Sculpture #34: Untitled

Title: Sculpture #34: Untitled

Author: KobaltWolf

Summary: Konan is depressed. Her career as an origami artist is failing. Her tenement has become the nest of harpies. And her love-life is virtually non-existent. But will the sale of Sculpture #34 halt her seemingly eternal downward spiral? PeinKonan.

Warnings: Rated T for mild swearing, suggestive themes, and because the author is paranoid.

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Damn.

Konan glared spitefully at the mere $30 she clutched in her hand. Out of the twenty-five sculptures she displayed, only one had sold, and not even her best. She hadn't even come up with a name for it.

She sniffed, shoving the bills into the pocket of her black hoodie in an attempt to hide her total failure as an artist. It didn't work.

She adjusted her precarious perch on the rickety bar stool.

Rustle, rustle.

The bluette bit back a swear word as the stupid things scraped obnoxiously against the tacky fabric of her coat. She attempted to still herself, head between her hands as she rested her elbows on the bar's cold, black marble counter-top, and she repressed the dangerous shiver that threatened to induce the much feared noise.

A chaste grin stretched across her somber visage.

“Would you like anything t—“

“@#!$!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Konan's hands slammed against the counter with a loud slap as the abominable rustle of paper punctured her eardrums. “Why!?!?!?” She began to sob.

The waiter, shock (and fear) clearly written on every line of his obviously powdered face, stepped back at the sudden outburst. “Um. . . .well. . . .I'll go ov—”

“No, no.” The miserable bluette glanced up, thankful for once that she didn't wear mascara. “I—I'll have a—a—a. . . .” Her gaze traveled upwards to the dank green, chalk-written menu that stared down mockingly at her from the ceiling. Its edges were framed with gaudy plastic jewels that scintillated in the dim lighting.

Oh, kami, even the menus were richer than she was!

“WAHHH!!!!”

The waiter jumped as the bluette dissolved into tears, her shoulders shaking with the 

sheer misery of her situation. She'd been saving for months for this one show, and then only one freakin' origami sculpture sells. Karma really did hate her.

Ever so gradually edging away, the waiter eyed her warily, nervously wringing his hands on a dish cloth.

“U—u—um. *sniff* I'll have a—a decaf *sniff* coffee. Black. *sniff* *sniff*.” She endeavored to wipe away her tears with the sleeve of her hoodie, but more of the salty liquid rapidly brimmed over her already water-logged eye-lids.

The nervous server bobbed his head up and down in submission, practically dashing to the coffee machine. Anything to get away from that sorrow laden gaze. He quickly donned a pristine white apron, with his name written in neat, black callipgraphy: Robert.

A pair of steely gray eyes glared at his back. 'Robert' (if that was his real name) was probably richer than she was, too.

“ACHOO!!!” Konan sneezed into her sleeve, not caring whether or not the black fabric had turned slightly green, and bleakly hunched her shoulders.

“Here's your coffee. . . .ma'am.”

Her tear-stained face glanced up to see the grimace that flickered across 'Robert's' face, before he managed to force a smiling facade in its place.

The bluette's shoulders hung lower, this time in embarrassed shame.

Thud.

Konan stared down at the inky black surface of the decaf with a heartbroken expression and idly wondered whether its net worth was comparable to her own.

Slosh. Slosh.

She slowly turned the gleaming, silver-encrusted spoon around the blindingly white coffee mug, knowing she probably couldn't afford such a drink from such a luxurious coffee bar, but not really caring. As she raised the mug to her lips, the bluette fleetingly wished she'd visited an actual, alcoholic bar instead, but she quickly dismissed the desire. Didn't drink. Never would.

The searing liquid dribbled down her throat, both soothing and irritating the sensitive flesh. Konan closed her silvery gray eyes, tilting her teary face upwards so as to better feel the draft of freezing air that drifted lazily from the unlatched door.

Well. She could always get a job here. She smirked at the thought of herself dressed in one of those bright white aprons with her name sewn in pretty, neat letters: Konan. Her face done up in makeup and powder and the entitlement to tip her chin up at any passerby because she was dressed nicely. No more ratty hoodies from discount-discount-discount stores. No more ripped jeans three sizes too big. No more cheap tourist T-shirts. No more hand-me-down tennis sh—

BANG!

The bluette nearly leaped from her seat as the coffee shop's front door slammed open, the little bell that greeted newcomers barely being given a chance to sing its cheery, out-of-place song before it was brutally crashed against the off-gray walls.

“Hey. . . .this ishn't the bar. . . .”

Konan winced as the clearly drunk slur reached her ears.

“I can shee that, moronsh.”

