A/N: I was bored. There aren't any KisaSasu fics, either. This isn't really one, but it's got them both. It will be about the fifth one of FF.

Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto, and I'm not making any money off this

Ratings: R

Genre: Angst

Warnings: Citrus, character death, yaoi

Main Characters: Kisame and Sasuke

Additional Notes: The title, "Amai" (甘い), means "Sweet."


In the dim of the hotel room, Kisame smiled grimly as he surveyed his handiwork. Eighteen-year-old Uchiha Sasuke swayed before him, eyes narrowed and somewhat unfocused, staring at a point somewhere near his left ear. He watched quietly as Sasuke blinked—the eighty-fifth time since they had staggered up the steps from the bar below. The younger nin reached out to brush his fingers over Kisame's gills and the taller man flinched away slightly. He marveled with a sense of detachment at the anger that suddenly flared in the now crimson eyes as those pale hands twisted in his hair and those soft lips were slammed against his own.

The boy tasted of saké. Damn, but he was sweet as Kisame tasted him fully, pushing him back toward the ramshackle bed. Sasuke gasped quietly as he fell back onto the old, discolored mattress. In a matter of moments and drunken fumbling, their clothes hit the wood floor like so much snake skin. He paused for a moment in his ministrations, his amber eyes softening at the juxtaposed sight beneath him. It wasn't Sasuke his eyes saw, but a dream, a ghost that could have been that continued to haunt him. Itachi.

The moment was lost as the avenger bucked beneath him—the cold hatred returned and with it, his sharp grin. Had the saké not addled his reasoning, Sasuke might have realized he was baring his back to the enemy when Kisame flipped him. However, with the alcohol still coursing through his veins, the only sound of protest from the last Uchiha was a short, quickly eclipsed growl.

Kisame was careful not to allow his eyes to linger too long on the white expanse of skin that seemed such a carbon copy of what he had lost—of what had been taken from him—and by the very one he resembled, no less. Itachi's death at his younger sibling's hands had been anything but grand, or epic. It had been dirty, tainted, and horribly crude. Kisame had watched from the shadows, entirely numb, as Sasuke's chidori tore through the elder Uchiha. He was only mildly surprised to see a look of something very near . . . contentment in those jet eyes, just before they closed, after the initial shock dissipated. Itachi, he was certain, had no regrets.

Unlike Itachi, the same could not be said of him. Kisame had one regret—the most painful. He had not held Itachi, not even once in the ten long years they had been partners. He had not told the younger man just how much he had cared. He had waited too long, too content to allow the phrase "I'll tell him tomorrow" rule his actions day after day. Now he had lost his tomorrow, and any chance he could have had.

For a year, he had survived without a tomorrow, night after long night of nothing before him.

Tonight would be the last night he did so.

Beneath him Sasuke moaned with every thrust and Kisame could almost fool himself that it was Itachi. He knew it was a lie, and a painful one at that, but decided it wouldn't matter come morning. The dream would live, at least, for one night. His teeth sank into that thin, pale shoulder and the Uchiha released a strangled cry, bucking back into him. The blood tasted bitter and coppery on his tongue—only mildly unpleasant. He forced himself in deeply, quickly, repeatedly. He was deaf to Sasuke's screams, blind to the red that had begun to stain the perfect white skin. All he could see was that face, washed in scarlet.

The flimsy bed groaned in protest to his actions, even as Sasuke whimpered. Finally, he finished, releasing deep within the Uchiha. Sasuke was left panting and completely unaware, his face pressed against the pillow, his legs tangled in the dirty sheets, spread slightly. Kisame's breaths came in harsh gasps and he swallowed as he reached down into his pack. The kunai blade pricked his fingers and sliced a thin line down his palm when he pulled it free, but he didn't care.

He studied the weapon for a moment, tired and grim. This was it. His plan would be wholly complete by tomorrow. My last tomorrow. With that thought, he drove the kunai into the younger man's back, into his heart. He merely watched dispassionately as Sasuke convulsed, spasming beneath him. Then he was still. Revenge was sweet, and he could still taste the blood.

Kisame sighed, disentangling himself from the body slowly dyeing itself red on the filthy bed, the blood mixing with the sweat and fluids. He left the kunai buried to the hilt in Sasuke's back. He had no more need of it—it had served its final purpose. He dressed slowly; he was shaking as he fell into the small, simple wooden chair, his head in his hands. His gaze drifted over to where Samehada rested near the door, dropped there in his haste to complete his plan. He was well aware he would never hold it again. He clenched his fists, turning away and towards the single window.

It was morning now, and the horizon was painted red, gold, and black as the last of the night was burned away. Idly, Kisame wondered if Hatake had received his message. He supposed so. It wouldn't be long, he hoped. It wasn't. A short two hours passed and the black had finally faded from the sky when the Copy Nin arrived, shocked to find his former student tangled in the messy sheets, a kunai in his back, and his killer waiting patiently in the small corner chair. Kisame did not even look up or bother to explain amidst the Copy Nin's cries—he simply waited for the inevitable end.

He decided, as the chidori tore through him, that the revenge and saké had been sweet, but the reunion would be sweeter still.


A/N: Well. That's the end. Please, tell me what you thought—review!