Deidara liked being pretty. He never showed it, of course, but he liked it very much. He liked laying down to sleep as blond hair fell across his pillow. He loved how his eye color ranged from aqua to a teal-cerulean (and yes, he considered those to be very different colors.)
But the only thing he liked more than his own beauty was Itachi's. Fierce and fleeting, Itachi's looks were unmatched. In Deidara's eyes, Itachi was the cold statue of hate and passion. Long dark eyelashes, lips that were too pouty to be considered masculine, and sick, piercing eyes. Eyes that had seen blood. Lips that had tasted the sweet remorse of a kill.
Itachi had thin hands, bony and cold. And maybe it was that Deidara was an artist, but that detail especially called to him. Itachi usually hid that particular feature behind his cloak. But, if only for a second, Deidara could glimpse at Itachi's hands, as he grabbed a kunai or paused to brush his long hair out of his eyes. But in Deidara's own sickness, he knew that Itachi's beauty would fade with age, withe away and die, Much like Deidara's own body would. And he hated that. To see those startlingly crimson eyes fall behind withered skin served only to torture Deidara. Sicken him at the thought of losing that precious art.
Deidara had planned his own death at a the age of fifteen. As soon as he noticed a sign of old age on his face, or gray in his hair, he would create his largest bit of art yet. Simply explode. Magnificent. He'd never need to taste death. To taste aging and weakening. To forget what it was like to be youthful, and fleeting; everything that Deidara embodied. He had planned his own death so articulately, why not Itachi's? Why let the poor boy be subjected to any more pain? He shuddered at the thought of frown lines on Itachi's brow. Deidara was determined not to let Itachi wither away like that. It wasn't quite fair.
How old was Itachi? He couldn't remember. Young. Younger than he was, But not so young that he couldn't die with a sweet dignity. Oh well, he could just go with Deidara. Unannounced. Just... gone. Away. Secretly, Deidara wished these things. Never externally. Because in the outside world, he could never explain ton anyone that this was not love. Not a crush. Not even attraction. This was an obsession. A sick, haunting obsession, of picturing Itachi die. Deidara was enamored with the twisting haunted appeal of it all. He relished the sickness, the hate. He soaked it up. He could taste it.
Stupid Sasori, You wished so hard for eternal beauty. And now look at you. A lifeless, empty shell. Your wood will rot. Your dyes will fade. And your broken body will very slowly sing back into the earth. Your twisted little existence was over so fast. But your body will stay here and rot. It's like dying twice, Sasori. Seeing your own body decompose.
Deidara winced. Itachi? Becoming like that? Like Sasori? Blood slowly draining from his pale face. His slim features decomposing, and rotting. Fading into the earth. Dirt. But with explosions, you're gone in an instant. Half a second and you're nothing but a trail of smoke. Just a little wisp left to disperse into the evening.
Thanks a bunch. This is my first fanfic, as I'm more of an artist than a writer. It's very short, and I'm sorry. Time escapes me, you know?
Tell me what you think. I would love that.
