Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
A/N: Story Request. Dei/OC. 10k words.
IMPORTANT REQUEST INFO: As requested, the OC is a civilian—well, almost a civilian—following the typical civvie sort of character. I tried to make a situation where they'd encounter each other, thus the "almost" civilian, in a setting where Deidara was part of Akatsuki and not a missing nin or still part of Iwa. That would be terribly boring or would have unnecessarily lengthened the fic.
I could have definitely fleshed out the story more. I know this. I'm sure you'll see it, too. But I wanted to leave it as a one-shot, since I don't want to create a full-blown fic from this. I could have added way more scenes and really delved deeper into characterization. Perhaps I will in the future. But I'm currently focused on writing my second manuscript, and that takes precedence over fanfic. I didn't want to start another fic only for it to be dumped into my no-updates bin like the rest.
BAKU! © blob80
…
You're mine,
That alone makes you a wonder,
And if anyone tells you otherwise,
Come to me,
I will set them aflame.
His fingers trailed reverently over the soft white clay.
Both of his mouths worked overtime, chewing, spitting out, and producing noises some might only associate with a couple locked in fervent passion—perhaps that may have been the case in another life—but in this one, he was alone. His shadow his most alive companion. The clay dolls both littered across the ground and haphazardly placed upon wooden pedestals around his studio were silent spectators, forced to watch their creator work. Forever destined to watch the man whose eyes were alight with passion, his mouth tilted upward into a half smile that spoke more of danger than beauty and peace.
He didn't even bother looking at them. A trait common among all creators, he had mused once, during a particularly lengthy night when the moon was too bright and he'd run out of clay—somehow. He merely looked over his shoulder, adjusted a few things here and there, grimace—maybe smile—and that was that. Because those were his creations, and his creations always disappeared sooner or later. Once they were perfect. Once they passed his incredible standard. Once they were worthy to be called art.
He'd wondered more than a few times if some of his older works might ever reach that stage. The ones that were sitting on the floor, idle for years, clay long hard from time. The ones he couldn't be bothered to return to—he was beyond them. But the thought always left him as quickly as it came. Because inspiration always kept one hand on his back, urging him forward. His personal muse. And here she was again, coercing him into his work. Because right now, he was lost to something more than words could adequately express, trapped in fervor entirely his own.
His hands seemed to move of their own accord, as he let the wash of something not entirely sane consume him, drown him. The artist's high. The one he strived for every night, every day. Again and again.
More.
He needed to make more.
His hands weren't fast enough, and with the speed only a trained ninja had, he forced them to move faster. Forced those tongues to keep reaching out—you're chewing too slow, un! I'll never get done in time—and they did. If they had jaws, he was sure they'd be aching. But they didn't. And he could only thank his own anatomy. Thank himself for stealing that damned scroll locked away in Iwagakure, telling the secrets of kneading his chakra into his ingredients. That had been a brilliant move on his part, and he didn't regret it for a second.
The mouths heaved another glob of clay, and it splattered across his desk in an unsightly heap. Filled with saliva and chakra and pure joy. His smile widened when he finally set to work, morphing it into something he didn't quite know. But his hands moved, they curved corners, and they smoothed edges until it began to take shape. A mouth. Clawed hands. Grotesque wings. Eyes meant for a devil.
And it was absolutely brilli—
"Deidara," a quiet voice interrupted. Soft, but distinctly masculine. Deidara knew immediately that he hadn't heard him because his studio and everywhere within a fifty mile radius was silent, he'd heard him simply because his voice commanded attention. Breathed air in, then expelled it in a way that was distinctly his, and forced everyone around the room to listen.
He almost snapped his neck when he turned, eyes alive with an entirely different kind of passion. Deep and resentful and angry beyond reason. He was furious. And Sasori, his red-headed companion with a face that looked even younger than his own, stared blankly back at him with that levelled gaze and too calm exterior that made him want to bash the puppeteer's head against the nearest wall.
It was very near.
"What?" he all but snarled, turning back to his work with a grunt and trying to fall back into his previous reverie. It was impossible. More importantly, Sasori wouldn't allow it.
"Leader has an errand for us."
Deidara's fingers twitched and the mouths on his palms stuck their tongues out in disapproval—his main one felt like doing the same. Not that he would. He was Akatsuki, and he firmly believed they needed to act a certain way. Simply because being part of a group full of ninja's that could single-handedly destroy entire nations was something to be proud of. And the fact that he, as young as he was, was recognized by them was an immense stroke to the ego, even if he was forced into joining. So, resisting the urge to throw a tantrum that would put the spoiled Genin from Iwa to shame, he schooled his entire body, enforcing the discipline ingrained into a ninja into every fiber of his being. Until even the mouths on his hands obeyed, their tongues slinking back where they belonged, obedient to their master.
"Now," Sasori quietly threatened when he made no move to stand, leaving the room before Deidara could put up any sort of argument.
Leave it to Akatsuki to ruin his artistic high. Since the beginning, his wish had never changed, and based from this recent experience he doubted it ever would.
He just wanted to be left alone.
She sat quietly before her brushes, picking each one up and thoroughly inspecting their overused bristles, before dipping them in water. She'd need to buy new ones soon. But that could wait—a big order had just come in. From her favorite and only client. Calm man. Very rich. Had a bit of an extreme look, what with the piercings and dusty orange hair, but he was civil enough. Though he was all sorts of impatient. Not that she'd ever seen it first hand, but that's what she suspected from their stunted conversations. He was the kind that didn't appreciate inefficiency.
Lucky for him, she was anything but.
Meticulously, she dipped her brush in a tiny puddle of ink. So careful and gentle that it would probably make the more perverse minded blush a startling scarlet. And with the practice of years, her brush met paper, caressing it lovingly. Each stroke was confident and sure, stronger than the last. No movement wasted. No ink lost. Until the characters and seals were complete, and she was left to marvel at her work for all of a second, before she set the paper aside and grabbed the next. She still had so much to do.
Sighing, she stared at the four, looming stacks of rectangular paper before her, trying to glare them out of existence. They were still there when she stopped. And for a moment, she wondered if this was a dream. Maybe she'd just imagined all this work into existence—her mind was terribly sadistic that way—but when the door to her studio slipped open and the soft pad of socked feet tiptoed across the tatami, reality came crashing down on her. And she'd been foolish for believing herself asleep.
"Miss?" the woman called, respectful enough to acknowledge her as her boss, but not enough to knock before entering. Hitomi, Rima had fiery red hair and the gift of both youth and beauty. Her personality was a tad brasher than most, but that was the reason she'd hired her. It was a stark contrast to her own introversion. Hitomi was the kind that could speak loudly and without care, diving in a little too recklessly.
"Yes?" she said, almost inaudible. She didn't even turn from her stack of paper, but her hand did still. Her wet brush dripped steady rivulets of ink over an unmarked paper by her side, indicating that she was waiting for her to speak and to make it quick. Hitomi wasn't deterred, all too used to the peculiar habits of her employer.
"There's a man outside," she said, shuddering. "He's screaming for you."
As if on cue, they heard his yells through the walls. Paper and wood really didn't make for fine houses. What were her ancestors thinking—those blunted fools.
"Kinu!" a man, whose voice she couldn't tack a face to, yelled from outside. "Kinu, Hanae! I know you're in there!"
"Hitomi," Hanae called, and the girl straightened to attention. They were nearly the same age, yet the way Hitomi treated her made her feel far older. She didn't think her appearance suggested old age—well, she hoped it didn't.
"Yes, Miss?"
Her hand faltered in nervousness, the brush almost slipping, before she tightened her grip. "Kindly turn him away."
