#v.04.

ask Hidan stuff / ( unprompted, always accepting. )

hoppity-hop-hop!! oopsie. there he goes, dodging all of that ( laughter trailing behind him in the aftermath, a ghost dancing in his footsteps ). when he straightens, hair just a little in disarray from the ( acrobatic ) evasion, he’s grinning, even as he dusts off the soil from his hands. callouses rub against callouses. he hardly feels a thing, anymore ( the body is surprisingly adaptable ; proper chakra control helps, but there’s nothing like toughening up via sheer physical exertion ).

he can’t help himself ( wouldn’t help himself even if he could, wouldn’t want to ) –––  Hidan laughs, the sound dancing upon a knifepoint, cutting through the dark between them. all mirth. all teeth, too. what? it’s funny. the way she spits out his name like some curse, the way he sent her adrenaline spiking by the mere act of being there. ( it’s so fucking funny! ) it tickles him, so he laughs ( at her ) ; cause and effect!

still, his hands rise, spread apart in the mimicry of a placating gesture. . .. one that he may or may not mean ( his body movements making the moonlight catch at his silhouette, making light lick a long line down the sharp edges of the blades he has secured to his back. a dangerous dance of light and shadows. apparently, going unarmed even on a night stroll was out of the question. it would have made him feel just a little funny, and not in a pleasant way. not in the way Konan did, with her funny little reactions! )

she sounds cross. and more than a little accusatory.

               “ whoa whoa whoa, can’t a guy just have a nice stroll, nowadays? I’m not doing anything! ”

is it convincing? ( who cares? ) hello, my name is Hidan, and I love long walks on the beach and offering worthy sacrifices to my God-

once a few feet away, he reappears at Konan’s side ( all smug smirk and boyish charm as he beams at her ), heels sinking into the sand where he lands. the feeling is unpleasant ( he’d prefer to be barefooted, but then again, it’s too much of a hassle to carry around his footwear so. . . ), but no trace of it appears on his features. instead, he ticks an eyebrow upward, observing her through eyes at half-mast that bear little understanding, and no commiseration whatsoever.

antagonizing Kakashi wasn’t particularly rewarding –––  unlike Deidara, unlike Kakuzu, both of whose ire or rage he could spark like a match thrown at nitroglycerin. the flame simply did not take ( well ). not with him. as if Kakashi were but a wide, bottomless pool of dark, still water ( beware, beware for here be monsters— ), shaped into the figure of a man. he couldn’t even stir the surface properly ( yanking back his fingertips from it, however, left his flesh ice-cold ).

the weapon swings in a single, fluid motion, finding its resting place against Hidan’s shoulder ( an arm draping lazily upon the handle, a peace-offering on its own ), even as he cocks an eyebrow.

there're things that could ( do ) set Hidan off, like a match thrown onto incredibly dry timber ( snap his patience like a twig underfoot. set his nerves aflame, and suddenly, everything in his head is a wildfire. ) they do exist, although they are far fewer than people generally anticipate ( think they know ) after making his acquaintance. they can make his blood boil, those things ––– and once they do, it always circles back to two things: blood and pain ( ha! pain, Pein. real funny. there’s a joke in there somewhere, if you attempt to take a stab at it. Hidan doesn't linger long enough on it to try. )

but this isn’t it. between one sentence and the next, catastrophe is prevented. maybe they take a wrong turn, somewhere in the labyrinth of his mind. because instead of tensing in vexation. . ..  Hidan laughs. ( laughs in the face of everything he cares little about. that village, its people, this man's assessment of him. they're all so . . . )

a brief thing, more a bark of a sound than uncontrollable amusement. ( it dies down to a scalding, sweet-flavored countenance, a smile coating his lips, enveloping the threat of violence. sweet like syrup around a pocket of cyanide. )

a c h a n c e t o a i d a l l o f u s i n . .. .

( fucking hilarious. the best joke he’s heard in a while. what makes you think I want anything of the sort? that I have ever aided anyone, even once, in my life. . .. .? lie lie lie, but Pein isn’t in his head, so how would he know ? )

                 “ hey hey hey. what’s this bullshit about? don’t you think you’re underestimating me, just a little? ” still sickly-sweet. you see, it comes naturally ––– Hidan is sometimes indulgently obnoxious ( because he can. because he wants to. ) “ I’d like to see him try ! ”

