sniffing paints
part II of III

theeflowerchild


TW: contains emotional/domestic/sexual abuse, self harm, and teacher-student relationship past that of a friendship


IN HONOR OF SASUSAKU BEING TOTALLY CANON A LA CHAPTERS 699 AND 700

GUYS, WE DID IT WE'RE HERE THIS IS IT TEN-YEARS-LATER AND IT'S CANON

OMG WE MADE IT


Sasuke was a fairly wild kid.

Sasuke loved to run around, to play tag, to swim, to jump, to dance, and to scream. He hated staying still, hated sitting down, hated going to sleep, and much preferred being awake and enjoying life as much as he could. He loved being outside, feeling sweat trickle down his forehead, loved getting dirt in his nails and staining his paints with grass. He loved climbing trees, even if he got splinters, and petting stranger's dogs whenever he saw them, even if they were big and loved to lick and jump. Sasuke was a good kid, Sasuke was a happy kid.

He never expected his life to turn out the way it did, at that age: for his life to become so monotonous, for him to give up his dream of opening his own studio to become a high school teacher. He didn't have much of a choice in the matter, the pay was good and he was about to lose his apartment, but it didn't make it any less painful.

When Sasuke finally lost the adrenaline of being five-years-old and entered school, the first sedentary activity he fell in love with was coloring. He loved being the only person that could keep the colors between the lines, the only one who could tell the difference between indigo and violet, the only one who was able to use markers when nobody else could. Coloring was easy-peasy to him, coloring was something he could do leisurely, something he completed with ease.

And then, in third grade, he was able to go to art class, and his future was boundless from then on, absolutely endless with all the love he held in his heart for this little class. Sasuke fell in love with art before he could spell it, without reason or rational. Sasuke could never love a tree like he loved a crayon, could never love a pool like he loved a colored pencil, never love grass stains as much as he loved paint, never love a woman has much as he loved a crisp piece of white paper.

Until Sasuke met Karin.

Karin made Sasuke seem demure. Karin was anything she wanted to be, anything she needed to be, could create anything from a lump of clay and her hands. Her hair was fire, her eyes were hot chocolate, and her body was an hourglass, ticking like a bomb until his hands finally touched her. She was a piece of art, paints splattered on a canvas, a nonsensical woman with an honest heart and a sword for a tongue. How could he not fall in love with her?

With a woman like that came responsibility, though, and Karin may not have been everything Sasuke was looking for, but she was what Sasuke found. She was restless, with an awful temper, and never liked to be in one place for too long. She wouldn't settle, she was the sun and the clay was her earth, and the sun did not sit still; the sun breathed fire, warmed an entire galaxy, and the sun was powerful. Karin did not like to be told anything, and Karin did not want a partnership, Karin wanted a lover, a fighter, a traveler, an artist, a tortured soul, and Sasuke could not be these things.

Sasuke was an honest man, with a warm heart sheltered in a cool façade. His paint brush was an extension of his hand, and Sasuke settled. He grew calm with age, and learned to breathe in his muse, and exhale his color, and after moving around his entire young adult life, he was done. Sasuke wanted a home, he wanted a wife, he wanted a studio, and perhaps, children. He craved consistency, among other things, and the hollowness in his chest ached to be filled with love, not the world, any longer.

And Karin could not give him that, as much as he had wanted it, and as much as he had asked. She was slipping from his fingers more and more each day, begging to be released. He had asked her to stay, begged her to settle, to build a home with him, and she had considered, and she had made a space for herself in his bed, but she was falling through the cracks like liquid in an open palm, like paint running down a naked canvas.

He would wake up some mornings for work, and she would be there, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her hair strewn across her face, undone in wild curls—he always thought it was ironic that she wore her hair straight, and thin—and her clothes laying next to her on the floor. And sometimes, like this morning, he would wake to an empty bed.

He would look to his left, and her side would still be made. Her clothes would not be on the floor, and he would not find her sleeping on the couch, or on the chair, or next to her table stained with dyes and covered with residue from her medium. Perhaps he would not see her for days, or maybe he'd see her for breakfast, he never knew, and that wasn't enough for Sasuke.

Still, some mornings he would make two cups of coffee, just to see if it was still sitting on the table cold and abandoned when he got home that night.


