Hurro, peoples.

FINALLY! A new chapter of the circus! Sorry for the long wait, but…I had unavoidable circumstances (see bottom A/N).

Warnings; foul language, Sasori's pov (that means insufferable assholeishness and mood swings), Deidara (that means loud mouthed blond being loud mouthed blond without any shame whatsoever), and …umm…violence? Yes, violence. After all

This. Is. War.

Read and enjoy :)

Bright red hair on a background of honey gold.

Nails painting profound pictures against each others' skin.

Loud pants, echoing against the stone walls of the fountains.

Clothes that had been cast to the floor in the manner of those possessed.

Eyes bright with some unknown emotion.

"DAMNIT, BRAT! ART IS ETERNAL!"

"NO WAY, ASSHOLE! IT'S EPHEMERAL, AND YOU KNOW IT, YOU RED-HEADED BASTARD!"

Oh, wait.

Sasori knew the emotion that had sparked his usually lazy auburn eyes. Yes, he knew it well.

Sasori was pissed off.

He didn't know if he had ever been so affronted by a single person in all of his thirty six years of life. He was ignorant, he was presumptuous, he was pretentious, and, most of all, he was gorgeous. Sasori couldn't stand most good-looking people. They thought that they were so much better than the average guy or girl, when the truth was that all that set them apart was the colour of their hair, unblemished skin, or a bright twinkle in an otherwise ordinary eye. And this…person had it all. Sasori's nose wrinkled with disgust. Art was best suited on things that would never age, things that would not be marred with the lines of experience, and would not be flawed by things like mere words. Sasori hated beautiful people.

The red nail marks down the blonds' cheek did nothing to disguise how pretty he was. At first Sasori had been in doubt as to whether this man was really a man, but his kick had given him away. At one point, he had spun about and in an extremely graceful, and flexible move, had jumped up and around, in a sort of split, spinning his legs out to catch Sasori in the face twice. The way his dainty feet had connected with Sasori's head had been pure brute force, lacking the deviousness and distraction that a girl would have used. A woman would probably have stayed on the ground, kicked on leg out, and, while he was distracted punched him in the stomach, then kneed him in the groin.

That was another thing that pointed towards him being male. Despite the savagery of the fight, not one hit had been aimed towards his private areas.

Sasori snarled. That was enough thinking. The idiotic brat had annoyed him, and he was sick to death of weak punches that had nothing behind them, and acrobatic tricks that had him on the floor, arms over his head. It was time to pull out the big guns.

Years of martial arts trainings that he had been dragged to because Itachi was a bitch finally had some sort of use. Krav maga, the Israeli defence forces' fighting style of choice, was Sasori's specialty, and it wasn't very different to Itachis'. The raven haired Uchiha specialised in aikido, which was basically the same, except from Japan. Sasori knew that there was much more to it, but at that moment, he didn't care.

He moved his body like he had been taught to, fast, hard punches, then back to defending his head, legs sweeping out in movements so fast and skilled that the stupid blond couldn't see them coming, keeping light on his feet so that he could move out of the way as quickly as possible. Sasori was shorter than the loud mouthed blond, but he knew how to use that to his advantage. Ducking and twirling, he didn't use brute force, rather a combination of speed and feints.

It had been ages since the usually (sort of) calm red-head had gone all out like this, and not many could stand up to the barrage of fists and legs he turned into. A savage look had wormed its way into his eyes, as he concentrated more on finding slip-ups in the blonds defence than yelling insults about him, his ancestors, his friends, and his artistic talent. The blond had fallen nearly silent as well. Only grunts of exertion and small 'hiii-ya~' like sounds escaping his mouth as he flew a kick towards Sasori's head.

Sasori grudgingly confessed that the brat was good. In his head, of course. He would never acknowledge that the brat had any sort of talent out loud. A viciously fast punch flew toward his head, and Sasori ducked. Why go through the pain of diverting a punch with your arm when you could duck, avoid the fist and throw your aggressor off balance?

Admittedly, it did make the other person look rather stupid, floundering around and cart wheeling their arms to try and regain some sense of equilibrium, but Sasori didn't care. He wasn't the one fighting to regain his steadiness, and so, it made no difference. But it did give him the time to slip in front of him, and punch the blond in the stomach with all his might. The whole force of his body had been thrown into the forwards motion that he had used.

