I had entirely too much fun with this chapter.
It is the ribs that are the hardest to deal with. The smell is rank. But that is not why Deidara struggles.
The sight of his prey gleams in his eyes. With glinting tools, he slashes at the skin, the muscles, and pries open the chest. But he doesn't stop there. The ribs impede him initially, but once they are out of the way he is free to slice one deep stroke down the belly. Hair and skin give way like butter to his touch. There is an inane urge to massage the dead thing.
He tosses the bladed weapon away. It clatters in the sink. Taking a scalpel, he digs it deeply in, taking care to leave slits at the sides in order to create flaps. At first he is concerned as the tool does not wrench clearly. Something, perhaps an intestine, has tangled with the bladed edge and latches onto it; the tool is snagged. After wiggling and twisting the handle a bit, the scalpel slides out with ease. He relishes in the feel of slick metal pulling free.
The abdomen is finished. He unfolds the flaps of skin, pinning them back. Pausing at the sight of his art, he shakes off the strange sense of déjà vu and continues on.
The moment the innards are stark open for his perusal, he shoves his hands deep into the cavity of the chest. The chest is a gaping maw that he delights playing in. The sensations of squealing, squishing entrails please him. He can feel them on his hands, the delicious textures. Fingers twisting all over, he finally feels what he is looking for. He touches its many chambers. He strokes the underbelly of the heart. It jiggles back!
His play is a little too rough; liquids fly towards his face. Deidara jerks his head to the side, letting his shield of hair take the blow. Fluids drip down. His bangs are drenched. His shirt is marred also.
He smiles wide.
At this moment the fetal pig is his greatest delight.
Deidara loves biology.
"Gr...g-gr-gross! Deidara!"
He turns to his lab partner, gray, runny matter still all over him. Deidara poises his single visible eye to look confused, a brow furrowed in inquiry. In truth, he wants to mock and laugh at her sensibilities.
His lab partner obliges him. "That's sick! Gross! I can't believe you're actually enjoying this! Are you sick or something?" She is still staring at his hair, at his ruined clothes. Her hands clutch at her own clothing as if wary of any more flying substances.
She is quite pretty, a detached part of him notes. But not beautiful.
She glances furtively around. Out of the corner of her lipsticked mouth, she hisses, "Put your goggles back on! God, I don't want the teacher to come and see this mess! You...you weren't even going to use gloves for fuck's sake!"
His smile turns serene. He wants her to shut up now.
The gloves in question are silkily rough on his skin and smells of rubber. When their group had first acquired the pig, he wanted to dissect without protective gloves.
Protective. Honestly. Formaldehyde can't hurt him, much less a dead mammal.
Nothing of that nature can hurt him.
"...damn Sensei and his random pairs! I swear if this..."
Ignoring her fervent whispers, he pulls at the material covering his hands until each digit is unsheathed.
"...can't believe I have to be stuck with you all month!"
He takes off one glove, but it clings back with a snap. He tries again. It is incredibly wet and slippery, slick.
"Are you even listening to me?"
He calmly takes off the other glove, and then shoves it into her face. Her makeup smears.
And her shriek is beautiful. It is a sweet relief when it is over.
Just another day.
--
The dull monotony of daily life is peppered by the black stains. Deidara likes to add to those stains.
It is the only way he can amuse himself.
"...Deidara," his mother sighs. She seems to do a lot of that nowadays. "Where are you going? Why are you doing this?"
The latter is not a question. The former is only a worn obligation. His mother loves him, but she is often more exasperated with him than not.
He cocks a smile at her and only that, but it comes out as a smirk. At age seventeen, Deidara no longer indulges in his fake pitiful boy persona and allows his mother a glimpse to see. See? See what? It is something currently up to debate with his friends. They delight in his enigmatic motives, but Deidara is wholly uncooperative and detached; let them try and guess at his mind. Let them try and see.
"Are you going to see those friends again?"
A twist of the lips, and Deidara momentarily frowns; he thought the first was not a question. He sends her an irritated glance and sweeps past her. His mother stands at the doorway, watching him slink off down the street, but he cannot see her face and thus does not know her expression.
It is forlorn. He doesn't know that, but he doesn't care to know; his mother may as well as be a stranger to him. In recent years, it was only too easy to become wrapped up in confrontations with her. It's amazing how well a mute boy can argue.
