Chapter Text
“This is so fucking stupid,” you muttered as you pushed the heavy door open, the smell of paint and clay flooding your nostrils. Several freshmen were already in the art room, sitting nervously at the tables closest to the front of the room, pristine sketchbooks and perfectly sharpened pencils set out on top of the black tabletops. Nervous chatter filled the room with students introducing themselves to one another, trying to force friendships with people they would never hang out with outside of a classroom. You rolled your eyes at yourself because you’d been in similar circumstances almost four years prior, and that’s how you’d met some wonderful friends. Maybe it was just the thought of being in class with only freshmen that was making you cringe.
You chose the very back table in the corner as far away from the front as you could get, praying to whatever god was listening that this class would be easy enough and you could get through it without issue so you could graduate. Art wasn’t your strongest suit by any means, and by the time you realized you would be short one fine arts credit according to your degree plan, most of the good art classes had already been taken, so you had to make do. It was either this or musical theater, and you’d rather eat glass than have to stand up and perform in front of anyone on a stage.
Students continue to pour into the classroom, filling in empty seats at the four-person tables around the room, thankfully leaving the other three at your table vacant. You really hoped a talkative freshman wouldn’t sit next to you and try to befriend you, because they would be sorely disappointed in your lack of interest in friendship.
The professor entered the classroom with two minutes to spare, right before 11 am, and set down her iced coffee. She was the dictionary definition of an art teacher, with a paint stained jumpsuit, unruly hair, and the faint smell of weed surrounding her. She couldn’t have been older than 30, so at least that seemed promising, because you’d heard from your friends that the older professors were the most difficult to have for a class. You hoped this woman would be as relaxed as she seemed, because you could not handle a stressful class in your final semester. The rest of your college career had been full of ruthless professors and countless all-nighters, so all you could hope for was a stress-free final five months.
Right as the clock hit 11:00, the final student entered. You immediately recognized him from one of your previous classes, in which he argued with the professor about the current political climate to the point of being kicked out and dropped from the class. It was a first year English class too, which made you think he had just been wanting to pick a fight with the professor because he was very clearly pro-government, and that bothered Deidara. That incident aside, you felt relieved to know you weren’t the only senior in a crowd of freshmen.
He seemed to recognize you - the look on his face said he couldn’t remember why he recognized you, but that didn’t stop him from taking a seat next to you at the otherwise empty table. His hair had gotten considerably longer in the last three and a half years, and it was still a beautiful blonde that made you wonder if he got highlights regularly or if it was just naturally like that. Loudly and unceremoniously, he tossed his tattered sketchbook and worn pencil bag onto the table and plopped down in the chair with a sigh, drawing strange glances from the freshmen. You risked a side-eyed glance at him, and he already seemed annoyed with having to be here. That makes two of us , you thought as you turned your attention to the professor, who had already begun to introduce herself and discuss the syllabus.
“Nice to know I’m not the only senior in here,” Deidara remarked to you, much louder than he should’ve since the professor was speaking. “Didn’t we have a cl-”
“Excuse me, you two in the back,” said the professor - she wanted her students to refer to her by her first name, Heather - “please don’t interrupt while I go over the class outline. There will be plenty of time to chat after I’m done.”
Your face reddened in frustration and you went to defend yourself and explain you weren’t talking, but decided it would be best to just nod and ignore Deidara if he tried to talk to you again. You heard him scoff at the criticism before leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and actively not paying attention to anything Heather said. It seemed like she noticed this too, but chose to ignore his aloof demeanor, just as you did.
After the extremely brief time you were in class, which was all of fifteen minutes to go over the syllabus and class policies, you gathered your things and waited til all the freshmen were funneling out the door before making your way out as well. Heather was seated at her desk, feet resting on top of various papers, and she signaled for you to wait. You stopped, a bit confused at first, but then saw Deidara was the only one else left in the room, so you knew what this was about.
