I wanted to take a chance to thank everyone who has followed this story. It's provided no end of entertainment for me, but the greatest pleasure has been your support and your kind words. If you were surprised at Shikamaru... well, so was I. Honest to God, I didn't know he was in love with Chouji until he kissed him, either. But as soon as I had the words on the screen, it felt right, and I ran with it. And then Ino's heart became clear to me, too; it would have been unimaginably cruel to cut her out just as she was discovering how much her screwball teammates meant to her. Hope I didn't disappoint anybody. I truly did not intend for this to be a romance of any kind. And that's enough from me.
Shikamaru's hand drops to his side. Eyes unfocused, heart pounding, he backs slowly away from the unforgivable thing he's done, stomach lurching as everything, absolutely fucking everything, falls to pieces. Trembling hands push him up from the floor. His legs threaten to fold beneath him, to pitch him mercilessly into the lap of the beloved friend he's just assaulted. He can't breathe. He can scarcely move; the weight of his transgression is crushing.
Just enough of Chouji is visible in his periphery so that he can tell his dearest friend is shivering uncontrollably. Shikamaru shudders, and takes one slow, faltering step back from the pillow, from the wall, from Chouji's bare feet. Of course he's shivering. Chouji trusted him, and Shikamaru had forced himself on him like an overzealous whore, violated the most sacred bond he had ever formed, and crossed a line that could never be redrawn.
And yet, what else could he have done? Chouji's eyes bleed self-loathing, but he has never been more appealing. His smooth skin, all but hairless save the reddish-gold mane that curls damply around his ears, is slick and wet. He smells of soap and tears and freshly laundered clothes, free of the stench of whatever it is that makes men mercenary and brutish and mean. And though it makes no difference whatsoever to Shikamaru's heart, though his mind rebukes him for it, his body is undeniably appreciative of the changes in Chouji's physique. The tortured belly swells gently out from his ribs, still full and round, but the length of his torso is noticeably narrower. For the first time since that god-awful pepper pill, his shoulders are broader than his waist, displaying his powerful arms and chest to their full advantage. The blades of his shoulders move distractingly beneath the heavy, more clearly defined muscles of his back. It is maddening.
Shikamaru had almost lost his control there in the shower. It had taken several minutes to gather the resolve to touch him without mauling him, to remind himself that Chouji was badly injured, that there were more important things to be dealt with than his own overwhelming needs.
But with all his masks down, Chouji was defenseless. The charade of indignant outrage that covered the hurt inflicted by people who really ought to know better, gone. The self-assured grin he wore when he was pretending the blows he'd taken for someone else didn't hurt. Gone. That indescribably sincere, adorably lopsided smile he donned when he needed to conceal the fact that he suffered, and wanted, and needed just like anybody else. All gone. And in their place, just a sweet kid who saved butterflies after being rejected himself, and who honestly didn't know whether he deserved the space he took up in the universe. A kind-hearted boy with hair like the golden glow of an autumn day and strong hands that were forever giving.
And he thought the person he trusted most in the world, his best friend, should be disgusted by his bared body. Just what the hell else was Shikamaru supposed to have done?
But there must have been something. Something he could have done to relieve Chouji's pain without pouncing on his vulnerability. He just hadn't had the presence of mind to look for it. Son of a bitch. And now he's ruined everything.
He takes another step toward the window. Beyond is an empty night in which to drown himself and bury the emotions that have betrayed him, to devise some brilliant stratagem by which to salvage this mess. Bright crimson blood wells and spills down Chouji's round belly, but he cannot bind those injuries now, not after such a violation. Chouji is too kind to ask him to leave, but he must be desperate for his assailant to go, for the awkwardness to subside, he must be. Shikamaru's nerves scream to comply. Another painful step – except he can't pick his foot up.
A powerful hand has encircled his ankle, a loose but unyielding manacle of flesh and bone. "Don't," Chouji whispers, his shaggy head bowed.
Shikamaru blinks back tears. Fuck. Was he really going to cry about this? He'd been half-prepared for this for three years.
"I'm so sorry, Chouji. I'm so fucking sorry." The words burn as they scrape past the ache in his throat. "I didn't…" He takes a breath. "I will never do that again. I swear, Chouji. I'm so sorry." He tries again to pull his foot free, but Chouji doesn't let go.
The injured shinobi is shaking even worse than Shikamaru. He mumbles an apology and something else that Shikamaru can't quite make out.
Shikamaru puts his hands to his face and presses them to his eyelids until red patterns appear. "You didn't do anything, Chouji. I fucked up. For the love of everything holy, don't apologize again. I may really hurt you this time."
