sniffing paints
part I of III

theeflowerchild

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

"I am in love," she often thinks, "this is it."

He's the most beautiful boy she has ever seen in her entire life. He is tall, and lean, with long, lanky limbs that stretch his skin across thin bones. His eyes are sunken and swollen, green like broken beer bottles left on the side of the road; they shine like emeralds when he's not tired, which isn't often. He is exhausted and he is restless, and he seems like he never stops twitching, with the skin under his eyes stained purple with fatigue. His hair is red like hourglass sand, wild and messy and she can imagine her fingers running through it while she kisses his thin lips, his alabaster skin stained pink like her hair—

He is everything she wants in a boy, everything she needs in a boy; he is smart, and seemingly sweeter than he looks, like dumplings or vegetables, and he understands. He understands the hollowness in her chest, he understands the ache she feels in-between her diaphragm and her esophagus, the taste of bile that bubbles in her throat, bitter and familiar. He understands her glassy eyes, her twitchy fingers, and the crows feet that she's too young to have.

And he tells her he loves her.

He pushes her bubblegum-pink hair out of her eyes, eyes that are greener than his, eyes that are not yet dead inside, eyes that shine like emeralds no matter her state of being, eyes that betray her whole, and he smiles. "I love you," he tells her, "no matter your faults. You are beautiful." And she falls for him.

She falls for his bony fingers, his dirty hair, his big boots, his red pickup truck, his fascination with death, his awkward smile, his raspy voice, and his tiny heart. She falls for his toothy grins, his cold skin, his long, thin scars, his tiny nose, and his big ears. She falls for his breaths, the spaces between his fingers, the crevice between his left arm and his body, the smell of his cologne, and the way he speaks to her, cryptically, earnestly, often like he's pleading, but never asking.

He touches his calloused, cool hand against her warm cheek, rubbing his long thumb, touching the tip of her eyelashes, the bridge of her nose, and the bow of her lips. She smiles. "I love you, too."

"Hello class." He placed his messenger bag down on the oak desk, a soft thud filling the soundless classroom. All the students were silent in the appearance of a stranger. "My name is Sasuke Uchiha, but you can call me Sasuke. We're all equals here." He turned around and began writing his name on the board, the sickening noise of nails resounding through the chalk. "I will be replacing your past teacher, Kurenai Sarutobi, due to her maternity leave until further notice."

He looked over the classroom and immediately sighed; these classes, the music and arts, often attract two types of people: those looking for an easy grade,

And those looking for a better soul.

"I'm happy to be able to work with all of you this year, but you have to put in the effort," he continued. His voice was like silk, somehow misplaced on his body, tenor and misused. "I will give you the attention and dedication you think you deserve."

A girl raised her hand, all dark hair and dough-eyes. He nodded towards her. "Will Mrs. Sarutobi be back this year?"

"I'm not sure," he answered. "I am simply the messenger, you'll have to email her yourself if you wish to find out any further information." He looked over the sea of unfamiliar faces. "Any more questions?"

His response was the empty howl of the wind through the open windows, toying with the heat of what was left of the summer. His heart was pounding in his chest, tearing at his ribcage and fighting the butterflies in his stomach for calmness. He could feel the sweat gathering at his hairline as his eyes avoided contact with the students in front of him. He was nervous, and this was his first teaching job, but he would never let the students know that.

He sat in his chair and crossed his legs, pursing his lips as he searched his bag for the attendance sheet. When he eventually found it, despite the two-dozen pairs of eyes boring into him, he laid it flat on his desk and licked his thin, dry lips. "Now, before I take attendance," he tried, scanning a certain few in the class, "I'm just going to share with you that this class has a strict curriculum. You are being tested on not only your skills, but the lessons you have learned throughout your art career and how you are able to put them to use. You will be using multiple mediums, including paints and sculpture-work, and there will be assigned projects for you to do by the board of education, including a thesis." He saw a few jaws fall, gaping at his statement. All he was saying was true, perhaps slightly exaggerated, but he was only stating the syllabus. He smirked. "Now, is there anybody who will not be staying in this class?"

A handful of students immediately stood up, gathered their books against their chests, and were out of the classroom before he could even take their faces into memory. A few others took a moment or two to consider the class and their ability to keep up with the workload before, too, standing up and removing themselves from the classroom.

