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terminalmadness in majutsu_shi

Who: Deidara and Shisui
What: A second meeting
When: WAAAY back when Itachi was at Suna cheating on Shisui n_n
Where: Deidara's chambers
Warnings: Onesided attraction, vicious making out, sharinganing, Shisui abuse, etc.

The air of the castle gets thicker with the more floors Shisui Uchiha descends from Itachi's room, sweeping through corridors and spiraling down staircases, enjoying the castle as if it indeed were his own, and therefore being left alone. The strategy was simple. Act as if you belong and no one will question you. Once or twice a day he finds a new route to a new floor, often not finding his way back to his own that night at all and just ducking into an empty bedroom for the night to sleep. It had become something of sport. To let himself be lost and let himself be found again, and so often did he find libraries and collect piles of books, or rooms with art that tower to the high ceilings.

He knows he should be counting to what floor he is at now, but the smell of burning flesh, papers streaked and boiled with the brown of a burn, and photographs boiled and withered in heat draws him to something he knows is familiar, without really knowing entirely. The air is thick, and he knows he is well underground at this point, for the cold winter sunlight was nowhere to be found and candles and lamps and chandeliers flood light into the cold corridors. (And yet the air is not moist. It has an arid dry, as if all of the life had been sucked out of it and what was left was the carbon dioxide he breathes back out from his tensing lungs.)

He feels his eyes water as he pursues down a particularly dark hallway, a heavy smoke making him cough slightly, and he raises a hand over his mouth and nose in an unsuccessful filter as he continues on, eyeing the soft streaks of color from under the thick wooden doors that indicate flame and warmth in case he needs it. (He wipes his eyes, the tears forming in automatic, and they feel foreign. He cannot remember the last time he has cried. He cannot remember a lot of things.)

A particular door streaks wild reds and yellows and oranges from beneath it, and the shadow of a person behind it moves occasionally in it’s path, the sounds of crackling, burning fires and the thick smell of smoke and destroyed books and bodies. (And Shisui gravitates, of course, because Shisui is himself.) The wooden door is charred black in several places, and he eyes it, smiling softly at the metal knock that he knows if he touches will burn him something terrible. (Heat, spells, either or. And it tastes something of-)

Deidara.

He takes a rock and tosses it against the wood of the door.

(-Clunk.)

Swift fingers dance between blocks of clay, stacks of herbs, and various mineral boxes, painted nails snapping twigs and scraping powders that burned sensitive nose - the spice rising and enveloping his sense of smell and drugging his mind. The fire on his left burns and flickers, scorching tongues licking at the coal inside and painting it a bright red that Deidara loves. (Red. Red is the color of blood, of fire, of sunset, of the moment right before death. It is chaos and beauty condensed into a color so vibrant and dazzling and dangerously hypnotic.)

There is a crack, and blond hair whirled, eyes glinting eagerly as hands scoop up handfuls of curling leaves and gray dirt and throwing it all into the hot flame, a loud hiss escaping as the heat consumes the ingredients, merging them together and forming a distorted figure of a bird. A moan, creeping along walls and ceilings and slipping into tiny cracks, a moan of those demented lives that had been taken from Deidara's own hands - coming back to haunt the alchemist. (A laugh. Pathetic. Pitiful. Weak.) Dry lips curl up into a smirk. (There is no success without loss. There is no life without death.)

He can hear it, the footsteps darting back and forth and all over the place. Up there, up in the castle. They are the same, everyday. Feet trampling on the stone floor, the echo vibrating deep down to the dungeons where prisoners wail and groan, Deidara is used to it. (He steps on the marble staircase, each step making a noise so soft and unnoticeable that it almost feels like he is stepping on air. Deidara is a bird. And a bird flies free without restraints, wings stretching to full length and conquering the sky.)

(There is nothing that gives a bird life like wind. And fire feeds on wind. And art is born through fire and destruction.)

When Shisui steps closer, the blonde notices. (It is something about the boy that makes him so distinguishing. The way he carries himself, the way he talks, the way he smiles. It is haunting and at the same time mesmerizing.) When the quiet noise of the rock colliding with the wooden door - one that Deidara had crafted out himself, in order to block out noise and guarding his possessions (-his art) from outside eyes - reaches his ears, Deidara is alert and prepared. The muscles on his palm churn, the teeth gnawing and jaws chewing and tongue adding moisture and molding clay and a mouse is ready.

