November::21
Fandom: Naruto
Characters: Kisame and Itachi
Summary: Kisame and Itachi in the last stages of Itachi's life.
Warnings/Ratings:
Through-out his life, Kisame had been many things, some of then surprising, some of them expected. Perhaps the most surprising, and just bizarre was his new role as a hospice nurse.
Who for? Well, he certainly wasn't watching someone waste away for charity.
In truth, he couldn't even say why he was doing this. He'd never been particularly caring or nurturing when it came to comrades. He didn't form bonds, he didn't see a point when he would, more than likely, see that person's bloody death. The problem happened that when someone stuck around and stayed alive for eight years, being completely impartial to them became a bit impossible. Still, he wasn't sure he'd edge too far past a light friendship--an odd comradeship and morbid fascination. Uchiha Itachi had a way of drawing you in completely without your consent.
Whatever way it had happened, Kisame found himself unwrapping a small needle with glove covered hands, feeling suddenly very out of place at Itachi's bedside. At this point, Kisame had no doubt that Itachi was dying. Between the Mangekyou and the disease, his body was literally breaking down. Kisame wondered if the same genetic quirk that had made him a genius had something to do with how weak his body was, or if the incomplete Mangekyou truly was that harsh. Madara offered no real opinion, considering Itachi now a simple waste of skin.
Some days, Kisame felt inclined to agree. Why would a man try so hard to stay alive just to die?
Despite his thoughts and doubt, he still found himself with that needle, quietly discussing dosage--that much? Really? You sure?--oxygen percentages, diet, and anything else. Kisame knew Itachi was not as weak as he looked. For now, the small man saved his strength so he could make a good showing for his brother. That didn't change the fact that he was dying, he was in pain, and he really did need rather intensive care at times.
"Sharktits," Kisame grumbled under his breath as Itachi winced. He'd learned long ago that the smaller man had a pain tolerance to rival his own, but as the body shriveled, nerves became more concentrated, and more pain on top of debilitating pain. . .
"I didn't know sharks had those," Itachi murmured, making that soft humming noise in the back of his throat as he kept his eyes closed and breathed.
"You've been hanging around the wrong sharks," Kisame returned as he grabbed the small ice pack on the bedside table. Kakuzu railed--had railed about them renting rooms instead of paying for hotels or sleeping outside, but that had stopped being an option. Itachi put on his normal front for the Akatsuki, and a cloak that had always been too big could hide a multitude of wasting sins. Itachi's thin face never changed much. It fact it matured, which helped with the illusion of health because the man now had at least the suggestion of a masculine jawline. Kisame hadn't really noticed a change until he turned around on day and realized how papery Itachi's skin looked, how sunken and bright his eyes.
Then he'd known Itachi was dying.
"It seems safer to stick to one shark. I wouldn't want to complicate things," Itachi took the cold back, doubling up a nearby cloth to press over the growing bruise. His hands were feverish hot, that papery burning quality that slowly consumed Itachi from the inside out.
"Shark monogamy, always a good idea." Kisame wondered idly if the drugs made Itachi inane, or if this was something more. They dying man grasping for humanity and that last attempt to feel human and connected to someone alive. Perhaps it meant nothing, maybe everything.
For now, the certainty was Kisame needed a different vein.
He looked at Itachi's throat, pared down to the bare essentials. He could easily make out the veins there, large and sluggish. Itachi cracked one grey eye open, quirking an eyebrow.
"No."
"They'd be easier."
"No, stop staring lustfully at my neck. . ." Itachi didn't sound half as put out as he should have. He turned his arm over, presenting a hand laced with track marks and faded bruises. Kisame stared at the small hand, looked at the comparatively huge needle and sighed.
Compared to Itachi's hands, Kisame’s were enormous. The dwarfed the needle, the little vein that stood out on Itachi's hand he was trying to skewer. All in all, and impossible task for a butcher. Kisame had missed out on the basic medic training most ninja seemed to have. Itachi could start an IV with aplomb and never roll or blow the vein. Kisame. . .it was a work in process, and when each botched attempt turned up hideous bruises on too thin and pale skin. . .
Something happened when you switched from killer to care giver. Some switch was flipped, somewhere in the primal parts of the brain. Kisame would kick it back if he could, but nothing seemed to work. He held his concentration tightly as he threaded the needle into Itachi's skin, feeling the tiny tense as the bite of the needle registered. Kisame breathed out with relief as he realized he'd gotten it right this time and sat back to start to morphine drip.
"Compassion becomes you." Kisame glanced up to find the very smallest of smiles on Itachi's face--a real one that reached his tired eyes before they fell closed.
Kisame looked at the drug paraphernalia shoved into the waste basket. The Oxygen tank, bloody tissue from bloody noses and what Itachi had been coughing up. He smelled the general stink of sickness. Saw a body failing too early, too fast, with too much pain.
Compassion. This? No. This wasn't compassion. This was another form of torture, one filled with pain for administrator and victim.
And some days, it really pissed him off to watch all his hard work do nothing but alleviate and know some idiotic sixteen year-old acting under delusions of grandeur was going to kill this dying wreck of a man and call it his life's work.
