Title: Routine

Author: FlightAngel

Warnings: Yaoi (KakuzuxHidan); nothing extremely explicit. A bit of blood, of course, and Hidan's profane mouth.

Summary: Their relationship revolved around a four-step routine revealed in certain incident in the gold vault. KakuHida

Notes: First Akatsuki fanfiction, set in the real Naruto world; seeing as I'm a usually Gaanaru AU writer, this is quite unusual for me. I follow the Chinese Naruto Manga, so forgive me beforehand if my interpretation of the characters are different then the English translations. Actually, it's kind of hard to characterize either of them very well anyway, but I try (sighs). This fic was actually first intended to be crack, but eventually turned serious on me and forced me to delete the crackiest parts of the fic to keep the mood consistent. Therefore, it's not as funny as I originally anticipated, but hopefully the central theme is clearer (laughs). Anyway, enjoy the fic. Unbeta-d.

Disclaimer: I neither own Hidan nor Kakuzu nor Deidara, Sasori, Tobi nor Zetsu. They belong to the guy who owns Naruto, whose name escapes me at the moment. The actual written story plot and idea, however, do belong to me.

Routine

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Flightangel

Hidan loathed Kakuzu.

This may have been for a variety of reasons; his fiscal ways, his stomach-churning chakra-strings, his deathly smell. Hidan loathed him. Not loathed loathed him—just loathed. Jashin-damn, disrespecting money-worshipping heathen.

Kakuzu was never sure if he should treat Hidan like the annoying little brother he never had, his personal spar-partner (what with them fighting day and night, there was no doubt their skills improved) or his punching bag. The man was irritatingly bitchy, complaints spewing from his mouth at every moment and chance and never ceased to find joy in stabbing the older man's soft spots. He found Hidan tiring and annoying and all-out hair-tugging-ly criticizing, and he never once stopped to point this out to the silver-haired man.

Sasori called them the "Married Couple".

It was accurate, in a way.

To those who just simply watched, it appeared as if their fights consisted of them randomly picking at each others faults, the consequences of their fights a direct result of whatever the hell they were fighting about. This was, however, untrue.

There were four steps to their fighting, their routine, and only one who sat down and watched them for weeks on end would even begin to understand exactly how these steps manifested themselves.

First, the provocation. Either one of them somehow upset or riled up the other.

Second, the fighting. How they fought depended on the context, the amount of rage Kakuzu had built up in his system, and exactly how annoying Hidan was making himself be.

Third, punishment. Be it physical or mental really decided on what they were fighting about and who won. If someone actually won.

Fourth, make-up.

Though not like those cheesy romance movies where the protagonist and his girlfriend smooched and went to bed make-up. Make-up was the most bizarre, the most variant step, ranging from doing small things like kindly sewing Hidan's arm back into its socket (though if Kakuzu didn't do so he'd be bombarded with curses and complaints and whatever else Hidan could loose with his tongue until he did go and sew the damn thing back on) or calling Kakuzu a "String-filled beat-up old geezer from hell" instead of a "Fucking stick-up-his-ass parasitic heart-snatching Frankenstein".

Uh… yeah.

Sometimes onlookers couldn't even tell that this step was even there, declaring instead that the two simply didn't make-up at all and were spiraling into a pattern of hate and revulsion against each other. Of course, this was also untrue. Hidan and Kakuzu almost always made-up. In odd ways. Odd, not-like-make-up ways that really caused people to question what the hell the two were doing (and if they were really making up or if it was just an excuse to taunt each other again).

Four steps. Four steps that lead them into a cycle of bloodbaths that disturbed the Akatsuki home base (when they were home) and drove everyone else up the wall. Oh, alright, not everyone. Just Sasori.

But then, that'll be explained a bit later.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It was a quiet day—a rare occurrence for one of the world's most secret organizations, especially when all members were currently at home—and Sasori couldn't have asked for more. Damn puppets of his kept being snapped in battle, and with the combination of Deidara's flapping mouth and the "Married Couple" screeching at each other day and night, he hadn't enough time to actually get down to fixing the things.

Removing himself from the inside of Hiruko, he adjusted his arm—it had been bent out of shape and had accidentally stayed that way—before sitting down with his screwdriver and wrench and getting down to work. Or, at least, trying to get down to work.

The hideout wasn't very quiet for long.

"You little zealot, what the fuck did you do with my money!"

"What do you mean 'what the fuck did you do with my money'? What the fuck did you do with my scythe, you tentacle-headed, heart-grabbing, money-grubbing mother-fucking bastard!"

Sasori smacked his head against the puppet he was attempting to nail back together (feeling nothing as he did it, but at least he tried) and resisted the urge to barge in the neighboring bedroom and give both Hidan and Kakuzu a good dose of poisonous gas and a spike in the backside. Good god, it was—what? Five in the freaking morning? Even Itachi was still in bed at this hour, and that was saying something. He didn't sleep, but he enjoyed the nighttime quiet.

"Danna, what are they doing up at this hour, un?" Sasori's blond partner rolled over on his bed and hid his head underneath his pillow, groaning, "I'm still sleeping! This is so annoying, un!"

