This is vlefayne, the author of Where the lost things are - yeah that klaine fan fiction with the slow burn and loads of unnecessary fight scenes LELELEL.
I'm sure most of you know that the series seems to have been discontinued (lack of updates for almost a year I'm sorry) but I'll have you know I'm over that writer's block, and have re-read the entire fic; there's some things that need changing here and there so I will definitely edit the chapters slowly when I have the time BUT I'm gonna be posting a bunch of new chapters very soon, maybe finishing the first season of it.
TL;DR Where the lost things are will be updated in a week or so. Ready your horses.
HELLO EVERYONE, I recently joined in a story writing competition and it would mean the worrrldddd if you helped voted and check out my short mystery ficlet!!!
Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class.
(A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp)
First quarter
Second quarter
Third quarter
Fourth and last quarter
Words: 6,551 words
SATURDAY
The sky is an endless canvas that colours are tossed upon. Some days it is a pure, uninterrupted shade of paper, stretching seamlessly across his field of vision. When the sun rises, it is like a burst of colours, bright pinks and oranges piled on top on one another, reflecting off low hanging clouds, filling the world with a haze of wonder. When it storms, the harsh glow of lightning illuminates the gathering piles of dull slate grey clouds. At night, the moon glows, giving the speckles of star dust as a guiding light to those who are lost.
The sky is alive.
Growing at each passing moment, a constant changing canvas for the world to see.
Transient.
Momentary.
At this time of the day, the street outside of the school dormitories would be filled with a frenetic city hubbub of noises. The honking taxis, swarms of students and pedestrians marching on their own personal mission, constant chatter. The late Saturday afternoon brought in a hum of calmness, for both students’ and workers’ were having their weekend rest.
Deidara gazed into the sky above. It never failed to amaze him, how beautifully ever-changing the sky was. Sometimes the clouds were puffy and tall, other times they were no more than mere wisps, dashed across the sky by some divine paintbrush. It was the only reason he decided to paint the sky alongside his partner in the first place – it was too magnificent not to.
Well, until Sasori insisted for it to be nothing but hues of grey.
“What are we doing?”
Speak of the devil, Deidara thought, narrowing his eyes and facing the red-head.
“We are going for a walk.” The blonde huffed, folding his arms.
“A walk.” Sasori deadpanned.
Deidara forced a rebuke down his throat.
It was a simple idea really.
Take the red-head out for a good day out, maybe try to attach new brighter, happier memories to the colours he calls ‘misery’. Through those memories, they could – possibly decipher the issue of their clashing hues of colours. It seemed truly unassuming.
Well, Deidara forgot about the part that the red-head was the epitome of gloom.
The blonde sighed.
“It’s fine if you don’t want to.” He ran a hand down his flaxen locks, ignoring the red-head glaring at his side. “We could go back to the cold, grey, dull dorms and stare at the canvas until we both agree heartily on something.”
Thankfully, Sasori kept mum.
They continued their stroll in silence, Deidara taking the lead with the red-head skulking beside, a cold impassioned look on his face.
The street was glorious in its inception. The sidewalks were smooth grey stones (Deidara flinched at the idea of more grey), joined with such precision that the joins were almost invisible. At intervals, stood the street-lamps, once painted in glossy green, now dappled with grey chips of undercoat. The walls were concrete, all sharp edges and corners and the road was a monochrome patchwork, each one lined with a shiny boarder of tar.
Keeping his pace, the blonde hurried around the bend, his boots crunching on snow and grass.
The park, once resplendent in the heyday of summer was now a scrub of moss and snow. Covering the pathway with a blanket of pure bleached silver, the winter snow was not the most pleasant thing to look at. Frowning, Deidara continue his stroll, looking for a pastiche of bright colours to feast his eyes on. Skirting around a corner covered by a trail of bare oak, stood the amber brown of a bench.
It had been exposed to the elements for many seasons, almost resembling driftwood, the bright tones of its once fresh state had become a sombre brown.
The blonde halted and breathed out a sigh, the cold winter mist escaping his lips.
“Well at least it’s quiet.” He muttered.
Sasori had turned to sit on the bench, running his fingers over the swirls in the wood grain.
“It’s old.” The blonde remarked.
He let the moment pass.
Turning to sit, the wooden bench let out a soft creak of negation, causing Sasori to snort. The blonde flushed, gritting his teeth and folding his arms.
“It’s old.” He repeated, annoyed.
They sat side by side, enjoying the peacefulness of an empty park.
“It’s been a while since I had someone to just hang out with.” Deidara broke the silence, glancing at his fingers.
Before Sasori could speak, the blonde held a hand up, signalling the red-head to stop.
“And no, Hidan doesn’t hang out at the park. He prefers lying in bed all day long.” The blonde paused, deep in thought. “Or at the bar.”
Sasori snorted.
Silence engulfed them once more.
Perhaps the blonde felt sympathy for the red-head; after all he had admitted about his dark hazy forest of memoirs. Perhaps it was an eye for an eye. Perhaps it was something else – whatever it was, invigorated the blonde to speak.
“I know how it feels to be empty, you know.” The blonde muttered, shrugging. “I can’t compare myself to you and it’s definitely not a battle of who’s’ more miserable.
He felt Sasori’s gaze on him.
“I just find something else to fill in part of the gap.”
The blonde stuffed his fingers into his hazel coat.
“Do you now?” Sasori scoffed.
Deidara nodded.
“Between soup and love, the first is better.” The blonde reopened his eyes once more, only to notice the red-head staring intently back at him.
“Art too.” He added softly.
That feeling in his stomach appeared once more, a soft mixture between nausea and electric tingles. The umbers of Sasori’s gaze were strangely tender, as if the red-head had no animosity towards the blonde whatsoever.
“Is that why you like soup so much?” The red-head enquired, and the blonde realised he was unable to pin any sort of emotion to the tone of his voice.
Scratching his head and ignoring the buzz of his heart he nodded.
“I guess in a way, soup is like art. Soup becomes whatever you put into it. One can spend hours crafting a stock with incredible depth and flavour, simmering it over low heat to create a body that will have spoons turning mouths into smiles.” Deidara twirled a strand of his locks around his fingers, humming thoughtfully.
“Or one can build a perfectly satisfactory brothy meal with water alone. I suppose the wonderful thing about soup and creating in general – it that it symbolizes a snapshot in time, an homage to the artistry of the moment.”
The blonde twiddled his fingers before glancing at Sasori.
“Like art.”
There was a pause.
“I wonder,” The red-head whispered, almost inaudible, “How many have sat in this very spot? How they felt – perhaps newlyweds in love, confused teenagers looking for meaning?”
The breeze of winter tousled his scarlet hair.
“Some old folk coming to remember a loved one who’s passed.”
Deidara’s face scrunched up.
Way to make things sound morbid. He bit his lip, refusing to say it out loud.
“And –“
“I suppose you are right about soup.”
“And art.”
“Yes, and art.” Sasori rolled his eyes. “That it symbolizes a snapshot in time. That perhaps like the people who’ve come and sat on this very chair, I am none of those things, neither at the beginning or the end of life, but old enough to cherish moments instead of wishing them away.”
The blonde blinked.
He’s actually agreeing with me?
Silence filled the park once more, the rumbling of occasional cars passing by almost non-existent.
An echo of Kakuzu’s words drifted into Deidara’s mind.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him paint something like this.”
Was it true then? The blonde pondered quietly, watching Sasori admire the frosty park with amusement. Hues of concrete, constantly striving for the perfect angle, the perfect brush stroke, was it his way of saying something else?
And what about the greys of Deidara’s eyes?
“Sasori,” The blonde’s voice came out squeakier than he expected.
He cleared his throat, internally cursing himself.
“Kakuzu did mention something that sort of caught my attention.”
The red-head’s gaze whipped over to the blonde, a dark scowl gracing his face. Deidara flinched slightly at the hurried movements and hesitated, unsure whether to continue his train of thought. Instead of strangling him, Sasori decided to stand up instead, leering down distastefully at the blonde.
The sudden switch of emotions promptly caused the blonde to leap out of his seat as well, hovering uncertainly at Sasori’s side.
“He should honestly start wearing a mask to shut his mouth.” The red-head hissed, folding his arms. “Whatever he spouted, it’s an exaggeration.”
“Woah.” Deidara raised his hands in defence. “He just mentioned that it was odd that you were painting everything in unburnished silver – and then after that you said something about my eyes being the shade of grey.”
He lowered his hands slowly, watching Sasori’s face contort into something of panic.
“It’s nothing.” The red-head snapped.
Deidara narrowed his eyes.
“It’s something.” He declared, arms akimbo. “I’m not going to laugh at you, I know I have glorious eyes.” The blonde wiggled his brows.
The red-head’s eyes widened. For a moment he looked confused, almost uncertain, and then a look of clouded rage graced his face.
“You are so full of yourself.” Sasori hissed, shaking his head.
He stomped off, leaving Deidara in a mist of perplexity.
The blonde finally caught up with the red-head.
When Sasori had stormed off, the blonde watched his back leave his view in complete utter confusion – what happened to that moment of profound understanding they had? Deidara stood, feeling awfully empty. The mystified rage in his gut forced him to chase after the oddly behaving red-head, and the blonde realised how huge the park actually was.
Acres of concrete interspersed with neat grass verges, covered up with the caress of snow. The park was nothing like those of the smaller towns, even in the cold of winter, the miniature formal gardens stood regale and magnificent. Revelling in its absolute stillness, the blonde hurried down pathways, brushing past a couple of young adults who retired to the frozen water foundation, basking it its glory.
The pathway Deidara had taken through the park was almost invisible with the fresh snowfall. In the summer, he imagined the wild flowers in a cacophony of colours on the fading green; purple thistles, blue cornflowers, red poppies, and tall asters with their yellow centres. Instead, he was face with blankets of white snow, branches swaying in a free-for-all choreography by the winter wind.
Thankfully, the bright scarlet of Sasori’s hair was visibly easy to spot within the cloud of milky tainted white. Settled on a small children’s playground covered in sheet of chalk, the red-head had perched himself on the swing, half-heartedly swaying from right to left.
“Dude.” Deidara grunted, making his way to the swing beside the red-head.
“Brat.” Sasori acknowledged.
The blonde slumped himself on the swing set as well.
“I was joking.” He grumbled, shooting an appraising glance at the red-head. “I was making a joke, do you not understand humour?”
Dissatisfaction plowed Sasori’s brow.
“Doesn’t help when your ego is bigger than your IQ.” He growled under his breath, loud enough for the blonde to hear.
Narrowing his eyes, Deidara tilted his swing set, shaking the rubber seat and gripped the chains, allowing his body to loll sideways, boots off the snowy tarmac and pushed himself hard, bumping roughly onto the red-head, who gasped at the sudden nudge. Flashing his mocha brown pools back with gaiety, he glared back, eyes as dispassionate as bullets.
“Childish.” He muttered, and promptly flung himself back with an equal amount of force.
Deidara wheezed, almost knocked off his seat.
Raking Sasori with a look of sheer disdain, the war began.
The rusty chains made squeaking sounds as they swung viciously back and forth, both the blonde and red-head in a small swing set war, managing to sound deafening in the stillness of the park. Deidara took ahold of the swing’s chains, twisting his arms round it and pushing off the snow with his feet.
In a fit of pure adrenaline, the blonde managed to slam the red-head with so much force, the latter fell onto the snow with a soft thud. Like a jellyfish on the seashore, the rubber swing seat swayed to a stop from the chain threads and the blonde covered his mouth in bemusement and surprise.
Bracing himself for perhaps a lunge from the red-head, the blonde wasn’t expecting a chortle from the ground.
The laugh that came from Sasori was impossibly uncharacteristic. It was like a newly sprung leak – timid at first, stopping and starting. He wasn’t done yet, Deidara realised from the way he rolled his hazel eyes to the sky and bit his lips. From deep inside his chest came a great shaking motion and his face muscles grew tight.
Caught off guard, Deidara’s confused look probably cause the red-head to burst into more laughter, like a bust water main arching into the brilliant summer sky soaking the blonde with unrestrained gales that debilitated him to a pink faced picture of glee.
The blonde’s mouth twitched upwards.
Caught off guard, Deidara’s confused look probably cause the red-head to burst into more laughter, like a bust water main arching into the brilliant summer sky soaking the blonde with unrestrained gales that debilitated him to a pink faced picture of glee.
Sasori’s smile stopped Deidara’s in his tracks.
Seated on the ground, Sasori’s loose beige pullover was powdered with a pale layer of snow, his rich velvet red hair had a tousled griminess, bright and clear within the expanse of milk. Deidara’s eyes travelled to his face, the usually half lidded brown now wolfish amber like limpid pools of gold that adorned his exceptionally pale face. An aquiline that complemented his chalky pink lips that looked almost blue with cold.
The blonde’s mouth twitched upwards.
He looked beautiful.
Wait what? The blonde shook himself internally.
The giggles slowly rolled about like a child’s spinning top, vibrant and heart-warming before coming to a slow stop.
Sasori cleared his throat, eyes trained on his boots.
Deidara’s face was flushed – was the heat of swinging too much or the sudden flutter of his heart? He glanced away swiftly, focused on the empty swing seat beside him.
“That was fun.” He managed, voice gravely.
Sasori remained silent.
“I like that.” Deidara continued, sweeping his gaze back to the red-head, “Hearing you laugh.”
The red-head let out a low scoff, oddly enough, without any sort of venom to it.
“It’s bright and cheerful, like dandelions in summer blossoming upon the meadows. It’s a shade of champagne, fulvid and bold.” Deidara observed, “Take that as a memory of a colour. Remember that as a cream citron, your laugher – how free you felt.”
Sasori waved his hand dismissively.
“It’s not yellow.” He murmured, shaking his head.
Orbs fringed with long lashes, he glanced up at Deidara.
“It’s grey.”
Art takes time, art takes love.
Perhaps, he thought wistfully, perhaps he was wrong all along.
The blonde cupped a handful of cold tap water, slushing his face and rubbing his hands over it.
Grey, huh?
He blinked his slate grey eyes, watching his reflection mirror his moves.
“It’s late,” Sasori had muttered after they reached the dorms, “We will continue tomorrow.” He had hurried off, without even waiting for a reply.
Deidara was left at the corridors, feeling strangely hollowed out inside before he made his way back into his bathroom. In a span of almost a week, he had found out there was more to the red-head that bitter skulking and frowning, that the sardonic remarks seemed to be less of a menace and grown to be of something affectionate.
Strange, he thought as he found himself back in his dormitory room, cramped with unfinished worksheets and Hidan’s unwashed sheets. It seemed that what Sasori was trying to point out, from the start of their project, was that the cool undertones, gentle waves of soft brushstrokes brought him blissfulness; a caress of a hand.
He sat back into the bottom bunk of his bed, earning himself a soft squeak of refusal from the old creaking wood frame.
A few feet away, stood the old painting that he had ‘ruined’. He had dragged it back because the red-head insisted that he would have been plagued with nightmares if Deidara didn’t take it away – so he did, finding himself starting pensively at the canvas dipped in a mirage of colours.
Just like how Sasori painted with grey, Deidara realised he’d been painting in red.
Vivid strokes of bold, colours almost to the point of garnish.
Ruby-red. He pondered, grabbing a few paint brushes lying on the table beside the unfinished biology homework – one coated in a bright cherry and the other dried up into a deep shade of red.
How peculiar.
It was like they were painting each other.
SUNDAY
Is there more meaning in his bones, other than tumbling colours, chaotic and shallow?
Come Sunday, he found himself sleeping in. Deidara’s half ruffled golden locks were hidden under Hidan’s purple duvet and he only peeked out when there was a rough knock at his door.
He didn’t have to be an Esper to know it was Sasori.
Shuffling up in nothing but an oversized t-shirt and bunny shoes (he swears its Hidan’s), the blonde’s hand hovered uncertainty at the door handle, quite suddenly, unsure.
Slowly, he twisted the knob and pulled the door open.
In the afternoon beam of the sunray, Deidara realised that the red-head had the kind of face that stopped you in your tracks.
“Uh hey.” He spluttered, feeling oddly vulnerable.
Sasori’s face showed no signs of emotion but his eyes, they were so deep and catastrophic, a vivid burgundy that softly melted into a rich shade of coffee. This close, Deidara thought, holding in his breath, he could see the flecks of bronze in his eyes.
“Were you thinking of avoiding work today?” Sasori raised a brow, his lips twitched into a smirk. He nodded expectantly at Deidara’s slippers before looking back up at him.
“You do know we have barely two days left to finish up this painting, right?”
Deidara found himself just nodding unconcernedly.
Sasori blinked, his mouth in a tight-lipped frown.
There’s a flash of gentle concern within those brown orbs but it disappeared just as quickly as it materialized, replaced with a look of infuriation. It felt disconcerting, watching the red-head’s beam just the day before, only to be staring into a face with a constant sulk. Silently, the blonde hoped to hear his laugh again, it sure made it seem like he wasn’t some sort of emotionless robot.
“I had an epiphany.” Sasori explained, eyes half lidded and bored. “Come to my dorm room once you’re,” He glares hotly at the bunny slippers, “Dressed decently.”
It takes almost all of Deidara’s willpower not to slam the door in the other’s face.
303.
Deidara stared at those numbers. A jumble of mess called their art project week – and he found himself accustomed to the dorm room of Sasori’s, even his constant snide remarks, as much as they were annoying. Maybe, he thought, maybe they would make it out of the week alive.
He found the door to be opened, slightly ajar and nudged it noncommittedly with his foot.
Low and behold, the red-head was seated in front of a plain white canvas, thumb under his chin, deep in thought. At the sound of the blonde entering, Sasori twisted his head to glare darkly at him and tapped impatiently at the empty piece in front of him.
“I hate waiting.” He grumbled as Deidara pulled up a chair to seat himself beside him.
Glancing expectantly at the chalk white sheet, the blonde found a pile of paint brushes pressed onto the palm of his hand.
“Paint.” It was a command.
“What?” Deidara blinked, oh how the tables had turned.
“You told me, yesterday.” Sasori’s voice softened. “How you often felt painted into the background, like there really isn’t anything of substance inside, so you force yourself to be bright, bold and loud.”
His eyes were fixated on the blonde’s fingers.
“Your painting is the reflection of that chaos.” The red-head’s cold fingers had begun to coil around Deidara’s own. “I want to feel that.”
The blonde froze.
A muscle had twitched involuntarily at the corner of his right eye, his mouth agape. Like hail on a glass pane, the drumming of his heart was as relentless as it was loud. Allowing the red-head to grip lightly on his wrist, the blonde started to paint.
With a thick paintbrush, the blonde wet the canvas as the droplets of waters were absorbed in bit by bit – he remembered what the red-head had taught him – for when the surface remains damps but no longer gloassy, Sasori had mentioned that they’d have more control over the painting process.
Earning the soft hum of approval from the red-head, Deidara couldn’t help but feel pleased.
Twisting his wrist in deep bold strokes, he dapples the watery stroke of Naples yellow, defining the position of the clouds. Again, he went in, outlining the layers with a contour of brilliant bold daffodil. Set up against the background of white, he glided through with a dipped autumn orange, softly lighting up and dissolving into the bright yellows.
“Stop.” Sasori’s fingers clutched his wrist and he almost let out a yelp.
God damnit, that’s going to leave a scar.
Deidara turned to flash him a dark glower, only for the red-head to snatch the paint brush from his grasp.
“Hold my wrist.” He instructed.
And so Deidara did.
Dabbing his paint brush into a soft muted grey, instead of painting around Deidara’s scenic ginger sunset – he carefully, with light but sharp movements, ran across the yellows with a pale shade of granny grey, elongating the shadows of the sky and twisting his paint brush with amazing precision. The gaudy yellow had changed, just like how the seasons came and went, the colour palate melting into something not so lurid, a beautiful splash of muted pastels and the blonde found himself frozen in time.
It was stunning.
Instead of avoiding clashing of wildly different colours, Sasori had combined them together to construct something less dramatic and flamboyant, but strikingly humbly brilliant.
“Holy shit.” Deidra blinked.
“We just needed to unite, coalesce of the colours into something soft but vibrant,” The red-head sounded amused, “Instead of constantly trying to tip toe over each other, insisting that one another’s’ work is better.”
He fluttered his long eyelashes.
“Busy in my own world, I forgot that art is subjective.”
His opened his eyes once more.
“I just have to see how you see the world as.”
Deidara found himself, for the first time in weeks, at a loss of what to say.
They continued to paint.
It was only when they finished, did the blonde notice he had been holding Sasori’s hand all the while.
Dinner was a refreshingly loud affair.
After they had finished the second layer, Sasori had requested to try one of Deidara’s soups. The blonde, delighted at someone actually asking, whole heartedly decided to cook up a meal.
“By ‘cook’ you mean pour a steaming cup of water into instant soup.” Sasori snorted from Deidara’s bed.
“You asked for it.” The blonde pouted, carefully pouring the boiled water into the cups of powdered soup.
His stomach growled and he squirmed in his chair to try to silence the rumbling. It was late at night and they had spent the entire day working on their project – to Sasori’s chagrin – because they barely had much time left to work on it. It was turning out to be something Deidara would be proud to call their work, and he couldn’t help but feel excited to see the end product.
Stirring, he ladled a spoon into his cup and sipped on it.
“Here.” He shoved the cup into Sasori’s opened palm.
“It’s red.” The red-head snorted.
“Beet-root soup.” Deidara corrected curtly, sipping leisurely. “It’s my favourite.”
They spent the next hour discussing about their favourite foods – Sasori insisted he didn’t have one and Deidara named a bunch of different cuisines and soon the conversation lead onto both of their friends: Hidan and Kakuzu in particular.
“Do you know that they are dating?” Deidara huffed, seated beside the red-head, playing with his overgrown dishevelled locks. “Hidan ditched me because he wanted to hang out with Kakuzu!”
He growled under his breath, Hidan will pay for that.
Sasori snorted, brushing Deidara’s hand away and running his own hand down his hair.
“I knew that. It was so obvious.” He leaned back onto the pillows supporting him and closed his eyes. “Kakuzu doesn’t like people in general, so when he takes a liking to anyone or anything – I’d know.”
The blonde frowned.
“Still, he ditched me. I’ll make sure he pays for that!”
Sasori let out a soft chortle.
“Actually,” he began, voice suddenly uncertain, “I offered to switch partners.”
The blonde paused his in movements.
What?
“Aren’t you just the best wingman?” Deidara scoffed, voice negated of scorn “You look like that friend who’s willing to throw his mates into the ocean to save himself.”
Sasori fell silent.
“I’m joking.” The blonde added, realising the sudden tension that spiked up in the room. He glanced at the red-head who had his gaze directed on his feet.
“I am that friend.” He clarified.
“Why did you offer to switch partners then?” The blonde sniggered. “Did Kakuzu bribe you? Or did Hidan threaten you?”
They both shared a chuckle.
“I’m glad we think so highly of our friends.” Sasori chided. “But no. They did neither.”
Deidara was puzzled and scanned his project partner’s face, but to no avail. He wasn’t disclosing anything with that strict unmovable features on his face, but he made no move or bother to explain himself so they continued on, discussing about Monet, about Deidara’s unfinished Biology homework until the blonde found himself drifting off.
MONDAY
“What the fuck?”
Hidan’s guffaw sounded like an alarm. An alarm he wanted to strangle.
Deidara shot up awake, only to bump his head against something hard. There was an irate snort and the blonde realized in horror, that he had drifted to sleep onto Sasori’s shoulder, their limbs tangled in between sheets and his face paled.
“Why, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes.” Another voice entered the room.
The blonde shifted himself to glare at the raven-haired individual, who had his arms akimbo and leaned casually against their dorm room door, a smirk on his face.
“Finally got together, huh, Sasori?” Hidan tittered. “Told you it would work.”
Deidara blinked.
“What?” He demanded, suddenly wide awake.
He examined the terror that was carved on Sasori’s face.
“What worked?” The blonde challenged, hastily getting off the bed and dusting himself.
Hidan glanced worriedly over his shoulder at Kakuzu, who was staring pointedly at the red-head. The silence in the room began almost unbearable, so silent you could hear a pin drop – so Deidara grabbed his best friend and shook him forcefully.
“What do you mean ‘got together?’ That’s the most nauseating thing I’ve heard this week!” The blonde growled, frowning.
“It’s nothing.” Sasori’s shaky voice broke the reverie of the blonde’s, the red-head standing up as well, his face now rigid with tension, belied his youthfulness – he looked as if he had aged a decade in the past minute.
“There’s nothing.” He eyed both Hidan and Kakuzu bitterly.
With that he waltzed out, not even bothering to look back.
Deidara glared at the couple in front of him, confused.
“What the hell is going on?” He snapped, turning to Kakuzu instead, who shrugged.
“He didn’t tell you then, I’m guessing.” The raven-haired male decided. “Sit, please. I’d rather have you not trying to shake the information out of Hidan.”
Come six in the evening, the school hallways were finally emptied out, the roar of the students replaced with silence. Broad and straight like the old canal that cuts through the town, only instead of greens overhung by new foliage, it’s scarred and occasional peeling paint.
Deidara slung his bag over his shoulder and found himself through the quiet corridors, finally entering entrance to the dormitories. He had avoided Sasori all day and was sure the latter was doing the exact same. Back in the dormitory corridors, the halls were crowded with students – couples making out on the left side of the corridor, and about ten feet farther down, a bunch of art students discussing about the art project.
He dragged his feet back into his own dorm room, where it was vacant of signs of life.
The blonde slumped onto his bunk-bed, dropping his heavy bag with a loud thud on the ground. Without the beds, the dormitory room would seem quite cavernous, and with the evening rays beaming in through the smudged mullioned window, it looked much like a stunning picture.
He sighed, covering his grey duvet over his head.
Kakuzu had graciously told him everything – every single detail.
Sasori had offered to switch their partners at the very start of the project because he wanted to pair up with Deidara. Hidan, realizing the situation he was in, decided that it was appropriate to consider ditching his best friend because in his head – it seemed like a win-win situation: where he’d get to spend more time with Kakuzu and Sasori with Deidara.
“Why?” Deidara had asked.
“Really?” Hidan shot back, rolling his eyes. “Isn’t his galling about grey this grey that obvious enough? He won’t stop talking about your eyes, Jashin-damn it.”
“But he’s been a dick to me this whole time!” The blonde shook his head in disbelief.
“That’s what he is.” Kakuzu had nodded knowingly.
“He’s also been madly in love with you ever since he first landed his gaze on your in art class.” Hidan hooted, beaming with his teeth.
There was a pause.
“Is it really that gross to think about hanging out with him?” Hidan had lowered his voice, his indigo eyes gentle.
Deidara could not answer.
TUESDAY
It was a day before the submission.
Deidara couldn’t be bothered.
Knowing Sasori, he would’ve cleaned up the painting and finished it up without the blonde.
It takes so much of him to not storm up to the red-head dorm room.
WEDNESDAY
As the minutes of the lesson passed, the ceaseless buzzing of the classroom and the unlimited amount of anxiousness Deidara contained increased, tapping his feet against the ground impatiently. At the corner of his gunmetal eyes, he could see their painting – the evening sunset made up of pastels, greys and dazzling hues of colours.
Russet and grey.
The blonde sighed.
Sasori was seated behind himself, the red-head looking glum the entire day – not that he was a picture-perfect image of a truly radiant jubilant student. The blonde was sure he was sulking; he had walked past the red-head a few times and every time he did, Sasori’s gaze would drift somewhere else, avoiding all eye contact.
Not that Deidara minded of course, his own head was droning with confusion, alongside the montone buzz of several voices humming like an orchestra of deadbeat droids. He sat on the edge of his wooden chair, amongst the pastels and fine charcoal pencil, waiting for the bell to ring and the announcement to hand up their assignments.
