A/N: While I'm replenishing my muse for my current project, Trial of Man, I passed time by writing an alternate ending to the story. Keep in mind that this is /not/ the real ending, but rather a divergence from ToM's canon.
Enjoy.
All around her, the streets were blooming with life. It was the winter holidays, and children ran down the streets and giggled gleefully as they threw poorly packed snowballs at one another. Mothers had a good talk at the vegetable stands, all dressed up in their winter coats as they boasted of their children's academic achievements, and men treated one another to endless rounds of beer to warm themselves up.
Hanabi left all of this behind as she crossed the Naka Bridge, carrying a sheathed sword and a bag as she made for Konoha City's military district. The river was frozen this year, which was a rare occasion, and Hanabi stopped briefly to admire the river's shine and sleekness before continuing on her way.
When she finally halted in front of Asuma's workshop, she took a moment to shake off the frost on her coat before knocking once and pushing the door open. She was met with warm air, and a slight smile made her lips curl at the corners.
Inside, Asuma was reading today's paper, a lit cigarette between his lips and bread crumbs on his collar—remnants of breakfast.
"Morning, Asuma-san." Hanabi lifted a hand in greeting, the other clutching the sheathed katana. "Is Konohamaru in?"
"Yo, Hanabi!" Asuma smiled, pinching the cigarette in his fingers and tapping the lit end on a nearby ashtray. "'Fraid you missed him. He went out with Moegi an hour ago."
Hanabi laughed. "This early? They must be crazy." She shook her head. "But never mind that. I didn't come here for him, anyway." She held out the katana to Asuma, whose eyes lit up in recognition.
"Sasuke?" Asuma asked as he unsheathed the blade, examining its blunt edge.
Hanabi rolled her eyes at the mention of her fiancé. "Only he could wear down a katana this quick."
Asuma winked. "I trust he behaves similarly in bed?"
"Just do your job, Asuma-san," was Hanabi's biting reply, though Asuma did not miss the faint blush on her cheeks. "He was particularly agitated today, though."
"Ah." At that, Asuma's face fell. He went over to the appropriate machinery to sharpen Sasuke's katana. "Did you forget what day it is?"
A pause.
She remembered. Today was the tenth anniversary of the Samurai March. The day that Kakashi had called his brethren for help against the true instigator of the Tsuki-Ame War, the day Konoha's roots had been ripped apart for the better, and the day...
The day Deidara had died. Itachi had followed soon after.
For most of Konoha, it was a day for celebration, as Hanabi had witnessed on her way to Asuma's. But for some of them, it was a day of mourning.
Hanabi had not known Deidara well. Neither had Sasuke, but her death had tied in so closely with his brother's...
"I'm done," Asuma declared eventually, examining the now sharpened blade once before sheathing it and returning it to Hanabi. "Tell your Sasuke-kun that he needs to stop cutting things up willy-nilly."
"Sasuke-kun," Hanabi echoed, wrinkling her nose. "What a lame nickname."
"How old is he, anyway?" Asuma lit another cigarette. "That sword even legal or what?"
"Twenty-six, and still a big baby," Hanabi chuckled. It was amazing how much they'd grown since they had set foot upon Konoha for the first time. She'd been ten, nearly eleven, when she'd arrived—now her twenty-first birthday would not be eluding her for much longer.
"I hear ya." Asuma suddenly jolted, as if he remembered something. "Before you go, could you do me a favor?"
Hanabi raised an eyebrow.
Akasuna no Sasori. Once upon a time, that name had struck fear into the hearts of many, but to Hanabi, he had never been someone to be feared. And that was solely based on the fact that he'd always been on her side, coincidentally.
Still, she found herself hesitant and wary when she arrived at his doorstep, her bag slung on one shoulder and Sasuke's katana now hanging on her belt, leaving her hands free for the frankly humongous scroll that she was supposed to give to Sasori.
Asuma had been puzzled by its origin, simply stating that it had shown up on his doorstep one day, like a miracle baby at a childless couple's porch. But whoever had left it there had made sure that the addressee was unmistakable. Who else was called Akasuna no Sasori, anyway, that Hanabi knew? Not to mention his address was also stamped on the tightly wrapped scroll.
Hanabi had not met Sasori properly in years now. After the Samurai March, he'd become a recluse, almost never leaving his house. Nobody ever visited, either. Not anymore. Rin had, at first, but then she stopped. Hanabi didn't know why. The others—Naruto, Sakura, and Daichi—had also dropped by before, but they didn't come back either.
It occurred to her that, perhaps, Sasori wished to be left alone for all of eternity.
Which was what made her cautious of knocking at his door. But if his senses were still as sharp as ever, he had likely sensed her coming long ago. It would not have been hard, as he lived in a quieter part of the city. The place was tranquil, and if he ever came out to his second-floor balcony, he would have a perfect view of the snow-capped Hokage Mountain.
It was better just to get this over and done with, Hanabi decided. So she rapped her knuckles on his door twice. There was no bell to be rung.
He answered surprisingly faster than she had expected. He didn't like to keep others waiting, she supposed, schooling her face into a mask of indifference.
"Hyuuga," he greeted in that clipped tone of his.
He looked older than she remembered, though not by much. He must have been in his forties now, she realized, and his infamous youthful face had begun to show his true age. Still, he could have passed for a man in his mid-thirties.
"Sasori-san," Hanabi returned, holding out the scroll to him with a small grunt. "It's for you."
There was a faint spark of surprise in his eyes that was quickly smothered by his usual coldness as he took it. "I see. Thank you." The words were brusque and empty, but Hanabi didn't mind. She was more focused on how his house didn't seem to have any heating turned in, or that there seemed to be an invisible shroud of ancient sadness clinging onto his body.
Then the door closed on her face, and she startled. Her lips pursed, and she turned her back on the door.
She would leave him to his own devices. She didn't know what else to do for him.
Nobody ever sent him anything.
It was why Sasori now sat on his couch, silently observing the giant scroll that he had hauled into his living room. His body was tense, years of experience as an assassin and a soldier coming into play.
Even now, more than a decade after relinquishing his life as a hired killer, Sasori had enemies. His trial and sentencing had been made public in Konoha, and enemies outside of the country would have heard of his continued existence, too.
