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It was supposed to be a simple mission. They all start simple. till they no longer are. Till his artistic vanity dictates the price and reaps like a scythe, in spun of a costly moment. If every mission were simple they'll all be boring, uninspiring, uneventful, dulling. There would be no stimulus, no rewarding thrill, no static buzzing over skin in an aftermath of an explosion, nothing. No blaring bang to fill in the harrowing silence threatening to hollow out a hole in his chest. Or, perhaps, if he’s brave enough to admit, just deepen it.
So no, they're not all simple. Some have to be hard, one has to be the hardest. And one has to be the last. Deidara wondered if the current one is his ultimate ordeal. The prologue of his epilogue.
As it turned out Kumo has some formidable nins at their disposal. With battered pride and even more battered body Deidara was forced to acknowledge he's underestimated the opponent. Big time. A lighting based ninjutsu cut his clay bird in half, catching off guard. It'd be insulting if he couldn't adjust on his feet, he simply wouldn't be worthy of a place in the Akatsuki. Much to his dismay the entire pack of jonin excelled in tricky lighting jutsu. No matter what chakra level bomb he launched their direction all were effortlessly diffused, all tricks nullified with a terrific precision, telltale that these guys were in a possession of intel, not just luck, and certainly not remarkable wit.
To be candid, at least with himself, they weren't all that skilled, certainly nowhere near as canny and crafty as he can be. Maybe there was a way to counter their perfect counter, if he put his mind – and heart – into it. Normally it wouldn't be an issue, he's teeming with inspiration, psyched up by a prospect of exhibiting his art, excitement flowing through veins. Normally that’s how it’d be.
Fresh impetus was terrifyingly lacking these days. Red of the blast palled to the drab gray, ceased roaring in ears, couldn’t generate a spark. In spite of his best efforts he couldn't summon that very belligerent spirit that was often dubbed his Achilles heel. In theory that ought to be counted as an upswing, a purported lick of sense, in reality posed a dangerous absence.
Still, the lighting style, his kryptonite. He ought to do something about the weak spot, if he gets to see the another sunrise. A fuel for creativity, hopefully a cure for the insidious absence of a stimulant, a catalyst for the detonation – an accelerator. Not the lasting solution however, never that. Art is revolutionary, only permanent being its fluctuating nature, waves ebbing and flowing, natural flow of life undisturbed. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing is meant to. Especially not the warm vivifying rush fuzzing through system, ergo why he must always strive for the greater heights.
A taller blonde nin belted a whip buzzing with electricity around his arms, capturing and immobilizing. Girting teeth Deidara tried to free himself but squirming yielded no results. He was falling, at the alarming speed, and couldn't do anything to mend his pitiable fate. Numerous cuts sustained during the battle sapped of energy, of vigor. Blood loss got head reeling, dwindled focus, slowed body’s natural responses. Such trifle never hindered before, he's fought on the last atoms of strength while trembling, on the verge of blacking out. Yet now fight and flight unfolded into a freeze, not out of fright, quell the idea of such absurdity, but something better off unlabeled.
Deidara plummeted to the ground from who knows what height. Head hit the ground with a blaring crack, driving bile up throat, vision flashing black, skin sweating and trembling from the raw pain enkindled. Ouch. He really should've thought this through, or thought at all. He's undergone worse, that's without a doubt, but shouldn't downplay the mess he's roped himself into by engaging in a combat halfheartedly.
It's tempting to brush it off on arrogance, on haste, insolence, but ultimately beguiling. The second he deign to pull the wool over own eyes because truth displeases he might as well blow himself up. Better than to live in self-made illusions.
Unlike his partner who moved heaven and earth to avoid feeling, Deidara prided himself on being in tune with own body. Therefore he could figure on his own that something is wrong. Perhaps gravely wrong. Puffing and wheezing Deidara tried to turn to the side, quickly found that he couldn't move a finger. Raw pain dulled the senses. Ruckus of the battle reverberated off the trees, grating his ears but gradually dwindling to the white noise. Clash was very much still ongoing, just he couldn't hear a thing. Save for that voice.
Cold soil under cheek was unyielding, uninviting. It didn't ground, but did bring down to earth. Voice grew louder. Deidara bit inside of cheek, screwed glassy eyes to fight back nonexistent tears prickling corners, focused on steady breathing – anything to shift attention from that. Futile, flame ignited within the chest cavity, demanded full attention, injuries of no account. It was neither of ache nor fury, but something even more cardinal, existential.
