Things between Hidan and me changed without seeming to.

Our priorities, our personalities; these are all that seemed resistant to the change. He prayed (obsessively) while I was occupied keeping track of our finances; he was still whiny and rude and I remained cold and often silent. We lived cheaply, despite his protests, taking the missions no one else could touch and often staying far away from base and communication with the rest of Akatsuki.

Perhaps that made it easier for the change, but I think it would have come anyway. Things were changing for Akatsuki as well, and not much of that change is good. Sasori's death was the worst of it, shaking our Leader badly- it was not a sacrifice we were prepared for. We were all ordered to return to Rain Country and remained there for several months with no missions, not allowed to leave the borders. Hidan made the conjecture that this quarantine, combined with Sasori's death, has driven out what little of Deidara's sanity existed in the first place; and it seemed true- the young blond has changed, becoming withdrawn and careless.

It should be much harder to believe that he was so attached to the puppet-master, as much as the pair of them argued. But of course, I've learned from experience that constant bickering might have nothing to do with emotional ties.

After months of being confined to the small country, many sleepless nights punctuated by muffled explosions or hopeless laughter from the direction of wherever Deidara was staying, we began being assigned quick missions. Always it was part of the command that we return to the base after it was completed, and most assignments were simply reestablishing old contacts in nearby countries, or disposing of useless ones. Most of us became restless, but Leader remained cautious.

Itachi was the first balk at the confinement, in his silent apathetic way. He disappeared one night, leaving Kisame to grin and apologize and follow after the next morning. Not long after, Deidara withdrew completely, only lashing out at his partner when the idiocy became unbearable; it was odd for things to be so perfectly silent. Hidan, by far more social than I, tried to be pleasant to the blonde, but only got stony-faced grunts in reply, sounds that seemed to cause Tobi to materialize from nothing, and soon Hidan avoided the bomber all together.

Then Konan came to Hidan and me, calm as ever, and told us we were to take on the next step of the mission for the three-tailed bijou. The grin on Hidan's face was unmatched, as we were told we would be permitted to return to our normal habit of wandering without reporting back to base.

We were gone within an hour of Konan's brief speech, slipping out of the country under the cover of a storm. Even this was not enough to make Hidan surly; he was too ecstatic to be free of the Rain Country. When I suggested camping out in the grass off the road (once out of Rain, the storm had withered into nothing) he agreed with minimal whining.

After years of his company, he became easy enough to read. I could foresee the shift in his moods early enough to prepare myself for the worst of it, making it easier to weather whatever emotional storm he brewed. He in turn learned to read me, shutting up without my needing to yell, or sitting close and sharing our warmth when I was in a mood for intimacy.

We knew each other so well, our superficial selves and our inner selves; we worked together in synchronized harmony, playing off each other and balancing our shortcomings with our strengths. When we fought, against each other or together against an enemy, the motions were almost like a dance, our attacks complimenting each other, every action in accord. Many of the fights we had against each other struck me as almost flirtatious, especially on his part; they were exciting and arousing and nearly always ended with one of us pinned by the other.

Of course, this change came slowly, in strange, jagged increments. I can remember a time when it would not have been inaccurate to say we hated each other- passionately, actively despised one another. But active hate has an odd habit of changing… sometimes I wonder when bloodlust became a more carnal hunger, when I stopped trying to think of ways to kill him and started thinking of ways to get him in my bed. And I think of his face that first time, when I lost control and mauled him- that expression of pure bliss, a hunger in him having been satiated, though he would have continued to glut if I hadn't stopped. Did he want things to be this way before I did, or was I just a convenient masturbatory tool?

There were still times when we annoyed each other, when we found ourselves completely at odds. This was natural enough for anyone forced into close company for so long. In the long run, I believe our moments of stress and disgust with one another were fair trade for the moments of pleasant warmth.

I've never considered myself a romantic, and I have to admit that it is strange to try openly contemplating these things; the emotional ties that bind Hidan and me. However, they are complicated enough to distract me from the final agony, and I find it much more pleasant to think of the zealot than of my pending death. Knowing that I won't survive to walk out of this clearing is disappointing, and I don't like the idea of dying disappointed.