So he took the scroll outside to his snow-covered backyard, where the Hokage's stone faces leered over him. Then he opened up the scroll, unsealing it and leaping back, eyes narrowed like a cat's. His Zetsu arm, a limb that he had grown to rely on, especially in close combat, tingled as he readied himself to disassemble it into ropey vines to destroy whatever emerged from the mysterious scroll.
There was a burst of smoke, which was to be expected when unsealing an object of great mass, and then—
Sasori's breath stuttered.
No.
No.
Dressed prettily in her workplace garb—white blouse with the bottom tucked into a long green skirt, ankle-high boots—Deidara stared back at him, her lips pursed in obvious surprise. Then her expression turned dull, until it mirrored his own.
"Impossible," Sasori ground out. "You're dead." He hated how his voice broke a little as he declared her status.
Without waiting any further, he closed the distance between the, pinning her against the wall that separated his backyard from the wilderness with a two-pronged chakra blade.
His eyes burned with a cold fury, his anger palpable. But Deidara didn't react to it. Merely tilted her chin upward. "My name is Deidara."
Faker.
"Don't," Sasori said, the venom in his voice clearly audible. "She is dead." She would have never looked like this doll in front of him, so emotionless and cool. Her eyes had been so vivid, so full of life. No—whatever demon had emerged from this scroll was nothing but a cheap imitation.
He wanted to kill her.
He told himself he was going to.
Yet, his chakra still fluttered uncertainly.
Even if she emitted none of her warmth, she still had Deidara's face. And that face—a physical manifestation of his nightmares; dreams where he could never save her—it stared up at him as if his doubt and attachment to the real Deidara wasn't the only thing saving her from certain death.
Furious with the world, furious with himself, Sasori screamed in rage, dispersing the chakra blade and punching the wall beside her head. It crumbled part way upon impact, forming a mini-crater by her ear.
She didn't move. Didn't react.
"Get out of here," Sasori hissed hatefully. He didn't care if anybody else saw her—he wanted nothing more than for her to be out of his sight. "Get! Out!"
The Doll stared at him for a few seconds longer before walking away. "As you wish."
As you wish.
Hearing such passive, acquiescing words spill from her mouth had his entire being feeling oily.
Still, Sasori let her disappear into his house, his energy sapped for the day.
"And you just let him take it?" Sasuke repeated, incredulous.
"Oi," Hanabi, a red blush on her face from alcohol consumption, waved her hand at him dismissively. "What was I supposed to do with it? Throw it in the river? It could have been something important—you never know with Sasori."
The engaged couple were currently sitting by the fire in a warm tavern, chatter buzzing all around them. They'd started off their dinner with some beer, waiting for their main meals of roast lamb leg to arrive. Sasuke's katana was hanging on his chair in its sheathe, occasionally swinging languidly when a patron or server jostled it on the way to the further back tables.
"Hn," said Sasuke, which was his way of begrudgingly admitting that Hanabi's decision was not entirely not good. He had only downed half of his first cup, while Hanabi had already had three beers. Then he leaned across and flicked her on the forehead, making her yelp.
"What was that for, huh?"
"For drinking on an empty stomach. I'm not carrying you home tonight."
Their food came then, and peace at last was upon their table as they eagerly dug in, leaving no room in their mouths to form words.
"It's getting too hot," Hanabi muttered, pulling against the collar of her sweater. She'd rolled up her sleeves, but her back was prickling with heat. Grumbling, she got up and threw open the newest window, ignoring the cries of protest when a cold wind blew through the tavern, making the fire in the hearth flicker dangerously. "That's better—" She choked on her words when a woman passed by her on the outside, her long hair flowing in the wind. What? Is that—?!
Ignoring Sasuke's demand to know where the hell she was going, she made for the door, opening it with the same force that she had used on the window and running outside. The wintry night air chilled her forearms, and she found herself tugging her sleeves back down as she probed for a chakra signature that she never thought she'd be looking for ever again.
But she was gone.
Hanabi felt nothing.
Footsteps sounded behind her, and Sasuke sidled up next to her. "What was that all about?"
"I-I..." Hanabi frowned. "I thought I saw Deidara."
"Deidara?" Sasuke raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "Right," he drawled, "and next you'll be saying you saw my brother, too."
"Sasuke, I'm serious!" the Hyuuga snapped.
"So am I."
They held each other's stares evenly before Hanabi finally broke away, glaring at the ground. "You know, Deidara's existence wasn't an insult to your brother's." Then she turned on her heel, marching back into the tavern with a black cloud over her head.
Sasori was aware of the Doll's presence. She emitted no chakra, but he would spot her in the shadows while he prepared dinner for himself—it was a simple dish of ginger rice and chicken, the way his grandmother, Chiyo, used to make it.
She'd passed away five years ago. Almost exactly five years after Deidara had passed.
The wooden spoon he used to stir the accompanying soup almost cracked under his grip when the Doll dared to stop lingering in doorways and approach him.
He didn't know what had possessed him to let her stay here. But she kept coming back, and he was helpless to chase her away for good, unable to fight the emotions that bound the real Deidara to his heart. He didn't know where she went when he chased her out, but he could guess that she made a few rounds around the neighborhood before returning here.
"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" Sasori inquired, his voice deceptively calm as he cut cucumber into perfectly even slices, displaying the deadly precision he needed to do so.
"No," the Doll murmured, "I don't."
Slam.
The butcher knife he had been using to cut the chicken sank into the chopping board due to sheer force.
The Doll stilled, pausing at the killing intent that was now permeating the air, most notably concentrated where Sasori was standing, his fingers twitching against the handle of his blade.
"Danna," she said softly. Mechanically.
Blood was drawn as Sasori's blade went whizzing through the air, opening up a cut on the side of the Doll's otherwise unblemished cheek. Not even the crescent-moon scar that Kabuto had given Deidara was beneath her hidden eye, Sasori had realized when her left eye was occasionally revealed in her slight movements. She lifted a hand to it, swiping some of her blood away with the pad of her thumb.
"Never call me that again."
Sasori clutched the counter so tightly his knuckles went white, and the Doll hesitated, unsure. Before she could say anything, he stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door harshly behind him.
