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Around the Naruto-verse in Eight Days 2023, Anonymous
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Published:
2024-01-04
Completed:
2024-01-27
Words:
4,714
Chapters:
2/2
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34
Kudos:
20
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like a little scarab, crawling underfoot

Anonymous

Summary:

Rasa has a date for the year-end ghost festival, and said date proves to be difficult.

How does a man go through life with a scorpion nest in his heart?

Notes:

I am the latest latey to ever late in an event (ever).

This is for the Naruto Vacation week, hosted on tumblr. the purpose of this event was to showcase canonverse culture in a lot of villages that we normally don't see. Naturally, I wanted to do Suna, and when i found out my optional prompt was New Years, I had to pick up this old WIP again. it's stuffed with silly headcanons - i hope you enjoy :)

credit to tropical-gothic - sasori loves sour things :)

thanks to my friend jashinist-femme for giving me a beta read

There is a part 2 - it's about the same length. it will be posted once irl calms down and I can finish it heehee

Chapter 1: the price of golden heartwood

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text



Winter in the Village Hidden in the Sand was nearly the same as summer. The sun loomed above, bearing onto the aching spot where the knots in Rasa’s shoulders met the crook of his neck. It dripped down his vertebrae—his spine, his legs—with the slowness of lava, down into the core of the earth. 

The air was thick with fire, and hard to swallow. Altogether, the heat and pressure would’ve been ideal for diamond-making; instead, it only made Rasa grit his teeth, pocket watch in hand, and push through the crowd, the mask on his belt swinging with each step.

It was a peculiar mask, worn only during the ghost festival, as a way to tell mortals and spirits apart. Made from ivory, it had two pairs of slitted eyes, shaped into a stern frown which Sasori claimed had suited him. That made Rasa frown more.

It jingled at his side, nonetheless, as Rasa paced the sandstone blocks of the city bazaar. He stopped once at each stall, scanning the busy market for one particular face, before going onto the next, stopping, and scanning again.

Each Sunan he passed wore a mask of their own—some made of wood, others with clay, or bone—some with many eyes, some with fangs, some with no features at all. 

And then there was Rasa, with his ivory mask, searching for the man who made it— the same man who was late.

“Took you long enough."

Speak of the devil.

“Says who.” Rasa snapped his pocket watch shut. “I was here first.”

Sasori tched. “Don't be such a child. It’s not my fault you’re always early.” 

“Right.” Rasa scoffed. He had been early. Sasori had been late. “Your sense of time is unreliable, at best.”

Sasori cocked his head. “I’m never late,” he coldly said. “If you had to wait, blame your poor judgment. Not mine.” 

The yellow light of the sun cut across his sour features, softened by several lines of teal face paint. 

He was striking. Enough to catch his breath. 

“...regardless.” Just like that, Rasa set aside his exasperation, and put on Sasori’s mask, sliding it to the side of his head. As difficult as he was, it was hard to stay mad at Sasori, particularly when he looked like that. “We should get going, before the sun sets.”

Sasori shrugged. “Hurry up then.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, he reached for Rasa’s snarling mask, his creation, tracing it with a red-painted nail. He nodded.

“Perfectly crafted,” he smugly declared. 

More heat crawled up Rasa’s back. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, wiping away the sweat on his collar. “Aren't you going to wear one?”

“Hm?” 

Rasa pointed at the mask. “This.”

“Ah. That.” Sasori dropped his hand. “Not this year, no.”

Rasa frowned. “You’ll get mistaken for a ghost.” 

“Don’t be stupid.” Sasori rolled his eyes, and walked ahead.

At the heart of the festivities, lanterns knocked together, strung between sandstone buildings like a spider's web. Light flickered across them, scattering colors across the sky. As the sun dipped, the lanterns gleamed, brighter than the stars. 

“As I mentioned, the sun will set soon.” Rasa carried on, setting a slow pace, “what would you like to do?” Nice. Polite. Formal.

“Mmh.” Sasori hummed noncommittally. “You pick.”

He always had to be difficult.

Rasa pressed again. “There are a couple vendors that you might like—some artisans,” he rambled on. “Glassware. Dyed silks. Jewelers—“

Sasori cut him off. “Are they any good?”