Fire abruptly spread through veins. Pain burned through body, scorched, seared into the cells, imprinting on him like a stamp, defining as a human. Fuck, it hurt like hell! Perhaps he cried out, perhaps he screamed. Deidara couldn't tell. Vocal cords stung nevertheless. World abruptly narrowed. A word died on tip of the tongue, or perhaps a name. Metallic taste of blood blossomed, enveloped.
Red. So red. Too much red. Vision fogged to the impenetrable mist, head racked like about to split in half, nonetheless Deidara could picture himself bleeding out, over a insipid barren field in the back of beyond, meaningless, unimportant, pulled the curtains on rather than concluding the show on own accord.
No, he's erred. That's not the apt shade, not the one that tempted, bedeviled. It was never rich crimson of blood, but the brighter one of a blast. The outcome would be the same, from the bird’s eye, but difference would matter, at least in his eyes. Only in his, for no other are capable of behold the beauty in a self-made destruction. An act of rebel in a world raring to tame and mold into a biddable unquestioning weapon sapped of real identity, ergo an ultimate deliverance. World is set out to destroy him, might as well seize control and do it himself.
Deidara gave a low groan, trying to bellow in pain, but voice failed him. He tried squirming, moving out of the opening, yet in vain. Numbness took over, which ought to be a silver lining, for agonizing pain would engulf otherwise, drive up the wall. But it wasn’t. It was the drawback. It upset, ludicrously much. But it made sense. He'd rather feel pain than nothing at all.
Despite the dizziness and tapering sensation Deidara managed to twist neck enough to spy Hiruko's tail threading towards the enemy, painting the ground red. Heh, living up to his macabre moniker. Sasori is here, to clean the mess his heedlessness has brought about. Always is, a scrap of solace, an allowable speckle of dependency in the world that punishes the same. He'll be pissed although, Deidara snorted inwardly. Oh well, that's a problem for his future self, if it exits. Leastwise he doesn't have to worry about those pesky nins taking him out while he's out, the least artistic way.
Death doesn't frighten those without ties to the physical realm, Deidara has long ago made peace with it; embraced, fed it freedom to shape. Life is to be cherished, precisely because it's so fleeting, so transient. Withal, he refused to deign to a death he doesn't deserve, scripted for him like for far too many nameless souls contributing to the ostensible higher aim, perverted in the guileful unartistic hands of those truly pulling the strings. Foully devoid of a purpose.
Only a bang would cut it. Only a revolutionary loud impactful ending on own terms, a revolt against the deaf world that silences – a crumb of liberty in a life of an artist born in the shinobi world rewarding only obedience, condemning freedom of thought, a voice that rises.
Unfasten me. Itch that cannot be scratched, nonetheless pulled at chest. Unleash me. It fomented inside of him, always, but at times like these with chilling ferocity. So nettlesome. Too defining. Do it. Provide your empty existence with a purpose.
Too roaring. Too persistent. Too imperative. Fingertips itches, stitch burned, seared into the very core. Let me ou – ugh. Perhaps it's a blessing in disguise that he couldn't move. Otherwise… ah, no, these lowlifes aren't worth his magnum opus. It’d be a waste.
Nonetheless, only one thought flashed through Deidara's mind with sufficient clarity to linger, and eventually etch, as sharp pain dulled the nerves, vision fading to black. If I die Sasori is going to kill me.
- - - - - - -
Pain.
So much pain.
It burned. Ached so fucking much it was the first thing Deidara realized upon coming to it, the fact he did coming second. Stomach gave a nasty twist, churned, agonized. Muscles cramped, vision swaying, white dots swirling before heavy eyes, luring back to slumber he's not to allow. Enough of numbness, let the twinges charge up, let the ache kindle life.
Deidara couldn't even begin expounding what hurts. Everything did. Mustering strength he crossed arms over face, nestled against the pillow and chewed on the lips to battle a flood of groans, the tide of snivels. Ugh. Talk about reaping what he’s sowed. It was too much, even for an adrenaline junkie like him. He almost wished he stayed unconscious. Almost.
