Burning Paper Cranes
Rated: M
Warnings: Excessive use of the word fuck, yaoi concepts, sinful grammar and spoilers.
I want to, I want to be someone else or I'll explode
Floating upon the surface for
the birds, the birds, the birds
You want me? Well, come on and break the door down
You want me? Fucking come on and break the door down
I'm ready
I'm ready
I'm ready
-Talk Show Host, Radiohead
Pain snapped into existence long before coherent thought; a complicated lattice of fire and ice. Agony and ecstasy. Disease and the cure.
Then questions floated passed, indistinct and half formed. Images flashed to the forefront, bright and unrelenting, layered and unfocused like a slideshow on a broken monitor. A burning forest. A butterfly's papery wings crumbling like ash. A red and black cyclone, whirling faster and faster. Fingernails digging into dirt. Teeth bared.
A name. His name?
Everything pulling inward; a red molten core trailing a thousand fiery threads.
There was such confusion, a frustrating void which only seemed to widen as more sensory imagery tried to fill to it.
Being born felt a lot like dying. Only backwards.
Something swept across his brow, a lick of warmth against his cold face. The contact stirred awareness; awareness of the scratchy paper underneath his sensitised flesh, of something soft and heavy across his chest.
His body. His living breathing body.
This isn't right. I'm not supposed to be here.
The warmth ran across his forehead again, sweeping wet hair away from his sweat prickled skin; he could feel every miniscule ridge and callous on what he had now identified as fingers.
The thoughts were coming quicker now, his awareness expanding with each passing second.
He must have moaned or cried or even screamed because his throat was suddenly raw. The languid stroking against his brow continued and he could now hear the soothing strains of a lullaby, its melody rich and crooning beside his ear, accompanied by the sporadic electric bleating of machines.
"Shhhh. There now."
There was a long growling rumble. Sharp pattering against glass.
"Looks like this storm won't be letting up anytime soon. He'll catch his death if he stays out there like that," the voice, as smooth and silken as her song, was achingly familiar.
He tried to rise towards it, but a gentle pressure against his torso had him sinking back against the paper covered surface.
"You can't move yet Deidara-kun, you're still very weak. Let the jutsu work its magic. It won't be long."
His name...
His eyes fluttered open and were met with white infinity.
The blinding swell of light slowly abated, the world around him beginning to take form in a thick swirl of oily colour. A swath of rich midnight blue moved beside him and then the delicate wide set features of his carer came into focus.
He tried to form the words to say her name, to ask where he was, but his dry mouth wouldn't cooperate, only a thin reedy whine made it passed his cracked lips.
"Shhh. There's time for questions. Just sleep."
Yes, okay.
When he awoke sometime later it was to the smell of food. His stomach lurched hungrily, dragging him out of the half-consciousness he had settled fitfully into. This time when he opened his eyes the world fell into place almost immediately. Carefully he eased himself into a seated position and scanned the room around him. He was in a small and sparsely decorated room, on what looked like a hospital bed. Wires trailed from a feed in the back of his hand to a sack of cloudy fluid hanging from a wire frame above the bed. A monitor with complicated knobs and buttons sat in one corner, its screen blank and lifeless and a large plate-glass window spanned the length of one wall; thick rivulets of rainwater distorted the view of the outside into grey and silver abstraction. A lumpy looking brown leather armchair was pulled alongside the bed and resting on its seat was a slim tin tray upon which sat a tall glass of clear water and a bowl of what looked like rice in a pale broth.
Deidara reached over and picked up the water with a shaky hand, bringing its cold rim to his lips and sipping it cautiously. The ice cold water made his stomach knot painfully but the sensation of moisture against his dry throat was welcome and divine. How long had it been since he'd eaten or even drunk anything? Did the dead even really need to drink? A sardonic bark of laughter escaped him then, causing him to snort the liquid back into the glass.
He clearly wasn't dead.
Apparently his magnificent final masterpiece had been neither magnificent nor very final.
He yanked the feed out of his hand, rubbing his fingers over the pinprick of blood that welled up in its place.
