Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg (000_hester_000) wrote,
Þæs ofereode, þisses swa mæg
000_hester_000

All the exact same subjects as Monday's post

1. History remains pathetic. My classmates also don't know the difference between trench warfare and guerrilla warfare. I just. FFFFFFFFF. WHY.

2. Attack of the suddenly falling in love with random characters in Hetalia continues. Today it's the Netherlands and Belgium.

3. Incomplete Sasori fic attack! Or something. This was all written last summer, btw, and hasn't really been edited at all since. Rereading it now, I'm realizing that it seems vaguely AUish-- I completely disregarded the random parts of his backstory they put in in the anime because I never liked those, and I seem to have done something weird with his parents. Even though we don't know much about them from canon, they at least seem like they were pretty skillful shinobi, and for some unknown reason I made them totally fail!shinobi in this. :/

Um, here be-- predictably-- dead parents, corpses being made into puppets, etc. and-- less predictably-- implied "there was going to be rather depressing shota if I'd ever gotten off my ass and finished this."




The oranges bobbed up and down in the sink, already filling the room with their pleasing scent. So perfectly round, the color of the sun: appetizing. They arrived in a crate on the back of a cart that had come all the way from Water Country (Water Country– they said the very air there was a wet mist and no matter where you went you were never far from the sea). The merchants, two men who gazed out at the world from beneath the wide brims of peasant hats, knew all about Water Country, of course; more importantly, they knew about Wind Country. Folks in Suna, they thought as they stopped for the night under lonely desert stars, would pay a pretty penny for their cargo of fruit– orange, mango, passion fruit, and peach.

Up to her elbows in water, the woman plunged them under the waterline, scrubbed the dust– because this was Suna, and the dust got everywhere, must have crept in through the slats of the crate– from their skins. She hummed as she worked, something low and sweet but with no real melody.

Her four-year-old son had placed both hands palms down on the edge of the counter and seemed for a while to think he could pull himself up that easily– to no avail. Now he was left standing on the tips of his toes, tugging at his mother’s sleeve. She looked over her shoulder at him.
“Sasori?”

No reply. As usual. He just kept pulling on her sleeve and gave her a look. She shook her head and tried again.
“What is it?”
“Want.” No further explanation, just another yank on her sleeve.
“Keep doing that and you won’t get anything.” –but she was smiling all the time.

In those days, it was like that. (Sasori wouldn’t remember, of course. He was very young, and all the important parts had yet to be done.)

He snatched an orange out of her hands the first chance he got, over-eager– but he took his time peeling it, pulling the skin off in six long, even strips and finally letting the rind fall in one piece to the floor. It looked like a flower. His father looked up from his lunch and laughed.




It was true: Sasori wasn’t born into happy times. No use denying that, especially not when both parents were shinobi; they knew what was going on, and they couldn’t change it. –Ah, except that perhaps they could change it for him only. That would be enough. It wasn’t like Suna itself was a dangerous place to be even in the midst of war; the village was well-protected.

They would, they decided, make the best life they could: right here. Just them. It didn’t have to be grand or far-reaching; in fact, it was better to be cautious, to only want a little. A little was more than enough.

It was almost all nothing. The poor woman had a hard time of it, everybody knew it, for the whole nine months, and it only got worse: she bled during childbirth, almost died, and Chiyo was out on assignment at the time. They owed so much to the midwife.

Hush, hush now, calm, you can hold him; here he is, your son. She was half-delirious then, barely even understood the words. But no matter. Day by day, she regained her health. She wasn’t a terribly strong woman, wasn’t a terribly skillful shinobi– she herself had been made to admit that before– but she had a new sort of vigor now; she was determined. Soon it was as though her life had never been in danger at all; who would have guessed it?

They understood now, the mother and the father, about what frailty meant and why it was not a weakness only: to not be an immortal, invulnerable; to have the same go for the others around you. It was to know that this small life you carried was fragile and easily broken, easily lost; and it was that fragility that made it precious. That was what made you want to do the best you could: He’s our son, the only one of himself, and we’ll do the best by him that we can. Promise.

Who could need anything more? And suddenly the rest didn’t matter anyway; go ahead and say it: We were never very good shinobi. But there are many different types of strength. Everybody had to pay the bills of course, but from here on out they knew where they stood, and it was without kunai in hand.

(Chiyo arrived three days later and finally said, “For you, I suppose that may be for the best.”)




