Another attempt at writing something a little serious. Once again named for a song. The reason being I can never listen to the song in question without crying (yes I am a sad so and so), it also provided a bit of help for the flashback.
Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto, the Akatsuki, etc. "there is a light that never goes out" belongs to Morrissey and 'The Smiths', not me.
The curtains were all thrown wide, the afternoon light brightening the otherwise dingy flat. In the centre of the living room an easel and canvas had been set up. A table by the side of the equipment held a large water jar, its contents sparkling. There was a selection of well used paintbrushes laid atop the table, as well as a massive box of acrylic colours.
In the kitchen, the flat's occupant had propped a long mirror against the wall and one of the worktops. He took a brush and slipped it through long strands of well maintained hair. The golden tresses were smooth, and he pulled them easily away from his face into a ponytail. Pleased with his appearance Deidara nodded to himself and grabbed the vodka bottle from the side.
He walked on through to his living room. pacing across the thin carpet he arrived at his stereo system. It was old thing. It even still had a cassette tape player, and it was this he now used. Selecting the right music from his collection he snapped the case closed with a resounding click. He pushed the play button down, and turned the volume up high. It was an old format, for an old song, for his old style of working.
It was all in his preparation.
The sounds of the song rang out in his small home, the singer's vocals filling his ears and mind. He closed his eyes as he set the vodka down hesitantly next to his equipment. Opening them again, Deidara faltered, lifting the bottle up once more to his lips and allowing himself a generous mouthful. The alcohol burned as it vanished down his throat. Grimacing he turned to his canvas once more and stared at it. It was time for the blonde to do what he did best.
Picking up a flat brush he began to swirl its synthetic bristles in a dollop of carmine paint. Deidara placed the tip against the canvas, sweeping it downwards, letting the red hues wash over the surface smoothly. He continued this process, dipping, sweeping, washing his brushes, and began to blank out the rest of the world. Here in his flat he could allow the art to wash over him, the music and the paint his only company.
To an outsider, it would have been his best period. It was by far his most prolific, he'd produced dozens of pieces in the past few months. To Deidara himself it was his worst. Nothing seemed to satisfy the blonde as he created these days. Each waking hour was spent trying to improve upon his past creations. Deidara stepped back, shining blue eyes critical. He took another gulp of vodka, and screwed its red cap back on.
Red.
That was his only train of thought. It was as if the colour haunted him. Each of his paintings were red, his car had been red. The scruffy, paint smeared t-shirt he wore was red. The colour of the uniform used to be red.
He missed the school. But it was a place the artist could never return to. Not now, after all that had happened. He'd always been sure that the other teacher hated him. No matter how much he'd admired the other man, no matter how many times he'd tried to engage him in conversation, they would always wind up arguing. Until that one day, the only day in Deidara's life he could remember clearly anymore. Every vivid, excruciating detail remained burned in the blonde's mind.
"Listen, kid, I'm sick of us fighting all the time. Do you maybe want to go on a date?"
Cobalt eyes met hazel in surprise. A date? Sasori didn't hate him!
"Uh, a date?" he'd stammered back nervously.
"It only has to be a drink. Nothing massive. We can go after work if you like?" the redhead had looked hopeful as he posed the suggestion. The blonde had nodded slowly, a timid smile gracing his features. Sasori's face remained as unchanging as ever as he turned away, walking back to his desk, continuing to mark projects.
And so they'd started something. When school was over, and both teachers had finished marking projects, and tidying art equipment away, they met in the teacher's car park. From there they'd taken the blonde's car. Apparently Sasori walked to school every day.
The air was light, warm, but the sun had finally set, a few stars beginning to twinkle in the indigo canopy over the city. The pair walked, hand in hand, as they made their way back to Deidara's car. The blonde did not drink alcohol then. Sasori had only allowed himself one glass of white wine. After all these years they'd finally agreed to go for a date. Although it had been somewhat awkward, it had also been rather enjoyable. Especially on Deidara's part. He was glad his assumptions on Sasori's opinion of him were wrong.
It was still fairly early, yet not much traffic was on the roads. Sasori sat in the passenger seat, calmly, silently, a rare smile on his face as Deidara attempted to argue art with him yet again. The blonde tried not to let the serene little grin on the redhead's gorgeous face distract him, and slid to a halt at the red light.
Red like Sasori's soft, coppery waves of hair, he mused to himself, momentarily shutting up. The yellow light that matched his own locks flickered on as he dropped the handbrake, inching forward when the green light blinked into existence.
The sounds around him screeched, metal on metal, deafening him within milliseconds. A bus had skipped the red light for the other lanes, clipping their front end. The car span around on itself, the few cars present swerving to avoid it. They weren't so lucky to avoid all vehicles. They were shunted directly into the opposite carriageway, the oncoming truck not able to slow itself or break in time.
When the movement and noise died away, Deidara turned his head from the airbag, eyes struggling to remain open. Sasori stared back at him, eyelids drooping, smile still on his face. It was everywhere, red and glistening, all over the smashed glass and misshapen metal. Dribbling down from the tumbling red hair, along pale smooth skin.
"Sasori?" Deidara's voice finally found itself, quiet, and soft in the darkness. Sasori's pupils gazed back at Deidara's own, his mouth moving slightly. He smiled once more, a true, genuine smile. Deidara was surprised to find it didn't look as out of place as he'd expected.
And then Sasori's eyes closed. All Deidara could remember was the red, the copper of his hair, the scarlet of his blood, the poppy brightness of the traffic lights. Rose, vermillion, crimson, ruby, maroon, cinnamon, terracotta, blood...
Someone was shouting outside. His daydream was over. Deidara put the brush down and walked to the doorway shakily. He wasn't interested in visitors. Not now, not today.
"Deidara? Are you in? Answer the door!" a woman's voice called through the wooden door.
"I told you, he doesn't want to fucking speak to us," another voice scoffed angrily.
"come on Dei, please? we're worried about you," the woman shouted again.
"Yo, shithead we know you're in there, you have to come out some fucking time," the man's voice interrupted her loudly.
Deidara turned his back on the door and returned to the room he'd been painting in. A pale hand reached out and turned the stereo up some more. The hum of the tape winding sounded slightly over the music, making him smile sadly. Outside, was the suspicious sound of somebody shouting "bastard!" through the letterbox.
He didn't care if he was being a bastard, or antisocial. Why would he want to speak to anyone? The man he'd loved was dead. He'd failed at his chance to say goodbye. Hell, Deidara never even had the courage to tell the older man how he'd felt, let alone kiss him. He hoped wherever he was, Sasori knew that the blonde loved him.
Here he was, painting red to get over it all. It was Sasori's colour. Deidara looked at the painting again, unsure of what to do next. He could never seem to put his mind down onto the canvas, to create the perfect painting.
An idea stuck him as he grabbed his fan brush from the table. Opening a new tube, he squeezed out a generous portion of paint onto his palette. He selected another two hues and did the same once more, using the same brush dry, to sweep the colours across the reds that were already present.
His sad smile returned. He could finally be happy with the painting. It stared right back at him, gold, canary and lemon mingling with the carmine, scarlet and ruby. All it had ever needed was yellow.
Deidara dropped his brush and palette to the floor, transfixed on his work before him. The music from his stereo sounded loud and clear, seeping further into every crack of his mind. He followed his equipment onto the carpet. Hands twisted into his wheat coloured hair. The tears began to track a familiar path on his face, and for the last time, Deidara wept for Sasori.