His face fell into a natural look of disbelief, his lips as straight as the pencil on his desk when his art professor decided to give them one last task: to finish up a 100-word artist’s statement before handing the painting up and leaving class for the day. Deidara felt like something had just died in his mouth, turning around, his found himself shooting Sasori what-seemed-like an awkward grimace.
The red-head did not seem to bother, instead, he pulled out a sheet of paper and began to scribble hurriedly on it.
“Work as a team – looking at you, Deidara.” Came the strict voice of his lecturer.
Grumpily, he pulled his chair over to Sasori, who had halted writing and was giving the blonde a weak glower.
A heavy silence settled over them, thicker than the uneasy tension in the atmosphere. Unsettled russet eyes glance unceremoniously around, and tried to avoid the slate-greys in front of him. Deidara shifted uncomfortably in his seat, shuffling his feet against the cobbles of the floor and awkwardly tracing the outlines of each brick.
“Um, bold, painted with precise lines, that it almost looks like a mosaic. Curved, yet sharply designed, stable but seemingly to tumble at the same time?” The blonde offered awkwardly when the red-head turns back to scribble something unreadable on the paper.
“You are better with words.” Sasori grunted and passed the paper over, rolling his eyes. “Hurry up then so we can leave.”
The blonde narrowed his eyes and pursed his lips.
He was about to retort a sharp remark before he stopped himself.
“Fine.” He muttered, penning down a couple of quotes he had memorized before raising the paper up into the air. “We’re done.”
“Good riddance.” Sasori hissed as their teacher pried the paper off Deidara’s fingers and dismissed them.
The blonde freezes for a moment before eliciting a growl from his throat.
“What’s wrong with you? I should be the one that’s pissed.” He snarled, grabbing his bag roughly and shooting daggers at the red-brunette haired male.
Sasori paused.
“I don’t give a damn what you have to say, brat. I don’t need to explain myself, but I’m not angry,” He snapped, wrathful. “I’m bitter and that’s worse. Angry is over fast, bitter lasts.”
Deidara, in a fit of anger, stood up and left.
“Good riddance.” He muttered.
Grey.
Grey.
More grey.
Deidara is done feeling grey.
“He’s just bitter cause you’ve made him feel like he’s not worth loving.” Hidan offers from the top bunk, the albino haired individual chucking to himself. “He’s just being a child, leave him be, he’ll be fine after like a week.”
The blonde sighed.
“Thanks, that makes me feel so much better.”
“Hah, welcome!” Hidan sounded pleased.
Deidara shook his head.
It was strange, the way he felt: was it guilt? Was it embarrassment? It stretched throughout his whole day, overwhelming him like a punch to the gut. It felt as if he was in a dangerous fire, as if his heart was dancing around his chest. It’s odd. How can you go from someone being a complete strange, to then being completely infatuated with them? He glanced, indifferent at his fingers, where Sasori had once held, just a few days ago.
Reaching out to his tableside, he cradled the soup with his two hands, trying to recall what it was having another’s hand on his – the warmth of the mug defrosting his icy fingers. The air is thick with the smell of tomato and vegetables, as his hands were rejuvenated by the soup, heat radiating as far as the cuffs of his jacket.
He misses Sasori.
And at once, it hits him like a train, just like the soup that very Friday afternoon – maybe he’s in love with Sasori too.
In the half-light, the red-head looks like the shadow he’s become. Hunched over at the corner of his room, he had curled up on his duvet, reading a book and was munching on a sandwich and only reacted when Deidara threw a paintbrush at his head.
“I just barged into your room.” He exclaimed, pointing at the opened door, “And you won’t even grace my existence.”
“Exactly.” Came the bored grunt. “Leave, I’m tired.”
“You don’t have the right-“ Deidara begun but was cut off from the red-head heated glare.
“Do you want me to apologise? Go down on my knees to beg? To tell you that my love has meaning? That in my naivety I thought you felt the same way for me?” Sasori growled, turning away, his back facing the blonde.
“I’m already in a transition to become a person I never wanted to be. I shouldn’t have listened to Kakuzu or Hidan, I should’ve just let it go.” The bitterness that seeps out of the red-heads words sounds awful, and Deidara’s heart constricts at the sound of it, as if there wasn’t any oxygen left in his lungs.
“Please go, okay?” The red-head doesn’t turn around. “Let’s pretend all this never happened.”
The blonde shook his head, knowing Sasori couldn’t see.
If anything, the red-head seemed dominated by a profound sadness, fatigue engraving on his worn face – and Deidara realized, in dismay, that he had never considered his actions, now that he finally saw how profoundly they affected him too.
He could feel the disappointment that flowed through his veins and deadened his mind. It was a poison to his spirit, dulling him killing off his other emotions until it was the only one that remained. It was almost as if a black mist had settled upon Sasori and refused to shift, no matter how bright the day was.
“I’m sorry.” Deidara muttered, twiddling his fingers. “I didn’t mean it when I said that your companionship was repulsive, I-I’m – It’s just the way I say stuff. I’m terrified of this – whatever it is.”
There was a pause.
“I enjoy your company. I learned so much from you – even though you’re a complete asshat. I never thought that my abstract paintings could be so brilliantly depicted into something light-hearted and gentle.” The blonde raised a hand out to tap on Sasori’s shoulder.
The red-head didn’t flinch and he turned around to gaze into slate-grey orbs.
“Brunet, like the colour of mocha, that warms me inside in winter. Lily-red, the colour of beet-root soup – the thought comforts me, like a pair of arms around my waist.”
Deidara gulps.
“Russet, like your eyes.”
Sasori’s eyes widened.
“I think I’ve been painting you all this while.” The blonde admitted quietly.
The red-head traced his outstretch hand on his shoulder with the tip of his finger.
“There was a time in my life where I expressed my feeling in a true way.” He whispered, glancing wistfully out his window. “Every emotion is buried before I can even feel it. That space was getting so full, so much harder to ignore and the disparity between how outgoing you are and inner pain is so difficult to bare.”
He sighed.
“That’s why I paint these feelings away.”
Sasori’s eyes found their way back to Deidara’s own, his gaze so intense, it almost knock the blonde off his feet. The blonde felt the silence between them would have carried on forever and ever, until he broke it.
“Like the sky.” He found the tickle of his breath expelling from his lips. “Fiery warm red and cold silver bitter.”
“Like our painting.” Sasori agreed. “Chaotic and elegant.”
Deidara let out a small chuckle.
“What an ironic clash of hues.” The red-head admits and hesitantly pulls the blonde into a hug.
Like the subtle watercolour wash of hues, submissive to graphite underneath, poppies swaying like flames fanned by the breeze, flashing their brilliant reds to the greyish tinge of sky, melting like a masterpiece into the shades of glowing silver.
From a writing prompt: After witnessing a death, the protagonist falls in love with the Grim Reaper. | Read on ao3
Word count: 5,109 words
Pairings: Edward/Oswald
Death comes to us sooner or later, so it only adds to your pain to fear it.
Edward knows it’s implausible.
He knows; humans rely on a tried-and-true method to make sense of dying and mortality – and in place, they give death a form they recognize, turning something abstract into something real and tangible. It’s all in their heads, the stories they conjured and the depictions of that invisible phenomenon called death.
The Greeks called him Thanatos, the god of death. Norse mythology described them as beautiful women, reminiscent of angels, called Valkyries. During the Middle Ages, the concept of the Angel of death embodied Death as a skeletal figure, something menacing, a sombre symbol of the inevitability of death.
Not surprising, Edward scoffs, considering the medieval-era plague that caused millions to die in outbreaks known as the black death. The Grim Reaper was then born from these post-plague visions, as a mascot of death. Artworks that hung upon the walls of museums watched the hooded figure playing off the deepest fears of the unknown.
It’s merely manifestation of the imagination to make sense impending mortality.
At least that’s what Edward tries to tell himself, after all, he’s a man of logic.
Therefore, logically, he can’t have seen the Grim Reaper.
Granted, he’s seen dead bodies, he’s a bloody forensics pathologist; but he’s never really seen anyone die in front of his eyes.
So, when Edward watched his father in bed, deep in ten shades of agony slowly ebbing away right in front of his eyes, he had never expected literal death to grace him with his presence. His imagination, Edward ultimately decides, was oddly not like how he expected the Grim Reaper to look like. No scythe. No hood. No skeletal figure. Instead, it, was dressed in a rather expensive looking suit and armed with what looked like an umbrella. It paid little attention to the inquisitive gaze of Edward, instead tapping his father’s shoulder lightly, movements astute, as if it were routine.
There was a ringing sound bouncing off the white walls of the hospital room as the heartbeat monitor stopped dead, the peculiarly long resounding bleep like an alarm going off in Edward’s ears.
Nurses entered the room without slowing their stride, one grabbing his father’s hand to take a pulse and another hurriedly checking the heartbeat monitor. The doctor walked in, seconds later, his face like a brick, movements sharp and with purpose – rapidly swooping up and down his father’s bedside, barking up orders but Edward knew it was too late, he was sure of it, his father was dead.
Instead of acknowledging the murmurs from the nurses that offered their apologies, Edward nodded nonchalantly, unable to tear his eyes away from the figure slowly exiting the room. It was odd, for during this exchange, none made eye contact or spoke to the opulently dressed feature in the room.
It was then Edward realized, quite in disbelief, that he had seen the Grim Reaper.
Edward’s day begins when someone dies.
It sounds positively morbid, but he’s mostly used to it.
As a forensic pathologist, he’s seen many things, worked with many cadavers. He’s not one to be bothered. In fact, he’s more intrigued than mortified. The whole shebang is a riddle to him, something he’s awfully good at: after all, he’s been able to solve a large quantity of unusual deaths: exsanguination caused by a stab wound or ligature strangulation – he’s uncovered it all.
The conundrums he has faced, nothing but a human scale puzzle piece to solve and he’s done it. Nothing is unexplainable.
Edward has done his morning routine report review from the deputy coroner’s investigators: poor old Mrs. Taggert found dead in her house hold sometime during the previous twenty-four hours. Mrs Taggert’s face was awfully discoloured when they found her in her bathroom, but she seemed strangely cleaned up as if she had been scrubbed off any evidence before the police had arrived.
Still, her husband had insisted that she succumbed to a sudden cardiac arrest after her bath and was questionably quick to abandon the idea of homicide.
Dubiously hasty at that.
So, as per normal, Edward’s left to figure it out.
The cold autopsy room reminds him faintly of it.
It’s been a week since Edward’s father died and he had taken that week off to let his life slowly falls back into place. Appreciatively, he had not caught a glimpse or the silhouette of the dark figure ever since, and silently elected to regard that night as something of his mind's eye. After all, it’s trivial to pursue something so illogical, right? It’s his imagination.
So, it’s a rude shock when Edward finds himself staring at the stainless-steel counter top and sees a pair of pale blue eyes staring back.
Against his logic, Edward clears his throat awkwardly.
“Excuse my manners; but this room is reserved for examining homicides and decomposed bodies, you are not supposed to be in here.”
He pauses for a moment or two, before directing his gaze towards the thing behind him.
It’s got a pair of befuddled blue orbs that unexpectedly accentuates that purple brocade tie on its neatly donned suit. Edward scoffs internally. Barely resembles anything menacing. It doesn’t reply Edward, instead gracing the pathologist a twitch of the brow.
Unsure whether to feel offended that his figment of imagination wasn’t offering any sort of conversation, Edward surmises to continue his examination, fixing his attention onto the rubbery-looking corpse on his autopsy table.
Heart attacks, Edward mutters under his breath, is the death of a segment of heart muscle caused by the loss of bloody supply.
He tucks his gloved hands underneath Mrs Taggert’s cold body, lifting her elbow up and examining bits and pieces, like a puzzle piece. Pensively, Edward recalls that the report states that poor old Mrs. Taggert had suffered from a heart disease, but nothing too severe.
Picking up a scalpel, he began cutting into flesh.
At the corner of his eye, he can see it silently watching. What is it waiting for?
He decides to ignore it. There’s no point trying to emit a response.
Normally, Edward concludes, as he carefully dissects the lady’s inside, if death is caused by a heart attack, the vessel of the heart will have a thick viscous substance that looks awfully like yellow nasal discharge forming a blockage in one or more of the cardiac arteries. Observing the strawberry-jam looking clots, it’s apparent that Mrs Taggert did die from a sudden cardiac arrest.
So, was her husband, right? Edward frowns, shaking his head. It’s not that unassuming. Maybe her husband was the trigger? An argument of some sort?
A verbal altercation has physiological consequence even without physical contact. Edward pokes around her neck, emotional stress provoked by criminal activity of another person could cause this homicide by heart attack. For some reason, it just didn’t fit, Edward taps his fingers on the stainless-steel table, deep in thought.
If so, the implications of death in such a circumstance is different to that of a physical assault, since it’s not necessarily illegal to argue with someone.
There is a rugged sniffle from the corner of the room.
Edward glowers at nothing in particular. The thing in the room transpires to be tremendously unnerving, so much so he wants so badly to pull at his hair.
Wait.
Speedily but cautiously, Edward lifts Mrs. Taggert’s head up and runs a hand down her scalp, grinning when he feels a tough bump at her head. Judging from the size of the bump, Edward identifies that there’s a high probability that the old lady’s head had collided with something hard – perhaps the wall, or most likely – he measures the size of the bump – a fist.
The presumed mechanism of death in the case was a cardiac dysrhythmia, related to underlying heart disease, but initiated by physical stress.
Edward realises he has said it out loud because there’s a soft clapping noise from behind. He twists around in time to see the figure walk casually over to Mrs. Taggert’s body, leaning across the stationary corpse and tapping her shoulder with his hand.
There’s a gentle sigh that echoes around the room and Edward swears he hears the voice of the old lady thanking him.
After Edward assures himself that he’s not obviously high from smelling the formalin, he turns to his left to inspect the strange humanoid creature, who seems unruffled by the fact that Edward can see him.
“Um.” Edward begins, silently wondering if he’s gone off his rocket. “Uh.” His throat is dry.
He’s not usually this incompetent at speaking.
“You beat me every day, yet I always win. I am first and last, and come for your kin. Before you came many, after comes more. You always leave when at my door.”
He splutters incoherently.
“Who am I?”
“Is that a riddle?” The thing actually speaks, strangled and mocking.
Edward manages to nod.
“Hilarious.” It looks far from amused. “Death.” It whispers, in throaty hum.
Edward gulps.
“As such,” It continues, drawling, “There’s usually death when humans do see me.”
“Guess I’m lucky.” He manages to stammer.
“Oh I doubt that.” And with that it disappears, leaving Edward to gawk, horrified at the empty space where it once stood.
About once or twice a month, Edward gets called to go out to a death scene to work with the police investigators in understanding what happened to the decedent, in determining whether the case could be classified as a homicide.
Today, Edward faces a victim found lying tattered in gritty muck. Ivory skin splattered and face half submerged in mud. He bends down to take a closer look at the body, wincing slightly in annoyance at the flashes of camera lights. It’s apparent that the victim had been psychically assaulted, a deep puncture to his neck.
The puncture is oddly square. Not done in by a knife, he infers. Possibly a thick cane or baton of some sort.
He steps back and immediately freezes.
From the glare of the flashing lights, he spots it once more.
Just like Edward a few moments ago, it’s bent forward, eyeing the body with a bizarre sort of enthusiasm.
“What are you doing?” He hisses before comprehending the fact that no one else can see it. A few odd looks were thrown his way and Edward hurries to find something else to do instead.
Hurriedly, he scouts the rest of the street alley.
“What are you doing?” The same surly voice he’s heard just a few days ago hovers at his side.
Edward visibly shudders before glancing furtively about, making sure that no one is directly in earshot before glaring hotly at the Grim Reaper (he’s decided to call it grim reaper, it’s easier that way, he’s not getting attached to it, not at all).
“Looking for something.” Edward mutters with clenched teeth. And after a moment of hesitation, “Aren’t you going to send his departed soul off or something and be on your merry way?”
The Grim Reaper blinks owlishly and merely shrugs.
He clicks his teeth, irritated. He doesn’t know why it’s presence feels contemptuous, as if it was here to mock his ineptitude.
Edward stops when he notices a small lump near the rubbish bin. He barely makes out what seemed to be a burgundy coloured shoe plastered in drying mud, the rubicund shade hardly noticeable in the muck. A short way off lay its pair, scarcely seen underneath the bin with its heel broken off.
A dawn of realisation hits him.
“The more you take, the more you leave behind. What am I?” He utters under his breath.
Swiftly, he goes back to the motionless victim’s body and inspects the ground beneath it. The body had been left out in the sun for a couple of hours, and he appreciates the fact that the ground underneath had dried, holding the shape of an imprint. To his delight, a shoe impression laid nearby and he let out a quiet hurray under his breath.
“Footprints.” The Grim Reaper ripostes, languidly at his side. “You seem to like your riddles.”
Edward snorts in agreement.
He deduces immediately that it belonged to the same buried high heeled shoes.
The puncture on the neck was done in by a heel!
Edward beams to himself and explains his rationale to the sergeant, who appraises him for his keen eye. He mentions something about a witness that saw a woman from the bar leave the alley without any shoes and Edward knows they are close to solving the case.
He’s about to head off to the forensics team to get them to pick up the evidence when he spots the Grim Reaper once more, bent over the victim’s body and its hand tapping gently upon the shoulder of the corpse. Even with the buzz of police officers interrogating witnesses, he can hear the sigh that escapes the victim soul, gratified and sated.
The Grim Reaper stands back upright and twists around to shoot a momentary gaze at Edward, before nodding in acknowledgment and dematerializing out of existence.
Edward, for the life of him, cannot decipher what’s going on anymore.
Edward sees it again, a few times this week.
It’s become this peculiar routine: it appears whenever he’s performing his autopsies, drops an occasional mordant remark, taps the shoulders of the deceased, who sighs, and it disappears.
It’s even more bizarre that Edward’s growing more accustomed to it.
They don’t talk much, save for the few scathing observations that it gives whenever Edward dissects his cadavers, or whenever he tries to start up a tête-à-tête with it. It’s preposterous to be talking with the Grim Reaper, and Edward has never once thought that he would be doing so – but here he is, exchanging occasional stares with this far-fetched idea.
Today, it lounges casually at the side of the autopsy table, side eyeing the petite sized corpse.
“Sad, isn’t it,” It intones, not sounding upset at all, “How a child should be on this table?”
Edward nods gravely.
“I had the impression that Grim Reapers do not feel sad.” He bounces a reply playfully.
It shrugs as a retort.
“And I had the impression that humans experience distress whenever they see me.” It hums after a moment.
Edward nods once more.
They lapse into comfortable silence before it taps the child’s shoulder and leaves.
“So, is there like a rule to sending off departed souls? Because I’ve been noticing a pattern.” Edward scrunches up his nose at the ruptured lung of his current corpse.
The Grim Reaper snorts.
It’s a pleasant sound, Edward thinks.
“Enlighten me.” It drones haughtily.
“Well,” Edward picks up the bullet lodged deep in muscle tissue with forceps, examining for a brief moment before placing it into a stainless-steel container. “You seem to take them away only after I’ve figured out how they died.”
It let out a hollow chortle.
“Astute, but unfortunately, wrong.” It watches Edward an unreadable expression on its face.
But it doesn’t provide anything else after that.
The next time they meet, Edward is trimming extra tissue off a large rotund cadaver, the excess tissue interfering with his procedure.
“Strangulation.” He asserts, matter of factly, pointing at the dark bruises on the victim’s throat. “His bones have been crushed, causing the discoloration at his throat.”
It nods in assessment.
“Aren’t you going to take his soul away?” Edward pipes up after a while. “We’ve figured out the cause of death.”
The Grim Reaper shoots him a scowl but does so anyway.
Before it leaves, it answers Edward’s burning question.
“I can take them anytime, but I always find it better to lead them away when they’ve come to terms with why they’ve died.”
He shudders.
It’s been a while since Edward last felt unnerved.
“The hammer is used with the chisel to separate the calvarium.” Edward explains slowly, gently extricating the upper part of the cranium from the lower part of the skull. “When you are finished locking it in place,” He uses the hook attached to the hammer, “This hook helps you pull the calvarium away, creating a skull cap.”
The Grim Reaper doesn’t usually bother with Edward’s ramblings but today it looks markedly invested.
It only takes Edward a moment to realise why.
“Eddie,” A concerned query enters the room. “Are you alright?”
Edward almost drops all his tools in horror.
“Miss K-Katherine!” He gasps in surprise, usually the forensics officers stayed away from the autopsy rooms which meant - the sudden intrusion conspires something ill-fated. “Yes, yes I am fine.” Edward pushes his glasses up nervously, offering a tight-lipped smile.
“Eddie.” The forensic officer’s voice is tense, “You’ve been talking to yourself.” That’s not a question. “Are you sure you are alright?” That’s a question.
Edward shakes his head.
The Grim Reaper stares pointedly at him.
Realising his mistake, he nods eagerly instead before shaking once more, trying to dispose of the disquiet.
Katherine sighs.
“Look Eddie, I know it’s been a rough few weeks for you, especially after your father’s untimely demise.” She looks genuinely worried, “Do you need to see a psychiatrist? Talk to someone, maybe?”
Edward shakes his head sternly.
“No, no, no.” He waves his hands, “I’m just going through the motions. I swear I’m fine.” He lets out a choked laugh to try to ease the tension in the room but fails to make it sound anything but distress.
Katherine isn’t convinced but she lets it go, and departs with a small smile of reassurance.
Edward wants to dig a hole and hide in it forever.
The Grim Reaper, thankfully, does not offer any sardonic quip after that.
Edward’s a little more cautious after that.
He locks the doors, makes sure that no one is around the corner and speaks diminutively softer.
“They think I’ve gone mental.” He mutters, glaring accusingly at the dead body in front of him. “Maybe I have gone mental.”
The figure flitting at the corner of the room lets out a mischievous guffaw.
“Maybe you have.” The Grim Reaper muses. “That’s a logical explanation to why you can see me.”
Edward laughs, maybe a little bit too loudly but he doesn’t care.
“Rationality be damned. I rather speak to you than any of them.” He scoffs.
It looks slightly puzzled now.
“Are you sure that’s a good thing?” It enquires.
“I don’t think so.” Edward admits after a moment’s pause.
He glances at the wide set eyes inspecting him meticulously.
“But I think I don’t care.”
There’s that comfortable silence that they lapse back into, Edward working on his report and the Grim Reaper watching, until he finally breaks the stillness.
“What costs nothing, but is worth everything. Weighs nothing but can last a lifetime, that one person can’t own, but two or more can share?” His voice trembles ever so slightly.
The Grim Reaper’s brows are raised.
“Love.” It offers, nonchalant.
Edward lets out a nervous giggle.
“Friendship.” He mutters, half amused. “I think,” Edward rests his gaze on it, a little bit too longingly, “I think – I hope we’re friends.”
Edward realizes he looks forward to work more and more, only because he gets to see the Grim Reaper.
He spends most of the days performing autopsies, even snagging someone else’s work so he can spend time with the ridiculously well-dressed concept of Death. It’s irrational, he knows, but he feels strangely comfortable with it around, even though they don’t talk much.
He knows he lost interest in the bodies piled up from crime scenes, that spark of curious and intent to solve the riddle slowly ebbing away. Instead, he’s more fascinated with the humanoid-like figure, constantly drawing questions and moving around like the enigma it is.
He’s concluded that it’s found his company as enjoyable as he did.
Their routine, however, comes to a halting stop when Edward’s forced to take a month’s leave off work. Everyone’s saying how concerned they are about his health but he’s sure that they’re more alarmed by his relentless mumbling.
“Get some rest please, Edward.” The commissioner tells him. “You look like you’ve seen death.”
Edward lets out a forlorn snuffle, unsure whether to laugh at the irony of it all.
It’s the first week of his ‘break’ and he’s found himself slowly deteriorating into a spiral of isolation. He’s found himself often shuffling around his cluttered apartment, bumping onto the mythology books strewn around the living room. Every day draws out so long and thin that he’s surprised when the sun finally sets.
The bond he had shared with the Grim Reaper had been like a bridge out of his fortressed mind, allowing him to step foot outside it’s protective compound, exploring the sun-warmed grass on the other side. Now, severed from the bridge, he felt terribly alone.
He tried calling out for it, but to no avail.
But there’s something else he can try.
It appears, ethereal yet almost tangible to feel. It’s pale paper looking skin and noticeably bright blue eyes a respite from the skinny man he’s been looking at from his mirror. The Grim Reaper looks no different from before, it’s jet hair styled and messily plastered on his head, dressed in a suit adorned with an amethyst-coloured neck wear.
At first it looks mystified, then it shakes its head in amusement.
“Very well, Ed.” It chortles, and Edward tingles at the way it murmurs his name.
“How did she die?”
On the third day, it finally asks the question.
“Where are you getting these bodies?” It looks impassive, lounging on Edward’s large armchair.
Edward blanches slightly, going rosy in embarrassment.
“I’ve been stealing them from morgues.” He confesses, stumbling a little as he shows off the dead corpse on his living room table. “Head trauma,” he speaks casually as if it they were chatting about something like the weather, “Blunt force with a sledgehammer. He bled out rather quickly.”
The Grim Reaper nods, stands up and taps the body.
It doesn’t leave this time, instead, it stays and watches Edward clean up the mess. They exchange a few words, Edward passing a snide remark about how it’s dressed, before it finally dematerializes into the dark.
Peculiar. He thinks. It’s like it’s waiting for something.
His co-workers almost caught him off-guard a week ago.
Edward was doing his daily inspecting of an immobile corpse when there’s a rap on his door. He’s not used to visitors generally, so when he realised that – of all people – his colleagues from the forensics department opted to drop by for a visit, he panicked.
Flustered, he threw the cadaver underneath his bed, hurriedly wiping the stains off his living room table whilst gasping “Give me a moment, I’m not decent!”
He was taken by surprise when they came in bringing in small baskets of gifts, from wine bottles to cupcakes. They weren’t usually this pleasant to him, he noted mutely as they gathered in his living room, awkwardly telling him about how business was going as usual. Face blotchy, he had insistently declined a house tour when one of the officers had suggested that to clear up the uneasy atmosphere.
Edward found himself inept and tongue-tied, unable to wield a conversation with anyone, even as grateful as he felt towards them. It was strange, out of his depth – but it was probably because they felt some sort of worry for him, he guessed, for Katherine had even passed him a name card for a psychiatrist whilst he sat on his sofa, twiddling his thumbs nervously.
He noticed that the Grim Reaper had disappeared and couldn’t help but feel terribly abandoned.
This isn’t that awful, he tried to convince himself.
He managed a throaty gurgle when someone mentioned how his house smelt like the dead and lied through his teeth as he pretended to wholeheartedly agree.
“I need to go out more often.” He offered, smiling with teeth clenched.
They laughed, one of them telling him to be wary about walking alone by himself since there were a few recent reports of kidnapping and murder, bringing Edward up to date on a few killings that happened.
He was sure he only started to breath when they all left his house, wishing him a speedy recovery (whatever that meant) and telling him to cheer up.
He fibbed about hoping for the best.
What he hoped for, was that they didn’t see the leftover blood stains on the rug.
Edward knows what he’s doing isn’t right.
He faced the mirror this Tuesday morning and the blood-shot eyes that fixated him back with a stare was no longer the same man named Edward. Bleary eyed and unshaven, he had looked like a zombie, gaunt and pallid. He watched himself walk around the house daily, almost soulless, exhausted from dragging dead bodies up to his apartment. The only good thing that comes out of that is the Grim Reaper.
He’s infatuated with the idea of Death.
“There’s something strange,” Edward mentions that very evening, “That I’ve realised.”
The Grim Reaper is watching Edward with bright blue pools, and tilts its head inquisitively, almost like a curious puppy.
“Back in the autopsy room, or outside during our investigations with the bodies,” He taps his chin thoughtfully, “They sigh every time you tap their shoulder. Why?”
It shrugs.