Escapism ain’t his style, the opposite, insults artistic senses based in the thrill seeking. Stabs of the pure ache delighted in a sick kind of way. They're a proof that he's alive. That hollowness hasn't won, that void creeping up spine in the dead of the night hasn't reached neck and choked. He hasn’t succumbed. He hasn't reached the limit of the sky, there's still further up to soar, beyond the simplistic concepts like happiness and sadness, guided by a the creative flicker everyone dubs madness. Loneliness paves the artist's road to the perfection, only true creatives can achieve genuine exhilaration in freedom it lays out.
Battered body demanded rest, curiosity gnawed at him, prompted scrutiny. Latter won. Deidara craned neck, grimaced as tinges welled up, but let foggy eyes roam. How long has he been out? Scope of injuries alongside hot pain sending sweat beading down icy skin suggested few days, at best. Realistically closer to a week. If so Sasori must be beside himself with anger, ballistic. If it weren't for painfully sore throat Deidara would have snickered, to key up. He doesn't find sadistic pleasure in riling Sasori up, however couldn't negate the joy of replacing the impassive look etched in wooden face with… something. Anything was fine. Anything but nothing.
Shiver passed through him, followed by another. He’s topless, courtesy of the bandaged chest. Thin quilt was insufficient, coldness seeped through. nipped at skin. Shuddering Deidara tried to rub arms to warm up, just for hands to inertly topple to the sides. Another type of coldness washed over. Nothing infuriated as much as weakness, but nothing could be done in that regard. A meager price to pay for… gulp, yea, let's call it recklessness.
Deidara studied the surroundings, subconsciously searching for his partner. Being the one who's mended his wounds Sasori surely must be nearby. They were in some sort of an inn, or maybe one of Akatsuki's many hideouts scattered across the five great nations. Heh, those unartistic fuckers had no clue what was going on in their own yards. It caught them off guard how easily they infiltrated the village and… Deidara mentally paused, bethought himself of the mission. He's passed out amid it. What became of it? A silly question. Of course Sasori has handled it.
Like he's taken care of his injuries. Really, he should consider himself lucky for being partnered with such a competent seasoned shinobi, equipped with sufficient medical knowledge to tender to all the wounds that tragic flaw he labels rashness inflicts. Speaking of. They must have set the schedule back by… a lot. Or, to put it bluntly, more than Akatsuki was willing to tolerate. Not Sasori however, in spite of how he'll portray it. Extra spare time works in his favor, he can always kill it by tinkering with puppets. So much for a beauty left for posterity, those would decay unless regularly tended, artificially perpetuated. Anyways, delays with work never bothered sincerely, but that's just a tip of the iceberg. Something else does bother however, just it’s never out in the open.
Balancing himself up on the left palm Deidara tried to sit up. Strength was found lacking, as expected. With a hiss he fell over the matters. It yielded under his weight, invited. Failure sparked irritation, sparking off stubborn persistence. After a couple unsuccessful attempts he managed, albeit still shaky, enfeebled. Lungs burned, breath laborious. Perhaps he broke a rib or two. Oh well.
Anyways, he can't lay down forever, refused to waste limited time on human earth on lazying around. Idle mind is the devil's workshop, it’ll stir a bedlam, leave gates of the subliminal ajar. He itched for the smooth texture of clay under fingers. It soothers, distracts.
Rustling of sheets captured attention, not allowing room for preparation. Deidara senses a pair of grayish eyes piercing through skin, intensity of fixation at odd with ennui therein.
“Fractured skull, a concussion, broken legs, lung damage, internal bleeding, severe blood loss, injured vocal cords, second degree burns over all four limbs.”
Cold collected voice, dulcet but empty. Not a second to recollect, not a moment to gather thoughts, barrage of reproaches were charged at him, in an instant. Unsympathetic and punctual, right to the point. So merciless, his Danna. Still, strange comfort was found in the familiarity. It led Deidara to peer up.
Sasori was in a sofa across the bed, book in lap, appearing apathetic as ever. Dim lighting cast shadows across his face, illumination emitting from the candle on the table disclosing a frown seated on unemotional dollish features. Ah, scratch that, he's not apathetic, not at all. Nimble fingers toyed with the pages, daintily on the surface but betraying ire upon deeper scrutiny; not notable by many, perhaps just him, betokening a degree of intimacy stretching between the two of them, thread flimsy but existent.