"Go get them to shut up yourself," Sasori answered shortly. Deidara didn't move from the bed.

Yet despite the man's lack of movement, there was a sudden massive explosion from the other room, resulting in louder, rasher curses and Deidara began to giggle.

Eventually, there was a brief moment of heavenly silence before a certain Jashin priest began screeching:

"Deidara, you fucking clay-worshipping heathen! Screw you! Screw you to hell!"

And Sasori sighed.

This was not his day.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

It wasn't Hidan's day either. He. Hated. Himself.

And his life, now that he thought about it a little. And Kakuzu, for stealing his fucking scythe and hiding it in the closet until Hidan threatened to swallow his gold and decapitate himself.

Jashin forbid.

He was stuck in a vault filled with musty ice-cold golden coins and a growling Frankenstein. Great.

"Dammit, Kakuzu, this is your fucking fault!" He kicked the door violently, as if hoping the thing would just finally roll over and die, "How the hell could you drop the damn key! And how the hell could the key just nonchalantly roll to the other side right before the two-hundred-pound, air-tight, kunai-proof door shut us in! The fuck!"

"Relax," Kakuzu growled in a non-relaxing manner, "We won't be stuck in here for long. We'll run out of air in approximately two hours, so get comfortable."

Hidan stared the older man, stunned, before beginning to curse: "What in the name of Jashin—you fucking stitch-head, has your thread-thingies gone to your fucking brain? I can't die in here, I'm immortal!"

"Shut up, Hidan, I'm lying. There's ventilation in here, despite whatever you think."

Hidan slumped against the wall, fuming.

How the hell had he ended up here? Oh, right. Kakuzu had been dragging him along on one of his monthly money-counting frenzies (Hidan had been bored… really, really bored), wherein the man would meticulously pick through five vaults of gold just to make sure every last coin was tucked safe-and-sound. This was the last vault, and everything would've been fine, if the stupid Waterfall Nin hadn't dropped the key and "accidentally" locked them in.

Right. The priest was convinced that the bastard had done it on purpose, too. Another reason to hate the man.

There was a heavy, pregnant silence between them, seemingly larger and fuller in the darkness. Settled down and slumped against a suspiciously moldy wall, the tangy, acrid smell of gold became all too clear to the slighter Akatsuki member, and Hidan shuddered at what a scent it would leave on his cloak. Jashin-damn. He's going to make Kakuzu pay for the dry-cleaning with his own damn money. He's going to watch Kakuzu writhe in agony for giving up that gold and laugh.

"…this is all your fault." He managed to growl again, shouldering his scythe and tossing back a string of hair. "If you weren't so fucking paranoid we wouldn't have gotten stuck here and wouldn't breathing in this fucking air and—well, it's your damn fault, Kakuzu, so fucking fix it!"

The addressed man made no move.

"I mean, can't you use those freaky chakra string things to fucking open the door from the outside from underneath? Or is it airtight underneath, too? Knowing you and your paranoia, most likely." Hidan felt his temper flare, "Jashin-damn, you old bastard!"

"…shut up. Your prattling is wasting you breath. This place may have ventilation but a dumbass like you can probably run your mouth off faster than the air can circulate."

This earned him a snarled, tongue-sticking-out face. "Fucking screw yourself over."

No response.

Kakuzu's silence allowed him to melt back into what seemed to be an everlasting darkness; it was a silence that Hidan had grown to recognize as the "I don't give shit, just bitch until your tongue ties up so we can get the hell out of here" silence.

Hidan sighed and shifted, scratching his exposed shoulder and huffing and, for the next five or ten minutes, tried to make as much noise and sighing and wordless body-language bitching as possible. Damn you, Kakuzu, get your lazy ass up there and break down the door! I'm sure as hell not going to try tearing that damn thing down with my scythe because I'm not stupid, but I'm pretty damn sure you have some secret corridor out of here or a spare key and—ooh, just get to it, it smells in here!

He peered at his partner intently. The man was unresponsive and pressed next to the priest, unmoving and still evidently ignoring him.

Maybe there really was no way out. Perhaps Kakuzu had truly lost his mind and forgot to install a fucking second entrance because he was so fucking paranoid over his damn money. Screw the money—there was no food or water in here! Hidan could survive, of course, but at great expense to his comfort.

And Hidan liked comfort.

It was dark. And silent. And agonizingly, painfully, annoyingly boring.

The older man didn't seem to be planning to break down the door or escape, either, and that just seemed to make the boredom and aggravation rise even more.

Hidan snarled, jaw clenching as his fury bubbled. Why couldn't that dumbass Tobi realize that they'd been in the vault too long and let them out? Probably went hopping after butterflies and Zetsu's pet fly-trappers again, dammit.

An elbow suddenly found itself underneath the crook of the priest's arm, startling him.

First, the provocation. Either one of them somehow upset or riled up the other.

Hidan narrowed his eyes and attempted to leave some room between him and the older man, but Kakuzu was stubbornly pressing up against him. He moved an arm, Kakuzu moved an arm; he twisted his neck and the freaking sewing-machine shouldered him up.