Setting the glass back down, he wiped his lips with the back of his hand and then very slowly turned it over to inspect his palm. The extra mouths were still there, their lips as cracked and as dry as his own. He ran his index finger along the dry skin flaps, feeling suddenly anxious. What if they didn't work? What if they were damaged beyond repair? He pressed his finger against the opening with more force, wincing as a sharp pain darted the length of his arm, and was greeted with a sneer as the lips slowly retracted exposing two rows of white teeth. A long pink tongue darted out to lick at the offending digit. The relief was instant and overwhelming. Something wet and warm slipped down his cheek and a long shuddering breath escaped him.
Feeling too bewildered and confused to check the rest of his body, he swung his legs off the side of the bed and planted his bare feet firmly onto cold floor-tiles. Lose fitting flannel sweatpants spilled over his toes, obscuring them from vision, he picked at a stray thread hanging from the hem of the tight fitting vest that was a little too small on him. These were his clothes he realised, old training garments he'd stashed in one of the many Akatsuki hideouts along the border of Rain Country. At least he now had a clue as to where he was. His suspicions were confirmed by a violent lashing of wind against the window pane. Only Rain could boast such torrentially miserable weather.
Standing up proved a considerable effort. His knees buckled almost instantly, causing him to sway dangerously on unsteady, weak-muscled legs. Gripping onto the edge of the bed for support he finally managed to ease himself upright. Picking up the bowl of broth he staggered towards the window and pulled himself onto its wide sill, flicking a row of neatly folded origami cranes that had littered its surface onto the floor. The chill of the glass was jolting against his bare arms, but a welcome distraction from the troubled thoughts that were plaguing him and becoming increasingly hard to ignore. He folded his knees up to his chin and propped the bowl on top of them.
The flavour was plain, which was probably for the best seeing as he doubted he'd be able to eat rich solids any time soon, and as he gingerly gulped down mouthfuls of the bland liquid he allowed his gaze to wander the warped view from the window.
A courtyard stretched out before him. Bare skeletal branches jutted up above the pale parameter wall. They stood out starkly against a grey sky and made the outside world look even less inviting.
Yes - this was Rain Country, the northern most hideout, two days northwest of Amegakure. He'd spent a long tiring winter holed up here only the year before.
Weather-beaten targets swayed awkwardly from their tethers in the unrelenting wind, solar powered lamps bled weak orange light across the water-logged grass and sturdy terracotta pots dotted around the grounds, darkly stained by the rain.
A lone figure stood motionless in the centre of the quad, face upturned and long-limbed frame trembling.
For a second Deidara hadn't recognised him, he looked leaner and less imposing without the added bulk of the wide-collared Akatsuki cloak. The uniform he was wearing was clearly ANBU regulation, though it looked a little outdated. With his long, dark hair hanging loose in lank clumps about his shoulders he was possibly the furthest thing from 'terrifying-S-class-criminal' Deidara had ever seen.
So much for Akatsuki's golden boy. Drowned rat was more like it. He allowed himself a small 'tsk' of disapproval.
"He's been like that since he woke up."
He hadn't heard her come in, but her sudden presence didn't startle him. Konan had always had a tranquil aura; her chakra signature was butter-smooth and sugar-sweet against his frayed senses.
She quickly crossed the distance between them and folded her arms onto the sill, her elbow resting against his feet. She followed Deidara's line of sight to where Itachi stood motionless before plucking up a square of blue paper, seemingly from nowhere, and folding it compulsively.
"Once I'd explained that he'd been bought back and how...he just wandered out there. Hasn't eaten or said a word since. I think he wishes he was still dead. He will be soon if he doesn't come in from the cold."
Deidara's eyes widened, his interest suddenly piqued, "He was dead too?" His voice came out higher than usual - a strained tinny noise.
Konan set down a perfect paper rose between them then started the process again with a fresh sheet, this time in pink.
"Sasuke killed him," she said simply.
Sasuke. The disappointment was like a physical blow. His art had failed him, or worse, he had failed his art.
Deidara's lips quirked into a half-smirk half-sneer, "I bet the bastard got too cocky, probably underestimated his little brother, well it serves him right, yeah?"
"Sasuke killed you too," Konan pointed out, spinning the paper round to start folding the opposite corners.