Book closed with a snap, louder than necessary, cross. Notwithstanding the vertigo Deidara spied the caduceus on the cover. A medical book, he deduced. Sasori's specialties dwell in eviscerating a corpse, not healing a living being. It didn't come as a surprise he judged himself lacking in that field, his perchance for hermitic lifestyle never required those philanthropic skills. He didn't have who to heal, hence no incentive to burn midnight oil. But for him, Sasori made an exception. Maybe he himself is an exception.
Ah no, he must be wrong, fever has tempered with senses. It was a warm thought, kindled fuzziness, but clearly a result of delirium. It's misleading to attitude more meaning to Sasori's willingness to aid than it merited. Deidara knew not to read too much into it. Killing is easy, it's much harder to keep one alive; to stay alive. Sasori view it as a challenge, an opportunity to roll up the sleeves and expend his endless horizon of knowledge. Nothing more, nothing less.
“I had to resuscitate you,” Sasori stood up. “Twice."
What should have been a mere statement came out as a barb. Neither tone nor expression evinced anger, nonetheless, Deidara picked up on it bubbling under the surface.
Without offering a word more, Sasori advanced towards him, halting a feet away from the bed, arms crossed, eyes narrowed with something a label of shallow anger would be inapt for. Deidara was too dizzy to rack brains. Not like deeper reflection is his thing. He prefers to soak in emotions, not mull them over ad nauseam, driving himself insane in process.
“It's a miracle you're alive.”
Ah, it was that bad? He wished he could claim he's surprised but that'd be plain candy-coating. After all, he thought as much himself back on the battlefield as life was evaporating. Deidara wanted to sheepishly rub back of head and tear gaze away. Nerves axed obedience. Clad in sweat and shivers, body ceased functioning.
So he slowly glanced up, at Sasori. “I…”
Whatever lousy excuse he was about to offer died in back of throat, where it belonged, unuttered. Shuddering and wheezing he dissolved into coughs, each racking with unhealthy dose of dull ache. Deidara clasped mouth, desperate attempt to calm down, but fruitless. Ah, he fucked himself up good, didn't he? Lungs burned, like on fire. Blood trickled over fingers, sight of crimson bedeviling more than the degree of injuries.
Deidara half expected Sasori to step closer, pat his back and advise against pushing himself. Naturally none of that happened, fantasy another corollary to the feverishness. Sasori didn't keep distance, but didn't exhibit mindfulness either. Fishing some medical tool out of the cloak he flashed it in front of his eyes, checking pupils for… something.
It lasted couple seconds. By a thin hum Deidara concluded he'll live another day. He may not be out of the wood yet but at least damage isn’t going to be permanent. Another fluke of luck, nothing more, nothing less.
Examination wasn't over. Sasori grabbed the hinge of his jaw. “Open your mouth,” he ordered, crankily.
Akin to one of Sasori's many puppets, Deidara found himself obeying. Some other time he might have rebelled for the sake of the rebel but not now, not after everything. Bruised and broken body couldn't summon the spark, not for battling Sasori, not for battling what’s growing inside himself, and rotting. That insidious tinge springing up stomach, looping around heart and squeezing, not allowing peace in stillness. Chest ached, little to do with supposed broken ribs. Deidara tried his best to ignore it, thus focused on the sensation of Sasori’s fingers.
Unfortunately inspection was brief. “No permanent damage,” Sasori said brusquely. “You'll be fine," he pulled away.
His touch was neither gentle nor rough, just methodical, correct. It didn't linger more than it needed to, nonetheless imprinted. Perhaps because it didn’t feel human in the first place, perhaps due to just that fascinating. Places his fingers tapped didn’t exactly burn, but they did leave a trail of something Deidara has no use of defining. Let is stimulate, let it chase the numbness away.
Even so, the elephant in the room. It'd be distasteful to look the other way, too escapistic, too in line with Sasori’s philosophy, out with his. Deidara found strength to playfully lean to the side and address Sasori with a half smirk.
“You're angry, hmm.”
It wasn't a question, but a statement. Devil is in details with Sasori. He takes pride in delivering himself from emotions, parades himself on being above affect, above sentiments, tokens of humanity. What a fool, he doesn’t notice the glaring inconsistencies. For a man so percipient he can be astonishingly blind about things that actually matter. Vestiges are spelled out in how his nose wrinkles whenever a triviality displeases, how brows knit and jaw clenches, how voice sharpens, like a knife, venom dripping from hissed syllables. Those are grimaces suffused with anger, far cry from stolidity.
