Work Text:
Itachi yawns from where he’s seated on the couch, still properly waking up while Deidara fiddles fruitlessly with the doorknob–a couple, blatantly obvious statements crossing his mind, almost said aloud in his stupor, such as “it’s snowing” and “door’s locked.”
What he means is a combination of the two–that the door is either frozen into its frame or blocked from the other side due to the snow—but he’s especially disoriented at the moment, having slept in this long.
Normally he’d be the first up, out of habit and necessity (wanting the kitchen before Deidara inevitably made a mess of it), but something the night before made him set his alarms later and then, with the news of an excessively cold day ahead of them, delete the alarms entirely.
He always held himself to the same worryingly productive standards, even on days intended solely for rest–promising himself a full night’s sleep only to set an alarm for a measly few hours into the future–so if he really wanted to commit to it, he might as well choose the coldest day to stay in and marinate–a day where almost everyone else would be doing the same.
It was easier to relax when everyone else was doing so, there being no standards to compare himself–no standards set for anything in the first place—but “relaxing” wasn’t exactly the right word for what he was doing, just as “being productive” wasn’t exactly the right phrasing for what Deidara was up to—still attempting to unstick the door, putting a leg up on the adjoining wall for leverage, Itachi feeling each disjointed slam in his temples.
And even if tiredness overrode any real irritation, there was a flicker of confusion in his bleariness, wondering why this seemed to bother Deidara so much—outside of recognizing it as a general inconvenience, at least. It wasn’t actually affecting them right now in any way: still with access to electricity and heat, fine on food and with no shortage of ways to entertain themselves inside (they would resort to bringing out the board game at the top shelf in the closet with half of its pieces missing if they had to). To be honest, their situation seemed more and more ideal the longer he thought about it.
Deidara usually kept to himself anyways, kept to his room, to his art–save for his “mandatory half-hour break from arts and crafts,” Itachi would think as he watched Deidara unseal himself from his room daily at some odd evening time, vaguely attending to personal hygiene and bodily needs, brushing his hair and using the bathroom, tugging on whatever clothes weren't that dirty before a brisk walk to the convenience store, procuring parts of a proper meal at Itachi’s urging.
Onigiri’ll do if you aren’t getting a full bento
At least get something else with it if you’re getting an energy drink
Don’t spend too much time looking at the chips. Get the low salt ones or maybe drink some water for once (actually, everything aside from alcohol is hydrating but there’s no way I’m telling his ass that)
And it’s not as if he could scold Deidara exactly for grabbing whatever was easiest–knowing he himself would just as readily head directly to the sweets and clearly out of preference at that–but being active in reverse of his roommate meant he usually wasn’t around or awake to make Deidara a real meal–even if he knew the red-faced huff he’d receive in return for even suggesting something like that, even if he wasn’t sure why exactly he felt guilty (or why he felt that strange heat in the center of his chest) over a responsibility he never had.
–So why make such a fuss getting it unstuck? he thought, shaking the daydream he was lapsing into out of his head.
The chill alone on a regular day was already enough to make Deidara vocally enthusiastic about said five minute jaunt to the store (no matter how visibly happy he’d be standing over the kitchen sink, standing at an angle he assumed Itachi wouldn’t see him properly, stuffing his face with fried chicken, so giddy over something so simple) so why bother fighting this nonemergency?
“Don’t worry about running to the store–I can make us something to eat,” so you don’t break the door in half or try and fit yourself through the window, Itachi thinking the latter part as he stands up, goes to lean against the doorframe to the hallway on his way to the kitchen, feeling his eyes twitch upwards towards his brow, almost unable to suppress the urge to roll them.
“Not–really–worried about that–” Deidara grunts in return, eventually taking a seat in the warm spot Itachi just vacated, having thoroughly exhausted himself.
“Just don’t like knowing I’m stuck. Knowing I don’t have options. Means I can’t go out if I wanted to, means I gotta plan my day differently. Like what if we lose heat and I can’t wash my hair today or there’s no electricity past four in the afternoon and I just gotta sleep the night off because my stuff’s not charged enough to use for anything–” Deidara says, unintentionally flexing his creative muscles in listing off every possible way even a single day snow-in could go wrong.
Itachi hums in response, seeing why he’d be sour–prickled by disruption of routine, neutrally or negative, as well as it being… not dire necessarily but concerns over heat and power would linger, even if they were lucky enough now to not be experiencing it.
“But…” the change in mood catching Itachi’s attention, “I could eat. Wouldn’t mind it, I mean.”
