It’s at times like this though, where Kisame rests on one knee and dips his head to look into the low opening that Itachi has wedged himself into, that he feels the difference between their sizes the most keenly. He squints uncertainly, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the gloom under the craggy outcropping, and looks for the shine of Itachi’s eyes in the darkness. There, at the back, far out of reach. Kisame shifts uncomfortably, resting one hand on the top lip of the opening and leans his head a little further into the low cave.

“Itachi-san,” he inquires politely, “What are you doing?”

He is met with silence from the back of the cave and the slow, steady drip of water somewhere off to one side. His outward show of calm indifference is one that he has practised especially for times such as these. Masks for a ninja, should be as varied and easy to slip on as the paper masks of the summer festivals. With Itachi, Kisame has learnt that the best mask is often indifference. With genius comes madness they say, but then, Kisame supposes that they are all mad, if only a little. Except for him. He is perfectly fine, of that he is quite certain.

He waits a few more minutes, as long as he dares, not quite willing to risk his partner’s ire by repeating the question, before flicking an eyebrow and rising to his feet, dusting off his cloak with his palms.

“I have secured us a room at the Sailing Lotus. It’s on the corner of the main street, by the bakery. Second floor, room eight.”

He waits. No answer. Kisame sighs quietly and sets off back through the forest to the town below.

Over the years he has been working with the Uchiha prodigy, Kisame has become accustomed to the occasional runs of mental instability that accompany the gift of genius. Throughout his career as a shinobi, the Mist nin has met many gifted, exceptional or just plain eccentric ninja, but even he has to admit, he has never quite met anyone with the same emotional edge that Itachi possesses. Or rather, it’s more like the complete lack of an emotional edge. During their partnership, Kisame has seen the full range of Itachi moods, from silent, deadly calm, through silent, deadly interest, to silent, deadly rage. He’s been on the receiving end of most of them, except perhaps for the silent, deadly rage. Kisame is man enough to admit to himself, if not anyone else, that should the Uchiha turn his rage and his Sharingan gaze upon his partner, then it is most likely that there will be but the one of them walking away from the encounter with any sanity remaining. He thinks about that for a while as he lies on his back and stares blankly up at the ceiling of the inn. It is not, he concludes, at all certain if that thought should not have read more along the lines of “any such encounter would result in the last of the partnership’s quota of sanity being completely eradicated.” Somehow he thinks, that feels more accurate.

It is not that Itachi is a raving lunatic; the youth is beyond such petty things as ranting in the streets, insane laughter or diabolical master plans (although Kisame has to admit, such things would be a welcome break from the actual manner in which Itachi does manifest his insanity). Itachi’s madness, if it can even be referred to as such, is in his inability to comprehend emotions and emotional consequences, leading to his almost total disconnection from the rest of Humanity. Itachi simply does not think like other human beings. He lacks the ability to empathise, and the subsequent methods of his existence are often contrary to everything held dear by the average person on the street.

Because he does not comprehend emotional consequence or such effects his actions have on his victims, he has no need of guilt. Kisame would say that his partner lacks even the ability to feel such an emotion, but sometimes, just barely, there is something that might be a flicker of a reaction, a hidden edge of emotion usually distant behind those moody red eyes brought suddenly, inexplicably to the surface. It’s times like that which truly frighten Kisame. It’s at times like that he knows he should be either running for cover or positioning himself at the Uchiha’s side where he can avoid the worst of the blast radius by being there to help it on its way.

And then there’s the times that Itachi just loses himself completely. They’re rare, and mostly harmless, and Kisame has next to no idea, even after all these years of working with the boy, exactly what it is that sets them off. During these times the person looking out at him from behind those Sharingan eyes is not the same person that walks the lands beside him, cuts down their prey with his sword and his jutsus, or furthers the goals of the Akatsuki through blood, death, fear and manipulation. This person looks back at him and through him and does not see him at all. This person sits alone and whispers to himself words that are too low for Kisame to hear. Not that he has ever tried too hard to discern the words; somehow Kisame is quite certain he doesn’t really want to know.

Over the years, Hoshigaki Kisame has perfected the art of simply overlooking the rare occasions where his partner’s outward veneer of polite normalcy slips and the veil of his sanity grows a little thin. Those times where Itachi’s hands grip his sake cup so tightly that it cracks and breaks, driving splinters of pottery into his fingers and sending droplets of fine blood to the tabletop. It is better not to listen to the boy whispering into the dark because if you just wait long enough, his eyes will lose that stark look and slowly relax back from their whirling red and black to the gentle stationary resting state of the activated Sharingan. And to be fair to his partner, these incidents don’t happen often and when they do, they’re mostly short-lived.