He pauses at the end of the block. The casual nature of his stance, the hands that are shoved into his pockets, and the loose clothing slung low on his hips and shoulders all make a pretty picture. It is dark. He is alone. The Yamanakas live deep in the city, and tackling the paths towards its inner city life with flippant disregard is only a fool's attitude.
He does not believe his life is in any immediate danger. He also doesn't put much worth into his mother's neurotic ramblings about gang violence and all that rot.
With a shrug, he continues on. His steps are unhurried and taunting, careless. His obvious ease with his surroundings beg questioning from anyone. Or unwanted attention.
Deidara's smile is disarming, but only because he makes it out to be. Only because he knows that in his left pocket he is clutching the switchblade he'd acquired from an acquaintance, and in his right pocket hides a special compartment he is not at all adversed to opening. He is confident that using both can protect him.
Empty, lull streets eventually change.
Deidara strays farther from home.
Soon enough, he enjoys the hubbub, the lively nightlife that splatters the inner, private parts of the city with bursts of colors and lights. Bars here, clubs there, drawing in drunkards and lovers and salarymen alike. Restaurants, some western, some cheap, some expensive, and izakaya—many of them—strewn all around the place, crimson lanterns cheerfully glowing up front.
Deidara breathes, and it is as if it is the first breath he takes in years.
Away from his freakishly normal family. Away from their dousing torrents of pity—because they cannot truly sympathize with him, not really. Away. He is so glad to be free.
Deidara is the awkward, mismatched piece among the puzzle that is already whole. The lost paper-and-cardboard bit that is forgotten underneath the bed, found only when the matching set is gone.
He isn't a Yamanaka, and he never will be.
His mother's attempts to care for him only comes off as overbearingly awkward. He has wearily accepted his sister's intrusive presence long ago; for reasons he cannot fathom, she hangs onto him like a leech. But out of all their picket white fence, quaint family of four Inoichi has to be the worst.
It isn't one specific thing the man does. Rather, it is an accumulation of memories and a near lifetime of observations that convinces Deidara that he does not like the man.
Yes, he remembers the man from his childhood, but does Inoichi have to keep reminding him of the fact? Is there not such a thing as tact or social caution?
Inoichi was once friends with his father—his real father, the elusive artist that died the night Deidara's eye was scarred.
Perhaps the hatred of the near constant pain in his left eye has transferred as hatred to poison the memory of his father. He can hardly remember him. He doesn't even remember what his father liked to paint or whether the man loved him or not. He is told his biological father was a magnificent man with an outstanding capability for art.
Deidara does not care, not even when his tactless and flatter of an art teacher tells him that he is growing to become his father more and more every day.
He hates her, by the way.
In any case, Inoichi's easy familiarity with his old friend's son is completely unacceptable. No one talks to Deidara about his past. It is a social taboo in of itself, but that isn't what keeps annoying pests away: he himself is a living, breathing barrier. He doesn't need his past to keep people away. He does it fine all on his own.
Now if only Inoichi can get the belated memo and stay away. Deidara hates trying to constantly guess whether or not Inoichi's motives are truly sincere. If he has to label the man as anything, Deidara would call him guilt-ridden. Why else would a nice, normal, middle-aged man willingly and eagerly take in an dead friend's traumatized son? It doesn't make sense, and Deidara would like to believe that the man isn't a pervert.
Feeling guilty about another person's death is stupid unless you were the killer. And even then why kill only to feel guilt afterwards? Stupid.
Inoichi tells him that his father loved him, that the two of have, father and son, had shared many precious memories together. If so, why doesn't Deidara remember? Why can't he remember?
The frustration of dealing with this damnable amnesia, coupled with the humiliation and pain of bearing a hideous eye, twists whatever filial piety Deidara has towards the memory of his real father into something not quite nice.
Inoichi is his father now. A highly annoying one, but he is the only father Deidara has. Fathers have convienent uses, especially in a society that does not believe Deidara to be mature. He supposes he owes the man some semblance of loyalty for that, maybe even because he took the boy away from the orphanage hell.
In the immediate aftermath of his most honorable mother's death, Deidara was made as a ward of the state. And hated every moment of it.
In the orphanage, every single brat was afraid of him. They cursed at him, ran away from him, or mocked him for his eye and scandalous past. Deidara felt that his soul was bared, ripe and vulnerable, for the picking, hacking, wrenching, and gutting of the other children.