“Is it because they’ve come to terms with their death? Why they died and how they died?” Edward continues, hoping to get an answer.
He does.
It nods ever so slightly before gazing expectantly at him.
“My father did not sigh.” Edward states briskly. “Was he not gratified?”
The Grim Reaper lets out a loud scoff that reverberates through Edward’s small living room space, and for the first time, cracks a sickeningly anomalous smile. It takes its place next to him, hands resting on its cheek with a mischievous twinkle in its eyes.
Edward shivers at how close it is to him.
“Oh Ed.” It purrs. “I think you know the answer.”
The blue and red lights are little more than smudgy illuminations in the slanting rain.
Edward watches the white bodywork of the police cars zip past his window, it’s yellow-white headlights spotlighting the dense dark streets of the town. Behind him, the television blares deafeningly, a report on 19 missing people, each with absolutely no connection to the next – no one knows what happened or who did it and the cops are on constant vigilance.
The report states that there’s no factual motive or connection behind the missing people, but Edward knows better.
After all, during all 19 days of his break, the bodies on the living room table don’t sigh anymore.
Your father’s autopsy shows an over dosage of potassium chloride, which can stop a person’s heart. Katherine is saying over the phone, worried. Did you know?
Edward does not reply.
Eddie. Katherine’s voice is shaky. Your father was murdered.
He remembers slamming the phone and leaving his house in a hurry.
Edward knows his affair with Death is about to expire.
He’s standing in the middle of the rows of tombstones, standing erect in silence, like a sea of the dead. Some crumbled with the weathering of centuries, overgrown and unkempt. His father’s was of smooth marble, inked with black writing and laid with floral tributes.
The cops are at his place now, possibly finding evidence of the brutal murders of the 19 unfortunate people that he had crossed pathways with. It was necessary, Edward tells himself. He made sure it was quick and painless, and that they were never tortured.
There’s a blaring sound of the police siren far off in the city.
Sooner or later, they will find him.
Dead or alive, Edward doesn’t know.
Either way, he does not care.
He waits.
And sure enough, it appears.
“I stabbed him in the gut and watched him bleed out.” Edward admits, nudging the still body beside him, unconcerned. So I could see you. He wants to add but stops himself eventually, feeling bone weary; he knows when he’s defeated.
The Grim Reaper, for once, looks mildly troubled.
“Ed.” It’s voice is cold and calculating. “I know.”
Edward blinks, taken aback.
“You knew?”
It shrugs.
“Why follow me around then?” Edward is confused now, wiping his bloodied knife down his trousers. “I thought the reason you shadowed me was because I figured out how these,” He motions helplessly at the dead body on the floor, “People died. So, it’s easier for you to help their souls depart.”
The Grim Reaper nods.
“Indeed.” It taps its black umbrella on the soil. “But I never said it was for them.”
Edward frowns, perturbed.
“So, you were following me around.” He begins sluggishly, the pieces of the puzzle slowly fitting in his head. “For me?”
It nods grandly, not offering an answer.
He knows because it wants an answer from him.
“Because,” Edward continues, an unpleasant impending sense of dread creeping up his throat, “Because like the bodies in the autopsy room, the victims out on the streets,” He takes a deep breath.
“I need to comprehend why I am going to die.”
The Grim Reaper nods.
“I killed all those people so I could see you.” Edward states flatly, it sounds awfully asinine so he laughs, neck reddening in embarrassment.
“I’m going to die because of you.”
The Grim Reaper laughs alongside him.
“No, Ed.” It murmurs fondly, “As sweet as that is, it’s not the answer to this riddle.”
It tilts its head.
“Try again.”
It looks bemused as the sirens howled through the evening sky, coming closer.
Edward knows his time is running out.
“We are back where we started, Ed.” It drones, pointing at his father’s head stone.
And it hits Edward like a deer in headlights.
“Oh.” He blurts out. “Oh.”
So that’s why he can see it.
He’s been marked for death ever his father died. By his own hands.
“How am I going to die?” Edward utters after a moment’s pause.
He cannot believe his eyes when it reaches out to pat him on the shoulder, and he gasps - it feels tangible.
He can feel the gaze of death on him, the shouts of the police now audible behind, telling him to stand his ground and to not move - it feels unreal.
“A certain crime is punishable if attempted, not punishable if committed. What is it?” Edward’s voice is hollow and he thinks his eyes are watering.
“Oh Ed.” It purrs, tapping his shoulder lightly, a gentle tender stroke.
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Fic: Where the lost things are (Demon hunter AU Klaine)
Artwork by: lilylaw8kb
Title: Where the lost things are
Characters: Kurt/Blaine
Words: 120,129 ~ (Ongoing, Chapter 36)
Ratings: M
Author: vlefayne
Genre: Romance/Supernatural
Summary: Kurt Hummel was a demon hunter: was, until a stranger appears at his doorstep late one night; requesting him to hunt down for a certain demon that had once killed his mother and caused his bitter downfall.
The problem is: the demon is not out to kill, but Kurt is.
Read more on ao3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1745258?view_full_work=true
Hazel brown eyes blinked once.
The pools of rich brown were dazed and weary as he ran a hand down his thick rusty chocolate-colored hair, observing his dull expression stare back at him through the vanity mirror. He let out a sharp exhale and turned to the left of his dim-light round room, gazing out to the window where the evening sun was beginning to set.
It was time to set out.
His eyes wandered over to his messy room – thick books were strewn on the floor, crumpled papers scattered across all the way to his bed. In the middle of the room, pinned on a wall right beside his unkempt cupboard was a huge map of the town torn and circled in places with a bright red ink. He ran a hand down his disheveled hair once more before standing up; his wooden chair making a weary creak as he pushed it away.
He checked his pockets. Bicycle keys? Check. His cheque book? Check. His photograph? Wait, not checked. Stumbling across his cluttered room, he flung the pieces of crumpled paper off his bed, clearing the entire mattress – no sign of that photograph. Crap. He sneaked a glance at the window – it was getting darker and he cursed under his breath; there was no time. He had to leave, photograph or not.
Shaking his head, he headed for the door and sighed once more. Time was of essence; he took a deep breath in and left his small studio apartment.
It all happened too soon.
The winter cold snaked up his pale skin and he shivered in the snow, his hands clutching onto the gun tightly. His eyes darted nervously, watching cautiously for any sudden movements. The night was too bitter, too sinister. Alone, he was vulnerable.
The forest loomed ahead ominously and he took a small step forward. Nothing stirred in the dark woodland, the trees seemingly watching him and the unknown waiting. He stood still, heart racing in his chest, terrified to his wits end. Trees dressed in black towered over him, swaying ever so slightly in the light breeze as he started his trek into the woods.
It was silent. He stepped watchfully into the barrage of trees and darkness, feeling his throat go tight and dry in dread. Snow dripped from the sickly dark tree's like decayed flesh. Deep shadows seemed to ooze, move and threaten of their own volition. Half ready to turn tail and leave, he ventured in deeper and deeper into the wooded area.
Every branch held the promise of something dark, gray and slavering for blood. The wind in the boughs sounded thin, sickly and fearful. As he stopped his tracks to take out his flashlight, a swift movement caught his eye. His stomach turned to ice and he froze; eyes wide, his breathing ragged and heavy.
He stood still for a few seconds. A minute. Probably another. He relaxed a little, guessing it was nothing but a terrified wild deer. Scrambling with a gun on his right and torchlight on the other, he flicked it on and shone it directly in front of him.
His heart stopped.
Fear rose like bile in his throat and he choked back a scream of dismay. It wasn’t a deer after all.
The monster loomed in front of him, just a few centimetres away. He could hear it breathing ever so slightly, and willed his trembling legs to still. Red glowing owl-looking eyes met his own and it slowly bared its sharp yellowed teeth into what looked like an evil smirk.
The creature let out a growl.
He turned and ran.
He cycled with all his might, pedaling on his old bicycle, the road too rough and bumpy as he raced against time. The sky was darkening, the full moon emerging out of the grey clouds, he noted anxiously as he turned into an alleyway, almost knocking onto a black cat that hissed fervently at him. Not turning to see if the creature was fine, he cycled past with a quiet apology.
A light raindrop fell upon his arm and he cursed to himself angrily, he should have gotten out earlier, what was he thinking? He turned into another alleyway – he memorized this place like the back of his hand, he had been frequenting the Warblers far too much lately; a place he would never step foot on years ago. He turned right from the long gloomy alleyway and halted right outside the brightly lit bar.
He glanced at the entrance wearily, panting slightly from cycling so promptly. The words ‘Warblers’ was floating loosely above the door’s entrance and he shivered slightly at the sudden cold breeze. He was running out of time. Quickly tossing his bicycle onto the ground, he entered the bar – an abrupt blast of folk music and bright lights threw him aback slightly as his adjusted to his new surroundings.
Fancy wood furniture, detailed carpentry tables with leather seats, a small dance floor and a large jukebox that stood happily at the corner of the bar, a happy folk tune humming though it. Men dancing and chugging down beers – if only he could be as carefree as the folks here were. Shaking his head, he hastily walked over to the bar table, covering his jacket hood over his messy hair.
Brown eyes met jet black the moment he approached the bar table.
"Care for a drink?” Came the purr. The ivory eyes twinkled in mischievousness and winked playfully at him. He wasn’t fazed, he knew this bartender all too well.
“Not today, Santana.” He rasped out quietly, narrowing his eyes at the slim sleek figure in front of him, coyly cleaning an empty jug of beer. “You know what I’m here for.”
The woman smiled cheekily and shook her head teasingly. “I have no clue what you are talking about.” She turned away from him, continuing drying her jug.
He gritted his teeth forcefully. “Santana, I am running out of time.”
Santana turned back to him, fluttering her long eyelashes brazenly and smirked. “Always in a hurry, aren’t we, Mr. Anderson?” Rolling her eyes, she fished out a name card from her pocket. The hazel eyed man reached out for it in vain but Santana pulled it back swiftly, glaring at the man with a raised eyebrow.
“A word of caution,” She whispered; her voice serious and her eyes glowing a little, “The last I heard, they stopped hunting.”
He nodded slightly and reached out a hand for the name card. Santana huffed boredly and dropped the card onto his palm. “You owe me one, Anderson.” She purred, back to her normal tone.
“We owe you one.” He replied curtly and dipped his head before getting out of his seat and leaving the happy atmospheric bar. Halfway out from the bar he heard his name being called. He froze in fear, a sudden chill up his spine and he inhaled a sharp intake of breath.
“Anderson!” He relaxed. It was just Santana. He turned back and glanced at her questioningly.
“When you meet him, tell him I said hi.” She called out to him, laughing.
With a brisk nod, he left the bar. Outside it was cold and night had fallen, sneaking a peek at his watch, he hoped it wasn’t too late. Hurriedly he got upon his bike and took a glance at the name card - time to head down to the western side of town.
The night wasn’t getting any younger. This is his last hope, he chanted in his head as he pedalled furiously through the town, almost bumping onto an old lady who clicked her tongue angrily at him when he turned around to say sorry. He was getting careless but he had to find them – it was his last hope.
He slowed down at the next turn, a row of shop houses and quiet cottages caught his eye. It was undoubtedly quiet peaceful unlike the southern side of town, the crowded city area, where he lived. He got off the bicycle, tossing it away and walking through the long deserted road. Shop houses on his left were all closed – all except one.
A glimmer of hope sparked his heart and he sprinted over to the largest shop house at the far end labelled ‘Hummel Tires & Lube’, wait, an auto repair shop? He looked into the big shop, looking like a garage, filled with tools and cars – not what he expected. He dug up for the name card again for a second look. It was written Burt Hummel, so he guessed as much this was the right place but –
A shout to his left interrupted his thoughts.
“Hey kiddo! What can I do for you?” Came a gruff voice.
Emerging from underneath a Ford Mustang, an older man with the most piercing grey green eyes appeared with a crowbar on his left hand and a large grin on his face. “Here to pick up something?” He greeted, approaching the younger male.
“You are Burt Hummel?” The hazel eyed man looked at him then back at his own name card. The older man nodded his head and reached a hand out for a shake but froze when he saw the name card on the other man’s hand.
“Who gave you that?” Burt retreated, his eyes now unfriendly and his mouth in a frown.
“Santana.” Came the worried reply. Taking off his hood, he revealed his unruly curls of hair and large wide pleading eyes. “Please Mr Hummel, you have to help me.”
Burt shook his head, puzzled. “I know of no Santana.” He blinked a few times, scratching his chin. “We only do automobile repairs here.” Burt turned away from him, shaking his head once more, “Nothing else, son. I’m sorry.”
“Please, I’ve been searching for years; nobody else can do this better than you can.” He pleaded digging his pockets for his cheque book. “I’ll pay. I can pay whatever you want.” He walked up to Burt, who retreated back some more.
“I said no.” Burt sounded tired.
“Burt please –“
“Burt.”
Another voice interrupted the conversation. Turning behind, he saw a pale boy in overalls, holding up a paintbrush and glaring angrily at him. “Is he giving you trouble Dad?” The boy folded his arms, eyeing the newcomer before looking at Burt.
“Kurt.” Burt greeted quickly, nodding at the chestnut haired boy. Kurt glanced swiftly at the strange brown hair male who was staring back, eyes beseeching for help.
“Santana sent me here.” He spoke quietly, looking up at father and son. “I need your assistance and you will be greatly rewarded.” After a moment of silence, he added, “Please.”
Ice blue eyes glared fiercely at him. “We only do automobile repairs. If you aren’t here for that, get out.” Kurt hissed coldly, pointing a paintbrush angrily at him.
“I lost someone in the woods.” The hazel eyed man whispered, “You are my last hope, please.
The father and son pair exchanged glances.
“The Smythes do hunting too. Why don’t you go to them instead?” Kurt snorted after a moment of silence. “They love money; they’ll do anything for money.” He grumbled to the stranger.
Hazel eyes fixed onto the ice blue ones. “They can’t do what you do.” He told Kurt quietly. He turned to Burt sadly, “It’s my fault he is gone, but I’m trying to make amends. Please.” He gazed back at Kurt who seemed to be deep in thought.
“I was reckless and stupid.” He mustered up, glancing at Burt again, “I cared more about myself than anyone else. I lost him that night and I’ve been trying to find him ever since.”
Burt let out a sigh. “Kurt?” He turned to his son, who looked nonchalantly back.
“We expect fast and good payment.” Kurt snapped curtly, glaring at the stranger, who nodded eagerly, eyes twinkling in a wild daze. “Follow me.” Kurt beckoned to the hazel eyed man.
Kurt led him up the steps. Spiralling staircases and a scent of lavender caught his nose as he followed the boy up to another small room. They stopped in front of a wooden carved door, dust covering the surface as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.
Kurt seemed to have read his mind. “We stopped hunting years ago.” He excavated out an ancient looking key from his back pocket and pushed it in the door lock. Turning it, it opened with a loud click and a creak as Kurt pushed the door wide open.
Silver bows and arrows hung on walls like trophies caught his eyes. Guns, axes and long katanas were all on display and in the middle of the room; right in front of the windows was a wooden table, a dashing silver bow on the table, almost covered by stacks of paper.
“I will need you to fill in a contract.” Kurt commented stiffly, swatting a dust particle away from his face. “But before we do continue,” He turned to the man with questioning eyes, “I never got your name.”
Of all things she could conquer, his heart was the missing puzzle piece.
Of all things she could conquer, his heart was the missing puzzle piece.
An impossible space.
Almost intangible.
There’s that saying after all, to “Hold on tightly, let go lightly.” In the end, you’ll only find yourself hoping for something that’s almost non-existent and with any luck, realise that you don’t need to keep tugging on it anymore.
She sits at the edge of her bed, legs swinging aimlessly against the cooper-wood. Bright cerulean eyes stare wistfully outside the window, watching the indigo hues flutter into a cloudless morning, eloping the vast expense with the sun’s rays. It was beautiful, to say the least. She never believed in the sublime of anything other than nature and came to think of it as the world’s form of apology. An apology for the calamities of nights that she held on to nothing but purposeless faith, floating into the great abyss of her memories – an insignificant shade of claret that haunted her mind, constantly, constantly.
Life was none but pulchritudinous. That and misfortune.
A breath escapes her mouth as she quietly stumbles out of bed. There is a thud as her feet hit the floorboards and she trudges through her cupboards, ransacking the compartments for something decent. Two hours, she gives herself. Two hours to pull herself together and do something – productive. What else can she do? Meandering through the days as she waits for competition to arrive, it’s almost meaningless now. There’s a sad ache in her heart as she recalls the moments where she truly once felt alive – stinging fire in her veins, battling others who fell through with their great desires to triumph the Champion of the Elite Four.
The conqueror, they call her.
The four spend their lives waiting for opponents but only a few do manage past – rarely anyone manages to reach to the pinnacle of the battle and even if they finally did; she’d crush them. So what if she’s crowned the Champion? It feels hollow now as she struggles to figure out what to do in her life. She peers reluctantly at her bathroom mirror, tracing her cheekbones tenderly. It’s a train wreck of waiting and training, intervals of fighting and resting. There’s not one trainer who can dance toe to toe with her. It used to be fascinating to watch different people come and go: now it’s just a pain.
But, then again, there’s so much magnificence in that agony.
She finally trudges out of the bathroom and decks on a pair of slacks and her training top; the usual sleeveless one she dons on for battles. At the corner of her eyes, she sees an old outfit sticking out like a sore thumb in the mist of the dullness. The striking rubicund that resembles the ruby of his eyes and the bandanna laid upon it, almost like a broken warrior. She realises that she’s stopped breathing. It’s so nostalgic and she wonders why she still keeps it there in the first place.
A reminder that she’s not of his world.
A reminder that he’s just going to forget everything again.
When she walks out the door, she swallows that haunting thought and feels the morning mist chastely kiss her skin.
There’s something about mornings that shatter her dismal feelings, the brilliance of morning dew sprinkled onto the fur of the forest. The constant patter of her footsteps on gravel keeps her heart at pace, the crowing and cawing of diverse brightly feathered Pokemon in the distance. There is a spring in her step as she trudges down to Mauville’s market, unobtrusively wishing for something stimulating to happen.
Turns out she shouldn’t have coveted for so it transpired.
The market was bustling with people, both Pokemon and trainers alike pushed around the marketplace, eyeing the morning fish catch and trying to haggle prices with vendors. Shouts from vendors came from every which way, shrieking about freshly picked apples and fascinating stones obtained from the beaches. The salty stench of fish fills the air as she shoves her way through the crowd, distinctly murmuring under her breath. It’s slightly uncanny that the crowd chose to flock Mauville’s marketplace this morning – is there some sort of event going on today?
Further daydreaming in her distant mind, she did not anticipate the sudden barrelling boy and his Pokemon. There’s an instant crash as she realises the hurried figure and tries to dart hastily away, but to no avail. She accidentally knocks him onto a fruit display and oranges, berries and apples fall ungracefully onto the ground, pummelling by the hustling passer-by’s. Rapidly, she finds herself speechless at the display and almost cowers at the fierce glare of the fruit seller lady. Clumsily, she picks the fruits up from the floor and stacks them neatly back into the carts, all whilst quietly murmuring an apology.
Being a Champion has its perks.
Usually, people will stop and gasp in unison – it’s the Champion, they would shrill in fascination.
Today didn’t seem to be her day.
In fact, she’s still slightly taken aback that no one has recognised her yet.
The boy whom had stumbled onto her and cast her an annoyed stare before hurrying off with his Azurill in his hands, not even turning back to help her pick up the fallen fruits. Internally irate, she groused about the fact that nothing seems to be going her way today. Apologising one last time to the fruits seller, she found herself trying to find the boy and give him a piece of her mind. After all, any decent Pokemon trainer should be able to recognise her face – unless to which he isn’t a Pokemon trainer and she’s about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
Then again, he barrelled his way into her.
He deserves to know how she feels about that.
Scurrying through the sea of people, she spots the blue flash of Azurill, it’s huge tail giving it away almost instantly. The trainer seemed to be in a panic, urgently pushing past the crowd and for a moment, she decides to focus of his object of haste instead of reprimanding him. There’s usually nothing interesting happening in this part of town. Not that she knows of. An accident of some sort, perhaps?
Then she spots it.
Or rather, spots him.
She can recognise those crimson eyes anywhere.
A snarl escapes her mouth as she halts her chase. The trainer with his Azurill struggles his way out of the market crowd to dive deeper into a sea of a starting throng of Pokemon fans, all gathered near the contest hall entrance, seemingly entranced by something – or someone.
So that’s where the crowd is coming from. She can’t help but let out a irritated huff.
And he’s still wearing that stupid white hat.
She’s been meaningfully avoiding contests halls and it just takes one imprudent trainer to lead her right to one. Not just anyone, the one with him, standing arrogantly in his senseless glory and his obtrusively over-dressed Pokemon. For a splitting moment, she feels a tinge of jealously. They recognise him but not me? The green eyed monster envy twisted into rage.
He’s calling out in that melodramatic way of his once more, adjusting his hat as he scans the crowd of Pokemon maniacs, seemingly to try to spot out someone. The boiling rage simmers a little, is he looking for her? The ruby eyes stop at someone and he yelps in fascination. There’s hankering and movement as the same trainer and Azurill, who had obliging barrelled past her, steps up next to him, nervously grinning as if he won an award. He grabs the trainer’s Azurill gently and looks, stingily she thought, lovingly at it.
So much for looking for her.
She can’t hear them through the vast crowd chatter but she can tell for a fact that he’s just picked his apprentice. If the television holds true, he’s probably been finding an apprentice or some sort to fall under his wing. Again, not that she keeps up with news like this, contests disgust her. Immensely. And he makes it ten times worse. She has avoided all associations with him and she plans to keep it that way.
He’s currently talking in that excited tone of his as he praises the hand-picked boy and his Pokemon. Of course, trust him to pick the boy who decides to bash onto her in a crowded marketplace, of all people. The gathered troops yell in congratulations and she can’t help but let out another livid huff. She doesn’t pick an apprentice like that because of the dramatics – again, not like she knows of anyone whom she’d like to put under her wing. Not one single soul approached her anyhow and she feels that green eyed monster bob back up to surface.
It immediately vanishes when his eyes reached hers.
There is a very pregnant pause before she flushes wildly and breaks eye contact.
Harshly, she twists away from that gaze and stalks back into the marketplace, ignoring the burning stare behind her back. She feels no remorse nor guilt as she speedily maneuverers through the masses. So what if he sees her – he’s never been the one to admit anything after all, nor did he even think about visiting her. Ever since he forgotten the embarrassment of Mirage Island, she treats it as a gift – a cruel gift bestowed to her and she’s never once looked back.
Nor at him.
She lives her life as a Pokemon Champion and waits for challengers to battle.
Secretly, part of her waits for him too.
Silently, she turns back and there is a tinge of sadness when she realises he’s not chasing after her – nor were his eyes trained on her any longer. A wave of relief swallows her as she trudges through the marketplace and heads to where she initially wanted to visit. There’s a few stares on her way but they seem more engrossed in the contest crew in the distance. It doesn’t matter either way, she just wants to get her things and be on her way. There’s no point standing around here, especially with him around.
The crowds lessen at the corner of the marketplace where a small wooden stall shop owner is rearranging bottles. Small ink pots filled with umber coloured liquids stood forward, tiny labels read ‘Protein’ and ‘Iron’. She gives a little wave as the shop keeper finally emerges from his reshuffle, a concentrated look upon his old face. The wrinkles on his face etched into something of a grin as he acknowledges her wave with his very own.
“’Ay lass,” he greets with a lopsided smile, folding his arms onto the wooden cart table. “The usual?”
She eyes the ember liquid anterior of her. A pause follows as she tries to formulate the words in her mind; she hasn’t spoken in a while – there’s almost no need to anymore.
“Yeah,” She manages, her voice gritty and monotone, “I’ll have the usual.”
She’s surprised at the fact that she accomplishes a smile.
The old man flashes her a cheery wink and dives into his backpack, digging rapidly for something. He grabs two vials of russet coloured liquid and hands it over to her, beaming the way he usually does. She pauses, almost entranced by that silly old grin on his face before obtaining the vials.
“That’ll be 20,000.” He chirps.
She nods slowly. Quickly, she shoves her hands into her pockets, as if excavating for gold from the mines.
“Been a while since ya’ve come around yonder’,” The old store keeper watches her as she succeeds to pull out a few notes, gently placing it on the table. “What’cha been up to?”
She hurriedly stuffs the vials into her emptied pockets and looks up, a blush creeping to her face. She used to shop at Mauville’s open bazaar market fortnightly. Used to. Of recent, she’s just been lounging around her house, training at her nearby forest and not opting to socialize outside. Not that she enjoys it, after all. She prefers being in solitude.
She shrugs as a reply and the old man takes it as his que to start some small talk.
“Ya’ here for the contest picking?” He counts the notes on the table leisurely, tracing the edges. “Heard some famous laddies’ here to choose a student.”
She shrugs again, her cheeks filling in the rosy blush. Inaudibly, she internally curses at the fact that she’s partially upset at the fact that he’s more well-known that she is. One might say she’s just cross at her comeuppance, being less than what he is. One might say she’s just upset that people know him better than she does.
“Not much for talking huh,” The old man pockets his payment and casts his bright green orbs at her. “I’ll see ya around, lassie.”
She nods and flurries away.
The crowds are lively. Much too lively. She doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, nor does she wants to, but she catches little snippets of banter from the throng of people. Squeals of “he’s here!” to “I should’ve been the one he picked” ranged from the chatter of noise; she shakes them off, not wanting to participate in banal conversations. However, as she makes her way out of the market, she hears a morsel of something most unfortunate.
Most unfortunate for her indeed.
“Even the contest champion scouts for students,” The voice goes, shrill and petty. “Why doesn’t Elite Four’s champion do anything like that?”
There’s a snort from her friend.
“Haven’t you heard?” He grunts, a nasally snuffle. “She’s just a recluse. Doesn’t even go up to Evergrande city unless the four are completely thrashed.”
She sucks in a sharp intake of breath. She’s done here for today. Nothing is going her way and she’s not about to sit here, and take it all in like a punching bag. She pushes her way out, purposefully knocking onto the people who had misguidedly gossiped about the Elite Four’s own champion right in front of her face. There’s an angry retort but she smirks snidely away – they deserve it. Silently, she shakes her head at her own rancorous behaviour.
A loud thunder clap catches her attention and her sneer forms into a frown.
Perhaps if she runs, she’ll get home without getting wet.
Her footsteps thump heavily onto the ground as she forcefully glares at everyone in her direction, causing them to avoid her like the plague. She doesn’t care about the stares that come her way, it was a stupid idea to go out anyway, she should’ve stayed home. The sky above swirls into a dull dark mess, almost like her mind, lightning now streaking across the grey shades of painted storm clouds. There’s a drizzle of raindrops and she curses her luck, feeling the droplets grow heavier as she brisk walks through the pathway back to her home.
It’s located quite a distance away from Mauville but thankfully, she reaches to her doorstep just in time as the rain started to pour down heavily, the pitter patter drowning the disappointed yelling in her heart. It’s invigorating, she decides, as she steps into her small cottage home, at least she knows how the public eye views her, even as malicious and partially untrue as it is. It’s not that she’s a hermit, she just feels misanthropic. Who needs people when you have Pokemon?’
Then again, she thinks as she dries herself off with a soft towel, she hasn’t spent much time with her Pokemon either.
She’s still a hypocrite but she’s fine. She’s fine with people forgetting about it. She’s alright with it, she can live with the fact that she’ll possibly be forgotten and replaced.
She takes a warm bath to sink her hollowed thoughts away. The scent of citrus fills her nose as she plunges into her bathtub, soaking, drifting off to a distant memory of her an- there’s a sudden panicked banging on her front door. For a moment, she’s distraught: no one knows exactly where she lives. What if it’s those kids she vehemently bumped onto? Did they really stalk her back – I mean who would?