“Look, you guys,” she started, swirling the melting ice around in her coffee. “I get it. I know you’re the only two students in my class who aren’t freshmen. I know this is one of the few credits that is standing between you and walking that stage. I know you don’t want to be here. But one of my only rules is, please do not talk while I’m addressing the class. I’m a pretty chill person and I don’t want to be a hard ass, but if you aren’t going to respect me as the professor, then this might be the one reason your graduation petition doesn’t get approved at the end of this semester.” She took a sip of coffee before continuing. “I know you both have what it takes to succeed in school in general. I can see your previous grades in my system. Just please don’t make me be the bad guy and have to call you out in front of the class for talking again. I’m not the kind of person who likes doing that.”
“Got it,” you said, your lips in a tight, forced smile. You glanced at Deidara, who rolled his eyes and mumbled “understood” without making eye contact with Heather. She raised her eyebrow at him and swirled her coffee threateningly.
“I know you think this class is beneath you, Mr. Art Major, but if you’re going to continue to have an attitude about this, then we can save you time and money by dropping this class right now and signing you up for musical theater. I’ve heard there’s still some slots left, and they’re doing Guys and Dolls this spring.” Heather’s threat was full of venom, and you saw a flash of fear across Deidara’s face before he nodded and said “yes ma’am, I apologize.” Even though you could tell he didn’t mean it, the apology was satisfactory enough for Heather, and she gestured vaguely at the door with her coffee for you two to exit.
You could not get out of there fast enough.
You hated being scolded, especially for something you didn’t do.
“Jeez, what an uptight professor. I thought all art teachers were supposed to be fun.”
Deidara’s voice sounded like nails on a chalkboard to you. You continued walking, ignoring him and hoping he would fuck off and go to wherever it was he spent his free time, but it’s like he knew you were annoyed and ignoring him and it made him want a response even more. He sped up his pace, catching up to you despite you trying to speed walk back to your car.
“Hm, look, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” he offered, extending his hand, which made you slow to a stop and meet his gaze.
He was attractive, you’d give him that much. His eyes - well, eye, since one was covered by his hair - were a beautiful shade of blue, his crooked smile would be charming if you knew nothing about him, and he was a few inches taller than you.
But none of that made up for the annoyance he had caused to slowly simmer under the surface of your skin.
You stared at his extended hand, letting a few seconds pass to make him uncomfortable, before bringing your eyes back up to meet his.
“Yes, we got off on the wrong foot,” you sneered, much icier than you intended. “You’ll pick a fight with a tenured English professor over politics, but let someone else take the fall for you talking in the middle of class? Of course we got off on the wrong foot.”
He looked stunned. It was almost like no one had stood up to him or called him out on his bullshit before, and he was speechless. He lowered his hand and stared at you, looking bewildered for another second before plastering that stupid sideways grin back onto his face.
“Okay, I’m sorry for not standing up for someone who has the ability to stand up for herself,” he mocked, throwing his hands up as if to fake surrender. You could hear how he was trying to hold back a chuckle, which pissed you off even more.
“Oh go fuck yourself,” you spat, pushing past him and making a beeline for the parking lot, just wanting to get away from the art building and back to your apartment.
Once you made it to your car, you threw your bag into the passenger seat and threw yourself into the driver seat, wanting to slam your head against the steering wheel out of frustration.
So much for a stress-free art class.
You were already dreading going back on Wednesday.
Wednesday came much quicker than you wanted it to. Thanks to your previous semesters where you took 15 - 18 hours as well as whatever classes you could in the summer, art was your only class this semester. You were able to pick up a job at a coffee shop down the road last fall and spent most of your free time either working there or hanging out there, which worked out because two of your friends worked there as well.
“Awe, you get to see your boyfriend today,” Konan teased as she handed you your iced matcha latte.
You rolled your eyes so hard, you could’ve sworn they almost rolled out of your head.
“You’re lucky I already paid for this, or I just might throw it at you,” you threatened jokingly before taking a long sip of your drink.
“If you throw that at her, you’re the one cleaning it up,” Itachi warned, grabbing the towel off his shoulder and waving it in your direction. You acted like you were considering it, causing him to raise his eyebrows in surprise, but you laughed and took another sip.
“I just hope today is more civil than Monday was, but I’m not exactly counting on it,” you thought out loud while Konan tidied up behind the counter.