"Hello, beautiful." She shut her locker door and was greeted by her boyfriend, his eyes twinkling like gems in the afternoon light. He had a tiny smirk on his face, his extent of a smile, his cheeks dusted rose. "Why don't you skip out on your after school lesson today, and just come home with me?" he asked.

She laughed, he seemed to be in a good mood. "You know I can't, Gaara, but I'll see you at four." She planted a kiss on his cheek, to which he went rigid. He wasn't very fond of public displays of affection, but sometimes, if she went for it, he wouldn't push her away.

This time, he did. "What the fuck are you doing?"

She faltered, before taking a step back. "I—I'm sorry, I didn't realize—"

"Yeah, of course you didn't realize." He frowned deeply, his forehead creasing in disdain. "Maybe you should pay more attention, maybe you should get to know me, but, no, you're too fucking busy staying after to doodle on some stupid canvas."

"No, Gaara, you know that's not true—"

He cut her off with a growl. "Are you saying I'm stupid, now? Saying I'm wrong?"

She frowned. "No, I'm not."

"Don't bother coming over today, I don't want to see your disgusting face." As he passed by her, he slammed his body into her shoulder, nearly throwing her into the locker. The people left in the hallway didn't even spare them a glance.

She winced at the impact, she could nearly feel the bruise forming. Despite the immense pain growing in her shoulder, she called out for him, "Gaara, wait—"

"I said don't come," he repeated once more, and waved her off with a hand. "I'm starting to realize you're barely worth my time. Call me when you want to apologize and I'll see if I'm ready to forgive you." He disappeared into the turn of the hallway. She wanted a moment and he didn't come back.

She didn't go after him.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "It's getting very long," she thought. "Maybe I should cut it…" she said aloud, twisting a long curl in-between her fingers.

"Maybe you should," another voice agreed, surprising her.

She jumped and turned around, a frown surfacing on her face, a long with a dark stain of red across her cheeks. "What are you doing here?"

Sasuke smirked. "I was coming to find you, you're almost twenty-minutes late," he reprimanded, and then added, "that's not like you, Sakura."

She glared. "You don't know me, you don't know what I'm like."

He shrugged. "You'd be surprised, Sakura. Like I said, I think we're very alike."

"And I think we're oil and vinegar," she deadpanned. He laughed quietly, obviously amused. Muttering a few curses to herself, she bent down to grab her bag, only to visibly wince and fall to her knees.

He immediately bent down beside her, trying to make eye contact. "Sakura? Are you okay? What's wrong?"

Visibly wincing, she met his gaze with a glare. "I'm fine, don't worry about it." She grabbed her bag off the floor with her other arm and slung it over that shoulder with a small huff. She stood, him along with her, and passed right by him, walking towards the art wing. When he didn't budge, she looked back and raised an eyebrow. "Are you coming?"

He frowned. "Sakura, if you're hurt, it's my duty as your teacher to report it to the nurse."

"I'm not hurt, though!" she told him. "I'm just a little strained, I think I slept on it wrong."

"Why don't you take off your sweatshirt and let me see the damage?" he asked.

She immediately shook her head, almost frantically. "No, that's fine, I'm fine."

His frown deepened. "I can't force you to do anything, but I think it'd be better for both of us if you'd just let me see your shoulder."

She shook her head again. "I'm fine, really, don't worry about it."

He bit his lip. "If you were in that much pain just trying to lift your bag, I think you should have someone look at it, Sakura."

"No, really," she tried again. "I'd really rather not."

He sighed. "Alright." She sighed with relief, he noticed, which made his heart beat even quicker. "Come on, let's just go work on your project." He walked ahead of her, towards the classrooms, something turning in his stomach.

Something was definitely wrong, and if her pain wasn't an example of it, her drawings surely were.


Sakura was getting better and better with each passing day. Every correction he gave her, she took both in accordance and in stride. She was easy to work with, much to his own ease, and took constructive criticism without question, using it to fuel her heart rather than her anger. She never got upset, and took every compliment to heart, no matter the size. Just as he had promised, every project she handed in she had gotten an A, but not without deserving.

Her art had started out beautiful, and cathartic, but now it was simply stunning, enticing; he couldn't look away.