"T-that's bullshit, yeah!" he spluttered indignantly, "There's no way I would let that bastard kill me, I killed myself!"
He wasn't being childish. He was being specific.
A heavy awkward silence settled between them, Konan averted her eyes and continued folding.
"So...how-"
"How are you here?" she supplied.
"...y-yeah."
"Pein bought you back. He really was a God."
Deidara didn't miss the use of past tense, or the faint tremble that worked its way along her slender shoulders.
"...when? I mean, how long? I mean...how?"
Konan sighed, a light musical sound, before pulling her gaze from the window and meeting his searching expression with compassionate amber eyes.
"You died over three months ago. You were completely incinerated during the explosion... but the ring and its blood binding were left intact. The technique that bound your consciousness to that of our replacement clone was still unbroken. Of course it would have taken his life to bring you back then, so he grieved for you. He grieved for all of you. Then, later when the time was right, Pein gave his last breath to restore the lives of those he'd taken, and directed a little of that power to you."
"-and Itachi," he had to fight to keep the bite out of his voice.
"Yes and Itachi, and Sasori and Kakuzu...although there were complications, Sasori and Kakuzu didn't survive the process. They had both made too many alterations to their bodies. The link failed."
Deidara's eyes flickered down to his hands, hands that looked like his hands, "So some poor sap we had in storage for a long distance recon is now playing host to me...permanently?"
"It's your body now. Think of it as payment for services rendered. You're free. You can do what you want now," Konan murmured wistfully, setting down a third paper flower.
"Free? What about Akatsuki, yeah?"
Was that panic in his voice? Surely this wasn't the end? What was he supposed to do now?
"There is no Akatsuki. I have a country to run, a future to carve for my nation, and a promise to keep. You can stay here as long as you want...but it's time to choose a new path Deidara-kun. You are officially dead; the bingo books have a big red 'X' where your face used to be. You can be anyone you want now."
She smiled sadly and for the first time Deidara noticed the harsh grief lines carved into her beautiful face.
"If you have any more questions please ask Itachi. I have to get back now; I have spent far too long in this place. Take care and try not to die so young this time?" her long elegant fingers abandoned the small pile of paper flowers, she reached up slowly and brushed his long blonde hair away from his eyes before trailing her fingers down his cheek to cup his chin. Leaning forward she brushed her lips against his in a barely-there kiss before releasing her hold on him.
Deidara watched her back all the way to the door, feeling a new fresh wave of despair crash over him when she called over her shoulder,
"You were always one of our favourites, please be safe."
For a long time after Konan had left, Deidara simply alternated between staring at the door and staring at Itachi's ever present figure in the courtyard. A strange fury seeded inside him, a thorny bitterness that seemed rooted in his very bones. The bowl containing the remnants of his meal shattered into tiny fragments, a dark splatter of brown broth arching across the white wall. Then the paper flowers were in his hands and he was scrunching them, tearing them, ripping them apart.
"What the hell am I supposed to do now!?" he raged, hurling the wad of paper towards the door, "...What the hell am I going to do?"
He dropped his head in his hands and tried to steady his heaving shoulders. He hated the Akatsuki, In fact he despised them, but they were home; he had been useful, and he had had comrades of a sort...
But now?
What was there if no one needed him? What was he if no one gave him purpose? He pulled his gaze up to the window; his vision muddied by the hot tears streaming from his eyes. Through the haze and rain a pair of spinning red cyclones watched him unflinchingly.
Their shared gaze seemed to stretch for an eternity, the infinite depths of the Sharingan cut through the sleeting rain like a beacon. The moment shattered when Itachi gave a curt nod before turning his attention skyward once more.
"I hate you," Deidara growled to the glass.
Two days passed. Two days in which Deidara failed to come up with a plan of action.
He had never been much of a strategist, preferring calculated risks and artistic spontaneity. What did he want to do?
He collected up Konan's paper sculptures which were scattered about the base; it was a stupid task, but something to do nonetheless.
Cranes, flowers, elephants, horses, beetles, butterflies...
Each room had its windowsills packed full of little creatures, every available shelf and flat surface crowded with colourful sugar-paper families. She had been here a long time, caring for them. Now she was gone.
