95. Prized and placed upon a shelf, It's worth its weight in gold.

I'm a crazy Naruto fannnn (:

No don't laugh.

Naruto is cool, okay?

It's the coolest anime in the world!

And I am not in love with Sasuke :P

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She ran her fingers over the edges of the canvas, taking it the details of the smooth wood and the large white surface in which she was to paint. He stood there, his hand jammed into his pockets, the other hand feeling the rough face of her finished portraits.

The window was open and bare, the curtains billowing in the wind.

The sun wrapped up his body, illuminating him in a beautiful warm glow that spilled onto the ground like wild gold threads. Veins slinked up his forearms like blue snakes, slipping under the sleeves of his rolled up blue shirt, away from greedy eyes who seek beauty that flashes in the darkest of nights.

His legs were surging with muscle and power, ripping beneath his ivory skin. His knee length jeans hung loosely beneath his hips, struggling to stay upright with the strip of leather in the hoops of the belt loops. His toes were wriggling inside his sneakers, the white cap at the tip shivering with each tap of his restless feet.

She took out her faithful paintbrush.

His eyes were creased in concentrating, trying to figure out the true meaning of her ambitious and beautiful canvas, what each stroke represented. One arm was outstretched, holding the wooden frame firm beneath his dry palms, twisting it from side to side, pretending to be able to decifer the hidden secrets beneath the layer of random colours in splashes of white.

His nose twitched, the dust inching it's way into his discomfort, however, his mouth was a grim line of beauty, drawn to such a perfect, strong feature or meaning of concentration. Unaware of her eyes lingering over his beautiful frame, he smiled unconsciously, the sides of his lips tugging into a faint grin.

With her thumb in line with the thick paintbrush, her vision blurred and only focused on the brush on her outstretched hand, she turned it to try and figure out the position of his strong stand, the beautiful curve in his back. As if her world collapsed on her, her fingers moved deftly across the white surface, thick strokes and soft touches to places which needed a little colour or spark.

Every part that contacted the canvas came to life within her eyes. She was lost in the white, her hands dipping into the subtle and strong colours, back and forth, back and forth, the beauty in each of her nimble swipes and strikes. His image burnt itself into her mind, searing up all lingering thoughts, and without glancing a second time at her portrait subject, she added the little details and smudges to perfection.

"That's good," he said.

While she was painting, he walked around and looked at her.

Her hair was tied up in a loose bunch, strips of hair curling down her damp neck. She didn't flinch or move away when he tugged the scrunchy free from her strangled hair. He carassed a lock of it beside his smooth cheek, his eyes closed in sheer ecstasy from the scent of the paint, to the rich smell unfolding in the small lock of hair. The next time he flicked his eyes at the picture, she was already done.

"Thank you," she smiled, slipping her hairband from his fingers.

She had done it, capturing each detail, each important aspect of him. The way his fingers looked so soft and beautiful, his eyebrows painted in thin lines, creasing slightly into his nose, his beautiful eyes gazing down at her painting. The creases in his jeans and shirt, and the subtle smirk on his lips. But instead of the abstract canvas he was studying, she drew a little boy sitting on a branch, his fingers grazing the beautiful, golden sun.

He looked at the canvas for a long time.

"How did you know?" he whispered.

"Know what?" she asked, wiping her dirty hands on a dark coloured cloth.

He looked up at her quizzically, then smiled.

"Nothing," he simply replied.

His eyes lingered back onto the canvas.

The little boy was him. When he was 8, he climbed up a beautiful oak tree and sat on the branch for the longest of time, thinking that when the sun started to set he could try and grab at it, keeping it locked away in his heart, keeping the gold only to himself.

Finally, when the sky bursted with rages of orange, he sat on the tip of the strongest branch and stretch out his little fingers to the beautiful perfect golden circle in the sky.

For a moment, he could feel the fiery of the sun, the beauty beating inside of him, bursting in his eyes, burning up all of his fingers. It contacted with the skin on his body and spreaded like wildfire, a sillouhette against the monstrousity of the sun in the sky. It consumed his body in mockery, and told him with it's beautiful orange and gold that he was never going to be good enough to be viewed in anyone's eyes.

Then he spotted a girl in the canvas, looking up at the sun, just a speck of black, with her thin arms reaching out towards the sky, towards him?

That very girl walked towards him, and he looked at her with a weak smile, his knees shaking. She swathed her arms across his chest and rested her chin next to his neck, breathing in deeply. She stopped his knees from shaking, stopped his chest from heaving, stopped his world from spinning.

And the golden sun was his to keep forever.

Nicole (: