Strings of Detonation

Splintering Pressure

The hideout felt colder than usual, though the torches burned steadily along the stone walls like per usual. Snow still lingered in the courtyard outside, drifting lazily, but inside, the warmth barely kept the chill from settling in the bones.

Deidara and Sasori stood before Pain and Konan, their forms rigid, eyes trained on the figures who had already made judgment a part of their lives. Pain’s expression was calm, unreadable, but the weight behind his gaze pressed down harder than any storm outside. Konan’s eyes, sharp and piercing, seemed to see straight into the core of both shinobi, lingering on the fatigue etched into Deidara’s face, the subtle tension in Sasori’s posture.

“You completed the mission,” Pain said, his voice carrying over the quiet hum of the chamber. “But the execution… it lacked precision. Mistakes were made.”

Deidara flinched. His mind immediately replayed the botched explosion, the tremble in his hands, the misstep that could have ruined everything. He forced his stance upright, hiding the tremor that wasn’t in his limbs, but in his chest.

Konan’s gaze lingered. “You adapted. That is commendable. But adaptation is not a substitute for control. You pushed each other to the limit, and nearly beyond it. It is a fragile alliance you maintain.”

Pain’s eyes—rippled, unwavering—cut across them both. “There is a cost to partnership. Sometimes, separation is necessary to preserve efficiency.”

Deidara’s stomach twisted. He opened his mouth, ready to argue, to say they could handle it, that he could handle it, that he wouldn’t fail Sasori again. But Sasori’s hand, resting lightly near his side, caught him in silent warning.

Sasori’s reply was measured, cutting, but protective: “Our partnership is not the problem. Our performance will adjust.”

Pain’s gaze didn’t soften. “It will adjust… or it will fail. Know the difference.”

Konan’s eyes flicked to Deidara for a heartbeat longer. No words, only a pointed weight of observation.

When they were dismissed, the walk back through the echoing corridors felt heavier than the judgment itself, a feeling that becomes heavier and heavier with each meeting. Silence clung to them, interrupted only by the faint crunch of boots on stone.

Deidara, still reeling from the mission and the lingering echoes of Pain’s warning, tried to speak first. His voice was low, teasing—but brittle. “So… you agree with him, yeah? Separation… would solve problems. Guess that’s what you’d want, Danna.”

Sasori’s eyes flicked to him sharply, amber slicing the dim torchlight. “You speak out of place,” he said curtly. There was no warmth, but something unsaid lingered behind the edge—a trace of anger at Pain, not at Deidara.

Deidara pressed further, half-smile breaking through his exhaustion. “Hm. Could be worse. Could be me dragging you along, huh?”

Sasori didn’t answer immediately. His steps were measured, deliberate, unflinching. Deidara trailed slightly behind, boots scuffing the stone. He felt the weight of his own mistakes pressing into him, the sleeplessness, the near-miss of the mission. Each thought spiraled faster: '(I can’t ruin this. I can’t let him think I’m weak. I won’t. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t…)'

By the time they reached their quarters, Deidara’s hands trembled slightly, and he dropped onto his mat, attempting to mask it with a faint laugh. “Guess we’re still in one piece, yeah? Who knew we’d survive that mess?”

Sasori’s gaze swept the room, sharp and precise as ever, and he paused mid-step. He noticed the exhaustion in Deidara’s posture, the way his hands lingered at his sides instead of moving to the clay.

“You’re pushing too far,” Sasori said, voice flat but carrying an edge that cut through the pretense. “You’ll make mistakes. You’ll drag me down. And I don’t carry dead weight.”

Deidara forced a laugh, brittle and short, but it faltered. “Tch. You’d never let me get in the way, Danna. Wouldn’t drag you down, nah.” He is exhausted.

Sasori’s eyes narrowed, amber catching the flicker of torchlight. “Do not test that. If you keep this up, you’ll die. And I will not drag a corpse along with me.” He repeats, but in a different font.

The words landed heavier than any punishment Pain could have delivered. Deidara froze, breath catching in his chest. There was no tenderness, not in the phrasing, but the meaning behind it… the weight of someone noticing his limits and acknowledging them without coddling… it burrowed deep.

He swallowed hard, unable to speak, caught between exhaustion, shame, and the tiniest flicker of something else—relief, maybe, that Sasori still cared enough to notice.

Sasori turned away, methodically beginning to clean his tools again, just as he always did. But this time, his hands lingered over the blade slightly longer than needed, subtle hesitation betraying the crack in his perfect control.

Deidara stayed on his mat, eyes wide in the dim light, staring at the ceiling. Sleep would not come—not tonight. His mind churned with the mission, with Pain’s words, with Sasori’s rare slip of care. But he still needs to rest to fully recover.

And yet, beneath the exhaustion, a thread of determination tugged at him. He would not fail again. He would not.

The quiet stretched on, thick and suffocating, but not empty. The two of them sat there, side by side, each holding their walls, each aware of the other’s fracture, neither speaking more than necessary. The fire from the torch crackled faintly, echoing the tension between them, the slow burn that neither dared to name.

In the silence, the weight of judgment, mission, and unspoken concern pressed down on them. And for the first time in a long while, Deidara realized: the walls between them might never fully crumble—but they could fracture, little by little, until something dangerous, something permanent, seeped through.

And he didn’t know if he was ready for that.