( his supposed partner, who acted like anything but one. a mock-partner, a mock-leader. all of it a masquerade. like his supposed giving a shit about this whole organization. was any of this meant to faze him? or was it merely a play, put on for his entertainment?  )

above, behind the haze of pollution projected upon the skies by the village ( he hates this place ), clouds gather heavily ( shades of grey, always ; daylight, nighttime – all shades of . . .. ). passive onlookers to this tiny. . . dispute? difference of opinion? ( Hidan is bored. Hidan is restless. therefore, Hidan makes a nuisance of himself. )

a shrug, deliberate and slow, followed by the roll of his shoulders.  as if to ( purposefully! ) contrast ( counteract! ) Pein’s neat, precise angularity ( of bearing and of tongue, of ideas and of speech ), Hidan relaxes – even slouches just a touch, or pretends to, anyway. lets his arms become cooked noodles at the very least ( his back posture is, by force or habit and obligation, impeccable. it comes with carrying a significant amount of weight at his back. ) but it’s all showtime, after all. it’s the message that matters. and he’s certain that his message, in the here and now, is being received quite clearly.

a WASTE? had he been privy to the other’s thoughts, Hidan’s glee would have undoubtedly boiled over, instantaneously morphing into wrath ( a disastrous outburst ; the sort that soaks the whole of your vision in blood, leaving no room for inconsequential matters such as rationality ). in truth, few things can claw their way through to Hidan’s softer, more vulnerable parts, enough to cause him genuine upset. one is the ( idiotic, yet common ) claim so many make ( sometimes even believing it to be true ) : that they could, would, cut his life short( laughable! ). and the other is. . .. . .. . . .  you see, the deceptive sloppiness, the deceptive lack of planning ( as if it were uncoordinated, unmethodical, just a fortuitous happenstance ) we’re at the very core of his fighting style. a purposefully guided dance, fueled by provocation ( so easy ). a honeyed trap, a false sense of security leading you to place a hand inside the wolf’s maw, willingly.

the fallout from having such an affront, spoken aloud, . . . well. it would have been rather… problematic. but fortuitously, Hidan is no mind-reader, and Itachi chooses not to speak of it ( utterly boring, how the only cloth Uchihas seemed to be cut from was smart. well. if the past is to be believed. it isn’t as if they were all that numerous anymore. whose fault is that?? )  instead, he allows Hidan the enjoyment of this battle, at least for a little while. and enjoy it, Hidan does ( laughing, his grin genuine and unfaltering ). and clearly, he’s proud enough  –and this is not, for once, misguided arrogance—of his skills to not mind an audience ( which is to say: he pays it no heed to Itachi whatsoever, his aim being neither to impress nor to obfuscate any attempt at analysis. he doesn’t really care, one way or another. after all, each murderous dance is its own weaving, based on a foundation of improvisation and scrutiny. unique.)

be quick! —— ugh! Itachi was truly a poster child for common sense ( boring sense ).

the Uchiha's voice carries, despite its unhurried and not particularly harsh modulation. and despite not being called to by name, Hidan catches its drift upon the wind and turns to it as one would to a chime. he toys around with the idea of not acknowledging the call, if only to prove a point to Red Eyes. ( see, I'm not your dog ). and yet, after a split-second of contemplation, he discards it. in two swift hops, he lands by Itachi's side, the tip of his sandals resting quite comfortably upon the injured shinobi's ribcage, the three-bladed scythe lowered uncomfortably close to the face of that body-soon-to-be-a-corpse. it twitches in response. Hidan clicks his tongue, and presses his foot in harder, although his attention remains upon his supposed partner. it's strange to be reminded, from the sudden proximity, that their heights are relatively the same ( their ages, too, and that’s right about where the parallels end, if one is iffy about including the slaughter of one’s family into the mix ; even Hidan’s loose tongue avoided any mentions, until now. it’s just that the Uchihas were rather infamous. )  –––  thus, it makes it easy for him to stare the other Akatsuki member right in the eye. unblinking. unwavering magenta gaze to endlessly dark pools.

Hidan’s mouth quirks, just for a moment.

well, well, well.  Red Eyes was looking just a touch worse for wear. that was. . . . interesting. yet in the aftermath of curiosity came frustration, and in its footsteps, bile.  was he really trying to force Hidan's hand into babysitting his idiotic ass? fucking damn it. while Hidan wouldn’t, in all truth ( and the truth is so relative, so subjective, so malleable and prone to change. truth is plasticine in the shinobi world ) slay a ( supposed ) ally ( that he cared little for ) — he was not opposed to standing by idly as they expired.

( shinobi die all the time, after all. he can merely remind dear leader of this FACT if any questions were to arise. )

still. odd. Itachi can’t possibly have been dumb enough to use any taxing jutsu, let alone Tsukuyomi or its ilk, for no reason whatsoever. . . ..  could he? ( why would he!? ) a frown etches itself into Hidans features, a companion to the displeased turn of his mouth.  ( he has an unclear notion of how much of Itachis chakra may be consumed by such use — but he has enough sense to know that one of the most powerful genjutsu in existence would, by necessity, impose some amount of drain on its user. had he not told him to sit. it. the. fuck. down? Jashin grant him some fucking patience before he kicks the idiot in the shin. or impales him and leaves him as feed for wildlife. )

he doesn’t have much time.

