A short, choppy piece on the nature of shadows and Nara Shikamaru. Temari/Shikamaru and Shikamaru/Choji.
The power of the Nara clan lies neither in darkness nor in light, but in the fine and winding line between them. The Naras stalk the borderlands of night and day and make their homes in the long shadows where the sun meets the earth. They twist between extremes and dance the knife's edge, live it, shape it, hone it into a weapon only a Nara could hope to wield.
Temari is always best pleased on those rare cloudless days when the sun beats down and bakes the streets to a dry haze, chasing shadows into bare black spots at their progenitors' feet. Like a sand lizard energized by heat she darts from practice field to kitchen to academy to pick up their children and back again to the narrow oblong of shade under the house's eves where Shikamaru is sprawled, collapsed and sweltering in the terrible glare of the afternoon sun.
She straddles his hips and bends to plant a firm, demanding kiss on his lips. The sun shines golden through her golden hair and licks at the lean muscle of her arms where they've perched on either side of his head. Her summer warm fingers trace the shape of his jaw and pick at the gaps of his mesh shirt. "Come on, you lazy bastard," she grins, "That laundry isn't going to wash itself."
Shikamaru mumbles some excuse, but Temari already has him by the arm and is physically hauling him from his shadowed retreat. She smells of hot pavement and spice and baby oil, and she strides with a blazing energy he could hardly begin to fight.
When Shikamaru goes to meet Choji it is in the dark of night, a soft pitch black that swallows shadows and everything else. There are no lights on in Choji's house, but Shikamaru has no doubt the Akimichi is in. Choji knows full well that Temari is away on a mission, and everything that implies. The door will not be locked.
Shikamaru lets himself in without knocking, and Choji is there, waiting. The pile of empty chip bags at his feet belies the composure of his smile, a ghost camaraderie given life by the cool glow of reflected street lamps. They find a place in each other's arms with an ease borne of long familiarity, and Choji's lips on his are soft, almost apologetic, fumbling in the dark for contact he's not sure he deserves.
Choji is gentle as his fingers climb up under Shikamaru's shirt, too much aware of his strength, a boy caught up in the fearfully delicate task of unravelling a moth from spider-web without crushing it. His breathing is unsteady, and smells of barbecue chips and... is that sake? Shikamaru closes his eyes and lets the darkness take him and he knows he's letting himself be defeated again in a battle he wants only to lose.
It's evening at the Nara household and the sunset throws long shadows over everything. The leaves of the trees ripple and sway, casting a dizzy mosaic of darkness and light over the yard.
The children tug impishly at their Uncle Choji's clothes and hair, demanding more piggyback rides and play wrestling, while Temari laughs and helps Choji fend them off, swinging little Naras about in playful loop-de-loops, tossing them over her shoulder, and if she suspects Choji to be anything else but a dear family friend she never says.
Shikamaru leans back in his chair and he watches, the edge of a smile creeping sideways into his expression. There is nothing steady in the life of a Nara, he knows, nothing clear-cut, absolute, or universal. But there are moments, caught between the steady beats of one minute and the next, that guide more truly than any sun's trajectory or fleeting nighttime star, if only you know how to walk the shadowy path between the darkness and the light.