The grin Hitomi gave her then could only be described as: rakish. Standing and exiting too loudly to be considered ladylike, Hanae heard her screams echo across the walls, shaking the very wood and settling only when Hitomi, herself did. The man who'd been outside was snarling something unpleasant by the end of it. A threat was also involved—perhaps two or three—which led Hanae to the conclusion that the man was a ninja. Her assumption was only confirmed when Hitomi, brave and courageous, used her title as a civilian of the Land of Waves to avoid getting her head chopped off.
No ninja was foolish enough to do something that might trigger a war over one measly shop after all. Still, that didn't stop the ninja from hurling a few distasteful insults in a decidedly unprofessional fashion. All of which Hitomi took in stride, before slamming the front door so harshly, Hanae's ink case rattled.
"Done!" Hitomi chirped happily through her door, and Hanae could just imagine the grin gracing her face. "I'll be taking my leave now, Miss."
Hitomi opened the door to give her a proper bow, and Hanae finally turned to properly acknowledge her employee, clearly surprising the woman, as she stepped back in surprise. She brushed her dark hair aside, giving a small bow. "Have a good night, Hitomi."
She blushed, staring at Hanae's blue eyes for a moment longer than what could be considered proper, before gathering her wits and exuberantly bowing in return. "I will! Thank you, Miss."
"I have an important client coming tomorrow. You're free to take the day off."
"I'll do that," Hitomi said with a nod. Whenever her employer had a client over, she was always politely dismissed for the day. She'd been curious once and had lingered around the area, but when a man pierced in places she didn't even know could be pierced stepped out with Hanae bowing deeply to him, she didn't know what to think. And when said man pinned her with purple spiraled eyes, she didn't want to. She just ran off, screaming. Hitomi knew better than to return after that. She came when she was told, and that was good enough for her.
The pay was good, the work was easy, and Hanae didn't fuss over anything she did.
"Goodbye again, Miss."
"Goodbye, Hitomi."
And then she was gone, leaving Hanae with silence and ungodly piles of work. She knew that the ninja would return, perhaps with more backing him. Because they wanted her skills, they said, all the while knowing that she didn't want to offer them. How selfish of them. Who those ninja even worked for was a mystery to her—perhaps for her country's daimyo, that greedy man. Ever since the Uzumaki Bridge had been built, he did all he could to make the Land of Waves prosper. While she would never fault him for doing his job and trying to have her make explosion tags for their country to exclusively sell, the constant men he sent to bring her out of her abode was becoming tiresome.
Perhaps she'd hire some of her own needed muscle soon. Hitomi wouldn't be able to hold them off for much longer. It was wrong of her to even try to make her do so. Hitomi was strong and capable, but not on level with a ninja. Certainly not a determined one.
She wondered when her daimyo would realize that Hanae only worked for one man. A very rich and very dangerous man. One she knew next to nothing about. Not from a lack of curiosity about his origin, but from a lack of interest in how her own work was used. She didn't need to ask. Because no matter whose hands it was in, her creations were just another means for destruction. At least she could live off of his steady orders. He left her alone, so long as she delivered, and he understood if she needed more time. For a killer, he extended an unparalleled professional courtesy to her, who was trying her hardest to run a one-man business. And that was more than what any of her previous clients had ever done.
She was glad for it.
So, picking up her brush, she began again, letting the rest of the world fade into the background.
Deidara held onto his hat, as his creation drifted through the air, gliding past clouds and villages and grassland. He flew high enough that civilians couldn't see him, while ninja's couldn't differentiate his bird from the rest that travelled the skies. Even if they could, he doubted any would actually attempt to reach him and ask his allegiance. Few were that dedicated. It was easier to think he was a ninja from one of the hidden villages with an extremely important mission—in this case, he was. Though he operated under no village. That was a chain he didn't want to have, even as a child. And this was certainly not an important mission.
He loathed errands.
"Leader's treating us like all the other leftovers, un," he said, frowning in displeasure.
"This is a task he usually does himself," Sasori said from his side. He was hidden inside that strange puppet again, Hiruko, if he recalled correctly. Maybe Hiruko?
"Picking up explosive tag shipments?" Deidara asked in disbelief, reaching into his coat to grab the piece of paper with a name and address scrawled in Zetsu's blocky handwriting. He reread the missive and couldn't quite help the snarl that curled his lips. "You know these are for our… underlings, yea?"
He didn't even know they ordered those things. Especially for their insane amount of minions and sleeper agents. Is that where all of their money went? And didn't most ninja's just make their own? When he was still a part of Iwa, he'd seen a number of his peers carefully write out the seals in their awkward, illegible scrawls. Were their agents just that incompetent? Even he had made his own—for years!—before his whole clay business, in any case. The explosions of tags were so dull compared to the kind his bombs could produce. For a profound moment, he almost felt embarrassed having ever used them in battle. It was the kind of embarrassment one felt when they recalled a particularly foolish memory—and that's exactly what those tags were—foolish. Utterly useless.
"I read the note."
"Then why would Leader ever stoop so low as to actually do this himself?"
"You don't believe me?" Sasori challenged.
"Of course not!" Deidara yelled. "It's a stupid task, un. Waste of a trip."
"Relationships between businesses and organizations should always be handled by leaders or a few of their better men," Sasori said wisely. And Deidara was once again reminded by how old his companion actually was. "It encourages growth and shows importance."
"They're explosive tags, un."
"If Leader wants them, don't you think they may be more special than the usual tags?"
The blond raised an unimpressed brow. His mouth set into a thin line.
"Or perhaps," Sasori continued, "you're just feeling sore because you were called from your studio?"
Deidara's entire body twitched in annoyance. He hit the nail on the head with that one, and he bristled, turning away from him to look back at the expanse of land ahead. If he continued on with that particular conversation, he already knew they'd once again fall into an argument about their differences in art. While he was always up to defending his superflat creations, his mind only wanted one thing right now. And that was to return to his studio, where he'd left his clay masterpiece in a disgraceful mess.
By the time he could actually think of something other than his awaiting model, the dirt ground had been exchanged for water, and the air smelt of salt and fish.
They were close.
Sasori was in apparently no hurry to find the place, and though Deidara's hands itched to return, as soon as he stepped foot in one of the smaller villages, neither was he. The Land of Waves employed mercenaries, village ninja, and sometimes even rogue ninja more often than any other land in the world. Not having a ninja village themselves and rolling in dough from their new connection to the Land of Fire, employment demands for skilled fighters shot through the roof. It wasn't strange to find missing nin wandering the lands, though they were eyed warily by the official ninjas—those smug pricks.
But with the Akatsuki cloak currently big in the Underworld, walking down the Land of Waves was instant respect. And they reveled in it. It was nice to be able to leisurely eat at a dango shop that wasn't in the middle of nowhere. The waitresses were definitely cuter in towns. Probably because ugly cousins weren't options.
"What are you smiling at?" Sasori asked in that faux deep voice. He wasn't even on a chair, merely on the ground.
"People are avoiding looking at you, un," he said, grin widening wickedly. It hadn't been what he'd been thinking, but mentioning inbreeding wasn't exactly a topic he wanted to just casually throw around.
Sasori didn't answer, already falling back into his usually silent demeanor while they were in towns or with… people. The man certainly liked his mystery. Deidara didn't fault him for it. They let two hours pass them there, before heading to a nearby inn. The blond happily shed his cloak, sprawling upon the fluffy futon, while his partner scurried to one corner of the room like the weird turtle thing he was. He didn't speak, so Deidara assumed he'd fallen asleep. He followed quickly after.
And come early dawn, without even being told, they both quit their lounging and headed off to the address. As if they'd planned it. Was he really this in tune with his partner? Deidara didn't want to think about it. He hadn't felt this comfortable since he was travelling solo, making art in a particularly quiet corner of the Land of Stone.
