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The Hitomi turns on, instead of breaking, when Deidara throws it against a tree. Maybe it didn't want to break. But it turns on and it lands and there's Deidara, back to the device, shaking with a desperate sort of fury. And he unleashes hell on the landscape around him
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I was testing something. It didn't work. It'll never work anymore.
I didn't feel anything.
The cornerstone of their relationship has always been their deep mutual understanding as fellow artists, as people who both are moved at their very deepest levels by the desire to create; they're both driven at their core by that irresistible need to express oneself, to reach for the sublime by drawing out something from so deep inside that it's beyond the capability of being expressed in words and pouring it out into the world, crystallizing it into a form that can be seen and experienced and, perhaps, understood.
Even if Sasori doesn't quite approve of Deidara's medium of choice, he's always respected his partner as a true artist. To have art lose its meaning, to no longer be moved by the creative process...it's a loss that cuts so deep that he can barely fathom what it must be like for his partner.
His hands reach for Deidara's shoulders, and he isn't sure if he's trying to anchor his partner, or himself.]
When did this start? How?
[He struggles to control himself. After all, the last thing Deidara needs is to see Sasori distressed. He huffs, but it's halfhearted at best, and even he knows his attempt at showing his usual annoyance isn't even close to convincing.]
Hmph, are you sure about this?
...You're probably just feeling uninspired because I wore you out before and you're being melodramatic about it to make me [worry] angry.
You'll probably be back to your usual obnoxious self once you get some rest.
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[He doesn't think rest will help. He can't imagine anything helping. It's like he's been scooped out of his body, he's gone and there's just a shell left, something useless and waiting to rot away. Or maybe he's rotting right now.]
If you want me to rest, I will.
[He has nothing left but what Sasori tells him to do. He sees no point in doing anything else.]
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I see. So it was a scroll that did this to you.
[He smooths his hands over Deidara's shoulders before giving him a soft kiss on the forehead. His voice is soft.]
It will be all right, I promise. [I'll find a way to fix it. To fix you. Trust me.]
[He then stands up.]
You haven't eaten anything since you left, have you? I'll make you something.
You'll feel better after you eat and get some rest.
[When he turns away and heads towards the kitchen, his expression turns absolutely murderous.
Those bastards, those fucking bastard gods. How dare they do this?
Sasori is the one who refuses to bow to their whims, not Deidara. Sasori is the one who openly rejects their absurd, childish lessons, not Deidara.
Clearly, they're not content to toy with and humiliate him directly anymore, but now they aim towards the people who are most precious to him. First they twist Leader's mind, and now they crush Deidara's spirit.
What pathetic cowards they are, to strike at him like this, because they're unable to articulate their ridiculous views in a way that will convince him, and because their direct attempt to bend him to their will utterly failed.
If they think this will break him, they're sadly mistaken. He won't bend, he won't break, and he will find a way to fix Deidara.
And if he can find a way to kill the bastard deities who are responsible for this and turn them into puppets, he'll do that too.]
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He stands, and follows Sasori into the kitchen. Deidara doesn't want to disappear. He knows he is there if Sasori is there.]
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Instead, he feels subdued, as he follows the train of though he'd started earlier to its natural conclusion.
The gods did this to Deidara, to get back at Sasori. This is his fault, because he'd acknowledged Deidara, because he'd reached out to him, and finally given in and accepted the connection he'd been resisting for two years.
They'd already snatched someone precious away from him once by revealing it to all be a lie, and now they were trying to do it again by destroying that person's mind.
He tries to focus on cooking, pushing down the guilt that is threatening to overwhelm him while he washes and drains the rice, rinsing it again and again until the water is clear, and his mind is clear.
This isn't a task he's particularly good at due to almost complete lack of practice after decades of not eating, although he's still capable of producing something edible enough.
Maybe they could both use a distraction.]
You can help if you're bored, you know. After all, I don't do this sort of thing particularly often.
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If he's nearer to Sasori, is he more sure he exists? Maybe. He'll stay close, then.]
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He is so used to the arguing, the bantering, the mockery, the teasing, that he doesn't know how to handle this.
His eyes keep flicking back and forth from Deidara, who's slicing a pickled radish so slowly and absently that Sasori is tempted to pull the knife out of his hands before his partner cuts himself, to where he's watching the rice simmer, and the only sounds breaking the awkward gulf of silence are the crackling of the fire and the soft bubbling of the rice simmering and the awkward thunk of the knife against the chopping board.
