Chapter Text
Shisui only has a handful of truly good memories buried under a layer of sh*t he’d otherwise like to forget. Most of them take place around the same time period and usually revolve around the same location, too. The collection of summer homes along the Okinawan coast belonging to various members of the Uchiha dynasty are some of the finest on the island. Back when he was a kid he’d spent the entire year waiting for the time he and his parents would flee their expansive, eerily silent Shinjuku penthouse for the salt-sweet ocean air and the comforting roll of the waves. Waiting for the time where he could find his people again.
Izumi and Itachi were both two years younger than Shisui, but he’d known them long enough that the age-related hierarchy of childhood never kicked in. Each year Shisui expected it to be weird, to feel awkward, but the moment they saw each other again it was like the endless months spent apart faded away like footprints in the sand.
In Shisui’s very best memory, he and Izumi are scrabbling like crabs across the beach, digging for sea glass in a desperate attempt to outdo each other. Itachi, almost freakishly pale and prone to barbecuing in direct sunlight, sits under an umbrella wearing a comically large pair of sunglasses and a stripe of lotion across his nose. Still, even from this far away his smile is bright, obvious, and just distracting enough that Izumi manages to jump on Shisui’s back, spilling his collection of blue, brown, and green prizes into the ocean’s waiting mouth. Shisui can’t bring himself to be angry, not with Izumi’s obnoxious laugh in his ear (which quickly turns into a shriek when Shisui tosses her into the water) and Itachi watching them both with obvious adoration.
Of course, three weeks after that idyllic afternoon, Shisui’s parents died in a freak car accident, and suddenly all of his easy summer days died with them. Even now, Shisui feels less bad about the whole affair than he suspects he should, but maybe if they hadn’t been so sh*t at parenting he suspects he’d actually miss them.
Either way, his whole life changed in a flash–goodbye Tokyo apartment, hello to his grandfather’s vintage New York brownstone. Trying to get attention from Madara was like wringing water from a stone, but he mostly left Shisui to his own devices, which Shisui–fifteen years old and already chafing at the looming responsibility of his family name–was grateful for. His English got better, he made some friends, and he graduated with honors. From there, it was on to Oxford, buoyed by both his own intellectual talents and his grandfather’s checkbook, then shoved straight into the European division of his family’s hotel empire.
Shisui does just fine for himself after that–gets promoted more times than he can count, becomes fluent in approximately four languages and passable in two others, moves to Paris and buys a disgustingly expensive apartment before Obito, his uncle and acting CEO now that Madara is years dead, can scold him for it. Everything’s good. It’s great. It’s alright.
Most days, he’s able to sidestep the weird, empty thing that lives in his chest, the hole where he suspects actual contentment would go if he had anything meaningful to fill it. Every once in a while, though, the past seems to reach through time and space and pull him back to a world where everything felt a little bit lighter, where he was just a little bit happier.
Years later, Shisui will blame the blindness of his nostalgia for the lunacy that follows, even though deep down he knows it isn’t true. It’s just so much easier to fault the past than admit you’re the one screwing up your own future–or, more importantly, admit you’re the one soliciting sex from your former childhood friend.
Oh, well. He never claimed to be a great decision maker.
*
In January of Shisui’s thirty-second year on Earth, he receives a phone call from his less than beloved Uncle announcing that the long-standing chief financial officer of the company’s Japanese branch has been canned and now it’s Shisui’s job to fill his empty seat.
The promotion is less than welcome. At this point, Shisui’s spent exactly five years in France and hasn’t regretted the move once. He’s comfortable here, enjoys the relative anonymity he lives under despite his famous last name and the very famous company he’s helping to expand. Realistically, Shisui needs to move back to his homeland like he needs a hole in the head. But he’s grateful to Obito, the person who showed him the ropes once he’d started working for the family business and made sure people actually took Shisui seriously, and he’s never managed to shrug off the genetic obligation to his bloodline he logically would like to abandon. So he selects a successor, packs up all his belongings including the ancient Ragdoll his Aunt Rin bought for him his second year at University, and, at the end of February, flies into Tokyo before he can even comprehend what’s happening.
Absolutely nothing washes over the second his plane touches down in Haneda Airport–no homesickness, no relief, just jetlag and maybe a vague, sinking sense of dread. Unsurprisingly, there’s already a car waiting for him, ready to spirit Shisui, a small collection of his dearest possessions, and one very displeased feline to the apartment he’s decided to lease sight unseen. Even with a collection of people that look like him Shisui hasn’t felt this out of place in years; at least his Japanese is still decent, thanks to his business dealings, but he doesn’t miss the odd look the driver cuts him due to his accent. Something tells Shisui this is going to be a recurring theme.
Luxury complexes, Shisui learned years ago, pretty much look the same no matter what part of the world you’re in: towering structures with smiling front desk attendants, floor to ceiling windows, stainless steel appliances, and an unbearable, unshakeable coldness. In Paris, his apartment sat in the upper level of a well-loved building, the stone of its walls turning shadowy with age and the black railing curving around his balcony just imperfect enough for Shisui to fall in love with it immediately. Standing in the elevator of his new home, however, all Shisui feels is tired.
There’s already furniture inside the apartment, courtesy of the personal assistant Obitio recommended for him and Shisui’s own complete lack of caring. Once the door is closed, Shisui lets Tom out of her tiny prison, walks straight into the room that’s supposed to be his bedroom, and drops face-down on the mattress. He also sleeps for eight straight hours and wakes up completely disoriented by the sight of glittering high rises and vibrantly colored street-signs piercing the Akasaka skyline. That’s definitely going to take some getting used to.
Over the next week, the wary muscle of his gut gradually relaxes into something less guarded, more resigned. He settles into his new place, decorates it with his favorite books and paintings and an excessive amount of cat toys. He heads into the office smack-dab in the middle of downtown and is very surprised at how each person watches him with shining eyes, like they’re graced by his very existence, and it takes Shisui exactly two days before he caves and starts fishing.
“They’re just relieved you’re not Danzo,” Ino, the office’s marketing manager, eventually confesses during lunch, repressing a shudder as she cracks open her bento. With her brash, bleach-blonde hair and perfect manicure, she’s not exactly who Shisui had expected to meet when Obito introduced him to the members of the executive team. But he understands better than anyone that, when it comes to corporate power plays, no one is really who they seem to be.
Still, the tidbit makes sense. The only thing Shisui knows about his predecessor is that absolutely no one speaks his name, which he supposes says everything he needs to know about the man.
“Well, I’m always happy to meet low expectations,” he says, grinning, which earns him a scowl around a mouthful of onigiri. They’re going to get along great.
