His partner did complain ALOT about being too tired many times before, it was a bridge to ask for favors that he never would openly admit. Too dry outside—he wants cold tea. It's too hot—he needs to be fanned. Some of those he just overlooked or took as a joke; even forgot for their business-relationship's sake.
But "Too tired to shower?" that was a new one. He couldn't answer right away—those black eyes staring at him as if he was doing something completely mundane as ordering a cake.
How could he even refuse? His answer was to undress—and lock the door behind them.
"Eehh? What? Something wrong?" Kisame sat behind him. Fingers that finished massaging the rest of shampoo from their black hair now had adventured lower. Tracing, massaging as his eyes followed their back and palms of hand now laid down over their chest." I see you're not too tired to complain, nee. Itachi san ~"
When he told Kisame he was too tired for a shower, he didn’t expect his partner to take it upon himself to ensure he had one. Itachi waits for the other sandal to drop, expecting a punchline to what is an obvious joke any minute now. It never comes. There is no flood of cold water tossed over his head, no rough handling. In fact, Itachi would go as far as to say Kisame has taken special consideration to ensure the water temperature is just right. And his hands, large and calloused, are nothing short of gentle.
Amused, Itachi allows his partner to untangle his hair, head rolling forward as tense muscles relax. Mind drifting, his gaze locks on the foaming water pooling around his feet, and belatedly he notices the spinning tomoe in his eyes.
Suddenly, he straightens as if snapping awake, yet everything remains the same. Except the person scrubbing his back.
“Close your eyes, Itachi. One, two, three-” An obedient child, he does as he’s told. Tepid water streams through his hair and over his face as his mother washes the suds from his body. Although he’s squeaky clean, angry red grazes remain on his knees. A reminder of an earlier training session.
There’s splashing to the side, from the tub. It’s Sasuke, who has made it his personal mission to flood the entire bathroom, much to Mikoto’s chagrin. Itachi wants to look, but his eyes remain fixed on the puddle by his feet, captivated by the ever-expanding ripples caused by each drop from his skin. An endless cycle of motion, much like the memories echoing in his mind.
Beyond the bathroom’s walls, there are voices. No, a radio. His father’s favourite song begins, and the volume rises for the 3 minutes it’s on air. Fugaku has always liked classical music.
“Itachi, keep an eye on Sasuke. I need to check on dinner.” A simple request, but Itachi has no control over his limbs.
The words lodge in his throat, refusing to be released. His head feels like an anchor; heavy, weighted, unable to swivel and fulfil his duty. How can he look after Sasuke when he can’t even break free from his own restraints? There are no answers, only an echo of ‘I can’t’ reverberating in the chambers of his head.
Startled back to the present with a gasp, Itachi immediately notes his unmarked knees. An uncomfortable sensation tightens around his heart, and he instinctively tries to alleviate the pressure by clawing at the area. It takes a moment to realise he has been tearing at Kisame’s hand.
“I’m sorry. I can take it from here.” His shoulders feel stiff and Itachi turns his head to look to the side, at the empty bathtub. “Don’t you have to-” Finish dinner? “-check on the perimeter seals?”
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