Sasori was five when the tensions started to build up again– not political ones, this time; those had never stopped. No, this time it all came to bear on that ungrateful son Chiyo suddenly found herself with. Why did he have to be so blind; why did he never listen? And every time she tried to broach the subject, he brushed her off– Maybe we can talk tomorrow.

Sasori had only been enrolled in shinobi school that year, but he was already skipping ahead; the classes he took now were all full of nine- and ten-year-olds.
“He’s set to graduate by the time he’s seven,” she called after her son, who had already begun to walk away.

He was smart. Very shy, but curious about everything, and Chiyo couldn’t help herself from having the thought: He’s much, much smarter than his father ever was. There. It was the truth.

She liked having her grandson around; he helped her with the puppets and she could tell that all the time he was watching her work, he was figuring out the mechanisms. And those little fingers of his were surprisingly skillful; he handled even the smallest pieces with care, assembled them well. He would be enormously strong someday, that much she could tell in an instant. After he graduated school, he needed to become her apprentice full-time.

“I said I’d think about it,” he muttered. “But maybe he should stay in school longer than that, you know. Anyway. We can talk–”

Tomorrow never came, of course, and he didn’t know that he already had many fewer tomorrows left anyway than he realized.




It was early still when Sasori’s parents led him arm in arm to Chiyo’s house, and the sky was colored the raw red of morning. They were wearing heavy khaki-colored packs on their backs; work demanded their time. Standing in the doorway, they exchanged a few greetings, rifled through Sasori’s bag to make sure they had packed everything for him. They waved goodbye, and Sasori should have looked long and hard, should have fixed the sight of their retreating backs in his memory. But he didn’t, he wouldn’t remember this day at all except for through the filter of his grandmother’s later recollections.

She ushered him in, smiled down at him; he smiled back, but sleepily. –Then again, it was hard to tell; he always looked a little sleepy and that didn’t mean that he actually was. It might have been something about those eyes of his– big brown eyes.

“My, my,” she cooed– not that she of all people was any good at that, but you had to make an effort. “Look how you’ve grown.”

Nothing of any importance was said, but by now the time was dangerously late. Outside, his parents turned a corner. Then they were gone.




Chiyo was right, of course; she always was in the end. They weren’t very good shinobi; perhaps if they had been better....

(More things than she could even have imagined at the time might not have happened.)

Her son and his wife came back alive– barely. But she knew it wouldn’t be long. She wasn’t perfect; even she couldn’t save everyone and she knew right away when she couldn’t. This was one of the times when she couldn’t.

Sasori? Where is he– bring him to us, our son, they breathed, as death gathered close in the little room.

She knew that it wouldn’t be long now, so she led him by the hand into their bedroom (a deathbed visit, although he cannot understand that of course; it’s as if he doesn’t even allow himself to see anything out of the normal), and then she went to go and fetch the desert priest.

She tried to, at least. First she had to find the wretched man; she didn’t think it took that long. But it took long enough, and by the time they came back the man and woman were both dead. Chiyo wasn’t surprised; she was impressed that they had even made it back to the house in the first place.

But the priest was startled. (Well he was only a child, of course, and he was a curious one, and children didn’t always know how things looked to everyone else– still, his grandmother was quick to yank the pair of scissors from his hand and pull him off the bed– What were you thinking? He could look up at her with big eyes, like he had just been betrayed; he unclenched his fist and the strands of his father’s hair fell to the floor.)

Chiyo was at the bedside in a flash, putting the bandages back into place and brushing stray bits of hair from the pillowcases; the priest averted his eyes nervously– he was young, she supposed, and he wanted to be tactful at every turn– and coughed into his sleeve.

Later, she would ask Sasori why: Why did you cut off their hair? And why did you undo the bandages when I’d just put them on?

He shrugged, and looked down at the floor, feeling ashamed without understanding quite why. “They stopped breathing.”
“And so?”
“I don’t know. I wanted to see.”

He had picked up the pieces of hair, and was brushing them back and forth against his fingers. “I don’t want them to... you know. I... can’t you do something?”
“Sasori.” She shook her head.

Pause.

“But I took their hair,” he said and peered up at her with a strange look on his face. He didn’t say anything for the rest of the day, but he kept fixing her with that look: sometimes, you had to leave it up to the body to communicate the things you couldn’t put into words: I took their hair so that you could help me.

