Do it. Do it now.

I can't…

Now! Sit up, you fat freak!

It hurts.

It should. Someone who drags their team down deserves to hurt.

I don't want to drag them down.

Then sit up, fat ass.

I can't! The chain's too tight – my muscles can't contract enough, it's not my fault!

The chain is more than twice the circumference of Shikamaru's waist. Three times as big as Ino's. It's not the chain's fault. It's plenty big enough. The problem is you. Do it.

I can't!

You can't because you're fat. You're a spineless, dithering, insatiable walking stomach. You're weak. You have no resolve. No will. You'd rather watch your friends suffer than miss a meal. You don't care enough about them to do a single fucking crunch.

I care! I care about them more than anything!

Liar. If you cared, you would be stronger for them. Sit up. It's better if it hurts. It should hurt.

It's impossible. The chain is too tight.

It's too tight because you have to keep tightening it. Because you keep failing. Because you're weak and selfish. It should be cinched three more links already, but you can't make it fasten around all that blubber. You're pathetic.

I haven't eaten in four days. I ran all night instead of sleeping. I'm trying.

Try harder.

Chouji lies utterly still on the floor, as silent tears slip into his hair. The night Shikamaru had slept in his bed, when he had begun his nightly runs through the chilly woods that shaded Konoha, his disgust with himself had taken a new form. It never leaves him, now – it watches his struggles with contemptuous eyes, insulting his failures, challenging his excuses, shoving him brutally forward when he would fall back.

It is a chili pepper Chouji, a skeletal Chouji, a Chouji whose skin barely stretches over his rangy bones. A Chouji who has given everything, everything, everything, every spare ounce of will and flesh and chakra, for people he cared about. Aside from two flaming swirls on its cheeks, the face is unfamiliar, gaunt and drawn, but more unfamiliar is the loathing in its eyes, the repulsed twist of its thin mouth. The emaciated torso and thin, knobby arms are bare; this figment of Chouji's imagination wears only a loose pair of pants, which hang to the middle of his stick-like calves. Chili pepper Chouji crouches beside him, an angular figure, all razor-sharp bones and cruel, pointed eyes, glowering, hurling abuses one after other at his other self, who cannot complete even one crunch because the chain bites so painfully into his waist.

If the face were not so unkind, the body would be the most beautiful thing Chouji has ever seen. It is the very image of the selflessness Chouji strives after, the perfect control he lacks. Chili pepper Chouji would never make Ino be afraid. Never allow Shikamaru to wallow in his grief and misery. He would never fail his team as Chouji has. Chouji is ashamed to have such a beautiful thing in his mind – and grateful that it spurs him into cutting away the excess, the unneeded concern for himself, for his stomach, for his comfort, for his contentment. Ino and Shikamaru matter. His family matters. Konoha matters. Naruto's dream for a better, more peaceful world matters.

Chouji doesn't matter; or rather, he's learning not to matter. Every skipped meal is a promise to need less, to desire less, to take less, to be less. The hunger is all but unbearable – but only because he cares that he's hungry, and he shouldn't, because he doesn't matter. Every meter he runs, every squat, push-up, crunch, every kata, every jutsu is an oath to do more, to go further, to be stronger, to shape himself into someone better. Someone selfless and strong who needs no one, yet on whom everyone can depend. His muscles ache with overuse, and tremble with weakness – but pain is unimportant, because he is unimportant.

Every link in the chain that he gains, every kilo of flesh that is consumed by his unappeasable metabolism, is a part of himself he's been able to sacrifice. A tiny step closer to being good enough.

Chouji pulls his stomach in as closely to his spine as he can manage, exhaling every possible molecule of air from his lungs, and tenses his abdomen to try the crunch again. The skin beneath the chain is chafed, raw, bleeding in some places, and the metal digs ever more cruelly into his flesh as he pours his strength into the muscles beneath it. Slowly, with the fire of tearing muscle beneath his chest, he forces his shoulders up off the ground. He pauses before trying to raise his ribs, unable to breathe through the pain, unable to draw a breath anyway, for the constrictive chain around his stomach.

If you have time to think about how much it hurts, Chili pepper Chouji notes clinically, think about Shikamaru, and how much he's hurting. And how you haven't done a damned thing to help him. Chouji stares at him, helpless, and pushes his way through the rest of crunch. Pain makes his resolves waver, and the other Chouji scowls.