“—I’d … appraise them as expensive,” said Rasa.

“So?”

“So, I wouldn’t know. I don’t have an eye for that sort of thing.” Markets fluctuated with the tides of supply and demand. It was simple enough to calculate an item’s value by its scarcity and the cost of production; by comparing this value to the value of other similar purchases, one could determine the relative worth of an item. Above average was good. Below average was not.

Sasori, however, was a peculiar person. He was not looking for the objectively correct answer; he was looking for beauty, and Rasa didn’t know where to start.

“You’ll have to judge for yourself,” he told Sasori.

“Hmph.” His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “As always.”

Heat flared up across the back of his neck—heat which could not be blamed on the sun. Rasa forced himself to look away. He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

The more they walked, the more Sunans milled about, dressed in red and gold and blue sashes, and bone masks. Sasori asked after the treasury, nodding as if he understood the math—(he did not); Rasa asked after his art, triggering a rant on the effect of oxidation on the color of golden heartwood (in one ear and out the other). Timed correctly - and finished with an imported lacquer - and it would replicate tanned olive skin with yellow undertones. Whatever Sasori was making with it—

—he didn’t want to know.

“Golden heartwood,” Rasa began, searching for the words. “how much is that going for?”

“Too much,” Sasori huffed. This, at least, Rasa sympathized with. 

“Prices have been high lately,” he commented. “Inflation makes things difficult.”

“Aren’t you in charge of fixing that?”

Rasa shot him a flat look. “Do you even know what inflation is?”

“You talk about it enough. Of course I do.”

“Then what is it?”

Sasori did not dignify that with an answer. Pursing his lips, he instead walked faster, ducking into a stall. Rasa shook his head and followed, pushing past haggling customers, past dangling necklaces and heavy bangles, to find Sasori inspecting a small scarab pendant.

“When you win the war—“ 

Sasori shoved the pendant at him. “If the wars end.” 

“ When you win the war,” Rasa repeated. “I’ll get you something,” he added, “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want…”

“Anything,” Rasa insisted. “You’re Suna’s greatest asset. You deserve it.”

“An ‘asset,’” Sasori laughed, then reached for a piece of amethyst. “More like a tool.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re all tools. I just so happen to be better made than most.” Sasori discarded the amethyst and picked up a strange yellow gem. “Dull.” Another. “Boring.” And a necklace. “Uninspired.” he dropped it with a clatter, and a sigh. 

“We’re done here,” Sasori told Rasa. “Let’s go.”

“Just a second,” Rasa replied, still holding the scarab pendant. It was pale, green, and cold, like Sasori was cold. The longer he held it, the more it warmed in his palm. “I’ll put this back.” 

“Hurry up then.” 

Their arms brushed as Sasori slid past him. 

There was a—spark. A something. An extra stab of heat.

They both ignored it. 

When Rasa was done, he caught up with Sasori perusing some bone carvings. Rasa bought charms for both of them. They strolled along the street for some time, Rasa swimming further and further into his thoughts. He struggled to think of something to say. Anything. 

A gaggle of children rushed by, a kite rushing after them. Sasori stepped away, his shoulder bumping Rasa’s—just as Rasa blurted, “—have you eaten? Would you like a drink?”

Sasori stayed icy. “I’m fasting.”

Rasa’s brows shot up. “Fasting?”

“For the festival. Is that an issue?”

Rasa frowned. His mask frowned with him. 

For nomads of the land of wind, fasting was frequently invoked as a means of bringing the living closer to the dead, used mostly by followers of Jashin. The closer one was to death, the closer they were to the dead— or so the tales went.

This sort of fasting was not common among settled Sunans, but was occasionally observed during the new years’ ghost festival, when the veil between living and dead was at its thinnest, until the sun set, and the year passed into the afterlife.

With the war being what it was, it had recently become popular among widows and orphans. When the year died, the mourning reached out, with clumsy, fumbling hands. It was said that when the spirits reached back, fingers rotten, and splintering, they did not let go. 

This was the kind of tradition Sasori usually mocked. He had lost his parents a long time ago, and had no patience for such sentimentality. It was useless, pointless, and dumb.

Or so Rasa had thought.

“So?” Sasori snapped. “Is there an issue?”

