Violent Idiosyncrasies   von Caique
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              Kapitel 1: Of detonating clay and explosive tempers
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Sakura, at twenty-two, knew that her life would be ruined by art. If not by art
itself, then by artists. And if not by artists in general then by a particular
artist. A mercurial man whose works were of clay and debris.
It was not entirely his fault, she had to admit. She would never have happened
upon him if left to her own devices. If she were to blame anyone in retrospect,
it would have to be Tsunade – her editor. Then again, if Sai hadn't fallen
ill, thus forcing her to conduct the interview in his place, nothing would have
happened. She felt a twinge of guilt. If she was honest, she could hardly blame
the young man for his illness, but if she tried hard enough, she just might be
able to push the blame onto the tiny organisms that had caused the viral
infection. It was truly upsetting, to say the least, to be out of a culprit to
direct her anger at.

It was a well-known fact that Sakura Haruno was not the least bit interested in
the abstract emotions and vast interpretations of fine arts. She was a hands-on,
practical, unimaginative sort of person. She was a second-year medical student
at the King's College London Medical School, aspiring to become a doctor and
thus excited by unusual things such as infections and the traits attributed to
Staphylococcus. She wrote weekly health columns for Konoha magazine to
contribute to her limited funds and her sky-high tuition fees. She breathed for
hard sciences, the tangible and explainable things in life. She did not,
however, know a thing about art. And she she could have continued to live in
blissful ignorance if her pale and socially inept friend Sai hadn't suddenly
decided to become an incubator for Streptococcus bacteria.

Thus, you can imagine, her complete and utter lack of excitement when her phone
had rung on that particular morning, the shrill sound acting the herald of her
undoing.

Sakura sighed, running a slender hand through her pinkish locks. It was a rainy
Saturday morning, one of those days on which she preferred to stay indoors,
curled up with a good book. Thick, heavy drops fell from the sky, clashing
against her window as she poured herself a cup of coffee. She was still dressed
in her pyjama-bottoms and an oversized t-shirt, clutching her mug –
nondescript white, with a 'I'm a medical student, I need COFFEE' print in bold
black letters – as she plopped down at the counter in her kitchen while her
roommate Ino prepared breakfast.

"Do you have any idea how much I love you, pig? What on earth would I do without
you?" she asked, her words still slurred from her brief sleeping interlude
between study-sessions.
The blonde girl smirked over her shoulder, flipping the most deliciously golden
looking pancake the pink-haired woman had ever seen.
"You'd probably be lying in a ditch somewhere Forehead, half-starved to death
and sleep-deprived."
It wasn't far off. She was a workaholic, addicted to success and quite frankly
and ironically hardly took care of her physical needs. She hadn't been with a
man in God knows how long and it was a miracle if she remembered to eat
regularly.
"Yeah something like that," she muttered as she accepted the plate handed to her
by the buxom blonde in front of her.
Sitting down at the bar, she savoured every last bite of her breakfast –
consisting of buttermilk blueberry pancakes with a side of crispy bacon – and
occasionally moaning in delight. If she weren't straight, she would have
ravished her friend right then and there just for making her breakfast. Sakura
would have long since died of starvation if Ino wasn't around to feed her.

Suddenly, her morning tranquility was brutally interrupted by the shrill ringing
of her cell phone. She made a mental note to change the ringtone before it gave
her a heart attack.
Mouth still half full of pancake, she glanced at the display before groaning and
picking up the call.
"Sakura?!"
She immediately regretted her decision when the gruff voice of her editor,
Tsunade, reached her sleep-riddled ears. Holding the cellphone a bit further
from her ear, she replied hesitantly.
"Yes, 'morning. What can I do for you?"
"Sai's fallen ill," Sakura winced at the hint embedded in the statement, praying
to God that it didn't mean what she thought it did, "He's got a one-time
opportunity for an interview with an up and coming artist scheduled for today so
I need you to cover that instead." Oh bloody hell.
Groaning, the unlucky woman rubbed her temples in annoyance.

