“You’re a mad dog,” is his partner’s decree, “not a shinobi. I’ve put down plenty of dogs in my time.”
And that’s the kind of bullshit that infuriates Hidan more than anything else. That casual dismissal of who and what and everything he is. A segment of the godhead, a priest, a master of his own bone-deep brand of faith. All these things. The lack of acknowledgment stings.
“And you’re an atheist,” he spits back. “You’ll burn in hell for fucking ever for your ignorance.”
“Agnostic,” Kakuzu corrects, eyes closing into slits. “There’s no profit in dismissing things out of hand.”
Agnostic, and what a waste. There is no room for shades of grey in this. You are or you aren’t, no path in between. “I’ll teach you.” He bites off each word between his teeth. “I’ll show you.” The godhead, magnificent, sparking obsidian and deadly.
Kakuzu’s hands on his body are always inhumanly steady. And every time, Hidan endures inhuman things. In ways, they’re both separate, beyond mortality, beyond humanity. Not subhuman, but other.
Hidan’s never learned by sitting still. He won’t teach that way, either.
He likes way Kakuzu’s calluses catch on his cock. He likes being met in kind: heat to heat, weight to weight, teeth again teeth. The slick wash of threads over his body, and then into it, under his skin, distorting it like grotesquely distended veins. No normal human could take it. His body is his altar. His body is divination, the skin opening, pulled back, exposing red muscle and blood to the air. Kakuzu’s fingers in his mouth, the man crouched over him, on top of him, immobile and implacable as stone. Divination, augury, signs read from the entrails. Hidan loves what can destroy him. He wants what can destroy him. For all his power, those things are beyond Kakuzu yet. So Hidan doesn’t love him. But he wants him, and that’s almost close enough.
Kakuzu leans over him. That torn-up face is all Hidan can see. The fingers twisted in his pale, fine hair. Every breath sparking electric hot laughing agony through him. Kakuzu moving his fingers in Hidan’s guts. The noise it makes. The squelching. Hidan arches up into it and laughs and laughs, that edge where it sounds more like rough-caught sobs than amusement. His partner. His partner in fucking, in fighting, in pain. Jashin. Yes.
“I find your arguments wanting.” the man’s voice is low and even as ever. Hidan the failed augury, the heretic eclipsing him. He is never going to be able to forget.