Wow. They were really out of it.

“Whashever, Oroshi.”

Maybe they'd just leave. . . .

“Hey, you. Sisshy man.”

Maybe not. . . .

'Robert' glanced up nervously, once again wringing his hands with a dish cloth. “Y—yes, sirs?”

A bushy white-haired man sauntered up to the counter, a few feet away from Konan's slumping form, peering over at the waiter with beady eyes. “Whersh ish the bar?”

“Um—well, I—I, u—uh—”

A sigh of annoyance escaped the bluette's lips before she could halt herself. Was this guy really that pathetic?

“Hey, you. Doshn't mashke fun of ush—oh!”

Konan mentally smacked herself for drawing the drunk's attention, and she felt her eye twitch as the whitehead's hungry gaze took in her flawless figure. She could practically see the drool dribbling from the edges of his mouth.

“H—hey! Oroshi, comsh over here!”

A slimy looking, black-haired thing appeared on her other side, causing her to grimace. This, she guessed, would be 'Oroshi.' His (at least she thought it was a he) skin was unnaturally pale, purple eyeshadow trailing from his yellow eyes and a dank leather jacket clining to his skeletal form. He looked like a snake. Konan didn't like snakes. They got into her garden, waiting to bite her. She cut their heads off with shovels.

'Oroshi' purred, a scratchy, hissing sound that made the bluette's skin itch. “She'sh cute, Jiraish.”

'Jiraish' whistled in agreement, a cocky, and what he probably thought to be dashing, grin making its way across his face.

A vein began to pulse on the bluette's temple, and she glanced at 'Robert' expectantly. The moron just stood there dumbly, unsure of what to do. Wimp.

“Sho, babe, want to go have shome funsh?” 'Jiraish' grinned cheekily.

“No.”

The cold response didn't seem put the pair off.

“Aw, come onsh.” Oroshi put in his two cents.

Konan felt her temper rapidly growing short.

“Jusht a little funsh. . . .”

That's when she felt something grab the seat of her pants.

“SON OF A @$#!%!!!”

The bluette was up in an instant, her leg already connected with the 'Jiraish's' gut.

BAM!

The whitehead slammed into the counter, eyes wide with surprise.

Without a second thought, Konan flipped in mid-air, driving her hard-heeled tennis shoe into 'Oroshi's' face.

“Gah!” the snake man cried out as he crashed into the next bar stool.

“HOW DARE YOU @$@# $%#$@#$ TRY TO %@!$!#' $#!% ME!!!!!!” she continued to rant in such a fashion, stalking over to where the whitehead was still struggling, and failing, to lift himself up.

A quick glance told her 'Robert' was frozen in shock, probably because the 'meek,' 'crybaby' woman who had been sobbing in misery for the last half-hour had suddenly discovered the strength to kick a man twice her size halfway across a room. It tended to scare some people.

And, as she lifted 'Jiraish' up against the wall with one hand, she remembered why she loved her ratty hoodies from discount-discount-discount stores, and her ripped jeans three sizes too big, and her cheap tourist T-shirts, and her hand-me down tennis shoes: she didn't have to worry about stains.

“Oh, you are so gonna pay $#@%$#.” She drew her fist back, ready give the wasted man the beating of his li—

“Hey! Calm down!”

Konan jumped as something warm grabbed her fist. Out of instinct she twisted to the side in a round-house kick. A feeling of satisfaction touched her mind as someone yelped as they dodged her offensive. Whoever they were, she heard the skid of their boots against the floor as they attempted to regain their balance. In one fleet motion, the bluette pushed off the cream, plush-cushion wall, flipping mid-air and landing lithely on her heels, arms ready to put whoever dared to challenge her in a headlock.  Only to stop dead.

When someone had attempted to come to the aid of 'Jiraish,' she'd been expecting a wrinkly, old drunk who rode a Harley or something in an attempt to cling to his youth. Not a handsome, orange-haired teenager who actually was in his youth.

Her jaw dropped slightly as he stared back at her with a both shocked and amused expression. Piercings covered his face, compelling her to unconsciously count them. Six studs impaling the nose. Two spikes sparking beneath his lip. A bright metal bar through each ear. Six earrings piercing each lobe. A voodoo doll would've been jealous, but it worked on him. Her hand trailed to her own single labret piercing, her previously daring statement against polite society's rules now being irreversibly dwarfed.

Forcing her eyes to examine the rest of her would-be foe's body, the bluette tensed her muscles. A pair of faded skinny jeans covered his lean legs, decorated around the studded belt with silver and iron chains. Adorning his upper body was a charcoal colored hoodie over a black T-shirt stained with grease and oil. Maybe a car mechanic? But his shoes said it all.