Then she understood, and he followed her mutely as she went to get her supplies, the locks of hair, red hair and black, still in his hands.




The bodies went into the ground three days later. Sasori held Chiyo’s hand throughout the whole thing and didn’t say a word. But he didn’t cry either.




This was what he would remember: not as a ghost of a feeling or through others’ recollections, but as his own true memory, true colors. He wouldn’t lose it.

He was so confident in himself, that day in the peace and cool of the morning, so sure he had just proven himself right. As the day breathed its silence around him, he began to connect the tiny chakra threads to his fingers, like he had done many times before with Chiyo-baa, except that this time he did it in neither study nor play. (There may not have even been a word for what he did it in now, but whatever it was, it felt wonderful.)

They would look a little different now, his parents, and they wouldn’t be able to move on their own. It made no difference to Sasori. He could move for them from now on, speak for them. That would be all right.

He drew the strings up from the floor and they stood. They walked, once more. He closed his eyes; he didn’t need to look to know that it was working; in fact, it was even better not to look, to close your eyes and listen as your parents– those were their footsteps, right there, just right– came to you. Just like they always used to. Just like they always would.

Quiet: he knew not to say anything, nothing that might break the magic; he knew he just had to keep drawing them closer and closer. Let the silence take the rest– the doubts.

And then finally, they got as close as they could; he could feel their long robes brush against his hands, and he twisted his fingers around the strings, motioned with his wrists. They knelt, and wrapped their arms around him.

Hush, little one, Sasori. We’ve missed you, haven’t we? But we won’t have to miss you ever again; we won’t have to leave you ever again–

He pulled them closer, as close as he could, and it was then that the tears welled up (why tears? What did he have to cry for? –But suddenly he couldn’t stop himself) like grace.

As she watched from the doorway, Chiyo saw it before it happened.

Maybe he wasn’t quite paying enough attention now, lost in another world, or maybe it was only because he was a small child who was at his limit. It happened sometimes that people became weak with relief. There was a weakness in the strings either way, and they shuddered now, stretched out and became gossamer-thin, and then even thinner than that, until they were barely even touching his fingertips at all.

They made no sound as they snapped, even as his eyes fluttered open with surprise Sasori stayed silent; the only noise came when the two puppets hit the floor. It wasn’t a very loud sound: wood forms were so much lighter than living bodies; anyway, it was muffled by their thick robes.

But they would both remember it, Chiyo and Sasori, and memory can distort and amplify: it was gathering, building, and someday it would become deafening.




He took his time with the realization, put it off as long as possible. It was better not to think. But he couldn’t put off thinking forever, and, strangely, the epiphany was almost sublime when it finally came:

He should have known he couldn’t trust them as soon as he had pulled off the bandages and seen the blood: that was the weakness that had killed them. He realized that their death had been ticking away inside them all the time, for years now, well before they were ever injured, and that was its calling card. In order to live, all that needed to be done was to remove that weakness; one must guard against it with an iron hand, allow not the smallest sliver in.

(And then he cut his hand in kunai practice and screamed more loudly than he had in ages and all over his hand there was weakness and death.)




Despite everything, he still graduated on time, at age seven. Chiyo saw to that.




He’s special, they said. He’s got a fire in him, the puppet master’s grandson. She drank those comments up like they were an elixir: they were exactly what she had been saying all along. And she kept repeating it, kept telling him that although by this point he no longer needed the encouragement: he became a chuunin a year after graduating from the Academy. Many years later, shinobi from the allied countries would take their exams together, but that day was a long way away when Sasori took them. He passed in the old exam system, before the most of the regulations kicked in, and had Chiyo had the choice at the time, she would have preferred this way for him anyway. If you really wanted to become a chuunin, after all, you would do so– no matter how big the pile of bodies you had to climb over to get there was. She had no worries for his safety. He was Sasori, and he was special.

(Chiyo loved her grandson, she really did, so she simply didn’t listen when people made the other sort of comments– and they did, more and more of them the more well-known Sasori became. But even then, she knew it was true: when she said special, she didn’t mean it the way a grandmother was supposed to.)

But none of that mattered to Sasori, who had now become fully immersed in his work. He was skilled, confident, and when he was eleven he became the youngest jounin Suna had seen for a long time– and that’s when she put her doubts behind her, and that’s when she knew, unequivocally, that she had done the right thing. Let the people talk.

