A/N: Hey guys! I've been busy with some freelancing projects and preparations for a convention next week. In between those, this chapter was written (albeit slowly).

I feel as if I've lost my writing touch. Feel free to let me know if this chapter sucked or not. :X

But wowee, was I surprised at the amount of people coming in to read! And the alerts! And the faves! It's enough to make a girl happy! :)

I hope you enjoy!


I stare hard at the blank canvas in front of me, trying to keep from looking over to Shikamaru's station. He is currently sitting there with an empty easel, looking all smug and staring at nothing. Even after I took a break and smoked through three cigarettes, I still can't shake this irritation I feel.

Eventually, my stronghold dissipates and I glance over at Shikamaru. Just looking at him reignites my temper. His eyes are on me, but he quickly looks away as if I was Medusa.

I turn back to my canvas, my hand reaching for the warm red oil paint tube. With deft movements, I squirt some paint onto my palette, grab the first paintbrush I see, and smear the hot color all across the white expanse.

For the rest of the class, I paint in sharp movements and vibrant, warm colors. When my professor calls out to start finishing up, I realize that I have only covered a little less than half the canvas.

I start to bring my supplies up to the sinks for rinsing. As the last of the paints wash away, my professor puts a hand on my shoulder. I look up towards him and he gives me some knowing look with his eyes, the bottom half of his mouth still covered with a paint mask. He says nothing and moves on quickly. I almost wonder if I just hallucinated that.

When I return to my station, Shikamaru is sitting on my seat. His eyes are glued to my canvas, and he jumps when I slam my damp supplies onto my table.

"What?" I ask him.

Shikamaru gives me a sour look as he responds, "Can we talk?"

I look around the room and notice that a good majority of the class is looking over at us. Some look as if they are holding their breaths.

"Whatever," I say flatly as I reach over for my bag and leave the room.

As I hurry down the hallway, I can hear rapid footsteps behind me. Shikamaru catches up and keeps my pace as I head out the front doors.

"You're not going to stop to talk to me?"

"Nope."

"Can you at least slow down a little?"

"No chance in hell."

"Do you really believe all those stupid rumors of me?" he asks.

I continue to walk towards my dorm, not even looking over at him.

"Yes and no."

"Damn it, can I get a proper answer, Naruto? Was it that bad, what I did?" he asks me in exasperation.

"Yes, it was bad," I fume as my temper warms, "Why can't you think of how I feel about that - that painting of me? You humiliated me, Shikamaru. I wouldn't mind a simple nude portrait, but that was really low of you. How would you feel if I fucked you and painted you in your most vulnerable moment to show to the world?"

I turn to Shikamaru only when we stop in front of my building. His eyes focus onto me, and we barely register the fact that Neji walks right past us into the building.

Shikamaru says simply, with much conviction, "I'd be flattered."

I take a sharp inhale of breath through my nose and slap him hard across the face. Shikamaru's head turns with the force of the hit, and he furrows his eyebrows as his hand comes up to nurse his cheek.

I hate the idea of slapping someone. It's a weak thing to do, especially when I can just as easily curl my hand up into a fist and knock his head that way. But I didn't even give myself time to think it through.

"You're a fucking smart ass, you know that? I don't want anything to do with you anymore." Then I add as I walk away, "Oh, and if you ever bring another one of those portraits of me in public again, I'll make sure you never paint again."

And with my hot temper still flaring, I storm into my building.

oooOOooo

Neji is already sitting at his desk, reading his textbook, when I stomp into the room. He doesn't even have to look up to know that I'm fuming. I throw my bag down by my desk and hop onto my bed.

"I did warn you, you know."

"Shut up, Neji," I reply bitterly as I lie down, "I'm not in the mood for a lecture right now."

He looks up from his book to the ceiling as he replies, "I'm just saying, Naruto. I knew he was no good. It was just a matter of time before he fucked you over - literally and figuratively."

"Shut the fuck up," I growl as I turn to lie on my side, facing the wall.

