NOTE! Bolded quote taken from "Can't help falling in love with you" by Elvis Presley.


As a hormonal and naiive teenager, Jiraiya began to define alcohol, women, and money as love because it seemed cool, and it piqued his interests (everyone likes boobs). He grew older, more mature, and understood that his definition of love is actually the definition of lust. And those were sins. Three wrongs don't make a right. Love is supposed to feel right and be right. Lust is supposed to feel right, but really, it's wrong, or right in the "who the hell cares" sort of way. But that isn't really right. Right?

He has read real love in books, many books, with many happy endings which consisted of the protagonist and the main girl falling in love and everything that went array was set straight. The actions of the many protagonists are all the same kind and all for the same purpose. It was either in the name of love or in the name of justice AND love.

Of course. Jiraiya has done that for many female friends just for the sake of them being friends. Then they died sooner or later. Where's the happy ending in that? Where's the love in that? He wondered if he would ever find love.

He did find love. He redefined it in her name.

But love didn't turn around to see him and went with another man who was on destiny's hit list.

Then love left him physically, but she still lingered in his mind.

He always regretted not telling her how he felt. And for thirty years, love was venal. There were many alterations of what he wanted to call love, but when he finally thought about it one day as he was smoking and looking out the window into the overcasted sky, the older definition for love came back. Since that was the only practical thing to go with the practical definition he got from Orochimaru. He sadly smiled while longing for her, but realizing that it would never work out anyway. It's been how long since he's actually talked to her? That's the truth.

And the truth hurts. Hurts like rusty tools slowly slicing and cutting away your skin.

It was a decade later that he finally reunited with love. However, love still loved a different man. Why? It always blew by like a Semi going 80 on an abandoned desert road while you stand by the broken bus stop sign. Plus it would be cruel to ask, on both of their terms. So he never told her that he loved her, because that would complicate her situation more and make him feel downright awkward.

'Wise men say only fools rush in.'

"Would that be called 'rushing in' if I've wanted her for at least thirty years? I'm wise, right?"

Of course, love died. He refused to attend her funeral because funerals were never his thing. But he did sit at a window, smoking and drinking. He smiled. Some tragedy in a man's life spices it up. Especially if that man in a novelist. A popular one, at that. Of course, he grew older, and continued to do his thing.

He changed. But one thing that didn't change was how he percepted love.

Love will always be Tsunade.