His hair had not yet grown to hide that ugly, mutilated eye, and Deidara was left ashamed and angry at something that had been far beyond his control. His impotent fury was all he had to arm himself with, and in those first few months at the orphanage he clothed himself within a tight barricade. If someone came too close, he struck out at them. Sometimes physically, sometimes not.
Regardless, he was quickly placed into therapy. And it infuriated him. Having strangers poke and pry at his head was not acceptable at all. He knew that had he acted the calm, placid child they would have never given him to a psychiatrist to be played with. But, no, the moment he acted on his emotions and grief and anger they commit him? They believed him to be so deeply traumatized to the point of being in danger of becoming a dysfunctional social misfit? Or an immediate danger to the brats around him?
If he had been that calm, placid child, everybody would have forgotten all about him, and he would've been left alone. He'd have withered up and died in that very same orphanage. No one would've given a damn. He could've died, and no one would care.
He wondered if anyone noticed how terrible his thoughts were, how hateful, but no one was a mind reader. No one was able to read his thoughts.
He frustrated the social workers with his evasions, and his elusive answers did nothing but lead them around and around in circles. Whenever he was given a pad of paper to write on, he delighted in tearing them to shreds. Everyone soon learned to ask him simple questions he could shake or nod to, and those were absolute hindrances to his therapy sessions.
What else did they expect from a seven-year-old still recovering from his mother's death?
And then Yamanaka Inoichi came.
Deidara is fully convinced he is nothing but an awkward, social obligation to the man.
Underneath all that nice guy, gentle exterior, Inoichi is nothing more than a man carrying out a dead friend's wishes. His mother, he knows, has been initially against his adoption into the family. Deidara doesn't blame her; he is all too aware that he has a lot of baggage.
His sister is a bit stranger. She seems to love him but is still wary. She appears to be unobservant, but she can sometimes be shrewd. She acts like an air headed idiot but still has the tact to know when to leave him alone. Having to deal with all these contradictions is tiresome, and Deidara wearies of not knowing where she truly stands.
I guess I'm tired, he thinks. Of life? Of this? What is this?
He looks at his surroundings, detached, and no longer feels anything about it, about being free. What difference does it make? Here or there, home or school, everything is still the same. Boring, gray, dull. The monotone is something he can never escape, so why bother to try?
His clothes are a bit flashier than usual, he notes. Usually he is content to simply wear whatever fits best, but his top is purposefully loose to give a tantalizing view of his throat. His bare shoulders, pale and free of dirt for once, are not offset by numerous accessories and necklaces and nicknacks for once. His neck is entirely free of distractions. His hair is down, an unusual thing, and the loose tresses irritate him as he bats them away from his face.
Over all he makes a very girly picture, but his friend has insisted.
Deidara suspects he knows why.
The first head he really notices is one shock full of white hair. Silver, was the belated thought. Said head looked around until gleaming eyes settle on Deidara; they widen. "Well, fuck it," Hidan says, eying him with a careless grace. "You're even more like a girl. Didn't think you would. Seriously."
Deidara gives him a weary sort of look.
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Old shit, get new material, blah, blah, blah. We've done this dumbass gig only fuckers could fall for, but that's what shit licking libidos are for."
It is a long standing, long established fact that Deidara looks like a girl. Hidan takes shameless advantage of that fact. It is why Deidara can only sigh.
A thought occurs to him. Somewhat belated, he glances around for the others, but Hidan only shakes his head. "Don't bother," he says. "They're not here for some shitty thing like this. Come on, you bastard, you're already ten minutes late."
Picking at his shirt, Deidara blithely ignores Hidan. The latter rolls his eyes, but indulges the blond. "What now?" Hidan says. Then pauses. "...Aw, hell fucking no! Deidara, the only sweetcheeks poontang available around here is you and your goddamn girliness. Seriously, what am I? A proposition? Fucker."
Deidara frowns slowly. Letting a hand rest on his hip, he glares.
Hidan, who is rather apt at deciphering Deidara, snorts. He eyes the other boy's crotch, leering. "Right. Right, kid, and you've got a shitty manthing to protect, huh? Masculinity threatened? Feeling too goddamn girlie for words?" His gaze snaps up. "If you don't want any more bastards in your fucking ass, then why don't you just find a fucking whore? Go on. Sidle up to one of those high school bitches. Mouth and suck that shit."
The look Deidara gives him is less hostile and more incredulous.