I don't want to admit that Neji is right, so I don't - at least, not directly to him.

oooOOooo

"I would like each one of you to visit an art museum and pick an art work. Feel free to choose any piece that pertains to what we've covered in class. Take plenty of notes when you go; I expect a ten-page paper to be handed in a week from now. And to make sure you all go to a museum, I will also require a ticket stub with your paper."

The class groans audibly, but our professor pays no mind as he dismisses us. I slouch in my seat as the rest of my class starts to pack up to leave. The closest art museum is just a bus ride over, but having to go there by myself - well, the idea of it sucks.

I wait for the others to leave, and I don't even bother turning to the back of the room to see if Shikamaru is in class. He is not worth any of my time anymore. When the room empties, the professor starts packing up. However, he notices me and pauses.

"Naruto! I didn't know you were still taking my class. How are you?"

I smile at his friendliness and at the familiarity of his non-lecturing voice. I know the art history professor rather well, since I used to come by during his office hours every week. But lately - mostly due to Shikamaru - I haven't had the time to stop by.

"I'd never abandon you, Iruka," I assure him with a smile, "I'm doing well, but I'm sorry about being AWOL lately. I've been studying and helping out a classmate with his portfolio, so-"

My professor shakes his head and smiles. He walks over and sits down in the seat next to me.

"I'm not mad at you, Naruto. You say you've been studying? With your friend, right? Does he happen to be in this class?"

I don't want to have to correct Iruka about my friendship with Shikamaru, so I just let it go for the time being. We can be "friends" in title, I figure. When I nod, he puts a hand to his chin and strokes the small, rough patch of stubble. He hums some knowing tone.

"I'm not failing, am I?" I ask him in curiosity, though I'm confident my professor could and would never actually be happy about me failing.

He smiles again. "Not at all. Your friend is helping you a great deal, Naruto. Your grades have improved in the class, you know. And I'm glad you're helping your friend put together his portfolio. It's better to put that time to something useful than keeping an old man company."

"But Professor," I almost whine, "you're not an old man. And I always enjoy visiting you. I should make more of an effort to come by."

Iruka shakes his head. "No, it's all right. Besides, I'm very glad you're making such an effort to study. I didn't want to fail a favorite student! But let's keep that part about you being my favorite student between you and me."

Iruka is not the kind of man to say just anything. Every word he says, nagging or not, means a great deal. I know that my professor favors me, but to hear it from him personally gives me a good feeling. I give him a real, wide, genuine smile.

"Thanks, Iruka. I'll keep trying my best."

"I hope so. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another class to teach in fifteen minutes. And don't forget about the paper I assigned; you may be my favorite student, but that gives you no excuse to slack off in my class."

I nod, then salute him in an almost-mocking-but-endearing manner. As I leave the room, my professor calls out after me.

"Oh, and I'd suggest keeping that friend of yours around. He's a good influence on you, I think."

I keep myself from scoffing as I give one last wave and leave the room.

oooOOooo

I barely remember how overwhelmingly large the art museum is. As I navigate my way through the seemingly-endless maze of paintings, sculptures, and textiles, nothing seems to catch my eye. I decide that it would probably be best to head towards the Impressionist works - if I can find it, that is.

The museum is packed, partially because it is a weekend, and partially because it is raining outside. Tourists love staying indoors, looking at paintings and sculptures they will probably forget later.

I move past the crowd looking at an adorned vase lined in gold leaf. At a corner, I spot a security guard who directs me to the Impressionism section.

After some weaving in and out of the crowds of people taking their time through the museum, I sigh in relief when I start to recognize the Monets and Cezannes hanging on the walls.

"Oi, Naruto."

I turn and see Tayuya and Sasuke from my studio class. I hold back the urge to cringe; they both saw that portrait Shikamaru had painted of me.

"Oh, hi," I greet plainly.

I'm not sure whether to wait up for them or just walk away right then. However, before I can even make up my mind, Tayuya engages me in more conversation.

"You're here for that art history paper too?"

