Archive of Our Own

When I close my eyes, the images come by themselves. Corpses. Bleeding black. Limbs bent wrong. Faces pulled out of shape by pain.

When I raise food to my mouth, my brain shoves a string of words at me, twisted into bitter little knots: “I’ll stay, you run.” “Take care of him for me.” “Look after each other.” “Never forget what matters most in our line of work.”

When I look at the scar cutting across my father’s forehead, I think about the price of a single insignificant fighting unit on a conveyor belt of hundreds just like him. Every one of those units has a woman they love. A kid. A home. And that’s not just words. That’s at least two whole people with their own fates. Plus a not-small building sitting on our cursed land.

When I look at his second scar—the one tearing his cheek—I think: I don’t want to be a shinobi.

When I run through thoughts that were born when I was a kid, I curse myself.

When I go over my expectations. My actions. My strategic moves. My physical movements. My words. My orders. My training level. My hesitation. My emotions during that last fight I didn’t want to be in at all — I hate myself.

When I remember my cowardly tears on the half-dead face of the soldier who once gave me a chance to be human in this completely alien society — I want to die.

Born into this world, we’re doomed to eternal war. Only death gets us out of it. That’s what he said. And I agree.

“Take this to Kurenai-chan. Go see her. I think we should invite her to dinner. Today or tomorrow.”

“No.”

“What do you mean, no? Such a tragedy — just think about it. The poor woman. We have to express our condolences.”

“You already did. At the funeral.”

“Don’t talk back. And don’t be lazy. Take it. Deliver it. I said so.”

“She won’t accept the invitation.”

“What? Why not? Does she not like our house?”

“No. I think she likes it more than her dead lover.”

“Shika!”

“Yes, Mom?”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. Take her the damn mochi.”

“Yes, Mom.”

There’s nothing else to say. I don’t have the nerve for something like “I’m really not in the mood to talk to a woman carrying a dead man’s child.” I never have the nerve.

It’s like saying it out loud would mean admitting it was all pointless. That someone died for nothing. But that’s not how it works. In this world — hammered out of fire and endurance — death isn’t an event. Death is an expected, approved result. In that case, you can’t leave anything behind but glory. You can’t leave a life behind. You have to take everything with you.

He died beautifully. Properly. Honorably. That’s what they say. But he died wrong — because he didn’t take everything with him.

And everyone feels the need to poke at that heroism, but almost nobody mentions Kurenai. They probably never heard how she breathed. She didn’t cry, didn’t scream, didn’t faint. She just breathed. Heavy and thick. What has to break inside someone’s head for them to forget how to grieve?

She didn’t hug anyone. Didn’t accept condolences. She stood there and stared at nothing. Right then I thought: whatever people shout under windows and write in letters, whatever they split fifty-fifty — that’s not love.

Love must be a lonely thing. It’s what stays after everything else is gone.

Asuma left her something. “A piece of himself,” as sentimental idiots like to say. What he really left her was an unbearable debt: to keep living. To raise the kid. To look into that face and remember him every single time.

He left beautifully — she stayed forever. Incomplete. Unfinished.

My mother said, “Take her mochi.” Yeah. Great. Nothing like plugging a hole in someone’s chest. Sticky rice is perfect for that.

“Invite her to dinner.” Sure. She must have so much free time — between the insomnia and the wondering about what her child will grow up to be.

A shinobi? Like his father?

Or the eternal shadow of an ancestor?

Or just a living reminder?

I feel like a living reminder. No. Not living.

“Let’s sit on the veranda? Kiba and Hana just left — they helped wash the floors.”

“Fine.”

“Mochi?”

“Mom sent it.”

I don’t look at her. Just hold the box out.

“Thanks.”

“How are…” I swallow. “…things?”

Cowardly, I nod toward her swollen belly. She’s cradling it with her hand. Kurenai smiles.

“I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That he won’t forgive me. That he’ll grow up and know I didn’t want him for too long. That he’s not a gift, but a…”

“Better be scared he inherits a love for smoking.”

Okay. That lightens things up a little. Breaks up the heavy mourning atmosphere with some useless half-joking crap.

Kurenai covers her mouth with her hand and laughs tearfully.

“I’m pathetic, aren’t I? Acting like I’m not even a jōnin.”

“Like there’s no reason to.”

“For a shinobi, there are only two reasons to be sad: the death of a leader and a failed mission.”

Of course.

“I’m a terrible kunoichi.”

“And I’m a disgusting shinobi.”

“Tea?”

“I hate mochi. Will you come for dinner?”

“No.”

I leave the faded little house with its boarded-up windows. Duty done. Kurenai can’t fight properly anymore. She’s sure as hell not doing night patrols. Someone throws a kunai through a window — she could actually get hurt by that genin-level attack. So she has to protect herself like this.

I close the door. The wood under my palm is dry, rough, sun-scorched. The latch clicks.

Outside, the air smells of river wind. The warmth drains fast, like water from a cracked jar.

A passing shinobi with a forehead protector around his neck yawns and slides past me like I’m not there.

I walk along the wall, thinking about losing heat. In the big, systemic sense.

The body wastes an absurd amount of energy just trying not to fall apart. Liver. Vessels. Hormones. Even when you’re doing nothing, your body works not to cool down, not to rot. To hold order against chaos.

The wind lifts my shirt hem. I smooth it down without thinking. Nearby, an old man shuffles, dragging a basket of firewood. The rope creaks.

Lose control for a second — and you start shaking. Coming apart. The whole world trembling around you.

Something trembles inside me too. Tickles.

I stop by a lamppost for a moment. The light flickers, like it’s not sure about its job either. Kids run past swinging sticks, pretending it’s taijutsu. One trips and yells in frustration.

So much of the world wants to save energy. Even our thinking. What you use gets stronger. What you ignore dies off. It’s always easier to walk the beaten path.

Kurenai will look at her kid — and see his father.

Because the brain looks for patterns. Because it doesn’t know how to live in the present — associations are safer.

I used to call that weakness. Now I just accept the rules. No one is free. A leaf doesn’t move by itself; the wind moves it. If you’re unlucky, the current just dumps you in the mud. If you’re lucky, you get to soar. See the world from above. But in the end, the wind stops. The mud comes back. You fall.

