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indigo-streaks-in-her-hair · 7 years

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sketches [ cm x r ]

fandom : Dear Evan Hansen

by : Victoire

pairing : Connor Murphy x Reader

summary : In which you are a gifted artist & Connor just so happens to be your unsuspecting muse.

word count : 4,519

warnings : Swearing

a / n : Here we are! I’m beyond excited to be sharing my first fic with you. I’ve recently gotten into DEH & really explored the characters as people, so I do hope the way I write Connor is enough for you! I had my ups & downs while writing this, but the result did prove successful.

Oh, & make sure to see if you can catch a hidden If I Could Tell Her reference in the fic! *winky face* I would love you for the rest of my days if you all could leave a like or maybe reblog! Feedback & constructive criticism are always welcome.

Biting your lip in concentration, your eyes carefully studied the sharp but somehow soft lines of his face. He was sitting diagonally in front of you, with a perfect view of his profile.

Why would you be drawing the infamous Connor Murphy in the middle of a calculus class, you ask? Honestly, you didn’t even have a valid reason except for the fact that he was absolutely beautiful.

His was a unique kind of beauty, dark & harsh & in all ways mysterious, but at the same time there was a sort of lightness to it, fragile & delicate.

It puzzled you sometimes, but you were still drawn to the enigma that happened to be Connor Murphy.

As your pencil scribbled quietly on the paper of your sketchbook, Connor dropped his own. You watched intently as he bent to pick it up, strands of his light brown hair falling into his eyes.

He quickly tucked wisps of it behind his ears, turning back to his previous position. He must’ve felt your burning gaze on him, because he quirked his head in your direction, his clear blue eyes landing on you. A part of his right eye, aside from being blue, was a rich chocolate brown.

You immediately cast your gaze down at your binder, open, but with none of the notes written down. You felt your cheeks flush. Without a sound, you quietly snuck your sketchbook back into your desk.

Out of the corner of your eye, you could’ve swore Connor cocked his brow just in the slightest. He faced back forward, drumming his pencil against the desktop. You were sure he was aware of you now.

Silently cursing yourself, you hopelessly propped your elbow on your desk, your head cocked to the side as the teacher’s words came in one ear & left out the other.

If Connor Murphy kept being this beautiful, you were 100% sure you were going to fail high school.

“Y/N this has to be ‘Connor Murphy sketchbook #3’ by now,” Alana flipped through countless pages filled with drawings of him.

“This is only the second one, Lana,” you stabbed at your salad, ending the life of a poor cherry tomato.

“He almost caught me today, & I was utterly horrified.” You let your fork drop out of your fingers & sighed. “I’d be dead if he ever found out I’ve been sketching him since the beginning of the year.”

“Well, you would sound like a creepy stalker-”

“Thanks a lot, Alana.”

“But,” she emphasized, “these drawings are really really good, Y/N. You really capture something about Connor that others can’t see.”

You couldn’t help but shoot your friend a small smile. “I’m glad you like them.” As if on cue, you see the doors to the cafeteria open.

Connor walked in, his hair tousled as always, & his bag slung across his chest. Sure, he was tall & looked lanky at a first glance, but under the fabric of his shirt, you could make out evidence of the slightest bit of muscle in his arms & torso.

Alana noticed you staring. “Please stop gaping at him like he’s Zac Efron or something, for god’s sake,” She playfully slapped your arm, reeling you back into reality.

You shut your mouth, your eyes cleared of their daze. “Right, yeah. Sorry.” You bit your lip, trying not to glance up at him as he walked past you & Alana.

“I will, um,” you struggled, “throw away my salad.” You cast your friend a look as you got up & picked up your lunch tray.

“I have history next. I guess I’ll see you after school?” You asked her. Alana nodded, a small smirk on her face.

“Oh god, please don’t give me that look,” you said to her as you began to walk away, slinging your backpack over your shoulders.

“IT’S THE LOOK PEOPLE GIVE WHEN YOU WASTE PERFECTLY GOOD ARUGULA, Y/N.”

You couldn’t help but crack a smile. Turning, you shot her a salute before dumping your food in the trash & heading to your next class.

That night, Jared called you. At a very late time, to say the least.

You groaned as you hit the green ‘accept’ button. “What the fuck could you possibly want at three in the goddamn morning, Jared Kleinman?”

Jared chuckled over the line. “Welp, I can’t sleep. Actually, no. I have a project to do but I’m too much of a lazy ass to complete it so here I am calling you.”

“Can’t you just bother Evan instead of me?” you rubbed groggily at your eyes, yawning. “I’m serious, do you have a death wish or something? I’m way too tired to beat you up, but I will eventually.

“Come on, Y/N. I’m bored. Talk to me.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll just talk to you. Ooo, about those sketches of Connor-”

You sat bolt upright in your bed. “How the hell do you know about those?”

“Someone found a few tucked inside a desk today. Eventually, they made their way to Connor.”

You felt your heart stop.

“Oh my god-”

“But don’t worry, nobody knows it was you. Just Alana & I.”

No one was there, but you imagined the eyes of everyone at school on you as you blushed in embarrassment.

What would Connor say? What would he think of you? What if he found out? What would everyone say?

You were so close to being busted.

“Jared, I swear, if Connor ever finds out, I will be publicly shunned.” You ran a hand through your hair, tugging slightly at the strands. “Jesus Christ, what am I going-”

“Hey hey hey, don’t freak out. You are a pretty good artist by the way-”

“Not helping, Kleinman.”

“Um, your interpretation of the tall, dark, & brooding Mr. Sexy Murphy is very detailed-”

“That doesn’t help either.”

“You know what-”

“Ok. I’m going to back to sleep & going to try to impossibly ignore what you have just told me while it nags in the back of my mind like a parasite. Good night, Jared.”

You hung up the phone & let out an even bigger groan than the one you let or earlier. “Shit.” You muttered to yourself.

You fell back, stuffing your pillow in your face. You let out a loud groan-ish scream, absolutely dreading school the next morning.

“I’m ruined. Demolished. Destroyed. I will die.” You panicked at your locker with Evan, Jared, & Alana.

“If he finds out anything, he will hate me for the rest of my days.” You sighed, letting your back hit your locker door shut.

You held your English books in your hand, your palms sweaty.

“D-Don’t think of it as the end of the world, Y/N,” Evan nudged you with his cast, offering you one of his sweet smiles. “It’s not the worst that could happen.”

“Yeah, & besides-” Alana began,

“-he’s walking this way right now & looking at you,” Jared cut her off, glancing anxiously at someone coming down the hallway.

You didn’t have any time to react, because Connor Murphy came right past you, his eyes lingering on you for a few hopeless seconds before focusing in front of him.

“Oh my god, I think he knows.” you breathed out once he was gone.

And so, in the days that followed the discovery of the Connor sketches, you observed that he would look at you more often than ever before.

He’d sit near you in class & steal glances at you every now & then, his eyes on you for longer than what seemed normal.

If you weren’t covered in shame, you would kind of like the attention you were getting.

But under these circumstances, this was probably the worst that could happen.

You had held off any sort of drawing for at least two weeks, & that itch to pick up a pencil was bothering you like crazy.

So, one day, you managed to snatch a seat at the back of the classroom. Connor was nowhere to be seen, but it turns out he was only a few minutes late.

The only spot available was one in the front row, one that was far away from you.

As soon as class started, you pulled out your sketchbook, drawing silently.

You kept it concealed under your textbook.

Your pencil sketched lines & bases, the shadows of his cheekbones & the curls of his hair falling into his face.

His eyes were your favorite part to draw, they seemed infinite, like you could get hopelessly lost inside them.

They reminded you on the ocean, seemingly bottomless & hauntingly beautiful, just like him.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you were trying desperately to get his jawline just right. If you erased some of the dark shadow you had-

“Miss Y/LN, may I ask why you are drawing in my class when you should be paying attention to the lecture?”

The sound of your teacher’s sharp voice made you jump. Your head snapped up, meeting the stares of everyone in the class, including Connor.