On top of her growing talent, he had even grown to enjoy her company. She was easily amused, with a giant sense of humor and a laugh like a melody. The only thing that could crack her shell was time, and they had all the time in the world. She loved classic rock, and hated country music, and her favorite color was blue. Her hair was natural, a faded red, and her eyes were just as big as her mothers, she told him. She actually wasn't very shy, but rather introverted, and only spoke when there was a reason to. Sakura loved to watch people, rather than involve herself, and Sakura loved her boyfriend. Sakura was a lover.

Sometimes, after school, he would run to the teacher's lounge and buy them soda's to share. Sometimes, she would share the little cakes she had made for dessert the night before. He would show her pieces of artwork he had come across, or leave her little poems to read that he knew she would appreciate. He would share his own work with her, and sometimes, he would even sketch her.

She was more than just a student to him, Sakura had become an indispensable relationship in his life. Sakura was his friend.

That's why it hurt him to see her in so much pain, to watch her eyes well with tears when she was thinking, to see her wince when she had gotten hurt once again. It pained him to see the discord in her eyes, or when she came to school with her crows feet far more purple than usual. It destroyed him that she only painted in black and white with red all over.

And it killed him that she wouldn't talk to him about it.

He frowned when he noticed her wince when she carefully moved her paintbrush. "Sakura, is something the matter?"

She shook her head, her short, pink bangs fluttering into her eyes. She had cut her hair months ago, and it was only now starting to grow again; she told him her hair grew very slowly, which had its perks. He thought she looked much better with short hair, anyway. "It seems you've hurt your wrist. Why don't you roll up your sleeves?"

"No, it's fine," she told him and offered a tiny smile. It was fake. "It doesn't hurt, really, my wrist is just tired from all this painting."

"If that's so, then you should have no problem with rolling up your sleeves and letting me take a look," he argued. He took a step closer to her and examined her tiny hands, her creators, and took notice of her sweatshirt secured almost half-way through her palm. "So, please, roll up your sleeves."

She shook her head again. "Really, I'm fine, let's just finish—"

"Sakura, roll up your sleeves," he said one more time.

"No, it's okay—"

"Sakura," his tone was suddenly icy, more demanding than asking, "I have seen you endure more than your fair-share of pain these past few months, now roll up your damn sleeves."

She winced. "You don't want me to, Sasuke."

He frowned, but at least he was getting somewhere. He didn't want to force her, he wanted her to want to, but it was getting to far. "Sakura, you can show me anything."

"But I can't," she argued. "You're my teacher, if something's wrong, you have to tell the administration!"

He grit his teeth. "Have I told them yet?"

"No, but—"

"Sakura, I don't want any 'buts,'" he said. "If I really wanted to tell them, I already would have, and whatever's going on, they would have forced you to tell them."

She frowned.

"Now, please," he took a step closer. "Can I see your wrist?"

She shut her eyes and slowly raised her hands toward the man, refraining from rolling the sleeve up. He pursed his lips, "should I just do it myself?" he thought. "Is this crossing a boundary?" Had he already crossed a boundary with her? He carefully took her hand into his, to which she visibly winced, causing his heart to pull at his insides. With his other hand, he slowly pulled up her sleeve.

Across her wrist was a large, purple bruise, vaguely in the shape of another hand. It was obvious that somebody had forcefully grabbed her wrist and yanked, but that wasn't what caused his jaw to fall.

It was the tiny, little scars marring her skin, staining them like scratches on marble, the cigarette burns, and the long-since-fresh scar that ran from the inside of her elbow to the bottom of her palm.

"Sakura…" he trailed off.

She tore her wrist from his grasp and yanked down her sweatshirt. "I have to go." She quickly moved away from the easel.

"Wait, Sakura, don't go," he called after her. He watched her as she gathered her things quickly off the desk, before heading straight to the door. He walked after her. "Sakura, please, come back!" he yelled, watching her as she ran down the empty hallway. He kept towards her, but she was gone before he could catch up.

He stopped in his tracks, staring at where she had left. The image plagued his mind of her arm, of her face, of her pain. His heart ached, beating against his chest like a drumstick to a drum, hurting him, but not as much as she's hurting, he thought.

He couldn't imagine the pain she was feeling, to do that to herself, but what disturbed him more was that he knew she couldn't have caused that bruise on her wrist on her own.


