Disclaimer: i don't own.
warning: thoughts of suicide and mentions, no actual death.
I do not support suicide, it is never the answer. Please do not commit suicide.
A man moves through a cluttered room. Expertly dodging the stacks of paper strewn around the room and the buckets of paints sitting there untouched and waiting to be used. Paintings tacked on the walls and a kiln crammed in a corner. Items messily placed on nearly every surface in the room. Barely a untouched or uncovered area in the small room. The man moves towards a easel. Picking a paint tube on random, he squirts some on his fingers. Pressing his fingers on the paper, he wills his fingers to move across the canvas. Careful to not tear the delicate paper, his fingers move elegantly. He moves his index finger in graceful arches across the canvas. His fingers move in a tiny dance, unique to him. A small smile starts to grace his mouth. The man looks utterly at peace. Nothing could break him out of his lovely world only he has entry to. Now he closes his eyes. But a second later he opens them again to grab another paint tube, not that it would matter anyway. His hands and fingers act on their own. He feels as if he's floating, completely free and away from the world. It can't last but he tries to keep it alive. Hoping and working to keep himself there and if he could help it nothing will bring him back to the ground. To him Earth was his prison and the only thing keeping him from being free. If he didn't have ties on Earth he would've killed himself a longtime ago. Society paints suicide as bloody, grisly and a sin. Why do they care about sinning? It would be another on a long list, just a more permanent one. Suicide would grant him what he wanted, grant him everything he dreams of every night. But he has ties here, people who would miss him even if he didn't know it. So, he keeps himself grounded and in his prison. Painting is his escape. It makes him feel free and without a worry. Until, he comes back to Earth and a harsh reality.
During his session, someone enters his little hideaway. Another man, slightly taller and years older than the painter. The painter doesn't notice or want to notice the other's presence, less it bring him back. So the other man sits down and watches the painter. Neither talking or interacting. One in his own world and the other smiling and sitting, already in his own world with the painter. Both smiling serenely. The onlooker watches the painter intently trying to see what goes through the other's mind. Both just staying still in the small room, only to move to grab a paint tube or move into a more comfortable position. The onlooker knows that the painter and him need to leave somewhere soon. But one look at the peaceful smile on the painter's face keeps him still and sitting, not wanting to disturb the other. The onlooker is analyzing the painter now. He mentally compares the painter to a butterfly. But shut in a glass jar with clipped wings. Suffocating slowly until the butterfly drops. And only the painter can open the lid. The onlooker would give anything to keep him smiling like he is now, all the time. Everyday he asks himself what happened to the happy and content person the painter used to be. For the painter to be free yet still with the onlooker and on Earth, was all the onlooker wants. The onlooker has already lost too many people, he doesn't want to lose the painter. Unbeknownst to the onlooker, the painter thinks only death will free him.
They stay like that for who knows how long, sitting or painting. The painter is done painting for now. Bringing himself back to Earth. The onlooker stands up and walks to the painter's side. He looks at the finished painting. It is a painting of them. The man on the right has long blonde hair with a bang covering the left side of his tanned face, a azure eye is looking forward. A slightly sharp jawline and a perfect complexion, not one disfigurement marring that beautiful face. The man on his left has long ebony hair with bangs on both sides of his pale face. Pronounced tear ducts under each eye running diagonally down his cheeks. Softer yet still masculine jawline against silken locks. Onyx eyes stare back at the pair. A grass field is behind the couple in the picture, it's a bright sunny day. The painter is putting back his supplies and the onlooker still staring at the painting. Finally the onlooker speaks.
"We should get going soon Dei."
"Alright un. Just let me grab something and wash my hands."
"Okay."
"Was the picture realistic un?"
"Carbon copy."
"Good. Thanks for your descriptions un."
"No problem Dei-chan."
This is crap. But i did write this under five hours, so it's going to suck. Oh well. I was going to make this sasodei but the onlooker seems to fit Itachi more. Brownie points if you can figure out what dei's condition is. And no it's not depression. Hint It's not mental.