Chapter 1: Stimulus

There he was. That Uchiha bastard, sitting across the table and wearing that look that said 'I'm somewhere else, so don't bother'. His eyes were black at the moment, staring listlessly into a cup of tea. Upon closer inspection one would be enchanted to see they actually resembled more of a molten gunmetal than onyx—and Deidara certainly did inspect. Only natural, of course, for one with a healthy appreciation for aesthetics. Not that the man was anything special, just...

From the moment he'd first beheld those eyes—those radiant, piercing eyes—as a runaway Iwa shinobi, Deidara couldn't stand how his aesthetic ideals were scorned before the gifted gaze of this challenger. Art was supposed to be an ephemeral thing, an object of beauty vanishing in a blaze—no, an explosion—of glory, but that accursed Sharingan made a mockery of it with no apparent effort on the Uchiha's part. Manipulating at their will, Deidara had been helpless, trapped in a web of crimson and gold that dared even to twist his very own creations, and yet...

... And yet as soon as it'd happened, it was over. What had never truly existed from the offset was suddenly gone; Deidara had come back to his senses to find that the Uchiha's glare was dark, stony as though nothing had just transpired. And was that not the most ideal, the most fleeting art? A mind-warping illusion cast by kaleidoscope eyes, the otherworldly glow of which one only needed witness for the briefest of moments before you were essentially done for?

And as though this defeat wasn't terrible enough, the worst betrayal of all was that in his heart, he knew that this creature was perfection. But how could that be, when it wasn't his own perfection?!

Thus it was that Deidara was captured—forced to serve an organisation where he feared his creativity would go grossly under-appreciated. To say that the journey to the Akatsuki hideout was uncomfortable would be an understatement; it was those tense few days that cemented completely Deidara's searing hatred for the name Itachi Uchiha, and its owner's smug attitude. Even more than the fact he had so shamelessly usurped his own perfect practice, the Iwa shinobi learned to detest that those rare eyes gave no insight, not even the smallest shred, as to what lurked beneath Itachi's cool exterior. Any gloating of his glorious exploits, or even casual smalltalk made to quell the boredom fell on uncaring ears and the infurating 'I'm-not-here' stare that would eventually become a daily source of agitation.

Why. Didn't. He. Care?!

Granted, while the Uchiha and the menacing shark man had continued silently ahead for much of the way, he had at least found common ground with the mysterious Sasori—not that their tastes exactly agreed—and was pleased to find out it was with the puppeteer that he would eventually be paired. That way he could hopefully avoid Itachi as much as possible.

But it turned out that the grand plans of Akatsuki required further preparation before they could make their move; which, for Deidara, meant holing up in the hideout for tedious amounts of time, since he was hardly suited for gathering intel unnoticed. That was how he and Itachi found themselves eating meals within sight of each other almost daily for a period, or colliding every so often in one of many winding tunnels—or even worse, taking a simultaneous dip in the springs. And every single time such a thing occurred Deidara found himself gritting his teeth in fury at the Uchiha's complete lack of regard for his existence.

Was he not a sought after shinobi whose bloodline limit and unique style had attracted the most powerful renegades of their time? Was his art not an incredible sight to behold? And was he not just an overall delight to be around?

So why did this pasty, bag-eyed fuck seem to think offering nothing but clipped responses was remotely acceptable? He even paid the likes of Hidan more mind than him, and that guy was a complete asshole.

"Hey Uchiha," he said finally with a scowl, pointing his chopsticks at Itachi. They were alone in the makeshift dining room, the others having finished up and dispersed quite quickly that morning. Defying all expectation, the Uchiha actually deigned to make eye contact with him, darkened lids fluttering open with mild surprise. Deidara didn't realise eyelashes could even be so long and thick—not on a guy, at least. "... Maybe you should try coffee, hm?"

"No, thank you."

