Work Text:
Itachi is used to the nightmares.
They come to him in the darkness, when there is nothing for him to do but lie awake and wait for them, when there is nothing he can do with his hands, with his body, that can distract him from the darkest corners of his mind. His memory is far clearer than his vision now, anyway.
He sees terrible things. Women, begging for mercy, his own hands stained Sharingan red with the blood of their children. The wide, gaping mouths of those he’s felled, a silent scream that never shatters the air. The bloated limbs and dead eyes of his cousin after they fished him out of the river.
But the worst ones are of Sasuke. Always Sasuke.
Itachi knows that Sasuke has grown up, that he is no longer the wide-eyed seven year old who knew too little of the world to be afraid, but in his dreams Sasuke is once again a boy whose innocence is being shattered by his older brother, the person he trusts most in the world. But in these dreams, Sasuke does not stare and tremble -- he is gasping on the end of Itachi’s blade, and the world is every color of a dying sun as the life of the only person Itachi has left to love leaks away, staining the front of his black and red robe into rust.
These are the nights when Itachi gasps himself awake, fumbling in the darkness for something -- anything -- to make it stop . Some nights there is so little between him and his weapon, between him and the darkness that threatens to overwhelm him, and he hopes with a desperate hope that someday soon he will take the last life he will ever have to -- his own.
On these nights, the memories of Sasuke pull him back from the knife’s edge of the cliffside. Sasuke is his only reason for being alive, and Itachi knows it every moment. When the final blow falls he hopes there will be nothing but relief. A long time ago, he may have wanted more -- redemption? -- but now, an end to the nightmares is more than enough.
Itachi is not the only member of the Akatsuki to have nightmares, but at first, he believes he is the only one who has trouble hiding them. It is vastly easier to suppress the horror of the past if you suppress your humanity and Itachi finds it difficult to believe anyone can join the Akatsuki without losing most of what makes them human.
But one night on a stakeout, staring endlessly into the dark, eyes burning, Itachi hears whimpers. At first he tries not to listen -- he has no interest in the sexual exploits of his teammates -- but then the whimpers grow louder, interspersed with sobs, and Itachi can no longer ignore the noise. He is camped out with Kisame and Deidara, and judging by the snores emanating from Kisame’s tent, it isn’t the Mist nin who’s crying.
Deidara’s tent is dark. Itachi moves slowly, blinking out his Sharingan in case this is some sort of trap. Kneeling beside the bedroll, he focuses Deidara’s face and the Sharingan silently strips away the darkness --
and Deidara’s face is twisted in pain, cheeks wet with tears squeezing out from beneath his eyelids, and in his agonized gasps Itachi recognizes his mirror image: the pain of nightmares, of never being able to escape your own mind. Without thinking, he kneels and slides one hand to Deidara’s back, massaging his tensed shoulders. “Shhh,” he murmurs, “Shhhh, it’s a dream, it’s a dream, none of it is real.” Of course, this might be a lie. Itachi’s nightmares are less dreams than vivid flashbacks, and who knows what Deidara’s done? Maybe he, too dreams of the blood of those he’s killed, of his family--
Itachi takes a deep shuddering breath, and realizes that Deidara has grown quiet. The creases and lines of his face have smoothed themselves out and his breathing is regular, slowed. Only then does Itachi fully grasp what he’s done -- comforting another Akatsuki member? This kind of weakness could get him killed. Quickly, he stands, being careful not to disturb Deidara, and exits the tent. No one saw , he tells himself. Deidara didn’t even wake up. Don’t do it again.
And Itachi succeeds, mostly, in pushing the memory out of his mind for the next couple of weeks. A whirlwind of missions, of systematic violence, and Itachi never flinches -- at least not in front of anyone. It isn’t until Kisame rasps his name and collapses after a particularly fierce battle that he realizes that his partner is, for once, covered in his own blood and not the blood of the enemy.
“Itachi. In light of recent events, your partner for this next mission will be Deidara.” Itachi is careful to keep his face expressionless as he bows respectfully to Pain, careful not to look over at Deidara. Somehow, he thinks, the universe must be out to get him.
