They were to have a selection of work for the art professor to go over for the first day. The real work wouldn't begin until the third or fourth class. And so, with naught else to occupy his mind, he has moved to his art. His back to the door, leaning heavily on one arm as he lightly sketches.

The pencil moves as if on it's own.

His face is blank save for the intensity of his gaze. Seeing the paper before him but not really.

The pencil glides across the page.

Slowly, the image becomes apparent. It's a young boy upon a busy street. He is gazing upward at the viewer, his face a mix of emotions, his eyes so lightly shaded they seem to be almost accusing, yet the sadness in the gentle tilt of his head, the way his lips are just slightly parted in a pout. His feet are planted shoulder width apart, his body facing the cars upon the street. His arms dangle at his sides, one hand clutching a paper bag.

His pants are ripped and torn, his shirt much too large for his scrawny frame, holes about the hem. He is barefoot. His hair is a wild mess, strewn about his head. There are people walking in his direction from up and down the street, one man is about to pass him, wearing a hat and coat, talking into his cell phone. Oblivious to the boy and his plight.

All the shops along the street are the type owned by families, just small businesses. Few cars line the street sides.
Gaara spends some time lightly shading the cars and shops, largely leaving the boy alone, stark white amidst the gray and black of the people. Invisible yet obvious.

He leans away from the desk. Lightly touching the screen of his phone, revealing the time to be four hours since he began. He signed his work in the bottom corner very small in black before standing and stretching to his full height. Retrieving his wristband from the nightstand, he clasped it on before leaving the room. His mask in place, the tall red head walked to the cafeteria. Few students were about, none paying him any attention.

After he finished his meal, he returned to his room.

"Woah, your roommate is some kinda weird artist guy!"

His lip twitched in annoyance. He heard the loud voice coming from the inside of his room. His roommate had arrived.

Mask in place once more, he opened the door soundlessly, and slipped into the room.
One male stood over his drawing and another was laying on the other bed, that one now having light gray sheets.

"What makes you say that?"

"You had to have seen the drawing!" the loud one said turning to his friend, still oblivious to Gaara's presence.

"Yeah and?"

"It's fucking creepy man!"

"You think running out of chips is something to be afraid of," the one on the bed said before rolling on to his side so his back was to his friend.

"It is!"

"Whatever."

"Hmph, since you're going to nap, I'll go find my room on my own."

Soft snores were the only response he got.
He turned around, jumping and flinching when he saw Gaara just standing there, about ten feet away.

"H-hello, I-I guess you're Shikamaru's roommate then?"

Gaara only slightly inclined his head in acknowledgement, crossing the room to his bed, not sitting just standing by it. The path to the door clear.

"Uh well I'd love to stay and uh chat, but I've got to go find my room," and with that he all but ran from the room, the door slamming shut behind him.

With the loud one gone, Gaara looked over his roommate. He was of average height, black hair tied up in a ponytail that looked rather like a fruit, one discernable earring. Black jeans and a long sleeved dark green shirt. Slim build.
And if the conversation was anything to go by..., lazy. Very lazy. And the fact that he had fallen asleep in a matter of seconds...

His lips tried to twitch up again, but he held himself back. Staring at the male without an expression his eyes blank but his mind working. He could anticipate few if any problems with this particular roommate.
Clearly, even if his reputation had preceded him, the male could not have been bothered to request a transfer.

Interesting.

And so, quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping male, Gaara gathered up his supplies and put them away, lastly adding his latest project to his portfolio. Over the next week, he would need to look through his work and decide which he would present. He had heard of Sasori, his professor. Art was to be preserved. Eternal.

The lanky teen laid upon his bed, his arms folded behind his head as he gazed up at the ceiling. Thinking about his work thus far. Which would be appropriate to show a professor and which he could possibly show later and which he could likely never show, to anyone.