#yes deidara stuffed his top with oranges

[babybottlepop96]

@narutorarepairjune

Day29 prompt: Gods/Goddess

TenTen: Deidara, babe, why are you dressed as Aphrodite?

Deidara: Because I'm a beautiful bitch...

[paperbackcat]

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.

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.

It feels right.

This time, Deidara doesn’t let go.