Alone, the Doll stared at her bloodied thumb. Then she washed her hands of it, and put on an apron that was hanging to the side, collecting dust.
Chicken rice. It was Danna's favorite.
Tying the apron's strings in a knot sitting at her lower back, the Doll took out another knife and began to finish what Sasori had started.
It was close to midnight when Sasori awoke to a knock on his door. He sat up immediately, just in time to see the door open and half of the Doll's face peek in.
"Dinner's ready."
Her eyes were so empty. Devoid of emotion. It was a reflection of his own, and this was not a thought that had struck him the first time.
His heart twisted at that. He would have never wanted for any version of Deidara to end up like him. To be like him in any way. To see it happening right in front of him was agony that clawed at his heart.
He told himself that it was further proof that the Doll wasn't Deidara.
"Dinner's ready," she repeated.
"I heard you the first time. Get out of my room."
Obeying, she closed the door. Sasori could hear her muffled footsteps head down to the kitchen.
"It's scary, isn't it?"
Sasori almost jolted when a voice cackled in his head. He hadn't heard it in years. He knew it was just his subconscious, but he replied back anyway. Orochimaru.
"Kukuku... You should know by now that the impossible tends to become possible in this interesting little world of ours. Who are you to doubt her existence, when stranger things have manifested out of thin air before?"
There was a pause.
"It's tearing you apart," Orochimaru whispered in his head, "You can't stand it, can you? Watching her walk around like nothing ever happened. She doesn't have her scars. Her limp." A dark chuckle. "Her personality. There's something keeping her here, but it's not because she knows you. I wonder what kind of presence is behind this, Sasori-kun..."
Get out of my head.
"My departure is not up to me. You know that."
His voice faded away, and Sasori clutched his head, his face a mask of indifference. His stomach growled, but he ignored it, settling for pulling his blankets over his shoulders. The heating in this godforsaken house had broken a long time ago, and it wasn't worth getting fixed.
It occurred to him how ironic it was that he was now a prisoner in his own house.
But hadn't he always been, since Deidara had died those ten years ago?
A chill settled over him, one that his blanket could not protect him from.
White sunlight flooded in through the windows as the Doll set up the table for breakfast. She'd made sandwiches, last night's uneaten dinner in the fridge.
She was arranging some newly bought flowers in the middle of the round table when Sasori entered the room, fully dressed for the day. She blinked, surprise. "Good morning Da—Sasori-san."
He walked past her without so much as a word, plopping down in his chair and taking a bite of the toast that was already on his plate.
Silently, the Doll seated herself opposite him. Flower petals obscured their view of one another.
Then—
"Why are those here?" Sasori's cutting voice reached her ears.
The Doll looked up from her own plate, which was empty.
"The flowers?"
"What else?"
"I thought they would be nice."
Sasori despised flowers.
More silence stretched between them as Sasori continued eating, his mood clearly foul.
"What are you doing today, Sasori-san?" the Doll inquired politely.
"None of your business."
"Alright," she said agreeably.
Clang!
Sasori's plate rattled as he slammed his hand down on the table. For a moment, the Doll thought he was going to strike her, but then he pushed his chair back and made for the kitchen, taking his plate with him.
Pushing her own chair back, she followed him to discover that he was rinsing his plate, his back turned to her. "Do you want me to do anything?"
"I don't care what you do. Just don't break anything with your ridiculous art."
"Art?" she echoed, confused. "What do you mean?"
There was a pained silence on his end.
"Just don't leave the house again," Sasori amended in the end, his voice a harsh whisper. "Especially not for something as ridiculous as flowers."
The Doll stood still as he swept past her. She followed him from a respectable distance before he entered a room and locked the door firmly behind him. Before he had closed it, she had caught glimpses of painted faces and wooden limbs.
She wondered what he was doing in there, but she knew that she shouldn't disturb him. So, aimless, she left, exploring the house.
Sasori was a reader, she gathered by all the books tucked neatly in a single shelf in the living room. There was a grand piano in there, too, hidden underneath a tarp. Did Sasori play?
Intrigued, the Doll unveiled the instrument, running her hands over the ivory keys. Then she played a single note, its low, soothing sound resonating through the hollow household.
She didn't think he would be coming out any time soon. So she sat down, tucking her green skirt underneath her legs. Then she began to play, strange memories of lovely, lilting melodies coming to mind. Then they changed to moaning, drawn-out pieces of sorrow, where she envisioned knights falling on their own blade as they succumbed to their own ambition.
The Doll did not remember much. But she did remember the wild tales that she had once seen performed on a grand stage, tales of great, convoluted adventures, many of which ended in tragedy, because they only ever embellished true events. And the ones worth remembering always ended in glassy tears, otherwise it simply would not be real. She remembered Sasori-no-Danna, too, though not much of him. But he was important, she knew. There was a feeling that he had meant a lot to her when she'd still been alive and breathing, and she knew that the one who had summoned her back had wanted for them to meet again.
So here she was, in his house but so far away from him.
But she had her melodies, and that was enough.
She didn't remember ever learning the piano, but it called to her, and she played it as if she had been doing so all of her life. This one and the last, if this one could truly be called life.
But even if she could play, even if she could see, she could not feel. Not entirely. Anger, sadness, happiness... Those basic emotions now seemed so foreign to her.
She could not even begrudge Sasori-no-Danna for despising her so.
The Doll played on.
It was hard not to hear the music coming from his living room. No matter how much he tried to ignore, the music would fill his head and addle his mind. What was infuriating to him, however, was that Orochimaru seemed to be humming mockingly along in that part of his brain
"Delightful, isn't it?"
Shut up. I'm not in the mood for you.
Sasori continued to work on his puppet, one of hundreds that he had built during the last ten years. Eventually, he had stopped naming them. The last one he had named, if he could recall, was—
He turned his gaze to the blonde puppet slumped in the corner of the room. He had not painted eyes on that one, too afraid that her stare would haunt him for the rest of eternity. Feeling a shiver down his spine as he thought of the Doll playing his piano, her technique perfect but her feelings lacking, Sasori kept his head down.