Then it hit her.
Oh. Right. The Elite Four. It’s not a daily occurrence but it’s not rare either. She doesn’t stick around Evergrande to watch the battles take place every day – not that that’s a daily occurrence either, but they do come knocking on her door from time to time, requesting her to make her way for a battle.
Perhaps the Elite Four have met a challenging competitor. She’s bound to have her pedestal taken away from her one day – perhaps it’s today. The same thought toyed with her mind constantly, but it’s never truly come to light. She doesn’t know if she’s thankful or upset. She’s back in her clothes in a flash, draping a towel over her head as she clumsily shuffles to the door, wondering which one of the four has decided come this time.
The knocking on the door grows insistent and she elects that it’s most probably Phoebe. She’s the only one impatient enough to keep banging against the wooden door.
It’s not Phoebe.
In fact, it’s none of the Four.
As soon as she opened the door, she slams it shut
She’s hallucinating.
He is not here, dripping and soaked to the skin, with that puerile smile on his face.
She’s dreaming.
Another knock on the door confirms that she’s not.
His voice, however, almost kicks her in the teeth.
“Sapphire,” And it’s the same way he’s said it since they’ve seen each other. That soft gentle melodious tone that’s almost honey-sweet yet sincere, resilient – something she’s missed awfully. His voice hangs in the dreary patter of raindrops on her window panes and she stares at the door; she stares at it with utter disbelief.
The second thought that crashed in her mind was the fact that he potentially pursued her back home.
Is he here to laugh at my misery? She reaches for the doorknob once more, unhurriedly, feeling each second tick pass morbidly. Is he here to quote my misfortune? Why is he here? Why is he here when I’m nothing but forgettable to him? She feels the cold brass of the knob and tries to still her heart to freeze the same way. There’s no point in pretending that she’s fine but there’s no point in telling him the truth.
There’s a click as she opens the door slightly and peers out.
He’s still standing there, drenched to his toes and looking rather put out. At the sound of the door creaking open, his pursed lips form into a big grin and he adjusts his soaked hat, seemingly trying to tip it as a form of salutations. She doesn’t respond to his smile nor does she invite him in. She avoids all eye contact, inwardly bellowing at him to leave.
Leave. Leave. Leave.
“Can I come in?” He questions unobtrusively, rapping his fingers on the wood door.
She finds herself making way for a rain-marinade boy to enter her abode. Something is bawling at her to halt, to chase him out, but she doesn’t have the heart to do it. Today’s just not her day. There’s complete silence between the both of them as he unlaces his boots and places them neatly near her shoe rack. She’s not ready for this, she’s not strong today and she’s definitely dreaming.
The wine-coloured eyes beseech her gently.
“I –“ She doesn’t know what to say. Instead, she noiselessly takes her semi-wet towel and passes it to him. It’s silly really. He’s the closest thing she can call a friend and yet, she feels as if he’s nothing but a stranger. He grabs the towel and pats his face dry, shooting her a jovial beam as he slings it over his shoulders.
They stand there for a while and she realises she feels so very naked.
She doesn’t like feeling vulnerable.
He lets out a strangled cough.
It’s awkward. She’s awkward. She trains her eyes to the ground and tries to remove that lump in her throat. It takes a few moments before she decides to speak again.
“You’ve got a student.” She manages to splutter. How eloquent. It’s not like she’s ever been expressive with him anyway. His eyes were possibly burning holes in her head but she refuses to look back up. She doesn’t want to look at those eyes, it’s unbearable. What a way to start a conversation, no wonder she’s never really been the conversationalist.
“Uh, hah. Yeah.” He sounds tired. Almost defeated, even.
“Great.” She replies unenthusiastically.
There, she felt the most excruciating obstinate silence ever in her life. They didn’t speak. They stand motionlessly in front of her shoe rack, and she began to observe nothing else but her running shoes. The sky thundered in the distance and it sounded as if it was laughing mercilessly at them.
She breaks the silence first, unable to stand the heat of his stare.
It’s agonizing to spectate the loudest silences in the world.
“Um, do you want dry clothes?” She gestures to his wet clothing, slicked to his skin. It’s probably designer, she thinks to herself, and he’s most likely upset that it’s wet.
He chuckles lightly.
“I doubt I can wear your garb.” He jokes.
“I’ve got some –“ She stops herself quickly. She’s got some of his old clothes lying around somewhere that she refuses to throw. “Extra bigger sized clothes.” She finishes lamely, scratching her head. Without waiting for a reply, she manages to move her rooted legs and scurries to her bedroom, thrashing through her cupboard. It’s crazy. She’s dreaming. He’s clearly uncomfortable and he’s made it clear he’s nothing but an amnesiac. What is she doing?
She picks out the slightly torn white shirt and oversized shorts from a pile of her old outfits that he designed for her. Once.
She doesn’t waste time.
There footsteps as she flails gauchely down the hall and catches him taking off his white hair, shaking it as it dangles like a pair of floppy ears. She halts for a second, her eyes now drawn to the two deep claw marks on his head, a memory that laid like a dormant volcano in her mind. Ruby orbs flashes to her. Noticing her sudden gaze, he immediately shoves his soaking hat back on, a false smile plastered on his face and all of a sudden, she wants him, very badly, to leave.
“Those look familiar,” He tries to jest and she’s this close to just kicking him back out in the downpour. “Don’t they belong to me?”
She grits her teeth and nods ever so stiffly.
Handing over his clothes, she points weightily at the toilet door, signalling for him to change there instead. With that, she turns on her heel and retreats to the kitchen, once more feeling his gaze burn a huge hole in her back. She ignores the slam of the toilet door and tries to figure out a way to make him leave, politely. Years ago, she would’ve thrown a fit that even toddlers couldn’t compare with. She’s too lacklustre. She’s exhausted. She’s worn out from years of being incensed. The fire has been put out, strangely enough by those flame-coloured pools.
There is a click as the bathroom door reopens and he’s standing there, in his old shirt and shorts. She frowns deeply at the obviously wet hair that sits upon his head but doesn’t say anything about it. If anything it’s the trigger to all things awful and she doesn’t want to go through all of that again. He begins to travel through the hallway down to the kitchen, observing the very portrait of her and her Pokemon team that defeated the Elite Four and crowned her champion. He probably realises that it’s the very first thing people will see when they walk in.
He’s judging her. She knows it.
So what? She thinks grumpily, pouring a jug of tea into two small cups. At least she doesn’t create her own Pokemon cosplay costumes.
“Here.” She offers him a small porcelain cup as he approaches, bagging his wet clothes before smiling back at her. “So,” She clears her throat, feeling awfully hot all of a sudden. “How’s life?”
It feels strange.
Speaking to him so formally as if she’s carefully treading on thin ice.
“Great.” He answers politely, cupping the sky blue porcelain demitasse fondly, “I’ve gotten busy with my own fashion line but other than that, it’s been well,” He takes a small sip of the tea and exhales slowly. “It’s been the same.” His eyes trails over to her and she quickly looks away, feeling her face heat up.
“How about you?” He enquires. There’s something hollow about their conversation. As if something is missing. A large chunk of what they want to say is coveted by politeness. There’s so much to say, she thinks, examining her fingernails as if they were the most fascinating objects in the world, there’s so much to say but she’s happier if she’s mum.
“Fine.” She answers almost robotically. “Battling, training and living. It’s the life.” She sounds like she’s rehearsed this too many times.
Silence engulfs them once more.
They sip tea.
The rain patters violently against the windows.
She wonders why he’s here but doesn’t voice it out. There’s no point, she tells herself.
“I visit Evergrande sometimes.” His voice drifts off and she freezes, her cup hovering near her mouth. “I never see you there, though.” He lets out a chortle.
She tries to smile but it ends up more of a grimace.
“Uh-huh.” She looks away, thinking of an excuse. “I’m busy training.”
“Even though you’ve conquered it all?” There’s a clank as he places his cup on the kitchenette.
She nods.
“Worried you’ll lose your title?” He quips lightly.
She bristles suddenly.
“At least I’m not giving it away willy nilly.” She scowls.
There’s a pause.
The atmosphere turns tense once more and she’s got this uncontrollable urge to just ask him to get out. She halts herself from doing so, quickly dusting her pants quietly, pretending that she’s occupied with something else so she doesn’t need to look back into those pools of hurt.
“I –“ She tries to salvage it but to no avail.
She can’t seem to form words.
He decides to finish them for her.
“I came here for a reason, actually.” He speaks tentatively, turning away from her. “What?” Curious, she looks back up and sees him rubbing his chin thoughtfully. They don’t make eye contact. They remain in that silence for a moment and she’s never felt this anxious for his reply.
He breathes a sigh.
“I wanted to –“ He stops himself.
She bites her lip to stop herself from shrieking at him.
What? She begs internally. What do you want?
“I want to be your understudy.” He finally exclaims, covering his face with his hands. “I know it sounds crazy –“ “Yes it does.” She agrees uncommittedly, feeling light-headed. “But I’m done with contests, I want to try something new.” “How is battling new?” She cuts in sharply, ignoring her wailing heart.
“You’ve done it before.” She points it out, lightly pissed. “What do you mean you want to be my apprentice?”
They have sparred side by side, they have sparred against each other – she knows what he’s capable of. She’s befuddled and her mind clouds over, has he really forgotten every single thing about her? The last time she checked, he only forgot everything that happened at Mirage Island, the confrontation, the confession. It burns like an unwavering flame at the back of her mind, an endless cycle of ruby red.
He looks perplexed as he peeks out from his fingers. There’s another beat of silence before he drops his trembling hands and starts fiddling with them. There’s so many things she wants to say to him yet she finds herself as silent as he remains. It’s excruciating to stand here with his endearing shyness, it’s definitely a nice breather from his usual constant flamboyance but it’s uncharacteristically uncanny.
“I’m sort of retiring after all,” He explains, twiddling his fingers around his tea cup. “Awards, trophies, they all will rust someday.”
“So will titles.” She adds on, glaring at his pale face. “And if you haven’t noticed, I don’t take in apprentices.”
“Are you afraid to be beaten?” He jests, sipping his tea once more and examining her kitchen. She lets out an annoyed huff as he continues, “I’ve heard you’ve gotten many a contender but never lost one.”
“They weren’t worthy enough.” She waves her hand dismissively in the air, recalling how she faced off with challengers filled with determination to win, it was adrenaline rushing – it was. Now it’s just stale competition, nothing fazes her because she’s pretty sure she’s nothing but numb from all the battles.
“Why not train one to be worthy?” He taps his fingers on his cup, trailing his eyes over to hers, “The Sapphire I knew valued challenges.”
There’s a point where time stops completely.
It’s peculiar how it just decides to slow-down so that you can witness each agonizing second and heed every single word.
The Sapphire I knew, she doesn’t hear anything other than that. You knew? She feels the bristles on her skin, face flushing with heat. There’s a moment where she berates herself to being over-sensitive but she sojourns when she noticing that cheeky smile on his face. You don’t know anything, she screams, clenching her fists. You forget me, you come in here and ask for something incredulous.
You don’t know anything.
It doesn’t escape her mouth.
It’s stuck in her throat and it tastes like bile.
There’s a long pause.
He seems to have notice the sudden terse look on her face and his smile falls flat.
“I’m just trying to help.” He says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I’ve heard about how you isolate yourself away from everyone else.”
She grits her teeth.
“I’m busy training.” Her reply is stained with bitterness.
“There’s more to life than just holding your title.” He ripostes quietly, “You don’t stay long after your battles at Evergrande, you barely leave the house unless it’s to get food and you don’t even try to do anything else other than defeat people ceaselessly.”
There an awful lot of silences today. She can’t find the strength to scream at him, grab him by his shoulders and shake him till he realises – realises what? Her fists uncurl and she remains completely noiseless. The thunder outside chimes like a gravely growl, an impressive roar that seems to come from inside her chest and she can feel her heart sink. The rain continues its disastrous downpour as she silently stalks to the sink and drops the teacup with a loud clang.
It’s almost hopeless.
In fact, standing here in the dull lit kitchen, it feels like a nightmare.
“It’s been too long.” He murmurs.
She doesn’t turn around.
I don’t know what to do anymore, part of her yells; and that’s all she can say because that’s become her answer to everything. Even still, she knows that she still finds him in cold shallow coffee, in the pastel colours of the sunrise. He exists in the pages of the book she’ll never finish. He smells too much like wooden panels in the bedroom, it’s too comforting and she hates that. She detests it to her very core of her being. Something inside of her fights, pounds on the walls of her ribcage and finally the words tumble out of her lips, clawing it’s escape.
“You forgot.” She finds her mouth working thoughtlessly on its very own. “You forgot everything and yet, you stand here with the gull of asking me something I cannot do.”
On his part, he smartly remains stoically quiet.
“Everything fades away.” She breathes, feeling the cold kitchen panel with her palms. “Titles, trophies, friendships, memories,” her eyes linger on her fingertips, “It only hurts when it stays.”
There’s a trickle of a smile as she turns to face him.
“Why can’t I be an amnesiac?”
There’s an echoing thud in her chest as the tip of her ears turn rosy, her face is flushed – not out of embarrassment but disappointment. She finds herself seeking for something, something in those glassy eyes; perhaps a haunting cloud of recognition but all she sees is a solid wall.
“The thing is, I just can’t forget you,” There’s a dull ache where she thinks her heart used to be, it’s shattered now, bits and pieces dangling from her veins. “And no matter how hard I try, I still remember. It’s a burden, a huge cloud over my head and I can’t think straight because I wonder how you are and how you’ve been – and then it hits me.”
She can feel warm tears welling up.
“I realise you’ve forgotten everything and I can’t help remembering.”
It starts like a drizzle. Then a downpour.
It’s a mess. She’s a mess.
And he does nothing but watch.
The rain slows down to a halt.
It’s over. She tells herself. After this, everything will just go back the way it used to be. It’s just her and it’s fine that way. She insists. It’s fine. I’ll be fine.
And then he speaks.
“I’m a mess.” He whispers and there’s a light hoarseness to his voice. “I’m a mess without you.”
She looks at him and his eyes are glossed over, she’s never noticed the dark rings under his eye lids or the sparkle of the umber red against the glow of the dull overhanging lights. She knows he’s crying, there are tears, she’s unmistaken – tears of years of running.
“But then again,” he continues, letting his teardrop fall down his cheek and he’s trying his best to not falter, “I did this to myself.”
It’s almost too innocent, the way his brows are furrowed and the way he wipes his tears with his sleeves. There’s a sniffle somewhere as he rubs his eyes a little too roughly and when he opens them; they are as red as the flames in her gut.
“I tried to protect you,” he mumbles, clenching a fistful of his shirt. “I thought it was better if we just pretended we didn’t care. I failed before and I’ve failed again.”
He reaches out to his hat and drops it onto the floor.
“Every day, it’s a reminder of how I should forget.”
The scars are still deep. She knows them by heart. It’s sickly looking, darkened in colour and etched into the side of his forehead. It’s a memory etched in skin, of the time when they were just mere children, just playing around until they had to face the biggest challenge of all: the inkling of protecting someone you love. He was hurt and she was terrified.
She’s still terrified.
And he’s still hurt.
“I’m sorry.” His voice shakes. It shatters. “I’m sorry.”
She doesn’t say anything.
If he’s a mess, he’s the most beautiful messes she’s ever seen. It’s tragic. It’s chaotic. Like a painting dipped into water, the colours are delightfully frantic, falling, seeping and pouring out of the outlines. There’s a mixture of deep blues and awfully bright yellows. Pale pink and dark brown. But it’ll be the most magnificent thing you’ve ever laid your eyes upon.
Watercolours. His eyes are like watercolours.
It’s a wreck of splash paint but everything falls delicately into place.
“I’m sorry.” He finally stops repeating himself and picks up the soggy wet hat. “I’m sorry I hurt you. It’s okay if you’ll never forgive me, I just needed to –“ He lets out a snivel and squeezes his eyes shut. “I just needed to know you’re okay.” He turns to leave.
“I just needed to see you.”
With that, he leaves.
And she breaks. Like an ice sculpture shattering into smithereens upon the ground. It feels as if someone is crushing her heart, desperately trying to cling on and she lets out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding. Her feet start moving on its own and she finds herself flinging her arms out in despair, trying to grab the air as she bolts out the front door – not caring if it’s left open.
Her heart’s left open.
She catches sight of his hunched back, his hands shoved in his pockets, head down and she hurries forward.
“Stay.” She begs, reaching an arm out to stop him. “Please stay.”
He stops and turns, eyes widening in surprise.
She doesn’t halt and barrels directly into his chest, burrowing her face and sobbing uncontrollably. It’s awkward, it’s clumsy but she wraps her arms around him and wails for him to stay. It’s juvenile, she thinks, but she’s missed him so much – his way he gently tucks his chin next to her ear, an arm snaking around her waist. His stupid hair tickles her ear but she doesn’t care. He smells so much like sandal wood and mint, he smells so desperately of home.
His hand draws calming circles around her back as she tries to swallow back her tears.
“Don’t forget me again.” She snuffles, burying her face at his neck, “I don’t want to fade away.”
There’s something in his voice that assures her.
“I won’t.” he promises, “I won’t.”
Of all things she could conquer, his heart wasn’t the missing puzzle piece.
It was a possible space, forced apart by fear.
It was fear that she could not master.
And all she had to do was to hold on tightly, let go lightly.
Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class.
(A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp)
First quarter
Second quarter
Third Quarter
Words: 8,749
FRIDAY
Fiery, sizzling hot. Scorching hot scarlet and maroons. Bold berry red, a dash of maroon.
There was a twist and a flick.
Never be afraid of the rage that is fire.
A splatter of paint.
Fire burns hot and dies fast.
Bright vivid soaked brushes laid scattered around the empty dorm room.
Steel blue eyes narrowed.
It was vexing. Uncannily, what he felt was almost not human, the way it twisted and distorted itself inside his body. It burned so bad like fire lacing his veins, creeping up his spine. His pale skin was sore, drenched in puddles of burgundy. He felt intoxicated with an emotion he had no intention of ever feeling so much of. The acidity of it, residing in his belly, waiting to be spat out in foul vulgar strings of incomprehensible words. He wanted to screech them with every living ounce of breath that dwelled in his lungs.
He really did.
But what he entered to was a just an empty greyscale room: sitting the middle of which was the painting. That very painting that brought him so much distraught. That was his breaking point.
Blinded by rage with not a soul to take out on, he decided the next best thing was the painting itself. It was preposterous. He knew it, internally shrieking at himself to stop but in his moment of anger, the warped logic in his mind took control of the bold strokes that now littered the painting.
Before, it stood rigid and grey, fluffy clouds saturated in amounts of pearl white that sloped around the edges of the canvas. The hills etched in a dreary dark concrete colour, grained with small stones of beige. A hint of perhaps azure in the distance but too small, too insignificant to notice.
Deidara watched, enthralled as the deep claret sank into the paper, creating soft swirls in mixture with the misty grey. Almost like flickering flames, he realised, dying out in the cool grey.
After such an inferno, watch the ashes fall into place.
The sudden discernment hit him.
For nothing fights the frost than the flames.
He dropped the brushes, fingertips trembling, coated in a dance of colours.
Be schooled by the flame so that you never know the torment of the ice.
It’s beautiful. He thought, gasping in euphoria.
The painting sat now, covered in a calamiform of bright shapes and colours, harlequin in a multifarious enflamed greys and whites. There lay scored shadows of dark purple, creating soft blurred outlined of the hills. It was strange how interwoven the bright reds and the dull greys were with the astonishing bold blushes of cinnabar that stood distinctively, catching the eye of Deidara.
Light streaming from the window panes fell upon the shadows of the painting, the straw-coloured hair boy beaming at his handiwork. It was luck as well, that lent a hand, for Sasori was nowhere to be seen. Deidara gallivanted around the room, letting out a whoop of exhilaration, whatever it had aggravated him was feckless now.
Primarily, the blonde’s mission was to barge in to give Sasori a livid earful of insults.
After managing to break the door down – Deidara noted inwardly about how weak the dorm doors were – he stormed in, ready to hurl vulgarities at the red-head but was greeted with a none other than bare room. Since it was vacant of any living being except for himself, the blonde decided to screw with Sasori’s “perfect artwork” but ended up creating a stunning mess of paint. So much for being mad and screwing with the latter.
“I can’t believe I skipped class for this.” The blonde snorted to himself.
Perhaps Sasori was still having lessons, judging by the unoccupied grey space.
Deidara gazed dreamily at the painting, with his own contribution, it looked more like a mixture of two artists working together. Well, at least, somewhat.
There was a pause.
He couldn’t just leave it here. Sasori’s bound to destroy it somehow, knowing that his greyscale masterpiece was ruined – if anything the red-head would probably try to ‘save’ his artwork. Now that the painting exactly looked decent, Deidara was definitely going to keep it. Hand it up. Proudly proclaim that he saved their work with his ingeniousness.
A thin grim line set on his face.
He had to steal his own painting.
He had to.
Kakuzu had settled himself deftly into the folds of Deidara’s bottom bunk, his jewel green orbs squinted at the sight of the blonde and his giant obstruction of a painting. He watched with mild amusement as the flaxen-haired male tried to hide his work of art behind his rickety looking easel.
“Deidara.” He greeted calmly, ignoring the snigger that came from the top bunk.
“What are you doing?” Hidan immediately stopped sniggering when the blonde covered the painting with the white-hair teen’s towel. “Why are you using my towel?”
Looking flustered, Deidara pressed a finger on his lip.
“Shut up. It’s my business.” He grumbled, examining the smirk that formed on Kakuzu’s face. “You,” he pointed a finger to the raven haired male, eyes fixed on him like a hawk on its prey.
“I’ll pay you twenty and not a word about this to Sasori.” The blonde dug his pocket and fished out a twenty dollar note, striding forward and slamming it onto Kakuzu’s open hand. How obliging, he thought darkly, glaring at the smile that graced the raven haired male’s face.
The older male dipped his head mockingly and pocketed the cash.
“You know he’s going to be furious.” He commented dryly before turning back to his sketchbook, outlining what seemed to be a tree.
Deidara scoffed, rolling his eyes. Of course he knows. Sasori’s going to lose his shit when he realises the painting’s missing. If his ego’s as big as Deidara presumed, he’s not going to come running for help; in fact, there’s a high probability that the red-head is just going to start work on another piece.
“I won’t be bunking in this weekend either, by the by.” Hidan remarked, peering down.
The blonde froze.
“Wait what?” He blinked, confused. “I’m not planning to stay here either!” Hastily, he pointed at the hidden painting.
“I can’t leave this here unguarded! Someone has to keep an eye on it so that Sasori doesn’t see it.”
Hidan chuckled.
“It’s your business.” The sly voice echoed, grinning sweetly. “B'sides,” Hidan gestured to Kakuzu, “I’m going to sleepover at his place to finish our work this weekend.”
Deidara paced back and forth, hands clenching his golden locks as he fought to figure out a way.
“I’m not staying over again, god knows Sasori might come in and stab me in my sleep!” He shuddered, brushing away that thought.
“You’ll have to take the terrible duty of protecting your ego- I mean art work.” Hidan purred, his lavender pools lit up with a glint of anticipation. “It’s really the only way to hand up your handiwork.”
Rubbing his face in exhaustion, the blonde couldn’t help but wonder if he had made a mistake improving the art work that was Sasori’s. Then again, he glanced furtively at the towel draped unceremoniously on his easel, then again, it only became much better after he had opportunely slapped along some colour to it.
“I don’t wish to pry into your business.” Kakuzu’s deep voice broke his thoughts, “But is all this silly fighting truly necessary?”
Deidara frowned before turning his steely gaze to him, nodding quite curtly.
“Then I wish you the best in your future endeavours.”
He might’ve heard a hint of pity in Kakuzu’s voice, but Hidan’s loud hyena cackle drowned it out before he could even confirm it.
“I’m not the one at fault here.” Deidara muttered, looking at his stained hands, still inked with faded splashes of colour. “I’m right. I know I am. I’m right and he won’t listen. I could explain all damn day and he still won’t get it.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets, imaging Sasori’s half lidded eyes staring back at him.
“I try to work with him but in his warped logic, my incapability means he’s right. Every stride I take, every breath I make, he’s mocking me.”
Deidara let out a groan of exasperation.
There was a pause.
“What if he’s just not good with words?” Hidan asked quietly, sounding oddly mature, “He’s never been vocal about anything except his own art tantrums.”
Kakuzu snorted in agreement.
“I just want this project to be done and over with.” The blonde growled, kicking a stray piece of paper on the floor.
“Believe me,” The older man chipped in from the bottom bunk, “I bet the feeling’s mutual.”
There was a short pause.
“You do deserve some form of congratulatory compliment.” Kakuzu added hastily, “I’ve never seen someone actually manage to stay in the same room with him for more than an hour.”
Deidara rolled his eyes.
“He’s lucky he looks like a serial killer, no one dares to approach him with that surly attitude of his. It’s akin to his paintings!” He pointed viciously at the hidden portrait piece, “Grey, grey, grey! Have you seen anything else as boring as that?”
At that, Hidan let out a roar of laughter, slapping his thighs, his giggles shaking the double bunk bed.
Kakuzu snorted once more.
“Truth to be told, not really.”
His green eyes danced with a strange sort of fire within them.
“This is the first time I’ve seen him paint something like this.”
Evening dusted the sky, the magenta rays of the last sun shrouding the quiet room with a strange sort of calm, the snow drifting down onto the ground was mesmerising, like an old nostalgic video tape looping over and over again. Sepia soon coloured Deidara’s shared dorm before the inky glow of the night seeped through the curtains.
It was noiseless.
It wasn’t Hidan’s lack of presence that struck the blonde’s sudden fear.
It was Sasori.
He did not appear screaming like a maniac, slamming down and digging through Deidara’s room for his lost project. Neither did he pop by to give a cynical quote that probably to insult him. It was oddly quiet. Technically, the red-head didn’t talk much but it was definitely peculiar that he hadn’t dropped by to give a snip or a snap.
He did consider to attempt to give a little jest.
He however, value his life, so he pushed that thought back into his mind.
The silence was deafening.
“It’s fine.” Deidara tried to placate himself, huddling into his comforters, “It’s all fine.” He snuggled himself into the corner of his bed before hearing a crinkle that struck his heart cold.
Heart in his mouth, he turned around hesitantly, eyes desperately searching the bed for the noise before finally stopping onto the 20 dollar note that he had originally gave Kakuzu.
There was no way that man would’ve accidentally left money on the bed.
That could only mean one thing.
It was almost midnight when he found himself standing once again in front of Sasori’s dorm. The letters 303 seemed to mock him now, jeering at the fact that he actually felt guilty enough to come running back, tail between his legs. By now, Deidara had familiarized all the cracks and dents on the dark oak door, and was just assembling up some sort of courage to lift his arm to knock on the door.
The dormitory hallways now devoid of students, stayed grey and silent, watchful.
“Sasori.” The blonde managed to muster up, urgently whispering to no one in particular. “Are you there?”
Perhaps he made a mistake and Sasori actually went home for the weekends. That seemed highly impossible considering that the red-head never headed home for the weekends – something about living alone or some sort. Deidara never truly paid attention.
“Sasori.” He undertoned once more.
There was no reply.
Right.
Fine.
Deidara turned away from the door, twiddling his thumbs worriedly. Did Kakuzu tell Sasori about the painting? If so, the red-head should be furiously hacking at the blonde’s room right this moment, however, it seemed as if the school was dead silent and no one else remained in school except for him.
He decided to check the dormitory’s front yard for any signs for life.
With the warm bronze sunlight swallowed by the horizon, the scintillating moon hovered in the cold night, lustrous dancing stars glinting the sky. Deidara huddled in his jumper, rubbing his gloved hands in the wintry air as he trekked down the path to the front yard of the dorm. From the end of the dorm’s gate, there was the flicker of the school’s overhead lamp lights, breathing in a glow of orange in the dusty ink black.
