Around the World in Eight Days

The air was thick with fire, and hard to swallow. Altogether, the heat and pressure would’ve been ideal for diamond-making; instead, it only made Rasa grit his teeth, pocket watch in hand, and push through the crowd, the mask on his belt swinging with each step.

It was a peculiar mask, worn only during the ghost festival, as a way to tell mortals and spirits apart. Made from ivory, it had two pairs of slitted eyes, shaped into a stern frown which Sasori claimed had suited him. That made Rasa frown more.

It jingled at his side, nonetheless, as Rasa paced the sandstone blocks of the city bazaar. He stopped once at each stall, scanning the busy market for one particular face, before going onto the next, stopping, and scanning again.

Each Sunan he passed wore a mask of their own—some made of wood, others with clay, or bone—some with many eyes, some with fangs, some with no features at all. 

And then there was Rasa, with his ivory mask, searching for the man who made it— the same man who was late.

“Took you long enough."

Speak of the devil.

“Says who.” Rasa snapped his pocket watch shut. “I was here first.”

Sasori tched. “Don't be such a child. It’s not my fault you’re always early.” 

“Right.” Rasa scoffed. He had been early. Sasori had been late. “Your sense of time is unreliable, at best.”

Sasori cocked his head. “I’m never late,” he coldly said. “If you had to wait, blame your poor judgment. Not mine.” 

The yellow light of the sun cut across his sour features, softened by several lines of teal face paint. 

He was striking. Enough to catch his breath. 

“...regardless.” Just like that, Rasa set aside his exasperation, and put on Sasori’s mask, sliding it to the side of his head. As difficult as he was, it was hard to stay mad at Sasori, particularly when he looked like that. “We should get going, before the sun sets.”

Sasori shrugged. “Hurry up then.”

But he didn’t move. Instead, he reached for Rasa’s snarling mask, his creation, tracing it with a red-painted nail. He nodded.

“Perfectly crafted,” he smugly declared. 

More heat crawled up Rasa’s back. He rubbed his neck awkwardly, wiping away the sweat on his collar. “Aren't you going to wear one?”

“Hm?” 

Rasa pointed at the mask. “This.”

“Ah. That.” Sasori dropped his hand. “Not this year, no.”

Rasa frowned. “You’ll get mistaken for a ghost.” 

“Don’t be stupid.” Sasori rolled his eyes, and walked ahead.

At the heart of the festivities, lanterns knocked together, strung between sandstone buildings like a spider's web. Light flickered across them, scattering colors across the sky. As the sun dipped, the lanterns gleamed, brighter than the stars. 

“As I mentioned, the sun will set soon.” Rasa carried on, setting a slow pace, “what would you like to do?” Nice. Polite. Formal.

“Mmh.” Sasori hummed noncommittally. “You pick.”

He always had to be difficult.

Rasa pressed again. “There are a couple vendors that you might like—some artisans,” he rambled on. “Glassware. Dyed silks. Jewelers—“

Sasori cut him off. “Are they any good?”

“—I’d … appraise them as expensive,” said Rasa.

“So?”

“So, I wouldn’t know. I don’t have an eye for that sort of thing.” Markets fluctuated with the tides of supply and demand. It was simple enough to calculate an item’s value by its scarcity and the cost of production; by comparing this value to the value of other similar purchases, one could determine the relative worth of an item. Above average was good. Below average was not.

Sasori, however, was a peculiar person. He was not looking for the objectively correct answer; he was looking for beauty, and Rasa didn’t know where to start.

“You’ll have to judge for yourself,” he told Sasori.

“Hmph.” His lips twitched in the ghost of a smile. “As always.”

Heat flared up across the back of his neck—heat which could not be blamed on the sun. Rasa forced himself to look away. He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

The more they walked, the more Sunans milled about, dressed in red and gold and blue sashes, and bone masks. Sasori asked after the treasury, nodding as if he understood the math—(he did not); Rasa asked after his art, triggering a rant on the effect of oxidation on the color of golden heartwood (in one ear and out the other). Timed correctly - and finished with an imported lacquer - and it would replicate tanned olive skin with yellow undertones. Whatever Sasori was making with it—

—he didn’t want to know.

“Golden heartwood,” Rasa began, searching for the words. “how much is that going for?”

“Too much,” Sasori huffed. This, at least, Rasa sympathized with. 

“Prices have been high lately,” he commented. “Inflation makes things difficult.”

“Aren’t you in charge of fixing that?”

Rasa shot him a flat look. “Do you even know what inflation is?”

“You talk about it enough. Of course I do.”

“Then what is it?”

Sasori did not dignify that with an answer. Pursing his lips, he instead walked faster, ducking into a stall. Rasa shook his head and followed, pushing past haggling customers, past dangling necklaces and heavy bangles, to find Sasori inspecting a small scarab pendant.

“When you win the war—“ 

Sasori shoved the pendant at him. “If the wars end.” 

“ When you win the war,” Rasa repeated. “I’ll get you something,” he added, “Whatever you want.”

“Whatever I want…”

“Anything,” Rasa insisted. “You’re Suna’s greatest asset. You deserve it.”

“An ‘asset,’” Sasori laughed, then reached for a piece of amethyst. “More like a tool.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re all tools. I just so happen to be better made than most.” Sasori discarded the amethyst and picked up a strange yellow gem. “Dull.” Another. “Boring.” And a necklace. “Uninspired.” he dropped it with a clatter, and a sigh. 