I reach the crossroads. A group of shinobi is coming back from patrol. One is limping. Blood on his bandage. He’s smiling.

Smiling.

I’d run through every possible refusal scenario before I even opened my mouth. Not because I wanted to — I just couldn’t stop. And that simple “no,” funny enough, wasn’t even in the top ten.

My fingers reach for the inner pocket. There’s a flask there, but I don’t drink. I just run my fingers over the cold metal. In the other pocket is a rice ball — Mom must have slipped it in after laundry.

Simple pattern: the more meals you skip, the worse your brain works.

Kurenai had barely eaten.

Neither had I.

When your body weakens, logic goes first. You’re still thinking, but your thoughts turn syrupy. Slow. Completely insane. You think you’re in control, but really you’re just making deals with your conscience over and over. A word cuts deeper than a kunai. A look hurts worse than a hit. And the worst part — you can’t tell when it all became too much. Too painful, I guess. And all you had to do was not skip lunch?

Pain doesn’t bother me. What bothers me is that I can’t predict it. If it came in a table — scale of one to ten, cooldown time calculated — I could handle it. I’d handle it.

But Kurenai doesn’t fit in a table.

I stop under an archway. Shadow falls across my face.

I don’t fit either.

One part of me wanted to go back. Another noticed my heartbeat was off. A third stayed quiet.

Sometimes silence is the most active thing I can afford.

I could’ve stayed by her house. Could’ve washed the floors instead of Kiba. Could’ve gone to the market instead of Hinata. Helped Shino patch her leaky roof.

I agree with Asuma’s favorite joke: I could do a lot, but for some reason I don’t even do the small stuff.

I. Do. Nothing.

The thought of being part of that heroic-cannon-fodder factory disgusts me.

***

Lately I sleep without resting. Nights are the quietest part of the day, but even they’re unbearable for me. Because when everything stops, it’s just you and what you didn’t do. Just you and the silence where the dead scream.

Sometimes I hear Asuma’s voice. Not in my head — somewhere lower. In my stomach. In my spine. In the sweaty pillow. “Take care of them,” he says.

And I can’t even take care of myself.

How long does this go on? How much longer do I have to take it? How do I get this… horror… out of my head?

“Get over it.”

“You’re a shinobi. A warrior.”

“Look at your father. Look around. Everyone loses someone.”

“You should be proud your teacher died in battle.”

I should be proud that my teacher… died?

Heroes don’t die. Heroes grin wide, sword in hand, bright cloak flying behind them, backlit by the sunset. Then they get a monument. People tell stories about their great deeds — but they don’t really die. They just go on some long trip. Still smiling. Still watching over someone else in the pink light…

I could’ve saved him. I could have. Could have.

Should have.

But I didn’t. Wasn’t fast enough. Wasn’t smart enough. Didn’t think.

How… long…

“How long is this going to go on?!”

“Don’t shout, Nara. It’ll be done when it’s done. I don’t have any missions for you right now.”

“What do you mean? You? No missions? During martial law?”

“Konoha needs you. I can’t send your brains to the tailed beasts in the back of beyond — you said it yourself, times are unstable. You need to be here. I’ll put you on headquarters duty.”

“I’m not going to just sit at headquarters.”

“Oh, you won’t sit around… Are you sure you’re a Nara? Since when do you have this much energy? Shut your mouth and do what you’re told, or I’ll suspend you completely.”

“You can’t do that.”

“You think?”

“I refuse to follow orders if you refuse to consider the risks.”

Tsunade narrows her eyes.

“What risks, exactly?”

“I’m… tired. That’s it. You can’t rely on my calculations right now. I can’t make strategies.”

I pause. Watch the tiny tremor run across her face.

“If you want me to coordinate the village’s defense, you need to be sure I can tell targets apart. And I can’t. Not yet. I might miscalculate. Or go in blind. And that’s not tactics — that’s gambling. Want to play Konoha like a chess piece? I wouldn’t, Hokage-sama. Not with your luck.”

I give her a second.

“Send me somewhere. Solo. Let me air out your precious brains. Field duty. Recon. Anything. As far away as possible.”

Tsunade doesn’t answer. She studies me, and I feel her trying to figure out if I’m pressuring her or just groveling at her feet. Either way, I don’t have another choice.

I finish it:

“You know I’m leaving either way. Mission or not. Without one, it’s desertion. With permission, you save face. Konoha’s in bad shape. You might want to worry about its international reputation for a change.”

She drinks slowly from her flask. It reeks of liquor.

“You’re not leaving me a choice?”

“I’m just putting the pieces in the right places.”

She exhales for a long time. Takes another swig.

“The Sand incident is pretty much cleaned up, but one of my trusted people should see it in person. We haven’t stopped humanitarian aid yet, but our resources aren’t endless. Along the way, wouldn’t hurt to check their position on the alliance with Konoha.”

“You’re saying I should walk to Suna?”

“Clear your head on the road. See how bad things are. Come back with a worthless report. Happy?”

I nod, almost grateful.

“One more thing,” she adds, looking at me from under her brows. “If a single hair falls off your head, I’ll resurrect you just to kill you again.”

“Good thing resurrection’s a forbidden technique, right?”

She barely smirks.

“I won’t hesitate to use family connections. Before I change my mind.”

I’m already pushing the door open when an empty flask hits the back of my neck:

“And don’t you dare talk to me like that, kid!”

I leave the office. I don’t feel better. But at least the flimsy rice of purpose plugs something inside. For a while.

***

When I get up on the roof, the sky is still dark, like it’s putting off another night as long as it can.

I sit down, legs dangling. Somewhere far off, a light flickers — maybe a campfire, maybe someone’s window. Everything is someone else’s.

Below, one of the patrol guys coughs. Branches whisper. My fingers trace a map in the air by habit: formations, combinations, a diagram of damage and death. Sixth move, eighth move — the rook falls. Just disappears.

I’ve never been able to play the game out in my head. I always quit somewhere. Close to the end. Or earlier. Because at some point it became clear: I’d already lost. Long before it started. Why watch them cut off the king’s head when you know it’s coming?

“You gave up.”

“You don’t know anything about shogi.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Warm, thin arms wrap around me from behind. I bury my face in the ponytail hanging down her neck. Ino’s drenched in perfume, as usual. Lethal. Or is that the flower smell from her shop? Cloying.

