Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You sigh deeply, the sound muffled by the low hum of the Uber as it cruises through the city. Rain spatters against the windows, but your eyes are fixed on the outside world like you're watching someone else's life unfold.

Your phone is pressed against your ear—well, hovering a few inches away. Karui's voice is shrill even from a distance, her concern practically radiating from the speaker.

"—I'm begging you, Y/N. Please don't be weird this time. No threats. No cryptic interviews. Don't tell anyone their aura looks 'cracked' or that their chakras are held together with duct tape. For the love of everything, just be normal for once."

"But her aura was cracked," you murmur.

"You tweeted it."

"Oh," you say simply, as if that explained everything. You start counting the raindrops. Karui keeps going.

"You're not in a drama right now, you're not in a horror film, you're just moving into an apartment. Be nice. Smile. Don't accuse anyone of being a reptilian unless you have hard evidence this time—"

The phone begins to slip. You let it. It lands softly on your lap, Karui's voice buzzing like an angry bee in the distance. You stare at a stop sign as the car pauses.

Moving to a new place is always refreshing. New people. New neighbors. New walls to stare at when the insomnia hits. You press your cheek to the window, expression blank as your breath fogs the glass.

There was that one time you accidentally dragged a fellow actress during a press interview. You were asked about the pressures of beauty standards, and you blinked slowly before saying, "Well, I mean, she clearly did Ozempic. You can tell. Her pupils dilated at the after-party and she kept licking drywall."

You didn't mean it in a bad way. You were just stating the truth. Karui screamed for ten minutes straight afterward.

And the retweet... well, that was funny. At least you thought so.

You smiled slightly at the memory.

"Me in hell describing RULE34 and MPREG to a medieval peasant who was executed for stealing a spoon of buckwheat in 1268"

Iconic. The quote went viral. Your fans made fancams. Your management drafted an apology, but you never posted it. You didn't really see what the fuss was about. People were just weird like that.

The Uber stops.

"Here we are," the driver says.

"Huh?"

Your phone buzzes in your lap. Karui's voice is back, strained and tired. "Please, Y/N. Please. Just—try. At least until the press forgets the MPREG thing."

You step out of the car, staring up at the building that will now be your home. It's tall, slightly grimy, definitely old, but there's something comforting about its crooked charm.

You hang up without a word.

Bag in hand, you march through the front door of the Akatsuki Apartments like a sleepwalker—expression blank, hair perfectly styled, wearing designer sunglasses even though the sky is a dull gray.

You pause by the mailboxes, glancing around.

So this is it. A new place. A new start. A fresh opportunity to maybe not freak anyone out.

...or maybe not.

You tilt your head, staring at the outdated hallway wallpaper and muttering just loud enough for no one to hear "Feels haunted. That's nice."

The elevator hits the ground floor with a sharp ding, followed by a low groan of machinery that makes it sound like the building is sighing in exhaustion. The doors slide open with a lazy drag.

Inside stands Hidan.

Hands jammed deep into the pockets of his hoodie, hair a little messy from either sleep or a fight (maybe both) and a permanent scowl carved into his face like God got lazy and used a butter knife instead of finesse. A nametag from 7-Eleven is poorly attached to his jacket, the 'Hi! My name is—' part scratched out with black Sharpie and replaced with something obscene.

He was on his way to his shitty part-time shift—graveyard hours, of course. Someone's gotta refill the hotdog rollers at 2am and pretend the Slurpee machine isn't broken again.

But when the elevator doors open, he pauses.

You're standing there like a painting hung in the wrong gallery. Designer coat, luggage in tow, sunglasses indoors, expression as blank as a TV with no signal. It's like someone dropped a celebrity into a haunted VHS tape of a building.

Hidan blinks. He isn't sure if he's hallucinating. He's seen a lot of shit in his life—spilled intestines, actual cult rituals, Kisame shirtless—but this? A woman like you standing in the lobby of this hellhole?

"You lost or something?" he asks finally, voice rough like gravel and burnt coffee. He squints at you. "This ain't the Ritz."

You tilt your head slowly in his direction. "No," you say flatly. "I'm your new neighbor."

He snorts, steps out of the elevator. You don't move. "Didn't know we were letting in celebrities now. What, you hiding from the feds?"

"I'm hiding from the clown that haunts me in my dreams," you answer without skipping a beat.

Hidan stops mid-step.

You say it so... seriously. Not a trace of irony.

He stares at you.

You stare back.

"...Right," he mutters, finally brushing past you, letting out a low whistle as he walks away. "This building just keeps getting weirder."

He doesn't look back but now he's curious. He's definitely going to ask Kakuzu about you. Maybe even stalk your socials later when he's behind the 7-Eleven counter pretending to stock gum.

But for now, he just lights a cigarette and mutters to himself.

"Hot, but probably insane."

The elevator hums softly before it comes to a stop with another tired ding. You step out, heels clicking gently against the hallway tiles. It smells faintly like industrial lemon cleaner and someone's burnt dinner.

You scan the hallway with that same detached stare—your face still a perfect canvas of blankness, like you're buffering.

Your apartment's the one at the end of the hall. Right infront a unit with a doormat that says "Go away." A potted plant sits dying outside next to the doormat and for a brief moment, you consider giving it a name.You pause, eyes flicking to the next to yours. There's a three separate locks (concerning) with a broken doorbell that's been duct-taped back in place.

You make a mental note:
Introduce yourself to the neighbors later.
Maybe bring weird gifts.
Maybe ask them if they believe in the Mandela Effect.

But for now, you want to unpack. Or lay face down on the floor. Maybe both.

You step into your new apartment, dragging your suitcase behind you. It creaks softly as it rolls over the threshold. The space is small, old but clean enough. Wood floors, uneven walls, a suspicious stain on the ceiling that looks like it could tell stories if it had a mouth.

Buzz.
A notification lights up your phone screen.

Messenger – Pain Akatsuki
Welcome to the Akatsuki Apartments. Let me know if you need anything. Building rules are on the fridge.

You stare at the name. "Pain."

You vaguely remember the listing Karui sent you. You two were desperate—last minute move, no time for background checks. She was already skeptical but you were the one who told her:

"No, Karui. He's not a trafficker. He posts too much to be dangerous." You weren't wrong.

You scroll his Facebook timeline now, thumbing through posts like a detective trying to read between the eyeliner. One post is just a blurry photo of the sky captioned "Pain."

Another is his hair, filtered to hell and back, dyed a reddish-orange hue, with the caption "Still got it." He's posted three separate My Chemical Romance throwbacks in the last week.

One of them just says "Real ones remember."

You tilt your head. He seems... harmless. Just chronically online. Probably cries to old Evanescence tracks. You make another mental note to ask him what his top five scene era albums are the next time he visits.

You toss your phone onto the counter, stand in the middle of your new home, still wearing your sunglasses. Then softly, to no one in particular, you murmur:

"...This place has rats. I can sense it." And with that, you unzip your suitcase and begin your new life.

Meanwhile, in the group chat: "Akatsuki Degenerates"

Yes, that's the actual name.

No, Pain couldn't come up with anything cooler. Despite the fact he once went by "Lord Yahiko" in a Linkin Park fan forum, his naming skills peaked in 2009.

The group chat pings.

Pain:
You guys will be having a new neighbor. Don't terrorize her so much.
It wasn't easy to get a new tenant this day and age.

Seen by: Kisame, Konan, Kakuzu, Sasori, Deidara, Hidan

Then,

Kakuzu:
rent better be on time.

Hidan:
Bro did u just say "don't terrorize her" like were a pack of demons. im fuckinf normal

Sasori:
That's debatable

Kisame:
What unit is she in? Asking for no reason at all.

Deidara:
wait. is she hot?
also what her IG. just in case i have to tag her in something. liek. a welcome gift or something

Sasori:
You don't even have a gift. You just want to go viral again.

Deidara:
nooooo, what?? thatss crazy.
(btw what's her IG tho fr)

Konan:
Be normal.

But the most significant reaction doesn't happen in the chat.

It happens a few floors up—in the penthouse, where Obito Uchiha is eating cold takeout in the dark like a man haunted by his own interior monologue.

He's halfway through watching a compilation of your red carpet interviews (for the eighth time) when Pain's message pops up on the group chat.

Obito doesn't check it at first. He's too busy sighing dramatically at the way you dodged a paparazzi question about your dating life by saying, "I only date ghosts. They're quieter."

But eventually, he opens it.

And he freezes.

Pain:
You guys will be having a new neighbor. Don't terrorize her so much.

There's a soft clatter as Obito drops his chopsticks.

"...No," he whispers.

He scrolls to the next message. Someone asked what unit she's in. Obito's eyes dart to his security feed (he pays extra for direct access to the building's CCTV because of course he does). He flips through the angles until he finds the lobby from ten minutes ago.

And there you are. Luggage in tow. Sunglasses indoors. Moving like someone in a dream—or a movie.

Obito goes completely still.

"...No."

He hits pause on the feed. Zooms in. Slowly. It is you.

(Y/N) (L/N). Actress. Viral enigma. E-girl with haunted house energy. The same woman he may or may not have had an unhealthy parasocial obsession with since your indie film debut six years ago, where you played a woman in love with a man possessed by a toaster.

He stands up abruptly. Knocks over his drink. "She's— here?" He paces. Grabs his phone. Opens your profile again.

(Y/N) (L/N)
"I'm allergic to silver. Don't ask why."
3.9M followers

He glances at the elevator feed again, then back at your profile. His mind is racing. He's not ready. He can't meet you like this. His shirt has stains. His hair looks like it lost a bet. This is not how it was supposed to go.

In every dream he's had about this moment (and there have been many), he meets you at a rooftop party in Tokyo, not... his apartment elevator.

Obito slaps himself. Twice.

Then checks the mirror. Then panics and starts rearranging his living room in case you somehow get invited up.

You spent ten minutes watching TikToks and convinced yourself it was self-care.

Thirty minutes later, you're still cross-legged on the floor, staring into your phone like it's a portal to another universe. One that features a suspiciously charming man cooking pesto pasta shirtless while whispering affirmations like "you are divine, babe."

Something about the way he emulsified the sauce awakened something dark and reckless inside you.

So now you're doing the unthinkable.
You're... going to cook. The mere idea should come with a biohazard warning. You once microwaved a spoon by accident and told the fire department it was "an experiment."

But still—you rise, determination flickering in your dead-eyed stare. You check your reflection in the mirror. Lip gloss still perfect. Sunglasses on. Unbothered.

"Let's cause a minor inconvenience," you mutter, grabbing your purse like a final girl entering a haunted grocery store.

The hallway is quiet when you step out. Lights buzzing faintly. You make your way to the elevator again, heels tapping in echo.

The elevator dings open and there he is.

A man with sharp features, dressed in a clean, muted outfit that screams "I own tweezers and a label maker." His posture is too perfect. His expression is as blank as yours but somehow more bored.

And the first thing you notice is his hair.

A piercing, almost hostile shade of red. The kind of red that says: I don't talk to my family anymore and I like it that way. The kind of red that radiates chemical burns and deeply-repressed opinions about the Bauhaus movement. The kind of red that Tiktok associate with crazy BPD ex-girlfriend.

He's tapping his foot rapidly against the elevator floor. Not to music. Just... tapping. Like he's been waiting too long for something. Or like someone said the word "extrovert" near him and now he's angry.

You step in. He glances at you, eyes narrowing for just a moment in subtle judgment—but then he looks away again like you're not worth the processing power.

You stand beside him. The silence is comfortable. You don't mind it. He, apparently, does. "Did you know the average person swallows eight spiders in their sleep every year?" you say, as if it's normal elevator talk.

Sasori doesn't even blink. "Statistically inaccurate."

"Okay," you reply calmly. "But emotionally effective."

He gives you a side-eye. Brief. Calculating. You can almost see the mental tabs opening in his brain: Who is she. Why is she talking. Is this an ambush. Did Deidara send her.

"...You're the new tenant."

"I am."

"You're wearing sunglasses indoors."

"I like to pretend I'm a celebrity hiding from the public." You pause. "...Also, I think I might be a celebrity hiding from the public."

"God, they really are letting anyone in." Sasori sighs through his nose.

"So what's your name?" You smile faintly.

He doesn't answer right away. Looks forward, then exhales like this entire interaction has shortened his lifespan by three years.

"Sasori."

You nod, satisfied. "Nice to meet you, Sasori."

"...Sure."

The elevator door opens. He walks out. Doesn't say goodbye. But halfway down the hallway, without turning back, he mutters just loud enough “You should probably avoid Deidara. He's going to make you trend on Twitter within the week." And with that, he disappears like a ghost who pays rent on time.

The elevator doors whisper shut behind you, and with your purse swinging gently by your side and your sunglasses still firmly in place, you make your way down the block. The late afternoon sun bleeds through the clouds like it's embarrassed to exist. You understand that.

The nearest convenience store is just around the corner—a janky little 24/7 tucked between a laundromat that smells like burnt socks and a vape shop run by someone named "Yeetzu."

The automatic doors squeak as you enter. The scent inside is a heady cocktail of ramen packets, menthols and slushie machine despair.

And behind the counter, slouched in a way that screams "I don't want to be alive right now," stands a man with a cracked phone in one hand and a half-eaten protein bar in the other.

He looks up. blinks slowly like he's trying to process what kind of hallucination just walked in.

You're glowing under the sickly lights. Glossed lips. Empty expression. Movie star presence with the energy of a cursed doll.

"...You again." Hidan squints at you.

You blink. "Have we met?"

"I was in the elevator earlier," he says, unimpressed. "You spaced out like you were gonna levitate."

"Oh. Yeah. You looked like you were going through something."

"I am going through something. It's called minimum wage." He scoffs.

You wander toward the refrigerated section, grabbing a few things at random. Milk that expires too soon. A microwaveable pasta that looks suspicious. A bag of chips that brags about having "no artificial soul" an instant curry packet and the three potatoes wrapped in a plastic container. You don't question anything when you pick them up. It's just... instinct.

Hidan watches you like he's trying to solve a riddle and getting actively angrier the more he tries. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"From Earth?"

He stares at you. "...Sure."

You set your items down on the counter. "I just moved in. third or fourth floor— can't seemed to remember. The rats seem friendly."

"Right," he says, deadpan, scanning your items. "You look familiar though. You famous or something?"

"Do you want me to be?" You lean in slightly.

He freezes mid-scan. "...What the hell does that even mean?"

"I like to keep the mystery alive."

He gives you a long, confused look, then snorts. "You're weird."

"Thank you."

He tosses the last item into a plastic bag. "You gonna be one of those people who microwaves fish in the apartment building?"

"Only if it's an emergency."

He rolls his eyes. "Jashin help us."

You tap your card.

It declines.

You stare at the screen. Then at him.

"Oh. Right. Karui said she was gonna freeze my card if I said anything unhinged on the internet again."

Hidan gives you the slowest, most exhausted blink known to man. "...What did you say."

You think for a moment. "I may have tweeted 'imagine getting pegged by Freddy Fazbear' and tagged a brand deal under it."

He stares.

"I can pay with vibes if that's acceptable?" You smile sweetly.

He just groans and points to the ATM near the slushie machine. "Cash only. Don't touch the blue raspberry lever. It's cursed."

As you walk over, he mutters under his breath. "...This building's gonna eat you alive."

Obito is sitting in the dark. Not because the power's out. No. He's just like this.

The lights are off, save for the warm glow of three monitors, two floor lamps and a flickering scented candle that claims to smell like "Depression's Boudoir."

He's got a throw blanket over his shoulders like a widow in mourning, staring at the paused security footage of you leaving the building for the convenience store. The timestamp reads just now.

He watches the clip again.

Zooms in.
You're smiling faintly. Lip gloss. Sunglasses. Purse slung over your shoulder. It's not even a special moment, but it's enough to send Obito spiraling into his internal monologue like a tragic literature protagonist who's read Wuthering Heights too many times.

"I used to think I was the main character."

"Then I realized life doesn't care if you're the protagonist. Sometimes it just throws you into a discount bin full of trauma and says 'good luck.'"

He leans back in his chair.

The scar along his cheek catches the light. It still aches when it rains...... Or when he remembers gym class in 10th grade.

"I was normal once. Average. I had dreams, hopes, a skincare routine."

"Then I got into an accident. Left my face split open like a bad metaphor. Rin was the only one who didn't flinch when she saw the stitches. I thought that meant something."

He gazes out the window now. Rain is threatening to fall, but the clouds are holding back like they're scared of commitment.

"I made her lunch. I memorized her period cramps cycle. I took off my gakuran and threw it over puddles like a 1950s husband with unresolved anger issues."

"And what did I get in return?"

He closes his eyes.

"Kakashi. In the gym storage closet. Hands on her hips like he was the protagonist of a Icha Icha volume 7."

"I had just finished basketball practice. I was sweaty. Vulnerable. Filled with hope and Gatorade." He presses a hand to his chest like the ghost of heartbreak is physically attacking him again.

"That day, a part of me died. And from the ashes... rose a man with at least three undiagnosed mental illnesses and a tendency to spiral emotionally whenever Spotify plays Juice wrld."

I Still See Her Shadows In My Room.

Obito sighs dramatically.

"Now I work 9 to 5. Overtime on weekends. Not because I care, but because Madara said 'nepotism means nothing if you're weak' and I cried in the break room."

He's now sipping a glass of wine. It's mostly ice cubes and grape juice but he's pretending.

And then you showed up. "She moved in two floors below. Just like that. A beautiful woman with dead eyes and possibly no thoughts."

"I knew her face. I knew that cursed toaster movie. I own it on Blu-ray and I don't even own a Blu-ray player." He stands now, pacing the room like a phantom rehearsing his own eulogy.

"It's not stalking," he insists out loud. "I'm just... keeping an eye out. For safety. She's new. What if she doesn't know where the best vending machine is? What if the lobby rats organize a coup?"

He checks his computer screen again. You're walking back now, plastic bag in hand, completely unbothered by the chaos you've sparked in his fragile psyche.

He throws on a coat.

"I'm just going downstairs for some fresh air."

…….

"Not stalking."

…

"...Just proximity-based admiration."

The fluorescent hallway lights flicker with the energy of a dying god as you return from the convenience store. You hum softly to yourself, not because you're happy, but because your brain occasionally plays lo-fi remixes of Gregorian chants when left idle for too long.

You round the corner. And there is a blond man that screams trouble.

Leaning against the wall like someone halfway through a thirst trap shoot. He's dressed like TikTok itself spat him out: combat boots, ripped jeans, too many rings, and a mesh top that definitely violates the building's decency clause. His hair's tied back into a messy bun that screams "I vape and overshare."

"Oh hey," he says, as if you didn't catch him actively unlocking his phone the moment you stepped into frame.

You stop. Blank face. No thoughts. Just vibes.

"...Hi."

He pretends to glance up like this wasn't his fifth attempt at "accidentally" catching you on camera. "Didn't know you lived on this floor, hm."

"...This floor is where my apartment is."

"Right, duh," he chuckles. "That's where people live, un."

An awkward silence.

He flashes a grin that's both too wide and somehow too calculated. "So. I might have recognized you. You're, like, that actress, yeah? You were in that one movie with the toaster that had daddy issues?"

You nod politely. "Toaster 3: Redemption Arc."

"That's the one," he snaps his fingers, as if the title wasn't burned into his brain from years of stan behavior. "I liked your performance. Real deep, real raw. You made me believe the toaster did deserve love."

You smile, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes. "Thank you. The director cried blood on set. It was beautiful."

From behind the stairwell door, Obito is losing his mind. He's crouched in the darkness, eavesdropping like a Victorian spinster catching her crush under moonlight. Every word makes his eye twitch.

He had a plan. He was going to pretend to run into you casually, maybe say something mysterious like, "You dropped this" and hand you your own lip gloss. Even if it wasn't dropped. Even if he bought a copy to pull it off.

And now? Now Deidara is out there saying things like "Toaster 3 really moved me."

Like a fiend.

He grits his teeth and presses his ear harder against the door.

Back outside, Deidara is inching a little closer, still pretending to be chill, still definitely angling his phone subtly toward you.

"You don't mind if I tag you in a story, yeah? Just—like—'Oh my god my neighbor is a star' kind of thing?"

"As long as you don't use the dog face filter. It feels dehumanizing."

"Totally, un." he nods. "You want to do a peace sign or should I just film candidly?"

"I'll just stand here like I have rabies."

"Perfect."

Snap. Flash. Upload.

Meanwhile, behind the door... Obito slumps down like he's been shot. She smiled. She's never smiled at me."

"Why is he allowed to record her and I'm not?"

Partial Silence passes by.

"...Okay, I see how that sounds." He stares at the floor. Defeated. But plotting. Always plotting.

Group Chat Name: Akatsuki Degenerates
Group Icon: A grainy picture of Kisame's bike with the caption "she bites."
Pinned Message: "Konan says stop sending feet pics in here or she's blocking all of you." – Pain

Hidan:
[screenshot.png]
ur clout chasin at this point.

It's a screen grab of Deidara's story.
Your face is half lit by the hallway lights. Deidara's caption:
"when ur neighbor's lowkey a celebrity lmao"
(complete with the eye emoji and a sparkly GIF of the word SLAY)

Sasori:
is this the chick with the toaster movie

Kisame:
Yup. That's her. She's real tho? I thought y'all were just chronically online.

Hidan:
i'm stuck in 7-eleven looking at a stale sandwich and this mf deidara out here doing PR
this life ain't fair.

Kakuzu:
How much does she pay in rent.

Sasori:
that's the most kakuzu question i've ever seen

Itachi:
Who

Deidara:
Yall are pressed as hell rn
i'm just tryna be friendly
damn
she's literally my neighbor

Hidan:
"friendly"
broski ur phone was shaking when she talked

Kakuzu:
again. how much does she pay.

Kisame:
Ask Pain lmao he's the one who approved her app

Konan:
Can you all not harass the new tenant
She's not in this chat yet for a reason

Hidan:
yall gatekeeping the group chat now??

Sasori:
for good reason
you posted a photo of my cat last week and said "look how ugly this thing is"

Hidan:
...ok and

Deidara:
idc what yall say
if she ends up in a tiktok with me just know it's for ✨art✨

Konan:
I will block you
with state force

Obito has seen the messages.
(no reply)

Chapter Text

PENTHOUSE

Obito lies on the couch, dramatically sprawled like a Renaissance widow. His phone is face-down on his chest, group chat notifications still pinging, but he doesn't move.

He's staring at the ceiling fan as if it personally betrayed him.

"Deidara got to her first."

"I was supposed to be the mysterious neighbor. The aloof one with shadows in his past."

He sits up slowly, brushing his bangs back like he's in a music video about losing someone he never had.

"I should've taken the elevator. Why did I take the stairs? Why did I—" He winces. "Why did I rehearse that 'you dropped this' line? That was so stupid."

He looks toward the window, eyes narrowed in a full on internal monologue "I'll get another chance. I just have to be patient. Normal. Calm."

...

Then a ding.

Another notification.

Deidara has posted a second story. This one is just him talking about how "she smells really good, like stardust and Dior Sauvage if it wasn't colonizer-coded."

Obito screams into a pillow.

MEANWHILE, ONE FLOOR DOWN

You, blissfully unaware of the emotional trainwreck brewing above, are in your kitchen, wearing a loose hoodie and the dead expression of a girl deep in concentration.

On the counter:
A mountain of flour, a chopping board and a suspicious yellow paste that looks like it fought for its life in a blender.

You're making curry puffs.

Because Tiktok said neighbors love when you share homemade food. And also because you forgot to buy proper groceries.

Your kitchen looks like an active crime scene. There's curry smeared on the cabinet handles, a rolling pin on the floor, and your phone sitting against the sink playing a tutorial video from someone who definitely lied about knowing how to cook.

You grab a puff from the tray and inspect it. It's lumpy, sad, and vaguely resembles a deflated sea creature.

Still, you whisper to yourself "...Art."

You taste a tiny bite. Your pupils dilate slightly.

"...Oh."

You grab your phone and start typing a on your note apps.

"Curry puffs = not like the TikTok girl said. Taste like if regret had texture." Still. You power through.

You make eight of them, all uniquely horrifying.

You slide them into a Tupperware container with a sticky note on top that says in handwriting so elegant it could be used in blackmail letters:

"Please accept these offerings. (Y/N), Apt 4C."

You're planning to hand them out like peace treaties. A woman of the people. A visionary. A potential food poisoning lawsuit.

Obito had told himself to wait.

Be chill. Be natural. Be a functioning adult who doesn't stalk women down five floors because she tweeted something cryptic like "Curry is a form of love."

But here he is.

Standing directly in front of Deidara's apartment door, not moving, not blinking, just existing like some cursed mannequin in an urban legend. His excuse? If anyone asked, he was "just about to knock." Never mind the fact that he's been standing there for 17 minutes.

Every time he hears a floorboard creak from your direction, he stiffens like a raccoon caught in headlights.

"Maybe she'll step out. Maybe she forgot soy sauce. Maybe..."

Maybe she'll see me and think I'm cool and mysterious and well-dressed and—

SLAM.

The door in front of him flies open.

Deidara, shirtless and wearing pajama pants with cartoon flames on them, freezes mid-yawn.

The two lock eyes.

There's a moment of pure confusion on Deidara's end. "...Dude. You good?"

Obito blinks once. Just once. "...Yes."

A silence so thick it can be spread on toast.

"...You need something?" Deidara asks, narrowing his eyes a little, slowly pushing the door so his expensive gaming chair doesn't reveal how unserious his life is.

"I was just... passing by," Obito mutters. "Thought I'd... check in."

Deidara raises an eyebrow. "Check in on me?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?"

Deidara blinks, scoffs a little. "You've never even liked my messages in the group chat. You literally left me on read when I asked what Kakuzu's laundry rates were, un."

"...I've been busy."

"With what?"

"...Corporate suffering."

From behind them, a door opens.

Your door.

Obito's posture straightens like he's been plugged into an outlet. Deidara actually watches it happen in real time, like witnessing a sim character glitch into flirt mode.

You step out, your hoodie dusted with flour, hair tied messily, and carrying two suspicious looking Tupperware containers with a note stuck on top. You don't acknowledge either of them at first.

You stop at Sasori's door, kneel down and place the container neatly.

Then you turn to face Deidara and Obito. Blank face. The usual. As if you've just respawned into the world with no memory.