Stimulus capable of rousing are few and far between, howbeit existent. Rare but existent. Puppet body hasn’t scrubbed them all, flicker of want still enkindles, from time to time. It manifests in the way jaded eyes morph from grayish to the amber tones, becoming a predator of his infamy, illustrating the mask shattering. In accordance, he becomes more reticent, warier than usual. More withdrawn, as more energy is channeled into retaining the facade, shielding the still feeling core yearning for the same spark that engulfs, petrifies.
Silence doesn’t disturb Sasori, he derives assurance from the same silence that perturbs him. On the flip side, stimulus that terrifies him charges Deidara up. Textbook definitions of the perfect opposite, however it’d be more apt to say they’re the two sides of the same coin. At the core… perhaps they don’t differ all that much.
Sasori neither affirmed nor negated, just kept on studying him, wordlessly, with force most would find unnerving. Deidara did flattering. He soaks in attention, even if dyed in the red of rage. Give him anything, just to ignite, he’d swallow it with an appetite.
Partying was as good as yes. A weary sigh was a confirmation. “You've kept me waiting,” Sasori declared, coolly, but intensely.
An accusation.
If he were in possession of the more customary empathy, Deidara would have felt bad. But he weren’t, and thus responded with a wry lopsided smile, ire bubbling under skin as well. Recollection quickly snuffed the flame. It had little to do with tacit debt, more with Sasori’s pet peeve.
For an ostensibly emotionless puppet with all time of this world at disposal he is awfully, curiously, impatient. It's far from the first time he's steamed and fumed at being kept waiting, but it was the first Deidara took time to decipher the perplexity. Impatience implies the perceived lack of time, a subliminal portent of it, eventually, running out. His eternity has an expiratory date, Deidara knew that all along – just didn’t know Sasori does as well, subconsciously.
Or maybe he’s threading the wrong direction. Maybe rationales are far more simplistic. Maybe something happened in Sasori’s past to shape him into this impatient whinger. Who knows. It's not his place to pry, and quite frankly Deidara didn't surmise Sasori would be willing to disclose. Either way, it’s irrefutable that waiting makes him prone to anger. Therefore, the matter must be close to the heart he swears he doesn't possess.
Gaze dropped, unwittingly got to Sasori's chest level. He, just as unwittingly, made out the outline of the cylinder, hardly shielded under the cloak. Sasori’s heart. His own clinched in turn, for the reasons beyond comprehension but intuitively apprehensible.
It's a miracle you're alive. Right, Sasori had no ways of knowing if he'll make it. Must have been a bother. Deidara wouldn't go as far to claim he was worried, but he was certainly put off.
Nonetheless. Sasori has picked him up in pieces and nursed back to health, not once but many times. It became a pattern, an indicator. Unease made a return, formed a heavy lump in throat. Parting lips and prying his chest open to spill every burden resting heavy on heart would be unsolicited, a step over the line. The least and most Deidara could do is give his thanks, owes his partner that much.
Instead he slumped head. “I'm sorry…” mumbled in a vacillatory tone he'd find demeaning under any other circumstances. Now it felt right.
“Tsk," Sasori clicked tongue, not looking at him, as if he’s not worth a glace. Wrong move.
“Spare the patronizing, don't tell me what I want to hear,” he bristled, steelily, venom spewing from the essence of his soul, like the old wounds have been inflamed.
Whatever anger has been about, Sasori quickly corrected it. “Don't apologize unless you're willing to mend your ways. It’s meaningless,” he continued, more collectedly. “I have no use of your niceness, just your honesty.”
Clash, oddly, brought them on the familiar ground. Spark flickered. Deidara mustered strength to glance up. “Then I won't apologize, un,” a small smile broke out, in spite of the blunder. This one is easily rectifiable.
A dry snort, followed by a hint of a smile. “I didn't harbor illusions it'll be any other way,” Sasori closed eyes and gave a faint head shake, irritation mellowing on features.
Once he opened eyes Sasori looked at him again, gaze expressionless, nonetheless a sign he’s been forgiven – with indicative facileness.
Relief was short-lived. Letting out a sigh Sasori sat on the bed beside him, appearing more solemn than needled. Accordingly Deidara’s stomach churned, heart dropping, for he instinctively knew what this change is about. Sasori is far cry from dense, terrifyingly astute. He’s noticed, of course he has. In retrospect Deidara felt silly for even suspecting otherwise.
