pigment

vii; why her belief in herself is so fragile

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They fall into a routine, and it's easy enough in the beginning. Thursday nights at art show openings. Friday nights at his apartment or the rooftop. Weekends are spent mostly separately, though she pesters him for coffee or lunch from time to time.

Sasuke accompanies Ino to an exhibit one night, formal dress, he's in Shikamaru's tie and jacket again, she in a midnight blue swing dress that ends just above her knee. Sai's White City is still there, they stop before it.

He's not all bad you know, she says suddenly.

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(Another night. He asked, Did you think you could have saved him?)

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Something about the city after a light rain. Wet pavement. Something about the air, the smell and sheen of it the same in any city in the world. To their right, a streak of sunlight hitting the side of a building.

Beside him, Ino narrows her eyes, committing the scene to memory. Maybe she's painting a picture of it in her head. Sasuke's no artist. He can draw perfect lines and angles so precise, but he doesn't think of himself as an artist – at least, not in the way Ino and Shimura Sai do. For a while now he's been wondering what it's like to see the world through her eyes. Is it like a camera, her surroundings coming into focus one square at a time? Is it like the old movies, a bit grainy and unfocused, the colors soft, objects covered in a thin veil of haze? Or is it like her own paintings, thick brushstrokes, a fleck of white and gold for sunlight, spots of pink and purple on the skin to express a blush, greens and blues for water and sky and people's eyes. When she looked at him, what did she see? A boy of too many angles, unruly hair, dark eyes, stubborn mouth, a wrinkle here and there maybe, but what else?

He's jolted out of his imaginings when she says, Grumpy, you're staring.

He turns away with a grumble that she finds endearing and she laughs, that singular striking laugh that's like a million different colors bursting at once, blooming on canvas. (If he could see through her eyes that's what the world would probably look like.)

Then, Hey, I'm meeting an old friend Thursday night. You should come.

Thursday night, he thinks. Thursday night there's a project pitch to prepare for. Some bigshot client, a six-figure contract.

Something about the way she said it tells him she's not so sure if she should go. Who is she meeting?

Who are you meeting? He asks, coolly.

Just – an old friend, she answers. She bites her nails, a nervous habit.

Ah. Shimura then.

Please, will you go? She's never pleaded before. It's usually teasing, when what she's really doing is coaxing, convincing him to do something.

(Did you think you could save him?

In a moment of unusual bravery he had asked this. In response she had looked at him funny, but there was hurt in her eyes – a confirmation – a hurt that he realized has not truly healed, and perhaps never will, even with the passage of time.

He felt his chest grow heavy, so heavy he just might sink to the ground, but her sad smile tethers him to the now – maybe, just maybe, old wounds can still heal.)

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Neji offers no objection, when Sasuke turns in his part of the pitch a day early and asks to be let out early on Thursday evening. He only says, with an expression Sasuke could not read, If we need you, we'll call. Be sure to pick up your phone.

Thursday night still in his work clothes, he meets Ino at Akimichi's. Choji flashes him a knowing grin when he passes by the counter to his seat. Sure enough it's Shimura Sai who's sitting across a rather flushed and fidgety Ino.

Who's this guy, Shimura asks, without looking at him. His voice was even.

"A friend of mine," Ino replies. She appears to calm down when Sasuke takes the seat next to her. He notices the torn up paper towel next to her plate. He wondered how long have they been talking.

Why is he here? I thought I said I wanted to talk alone.

He's not Neji. You said you wanted to talk without Neji.

Sasuke observes the exchange in silence. He should feel used, somehow, but he doesn't seem to mind. He doesn't like this Shimura bloke, and the way he stares coldly at Ino and him across the table.

"Why did you bring him here, Ino? You think you're so clever. You think you can use him, but sooner or later he'll demand something from you. And you'll end up being the one hurt."

Ino stiffens, her mouth pressed thin into a line. He's not you, she says simply.

