Dedication: For noctuneimpact—uh no comment, other than don't hate me too much and I'll (try to) do better next time!
Notes: the prompt was "dichotomy and tripwires" and takes place in some indefinite timeframe post-Asuma's death. Also, I'm something like six months behind with Naruto, so sorry if this is really off.
"Ever get caught in your own setup?"
He arches an eyebrow. This isn't really his thing, and it's not like it is a question that is necessarily meant to be answered either. "Should I really answer something like that?"
She is persistent. She changes the connotation this time, he notices. "Suppose you were then," she begins, "what are you supposed to do to get out?"
He yawns. This isn't even the kind of thing you need to really stop and think about. "The hell? Just think about your situation and figure out how you can get out of it."
"And?"
"And what?"
"And what if it's not that simple? Like, what if it's the kind of thing that, like, the more you think, the more trapped you get?"
He scratches his head, vaguely amused. "What kind of scenario is this supposed to be?"
"I mean, that's the thing, right?" She presses. "The trick. You can spend all the time in the world plotting and planning your strategies, and that's great and all, but who's to say that things will go according to plan?" She picks at grass stained yellow and splits thin weeds with chipped nails. "I mean, I know you're brilliant at this stuff, but come on, most of us aren't, you know."
He's not too sure about how he should respond to this.
She notices and continues anyway. "I mean, you never know if you're being tricked to play into your own trap, right?"
He's listening, but just barely. He scratches at the back of his head instead. This really isn't his thing. "Where is this conversation coming from, anyway?"
"My dad taught me something interested yesterday during training." Her smile is glassed with the potential of yesterday. "You know what a tripwire is, right?"
He already knows. He lets out a sigh, and breathes in again. "Yeah? What about it?"
She gives him a look. "Could it hurt to sound a little more interested?"
Women. "Yes, yes, sorry."
She gives him another look.
"Okay, okay," he concedes, "what about tripwires?"
"A tripwire," she says, gestures with her hands, "It's a passive triggering mechanism. You attach a wire to a device that goes off when it's pulled. And snap! You get your objective, game over, and all that jazz. Right?"
She's looking expectant, so he continues to humor her. "And?"
She taps at her chin pseudo-thoughtfully. "So I was wondering," she begins, words tinted with the color opposite of wet blue, "I was wondering if it's possible to screw up something like a tripwire, even if you're the one who set it up. Like that."
He holds back a yawn. "You probably can," he points out lazily. "Because you can technically screw up any plan if you don't know it like the back of your hand."
A pause, and it's long enough for the conversation to close and be tucked away for long enough to almost forget. "So could it happen to you?"
He does almost forget when she finally speaks up again so he blinks. "Could what happen?"
"Could your shadows fuck you up?"
A place where direct light doesn't reach; indefinite vectors of brush strokes of opaque black subject to integration; derivatives of secant light obstruction. Multivariable applications of rates of change and free motion. And remember to hold your breath in the meanwhile too so that you don't fuck up too hard when/if you do.
There is always a shadow to catch, to restrain, or to manipulate. Or, you know, all of the above. You don't need a tripwire to snag a thief or trap an enemy. You just need a good, solid grasp of timing and control.
Control. He's got this. He's good at this. He knows this.
So this is a kind of balancing act, kind of—a play directed in anticipation of the most linear storyline. She is setting up her wires with clammy fingers, and he is calmly applying differential equations to the rough contours of the silhouettes of people he does not even know.
This can't possibly hurt.
And neither can this.
"So I was thinking."
He looks up lazily. It's her again, probably with another question about strategy or planning or something along those lines. It always is. "About?"
"How would you go about exacting revenge?"
The air is painted wet blue with yesterday. Or maybe it is all done for tomorrow. The rain doesn't look like it will be letting up anytime soon, and there is no deeper meaning to this, so he dons on the appropriate black clothing and props open an umbrella instead. It always rains on funeral days, but of course it does.
"Here."
Her fingers are numb. He can tell because he would know because he'd been there once before too. "Don't need it," she says.
He holds it over her head anyway and feels the rhythmic pitter-patter of ironic cold summer rain biting into the pores of his skin. This would happen like this.
He's already lived through this and he's given Naruto this pep talk once too, but she speaks first. He listens because it can't possibly hurt.
"I figured it out," she says.
He glances over. "Figured what out?"
This is what breaking down one word at a time looks like. "I was right, I mean."
A pause, and then he picks at it. "About?"
She watches the last few people loiter away from the remnants of the funeral ceremony. Neither of them had known the deceased, but, "If you don't move fast enough," she says and they both know exactly what she is referring to, "If you don't move fast enough, then you fall behind and lose just like that."
It is still raining later. Maybe that's why it's like this. Probably not.
Tonight his shadows are stretched thin, peeling raw at unreal edges, and there is nothing that can be done now. This is just that kind of rare day, at that time of night before you fall asleep for better or for worse, when you remember all the things that never go right, all the things that you could've done, and it's just like fuck because you should've been so much better than this.
This isn't happening, this did, this will, and this is.
This is Asuma is bleeding in the mouth. Thick uninterrupted lines of red run down the fresh cut in his chapped lips, and his eyes are heavy, and tired, too. And then he goes and says the words that are more heartbreaking than anything else. And there are always the things that are left unsaid by no one in particular that cut just as deep.
You are a textbook case of underperformance.
So this is what it's like to be salt-fucked by the dreams that aren't even dreams.
"Shikamaru."
He's kind of sleeping and at the same time, uh, kind of not. It is probably kind of obvious, he has to admit, albeit grudgingly.
It turns out he's right, but of course he is. "Hey. Shikamaru. I know you're awake, so get up already, please. I have a question."
