Work Text:
A rare benefit to running operations scattered across multiple villages, forcing near constant travel, was the necessity of having just as many bases, the luxury of varied lodgings to choose between—this one soon to be abandoned in favor of another,
as apparently it was on fire.
Or so Sasori thought upon waking from a “nap” taken past midnight, inched until the crack of dawn—not quite what he actually found after stumbling down the stairs, nearly loosing his ankles from their ball joints in his fervor (understandably so, given that out of his partner and himself, he was not the one wielding flammable material but the one made of it).
But said panic was unneeded, exacerbated surely from it being his first experience upon waking from his pseudo-sleep, as everything in their little kitchen was as it should be—should be as in “used for cooking, used for plating food,” not necessarily how it was usually found, gathering dust even within sealed cabinets.
“Oh,” he expressed as bluntly as possible, panic and the ensuing confusion canceling out, leaving him at a loss for what was happened and how he should be feeling about it. Appreciation of the gesture, of homemade breakfast, was lodged somewhere in the back of his mind but it’d take a bit of warming up to edge itself out and come forward, to make itself known.
For now, he made a mental list of what he saw, any actual understanding chiming in later as he observed
Eggs. Omelette actually. How are these not burnt, what was burning…?
Okay, not sure if one could manage to burn an omelette anyways—but how did he roll it so nicely and present it so perfectly when something else that should’ve been much easier than that is now fused to one of the good pans?
Must have a family recipe for it then? Accustomed to cooking something like that?
Two sets of plates, dishes, silverware. Portion sizes for two people.
Finding it easier to cook for a crowd? Leftovers from each half-successful attempt? What the fuck still smells like smoke?
The scraped pan was no longer smoldering, despite Deidara going so far as to scrape off the nonstick coating, adding to the burning in trying to prevent the burning, and even after noting a pot with fruit compote bubbled down the sides, hot sugar melding the lid on at and angle, his inner query went unsolved until he peered out the open door, needing to sacrifice the subtlety and security of their operations to properly dissipate the smoke.
Depending on the amount of grease in it, they were lucky there was no sufficient water source nearby for it (the identity of the former cookware unknown after the accident) to be tossed into without thinking. It had been buried instead, muffled halfway under a layer of sand and dirt, boot treads stretched horizontally before the curt divots in the ground, having scraped the top layer of earth onto it, kicking a few more times for good measure.
Fine not being able to salvage it, considering art, an explosion, onto the next one—undividing his attention between the dishes left.
And honestly, it was more than enough already, not even considering the loaves of bread removed from the oven the moment Sasori was finished inspecting the damage outside—the heady, heavy smell of yeast easily swallowing up the remnants of the scalded thing, even if the warmth of the oven wasn’t enough to offset the chill from having the door open, Sasori becoming increasingly aware of that the longer he stood on the cold kitchen tile, clothed in only his sleep pants.
Pulling a cardigan from the rack at the mouth of the adjoining hall, he drapes the fabric around himself and shivers off the chill, settling into what’s presumably his seat at the table with his hands in the shawl’s deep pockets.
Deidara was not yet sitting down, busying himself with some manner of organization before needing both hands to bring both the finished pieces and his own array of bowls to the table—needing much more in the way of dishware when personally keeping the aspects of each meal wildly separate; at most having some of the fresh fruit with the crepe base (ah, the culprits behind both the first burnt pan and the pot) but eating a torn piece of bread, in full, then a boiled egg, in full, before returning for another clumsy tear of bread.
Some of the fruit had been cooked down properly and despite the sugar of the compote scalding the pan, some of those overheated bits still found their way into the finished product, clearly enjoying how the sugar caramelized nonetheless.
Even if he seemed intent on eating whatever was salvageable, realizing Deidara was picking away the inedible parts of a burnt pancake.
"Aiming to be as frugal as Kakuzu? You're allowed to toss food you don't want to eat," Sasori says, reaching over to scatter the burnt bits out the window over the sink (conveniently open to offset the burning smell), for the birds.
“’s fine, not like I mind that much. Besides, I’m still eating a proper meal, yeah? Not like I’m letting the rest of it go to waste.”
That was true, there obviously being no need to meticulously separate the ingredients otherwise, but there were still dishes he’d eat layered as they were, enjoying the mingling of tastes on his own terms.