He sighed and counted who were left, only to frown. "Thirteen," he mused allowed. What an unlucky number. "Now, you're all sure you want to be here?" he asked one more time.

He received a few nods, and a few who didn't even bother to acknowledge him.

A paused a moment before saying, "great." He smirked and leaned across the desk, cradling his chin in his hand. "Welcome to Advanced Placement Studio in Art."

Sakura was nothing if not a creature of habit; she was very set in her ways. She liked things the way they were, even if they weren't the best thing for her. She liked knowing what was going to happen next, not having to anticipate anything except maybe what her mother was cooking for dinner, or what would set off her father tonight, or even what she was going to wear tomorrow—this was the extent to which Sakura enjoyed difference and, even so, if she could wear the same outfit everyday, and her mother could make spaghetti for dinner every night, Sakura would, perhaps, be even more content with her abysmal existence.

"I don't like Sasuke," she admitted to Gaara that afternoon, laying in his bed. She bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, her front teeth nestling into the familiar scars that resided already. She reveled in the metallic taste.

"Who's Sasuke?" he asked, immediately looking up from his homework and piercing her gaze. "Did he do something to you?"

"No, no!" she quickly defended. She laughed awkwardly. "It's nothing like that, he's the teacher that replaced Mrs. Sarutobi after she had the baby over the summer."

"Oh." His eyes went back to his notebook and he started scrawling a few words once again. "Why don't you like him?"

She shrugged and thought for a moment, before listing, "he's not Mrs. Sarutobi, he doesn't know any of us, he doesn't know our styles, or the paints we prefer, or our names—"

He cut her off with a laugh. "Maybe you should tell him, then, and give him a chance." He suddenly stood from his chair, and moved over toward the bed where his girlfriend was laying. He took a seat on the edge, easing himself next to her as to not frighten or shock her. She still jumped a little. "Someone had to replace her."

"I know."

"Maybe you should drop the class?" he asked.

She shook her head frantically, her rosy hair flying across her face. "No, absolutely not!" she yelled. "Art… is my life."

He frowned. "I thought we were your life."

She laughed and smiled, but her eyes betrayed her. He didn't notice. "O-Of course we are, Gaara, I love you—you know what I-I meant what I said that!" she defended.

His frown was immediately replaced by a small smile. "I love you, too." He rolled on his side, facing her flat body; his eyes scanned over her, almost hungrily, certainly territorially, but with a lack of adoration. He licked his lips. "I love you so much." He scooted towards her and let one of his hard hands touch the exposed skin between her t-shirt and her jeans, as soft as satin and white like snow. Her heart began beating quickly. "You know that, right?"

"Yes, I do," she assured him and flinched away from his touch.

He frowned. "Then why are you moving away from me?" he growled.

She laughed. "I'm not, I'm not!" she moved towards him, but her body language created distance. "I want to be right by you!" She took his hand and placed it against her waist, right before her jeans. "See? See?"

He nodded and nestled his head in the crook of her neck. His hair tickled her cheek, her ear, while his fingers traced circles on her waist, dangerously closing in on the hem of her jeans. He inhaled her scent—baby-powder and roses, he always thought—and grazed her skin lightly with his lips. "You're so beautiful, Sakura. You know that, right?"

"Thank you," she whispered breathlessly, feeling his lower half push up against her thigh. She swallowed the lump in her throat and felt tears welling in her eyes. "Thank you, Gaara."

"You're welcome." He grabbed her wrists with his cold, rough hands, carefully pushing them above her head, before moving from his side and pushing himself on top of her. He traced her body with his eyes, every single curvature, from the roundness of her cheeks, to the nape of her neck, to the swell of her chest, to the hills of her stomach, to the curve of her hips, all the way down to the thick of her thighs and her thin ankles. She was awkward, tall, and more heavy than not, but she was beautiful, and she was his. His eyes finally fell to her own.

She moved too quickly for him to see the tears ready to spill from her wide eyes. "G-Gaara, I'm sorry." She pushed him off, and heard him grunt. "It's late, you know my father, I have to go—"

"I understand." He didn't. He was angry. "I'll walk you to the door."

"Thank you, thank you." She quickly pushed her lips against his, and rode her thigh against his groin, tempting his appetite. He moaned, and he would forgive her. "I love you, I'm sorry," she apologized, and she meant it. He convinced her she meant it, he always did.

