They'd like to think they had him figured out. They'd like to think they knew what lay in his heart of hearts, which he kept hidden behind an iron curtain. They'd like to think they knew the real Deidara.
But they knew nothing.
They liked to think that because he smiled, he was jovial. They liked to assume that because he laughed, he was energetic. They liked to believe that because he didn't cry, there was no sadness within him.
What he wanted to say back to them, so badly, was this—
What else can you do, when all you know how to do is smile?
He had thought about it often before. Where there was pain, there were grins. Where there was sadness, smiles. Where there was rage, laughter. Cut off his arms, and he'd say, "Well that sucks," and smile. Kill a lover, splash him with their blood, and he'd laugh. Stab him in his back with his own kunai, and he'd smile, seemingly unaffected.
When really, in that heart of hearts, his body wracks with pain, armless. He sobs uncontrollably for that lover, lost to him forever. His heart perishes, stabbed.
His heart. His special heart; the one he keeps locked up safely behind the thick curtain of a falser, blacker heart, a façade to hide what should always be hidden. Why, then, did people believe he wore it on his sleeve? Why did they mock him, look down on him, and ridicule him— all because of a heart they thought was right there in front of them?
He wished he could be more like the reclusive Uchiha, or stoic Sasori. When faced with emotionally trying situations, they had the strength and the skills to look unaffected. If they were in pain, they wouldn't show it. If they were amused, they wouldn't show it. Every emotion was a beast that had been tamed, a precious prize that had to be under lock and key at all times. Deidara wished someone would teach him how to lock up his own treasure. Because then, maybe, people wouldn't make so many assumptions.
But instead, all he knew how to do was smile.
Un.