It is well past midnight when he feels the whisper of Itachi’s chakra in the corridor outside the room and immediately he rolls over in the bed onto his side, lowering his breathing and slowing his heartbeat to imitate sleep. He doesn’t know why he does it, but perhaps it is because he does not wish to provoke the Uchiha’s displeasure by looking like some doting mother waiting up for her errant child. The thought puts a self-deprecatory scowl on his face that is still there when the door creaks open and Itachi makes his way into the darkness of the room.

The nin makes no sound as he crosses the small bedroom and Kisame tracks him by only the barest whisper of a chakra signature, apparent only to one so very familiar with him for such an extended period of years. He listens in silence for the sounds of the heavy cloak being removed, its buttons popping almost too loudly in the quiet room. He measures his breathing by the folding of the garment over a chair, the chink of a kunai holster on the floorboards beside the bed and the soft creak and lowering of the mattress as Itachi puts his weight on it and moves towards him. Kisame waits quietly as the youth slips beneath the covers of the bed and stretches himself out beside his partner.

For a long while there is nothing but the barely perceptible sound of them both breathing and Kisame has just begun to allow himself to drift off to sleep when Itachi shifts abruptly onto his side and rakes his nails down Kisame’s back.

Ah? I see...Kisame thinks to himself and cannot help the grin that stretches his lips into something akin to a snarl. He makes a low noise of protest in his throat because that is what is expected, no, desired of him and rolls onto his back, turning his face towards where he knows the other is watching him. Hands trail down his chest, nails scraping over tough blue skin, catching on his ribs and moving lower to do things that make Kisame’s breath hiss through suddenly clenched teeth.

He knows what the Uchiha desires, they have played this game enough times in the past for him to read the exact request in the touch of his partner’s hands, in the way they pull him down and pretend to threaten all at once, only to slip away and back when Kisame finally gives him what he wants and moves to lie on top of him.

It’s always hard to tell exactly how far Itachi wants to go on these occasions. Kisame has learnt to read the youth’s moods better than any other alive, but these rare times when Itachi lets his grip on both his sanity and his morals slip are so infrequent that he is forced to do more guesswork than he feels strictly confidant doing. After all, he is engaging in acts of a dubious nature with one of the most powerful, dangerous and currently downright unpredictable shinobi in all the Countries. Itachi is a psychopath, plain and simple, and even Kisame must ensure not to provoke him too indifferently.

So he lets Itachi guide him with his nails and his teeth and the grip of his arms around his shoulders. It is at times like this that Kisame appreciates just how small the other man is in comparison to him. From the way they have played this little game of submission and domination both now and before, Kisame supposes that Itachi gets a kick out of the difference in their size. He would analyse the thought further, but the youth is shifting beneath him, pressing against him in the most distracting way and it is a far more interesting prospect to reach down and sink his teeth into the boy’s shoulder and feel his whole body jerk in response.

It is not until sometime later with Itachi pressing back against his thighs, gasping and trembling, the sheer embodiment of heat and need, that Kisame wonders if this is perhaps the only way, outside of torturing his younger brother, that the boy can confirm that he is in fact a part of the human race. This contrary willing submission being the only way that he knows how to manifest any vague resemblance to a guilty conscience, the only punishment explored being the one whereby he accepts that perhaps, just possibly, he too has limits.

Itachi hisses suddenly and stiffens against him, arching back against his chest, Sharingan eyes momentarily unseeing. Kisame holds him through it, fascinated and entranced by his own lust and isn’t surprised when moments later when both their breathing has slowed, Itachi twists and with an elbow below the ribs, shoves his partner to one side and away from him.

Kisame does not bother protesting, nor pursuing, nor sulking. Instead he stretches in satisfaction as Itachi moves away and out from under the covers, stooping to pick up the kunai holster from the floor before making his way over to the room’s other single bed. If they are to remain loyal to previous episodes, Itachi will climb into his bed, settle himself and fall asleep leaving Kisame to spend the first part of the night watching over them both until his partner reawakens for his own turn. But Kisame has been thinking tonight, something that has always gotten him into more trouble than he can reasonably handle alone, and so instead of doing the wise thing and allowing Itachi to sleep, he lets his curiosity get the better of him.

“Itachi-san,” he says thoughtfully, amiably. “What exactly were you doing in that cave?”