Then he dipped his brush into a pot of poison, painstakingly coating the puppet's iron spikes with the toxin. It was a habit he had never managed to break, not since Chiyo-baa-sama had introduced him to the versatility of poisons when he'd been eight. It took an extremely steady hand not to poison himself with the plant-based venom, which could be absorbed into the bloodstream via touch. It was a risk that he took every time he chose to add this deadly feature onto his already deadly battle puppets, but one that had never killed him.
Eventually, the music no longer echoed in his head at ear-shattering levels, but rather melted around him, surrounding his body as he worked on his art—his legacy. It brought him a surprising level of comfort, and his shoulders relaxed while his hand remained as steady as ever.
Sasori let out a deep sigh when his work was finished, triggering the puppet so that its iron spikes disappeared into its hollow interior, replaced by a slab of unassuming wood.
Never, in all of these ten years by himself, had he ever felt so suffocated in his own home. He didn't like to leave unless something forced him, too, his income provided by the revenue he was constantly earning from his share in Chiyo's Chicken Rice. His grandmother had set up her old shop in Konoha City before she died, and Sasori owned eighty percent of it, Chiyo's former fifty percent added to his thirty percent when she died. The remaining twenty percent, Sasori recalled, belonged to one of her friends from mahjong. She was good at running the business, so good that Sasori himself only had to come down once in a while to discuss business and economics with her.
For the first time in a long, long while, Sasori found himself wanting to leave his home for fresh air.
He could not delude himself.
He knew it was that puppet's doing.
Isn't that all she is, in the end? he thought bitterly as he threw his coat on, leaving the house silently. Nothing but a cheap imitation of the real Deidara.
He truly didn't know what to do with her. The pragmatic, resentful side of him wanted to throw her out immediately (because killing her seemed to not be an option if his damn soft heart had anything to do with it), but the weaker, more wistful side of him told him otherwise.
It was cold outside, which was to be existed. Sasori stood outside his doorstep for a solid minute before remembering why he had chosen to venture outside when all of his puppets were still inside. The Doll wasn't leaving anytime soon. Even here, where he was now standing, he could hear her song.
So he left, wandering down to the Military District, which was nearby his house. Behind him, the Hokage faces watched over him, their expressions permanently fixed in serious stares.
He passed by Asuma's without much fuss, just managing to avoid Konohamaru and his girlfriend—what was her name again? Moegi?—as they left his uncle Asuma's workshop with their stomachs full from the man's delicious and hearty venison stew. Hitoshi, the shoemaker who had apprenticed under Asuma, had left the city not long after Deidara had died. Occasionally, Masami the sushi chef still heard from him; he would sent her postcards detailing his new life living in the alpines and hunting and selling game for a living.
Sasori would have liked to see the alpines. He was not particularly fond of nature in general, as he found it to be fickle, but the pine trees and snow-capped mountains up north, untouched by mass human development, were unchanging even after thousands of years.
He never thought he would ever be envying Hitoshi, the buffoon, but his share of his singular investment in his grandmother's old shop wasn't quite enough for him to move to the middle of the nowhere and start his own trade.
As he meandered in the Military District, where the military police shot him wary looks, he considered going down to the Market District, where some of those who were still alive resided. But then it hit him—everybody who he had really cared about was now dead. Deidara, Itachi, Chiyo-baa-sama... They were long gone, their ashes scattered in the wind.
There was Rin, Sasori knew. But she didn't need him. She had Kakashi now, remarrying about a year after Deidara's death. Her kids were grown up, too, with her youngest, Hikari, in her final years of schooling. He didn't want to wreak havoc on her stable, domestic life. It would cause nothing but pain and frustration for the both of them. Sasori had quite clearly cut her off years ago, anyway. Maybe once, he had owed it to Obito to see her in good health, but Kakashi was there to fill that debt. And that debt, if it could even be called such, had been filled already.
It was funny. Obito had left a family behind for Kakashi. Itachi had left a child for his remaining family. Deidara, who he loved most, had left nothing for him. Maybe he deserved it.
Itachi's case was a peculiar one, he thought, maybe because so many people had been connected with him.
Itachi's child, Izuna, was in his godmother Shimizu Asagi's custody. He was growing up happily with a little sister and big brother who loved and cared for him, both of them his siblings in everything except blood. His foster mother had gotten a share of Itachi's inheritance, which had been divided for multiple people to claim. She was living quite comfortably, having more than enough to provide for her three children. Izuna wasn't completely cut off from his blood family either—he saw Rin's side of the family almost every day, and his uncle and closest relative, Sasuke, was gruffly doting, if such a combination even existed.
He knew that if Deidara had survived the final battle, then Izuna would have come to see her and him every day. It was selfish of him, but he felt as if Deidara's death had robbed him of other things than the love of his life.
But there was no use dwelling on things. Last time he had checked, everybody was happy as could be. It was fine.
His feet took him to the Market District anyway.
People blatantly stared and tried their best to go about their day, their eyes looking at anything else except him after that initial glance. It seemed that even after ten years and his efforts in the war, his face was still one to be wary of.
"Sasori?"
He'd sensed her coming, and had resigned himself to meeting her. Sasori turned.
And Sakura smiled slightly. "Well, aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"
Sakura knew that it was coincidence that had brought them together here, in her small apartment, and not by any machinations on Sasori's part. (She had moved out from her parents' house a few years back, and was living life as a woman married to her career).
She didn't know why Sasori was out today. Even though he expressed little emotion as he drank her tea with methodical slowness, she was sure that he was at least a little glad to see her, after living alone with so little contact for ten years.
After all, this world was too big to live life alone.
In all honesty, though, she was just glad he had accepted the invitation to her homely flat.
"Something drastic must have happening to draw you out of your shell," Sakura quipped, noticing how Sasori's shoulder tensed slightly. She put down her tea cup. "Did something really happen?"
"Yes," Sasori said, coldly dismissive. Had even a shred of the camaraderie they'd once shared survived the last ten years? Sadly, Sakura furrowed her brows. "But it's being handled."
If you're really handling it, then why are you here? With me? Sakura sighed. "Fine, I get it. I won't stick my nose in where you don't want it. At least tell me that you're doing okay, though."
She couldn't make anything of Sasori's flat, uninterested stare. If she were to be honest with herself once more, his gaze unnerved her. They hadn't been around each other in so long, and she had no idea how to act around him anymore. She was twenty-seven, a far cry from the sixteen-going-on-seventeen-year-old she'd been when she had first met him.
