Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto. Obviously.

Warnings: This fic was rated M for a reason. Use your own judgment as to whether or not you are mature enough to read it.

Dedicated To: MistressKaia for reminding me about this story and all of the wonderful people who have taken the time to read and review it.

Deidara opened his eyes groggily, blinking blearily at the red glow that was his alarm clock. The numbers 9:20 shone brightly back at him, causing the blond to roll over with a groan. It was Tuesday. He had the day off. The blond curled into his pillow, looking lethargically around the room. He spotted his cat on the other pillow and smiled lazily.

"Oh, Baby. Last night was the best," he mumbled, pushing himself over to the tan-colored cat and burying his face into its fur. The cat purred lightly, his green eyes mere slits as he inspected his tired owner. Deidara grinned up at him before faking a frown.

"I don't know what you're purring about, pervert. I was referring to the warmth we shared when you laid on my chest, un." Deidara pushed himself up into a sitting position, frown only disappearing when he made eye-contact with the cat again. The grin returned to his face when the cat stood up and stretched. Deidara scratched him lightly behind the ears, shaking his head.

"You know that I'm teasing you." He sighed, leaning back onto his elbows. "How sad am I? Twenty-six, single, waking up at nine-thirty in the morning on my day off with no one to share my bed with but you, C3. I love ya, un, but I seriously need to be discovered." Deidara flopped backward onto his bed, staring at the ceiling as C3 began to groom himself. His grin had faded into a bittersweet smile by the time he added, "Or get laid, un."

After a short shower and a quick breakfast consisting of a piece of toast and a glass of orange juice, Deidara found himself having a staring contest with one of his blank canvases. It had been several weeks since his last visit to the art museum, and he found himself in no better of a position than before. No one was willing to sponsor him, and the small galleries were full. To top it all off Deidara's motivation amounted to nearly nothing.

"Come on, muses," Deidara mumbled, twirling a paint brush around in his hand, "Send me a sign, un."

The canvas countered his glare with its blankness, adding to the blond's growing frustration and in turn feeding his steadily growing depression. He flopped down onto the magazine-covered ground and looked dejectedly up at his easel, kicking his feet idly. After several minutes, he sighed and crossed his legs. C3 batted at a newspaper across the room, and Deidara followed the movement with his eyes.

"No good, C3," he said aloud, his tone deceivingly light. "There's just nothing I want to paint, un."

The small cat paused momentarily to glance at him questioningly, then went back to ripping apart the newspaper. Deidara grinned humorlessly at him, then looked up toward one of his tiny windows. The room was dark, and in the moment of silence he thought he could detect the pitter-patter of rain against the glass. No surprise there. A day without rain in Ame happened about as often as an eclipse.

Deidara sat up and stretched, quickly realizing that he had reached an impasse with his painting. The fact that he hadn't even begun was completely ignored by the blond artist. He glanced over at his alarm clock and then sighed dramatically. 10:11AM. He still had the entire day ahead of him.

"All I need is inspiration, un," he said, pulling himself to his feet. After setting his brush down, he smiled again at his cat. "I believe a quick visit to the museum is in order. God knows I don't want to set foot in one of those idiots' galleries, un."

C3 ignored him, far too preoccupied with the shredded remains of the newspaper. Deidara kicked an empty plastic cup at him and then dug around his apartment in search of his jacket and an umbrella. He paused long enough to pull on a hat and throw his sketchbook and pencils into his messenger bag, then grabbed all of his things and headed out the door.

There was something oddly secluded about walking beneath an umbrella on a rainy day down a crowded city sidewalk. No one made eye-contact with you unless they did not have an umbrella and were sparing you a glare. Those who were fortunate enough to have umbrellas avoided you at all cost, doing everything they could not to tangle up their precious shields against the rain with yours. If Deidara hadn't been used to it, it might have made him lonely. As it stood, however, the blond found it simply annoying. He didn't enjoy the close proximity to people who didn't give a damn about anyone but themselves. He disliked elevators for the same reason. They always made him feel like he was an animal being herded by some unseen force.

The walk to the art museum was a decently long one. Deidara had scanned the buildings that filled each city block on the way there as he always did, hoping that inspiration might jump out at him early. It didn't.

Luckily for Deidara the art museum charged no admission on weekdays. If it hadn't been free, it was extremely doubtful that the blond would have ventured to it time and time again.

Deidara fell into his normal routine, exploring the museum completely along his usual route before sitting down on a bench to observe more of what was around him. The twenty-six-year-old artist dug out his sketchbook and a pencil then took to letting his gaze wander.

Strangely enough, Deidara had chosen the same bench he had sat in the last time he had been to the museum. That didn't stop him from being surprised when he saw him again.

The man he had sketched all of those weeks ago was wearing a very similar outfit to the one Deidara had last seen him in. The same beanie cap, the same frayed jeans, but this time the crimson-haired male had a jacket on over his clothing. Deidara absorbed all of this in mere seconds. He knew the other's appearance as well as the back of his own hand. It was strange, truthfully, because the artist had never spoken a word to the model of his sketch.

The blond made his decision then. His new sketches could wait. He had to talk to the man he found himself so unquestionably drawn to. He packed up his supplies quickly, and then stood to approach the redhead.