"What are you doing here, un?"

But it is not time to kill the boy yet.

Shisui eyes him softly, his eyes shining as the poison of the smoke concentrated in a tight, windowless space (-he wonders how Deidara survives, and he can answer his own question in knowing that Deidara is far too smart to let himself suffocate. A situation like this can be innovated.) and his lips a little flushed from coughing hard against it with lungs as frail as his own. (The voice is comforting in it's own, threatening way. It is he.)

"As I do, my Deidara." He smiles a little, wiping the tears on the back of his hand and feeling his face burn as the flames from inside of the room draw warmth to his already (-inflamed, as you are, as you will-) heated form. "His room is lonely when he isn't there. The halls are cold when you aren't." (Shisui has a way of being honest, but in a very complex way, and he doesn't romanticize things, though most people take that he does, he only sees them… differently. Few could tolerate him by the time he died.)

He breathes in the rush of hot air from Deidara's room, and unlike the black smoke from the corridors, it is clean and refreshing. (A spell. What kind of spell, Shisui doesn't know, but a fine one.) He exhales. (In, and out, and in-) But what he is actually doing too many floors underground in a hallway that could kill him with a person that could as well (-but Shisui knows that he will not. He knows.) he is unsure of.

(He's an infector-)

It is like before. The same smile, the same voice, the same riddle that the boy seems to always speak in. The smoke had left a haze too thin to notice (-the spell is a simple and elementary trick that Deidara only conjured out of haste. He is used to the suffocating environment that is his lair.) Blue eyes stare at the frail form standing at the door, and he rises, walking in slow, big strides towards the boy. (Nobody can set foot in Deidara's room - whether it is his work room or bedroom. It is his personal area. The blonde's privacy is of utmost importance.)

"Get out, un."

Blue eyes flash and his voice comes out as a growl. He will not kill the boy just yet. He doesn't intend to. But if Shisui does press, his hands would move without hesitation. (-Deidara rarely ever hesitates. He kills quickly with a heart already hardened with blood that he had shed. There is no reservation.) It is hot inside the cloak, and his skin perspires, the tiny hairs on his neck sticking to skin and it itches. (Like how blood feels when it dries while still fresh on Deidara's hands, like human flesh falling on his clothes and staining his cloak.) His blood boils (-because of the heat, the fire, the thrill, and maybe because Shisui is here and Deidara knows.)

Shisui stares at him for a few moments, and a range of emotions flitters through his black eyes, and he wonders if even Itachi could see his feelings when he wants to conceal them. (Just a little spell, maybe a little make-up, and no one will have to see all those ugly cuts and scars but you, baby Shisui-) Blink. (Surprise.) Eyes sweep the floor. (Hurt.) Eyes waver slightly. (Contemplation.) Eyes return to Deidara's. (Amusement.) Shisui really is very complex.

"Must it be that way?" His tone is quiet, gentle, and it doesn't shake with the sort of fear he probably needed to have in order to survive long in this place. (But Shisui has always had such a hard time being afraid. No one could ever scare him like his mother. No one could ever hurt him like Itachi. But the main difference between Itachi and his mother were that when Itachi brushed his shoulder or touched his hand, he didn’t flinch away or feel the heat of another punch ready to be delivered.)

(God damn this noise-)

The smoke behind Deidara churns, drifting up towards its container in a corner of the building, the hiss of the fire gets louder and rings in his ears as blue eyes narrowed, fixated on the small figure. He tries not to let it get to him. He has better self control and will than just let this boy hypnotize him with that voice and those eyes. (Shisui's eyes are deceptive. Itachi's eyes are another story - menacing, controlling, and deadly. There is nothing threatening in those same dark eyes of Shisui, but they are blank - like the boy had mastered the art of hiding his expressions and emotions.)