Your pencil dropped to the floor.

“I’m sorry, I was- I was just sketching something for art class.” You shut your sketchbook, your cheeks flushing pink.

You bent down to pick up your pencil.

“You better be sorry. One more time, & I’ll see you in detention, young lady.”

You nodded in understanding, the teacher turning back to the board.

Everyone turned around, the tension still thick in the air. You tried to ignore everything, your eyes fluttering shut for just a moment.

When you opened them, Connor’s eyes were there, gazing at you with curiosity & interest.

You stared back.

It turns out you were right. You really could get lost in those eyes of his.

Alana had a meeting with one of her teachers during lunch, so you had to sit alone.

Once again, you poked tirelessly at your salad, taking the lives of a few more cherry tomatoes.

You had a book in your hand, reading to try to pass time.

You were trying your hardest not to sneak a glance Connor’s way; he was sitting just a few tables in front of you.

You ate in silence, looking up every now & then out of pure fear that he’d simply march up to you & call you out right in front of everyone.

You had such a hopeless crush on him that you didn’t even think it mattered anymore.

You gazed up as one of the school’s football players entered the cafeteria.

Jason was quarterback & just so happened to be a huge dick. He held a football in his hand like he always did, & you lowkey judged the guy for carrying one around everywhere.

But in his other hand was the exact thing you had been terrified of for weeks now.

He was holding your sketches. Your sketches of Connor Murphy.

You dropped your book, letting it fall to the floor with a loud thump. You felt your breath hitch in your throat, your pulse racing.

You couldn’t do anything but watch as Jason strutted his way over to Connor, sitting alone.

Fortunately for you, your sketches had gained some popularity. Everyone in school was dying to find out who was that much of dork to see something beautiful in that creepy kid Connor Murphy.

You bit the inside of your cheek as Connor finally noticed Jason standing in front of him, shooting the football player a small glare.

Moving fast, you retrieved your book & stuck your head in it, shoving your tray of food away from you.

The next time you looked up, Connor was there with the pages in his hands, a look of confusion on his face. His face softened as you saw his eyes scan over your drawings.

You were frozen.

Jason stood with his arms crossed, chuckling. He playfully slapped Connor’s back before walking away to his next class.

Connor’s brows furrowed in interest as he shifted the papers in his hands. You couldn’t begin to interpret the look on his face.

He would study each one for about five minutes, & you could tell he was puzzled at the fact that someone out there was drawing every single expression on his face.

You had to stare at him now. You couldn’t peel your eyes off the way he was looking at your sketches. If he ever-

And just like that day in calculus class, his eyes somehow found yours throughout the infinite crowd of students in the cafeteria.

They pierced yours with a sort of glint, as if he knew that all those sheets of paper were your doing.

You blinked suddenly, turning away from him & clamping your book shut. You slung your bag over your shoulder, picking up your lunch tray with it.

As quickly as you possibly could, you stormed out of the cafeteria, dumping your lunch tray.

Maybe you could afford to be ten minutes early to chemistry. Just anything to get that beautiful stare off of you.

Connor watched you as you rushed off, his eyes trailing to the sheets of paper in his hands.

These drawings were beautiful.

Beautiful couldn’t even seem to describe them as he noticed every detail that he failed to recognize.

But somehow you had.

The wispy curls of his hair & the slight dip in the bridge of his nose, the angled sharpness of his cheekbones & the curve of his mouth.

There had to be a possibility that Y/N had drawn these.

They were, evidently, the art teacher’s favorite student. They’d won multiple awards for their art, even.

Connor didn’t know what to say. He had never seen himself in the way they interpreted him.

It was like they drew his vulnerability, the boy under the dark & rough exterior.

Y/N drew the boy beneath the heated glares & the harsh persona. They drew the Connor underneath all the ugly parts; at least that’s how it was to him.

Somehow, Y/N Y/L/N had drawn the real Connor Murphy.

And the corners of his lips curved into the smallest of smiles at the thought.

Shutting your locker with a loud slam, you made some of the other people around you jump.

Muttering a small “sorry”, you pushed past the crowds of students trying to get to class, your mind clouded.

Everything in your head was Connor, Connor, Connor. Sketches, sketches, sketches. I am fucked, I am fucked, I am fucked.

Anxiety played a horrible part in your life, & even the littlest things could set you on edge & make you worry even when you knew you shouldn’t.

They made your hands shake & your chest ache like hell.

You scolded yourself for being careless with those sheets of paper; you knew you had a habit of leaving things behind.

And if the entire school found out, you’d definitely be shunned.

And if Connor found out, you were sure he’d be creeped out & never notice your existence again.

With all these horrible results playing in your head, you completely zoned out, & were shot back into reality once you walked right into something hard, your books & binder crashing to the floor, papers spilling almost everywhere.

You cursed. “Shit, I’m so sor-” you muttered as you bent to retrieve your things, your hands flying everywhere before people could step on them.

“It’s fine.”

Before he could even get down to help you, you already knew it was him.

That husky, but somehow velvety voice of his echoed through your ears with a thrum.

You looked up, & were eye level with the one & only Connor Murphy. You were lost all over again.

What lasted a few mere seconds felt like minutes to the both of you. He was looking at you, trying to find something.

Without knowing why, you broke away from his gaze, moving to shuffle your papers in order. He helped you, getting on his knees & handing you over some chemistry homework.

“Um, thanks.” As you took them, your fingertips brushed his ever so slightly, & you felt a zing of electricity zap its way to your chest.

You got up slowly, shifting the weight of the backpack on your shoulders. Connor did the same, adjusting the strap on his messenger bag.

“Anytime.” he seemed to shrug, running a hand through his messy hair. You smiled shyly in response, turning to make your way to the class you were already late for.

“I guess I’ll see you around?” You heard him call after you.

Did he really just say that to you? You turned back, fiddling with the straps of your backpack.

“I, uh,” you stuttered, balancing on your heels, suddenly nervous. But then again, when were you not around him?

“Um, yeah.” You shot Connor another attempt at a smile. “I’ll see you around, Connor.” You raised your hand in a small wave, swallowing your anxiousness.

You turned & took a deep breath before making your way to class.

Jesus Christ, he really did just say that to you.

Connor swore once you were out of sight, cursing his social awkwardness. He didn’t want you to feel anxious around him, he really didn’t.

If anything, he wanted to get to know you. But you were probably onto him for knowing about him knowing about your sketches.

God, it was all so complicated.

For once in his sad & seemingly imperfect life, he liked someone. He wanted someone, & that someone was you.

His fascination with you started when you both entered high school in the same grade. He thought you were subtle, if that ever was a good quality. Connor liked the way you smiled & laughed & bit your lip whenever you tried to conceal your infectious grins.

He thought you were perfect, unlike him. He was always that creepy kid in the corner, with his messy hair & dark clothes. You were bright & radiated light, you spoke through your art in ways no one could.

Most of all, he thought you were real. You weren’t like most girls at your age, you were quieter & spent your time with a few close friends. You weren’t fake. You weren’t a wannabe.

You were perfectly content with being Y/N.

Y/N, who showed up to last year’s prom in beat up converse & spent the whole night alone with nothing but their pens & a sketchbook.

Y/N, who drew a mustache on the substitute teacher with a sharpie in junior year while he was sleeping.

Y/N, who in freshmen year received their first art award, beating out several seniors & a sophomore.

And Y/N, who had managed to fascinate Connor within the course of four whole years of high school. They were always quiet in class, their pencil scribbling either the notes on the board or spilling out their creativity onto paper.

Reaching into his back pocket, Connor pulled out the sketches he had folded up. From what he had seen; from seeing the way Y/N saw him, he was sure that sometimes the quietest people have the loudest minds.

You stuffed numerous textbooks into your locker, sighing as you tried to straighten them up in such a messy space. You stayed after school for an hour for tutoring. Apparently your grades in history were starting to drop, but so was your state of mind.