“Wanna play?”

“Sure. For flicks. I’ll kick your ass in advance. Any objections?”

“Shut up. We can play something else.”

“Jump rope? I used to destroy you at that.”

It’s true. Ino used to tug my ponytail and whine, “Wanna play?” Then she’d complain that she’d lost five times in a row. All she had to do was let me lie in the shade.

We hated playing together as kids. If it weren’t for our parents, would I be sitting here in her arms now?

“You’re leaving?”

“To Suna. For a while.”

“Don’t forget you’re not the only one hurting, idiot. And don’t forget you’re not alone.”

“Go wash off that disgusting perfume.”

“It’s paulownia! We got a delivery today.”

“Go wash off that disgusting paulownia.”

I tighten the loose string on her thick blond hair, run my fingers through the strands once. Then stand and jump off the roof.

***

By the third day, I caught myself analyzing the route down to tiny details. For no reason. Not just to avoid getting lost — I know the way — but to keep my brain busy.

I note soil types. Erosion on the rocks. Kinds of trees. The Land of Fire is mostly broadleaf forests, humid, rich soil. Great for farming. Also great for enemy squads hiding in the trees. That grove over there — perfect ambush spot. If I were the attacker, I’d put archers there, and close-range fighters here. Where’s the wind coming from? How’s the visibility? All these useless details fill up every crack in my head, keep the irrational fear quiet. What’s in that cave? How many fighters could fit in its shadow?

I count how many steps it takes to cover a kilometer over rough terrain. Average shinobi makes about fourteen thousand an hour. If I speed up or go through the trees… If I don’t go around but straight through… If… If… If I don’t stop, then by Suna…

Calculations. Calculations. Calculations.

By the fifth day, the fear changed. The sharpness turned into a dull, aching emptiness. Like someone tore a piece out of me and didn’t stitch it shut. The air gets drier. The sky seems deeper. The hot air wraps around you like a heavy blanket. I like it. The heat dries you out. Leaves just the raw feeling of being alive.

I started thinking about how people deal with grief. Naruto turns it into all-consuming love. Choji eats. Funny. Ino takes care of others so she doesn’t have to think about herself. Asuma… gives his life for a fallen comrade, I guess.

Everyone plugs the hole their own way.

My way is endless thinking. If I break everything down long enough, sort facts, calculate options, maybe I’ll reach a logical end where I find an answer. Funny thing is, I can’t even name the problem I’m trying to solve.

By the sixth day, I noticed an obsessive habit: counting trees. From one small grove to another. Five-leaf maple. Lone pine. Twin spruce. Around and around.

Asuma, Kurenai, the baby, Choji, Ino.

Too many other people’s lives — and back then, it felt like they all broke right when I chose something. When I got involved. When I made a move. Or when I didn’t.

When he asked me — “Take care of them” — he didn’t just mean Kurenai and the kid. He meant himself too. He wanted me to keep what was left of him in the world. And me — what did I do?

Brought mochi. Said a few words. Ignored my teammates. And left.

I could’ve stayed. Stayed and done something. Anything. But I chose to leave. Just like on the battlefield.

When I chose not to break the plan. Not to snap. Not to go off the rails. Not to try just a little harder.

And now all I have is a plan. A cold model where everything’s calculated three moves ahead — except for one thing: what’s any of it for? Why?

My name is Nara. A family line of strategists, generals, the brains of the headquarters.

But even we had someone who felt pain. Who screamed when they lost a comrade. Who drank themselves stupid when they couldn’t save the person they loved.

I can’t let myself do that. I don’t even let myself cry. Tears would mean…

What?

That I’m human?

Two more legs to Suna. I’m not rushing. This time on purpose. Not because I’m tired, but because I want to stay on the road a little longer. In the in-between. Hang over the abyss in uncertainty — soar, if I’m lucky. See the world from above.

Dusk. Sand already settling into the folds of my clothes. The daytime heat hasn’t faded, but the wind is even drier. I sit by a rock and take out my flask. Savor the tasteless water.

Maybe this is the way out. Just keep twisting the pain at different angles to relieve the pressure bit by bit. Eventually it’ll get easier. Become a habit. If I can drain the pus out of the wound, it’ll close up. Leave a scar — but at least it won’t be an open tear.

Someday, maybe, I’ll tell Kurenai that. Not now.

Just a little. Just a bit. Just one more day.

Tomorrow I’ll be in Suna.

Tomorrow I’ll be a shinobi again.

***

One night I decide to stop at a run-down caravanserai on the border between the Land of Fire and the Land of Wind. These places are always full of wandering merchants, lone shinobi, and fugitives. Anonymity is what I need most.

I take the cheapest room, throw my pouches in the corner, and just lie on the mat, staring at the ceiling. The noises from behind the wall — laughter, cups clinking, bits of talk — feel distant and unreal. I fall asleep hard. Keep waking up from nightmares.

When I wake, I feel even worse. I get up to go outside for air, to stretch my stiff muscles. I step into the inner courtyard, where they usually water camels and horses. The night is deep. The moon hangs high, spilling silver light on the old walls.

At first, I didn’t know I wasn’t alone. Not that anyone was hiding.

She just appeared… simply. No declaration of war.

Against the night light. Tall, straight as a spear. Hair escaping from a tight bun. Her Sand cloak flapping around her ankles. The wind — her eternal partner — tugs at the fabric, tugs at her, like it wants to tear her off the ground.

And me, as always, frozen. In the shadows. Quiet. Still.

Shadow against the wind.

“Nara,” she states, annoyed. “What, you found a place to laze around even at the border? Isn’t it a little early for a break?”

Her sarcasm is familiar armor. My brain immediately shifts into attack mode, trying to run the usual script.

“Your workaholism doesn’t fit in Suna, so you have to move to our lands?” I try to sound indifferent. “Persistent woman. I thought I could hide from you even in the desert. The wind, you know… unpredictable.”

She narrows her eyes, but I see the corner of her pink mouth twitch. So I hit the mark.

“No worse than your lazy lifestyle. And the wind — at least it moves. Unlike some people. Are you here on business?”

Even if I was, I was supposed to talk to Baki directly. And from her face, she’s had enough work for today.

