It happened on a warm, sleepy summer day. Kisame had been drinking coffee that was too hot when Itachi rolled over in his blankets, turning until he faced the man.

"I'm blind," Itachi said frankly, because he always said everything frankly. Kisame paused, then took another sip of the too-hot coffee, burning his tongue.

!-!-!

Things changed in the way that they stayed the same. Itachi would start a fire while Kisame would set up a camp, and sometimes the younger man would cook the food. The food would be burned, as always, and Kisame would choke it down, washing the charcoal taste with too-hot coffee or too-cold water.

"First watch," Itachi would say, and Kisame would roll himself up in his blankets, closing his eyes against the feel of rocks beneath his back. No, things didn't really change.

!-!-!

Sometimes, while walking down the road, Itachi would stop. He would stand still as a statue, with the faintest shivering, and stare at nothing. His eyes were the color of dried blood, and sometimes, for a moment, the Sharingan wheels would spin frantically, before melting away.

Those were the bad days.

!-!-!

"Shower," Itachi stated at he stood in the middle of the hotel room, hat held between his hands. Kisame plucked the hat from the teenager's fingers and tossed it onto the table in between the beds.

"Left, seven feet."

Itachi was graceful even when he was stumbling, reaching out for a door that wasn't there.

"Your other left, Itachi-san."

!-!-!

Sometimes, after particularly bad days, Itachi would walk around the hotel rooms naked. Kisame would watch him thoughtfully, sidestepping around the younger man.

Itachi stumbled and Kisame fought down the urge to catch him, to keep him from touching the floor, because Itachi was a creature of pride, a creature that wasn't made to touch things such as dirt and wood. Itachi was more than that, higher than that.

Itachi reached out, snagging Kisame's cloak, and fell somewhere between the blue man's legs. He went still, fingers wrapped around the black fabric, then looked up at Kisame, dried blood blank.

"Erection?"

!-!-!

Sex was fumbling and oddly graceful, full of small limbs and large hands. Kisame pulled Itachi on top because Itachi was too something, something that Kisame could never decide. Itachi was meant to be cossetted and feared, because he was as close to perfection as the world would ever get, and having this perfect thing, this creature of habit and pride and perfect insanity, straddling him, moaning like a whore, was all that seemed to matter to Kisame.

Maybe things had changed.

!-!-!

It happened on a cool, lazy autumn day. Kisame was clutching his cup of coffee, thick fingers interlocking around the cup. Itachi rolled over in the multitudes of blankets, his and Kisame's, because Itachi was always cold.

"Trust you," he said frankly. Kisame's lips twitched into something that, in another life, would have been a smile, and he took a drink of coffee, scalding his tongue.

--end

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