AN:- Warning for violence and yaoi and both aspects together at once. Bear in mind that these are two serial killers we’re talking about here and you’ll be fine. ;)

I didn’t add this as another chapter to “Limits” though I suspect it would fit into that story just as well.

There’s a clock in the hallway whose ticking sounds like the tapping of fingernails on glass. It has a polished crystal front behind which three brass globes whirl in a dance synchronised to the counting out of time, beat by beat. Kisame hunches over and peers inwards at the spinning mechanism, his eyes reflected back at him all shadows and white.

The ticking sets his teeth on edge here in this elegant, cold hallway with the high, melancholy winds of the Mountain Country sweeping around the building. They sound like they’re pleading to be let in, or perhaps simply pleading, and the constant hum and whine grates on Kisame’s nerves. This whole place makes him feel cold and open, even standing here in the hall of the local Lady. His fingers itch for the hilt of the Samehada, but the blade is tucked away in the mystical folds of a summoning scroll for the sake of propriety and good taste. Kisame remembers now why he doesn’t like nobility. Perhaps being up here on the side of this lonely mountain with only the wind and the trees for company is enough to drive anyone insane.

A panelled door creaks open to their left and beside him, Itachi turns, acknowledging the servant with a grave inclination of his head. Fingers curling and uncurling around the hilt of a blade made of shadows and air, Kisame steps in beside Itachi’s shoulder and follows him in to the study of the Lady.

oOo

The tea that they are served is bitter and old, and the taste it leaves behind on his tongue makes Kisame think of dead, decaying leaves. He sips politely and watches the mats somewhere just in front of the Lady’s knees. She kneels before the window, her kimono white and golden-brown like the trees outside; the hair piled high atop her head the black of the sky-lined branches.

They have listened in silence to her request, sipping the tea that the servant poured, and waited for her to conclude the deal. She is an older woman, but her beauty holds in the fine line of her jaw, grace rescued by the artful application of powders and the finest of bloodlines. She is a widow, her husband lost to duelling and debt, and now not a month past, her only son beaten and abused and left to die in the snow by the old Lord that lives on the edge of her realm.

Politics and the subtle erosion of time on her holdings and power mean that there are no youths left in her household to go out and avenge her grief. No-one to act on her behalf or strike in her name. Just the wind and the snow and the grief of being a woman alone. She has not turned to them once and when she draws the silk purse from her sleeve she tosses it without looking into the space between them. It lands heavy and final upon the mats.

“His life,” Itachi says and she nods once, slowly, her eyes on the sky. Itachi dips his shoulders in a bow and reaches for the purse. The Lady’s arm moves, and the slender fan she holds comes to rest across Itachi’s wrist. He pauses and she turns her head to look at him, her dark eyes falling upon his face and then tracing down over his body. Her eyes flick to Kisame and he returns her gaze with interest. Fine features settle into an expression somewhere between approval and despair and her lips are touched at the corners with the shadow of what might have once been a smile.

“Make him suffer,” she says and her voice mingles with the wind outside, as cutting and chill, but twice as bitter.

oOo

The Lord has guards at his gates and guards on the walls. There is even a guard on the roof, an inexperienced local shinobi who has not the training nor the blood to cross blades with the Akatsuki pair who ghost into his realm. He looks up and there is not even time enough for surprise to widen his eyes before Itachi slits his throat with a kunai.

Blood pools beneath his body, running black across the slates to the gutter. Itachi cleans the kunai on the man’s shirt, then sheathes it, stepping neatly over the blood towards the skylight. Kisame follows him, sidestepping the slick trail and dipping his chin into his coat to hide the steam of his breath in the night air. The moon hangs full and bright in the sky and they remain below the ridge of the rooftop in the shadows where the dead leaves gather amongst the slates.

It is a simple thing to gain entry to the main hall, dropping lightly down to the floor below. It’s all cold flagstones here with thick animal skin rugs thrown across their surface to keep the chill from a person’s feet. The hall is deserted and they skim across the open space, barely ruffling the tendrils of fur as they pass. The Lord’s room is on the second floor, close to the upper study, and they make their way there undisturbed. The guards that stand at the door are nodding and inattentive, trusting in the inadequate wards of a shinobi who is already dead. It is a simple thing for Itachi to charm them into a slumber from which they will not stir and Kisame helps them fall soundlessly to the floor.

Unchallenged, they slip inside the room, Itachi disarming the wire dart traps with the tips of his fingers as Kisame pushes the door softly closed behind them. It shuts with the barest of clicks and its blankness is a reflection of the denial it has upheld for years long past.

oOo

Itachi stands over the crumpled body of the dead Lord and his arms are wet to the elbows with blood. Kisame, watching him from the corner of the room, wets dry lips with his tongue and remembers how to breathe. The only sound in this place is the ragged drip of blood from the tips of Itachi’s fingers and the slow halftime swing of the great, upright clock in the corner of the room. The Uchiha stands in the fall of moonlight from the window and the radiance lights the crimson in his eyes and makes them glow fey and wild.

