The Persistence of Loss

[kasarin]

TITLE: The Persistence of Loss
AUTHOR: kasarin (kasarin/kasarin)
FANDOM: Naruto
RATING: Mature
CHARACTERS: Kisame, Itachi, Obito
RELATIONSHIPS: Kisame/Itachi, Kisame/Obito, past Kisame/Zabuza
TAGS: Angst and Feels, Memory Loss, Unreliable Narrator, Implied Sexual Content, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Canonical Character Death
SUMMARY:

Samehada's power comes at a price: it gradually devours its wielder's memories. But in Kisame's opinion, that's a small price to pay. After all, how can he miss something he can scarcely recall ever possessing?

Better to pay the toll. Better to be strong. Better to use that strength to create a new world, one where silly things like memory loss won't matter.

It is better—isn't it?

The Persistence of Loss

His name is Hoshigaki Kisame. Of that, Kisame is relatively certain. It feels like his name, and he responds to it as though he has heard it all his life. Still, sometimes he wonders. "Kisame" means "demon shark," which seems a strange name to give an infant. Did he acquire it later? Is it an epithet that simply stuck, gradually taking the place of his original name? Has he always been considered a demon, or was there a time he was viewed as less than fearsome—perhaps even innocent?

There is no way to tell, of course. His early childhood memories were the first to go, swallowed by Samehada in exchange for its power. A small price to pay, really. After all, how can he miss something he can scarcely recall ever possessing?

Better to pay the toll. Better to be strong. Better to use that strength to create a new world, one where silly things like names won't matter.

Still, sometimes he wonders.

⁂

He met Uchiha Itachi by the sea. That, Kisame knows for sure. He recalls the sound of the waves, the sight of circling sharks, the smell of ashes and sea salt in the air. The ashy scent came from Itachi, a fragrance that clings to Itachi's body like a second skin, permeating his clothes, his hair, his bedroll, his everything. It might be irritating if it weren't so helpful, a scent that constantly reminds Kisame of who he's with, what he's doing, and where he belongs.

(He is with Itachi; therefore, he is Itachi's partner. He is Itachi's partner; therefore, he is a member of the Akatsuki. He is a member of the Akatsuki; therefore, he is following the plan.)

Kisame follows that scent when thoughts slip from his grasp, swallowed by Samehada during the heat of battle. He meanders to Itachi's side, a smile concealing his disquiet, his hand flexing around Samehada's hilt. He dislikes losing memories so abruptly, especially when it leaves him uncertain as to what he was doing before the fight broke out. But he knows it's better to survive the battle; how else can he win the war?

Itachi looks up at him, scarlet eyes framed by long lashes, a bloody trail painted down one cheek. Kisame hums, offhandedly remarking:

"Ah, you have a little something right there…"

Then Kisame wipes the blood away with his forefinger, bringing it to his mouth to lick it clean.

Itachi stares. Kisame blinks. He has done that before, hasn't he? Or are those memories merely the remnants of fantasies, played out in exacting detail night after lonely night?

Eventually, Itachi inclines his head. "Thanks," he says.

And Kisame is pretty sure that's how this is supposed to go. He's pretty sure that Itachi will leave it alone until later that night, when Itachi will put him on his knees and put his tongue to better use. He's pretty sure he'll end up lying in Itachi's bedroll, fingers tangled in sweat-damp hair, sharp teeth drawing beads of blood. He's pretty sure that's how this will go.

But he wishes he could be certain.

⁂

He met Uchiha Obito in a sewer. It was the least appropriate place for them to meet, so he's sure the memory is genuine, not a fragment of a dream. He recalls his sensei's blood slick on the walkway, staining the ground between them, its sweet metallic odor offering some comfort in that dank place. Obito's scarlet eyes captured him, enfolding him in their warmth, lessening his discomfort as Samehada swallowed its first memory. And then Obito told him what the world could be, what they could make it be, and everything fell perfectly into place.

He had a purpose. He had a companion. He would have a place where he belonged.

He repeats that memory over and over, reliving it in exacting detail, memorizing it for the umpteenth time. That's the one memory he can't surrender to Samehada; that's the one thing he can't forget.

Once, he would have thought that forgetting such a life-changing encounter would be impossible. But that was before he realized he recalled the texture of Obito's lips, but not their taste.

So he plays the memory over and over in his mind, determined not to forget a man he's sure he loves.