It’s a decent team, even if once he finally gets his hands on the company books Shisui’s ready to jump right out the 38th story window. No wonder Obito dragged his ass across the globe; with numbers this bad, only his idiotic nephew would be dumb enough to climb aboard this sinking ship. Shisui’s done more with less, but there’s no way in hell this is going to be easy.
By the end of the week, Shisui has enough pieces of a life–sheets on his bed and groceries in the fridge and his collection of suits hanging in the absurdly large walk-in closet–that he can almost convince himself he has one. Work’s certainly busy enough that most the time he doesn’t notice the familiar stirring in his chest whispering for more. It’s only when he’s lying in the dark, chasing sleep as Tom splays herself across his chest, that the metaphorical pounding beneath the floorboards creeps up on him.
Groaning, Shisui flips on his stomach, ignoring Tom’s yowl of protest as he tugs a pillow over his head.
He’s done more with less, he tells himself. He’ll be fine.
*
Absolutely no part of Shisui is shocked when, on his first Saturday back in Japan, his uncle casually mentions he’s throwing a welcome/congratulations/surprise party on his nephew’s behalf. It’s the type of ostentatious posturing Shisui expects from Obito–uncharitably, he wonders if this is the reason the home branch of the company is teetering on the brink of financial disaster–but, as always, he’s helpless to his uncle’s whims. So he throws on one of his finest suits and drags himself across the city to a place he hasn’t seen since before he learned to shave.
Obito and Rin’s Western-style mansion in Shibuya is exactly the level of over-the-top extravagance befitting a hotel magnet. Even Shisui, blue-blooded and spoiled from birth, feels a little antsy in the presence of all the fine china and sweeping, Romanesque statues for fear he might break something just by looking at it. Fortunately, there’s at least one thing about this house worth liking.
“There he is,” Rin says, descending the staircase and smiling more genuinely than Shisui suspects she’s done in years (not, of course, like he would smile if he was married to Obito, either). In seconds she’s crossing the massive foyer and reaching up to cup Shisui’s cheek in the palm of her hand. It’s the kind of gesture he’d call motherly, if his own mother had ever been capable of such warmth. “You’re all grown up,” she marvels.
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” he says with a wink before he pulls her into a hug that smells of white wine and gardenias. Though he can take or leave Obito most days, he’s always had a soft spot for his aunt. That’s the other reason he agreed to his uncle’s ridiculous offer; at least one of the Uchiha men had to show up for the poor woman.
Speaking of Obito–Shisui tolerates the unnecessarily firm slaps on the back and endless questions with a polite, practiced smile and non-threatening responses. Yes, the flight was long, but the view is incredible. Everyone I’ve met at the office has been wonderful, couldn’t ask for a better staff. So grateful for the opportunity, happy to be home, blah blah blah.
Though the sun is just starting to sink behind the clouds, a crowd of men in nearly identical suits, unsatisfied wives at the sides, has already gathered to pay their respects to their new overlord. Obito slings an arm around his shoulder, guiding him forward like he’s a pig at auction, and Shisui’s smile gets tighter as he braces himself for the slaughter.
Hours pass and the crowd never seems to thin out. Obito continues to knock back multiple vodka sodas while Shisui nurses the same scotch on the rocks, wincing at the taste of melted ice dulling the liquor. He’s lost count of how many times he’s bowed, the only hint of his efforts the persistent ache developing in his lower back, and the feeling only intensifies when, out of nowhere, someone decides to punch him in the spine.
Shisui knows who it is before he even turns around, gets a glimpse of thick brown hair and a disgusted frown and lets his own expression shift into something real.
Despite the odds, he and Izumi never lost touch, not even after Shisui hit American shores and fell off the face of the planet in the process. Chock it up to Izumi’s persistence or Shisui’s own unwillingness to lose one of the only things he ever actually gave a sh*t about. They’ve seen each other about a dozen times over the years, all on Shisui’s terms, because he would be damned if he came home for the holidays and Izumi was never going to pass up the lure of a vacation spent in whatever foreign city Shisui found himself living in. This fact does little to dampen the overwhelming, bone-deep relief that washes over him the moment Izumi grins and mutters, “Welcome home, jerk.”
Like he’s going to let that go. In seconds, Shisui’s got both arms around her waist, tossing her around like they’re dancing, and more than a few heads turn as Izumi squawks and smacks him until he sets her back on her feet. “It’s good to be back,” he says, and she scoffs.
“No, it isn’t.”
“No, it isn’t,” he agrees, “but Obito might have me executed if he hears me admit otherwise.”
Izumi opens her mouth, no doubt to say something absolutely terrible about his uncle he absolutely agrees with, but that’s when Izumi’s companion for the evening catches his eye. “Holy sh*t,” Shisui blurts out, before he can stop it from leaving his mouth, and Itachi offers him a small smirk in return.
“Hello, Shisui,” he says casually, like they’ve never lost touch. Like this isn’t the first time Shisui’s seen him in nearly two decades, older and taller (but not taller than Shisui) and, most importantly, frighteningly good-looking.
Not, of course, that Shisui actually allows himself to get a good look at said good looks. Instead, he arranges his face into something normal, something that won’t expose him in the dining room’s brilliant LED lighting, and says, “Hey, man. It’s great to see you.”
For once, Shisui’s actually glad when some self-important business type interrupts to shake his hand and waste his time. Izumi pulls a face but eventually steps out of the way, getting lost somewhere between the bar and the buffet table and taking Itachi with her. Shisui forces himself to focus on the man standing in front of him, the guy’s name already forgotten even though he’s told Shisui it at least three times, to stop himself from tracking Itachi like he’s searching for his long lost dog. Funny how, for all the times Izumi said she was so happy to see Shisui again she neglected to mention she’d be bringing company.
It’s not that Shisui’s angry at seeing Itachi again; it’s that he has no idea how he’s supposed to feel, and he’s dangerously close to feeling each of his feelings at once. Over the years Izumi has shared spare bits and pieces of Itachi’s life post-Shisui: he knows that Itachi is no longer in contact with his architect father for “personal reasons” (and most likely is no longer in contact with his enormous inheritance, either), and that Izumi has always been purposefully vague about what exactly it is Itachi has found himself doing for work. Whatever it is, from the expensive cut of his slacks and the polished leather of his shoes it seems to be working out for him.
The first hint of exactly what Izumi’s been hiding from him comes forty-five minutes later when a different self-important business type rams an overly-friendly elbow into Shisui’s side and says, “Have fun with that one.”
Shisui follows the line of the man’s gaze and frowns. Across the room, Izumi is hiding in the corner of the sitting room, hands flailing as she complains about something (knowing Izumi, it’s the very concept of inherited wealth and class divisions) while Itachi listens with eyebrow raised, expression patient and indulgent. From the low, nauseating tone of the man’s voice and the very limited history he has on one of the two gathered parties, it doesn’t take a genius to connect the dots.