Brushing a strand of hair behind your ear, you took a deep breath before shutting your locker. You thought the hallways had to be empty by now, save one person.

You jumped once you saw him there, right next to you, as if waiting for something. Your mouth couldn’t form words until the both of you spoke.

“Y/N.”

“Connor.”

You bit your lip as he looked at you; of course you had to be much shorter than him. His tall, lanky frame stood before you, & he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

He reached into his messenger bag, slipping out the inevitable.

Your sketches.

You could feel yourself gulp & your cheeks flush red.

“Someone gave these to me a few weeks ago. I was wondering if they were yours.” He said to you, his voice surprisingly soft. The look on his face was sympathetic, but understanding at the same time. He unfolded the sheets of paper, revealing multiple different views of his face.

One was a profile portrait, & you remember how hard you worked to get the angles of his jawline soft but sharp. Another was a front-facing one; you had drawn him with strands of his curly hair falling into his face, his lips slightly pursed.

That was the only sketch you managed to color, working with oil pastels until you got the blue in his eyes just right. Balancing the blue with the rich brown in his right eye also proved to be a challenge.

The sketches were slightly crumpled, evidence of them probably being passed around. The whole school had probably already seen all of these, which only made the flush on your cheeks darken.

“I,” you couldn’t make yourself say the words. You could feel your heart pounding, like it would explode out of your chest any second. Connor’s gaze never left you, even for a moment.

“Yeah, they’re mine.” You finally said, not wanting to look him in the eye. It would all be too much. “I’m really sorry if you think I’m strange or weird, or if I’m obse-” You started to go off, listing everything negative that Connor probably thought of you, feeling your gut twist.

But not before he stopped you.

“No, no, no. Not at all.” You stared up at him in disbelief. Connor noticed the look on your face, speaking again to expand on his statement. “I mean, I don’t think you’re weird. These sketches are…” He stopped for a moment, as if debating on what to say next.

You did nothing but listen, hoping he wouldn’t think you a fool.

“They’re just…” He looked at the sheets of paper in his hand, his eyes skimming over every detail. “They’re so good. Amazing, actually.”

You couldn’t help but furrow your brows in confusion. “But I, I just thought…”

“That I’d be mad?”

You looked up at him & nodded. “I thought you’d hate me, & that’s the least thing I’d ever want from you, & I’m sorry If I…” You trailed off, not even noticing you were backing away from him slowly.

“I’m sorry if me drawing you is uncomfortable or anything, because I can stop & leave you alone & we can pretend none of this shit ever happened-”

“Y/N.”

Suddenly, his hands were on your shoulders, your name being spoken with such clarity that you couldn’t even begin to describe. His eyes were closer than ever before, & you could see the flecks of green in the blue of his eyes & the rich gold & amber mixed with the chocolate brown color you adored so much.

Curls fell into his face, framing his cheekbones like a curtain frames a stage. You felt your breath hitch in your throat, the feeling of his hands gripping your shoulders something new altogether.

“I’ve never seen anything like what you draw. It’s remarkable, actually. I’ve just, I’ve never seen myself like, like the way you see me.” He let go of your shoulders, stepping back, & gesturing to the sketches in his hands. He handed them over to you, & once again, your fingertips brushed, sending current after current of electricity through you.

You stood breathless with your sketches in your hands. “When people think of me, they think dark & gloomy,” Connor stuffed his hands into his pockets, “they don’t think of me looking like, looking like an angel…” He shot you a shy smile.

You felt heat radiate to your cheeks. “Connor, I-”

“You draw me, Y/N. The real me. The one that all these losers fail to look for.” He gestured around the halls with his arms. He took a breath & sighed, bringing his arms to his sides.

“I have no fucking clue how you do it, but…” He looked at you, his eyes skimming over your face for any sign of emotion. “I just hope to god I’m not making you feel weird with all these compliments, I’m sorry…” He gazed down at his feet, toying with a strap on his bag.

“I like you, Connor.”

You spat it out in the midst of it all, not being able to keep it inside any longer. This was the reason why you drew him every day, 24/7. You couldn’t contain it.

His head snapped up at your words, his eyes immediately searching yours for a reason, an answer, or something.

“I draw you because I think you’re beautiful & perfect without a single flaw, & because there’s nobody else in this goddamn hellhole who’s like you, or acts like you, or mutters stupid protests against school in calculus class like you do. There’s never gonna be another Connor Murphy who tramples over the school hierarchy in those same lace up boots every day, & I can’t help but capture every single-”

And before you could finish, his lips were on yours.

You felt his hands on your face, the softness, yet roughness, of the way he had crashed into you, the pads of his thumbs brushing your cheeks. He surged forward like a wave in a vast ocean, overcoming you like a tsunami.

He had loomed over you, the curve of his mouth slanting to meet yours with a violent crash, & you tilted your head up to meet this wave head on. His lips were warm & soft against yours, moving with a rhythm, much like a current in the water.

You were kissing Connor Murphy.

His fingers tangled themselves into the strands of your hair, deepening your kiss. You were hopelessly drowning in him, your breath being stolen away every time his lips captured yours, pulling you deeper down from the surface.

You were being dragged away, but you didn’t care.

Before it could reach a climax, you pulled away from him, resurfacing with your heart still beating. His hands were still on your skin, his breathing ragged.

“Connor,” You whispered, breathless. “That was-”

“I’ve been wanting to do that since freshmen year.”

You chuckled at his words, your eyes meeting the ocean blue of his own. He let his hands drop, although he remained close to you.

“You’re remarkable.” You muttered, moving to tuck away a curl of hair that had fallen into his face. “I hate it.” There was a playful glint in your eye.

Connor simply smiled, the widest you had ever seen. “No,” he counteracted, “You & your sketches are remarkable.” Shyly, he took your hand.

“And I love it.”

#connor murphy #deh #dear evan hansen #dear evan hansen imagine #connor murphy x reader #musical imagines #indigo imagines #by victoire #musicals #imagines #dear evan hansen fic

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beanwaitingforya · 7 years

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Daisuga Art Students AU Part 2

*drops this here quietly* I still don’t have a name for this halp? Inspired by @priintaniere‘s CUTE ADORABLE ART

Part 1 Here and Part 3 Here

Note: This is from Sugawara’s POV, more notes at end, and this is pretty much unedited whoops, all mistakes are mine