He turns his head to Kisame who breathes in long and slow, lips pulled back to bare his teeth in a smile or a grimace of shared thrill. Between one half-beat of the clock and the next, Itachi closes the gap between them and Kisame is breathing out just as Itachi’s fingers close around his chin and pull his head downwards.

The young man’s kiss is fierce and tastes of blood. Kisame leans on the Samehada and lets himself be kissed, reaching up finally with one hand to drag his fingers through the gathered strands of the youth’s hair, holding him in place. Breaking the kiss, Itachi laughs softly, breathlessly - the only time his partner ever hears such a sound from him. Itachi only laughs like that when there is blood on his hands and the world is awash in his head with the crimson swirl of his own particular brand of insanity.

Itachi places a fist on the wall behind Kisame’s head and leans in again, his breath hot and sweet against his partner’s cheek. It’s like kissing fire, with the blood pounding in his head and sickly upon his lips, and choking him with its heat. Kisame has to pull away again just to breathe, his fingers tangling in Itachi’s hair and pulling the tie loose. The rasp of their breathing is cut into component bars by the neat ticking of the clock and his grip tightens about the rough hilt of the Samehada. Cold moonlight falls across the Uchiha’s face as he tilts his head back and between one beat of the clock and the next, Kisame looks into his eyes and time stops.

They stand on a beach with white sand and curling sea mist touched crimson and smelling of blood. There is the lap of water somewhere in the near distance, echoing and strange in the half light. He looks around himself and in the second that his gaze is elsewhere, Itachi is gone. A thin snarl pulls at Kisame’s lips, baring his pointed teeth.

A game then.

Following the sound of the lapping water, he pads down through the sand to where the wavelets break with a crimson foam upon the shore. Standing in their gentle rush, with the hem of his cloak just barely lifting above their surface, he listens to the eerie quiet.

“Just like home,” a slow voice whispers in his ear and the smirk that pulls at the corner of Kisame’s mouth is wiped away by the sudden searing pain in his back. He twists, breath hissing from between his teeth, and Itachi punches him hard in the chest with the butt of his katana. In this strange crimson and white place, and here only, does Itachi’s physical strength rival his own, and the Mist-nin plunges backwards into the water.

He hits the surface with a sound like smashing glass and the rush of red plunges over him, forcing its way into his mouth and his nose, washing his vision crimson. It’s not water - this is Itachi, of course it’s not water – it’s blood and he chokes a little, more in surprise than horror. The Uchiha’s games have always contained certain themes, but still, he’s never liked the thought of drowning. Trust Itachi to know.

He flails a little, the pain in his back blooming with every twist of his muscles, but somehow cannot right himself. He coughs as he chokes on blood and strives to touch the fluttering light of sky through its murky haze. Kisame reaches and the surface recedes from his grasping hand until he thinks his lungs will cramp from the pressure. And then a hand reaches down for him, fisting in the collar of his cloak and dragging him upwards.

He breaks the surface and as he does so Itachi kisses him, swinging him up and around to stagger in the sand. Spitting blood around the youth’s lips, Kisame grips the man’s shoulders with a fierce strength, furious at the indignity of the encounter and still buzzing from the closing of the blood over his face and the feeling of drowning. Itachi laughs against his lips and Kisame backhands him. The youth’s head snaps to one side, the curtain of his hair falling across his face, so that all Kisame can see of his reaction is the stiffening of his shoulders and the slight stunned parting of his lips.

They pause a moment, Kisame still coughing slightly, the Uchiha simply holding his position with a poise that tells his partner he is considering the consequences of this new action. Then, slowly, the youth turns to him, and between the strands of his dark hair Kisame can see the glow of his eyes and the wicked curve of his smile. He moves, incredibly fast in this realm that he holds as his own, and Kisame feels the katana pierce his flesh twice, thrice, before he hits the sand. He lies on his back, strength taken from him by the bite of Itachi’s blade, and the youth stands over him looking down, blood dripping with a slow beat from the tip of the katana.

Bleeding to death must feel very much like this, Kisame thinks, but stricken as he is, can do nothing to save himself. Another trick of Itachi’s own private world. He was indeed surprised that he’d managed to get that backhander in before the boy shut him down. Must be slipping, Itachi, he thinks but does not say out loud. There is a fine line between what the Uchiha will suffer and what he will not, and such a comment is more than just a little past it.

Itachi lifts the katana and with a movement that resembles a striking snake, stabs it point down into the sand beside Kisame’s cheek. Smiling coldly, lazily, he lowers himself to his knees, straddling his partner’s body. Placing his hands palms down on the Mist-nin’s chest, he leans forward and kisses the blood softly away from Kisame’s lips.

