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paperbackcat · 7 years

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Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

Artwork by: seabearcircus

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.

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.

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.

It feels right.

This time, Deidara doesn’t let go.

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paperbackcat · 7 years

Text

Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

(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.

“Maybe it’ll work out.”

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