He stood up and shrugged. "It's fine, I love you too." He captured her hand in his own, intertwining their fingers, and walked her to his front door in silence.

"You're late, Sakura," her mother reprimanded her with a frown. "What did I tell you?"

Sakura felt tears begin to well near her waterline. "Mother, I'm so sorry, you have no idea. I rushed, but there was traffic, and—"

She stopped when her mother sighed. "It's fine, your father isn't home yet, just set the table, please."

Sakura nodded and gathered three plates from the cupboard, along with three forks from the drawer beneath. She carried them to the kitchen and quickly set them up just the way her father liked them, with the forks to the left. She gathered three glasses and placed them to the right, like her father had told her to do, along with napkins under the plates, and a piece of bread. "Mom, I'm done!"

"Alright, just sit in your seat, please!" her mother shouted back.

She did exactly as she was told, careful not to move anything, and tucked herself in closely. Her elbows did not touch the table, and she kept silent.

The door to their apartment clicked.

Her father sauntered in, briefcase in hand, long, black hair pulled into a low ponytail, and suit incredible neat, as if it had just been ironed. He was undeniably pale, with skin like marble, and his light, light barely green eyes looked sickeningly yellow as the scanned the kitchen. He apathetic face twisted into a smile. "Sakura, my beautiful daughter, how are you this evening?" He threw his suitcase on the ground, next to the door, and moved towards his daughter with grace and ease, like a snake, slithering across the wood floors. He kissed the top of her head and ruffled her hair. He then eased into his own seat at the head of the table, pulled himself close to his plate, and let his elbows lay on the arm rests. "How was your day, baby girl?"

She smiled softly. "It was great, father. And how was yours?"

He leaned slightly towards her and smirked. "It was fine. Daddy got a lot of work done." He leaned into his chair and smelled the air around him, intertwining his fingers across his chest. "Tsunade, sweetheart, what are you cooking? It smells delightful!"

Sakura sighed, and thought, "Maybe, just maybe, tonight will be a good night."

She heard her mothers melodic voice float from the kitchen into the dining room, "just spaghetti and sauce, baby!"

He nodded, even though his wife could not see, and turned towards his daughter with a smirk. "Let's just hope Mommy didn't overcook the pasta. She can be so stupid sometimes."

Sakura didn't move.

No less than a minute later, her mother brought in a big bowl of spaghetti, covered in thick, red sauce. It smelled wonderful, full of fresh herbs and garlic; her mother was a lovely cook, Sakura always thought. In fact, her cooking was never a problem until maybe she was about twelve.

Sakura was not born into ruins. In fact, Sakura was a very happy child, with two parents who loved each other very, very much. She loved to paint, and sing, and draw, and her parents always took her to the park, where they would barbecue, and her parents would kiss and hug as they watched her. It was a normal life, sure, but it was a happy life, and Sakura was a healthy, happy daughter to two wonderful parents.

When Sakura turned seven, her father died.

Her father was an amazing writer, her mother always told her, such a smart man, with such a drive. She remembers her father to be incredibly goofy, and large, with big hands, and long legs, and big arms. He was very handsome, in his day, with long, red tattoos staining his cheeks, and a big smile.

When she was around eleven, she once asked her mom what he was like, and her mother sighed, and said, "your father was…" she trailed off and thought for a moment, clucking her tongue. "Your father was warm."

Her father was warm.

That same year, her mother met her step-father, Orochimaru. He was nice, at first, and very rich, always buying Sakura gifts, but he always rubbed her the wrong way. He bought her mother the biggest, most beautiful ring when he asked her to marry him. She said yes.

It took him less than a day after the marriage to assert himself as her father, a month after that to start screaming, and less than a year for him to start hitting her mother.

"Why, Tsunade, my love," he chirped with a smirk. "That looks simply delightful."

"Yes, Mom!" Sakura agreed with a smile. "It looks and smells great."

Her mother blushed, and smiled. "Oh stop, I've been making this sauce for years. Just dig in!" She gathered the tongs in her hands and fished for her husbands bowl, giving him a large helping. "Here you go, sweetie, enjoy." She then served her daughter, and, lastly, herself.

The both watched carefully, playing with their food, as he spun the spaghetti in his fork. He slowly lifted it to his lips, a proper eater more than anything else, and began chewing. His face visibly twisted into a grimace.