I nod; I can still walk away and keep my dignity intact if I leave now. Before I can move, Tayuya nods her head in thought and a bright expression adorns her face in some sort of mini epiphany.

"Let's look around together, then! I've been meaning to take a look at the Baroque collection they have here..."

"No thanks," I cut in immediately, shifting my stance to allow myself a quick escape, "I've already looked around and decided on Monet. Maybe next time."

It's not that I dislike either Tayuya or Sasuke; I just don't want to be cornered and interrogated on my relationship with Shikamaru. That kind of thing is bound to happen, especially after they had a rather good look at my private parts on his canvas.

Tayuya pouts and grabs ahold of Sasuke's upper arm, "Then let's go, Sasuke."

Sasuke shakes his arm loose of her grip and replies, "I think I'm going to stay here as well. Sisley caught my eye."

The female red-head scrunches her nose in dissatisfaction. She crosses her arms in front of her chest and pouts again.

"Fine. I'll make my way around myself. Call me when you're done, Sasuke."

Tayuya stomps off, receiving several glares from fellow museum-goers and security guards. I sigh in relief, enough for Sasuke to notice. However, he seems to ignore me and walks slowly towards the paintings. I reluctantly follow suit.

We stare at the painting carefully hung on the beige wall. I recognize it as a Monet; upon further inspection, I discover that the title of the work is "Camille Monet on her deathbed". Straightening back up, I purse my lips and cross my arms.

Sasuke stares at the painting passively. He turns to me and sees my distaste so we move on to the next painting wordlessly.

The next one that we look at is a Sisley, as Sasuke informs me. Its title is "Molesey Weir".

"This is one of my favorites," Sasuke tells me simply.

I stare at the painting in curiosity. The main composition of the work is done in an almost monotonous palette of colors; I can see a lot of grey scattered throughout. When I look back at Sasuke, I can see his eyes are trained onto the canvas, scanning the piece in all its glory.

"Why?" I ask him, "It's a bit grey for my liking."

Sasuke stares for a bit longer, then turns to me. The smallest of smiles presses the corners of his lips upward in a subtle, amused expression.

"I suppose so. Look here," Sasuke says as he points towards the sky of the painting, "Can you see how beautifully he's mixed the different hues? You say it's a lot of grey, but can you see how many colors there really are, just in the sky alone?"

I look over the painting once more, this time with more intent on capturing the colors in the top-half of the canvas. I squint a bit, but still see a lot of grey. As if on cue, we both press forward, just short of setting the silent alarm off.

And then I see them. The colors in the sky begin to disintegrate and become their own. I am mesmerized by the amount of blending Alfred Sisley has done in his work. The realization and separation of colors was almost an adventure on its own, an endeavor for my eyes.

We both stand up tall and step away from the painting as a security guard comes over to check up on us.

"That was amazing," I breathe out as we move on to the next piece.

Sasuke smiles at my response. His cheeks shape and the corners of his eyes curve upward. I feel my heart thump at his pretty expression.

He's pretty.

"I think I got enough information for my paper," Sasuke says as he stretches his arms in front of him, "I know enough about Sisley on my own anyway."

"Yeah, me too," I nod.

He grins and puts his hands in his pockets. "Then want to grab a coffee or something?"

My heart flutters this time. This pretty male, who I've rarely spoken to, asked me to have coffee with him. And he's a fellow artist with passion. It would be nice to talk to someone. But then I think back a little.

"Sure, but what about Tayuya?"

"What about her?"

oooOOooo

"I just don't see how it's appropriate for an artist to paint something like that. I mean, if they feel like painting their dying wife, fuck, I won't stop them. But I just don't think it's right. She's dying, and you're busy painting her?"

Sasuke, with his hands still wrapped around his coffee cup, shrugs nonchalantly in response to my complaint about Monet's portrait of his dying wife, Camille.

"It's not as bad as you're making it seem, Naruto," he replies, "You're not looking at it from his perspective."

I frown and push my coffee cup towards the middle of the small table by the store front window. I cross my arms and shake my head, refusing to accept what Sasuke is trying to say.