And just like that, the conversation was over. Not that it was one in the first place; a conversation usually comprises of some sort of back-and-forth, and as per usual Deidara may as well have been speaking to one of Sasori's creepy creations fitted with a voice recording for all the response he got. But today he didn't feel like letting up. There had to be a way to stir up some semblance of life in this walking statue. The blond leaned back in his seat with a crooked grin.

"Aw, why not? You'd be more attractive if you perked up, hm!"

Itachi's gaze remained lowered, but Deidara could have sworn that his lips curved ever so subtly upward.

"So if I understand correctly, you already think I'm at least somewhat attractive?"

"Um, not what I said, yeah?!" He backtracked with another, more accusing jab of his chopsticks in Itachi's direction.

"Alright," he replied, the defeat in his tone not at all convincing. The same couldn't be said for his smile, for that's definitely what it had become—a charming quirk to each side of the Uchiha's cupid's-bow mouth that had Deidara staring in disbelief. The artist inside practically screamed at such a vision, but the only response he gave was a silent gawp. Several minutes passed with no further dialogue, until Itachi finished off the last dregs of his tea.

"I'll see you around."

With that Itachi gathered up his dishes and walked off, leaving an awkward Deidara to follow his exiting back with wide blue eyes.

The morning's events found Deidara in his quarters, sculpting away, though his usual simplistic animal designs didn't serve to inspire him at all. The mouth in his palm chewed thoughtfully, and went on chewing until it opened up, the dexterous tongue delivering a softened lump into his fingers which he then spent a further period kneading and rolling. They ended up forming a rounded shape while he fed another, larger piece into his mouth. It tasted familiarly strange, but since inspiration called for a little more detail than he usually afforded his works he deemed it necessary to use a little extra compared to normal. This, once ready, was moulded into the shape of a figure with the aid of several wooden sculpting tools. The iconic cloak skimmed over the general shape of the body simply enough, yet painstaking care went into the carving of elaborate clouds, of long bangs that swept down from the brow... and especially of elegant hands poised in a seal along with the long-lashed eyes and curved mouth adorning the figurine's face. After carefully shaping the dramatic collar and definition of throat and clavicle, he set about smoothing out any rough patches until Itachi's likeness—somewhat cartoonish yet charming all the same—smiled up at him. He laid it gently atop the workbench to dry and left, not allowing himself a moment to ask himself just what the hell he was thinking.

Later he found his roommate poking around in his private studio, the wooden face of the unsettlingly youthful boy somehow showing an expression of deep amusement. This instantly provoked Deidara—though they both shared the immediate area, their private rooms were supposed to be just that.

"And just what's so funny, huh, Sasori? You're totally envious of my perfect art, hm!"

Though he sneered, it only took a glance towards his latest creation before he blanched. Following the blond's line of sight, Sasori took the figurine in his hand and scrutinised it closely, as though he were some expert art critic.

"I'd say this is one of your finest, Deidara..." He mused aloud, then shot a knowing smirk up at his partner, who tensed up and started frantically tripping over his tongue.

"Yeah well! Well it'll be even finer once I blow up its smug face, won't it?"

"Juvenile, as always. When will you see that art is meant to last? That it should be preserved for the enjoyment of its intended audience?"

"And just what's that supposed to mean, hm?" Deidara was fuming by this point, his cheeks red from both anger and shame.

Sasori just shrugged, then set the model back down on its delicate feet.

"I'm just saying that such skill is wasted when nobody gets to really see or treasure it. Is it really a surprise then, that you were never noticed as an artist?"

"Get out! OUT."

The puppeteer shrugged again as he followed the trembling finger gesturing him out of the room. Once alone, the blond proceeded to throw himself angrily onto his unmade bed, and he slammed the side of his fist into the wall. The miniature Itachi fell flat on its face but, to add insult to injury, appeared to remain perfectly intact. That's just like him, Deidara thought. Infallible, unbreakable Itachi fucking Uchiha.

"Whatever, hm." He snapped. "You can just lie there on your stupid flawless face!"