It takes another fifteen minutes before he’s able to catch Izumi alone, dragging her by the wrist to the only part of the house that isn’t filled with noisy strangers. “Do you want to tell me,” he begins quietly, “why one of my uncle’s sicko colleagues told me to ‘have fun’ with Itachi?”
Izumi’s go as wide as dinner plates. “No clue!” she says, tone too high to be believable, before she scuttles away despite Shisui repeatedly calling her name.
What the f*ck.
Suddenly, it feels like a ghost has entered the room, the way the hairs along the back of Shisui’s neck prickle. He can tell he’s being watched, which isn’t exactly a new phenomenon tonight. What is new is that, when Shisui glances up, he's met with the full force of Itachi’s heavy gaze.
Time slows to an immeasurable crawl as the weight of those dark eyes hits him like a truck. There once was a point in their lives when Shisui could look at Itachi’s face and just know what he was thinking. But it’s clear that moment is long gone, winked out like a star courtesy of Shisui’s lengthy absence, and all that’s left is a person who stares at Shisui across a crowded room like he’s trying to peel the skin off his body and reveal each vulnerable part beating beneath.
Shisui should look away. He’s well-aware of this fact. It’s just that looking away is easier said than done when Itachi is looking at him like that.
Fortunately, his aunt makes the decision for him, sweeping in to lightly touch Itachi’s shoulder and pull his former friend’s attention in a less problematic direction, and all the air Shisui’s been holding inside of his chest rushes out in a sharp, uncomfortable breath.
What the f*ck.
*
By the time the speeches and toasts in his honor have been dolled out, Shisui is well past his pain threshold and desperate for escape. There’s enough booze flowing in everyone’s collective veins that it’s easy enough to duck out the back door and park himself on the empty patio. The late winter night washes over him as he works a cigar out of the case in his pocket, the cool, damp breeze setting his head back on his shoulders as it slaps him in the face.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there, hiding in the dark, before that same prickling sensation crawls along his skin. “Incredible.” Glancing over his shoulder, Shisui is pleasantly surprised to find Itachi lingering in the doorway. He’s wearing the same intriguingly unreadable expression he’s had on all night, although Shisui thinks he might detect a hint of affection beneath Itachi’s stoicism. “You really have become one of them.”
Grinning, Shisui takes a deep drag off his cigar and lets the smoke swell between them. “Cut me some slack. Cigars are my only rich kid indulgence.”
“I’m sure they are,” Itachi agrees, flatly, “along with the Porsche in the garage and your company’s private jet–”
“Hey, I resent that last part. I never use the jet. Terrible for the environment, you know.”
“How thoughtful. I bet they’re naming a Nobel prize in your honor as we speak.”
Something old and sweet squeezes around his heart at the way Itachi teases him, as if it’s only been minutes since they last saw one another instead of long, lonely years. Shisui’s spent more time than he’d like to admit wondering why he never forgot Itachi, how his former friend managed to live in such a soft, untarnished part of his memory considering how little they’ve spoken since they were children. But now, confronted with the flesh and blood Itachi instead of his honey-colored memories, suddenly it all seems to make sense to Shisui. Letting his grin relax into something a little more genuine he says, quietly, “Come outside if you want to insult me so badly,” and puts the cigar out as a show of good faith.
Though he raises an eyebrow, Itachi takes up the offer, letting the glass doors click closed behind him as he settles at Shisui’s side.
The silence that follows is a comfortable one and also a great excuse for Shisui to actually get a good look at Itachi. Earlier in the night he’d been so surprised to see Itachi at all he hadn’t allowed himself to actually see him, and the question of Itachi’s possible moonlight activities has Shisui eyeing him even more closely. He’s beautiful, which, considering Itachi used to have the face of a catalog model and/or angel when they were kids, doesn’t surprise Shisui. Honestly, not much about him has changed–the same pale, smooth skin, the same nearly black eyes and straight nose–but the sharp cut of his cheekbones, completely stripped of the lingering fat present the last time Shisui saw him and the waves of inky hair carefully combed into place highlight the perfection that was always lurking beneath the surface.
It’s more than that, though. There’s a caginess to Itachi that wasn’t there before, back when he wore his heart on his sleeve and followed in Shisui’s every step. It creates an air of mystery that has Shisui ready to roll up his sleeves and start digging around in the dirt to discover whatever secrets Itachi’s decided to start keeping.
No wonder why people pay to sleep with him, Shisui thinks, then hates himself a little both for having the thought and the hot rush said thought sends swooping through his gut.
With the silence rapidly becoming less comfortable, Shisui decides to break the ice. “So, what have I missed?”
Itachi’s mouth twitches, like he’s tempted to smile but thought better of it. All the more reason for Shisui to get him to do it for real, preferably sometime soon. “Are you really asking me to catch you up on the last seventeen years of my life in the span of a single conversation?”
“Why not? I can.” Counting off on his fingers, Shisui continues, “Let’s see–private school in the States, university in England, apartments bought and sold in London, Barcelona, Tuscany, and Paris, and now I’m back here.” There is, of course, one very major life event Shisui’s leaving out of his summary, but f*ck it. If Itachi gets to have secrets, so does he. “Your turn.”
Taking a calculated sip of his drink, Itachi says, “Well, I suspect you already know the most major development. Other than that I’ve just been trying to keep Sasuke out of trouble.”
“A job unto itself,” Shisui replies grimly, because he cannot picture what that little brat is like all grown up. Relishing in the small laugh Itachi huffs in response, he admits, “Izumi may have mentioned you’re not in line to inherit Fugaku’s throne–not, of course, that she gave me any details.”
“That might be for the best.” Itachi’s lips tighten like Shisui’s dangerously close to stepping on a live wire.
Regrettably, that makes him want to press harder.
“Gotta admit I’m curious about how you manage to spend all your free time if you’re not toiling away in contractor hell.” Leaning in, he lowers his voice and asks, in a conspiratorial whisper, “Is it insider trading?”
“No.”
“Taking on hits for the yakuza?”
“Still no.”
“Raising livestock for underground co*ck-fighting rings?”
“Shisui.” Itachi laughs like it’s been surprised out of him and Shisui melts just a little bit in spite of himself.
“Alright, that one was a bit of a longshot.” Nudging Itachi with his elbow, he presses, “C’mon, you can tell me the truth. I’m a very trustworthy person.”
Unimpressed, Itachi replies, “This coming from the man who convinced me to eat sand when he was six.”
“Actually, I think I was nine when that happened.” A second later, Shisui adds, amused, “Wait, that makes me sound worse. Let’s go back to six.”
It’s at this moment that Itachi–seemingly having pushed past his tolerance point for Shisui’s nonsense–meets Shisui’s eye directly and announces, “If this is your way of trying to subtly ask me if I have sex for money, you’re doing a terrible job of it.”
