Chapter Text
Years ago, during military training, covered in mud and blood and scrapes, a nine-year old Sasori ducked his eyes and drilled harder than anyone else. He did not cry. He did not whine.
But, during the chilly nights, when all the cadets were in their cots on the sand, he drew a blanket over his head, and didn’t say a word.
He was so small.
Rasa, twelve, had crawled closer. Froze when the captain glanced up. Then, like a worm, Rasa crept closer and closer, dragging his blankets next to that Sasori-shaped lump.
“Hey,” he had whispered.
The lump twitched.
Rasa nudged him, softly.
“Leave me alone,” the lump mumbled.
“I will,” Rasa quietly said. “But… aren’t you cold?”
The lump did not move for several seconds. Then, slowly, Sasori wiggled out, just enough for his eyes to poke out of the mass of blankets.
“Are you stupid?” Sasori hissed.
Rasa answered, very intelligently, “um.”
Maybe he was. They all slept with kunai, and Sasori was the quickest draw. Rasa held his breath, waiting for Sasori to move. When Sasori did nothing, Rasa peeked over one shoulder, then the other, before scooting closer, careful not to startle him.
“You look cold,” Rasa began. “So you are cold.”
“‘m not.”
“Well, I am,” Rasa said, yanking the blanket and wriggling under.
That was his excuse for wrapping himself around Sasori.
He was cold. Sasori was cold. They could be warm together.
He grabbed Sasori’s wrist, stopping him short.
“Mm?” Sasori tilted his head back. His lip curled in a sneer. “Don’t tell me you’re apologizing.”
Rasa said nothing.
The truth was this: Rasa was a tedious man. He liked stability, and disliked surprises. As such, his ideal weekend included balancing political platforms, getting government accounts in the black, and the sound of an abacus adding and subtracting, set to a rhythm of his choosing.
Tedium was, simply put, relaxing. It was predictable. Most importantly, it was reliable—far more reliable than more popular extracurricular activities.
People were ... less tedious.
People were—complicated.
So when it came time for the ghost festival, Rasa had no one to go with. His father had left the Hidden Sand years ago. He had no mother or siblings to speak of. There was one priestess, Karura... but she was probably busy, performing some death rite or another. Rasa did not have the nerve to ask her, at any rate.
It was frankly pathetic, and Sasori had told him as such.
“I’ll be your date. Otherwise, you’ll be pitiful.”
He was a tedious, pitiful man. He cared too much about numbers, too little about art, and struggled with the simplest of small talk. One day, Sasori would get tired of humoring him, and that’d be the end of it.
As kites tangled with lanterns and the sun pooled pink over the cliffs, the scroll on his back—heavy with everything he bought for Sasori— Rasa realized, for the first time in his life, that he did not want to be boring.
“Whatever it is, forget about it,” said Sasori. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“That’s good.” Rasa was stern. “Because I’m not apologizing.”
Sasori tried to pull away. “Maybe you should.”
Rasa held on tighter. “It’s a waste of my breath.” He squeezed Sasori’s hand. “And a waste of your time. Let’s leave this behind, and go somewhere else.”
Sasori clicked his tongue. After some deliberation, weighing the pros and cons of murdering Rasa in broad daylight, he begrudgingly nodded. “Fine. I’m bored, anyway.”
Without a word, Rasa ran towards an alley, jerking Sasori along. Sasori yelped as Rasa jumped on a crate and launched them up, sliding down a line of lanterns, and swinging to another.
“What are you—“ Sasori stumbled and cursed.
Rasa did not explain, dragging him up, up, up, until they burst through a rooftop garden. Sasori’s eyes were wide—almost white—as a shower of petals fell around his face.
Rasa didn’t stop to admire the sight. Or to consider the trampled flowers.
“This way,” he urged, tugging Sasori towards Suna’s cliffs.
“Where are you taking me?”
“You’ll see.”
“That’s not an answer,” Sasori grumbled. But he let Rasa lead him away, their hands tangled together.
By the time they reached the edge of Suna, the sun had already begun to dip below the city cliffs. Twilight bled across the sky, casting long red shadows over the valley.
Laughter drifted up from the city, ringing like bells. Bit by bit, the smothering heat vanished, blown away by gusts of sand. A chill bit the air, and did not let go, sinking its teeth into Rasa’s robes and skin and bones, and gnawing there plainly.
He disregarded it, leading Sasori further up the path, hand in calloused hand. They were used to cold nights, having served together on the coldest, but that didn’t stop Sasori from making a face.
“Almost there,” Rasa assured him. He stepped over some rubble, pulling the redhead along.
Sasori stared at their entwined fingers. When Rasa glanced back, Sasori glowered, eyes as dark as a scorpion’s shell. Rasa forced himself to look away.
“Just through here.”
Further ahead, a dune leaned on a red torii gate, curling its fists around the pillars.
The village tombs.
Sasori scowled. “You’re a horrible date.”
“I know,” Rasa replied. “But you already knew that.”
“Yes,” he bitterly said. “As always, you exceed expectations.”
