The last time Kakuzu lay with someone, there was nothing remarkable about it.
It was shortly after he joined Akatsuki, back when money still felt like a gently flowing river — without the ravenous urgency that consumed him now. He was more lenient with himself in those days — allowing small indulgences, minor detours from the rigidity of his own existence. Body against body, heat for heat, a coin to seal the pact and nothing more.
Even then, he already knew how to spot a safe investment. Roadside prostitutes were among the few honest trades he knew: they delivered exactly what they promised. Better yet, they were easy. Not in terms of acquisition — desire had always been a cheap commodity — but in the lack of obstacles, the simplicity of the deal. As long as he paid the agreed-upon price, there would be no questions, no hesitation, no lingering eyes on the seams running across his skin.
They didn’t ask for kisses. They didn’t wonder about the dried blood on the black fabric of his cloak. They didn’t care if he kept the mask on; the mouth, after all, was a superfluous accessory when the deal only required a body to be present.
Kakuzu never expected to feel anything beyond physical pleasure, because he knew there was nothing more to it than the act itself — devoid of substance, like so many other bodily needs. He understood the fleeting nature of desire. The sweat would dry, the sheets would go back to being just fabric, and the warmth of another body would vanish into the void. Intimacy, that intangible thing so many spoke of, had never been part of it. The moments were merely transactional exchanges — cold, without the slightest trace of truth.
Intimacy always seemed to him a concept with blurry edges. Simple in definition, but vast and labyrinthine in substance. Even before everything — before betrayal, before humiliation, before the fall — Kakuzu already sensed there was something insurmountable between him and the world. He had never been a man of bonds; the demands of his work pushed him away from life just as much as they forced him to sustain it. Intimacy required closeness, and he had always been distant, even when surrounded by people.
It was a settled matter. Accepted and internalized as an unmovable principle. And if the practice had never been his, what did the theory matter? You don’t miss what you never had.
Which is why, when he finally understood what that word truly meant — idea, concept, illusion — the revelation didn’t come as an epiphany, but as a violent crash against the hard floor of reality. A miscalculation, a misstep. Because Kakuzu was a rational man, austere, accustomed to silence and self-sufficiency, and for so long he had resigned himself to walk the solitary path destiny had laid out for him.
He had grown used to loneliness and condemned himself to it for all eternity before eternity itself even had a chance to catch up with him. He made it his fortress, his prison, his unshakable foundation. And it was comfortable — until it wasn’t.
Then came Hidan, and his presence broke through the arid surface of Kakuzu’s existence like an unimaginable river cutting through a mountain that was never meant to know water. An incongruity, a flaw in the fabric of the world, an irritating disturbance that, against all logic, persisted.
Frankly, Kakuzu didn’t gave him credit at first. Though it wounded his pride, he underestimated Hidan — his importance, his impact, his consequences. He got used to the fights, the arguments, the exchange of hostilities. But little by little, rust dulled the edge of those blades. The violence dissolved into habit. The habit, into a strange and unwanted familiarity. And familiarity, that damned thing, was the beginning of everything Kakuzu should never have allowed.
Two years passed in a violent and bizarre partnership, and Kakuzu learned many things.
He learned to respect Hidan, even if his constant annoyance always spoke louder than any desire to praise him for a well-placed strike. He learned to tolerate him, because in the end, even the most creative murder attempts lose their charm when repeated to exhaustion. He even learned to appreciate him — and the way he devoted himself to his faith with blind, yet unwavering loyalty.
Indeed, many things changed between them. But it never occurred to him — not even crossed his mind — that the mere act of growing used to someone’s presence could lead him down paths never before walked, let alone imagined — much less touched.
And he wasn’t just talking about sex, because sleeping with Hidan hadn’t been a surprise, and it never could have been. He was young, after all. Young, beautiful, infuriating. A strong, agile body, built for combat and carnage, unbelievably resilient, capable of withstanding pain that would break any other man.
