AN: This story is one of my more serious, reflective KakuzuxHidan stories.

Really, this is rated M for sexual reference, not an actual scene. I'm sorry; I was just in the mood to write this instead. I was listening to the band My Chemical Romance and the background sounds in a couple of the songs like This is How I Disappear and The Sharpest Lives really inspired me to write this. They reminded me of sounds Hidan might make when Kakuzu and Hidan are making love in their strange, twisted, bloody way.

This story is more or less what Kakuzu thinks about when he's alone- a first person narration of his true thoughts that he would never admit out loud.

Hope you enjoy.


Your voice.

It seems as though if that was the only sound in this life, I would be okay.

The only time I hate this cruel immortality we put ourselves through is when your voice dies out. Not even in decapitation does your voice cease… and I love that.

I may act like I'm annoyed when you speak, but we all have to put up barriers and walls in this life we lead. I lie, Hidan. I have to. Really, your voice is a haunted melody I wish could follow me everywhere I went. Whether it's when your mood is cocky and cruel, or the few serene phrases when you're calm and refined. I'd take it all- any sound of yours would make me feel at ease.

I guess it's the idea of mine that our life together is finally over when your voice dies out. The weird mantra in my head follows as if everything would be over if the sound all stopped. Is that what dying is like, Hidan? Then again, you wouldn't know, would you?

Even at night, your voice sometimes makes itself known… Sometimes it will be quiet, incoherent mumbles but other times- even if you don't know it- you suffer from night terrors. I wake up to you on your knees, praying- begging- for your life… Who are you talking to? The God you live for? What are you going through in these visions?

I don't know if you hear me or not… but I talk back. It's a pleasure I indulge in any time it seems you need comfort at night. Some nights, you lay in my arms, mumbling words or soft phrases as if chanting some unknown prayer. The few words I make out of your never-ending sentences, I reply to. Other times, during these nightmares you have, I take your hands, lacing them with mine, telling you everything is okay… And that you'll never die. I won't let you.

Sometimes, I don't know if you realize I'm there or that I can hear you.

Your times in the basement- I know they're meant to be private, but every once in a while I get a spark of worry. 'Maybe he needs me; maybe he wants my company.' I'll slip down the stairs, hiding my chakra for your comfort. The soundproof door hides everything, really. No one but someone who sits on the steps can whiteness the most horrifying sounds- and they come directly from your vocal chords.

As you pin yourself to the wall within your sacred symbol, your small whimpers and cries of pain echo throughout the stone walls. The harsh curses bouncing from the cold interior of the room would give anyone chills of fear- but they give me chills from the sacred beauty of it all. These sounds are like your secret, yet I know about them and whiteness them often. Sometimes, I wonder if you really know I'm down here during your personal rituals yet you don't mind.

The harsh words you criticize yourself with during these lonely basement sacrifices- they worry me sometimes. The cruel accusations of how imperfect you really are: are those your words or Jashin's?

Your hollow screams that last for what seems like an eternity make all of the senses within me tremble. Can your God possibly be that powerful as to evoke such pained cries from you?

These scream die down into small reverberations resembling sobs. You never cry… yet you break down and spill all your emotions out with heart wrenching cries to your Jashin-sama… What is this God like, if he can really pull such fear out of your heart?

Our times together… Our strange form of love, and the sounds I only here when we join together in that way… They compare to nothing else, really.

Your body arches up, begging for more of the morbid pain I give you. Your pleas and whimpers in the vulnerable state you love fascinate me to no end. Its as if nothing else matters at the moments of your pleasure. Nothing else is on your mind but the numbing pain you feel throughout your body- and I give that to you. That seems that's my purpose.

As I take your breath, squeezing more and more pain into your throat, you still manage to choke out broken phrases, encouraging more our of my performance, promising that you're really okay and it's just not enough. You want even more. Pain seems to come in endless amounts to you, over and over in the repetitive cycle of our love. Really, that's fine with me, as long as you still seek my companionship and as long as I still can experience your shrill cries and guttural moans that surround our lovemaking.

I'm okay with that position though- being the one to deliver you that sweet pain. Why, you may wonder? Its because it seems the more blood you shed, the more noise that rips from you body… until there's no more of either. The one time dark shades of guilt seem to shadow over my mind: those times after we're together when you bleed out and your voice stops. That was my doing as well, wasn't it?

The crimson liquid stains both of our bodies, yet no sound accompanies it to make it all better. It leaves me alone with cold, sickening fear that those could have been your last words to ever reach my mind.

Your whispers afterward when you wake up warm me back into a person instead of the cold, lonely island I become as you rest. The small raspy "I love you" means the world to me. I eagerly return it every time.

The few times you're seme during our haphazard passion, your cocky, dirty phrases whispered into my ear turn me on to no end- really, you don't know what they do to me. These odd chances for you to be in control fuel your desire even more- I can tell. I can always tell. Your liveliness the next day seems to burn with self-recognition and pride. Our love has an odd sense of equality to it, doesn't it, Hidan?

You may think you mean nothing to me… You may believe you mean nothing to me… But really, you're my everything.

I love you.