"Yes." His voice was cold, unlike the heat coursing through his body and the fire eating up clay and wood. Deidara is dynamic. He is a burst of energy just waiting to be ignited. But he can be cold. He is merciless. He is just another human, because, after all, a man lives on another's life. Survival of the fittest. Nature's course can not be changed. Human nature cannot be changed. (-Hands winding around Deidara and a soft voice whispered in his ears - his mother's. He doesn't remember how that felt like anymore. He didn't remember her face, her touch, her anything. But what is the use of remembering?)

(Another crackle and the fire died down, leaving the carcass of the house and the people trapped inside. Blackened to ashes. Lips curled into a smile and irises widened. He was a demon. But they deserved it. Bastards. Traitors.

Men.)

Shisui smiles, and the expression of disappointment is in the curve of his lips hangs for only a few seconds, before, in a quick movement, the silk cloth of a cloth that had been poking out of Deidara’s pocket is in between his thumb and index finger. (It is a reminder that he is an Uchiha, and even as subtle as it is, Shisui is dangerous. Shisui is fast, and, when it is needed, Shisui is a killer. But not now, not now-) The black fabric is slick, warm, but not hot, sweaty, or burned like the rest of Deidara. (A relief, and he wonders why it is in his pocket.)

He turns, his back facing Deidara where the beads of sweat from the heat glisten on the back of his neck, and tattoos and scars are obvious against his skin. (Dead skin. The ghost of a flush beneath it. The ghost of blood still pumping in a heart too weak to register a defined pulse. Because Shisui is that, in essence, and only that. A ghost. A walking ghost.) He closes his eyes, raising the cloth in a fold and placing it over his eyes, folding his arms back and extending the ends to where Deidara could reach. (As the cloth brushes his eyebrow ring it feels foreign, silk against slowly forming sweat. He sighs.)

“I don’t have to see.”

(Stop, drop, and-)

“-but it’s cold.”

The movement caught Deidara off guard. (Curses. He had told himself so many times to never let his guard down, no matter how weak the enemies looked. Deidara had never been off guard, even around fellow Akatsuki members. Because he is a part of the organization, he knows how its members' natures are like best of all. Liars. Traitors. Murderers. They are just the same.) He stands, eyes narrowing and sending a light glare at Shisui's back.

It is a rule that he never breaks, nor does he ever let anybody break. It is his room - his workshop - his own personal space. Nobody has the right to intrude. The number of unfortunate - or should he stay stupid - people who had dared to venture down here is actually small. (They learned quickly not to make the alchemist angry or suffer the consequences where they could not escape death. The word spread quickly among the servants within the castle, and after a short time, not a soul had tried to defy Deidara's will again. They were smart.)

This boy, however...

An internal growl. This boy has nerves. Nobody had ever responded to Deidara like this. Nobody had ever talked to Deidara like this. Nobody had ever affected Deidara like this. He doesn't like it. He feels like he's being strung a long like a little doll. Frustration starts to creep up on his mind. Deidara is never patient. (Fire is never patient. It consumes and destroys as quickly as it breathes and dies.) He shouldn't do this. He had let Shisui get his way before, and Deidara is never a person who makes the same mistake twice.

But somehow he still hesitates.

A long moment passed when Deidara was still. Then hands reach up and take the ends of the piece of fabric within calloused fingers - those of which deftly secured the blindfold tightly behind the boy's head.

Maybe just once more.

Shisui smiles a little at the action. (His ability to craft people was one perfected out of the need to survive over the years. To slip out of the house before his mother got too drunk or his father started giving him those looks, to slip to the secret room and wait for the sun to rise so he could go to school and not have to receive the brute of someone else’s hangover. The ability to force himself between the cracks of the wall around Itachi’s heart, between those cracks until he was there completely, and Itachi could not bring himself dispel him. Shisui does not mean to do it, but he does, and it only works out for the better of him. Most of the time.)

The smell clink of the metal ring to his teeth is heard only by him, and it’s expected, the automatic, almost reassuring noise that he was still alive and that the material things around him did exist. (Subtly, of course, for Shisui can see beauty in things in that fashion. One half-there.) His eyes flutter open against the black cloth, and his eyelashes tickle the fabric, the darkness of a blind unending, with occasionally sheens of where he could distantly see though it. (But only distantly. It may be silk, but it is black.)

