Prologue:
The first thing Deidara noticed about Sunagakure was the heat: the unbearable, scorching heat that seemed to have tangibility as it pressed against his body, shooting through his cloak like knives.
And the sand; after five minutes' walking, he was sure he had sand in places he didn't even know he had. He could taste it on all three of his visible mouths – on his face and either hand – and it disgusted him. He was constantly spitting.
"You might just put a bandanna over your mouth and nose."
Deidara scowled; of course, Sasori, in the big, huge puppet he preferred to travel in, wouldn't mind or care about the sand, or the heat. He had grown up in the village, born in the heat, and probably knew all sorts of tricks to keep sand out of one's nether regions, but of course he wouldn't share them with Deidara. Not only that, but Sasori's body was beyond feeling something so trivial as the weather.
"How many more miles to the village, hm?" Deidara inquired, fanning his face with a sunburned hand.
"Three million."
"WHAT?!"
"If you get excited like that, it will only serve to exhaust you."
Who's fault is it that I'm getting all "excited", huh?! Deidara thought, but did not say; contradicting Sasori was dangerous business, and the blond had the scars to prove it.
There was a pause, before Deidara spoke again. "Danna?"
Sasori responded as he always did, with begrudging acknowledging; he couldn't shake off the nickname. "What?"
"You 'member when I told you about Iwagakure, huh?"
"I try not to."
"I demand reciprocation, yep!" declared Deidara.
"I don't think so."
"Why not, hm?!"
"You don't need to know anything about me in order for us to work smoothly together. If that's an impossible feat for you, I will of course have you moved somewhere else, with someone else that will fit your needs better. I can even have you given a different task, one that will match your brain-power... like draining a river with a sieve or counting grains of sand."
This reply naturally incurred Deidara's distaste, but he respected Sasori too much to voice them; and he knew he could in fact be placed elsewhere and fair far worse.
"...Can I ride on you, then, hm?"
"No."
"Why not?! It's damn hot, and you don't even care, do you?!"
"Of course not."
"Why not, huh?"
"If we were strolling through Dante's Inferno, and recognition were the only escape between living and a death by fire, I would not give the heat the satisfaction."
"...Right. No offense, but you have no emotions. Yeah."
Within the dark, stuffy confines of the puppet, the corners of Sasori's lips turned up, just the slightest, in a sneer that was darker than night. Oh, he had emotions. Once upon a time, he had had many emotions. But there was nothing quite like carving out your own heart and cementing your place in the world with your artwork.
And there was nothing like a trail of blood to find your way home.