Chapter 4: When The Petals Fall

Deidara had sworn to never let himself fall into this situation again: skin other than the soles of his feet brushing the ground, that rich metallic taste in his throat, eyes squinting against the faux resplendence of another's trickery, wondering if it was art—

It was not art. It was everything but art.

And those eyes. Those fucking eyes.

Deidara realized it the moment he grew aware of the tickling of rocks under his back, the buzzing in his ears, and the sting of sweat in his left arm's gaping wound: reddened by the Sharingan or not, those eyes were the same. They looked down to him the same, disdained his art the same.

"You're all the fucking same breed," he grunted through the burn in his mouth. The taste burst out then, warmth seeping into his red-stained lips.

The night was young, illuminated by the dusky moonlight that, in its glorious fluidity, failed to bleed into the cracks on something bright. Something metal. Something like a forehead protector. In front of him, smudgy lines turned clear; colors coalesced to form a man's figure, but Deidara knew those eyes before he knew the bulk of their owner. He knew them the same way he knew the animosity towards his art before they became voices. The man before him had deep-set black eyes tuck neatly under Mura's insignia, positioned in a way they appeared to have sunk all the way back into his skull, ablaze with soon-to-be-shattered determination and rectitude.

The Yotsuki-nin raised both of his weapon-free hands.

Deidara knew he had to do something. He twisted, savored the pain in every muscle, and jammed the heel of his foot into the man's shin before he could form a hand seal. Then Deidara leapt up to land another kick in the man's guts—a delicious crunch between the hardness of his sandals and the tenderness of human flesh.

Nothing changed. The man's eyes were pools of still darkness, unwavering, frustratingly proud. Deidara caught a glimpse of his insanity in their righteousness. He blinked at his reflection: wide smile, blond hair studded with grime, blood across bared teeth.

The edges of his vision were blurred. Deidara was, in the end, a fool chasing after victory, a donkey chasing after the ever-bouncing carrot at the end of the stick. Pain entered his leg, but it was a mild distraction from the throbbing headache. A hole in his knee. The cut of a wind-infused blade was all the cleaner than he remembered. The man had stabbed him while bracing the full impact of his kick. Deidara launched himself backward, meaning to secure a foothold on the ground, but ended up airborne as the Yotsuki-nin flung more weaponry at him from under his sleeves.

Not that it mattered. His injured knee wouldn't have served him even if he landed.

So Deidara chose to fly.

With a burst of chakra, Deidara brought to life his masterpiece. Majestic, magnificent, with the size that overshadowed the sun, the color that washed the brightest of skies, and the breaths that vanquished the bravest of Wind users. The C2 dragon hushed Deidara onto its back and took off, wings sending gales sweeping over the barren land. The Yotsuki-nin's expression twitched. Deidara laughed.

What came next was a power demonstration, really. Chakra-blue shuriken and rage-fueled gusts found mini clay missiles and C2's pretentious display. The crescent above turned coy, its light losing vivacity in the presence of the two shinobi's sparks.

At some point during this prelude, Deidara regained a slice of his composure. He drew in a lungful of dust filled with air and felt the pulses of his heart slackening. Only then did he begin to see things for what they were, to see more than darkness.

He was above what seemed like a training ground behind the Yotsuki mansion. The murmurs of battles—Sasori was never the loud type—echoed in the distance, but here, things were uneventful. Deidara couldn't sense any chakra signature nearby nor uncover any clue of upcoming back-up. All of these pointed to one thing: he was isolated on purpose. That and his opponent was withholding a mass-destructive technique.

Why hadn't he picked it up sooner? The Yotsuki-nin possessed that precious kinjutsu, the key to their mission's success. He was one to be captured—not cut, not slain, not burned—

Not. Burned.

Still, Deidara found his thoughts wandering, blood pounding in his ears, gooseflesh on his arms. He dreamt of the Sharingan and the moon's whispers; the terror in the man's agleam eyes, his existence refined to ashes.