A shuffle of movement caught his attention.
In the soft silvery moon beam, the familiar sight of red was strangely reliving, it coiled its flowing tendrils upon the dark maroon pullover that Sasori was donning, dipping him in a radiant, almost hypnotic glow. The red-head glanced up, his pale face showered in the moon light, casting shadows that bathed in its intrinsic charm. But then, in a trice, the frown appeared on the male’s face, mercilessly tearing the illusion of beauty, leaving Deidara feeling suddenly austere, miserable and dark.
His mouth went dry, suddenly unable to speak.
There was a crunch of footsteps on the snowy ground as Sasori moved towards the blonde.
Dediara didn’t say anything – he didn’t know what to say, conscious of the glare that was being sent his way, he dipped his head down quickly, staring at his boots.
Another pair of boots stopped right next to his.
With the excruciating silence hovering between them like a heavy fog, Deidara found himself squeaking a soft greeting that sounded awfully like a grunt.
Sasori did not reply.
Deidara glanced up, suddenly aware that the latter was standing rather close to him.
“The painting is gone.” Sasori announced coldly.
The blonde tried not to look guilty.
“Oh.” He managed to mutter, scratching the back of his head innocently.
“I know you took it.” The red-head continued.
Deidara bit his tongue.
Great.
“Oh.” He slapped himself mentally.
“I’m glad.” Sasori added after a pause.
That took Deidara by surprise as he glanced curiously at the red-head, who was observing the snowflakes falling onto the ground.
“You’re glad.” He echoed, blinking. “You’re glad?”
Sasori sounded strangely hollow.
“Grey like the colour of the window curtains that I have spent hours behind, watching.” He whispered into the night, “Like the serenity that flows from the crevice of the same lips that cause the ground to crumble and break. The colour of the duvets that stop me from shaking, the grey of mind, trying to forget my miserable life.”
The blonde raised a brow.
“Grey like your eyes.”
Deidara froze.
“I’m glad it’s gone. It was a stupid painting anyway.”
With that he left.
He should be mad.
Sasori was insulting him just a day before.
He should be furious.
Yet, Deidara felt peculiarly disappointed. There wasn’t a word to describe how he was feeling, but if anything it felt like the music of a great orchestra. At times it was quiet, and it allowed him to remain passive towards what had happened. And suddenly, the violins would play and he would feel oddly sad, then it would rise to a crescendo and a fiery rage would burst from his chest in a vicious confused anguish.
He stood, stock still, unmoving.
No prizes guessing who prompted that poetic response.
Grey like your eyes.
The blonde sighed, snuffing the snowy ground with his boots.
“Grey like your eyes.” He murmured.
Hidan was definitely wrong about Sasori not being with words.
And Deidara was definitely digging his own grave when he found himself knocking violently at dorm 303’s door, the towel-covered art piece standing unwisely at his side. He wasn’t trying to tease the red-head by bringing the stolen (albeit it was their painting anyway he couldn’t really steal it) painting back – he just wanted to make it clear that he didn’t destroy it. Well – at least not physically maul it.
There was a loud sigh behind the door.
“Please leave me alone.”
Deidara slammed his fists against the wooden frame.
“It’s not gone or destroyed,” He tried to explain, “It’s here. It’s here.”
He motioned wildly at the hidden painting, knowing well that Sasori probably couldn’t see what he was doing.
Once more, the sigh escaped from behind the door.
“You have no idea what I meant by saying 'I’m glad that it’s gone’, haven’t you?”
“The painting.” Deidara declared loudly.
“Please leave me alone, Deidara.” Sasori sounded tired.
The blonde frowned.
“Fine.” He gave the door a final slam with his fist. “But I’m leaving the painting here.”
Twirling around, the blonde left, storming across the corridors and heading down the stairs back to the shared dormitory bathroom, hoping that a hot shower of some sort would fix his messy head.
He stepped into the shower, toes flinching as they touched the chilled ceramic floor. His mind was in shreds, torn between viciously jubilant at Sasori’s sudden melancholy and guilty for seemingly being the one who caused it. He turned the dial, old and metallic, lukewarm water drops dampening his hair, trickling down his back as he closed his eyes, feeling the warm splash of water wash away his confusion. The water poured down, drip, dripping down his fingertips as his minds fades into dullness, stilling the time to a stop. The sensation of steamy water calming his nerves, his mind swirling, standing under an everlasting waterfall.
Irritation gnawed on his skin.
Having Sasori acting like a forlorn puppy didn’t help his annoyance.
Deidara towelled his hair dry with Hidan’s towel.
What would the red-head gain from acting like a miserable sack of potatoes? He could’ve barged in, shrieked at Deidara for 'stealing’ the painting or perhaps even rebuke the fact that the blonde was truly someone he hated with a malice but he didn’t – in fact he stated that it made him glad?
And what about that cryptic prose – what about grey colours and his eyes – Deidara rubbed his temples, trying to figure Sasori out was harder than trying to finish a damn Sudoku puzzle. He dragged himself back into his empty cold dorm room and dumped himself onto the warm comfort of his duvets.
Grey duvets.
He huddled beneath it, a sudden memory of the first time Sasori had huddled in beside him and shared friendly conversations about their life on the first day of the project work, merely just a week ago. What did Sasori say about his grey duvets? Something about shielding him from shaking or some sort.
Grey like the colour of the curtains.
Deidara’s eyes fell onto his own curtains.
Grey like your eyes.
The blonde’s heart skipped a beat.
Hold on.
Kakuzu did mention how it was the first time Sasori had decided to go all greyscale on a painting and it was definitely odd how he kept it a single colour, even with hues of concrete. After all, art was a way to express something – an idea, an emotion. Could it be that the red-head had become fond of Deidara?
The blonde shook his head.
No way.
Impossible. If anything Sasori probably had already plotted 50 different ways to murder the blonde.
Then what did he mean by being glad that the painting was gone? Was that he eager to throw his handiwork? He didn’t sound any happier, Deidara noted quietly, tugging his duvet closer to himself, if fact, he sounded awfully miserable.
The blonde tried to piece the puzzle that was his partner with the permanent scowl, curling his toes deeper into his bed covers and eventually falling asleep.
SATURDAY
Nightmares plagued his sleep. Vivid images of Sasori repeatedly stabbing him with a paint brush woke the blonde up with a start. Steely blue eyes shot open like wide saucers, hands and feet tangled in a mess of cotton and slate grey. Deidara glanced about, half of him hoping that the red-head had actually sneaked into his dorm in the middle of the night.
He shook his head.
This is a guy who called you a fag.
Still, the blonde unravelled himself from his sheets, tiptoeing around his dorm, slowly picking up pieces of paper that had decided to plant themselves all over the floor. Probably his biology homework, he thought as he shifted around when a folded sheet of parchment caught his eye. Jammed halfway through his door, the parchment looked nothing like his and Hidan’s homework sheets and he made a quick grab for it.
Speak of the devil.
He recognised that scribbled handwriting anywhere. Addressed to him was a short note that came from none other than Sasori. Hurriedly unfolding it, Deidara peered at the scrawls, trying to figure out what beautiful insult the red-head had crafted for him – instead what met him was a few lines.
'Anger is useful only to a certain point. After that, it becomes rage, and rage will make you careless. I apologise, I’m sorry you had to hear that. I did not mean it.’
Deidara blinked owlishly.
Nothing about the painting?
He stopped gawking at the piece of carefully worded paper.
It gave him an idea.
The blonde wasn’t a fan of note-passing, but this will have to do. Scrunching up the piece of paper, he slotted it carefully under Sasori’s dorm door and sat there, waiting patiently. It was about 10am in the morning and he was pretty sure the red-head was an early bird.
He glanced accusingly at the painting that sat outside of the Sasori’s dorm, not moved an inch since yesterday night.
The almost noiseless crinkle of paper was heard as Deidara’s note disappeared from under the door. There was a pause and a grunt of annoyance before the paper was once more shoved out, landing in front of the blonde’s toes. Excitedly, he grabbed the note and opened it up.
Scrawled on top was his own handiwork of “You will only be forgiven if you promise to answer my question.”
Below was a hastily written reply of “fine.”
He grinned, penned down his question and shoved it back through the tiny gap of the dorm’s wooden door.
Once more, the paper was slickly pulled from the inside.
The blonde waited.
And waited.
There was a sigh from behind the door.
“I’m not answering that.”
Deidara was about to hurl a fairly timed insult when there was a click of the door being unlocked and being pushed open. Behind the opening crack of the door frame, stood Sasori, bed head and all. Clad in a thick fluffy looking jumper and pastel burgundy socks, the red-head peered out, his eyes weary. He blinked in surprise when he saw the blonde on the ground, huddled in a grey duvet.
“Hey.” Deidara greeted softly.
Sasori’s mouth twitched, as if he was about to spit out a sardonic remark but decided hastily against it.
“How long have you been -” He gestured at the clump of duvet on the ground, searching for a word to describe the chaotic mess that was Deidara, “Camping here?”
“Just a bit.” The blonde muttered, struggling to get up. “So did you see it?”
As if on cue, Sasori’s eyes flickered over to the canvas on the easel, standing stoically outside of his dorm.
“I told you; I’m not answering that.”
His face, however, spoke volumes.
Sasori’s face was definitely pale.
Not that his face was already as pale as milk, but the second the red-head’s eyes landed on the painting Deidara called a masterpieces, the blonde could see the fiery hot cinders of disenchantment, disgust and rage form like a thundercloud.
Deidara took it as a yes.
Yes, Sasori had seen it.
Yes Sasori despises it.
“We need to talk,” Deidara concluded, hurriedly moving to stand up, almost tripping over his duvet in haste. “We are adults, we should act like it.”
It was the most ironic thing that left his lips, but this – whatever this was – war between the two of them had gone on too long. It was a never ending tug of war, directionless and making the blonde baffled beyond belief.
Sasori kept mum but pushed the door wider, signalling the blonde to enter his abode. What met the blonde’s eye was appalling. Instead of the clean neat space that was originally Sasori’s room was now covered in ink splatter and torn paper, shredded across the floorboards. Paintbrushes lolled on the ground, dried up colours of blue and red splattered on his chairs.
“What on earth happened here? A tornado?”
“A tornado of emotions.” Came the quip.
Sasori sighed.
Deidara side stepped into the room, tiptoeing over the discarded papers and strewn paintbrushes, worriedly eyeing the red-head with mild concern. Scrutinizing the mess, the blonde noticed that Sasori had been trying to recreate his – their – Deidara corrected himself - art piece with a bunch of new bright colours, but had ended up ripping whatever he had twisted into life, finally left scattered onto the grayscale ground like party confetti.
Squinting his slate grey eyes, the blonde exchanged a perplexed peer over to the dorm’s owner.
“You heard.” He spoke, breaking the awkward silence.
The blonde tilted his head in curiosity; what did he mea- oh. Oh. Right. That fateful night he heard the disingenuous word that made his lungs shudder, the toxicity of the way Sasori had put it had made the blonde contemplate murder, even. Right, that he heard – yes. Deidara bit his tongue from spitting out an equally poisonous remark. There was no point in fighting, after all, Sasori looked as if he had been utterly defeated.
“Yeah.” Deidara scratched his head sheepishly. “It’s okay. I’ve been called that.”
“Kakuzu told me.” Sasori begun, running his hands down his messy locks. “Look, Deidara, I know we didn’t get off on a good start-” (“Try me.” The blonde snorted.)
“But I’ve been arrogant, yes.” The red-head shoved his hands in his grey slacks, eyes downcast, “I did not show you any respect and yet I demanded you to give me all of yours. I don’t know if an apology will suffice, but I am sorry.”
Biting his bottom lip, Deidara shook his head.
“I’m sorry too – but this is kinda the third,” He lifted his three fingers up, “or fourth time we’ve apologised to each other?”
He gestured to the mess.
“And it always ends up like this.”
Sasori pursed his lips in silent agreement.
There was a long pregnant pause.
“What now then?” The red-head broke the ice, examining the demolition of his dorm with crestfallen look on his face.
Deidara regarded the cast-aside painting with an expectant expression on his face, wriggling his eyebrows keenly at the red-head.
Sasori retorted back with a threatening glare.
The blonde took it as a no.
“We have to come to some sort of agreement.” The red-head assented, reaching down onto the ground and picking up a paintbrush from a stack of torn paper confetti.
“I concur.” The blonde picked up a paintbrush as well, twirling it around his fingers. “I still say we paint the sky.”
Sasori narrowed his amber eyes but nodded nonetheless.
“I think,” Deidara licked his lips, waving the paintbrush now and narrowing his eyebrows in deep thought, “I think, the reason why we didn’t come to a consensus is because we didn’t take any time to understand each other.”
Sasori looked bemused.
“Properly, that is.” The blonded added hastily. “Look, do you know what’s my favourite colour?”
The red-head rolled his eyes.
“Any colour that’s ablaze with phosphorescent it causes anyone in the vicinity a headache?” He suggested, watching Deidara’s face contort into an irritated scowl.
“No.” The blonde huffed.
“And knowing the colours you like will help us get along?” Sasori snorted with disbelief.
“It’s not about knowing the colours,” Deidara stabbed the paintbrush towards Sasori’s direction, “It’s about knowing the other person, how they think, how they act – how they,” The blonde gallivanted about, waving the paintbrush once more, “Feel.”
“Cheesy.” The red-head wasn’t impressed.
Deidara ignored the other, too deep in his own thoughts.
“I like the colour red.” The blonde declared. “Deep, picturesque with streaks of flashes of carnelian and patches of cerise. Russet rich blare, burning like fire! It’s wild, weaving into the alabaster of the gloomy dreary world. It’s captivating and elysian in a unstable way, ephemeral murmurs of vermilion – it hypnotizes me.”
“You should be a poet.” Sasori commented dully.
Deidara grinned.
“Eunoia.” The red-head commented, a small smile on his.
“Eunoia?” The blonde blinked.
Sasori shook his head, brushing Deidara off.
“Why? Why the idea of captivating through dazzling colours? Why the need for so much,” Sasori jabbed a thumb and tilted it down at the blonde, “Attention?”
The blonde froze, dropping his paintbrush.
A quiet flash of memory resurfaced through the oceans of his mind, the blonde teenager holding on his first art piece, being brushed aside by his parents – others laughing and mocking his emblazoned canvas within his arms – leaving one by one. Ablaze of fiery persimmon red washed over him, fury, wretchedness slowly dissolving into splattered paint.
He blinked the thought away.
Speechless, he shrugged. Maybe. Maybe it was the constant discouragement, maybe it was the laughter – maybe it was the fact that no one ever believed he was an artist. His splashes of colours were nothing but a mess to them – they called him a mess. A clutter of cluelessness, a chaotic thunderstorm. Litter. Trash. Useless.
But that mess they called – it meant so much more to him.
It meant dreams emerging from a part of ourselves, a way to communicate with the deeper self of both artist and audience. Each piece invokes different emotions, sculpted by the artist in a mosaic of colours that invites the curiosity of the mind.
“I just like to paint what I feel.” Deidara dusting himself, pocketing his hands, eyes downcast, a swell of lonesome aching in his chest. “It’s not a mess. It’s me. No one understands that.”
Sasori raised a brow.
“And what makes you think I don’t do that as well?”
Deidara blew a raspberry and snorted.
“Grey? Grey. And more grey.” He pointed at the red-head. “Don’t tell me that all you feel all day is grey?”
Sasori’s face fell and the blonde felt a sudden surge of guilt. Did he say something wrong again?
“Perhaps.” The red-head drawled, turning away. “Unlike you, I have no such experience with bright colours that are associated with anything – anything good that is.”
There was a long quiet pause.
“Yellow lemon meringue was that of the bright lights of the car in the deep absolute night, obsidian sheets and blaring sirens, flashing red and blue.” Sasori murmured quietly, “The rumble of thunder in the white four walled room, smelt of medicine and felt of misery.”
Deidara kept mum.
Sasori glanced at the window, his eyes distant now.
“Persimmon, the colour of their casket, lowering into the cocoa brown soil.” He folded his arms, refusing to look at the blonde now and Deidara could see his arms tremble at the recollection of coloured memories. “All these colours, they only remind me how empty I feel. How alone I am.”
Deidara wanted to reach out to say something – anything but he remained sedated. There are times where your brain fries up and stops working, it’s no excuse, he knows: he owns his own behaviour. He wanted to help, maybe try to be good and then a trigger is flicked. Emotions run cold, fearful anxious and he backs away, flees – Deidara didn’t know what to do, but remain noiseless and impassive.
All this time, Sasori’s thoughts were a strange ocean to him.
“I – I’m sorry.” The blonde’s eyes widened, shaking his head.
There was silence that clouded the dorm room before Sasori let out a soft snort.
“Looks like we’re both a mess huh?”
A lightbulb went off in Deidara’s head.
A mess.
“I have an idea.”
The room was finally cleaned out.
Sasori’s bed of stripped pine and rough canvas mattress now visible. Empty, the greyscale room looked cavernous, perhaps with its stone floor and corniced ceiling, it might even seem quite grand if not for the dust grey colour that bled through the dorm.
In the middle stood an empty canvas, backed up with the easel, with both Deidara and Sasori hovering over the biscuit white sheet.
“This might be a bad idea.” Sasori muttered, tapping his face with a finger sceptically. “I’m not used to disorder.”
He raised his paintbrush, now dipped in a splatter of carmine, a dubious look on his face.
“I’m also not used to bright colours.”
“Just go with it.” Deidara rebuked firmly, raising his own paintbrush, covered in dusty grey with fervour. “I’ll be the puppet, and you be the puppet master.”
The red-head shook his head.
“The most enduring battle is between head and heart,” The blonde coaxed, “What would be efficient and logical is nearly always triumphed by what is messy and illogical.”
Sasori flashed Deidara a glare.
“What do I do again?” He scanned the biscuit white canvas with anxious tight lipped frown on his face.
“Make a mess. Paint yourself.” Deidara gesticulated wildly. “Think of fireworks, think of your messy hair. You keep your feelings all bottled up in here,” He pointed at his chest, “And I well, I let too much flow – that breeds antagonism, lots of it.”
He let out a snort.
“We’ve got to learn how to be each other’s messes.”
Sasori’s face went a bold red.
“I do not.” He lied through his teeth.
“Paint.” Deidara commanded.
And so Sasori did.
It started as a splatter. Sasori’s fingers were too precise, the stiffness of his brushstrokes reflected his unwillingness to make a single mistake. The boldness of the bright maroon was contrasting against the bone white canvas, and all the red-head was doing was dipping small outlines on the edges of the paper, afraid – petrified to make longer, bigger harmonized movements.
Deidara shook his head.
The muted strokes were light, barely flushing across the canvas, a dramatic contrast to the negative space of white – and the blonde could tell the red-head was still mentally calculating the measurements of the sky and clouds in his mind.
“Stop, stop, stop.” The blonde grabbed the red-head’s hands, dragging it away from the easel.
Sasori seemed defeated.
“I tried.” He deadpanned, knitting his brows in frustration.
The blonde gritted his teeth – desperate times called for desperate measures.
Swooping under Sasori’s arm and earning a nonplussed (and distressed) 'what?’ from the red-head, Deidara’s left arm wrapped around the other’s shoulders and right arm coiled round Sasori’s – the blonde’s fingers clenched tightly on the red-head’s wrist – it was a terribly awkward position to be in.
Especially since he could feel the red-head’s burgundy eyes burning a mammoth hole at the back of his head.
“Paint.” Deidara forced Sasori’s hand onto the paper, watching the blood red ink dash across, wildly creating a lash that made the red-head try to wriggle away.
“Stop, stop!” Sasori yelped, shaking his head, trying his best to jerk away, “It’s dreadful!”
The blonde couldn’t help but snigger. Watching the normally cool-headed Sasori squirm in distress was rather oddly fascinating. Once more, Deidara firmly tugged on Sasori’s wrist, smudging the spill of crimson and watching the colour fade into saffron – a patchy tawny tangerine like the evening sky. The alarmed expression etched on the red-head made the blonde giggle in triumph.
“The sky is capricious,” Deidara steered the red-head’s, reciting the words that Sasori had once told him, “unstable, volatile. It’s unpredictable.” Once more, their hands moved enchantingly in bold dramatic strokes, “Kinda like you.”
There was a pause.
“Kinda like me.”
“Inconstant but elegant.” Sasori whispered under his breath.
Deidara nodded, mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.
His reverie was broken when Sasori’s hair brushed against his cheek.
The blonde drew in a long breath.
He had his arms draped around the petite sized painter, close enough to smell the comforting scent of pine and musk. Heart pounding in his chest, the blonde’s face flushed a rosy claret. He examined the heavy lidden eyes of the red-head, a nebulous gaze that raked the canvas as the paint brush glided through paper. The colour of burnt sienna and dashes of umber feathered like ripples in the ocean as Sasori anchored his attention from paper to the blonde.
The mild surprise on his face didn’t turn into the glare of unnerving thoroughness that Deidara had expected. Long lashes swept up as he blinked owlishly, fixing the blonde with a thoughtful expression.
Deidara felt his throat run dry.
Hurriedly, he swung his restless gaze back onto the painting, loosening his grip on the other’s wrist. An odd sensation stretched throughout his entire body – flames dancing around his chest, heart constricted as if there wasn’t any oxygen left in his lungs.
Mesmerised by the bright splatter of red.
The blonde internally blanched.
He felt suffocated.
Throwing his hands up in the air and side stepping aside from the red-head, who watched furtively in bemusement, the blonde hurriedly jammed his hands into his front pockets, lowering his head away in hopes that the strange sensation in his chest would stop.
The red-head let out a soft scoff.
Why didn’t he spit out a scornful quip? Deidara inspected his fingers, trying to feign his impassivity. Or shrink from the touch? His browns knitted in bafflement. Sasori didn’t seem to be livid.
Above all, Sasori didn’t seem at all bothered.
“Sorry,” The blonde muttered under his breath, meekly glancing up to see the copper pools staring back.
The red-head gave a dismissive wave.
“So,” Deidara cleared his throat, “You’ve um, got to just paint how you feel.”
Like a storm cloud thundering through his entire body, tinsel coloured strobes of slate echoed in Deidara’s mind. He couldn’t comprehend the disorder of his head, the pounding in his chest so awfully loud, he was sure Sasori could hear it as well.
The red-head continued on, dabbing gently on the easel with different bold strokes of rose to cerise, ruby to rust. He was still too careful, Deidara noted, watching with apprehension, almost as if he was unsure. Red, the colour of blood, and of fire – the rage, malice, wrath, radiance and determination of the wielder of the paintbrush – seemed meek, hesitant when Sasori weaved through the artic white canvas, each smooth stroke was a shy pat on the paper.
It took roughly ten minutes before the red-head slammed the paintbrush back onto the edge of the easel, exhaling with exhaustion.
“This is aeviternal. I can’t picture what you see.” Sasori grumbled, folding his arms and stepping back to view his work.
A frown materialized on his face.
Deidara found himself sulking as well, it didn’t bode well for either of them. The painting looked none like how either visualised, and in place stood an amateurish work that even Hidan would better excel at.
Sasori arched an eyebrow at the blonde.
“Any other bright ideas?” He scowled darkly, picking up a piece of cloth and wiping his hands. Amaranth smeared across the beige cloth and the blonde’s eyes widened in realisation.
“Soup!” Deidara gasped.
“Soup.” Sasori deadpanned.
Saturdays were meant for soups.
At least, that what Deidara thought.
Both the blonde and red-head found themselves strolling through the nearby street for a café that wasn’t too crowded on a weekend. A wide variety of shops lined the street – from antiques and art stalls, the silvery melody of bells that tinkled as people sauntered in and out of different stores.
Deidara had considered making instant soup back at the dormitory but he felt that it was essential that Sasori escaped the greys of his room. The lunch crowds dissipated through the late afternoons, and the blonde managed to find a quaint tiny café, huddled despondent among the tall shophouses.
Washed out under the overcast sky, it hunched in itself, fighting against the mizzle of snowflakes.
Sasori remained silent and stoic through the walk, and Deidara wasn’t about to ruin the mood with a wisecrack about how boring the red-head was. Instead, he hurried to the café’s entrance and pushed the mahogany door with fervour.
A welcoming blast of coffee wafted through the air, and the blonde sighed in content. Furnished in wooden picnic tables and chairs, the café was relatively empty, the buzz of machines whirring in the background over the quiet conversations from the corner.
“Go on,” Deidara nudged Sasori, who shot him a dirty glare. “Sit anywhere.”
The door swung closed behind them as the red-head made his way to a corner seat next to the open glass windows, looking as dull as the dusty skies outside.
The blonde pouted.
Really now, no one but Sasori seemed to relish the idea of staying indoors instead of having tea at a quaint polished café.
Sighing, Deidara found his seat in front of the red-head, ignoring the sulk on his lunch companion and decided to stare at the display racks near the counter. From the chocolate drizzled cakes, to the sugar lace pastries, the blueberry muffins and steaming puffs, everything was a feast to the eyes.
Just as he was internally drooling at the sandwiches on display, a waitress teetered over in beige and forest green uniform with a small notepad in her hand.
Deidara blinked, noticing at the warm smile on her face.
The blonde managed a lopsided grin back.
She pulled up a pencil from her back pocket, going through the routine questions she probably asks every customer that visited the café.
“Soup of the day.” He glanced at Sasori.
The red-head frowned.
“Two of it.” Deidara ordered, flashing what he hoped was a suave smirk.
Sasori sighed deeply.
“A warm latte, please.” He added, turning away to stare at the snowflakes drifting from the window.
The waitress nodded before sauntering over to the counter.
The blonde closed his eyes, inhaling the smell of vanilla and coffee beans. It was a comforting scent, something that Deidara had missed, a warm hug from the cold winter days. He opened his eyes once more, observing the plants positioned around the racks of the windows, their leaves casting elegant shadows in the muted lighting. Pine wood panels cover the bottom half of the wall, the tan colour on the top half of the walls a shade darker than the pine, tying the pine panels to the dark shades of the ceiling.
He tilted his head up, watching the ceiling fan spin leisurely, moving just enough to keep the aroma of coffee and baked goods circulating throughout the room. The whirring of the coffee grinder, the gurgling of the coffee brewing and bubbling of the steamer warming the milk created a relaxing symphony of sounds, and Deidara found his eyelids getting heavier, the serenity of the comfy café eloping him like a warm duvet.
He let out a soft jubilant hum.
“Ain’t this just picturesque?” He murmured to no one in particular.
“Passable.” Sasori answered disinterestedly. “At least it’s not Starbucks.”
Deidara whipped his head back down to glower at the red-head.
“Gee thanks, way to ruin the mood.” He grunted, folding his arms.
Sasori rolled his eyes.
The waitress waltzed over with wooden bowls and placed the auburn coloured liquid gently on the table top. A dash of terra cotta surrounded by burnt umber greeted Deidara’s eyes and he grimaced slightly. Why the colour red? He was hoping for the colour of autumnal vegetable gardens in the deepest greens
“It’s red pepper cauliflower soup.” The waitress assured, dusting her spruce uniform. “I’ll be back with your latte.”
She strode away, hips swaying.
The burnished soup stood in view. It smelt of tangy piquant, the hues of the soup softened just a bit with the addition of cream and cheese. Even though he was rather bothered by the shade of crimson, he ladled in the wooden spoon, dipping it as if he were plummeting paintbrush into paint.
He sipped on it and let out a contented hum of approval.
The rich aroma of the red pepper wafted around and Deidara couldn’t help but whip up delightful sensations from inside his memory; it was comforting to say the least, even was Sasori glowering darkly opposite from him.
Picking up the fresh, warm bread that was beside the soup, it smelled rich – almost as if promising a scrumptious taste. He dipped the spongy white bread into the red pepper broth, ripping off a chunk and stuffing the piece into his mouth. The pleasant smoothness of the warm bread blended perfectly with the bitter-sweet taste of the soup.