It didn't take them long to find the small, traditionally built shop. It was the only building within a half-mile radius, and it wasn't even hidden. On the contrary, it was placed right in the middle of a clearing. As conspicuous as anything could get. As if the builder had planned it to become some sort of terribly tiny hostel.
Honestly, was this person even trying? Obviously not, because as soon as they covered the small stretch of distance left after Deidara's not too gentle landing, they stumbled upon a group of well-equipped ninja before the door. They were dressed too finely to be normal underlings, and their forehead protectors gleamed in the early morning light, their village marks uncrossed. Officially assigned to be there then. He didn't know what kind of clients their explosives dealer kept, but if they didn't move, he'd blow them to pieces. Whoever they were affiliated with be damned. Deidara couldn't be bothered to properly look at their village symbols.
Perhaps showering in blood and limbs was just what he needed to get his spirits up.
Only when they were directly behind the ninja did the group actually sense them, turning fast enough to make their necks crack audibly. Deidara could only grin at the sight. They were a wary bunch, not too skilled. But they had nice equipment, if nothing else. From the snarls on their faces and the hole in the building's roof, Deidara knew they most likely weren't customers.
Robbers, then? he thought. Hired to steal our wares? No, he immediately amended. That wouldn't make any sense. The Akatsuki had remained outside the radar, and he knew from their regular meetings that they didn't plan to enter the fray anytime soon. It would be another year or two at the most. Then, what? Enemies of the dealer? What do hired shinobi want from them that they couldn't already buy? Or… maybe they owe someone money?
"Who are you?" one of the ninja asked.
Neither of them answered. Knowing Sasori wouldn't say a word, Deidara tilted his mask up. Just enough to shoot the nameless ninja a glare and his trademark manic grin. "Let us through, un. We have business here."
"Business?" one asked. He had startlingly blue hair that made Deidara squint. It was that bright. "With who are you affiliated?"
Deidara didn't answer.
"Kinu, Hanae does business with no one," another said matter-of-factly. "The daimyo of this country has tried to make her work for years. Serve her land and supply the shinobi villages like her master before her. And each time, her answer has been the same."
"He's resorted to force then, un," Deidara said, his eyes lingering over the crowd.
"If she's been working for someone," he continued, ignoring his words. "Then we have a right to know as direct employees of the daimyo. We need to repo—"
"You talk too much, un!" he interrupted, nimble fingers already opening his bag of clay.
They didn't seem to register his action because none of them tightened their grips over their weapons. And when he brought his hands up, both tongues swirling out at them, he basked in the look of brief horror that collectively crossed their faces. He released a horde of tiny, circular bombs, and before they could move, they'd already been caught in his trap.
Their bodies exploded then. A mess of gory confetti, smoke, and fire. Their cries were drowned out by the deafening sound of his art, alerting every single ninja in the area of their location. That's how flashy his fighting style was—and he could feel Sasori's disapproving glance drilling holes in the back of his head. But Deidara could care less. His eyes drank up the quick tearing of their limbs, the look of absolute confusion on their faces, before they realized what was about to happen. In that moment, he was able to witness hope die and the reflections of his art take its place.
It was glorious.
Half an hour later, when the smoke cleared and they could see the small lodge again, a woman stood upon the verandah. Her kimono was lightly colored and littered with the remnants of dust from his explosion. She was smaller than most. Almost mousy in the way she held herself with both hands folded in front of her. She had deep, blue eyes that were fixated on Deidara alone. And he found himself raising his eyebrows at the worried expression that marred her face.
An open book, that's what she was. He could see it from his position a good ten meters away. Is… he squinted, trying to get a closer look. He was almost tempted to adjust his eye scope. Is she shaking?
She was, he realized. Like a leaf. A cold, cold leaf left to shiver in the frosty winter air. He was surprised she didn't accidentally get herself killed in his art.
"We're here for Leader's shipment, un," he said, closing the distance. Sasori lingered behind, clearly leaving it all to him. The lazy bastard. The woman didn't respond, only kept staring up at him. As if she was about to cry. Was this really the woman that made their explosive tags? Surely not. Deidara waited a good ten seconds, but when she didn't respond he waved a hand in front of her face. "Oy, are you listening, un? You recognize the cloaks, yea? I'm not lying to you."
"You're," she began hesitantly, her voice was so low Deidara had to strain to hear it. He watched her attempt to swallow her fear—she failed terribly. "You're a beast."
He couldn't help the grin that tilted his lips at the sudden praise.
As it turned out, she was their explosives dealer—and maker.
Deidara had doubted it for a second, especially when she all but ran back into her abode, slamming the door in his face with a startled cry at his smirk, leaving him stupefied and just a tad too irritated. But when he saw her handle the tags, carefully placing them in boxes over scrolls that they'd use to seal them away in for ease of carry, he knew that she'd made them. Every single one. Call it an artist's instinct or whatever term people had for it—if any at all—but he knew.
And when he insisted on trying one, much to her chagrin, he was happy with the results. Not impressed and certainly not baffled, but happy. It was more than he'd expected from an explosive tag. It provided a good five times more bang! How such a mousy thing could create a tag with that much power without the infusion of chakra was beyond him. Maybe it was the paper. Or the specific seals used. He wanted to ask, but when he turned to voice his recognition of her skill, he found her crouched into a ball with her palms pressed against her ears and her eyes sealed shut.
"What are you doing, un?" he asked, staring at her quizzically. Sure, he'd just blown a good portion of her wall clean off, but it was her work that did that. She should have been proud!
Hanae peeked an eye open, looking up at him and avoiding any direct eye contact with the gray sky she could now see from inside her house. Was he going to fix that? She really needed to ask. He seemed like the type that would leave it to her. "I…"
"Don't tell me you're afraid of explosions, un," he scoffed, crossing his arms and levelling her with a stare that told her he didn't want to hear that kind of blasphemy.
"No," she immediately denied, shaking her head to emphasize her point. "I—I just… I don't like loud noises."
"You're lying, un."
Her eyes widened at his tone. It was said like a command. He had so much confidence in his words, it wa as if the moment they left his lips, they became pure fact. "I—I'm not lying!"
"Then you're joking."
"No!"
His eyebrows scrunched together in disbelief, and he discarded his straw hat. Deidara turned to look at her fully, searching her face for any indication that she was lying. He found none. Out of instinct, he did a quick sweep of the room. There was a place for paper making in the corner, along with a barely slept in futon. A desk piled high with ink stones was thrown haphazardly beside a small cabinet for clothes. And there were brushes. Everywhere. Of all shapes and sizes, too. Some were soaking in water, others were in pristine cases, while some were left forgotten in cups across the room.
Had he just… destroyed her studio?
"Is this your studio, un?" he asked, his previous train of thought already forgotten.
She looked forlornly at the wall he'd blown to smithereens, before meeting his eyes. Her voice was a soft whisper he had to strain to hear. He immediately decided that he didn't like it. "It's where I work, yes."
Sacrilege, his mind reprimanded in the ancient voice of the Tsuchikage, and he furiously shook his head to rid himself of it.
"Well, sorry about that, un?" he muttered, warily watching her eyes widen, before she opened her mouth.
"Fix it," a distinctly male voice resounded, and Deidara whirled around to find Sasori sitting outside in all of his creepy puppet glory, looking very much like an oversized turtle fashioned in Akatsuki garb. He glared at him from under his straw hat. The rising sun did nothing for his appearance. From the corner of his eye, Deidara saw the girl's entire body deflate in relief at his partner's words.
"I was going to, un!" he lied.
It took longer than he expected.