“We’re done here,” Sasori told Rasa. “Let’s go.”

“Just a second,” Rasa replied, still holding the scarab pendant. It was pale, green, and cold, like Sasori was cold. The longer he held it, the more it warmed in his palm. “I’ll put this back.” 

“Hurry up then.” 

Their arms brushed as Sasori slid past him. 

There was a—spark. A something. An extra stab of heat.

They both ignored it. 

⏳

When Rasa was done, he caught up with Sasori perusing some bone carvings. Rasa bought charms for both of them. They strolled along the street for some time, Rasa swimming further and further into his thoughts. He struggled to think of something to say. Anything. 

A gaggle of children rushed by, a kite rushing after them. Sasori stepped away, his shoulder bumping Rasa’s—just as Rasa blurted, “—have you eaten? Would you like a drink?”

Sasori stayed icy. “I’m fasting.”

Rasa’s brows shot up. “Fasting?”

“For the festival. Is that an issue?”

Rasa frowned. His mask frowned with him. 

For nomads of the land of wind, fasting was frequently invoked as a means of bringing the living closer to the dead, used mostly by followers of Jashin. The closer one was to death, the closer they were to the dead— or so the tales went.

This sort of fasting was not common among settled Sunans, but was occasionally observed during the new years’ ghost festival, when the veil between living and dead was at its thinnest, until the sun set, and the year passed into the afterlife.

With the war being what it was, it had recently become popular among widows and orphans. When the year died, the mourning reached out, with clumsy, fumbling hands. It was said that when the spirits reached back, fingers rotten, and splintering, they did not let go. 

This was the kind of tradition Sasori usually mocked. He had lost his parents a long time ago, and had no patience for such sentimentality. It was useless, pointless, and dumb.

Or so Rasa had thought.

“So?” Sasori snapped. “Is there an issue?”

Rasa exhaled. “No. No issue at all. Just—surprised.” And worried. They were walking around in boiling hot weather. If Sasori wasn’t eating, or drinking…

He held his tongue, shook his head, and changed the subject. 

“More…I was thinking. I’ll also abstain,” he said. That was only polite. “But we should get something for later— what do you want?”

“Lemons,” Sasori immediately answered, “lots of them.”

Rasa raised a brow. “That’s not real food.”

“They’re fruit,” Sasori said matter-of-factly. 

It wasn’t worth arguing over. “Fine. What else?” 

“Some sweets, too. Tarts, or pastries—nothing with icing. Cheese is better. With syrup and nuts and flaky crust.” Sasori listed, counting on his fingers.

“Maybe something easier to carry?” Rasa offered.

“I can carry lemons just fine,” Sasori retorted.

Rasa could only sigh. “We’ll see what we can find.” 

Luckily, they wouldn’t suffer for lack of sweets. The government made a point of importing sugar, rice and water to be publicly distributed during religious holidays— specifically, the harvest festival in the summer, and the ghost festival in the winter, which they were celebrating now.

(Supposedly, this improved morale. In reality, Lord Third would not survive without throwing an extravagant party every couple of months.)

They circled through the streets, slinking through alleys and under lanterns. Closer to the bazaar, the scent of cinnamon spilled over the city, fragrant and sticky with the scent of baked goods. Some were sprinkled with herbs, others with cheese, and still others with burnt sugar. Sasori darted towards the sweets, while Rasa hung behind, scanning the market for something suitable. Maybe even healthy.

He ended up purchasing a half dozen lemons (as demanded), a bag full of red dates, and some hot tea in a thermos (handed to him with a wink). On second thought, Rasa added a basket of “real food”—wrapping everything in a sheet, which was then sealed in a scroll—before circling back for Sasori, who had stopped to extort a blacksmith.

“Like I said, my order was due weeks ago.”

The blacksmith, a Kumori man named Han Ye, looked like he’d swallowed poison. “Mm.”

He crossed one thick arm over the other, towering above Sasori. “It festival. Have much to do.” Han Ye jerked a shoulder at his booth. “Many orders. Buy if want.”

“At those prices?”

Han Ye’s dark eyes glowered under his headscarf. “No buy, no deal.”

Sasori sneered. “As if I’d do business with you.”

Before he could make things worse, Rasa slid between them. “—I think that’s enough.” 

“Finally,” muttered Sasori. “Let’s get out of here.”

Despite his blunt manners, Han Ye was a thorough man, who meticulously ranked everyone who he interacted with. When it came to his wallet, Sasori ranked number one— he bought more custom blades and needles than all of Suna put together. But when it came to personality, Sasori ranked dead last. Han Ye was glad to see him gone. 

“Okay,” Han Ye waved Rasa off. “Go. Take loud bug with you.”

Sasori’s eyes widened. If looks could kill, Han Ye would die on the spot. “You— ”

“—are leaving.” 

Rasa grabbed Sasori by the elbow, yanking him away.

“You never take my side!” snapped Sasori.

“You always pick fights!” 

“Who cares? I win them.”

“‘Win?’” Rasa snorted. “You’re too much.”

“And you’re not enough,” cut Sasori. “Be grateful I even bother.”

He shoved Rasa away and marched ahead, parting the crowd like steel through flesh. 

Rasa exhaled and pinched the bridge of his nose. Even with all his emotion training, it was hard to stay unaffected. Sasori had a knack for stabbing his weakest spots. This, in particular, hurt more than most, stinging like a knife through the ribs. 

He allowed himself a grimace, and carried on, chasing after Sasori.

Someone had to look after him. Even if one else would.