There was really only one person in the world who Deidara felt the need to be beautiful for. Sasori had, being robbed of silly human feelings such as desire, clearly not fallen for Deidara because of his looks – yet he wanted more than anything to be beautiful in Sasori's eyes. He had tried as hard as he could; he had worn his hair in all ways he could think of, only to stick to the ones he wore before. He had done his best to figure out whether Sasori wanted him weak or strong, only to figure out a healthy mix would be best to please his Master. He had tried being quiet and obedient, only to find that Sasori loved him because he was more than a puppet. At some point, though, Deidara realized that Sasori really liked him better the way he was. Because he had fallen for Deidara, not some other person who looked sort of like Deidara. This was still hard for Deidara to understand; he was, after all, so... imperfect in so many ways. Maybe Sasori enjoyed Deidara's presence because he was the last inch of imperfection and thus the last inch of humanity; maybe Sasori lived through Deidara. Then again, maybe this was just Deidara being egoistic.

Many were the times Deidara had tried to come up with ways to erase his imperfection. Many were the times he had failed. Many were the times he had told himself he was fine the way he was, and many were the times it had come back to haunt him none the less. He didn't care if imperfection was what made him interesting; he wanted to be perfect to Sasori. Beautiful.

Art.

This was why, as Sasori dug the scalpel deep into Deidara's chest and lovingly removed his heart – the one that thumped only for him – Deidara wasn't afraid. He would be art; maybe not his art, but now, he would be perfect to his Master. He would be but his puppet; he would be completely at his mercy. The thought did not frighten him, as it should; it thrilled him. He would be beautiful. He would be there forever with his Master and maybe, just maybe, one day he would dare blow them up and then his Master would feel this wonderful, too. He would know what it was like to sacrifice your all for love, and Deidara was sure he'd love it as much as he himself did. He ignored the pain; pain caused by Sasori was, after all, hardly pain at all. It was a display of affection, as Sasori could just as well kill him. However, he would do him the greatest honor he possibly could; he would make him art. They would be one. For the first time, Deidara would completely understand his Master.

When, a mere day later, Sasori kissed him the way he always did, he felt nothing. No notion that soft lips were covering his. No warmth as Sasori's tounge invaded his mouth. He wanted to cry, but he found himself missing tear ducts. He wanted to scream, but talking was still all too difficult. He felt so empty; he was alive but, at the same time, so horrifyingly dead. He was a toy, painfully aware of its eternal prison.

When he could finally figure out these poor substitutes for vocal chords, Deidara knew just what to say.

"Master, this isn't art."