“Something like that. Hokage sent me to look at sand. Minor diplomatic fuss.”

I wave my hand like it’s nothing, but really I’m watching every move she makes. She’s not comfortable either. She’s building some kind of turns, figuring things out. Usually she’s more direct.

We look at each other for a couple of seconds. What is there to say? Should I say anything to someone who’s… who to me?

I look away first.

“You ran away?” she says sharply.

“Did you?”

“I…” She falters for a moment, and the wind seems to pause too. “Came on assignment.”

“We’re both on assignment,” I correct. “Right?”

“What are you implying, brat?”

She steps closer. One step. Two. Now her shadow falls over mine.

“You look terrible, Nara.”

“Thanks. Always wanted to hear that from a girl.”

“I’m a representative of the Kazekage. And I have a list of tasks. Are you telling me to stand on ceremony with an unexpected envoy?”

I finally look up.

She scans me, and I feel it under my skin. People like her don’t do pity. Thank you for that. The only thing I can read in her eyes is a slow, pulling question: How are you holding up?

I don’t answer. Just pull out my flask and hold it out.

Her fingers brush mine. I realize how cold I am — even here, in the desert. She’s warm. Probably running on endless blazing anger. Fine by me. I like that temperature.

She drinks. Tips her head back, looks at the moon.

Hands the flask back. Sits down next to me without looking. Close. Her knee touches my pant leg.

“Don’t think I’m here to comfort you.”

“That really doesn’t suit you.”

“That sour face doesn’t suit you either.”

“Weren’t you the one always saying my face is so gloomy that…”

“This one is different.”

Pause. The wind picks up. I watch her hair whip around her face, and suddenly — almost without thinking — I catch a stray strand and tuck it behind her ear.

She freezes. Doesn’t pull away. Just speaks quieter.

“If you do that again, I’ll kill you.”

“Yes. Please.”

She’s quiet, looking somewhere to the side where the camel gear rustles. Doesn’t move away from my touch, but doesn’t make any moves herself. Her leg stays. We keep sitting knee to knee. I exhale like it’s hard.

The wind howls through the cracks in the caravanserai. I think: weird. She’s warm.

“You’re cold,” Temari says suddenly.

I shrug.

“Unfamiliar climate.”

“Idiot. You’re shaking.”

True. Not from cold, though.

She stands up fast, her fan clanking against her back.

“Where’s your room?”

I slowly lift my eyes to her.

“Why?”

“I’m not sitting in this damn wind while you turn into an icicle. And we’re out of sake.”

Her voice is sharp, but the old sarcasm is gone. The Sand Princess is giving orders.

“Second floor. The door with the broken hinge.”

“At least a bed?”

“A mat. Broken lock. Someone screaming next door.”

“Really know how to pick the royal suite.”

She walks first, not looking back. I follow. Her cloak billows like a banner, and my shadow trails after her like it’s tied.

We move through the half-dark past sleeping merchants and forgotten bundles of fabric.

Inside, she looks around fast. Notes where traps could be, where the good escape routes are. But to my surprise, she stays close. Like she’d run away holding my hand if a trap actually went off.

“Close the door.”

She acts like she owns the place. I press my lips together. I have no idea what’s happening or how to react. Is she going to interrogate me like an invader? I came in peace. Honestly, I don’t even remember what my mission was.

I turn slowly, like I might break something.

“Still not following.”

“I’m tired of the wind. Close it.”

I close the door.

***

Temari squats by the wall, shrugs off her cloak. I collapse next to the mat, stretch my legs out. My brain, like it’s hypnotized, won’t give me anything useful. Doesn’t even try to think. I stare at the black space behind my closed eyelids. Quiet. Hoping the awkwardness will just dissolve.

Back in the courtyard, it crossed my mind that we hadn’t been this close in a long time. We’ve crossed paths, sure. Neutral territories. The Kazekage sent troops to support Konoha a couple times, and we had joint missions — but that’s different. Only now I really notice she looks smaller — though actually I’ve grown about four inches. Same hair. Same clothes as years ago. But her hands are shaking a little. Damn. The Sand Princess is nervous.

I take out cigarettes. Pat my pockets for a lighter, find matches, strike one.

First drag — like the first breath of air in a long time.

“You smoke?” she asks, bored.

“As you can see, no.”

“Bad habit.”

“How bad can something be if it kills you slowly, compared to something that does it fast?”

“Ugh, Nara. You of all people…” She snorts, squinting. Then she pinches her own lip for some reason, looks at me, looks at the room. Suddenly: “Give me one.”

I turn my head.

“What?”

“A cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke,” I say.

“You didn’t fight seriously in the exam either. We both do things we’re not supposed to.”

I hand her one, wincing at how old that memory is. Does she still think about that fight?

She bites the filter, crushes it a little at the base. I light it for her, then take a drag myself. We exhale together.

I try:

“Do you dream about dead people?”

“Stop reading scary stories before bed.”

“Got it.”

We sit and smoke in silence. The smoke hangs in the air, makes a good surface for a new game board. I squint, placing a bishop, a king, a rook… A game wouldn’t hurt. I lose — I sleep. And if the uninvited guest wants to sit here with her useless silence, she can leave. But first I lose.

“I used to smoke,” she says, staring at the black window. “When Gaara came back. The first time. After they resurrected him…”

I don’t move. The dragon in front of my eyes dissolves into the smoke. The pawns tremble, fading off the board. Can she read minds?

“He didn’t talk at all back then. Sat in silence. Stared at one spot. You couldn’t tell if he was even there. Maybe the technique messed up, maybe he was just… gone. And I was really scared. That he’d disappear again. That he’d…” She pulled in nearly half the cigarette at once. I watched the tip glow, the ash fall to the dirty floor. She exhaled noisily, shook her head. “That night I went up on the roof. Kankuro always hides his cigarettes on the balconies. I always yelled at him for it, but that day it came in handy. Sat there like some snot-nosed kid, smoking and being scared. Thought: if he dares to disappear again, I’ll probably die right after him.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing. Tried not to meet her eyes — but she turned further away with every word, gritting her teeth, and I could see her trying to hide her shaking fingers, crushing the cigarette until it was useless.

I nudged the pack toward her carefully. Go ahead. Take it out on these.