Sakura felt her heart drop.

He laughed and stood from his seat. "Tsunade, can I ask you something?"

"O-Of course, my love," she stammered.

"What's the only thing I ever ask you to do when I come home?" he asked. "What do I ask you to have ready for me?"

"Dinner," she answered. "You ask me to cook dinner for you."

"Correct." He pushed his chair out from behind him and stepped away from the table. "And what's the one thing I ask the dinner to be?"

Her heart pounded in her chest, butterflies crashed in her stomach. "Edible."

"Then what," he raised his hand, "the fuck is this?" and crashed the plate into the wall. Spaghetti and sauce stained the white paint, and the plate shattered against the hard floors, echoing throughout the otherwise silent apartment.

"I—I'm sorry!" she immediately defended, earnestly, honestly. Her voice cracked. "I didn't mean to offend you. I love you. You know I'd never—"

"If you'd 'never,' then why the hell does it keep happening?" He sauntered towards his wife and gather her cheeks in his hands. "Please, dear, enlighten me."

"I'm sorry—"

"I said, answer the fucking question!" He slapped her across the face. She fell to the ground and immediately began quietly weeping, nursing her cheek with her hands. He turned towards his daughter. "Sakura, go upstairs."

"But Orochimaru—"

He cut her off. "Do you dare defy me?" he questioned. She shook her head. "Then go upstairs, now."

She ran right out of the room, tail between her legs, and straight towards the stairs. She paused for a moment at the foot of them, listening carefully, only to receive the sound of a loud 'slap!' and a cry from her mother. Her own tears started spilling down her cheeks, soaking her t-shirt as she ran up the stairs. She quietly opened her door—her father didn't like noise—and closed it behind her without so much as a rush of wind.

She immediately hit the ground, weeping into her own hands quietly. She pulled her knees to her chest, and wrapped her arms around them, cuddling her face into her jeans. They became sopping went, but it didn't affect her.

From ceiling to floor, Sakura's room was covered—in photos, in posters, in sketches, and in canvas. There were paint supplies across her floor, from tubes, to brushes, to etching knives, and naked canvases begging to be clothed.

It took only a moment for her to gather herself and place herself before her canvas, already painted with delicate, grayscale flowers. The petals danced across the canvas, growing from the blank ends, falling into endless white.

She took the etching knife, carefully pulled up her sleeves, tore a thin line through the skin on her wrist, and pushed the cut up against the canvas.

"Sakura Haruno?" She heard her name being called. "Sakura Haruno?" She quickly looked up from her sketch book. Her teacher was staring at her from across the classroom at his desk. "Do you know how many times I just called your name?" he asked.

She shook he heard. "No, I'm sorry."

A few kids in the class laughed. He sighed and ran a hand through his inky hair. "It's fine, I just need to see you after class."

She pursed her lips. "I can't, I have class right after—"

"I'll write you a pass, then," he told her. "I want to go over something with you."

Now, she sighed. "Okay." She turned back towards her sketchbook and continued the outline of their first project. Every time she messed up, rather than start over, like most people, she'd simply draw right over her lines. It's something her father used to do with his writing. "Always keep what you think is wrong," he'd tell her, "because you never know when it will be right."

Before she knew it, the bell had rang, loudly disrupting her from her sketch. She frowned and felt her stomach flip, unsure of whether or not it was because she had to stop sketching, or because she had to talk to her teacher.

She slowly gathered her things, waiting for all the students to file out, before approaching her teachers desk. He was looking at something on the computer, probably attendance, and had his thick, black glasses fixated on the tip of his nose.

Now, being able to see him up close, she could tell how handsome he really was. He was a man: broad shoulders, a long neck, large hands, and long legs. His eyes were almost as dark as his hair, almond-shaped, and warm like lava. He had high cheek bones, a thin nose, and dry lips, the features of an aristocrat, with skin like snow and freckles. When she was finally at the desk, he turned towards her and offered a sliver of a smile. "Sorry if I embarrassed you in front of everyone, I didn't mean to disrupt you. You're quite shy, aren't you?"

She shrugged. "I wasn't embarrassed." She ignored his question.

He took his glasses off and laid them on the desk in front of him. "I think you and I are very alike, Sakura," he tried.

She didn't respond.