The blond flew back, visible eye wide. His hair flapped out of his face, and Sasori could see some kind of metal contraption where his other eye should be, but he ignored him. Observations could be pondered upon after the fight was finished. The brat had crashed into the knee high wall of the fountain with quite a bit of force, so would have been a smooth skid around, pivoting on one hand and crouching in a defensive position was suddenly just a fall.

He had tried to reach out his hand and balance on the small, hand span wide wall, but the unexpectedly slick surface made that impossible. He crashed down into the fountain, water splashing up and soaking him from head to toe.

Sasori froze.

He wanted- no, needed- to preserve that image. Water made the brats' clothes darker, and a bit see through, due to the white t-shirt. The red scarf around his throat looked like an open wound. In just the right light- this light- bits and pieces of gold coloured thread could be seen, snaking their way through that redness. Blood and honey. His dark pants, the colour of midnight had lost their loose shape, and were clinging to slender, gently muscled legs like lovers re-united. His golden hair had covered half of his face, and his pink lips were opened in surprise, his wide eye bluer than the sky above him. His hands, half covered by red fingerless gloves, had been thrown out in front of him, and it just added to the illusion that he was flying. His purple nails were a dark shock against the clear sky above them. The drops of water reflected the colours that made up the image of perfection, for just that single moment.

….angel…

How could Sasori think that? He had known the brat for about two minutes, and he already couldn't stand him. But all those thoughts had vanished in the small moment. Art was eternity…a moment captured, to be admired for the rest of time. He just stood there, long after the small droplets had fallen, and the brat was just lying there. But only for a fraction of a second.

The blond flipped up, quite the feat as the surface he was landing on was soaking wet and slippery, and his undoubtedly heavy clothes were weighing him down. A flash of metal from the…thing on his right eye, the flap of his red scarf, like a scar against the statue of a man in the background.

An avenging angel.

What would capture this scene so that it could be preserved forever?

Metallic paint for the hair, surely, but that would fade too soon for Sasori's comfort. Maybe gold leaf…but there was just so much of it to be-

His thoughts were cut off, as he noticed the annoyingly fascinating brat wasn't in front of him anymore. Damnit, I was thinking, brat. Stay still for a second so I can paint you. His hands reached automatically to the left, the place that Sasori always had his panting tools. As opposed to the right, which was reserved for puppetry. His hands met thin air, and he looked around. How could he have been so distracted as to not notice he wasn't in his studio? How long had it been since the last time inspiration had hit him that hard? The answer; a depressingly long time ago. His most recent ex-muse had become clingy and possessive, thinking that they were in some kind of relationship other than model and artist. It had taken only two weeks to get rid of her.

Then, as Sasori was in dreamland, contemplating how he would paint, draw, carve and otherwise capture the two small moments that had ignited some kind o fire n him, he was being driven backwards. A knee seemed to want to drill a hole in his stomach.

Sasori coughed, phlegm dispelling itself from his throat. He took a few steps backwards to regain his balance but…when did I turn around? Damn…

He was falling. There would be no fancy flips or miraculous turns that would keep Sasori from hitting the ground hard. From this distance, he knew the bet he could do was stay in this position, so that he didn't land awkwardly on his arm and break it. It had always been a bit iffy, since Sasori had done that exact thing when he was younger.

But he had forgotten one thing. The fountain contained water, and it was full enough to nearly cover Sasori's calf. The landing that he was expecting wasn't nearly as soft…or as wet. Damn. I hope someone will lend me some more clothes. Itachi probably had another set of clothes in the car, but Sasori wanted to avoid having to wear them. The red-head was about ten centimetres shorter than the Uchiha bastard, and he had never forgiven his body for stopping there. He looked like a fucking pre-pubescent girl sometimes. It wasn't his fault his eyelashes were disgustingly long. He looked especially stupid when Itachi's –already small sized- clothes dwarfed his slender frame.

He closed his eyes in resignation. He was soaking wet, and he had inspiration. His hands were itching, and he had to gather the next material that he could use, and form it into the likeness of the annoying brat in front of him. Suddenly, it seemed like all the fight had been sucked out of his bones. He lay in the not so shallow water like one of his puppets come to life.

"So do you admit that art is fleeting now?" a voice crowed from over the red-headed puppet masters body. He opened one eye just the slightest bit. He didn't want to talk. He had used up all his daily words on arguing with the Uchihas, and, now, this brat had made him use a lot of energy and made him talk. Itachi would laugh like there was no tomorrow if he saw me like this…well, he'd smirk. Which is the Ita-equivalent to cackling his evil little head off.