Itachi tries his best to ignore Deidara’s chattering as they move through the forest. Unfortunately, there’s no one around for miles in these backcountry woods, which means they don’t need to be silent.
“-- and he says art is decided by the times , yeah, that we only appreciate something as is has value to us, so we can keep it and admire it forever.” Deidara scoffs. “Value, art isn’t about money . Sasori has no idea what he’s talking about, yeah, he’s been spending too much time with Kakuzu.”
Itachi grits his teeth. “Deidara,” he says as calmly as he can manage, “Why are you telling me this?”
Deidara glares at him. “I thought you’d get it. You know art, with those eyes. Art’s about the moment . That’s what you do with that move of yours, the genjutsu. That’s art, not this eternal crap Sasori’s always going on about.”
“It’s a weapon.” Itachi is irritated. “There is no art in violence.”
Deidara stops dead. Itachi doesn’t even realize it until he’s a good fifteen feet ahead of him, and when he does, he stops and turns. “What are you doing?”
“There’s art in everything .” Deidara spits his words at Itachi, hands clenched into fists. “ Life is art. Art is something that is happening , not just something you look at. Otherwise what’s the point ? Of anything ? Yeah?”
Itachi stares for a moment. “There is no point,” he says flatly. “We’re all going to die, probably one day soon.”
“Then why do we even live in the first place??” Deidara’s chest is heaving. “You’re just a mindless killing machine, and that’s why you think there’s no point.” Itachi stiffens in anger, but Deidara isn’t finished. “I should’ve known better than to try to discuss this with you, yeah. You wouldn’t understand happiness if it kissed you on the mouth.”
Itachi’s mouth drops open a little. Deidara’s eyes widen and he clasps his hands over his mouth, flushing bright red. “That’s not -- I didn’t mean --”
Itachi whirls on his heel. “I’m not discussing this. We need to focus on the mission.” He doesn’t wait for a response; he storms off into the forest, not checking to see if Deidara is following him.
The rest of the day is far quieter. Deidara is sulking when the two of them make camp for the night, but while Itachi begins sparking up a small fire, he finally speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “For calling you a mindless machine. And for getting so mad.” He drags his heel through the dirt and exhales. “There. I said it, yeah? Are you actually upset? Like, gonna-kill-me-in-my-sleep upset?”
Itachi exhales. “No. I’m not upset.” Deidara visibly relaxes, and Itachi continues. “I just… don’t believe in the kind of thing you were talking about.”
“Don’t believe in it?” Deidara arches an eyebrow, and Itachi looks away. “Do you believe in ever enjoying yourself?”
This is a strange conversation to be having with an Akatsuki member -- a strange conversation to be having at all -- but there’s something about the challenge glinting in Deidara’s eye that makes Itachi straighten up. “What makes you think that I don’t?”
Deidara shrugs. “I guess it’s that whole vibe -- you know, the one that says ‘I murdered my entire family so don’t talk to me or I’ll kill you’?” He throws his shoulders back a little, looking Itachi straight in the eye, as if daring him to attack. He knows he’s treading on dangerous ground.
Itachi knows it too, but he doesn’t respond the way he normally would. Deidara is intriguing him, his long blonde hair flickering in the firelight, his blue eyes bright with flame.
“Maybe I enjoy murder.”
Deidara shakes his head, and Itachi is almost hypnotized by the sway of his long hair. “I don’t think so. You don’t radiate crazy the way the others do. More like just… scary intentions. Blood, gore, all that, yeah.”
“Oh.” Itachi considers this. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, you do radiate crazy. But more of an artsy-crazy than murderer-crazy,” he adds quickly when he sees the way Deidara’s face falls.
“Thanks…” Deidara rolls his eyes. “So I guess you enjoy criticizing artistic geniuses, then.”
“No.” A faint smile ghosts over Itachi’s lips. “Only you.”
“Hey!” Deidara leaps up, angry, before realizing Itachi is kidding. “...Really?”