Hidan was a creature made of steel and fanaticism, of flesh and obsession. He smelled of blood and smoke, tasted of sweat and iron, and had a laugh that didn’t know when to stop. A depraved addiction to everything forbidden. He had no awareness of himself, or the attributes he carried, or the way the flex of his muscles or the lick of his dry lips drew more attention than they probably should.
And — well — Kakuzu had never been a man of boundless patience or unshakable self-control. He had wants, even when they defied his rigid principles. He was a man susceptible to attraction, like any other. Even if that attraction was constantly restrained by almost inexplicable inner reasons.
Hidan, on the other hand, was utterly incapable of grasping the concept of restraint. To him, it mattered little that they were partners, that sometimes they hated each other, that sometimes they tried to kill each other. He lived in the moment. And for his own wants — wildly free — and whims.
Thus, what formed between them was nothing if not inevitable. And the inevitable is only called such because it happens.
Hidan had always been willing. Alluring. A man with a mouth far too big to be used solely for blasphemy and provocation. A body that never recoiled, that never hesitated, that surrendered to pleasure in the same way it surrendered to war: with blind, insatiable, unbearable devotion.
There was no shock in it. Someone with such an exaggeratedly liberal spirit, with a natural inclination for debauchery like his, carried within him an inexhaustible source of desire.
And wasn’t that the core of his existence? The boundless fervor, the strange passions, the exotic fixations, the pleasures consumed like sacrifices?
Even the seven deadly sins paled in comparison to him.
So, Kakuzu always knew.
He always knew he’d end up with him — in his hands, in his sheets, in his body. Fate could never have been any different — not after that scene. Not after seeing him, sprawled in a pool of blood, arching in profane ecstasy, moaning for who-knows-what, for who-knows-whom — with a plea so honest and hypnotic that Kakuzu had to clench his fists, dig his nails into his own flesh just to keep from admitting the obvious. To keep from surrendering to the humiliation of realizing that, yes, he was aroused by a damn ritualistic performance, by a nonexistent god, by an unbearable and disastrous fanatic.
Sleeping with Hidan was different, because he was a man who lived in excess, who gave himself without shame, who burned with fever and fervor. Who crawled into his bed without hesitation, without doubt, without fear.
And so came the descent — but not only that. Never just that.
Kakuzu knew, from the very beginning, that they wouldn’t stay like that forever — trapped in static carnal pleasure. Hidan never came without shaking things, without leaving deep, permanent marks. A hateful brat with a short fuse and razor-edged grins, a masochist with sadistic tendencies who found joy in wrecking his life, always searching for something to fill his insatiable boredom.
The change came, as expected.
It came in the form of sex, which grew less rough and more playful; of insults that began to blend with stifled laughter and accidental confessions. It came in the touch, which burned more than it hurt, and in the eyes that lingered too long on things they shouldn’t. It came in the way Kakuzu’s mask fell — accidentally, they told themselves. Fortuitous accidents. Frequent. Expected. Accidents that began with hands tugging hair, fingers undoing buttons, and mouths meeting far too quickly to seem unintentional.
The rule of avoiding kisses didn’t exist between them. It never had.
And yet, intimacy wasn’t born from those tempests. It didn’t come from the moans, or the whispered insults spoken in a hoarse tone, or the hot skin pressed against his. It didn’t come from the sound of Hidan’s voice in his ear, nor his breath against his neck. It didn’t taste like pleasure, didn’t smell like lust, didn’t echo like desire.
Instead, something else came: silence.
A strange concept — especially with Hidan involved — but real.
When the bones ached after profane exertions and their backs cracked from where they had rolled off the bed onto the floor, Kakuzu would settle as best he could and sit with his back against the nearest wall. His sleeping robe was always open — Hidan was an expert at tearing the ties — and sweat dripped from the tip of his chin to the floor as he reached just far enough toward the table to grab his bag, and from his bag, his book.
From there, he indulged in a habit he’d kept for years — one that had always been solitary and nothing more.
That is, until Hidan decided to join him. He didn’t do it the first time they slept together. Nor the second, nor the third, and probably not even the fourth.
