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Where the Watermelons Grow [Jan. 17th, 2007|05:07 pm]
[Mood |artistic]

Characters: Deidara and Sasori
Setting: By the water at the beginning of a storm
Rating: G :3

Summary: Deidara goes to the waterside to watch the storm come (It's art!) and finds someone else already there. Sasori and Deidara meet for the first time.

The wind was stronger by the water. It blew Deidara’s long hair wild, sent his light, inadequate coat flapping and strung the ends of his red scarf out like a banner. His one eye squinted into the glare from the water’s surface, tearing slightly from the force of the gusts and loss of comfortable moisture. He never did prepare for the elements. Where was the fun in that? He turned his head slightly as if he could save himself long hours with a comb if only he could blow his hair back into order. Oh well.

He could not say exactly when he found himself treading the boardwalk, only that it was late afternoon and the sky had begun to turn crazy colors to match the leaves of the autumn trees. This place was an intersection of worlds: Emptiness of the ocean, bustle of the city; security of land, peril of sea; Uncontrollable wind, stoic buildings of concrete and metal- It was no wonder he wished to be here at end of day. This was where it was. The energy, the inspiration!

But there was something amiss in the desolation of the docks. They were not so desolate today. There, in his new angle of squinting sight was a head of red hair, and a body to match, he was sure, should he go closer. Who would be here now, with dark clouds threatening the still-clear horizon and winds promising a storm tonight? He walked closer. Who indeed? He was not shy.

“Hey!” he called sharply in greeting, hoping the wind would carry it, “Hey you!” He walked up beside. Was some kid standing out on the docks in this wind?

Sasori's body was tightly wrapped in blacks and purples and reds, colors that expressed something pretty about him, and the clothing products of leftover material from his puppetry and clothes he'd made on his own free time. (He never went shopping for clothes, too orthodox, nothing original about it, if he was to wear clothing at all it might as well not be something mass produced my starving children in China working so their dying parents can eat something at night.)

He shivers somewhat, an Egyptian body unaccustomed to the cool of November, but keeps his eyes on the water, the Lousiana current soft and non-violent and the waves coming towards him as something relaxed and almost withdrawn. The tall boots he's wearing click against the wooden docks, and he turns, hair tossing violently in the wind, to glare at the one who had addressed him.

Tall. Blonde. Deep voice.

(Sasori already doesn't like him.)


Deidara ignored the curt greeting, looked down at the strange person he stood beside, wrapped in bright colors which did not dull the sharpness of his voice, and spoke through his scarf, “It’s a windy day!” he stated the obvious, loudly, to be heard over the wind. It probably wasn’t necessary when they were standing so close, but that didn’t stop him. “I wanted to know, un, why you were out here in such weather? It can be dangerous.” As if to prove his point a large gust rolled into them, and he was forced to shift his feet on the planks and twitch his toes ever so slightly to keep balance. It was hard to see with his hair whipping in his face, but he kept his eye trained on the one beside him.

“Why are you here, is it to watch the storm? To be alone? To feel the wind bite through your clothes, un? What? You look cold enough.” And he wondered, why? And who are you, to look so frail, to be in this place, my place, at the coming of a storm? With whom am I to share this experience tonight- or will you leave? Deidara wondered and waited.

"It's hardly of your concern."

(Yet the fact that he is cold is not to be denied, as his body is small and ill adapted to rigidity in the air, as well as his clothes, vibrant and visually appealing as he finds them, aren't very thick.)

His cheeks are flushed red from the biting air, and the barbell in his tongue clicks against in his teeth with irritation. The blonde was certainly questioning, and he doesn't like it, such a blind persistance.

“Oh no, un, you’re quite wrong- it is of great concern to me. This storm is art, and everything around it will be art. You, too.” Though as Deidara glanced him over, he decided this colorful being needed no storm to be art. “You are an unexpected element, you are therefore of added artistic interest, un.” He knew that talking to people as if they were art subjects was usually ill advised, but it was also the truth.