(-You can live in this illusion, you can choose to believe-)

He can feel Deidara’s waning patience. (It pulses in the charred pads of his fingers that brush his hair as a neat knot is tied, and that pulse screams just how amazingly alive Deidara is, a pointed contrast to Shisui’s body, and it’s faux fragility. (But then again, how fake is it? He can run, but how long can he hide?) That patience pulses. One. Two. Three.) He stands motionless for a few moments, Deidara behind him, testing the air for negative intent. (He doesn’t remember where he learned the trick, but if you stay silent, and if you stay still, you can feel another person’s emotions. Negativity, excitement, fear, and amusement is the cocktail for an oncoming attack, and it can be felt in the aura and heard in the body language.)

He turns to face Deidara.

He calculates where he is. (The tip of his foot had barely brushed Deidara’s, so he is about eighteen inches from the doorway, where there is an inch of rise before the door itself opens which he could need to step over, and judging by the architecture, there was probably a step beneath it, maybe a foot in diameter. From what he can asses he is at a sixty degree angle, where as the door is thirty three degrees to the right, give or take, where he could enter once Deidara pardoned him, and once inside he would have to feel the architectured floors for best estimates.) The mind of an Uchiha is vast and unwavering.

(-And he hadn’t even activated the Sharingan yet.)

“Lead the way.”

A smile.

It is unnerving, the way the boy's lips curled and parted just a little to show perfectly white teeth just behind the set of red flesh. It is unnerving, the way Shisui carried himself like a person who can see perfectly where he's going - not a blind man, like he is supposed to be. (-It may be that sense of death that Deidara sensed when they first met - the daring mind and reckless actions and imperturbable will - a dead person fears nothing. Maybe Shisui is dead inside. Maybe Shisui is just a corpse. Maybe Shisui is not alive. Maybe Itachi did massacre his entire family after all. Maybe.)

(A dead person can smile and laugh at the world for he does not have to suffer life anymore. Maybe that's why Shisui never seems distressed. But then who is Deidara to judge? They have only met twice. What does the alchemist know about this strange, possibly demented child?)

He slips past Shisui and slams the door close, at once the smell of incense and burnt earth assaulted his nose. Eyes glance over shoulder at the knot behind Shisui's head (-secured, yes - but why does he feel uneasy?) as his cloak brushes the boy's side. He feels stupid. He shouldn't have let the boy in. He should have killed the brat like the other idiots who dared to disturb. He should have been the ruthless and sadistic killer he always is. But Deidara appalls himself.

One hand grips Shisui's arm roughly as he moved, pulling the boy over to a chair standing in a corner of the room. Shisui will stay there and be a good little boy if he doesn't want that pretty head of his being blown to smithereens. The least Deidara can do is to restrict the boy's movements - if something goes wrong in his workshop, there is hell to pay and blood to spill - and make sure the kid doesn't do anything. (He feels suffocated. Damn the smoke. Maybe his spell was malfunctioning. Maybe Deidara was careless. He shouldn't be careless. He must not be careless. He is an artist. He cannot make mistakes. A single simple mistake can ruin a masterpiece.)

Deidara’s grip is hard, and Shisui makes a short, quiet noise, something of discomfort as rough hands dig into arms weak and developing. He finds himself a little surprise when he’s restrained down to a chair, (-and he wonders, vaguely, why it is Deidara would go to such measures when he could just kill him.) But he knows why, in the end. (The same reason Itachi didn’t force him away.)

Beneath the thick black cloth of the mask do his eyes flutter open, eyelashes brushing against the fabric for a few seconds and the darkness of his Uchiha eyes twisting into something vibrant and red. His pupils shrink back, and the color’s replaced with the blood in his veins, the sharingan magic the Uchiha clan could perform alone alive and beautiful in his eyes. (His head always aches when he uses it, and he knows why this is, so very well. Shisui can hide the magic, but in return does he slip a little further into the abstract.

He wonders how far the Abstract goes.)

His eyes show him the room, though in tones, blacks, reds, whites, streaks of erratic colors that can distantly form to be Deidara, and fire moving in a million different motions. Seeing anything normal with his eyes is interesting. Seeing hell with the eyes of a fallen is even more so. The smell of burned flesh reaches his pierced nose, and he can feel the waves of heat begin to bead sweat on his forehead.

