Author's Note : Thank you very much for the kind reviews. I appreciate them immensely, and it motivated me to finish this more quickly. I hope it reaches your expectations, but I have a feeling I'm very bad at writing Deidara. :(
Please review, because I'd love to hear what you liked, and what I need to improve on. There's only one chapter left, so as I said, reviews will help get it up much faster. :)
Thank you for reading.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Sasori grew up very bitter, and very twisted. He was angry at the world. He hated the bubbly children who played ball in the street. He loathed the loving couples who held hands in the park all day. Nothing could make Sasori see the good left in society. He saw lies everywhere, death in every blink.
He holed himself up in the cheap apartment he'd managed to rent, buying scraps of wood and making the puppets he'd always wanted. He never got them for that birthday. Sasori found comfort in his wooden companions. He hung them on his walls, sold them reluctantly in his small store for the money he needed to survive. Any free minute he had, he spent them on his puppets. And when he saw them, it was the only time he could feel anything but depression and loneliness. They were his, his everything. They would never leave him. He had learned how fleeting life was, and he despised it.
Then he met Deidara.
It was a frozen mid-day in December. Ice trickled down the streets and sharp hail plummeted down from the sky. Sasori clutched the bag of assorted wood to his chest protectively, pushing people out of his way on the street in order to keep it from being damaged. Nothing would upset him more.
"Watch it!" he groaned, viewing his package tumble into the dirty shush that lined the sidewalk. Mumbling words of frustration under his breath, he began shoveling the materials back into his bag, hoping they wouldn't soak up too much moisture. Twisting and turning to find the last piece, he had a snarl imprinted on his face when someone tapped him on the soldier.
"What?" he growled, surprised to see his wood a few inches from his face.
"Sorry," a somewhat amused voice called out from behind it. "Didn't mean to hit you, un."
"Whatever," Sasori snorted with a dark frown, not giving the other a second glance before storming back into the masses.
It wasn't until a few weeks later that they met again.
Sasori was sanding down a new wooden arm inside the studio at the back of his store when a racket broke through his windows rudely. Setting the piece down with a sigh, he walked outside, already irritable.
About five men were scattered around the building next to his own, which before the moment had been blessedly abandoned. Two were lifting in a scuffed table, while another had boxes stacked dangerously in his large hands.
"Be careful, un!" A voice called out, and the tone sent Sasori back, grated on his nervous. The owner stepped into view, cringing when he heard a crash.
"Hidan!"
The only reply he received was an infuriated grunt and a whirlwind of curses, and the man turned around with a sigh. When he opened his eyes again, they widened on the sight of Sasori, who had moved to return to his work.
"Hey!" he waved, running over with a somewhat cheery smile. "Didn't I see you on the street a while ago?"
Sasori arched an eyebrow, his hand already curled around the knob of his door.
"If you count crashing into me idiotically, then yes," he drawled, ready to turn the knob and escape back inside.
"Is this your place, un?" the other pried, trying to look inside through the slightly dusty window.
Sasori reluctantly divulged, "Yes."
"What do you do?" the intruder asked curiously, blue eyes widening with interest.
"Woodwork, art," Sasori replied shortly, "Puppets."
They stared at each other a few seconds, and then the other threw back his head and laughed, fully and whole-heartedly, in a way Sasori hadn't done for years. He felt himself grow envious involuntarily, and his fingers gripped the door-handle tighter.
"What are you laughing at?" he spat, while he watched the man push back the long blonde hair that had fallen into his face.
"It's just funny," he responded, crossing his arms casually. "You're talking about the exact opposite of art, un."
Sasori felt his hand relax, but his insides boiled with anger and indignation.
"This is ridiculous," he shot back, "You obviously don't know the truth about art you...brat."
"My name's Deidara," the impudent, now non-stranger, almost reprimanded. Then he grinned again, like he owned the world and everything was his to play with.
"And art doesn't come from puppets. They're grotesque, un. Art is fleeting beauty at its finest," he peeked at the store window, "Sasori."
Sasori's hand had slipped off the knob when Deidara turned away, waving over his shoulder as he returned to his property.
"Stop by if you ever want to actually see it, un."
Deidara opened locks that should have remained closed. His lecture about short, impacting art shook the foundation of Sasori's defenses. His ideals were what kept him together, like the strings that held his puppets. If anyone discovered that weakness, he would break apart into the needy child he still really was.
Sasori didn't want Deidara in his life, but he also didn't have much of a choice.
Sasori had winced the first time he entered Deidara's shop, because the bell attached to the door was obnoxious and piercing. He shut it quickly to stifle the sound, stepping inside carefully, as if he was standing in the middle of a minefield. Hopefully, if things went according to plan, he'd get in and out without being discovered by his new neighbor.
Sasori had his pride.
Inching over to the wall where a display case had been hastily arranged, Sasori's brow furrowed in confusion. He saw...fuses? Brightly colored packages stood out garishly against the glass, and he couldn't figure out what they could be.
