xiii.

In a small room in a run-down village near a lakeside coast in Grass Country, Itachi kneels on a small futon and sets down his pack. His lungs have been aching more and more the longer they travel, and he blinks a few too many times as if he can clear the blur in his vision as he searches for a teacup. The air in the room is stale and humid, and Kisame cracks open the window to let in the evening breeze that eases the sweat on both of their brows.

There is a certain sadness Itachi hadn't expected that's accompanied these recent, more obvious signs that he is dying. He can't seem to shake it, the feeling like ice numbing his joints so thoroughly it sometimes stings to move. As accustomed as he's become to seeing the faces of Uchiha corpses staring up at him every time he blinks, he feels horribly selfish and stupid to be so moody over his own mortality.

He sighs to re-center himself. It is nothing he does not deserve. He has made his peace with that, hasn't he?

"What is it you're looking for?" If Kisame has noticed Itachi's prickling melancholy, he keeps the suspicion from his tone.

"The teacup the cook gave me in River Country," he answers. "It is your favorite and—"

Kisame sits behind him, capturing him in his strong arms and pulling his back against his sturdy chest. Itachi's shivers are both from the onset of a fever and the light kisses his partner is peppering on the flat of his ear and down his neck, but his heart squeezes in dismay. You do not deserve this.

"It is there in the bag somewhere," Kisame is saying quietly. "Do not let yourself be so frustrated by such a thing. How about we find it together—after?"

"I—" he tries, words flying from reach as teeth trail along his throat. He grasps at what he can, hoping they leave his mouth with coherence, but hearing the word after and being held there so tightly, well, all he can think of is what will come before. "I am not feeling well. I...won't be able to...reciprocate."

It is true: he does not like to leave favors without repayment (despite Kisame's insistence that these are most definitely not favors). Even with recent evidence that the two of them are far more alike in their regrets than they'd care to admit even inwardly, Itachi cannot let himself be made to feel good without stipulations or rules and certainly not alone.

"Well," murmurs Kisame, "that's fine." Slowly his hands reach around Itachi's middle to undress him, parting his cloak hook by hook in a way that makes his hips buck without conscious thought. The heavy cloth parts and hangs from his shoulders and exposes his torso to the cooling air of the room, the staleness dissipated by the opened window. "I have strength enough for the both of us as I always do. Let me pleasure you tonight, Itachi-san."

His hand dips into the waistband and wraps around Itachi. The fact that he is already hard is almost an embarrassment, the moan he gives for it to be touched closer to a whimper than anything. Reflexively he arches his back, pressing his ass into Kisame's own erections, letting his head loll back to rest on the other man's shoulder.

"Shh," Kisame urges comfortingly into his ear. "Be still. I will do all of the work."

And he does; he's never been one for empty promises or to talk just to talk. He strokes Itachi back and forth with a gentle sort of ruthlessness, not squeezing too much or too little but never faltering in his rhythm or slowing from fatigue. His breath is hot against the bare flesh of Itachi's neck, the necklace around it giving a dull thump against his collarbone as the taut skin is nipped and suckled by shark's teeth.

It's bliss—but even that falls short of being an accurate description, Itachi decides. The feeling of security to be flush against Kisame's chest, his hot, dry palm working in tandem with the small, uncontrollable thrusts of Itachi's hips, the fact that he had seen clear through to Itachi's core with little more than a glance. It stirs at something deep within him, a thought he's hesitant to accept but one he cannot ignore for much longer.

Kisame had seen his frustration. To him, the why did not matter, only that it was there and that it was within his power to chase it away and make things normal again—whatever normal meant for people like them. Surely neither of them deserve it, whatever it is they've been giving each other. All of the things they've done, the lives they've cut short, the agony they've both caused and suffered—

"Kiss me?"

He's said it so quietly that Itachi is almost unsure if he's imagined it. In fact, if he did not know any better, he may even venture to say it'd been shy. He finds himself drawn to obey it, or perhaps it is an acquiescence, because the more he replays it over and over in his mind the more it sounds like it'd been a polite request. The idea that they deserve this—no, that Itachi deserves this—is too much to handle, because this feels far too close to something like love.

Itachi is certainly not to be loved. He would stake his life upon that.

But he turns his head just as Kisame does too, their mouths finding each other with ease even in the fading light of the afternoon. That is when Itachi's climax comes, fluttering at first in his body before spilling out of him. He can feel it beading at the head of him and pooling in Kisame's grasp, sticking slightly to the fabric of his pants. Their kiss grows in intensity, Itachi refusing to pull back even in desperate need of air. It magnifies the pleasure, his shallow breaths coming heavy through his nostrils as his essence, hot as his coursing blood, slows its pump into his partner's hands.

Kisame parts his lips and presses the tip of his tongue against the other's, the rush of oxygen to Itachi's lungs so exhilarating that it dizzies him in an instant. Together they fall upon the too-soft futon, but even as the fever spikes its pain once more through his body he does not pull away. He brings his hands to Kisame's face and holds it as if it's the most precious of jewels, drinking in his partner's breath. If asked, he would say he is trying with all his might not to think of what was said just moments ago. And though he's a fantastic liar, there is only one person alive who's not once believed any of his falsehoods.

It is certainly not the only other man in the room.

Kiss me. Kisame's voice is reverberating through his skin and into his bones.

Kiss me. Each and every one of his nerves are lit on fire from it.

Kiss me. Every cell feels consumed by it.

Kiss me. He never wants to stop.

When finally they do, Kisame takes the pack and upends it right onto where he'd been laying next to Itachi. Among dirtied clothes that need washing and a few other items, the teacup rolls from wherever it'd been hiding. It's a glossy black that catches in the right light, absorbing so much of it that sometimes it seems to glow. But when he sees it, Kisame flashes a smile so beautiful it puts that teacup to shame.

"See there?" He replaces the other things that'd fallen from the bag, taking care as he goes. "Sometimes all it takes is a different approach to find what you've missed."

The phrasing tugs somewhere in Itachi's chest, but he is sickly and tired—and especially tired of double-meanings and looking beneath the underneath. With a furrowed brow he reaches out his hand. Kisame gestures to the cup with a quizzical hum, but Itachi shakes his head and throws out his other arm.

"Come here," he says, "and kiss me."