(Losing breath.
Onetwothreeonetwothree-)

He waits for Deidara to speak.

Even after he had left the boy, blindfolded and bound, at a corner of the room where he barely ever glance at, Deidara can still feel the ominous presence of Shisui, hovering at the back of his mind. Beads of sweat evaporate from his skin only to make space for new droplets of perspiration to collect. (It is the heat - it is all the heat - and the swirling excitement in his brain. Excitement from what, he is not sure. He always has great joy when working. Only now the excitement felt a little strange. A little too worldly, too hazy for the alchemist to comprehend. It was puzzling.)

There's a little pop and the fire turns blue, little tongues of flame lapping up the discolored and malformed blocks of clay and molding them to shapeless figures. Deidara's feet shuffle back and forth, hands snatching up the ingredients automatically (it's a routine. He knows it by heart and etched it to his unconscious mind.) then feeding them to the eager fire. It's almost ready. Just a little more.

(And why the hell could he be so stupid as to let that boy into this room?)

It feels like he is being watched. He is being watched. Even though he knows that Shisui couldn't see (but could he?), and that Shisui could not move (again, was he sure about that?), Deidara is still uneasy. That boy is an Uchiha. One can never underestimate an Uchiha. (Itachi is an Uchiha.) But Deidara is confident that he can detect any and all mischiefs if Shisui caused any. (Maybe he should be reevaluating himself. But his pride would definitely get in the way.)

"Can you see?"

Maybe he already knew the answer.

From what could be determined of Shisui's expression half concealed, he turns from somewhat wistful to serious in a split second, and the reminders of who he is (Uchiha. That is all he is. Listen to the shit they're pumping into your head, filling you with apathy-) - seep into his form, recreating the mask he'd refused to wear at an even younger age. (As he. My little Shisui. My precious Shisui.) And he stares at Deidara, sharingan slowing down and eyes hardening into a sharp stare uncharacteristic of him, but not impossible. "Would you rip out my eyes if I told you that I could?"

Pausing, he sends a pulse of magic through the bindings Deidara had placed upon him, and he finds himself released, only standing and not making a further movement. "I am only my eyes, Deidara." His movements are slow, of his own will, almost sad as he crosses the flooring to a wall devoid of the windows he could find himself gazing out of for so long. A hand against the cracking stone and he sighs, softly, an Ara almost distinguishable against the moving air and light but constant noises about the castle. Beads of sweat heat the back of his neck.

"Do you want to take me? I leave it on for you, but I have no point with no connection to myself." His lips touch the wall, so much colder than the room, and he turns his head to rest an almost colorless cheek against it. "With no connection to myself am I blind, and when I am blind, I am useless."

Rip his eyes out?

The blonde's fingers twitch and the scar on the corner of his artificial eye itches, churning and crawling along heated, reddened skin like a line of fire ants, eating their way into the host. Blue irises blur for a moment, and nails dig into sweaty palm as he makes a fist of his left hand. (He had blew out how many people's brains and eyes already? He doesn't remember. It is just a sadistic act, the only purpose is to sate his desire to pull out that man's eyes. Even though Deidara had gotten his vengeance years ago.)

(It was such a sweet sound, the blood splashing, the squelching noise, the twitch of the dying organ between his fingers. He remembers.)

One, two steps, and he is in front of Shisui, hands grabbing the boy's wrists and pushing that frail body against the dirty brick wall. Shisui's breath was on his face, hot and warm, with a bit of fear lingering amidst strained courage. Deidara pulls off the blindfold, grabbing the dark-haired boy by the chin, fingers digging into his hollow cheeks.

"Show me." He breathes. "Let me see you."

Let me see if all Uchihas are the same.

Shisui isn't naive, nor is he stupid, so when Deidara presses him into the wall he could almost kiss, words of intrigue coming from his lips, Shisui is neither frightened or bewildered. If anything, and only so much so, is he surprised, and he almost doesn't feel the pain of the way Deidara handles him.

He had never thought twice about numbity, and how it could be strange that he can pull himself away from a situation completely when the time arises, as long as he hurts himself later. He wonders if it's magic, though he doubts it to be such, only yet another psychological flaw of one but not many Uchiha Prodigy. But this is not the time. The time is when his mother or father are beating him or when he's killing someone for the family or he has to tell either of his cousins No, because that hurts. And in some way, it's perfectly suiting that Shisui can do this Thing, though he is well aware Itachi deserves it more.