Sugawara Koushi does not have crushes. He's had a few flings, to be sure, but nothing ever serious. Nothing that ever made his skin burn with excitement or had him dancing on his toes. He maintains this stance when his friend visits him at his part-time job working at the campus library. He's sitting at the front counter, doodling on a scrap of paper while he waits for someone to check out books, when Yaku Morisuke barrels inside. He leans against the tall desk, just barely able to rest his arms on the counter. "Suga, you would NOT believe what Kuroo said, I can't even - Hey, you're drawing that guy again!" Yaku stops mid-sentence to point at Suga's latest doodle, not much more than the back of a head and a well-defined back. Suga absentmindedly erases a bit, then thickens a few lines. "What?" "You know, muscles guy. You're always drawing this same dude. Anyway, will you listen to this? Kuroo said he'd wait for me after practice, but ditched me for Kenma again, the bastard -" Yaku kept talking but Sugawara wasn't listening. Muscles guy? Who was he even talking about? He supposed the dark-haired man he was currently drawing looked a bit familiar, but that wasn't too surprising. He flipped over the scrap of paper to some doodles he had done at breakfast and sure enough it was the same guy, dark, closely cropped hair, wide shoulders, and muscles. He was still admiring the biceps he had drawn when Yaku's voice suddenly dropped to a whisper. He tugged on Suga's sweater and pointed over his shoulder. "Hey, is that the guy? The one you've been drawing for weeks?" he hissed. Two guys with oversized art portfolios and messenger bags had just walked in, claiming a large table by the small corner cafe. One was tall, wearing a long coat, and had long hair pulled back into a ponytail. The other was wearing a dark beanie and navy hoodie. They had their backs to the counter, but looked strangely familiar... "What, the tall one with the longish hair? No, that's not the same guy-" Long-haired dude sat down while the other guy dropped his bags, taking off the beanie and ruffling his hair. As he turned to stand in line for the cafe, Suga finally caught a glimpse of his face. "It's him," Suga whispered. Sawamura Daichi, the subject of his sketches, was standing in line for coffee, just twenty feet away. "Yaku, stop staring!" Suga hissed. "Oho, he's pretty good looking. You should tell him to join the volleyball team, I'm sure Kuroo and Bokuto would enjoy that. That other guy is pretty tall too." Yaku ignored Suga to contemplate the stranger's ability. "We could use a few wing spikers-" "Yaku, cut it out, go home or go study!" Suga scolded. He was saved by a girl with an armload of books. "Shoo, I've got work now, Yaku!" He smiled at the girl while delivering a chop to Yaku's head. She looked slightly alarmed, but quietly handed over her mountain of books while Yaku sulked out the front doors. Sugawara was absorbed in scanning, so he didn't notice a familiar figure in line until he stepped up. "Hey, Sugawara. Didn't know you worked here," Daichi said quietly. A soft, gentle smile appeared on his face, and Suga was taken by surprise. He seemed much more...serious, the last time they were paired together for drawing class. Daichi handed over a few large books, then stuffed his hands into the large pocket of his hoodie while he waited. "Oh, you remember me! It's been a few weeks, huh? Yeah, this is my part-time job." He took the books from Daichi to scan. "It's a pretty easy job, and I can do some work if it's really slow here. These are over-size, so make sure to bring them back in two weeks to return or renew, instead of the usual four, okay?" He stamped the card on the inside of each book.

"Yeah, sure. How often do you work here? My friend, Asahi, will probably drag me back to study for the art history exam later this week." Daichi gathered his books as Sugawara finished scanning them. "Uh, just a couple of days a week. My next shift is on Saturday though, same time. I have that exam too! You must be in the Tuesday-Thursday class, right? I'm on Wednesdays and Fridays," Sugawara replied. "Yikes, that's a late shift," Daichi chuckled. His eyes crinkled, and Suga got the sudden urge to sketch the little smile lines on Daichi's face. Suga shook his head, partly to rid himself of the feeling, and partly to answer Daichi. "Well, if you're free, Asahi and I will be studying here all week, you're welcome to join us. He complains that when we study at work we always get flour over our stuff." Flour? "Ah, I'll take you up on that!" Another person began walking up with an armload of books, but Suga didn't want the conversation to end. He scribbled his contact information on a corner of the scrap paper he had hastily stuffed under a textbook and handed it to Daichi. "Just shoot me a message whenever you're planning on studying. Sorry, I should help..." his voice trailed off. Daichi looked over his shoulder, eyebrows rising when he noticed a line forming. "Ah, sorry, for keeping you. I'll let you get back to work, Sugawara." He turned to leave, but Suga called out to him one more time. "Just Suga is fine!"

He was hushed by three impatient people in line, his coworker at the desk beside him, and his conscience.

He spent the rest of the evening putting books away, checking books out for people, and sneaking glances at Daichi, and wondering why in the world they had flour at work.

Scratch that last part, he couldn't even believe his staring was subtle at all, he was just incredibly lucky that Daichi was intent on passing his art history exam. He had given up on scribbling on his small scrap of paper, so he dumped out a few sketchbooks from his bag, putting back the ones used exclusively for class. Computer graphics was a spiral bound, black cover that he slid back into his bag. His art history notebook had normal notes so he stuffed that one back into his bag as well. He finally selected a plain brown flip book, the size of a paper back and opened it to the first few pages.