Don't you dare fall, you obese piece of shit. Do it properly. Slowly. You want to stronger for them? Do it right. Spots appear before his eyes from the pain, but he maintains his form obediently as he lowers himself to the ground.

Disgusting. What kind of shinobi are you? Get up, fat ass. We're going to run through the night again.

I need sleep.

You don't get to need anything, you greedy bastard. You haven't earned it. Get up.

Chouji pushes himself painfully to his knees, kneeling before the crouching figure. Chili pepper Chouji shifts to mirror his pose, and Chouji stares in naked longing at the ribs that ripple down his torso and the hollow, pale belly beneath them, the stark shadows below his clavicle, the sharp hips that jut out above his pants. It's a shameful contrast to Chouji's gruesomely contused, engorged stomach.

You like this? Chili pepper Chouji places slender hands over the taut muscles of his stomach, demonstrating the depth of his sunken belly compared to his protruding ribs. Tears leak from Chouji's eyesas he nods. Go look in the mirror.

Please… I don't want to… Don't make me.

Get in front of the fucking mirror, lard ass.

Stumbling to his feet, Chouji makes his way across his bedroom, barely able to walk, let alone run. The pain in his abused belly all runs together: hunger; sore and strained and herniated muscles; the ring of raw, pulpy, bleeding skin the chain has chafed away. He cannot draw a full breath – hasn't been able to for days now. Staggering into the bathroom, he positions himself before the full length mirror there, shivering as chili pepper Chouji glides into place beside him. The silent voice is almost tangible, stirring the hair near his ears as they view the hideous reflection.

What do you see, Chouji?

Chouji starts to shake uncontrollably, and cannot answer the question.

You miserable, bloated coward. Do you not even have the courage to be honest in the privacy of your own bathroom? Look at your overfed, insignificant self. I'll tell you what I see. Repeat it.

Selfish.

"Selfish," Chouji croaks.

Gluttonous.

"G… gluttonous."

Weak.

"Weak."

Useless.

"Useless."

Chili pepper Chouji leans in closely. Put your hands on your stomach. He demonstrates, once again palming his hollow belly. Chouji starts to cry, audibly now, but obeys blindly, flinching as his hands meet the sweaty, flabby flesh.

Fat.

Chouji trembles, cowering away from the thin-faced phantasm. "I'm… I'm big-boned… I have to… my jutsus…"

Look at yourself, you pathetic parasite!

"F…F…Fat…" He can't stop shaking, and now the other Chouji shivers too, but with a menacing, ominous pleasure.

Now we're getting somewhere, fat ass. Cut it. A kunai appears in the skeletal fingers. Not too deep. There are people who would suffer if you messed up and ended your miserable existence, as hard as that is to believe. Just enough to hurt. Not enough to show.

And it makes perfect sense. It's the tumor, the single pernicious root to his many flaws. His bottomless stomach, and his commitment to filling it, makes him selfish and greedy and useless and weak. He's chosen satiating his appetite over the people he loves, time and time again.

How often had Shikamaru and Ino taken flak for being partnered off with the fat boy? How many odd looks had Shikamaru endured, for having formed a friendship with him? But he had not even attempted to change.

How many times had Ino or Asuma chided him for being distracted by his growling stomach while on a mission, or reminded him that he might move a little faster if he dieted a little? Too many to count. And had he ever listened? No.

And how many times had he wished

Chouji snatches for his own kunai and lays the edge of the blade against his fattest swell of his stomach, below the chain, below his navel, and sinks the steel into the bulging flesh. It burns like fire as it slides into the useless flab, biting and stinging as only cold steel can, and it's beautiful.

Chouji shivers into wakefulness, with the same, nauseated hunger that has plagued him for weeks. Sleeping again. Pathetic. If you have time to sleep, why aren't you training?

"Sorry," he mumbles, and tries to roll over, only to find he cannot move. Groggy, half-starved, and in pain, he doesn't understand.

Not until a gentle voice asks, "Sorry for what, Chouji?" And then he remembers. Ino. Ino was… Ino had…

Ino had seen everything. He wakened in the forest with Ino's lips pressed to his, as she forced air into his mouth, into his lungs. She took his armor and the chain as well, and she had seen everything; her face and his face were dripping with her tears. Ino had been weeping for him. Because of him. Because of her fat, useless, weak teammate, who couldn't even protect her from his own hurts, nevermind hers.

He had forced her away, too panicked to think beyond his immediate humiliation and guilt, deaf to her pleas to lie down, to be still, to let her help. He ran, or tried to; she was faster, and threw some jutsu at him that made him too tired to care anymore. As he sank to his knees, he noticed that her legs were very slim and white in her tiny little pajama bottoms, and the last thought in his head had been wonderment that her slender arms could catch and support someone like him.

And now he can't move, he can't even open his eyes, and that means Shikamaru is here, silent, watchful, and in control. Shikamaru knows.

Chouji can't breathe. His chest convulses as his pitiful body attempts to draw breath and expel it simultaneously.

"Let him go," Ino whispers urgently. She lowers herself to sit on the bed beside Chouji – and a bed meant he was home, they must have carried him – and the idea of his diminutive teammates wrestling his enormous self through the village agitates him so terribly that he can't breathe at all. "Shikamaru, he's hyperventilating, let him go!"

"No," Shikamaru replies, and a flood of what Chouji knows to be black shadow fills Chouji's mouth, rushing down his throat. It's as intangible as mist, but his gag reflex kicks in anyway, even after Shikamaru's shadow threads itself through his diaphragm and forces the spasms into slow, regular expansions and contractions that mirror Shikamaru's own careful breath. He feels Ino stretch over him. Her hands run steadily up and down his arms, with long, firm strokes that move in time to Shikamaru's breathing. They continue in this way for several long minutes, with Ino murmuring meaningless comfort and Shikamaru directing his breath. Tears well beneath eyelids that will not open, no matter how he struggles, and he cannot even turn his head to hide them.

Slowly Shikamaru's shadow slides back, out of Chouji's mouth. The frozenness in his face fades away; he can open his eyes and could probably speak, if he had anything worth saying, but his body remains rigidly pinned to the bed beneath Ino.

"Chouji." He flinches at the sound of his name, but Shikamaru's voice is passionless. "Don't move. I will bind you again if I have to. Just lie still." And then he is free, and despite Shikamaru's injunction, turns his head just enough to face the wall.

Ino shifts deftly into a cross-legged position, but she keeps one little hand on Chouji's shoulder. "Relax. We're together now, so everything's going to be okay. Just relax."

He keeps his tear-filled eyes on the wall.

Ino sighs at his unresponsiveness, and rubs his shoulder sympathetically. "I'm going to be at the hospital for a little while, running some tests and getting supplies, but I wanted to be here when you woke up. I've healed the worst of the cuts, but I couldn't get to them all. Not enough chakra. Shikamaru will stay with you while you shower and help you dress the remaining open wounds."

No, no, no, no, no. They should not be trying to take care of him. They're the ones in need of help, of support. He's dragging them down again, when he'd sworn he wouldn't burden them anymore.

"I… I'm fine, now," he mumbles. "You should both go home and get some sleep."

"Don't be stupid," Shikamaru answers coldly, and Chouji shrinks into himself, bracing himself against the unfamiliar chill.

"Be nice," Ino chides, "he's having a rougher time of it than you are." She doesn't bother lowering her voice as she leans over Chouji's ear and adds, "Don't mind him. You scared him. He'll come around."

Chouji has nothing to say, and so he simply stares at the bloodstained sheets. Ino squeezes his shoulder. "It's going to be okay, Chouji," she promises.

And without even a creak from the mattress, she's gone, vanished into the night like the gifted nin she is.

Chouji rubs his palms over his eyes, wiping at the tears, before attempting to rise– even injured and weak, even with the fire in his sore muscles, it seems so easy to move normally without the chain. But Shikamaru's shadow rushes over him, and before he can even begin to push himself upright, he's locked into place on his back.

"I told you not to move, Chouji. You're hurt." The shadow retreats, and the shadow user moves to the bedside. A thin hand with strong fingers grips his right arm, just above the elbow, and hauls him upright.

Shikamaru's eyes are more unreadable than ever when Chouji dares to glance at them. Barefoot and shirtless, he seems even smaller than usual, nearly as ascetically thin as chili pepper Chouji. Thinner than when Asuma was alive, much thinner. Wasted, almost. It's unbearable, the difference between them. Shikamaru carries his grief like a shield, protecting himself from further pain, the ever-present anguish a barrier between him and those of whom the loss could destroy him. Carrying that weight alone is using him up, wearing him down. And rather than alleviating some of that burden, Chouji has only added to it.