Konan blinked.

Shoes could tell a lot about a person. Whether they were rich or poor was a major point, but there were many others: a person's diet, walking habits, age, style, caste of life, personality, etc. You were on public display when it came to shoes.

The stranger's shoes were especially interesting. They weren't old, raggedy loafers like that of 'Jiraish' and 'Oroshi', yet not the garishly shining black of 'Robert.' Black tennis shoes. Relaxed fit. Thick heels. A white Nike logo on the outside. Mud and grease stains with some leftover salt from a recent meal. Relatively sensible. (Far more sensible than that of 'Robert.') Maybe a year or two old. Probably done some hiking in 'em, but they held up well. Very little wear on the heel. The bridge was obviously custom adjusted, though, revealed by subtle stitching on the center left of the right shoe.

So. . . .she calculated the results in her head. . . .a rebel teenager with a passion for the outdoors who probably worked around cars often and ate regularly at McDonalds or a fast-food restaurant of a similar nature. Parents were most likely out of the picture, but the stranger took their advice to heart (other than the 'no piercings' rule). He shopped at discount rate, but wasn't bound by a price and took the time to look for the most comfortable, long-lasting footwear.

Yes, shoes could tell a lot.

Wonder what my shoes say.

Konan shook the thought from her head. She knew what they said: poor castaway of society that lived in an overcrowded tenement with two emo-obsessed harpies and who had the salary of a sweat-shop worker. Cheery.

“Ano, but do you think we could get up now? This position is giving me back cramps.”

The bluette started, causing the man opposite her to grin cheekily. Mentally cursing, she quickly schooled her expression back to one of suspicious neutrality. “You tell me.”

“I say yes.” The orange-haired stranger calmly yawned, straightening so as to stretch what she presumed to be an aching back. But he could be lying. He probably was. Actually, he almost certainly was. . . . the way he scrunched his eyes when yawning was really cute. . . .GAH!

“I'll have to apologize for my two idiot comrades over there.” He gestured nonchalantly to where 'Jiraish' and 'Oroshi' lay in a jumbled heap of ragged clothing and bad breath. “They got away from the group.” The stranger sheepishly rubbed the back of his orange head.

“And attempted to pick me up.”

He cringed slightly at her icy tone. “Yeah, yeah, they did.” Oh, kami, her glare was scary. “Can I make it up to you? Buy you a drink?”

“Already got one.”

“. . . .paid yet?”

“. . . .no.”

“I'll buy that!” He smiled cheerily, eyes scrunching cutely as he did.

No! Not cute!

“Hn.” Konan turned towards the bar and away from the stranger, smirking as she did. No more dodging policemen and angry-garishly-bright-shoes—sorry 'Roberts'—tonight. She was paying. . . .in a sense.

“My lady.” The orange-haired bowed humbly as he grandly gestured towards the coffee-bar. A smirk still painted his face.

She snorted, taking her previous seat while the man lounged in the next one down.  Silence pervaded, only disturbed by the mad squeaking of 'Robert' ringing his washcloth over and over again. Konan's shoulders hunched once more as she stared down at the coffee. Relying on a punk stranger to pay her bills? New low.

“Hey, you alright?”

The bluette tipped her visage towards the pierced-stranger. How dare he ask her if she was alright when they'd just met. How would he know what was 'alright' for her or what was 'un-alright.' Moron.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Hmm.” Leaning towards her slightly, he cocked his pierced head. “Do I know you?”

Konan glanced at him, clearly bewildered. “Uh, no?”

Click! The stranger snapped his fingers together, a triumphant grin splitting his face.  “I know! You're Kunan—Kanon—Konan!”

The bluette's slender figure immediately tensed up. Had she scammed him before?

“Relax.” He held his hands up placatingly at her change in sudden posture. “Your gallery featured a photo of you.”

“Oh—wait, you've been to my gallery?”

People know about me! Oh, happy day!

“Of course! I actually bought one of your sculptures.”

“Origami sculptures.”

They aren't just some plain old sculpture. These are cultured.

Konan eyed the man with new appreciation. Despite his punkish, back-street appearance, the stranger had taste. And he had given her a salary, no matter how small. Always a bonus.

He continued with excitement. “But I can't believe you were selling for so cheap! Thirty dollars? Could've easily sold for seventy, and even that would be pushing it. I've seen less quality go for over a hundred.”

The bluette's cheeks tinged with pink. “R—really?” AH! No stuttering!

“Definitely.”

“I'm flattered.” You weren't supposed to lie. . . .right?