"Really? Can't you ask someone else? I know absolutely zero about art," she
tried hopefully but was quickly disappointed.
"Nope – you're all I got. I'll text you the address and forward you Sai's
prepped questions."
"Fine – but I want my paycheck right away this time before you 'misplace' it
in a pub in exchange for booze, alright?" Sakura caved, her tone dangerously
close to insolence. She could almost see the twitch in her boss' lip at her
words and a smile crept onto her face.
"Careful, Haruno," the woman at the other end growled before ending the
conversation and leaving the pink-haired woman to sigh in exasperation.
"She's one hell of a slave-driver, isn't she," Ino grinned in amusement at her
friend's predicament.
"Yeah – when she's not gambling away company assets or stupefying her nervous
system with drink, she's truly terrifying."
And when the infamous, hot-tempered medical student Sakura Haruno cowered in
fear – that was saying something.

Three hours later, Sakura rung the doorbell to a loft in the West End, rented
out to a man going by the ridiculous name of Deidara. What kind of a name was
that anyway? She had already pushed the button what felt like a million times
but no one bothered to answer. Bloody artists and their quirks, she cursed
inwardly before she spun around, ready to text Tsunade and head home, defeated.
This was exactly why she avoided this kind of thing like the plague - she was
completely out of her depth.Before she knew it, she collided head first with
something rock solid and was knocked onto her bum on the front door steps of the
no-show artist.
Her blood was boiling and she yanked her head up to glare at the moron, ready to
rip whoever it was a new one.

"Watch where you're going, you idiot," she cursed.
"How about you take your own advice Pinky and get off my doorstep, yeah."
The reply surprised her and her eyes widened as she looked up. Just who did he
think he was?
Scrambling to her feet, she tugged at her blouse and straightened her jacket
glaring at the arrogant stranger.
"Your doorstep?" Sakura inquired while she quickly ran her eyes over the male.
His appearance was somewhat peculiar. Reasonably tall, tan and dressed in
blue-jeans and working boots, a messenger-bag slung across his shoulders. His
lean, almost boyish physique was covered by a cream knitted sweater. If it
wasn't for the rainbow-coloured scarf around his neck that just screamed artsy
and the high, half pony-tail in which he wore his long honey-blonde hair – he
might had passed for boyfriend material. It wasn't however his looks or the
black eyeliner around his teal eyes that irked her – it was the wickedly
arrogant smirk on his features that really got to her.
"Yep, Pinky. Why, got a problem with that?" She recognized a faint guttural
cockney accent in his speech.
She really didn't like his attitude. If he was who she assumed him to be – the
smart girl that she was – Tsunade would have hell to pay.

Deidara smirked as the girl's anger dissipated and turned to skepticism. He
noticed that she gave him a quick once over as she didn't bother to conceal her
obvious ogling. He returned the gesture, taking in her prudish appearance. A
black blazer, white blouse and skinny-jeans – the girl's entire appearance
just screamed goody two shoes from a suburban home in a sensible job. Even her
shoes - reasonable heels, demure in looks. If it wasn't for that ridiculous pink
hair – there was just no way that that was natural. Who had hair like that?
"Yep, Pinky. Why, got a problem with that, hm?"
He raised a quizzical eyebrow at her glare. She couldn't possibly be that daft.
Did he really need to repeat himself?
"If you live here – then you must be Deidara," she deducted and he rolled her
eyes.
"Obviously, yeah. Can I help you with something love, hm?" He offered
sarcastically as he pushed her aside to unlock the door.
"Actually yes. I'm Sakura Haruno, from Konoha Magazine, I'm here for the
interview," she retorted, every bit as venomously.
Interview? He groaned in frustration as he vaguely remembered agreeing to speak
to some bloke from some magazine – the name of which he hadn't bothered to
memorise. He'd been against it, but his agent had insisted on the publicity. He
could not, however, for the life of him remember any appointments with a girl.
"I don't recall making any appointments with a pink-haired girl – trust me
love, I'd remember if I had, hm."