What. The. Hell?Was he trying to get back at him, huh? For what? For moving and sighing and tousling—he wasn't even fucking speaking, for Jashin's sake! But damn him, him and his stitch-iness and creepiness and in-general annoy-me-and-I-will-fuck-with-you-ness (no kidding) and whatever else Kakuzu possessed that scraped against the priest's already bitchy-like nerves.

Hidan snarled again, shoulders and torso tense and guarded.

The contact was annoying him. He didn't like being so close.

Hey, it wasn't as if the two hadn't been stuck in some very literally "tight" situations before, but Hidan preferred not to be caught within a foot of the other man, if necessary, because of that death-clinging smell—it made him feel a bit woozy sometimes. Though Hidan arguably slaughtered more people than the elder, he at least didn't smell like it. Fucking stupid Kakuzu. Too cheap to use deodorant (and Hidan wasn't letting him borrow his).

He tried to forcibly push the larger man away with his foot and received a good boxing of his ears for his effort.

"Ow!"

"Squirm one more time and I'll smack you."

Hidan flared his nostrils. "What the fuck, you dumbass old coot! I wouldn't be squirming if you weren't so close to me! Give me some damn room!"

Though it was pitch-black and, despite his eyes being adjusted, shapes were nothing more than dark masses, he could swear he saw a crinkling at the edge of Kakuzu's eyes. Crinkling equals smiling and smiling equals something not very pleasant for the Jashinist.

Stupid fate. I hate you. I hope Jashin throws you in hell, flays you, roasts you and rapes you until you split open and explode.

Ha, ha, ha.

"Dammit, Hidan, you bitch one more time, I'll do more than smack you." Kakuzu leaned down until he was hovering directly above the priest, and Hidan realized too late that his hand had come up to pin his against the wall. Damn hand. When did that get there? Though it wasn't pressing forcibly—it was more like holding, really. Ew, hand-holding—that was so—so—grade school. Yet despite the hand's firm yet calm presence, there was still a certain threatening air to it. A Don't-Mess-With-Me-Or-Else air.

Hidan stuck his chin up defiantly, undaunted. "Oh yeah? I bet my mother could fucking smack more sense into me than you can, you little stitchy freaky fucking jumble-of-limbs! Try and scare me, damn Frankenstein, c'mon."

Second, the fighting. How they fought depended on the context, the amount of rage Kakuzu had built up in his system, and exactly how annoying Hidan was making himself be.

Kakuzu growled, and his hand suddenly tightened around the other man's with such a force that Hidan let out a small half-hiss, half-yell of pain, head arching back onto the concrete wall. He could smell that faint, dead odor on Kakuzu's skin and cloak, the tense angered way the man was gripping him, the sudden warning bells going off in his head—

Rampage, rampage, rampage—

Okay… maybe he should have just stopped at "Oh yeah?"

But then, Hidan was never quite known for being wise about keeping his mouth shut (never had the need, seeing that he easily passed through all sorts of attack with an irritatingly arrogant bravado) and in some part of Kakuzu's shriveled miserly mind he probably knew that, but still.

Calling him a Frankenstein—aloud—was a bit far, wasn't it?

"What'd you say, you little fuck?"

Hidan felt something wet slide across his cheek—wet and burning at the same time, and, almost too late, he realized it was one of Kakuzu's freaky-ass chakra strings oozing out of the stitching keeping the man's hand from falling off his elbow. Holy—

The priest wrenched himself away from the larger man's grasp, ducking down and blindly scrambling over piles of gold whilst cursing to Jashin-come, cursing that intensified when one chakra string pierced his leg and attempted to hold onto the zealot by tying itself around the man's bone. Jashin-damn, that hurt.

"Fucking—Kakuzu, you asshole, I don't care if you're going to rip me to pieces, don't stick your fucking heathen—" Hidan clamped his mouth shut, rational mind hissing that further provoking the older man would be hazardous, at best—though, seriously, he didn't give a damn. No, really.

Then why was he running and trying to keep his fucking mouth shut?

Kakuzu began to casually spin a kunai in his other, unoccupied hand, a glint that shone even in the darkness of the room, and followed the escaping priest, voice rising: "Oh, so you're going to run, eh? What was it about your mother smacking sense into me, huh? What was it with your fucking cocky mouth and that scythe of yours, eh? C'mon, Hidan, where's all your bravado now?"

This was not fair. Absolutely not fair in any way possible. Kakuzu had long been given all rights to chop off whatever appendage he liked from the slighter man, as long as he sewed him back up later, but what about Hidan? Could Hidan take out his scythe and rightfully punish the old geezer like fate had destined him to be punished? Nooooo. See? Not fair.

Kakuzu tugged at the string wound into the silver-haired man's leg, and Hidan let out a hiss of pain. "You little brat you think you know everything just because you've got some dumbass god-from-hell on your side, but where's your god now? Where is he, huh? What the hell is true strength if you're depending on something that probably doesn't even fucking exist?"

Hypocrite, Hidan growled sourly to himself, scrambling over a particularly smelly pile of… gold? Was that seriously gold?

A new conclusion dawned on the priest. The heathen Akatsuki rules never said anything about trying to just harm members. Not kill—just harm. Another string shot across the room and buried itself into his flesh, further tying him to the cranky miser, and all rational thought flew out of Hidan's head.