Her younger self hadn't been as careful. As cautious. She'd been free around him, but now...
In the end, Sasori put down the tea, and asked something that she never thought she would hear from his mouth, "Do you have anything stronger, Sakura?"
"Ah!" Sakura practically leaped from her seat, snatching his opportunity to establish familiarity again. "I got some in the fridge," she collected her tea with a snort, "sometimes Sasuke and Naruto come by, and they always end up wasted from drinking competitions." Which Naruto always won. Whenever the girls came over, they would all collectively face-palm at the immaturity of their partners (barring Sakura herself, who had no lover).
As she put the tea cups in the sink and searched through the fridge for the pack of beer she knew she had bought just the other, she thought of how her friends had already moved on with the next chapter of their lives.
Hinata and Naruto had married in the next three years following the Samurai March. They had a six-year-old son, Boruto, and were already talking about having another one. Hanabi and Sasuke were due to be married at the end of this year, most likely, and while Tenten and Neji had never discussed marriage, it was clear that they were more than bed partners, whether they liked it or not. Karin had found a husband in Suigetsu of all people, and was now living with him in a small village in Konoha's western regions.
And that was just the girls.
After the fiasco that had been the Samurai March, Shikamaru had dedicated his life into being an ambassador of Suna, surprisingly literally everyone. He was rarely back home, but his shogi protégée, Uzumaki Ai Wei, blabbed about his relationship with a fierce Suna girl who seemed to be able to command wind itself. Sakura had never met her, but she would have liked to. Choji, unsurprisingly, had married his colleague, Fumiko, and they had a six-year-old daughter, Chocho. The tan skin she had inherited from her mother suited her, her hair a blend of her mother's black locks and Choji's brown hair.
At least Lee had never gotten married. Or had a lover. No, he was too devoted to his training to be tied down, no matter how many dates he went on. Gai, in his forties, was still as fit as ever, but it was clear that he was beginning to slow down. Lee had taken his own protégé, a young boy he had adopted from an orphanage named Metal Lee.
I wonder where Ino would be, she thought wistfully, a pang of grief striking her heart as she brought the beers back to where Sasori was waiting, occupying himself by appreciating the still-life paintings hanging on her wall.
She passed him the beer silently, which he took and immediately started drinking.
Sakura's brows furrowed thoughtfully as she took sips of her own beer. She wasn't a light weight, able to out-drink Naruto on her best days, but she preferred to take it slow. But she had never pegged Sasori to be a drinker. In fact, up until this point, she hadn't seen him touch alcohol even once. Not even when I was working at the bar as cover in Akatsuki, and he had plenty of opportunities then.
So what had brought this on?
Inwardly, she knew, and it made her gut coil in pity.
"You really loved her, didn't you?" she muttered into her beer. She wondered what that was like. There'd been a time where she was sure Sasuke was the one for her, but her feelings for him had changed drastically since then. She had never really liked anyone else, though she had entertained herself with the thoughts of being with other men before. Kakashi had been one such example, as had Neji and Shikamaru. Naruto was too much of the little brother type to be considered, and Lee... He was a bit too exuberant for her tastes. There was one more man, though, one that she had been attracted to once upon a time.
And he was sitting right in front of her.
"Do you want to know how everyone's doing?" Sakura asked, fiddling with the neck of her bottle. It was cool underneath her hand.
Sasori shrugged, the action almost languid. "Enlighten me," he told her without any inflection in his voice. Still, their gazes met evenly, a silent prompt for her to continue. It made her want to laugh. No matter how much Sasori was determined to lock himself away from the world, some kind of force still pulled him back from the vast, empty sky. Gravity, perhaps. Her lips quirked upward as she proceeded to describe how everybody was living.
Something told her that he wasn't completely unaware to what was happening in the world around him, the man only showing surprise when she mentioned more obscure details, like how Daichi of all people was currently going through the awkward phase of having his first girlfriend at eighteen, and how Hikari worked part-time as a miko. It occurred to her that he would not have kept tabs on the younger generation, who had been children and teenagers when they'd become acquainted with him.
They drank mostly in silence after that, cracking open bottle after bottle.
Then Sakura, more than buzzed, giggled to herself. "It's funny, isn't it, how everything ended up like this? Somehow, I can't help but feel like things were supposed to be better than this."
"We thought wrong," Sasori said, and Sakura perked up a little at the inclusive pronoun, the bitterness lacing his tone not completely lost to her either. He'd drank more than her, and he was still speaking somewhat cohesively. Impressive, but her medic's eye, while blurred by alcohol, spotted the tell-tale film of intoxication glazing his eyes.
"We did, didn't we?"
"Everything went to fucking ruins."
"Didn't it?!" Sakura gritted her teeth, a sudden urge of anger nearly knocking her over. "So many people died because of the war! It's not fair."
A deep, throaty chuckle; it carried sounds of resentment . "It never is."
Sakura slumped into her chair, her energy gone. Her eyes followed his figure as he moved toward the door, clearly done with human interaction for the day.
Her feet moving on their own, she went up to him and pulled his hand. "You could stay longer, you know?"
"For what?" He turned, and Sakura stiffened at how close their faces were. She could smell the alcohol in their breaths mingling in the small space between their mouths.
It came as a surprise, who kissed first.
He leaned in, capturing her mouth. A perfect fit.
It was hungry and desperate, as if he hadn't lay with a woman since Deidara. And, she thought hazily, he likely hadn't. It was only when he gripped her thighs and sat her upon the arm of her couch that something snapped inside her.
She withdrew from him, hands planted on his shoulders. "No," she said shakily. "Not like this. We'd never forgive ourselves, especially not you."
There was a beat.
Sakura stared at the ground as he broke away from her. In his departure, he took away the only warmth in the apartment, and she was back to being alone again.
"Cha..." Sakura released the breath she'd been holding. "What a mess."
But truly, she had to wonder, what kind of ghost had he seen to trigger such an impulse?
"I wonder what Deidara would have thought if you went all the way with her, ne, Sasori-kun?"
Sasori pointedly ignored the voice in his head that had haunted him since the days of Danzo's treachery. It was frightening how real and sentient Orochimaru seemed in his mind, but it was something he would have to live with. Maybe he could have been rid of it a long time ago... But who ever said that he deserved to be free from his demons?