He scratches at the back of head and sighs. "What is it this time?"
She grins with a smile like yesterday. It is always a smile like yesterday, he realizes. "Hypothetically speaking," she starts, "How would you go about minimizing a blind spot?"
He is vaguely amused. These questions are always so random. His mouth tips up a bit, "A blind spot?"
"Yeah."
"Uh, I guess you should know what they are first. Your blind spots, I mean. Know your weaknesses. Know what could happen if your weaknesses are exposed, realized, exploited... whatever."
"And then?" She prompts.
He thinks a little about this one. It all comes down to control, he figures. "And then," he says, yawning, "And then your strategy," he knows she'd like that word thrown in there, "should be made to maximize the opportunities that minimize your blind spots. You know?"
He is a man of control. It isn't obvious but at the same time, it kind of really is. Control is one of the variables you want to optimize in order to minimize or constraint problems. Optimization—it's one of the simplest applied math concepts out there.
Control though, of course, is just a human construct. This really happens. This is just too sudden. This is just.
Don't do this don't do this don't do this don't
And pulls the kunai out.
Wet red.
He is shaking and his hands are cold and the shadows are flickering again and he doesn't even know any of this. "What the fuck?"
The free end nerves are convulsing. Her hand, red, is shaking. "Can you, uh, leave?"
He's not sure how he's supposed to feel about this. "Why?"
The bit that is left unsaid is why are you killing yourself?
The shadows are canting, and it's not something that someone like you can understand okay because that's just now things stand. Or don't. This is the art of falling apart because there is only so much a person can take before it comes down to this.
She studies the curve of wet red sticky on her skin, nonchalant. Her hand is still convulsing with nerves and nerve endings. "No reason. I wanted to try something out."
He presses a hand to his forehead. This is just so... wrong. In every possible way. "Try something out?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
She gathers her things. "Ask me later?"
On second thought.
This doesn't even take a shitty almost-not dream; this is the purest form of make-believe without even needing to be.
Maybe this is what it's like to be salt-fucked by yourself and the shadows of yourself, and knowing it, and feeling it, and breathing it, and living it.
There is not enough light right now for there to be any shadows. It is not quite daybreak yet, but he crawls out of his futon anyway. This can't possibly hurt.
There is smoke, but there is always smoke, just like Asuma said there will be. He takes it in one breath at a time. This can't possibly hurt either.
Coughs. "Huh."
The sun is flirting, peeking out from the bottom of the ground, and he can see the shadows of day starting to contort too. This is just beginning. Or maybe it is ending. Maybe it is neither.
Maybe it is neither, but it is still enough to remember a conversation that never really goes anywhere. It doesn't, it didn't, and it didn't have to. Conversations, on balance, are forgotten as soon as they are spoken. But some fade away slower.
This is one of them, and this one in particular had gone something like this—
"Why are you so obsessed with strategies and stuff like that anyway? And that question about revenge, too."
"Because. Isn't it obvious? There's something I want to do, something I need to do."
"But why the... obsession with strategy?"
"Because there's nothing as knowing you are the one who fucked everything up."
That's just fucked up, but so is this.
Here's another anecdote. A follow-up, to be accurate. His hands are shaking. Hers are. What the hell, both of theirs are. Both of them are.
"Why did you try to—or, uh well, not—kill yourself?"
She looks away and it is so blatantly evasive. "I'll tell you some other time," she says. It is a lie but it will all come to light later anyway.
Later will come later. Today is for remembering why you want to see tomorrow.
Today, there is smoke that scratches straight across the sky in clumsy, childish handwritten promise, and it is far more infinite than anyone will ever realize.
Naruto is yawning. It is pretty early in the day after all. "What are you doing?"
He scratches the back of his head. As it is, it is metaphorically appropriate enough for Naruto to be here, he figures. Naruto is practically the embodiment of tomorrow, whatever that means.
The smoke and all the shadows of the day are still there—here. Contorted, maybe, but still here. It is weirdly reassuring.
He just gives the other shinobi an offhanded lazy look. It can't hurt. "It's nothing," he says. It's not even a total lie. It's nothing and it's everything all at once.
There are times when there are no shadows. This is one of them. This is almost later, and the girl with all the wrong questions is here again.
This is awkward. He's never really dealt with, uh, suicidal people. She catches the vaguely conflicted expression on his face and gives him a look. "I'm not suicidal."
"Uh-huh."
"Really."
"Yes, yes," he says, and it is vaguely comforting. Watching someone die in front of you is no easy thing. He would know. He wonders if he should press the subject, but she beats him to it.
"But I do have another question," she brings up.
Of course she does. "Okay, okay," he humors her like he always does, "what is it this time?"
"What's your weak point?"
He remembers something. When there is no light, then no shadows are able to be produced.
All her questions are finally coming together, and there is this sensation of broken control.
"Ever get caught in your own set up?"
"Could your shadows fuck you up?"
"How would you go about exacting revenge?"
"How would you go about minimizing a blind spot?"
"What's your weak point?"
And spin.
This is what holding your breath for too long feels like. You suffocate. Sometimes, you do not even realize it.
This—this is later.
There's a theory that, if you pay too much attention and think things through too thoroughly, you can actually mess up everything you've tried so hard to control and construct. There is also a saying that states that the person you know least about is yourself.
They're not entirely bullshit, and he's not entirely sure how he should feel about this. There isn't a single shadow in sight. You are too reliant on your techniques.
He blinks.
Ever get caught in your own setup?
It suddenly hits him.
The tripwires have gone off a long time ago.
"About time he noticed," Uchiha Madara observes.