⁂

Itachi realizes Samehada's price, eventually—though exactly when it happened, Kisame cannot say. Did he slip and reveal his secret somewhere along the way? Or did Itachi dig up the information elsewhere, as he often does? Kisame is fairly sure he's still functioning adequately during their day-to-day activities, especially given how infrequently they enter battle. So, how did Itachi realize it?

Itachi's avoidance of combat is another mystery. Does Itachi avoid it for Kisame's sake? Or is there another reason Itachi takes every opportunity to prevent Samehada from spilling blood?

Samehada doesn't like the lack of blood. It grumbles in Kisame's mind, curling around memories as though to sample them, leaving Kisame shivering against his will. It's easier when he doesn't remember the sensation of Samehada's hunger, its ravenous appetite like a hot breath on the back of his neck, tongue flicking out to taste his discomfort. It's easier when Samehada simply takes what it needs and leaves Kisame a little more ignorant, a little less kind.

If Kisame could choose a memory to surrender, he would feed Samehada every second of his encounters with that awful green beast from Konoha. Instead, the man's supposed forgetfulness haunts his thoughts, taunting him with a mockery of his own condition.

Perhaps that's how Itachi knows the secret of Samehada's price. Perhaps he learned it in Konoha, just like that green beast.

"Kisame."

Kisame turns to meet his partner's eyes, gazing into coal black that is somehow just as mesmerizing as scarlet. "Yes, Itachi-san?"

For a long moment, Itachi says nothing. His solemn lips press into a thin line, a furrow forming between dark brows. Finally, he asks, "Are you with me?"

Cocking his head to the side, Kisame laughs. "Well, of course. I'm right here, aren't I?"

"Are you?"

Realization dawns. Kisame smiles, trying to make it appear reassuring. "I was only lost in thought, Itachi-san. I wasn't… Well, you know."

"Losing thoughts."

Kisame shrugs. "That's one way to put it, yes."

Itachi steps closer. Kisame holds himself motionless, waiting to see what Itachi will do. But Itachi doesn't reach out, nor does he lean forward in the way Kisame has learned to recognize as an invitation. Instead, Itachi only asks, "How else would you put it?"

Kisame wets his lips. Have they discussed this before? He can't recall, so he falls back on a familiar explanation. "Paying a necessary price."

"Necessary for what?"

That's a question Kisame can't answer directly. So he smiles again, flashing sharp teeth. "Necessary for wielding Samehada. After all, what's a swordsman without a sword?"

Itachi stares up at him, the intensity of those fathomless eyes threatening to swallow Kisame whole. "A swordsman without a sword is a man. A human being with hopes and dreams."

Something in Kisame's throat tightens. He swallows, then breathes out a chuckle. "My, my. If you keep talking so sweetly, you might tempt me…"

Slowly, Itachi raises an eyebrow, his expression a wordless challenge. Might? he seems to ask—or perhaps, What are you waiting for?

Kisame giggles, then he leans down, his lips claiming Itachi's in a slow, lingering kiss.

⁂

He remembers spending nights with Obito. He remembers kissing his way down Obito's mismatched torso, lips and fingertips reverent over scars, drinking in every twitch, every shiver, every soft exhalation. He remembers curling together, skin pressed against skin, lips spilling truths and secrets and never, ever any lies. He remembers Obito's laughter afterward, smile brighter than the sun, transforming his regal lord into someone frighteningly, wonderfully human.

Kisame remembers so much of those nights. But for the life of him, he can't recall the warmth of Obito's skin, or the scent of Obito's hair, or the precise cadence of the whispered confession, "My name is Obito."

What else has he forgotten?

⁂

"I love you," he confesses, lips pressed against Itachi's neck, blood pounding just beneath the skin. His hand is tangled in Itachi's hair, pulling his partner's head back, baring vulnerable flesh for sharp teeth. Instead, all Kisame gives is that confession, a blade sliding between his own ribs.

Itachi drags his fingernails up Kisame's back, then strokes his hands over Kisame's shoulders. Slender fingers slot between Kisame's gills, caressing sensitive skin tenderly, intimately.

"I love you," Kisame whispers again, wishing he could keep this moment in his mind. Wishing he could hold onto it; wishing he could know that he spoke those words aloud.