Hanae obviously didn't have a bundle of wood lying around her house, and Deidara wasn't about to chop down a few trees, shape them, then go through the hassle of actually smoothening the pieces. He had to actually buy some—Kakuzu was going to kill him for spending more than he was given for this mission—but no one could deliver it to him as quickly as he'd hoped, so then he had to send a clay clone to the town to make a few necessary death threats. And only then was he actually able to start.
That was midday.
But as he hammered in the final board of the wall, he could already see the moon shining high above him through a few cracks, as if it wanted to show him where he did a shit job. He wasn't a carpenter. He didn't fix things. He destroyed them. He was a terrorist bomber for the Sage of Six Paths sake! An arsonist to the core! Deidara swore the moon gleamed in his eyes just to mock him, if only for a second. He'd always known the moon was jealous of his explosions—they always outshined it, but really, what didn't? Even his unlit sculptures were nicer to look at.
Now, he sorely wished he'd gone with his initial idea and left a clone to do all this stupid extra work. But his god forsaken red-headed companion had shot down the suggestion, saying that he had something to do nearby and not to follow and a few other reprimands that reminded him of his time in Iwa. Sasori sure could act like an old man sometimes when he spoke of responsibility, but Deidara knew he was just running his mouth. The red-head didn't want him around, and so he'd gone off earlier that evening.
Where? He didn't know.
He assumed to go browse a few weapon shops or turn some unlucky soul inside out to cure his boredom. Or maybe he just wanted to get out of his puppet. It looked uncomfortable as hell. No leg room. A sleeper agent, his mind oh, so helpfully supplied. His brain's way of telling him to stop with the stupid excuses when he was obviously smart enough to figure out the answer. Traitor. He went to visit one of his many sleeper agents.
Great, so now what? Am I just supposed to wait here until he returns?
Yes.
Fuck no, un!
Maybe he could go out and find him, now that he was done with this.
Deidara looked over his shoulder, finding Hanae seated a few feet behind him. She was a quiet thing with little chakra. Normal for a civilian. Clearly with no family. And her unused bed spoke of someone that slept little. Then again, who could sleep in a place like this? It was so… open. And visible. Can't forget that. Even he felt exposed here, despite having already fixed most of the wall.
She was in a fresh kimono. Her hair was still wet from a bath, dampening her back. Like a sore reminder of the sweat that trickled down his own, steadily soaking his shirt through. He'd shed the Akatsuki cloak some time ago, but the summer heat was getting to him. It didn't help that he only wore black. Deidara watched as she skimmed her fingers along one of the brushes laid out parallel before her. Testing its fluffiness—or so he believed.
Hanae dipped it into her ink, guiding the brush along the edges of a thin paper that was far too big to be an explosive tag. For a moment, he hopefully thought she was making an even bigger explosive tag, but as she continued working, the fantasy died. Hammering the final nail, Deidara took a step closer, peering down at her work.
She stopped as soon as he did. Not because she sensed him, but because his shadow had fallen over the page. Turning, she blinked owlishly up at him.
"I'm done," he stated, bored. He twirled the hammer in his hand, and she was enamored by the sight of his extra mouth chomping along the handle, tongue darting out along the wood. It was leaving teeth marks. She'd have to throw it away, because she didn't think she'd ever be able to get that image out of her mind. Hanae was startled out of her thoughts when Deidara suddenly pointed the hammer's blunt head down at her work, seemingly unaware of his palm's… antics.
"What are you drawing, un?"
"I…" She blushed, gathering her brushes and moving them out of the way, so he could sit beside her. To her surprise, he actually did. Though his eyes were focused solely on her work, contemplating it. "It's—"
"Lightning," he finished, eyebrows raised in surprise. "You drew lightning."
"I heard it today," she said, and though her voice was still as quiet as when he'd first met her, he was at least glad that he didn't have to make a conscious effort to hear her voice. The room was far too silent.
"The sky was clear, un."
"That's why I wanted to draw it."
"What?"
She averted her gaze, looking down at her drawing and instinctively zeroing in on the places she needed to improve. "During your explosion, I heard lightning and it… burst. Detonated. Like—it was as if you timed it."
Deidara's eyebrows lifted even higher. Until he swore that they made a pretty solid attempt to reach his hairline. And then he was grinning. "I thought you didn't like loud noises, un."
"I didn't—I don't," she corrected herself, not trusting the frenzied smile on his face. He looked… barely sane. "But I heard it and the sky was clear and I—"
"You weren't wrong, un," he interrupted again. It seemed to be a habit of his. He lifted his hand, palm down, and she saw sparks of electricity run along his skin. "One of my elements is lightning. You have good hearing, un. Most just hear the blast."
Reflexively, she reached out to touch the spark. He allowed it, watching as she pawed along his skin and when she was close, he let his chakra spike, forcing a long lash of power to shoot upward and shock her.
Hanae squeaked, falling backward in an attempt to get away. It made her entire body tingle. The sensation was overwhelming, pumping her with adrenaline and taking away her energy all at once. And when she looked up, eyes wide and fearful, Deidara laughed at her. Loud and highly amused.
"You scream loudly for someone so quiet, un," he said, grinning at her.
"It's—I—" quickly deciding that the best course of action was to give up on an explanation, she did her best to settle down. Deidara didn't speak, merely watched her with that amused smirk tilting his lips. And only after a full two minutes of uncomfortable silence—on her part—did she open her mouth to speak. "Does it always feel like that? The lightning, I mean?"
"Sometimes," he answered vaguely.
"It's noisy and… energetic," she tried to explain, searching his only visible eye for an answer. "How do you sleep?"
Deidara shrugged, unsure how to answer himself. He'd never spent time with civilians. Not willingly anyway. When he was still a part of Iwa, he'd had to do it for missions. As a missing nin, his interactions with them only extended to his own needs—from the occasional lay to needed information. And when he was forced into Akatsuki, it seemed as if he only had contact with other ninjas. Even the chef Conan had hired to occasionally cook for the stationary members—aka the pathetic and injured or the milk teeth squad—could kill him if he wasn't careful.
"You get used to it, un," he said after a brief pause, realizing that she was actually waiting for an answer. The Akatsuki were like an incredibly screwed up family—each with their own voices in their heads and strong personalities. No one really listened to each other. Except maybe Sasori. Maybe. And most times, they were content with communicating through grunts and noncommittal shrugs.
"Like cavemen," he said aloud. Hanae tilted her head confusedly at him, and he only shook his own in return. "It's nothing, un."
She didn't press him.
"You like art?" he went on, looking at her meaningfully. But he didn't wait for an answer, as his thoughts zoomed forward on their own, and he lost himself to his usual tangents. "Art is an explosion! Don't you think so, too? That one moment of truth and glory, lighting up the world. Like a flower blooming a final time, before the echoes of Autumn make it wilt! Like fireworks that explode for one glorious moment in the sky! Like that final flicker of hope in someone's eyes, before it's doused by inevitability! Loud and vibrant and pure. Noise! You know what I'm talking about, un? You make explosive tags—that bang right before your work is destroyed, leaving only wreckage of its power and people wondering what in the world caused it. Isn't it exciting, un?"
His eyes bored into hers, alight with unbridled passion.
"I…" she began, before trailing off. His eyes didn't dim, and encouraged, she smiled warmly in reaction to his obsessive rambling. Deidara's excitement was contagious. His motions caused sparks long cold to spur, warming her from her head all the way to her toes. Reminding her of days when her dreams were big and she wanted to support what she believed in. "Yes," she conceded to his gaze. "Yes, it is."
Deidara's entire form stilled, his chakra tempered itself into a steady, pleased hum, as he stared unwaveringly at her. As if seeing her in an entirely new light—perhaps he was, his mind certainly seemed to be conducting a thorough re-evaluation without his consent—and his grin grew wider at her quiet admission. Which she decided to follow with a nod and a warm, considering smile.