Deep in his own thoughts, Deidara didn’t even notice when the waitress brought over Sasori’s latte until he smelled the aroma of coffee wafting heavily through, piercing through the foggy veil of his dream-like state with the smooth, rich scent of roasted beans. The invigorating odour drew Deidara’s eyes onto the ivory black mug and he looked up expectantly at the red-head.
As if on cue, Sasori rolled his eyes once more and pushed his mug over to the blonde.
The smooth brown milk created a striking contrast against the mug. The lustrous texture of foam was topped with chocolate crumbles, the smell bringing up images of Deidara curled up with a warm fire place, cosied up on the couch. He took a small taste.
It was exotic, bitter-sweet and earthy.
He wrapped his fingers around the mug, enjoying the heat that spread through his heads. Taking another sip, he let the warm liquid sit on his tongue for longer. Once accustomed to the bitterness, the flavour steps forth shyly. It is the undertone that is so apparent in the aroma – one can’t smell the bitterness of it.
Sasori was staring.
Deidara blinked, swiftly pushing back the mug to its rightful owner and adjusting on his jacket lapels in embarrassment.
“It’s good.” The blonde spluttered out, spooning his soup once more.
The arched eyebrow was a reply.
They remained in mutual silence as they ladled their soups, sipping it carefully.
It was calming, the blonde realised. Dull, but comforting. Like the colour grey.
The steam that had risen from the coffee when the waitress first placed it on the table was quite gone. The top bore tell-tale signs of a skin forming, yet Sasori sat there with his hands clasped around it, as if he liked the idea of drinking it but lacked the will power to lift it to his lips.
“The word 'eunoia’ means beautiful thinking.” Sasori muttered, eyes still latched onto the snow fall from the window pane.
Deidara glanced up from his soup.
“What?”
He dropped his spoon back onto his almost empty bowl.
“Classy.” The red-head snorted.
“When you described your paintings.” He clutched the mug tightly “It’s eunoia to me.”
The blonde held back a mighty grin.
“I wish,” Sasori fixated a stare at the soup in front of him, still half full, “That I could imagine the colours of red like how you do so.”
Deidara forced himself not to clap out loud and guffaw at the sight of Sasori. The arrogant prick was finally asking for help! He forced himself to smile gently – he probably looked like a fool, grinning from ear to ear – because Sasori had decided to glare hotly through the pools hidden under heavy lidden eyelids.
Brushing the dispassionate glower that was sent his way, the flaxen haired boy crossed his fingers together, leaning forward and nudging his chin towards the half-emptied soup bowl that sat in front of the red-head.
“The soup is comforting no?” Deidara explained, “So my soul resonates with the colour red as something reassuring. I feel at home.”
“I feel nothing but misery.” Sasori bit back, eyes like daggers, narrowed into slits.
The blonde frowned.
“C'mn now, Sasori. If you told me that the colour of onyx fuels the misery in your heart, I would understand.” He grumbled, shaking his head.
“And what do you feel about the colour black?” The red-head enquired softly.
Deidara thought for a moment.
“It seems aphotic. Dark, cold, lonely.” He rested his chin on his entwined fingers, “Like an ebon hue that’s nothing but a void of velvet dusk. It is the absence of colour but with the mist of visible silvers, or azuline outlines, it stands ablaze against the silhouettes created by obsidian. Like a backdrop for trees, stills as an oil painting and darker than the ravens.”
Sasori blinked.
“Without black, no colour has any depth. But,” Deidara grinned, “If you mix black with everything, there’s a shadow – no, not just a shadow, but fullness.”
The red-head pursed his lips.
“It surprises me how euphonious you make things sound,” Sasori snorted, bemused. “Even as crude as you are.”
The blonde arched a brow, unsure whether he felt insulted.
There was a beat.
“My memories taint how I view vivid colours.” The red-head murmured, his grip on his mug loosening. “I watched my parents die in front of me. Red. It was everywhere.”
Deidara’s eyes widened.
“I see red as the blush of blooming pools of blood, and it reminds me that I lost them – that I wasn’t able to do anything to save them.” Sasori’s fingers were trembling now. “I feel empty.”
The blonde felt his heart drop.
“If I choose to paint with my heart, it would be incomprehensible.” The Sasori sighed. “Perhaps I’m a coward for electing not to feel any sort of misery again. Perhaps I’m afraid to feel mirthful. I don’t want to get excited about cubes and geometry, contrasting shapes and colours. It takes too much out of me, I can’t be bothered. Art should be pretty, end of story.”
The red-head sipped his drink.
“The pain seeps out through the colours of red, and it hurts to see them, to feel them.”
Deidara inhaled deeply, feeling the dull ache in his chest.
“You know you are in endless pain when you wake up one morning and realize that you’re the only one left, the rest dead, buried and forgotten – left to nothing but memories.” Sasori rubbed his face tiredly, before glancing up, almost shyly, back at the blonde.
“Don’t give me that look.” His face contorted into something of antipathy.
“I’m not!” Deidara snapped abruptly, his mind now clanging on a single thought.
“Why not make new memories?”
He pointed at the soup.
“Look, we’re having a pleasant time here, drinking red pepper soup in a quaint cozy café on a Saturday afternoon. The smells, the sights, the sounds – take it in – and create a promising memory of it!”
Sasori scrunched his face.
“With, -” He paused. “You?”
“You did mention how my grey eyes made you feel some sort of comfort, didn’t you?” The blonde tilted his head curiously, still wondering why the red-head even said that in the first place.
Sasori lowered his head immediately, staring at his lap.
There was a pregnant pause.
“I suppose.” He muffled, almost inaudible.
Deidara nodded.
“Look man,” He bit his lip, unsure if he should placate his companion. “I’m really sorry about your parents.” The blonde moved back, leaning against his seat and watching the other bristle slightly at his remark.
However, Sasori’s gaze remained passive as he continued to observe his own lap.
“The absence of someone who was once there, like the colour of black. You got to be willing to mix black into your palette if you want to create something that’s real.” Deidara whispered, eyes drifting over to the window pane before he finally fixated a stare on Sasori.
He had strange eyes – a clear, pale brown, like amber from the tall forests across the sea.
Sasori held his gaze for moment.
“Thank you.” He murmured back kindly and Deidara found his face heating up once more.
The blonde gave Sasori a lopsided grin.
“Hey, how 'bout we take a little walk after this? We can make new memories and attach them to the colours we see.” The blonde tapped his finger on the table thoughtfully.
“I know it sounds really childish (Sasori snorted at that) but maybe, just maybe –” Deidara glanced at the snowy terrain outside.
Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class.
(A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp, also i apologise forefront for any grammatical or spelling errors, I barely re-read it before posting)
Chapter 1: First quarter (HERE)
Chapter 2: Second quarter
Words: 8,099
Tuesday
Deidara found himself staring at his art teacher, surprisingly early for class on Tuesday.
“I want to change partners.” He growled, folding his arms. “I don’t want to work with an arrogant old fart who can’t even fathom my artistic genius.”
And he was immediately dismissed with a wave and a “no.”
Tuesday evening saw him back in his dorm room, contemplating whether or not to go and help his so-called partner.
“And he freaking asks me something about soup tasting and analogies!” Deidara paced back and forth his cramped room, stepping over Hidan’s books that were strewn all over the floor. “Something about not having endurance or judging his painting in one look – what does he think he is?”
“Maybe he’s got a thing for you.” The albino haired teen offered from his top bunk.
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
Hidan laughed.
“He’s right about the soup,” he peeked from his bed, staring innocently down at the blonde, “You drink too much of it.”
Deidara cracked his knuckles.
“I don’t care what he thinks.” He flung his jacket onto the ground and laid himself there for a moment.
“Ah, you lie!” Hidan cackled mischievously, “You didn’t drink soup this morning for the first time in eons.”
There was a sharp intake of breath as the blonde shot back up from his spot, glaring furiously at his dorm mate.
“Whatever,” He spat, wringing his fingers and looking away, “In any case, I’m staying here today. Screw that guy, I’m not going over to help him.”
He rubbed his eyes, sighing.
There was a pause.
“Screw that guy, huh?” He could literally hear Hidan grinning.
Deidara contemplated throwing his textbook at his best friend.
“You know, there’s peer evaluation for this project,” The latter mused, seemingly to no one in particular, “It would be a shame if Sasori decided to fail you because you aren’t helping him.”
The blonde froze.
“I don’t,” He murmured, eyes downcast, “I don’t care.”
“You sound awfully sure.” His friend snorted, sounding as if he was holding in his laughter and the bed shook in movement. “It’ll be the first time failing art class for you, you know.”
Deidara’s frown deepened.
“I don’t care.”
There was a creaking movement as Hidan pressed his face against the bed frame, his indigo pools wide with mirth.
“Look at me in the eye, Deidara,” He whispered mockingly, “And tell me you don’t care.”
The blonde swore his left eye twitched in annoyance as he gazed back into his friend’s eyes, almost gawking in surprise, the teen was boring holes into Deidara’s eye sockets, his gaze so intense, the blonde could see the fire in those pools.
“Tell me you don’t care.” Hidan murmured, mouth splitting open into a wide toothy grin.
Deidara’s mouth opened to speak but shut it quickly. He frowned, grabbing his jacket and standing up, nose to nose with the other, who seemed unfazed; still staring intently at his friend.
It was the first time his dorm room actually felt quiet enough to fall asleep in.
Hidan’s eyes didn’t tear away, in fact, Deidara was pretty sure the psychopath didn’t even blink.
“Stop it,” He grumbled, flicking his friend’s forehead with his finger but to no avail. The latter continued staring and it was becoming increasingly disturbing.
“Oi.” The blonde gritted his teeth.
Hidan showed no signs of stopping.
Thoroughly aggravated and slightly unnerved by his friend, Deidara came to a decision: stabbing his friend’s eyes with his fingers and dashing to the door, ignoring the shrieks of agony. “Fuck you, I’m going to go blind!” Came the irate yell. Smirking to himself, the light-color haired boy slammed his door shut and headed off, possibly somewhere else where he wouldn’t be bothered.
Apparently, he was very much unnerved by Hidan’s speech about failing class for he found himself standing in front of Sasori’s room.
Peer evaluation? Deidara’s hand hovered at the red-head’s wooden door, it wasn’t really a thing, right? After all, the final project was the one that held the most percentage of the grade. Still, the blonde found his palms going clammy and cold as he hesitated at the entrance, burning holes into the door sign that read ‘303’. He hesitated. Should he knock? Deidara turned away, face suddenly hot from embarrassment. After all that ignorant tantrum he threw yesterday, it felt awfully strange to be coming back with his tail in between his legs. Maybe I’ll just fail this module and do it another time with a better partner.
Then again, he bit his lips anxiously, he didn’t want to lag behind in his studies, especially knowing that Hidan, of all people, would surpassed him if he failed the module.
“Urgh.” The blonde rubbed his temples, pacing up and down the corridor. “Why does this have to happen to me? What did I do to deserve –“
The door to room 303 slammed opned, shutting Deidara up immediately and terrifying him in the process.
Sasori’s head peered out cautiously from the corner of the doorway and glared coldly at the blonde. Looking utterly and completely dispassionate, he motioned for the latter to enter his dorm, ignoring the look of fear plastered upon the blonde’s pale face.
Meekly, the artist entered his partner’s dorm room, head downcast as he observed the grey floorboard instead, daunted to look into the other’s eyes. He knew the red-head was possibly unhappy – who was he kidding? With that dark look on his face: it probably spelt doom. Instead of sitting down, Deidara hovered uneasily in the middle of the large room, picking on his sweater.
“The lecturer told me that you wanted to change partners.” Sasori spoke up, getting the blonde’s attention as he glanced up hesitantly, still biting his lips in nervousness. “He also told me you called me an old arrogant fart.”
Deidara decided to examine the cracks on the dorm walls instead, plainly ignoring the red-head who had his arms folded.
“I don’t care for your artistic genius, Deidara. I just want to get this done.” He sounded exasperated. “What makes you think I want you as an art partner? I’ve been dreading this moment ever since the lecturer paired me up with you.”
The blonde frowned, squinting his eyes and darting it towards the red-head. He dressed in a soft pastel brown turtle neck and a pair of dark grey slacks, his stupid bright ruby hair the only thing bright in the dull muted room. Sasori glanced at him expectantly, an eyebrow raised, earning a sigh that escaped the blonde’s flushed lips.
“Great.” Deidara remarked, twirling his hair around his finger apprehensively. “So are you gonna mark me down on peer evaluation?”
“Peer evaluation?” Sasori repeated, now leisurely waltzing over to his granite grey watercolour backdrop. Deidara’s eyes wandered over to his hands, carefully dabbing the brush onto the multi-grey colours before softly caressing the paper with it.
“There’s no peer evaluation.”
The blonde’s jaw dropped.
But, he – HIDAN. At once, he saw red. Of course he should’ve known better than to trust Hidan of all people.
“God damnit, that piece of shit Hidan told me there was peer evaluation.” He stomped his foot onto the ground grumpily. “I’m going to kill him!”
Sasori let out a snort.
“Aren’t you just the gullible one?” He turned to Deidara, rolling his mesmerizingly soft but bright brown pools.
The artist pouted. If Hidan hadn’t lied, he wouldn’t have been stuck in this shit forsaken dorm with the most annoying creature known to mankind. The blonde let out a whine of frustration. It was unpleasantly disconcerting to even level his gaze at Sasori, because it seemed as if his partner was constantly taunting him.
There was a long pause as Deidara watched the red-head paint, the same colours over, a darker hue now, creating big bold but smooth strokes around the edges of the canvas. Enthralled, he found himself inching closer to Sasori, scrutinizing his every movement. It was hypnotizing to see his partner work, spell-bound by the precision and swiftness of every stroke. It was a dance on paper, a ballerina carefully twirling through the blanks of the paper, creating graphs of geometrical shapes.
Entranced, the blonde couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“Take a paintbrush.” Sasori ordered, his voice strangely far away. “I’ll teach you.You just have to be gentle.”
Deidara picked up a random brush laying on the easel and dipped it quickly onto the palette that the red-head held.
“Not too much.” Sasori warned, pulling the palette away and eyeing the blonde suspiciously. “If you ruin this, we’ll have to do it all over again.”
That broke the mesmerized state the blonde was in, as he flicked a middle finger at the other.
“It’s paint, not permanent ink. We can always paint it over with something else.” He grumbled, now reluctant to hold his paintbrush anywhere near the sheet of paper.
“It’s watercolour, brat.” Sasori snorted, shaking his head, “It’ll tear the paper if you over-paint.”
Deidara let out a moan of frustration.
“Well then how do I do this?” He pointed at the greyscale backdrop, narrowing his eyes at it. “I don’t even see the sky or the stupid clouds.”
Sighing, the red-head placed his paintbrush down, glaring at Deidara, who scrunched his nose up at the other. Without warning, Sasori moved in close, his right arm wrapping itself around the blonde’s chest, coiling up his arm and finally gently holding his wrist.
The abrupt gesture left Deidara frozen still, his heart thudding heavily in his chest.
“Like this.” The red-head sounded smug as he guided the blonde’s wrist across the paper, dabbing and twisting, smoothly creating little nooks of circular shapes.
“The sky is capricious,” He steered the blonde’s hand to the top of the canvas, “Unstable, volatile. It’s unpredictable.” Their hands moved enchantingly in small circular movements, scaling the watercolour walls. Deidara could hear his heart thud heavily in his chest, his face going a pale shade of cherry blossom pink. What in the world just happened?
“It’s inconstant, but that’s what makes it elegant.” The red-head moved their hands gingerly, dabbing a new darker shade of dolphin grey. “Every stroke is precision to the temperamental shape of the clouds.”
“That’s contradictory.” Deidara managed to splutter out, blinking in surprise, “You say it’s unpredictable but you predict it.”
Sasori snorted under his breath.
“Exactly.”
They remained in that position, Sasori’s steady hands guiding Deidara’s own, creating empirical silhouettes that looked like storm clouds. Serpentine streams of bleeding ink formed dark stormy skies, blending each stroke in smudges of grey chromatic, rendering the image watery; almost like a reflection.
When he got the hang of it, the red-head let go of his wrist, watching him like a hawk. For a moment, he missed the soft touch but it was thrilling, refreshing to be able to dive into the watercolour world by himself. The blonde found the movements nonetheless, boring, but it was creating a slow stunning piece of sky so he continued as he was told, letting Sasori’s orders control his brush strokes.
Deidara stopped when he realised that he wasn’t even painting the way he used to; it was invigorating to try something new but he believed in self-expression, not force-fed instructions. It definitely was turning out to be something magnificent, but it lacked Deidara’s zest.
He eyed the landscape coldly before turning to look at the smug-faced red-head.
“Well?” he questioned, placing the paint brush down. “Good enough for you?”
Sasori rolled his eyes.
“You don’t sound too pleased.”
“It’s not my painting anymore,” the blonde whined, folding his arms. “It’s fine,” He agreed, nodding at the work, “But it’s not me.”
“It’s our work, Deidara.” Sasori offered, raising his eyebrow in question. “Even if you don’t like it, you’ll have to finish it together with me.”
The stubborn blonde let out a grunt of disappointment.
It’s just a week more, he told himself, after this, you don’t need to stick around sir-bossy pants.
“Fine.” He admitted frostily, sounding forced as he rubbed his arms, unexpectedly missing the warmth of Sasori’s own.
Pushing the easel aside to let the paint dry, the red-head shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing expectantly at Deidara.
“What?” The blonde barked, still seated on the chair.
“Aren’t you leaving?” The other asked.
Frowning darkly, Deidara stood up quickly to leave but something stopped him in his tracks.
“No sardonic remark about me calling you out to the lecturer?” he tilted his head curiously as he eyeballed Sasori, who looked impassively back.
“No.” He replied coolly. “I know I’m not the most amiable person.”
There was a pause.
Deidara scratched his chin. It was strange how he started feeling uncomfortable at the sight of the red-head just an hour or so ago and now: the blonde looked at his wrist, he actually let the red-head teach him, let alone touch him.
“I’m sorry.” He muttered, rubbing his face. “For calling you out and for being rude. I didn’t know our dislike was mutual.”
Sasori chuckled.
“I never said I disliked you, brat.”
The flaxen-haired boy blinked, his hands dropping immediately to his stands as he stared intently at the other – did he just say that he didn’t dislike him? Impossible, he thought, a smirk forming at his lips. He must be joking.
“I just prefer working by myself.” Sasori explained soundlessly, walking up to Deidara. “I never said I detested you.”
Carefully, he manoeuvred the blonde to the door by the shoulders.
“Now, goodnight.”
He pushed Deidara out, waved tentatively and shut the door.
In the blonde’s head, whatever happened in there seemed hazy and grey.
Wednesday
Wednesdays were all about beetroot. Red beet borsche, if one were to be nit-picking. Sour in taste, but it was the most stunning pinkish-ruby, covered in soft beige cream. A bright claret mixed with cerise reflected Deidara’s wide grin as he stirred his soup half-hearted sniggering at Hidan’s complaints.
They were relaxing after a long day of consultations with their art lecturer and the white-haired teen had not even started on his project.
“It’s a week!” He groused, now working miserably on their shared table, scribbling strange oblong shapes onto paper. “Why does the lecturer have to be so fussy about it?”
Deidara scoffed, peering over to see the polymorphic discombobulated mess that was Hidan’s drawings.
“Where’s your partner?” He asked curious as to who he had actually paired up with.
“Kakuzu?” Hidan’s eye twitched, “He’s busy.”
The blonde grinned wickedly, noticing the uneasy look on his friend’s face.
“Oh?” He teased, tapping the paper harshly, “Guess you can fail him on your peer evaluation.”
Hidan gritted his teeth as he glared darkly back.
“Shut up, blondie.” He grumbled under his breath, stabbing his pencil onto the paper.
Deidara leaned over to the white-haired teen, smirking mischievously, a playful glint in his eyes. Hidan seemed to be rather touchy with the subject of his art partner and he wasn’t just going to let his friend off with a few mocking observations.
Especially since he lied to him ruthlessly.
“So,” The blonde trailed his fingers down Hidan’s paper, “Did Kakuzu pay you to do his dirty work?”
At once his friend froze.
“No.” He stuttered after a moment’s hesitation.
“He paid you to abandon me?” Deidara frowned.
“NO!” Hidan shook his head violently. “I just- he,” The indigo eyed teen let out a wail of frustration.
Giggling, the blonde patted his friend’s back gently, bringing his soup over to the latter.
“Here, just have some. You are in for a tough week.” He massaged Hidan’s head lightly before grabbing his haversack. “Gotta go, Sasori is waiting.”
Before he could leave, Hidan grabbed his sweater, panicky, pulling him back.
“I need your help, Deidara. I’ll split the pay.”
That was all the motivation the blonde needed.
And that’s how they found themselves sitting in Sasori’s room, the red-head narrowing his eyes at the sight of the dishevelled Hidan.
“You want us to what now?” The red-head looked far from pleased.
“Help me.” Hidan scowled. “I got royally fucked by Kazuku.”
Deidara let out a little snigger.
“Just teach me or something, I can’t do this by myself!” The white-haired teen waved his hands furiously above as he pointed at Deidara, “He said he would help!”
Raising his arms up defensively, he couldn’t help but smirk. “I said I would help only if Sasori agreed.” The blonde winked at the red-head who narrowed his eyebrows at that.
Hidan glared at him darkly, bumping onto Deidara roughly.
Still in a small fit of giggles, the blonde shrugged carelessly, pointing at the greyscale painting that stood solitary at the corner of the room now, looking as if it was painted by someone colour-blind. At once, he felt as if the air had been knocked out of him. It was so outlandish to be looking at something so dulled by different shades of grey and to know that it was his doing. It wasn’t true to himself, but it didn’t matter right? It’s only for this project, he’ll never have to do this again.
“Earth to Deidara.” Sasori’s sharp sneer got his attention. He whipped around, regarding the other two a blank stare.
“What?” He asked curtly, ignoring the screams in his head to do something about the boring looking piece of ‘art’.
“We’ll help you.” The red-head addressed Hidan now, who beamed brightly at that.
“But we can only teach. We will not attempt to touch your painting in any way whatsoever. You watch as we work and you will take that as help.” Sasori continued, eyebrows furrowing as the white haired teen’s grin disappeared, replaced with a grimace.
Deidara nodded in agreement. That sounded like a plan. They didn’t need to spoon-feed Hidan, his best friend knew how to paint (satanic circles, more like it) and they won’t waste their time on working on another portrait.
“Alright,” Hidan groused unenthusiastically, grabbing a chair and sitting on it. “Impart your knowledge, old wise fart.”
Sasori shot him a dagger glare before grabbing the easel and setting up the painting station.
“First you’ll need to have an idea of what you want to paint,” Deidara offered, pointing at the landscape painting sitting on the easel, “It doesn’t need to be a full idea, you can always improvise.”
“I beg to differ.” Sasori cut in, shaking his head. “You need to know every single inch of what you want, where you want it and how you want it to be.”
The blonde shot his partner a tight lipped smile.
“Didn’t you say it was about instinct.” He countered slyly, “I didn’t know what I was doing yesterday and it still looks fine.”
“I know what I’m doing, that why it looks satisfactory.” Sasori retorted hotly, “We were building a base of grey and white.” He turned to Hidan, “That’s the backdrop.”
The white haired teen snorted loudly.
“It sure looks like a mess of nothing to me.”
Deidara smirked at that.
The red-head disregarded them both, turning his attention to his palette instead.
“We will be attempting to paint the clouds over today,” Sasori stated casually, “As I usually do, I mark out the length of each of with a ruler –“
“You use a ruler to mark the length of your details?” The blonde couldn’t help but interrupt, a wild look in his slate blue eyes.
Sasori folded his arms, thumbing his palette and a grim scowl on his face. “Yes.” He snapped ardently, “I have control of my own art, unlike yours;” He sneered at the blonde, locking eyes with him. “Reflecting your own chaotic personality, the composition of your paintings always off, vivid colours, almost to the point of garish. Your bold stroke lines are head-ache inducing. It’s not art, it’s a mess.”
Deidara mashed his teeth, sticking out his lower jaw in contempt.
“It’s abstract,” He muttered through his teeth. “It’s how I see the word as it is. It’s better than the dull grey boring patch you call your art. Even Hidan can see that’s it’s just a thoughtless splat of grey.”
He was sure his face was mottled crimson, words now spat out with the ferocity and rapidity of machine gun fire.
Sasori narrowed his eyes and leant closer, perfectly composed.
“I don’t care.” He remained as still as a cadaver and just as pallid, unblinking against the growl that Deidara sent his way.
“Daaamn,” Hidan whistled from behind. “It’s like watching a couple bicker. I vote for hate-sex.”
Once more taking no notice of the white hair jashinist, with one hand, Sasori began mixing soft shades of muted white and silver. “The clouds will be located here, ten centimetres from the edge to the center of the canvas.” His other hand was gripped onto a long wooden rule as he measured out the different lengths and widths of his clouds.
Deidara ran his hand through his messy hair, fixing the red-head a stare that could’ve frozen the pacific ocean.
Enough that he couldn’t go two sentences without Deidara wanting to strangle the red-head, but to completely neglect his opinions and show nothing but disdain to his art? Even as furious as he felt, he couldn’t let even the tiniest glimpse of anger to show. Just a week more, he told himself, just a week more and you’ll be freed.
“Never start with a dark colour,” Sasori was telling the white-haired teen. “Especially if you are working with colours of white. That’s why I left certain parts of the edges faded with bleached silvery white,” He sounded proud of himself and Deidara snorted at that.
“So uh,” Hidan didn’t sound too keen on knowing more, “When are you going to start on painting the clouds?”
“Not till I’ve decided how many and where to place them.” Sasori answered brusquely, the shuffling of his wooden ruler echoing the quiet room.
Deidara rolled his eyes but bit back his comment. There was no point trying to fight fire with more fire. He wasn’t admitting defeat, but it was better to keep mum than to walk into the lion’s den with nothing but a mouth for a weapon.
The blonde loved art, he loved it as how he saw the world as it was, a beautiful brash array of bold colours and shapes, voids and space, love and fear. It was all a canvas that left just enough space for everyone to paint their own stories in the whites of the world. There were those who ran their strokes over and into the lives of many others either ruining their work or creating something simultaneously beautiful.
He peeked at Sasori, who seemed drowned in his own coaching, still stupidly measuring and marking out his clouds.
Deidara couldn’t believe he actually thought they could work together to create something stunning; sure Sasori had the skills but he didn’t even give the blonde a chance to collaborate. All he did was force the blonde to paint as he painted, following instructions meticulously as if art had a manual.
What he couldn’t fathom was how he was convinced to let Sasori order him around.
“Deidara.” Sasori gestured for him with a quick wave of his wrist. “Come here and help.”
Sighing, even as he contemplated just disobeying his partner, the blonde shuffled over and picked up a paintbrush, idly glaring at the marked out spots in white on canvas.
“I trust you know how to at least follow my lead?” Sasori dabbed the paper lightly.
Deidara rolled his eyes but nodded nevertheless.
The painting looked like ash from some dirty fire had been mixed in.
Shadowing his partner’s smooth delicate lines, Deidara filled in the shape of a fluffy cloud effortlessly, the depth of the shades of grey in the background giving it life, a focal point of the painting now, broken colours of artic white carefully splattered on the edges. There was a lovely glow over each cloud, huffing cheerfully over layered dimensions of silver.
He sighed dreamily. It only looked enchanting when he was painting it, the pictorial symphony only exquisite when he was in the moment.
“It’s distorted,” Came the grunt as Sasori looked over, pointing at the blonde’s handiwork. “Your brushwork needs to be gentler.”
Again the reverie was smashed by none other than Satan himself.