“And then,” she chuckles, “I came home one day, and he was making me tea. My little brother. Taking care of his big sister. Like I’d imagined everything, and he’s perfectly fine, and I’m the only one going crazy…”

She grabs the pack, practically rips out the next cigarette, and for the first time nods at me to light it. I strike a match and almost burn my fingers — because I notice I’m shaking too.

“I realized then: he’s alive. He came back. Everything will be like it was. We just have to try, get through this rough patch, all that. But it didn’t bring me back.”

“Didn’t bring you back?” I repeat quietly.

“No. I stayed somewhere out there. I don’t want to say forever — but how long has it been?”

She grinds the first butt into the wall, hard. Like she’s not trying to kill it, but something old and stupid and painful.

I stay quiet for a while, then sigh. Hook my finger around the cord and untie my ponytail. The freedom at the top of my head makes me want to groan happily, but instead I just run my hand through my hair and stare at the ash-covered floor.

Nothing. My brain is paralyzed. The magic Sand Princess and her magic wind — everything blown out of my head.

“I don’t envy you,” I manage.

“Oh, don’t you dare pity me!” she laughs right away.

“You’re not pathetic. Just a forced babysitter. Kids are exhausting.”

Temari smiles. She reaches into my pocket herself and pulls out the matchbox. What does she need that for? I don’t even move, though my ears are burning. Natural reaction.

“You hate it, don’t you?” she asks, watching me fiddle with the cord in my weak fingers.

“Hate what?” I say lazily.

“What we’re… forced to do.” She pauses. “You think you couldn’t save him, right?”

I freeze. So sharp. So direct. Warnings are supposed to exist for a reason. What happened to preludes? She’s not afraid to call things what they are. Unlike me.

But this quid pro quo irritates me. I didn’t ask her. I didn’t ask her to share any of this. And now I’m stuck in a heart-to-heart.

“I don’t want to talk about Asuma,” I say.

“And I don’t want to talk about Gaara.”

“So we’ll just be quiet?”

“So stop being a smartass and answer.”

Fine.

“I feel like shit. You hate all this too, by the way. Judging from your stories.”

Smoke curls around her face. She snorts when she accidentally inhales through her nose.

“I hate it. And I hate myself. Babysitter, you say… I can’t even protect my brothers. Not even protect — just be a normal sister. The older one, who knows things. Gaara, he…” Her voice breaks on the first try. I can see her working to choose words. “Gaara thought he was a monster since he was a kid. And I don’t get how that’s possible when I was always there. When you think about it, it’s my fault. I really used to force myself… force myself to see him as a brother, not a demon.”

Her words hit something familiar. Something close. Our pain is probably the same. My thoughts about Kurenai, about Asuma’s stupid death — they rhyme with what she’s saying. Guilt. Guilt. All this regret — is it just part of being a shinobi, or is it our own personal curse?

“He…” I don’t know what to say, but I feel like I should. If I were her, I’d want an answer. “He changed.”

“Yes.” Temari nods, exhaling smoke. “But you know, Nara… Sometimes I feel like I’m still living by the old rules. When I was both a supervisor and a bodyguard. You and Gaara are the same age. He’s been running the village’s defense for a while. Kankuro’s almost nineteen.” She smiles. “Not complaining, like some old maid, but… I always tried to be strong for them. Can I be strong for myself? What do you think, Nara?”

I nod slowly. Yes. Of course. Why not? But something tells me the problem isn’t the younger siblings. She confirms it a moment later:

“The scariest part is — I feel like I’m woven into one body with them forever. Like all my strength is just a reaction to someone else’s horror. If they’re gone, I’ll just evaporate. Useless. Worthless.”

She looks at me, and in her eyes I see the despair I know so well. My brain starts analyzing — not her words, but her feelings. She’s like me. She sees herself as a function, not a person. She’s fighting a role life shoved onto her. She reacts to circumstances the only way she knows and fears change. Homeostasis still works, but it’s fragile — because it’s local. Step outside the point, and there’s no point in thrashing.

She puts words to my feelings. Gives them names. I sink back into old thoughts, but now it’s easier — because she’s drowning in the same… Nasty thought. I try to choke it before I can take comfort in it.

“Why did you come to my room?” I ask finally.

“Told you. For the sake.”

“You’re lying.”

“And you? Why’d you run away?”

Smoke catches in my throat.

“I didn’t run.”

“Liar. We both know why you’re here, Nara. Cowardly fugitive.”

I clench my teeth.

“I didn’t abandon them.”

“But you wanted to.”

Silence.

She’s right.

“Yes,” I admit, for the first time even to myself. “I wanted to.”

Temari looks at me, and her armor crumbles further and further, right into the ash at our feet. It’s not a crack anymore. She’s just sitting there, bare. And maybe this is the only way to drag me out into the open. Whatever she’s trying to do.

“Me too. Almost every day,” she says quietly. “I’m tired. Always having to be strong. Always looking sure of myself. Always…”

She swallows. I lean closer.

“No one’s asking…”

“They are.” She snorts. “Gaara. Kankuro. The country. The wind. Me. Everyone.”

“I promise — personally, I’m not asking anything of you today.”

Her fingers suddenly grip my hand.

“Enough,” she says.

“What?”

“Are you having a seizure? Enough shaking.”

Yeah. Enough.

I touch her chin. Stroke it with my thumb.

She looks at my face for a long time. Then closes her eyes and says almost in a whisper:

“Don’t you dare touch me if you’re going to run in the morning.”

That’s all I need to hear. I stub out my cigarette slowly, not taking my eyes off her. Temari moves closer and presses her forehead to my shoulder. Doesn’t touch me with her hands. Like a wild animal sniffing strange human fingers. I think I’m not even breathing. I let her settle her own restlessness. Put her doubts on shelves. Decide for herself what happens next.

But then she lifts her head with strange playfulness, looks right at me, and… giggles? At first I don’t believe it. Did the Sand Princess just make that sound?

“Oh, Shikamaru-kun,” she coos my name, “what are you doing? We can’t!”

I thought my brain had already shut down. But has she lost hers too?

“What?” I croak. She’s grinning like a fox.

“The only daughter of the late leader of Sunagakure and an armed foreigner from the Land of Fire… Our relationship is doomed…”

My mouth forgets how to close. This is definitely the end of my intellectual career.

