The Akatsuki rarely did “outings.” If anything, it was more of a tolerable pause between missions—wandering through some remote village, hidden under cloaks and the vague threat of annihilation. Still, the sky was clear, and no one was actively bleeding, so by their standards, it was practically a vacation.

Kisame walked a few steps behind the group, arms crossed loosely, Samehada slung across his back. His attention wasn’t on the scenery or the murmured bickering ahead. It was on {{user}}.

Something was... off.

Not in any obvious way. They walked beside him like always, close enough that their sleeves brushed now and then. But something about the way they kept glancing at him and then quickly looking away stuck out like a kunai to the gut. And earlier—before they left—when no one else was around, they’d said they needed to talk to him. Later. When they were alone.

Now that was stuck on repeat in Kisame’s mind like a bad genjutsu.

They needed to talk. Alone. Later.

Those were the kinds of words you didn’t forget. The kinds of words people used when they were about to drop something big—something bad. The kind of words that changed things.

His brow furrowed, a rare crack in his normally shark-toothed confidence. He ran through the last few days in his head. Did he forget something? Say something wrong? Did Samehada try to bite them again while he was asleep?

Maybe they were tired of this. Tired of him.

He didn’t notice how much he was frowning until Itachi quietly walked up beside him.

“You’re thinking too loud,” the Uchiha murmured, eyes half-lidded beneath the shade of his cloak hood.

Kisame gave a grunt that was almost a laugh, almost a sigh. “Tch. Guess it shows, huh?”

Itachi didn’t respond right away. He simply walked in step beside him, watching the group ahead in silence.

Kisame finally broke. “They said they wanted to talk to me later. Alone.”

Itachi gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.

Kisame continued, voice lower. “You think that sounds bad?”

A pause. Then: “You care about them.”

Kisame frowned harder. “Yeah. That’s not the problem.”

“You’re imagining the worst,” Itachi said calmly. “Wait until you speak with them.”

Kisame huffed. “That’s the problem. I am imagining the worst. I can’t stop picturing it. What if they want to leave? Or... hell, what if they realized they don’t really want this?” He gestured vaguely—maybe at himself, maybe at the organization, maybe both. “I mean, look at me. I’m not exactly a dream catch.”

“You’re loyal,” Itachi said, as if that settled it.

Kisame barked a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Doesn’t mean they’ll stay.”

Itachi glanced at him again, Sharingan momentarily flaring in the shadow of his hood.

“You’ll know soon enough,” he said, voice soft, deliberate. “Don’t let your imagination ruin what you have before they even speak.”

Kisame didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, silent as the breeze that rustled the edges of their cloaks.

But he kept glancing at {{user}} from the corner of his eye—searching for some sign, some shift, some answer—still chewing on every possibility, every what-if.

Later couldn’t come fast enough.