He pushed open the door and turned to her, leaning casually in the door-frame.
"Yeah well, Sai – my colleague – is sick so you'll have to do with me. And
you're one to talk about hair you blond maniac."
Deidara's eyebrow quirked upwards at the thinly veiled insult. She had guts,
that he had to admit. Scanning her over again, he sighed, turning around and
beckoning for her to step inside the corridor. The building was an old factory
that had been converted into loft apartments, one of which he had rented for a
workshop.
"Alright then, Pinky. Follow me, yeah?" Leading her down the brick-walled
corridor, he approached a heavy, metal sliding door and unlocked it. He slid
inside, followed by the girl. Deidara instantly felt at ease, amidst his brushes
and canvases, his clay sculptures and potter's wheels. The entire space was
flooded by an earthy smell emitted from his numerous kinds of clay.
"So, Pinky, hm," he turned to her, discarding his jacket and placing his bag on
a hanger near the door, "What do you need to know?"
"Stop calling me Pinky!"
Annoyed, the girl took in the space around her, her eyes flitting from one
sculpture to the next, somewhere between amazed and confused.
"Nope," he grinned.
Rolling her rather pretty eyes at him, she rummaged around in her abnormally
large handbag, producing a recording device. Deidara leaned onto his workbench,
regarding her with smirk.
"Um, would you mind if I recorded our conversation? It's quicker and easier than
taking notes..." her voice drifted off and suddenly it seemed as if her
confidence had vanished into thin air.
"Whatever, hm."

He couldn't deny that her mercurial mood swings were intriguing – just as they
were annoying. Maybe he could have a little fun with her, just to see how long
it'd take for her to snap.
She set up the recorder before she went over to a piece – a large, egg-shaped
clay bird – and ran her fingers over the surface.
"So tell me about your...art," she began, tentatively.
Deidara's eyes followed and he discreetly grabbed a small ceramic bug from his
workbench and, aiming for the wall, a few meters behind her, he threw it, a
wicked gleam in his eye.
It collided with the brick and a small explosion erupted upon contact –
sending debris flying in a cloud of dust. A scream rung through the room, not
deterring the artist from admiring his work.
"Are you stark raving mad?!"
His smirk widened into a full, ear-to-ear grin, taking the startled woman by
surprise.
"What the hell was that? Are you some kind of psychopath?"
"True art is an explosion, hm!" he answered her initial question, still sporting
a grin as though he hadn't just detonated a ball of exploding clay in a building
in London, but simply as if he was amused.

Sakura was livid. She stared at the male in disbelief, eyes wide. He had got to
be crazy - medically, truly and utterly insane.
"That's not art, you mental person – that's terrorism!"
Her heart was pounding in her chest and she tried to force her hand to stop
shaking. He terrified her. One moment he was compliant, asking her to fire away
with her interview – the next he was throwing...whatever the hell that was. It
wasn't so much the explosion that scared her – it was the man, the mercurial
temper of his.
"Don't insult me," he retorted to her surprise, the exhilarated grin replaced by
a disgusted scowl, "You have no appreciation for my art!"
It almost sounded like an accusation and she frowned, insulted despite the
correctness of his statement. She knew nothing about art – but she was damned
sure that it wasn't supposed to explode.

"How is that art? The clay sculptures, I get – they're nice to look at. But
that – that was just a bomb, no different from a terrorist act."
She didn't understand, she truly didn't. Yet again – she really didn't care
either way. She just wanted to go home and forget this ever happened. The
interview had started horribly anyway. However, Sakura had a sneaking suspicion
that she wouldn't be able to forget, no matter how hard she tried and how many
bottles she emptied. Some experiences had a way of burning themselves into her
memory, and this was probably one of them.
"Art – true art – is the fleeting beauty of a single moment of explosion,
hm," Deidara explained, his eyes gazing reverently at the large bird-like
sculpture the woman had been looking at moments ago.
"My art isn't in my sculptures. It's the moment in which they are destroyed,
turned meaningful by detonation. It's beautiful, but intangible, ever-fleeting,
hm."
Sakura mulled over his words, narrowing her brows in thought. She wanted to
understand – she did, she was too much of an academic not to– but she
couldn't. It was too confusing – why spend so much time crafting these ornate
figures only to blow them to smithereens?