He didn't see her at all the following week.

He checked her attendance, and she was definitely in school, just simply avoiding him. It hurt him, it made him want to scream, it nearly broke his heart.

He hadn't seen Karin in over a week, either. He had stopped making coffee for her.

Late, Friday, he wandered the hallways after the bell and rang. The school was desolate, who'd want to be there at three o'clock on a Friday? "Those who don't have anyone to go home to," he mused. It was when he turned the corner that he saw him.

All long limbs and red hair, how could it not be him? His frowned, "what's he doing here this late?" He thought. It was the first time he had seen him, Gaara. She talked about him often, about his desert-hair, his long legs, and his skinny body. It absolutely had to be him, wearing all black, walking like a zombie—he was always exhausted, she said, always tired, never slept, couldn't sleep.

"Gaara?" he called out. The boy turned slightly, but didn't respond, so he called again. "Gaara Sabaku?"

He fully turned towards him and raised an eyebrow. "Can I help you?"

Sasuke thought for a second. "Yes, actually, you can," he decided. He moved closer toward the boy, but said nothing.

Gaara sighed. "Okay, with what?" he asked, seemingly attempting to amuse the teacher's qualm.

"You haven't seen Sakura today, have you?" he question.

Suddenly, the boy's eyes set into a glare, and his body went rigid. "She's not with you?"

Sasuke immediately realized he had said something wrong. "She was, earlier," he lied. Lied right through his teeth. "But then she said she had to run somewhere, quickly, and it's almost been ten minutes, so I went off to look from her."

His glare became heavier, meaner, his body like ice. "You can't keep track of your students, Mr. Uchiha?"

Sasuke frowned. "I trust my students to take care of themselves, but she has a lesson with me that she's avoiding, I guess," he lied again.

"Sakura…" Gaara trailed off for a moment. "Sakura can be a little stupid."

Sasuke pursed his lips. "I disagree, Sakura is very smart."

Gaara laughed, it was almost sickening. Sasuke saw it, though, saw what Sakura could have seen in him, maybe at some point—he was tall, lanky, and handsome, with a deep voice, and a mysterious way about him, but while Sakura may have fallen for his mysteriousness, Sasuke easily caught on with his dishonesty. There was something very incredibly wrong with Gaara, and it was something Gaara could easily get away with behind looks and charm. "You don't know Sakura like I do, she does very stupid things."

"Like what?" asked Sasuke.

"I guess you'll never have to know," Gaara told him. "You're not the one that has to deal with her."

Sasuke leaned up against the lockers and sighed. "Maybe you should stay away from her, Gaara."

He scoffed. "And who the fuck are you to tell me that?"

"Your superior." Sasuke stood, tall.

"Outside of school, you have no control over me," Gaara said. "I can do whatever the fuck I want, and you can't stop me."

Sasuke turned around, walking back towards his classroom. He could feel the vomit reaching his esophagus, the tremors beginning in his hands, the fear boiling over like a hot pot of spaghetti in his head. "Perhaps that's true," he whispered.

He turned the corner and nearly started sprinting for his classroom. He could feel the sweat building at his hairline, his bangs flying back into the rest of his hair. Everything hurt. He turned into his classroom and skidded to a stop, it was completely empty. "God dammit," he thought, "what the hell is wrong with me?"

Sakura was a student, a terribly pained one, but a student, nonetheless. He felt his heart begin to calm. She's just a student, and what he did just then, was going to far, no matter what he suspected that boy had done to her. It could have been anyone, or maybe she really did just fall and hurt herself, maybe he was overreacting. Sakura was a student, a friend, and he had nothing to do with this problem.

He sighed loudly, openly. He wanted to scream. He craved to shut the door and scream out the window, until he had no more breaths, until his lungs gave out, but instead, he headed straight for the supply closet. He flicked on the light and walked in, frowning. "This place is a mess," he thought. He had to keep himself occupied.

He bumped into one of the messy shelves and knocked over the entirety of it, straight onto the floor. It made a large 'crash!' as it hit the ground, the supplies rolling around. He sighed. "I deserve this," he thought. "When did everything become so… messy?"

He considered calling his girlfriend for a moment, before resigning and sitting in the ground, collecting the colored pencils into their bucket. Everything was just as he had left it when he first started teaching, and it was already almost march.