( he hasn’t forgotten the warning, nor been oblivious to Itachi’s attempt to guide his hand. once the initial spike of adrenaline, of alarm that knifed him through the gut, subsided, the thought of it makes him snicker. )

he doesn’t have much time.

“ . .. .hmm. do YOU? ” a taunt. laughter ( steeped in cruelty, its sharp edges still curling the corners of Hidan’s mouth into unforgiving lines ) may not be spilling from his lips just then, but it clings to the feverish light at the back of his eyes. it’s a barely-covert message, dripping with intent. but this time, Hidan raises no weapon in the proximity of Itachi's throat. count your blessings, weasel.  instead, he extends his free hand towards the other. almost solicitously. almost. the movement is certainly both languid and careless, even as his fingers spread out, palm up, as if testing for raindrops. ( blooddrops. well, just in case Itachi’s body decided to give up on him, and bleed all over with little to no reason. how fucking amusing that would be.  . . … . )

Hidan's entirely unimpressed face, as he stares back for a moment ( a long moment that stretches like an elastic, gathering tension, inching dangerously close to its snapping point ) ? it's a threat, in and of itself. jaw tight, molars gritting against each other. still . . . . apparently, he decides upon mouthing off at the provocation, rather than taking genuine offense ( his fingers, having darted to the side —now dancing lazily upon the metal cord— tell a different story. as if he required but a minimal amount of provocation, and this would turn into a much more exciting. . ..  ah, party. )

                “ is this the sort of shit you get up to with Red Eyes, or am I just that special a morsel ?? ” he looks less than enthused at the prospect. it isn't, after all, a compliment ( and he really has no desire to know the answer to either of those rhetorical inquiries ). “ or are you picking a fight? ” 

if asked, Hidan would claim that it wasn’t his fault. everyone always assumes it must be, in one way or another, and yes, fine, in the majority of cases that may ( or may not!! ) be true. but they do say that the exception confirms the rule, and that is exactly the case here. promise. perhaps this little incident wouldn’t have occurred if circumstances were different. but whilst 'inconspicuous' hardly meshed well with Hidan’s personality, it clashed just as badly with the concept of parading around in easily identified garments, a terrible idea when you were on a wanted list and your head is worth a hefty bounty.

it’s not the first time this happened, it won’t be the last, surely. ( but Hidan’s pretty sure that it’s the first time it happened indoors. ) a poor tactic, truly. assassination only works with the element of surprise, and when the target is, well, able to die. because otherwise? Hidan’s not the one trapped in a cramped space. they are the ones trapped in there. with him. when Kakuzu returns, looking tired as fuck, the room holds testament to that statement only in the ( unavoidable ) splattering of blood at Hidan’s feet. nothing else. no particular floor adornments, no sign of Hidan’s usual draw-out style ( a swift, cut-and-dry —cutthroat— affair, and two thuds later, right out the window, a lack of evidence in the room. ) apparently, even Hidan did not deem the affair as worthy of his attention ( or as an offering ). it isn’t uncharted territory. for Hidan ( Hidan for whom every fight is akin to a game. a game for its own sake and for the heady rush of adrenaline shaking his skull and setting nerves aflame. a game for the sake of playing rather than for the prize, which is always, always a grand finale and a whisper of death that he, nevertheless, survives. he owns the ultimate cheat code to it all, after all: the luxury of infinite lives. ) but it’s rare enough to hold some degree of novelty.

if he’s aware of it, Hidan pretends there’s nothing to it. nor, by the way, does he bother to greet his assigned partner. ( what are social niceties anyway? ) instead, he leans back against the window frame ( he’s had enough decency to keep it open to dispel the metallic edge of blood lingering in the air ), using a towel as a makeshift rag for cleaning the kunai he had appropriated for himself.

the question catches him off-guard like a sudden blade between two ribs ( prompts a disbelieving puff of laughter from his lungs. )