"...Are you two dating?" you ask, genuinely.

Deidara nearly chokes on air.

Obito, for once in his life, short-circuits. "Wha—no—absolutely not—why would—"

"Oh. Okay," you nod, satisfied.

You hand Deidara a container. "For you. I tried making curry puffs. They're not... edible. But I tried."

Then you turn to Obito.

Your eyes scan him for an uncomfortably long second. "I don't know you yet. So maybe next time."

You head back toward your door, humming a cursed remix of the My Little Pony theme.

Obito is left standing there. Rejected. Shamed. Emotionally bruised.

And Deidara?

Deidara is staring at the curry puffs like they're relics. "She gave me food. I'm gonna keep this note. I'm gonna laminate it, un."

Obito considers murder.

The fluorescent hell of 7-Eleven had finally released him. Hidan's fist shoves deep inside his pockets, the streetlamp above flickering like even God was tired of him. He walks toward the apartment building with the gait of a man who's done more than enough for minimum wage and has exactly zero intention of changing that tomorrow.

He reaches the front of the complex, sighs and flicks his cigarette onto the curb—not too close to the entrance, because even he has learned his lesson.

Last time, Kakuzu had spent a full thirty minutes yelling outside like a war veteran who'd just discovered disrespect to the homeland.

"Which one of you incels threw this here?! You got no father? Back in my day we respected pavement—"

Nope. Hidan wasn't in the mood for that again.

He stomps the ember out with the heel of his boot and slouches his way up the stairs instead of taking the elevator. Partially out of habit. Mostly because the elevator smells like expired Axe body spray and moral decay.

Reaching his floor, he pauses.

There, right in front of his door, sits a container.

Transparent Tupperware. Eight little things that look like curry puffs if you closed one eye and squinted with the other. The puff pastry's supposed to be golden, right?

These... are gray. With a hint of green.

There's a sticky note on top in looping, fancy handwriting: "For my neighbours. (Y/N), Apt 4C."

Hidan stares at it. Then looks left. Then right "...The hell is this?"

He picks it up and sniffs the lid, like an animal unsure if this is bait or kindness.

"...Did someone just... drop off food here?"
He squints at the note again. "Oh. It's the hot new girl."

He hesitates. His stomach growls a little. "...Well if I die, at least it's poetic," he says, peeling the lid open.

He takes one puff out. The shape is off. Like someone folded it in anger. The texture? Moist. The filling? Slightly radioactive looking.

Hidan stares at it like it insulted his religion He eats it anyway.

...

He chews slowly. Very slowly. Then he stops.

"...What the—" His eye twitches. "...Why does it taste like soap and trauma??"

He closes the lid. Stares into the void. Then nods in solemn understanding. "She's insane. I like her."

Hidan stands in front of Kakuzu's door with the Tupperware still in hand, the curry puffs rattling gently inside like demon maracas. He glares at the second container sitting quietly on the doormat. A small note taped to it reads "I made too much. Please have some! — (Y/N)"

"...Old man's gonna lose his mind when he sees this," Hidan mutters, resisting the violent urge to kick the thing into the void out of mercy.

He doesn't.

Instead, his eyes lift toward the stairwell. His fingers twitch around the container. His brain, running on fumes and black coffee, makes a decision before he realises he's climbing.

Step after step, he starts mumbling. "Just gonna tell her this ain't food. Just a little feedback, that's all. She needs to know she almost killed someone. Can't just be handing this radioactive sludge out like Oprah. 'You get food poisoning! You get food poisoning!' Nah."

He passes the third floor. Footsteps loud, echoing. Not quiet enough to be normal, not loud enough to be threatening. Just obnoxiously casual.

When he reaches the fourth floor, he pauses. 4C. Your door.

He glances to the left—Deidara's. Then to the right—Sasori's.

That guy never leaves his apartment unless it's for night classes or some kind of "moss-collecting excursion." Deidara's probably filming another TikTok about his "Hot New Neighbour" and adding some cringe-ass background audio like "G-a-n-g baby, let me B-a-n-g baby,  let me fuck some..."

And then there's your door. It's slightly open. Just barely. He can hear something inside.

A spoon clattering. The microwave beeping. And a voice—yours, singing softly.

Not well. Just softly.

The lyrics? "Curry puff, curry puff, may you not give anyone botulism..." followed by an off-key hum.

"She's nuts."

He lifts a hand, then knocks. Two sharp taps. Then a pause. Then one more knock because somehow, this feels way more awkward than it should. He clears his throat, holding up the container like it's evidence in a murder trial.

When you open the door, you're still holding a spatula. There's flour on your face like war paint, your lips are slightly puffy from licking the filling, and your expression is... vacant.

Like you've just been booted up again.

Hidan opens his mouth. Then closes it. Then opens it again. "...Hey. I ate this," he says, lifting the Tupperware slightly.

"Oh. Did you die?"

"Not yet. Think I saw a version of God though. He was crying."

You stare at him for a second. Then, completely deadpan "Nice."

Hidan squints at you, trying to decide whether to be annoyed or impressed. "...You always cook like this?"

"I don't always cook. But when I do, people usually get concerned."

Hidan snorts. Loudly. Then laughs. "Jesus, you're weirder than Deidara made you out to be."

"Oh, did he say I'm weird?"

"No, he said you're hot."

"...Oh." You look up, like you're really trying to process that. "That's worse."

Hidan leans against the doorframe. Still holding the cursed puffs "...You got any cigarettes?"

You shake your head. "I only smoke when I pretend to be depressed in movies."

"...Right."

"...You wanna try the second batch?" you ask, holding up another tray.

He stares at it.

He thinks about Kakuzu.

He thinks about his own mortality.

"Fuck it. Why not."

.

The hallway is quiet when Kakuzu opens his door. He's got a wrench in one hand and a bucket full of miscellaneous rusted nonsense in the other. Another leaky pipe from the fourth-floor common bathroom, probably caused by someone trying to flush glitter again—"Deidara," he growls under his breath.

But then, he sees it.

Tupperware.

Sitting there. Like an offering. A note taped on top reads:
"I made too much. Please have some! — (Y/N)"

He freezes.

His brow furrows.

His eye twitches.

"...Free?"

He glances left, then right. As if this is some kind of elaborate prank. Like the walls are rigged with paint buckets or a mousetrap.

When nothing explodes or bursts into flames, he sets his bucket down with an aged groan and crouches.

He lifts the container. Squints at it. Sniffs.

He flinches "...Smells like nail polish remover and deceit,"

But—but—it's food. Free food.

He stares at it a little longer. His stomach growls. He had planned to skip dinner and survive on vending machine almonds again, but this... this is technically sustenance.

Kakuzu takes a curry puff. Holds it up like it's a specimen from the black lagoon. Then shoves the whole thing in his mouth.

He shuts his eyes.

He chews slowly.

He suffers.

And he repeats to himself in his mind, like a mantra forged in the pits of hell:

"It's free. It's free. It's free. It's free."

Then he swallows. Barely.

He opens his eyes. Looks at the rest “...She better not make this a habit," .

Then he picks up his wrench, his bucket, and walks off. Curry puff still stuck in the back of his throat like guilt.

.

The elevator dings open on Sasori's floor, and he steps out with the slow, drained posture of a man who's just survived biochemical warfare.

His shoulder bag is slung low, like it's been dragged through the seventh circle of grading hell. His shirt once a respectable beige is now streaked with runny egg yolk, crusted over in a way that screams "you failed me and I will haunt your office hours."

He reeks. Not of regular eggs. But of sins long past their expiration date. A smell that could make the paint peel.

He's halfway down the hall when he sees it. A small container. Sitting neatly on the welcome mat in front of his door.

There's a note attached, written in the same kind of handwriting one might use to pen vows or forge royal decrees. It reads:

"For my neighbour Sasori. Have a good night – (Y/N)"

He stops. Just stares at it for a moment.

First thought: Is it a trap?
Second: How the hell does she know my name?
Right, you asked for his name in the elevator this morning.

He squats slowly, eyeing the container like it might start singing. “This smells like trust issues,"

Then he picks it up, sighs long and slow then immediately coughs from the stench wafting off his own shirt.

He takes the container inside, muttering, "If this is poison, it's still an upgrade from today."

.

In the dim lighting of the penthouse, Obito stands by the massive window that overlooks the street. The city lights flicker like dying stars, and his reflection in the glass stares back at him—tired, hollow, and dressed in a hoodie that costs more than someone's rent.

He leans against the frame, glaring down at the sidewalk. He can see you.

You're walking out now, with Hidan of all people. He looks like he's saying something funny and—

You laugh.

It echoes in Obito's brain like nails on a chalkboard.

"That should've been me."

He slams his forehead softly against the glass.

"She was supposed to run into me in the hallway. Not Hidan. I was supposed to bump into her. I rehearsed this."He turns back into the room, pacing like a man spiraling.

"Why the fuck is Hidan down there—he doesn't even have the charisma to talk to women unless he's in handcuffs. What did he say? What is he wearing? That shirt has a hole in it, I swear to God if she thinks that's grunge—"

He stops.

Throws himself on the expensive designer couch like a Victorian widow.

"...I need to start leaving the penthouse."

.

Kisame squints down at the container like it just whispered his full name and Social Security number. He toes it slightly with a sandal, watching it wobble like it might sprout legs and skitter off.

The note is elegant, almost absurdly romantic. "From (Y/N). Enjoy." Like you were handing him your final words before being deployed overseas. Or maybe ascending to heaven. Or both.

"Is this…… a declaration of war?"

Then he turns his head. Slowly.

Itachi's unit.
There it is. Another identical container, neatly placed like a cursed offering. Same handwriting. Same vibes. Itachi hasn't opened his yet. He might be meditating in the dark or trying to astral project through the rice cooker again.

Kisame crouches, sniffs the container like it's about to hiss at him.

"...Smells like... matcha? Mayo?" He leans closer. The puffs inside jiggles. Definitely radioactive.

Still crouched, he rereads the note. You're the new tenant. He hasn't even met you yet. Kisame stands. Cracks his neck. Picks up the container.

"...Sure"

.

Itachi didn't ask for much in life. He liked quiet mornings. Good books. Chamomile tea. And not being harassed by baked goods with the texture of concrete regret.

He had just come back from a long shift at the cafe near his university. He worked the line. Cooked for depressed college students. Took critiques from food bloggers who couldn't sauté an onion to save their life. He even let a toddler throw up near his shoes without blinking.

But this.

This was his breaking point.

It started when he reached his door and noticed the unmistakable shape of a container left carefully on his welcome mat. A pale Tupperware—innocent at first glance but sinister the moment he peeled the lid open and was hit with a smell that can only be described as... nostalgic suffering.

There's a small note inside. "Hope you enjoy it! (Y/N)"

Itachi stares at it for a long time. Long enough to question all his life choices.

The puff inside looked—off. Not quite food. Not quite science experiment.

He kneels slowly. Picks it up like a fragile explosive. He sniffs it once. Then again, but slower.

"This... might be a cry for help,"

He carries the container inside with the careful precision of a bomb squad officer. Set it on the table. Sat down across from it.

Tried to talk himself out of it.

Tried.

Because deep down—deep, deep down—it's polite to at least try what your new neighbor made. That's what his mother taught him.

So he takes a bite. And immediately, time stops.

His soul briefly left his body.

He sees every poor decision he had ever made flash before his eyes. That time he wore socks with sandals? Replayed in 4K. That one time he stood up against his father, telling him to "Im moving out and dropping out of law school"? Crystal clear now.

He chokes. Almost.

He stands up, clutching the edge of the counter like he had been shot.

"No. No, no. This is..." He turns to the sink. Spit or swallow, Uchiha. Choose your pain.

Eventually, he swallows. Like a man who had tasted betrayal before—but never this spicy.

Then he pours a glass of water, stares at the remaining puffs, and whispers:

"...She must be stopped."

Back in your apartment—still barefoot, still with half dried pastry dough stuck under your fingernails—you curl up on the couch, refreshed after causing irreparable psychological and gastrointestinal damage to your neighbors.

Your phone is in hand.

The only app open is Twitter.

You @liluzidiamondforehead (verified)
Just moved in. Made currypuff for my neighbours. Think, im invited to their cookouts now

You hit "tweet" and toss the phone on the coffee table like you just released a dove into the wind.

@liluzidiamondforehead, a shrine to the one and only Lil Uzi Vert, who has noticed you before. once replying "you look cold" to a winter outfit selfie, and once inviting you to a party that you didn't even remember RSVPing to. You showed up in full cosplay. He loved it.

Your phone buzzes. It's already happening.

Naruto Uzumaki @ramenrager69
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
yoooooo invite me to your new crib

Of course. Naruto. Ramen prince. Nepo baby. The kind of guy who shows up to your movie sets uninvited and says "I'm here for moral support" with a grin and a stolen studio badge.

You met him once at some politician's boring ass gala. He told you the shrimp was mid and you said "I thought it was a dolphin" and he laughed so hard he made the tablecloth catch fire. You've been acquaintances ever since.

Hes the type of guy to tweet memes at 3AM, picking fights with random accounts and posting “deep” quotes like “Pain makes you stronger #Grindset”.

Omoi @nonchalantmoi (verified)
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
@Karuiisstressed God i think your little gremlin just committed murder.

Rude.

But not inaccurate.

The familiar presence makes itself known.

A force of nature in your mentions.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
OMG 😻😻😻😻 WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE LUCKY ENOUGH TO BE BLESSED BY OUR QUEEN'S HOMEMADE COOKING

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
I WOULD EAT THE PUFFS OFF THE FLOOR IF YOU DROPPED THEM I DONT CARE

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
RESTRAIN ME FROM GIVING YOU MY ENTIRE PAYCHECK RN

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
YOUR MIND. YOUR PALATE. A GASTRONOMIC VISIONARY.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
GIVE ME A PLATE. GIVE ME A FORK. GIVE ME A REASON TO BREATHE.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
CURRYPUFF AS A METAPHOR OF LOVE.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforehead
the way she doesn't even reply. iconic. divine silence.

You don't respond.

You never do.

But your thumb hovers for a second over the like button. Just a second.

Then you scroll through his page. It's...a shrine. Velocity edits of you doing the most mundane things.

Clips of you on cooking shows, slowed down with grain filters and emotional SoundCloud rap over it. A suspicious zoom in on your elbow at some red carpet.

You blink.

You blink again.

Was that your elbow?
You zoom in. Enhance. Enhance again. There it is—barely visible beneath the cuff of your Balenciaga jacket. Your elbow. Immortalized in 720p with the caption:

“the curve of her joint. the bend of destiny.”

You feel your soul leave your body for half a second. Scrolling further, it only gets worse. Or better. Depending on who’s judging.

A reposted gif of you tying your hair up during a cooking segment, overlaid with sparkles and the caption:
“god took his time with this one. & then gave her culinary skills?? not fair.”

A close-up, frame-by-frame analysis of a half-second you looked toward the camera and blinked. Captioned:
“the blink heard around the world. i haven’t recovered.”

You toss your phone aside and head back to the kitchen. You've got leftover pastry dough, an unopened bag of mozzarella and a sick, sick idea.

Hidan is on his phone, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter like a goblin, cereal bowl in one hand, spoon in the other. He's got a murder documentary playing in the background and one AirPod in (The one where he stole it from one of the hooligans that jumped him. And he was only able to grab the right piece.), not really paying attention—until he scrolls past something on Twitter that halts his chewing mid-bite.

It's a slow motion video of you adjusting your apron. There's vaporwave music playing. Subtle sparkles. A rose filter.

Caption:
Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
this is art. this is salvation. this is what the bible meant when it mentioned 'ascend.'

Hidan blinks. Scrolls down.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
she stirred the soup. she STIRRED THE SOUP. i'm losing my grip on mortality.

"Yo what the f—" he says aloud.

He taps the profile.

Banner: A heavily filtered photo of your eyes.
PFP: An out-of-focus image of you probably taken through a peephole.
Bio: "Toaster (2019): A Love That Burns’s Enthusiast| curry puff disciple | likes: (y/n)'s ankle"

Pinned tweet:
"i love her like pain loves ideology."

"Yo, WHAT THE F—" Hidan shouts, cereal flying.

He slides off the counter like a gremlin with a mission, bowl forgotten, spoon clattering to the floor. He storms out of his unit, down the hall and climbs the stairs two at a time—fourth floor, where the trouble always is.

No knocking. No warning. kicks the door open to Deidara's apartment like he's raiding a cult meeting.

Inside, chaos—but intellectual.

Deidara is standing in the middle of the living room, holding the container of your curry puff like it's a fossilized artifact. He's not eating it. No, he's squinting at the pastry like it holds the secrets of the cosmos.

Across from him, Sasori sits with surgical focus, holding tweezers and a jeweler's loupe. They've laid out a plate. There's a notepad. They are dissecting the curry puff.

"What the actual f—" Hidan breathes, looking like he just walked in on a ritual.

Deidara doesn't even look up. "The crust is flaking at exactly 0.4mm intervals," he mutters. "She either baked it in stages or—"

"STOP," Hidan says, flailing his phone in their direction. "I'm not here for this food porn CSI bullshit. One of you is running this account."

He flips the screen b>@y/nsleftkidney.

Deidara blinks. "What the hell is that username?"

Sasori glances up. "Sounds like a fan account."

"It IS a fan account," Hidan grins, manic. "Of her. Of that new tenant. Of HER and HER elbow. Look!"

He shoves the phone in Sasori's face.

Sasori flinches. "Why is the video 480p and slowed down to 0.25 speed—"

"It gets worse," Hidan growls. "This freak tweeted, 'give me a plate, give me a fork, give me a reason to breathe.'"

Deidara's eyes go wide. "Dude. That's... kinda poetic, yeah."

"NO IT'S FERAL," Hidan snaps, points to the latest tweet. "'Curry puff as a metaphor for love.' Who the fuck says that?! WHO?!"

Sasori calmly goes back to his notes. "Not me. I don't even use Twitter unless I'm harassing galleries."

Deidara shrugs. "My account is @expl0siveartz, you know that."

Hidan pauses. His eyes narrow. "Then who the hell—?"

Meanwhile, in his penthouse, Obito sits silently in the corner of his living room, back to the wall, phone clutched like it's transmitting nuclear codes. He's sweating.

Because nobody knows @y/nsleftkidney is him. Or that he runs four other burner accounts just to boost the shrine.

He whispers to himself, "If they find out, I'm changing my name. I'm moving to another continent. I'll fake my death."

Chapter Text

You wake up as if none of yesterday happened.

The curry puff war crimes? Forgotten.
The cursed tweets? Deleted from your working memory. The trauma you inflicted on several grown men? Unbothered. Moisturized. Thriving.

You stretch like a housecat shirt half-ridden up your torso, hair a wreck, eyes half-lidded with sleep. You check the time.

6:34AM.

You have a shoot today. You're Makima now.

Chainsawman. the Netflix adaptation. Big deal. You were told it'd be career-defining. You were also told "please stop ad-libbing disturbing lines," but that's neither here nor there.

It's one of the reason why you had to move recently.(But mostly because you got doxxed and you're not ready to talk about that.)

You slip into your outfit with the precision of a woman who knows exactly how many people will stare at her on the way to work.

Karui sends you three voice notes in a row begging you to change, telling you the assistant stylist is literally at set with your costume, and that you'll get coffee stains on the collar again.

You don't listen. You never do.

.

Obito Uchiha wakes to his alarm buzzing violently against the marble nightstand of his high rise penthouse. He groans, squinting against the morning light that creeps through automated blinds. He slept like shit. His back aches. His mind replays yesterday's spiral on loop.

You. Your tweet. Your cursed, deranged, divine curry puff.

He tells himself that today will be different. He'll get to work, finish those spreadsheets, maybe email Madara that one report he's been putting off.

He puts on a clean suit—tailored, expensive, charcoal gray. He adjusts his tie in the mirror, trying to make his eye bags look "mysteriously brooding" instead of just "chronically sleep deprived." He tells himself he won't stalk. He tells himself he's better than this.

He takes the elevator down.

Ding.

The elevator stops.

The doors slide open—

—and there you are. Lip gloss catching light. Blouse stretched at the chest. Heels that click once as you step in, perfume hitting like a full body slam.

Obito stares straight ahead. Doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe. Doesn't speak.

You glance up at him, dead eyed and mildly curious.

"Hi," you say.

He almost dies on the spot. The doors close. Silence.

You're standing next to a man who looks like he came straight out of a tragic romantic manhwa adaptation. Hair tousled like he's been running his hand through it all morning. Sharp suit. Tie slightly loosened like a tortured soul. Scar on his face, which in your opinion, adds to the tragic little meow-meow energy.

He smells like overpriced cologne and regret. "Hi." That's all you said. Just hi. Polite. Barely interested.

Obito, meanwhile, experiences what can only be described as a system error.

She's talking to me she's TALKING to me this is the moment I can be normal I can be NORMAL I'm so normal I'm fine I'm so fine—

He swallows thickly. "Hey."

Voice cracked.
Not even slightly.
Full cracked.

You don't react, blinking slowly like you're buffering. Obito's mouth moves again before he can stop it.

"I saw your... um—your curry. The puff. Thing. That was... brave."

BRAVE?
He said brave.
Why would he say brave?

Your expression doesn't change. You nod slowly, almost solemn. "Thanks. I microwaved the dough." you add, helpfully. "...With the foil still on," you add, helpfully.

Obito makes a noise that could be described as a laugh or a whimper. Hard to say.

The elevator dings again. He panics. He was meant to stop on the the ground floor (this is Hidan's floor) but he stumbles out anyway like he meant to. He leaves his briefcase behind. Just sitting there in the elevator as the doors close again with you inside.

You look down at it. Then blink slowly. "...Was that a fan interaction?"

Because you genuinely don't know.

—

It's barely 9:00 AM.

Obito sits at his enormous, mahogany desk inside a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view that screams capitalism. His inbox is full. His phone won't stop vibrating. There's a budget review due before noon.

But none of that matters. Not when you exist.

He's hunched over, tie askew, lips moving wordlessly like he's mid-prayer. No—mid mental breakdown. A Word document is open in front of him, but it's just:

Redemption Arc: Draft 1

•Buy flowers? (What if she's allergic?)
•Apologize for saying "brave" (coward)
•Casually bump into her again (nonchalantly this time???)
•Google: how to sound normal when speaking to women

He paces across the carpet like a man on trial.

His assistant knocks. "Sir, the regional partners are—"

He waves her off mid-sentence. "Not now. I'm planning character development."

She blinks. Bows. Leaves. Inside his mind, Obito's trapped in a loop.

Your voice.
Your legs.
Your glossed lips mouthing "Hi."

And the blouse? The white shirt with the buttons barely hanging on for dear life. He nearly bites through his pen cap remembering it. The tights.

And that's when Madara walks past his office. The man himself. Black suit. Power walk. Aura of unpaid debts and generational trauma. He pauses at the glass. Squints.

"...Why the hell are you drooling?"

Obito blinks, dazed. Touches his mouth. His hand comes away glossy. He wipes it on his sleeve like a sinner caught mid-sin.

"N-Nosebleed," he blurts out. "Dry office air. You know how it is."

Madara raises a single brow. "No, I don't." Then walks off. Obito turns back to his desk, collapsing into his leather chair.

[ Akatsuki Degenerates — Group Chat ]

Deidara:
so when will pain add the new tenant into the group chat

Kisame:
is that like another way of saying "i want her number"

Deidara:
NO un 😒
i mean yes but also no.

Kakuzu:
did anyone else get diarrhoea or is it just me.

Itachi:
delivered a curry puff to my neighbor out of courtesy. i think i hallucinated god and now everything smells like melted crayons.

Hidan:
bro u still alive?

Itachi:
barely.

Deidara:
wait so u guys actually ate it???

Kisame:
i watched mine wiggle before i threw it in the trash.

Kakuzu:
free food is free food. i closed my eyes and ascended

Sasori:
i gave mine to my cat. she hasn't blinked in 4 hours.

Deidara:
STOPP un ur gonna make me laugh i'm still on live.

Obito
Hey.
Hi.
Morning.
Did she say anything about me?

Kakuzu:
who invited HR.

Deidara:
who told u we even talked to her???

Obito:
Just asking a normal question in a normal group chat like a normal person.

Hidan:
that's exactly what an abnormal person would say

Itachi:
I think she microwaved the foil on purpose.

Sasori:
psychological warfare.

Pain:
STOP HARASSING THE NEW TENANT.
and no i'm not adding her to this group until she proves she can mentally survive it.
which i doubt.

Konan:
ping me for updates though i live for the mess

—

The soundstage is chaos.

PAs running around. Director screaming about lighting. Someone's crying because a chainsaw prop exploded earlier and took out half the catering table.

You? You're chilling on a folding chair, legs crossed, eyes blank, sipping iced coffee through a boba straw without boba.

Your wig's braided back perfectly, Makima-red. No more psychological warfare in the shape of pencil skirt, just some flares, bootcut slacks. You haven't broken character once not out of professionalism, but because you just... forgot how to socialize.

Your co-star (playing Denji) approaches you cautiously between takes. "Uh, hi. I'm—uh, I play Denji? Just wanted to say it's really cool to be working with you."

"...Did you know if you freeze a frog in liquid nitrogen and smash it, it'll shatter like glass?"

He stares. His soul exits his body. "Okay... cool."

You smile. You're doing great.

Meanwhile... Obito, Back in the Office

He's still in his glass coffin (aka the COO corner office), trying so hard to focus on spreadsheets, but the tab with your Twitter is open.

Your Tweet:
You @liluzidiamondforhead
chainsawman set going great. i just said hi to someone and he flinched

He types out a reply:

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
hi queen i would flinch too but like out of admiration not fear you're so elegant

Deletes it. Too desperate.

Types again:

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
me when u blink: art
me when u breathe: cinema

Deletes it again. Psychosis.

Third time's the charm:

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
you're doing amazing sweetie!! can't wait to see u slay in your new upcoming role!

Sends it.

Regrets it.

Deletes it.

Meanwhile, back on set, Karui storms over holding your contract and the revised shooting schedule.

"Why is the internet calling you 'gaslight gatekeep girlboss incarnate' again?" she asks, tired.

"They say that every time I breathe."