Deidara didn't want them to fade. He didn't want the colour to slowly bleach from them. Beautiful and elegant things shouldn't be left to rot. They deserved a final flourish; a brief flash in the pan that would leave them ever perfect.
With a large wicker basket under arm, already half full of paper beings, he strode into another of the base's small chambers. Instantly that smell invaded his nostrils, it was faint and subtle but undoubtedly there. Placing the basket on a table, he walked towards the bed. The room was identical to his, with identical machines and an identical saggy armchair, but the smell was different; wildfire ash and weapons grease.
He knew every tone and inflection by heart. Itachi's smell always struck a chord with him, due to the fact that it was so at odds with the man himself. Itachi smelt of wildfire but was outwardly as calm as a still lake. He smelt of weapons grease even though he rarely used conventional weapons.
Lying down on the bed he drew the covers over him, fisting them under his nose. He inhaled deeply, dragging as much of the scent from the material as possible and moaned raggedly when something bright and violent stirred within him.
The familiar hate was searing and appreciated. He needed that hate.
He abhorred over analysis. Thinking too hard about things stifled his creativity; it sucked the colour from the world. He was combustive, he was impulsive - so he didn't think, he just acted.
A hand worked under the covers and then under his shirt, twisting at a flat nipple until it pebbled and reddened between his fingers. He exhaled through his mouth and let his eyelids flutter shut. His fingers wandered down his torso, scratching and kneading the skin over his ribs. They skittered down his sides and finally paused over the waistband of his loose sweatpants. The mouth on his palm opened, its tongue running along the seam with deliberately slow, warm strokes.
Another deep inhalation. Itachi's scent folded around him.
"I hate you," he murmured into the covers.
His long digits squirmed under the obstruction to scratch idly at the thatch of coarse hair hidden beneath with short blunt nails. His cock twitched, announcing its interest. There was a moment of hesitation, but only a moment.
Roughly shoving the sweatpants over his hips, he grasped his quickly hardening length in an iron strong grip. He gave himself a hard tug. And then another. Fire lanced up his spine and down his legs. Pleasure curled his lips into a crooked smirk. He pulled at himself again and groaned aloud when the hatred in him flared hotter still.
"I hate you," he repeated, falling into a desperate rhythm.
His heavy breathing, his half broken gasps, and the slap of skin moving against skin filled the room, easily overpowering the soft patter of rain against the window pane.
With each jerking movement of his hand, a tongue darted out to lash wetly over the head of his cock. The damp heat was delicious, and the weirdly removed taste of his own hardened flesh only aroused him further. He mentally commanded the slick muscle to repeat the action and it complied instantly; dragging its pink tip over the sensitised skin and pressing down into the slit. His head rolled against the pillow restlessly...it felt good, it felt really fucking good. He savoured the salty flavour, shuddering in a mix of pain and pleasure as the tongue lapped up the fluid which beaded at the opening.
It was easy to imagine someone else's lips working around his blunt tip. He could almost see someone else's hand wrapping around his dick and pumping him hard.
His muscles twitched; harsh spasms that twisted his limbs further into the bedding. His abdomen knotted with building pressure while he rocked his hips hard against the mattress, the promise of white-hot oblivion starting to spiral through his groin.
It wasn't quite enough to satisfy though. His climax hovered just out of reach, teasing him with mental flashes of ruby irises. He needed to feel that all consuming hate.
He stood from the bed, the sheets and his sweatpants tangled around his knees and ankles. He kicked them away impatiently and awkwardly shuffled towards the window. Again the rain warped and abstracted, but he was still out there. The window offered a different perspective of the courtyard, and at this angle Itachi stood in perfect profile. The sharp lines and flat planes of his impeccable breeding were silhouetted against the whitewashed parameter wall. Even half starved and shivering from exposure he still held himself with poise and dignity. As if he was entitled. As if he knew...
Deidara licked his lips in desire, tightening his hold on himself. He palmed at his throbbing erection, spreading his other hand against the windowpane to steady himself. Almost immediately his body began to shake with pleasure, his legs straining to tilt his pelvis forward, and his buttocks clenched against the weight of the coiling excitement inside him.
