Another one of my short stories with feelings and such. I started writing this about a month ago, but it was very hard to finish and I am still not sure if it came out right. But this is my first story that is based on my own feelings. That is why it suddenly changes in the middle, because I started with blaming myself and later realised I had done nothing wrong. Some of you maybe know what this is about if you read either Voiceless or When I met you.
I can honestly say that I hope she reads this and I hope it hurts her even if it's a mean thing to say. But I believe she made me feel so much worse and she should realise how she made me feel. I am tempted to tell the whole story, but I won't. I don't believe in spilling my whole story on the internet out in the open and this is already a big step for me. In a way I am even appalled that I am uploading this, but I will. I will stop blabbing now and hope you will enjoy it in a way...
A brush is dipped into paint and then raised until it reaches the canvas in front of the blonde. He holds it right in front of the thick paper, but the brush never touches the canvas. Blue eyes stare at it, because he knows what he wants to paint, the image right in front of him. But nevertheless he can't force himself the make that first dot of colour.
The brush is lowered again and placed on a multi-coloured table, carelessly used by the blonde who always just places his paint somewhere, never caring what it might touch.
Now he just stares at the empty canvas, feeling the same way right in his heart. Of course there was a reason why he couldn't paint the image that was in his head right now, just like all the other images that came across his mind. He couldn't tell those beautiful stories anymore or use the brightest colours he could think off. Nothing seemed worthy of that colour anymore. Not after he ruined everything.
His blue eyes look away from the still empty canvas, not able to bare it anymore. He knew exactly what had gone wrong and he also knew it had all been his fault. He balls his hands into fists and grits his teeth. In the next second he slams the canvas down, the wood breaking as soon as it hits the ground. He was angry, but he didn't know how to deal with it, because it was he who he was mad off. He couldn't blame anyone, but himself.
The blonde turns and walks away, leaving the room that was once his favourite room in the world. It used to be adorned with so many paintings, brightening the whole room up. Before he was only able to stop painting when there was a good reason to and the only good reason to stop painting was him. Because when he wasn't painting the raven, he was watching the raven. He was the most beautiful thing the blonde had ever seen.
That was the whole reason why it had all fallen apart. He had been too obsessed with the raven, had laid too much pressure on the other and it had broken them. The raven had moved away from him, distancing himself from the blonde and this only made him pull back harder. He would get mad at the raven and then he would plead again, begging for the other to stay, but he didn't.
The door to the art room closes and the blonde walks into his living room and sits down on his couch. A sigh leaves his lips as he closes his eyes and reminisces the times he had spent with the raven again. He could always find some new ways to blame himself for them falling apart. There was always something he had done wrong. But this time it was different. He remembered different things. He remembered how he had always been there for the raven and how he had cared for him. How much he had actually loved the raven and how the raven had taken him for granted.
All those paintings had been for the raven and he had gladly accepted them when he wanted them. He had accepted every bit of love the blonde offered and had loved the attention. Maybe it wasn't his fault at all. Maybe something else had been wrong. Maybe he had just loved the other more than he was loved back.
A knock on the door shakes him out of his thoughts and he slowly stands up. But the idea stays and as he walks towards the front door, he remembers more. When the raven needed him, he had been there to support him through everything, but when he needed the other, the raven never had time. He just had a busy life and the blonde needed to deal with that. There was no other way apparently, but it wasn't true. It's all about effort. Effort the blonde was willing to make, but the other wasn't. He deserved more than that. The blonde deserved way more than that.
If there is one thing the blonde can do it is love properly and fully and he was sure he had never loved anyone as much as he had loved the raven. There was just no one else as special as the raven or just as beautiful. He had been everything to the blonde and the raven had just thrown him away. He had broken it, not the blonde. It was all his fault for not making the effort.
The blonde opens the door and comes face to face with no one other than the raven.
'Deidara, can I please come in?' the raven says with tears stinging in his eyes. The blonde only blinks and without a word closes the door again, leaving the raven outside on his doorstep.
You are just a little too late, Itachi. But next time don't take the other for granted, because I am sure no one else will love you as much as I did.
Characters © Masashi Kishimoto