He turned his face back to the open water, eye wincing slightly in the renewed onslaught of wind, watching the lines of boats strain at their tethers- pictures of energy. He was pleased with his explanation to his new acquaintance and found he was not bothered by this change of events, so he renewed his questioning, trying a different track, “What do you see when you look out there, un?” he indicated the horizon with a jerk of his chin, unwilling to remove his hand from his pocket to gesture.

Sasori's interest is piqued with the words (which is unsurprising, really, as so few things can truly get his attention aside from such.) "All elements can be considered unexpected. This world is chaotic and orderly in the same perspective." Tugging a little at the sleeve where crushed lace clung to his skin, he directed his gaze to the water, hair whipping in every direction as it fought flimsily against the wind.

"As for what I see..." He pauses thoughtfully and takes a moment to stare. "I see eternal impressionism. The unending, unforgiving image to be preserved in memory as a beauty to be slaughtered within the next day as the storm ends and the orthodox sunshine and peace replace it. I see pain and fear and anger and what the generally considered 'normal' person detests as it breaks the standard of their pitiful suburban existence."

“Ordered chaos, un?” He [Deidara] furrows his brow in thought, gazing at the clashing elements before him. “There is no order here, that is the beauty. Forces may act according to rules but what initiates those forces and how and when and what magnitude- that is unknown! To trace them would to be to ruin this picture. That is not what is meant to be seen, un.”

He listened to the other’s impression of the scene surrounding them, straining to hear the stream of words over his impulse to lose himself to the sound of wind and waves. It pulled at him more strongly than curiosity for this strange person’s point of view, but he must give an answer. “This image is not unending, it will end. Somehow. It will swell and billow to full intensity- and then blow itself out! And be gone. Forever. A storm is never the same twice; it should never be looked upon as a repeating event.” He turned his body slightly once more, a certain part of the other’s dialogue having caught his attention, “Are there emotions here, un? Your own do color it, certainly, but do you see them reflected out there? I see none, just energy.”

"There is order." Sasori replies in irritation, taking a cigarillo from within his clothes and lighting it between his lips. "There is order in the knowledge that this storm will end and there is order in the knowledge of what the storm will do, however erratic the actions themselves may be. Tracing them would not ruin the image, because if that were the case, then the image itself has no point because it can be hollowed out so very easily. In this world, everything is meant to be seen, and it is disgusting ignorance to not appreciate and absorb all of it."

(The blonde is an irritating, contradictory little brat, and Sasori doesn't like him much.) "This image is eternal if only for the reason that anything that can be considered art lives on in memory and impression for all time. Nothing blows itself out, and if it does it was never art in the first place. A storm is never the same twice, which proves my point more than yours, that every storm and every fiber of this world is eternal as long as it is appreciated completely, which is something I doubt you have the capacity for."

He takes a long, sweet drag, the smoke carrying the sweet of vanilla that he breathes passively before the wind carries it away. "Emotion is in anything a person reacts to. You say this storm is art, you have reaction to it, physically and psychologically, so therefore, the storm itself has emotion. If all you can see is energy then you are blind."

“All I need to see is energy, un!” he exclaimed passionately, eye lighting in excitement. He loved debating, and here was someone who would. “Order has no place here! A beginning and a middle and an end, that is all that is known, a mere framework set for the canvas between. No one traces the fibers of the canvas. There is beauty to the swirls of paint but it is the work as a whole that must be applauded! There is nothing hollow in seeing what is there for what it is.

“Art lives in memory as a mere shadow of what its original power was. Memory cannot create the fury of a moment, and should never be relied on. Art can only be now, appreciation can come later, don’t you see, un? I feel great emotion when I look at this scene, but it is my own. The waves are not angry at the shore and the boats feel no more desperation to be free of the docks than do I to be gone from here and safe inside. None!” He whips his hand out of his pocket at last, ignoring the freezing bite of the wind on his fingers, and gestures wildly at the water, “This- Just this, un- Is art. Not later, not the memory, not its components- just this!”

