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Sasori cuts the deck in half, splits it into each hand, and fwips the cards together. They slot seamlessly, transforming into an effortless bridge in clever hands.
It would be impressive. It was the first ten times. Whether or not it's meant to be impressive, she's pretty sure the deck is shuffled by now. What’s happening feels more like an endurance test than preparation for a game – Sasori's hypnotic motions, his dull, heavily-lidded eyes, his perfectly straight spine. He has to be playing with them, right?
Temari shoots a glance across the table at where Kankuro is already trying to catch her eye. He levels her with a grimace, a quick tilt of his head at Sasori, and a wordless plea. Then, he nods to Gaara, who is sitting in reverent silence, staring at the cards snapping fluidly in Sasori’s grip with a matching dull intensity.
Temari gawks at her zombified younger brother. That . . . can't be good.
“Sasori,” she says, clearing her throat. He manages to convey an incredible amount of disdain with nothing but a flicker of his eyes and the barest hint of a raised brow, and she feels her veins go icy. She clears her throat again, attempting to sit up even straighter. How does he do that? Aren't spines supposed to curve? “I think we should play the game now.”
He doesn't stop shuffling the cards, something more machine than human. As she falters, Kankuro elbows his way into the dialogue.
“Yeah,” he says – jovial, with an edge of what the fuck does this guy think he's doing? “I think you're good, man.”
Sasori is silent, piercing, and completely impermeable. Temari is starting to squirm. Kankuro is still waiting for Sasori to say something. Gaara hasn't taken his eyes off of their cousin's hands, but there's the smallest wrinkle between where his eyebrows should be, his infant self’s only tell for an impending colic fit.
Fuck.
Just when the silence has drawn out long enough to warrant more panicked eye contact, Sasori says, “it takes an incredible amount of coordination and stamina to maintain a sustained shuffle.”
His voice is a perfect neutral, waiting room beige. Temari is at a complete loss for words. He continues.
“Even if you're able to do it right the first time, there's no guarantee for the second, or the third.”
You could time a metronome to his staccato monotony. Every word is measured – even and precise.
“Your muscles begin to tire. You become more susceptible to careless mistakes. Even if you're careful, one finger in the wrong place could send everything flying. That is the fallacy of the human body.”
Gaara is nodding, he's radiant, eyes shining. The crease in his forehead is smooth. Temari has failed as a sister.
“Good thing you don't have that problem, huh?” Kankuro says, truly grasping at straws. Temari shoots him a look, something between warning and panic. He shrugs, completely helpless. The sound of those fucking cards is going to be in Temari’s nightmares.
“We are all fallible,” says Sasori.
Pindrop silence. Curtains close. Curtains can close now – please?
Nothing.
“Avant garde,” Temari finally adds, hopelessly distraught. Sasori hasn't messed up a single pass. The standard deck is a blur of interlocking ink. She blinks twice, too hard both times. Everything is exactly the same when her vision clears – exactly the same. Kankuro is signalling to her in spastic semifores.
“I’m trying,” she mouths.
“The human body is inherently flawed,” Sasori drones on, a fucking steamroller. They're going to be flattened and there's nothing to be done about it. “We are puppets to the electrical impulses of our nervous system. We are impermanent flesh. Our minds decay and we leave nothing behind but carbon to be mutilated into another imperfect form ad infinitum.
“The mind is the only part of us that is real, but it leaves no trace of itself on the world.”
Sasori stares at the middle distance, finally done saying his piece. He reverts back to the wax doll, any trace of life extinguishing itself politely on the way out. Gaara offers a solemn nod. Kankuro whistles.
“Is all that gonna be in your art exhibit or your manifesto?”
“Neither,” Sasori says curtly.
“Gotcha.”
Nothing.
Temari is beginning to get sucked in.
Nothing.
Snap out of it.
“Are your . . . hands getting tired?” Temari tries.
“No.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“No.”
It occurs to Temari that she might want to be recording – Sasori's probably set a world record by now.
“Your hands are really steady,” Kankuro says. “You could be a surgeon – or one of those guys who, uh, the ones who cut up dead animals? The –”
Temari cuts in, “a taxidermist.”
“Right, or maybe a puppeteer?” Kankuro gestures with his hands. Sasori isn't looking. “I got some puppets. Marionettes. They're pretty fun, actually. And I guess they last longer than us. That could be – uh,” He falters under the weight of Sasori's attention. “That could be . . . in your . . . wheelhouse . . .”
Sasori doesn’t stop, but his focus shifts and the pressure in the room swims like the air before a storm. Kankuro’s throat bobs as he swallows. Something in Gaara’s forehead jumps.
Temari sees the second Kankuro gets the idea. It’s desperate, a last-ditch effort, but if the lemons are already out there, she figures there’s no real harm in trying for some lemonade.
“I’ll show you if you. If you, uh, put down the cards,” Kankuro bargains, sweat condensating on his temple.
Sasori tilts his head, clearly considering. He has Gaara’s presence, the weird, awe-inspiring allure of someone completely unshakeable. She feels a throb of what has to be irrational fear, catching in her throat – there’s something in his eyes, smooth, glassy, honey-brown, and utterly devoid of light – if you serially murder your cousins and nobody is around to see it, did you actually serially murder your cousins?
She reasons that he’d probably leave Gaara behind, and has to wonder if that would really be a good thing, all told. Her stomach curdles with the visual of her little brother shuffling cards –
Sasori nods. His hands settle on the table. The silence the cards leave behind is deafening. In one smooth motion, Sasori stands and says, “show me.”
And Kankuro smiles like a tic, jumpy and uncontrollable. It looks more like a grimace to Temari. When he looks back for help, she can only shrug – there’s nothing we can do.