As soon as the words leave his lips he thinks them a mistake. There is, after all, only so far one can push the Uchiha prodigy before he pushes right back; harder, sharper and faster than Kisame ever could. Without realising it, he holds his breath as he listens to his partner shift, pause and then, after a long, tense moment, settle again without answering.

In the dark, Kisame relaxes and lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. Perhaps it’s better that he does not get an answer, he thinks. There is, after all, only so much contact with Itachi’s unique brand of sanity that he thinks he can cope with handling.

Kisame for one, certainly knows his own limits.

They say that with genius, comes madness. The works of the masters so often accompanied by the snapping of the mental fastenings that hold the mind of the creator to sanity. It’s a sad by-product of being gifted beyond mortal reach.

Uchiha Itachi has an altogether different take on the matter.

He observes as Kisame buys bread from a street vendor, the Mist nin watching the vendor’s small boy tossing bones as the woman wraps his purchases for him. The boy is tiny; small-boned and quick-eyed. Olive skin and black hair, with eyes that peer up at the tall stranger fearlessly. Kisame kneels down at a comment from the boy, reaching out one large hand to scoop up the bones and toss them. Quickly the boy reaches over and rearranges the stranger’s hands with deft movements, teaching him tricks and techniques for the art of play.

Itachi’s eyes follow the boy’s intent, disregarding the movement of his hands. Eagerness. Willing. Pride in the teaching of an adult. Enthusiasm and potential. All wrapped up in a tiny package of skin and bone; animated meat to give form to the burning energy of the mind it contains. All these things will slowly become lost as he matures, as his attention is diverted, his pure focus becoming blurred amongst the intrusions of the outside world.

Kisame laughs, deep and gruff and the boy sits back on his heels, amazed. The bones have been thrown, but they never fell to earth. Grinning lazily, the Mist nin reaches over and lifts a bun from the table. Tearing the bread in half he allows the bones to fall from within it. The boy stares from the bones to the bread and then to Kisame’s hands, a thoughtful frown pinching his features. Laughing, Kisame ruffles his hair and stands.

Itachi’s eyes remain on the boy as his partner exchanges words with the smiling vendor. The boy’s face is serious, his mind working through the possibilities to reveal the key to the trick. There is no awe in him now, no childish laughter, only a driving need to comprehend. Itachi approves. If the boy remains that way, holding to his focus and the pure energy of his own will, then he may one day become more than just another nameless face.

The vendor hands Kisame his packages, tilting her head coyly and waving off the money for the bun with one hand. Completely taken in by his partner’s presence. Let no-one say that Kisame is not possessed of his own dark charisma, Itachi thinks wryly. He watches as she pulls her boy away from the stranger before shooing the reluctant child back behind the counter.

Outside intrusions.

Itachi is expressionless when Kisame returns chewing on a piece of bread, but the Mist nin catches the gleam in his partner’s eyes and slows thoughtfully. He follows the Uchiha’s gaze back to the stall, yet he understands his partner enough to know that the youth’s gaze is not seeing the bread display. Or maybe it is. Sometimes it’s hard to tell with the Uchiha prodigy.

Kisame shrugs mentally and holds out the remaining half of the bun.

“Bread, Itachi-san?” he asks blandly.

The Uchiha’s gaze flickers briefly to his outstretched hand before snapping away again. With the barest chime of bells, he turns on his heel and walks away. Kisame shrugs, not offended in the least, and stuffs the entire last half of the bun in his mouth before following his partner back into the street.

Sometimes Itachi feels as though the fire inside him is burning him up. Muscles scorch, bones char and skin vaporises, and he can feel the heat that radiates from the point just below his ribs spreading throughout his body in waves of white. It is perfection straining to be free, tiring of the weary constraints of the flesh. If only he could set that energy loose, transforming flesh to pure intent, then a true evolution could take place. In every fibre of his being, Itachi knows that this is the event that his entire life leads up to.

Every time he opens his eyes and sees, when he looks at the world through the lens of the Sharingan, that gateway into the next level of existence, he comes a little closer to understanding. Sometimes he gets lost in the second world, transfixed by the hand of his shadow reaching out before him. The world of the Sharingan, the true world, is always a step ahead of the physical and it is only here that reality truly reveals itself. Here where he too is pure perfection and all is his to control.

If he had his choice, he would stay forever in the true world.

There is a light drizzle of rain falling by the time they have left the town and Kisame is grumbling about inns and hot food and the foolishness of trading them in for a night out in the cold. For all that he was born and raised in the Country of Mist, the big man has always maintained that one never gets used to the cold and wet, one merely learns to put up with it. Give him a dry inn and a bowl of steaming dumplings over sleeping rough any day.