"Fireworks, un," the answer noted behind him, and Sasori used all his self-control not to jump at the sound.
"Fireworks?" he repeated disbelievingly, and Deidara nodded ectastically.
"They shoot up into the sky, the only color in the inky darkness of night," he explained rapidly, brushing away the soot that had splotched itself on his cheek. His eyes seemed to glow as he went on, rambling and tossing his arms in the air with the passion of his words.
"Up and up, and then...bang!" he shouted, and this time Sasori couldn't control the wince as Deidara's voice echoed over the high ceilings. "Bursts of light; blue, red, purple, green, anything you could ever imagine! There, un, for a second, you can see it, but you can't grasp it, and because of that, it's art."
Deidara's chest was heaving when he finished, exerted from his tirade. Sasori had to admit he was somewhat impressed by the enthusiasm, yet that didn't change his mind.
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."
His opponent's gaze narrowed dangerously, and he placed blackened hands on his hips.
"What's the point?" Sasori pointed out lazily, gesturing to the items lining the shelves. "It looks nice for a moment, big deal. You're left with nothing, no way to remember it. It's pointless."
"No, that's the point," Deidara interjected. "You don't treasure what you see all the time, un. It has to be once in a lifetime!"
"Then it's not art."
Once again, the two found each other in a battle of the eyes, blazing blue meeting brown, which for the first time in years showed a spark of passion.
"I've wasted enough time here," Sasori broke the invisible competition, pushing Deidara out of his way and heading towards the door. His hand paused on the handle, and he turned back with a smirk to the still infuriated Deidara.
"Come by in case you ever want to see true art."
"Don't expect me, un!" the other called back, but all he was met with was the clanging of his own bell.
It was at that moment that it became almost like a game. Every customer that walked in was a victory, each one that passed by was a defeat. It was a weak, vapid competition, and both knew they had nothing to prove to the people who bought their work. Yet, for the first time in the longest time, Sasori felt almost excited to wake up in the morning.
"I thought I shouldn't expect you-"
Deidara rolled his eyes before stuffing his hands into the pockets of his worn jeans.
"Don't be so cocky," he scoffed, obviously trying to keep his eyes from roaming over the walls. "It's just curiosity, un. You're ideas are still stupid."
Sasori turned away, placing the screws back into the drawer of his desk before stepping around it and heading towards Deidara.
"Don't break anything," he ordered cooly, and Deidara brushed past him arrogantly.
"Sure, Mom."
Sasori's demeanor jolted and his confidence was shaken for a moment, but he covered it efficiently.
"What do you...do with these things, un?" Deidara's inquisitive voice pulled him out of his trapping thoughts, and Sasori meandered to where he had wandered.
"They're usually bought by theaters," Sasori told him, "Some people just put them in their houses."
Deidara let out a chortle that he tried to smother, but the mocking sound still crawled out of his lips. He gestured a tan hand towards the lithe, perfectly carved puppet he had been analyzing.
"What a waste of space, un," he commented, and Sasori sent him a sizzling glare.
"You don't understand, brat," Sasori replied, staying stoic until Deidara's nonchalant,
"Enlighten me."
"It lasts," Sasori started, and Deidara snapped his head towards the other. "Throughout time and tribulations, art perseveres. It is there forever, to shine through new ages and before new people. Word of its glory spreads, and people may flock from all over to be dazzled by it. Art inspires generations, because it is always there, eternally. That's what makes it beautiful."
Deidara flickered his gaze back up at the puppet, and Sasori glanced at it fondly.
"Nah, don't see it, un," Deidara finally stated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully while Sasori scoffed. "But..."
He turned to Sasori, reaching out a hand in a friendly manner.
"I accept your view as a fellow artist, even as completely wrong one, un. I respect your work, even though I don't agree with it, alright...Danna?"
Sasori's eyebrows arched upwards, and he cocked his head in contemplation. Did he really want to take that step forward, into something akin to the friendship this foolish 'artist' was offering?
"Okay..." he grunted, content that he never had to admit to respecting the other's work, "brat."
Deidara's smile lit up the room, and Sasori captured it in his memory.
It happened very quickly from that point on, and yet it seemed very long when Sasori would think back. Whether he wanted to admit it, Deidara and himself had become friends, and it wasn't long before he looked forward to the daily debates between them.
Deidara stood for everything he hated, everything he had worked his entire life to hide from. He had exploded around him and lit everything into color when Sasori had been happy with browns and grays. The blonde was radiant, so much so that it sometimes hurt to be around him.
Sasori found himself growing happier every day, and it startled him. He had resigned himself to being miserable forever, and yet somehow fate had intervened. The winds had thrust an explosion into his hands, and now the golden and cerulean colors of the day also framed his nights.
"Clay?" Sasori repeated almost dumbly, watching Deidara scoop some of the white substance into his hands.