You @liluzidiamondforhead – 1 hr ago
chainsawman set going great. i just said hi to someone and he flinched

Naruto Uzumaki @ramenrager69
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
that's what we call presence.

Omoi @nonchalantmoi
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
they sensed a demon.

Karui @karuilovesmocha
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
can confirm she didn't say "hi" she said "Did you know if you freeze a frog in liquid nitrogen and smash it, it'll shatter like glass?"

Ino 🌼@yamanakahana
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
why is this the third time this month a man feared for his life after she spoke

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney (Obito's alt)
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
i would flinch too but like out of awe. not fear. awe. and maybe fear. but mostly awe.

edit: i didn't mean it weirdly pls don't block me

Sakura🌸 @slaykura_haruno
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead & @yamanakahana
i thrive to be this level of insanity 😭😭

Temari @riotgrrrlwind
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
we're going to have to host a seminar about her

Kanknroll @puppetpitcore
Replying to @riotgrrrlwind
Isnt this the female lead of that cursed toaster movie ☠️

Gaara of Nirvana @emptyscreamsoul
Replying to @puppetpitcore & @riotgrrrlwind
I actually really like Toaster 2: Crumbs of Vengeance. Very metal.

Sasuke Uchiha @cry4revenge
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
no bc she's the reason OSHA exists

Shisui Uchiha @susanoBRO
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
the way she's so normal but in an abnormal way??

im creased

Y/N's curry puff @lacedthighs
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
SHE TRIED TO FEED HER NEIGHBOURS
AND THEY ATE IT
AND THEY SURVIVED
SHE'S UNSTOPPABLE

konan @blueangelofgloom
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
makima was meant for her.
no acting required.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
i bet when she walks past birds hit the windows just to feel something

edit 2: that sounded mean but i swear it's admiration

zetsuki @yeetzu
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
her energy is "i've committed several crimes but you'll never know which" and honestly? that's star power.

[Trending under the tweet: #MakimaIRL #WhyDidHeFlinch #QueenBehavingStrangelyAgain]

-

Meanwhile, you're retweeting none of them. Just posting a photo of your shadow holding a cold brew with the caption:

"life is a performance piece. i forgot the script."

Obito is sitting unnaturally still, legs crossed, staring at his two monitors. One of them has an elaborate spreadsheet titled "Q2 Budget Forecast." The other has a YouTube tab open with the trailer for Chainsaw Man (Netflix Original) paused exactly at your 0.5 second appearance.

He hits play again. For the 19th time.

Your character—Makima, blinks slowly at Denji. It's subtle. Haunting. Cinematic. You don't even speak. Just... stare. But the camera lingers.

Obito exhales like he's watching art. Like it's 4D. Like the room smells different now.

"She is Makima..."

A coworker walks by, glancing at the screen. "Hey, is that that new Chainsaw Man—"

"Get out." Obito slams the monitor off.

Coworker scurries.

Okay. It's fine. You still have a chance. She doesn't hate you. Probably. Everyone fumbles sometimes. You'll make it up to her. Maybe... buy her coffee? No. That's weird. That's too obvious. Maybe—what if you trip outside her door and pretend you got injured? No. That's psychotic. Okay. Breathe.

He breathes. Then checks Twitter. You posted again.

You @liluzidiamondforhead - 34 minutes ago
life is a performance piece. i forgot the script.

"Jesus Christ."

He opens his Notes app.

Drafts:
— ways to accidentally run into her again
— t-shirt idea: "I flinched when she said hi"
— petition to have her host the Met Gala
— google: does Makima like men who spiral

Madara appears at his glass door. He squints. "Obito. Why are you watching anime trailers with tears in your eyes?"

Obito wipes his face like it's nothing. "Dust."

"...You good?"

"Yeah. I'm just having a villain origin flashback. Wanna join?"

"No." He leaves.

The sound stage is busy, filled with cables, half-constructed walls, a fake Tokyo skyline and an intern yelling something about prop blood being stuck in the dryer. You're seated in your makeup chair, legs crossed in that elegant-but-unbothered way, scrolling through Twitter with the blank expression of someone who just watched a man explode and didn't feel anything.

Karui storms in.

She's holding two phones and a Chagee drink she forgot she ordered. Her voice comes at you like a hurricane.

"WHY. IS. TOBI. TRENDING. AGAIN."

You don't look up. "Who's Tobi."

"The man with 40 velocity edits of your face set to slowed-down Playboi Carti. That Tobi."

"Oh. He's nice."

Karui flips one of the phones around. It's your tweet.

life is a performance piece. i forgot the script.
Beneath it are Tobi's replies.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
I can be your script. I can be your stage. I can be your entire production budget.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
Queen, blink twice if you need me to burn this world down.

Tobi @y/nsleftkidney
Replying to @liluzidiamondforhead
i opened 13 tabs just to see your 0.3 second cameo in the trailer.

Karui flips again. Now it's his profile.
The pinned post? A slideshow of photoshopped wedding edits between you and some faceless man in a tux with "CENSORED" over his eyes.

"THIS IS A CRY FOR HELP."

"Mhm. He liked my tweet, though."

"That is not the point!"

You shrug, sipping your coffee. "I think he's just going through something."

Karui throws her arms up. "They're all going through something! You've made every emotionally unstable man within a 30 mile radius spiral harder than bitcoin!"

"...Is that a bad thing?"

"Yes. That's a terrible thing."

Your phone buzzes again.

This time it's a new notification.

PAIN:
You have been invited to the Akatsuki Cookout.
8:30PM. Rooftop.
Bring something edible.

You stare at the screen.

...Interesting.

[Prior the invitation]

[Akatsuki Degenerates]

Deidara:
ok real question.
what if we actually have a dinner. like real one. potluck un.

Kisame:
finally using that damn rooftop huh? been up there once. birds tried to mug me.

Sasori:
no.

Deidara:
sasori c'mon it's not even gonna be loud

Sasori:
no.

Hidan:
bro just bring your damn cat and sit in a corner. be normal.

Kakuzu:
who's bringing meat
if y'all show up with leaves and vibes again i swear

Itachi:
I can prepare something.

Kisame:
curry puff?

Itachi:
don't test me.

Deidara:
ok but let (y/n) bring something too un
we'll let her debut her dish properly this time. redemption arc.

Konan:
... she's not even in the group yet.
Pain said shes not ready.

Hidan:
tf
READY FOR WHAT?
THE APOCALYPSE??

Kakuzu:
is she being hazed or hired. clarify.

Deidara:
y r u gatekeeping the new tenant
#gatekeep #girlboss #gaslight
It's only cute when a teenage girl does it.

Pain:
She is not emotionally fortified for the full Akatsuki experience.

Hidan:
nobody is emotionally fortified
look at obito. he post those wolf memes daily like he's still not over his highschool girlfriend.

Kisame:
that man eats instant noodles standing over the sink. let her in.

Pain:
I will personally direct message her.

She asked if you guys like fermented things.

Hidan:
be fucking for real.

Kakuzu:
if it's free I'll eat it.

Deidara:
what if we do this tonight?? rooftop?
Kisame u got grill right?

Kisame:
always.

Konan:
I will be attending. If any of you touch my tattoo kit, I'll tattoo a d*ck on your face.

Deidara:
hi konan un
pls bring your potato salad or smth

Obito is typing...
Obito is typing...
Obito is typing...
Obito deleted a message
Obito sent a sticker: [snoopy clenching a fist dramatically]

He sits in the dark like a misunderstood Victorian widow. One leg crossed over the other, swirling his untouched glass of whiskey even though he hates whiskey.

Your tweet still open on his phone.

He's been staring at it for an hour.

He gets up and paces. His tie is still half-done from work, his blazer thrown across the floor. He stops by the window, the lights of the city casting him in tragic CEO lighting.

"I have to say something cool at the dinner. I have to be mysterious. Maybe I'll wear that turtleneck."

He opens Instagram. Finds a reel of wolves howling.
Captions it:

sometimes the moon is the only one who understands.

He posts it to close friends.
You're not on there.

Yet.

—

You push a cart with one hand and hold your phone with the other. The TikTok tutorial is playing for the fourth time, and you're rewinding it like the answer will spiritually enter your soul if you just keep watching the creator aggressively stir watermelon and Sprite in a plastic bowl.

"Hwanchae," you mutter like a forgotten spell. "Watermelon punch. Just water, melon, and punch."

Your heels click against the polished tiles as you drift through the produce aisle like an ominous fashion ghost — white blouse, red bottoms, blouse still unbuttoned slightly too low for a casual grocery trip. But you have priorities. You are on a mission.

No more mass extinction by curry puff.

You grab a melon like you know what you're doing. You don't. You have no idea if it's ripe. You knock on it for no reason.

"Yeah... sounds like a melon."

Then — a voice.

"That one's overripe."

You blink, turning to find Itachi Uchiha, dressed like a mildly depressed poet. Plain black shirt, long sleeves, calm face, quietly judging the watermelon in your hands like it personally offended the Uchiha clan.

He's pushing a small cart too, mostly empty except for soba noodles and a small basket of mushrooms. He stands there, serious and elegant, like someone hired him to promote local farmer's markets.

You tilt your head at him. "Oh... are you a melon psychic?"

Before he can answer, another voice cuts in "Hey! Yo! Over here—she's here!"

Kisame, tank top-wearing, tattooed garage god, strolls toward you holding a literal sack of lemons over his shoulder like it's a workout routine. His arms are glistening and his smile is wide, genuine, wolfish. He grins as he slows to a stop by Itachi.

"Didn't expect to run into the neighbour everyone's been talking about," he says. "You grocery shop like you're about to ruin a board meeting."

You blink once. Then twice. "...I'm making hwanchae."

Itachi nods once. "Trendy. Last year."

"I don't follow time," you say plainly, putting the melon into your cart anyway.

Kisame chuckles, claps Itachi on the back. "Let her cook."

"What are you guys bringing?" You gesture vaguely at their carts.

"Soba salad," Itachi replies, quiet and grim like it's a funeral.

"Lemon chicken skewers," Kisame grins. "And beer for those who'll drink. Non-alcoholic soda too. You know, for people like you."

"What makes you think I don't drink?" You squint suspiciously.

"You look like the type who accidentally burns down the building when you're two sips in."

"That's true," you admit, unfazed. "I once tried to peel a boiled egg with a key."

Itachi physically turns away at that.

"Can confirm," Kisame says, still laughing.

And with that, the three of you walk in slow motion toward the checkout like it's a crossover episode no one saw coming.

[Akatsuki Degenerates]

Sasori:
This is why I don't leave the house unless necessary.
I told this brat we're grocery shopping together. Who ends up carrying everybody ? Me. With a back problem.
He's too busy scrolling through TikTok trying to figure out how to make "pink sauce" and "cookie butter ramen."

Deidara:
that's character assassination, un
and i said i was gonna get the drinks. which i did.

Sasori:
You bought one bottle of Ramune and 3 cans of Monster.

Deidara:
energy is important
also what are YOU even making huh. boiled moss????

Itachi:
Please don't fight.
Im bringing Soba Salad.

Kisame:
No one's fighting, Itachi. This is just what affection looks like in this household.
Also I'm bringing actual food. You're welcome.

Kakuzu:
Sasori, did you say you had a back problem?
I have a guy who can realign your spine for 25 bucks if you don't ask questions.

Sasori:
I would rather live crooked.

Hidan:
lol

Deidara:
Anyway i better get extra praise when you all try MY COTTON CANDY SPAGHETTI!!!
(it's food art u uncultured swines)

Konan:
Just make sure no one dies.

Pain:
Exactly.
I'm not signing any liability forms again.
By the way, should I add the new tenant to the group?

Kisame:
Please do, she's cool. Also, she said she's making that fruit punch drink. Hwan... hwanchee?

Itachi:
Hwanchae.

Hidan:
how the hell did she survive this long with those cooking instincts.

Deidara:
maybe she's pretty enough to get away with war crimes idk.

Obito
[typing...]
[typing...]
[typing...]
[deleted message]

Konan:
Obito's having a breakdown again I see.

Pain:
Standard Monday.

Kakuzu:
If she gives me food poisoning again, I'm billing someone.

Hidan:
bill Deidara. he's a content creator, he can afford it.

Deidara:
UNFAIR
my job is emotionally taxing.

Sasori:
Your job is opening your mouth on camera and lying about nutrition.

Deidara:
and yet i suffer

Kisame:
I just wanna know who's bringing forks this time. Last cookout we had to pass around one ramen ladle like cavemen.

Itachi:
I can bring a cutlery set.

[7:23pm]

Kisame:
I just saw her. She's making hwanchae. I think Itachi's going through a moral crisis. He looks like he's about to call Madara for emotional support.

Kakuzu:
If this turns into a group diarrea again I'm moving out.

Hidan:
bro ur like 80 where r u gonna go

Deidara:
he's gonna crawl into the vents and hibernate like the financial goblin he is

Konan:
Please be nice.
i trust her.
No one can fuck up a simple fruit drink.

Kisame:
She did spend ten minutes staring at a watermelon like it offended her personally though.

Itachi:
I just... I don't understand how she used carbonated milk.

Hidan:
wym she carbonated milk
IS SHE TRYING TO FOLD OUR COLONS LIKE LAUNDRY???

Deidara:
this is how evolution works
survival of the digestive tract

Obito:
It's fine. I'll eat hers and everyone else's.
Just to be safe.

Hidan:
You said that last time and then passed out in the stairwell with curry puff crumbs on your face.

Kakuzu:
And when he woke up he said he "had a vision."

Obito:
i did

Itachi:
The worst part about this is that he came all the way to my apartment to help me finish the currypuff.
Just because she didn't make any for him. 😭

Hidan:
GOT MEEEEEEE DEAD ASF 😭😭😭😭🙏

Deidara:
LOLLLLLLLLL????

Pain:
Let her cook.
Literally. This is character development.

Sasori:
No, it's stomach lining damage.

Kisame:
She's plating it in flower-shaped glass bowls. She's serious.

Chapter Text

You're standing by your apartment door with a flowery shaped bowl of a very suspiciously colored hwanchae, proudly cradling it like a newborn. It's pink but maybe from the red food coloring. The melons are chopped in a very... convoluted shape— might as well just claim you rip them off with your bare hands. Watermelon? check. Canned peaches? Check. Sprite? Check. Five bottle of the white Vitagen? Check. Banana? Check. Overpriced strawberries? Check.

You're still in your Makima-core outfit, not bothering to change them. You smell like expensive perfume and bad decisions. Notes of saffron, oud and unholy culinary ambition.

The top buttons are unbuttoned with intention. Like someone who's tasted power and will taste it again... through vaguely fermented fruit punch.

You hold your head high like a final boss cutscene. You clutch the flowery bowl of suspiciously radioactive hwanchae like it's the Holy Grail and not a cursed vat of carbonated dairy and fruit. One wrong tilt and the Vitagen might achieve sentience.

Your eyes glint under the hallway lights. There's Sprite fizzing. A banana slice threatening to breach the surface like a sea serpent.

This is your redemption arc.

.

Kisame arrives at the rooftop first, sunglasses on, carrying a plastic crate filled with grilled skewers and six varieties of dipping sauces he made from scratch. He's unbothered. Life's good. Samehada (his bike) is parked downstairs, sparkling. The scent of perfectly grilled meat follows him like cologne.

He's halfway into arranging things when Itachi appears beside him like a specter.

"Where did you come from?"

"I was already here," Itachi replies softly, as if he's always existed in the background of every room. He sets down a reusable tote bag filled with neatly stacked paper plates, his signature Soba salad, plastic cutlery, and exactly one bottle of iced tea. No one asked him to bring that, but he did. He does things like that.

Itachi squints at the hwanchae jug you're carrying as you arrive.

"...Is that safe?"

"It's pink," you say solemnly. "It tastes like pink."

"Okay."

.

Sasori shows up with the energy of a man who would rather be dissecting a dead raccoon. He's wearing gloves. He's carrying a tray of meticulously arranged finger sandwiches and a box of matcha cookies. Not homemade.

He doesn't say hello. He doesn't even acknowledge the existence of the social contract. He moves like a plague doctor who got dragged into a potluck by force. His gaze slides past Kisame and Itachi, lands briefly on you—and your bowl—and lingers. Not in admiration. In analysis.

"Did you... ferment this?" he asks, looking at your hwanchae like it might contain spores.

You smile. "It's fizzy."

"That's not an answer."

You say nothing, just adjust the bowl proudly, like you're shielding it from judgment.

Deidara bursts out dramatically like he's making an entrance at an MTV awards show in 2007. The jingle of his layered chains and studded belt echoes as he tosses his hair back, one fishnet-gloved hand holding his phone up to the golden hour like he's Moses parting the clouds.

His fake demonias clack obnoxiously against the rooftop floor. You blink at the sheer density of aesthetic, squinting as if he might disappear if you stare too long. He doesn't. In fact, he poses harder.

He's carrying a neon container of what could only be the cotton candy spaghetti. The thing is glowing. There are sprinkles on it. Possibly glitter.

"THE PARTY HAS ARRIVED, UN!" he yells, then immediately whirls to you. "HOLY HELL she really brought it?? Look at that punch! Is it safe?? Is it FDA approved??"

"Ignore him," Sasori mutters.

"I never hear him," Itachi adds.

His phone in his other hand, obviously already posting stories to his Instagram. His caption:
"rooftop w the weirdos again, un" There's already a blurry snap of you from behind.

You don't even flinch. You just hand him a paper cup filled with your neon drink.

Deidara takes a sip. His face contorts. "What the hell did I just drink."

"Happiness," you say.

Hidan arrives fashionably late and deeply annoyed. "Somebody parked a fuckin' food truck in front of the building. That you, Kisame?"

"No," Kisame smirks. "That's my grill."

You offer Hidan your pink drink. He side-eyes it like it insulted his religion, but takes a sip anyway.

"...This got liquor in it?"

"No."

"...It should've."

Kakuzujust appears at the corner of the rooftop like a cryptid. No one saw him enter. He brought nothing. He's holding your curry puff from yesterday, half-eaten.

"How is that still intact," you whisper.

"Free food is eternal,"

And somewhere, leaning against the stairwell door, in all black like a man in mourning...

Obito watches you interact from a distance. Clutching his tupperwear and store bought donuts. He's rehearsed ten different ice breakers in his head.

"Hey."
"No, too basic."
"Nice drink. Did you make it? ...I'd love to die with honor."
"Too much."

He paces. He breathes in. Out. In again.

You turn toward him, and for a second your eyes meet.

Time slows. The wind ruffles your hair like you're in a shampoo commercial. The rooftop light glints off your bowl of pink chaos like it's a sacred relic. Obito stands frozen. Still clutching his Tupperware of homemade onigiri and a box of supermarket donuts like it's a dowry.

He panics. Almost drops both. You smile—just barely. Enough to make him malfunction.

Rebooting...

He blurts the first thing that comes to mind. "Do you... need ice?"

Everyone goes quiet.

You stare at him, confused. "...For what?"

"For... for the drink?" he stammers. "Your hwanchae. It's... temperature-sensitive? Maybe. I brought ice. In my bag. For emergencies. Not that you're an emergency. I mean—"

He stops. Takes a breath. Starts over. "I just wanted to help."

"...You brought ice?"

He nods.

"That's weird."

Obito’s voice cracks "Thank you."

And somehow it works. Because you step toward him "Want some?"

He looks at the bowl like it might be holy water. "I'd die for it,"

"You might," Sasori mutters.

Obito accepts a cup like he's just been knighted. Drinks it. Eyes all wide. "...That's actually good?"

You smile again "Told you. It tastes like pink."

Hidan, in the background "Still think it needs vodka."

.

The rooftop vibe is mellowing out. golden hour fading into the cool blue of twilight, a few cheap fairy lights flickering from someone's last-minute attempt at "ambience." People are kind of chatting, kind of loitering, kind of hovering around the plastic folding table with the cursed curry puffs no one dared to throw away yet.

You're sitting back against one of the low, weather-worn wooden chairs, legs crossed. Hidan's next to you, all sprawled out and slouched like someone who was dragged into a family reunion he didn't want to attend. Cigarette tucked behind his ear, eyes half-lidded with boredom.

You lean slightly, hold your phone up. One hand still flashing a peace sign—and click. The shutter sound echoes in the air before he even realizes.

"...Did you just take a fuckin' picture of me?"

You don't even look at him. Still editing the lighting on your story "Yeah."

"Why?"

"I dunno. You're in the frame."

"You didn't even ask if I wanted to—"

"I don't tag people."

"...That's not the issue, dumbass."

You finally glance over, squinting thoughtfully at him, then blink. "Wanna be mutuals?"

He blinks back. "The fuck does that mean."

"Instagram. Twitter. Pick your poison."

"...Instagram."

You nod. Pull up your profile and hand him your phone like it's some sort of official diplomatic exchange.

Hidan sees the followers digit: 3.9M "...Is this real."

He accepts the request, still visibly confused. "...Do I follow back or—"

"Up to you. But I'll softblock you if you unfollow me later." You say it deadpan, like a warning. Hidan doesn't know whether to laugh or be concerned. He follows you anyway.

[Story]
Peace sign. Rooftop glow. You and Hidan in the frame. No tags. Just the caption: "Me and someone's future war criminal"

Akatsuki Degenerates GC:

Deidara:
IS THAT HIDAN

Konan:
she never posts people. he's so lucky

Obito:
i'm literally going to kms

Sasori:
maybe she just thinks he's ugly. I never tag ugly people

Hidan:
wtf did i do

Kakuzu:
this is why you're bloated. spiritual punishment.

Obito Uchiha, a man of many faces and even more alts.

@obitouchihaofficial (Ig & Twt)
This is the main account. Verified. Clean grid with maybe six posts total. A few black-and-white photos of himself looking broody. One post of a desk with a latte captioned "Monday grind." Comments turned off. He uses this account to interact with coworkers and pretend like he isn't absolutely spiraling every day. His Close Friends, however, tells a different story. That's where the memes go. The depression ones. The 'I want to disappear' ones.

@y/nsleftkidney (twt) @mysterioustobi (ig)
You know this one. He's chronically online here. Replies to all your tweets with crying emojis, keyboard smashes, and the occasional "me rn after seeing this" followed by a photo of someone passed out. His icon is a picture of you. You've never interacted with this account directly, but he's convinced you're just playing hard to get. He reposts your stories with captions like "YOU LOOK SO GOOD WHAT THE HELL" and he'd quote tweet your curry puff post with "y'all don't deserve her fr"

@uchihaeditz.mp4 (ig)
His editing account. He doesn't talk about it. Not even to himself. It started as a coping mechanism but turned into an obsession. Edits of you with lo-fi music, glitch effects, neon sparkles. Some of them hit 50k views. He has about 700 followers, mostly fellow stans who think he's just a fanpage. He's gotten DMs like "idk who you are but your edits make me cry." He doesn't respond. Just likes them.

@UchihaDynamics_co (ig)
The company account. Meant to look professional. He hates it. He only logs in when Madara yells at him or when he wants to see Rin's and Kakashi's stories. He'll type "lol" on a post where his unflattering face is posted of him in a meeting and then log off to go cry in his car.

Right now, he's leaning over the table where your Hwanchae is placed, thumb hovering over your new story with Hidan. He's viewing it from @mysterioustobi, but he's tempted to go view it from all four accounts just to pretend they're different people.

He taps the heart icon.

Then switches to @uchihaeditz.mp4 and saves the story to use for a "You + Me = Heaven" edit later.

Deidara is practically vibrating as he shoves his cracked iPhone in your face—he's already got TikTok open, Lil Peep's "nuts" playing in the background, and he's doing that little dancey jump in place that all E-boys do when they're excited.

"Fit check, fit check, come on—let's go, un!"

You nod. That's all he needs.

He angles the phone in selfie mode with the speed and accuracy of someone who's done this a hundred times (he has), flips his hair out of his face, and starts recording. He introduces the video like he's on live TV:

"Okay so this is the new neighbour, hottest person in the whole goddamn building and I say that with my whole chest—show 'em the fit, baby, let's gooo."

You just spin once like a Sims character loading in. The camera pans down. White blouse, open buttons. Pencil skirt. Red bottoms. Then it pans back up to Deidara, who's now pouting his lips, lifting his shirt to show a very fake Dior belt, and dramatically adjusting his fishnet gloves.

"Lil Peep would've loved us," he says, unironically.

And of course, he has to pull Sasori into this. It's tradition. Sasori has a cult following now after that one cursed second he accidentally appeared on a live.

Flashback to that moment:

"Okay guys so I just did my lashes, I think I need to—"

Sasori (in the background, holding a laundry basket) "If you don't pick up your boxers from the dryer, Kakuzu is gonna sell them on Etsy."

One second of eye contact with the camera. That's all it took.

—

Now Deidara is storming down the hall to Sasori's apartment, still filming.

"Yo Sasori—come on, get in the fit check. My followers are in love with you, it's insane."

Sasori opens the door, already squinting.

"No."

Deidara turns to the camera like it's a sitcom. "He said yes."

Cut to TikTok:
The camera now pans to Sasori, standing stiff behind the wooden couch, in a brown turtleneck and slacks, hair slightly messy like he just woke up from a nap he didn't mean to take. His expression is unreadable. Deadpan. A few strands of hair fall across his eyes.

Comment section immediately:

"THE RED HAIR SCREAMS UNMEDICATED MENTAL ILLNESS AND I EAT IT UP"

"he's so fineeee i just know he gaslights professionally"

"me showing up to court with a whole powerpoint defending his war crimes"

"I could fix him or let him ruin me. Dealer's choice."

"Is it just me or he looks like my lecturer in art class that keeps on failing me"

Obito's standing there like someone told him not to move or the bomb goes off. Hands in his pockets, shoulders tense, back straight, trying to lean on the railing exactly how Itachi did two minutes ago—except Obito's foot slips a little and the metal clangs.

He panics. Corrects posture. Looks down at his shoes like they'll offer guidance. They don't.

You're a few feet away, chatting easily with Deidara again, laughing, phone in one hand. You've probably already forgotten he even exists.

Obito's inner monologue, spiraling fast:
Okay okay, maybe she likes guys who are funny. I can do funny. I was funny once. Back in middle school. Maybe. Fuck. What if she likes sad broken guys. I'm both. That's good. No wait, too much. Don't trauma dump, don't—

He glances your way. You're reaching into your bag. Your lip gloss catches the moonlight and blinds him temporarily. He turns away quickly like he wasn't just staring.

