Here's another Deidara one-shot/drabble I wrote a couple of days ago. Man I love writing him. xD
Echo
He loves what he does.
He loves the feeling of clay on his hands as he forms the bombs, the smirk on his face because he was so good at it.
Loves the split second before it goes off, the anticipation of the flames flying into the sky in a glorious blaze of destruction.
Loves the sound that signifies the beginning of the end, the malevolent joy at the ruined landscape and broken bodies.
This was what he lived for.
This was art.
And this was what he was going to die for, one day.
One day, one day he was going to preserve his art forever in the minds of the onlookers by being ended by it.
Not that most of them would survive.
His eye sparkled in a way that most people would find eerie.
Not that he'd notice.
He doesn't care that it's fleeting, because in that passing moment it would be more beautiful than anything that lasted could. Anything eternal.
He won't talk about that, it makes him angry. And he's excited now.
Talking about art makes him excited.
It makes him so excited that he can't sit still.
He likes this.
He likes this because then he can get up and make more art, and then take it out and show some lucky group of people and the whole cycle will start over again.
He won't have it any other way.
Because this is art.
Because this was what he lives for.
And one day, he thinks, it was what he was going to die for.