For some reason, Sasori's room seems darker than usual, and the pallor of his skin seems to be intensified. It gives him an eerie glow, as he sits next to me. I notice that his breathing has increased considerably since we came in, but overall, like always, he maintains his cool composure. He leaves my Akatsuki coat half unbuttoned and pushes the top half down, so that it all rolls around my waist. I shiver involuntarily. It's cold, but not that cold, yet the temperature seems to have plummeted thirteen degrees. Sasori brushes some of my hair aside, and as he leans forward I put out a hand to stop him.
"Danna," I say. My God, I was so naïve and stupid, at fourteen years old. My partner does not reply, but his grip around my shoulder tightens momentarily. There is still nothing in his eyes, nothing that gives away whether or not he feels guilty or wicked about he is doing. He, like always, is just looking at the situation on its face value. Him and me, on his bed. Nothing more, nothing less. Well, it was soon to be more, that was for sure.
All of a sudden, he lets out a low growl and one of his arms wraps around my waist and the other holds down the hand that I reached out with. He yanks that hand above my head and, with that air of impatience that is not unlike Sasori, he presses his body down on mine and kisses the area he had brushed the hair aside from. I struggle a little, bending my knees in an effort to push him off. But nothing works. I feel speechless at what is happening.
I glance at the door, willing Zetsu to just materialize there and confront Sasori. In this moment of weakness and helplessness, I miss black Zetsu's nasty remarks. I twist the hand that he's gripping, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. This makes him clamp a bit of my flesh between his teeth. I call out in pain.
"Stop struggling, brat," he spits into my ear. I look down. My Akatsuki coat has somehow rolled down to my knees. My whole body tingles with anticipation…anticipation for what? I use my other hand and try to pull the coat up again. Sasori seems to chuckle. He puts a warning hand on mine.
"Don't," he murmurs against my skin. "You look better this way," he leans back again so he can look me in the eye. "But you can still look even better,"
I wonder with a funny feeling if this was how his human victims felt before he killed them and made them into puppets. I was sure that if it wasn't, it wasn't far off.
And with that, he wrenched my shirt off my head. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see it.
Deidara sat up in bed, panting. This sudden, fast movement sends stinging pain through his body, stemming from his wound. Watch it! It seems to whine. Deidara put a hand up to his neck, only to feel a wide piece of fabric wrapped firmly and neatly around it. It was definitely not a bandage. It felt like part of a shirt, a piece of apparel. Deidara felt the material for a few moments. It was thick, and no blood had reached its surface yet. Deidara sighed and looked at his hands, which had gone clammy and were shaking slightly. Again, the dream had seemed so vivid and real, but they couldn't be true. They couldn't. Deidara put his head in his hands, just as Itachi came through the door.
Deidara sensed the movement. He looked up, peeking through his fingers.
Itachi was frozen to the spot. As he neared the room, he'd heard some tossing and turning, something Hidan hadn't mentioned. He'd been worried for a bit, but that Deidara was awake, that worry had faded away.
"What do you want?" the blonde demanded, rudely. It was a defense mechanism, Itachi could tell. There were emotional notes to Deidara's voice, and Itachi could tell he probably had a bad dream more than anything. Deidara would never be this traumatized by the Sasuke encounter, not in a million years. Itachi himself had had many bad dreams over the course of his life…after all, who didn't? And he'd also woken up in a daze, caught up in the illusions and voices of the nightmare.
"Hidan told me to come and check on how you were,"
Deidara smiled a bit despite himself. "Ha. Tell him not to worry, yeah?,"
Itachi nodded.
Deidara slid out of his bed. His Akatsuki coat was damp. Recalling the clay, he reached into his pockets and dunked the shit onto his table, next to a tub of water. Itachi eyed them wordlessly. Then the Iwa nin slid off his coat and mashed it into a ball, going into his bathroom. He came out without it and pulled off his shirt. It was slightly damp with sweat.
Itachi tried not to watch, but he couldn't stop, because of that giant stitch on Deidara's chest. He wondered what it was, because it was huge.
"Are you gonna stand there and watch me piss too?"
Itachi's cheeks flushed. He coughed apologetically and left the room. Deidara sighed and pressed a hand against his forehead. It was pulsing with heat. He walked into his bathroom, appreciating the cool white tiles against his bare feet. He looked at himself in the mirror and then slowly unraveled the fabric. Whoever had bandaged him was very careful in their handiwork, because each layer overlapped the previous one in exactly the same amount each time. As he got closer to the wound, Deidara could see the blood. He had to peel the last layer of fabric because the fibers had stuck to the dried blood.
"Ugh," Deidara said out loud. He folded the fabric quickly and put it on top of his sink, inspecting the stitched-up wound. The dream he'd had had made such a huge impact he'd completely forgotten about the night before, and his random encounter with Sasuke Uchiha, during which he fainted. Embarrassingly. He wondered why he hadn't been killed, but then—wait, what did Itachi say?
"Hidan told me to come and check on how you were,"
Did Hidan stop him? Deidara thought. It was laughable, but probably true. But then, how had Hidan fought off Sasuke? Or did he talk him out of it? Deidara sighed. He felt a little ball of his old confidence returning as he thought about Hidan. The Jashinist had always paid him out when he was younger, and now he had the upper hand. The fact that Hidan was three years older than him just added to the bravado. Deidara gripped the edges of the sink. He had to forget about those goddamn dreams.
I can't let dreams get in my way.
He opened the tap and wet a towel, then began patting his wound clean.
You don't remember it, Sasori thought, watching Deidara. The late puppeteer had taken a form of complete transparency…meaning, no one could see him. It was a form he took often. But your dreams are actually a memory.