Itachi paces at his side, eyes downcast to the path ahead, thinking. The boy from earlier has set his thoughts towards his life goal again, his very reason for existing. In truth, the conundrum of his purpose is never far from his mind. It tinges his every thought, sways his every judgement and materializes in all of his dreams, always elusive yet ever a constant companion.

Limits. His abilities are bound only by the limitations of his body and the restrictions that muscle and bone and sinew place upon him. His mind, his very essence, is boundless in its potential. Free one’s intent from the predations of the first world and the flow of purpose courses unchecked. If only people could see that. But they simply did not. Not even the greatest amongst his own family had been able comprehend the magnitude of their true potential, content to merely dabble in the font of true greatness. Too set amongst the constraints of duty and honour; tradition an ever-tightening noose around their necks.

He can see the course of the boy’s future laid out before him, the Sharingan pulling back the obscuring haze of time and granting him clarity. The thread of potential, at first so pure, is twisted aside by the interference of others, snarled into knots by well-meaning outsiders until it turns in on itself and finally dies, lost and faded in the end to dust. Tangled in the threads like a burr he can see the woman’s docile smile, a siren to trap the unwary. The spirit needs purpose if it is to overcome such traps, he thinks and for a moment another boy is in his head, large eyes full of weakness.

Walking at his side, Kisame glances furtively over at his partner’s face. Even from this angle he can see the glimmer of the Sharingan whirling. Very softly, he sighs. Perhaps it is better that they not spend a night around people after all, he thinks to himself.

The sky is darkening by the time they reach a suitable stopping point. A grove of trees, enfolded on two sides by thick scrub, offers the best shelter that the surrounding area possesses. Itachi leaves Kisame to make camp whilst he fishes through their packs for the bread and meat purchased earlier. A small package wrapped in grease-proof paper is tucked neatly away in one corner and the cloying scent of syrup seeps from between the folds. He wonders to himself when Kisame had the opportunity to buy sweets as he tucks it carefully back beneath the rest of the packages. Indulgent, like a child, Itachi thinks.

They eat in silence, cloaks pulled up around their necks as water collects on the brims of their hats, pooling into droplets that slowly gather mass before falling. Itachi stares into nothingness and feels the coils of disgust stir inside him. He is edgy and irritated, unable to focus and with no clear cause for his discomfort. Kisame watches his partner’s face, seeing beneath the stillness to the tension coiling in the wiry frame. The Uchiha’s eyes have not lost their crimson glow and every now and then, the slit pupils curve and begin to spin lazily.

The Mist nin makes a show of tilting back his hat, peering up at the sky through the lattice of canopy overhead and sucking air between his teeth thoughtfully.

“Getting dark, Itachi-san,” he says amiably. “I’ll take the first watch tonight.”

The Uchiha gives no sign of hearing him and without waiting for confirmation, Kisame rises, brushing crumbs from his lap and frowning as they stick to the damp of his cloak. Then, in a small shower of displaced water droplets, he is gone, high into the trees amongst the shadows.

Itachi sits with the rain falling softly around him and watches the shadows lengthen. In his mind’s eye he sees the glimmering golden thread of the future stretching out before him into the darkness. It is as though he could reach out his hand and take hold of it, grasp the glowing cord and have it sear the flesh from his palms with its intensity. He knows however that this physical world does not connect so directly with the one that he sees in his mind, no matter how tangible it may seem. To reach out would be to grasp at air.

Closing his eyes on the darkness, he closes his mind’s eye on the golden thread and leans back against a tree trunk. Pulling his cloak tight around his neck he huddles shivering beneath its shelter, even the thickness of this wool doing little to compensate for his body’s scant frame. He is bone and muscle and tendon, there is no room for anything but the barest of flesh components on this small figure of potent intensity. No room for weakness.

Though his eyes are closed and the Sharingan for the moment lies dormant, his mind still turns in endless circles, gnawing on the unrest he feels and stoking his irritation to further heights. The cold is making his muscles cramp painfully and he has not the patience tonight to simply endure it. His eyes slip open and he finds himself watching the darkness. Beyond the tangled branches and far above the cover of rain-heavy clouds, the stars are burning brightly. Itachi knows that just like those stars, all it requires for him to burn as fiercely and with such intensity, is to loose all claims this earth has upon him. Shed the cloying grasp of flesh and become pure intent, unrestrained by any laws of physics or burden of rules.