Another affirmative sound–always strangely, suddenly serious about mealtime matters–and he heads off to the kitchen as if they were indeed prepping for disaster.
Rolling boil, he times it out five minutes even, and it’s after two back-and-forths over life’s grand quandary of how much rice to make—three cups always too much exactly when two would never suffice, one never even a consideration—that he glosses over the matte plastic of the resealable bag and mutters something about avoiding mixed rice—the list of preferences in his head flickering for a moment–
favorite is bakudan,
dislikes rice pilaf,
bakudan onigiri acceptable if plain rice
best bet is soft boiled eggs alone if surumi unavailable–
expanding outward to counting close friends on the fingers, then back to Deidara only.
He recognizes his own oddity–surely, readily–and sees it just as easily in the others, all with their own habits and routines, but wonders when one of his own quirks became note-taking those of others–when he started recordkeeping their preferences and in such a domestic way; to care and cook for, to set aside, to keep readily on hand–so far distanced from the outside and everyday that their heavier concerns might as well matter less than nothing.
Wonders if it’s escapism of a kind, preoccupied by what doesn’t concern him to avoid what does–the same reason Deidara turns inwardly to his room to avoid the outward facing, only ever the convenience store, five minutes at a time.
But it doesn’t feel like that, doesn’t feel… bad.
Doesn’t feel as if he’s doing wrong, especially not with Deidara perking up like that.
Dare he say it’s enjoyable? Seeing someone else’s face light up over something so effortless to provide? It feels a rarity to set any of their habits down in the “positives” column so he’ll readily take it as such–as something done because he likes to, not because he has to.
They sit knee to knee in silence, peeling the eggs as carefully as one can, having not waited any time for the shells to cool, constantly twitching their hands away to shake them–insignificant pain, if one could even call it that, but not inconvenient.
“Think we’ll run into any trouble tonight?" Deidara asks absentmindedly, mostly unconcerned except for the here-and-there, as if the entirety of him is able to relax, save a fingertip.
“Oh,” he starts, as if coming to some kind of conclusion, finishing with “you mean like a ghost?” in his usual, deadpan manner—so blankly genuine to the point of being unsettling.
“What, no—what? I meant the power going out—what are you talking about–what does that mean?” he says, confusion increasing by the second.
“It’s unlikely the power will go out given the lack of wind and the weight of the snow doesn’t seem to be a problem thus far so I assumed you were worried about something else,” he returns, distracted by a stubborn panel of eggshell.
“I guess I just feel that if something strange were to happen, it’d have to be when we’re shut in and unable to avoid it; a ghost isn’t exactly threatening if you can just leave the place it’s attached to. Although even if it follows you, I don’t think it’d be as frightening not in close quarters–like it stops being an entity in your space and becomes just some guy outside.”
“...Okay but the way you’re explaining it doesn’t change what I’m confused about—like in what situation would the next problem on the list be–”
A shrill beep interrupts his question as he interrupts the beep with a scream as the power interrupts the scream, flickering off for a moment before coming back on.
Itachi has another obvious thought (guess you were right to be worried about the power–as if resignedly admitting his ghost concern wasn’t going to turn out to be a problem after all) but it’s as if Deidara senses this, able to divine it after just a few moments side by side, a few moments set aside to know one another through featherlight touches of the knuckles and clothed contact at the thigh, short on the loveseat for space, and he holds a finger up, not looking, to signal he needs another second sitting in silence with his head in his hands–silence so he doesn’t go off about the fucking ghost thing you just had to put in my fucking head–
Itachi uses the break in conversation to avoid being berated (affectionately) to strip his bed of the blankets, coming back to set them on and around their spots on the couch, an effective little eggshell for them both.
He flips the switch to the electric kettle, using it while they still have the convenience, but doesn’t wait for the water to boil before returning to the couch.
Deidara didn't say anything about remaining out here for the duration of the day–nothing about spending the daylight hours outside his room–but Itachi doesn’t wait for something to come up.
He merely organizes the blankets better, makes sure they’re both covered properly, before nestling into the cushions, fit up against Deidara as closely as possible, at knee and thigh and hip and bicep and shoulder–Deidara tying it off by resting his head in the crook of Itachi’s neck, heart fluttering at how soft his skin feels even at minimal contact, dreaming for a second how soft his hair would feel between his fingers.
“Just in case we do lose heat,” Itachi says, hand twitching for Deidara’s, fingers naturally shaky as they move to fit into place.
“Yeah, just in case,” Deidara agrees in return–
the both of them completely aware of how warm the room is, of all the other lights still lit on their street, and of the snow slowing down outside, the front door long unfrozen by now.