She kept a picture from the ceremony in which the new jounin were awarded their titles, and that was one picture she felt proud to put on her desk. Dead center, in a big frame.

A few months after his promotion he was accepted into the Kazekage’s personal retinue, the group of his most trusted, most skillful shinobi.

Chiyo was really vindicated then. Go ahead. Call her what you will: but she had raised a boy who could look after himself in a world in which this was the greatest known blessing. He wouldn’t repeat his parents’ fates.




It had only been a few years– that was barely the blink of an eye for some people– but Sasori had made the most of it. He had cast off his older self, he no longer carried the memories of his parents around with him like he once had (like they were a weight tied around his neck, pulling him again and again down to the floor, making him lie motionless for hours, not even able to weep); in fact, they only returned to him at all as faint dream-memories. When he woke, he put them aside. Sometimes, he still liked to look at the two puppets, but then only from a practical standpoint: what was done well? What could have been better– would this help? He added blades; fighting was what a puppet was for, after all. (And why, why did the strings break?)

He pushed them aside, ever aside. He referred to the puppets as ‘the mother and father,’ never ‘my mother and father.’ What difference one word could make! It wasn’t a difference that was lost on Chiyo, but what was there to say about it? Perhaps it was better this way anyway– forgetting was its own gift, everyone who had lived long enough to benefit from it knew that.

(There was nothing to say, but there was this: she had already begun to imagine the things that might possibly make them ‘my parents’ once more. Dangerous thoughts, of course.)

–But that was her. As for Sasori, he had put the foolishness of his past behind him. With almost extraordinary strength.

When the Kazekage surveyed the year’s jounin– the old ones and the new, minus, of course, the ones that would never be coming back again– Sasori’s was a face like any other: much younger than most, of course, but with the same iron set.

Sandaime Kazekage was the strongest of them all, far stronger than either of his predecessors, and it was a strength that came from preparedness. He had already contemplated his new cabinet members’ files again and again. This would only be a cursory examination; he had already made his choices. (A peculiar man– not merely strong, but careful; he kept quiet and thought things over for himself, didn’t like to share his thoughts even with his closest advisors. In this world, that may not have been a bad tactic for survival. No one even had a clue that he was after the jinchuuriki’s powers until the day he had begun to use them.)

“And you, the one called Akasuna no Sasori,” he said with a perfunctory air but without any particular interest, “You’ll be joining me here tomorrow at the same time too.”

He looked up briefly from his list long enough to observe Sasori nod mutely. He would look longer later, but for now his mind was occupied with this business– who was to be assigned where– and he kept walking, turned to the next person (a tall, lanky man with a shock of grizzled gray hair and a long scar that stretched from chin to hairline) and said, “You’ll still be my most trusted in all of ANBU, of course.”

His long robes swished as he walked, and the day wore on. Sasori returned to the workshop he shared with his grandmother and gave her the news, news which surprised neither of them.

Sandaime went back to his chambers and the endless stacks of ledgers that had usurped his desk– mind-numbing work, but he wouldn’t allow anyone else to do it. The moon had risen and fallen by the time he fell asleep, but all the night through he kept his mind fixed on the papers in front of him. There was no use in letting his mind wander so badly that he would have to do it all over again; he knew that things should always be done well the first time. So he didn’t spare a thought for the jounin, not even his chosen favorites. They would have to wait until the next day.

In the few hours’ sleep he got in the early morning, no dreams came, at least nothing that he would remember once he woke. He felt no apprehension– nothing else either: the future did not always leave intimations.




It would be unwise to place too much emphasis on everything that was to happen after this: it may have been that all the pieces were already in place. Events moved along their prescribed paths, people as well.




A curious man: yes. Quiet, thorough, but everyone had their excesses.

It was in his rooftop garden that he posed the question– the questions, many, and the first one was harmless enough even if the last wouldn’t be.

Suna was dry like the air above the clouds, dry like a sheaf of old paper, and even when the summer rains made green sprout up briefly in the rest of the country this area remained inhospitable. And thus the garden. These were no cacti or scraggly desert weeds; Sandaime’s little paradise was all orchids and tuberose, bromiliads (sp?) and jasmine. The air was warm and– wet, Sasori thought, in a way that he’d never expected air could be. It clung to his skin: the moisture and the fragrance.