He drug his feet as Rasa took him to the torii gate, hand-in-annoyed hand. The gate creaked as they passed under.
“Bastard,” Sasori muttered.
“I can carry you if you’re tired,” offered Rasa.
“I’d rather die.”
“Then you’ll have to walk.”
Sasori gave him a withering look, and ripped himself away, stomping ahead. His skin was pale, and clammy. His tongue felt like cotton; his arms felt like lead. His legs swayed, and very nearly buckled. The thirst alone was enough to drive him mad, Rasa knew. And Sasori was already mad enough.
They stepped aside to let a family pass. The scent of incense clung to them, somber, and quiet. A child with a spider mask giggled and waved a sparkler.
Sasori scowled harder. When they were alone, he turned on Rasa.
“Why are we doing this?” he spat.
“I need to pay my respects.”
“Why would I?” Sasori snarled. “I don’t pay respects. I don’t care.”
“Why not?” Rasa threw his words back at him. “Since you don’t care, it should be easy. Unless I’m mistaken?”
Sasori opened his mouth to argue. Then his jaw snapped shut. “You aren’t.”
He cared too much. It’d be his undoing.
They walked with that lie for what felt like hours. Cliffs towered above them, striped in layers of sandstone, and the stars above that, swirling with smoke, thick enough to make his throat burn. Rasa coughed; Sasori stubbornly kept silent.
They crossed under another torii gate, and another, and another, following a meandering, twisting path. The high cliffs staggered, and unfurled into a valley dotted with fragrant altars.
At the center of the valley, a giant white monument pierced the air, stabbing into the night sky. Moonlight bled over the rocks, dripping over the tombstones, and pooling over the rippling sand. A strange man in a lion mask stood at the monument, staring up at the stars, as if they belonged to him.
Despite himself, Rasa shivered, pulling Sasori closer.
The man looked up. The slit eyes of his mask glinted gold.
“Ah… hello, Rasa.”
Rasa started. “Lord Third? Ah—this is unexpected. I thought you were overseeing the festivities.”
“I’m surprised to see you out at all, let alone socializing,” joked Third. “But, yes—I took a break.” His mask held that same warm smile. “Hello, Sasori.”
“Lord Third,” he quietly greeted.
“So formal!” Third laughed. “It’s nice to see you, too.”
“—likewise.”
The kazekage hummed. “I wonder.”
Sasori kept still. His ears flushed red.
Third stood up straighter and folded his hands behind his back. “Have you ever heard the story of the scorpion and the frog?”
Rasa choked. “Excuse me?”
“You two remind me of that. Very cute.”
Sasori looked like he wanted to die. Rasa cut in.
“Unfortunately, we have somewhere to be.”
“Mm.” Third tilted his head. “Is that so? That’s too bad.”
I was having fun , went unsaid. Rasa smiled thinly.
“We have food to eat. People to see.” He held his chin up. “You understand.”
“Of course~” Third hummed. Amusement was clear in his voice. “I have my own duties— I’ll leave you to it.”
Sasori watched him leave, a strange look on his face. It was the same sort of face Rasa suspected he made while looking at Sasori.
Finally, Sasori spoke. “Let’s go.”
“It’s not far,” Rasa said. They passed several tombs, feet sinking into the sand.
Sasori crossed his arms defensively. “You keep saying that.”
“Because I mean it.”
“Do you?”
Rasa sighed. “Yes.”
They stopped at a plain stone grave. It had no incense, no food, no wine, no prayers; instead, on its altar, two tiny wooden dolls held hands—one, tall, with short red hair, and the other, smaller, with waist-length brown locks.
For the longest time, Sasori stared.
“She…” Sasori tried. “Granny. She was here.”
“Those are hers?” asked Rasa.
“No. I mean. Yes. But…” His eyes turned down. “They used to be mine.”
“Ah. That’s— I understand.”
“She never went, before.” Sasori bowed his head, voice thick with resentment. “Even when I asked. Even when I begged.”
In the dark of the night, Sasori’s poisonous colors were washed gray. Only the curve of his neck, as soft as porcelain, glowed under the moon. It was thin and delicate, vertebrae notched like an archer’s bow.
Rasa coughed awkwardly. There were a million things he wanted to say. None of them suited the moment.
“This was a bad idea.”
“Yeah.”
“—do you want to go back?”
It was Sasori’s turn to sigh. He took an unsteady step towards the grave, then dropped to one knee, and then another. He sighed, again, and crossed his legs neatly.
“Get out that food, will you?”
Rasa paused. After collecting himself, he nodded, reaching into his robe. He pulled out a scroll and bit his thumb.
One puff of smoke later, and a basket appeared, bundled in a thick sheet tied in a simple knot. As the smoke dissipated, the sheet came undone, falling into a perfect picnic square. Rasa glanced at Sasori, hoping the cheap trick might make him smirk, or laugh, or even roll his eyes– only to meet with his back.
That was to be expected. He plated the food with military efficiency, filling the sheet with all the festival food. In one corner, he placed candied chestnuts; in another, soft, puffy buns, stuffed with greasy horse meat. A pie made its way to the center; this, he sliced into, putting together a platter of sweets, breads and peeled lemons for Sasori.