Shit, Yaku was right. Sure enough, the pages and doodles all starred one Sawamura Daichi. How did he even manage to draw him this much when they barely saw each other even with one shared class? Why had he drawn his hands so much? As he flipped through page after page, Suga's heart sunk. I've got it bad, he thought. Real bad.

~~~

Suga had spent his precious few nights off attempting to study at the library with Daichi and Asahi. Attempting because as much as he tried to study, he just ended up doodling Daichi's smile, Daichi's hands, Daichi's neck, and Daichi eating a granola bar. He adjusted his scarf and his notebook, angling it slightly in his lap as he settled into a large plush chair. They had chosen a quiet corner of the library after Asahi had said the cafe smelled too much like work - apparently the two worked at a bakery down the street.

They hadn't realized he spent the whole time sketching, so Suga figured it was fine to continue...discretely.

But he hadn't anticipated Daichi asking to see his work himself. Asahi had just gotten up to get another coffee when Daichi had slid his chair over to Suga's. Suga quickly flipped the page, covering a doodle of Daichi's ankle, only to find another of the back of his head. Shit, really me? His face colored slightly as he shut the notebook completely.

"Hey, Suga." Daichi whispered. Suga looked up, cocking his head to the side with a tentative smile.

"You might as well call me Daichi, Asahi does anyway." Suga let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "And, this might be a bit forward of me, but well-" Daichi rubbed the back of his head, why was he so damn cute all the time? "I'd like to ask you something, if it's okay." Suga nodded, but he had a bad feeling creep up his spine. Suga knew what Daichi was going to ask.

He knew and was still sweating. He ran a hand through his messy hair, prepared to come up with an excuse, any excuse, but he was still drawing a blank. Daichi was going to see and realize he had the biggest crush on him, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. He already felt the heat creeping up his neck, and Suga clutched at his scarf, clenching his teeth so hard he swore he could hear them rattling.

"Suga, could I see your sketchbook?"

Bean says: omfgsurghlsighvbneawrig it took so long? So I realized the stuff I had originally written for a part 2 were boring and hard to write because THERE WAS NO CLIMAX OR ANYTHING you know like problem -> solution type of resolution and while this doesn’t exactly have resolution I feel like it’s better than whatever I had before haha. So basically I scrapped the old part and rewrote the whole part (which was not too bad since it’s not so long). ALSO my tenses are probably all over the place welp @_@ ALSO I PROMISED A CUTE ANON I’D HAVE THIS DONE BY THIS WEEKEND I HOPE YOU ENJOY I WISH I COULD TAG YOU

<3 Bean

#beanscribbles #haikyuu!!#hq fanfic #daisuga #art student au #priintaniere #beanwaitingforya #sawamura daichi #sugawara koushi

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lowat-golden-tower · 7 years

Text

Paging Dr. Birthday

Soooo yes. I know this is late. I know you're all screaming at me, "WHERE'S THE EMBRACING DARKNESS UPDATE." I'm sorry. Life's been crazy, and I haven't had much time or motivation to write. But I was determined to do something for the doc's birthday, even if it ended up getting posted two days later... oops....

But still! This is a good thing, because it means I'm getting my writing mojo back. Hopefully I'll have the new chapter out soon. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy some silly shenanigans with another set of egos. I struggled a bit with this but I'm very happy with the end result.

A very belated happy birthday to you, Dr. Henrik von Schneeplestein! May you continue keeping all our green beans safe, come Hell or glitch bitch.

AO3 Mirror

"Alright, listen, we gotta do this fer Schneeps. He's awesome, an' he keeps us put together, an' he jus' got outta havin' a bad rap with tha fans. He needs this. Especially after that video where Anti fucked wit'im."

Chase turned his head to shoot said glitch a look, the other Jacksepticeye egos following suit. Well, except for Robbie, but he was a little slow on the uptake. They could forgive him for it and just left him to contentedly chew on the kitchen table.

Anti, for his part, merely sneered at the group and proceeded to flip them off, his entire form briefly glitching in place.

Chase sighed and slipped off his hat so he could run a hand through his hair, ruffling it up and scratching at his scalp. "So. Glitchy arseholes aside-"

"Iǹh͞a̵l̴e҉ ͝my҉ ̶d̷ong̴, C͟h͟a̕se."̀

"-we need a plan. At least some ideas on what ta do. What about a surprise party?"

"I can make confetti! And streamers. And sparks! I can even make tha candles light up when he comes in." Marvin was quick to offer, wiggling his fingers and grinning with a flourish.

Chase pointed at the eager magician with a happy nod. "Yes. Good. What else?"

"If you can bake a cake, I can decorate eet to perfection! Mua! Tres magnifique. My masterpiece." Jacques cut in, kissing his fingertips. He was quick to go back to doodling, though, shooing away a curious Robbie before he could drool all over his sketchbook.

"Okay, cake, I can do that. And Marv can help, right Marv?" Chase looked back to the magician again, who gave an enthusiastic nod and thumbs up. "Sweet. Okay. So..." Slowly, his blue eyes slid to Anti, who was still sitting huffy and with his arms crossed.

Anti met Chase's gaze for a singular moment, then looked away and curled his lip into a disdainful sneer. "͘F̶o̧o͠k̡ off͏.̧ ̛I͟ ̵aiņ't͏ d͞o͞i͏n͢' ̡sh͟it̵e ͟fer̛ ͞t͏h̸ąt lo̵ony͟ ̕b̢in̨.̴ ̢Hav̵e ̧f̴ùn͝ ̸scar̢i͠n' tha͡ piss͢ out̷ta̸ h̴įm ͟f͢er ̡me, a̧n͏d ̶pr̛ob͘a͠b̢ly ̧gett̛in͞' s͜t́ab́bed̴ ͟wi̡t͜h a̶ ̛s̴ca̡lpe͡l͝ f͏er ye҉r͠ e̛f͞fo͟rt͘s. ͠I'm͘ ̀ou͟t!" With that, Anti glitched out of the kitchen, leaving behind the buzz of static and taste of iron.

Chase sighed and slipped his hat back onto his head. "Welp. Was worth a shot, at least. I think a cake'll be present enough, since I don't really know what Schneeps likes besides... medical... shite. Y'know. So let's just bake him a cake. Jacques can decorate it, and..." His gaze slid to where Robbie sat, clearly zoned out and drooling onto the table. Chase scratched at one of his sideburns. "...maybe Robbie can help. Mostly let's just make sure he doesn't drool on tha cake or anythin'."

Robbie looked up at the sound of his name, grunting curiously. He didn't quite understand what was going on, but it had something to do with the nice doctor who always stiched him back together when he fell apart. That and cake. Robbie liked cake. Maybe they would let him have some cake?

Before he could try to ask, there was the sudden crash of splintering wood from above. Chunks of debris and dust fell into the kitchen, frightening off those gathered at the table. Robbie ran out of the room with a lengthy cry, still heard quite clearly even after he'd gone down the hall. Marvin had his wand out at the ready, while Jacques and Chase coughed in the cloud of slowly settling dust.

"Who tha fook-"

"Greetin's, fellow citizens! Sorry I'm late, but I had ta save a train!" The confident form of Jackieboy stood upon the dust-strewn table, fists resting firmly on his hips. He wore a blinding grin, his head held high as if he hadn't just blasted a hole through their ceiling. "I heard we were makin' up plans for tha doc! I'm here ta offer my services."

Jacques wheezed, "Well ye can start by gettin' off tha fookin' table!"

In the end, Jackieboy was left to keep Schneep distracted and away from the kitchen. Which in hindsight, wasn't really all that hard, seeing as the doctor normally stayed cooped up in his office anyway. So Jackieboy's secondary task became keeping an eye out for any signs of sabotage from Anti, with a very minor tertiary task of corraling a hungry Robbie.

"Robbie, no, yeh can't eat tha eggs or tha flour. Not only is it bad fer yeh, but they need it ta make tha cake!" Jackieboy tugged the drooling, wide-eyed zombie back from the kitchen for the sixth time. The sleeves of his suit were covered in zombie spit by now and he internally sighed, not looking forward to washing the spandex. "C'mon, let's find yeh somethin' ta chew on." The hero grunted, dragging Robbie off down the hall.

Chase felt a twinge of guilt at Robbie's needy grunts and disapppointed groans, but they could make it up to him with cake later. If they got that far. Pursing his lips into a frown, Chase scratched at his hairline, almost knocking off his hat in the process. He squinted down at the recipe on his phone and scowled. "This doesn't make any sense. This is stupid."

"I told yeh, I could always just..." Marvin began, giving his wand a little wiggle.

Chase immediately shook his head. "No magic. Yeh've never conjured food before, an' no offense Marv, but I really don't want ta poison tha doc on his birthday. Or... us. Besides, it takes some of tha thought outta it, doesn't it? Jus' summonin' one up? Like goin' to tha store an' buyin' one. It's just cake. We can figure this out." Maybe. Hopefully.

"Whossat big bakin' YouTuber? Tha one Mark likes ta do videos with?" Marvin suggested after more wasted time spent staring at the recipe and dully cracking eggs into a mixing bowl.

"Rosanna Pansino? Oh yeah! Yer right, she's probably got a whole tutorial on bakin' a cake. Good one, Marv!"