"All right, so I kid. You don't actually do any poor bastard. Have you got your shit? Might as well start drugging people left and right." Hidan snickers. "Bad, old men and their libidos forget to watch their wallets when it comes to the actual fucking. Let's select at least some fuckin' eye candy for tonight, eh? Don't want to make my pretty princess suffer needlessly."
Deidara ignores him. It is not easy, especially when Hidan slings an arm around his bare shoulders. Too smooth, too cool skin meets his, and Deidara is hard pressed not to jerk away. Hidan leans in close, intimate, and hisses in his ear, "Some fuckers still want to get a piece of your ass even when I do this. But, then, what are voyeurs for?" Unhesitatingly, the silver-haired boy draws his head forth and gives one long lap at the other boy's throat. Even as he suckles Deidara's throat, licking in between intervals, his eyes are busily taking in the sudden attention thrown their way. His teeth are bared in a cold grin.
With a sigh, Deidara obligingly plays the role of a besotted whore. He tilts his chin to the side, subtly giving his friend more room to work with, and a single electric blue eye flutters shut. He lets dazed ecstasy scrawl against his features. He lets himself sway and tremble as if he were really consumed in an indescribable haze of lust.
In truth, they are both incredibly sober.
Deidara beings to feel a little uncomfortable. Hidan goes around practically bare chested, so his skin is always a shade too cool. Hidan's nips are too hard, too carelessly rough, and the way he has shifted their position to become latched at the hips is not helping.
Stupid chains, Deidara thinks. Goddamn cold chains digging into my crotch.
One of these days, he thinks, he will tear off Hidan's stupid belt and bash his perfect, immaculate old man's hair with it.
But that is for another time.
Deidara inches closer, achingly, wantonly sliding little by little up Hidan's leg. The wall behind his back is sandpaper coarse as Hidan slams him against it, and Deidara grunts in muted pain. Free to use the structure as support, he reluctantly lets Hidan bring the two of them even closer. A hand creeps to his ass, and Deidara is suddenly wrenched deeper into the other boy's embrace. Chest touching chest, leg against leg, and hips—perfectly aligned. The blond throws his head back, mouth producing pants and groans as you please.
His neck is beginning to develop a crick; he does not appreciate Hidan banging away his head into the wall.
As they pulse and shudder against each other's bodies, Deidara is perfectly aware of what the two of them looks like. Scandalous gasps and barely heard gossip, along with other mundane exclamations and injections of shock—those straight-laced idiots. Others whistles, some leers, some gasp along with their quivering bodies, but the two lovers pretend not to notice any of it all.
It's not as if they were doing it right out in the streets for voyeurs to see, but their heated impromptu and fake makeout session is drawing in all the maggots and flies and bastards and voyeurs towards them. Godfucking perverts.
Their exchange turns clammy. The night air is humid, and Hidan is not helping. Grasping for that one last shred of authenticity, that cinching detail, Deidara ends it by making his first move—a hot, shuddering kiss that he carelessly mashes against Hidan's lips. He bites down hard, but Hidan's gaze is impassive, casual. Uncaring. The pain is nothing. Deidara unwittingly rolls his eyes; Hidan hadn't even flinched.
Blood dribbles down.
Deidara shoves him away, but the silver-haired boy is unmovable and leans in close. Palms are smashed against the wall on either side of Deidara's head. As Hidan ducks down, he creates an illusion that the exchange is not over; instead, he lets one salacious tongue lap at the unexpected blood around his mouth. Deidara is wholly unimpressed; he settles for a glare. Unrepentant. Hidan frowns.
"...Huh," he says, pulling away slightly. "Has it ever occurred to you how ridiculous our scheme seems sometimes?" He wipes whatever blood is left with a careless swipe of a thumb. He only succeeds in smearing it more.
Deidara shrugs, face bored and in agreement with Hidan's words; Hidan doesn't need to affirm something that's already been established. Deidara wonders what he is playing at.
Neither has a mind clouded with passion, lust, or some other inebriated daze; the encounter is the same as every other encounter, the scene is always the same. Their act is over, but Hidan has yet to give him any details. Surely there is at least one rich slob in the crowd or a sex-deprived, hard working salaryman watching them with pig eyes?
Deidara's brows furrow a bit. Why is the other boy delaying? Jabbering?
A frown still at his lips, Hidan drawls on, "I suppose whores will be whores—what, with all their gayass squealing uke and seme shit. But the fuckers? This time around they're a tad fuck different, blondie, and one of them wants you. Bad."