"What you're saying is that all you want to see is energy, which is grossly ignorant, as selective perception retards a person from seeing the true Everything that exists. If order has no place then there is no chaos either, which means there is no Anything and the entire concept of art is lost. Nothing simply begins and ends. Everything exists forever, in some form of the word. You aren't seeing it's raw form. You're only seeing some romanticized, exciting piece of it; the "energy", as you say. Energy never fades completely, and it's been proven as such, and since you believe in energy, that completely contradicts your belief that everything has birth and death."

(Sasori doesn't remember ever talking this much. Especially to someone whom he didn't know the name of.) "Memory can keep it in it's fullest, rawest state if the person perceives it to it's fullest. But most people don't. They only take in the image, witness the "energy", and then let it die because they didn't see it from every waking aspect. Art is more than what you see in that second. It's what you carry from it. If it has no effect on you afterwards then either-"

Sasori pulls the cigarillo from his lips and releases the toxins back into the air, licking his bottom lip and feeling the warmth for half a second before a biting cold. "-Either it is not art or the person has no sense of reality."
Art in Denial: They need some names >_>;

“That isn’t what I’m saying at all, un,” he huffed, a bit indignant, “What I am seeing IS reality, not a separation from it. There is absolutely no doubt of my existence here, not when my senses are filled with the essence of this environment- the way my body shudders in the cold, my hair tangles in the wind, the salt in my mouth, the beat of my heart drowned by the ocean waves- I need rely on no memory, un. Memory is weak and useless and pale and doubtful. Memory dies, deteriorating as the body does and disappearing along with it, too. Energy is the backdrop, energy is the truth, and the picture it creates is what is stunning- Sea and sky and the rain which will fall and these man-made objects tossed about in the resulting conflict. The energy may change form, but it runs in unpredictable chains through this landscape, and you can follow it as easy as the trail of paint from a brush.”

He paused for breath, as so much of it was stolen by the wind. He quieted himself, remembering that with their proximity, there was no more reason to shout. “I need only rely on this one attainable moment, what is real,” he mumbled to his scarf, “Those who think they can keep it locked in their hearts for the rest of eternity are fools, un. The future means nothing, because everyone’s future is ultimately nothing.” He folded his hand back into his pocket, giving the numb fingers relief at long last, and stood still a moment. He did not wish to argue any longer, with the dark clouds beginning to promise rain in earnest. He just wanted to experience. “What is your name, un?” He asked lightly, realizing he had been tossing words at a complete stranger.

Sasori pauses in debate and meets his eye, a vibrant blue into amber coated in colors and coals, and releases the smoke he'd been holding in his chest that disappears quickly with the force of the wind. "Sasori."

(Just Sasori, for nothing else needs to be known.)

"Yours?" (He pretends like he isn't interested, but anyone who can keep him talking this much can be considered of "Interest" to him, though the word does it very little justice.)

"Sasori." Deidara repeats, trying it out, keeping the eye contact the other had initiated,

"Sasori, un, Sasori..." He likes it, but he won’t say that, not out loud. Sasori. He thought it rather fit.

"Me, un? I am Deidara." He offers no more, either. What does it matter, his full name? Same as the one he had just met, a label would suffice, just a word to put to a face. A face he might see again?

The wind picked up and he hunched his shoulders instinctively against its force. It brought him back to the present, "Well, Sasori, un, are you here to watch the storm, now? Are you going to be staying here?" A part of him hoped so, so they could discuss it some more. Two people could watch the same thing and come away with such different interpretations! But...usually, no one else was here to watch. He liked the company.

"Yes." Sasori states after a few moments, his eyes returning back to the crashing waters with a certain amount of (childish?) fascination in them. He is cold, but he is staying, because he wants to see the entirety of what the world has to offer, not just fleeting, erratic instances to be called art. (Deidara. Suiting, somewhat, but he will not say it aloud unless needed. He doesn't speak unless he needs to be heard.)