A half hour later, after sitting in silence and collecting pencils off the floor, a noise broke him from his silent mantra.

He heard his door creak open, but did not rise. He listened for a moment, waiting to see if it was simply the wind, or a perhaps a mistake, before a tiny voice broken the silence, "Sasuke? Hello?"

He jumped to his feet. "Sakura."

He didn't make a move from the closet. He heard her soft footsteps on the linoleum, looking around the classroom. "Sasuke? Hello?" she called again. He didn't respond. He heard her coming closer and closer to the supply closet, but his feet were glued to the floor. He couldn't make a move, he couldn't speak, he could barely breathe. Her footsteps came to a stop at the doorframe, a frown on her face. "Jeez, you could have at least responded if you heard me," she said, finally seeing him in the dim light of the craft closet.

He was at a loss for words. There she was, in all her pink-haired, black-sweatshirt-ed glory. She looked calm, and exhausted, like she always did. She still wore her sleeve to her palm, meaning the bruise probably hadn't faded. He wanted to scream. What was she doing here, now? At almost four-thirty in the afternoon? What if he hadn't been here? Would she have just wandered around the school, waiting for him for two-and-a-half hours, only for him to not be there? He wanted to yell, or leave, but instead, he felt laughter building in his throat.

She raised an eyebrow at him, and stepped into the craft closet. "Are you going to respond?"

He chuckled. "Are you kidding me?" he asked. "I could have responded?" He took a step towards, suddenly overwhelmed with himself. "Sakura, I haven't seen you in a week!" The volume of his voice was much louder than he had intended, and she had taken note. She took a step back, he took another step forward. "You finally show me what the hell is going on in your life, after knowing you for months, and then you just run away?" he yelled. "Just like that? As if nothing happened?" She took another step back, he took another step forward. "Like there was nothing on your arm, like nobody hurt you, like you hadn't hurt you!?"

She took one last step back only to be greeted with a shelf. She could feel the cold aluminum against her back; her only other way out was the door, but her feet were glued to the ground. She was used to conflict, used to escaping, used to know what to do, but she was in shock.

He took another step forward, "How could you do that, Sakura?" One more. "I—I don't understand," he admitted. He took one, last step forward. There was a hair of a space between them, she could feel his breath on her face, feel the heat of his body, see the pain in his eyes, the sweat on his skin, the frustration twisted on his lips.

"I'm sorry," she offered.

And with that, he pressed his lips against hers.


When Sasuke got home, Karin was sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. Her bright hair was pulled back into a high ponytail, exposing the nape of her neck, and the shell of her ear. She had her big, black glasses on, hanging on the tip of her nose. She looked shiny, sticky with sweat, and was barely wearing any clothes.

Sasuke sighed, she had probably just gotten back from the gym. He didn't even have time to notice how beautiful she had looked, ready for him to take on the kitchen table, to throw the coffee out of her hands and kiss her senselessly. He didn't have time to ask her how her day was, be thankful that she was finally home, ask her where she had been, what she had been doing. He didn't have time to drag her to their bedroom, and hold her up against him, and tell her he wanted to make this work, wanted to love her, wanted to marry her, like he always did after she showed up.

Sasuke just sighed.

She clucked her tongue and offered him a sweet smile. "Did you miss me, Sasuke, baby?" she asked. "Did you think of me?"

He sat down across from her at the table. His eyes were devoid of any emotion, and he smelled like acrylic paints.

She laughed. "Sasuke, love, I think you need a shower," she leaned into the table, exposing her cleavage, "I think we need a shower."

He shook his head. "I'm fine."

She leaned back in her chair and pursed her lips. "Are you okay, Sasuke?"

"Yes," he lied. And then he thought for a moment, and said, "Actually, no, I'm not."

Shocked, she looked up from her coffee. "What's wrong? You know you can tell me anything."

"You haven't been home in over a week," he said. "And even so, you've only been home for four days this month, and I was asleep, or at work for all of them."

"I seem to remember you waking up for a little while," said Karin with a wink.

He frowned. "That's not the point, Karin. I'm not with you for sex, I'm with you because I thought you loved me," his frown deepend, "and I thought I loved you."