But at some point, in the tired, violent, exhilarating, and subdued timeline of their lives, Hidan simply took it upon himself to make space between Kakuzu’s legs, sit there, and lean back against his chest as if that spot had always belonged to him.
And what a sight it was. What a sight they were.
Not two criminals with filthy pasts and dysfunctional minds. Not two killers whose existence orbited around chaos and destruction. No. There, in that stillness, they were something else. Two slightly strange, clumsy men who still shuddered when their skin touched — but not during the moans and screams, not in the profane peaks of pain and desire. They trembled instead in the subtle friction of intertwined breaths, in the lazy slide of sweat no longer born of exertion, but of the soft warmth of touch.
Kakuzu didn’t immediately grasp how absurd it was. He knew it was absurd, but only in a theoretical way — like someone who knows the sky is blue and not red, but can’t quite explain the sunset.
Foolishly, at first, what truly bothered him wasn’t even the closeness: it was the fact that Hidan was a ridiculously slow reader — possibly even dyslexic — and incapable of getting through a page without some absurd misunderstanding.
“Bread?”
He’d murmur to himself, barely louder than a whisper, but still a violation of the silence.
In those moments, Kakuzu would lift his eyes from the text. He’d see Hidan’s furrowed brow, that mildly perplexed expression — like the word had materialized in the book just to deceive him — and could only sigh.
“Breathe, you idiot.”
“Oh.”
And Hidan would simply go back to reading, as if the answer were enough, as if time belonged entirely to him, spinning lazily at his fingertips. As if the whole world bent to his lack of urgency.
And Kakuzu had already reread the damned page twice before Hidan even considered turning it.
And still, here was the real surprise: he never found in himself the genuine will to complain.
The construction of this was slow. The realization, even slower.Like something crawling through the shadows, unhurried, without announcing its arrival. Somehow — and Kakuzu didn’t want to think about how, or why — a door had opened inside him. A passage to something deep and uncomfortable, something he hadn’t intended to visit, something that should’ve stayed locked away for good.
And Hidan, reckless, intrusive, invasive as always, slipped through that opening without hesitation. Threw himself in like a careless explorer delving into a temple of forbidden treasures, eyes gleaming in fascination at what should never have been uncovered.
Reading together was just a fragment of that prism — a subtle reflection of something larger. After it came instincts, thoughtless reflexes, automatic acts—the way his body would place itself between Hidan and the blade flying toward him. As if it were inevitable. As if it were natural. As if, at some imperceptible point, a line had been crossed.
First it was a kunai. Then, a shuriken. Then, a chakra blast that nearly cost him a heart.
A curse. A burden with a name — affection, whispered the most ignored corners of his mind — but which Kakuzu stubbornly disguised beneath more acceptable excuses: arrogance, overconfidence, sheer convenience.
Of course, he had already planned to replace that heart. Of course, he knew he was immune to that damn poison. Of course, he knew Hidan would return from any injury.
(Intact, but not without pain. Alive, but not without new scars to mark his pale skin for days.)
And Kakuzu got angry about it before he even understood what it was. And by the time he realized, it was too late.
Worse still was when Hidan did the same.
Without hesitation, without calculation, without even realizing what he was doing. As if it were a natural reflex to place himself between Kakuzu and the enemy. As if his body moved before his mind could grasp what was happening. Without waiting for orders, without measuring the consequences.
"You almost got hit, fucker!" he snapped one day, eyes blazing, chest heaving.
But no, Kakuzu hadn’t “almost gotten hit.”
No, the damn target hadn’t even come close.
Hidan hadn’t considered any of that — of course not.
The heart spoke louder than the mind — and instincts louder than any logic or reason.
They always ended up tangled in each other after moments like that. As if it were a reward, or maybe a compensation. Kakuzu couldn’t tell. Maybe it was their way of showing what their mouths lacked the courage to say. Words that didn’t fit on paper. Sentences that couldn’t be formed in the air.
And Hidan would stay close in those moments, as he always did after battle. And Kakuzu wouldn’t pull away — because that’s just how he was.