Black eyes go red, not out of anger, though not entirely of his own will, and it twists back into the original color, back into the million whatevers that people have thought in response to Shisui's poetic genius. Even in the danger zone of his Sharingan, Shisui is beautiful, and he stares at Deidara, the expressions unreadable between the sweat beading down his body, the breathing heavier than the others from lungs too weak, the faux innocence of the picture, and that is that.

(Would you be willing to take away my purpose, Deidara? Or do you want it for yourself?)

The perspiration from Deidara's hands gets thicker. Fangs dig into Shisui's wrist and tongue presses against the boy's chin, Deidara's own lips hover over those bruised ones of the Uchiha's while the mechanical eye whirs and clicks in a blur, catching every movements, every bit of color dying and blinking on those enchanting eyes. (Enchanting. Yes, that's the word. Hypnotic. Dangerous. Beautiful. Deidara knows art when he sees it.)

A drop of sweat rolls down silken expanse of skin, slipping in the crack between Deidara's index finger and the boy's cheek. The blonde can also taste salt on his tongue, salt and clay, and fire. His body is hot. From the flame, from the intrigue, from the desire to draw blood. Blue eye flickers to the healing bruises on the boy's face. One to the left of his right eyebrow, one to the side of his head, one splitting red lip with a dark, thin line of dried blood that is barely visible. Deidara can see it all. Every pore, every hair, every twitch of Shisui's muscles. Intricate. Subtle. Mesmerizing.

Crimson appears and dies too quickly for his enjoyment. Itachi's is always there, but Shisui's is different. It's the same hue, the same shape, the same purpose, but Shisui's is something softer, warmer, yet at the same time Deidara can feel the chill radiating from a skilled assassin's features. It captivates him, and the desire to claim it for his own slowly, shakily rises in the pit of his stomach.

Deidara is an artist after all.

He knows. This boy isn't supposed to be touched. Itachi would kill him. But it didn't matter, because this body before him, those eyes, that face, smooth skin, the red, it's all so captivating.

The hand on Shisui's chin leaves, swiftly moving to pin Shisui's other wrist against the wall. In an all-too-quick movement, Deidara sweeps down, teeth baring and digging into the smooth column, drawing blood.

A startled gasp when Deidara attacks the expanse of his neck, teeth digging into his thin, tearing it open only to release his thin blood, and so when Shisui bleeds, he bleeds a bit more than most, and that is what Deidara is after. (“Leave me alone.” Shisui swings his schoolbag over a shoulder, looking at the smirking boy who stares outwardly at the ring in his lips, the curves of his cheeks, and these looks are both common and uncommon. He should have been a gir-

“I’d rather not.”

An arm is grabbed, and Shisui stares at the other, the slightest hints of anger in his eyes, though no one would be able to see it aside from Itachi. Otherwise, it is a dim apathy, and the boy’s course reflection is glassy in Shisui’s eyes. “Don’t touch me.” He warns, voice a bit deeper and darker than usual, and a smirk only follows from the other, his opposing shoulder grabbed and his form pushed back into the wall he’d only a few minutes prior been lazily reading a book against.

“I’d rather.”

And the second that he kisses Shisui’s pierced lips, it is not Itachi who attacks him, but Shisui’s sharingan whirl and his fist closes around the boys wrist, twisting it at a 360 degree angle and breaking it with a snap. The cry of “Bitch!” isn’t ever really heard to him in the wake of his immediate regret as the boy reels off of him and tears fill his eyes. He’d always been much to soft and too kind.

He never tells Itachi about it and Itachi never finds out.

And ever since then, for all the boys who’d forced himself on him, he’d just closed his eyes and-)

Pretended.

A lock of black hair slips over his shoulder as Deidara pulls him around to his height level, sucking and biting at his neck and enjoying the blood that comes in return, and this makes sense, in a Deidara kind of way. Because he is Him, that insanity and that flame that Shisui cannot ignore. That Shisui likes, for he has always had a tendency to dance with insanity and get away with it. (Because Shisui can force a bit of humanity into insanity after a while. And when he was lost-)

Bang.