He is a terrible friend. Chili pepper Chouji, who has been silent and nearly invisible since Chouji's waking, nods a frank agreement from his perch on edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. It's all he can manage past the lump in his throat.

Shikamaru exhales sharply. "If only you weren't apologizing for the wrong things, Chouji." There's something familiar in his tone now, something he's heard once or twice before, and has never been able to identify. It's a dangerous sound, an empty sound, like an echo, like the intangible wind in cavern tunnels. There is nothing of his oldest, most precious friend in the black eyes; they are almost inhumanly blank, as expressionless as his voice.

Shikamaru raps the arm he's still holding with a gentle fist. "Let's go," he says, nodding in the direction of the bathroom. Swallowing the fear and bile rising in his throat, Chouji obeys, stumbling out of bed and toward the bathroom door. Shikamaru never releases his arm and never allows him to get his balance, pointedly forcing Chouji to lean on him all the way to the bathtub. A subtle shift in Shikamaru's stance nearly topples him; wordlessly Shikamaru lowers him to sit on the rim of the tub, demonstrating for the millionth time that he is far stronger than he appears, never faltering, even with the majority of Chouji's weight hanging gracelessly from his wrist.

Shikamaru finally lets go, but his hands immediately seek his pockets, and he leans against the wall. He makes no move to leave.

Chouji nods uncertainly; he doesn't understand why Shikamaru waits.

"Now." The black eyebrows lift sarcastically. "Unless you would rather have Ino stay with you? She wouldn't mind. She's barely left your side." There's that hallow note again, the empty sound.

Chouji's eyes grow wide with horror. "You don't… you don't mean that… you can't stay in here!"

"Your blood is still on the fucking floor – you don't really think I would leave you alone?"

"But!"

"I'm not going anywhere." He's frustrated, now. There's iron in his words, and Chouji cows away from him, terrified. "Strip. Shower. Or I will do it for you."

His mouth is dry, his heart pounds. "Shika…" He licks his lips, fear has crowded out his voice. "Shikamaru, I can't!" Unable to catch his breath, he must look every bit the pathetic, fat coward he knows himself to be.

Shikamaru stares at him for a long minute, then rolls on his shoulder toward the door, still leaning on the wall, leaving his back to Chouji. "Ten," he says grimly. "Nine. Eight."

"Please… please… Shikamaru!"

"Seven."

Chouji scrambles into the bathtub, ripping the shower curtain closed behind him. "Okay, okay! Just don't look!" Too terrified to do anything but obey, he tugs his clothes off, hastily folds them, and lays them on the edge of the vanity, careful that nothing but his arm leaves the dubious protection of the curtain.

With unsteady hands, he reaches for the faucet, hesitates, and then turns the heat up as high as he can stand it. It won't hurt him enough to show, but it stings the chafed flesh and sizzles in the open cuts on his belly like antiseptic, like a thousand needles in each wound. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There isn't room for chili pepper Chouji in the shower with his fat self, but the thin face is firmly set in his mind, scowling terribly, a hateful rebuke in its narrowed eyes.

Screwed up again, fatass. You'd think you would occasionally have to get something right, if only by accident. Now you've dragged your team into your bullshit – and didn't they have enough to deal with? Why the fuck should they be burdened with your failures, you fat bastard!

Salty tears mingle with steaming water, and he reaches for the faucet again, twisting the handle until the water was hot enough to scald, hot enough to hurt him as badly on the outside as he hurts inwardly.

"Turn it down, Chouji," Shikamaru says wearily, his voice a breath from the shower curtain.

Chouji chokes on a sob, surprised, and curses his own foolishness in thinking Shikamaru would miss even this tiny, tiny gesture of self-revenge. His preternatural senses are attuned to Chouji's minutest actions now; there will be no evading the watchful black eyes, the small, sharp ears. Like the shadows he wields, Shikamaru will dog his every step, only too willing to assume the responsibility of protecting his weak, stupid friend from himself. But Shikamaru doesn't need that strain – he isn't suited for responsibility, it wears at him, stretches him thinly like an over-expanded balloon. One must be able to cope with failure to handle responsibility, and Shikamaru can't, Chouji has known this for years. After the fact, he can always rationalize a scenario in which he should have succeeded, and so he cannot forgive himself for failing to do so. He's fragile like that. Brilliant. But fragile.