Itachi can feel laughter rising in his throat, and he struggles to push it back down. “You are easy to provoke,” he points out, and Deidara huffs at him, blowing his bangs out of his eyes, before retreating towards his tent.
“Fine. Then you can take the first watch. Wait -- on second thought,” he backs up, “ I’ll take the first watch. I’m still not convinced you’re not gonna slit my throat in the middle of the night.”
Itachi would argue, normally, but something in the stubborn set of Deidara’s jaw in the flickering firelight makes him think any disagreement would only end badly. “Fine. Wake me up in four hours.” Without waiting for a response, Itachi heads for his tent. For some reason, he suddenly feels bone-tired.
“Please, no.”
Itachi doesn’t know who’s begging. Maybe it’s his victim. Maybe it’s him. He just wants it to stop, just wants the blade to be stilled, wants the endless, beating tide of blood and death to cease, wants darkness, wants to never dream again, never feel again, because the agony of every blow rains down a thousandfold on his own shoulders, and his heart is rending itself in two --
“Shh, it’s a dream. You’re dreaming.” Itachi is dimly aware of someone kneading his back, rubbing slow circles into his muscles. He shifts to see who it is, but only gets the impression of long hair falling in curtains around the person’s shoulders, of warm hands against his skin. “It’s okay, yeah. Not real. It’s never real.”
Itachi struggles against the tide of exhaustion, but sleep washes over him again. This time, though, it brings nothing. Thankfully.
When he wakes, blinking his eyes open slowly, Itachi realizes two things very quickly.
First, it’s morning . Deidara never woke him up to be on watch.
Second, and more importantly, someone was in his tent last night. The memory filters back slowly, and Itachi is horrified -- because there is no one it could have been besides the blond explosions expert.
But when Itachi leaves his tent to confront him, he finds an exhausted-looking Deidara stirring at the embers of the fire, limp and worn-out, and the words fly right out of his head.
“Hey.” Deidara blinks up at Itachi. “Sorry I didn’t wake you up. I wasn’t tired, yeah, so I just,” he yawns, hiding his mouth with his hand, “took your shift. Hope it’s not a problem.”
Itachi frowns. “You look exhausted. What if we run into enemy nin? Will you be able to fight?” Internally, he cringes at his own tone. Deidara had done something nice for him, and this was how he responded? -- No. He is a member of the Akatsuki. Nothing he does is without motive, Itachi reminds himself. He needs to be more on guard.
“I’ll be fine. I can take care of myself.” Deidara glares at him. “Plus, you should be well-rested enough to fight them off on your own, yeah?” He pulls himself to his feet. “Let’s go.”
The two of them travel all day, Itachi trying to take as many breaks for Deidara to rest as possible without being obvious about it, and Deidara trying to conceal his lagging pace and frequent yawns as much as possible. By the end of the day, Deidara looks dead on his feet, and he doesn’t argue when Itachi orders him to rest.
Why would he help me? Itachi contemplates, as he sits by the fire. Maybe it was a dream. But why would he dream about Deidara? The whole thing was strange. Itachi had resolved to definitely, one hundred percent, ask him about it in the morning, when the soft sounds from Deidara’s tent become audible.
Itachi’s body feels like it’s moving by itself, standing and guiding him towards the tent. As if in a dream, he sees the tension lining Deidara’s body, the clench of his fists, the anger and fear written into his brow, and he is kneeling again -- deja vu -- and his hands are against Deidara’s bare skin. One hand is pressed against Deidara’s chest and Itachi is acutely aware of the pulse pounding away there beneath his palm. Please. Breathe. He isn’t sure if he’s speaking out loud or not. Not sure if he’s speaking to himself or not. His eyes are in the Sharingan, he suddenly realizes, and maybe that’s why he is noticing every detail, is able to pick out every eyelash trembling in the wake of Deidara’s tears, every sudden flinch at phantom monsters and --
Itachi knows --
“Wake up, wake up, wake up --” There is suddenly an urgency in his words, because memories can be suppressed but dreams fade so easily into nightmares, turn poisonous all on their own and Itachi doesn’t want anyone else to ever have to suffer -- if he can save Deidara maybe he can save himself.