"Can you," she began tentatively, "tell me more?"
Deidara stared at her.
Her voice—he decided that he didn't hate it that much after all.
Hanae's mentor was a brunt man with incredibly calloused hands. He was all flat planes and sharp, square angles. Angry, impatient, stubborn, and unable to apologize. But he was also extremely devoted. He'd worked himself to death creating tags for shinobi, hoping it would one day save the love of his life in battle—a love that hadn't returned his affections. Or so she assumed from the haunted, almost wistful look in his eyes during the rare lapses in his judgment when he spoke of her.
Hanae swore she'd never do the same. Not the loving part, or the shinobi one either. But that little bit about working herself to death, to the point where she no longer took care of herself. She wavered in her speech, but she'd always been firm in her resolve. And she supported whatever she believed in. It just so happened that she believed in her own worth. In keeping her master's small business alive. The best way for her to continue caring for both was working for the orange-haired man in the cloak riddled with clouds. He always paid enough to keep her in business for a good three months—two, if she was feeling particularly materialistic—without her having to adjust her schedule into something unbearable.
Speaking of men in clouded cloaks, she peeked at the blond toweling his hair into a manageable dampness from the corner of her eye. He'd taken a well-deserved shower after ranting for another hour about art and making her a peculiarly designed bird that—to her utter delight—could actually move. He threw it out the window and let it explode shortly after, laughing wildly at the look of distress on her face.
The man looked good.
Fatal, really. The taut, hard body of a shinobi. And she had to bury her face in her hands to avoid staring. He knew she was—she knew, he knew—and that was just the problem now, wasn't it? Deidara made no comment, however, only stared blankly whenever he caught her eye. She swore she heard him scoff, but that might have just been her imagination projecting what she felt on the inside. Didn't he realize she was just a woman? She wasn't some great saint that swore an oath of celibacy with some greater, all-knowing being—hormones were a thing!
And why, oh why did shinobi have to wear clothes like that? The man was wearing mesh under… what even was that? It was a sorry excuse for a shirt. It was a crop top! And with that skin tight mesh under it—was he intentionally trying to look sexy as sin? Really? Really?!
"Are you done gawking, un?"
No.
"I—I wasn't…" she averted her eyes again, drilling holes into her tatami mats.
"You're a bad liar, un," he said, laughing. "Better take a peek now. I'm the sort to die young, yea."
Confused and feeling very much like she'd been doused in a bucket of ice-cold water, she met his steely gaze. Had she heard that right? "What?"
He gave her a funny look, as if she were the crazy one. In his mind, she was. "Don't I seem the type?" he asked. "People tell me that often, well, Master Sasori does, un. Shinobi die young. Some have a higher chance than others."
"And you have a high chance?"
Deidara lifted a brow. "Are you going to start fussing over me, un?"
"Yes—no! I mean, I just—"
"You're an easy target, un."
"I…" forcing herself to stop—she felt as if she'd been doing that a lot recently—she swallowed her embarrassment until she could speak without sputtering. "Will you be staying the night?"
Deidara nodded. "I need to wait for Master Sasori to return, un. He's my assigned partner, yea? So it's part of the job description."
Hanae had never seen Pain-sama with anyone, but she didn't question his words. Choosing instead to nod and prepare a futon for him to settle into. He didn't lie down, however, only sat atop it and stared at her as she got comfortable. As if, for whatever reason, he didn't believe she was like every other human that slept. And she thought, not for the first time that day, that his staring wasn't exactly on purpose. Perhaps he was doing it out of instinct? The reflex of a shinobi to observe those around him. She didn't know, and she turned her back on him to avoid his piercing gaze.
"Good night," she said.
He didn't bother responding.
Sasori returned just before dawn.
Deidara was waiting for him on the verandah, his usual cloak nowhere to be found. As he kneaded a ball of clay, not allowing his extra mouths to chew on it. His red-headed partner looked no different than when he'd gone, not that Deidara expected him to. The man was strong—stronger than him even. And his age had gifted him things like composure and knowledge and the distinct scent of whatever oil it was he used to clean his puppets. It had been off-putting at first, but like an angry cat, it grew on him. It was a scent he associated with him alone, and it helped him figure out imposters from the real thing—but really, who'd be daring enough to impersonate someone from the Akatsuki?
"You're back," Deidara said as a greeting, "It's about time, un."
"Where's the girl?" Sasori asked, also skipping pleasantries.
"Inside, un," he said, gesturing with his chin. "Why?"
"The town will wake soon. It's been an entire night since your gaudy display. The daimyo will wonder where his shinobi have gone. And she will be here—alive. Amidst a trail of leftover chakra and blood. If you bothered looking at their bands, you'd know those were Iwa shinobi you killed. Your home."
"I didn't see you stopping me then, un."
"There's no reasoning with you when you're like that."
"Wha—"
"Soon," Sasori interrupted, "Iwagakure nin will come to investigate, and they'll know it's you."
Deidara frowned deeply at the interruption, but didn't grumble any further. "What do you propose we do then, un?"
"Have you finished everything here?"
"Un," he nodded. "The crates are sealed, and I've planted clay around the area in case we need to blow this place from the map." Deidara threw his hands into the air as he said the words, his eyes lighting up along with his smile.
"Take the scrolls. Burn the area." Sasori ordered, mentally ticking off the instructions from his inner to-do list. As he turned away from the blond. Deidara was a temperamental idiot with terrible taste in art, but if nothing else, he was efficient. He was good at destroying things, and thought the Iwa nin would know it was his doing, by the time Deidara was done with this place even their best trackers would tear their hair out trying to find a trail.
Deidara immediately jumped to his feet, his fingers already forming the familiar sign for release.
"Ka—"
"Hurry up. I want to return before Kakuzu and Hidan get back."
"Don't rush my art, un!"
"Wait," Sasori changed his mind just as Deidara opened his mouth again. The man stopped, but he made his disdain known with a furious glare. Sasori wasn't deterred. Members of the Akatsuki were all bark when it came to threats against each other. Instead, he thought of Pain and his stoic, disapproving stare that had the ability to make the likes of Orochimaru squirm. He doubted their leader would appreciate the loss of their tag dealer. "Bring the girl."
Out of instinct, Deidara opened his mouth to protest. But as soon as the words registered, he closed it again.
He… wasn't entirely against that decision.
"Go get her," was Sasori's final order.
"Me, un?" he grumbled. Just when did he start calling all the shots anyway? "You do it."
But Sasori was already walking away.
Hitomi came by early that morning. As she always did, to help Hanae clean her shop. It was a modest size and certainly not difficult to keep in order, but Hanae never seemed to leave the confines of her room, so dust usually settled in what was supposed to be the most lived-in of places. Hitomi had expected her day to go as it usually did. With a quiet good morning to her boss, a cup of coffee, shoo-ing away another one of her pesky admirers, then apologizing to an unconcerned Hanae, who was always too absorbed in her work to really notice anything short of a bomb blowing up beside her, before topping the day off with a late lunch and a promise to be back tomorrow.
So, needless to say, she was surprised to find a strange, hunched over man with a scary face and an awful glare seated upon Hanae's usually empty verandah. She bowed to him, but he made no move to acknowledge her presence, as if she were nothing more than a passing fly. Hitomi thought him delirious. But what surprised her the most that morning was the blond man leaning against Hanae's uncharacteristically opened door. He donned the same cloak as the man outside—and the one with the orange hair and spiral eyes that had frightened her not too long ago.
And Hanae, her quiet and doll-like employer, was scurrying around her room, holding something up every now and again at the blond, who either shook or nodded his head. A cool move of grant and reject. That they seemed to play over her entire wardrobe. Then her brush collection.