“Here.” Rasa put it next to Sasori, and set himself to making two more plates— meat buns for himself, and a generous variety as an offering for Sasori’s parents. He left this by the grave, mumbling a quick prayer, before sitting next to him.
Their knees bumped. Rasa pretended not to notice.
Sasori snatched up a lemon, tearing into it like a dog with flesh. He picked up another and did the same. Rasa followed his example at a more reasonable pace, chewing slowly to savor the flavor. He ripped a bun in half, and pushed it at Sasori.
“Eat.” The meat glistened, salty broth soaking into the bread.
Sasori scoffed. “No thanks.” He then picked up another lemon, opening his mouth to bite.
Rasa stuffed the bun into Sasori’s mouth. “ Eat .”
“Mmph!” Sasori coughed and gagged, choking it down with difficulty. He glared up at Rasa. “—you piece of shit.”
“You need to eat,” insisted Rasa, pushing a plate towards him. “Real food. Something filling. And…”
“And what?” demanded Sasori.
“And, I got you something.” Rasa’s coal-black stare met Sasori’s stony eyes, unflinching. “To thank you for the company.”
“Ha. Like I care. Give it to me, and I’ll decide if it’s enough.”
“Remember— this was your idea.” Rasa reached into his sleeve. “ You asked me out.”
“Did I?” Sasori feigned ignorance. “That doesn’t seem like something I’d do. If I did, I certainly didn’t plan this detour.”
“Don’t be a brat.”
“Then don’t be stupid, stupid.”
“Fine.” Rasa grabbed Sasori’s hand and forced a small, cold object into his palm, folding Sasori’s fingers around it like leaves around a little flower, careful to keep it hidden.
“There,” Rasa slowly said. “It’s yours.”
He let go with some reluctance. Sasori’s eyes went wide.
“Oh.”
A small jade scarab rested on top of a delicately coiled chain, trimmed in a warm gold, and bound to a pendant. It shimmered as Sasori examined it closer, chain slipping between his knuckles, and catching the starlight in its links.
It was the same scarab that he’d been looking at earlier—the one that caught his attention.
“You noticed,” he simply said.
“I try.”
Sasori began to say something else; when that something else did not come, he fell silent. His brows pinched together, and he glanced towards the grave, meeting the dolls’ eyes. He looked away again then shoved the scarab in his pocket.
“So.” Rasa cleared his throat. “I’m assuming you like it?”
Sasori was defensive. “I never said that.”
“You don’t have to.” Rasa crossed his arms. “It seemed…” Valuable wasn’t the right word. Worthy wasn’t either. “Fitting,” he nodded.
“Right.” Sasori snorted. “You know nothing about art.”
“I know you. That’s enough for me.”
“Doubtful.”
Sasori had not brought a mask to the festival— he didn’t need to. He had an invisible mask, made of clear, glassy resin, that he wore over his heart. Wearing that mask, all of the bloodshed, the heartache, the sandstorms, the sun— everything rolled over him and vanished, like wind over a worn rock.
Only now that mask had cracked.
It was small, barely the length of a pinky nail, but it was there— a chink in Sasori’s tough exterior— revealing something tender underneath. His heart fluttered there, so small, and so painfully close— Rasa could nearly touch it. Hold it. Taste it.
But nevermind that. Rasa grabbed another lemon. “Someone once told me that scarabs make the heavens. Day in and day out, they labor, hauling the sun through the sky, the underworld, and into the sky again, over and over and over…— you get the point.”
“Do you?”
Rasa went on. “They’re considered a miracle. A sort of resurrection—”
“Seriously?”
“—and, to some, a promise to come home,” finished Rasa. “And that’s why I bought it for you. I thought you’d might like that.”
The scent of citrus burst into the air, as bright as the night was cold. A good smell, he decided, tearing into the thick yellow rind. It yielded easily to his fingers, skin parting from skin, and flesh parting from flesh, dripping all over his hand.
Rasa looked up to find Sasori watching him intently.
He blinked, and Sasori was suddenly right there, a breath away. Rasa didn’t flinch.
“What? Not artistic enough for you?”
“It’s not bad.” Sasori then clarified, unhelpfully, “I don’t hate it.”
Suddenly peeling lemons didn’t seem that important. Rasa sat up straight.
“I was right,” he accused, “You do like it,”
“Keep dreaming.”
“You do.”
The lemon rolled into the sand, and Rasa stooped lower, kohl-lined eyes dark, and focused. His head thunked against Sasori’s. The bright red of his hair mixed with the crimson of Rasa’s, like a fresh blood splattered over rust.
“You like me,” Rasa murmured.
Sasori’s breath tickled Rasa’s lips. “Don’t say dumb things.”
He kissed Rasa, and he was icy, his arms sliding up Rasa’s chest and around his neck, jostling the snarling mask. Rasa shivered as Sasori cupped his head tightly.
Rasa broke away for air. “Freezing,” he gasped.
Sasori laughed faintly, teal paint smeared across his lips.
“Then make me warm,” he said, before kissing Rasa again.