Ino's just as breakable, because she's a perfectionist to her fingertips and the world isn't perfect, it's ugly and messy and screwed up like Chouji and he should have shielded her from it, and he hadn't, and now, now, now what? She should have had the perfect team, and Shika was close, but he was fat and useless, like she'd always reminded him when they were children, and even in trying to be less fat and useless he'd left blood and sweat and vomit in the sterile, perfect world he wanted for her.

And Chouji is afraid of his paradox. Although he cannot allow Shikamaru to fail, cannot further pollute Ino's strived-for perfection, he doesn't want Shikamaru to succeed, and he doesn't want to stop bleeding and sweating and vomiting. He needs the chain, the bloody kunai, and the hunger, the torn muscle and the breath that never satisfies. It's a penance for his own failures and an incentive to improve. Because even if Chouji's no better at dealing with failure than Shikamaru is, he would suffer failure a hundred thousand times rather than watch Shikamaru suffer. Because even if he'll never be perfect like Ino (slim and smart and popular and beautiful and good), he'll starve and sweat blood before he quits trying, for her sake, to be less imperfect.

But if the process of being better hurts them, how can he justify it? And if he can't justify it, how can he stop? The pain is an addiction, he's not completely stupid, but it's a counterintuitive relief from the endless, endless failures and imperfections that plague him. Proof that he can admit to his flaws, proof that he regrets them. Proof that he would gladly bleed to be rid of them. Proof that there's an honest desire to be good enough – and that desire is the only worthy thing about him.

Death flitters across his mind, and he shivers away from it. That would be too selfish, an escape that he doesn't deserve, and which can only leave more pain for Ino and Shikamaru. It isn't an option.

But he wishes it were.

He finishes his shower, swallowing sobs. He could scour the wounded skin with the washrag, but Shikamaru would know, so he gingerly cleans away the sweat and the blood from his skin, washes the dirt and oil from his thick, coarse hair. Brown and red water stream into the drain, leaving his body clean, but the stains on his soul are harder to scrub away.

Shikamaru had removed his soiled clothes, and had left a towel and fresh clothing on the vanity; he dries himself half-heartedly, as the steamy shower makes the exercise all but pointless. Giving up, he reaches for his clothes. There isn't a shirt, he notes with chagrin, but he pulls on his pants and belts them before pointing out the deficiency.

"Shikamaru…" he mumbles, embarrassed.

"Hnnn."

"Would… would you mind getting me a shirt?" He can feel the red heat of a flush creeping up his bared chest.

"No point," Shikamaru replies tonelessly, "you'll just get blood on it. You've got a dozen or more open wounds to treat. Get out. I'll do it."

Embarrassment bleeds away into panic. "No… no, I can do it." Please make him go away, Chouji begs of any god that might be listening. Please.

He's going to look at you, chili pepper Chouji mocks. He's going to see how hideous you really are.

"I already told you: I'm not leaving you alone." Shikamaru snorts. "Get out of the tub."

He starts to shake. "Shika… Shikamaru… please, just, just let me…" Don't look at me, he pleads silently. Please, please, please don't look at me.

"Get out," Shikamaru says flatly, "or I'm coming in after you."

"But!"

Shikamaru snatches the shower curtain and drags it open. Humiliated, Chouji stares at his feet, hunched into himself like a hedgehog curled over its vulnerable underside. Red-honey hair, dark and heavy with water, drips steadily into the tub – plop, plop, plop, and Shikamaru stares and Chouji refuses to look up. For two solid minutes, neither moves or speaks.

"Goddammit, Chouji." Shikamaru's voice is low and rough when he finally breaks the silence, revealing more than frustration for the first time since Chouji had wakened. "I'm not going to fucking hurt you. Come on." Closing a hand around Chouji's wrist, he tugs gently, not fighting Chouji's rigid stance too hard. "Come on."

Chouji can't quite silence the sob that swells in his throat, which is almost as shameful as his bared, bloated stomach. Shikamaru squeezes his wrist. "It's okay,' he says quietly. "Don't cry. It's okay. Come on, now. Don't cry." He tugs again, and this time Chouji obeys, though his eyes remain fixed on the floor.