From across the roof, Kisame leans over to Itachi and mutters, "Bro's short-circuiting again."

Itachi sips his canned coffee with his usual dead gaze. "He's not built for this."

Obito, finally working up the courage, clears his throat once. Then again, louder. You don't hear him.

Deidara does though, and he immediately knows what's happening. "Obito, you good?" he says too loudly, and you look over now.

Obito goes statue-mode. Full system lockdown. Muscles locked. A single bead of sweat makes its daring escape down his temple.

You raise an eyebrow, pausing mid-sip of your iced-tea that you definitely didn't bring earlier, meaning someone must've handed it to you.

"Yes?" you say, voice lilting with vague amusement. Because of course, you actually don't know what this man's name is. You haven't had any proper introduction with anyone.

He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. His Tupperware is already abandoned on the table like a forgotten relic of his failed Plan A.

Obito panics and blurts out the first thing that enters his mind. "Do you... like, uhm... water?"

Silence. Even the wind stops blowing.

You blink. "... Yeah?"

Obito nods like that was a profound answer. He turns to the sky. "Cool."

He wants to die.

You stare at Obito just a beat too long. The kind of stare that doesn't blink. Unnerving. Surgical.

He stiffens, suddenly hyper-aware of every scar on his face, every uneven patch of skin the rooftop light is catching. He thinks maybe he's ruined it—maybe you're uncomfortable, maybe he should've stayed in the dark corner where awkward guys belong.

He starts to turn away, posture folding in on itself, already halfway to disappearing back into the stairwell like a phantom retreating to his cave—

"Nice watch."

He halts. Turns his head halfway. "...Huh?"

He looks down at the scratched silver strapped to his wrist. The one he spent forty minutes picking out this morning like it was a damn wedding ring. You shrug "Clean. Classy. Minimalist. I like that."

His brain doesn't compute at first, like someone just pressed CTRL+ALT+DEL in the middle of his self-loathing. Then—

"O-oh. Yeah. Thanks. It's... just a Junghans Max Bill." He looks down at it like he forgot it was there. He chuckles awkwardly. "Uh. Functional. Like me."

You're still watching him with that weird stare. Obito feels it crawling under his skin—until your expression shifts, just slightly. Less amused, more curious. "You've got obsidian eyes, you know."

Obito stiffens.

"Darker than a black hole." You cock your head. "Am I staring at the void?"

...

Dead silence again. Obito forgets how to breathe. His soul momentarily leaves his body. He looks at you, startled, unsure if you're flirting or if you just casually speak like an alien philosopher. Either way, it short-circuits him.

"I—I... uh..." he swallows hard. Then mutters, "...Hope you don't fall in."

Kisame, whispers to Itachi "Bro. Did he just flirt back?"

Itachi blinks "He's dying inside, but yes."

Kakuzu watches from the sofa with the sharp-eyed disdain of a man who's just witnessed someone invest in NFTs in real time. His arms are crossed, one brow twitching. "What the hell did I just witness,"

Hidan, beside him, flicks a cigarette butt with unnecessary aggression. "Was that supposed to be flirting? The guy looked like he was about to pass out." He pauses, side-eying Obito (who is now laughing nervously at absolutely nothing.) "And what's with that 'void' line? That was the cringiest thing I've ever heard and I quote the Bible daily."

Kakuzu sighs, exasperated. "It's embarrassing. You'd think someone who was born into money wouldn't be this socially constipated."

"Right?" Hidan scoffs. "Anti-capitalist or not, that's just... not right."

They both watch as Obito continues standing there, visibly malfunctioning while trying to hold a conversation. The wind blows through his messy hair dramatically, but it's completely wasted.

Kakuzu: "He's the type to rehearse jokes in the mirror and still forget the punchline."

Hidan: "Bro’s the type to choke on water when no one even handed him a glass."

The rooftop falls into a hush for a second as the door creaks open, like something cinematic is about to happen—and in walks Pain, as if summoned by the very gods of melodrama.

He steps through the threshold like a man who's just set fire to the world and is here for dessert. His black leather jacket hangs off him with studied indifference, patched with chaotic artistry (Konan's handiwork, of course.) Hand-sewn emblems, a scattering of silver studs and the unmistakable red cloud stitched boldly across the back. He looks like the protagonist of a post-apocalyptic fashion zine who communes exclusively in existential threats.

In each hand, he carries a bottle of cognac like cursed artifacts—lethal, elegant, expensive. His expression is unreadable, stoic and pierced to hell. If melancholy could strut, it would look like this.

And then Konan follows.

She doesn't walk—she glides. Cool serenity in human form. A tray of blueberry tarts rests effortlessly in her arms, as if it weighed nothing ( like her trauma.) Her black velvet dress shimmers subtly in the moonlight, sleeves wide like wings, corset laced to perfection. The hem of her skirt brushes the ground like she's floating just slightly above it.

She's dressed like grief in heels. The only sane one here. The only one who probably has a tax folder.

You, upon seeing Pain in real life for the first time, practically recoil like someone just flashbanged you in broad daylight. Your hands come up in reflex, shielding your eyes.

"Jesus Christ—" No one's sure if you're impressed or terrified.

Pain says nothing. He doesn't have to. His presence alone silences half the group for a second.

But the awkward part is—no one else is reacting this strongly. Just you. And Pain notices.

Konan leans toward him and whispers, "I told you the eyeliners were too much."

Pain doesn't flinch. Just slowly surveys the rooftop like a disappointed messiah. "I brought peace and alcohol," he says, with absolutely no emotion.

And you, blinking through your fingers "He looks even more high-definition in real life."

Pain sets the bottles down with the reverence of a man offering a sacrament, the table creaking slightly under the weight of whatever the hell he thinks "tax-paying adult drink" is supposed to be.

He lifts his chin. "Alright," he says, voice like thunder in a minimalist art gallery, "the real, tax-paying adults should try my new recipe."

That gets a few eyes twitching. Kisame side-eyes Itachi. Kakuzu snorts. Hidan, still traumatized from the pink drink, mutters something about tax fraud being a religion.

Deidara's jaw tightens like someone just insulted his scene-phase playlist.

"I pay taxes, un," he insists loudly from the other side of the table, slamming down his plastic cup of Sprite like it's proof of maturity. "I own a ring light and two bank accounts."

"One's your mom's," Kakuzu cuts in, dry as ever.

Deidara throws his hands up. "You're just mad I've got a TikTok following and a personality."

But you're barely listening anymore. Your gaze is locked on Konan's blueberry tarts like they're a rare relic. Each one is a perfect swirl of glossy filling, delicate crust and that telltale edible gold dust.

"Did  she make these with actual hands?" you whisper to no one in particular.

Konan notices you eyeing them and smiles, gently pushing the tray in your direction. "You can take one."

You blink at her, like a stray cat being offered food by a goddess.

"Are you married?" you ask, dead serious.

Konan raises an eyebrow."...To the grind."

Pain, without missing a beat, pours a shot of cognac into a mismatched mug and murmurs, "She's spoken for."

Pain raises his mug (the one with cognac, obviously) and clears his throat with that theatrical drama club energy like he's about to make an Oscar acceptance speech."Ahem— AHEM. We gather here tonight... under one roof... not just as tenants—"

Konan's soul visibly leaves her body.

Pain, continuing "—but as a family. A unit. An ecosystem. A revolution against rising rent prices and loneliness!"

Deidara flinches "Bro what."

Kisame squints but chuckles anyway "He's been rehearsing this."

Pain gestures to you now, his piercings catching the rooftop lights in a way that makes him look like an Instagram ad for goth jewelry.

"Let us welcome our newest member. May your stay here be filled with less food poisoning and more shared wi-fi passwords. Cheers."

Everyone half-heartedly cheers with mismatched drinks—someone (you) just has an iced tea.

Konan speaks quietly to you, holding out a blueberry tart "He found that speech in his old Tumblr drafts."

You straighten your posture like you've just been called on stage. One hand clutching your tart, the other over your heart like you're accepting some kind of sacred oath.

"Thank you, Leader Pain. I vow to uphold the sacred tenets of this apartment complex— to never steal someone's Amazon package, to never be late on rent and to always pretend the moaning sounds from Deidara's unit are just him editing."

The rooftop erupts in varying degrees of chaos—Hidan starts howling, Kisame nearly chokes on his drink, and Deidara yells "I WAS LITERALLY JUST WATCHING A DOCUMENTARY, UN—" even though no one asked.

Pain? Pain looks pleased.

"She gets it."

Konan leans over with a little smirk, handing you another tart. "You'll fit in just fine."

Just as you're finishing the tart—sweet, a little tangy, dangerously good until you feel a presence next to you.

You glance over and see Itachi, standing a little too close, like he's not quite sure how personal space works but still manages to look composed about it. He doesn't say anything at first. Just sips his drink, dark eyes watching the party below like he's judging every single one of them.

"You're the one who made the curry puffs." It's not a question. More like a statement. A soft accusation.

"...I was trying something new."

He nods. Slowly. Then finally glances down at you, calm and unreadable. "They made Kakuzu cry."

You burst out laughing before you can stop yourself, nearly spilling your drink. "Wait—cry cry?"

"Tears of financial loss, I assume. He had to buy antacid."

You try to apologize but Itachi lifts a hand.

"No need. They were... memorable. And it was brave."

"You're interesting." He says it with the same tone someone might use to describe a strange bug. But somehow it works.

As the awkward silence stretches just long enough for you to sip your drink, it dawns on you—you don't know most of their names. Sure, you've seen them all, interacted with them here and there, but now that you're supposed to be part of this weirdly dysfunctional "family," you realize you're not exactly the best at keeping track of their identities.

You glance around and notice people—Kisame lounging on a couch, Kakuzu still looking like he's reconsidering his entire life choice with that leftover curry puff, and then there's Hidan who might actually be having a religious revelation.

You turn back to Itachi.

"So, uh... not to be weird but... we never really had a chance for proper introductions, huh?"

Itachi, whose expression is always as blank as his personality, simply raises an eyebrow. "Uchiha Itachi. Just call me Itachi."

You repeat his name in your mouth, tasting the sound of it. Pretty sweet. So far, you remember Hidan, Deidara and Sasori.

You turn to the blonde, who's busy fangirling over his own TikTok video with you and Sasori.

"But seriously, what's everyone's deal? I barely remember half your names."

Before you can explain, Kisame pipes up from the couch, his voice deep and slow. "You don't remember me? I'm Kisame. But you already know that. Everyone knows me."

You're pretty sure he was being sarcastic but you nod, trying not to die of second-hand embarrassment.

And then, for the first time tonight, Kakuzu speaks up, from the wooden couch, eyes narrowing at the entire situation "If you don't know my name by the end of this dinner, I'm charging you interest."

"...Interest on what?"

"Wasted time."

There's a moment of silence. Then Hidan cackles from the corner, shoveling an entire tart into his mouth. "Bro, she don't even know who you are and you're already trying to invoice her."

"Standard protocol," Kakuzu grunts.

You glance at him again—dark green eyes, his eyes a little bit red like maybe he's zooted, a permanent scowl, looking like he's one unpaid rent away from violence. You commit his face to memory. Kakuzu = capitalism in a hoodie.

"Okay, got it," you mutter. "You're the guy who hates joy."

"Close enough," Kisame chuckles, tossing a skewer into his mouth. "Next up, you've got Hidan—religious trauma personified."

Hidan throws up finger guns and winks at you, but his eye twitches like he's been possessed by four different diet demons.

"Jashin bless," he says, unhelpfully.

You turn to Sasori, who's sitting stiffly with his sandwich tray like a deeply offended Victorian aunt. He doesn't look up.

"Sasori," he mumbles. "You already asked."

"Oh my god," Deidara groans, dramatically flopping across the armrest of the couch. "Y/N, we live together! How do you not know everyone's name yet?!"

"Look," you protest, "I've been busy filming a movie where I seduce a man possessed by a chainsaw devil. My brain's full."

Hidan jerks upright like someone just summoned his god with a pentagram made of limited edition manga prints. "Hold the fuck up. Did you say Chainsaw Devil?"

You blink. "Yeah. Chainsaw Man. Netflix. I'm playing Makima."

The way he stares at you now is different. It's the kind of reverence normally reserved for bloody offerings and end-of-the-world prophecies. "I've been reading Fire Punch since high school," he confesses, voice low like he's afraid the admission will revoke his Jashinist street cred. "Tatsuki Fujimoto is like... a god."

"Okay, calm down, you're sweating," Kakuzu mutters from the corner.

Meanwhile, Obito—leaning too casually against the railing again—pretends like he's not extremely invested in this conversation. His expression doesn't move but his ears are metaphorically twitching like a cat spotting a can opener. He's watched the Chainsaw Man teaser trailer in 4K like fifteen times from the shadows of his sleek office, sipping lukewarm tea and dissecting your 0.3 second over-the-shoulder cameo like it was a Kubrick film. He even screen-recorded it. For research.

Obito doesn't even watch anime. He hates crowds. He hates hype. He still thinks Cowboy Bebop was "alright."

But now he's got the Chainsaw Man manga open on one monitor while replying to boring COO emails on another, trying to find out what a "Makima" even is and why the internet keeps calling her "gaslight mommy."

When he hears your voice now, talking about filming, he doesn't even realize he's slightly leaning in.

"...You're in that movie?" he asks finally, acting clueless. "You're Makima?"

You glance at him, a playful glint in your eye. "Yup."

Obito nods slowly, then immediately has to look away—because if he doesn't, he's going to start quoting lines from the teaser trailer like a loser.

He clears his throat. "Cool. I'll... probably check it out."

Chatter starts and you pretend to listen but you honestly don't know what the heck is going on. Itachi stays quiet as usual, though you swear you see the tiniest smirk tug at his lips.

Then, as the noise and awkward introductions blend into chaos again, you turn to Obito—who's been silent for way too long, practically blending into the background.

"So, how about you? You seem... quiet."

Obito snaps out of his trance, clearly caught off guard by you addressing him directly. His eyes widen just slightly, a twitch of his lips as he tries to form a coherent sentence. "Uh... I'm Obito. Uchiha. Nice to meet you... properly, I guess."

His voice is quieter, but there's that nervous energy you can almost feel from across the room.

Kisame snickers from across the room. "Looks like somebody finally broke the ice."

You tilt your head, eyeing him with that same unblinking curiosity that's been tripping him up all night. "Obito, huh?" you echo, like you're tasting the name. "That's pretty."

He blinks again. Pretty? No one's ever called his name pretty before. He's been called intimidating, mysterious, vaguely threatening—but never pretty.

Your voice cuts through his mental breakdown. "You're related to Itachi, right?"

Itachi, without looking up from his canned coffee, mutters, "Distantly."

You nod like that clears up absolutely nothing.

Obito clears his throat, desperately trying to reboot his brain before you say anything else unhinged and devastating. "Yeah. Uh. I work for my grandfather. Madara."

You raise an eyebrow. "Ohhh. That Madara. The scary CEO one."

He nods stiffly. "Yeah. That one."

"So what do you do?"

"COO."

"Oh, fancy. That means you... co-own operations? Or you operate the co-owning? What's the acronym again?"

"It means I'm tired," Obito mutters under his breath.

You grin. "Yeah, you look it. But in like a... haunted Victorian orphan way."

Itachi actually chokes slightly on his coffee.

Obito doesn't know whether to be offended or flattered. His brain flashes an ERROR screen.

You stare back at Obito, who's still standing there nervously, clearly uncomfortable with the attention. His posture is tense. It's almost like he's trying to convince himself it's not a big deal but it's clear something is making him squirm just a little.

You mentally high-five yourself for actually holding a normal conversation. Nice. Chill. Human. You don't mention your ongoing internal debate about whether the animatronics in Five Nights at Freddy's would be smashable if given enough backstory and charisma. Definitely not first-date material. Karui's disapproving face flashes in your head like a conscience ghost. She'd punch you for even thinking that.

Itachi, though, is looking at you now—just that cold, calculating stare of his that makes you feel like he could see right through you.

"So, uh... what about you, Itachi? What do you do?"

Itachi pauses. His expression doesn't change—still that unreadable calm like he's been preparing for a tax audit rather than small talk. He finally answers, voice low and even, "I have a law degree. But I didn't pursue chambering."

He doesn't elaborate at first, but you keep staring, so he continues.

"My parents had... plans. I didn't follow them." A pause. "I work at a cafe. Near the Leaf University."

You blink. That's the longest thing you've ever heard him say in one sentence. And it hits you like a soft emotional truck—he's cool. But in a deeply melancholy way. Like a sad indie film protagonist who secretly writes poetry and adopts stray cats.

He adds, almost as an afterthought, "My brother goes there. So does Naruto." Naruto? As in ramenrager69? Naruto as in Nepo baby? Naruto as in ‘I do prank videos with no consequences because my daddy is a mayor’? Well, you suppose Naruto is somewhat famous.

"What's the café called?"

"Black Moon." Of course it is.

"Do you make the drinks?"

"I don't mess them up."

"That's the hottest way anyone's ever said 'yes,'"

He pretends not to hear. But there's a twitch at the corner of his mouth. Just the smallest one. Like a ghost of a smile trying to escape and giving up halfway.

You nod, genuinely impressed. There's something oddly soothing about the way he says it—no pretension, no drama. Just a guy with sharp cheekbones and a tragic backstory who makes lattes.

Who would've thought that behind the emotionally detached, borderline intimidating exterior was someone who just wanted to make drinks and ignore his parents' text messages in peace?

Obito, who's been quietly orbiting the conversation like a socially anxious moon, finally chimes in—voice low but with just a touch of fondness. "Yeah... Itachi's pretty good at it. Sometimes he makes a cup of coffee that almost makes me question why I still work late."

You laugh, caught off guard by the casual burn. "Damn. That good?"

Obito shrugs, but his mouth quirks up at the corners. "That passive-aggressive."

Itachi just sips from his canned coffee like he didn't just get praised and dragged at the same time. "It's true," he says simply. "Some of us work smarter."

That earns a low whistle from Kisame nearby, half-listening as he pokes at a fruit skewer. "This some Uchiha-on-Uchiha crime right here."

You're laughing now, for real. And the vibe shifts—just slightly. Softer. Less awkward. You glance between the two of them and for the first time, the Akatsuki rooftop feels a little less like a social experiment and a little more like... community. A weird, messed-up, possibly cursed, but strangely comforting one.

You raise your plastic cup. "To coffee. And trauma bonding."

Itachi clinks his can against your cup. "Cheers."
Obito hesitates—then lifts his lukewarm pink hwanchae. "...Yeah. Cheers."

—

Obito awkwardly shoves his hands in his pockets, listening to the conversation quietly without coming off too obsessed. His heart racing at the slight smile you gave him. It's the smallest thing but to him, it felt like a validation he wasn't expecting. For a brief moment, he wonders if he's reading too much into it, but that doesn't stop his mind from racing. He almost missed his chance to keep the conversation going but the distraction of Deidara and Hidan's escalating argument yanks him back to reality.

Deidara's voice cuts through the room, clearly very drunk by now, slurs as he recounts the whole incident, gesturing wildly with his drink in hand.

"I swear, she's copying my whole vibe, Sasori! I walk in, and BAM— this girl's got my hairstyle, my outfit— even my blue eyes! She's basically me, but like, a knockoff version. I'm the trendsetter here, you know! I invented this look. And then she has the audacity to act like she's the only one pulling it off! Unbelievable!" He points his finger in the air dramatically, stumbling a little as he stands.

Sasori, who has been silently observing this disaster unfold, rolls his eyes but doesn't intervene. He's used to Deidara's antics by now. "Deidara, for the last time, no one cares about your 'style.' Maybe you should've just helped me carry the pot of plants that you promised to help me with. Instead, you run away, scandalised like she just spit on you. You left me in that flower shop to carry that big pot all by myself and I already have severe back pain!"

But Deidara's already too deep in his rant to care. "Oh, you just don't get it, Sasori. It's about respect. She should've known. She's out here stealing my whole aesthetic like she owns it. I'm the one who made scene look cool— not her! So I left a hundred bad reviews on her site. Maybe she'll think twice before trying to steal my thunder again."

At this point, Hidan, who's been half-listening to the chaos unfold, shakes his head in disbelief. "Seriously, man? You left a hundred bad reviews? Over this? What are you— twelve?"

Deidara, still fueled by the alcohol, glares at Hidan, not fully registering the criticism. "Shut up, Hidan! You don't understand! I'm an artist, okay? I can't have anyone out here copying my vibe!"

It's clear that Deidara's once-mild annoyance has now completely spiraled into a drunken, unhinged rant and the whole group is just trying to stay out of the line of fire. Meanwhile, you catch glimpses of Deidara's tantrum and can't help but feel a mix of second-hand embarrassment and amusement.

You lean over to Itachi, hiding your laugh behind your cup. "Is he always like this?"

Itachi nods slightly, expression flat. "Only when he's drunk. And when he's sober."

Kisame, who's now lounging with a skewer in his mouth like a toothpick, adds helpfully, "He once wrote a Yelp review that said 'this sushi disrespected me as an artist.'"

Hidan barks out a laugh. "God, I remember that. You made the poor waitress cry, dude."

"GOOD. Maybe now she knows not to plate tuna like a peasant."

Sasori finally loses patience. "You eat chicken nuggets when you're hungover. Shut up."

You snort, and just as you're about to make a witty remark, you feel Obito glance your way again. He looks like he wants to say something—anything—but instead just kind of... stands there. Like a human buffering screen.

Then, just loud enough for only you to hear, he mumbles awkwardly, "You looked really cool in the trailer, by the way. Scary, but cool."

You blink, not expecting it. His eyes immediately dart away, like he regrets even saying it.

But you smile. Soft. "Thanks. You should've seen the bloopers. I tripped over a chair trying to look intimidating."

Obito huffs a tiny laugh through his nose.

The rooftop empties little by little, scattered laughter echoing down the stairwell as conversations die out, one by one. The cool air brushes past your skin, the scent of blueberry tarts and bad cognac lingering faintly in the breeze. You stay behind, just a little longer—hands on the wooden railing, heels kicked off near your chair.

The moon hangs above like some cliché cinematic ending. And you lean into it. Of course you do.

It's quiet now, just the soft hum of city life down below, the wind tugging lightly at your blouse. You stare up, like you're in a music video, probably one that ends in emotional whiplash and an overexposed filter. The kind of vibe where you'd say something like:

"This is kinda pretty, actually..." You don't say it out loud but maybe someone hears it anyway.

Down the stairs, someone pauses—Obito maybe. Or Itachi. A silhouette glances back. But they leave you to it.

Above it all, wrapped in the night, is the quiet aftertaste of chaos. And for the first time since moving in—

You feel like you might actually belong here.

Chapter Text

Obito wakes up, the light of morning slicing across his room like judgment. He stares at the ceiling, hair a mess, still in the same black sweatpants from last night. His phone's face down on the nightstand. He hasn't even checked it yet. He doesn't need to.

Because in his mind, he's replaying that night.

Except it's not how it really went.

In his version, he leaned back on that rooftop like a cursed prince—cool, poised, sharp jawed. No stutters, no awkward pauses. Just a deep voice laced with mystery as he murmured something stupidly poetic like:

"You know, not even the void could hold your gaze like I can."

And you? You swooned. Obviously.

You laughed in that quiet way you sometimes do and looked at him like he was the only man on Earth. Which, technically, you almost did.

His OBSIDIAN EYES (yes, all caps in his mental script) glinted like polished galaxies, drawing you in. Your compliment was just a bonus. A sign. Proof that yes, yes, you were under his spell.

He sighs.

In reality, he tripped over his words and laughed like a high school freshman seeing a bra strap for the first time. But the delusion is strong. Necessary.

Still, he's happy. The way you smile at him last night, the way the moonlight reflects in your eyes, the way you laugh at what he said. God, for the first time, he's not thinking about crying before showing up to work.

Reluctanly, he rolls out of bed like a man reborn. He doesn't even stub his toe on the dresser today proof, perhaps, that the universe is smiling back at him.

He checks his phone.

Top notification? A repost of your rooftop story. No tags. But he zooms in on the blurry edges, just to convince himself he saw his shoulder in the background.

"...yeah," he mutters, lips twitching. "She definitely meant to include me."

The delusion is thriving.

The ring light reflects off Deidara's fake lip piercing as he settles into his chair like he's about to give a TED Talk about betrayal and plagiarism.

He hits "go live" on Tiktok and greets his fanbase with a heavy sigh.

"Okay. So like, storytime? Because apparently some people can't have their own aesthetic without stealing mine. No, I'm not naming names—cough the flower shop girl cough—but you KNOW who you are, un." He dramatically flips his bangs to one side, adjusting the fishnet sleeve on his arm as comments begin flooding in:

@egirlypopxoxo: LMAOOO NOT THE COPYCAT
@sasorislapring: she could NEVER pull off your silhouette
@plzbeatmeup: u invented fashion actually
@based4real: if she's got a side bang she's DONE
@1010: omg TEAAAAAA

Deidara nods solemnly like he's a soldier returning from war. "It's not even about the looks, un. It's the principle. You see me with my original blue breath-taking ocean eyes and now suddenly you have a blue contact? Grow your own identity, yeah."

He pauses only to sip his iced matcha with a stainless steel straw, pinky slightly up.

@Kanknroll: tf u not the only person with a blonde sidebangs
@bloodmooneclipse: let's boycott her flowershop

"Anyway. Sasori and I will be doing an updated 'Gothcore Fit Check' later, but for now... let's manifest healing and uniqueness."

He starts humming Star Shopping by Lil Peep while reading more comments:

@crustcorefan: where's ur roommate btw
@redhairmentaldisease: show sasori NOW
@daddydeidara: did the new girl really move in next to you??? do u guys talk????
@madz_art: You look so good today Deidara 😻

Deidara smirks, eyes glittering with the kind of mischief that only a man in fake Demonias can conjure.

"She's cute, huh? We might have a collab coming soon. Who knows."

Deidara's livestreams have become oddly therapeutic—not just for him but for his fanbase of emotionally unstable alt teens and ironic twenty-somethings. He doesn't just serve looks; he delivers full-blown monologues. The kind that sound like performance art but are actually just dramatic overshares about mundane events.

