Evolution of Us

Senko Wakimarin

Chapter One: Violence

Hidan and I don't get along.

I highly doubt anyone expected us too. I've never gotten along well with my partners, and with Hidan, there's nothing to like. He's a zealous fool with a foul mouth and no particular skill, unless you count the fact that he doesn't die. Which isn't a real skill, it's just the luck he has to be born as such. Beyond that he's weak, blinded by his stupid religion, disrespectful, conceited and boring.

If you asked him, he'd probably tell you I'm exactly the same, only I'd be a 'faithless heathen' instead of a zealot, and 'blinded by greed'. Which, I'll admit, there is some truth there, but I still say my vision is better than his.

I hate the way he sits there, that damned book in his lap, mumbling to himself as he pours over pages he's read a thousand times, looking just as fascinated as he would if it were the first sight. I hate the way the necklace catches the light no matter which way he turns his head, glimmering in the dark as if to mock me. The way he glowers at me every so often makes me want to leave the corner I sit in and snap his head off. Often I feel I hate him- if I could figure out how, I'd kill him. Of course, that would probably piss Rei-sama off quite nicely, considering that sooner or later I end up killing all my partners. Hidan is relatively new, only a few weeks we've been paired, and I hate him more than I ever hated any of the others. Yet Rei-sama, clever as he is, paired us, even though I'm sure he knew we'd never get along. He's a sadist as surely as I am.

I don't understand him, either. I doubt he wants to be understood, but I can't say I really care about that. Not knowing why he does the stupid little things he does is probably part of what infuriates me so much about him. Actually, I know it is. It's a big part, and the only thing that comes even close to bothering me as much as not knowing anything about him is how badly I want to know. Like right now- I've given up trying to figure out exactly how much money he and his stupid religion have cost me today, and am instead trying to figure out what the hell he's reading about that would require him to look at me so very often. I want to know what he's thinking… and I want to know (and here's that part that really pisses me off, to speak honestly) if it's really about me. I want to know if he actually thinks of me as a partner… even as another human being.

How in the world can I know, when his face is the same frustratingly hollow mask- it's worse than the way I cover my face, because you should be able to read something in those eyes. But narrowed as they are in hate, furrowed though his brow is in frustration, his face says nothing of what he's thinking. Because that's the look he gives everyone, its not reserved specially for me.

Once again I see him look up at me, and this time he doesn't go back to his book when I catch him. He meets my eyes, and his lips stop that incessant mumbling that seems to tumble out of them whenever his little book is open. The silence is almost oppressive, and for a moment I wonder if that's what he wanted, to make me feel uncomfortable.

"What?"

Normally the tone in my voice is enough to at least give him a start, but not now. He doesn't break the eye contact, doesn't even blink. What he does is smile a little.

"You're the one staring at me, Kakuzu." He sounds so smug, like he's laid a trap and I've walked blindly into it. "I should be asking you 'what'."

Refusing to be the first to look away, I find my hands curling into fists. The book in his hand flips shut, and he sets it to the side. "Don't start with me. You won't like how I end it."

That little smile becomes a grin, his fingers steepled together over his necklace. "Is that the not-so-subtle threat that's supposed to shut me up? Not exactly creative."

My teeth clench, agitation becoming anger just like that. Yet I won't look away, I won't let him win this, and I manage to restrain myself from moving. I can see from his unrelenting smile that my reaction is just what he wanted. "This is a bad time to start this, Hidan."

"Why? You'll kill me?" He's actually laughing at me, and while it is somewhat interesting to see his eyes flash with something other than anger, it's only making me want to hurt him more. "That's fucking hilarious."

In a second my resolve breaks, I'm across the room, and his laughing face is almost smothered beneath my hand. I actually take a moment to appreciate the size difference between us- he's quite a bit smaller than I am. His eyes are still visible, and they're not afraid; shocked, but not afraid. I lean closer, so my lips are near his ear, and my voice lowers to a whisper. "I don't have to kill you, Hidan." The shiver I can feel run over his flesh at this is very gratifying.

Without having to think about it my other hand has been pulling at his clothes- I want to get his cloak off before I start. It'll get ruined if I don't, and explaining why we need a new one would be unpleasant, so I'd just rather avoid it entirely. Of course, Hidan's struggling, but not hard- not like he should be- and the movements of his arms are actually helping me to get the heavy fabric off. Keeping my grip on his face, I pull the preacher up enough to finish sliding the cloak from his shoulders and throw it to the floor.