"Great, un!" He smiled in spite of himself, and though he knew his scarf hid the sight of it, his voice must surely have carried his delight. He was growing mildly concerned with the wind however, and with a few cautious steps and a quick duck he was seated at the edge of the boardwalk, legs hooked securely over the side, hand flat on the boards for added balance. He looked back over his shoulder, through his mess of blond hair, inviting, "Come on, then, un. You look a bit ill-equipped for this weather, and the winds are strong. Best to be more grounded."

He gave a more critical look, where he hadn't before. Just how old was this...boy? He spoke like none of his students ever did, yet surely he could be no older..? "Just how old are you, un, to be out in a storm like this?" A bit of protectiveness had crept into him at the thought of his students. He really wasn't one to talk, but unnecessary risks were something teenagers engaged in frequently, and without thought of consequence. It was a personal choice of his to treat his life so carelessly for the sake of experiencing art, but some people were just fools. This Sasori did not strike him as a fool, so why? Water's edge at a storm was no place for a young boy to be, not so far out as this with the winds beginning to scream.

Sasori follows him, edging his clothes downward as he begins to walk (the many of his clothing is ill-equipped for anything) crossing his arms over his chest and keeping his eyes directly ahead. Deidara sounded somewhat...pleased~? He couldn't fathom as to why, as his company was what most considered intolerable, but he didn't question. (Demanding answers to something that didn't matter was pointless.)

Tossing the cigarillo into the waters before turning from the dock completely (the hiss of a flame doused reminds him of Elementary school back in Egypt, where the children would throw ice on the ground in the heat of the day and whoever's cube melted first got to pick the game the class would play.) The question didn't ring to have much importance to him, but answering honestly, he replies, "Thirty-one."

Deidara gave him an incredulous look, raising an eyebrow, "Thirty-one, un?" That couldn’t be right. Was the kid trying to make the point that he was more like a thirty-year-old than a teen? Was he touched in the head? (though that certainly didn’t seem right). Deidara settled for stating the obvious. "You don’t look thirty-one."

Sasori's eyes fall (half open? closed? Perceptions, perceptions.) and he gives the man a flat look, pressing his lips together in irritation for a moment before replying, somewhat dully, "Your interpretations are astounding." (He hates talking about his age. The number of people that even believe him is more than a frustratingly low percent.)

Deidara studied Sasori’s expression, noting the fleeting look of emotion on the as of yet smooth face. The bite of sarcasm took him back a bit, and he reconsidered, tilting his head ever so slightly and scrutinizing the form of this strange…man before him. He had no reason for doubt other than what Sasori said did not match with what his sharp eye saw. But eyes could not see everything. He offered a smile, “Yeah, un, they usually are quite brilliant, if I do say,” and he offered his hand “So will you sit?”

Sasori doesn't take his hand (contact, bodies, touch, it was too intimate for him to willingly give to strangers), only sitting down and tugging at the fabric of his skirt so it didn't ride up. The water-rotting wood presses hard into his thighs, but he ignores the discomfort, willing for it to go away as his feet hang only so far away from a bayou (would the water be warm? Or cold? The wind was certainly-) begging to be disturbed.

He doesn't know what Deidara wants from him, but all the same he complies. Intelligent company, no matter how grossly contradictory it can be, was rare in America. (Europe had been better. Egypt had been best.)

Deidara didn’t drop the smile as his hand was ignored; he had almost expected it from the creature (for creature he appeared to be; impossibly young-faced and covered in fluttering bright colors) and was not displeased with him so long as he stayed. And he was. It would have been a shame to lose him -the show was just getting good here!

He cast his eye warily to the foaming waters breaking against the old wooden beams below. The swells were high, though still safely ten feet below his and his momentary companion’s dangling toes. The tide was coming in, most likely. He could see and begin to feel the spray dampen his pant legs, but what did it matter when he would soon be drenched in the rain still to come? He leaned forward into the chill wind, tossing his head back slightly in enjoyment. It was damn freezing; It was so damn cool! “This must be art, un,” he shared his thoughts with the one at his side and the open air, expecting a response from neither.