For the first time in a long time, Shisui does not have a clever retort to spare. Instead, he just stares at Itachi, mouth foolishly hanging open, while Itachi takes another unaffected sip from his co*cktail. Tilting his head, he says, softer than before, “The answer is ‘yes,’ by the way. Does that disgust you?”
“Not even a little bit,” Shisui answers, almost immediately. “I wouldn’t judge you, not when whatever you’re doing is probably a hundred times more ethical than my family’s business dealings.” There’s still something suspicious living on the margins of Itachi’s expression, which Shisui gets but also kind of turns his stomach, so he decides to try and salvage the situation. “Itachi, as long as you’re safe and you’re happy, I could care less how you make a living.”
After that, Itachi’s posture gets less cornered animal-y, which Shisui takes as a tentative win. “How did you find out?” Itachi eventually asks, and Shisui shrugs.
“One of my uncle’s lovely friends made a very pointed comment after he saw me talking to you earlier. Once Izumi refused to give me a decent explanation, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”
The look Itachi gives him has Shisui feeling like bacteria under a microscope. Washed completely of color beneath the glow of the full moon, there’s not a single weak spot in his features that gives Shisui even an inkling of what he’s currently thinking. “Your uncle’s lovely friends will have a lot more to say if you stay out here alone with me,” Itachi finally tells him, eerily neutral, and Shisui’s sure it’s a test.
Without hesitation, he replies, “Let them. Last time I checked it wasn’t a crime to catch up with one of my friends.”
Miraculously, it ends up being the right thing to say. “That and you want sex work gossip,” Itachi counters, looking so much more like the boy he once knew, and Shisui beams.
“Of course I want sex work gossip,” he says, stuffing away the weird hit of lightning that coils along his spine when Itachi finally flashes him a genuine smile. “What’s it like?”
Shrugging, Itachi answers, “The same as any other service industry job. There are good shifts and bad shifts, great clients and terrible clients. I accept jobs, I’m compensated for my time and labor, and then I leave. Does that disappoint you?”
“A little,” Shisui admits. “How many people at this party have you… serviced?”
Itachi’s eyebrows fly across his forehead. Apparently that is not the right thing to say. “I can’t tell you that.”
The hill he’s chosen is so terrible Shisui clearly has no choice but to die on it. “Sure you can! This is us, being friends, catching up!”
Shaking his head, Itachi replies, “Shisui, I sign a non-disclosure agreement with each person I contract with. Even if I wanted to expose my client list to you, legally, I couldn’t.”
“Fine, fine, just tell me one thing: you and my uncle haven’t–”
“No,” Itachi practically chokes, hilariously disgusted at the thought alone. “God, no. Absolutely not.”
“I can die a happy man, then.” Shisui’s ready to let it go after that. He should let it go after that. The list of things he should do concerning Itachi is rapidly growing, which is a little worrying. Instead, he asks, “Is that why you came tonight? To be some white collar creep’s arm candy?’
Whatever goodwill Shisui’s won shrivels up and dies a sudden death as the doors to Itachi’s expression slam shut once again. “I came with Izumi,” he says, practically through his teeth, “because I wanted to see you.”
There are hundreds of things Shisui could respond with, that he probably should respond with (see, there it is again) at the revelation that Itachi braved a population thick with people he’s either f*cked or he’s aware know of his sordid reputation for Shisui’s sake. But all that actually spills out of his mouth, gliding past his pulse as it beats heavily in his throat, is a quiet, awed, “Oh.”
Without warning, the patio doors fly open, breaking the spell between them. “So this is where my nephew has been hiding! I’ve been looking all over for you.” Obito only seems to get louder and drunker the second he spots Shisui’s companion, the white of his teeth terribly exposed in the dark. “Itachi! Nice of you to make it.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Obito,” Itachi replies, electing to choose the high road, and Shisui tries very hard not to crack a tooth grinding his molars together.
Slapping Obito on the back harder than necessary, he says, “Uncle, why don’t you get another drink from the bar? I’ll be there in a second,” and is relieved when the gamble actually works.
Once they’re alone again, Itachi grimaces and tells Shisui, “Not for all the money in the world.”
“Smart man.” That weird, heavy atmosphere is threatening to creep between them. For the first time tonight, Shisui decides to smarten up and walk away. “I should–”
“Please. Your adoring public awaits.”
“Don’t remind me. Thanks for making time in your busy schedule for this sh*tshow, by the way.” Shisui pauses with his hand on the golden doorknob. He sets aside the highly inappropriate thoughts and impulses that are eager to bubble to the surface and reaches back for the sheer, uncomplicated joy that once lived between them. “It was good to see you,” he says, probably surprising them both with just how much he means it.
This time, Itachi doesn’t hold a damn thing back when he smiles. It does something truly unfortunate to Shisui’s brain, especially when he replies, in that same indecipherable voice, “I’m glad.”
Shisui might not be that smart, but he’s not that stupid, either. He goes back inside.
*
Of course, Shisui finds himself testing the limits of his intelligence less than two hours later when this party finally winds down and he can actually flee the premises. Pulling out of the driveway, his eyes catch on a familiar figure standing on the curb, arms crossed against his chest.
Itachi's gaze meets his, and Shisui considers his options–a polite nod, a friendly wave. All acceptable responses. Naturally, he selects the not-acceptable option of rolling down his window and asking, innocently, “Need a ride?”
“I’m waiting for Izumi,” Itachi says, a bit stiffly, and Shisui bites back a grin.
“Uh huh,” he hums, knowing, “and how long have you been waiting for Izumi?”
They both know it’s a losing battle. Trying to get Izumi to leave a party on time is like asking the Earth to start spinning in a different direction.
Itachi keeps his eyes firmly ahead as he slides into the passenger seat and buckles his seatbelt. “It’s not a long drive. Izumi’s mother’s home is–”
“About twenty minutes from here,” Shisui cuts him, a kaleidoscope of memories flickering through his brain before he can stop them. “I remember.”
Somehow, the silence is almost companionable. From the corner of his vision, Shisui can see Itachi sitting with his chin in his palm, his profile staggering to glimpse against the backdrop of green-black trees. It’s late enough that once they hit the main roads there’s precious few cars surrounding them, the soft hum of the Porsche’s engine is the only sound passing between them.
After what feels like an eternity, Itachi sighs and asks, “What do you want to know?”
This time it’s Shisui’s turn to stare straight ahead as Itachi turns to face him. “About…?”
“Playing dumb doesn’t suit you.”
Shisui laughs, this side of helpless, and replies, “It’s really none of my business.”