It is perfection, the crystal clarity of insight. And superimposed upon the feeling, like a canker, is the image of a small boy. Eyes wide in horror, cheeks wet with tears, choked breath huffing in terror. Full of weakness and failure, nothing short of pathetic and fully blind to the second world. The fabled fire of Uchiha burning but weakly in that small, inadequate creature, no matter how hard his sibling has tried to provide for him. Tried to guide him.

Intolerable, and Itachi’s fist hits the side of the tree trunk with enough force to drive splinters of rough bark deep into his skin.

Despite being under the heaviest part of the forest canopy, sitting high on a thick branch, Kisame is still getting soaked. Here, instead of a light mist of rain, the water gathers on the leaves and runs along the bottom of the branches above, collecting into fat droplets that splatter onto his shoulders with icy accuracy. A thin wind is threading through the treetops, and it lifts the strips of fabric around his hat, tickling his neck with them and stealing the warmth from between the fibres of his cloak.

Hunching his shoulders he tracks the faintest whisper of chakra that marks the movement of his partner below. A minute earlier he had heard the dull crack of the youth’s fist hitting the tree trunk, sending ripples of fury along the tree’s chakra web to where the Mist nin sat. Kisame had pursed his lips and shifted uncomfortably. It always unsettles him when Itachi gets like this, but he knows better than to question the youth on the cause of his anger. It is after all, none of his business.

It is only the barest puffs of chakra as his partner powers his vaults from branch to branch that give him away, but Kisame has worked too closely with the eighteen year old and for too long to be deceived. He feels Itachi alight on the branch to his left and crouch, still and silent, looking out across the forest. It is not nearly time for him to take over the watch yet, but Kisame does not mention the fact out loud. They sit in silence for many minutes, listening to the wind sigh and the small creatures rustle in the brush below. The land around them for miles is peaceful and quiet, the town at the edge of perception a dull throb of living chakra knots. There has been no-one in pursuit of them for weeks now, but still, it is the shinobi way to be ever-vigilant.

With a graceful leap, Itachi moves to crouch on the same branch as his partner. Kisame glances up at him and cannot see the pale, expressionless face in the gloom of cloud cover. He can hear the gentle chime of the bells on the youth’s hat though, and feel the intensity of the other’s gaze upon him. Itachi’s aura is as ambiguous as ever, but Kisame knows him well. The sudden spark of anger from earlier has faded to be replaced by the soft scintillation of an underlying irritation, a loss of focus is how he thinks Itachi would refer to it.

The Uchiha shifts closer and a hint of suspicion is lit in Kisame’s mind. Carefully, wary of being rebuffed, he reaches out a hand to the shadowy form and runs the very tips of his fingers down the other’s cheek. Itachi’s breath sighs warm across his palm and the youth creeps closer, sliding smoothly along the branch on the balls of his feet until he crouches between Kisame’s legs where the Mist nin is straddling the branch.

He feels the youth push up the brim of his hat and lean in close to place his lips on the other man’s. Itachi’s kiss is deep and full of a need that sends a tightness rushing to Kisame’s groin. He feels the young man’s hands come up to grip his shoulders and slips his palms across the wet fabric of the other’s cloak, pulling him close. Kisame is not surprised to feel the slender body shivering beneath his hands, he has long known that Itachi feels the cold keenly.

The Mist nin lowers his head to speak into the crook of the other’s neck, his breath puffing hot across the cold skin there. “Let me warm you.”

Itachi shudders, from the cold or some other emotion, Kisame cannot tell, and snaps open the fastenings on both their cloaks. He slides himself across the Mist nin’s thighs as Kisame lifts open his own cloak and drapes its flaps around the both of them. Itachi is a shivering weight across his lap, pressing chilled flesh against the mesh covering his stomach. Kisame pulls the youth hard against him, feeling the sharp expulsion of breath that the shift in pressure evokes and the blunt dig of fingertips into the muscles of his shoulders. Pleased at the reaction, he presses his face against Itachi’s throat, kissing the soft flesh there. His partner’s breath hisses from between clenched teeth and he lets his head fall back to allow the other full access to his neck.

Kisame moves his lips obligingly across the tender skin and Itachi allows his eyes, unseen by the other, to flicker closed in pleasure. He can feel the warmth radiating from the larger man’s body and he presses close to soak it up, creating a delicious friction between the two of them. If he closes his eyes and allows sensation to flood him, he can turn pleasure into a focus, use the man beneath him to satiate the physical demands of his body. A pure mind can only be maintained if the body is not constantly demanding attention.

