36

Deidara tossed and turned in his bed, sprawling across it trying to find some peace of mind. It didn't come. It was appalling how all his priorities seemed to have fallen behind, making room for one sole creature at the very top. His inspiration, his muse.

He tossed around a little more, stretching widely before deciding sleep was a lost cause, without her anyways. He didn't like how much he needed her soft, warm body against his to feel at home. But that was how it felt like when he gazed deep into her eyes. It was only then when he felt like he belonged, that life had meaning.

There was no sense if there were no colours to taste. His normally cleaned up room was a mess, pieces of papers tossed on the floor, unfinished sculptures here and there. How could he explain how deep in he was, how much he needed her to breathe, the release. It didn't use to hurt before, being alone. He didn't like it.

The missin-nin ended up on the floor sitting in front of a mahogany box. Inside where the only ties left that bound him to the man he once was. His first sculpture, an old photograph of his mother, and a ring; a family heirloom. It was as if everything he used to be collided on the man he was right now. He felt the ring accusing him from inside it's wooden haven. It was something he never thought he would need…he closed the box.

He didn't remember much of that life. He didn't really think he'd changed, he'd always been an artist, and there was nothing else he wanted to be other than that. His one ambition was to become the best artist there ever had been. When had that changed? When had he ever desire something other than that? What had changed?

He knew the answers to all the questions, but admitting it, right then to himself, changed everything. Yet, he knew nothing had really changed, he always had known, ever since he first locked eyes with her. Something had changed inside him. She completed him in a way art never had.

It was only hard to admit because he'd never felt like he'd missed something. Not until he found her. Not until he tasted her lips. Not until he made her burst into fire, he couldn't seem to have enough of their time together. He couldn't bear not touching her, knowing how easily she fell apart under his touch.
Unlike every other woman he'd ever pleased she was different. He died with her and rose from the flames, like clockwork. Every heartbeat, every breath, every moan, in perfect harmony. All carved deep somewhere inside.

He knew it was the mistaken perception she had of herself, and how much she underestimated what he felt. He also knew he couldn't blame her, he knew how badly she was broken, and every single piece he'd destroyed.

How could he even hope she'd trust him? He had been lying to himself, given into a release that didn't came, hoping even as he knew it was mostly ludicrous that this girl wasn't the missing piece of his soul.

Because then what could he possibly have to offer? A fugitive life? one stained of blood and treason everywhere? She deserved more, she deserved everything.

Realization hit him as his head hit the window pane. A strange buzz running through his bloodstream.

Nothing had changed, he still aspired to be best artist there had ever been. He didn't particularly enjoyed fighting, he'd considered leaving numerous times. Bound only out of honor to a place where he didn't want to be. A place he didn't want to belong to.

In another world, could he have gotten the girl with his art?

The continuous tap of his head on the window only made him more lost. There was no point of even considering such possibilities. He wasn't in that world.

But now that he knew just how much each part of his soul ached without her, he had no choice. He needed her like he needed fire and even more. He wanted to wake up next to her for every single day of his life, knowing that by some odd chance of fate he got to keep her. That she was his and no one else's.