Marvin beamed with happiness, and together the pair searched up the most appropriate video they could find. Her visual instructions made it a little easier. Soon enough, the cakes were in the oven, and the kitchen was an absolute disaster.

Chase and Marvin didn't look much better, and Chase laughed. "Yeh got egg on yer mask."

"Well you've got flour all over yer hat!" Marvin countered, grinning.

Chase removed his hat to find it had indeed changed into a different color, and together they both shared another laugh. Then he sighed and plopped his hat back on. "We're both a mess, and so's tha kitchen. I call tha shower first, then you should get one in before we throw tha big surprise. That way I'll be here ta check on tha cakes."

Marvin nodded. "I can try ta clean up a little in tha meantime. Magic's fine fer cleanin', right?" He put on his very best puppydog look and batted his eyelashes.

Chase snorted. "Yeah, yeah. But only ta clean. Don't do anythin' ta tha cakes!" He pointed at Marvin with severity, and the magician gave an obedient nod.

"O' course, o' course. No magic cakes!"

"Good. I'll be back."

The moment Chase was out of sight, Marvin's angelic expression turned a tiny bit devious. He smirked at the oven and raised his wand. "No magic cakes. But magic oven? Didn't hear any rules about that...."

When Chase returned to the kitchen later, he was happy to find it spotless.

He was significantly less happy to find the cakes already out of the oven, having apparently quadrupled in size. And multiplied. Chase was distinctly sure they only put two cakes in the oven, but the stack Jacques was busily decorating consisted of at least four or five.

Marvin, spying him, grimaced and was quick to duck past him out of the kitchen. "My turn ta shower! Gotta hurry before the party! Bye!" He was gone before Chase could really register the escape and try to stop him, thus leaving him alone with Jacques in the kitchen.

Chase sighed heavily and rubbed at his forehead. Sometimes, it felt like he had an entirely new set of kids to care for. Oh well. There was no real fixing it now. Especially since Jacques appeared to be "in the zone." Once the artsy ego got going, it was hazardous to try and stop him. Like stopping a speeding train, really. Last time Chase tried to ask him something while Jacques was in the middle of painting a portrait, he'd nearly gotten a paintbrush shoved up his nose.

Jacques was humming to himself, smearing acidic green frosting along the stack of cakes. He was hardly a baker or cake decorator, but he was the most creative out of them all. Chase wouldn't have given the important task to anyone else. Still, he felt it necessary to ask...

"You, uh... yer usin' food colorin', right?"

Jacques only response was to grunt his irritation at being interrupted and wave a hand. Chase wasn't sure if that meant "shoo" or "yes" but he was going to take it as the latter. Another word and he might end up with a pastry bag tip shoved somewhere very unpleasant.

"Robbie, no, yeh can have cake later, I promise! Righ' now Jacques has gotta work! C'mon..." Jackieboy whined as he barely caught a sprinting Robbie under the armpits. Chase had stumbled back, surprised by the zombie's efforts.

His surprise redoubled when Robbie's arms popped right off.

"Fook-"

"Jackie!"

"It was an accident. I ferget he can jus' fall apart like that!"

"Well stop'im, he's gonna get to tha cake!"

"CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAKE." Robbie stumbled towards the monstrosity Marvin had cultivated, jaw hanging and drool flowing freely. He might not have had arms anymore, but that was hardly going to stop him.

Thankfully, Jacques was not intimidated by a hungry zombie. The moment he heard someone drawing near, he whipped around and stuck his frosting-coated spatula in the ego's face. Robbie was so stunned by the move that he actually stopped, staring at the spatula with wide, confused eyes. "No. Bad zombie. Zat is a very, very bad zombie! Down boy! Heel! Go! Shoo-shoo! Begone from zis masterpiece! It ees not yet completed! Shoo!"

Robbie whined, then whimpered as the spatula was waved about in his face. He ducked away from it, tantalizing as the sweet smell of frosting could be, then turned tail and ran away again.

Chase watched him go, then looked down at the fallen limbs. He nudged one with a foot.

Jackie mimicked him, but with less limb nudging. "I should... probably..."

"...go give him his arms back, yeah. At least it'll keep Schneep distracted."

Schneep sighed while he diligently sewed Robbie's arms back to his shoulders. It had almost become busy work for him; a task he completed dozens of times a month. He could probably do it with his eyes closed at this point.

Jackieboy was no stranger to his clinic either. If the superhero wasn't coming in after a scrape with "evil-doers" or a crash landing, then he was bringing in one of the others. Robbie was, indeed, the likely suspect. Today was no different. Still, it was quite the feat that Robbie had managed to lose both arms at once. At least it prevented him from messing around with Schneep's supplies.

"Und just how did he manage to lose zem zis time?"

Jackieboy rubbed at the back of his neck, expression sheepish. "Oh, y'know... zombie things. Think he mighta been chasin' somethin'."

"Hmph." Schneep squinted at his stitching, then clipped the excess. He moved on to the other shoulder but not before shooting Jackieboy a suspicious frown. He was acting strangely. "Und you just happened to find heem like zis?"

"Uh, yup! Definitely. Had nothin' ta do with the accident at all."

"...right. Of course."

Robbie burbled out some nonsense while he tested his reattached arm. It thumped repeatedly against the little table until Schneep grabbed for it, pressing it down.

"Stop."

Robbie grunted at him, but seemed to listen- for the moment. Schneep had barely gone back to stitching when Robbie's arm flung out, knocking over an entire cup of tongue depressors. Schneep released a guttural cry of frustration.

"I got it, doc!" Jackieboy was quick on the draw, scooping up the wooden sticks and dumping them back into the cup. Robbie burbled and slapped his hand against the table in response; clearly amused and impressed. Jackieboy had to smile at the child-like behavior. "Gotta be careful, Robbie. Don't wanna break anything now." He reached out to ruffle the zombie's hair, resulting in multiple happy noises coupled with a dopey grin.

Schneep scoffed. "He should focus on not breakeeng heemself."

Jackieboy may have just been reading too into things as he was wont to do, but it sounded like Schneep was more agitated than usual. The doctor was almost always a salty individual, but this level of hostility was... out of the ordinary. Especially towards Robbie. Good thing they had a special surprise planned! Surely that would lift Schneep's dampened spirits. "Hey, at least he's easy ta put back together."

Schneep scrunched up his nose. "Yes... und drool is easier to get out of clothes zan blood."

Once Marvin was showered and the cake was completed, it was simply a matter of dressing up the kitchen. Between the three egos, it proved to be, well... a piece of cake. Marvin conjured up a majority of what they needed, or they dug it out of the closets from previous parties. Jacques told them where to hang what and kept everything in a healthy balance of color.

The cake itself shone like a brilliant beacon in the center of the kitchen, all greens and blues with little Sam's piped here and there. Jacques had done his best to add on some medical things like giving the Sam's surgical masks, stenciling out makeshift syringes and scalpels and even writing out "Happy Birthday!" in a lovely white script at the top. He'd really outdone himself. Chase had no doubt Schneep was going to love it.

"Okay, so I texted Jackie, an' he should be showin' up any time with tha doc. We gotta dim tha lights an' get into positions fer the big surprise! So find a good hidin' spot an' wait until tha lights come on to jump out, got it?"

The other two nodded. Marvin gave a little swish of his cape, and just like that disappeared in a puff of smoke. Dramatic, but effective. Jacques, on the other hand, was all drama and... almost zero effect. He hid behind a chair. Chase supposed it would do and slipped into the cupboard, leaving the door cracked to see.

The seconds stretched into what felt like minutes, then hours, with those gathered practically holding their breaths in anticipation. Their ears were primed to catch the softest squeak of floorboards, but it honestly took so long Chase was about ready to shoot Jackieboy another text. It was in that exact moment they heard the voices; several sets of footsteps accompanying them towards the kitchen.

"Jackie, honestly, zere is a coffee machine een my clinic!" Schneep sounded exasperated. Hopefully the surprise and cake would be enough to make up for whatever tactics Jackieboy had used to keep him occupied.

"Well, yeah, but tha one in tha kitchen makes such better coffee. I mean, yeh can taste tha difference. Besides, 's always good ta get up an' stretch yer legs a little bit."

"I am on my feets all ze time, Jackieboy. I hardly need more exercise."

"Of course. I just... I meant..."

"CAKE." Robbie. He was going to blow their cover!

"Ca-?" Schneep began, tone questioning, only to be abruptly cut-off by Jackieboy.

"Oh! Right! It was cake he chasin' after, before. Y'know, when he ripped his arms off? Poor thing must still be cravin' it, ahaha...."

