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“Can I meet your friends?”
Kisame turns, the laundry basket hilariously tiny in his arms. “What?”
“Can I meet your friends?” You ask again, leaning in the doorway. You should be cleaning the kitchen, you know, but laundry is serious business to Kisame, and consequently, the only moment he won’t run away from this discussion - or, well, tackle you and distract you.
He considers your question for a moment before he points to the tall mirror in your back. “There, look at that.”
“What?”
“You’re my best friend. Meet yourself.”
“That’s not funny, Kisame.”
He grimaces. “I don’t have friends.”
“Coworkers, then.”
Something like panic flashes over his handsome features. “Absolutely not,” he barks.
“Why not? I met Itachi, he’s nice.”
“You adopted him.”
“I did not adopt him!”
“No?!” Kisame’s eyebrows rise in a challenge. “So if I’d pull out your knitting stuff right now, there wouldn’t be a half-done jumper for Itachi there for me to find?”
“He gets cold easily,” you defend the boy. “And he’s over a decade younger than us, can you blame me?”
“He’s the youngest in our group. You wouldn’t like the others.”
“Try me.”
“No.” The laundry basket lands on top of the washing machine. It’s the only warning you get. You don’t hesitate to make a run for it.
He catches you in the kitchen, throws you over his shoulder with ease. No more discussions were held that day.
-
“Why don’t you have friends?” You ask one morning, your hand moving through Kisame’s messy bedhead.
“Hm?” He grumbles, barely awake.
You feel a little bit guilty for exploiting him that way, but you’re curious, and he’s not budging.
“You’re such a great person,” you exclaim and lean in to drop kisses on his nose and cheeks and temple and chin. “I don’t understand why you don’t have a million friends.”
“Killed them all,” Kisame explains, yawning. He pulls you in. “Why are you awake anyway?”
“Too much energy,” you shrug, tickling the sensitive skin on his neck and grinning when he squirms. “You didn’t kill me. What’s the difference?”
Kisame’s quiet for a while. You’d think he fell asleep again if not for the way his hands tense and relax against your skin, something like a nervous habit if he ever had one.
“Why are you asking me so much stuff about friends?” He asks after a while, grabbing your hips and pulling you closer. “Don’t tell me you’re getting bored.”
“Well,” you drag your hand through his hair again, “It gets kinda lonely when you’re away for work,” you remind him. “But I can go to the village nearby if I get lonely. Where do you go?”
“Home,” Kisame kisses your belly button, rests his head there. “What do I need friends for when I have you?”
-x- months later -x-
Blood is dripping from the kitchen table onto the floor.
You grimace at the thought of having to clean that up, but you don’t dare voice it.
Not when the person losing all that blood is cursing like a sailor at the sight of a storm.
“Hey!” Kisame bellows, bringing in a bundle of rags from the back. “You’re a guest. Watch your mouth!”
“My head got cut off!” The guy snarls back, whining. “It fucking hurts!”
“Oh, shut up!” The guy on his right mutters. “I can’t focus like that.”
“Ow! That hurts, Kakuzu!”
Kisame grunts, dropping the rags on the table. “It better. You’re bleeding everywhere, Hidan.”
You avert your eyes from the gore at your kitchen table to raise your eyebrows at Kisame.
He grins back a little helplessly.
“You wanted to meet my friends.”
You huff, getting on your toes to kiss him. “Next time, bring them a little less bloody.”