New Year, New Beginnings

She was a startling burst of color in an otherwise grey world.

It was completely unexpected. A one in a million chance encounter.

Stepping out of his small studio apartment he walked out onto the sidewalk, hands tucked into his pockets and the collar of his black coat upturned to cover the lower half of his face. The chill was biting. The wind tangled in the strands of his gold-spun hair and he muttered a curse as his hair flew in his eyes.

White. Grey. The only color that of brightly colored advertisements clamoring for attention. A part of him hated it. This─this wasn't art! This was mass brain-washing. What was the message? That Coca-cola had a new flavour? Where was the beauty? Because that display with a busty woman leaning against that bottle wasn't particularly beautiful. It was a nothing more than a crude ploy for attention.

He was growing tired of it. Disillusioned. Six months. It had been six months since he had moved into the big city, bright-eyed and hopeful to start his debut as an artist. He had heard so much of opportunity, craved the acclaim of Murakami. Yet the city was far from the brilliant star he had heard. The streets were dirty and the people cold. Art was a foreign concept here where efficiency overtook passion and profits were more important than appreciation. Grey. Grey was the color of this new world so different from the suburban towns of his past.

His feet scuffed on the sidewalk, pushing away the persistent white of recently fallen snow. This cold. It too was not something he was accustomed to. Unlike the winters of his hometown here the cold seeped into your bones chilling you from within. It was oddly fitting with the nature of the city.

Another day, another failure. Sourly he thought of this morning's presentation and the dissembling eyes of the critics as they broke down his art bit by bit, crumbling his pride into a fine layer of dust.

"Tch, idiots all of them." Half of them hated it; his amalgamation of traditional style with superflat flair somehow personally insulting to them. The other half wanted it for a new ad. Couldn't he add more patterns? Wouldn't it look nice with more color?

Absent-mindedly he felt his feet leading him past his favorite coffee and tea shop, the pungent aroma of roasted beans overwhelming the subtle scent of the teas. Coffee. He hadn't expected to like it so much but one sip and he was hooked. Warm drink in hand and he was ambling towards the nearby park, some part of him seeking subconscious comfort in the naked trees and native fauna.

His feet steered him towards the lake with its decorative fountain, silent and still now from the frigid weather. Seating himself on a solitary bench he looked up, hearing laughter, and promptly choked on his drink.

There she was, a vision in her red peacoat, long pink hair thrown back as she lobbed a snow ball at dark haired man standing stiffly as his companions dodged white balls of snow. He seemed unamused and he could see the woman enlist the aid of her blonde friend and soon all three were tumbling in the snow.

She laughed, vibrant green eyes sparkling and his breath caught. With the blazing gold and reds of the setting sun, she looked magical. Ethereal. Those pink locks whipped in the wind, spotted with white snow, her pale skin subtly reflecting the colors of the dusk. Beautiful, he thought for one stunned moment before he was rummaging through his coat, looking for the ever present sketch book he carried just for this purpose.

His pencil flew over that virgin white, her features quickly developing, the backdrop of bared trees and gleaming waters transforming before his eyes. The picture of her blazed intensely in his mind and he knew, just knew this would be his greatest creation yet.

That night he didn't sleep, too helplessly held captive by his sudden burst of creative passion. His fingers flew, dotting with color. Blushing pinks and soft greens. A brush of white. Piece after piece. Failure after failure. He worked and worked with the cups of hazelnut and pumpkin spice lattes piling up until finally he fell into a tired heap on his bed still dressed. Flecks of paint stuck to his face and hung on his lashes.

The next morning he was up again, feeling tired and aching, but somehow good. He barely noticed as the hours passed, an endless stream of papers to type and memos to write and complaints to answer stealing his time. Yet still he thought of her. His blossom haired muse with the smiling eyes.

He found himself looking for her everywhere. Every woman wearing the slightest hue of red capturing his eye as he searched for her amongst the crowds, in the windows of a shop, amongst that circle of trees. Was this obsession? He wasn't sure. Didn't care. If this is what it meant to be obsessed he was glad he wasn't like those poor sods with nothing to live for. Even if, he was living for just another glimpse of her.

His hands smoothed over the wet, silkiness of the clay and he wiped away the sweat from his brow. No matter how many times he worked. No matter how many subjects he chose. Still his thoughts returned to her.