There was silence, but Chase knew Schneep; he was probably squinting at Jackieboy with the upmost skepticism. He wanted to smack his forehead. Why, oh why, did all of them have to be so bad at lies and deception? Well, except for Anti, but he didn't count. Not as if he wanted anything to do with this, anyway.

Thankfully, Schneep didn't have anymore time to consider what Jackieboy might be trying to hide. At that moment, the kitchen light switched on. "Vhy is eet zo dark een here?"

"SURPRISE!"

Chase leapt out of the cupboard, arms flung wide with a grin on his face. He glanced across the kitchen, hoping the others had remembered their cue. Jacques was on his feet, gesturing towards the cake he'd spent painstaking hours on. And in another puff of smoke, Marvin reappeared, his cape swishing and wand raised. Just like that, bright green confetti rained from the ceiling, and the candles scattered about the cake lit up.

"Surprise...!" Jackieboy tacked on a few seconds later, giving some jazz hands and a sheepish grin of his own.

Robbie grunted, eyeing the cake, but apparently he'd learned his lesson.

Schneep openly gawked at it all. His stunned expression wasn't hindered in the slightest, as he'd removed his surgical mask for a nice coffee break. There was confetti in his hair but he either didn't notice or ignored it in favor of looking around to take it all in. He was speechless.

Chase's grin faltered when more than a minute had passed without some reaction from the doctor. He glanced at the other egos anxiously, and wasn't sure if he felt relief or more concern when his anxiety was mirrored back to him. Was this a mistake? Did Schneep hate it? Was he upset and just trying not to let it loose in front of everyone? Maybe Anti was right. Maybe this was a bad idea.

Robbie's drool dripping to the linoleum was the only sound, the zombie valiantly holding himself off. He only had eyes for the cake, though, completely oblivious to the growing awkward tension. Cake.

Finally, Chase began to lower his arms, expression crumpled into uncertainty and regret. "Do... you... not like it...?" The others followed his actions, dropping their arms. Marvin began to fidget with his cape.

Schneep blinked rapidly, as if coming out of a trance. The action finally dislodged the tears which had been gathered in his blue eyes; a thin film too transparent to be seen. They dripped down his cheeks and he slowly lifted a hand, touching at the wetness on his face. He looked as stunned as the rest of them. "Oh."

Chase tensed, his hands flying up. "Doc. Fook, doc, I'm sorry, I just thought- fook." He stepped forward, unsure of what to do but wanting to help.

"I knew zis was a bad idea!" Jacques bemoaned dramatically, though he'd said absolutely nothing of the sort prior to right this very moment.

"Oh no doc don't cry! Don't cry!" Marvin rushed forward as well, expression pained and guilty.

Jackieboy clutched at his head with a grimace. "Ahhhh fook, we made Schneeps cry, I can't believe we fooked up that badly." What to do? What to do? He was a hero! He should know this!

Robbie blinked at all of the commotion, turning around with a grunt. He tilted his head, watching the other egos hover around the doctor. No cake?

"Doc..." Chase tried again, his heart aching as he watched the ego brush more tears off his face. "Henrik, I'm sorry, I thought..." He trailed off, intially because he thought Schneep was starting to sob. His heart almost broke, but then he and the others realized it wasn't sobs bubbling past Schneep's lips, but laughter. Chase's blue eyes went wide; all the egos visibly flummoxed.

It took Schneep a few moments to form words between the laughter, and when he did manage it they were breathless; his tone giddy. There were still a few tears trickling down his cheeks but now the others were understanding them to be tears of joy. "No, no, no. You misunderstand. I am not upset! No! I am zo happy. I am..." He huffed out a breath, his broad grin making his eyes crinkle at the corners. "...I vas beginning to zink you all forgot, to be honest, I..." Schneep shook his head. "I vas not expecteeng a party like this, or cake, but just a 'happy birthday' or two...."

The words clicked in Jackieboy's brain, and suddenly he comprehended the cause of Schneep's prickly attitude earlier. He was upset that no one had stopped by to at least wish him a happy birthday. And when he registered the fact they'd gone above and beyond, throwing him a party, he'd just been too stunned to say anything. Stunned to tears, apparently. Jackieboy's heart performed a somersault in his chest. "Doc..."

"Don't look at me, I am a hideous mess! All zese snot und tears, agh. I need a tissue." Schneep sniffed, still scrubbing at his reddened face. The tension in room dissipated like air leaking from a balloon.

Chase smiled, and then he chuckled a bit himself. Relief flooded his system as he took off his hat to run fingers through his hair. "Henrik. C'mon. As if we'd ferget your birthday! We jus' wanted ta make it extra special."

"I'm glad yer not cryin' 'cause yer upset, but here." Marvin pulled a tissue from his sleeve after a bit of fancy handwork, passing it off to the sniffling doctor with a gentle smile. "We'd never forget your birthday, Schneep. Yeh do too much fer us."

"A cake is ze least you deserve." Jacques tacked on, having recovered from his dramatic display.

Robbie still didn't know the specifics of what was going on, but he grunted and nodded emphatically. Everyone was saying good things about the doctor, and he agreed.

Jackieboy laughed and gave Schneep a hearty slap on the back. "Yeh big sap! Lookit you, cryin' like a little kid. You underestimate us." He only beamed when Schneep sent him a look over his shoulder, giving a wink and cute two-fingered salute.

Schneep scoffed, taking a moment to blow his nose one more time before discarding the tissue. "Alright, alright, zo I vas mistaken. One of very few mistakes I am glad for. I only hope ze wax deed not ruin zis cake. Eet is enormous!"

It was Chase's turn to shoot Marvin a look, who grinned sheepishly. "I uh... mighta fiddled with tha oven... a bit. But like I said, yeh deserved a fantastic cake! No- a magnificent cake! Jacques did a great job decoratin', an' don't worry about tha candles. Magic fire means no melty wax. Bit of a trick I've been workin' on." He gave a wink of his own, grinning.

"Please, it was nozing! Child's play!" Jacques was silently preening at the praise, though, everyone could see it.

Schneep shook his head, but he was still smiling as he stepped closer to the cake. The others gathered around, Robbie showing brilliant self-control by not shoving his face into it straight away. "Eet's amazing. All of zis is. Zank you, all of you."

"Happy birthday, Schneeps. Blow out tha candles and make a wish!"

"Happy birthday, Schneep. Make it a good one."

"Good luck blowing them all out at once. Happy birthday."

"Caaaaake." Robbie grunted, turning to smile at Schneep. "Birfday."

Schneep chuckled. "Yes. Yes eet is, Robbie." The sheer size of the cake and the number of candles was a little intimidating, but Schneep was determined. He drew in a deep breath, prepared to try his best, when suddenly the very top of the cake exploded outwards. He choked on the breath he'd taken, shocked, stumbling backwards and sputtering. "Vhat-"

Frosting spotted everyone, and the furniture, but that was the extent of the damage. Multiple sets of blue eyes squinted up at the top of the cake, flabbergasted, but the cause of the explosion was immediately obvious. There, with his naked upper half sticking out from the top of the cake, was none other than Anti. Frosting and bits of cake were smeared all over his skin, his green hair sticking to his face. He bore the biggest grin of all while he flung his arms out to either side in a clear show of "Here I am!".

"ANTI?!"

"̧Su͢r̶prise! ̧I̸ ch͢ange͞d ͡my ͏m̶i͜n͠d̶.͢ ͏D́e̡cid͢ed͜ ҉to͟ ̡dro̸p͘ in òn̢ ̨you̴r ͏li͝ttle̛ pa̛rty͡ aft͢e̡r ҉all͞. ́I ͝h̢eard ̧t̢h̕is ̢w͝a̴s͘ ̶a ͝p͡opu̕l͢a̧r͏ th͠i̸ng ͟t́o d͝o͠, ̡f͢er̴ gi͡ànt̕ ̷cak͜és͢.̢ F̕ig̵u̕r͞ed̶ ͞y͠o̴u'҉d ͟a̧p̴p̧rec̢iat̶e͏ it̕.͡" Anti glitched a bit, his head jerking to one side while he leered down at the doctor.

Schneep's face looked torn between paling and being flustered, rapidly flickering between white and red. He sputtered again, absolutely floored. "Did you all plan zis?!"

"NO!" Chase was quick to deny involvement, though it was also obvious he was having a hard time swallowing down his laughter. "Anti wanted nothin' ta do with yer party!"

"Mon dieu!" Jacques pressed the back of his wrist to his forehead and made a show of fainting, Jackieboy faithfully running over to "catch" him.

The superhero rolled his eyes. "For fook's sake, Anti."

"W͟hąt̶? Yo̡u w͢anted̷ a ̷śu͝ŕp̴r͡i̢se,̧ I̷ gàve̛ ́it͝ ͜to͝ y͟ou!́ ͝Y̢ou͝ ̨şhǫuld bè ͏t̨ḩan͟king me̶!"

"Uh. I just... I was wonderin'...." All eyes turned to a fidgeting Marvin, the barest hint of his blush visible under the lip of his mask. "Are you... completely naked?"

That was clearly something no one else had thought of, as all eyes turned to Anti again; wide with disbelief. The glitch poked his tongue out, arms crossing over his chest. "O̧f co͠urs̷e͡.̵ ͏Ho͝w̷ el̀se̵ would ye͝h ̡d̀o ̧it?"́

"Oh god." Chase tugged the brim of his hat down over his face.

"Mon dieu!" Jacques cried again, falling heavier into a flustered Jackieboy's arms.

"Zat is disgusting!" Schneep shouted, pulling a face.

