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evxlynxxh · 7 years

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Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

Set in an alternate universe where the characters are college students, Deidara finds himself stuck in a rut, having to team up with the most infuriating piece of work, in the entire universe. (Okay, maybe he’s over-exaggerating but) Of all people, he had to partner up with the least liked student in the entire class. (A/N: Was supposed to be a one-shot but welp)

Chapter 1: First quarter (HERE)

Chapter 2: Second quarter (HERE)

Chapter 3: Third quarter

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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