“I mean, yeah, you told him to go fuck himself and stormed off, so I don’t really think things would be going well between you today,” she stated plainly. “Plus, Itachi and I both know Deidara to an extent, and he can hold a grudge like no one I’ve ever seen.”
“Fuck,” you groaned. “You think I should apologize, or would that make it worse?”
“With Deidara, you honestly never know,” Itachi offered, slinging the towel back over his shoulder. “He’s so temperamental, the answer can change from day to day.”
You nodded and said your goodbyes to your coworkers before making your way to the class you’d been dreading since you left on Monday.
When you arrived, most students were already in their seats, making small talk with each other about their other classes and which professors they had for what class. You took your seat in the back corner again, setting your latte on the table and pulling out your sketchbook and pencil bag according to the instructions on the board, and just hoped Deidara had dropped the class.
Of course, you couldn’t be that lucky, because he came strolling in right at 11 again and sat down in the same seat as yesterday, this time ignoring you.
You took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, steeling your nerves in case he decided to pop off and say something, but he looked completely uninterested, much to your relief.
Heather explained your assignment for the day - drawing and shading three different objects, from your point of view on the table. There was a sphere, a pyramid, and a cube, and you had to draw the shapes and shade them accordingly. She assured everyone that even if the drawings were “bad” or they weren’t up to the standard you set for yourself, as long as you did your best to accurately shade everything, then you would be okay, but she was available to answer any questions and give any pointers you needed.
The bucket of shapes was passed around, and every other person was instructed to take one of each shape, and the person sitting next to them would share the view of the shapes, and draw accordingly. Deidara grabbed the shapes you both needed, set them on the table in between you two, and immediately started sketching the shapes in front of him. You watched in an awestruck daze for around a minute, amazed at how quickly and easily this came to him, but then remembered that 1. Heather had called him Mr. Art Major, meaning he’d probably been taking art classes all four years of college, and 2. You hated him, so you jerked your gaze away and started attempting to draw the shapes in front of you.
This was proving to be much more difficult than you expected. How hard was it to draw shapes that were literally in front of you? You’d always been bad at drawing, but this was embarrassing. Your sphere wasn’t round, your pyramid’s lines weren’t straight, and you hadn’t even attempted to draw the cube yet. And you were having all of this trouble even before shading.
About twenty minutes out of the hour and a half class had passed, and you looked around at everyone else. They all seemed to be having a good time, chatting with their desk mates and helping each other with tips and tricks for linework and shading, and here you were, struggling to draw fucking kindergarten level shapes, sitting next to an asshole who would probably laugh in your face if you asked him for help.
Maybe you could just sneak a peek at his paper and see how far along he was and get some shading inspiration from him, since his drawing was probably pretty impressive.
Oh god, you wish you hadn’t.
You were shocked at how good the shading was, but you wouldn’t tell him that, because it would go right to his head, so you quickly snapped your head back to face your paper and continued to struggle through your sorry excuse of a drawing.
“Do you need some help, hm?”
You could hear the smirk in his voice, and it made you clench your jaw. You turned to look at him, and he was examining your sketch with pity, because it really was bad. After taking a moment to collect yourself, you swallowed hard and turned to face him.
“Actually, yeah, I do,” you said as sincerely as you could, which made you want to throw up. “I’m clearly not great at drawing, and I don’t want me failing a fucking art class to be the reason I don’t graduate in May.”
He seemed surprised at your honesty, but scooted his chair towards the table to take a closer look at the progress you’d made. The faint smell of cologne and cigarettes filled the space between you now that he was closer. After glancing back and forth between your drawing, the shapes, and your face, he sighed heavily (much more dramatically than he had to, you thought) and asked you to switch seats with him.
“Why?” you asked. “I don’t want you to do it for me.”
“I’m not doing it for you,” he scoffed, offended that you would imply something like that. “I’m just a bad teacher and can’t explain what to do unless I can see it from your perspective and can explain my process while I work. I’ll even put it in another sketchbook so it doesn’t look like I’m just doing it for you, hm?”