But if Sasori is willing to bring this up, if he deems it’s necessary, perhaps long overdue… then how obvious must he have been all this time?
“This is the third time this year, Deidara.”
It didn't help the matter it was the early June. Nor Sasori needed to vocalize that bit, it hovered above Deidara's head like the darkest cloud, drenched in blood, enlightenment ready to strike anytime. It wouldn't deliver a catharsis, won’t cleanse, the opposite, tauten the chain around neck by forcing into endless spirals of ruinous reflections, questioning where the line dividing creativity and coping stands.
Au fond, he knows. He knows what hides beneath the veneer of daredevilry. Why destruction has always transfixed, allured.
Nonetheless. He had to bluff. Not for the sake of principles, but integrity – inner peace. “Hmm, you know me Danna,” canting head, Deidara slurred with as much flippancy as he could summon, gaze skittering all over the suddenly way too cramped room. He couldn't bring himself to directly lie to Sasori’s face, not after just promising a scrap of sincerity.
So he swallowed and went on, sweetly, contritely. “An artist must be in tune with himself, seek inspiration when he feels like it. Unless my blood roars I can’t paint a masterpiece, I’m afraid. It just happens that those lowlifes don’t spark creativity within me, hmm.”
He was chattering, but not fibbing per se. Words were sincere, but not the intention. Prattle was a diversion, he was bury the lede. Deidara was hoping frivolity of his tone would tee Sasori off, either sparking off a heated debate or causing him to drop the topic altogether. Outcome would be the same, a foul avoidance he detests, yet reckons necessary at the moment. Sasori’s impassivity crushed the bullish hope he can manipulate the master of manipulation. Ah, looks like he’s not getting off the hook this time.
It’d be easy if Sasori grabbed him by the collar, rounded on him and threw across the room, in a fit of rage. It’d be unsavory, degrading, out of character, but easy, hence desirable. He’d swallow the pain, every barb ejected his way. They’d sting but wouldn't puncture skin – certainly not penetrating it as deep as that knowing gaze.
In theory, he could have defeated those Kumo nins. They were insultingly below his level, he could have wiped the floor with them, in a heartbeat. He could have dodged that whip, could have softened the fall, could have substituted himself with a clay clone and escaped. He could have done something, but he’s done nothing to avoid the plummet.
Too many could's. One or two could be dismissed as a coincidence, byproduct of imprudence or bad judgment caused by exhaustion. But not this many. He knew that, and Sasori clearly did as well. For how long, Deidara was afraid to ask. Nor wanted to know.
He’s not like Sasori. He can’t find beauty in monotony. It drives him insane. Blankness agitates. Passivity begets boredom, peeling a layer by layer off, bringing him closer to the nihility that is his center. Silence opens the door to the things better off sealed. Echo gains a source, voices get louder. Heat fomenting inside shoots up a notch, fizzing and sizzling, pulling at the stitches, boiling from within with desire for what he lacks the proper name for.
It scratches. It itches. It burns so bad. But worst of all is the temptation.
Damn does it tempt.
Sometimes that voice catches up with him, on a conscious, tangible level. How bigger can the explosions get? How louder? How much more staggering? How distracting? How much higher can he go? There’s an adage that only sky is the limit, but he’s already there, flying high on his creations. If adrenaline rush is no longer there to get the blood pumping, fuel and rev up, if stimulus is to abate, to perish, if the soul is sucked out of his craft, exhilaration no longer found in the blast… then what is left for him?
It was a frightening thought. A challenging one as well, for it’d leave him bare with himself, art thrown out of the equation. It was a question horrifically devoid of an answer. Or rather, there was an answer, just it was too conclusive, too hopeless. Hence why art is revolutionary, forever morphing. Why he must always chase the higher stimulus, the greater heights. If senses dull, if flash dies out, then he’d be forced to resort to the radical solutions. For the art. All for the art. Anything to divert the focus from…ah, better not wander there.
Silence unnerved. Deidara blinked rapidly, clenched fists, to redirect attention. Vulnerable gaze fell on Sasori’s expressionless yet knowing face. It unnerved too, triggering trembles. It’d be better if Sasori said something, said anything. He couldn't maintain the eye contact, had to look away before anguish surfaces and gives unrest away.