Her eyes suddenly filled with concern, which broke his heart. She should've been concerned from the start. Her eyes should've looked like that weeks ago, months ago, years ago. "You don't love me?"

He scoffed. "I can't love someone who's not there."

"But I'm there, Sasuke," she told him, "I'm always there."

"No, you're not." The words felt like venom on his tongue. He wanted to scream, but screaming never got him anywhere. "You're never there, Karin. You're never anywhere. You never answer your fucking phone," he listed, "you're never in the fucking bed when I wake up, you're never here for fucking dinner, you're not a part of my life," he said. "And you haven't been for a very long time."

"Sasuke—"

"No, let me finish!" he cut her off. "I told you what I wanted, Karin. A wife, a studio, a family!" he yelled. "I told you from the start, and that you didn't have to stay, and you stayed!" he screamed. He stood up and began pacing around the kitchen, barely making eye contact. "And you stayed," he repeated. "I told you to leave, but you led me on. You made me think you'd marry me one day, you made me think we'd have kids one day. I'm twenty-eight-years-old!" he sat back down, and he was suddenly making eye-contact with her. "You're thirty! We've been together for ten years! If we had wanted kids be now, we would've had them. If we had wanted to get married by now, we would've."

She was speechless.

"And now I kissed someone else," he admitted. He wanted to say his heart had broken, but that had happened long ago. He wasn't sure if he told her this because he wanted her to know, he wanted her to hurt, he wanted her to be in as much pain as he was, or if he was guilty—hell, he wasn't even sure if he was guilty whatsoever; it was barely a relationship, anyway. "I kissed someone else. I kissed her and she kissed me back," he repeated.

Karin's eyes softened. "She did?"

He nodded. "She kissed me back," he said again. "And I don't know how I feel about her, but she's tangible, she's attainable, and she's not you."

"You used to always say I was everything you wanted," she started with a soft smile. Her eyes were not broken, and neither was her heart. "That I was everything you needed in a woman, but you're not that person anymore, Sasuke." She stood from the table and walked her mug over to the sink, pouring the contents down the drain, watching as the coffee swirled into nothing. She turned back to him. "You haven't been that person for a while."

He held is breath.

"I'll leave tonight, okay?" she offered with a smile. "I mean, I wasn't planning on sleeping here, anyway. I'll leave, for good." She began walking towards the hallway that lead to the bedroom. "It's for the best."

"It's for the best," he agreed, suddenly calming.

She turned around quickly from the hallway and made her way back towards him. She squared down, in front of chair, and pushed her lips against his. She pulled away. "How did that feel?" she asked.

He smiled softly. "It didn't."

She laughed. "Sasuke Uchiha, you are a strange man," said Karin. "How can someone who was once so stoic have turned into such a great man as you?"

He smiled. "You don't have to leave, Karin."

"But I do," she said once more. "And you won't miss me. That hole you're feeling?" She pointed to his chest. "Is because I'm here. It will start to fill."

He nodded.

"I'm not the one," she told him. "And you'll find the one, I promise. You deserve the one." She began walking towards the hall once more, before looking back at him. "Just, promise me something."

He raised an eyebrow.

"You'll stay in touch?" she asked, before adding, "I'm promise I'll answer my phone."

He laughed softly, a laugh she hadn't heard in a while. "Of course I will."

She left down the hallway, and he thought, if he never saw her again, he'd be okay. Perhaps it never occurred to him that he could live without her, that maybe the ache was there not because she wasn't there enough, but because he needed her to leave for good. Maybe she was right, and maybe she was one of the most beautiful people he had ever met in his life; this wild woman, with fiery hair and dark eyes, and a heart the size of the empire state building, overflowing with passion and talent, but maybe that wasn't what he needed. It wouldn't be the first time he was wrong.


The next day in art class was unbearable.

It never occurred to him that kissing his student was a bad idea. He liked her, and when you like someone, you kiss them, right? At the time, she was Sakura, and he was Sasuke, and so they were, and he pressed his lips to her soft, thin, pink ones and she pressed hers back, knitting her tiny hands into his hair, pressing her body against his—

He coughed. "Alright, class," he greeted, "just… work on whatever it is you're working on, okay?"