“No, it isn’t, but you clearly want to know more about what I do, so I’m giving you permission to ask. This offer has an expiration date,” he adds, sharply, which finally triggers Shisui to speak.
“When did you start…”
“Prostituting myself?” Without meaning to, Shisui cuts a turn harder than necessary, and Itachi huffs a small laugh in return. “The end of my third year at university. My father’s behavior made me far less picky about the source of my income.”
Something tells Shisui there’s a lot more to that story–and timeline–than Itachi is letting on. Rather than pick at old wounds, he sticks to the task at hand. “And you do this alone? Meeting guys and setting up dates and all that?”
“I work with an agency, for safety and promotion. But I set my own rates and limits, and I decide which clients I’ll take on and which don’t meet my standards.”
“What does it take to meet your standards?”
“Money, of course, but it’s more than that. Prior to ever arranging a session with someone I ask them to complete a questionnaire to assess our potential compatibility. I’m selective, so most men don’t make it past that stage.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he says eventually, like it’s very normal for them to be having this conversation. “But the ones that do…”
Like looking into the sun, Shisui takes a chance and glances over at Itachi. They’re stuck at a red light, which means Shisui isn’t about to kill them both. Tell that to Shisui's heart, which stutters out of control when Itachi meets him head-on, mouth curling just this side of mean, and replies, “Surely you can guess what happens next.”
Shisui doesn’t blush. Really, he doesn’t. “Right.”
There’s gotta be some way to get Itachi to stop looking at him like that. “So, how many clients do you take on at once?” Shisui asks, not realizing how the question sounds until he’s breathed life into it. The eyebrow Itachi raises only has him backtracking harder. “Uh, not ‘at once’ at once, I didn’t mean–I mean, unless you do do that, then–”
“Not many,” Itachi cuts in, saving Shisui from himself. “I prefer to meet with a handful of clients for long-term engagements.”
There’s an idea turning inside of Shisui’s brain, spinning like a hamster on a wheel. Don’t go there, he tells himself. Don’t even think about going there.
He goes there. “Are you accepting new clients?”
Shisui doesn’t know what he’s expecting. Maybe for Itachi to climb out of the car and take his chances walking into traffic, or for a freak force of nature to strike him dead in retaliation. What he’s most certainly not expecting is for Itachi’s smile to broaden, like a hawk ready to descend from the sky and tear him to shreds. “As a matter of fact, I am. Of course, if you’re expecting to get the family and friends discount–”
“Knowing you like I do, I’m sure you’d charge me triple just for kicks.”
“Maybe,” Itachi allows. He cants his head, considering, and Shisui would give anything to find out what the hell is going on inside his brain right now. “You could afford it, though.”
Is this okay, that Shisui is (not-so-)subtly propositioning him and Itachi is (not-so-)subtly encouraging him? It feels radically not okay yet Shisui cannot stop himself from walking one foot after the other into hell. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely, once he finally gets his tongue to work again, “I could.”
“Shisui?” Itachi’s voice goes soft as he leans in, slicing the space between them, and Shisui has no choice but to give in to the magnetic pull between them, breathing life back into a craving he thought he let die years ago. Itachi’s lips are so close to his, closer than they have any right to be as he whispers, “The light’s changed.” And then he pulls back, doing a sh*tawful job at hiding his grin as Shisui scowls and hits the gas.
Life is a little bit more normal when they finally reach Izumi’s family home. No surprises Itachi's crashing here for the night when the situation at his own childhood home down the road is utterly nuclear. Shisui’s barely parked by the time Itachi’s shrugging out of the seatbelt, sounds effortlessly polite as he says, “Thank you for the ride.”
“Anytime,” Shisui tells him. He should be content to leave it there, to be the decent friend Itachi can rely on in a pinch. This is how things should stay between them, and yet…
“Itachi?” His passenger is already out of his seat and in the process of shutting the car door when Shisui leans across the console to ask the inevitable. “What would it cost?”
Itachi’s face materializes in the frame of the window, searching Shisui’s own, before he replies, “A lot. Good night, Shisui.” Rolling his eyes, he slams the door harder than necessary–but not before Shisui gets the tiniest hint of a smile on his face, more private and tender than any expression Shisui’s seen all night.
f*ck. This is going to be a problem.
Back at his apartment, Shisui takes a long, cold shower in the hopes of summoning his apparently long-slumbering common sense and crawls into bed as the night threatens to turn into morning. He’s almost done it, finds himself balancing on the edge of sleeping and waking when suddenly his phone buzzes on his bedside table. At this hour it’s probably nothing important, but Shisui reaches for it with a groan on the off chance something terrible has happened.
Izumi gave me your number, the text says. I hope that’s alright.
Shisui has to read the message three separate times before the identity of its sender finally clicks. yeah, he types, trying not to drop his phone in the process, that’s fine.
It takes an agonizingly long time before he gets a response. Were you serious earlier, when you asked if I was taking new clients?
No, is what Shisui should tell him. I was absolutely not serious about offering to pay one of my oldest friends for sex, and we should definitely both pretend it never happened.
yes, is what he actually texts back, because at this point it’s easier to just give up, give in.
It feels like an eternity of watching the three gray dots dancing across his screen, waiting for Itachi to stop typing and reply. Of course, when said reply finally comes it manages to kick Shisui in the f*cking teeth with the strength of an unruly elephant: Good. Then, Give me your email. I’ll forward you the introductory packet.
This isn’t happening. There’s no explanation for the current moment that makes even a lick of sense except maybe that Shisui’s plane went down somewhere in between Europe and Asia, and this is the universe’s incredibly unkind way of punishing him in the afterlife. Because there’s no way in hell he’s sitting alone in his bed ready to beg for Itachi to sleep with him after nearly twenty years of not speaking.
Very rarely is life charitable enough to present a person with such a clear, fork-in-the-road choice. This is the point of no return, the point where Shisui can decide to think with his head instead of his dick and say thanks, but no thanks. Itachi would probably be pissed at him for stringing him along, for using him to stroke his idle curiosity, but it would be a whole hell of a lot less messy to get out now before actual, physical stroking enters the picture.
In hindsight, Shisui blames that mental image, fed and watered by the memory of Itachi’s elegant fingers and teasing smirk, for his decision. Before he can stop himself, he punches in his personal email (because there’s no way in hell he’s letting the HR team flag this on the company server) and locks his screen before he can drive himself insane with second-guesses and sheer, unrelenting panic. His phone vibrates in his hand exactly once, but Shisui doesn’t dare to look. Instead, he merely returns it to its former home–face-down, this time–and lies perfectly still in his bed, staring up at the ceiling as he waits for his pulse to return to normal.
Izumi is going to kill him for this.