His hand moved faster and faster, building to a near frenzied pace. Deidara's teeth ground together painfully in his mouth, his eyebrows knitting with concentration.
He hated Uchiha Itachi with every fibre of his being. He wanted to destroy him; to watch him burn, he wanted to crawl inside him, to infect every cell in his perfect fucking body. He wanted to incinerate him...he wanted him to...to...
"Nn...fuck," He growled as the tension in his body reached unmanageable levels. One palm licked at the cold glass in agitation while the other continued to move in an erratic rhythm against hot, hot flesh. He pulled his bottom lip between his teeth to try and stem the cries and gasps, but they worked free anyway, tearing from his lips with each expanding flash of pleasure. His forehead dipped to press against the glass. His arm was aching and his chest heaving with exertion but he was so close -so fucking close.
He wanted him so badly...He wanted to fuck him so badly; he wanted to bury himself balls deep in that perfect, flawless masterpiece...He wanted...he...
Red locked with blue. Itachi's sharp gaze pivoted towards him, dispassionate and beautiful. Deidara's eyes widened for a split second -he'd been caught- but it was too late, the sight of those brilliant eyes was enough to shove him roughly into white light. His hips snapped forward. Once. Twice. Milky fluid splashed hotly over his hand, across the window sill and onto the floor.
"Shit...s-shit..." Deidara grunted brokenly as his vision swam and his knees buckled. His hand slipped on the glass, and he fell hard against the floor and into the tangle of bedding which trailed across the room. The smell surrounded him and he curled into it, his sweat slicked body trembling.
Knitted wire. The uniform pattern of woven mesh shifted and danced with each contraction of his pinwheel irises. Tiny interlocking hexagons morphed, forming a neat column in one breath, and then staggered diagonals in the next.
There was a hole in his gloves. It left the pad of his index finger exposed; a white moon against flat black. Was the texture of the finely knitted wire always so rough? -He had always thought the fabric to be smooth. Heavy and stiff yes, but smooth all the same. Or maybe it was the just that his skin was water softened...
It probably didn't matter.
The neoprene was damp and warm around his arms and too tight. The sculpted mesh vest still bore the blood stains of that night, rusted into the wire so that its once pristine and silver surface was now dull and speckled with brown; no amount of time spent in the rain could wash that away. A new body couldn't purge him of his many sins.
The powerful and slightly acrid scent of wet pine needles filled each easy lungful of air.
Water was in his ears, dropping everything to a low bass line. The rain and the whirring drone of the wind made for a mournful song. His heart played along, plucking a pizzicato rhythm against his rib cage. In his throat. Behind his eyes.
His eyes had never seen so much. It had never been so easy to breathe. He hated it. It felt dishonourable.
Not long now.
A hard and juddering slam snapped his attention to one of the many entrances to the compound. A heavy oak door hung crookedly on broken hinges; Deidara filled its frame, standing with his fists balled at his sides and dressed only in a pair of low slung, light grey sweatpants. The rain was already darkening his long strands of blond hair, sticking them messily to his neck and bare shoulders. Gradually the light grey flannel of his pants bled to a dark charcoal.
Itachi had known that a confrontation was imminent. Deidara's volatile personality wouldn't allow it to be otherwise. He let a tired sigh ghost passed his lips and met Deidara's fierce glare with a loose lidded stare of his own.
The Sharingan read every overly expressive movement Deidara made as he came at him, stomping through the muddy grass with a determined set to his jaw and an angry lurch in his gait. Itachi noted the fractional tightening of Deidara's right fist, an incremental gathering of chakra across white knuckles –obvious tells- but he didn't bother dodging. When the arm punched forward, he let it hit him square in the jaw.
The impact was cymbals and drums inside his skull – more music. Lifting clean off the ground, he was thrown backwards to land heavily on his back. He hit the mud with a wet splash, a wheezing fit of coughs hammered through his torso as his body fought instinctively for oxygen. His mouth filled with liquid –metallic and scalding like molten copper. He must have bitten his cheek.