And Deidara suddenly realizes that Hidan is worried.
For all of the countless of times they've done this and Hidan decides to finally break now and buy into his little girl act? His features twists. Deidara tries shoving him away again, but Hidan clamps down on his wrists with a vice grip. He is fairly glaring now, that apathetic boy; Deidara is jarred.
"Do I have to spell it out for you, you idiot?" Hidan says, clasping him harder, his words a purr. "I don't like the looks of this one. We are going to walk away this time around."
Deidara shoots him an incredulous glare.
"Yes, we are! This guy—" Hidan shakes his head, irate. "What the fuck, why am I trying to convince you? While you were busy closing your eyes and acting like you being being fucked to the next Tuesday, I saw this fucker's face. Seriously, Deidara, walk away."
Hidan's back is to the street: how he's managed to catch a glimpse of anyone's face while not turning his head is a mystery.
That's why I'm the uke and Hidan's the scout, Deidara thinks. Mouth pressing into a tight line, he raises brows high at Hidan. Very slowly, they detach from one other and straighten. Both look flush and pert, clothes mussed and hair ruffled, as if they just had one very good fuck.
It isn't so.
Flicking annoying, tangled tresses over his shoulder, Deidara is annoyed to find that Hidan is not even looking his way. The silver-haired boy is casually surveying the streets, completely ignoring him. Deidara pokes him, hard, gaze questioning but hard.
The other answers immediately. "Serial rapist murdering bastard, that's what." Hidan glances at him. "While we were play fucking, this fucker was ripping your a-hole to shreds in his sick head. And then some. Tangling with a sadistic bastard like that is just asking for shit to happen."
Deidara glare fades into something wary. The look he gives Hidan is pointed and clear. They take to the streets, arms brushing close, and Hidan laughs a little. His face may have been smiling, but his eyes are cold.
"Ah. Yeah, kid, S&M isn't all fun fucks and games unless you know exactly what kind of shit you're getting into. Don't try this at home." A pause. "Speaking of, where the fuck do you people live anyway? Under a goddamn rock, I bet?"
Suddenly, with no warning at all, Hidan slams Deidara into a nearby alleyway and shoves the two of them together against the darkened wall. Nervous but not fighting, Deidara plays along. He watches Hidan's face intensely, noting the unusually agitated expression. Nothing at all like Hidan.
A minute passes. Two, four, then five.
And when Hidan finally sighs, Deidara breathes a little easier.
"That fucker was following us," Hidan says in a quiet murmur. "Something about that guy just..."
Deidara fidgets slightly, uncomfortable from holding his position for so long.
His friend notices. "Ah, sorry." Releasing him, Hidan slaps a hand against his face, groaning. "What am I getting so fucking freaked over? That fucker's gone. Yeah."
Concerned, Deidara pokes him, but Hidan only gives him a tired grin.
Wordlessly, they leave their dingy hiding place.
The further away they've gone, the more at ease Hidan seems to feel. The silver-haired boy's shoulders are no longer taunt with tension and panic, his features no longer pinched and hard. His eyes no longer look so dangerous.
But Hidan's earlier behavior has put Deidara on edge. His friend is escorting him home, however casually, but Deidara knows it to be the truth.
Rather than becoming irritated with Hidan's sudden mothering, Deidara shoves a hand in his pocket and lets it grasp the knife. The switchblade's handle tightens in his grip, and it is comforting. City nightlife no longer trails after their steps like slinking shadows, and he is all too aware that Hidan is silent.
Something is wrong if Hidan doesn't even bother to make smalltalk. The boy is tense again, eyes clawing and watchful. One hand is deceptively shoved into a pocket Deidara knows carries a concealed gun.
Deidara breathes. Taking note of Hidan's actions, Deidara slides his free hand into his other pocket. The right side one. His fingers enclose around a bag.
And nothing happens. They reach his house and the walk there is dreadfully anticlimactic.
The lights are off, Deidara realizes. Strange. His annoying sister should have been still up by now, gossiping away to all of her girlfriends on her cellphone. It makes sense if his mother has turned in early, but what of his father?
Glancing at his friend with wary eyes, Deidara is more concerned with Hidan.
Just touching the other boy's arm lightly makes Hidan jerk, but Deidara calmly meets his eyes and motions towards the door.
Hidan gives a weary sort of nod.
They enter.