*
After a Sunday deliberately filled with errands to avoid dwelling on his looming indecent proposal, Itachi's email arrives in his inbox at nine on Monday morning, right when Shisui is running on two and a half coffees and already knee-deep in spreadsheet hell. For the sake of both his sanity and his workplace productivity, he spares the notification the briefest glimpse before sliding his phone back in his pocket. It's just like the text Itachi sent him the previous night, still unopened and sitting at the top of his conversations: another problem for another time.
By seven, Shisui's dropping onto his couch with two cartons of French fusion takeout and a bottle of red wine he intends to put a significant dent in; with his reading material for the evening, something tells him he's going to need it. A strange tension pulls at Shisui's chest as he boots up his laptop and throws on his reading glasses. His finger hovers over the trackpad for an unreasonably long moment before he finally swallows and clicks on Itachi's email. There's no harm in looking, he tells himself. It doesn't mean that he's going to...
Shisui doesn't even know how to finish that sentence, even within the confines of his own head. So, he starts reading.
Itachi wasn't kidding: the questionnaire is, to put it mildly, extensive. It starts with a list of Itachi's personal hard-limits: no penetration within condoms (disappointing but not surprising), no kissing on the mouth (okay, Julia Roberts), no body fluids are to be exchanged or intentionally produced outside of come (at the risk of kinkshaming, Shisui's glad for this rule on Itachi's behalf). There's a few other rules Shisui glances over: no alcohol consumption the day of the session, no attending public events together, no hickeys or bruises of any kind.
Everything else, however, is fair game, and there's a lot to get through. Truthfully, Shisui's never put this much thought into his own sexuality before—given his particular hang-ups he's tried to do exactly the opposite, actually—so it feels more than a little strange to sit down and try to parse out what he really likes . In the end, he keeps it basic, the same acts and positions he's sure most men ask for, and tries not to think about what that says about him.
Before he knows it, the completed questionnaire is staring back at him, ready to be submitted. Still, Shisui can't bring himself to pull the trigger. He slams his computer closed with a groan and takes a long, deep drink of his wine. At this point, his head's just fuzzy enough that it seems less like setting off a grenade to finally open Itachi's text.
Just one sentence stares back at him: I look forward to hearing from you.
Shisui digs his thumbs into his eyes, trying to do the math. Itachi openly flirting with him plus sending him the world's longest, hornie*st personal assessment plus that incredibly encouraging message can only equal one thing. Watching Godzilla stomp through Tokyo would be less bewildering than processing the events of the last forty-eight hours.
He reads the text again, then a third time for good measure. And then he opens his laptop and clicks send.
The contract arrives two days later. Not by email this time—an honest to god courier shows up at Shisui's apartment, carrying a thick, sealed black envelope Shisui signs for with thinly-veiled surprise. Deep down a part of him has always suspected that Itachi was just f*cking with him, just pushing Shisui's buttons to find out how far Shisui was willing to take this insane ride of an idea. Deep down, he never expected Itachi to actually commit to this.
Breathing sharply through his nose, Shisui shuts his front door a little harder than necessary and tears open the envelope. The first part's a fairly standard non-disclosure agreement, the section on “services rendered” just vague enough that nobody's ass is going to get nailed in court should this document fall into the wrong hands. The rest of it is basic business sh*t written in the same overly explanatory tone as every other contract. Shisui submits himself to testing for sexually transmitted diseases every two weeks or the contract is broken. Shisui discloses any new sexual partners or the contract is broken. Shisui sticks to acts previously agreed upon or the contract is broken. And, no matter what he does, the provider of services reserves the right to terminate the contract at any time for any reason, anyways. No pressure there.
Shisui's signed more NDAs in his lifetime than he can even count. But, considering most of them don't revolve around his sex life, he figures it might be best to get a second sight of eyes on this thing.
He meets his lawyer the next night in the darkest corner of the most obscure restaurant he can find. Not one of the company suits that Obito keeps on tap—the last thing he needs is his uncle sniffing around this—but his personal council, the same guy he's had for the last eight years. Tenuous as his connections to Japan have always been, he'd gotten Asuma's name from a former colleague and hadn't worked with anyone else since. Asuma's both even-tempered and fair-minded, but most importantly he knows how to keep his mouth shut. This makes him the only other living, breathing person on Earth Shisui feels like having this conversation with.
Recognition flickers in Asuma's eyes the second Shisui slides the paperwork across the table. “I take it you've seen this before,” Shisui says, and Asuma nods.
“A few times. Not usually for this one, though.” Asuma taps on Itachi's name, the worn silver of his wedding ring hardly catching the light. “I hear he's picky. You must have done something to catch his attention.”
Shisui thinks of the way Itachi had stared at him in the car the other day, like Shisui was a snake he was trying to charm. He takes a much-needed sip of his water and says, “Lucky me.”
Asuma gives him a long look, like he's desperately fighting to maintain his cool facade. “Ease up, kid. You're not doing anything that a hundred guys just like you haven't done before. Just piss in the cup, treat him nicely, and pay your bill on time. You'll be fine.”
Reaching into his pocket, Asuma pulls out a pen that costs about as much as most people's monthly car insurance and holds it out. For just a second Shisui stares at it like he's actually deliberating. Like he didn't make his mind up as soon as Itachi turned to him, infuriatingly confident, and declared, You could afford it, and has been lying to himself about it ever since. In the next second he's putting ink on paper and signing his life away. The skin at the back of his neck starts burning as soon as the realization of what he's just done sinks in.
This time Asuma just grins. “Enjoy.”
That, Shisui thinks, sounds like a profound understatement of what's to come.
*
The biggest perk of hiring a sex worker while also working in the hospitality business is the access to discretion. Shisui's been in this industry long enough to know that a specific, hardworking selection of the population is necessary to the success of any hotel. He's never had any squeamishness around the subject, personally or professionally. But, he's also never been the guy on the other side of the check-in desk, which adds a new level of humiliation and discomfort to the experience.
In the end, Shisui ends up coughing up a sizable bribe in exchange for two keycards to the penthouse suite in the company's location in Shinjuku along with unrestricted access each Monday. For an additional stack of cash, he also secures the absolute secrecy of the desk attendant he's paying off. Excessive as it seems, it's money well spent if it keeps his uncle and other parties who will be way too interested in his weekly activities off his trail. Shisui sends one card, via courier, to the return address the contract provided the Thursday before his first appointment, and pays his full fee in advance while he's at it. After that, all that's left to do is wait.
When the night finally arrives, Shisui—not knowing what else to do with himself—waits by the window, like he'll actually be able to spot Itachi's arrival from this high up. The world beneath him is nothing more than a collection of gold and red lights, the only signs of his fellow man in the otherwise lifeless city. This far away from the country there's not a single star in the sky, just the faintest sliver of moon peeking out from behind the smokey clouds. All these years away and the sight's no more endearing to him now than it was when he was a boy
A knock at the door punctures the perfect silence. Shisui's half expecting to find Obito or Izumi or even the cops on the other side. Obviously it's Itachi, wearing finely cut yet non-descript clothes, the faintest trace of eye makeup, and the most severe ponytail in the history of hairstyles. The only hint of his expression is the slight upturn of his mouth and the unwavering focus of his gaze.
