Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
"This is your room, brat," Sasori, in his Hiruko disguise, flatly tells Deidara.
Deidara is not what Sasori hoped for in a second partner (Though after Orochimaru, Sasori is bound to be critical and demanding of anyone who works with him).
Deidara is twelve-years-old, easily the youngest member ever recruited to Akatsuki (The boy should be honored, Sasori thinks), a boy from Iwagakure who's already seen too much; Sasori can see that in the boy's eyes.
The boy has a somewhat feminine appearance, with fair, clear skin, large, delicately shaped brilliant blue gray eyes framed with long sooty eyelashes and a slight build (he is also a little short for his age), not helped by the fact that his thick blond hair is worn longer than that of many kunoichi.
However, his appearance, minus the already sharp jaw (and Sasori is sure that he'll grow out of the feminine looks as he grows) is where the illusion of Deidara as "feminine" ends. Abruptly. During Deidara's battle not to be carried off by Akatsuki, he displayed that being a preteen with only a few years of shinobi training under his belt wasn't going to stop him. The mouths on his hands are truly disturbing (Somehow it's always me who gets stuck with the freaks); no less disturbing is that the boy actually considers those shoddy exploding clay beings to be "art".
Deidara scowls blackly at Sasori, and begins to walk into the room. But almost immediately he stops.
"Something wrong, brat?" Sasori asks wryly, knowing what's coming.
"What's with all these puppets, un?" Deidara's voice is choked; his eyes round as dinner plate.
"You and I are sharing a room. All the Akatsuki partners share a room, except for Leader-sama and Konan; that's only because Konan's a kunoichi. This is our room, and this—" Sasori somewhat ostentatiously sweeps Hiruko's tail around "—is my art."
Deidara goes a little red in the face; he looks appalled. "Art?" he whispers. "You gotta be kidding me. Art is supposed to be fleeting and transient, un!"
"You haven't got a clue what you're talking about, brat!" Sasori can't believe he's having this argument with a child.
"It's not art," Deidara repeats stubbornly; the way he frowns looks like a childlike pout. He walks over to the work table, and picks up a little wooden bird, before sitting down with his back against the cabinet doors. He looks up and grins. "But all the same, it's kinda cool."
Behind Hiruko's impassive wooden face, Sasori smiles.
In ninth grade I took a class called Intro. to Art, and had this sort of relationship with the art teacher, my minimalism versus her elaborate. I love Sasori/Deidara bonding moments.