"You're leaving?" Hitomi asked in disbelief, startling Hanae into turning.
The young blond tilted his head as well, acknowledging her. Though from the way he glared at the man seated just outside the door and then at her, his eyes screaming at every fiber in her being to get lost—now—it was easy to tell that he'd noticed her presence long before she announced it. From his tight stance all the way to his lean arms, Hitomi knew he was a shinobi. His aura radiated harshness and death.
"Who are you, un?" the blond asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Deidara-san," Hanae interjected, before Hitomi could respond. "I forgot to tell you about her. This is Hitomi. She works for me."
"You keep an assistant?"
Hanae nodded. "To clean and answer the door." Deidara rolled his eyes at the answer, but Hanae ignored him and turned to Hitomi instead. A deep frown curved her entire face downward. "I'm sorry, Hitomi. I'm afraid something's come up and I'm needed elsewhere. You won't need to come here for a while."
"Mm," Deidara approved with a nod. "So beat it, un."
"Uhm," Hitomi began, "just what's going on, Miss? This is so sudden. You're not being forced into anything, are you?"
Hanae's eyes widened, before she held her hands up in immediate denial. "No, no, no. Don't worry, Hitomi. There were just a few… problems last night, and they're here to make sure I'm safe and able to continue working."
"But… what about this place?"
"A—ah, don't look so down, Hitomi," Hanae appeased. "The house was never that important to me, so much as the people."
Hitomi's eyes lit up and she smiled broadly.
"Enough sap, un," Deidara interrupted. "We need to go soon."
Her eyes snapped to Deidara's and she nodded, flitting around the room again to grab a few more things. "One more second."
"I'll be waiting outside then, un. Don't leave anything you want to see explode."
Explode? Hitomi thought, watching him go with wary eyes. Had she heard that right?
"Hitomi," Hanae called quietly. Her tone was laced with a soft urgency that forced the girl to attention. Hanae grabbed her hands, shoving an expensive kimono into her open palms and looking her right in the eye. "You need to leave here soon, okay? When I go out, you'll have ten minutes to run as quickly as you can back to town. Don't linger, okay?"
"What?" Hitomi asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Her hands tightened around Hanae's own, prepared to defend her from these men, completely uncaring for the fact that they were more than likely trained killers. "What do you mean, Miss? Really, this is so sudden. Are you sure they aren't forcing you?"
"No," she stood by her answer. "They aren't. They're good men, to me at least. Fine, courteous customers."
"But—"
"Promise me, Hitomi," Hanae interrupted, serious. "Promise me you'll run right back to the town. Don't take a step back here. Not even one, okay?"
"Yes."
"Good," Hanae smiled, looking to a point behind her, as if searching for something. Her eyes were more interested than Hitomi had ever seen before. "Shall we go then? Deidara-san isn't the patient type."
"Wait… don't tell me."
"Hmm?" Hanae tilted her head.
"Is he… your boyfriend?!" Hitomi screeched, and Hanae blushed crimson. She knew the woman was trying to whisper because her hand was cupped over her lips, but there were just some things she'd never been good at. Subtlety was, perhaps, the first on that list.
"No!" Hitomi squeaked, praying to god that the two men outside hadn't heard her friend's scream.
"Okay, okay," Hitomi gave her a reassuring smile, committing this part of Hanae to memory. "I'll be going then. I'll see you again, right?"
Hanae smiled ambiguously, and as she stepped outside, watching Hitomi sprint as quickly as her legs would allow, Deidara grabbed her by the elbow. A large clay bird was perched on top of her roof, ruffling its large wings and looking every bit like something the blond would conjure up.
"Let's go, un."
A distance away, Hitomi panted, as she finally made it past the border of the town. It wasn't anything special. Just a large wooden gate guarded by one or two mediocre Chuunin. But when she was forced face first into the ground by an unknown force and her ears suddenly began ringing from an explosion that might have made her deaf has she been closer, she screeched in sudden fear—for herself and her friend.
And looking upon the acres of forest behind her, she gasped when all she found was ash.
Three months passed since Deidara brought Hanae to a special cabin near the Land of Water. It was an Akatsuki resting place on the outskirts of Kirigakure. Not that anyone ever used it. Not many of the Akatsuki stayed in hideouts—or indoors for that matter—for very long. And the ones that did, particularly their two resident artists, kept their own studios deep within the main hideout, where Pain dwelt. Or so she'd been told by Deidara when he felt sociable enough to talk about his associates. It wasn't often, but it did happen.
The first time was when he blew a group of ninja to smithereens before her. She'd screamed and he defended his style saying how it wasn't even that bad. Some flying body parts to watch out for and maybe some dust, but not much blood. Usually. And then he talked about all the horrible ways the others in Akatsuki eviscerated their enemies.
"They'd gut them," he'd said, making terrifying hand motions that made her gag. "Like fish, un."
It took her an entire month to even get near seafood after that.
Much to his amusement. Since he'd been tasked to bring her things like food—with ungodly amounts of fish—and materials for her papermaking and whatever else it was she needed. He'd called it grunt work, of course, and it certainly was. That was obvious. Even to her. But after a while, another was assigned to take his place—an actual grunt with a face cast into a permanent frown. One of their messengers, Deidara told her one day, as he sat upon her window seat, molding some kind of clay doll and munching on some kind of rice cracker he'd brought along with him.
A peace offering from Tobi, he'd said. But when she asked about his new partner, she always got the same response—don't. From the look on his face whenever he answered, Hanae decided that this Tobi character must've been horrifying, indeed, to make someone as powerful and self-possessed as Deidara lose his cool. And so easily at that.
With a quiet sigh, Hanae scribbled the words along the final tag, wondering just how long she'd be here. She knew that they'd probably have her teach someone how to draw her special seals or make the blast amplifying paper that made her tags so unique, but she… dreaded having to. If she was going to have an apprentice, then she would at least like to choose them. Though she doubted she'd be so fortunate.
"I'm sorry, Master," she muttered to herself.
"What?" Deidara asked, and she turned, startled, to find him directly behind her. His eyebrow raised in question.
"When did you get here?"
"Just now, un," he said, falling gracelessly into a cushion and pouring himself a cup of warm tea. He stuck his tongue out at the taste not too soon after.
"I'll heat it up," Hanae said, dropping her brush in favor of the bronze kettle beside him.
Despite no longer being assigned to watch over her, Deidara returned often to eat and relax and create his art in a cluttered corner of her room that he'd claimed for himself. Some days he'd return with yellowing bruises blossoming all over and a winning smile on his lips, others he was covered in his own blood and bandaged head to toe—always half-healed. As if he couldn't wait to leave the hospital fast enough… or wherever it was the Akatsuki went to get checkups. And on a particularly sunny day, after not having seen him in a long, lonely while, he'd stumbled through her door with a miniature clay dragon in his arms. The first thing she'd noticed was his different colored forearm sewn neatly on. Hanae had been appalled by the sight, fussing over his well-being, which he dismissed with a wave of his hand. As he showed her his creation with all the wonder of a child.
"What have you been up to, un?" he asked, as she poured him a fresh cup. "Don't you have any alcohol in here?"
"Tags and paper," she deadpanned, as if it should have been obvious. And really, it should have. She did little else. "And no, I don't."
"Snippy tonight, un," he said falling onto his back and sprawling across the floor. "But that part of you isn't bad either."
"Long day?" she asked, frowning at his untouched cup.
"Loud," he clarified. "It's quiet here. You can forget about the world, un."
"Mmm…"
"Mmm?"
"I had an interesting conversation last night."
"With who?" Deidara scoffed. "Your brushes?"