She bursts out laughing first. I follow right after, pressing my hands to my face, shaking all over. We laugh and laugh, and who cares that the room looks like a psych ward, and the laughter keeps breaking into sobs — can’t tell whose. I never stop being amazed at her ability to twist my emotions in every direction without breaking a sweat. A talent she showed years ago, back in our fight.

Back then I looked at a girl for the first time and thought: wheat-colored hair can actually be beautiful. Choji said her ponytails looked like big potato chips. And instead of just shrugging and forgetting, I said: “You’re a solid potato chip yourself.” Why did I even get so mad?

Temari grabs my shoulders and pounds me on the back, adding things like “Please, sir, spare me the wrath of my father!” And I’m already calming down, just looking at her laughing face. Noting how cleverly she turned everything inside out, shoved my face into my own fears. Like she doesn’t care that I’m from Konoha and she’s from Suna. Like she doesn’t care about any of it right now. And me… I don’t either. I ditched my duties and ran off to cry to the camels about my fate.

We’re well matched, I think.

She calms down a little and meets my gaze. Definitely embarrassed — I’ve learned how that works with her. She pulls back a little, clears her throat.

Her own fault. Shouldn’t have ruined the atmosphere.

But weirdly, it helped.

I realize I’ve been running my hands over her back for a while. Stroking her shoulders as they rise and fall. She probably just noticed too — I can see it on her face — but she doesn’t pull away completely. I look at her chip-ponytails, reach for the cords. Whisper for no reason:

“Sorry about your hair…”

And undo the wheat-colored strands. They fall over her shoulders — but funny enough, mine are still longer. They make a good curtain when I press my forehead to hers. Shielding us from the judging stares of our ancestors, who are definitely not happy with what I’ve become and what I’m doing.

I still don’t care. Temari is busy playing with the earring in my ear, still trying to hide her embarrassment. She makes a little surprised sound when I pull her toward me by the shoulders.

We settle on the only clean spot. Ash drifts around us like little clouds. I press her to my chest, carefully — like I might hurt her. As if you can even hurt a trained kunoichi with a hug. Unless it’s on the inside.

But she doesn’t mind. Her fingers rustle through my hair. Her heartbeat matches mine.

“Ino wants me to make a plan for us to go after those missing-nin as a team,” I whisper. “She’s been listening to samurai stories or something…”

She lifts herself a little, elbows on my chest. Looks at me warily.

“I thought you’d be the first to run for revenge. What’s the problem? That’s exactly when you shouldn’t be sitting around.”

“I’m not sure that…”

She looms over me even more. Looks like she’s getting angry. At me?

“Not sure of what? Doesn’t it fit your perfect logic? Revenge on the one who killed your teacher.”

“Revenge doesn’t have anything… good in it. You know? The Uchiha are proof. I don’t want…”

I don’t want to open that wound and sink deeper into pain. It takes guts to commit to something like that. And I… nothing. Ino listened to her samurai stories, sure. But stories about rōnin at least make you respect them a little — their resolve, anyway.

I don’t even have to cut my stomach open after. And still I go quiet again. Coward.

But as if that’s even possible when you’re alone with the wild wind that is her.

“What?” she insists, frowning.

“I don’t want to turn his death into an excuse for more killing. Asuma… he wouldn’t take revenge. He’d just feel sorry for them.”

“Feel sorry for them?” Looks like all I do today is piss her off. “You sure? You knew him better than me, but don’t you think the son of the Third knew something about honor and rules?”

“Rules,” I repeat. “Rules got us here.”

She drops her head onto my chest, tired. Sighs for a long time.

“You’re scared that if you start taking revenge, you’ll become like them.”

Not a question.

“No,” I say quietly. “I’m scared I’ll become worse. Because I’ll calculate everything and do it perfectly. And I won’t feel a thing.”

She mumbles something into my shirt. I don’t hear, so I lift my head.

“And right now,” she repeats, “what do you feel?”

Great question. I just started figuring that out a couple hours ago. I want to be sarcastic.

“That I’m running from something important to something more convenient. And shame,” I finally say, without sarcasm.

“Convenient?” She almost laughs. “You — the laziest strategist in Konoha — choose what’s convenient? What a surprise.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

Temari climbs off my chest and pulls me up by the collar. Sits me against the wall. Plops down in lotus position across from me. Folds her hands on her knees. Official face.

“Listen, Nara. I’m going to tell you something,” she says briskly.

My ears are already curling up. I could’ve handled a plan of grope each other and pass out, but another psychological dissection right now is way too much work. Still, I listen to the princess obediently, not forgetting to complain about how troublesome it all is.

“Shut up and listen, I said,” she repeats stubbornly. “If I’ve learned anything from living with my little brother, it’s that monsters aren’t just ugly scary things. Like Shukaku. Monsters are calculating. Cunning. They plan their crimes and enjoy doing them. You don’t become a monster just by standing up to one. But what really bothers me…” She pauses, like she’s deciding whether to say it. Then decides. “You’re scared of solving Asuma’s death like a math problem.”

“What?” I snap.

She can’t read minds. Right? But the fear from her words is so strong I tense up completely, ready to block every guess just so I don’t have to hear it.

“You take revenge — and the problem that’s been bothering your big brain is solved. Asuma finally dies. In your head. Think about it differently.”

She looks me right in the eyes and smiles. But the nightmare’s sticky paws won’t let go — actually, let’s rephrase. The nightmare still has its claws in me. What do you mean finally dies?

“He’s already dead,” she continues, quieter. “And you can’t do anything about that. Revenge won’t bring him back. Forgiveness won’t either. But I’m sure the list of people you care about doesn’t end with him. And for them — it’s still worth fighting. I would fight.”

She snorts, light and cheerful, like she didn’t just dissect my whole brain. Then flops back against me, settling her head on my stomach. Strikes a pose that if you put a wheat stalk in her mouth, she’d be the perfect picture of a lazy shepherd on a break.

I file every word she said into the part of my memory I’ll dig out later and analyze again. Right now I don’t have the strength to process it without hitting negative emotions hard.

I catch my breath.