Frustration having gotten the better of Deidara, he found himself unable to settle for long; after making a hasty escape from his shared quarters (with the purposeful blanking of Sasori as he did so), the blond shinobi navigated the labyrinth of deserted tunnels and worked his way upward, emerging from a hidden hatch atop a flat, stone ledge of his making. It was good to get out of that dingy, windowless place every so often. A good view of the sky and surrounding forests could do wonders for one's creative juices.

Blue eyes closed, allowing inspiring visions of explosions to dazzle his mind's eye. Fantastic bursts of red, of gold, of all colours comprehendible, seen both in sparks and flashes and within plumes of flame and smoke. Perhaps that was what his art needed, something to really seize his audience's attention and grip them with fear and astonishment!

... Unfortunately, Deidara knew exactly what Sasori had been referring to when he made that comment about being 'noticed'. His sharp brows furrowed. As if the cirumstances of his recruitment wasn't enough of an embarrassment, it just had to be his future partner who had witnessed firsthand his desperation to have a certain Uchiha recognise his art—not only that, but Sasori had clearly noted the combined devastation and awe with which he'd allowed Itachi's techniques to undo him back then, too.

How dare Sasori imply that Itachi should see his most recent piece, as if he'd even spare a shred of care for it in the first place!

Truth be told, Itachi was just not a creative guy. He used his birthright exactly as intended, with apparently no further effort put in when there could be so many possibilities! And Sasori had the gall to suggest he was wasting his potential!

"You'd be more attractive if you weren't always scowling over something," came a low, velvety voice that almost startled Deidara out of his skin. The wide-eyed look he'd initially shot up at the intruder was quickly smothered over with a cocky grin.

"That's an impossibility, hm." He flicked his long, blond hair from his shoulders, trying to appear cool. "How did you find this place anyway?"

"Oh... I saw you wandering and got curious... so I followed you up. Sharingan-assisted, to get past your little traps. I hope I'm not intruding."

"See, now that's cheating."

Usually Deidara would have flipped his lid when faced with anything related to certain ocular powers, but in honesty he was more concerned with the fact Itachi had decided to follow him. He made no effort to confirm or deny how invasive he found it, so Itachi took it upon himself to get comfortable—not that kneeling so formally with palms rested upon his lap could be classed as comfortable, in Deidara's opinion, but he supposed it was all in his upbringing. Shame he wasn't also brought up to not go off on murderous rampages just because.

Knowing Itachi's past, the exact reason for his exile, was a frightening thing even to the more dangerous members of Akatsuki. Even Kisame, who was practically legendary for his ruthlessness, showed the Uchiha a healthy measure of respect. It was something about his proper—almost gentle—yet definitely powerful presence that made one so wary. Even with the relaxed smile Itachi wore, and with the wind gently tossing up his long, silken tresses like ink streaked loosely across parchment, Deidara couldn't quite determine how he should act.

Nevertheless, this Itachi seemed significantly warmer than the one who had defeated him in practically the blink of an eye.

"You chose a nice spot," said the Uchiha softly, eyelids closed against the light breeze. They seemed always to have a bruised quality about them—presumably through a lack of sleep, Deidara suspected, quite like those deep lines that overly defined his eye sockets. Eventually he cocked his head in agreement, to which Itachi responded, "What has you so frustrated, then?"

Deidara mulled over the question momentarily.

"A difference in tastes, hm. Same shit, different day. I don't see me and Sasori agreeing any time soon."

"I see. I think I can understand the merits of both sides... but you're both quite extreme."

Deidara returned with a small scoff and a quizzically arched brow. "What do you know about my art, huh? It's not like you've ever paid it any mind."

Itachi smiled mysteriously. "Just because I don't go shouting out all my thoughts for the world to hear, doesn't mean I don't notice."