Itachi jumps as Kisame’s hand finds the cleft between his legs and strokes him through the fabric of his trousers. He can feel the pulse of blood in his veins, heavy and strong as his flesh reacts to the other’s touch. It’s a powerful feeling and Itachi’s body is young and responsive, swift to quicken and eager for more. It is here, beneath the touch of the Mist nin, the only human he would ever allow to come so dangerously close, that his mind turns to other forms of perfection.

Kisame’s hands are deft and sure as he helps his partner undress just enough to let them continue. The touch of cold air sets the youth to shivering again beneath the cloak and the Mist nin quickly pulls him back close, enfolding him in his arms. The youth is all smooth skin and hot mouth, lean and hard as Kisame gauges the success of his lovemaking by the hitches in his partner’s breathing.

Itachi runs his hands beneath Kisame’s cloak, following the flat planes of muscle across the broad back and scraping lightly across the fabric of the other’s shirt. Kisame’s fingers are gentle but sure between his legs, slipping into places that make Itachi bite his lip and lean into the touch as the Mist nin hums softly in satisfaction.

Slowly, the heat builds between them and the youth’s shivering eventually stops to be replaced by a tension of an altogether different nature. Even with his heart beating as fast as it is and his body as eager as youth can make it, Itachi’s teeth find Kisame’s shoulder and bite down hard as the Mist nin enters him. The large man freezes obligingly, his breath hot on the other’s cheek as he waits for his partner’s grip to loosen, before pressing him back and with aching slowness beginning to move again.

Somewhere between their opening kiss and the first soft cry that escapes Itachi’s lips, the rain drops away to nothing. Up above the clouds drift slowly apart so that Itachi, leaning backwards to meet the thrust of Kisame’s hips, can see the sweep of stars through the lattice of branches. He allows his head to loll backwards as his partner moves beneath him, his gaze fixed on the sky above. Kisame raises his head to the starlight and knows from the far-off look in the other’s eyes that Itachi is close to climax. He growls low against the shifting muscles of the youth’s chest, and feels sharp nails dig hard into the curve of his shoulder in response.

There is a delicious pressure in Itachi’s belly and groin and he can feel the spiral of chakra in his abdomen building in response to the excitement of his body. Far above, the skies call to him and through the blood haze that is the Sharingan, he can see the heavens burning.

He cries out once as he peaks, pulling Kisame tight against his chest, his eyes full of the light of the second world.

So simple, so perfect.

Kisame follows not long after, his sharp teeth biting hard enough to draw blood as he shudders against the smaller man. For a long time they lean against each other allowing their breathing to slow, Kisame waiting for Itachi’s inevitable retreat and realising only after some minutes that the youth seems disinclined to move. Unwilling to remind him that by now he has usually long since withdrawn, the Mist nin rests his head on Itachi’s shoulder, enjoying the gentle loop of the other’s arms around his neck and the soft press of his chin on top of his head.

Itachi can feel the rhythm of Kisame’s heart through the cage of the other man’s ribs and he thinks that somehow it beats in time with the flickering of the star he has focussed on. He knows at the back of his mind, in the analytical shinobi-trained part of his brain, that it is merely the after-effects of sexual exhilaration; a result of the cocktail of chemicals that ignited his blood and flooded his system. Pure biochemistry touched with the second sight of the Sharingan. Physical channelling into spiritual to become more. To become…

Genius.

He does not realise that he has spoken the word out loud until Kisame shifts against him and makes a querying noise in his throat. Itachi’s eyes narrow and he closes his lips firmly, shifting back along his partner’s thighs and rearranging his clothing. Schooling his expression against the gleam of Kisame’s eyes in the starlit gloom, he pulls a tissue from a pocket and quickly cleans them both up. As he works, hands sure and efficient, he feels the glow of euphoria fade. In its place the steady rationality of his purpose remains, a cool glow in the very centre of his chest.

Itachi understands the nature of genius, has always known what no other seems able to grasp. So few see what is necessary and far fewer comprehend what they have seen. True genius, the Uchiha understands, is the ability to cut free from the restraints of normalcy, burning away the ties of the mundane. The true genius is not insane, he merely sees the world in a different light, unbound by the limits and constraints of other people.

Flipping his cloak back into place, the Uchiha rises smoothly to his feet and without a backward glance, leaps unafraid from the branch into the darkness and towards the forest floor hidden far below.

For Itachi knows the secret of true genius, and for him, there are no limits.