Work Text:
It’s rare to find a completely secluded spot anywhere in the dead heat of summer, people crowding the high mountains for hikes and the low oceans for swimming, in transition from the lines of one food stall to the similarly unmoving ones of another—the middle season one of time if nothing else—but perhaps they’d simply lucked out today, chosen a spot early enough in the morning that no one would encroach on their space now, even with the sun obscenely high and bright, all other, open spaces at capacity.
Their spot was an alcove, shaded half by trees with the other half in the full sun, the minute waves moving with the wind, one moment dark blue, completely white the next. Itachi was in that shaded space, laid out long, almost meditating with the slight breeze that broke up the near abyssal heat, with the sound of the water making space for an extra body, for a welcomed intrusion, for Kisame’s professional quality dive into the deep end.
He favored the warm spots instead, bounding off the side in the shade so he’d be propelled forward, fully into the sun, sometimes basking, sleepily, with his head on his shoulder, over the lip of the pool where water met an edge and turned to tile, and other times doing so even beneath the water, lying flat on his back, breathing slowly through his gills, watching how the light warped with the waves and drew abstracts onto his skin, taking the occasional peek at the sun out of the corner of his vision as if it were a beach ball floating on the surface of the water.
He knows Itachi likes to take it easy, to take full advantage of their breaks by resting, barely even moving much (unless it’s to, readily, eagerly, go out to get tea and dango), but it doesn’t stop him from trying to get Itachi in the water, or bringing it to him if need be, each dive getting more and more sloppy, water spilling out of the pool, inching closer to his partner’s sun chair until a cannonball, the momentum for such a splash well-prepped by long leaps on tile, successfully sends a rush of water onto him, soaking him completely and knocking his sunglasses askew.
Rising from his chair and tucking his now wet hair behind his ears, Itachi dips his legs in up to the calves, tracing where the water encircles his knees, where the light makes haloes, content to spend some time in the sun after all. They talk about everything, everything work doesn’t give them time for, when even meal breaks are spent in tense, terse silence, and are still chatting—Kisame electing not to towel off, Itachi barely even sweating—when they pack themselves tightly, side by side, into the photobooth by the inlet to the hotel.
Kisame’s all teeth, wide smile happily creasing the already-present lines on his face, while Itachi keeps himself inexpressive, save for one hand up, palm facing outward, fingers in a V shape. He picks a color—bright, full gold—and traces Kisame’s features in the photo, as he would touch skin with his fingers in reality, traces those gill lines, making them radiate outward even more so than usual, like the sun at its zenith. In return, Kisame drags sparkles into Itachi’s eyes and outlines his undereye lines in pink, adding to the pink cat whiskers selected immediately, naturally.
The next picture has them both serious, arms crossed and backs straight at the same time, without planning it that way, which makes the photo following blurred in laughter. Even when humor has their bodies jostled in opposite directions, they still gravitate towards one another, always needing to be touching in some way, fingers on their way to being entwined, free hands supportive on their shoulders, where collarbones give way to soft muscle, to bodies they know better than anything else.
The last photo is left unedited, save for a border of hearts and shooting stars, the focus on Kisame nosing at Itachi’s temple, lips paused in the faintest kiss, with Itachi’s expression frozen the same, in perpetual, unending calm, contentedness—bliss. They walk back to their room the same way they arrived, the same way they’d spent their afternoon: unbothered by the crowds, keeping to themselves, close as if melded together in the heat, remade into one singular being.
The blinds are drawn, leftover from the morning, Itachi’s eyes overly sensitive, even to the slivers of light edging the windows, unable to be smothered completely, and the room is warm then cool then cold—Kisame half and half about it; wanting relief from how the sun baked his scales, dried even the tender, protected space underneath, but turning off the air conditioning after every few minutes of it on, teetering just as easily on the edge of being too cold.
He still doesn’t know what he wants, back curved in a bad position where he’s hunched at the end of the bed, waiting through two minutes of hushed, rushed air before he decides it’s, once again, too much, trapped in a cycle of his own doing—before Itachi breaks it up, motioning him over, cold air still flowing steadily from where the unit’s fixed solidly in the wall.
There’s a position he knows well, a place that’s all his to inhabit, and it’s nestled underneath Itachi’s arm, curled into his side, forehead against the warm, untouched spot of the side of his neck. He can hear his heart beat there, can almost feel the blood flow in proximity to the jugular, like there’s no other sound in the room but that, no other beings in the universe other than they two, no other measure of time but tonight, and he places a large hand over Itachi’s sternum, slows his own breathing to time the beats evenly, until they’re one and the same, taking the feeling literally into his hands—to make sure it never goes away.