When he saw her the next time, it was just as unexpected as the last. He had finally struck gold. His new work catching the eye of an acclaimed critic and it was decided it would be displayed in the New Year's exhibition.

She was on his train.

His cell-phone had just been flipped shut, another disgruntled conversation with his mother where he assured her that no he did not want to go back to engineering, and yes he was eating well, when he saw her. Just as lovely as the last time. She was dressed in that same red coat, this time a festive green and white scarf draped across her neck and he could see the pale pink of hospital scrubs peeking out from where the top buttons were undone.

She was alone this time. Thoroughly engrossed in a text. And the sight of her, poised so elegantly, the window behind her displaying a dazzling view of the city at night... He was floored, fingers itching to create and he felt the lack of his sketch pad acutely.

As though sensing the intensity of his gaze she looked up, startled. And flushed, glancing shyly between him and the floor. He felt his cheeks warm in answer and looked away. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable. Yet when she got up on the next stop, casting one last, curious glance his way, he had to suppress the desire to follow.

When he crashed into his studio apartment, he didn't bother to eat. To dress. Too seized by the need to commit every detail into painted memory as he valiantly tried to keep hold of the image in his mind.

It was a good thing he was used to committing fleeting moments to memory.

000

He was here again. The attractive blonde with the sky blue eyes. Was it fate or circumstance that she was seeing him again, in the same train car, at the same time of night? She flushed as she recalled his powerful gaze, those eyes drinking her in as though she were the most fascinating thing. If she was completely honest to herself she liked it. The attention. It was so much nicer than being looked down at as nothing more than an annoying hindrance.

Her chest ached, hollowly and she shook away the thought. She wouldn't think of that again. He had abandoned her, abandoned all of them for his career. He wasn't worth thinking about. Not now. Not when she was finally healing.

Magnetically she felt her eyes pulled again to the blonde. He was drawing again this time, head bowed over the pad so that his bangs fell in a curtain obscuring his lightly tanned skin. The pencil in his hand slid smoothly and she wondered with a curious awe, just how he managed to work with the gentle shaking of the train?

Was this the third time or the fourth time she had seen him? She couldn't quite remember. Perhaps he also worked late. It made sense. They probably got off work at around the same time. She wondered what his job was. Was he an artist, as the sketch pad suggested? Did he make advertisements or was he another aspiring Renoir? Or maybe he was none of those things and simply pursued art as a hobby?

Shyly she took note of his jaw, clenched in concentration and very masculine in that delicate, almost feminine face. Kami, was he hot! He looked up suddenly, catching her by surprise and she sucked in a breath, vainly trying to look as though she had been going anything but stare at him for the last few minutes. Still those vivid eyes seared in her brain. Her heart thumped and she occupied herself with trying to read the medical text, not quite seeing the words. Why was she such a sucker for a pretty face?

The doors chimed open and a giggling couple walked in followed by a middle-aged woman, looking just about as tired as she usually felt after a double shift at the hospital. Three more to the almost empty train cart. That made eight now including the old man leaning against his cane, a dozing young man with a surprisingly spiky hair do that reminded her funnily enough of a pineapple and the blonde woman he was leaning against.

She dared another glance at the artist, just managing to catch sight of the outline of something before the doors chimed again and the next stop was announced. Her stop. Too soon it came, and she slipped off the train with a trailing glance to the artist still sitting with brows furrowed in concentration. Walking away she missed the last stolen look he gave her as the doors clicked shut.

000

"Hmm, forehead, never took you for an artsy person."

Her eyes flicked briefly to her blonde haired flat-mate scooping another spoonful of pudding into her mouth as she leaned over the pinkette's shoulder. "There's a lot you don't know about me pig." Still, despite herself, she felt a flush come to her face as she recalled those hands, oddly elegant as they held the mechanical pencil.

"Mmhm," the psychiatrist-in-training's blue eyes sparkled mischievously, "that sounds awfully suspicious forehead."

She just rolled her eyes. Returning her attention to the computer as she skimmed over an article about Arakawa Toyozo, admiring the rustic nature of his pieces. Surprisingly, what started off as simple curiosity was honing into a true interest. Though she was well acquainted with the traditional works of Kanaoka and Buson courtesy of Sai, she had never paid much attention to the more modern works.

