so over on tumblr there's this kibaino fanart by tumblr user tiefrot where ino erases her memory with a jutsu after being captured, and is then rescued, and can't remember anything, and i thought it was a pretty fascinating idea, so i wrote it out over the course of the last couple of days, and ended up with this. if you'd like to see the fanart that inspired this, there's a link on my profile. enjoy! c:
naruto isn't mine!
.
.
.
.
.
Kiba turns the piece of paper in his hands over and over and over, as if with continuous revolutions the words printed on it might change, lift off and reform into something that doesn't rip his heart into pieces every time he looks.
Kiba— There's... there's no way to reverse it. At all. The only person who could have a chance at managing it is Ino herself, and well, she can't, of course. —her name, her village, her clan—but that's it. She doesn't remember any of her jutsu, or any of us. When she first opened her eyes, and saw me standing over here, she asked who I was. Shikamaru and Chouji came to visit a couple days ago, too, and she doesn't remember them, either. And... she doesn't remember you, Kiba, I showed her a picture of the two of you together, sitting on the couch at one of the holiday parties last year, and she just asked me who the guy sitting next to her was. I'm sorry, Kiba. I'm so sorry. —Sakura
Every time he reads those words it feels as if Ino herself is reaching inside his chest, pulling his heart out and ripping it apart again and again and again, leaving it in pieces at his feet as she walks away laughing, blond hair swaying in its ponytail.
He knows it's not her fault, knows it as well as he knows her body; but that still doesn't help. Since he and Hinata and Shino foundd her, since she looked at him not with love but with confusion from her place chained against the dirty stone wall, he's been telling himself, it's not her fault, don't blame her. The jutsu to erase her mind—it was a brilliant idea, no less than he'd expect from his equally brilliant girlfriend, and it likely saved more secrets than he could count from being spilled into the minds of enemy ninja.
Still, he thinks he'd prefer village secrets being lost instead of their relationship.
.
.
.
He thinks that it would hurt less if she could remember him; if they'd broken up a different way, with her memories still around, with her still able to remember him.
He sees her, out and about around the village, going into shops and the nondescript building he knows to be the hiding place of the T&I office, and it pulls at his heart every time. He has to restrain himself from going over to her, wrapping his arms around her waist and putting his head on top of hers, burying his nose in her lavender-smelling hair. Even still, he'll be watching her, and when he looks away, comes back to himself, his feet will have moved without consent, towards her—always towards her.
Then, there are the memories.
Her arms reaching for him, looping around his neck, slim fingers tangling in his hair; her lips moving against his, whispering words that he's too drunk, on both alcohol and love, to understand. The two of them, dancing in the middle of the night in their living room to his whispered song, one of her hands clasped in his and the other on his shoulder, one of his hands on her waist. Her upheld arm, dropping to rest across his shoulder as he laces his other hand with the one already on her. Her lips brushing the shell of his ear as she stands on the very tips of her toes to reach him and then still failing to make even, whispering,
Those are the three words that hit him the most, at every hour of the day and in any moment when his mind wanders to her, which is to say, all of the time, really.
He didn't realize that there would ever be a last time that he would hear those words.
.
.
.
Even after seven months away from her, without letters left on his pillow and notes left in her bag of lunch, it still hurts to think about her, really.
So, he doesn't. He knows where she goes, the places that she frequents with her friends at her side, and he makes it a point to avoid them at all costs, even if that cost is time. His schedule changes dramatically, with his hours moving back to times that they haven't been in ages, and his missions being begun hours later than normal.
It's forty minutes past eleven when he stands from his couch, stretching and whistling for Akamaru. His coat is slung across the purple armchair in the corner—Ino loved that chair, he thinks absently, and it doesn't hurt quite as much as it would have seven months ago—and he picks it up and slides it on, pulling out the longer strands of hair that get caught under the soft collar.
"C'mon, Akamaru. We're going for a walk," he tells him, and Akamaru barks and smiles; they haven't been walking in ages, not since he shifted his life around to avoid blond hair and blue eyes and flowers.
They wander the streets, not heading anywhere particular, and with no thought of the time. There's nobody out, all of the lights in the houses that they pass off or dimmed, and it's almost too quiet to his over-sensitive ears. The stalls, usually filled with foods and trinkets and other things, are closed and empty, and it reminds him of when he and Ino would come here on their joint days off, hands entwined and eyes searching, Akamaru trotting between them.
A bark from knee-level snaps him out of reminiscence, and when he halfheartedly turns his head, he sees a flash of gold and dark purple and cream, and he stops short, his feet not willing but also not able to move.
Ino hears his feet drag to a stop in the dirt, and she turns, and smiles at him, walking over to scratch Akamaru behind the ears. He remembers her, and licks her hand, barking happily at her. She shifts the flowers in her hand to the other, and holds out the hand that Akamaru didn't lick to him.
"Ino," she tells him, smiling that smile that even now drives him insane. "I... probably know you, honestly. My memory was lost about half a year ago, and I'm still learning my way around the village, and around the people."
He stares at her, dazed and lost in her baby-blue eyes, the same colour as the flowers tucked into the crook of her arm, and finally realizes that he should shake the hand extended to him. "...Kiba. I'm Kiba. And this is Akamaru." He smiles at her, halfway. "He likes you."
They chat, about Akamaru and about her flowers and about the village in general, and as they talk they walk along the streets, Akamaru between them.
He remembers where she lives, still—the same apartment she lived in for a couple months after the war, until she moved into his house, bringing flowers and smiles and cute little notes with her. They walk there, and she seems surprised, almost, to be home. She smiles at him, shy and sweet, and something inside him seems to light up again, just like it always used to.
"Well, this is my stop," she says to him, waving her hand at the cream door to the lobby.
He nods, almost, then realizes that it would probably come off as creepy to know where she lived and stops himself. Then, before his self-control can recharge, words slip out, tumbling over each other in some sort of haste that he doesn't know the origin of.
"Ino... I know this is sudden, since you just met me, or met me again, I suppose; but would you like to have dinner with me? Tomorrow night, maybe?"
She smiles fully at him, wide and white and cheerful, and he feels that spark get bigger and bigger, and then he thinks that if he can't have their first relationship, then they can just begin again, right from the start.