Truly

Pairing: Deidara/Sakura

Rating: T

Words: 433

He sat down beside her, hands in his pockets, watching her as she closed her eyes and smiled.

"What are you doing, yeah?" he asked, and even though she didn't see him, she knew he'd raised an eyebrow.

"I'm making art."

He scoffed. "With what medium?"

She loved it when he was interested. "Myself."

"How the…what?" The couch squeaked as he leaned forward. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm imagining things. Painting a picture in my head, if you'll excuse the pun."

He scoffed—louder this time—and leaned back. When she peeked at him out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a lump of clay in his hands as he molded it to whatever ends he was going to create.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

He grunted. "Making true art, yeah."

"Art," she explained slowly, "comes from the mind. The mind is the originator of all things."

"And?"

"The definition of true is pure; untainted; honest; simple."

"Yes, Sakura, I fucking realize this." He curved something around the base of the clay mold in his hands. "Are you going to be making a point soon, or can I just stop listening now?"

She smiled slyly. "Something pure is something that comes directly from the creator. A pure piece of quartz. A pure bottle of milk. A pure bag of wool."

He sighed dramatically and used his pinky finger to gingerly make an indent near the top of the figure. "Thanks for the vocabulary lesson, yeah. I can feel my brain just expanding."

"So the purest form of art can only be the art that has not yet been replicated."

He stopped and was silent for a moment, staring at her with that one visible, blue eye. She heard his scope whir as he undoubtedly adjusted it according to their positions. "What are you getting at?" he asked carefully.

"The purest form of art," she said, opening her eyes and dropping her smile to one of gentle reassurance, "is the art that's still in your head. Anything other than that is just a copy."

His stare softened into a wry smile, and he crushed the beginnings of the artwork in his hands, clay seeping through his fingers. "Hmm. Demeaning my art, now?"

"Not at all." She leaned forward to brush her lips over the corner of his mouth—not really a kiss, but it was enough. "I love your art. Especially when I have to guess."

He replaced the clay into the pouch at his hip and huffed quietly. "Learned everything you know from me, yeah."

"Of course."