Systematically locking the door behind them and turning on the front hall light, Deidara wonders at the house's unnatural quiet. That in of itself isn't strange, but...where is Ino and all of her annoying jabbers? Her harpy screeches and girly screams should have been rumbling through the house by now.
Evidently, Hidan notices as well. His voice is blunt—too blunt—in the silence. "Where's your family, blondie?" Hidan has been told horrific stories about the shrieking decibels of Deidara's sister.
Deidara toys with the keys in his hands, thoughts slowing to an ebbing molasses flow.
Hidan shakes his head and mutters, "Forget it." He stomps ahead and into the kitchen, immediately raiding the expansive fridge. It is the first time Hidan's been here, but already he makes himself at home.
The nerve. But normal—blessed normal Hidan. Usually, such an inane thought would've merited at least a quirk of the lips, but tonight Deidara is too unsettled by his friend's previous paranoia.
Something else tugs at his attention. As Deidara stands in the hall, again puzzling over why there is a sense of wrong blanketing the house, he shakes his head and joins in his friend's search.
Still, uneasiness pricks at him incessantly, urging him to check the bedrooms.
Why? he thinks, irate. The opened refrigerator door is the only thing casting light in the unlit room. The kitchen is too large, too dark. Pushing Hidan aside, Deidara snatches the first drink he sees. He snaps it open and guzzles it down, ignoring Hidan's stare.
Eyes shift towards him in question. Hidan shrugs.
"Just thought you looked a hell lot more at ease here than at school. Is that surprising to hear? Can't be because it's true."
Deidara swipes the hair out of his eyes and ties most of them back. Because his job is a hasty one, too many strands slip through his fumbling fingers. He huffs. Hidan grins and reaches over to pull at his demented, half-formed ponytail. Deidara lets him with a frown.
"It's fine. You looks less of a girl anyway." A shrug. "At school, everyone knows that if they call you that you'll fuck them twice over before stuffing pig guts in their faces."
Something quirks at Deidara's lips.
"Oh, yeah, the story's gone around hundreds of times before I started to punch the messenger." Hidan smiles slightly. "Did you know one bastard called you a shit-eating whore? And then I called you my shit-eating whore, and then kicked the motherfucker where it hurts. If you were an attention seeking brat, the fuck would I hang with you then?"
His smile fades. "Kid, what's on your mind?"
Deidara jerks up a hand and stills. His brows are furrowed. Moving past Hidan, he searches the room, seemingly for something only he can see. Frustration crosses his face before he moves to the next room over, only to stumble at the darkened doorway.
Hidan squints. "What's up?" He pauses, seeing his friend freeze. Narrowing his eyes, the silver-haired boy steps forward. "...Deidara?"
No response. Warily, he turns to look at what Deidara is seeing.
And stops.
"What," Hidan says, working his jaw, "...the fuck is this?"
Neither needs to turn on the light to know what he is seeing.
Deidara stands shock still, teetering. When his legs can no longer support him, he falls. He would've collapsed, too, had Hidan not have caught him.
"Whoa, whoa—! I've got you, kid, but...but this...is..."
Threatening to collapse to the floor, Deidara is set down carefully by Hidan before the latter steps forward, something wholly ugly and terrible twisting his features. Deidara can only paw helplessly at his mouth, retching dryly into his hands. His head is bowed, his half-assed ponytail already unraveling into a waterfall of shielding bangs.
"I," Hidan says very calmly, "am going to gut the fucker for you. I will slash off his balls, char and boil them, and feed the bastard his own shit. I'll open up his chest just so you can piss on his entrails. And all the while, I am going to keep him alive and hurt him. Again. Again. And again.
"Deidara," he says, turning, unholy fervor alight in his eyes. "...Who in this family knows of your past? Who the fuck knows how your mom really died?"
Deidara only shakes his head wildly, unable to stop his desperate, dry heaving long enough to make motions calmly.
At the sight of his friend's suffering, something cools in Hidan's face. His gaze slants on Deidara, detached. He says, "You know that that's not your mother, right? This...thing."
But Deidara can only scrape his forehead against the floor. And shudder.
"...My guess is," Hidan says still in that strange mechanical voice, "the bitch tried following you when you left to meet me, and then ran into some nasty old guy who slashed her to ribbons and bits when she refused to give him some. But this body..."
A sort of lopsided, faint mockery of a smile flits across Hidan's face. "This is some nasty piece of work. If I remember right, this happened before. Similarly. Right?"
