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Kisame only gets away with it when Itachi is asleep. Or when he is pretending to be, at least.
Despite the trust between them, despite their combined power which ought to have allowed them the peace to sleep soundly without fear of any opponent, years of shinobi life did not breed heavy sleepers. It took a lot to startle Clan Killer Itachi upright in bed, shuriken between fingers and the wheel of the sharingan spinning, but the sounds of animals in the underbrush or staff moving through the corridors of an inn is enough to wake a shinobi of any caliber. And both of them had been excellent shinobi their whole lives, ninja instincts coming easier and faster to them than any others. So Kisame knew it was more than illness taking its toll on Itachi’s body, making him harder to wake. Or Itachi’s trust in him, in their ability, allowing him to rest easier. Itachi held still and breathed deeply on purpose, feigning sleep and allowing Kisame’s fits of pique.
He would never allow them this kind of tenderness during the day. Itachi staved away sweet words and gentle touch from his partner with sharp glares and a cold shoulder. He was not allowed sentimentality in the daylight, but in decrepit little ryokan and in their campsites under the cover of night and veneer of sleep, he let himself be hopelessly, embarrassingly soft. It was indulgence for both of them, unspoken and unacknowledged. Kisame getting to feel human for a brief moment, to treat Itachi how he wanted to. For Itachi, Kisame’s occasional sweetness was too close to something good, which Itachi felt there was no place for in his life. But he let himself indulge, sometimes, as long as it wasn’t habitual. Not enough to make him soft and forgetful of his guilt, or truly happy for any amount of time. Dango and long soaks in onsen and affection from Kisame, his vices.
Sometimes Kisame runs his fingers gently through Itachi’s thin hair, scratching his scalp. Moonlight will illuminate the hollows in his cheeks, alighting on the bags under his eyes as Kisame traces them with his fingers, affectionately stroking his cheekbones. Smoke from the campfire diffuses into their hair and skin as Kisame breathed in his partners’ scent. Different nights have him pressing gentle, barely-there kisses into Itachi’s exposed skin, which always feels feverishly hot against his lips. He laps apologetically, worshipfully, at the indentations of his own teeth at Itachi’s neck, watching the tendons jump as the other suppresses his instinct to flinch away from Kisame’s cold lips.
Sometimes he fishes out Itachi’s comb and painstakingly detangles his partner’s long hair. The former Konoha nin was perfunctory about his own appearance, seeming not to notice the wicked edge of his own beauty, and never treating himself with the level of care warranted. Kisame replaced the tie around his ponytail when it became worn, sometimes smoothed oil through the ends. Once, he’d even woven a lumpy and misshapen braid into Itachi’s hair, still damp from their bath, trying and failing to remember the pattern his mother’s had been worn in. He’d meant to undo it before his partner had awoke, lest he find evidence of Kisame’s sentimentality, always so unwelcome between them. But that morning had seen Itachi clenching his jaw in the mirror, tracing trembling fingers over the plait, while Kisame pretended to still be asleep, tangled in the covers behind him on the futon. Wordlessly, he had arranged his hair back into a loose ponytail. Kisame had bitterly swallowed down a feeling he’d been unable to name, and began performatively waking up, not fooling Itachi for a moment.
Tonight, sitting in a cave and listening to the waves crash onto the cliffs below them, Kisame rasped a handful of sand over Samehada. He was speaking lowly to the sword as it wriggled in his hands. He wasn’t sure it couldn’t understand him, at the very least, and it was better than talking to himself. It responded like it did know what he was saying sometimes, in growls and other animalistic vocalizations, and the sword was at least as much his partner asItachi was, even if the other missing nin was a better conversationalist. Marginally. Itachi silently sharpened his kunai across from him, the guttering campfire spitting up smoke between them. They’d smell of it, and Kisame of the ocean. He watched the precise motion of Itachi’s wrist flicking the blade over the whetstone, the movement automatic and perfect. Kisame wondered how old he’d been when he’d started doing it, if Kisame had been any older when he’d started tending the practice swords of the other Swordsmen. The evidence of how long he’d been sharpening tantos and katana covered his broad hands, lines across all his fingers. Itachi’s hands were not speckled in scars like his, but he wasn’t without the consequences of their lifestyle.
Across Itachi’s left earlobe, nearly bisecting it, there was a raised scar which he’d noticed one night as he kissed it. Itachi had made a quiet sound of discontent, fisting his fingers sharply into Kisame’s hair and Kisame had responded accordingly, nipping at the scar instead, and gripping his waist harder. Another time, dark ponytail wrapped around his fist, a couple of white lines on the sides of Itachi’s neck stood out against his flushed skin. Itachi does not indulge post coital affection from him, so it isn’t until later, while Itachi had his eyes closed and was breathing deeply, feigning sleep, when Kisame was stroking the scars on his neck that he realized they all must have been aimed at his face, trying to take out the sharingan.
Itachi moved slightly towards him, snapping Kisame out of his contemplation of the other man’s body.
“Itachi-san?” As close as they got to pet names. Itachi tucked his kunai back into an unseen pocket and gestured at him again, holding his hand out.
In the light of day sometimes their actions belied their closeness. The way Kisame unthinkingly stuck out a hand to grasp Itachi’s slender ones, carefully repainting his fingernails, and then tugging a foot into his lap to touch up his toenails whenever he reached for his own nail polish. Itachi ran his fingers across Samehada’s scales affectionately, the sword chittering in delight, nibbling at his fingers, or feeding him extra chakra unprompted, sometimes reaching for it to redo its bandage wrappings more neatly. When Pein called upon them, Itachi slumped against Kisame’s back during their meetings, his head once lolling onto Kisame's shoulder during the days-long sealing of the jinchuuriki. One of them often carried both of their hats. They hadn’t reserved a room with more than a single futon in a long time. They tangled their legs together under tables in the restaurants and tea houses they stopped in. Eating off each other's plates, picking out the things the other preferred to eat, although more and more Kisame finished both of their meals.