He reached for his scythe.

"Damn you, fucking money-worshipping hag!" he howled angrily, pushing himself up and standing despite the fiery agony gripping his leg was in at the moment, whipping around his triple-edged weapon. "Damn you! C'mere, I'll show you what I've fucking got up my sleeve!"

"Too loud, Hidan." Kakuzu growled disapprovingly in a normal voice, anger suddenly vanishing from his lips.

The sudden change in demeanor was startling, and utterly suspicious. Hidan regarded the larger man warily, a lurching feeling in his stomach betraying his growing unease.

The shadowed figure advanced on the priest—who was backing away—steadily, tone taunting, "A good ninja should always fully utilize darkness and try to remain as quiet as possible. Obviously not something you can do."

"Like the pot calling the kettle fucking black! For Jashin's sake, first of all we're high-level ninja; the dark is nothing for our eyes and ears! I could be walking around in fucking sound-proof boots and I swear to Jashin Itachi or some other dumbass—even Tobi, maybe—could probably see me miles away! And second of all, what the fuck are you talking about being quiet? You've been screeching at me for the past couple minutes, so don't you start ranting on that 'good ninja' shit, you—"

Hidan tripped over a rather large pile of coins and, curses spewing from his lips, fell down the mound. Fortunately for him—or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it—he was only very painfully stopped by the strings attached to his legs.

Ow, ow, ow.

He quickly swung himself back onto what he determined to be a secure foothold in the huge pile of money, still cursing and glaring at where he knew those strings were digging into his flesh.

Maybe he could try yanking them out? But then, years of working alongside the creepy Waterfall nin had at least told him that trying to remove the things once they lodged inside you was near impossible and very, very painful. Maybe hacking at them with his scythe?

Kakuzu's footfalls echoed in the cavern, announcing his advancement, and Hidan scrambled away on his knees, eyeing where he thought the door was. Going after Kakuzu with the scythe would only result in his cloak getting bloodied—not that he didn't like blood, but he was suddenly in no mood to sneak into the local laundry mat and suffer the weird stares he received from the old ladies on account of his hair. What, they haven't seen an albino before? Well, screw them!

The only logical option, then, was to break down the damn door—two-hundred-pound, air-tight, kunai-proof, remember!—and get out of here, but Kakuzu just had to spend the only good money he ever spent on those damn features, and Hidan doubted he could hack the thing down within the thirty seconds he had before Mr. Frankenstein caught up to him.

Hidan wasn't scared of Kakuzu exactly. He liked pain, knew the man couldn't kill him, and, on some deep, extremely hidden place in his little shriveled up heart, trusted him. Trusted him enough to know that he'd come save his ass in battle (only when he really, really, really needed help because even Hidan couldn't do everything), carry him home or to a safe area if he was injured, sew up an arm. Trusted him to at least find somewhere safe and dry even if Hidan failed to nag the older man into renting out a comfy hotel room, to fix his scythe whenever he could. Little, minute things.

It would be kind of endearing, in a way, if only the two weren't so busy focusing most of their attention on trying to hack each other into little bits. Or try and cause the other as much pain and agony—both emotional and physical—as their abilities and Akatsuki rules allowed.

Those chakra-strings were painful.

He tried to discourage the rampaging—was he still rampaging? He'd stopped his threats but that didn't mean he wasn't rampaging—with a growl: "For Jashin's sake, go away, fucktard, let's just try to get away from here, alright? No point in stalking each other, and the dust's getting in my eyes!"

Silence.

Third, punishment. Be it physical or mental really decided on what they were fighting about and who won. If someone actually won.

There was the faint sound of wind, a ghostly breath on the priest's neck, and suddenly he was sprawled across the ground with the wind knocked out of him and, again, pinned. Pinned painfully on a mound of coins which mercilessly dug into his back, in the dark, with a living stitch-and-appendage man breathing onto his face on top of him, fingernails clawing at the smaller man's wrists.

Damn.

"Kakuzu, you little—Kakuzu, what the fuck at you getting at, get off of me you—!"

And then there was something ghosting his neck and for once in life, Hidan could find no words to growl against the larger man's cheek—which was pressing firmly against his lips, and the priest realized with slight morbidity that Kakuzu had removed his headpiece—and that the thing ghosting his neck was not chakra-strings intent on strangling him, but a tongue.

A creepy-ass half-string half-muscle tongue, but a tongue, nonetheless.

Hidan began to wriggle under him, hand frantically searching for his scythe from somewhere around him, but his pinned shoulders kept him from doing anything useful. "Hey! Hey, hey, hey, stop that you—what the hell do you think you're doing—!"

Maybe he could knee him. He could. Yet he didn't. Despite him being complete freaked at Kakuzu's sudden behavior and his instinctive desire to run, there was still some part of him, the self-mutilating Jashin-obsessed part of him, which was actually interested in what Kakuzu was doing with that freaky tongue of his. Was he trying to choke him? Tickle him into laughter? Neck with him passionately until Hidan choked on his spit and died? It was exciting, and that little—alright, not little—part of him liked exciting.