He doesn't wear a shirt underneath, which is just as well, because it would only get ruined if he did. For that reason, I try to pull off the necklace, which I know he holds so very dear (although the thought is nothing so clear in my mind, only on reflection does such reasoning come to mind, at the moment I just see it as being in my way) but he grabs at my wrist, this time putting a real effort into stopping my motion. I can feel his breath against my palm coming in fast, shallow gasps even though I haven't even started yet, and he shakes his head just once. His eyes are still far too calm for my tastes, and if he's fine with it possibly getting broken, I'm willing to drop it and move on to the fun part.

Those eyes- it's so frustrating. They're not just calm, they're expectant. It's hard to look away from them, but I can also feel the curve of his smile beneath my hand, and I know he thinks I'm hesitating. Pushing him back down, I shift my position, driving my knee into his stomach so when I remove my hand from his face there's no air for him to speak. With one hand near his collarbone, I can feel his heart now racing- with fear or anticipation I still can't tell, because even though his eyes are widened and slightly glazed, there's nothing in them to give away anything.

My hand is too quick for him to follow, but it's amusing to watch him try; his violet irises shimmering in the gloom, glancing down after my hand. They're still looking at my hip when the kunai whistles through the air, and then they're closed tight in visible agony, my knife buried in his side. What little breath he has left hisses through his teeth, his blood rushing hot and fast over my hand.

In the past our arguments have escalated to fights, but I've always managed to resist the urge to hurt him too badly. The most I've done before was strangle him, and that only to make him shut up for a little while. This time I feel no urge to restrain myself, and though I know now that he really can't die, I'll bring him as close to that edge as I can. I once told him I'd make dying hurt so bad he'd be begging me to finish him. That was for ruining a bounty, and I only broke his arm. Today he's only chosen the wrong moment to open his stupid mouth, but the promise holds true.

His fingers are prying weakly with the hand holding the knife, his teeth bared in a grimace… and yet his eyes show no panic, no anguish- they reflect something close to pleasure more than anything. Seeing him this way brings me a vague satisfaction that's only increased by his whimpering sigh as I drag the kunai through him, away from those scratching hands. The wound is beautiful, deep and bleeding heavily, but not enough to let him slip into unconsciousness. His hands stay on the wound even after I've removed the blade, trying to press it closed, and somehow that image of him, half naked and bleeding but still so cold to it, is breath taking. Certainly it's better than the wound alone.

Of course, lovely as the image may be, I'm far from done with him. It's easy to pull his hands up over his head, his strength seeping away in thimblefuls from the wound on his side. Knowing they'll heal completely before the morning, I push the already bloody kunai through them both, pinning them to the wall behind him. Though my knee is now gone from his chest, he's still struggling to breathe. But his mouth gapes in a silent scream, and I wonder just how far his masochism extends… how far past the border of what he enjoys I can push him.

I trace my fingers over the edges of the cut, mimicking his attempt at pushing it closed, and his eyes reflect confusion. It lasts only a moment, though- I enjoy the damage inflicted much more than the teasing in between, and I push my fingers into the wound. It's difficult at first, hard to move as I force my way through the layers of skin and muscle that remain; now he's getting his breath back enough to actually make a little noise. After a minute, there's a final tear and suddenly I'm up to my wrist in his guts, my hand coated in his hot blood and my fingers brushing the organs that keep normal humans living. With Hidan, though, I know that I could pull each one out and he'd survive… perhaps that even adds to the pleasure of this moment- he'll last so much longer than the others.

Pushing my way in further, I can mentally map out the layout of what I pass. There is nothing unusual about the placement; he's put together like any mortal man, which is interesting to know. My fingers slip over the edge of his kidney as I work my way forward, then fumble over the rope of his intestine. I spread my fingers here, pushing against the pressure that's kept them curled thus far, and then close my hand over that thick tubing. There is a moment of resistance, after all, humans (like any other animal) are meant to keep their organs inside, but in the end I'm stronger. The tugging rips a low sound from his lips, one that grows in pitch and volume as I move more, and I find it encouraging. The bodily reactions of my victims (I'll not mince words, that's what they are) always amuse me; they flail or pull away or, in rare cases, they manage to kick. Hidan is different, as I expected, and he arches against my hands, as if to be closer or pull me in deeper.

I press my free hand further against his chest, still pulling, and in a flash of gore I pull out the first loop of his small intestine. There's a sound that's felt more than heard as they come loose, a sort of choked, sticking sound that I hear with my fingers as he screams for real. The organ in my hand sags heavily against his stained flesh, a weighty segment the color of a fresh bruise, and I let it go. It lies against his flawless skin, distended and out of place, while I reach for a fresh knife.