Some nodded, some didn't respond, but they all immediately got to work. He couldn't complain, they were a great class, but, to be fair, this was also most of their futures: art. This is what they did. They drew, they painted, they sculpted, and they were passionate about it—and, they listened. They were respectful, at least tried the things he taught them, and even if he didn't like them, they were never hesitant to ask questions. Some of his "easier" classes of the day barely did that, along with choruses of conversations and enough snarky comments to last a lifetime.

He cleared his through again. "Sakura?" he called, and looked over a sea of brunette and blonde for pink. She looked up from her sketchbook and raised an eyebrow. "Can I speak to you, quickly?"

She quickly walked up to the front desk. She, thank God, seemed just as nervous as him, with shaky fingers and twitchy lips. She offered him a smile. "What's up, Sasuke?"

"Are you coming after school today?" he asked quickly, in a hushed whisper.

She raised an eyebrow and leaned in closer. "Why are we whispering?" she whispered back.

He sighed. "You're right," he said. "Why are we whispering?"

She laughed. "This is some new territory we're treading on, certainly."

He smiled; her laugh was like a song, he wish he could keep it on repeat. "You have a very nice laugh," he told her.

She gagged. "What? No!" Her face turned the same color as her hair.

"She's adorable," he thought.

She pursed her lips. "I'll be there after school," she told him. "We should…" she trailed off.

"Talk," he finished for her, with a tiny frown on his face.

"Yeah, talk," she agreed. And she offered him another tiny smile, which she, like a lamp switch, turned off immediately after. "I'll see you then." She scurried back to her seat quickly and buried herself back into her work.

He sighed, carefully keeping his eye on her as to not let anyone else see. How had he gotten this involved with her? She was an amazing artist, with a talent he hadn't seen on most adults who'd painted their whole lives. Her work spoke to him, like no other work had spoken to him before, and through grayscale. He was a painter, a painter who colored life onto canvas, with beautiful blues, and yellows, and greens, and here he was, fascinated with these works of pain, of misfortune, of unadulterated sadness, and they were beautiful. She was beautiful.

He chewed on his bottom lip. "Who the hell has pink hair?" He thought. He remembered seeing her on the first day, skimming over her head like any other student, and then stopping to admire such a color. She was cute enough, he had thought, but nothing striking, other than the ridiculous hair. She was just any other student. And then he had seen her work, who she was; it was like he knew her, her pain, that ache in her heart that you simply can't curb without even having to know her, and it was incredible. He didn't need to know her, he never needed to talk to her, or interact with her, because her work was enough. Her work was her own out-of-body experience.

How could he not fall in love with her?


"What the fuck have you been doing after school?" he asked her suddenly, slamming her locker closed. Her hands barely missed being smashed in the collision. She automatically gave him all her attention. "Answer the fucking question."

She frowned. "I told you, I've been with Sasuke—"

"Sasuke, huh?" he questioned, a smirk suddenly dawning on his face. "Unbelieveable. Sasuke. Well, guess who I spoke to the other day, Sakura? Just fucking guess."

She grimaced.

"You're absolutely right!" he said before she could even respond. "Sasuke, that fucking art teacher. What the fuck have you been telling him, Sakura? Please, enlighten me."

She opened her mouth to respond. She stared around for a second at the empty hallway, the sun was bursting through the open windows, creating a glare in her eyes. Everything happened so quickly, she hadn't even realized she had hit the ground. Suddenly, a stinging pain seared through her cheek. "Did you…" she paused, thinking. "Did you just hit me?" She looked up at him, tears she didn't even know were falling soaking her hands.

He glared down at her. "You didn't answer my fucking question, Sakura."

"How is this possible?" she thought. "Where is everybody?" She looked down the hallway, but it was completely empty. "Doesn't anybody cut class anymore?" "I—I—"

He lifted his leg and kicked her in the stomach, immediately knocking the wind out of her. She felt like she had stopped breathing, had stopped existing for a moment. The pain was absolutely unbearable; she had forgotten about her cheek, which was easily beginning to bruise. She grabbed her stomach and groaned in pain, falling on her side in the fetal position.

He frowned. "Next time you do something like that, I'll kill you. Remember, Sakura, I'm the only one you have. I love you." She heard his combat boots make contact with the hall as he walked, unable to see, blinded by the pain. He sighed. "Go home, you look terrible," he added, before turning the corner.


TBC