Hopelessly fond, Kisame passed his partner his own weapons pouch. There was no chance Kisame’s scarcely used ninja tools needed sharpening, but Itachi insisted on the meticulous upkeep of all of their supplies. Still razor sharp from the last time he’d done this, Kisame watched as a shuriken point sunk into the pad of Itachi’s finger when he tested it, shaking his head. He watched as the other man stuck the digit into his mouth, grinning while Itachi rolled his eyes.
Samehada in his lap growled at him for his inattentiveness, and he patted it apologetically. Brushing the excess sand and shed scales off his lap, Kisame reached for Samehada’s bindings and began to replace them, the sword protesting briefly and then falling still as it always did when it was covered. He glanced at the traps he’d set earlier around the entrance of the cave, checking to make sure they were set properly, but his eyes were drawn to the movement of Itachi’s thin shoulders in his peripheral.
He had dropped Kisame’s kunai, the rest of his weapons spilling from the pouch into the sandy floor of the cave. Itachi clapped a hand over his mouth as he coughed, horrible, wet hacks that shook his whole body. Itachi’s illness was just another macabre spectre that haunted them both, but it did seem like it was getting worse more recently, looming closer. Constant companionship didn’t allow for many secrets, but Kisame knew that Itachi had stopped seeking the medicine he’d taken for so long to suppress his symptoms. And now… it sounded bad, and Kisame could smell the blood on his breath when the coughs finally subsided. It turned his stomach.
“Itachi…” Kisame started, but Itachi turned his back to him, kneeling to collect the weapons he’d scattered. Acting like he hadn’t heard. Kisame grit his teeth in frustration. There was no use in trying to convince Itachi to prolong his life, and Kisame would not ask him to anyway.. Itachi was steadfast in what he believed he deserved. But it was hard to watch him waste away.
Sighing, Kisame dug through their bags and laid out their bedrolls flush to one another, throwing his cloak over both of them. Sand was by far not the worst he had slept on, but he wasn’t looking forward to getting it out of all of their things in the morning. The rasp of metal against whetstone started up again behind him. Kisame settled into bed, such as it was, considering how early he should get up if he wanted to swim before they were back on the road the next day. There was probably only a couple of hours of sleep before him. He tossed his hitai-ate in the general direction of their bags, and laid down.
“Good night Itachi-san.” He called out, rolling so his back was to the fire, to Itachi.
“Good night, Kisame.” Itachi responded from across the campsite, fingers still flicking shuriken across the whetstone, his shadow distorted across the cave wall. Kisame would probably never use them. Itachi should just take them, he thought, but it was better to be prepared for anything.
The monotonous sound of Itachi’s careful work, and the distant crash of waves eventually lulled him to sleep. Even though he was on the run, Kisame is sure he sleeps better with Itachi as his partner than he ever did with a whole team or any of the other Swordsmen at his back. He was awakened only when he felt Itachi climb into the space next to him on their makeshift pallet, the smoldering embers of their fire the only indicator of how much time had passed. Kisame grunted as he rolled over, not opening his eyes. He moved on the sand, just a little, so Itachi had more room on the blankets.
The other man pulled the blanket over them both, then surprised Kisame by settling in close to his back. Kisame’s eyes nearly snapped open, giving away his wakefulness. It was rare that Kisame retired before his partner, but rarer still was it that Itachi allowed himself to initiate physical affection. Sex, yes. Itachi often prompted Kisame to bite his neck, pull his hair, choke him. Fuck him hard. But the kind of covert tenderness that Kisame typically enjoyed and Itachi allowed was not usually something perpetuated by Itachi. But the line of his sharp nose nuzzled at the side of his neck, pressing a feather light, ticklish kiss right under Kisame’s gills, and letting out a soft sigh. Gently, he carded his fingers through Kisame’s hair, who felt the warmth from his partner’s actions leave his body as suddenly as it had settled in as the other man pulled away to cough hard again. He could still smell the old blood on Itachi’s mouth, on his hand where he’d tried to stifle his coughs earlier. Dread filled Kisame as the scent of iron grew stronger. He’d known that whatever was between them had an expiration date, but as Itachi sickened that day seemed to approach ever quicker.
Steeling his nerve, he rolled back over to face Itachi, who immediately tensed in surprise. He tugged Itachi to his chest, holding him close and burying his face in the other man’s hair. This was not something they did while awake, and it clearly unnerved Itachi. He felt brittle in his arms, something breakable, still tense like he was going to push Kisame away or protest. Eyes shut, Kisame held him tighter and after a long moment, Itachi relaxed, breath leaving him in a shudder. Pressing a kiss on the crown of Itachi’s head, he tucked the other man close to him. Itachi curled into him, breathing still ragged, and body shaking as he hid his face in Kisame’s collarbone. Sleepily, Kisame marveled that they’d never slept like this before, it felt as natural as breathing to be curled around Itachi, two halves of one whole.
In the morning, they would not speak of it- of Itachi’s tears that have started to seep into Kisame’s shirt, nor the Kisame’s into Itachi’s hair. They wouldn’t discuss how tight Kisame’s arms got around Itachi. Or the nameless bond whose name was clear to them, but never spoken. Kisame would slip out of camp before the sun broke the horizon, alone in the frigid ocean for hours before Itachi appeared on the rocky beach with their things, still smelling faintly of their campfire.