Off-screen, though? Deidara works freelance as a digital artist—mostly doing graphic posters for underground warehouse raves, gallery shows and once, unintentionally, a church youth group (he thought it was an ironic party). He also sells handmade earrings shaped like little bombs on Etsy under the name KatsuKrafts.

His room smells like lavender and burnt plastic from his hot glue gun. On the wall above his desk is a vision board that says "Blow Up, Not Out: 2025 Goals."

Sometimes when the lights are off, the phone is charging and the world stops spinning, he journals. It's his secret little hobby. A mix of ranting and catharsis where he glues receipts, polaroids, candy wrappers, pressed petals and even dried paint into the pages.

He sticks everything in with washi tape and stickers like an edgy teen crafting an emotional time bomb. Some pages are just chaotic poetry scribbled in black ink. Others are full-on vents in Sharpie. He doesn't tell anyone about it. Not even Sasori, who lives on the unit in front of himk.

And under all the performance, he's just a guy trying to prove that his existence matters. That his style isn't a phase. That the art, the rants, the chaos—it's all him. And he refuses to be diluted.

Especially not by a flower shop girl with copy-paste energy.

.

Hidan's boots scrape the concrete as he stumbles out of the station, reeking faintly of leftover liquor and regret. His shirt's half untucked, there's dried blood under his nose (not his) and his knuckles are swollen.

He lights a cigarette with a shaky hand, the flame flickering too close to his face for comfort. He doesn't flinch.

The sun's barely up. Perfect. That disgusting pre-dawn glow makes everything feel even more like a bad hangover.

He mutters to himself as he walks. "Bunch of pricks, I swear. What is this, fuckin' Takayama all over again?" (Aka, the sleepy, shrine-dotted village he grew up in where the elders hated him and the kids either avoided him or tried to fight him.)

He spits to the side, steps over a broken bike wheel and adjusts the chain around his neck. The one with the charm he keeps for "religious reasons" whatever the hell that means anymore.

Just when he rounds the corner of his apartment complex, a deep throb in his side reminds him he probably cracked a rib.

"Hahhh—fuckin' amateurs," he grins to himself. He might be limping but he still won.

It's a shitty day.
But at least he didn't black out. And at least he got a new pair of Jordans and some Levi's out of it.

That's the thing about Hidan.

Somehow, it's become routine. A side hustle, even. Run his mouth loud enough at the wrong bar, wrong street corner, wrong poker table—whatever and someone's gonna try and shut him up. Every time.

But Hidan's not just some dumb loudmouth. He's scrappy. The kind of scrappy that never fights clean, never really wins pretty but always makes it hurt. And if you go down? Best believe he's taking your shoes.

Your wallet. Your jacket. If you're wearing a nice watch, it's his now. It's not even about the money (though he won't say no to it) it's the principle.

"You come at me? You better be ready to walk home barefoot, asshole," he mutters through a grin, one eye squinting against the sun as he fishes out someone else's AirPods from his jacket pocket. Still got some blood on them. Nice.

There's a whole section of his closet now dedicated to "spoils." A growing graveyard of designer kicks and stolen cologne. Hidan calls it "divine compensation."

After all, Jashin provides.
And if He doesn't, Hidan will just take it anyway.

.

The bell above the cafe door jingles softly as a group of students shuffle in. Itachi doesn't bother looking up. he can already tell they're the kind who'll whisper and giggle behind their drinks, throwing not-so-subtle glances toward the counter. It's always like this.

He moves with silent precision: steam the milk, pour the espresso, soft clink of ceramic on wood. He's fast, efficient, handsome in the way that makes people second-guess whether they're imagining the beauty or if it's real.

"Excuse me... are you single?" A girl leans against the counter, smile rehearsed, eyes too hopeful. Itachi doesn't even pause in tamping down the coffee grounds. "Would you like that with oat milk or regular?"

That's the best she's getting.

Outside the window, the sign for Konoha University stands proud, banners waving gently in the breeze. Itachi stares at it in moments like this. Law school was a lifetime ago. Now? His world is filled with roasted beans, milk foam and pretending not to hear his father's disappointed voice echo in his head.

He actually applied for the cook position. He likes cooking. There's a comfort in it—the rhythm of a knife, the scent of simmering broth, the quiet chemistry of flavor. But the store owner took one look at him and said, "People will come in just to see your face. You're wasted in the kitchen."

And so, here he is. Fron house.

Itachi doesn't complain. Not out loud. But sometimes, when he's alone, he thinks about the quiet mornings in his apartment, where he still cooks for himself. Always from scratch. He has a tiny shelf of worn cookbooks and a ceramic bowl he made in a pottery class once on a dare.

He's the type to meal prep for the week, label the containers and rinse his rice three times before cooking it. The kind of person who still folds his laundry while it's warm.

People think he's cold. Mysterious. Unapproachable.

In truth, Itachi's just tired. Not in the dramatic, tortured-poet way. Just... chronically. From years of expectation. From the weight of a path he never chose.

Sometimes Sasuke drops by, usually with Naruto in tow, making a mess and dragging laughter into the quiet space like sunlight through shutters. Itachi always pretends to be annoyed. But he saves them extra cookies behind the counter.

He finishes wiping down the espresso machine just as the girl finally takes her drink, cheeks pink from rejection.

He doesn't watch her leave.

Instead, he adjusts the order slips and goes back to grinding beans. The hiss of steam, the hum of machines. It's not what he imagined. But it's his. And that has to count for something.

The bell jingles again.

It's Sasuke—dressed like a walking Uniqlo ad, sipping a black iced coffee he didn't pay for. "You're still here?" Sasuke snarks, taking a seat and pulling out his phone. "You know, Dad told everyone you dropped out because you were going through a 'performance art' phase."

Itachi doesn't flinch. Just finishes wiping the countertop with the same calm precision as if Sasuke hadn't just dragged their family name through the mud in a single sentence.

"That's generous" he replies coolly. "Last I heard, he was telling people I'd joined a cult."

Sasuke snorts, flicking through something on his phone. Probably doomscrolling or ignoring Naruto's latest 15 text-long rant about ramen. "Yeah, well. Uncle said you were in Bali with a yoga instructor named Raven. So congrats. You're a myth now."

"I prefer legend."

Itachi pours another espresso shot like it's an art form, the rich scent filling the space between them. Sasuke watches silently for a moment, then glances toward the pastry display like he's considering stealing something.

"I told Naruto you make the best brownies in town," Sasuke mutters, still not looking at him. "He said he's gonna show up again. You know he eats like three and doesn't even pay?"

"I noticed."

Sasuke leans back in the chair, spinning his phone once in his hand. "So what, you just... make coffee now? That's your life?"

Itachi finally looks up. There's no anger in his gaze, no defensiveness just a strange, quiet steadiness.

"Yes."

"...Cool." Sasuke says, a little too fast. "Better than being a lawyer, I guess."

They sit like that for a while—silent, stewing in unspoken things. When Sasuke finally leaves, Itachi takes a slow breath and checks the clock. Break time.

He slips into the storeroom, shuts the door, sits down on an upturned milk crate.

It's quiet here.
He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes until he sees stars.

Just a few minutes. That's all.
He wipes his face before going back out.

.

Kisame's life is... well pretty chill most of the time. He doesn't have opps, people loves him, his parents is proud of him (despite all the body modifications). He either chills in his garage, fix cars and bikes then hit the gym.

The gym.

Might Fitness smells like iron and cheap protein powder, just how Kisame likes it.

He walks in with that usual half-grin on his face, shark teeth peeking out between his lips, nodding at the usuals who all greets him like he was a local celebrity—which, in this gym at least, he kind of was.

"KISAME-SAN!"

There it was.
Like clockwork, Might Guy's booming voice bounced off the concrete walls, followed by the man himself sprinting over mid-cartwheel. The green compression shirt. The bowl cut. The headband worn for no reason. Kisame had seen a lot of things in his life. But Guy? Guy was the thing.

They clap hands like it's a tradition.

"Here for your daily repentance?" Guy jokes, slapping his back with unnecessary force. "The barbell misses you!"

Kisame snorts. "Nah, just here to remind your delusional ass that I still hold the PR on squats."

They laugh. It's always like this—somewhere between rivalry and deep-rooted bromance.
Until Kisame loses. Which... today, he does. Badly.

Guy beat him on both bench and deadlifts. Kisame stares up at the ceiling from the mat, towel draped over his face.

"...Dumb bike,"

It slips out without thinking, a phantom memory crawling out of the shadows.
She'd said it like a joke at the time—"You care more about that dumb bike than me."

Maybe he did. Or maybe he was just scared of hearing more truths like that and chose the easy way out. Still, he remembers it like it was yesterday. He dumped his 6 years of high-school girlfriend, one who accepted his quirks and interests for body mods— all because he's a softie who got butt hurt over "Dumb bike!"

He groans, dragging the towel down his face. "You ever think about your exes, Guy?"

Guy, now deep in his own upside-down pushup circuit, doesn't miss a beat. "Only when I flex in front of mirrors. They could've had this youthful glory! Their loss!"

Kisame chuckles, sitting up. "...Dumb bike," he mumbles again—but with a small smile this time.

Back in his garage, the world feels quieter—just the hum of his old standing fan and the familiar scent of oil and rubber. Kisame peels off his hoodie, tossing it over the handlebars of the half-restored Triumph he's been working on for weeks. He exhales, deep and tired, hands on his hips as he stares at the bike like it personally offended him.

He grabs a wrench, then immediately drops it when he opens the drawer and spots something wedged in the corner: a fabric patch. Bright yellow, slightly frayed at the edges.

He picks it up slowly. It's the dumb little "Bite Me" patch she ironed onto his denim jacket back when they were seventeen. He'd pretended to hate it. Said it didn't match his vibe. But he never took it off.

He turns it over in his hand, thumb brushing the edge. For a second, he doesn't hear the fan or the creaking garage door. Just her voice again, faint and teasing:
"You act tough, but you keep everything."

She wasn't wrong.

There's still a single bobby pin stuck under the passenger seat of his old Yamaha. A hoodie in the corner that definitely doesn't belong to him. A playlist on his phone titled 'Gym Hell (Her Version)' that he pretends he made by accident.

He sits on the concrete floor, legs stretched out, patch still in hand.

"...Dumb bike," he mutters again. But this time, his voice is softer. Sadder.

He could've said sorry. He could've said more. But instead, he worked on this stupid bike until the sun came up and told himself that engines were easier than people.

He lays back on the cold floor, staring at the ceiling of his garage like it might finally give him an answer.

It doesn't.

.

Sasori is having the time of his life failing students.

Two minutes late on a submission? Minus 5%. Cited Pinterest as a "source of inspiration"? F.
Turned in a digitally rendered piece with no concept write-up? Double F.

He's not just strict—he's methodical. Precise. Unforgiving in the way only someone who once sculpted puppets from human remains could be (allegedly, in the abstract sense, of course).

And yet, like moths to flame, the students keep coming back.

After class, a parade of hopefuls linger by his desk:

"Sir Sasori, I think you might've misread my concept—"

"I was actually drawing from Dadaism, not AI—"

"I really admire your work and was wondering if I could get feedback outside of class?"

Flattery. Excuses. Thinly veiled bribes disguised as gift cards or coffee vouchers.

Sasori doesn't blink. "You got a 34.8%. Rounding it up to 35 would be dishonest."

His phone vibrates and It's Deidara harassing him again. The blond shared a meme that Sasori isn't able to actually understand the humor behind it.

Deidara: ur such a boomer

Sasori squints at the meme for the fifth time.

It's some TikTok screenshot of a rat wearing a Gucci belt, captioned: "when u gaslight ur way into the group project but still get an A+" — and there's glitter text all over it that reads "LIVING."

He doesn't get it. He refuses to get it.

Sasori:
Explain.
Also, stop messaging me during work hours. You know I'm grading.

 

Deidara (typing aggressively fast):
BRO U R SO OLD
IT'S LITERALLY A RAT W GUCCI ON ITS WAIST.
LIKE ME
THE GUCCI = SWAG. THE RAT = ME
THE GASLIGHT = ALSO ME
THE A+ = NOT ME
GET W THE TIMES, GRANDPA

Sasori stares at his phone, unimpressed.

He replies with a single sticker.
One of those grayscale LINE stickers that shows a faceless humanoid being tired of life.

He sets his phone down and sighs—only to look up and see one of his students loitering nervously near his desk. Probably here to beg.

"Is this about the AI-generated essay?" Sasori asks without looking at them.

The student freezes.

"...It was heavily inspired—"

"By ChatGPT, yes. I could tell. You even forgot to remove the 'As an AI language model...' in one of the paragraphs."

They blink. Sasori waves them off with a bored gesture, already moving on to the next assignment on his pile.

"Next time, plagiarize with some effort."

It's his final month as a TA before he transitions into full dissertation mode. One more panel critique, one more departmental review, and he'll finally be able to focus on his thesis: a years-long obsession with form permanence and artificial preservation in modern sculpture. Dead things that last forever. Very on brand.

He does enjoy teaching. In theory. But dealing with immature, entitled students who think "hyperpop moodboard" counts as a final project? Not so much.

Deidara's the worst of them all. And not even officially his student.

That blond disaster just barges into his office hours uninvited, ranting about "aesthetic theft" or some niche visual movement Sasori couldn't care less about. Deidara once called him a "washed-up performance art dictator," which earned him a week-long silent treatment. He tried to make up for it by gluing a glittery "#1 Sensei" badge to Sasori's desk.

Sasori set it on fire in front of him. No words. Just eye contact.

On bad days, students egg his office window. Some stick chewed gum under his chair. He doesn't report it. He simply memorizes names.

Every now and then, he goes home and opens his drawer of failed sketches—concepts too raw or personal to submit for critique. He's not immune to doubt. He just refuses to show it.
Not to them. Not to anyone.

And when he's feeling particularly bitter, he scrolls through Deidara's TikTok lives, scoffs at the chat thirsting over "his red head neighbour," and types a single comment under a burner account:

"Mid composition. Color theory: nonexistent."
Then logs off.

⸻

Sasori likes hot chocolate and listening to indie music. The kind that sounds a little sad, a little distant—like something you'd play while staring out a rain-slicked window or when the stars are out and the city feels quieter than usual. It fits him. Detached but romantic, in a way he'll never admit.

Sometimes, late at night, he thinks about Kanazawa—the quiet town where he grew up. He misses the rustle of trees during autumn, the way the air always smelled like old cedar and rain. He misses his grandmother most of all, the way she used to sneak extra sweets into his lunchbox even after he told her he was too old for that. His parents still live there, proud of the path he's chosen, even if they don't fully understand it. Sasori knows they support him. That's enough.

Every so often, his mom calls him. It always starts with a casual "How are your students?" before spiraling into "So, when are you getting married?" He rolls his eyes, presses the phone between his shoulder and cheek while grading papers and mutters the same response every time.

"I'm still too young for that."

He's 30 now.

But in his mind, there's still too much to do. Too many things he hasn't said. Too many parts of himself he's still stitching together.

So for now, it's just the rain, the music, and the bitter sweetness of a warm mug between his hands.

.

Kakuzu squints at the mirror, holding the scissors with the same kind of focus one might use when disarming a bomb. He makes one deliberate snip.

Chnk.

Another uneven patch of hair falls into the sink.

He breathes through his nose. Disgusted.

The ends are jagged. It's not a haircut, it's a hate crime against follicles.

But he doesn't care. Not really.

Barbers charge 40 bucks these days—forty. For what? Small talk and a line-up? He'll line himself up straight into financial responsibility, thank you very much.

He moves to trim the other side but miscalculates and now there's an awkward angle forming above his temple. He stares at it. Dares it to look better.

It doesn't.

Well, it's better than a buzzcut.

Just as he’s about to chop another chunk of hair, his phone buzzes.

It's Deidara in the group chat:

Deidara:
kakuzu look like jeff the killer ngl
just needs the smile carved in LOL

Hidan:
i showed him jeff. he was MAD. that shit was FUNNY.

Kakuzu rolls his eyes. With his scarred face and deadpan glare. he supposed he gets the comparison. But at least Jeff didn't have to worry about rent.

Kakuzu doesn't respond. He does kind of look like someone who's been through seventeen horror movies without blinking.

And in a way, he has.

They don't know where the scars came from. Nobody asks. Not really.

They don't know about the time he got caught selling weed behind a convenience store. The way the cops cuffed him. How prison hardened him before life even got the chance to. Most of his scars? They're from back then. Prison fights. Cheap razors. His own mistakes.

He learned a lot in there. Like how to hide your rage behind silence. How to clock danger from a look. How to survive.

He wipes his hands on a towel and washes his face in the sink, the sound of water running, drowns out everything else.

Most people don't know what Kakuzu does for a living too. They just know he always has money. Enough to loan, enough to invest, enough to buy a damn building and still yell at Hidan for leaving the AC on when he's showering despite the bills not even affecting him. He's just like that..... maybe, it's his own ways of showing affection.

The truth? He's in everything.

Shell corporations. Offshore crypto laundromats. Silent partnerships in local businesses. One of the ATMs down the block is technically registered to his name—nobody knows that but him.

He's the type to sit in a laundromat on a tuesday night in a hoodie and mask, collecting quarters from broken machines that haven't worked in years. He's not flashy. Flashy gets caught.

What people don't realize is that Kakuzu grew up broke. Like, turn-the-heat-on-only-if-someone's-dying broke. Raised in the parts of Osaka that maps conveniently forget. Every yen he earns is penance. Proof he never has to go back.

And he's paranoid maybe even terrified that one day it'll all vanish. That's why he hoards, saves, invests, counts receipts like scripture.

Even in his quiet apartment, surrounded by the low hum of appliances and the scent of instant coffee, he can't fully relax.

Because survival, to him, isn't just staying alive.

It's staying ahead.

.

Madara's always concerned over his grandson's because Obito tends to act like this whenever he's obsessed over someone again.

Obito doesn't look up. He's hunched over his phone like Gollum cradling the One Ring, the bluish glow lighting up the ever-growing grin on his face. It's subtle (barely there) but to Madara, it's glaring.

On the screen: a fan edit someone posted of you as Yuko (From the toaster movie). That airhead smile, cityscape transitions, a slowed-down version of Britney Spears' "Gimme More" playing over dramatic flashes. At the end, a zoom-in of your face mid-turn, lips parting slightly, eyes dead but so hot.

Obito replays it for the third time.

Madara taps his fingers on the table. He hates when he has to play therapist.

"Obito."

No answer.

"Obito."

Still nothing.

Madara sighs and speaks louder, "Obito Uchiha, are you stalking another woman?"

That gets his attention.

Obito's head jerks up, eyes wide like a raccoon caught raiding a trash can. "W-What? No! I'm just admiring her acting skills."

Madara stares.

Obito fumbles, locking his phone immediately. "Okay, and her face. But it's not weird! It's admiration. Artistic. You wouldn't get it."

Madara dabs his mouth with the napkin like he's preparing to deliver an eulogy. "You had a restraining order filed against you in 2019 because you thought that girl from Terrace House smiled at you too long." And of course, Madara had to sweep that under the rug, silence everyone and eliminating any potential danger that could ruin his image.

"She did smile at me," Obito mumbles.

"She smiled at the camera, Obito."

He leans back in his chair, folds his arms. "You're doing it again. You're spiraling."

Obito looks back down at the table, picking at his untouched salad. "I'm not spiraling."

"You're spiraling. You're posting her on your close friends list. You made an edit account—"

"How do you know about the edit account?!"

Madara just gives him a look. That grandfatherly mafia boss kind of look.

Obito slumps in defeat. "Okay. Okay. Maybe I'm spiraling a little. But it's not like before. This one's different."

Madara mutters under his breath, "That's what you said about the VTuber girl..."

Obito throws his head back in anguish. "Stop bringing her up! That was a weird time for me!"

Madara sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "You are a powerful man, Obito. You are an Uchiha. For god's sake, have some dignity when you simp."

Obito stabs at his croutons. "I do have dignity. She liked my watch."

Madara blinks. "...That's it?"

"She said I had eyes like a black hole."

"...She called your eyes void-like and you took that as affection?"

Obito clutches his chest. "It was poetic, old man. You wouldn't understand."

"If you like that girl so much," Madara says flatly, setting his glass down with a quiet clink, "then court her. Properly. Instead of... whatever the hell this is."

He gestures vaguely at Obito's locked phone, which might as well be smoking from how hard it was just clutched.

The implication is clear: maybe if Obito just settled down, found someone stable, married into something that resembled normalcy he'd stop spiraling into these obsession cycles. Maybe. Just maybe.

But Obito flinches at the word marriage like it burned him.

It's not that he doesn't think love is beautiful. Or that he hasn't thought about it—he has. In theory. But in practice? He's terrified. Terrified of himself. Of what he brings to the table: power, sure. Money, yes. A generational legacy built on ashes. But also a fractured mind, a bleeding heart and enough emotional baggage to sink an ocean liner.

Every woman he's ever been drawn to has been distant. Ethereal. Unreachable. The kind of woman who'd never see him for who he really is beneath the name, the suit, the mask. He knows what he looks like to them—intimidating. A last name. A bank account. An unstable man with a haunted stare.

Madara had tried once, set him up with the daughter of a political partner. Polished, polite, the kind of woman who knew which fork to use at a state dinner. But it fizzled before it began. She smiled like he was a job interview and he answered like he was faking normalcy on a third strike.

Obito knows the truth: he doesn't scare women because he's cruel. He scares them because he's unwell. And worse because he knows it.

And that self-awareness? It's the part that hurts the most.

Obito exhales, long and shaky, then leans back in his chair. He avoids Madara's eyes, staring instead at the condensation forming on his untouched glass of water.

"You think I haven't tried?" he says quietly. "Every time you push me to go out and meet someone or play normal for a night, I try. I really do."

His voice tightens, the mask slipping. "But no one ever sees me, Madara. They see the Uchiha heir. They see the suit. They see the scars and try to turn it into some tragic, sexy war story but they don't know me. They don't even want to."

He laughs under his breath, bitter. "You think if I showed up at her door like some rom-com protagonist she'd fall into my arms? No. She'd call the cops. Or worse—she'd pity me."

He finally looks up, eyes shadowed. "I'm not scared of her rejecting me. I'm scared of her seeing exactly what I am... and being right to walk away."

Obito stabs a piece of lettuce like it personally offended him. "So no. I'm not going to 'court' her. I'll just keep watching from a distance and pretending I'm someone she could love."

He forces a smile. "At least the fantasy never files a restraining order."

Madara doesn't respond.

Chapter Text

[Group Chat: Akatsuki's Degenerates]

Group Icon: a horrifically AI-generated image of Sasori's cat with 6 eyes and a BBL

Pinned Message:
"bitches be like: my life is a movie. yeah a documentary on mental illness." – Hidan

You were added into a suspicious groupchat.

Pain:
Welcome.
You are officially one of us.

Sasori:
Please ignore the group icon. I do not condone this.
And my cat did not ask to be involved.

Hidan:
IT'S CALLED MARKETING BRO. IT DRAWS ATTENTION.

Deidara:
thi chat is sacred. dnt leak anything or ill dox u, yeah.
(i still got kakuzus tax records from last year.)

You:
...what is this
why am I here
why is your cat shaped like that

Konan:
Don't fight it. Just mute the chat and pop in when someone's crying.

Kakuzu:
I didn't consent to being part of this either but I'm not leaving.
Too many financial opportunities.

Deidara:
kakuzu is just here to harvest our NFTs and sell them to crypto bros

You:
what's the purpose of this chat.

Pain:
Chaos. Brotherhoodand weekly updates on who's mentally spiraling.

Sasori:
You think this is bad? Wait until Deidara starts voice messaging at 2am.

Deidara:
it's called vent art yeah

Konan:
It's called noise pollution

—

You step out of your Uber, the click of your heels echoing down the quiet street outside your apartment building. The night air smells like someone's burnt dinner and cheap cologne—a weirdly fitting welcome back.

As you move toward the entrance, you spot movement out of the corner of your eye.

It's Sasori.

He's struggling—barely but enough to make it noticeable with a large cardboard box. It's awkwardly shaped, clearly heavy, probably full of art supplies or bones or whatever he's into these days. He's wearing a faded hoodie and loose pants, hair slightly disheveled and there's a smear of charcoal across his cheek like a war stripe from grading hell.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Weighing your options. You could very easily pretend you didn't see this.... slip past, get into the elevator, continue on with your glamorous, responsibility-free evening. Helping isn't exactly in your nature unless it involves blood, a paycheck or public image.

But you are an actress, after all.

Time to put on a performance.

You adjust your purse strap, smooth out your skirt and walk over with a casual elegance that's definitely practiced. Tilting your head with a half-smile, you speak just loud enough for the effort to seem genuine.

"Need help, my neighbour, Sasori?"

He stops mid-struggle, box slightly tilting. His eyes flick up to you, unimpressed and unreadable. There's a beat of silence before he deadpans.

"...It's not that heavy."

Translation: I'd rather break my spine than admit I need help.

You blink slowly "And yet here you are, losing a 1v1 to a cardboard box."

His eyes narrow just slightly. You can tell he's debating whether to ignore you, bite back or just accept your offer so you'll go away faster. "...It's archival materials. Old prints. They're fragile."

"Sounds expensive," you say, already reaching for one side of the box despite his obvious resistance. "Would be tragic if someone dropped it."

"You're wearing heels."

"And you're wobbling."

Another pause. Then, reluctantly, he lets you take a corner. It's an awkward shuffle to the door but somehow the silence between you doesn't feel uncomfortable—just charged with that usual friction. The kind that makes you want to poke him just to see how long it takes for him to snap.

"Your cheek's dirty, by the way," you murmur, not even looking.

"I know,"

Figures.

And he doesn't say thank you. But he does tap the elevator button for your shared floor. And in Sasori language, that's practically a love letter.

You almost stumble over when he lets go of the box, fumbling his keys out to unlock his door.

The door swings open and just as Sasori finally maneuvers the box inside, you do what can only be described as a dramatic flail followed by a clumsy collapse into his apartment like an injured rich girl who's not made for lifting anything heavier than a gucci bag.

"I think my spine shattered in 3 different tax brackets."

Sasori turns, deadpan, eyes slowly trailing down to you lying like a tragic corpse sprawled across his floor.

"...Why did you follow me in?"