She clicked a link, being redirected from something of Inoue Naohisa's to an interestingly colorful work. Her eyes drifted to the bottom of the page. Murakami Takashi. This was new. She clicked another link, an article about the superflat movement appearing.

"Hey, stop!" The forgotten blonde commanded from her place at her shoulder. "I know that place. It's the museum downtown, their having a special exhibition in a couple weeks for this new artist."

She took a sip of her tea, scrunching her nose when she noticed it had gotten cold. "And?"

This time it was the blonde's turn to roll her eyes. "Really Sakura, don't you pay attention when I talk?"

"Not really," she mumbled, earning herself a smack on the shoulder. Really, was she expected to listen to all the nonsense Ino spouted on a daily basis? Half of it was useless gossip. She mock-glared.

"Well," she continued, leaning against the wall as she scooped out the last of her pudding. "As I said before," the chastisement was clear in her voice, "Chouji is catering for the gala and they gave him some free invites as thanks. We can go and bring your two idiots along." Her eyes gleamed impishly, "I hear our little Hyuuga heiress is going to be there. We could, help out a little, you know?"

Despite herself, Sakura felt a matching look come over her face. Naruto, that baka, he needed all the help he could get. Hinata had been pinning after him since senior year high school and he still hadn't noticed. "When's it at?"

Ino just about squealed, hugging her friend excitedly. "Starts at 10:30 and runs until a little after midnight. They're combining it with a little New Year's party to celebrate the Hyuuga's generous donation." The young woman fairly tittered with excitement, "Oh forehead, we're going to make you look so hot! I've got this perfect little black dress that would just do amazing things your figure!"

As her beloved best friend continued gushing about how awesome it would be and how she was finally going to find her little forehead some sexy boyfriend, Sakura sighed, feeling suddenly weary, yet oddly eager. Inexplicably, her mind turned back to the blonde on the train.

Her cheeks warmed.

000

Today was the day. The day all his hard work paid off. Excitement thrummed through his veins as he finished up cleaning his apartment in preparation for New Years, pleased at his handy work. His paints were all stacked neatly, blank and half finished canvases sitting in a neat pile and his clay securely put away.

Mentally checking that all his postcards had indeed been sent and all preparations were done he put away the vacuum; a dark blue sleeve caught his eye. Okaasan. His fingers skimmed over the kimono his mother had sent him the week before, anticipating his first visit to the nearby shrine. If all went well tonight he'd be thanking every Kami up there and then some.

The rest of the day was spent in restless anticipation. He could hardly keep himself still. Checking and double checking the soba simmering, brushing his hair again and again until his golden locks fairly gleamed and picking off imaginary lint from his suit. An unexpected package from his family took up part of his attention as he put away the loving made mochi and other delicious goodies and swept the floor again.

Seems like your impatience brushed off on me ne Sasori? His lips curved in a smile as he recalled his red haired cousin. It was because of him he had become an artist. The older boy having amazed him with his lifelike sculptures and well-made puppets. Being so in awe of another's abilities struck up his competitive streak and he just had to do better than his danna. Nothing, not even the red-head's extra seven years of experience would discourage him.

Soon enough, the time for the gala was upon him and he couldn't quell the sense of pride and sheer joy as he walked into the lavishly decorated room to find his sculptures and paintings prominently on display. This. This is what he had waited for. His fingers brushed almost reverently against the stone wing of a bird poised in flight. It was one of his favorites.

"How does it feel?"

He whipped back, eyes widening incredulously. "Sasori! What are you doing here?"

The red-haired artist only looked at him calmly but his stoic demeanor did little to conceal the pride present in those dark eyes. "Did you think I would miss my cousin's debut?"

The blonde stumbled over his words. "B-but, weren't you supposed to be in New York? What about you presentation, hm? Wasn't it supposed to be today?"

"Tommorrow actually." He replied glibly, "We're fourteen hours ahead."

Already people were beginning to come through the doors. Turning to glance at the clock hung prominently on the wall he caught sight of the Hyuuga's just arriving along with a number of other sponsors and influential figures. Suddenly he was feeling nervous. Very nervous.

"Deidara. Calm down."