It was something the Academy never taught you—the ugly side of battles. Sometimes Deidara had to stop himself from drifting. Sometimes he could only pray nothing inside was broken. With eccentricity superseding poise, he tore out some parts of his cloak and wrapped them around his wounds. The feeling of the cloth against the pulpy mess on his arm and leg caused him to cringe.

Time to get this over with.

The C2 dragon flexed a final mid-air flip before diving for its target. The force of an over-one-hundred-thousand-pound creature crashing down rendered the Yotsuki-nin useless. Deidara couldn't feel the cold. At the same time, a dozen clay missiles charged from all corners. Chills climbed up Deidara's spine; this performance was going to be like no other.

His scream ripped through the quietude of the night. "KATS—"

A blink.

The Yotsuki-nin was behind him, kunai angled at his throat.

"Shunshin?" Deidara groaned.

"It's over for you," came the reply.

"Tell me about it, yeah?" Deidara said, much attuned to the splash of his sweat on the weapon pressed against his skin.

"What do you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean," The Yotsuki-nin said. "Is it the kinjutsu?"

Deidara raised a brow. "So you do have the kinjutsu."

"Stupid of me to admit that, I know."

"I've seen enough to not call it stupidity," Deidara picked his words carefully. One of his hands snuck its way downward. He needed it. Nails one inch deep in the white sludge and its softness would mute the itch on his neck and the pang that shot through his head just now. "When an enemy admits to something they should've kept secret, it could only be because no one had ever lived to tell the tale."

The grip around Deidara's neck loosened a little then tightened again. "What about you? Has anyone lived after cornering you like this?"

Of course not. No one can survive against my supreme ART. "It's pretty rare, actually."

"Well then— what are you doing?"

Deidara was busted. The Yotsuki-nin slipped his free hand into his left pouch and yanked out its content. A sigh was his only choice of protest. Deidara waited in boredom as the other man continued disarming him, rummaging through all his pockets until reaching his right pouch.

"Hey," Deidara said.

"What? I'm not going to let you keep your weapons on."

"It's fine. You can have them," Deidara rotated his wrist so that his palm was facing the Yotsuki-nin. The hand-mouth flashed a grin. "I always keep some in my palms anyway."

They fell for it every time. As expected, the Yotsuki-nin lunged backward before robbing the last bit of Deidara's clay supply. He crossed his arms before his chest for defense.

Deidara's neck made a cracking sound when he stretched it. The blood felt dry under his fingertips. "Idiot."

"You fucking—"

The Yotsuki-nin didn't have the chance to finish his slur. Deidara's mastery at his arts meant it took mere seconds: He crafted a human-sized scorpion from his remaining clay and launched it at the man. The creature's legs sprung to enclasp its prey in its rugged claws.

Deidara didn't have the chance to finish his all-time favorite phrase. As soon as the scorpion went off, he was on all fours. Wha? A sharp, burning sensation racked his ears. He thought he screamed, but his scream came out as silence. Silence and fear. Deidara held his mouth. Something vile rushed up in his throat and he vomited on the ground—resemblances of today's lunch mingled with red.

It was sound.

The Yotsuki-nin used sound.

Deidara knew it, this type of pain. It was worse than the caress of a blade or the strokes of Sasori's poison. Not a single touch yet his insides felt like imploding. Ill. Feverish. But how? His creation—

"How does it feel to have your weapon used against you?" Arrogance was apparent in the Yotsuki-nin's voice.

Ah. That's how it is.

But what could he do? Wherever there was air, there was the possibility of sound manipulation. Hiding underground? Not going to last. C1? But that was reserved for Itachi.

The swish-swash of wind jutsu became deafening howls. A bombardment of noise that triumphed over a bombardment of explosions.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Deidara hobbled away, dragging his stabbed leg along. He didn't know how long he went—all was fuzzy, soundless, and bloody, but by the time the pain rose to the point of unbearable, he was one step away from falling off the mountain cliff. He looked down over the edge; the unknown called for him. Seduced him. For a moment Deidara wondered how his body would look sprawled on the bottom of that void, punctured through by a scrawny tree top.

But what could he do? Ask for help? He had lost every means of connection with Sasori: the puppet body, and the network of clay spiders which had disintegrated since he fell unconscious. Deidara rolled to a nearby rock and sought shelter behind it, hoping to buy some time.