           “ what? Kakuzu! are you actually offering me assistance!? ”  it comes out nearly aghast, spoiled only by the smug amusement that paints itself thick upon his mouth, clawing its way up his whole face to dance, mischievously, in his eyes. it’s mockery, borderline on taunting, but nothing out of ordinary for Hidan — not when he can rarely resist a jest at another’s expense. and there it is, a hand fluttering over his heart, to accentuate the sentimentality rising within his bosom at the gesture ( all make-believe, all jeering; after all, he couldn’t mistake the intent behind the words: it wasn’t an offer to help. it was a direction to clean up , something Hidan had not, in fact, given much thought or intent to, until that moment. seriously, what’s the point? blood had already seeped through the tatami, and unless someone had the genius to create an instant-cleaning jutsu, there was no saving it. or so Hidan would argue. in truth, he had no clue. )

still, something about those words, in Kakuzu’s mouth, feels precariously close to unsettling. or would, if Hidan gave it much thought. . .. which, for the record, he decides not to. an eyebrow still ticks up, betraying curiosity if nothing else, as he lets his eyes roam over his partner in keen assessment ( you— ). but for once in his life, he stills his tongue ( a small miracle ; the unspoken words smash themselves against his skull, against the back of his throat, screaming out in frustration from being unheard: hey hey hey, Kakuzu. you know, you look like shit. well. moreso than usual. gonna go ‘round having a heart attack on me now? is old age catching up? the usual bullshit ).

instead of speaking, Hidan runs his tongue over the back of his teeth, the metallic-sweet taste lingering on his gums. the night air tangles cold fingers in his hair, sliding pleasantly cool ( cooling ) fingers down the nape of his neck.

hmm.

well, none of his business.

a roll of his shoulders, as if to work out the ache there, and Hidan picks up the discarded kunai ( the one he had been wiping clean, moments prior ), twirling it around his finger ( swish swish swish it goes, ‘round and round, a toy that could slice throats open. )

               “ well then. guess I better make the rest of the place quiet. ”

he’ll be damned if he lingers to be forced into cleaning up. he can do other, useful, things instead. and while sure, adding to the bodycount doesn’t exactly abide to the guidelines of ‘remaining inconspicuous’ ( oops ) . . . .well. there’s two out the window already, for any of the keepers to stumble upon — and Hidan would much prefer to get a good night’s rest without any sort of scandal or screaming or being woken up at ungodly hours because some people couldn’t stomach it. especially now, when being afforded the luxury of a roof over his head. he’s not letting someone else’s sensibilities ruin his night. ( had the words ‘play nice with the other kids’ and ‘don’t stir things up’ ever entered his vocabulary? )

corpses are exceptionally silent neighbors. never heard one scream yet!

he makes for the door, with no intent to recover the scythe propped against the wall. quick and clinical and utterly boring it is. shockingly, he could, when he chose to, be strikingly efficient ( Hidan knew the human body and its numerous failings better than anyone, and most of it was trial and error and firsthand experience ). the problem lay with the fact that he often didn’t choose to. ). another exception to the rule, for the night. well, why not.

a thought pauses him midstep, tugs a line between pale eyebrows, and he half-turns to his partner, troubled.

           “ say, Kakuzu. . ..  you can prepare a decent sencha, right? ”

so when he leans in to kiss her ( mid-sentence, catching her breath in his mouth — careless of whatfuckingever reprimand she was spewing at him )  it is out of sheer rebellion ( just to incite her fury ). all tongue, all teeth ( he lies as he whispers into her mouth: I do not bite. I promise not to. because red flows against his lips, and he's laughing about it ). 

the catch is this: kissing Konan is self-flagellation, a gorgeous excuse for drowning in ice-cold waters. it’s chasing at the ankles of suicide. ( like plunging an ice shiv between your ribs and twisting. like missing death by a centimeter as you're walking down the street. ) kissing Konan is like asking to be crucified ( she’d dye her fingertips in the red of your blood. then again, all devotion calls for blood ; it is a truth that Hidan knows all too well. ) the chill of her eats its way to his core. nevertheless, Hidan still burns ( Hidan is always burning, in one way or another, after all ). 

the warmth of her skin splinters and refracts under his touch as he slides a blood-dirtied palm across her cheek to fist into her hair. as he tries to devour her whole. ( it doesn’t work. of course it doesn't. instead, the cold of her soaks him through, right to the marrow. and it burns, like a brand seared into his skin. hot-cold like frostbite. )

an angel can be a monstrous thing, but not one monstrous enough for Hidan to kneel to ( he only means to disfigure her composure, just a little ). for he will only acknowledge the violence of one GOD ( his god and no other ) upon him. and call it blessing. call it purpose. call it faith.

there is no faith to be found in such a ( savage ) kiss, no religion to be found in such a woman. ( who could ever devote themselves to the point of madness, to the point of adoration, to such a fearsome thing as the ocean? monstrous in its beauty, merciless in its threat to swallow you whole. utterly unlovable. utterly boundless. an ethereal thing. ) he laughs, breathlessly, against her mouth. against the unrelenting terror of her. and because there is no place to flee to, and because he isn’t the running away type anyway, he comes back to her mouth again. ( this time, maybe, he’ll mean it. )