Kisame breathes into the kiss, feeling the burn of his stab wounds where Itachi leans his weight upon them. The youth is beautiful and wicked and absolutely dangerous, and the combination lights up Kisame’s blood like a flame to pure spirits. He lets himself be kissed, because Itachi has not yet freed him, and watches as the boy unbuttons his cloak with deft fingers, sliding his hands under the netting of Kisame’s shirt. Teeth bared, Itachi leans down to kiss the wounds he has inflicted and they vanish beneath his lips, burning like fire as they fade. When he is done he looks up at Kisame lying struggling to breathe beneath his ministrations and the smile that curves his lips is full of a dark affection.

“Now,” the Uchiha whispers. “Make amends…”

And just like that, Kisame finds that he can move. He lifts his hands and threads his fingers through Itachi’s hair, pulling the smaller man down on top of him and kissing him deeply. Itachi puts up with the handling for almost a minute before he pushes his partner’s hands away and tugs at his clothing. Kisame breathes out and lets him do it.

The Uchiha feels like fire on top of him, his hands tracing burning trails down the Mist-nin’s skin, and Kisame shudders at the touch of fire chakra across the weave of his own water-aligned aura. It hurts, but it hurts good.

Itachi is dexterous and skilful with his caresses and his lips, sliding across Kisame’s body like liquid fire. He leaves behind a trail of bruises wherever his attention wanders, laying down pain and pleasure and finding that sweet, rapturous spot somewhere in between that makes Kisame shudder. He’s more than a little forceful with his touches and his kissing, but the Mist-nin’s grin is feral and his grip around Itachi’s upper shoulders is enough to leave bruises across the pale flesh when the youth arcs his hips and presses into him.

Their lovemaking is fierce and dominated by Itachi, who bites and scratches and digs his fingers in hard enough to make the bones in Kisame’s wrists creak. They finish almost together, Itachi’s eyes a swirl of crimson and far off places that his partner only sees through half-lidded eyes. Gripping the back of Itachi’s head he lets the sensations flood over him and shudders into the youth’s fierce embrace. Then spent, he allows his head to lie back in the sand beneath him, Itachi a slender weight across his chest. One of them sighs and-

The Uchiha takes a step backwards and the world comes into focus around Kisame. Moonlight spills down across the floor and the clock in the corner swings back into rhythm with shattering clarity. Itachi leans one hand against his partner’s chest, breathing in shallow gasps. Kisame places his palms on the youth’s shoulders and pushes him gently away.

The Uchiha smells of blood and sex - they both do - and Kisame shakes his head to clear the lingering remnants of crimson from his mind. In the darkness, the last glow of the Sharingan fades to black and the only indication he has that the man’s gaze is still upon him comes from the tilt of his chin.

“Done here,” Itachi says. Kisame nods once in slow agreement and watches as the Uchiha turns on his heel and steps silently to the window, flicking the edge of his cloak clear of the bloodied corpse as he passes. He slides the panel open, the breath of wind from outside lifting his hair around his cheeks, and taking a deep breath of the night, steps up and away into the shadows.

Kisame wipes the back of his hand over his lips and spits blood on the corpse of the Lord, before stepping up to the sill and following the Uchiha out into the darkness and the night.

oOo

Itachi stands at the edge of the lamplight with Kisame at his shoulder, further back in the darkness. The Lady kneels before the window of her study and her kimono is the colour of the flame at the heart of the lamp. The gentle light smoothes the traces of age from her features and a whisper of what she once was is present in the tilt of her head and the glitter of her hair ornaments.

There is no servant to pour the tea for them this time and she must have noticed the flick of Kisame’s gaze as she presents his cup herself for she says, “I have sent him away. There is no need for him any longer.”

Kisame bows, accepting the cup from her, and for a beat his face is close to her hands before she lets go. Her skin smells of lilies and oil and the tea when he puts the fine china to his lips, is strong and laced with the scent of smoke. Beside him, Itachi shifts and bows low.

“It is done,” he says softly, gently.

She breathes out and her eyes close. “You have done well,” she says and the words are those of a mother to sons that have pleased her. The two nin dip their heads in acknowledgement of her praise and wait for her to give them indication of her next wish should she choose to.

The Lady says nothing more and they remain sipping their tea in a silence broken only by the insistent tick of the brass clock in the hall. In the dead calm of the night, with even the mourning of the winds for once silenced, the little machine can be heard ticking through the very walls. At length, they finish and setting down their cups, bow low to the woman. She nods once to them before they rise, a courtly movement that displays the curve of her neck and the beauty of her features.

They leave her there alone in her study and ghost silently through the hall, past the spinning of the little brass clock and out into the night and the shadows. By the time they reach the foot of the great mountain, the skyline behind them is alight with a glow that makes the dawn breaking to the east look pale.

A brief moment is taken to consider that which lies in the wake of them, and then they leave Mountain Country and head on into the dawn.