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His partner is a curiosity more often than not, and never, ever, ever would Sasori be caught watching him, though watching him is often fascinating. Not that he would admit it. Orochimaru’s predilections have been easy to commit to memory over time, but the sinuous dance of the snake summoner’s steps have taken on an interesting pattern from day to day, what with the rigors of each assignment that comes down from on high.
Every act is calculated, from the routine he follows upon waking, to the method he employs with each task. Whether it is oiling a blade or distilling an extract of aconite for poisoned senbon, everything that Orochimaru manipulates is left with some form of a signature marking the proof of his existence, and that is what Sasori finds interesting. Orochimaru moves with intention, as if he doesn’t wish to waste a single breath or touch; efficiency - it seems - is his way, and though cold at the surface, his method makes for a certain measured elegance when put into action.
He would seem untouchable, but there are days when his pale countenance speaks of a mind that is withdrawn, beset by his own demons, and those are the days when Sasori’s words might deal the most damage in even the most haphazardly vicious exchange. At these times an inner victory seems certain - yet even one such as the puppet master knows that Orochimaru might hold each slight within and keep it, waiting for the right moment to turn those barbs back on him in vengeance.
Sometimes it seems as though the two are not that different.
Sometimes it seems as though Orochimaru understands, and that is a frightening prospect. Understanding means he knows, and if he knows, then he is too close to the inner workings of Sasori’s thinking and is therefore a threat to his goals. What the serpent knows can too easily be used against him and that simply will not do.
So Sasori watches, and he waits. For an opening, for Orochimaru to reveal a weakness - a chink in the metaphysical armor he has spun around himself. A tiny crack through which a small arachnid might burrow, moving straight into the vulnerable flesh beneath.
He’s not quite sure when he realized that the serpent was beautiful.
It might have been while effortlessly dispatching an unexpected threat in the open plains of Kusagakure. The light was overcast but there was no dimming any detail within his sight as he watched the Sannin held in the grip of battle-frenzy. With blood spattered across pale cheeks and pure fire in his eyes, Orochimaru was a veritable god of death and madness, wielding that legendary sword like an extension of his own arm. He hardly needed assistance before cleaving through the pack of rogue nin as if they were merely grass themselves.
It might have been while resting beside a half-dried creek after a three day trek, when Orochimaru pressed a cup of tea into Sasori’s hands with that infuriating smirk, speaking in a cajoling tone before Sasori could even raise a protest.
“You may not relish the thought, but you are still mostly human and you need this. Feel free to curse me later.”
It might have been on the first sunny day of the year, when the serpent lifted the heavy veil of his hair and loosened his cloak just to feel the sun on his skin. The movement exposed the pale column of his neck and the slope of white shoulders, and he stopped, eyes closed, face relaxed, exuding a serene stillness that Sasori had never seen before. In a place where Orochimaru thought no one could see, especially not Sasori. Or perhaps especially Sasori.
Whatever the case may be, the first drawing that finds its way into Sasori’s sketchbook is indeed of bared ivory shoulders in the bright noon sunlight. The image burns itself into the space behind his eyes, and once he captures such a moment, he doesn’t wish to stop there. That drawing is the first, but it is certainly not the last, and as citrine eyes follow the seemingly deliberate steps of Orochimaru’s daily routine, his attention is enraptured by the curves and lines that flow across each page.
He hardly notices the serpentine gaze that follows back.
Missions still fill their days, with objectives completed as they are assigned. They are an effective team, that much is true enough, but it is window dressing at best.
Observant, Sasori may be, genius as well, but sensor he is not. The full extent of the Sannin’s abilities are conjecture to most and hearsay to others, and what is known is only that which has been seen on the battlefield or tested at an official level. It is only in retrospect that he truly considers how acute Orochimaru’s senses are beyond his ability to perceive chakra.
Fresh from bathing, the snake summoner is making his way back to their campsite when he stops dead in his tracks and takes a deep breath, his tongue flicking over his lips. He makes no attempt to look over his shoulder, though if he did he might catch the scant sight of a disturbance in the brush, its sound halted and silenced by a hasty genjutsu. But a simple genjutsu does not take into consideration all of his sensitivities. The scent of cedarwood and oil is faintly piquant on his lips, and the heat signature of his partner rather distinct. The puppet master is watching, still curious and perhaps a danger; but Orochimaru acts as the snake in the grass. He too lies in wait.
True to form, Sasori is not one for waiting. The genjutsu is broken the moment it seems as if Orochimaru has relinquished his caution, and within seconds, several chakra strings loop and snare the snake summoner around his neck and waist. A kunai is called to hand, and in the space of another breath, Sasori has the serpent pinned to the trunk of a fallen oak.
The razor-sharp edge of the blade presses dangerously against a gaunt cheekbone, but there is no shock in those aureate depths, only amusement.
“So you’ve finally decided to act, hmm? What is it you plan to do with me now, Akasuna? The fact that you’ve not poisoned me yet says much, I think.” The Sannin’s gravelly tenor resonates within Sasori’s head, taunting him.
That voice is maddening - Sasori wants to plunge the blade home just as much as he doesn’t.
There is no fear, no resignation in those serpentine eyes. Sasori knows that when he answers, declaring his course of action for better or for worse, Orochimaru will fight him tooth and nail, and he cannot allow such a thing to be. But Sasori cannot be rid of him either. Shuka help him, he has no idea why that is.
A feeling much like rage fills the space inside his ribs, begging for release, even as Orochimaru’s eyes implore him for an answer, but the words will not come. The rage twists to heat, to something more; a need to own, to have, to hold. All he can see are golden eyes, and some distant part of him remarks wryly that he is caught, trapped in the gaze of a serpent.
Before he can control the impulse, Sasori twists a hand in damp black locks and kisses his partner - a harsh press of lips and teeth and desperation that leaves them both gasping and staring at each other in shock when it is finally over.
Everything changes in that moment.
Their paths converge in a wholly new way, both cautious but eager to appease the raging quiet, to end their mutual solitude. The pattern of each day becomes more apparent when Sasori is no longer a mere observer, but allowed inside the routine as a participant if he chooses so. It is like a self-portrait created by Orochimaru’s hands, rife with small and intricate details, discoveries, triumphs. His research is as the plans for a new work of art; a breakthrough is like completing a masterpiece.
The joy that accompanies it is breathtaking to behold.
The puppet master loved to hate him, until he hated to love him, and the line between love and hate blurred so much that he couldn’t tell when the two emotions evolved into something altogether new, altogether beautiful. Love itself is a strange thing, woven together using the barest threads of ambition, intellect, shared pain, and some unnamed component - a spark of renascent purity that neither held before when they stood apart as solitary creatures. A separate element that came to life with their union, bringing beauty back into the ugliness of their lives.
Sasori only knows it as transient; he wants to hold on to the feeling, but as with all of the only lovely things he’s ever known in this world and lost, what good is having them if they cannot last forever?
And yet the remnant of bitter sadness in Orochimaru’s eyes does tell him that this will not last forever.
If Orochimaru leaves, Sasori will hate him always.
That is a simple truth, and he tells him so.