Shikamaru inhales deeply, the tension in his shoulders loosens – he is relieved, clearly, but Chouji doesn't understand why. "Okay," Shikamaru murmurs, half to himself. "Okay." He doesn't relinquish his hold on Chouji's wrist as he leads him back into his bedroom. Hooking a foot around one of the several floor pillows that litter the ground, he slides it back against the wall, and guides Chouji to it. Chouji sits without argument, preoccupied with keeping his tears at bay.

There is an open first aid kit on the floor; perhaps Ino had retrieved it earlier. Chouji doesn't care. He eyes it with a tight-chested panic as Shikamaru's kneels before him, collecting bandages, antiseptics, and antibiotic ointments with swift, deft hands.

"I can do it," Chouji whispers hoarsely, praying his voice doesn't sound as pitiful as it seems. One round ear twitches as Shikamaru clenches his jaw.

"No." Shikamaru lays the bandages in neat stacks to his left – Chouji's right – and then he curses, suddenly. He snatches one length of cloth and presses it against Chouji's stomach, where a thick glob of blood is sliding down the still-damp, purplish skin.

Chouji flinches violently – "For the love of… be still!" – and Shikamaru holds the bandage firmly against the bruised belly, causing the flesh to swell in unlovely –fatty, grotesque – bulges against his thin – bony, skeletal – fingers.

Chouji can't stifle the low, wretched cry that groans along the back of his throat, and Shikamaru glances up, anxious.

"I'm sorry!" Chouji is choking, sickened by the stark contrast of Shikamaru's reedy, willow-thin hands and his own misshapen corpulence. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he babbles endlessly, his breath an uncertain, grasping, sucking thing. Bewildered, Shikamaru presses Chouji's own hand against the bandage and takes him by the shoulders, close enough that their knees are touching, and Chouji shies back, whimpers, inconsolably ashamed.

"Chouj, Chouji, it's okay – alright? You don't need to apologize, not to me, not for anything. Okay? Chouji?" Shikamaru's voice is urgent, wavering drunkenly between desperation and command.

"You," Chouji moans, "you shouldn't! Not you. Shouldn't have to… shouldn't…" He can't breathe.

Shikamaru's eyes are black and fearful as the mind behind them gropes for understanding, for an appropriate response, for anything to stop the blubbering and the tears. He's no good at these spontaneous outbursts, Chouji knows, better than anyone; it's why women are such baffling creatures, why he prefers strategy to force, why Chouji, steadfast and steady, unchanging as the mountains on the horizon, is his best friend. But Chouji is falling apart.

Thin hands shake him, careful, but insistent. "Shouldn't what? Shouldn't what?" Shikamaru is pleading. "Talk to me!" This last is said with a peculiarly desperate note, one that breaks Chouji's heart to hear in Shikamaru's steady baritone.

He doesn't deserve this.

"Shouldn't have to… to see…" He chokes on the words and covers his swollen abdomen with his arms. "Something so repulsive," he spits, hating himself, hating his malformed, nauseating body, hating his selfish, ugly soul, a soul so consumed with itself that he can't rouse himself to pretend, even for Shikamaru's sake, that he's okay.

But he can't. He can't gather himself: a mountain is only rock, and rock is only smashed-together bits of metal ores and glass and would-be gems, and he's been blasted by too many conflicting demands and needs, worn down like the inside of a cave, and that's how he feels, that's exactly how he feels, void and hollow, massive on the outside and empty within, and –

Shikamaru's mouth presses down on his, hard, violent and hungry, hungry as a starving man at a banquet, as parched earth soaking up rain. Thin fingers dig into Chouji's shoulder, Shikamaru's knee slides dangerously forward, between his thighs, even white incisors scrape roughly against his lower lip. Shikamaru scarcely releases it before diving back in, to probe more deeply, tasting the depths below his tongue, the backs of his teeth, the roof of his mouth, savoring, biting, pressing, pulling, sucking, licking, searching.

Hesitantly, almost reverently, terrified, Chouji presses back against Shikamaru's demanding tongue, trying inexpertly to answer a question he couldn't put words to if his very life depended on it.

Shikamaru pulls away, as if he is the one bitten, and slipping one narrow hand behind Chouji's neck, roughly draws him forward so that his lips are at Chouji's ear. Hoarsely, bitterly, "I have never, never found you to be in any way repulsive. More's the pity."