The other’s scent — blood, sweat, and something warm he couldn’t quite name — hung in the tight space between them. And Kakuzu hated to admit he recognized it as well as he did his own breath. Hated to admit the absurd familiarity in the way Hidan’s body collided into his, as if searching for something. As if he wanted to feel something.
As if, deep down, it were a silent plea.
A way of clinging to his skin and never letting go.
And they were probably being foolish, and deliberately blind, and deliberately deaf — and the palms of their hands no longer knew what touch was, and their noses no longer knew what scent was, because the truth was right there, before them, and yet still insurmountable. Inaccessible.
And that, too, was maddening.
Maddening in the way Kakuzu felt his water heart swell, and the lightning one thunder, and the fire one burn, and the wind one burst into violent gusts.
Maddening in the way his earth heart — the original one, the most stubborn, the roughest, the most honest — drove roots where it shouldn’t.
Roots of attachment. Of gratitude. Of fondness.
And of something else.
Something more.
Something more that dragged Hidan toward him with an invisible pull. Something more that kept Kakuzu exactly where he was, without pushing him away, without pretending it wasn’t happening.
The threads that held his body together seemed to hum against his skin, electric, restless, alert.
In those moments, Hidan would lean in a little more, a crooked smile on his lips, a glint in his eyes that wasn’t just adrenaline. Something lazy and content, like he was about to stretch out under the sun after a successful bloodbath.
Kakuzu thought he could adapt to that without surprise. Thought nothing else would come. Thought that was the epitome of everything he had only learned through distant concepts and examples removed from personal experience.
Until Hidan decided to surprise him again.
It wasn’t even a special day. There wasn’t even anything happening.
Suddenly, they looked at each other and, suddenly, Hidan was on top of him. Firm hips, strong thighs squeezing around his waist, arms braced on either side of his head.
From the start, it was supposed to be just sex. But it evolved. And evolved, and evolved, and evolved — until Kakuzu realized his eyes were closed and Hidan was tracing lazy shapes on his skin.
And they stayed like that, in an almost sacred moment, a secret kept even from themselves, until Hidan decided to change everything again.
"Hey, I like these ones."
The voice came low, more a murmur than actual speech, and Kakuzu took far too many seconds to understand what he meant — until the kiss came.
Until the kiss came.
Not on his lips.
Not on the tip of his nose, like Hidan sometimes did just to tease him — but on his scars.
The one near the corner of his mouth, and the one higher up, near his eyes.
And the one on his shoulders, and his chest, and his abdomen. And a bit further down.
His lips were cold — not freezing, but still enough to raise goosebumps. Not soft, yet still gentle. Evasive without being uncomfortable; familiar, even though this was something new between them, a new layer to what they were and had.
And Kakuzu was stunned by it. He hadn't expected any of it, damn it.
"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice deeper than intended, rough around the edges, surprised at the core.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Hidan shot back, not pulling away, not hesitating. Another kiss, this time on the firm line of his collarbone. "Does it bother you?"
Kakuzu opened his mouth to say yes, that it was unnecessary, that Hidan didn’t need to act sentimental. But the word stuck between his teeth, because Hidan didn’t seem sentimental. Or playful. Or even intentionally irritating, which was already an anomaly on its own.
He just looked... content.
And that was a problem. It always had been.
"You don’t do this." Kakuzu’s voice came out lower now, almost a warning growl.
Hidan paused, his eyes lazily drifting up to meet his.
"I do now."
Kakuzu should push him away. This kind of thing led to places he wasn’t willing to go. But Hidan was still there, and he was still there, and there was a reason why he hadn’t pushed him away yet. There was a reason why Kakuzu never pushed him away.
(He told himself the threads beneath his skin were just too tangled to pull apart. It would be too much work.)
Taking the opportunity, Hidan settled onto his lap — naked, satisfied, and smug as a well-fed cat. But not to coax him into a third round, nor to tease him to death with some sarcastic comment about the kisses — too tender, too affectionate, too intimate.
Hidan just got comfortable and looked at him. And then he touched him.
Not like an object of desire.
Not like an interesting weapon.
And not like a monster.