"I didn't follow. I tripped."

He lets out a sigh, the kind reserved for people who stress him out without trying.

You're not moving. Still flat on the ground. One heel is halfway off your foot, blouse slightly untucked, hair a little disheveled from the impact. You look like a modern art piece—appropriately so.

"You know I didn't invite you in, right?"

"Oh, but you didn't not invite me either."

He stands there for a moment—just staring. Then turns and starts unpacking the box wordlessly, like you aren't just clinging onto consciousness on his floor like some overworked trophy wife. "Get up before the cat starts laying on you. He likes things that don't move."

You pull your legs to the side, still seated on the hardwood floor like a Victorian orphan who just crash-landed into a Pinterest board. Your eyes scan the room slowly. It's warm, earthy, curated like walking into a high end therapist's office who definitely judges your dreams behind your back.

The vines hanging from the ceiling cast gentle shadows on the wall. The paintings are definitely his. Each one with a crimson signature in the corner, "赤砂." You raise a brow. He really is that guy. The kind that says, "I hate people" but somehow has the coziest damn apartment this side of Tokyo.

"Okay, I take back everything I ever said about you. This place is... hot."

Sasori, not even turning "You said something about me?"

"Mmm, no. Just a general slander campaign I conducted in the privacy of my own mind."

You finally push yourself up from the floor, smoothing your skirt as you stand. The beige blankets on his brown sofa look so inviting—you're dangerously close to plopping yourself down like this is your place now.

"You live like an art hoe that knows his birth chart."

"I don't believe in astrology."

"That's such a Capricorn thing to say."

He stops unpacking for a second. Looks up at you. Judgingly. Then, just continues as if you're background noise he's begrudgingly grown used to.

The pot in the corner holds a Monstera, huge leaves glossy and thriving. You're jealous. it's doing better than you ever have.

"What's your plant's name?"

"That one's Kuroari."

You blink.

"Is it because he's cold, tall and will strangle someone with no hesitation?"

"Exactly."

You beam. He regrets telling you that instantly.

"By the way, Im a scorpio. Not Capricorn— if you can't already tell by the name." He doesn't turn around when he says this, just continue assaulting the box of some art supplies and assignments that aren't completely AI.

"...Oh." Your mouth parts slightly, stunned. "were not expecting that." The air goes quiet except for the crinkle of bubble wrap. "You just... dropped your zodiac sign unprompted. That is the most Scorpio thing I've ever seen."

Sasori doesn't respond. He's pulling out a stack of papers now, red ink scribbled across them. You swear one of them has a drawing of Garfield with a knife. Probably not a student submission. Hopefully.

You move a bit closer, still standing awkwardly in your heels, debating whether to sit or just evaporate.

"So... you do know your chart?"

"No. Konan tried to tell me once. I muted her for three days." You're starting to realize he might just be the kind of person who listens to Mitski but insists he doesn't "get the hype."

You hover near the Monstera plant again, nervously adjusting your earring.

"You know, I came in here thinking you were gonna murder me and harvest my bones for an art piece but now I think the worst thing you'd do is critique my existence with a red pen."

Sasori, finally glancing up, deadpans.

"I ran out of red ink two days ago. You're safe... for now."

"So, does that mean you kill people for art?" You narrow your eyes.

"Only when they step on my rug without taking their shoes off."

You look down.

You are, in fact, still wearing your heels. On his rug. "...I'm gonna go before I end up framed above your couch."

Sasori shrugs, not denying it.

That was a good attempt of inviting yourself into someone's home. You should do this again sometimes.

Later, you shower and slip into something far more comfortable. Your skirt reaches your knees and proudly bears a floral pattern that looks like it was stolen off someone's grandma's curtains. A fashion statement. Maybe a crime. But you wear it with the confidence of someone who knows she's untouchable.

You're dragging out a bag of trash that smells like regret, eggs and maybe the ghost of a dead curry puff. You gag slightly. You can't live like this. Next time? You're bribing a neighbor. Or blackmailing one. Either works.

Then you spot him.

Obito Uchiha.

He's stepping into the lobby like he walked out of a cursed Calvin Klein ad. Dressed in a sharp corporate suit, tie slightly loose like he just got off work or maybe just walked out of a boardroom fight. He radiates quiet power, like someone who's fought demons and still made it to the 6PM meeting. There's melancholy in his eyes. That kind of hot, soul-crushing sadness girls romanticize in Tumblr posts.

Naturally, you approach him. Because you just do.

Obito looks up mid-step like a deer caught in your custom curated chaos. Those absurdly black eyes of his blink once, slow, confused. He's holding his phone and you know he was watching that cursed fan edit of you. The one with Lana Del Rey's "Freak" playing over dramatic shots of you.

Your sudden presence makes him jolt. He locks the screen so fast it's a miracle the phone doesn't fly out of his hand.

You give him a lazy smile. "Hey. You know any good restaurants around here?"

He stiffens. Clears his throat. You catch the tiniest hint of pink on his cheeks. Embarrassed? Shy? Spiritually aroused? Hard to say.

"Oh, uh... yeah. Yeah, sure. What, um... what kind of food are you in the mood for?"

"I eat like a raccoon going through rich people's garbage. Surprise me."

"...There's a fusion place a couple blocks away," he finally says, voice cracking just a little. "Korean-Mexican. Great wings. Really... really great wings."

He's trying so hard to sound normal. Like he didn't just got caught watching edits of you.

Tragic.

You might let him take you out just for that.

"Wanna go?"

Your head tilts just slightly (casually calculated) your hair falling with it like a curtain cue in some slow-burn romance film. Your lashes flutter, gaze soft but loaded, like you've said this line a hundred times but somehow made it sound like it's just for him.

Obito's lips part, breath catching like the air betrayed him.

It's surreal. Like he's inside one of those moody indie films where everything's soaked in warm tones and longing. Except it's not a screen. It's you—you, standing there with your cursedly charming outfit and effortlessly dangerous energy, speaking to him. Not a fantasy. Not a filtered TikTok clip. Reality.

And for a moment, he forgets how to move.

There's no way.

This is happening.

To him.

"Y—" He chokes on his own voice and immediately clears his throat, standing straighter. "Yeah." He nods, trying to play it cool, even though you just shattered his entire frontal lobe.

He adjusts his tie unnecessarily like it suddenly got too tight. "I, uh. I can drive. Or—do you wanna walk? It's close. Unless you hate walking. Or feet."

His eyes are pinning. You can see it happening in real time. A grown man glitching because a pretty woman asked him to dinner.

"Walking's fine. Lead the way, senpai."

The word nearly ends his life. He looks away with this tight, awkward smile that's definitely masking a full internal reboot and then gestures stiffly for you to follow him.

You do, twirling your trash bag behind you like a purse. (You toss it in the bin on the way out. Classy.)

You both start walking down the sidewalk.

Obito doesn't say anything. Afraid he might ruin this moment, say something that could freak you out. He stares ahead, posture straight. He attempts to take off the blazer then hangs it over his hand.

"...So, you work at Uchiha Dynamics, huh?" you break the silence, glancing at him from the corner of your eye.

Obito nods, a little too stiffly. "Yeah. Operations Department. But I, uh... also handle some internal audits." It sounds boring. He knows it sounds boring. He internally winces.

"Sounds like you deal with a lot of corruption."

"Well, yes, actually. It's more common than you think."

There's a comical pause.

"Hot," you say.

Obito clears his throat again and tries not to combust. "I—I mean, not all corruption is hot—wait, that's not what I meant—"

You laugh, effortlessly cool while he melts beside you. The breeze flutters past and he swears he can smell your shampoo. Obito clutches his blazer tighter like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to reality.

"So, what about you?" he finally asks, trying to salvage his pride. "Aside from, uh... looking like a cinematic threat."

"Actress. But I dabble in chaos." You flash him a grin.

He exhales through a nervous smile. "Figures."

You make your way into the restaurant. He wanted to be smooth. He really did. He rehearsed it in his head while you were walking: "Ladies first." Classic. Simple. Respectful. Cool.

But all that came out was— "First."
Just that. No subject. No follow-up. No swag. You don't say anything. You just nod like you're acknowledging a toddler handing you a leaf they found on the ground. Obito's soul briefly leaves his body.

You walk inside like nothing happened. He follows, internally cringing so hard it could power the entire restaurant's electricity.

He pulls the chair out for you this time. "Chair," he mumbles. You're not sure if he's labeling objects or trying again. "Thanks, Obito. Very cool."

He dies again. But in a good way. Like being stabbed with a glittery knife. The waiter comes. You pretend to read the menu. "Wings with tartar sauce and two slice of cheese please, thankyou."

"...Of course," the waiter says politely, writing it down without missing a beat. You hand the menu back like a seasoned queen and sip your water with the same intensity of a creature who knows exactly what it’s doing.

“Did you just... invent a meal?"

"If they can't make it, they'll just make fun of me in the kitchen. Either way, I win."

He looks at you like you're a living thesis paper he'd like to read a hundred times and still not fully understand. Then, he orders the safe option—a bulgogi taco platter, because even when he's spiraling, he likes to play it safe on the first date.

You drum your fingers lightly on the table. "So, Obito," you say, voice like you're about to expose a secret, "why really were you watching that fan edit on loop?"

He chokes. Literally chokes on his water. Coughs into his napkin like he just inhaled smoke and sin.

You blink at him. "The one with the red wig. The Lana Del Rey one. 'Freak.' It was dramatic. Cute. Who made it?"

His face tightens. He stares at the table like he wants to die on it. "I—I don't even know," he lies, terribly. "Probably... Deidara. He's the weird artsy one. Always editing stuff."

"Deidara doesn't even watch Chainsaw Man."

"Well... maybe he saw it for artistic reasons."

"Hm." You watch him squirm. He reaches for his water again. You notice the way his hand trembles slightly, the tip of his ear pink.

"...My phone was frozen," he mutters, like a confession to a priest. "I couldn't exit the edit. It just played. I wasn't even looking at it."

"Oh," you nod solemnly. "So you just stared at the wall while the fan edit played on loop."

"...Yes."

"Must be a powerful glitch. Very persistent." You hum thoughtfully.

He sinks a little lower in his seat. It's honestly kind of adorable. He could crush a man with his bare hands but here he is, folding like paper because you mentioned a TikTok edit.

You tilt your head, smiling just slightly. "It's okay. You're not the first guy to spiral over me. You probably won't be the last."

Obito opens his mouth, then closes it again.

Silence.

Then—

"So how much do you make in a year?" You ask, blinking in that slow motion way you always do.

That is not the question he expected. Not "how'd you get into your field" not "what's your favorite food" not even "what's your rising sign."

"How much do you make in a year?" Delivered with your signature slow blink, like a frog asking about tax brackets.

"I—uh, do you mean... before or after taxes?"

You rest your cheek on your hand. Elbow on the table. Still blinking.

"Gross income. Round it up."

Obito briefly considers launching himself through the window. But he's committed. This is the goddess. His delulu muse. "...Around 300k. Give or take." He says it like it doesn't hurt. Like he didn't just expose the Uchiha family vault.

You nod once. Casually. "Hm. Not bad."

He stares at you like you've just judged his soul based on his W2 form. Not impressed. Not underwhelmed. Just... taking note. Obito clears his throat. He's dying. A slow, humiliating, glamorous death. "You, uh... you into guys with financial stability?"

You shrug, swirling your straw. "I'm into guys who can pay for my therapy sessions without asking what's wrong with me."

He laughs. Then stops. Wait. "Is that a joke or a red flag?"

"Why not both?"

He's officially entered uncharted waters. His brain is doing laps around possible responses, all of which would probably land him in either a wedding or a court case. So he nods. Slow. Respectful. "Cool, cool. Mental health is... important."

"Mm. Especially when you're dating a woman with unresolved intergalactic trauma."

"...What?"

"Nothing."

The silence stretches.

Your knee brushes his.

He grips the edge of the table.

Obito's internal monologue: Play it cool. Don't spiral. Don't simp. Don't propose right here.

"So what's your credit score?"

He lets out the tiniest groan.

"Seven forty."

You smile, just a little.

"Nice."

And that's the exact moment Obito realizes something terrifying:
You're not just hot.
You're unhinged as fuck.
And he's never wanted anything more.

The waiter comes with your food. Before Obito can breathe a sigh of relief, a voice cuts through the restaurant noise:

"YO, NO WAY—Y/N, UN?!

You don't even need to turn around. You already know who it is.

Deidara appears at the side of your table like he manifested from thin air, looking entirely too smug for someone holding a tray of fries and milkshake. "Didn't know you were into corporate warlords now," he grins, nodding at Obito like they're boys (they are not). "Damn, you clean up weird, Obito."

Obito stares at him. Silently. Murderously.

You sigh, not even looking up from your wings. "Hi, Deidara."

He plops into the empty seat beside you without asking. "You guys on a date or somethin'? I gotta say, I thought you were more into artsy types. Like me."

"Bold of you to assume I have a type," you reply, licking sauce off your fingers.

Obito's eye twitches.

Then you remember something crucial. You need to take a picture for your instagram post. You hand your phone in the air. "I need to post on Insta. Obito, are you a good photographer?"

Obito blinks like you just asked him to perform surgery. He stares at your phone, then at you, then at Deidara—who's now sipping loudly on his milkshake, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"A- a photographer?" Obito repeats, as if the word is foreign. His hand hovers awkwardly in the air. "I—uh. I can try."

"Oh this I gotta see." Deidara snorts.

Obito snatches the phone from your hand with more force than necessary, stands up like he's about to duel someone and backs up a few steps—expression focused like he's in a boardroom negotiating a billion-dollar merger.

"Okay... uh, smile?" he says, voice cracking.

You don't smile. You pose. Elbow on the table, head tilted, lips slightly parted—cinematic levels of nonchalance. The overhead lighting hits just right.

Deidara watches the whole thing, face halfway between awe and secondhand embarrassment. Obito takes exactly four photos. Then one more. Then two more—just in case.

He returns your phone like he's returning stolen treasure. "Here."

You scroll through the shots. "Hmm. Not bad. You got angles."

Obito straightens. "Yeah? I-I studied composition once. Briefly. During a crisis."

Deidara leans over to peek at your screen. "Damn, you actually look hot in these. Obito, you might be good for something after all."

The Uchiha resists the urge to throw Deidara's milkshake out the window. Then, Deidara plops down again next to you.

The Uchiha squints, watching as your bare shoulders touches Deidara's. Deidara's wearing one of those affliction black tshirt with those really trendy alternating sigils design.

"Yo, mind if I also.. have a selfie with you, un?" He clears his throat "You know, for my gram also. If you don't mind of course—" That's all he's been trying to do these past weeks you've moved into the apartments.

"Sure but.... my wings is getting cold" you point at your plate.

Deidara gasps—dramatically, offensively. "The wings? Cold? That's a crime against flavor, un."

He immediately pulls out his phone anyway, flips it to the front camera and leans in close. Too close. His shoulder brushes yours again and Obito looks like he's about to declare war.

"C'mon, just one quick pic," Deidara says, already adjusting the lighting like he's in a photoshoot.

You sigh through your nose, lift your hand with a peace sign, and give the laziest pout imaginable. Deidara snaps it like his life depends on it.

Click.

Click.

Clickclickclick.

He adds an unnecessary "say boom," to which you reply in a flat voice, "Boom."

Obito is visibly gripping the edge of the table, knuckles pale. His eye twitches again. Deidara notices and flashes him a big ol' grin.

"Want in on the next one, Obi? We could do a goofy one, you can be in the back looking mysterious."

"I'm not goofy," Obito mutters, like it's the worst insult in the world.

"Suit yourself, un."

You, meanwhile, finally lift your fork. "I'm eating now. If either of you posts an unflattering angle of me, I'm reporting it as hate speech."

"Understood."

Deidara just laughs. "Fair."

They both watch you in mild curiosity.

Well, Deidara's sipping his drink and Obito is trying to take a bite of his taco but you're..... well, kind of distracting.

You're busy peeling off the skins of the greasy chicken, putting them on the side like you're doing some kind of ritual to summon a demon.

"What... are you doing, un?"

You don't look up. "Skin comes off first. It's a texture thing."

Obito blinks, halfway through lifting his taco. "But... the skin is the best part."

You glance up at him slowly, almost offended. "That's what everyone says. But they're wrong. The skin is a distraction. I want the meat. The truth."

There's a pause of silence. Deidara looks mildly concerned. Obito looks mildly aroused. You continue your ritual, delicately stacking the golden, glistening chicken skin off to the side like a crown of sin, while your fork dives into the now-exposed flesh underneath.

"I'll eat the skin," Deidara offers, already reaching over like a vulture. "No wings should die in vain, un."

You slide the plate just out of his reach. "No touching my discard pile. That's part of the experience."

Obito, meanwhile, is trying not to imagine what your "rituals" look like in other contexts. He fails. He coughs. Hard.

You glance at him. "You okay?"

He clears his throat, eyes darting to his plate. "Fine. Taco went down the wrong pipe."

Deidara snickers. "Yeah, sure, taco."

Obito is stewing. Silently. Behind a composed exterior that looks calm and professional, but inside? Pure nuclear-level pettiness. He doesn't even taste the bulgogi anymore. Just jealousy and betrayal. His eye twitches every time Deidara shifts in his seat like he's waiting for the perfect moment to throw him through the window with minimal legal consequences.

You, of course, are unbothered. Grease-glossed lips, a smear of sauce on your cheek, elbows on the table like royalty, eyes flicking up now and then—landing on Obito. Just for a second. Then gone again.

And every time your gaze touches him, Obito short-circuits a little. Is she looking at me weird? Do I eat weird? What do I do with my hands? Why do I have hands?!

Then you suck the meat off a wing bone in one clean pull and he forgets how to breathe.

Deidara, oblivious and running on the social awareness of a golden retriever, props his chin on his palm and grins. "So, Y/N, un—what are we doing after this? Movie? Rooftop photoshoot? Wanna hear my new song? It's like trap but also sad."

Obito snaps.

"Well," he says sharply, setting down his napkin with excessive precision, "we—" he gestures between you and him "—had plans. Before you showed up."

"Oh? My bad, I didn't know this was a date." Deidara blinks.

The word hangs in the air. You don't say anything. You just keep chewing. But there's a slight twitch at the corner of your mouth, like you're holding back a laugh.

Obito's already regretting speaking. But he won't back down now. "Yeah,"  eyes burning into Deidara's soul, "it is."

"Damn. Guess I'm third wheeling, un." He doesn't move, though. Doesn't leave. Just steals one of your fries while you aren't looking. Obito wants to scream.

Chapter Text

The lights above the apartment laundromat buzz like they're one bad day away from exploding completely. It's nearly midnight, the tiled floor cold beneath your fuzzy slippers and you're clutching a flimsy bag of your dirty clothes when you hear it—

A very loud, very angry voice muttering through clenched teeth.

"—the fuck is this, unholy demon mesh—where the hell do you even buy clothes like this? Sex wizard dot com??"

You peek around the corner.

And there he is.

Hidan. Shirtless, of course.
Hair a mess. Sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips as he tries to jam a tangled wad of chains, ripped black mesh and what looks like a strappy harness into the washing machine like he's stuffing a corpse into a suitcase.

"This better be a joke," he growls to himself. "A thousand yen? This isn't worth two seconds of my fuckin' time."

He pulls out a pair of pants with zippers on the kneecaps and stares at it like it personally insulted his religion. "Why do these have sixteen pockets? What the hell are you hiding, war crimes?"

You step inside, the door chiming behind you. He glances up, startled.

"...Laundry day?" you offer.

He looks down at the mess in his hands like it's about to crawl away. "Nah. Not mine. That little blonde shit bribed me to do his 'delicate goth items' or whatever. I should've charged double. My soul feels violated."

You try not to laugh, walking over to the washer beside his. "So you do favors for Deidara now?"

"I do crimes for Deidara. This—" he jerks a finger at the pile of belts and glittery skull printed briefs "—is below me."

He kicks the washer shut with a grunt and starts slamming buttons like he's threatening it. The machine begins its cycle reluctantly, wheezing like it too, has seen enough for one lifetime.

Then he leans against it, arms folded across his chest, still shirtless, still scowling. "You doing laundry this late too? Or just came here to watch me suffer?"

You smirk, sorting your clothes into a washer. "Both."

He grins, crooked like someone who hasn't slept in two days and thinks monster energy counts as a food group. "Figures."

For a second, it's quiet. Then Hidan squints at something in the basket and lifts a single garment delicately. "...Is this underwear or a headband?"

"That's a question for Deidara," you reply.

Hidan watches your washer spin. The overhead light casts a dim yellow hue over his silver hair.

"So, Hidan... what other services do you do for money?"

He doesn't react right away. Just squints at you then shrugs with zero shame. "Shit, depends. You want someone spat on? I can spit. You want a car keyed? I got rings. You want a grown man publicly humiliated? I charge extra for that—especially if it's Obito."

"Interesting."

"I mug people for sport, I've stolen plants from rich cafes and once got paid to throw eggs at someone's ex's car. Premium package comes with a custom insult screamed through a megaphone."

He counts this on his fingers, proud. "So yeah. I'm a professional."

You tilt your head. Say nothing.

Hidan glances over. Something stupid and absurd has made its way into his brains. You can tell because his eyes starts pinning. "Wait. You're not—wait."

"What?"

"...You asking me if I do escort work?" His voice climbs half a pitch. "Because I don't. I mean—I have. I could. But not here, not with all these cameras around."

You laugh because you’re not sure how he jumps into that conclusion.

"You're not serious, right?"

You don't respond. Just smile. Let the tension hang in the air like steam from hot laundry.

Hidan runs a hand down his face. "Shit."

He leans in a little, dropping his voice like this is a negotiation in a back alley. "...If I say yes, are you gonna ask for like, a receipt? Because I don't do paper trails."

You raise a brow. "So you do offer those services?"

"I could. If you're tipping."

"Hidan," you say sweetly, "I was just making conversation."

He stares at you. "I feel emotionally mugged."

Then— Ding. The laundromat door slides open.

Obito steps in, hoodie up, holding a laundry bag and looking like he just got out of a meeting with Death. He freezes the second he sees you and Hidan.

You. Hidan—shirtless.

Obito's face shifts like he's calculating how fast he can kill someone with a Tide Pod. "...What's going on here?"

Hidan flashes him a grin. "Relax, Chief. I'm just negotiating a business deal."

You? You just wave and say, "Hey. We were talking about alternative side hustles. Turns out Hidan's quite the freelancer."

Obito blinks. Twice.

Hidan leans back with a devilish smirk. "I do everything, Uchiha. Even babysitting emotionally repressed CEOs."

Obito doesn't say a word.

He's in gray sweatpants and a black hoodie, sleeves pushed up, veins flexing along his forearms as he starts loading his darks into the washer like it's a bomb he's defusing. His movements are precise, methodical, too calm to be natural—like he's concentrating too hard just so he won't look at you.

But he can feel  you.

He knows exactly where you are without even glancing. The way your perfume lingers subtly near the detergent shelf. The faint sound of your rings tapping the side of the dryer door. The little 'hmph' noise you make when your laundry bag almost slips off the bench.

And then like you'd waited for the perfect moment to strike, you turn to Hidan "Can I pay you to be my couch?"

Hidan blinks once. Processes. Then snorts like he's trying not to die. "What the fuck does that even mean?"

You shrug like it's obvious. "Like... I lay on you when I'm sad. or dramatic. or bored. You don't talk. You don't move. You just... exist. Maybe pat my back once in a while if I cry or some shit."

You're dead serious. And also joking. But mostly serious.

"So you want to pay me to be a furniture with feeling?"

"I mean," you sip from your glittery hello kitty Stanley cup, "You're sturdy. You got the abs. You're already shirtless. Seems like a waste not to monetize that."

Obito's hand falters on the lid of his washer. It clicks shut louder than necessary. He doesn't look at either of you. But he's listening. Every word. Every giggle. Every imagined image of you curled up like a cat on someone else's chest.

Hidan raises a brow. "You paying hourly or by the session?"

"Hourly. I have commitment issues."

"Fair."

Then Hidan turns to Obito and adds "Yo, how much you charge to be a couch, Chief?"

Obito doesn't look up. "I don't do hourly work."

"So what do you do?"

He finally lifts his gaze. Slow and Steady. "...I do long term contracts."

And that is when Hidan fake-coughs and mumbles "Possessive ass" before sitting on the bench now, fully invested in the logistics of the couch job. "I mean, if I just sit there and let you lay on me, that's, what—like 3,000 yen per hour? And I don't even gotta say anything?" He squints, counting invisible numbers in the air.

"Exactly. You get it."

He exhales, wiping his hand down his face. "That's not even weird, that's just capitalism. I'm in."

Obito stands against the wall across from you both, pretending to scroll his phone but absolutely not scrolling anything. He hasn't blinked in thirty seconds.

Then, he pushes off the wall and walks over to you. No sound. Just him, silent and smooth, until he's standing right in front of you, the edge of your knees brushing his thigh.

You raise your brows. "Yes?"

Obito tilts his head slightly. "That folding table comfy?"

"It's alright."

He leans down, one hand flat on the surface next to you. close enough that the heat of his body seeps into yours. Close enough that even Hidan pauses mid-rant to watch.

"What if I offered you something better than a couch?"

Your eyes narrow slightly. "Better than Hidan?"

"Unlikely." Hidan mutters.

Obito smirks. It's slow. Unapologetic and Dangerous.

"I don't creak when you lay on me," he murmurs, voice low and flirt dipped in velvet. "I'd actually listen when you vent. And I wouldn't charge you hourly."

You blink. The smell of fresh laundry and his cologne fogging your head a little.

"Okay, what is this, a fucking romantic laundromat AU? Jesus Christ." Hidan groans.

"So what would you charge, Obito?"

"Your time. That's all." Smooth. Obito stays there, his other hand hanging loose by his side like he's not entirely sure what to do with it. His gaze holds yours, sharp and unreadable but not cold—never cold. There's something swimming behind his eyes now. Not obsession, not delusion, not the usual Gollum-watching-the-precious intensity.

It's focus.

Like he's studying you. Like he's already memorized everything about you and is now wondering what kind of kiss would shut you up.

For the first time, you're the one a little thrown off.