Not as anxious now, I trail the pointed end over his stomach, dragging it over the edge of the current cut and then heading further up. I press it to his neck, wondering what would happen if I cut his head off. I grin beneath my mask and wipe some of the blood from my hand onto my shirt, and only now do I realize my own good luck at having taken my cloak off much earlier. I shift tactics, stabbing the kunai into the skin over his ribs, dragging it down to put them on display. The blood here rises faster, his heart pumping too quickly and forcing it to the surface, but I've been careful enough not to puncture any of his major arteries so the flow is a slick stream and not a jettison. It's messy though, and the worse (or better, however you want to look at it) the mess gets, the more exciting it seems, especially with the preacher whimpering and writhing beneath me.

Tossing the kunai away for now, I put both hands against the lips of the wound and begin to pull them apart. There are two immediate effects; the skin at both ends starts to tear, which provokes even more bleeding, and he screams again. This time it's loud and shrill, and it's the right sound, one of total agony… the sound I've been looking for. I pull more and the scream cuts off, his teeth closing on his lips.

"Oh God, you ass hole, that fucking hurts."

Suggesting that none of my earlier actions did. I take a hand off the newest wound and bring it down to that bruise-colored organ still hanging from his side, taking it in my hand and squeezing it a little- not too hard, I don't want to rupture it (all organs smell foul when opened, but none so bad as intestines)- before yanking on it again. It comes easier this time, snaking out onto the bed with a wet smacking sound, and he arches his back and howls.

"I assume that hurts as well, right?" I ask, gore covered hand rising again to join its mate on his chest. "Isn't pain part of your precious religion?"

Panting, his eyes finally giving off that hopeless gleam of injury, he tries to glare at me. "You'll never get it, you fucking heathen prick."

"Don't want to. Any way… I thought you liked pain."

He grimaces and goes silent, perhaps thinking I'd get some sort of satisfaction from his words, as if he's ever said anything to me that gave me an emotional response.

"…I said it hurts, fuck-face, not that I don't like it."

Startled, my hands fumble and pull a bit harder than I meant to, and the wound suddenly extends down into his pectoral muscles. Eyeing the uneven tear, I shrug my shake my head and offer a soft 'oops'.

"Oops?! What the fuck d'you mean 'oops'?!"

I glare at him again as the tendrils leave my arm to hold the cut open for me, and perhaps there's more venom in that look now, because he actually shuts up. Maybe he only goes silent because I have him pinned (quite literally), or maybe it's because he knows what I'm about to do.

There is a great misunderstanding about the human heart. People tend to assume that it's a vulnerable organ that lays to the far left or dead center of the breast, with only a small bit of protection offered by the cage of ribs. It is, in fact, quite well protected, just as any vital organ is; it's partially hidden by the breastbone, hugged by the lungs on both sides, and then covered by the ribs.

Still, protected or not, I can still see his, glimmering as it pulsates rapidly in the dim light. Blood from the wound exposing it pools in the cavity, painting everything a crimson so dark it's really just a tint to blackness, staining my fingers even darker when I reach in and wrap my hands around the first protective rib. With a short jerk the bone snaps and the zealot shrieks, pulling at the knife keeping his arms stuck over his head. I'm not too worried about him getting free, the kunai in his hands is so deep I doubt he could pull it free from the wall even is he hadn't lost this much blood.

Each dry crack of breaking bone produces a new pitch of scream, a new kind of satisfaction as he twists against my hands. His heart is hammering against my knuckles as I seize the last curve of bone; when I glance up at his face, his eyes have rolled back into his head and he's groaning. With pain or pleasure or whatever combination gets him off I'm not sure.

"Ah, shit… Kakuzu…" My name elongated in a whisper so soft it's almost one of his prayers.

Pleasure then. Definitely. And while I know that this should make me even angrier with him, I actually find myself more excited than anything. Possibly it's just that this is the first time I've ever done what I enjoy and had the second party seem to enjoy themselves as well.

I twist my hands, gratified by that final scream. Taking a moment to savor Hidan's soft, whimpering gasps, I glance over the rest of his body. By now there's quite a mess pooling around him, leaking from the chest wound and the gouge in his side. On reflection, I'm thankful that I insisted on leaving the last village, and that the shack he finally convinced me to stay in is so clearly abandoned. There is no way of cleaning up this mess; even if there was, someone would already have interrupted from his screaming.