Shisui knows it's all professional, all practiced. Strangely, that doesn't make it any less effective.
They've been standing in front of each other long enough that it's starting to get awkward. He needs to say something. “Hey!” Maybe not that. Shisui tries again. “Hi. Did you not get the card?”
“I did. I was just being polite.” Itachi presses his lips together, like he's trying very hard not to laugh. Shisui would find it humiliating if it wasn't ridiculously cute. Probably not the word Shisui should be using considering the night's scheduled events, but he can't not think it. Glancing meaningfully over Shisui's shoulder, Itachi asks, tone purposefully low, “Would you like to invite me inside?”
Last chance to back out. “Yeah. Come in.”
Itachi slips past him without a word, his shoulder lightly brushing Shisui's own as he moves. Even that small point of contact sends a crackle of electricity up Shisui's spine as he closes the door. Amazing how small the suite suddenly feels now that Itachi's standing in the middle of it. He gives the room a cursory glance—no doubt it's just like every other five-star hotel every other asshole businessman has summoned him to—before he turns his attention back to Shisui.
It takes Shisui a stupidly long time to realize he's waiting for instruction. It takes significantly less time for Shisui to realize he has no idea how to give any.
Well, one of them has to make a move here. Clearing his throat, Shisui starts to ask, “So, how do we...” but an appropriate end to the sentence never enters his brain. Even under the current circ*mstances, how do we f*ck? doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.
Mercifully, Itachi keeps the conversation from completely cratering. “There's not exactly a rulebook,” he replies, momentarily sly, before his features soften. The shift suckerpunches Shisui in the chest. He's still lingering close to the door, can't bring himself to move closer, even as Itachi gently suggests, “Why don't you start by telling me what you want?”
From the moment he first propositioned Itachi, Shisui mostly hadn't let himself imagine how this would go. It felt too skeevy, too strange to picture what they would do, how it would feel to touch him. But there had been one exception, one thing he wanted enough to let his mind wander. In the here and now, he says, so quietly it's a wonder Itachi even hears him, “Take your hair down.”
Surprise flickers across Itachi's face before he clicks his expression back into place. Still, with the colorless skyline at his back, Itachi loosens the tie holding his hair in place. The messy way it falls around his face, how the strands spill like oil over his shoulders and down his back, is almost painful to look at. It's so much longer than his hair used to—nope, Shisui's not going there.
“Any other requests?” There's a rasp to Itachi's tone that has Shisui finally dragging himself from the front door. Moth to the flame and all that. In the blink of an eye there's less than three feet between them, close yet not close enough.
He keeps his hands in the pockets of his slacks, fingers clenching. “Surprise me.”
“Gladly.” Itachi does not display the same restraint. He reaches for Shisui's tie, pulling like he's walking a dog on a leash, and Shisui lets himself be led. Guess the three-piece-suit was a good outfit choice after all. Resting a palm over Shisui's heart, Itachi smiles at the uneven beat beneath his palm. It's hard to be embarrassed of the evidence of his complete cluelessness when Itachi's looking at Shisui like the only other living creature in the universe. “Nervous?”
“Yes.” No point in lying about it. Not when Shisui's pretty sure Itachi could get him to do whatever he wanted, anyway.
Visibly pleased at the admission, Itachi leans in, blocking out everything else until all that's left in Shisui's vision are the curves of Itachi's mouth and the heat of his eyes. His nose brushes Shisui's as he murmurs, “Relax. I'll take care of you.”
Instinct tells Shisui to lean in and kiss him, but good sense keeps him frozen in place. He's rewarded for his behavior when Itachi shifts, pressing his lips to Shisui's neck as he undoes his tie. Pulse spiking, a noise that's only a little bit mortifying escapes his throat at the touch of teeth against his skin. Even if he can't mark up the “provider of services,” there's nothing in the contract stating the rule has to go both ways.
For better or worse, Itachi doesn't follow through, too busy getting Shisui out of the majority of his clothes instead. The tie, jacket, shirt, and undershirt end up in a pile on the floor, though it's easy to forget about the wrinkles in the very expensive fabric when Itachi's appreciatively running his hands along Shisui's chest and abs. Even though he knows attractiveness isn't a requirement (and there's no guarantee Itachi finds him attractive), Shisui can't help but be thankful for all the hours he's spent in the gym.
One of those hands moves lower, lands on the buckle of Shisui's belt and stays there. “Lie back on the bed for me,” Itachi orders, barely above a whisper, and Shisui does not need to be told twice.
It feels a bit like an out of body experience to watch as Itachi strips him bare, though all his senses return in a hot rush when Itachi reaches for the buttons of his own shirt. “Would you like me to undress?”
“Please,” Shisui says, more of a gasp than an actual response, but Itachi flashes him a hint of a smirk before he complies. His eyes never leave Shisui's own as the layers fall away, showing off the lean lines of his body and the untouched expanse of his skin. He looks a whole hell of a lot less pale like this, face tinted pink and a flush curling across his neck and chest—to say nothing of his co*ck, already getting hard as the head turns an incredible red. Makes the fact that Shisui's been fighting a hard-on since the moment Itachi first touched him a little less sad.
Desire must be written plain as day across his face. There's about a hundred different ideas running wild through his head, all the things he'd like to do to Itachi, all the things he'd like Itachi to do to him. Suddenly, it doesn't matter that he's paying for this. It doesn't matter that it isn't real. All that matters is that it doesn't stop.
The bed sinks as Itachi kneels between his legs. Without warning, he trails a finger along Shisui's shaft, almost achingly light. His expression turns smug at Shisui's harsh inhale, gets even more smug when Shisui gets significantly more vocal as Itachi replicates the motion with his mouth. After a brief interlude where Itachi's tongue glides along the tip of his dick, the slow pace flies out the window when Itachi swallows him down in a single, fluid motion.
“f*ck,” Shisui groans, his fingers winding in Itachi's hair before he can stop himself. Not to push or to pull, just to touch him. The single brain cell he possesses that’s still capable of rational thought processes that this is the first time he's touched Itachi all night. The rest of his brain, however, is hung up on the tight, wet heat surrounding him and the confident, almost effortless movement of Itachi's mouth.