There, he noticed something.

His only ray of hope left.

Deidara grabbed it. It was a miracle the item wasn't blown away or blown to pieces during the fight. Then again, Sasori was famous for the resilience of his pieces.

A crumbling sound. Deidara's wall of defense collapsed into debris. The Yotsuki-nin arrived in front of him, eyes red and head high as though he were God. His fingers were already twisted in a seal, but he stopped half-way when Deidara smiled at him and leaned backward.

Falling off a cliff felt kinda nice.


"That's the stupidest, riskiest, and the most ridiculous plan you've ever pulled."

"And? Did it work?"

"… Yes."

"Then your argument is invalid," Deidara passed the other a mischievous glance that was, like all his other advances, hardly reciprocated.

He brushed it off and turned to the side. A large section of the ground was raised and shaped into a block, a tiny house molded with barricades of stony soil. "Alright. I'm going to get him out now. You sure we didn't fry him?"

"I made sure it was the correct amount of fire," Sasori replied as he stretched his hand, watching intently as this part of him coordinated with the rest of his long-awaited original puppet husk.

"Not fried then?"

"Not crisp, yes."

"You're sick."

"Thanks."

It was good hearing Sasori talk again. Hearing the venom trickling off his tongue, finding the wit underneath, reading the way his eyes narrowed and the incredulous twitch of his brows. See? Sasori was never emotionless. He was an ocean of emotions, shrouded under a thousand waves of subtleties.

And Deidara needed to appreciate this Sasori more— Sasori with a heart, for he was over-expressive next to his empty shell.

Keeping the butterflies in check, Deidara ran through hand seals and caused the block's walls to retreat into the earth. The burnt figure of the Yotsuki-nin came into sight, spared some relief by the crispness of the open air. The man was lying face-down with his clothes seared dark at the edges. No more boastful stares. Deidara was content when he found a pulse.

"Minus the—"

"—gigantic—" Sasori scoffed.

"—risk factor, you have to admit I came up with a brilliant plan," Deidara said as he got up from his squatting position. "I mean, flying all the way here, burning him, then trapping him in that block? Genius."

"I'd appreciate it a lot more if you didn't use my body as a vehicle, and my fire jet as your weapon." Sasori frowned at the disassembled chakra shield mechanic on his arm.

"He can manipulate air, danna. To make winds and to mess with sounds," Deidara replied, a sour taste in his mouth. "The only way to defeat him is to take away his supply. Suck out the air by making a fire in a closed space, yeah."

"You wouldn't have got into that situation in the first place if you'd listened to me. But you had to split up."

Pain clamoured across Deidara's ears, as though reminding him of its prideful existence, and he succumbed to it, slumping onto the ground after a few flailing movements of his limbs. He held his head. The residue of the previous battle wasn't the culprit. The remnants of the sound kinjutsu turned background to the wrath of ART herself. She was the one who SCREAMED. Her claws cleaved through his ears, breathing grievance.

Deidara had tried to put up a brave front, but there was no denying that he failed. Failed. Failed. Failed. A miserable victory of a failure as an artist. To think that he had to resort to using Earth jutsu and borrow Sasori's fire of all things…

There was a squelching sound. Deidara looked up— Sasori had dropped a ball of clay on the ground in front of him.

"I'm a little tired, that's all," Deidara stared at the clay like it was some kind of God's gift. "… How did you know I ran out?"

"You're giving yourself a major disadvantage when you rely on a limited amount of resources." A dreadful pause. "Kanyu told me to bring some in case you run out." Sasori turned towards his battlefield, and his red hair glowed more when the earliest hints of dawn struck. "Go blow up dead bodies or something. I have unfinished business inside."

Deidara collected the clay and held it up against the rising sun. "Understood."

"How were you sure I would help you, anyway?"

"I know your body can reassemble and, you know, in the heat of the moment, I just thought it'd work."

"But—"

"You know what your body parts are doing, yeah? You know everything as long as there's a part of your chakra there."