Hidan’s fingers slid across his skin without trying to claim it, without the immediate need for possession or control. Just touch, plain and simple. As if he wanted to learn its texture, to map it a different way — maybe a way he never had before, or maybe always had, but never quite like this.
Kakuzu felt the strangeness of the moment settle over him like a soft weight, like a warm sheet on a cold night. Hidan wasn’t gentle by nature. His brutality was part of who he was, of how he existed in the world. But there, in those touches, there was no violence or mockery. Just recognition. Just a quiet appreciation for what he saw and touched.
A finger traced an invisible line across his chest, following the uneven texture of stitched skin. Hidan followed the path with his mouth, his breath warm in contrast to the coldness of his lips.
Then he stopped and, like a small animal, rubbed the tip of his forehead against the curve of Kakuzu’s neck. And he lay there — comfortable and intrusive, oblivious to what he had just done. Indifferent to what he had just done.
Kakuzu thought he’d say something eventually. That he’d make some unexpectedly clever comment — maybe even emotionally intelligent, as a bonus surprise for the day. But Hidan didn’t. Of course not. The idiot. What he did was mumble.
“Kazu, I’m hungry.”
He slapped Kakuzu’s shoulder as if it were his fault. As if it were supposed to be his job to do something about it.
It took a moment — a haze of post-orgasm confusion that unfairly made him feel guilty — but Kakuzu finally understood. Of course Hidan would think that. Of course he’d act like some damn prince. Hadn’t that been exactly how they’d evolved over the past cursed years and months?
In the cheap motels where they stayed between missions, under bedsheets that reeked of the bodies who had come before them, Kakuzu repeated gestures he had never planned on turning into habits. He’d get up, and the rusted tap water would run lukewarm, filling the thin silence with the buzz of dim bulbs and the distant hum of the road. He’d wash his hands and think about how it always ended like this: Hidan sprawled on the flimsy mattress, sheets wrinkled and crooked beneath his satisfied body, watching him with that spoiled, demanding look.
Then, as if driven by some invisible logic, he’d go out to get something. A greasy food bag from a rundown gas station, a stale piece of bread and watery coffee. Something to silence Hidan’s hunger — and maybe, to silence something inside himself. The path was always the same: the creak of the door, the smell of charcoal and earth in the dawn air, heavy steps against cracked asphalt. And when he came back, Hidan would already be twisted up on the thin pillow, sometimes grumbling, sometimes just waiting. Always waiting.
He never asked. Not about the food. Not about the gesture. He just ate, chewing with the lazy air of someone who had expected it. Someone who knew. As if, somehow, he’d always known.
And Kakuzu knew too.
The truth was in those roadside motels, in those lukewarm food packets in his hands, in the way he always brought something extra without even realizing it. A bottle of water. A piece of candy swiped from the counter. A slice of fruit Hidan didn’t even like that much — but always accepted.
There was nothing particularly special about any of it.
And yet, maybe — it was the most intimate Kakuzu had ever been.
And that was how he realized. That was how it finally made sense.
Intimacy didn’t come from grand gestures, desperate touches, or the broken gasps of lust. It wasn’t in names spat between moans, or fingernails clawing at his skin. It wasn’t in the sweat they shared, the twisted sheets, the inevitable brutality of those who didn’t know how to love without hurting.
It was, instead, in how Hidan disarmed him without even trying, without even noticing.
In the careless way he curled between Kakuzu’s legs, in his arms. Without asking permission. Without making space. In how his head settled against his chest, without fear of being pushed away. In the clumsy rhythm with which he read aloud, in the distracted murmurs of someone in no hurry to reach the end of the day.
Intimacy came in the naturalness of those moments. In the way Hidan would sometimes sigh, soft and half-asleep, half-bored—but still stayed close. Still had no desire to leave.
And Kakuzu — who should’ve pushed him away, should’ve complained, should’ve cut those habits at the root — never found it in himself to truly do it. Because, in some absurd, illogical, inconvenient way, he realized he had already grown used to it. To him. To them. To the intimacy between them.
And more than that—
That what they’d built had become something he didn’t want to lose.