Anti scowled, his expression darkening. "W͠e ͡all̀ h̀a͠ve̢ ̡t̴ha̷ sąme̢ b̨ody̨! ̛I͡t's͟ n̕o̵t̕ ̵g҉on̴na͘ ͞k҉i͏ll ̶yeh́! L͘o̵ók̶- ͢Rob̛bie'҉s eat̛in'̷ i̢t!"͜ He pointed to where the zombie was buried to his shoulders in the sweet confection, finally caving to his desires.

Suddenly, no one really seemed to mind. Chase pushed his hat back up with a sigh, turning to leave the kitchen. "Welp. Guess we're gonna go buy a cake. C'mon everybody, I think tha bakery down the street's still open."

"Yes, good, I second zis idea. Perhaps ve can even get zome dinner." Schneep was quick to follow Chase out, Marvin at his heels.

Jackieboy hefted Jacques up into his arms bridal-style. "Let's go, princess. Have fun with Robbie, Anti! Don't make anymore of a mess." He trailed after the other three, Jacques more than content to be carried as he blew the glitch a farewell kiss over Jackieboy's shoulder.

"Salut!"

"͞He҉y͝! Wait!͞ Y͘e̛ a͠r͞śe̴h͞o̸le̵s!͟ ̴C͢o͘m͡e ́bac͝ḱ h̴e̡r͘e! ̸Ye͝h͠ ̡c͘an't j̸ust͡ c͡h͏a̸nge̡ y̵er m͢in҉ds!́ H̸ȩy̷!" Anti gripped at the top layer of cake, glowering after their retreating forms. Figured, that's what he got for actually trying to "participate" and "help out." Ungrateful bastards. He huffed, shifting to rest his forearms on the cake instead, looking down to where his zombie companion was still happily eating away. "͞Well̨.̴ ͏L̶eas̷t ̷I'̕m͡ no҉t̷ ̴a͠l҉on͡e,̸ ̡I͡ g͜u̴e͜şs.̴ Th͠ìn͜k҉ ̶ye͘h̛ c̢an̴ ̧eat̛ ҉tha̸ w̧hole t̵hing҉, R͜obb̡i̵e?͜"

Robbie's head popped up from a different layer, his body positively coated in bright green frosting and a half-decayed grin on his pale face. "Cake!"

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye egos #jsegos #dr. schneeplestein #chase brody #bro average #marvin the magnificent #robbie the zombie #jacques #jackieboy man #antisepticeye #paging dr. birthday #fanfiction #needle mention #dismemberment #nudity mention

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gabi4chan-akatsuki · 7 years

Photo

“God fucking dammit why do I life?” Gabi grumbled as she awoke to the sun glaring into her eyes. She sat up in bed and looked around her room to find something that could work well as a blind. She saw some cancerous memes her younger sister sent to her and then snapped her fingers. She taped them all together and then taped all the memes over her window to hide the sun from sight… slightly. “If I’m gonna be blinded, might as well be blinded by memes.” She shrugged as she got dressed into the classiest of clothing, an old shirt with some sweat pants, and went to her computer.

She turned it on and logged in only to be introduced to the very last thing she had on her screen before she went to bed. “Was I drunk or something? I don’t remember looking up Len x Kaito doujinshi- “She looked through the doujin out of curiosity only to see… “FUCK THAT! NOPE! NOPE!” She quickly closed the tab and stared at her monitor out of disgust, “What the fuck was I on.” She looked through everything else just to be sure there was nothing else that was sinful up only to hover upon skype. She debated with herself, “Do I want to communicate with people or do I not…?” She got up for the moment and went to her kitchen to get some food to munch on before going online. When she came back, she sat back down to debate some more… only to get distracted by her cat. “D’awww, you sure are adorable despite being a fucking asshole. Should I go online~?” She asked Pepe. “Love me.” Pepe responded as she got onto Gabi’s lap and started to rub herself all over Gabi’s stomach. “Love me. Love me. Love me. Love m-““Okay, Okay. You don’t have to go Aishite Aishite Aishite on me you bitch.” Gabi muttered as she petted the cat lovingly. “Anyway, I guess I should go online.” “Love me more instead.” Gabi looked down to Pepe, “I love you but shut the fuck up.” She spoke as she turned her skype symbol to green.

She looked over to her recent skype messages and noticed that there were a few messages from some of her friends like Rick, Nao, Rei and Dawn, but there was one message that stood out from the others, one that couldn’t make her day a whole lot better just by being there… Salty. She grinned widely as a soft blush started to spread across her cheeks. “I wonder what meme he sent today…” She mumbled as she clicked on his icon.

“hi” Was the only new message she got from the boy. She stared at it almost as if she was taking that singular greeting apart as if it was a part of some theory. But in the end she just grinned more and let out a sound that resembled happiness. “D’aww he’s so cute~… even if he just said hi… I swear I don’t like him.” She mumbled to herself as she looked away from the screen, her blush growing in intensity, “b-baka…” Her computer let out a little ding, telling her that she received a new message via skype. She turned around to see what it was and saw that it was Salty messaging her again. She gasped and paid attention to what he said. “i can feel the tsundere vibe from over here whaddup” Gabi’s cheeks burned even brighter as she picked up a couple of sketchbooks and threw them onto the ground. “GOD DAMMIT I’M NOT A FUCKING TSUNDERE!” she typed in sync with her yelling. “anyway I just woke up what about you, ya bastard” “same” Gabi continued to give away happy squeals as she talked to the salt master whilst messaging the group chat. “hi I’m alive.” She sent to the chat. “why though” Salty responded. “… Good point, good point.” Gabi replied as she applauded Salty for expressing her daily inner struggle. From there everything went uphill. Rick and Dawn were being adorable like normal, a lot of memes were created due to the chat, and everyone was having a good time… but for some reason, Salty seemed to not message as much today. It worried Gabi. Was there something going on in his life, or was he doing other things? Gabi wanted to message him about it, but didn’t want to get too into his personal space.

But after the chat died down a little bit, Salty messaged something… interesting to the chat. “tbh I actually love gabi.” Right when Gabi though her emotions were finally calm, her cheeks blared a sudden wave of intensity as her chest tightened and butterflies filled her stomach. “Wait what” she sent to the chat. Salty quickly deleted his message before anyone else could see anything. She quickly went over to them dms and messaged him, “you actually like me???” No response. “salty, don’t ignore me ya bastard.” Still no response. “Welp I’m gonna go kill myself now and bury my corpse underneath Kaito’s dead body.” “Fuck you, you better not” She pulled out the finger guns and pointed them at the monitor as if she knew that would work. “Well now that I know you’re alive, you actually like me??” He died again. “Fuck you.”

“I know you want to ; ) “ Gabi growled angrily from Salty’s fuckery and typed aggressively, “BITCH HOW DARE but don’t ignore my question.” After a long and somewhat awkward pause, Salty finally replied, “maybe??” Gabi’s heart started to pound harder as she let her heart sway her words, “i may like you back?? Maybe???” “maybe??” “maybe??????” After a long time after a whole lot of maybes, Salty finally made the move the two of them have been looking for. “Maybe???” “Yes, gabi, I do” Even though Salty saw her go silent, Gabi had to grab Pepe and stick her head into her side just to muffle her screams of joy and dry her tears at the same time. Once calmed down, Gabi tossed Pepe across the room and replied, “I do too, dammit”

She waited for Salty to reply. One minute. Two minutes, three. She started to grow anxious from how much time was going by. Four, five, six. She quickly grabbed onto Pepe once again to try and calm her anxiety. “…Do you want to be my girlfriend?” “FUCK!” She screamed as she tossed Pepe into the air. “Yeet” the cat said as she landed on the floor and dabbed away. “I WILL BE THE BEST GIRLFRIEND YOU WILL EVER HAVE NOT REALLY BUT YES” She replied as she wiped the tears of happiness away from her cheeks.

“Fuck you…”

“I love you too, Gabi~ ♥”

———————————————

i hope i did well //sobs

#submission #sabi #I AM IN TEARS #THIS IS AMAZING #HOLY FUCK I CAN'T BREATHE #THIS IS MADE BY ODDLY TOO WHOSE A CLOSE FRIEND OF MINE

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paperbackcat · 7 years

Text

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)

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.”

18 notes · View notes

evxlynxxh · 7 years

Text

Hues (Sasodei fanfic)

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.

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.

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.

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?"

"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?

Grey duvets.

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.

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

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.

'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."

"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."

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.

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.

"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.

He blinked the thought away.

But that mess they called – it meant so much more to him.

"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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

It was exotic, bitter-sweet and earthy.

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 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."

"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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