Chapter Text
Kisame isn’t much of a sensor. It’s Samehada that gives him the ability when they’re fighting together. With the sentient sword bundled up to sleep in its bandage swaddling, he’s no more aware of chakra signatures than any resonably alert shinobi. But he’d have to be a damn civilian to miss the big sloppy wad of chakra off to the side of the road. He half wonders if he’s stumbled across one of the bijuu, and will have to decide whether to capture it years ahead of schedule.
He stops and puts his hand to Samehada’s hilt. The sword’s strange, simple mind brushes groggily against his, annoyed at being woken, but perks up as it smells the new chakra. The impression is conveyed to him that this chakra tastes like whale. No, seal. Eh, kinda seal AND whale. How on earth do you know what those taste like? he muses, but the answering impression isn’t something he can interpret.
Whoever is lurking over there in the trees, waving their sea mammal chakra around like they’re trying to get rid of it, isn’t moving very fast, but they’re moving, not lying in wait or something. Not being quiet either. On top of the blatant rustling of leaves and snapping of twigs, there’s even a muttered “Whoops?” and a tired-sounding giggle.
Still, Kisame waits. He’s not in a hurry. He doubts Itachi will arrive at their rendezvous point sooner than tomorrow morning. They split up to take on two missions at once, since it’s probably not a good idea to take Itachi anywhere near Konoha less than a year after his spectacular crime, and the missions weren’t remotely difficult for shinobi of their caliber. Kisame finished his sabotage of river traffic in half an hour, and that was with taking his time and having fun. Itachi’s mission to subtly delay a courier probably only took half a second, with those eyes of his. Genjutsu of a mislabeled crossroads or something. He’ll show up looking bored and icy and pretending he’s not relieved he didn’t have to kill anyone this time. The kid thinks Kisame doesn’t know he’s not as bloodthirsty as his reputation says he is. It’s cute. The point is, this is a bit of a vacation, it’s a warm day, and Kisame doesn’t mind standing around in the dappled shade of the ridiculous Hashirama trees to listen to Whale-Chakra-San trip over every root they meet.
After what has to be at least ten minutes, there emerges from the undergrowth just about the gaudiest little figure Kisame has ever seen outside a daimyo’s court. The child of uncertain gender is wearing a long fur coat, dyed indigo, edged with bright red and yellow embroidered bands, belted with red leather and several varicolored cords, and fringed with dozens more cords, strings of beads, and colorful ribbons, falling from the shoulders all the way to the hem. The coat sags and drips, festooned with brown moss and rotting reeds. The child’s bright copper hair is long, intricately braided with beads and gold ornaments, bedraggled, and wet. More gold stuff shows at throat and wrist, there are big gaudy earrings, a thick circlet set with cloudy red stones, and overall the whole business gives the impression of a giant festival-colored string mop that’s been thrown through a jewelry store into a pond.
The way the kid stumbles and shivers, they’re crosseyed with fatigue or fever or something. No threat, anyway. Only when Kisame moves does the kid notice him. Watches him approach without a hint of fear, though maybe a little awe. They stop and wait for him, and when he’s close, they blink pale blue eyes at him and smile.
Kisame considers several opening questions. What the hell are you wearing? Fur in this heat, are you crazy? Why are you wet? What’s wrong with you, and is it contagious? Why in the world does Samehada say your chakra tastes like whale? Didn’t anybody teach you to hold it in? It’s just everywhere. It’s embarrassing. You’re going to attract every sensor on the continent going around like that.
The little clown gets their question out first, in hopeful and delighted tones: “Are you a god?”
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The lonely crossroad inn is peaceful beneath the paling stars, the air cool and damp but holding the promise of another hot day once the sun rises. Itachi hesitates, staring up at the one lit window on the second floor. He’s trying to figure out why Kisame isn’t alone.
There’s a second person there, on the opposite side of the room from Kisame, both of them holding still. The Sharingan can’t see chakra through walls very well; all he can tell of this second signature is that it’s child-sized and quiescent. That doesn’t guarantee it’s not a threat. He knows, much better than he wants to, how young killers can be. But considering Kisame’s love of battle, he supposes if there was going to be a fight it would already have happened. Try as he might, he can’t think of any reason why Kisame would’ve picked up a child. It’s too soon to collect jinchuuriki. Kisame isn’t the charitable type, nor is he a pervert. They haven’t taken any kidnapping missions. They’re not recruiting at the moment, not that he knows of. What can this possibly be about?