Hidan is still a stranger to me in many ways, which now seems oddly unfair. We never bothered to learn the little details about each other, taking for granted that we had the time to figure each other out. I know he will take coffee in the morning if it's available and is generally more pleasant throughout the day if he gets it. But I don't know how he takes it, except that he likes sweet things so I assume he uses too much sugar. He doesn't like open bodies of water, but where does the phobia come from? I know that old man was from the cult of Jashin, like Hidan, but were they related? Was Hidan born into his faith, or did he convert sometime in his life? I sometimes used to wonder to myself, when we were lying together and I had my fingers in his hair, if it was naturally white or if it was part of his immortality. His eyes too, which are too sharp to be colored from albinism- were they always some shade of violet, or did they change when he was 'blessed'. Or is he as full of shit about being blessed with immortality by his insane god as he is about anything else having to do with religion? I suppose it's possible that his durability could come from a strange bloodline or an arcane jutsu.

I wonder if it would satisfy him that my thoughts are completely about him now. As far as my attention went, he was just as much a miser as I was with money. I was never supposed to think of anything but him, whether we were getting along or fighting- he made that quite clear with his attention-seeking antics.

The very fact that I can think with some regret of the part of him that I do not know is proof of the changes he has forced in my life. That I think of him with anything more than anger, contempt, or at best lust is confirmation that he has changed me. And it is the things about him that I don't know that leave me wondering if I have changed him as well- I cannot know, because despite how close we became, we learned very little about each other. Did we take for granted our time together, wasting the years because we assumed neither of us could fall victim to mortality, or was it simple apathy? It sounds so cheap- and generally, I am exceptionally cheap- to say that we didn't really think to pay attention to one another. To assume that we had the time to come to terms with what we were to each other, to believe that our safeguards against death would hold indefinitely makes both of us sound naïve and childish. And yet, I believe it is the truth of things. We simply never expected to be restrained by time.

When I think of him, my first thoughts are of the things he does that make me angry. It is almost purposeful on my part, because if all I thought of in relation to him were things that made me feel good, positive, then the moments when he annoyed me would be all the more potent. It is hard enough to acknowledge how deeply his presence effects me without allowing him to sway me just because of my own self-delusion.

Yet every thought of annoyance or anger is attached to one of pleasure or happiness- because despite how often we fought, we did make each other happy, more often than one would think.

I always hated his need to pray, in the morning, before we slept, and after every single battle we were in. It is one of the keystones of his personality, that need to pray, and it frustrates me to no end. I never could fathom putting so much energy into a task that meant nothing in the material world. Even if there really are gods, would one of them really chose to listen to one mortal banter? It seemed like such a waste of time and energy, and yet he clung blindly to it.

More than once I heard him praying for me, late in the evening when he thought I had gone to sleep or in the morning when I was in the shower and shouldn't have heard. He prayed for his god's understanding in my lack of faith, in my sacrilegious treatment of his bible, my disrespect; he prayed for my anger to be soothed and for my calmness, for our relationship to be lucky. He always prayed that we would 'reach an understanding', though precisely what he meant by that I have no idea. Once, when I was angry and had stormed off, I returned the next morning and heard him praying that I would come back.

He tempered my wrath with spiteful and sometimes playful encouragement, making my outbursts into a game. There were moments when I scared him, but often even when he was angry he laughed off my threats and made light of the wounds I inflicted on him. I could have pulled him to pieces and he would have found a way to taunt me about my method. It made me hate him in the moment and love him better later.

That, I think, was one reason we danced around each other, changing without acknowledging it to ourselves and ignoring the little things about each other that made us human. We did not want to admit how deep we had gotten. We didn't want to hear ourselves use that phrase- love. No shinobi should be in love, not if he wants to stay alive for very long. Love makes you stupid, especially when you acknowledge it.

We were a poor match, as lovers go. We were too set in our own ways and too stubborn to ever think of compromising. Even now I feel that to say we love each other is not precisely accurate. To invoke the word love is to say we would have given something up to keep our bond; it is to say we have been tried and that we passed the trial. But our relationship was never really tested; we just changed to accept each other's constant presence. As a result our bond never had to be tested; it simply evolved as we did.

But what other emotion could spark our protectiveness, or could inspire the trust and passion we harbor for each other? What else besides love could make me chase after him when he sulked off after a fight? What else would make him come back and give me one of his half-assed apologies? What other than love could have forced us to change as we have?

So we loved each other. We despised each other as often as we realized that we needed each other, and we fought without end, but we loved each other truly enough.

Akatsuki is a criminal organization; we all have committed acts of such horror that we are spoken of with awe and fear in our villages. Shinobi recognize us by our cloaks and often by our faces, which they have memorized from posters and bingo books and stories told to frighten children. We are the most feared and well recognized organization in the world. But evil is what we do, not what we are. Despite our attempts to block out that which makes us human, none of us are exempt from emotion or conscience. What separates us from other shinobi are our manners of deflection- most shinobi cannot make themselves channel the energy of their emotions or morals into something other than a momentary outburst. Some go insane trying to disguise their emotions.