“A-ah!”

The warm trickle of liquid so stimulating to the senses flows along Deidara's canine teeth, dripping down to his tongue and mixes with his own saliva. He swallows, lips curling only to draw more blood, savoring the coppery tang and strange spice in the crimson fluid. It is different from his own - his is something more inflamed, something more bitter, something more poisonous. It is unique.

Deidara's body presses harder against Shisui's, he can feel the heat coming from the boy's frail form, seeping through the thick material of his cloak and caresses his sweaty skin. He breathes, teeth giving for only a moment to allow hot, warm air to fill deprived lungs before closing in again, digging a little deeper, sinking into the churning current of that sweet drug. (Since when has Deidara started to like the taste of blood? Why did he start liking the taste of blood? Maybe it's because it is different. It is nauseating, but addicting. And maybe because it just fits.)

(It fits Deidara's desire to kill.)

(And it is humanity's work of art in its own.)

Blonde strands of hair stick to his face, drawn by the perspiration and sweat beading on his forehead and his cheeks, shielding the mechanical lens but not obstructing its view. He draws back, eyes staring intently at the flushed, red hue on Shisui's skin, following every twitch of the boy's eyes, the slight expanding and contracting of his nose, the slight quiver of dry lips, the rising and falling of his Adam's apple.

"Why don't you try to kill me?" The alchemist hisses, fingers closing around thin wrists and crushing bones. It's not like the boy couldn't try. He could put up some resistance, some fight, some anger when Deidara touches him. But no. He complies. And it, strangely, is grating on the blonde's nerves. He inhales, and bit down on Shisui's bottom lip.


Shisui’s eyes fall somewhat, though still wide in shock of Deidara’s actions, and his breath is hot against Deidara’s in speech, bones creaking under his grip, and Shisui’s sharingan flash. “Because you aren’t seeing me when I let you, Deidara.” (Tongues between lips and blood and soft gasps and-) “You say that you want to see me. And here I am before you, and yet you are angered with what you have been given.” There’s a certain sadness in his words, but it cannot be heard between Deidara’s advances and his own pants, (-the prettiness of Shisui is so degraded in time. The prettiness is not the heated flush in his face or the sheen of sweat or the way the red clashes so greatly with the ghostly pale of his complexion. The prettiness is in the way Shisui’s sharingan can still be soft, and yet so fucking dangerous, in it’s essence. Because that is forgotten, in Shisui’s personality and his appearance. It is forgotten that he is a murderer.)

A hand grips Deidara’s chin and forces his face forward to Shisui’s, and the sharingan spin something incredible, drilling into Deidara’s mind inch by inch. He doesn’t have the Mangekyou, no, but the sharingan pierces the mind with the three curls of black amidst a sea of red in his eyes. He can’t do what he gave to Itachi. (Itachi deserves it.) “Look into my eyes, Deidara.” – But he can be just as dangerous. And if Deidara is selfish for Shisui’s self, the Uchiha clan member he keeps locked away deep within him, than Deidara shall have it if he is blind to who Shisui is. (What Shisui is.)

In my nothing-

Between bodies hot and angry, between blood and sweat, between Deidara(Itachi) and Shisui, there is an obsession, and Shisui is not blind. And when he pierces into that point of Deidara’s mind, he thrusts his arms out of Deidara’s grip (so weak, and yet so-) the limbs sore from the abuse, and hands gripping each side of Deidara’s head to keep him steady. “Do you really want to see me Deidara?” (Knifebladecutpainsensesslitburnpiercefuckmoancrytear-)

The sharingan is a dangerous thing. It can apply to all five senses, though it takes an enormous amount of power and magic to do so, and there have only been two documented cases by the Uchiha clan who have ever accomplished such in absence of the Mangekyou.

(-slitrazorkunaibladefireneedleslutfuckmoanslittear.)

Itachi Uchiha and—

“See me.”

Shisui Uchiha.