"Go away." Sasori muttered. He didn't want the ignorant brat around as he lay in the cold water and just thought about how he was going to capture the glimmer of colours in the small crystalline mirrors that dripped off his hand as he held it upwards, trying to catch glimmers of colours in the pale orbs again. It would be incredibly hard, especially since he had decided that gold leaf was the only way to do that hair any justice.

"What? But I beat you, un!" Sasori opened his eyes fully.

"I'm tired, and I don't want to be here. It would just make my day if you decided to stay here and grace me with your oh-so charming company." Sarcasm dripped off his words, thick, sticky, and unmistakable. Like honey.

"This is my place," the blond said stubbornly. "You're just an outsider. I'm not moving until you admit that true art is transient, un" Sasori rolled his eyes.

"You wish, brat. True art is eternity." Sasori felt like rolling over and going to sleep, just like ever time inspiration hit him so hard he could physically feel it. His dreams provided him with landscapes and patterns he would never have thought of otherwise.

"Nu-uh, bastard, fleeting, un." Sasori's eyes were open long enough to catch the darting of a pink tongue from in between rosy lips. He turned his head to the side. Looking at the brat was annoying. He had enough inspiration to last him a year, he didn't need any more.

"It's eternal, brat." How Sasori managed to sound like he wasn't falling asleep in an ice cold fountain escaped him.

"Ephemeral, un" the blond pouted out.

"Look, brat, no matter how many big words you use, art will never be short-lived. At all. Got it?" Sasori just wanted to curl up in his big comfy studio chair and drift off to dreamland…a place with no annoyingly talkative brats…

"And no matter how many times you call me 'brat' won't change the fact that I am right, and you are wrong, un." Sasori turned his head, shaking soaking, blood red hair out of his eyes. The blond was trying to glare, but Sasori had practically grown up with Uchiha Itachi, master of the death glares. He returned the glare in kind, auburn eyes telling of all the things he'd be so very pleased to do to the brat. He look just as pretty with his tongue cut out and his hands and feet chopped off…all that I really need to keep is the hair and the eyes…

"It's eternal, brat. That's all there is to it." Sasori tried to dumb it down, enough for this stupid thing to understand.

"Nu-uh, un. True art is fleeting! A bang, un!" the blond had leaned down closer to him, his face hovering right above the puppet masters'.

"True art is eternal, you stupid brat. And what the fuck is up with you? Why do you keep saying 'un', idiot?" the grin on the blonds face was more than slightly evil.

"Annoying, isn't it" the blond paused for a moment "…un."

Hello everyone, this is Nychta.

Have you had a nice life recently?

I haven't, in regards to this chapter. First off I had a smut block (you know, where you can only write smut) but it's not finished. Then this chapter decided to be charmingly nice and delete itself. Twice.

I hope Sasori's not too ooc at the end, but, meh. If you have a problem, drop me a line and I'll fix it allll up for you. So. Do you like my excuse for Deidara's little 'un'? When he was younger, it was a form of rebellion, almost. I guess now it's just there to get on Sasori's nerves.

Actually, leave a review anyway. Just a few words will do, but they make me encourage me so much. Also, I'd like some feedback on my semi-fight scene. Is it good? Not so good? And, if so, please tell me how I could improve. This is my first fight scene EVER (if masochistic tendencies don't count, that is) and I need to know if it's any good. I know that krav maga and aikido are completely different. But this is Sasori talking. He doesn't care about anything but his art (he's got an unhealthy obsession).

Can anyone tell me what they'd like best next? Deidara's pov? Or go from there and use Dei's pov? Next chapter will guarantee ita-bitch, sasEMO and naretard. And, for all you people who say that 'cest squees them a bit… I'm keeping it on the low. Are you proud of me? :3

Disclaimer; I don't own Naruto, and I wouldn't if I could. The thing sucks, and really should be put down. You know something is bad when the fanfiction is better than the actual thing.

…what? It's 2 o'clock in the morning, I went to sleep at the same time last night and woke up at 8 this -yesterday?- morning to do whatever the hell I did. I'm too tired to remember. Do you actually expect me to remember my incredibly witty disclaimer?

What is it with me and writing at stupid hours of the day/night/whichever the fuck it is at 2 o'clock.

Anyways.

Nychta is OUT

Night night.