She twitches her leg lazily, like she’s tapping a rhythm only she can hear. I count her vertebrae in my head — I can feel them through my thin shirt. They don’t dig in, just make a pleasant pressure that keeps me sane. Alone right now, I’d probably have lost it completely.

“Okay,” I whisper at the ceiling. “Maybe we will fight.”

She doesn’t answer, but I hear fabric rustle on the floor. A moment later her warm hand finds my cold one and squeezes my fingers. Carefully — again with that strange tenderness — I lift her hand and press her knuckles to my cheek. I stay like that for a while. Until she turns to me with a silent question: Well, Nara, is the mood right now?

Now? Yeah. Definitely. She’s given me enough to think about that I can forget myself for a while and just… at least thank her for coming in. For the sake.

“Don’t get any ideas, Nara,” she whispers, rising again.

And I — thank the ancestors — haven’t had ideas for a long time. Thanks to her. I just feel for the first time in many, many days such irrational lightness that if I were a kid and my mom were here, I’d throw myself into her arms and cry and cry and cry…

Mom said I used to be a real crybaby. Right.

I’m not going to cry now.

She smells like tobacco. Not strong, just close to her lips. For some reason I’m glad it’s because of me. Then I roll my eyes at myself. What nonsense? This is those female charms I know nothing about but complain about all the time.

Her lips are chapped. When they press to mine — it feels like a softened hit from her fan. She doesn’t go easy on me at all, but I’m used to it. When her fingers dig painfully into my hair, I start to think she’s not sure what she’s doing either. She wants to make it clear right away that it’s going to be like this — rough, clumsy, not like in books. So I don’t get my hopes up. But I haven’t read those books. I’m not afraid of her roughness. I’ll survive the test of hard lips and the risk of pulled-out hair.

Our teeth knock together. It’s not pretty, probably not how it’s supposed to go. No big deal.

Temari doesn’t close her eyes at all. I only stop squinting when she pulls back to breathe. She looks at me with distrust and fake challenge. What kind of test this is, I’m not sure. But I think I can pass it like this.

I just pull Temari by the neck and kiss her again. Slower. Deeper. She moans and instantly gets mad at herself for the weakness.

Her hands slide under my shirt. Nails dig into my skin. I flinch, and she smirks against my lips — finally found her dominant grip. For some reason I make mental notes for the future — what future? — that when she’s lost, she gets rough. When she’s in control, she relaxes and softens. When something hurts or bothers her, she tries to make it worse, throwing down a showy challenge.

Her jacket hits the floor. My vest follows. Everything is too sloppy. We trip over the mat. She lands on top, hair spilling over my face, smelling like dust and smoke.

“Are you sure?” I ask for no reason.

“Shut up,” she whispers and bites my lower lip.

I flip us over, press her to the floor. She arches up, legs wrapping around my thighs.

“You’re so…”

“One more word and you die.”

I laugh — finally — and kiss her again and again.

***

Inside the caravanserai, other lives are already moving. Someone kicks a bucket. Someone messes with a horse. The world keeps turning like nothing happened. And nothing did happen.

Temari, dressed and put together, squats by the wall, clinking her knitting needles — morning weapon cleaning. How romantic.

I sit up slowly. My body hums. My breathing is still a little off. I hold back the urge to ask how she’s feeling, because the three-foot sharpened fan in her hands does not inspire confidence.

“Well?” she breaks the silence, making sure I’m awake. “What are the great cowards of Konoha up to now?”

I yawn, deliberately.

“First, find someone who brews something that resembles coffee.”

“And then?”

“Then try to do something that resembles a mission.”

“Downstairs there’s an old Bedouin pouring his eastern swill. The drink itself won’t wake you up, but the diarrhea will definitely make you more active. I recommend it.”

I don’t ask why she stayed until morning. She doesn’t ask why I fell asleep so easily and didn’t run away. I’m pretty sure we’re both equally indifferent to that right now.

Though she must have had reasons to stay, because next she throws at me:

“By the way, you can go home.”

“What?”

She looks at me, smirking, and repeats:

“You can go back to Konoha. The Hokage should have already gotten the report from the ANBU Baki was talking to last night. They’ve decided to suspend food supplies, if you’re interested. We’ve been through worse, you know.”

I process the news very slowly. Only capable of choking on air and fitting puzzle pieces together. Tsunade putting a tail on me isn’t insulting — it’s completely rational.

But Temari — was she putting on an act?

“You’re joking, right?” I hiss, not daring to make any sudden moves.

She stands up in what looks like one bold move, making me wince in envy.

“Are you going to say you’re not glad to get rid of the annoying part of your vacation?” She’s mocking me. “But I’ll tell you something, since you slept with… that idea.”

Definitely mocking.

Temari carelessly plops back down on the mat, winces, but doesn’t take her laughing eyes off me. I must look awful — unwashed, stubbly, my jaw hanging open — and she’s studying me. My ears burn.

“Well, I hope you managed to think about some of what we talked about,” she continues like nothing happened. “So here it is. Ebizō decided to personally take over our intelligence after the… incident. He gave Kankuro and Baki a ton of information about his puppet grandson. Even dug up his childhood diary somewhere. He’s putting together a full profile of him as a missing-nin, hoping it’ll make finding the others easier. I don’t know if it’ll help, but in our — and your — situation, anything is better than nothing. Every little thing is valuable for… say, for making a plan of retribution.”

Realization comes in scraps. I barely catch where she’s going — but I catch it. At the same time, I don’t quite believe my own conclusion, because I…

“I’m a regular chūnin. Why would your advisor give me valuable intel on an international criminal? Let them send it to Tsunade, if…”

“Not if,” she interrupts my nervous babbling. “They will. But first they need a full dossier. And a dossier takes time, while the people who killed your teacher are running around right under our noses. Besides, you have something to offer in return, don’t you? You fought one of them yourself. You can share your impressions with Baki in exchange for another drop in the Akatsuki bucket.” She touches her forehead with the edge of her palm and says with a smile: “Sunagakure hopes and looks forward to continued cooperation with Konohagakure in countering the diversion!”

The moment is serious. I reach for the blanket to cover my shame and respond just as officially out of habit — but I stop myself.

They’re twisting you however they want, Nara, and you’re happy to be twisted.

“Wait. If you knew all of this, what was the point of the nighttime performance? Do you actually have a Kazekage task list? Or does it include a line item for pissing me the hell off?”