"But why art then? If it's just the explosion you're after, why not be a
pyrotechnist? It makes no sense."
She mused, the confusion evident on her features. Deidara's smirk vanished and
he rubbed his neck in thought.
"I'm not going to limit myself – and thus my art – to executing timed
explosions. I'm an opportunist, chaotic by nature. I don't do well with
restrictions, hm."
He grabbed hold of some prepared clay and began kneading it in his hands under
Sakura's watchful gaze. Only now did she notice the black ink embedded in his
palms – two open mouths – tattooed starkly against his sun-kissed skin.
Stepping closer she observed. His kneading motions were almost loving, careful
as though he was molding something fragile rather than a lump of clay.
"How does it work," she asked, her natural curiosity awakened by the degree of
her non-understanding.
He didn't look up but continued to form the material, applying only minimal
pressure, though she could still see the hint of a smile on his features.
"Wouldn't you like to know, Pinky?"
"Well yeah, I wouldn't have asked if I didn't, you crazy arsonist."
He raised a brow and for a brief moment stopped
"Arsonist? No one's called me that before," he smirked, almost as if he liked
the sound of the epiphet despite it's criminal nature. He then continued to
knead, before answering.
"I prepare the clay beforehand, using a chemical compound similar to
nitroglycerin. All it takes is impact and then...boom, yeah!"
He illustrated the explosion by throwing the ball of clay in the air like a
tennis ball and making an exploding gesture with his hands.
Sakura shrieked in horror at his explanation as he launched the clay upward.

Deidara grinned wickedly.
So easy to frighten, he thought. So much fun to be had.
Her eyes were wide with fear and she dropped onto the ground, curling up as she
waited for the explosion. He watched, unmoving as she clenched her eyes shut,
her heart pounding irregularly in fear - he could almost hear it. He could have
wet himself right then and there, out of sheer amusement and pride in his little
prank but instead burst out laughing. He caught the clay and gently placed it on
the workbench and doubled over in laughter.
Tears welled up in his eyes as he had difficulty composing himself, hardly
noticing the girl scrambling onto her feet.
"You...hahaha...should have SEEN your face, yeah!"
"Shannaro!"
He was to absorbed in his laughter to see it coming. With a thud, the
pink-haired girl's fist connected with his jaw, sending him flying onto his
back.
"Holy fuck! What's wrong with you? We could have died you sick son of a -"
"Relax, for fuck's sake, hm..." he interrupted her rant as he sat on the floor,
clutching his jaw, the amusement not totally eradicated from his face, "The
compound only becomes unstable once it's been heated to something over nine
hundred degrees – when I've baked the clay to ceramic that is, hm."
He remained on the floor, seating himself more comfortably and looked up to the
girl who was still panting from the exertion, fist clenched in anger.
"Don't get your panties in a twist, hm," he teased, propping up a knee and
resting his arm on it.
His keen eyes held no anger at her violent outburst – he had practically asked
for it and still considered it full well worth her surprisingly tough right
hook.
Quite a temper that one, he thought, watching as she gradually calmed herself
down enough to stop shaking.
"You're freaking psychopath, you know that Deidara?"

Sakura huffed in anger, spitting insult after insult at the male. He was
infuriating! There was no way that was legal. I mean you couldn't just throw
explosives around like that for art's sake, could you?
"I'm not the one physically abusing unsuspecting artists, you know, yeah."
What was it with that annoying grunt he added to every sentence? What was up
with this guy? Sakura was no longer sure she wanted to know. The idea of just
leaving straight away was appealing more and more to her sense of
self-preservation.
"Yeah well you deserved it," she retorted angrily, running a hand through her
pink locks to straighten them. "You didn't have to bloody scare me to death. If
you want me to leave, just tell me and I'll be out of your ridiculous hair in a
heartbeat."
Another grin – oh how that was starting to annoy her – broke loose on his
undeniably handsome features and Sakura inadvertently blushed, her anger
instantly forgotten. Did she have dirt on her face or why did he look at her so
smugly? Self-consciously, she wiped over her face, hopefully catching whatever
made him stare like that. When he continued, she turned away, refusing to look
at him.
"Stop staring, you're making me uncomfortable."
A snort from behind her caused her to whirl around to face him again.
"God, you're uptight, hm."
"Am not," she gasped rather childishly which only caused him to grin wider. Talk
about mercurial mood swings.
"Are too," he laughed, getting to his feet. She watched him, a thousand
different emotions leaving her confused.

It was extremely rare that anyone got to her that way. She was a medical student
– the epitome of professionalism - not some school girl. And yet, here she
was, all sense of confidence thrown out the window by a mercurial male with a
smug smile who kept messing with her head.
Then again, it wasn't exactly an everyday thing for her to be in the same room
with a psychopathic arsonist.
He gestured towards the recorder – still running – pulling her from her
thoughts.
"Hey Pinky. I thought you were here to ask me questions – not mangle and
insult me, you brute," he asked grinning cockily.
That was it. Sakura snapped. Fuming in anger, she abandoned every shred of
self-control.
"Forget it," she spit, stalking over towards the door. She threw an angry look
at the puzzled, yet amused artist. She wasn't going to let him screw with her
head any longer – no matter how handsome he was or how much she needed the
money from the article. Tsunade could shove it.
In a matter of seconds, she slipped out of the workshop, slamming the door
brutally. That sick son of a bitch could take his stupid clay and blow himself
to blond bits for all she cared. Fuming and replaying their strange encounter
over and over in her head, the pink-haired woman made her way home.