Though everything else in his mind was screaming: "Creepy, string-filled ninja Frankenstein with a money-collecting fetish doing questionable things with your body—get away, get away, get away!"

Kakuzu shifted from that pale and now bruised neck—Hidan gave a little groan, head thrown back—and moved a little more downward, licking the priest's collarbone, before—very abruptly—digging the kunai he'd been tossing about in his other hand deep into that pale, flawless flesh a few centimeters away from Hidan's heart, pushing down until he felt the satisfying clink of metal against gold.

The slighter man hissed sharply.

Blood clung to Kakuzu's hands, the front of their shirts, spurted across the priest's chest and pooled into the gold, a messy spectacle that the treasurer saw by touch in the darkness, a beautiful scene that maybe only he could appreciate.

Anger flooded Hidan's veins, anger that intensified when he realized that that little masochistic excited part of him liked being stabbed.

Hope—that—fucking—stains.

"You like it, don't you?" The old geezer was growling, nose touching Hidan's now slightly sweaty neck and ears listening attentively at the younger man's hisses, "You fucking masochist. Or maybe you're a sadomasochist; it doesn't matter. Watched you long enough to know all your weak points, kid; you never seem to bother to hide them."

He roughly withdrew the kunai—which made a sickening lurching noise and was now glinting bloodily—and leisurely traced it over the younger man's chest, strange green eyes watching Hidan's face intently. Hidan managed to lift his left hand and flip the man off.

"Fucking Kakuzu, why the hell are you doing this crap?" The priest was gasping, blood spewing out from the edges of his mouth, "Didn't do any fucking thing wrong and you come and try to stab me. All because you fucking dropped the damn key, and how the hell is that my fault?"

"Not your fault." The kunai stopped its bloody path at the base of the younger man's ribcage, point poised artfully in that little contour of flesh, "You just fucking bitch too much." And with that, he simultaneously dug that point into the skin and crushed his mouth, death-smelling mouth, onto Hidan's, suppressing what would have been a scream of—agony? Pleasure? Figured that the damn zealot would be turned on by this.

Blood spewed out from between their lips and pooled from Hidan's two wounds onto their bodies, turning the friction between them slimy and wet and—and—damn this isn't going to wash out. And the occasional gold coin innocently finding itself between them and maybe touching his wounds—ow, ow, ow, ow, ow—didn't help, either.

"Fucking Kakuzu!" Hidan (would have) growled (if his tongue wasn't otherwise occupied), hoping the other man choked on all the blood, "The fuck! Stop tonguing me, you bastard, and for the love of Jashin, STOP STABBING ME!"

Oh, don't get him wrong. Hidan liked pain. Pain was good. Pain was pleasure. Pain turned him on like no tomorrow, but only if he was inducing the pain. Not some freaking string-filled stitched-up doll that had a habit of not only chopping off limbs but also randomly stabbing priests and making out with them. Though that tongue was rather nice—no! It was sure as hell not nice—it was old and stringy and—and—

Damn, he was aroused.

A pressing hardness near his thigh confirmed the fact that old Frankenstein there was equally excited, though his calm assurance in himself startled the priest, who was about to lean backwards onto the gold (wasn't this ironic? Ravishing Hidan on a pile of money; if he wasn't focusing on trying to keep the wild priest under control, Kakuzu may have chuckled) when he realized with a bit of anger:

Who the fuck said Kakuzu was dominating anyway?

Eyebrows furrowing, Hidan suddenly began fighting against his enemy again, hands clawing the other's with renewed fury. His tongue roughly attacked Kakuzu's own, and the priest pressed forward with a certain sense of determination that even alarmed the older Akatsuki member. Surprised, Kakuzu slipped a moment, and it was all Hidan needed to plow the man over onto his back and lean against him, breath haggard.

Blood was dribbling everywhere. Blood that was going to get all over his cloak (which was already shredded and dirtied, by the way) when there was no need to get on his cloak and—screw it all, Kakuzu needed to be punished.

The Hidan way.

"Intending to ride me?" Kakuzu said tauntingly, and the priest bristled with prickling annoyance. "You're a little too young for that, aren't you? Why don't you just lie down and let the adults handle this?"

He received a sneer in response. Blood tangy and acidic in his mouth and canines stained a frightening red, Hidan savagely tore the Akatsuki jacket and the bottom of Kakuzu's shirt with his teeth and allowed himself to look at the other man's chest, eyes set and determined and fucking wanting to get the freak back at him.

Fucking. Frankenstein.

And he meant that quite literally, too.

Fully ripping off the article of clothing, he tugged at the stitches dotting Kakuzu's torso, eyes furrowed and mouth stretched into a scowl. His face rested on the older man's scarred belly, lips pressed against that odd death-smelling skin—not kissing. Just resting there, frowning whilst tugging.

Kakuzu fought a sadistic chuckle and chose instead to frown. "Oi, don't do that."

The strings violently snapped back into place, earning a snarl from the silver-haired man, who immediately sat up and tugged off his bloodied Akatsuki cloak in order to expose his pale, wounded flesh. Hidan then mercilessly dug his nails into Kakuzu's sides, digging in until blood dribbled down that stitched-up skin the older man noticeably flinched.