Something between a gasp and an angry grunt leaves Deidara's lips, so quiet, yet it echoes so loudly in his ears. The red, the black, the motion, the flashes, and the jolts of pain not physical but striking him so mercilessly deep inside the recesses of his mind, all from a glance, a pierce of Shisui's dark but bright eyes. (There is no need to remind the blonde that Uchihas are dangerous. Deidara is burning himself, injecting his muscles with poison so painful but hypnotizing, and he is lost. Lost in the heat, the flames, the insistent pricking of his own fingers, craving to tear the boy's body apart.) A corner of his lips curls, and Deidara pushes back, teeth crashing with Shisui's own, and tongue pushing its way down the boy's throat.

(Deidara plays with fire.)

There is nothing tender about the contact between their lips. (It is just a mere skin contact. He bites. He chews. He tears. There is nothing tender. Deidara is anything but tender. He is a murderer. An artistic murderer. Every death is a work of art.) He grabs Shisui's wrists again, this time teeth gnaw violently against thin, sensitive skin and etching his own power into the boy's body in retaliation. The excitement in the blonde's body rises, but is quickly forgotten in the drive to dominate. To conquer. To break. To destroy this weak, yet so unspeakably powerful in a way that makes Deidara go wild.

"Shi..." A bite. A sweep of the tongue. A swift flavor of blood amidst the smell of clay and heat. Deidara breathes. Too dangerous. Too addicting. Too beautiful. He is being drowned. Drowned in the overwhelming essence of strange, foreign desire, unworldly want, the insatiable craving for Shisui's body and soul. It is an obsession. Deidara whispers the boy's name again.

Shisui.

Shisui.



I want to break you.


Shisui's name tastes like blood against his ear, and the immediate recognition of violation comes as he nearly chokes on Deidara's tongue, struggling against his wrists and his lips and tongue split open. ("Don't leave the room, Shisui." "Why?" "It's not safe.") - and he emits a noise, something that is uniquely him in the regard that one couldn't figure out what it meant. (Though it's doubtable it's of enjoyment.) His tastebuds register Deidara, breath emiting the smoke he's so used to breathing, and saliva mingling with the blood from his open wounds, and it's all so damned fast a reaction is nothing more than instinctive.

His Sharingan slip in and out of focus as he feels himself weaken (he needs to rest, this air is-) and his bones seize up under Deidara's grasp, body burning beneath hands where teeth gnaw into his wrists and the thick scarring that decorates them like expensive bracelets. (And maybe that is all that it is.) And his own name, spoken the way Itachi says it to him, between bruising lips and whispering ("Shi, shi..")

We all want what we cannot have.

He lets the haze cloud his senses and the heat take over his actions for just another thirteen seconds. (Tongue probing, teeth biting, lips pushing, breath quickening, fingers gripping, body pressing, head bobbing, eyes shutting.) And then it dies. Just as quickly as it came. Blue eyes stare into the flickering of red and black, elegant brow furrowing and lips jerk back, teeth digging deeper into the thin, sensitive skin on Shisui's wrists.

Then he lets go, rough hands pushing the frail form of Shisui against the wooden door, the harsh sound of the boy's bones crushing in contact with the hard material felt feather light in his ears.

"Leave." He croaks, the word crawling inside his throat. He needs water. A painted finger points out towards the door and his eyes narrow, the other fist clenching at his side. Deidara slips slowly into a moment of insanity so familiar and frequent, he need not to even try to stop. Maybe it's the kiss, maybe it's the way Shisui writhes, maybe it's the way the crimson looked under the dim light of his room, maybe it's the way the silken skin felt under his own rough, scarred skin. It made him go crazy.

(A hand closes around the man's throat. Eyes stares down at the dilated, quivering irises of the man's, and a mad grin creeps on his own lips while the other's goes blue.

"Die.")

"Leave or die."

The stop of what Shisui had never asked for comes extremely abruptly, and his back slams hard against the wood of the door when Deidara throws him away. (Doll. Toy. Broken, and unusable, and Shisui’s body burns and face glows when he stumbles away from the other man.) His wildly spinning eyes connect with Deidara’s for a second, and the door opens behind him, a rush of magic sent from the alchemist unhooking the latch silently and spilling him awkwardly into the hallway. And when the door slams shut before him, he isn’t surprised of that, though he still pants for a breath he can’t catch (won’t. Shisui is-)

“Itachi…”

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