Deidara finally does throw up. His fingers claw helplessly against floorboards, scratching and tearing at the floor but the wood is resilient against his scrambling efforts. Deidara's frantic movements threatens to turn crazed, eyes wide and pulsating with unsaid horror.
Hidan finds what he is looking for. Carefully crouching in front of Deidara, he slides him a pad of paper. A pencil is dropped to the floor.
Deidara sets upon them like a hungry, desperate beast, tearing through the material in a wild, mindless terror. He snatches the pencil, scrawls with the lead and graphite. On his skin, on the floor, his hands, the paper—anything and everything that he can reach, he slashes at it with his shaking, shuddering utensil.
Okaasan. okaasanokaasan okaasanokaasanokaasan okaasan oka
The first sheet runs out of room. Deidara rips it from the bindings furiously and continues onto the next page without pause.
asan okaasanokaasan okaasanokaasanokaasan okaasan okaasan
"Deidara..." Hidan slumps before his best friend and looks at him with hooded eyes. "Deidara. Deidara. Stop. Please."
Okaasan okaasanOKAASAN OKAASANOKAASAN
"Deidara!"
The frantic mesh of kanji and romanji suddenly stops. The pencil stills, poised to write more. It cannot.
The tip has been ground down to nothing.
Something like a plaintive whine is at the back of his throat, despite the fact he cannot speak. When Deidara tries to make a stroke with the flattened end, something like distress spills onto his face. Like a child, he draws big, sloppy loops with the dead pencil, but the only thing produced are slight wood chips breaking off from the tip's edge.
"Deidara," Hidan says carefully. "I'm going to give you something else."
Hidan has no idea what the fuck he's doing. But he has to try. Muscles taunt and on edge, he slowly elevates himself and uses his body to block the view of who he assumes is Deidara's foster mother. He slowly sets down a pen.
Deidara picks it up, blank-faced. He looks at Hidan with one wide, vulnerable eye.
With a flash of intuition, Hidan realizes he is in front of a child.
The ink tip tentatively touches blank white paper. It crawls into slow lines. Without looking away from Hidan, Deidara forms a single line of words. His eye has turned frighteningly intense and steely in that vague, blank-minded manner. It is a contradiction that freaks Hidan out.
He is almost afraid to take the piece of paper away.
Carefully tugging the paper towards him, all the while warily watching Deidara's face, he brings it close so he can read what it says. He stills.
sasori is gone
Through the last letter, the pen's moist tip has ripped through. The pen in question is clattered carelessly on the floor—when?—broken.
Now that his only entertainment has been taken away, Deidara falls flat on the floor but not on his face. He reaches out with childish, wobbling hands and plays with the ebbing pool of ink. Giggling. A disturbing image because there is no sound. Deidara is a silent black-and-white film playing over and over. A broken child.
And Hidan breathes.
--
...Hidan?
"What?"
What do you see in your sleep?
"I dream about fucking your brains out 'cause some bastard's making me lose sleep. Now shuddup."
...Hidan?
"What."
I see my father's killer.
"...Sasori? I thought you couldn't remember him."
Sometimes. Maybe. I'm...not sure. At times he's the only thing in my mind. I can't do anything but remember him, but if I force it...he's gone. I'm getting better at it, though. Sometimes he stays. Longer. Am I healing?
"Or maybe you just remember his face from your mom's murder."
...
"Deidara?"
I...don't know. I don't remember. He's not there anymore. No one is. Only Mother. But...
—there's someone else I couldn't see before. Someone I don't know. In my dreams, he's there now. Hissing. Grotesquely, he chases me on a slick belly bound to dirt—
Who he is? Hidan? Hidan? Who is there besides Mother?
I don't know know him.
And I'm afraid.
"But why are you afraid, Deidara? Why are you afraid when you can't even speak?"
...What are you talking about? Of course I can speak.
I'm speaking right now, aren't I?
Hm, um, no official Hidan/Deidara. It was part of their scheme involving compensated dating, a cultural context I've screwed because it usually involves girls and prostitution, not a pair of male blonds.
Yes, I enjoyed the fetal pig part.
Next chapter brings in...new characters. A weird choice of new characters in remade roles. I don't really like those high school fics that shove in all of the Akatsuki into underdeveloped, slapdash, comic relief slash drama slash romantic roles...which is why I only focused on Hidan this time.