"But I controlled my strings," Sasori said firmly. "How were you sure I wouldn't refuse to pull you back here and not let you fall off that cliff?"

"Oh, that?" Deidara smiled. "That's called trust."


After roaming around the area in a search for traces of life left, plopping clay spiders into mouths whose ajar lips still managed to slip a breath out, Deidara thought of checking up on his partner; Sasori had taken ages. The sun faltered behind Deidara's back as he meandered towards Sasori's location. He pulled on his torn cloak, seeking some warmth.

Deidara kicked away some rubble collected on the doorstep as he entered the mansion. Inside was a feast for all senses. The smell of death enticed the mind—Sasori always left a distinct fragrance—and the building's roof was punctured with fat, chunky iron sand spikes. Debris and household items and bodies littered the floor. Looks like someone did not hold back.

As absurd as it sounded, Deidara was not used to the sight of mass slaughter. Soaring in the air from one mile above, even carnage looked pure. Distance yourself enough, and a massacre was merely your village's playground on a sweltering day, of fallen orchids, of shades of fiery crimson, nature's minutiae fallen at the mercy of the summer winds. A chessboard of broken pieces. But he was now walking among those pieces, some of whose stares followed him into the depth of the hallway, whose silent spite melted off his shoulders.

Sasori's victims were never truly dead.

"Shut up." Deidara placed his palm on the chest of a man with an iron sand spear through his stomach, silencing him.

A scream made Deidara's heart jump. Never had he encountered a sound so poignant and rich in anguish. Curiosity propelled him to locate the source, and as soon as he succeeded, he regretted having bothered at all.

Deidara stepped into the scene: a normal bedroom on the second floor. Sasori stood in the center of the room, in the process of murdering three people—nothing fascinating, but something told Deidara he should not be here.

The trio facing Sasori were shaking against a wall. A man, a woman, and a little girl trapped within their embrace. From the look of it, the man and the woman weren't going to last long. Poisoned senbon had adorned their skin, poked holes into their faces. Blood oozed from their pale lips, each splashing against the floor drawing life from their feeble forms.

Yet their grips conveyed such defiance unseen in any of Sasori's prey. Deidara started to understand the abnormality in what should have been a normal case. Their grips were stubborn. They clenched their arms in front of the girl's chest, clinging for dear life, shielding her from Sasori. Deidara watched the corners of their lips rise and fall, their breaths quicken then diminish, but their grips did not waver. Not for a second.

"You love wasting time for someone who doesn't have much of it left," Sasori said. There was a noticeable strain in his voice.

"Go away! Don't touch her!" the woman cried.

"She's going to die anyway."

Deidara gasped when the man plucked a senbon from his arm and threw it at Sasori, who caught it without blinking. This man had impressive willpower.

"You failed to save yourselves." It was the first time Sasori talked so loud. "You failed to live. You failed your greatest responsibility as parents.

"And now you're trying to protect her?"

The woman opened her mouth, but she choked on her spit. An agonizing expression twisted her face and she collapsed forward, the warmth of her arms leaving her daughter's sides. The man took no time to follow after. It was like watching puzzle pieces falling into their rightful places—satisfying.

Deidara looked at Sasori.

Sasori's head was down, fingers twirling the senbon he had previously caught. Then, he looked up and aimed the weapon at the girl trembling between her fallen family. His arm shook. He drove the senbon forward, the poison-tipped needle almost slipping out of his palm, and pulled it back again.

"Danna?" Deidara asked. "Why are you hesitating?"

Sasori turned around, and the mask he had been wearing since Deidara's recruitment slipped. No clenching fists, red-rimmed eyes, or grinding jaw, but what clouded his face was evident anger. There was no doubt. Deidara's feet were grounded in his spot.

"I'm not," Sasori replied, fixing his hair. He turned on his heels to walk away.

"Leader said we need to wipe out this clan," Deidara said. "Wipe out. We can't leave anyone alive."

"Who says we're going to let her live?" Sasori glanced sideways at Deidara. "Exploding her with your 'art,' slicing her throat open, I don't care. That brat is not worth my time."

He left.