He sighed. "Anyway, I was going through everyone's portfolios from last year," he paused for a moment, "well, those who didn't drop, and I came across yours."

"What about it?" she asked.

He leaned back in his chair and intertwined his fingers together, laying them in his lap, and smirked. "You, Sakura Haruno, are very talented."

She paused, and then raised a delicate, pink eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

He shrugged. "Your work is technically beautiful, and beyond that, invokes an incredible emotional response," he explained. "Catharsis."

"I know the word," she responded.

He rolled his eyes and leaned on the desk, towards her. "You are better than some people I graduated with."

Her cheeks were slightly rosy. "You don't mean that—"

"I mean it," he assured her. "You really know how to evoke emotion, which is especially hard as a grayscale painter." He opened up his desk drawer and pulled out a large folder, full of photos. They were her paintings. He flicked through them and found a certain one, a painting of a silhouette of a man holding a girl on his shoulders, with a splatter of red across the middle. "You're… incredible," he whispered, looking at the painting more than at her.

She coughed.

He looked up and felt his cheeks warm, remembering she was there. "Sorry." He smiled softly. "With a little bit of tutoring, you could get into any college you wanted. Your portfolio is already phenomenal."

She shrugged. "I don't really want to go to college."

The look that surfaced on his face was more than simple surprise, but upset. "Wait, what?" he asked, quickly. "You don't want to go to college? Why?"

"I'm not that good," she reminded him, or herself, she wasn't sure. "And I just don't really foresee college in my future." "I cannot leave my mother alone with that monster."

He sighed, again. "She's something," he thought, "what a piece of work." He offered her a smile. "Alright, how about this…" he trailed off, thinking, and then continued, "how about if you let me tutor you during your study hall—"

"No, it's fine, really—"

"—and I'll give you an A for the class." He smirked. She was going to get an A with or without his help, but she didn't have to know that. "And, I'll guarantee you a six out of six from the state on your portfolio."

She snorted. "You can't promise something like that."

"I'm not done," he reminded her. "And if you get that six, you have to promise me you'll look into colleges."

She grimaced. Could she promise that?

"And if you don't, I'll leave you the hell alone," he finished. "How does that sound?"

"An A sounds great," she thought, "It'll definitely pick up my grades… And I'd be stupid to turn down personal, free tutoring. I could… become incredible," she imagined what her paintings could look like with a little bit of constructive criticism, and some tweaking, before frowning, "But I have no chance of going to college, no matter how much I want to," her face visibly fell, "I can't leave my mom." She bit her lip. "I can't, I'm sorry," she said, and ran for the door.

Before she could leave, he shouted, "the offer stands as long as you want to accept it!"

A month went by, and they were already starting a new project, awaiting their grades. Summer was slowly turning into a cool fall, the leaves littering the ground like a blanket. School was officially in full-swing, with Halloween rounding the corner, and winter jackets surfacing from the bottoms of closets.

"Sakura," a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts, obviously angered, "you didn't come to my locker this morning."

She turned around to see the frowning face of her boyfriend, obviously exhausted and grumpy. She mustered the sunniest smile she could. "Gaara, baby, I'm sorry—"

"Don't be," he cut her off, venom in his voice. "I understand that you have all your other friends to run off to."

She frowned.

"Oh wait, that's right!" His face became even darker. "No, you don't. You only have me, so I don't understand why you couldn't just show up to my fucking locker this morning."

"Gaara, I'm sorry—"

He snorted. "Cut the crap, Sakura. Just don't be late for lunch, I'm really getting sick of your shit." He stalked off towards his class, most kids walking around him or blatantly going out of their way to avoid him.

She looked around and no one seemed to take pity, or even take notice of the scene that had just unfolded. She frowned, only to sigh and slam her locker door shut. This had become the usual. One wrong move, and Gaara was not happy, not one bit. She was stepping on eggshells, and Gaara was right, he was the only friend she had, the only person she could turn to, even if it meant subjecting herself to these outburst of anger, or physical contact she didn't want.

She had nowhere to go.

Empty-handed except for her sketchbook, she walked quietly towards the studio. It was at the back of the building, one of the quietest areas of the school—arguably quieter than the library—and always just under five minutes to get to from her locker.

She walked into the classroom just as the bell and rang, and walked quietly to her seat, all the way in the back.

