The word 'love' wasn't in his usual vocabulary. In fact, he hardly ever used the word, because it meant very little to him. As far as he was concerned, 'love' was his art. That's what came to mind when he thought of it. Not Sasori. Never would he be able to say that word to Sasori, or even about Sasori. Because it just didn't fit. Deidara didn't love Sasori, though something that resembled that emotion was there. More or less, it was incredibly deep respect and admiration for his partners form of art. Even if their concepts weren't the same. Sasori's art was everlasting, and his own was gone in a few seconds. Sasori was art, in Deidara's opinion. But there still wasn't love for Sasori there. Just the art.
Of course, being an S-ranked criminal said something about his mental instability and the way he thought, so maybe it could be said that he 'loved' Sasori as art. He still loved his own art more, beauty was fleeting, and although Sasori was, in a twisted sense, beautiful with all his poisons, he still wasn't Deidara's type of art. Sasori would always be there, even after Deidara was dead and gone. What was the point of living forever? Why would one want to keep existing, even after everything in the world had changed? Would there not always be a void? A place that could not be filled unless one died? After a long and painful existence, wouldn't death be a welcomed release? He always thought about these things when he was alone. How he wanted to go out with a bang. He would never want to live forever, no matter how much art he could create in such a vast and endless amount of time.
His opinion of Sasori hadn't changed with the passage of time, the years that they had spent together as partners. Sasori was a type of art. Deidara had come to that conclusion as soon as he had learned about the other being a puppet. Art was something that had to be cared for. He was always shaping and reshaping his clay until he managed to achieve the perfect shape. Molding his clay kept his mind from wandering too much, kept him from thinking about Sasori. Sasori wasn't moldable like clay, couldn't change and become something better and more beautiful. He was a puppet, and a puppet could not be changed into something else. A puppet was something that was lifeless and listless, something cold and unfeeling that would last until the end of time. Yet puppets and clay were placed in the same category in his mind, one that was titled 'art.' And art had to be taken care of, so he felt slightly responsible for Sasori. He had to take care of him, if he could.
Sasori could take care of himself, Deidara knew this. Sasori always kept himself in perfect condition, restocking his supply of poisons after every battle. Checking all his joints to make sure that they were still in working order, that they could move easily. Even the coil of wire in his stomach was cleaned after each use. All of this took time, it would take hours upon hours for Sasori to check and recheck his body, making sure that everything was in working order. Something that was supposed to last forever had to be looked after even more then art that lasted for only a little while. It seemed pointless to him sometimes. The way that Sasori seemed more obsessed with his puppets then with enjoying his life. Of course, Sasori had forever to enjoy life. Deidara was even more glad over the fact that he could die. If he lived forever, there would be nothing left to enjoy. He was sure that, in time, something would happen, he'd get wounded, eventually, and then he wouldn't be able to fight anymore. If that ever happened, he'd kill himself. Blow himself up if he could.
That would never happen to Sasori, because unlike himself, Sasori could be repaired over and over again. Something made of clay could be repaired too he supposed. But after it had been used, it just didn't have the quality to be art anymore. After it had been used, it was just a lump of mud, amorphous and just as listless as his partners puppets. Maybe in a way, Sasori and his puppets were more artistic in that sense. They would never be useless and ugly. They would always be art, no matter how many times they were used. They could always be reassembled, polished to a shine, always ready to be brought into battle, always ready to kill. Sasori was always ready, he always kept a level head. Ever confirming the fact that Sasori was art. Deidara loved art. As long as Sasori was art, Deidara could always, in a sense, love him.
"I knew that he'd loose that argument. Art is fleeting, un."
He had laughed, when Sasori had died. Sasori had said that he was everlasting, that art was always everlasting. It seemed as if the puppet master had proven himself wrong, and this amused Deidara. It didn't matter to him now that Sasori was dead, just like it didn't matter when one of his clay creations exploded into nothing. That's what art was supposed to be, something that existed for a short amount of time, something that was beautiful for only a few minutes. Deidara loved his art, until it wasn't art anymore. Until it was used up and nothing but a pile of wet disgusting mud. Deidara had loved Sasori for awhile, loved him while he was useful and when he was a beautiful work of art. But Sasori wasn't art now. Sasori was a hunk of wood, now forever useless. So Deidara didn't love Sasori anymore.