Startled he took a deep breath, unclenching the fists he had not even noticed grip his cousin's arm. "Gomen."

They were silent for a few moments then, walking about the room, nodding politely to others as life grew in the room. Soon they would have to separate. The younger artist already garnering the attentions of many passerby and more than one flirtatious young woman.

"So, who is she?" He asked suddenly.

Deidara blinked, following his gaze to the canvas. Blossom in the Snow. That first inspired work. It seemed so long ago since he had been sitting in that park, captivated. "Saa ne?" He sighed, fighting to appear neutral. "Some girl."

The look on Sasori's face said he wasn't buying it. "Must be quite some girl for you to devote so many pieces to her."

"Urusai."

A pleasant hum of chatting voices was beginning to permeate the room and Sasori's eyes strayed, catching sight of something amongst the crowd. Now isn't this interesting...

It seemed he had he had a job to do tonight.

000

"Ino, I'm going to kill you! My boobs are practically spilling out!"

The blonde snorted, waving to a now grinning Chouji as he caught sight of them. "It's called cleavage forehead." She informed, by now deaf to her pink-haired friend's complaints. "It'll do you some good."

"Yes, Ugly. Maybe it will draw attention away from your face."

Sakura scowled. "Sai I understand you're a socially inept recluse, but one more word and that mouth won't be attached to your face."

Wisely, the dark-haired man chose to stop talking, turning instead to taunt his blonde companion whining about the lack of ramen at the party and quickly earning the ire of one Akimichi Chouji. Choosing to ignore her often irritating friends, Sakura moved on, weaving through the crowd to admire an interesting rendition of a dragon. Smooth modernistic lines incorporated with traditional style so that the piece itself seemed something more.

Continuing on she turned to a couple landscapes showing various scenes of the city, the clouds seeming like an endless wave and colored advertisements bursting from billboards. It was amazing, and she found herself in awe at the skill it must have taken to produce such pieces. She moved on and her breath caught. Her fingers reached out, just inches away from the canvas as she saw herself skillfully portrayed and seeming so beautiful she could hardly believe it was she and not some mythic creature.

The red coat, the bright pink hair and jade eyes, it was too telling. Who could have painted this? She knew Sai's style and it was nothing like this. Then who, who could have had enough time to study her to do something. Something like this? The simple care and time that the artist must have spent implied a great appreciation, maybe even a type of love. Her thoughts swirled wildly.

"Forehead!"

She spun, finding Ino with a darkly flushing Hinata, Naruto as always trailed obliviously beside them, asking if the Hyuuga was alright because her face was red. Sakura fought the urge to laugh.

"Hello Hinata. How are you?"

"F-fine S-sakura-chan." The blushing young heiress stammered the deep blue of her dress only enhancing the redness of her cheeks. A little aways from them, Sakura spied the stern figure of one Hyuuga Neji, fairly glowering at the oblivious blonde man who had now pressed his hand to the dark-blue haired woman's forehead, checking her temperature. The poor young woman almost fainted.

As the other Hyuuga came by and the conversation turned, Sakura felt her eyes wandering. So many people were here, she wondered if this was usual for exhibitions such as these or perhaps it was the fact that it was New Years? Her breath caught, eyes suddenly wide, and she felt herself warm unexpectedly. Standing there grinning unabashedly as a number of finely dressed persons circled him was the blonde from the train. She wondered why he was here, then mentally slapped herself. He probably had more of a right to be here than she did.

Unknown to her, Ino's eyes sparkled with mischief as she followed her friend's gaze to the blonde. Hmm. So this is why you wanted to come, eh forehead? A devious plan hatched in her mind.

The hours passed quickly as drinks flowed freely and food was served in the adjoining room. Soon enough the pinkette was lightly flushed and pleasantly buzzed from the champagne. The art was amazing, the food was exquisite, and the music was just right. She didn't think she had enjoyed herself so much in years.

The clock ticked and midnight was coming. Somehow or the other, Sakura found herself being ushered into the main room, a silver-haired gentleman announcing how much time there was left. People pushed and cheered, crowding into the space as they prepared for the countdown.

"Ten!"

"Forehead, come here, come here!"

Before she could register it, the buxom blonde was dragging her across the room, weaving them through the crowd. "Ino, where are we going?"

