Strings of Detonation

Between the Lines

The road stretched endless beneath a gray sky, mist clinging to the treeline. Their footsteps were the only rhythm, broken now and then by the rustle of birds scattering ahead.

Deidara walked a step ahead, whistling tunelessly as he toyed with a lump of clay. His injured arm was tucked against his cloak, but he pretended it didn’t bother him.

Sasori’s pace was steady, silent, his puppet case shifting softly with every step.

“You’re awful company, y’know that?” Deidara finally said, tossing the clay into the air and catching it one-handed. “A guy could go insane with all this silence, yeah.”

Sasori didn’t answer.

Deidara grinned. “Course, maybe you like that. Puppet guy, no strings attached… unless you’re the one pulling them.”

Still nothing.

He pouted exaggeratedly. “You’re no fun.”

Sasori’s gaze slid sideways, just briefly. “You speak enough for both of us.”

Deidara blinked. Then his grin widened, genuine this time. “Ha! There it is! A joke, Danna. Careful—you’ll ruin your image.”

---

By dusk, the sky was heavy with clouds again. They found a sheltered ridge to rest beneath, the air damp with the promise of rain.

Deidara sprawled near the fire, his cloak discarded, hair loose around his shoulders. He sculpted idle shapes from clay—birds, snakes, spirals—letting them crumble before they were finished.

“You ever get tired of perfection?” he asked suddenly, watching a clay hawk collapse into dust between his fingers.

Sasori didn’t look up from his tools. “No.”

Deidara smirked faintly. “Figures. Must be nice, thinking your art’ll outlast you. Can’t say the same for mine, yeah.”

Sasori’s hand paused—only for a fraction of a second, but Deidara caught it.

He leaned closer, firelight catching the gleam in his eyes. “You can deny it all you want, but you do get it. You wouldn’t have said ‘unacceptable’ otherwise.”

Sasori finally looked at him. “Efficiency. Nothing more.”

Deidara’s grin softened into something smaller. “Sure, Danna. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

---

Later, when the fire had burned low and the storm finally broke, Deidara dozed against the ridge wall, his head tilting dangerously close to Sasori’s shoulder.

Sasori sat rigid, tools laid out beside him, gaze fixed outward.

But when thunder cracked and Deidara stirred restlessly in his sleep, Sasori’s threads twitched—not toward his puppet case this time, but toward the fire, nudging it back to life so the night stayed warm.

Only when the storm eased did he retract them, silent as ever.