While paranoia has always served him well, at this point he’s just getting eaten by mosquitoes for no reason. He leaps lightly to the narrow balcony and slips in the window.
His first glance tells him Kisame is genuinely relaxed, lounging at the low table with a nail clipper and a bottle of umeshu, so he can take his time studying the other person in the room: a skinny red-haired boy sprawled starfish-like on a futon, covers shoved aside and pillow soaked in drool, wearing nothing but — “Is that my underwear?”
“Well, mine would be too big,” Kisame says reasonably. “No need to whisper, he’s dead to the world.”
“Mine should be too big as well.” He’s fourteen, not… whatever this boy is, eight or nine.
“Safety pins.”
“Why do you have my underwear? What happened to his?” It’s a silly thing to get stuck on, but he can’t seem to let it go. His relationship with Kisame is not one that admits to underwear. There’s a professional distance. This is outside his comfort zone.
“It was in my laundry, no idea how long it’s been there. Have you eaten? I saved you nimono and a couple rice balls.”
Itachi doesn’t sigh, because he isn’t expressive like that, but the impression is there in the slow way he turns to the table. Still, he’s not angry, only confused, and Kisame is the most tolerable of his new colleagues. “Thank you, Kisame-san,” he says politely, and doesn’t speak again until he’s finished the cold stewed vegetables and rice. Kisame returns to his manicure, trimming rough callus and hangnails that might catch on clothing or be a distraction, touching up the lacquer. When he finishes eating, Itachi takes the bottle of remover and gets to scrubbing off the chipped black stuff he has on. “May I borrow your lacquer? I’ve run out of mine.”
“Are you sure you want to match?” the swordsman rumbles with gentle humor. “What if the other missing-nin make fun of us?” Itachi’s flat look only makes his smile wider, but he hands over the bottle of purple.
When he first joined Akatsuki, Itachi thought the nail polish part of the uniform was rather silly, but it actually does help keep his nails from peeling or splitting after exposure to harsh weather, fire jutsu, and so on. Even Konan can’t make him care what color he uses, though.
After fifteen minutes of silence, Kisame finally gets tired of waiting for him to ask, and says, “He walked up to me in the road and asked if I’m a god. He thinks he’s dead and this is the afterlife.”
“Why is he in our room?” That’s the thing that most needs explanation, in Itachi’s opinion.
Kisame ignores that. “Wait until you see what he was wearing. As far as I can gather — which isn’t very far, because he was drugged out of his tiny mind — his clan decked him in gold and drowned him in a bog. He was supposed to ask the gods to save them. He’s declared himself my servant in exchange for sending them good fishing.”
“Kisame.”
“If I hadn’t let Samehada have a snack, his chakra would be announcing us to the world right now. He’s got tons of it and no control at all. Didn’t seem to understand what I was talking about when I mentioned it, and his calluses look like boat work, not weapons, so I’m guessing he was raised civilian. He must have pulled some kind of instinctive teleportation jutsu on the verge of death.”
“Kisame, are you saying a civilian child invented something like Senju Tobirama’s Hiraishin while drowning?”
“Why not? Red hair, blue eyes, outrageous chakra, sealing tattoos, comes from a lost clan starving by the sea somewhere? I honestly think ‘ignorant remnant of the Uzu diaspora instinctively teleports somewhere warm’ is more likely than — I don’t even know — someone dunking a kid in ice water and shoving him at us for kicks.” He finally turns to Itachi. Looks him in the eye, unafraid of the Sharingan, which Itachi has always appreciated. “He was hypothermic. Do you know how hot it was today?”
“I’m wearing the same thing you are,” Itachi says dryly.
“Exactly. He was wearing a fur coat, fur-lined boots, and thick wool clothes. Samehada says his chakra tastes like whale. They eat whale in Snow Country, don’t they?”
Itachi studies the boy again. Pale as paper, and thin in a way that says famine rather than growth spurt. There are blue-green geometric shapes tattooed around his bony wrists, and a series of dots, spaced in triangles, on top of one foot. It obviously means something, but the pattern is completely alien. Itachi supposes they could be primitive seals. Sections of his hair are kinked as if they were recently in braids. Itachi blinks at Kisame. “Did you brush his hair?”
Kisame shrugs. “Kid fell asleep in the bath,” he says, as if that’s an explanation.
Itachi is beginning to suspect that Hoshigaki ‘Sharks Eat Each Other In The Womb’ Kisame is not as heartless as he claims to be. Although maybe he just likes being called a god.