Itachi's arms went up but not before stealing another kiss. He twisted and pulled his arms out hurriedly only to pause and stare, once he was free, at the shirtless blond, soft, wonderful, magical thing of blue sparks and taste and electricity in his lap. His chest heaved.
He put a hand out to tentatively touch Deidara's chest, as if he were afraid it would crumble, and found it softer, warmer, and far more appealing that the shirt could ever dream of being. The lines, the curves, the shape of this artist he'd met on a bench... He traced them, transfixed and awed.