“How many others sold?”

Almost instantaneously, her shoulders slumped back into depression. “Zero.” Misery filled her tenor.

The orange-head's eyes widened at the sudden mood-swing. “Oh—um—I—uh—“ He wasn't good at this kind of thing!

She sighed dejectedly, a few strands of blue-gray hair wisping across her pale face.  “It's fine. People just don't have taste.” They're all MORONS.

“A toast to that!” He raised an imaginary wine glass, a smirk replacing his former uncertainty, and Konan had to smile. It was 'polite' after all. “I was thinking of placing it on my mantle. Thoughts?”

The bluette was quick to respond, her hands gesticulating wildly. “Oh, no! It's paper. Paper and fire no mixie.”

A genuine smile crossed his face at her, while not particularly happy, non-gloomy expression. “That would make sense. The piano maybe?”

“. . . .better.”

He clasped his palms together and fake bowed. “I will try to learn the ways of your art, great master.”

“One, it's called origami. And two, it's mistress to you.”

The man waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “That could give the wrong impression, no?”

The bluette's brow puckered in confusion, then it dawned on her. A furious blush spread across her ivory cheeks, as she ducked her head, embarrassed. “Oh.”

He smirked. “Mmm-hmm. Of course, I'm quite fine with that scenario.”

“Pervert!” She playfully punched him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” He mock winced, eyes shining all the while.

She snorted skeptically, the blush already fading. He wanted to play dirty? So would she. “Oh, don't be such a sissy. I didn't hit you that hard.”

“You obviously don't know your own strength.”

“Well, at least I have strength—“

BRRING!

Konan jumped at the unexpected sound, a blush already forming. Luckily, the pierced man seemed too occupied with his phone to notice. Wait, how was that 'lucky?'

“I apologize, but I have to go.”

She jumped from her seat once more. “Why?” The syllable was out before she could stop it. Was it rude? Probably.

He chuckled and jerked his thumb back to where 'Jiraish' and 'Oroshi' were splayed out by the wall. “Jiraiya's girlfriend, Tsunade, sent me after them, and she's now ticked off that I'm not back. She says that if I'm not back at the bar with him and Orochimaru within ten minutes, she will pound me into an unrecognizable red sidewalk stain, plus some very imaginative cusses as well,” he finished as his eyebrows raised substantially in what could only be described as awe.

Konan gulped. Tsunade sounded scary.

“She kind of reminds me of you.”

The bluette's eye twitched as she glared at the chuckling man. “Ha, ha.”

He ignored the venomous tone, continuing to snicker as he picked himself up from the bar. “Now, I really must be going. It was wonderful to meet you Konan, and I will try not to set your statue on fire. Of course, things can happen. . . .” He shrugged sheepishly as he made to move towards the pair unconscious of drunks.

“You do that.” Don't sound sad!

Apparently, her mental cheering didn't work completely as guilt flickered over the man's brow.

“Oh, don't feel guilty!” she blurted, immediately realizing the foolishness of her desperate statement. “I'm fine! Really. Absolutely fine.”

“That may be, but I'll be here tomorrow around 6:00 if you want to come.” The question was implied.

He dates me. He dates me not. He dates me. He dates me not. “I'd love to!”

The stranger smiled cheerily as he swung the not-so-light 'Jiraiya' over his shoulder with ease. “Great!” He gripped 'Orochimaru's' collar in his other hand. “See you then.”  He turned and skipped towards the door.

How does he carry those hulks.

Then the bluette realized something. Her eyes widened as he took his first step out the door. “Wait!”

He confused visage met hers. “Hm?”

That was close, you idiot. “I don't know your name.”

The grin returned. “Oh! Sorry. I lose track of things a lot. It's Pein.” Then he was gone.

Pein. P-E-I-N. Peeiiin. Pein. She rolled the odd name around her mind. Who named their kid Pein? It was kind of depressing. No! Happy thoughts. Konan turned back to the counter, where 'Robert' was still nervously ringing out his washcloth. With one quick swig, she downed the rest of her now cold coffee and stood to leave. She stalked towards the door, tightly wrapping her pale gray coat around her willowy form and pulling a knitted blue beanie from one of its pockets. Careful not to crush her white-flower beret, she tugged the headdress down over her slightly pink ears and self-consciously patted the top. “See you, Robert.”

Behind the bluette, the waiter choked. “How do you know my n—“

SLAM!

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R&R please! I can't improve my writing without feedback. Also, Part 2 will be coming soon. And finally, the next installment of Gift of the Outcast will be  late, but it will come out all the same. Peace out peoplz!

KobaltWolf