Deidara made a mistake of glancing up. Shade of his hair. Red as blood. It burned. Static within intensified, fuzziness inside chest combusting into a flame, reminding of the pull he felt back at the battlefield. Pull that he had to resist more and more often. Eyes roamed elsewhere, frenziedly, but there was no escape, no relief. Dim lighting provided the room with a muted reddish hue. Within Deidara’s head it was all bedazzling red.
Red of his Iwa uniform, a servitude towards the system that wanted him as a tool, not as a person. Red of Sharigan, that exasperating hack that roped him into the Akatsuki, sapping of freedom. Red of the clouds on the cloak, soaked in blood, a silent but ever-present omen. Red of an explosion, his art, his definer, his undoing. Red haunted him all his life. It’s apt your ending is colored in red too.
Room spun. He felt lightheaded, nothing to do with injuries. Chest squeezed, breath perfectly fine. Ugh. He had to get away. Only if he could. Legs refused to budge, Deidara could hardly feel them. Even if he could move he doubted Sasori would let him in this sorry state. In essence, he was trapped – by the cages of the own skull.
There was nowhere to go, nowhere to escape from that bubbling up throat, squeezing consciousness out and filling it with vacancy – a yearning for a destruction no longer deriving from the artistic roots, just a hideous primal itch defying all logic.
A huff announced Sasori found his diverted focus irksome, or perhaps telling. Possibility of the latter rattled. He had to smooth things out while there’s still time.
Deidara blurted the first thing that came to mind. “You're not going to lecture?”
Sasori shook head, curtly. “I figured it's pointless,” in lieu of a snide remark he gave a sigh. “If it were just recklessness I would have chewed your ear off, as I have done many times before. But there’s no use in that, is there?”
No, there’s not, but vocalizing that opened the pandora box. So they’re really going to have this conversation? Heaviness resting in pit of Deidara’s stomach increased tenfold. Malaise hit like a tidal wave. What is he supposed to say? That sometimes he ruins it all for the reasons he can’t even phrase, much less enunciate? For the longing brewing inside he cannot fully acknowledge within privacy of thoughts? What explanation can he provide for the deeply embedded self-destructive tendencies? What would be sufficient?
Probably none. Pragmatic as he is no way Sasori could possibly fathom such irrationality steaming from humanity’s vividly flawed nature. So why even bother trying when he’ll be met with a puzzled slant of head and words of a dismissal coated in scorn? Rejection would ache, far more than any jab Sasori tends to deliver, as his soul would be pried open. Deidara tried to look away, to escape, like a coward. Bleeding on a battlefield is easy, bleeding his soul out in time intimacy of four walls is where real courage is put on a test.
His wishes didn’t amount to anything. Sasori wasn’t in the mood to gloss over parrying. Amber eyes narrowed, lips contorted into a scowl. Clasping the hinge of his jaw, Sasori scooted towards center of the bed, wordlessly, demandingly. Hold could be rougher, and Deidara almost wished he is, just to sponge a twinge of pain eclipsing one of the injuries he’s already grown accustomed to. It was just as firm as it needed to be to keep in place. Sasori wasn’t leaning over him, however was that imposing that’s the impression Deidara was given. He felt cornered, even if that wasn’t Sasori’s intention.
It didn’t help the matter that Sasori was… unreadable. Not just expression and objectives, but everything. It felt… off. Normally Deidara was a fan of unpredictability, a flicker kindling excitement. Now it left him ill at ease, heart drumming in ears, for these close to the heart matters are far from joking ones.
“There are recklessness and impulsivity, your erroneous idea of art,” Sasori spoke, evenly, but not blandly. There was something imbuing his voice that provided a touch of humanity. It carried a placating undertone, perhaps of melancholy.
Usually he’d fume at the dig at his art but this once Deidara let it slide. Or, to be exact, had to let it slide. He couldn't find his voice, not for a peep, much less a coherent counter. Slight pause was likely for that purpose, a test. It’d be atypical of Sasori to leave it for the dramatic value, he must be observing, gauging – and deducing what Deidara dreaded the most.
“And there are other things…” Sasori trailed off, gaze dropping to his chest, more precisely stitches caging the fourth mouth.
“Once is an accident,” he murmured, “twice is coincidence,” reached forwards, “thrice is a pattern,” and skimmed over the core of Deidara’s most persistent temptation.
Contact was light, barely perceptible, clearly meant as palpation, not a poke. Deidara felt like set ablaze.