It was there that he went one evening as the sun set in a golden blaze to deliver a report (a pain, he thought, a shame, a waste of time. The Kazekage might be the ruler of this village, but he, Sasori, had important work to do, and it was difficult for him to tolerate this obsession with having reports delivered in person), and it was there and then that he was asked the first question– a simple one.

“Are you familiar with this flower?”

He didn’t turn around to look at Sasori as he said it, but instead gestured to a plant with brilliantly orange blooms. Sasori could only shrug in reply and eventually say,
“I have no interest in flowers. You wanted me to give you this. I’ve already had to take a half-hour out of my day to get over here.”
“You’re very serious,” he commented– smiling, although Sasori couldn’t see that and wouldn’t have cared if he could. “Don’t worry; I hope you don’t believe I think that that’s a bad thing.”

No response. Sandaime continued, “I believe you’ve already told me that you find this tiresome– having to come and speak with me in person every time you submit your reports. You’re thinking, ‘All the other shinobi in this village don’t have to do this. But then you start working for this guy directly, and all of a sudden he’s monopolizing your time.’ Do I have that right?”
“I suppose so. Kazekage-sama.” –The last part was hastily tacked on at the end; the tone of reverence unconvincing at best. Sasori didn’t care who noticed; if he had to speak with people, then he preferred at least to be able to speak his mind.

A laugh. “Do you really find me that irritating?”
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not. It’s hardly a– a personality-related job, is it? I won’t hold any of this against you. It’s a tiger lily, by the way.” That was when he finally turned around, a slight smile still playing across his face. “But humor me, will you, and answer a question for me. I wonder: what do you think of me, Akasuna no Sasori?”

Sasori pondered this for a moment. “I am impressed by the Satetsu. Otherwise, I have no particular opinion of you.”
“Ouch.” Another laugh. “You really are extremely direct. Well, I’m sorry for keeping you, then. And, of course, for making you leave your important work to come up here.”

Sasori didn’t allow himself to give any outward signs; his eyes didn’t narrow; but he turned the words over and over again: your important work. Was there a tone of condescension there? No, he decided.

He settled for saying, “I don’t see why you couldn’t read your reports in your office. Kazekage-sama.”
“Really? But I like this garden; I was the one who commissioned it, after all. It’s very relaxing, don’t you think? You don’t have to answer that.”
“It’s... I don’t think I see the point. Here’s your report,” he said pointedly, holding up the envelope full of paper.
“Hm. I see. Tell me– I’m keeping you from your work again, still, I know, but given that I am the kazekage, I think you’ll have to forgive me– how far from Suna have you ever traveled?”

Sasori walked a few steps closer before he answered, still holding out the folder the whole time. This man!

“I’ve been from one end of the desert to the other, I suppose. But staying here with my workshop is a much better use of my time; I hope you know that.”
“Of course. I see. But to spend all your life in the desert! It half seems a waste.”

Again, Sasori said nothing. It was getting late; the sun had dove fully below the horizon now, and he had work that he had intended to have done by the next morning. (This awful, time-wasting man!)

“Come here, a little closer,” Sandaime murmured after a pause, gesturing lazily with one hand.

And then he reached out, and Sasori let out an audible sigh of relief and proffered the folder, but Sandaime’s hand closed around one of his thin, white wrists instead. He leaned closer and pried the fingers of Sasori’s other hand from the folder– and he let it drop. Surprise? That was the most likely explanation, and the fairest to Sasori.

But it didn’t matter: the last question had just been asked and answered– because the most vital questions aren’t always the ones that take form in words.

As he leaned closer and closer still, Sasori could smell not just the flowers (terrible, heavy-scented, nauseating flowers!) but something more besides: the smell of the man’s skin. (And the sound of him breathing– loud, suddenly very loud in the space around them.)

Nobody could foresee everything, after all, and from there on out, things would not happen the way Sasori had expected.




But the workshop, that was important too, perhaps even more important. The workshop shouldn’t be left out for the sake of searching for only the most obvious answers. After all, it’s there that he discovered it: his method. Or Method, rather; it deserved the capital letter.

“This man,” he explained to the group– Kazekage-sama and the rest of his advisors, who had piled into the conference room and were leaning over the heads of the seated puppet masters, craning to get a better look, “Was from the Hidden Grass originally. For a such a small village, they really have got some extraordinary shinobi out this year.”
“Trust me, we’ve noticed,” said one of the jounin as he traced the outline an angry red burn scar on his throat and smiled grimly.

