Hinata was an angel. Deidara was an angel. Each in their own way, but angels nonetheless.

Deidara, rather, had gotten off on a technicality. He couldn't not be an angel. He was born for the skies. He was what you would see when you opened old religious texts; his picture would be there, with the caption, 'angel in human form'. He was beautiful. He was graceful and lovely and talented in ways one could only imagine. He could fly.

But Deidara wasn't an angel like Hinata was. Because he was rough, unskilled, devious and murderous. An angel in form, but not quite making the cut in personality.

Sasori overlooked that.

Because where Deidara was rough, it was like a diamond. He just needed polishing. And where he was unskilled, Sasori trained him. He made use of his raw potential. Where Deidara was devious, Sasori could use that to accomplish his own goals. And where Deidara was murderous…Sasori could do nothing about.

Because he loved seeing him covered in blood with that demonic grin on his face.

Hinata was an angel of a different sort. She was the textbook guardian angel. She had the personality and appearance down pat. She was beautiful in a homely, oft overlooked way. She was otherworldly with her ashen eyes and midnight hair. It was like the stars and the night. She cared, too. She cared. She cared no matter what you were, angel or demon or human or anything. She could care about anything, and do so with her entire heart, with true sincerity. Sasori sometimes could imagine she had white wings extending from her shoulder blades. He half expected it.

That's why Sasori couldn't stand her.

She was an angel where Deidara couldn't reach. Sasori wanted to strip her of her powers, rip those feathery, white wings from her shoulders, carve the hollow bones from her skin. He wanted to make her bleed. He would clip that angel's wings if it killed him.

Because then Deidara wouldn't have something to stand against. He wouldn't be compared to Hinata. He wouldn't be the lesser of the angels.

Sasori could blame himself, then. After all, there is nothing wrong with falling in love with an angel, right? He could place all of the blame on himself and leave Deidara free, free as a bird. Free to be his angelic self. And then he could overlook his rough and unskilled and devious and murderous personality, because Sasori loved all those things about him. He just didn't want Deidara to be blamed for them. He couldn't be blamed for them if he was the only angel left in the cold, cruel world, right?

So Sasori would sleep. And he would dream. Dream of clipping an angel's wings, yanking them out by the sockets, sawing through bone and feather until the wings were stained to match his hair. And he would awake again with no knowledge of these dreams, but with only the desire to see bloody feathers.

But Sasori wasn't entirely noble. He wasn't gallant enough to think of just Deidara, oh no. Some times, Sasori would dream of different things. He would dream of what it felt like to feel those swords pierce his heart and what it felt like to taste the tang of blood for the first time in decades. He would wonder what would have happened if Deidara hadn't stopped it all. Would he be the angel? Would he gain the wings?

Even, sometimes, Sasori dreamt of clipping the wings of Deidara's angelic rival, stealing them for himself. He longed to fly of his own power, longed to be blameless and good and innocent and unbiased. Those dreams Sasori couldn't rid himself of.

Every time they fought together, Sasori relished it. Because they were angels at what they did: they were perfect. Remorseless and unapologetic. Graceful, elegant. And then Sasori could watch Deidara get the closest to holy status as he'd ever get. He would use his off-white wings of clay, and rain down fire and explosions like heavenly judgment on those below. Sasori couldn't see why he called it 'art'; this was beyond art. Art was meant to be a mortal device to demonstrate beauty for all time. This was quick, efficient, equalizing. That was not the work of a mortal longing to call himself an artist.

So that was why Sasori couldn't help but laugh--a coarse, harsh, cold laugh--whenever Hinata would ruefully accuse him of looking too 'angelic'.