He leisurely licked the liquid off a hand, watching Kakuzu under him triumphantly.

His victorious expression quickly morphed into one of disbelieving horror, however, when he felt a shameless hand suddenly grope between his pants. The hand didn't move even when Hidan retaliated by biting into the other man's skin, relishing in hearing the sudden intake of breath at his action.

"…that's going to bruise."

And he was suddenly on his back again, a pair of chapped lips at his throat, and watched with a sort of detached horror as Kakuzu's four parasitic hearts wriggled out from their position on the man's back, tearing the skin every which way. He watched with a sort of other-worldly understanding when the demons violently twisted and pinned his arms and legs down, watched as his body came back to life from its shock and began to scream and flail and bite and actually tried to stop the chakra-strings from advancing with its bare teeth, eyes wild.

Jashin, that tasted awful. Unfortunately for him, the blood loss, wounds, and general pain around his torso had finally caught up to him. He needed to fucking rest in between wounds, Jashin forbid! His weariness prevented him from enacting his full revenge on the heart-grabbing money-obsessed cranky old fool, leaving him with just his tongue left to curse—when it wasn't either being occupied or obstructed by a new wave of gushing blood.

"Fucking—Kakuzu—you—shit, you—gaah, that hurts, that fucking hurts, let me go—!" Kakuzu ignored the younger man's flamboyant tongue and, with air of ease, withdrew two kunai from whatever remained of his jacket and casually considered both of them while the priest continued to rant: "When I get out of this, I'm going to pull your hearts out one by one, toss them in the flame and give them to—to—tch!" The larger man suddenly moved forward and Hidan gasped out his next words, "—give them to Tobi and tell them their fucking lamb chops and have him—no, no, ow, ow, ow, you—Kakuzu, I'm going to fucking kill you!—cook them to eat, you little—" He suddenly howled, "ow!"

The kunai were now impaled into his purplish, vein-filled wrists, a mangled and rather distrubing parody of the Christian Jesus' death that failed to escape Hidan's broad knowledge of religions. Damn. Kakuzu. Always making fun of his religion!

The aforementioned treasurer could barely see his work, but he imagined it in his mine vividly all the same as he leaned over the impaled man. Beautiful.

Though he wasn't going to say that out loud, of course.

Hidan hissed, feeling pinned and trapped; Kakuzu's weight on the kunai literally kept him from moving his upper body upwards in his defiance. He wanted to fling the man away, fling him to a place where he couldn't see nor hear nor even think of the damned heathen, where he could practice his rituals and bitch as he pleased without fucking interference.

Blood stained everything, coming from everywhere, covering every inch of surface the priest could scramble upon, until both of them could scarcely tell what was flesh or cloth or coin—gushing from his wrists, the liquid pooled onto the gold until it glinted bloody red, and the priest let out a maniacal cackle. He was nearly faint from pain, with his eyes squeezed shut and cursing growing increasingly more profane, yet—dare he say? He was still fucking aroused. It was a shameless feeling that left his skin and wounds tingling, head spinning, and anger festering, and feistiness just seemed to be part of the package. He wasn't submitting easily.

His feet took one last jab at Kakuzu in the ribs and stomach, much to the distress of the older man's hearts, who both had a hard time keeping him down.

It was painful. Being kicked in the gut, that is. Grimacing, the black-haired Akatsuki member found himself surprised at his own lack of anger. Though at first he'd been on one of his standard heart-wrenching rampages, the original anger had eventually dissipated into a sort of wild bemusement that tugged at the chakra-strings holding his cheeks together—a dangerous bemusement.

He wished that he could see Hidan's expressions, if only a little. See his panting face, that scrunching of his eyes, flared nostrils, gritted teeth—all expressions he'd shown whilst flaying himself for that idiotic god of his, what's-his-face, in the midst of battle as he shouted taunts at his enemies. Expressions Kakuzu had imprinted on his mind after years of silently studying the younger man through his bitching.

Damn darkness.

But then, that'd mean Hidan would be able to see his expression, too, and Kakuzu wasn't quite sure exactly what kind of feelings the slighter man would be able to interpret through the stitches holding up his jaw. Something dangerous, perhaps. Something the older man didn't feel like revealing to the priest, an oddly overlooked soft spot that he felt safer hiding.

It was better like this: caught in the same rut of scream-impale-make-up the two had followed for years, the odd rut that lead people to question exactly what the hell they were to each other. I mean, what were they? Two crazy homicidal, possibly masochistic, men who liked blood and took out their frustration and anger on each other in the form of semi-rape that left both of them growling and even more irritated at one another?

No wonder Sasori often sarcastically called them the "Married Couple" under his breath at dinner. What else do you call people who are seemingly always at each other's throats?

It was better like this.

"—fucking, you come here with your dick, I'm gonna chop it off and hand it in with your fucking hearts! You come here, and I'll bite it off with my teeth and then shove it up one of yours heart's asses you—you—"

"Stop. Bitching." Kakuzu growled lowly, "Take it like a man."

