Deidara: Art is a bang!
Title: “Halcyon Days”
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: PG-13
Summary: If Sasuke had asked Deidara to join him against the Akatsuki, would Deidara have agreed? [Minor Itachi/Deidara slash; Spoilers for chapters 359 and 362] Please R&R!
Disclaimer: belongs to Kishimoto Masashi and whoever else that is not me… I really wish I would have thought of such cool characters first))
A/N: We don’t know much about Deidara’s past, do we? So I took the liberty of making up a tiny piece.
HALCYON DAYS
…From the first day Itachi had been the object of his careful observation. Itachi had tricked him, humiliated him - and given him another goal to achieve.
Deidara watched him like one would watch a masterful piece of craft. His impassive features that had never been distorted by a grimace of wild pleasure. His confident gait - so unlike Deidara’s own who often seemed to be flitting above the ground, his steps a bit shaky due to frequent flights atop his clay birds. His blood-red eyes spinning, shifting and boring into Deidara’s soul. In his unique way Itachi was pure perfection.
But Itachi had never known that passionate asphyxiation that preceded the moment of creating a masterpiece. Itachi had never experienced a whirlwind of emotions that Deidara could swallow at a single draught. Itachi was ice-cold whereas Deidara blazed like wanton fire, his features vivacious, ever-changing like a liquid mask.
And now - this impertinent young one! The other Uchiha, the sidekick trouble to the Akatsuki organization in their great quest for… whatever their great quest was. And suddenly so strong, so cold, so similar to that blasted Itachi!
How passionately Deidara hated those eyes! The eyes of an ignorant fool that looked upon his art with no display of admiration. No, not even admiration! Anything at all!
‘I want you,’ Deidara thought feverishly, ‘to react. My art always wins!’
He poured his fury, his resentment for this young brat into his clay. His hate fuelled his explosions, yet over and over again the boy came alive and addressed him with a single question:
“Where is Itachi?”
Embittered, Deidara recollected that ugly despair that had engulfed him after he’s been defeated by the older Uchiha. The crimson eyes seemed to have been burnt in his retinas. Little by little he’d grown accustomed to the missions of the Akatsuki. He’d become quite fond of Master Sasori; the puppet master too, even if he’d refused to show it, had harboured some sort of grudging affection for his partner. As a member of the Akatsuki, Deidara had been granted a nearly limitless stack of what to explode.
The only fly in his ointment was that scarlet-eyed bastard with a heart of stone. Deidara tailed him as much as he could, watched his every step, even dreamt about him occasionally. In his mind’s eye, Itachi was a violent flash of black, and white, and purple…
He wanted to make Itachi move when he was standing still. He wanted to make him scream when he kept silent. He wanted to fill him to the brim with passion, but that cold abyss rejected everything.
* * *
Many years ago Deidara knew a man, now faceless in his memory, the closest person he’d come to call ‘sensei’. The man was kind and patient with his unruly charge, and Deidara liked spending time with him. The boy had always placed himself above everyone else. That man was the only one who could make him sing small, and the only one Deidara would willingly allow to do it, for that matter.
“He who doesn’t burn doesn’t live,” the sensei used to say. “The faster the heart beats, the stronger it’s reflected on your craft. Now you,” he’d poke Deidara in the chest lightly and smile, “you have a wild heart.”
Deidara grinned fiercely, his eyes burning with lust for more artistic revelation. It was funny that after all this time he couldn’t remember the face of the man who’d had such impact on his life.
They’d walk together by the river beneath the setting sun, and Deidara would let the sensei’s voice carry him away into the unexplored land of greater art.
Molding clay with ease, Deidara created small things, beautiful in their simplicity. Miniature birds would spring from his open palms, circle in the sky and go out in a scattering of fireworks. The sensei had taught him to see beauty in explosions. Before him, Deidara was just a boy with an appetite for destruction. Eventually he learnt to create.
The sensei squatted beside Deidara and brushed his long yellow fringe aside. The boy blinked his huge fair eyes in wonder. He noticed a long cut across the man’s palm that was bleeding profoundly. Must have cut himself over a blade of grass; sometimes those things could be really violent… The boy cocked his head with a slight frown.
“You have a great future ahead of you, boy,” the man said in a low confiding voice. “Live fast and go out with a bang!”
Deidara’s lips curved upwards in a tentative smile. He took the master’s hand, warm and big compared to his own delicate hand, and pressed his palm to the master’s palm. A tongue stuck out of his hand and licked the blood off.
* * *
Shaking, Deidara was dangling by a thread on the verge of despair and cruel insanity. His life had been fast the way the sensei had predicted. He rolled through life like a giant ball of fire. He could not just die out like a candle. If he had to disappear he’d eagerly take this little abomination with him!
He hated those eyes!
“Eyes that reject… that disdain my art! I refuse to be looked at by them anymore!” he screeched. “Those goddamn cocky eyes of yours! It drives me insane! Eyes that ignore my creations!..”