"No! With that messenger, he—"
"You really shouldn't talk with those that work for us. We're no good, un. They aren't by extension."
"Well, I talk to you," she said, ignoring the look he gave her that screamed that doesn't count. Always the almighty exception. "And he told me something—"
"Interesting, un. You told me."
Hanae stopped to glare at him to shush. Something he merely grinned at. Clearly unconcerned with his habit of interrupting people. He wouldn't be fixing it anytime soon, it seemed. "He told me that you were softer here. More patient with your temper."
"What, un?!" he said, bolting immediately, his eyes darting around the room in search of the messenger, so he could relieve the fool of his tongue. But of course he wasn't around, and Deidara doubted he'd be returning any time soon. Smart man.
Hanae only smiled at him.
And he frowned plentifully back.
"Don't tell him I told you," she said, looking away. A dark red blush over her cheeks and ears. He raised his eyebrows at her. "I promised I wouldn't."
Deidara sighed.
"Just pass me my tea, un."
Deidara was going to lose his mind.
He watched from his position in the corner of her temporary home, as she knelt in front of a full length mirror, brushing through her damp hair and trying to get a particularly stubborn knot out. Her kimono was tied tight and her face was set into an unattractive scowl. But even then, she was stunning. And he carefully observed the breath of relief she let out when the knot finally came loose. Standing from her position, she spared him a quizzical glance, before running to the kitchen for the whistling tea kettle.
He could hear her every move. Quiet as it was, she was no ninja. Deidara closed his eyes, seeing every action without actually… seeing it.
How Hanae grabbed two glass cups, closed a particularly creaky cabinet, bent to wash something—a plate, no, a bowl. A wooden bowl. Something metal, too. A spoon? Maybe a spoon—sighed in content, then made her way back out to him. He opened his eyes then, seeing her kneel by the table and place two steaming cups of tea out, before gently setting aside the tray she'd used to hold them. She sent him a look, but otherwise didn't ask him to join her. As his fingers instinctively kept kneading the clay ball in his hands. How long had he been doing this? Half an hour? The clay was already sinfully soft. Almost too ready for molding. It was unforgiveable for him to be so distracted.
Dropping the clay in his hands, he ignored the strangled sound his mouths gave out. As he fell into a seat beside her.
"Are you done?" she asked, trying to peer curiously at his palms. "They don't seem very pleased."
"They're fine, un," he retorted immediately, glancing down at his hands that kept wildly flinging their tongues about. Impudent little things. Deidara grinned evilly, as he held one up. Dangerously close to her mouth. "Wanna see just how fine they are?"
She flinched and immediately backed away.
"They'll bite your tongue clean off, un," he said, bringing it closer. Moving an inch forward for every centimeter she fell back. And before she could shake his head furiously at him, he placed his palm over her shoulder, pushing her back until she hit the ground.
Hanae closed her eyes in terror, opening her mouth to scream, only to be silenced by a pair of lips. Warm, hot, and incredibly less demanding than she'd expected. But that didn't stop her from biting down with all the force she could muster.
"Ow!" Deidara yelled, pushing himself up, fingers over his mouth as he rubbed his tongue against his cheek to ease the pain. "You bit me, un! I can't believe you bit me!"
"I—I—" her cheeks blew up, as she finally opened her eyes to see that it wasn't one of his extra mouths that had been pressed up against her. Though she should have expected that. His extra mouths didn't exactly have lips... they were more like holes in his skin. "I didn't mean to!"
His eyes suddenly snapped to hers. His fingers dropped from their place over his lips, and he wasted no time in planting one palm at each side of her head, effectively trapping her. As his mouth took on a wilder look. And Hanae was suddenly hyperaware of their position. Her beneath him, a trained shinobi, who could restrain her with a finger if he wished. He had more power in his eye than she held in her whole body.
"You didn't mean to, un?" he repeated, playing with her hair. Dark and wet. He watched her shudder, as his tongue—frisky and uncontrollable thing—slipped out and licked the side of her neck. She swiftly tried to move away, only for her head to collide with the strong muscle of his impeding forearm.
"N—no! I meant, I—" she tried, but her words left in startled gasps as he leaned closer.
"I'll make you explode, un."
Her entire face flushed in anticipation.
Hours slowly ticked by after that.
Those became days, days turned into weeks, and then weeks into nothing.
Deidara went when he was called and disappeared as he was needed, dropping by only when he could. It wasn't often, but it was enough. The Akatsuki had begun moving, but even in her isolation, she knew that. He was gone too often for them not to have and she'd been making an insane amount of tags recently. Too much. They even had her change location. It was in some kind of forest. Deep enough to not be seen, but near enough to some nameless town that she could hear the clang of metal and the loud laughter echoing in the unknowable distance.
During that time, she'd met a peculiar little boy that went by the name: Tobi. He was tall, but always hunched in on himself as he babbled on endlessly about anything and everything. He seemed too innocent and too… ridiculous to be a part of Akatsuki. She thought that maybe they'd just given him the cloak as a joke, but when she accidentally tripped, reaching out for his arm to steady herself, she'd slipped right through. Cloak, bone, and all. He'd turned around then, apologized profusely as he helped her up, before talking about how his Deidara-senpai was going to kill him when he found out she'd bruised her chin.
Hanae didn't know if he was awed by the man or just making fun of him.
When she asked, Deidara didn't seem to know either. And the look he gave her told her to stop asking about the fool he was left to babysit. So, she didn't. She wasn't all too worried about him anyway. He seemed like the sort that could take care of himself if forced to.
Hanae looked around her, fingering the edges of one of the clay statues Deidara wasn't quite finished with. He'd shoot her a reprimanding glance for touching it, but she couldn't help herself. There was something about the way this particular piece looked that urged her to come closer. It was an owl with square features and a strange design for a body. Its wings were so large, she was sure its body would tip over if the wind blew the wrong way.
Not wanting to accidentally break it, she stopped and settled herself against the messy futon in his new little corner. He'd taken to sleeping there when he was injured or wanted space. Which was becoming more and more frequent as the months dragged on. But on some days, when he was feeling particularly affectionate, he'd fall into her bed and spread out on his back, domineering more than half the space. She liked it though. Without a doubt.
And soon enough, she found herself quietly falling asleep in his bed, surrounded by thoughts of him and when he'd return. Soon, she hoped, allowing slumber to sink its hooks into her.
As if on cue, the door slammed against the wall.
Hanae turned, startled when he came rushing in. His eyes did a quick sweep of the area, searching for her.
"Deidara?" she called, disoriented.
"Get up. We're leaving," he ordered again, urgency lacing his tone. As he kneeled beside her, grabbing her arm and harshly pulling her into a sitting position. "Get up, un."
"What?" she asked, quickly standing. "Where are we going?"
"Uchiha Sasuke," he spat. "He killed Orochimaru and he's… nearby."
"I don't understand," she said, tilting her head curiously at the sudden anger in his tone.
"I was going to kill that long-tongued, snake-loving piece of s—" he muttered a string of invective litany. Loud, but too fast for her to register. As he paced around, grabbing his clay by the handful.
"Deidara," Hanae called, lightly touching his elbow. He stilled immediately, before carefully turning to face her. "What's going on?"
"Uchiha Sasuke is nearby," he said venomously, eyes shining in an entirely different kind of insanity. A far more violent brand than what she was used to. "And I'm going to kill him, un. Which means you need to leave. In case you get caught up in the blast, yea. He has that stupid Sharingan, un! This won't be a controlled fight."
"Your fights are never controlled," she quipped, and he glared at her. Hanae almost backed down at the ferocity behind his gaze. Almost. "I'm going to stay."