Rasa exhaled. “No. No issue at all. Just—surprised.” And worried. They were walking around in boiling hot weather. If Sasori wasn’t eating, or drinking…

He held his tongue, shook his head, and changed the subject. 

“More…I was thinking. I’ll also abstain,” he said. That was only polite. “But we should get something for later— what do you want?”

“Lemons,” Sasori immediately answered, “lots of them.”

Rasa raised a brow. “That’s not real food.”

“They’re fruit,” Sasori said matter-of-factly. 

It wasn’t worth arguing over. “Fine. What else?” 

“Some sweets, too. Tarts, or pastries—nothing with icing. Cheese is better. With syrup and nuts and flaky crust.” Sasori listed, counting on his fingers.

“Maybe something easier to carry?” Rasa offered.

“I can carry lemons just fine,” Sasori retorted.

Rasa could only sigh. “We’ll see what we can find.” 

Luckily, they wouldn’t suffer for lack of sweets. The government made a point of importing sugar, rice and water to be publicly distributed during religious holidays— specifically, the harvest festival in the summer, and the ghost festival in the winter, which they were celebrating now.

(Supposedly, this improved morale. In reality, Lord Third would not survive without throwing an extravagant party every couple of months.)

They circled through the streets, slinking through alleys and under lanterns. Closer to the bazaar, the scent of cinnamon spilled over the city, fragrant and sticky with the scent of baked goods. Some were sprinkled with herbs, others with cheese, and still others with burnt sugar. Sasori darted towards the sweets, while Rasa hung behind, scanning the market for something suitable. Maybe even healthy.

He ended up purchasing a half dozen lemons (as demanded), a bag full of red dates, and some hot tea in a thermos (handed to him with a wink). On second thought, Rasa added a basket of “real food”—wrapping everything in a sheet, which was then sealed in a scroll—before circling back for Sasori, who had stopped to extort a blacksmith.

“Like I said, my order was due weeks ago.”

The blacksmith, a Kumori man named Han Ye, looked like he’d swallowed poison. “Mm.”

He crossed one thick arm over the other, towering above Sasori. “It festival. Have much to do.” Han Ye jerked a shoulder at his booth. “Many orders. Buy if want.”

“At those prices?”

Han Ye’s dark eyes glowered under his headscarf. “No buy, no deal.”

Sasori sneered. “As if I’d do business with you.”

Before he could make things worse, Rasa slid between them. “—I think that’s enough.” 

“Finally,” muttered Sasori. “Let’s get out of here.”

Despite his blunt manners, Han Ye was a thorough man, who meticulously ranked everyone who he interacted with. When it came to his wallet, Sasori ranked number one— he bought more custom blades and needles than all of Suna put together. But when it came to personality, Sasori ranked dead last. Han Ye was glad to see him gone. 

“Okay,” Han Ye waved Rasa off. “Go. Take loud bug with you.”

Sasori’s eyes widened. If looks could kill, Han Ye would die on the spot. “ You— ”

“—are leaving.” 

Rasa grabbed Sasori by the elbow, yanking him away.

“You never take my side!” snapped Sasori.

“You always pick fights!” 

“Who cares? I win them.”

“‘Win?’” Rasa snorted. “You’re too much.”

“And you’re not enough,” cut Sasori. “Be grateful I even bother.”

He shoved Rasa away and marched ahead, parting the crowd like steel through flesh. 

Rasa exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. Even with all his emotion training, it was hard to stay unaffected. Sasori had a knack for stabbing his weakest spots. This, in particular, hurt more than most, stinging like a knife through the ribs. 

He allowed himself a grimace, and carried on, chasing after Sasori.

Someone had to look after him. Even if one else would.

Notes:

kudos / comments always appreciated. please scream at me about these two.

Chapter 2: the anatomy of a bug

Summary:

After thinking about their past, Rasa takes Sasori to a quiet place in Suna’s cliffs in an ill-advised attempt at spontaneity.

Notes:

a special thanks to my friends for listening to me complain about this fic 🫶

if you’re interested in exploring the Narutoverse, I highly suggest checking out the other fics for this event ☺️

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

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.

 

 

 

 

 



Notes:

Kudos and comments are ❤️

I want people to scream at me about Rasa and Sasori. Or third. Yes. Pls scream.