The walk home was quiet. He was used to her endless chatter. His own mind drifts to Shimura's words – sooner or later he'll demand from you. You'll end up hurt.

Will he, really? Demand something from Ino ? Will he really hurt her?

He hated Shimura's guts. Who did he think he is, dispensing futures like that – some goddamn oracle? Beside him, Ino is lost in her own thoughts, thoughts he could not even begin to fathom.

They part in the hallway separating their rooms. She says a quiet (sad?) good night before disappearing behind the door.

He's hunched over some papers after midnight when he hears her door open, and footsteps to the fire escape at the end of the hall. He follows.

The rooftop. Somehow it was always easier to talk here. Her back to him, she says as he approaches, "I'm sorry about tonight. I shouldn't have asked you to come."

He takes his usual place beside her, shoulder to shoulder he thinks he belongs here, like they were meant to stand together.

You wanted to protect yourself, he answers. I get it, the rest of it seemed to go.

Ino snorts at that. Yeah, and that went swimmingly. He still managed to get through to me, so. Joke's on me, I guess.

He's a joke, he says drily.

Ino laughs, despite herself. "He's not all bad, you know. But he gets into these moods and he starts hating everyone."

There it is, again, he thinks. The part of her that makes concessions for this guy. Explaining away his actions.

"Stop making excuses for him," he says, surprising even himself with his boldness. Ino looks at him curiously. "The way he treated you at the diner – he doesn't deserve it."

Ino pulls her gaze away, brings it to the still darkened buildings ahead of them. "Yeah, what an asshole."

They're quiet again for a while. He contemplates asking her if she thought Shimura was right, if she thought he'd end up using her and that will be the end of them, of this.

"Sasuke."

He startles – it's the first time she's called him by name.

"Why did you become an architect?"

He pauses. There really was no special reason. Growing up, he had a knack for numbers, figuring out measurements. And he liked buildings – how, in the same part of a city you'll find pre-war homes and barely a year old high-rises on the same street. How, in theory, you get the calculations right, you get the building right. It's precise, a science.

Let me guess, Ino says. You're good at it. Sometimes that's all it is.

He wonders if he should ask why she chose to be an artist. If she did choose it. Was it a calling, the way saints get visions before being asked to serve? Instead he points out the buildings he's worked on since coming to Tokyo. A four-story privately owned commercial building, a young people hangout with its cafes and apparel shops. A three-story architectural horror for a boutique firm. A high-rise Neji's team is working on.

She seems amused by this, and absorbed – asking him all sorts of questions. What color, what type of cement, did you choose the paint yourself, what goes into the foundation –

They talk a while, until the sun begins to show on the horizon. Noticing this, she yawns.

You better sleep now, Grumpy. Neji will get mad if you're late for work.

He shrugs. He'll catch some sleep on the train to work.

Sweet dreams, Grumpy, she says, patting his arm before turning to leave.

Good night – morning, Ino.

She smiles at this, a real smile that looks even lovelier with the sun slowly rising behind her.

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The ceiling leaks. There's a puddle in the hallway. Sasuke slips slightly making his way to his door. When Ino laughs, he realizes he hasn't heard that sound in a while. Mostly it's been quiet smiles that don't quite reach her eyes, transparent gazes.

He curses, in a tantrum he calls Guy to tell him to fix the leak. For a while, when she watches him there's a laugh still on her lips and her eyes are alive again, those blue pools, the color of sky at noon.

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Speaking of slips, Naruto too slipped on a puddle outside his building, injuring his ankle and unable to commute to work. Sasuke and Kiba have to work overtime to compensate for the lost manpower. A deadline was fast approaching. Neji too had been staying late in the office; in the morning he'd be there as well, before the janitor opened the locks. Sasuke sometimes wondered if he ever went home – but the answer was most likely no. At the end of a particularly gruelling week, Sasuke felt at least ten years older, bones creaky and heavy. In the men's bathroom Kiba screamed noticing gray streaks in his hair in the mirror. An older colleague consoled him, It gets worse, buddy.