Hidan laughed in his face, bloody spittle spraying onto the larger man's lips, and then proceeded to fall into a sort of gurgled giggling. Sighing and wondering just what the hell was trying to do with this smart-aleck kid who couldn't zip his mouth at the right time for once in his life, Kakuzu took the chance to hook his thumbs under the priest's waistband and tug the rest of the man's pants off.

Boxers. Hm, lovely.

Fourth, make-up.

When Hidan saw those wonderful woolen trousers-of-all-that-is-wonderful fly above his head—and believe him, he could see it fly, even though it was so dark he could barely make out his own fingers—and when he felt Kakuzu's breath on his chest, an unfamiliar hand rubbing against his crotch—his breath quickened slightly (dammit, Kakuzu, get your fucking calloused hand away from there, you—you—okay, my mind is officially losing it)—and his scythe lying frozen besides him, he knew the fight was over, and that he had lost.

For now. At least he knew he wasn't going to get stabbed anymore, though the use of other... methods of pain were questionable.

He leaned head back and rolled his shoulders, allowing the older man to gain more entrance, not quite sure if his submission was because of his defeat or because Kakuzu had utilized the ultimate power of the hand job. Jashin save him. A slight snarl still tugged at his lips in defiance, however, and though he was no longer fighting like a madman, he still tried to provoke the larger man into growling some witty remark.

Kakuzu said nothing, however, and silently took the opportunity as it was given to him.

Damn you Kakuzu. I'll get you back next time. You better make me feel fucking good or buy me a lollipop or at least cuddle for five damn minutes of your life or I'm going to think of some really bad punishment.

Just not right now.

Because my mind is... otherwise occupied.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

"Deidara-senpai, Deidara-senpai!"

Tobi's infuriating whining was grating the blond's nerves and ears and it took most of his willpower to not lurch back and stick a piece of clay up where the sun don't shine. Then blow the man up to kingdom come.

But no, he couldn't do that, because he'd promised Sasori-danna no more exploding or other loud noises that'd disrupt him from his puppet-tweaking, and Danna was a frightening man to cross once he put his foot down. Last time the blond had went against him, he'd fed the artist's hand-mouths bars of soap when he was sleeping and the poor things were burping bubbles for a week.

"Deidara-senpai!" Two gloved hands enthusiastically waved in front of his face, effectively blocking all view of his current piece.

No. Exploding.

"Tobi." he managed to finally chirp out, pushing back his latest creation and wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, "What's up, un?"

"Deidara-senpai, look what Zetsu did to my mask, look what he did to my mask!" If Tobi had a face, he'd have been beaming. Deidara furrowed his brow, suddenly remembering the fit the masked man had thrown when he discovered a chip at the edge of the orange swirl. Oooh, a chip. The wannabe-Akatsuki member only managed to stop shrieking when Zetsu finally barged in and threatened to eat him.

That is, after he asked Tobi whether he sprayed herbicide in the garden or not, and then threatened to eat him. Deidara squinted at Tobi, who looked ecstatic. Hands proudly rooted on his hips, he stuck out his head and showed the frowning blond where the chipped corner had been that morning; in its place was a little splotch of—what? Green growth?

Deidara blinked.

"Uh… that's nice, un? What is it, un?"

"It's some mossy stuff, senpai! Blacky told me he was annoyed at me and would eat me if I didn't shut up, so Whitey went and patched my mask up! Isn't it cool?" The last word was accentuated with a fling of his arms, and Deidara had to quickly cover his clay masterpiece with his hands to protect it from Tobi's swinging-arms-of-doom. "Mah, that's why I came here, 'cause it's cool, but it's green. And my mask's orange. So I wondering if Deidara-senpai can paint it orange for me? Please? Tobi'll be a good boy!"

The artist blinked and slowly inched the pottery wheel away from the enthusiastic Akatsuki-wannabe, itching to activate the clay door-stoppers conveniently located behind the man—no exploding, no exploding, no exploding! "Uh… why don't you get Itachi to paint it for you? He's got, like, tons of experience painting stuff… or maybe Hidan? I'm kind of busy now, un."

Tobi plopped himself down next to the blond, arms crossing, and would have been pouting if his face was in any way visible. "Itachi's scary! And mean! And he glares at me! And Hidan is stuck with Kakuzu in the vault under my bedroom and they keep making weird noises!"

Deidara's three mouths simultaneously choked.

"U-Un?"

Tobi began to scratch at the now fixed green-chip—scratch, scratch, scratch—and drummed his feet against the ground. "Uh-huh! 'Cause Kakuzu was going crazy about the money, so he was going through all the vaults and Hidan was whining and Kakuzu dropped the key and got themselves locked inside! And then weird noises started coming out of there!" Tobi sat still, pondering. "Tobi wonders if we should help them out…?"

Deidara blinked, again. "Kakuzu dropped the key—" He stopped. "Wait, doesn't he keep a spare in pant-pockets, un…?"

There was a moment of complete silence—sans Tobi scratching his mask—wherein Deidara's mind filled in the horrifying blanks. Oh. My. God.

Tobi, unfazed or simply unaware of Deidara's sudden mortifying conclusions, continued to chatter, "Oh, so Kakuzu-san could have opened the door whenever he wanted…? Then why didn't he? Kakuzu is so weird! He must be getting old! Maybe that was why Hidan was cursing?"

