I was bored after the exams today, and the idea (this is probably way old already) hit me. So I wrote. I hope you like it.

Title: Art is Eternal
Author: Mujaki no Tsubasa
Pairing: SasoDei
Rating: R - for implied sex

Disclaimer: Naruto and characters belong to Kishimoto Masashi. I make no profit from writing this fanfiction.

Sasori is an artist.

His art is not those meager slobs of colors that those mindless amateurs boasted; it is not those disgusting blocks of hardened clay constructed with artless skills. His art is a subtle blend of life and death, crystals of years of painstaking devotion. His art surpasses age, sickness, death, the flow of nature.

Deidara, on their rare leisure strolls together across the vast deserts of Suna, often brings up the comparison between their aesthetic views. The boy is rambunctious, too flashy and too rough. Sasori does not care for an argument. In the end, Deidara always shuts up when he realizes that Sasori was not going to respond. He knew when to stop.

"Art is a bang, un."

He repeats, every time they fall into the topic, every time they kill, every time he is about to blow a body up into a million charred pieces.

Too messy. Too crude.

There are times that Sasori wanted to beat it into Deidara's brain that art is not something that he perceives it to be. Art transcends time. Art defies nature. Art is a revolution. Art conserves beauty. Sasori destroys life to create life that stands forever. There is no death, only the fine line separating transient existence and eternity.

When Deidara kisses him, lips press against those cold wooden material of his body, Sasori feels nothing.

The boy complains about it, about how Sasori never responded, about how his artificial body remains cold and lifeless, no matter what they do. What does he expect it to be? Sasori's body is not that of the weak composition of organs that would perish at just a touch of venom.

But it is curiously amusing too, he realizes, as his intricately crafted eyes scan the boy's contorted face, his open lips, red and swollen, those glazed eyes falling shut as pleased sounds emits from lean throat. It is strangely compelling and stimulation, igniting in Sasori a fire that he believed could never be kindled. After all, he is but a soul encased in a wooden body. A being that had gone beyond the rules of nature.

It amuses him when Deidara's screams of pleasure and pain fill his ears like music, dancing around the channels of his ears, reverberating off the webs of chakra that he constructed to catch even the slightest rustle. It is twisted, how he can draw so much excitement from making the boy writhe and moan, how tension built in the deepest recesses of his mind as Deidara reaches the peak of euphoria, the lithe form jerking under his fingers, muscles tensing beneath slick skin. It is almost like the thrill when a body falls into his hands, ready to be added to the collection.

But it is not art.

Those fleeting sensations are ephemeral, coming and disappearing as quickly as mist dispersing into the sickly rays of sunlight. Five minutes of ecstasy, then life would return. It is evanescent. Just like the world, full of imperfections.

His stiff fingers run across the expanse of naked skin bare before his eyes, down to press against blue lips, trailing along the smooth column, void of movement, still as a statue. Then up to the locks of golden hair spread out, contrasting with the pitch black color of his coat.

Do you understand now, Deidara?

Art is eternal.

And you are mine, forever.

My precious doll.

Owari.