Without realising until he felt the telltale prickle, the blond's cheeks flushed. There was definitely some hidden meaning in that tone, but... he must have been imagining it. Itachi was hardly the type to stoop to any sort of... insinuation. But then again, what did he really know about this guy? Perhaps he was simply trying to get him comfortable so that he could humiliate him again. That seemed likely.

"So if I showed you something in my studio, would you tell me what you think?" Deidara paused, calming his sudden nerves before flashing a cheeky grin. "No shouting necessary, hm."

It seemed ridiculous, that having Itachi's full attention could make his heart hammer so tangibly against his ribcage—but after all, it was something he had desired so deeply for the past few months since meeting the aloof Uchiha. Sasori was fortunately absent from their shared area, and from there the blond led his guest into his own quarters. Basically it was a large bedroom, half of which had been transformed into a workshop for his many clay creations; there even lay scattered about some sketches for his next designs, which he hastily gathered and hid away.

The miniature Itachi still lay face-down, and the two shinobi eyed it for a moment. It took a thick swallow and the steeling of his ego for Deidara to pick it up and present it to its audience, as Sasori had so subtly put it.

"Looks like you broke me," was his verdict. Confused, Deidara turned the figurine in his hand to find that a significant crack marred the smiling face he'd so delicately crafted earlier that day—and the most disturbing thing was, he actually felt a little disappointed. Never had he felt such a way. A broken piece of art just made the fleeting period in which it was whole all the more potent, more beautiful... so why would this now disappoint him?

"I thought that would please y-" A sharp, shattering noise cut him off, causing even the stoic Uchiha to jump as the clay splintered and shot off in all directions. Though Itachi avoided the worst of the shrapnel, several shards struck Deidara across the cheeks and forehead, and his fingers were bloodied as a result of combustion at such close range.

"I-IT DOES. HM."

Itachi just stood there, staring with what appeared to be genuine confusion.

"Just what is it you want from me?"

"I dunno, hm! I want... I want you to acknowledge my art for its brilliance! I want you to be overcome by awe! I want you to fear it—no, fear me! I want..." He approached the raven-haired shinobi. If it wasn't for his awareness of Itachi's capabilities, he would have reached out and grabbed the silken mane, but as it stood the blond just wrung his hands and fumed redundantly, frustration clearly getting the bettter of him. "... I want toopen you up, Uchiha, and see what it takes to break down your fucking cool act."

A fleeting look of extreme discomfort that twisted Itachi's delicate features quickly melted away into a mask of cold stoicism, his peaceful attitude replaced by that threateningly emotionless presence once more. Deidara suddenly found his fiery temper dampened under the acute sense that he had overstepped some sort of boundary, and he half-expected to wind up lost in another famous genjutsu—or worse, enveloped in black fire. But it seemed Itachi was mulling something over internally, as shown only by the brief darting of dark irises.

"...That is not something you can achieve." replied Itachi with stern finality, then swept out of the room.

The following weeks saw the bitter rift reopen all the more obviously than before. The two exchanged not so much as a glance... at least, not simultaneously. Though he didn't consciously realise it, Deidara watched the Uchiha more and more with each passing day and despaired at the fact his blowing up (in both senses of the word) had somehow severed their tenuous rapport before it even had a chance to fully materialise. To make matters worse, he still didn't know if Itachi had even liked the small statuette, so he had to deal regularly with the artistic conflict presented whenever he felt disappointment at it having been destroyed.

Itachi himself appeared and acted as normal, though various mannerisms that had always been commonplace grew ever more apparent to Deidara. He was obsessed by the elegant way those violet-manicured fingers would curl around his cup, how his lips would purse slightly as he blew cool air over the piping hot tea within. They looked so soft and yielding, especially whenever he exchanged a rare, quiet word with one of their fellow Akatsuki; and on the off-chance that one of the others made him smile, the young shinobi would silently fume inside at the fact it was never for him.

Now more than ever, Deidara wished to get closer to the other... but still he had no hope of understanding just why this was such a big deal to him.