This just came to me while I was thinking of the craziest pairing you could get… accualy it was so crazy I had to make it AU.
Enjoy
ps. I'm really am working on the next chapter for 'to never lose' but this came to me…..
Paper and Paint
by reverse
Sai always liked paint, the consistency, the gentle simple color. He enjoyed painting pretty still life's, sure, but mostly he liked bringing things to life with a spastic arrangement of color. It was never refined, never sleek-edged and perfect. It was loud and statement making sometimes, and other times is was soft as a whisper.
He thought it was amazing, how sometimes his paint would last forever and sometimes it would only take a day before forced-volunteer teens would be cleaning it up, or painting over it.
Such was the life of the closed off graffiti artist.
Konan always thought she was different from everybody else; but we're all guilty of that. She seemed to live among leaders as the only true subordinate. She ran with a gang for protection; a lone female on the streets was never safe. And even if she was used by members of her gang, at least she knew them. Officially, they called her their secretary, keeping files on rival gangs. She liked the sharp exact feel of the paper she folded. It always felt like she was tidying up her life.
They didn't meet like others might; not at a bar or a function. They met at the mailbox. She noticed the white paint stained on his torn-up jeans and he looked at her perfectly dyed hair, several envelopes in her hand. It was a deafening moment; blinding in its silence. Overwhelming to a fault.
They gazed at each other, each having found an expression though never fully recognized for it. A moment where each emotion was mirrored by the other.
The letters fluttered from her hands, falling gracefully to the gutter where she didn't even move to pick them up. They weren't her mail; she had been sent to gather information on a rival gang.
The paint can filled with compressed red fell to the ground with an angry hollow sound. It rolled a few feet to nest in the gutter. The raunchy spray-paint graffiti of a teenage stripper left unfinished.
They could have walked toward each other and created their own direction. But they didn't. They waited for the moment to become stale and then they left.
A can of spray paint, a few drenched letters, a half-finished graffiti and a mailbox with a broken lock as their only testament to having existed and lived that moment.
After all, she didn't need paint and he didn't need paper.