Deidara gave him no reprieve. Hands twisted into his uniform, dragging him half out of the water by the straps of his vest. His focus narrowed to the pressure on his hips – Deidara's knees digging into his sides as the blond straddled him in the mud. Body heat seeped through his sodden uniform, melting some of the ice from his bones. It was unwanted.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, yeah?" Deidara railed, spraying spittle over Itachi's blank face. He shook him hard, his face screwing up in disgust when Itachi's gaze remained unmoved, "-so the great Uchiha Itachi is going to stand in some shithole and just weather to death?"
Itachi blinked lazily and averted his eyes. A thin stream of blood ran down his chin to drip onto Deidara's fisted hands.
The anger boiling in Deidara's gut was hot and hysterical. This idiot still had the nerve to treat him as if he didn't exist? No acknowledgment, not even a witty retort or cutting comment? Nothing!?
"-You bastard!" he slammed Itachi back into the ground, pushing him into the soggy earth until mud and rainwater bubbled up around his ears. He pushed down harder and harder, "I can't believe I ever lost to someone like you," he snarled, "pathetic," he pushed until the murky water started to spill into Itachi's mouth and nostrils, mixing with the blood to create beautiful inky patterns, "I knew Konoha bred soft shinobi, but I didn't realise they bred cowards-"
Itachi reared from the water like a viper, striking Deidara hard in the face with a well aimed head butt. Deidara reeled backwards clutching at his mouth.
Pale lips split into a maniacal grin. A thin ribbon of blood tumbled from one quirked corner, "I got under your skin. I finally got under your skin."
Deidara's fist thrust out again, predictable and exaggerated.
Even in his wasted condition Itachi was lightening fast, reversing their positions in a blink of an eye. Bony fingers closed around his opponent's wrists, securing them an unbreakable grip. His knees clamped around Deidara's thighs to stop his wild thrashing. He held one crooked arm against Deidara's chest, pushing down with enough force to immobilize but not cause undue pain.
Deidara went very still, his blue eyes dazed and dark with some unnamed emotion. Fearing another struggle Itachi tightened his hold. Why couldn't this idiot just leave him in peace?
They were both panting hard.
The body under him arched, muscular hips rolling against his own in an action that could only be described as wanton. It appeared reflexive; in fact, Deidara seemed unaware of what he had just done. He was lost in the red haze of the Sharingan, staring into its depths without fear. His pulse thundered under Itachi's thumbs; a steel drum, fast and heavy – stronger than his own. Deidara's hips rolled again in a slow luxurious grind and through the limited layers of clothing, Itachi could feel him rock hard –burning against him.
"Stop that," he commanded. His voice was cracked through disuse.
Deidara regained focus. His lips curled into a bitter sneer, exposing bloodied teeth.
"I hate you!" he spat.
"Is that what you tell yourself?" Itachi asked flatly, arching a brow.
"I hate you," blue eyes watered, the bridge of his nose wrinkled with a tight frown, "I hate you."
Itachi loosened his hold, steadily withdrawing from the fever and friction. It was too foreign.
He sighed, "I am not your concern Deidara. Just leave me be," and rose to his knees.
Deidara followed him.
Hands laced into his mud-slickened hair; quick fingers knotting through the strands, flitting down the back of his neck, pushing their persistent warmth into his freezing skin. Alien teeth grazed his ears. Deidara's face collided with his in a painful clash of teeth and noses. Lips moved against his incessantly; possessive and needy. Hands slid from his shoulders to his ribs, squeezing and stroking. Deidara's tongue forced itself inside his mouth, assaulting him with the taste of blood and earth.
Itachi's lips parted. His tongue pushed back, battling against the slick obstruction.
For a few short seconds there was a balance; an equal intensity and desire. Deidara moaned against his mouth - a breathy sigh that communicated more than it was supposed to. Itachi's hand moved of its own accord; an instinctual reaction. A reflex.
He brushed the backs of his fingers against Deidara's cheek.
Suddenly and violently he was shoved away, landing back on his elbows. The loss of warmth was stunning.
"Don't you dare fucking pity me!"
Deidara was already on his feet and pacing. His hands scrubbed viciously at his face while his bare feet squelched noisily through the mud. Itachi could barely read his expression through the thick layer of dirt smeared across his face, but the body language was easy to decipher: confusion, confliction and the ever-present rage.
It took two attempts for Itachi to stand.
