The argument, such as it was, occurred every year. Still… it wasn’t nearly as vicious as most.
Deidara lay on the ground, his head in Sasori’s lap. The stiff, dry blades of dying grass dug into his back, but he ignored them. He was a little too busy paying attention to the bright red leaf he held delicately with the tips of his fingers, turning and flipping it in the air above his head.
Personally, Sasori found the position to be near sickeningly saccharine, but he put up with it for Deidara’s sake. The fuss that the blonde would put up if Sasori declined was too much of a hassle to consider, and besides… it