“Well, he did have some interesting powers, anyway. Particularly, he had some pretty strong katon jutsu. I was impressed. I’ll have to admit that I have never been particularly good with those.” (A few sets of eyes narrowed– What’s going on with him? A shinobi, admitting a weakness so freely?) “Well, up until now, anyway.”

And they saw, and this time even Chiyo heard herself give out a faint little startled sound. No one had ever been able to do that before. Perhaps it wasn’t so macabre after all, to make a puppet from a corpse. It was practical.




He seemingly never left his shop now; he was too caught up in his own magic to want to partake of anything else. Sasori arrived early each morning before the sun had boiled the day dry and left late in the night– or at least, that was how it worked in theory. In actuality, most nights he fell asleep at his workbench and woke without knowing how long he had slept for, unsure even as to how long it had been since he had gone outside– a few hours? Half a day? Or was it several days?

After a few months of this he gave in and moved out of Chiyo’s house– the walk from there to his shop was, he thought, unnecessarily long and took away from the time he had to do his important work– and rented a his own room closer to his work. (He could afford that now; all of a sudden, he had money of his own, almost more than he knew what to do with. He decided to invest most of it in preservative chemicals– he would be needing them.) It was a shabby little place, one cramped room and a bathroom the size of a matchbox; he could certainly have gone for better, but why bother? This wasn’t his real home. He kept his workshop meticulously clean but in this place he left half-eaten meals to sit for days, let the ants and flies take it all; he threw his dirty clothes on the floor and didn’t mind when he realized he no longer remembered what color the tile underneath was.

He went on missions and in between times he had meetings with the senior puppet masters and with the kazekage (and yes, he did meet with the kazekage, quite a bit more intensely than any of his other advisors– oh, but that story will still have to wait just a bit longer), but the rest of his time was his own; he was a genius, after all, paid for his research. He was more than amenable to that.

He worked all hours of the day and night; he fiddled with every mechanism on every puppet and drew up plans for more intricate models. After coming back from a mission, he would peel off skins and place them gently– lovingly, almost– in vats of preservative; he would gouge out muscle and gut and replace it with wood and wire and needles and knives. When he slept, he dreamed of hollowing out faces and prying loose teeth, of tearing out hearts and other refuse.

He worked by lamplight, which was more steady and even than that of the sun anyway, for his workshop was situated in the center of its building and had no windows. He didn’t see the sun rise or set much anymore, and he lost track of time completely. Once, after spending a long night trying to work the kinks out of a new mechanism for shooting needles, he finished in the very early morning before the sun had risen and decided to walk the half-block back to his room and sleep through the morning– just to step outside and look up in surprise at the brilliant azure blue sky in the burning light of the midday sun.

Even when he went on missions now, he began wearing long sleeves and a head-covering. He grew pale as milk.




It was to the little restaurant on the corner that he went when he realized that he was growing thinner too: even as he was starting to grow taller, he shed weight uncontrollably. The kazekage had been right, it seemed: “You know, you need to remember to eat more. You’re starting to look downright unhealthy.”

When he and the rest of the kazekage’s men went out for lunch they ate here more often than not, and Sasori always preferred what was familiar to him. In fact, did he still have one of their menus somewhere? –Yes, there it was, hidden under a stack of invoices and mission reports. He flipped through it and circled three of their selections, and then, after thinking about it for a moment, went back and circled three more before tucking it in his pocket and setting out.

When he got there, that girl was standing behind the counter again. She must have been the daughter of the owners– yes, because she had the same very dark eyes and olive skin– because she couldn’t have more than a year older than he was at the most, and it made sense then that the people she worked for would be her family. At any rate, she seemed to be here an awful lot.

“Sasori-sama!” she called and gave him a friendly wave. “It’s unusual to see you here by yourself.”






...And that's all there is. Observations:
1. I wanted to write this in the style of some impartial, vaguely omniscient observer attempting to explain events, probably because two of my favorite novels are written in that style. I don't know that I did well with that, though; parts of it feel awkwardly phrased to me.
2. It might make me a bad person, but Sandaime Kazekage was the funnest character to write in all of this. Especially his dialogue. I want to write a character like that someday and actually finish the fic they're in.
3. Seriously, if any part of this appeals to you, do whatever you want with it.
Tags: akatsuki frat house, bitchbitchbitch, fanfic, hetalia, naruto, scraps
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