Characters: Kisame and Itachi
Summary: Kisame and Itachi in the last stages of Itachi's life.
Warnings/Ratings:
Through-out his life, Kisame had been many things, some of then surprising, some of them expected. Perhaps the most surprising, and just bizarre was his new role as a hospice nurse.
Who for? Well, he certainly wasn't watching someone waste away for charity.
In truth, he couldn't even say why he was doing this. He'd never been particularly caring or nurturing when it came to comrades. He didn't form bonds, he didn't see a point when he would, more than likely, see that person's bloody death. The problem happened that when someone stuck around and stayed alive for eight years, being completely impartial to them became a bit impossible. Still, he wasn't sure he'd edge too far past a light friendship--an odd comradeship and morbid fascination. Uchiha Itachi had a way of drawing you in completely without your consent.
Whatever way it had happened, Kisame found himself unwrapping a small needle with glove covered hands, feeling suddenly very out of place at Itachi's bedside. At this point, Kisame had no doubt that Itachi was dying. Between the Mangekyou and the disease, his body was literally breaking down. Kisame wondered if the same genetic quirk that had made him a genius had something to do with how weak his body was, or if the incomplete Mangekyou truly was that harsh. Madara offered no real opinion, considering Itachi now a simple waste of skin.
Some days, Kisame felt inclined to agree. Why would a man try so hard to stay alive just to die?
Despite his thoughts and doubt, he still found himself with that needle, quietly discussing dosage--that much? Really? You sure?--oxygen percentages, diet, and anything else. Kisame knew Itachi was not as weak as he looked. For now, the small man saved his strength so he could make a good showing for his brother. That didn't change the fact that he was dying, he was in pain, and he really did need rather intensive care at times.
"Sharktits," Kisame grumbled under his breath as Itachi winced. He'd learned long ago that the smaller man had a pain tolerance to rival his own, but as the body shriveled, nerves became more concentrated, and more pain on top of debilitating pain. . .
"I didn't know sharks had those," Itachi murmured, making that soft humming noise in the back of his throat as he kept his eyes closed and breathed.
"You've been hanging around the wrong sharks," Kisame returned as he grabbed the small ice pack on the bedside table. Kakuzu railed--had railed about them renting rooms instead of paying for hotels or sleeping outside, but that had stopped being an option. Itachi put on his normal front for the Akatsuki, and a cloak that had always been too big could hide a multitude of wasting sins. Itachi's thin face never changed much. It fact it matured, which helped with the illusion of health because the man now had at least the suggestion of a masculine jawline. Kisame hadn't really noticed a change until he turned around on day and realized how papery Itachi's skin looked, how sunken and bright his eyes.
Then he'd known Itachi was dying.
"It seems safer to stick to one shark. I wouldn't want to complicate things," Itachi took the cold back, doubling up a nearby cloth to press over the growing bruise. His hands were feverish hot, that papery burning quality that slowly consumed Itachi from the inside out.
"Shark monogamy, always a good idea." Kisame wondered idly if the drugs made Itachi inane, or if this was something more. They dying man grasping for humanity and that last attempt to feel human and connected to someone alive. Perhaps it meant nothing, maybe everything.
For now, the certainty was Kisame needed a different vein.
He looked at Itachi's throat, pared down to the bare essentials. He could easily make out the veins there, large and sluggish. Itachi cracked one grey eye open, quirking an eyebrow.
"No."
"They'd be easier."
"No, stop staring lustfully at my neck. . ." Itachi didn't sound half as put out as he should have. He turned his arm over, presenting a hand laced with track marks and faded bruises. Kisame stared at the small hand, looked at the comparatively huge needle and sighed.
Compared to Itachi's hands, Kisame’s were enormous. The dwarfed the needle, the little vein that stood out on Itachi's hand he was trying to skewer. All in all, and impossible task for a butcher. Kisame had missed out on the basic medic training most ninja seemed to have. Itachi could start an IV with aplomb and never roll or blow the vein. Kisame. . .it was a work in process, and when each botched attempt turned up hideous bruises on too thin and pale skin. . .
Something happened when you switched from killer to care giver. Some switch was flipped, somewhere in the primal parts of the brain. Kisame would kick it back if he could, but nothing seemed to work. He held his concentration tightly as he threaded the needle into Itachi's skin, feeling the tiny tense as the bite of the needle registered. Kisame breathed out with relief as he realized he'd gotten it right this time and sat back to start to morphine drip.
"Compassion becomes you." Kisame glanced up to find the very smallest of smiles on Itachi's face--a real one that reached his tired eyes before they fell closed.
Kisame looked at the drug paraphernalia shoved into the waste basket. The Oxygen tank, bloody tissue from bloody noses and what Itachi had been coughing up. He smelled the general stink of sickness. Saw a body failing too early, too fast, with too much pain.
Compassion. This? No. This wasn't compassion. This was another form of torture, one filled with pain for administrator and victim.
And some days, it really pissed him off to watch all his hard work do nothing but alleviate and know some idiotic sixteen year-old acting under delusions of grandeur was going to kill this dying wreck of a man and call it his life's work.