Members of Akatsuki, however, channel it into some focus or another. Deidara and Sasori had art, and each other; Itachi had his sickening obsession with his brother; Pein was becoming a god and Konan had Pein. Everyone had something that kept them sane and focused, and for Hidan and I, that somehow became each other. There were other things- religion, money, blood- that helped us, but our bond was a force of its own caliber. Not just the good, but also the bad things that kept us together- our hate kept us sane just as well as anything.

There was a time when we could barely stand being in a room together for half an hour, and I can't help but wonder if we wouldn't be better off if things had remained that way. There is a seductive security to having a partner you have any sort of bond with- you think, I can't die here, because later I will be with whomever, and we'll be fine. Nor do you think of real harm befalling your partner, because of course, later you will be together. You are invincible because you are together. Once you begin thinking of yourself as belonging to an 'us', you cloak yourself in delusions.

There can be no upside to dying; there is no glory in it, no sense of accomplishment. My road has been long and full of turns and forks. Too many years have collected behind me with too many issues for my conscience to be an account worth trying to settle. The least I can say is that my regrets are minimal and reflect things that would likely not have changed were I to survive.

There is one thing, one small thing that I do truly regret, though I doubt that I would be able to change it even if I had the opportunity. Habits shape our personalities, after all. I regret that the last words between us were idle discussion of the fight ahead. I regret that the last words I will ever have heard from Hidan's lips are 'Let's do the usual!', in irritating enthusiasm for the coming bloodshed. I regret that I said nothing to him before we split up that wasn't battle communication.

Despite what some people believe, time is a one way street. No amount of regret or love or determination can grant you access to some amazing store of energy, allowing you to defy death and fix that which you have done wrong. Once you reach the point when you start wishing for a ridiculous thing like that, you're probably too far gone already.

If I had it all to do over again, I believe I would let my life play out just as it has. For every injustice I suffered, I was later rewarded; for every moment of agony, a period of calm and good health. My life was perhaps too long, but it was at least well balanced, and I can look at it and accept what I see.

Is it death that makes everything around me seem so beautifully clear, so slow and wonderfully detailed? I can't move; even blinking causes pain that sinks from my eyes to my wounds to pound out yet more blood. And yet everything in front of me is in perfect clarity: above me I can see sunlight straining through the leaves; from my peripheral I catch a slow crimson droplet trailing languidly down a blade of grass. It seems odd to acknowledge that the droplet is my life splattered all around me, but odder still is the thought of sunlight. How can there be sunlight in the sky still, when I've been dying for hours at least?

Once Hidan told me that death was beautiful. I thought he was being morbid, and that he was referring to the death we created, not our own deaths. Laying here now, I understand better what he meant. It is painful, and I would easily trade what I can see to know that tomorrow I would still be alive, but yes, there is a stunning splendor in the world as seen through dying eyes.

The sounds I hear are muddled, but when the Copy-cat Ninja appears in my vision, I understand him well enough. Leaf ninja are a weak bunch, destined to skewer themselves on their own self righteous spears; they are the dreamers who believe a world that rests in the hands of shinobi can someday know peace. Yet they make good foot soldiers because they don't question the need to kill for peace- Kakashi doesn't surprise me by gloating, and the sight of his only original move is as surprisingly welcome as it is beautiful.

Hidan hated when I would knock him out of the way of some enemy's attack, or protect him from traps. He despised that I would keep safe something that I would only injure later; it was a sort of hypocrisy that he simply could not tolerate. I always registered this, and yet could never help myself. So I am not surprised when, as I feel the air heat and snap with the electricity leaping from Kakashi's fist, my mind turns sadly to one further regret, one that I would change if I could.

No one will protect you now, Hidan. If you survive, it will be undoubtedly in some battle—ruined state, and I will not be there to stitch you whole again.

~*~

A/N: What's this? An update?

Yes, I return. And yes, I know. How dare I follow the cannon plot in fanfiction? Damn me.

But I'm not done yet. One more chapter, and of course my final… afterward, we'll call it, as there can be no interludes.

For those of you who've stuck with me from the gritty, unpolished beginning, I thank you. Dedicated Reader, you deserve my applause… I would have kept this going even without your support, but praise is so encouraging. So I thank you, for your criticisms- Clockwork, that was really only you, and it's been some time since I heard from you- and you love.

Hold my hand now, kids. We're almost to that fabled end of the road.