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Sasuke sees Ino sometimes, when she's not at the Sand siblings' studio. She's preparing for another show, she says, a real crowd pleaser, this one. I must do my best.

They have breakfast on Sundays, on days when he manages to drag his exhausted self out of bed. She orders coffee and bagels, a lunch set for him (these days he's always starving). He smokes a stick or two after, she sketches or sometimes stares fascinated by the smoke on his cigarette.

(Don't move, she says one particular morning as he chainsmokes his way through a pack, all control be damned.

What?

Don't move, she repeats irritably. It's hard to get your nose right.)

Still Shimura's words hang over them: you think you're using him, but in the end he'll be the one hurting you.

She shows him a portrait in charcoal – of him, Sasuke, his side profile, lips half parted, his face surrounded by translucent smoke. Did he always look like that, brows furrowed, deep in thought? What was he thinking about when this was drawn? He can't remember.

You can keep it, she says. A pause. Or you can let me exhibit? I wanna do a full portrait, oil, canvas and all. But only if you're comfortable. I always ask my subjects' permission.

She had spoken in a torrent, a flashflood of words one after the other he had trouble keeping up. The look in her eyes is intense, determined – alive. Much as he didn't like to have his photo taken, he couldn't say no.

Do what you want.

Yes! She actually pumps a victorious fist in the air. Who does that? He bites down the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

Feeling generous, she adds, You're getting front row seats to the exhibit, promise.

He scoffs, Art shows don't have seats, dummy.

She counters, A turn of phrase, grumpy.

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He watches her work, dipping her brush on several pools of paint without mixing. She preferred to work crouched on the floor rather than standing, the large canvas propped against the wall of the studio. The studio was nice, if empty. It stank heavily of turpentine but light from the open windows poured in and bathed the floor and walls with sunshine and shadow. Her hair in a ponytail swishes when she moves. At one point he helps her haul the still wet canvas to a raised platform near the windows so it could dry. Careful! she squeaks, when he almost touched a glimmering corner. They manage to get the canvas up without incident after that.

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The show opened on a Sunday, and Sasuke, god bless him, fought against fever and fatigue to get to the museum. He drowsed through the entire program, only managing to get a glimpse of golden hair among the throng surrounding a mounted canvas on the wall. Ino finds him later slumped at the bar. She takes one look at him and presses a hand to his forehead, says, Let's get you home, sleepyhead.

When he next wakes he's in his bed, a glass of water and some aspirin on a nearby table. There's a note tacked to a still steaming bowl of noodles. I'm out hunting some real food for you. Feel better in the meantime.

The next day Kiba phones him, Dude, you'll never believe – wait, where are you? Why aren't you in the office?

I'm sick, you blockhead.

Oh. Well, I'll let Neji know then.

What were you just about to tell me? I'll never believe what?

Huh – Oh, that. You're in the papers. At least, I think it's you. A painting of you. Thought you should know.

He manages to get out of bed half an hour later. He opens his laptop and searches for news of the exhibit. Sure enough there's a photo of her standing in front of her work, among them, a thumbsized square (wow, Kiba's eyes are keen) on the far right, Sasuke's portrait, Study in shadows, she told him.

Did someone buy it, he asks her, offhandedly, because if course he doesn't want a drawing of his face hanging off the walls of some stranger with too much money –

She scrunches up her face in mock offense. Of course not, I'm keeping it.

The reviews were lukewarm overall, with bright pockets here and there. A critic called her a "breath of fresh air, her style a delight, though she could use a little cheer in her choice of subjects," which were mostly brooding citydwellers in dark or muted backgrounds. One particularly scathing review, from Deidara, stated, "Ms. Yamanaka used to paint only jolly – if juvenile – themes. Where did that Yamanaka go? There is no consistency in this art style at all."

Ino merely shrugged at the review. "As if people stay the same over the course of their lifetime."

No, Sasuke says in response, they don't.