“Mmm.” Was the unenthusiastic reply.
“It looks fine to me.” Hidan pointed out, “In fact, I think you work pretty well together considering the fact you actually tamed Deidara to paint like this.”
The blonde blinked.
Sasori raised an eyebrow but said nothing else.
They continued painting in silence for what seemed like an eternity to Hidan.
“Are you done yet?” The white-haired teen yawned conspicuously, evidently bored out of his wits. “I’m just seeing swooshing movement and occasional dabbing on the palette – it’s been like that for an hour.”
Deidara chuckled, placing his brush down and turning to his friend.
“Someone’s grumpy.” He clicked his tongue jokingly, oddly relieved that he could finally leave. Like a bolt out of the blue, he actually was comforted by the fact the Hidan had not made a lot of sardonic remark throughout the entire session. Maybe he was actually listening. The blonde snorted and approached his friend, raising a hand out for support.
Hidan huffed, getting off his chair, hands cupped on his bum.
“Damn my ass hurts from sitting so long. I don’t know how you all can do it, I rather lie in bed.” He put his arm around Deidara fondly, clumsily kicking the chair.
“Lazy oath,” The blonde teased, bumping his shoulder onto Hidan. “Let’s go.”
Sasori cleared his throat.
Both Deidara and Hidan turned to the red-head, who had his arms akimbo, eyes focused on arm that rested on the blonde’s shoulder.
“I didn’t say you can go, Deidara.” Came the brisk grunt. “We still have to work on the clouds.”
The blonde’s jaw dropped but before he could say anything else, Hidan interjected himself into the conversation.
“Dude.” He growled, folding his arms, “How many bloody damn clouds d’you need to draw?”
Sasori’s glare lingered on Deidara for a second before fixating itself on the teen beside him. The atmosphere in the room changed immediately and Hidan’s hackles were raised at the sight of the red-head’s dark glower.
“I’ll handle this,” The blonde spoke up hurriedly, grabbing Hidan’s arm and pulling him to the door, “I’ll be with you momentarily.”
“I can’t sleep without you in the room!” The white-haired teenager whined, struggling to get free from Deidara’s vice grip but to no avail. “Hurry up then.”
The door to ‘303’ slammed shut and there was a soft muttered curse from Hidan before his footsteps faded away.
Taking a deep breath, Deidara whipped around to stare at the red-head accusingly.
“I thought,” He begun, forcing a smile upon his face, “You said,” He pointed a finger reproachfully at the painting, “You liked working alone?”
Sasori gazed back blankly.
There was a heavy pause.
“We are behind schedule because of your insolence.” He broke the silence, ruby brown eyes darting away. “You were late yesterday, stupid brat. You have to make up for it.”
Deidara fluttered his eyelids, rolling his eyes in exasperation. That was it. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. Sasori’s words and actions pulled in opposite directions constantly, as if the brain’s narrator and navigator have entirely different ideas altogether.
“Fuck, man.” He rumbled, “One moment you are nice and the next you have your hands around my neck.”
He shook his head harshly as the red-head turned back to their painting.
“You call me a mess,” he spat, watching Sasori’s back frostily, “But you are a ball of tangled yarn. The parts that are untangled are useable; but the rest is a mess. You curse me for being imprudent and impulsive, but you are just as capricious as I am. ”
There was no reply.
“One moment I’m your ‘partner’, the next minute I’m your slave. I can’t say which one I prefer.” Deidara hissed.
Once more, silence met him.
“I’m out of here. God forbid us partnering up again. I can’t wait to be done with this project so I’ll never have to interact with you again!” The blonde stormed towards the door and had his hand over the knob when he heard the low undecipherable murmur.
Skidding to a stop, hands hovered over the knob, Deidara twisted his head to the direction of the noise.
“What?” he hissed, nose turned up.
Sasori turned to him, eyes glazed over impassively.
“I said,” He cleared his throat, not ounce an emotion crossing his face, “God forbid indeed.”
Thursday
“Kakuzu didn’t pay me.” Hidan sounded defeated.
Glancing up from his worksheets, Deidara watched warily as the white-haired teenager slumped lazily beside his roommate, face covered in paint and what seemed like black pen ink. Hidan leaned heavily against him, letting out a groan of frustration.
“He didn’t pay you- ?” The blonde probed questioningly, poking his friend gently with his index finger.
Hidan let out a moan.
Deidara examined his friend’s blotched red face.
“He didn’t pay you.” He repeated, trying to fit the puzzle pieces together, cocking his head in concern now.
No reply from the slumped figured.
“He didn’t pay you.” Something in the blonde’s head clicked immediately and he jumped up, terrifying Hidan in the process as he shot his arm out accusingly, flicking his wrist at his roommate.
“HE DIDN’T PAY YOU to work with him?” Deidara hissed, glaring now, all thought of comforting his friend gone. “Then why did you pair up with him in the first place! You little shit, you abandoned me!”
Instead of looking guilty or upset, Hidan furrowed his brows and stood up shakily as well, pointing his own finger reproachfully at the blonde.
“You were late!”
“You could’ve waited!”
“Time waits for no one!”
“You are not ‘time’, you nitwit!”
“I am not nitwit!”
“Yes you are!”
“No I’m not!”
“You abandoned me!”
“For good reason!”
“Oh yeah, what’s your stupid reason you numbsku-“
“I sort of like Kakuzu!”
Deidara’s mouth remained open, about to hurl an insult when Hidan’s words registered in his head. The white haired teenager looked embarrassed beyond measure, as if he wanted nothing more in the world than for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.
The blonde’s agape mouth closed sluggishly as he observed his mortified looking roommate. They stared at each other for a good long minute before Hidan finally spoke again, his voice low and his words in a strange stutter.
“I-I-I like him okay,” Hidan groused, hugging his arms sheepishly. “And he was originally going to pair up with Sasori.”
Looking shamefaced at his friend, the white-haired teen let out an exasperated groan.
“I mean you weren’t around, I didn’t even know if you were going to come to class,” He explained speedily, “Like I waited till there was only the four of us left and you weren’t there.”
He glanced at his feet.
“I thought you wouldn’t mind, I mean, just this once.” He gazed back up at Deidara with big puppy eyes pleadingly.
The blonde sat back down, sighing into his palms.
“You could’ve told me!” he grumbled into his hands before glancing frostily back at his friend. “I would’ve come earlier and paired up with like Tobi or something.”
Hidan shrugged meaningfully.
There wasn’t any point getting angry at Hidan anyway, the blonde realised, shaking his head. If anyone he was livid at, it would be a certain red-head. No points to guessing who. Sighing once more, he slammed his forehead onto the table meekly, letting out a groan himself.
“Six more days.” He mumbled to no one in particular. “Six more days.”
There was silence.
“So,” Hidan enquired docilely, “You aren’t mad at me?”
Deidara let out a grunt of agreement.
“YES!” His friend let out a whoop as the sound of footsteps bounded around the room.
“So you asked for our help to impress Kakuzu?” The blonde muttered darkly, internally taking a mental note that Hidan owed him big time.
“Sort of.” There was no remorse in his friend’s reply.
“And you didn’t stay for the weekends to hang out with him?” Deidara glanced furtively back up at Hidan, who was grinning from ear to ear as he took a sip out of the blonde’s soup bowl.
“Yep.” Once more, not even an ounce of regret.
Deidara considered stabbing Hidan’s face with a fork.
“My,” He purred sardonically, leaning his cheek into his palm as he watched the other prance around the room happily. “What a delightful friend you are.”
The indigo eyed teen stopped his tracks, watching Deidara purposefully.
“I am?” He questioned, eyes brimming with jubilance.
“Yes.” Came the dry sarcastic snort.
Hidan wrapped his arms around the blonde, almost spilling soup in the process.
“Holy shit, you are the best friend ever.” He exclaimed gleefully, feathering kissing on Deidara’s head.
The blonde on the other hand, even as amused as he was, shot a glower.
“And you are definitely not an idiot.”
Hidan froze.
“Are you being sarcastic?”
“Nooo.” Deidara nodded his head firmly, still glaring. “I’m being Sasori-serious.”
Hidan beamed a Cheshire cat grin.
“I owe you one, man.” He formed a peace sign with his fingers and finished Deidara’s soup in one gulp. “See you later, I’m going to go work on the project with Kakuzu.”
Not even bothering to spare a second glance at the blonde’s dark scowl, placing the bowl on the table next to the bonde, Hidan sidestepped to the dorm door.
“Why do I even bother?” Deidara muttered under his breath as he stared bitterly at his worksheets and empty soup bowl.
The was a creak as the door swung open.
And Hidan let out an unexpected yelp of surprise.
The blonde whipped his head to the direction of the noise only to narrow his eyes immediately in dissatisfaction.
“Speak of the devil.” He grunted.
Standing in front of the open door stood none other than Sasori, his lips in a thin line, his eyes taciturnly observing the white-haired teen in front of him. Noting the suddenly change in atmosphere, Hidan loyally glanced back at Deidara, who scoffed inwardly at the sudden transformation in attitude.
“Should I let him in?” He growled, nudging his head towards Sasori.
The blonde shrugged, turning back to his work.
There was a shuffle of movement and an exchange of grunts before the door was slammed shut once more.
Deidara took his time to scan through his worksheets, debating whether he should leave them for the weekends or partake some time to do it. It’s only Thursday anyway, he noted quietly, tapping the table top with his finger.
“Brat.” Sasori sounded strangely mellow.
Footsteps approached his table and there was a dull thud of someone sitting on the chair next to his. Silently cursing that Hidan had left the chair there in the first place, Deidara ignored the red-head’s presence, eyes trained on the sheets of paper in front of him.
Sasori tapped him roughly on the shoulder.
Deidara shrugged the hand off.
“Deidara.” Sasori was persistent.
So was he.
Ignoring the red-head, he decided to observe the snow falling outside instead.
There was a long sigh.
“Stop being so immature.” His cool voice echoed through the dorm, “We still have a project to finish. After that you can dislike me all you want.”
Silence reigned supreme, the only sounds were the whirring of the heat generator and the occasional gusts of winds tapping gently on the window panes.
Sasori shifted his position, the sounds of chair movements caught the blonde’s eyes. Is he leaving? He hesitated to say something but stopped himself swiftly. There wasn’t a point. Instead he kept himself fixated on his biology notes, skimming through the words, nothing registering in his head. From his side, he could literally feel the red-head’s piercing glare on him.
It’s a shame, the blonde pondered quietly, for such a dreadful man to have such beautiful eyes. His lunar shaped eyes in the most magnificent colour of auburn autumn leaves, it was stunning to look at; Deidara snorted to himself.
“Brat.” Sasori tried once more, the red-head slamming his palm onto the table, crinkling the papers underneath.
Frustrated at the man’s refusal to leave him be, the blonde let out a hiss of irritation.
“Dude.” Deidara snapped, avoiding all eye contact and pushing the hand aside harshly. “What did my papers ever do to you?”
“What did I ever do you?” The red-head barked back, grabbing Deidara shoulders aggressively and moving the blonde to face him. “Look at me!”
Deidara glared fiercely away from him, biting his lips and keeping mum.
Sasori let out a disgruntled snort.
“Why are you being so difficult?” He snarled, squeezing the blonde’s shoulders tightly and earning a grunt of ‘ouch’ from Deidara.
“I am a petty person.” Deidara snapped, still fixated on his biology notes.
“Be petty another time!” Without warning Sasori grabbed his chin severely, twisting the blonde’s face to finally face him. Bleak slant grey eyes flickered to the floor instead, unsure of fixating the red-head with a stare. Deidara wasn’t sure he rather liked the fact that the latter was openly puppeteering him, but he didn’t push away.
He sulked, focusing his gaze onto the dull floors of the dorm, inwardly noting that the red-head was starting to get mildly agitated. Maybe if he’s aggravated enough, he’ll leave. Deidara thought, fingers playing along the loose strings on his concrete grey jumper.
“What exactly are you mad about now?” The red-head sounded as if he forced his fury down his throat. “Pray tell so we can just get this over with.”
Deidara drew the threads on his jumper, loosely twirling it around his fingertips. It was a combination of things, he noted inaudibly, answering to Sasori’s query in his head, and it stemmed from Sasori’s obvious blatant lack of respect. Towards Deidara’s art – and Deidara himself.
“Brat!” The red-head’s hand shot out to Deidara’s collar, grabbing it aggressively.
In surprise, the blonde let out a gasp as he was forcefully pulled forward, landing inelegantly on Sasori’s shoulder blade. Letting out a muffled shriek of disgust, the blonde pushed himself back once more, the musky smell mixed with a hint of peppermint stuck at the back of his mind.
There was an awkward pause.
Deidara got the glimpse of a miserable smile plastered on the other’s face but it was gone before he could even register it. He averted his eyes away from the dishevelled looking red-head, donned comfily in a dark steel blue pullover; how does he even look put together in nothing but a bed-head and pullovers? The blonde rubbed in his face in exasperation.
“Fine then,” He glared at the red-head viciously, “First off, you don’t respect my art.”
Sasori nodded at that swiftly.
“Of course I don’t, I-“
“Shut up. You never let me finish or explain! You talk about my promptness in dismissing art but you disregard me completely without even letting me do anything about it!” Deidara clenched his fists, fixating his eyes onto Sasori’s mouth, drawn in a thin pressed line.
“I am an artist too. Art is subjective! My art’s a bang, your art’s not but I still complied to your ‘methods’.” The blonde hissed, waving his finger accusingly at the red-head. “I mean, this is the first time I’ve ever feel distraught to paint because the thought of just working with you pisses me off!”
He grabbed his messy locks, running his fingers through his hair, visibly frustrated.
“You are so nit-picky! You measure your clouds – that sounds absurd saying out loud! Colours are supposed to express the painting, but all you use is grey, grey and more grey. Sure it looks brilliant in hues but it sure is dull to do.” Deidara found himself venting it out, words streaming down like a waterfall.
“Where’s the bold strokes? Where’s the experimental colours? Where’s the bright paint devouring the canvas? Art is part of our human soul – it’s a way to communicate with the deeper self of both the artist and the audience. Perhaps I’m merely a simpleton,” The blonde saw the brows of the red-head furrow swiftly. “I like how art is raw. I like how it’s ever changing. I like how it’s meant to be messy, untried, an abundance of emotions.”
He stopped when he noticed the frown on Sasori’s face.
“Our painting,” He continued, slowly and hesitant now, “Or rather, your painting,” Deidara stood from his seat and moved away from his so-called partner. “Is nothing but a canvas of fear, the inability to accept anything new. The reluctance to ever try because you are afraid of change. Like a wound that never healed. Your painting is as dull as you.”
He folded his arms.
“Overcast with greys, the same tones, the same measured steps.” Deidara knew that each word was a stab to Sasori’s ego, but he continued. “It’s fine that you don’t trust me but don’t you think you are being a little bit selfish?”
The red-head pursed his lips.
“And where are you going with this?” he retorted, stone-faced.
“It’s a collaboration of art styles.” Deidara elucidated, narrowing his eyes, “Don’t you get it? I’m supposed to teach you too. I know you are remarkable at wielding your brush but I am too.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m supposed to learn from you and you are supposed to learn from me. Take a risk, Sasori. It’s really not that hard.”
Heavy lidded eyes trailed away from Deidara’s own.
Sasori stood back up, hands in his pockets.
The blonde watched him expectantly: was he going to apologise again?
The red-head turned away from him.
“If it pains you to do so, I’ll finish the painting up.” He waltzed to the door, ignoring the groan from Deidara.
“That’s not what I meant!” The blonde let out a wail of exasperation. “You call me petty but you are the world’s biggest hypocrite.”
Sasori snorted cynically.
“Don’t bother coming to find me, I’ll have the painting done by tomorrow. After that, we’ll hand it in and go our separate ways.”
The dorm room door slammed shut.
Cursing loudly, Deidara kicked his chair nastily, ignoring the throbbing pain in his foot. Oh how he wanted to just strangle the other man, that selfish imprudent prick. He slumped against the greying walls and slid to the floor, landing on the ground with a soft thud.
Art is wholly and completely selfless.
Deidara watched the snow fall from the window, the darkening skies a signal that evening was approaching. The room felt uncomfortably cold, even with the hum of the heat generator or the fact that he was draped in two layers of clothing.
He wrapped his arms around his knees, willing the frost of his frustration melt away slowly. Grey. He noted, the monotonous metal sunken around his room, the walls of the school, that precocious painting and his eyes. He never enjoyed the blandness of it. He, however, did find the hues and shades of Sasori’s works to be brilliantly made as much as it hurt him to admit it – but it was missing something.
It was felt gloomy.
Sorrowful even.
Deidara liked bright things, even as a child. He like the splashes of vivid deep reds, the amaranth and washed out bourbon. He adored the neon shock of mixing cerulean and rich creamy yellows, poppy reds twirled with oak brown. There was something enthralling about bold strokes, raw lines and imbalanced scales, to live in the moment and to create something brand new.
He wasn’t a carbon copy person. He didn’t want carbon copy art.
Sitting stock still in the room wasn’t going to help his mood either.
An hour later, he found himself decked in sweater with a bright russet scarf snaked around his neck as he travelled through the grounds of the dormitory. At the hours of the late evening, gone were the bustling corridors, cluttered classrooms and noisy chatter. The hallway was covered in tall shadows, depressingly mixed with deodorant and body odour in equal measure. Deidara kept his head down and exited quickly out from the unlocked doors, escaping the dormitory halls into the open area of the courtyard.
The lingering light was obliterated by the rapidly falling night, the once salmon purple sky transformed into a vast expanse of jet-black. A canopy of luminescent starts materialized amongst the ocean of inky dark, a mixture of dull, flickering stars to illuminate the moonless night. Deidara watched as the snowflakes carefully caressed his cheeks, falling elegantly into his palms.
A gush of wind inaudibly drifted across the skyline. As the tedious day came sluggishly to an end, Deidara found the night air soothing. Night felt as if it came under the spell of an enchantress, water to stone, earth to iron, green grass to frosted white. The only hint of warmth left was the clothes he donned. He scoffed to himself. The bitter night felt as frosty as Sasori’s attitude.
It did however, unlike the latter, manage to reassure the blonde back to stillness. The serenity of the quiet snowy night cleared his mind and he pondered on whether he was being too petty towards the red-head. Hands drowned in the pockets of his jacket, Deidara made his way back into the hallways, moving up the stairwell.
First floor.
Second floor.
He paused.
Maybe he should apologise?
His feet moved by itself and he found himself trudging up the stairs to the third floor of the dormitory but as he was doing so, something cut him short. Freezing in his steps, he heard voices coming from the hallways of the dormitory, echoing through.
He paused, realising the voices were awfully familiar.
“- I doubt that.” A gruff grunt pierced through the drone. “I think you took it too far.”
Deidara recognised that as Kakuzu’s voice, that man’s voice could be identified from a mile away, it always sounded gruff and muffled. Perhaps he was with Hidan, a grin formed on his face as he sat eagerly on the stairs, leaning against the pillar wall that covered him from view. A great time for blackmail, he thought, rubbing his hands together.
The blonde frowned immediately. He could recognise that cool unperturbed voice anywhere.
Was it even a good idea to be sitting here now? He stood back up, shoving his hands into his pockets. He had morals after all, he wasn’t just going to sit here and eavesdrop to their conversation - well unless Hidan was around.
The certain vermillion colour haired man cut brazenly into Deidara’s thoughts.
“I don’t know how he managed to pass any of his art classes anyway, he’s pathetic. A meagre excuse for an ‘artist’.” Came the scoff.
Kakuzu chuckled.
“You are being too harsh on him.” The older man rumbled, “Hidan’s not an artist either but I don’t yell at him for that.”
“I didn’t yell.” Sasori sounded provoked. “You try having a ‘partner’ who has his nose so stuck far up his ass. His arrogance is revolting. I can’t stand being in the same room with that fag, I much rather drown.”
There was a snort.
“I am glad though. Now I can finish my work in peace without that indiscreet brat.”
Deidara clenched his fists, purposefully slamming his feet down the stairwells, in hopes to startle the conversation as he made his way back down to his dorm room. He had enough of that. Storming towards his own room, he calmed himself, pushing the bile of disgust down his throat.
He realised he was trembling.
Quaking with anger.
“He’s going to pay for that.” He whispered wildly, clenching his fists so hard, his fingernails dug blood from his skin. “He’s going to pay.”
The night comes with such a bitterness that the rutted brown fields take on the appearance of a sugared cobbler under the moonlight. The cold steals every bit of water from the air it can in it frenzy to frost over the countryside. In the impenetrable and disorientating blackness, the dim stars far and grey clouds veiling over the crescent moon, Deidara never felt more chilled to the bone.
Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class.
(A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp)
Chapter 1: First quarter
Words: 7,199k
Saturday
From the looks of it, he knew he was in deep hot soup.
Or it could probably be because he was literally staring at the steaming warm tomato soup in front of him. Recoiling from the thought, he stabbed his wooden spoon into the bowl, splattering droplets of scarlet onto the table. Burgundy cherry red that sounded daintily beautiful, but was definitely not a picture-perfect combination to a bed of scraggly hair. Picture perfect, huh? What an irony. He speared his thickening broth once more, frowning in abhorrence.
“Why are you taking out your wrath on the soup?” Came the snort of disbelief, “What’s it done to you?”
Gunmetal pools darted ahead, glaring directly at what was in front of him. Russet brown stared back challengingly, tawny-coloured eyebrows raised in a jeering sort of way. Biting back a crude remark, the slate eyed individual stuck out his tongue and continued his massacre of his soup. It had been his dreadful luck anyway to get stuck with none other than the most infuriating piece of work in the class. Running his hand down his face, Deidara took a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, ignoring the weird scowl coming from his art project - partner.
It’s not like he desperately wanted to pair with the bored ashy looking teenager in the first place, it was of unfortunate circumstances – of which included his best friend completely dumping him for another. In Hidan’s defence, Deidara swaggered into the classroom almost two hours late for class and had been forcefully paired up with the only other person in class who didn’t have a partner. Of course it had to be him. Of all the people in the world, it had to be Sasori.
Letting out a sigh of annoyance – possibly defeat – Deidara shoved his bowl away, losing his appetite at the bothersome scowl on Sasori’s pale face. The other male’s lips were pursed thinly as if he was no more exasperated than the flaxen haired artist. Fluttering his gaze else, Deidara glance pointedly out at the window behind the ruby haired male, wanting more to be anywhere else but sitting sedentarily on his dormitory room chair.
Tall chilled windows gave way to the snowy wasteland, hypnotizing snowflakes cascading down and covering up the empty street. After all – everyone’s left for the weekends, the blonde thought solemnly, the lord only knows if Sasori’s some insane sociopath, just waiting to prance and kill me. It did look as if the red-hair individual had a bone to pick with him by the way that the glare was fixated menacingly. Sighing again, Deidara glazed out from the frosted window still. The street looked like an almost unfinished painting – the snowy white ground was like a giant canvas, waiting to be painted. Aside from the brown of the denuded trees, the only other colour was from the warm ginger glow of sunset, staining the grey tinted skies.
“Earth to Deidara,” Sasori’s frosty bite broke his thoughts, “Aren’t we supposed to be planning our project out?”
Part of the blonde cursed himself for deciding to stay during the weekends. He thought that no one else would be around, he could rock out to loud music, maybe even blast it down the hallway and just dance wildly to it – or just laze his Saturday and Sundays away, just doing absolutely nothing. Little did he know, Sasori had decided to take that opportune moment to discuss their art project plans, tipping Deidara’s weekend plans over like an iceberg to the titanic. The irony that the red-haired pest was just as icy cold too.
What was there to plan anyway? Deidara scoffed internally, it was just a simple project. They just needed to paint something. Something – anything, it really didn’t need much thought. Deidara never put much though in his projects anyway. It was more of an instinct, he thought to himself, like how a bird knows how to fly north for the winter.
And he relayed those exact thoughts to his perpetual bored looking partner.
“Instinct?” Came the sneer of disbelief.
“Yes.” Deidara nodded self-assuredly, folding his arms and shooting a proud smirk at the other male.
“Ridiculous.” Sasori seemed to be fond of his one-liners as he folded his arms as well, blatantly unsatisfied with Deidara’s ideology of art.
Huffing, the flaxen haired boy clenched his fists.
“It’s not ridiculous,” He snapped, “I’m clearly doing it right since I’ve never once failed any of my classes. It’s – it’s,” Deidara fumbled around searching for a better word, wildly flinging his arms around, “Intuition. Just like how birds fly north for the winter, I know what I’m doing.”
“Birds fly south.”
“It really doesn’t matter where they fly now, does it? All that matters is that they fly off during the winter.”
“Some birds don’t.”
“How would you know, you’re not some sort of bird whisperer.”
“It’s called an Ornithologist.”
“That’s a dentist.”
“Were you knocked on the head as a child?”
Deidara sent a death glare over to the other male, but before he could open his mouth to spill out a couple of curses that would probably sent his own mother off crying, Sasori cut him off.
“I’ve concluded that you are a simpleton. ("Oi.” Deidara sulked at that darkly.)“ The red-head boy lifted a bony finger and pointed it ominously at Deidara, "So I suggest you listen to me, that way we’ll both finish this project faster and end the horror our teacher calls ‘project work’. I’ll be on my way and we’ll never cross paths again provided you get more loyal friends – or come to school on time for once.”
“It was just that one time.” Deidara hissed frigidly and Sasori interrupted him once more.
“I’ll take the reins for this project.” He fumbled at his haversack and pulled out a few pieces of paper. “And ironically enough, your stupid attempt at explaining yourself gave me an idea.” Those doe shaped russet eyes seated upon his face twinkled in a strange almost alluring way, as he picked up a pen at his side and scribbled hurriedly on a piece of paper.
He lifted it up to show Deidara what he had scrawled. The words 'sky’, 'birds’ and 'clouds’ were virtually incomprehensible but the blonde had managed to decipher them. Even though he was partially still affronted that the other male had been viciously rude to him, he couldn’t help but favour the idea.
Still, he didn’t want to show his delight at the fact that he actually liked the notion of painting the sky.
“Isn’t painting just the sky too easy?” Deidara tilted his head up arrogantly at Sasori, narrowing his lambent melt-water eyes.
“No it’s not.” The red-haired male snorted back, scribbling some more on the piece of paper, “It might seem unassumingly easy, but to capture the essence of the sky, it is close to impossible.”
“I’ve done it a million times before, it’s plain sailing.”
“Discussion over, Deidara.” At that, Sasori grabbed his bag and left.
Once more, the blonde was left in the dormitory room, faced with his double bunk-bed of cheap stripped pine with their rough canvas mattresses, jammed end to end on both sides of the long drafty room. It seemed strangely empty now that the other male had left, the evening dim light shining dimly through the frost tinted glass. It was slowly bleeding into grey, just like how the dormitory was coloured, and the boy wondered about the abundance of diverse colours the sky had, flowing from a bright warm auburn glow to a bitter ancient grey.
Deidara found himself flopping onto the bottom bunk of his shared bed. It was an exhausting day, he pondered as he reverently rubbed his fingers along the tattered ragged mattress. Pressing his cheek to the cool clothed pillows, he let out an blissful groan at the datum that he was finally alone. Sitting at the table with Sasori’s lunar shaped eyes constantly on him was about to make him foam at the mouth. With his ruminant personality, the other male always left his ruby hair tussled, in a casual jumble and it irked Deidara that he seemed effortlessly stoic even though he obviously did not look the part. Kinda like the sky, he thought, wiggling his toes into the comforter. Fiery warm red and cold silver bitter.
Deidara flipped over to lie on his belly, placing his hands on his chin, propped up with his elbows. Justly, the red-head had never really talked to him before. Once, at the cafeteria, he recalled, whilst he was daydreaming in line for the food and Sasori had unceremoniously kicked him in the shin, telling him to get his head out of the clouds. It wasn’t a wonder why he was infamously disliked in the class.