Battered and bruised, blood trickling down his splintered lips, that brat still looked strong and unperturbed. Deidara wanted to break him. He craved it with all his wild heart.
“You… you hate Itachi?” the brat spoke suddenly. His swollen lips barely moved.
Taken aback, Deidara simply uttered: “Mmm?”
“If you do, then come with me.”
“Mmm?” Deidara said a little louder. “Why would I do that? Come with you, the one I loathe, the one who ignores my art, yeah?! You’re not in flames! You have no passion! Come with you, you say, mmm!”
He burst out laughing. Silly little brat! Who did he think he was!?
Sasuke’s voice sounded hushed and exhausted. “I have passion. I burn. A lifelong ambition to kill my brother - that is the fire that keeps me going.”
“You destroy, yeah!” Deidara exclaimed. “I create! You are empty. You and your brother, you know nothing of art. You’re the embodiment of the grey mass that is humanity. I’m an artist, one of a kind, yeah!”
Sasuke lowered his dark eyes. That face, Deidara observed with interest, was so alike Itachi’s face. A few years younger, smooth, fair, unmarred by the lines beneath the eyes that, Deidara strongly suspected, could tell of long sleepless nights…
He longed to know why Itachi never slept. He often saw him sitting in the dark, staring before him in dismal thoughtfulness. Itachi was aware of his presence most of the time (not that Deidara did anything to conceal himself), but he ignored him like one ignores a curious, harmless animal that doesn’t try to attack. Such moments were the worst; alone with the stone cold Itachi, Deidara wanted nothing more than to slit his throat. He had to shake off that mean desire.
“I can’t stand lurkers,” Itachi said softly one day.
Deidara came out and flopped in the arm-chair facing the red-eyed bastard, looking as smug and composed as he could. Itachi looked up; it was as though he was looking through him. For a moment Deidara wanted nothing more than to set one of his elaborate clay traps on him. A firm slap in the face would do him well.
“Still mad about me beating you so easily?” Itachi asked.
“Mad? You wish! I have a lot more on my mind… I must admit I’m puzzled by you, though.”
“What do you want to know?”
Deidara bit his lip. He never expected it to be so easy. There must have been a catch.
Deidara drew forward and pointed at Itachi’s chest. “Do you even have anything there?” He pressed his palm flat to Itachi’s chest and after a brief moment of silence he felt a heart beating beneath the layers of skin and fabric. The pulse was slow and even; nevertheless, there it was, a living, beating heart. Itachi stared at him placidly; he might have remembered something. His face was beautiful in the starlight streaming through the open window.
Influenced by a sudden impulse, Deidara brought his face closer to Itachi’s and caught his lips in a deep, probing kiss. Their tongues engaged in a ferocious battle for dominance, Deidara sank into the kiss like in a whirlpool of fire. He swallowed a small gasp of pleasure. Itachi’s mouth was thrashing, bruising him, devastating him, and he wanted - he needed - more…
Itachi broke the kiss off. Somewhere in the depth of the house someone moved. The dark-haired youth rose and vanished into the next room. Alone and powerless to maintain control, Deidara clenched his fists and shivered in helpless fury.
He could never satisfy his hunger. He didn’t even understand what he wanted more - to grind the hateful Uchiha into oblivion or to force him to respond to his actions the way he did back in the room.
And now his brother was asking him to join forces. A pointless quest for vengeance. Vengeance, however crafty it could be, was never real art. The Akatsuki’s elusive goal could be a fine substitute for Deidara’s artistic freedom, but this held absolutely no prospects for an artist.
Deidara wanted Itachi as much as the boy did. But not to kill him. To crush him, yes, to flood him with emotions, to make him scream and weep in anguish. His hands were hungry for the feel of Itachi’s body. He wanted to let them roam over the young man’s skin, to taste it, to tear sighs of excitement off Itachi’s lips.
He wanted to swallow him with his hand, bringing him to hardness with each skilled stroke. He wanted to taste the beads of sweat collected on his collarbone, ad run his tongue teasingly over his lips, and shiver and spasm on top of Itachi, drowning in the music of his melodic sighs…
He wanted what he could never have.
This silly boy would go a thousand miles to kill Itachi. Death was a good prize for those who didn’t care about art.
“No, I won’t go with you, mmm,” Deidara uttered, smirking. “You think you know so much. There is a fine line between creation and destruction; only those chosen for it can see it. I’m not like you! You think my dislike of your brother can be a good enough reason to betray myself and team up with you, yeah? Think twice, ratboy!”
“I couldn’t care less,” Sasuke said. “Now, where is Itachi?”
“Behold!” Deidara screamed. “My masterpiece! You shall scream! Cry like a lost child! Drown yourself in awe and despair!”
‘Thy death cometh!’
Itachi’s face flashed before him instead of Sasuke’s face. Damn, the brats did look a lot alike! A giant mouth on Deidara’s bare chest worked hard. This would be a terrific explosion. He’d gladly die for his art.
Now…
“Because my art,” Deidara cried out, “is a blast!”
And with a bang, he went out.
July 23, 2007