You hesitated, eyeing him suspiciously, because it seemed like he was being too nice based on yesterday’s interaction. He rolled his eyes and absentmindedly adjusted the hair in front of his eye.
“Consider this an apology for being an asshole yesterday,” he offered, waiting for you to move. After a few more seconds of contemplation, you stood up and switched seats with him, begrudgingly accepting his lifeline.
He pulled out his personal sketchbook from his backpack and flipped to an empty page, past several sketches that were amazing enough to be displayed in an art gallery. You already felt stupid for having to ask for help, but knowing you were asking for help from an actual art major just added insult to injury. At least he was actually going to help.
Deidara briefly examined your angle of reference before starting to sketch the shapes again, working quickly on the outlines.
“Since you’re clearly not familiar with art, I recommend taking a picture of what you’re drawing with your phone, so you can just reference it from one angle instead of moving around and looking at it a few different ways,” he explained, not lifting his eyes from the sketch. “It’s what helped me in middle school when I had to draw a still life.”
You nodded, ignoring the little digs he was making at your lack of artistic ability. He continued on with the drawing and explanation, glancing at you in between strokes of his pencil.
“When it comes to shading, you can look at the photo on your phone and see what parts of the shape are darker, and then shade those more than others. If you can’t tell the difference between dark and light, you can change the photo to black and white, and maybe that will help you understand the shadows better,” he continued to explain as he began shading the sphere.
“For the record, I understand how shadows work,” you said defensively. You couldn’t help it; yes, he was helping you, but the snide remarks were hurting your ego. “It’s just hard to see when there’s bright fluorescent lights everywhere in here.”
Your comment about it being hard to see is what stopped him in his tracks. He glanced at you, visible eyebrow raised as if to challenge your statement, before speaking.
“It’s hard for you to see, hm?” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He pushed the hair out from in front of his hidden eye, revealing the reason he kept it hidden; the iris was significantly paler than his other eye, and the whole eye was cloudy. He was blind in one eye.
Your face immediately fell, and you turned your gaze back to your shitty drawing. Obviously if you’d known he was blind in one eye, you wouldn’t have made that comment. It’s not even like it was a dig; you just had really bad art skills and couldn’t tell how to shade anything.
He stood up and gestured for you to sit back in your seat, fixing his hair so his eye was hidden again. You still weren’t looking at him.
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t kn-“ you started, but he cut you off.
“I have one working eye and can shade just fine. Maybe you’re just bad at art.”
“No shit, dude,” you fired back, whipping your head up to face him. “I literally said I was bad at art. Why the fuck do you think I waited until now to take it? It’s not like it’s a class worth taking anyways.”
You immediately knew you said the wrong thing when he opened his mouth in something between shock and anger. Damn, you just couldn’t stop putting your foot in your mouth.
“Art is probably worth more than whatever shitty degree you’re getting in a few months,” he scoffed, returning to the shapes he was shading. “But based on your drawings now, you probably won’t even graduate then.”
“What the fuck is your problem?” you demanded, whisper-yelling at him so you wouldn’t cause a scene. “You’re the one that offered to help me, and know you’re being an asshole again. Do you just have some disease where you have to be an asshole or you’ll die?”
“Yeah, actually I do, and it’s terminal, so I gotta make it count while I can,” he whisper-yelled back, slightly louder than you. He was shading the cube much more violently than required, and you were surprised a hole didn’t tear in the paper.
You had to admit, his comeback would have been funny if you weren’t already so fucking mad at him.
“If that disease doesn’t kill you, then you bet your ass I will,” you said, mostly to yourself, but still loud enough for him to just barely hear it.
“Looking forward to it, baby,” he replied, finishing his shading and grabbing his paper to turn in to Heather. She gave him a thumbs-up, but he didn’t notice because he’d already come back to his seat beside you and gathered his things. Before leaving, he turned to you, and you were expecting one final dig or snide remark, but what he did caught you so off guard you couldn’t even say anything: he stuck his tongue out at you, and held up one of his palms to show you a poorly done tattoo of a mouth with a tongue sticking out.