We sit there in silence. I continue to pout and stare out the window, spotting the art museum just a few buildings away, across the street.

"Why do you create art, Naruto?"

My head snaps back towards Sasuke. His head is cocked slightly to the left, his expression somewhat curious and confused.

"What do you mean? I make art because I'm somewhat good at it, and I like doing it," I respond, losing my already-thinned patience.

His eyebrows furrow and he straightens his posture, staring down at his cup before taking another sip. As he puts his cup back down, Sasuke sighs and rests his chin in the palm of his right hand, his elbow resting on the table.

"How do you create art? I mean, how do you come up with an idea? A concept?"

This line of questioning is confusing me. I growl in annoyance and push my seat back, getting ready to up and leave.

"I get inspired, then go with an idea and run with it. Why are you asking me these weird questions?"

Sasuke makes no move to stop me as I get up from my seat. When I realize he hasn't moved an inch, I stare down at him hard. Surprisingly, he stares right back up at me, his poise as intact as ever.

"And this inspiration - you have a sort of emotion linked to it, don't you? Like back in studio the other day, when you started to paint that fiery mess on your canvas. You were angry. Furious. Were you not?"

I cross my arms over my chest and reply, frustrated, "Yes, I was angry. What are you trying to get at?"

"Well, I was trying to explain something new to you, but since you're in such a hurry to leave..."

Harrumphing, I sit back down in my seat and push myself in towards the table. This guy sure has a way with persuasion.

When he says nothing, I move my arms a little, gesturing him to move on with it.

"Who were you painting that canvas for, Naruto? Think hard, now."

I reply immediately without thought, "I didn't paint it for anyone. I was angry, so I painted what I felt like."

Sasuke nods a bit, tilting his head forward gently. It seems he is approving of how our conversation is going.

"So that painting is something you created … for your own sake, right?"

I hesitate. "I suppose. I didn't make it for someone else - OH."

A realization hits me at that moment. Sasuke looks at me, and he seems expectant of something. I furrow my eyebrows and look out the window, trying to wrap my head around everything.

I turn back to Sasuke and reply, "Shikamaru painted that portrait of me for himself. He never meant any harm in it, did he?"

Sasuke's expression changes to pure curiosity.

"I was talking about Monet's piece, but I suppose that reasoning would work in your situation too."

oooOOooo

I don't care that it's late. All I can think about is getting to Shikamaru's place and apologizing as soon as possible.

When I get to his building, I call his cell phone.

"Hello?"

I can hear the surprise in his voice; he probably didn't expect to receive a call from me so randomly. But my heart and pulse race as I hear his familiar voice.

"I'm outside your building. Can you come down and let me in?"

"Uh, I don't know-"

"Oh, never mind. Someone's opening the door. I'll be right up."

I hang up as a middle-aged man approaches the door from the inside and holds it open for me before leaving the building himself. I thank him and rush for the stairs, letting my blood course through me furiously.

I travel up three flights of stairs, onto the fourth floor. When I push the stairwell door and step into the carpeted hallway, I spot Shikamaru standing outside his door awkwardly.

"Shikamaru!" I shout, nearly forgetting that it's a Sunday night.

Without even thinking, I head right for him and wrap my arms around him, pressing my face into his neck. Shikamaru tenses; I let go and take a step back, my face getting hot.

He looks just the same as I last saw him, except for his slightly fat lip. I assume, guiltily, that it was from me hitting him. He's frowning slightly.

"I thought you were going to hit me again," he says humorlessly.

I shake my head and look down at his chest. A churning feeling gurgles in my gut; I'm afraid I don't have the chutzpah to look him in the eye.

But I realize, from the little distance between us, that I've missed him.

I've missed him so horribly, even despite what he did to me.

"Want to come in?" Shikamaru asks me reluctantly as he pushes his door open.

He knows I won't refuse. As I step into his once-familiar apartment, Shikamaru places his hand on my ass and gently ushers me in.

He knew I couldn't refuse.