"Alright, guys, grades are in for your first project," Sasuke announced at the beginning of class. He received no response. "Whoa, guys, don't get too excited," he muttered sarcastically under his breath. Why did art kids have to be so brooding?

And then he remembered how he was in high school and refrained from making a comment.

He trailed around the classroom with a pile of critiques in his hands. "Deidara, nice work… Ino, could've been better… Kankuro, nice work… Hinata, not too bad…" and then he landed on Sakura and smirked, dropping her paper in front of her. "Would you look at that?" She looked down at the sheet and immediately frowned. "Only a B."

She frowned. "You can't do that."

"Oh, but I can." And he continued past her, giving the rest of the students their grades.

It was true, he was the teacher, he could do whatever the hell he wanted, but they both knew her project was worth an A. He was toying with her, playing dirty, trying to get her to accept his proposal.

And it was working.

As soon as the bell rang, Sakura ran up to his desk. "Is this going to be happening all year?"

He feigned aloofness. "Whatever could you be talking about?"

"Oh, cut the crap!" she said. He held in a laugh. "We both know what I'm talking about."

He shrugged. "It doesn't have to happen all year. In fact," he took the sheet from her and grabbed the red pen lying innocent on his desk, "I could fix this right now."

Her frown deepened. "You're impossible."

"That's ironic," he deadpanned. "Anyway, do what you want," he handed the sheet back to her, "but if you are going to do what you want, I'm going to do what I want, too."

She sighed, defeated. "Alright, what if I… edited the deal a little?"

He perked up. "Go on."

"I'll meet with you every day after school," she said. After school would be much better, she'd be cutting down the time she spends with Gaara, and making it just in time for dinner.

Now it was his turn to frown. "Sakura, I don't know if I can do that—"

She cut him off, "Please."

He sighed and shrugged, at least he had won. He offered her a smile. "After school it is."

When Gaara met Sakura, it was not her hair that first caught his eye, hanging in loose, dusty-rose curls, with bangs tickling her eyelids. It was not her swollen, emerald-green eyes that nearly stole half of her face, nor her tiny button nose. It was not her tiny lips, or her large chest, or the few freckles she had staining her bridge, her arms, her legs. It was not her long, chubby legs, or her sharp elbows, or even her sweet voice.

No, it was her hands.

For her height, for her weight, for her age, Sakura's hands were overwhelmingly small. She had short, stout fingers, and chubby palms, and tiny little finger nails painted a dark color. They soft on the outside, and dried out on the inside, littered with tiny little scars he didn't dare ask about. They were covered in ink and paint, and smelled different from the rest of her, like lotion, and they were her creators. They made the things she thought, they painted the landscapes, the silhouettes, the still-life's, and the sketches. They created her loopy, messy handwriting, and never dotted the eyes. They drew her two's like cursive Q's, and crossed her T's and sevens. Her hands were wise. Her hands were beautiful.

Gaara wanted to hold them, to let his fingers dance around hers, and let his thumb run against her soft skin. He wanted to watch them as they painted, to see them glide across canvas like skates on ice, to watch them as they sketched in her little marble notebooks in class, rather than take her loopy notes. He wanted to watch them touch his skin, graze his arms, leave traces of fire down his chest, tickle his cheeks with warm fingertips.

He wanted them to interact with his long, bony, skinny fingers, to compliment them like no other hand could. He wanted her hands to fall for his while they strummed a guitar, strummed her heartstrings. He wanted her hands to watch in amazement while his created choppy, neat handwriting, or drew terrible little drawings in his spirals. He wanted her hands to beg his for more, to crave his touch, to starve and ache at the thought of his fingers dragging across her skin, like ink on paper.

He couldn't do with his hands what she did with paint, but he could do the same with his on her body, and he wanted to show her that.

"Sakura?" he asked. She was laying in his bed—she always loved his bed, the mattress was hard, and the sheets were cool—with her limbs tangled, staring intently at his white, chipping ceiling; she looked broken, he thought.

She turned towards him and offered him a small smile. "Yes?"

"What…" he trailed off, and then pursed his lips, thinking for a moment, eyebrows knitted. "What are you thinking?"

She raised an eyebrow, and stared at him a moment, and when he didn't react, she stared back up at the ceiling and shrugged. "Class."

He frowned. She wasn't thinking about him? Why did he feel like he was always thinking about her, but he never crossed her mind? He bit his tongue and decided to ask, "What about class?"