"Why… why did you…?" The big hand tightens around his ankle, and Shikamaru abandons all thought of leaving. There's no escaping that grip, and he can't deny Chouji, anyway.
"Why?" Shikamaru asks bitterly. "Because I'm a shitty friend. You're not that naïve, Chouji, not even you."
"You're a great friend." It was the reply Shikamaru expected, but the conviction in the husky voice runs at odds with the automatic phrasing. "Don't say that."
Shikamaru bites his tongue until it bleeds, and then he can't stop the words anymore. "But I don't want to be your friend, Chouji," he replies harshly, wishing he had Ino's polish, wishing he could say it with more eloquence. "Not just your friend. Haven't wanted to be just friends since we were about thirteen." If he was going to be damned for this ugly, graceless confession anyway, he might as well get it off his chest. The weight of his broken heart was going to be heavy enough without the burden of unspoken words.
The hand on his ankle tightens so intensely that Shikamaru bites the inside of a cheek clean through to avoid crying out. He probably deserves it, he thinks darkly. He had been too far removed, trying to escape his grief, trying to reach that place where nothing hurts, because nothing matters. Nothing but missions to complete, games to win, puzzles to solve. Some perfectly ordered world of moves and countermoves, causes and effects, patterns, sequences; some place higher and cleaner and more sensible than the unnavigable limbo of pain and memory that surrounds him.
Whatever it is that's hurt Chouji so badly, he had missed it, consumed in his own suffering, and that was unforgivable.
"I..." Chouji relinquishes Shikamaru's ankle suddenly, as if burned, and he presses his hand to his mouth, scarcely breathing.
"You what, Chouji?" Shiakmaru asks, tiredly. He drops into a crouch and hesitates only a moment before squeezing Chouji's shoulder. This time Chouji doesn't flinch away, and he asks more confidently, "What is it?"
Chouji pulls his knees up toward his chest, and takes an unsteady breath. "I…" His voice is thick, and he swallows hard. Flexing his toes, he begins to rock very slightly back and forth.
When he finally manages to speak, his voice is husky with pain, and he still won't look at Shikamaru. "Me, too."
Shikamaru's pulse is so slow it may as well have stopped altogether, because time itself seems to have come to a screeching halt. When his heart begins to beat again, the sound is like a thunderclap in his ears.
"You… You what?" Shikamaru blinks stupidly. Chouji can only mean one thing, and yet Shikamaru doesn't dare follow the thought to its reasonable conclusion.
The big shoulders heave with silent weeping as the broken shinobi continues his minute, childish rocking. "Since Academy." The words are muffled, mumbled into his knees, a ragged gasp between sobs. The litany of apologies begins anew, and he finally shrinks from Shikamaru's hand.
Stunned, Shikamaru stares blankly at Chouji's bare shoulder. Since Academy? Since before Shikamaru himself had known, and that had been several months after the botched Uchiha retrieval. The weight of that secret nearly ruined Shikamaru; Chouji has been carrying it twice as long.
He has been holding his breath. Exhaling sharply, he reaches out gingerly for Chouji's downturned face, shivering as his hand brushes his friend's knee. "Are you apologizing for…?" His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "For liking me?"
He cups one tattooed cheek, and turns Chouji's head up. He catches a flash of terrified doe's eyes before Chouji pulls away.
"I knew I wasn't…" Chouji reburies his face in his knees and is still. "I don't… I knew I could never…"
"Never what?" Shikamaru's sluggish brain picks up speed as he tries to make sense of his friend's stammering confession.
Chouji groans. "I'm not good enough!" His voice is an anguished cry, and tears swell in Shikamaru's eyes again. This time, he cannot blink them away.
"Chouji!"
His friend flinches, as if the sound of his own name is painful, and begins to rock back and forth, more vigorously than before, almost vibrating with manic, nervous energy. Shikamaru watches, helpless, plumbing the furthest depths of his brain for something to say to break through the walls Chouji is building.
Ino would know what to say. Ino always knew what to say. If Chouji was the heart of their little group, and he was the brain, Ino was the face, she was expression and speech, the part that conveyed or concealed thought and emotion. Shikamaru's communication skills were adequate for the exchange of information, but precious little else; Ino's greatest strength as a shinobi is his greatest weakness as a leader.
And where the hell is she? After years of careful control, years spent meticulously guarding his eyes, his words, his body language, for the sole purpose of keeping the truth from Ino (Chouji wouldn't have picked up on even the most overt clues), he suddenly realizes he wouldn't even mind her inclusion in this secret, if she could only make Chouji stop crying.
But Ino is not here.