Following my gaze, the preacher twists to examine the damage I've inflicted thus far, laying back with another grunt of pain. "Fuck… I'm gonna pass out if you don't fucking do something with my guts."

Another grin pulls at my lips and my hand goes back to that first wound, his words drawing my attention away from my 'project' in his chest. The skin around the wound is already starting to reform, his body is used to repairing all kinds of organ and tissue damage thanks just to his method of prayer. In one quick gesture I've undone that, sliding my hand back into him. There is something infinitely satisfying about having him so completely under my control- he's like an instrument I'm learning to play, each movement of my hand brings forth a new noise.

Fishing around for a moment, I finally find my way past the intestines (all though quite a bit of them are on the outside now, the cavity they belong in is still packed) and place a hand on the edge of his liver. I've often heard him bitch to himself after 'praying' about this organ's sensitivity.

"Does this help?"

The yelp that leaps from his lips as I squeeze down on the vital would be enough to satisfy me, but he also braces his feet to the floor and leans up against me, which is much better.

"Oh, you fuck…" He pants, his head lolling back against his shoulders as well as he can, "I'm not kidding… 'M loosing too much blood now, you ass."

Well, it's true that he's lost quite a bit of fluid, and I doubt this would be nearly as much fun with him unconscious. Even though I know I should, I'm reluctant to undo such a fine thing. But he's slipping, and I can tell he's serious about passing out.

I would never have stopped or tried to prolong the experience for anyone else, but for Hidan, who seems to enjoy this almost as much as I do, I find myself making the exception. I'm not careful in pushing his guts back into the hollow- I figure the more painful it is for him the better we'll both feel about it. Then, holding the wound to make a seam, I let another tendril loose from my arm, feeling him shiver as it sews him closed. In a second it's done, the wound sealed; within an hour the mark will look like an old scar, within a day, there will be nothing.

His body has made some progress with the wound on his chest, but the threads holding his ribs bare prevent too much healing. The bones have shifted a little trying to match up so they can knit together again, but they haven't moved enough to make a difference for me. They creak as I push my hand beneath them, reaching for that most precious organ. I can feel his gasp in the swell of his lungs beneath my wrist, his heart pounding into my palm.

Dimly, as if he's fading away, I hear him murmur my name, and I place my hand firmly on that panicking muscle. Although he seems to enjoy this mentally, his body reacts as expected- breath coming in shallow gasps, heartbeat irregular, sweat beading on his skin. I note all this automatically, no surprise connected to what I see- the surprise is in my own reaction. I realize, as I hold his heart in my hand, that I'm actually no longer angry; that I haven't been angry for quite a while. I'm doing this out of the sheer enjoyment of… of what I'm not sure. And he's not struggling, aside from the reactions he can't control, he's not moving. He's laying back against his arms, even smiling slightly, the tight sort of smile someone might wear while doing a difficult sort of work they enjoy. There's actually something about him right now that puts me in mind of a feline, a large cat who's been given what it wanted.

Perhaps that's what it is, perhaps that's why he was smiling so when we began that argument. He knows just what to say to piss me off, he knows what I do when I get angry… maybe this was a game to him.

I've been very careful with what I've done in his chest so far. All the veins and arteries are intact; the all-important aorta remains unharmed (which is why I went through the ribs, really; breaking the sternum always carries the risk of inadvertently puncturing that thick vessel). Even now, with my hand gripping the muscle, I'm being cautious; shifting my weight so that when I lean forward, none of the pressure in put on his heart.

"Hidan," I growl into his ear, my voice still sounding cold and irritated, and when he jumps I can't help but smile a bit more. He's so perfectly responsive now. "I think I'll take this."

That look of lazy satisfaction melts away a bit, his eyes flashing open to stare at me. "Wha… what?"

I'm actually surprised he manages to speak still. "You're immortal, right? You don't really need it."

He blinks rapidly, his already light skin paling. "Fa-fuck no!"

His voice is breathy, which isn't surprising- he's lost quite a bit of blood now, for one thing, and for another, well… most people couldn't even stay conscious with someone digging around in their chest. There's an edge to his voice, though, faint as it is; a little tinge of panic. He knows I could pull his heart out if I wanted, and he knows that if I really do want to, I will. So there is a border to his masochism… a very hard to reach boundary, but there nonetheless.

My hand shifts for a better grip, his heart pounds beneath it. I don't pull, not yet, but I don't really need to. I want him to think I'm perfectly serious about this, and I can see he's coming around to that.