It's completely intolerable, and Sasori tries to break the silence as best he can.]
I-I'll reheat that leftover fish from lunch as well.
...Would you like to rest after you eat?
You can help me clean, if you aren't tired.
[He almost suggested that Deidara could help him with his puppets, but he doesn't want to go anywhere near the subject of art at all.]
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I'll help.
[He knows Sasori is worried, but he doesn't know what can be done about it.]
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Well, you'd better be willing to help. After all, it's your mess that we'll be cleaning up.
[Unfortunately, it is a less than successful effort. At least this time he'd kept his voice level.
This silence, it almost reminds Sasori of those first days of their partnership, those very early days.
Almost.
Then, it had been a glaring, sullen silence that Deidara had directed at him, a resentment at being forced to join the Akatsuki againt his will. Now it was listless, apathetic, a silence that came out of a complete lack of a desire to speak, rather than pure petulance.
It isn't long before everything is ready, and Sasori is spooning and plating rice and pickles and leftover fish quietly for his partner. He hasn't cooked for him in quite some time, only doing so during the rare times Deidara was ever injured, or ill.
It's the best he can do for Deidara at the moment, and it's immensely frustrating.
He will have to find out how to fix whatever that scroll did to his partner as soon as he can.
Later, when Deidara is asleep...he'll consider the problem more thoroughly. For now, he does what little he can.
He places plate and chopsticks and rice bowl on the low table that serves as his dining table (after it had been cleared of the puppet parts he'd been working on earlier.)]
Well, it's ready, so eat.
...You'd better not complain about the rice this time.
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I won't.
[He eats quietly--almost methodically, although it's not intentional so much as a result of hardly caring about the food. But Sasori told him to eat. So he finishes it and moves onto the cleaning.
It's easy to stop thinking when doing something like this. He falls into a pattern as he cleans, and his eyes dull even more as he falls into a thoughtless state of simply doing.
It's easier this way.]
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Even his puppets show more life than this, when he controls them. He sighs, and reaches for Deidara's hand to pull him towards the bedroom.]
I think you should get some rest now. Let's go.
[...There was a time, when he was young and still foolish, that Sasori would sleep nestled between them, those puppets that he'd made in the image of his parents. If he concentrated hard enough, he'd been able to pretend they were warm and soft, and it was comforting.
But they weren't, they'd always been cold and hard, and any comfort he'd deluded himself into deriving from them had fled the day the strings snapped.
He wonders now, while he quietly unfolds the futon and prepares for bed, how much comfort he can possibly offer to Deidara when his body is cold and hard, and his partner is far too old for such childish delusions.]
I'm sure you'll feel better in the morning, you're probably tired from all the excitement earlier. Come.
[And Sasori pulls Deidara down into their (it's not just his anymore) futon, and pulls him close, offering whatever comfort an embrace from a cold and hard puppet body possibly can.
Deidara hasn't smirked at him, or teased him, or tried to annoy him even once since he'd come back. Just like Sasori has always wanted, he's been quiet, he hasn't interrupted, he's listened, and he's obeyed.
And Sasori hates every second of it.
His arms tighten around his partner's warm body as he cuddles even closer, almost trembling from the distress that's eating away at him over Deidara's condition, and he wonders who's really comforting who here.
He'll fix it. He'd always been good at fixing broken things, puppets that had been smashed almost beyond recognition that were supposedly impossible to repair would be reshaped and remade by his hands to be better than they were to start with. It couldn't possibly be so difficult for him to fix Deidara, since all he wants to do is make him back the way he was.
He buries his face in Deidara's shoulder, and his lips tighten.
He'll fix it.]
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He has not made a habit of seeking comfort in others--people whose comfort is as ephemeral as they themselves are, people who he doesn't care about anyway. But his hands find their way around Sasori anyway, and his arms tighten, and he's not sure what he's doing, but he supposes it doesn't matter anyway, so he simply lays still after that.
Sasori's body is not something he thinks many would look to for comfort, but Deidara is not one who often looks for comfort, and so he thinks it fits.
But he doesn't want to think--not about anything, not after what happened. So he closes his eyes and stops. It's easier this way.]
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