⁂

He remembers Obito gazing at him, a lazy smile curling scarred lips, dark eyes soft and tender. He remembers candlelight flickering on stone walls and thick blankets curled around them. (Where were they? What were they doing?) He remembers brushing his fingers through Obito's hair, combing the long strands away from Obito's face, revealing more of that beautiful smile.

"Something on your mind, milord?" Kisame asked, voice no more than a murmur.

"Just you," Obito said, leaning in for a kiss that Kisame can't recall.

⁂

He stops using names when they lie together. He can't risk saying the wrong one.

⁂

They are sitting by a stream, the beginnings of a modest campsite set up around them, the scent of pine heavy in the air. Samehada lays bare across Kisame's knees, its freshly washed bandages drying in the breeze. Itachi has a book in his lap, but his eyes are on Kisame, his expression pensive.

"Do you remember Zabuza?"

Kisame pauses his cleaning of Samehada, meeting Itachi's inquisitive gaze. "Zabuza?"

Itachi nods. Dark eyes bore into him, their concentration sending a tiny shiver down Kisame's spine. "Zabuza, a fellow rogue shinobi from Kirigakure."

"Oh?" Kisame tips his head to the side, running the name through his mind. A fellow rogue shinobi, but not a fellow member of the Akatsuki—or so it sounds. "Why do you ask?"

Itachi frowns. Kisame laughs, knowing he'll receive no explanation when Itachi looks like that. He shifts his gaze to the sky, eyes searching the clouds as if for answers—

Mist half-shrouding a bare-chested man, bandages concealing the lower half of his face. Scowling eyes and callused hands, the bandages peeled away to reveal pouty lips. Sharp teeth digging into Kisame's lips, blunt nails raking down his chest. A commanding voice growling, "You're mine."

Kisame jerks his gaze from the clouds, his heart pounding in his throat. Zabuza. A former comrade. A man he must have trusted. How could he forget…?

Swallowing, Kisame looks back at his partner. "A bit," he admits. Then he repeats his previous question, hoping for answers: "Why do you ask?"

Itachi stares at him for a long moment, expression shuttered. "You mourned him."

An empty pit opens in Kisame's stomach. "… Mourned?"

Itachi nods. Kisame averts his eyes, unsure of where to look, what to feel. He mourned a man whose death he no longer remembers. He trusted a man he recalls only in flashes. When did he lose those memories? Should he lament their loss? Would that be the proper thing to do?

Itachi's deep voice interrupts his thoughts. "You forgot your grief." Then, more quietly: "Maybe it's for the best."

Kisame flinches, the words striking like a blow to his hollow gut. "Don't," he hisses, then cuts himself off. Don't what? Don't speak it aloud? Don't insult the memory of a forgotten man? Would Zabuza even care if he were forgotten? How should Kisame know?

A long moment passes in silence. Then Itachi rises, walking over to kneel in front of Kisame, catching his gaze.

"I'm sorry," Itachi says. "That was selfish."

How was it selfish? Kisame bites back the question, unwilling to risk discovering another forgotten memory. Instead, he sets Samehada aside and reaches for Itachi, pulling his partner into his lap, losing himself in an ashy-scented embrace.

⁂

A little more ignorant, a little less kind. Kisame knew that would be the price for wielding Samehada. He was prepared to pay it. He has paid it, losing pieces of himself and his humanity along the way, tethered to the present by his partner's gaze, voice, and scent.

He is with Itachi. Therefore, he is following the plan.

(Was that all? Has he forgotten a few steps?)

He replays memories of Obito, his hand covering his lips so he can mouth the words, willing himself to learn their shape. Even if the original memories begin to fray, he'll remember doing this, won't he? He'll know the shape of Obito's name. He'll know the plan he murmurs to himself when Itachi is safely out of earshot. He'll know what he is meant to do. He'll know his purpose, his companion, and the world they intend to create.

Won't he?

⁂

"Kisame."

Kisame blinks. There is blood on the ground, blood on his hands, and an empty hole in his mind where the past minutes (hours? days?) should be. He sucks in a breath, shuddering as Samehada retreats from his mind, its gluttonous appetite satiated.

"Kisame."

Turning, Kisame sees Itachi staring at him, eyes burning scarlet, brow pinched in concern.