Deidara refused to process what just happened; everything was confusing. Nevertheless, it was a bad move for Sasori to leave the dirty work to him: killing a child. Deidara was no stranger to killing, but the idea of ending a child's life this close was eerie, especially when said child could one day bloom into an amazing artist.

Or maybe he could—

No, no, he couldn't.

Deidara sighed and stepped closer to the girl. He put his face in her sight by kneeling in front of her.

The girl looked no older than eight. At her age, Deidara was already a chunin. He eyed her over: no serious injuries aside from a few bruises. Her hair clung onto her cheeks by a nasty combination of blood, sweat, tears, and snot. Her face was white with terror. She recoiled from him, pressing herself further against the wall.

"What's your name?" Deidara asked.

A hint of surprise passed over her expression before giving way to despair.

"I'm asking you. What's your name?"

"Ki—Kiyoi," The girl whimpered.

"Kiyoi, yeah?" Deidara said, musing over the word in his head. "I have something that might suit you."

He took off his cloak and rummaged through his pants' pockets. All of the flowers were crushed except for one, which he offered Kiyoi with a smile. She received it with much hesitation, little fingers wrapped around the slightly crippled stem holding the flower head in place.

"How about I give you a chance to live?" Deidara hummed. "Would that make you look a little livelier, yeah?"

No reply.

Deidara gave her a disapproving look. "There's this game where you pluck flower petals to see if your feelings are reciprocated… er, to see if a boy likes you back or not. 'He loves me. He loves me not.' I guess you're at the age to start wondering about those sort of things. Anyway, have you heard of it?"

Kiyoi nodded. She gazed at Deidara, then the white flower, then her dying parents, and swallowed her tears.

"Shinobi life, you know, it's not always about the strong and the weak. At the end of the day, it all comes down to luck—luck to have clan's blood flowing in your veins, powerful eyes, a kekkei genkai," he trailed off. "If today luck's in your favor, I'll let you live."

Realization dawned on her.

"Close your eyes," Deidara said in a low voice. "You can't see the number of petals left. It'll ruin the surprise."

The place plunged into silence. Only the screech of winds through the broken windows and the merciless chimes of the grandfather clock flowed in rhythm with Kiyoi's breaths, counting down her ultimate end.

"He kills me."

When Deidara turned around, he was no longer in the Yotsuki's mansion. He was drowning amid the tireless waves of white and basking in that sickeningly sweet flowery scent.

"He kills me not."

On the flower field in the Valley of Lies, there were Deidara and his eight-year-old victim. She was a perfect replica of the dying corpse knotted in her bloodless palms. Because each white flower was a girl in her most beautiful years! Her skin was so glassy it let sunlight shine through, her cheeks tinted with a dainty blush. Her body fluttered with the youthful energy of a girl about to blossom—but then she fluttered no more.

"He kills me."

Kiyoi was no different than her parents—Deidara should have expected. The flower slipped out of her hands the moment her fingers brushed against its stamen, finding no smoothness of petals against her skin.

She used her last moments to squirm, attempting a pitiful struggle against death's grip. She made Deidara's ears buzz.

The buzz brought only a tingling sensation, laughable compared to the Yotsuki man's ones, but Deidara was shocked. "You… can use sound too?"

Something tugged at the hem of his shirt. He tensed up when he saw it—the ashy index finger of the mother hooked into the fabric of his clothes. She was not dead, not until she had experienced enough torment to expire in three days' time, but Deidara was aware of how much strength it took to even flinch under the influence of Sasori's poison. The rest of her body did not move, and he couldn't see her face...

And somehow, that tug of her finger said everything.

White clay slithered its way around Kiyoi and her parents. Their necks would snap, their cells would burst into art, art would welcome them, and their pain would end immediately.

"Don't worry," Deidara gulped. "It'll be quick."


A/N:

Fun fact: "Kiyoi" means pure in Japanese. It's actually the name of an existing character in Shippuden, but I decided to take it since I thought it would be fitting.

With chapter four complete, we have finally reached the climax of the first arc and the beginning of the process of traumatizing Deidara. I hope you're as excited as I am about what to come!