His house was as cold as ever as he slammed the front door and marched straight to his room, flinging off his winter coat into the corner and throwing himself into his bed. His weight had him sinking into the mattress, which normally felt hard due to the perpetual chill in the house. But now it felt as soft as the heavens, and it would be where he spent the rest of the day, nursing the hangover that was sure to come.
He hadn't drank in years.
It was a human weakness, he supposed as he drifted off to sleep, his impulsive alcohol consumption.
He woke hours later with a splitting headache but forced himself to get up anyway. It was undoubtedly dinnertime by now, and he'd have to start cooking soon—
The familiar smell of freshly cooked ginger rice wafted up his nostrils, and he stiffened.
In the kitchen, the Doll was scooping a serving of rice into a bowl when Sasori slammed the door open. She turned around.
"You're still here."
It was a statement, not a question.
The Doll nodded before continuing her domestic efforts. "Yes."
She expected him to snap at her for something she couldn't help again, but he simply moved past her to get a drink of water.
"Is this from last night?" he inquired.
"Yes. I reheated it."
"Good." Then he tacked on curtly, "I'm hungry."
Sasori found that the little table in the dining room had already been set, save for the bowls belonging to either of them. Cold chicken sat in the middle of the table, closer to where Sasori usually sat than the Doll's side. The chicken was normally served cold, anyway, so it was not a bother.
Today...
Was a mistake. Sasori heard the door open behind him, and then the Doll was putting his filled bowl in front of him. Then she seated herself opposite him, hands folded in her lap.
He noted that she was in the same clothes she had been wearing since she'd arrived.
"Have you bathed yet?" he asked.
"No. I have no need to. I cannot be dirtied. And these are the only clothes I have."
"And why is that?"
"Because they were the clothes I died in."
Sasori's grip around his chopsticks tightened. "Who are you?" he demanded. "And why the hell are you here?"
"I'm Deidara."
"Deidara was nothing like you!" Sasori hissed, stabbing his chopsticks so hard and fast into his rice that it struck the bottom of the bowl. "You remind me of a boy I once knew, actually." Sai. "He's dead, too, so why are you still here?"
"... I don't know," the Doll admitted. "Only that I was sent here by my summoner before she died. I don't know a lot of things from my past life, only that you were important to me, and that I was important to you. Even now, I can feel it."
"You play the piano. You don't know a thing about art. Even your speech is different. How could you possibly be her?"
"I cannot answer the last two, because I'm not really sure myself, but the first one... I bet there were a lot of things you didn't know about me. Her."
She was right. Deidara had been snatched from him before he even got to really know her.
"Enlighten me, then," he said for the second time that day, forcing his hackles to lie flat. She'd told him the basics about herself, how she had grown up in Iwa, and how she had come to Akatsuki after her mother had died.
"She liked theatre. At least, that's what I believe."
She'd mentioned nothing about that to him.
"She liked adventures and tragedies. One particular play sticks out to me. The lead actress sung a love letter to her husband, who was away at war."
The Doll let it sink in for a moment. She hoped that he would not further inquire, because there was little that she really remembered.
Then—
"I've wandered this earth for five years looking for you."
Sasori's head snapped upward. "What?"
"It's true. When I opened my eyes, my summoner was dead, and I could only feel her will guiding me. I didn't know where you were. For five years, I wandered aimlessly in the snow, looking for you."
"How did you survive?"
"I do not need to eat. Or sleep. Or drink."
"Then you're not really alive, are you?" Sasori said spitefully.
"... No, I'm not."
He finished his rice. "When are you leaving?"
"When my chakra runs out."
"I can barely feel anything coming from you."
"Then it'll be soon."
Sasori held her stare.
Then he stood, pushing his chair back.
"Good."
It was early morning when the Doll discovered a beautiful blue brooch in the bathroom. It was tucked away in the corner of the bathroom counter, and it was obvious that it hadn't been touched in years. Curious, she picked it up and took it to the living room, where she could examine it under natural light.
It gleamed wonderfully, and her eyes widened, a sudden sense of warmth filling her heart, followed by sorrow. Somehow, there was more emotion packed into this little jewel than her entire being.
She wanted to hold onto it forever. Gingerly, she pinned it to her shirt, over where her heart used to beat. Her clothes would not dirty, just like the rest of her, so her blouse was still perpetually a pristine white.
It was when she met him for their breakfast of toast (again), that he noticed her updated appearance, his eyes glinting with uncertainty and a certain darkness when he noticed her new accessory. "Where did you find that?"
"It was in the bathroom. You didn't seem like you wanted it." The Doll paused. "Do you?"
He stared at the brooch for a moment longer before sitting down. "I don't care. Keep it if you want."
"Thank you," she said honestly.
"Don't."
She watched him eat. He was halfway through when her curiosity got the best of her, and she had to inquire to him, "Where did you get it from?" And why do I feel so much around it?
Sasori regarded her for a second before he begrudgingly answered, "A small town west of here. Rootbell Town; it was one of Konoha's military strongholds."
"What was it like?"
"Terrible," he said scathingly. "The civilian population were half-starved and the animals were diseased. Konoha's esteemed ANBU forces were the ones responsible, as was their equally esteemed elder."
"Oh. But you still managed to find this?"
He shot her a look.
"Even when everything was bad, you still found something beautiful there."
The Doll noticed some kind of obsolete cloak of tired sadness wrap around his body. He sagged a little beneath its weight. "Yes," he affirmed quietly, "I did." He met her gaze without the fury and bitterness that he seemed to constantly bear toward her for the first time.
"... It was for her, wasn't it?"
"Always."
The Doll swallowed back the tears that the brooch suddenly brought to her eyes.
Slowly, as the weeks passed, Sasori got used to the Doll's presence.
Most of the time, they didn't see each other, Sasori preferring to remain in his woodwork room while the Doll entertained herself with the piano and books.
Everything was fine.
She would be departing soon, and he was living life as he normally did.
So he didn't know what the hell had possessed him when he went out and returned one day with a bag of clay made for being used as a medium for chakra.