She’s completely unimpressed. Just having fun like a little kid. The sparkles in her eyes keep my anger from building up any momentum. I wilt again. Like a child.

“Maybe the line item drive you crazy, you idiot,” she whispers theatrically, trying to tickle my chin for some reason.

I shake my head. I look like a complete idiot, I’m sure.

Temari seems to enjoy her private triumph for another minute, completely ignoring my demands to explain everything in order. Then she slaps her knees and stands up.

“Alright, let’s wrap this up. I actually have things to do.”

“And what am I supposed to do with all this?” I grumble, lifting my head.

She just wants to disappear. Ruin my — flimsy, but still — salvation schedule.

She turns back in disbelief.

“Nara… You really are an idiot. Who was whining about systems and orders? Figure something out yourself. It’ll be good for you.”

She’s about to slam the door, but lingers on the threshold again.

“I’ll let Baki know you’ll show up. But he’ll only wait until sunset. If you don’t come — no big deal. Except for you.”

And she leaves.

I sit in the crackling silence. Wind whistles through my head. My back hurts. I really, really don’t want to go back to conscious reality. But I feel my brain getting ready to start working again, so I just sigh and reach for the matches.

***

After brushing off the Bedouin for the umpteenth time trying to sell me some kind of coffee, I stare at the midday horizon.

No familiar chaos in my head. Just a clear thinking process that’s finally calm again.

After all that ashy mess I made on the floor, it’d be easier to burn the room down. But whether it was the dozen cigarettes or the game board drawn in the air where I decided to play to the end — something definitely put my head in order. And this morning I managed to keep the imaginary king alive.

And with the new intel from our allies, maybe I can save the whole set.

The thought that came to me days ago comes back stronger: you can die only when you take everything with you. Leave nothing alive behind.

But what’s the point of talking now? It’s already done.

And since you left something behind, I have no choice but to protect that something.

I sigh heavily. Troublesome. I’ve been dragged into something again. Should’ve slept longer. Today’s going to be hard.

I tie a message for Baki with a cord around a bird’s foot. Probably won’t make it by sunset, but I’ll be there by midnight.

***

I didn’t realize right away that I missed it.

Konoha smells like smoke and fresh herbs, as always. No fanfares for my return.

Being mad at the Hokage for her little trick would be beneath me. I give a short report on my trip — leaving out some details — and state flat out: Asuma’s team is going on an S-class mission.

This time I manage to dodge the flask thrown at the back of my head.

Later, Ino gives me a look. A lot in it — anger at my silence, relief, the usual annoyance. But in the end she can’t help herself and pulls me into a hug.

Choji claps me on the shoulder harder than necessary. I’ll apologize to him separately — it was wrong to leave a friend for so long. I should at least take him for ramen. Though he’d probably prefer thirty bags of chips as my apology.

The three of us gather, just like in childhood. Only now without our teacher. Without cover.

I look at them and understand: if I hadn’t stopped at that caravanserai that night, I would never have dared. Couldn’t stand here and say:

“We have a plan.”

We run across the rooftops, catching shadows like we always have.

Jump. Pause. Another leap — and I glance back. Almost physically feel someone watching my back.

In my head, a scene sharpens.

A flat guard tower roof. The wind pulling at a cloak. Temari stands leaning on the parapet like it’s the shaft of her fan. Below, someone shouts — a young shinobi with a scroll:

“Temari-sama! The Kazekage-sama requests you!”

She doesn’t answer right away. Then:

“One minute.”

The boy hesitates. “Are you waiting for someone?”

She turns her head slightly — and I want to know what she’ll say. I want to believe she’ll say… my name?

But in my vision, she answers:

“Wind from the north. Means no rain. I’m watching the weather.”

That’s her style.

The boy leaves, confused. She doesn’t hurry. She looks toward where I might have come from. And isn’t waiting for anyone.

This image cuts into my mind. What if I turn aside now? What if I find an escape route, like usual? But I understand — then I’ll have to face her. Not physically, no. But the one standing behind me on an invisible roof. The one who knows why I’m here and why I can’t retreat.

She won’t scold me like a child. She’ll hit me with such a contemptuous look that… No. That would hurt worse than her sharpest fan. So I keep moving forward. There’s a plan. And no way back.

I turn again to Ino and Choji.

***

I sit on the roof of the Hokage’s residence. Night covers the city. The stars seem closer than usual. My fingers trace invisible lines in the air by habit, but now it’s not battle maps. Something else.

I think about homeostasis. How the body wastes insane amounts of energy just to keep from falling apart. We’re all like that. Always burning fuel so we don’t cool down, don’t rot. To hold some kind of meaning in this unpredictable mess.

I used to think control was the answer. Calculate everything down to the smallest detail. Put it in a table. But Kurenai doesn’t fit in the table. Neither does Temari. Neither do I.

Neural pathways follow the rule of economy: what you repeat gets stronger. My patterns used to be retreat, self-hatred, hiding. Now… I want to believe it’s something else. Good thing patterns can change. I’m willing to live by my brain’s templates, as long as I get to edit them sometimes.

And maybe love is also a pattern. A habit.

I haven’t disproven my theory about love being lonely yet. But I want to. And the test subject is pretty obvious.

I didn’t become a different person. I’m still Shikamaru Nara. Lazy tactician. Hates hassle. Always looking for the shade. But now I know there are things you can’t calculate. Pain you can’t put in a system, but you can survive it. That if a father had a tragic fate, it doesn’t mean his kid is doomed to be a shadow or a reject. The little girl with the telling name — Mirai — is about to be born. And for now, I’m determined to come to the celebration and hug her and Kurenai. Maybe bring mochi — because the ones from my mom, it turns out, she actually liked.

Sometimes I still hear the voices of the dead. Images come by themselves — corpses, bleeding black. Sometimes I hold my gaze on my father’s scars too long. The fear hasn’t gone away. Neither has my disgust for how lives are thrown away. But now I know that endurance is also a kind of victory. And that an unexpected meeting on neutral ground can be not just a threat, but a comfort.

I look at the stars. The world is still chaotic. But now I know — even chaos has patterns. And in my personal chaos, there’s one now, like a wind-trail in the desert. Invisible. But leaving a mark.