Usually you do this. You're the unpredictable one. You leave men fumbling with their words, adjusting their pants and grasping at air. But now? He's in your space—shoulders broad, presence thick, smelling way too expensive for a laundromat and you have nothing clever to say.

"...uhm... okay... come whenever you're free, I guess." Your voice is embarrassingly small. You clear your throat after.

His lips twitch. Not quite a smirk. Not yet. But it's there. Barely.

He leans in even closer (not enough to touch but god—) your legs are brushing now and he tilts his head.  "I'll hold you to that."

Hidan is very much still there, eating spicy chips he pulled from somewhere and blinking like he's watching Euphoria live. "Ayo... if y'all start kissing over the Tide Pods Im gonna set myself on fire."

Obito straightens finally, slow and deliberate like he knows he's leaving you breathless. He glances at your washer—still spinning and then at your hands still clinging to the edge of the table.

"You good?" he asks, softly.

You nod. Not entirely convincingly.

He gives you one last look. Then steps back.

"I'll let you finish your laundry," he says, already walking off like he didn't just rearrange your emotional organs. "Don't forget your fabric softener."

You blink after him.

Hidan crumples the chip bag and tosses it in the bin. "Bro's out here doing laundry lore with a full side quest. You okay?"

You don't answer.

You just watch Obito's back as he disappears through the exit—shoulders still straight.

The silence stretches. Then you slowly turn back to your washing machine. The water's drained. The machine is spinning.

Right. This is real. This is what's real. That whole thing? The lean, the voice, the eye contact? Hallucination. Clearly. Probably the fumes from the detergent.

You hug your arms, stare blankly at the clothes tumbling behind the glass. Beside you, Hidan noisily adjusts his waistband and sits back on the folding table like he lives here. His foot bounces lazily. There's an energy drink tucked next to him like a weapon. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, then finally ask—

"So... do you always do jobs like this?" You point lazily at the machine, watching one of Deidara's fishnet shirts get slapped violently against the drum. "Like... laundry? Just straight up domestic labor?"

"Hell no," he says. "This is a rare exception. I told blondie I'd only do it if he paid me and stop asking me to help him film thirst traps."

You raise an eyebrow. "And he agreed?"

"Yeah. But only because he's desperate and stupid." He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees. "Normally I charge for violence. Y'know—smashing stuff. Spitting on people he doesn't like. Once mugged a guy in Harajuku for a cosplay outfit. I'm flexible."

Your lips twitch. "So you're like a... neighborhood mercenary."

"Exactly. But with charm. And good hygiene." He waves at the laundry like it's evidence. "Hence this."

You hum thoughtfully, "You should make business cards."

Hidan flashes a grin. "You hiring?"

"Might be."

He leans closer, grin widening. "Whatchu need? Someone to beat up your ex? Slash a tire or two? Scare a Tinder date straight?"

You rest your chin in your palm, pretending to consider it. "Actually... I need someone to fold my laundry, cook me dinner, carry me up the stairs, let me lie on them like a pillow while I scroll aimlessly—"

You smile. "Or you can just be my couch?"

"That again? You're fucking insane."

"Comfort is a service."

He mutters something under his breath—something like "what the hell is wrong with this building"—but he's grinning, chewing on the idea now like it's not entirely off the table.

"...How much we talkin'?"

Before you can name a price for human furniture services, the automatic doors of the laundromat hiss open with a soft ding.

A figure steps in—head down, auburn hair mussed like he didn't even bother brushing it, expression as flat as a pancake left out in the rain.

Sasori.

You recognize the minimalistic canvas tote immediately. He always does his laundry in that same neutral-toned bag, folded with obsessive precision. It's comically small, like he only owns three shirts and a jacket. Which, come to think of it... might be true.

He doesn't look at either of you. Just walks past like a beautifully carved, perpetually exasperated statue with legs.

Hidan makes a face. "Ugh. Egg king."

You ignore him and wave. "Sasori~ hi."

He doesn't even slow down. "Hi," he deadpans, like he's fulfilling a legally required neighbor quota. He heads straight for the open washer furthest from you like he's on a mission to avoid human contact at all costs.

"You doing okay over there?"

He replies without turning, loading his washing with clinical precision. "I'm fine."

That's Sasori speak for: I have been enduring the existence of other people for longer than intended and I'm at my limit.

You get up from your seat and saunter a little closer—just enough to annoy him. "Let me guess... one pair of pants, two turtlenecks and a jacket made of emotional repression?"

Sasori finally glances at you. "I also brought socks."

"Ooh. Wild night, huh?"

Behind you, Hidan snorts. "You two always talk like this?"

"This is him flirting." You grin.

Sasori turns back to his machine and mutters, "Please go back to being hallucinations." But there's the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there. Blink and you'd miss it.

He drops in a detergent pod, presses start and leans against the washer with his arms folded, closing his eyes like maybe if he stands still long enough, the world will forget about him.

Unfortunately for him—you never do.

"So... why did Hidan call you Egg King?" you ask, eyes narrowing in playful suspicion. "What's the lore? Did you, like... lay eggs or something?"

Sasori looks like you just slapped him. His eyes snap open. His brows pinch together. Genuine offense knits across his features like he can't believe you of all people would say something so deeply stupid.

He opens his mouth, about to defend himself, when—

"PFFF—" Hidan absolutely cackles, doubling over on the plastic table. "No, no—yo, let me explain—this shit's gold—"

Sasori exhales like he's trying to keep his soul from leaving his body.

"Okay so you know how Sasori is a TA at Konoha Uni right? Some Art major bullshit no one asked for?"

You nod slowly, watching Sasori silently seethe beside his washing machine.

"Well," Hidan continues, "apparently—apparently—his freshman class had a protest cause his grading was too brutal. Like, a full blown classroom mutiny. One kid, I shit you not, brought a carton of eggs and started passing em around like he was arming a fucking militia."

Your eyes go wide. "Wait—what?!"

Sasori closes his eyes again. "It was one class. And one idiot with a superiority complex."

Hidan is wheezing now. "They pelted him—like—bam bam bam! Right in the coat! Some kid screamed 'Your standards are unrealistic, sensei!!' and launched an egg at his head!"

You can barely contain your laughter. "No way. You're lying."

"Swear on Jashin," Hidan raises a hand solemnly, wiping a tear from his eye. "Security came. Sasori just stood there like—like a damn stoic omelet. Didn't flinch."

"I was grading their work in real time," Sasori says flatly. "F."

Hidan howls. You turn to Sasori with a gasp. "You gave them Fs while getting egged?"

"I had a rubric," he says with the complete moral authority of a man who will never fold.

You cover your mouth. "That's so... metal."

"Exactly!" Hidan throws up his arms. "So now they call him Tamago-sama. Egg King. Guy shows up to campus and people deadass bow"

"...There's a Discord server," Sasori mutters, like he regrets even knowing this.

You're laughing too hard to sit straight. "I can't believe you have a fanbase. and it's egg themed."

Sasori doesn't respond. He just goes back to watching his laundry with the weary patience of someone who's accepted that reality is absurd and dignity is a lie. But you swear you see that faint twitch again at the corner of his mouth.

Chapter Text

It's late afternoon and you're half-dead from the Chainsaman shoot, shoes two sizes too tight and sunglasses barely clinging to life on your nose. But you're a woman of routine and delusion, so naturally; Strawberry matcha latte. Non-negotiable.

You've just placed your order when you hear it. That unmistakable, deranged, obnoxiously impassioned voice echoing across the plaza like it's trying to unionize a cult.

"—NO, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND, YEAH? THIS ISN'T ART. THIS IS SLOP. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU LET MEDIOCRE MINDS TOUCH PENCILS—!!"

You turn your head. Of course it's Deidara. He's standing over some poor street caricature artist with a clipboard and folding chair who looks like he's aged five years in the last five minutes.

Deidara is in full performance mode. Sunglasses on top of his head. Hands flailing. Baggy jeans and untied boots. He's pointing at a harmless caricature of some smiling tourist couple — you know, big heads, tiny bodies, oversized teeth. Classic stuff.

"—You think this is cute?" Deidara spits. "You're DEHUMANIZING your subjects. Where is the truth? Where is the statement? I've seen schizophrenic scribbles from asylum patients with more soul than this capitalist garbage!!"

"...It's for kids." The artist blinks slowly.

Deidara throws his head back like he's been personally insulted by God.

That's your cue.

You stroll over, sipping your drink like you're just happening to pass by. You push your sunglasses up and peer at the caricature.

"...Did you just tell this man his art looks like it was drawn by someone with rabies in a straitjacket?"

Deidara glances sideways, eyes lighting up.

"Oh—look who it is. Makima herself. Tell me you agree, yeah? This is state sanctioned trash. This man should be arrested for crimes against visual expression."

"I'm just trying to make rent, man." The artist raises a hand weakly.

You lean down to inspect the drawing dramatically "Honestly?" You stare ads Deidara tense with anticipation. "...You're right. It's giving low effort AI filter."

"THANK you!"

The artist groans.

Deidara flips his hair back like he's on the runway and turns to you, finally calm now that someone recognizes his brilliance. "You wanna see real art? I got a new explosive sculpture drying at my studio. It's called 'Cultist's Death in Sharp Minor.' Kakuzu said I'm not allowed to detonate it indoors anymore but that's a capitalist restriction."

"...You got banned from indoor explosions?"

"I refuse to be censored."

You raise your cup in a toast. "To delusional genius."

He clinks his Monster can against it.

"Cheers, princess."

The caricature guy sighs and starts packing up his markers. He's had enough trauma for one afternoon.

Twenty minutes later, the sun is dimming. Not like setting but like it's second guessing itself. Branches snap under your heels as you follow Deidara through the crooked dirt path, strawberry matcha still in hand because you will go out on brand.

"...Hey," you call ahead, your voice flat but with the slight edge of paranoia. "You're not gonna kill me, right?"

"If I was gonna kill you, I wouldn't do it in a forest," he says "Too cliche. I'd make it a performance piece. Something poetic. Like a live streamed volcano or—one of those rotating sushi bars but with grenades."

"...You've thought about this."

"Of course I have. I'm an artist."

You pause mid-step, glance over your shoulder. All you see are trees and bad vibes. You start imagining the headline already:

"Actress Lured into Woods by Schizophrenic Blonde Pyromaniac"

"It was crazy," one TikTok user commented. "She literally posted a matcha selfie an hour before she died."

"...I'm gonna become a true crime podcast episode."

Deidara glances back now, walking backwards like some twink alien. "Huh?"

You hold your cardigan tighter around your arms "I'm serious. There's gonna be a drone shot of this forest with ominous music. Then a girl with a microphone whispering, 'She had everything. Fame. Beauty. 3.9 million followers. But what she didn't know... was the influencer she trusted had a dark secret.'"

"That sounds kind of cool actually. Make sure they use the good pictures of me."

"...So you are gonna kill me."

He rolls his eyes. "No, dumbass. I just need your opinion on something I made. I promise not to explode you unless you say something stupid."

"Great. Death it is."

Then he suddenly stops. You nearly slam into his back. There it is. A tiny shack, half-eaten by vines and moss, standing crookedly in the middle of nowhere like it's housing either art or sin. Maybe both.

Spray paint tags the side like wartime poetry. There's a crooked wooden sign above the door that reads:
"MORTALITY IS A MYTH / RING BELL FOR DETONATION"

"...This is where I die."

Deidara turns around, beaming. "Welcome to my studio, un." He kicks the door open with flair.

It smells like gunpowder and acrylics. There's a mannequin missing an arm. Charred canvases. Dried clay busts with unsettling smiles. What looks like a papiermache swan halfway melted beside a blender full of paint.

Deidara throws his bag down, grabs a dusty cloth off something tall and lumpy.

"I made this last night after having a dream about the time Kakuzu tried to strangle me with dental floss. Ready?"

You clutch your drink. "...I was born for this."

He whips the cloth off— It's a 5 foot sculpture of a woman made entirely of detonator wires. The lips are puckered, blowing a blue bubblegum. Her eyes are LED screens flashing the word "GOODBYE".

He looks at you expectantly. "So?"

You Sip. "...Okay I kinda love her."

"I KNEW YOU WOULD, YEAH!!" Deidara yells, picking up a remote.

"Wait—what's that do—"

"STAND BACK."

The bubblegum on her lips explodes in a puff of blue glitter and confetti that smells like gasoline and roses. A soft feminine voice echoes from a speaker "You'll never forget me."

"...I want one for my birthday."

Deidara bows deeply. "Your wish is my canvas."

You drift through his little shed like a curious entity, trailing your fingers along the chaotic surfaces. Everything inside looks like it belongs in an apocalyptic museum.

"Where do you even get all this?" you ask stopping at a pile of color-coded wires coiled next to a box labeled "BLESS YOU IF YOU TOUCH THIS — D"

"Hm? Oh. Y'know. Bits and pieces. Military surplus sites. Black market. Some of it's DIY."

"You DIY explosives?"

He looks up at you with pride as if you've just complimented his outfit. "Yeah? This isn't Hollywood. You don't need plutonium. Just chemistry and curiosity. You'd be amazed what you can do with a fertilizer, nail polish remover and an expired iphone — boom. Literally."

"...That's deeply unsettling."

He shrugs, unfazed. "Art is pain. Pain is beauty. Beauty is... unstable."

You nod slowly like that sentence was in a language you don't speak. Then you glance around again. You point to a ceramic baby head mounted on the wall with glass eyes and tiny rockets attached to its ears.

"What is that?"

"Oh. That's 'Capitalism is a Crybaby.' She was banned from two underground galleries in Osaka and caused a minor blackout."

You raise your eyebrows. "So, like... do people…. buy these?"

"Of course not, hm. They're not meant to be owned. They're meant to be felt."

"...Felt through your spinal cord?"

"Exactly."

You crouch beside a half-sculpted piece: a melting dollhouse wired with tiny explosives, every room labeled with words like "shame", "mother" and "tax fraud."

"Okay but seriously... what are you technically?" you murmur. "A fulltime influencer? A part time terrorist? Like, do you have health insurance or does Kakuzu just write TNT handler on your CV form?"

"I'm not a terrorist. Terrorists have an agenda. I'm just loud."

"Loud with a kill radius." You nod.

He winks.

You swirl your matcha and glance around the room again. It smells like paint and fireworks now and the violent dreams of someone who definitely wasn't hugged enough. You pick up what looks like a grenade shaped like a lemon.

"...Is this real?"

"Lemonade stand protest piece" he says. "Explodes into pulp and shame."

You put it back very, very gently. Then a question bubbles out of you. "...Does Kakuzu know this place exists?"

Deidara goes still. Like you just said Bloody Mary three times. "...No."

"So if this catches fire?"

"Then I ascend as a legend, yeah."

Deidara shakes his head twice before continuing "This is nothing. I'll show you when my art is ART-ting. " Deidara grabs a Hidan sculpture by its ankle. The expression is uncannily accurate—mouth open mid-scream, middle finger up, his demonic rosary wrapped around the neck.

"Wait... what's going on? What do you mean when your art is ART-ing?"

"This—this is just the tip of the iceberg, yeah. I don't just sculpt. I liberate form from function. I obliterate norms. I turn violence into metaphor and metaphor into BOOM."

He raises the remote in one hand. It's shaped like a generic TV clicker but labeled in black sharpie "THE BIG BUTTON. DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS HOT."

"Is that... the detonator?"

He nods solemnly.

"Like—like to detonate him?" You point to the Hidan statue.

"Yeah."

"...Is this a performance piece?"

Deidara shrugs. "Depends if you scream."

"...Deidara, is this an artistic statement or a felony?"

"Why can't it be both?"

You step outside, trailing him into the clearing behind the shack. He plants the Hidan statue on the ground like a cursed lawn gnome and takes three dramatic steps back. You're staring at the sculpture, then at the remote. "...So, why Hidan?"

"He owed me 3400 yen. And said my 'egg art' looks like hemorrhoids. Which is blasphemy, un. So now—he becomes immortalized in kaboom."

"Wait—why does it looks exactly like him?" You flinch.

"Oh, yeah. I sedated him."

"WHAT—?!"

He presses the remote. You scream. Out of instinct. Or because of the art. You're not sure anymore. The Hidan statue erupts into a gorgeous, sparkling explosion. Shards of ceramic spinning midair, smoke curling into a shape vaguely resembling a middle finger. It smells like sulfur and pettiness.

"...What the hell," you whisper.

Deidara exhales like he just got laid.

"That was... terrifying. But kind of... beautiful?"

He turns to you slowly, smirking. "See? You get it, hm."

"You're gonna end up on a watchlist." You adjust your cardigan, eyes still wide.

"I'm already on three but I'm also on Pinterest. Balance."

You stare at him and step back from the blast radius and soot in your hair. Deidara is humming beside you, licking a lollipop he must've pulled from somewhere. The air smells like fireworks and unmedicated creativity.

Kakuzu 🧾📉 (Most Responsible Adult)

[Yesterday]

Can I expense oat milk if I'm lactose intolerant or is this discrimination

Buy your own milk. Stop texting me.

[Today]

I watched Deidara detonate his sculpture shaped like Hidan. Is this illegal?

10/10 art performance tho.

"Next one's a Obito piñata! You wanna press the button?!" You slowly turn around, mumbling to yourself, "I should've just gotten my matcha and gone home."

You're walking home beside Deidara, a clay smudge on your cheek and half your soul still rattling from the earlier performance art (explosion). You didn't die, which is a miracle in itself and now you're just grateful for the crisp Shibuya air and the sound of traffic instead of detonation symphony no.5 in C minor.

"I think that was the best piece I've done this month," Deidara says proudly, hands in his pockets. "The way the arms flew off first? That's art. That's soul. That's the meaning of life."

"Mmm-hmm. My favorite part was when you laughed like a Victorian widow burning her cheating husband's memoirs."

"That's the vibe I was going for!" He beams.

You round the corner, nearing your building, when you stop dead. There, leaning against the side of the complex's entrance like a cursed gargoyle, is Hidan.

Shirtless. With a cigarette in his mouth. Arms folded. Face blank. He looks like a divorced demon dad who just found out someone shit on his ritual dagger.

"Oh no." You whisper.

Deidara immediately starts giggling under his breath. "No way Kakuzu actually told him. What a little snitch bitch."

Hidan exhales smoke, eyes narrowing at both of you like he's mentally weighing whether or not murder is worth the legal paperwork.

"You," he growls, pointing at Deidara with the hand not holding the cigarette. "Blew up a fucking sculpture of me?"

Deidara lifts both hands innocently. "It was a tribute. You should be flattered, un."

Hidan spits on the ground. "Tribute? You detonated my clay effigy like I'm your blasphemous Barbie doll. What if someone thought that shit was real? You trying to manifest my death?"

"And you—what the fuck were you doing there? You texted Kakuzu? You rated it a ten outta ten?!" He turns to you.

"It was... aesthetically devastating." You blink, shifting your matcha cup from one hand to another.

"Exactly! That's what I was going for!" Deidara wheezes.

Hidan throws his hands in the air. "No. No. Fuck this. I knew I should've done Kisame's laundry instead. He doesn't explode me for fun!" He yanks open the building door, muttering "Next person folds my underwear wrong, I'm pissing in the laundry."

"You fold his underwear?" you ask, scandalous.

"FFFFuck no, un. That's some slavery shit."

Hidan glares at him like he wants to throw hands. "Then why the fuck were my sacred boxers folded like a fuckin' origami crane, huh?! That wasn't the laundromat! That was your grimly fuckass fingers!"

"That was one time and I was experimenting with visual balance and tension, un."

"Oh my god," you whisper, stunned "You weaponized laundry folding?"

Deidara shrugs, completely unfazed "Art is pain. Hidan is pain. Seemed poetic."

"YOU'RE gonna be in pain if you sculpt me again and make me explode in 4K for your Tiktok, I swear to Jashin!"

"You wont even be centered in the frame, calm down—"

"I WILL SHIT IN YOUR CLAY BIN."

You quietly slip past them into the elevator, sipping your drink.

Kakuzu 🧾📉 (Most Responsible Adult)

Hidan said he's going to shit in Deidara's clay. I'm not sure if this counts as a tenant dispute or performance art.

Sasori

Have you been to Deidara's art shack? Are you aware of his hobbies?

Left on seen.

You blink at your phone, offended. The elevator doors ding open. This is about community safety. "Typical emotionally unavailable redhead."

Reluctantly, you shuffle down the hallway and knock on Sasori's door, knuckles tapping against the dark wood with the gentleness of someone who feels like they're intruding.

No answer.

You knock again, firmer this time. Still nothing.

"...Sasori?" you call out, voice half-hearted. "It's me. I'm not here to emotionally connect or whatever—you can relax."

There's a shuffling noise from inside. Then the soft click of a lock turning. The door creaks open just enough for you to see one of Sasori's eyes (impassive and unimpressed). His hair is a little tousled, hoodie half-zipped. Behind him, his apartment glows warm—golden lamplight, a bonsai on the shelf, jars of brushes on the table and taxidermy birds in glass boxes. He sees your ridiculous pout, your mascara hanging on for dear life, your Hello Kitty socks.

"...You were serious?" he asks flatly.

"Yes?" you raise a brow. "About Deidara blowing things up in the woods? Yes. I was very serious. He had a Hidan sculpture."

Sasori sighs, opens the door a little wider. "You went to the shack."

"I was lured to the shack."

"That's on you." Then he begrudgingly, steps aside. "Come in before you end up in one of his pieces." pauses "Take your shoes off this time. Because if you're going to be a walking catastrophe, at least don't ruin the rug."

Just as you're slipping off your heels and stepping further into Sasori's cozy, brooding lair of muted browns and quiet judgment, you hear it...

"Yoooo—hey! Where'd you go, un? You were supposed to see the ceramic one with the ass crack! I added texture!" Deidara's voice echoes through the hallway like a war horn.

Sasori looks up, one brow raised, already piecing it together.

Your reaction is primal. Flight mode activated. You duck instinctively into his apartment like you've just seen a debt collector or an ex. The door clicks shut behind you with a soft finality.

"...Did you just hide from him?"

"He was gonna show me another one. I can't do it again, I can't pretend to like that many erotic clay sculptures."

Sasori doesn't even look surprised. Just... mildly inconvenienced.

"I should've left when I had the chance. I thought the hardest part of today was gonna be not getting murdered, not surviving a third viewing of 'Cultist's Death in Sharp Minor.'"

Outside, Deidara's voice gets closer. Sasori walks calmly to his front door and (very pointedly) locks it.

Click.

He walks back like it's nothing.

"So you're not gonna tell him I'm here?"

"Depends. If he asks nicely."

"Sasori. That's human trafficking." You gasp.

He finally glances at you, dry and unreadable. "...And?"

"You're evil." You state as you sit on his couch.

"I know."

"So uh..... What do you usually do when you have guest over..?"

Sasori doesn't answer right away.

He's back to fussing with whatever delicate mechanism he'd been working on before you came crashing in. Slender fingers adjusting tiny wire joints of a half-finished marionette resting in his lap. The living room is dim and neat. It smells faintly like coffee .... weirdly.

"...I don't."

"Oh." Your voice comes out smaller than intended.

He goes back to adjusting the doll's elbow socket, entirely unfazed. You kick your feet a little, eyeing the serene stillness of his apartment. "What about... parties?"

"No."

"Movie night?"

"Why would I willingly subject myself to other people's commentary?"

You blink. "Dinner?"

"I eat."

"That's not what I meant."

Sasori sighs, sets the puppet down gently and finally looks at you. His eyes are a still lake; quiet, unreadable, but not unkind. "Most people don't stay long."

You shift in your seat, suddenly aware of how you're sitting. "...Do you want me to go?"

"No." He leans back against the arm of the couch, arms folding loosely. "I didn't say that either."

"Oh."

A silence stretches. Not awkward—just... unfamiliar.

Outside, you hear the faintest echo down the hallway "HELLOOOO—are you in the walls, un??"

You stifle a laugh, covering your mouth. Sasori's mouth twitches, just barely. "He'll give up eventually."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"...Then we turn off all the lights and pretend this is a horror movie."

"I knew you had a sense of humor." You gasp.

"Don't tell anyone."

You do the "zipped lips" motion and relax further into his couch, letting your body finally sink into the cushion like a safehouse. You catch him glancing at you again—not annoyed, not curious. Just quietly watching. Like he's still deciding if you're real.

"...So," you murmur. "What do you do when people do stay?"

He tilts his head. "...Tea?"

"I'd love some." You smile.

And he actually gets up to make it. Sasori glances at the screen, expression unreadable. The notification lights up with a new message from Deidara.

Deidara
bro did the weird girl get eaten by ur plant?? she's not in the hallway anymore??

Deidara
u kno the one w the eyes that look like she's seen the birth of galaxies. she was behind me & then vanished. is this another Puppet Murder Moment. just lmk so i can record it next time

He sighs. Quiet. Resigned.

"Is everything okay?"

"Unfortunately," he mutters, typing back one-handed while the kettle hisses on the stove.

Sasori 🦂
She's fine. Stop texting me.

Deidara
so u DID eat her huh. she's totally in ur freezer rn 💀💀💀 tell her she still owes me a youtube collab

Sasori turns the phone screen off and sets it on the counter like it personally affected him. You peek your head around the doorway, watching him.

"...That was Deidara, wasn't it?"

He doesn't answer. He's already pouring hot water over dried chrysanthemum petals like he's manifesting peace.

"Let me guess—he thinks you've chopped me up and fed me to your cursed bonsai."

He places one cup in front of you, calm as a monk. "He has a very dramatic imagination."

"I like that you didn't deny it."

"I didn't say he was wrong either."

You hold the tea, eyeing him. "If I disappear, you'll at least make me into something pretty, right?"

Sasori sips from his own cup without looking at you. "I already told you. Most people don't stay long."

"So am I an exception?"

He finally looks up. "...You haven't left yet." And for some reason, that answer feels softer than anything else he's said all day.

"I see that you also paint," you glance at the canvas framed on his walls "Do you take commissions..? can you paint me like Im your french girl..?"

He doesn't blink. He doesn't smile. He just stares at you with that unreadable, porcelain expression of his as if trying to decode whether you're joking or dead serious.

"...Are you going to be wearing anything in this hypothetical commission?"

"I don't have to." You grin.

He exhales slowly, setting his teacup down with a light clink "I don't paint erotica."

