Strings of Detonation

" Why "

The hideout breathed in silence.
Only the faintest drip of water echoed from somewhere deep in the stone walls, blending with the soft, deliberate clink of metal tools being laid out in careful rows. Sasori sat at his low table, back straight as a puppet's string, moving with mechanical precision. Each blade, each brush, each vial of lacquer was wiped down, tested, and placed back in perfect order.

The rhythm was steady, almost soothing-like the tick of a clock that never faltered.

On the opposite side of the room, Deidara sprawled across the cold floor, one arm slung lazily behind his head, golden hair spilling out like scattered light. His clay pouch rested near his hip, untouched, and for once he wasn't shaping anything with his hands. He just stared at the ceiling, eyes half-lidded, as if the cracks in the stone might rearrange themselves into answers he didn't have.

He hated silence.
He always had.

And yet here it was, wrapping tight around him, pressing heavy against his chest while Sasori worked as if Deidara didn't even exist.

At first, he smirked to himself, thinking he'd break the quiet with some joke, some jab about his partner being more married to his tools than anything else. That was the easy route. Loud, distracting, safe.
But the words never left his mouth.

Instead, his thoughts drifted-then spiraled.

Why do I care so much?
His brow furrowed, invisible to Sasori's back.

Why do I want to get past those walls? He's just a partner. Just some grumpy puppet master who thinks he's better than me. So what if he ignores me? Who cares if he doesn't laugh at my jokes or doesn't look at me unless it's about the mission? Who cares-

His jaw clenched.

-why do I care?

The silence pressed harder, suffocating, louder than explosions ever were.

He thought of the missions, of Sasori's cold mask in front of Pain, the way those amber eyes never wavered even when the weight of the Akatsuki's judgment pressed down on them both. He thought of the storm, of Sasori's hands steady against his shaking body, of the heat in that tiny space that had burned into his memory like a fire refusing to die out.

It's something deeper. At this point-it has to be. Doesn't it?

His chest tightened as the thoughts circled like vultures. He shifted on the floor, pressing a hand against his face, as if he could smother the spiraling before it showed. But it was already spilling through-creases in his brow, the sharp tension around his mouth, the flicker of conflict in his usually bright eyes.

The silence cracked.

"You're making a face."

Deidara jolted, blinking toward Sasori. The redhead hadn't turned fully-he was still polishing a scalpel, movements precise-but his gaze had flicked sideways, sharp and unwavering. Amber cut through the dim light, pinning Deidara where he lay.

For a heartbeat, Deidara's throat went dry.

Then he barked out a laugh, too loud, too quick. "What face, huh? This is my relaxed face, yeah."

Sasori didn't move. Didn't blink. Just set the scalpel down with quiet finality. "Relaxed?" he repeated flatly, though his eyes lingered too long, as if weighing the truth in the lines of Deidara's expression.

Deidara rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his hand, forcing a smirk back onto his lips. "What, worried about me now, Danna? Didn't think you cared about my face unless it was blowing something up."

The joke hung in the air, brittle.

Sasori said nothing. But his gaze had softened-barely, almost imperceptibly-before he turned back to his tools. The silence returned, but it was different now. Not empty. Not suffocating.

Deidara's chest ached with something he couldn't name.

He flopped onto his back again, staring at the ceiling, smirk fading into something rawer, quieter. His heart still raced from the spiral, from the sharp cut of Sasori's gaze through his thoughts.

And he wondered, not for the first time, if one day the silence between them would break completely-shatter not with an explosion, but with something far more dangerous.