He slid the double-doors of the living room open to find Dei—no, the Doll—seated at the piano as usual, flipping through the only music book that he owned. He hadn't bought it—the piano or the book of sheets—it'd come with the house.
"Oi, doll."
She turned and grunted when the pouch of clay went flying at her chest. She let it land, clutching it with both hands.
"What is it?" she asked, untying the bag.
"If you really are Deidara," Sasori told her, "You'll know what to do with it."
Then he was gone, his heart beating rapidly as he shut himself into his work room again. As soon as the door was closed behind him, he released a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding.
"What a nice gamble you've made," Orochimaru mused. "Don't you think?"
It's just that. A gamble. There's never a guarantee. He suddenly had the urge to stab one of his puppets between the eyes. I doubt anything will come out of it.
"Keep telling yourself that, kukuku... Was letting that pink-haired minx lead you to her home a gamble, too?"
Bang!
Sasori's cutting reply to his inner Orochimaru was interrupted by a small explosion detonating from his living room.
"Ha..." Sasori's cheek twitched as he began to smile. He could sense the confusion of his inner as he began to laugh, throwing his head back and placing his arm over his eyes. "Well I'll be damned... The brat actually did it."
He felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders... only to be replaced by an even bigger weight.
The living room was a mess.
Somehow, the grand piano had survived relatively unscathed, with the book of sheet music being only slightly singed, but the rest of the room was in chaos. The single bookshelf in the room had been tipped over, books spilling out everywhere. Clay was splattered all over the walls and ceiling, and the Doll—Deidara—stood in the centre of it all. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears, and while she was looking directly at him, it was clear that she wasn't seeing him at all.
Her chest heaved as she took deep breaths, clay creatures of all kinds crawling out from behind the sofa, where they had gathered. It amazed Sasori, how Deidara had managed to make so many in the span of minutes. One of the centipedes, boldly, yanked at his pant leg before crawling up his side, perching itself on her shoulder.
She snapped out of her trance, grabbing for the creature. "I'm sorry—"
Sasori pushed her hand away gently. "Don't."
"Is this," she whispered, "what you mean by art?"
No, he wanted to say, because to him, art was eternal. There was no greater beauty than something that could withstand time itself and come out pristine and precious.
Sasori reached out his zetsu arm, allowing the centipede to wrap itself around the tough limb, his white fingers brushing a smudge of clay away from her cheek. "Yes," he lied. "It is."
"It's..." Her lip trembled, her hand lifting to tap the shining brooch she still wore. "Exhilarating, yeah."
Sasori straightened. Her verbal tic. It was back.
Everything, he thought wildly, everything could be relearned! Maybe she wasn't the person she had once been, but Sasori could mold her into his lover again! Soon, she would be back to normal, he would make sure of it—
"Life is fleeting," Sasori said, echoing what Deidara had once told him as he remembered the conversation he had had with her reincarnate all those weeks ago. He did not smile, a heavy sort of resignation in his tone. "Isn't it, Deidara?"
A spark of recognition in her visible eye. "Yeah," she breathed, "it is."
The thought of her disappearing for good always sat at the back of his head. Orochimaru made sure not to let him forget it. Day by day, he felt Deidara's presence less and less.
So he simply spent their remaining days together doing what he'd envisioned them doing if she had survived. She entertained him on the piano, reciting the context of whatever old Iwa play the melody had originated from when her performances were over, and he would listen to her, a book in his hand while the afternoon sunlight filtered inside, simply because Deidara liked having the sun for company and had drawn the curtains back.
They never went outside.
It was a purely selfish decision on his part, but one that he did not regret.
Their routine never got tedious, no matter how many times it was repeated. She seemed to have a new song for him every time, and even if she didn't, he would never tire of hearing her play for him.
His puppets started to collect dust and rust in his workroom, but he paid them no heed.
It was on a Thursday afternoon that she finally broke their routine.
"Hey, Danna, is there anyone else out there?"
Sasori, curled up on the couch with a steaming mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table, glanced up from his book.
Deidara turned in her seat, resting her chin on her palm, her elbow sitting on her knee. "For me, I mean. Did I have any friends? Hm?"
"... You did," Sasori answered. You still do. Sighing, he clapped his book shut. "Do you want to see them?"
"Hmm... Yeah, I do. Are they close by?"
"Closer than you think. Come on, brat."
Only one of them put on a coat—Deidara's body could not be affected by the heat or the cold. A constant reminder that she wasn't truly alive, and that she would be leaving soon.
"Who are we seeing first?" she inquired, an underlying sense of eagerness in her tone.
"Rin," Sasori told her. "If we can catch her without Hatake, that is." That will raise too many questions.
"Hatake?"
"You're better off not knowing."
"Really? Hey, Danna, wait up, yeah!"
"Are we really going to watch them from their window?"
"She'll be done soon."
The pair were standing outside Rin's house, watching the woman work in her kitchen, Kakashi helping out while still managing to maintain his grip on the latest Icha Icha book in the series. Jiraiya's death date was long overdue, Sasori thought.
"Don't they know we're here?"
"I've masked my chakra," Sasori informed her, ignoring the stone in his belly as he added, "And you have almost none."
Everything was going well, Rin's children coming into the kitchen as well to help their parents with dinner.
Then Shimizu Asagi and her three children walked in. Shimizu Shogo greeted Daichi with an wave, immediately inquiring into the details of the latter's newest budding romance. Daichi's smiling face immediately turned sour, and he said something very impolite, if Sasori's lip-reading was still up to standard.
The Shimizu girl child whose name Sasori had never bothered to learn ran up and hugged Hikari, addressing her as senpai.
And the third, middle child who was greeting everyone politely, so much so that Sasori thought he was seeing Itachi as a child—
"Danna," Deidara said quietly, "Who's that?"
He couldn't lie to her. Not about this. Sasori exhaled sharply, a white cloud forming in front of his face as he turned to her. Her expression was... hurt. She was hurting, and Sasori knew why. "His name is Izuna." A pause. "Uchiha Izuna."
From the way she continued to stare at the boy in silence, Sasori knew that she had heard him. And now those cruel memories were swimming to the forefront of her mind.
"He's grown. He's so tall now, yeah." Sasori barely heard the words emerge from her mouth.