Or he would have except that seemed much more difficult than it should have. For some reason Deidara lost his nerve as soon as he got within ten feet of the other male. It didn't make any sense. Deidara wanted to speak with this person and yet his usual unswerving confidence had failed him. Despite all odds, Deidara was scared to walk forward and break the ice. Was his subconscious trying to keep him from loosing the image of perfection he had painted around this individual? He simply couldn't be sure.

As subtly as he could, the blond artist turned his attention to the painting rather than the one who was observing it. The painting was a non-objective piece, done only decades before. It suddenly struck Deidara that this was the piece that the other had been observing the time before as well. Was that a coincidence? It didn't seem likely. The man wasn't moving any more than he had been the other time Deidara had seen him. Did he actually find something interesting enough about this particular painting that made him able to stare at it for hours on end? Deidara wanted to ask. The blond's gaze cut back to the man that was standing not five feet from him. Despite the shorter distance, the redhead's brown, no, green, no, hazel eyes seemed miles away. His smooth, pretty face was drawn into an expression of concentration. Deidara never noticed him blink.

The blond took a deep breath. He had to say something. He might never get another chance. So, pulling at the frayed ends of his confidence, Deidara straightened his posture and took a single step toward the redhead.

"It's an interesting painting, isn't it?" Deidara's voice came out as smooth and solid as ever, which in turn fed his shaken confidence. To his dismay, this got no response. He took a breath and tried again. "Don't you think so?"

Slowly the redhead's gaze shifted toward him. He could feel himself being evaluated by that stare, and it made him somewhat uneasy. There was an emotion he couldn't read in those hazel eyes. After what seemed like and eternity, the redhead spoke.

"Excuse me?" There was a slight accent in the voice that Deidara could only compare to velvet. He couldn't place it, but it piqued his interest and fueled the warm feeling that had spread through his system when the other had spoken.

"The painting," Deidara repeated, gesturing toward said artwork. "I've seen you looking at it before. You must find it extremely interesting."

The redhead's eyes widened slightly. Deidara could read the surprise there, and he wondered if he shouldn't have mentioned seeing the other before. He watched as the redhead quickly regained his slight slip of composure and returned his gaze to the painting. After another long moment, the man spoke once more.

"Perhaps it is not so much interest as it is confusion," he said quietly, shifting subtly. The movement was natural, but it caught Deidara off guard. The artist really hadn't seen the other move, and so he had begun to assume that he couldn't. It was ridiculous, but there it was.

"What do you mean?" Deidara asked, shifting closer under the pretext of getting a better look at the painting. In truth, he was simply glad to actually be speaking to the other. He'd have more to work from when thinking of the redhead later on. With any luck, he'd find a way to stay in the other's company until they could do something a little more interesting than just talk about this painting.

"The message portrayed here doesn't make sense," the redhead said bluntly. "At first glance, one can observe intense sorrow portrayed in both the colors and the brush strokes. The longer you look at it, however, the more joy can be felt emanating from the canvas."

Deidara hadn't expected those words to come from the other man's mouth. It was obvious that he knew what he was talking about, and that excited Deidara. Despite that, the blond found himself disagreeing.

"Did you consider the possibility that you're looking too far into it, un?" Deidara quickly caught the look of disdain the other shot his way, but he continued. "When I paint I don't stop to think about which emotion I want to express. I just do it, un. So people can't ignore it. It's possible that this artist was feeling both joy and sorrow when he was painting this particular piece, but the sorrow was more intense at the time. If I remember right," here Deidara paused, glancing toward the canvas before continuing, "This was painted after the death of the artist's spouse. They're grieving the loss but also celebrating the life they had together. So… Sorrow and joy, but mixed, un."

The other's posture had stiffened slightly. His eyes remained on the painting, but Deidara knew that he had his attention. The redhead's eyebrows had furrowed downward, making him appear more irritated than focused. It struck Deidara that the redhead didn't appreciate people disagreeing with him.

"It's just a thought, un," Deidara said, doing his best not to aggravate the other. That was at the bottom of his list. When the other still didn't reply, he asked, "Do you come here often?"

The redhead's gaze was on him again. He couldn't get over how beautiful the other male was. He wanted desperately to ask him to come back with him to his apartment, but something told him that the redhead wouldn't have accepted such a quick invitation.

"Often enough," he responded at last. Deidara grinned at him.

"I know what you mean, un. It's a good place for inspiration."

The shorter male seemed to evaluate him again. "An artist?"

Deidara could have scoffed at the question. If it had been anyone else, he would have. Instead, however, he offered up another grin. "You could say that, un."

The other smiled slightly in return, and Deidara could feel warmth flooding his entire body. It was ridiculous and made him feel a little too much like a school girl, but he could hardly help himself. There was something closed about the smile, almost secretive. It was then that Deidara noticed the other checking his watch for the time.

"It's been nice speaking with you," the redhead offered politely.

Deidara stifled his disappointment as the other turned and left, responding quietly, "You, too, un."

It wasn't until the redhead had disappeared from sight that Deidara realized that he had forgotten to ask the other's name.

Ending Notes: I have no excuses as to why this took me so long to upload. It's been sitting on my old computer for two years now and I just recently rediscovered it after APurpleAvacado left me a review. I'm terribly sorry for the wait, and I'll try to remember my plot and update it between life and school.

Reviews are subsistence to an author. You don't want me to starve, do you?