Strings of Detonation

Return of Shadows

The snow had stopped, leaving the world outside pale and silent, a fragile white blanket stretching across the hideout’s courtyard. Inside, the air was warmer but still heavy with stillness, with the remnants of Deidara’s restless solitude scattered across the floor. Clay shards, half-formed birds, and faint streaks of dried sweat marked the hours he had spent awake, alone.

Thirty hours had passed since Sasori left. Thirty hours that had stretched endlessly, collapsing in on themselves with each tick of the clock. Deidara had counted them once, twice, lost track by the tenth hour. He had tried to sleep, tried to distract himself with minor clay shaping, pacing, muttering under his breath—but exhaustion had only sharpened the spiral inside him. He had missed Sasori, missed the strict presence, the quiet judgment, the eyes that cut through all his masks.

And now, as the door to the hideout’s corridors opened silently, a shadow moving with perfect precision, Deidara’s heart hitched.

Sasori.

From the corner of his eye, Deidara’s limbs stiffened. He tried to rise, to straighten himself, but his body betrayed him. Weak knees wobbled, muscles coiling with tension, and he stumbled forward slightly. His hands scrambled for support on the floor, clay birds clattering as they tumbled across the stones.

Sasori's eyes, sharp and precise, swept over him. His POV registered immediately the signs of overexertion: trembling hands, deep lines etched into Deidara’s cheeks, the faint flush from fevered fatigue. His mind cataloged every detail, every imperfection—just as it always had—but now with a sharper awareness.

Too much. He’s pushed himself too far again, Sasori thought, irritation flashing briefly before being replaced by a cold, controlled concern. And yet… he’s still here. Still standing.

Sasori’s steps were silent as he moved closer, cloak brushing the floor in practiced precision. He crouched slightly as Deidara’s head tilted up, wide eyes catching the dim torchlight. The younger man’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He was trying to mask the panic and exhaustion, trying to appear okay, but the cracks were undeniable.

“Move carefully,” Sasori said, voice clipped, gaze locking on him. “You’re unsteady.”

Deidara blinked, chest heaving as he swallowed down the lump of relief and panic that rose in his throat. “Hn… I’m fine, Danna,” he rasped, voice raw from lack of sleep, from hours of muttered spirals. But his body said otherwise.

Sasori extended a hand—subtle, almost imperceptible in its movement—but enough to steady Deidara as he finally rose fully to his feet. Their proximity made Deidara acutely aware of the warmth of Sasori’s presence, the faint scent of resin from his scrolls, and the precision of every measured movement. The world seemed to shrink to that narrow corridor, the space between them charged with tension unspoken.

He noticed. He saw everything.

Sasori’s eyes scanned him again, sharp and silent. He noted the exhaustion, the residual mess of clay on his sleeves, the way Deidara’s gaze flickered between the floor and his own. He overestimates his control, Sasori thought, and yet the edge of annoyance softened slightly into… something else. Care, perhaps, though he would never name it.

“You pushed yourself too hard,” Sasori stated, finally breaking the silence. Not as judgment, not as command—yet both threaded through the words. “Do not do that again.” Clearly, he didn't know the true reason to why Deidara was like this.

Deidara’s chest constricted. The words were stern, clipped, but they carried a weight he had not expected. He wanted to nod, to laugh, to deflect it with bravado, but his body shook too much, the tremor betraying hours of sleepless tension. “Hn… yeah… I’ll… I’ll be careful,” he murmured, voice small, almost uncertain.

Sasori studied him a moment longer, silent. The pause was deliberate, a subtle insistence that Deidara truly register the words, the warning—and the presence behind them. Sasori's eyes lingered on him, not harsh but unwavering.

Deidara swallowed, gaze flicking to the floor again, avoiding that piercing scrutiny. Inside, a storm raged. Relief, longing, guilt, exhaustion, desire—all twisted together. He had wanted Sasori here more than he had realized. But the admission was raw, unformed, and he could not voice it.

Instead, he muttered something hollow, a feeble attempt at humor, voice cracking slightly: “Guess you had to go show off, huh? Leave me here to die of boredom and snow dust or whatever.”

Sasori’s lips twitched—almost imperceptibly—but he said nothing. Only moved slightly closer, amber eyes narrowing, as though measuring every micro-expression, every tremor, every flicker of vulnerability.

Deidara tried to laugh again, a shaky sound that ended in a sigh. His hands fidgeted with clay, unconsciously molding small shapes that he had no intention of using. “I… I thought I could… you know, rest… relax…” he admitted, voice dropping lower, almost a whisper. “But it… it just… doesn’t feel right without you here.”

Sasori’s gaze sharpened, but the edge was different now—less reprimand, more… acknowledgment. He said nothing immediately, letting the words settle, letting the young man confront the truth he had so long avoided.

Finally, he spoke, measured and low: “Your body will not recover if your mind refuses to rest. You cannot control everything. Not alone.”

Deidara’s heart thudded painfully. The words were not a confession, not even a softness that could be named. But the weight behind them—the recognition, the watchfulness, the care he could not admit needing—pressed on him like fire against ice.

“I… I can’t…” Deidara muttered, curling slightly toward the fire. “I don’t want… to… fail. Not again. Not for you.”

Sasori’s eyes softened fractionally, just enough that Deidara noticed, even if he couldn’t read it fully. He took a step closer, standing just within reach, the air between them taut and unspoken. “Then rest,” Sasori said. “And recover. That is your responsibility—to yourself, and to me.”

Deidara nodded, voice catching. He sank down near the fire, curling into himself, feeling the presence of Sasori nearby like a tether holding him upright. He could not say the words he felt, could not name the ache in his chest that burned brighter than any explosion. But he could feel.

Sasori remained standing, quiet, eyes trained on him as the firelight flickered across the floor and walls. Silent observation, precise and unwavering, a subtle acknowledgment of the dependency that had grown during his absence.

Deidara’s eyelids drooped, exhaustion finally catching him in its unrelenting grip. Sleep teased the edges of consciousness, heavy and warm. Yet even in the haze, he could feel Sasori’s presence beside him, steady, unshaken, unyielding.

For the first time in days, Deidara allowed himself to let go, just a fraction, letting the chaos of his mind ease slightly in the quiet of the hideout, with Sasori finally back.

And Sasori, though his face remained unreadable, noticed every tremor, every breath, every small motion—a silent promise that he had returned, and that he was watching.

For now, the slow burn between them held, tense and unspoken, shadows and his eyes lingering across the quiet room as the snow outside settled into a fragile, white stillness. Winter is almost over...