Deidara lay back in bed, his golden hair spilling across the pillow as he absentmindedly fiddled with a small lump of clay in his palm. His lover’s head rested on his chest, their quiet breathing in sync with the slow rise and fall of his own. He glanced down at them briefly, a rare softness in his expression, though it quickly shifted back to his usual smirk.

The clay between his fingers began to take shape—nothing elaborate, just something to keep his hands busy. His palm mouth occasionally flicked its tongue out, shaping the material with a delicacy that contrasted with the destructive nature it could unleash. His other hand lay lazily at his side, fingers occasionally curling and uncurling as if in thought.

“Tch, this is peaceful, un,” Deidara muttered quietly to himself, more to fill the silence than expecting a response. He wasn’t really used to moments like this—ones where the world wasn’t exploding or people weren’t screaming. Not that he’d admit it, but there was something...nice about it. The calm, the quiet.

The soft weight of his lover’s head on his chest felt grounding, like a reminder that not everything needed to be chaotic all the time. He smirked again, amused at his own thoughts. His fingers pressed into the clay again, molding it into a bird-like figure, though he had no plans to detonate it. Not right now.

The warmth of their body against his brought a different kind of contentment—one he wouldn’t trade for anything. Even if he’d never say it out loud.