Disreputably, the blonde boy wasn’t as well liked himself, but it didn’t matter to him either way. Hidan, his particularly psychotic best friend had his back most of the time – excluding now, he thought darkly, in which the albino haired teen had not apologised for his timely ditch-fest. In fact, he left the classroom, smiling meekly with his new art project partner and promising he’d make up for the mess he made.
They were given a week and a half to finish their project. An A0 sized painting of either acrylic, oil paint or water colour and because of Deidara’s tardiness to class, Sasori had decided for the both of them that they would be using paper instead of canvas, watercolour instead of oils. The blonde wasn’t a fan of watercolour but had to stiffly agree to it, since at that time, he was completely fraught at the fact that Hidan ditched him. Watercolour was flowing, delicate and intricate with smooth elongated strokes that did not play well with Deidara’s rough stubby fingertips. He preferred bold, course dramatic strokes with sketchy glazes across canvas and dramatic thick acrylic – with splashes of tawny brown, pastel and vibrant blues.
It was too late anyway. He couldn’t opt out and he couldn’t change partners. Then again, it wasn’t as if Sasori was causing a lot of distress as of the moment. In fact, they seemed to be going in the right – same direction. Maybe it wouldn’t end up as badly as he thought. Flipping back to lay on his back, Deidara smirked to himself. Maybe they can actually do this together.
He was wrong.
Oh so very wrong.
Sunday
Deidara stabbed his spoon viciously into his soup bowl. Today it was minestrone, a clear mix of cantaloupe orange and burnt sienna. Sipping thinly from his wooden spoon, he swung it wildly at Sasori, who reeled in disgust at the splattering liquid. Sneering, the red-head brushed at his sleeves, giving Deidara a menacing stink eye. He had no right to mock Deidara, after all, Sasori was the imbecile who agreed to the daunting task to pairing up with the blonde. He could’ve opted to work solo, perhaps even switched partners with someone else in the class with similar artistic ideologies. Deidara glowered at the other with livid infuriation. Now, he was stuck with a stubborn artist who thought that rulers were needed in abstract painting.
“It’s not abstract.” Sasori hissed.
“Yes it is.” Deidara snarled back scornfully, returning his spoon into the bowl and splashing the carmine coloured soup on his table. “I have a say in my ("our” sasori added grumpily) work.“ The blonde his fingers onto the table furiously, irate with the sullen boy.
"We are painting it my way. It’ll get done easier.”
“I don’t like 'your way’,” Deidara mimicked the other boy’s morose voice, “You picked the materials, so now, I get to pick the style.”
Sasori folded his arms indignantly.
“I say we paint it like an abstract painting. We’ll use different colours, like pastels, cupcake pinks, teals and a dash of creamy beige.” The blonde declared, sipping his soup once again, tilting his chin at the red-head, smirking proudly at his explanation.
“The sky isn’t made out of candy, brat.” Sasori derided, “It’s granite. Hues of overcast azure and pewter.”
“I am not painting a graveyard.” Deidara retorted back, shaking his head eagerly. “I want something wild,” his bright eyes gleamed with mad zealousness, “Like an explosion of colours.”
“I don’t know what sort of world you live in, but it’s certainly not what normal people see.” The red-head pointed intentionally at the window glass still. “Look outside, does it look as if the sky is covered in a variegated hue?”
Deidara ignored his finger and shook his head.
“I’m not painting some granny grey sky.” He grumbled, “It so boring. The point of art is to uncover and explore – to see beyond what you don’t normally see.”
Sasori pinched his nose bridge seemingly in frustration.
“No, it’s not. It’s to create the beauty of what you see, so that it lasts for eternity on paper. It’s exquisiteness translated into parchment, representing the subject matter truthfully, avoiding implausible elements.”
They exchanged cold glares.
“It works better with watercolour.” Sasori continued briskly, turning away from Deidara’s frigid gaze. “I’m the one with seniority here. You should listen to me.”
The baby blue eyed blonde clenched his fists in frustration. The red-head was the complete opposite of what he was – their ideologies, their personalities – it was almost impossible to come to a decision with the other constantly on his tail. They were principally like night and day. A harmonious discord, or a deafening sort of silence. They were contradictory and Deidara did not like that. He did not pleasure from the relentless arguments they had – in fact it was just slowing their progress down.
“We need to start today,” Sasori concluded casually, running his hands through his messy locks. “I don’t like waiting.”
Deidara’s right eye twitched in annoyance.
“Well we can’t start today can we?” He snapped, stabbing his soup once more, watching the ginger liquid frolic and ripple. “I’m not going painting some dull ass piece of work. Until we reach some sort of agreement, we won’t start painting.”
“Then agree with my terms so we can begin.” Sasori sounded relatively bored now, his fingers tapping on the table, another hand cupping his cheek as he stared grimly out the window.
“No.” Deidara hissed harshly.
There was a sigh.
“Fine. We’ll compete for it then.” The red-head stood up, slamming his hands onto the table. “We’ll each paint a sample on a piece of A4 paper and we’ll decide, tomorrow, whose is better.”
The mesmerising deep set russet brown eyes stared pointedly at Deidara, who managed a small 'hmph’ of agreement.
“May the bloody better artist win.” The blonde waved his hand, motioning it for Sasori to leave the room.
“It is already decided.” With that Sasori fled the scene, taking his bag of art supplies with him.
After the dormitory door slammed shut, the blonde let out an infuriated shriek of rage. What was he even thinking? That they would’ve happily decided on working on the same sort of art style? No wonder people hate the guy, Deidara snorted inwardly as he flung himself onto his bed, burying his face into his pillow.
Now he’d had to do extra work.
“Ugh.” He murmured into his pillow.
It was evening when he finally dabbed the last piece of pink coat onto his sample size painting.
The sky was darkening and the winter chill entered the dorms, swirling snowflakes creating patterns on his window pane. Deidara sighed, rubbing his temple with his paint soaked fingers, unintentionally painting his own face. It didn’t matter away, the only people left in the dorms were just Sasori and himself. Swiftly, the blonde gently placed paperweights over his masterpiece, hoping for it to dry overnight. Silently, he wondered how the red-head was doing. Was he already done as well or was he still painting?
Shaking those thoughts out of his head, he decided to take a shower instead.
With everything that happened today, he just wanted to sleep and get over with it. Obviously, he’s going to win the competition – right? Whatever it was, he would have it his way. Sasori’s greyscale painting would be nothing compared to his work of genius. Grabbing the soft cloth from his shared cupboard, he flung the towel over his neck and worked on getting to the door, to the hallway toilets, when the lights went out.
Frozen in place, Deidara let out a slow hiss of surprise.
Oh god. Don’t tell me – the electricity’s gone out? He let out a groan of despair. That meant that the heater would be out as well. It wouldn’t be the first time, he frowned to himself, hastily flicking his light switch on and off. The last time the electricity went bust, it was summer and the fans died out – Hidan was rambunctiously loud about how much it was killing him and they both decided to sleep out at a nearby 24 hour coffee stall instead.
Since school’s starting up tomorrow, at least it’ll be fixed up by then. Deidara frowned, slouching down near his door, sighing into his towel. He just wanted a hot bath but no, hell have no fury. To be stuck with an infuriating red-head and to be stuck without a heater. At any rate, he had Hidan’s spare comforter.
Before he could get up again, there was a loud knock on his door.
Blinking, the blonde sat in place, unmoving. Who was that? The only people left in the dormitory were just him and Sasori – why would the red-head even want to come over to his room? Could it be something else – something supernatural? He bit his lip in anxiousness and remained still. Maybe if he didn’t move, the knocking would go away.
It didn’t.
In effect, it became a more violent sort of slam.
The sudden frantic knocking made Deidara gasp in surprise, terrified by the unexpectedness of it all. Struggling to stand back up, he fumbled for his phone in his slacks and shone the dim phone’s glare onto the doorknob of his room. Was he going to open it? He hurriedly backed away to the counter top where Hidan had placed a bottle of salt and grabbed it. Well, apparently being paranoid came to good use – Deidara gulped as he approached the door, one hand clutching desperately on his phone’s dim light and another on the opened bottled of salt.
Heaving in a deep breath, he flung open the door and threw the whole bottle onto the figure in the dark hallway.
“BE GONE DEMON!” He shrieked, frantically shining his phone at the annoyed looking pair of brown eyes – wait. Wait.
“Brilliant.” Sasori’s dead voice sounded hilariously comical at the moment.
“The electricity is out.” Deidara explained weakly, shrugging. Sasori pushed his phone away, barging into the room with a backpack. “You could’ve just said it was you instead of knocking violently at the door like some sort of maniac.”
Under the dim glow of the purple evening sky, the red-head settled down begrudgingly on Deidara’s bed, brushing his salt-covered hair.
“I can’t paint without lights. I can’t see.” He groused. “You need to hold my flashlight up so I can paint.”
At that, Deidara let out a maniacal laugh. Oh the irony of it all. He wasn’t going to just let his enemy waltz into his territory and order him around.
“Oh contra!” Deidara clapped his hands gleefully, “What makes you think I’m going to do that?” A wicked smirk was plastered on his face as he shone his phone’s light onto his face, presenting his diabolical sneer to the other man.
Sasori narrowed his eyes, even in the dim lighting of Deidara’s dorm room, he could tell that the other male was beyond irate.
“Aww, is lil Sasori mad?” The blonde savoured the sulk on the red-head’s face. “Too bad. If you had just listened to me instead, you wouldn’t be stranded here in my room or trying to paint blindly!” He grinned triumphantly, sticking out his tongue.
“I win!” He pointed keenly at his own painting on the table, “I win, I win, I win!”
Sasori peered over Deidara’s finger, eyeing the lopsided painting.
“What,” He began, “On earth,” He recoiled as if the painting had stung him, “Is that?”
The blonde shot the other with a knowing glare.
“It’s the sky.” He concurred.
“It’s disgusting.”
“You’re disgusting.”
“Stellar comeback.”
Sasori frowned deeply and pulled out a piece of paper from his backpack.
“If you help me hold the flashlight,” He unravelled an unfinished piece of work, and looked up at the blonde, hesitantly sighing, “I’ll show you what I can do.”
“I don’t want to.” Deidara turned away and waltzed to the door, flinging it open. “Get out.”
Sasori rubbed his temples.
“Stop being such a brat. We’re still partners nonetheless and I need your help.”
The blonde was caught in a dilemma. He didn’t like Sasori, no not at the least, but it intrigued him to no end to find out how Sasori was going to paint his sample. For a favour, Deidara smirked darkly, shutting the door once more. Maybe.
“Alright. An eye for an eye then.” The blonde twirled his phone around his fingers, grinning. “I’ll help you but only I get to pick the winner for the competition.”
There was a long pause.
Sasori let out resigned exhalation.
“Fine.”
Internally shrieking in victory, Deidara skulked over to where Sasori had planted himself onto, curling up near with a small little wiggle of glory.
There was a vehement press of plastic on his hand as the red-head passed a rather large torchlight. The blonde flicked it on and the bright burst of luminescent cream-coloured light showered the dark room with a glow. It was only then that the blonde had a good clear look of how Sasori’s unfinished painting looked like.
Struggling to keep his gasp of astonishment in, he stared fixedly at the greyscale work of art.
Painted with flat smooth lines, graduating from a woollen grey tone to a misty concrete colour, and even with muted colours, it looked quietly intense. A mix of unvarying subdued colour tones, Deidara never thought grey could be so uncannily bright. Illuminated by the glow of the torch, he watched, fixatedly at the way Sasori spent little time digging out his supplies and began to paint over the white sheet of paper, the way his wrist curved smoothly alongside the paint brush – it was alluring.
The clouds were as white as a moonlit sail, buffeting through the slate blue washed sky. It was insipid, almost hypnotizing. If anything, the red-head artist was precise as his strokes, quick, regular systematic movements, creating the lush landscape with nothing but grey.
Backed up with only a thick wooden block, the paper was glowing with wet watercolours, slowly seeping into the piece of painted canvas.
“I need to let it dry.” Sasori’s voice broke Deidara’s thoughts.
Nodding, the blonde moved aside and let the other boy place his own art work next to Deidara’s own, weighing it down with his brushes.
“You’ve been awfully quiet.” The red-head remarked, settling himself beside the boy once again, tapping the blonde’s shoulder.
Still in a trance like state, the blonde shook his head, passing the torchlight over to his partner. The painting had such a sense of depth, so sharp and detailed – he had never thought the other artist would be so capable of such work. On the other hand, he never thought anyone was better than himself.
There was a click as Sasori turned off his torchlight, the illumined room dimming away into pitch black darkness, the moon as the only source of light, seeping into the room. It’s to save the battery, Sasori mentioned casually, tucking the torch under his arm. Deidara felt somehow relieved that his expressive face was now shielded in the dark, he didn’t want the other boy to see him entranced by the other’s painting. It was disconcerting.
“So,” The red-head began, “I can conclude that you like it?”
Deidara let out a snort.
“No.” It didn’t even sound convincing to himself.
“I’ve not heard you say you dislike it.” He could literally hear that other boy’s sly smirk.
“I don’t,” Deidara paused for a moment, weighing his options, he could say he didn’t like it – it was ultimately a stab to the other’s pride, but it wasn’t the truth. He liked it but it wasn’t worth losing his egotism over. “I don’t –”
But he wanted to know how the latter managed to pull off such a stunning work of art.
“It’s average.” He finished lamely.
“It’s average.” Sasori mimicked coolly.
Deidara could feel the smugness radiantly off the other male.
“To be fair, I’ve never seen anyone paint like that before.” He elucidated quickly, grabbing his pillow and hugging it to his chest. “I think it’s average but mine’s obviously better.”
There was a light scoff.
They sat side by side in silence for a long moment.
“Where did you learn how to paint like that?” Deidara broke the stillness, pulling his comforter around his shoulders and sighing in bliss. The winter night air was getting cold, and the heater was still malfunctioning, thank goodness for warm blankets.
Sasori was still, probably deep in thought.
“Instinct.” He spoke up after a while, sounding self-satisfied.
Deidara let out a scoff.
“Like birds?” He let himself chuckle a little.
“Yeah.” The red-head’s voice seemed kinder now. “Like birds.”
Deidara found himself pressed shoulder to shoulder with the other boy, relishing the company. It was nice, to say the least, to have someone around. It was strange, having yesterday’s appreciation for solitude and today’s obligation for company. Today, it felt like fiery warmth, sinking in and eloping him with its gentle caress and it was stranger – having the warmth come from iron grey.
“Hey.” Sasori’s voice roused him from his daydreaming, “I’ll bunk up top okay?”
Deidara nodded, whining inwardly when the red-head moved away from him, feet clanking on dusty wooden stairs up to the top bunk bed. There was a tired creak from the top and a whisper of a goodnight before the blonde drifted off to sleep.
Monday
“Don’t you ever get tired of soup?”
Sasori’s half hidden brown eyes peered from the top bunk bed, an eyebrow raised in perplexity.
Deidara rolled his eyes, hands cupped onto a small bowl of soup. Today’s menu included a blend of mulberry red and vermillion, one of his favourites: the rouge-ish coloured chunky red pepper potato soup. He sipped onto it, ignoring the snort thrown his way.
“Want some?” He asked, raising his soup spoon at Sasori’s direction.
“No.” Came the scoff.
Smirking to himself, the blonde traversed to his table, where the two paintings sat side by side. Completely different, yet contrastingly the same sky. Deidara’s own lopsided abstract painting seemed amateurish compared the realistic grey sky that Sasori had created. He frowned, running his fingers through his textured art piece, obscured colours overlapping each other like the waves of the sea. Glazes and hatchings of splattered cerise pink and olive greens, uneven hues of butterscotch and blue. It seemed like Sasori had the better painting, but Deidara wasn’t about to admit that just yet.
“Now then I see it in broad daylight,” Sasori murmured from the top bunk, still sounding sleepy, “It’s not what I thought it was from yesterday.”
Deidara’s heart skipped a beat as he glanced up at the sorrel brown eyes.
Is he praising it?
“It’s uglier than what I thought it was.”
Frowning darkly, Deidara found his ego deflate almost immediately as he hastily turned away from the red-head’s low chuckle. Well so much for being sympathetic yesterday. He found himself stabbing his soup, - why is he always stabbing his soup whenever Sasori’s around, and glowering fervently at the paintings in front of him.
“I win.” He snorted grumpily, pushing Sasori’s painting aside, earning an incensed 'hey’ from the bed.
“Very mature, brat.”
There’s that annoying nickname again. Deidara huffed thinly and sat himself down on his chair.
“There’s a clear winner and that’s me.” The bored voice concluded, “Now we can start on our painting.”
Before the blonde could curse at the latter, he heard a loud slam of his dorm door opening and a loud proclamation of “Eh blondie, did you miss me–”. Deidara turned around to greet his friend, but before the indigo eyed being could say anything else, his eyes darted over to the figure lazing calmly on the top bunk.
“What the fuck is he doing on my bed?” Hidan’s mouth formed into a lopsided frown as he glared harshly at the red-head, who was surprisingly unfazed by all the shouting.
“You ditched me so I’m replacing you.” Deidara snorted briskly, sticking his tongue out. The snow-white haired individual shot him a dagger glare, knitting his eyebrows in frustration. The blonde was still sore that the jashinist had completely dumped him because he was late for class, and he wasn’t just going to forgive Hidan simply.
“Hey.” Sasori greeted coolly.
“Don’t hey me, asshole.” The albino haired teen growled, flicking his middle finger out and gritting his teeth.
Instead of getting irate, the red-head simply ignored the gesture, rolling his eyes. Still, he stepped down from the top bunk and grabbed his backpack from the floor. Side-stepping the fuming Hidan, he waved a hand at the blonde.
“I’ll see you in class, brat.”
With that he slinked out the door.
“Did you two fuck?” It was an exclamation, not a question.
“No.” Deidara grunted back, surprisingly composed. “We were discussing about our art project.”
“Art project huh.” Hidan winked sickeningly at him.
The blonde rolled his eyes.
“The art project we were all supposed to do?” He emphasised on the word all, narrowing his eyes at his bunk mate.
Hidan blinked, stunned for a moment.
“Oh fuck.”
Deidara dumped his sketches and colour compositions sheets on his bed, frowning darkly at the immense amount of work he had to put in for some silly painting of the sky. Behind, Hidan trudged back into their shared room, groaning in despair.
And behind the white-haired male, was the ever annoying red-head.
They had finished up the last class for the day and Sasori, being the obvious aggressive one in their partnership, wanted to at least start working on the sky-scape of their painting. Deidara was still unsure about how they were going to do it, noting the fact that the latter wanted his 'magnificent’ style to dominate their project work.
The blonde sighed and walked up to the table where his painting sat, before eyeing Sasori’s one on the floor. It was a tiring day and he really didn’t want to deal with the brown-eyed boy’s constant nagging about how his art was more superior as compared to the blonde’s – but they needed to figure a fair way to find how to paint their masterpiece.
Something clicked in his head as he watched Hidan climb up to his bunk, letting out a blissful moan of content when he laid his body down to rest.
“Oi, Hidan.” Deidara called out, picking up Sasori’s painting and placing it side by side with his own, on the table. “Pick your favourite.”
“Anything.” Came the noncommittal reply.
Sasori scoffed, taking a seat next to the blonde.
“Hidaaaaan.” Deidara whined, slamming his fist on the poles of the bunk-bed. “Just pick one, please.”
There was a long tired sigh before Hidan peeked out from a nest of pillows, his white-hair in an adorable mess, eyes wide as he observed the two paintings on the table.
“Can I have one of that for my project?” he enquired sweetly, grinning and baring his teeth.
Infuriated, Deidara rolled his eyes and ran a hand down his messy locks.
“No.” Sasori answered for them, frowning.
“Then don’t ask me to pick.” The jashinist went back into his stack of pillows.
“But we need to figure out what we should paint!” Deidara growled, exasperatedly pulling his hair now, “I say we do it my way!”
“We’ve been through this, brat. My art work is much better than yours.”
“No, you owe me one and I get to pick the winner of the competition – and it’s me. We are doing it my way, end of story.”
“You call that a piece of art? It’s amateurish. The sloppy brush strokes and contrasting colours, it’s all over the place. It looks like a train-wreck.”
“I concur.” Hidan’s voice came from under the stack of pillows.
“Whose side are you on, asshole?” Deidara snarled, rapping the bed-bunk poles once more.
“The Satanist has spoken.” There was that smug grin plastered on Sasori’s face again, as he folded his arms triumphantly, eyebrows raised. “We do it my way.”
Pulling out a piece of paper, the red-head scribbled a number on it and passed the note over to the blonde.
“I don’t have a shared room so I have space to put my easel. We’ll work there instead, I don’t want to disturb your good friend there.” He waved a hand over to the direction where the white-haired teen seemed to be dead asleep. “I’ll see you tonight, 8pm sharp.”
“Tonight?” Deidara’s jaw dropped. “Are you crazy? I need to sleep.”
“We need to get work done. We’ve wasted a weekend deciding what to do. I’ll see you later, don’t forget to bring your paint supplies.” Sasori grabbed his sample painting and waltzed out hurriedly, disregarding Hidan’s sudden declaration “I’m not a Satanist, it’s jashinist.”
Deidara laid his head on the table, cursing his fate. Why was the red-head so implausible to read? One moment he’s nice and sympathetic, another moment he’s like the devil. Sighing, he glanced sideways at his painting. Not looking up, he murmured, “Is my painting really that bad?”
“Not really.” Hidan’s voice was muffled by blankets. “I just wanted you to suffer.”
“What a lovely friend you truly are.”
“But really,” His bunk mate’s voice sounded clearly now, as if he had moved away from his nest of pillows, “You’ve been doing that same old abstract oil painting for years, it’s time you tried something different.”
Deidara sighed tactfully. He had a point, but to be painting beside that infuriating piece of work, it was going to be tough – especially since now they had to do it Sasori’s way. He could foretell that the week wasn’t going to go well.
“Where’s my salt bottle gone to?”
Exactly.
It was 8.15pm when Deidara found himself standing outside room 303, arms draped with his backpack of art supplies and a light scowl on his face. Sasori’s dorm room was a floor above his and the blonde had to make his way up the stairs with his heavy equipment and all. Groaning, he kicked on the oak wood door irately, grunting his disapproval at the situation he was in.
There was a click and a creak as the door opened, revealing the sleepy looking male. Deidara blinked, realising it was the first time he noticed the red-head up this close. Expressionless deep set eyes stared back, eyelashes framing his eyes like black lace, as the blonde marvelled at his unnaturally pale porcelain skin, defined cheekbones and an earthy scent swirled around him. Up this close, Deidara realised that Sasori’s doe shaped eyes were blend of gunmetal and coffee.
“You are late.” His aggravated sneer crashed the moment.
“I was busy.” Deidara snapped back, annoyed.
“I’ve started without you. I hate waiting.” Sasori turned away, beckoning the blonde to follow.
Wide-eyed, the flaxen haired boy observed the single dormitory room and at once, wished that he had picked that instead of a shared bunk. With the same greying walls, Sasori’s room contained only a small bed, neatly made up with two straight backed chairs and a small table. His window was shut tight and covered by dreary looking curtains. In the middle of it all stood the boy’s easel, holding up their A0 sized sheet of paper, covered in a light tint of cream beige.
“I’m going to cover it with eggshell white – the paper is too blaringly silvery white, so I need to dull the colour to achieve that muted grey tone.” Sasori clarified, lifting his brush from the pocket of the easel. “You can start mixing some colours.”
“Mixing?” Deidara blinked, placing down his backpack in curiosity. “Can’t we just splatter it then mix it?”
“It’s watercolour, you idiot.” The vermillion haired boy barked, turning his back from the blonde. “You can’t just mix it on the canvas itself, it’ll melt the paper.”
The blonde sulked.
He knew that.
Grabbing his paint set and palette from his backpack, he skulked over to the lone chair and sat on it grumpily, sighing at his fate. Painting was supposed to be fun, not dull and mixing colours on a palette – where’s the spontaneity in that? He never used his palette before, half the time, Deidara found himself just mixing colours on the canvas as he pleased, feeling before thinking. Perhaps it was part of his downfall too, he pondered, dabbing black and white on wood, he had been known to come up with the strangest of paintings after all.
Grey. He dabbed.
Grey again.
He sighed.
Granite, dusty, charcoal, metal, pewter, soot, storm. After a while, they all looked the same to him.
Hastily, he glanced at Sasori, who seemed fixated at his painting. Deidara inspected the piece of paper, perplexed to see it just a shade of merely nude beige. He spent thirty minutes doing that? The blonde’s eyes widened in surprise. Why would he even waste so much time painting just the backdrop?
“Are you done?” The steely voice echoed through the dimly light dorm room.
“Yeah.” Deidara turned away hesitantly, looking at the odd blend of colours on his palette. If he remembered correctly, these were the colours that Sasori used in his sample painting. Dragging his chair over to his partner, the blonde gestured at him with the wooden palette filled with a fusion of different hues of greys. Not even glancing back at Deidara and his palette of dull colours, the red-head waved a hand dismissively, shaking his head.
“That’s not enough.” He remarked dully, “Mix some more.”
The blonde clenched his teeth, glowering darkly at his so-called partner before retreating back to his spot, where he heatedly started piling different whites and blacks, stabbing his paintbrush ruthlessly on the palette. As he did so, he examined the way the other painted, with skill and precision, the red-head’s hand moved, gliding across the paper and letting the wet water paint dry from time to time. It was entrancing but the man himself wasn’t. Even so, there wasn’t anything brilliantly unique about Sasori’s painting, even as a backdrop it was dull – likewise, Deidara felt awfully dulled.
“How much soup do you have to taste to know it’s bad?” The red-head broke the silence, halting his movements and turning to the blonde, who blinked back in surprise.
He didn’t expect the other to neglect his work to ask a senseless question.
“That question’s very subjective isn’t it?” Deidara chose his words wisely, enunciating each word carefully as he observed the dispassionate look on the other’s face.
“I’m asking you, specifically.” Sasori grunted, folding his arms.
Deidara frowned but kept silent, thinking for a moment. Surely the red-head didn’t make such an imprudent enquiry for nothing.
“I don’t know, maybe one spoonful. What’s with the question?”
“It’s an analogy.” Sasori’s eyes were fixated intently onto Deidara’s. “For human behaviourism.”
The blonde eyed the red-head with complete confusion.
“What does that have to do with me?” He inquired coolly. “I like my soup.”
“The power of a 'first impression’,” his partner pointed at his painting, “You think this is ugly, don’t you?”
Deidara scrunched his nose.
“No.” He lied through his teeth.
“I can tell by the way you look at the paper, brat.”
Sasori sighed, rubbing his temples as if he was dealing with a difficult child.
“Akin to how you assess your soup: if it’s not happening in the first few seconds, your instinct tells you it probably won’t get better. You barely sample before deciding to assimilate the whole thing – just like this painting. You assume it’s not good just because I’m taking my time to do it.” He gestured to Deidara’s palette.
“You have a lack of endurance. Look at that, you aren’t even focused.”
“I do better in the spur-of-the-moment.”
Deidara stabbed his palette forcefully, frowning deeply.
A heartbeat passed.
They remained in silence.
Sasori let out another sigh before turning back to his painting.
“Leave it,” He grunted, waving his hand glibly, “You are dismissed.”
Huffing, Deidara set his palette down, eyeing the other suspiciously.
“Just because I do things differently from you, doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” The blonde gritted out, grabbing his phone and essentials, leaving his supplies on the chair.
“Same goes for you, Deidara.”
Letting out a groan of frustration, the blonde stormed out but before he reached the door, he halted, brain forming a good comeback.
“Hey Sasori,” He turned around to glare at his partner, who levelled his scowl back.
“How much of you do I have to taste before I know it’s bad? One spoonful.”
And he whipped around, grinning wildly, slapped the door and left.