Eyes dangerously close to falling closed, Shisui forces himself to keep them open, to look down. Nothing in this life has prepared him for the way Itachi peers up at him through the black sweep of his lashes, mouth obscenely red and hair ruined beneath Shisui's hands. His hips jerk forward involuntarily, co*ck nudging the back of Itachi's throat, and he's halfway to an apology when Itachi takes him deeper. To make it obvious, Itachi's hands quickly slide along his thighs to wrap around his hips and pull him closer, and even Shisui’s not clueless enough to miss the point here.
In the blink of an eye, whatever reservations Shisui had before are blown to pieces. His grip tightening in Itachi's hair, he bids a fond farewell to his common sense and starts thrusting up. Itachi takes it flawlessly, throat relaxed as Shisui f*cks into him. He hums approvingly as Shisui unthinkingly pushes on the back of his head, practically begging Shisui to give him more, and the vibration goes straight to Shisui's core.
It's building fast. Shisui would feel worse about this fact if it hadn't been countless months since someone did this for him and also if Itachi wasn't incredibly talented with his tongue.
“sh*t,” he hisses, just as Itachi slips a hand between Shisui's legs and goes for his balls. Game over. “Itachi, f*ck, I'm—“ He can't get the warning out before the thread inside him snaps. The world dissolves into nothing but starbursts of pleasure, the color and light only magnified by the dutiful way Itachi swallows around him.
Once his common decency returns, Shisui's carefully pulling his fingers free to allow Itachi to move off him. His heart rate has finally slowed down by the time Itachi asks, voice deliciously wrecked, “How was that?”
Feeling a little hysterical post-org*sm, Shisui can't help but laugh. It's the most normal he's felt all night. “Do you really need me to say it?”
Based on the haughty expression Itachi’s currently wearing, Shisui suspects he doesn’t have to say a word.
Truth be told, he's not sure what to expect now. Even though he's paid for the next few hours, Shisui doesn't know how Itachi plans to pass the time or if he's even interested in sticking around.
Miracle of miracles, Itachi doesn't flee the scene immediately after getting Shisui off. Instead, he settles loosely in Shisui's lap, legs locking around his waist as Shisui sits up. With all the lines they’ve already crossed there's no reason to fight the temptation to touch Itachi more. He starts slow, tucks a few strands behind Itachi's ear, runs a knuckle along the steady beat of his pulse in his throat and privately feels gratified at the way Itachi shivers against him when he strokes a palm up and down his back.
It's probably too intimate, given the circ*mstances, but Itachi doesn't seem to mind. If anything, he's putty in Shisui's hands, practically melting when Shisui leans forward to kiss the corner of his jaw. He's still hard, but Shisui's not stupid enough to think an erection's an invitation. Could just be an automatic response, an unavoidable casualty of the profession. But if there's a chance Shisui gets to repay the favor... “Can I?” he asks, resting a hand on the inside of Itachi's thigh.
“Of course,” Itachi replies almost immediately, but his tone is—not exactly what Shisui wants to hear. It's almost customer service perfect, agreeable to a fault, and that's...
It's his job. Shisui knows it's his job. That doesn't mean the guy can't enjoy himself. Forcing himself to meet Itachi's eye, Shisui says, “No, I mean—do you want me to?”
There's that surprise again. Shisui has exactly one second to wonder if he's crossed some unspoken boundary before Itachi wraps a hand over Shisui's own and curls their combined fingers around his co*ck. Message received.
Before things can get too crazy, Shisui leans back just enough to reach into the top drawer of the bedside table, rummaging around until he finds a brand new package of lube. Given that Itachi was the one doing the work, it only seemed fair to bring the supplies. He's extra grateful for the forward thinking as he pours a generous amount into his palm, curling his fingers to warm it up, while Itachi watches him with open curiosity. It's like he doesn't know what to make of Shisui, and Shisui feels a cold flicker of dread imagining the calculations Itachi might be running.
“You don't have to fake it.” Easily the dumbest comment Shisui could make in his current company. Take two. “Just tell me if I do something you don't like.”
Itachi blinks, seemingly more than a little stunned, before his features smooth out. “Such a gentleman,” he says, warmer than Shisui's heard him sound since the moment they first reunited. Stupidly, Shisui almost buys it.
Now that the tables have turned, Shisui can't help but feel a little daunted. It's not the mechanics that are the problem, obviously. It's that Itachi's a complete mystery to him, both in and out of bed. He doesn't have a clue what's actually pleasing to the person sitting very naked and very hard on top of him. All he knows is that failure is very much not an option.
Start with the basics. Shisui circles his thumb around the head, reveling in the hitch in Itachi's breathing when he toys with the tip. Risking a glance at Itachi's face—eyelids starting to hang heavy, mouth parted—he wraps his fingers around his dick in earnest. He keeps the pace leisurely to start, grip purposefully relaxed as he jerks Itachi off. As carefully as he watches Itachi, there's no hints to how the man's currently feeling. For all he knows, this could be the worst handjob Itachi's gotten in his career.
Time to start fishing. “Is it good?”
He’s not sure how to feel when Itachi laughs lightly and counters, “Do you really need me to say it?”
“Yes.”
“It's good.” Looping his arms around Shisui's neck, Itachi tells him, “You can move faster. And harder.” Direction—gotta love it. Shisui does as he's told, tightens his grip to the point where his knuckles flare white and gets going at a rhythm that has his wrist aching in protest.
It's worth it. Itachi reacts almost immediately, mouth falling open on a filthy moan. “Oh —like that,” he practically whines, brows tugging together as his hips chase the motion of Shisui's touch. It's like cracking open a stone to reveal the precious gems within, and Shisui can't stop looking at him, can't imagine wanting to look at anything else. If he's faking this he's worth a hundred times more than what Shisui's paying him.
The tension's evident in each muscle in his body the closer he gets, shuddering hard enough that Shisui slips his free arm around his waist to keep him steady. All at once Itachi's arching forward, burying his face in the crook of Shisui's throat, and Shisui has half a second to mourn missing his expression before he whimpers, “Shisui,” and spills across Shisui's fingers.
Act or no, the sound of his name in Itachi's mouth has Shisui's own dick threatening to spring back to life. It's the least of Shisui's concerns right now. Because what looms so much larger, fills his brain to the point where he thinks his skull could crack with the pressure of it, is the worry that he's going to think about this exact moment for the rest of his life: Itachi slumping against him—practically panting as Shisui takes the full weight of his body—and his skin damp and molten hot as it presses against Shisui's own.
Apparently it's not just him that lets their guard down after coming. When Itachi pulls back to look at him, the shield he's been wearing since Shisui first saw him again is well and truly lowered. There’s no trace of his disinterested facade left, only an incriminating red stain to his cheeks and a pleased smile pulling at his lips.
In hindsight, seeing Itachi like this–open and relaxed and satisfied–is Shisui's first true sign that he's in trouble.
Naturally, he ignores it.
*
to be continued.