Itachi is gasping. There isn’t enough air in the tent, in the world, in the black gaping void of his world -- it isn’t and will never be fair, and maybe Deidara had a little brother once --
“Itachi…” and Deidara’s eyes are open. Blue. Itachi can’t breathe. The horizon is in Deidara’s eyes, and he is sitting up, mouth half-open, and brushing at his cheeks, and only when a slow look of realization dawns over his face does Itachi realize that he, too, is crying.
“What are -- you’re -- you --” Deidara is struggling for words, and the emotions flickering across his face are myriad and too fast for Itachi to follow. “You -- What are you -- why are you in my tent? Is it morning? Hey -- are you okay?”
No. No, Itachi isn’t okay. But he can’t say that, of course he can’t, the only thing to do is pray Deidara will only think of this as a dream tomorrow, so he’s moving with as much grace as he can muster towards the exit when Deidara’s hand shoots out and snags the back of his shirt. (when did he take off his cloak?)
“Don’t leave.” The fear in Deidara’s voice surprises both of them; but Deidara doesn’t let go, even when Itachi turns to stare at him. He blinks twice, rapidly. “Don’t leave,” he repeats in a low voice. “Please. I don’t --” his words get caught in his throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and when he looks away Itachi feels himself inexorably drawn towards him, towards his endless eyes and waterfall hair and he is now close enough to hear Deidara’s breath catch in his throat when Itachi reaches out and brushes away a loose strand of hair that was caught in the path of the tears.
And the silence between them is so profound, so absolute, that for a moment Itachi thinks he might be dreaming. There is a stillness, a stability, that he hasn’t felt for years -- it is hovering now between them, two lost and frightened criminals alone in the dark who cannot find peace even in sleep. But here they are: Itachi’s hand still cupping Deidara’s face, Deidara not pulling away, and if this is drowning -- losing himself and his past in the ocean behind Deidara’s eyes -- then Itachi never wants to learn to swim.
“You --” Deidara’s breath hitches in his throat, and he brings up one hand to curl around Itachi’s wrist, “-- you don’t know, yeah --” his tongue flicks over his lips, and Itachi can see the way his eyes dart down, and that is the only warning he has before Deidara is lurching forward and his teeth scrape Itachi’s lower lip and Itachi makes a small sound -- surprise, he swears -- and Deidara is clutching the front of his shirt and dragging him closer, Itachi’s lips part, and he can hear his own heartbeat somersaulting in his ears as Deidara drags his fingers through his dark hair, presses his palms to the back of Itachi’s neck and Itachi’s hands find Deidara’s waist and they are tumbling back into the dark -- together.
It is in the sleepy, still time right before dawn when Itachi speaks. He is lying intertwined with Deidara, warm all over in a way he hasn’t been since he was young and curled up beneath his blankets on a cool morning. Deidara’s blond hair spills across the bedroll, and Itachi cannot resist running his fingers through the honeyed strands. “Deidara,” he says softly, in the way a poet might say “Behold,” and he feels him stir.
“Deidara,” Itachi says again, just to feel the murmurs trace over his tongue, and Deidara hums in response. “You know this isn’t forever.”
Bitter words. They are dulled somewhat by the calm of the before-dawn, but Itachi still tastes their sting in his mouth. It needed to be said . Better to get it over with, better to be the one to say it.
But Deidara only sighs in response, stretches -- Itachi feels the muscles in his shoulders, in his back, pressing against him -- and curls into Itachi and his warmth. “I know,” he says softly, sleepily. “Nothing is eternal, yeah. Art is an explosion.”
Art is an explosion. Itachi traces the line of Deidara’s jaw, trailing down to his collarbone, and Deidara makes a soft sound of pleasure. Nothing is permanent, Itachi thinks, and it isn’t until Deidara whispers, “I know,” that he realizes he’s spoken out loud.
Nothing is forever. Nothing is eternal. But maybe, thinks Itachi as his eyes drift closed, that’s all right. Maybe all he needs is to be here right now.