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Microfic by Sarehptar
Deidara loved everything about it: the adventure, the rush, the protection... The freedom especially. He wanted even more of it. That's why he stayed with them, he knew--they could give him things no one else could. They could give him battles strong enough to stretch his own unique potential, missions secret enough to set his heart beating painfully against his chest, fear enough to make his palms taste sweaty. He loved it--the extremes to which Akatsuki pushed him.
He smiled at his reflection in the cup of dark coffee in his hand. The grin looked a little weary, a little too wide to be innocent. He shook the cup to drive away the image; it left a bad taste in his mouth. Why look too closely at things like that? He'd been given so much in exchange. The bitter coffee scalded the sensitive edges of his tongue, and the pale missing-nin cringed invisibly.
How many other people could say they got to fight with the Kazekage? The young man's shoulders doubled up, the edge of his dark cloak danced softly against his cheek, rounded in stifled laughter. How many could say they'd won? His straw-like hair flicked back and forth like wheat in the wind, and the gentle breeze felt good against his bare neck; a delightful contrast to the burning cup in his hand. Contrast--he knew all about it. How many of the other members were scoffed at constantly in battle? An old wound; he shoved the thought away quickly. There were advantages to being young and pretty.
Akatsuki... Even the name screamed for his attention, painting images in his head that his hands burned to scuplt, to draw, to write... Akatsuki was like one perfected artwork -a masterpiece- and he had to be part of it. He had to--had to follow orders, had to destory his art for a just cause (other's standpoints really had no relevance anymore), had to enjoy the whispered meetings, the dark rooms, the glares of suspicion, the fear of being caught... He had to take it all. His reflection in the cup was a twisted and worn face--wise to the world and death. He shook the cup again. It was worth it; Akatsuki was worth it--it made him free, didn't it?
Free to fight and kill whomever...he was told to. Free to fly and enjoy wide skies...if he didn't mind risking ANBU capture. The breeze had died, the back of his neck was starting to feel sticky. He shifted slightly, undid another hook in the collar of his cloak, and sighed lightly to his rippling reflection. He was free. Just because he couldn't go where he pleased, see who he wanted, act as he would like, enjoy as himself as he could... He was free--he had the art and the ninjutsu like he'd never had it before. He had it, why question what he was being made to do with it?
He had himself, his art, the rush of battle, the sky when he wanted it. He had the feeling of clay in hands, the malable marble that made him a genius, an Akatsuki member, a follower... He had it, why look too closely at things like freedom? He downed the cooling coffee quickly, and a grimace slid across his pale lips.