"I don't need your pity," Deidara hissed, "I'm not the one standing in the rain waiting to die! I'm not the one who should be pitied; I'm not the one doing nothing!"
Exhausted Itachi returned, "And what exactly are you doing?"
The blond threw his hands in the air dramatically, "It's like the paper cranes. I'll burn them, I'll watch them burn."
"I do not see how your pyromania is relevant."
Deidara stopped pacing and glared at Itachi hard, "I came out here to kill you."
"Ahh..."
Another person would have missed it. Itachi's lips remained in a kiss swollen but neutral line, his eyes however, crinkled slightly at the corners. Deidara had always paid special attention to Itachi's eyes.
"You're laughing at me, yeah?" Deidara's voice raised a couple of notches, "Why the hell are you laughing at me?!"
Itachi straightened and answered honestly, "I merely find your attempt at murder somewhat irregular."
Deidara flinched, the tension draining from his wiry frame as if someone had just pulled the plug. He stooped and ran his hand through the mud, snatching up a lump of grey sludge and began rolling it absentmindedly in his palm. His gaze spun towards the perpetually grey horizon.
"What are we going to do now?" he asked no one in particular.
Itachi could only agree. Briefly he had entertained the notion of going home... but home was a foolish daydream and he had nowhere else to go. No place in this world.
There was a flourish of chakra, bold and brassy. A huge clay bird unfurled thick wings that melded with the sky.
The air was thin and icy at such an altitude. Itachi dug his ankles into the soft surface underneath to secure himself. He was so exhausted from both lack of sleep and hunger that his vision swam and his stomach turned. It had nothing to do with the very mild case of vertigo that kept reminding him that his innards were still three-hundred feet below and had yet to catch up with him.
The great bird lurched sideways, cutting through the air currents with more speed than was strictly necessary.
"Must you throw us around so?" he asked with feigned indifference.
His companion chuckled, a vindictive sound that was far too communicative of his enjoyment, "Scared of heights Uchiha?"
"No, I merely wish to find shelter, a change of clothes and food before nightfall."
"Keep your panties on, I just want a better view, yeah?" The bird tipped abruptly. Itachi screwed his eyes shut, "Okay, here will do."
The bird evened out and hovered, stationary but for the lazy beat of its big clay wings. Itachi opened his eyes and peered reluctantly over the edge. A cluster of tin roofed buildings lay below them, outlined neatly by the clear chalky line of the perimeter wall. The rest of the earth was dark pine forest as far as the eye could see. His courtyard was a perfect square of browns and greens about the size of his toenail. Deidara settled next to him, his bare feet brazenly dangling over the edge.
"I'm going to miss those cloaks," he said rather wistfully after a short silence, "they made me look rather dashing."
Itachi didn't respond. He would not miss those cloaks or what they represented.
"I'll buy another one when we get some money. Plain black though."
"This is not a permanent arrangement. I am only travelling with you until I decide on a plan of action," Itachi reminded seriously.
It was probably a bad idea to antagonise one's companion whilst hovering at high altitude, but Itachi wanted to be clear.
To his surprise Deidara only grinned, his eyes glued to the compound below, "Yeah, well I'm only keeping you with me until you're well enough to fight seriously. Then I'll kill you and prove that I am far superior."
"What will you do after you've killed me?" Itachi asked conversationally.
"Hn...I dunno yet," he shrugged, "maybe start a gallery, blow some stuff up...there's always freelance work."
Itachi's eyebrows knotted in distaste, "a mercenary?"
"Maybe, maybe not. What about you?"
"Before or after you've kill me?" Itachi quipped. He was feeling lighter, daring to hope that there was a chance for him now, and that filled him with both immeasurable guilt and immeasurable joy, "Perhaps I will take up fishing. I really haven't indulged in something as peaceable as fishing since I was a very young child. I find the lures quite beautiful."
Slowly Deidara bought a hand to his face in a simple two fingered seal, "A fresh start."
Itachi gave a brief nod, "A fresh start."
A short whispered command was snatched by the wind.
-Katsu-
The compound below exploded in a tumbling ball of flame and blackened smoke, taking with it a hundred bad memories and a hundred paper cranes.