"I just said—"
"Pain-sama will be angry with you if you take me elsewhere. Is this Uchiha Sasuke really so close that I need to leave immediately?"
"Two towns over," he said, recoiling back at the sound of his leader's name. The man had specifically warned him against fighting the boy. If he found out he'd moved her as well—or that they even had anything to begin with—the Uchiha brat would be the least of his worries. "Fine, un," he conceded begrudgingly. "I'll just—I'll catch up with him there. He'll be so surprised, un! I'll make him regret stealing a kill from me!"
The grin he gave then could have outdone the sun in both tenacity and brightness.
He said it so confidently that she couldn't help but regard his words as truth.
"Then I will wait for you," she told him, grabbing his palm and tentatively touching his fingers with all of hers. He allowed it. Laughing, when she screamed, as his tongue reached out to lick across her digits.
"I'll be back soon then, un," he assured, pulling away without another look back. His smile had taken a turn for the feral. His entire body itched for the chance at a fight he knew would be worthy of both his time and skill.
As a child, Hanae had always wanted to support what she believed in. Right now, for reasons beyond her own comprehension, she believed in him. She easily let him go with nothing more than a nod and a smile, watching until he was long out of sight. But she knew she should have stopped him, before he walked out that door. Knew she should have demanded a kiss or cried her eyes out and begged him to stay. Even if he wouldn't have—his pride wouldn't have allowed it—he might've lingered. Even for a moment. Because the regret she felt when she saw that explosion in the distance was a palpable thing. It ate at her, burrowing deep in her veins and making a home there to mock and taunt as the years went on.
And when news of his death spread like wildfire, she couldn't even find it in herself to be surprised. Already numb to the words. She knew since she'd felt that wave of electricity assault her delicate senses—she knew he was gone. Far out of her reach. And he wouldn't be coming back.
The half-empty kettle on her nightstand seemed heavier that night. Perhaps they were weighed down by her tears. As she murmured one, barely coherent string of words to the stillness of her surroundings.
"Be here now."
The days went by slower after she'd heard—monotony and depression did that to time. Because the clock was a cruel and heartless thing. It ticked on endlessly, slowing when pain was fresh and it stung to live, then speeding up again when she found solace in things like tea and painting. Before she'd even realized, she was hurling the thing deep into the forest.
Only for Tobi to bring it back to her with a sad voice and flailing arms. It was working, though taped up in some areas. She didn't have the heart to throw it out again after that. No matter how unsightly it was compared to the rest of the house.
Time crept, extending the hurt into something a little less bearable. But she lived through it. She did her laundry and the dishes and whatever else it was that needed doing. She ate when she was hungry and slept when she needed to. There were many things to do to pass the time, some became more appealing
It wasn't a life, but she lived.
She lived… and when the door banged against the wall and a pair of heavy footsteps broke the stillness, she woke.
"Ah," she gasped, dropping the plate she'd been holding and barely registering the sound of it shattering across her floorboards. There was a silent moment, before, "I knew you'd return."
She didn't run to him, and he didn't either. They only stood and stared at each other. She didn't know what it was he'd gone through, but he'd definitely been dragged out of hell because his skin was gray and he seemed more like a walking corpse than the Deidara she'd once known. He wore a different cloak and even his arms lacked the stitches she'd grown intimately familiar with. But even though his eyes seemed unexplainably cold, they were still filled with light. And his grin—oh, that grin—it was just as cocky and mad as she remembered.
He didn't have long. Even she knew that. She could see his body deteriorating from here. It was as if he'd come back from the dead just to haunt her one, final time. But that couldn't be true. He was a ninja, and ninjas were tools. Was he still under someone else's control—even in death?
Her lips curved downward without her consent.
"Stop thinking, un," he told her, finally stepping closer. He rubbed the scrunch between her eyebrows with his thumb. "Focus on me, yea? I want to be left alone, un. But not by you."
Hanae tried to smile at that, found that she couldn't, and leaned her cheek against his too cold palm instead. "It's been a while," she told him, amazing him with her serenity. She'd always been tender and gentle and a little too shy, but never so at peace. Especially not in his presence.
"How long, un?"
"A year."
"And what have you been up to?"
"I've been trying to capture your art," she said, smiling ambiguously. Deidara tilted his head at that. Then he held his arms up to her, happily allowing her to step into them. "I'm afraid I don't remember the sound of lightning anymore. It's gone."
"Art will never die," he told her, shifting her weight in his arms. Not because he was uncomfortable, and certainly not because he could feel her. But because he recalled the feeling of holding her a certain way, memorized every detail of how he kept his arms around her—and this wasn't it. Not even close. So, he moved again.
"Never?" she asked, staring up at him. "But y—"
"Even if I already have."
Her entire body shuddered at his words. It was one thing to hear it from someone else, but to hear it from the man, himself—it only made this entire situation seem like an illusion.
Deidara buried his head in her shoulder like a man seeking home. He pressed his face against her, nose in her hair, inhaling the scent of nostalgia and anything his mind could recall. Because he couldn't do so himself. Scent was a thing of the past for him. All he had was his sight and the startling ability to move. She stepped closer to him—if possible—and though his arms were cold, they weren't unwelcoming. And from the way he held her as tight as he could, without care for any bruises he might leave, she knew he was trying to say goodbye.
"You're leaving me again." It wasn't a question. A pause. Then, "Take me with you."
"I can't do that," he denied, silencing her whirring thoughts with a simple squeeze.
"Why not?"
"You know why, un," his grip tightened and for a brief moment, he let his eyes drift off. Looking around, he found drying brushes and bottles of ink strewn about the floor. Some of his clay dolls were still around. Most were turned away or taken off of their pedestals, as if she couldn't stand the sight of them.
Why did he come here? He asked himself, not for the first time. Because he wanted to. Because he had to see her. Though he didn't particularly have an exact reason as to why. He knew what he'd find, and he was right. Deidara found Hanae living in a part of the world where his ghost still lingered—and here he was, the final, living embodiment. He needed to tell her to leave. He knew that. But the other, more selfish part of him didn't want her to move on.
He wasn't like those noble ninja that sacrificed for the ones they loved. He was no Uchiha Itachi or upright Jinchuuriki host that always, always got over it. He was Deidara—and he was as selfish as they came.
And she loved him for it.
"I'm going to leave my mark on this world, un," he whispered in her ear. A soft caress. Clay seeped from his entire form, as he pumped out as much chakra as he possibly could, forcing this dead carcass he inhabited beyond its limits. He wanted his body back. Not its form.
"You left one already," she told him, clinging to his shoulders.
Deidara snarled at the thought. "I didn't take Uchiha Sasuke with me."
"Does it really matter now?" she asked.
"No," he amended, body relaxing and eyes closing into something that felt a lot like peace. Though not quite. Not yet. He felt the familiar tempering of his fire, something only she could do, before it burst once more. He bent down to whisper against her lips. "I'm right where you are, un."
"For how long?"
"Until this body gives in."
Another moment then. One more second. A final, desperate press of lips—
The explosion that followed tore the very earth asunder.
"The only way to leave this world is with a bang!"
A/N: YOU NEED TO READ MY FIRST AUTHOR'S NOTE ABOVE. Questions asked that can be answered by what's up there will not receive a response. Also, that line above is mine. Don't steal it.
On a lighter note: Ah, Deidara. He can touch me with his hands anytime he wants. Hahaha…ha… God, help me. I had more fun with this than I expected. Thus, the extra 3k words in the request. But, alas, all good things must come to an end. I hope you enjoyed it. My fingers demand that you did. (I typed this in a day, yo! That's how invested I was in this baby. I've been itching to write a Deidara fic for so damn long. I need to study now though and work on my terribly neglected manuscript.)
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Please Review.
-Blob80 Out.