Three days later, Sakura was sighing with frustration. It had been days –
days! And still, she couldn't quite shake the image of the blond male and his
unbelievably smug face from her thoughts. She usually didn't get this hung up on
past events – though she had to admit that explosions and arsonists were bound
to leave an impression on anyone.
She remembered her room-mate's reaction when she'd arrived home, still fuming
and spewing the vilest curses at the artist. Ino had basically gaped at the
juicy slurs to leave the usually prude woman's mouth – physically violent as
she might be.
It had taken hours and countless bars of chocolate for Sakura to calm down
enough to talk about the moron that had thrown her panties in such a bunch. No
one had ever had that effect on her – and only through arrogant teasing no
less. And once the pinkette had realised that she'd left the recorder at his
workshop, all that was left of her composure had vanished.
Now, three days later, she was calm – irritated, but calm. She would have to
tell Tsunade sooner or later but she didn't look forward to that conversation at
all. She despised failure – much more so than art. She had considered – many
times – to retrieve her recording gear but dismissed the idea repeatedly.
There was no way in hell she was going to face him ever again.
The door-bell rung, pulling her from her thoughts.
She opened the apartment door only to huff in disapproval when she was faced
with thin air. She hung her head, cursing the neighbourhood kids for their
annoying pranks when her eyes landed on a brown paper package and an envelope
addressed to her.
She picked it up and closed the door. She placed the mysterious package on the
counter of her kitchen when Ino appeared next to her.
"Hey forehead I – what's with the package?"
Sakura shrugged.
"No idea," she murmured, debating if she should open it. Her curiosity got the
better of her and hesitantly, she ripped the paper and revealed a black box.
Once she removed the lid, her expression darkened considerably. Inside, neatly
packed and protected by scrunched up newspaper-articles, lay her recorder. On
top, sat an inconspicuous ceramic bird, impossible not to recognise as Deidara's
handiwork. She recoiled in fear until she spotted the small card attached to it
with a red ribbon, saying "Harmless" in a surprisingly neat and cursive
handwriting. She flipped the scrap of paper over to reveal a phone number.
"Isn't that your recorder," Ino deadpanned, earning a glare from Sakura.
"Yeah." How dare he?
"Didn't you leave that when you -"
"Yeah." How did he know where she lived?
"So how..."
"I don't know, pig!"
Raising her hands defensively, Ino backed up a step.
"Easy there forehead – I come in peace. The bird is cute though."
Sakura rolled her eyes, inwardly cringing. On one hand she was happy that she
didn't have to buy a new recorder. On the other she was annoyed at the sheer
audacity of that idiot. She placed the envelope in the box and scooped it all up
and disappeared into her room. She quickly broke the seal of the letter,
curiosity yet again taking hold of her.

Damned be that man for making her doubt herself every second of every day.

"Hey pinky, hm!"

She groaned. Seriously? He even wrote out that bloody idiosyncrasy of his?

"Not cool for you to just storm of like that, hm!
I was having fun! And you totally forgot your stuff.
Anyway – I had a blast! (Get it – blast? Ha, yeah!)
Don't delete the tape just yet – have a listen first yeah?
If you don't I'll have totally wasted my precious time, hm.
The bird is harmless – just boring old ceramic, not even worthy of being
called art!
The number is my cell, give me a call if you decide to appreciate my art, hm!

Deidara the crazy arsonist, yeah!

P.S. That right hook of yours...damn, hm!"



She reread the letter over and over, eyes constantly leaving the page and
glancing at the clay bird. Gently, she placed it on her nightstand and gingerly
pressed play on the recorder. Soon, her room was filled with his playful voice,
explaining in detail his art as if answering questions in an interview. She
could almost see him grinning at her in her head. A small, honest smile played
on her lips as she listened.

Damn you, Deidara.

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