"Not even high art nudity?" you ask, flopping down onto the edge of his couch, draping yourself like you're in a Rococo painting. "You know, the kind you hang in a gallery but still censor on Instagram?"

"...I prefer still life," he replies flatly.

"Okay, well, I can stay very still," you counter. "And technically I am alive—so what's the problem?"

He gives you the longest, slowest blink known to mankind. You press a hand to your chest. "Come on, Sasori. Immortal alien beauty. Once-in-a-lifetime muse opportunity. I'll even bring my own chaise lounge."

He turns away from you and picks up a paintbrush from his shelf, inspecting the bristles with meticulous focus. "If I did paint you," he says at last, "you'd have to stay quiet. And still. For hours."

"Sounds like a challenge."

"You're incapable of shutting up."

"Not true! I can be quiet," you pout. "I'm quiet when I sleep. Mostly."

He doesn't deny it but you swear you catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth as if he's fighting off a smirk. Then, under his breath, barely audible "...I'll think about it."

Your eyes widen. "Wait. Wait seriously?"

He ignores you and walks to the window, adjusting the curtain. But the redness in his ears gives him away.

"With two conditions— you're not naked and I get to choose what you're wearing." he adds not looking at you.

You light up like a damn Christmas tree.

"Deal!" you chirp immediately, kicking your feet up on his couch like you've just secured a modeling contract. "Wait—are you gonna put me in, like... a 19th century mourning dress? Or something weird and frilly?"

Sasori turns just slightly, eyes scanning you with an almost clinical sort of appraisal. "I haven't decided yet."

"Don't pick something ugly," you say, suspicious. "You're not gonna sabotage me in the name of 'aesthetic,' right?"

"I don't waste canvas on anything that doesn't look good," he says simply and the way he says it (so neutral, so factual) makes your stomach do an unexpected little flip.

"So... you think I'd look good on canvas?"

"I think you're symmetrical enough," he answers.

You clutch your chest like he's just confessed eternal love. "Wow. The most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Don't get used to it."

"Too late. I'm already fantasizing about my museum debut."

He walks past you toward his paint shelf. "You'll need to show up on time, wear what I tell you and sit still. If you move, I'll stop."

"...Is that a threat or a kink?"

He picks up a palette knife and doesn't look at you when he says, "Depends on how quiet you are."

You nod, satisfied.

"Sasori," you continue, voice light, teasing. "Do you have Instagram? Twitter? Or do you just send your paintings to museums through carrier pigeon?"

"I have them."

Your eyes light up. "Wait, actually? What's your @?"

"...No."

"No what?"

"No, I'm not telling you."

You gasp like he just slapped a strawberry matcha out of your hand. "Why not?! You don't want to be mutuals with me?!"

"You're a chaos vector," he says calmly, finally glancing up at you. "And I don't want my feed polluted with your... thirst traps and borderline shitposting."

"I don't only post thirst traps," you defend. "Sometimes I repost weird fanart of Makima with a bazooka."

"That's exactly what I mean."

"But what if I want to like your posts? Boost your work? Leave little hearts and say stuff like 'you're so talented bestie'?"

"That sounds like a threat." He looks unimpressed.

"Sasori, please." You pout.

He sighs, finally relenting just a little. "...If you find it, I won't block you."

After a while, the conversation between you and Sasori drifts into soft nonsense: half formed jokes, questions you don't really expect him to answer, comments about his apartment and how strangely comforting it feels.

His replies stay minimal as always, but there's a subtle warmth underneath them that keeps you from feeling dismissed. It's quiet in the way a winter evening is quiet, with only the gentle hum of his laptop fan.

The longer you sit there, the heavier your eyelids begin to feel. The dim lighting, the faint scent of tea lingering in the air and the neat, ordered coziness of his place all conspire to pull you under.

Your head droops slightly, and when you try to blink yourself awake, Sasori glances at you out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't say anything, doesn't tease or scold just studies you with that unreadable calm of his.

When you finally let yourself curl up against the armrest of his couch, he shifts quietly from his chair. Without making a sound, he opens the closet by the entryway and pulls out a thick, fluffy blanket (cream-colored and impossibly soft). He drapes it gently over you, careful not to wake you before returning to his seat.

His laptop is already open on the low table, a stack of notes and diagrams arranged neatly beside it. He picks up where he left off with his work (grading assignments, typing commentary, reviewing slides or whatever the hell he does these days) but every now and then, his gaze flickers back to you.

For someone so used to silence, to solitude, Sasori finds the quiet presence of another person in his apartment less intrusive than expected. If anything, it feels... steadying.

The glow of the screen reflects in his eyes as he resumes typing.

Chapter Text

"Okay, so: new mission. Lunch at that cafe where Itachi works. I'm going to look sane. Normal. Like someone who did not just survive an impromptu art terrorism field trip followed by emotional intimacy with a redhead who might secretly taxidermy people."

You push through the door and immediately spot him. Itachi. Immaculately composed, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, looking like he was born under soft jazz lighting. His expression, as always, hovers somewhere between "I tolerate existence" and "I will disintegrate into smoke if you speak to me too loudly."

He's arranging croissants behind the glass counter like it's an art form.

You glide in, ignoring the slight tilt of his head that suggests he's already aware of the chaos that just entered his workplace.

You lean on the counter. "You again," he says flatly, not looking up from his tray.

"Miss me?"

"I was praying for peace," he replies, tone so calm it borders spiritual.

You smile sweetly. "And yet—here I am."

You scan the menu with exaggerated seriousness. "Hmm... what's your weirdest drink?"

Itachi finally looks up. "We don't do weird."

"Then I'd like a strawberry matcha espresso float with soy foam and a sprinkle of chia seeds," you declare confidently.

"...That's not on the menu."

"Creativity is art, Itachi."

"Creativity is suffering."

"Exactly. Let's suffer together."

He exhales, very quietly, like a man who just saw the ghost of his will to live leave his body "I'm not making that."

You perk up. "Then I'll make it myself."

"No."

"Come on. I'll wear an apron. I'll even say 'order comin' up!' like the professionals do."

"No."

"Please?"

He shuts his eyes for a brief moment like he's asking some divine entity for strength. "Fine. Sit down. I'll make... whatever that is."

"Aw, you care."

"I don't want you touching the espresso machine."

You blow him a kiss, grab a table by the window and plop down, feeling entirely too pleased with yourself.

You scroll through your phone for a minute, half-expecting another crazy text from Deidara "bro did ur eyebrows survive yesterday or nah" but instead, your attention drifts back to the counter.

You can tell he's trying to figure out your insane concoction purely through logic and willpower. Every now and then, he glances at a jar, frowns, mutters something under his breath that's probably an incantation against stupidity then goes back to mixing.

And then it happens.

Two girls approach the counter. College aged, giggling, dressed like they planned this. They lean against the glass, batting lashes and whispering way too loudly about "how cute the barista is."

You sit back in your chair, chin resting on your hand.

Itachi doesn't react much of course. He just nods politely when one of them asks about the pastries. his voice is low, calm, unbothered. But his eyes flick up for half a second and meet yours.

You raise your brows. Smile. Wiggle your fingers in a mock wave like Hi. I see you attracting a fanclub.

His look in return could curdle milk.

The girls don't notice. They keep chatting; asking about latte art, his favorite beans, if he's single (etc).

Finally, he hands them their drinks, tone polite but frozen "Enjoy your coffee."

They linger a bit too long before finally leaving, whispering as they go.

You call out "You're so popular, Itachi. can I join your fan club?"

He doesn't even look up. "I'd prefer prison."

"Then I'll design the uniforms."

He slides your cup onto the counter at last. "Your drink," he says, monotone. "I take no responsibility for the consequences."

You pick it up, swirl it once and take a sip. Your face contorts instantly. "Oh, that's... vile. It tastes like heartbreak and regret."

"I warned you."

You swallow anyway, setting the cup down dramatically. "Mmm. Perfection."

You're humming something when you step into the apartment building's lobby. Your bag is heavy with scripts and leftover snacks from the shoot and all you can think about is how good your bed is going to feel after pretending to hunt devils for twelve hours straight.

Then, of course, fate decides to spice up your evening.

Because right as you're stepping inside, (tired, starving and halfway through texting Deidara that you did not steal his clay figurine he left on his doormat) a familiar, calm voice cuts through the soft hum of the lobby.

"It's late for you to be coming home."

You look up— and there he is. Itachi. One hand in his coat pocket, eyes half-lidded from a long cafe shift. He looks... exhausted but in a hot way. Meanwhile, you're the chaos to his calm, holding a tote bag full of fake bloodstained props and a half eaten taiyaki.

"Oh hey!" you chirp, way too bright for the hour. "Fancy seeing you, Mister Responsible Citizen. How was serving caffeine to the masses?"

He glances down at you, a faint crease forming between his brows "You look like you've been through a war."

"I have," you sigh dramatically, waving your taiyaki like a flag. "Chainsaws, screaming extras, blood that won't come off. I think I accidentally traumatized a sound technician."

"You're proud of that, aren't you?"

"Maybe just a little."

You both reach the elevator at the same time. It's quiet. the kind of quiet that hangs between two people who've fallen into a weird routine of bumping into each other at odd hours. You press the button. He stands beside you, tall and composed, glancing at you in that unbothered way that secretly feels like he's cataloging every strange thing about you.

The doors slide open. You both step in. You hit your floor; he hits his.

And then the universe decides: let's make this awkwardly cinematic. The lights flicker. The elevator jerks. And suddenly it stops.

There's a low, metallic groan, followed by silence.

You blink. "...No flipping way—"

"Yes," Itachi says, already pressing the emergency button. "It seems so."

The lights dim to emergency mode. You look around dramatically, clutching your taiyaki. "So this is it. We're going to die here. Tell my fans I loved them."

He exhales, slow and unimpressed. "You're not dying."

"I'm not dying yet," you correct, sinking down onto the floor anyway, crossing your legs. "But if we're here long enough, you'll have to eat my taiyaki to survive."

He glances down at you, the faintest amusement breaking through his composure. "You'd last ten minutes before eating it yourself."

"...True."

You grin up at him, resting your chin on your hand. "You're surprisingly calm for someone trapped in a metal box with a bad omen."

"I've been through worse," he says, leaning against the elevator wall "And besides, it's not the first time something unpredictable happened because of you."

You gasp "Excuse you, I am a bringer of joy and intrigue."

He tilts his head slightly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting. "Chaos. You bring chaos."

"That's just another word for fun."

He hums, low and thoughtful, eyes drifting briefly toward the emergency light flickering above. For a moment, you both fall into silence— the hum of the stalled lift, the faint buzz of your phone screen as it loses signal, the oddly intimate stillness of shared inconvenience.

After a few minutes, you fidget. "Soooo... what now? Do we tell ghost stories? Play twenty questions? Practice slow dancing in case it's our last night on Earth?"

"None of those things," he answers immediately but there's that quiet note in his voice. The one that sounds dangerously close to a laugh.

"You hesitated." You grin wider.

"I didn't."

"You totally did."

"I was thinking."

"Thinking about slow dancing with me?"

His eyes flick toward you and for a moment, that unreadable calm cracks just slightly. "Thinking about how to keep you quiet."

"Ouch," you say, grinning like the menace you are. "That's flirting in your language, isn't it?"

He gives you that patient, flat look. the kind that would make a normal person shut up immediately. You are not a normal person. You lean in a little, eyes glinting mischievously under the amber emergency light.

"Admit it. You were this close to being my elevator boyfriend."

"I was this close to losing my sanity," he replies dryly, crossing his arms.

You ignore that statement and tap your phone screen — no bars. "Okay. I think we're actually stuck."

"I already called for help." He's calm like always. "Pain will handle it."

"Pain?" you ask, side eyeing him. "The same man who couldn't fix a coffee machine without blowing a fuse?"

"He's the owner," Itachi says, as though that's supposed to inspire confidence. You exhale dramatically, leaning against the wall beside him. "Then we're dying here."

"You're being dramatic."

"Dramatically realistic."

You start pacing in the tiny space, restless energy vibrating through you. "Okay, okay, I got it. If we can open that panel up there—" you point at the metal hatch on the ceiling "—you can lift me up, I'll crawl through, and find help."

"No."

"But you're tall! You could just—"

"No."

"Why not?"

He gives you a level stare. "Because this isn't an action movie. And because if you fall, I'll have to explain to Pain why one of his tenants is splattered at the bottom of an elevator shaft."

You blink at him. "Wow. You really know how to make things sound romantic."

"Sit down," he says.

You sit. Pouting like a scolded child.

Minutes pass. The air starts to feel warm maybe from the emergency lights, maybe from the sheer awkwardness. Itachi's composed, silent, scrolling through his phone like he's meditating. You're melting into a puddle of boredom beside him.

"How long do you think we've been in here?" you ask eventually.

"Twenty minutes."

"Feels like three years."

He doesn't answer. You tilt your head toward him, studying the way his hair frames his face, the shadow that catches under his jaw, how even in this dim orange light, he somehow looks aesthetic.

"Are you always this calm?" you ask.

"Someone has to be."

"I'd panic with style though," you say, holding your hands up dramatically. "Screaming, tears, maybe a haunting ballad before I perish."

"You'd give yourself a concussion before that."

"Okay, wow, rude but fair."

You stretch your legs, groaning. "I swear it's getting hot in here."

Itachi looks up from his phone. "It's probably the ventilation system."

"Oh, so we're trapped and cooking. Nice." You fan yourself with your script pages. "You know what'd be great right now? Cold soba. Or maybe that matcha latte you ruined last time."

"I didn't ruin it."

"You refused to make it!"

"Because you ordered something that shouldn't exist."

You grin at him, sweat beading on your forehead. "You're so fun to tease when you're serious."

He exhales through his nose. Whatever that means in Uchiha language.

You lean your head back against the wall, closing your eyes. "If we die here, I hope the headlines say 'Tragic yet oddly beautiful duo found dead in elevator—barista and hot actress, gone too soon.'"

"You're not dying," he says again, steady.

You peek at him through one eye. "But if we do, you'd tell people we were dating, right? For the press?"

He doesn't answer. Just looks at you like he's debating whether to humor you or just let you stew in your delusions. Then his phone buzzes. He checks it, relief softening his expression.

"Pain says help is on the way."

You sigh, sliding further down against the wall. "Guess I'll cancel my dramatic death monologue then."

"Good."

"...But you'd still tell the press we were dating, right?"

"Don't push it."

You laugh and despite the heat, the boredom and the flickering light, you decide that being stuck with Itachi Uchiha isn't the worst way to spend an evening.

"Hypothetically," you begin, tone suspiciously casual, "if I were to suddenly have the urgency to pee... do you, by any chance, have a bottle?"

"...What?"

You shrug like you're discussing the weather. "A bottle. A cup. Anything with a wide opening and a forgiving spirit."

He just stares. Then exhales through his nose. "No."

"No, as in you don't have one or no, as in you won't share?"

"No, as in absolutely not."

"You're not being a very supportive elevator boyfriend right now." You pout.

"We've been stuck for thirty minutes. You can wait." He pinches the bridge of his nose like he's dealing with a toddler on caffeine.

"But what if it's a medical emergency?"

"It's not."

"You don't know that! I drank two matcha lattes before this!"

He finally looks up and his tone sharpens with that clipped Uchiha authority that makes people shut up in meetings. "You are not urinating in this elevator."

You blink at him. "...You said that like you've had to say it before."

His silence is suspiciously long.

"Oh my god, someone has tried, haven't they?"

He exhales again, eyes closing briefly "That is irrelevant."

You bite your lip to stop a laugh. "Oh, it's so relevant. Who was it? Hidan? It was Hidan, wasn't it?"

"I'm not answering that."

You lean closer, whispering conspiratorially, "If you give me a bottle I won't tell Pain."

"There is no bottle." His composure is starting to crack.

"Then we'll have to improvise."

You start scanning the elevator— your bag, his bag, the ceiling panel. His eyes widen slightly, voice going low and firm, "(y/n). Sit. Down."

"You're using your lawyer voice on me?" You freeze.

"Because it's the only one you listen to."

You dramatically flop back against the wall, sighing like a tragic heroine. "Fine. But if I perish of bladder explosion, I'm haunting you."

"You can haunt me when we get out of this elevator."

"Was that flirting?" You gasp, eyes widening.

"That was a cry for help."

You burst into laughter, the sound echoing around the small metal box. He pretends to be unbothered.

You groan dramatically "Itachi," you mumble, fanning yourself with your hand, "it's getting hot in here. Like, we are slowly roasting."

He glances up from his phone, calm as ever. "We're fine. Someone's already on the way."

"Define someone. Because if that someone is Pain, he's probably still debating whether letting us die in here would be cheaper than maintenance costs."

He doesn't argue which says a lot.

You sigh heavily and tug at the hem of your tights. "Okay, I'm taking these off before I pass out. I'm not dying with clothed thighs. That's not the aesthetic I want for my funeral."

He finally looks up, brow arching in quiet alarm. "You're what?"

"Tights. Off. It's called survival."

"(Y/n)—"

You raise a finger, cutting him off. "If you're gonna look at my feet, you have to pay. I know your salary bracket."

Itachi freezes. The most minute flicker of disbelief crosses his usually unreadable face. "...Why would I—"

"Because I'm an entrepreneur," you say simply, already tugging at one heel. "And I refuse to let capitalism kill me in opaque black nylon."

He closes his eyes like he's mentally filing for a restraining order. "Please, keep your shoes on."

"You sound nervous." You grin, voice lilting with mischief. "Are you one of those guys with a foot thing? Be honest, Itachi."

He gives you a look so flat, it could sand wood. "No."

You tilt your head. "That's exactly what a guy with a foot thing would say."

He exhales, deadpan as ever. "If it keeps you quiet, I'll wire you the money. Just don't take them off."

You blink, caught off guard. "...Wait, really?"

He adjusts his collar, avoiding eye contact. "It's worth the peace."

"You're too easy to manipulate."

"I'm too tired to argue," he mutters, leaning back against the wall. "At this point, if you stripped the wallpaper, I'd just pretend not to see."

"Wow." You huff nonchalantly. "So you'd ignore me in my time of heatstroke?"

"I'd call for professional help."

You scoff dramatically. "No romance, no rescue, just bureaucracy."

He gives the faintest smirk. "You knew what I was when you got in the elevator."

You squint. "A hot, emotionally unavailable barista-lawyer hybrid?"

"Hmm."

And as the air grows heavier and warmer, you're half delirious and half amused. Hes sitting there all composed in the corner like he's meditating through hell and you.

You sigh. "This is honestly kind of intimate."

"Please don't make it weird."

"It's already weird. We've transcended normal elevator experiences."

He looks at the ceiling, silently begging the universe to restart the lift. You grin, propping your chin on your knees.

Akatsuki Degenerates

pfp: Obito's 2010 emo selfie (black fringe, eyeliner, "My Chemical Romance" tee)

Pain:
Emergency.
(Y/N) and Itachi are stuck in the elevator.

Konan:
...you mean our elevator?

Pain:
Yes. Floor 3.

Deidara:
LMAOOOO they're living a fanfic rn

Hidan:
Wait WHAT. HOW. i was just using that elevator to go buy red bull an hour ago

Kakuzu:
Technician says it'll cost extra. I'm not paying that.

Pain:
You are in charge of building maintenance.

Kakuzu:
Yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm wasting funds on two idiots with poor timing.
@Hidan grab the toolbox.

Hidan:
no fuckin way man im not an elevator engineer i rob fuckers for living

Kakuzu:
You owe me for getting you that new job

Hidan:
ur sucj a biych

Deidara:
brooo this us hilarious. imagine itachin stuck in a box with her. girl probably alrwady convinced him to staty a podcast

Kisame:
Nah shes probably interviewing him like "So tell me your trauma starting from birth."

Obito:
..........

Konan:
Oh no. Here we go.

Obito:
Why exactly are they in the elevator?
At this hour?

Deidara:
bc thats how elabators work sherlock. they go up, they go down and sometimes they trap two hot people in an enclosed space

Obito:
Hot?

Deidara:
i mean objectively.
calm down smh

Kakuzu:
Stop arguing and help me open the damn thing.

Hidan:
wait so like
what if the elevator drops
who gets the inheritance

Pain:
It's a modern elevator, Hidan. It won't drop.

Konan:
Also... Itachi and (Y/N) being trapped together sounds like the start of a romcom.

Deidara:
or a scandal

Obito:
She doesn't do scandals.

Kisame:
Mans defending her like hes her PR manager.

Obito:
I'm just saying she's classy.

Hidan:
classy ppl dont get stuck in elevators

Obito:
You're banned from speaking.

Kakuzu:
Im here with Hidan.

Deidara:
livestream it 🔥🔥🔥

Konan:
This is exactly how group projects in hell would go.

Kisame:
Obito you comin?

Obito:
No.
I mean maybe.
I'm just.
Going to check the hallway.
For safety.

Deidara:
LMAOOO

Kakuzu:
I swear to god if he breaks the building structure, I'm billing him for repairs.

Pain pins a message:

Situation: Elevator malfunction.
Victims: (Y/N), Itachi.

—you're far too close for his comfort, knees nearly brushing as you shove your phone toward him with the manic energy of someone who hasn't felt boredom in years "Itachi, you have to see this one," you say "It's so satisfying."

He eyes the screen, already wary. "That's... Why is there a—"

"—massive wax plug? I know, right? Wait for it."

He watches, stiff and composed at first—until the tool goes in and the camera zooms. His jaw tightens. "You saved this?"

"Of course. It's art."

"This is not art," he says flatly. "This is... medical horror."

You nudge his shoulder with yours, refusing to let him escape. "Oh c'mon, everyone loves a good ear cleaning video. Look how clean it gets after—"

He grimaces but doesn't look away. "I'm trying to understand how anyone finds this entertaining."

"Because it's oddly satisfying. Don't act like you don't feel a little relieved for the guy."

He gives you the driest look imaginable. "No. I feel like I need to disinfect my phone just for proximity."

You gasp dramatically "You're judging my taste? I bet you watch those documentaries where nothing happens for three hours and everyone's sad."

"At least no one's digging around in anyone's ear," he replies calmly.

You grin, inching even closer, enough that your shoulder presses into his solidly. "You're missing out. Want me to send it to you?"

"Absolutely not."

"Too late," you hum, pretending to type.

He exhales like a man being spiritually tested. "Why are you doing this in the first place?"

"It's called bonding, Itachi. Shared trauma builds connection."

"...I think it's more like shared suffering."

"Semantics," you say, leaning your head slightly toward his arm. "We're trauma-bonded now. Congrats."

He groans quietly but doesn't move away.

Your eyelids are drooping as the phone slides slightly in your hand, the sound of faint squelching from the ear cleaning video still playing. Itachi notices before you do. That soft tilt of your head, the way your posture sags just enough for him to catch your shoulder against his arm.

He stiffens a little. "You're falling asleep."

"Mmh." You don't deny it. "Your voice sounds like a lullaby."

"That's not—" he exhales through his nose, resigned. "Either it's oxygen deprivation or because you don't rest properly."

"You analyzing me or tucking me in?"

"Neither," he says, but his tone softens as though humoring you.

You shuffle even closer, tucking your knees up, phone slipping onto your lap. "Might as well nap. If I die from lack of oxygen, tell Deidara he owes me 5000 yen."

"I'll make sure to have it written on your tombstone," he murmurs.

You laugh sleepily. "You'd make such a comforting grim reaper."

He glances at you— your head now resting against his shoulder, your breath slow, that unbothered peace radiating from someone far too used to chaos. He doesn't move away. Maybe because you're warm. Maybe because it's been a long day for him too.

After a moment, he pulls out his phone again, checking for signal. Still nothing. He types a draft message anyway just to do something.

Any update? Elevator still dead. Passenger's asleep.

He doesn't send it. Just stares at the text for a while before locking the screen.

You mumble something incoherent in your sleep— something about your next film scene, something about tiktok and how Itachi would make a great co-star if he weren't so serious all the time.

The elevator remains silent. The sight of you drooling slightly on his sleeve should be irritating. It should. Instead, he just sighs, almost imperceptibly and adjusts his position so your head rests more comfortably.

He's not sure if it's the heat or fatigue but the thought of being stuck here a little longer doesn't seem quite as unbearable anymore.

If someone told him a week ago that he'd be stuck in an elevator babysitting a celebrity who calls him "elevator boyfriend," he'd have dismissed it as absurd.

But as your head tilts slightly and your hair brushes against his jaw— he admits, maybe absurd isn't so bad.

The elevator gives a soft clunk so sudden and unexpected that Itachi's eyes snap open. You jolt awake, sitting up.

"Wha—did we die?" you mumble, disoriented.

The lights flicker twice, then hum back to full life. The faint, mechanical whir of gears returning to motion fills the silence.

Itachi looks up, composed as always but you can see the small twitch of disbelief in his jaw. The elevator jerks once. Then begins to rise smoothly.

You blink at him, then at the ceiling. "You're telling me this thing just—healed itself?"

And as if on cue, the speaker crackles faintly, followed by Hidan's voice, distorted by the intercom "YO! Did that work? Kakuzu made me press the glowy button on the panel thingy!"

You and Itachi exchange a look.

"Oh my god," you whisper. "We were rescued by the power of idiocy."

Kakuzu's muffled voice cuts through next "Don't flatter yourself, it was a budget fix. Don't touch anything when you get out."

You're grinning now, delirious from the mix of relief and ridiculousness. The doors ding! open on your floor, light from the hallway spilling in like divine salvation.

You turn to Itachi, still slouched against the wall like he's processing the absurdity of it all. "Well, boyfriend," you say, stretching your arms, "looks like our epic love story ends here."

He gives you a look that can only be described as quiet suffering. "...Let's never speak of this again."

"Too late." You're already pulling out your phone. "I'm tweeting it."

You step out, yawning, hair a mess, clutching your shoes like a war survivor. He follows after you calmly, looking annoyingly put together, because of course he does.

You glance at him as the elevator doors slide shut behind you both. "You know, if I post this, your customers gonna think we're secretly dating."

"Then I suppose I'll need to move."

You burst out laughing, watching him walk away toward the stairs to his floor—stoic, dignified, slightly done with the world.

"Night, elevator boyfriend!"

He pauses halfway up the steps, head turning just enough for you to catch the faintest smirk.

"...Goodnight, cursed Matcha."