"And why do you say that?" Sasori asks in a low tone, not really disagreeing with the man but only inquiring to a reasoning he probably would disagree with. (Interesting, he was, far more than most people, and those he could consider of interest were artwork all on their own, living, breathing history in their own right, but of course Sasori will never-)

Deidara was disinclined to answer, being more interested in giving himself to the elements, marveling at how the fluid ice blowing across his skin did not cause him to shudder, as if he were at last becoming a part of it. Without human heat, was he human? He didn’t think he was.

Sasori must be expecting an answer- he needed to separate his swirling consciousness from the scattering winds. “Can’t you feel it?” He asked after a while, his voice calm, at odds with the turbulent weather. He brought his one bright eye to rest on the human beside him, as if the glance could offer the explanation he could not. He might have been smiling, a thin friendly sliver, but the cold had seized his muscles along with the rest of his body, “Hasn’t it taken you, too? This energy. Haven’t you ever lost yourself to this experience? Art is an experience, so an experience must be art.” A shiver shook his body and he winced, the reality of numb and freezing limbs slamming back into him, like coming off a drug high. “Damn, un,” he winced. ‘Talking and art are not compatible,’ he thought bitterly, curling in on himself slightly. “It’s cold.”

The heavy souls of his boots weigh down his feet, and Sasori swings them, almost childishly, back and forth in time with the rough winds that would toss his hair and skirt somewhat violently. He doesn't bother to say anything to the first few statements, only breathing in his cigarello and watching, with great intent, the waters crashing hard into itself, a self destruction he finds himself enjoying to a gross extent.

"Yes, it is."

“Glad we agree on something, un,” Deidara said a bit wryly, though he was a bit put off at his other comments being ignored. Perhaps he should take it to mean the one beside him concurred- though he doubted it. He would leave this strange being to his thoughts, and carry his experience home with him now to convert into art. His heart leapt at the thought of it as he leapt to his feet, shivering more noticeably in the increased exposure, though he wondered if he would avoid exposure anywhere until he was home. Not that he minded. “I must be going now. I wish to watch the storm from another viewpoint now, un, and the rainclouds look ready to drop. City streets in the rain are amazing…” He looked over the figure at his feet once more, “It was nice to meet you, Sasori.”

Sasori doesn't nod, but his eyes acknowledge Deidara with a sense of would-be respect (-but no. Sasori respects few because few earn it, especially a passing stranger. A passing fad.) He pulls his hair behind an ear and it stays for only a moment before the storm's wind tosses it again. A passive motion. (Almost intimate, in the strangest of ways, because Sasori's gestures, each and every one of them, there is a contemplation behind them all. What is inate is now considered and what is learned is questioned.)

He'd always been the strange one.

A glance before streaks of red whip into his line of sight, and he pulls his hair back into the black barette it had been clipped in.

"Where do you pass your life?"

("Where can I see you again?")

He wouldn't admit he is interested.

Deidara followed the motion of Sasori’s fingers with his eyes, his attention attracted to the wind-tossed red hair once again. It stood out to him against the sky, art indeed, and though the man’s words were fairly noncommittal, it elicited a smile from his lips. We shall meet again?

“I spend most of my time at Loyola University. Look me up in the art wing,” He turned, giving a small wave over his shoulder in preparation to go. He would give Sasori no more for now. If he was willing to dodge college students, he was genuinely interested. Deidara was pleased with this test and need bother no more about it. What deserved his attention now was this storm. “Good bye, Sasori.”

Sasori eyes him somewhat wearily. (-Annoying, in the most tolerable of ways. Deidara.) "Goodbye."

It takes ten minutes before all of New Orleans in showered in rains and strikes of flame to cut through clouds and terrorize the many who can't stand storms and the like. He walks home the way he walked to the peer, underneath the material of an umbrella and the coos of "Hey babydoll, need a ride home?" he receives from strangers in the alleys of places even God wouldn't tread.

He'd never been chaste.