This man was a fucking child. Not only sticking his tongue out as an insult, but also getting a tattoo of a mouth with a tongue hanging out on his palm? The immaturity was truly beyond anything you’d ever seen.
So naturally, you matched it by flipping him off before he turned around and exited the classroom. You could’ve sworn you saw a smirk creeping onto his face before he left.
You took a deep breath before trying to refocus on your drawing, but froze before your pencil touched the paper.
He called you baby.
When you realized this after replaying the conversation in your head, you felt your stomach flip, and that alone made you want to crawl into a hole and never come out. You did not enjoy pet names like that, even from a significant other, so why the fuck did your stomach do that when you thought about Deidara saying it to you?
You decided not to dwell on it anymore and forced your attention back to your shapes, pulling the sketchbook he’d left on the table towards you so you could reference it as you struggled through the rest of your drawing.
By the time you were finished, class was almost over and most of the other students had finished and left. Only you and a handful of others remained by the time you were done with your shapes. You would never admit this to anyone, but Deidara’s advice had actually helped you, and although you struggled with straight lines and accurate angles, your drawing turned out much better than it would have if you hadn’t asked for his help. The shading wasn’t awful, and he was right, it made things a lot easier to just reference a picture on your phone, because otherwise you would get overwhelmed and move around and try to see the shapes from different angles and second guess yourself. You caught yourself doing it several times before sighing, snapping a photo of the shapes, and just referencing that, hating the idea that maybe he knew what he was talking about. You did your best not to directly copy his sketch, but used it to check your progress as you worked, which was another big help.
You placed your finished work on top of the pile of sketches, received a thumbs-up from Heather, and made a beeline for your car because you needed to vent to your friends immediately.
“He is just so goddamn infuriating!” you cried, crumbling up the napkin your cookie had sat on moments ago. Konan was on her break, so she sat across from you and quietly ate her sandwich while you complained about Deidara. “I understand he’s like, an art major or whatever, but that doesn’t mean he should just be an asshole to me!”
Konan set her sandwich crust on the plate and checked her Apple watch before folding her hands and looking you in the eyes so genuinely that it made you squirm in your seat. She always had a way of conveying so much with just her eyes, and at times like this, you hated her for it.
“Respectfully, yes he has been an asshole to you, but you haven’t apologized for being an asshole to him,” she said, her gaze piercing your very soul.
“B-but you guys told me not to because he’s temperamental,” you argued. You were never prepared for how fairly Konan viewed situations, but had immense respect for someone like her who could see both sides of the same coin.
“You’re not wrong, but I don’t think it’s necessarily fair to hold him to a higher standard in this conflict. Maybe next time you could, oh, I don’t know, not cuss him out in the middle of class and humor him with whatever he says?” She raised one eyebrow at you, making you stare down at the crumpled napkin you were fidgeting with.
“Onto the next thing,” she continued, sweeping the crumbs off the table and onto her empty plate. “Shapes? Really? You can’t even shade them?” she asked, her words dripping in disbelief and pity.
“Hey now,” you said, pointing your finger at her. “You know how artistically challenged I am. You’ve seen my work doodles, if you can even call them that. You know how bad they are!”
She nodded, smirking to herself and thinking about your past “artwork” strewn around the edges of the notepad you used to write down orders. If she was being honest, she thought you were just drawing poorly on purpose to add to the charm of the doodles, but felt that wasn’t an appropriate thing to say in this instance.
“Fair enough,” Konan replied with a chuckle. “Onto the last point. Up until I finished my sandwich, you had been talking for fifteen minutes straight. And in the three years we’ve been friends, I’ve never seen you so worked up over someone before.”
Her observation hit you like a punch to the gut. You weren’t expecting her to call you out like that, and you stammered for an explanation, but your change in expression and demeanor just made her smile. You knew she was eating this up.
“Ugh, whatever,” you scoffed, abandoning any previous explanations you had been scrambling for, crumbling your napkin up and setting it on her plate. “You know that’s not how it is.”
She didn’t say anything else, only picked up her plate and took it back to the kitchen to wash, leaving you unbelievably flustered at the thought of what she’d just implied.