"Yeah," the other affirmed, smiling placidly at the feel of the earthy grains between his fingers. "I usually use them to hold the gunpowder for the fireworks, un."
"But these are..." Sasori trailed off, picking one of the intricately made figures, impressed by the delicate details carved into the hawk's wingspan. "These are actually good."
"They're better than 'good,' un!" Deidara announced proudly, voice tinged with annoyance at the other's downplay of his skills.
"And yet you blow them up?"
"Yes."
"And that's art?"
"Yes."
"Have you ever been committed?"
Deidara frowned, molding the clay between his hands, his irritation making his movements more rapidly paced.
"Give it a chance, Danna," he almost whined, cleaning one hand to snatch his bird away from Sasori.
"Here," he said, dropping a fresh pile of clay in front of Sasori. "Give it a try, un."
Sasori stared at it, wrinkling his nose in distaste before remarking, "Why? So you can destroy it?"
"Maybe," Deidara smirked cheekily, returning to his own kneaded supply.
The two worked in silence for a while, Deidara quickly molding out a magnificently carved head and several accomplished features. Though Sasori didn't plan to admit it, he was struggling. He wasn't used to such a pliable substance. The wood he carved was usually thick and inflexible, and this clay felt like soup seeping through his calloused fingers.
Deidara peeked over at him and laughed, dropping his work and crossing to the other side of the table, where Sasori was seated with agitation.
"You're doing it wrong, Danna," he pointed out carefully, watching Sasori's fingers mangle the clay into torn pieces. Before Sasori could snap back that clay with a worthless creative form anyway that required no factual skill, Deidara wrapped his hands around Sasori's.
"Don't fight it, un. Clay does what you tell it to," he instructed, moving Sasori's fingers to tame the substance into its perfect texture and density. Their fingers grew interlaced as Deidara controlled his movements, helping him into the motions. Sasori felt powerless, watching his hands react in a way he hadn't commanded. He felt his face grow heated, and at the same time, it just felt right.
Finally, Deidara stepped back, patted Sasori on the shoulder encouragingly, and with a quiet, "There, un," he settled back in his own spot peacefully. Sasori glanced up at him, but he was completely focused in his creation. He looked back down at his own clay and continued shaping it without a word.
It was the first time Sasori had been the puppet, not the puppeteer. He should of been infuriated, but he wasn't. That moment filled him with a tranquility he hadn't ever experienced in his lifetime, and if it had lasted longer, he might even have been able to call it art. It had been Deidara's art, elusive and capricious, and he was supposed to repel it. Instead his heart welcomed it, even as his mind shrunk away.
Similar instances, like a deadly poison, slipped into their time together, so surreptitious that Sasori hadn't realized them until they were constant. They touched, and they grew close, closer than they probably should have. There were so many danger signs shooting off in Sasori's head, alarms flashing behind his eyes and telling him to turn back, that he was reopening old wounds that had never healed. But all Sasori could see wherever he looked was Deidara, all Sasori could feel when he wrapped his fingers in that sunshine hair and pulled him close was Deidara, all Sasori could hear when he fell asleep at night was Deidara.
"Jeez, Danna, you must have some nightmares, un," Deidara whistled, examining the walls of Sasori's house with a picky eye and quite contradictory taste.
"Why do you say that?" Sasori asked, peering at a wall that contained one of his favorite puppets. Deidara looked at him as if he was sprouting multiple heads, gesturing at the wooden figure.
"How do you sleep with these things staring at you?" he puzzled, looking quite perturbed. "It's...creepy, un."
Sasori shrugged, stepping forward and dropping the work he had taken from his shop onto the floor neatly.
"It's nice to be surrounded by one's art," he began, "Well...maybe not your monstrosities."
"Watch it, Danna, or you might find out," Deidara teased, but Sasori shook his head to hide a smirk.
"You're a gracious guest, Deidara," Sasori spoke sarcastically, and Deidara just smiled. Sasori turned back to him just as it started, and he was stunned to watch the whole act unravel, to watch Deidara reveal an expression of just...absolute freedom and joy.
He stood there, a blinding sun that seemed to out of place in Sasori's dismal, dreary, house, with its darkly painted walls and scratched hardwood floors. There was something so, so different about Deidara, a uniqueness that had no words to describe it.
"Are you alright, un?" Deidara must've spoken, but he sounded so distant, miles and miles away.
"Danna?"
Suddenly, Sasori was right in front of him, and his hands were grasping his shoulders tightly. Deidara seemed surprised; neither of them could explain the abrupt change.
Their kiss made all the facts fall away.
It wasn't about how, but the fact that it was. Sasori kissed Deidara roughly, needing to understand what was so special about this human being, one of billions that roamed the planet. He held him close, as close as he could, because he had to feel him, to know he was real and that finally, finally, he wasn't alone anymore.
Sasori pulled away, and for the first time in over a long, loveless decade,
Sasori smiled.
And thrusting all the haunting specters of the past aside, two artists found what they wanted in each other.