a flash, aiming a mighty kick to Kisame's wrist that sends Samehada flying like little more than a shortsword. So the man had been holding back after all, and Itachi watches what next unfolds in that ethereal slowness granted only by the Sharingan.
His partner's jaw opens with a loud snap. To say that it has unhinged is not quite accurate, but it is the only thing Itachi can think as his pulse quickens until it is pounding in his ears. Kisame is standing his ground, the enemy moving far too fast to stop even if he's understood what is about to happen. His weight and momentum are used against him in tandem as he crashes into Kisame, who pivots and slams him into the grass with his teeth sunken into his jugular.
The man's chakra flickers wildly before rushing up to the wound as if he can prevent the horror that is about to happen. But it was not long ago that Kisame had warned Itachi of this very thing: a shark's bite is meant to kill.
Kisame pulls. There is only a fleeting starting note of an agonized wail before it is cut short as his throat is ripped clean from his neck, blood shooting into the air before slowing to a throbbing trickle. The body convulses once before going limp. Roughly Kisame shoves it from under him, spitting flesh and blood onto the ground as he rises to his feet.
His own blood from the shuriken wound on his face is impossible to discern from the splatter around his mouth and neck, staining his clothes. He stares at the dead men, his head turning slightly between them all where they lie on the dirt, and that is when Itachi notices how heavily his partner is breathing. The wind is gentle, tousling that ocean-blue hair in a way that does not fit the gravity of what Itachi is very quickly piecing together.
First, he had made a novice mistake in taking Kisame at his word. A ninja should always look underneath the underneath, and though his partner always put on a convincing show in battle, it's now crystal clear to Itachi that it'd been exactly that: a show, a performance. He does not love fighting, nor does he even seem to like it. It haunts him, the violence, the killing, and he has long since resigned himself to it, convinced himself of its place of permanence in his life. As he'd said the day they first met, he had secured his place in hell. That did not mean it was what he'd wanted.
Secondly, Itachi will not acknowledge even the slightest possibility that he himself shares that same weakness.
It is as their eyes finally meet once more that he realizes one last thing. Kisame swallows thickly, but schools his pained expression back into what Itachi now sees as a mask of apathy. He wipes at his face with the sleeve of his robe, then turns to fetch Samehada. Itachi studies every step, the way he carries himself, the tired way he stoops and bends at his knees and the delicate—almost reverent—way his fingers wrap around the hilt of his sword, and presses it all to his memory, for what he has understood troubles him deeply:
Their opponents on this day had been easily defeated. The two of them had emerged victorious, and will go on to sleep at the next inn and eat their next meal and see their next days. They are alive; Kisame is alive. One day, he will not be. That was the feeling taking hold of his heart, shaking him through to his core as he'd observed the battle only seconds ago.
It was the first time in many, many years that Itachi had been struck through with fear.