"Eight!"

"You'll see." The blonde teased and then suddenly she was being pushed forward, stumbling on her high heels.

"Three."

"Ino!" She shrieked, and strong arms steadied her.

"One!" All the lights suddenly went out and people scrambled around the room. Champagne still filling her with a pleasant buzz Sakura lost much of her reservation, getting in the spirit of the season and stealing a celebratory kiss from whoever held her. The lips under hers were still at first, then suddenly they were kissing back, the hands at her arms curling about her waist and a tongue slipped between her lips.

"Happy New Year!" The room exploded in a burst of light and her eyes fluttered open lazily. She smiled happily, the champagne and kiss still fogging her mind, then her eyes widened and she blinked rapidly.

"You!" She exclaimed, startled.

000

Sasori's persistence unnerved him. Plied with more than a few drinks he nonetheless knew that something was up when his usually stoic cousin was herding him through the room, uncaring that he was engaged in a previous conversation with a dark-haired fellow artist. Or rather, arguing, because the albino bastard did not just insinuate he was gay!

"Nine!" He heard the speaker announce and he fought to gain back ownership of his wrist.

"Five!"

He was let go abruptly, and he felt someone stumble into him. He turned, reflexively catching hold of the young woman and his heart jolted as he caught a flash of pink. Was it? Could it be?

"One!"

The lights were out too fast for him to notice. Hands roved over his body, searching for his face, then suddenly lips were on his. Shocked his brain didn't quite process the action until a moment later then he was kissing back. Warm so deliciously warm. His hands moved from those smooth arms, to a thin waist. Maybe it was wine or maybe it was that flash of pink, but he didn't care, feeling his body tingle as he deepened the kiss tasting the champagne and a compelling hint of sweetness.

Then as abruptly as before the lights were returned, people shouting their greetings to the new year. His eyes opened slowly and his heart thudded loudly as he looked at the woman in his arms.

Her. It was her. The realization was dizzying. Those beautiful eyes opened, fogged with drink and desire before they opened wide in alarm.

"You!" She exclaimed and her voice was just as lovely as the rest of her. "You're the guy from the train!"

He swallowed, feeling the pulse at his throat speed. "What," he swallowed mouth suddenly dry, "what are you doing here, yeah?"

She blinked, her fogged mind running a bit slow. "I was invited." She answered, then a thought struck her. "What are you doing here?"

He smirked and her breath caught, the joy in those cerulean orbs making him oh so very stunning. Especially in that suit! Kami it should be outlawed! Again she cursed her hormones wondering if she really had just kissed him. "This is my exhibition. I'm the artist, yeah."

Realization was slow coming, and he watched in amusement when her head snapped up and she openly gaped, gaze darting between the large portrait of a young woman looking surprising like her smiling as the sun set. "You." She fumbled. "Me. Paint?"

He laughed, nodding. She was adorable. Just adorable. "Hello, I'm Akasuna Deidara ."

She blinked again, then flushed deeply, as though just now noticing how she had been acting. "Sakura." She smiled. "Haruno Sakura."

He grinned back. "Nice to know the name of my muse, hmm." He leaned in impulsively, his breath caressing the shell of her ear and he smirked as she flushed darker. "So Sakura, how about you and I go out, hm?"

More than a little stunned, she could only nod. Her skin tingled where his breath fanned and she was acutely aware of him.

"So, how about another kiss, yeah?" He asked.

He didn't wait for the answer. His lips were already meeting hers again. So achingly warm. Who knew a couple of chance encounters could end so right? Then again, if he were completely honest, he had to admit, he did use the train more often than necessary..

This new year was promising quite a few changes. Good thing he liked change.

From the sidelines a crimson-haired artist and a grinning blonde were watching on happily. Their work here was done.

Now if only that blonde idiot would realize his own feelings. She swore, he must have ramen for brains.

Disclaimer: I do not own Naruto. Would Deidara be dead if I did?

Happy New Year all! I hope wonderful things await you this year and hope you enjoyed this!

I was listening to a song earlier when this just popped into my head. I must admit though, this was inspired by Little Falcon's Snap Shot. If you like Gaasaku, read it. It is a sweet little piece that will bring a smile to your lips.

-SacredRoseDream