Why did Rin and Kakashi have to invite the Shimizu family over for dinner tonight? Still, this would have been unavoidable. Perhaps it was for the best.
"Can we go?" Deidara abruptly requested, an underlying bitterness in her voice that was the final stake in his heart. "I've seen enough. I want to go home now, yeah."
From far away, the sound of tinkling shrine bells reached Sasori's ears.
His breath loosened, another white cloud obscuring his view as he turned away from the window. "If that's what you want."
A mournful sort of silence stretching between them, they made the journey home.
Things weren't really the same after that. They still had their domestic moments, but they were shorter than ever. Sasori began to spend time in his workroom again, simply because she wanted to be alone more often, and he had nothing else to do to fill the hours.
He worked on his art, and he trusted that she was doing the same.
Even if the house was eerily silent.
Has it always been this quiet around here? Even before she came back?
How had he ever lived with it?
"We adapt," Orochimaru hissed. "You cannot outrun loneliness, so we become flexible enough to adapt."
I didn't ask you.
"Are you sure, Sasori-kun? In any case, we should prepare."
For what?
"You know what."
Yes, he did.
The day she left him for good was in a moment of familiarity. He was on the couch again, a book in his hands, while she played one of the loveliest ballads he had ever heard.
"Did I ever tell you who summoned me?" Deidara suddenly asked, causing Sasori to glance upward.
"No. Will you tell me?"
She smiled. "Depends. Do you want to know?"
He scoffed. "Is there a reason why I wouldn't want to?"
"Maybe you won't like the answer you hear," Orochimaru whispered in his ear. Sasori mentally waved him away.
"Hmm, okay then." She lifted her hands from the piano and turned around to face him completely. What he saw made him pause. It was late afternoon, and the sun was surprisingly yellow today, meaning that today's sunlight was golden. And maybe underneath the white light, he hadn't seen it before, but...
"You're fading," Sasori stated, his own words echoing in his ears.
Deidara's smile wavered as she looked down at her increasingly transparent form. "Yeah," she acknowledged, "I am. I can barely hold on anymore."
He pushed himself up. "And you didn't think to tell me—!"
"Of course not," Deidara said promptly. "Why would I? The last face I want to see is your happy one, hm." She frowned at him, as if she were scolding him. "So don't take that away from me."
The claws of loneliness had sunken into him and were slowly tearing him apart, but he fought them away as best as he could. It felt like he was being dragged into the blackest ocean, where the sun would never reach him.
"Who was it?" Sasori asked calmly. "Your summoner."
"The person who loved you most: Chiyo-baa-sama."
There were few instances in his life where Sasori had ever felt truly at a loss, where there was nothing to do but to sink to his knees and weep as he cursed his own helplessness.
"Why?" he demanded, his voice wavering. "How could you say that, Deidara?"
"Because it's true," Deidara said unflinchingly. "Chiyo-baa-sama loved you more than anything else in the world, hm. You just didn't know it, because you can't let go."
"Let go?" His voice was filled with the disbelieving coldness that came with a sense of betrayal. "I've let go of everything, including you."
"Have you really?"
"Have you really?" Orochimaru echoed, sneering.
No.
No, I haven't.
"She died alone in the mountains—the highest points in the world, where the earth meets the sky—because she used the last of her life force to summon me." Deidara glanced at her transparent hands, tongues wagging out at her. "Danna," she told him gently, "she loved you. She loved you more than life itself, yeah."
Deidara stood, walking the few steps she could before her legs gave way, fading into nothingness. With a grunt, she landed with her arms sprawled against him, he side pressed against the couch.
Numbly, Sasori held her, letting her rest her head on his lap, their fingers—opaque and transparent—entwined. "We could have had five years." Bitter. World-weary. Sasori.
"Yeah," she murmured, "But would it have ever been enough?" Her eyes gleamed playfully. "Art is fleeting, after all."
"It shouldn't be."
"Then where would be the beauty of it, hm?" Her eyes closed, and she smiled up at his face. "It was a bad wish, wanting to see you happy. But this works, too. Hey, Danna?"
"Hm?"
"Would you have married me? If I'd lived."
"Brat," he told her, "There's nothing more I would have wanted than that."
"That's..." Her arms had disappeared by now, and the nothingness was making quick work of her neck. "Good... I'll love you forever, you know. I'll be your wife... from up there."
Then he was alone again, the only thing remaining of her the azure brooch. Numbly, he leaned forward, feeling the afternoon sunlight on the back of his neck as he picked up the gem, letting it sit on his hand. Then it disappeared into his pocket.
"She'll be disappointed," said Orochimaru, "Seeing as you're clearly going to hell."
But Sasori didn't hear him.
Deidara—
She was never coming back again.
There were an array of wooden limbs in his workroom that Sasori had never used before, whether it be because they did not fit his designs, or because the wood was rotten and he had never bothered to throw it out. They were all tossed to the corner, and all of his poisonous puppets—with their fearsome, warrior-like facepaint and their iron defenses—had been carefully set to the side, leaving ample room on his worktable for the puppet that he had started so long ago but had never finished.
With careful precision and calm, Sasori finished painting Deidara's eyes.
There was a knock on the front door.
Puzzled, he exited his room, surprised at the feel of a young, almost totally alien chakra signature outside.
He opened the door, blinking once, then twice, at the sight of Uchiha Izuna standing straight-backed and looking up at him.
"Are you Sasori-san?"
In another world, perhaps he would have called him uncle.
Without waiting for an answer, Izuna ploughed on.
"This might sound weird, but my father visited me in a dream last night. He told me that his friend had something to tell you." There was a small blush across his cheeks, as if he didn't even believe it himself.
Sasori said, surprisingly patient, "And what did they want me to know?"
"Just that she remembers everything now, and that she'll be waiting." Izuna backpedaled. "Umm, that's all. Sorry for bothering you, sir."
Then he was off, leaving Sasori standing at his doorstep in disbelief of what had just transpired. He looked up at the sky, wondering if that would produce any answers. But the only proof that Deidara's brief stay on earth hadn't been his own imagination was already a dot in the distance.
The tinkle of shrine bells sounded from somewhere far away.
You'll be waiting, huh? Sasori continued to watch the clouds shift. You've always had more patience than me...
Deidara.