She sighed. "Is there a reason you're asking this?"

He shot her a venomous glare. "Just answer the question, I'm trying to have a fucking conversation with you. Is that a problem?"

She held her breath for a moment, and then said, "I'm thinking about Art Class, I'm going to have to start staying after a little to get all my work done."

He froze. "Wait, staying after classes?" he asked. "Like, after school? When you're supposed to be here, spending time with me?"

She sat up and finally made eye contact with him. "Gaara, I don't have a choice, you know I can't fail the class."

"Why can't you?" he questioned. "It's just some stupid art class, right? I thought you weren't going to college anyway!"

She winced at the jab, something she had told him in confidence. Her choice on college wasn't something she wanted, it was something she had to do. "I think we both know if my grades start falling, whether or not I go to college, my father will not be happy."

"Who cares?" he snapped. "It's not like he's your real fucking father anyway!"

"My mother's functioning body cares, Gaara," she quipped back. She shot him a glare that could have defeated an army, but he did not wither. "I don't have a choice in the matter, and I only have to stay after until four, so we'll have two hours together!" she reasoned. "And weekends!"

"Two hours!?" he shouted. He stood from his chair, he stood over her. She loved Gaara's size, his height, because, at five-foot-six, and slightly chubby, Gaara still managed to make her feel tiny, but at times like this, he made her feel small. "Is that all I'm worth to you? Two fucking hours?"

"No, Gaara, that's not it!" she tried again, she felt the tears welling in her eyes, and the bile bubbling in her throat. "I don't have a choice, otherwise, I'll fail! My grades will drop!" Her chest began constricting, aching. "I don't want to do this, I have to!"

"Sakura, why do you always have to pull shit like this?" He stepped closer to her. "Why do you always have to put this relationship in jeopardy?" Another step. "What's your fucking problem? I thought you loved me!"

"I do, I do, I do—"

"Apparently not." He took one last step closer, looming over her body. "God, Sakura, do you want me to hurt you?" he asked. "Are you asking me to, to ruin this relationship? To…" He raised his hand slightly, she flinched. "To…" He took a step back.

"Gaara…?" she trailed off, and held her breath.

He took another step back and lowered his hand. "Nothing, never mind, that's fine. You don't have a choice," he said it more for himself than for her, "you don't have a choice. You'll fail if you don't, and your father will be mad."

She nodded her head. "Yes, very mad."

He sighed and took his final steps back, landing in his chair. He ran his long fingers through his hair, tangling his spikes, and frowned. "I'm sorry, Sakura, I just love you so much," he told her. "So much it hurts."

She nodded her head again. "I know, I love you too."

He looked up at her with wet eyes, his cheeks flushed, his eyebrows knitted. He was a mess. "I would never heart you."

She nodded her head again. "I know."

He looked back down at his lap. "I'm sorry."

She nodded her head once more. "I know, it's fine."

He stood and walked over toward her, causing her to flinch, but he took no notice. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her back down onto the bed with him, her back against his chest. He let his face lay comfortably in the crook of her neck, and intertwined his fingers with her open hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

She nodded. "I know, it's fine."

Sasuke sighed. It was already a little after the last bell, and his student hadn't shown up. "What if she's not coming?" he thought, "What if this is a waste of time?" He bit his lip and shook his head. "No, no, she said she'd come, she'll come."

Just as he thought that, ten minutes late, she sauntered in. He frowned. "You're late, Sakura."

She shrugged. "I'm sorry, I had something I had to do," she explained. She sat at one of the front desks, laying her stuff on the floor, at least ten-feet away from him.

He chuckled. "What are you doing over there? Pull up a chair," he told her. He patted his desk for added affected.

She grimaced before grabbing a chair and dragging it across the front of the class, right next to his desk. She was never one to sit in the front row, let alone right at the teacher's desk, but she didn't really have a choice in the matter. She sat next to him and looked over his desk; he was very organized, save for the little calendar he had marked to smithereens in loopy, messy handwriting. He had a dark blue cup full of pens, pencils, and a few expensive markers, a little notepad stationed next to his computer filled with his scrawl, and a little picture frame in the top right corner, decorated with little hearts, cradling a picture of him and a gorgeous girl with fiery red hair and dark, dark eyes.

