Chapter 1
All the floors at this hospital have the same smell. The bitterness of antiseptic mixed with medical-grade cleaner; fresh-cleaned vomit and piss and whatever else ends up in the chamber pot. Even the visitor seating has a distinct smell. Lysol, probably. The non-porous fabric crinkles as Konan shifts in the chair, waiting for Nagato’s nurse to fetch her. They wouldn’t let her go back for treatment, so she’s waiting out here. It’s not the only time Konan uses the visitors area. Sometimes just being in Nagato’s room for too long makes her tired. And despite the smell, it can be a good change of pace from in there– listening to the steady, mechanical valves pump life into her friend. This is the fourth time she’s had to admit him this year. Konan doesn’t need to be told he’s getting worse. Every now and then, the social worker comes around and asks, again, if she would like to fill out an application for home health services. Every time, she politely declines. The social worker methodically describes ‘caretaker burnout’ and ‘patient well-being’. They don’t understand. No one understands Nagato’s condition better than her. Nevermind their illegal activities.
Then, a man rounds the corner from the hall of patient rooms. Tall, brutish; jaw so sharp you could cut teeth on it (and he certainly has). Konan recognizes him (or more accurately, his shadow) from Akatsuki meetings. He’s a captain– one neither she nor Nagato recruited. Come to think of it, they weren't on the recruiting team for his partner either. In the interest to protect both their privacies, she doesn’t address him. In fact, it’s better that they pretend they don’t know each other. Being seen together might attract the heat that’s been raining down on them lately.
But it seems like Kisame doesn’t share the same sentiment, as he’s walking up to her anyways.
“Ah, Konan-san. I didn’t expect to see you here.” He addresses her respectfully; his grim expression perking by a half degree.
His name comes to her as she nods back.
“Hoshigaki-san.”
He picks a spot across from her on a couch, knees jutting up. His frame is too tall for any of the furniture here.
“Do you know someone here?” He asks.
Konan purses her lips. Nagato’s condition is known only to a handful of people.
“Ah, forgive me, that’s a personal question. Tell you what. You don’t ask? I don’t ask.”
He shows her both palms of his hands, as if to say ‘Ball’s in your court now.’
Konan nods again in agreement. “Very well.”
Kisame pats his thighs and eases out of the couch.
“Well, I’ll be off now. Business isn’t gonna run itself.”
As if the business wasn’t crumbling before them. She wonders what keeps him stalwart.