No exploding, no exploding, no exploding—

"And he kept on saying 'Move faster, move faster'… maybe Kakuzu is getting slower, too? Well, both of them are pretty slow, so…"

Deidara's face slowly drained of all color, turning paler and paler at Tobi's seemingly naïve descriptions of whatever else he was hearing through the floorboards, suddenly feeling woozy.

Danna, save me!

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Hidan loathed Kakuzu. He loathed him for seeing, hearing, feeling, Hidan at his weakest, when the priest felt as if all had given up on him and Jashin had given him the cold shoulder. He loathed himself for needing the damn Frankenstein every so often, be it for help, reassurance, someone to talk/bitch to, or just someone whom he could find peace in knowing that he wasn't in this alone, because even Jashin couldn't replace a living human being.

He loathed himself for glossing himself over, putting on that arrogant bravado everyone hated oh-so-much, laughing at the expense of others and trying to constantly show his power through fighting.

Hidan loathed his own cowardice.

Kakuzu was old.

He admitted it. He'd been through dozens of partners, seen more grotesque things one can only even imagine in his lifetime, felt death crawl through his chest at an alarming frequency. Hidan was immortal, a laughing, mocking, living brat who couldn't shut his flapping mouth even when Kakuzu decapitated him. It was frustrating and annoying, but Kakuzu found condolence in the guy—even if he knew that bravado was half-fake, that defiance and snarled look a face developed over the course of a number of bloody years.

That was alright.

Hidan put up with Kakuzu and his money issues, running his mouth off and cursing but generally knowing where to respect his boundaries. Kakuzu put up with Hidan and his so-called religious rituals, sometimes carrying the impaled priest over his shoulder and helping clean after him if the zealot was too weak to do it himself.

And even when the two lost their temper at each other, jabbed and poked and fought like wild beasts after each other's throats, they never once questioned the fact that there would always the two of them left after the fight to grudgingly make up to one another.

Perhaps that was the true reason they were dubbed the "Married Couple". Undying, feisty and constantly fighting—yet still there for each other at the end of their spat. There for each other and ready for another one, that is.

Kakuzu did not loathe Hidan. He found the younger man taxing yet amusing, when he wasn't cracking his head against the wall and wishing he could stuff his ears with clay. He was—grudgingly—comfortable being around that endless bitching, the complaining, the migraines. It had become habitual.

Yes, even the fighting—verbal, physical, sexual—had become part of the habit. It was predictable and avoidable and yet they still fell into its traps, its depths and—and—well, it was evil, those fights. The two couldn't help themselves; arguing seemed to come as second nature.

Provocation. Fighting. Punishment. Make-up.

Four steps. Four steps that lead them into a cycle of bloodbaths and shouting and—well—Kakuzu couldn't explain it. It was odd, how his relationship with the slighter man revolved around this routine, this mask of a routine in which Hidan refused to acknowledge that he liked being pierced and he liked writhing under Kakuzu, just because of the priest's damn pride. And fear.

He would have called Hidan a coward if he himself wasn't the same way. Only in the darkness of shadows, seemingly coincidental events, and the mask of their conflicts could he relax and let go.

Relax, let go, and pretend that the two weren't homicidal maniacs who worked for an organization whose leader was an absolute nutcase; pretend that he and Hidan could truly live on forever; pretend that they could always be together (Hidan would probably laugh if he ever heard those words fall from Kakuzu's lips, and then proceed to have his head cut off. Fun, fun.)

It was useless pretending, and Kakuzu was old enough to know it was useless pretending, but he did it anyway.

And afterwards, they'd just hack through the vault ceiling, climb through Tobi's bedroom, and go back to their duties, bitching and fighting and falling back into their routine as if nothing had ever happened

Of course, Hidan did find it necessary to graffiti a bit of crude profanity on the masked man's bedroom wall before leaving, as retaliation for not coming in and saving his ass (literally) when he knew the Jashin-damn nutcase had been outside the vault watching the whole fucking time.

And Deidara kept asking him afterwards if he felt alright and if he needed to sit down (he did, actually, but no way in hell was he telling the little blonde artist that, not with Sasori glowering behind him with his little puppet wrench) and making a nuisance of himself.

And Zetsu was spraying his fly trap with a little can of something and kept giggling under his breath.

But then, that'll all probably be explained Jashin-knowns-when later.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

end

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Credits: Story inspired from reading one-too-many of daydrifter's works, especially her infamous "10 Days of Akatsuki Christmas" (lovely reading when you're looking for a laugh). Some ideas and inspiration also pulled from the multitudes of KakuHida stories I ran my eyes through, and though I can't find them at the moment, I thank the authors who wrote them anyway.

Final Notes: Congratulations on pulling yourself through the whole thing! If you made it this far, all I can say is that I thank you. Hope you leave a review, but even if you don't, I thank you anyway. EDIT: Okay, so FFnet has malfunctioned and all my linebreaks have magically poofed way. I apologize for the lack of linebreaks... I added it in, but my other works may also have lack-of-line-break syndrome as well because of this (is seething)