"Who's she?" she blurted out before she could help herself. "She's beautiful."

"Yeah, she is, isn't she?" he agreed, staring carefully at the photo. "She's my girlfriend."

Sakura was surprised, looking into his eyes that were devoid any sort of emotion akin to adoration. In fact, they seemed empty, so she asked, "Do you love her?"

He laughed. "You sure ask a lot of questions, don't you?"

She shrugged. "Only when I have a reason to."

He held his breath and paused before saying, "I think I did, months ago," he admitted, "but maybe not anymore. Or, maybe so."

She nodded. "I see."

"Either way, it's not why were here, is it?" he asked, lightening the mood slightly. "Why don't you pull out your sketchbook and let me look through it?"

She raised one, fine eyebrow and nearly choked. "Um, excuse me? You want to see my sketch book?"

"I want to see your process," he told her.

"Can't you just look at my old stuff and tell me what I did wrong?" she asked.

He laughed—when he did, it was sort-of breathless, and hollow, she noticed, like he wasn't used to laughing, like he wasn't used to joy—and rolled his eyes. "It's not what you did wrong, Sakura, it's what you can do better."

"Yeah, whatever." She swatted him away with a hand. "You can't see my sketchbook."

"Then I guess you can't see that A, either…" he trailed off, smirking.

She shot him a glare. "That's blackmail."

"No, that's teaching," he explained with a wink.

With her glare in tow, she got up and walked back toward the desk she had left her stuff at. She fished through her messenger bag, looking for a tiny, Moleskine notebook—one of many—before coming across her newest one, the white one. She walked back towards him and thrusted it towards him. "Here." She sauntered back towards her chair and nearly through herself into it, visibly annoyed.

"Don't worry," he said, "I'm not trying to embarrass you, I just want to help you."

"Yeah, yeah," she, again, brushed him off. "Just… Don't say anything stupid."

He smirked. "I'll try not to." He immediately flipped open the book, to which he saw her name, scrawled in black ink, and the year. Underneath it was a tiny drawing of a man's face, with long, thin lines on his cheeks, and wild hair on his head. He flipped the page, and saw many, delicate drawings of bleeding-heart-flowers in grayscale, save for a long, thin line of red across the page—something he noticed was common in much of her work. He flipped through the pages, each grayer than the next, some still life's, some silhouettes, some sketches of faces, and some sketches of bodies without faces, before he noticed something. "You draw right over your errors."

She nodded.

"Why?" he asked. "Why do you do that?"

"My father used to tell me, 'always keep what you think is wrong, because you never know when it will be right,'" she explained, with a small smile.

He stared at her for a moment; he'd never seen her smile like that, with such honesty. She was a pretty girl, it didn't take anyone special to notice that, but she was an absolutely stunning girl when she smiled like that.

It fell. "So I don't erase anything, just in case. My father used to do that with his writing, he always wrote in a notebook and crossed out is words with a thin line of pencil, just in case he ever needed them again."

He tore his eyes from here. "That's smart," he agreed. "I'll keep that in mind. If anything, it makes for a cool sketch."

She shrugged. "I guess."

He continued flipping through her work, careful not to smudge any of the charcoal drawings or tear any of the thin pages. When he finally finished flipping through, he said, "These…" he thought for a moment, for deciding on, "are painful."

She frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Not painful as in, 'painful to look at,'" he corrected himself, "but as in… they evoke pain. They're very beautiful, Sakura." He handed her back her sketch book.

"Thank you," she said.

"Where did you learn to draw like this?" he asked. "Where does this all come from?"

She bit her lip and thought for a moment, choosing her words carefully. "I've been drawing ever since I can remember."

"People don't just create this raw emotion, though!" he argued. "Your drawings are very powerful, Sakura."

"Thank you," she said again.

He pursed his lips for a moment, and then clucked his tongue. "Do you not want to talk about it?"

"There's nothing to talk about," she whispered.

He stared at her for a moment, and then nodded. "I guess there isn't." He sighed, and leaned back in his chair. "Can I ask you one more question, then?"

She nodded her head.

"Why do you only paint in black and white?" he asked.

"Because I don't see in color."

This was posted to another account, but I removed it, edited it, and posted it here. Please read and review, the next few parts will be up soon. The more you review the quicker I update, and I'd appreciate it. Thanks!

Peace.