Fire rushed though blood, gathering between the four seals keeping his magnum opus confined. He twitched like a blade plunged into skin, seizing inches deep, puncturing the core – the essence of his soul. Chakra amassed in the cavity dangerously flared up, scratched at the skin with searing vehemency, begging to be unleashed.
In that split second, Deidara could see it vividly, the vortex of formidable energy going off, flashing before eyes, leaving an unprecedented destruction, ephemerality to be revered for an eternity.
Height of the sensation widened his pupils, hitched breath, heaved chest with every labored breath, body fooled it’s the last. Nonetheless, Deidara felt exposed – bared in ways exceeding vulnerability imposed by injuries and enfeeblement. Quarreling over art is one thing, this is quite another. This is no longer about the creation, but the creator.
This is a precedent, a line in the sand, but not a bid for connection, not from Sasori. It’d defy everything he held as an axiom, therefore cannot possibly be. Some distances are meant to stay unbridged. Deidara squinched eyes, dissolving into shivers he hoped he could brush off on injuries and coldness, waiting for a hail of questions, a figurative detonation.
It never arrived. Explosion didn’t deliver a catharsis, alleviation he’s been craving for all along. Built-up didn’t receive a pay-off, concluding in an anticlimactic fashion. But the whirl of chakra was still coiling tight in chest, voice whispering the back of mind. Tension wasn’t destroyed, just shelved. He was at the stalemate.
Sasori stood up, expression still indecipherable but tinged in a shade of blue. Placating, pacifying, contrasting to the haunting red. He didn’t say anything, but conveyed a crumb of understanding Deidara had to blink twice before. It felt chimerical, surreal. But it had to be veridical, evidenced by the entropy within, catalyzed by Sasori’s atypical probing, perhaps demonstrating that he understood his partner less than he’s thought.
Either way, Sasori has arrived to some conclusion, spelled by the resoluteness in expression, but strode away, snatching clarity away. Shiver grounded, sobered up a fraction, propelled him to act. Deidara jerked forwards, words flying off tongue void of a forethought.
“Sasori, it’s…”
It’s what? He couldn't convey, not for the eroded eloquence, but the simple lack of words. None would adequately depict the mess inside, nothing would, save for that. But he refused to succumb, not when this sapped of the creative power. He refused to go out in the lows of depression, only the heights of the affect would be a proper canvas for his chef-d'oeuvre. Except it should be blue, the soothing shade, not the usual red. It’d make madness easier.
Honorific slipped off tongue, by accident, but it felt right to utter Sasori’s bare name. It brought them on the even ground. This moment that’s just passed between them, fleeting like a breeze but heavy as a tempest, was suffused with nothing short of raw intimacy. And you’ve felt it too, that’s why you’re putting distance.
Sasori halted by the door, much to Deidara’s surprise, head slowly turning towards him but gaze locked down, covered by the bangs, crimson red. “That voice,” he tapped the side of own skull.
“It's getting louder, isn't it?”
White noise tapered off. All that left was the dead silence.
Deidara stared, unblinking, unthinking. He stared for what felt like an eternity, yet was captured in the never-ending moment, breath bated like he’s waiting for a followup, a resolution he instinctively knew won’t come. He couldn't figure when exactly Sasori has left, when he was bestowed with a click, that aha moment changing everything.
In reality, nothing. Cavity persisted, awareness of the matching didn’t magically heal. Nothing would, nothing could, for nothing worth keeping is meant to last. That ought to be the beauty of it, and yet…
Deidara collapsed over the sheets, perhaps with a smile, perhaps with a frown, but certainly with a lot on mind. Too bad it was all haze, a welter of affects without a proper label; not in the need of, it was all to be felt, not reflected on. Not even in his wildest dreams could Deidara have pictured Sasori would come to understand a state that’s meant to be felt. Sure, he’s not above emotions, but Deidara always assumed stretched to unadorned ones, like the fugitive twinge of anger, or jaded sadness pulling lips into a frown. There was nothing simple about the state that he’s in – that they’re both in.
For Sasori to know exactly what he’s undergoing without him offering elucidation… it left implications too sour for Deidara to linger on. What am I supposed to do with the knowledge emptiness gnaws at you too?
Sounding a sniff Deidara crossed arms over head, shielding eyes from the red tincture. Tension didn’t ebb, chest still felt heavy. Voice welling up throat and racking the back of head has gone quiet, allowed a moment of peace – naturally, illusionary. Deidara could hear its whisper reverberating off the walls.