Rice warmed in green tea, garnished with ume and nori in a neat stack, miso soup with the dashi stock sprinkled back in;...dumped back in rather clumsily before being set aside as Sasori’s portion but he wasn't there to see it and thus doesn't let the manner or method strain out the intended effect.
That unspoken “I tried very hard at making a meal for the both of us this morning.”
And the spoken cleared-throat, “these are for you” as he slides over a plate of sesame balls, filled with black sesame paste.
Vulnerability quickly melted over the hardened parts wedging his body and brain, running like ice water down his back, like sweat from his hairline over his temples. But thankfully never managed to twist itself into fear, even if suspicion would always be far easier expressed than starvation.
He wants to ask, how did you know, but knows he says more than he asks (and interrogates more than either), as blunt as whittled wood, but Deidara guides them both through their nerves as quickly as possible—as if leading him by the hand and stumbling and stumbling and stumbling...
“Normally I'd jump at the opportunity to chalk it up to the omniscience of my artistic genius but you stare for like, ten whole seconds, whenever you see them even mentioned at a tea house. But you never order ‘em or make ‘em so, I dunno… foods like that are easy for me. Mochi and dough and stuff” he explains, gesturing to the surprisingly successful loaf, “the clay of foods, one could say.”
And immediately, in reference to his own, differing medium, Sasori retorts with "whatever's buried outside being the wood of foods then, I suppose?” even as he’s stuffing his face with the snack, cheeks full like a squirrel’s, as if Deidara had given him merely one or two to make last and not an entire, heaping plate all to himself.
Deidara turns wordlessly, squinting as he holds a finger up, agast, breaking from his show anger and offense to tear off another chunk of bread and slather it with butter.
How unceremonious, Sasori thinks as he trims the jagged edges and cuts an even piece for himself, refocusing his efforts on the actual meal once his eagerness for black sesame balls is momentarily sated.
The broth of each soup-style dish coupled well with the bread and the bread in turn suited the fruit compote as much as the remnants of the crepes did, feeding that cyclical need of savory, no—sweet, no—savory again, until they’d eaten well and eaten better than they had in a long time (more than willing to sacrifice a few pots and pans in the process).
Even without needing to eat, beyond the baseline appreciation he had for the gesture shown just through his willingness to sit and join him physically for the meal, he ate ravenously, grateful for the doubling of carbs as any normal person would need the energy or otherwise appreciate the exhaustion that follows a meal, especially one as filling as that.
And given the early hour and the impending forecast, the sky dimming in reverse order as if descending towards dusk with the onset of light rain, the human urge scratches at his strings, makes him want to stretch back out under the covers above all else.
The feeling is mutual and clearly apparent in Deidara, the effort of such an involved task making him call it a day before it really even starts, heading back towards the middle, common space where he has both futons laid out.
Sasori, in comparison, had found a workspace and stuck to it, "resting" in intervals, liking to pause, empty his mind, focus on something in the distance to reset his eyes, before busying himself once again—a routine he kept off work-hours no matter the location.
But there was no proper bed in there, nothing to sate this kind of exhaustion—an excuse if needed to justify his contentedness in being half propped up on a couch cushion, curling into his side under a light blanket.
Something familiar. Easy to fall into no matter how distant his last memory of it was. The last time he remembered even wanting food or rest (or comfort or company), separate from any actual need for it.
Deidara gets comfortable on his side as well, testing out what happens if he shimmies an inch or two backwards towards Sasori, content to leave it untouched if nothing comes of it while Sasori is more firm and insistent about it; unsurprising given his nature yet speechlessly so, given the desire itself.
A desire for closeness.
He curls his limbs around Deidara as he'd curl one of his puppets around himself, comfortable to rest on the body, to be held at parts, to settle into a position he could keep for any length of time without fatigue becoming a deciding factor in it, only allowing want to sway the outcomes of his decisions.
Although, it certainly didn’t hurt that Deidara was amicable to it.
That he doesn’t feel as if he's laid out on sticks and stones—finds him nice to worry between his fingers actually, that polished softwood. And Deidara himself, in comparison, is warm. Warmer than most but also just warm.
Warm in a way kept out of reach until the distance was intentional, until it was something that could be tested.
But it no longer had to be left unaddressed, nor cautiously tested, there now being another benefit to more travel, more distance to cover,
beyond the plethora of spaces to get accustomed to was the privilege to acclimate to it together—having many more places to curl up and wait out the weather in someone else’s arms.