"It's definitely not the strongest heart I'll own, but there are some redeeming qualities…" I murmur, sounding thoughtful and contemplative, more as if I'm talking to myself that informing him. "After all, it'll be much harder for an enemy to destroy this one."

The reaction is wonderful: his eyes widen and he tries to shrink away, all color gone now from his face. "You're… juh-joking, right?"

Shaking my head, I lift my free hand to his hair, ruffling it in a way he might interpret as fondly, and the shocked confusion in his eyes is nothing short of perfect. "You cost me a lot of money today," which is entirely true, that bounty we went after was worth quite a sum, and he completely destroyed the body, "It's only fair that I get something in reparation."

Now I do pull a little, and though I'm sure logic suggests otherwise, he leans up against my hand, a choked sob breaking from his lips.

"Bastard! I swear t' g-god! … Just fucking stop…"

Honest fear, almost agony in his voice, what a wonder.

"You'll survive," I reassure him. "Maybe even grow a new one."

"Yeah, maybe!" he snarls in that fading voice, "I've na-never fucking tried t' gu-uh… gut myself, and I'd ra-rather not… experiment with you…"

We both know he won't die if I go through with this, yet he's completely terrified by the prospect. And even though I know I don't really intend on ripping his fluttering heart out, I can see I've convinced him.

All at once I release him, carefully removing my hand, moving it to cover his mouth while the threads let loose the opening of the wound. His skin almost immediately snaps together, far more elastic that it should be at this point, and I help the healing along with another series of stitches. This time there is no grin beneath my hand, just his breath coming in ragged gasps. I lean over him, my free hand grabbing the handle of the kunai.

"Next time you try fucking with my head, I'm not going to stop," I growl, and his eyes reflect complete understanding. "I'll rip your heart out and feed it to Zetsu. If you want something, ask for it."

With a quick jerk, the kunai comes loose from the wall, and I leave him gasping on the floor, his bleeding hands loose at his sides. I look at him for a minute; pale white and so seemingly frail in the spreading pool of his own blood, crimson smeared over his lips and nose, and I find that there is no satisfaction in seeing him so.

Agitated again, but this time not sure why, I turn for the door. I'd rather sleep outside than in here, listening to him bitch. It'll be a few hours before he can do much more than that. I reach for my cloak, and as I pull it over my shoulders, careful to touch my bloody fingers to it as little as possible, I hear my name. I glance at him, and he's trying to sit up, staring at me.

"You're still… a heathen prick," he grumbles, but the tone in somehow amiable, "but thanks…."

I shake my head and open the door, letting the warm night air in. After a moment, I step out, and I can hear him get ready to call after me.

"Good night, Hidan." I toss back, closing the door between us.

What exactly he meant to thank me for, I don't know. Perhaps just for letting him loose… or maybe for hurting him. Both in equal measure, I suppose. Either way, it irritates me… but not as much as the sight of him on the floor just seconds before he spoke, looking so damn fragile. He practically asked for it, he enjoyed it, up until the end. I've dismembered people who are still screaming for their lives… why should the sight of one useless, preachy bastard make me feel this way. I should feel satisfied- I worked out the annoyance, I taught him not to try playing his mind games with me.

Yet I'm not satisfied. I'm agitated again, but it's not at that shaky, foul-mouthed zealot. I can hear him through the door, calling after me; calling me a bastard, asking where I think I'm going… finally asking me to come back.

I don't think I could go back in there, even if I wanted to.

Because Hidan and I don't get along. We can't get along; we follow two very different paths. We can work together, that much is true; we can argue and annoy each other.

But all I see when I think of what I just did is the pleasure clear on his face through the agony of my actions; all I hear is the murmur of my name, so like a prayer. Then I think of him lying so weakly on the floor, and something passes through my mind that is neither bitterness nor anger, not even annoyance. Its closer to sadness, but that's not it, either.

I dislike not understanding my own thoughts. I know I do not like Hidan. I know he does not like me. I spend half the time he's with me wondering how I could kill him. Yet in the heat of the moment, when I had him completely helpless, I allowed him to heal… I helped him heal when he asked. I let him go even after I realized I had played right through his plan. We're nearly polar opposites, and yet for one reason or another, I feel this… pity, or remorse, or whatever it is for him, because I kept going even after I knew I'd pushed him beyond his limits.

It makes no sense… I don't even like him. I hardly tolerate him.

Why in the world should I doubt myself?