Kisame knows how he should react. He should laugh and pretend nothing is wrong. He should sidle to Itachi's side and bask in his partner's presence, a balm soothing the jagged holes in his mind. He should do anything other than saying what he does:

"I don't remember." The words are quiet, tremulous. A whispered confession almost as dangerous as—as what? "I don't remember," he repeats, dread crawling up his spine, mind scrambling fruitlessly for an explanation forever beyond his reach.

Itachi walks toward him, pace slow and steady, footsteps silent over spilled blood. "How much time did you lose?"

A high, hysterical laugh bursts from Kisame's lips. He claps a bloody hand to his mouth, stifling the sound, smothering his nose in the scent of blood. Then he shrugs—theatrically, helplessly—and lets Samehada fall from lax fingers, desperate for a respite.

Itachi stops before him, reaching up to wrap one hand around Kisame's wrist. Gently, Itachi tugs Kisame's hand away from his mouth, threading clean fingers between Kisame's bloody ones.

"Kisame," Itachi repeats, as if to drill the name into Kisame's mind. Scarlet eyes stare up at him, gleaming amongst a sea of corpses. "Do you trust me?"

Does he?

For a few seconds, Kisame is utterly still. Then he inclines his head in a jerky nod, clinging to that single fact. He trusts Itachi. He must.

"I can show you what you've forgotten. Do you want that?"

Kisame searches Itachi's eyes, seeking an explanation. When none comes, Kisame nods again, a gesture that feels less a choice and more an instinctive response.

Itachi reaches up again, laying his free hand on Kisame's cheek. Then the world shifts, reality twisting and transforming, and—

He is watching himself stride into battle, Samehada in hand. He is watching himself tear into their enemies, slicing them to ribbons. He is watching Samehada crawl up his arm, transforming his body into something only half-human. He is watching himself fall into a frenzy, a mad dance of blood and death, laughter cracking through the air like thunder. He is watching Samehada slither back down his arm, separating sword from man. He is watching himself jerk and twitch, his eyes rolling back, teeth gritted in pain. He is watching himself suddenly relax, his expression utterly vacant, his empty gaze drifting across the carnage.

Reality reasserts itself. Kisame's stomach lurches, an involuntary shudder quaking his entire form. Itachi squeezes his hand, holding him steady, the slender fingers on his cheek grounding him in the present.

Kisame inhales a shaky breath, then manages to croak, "Genjutsu?"

Itachi nods. "They're not your memories. However, they're a perfect recreation of what occurred."

Of course. The Sharingan misses nothing, forever burning images into the mind. If Kisame trusts Itachi, then he can trust that those images were authentic. And he must trust Itachi. Itachi is his partner; therefore, his purpose is Obito.

(Was that how it went?)

"Itachi-san," Kisame starts, his free hand rising to clutch Itachi's shoulder. A sudden, desperate hope rises within him, burning in his ribcage. "Can you show me more…? Can you show me the things I've forgotten?"

Itachi stares at him for a long moment, then he nods. Kisame grins, a wild laugh spiraling out of him. The Sharingan can show him what he's forgotten. The Sharingan can keep him whole. Itachi and Obito can keep him whole.

"They're not your memories," Itachi starts, cautioning him. "I can't replace those."

Kisame shakes his head, brushing the warning aside. "They're yours, Itachi-san. And I trust you, don't I?" Stepping closer, he pulls Itachi into a one-armed embrace, his other hand still clinging to Itachi's. "I trust you."

For a moment, Itachi stands stiffly. Then he turns his head, burying his face against Kisame's chest, his free arm wrapping tightly around Kisame's waist.

⁂

His name is Hoshigaki Kisame. He met Uchiha Itachi by the sea. He met Uchiha Obito beside a corpse. He loves them both; he is certain of that—even though sometimes, he forgets the details. Sometimes, his remaining memories slide into each other, becoming a confused tangle. Sometimes, he isn't sure whose eyes he is gazing into.

But now he knows he can ask. He can share a fragment of a conversation or describe an image, testing the water, seeing if the man at his side recognizes it. If they don't, he knows it belongs to the other man. If they do, they show him the memory in its entirety, immersing him in genjutsu and allowing him to relive the moment through their eyes.

Kisame smiles into those scarlet eyes, brushes his fingers over smooth and scarred cheeks. "I love you," he says, meaning it.

When they kiss him, he learns what they taste like all over again, and he treasures every moment.

Author's Notes:

crossposted to ao3 here.