Shikamaru inhales deeply, praying to gods he doesn't believe in for courage he knows he doesn't have, and crawls onto the pillow with Chouji, so that they are sitting side by side. Stretching an arm out, feeling that he is not in control of his own body – perhaps this is how being controlled by his shadow feels? – he embraces the broad shoulders and drags Chouji closer to him. The rocking stops.
"If there is a better man alive," Shikamaru offers quietly, after a long moment of apprehensive silence, "I haven't met him." Immediately the damp head begins to shake, denials spill from the trembling lips. Shikamaru slips a hand over Chouji's mouth, and presses his lips against Chouji's ear.
"Chouji," he murmurs, willing the strength of his convictions into his voice. Swallowing hard, both terrified and exhilarated by his boldness, he kisses the flushed, warm ear, and whispers, "In the most secret, darkest, ugliest places in your soul, you are ten times the man I'll ever be."
"You're wrong," Chouji whispers.
"No." Shikamaru lies back against the wall, pulling the big shinobi back with him so that the honey-red head rests against his bare chest. The wet hair chafes a little, but Chouji doesn't pull away, so the discomfort is meaningless.
"You may be a better man than I am, but I'm still smarter than you," he observes dryly. "So stop arguing with me." He closes his eyes, and lazily tangles his fingers in the long hair.
"You're pretty stupid about love, Shikamaru," Chouji replies hoarsely. But he still doesn't try to move away.
"Maybe. I'm not stupid enough to love someone who isn't worthy of it, though." Smiling in spite of himself, he adds, "I suppose we're lucky you are." The tip of Chouji's nose, which is all of his face that Shikamaru can see through his half-open eyelids and Chouji's mane of hair, blushes rosily.
"I don't know where we go from here," Shikamaru admits after a few minutes of silence. "I'm pretty sure a confession to someone who already likes you is not supposed to end up with both parties in tears. I didn't plan for that."
Chouji snorts, and Shikamaru chuckles, and as it always does, laughter begins to assuage the tension.
"This is what's going to happen right now, though." Shikamaru is serious, now. "I am going to bind these wounds. When Ino comes back, we're going to talk, we're going to eat, and then you're going to sleep as long as you possibly can. This," he gestures vaguely to their sprawled figures, "can wait until you're healthy again." Which could be months, but Shikamaru doesn't say that. Months won't be long enough for them to even begin making sense of the events of the last ten minutes, anyway.
"Shikamaru…" Chouji is tense. "I would rather bandage them myself."
"I know," Shikamaru replies, almost sympathetic as he slides out from behind his friend. "But I can't let you." Chouji tries to right himself; Shikamaru restrains him and makes him lie back against the wall. Crouching in front of him, he waits until Chouji is brave enough to meet his gaze.
"You're just going to have to get used to me and Ino taking care of you for awhile," he says, when the clear brown eyes flash upward. "I don't know what's going on. I don't know what possessed you to do any of this. I don't know how to deal with what you've done, or how to make you never do it again. And I hate not knowing, Chouji. You could have died." Shikamaru reaches up to place a fallen lock of hair behind the red ear he had kissed. "I…" The words are so awkward, and he is so fucking awkward; he's no good at this. His stomach is roiling. Ino could say it better – and where the fuck is she?
"I need to know you're going to be okay," he finally manages, past the dryness in his throat. "And you're too generous to deny me that."
They share a long look, and Shikamaru wins the contest. Shivering, mouth twisting anxiously, Chouji takes his hand away from the blood-seeped gauze on his belly. Other cuts have begun to bleed, and the raw, chafed ring around his hips oozes a mixture of serum and blood. Shikamaru nods his approval. He plants an index finger squarely in the middle of Chouji's head, applying a firm, steady pressure until the big man's head is resting against the wall. "Close your eyes. Deep breaths."
Chouji swallows hard and tries to obey. He bites his lip as Shikamaru's cold hands wipe away blood with alcohol-soaked gauze, but he doesn't move as the cold, bony fingers brush his skin. Shikamaru lays another strip of cloth against a second particularly nasty gash, to keep it from seeping as he cleans the other injuries. Quickening breaths alarm him as he smoothes antibiotic ointments to the worst of the lacerations; he pauses and, resting his open palm on a relatively unbroken bit of skin between Chouji's ribs, waits for his friend to regain his composure. It takes several long moments and a few shamed tears leaking from the corners of tightly closed eyes, but eventually Chouji's breath slows, and with swift hands, Shikamaru medicates and bandages the remainder of the gouges.
"Almost done," Shikamaru promises quietly. Taking the big shinobi by the arm, he pulls him upright. "Just let me wrap this." The tips of his fingers brush the ring of pulpy skin, now slick with healing salve. Chouji flinches. "I swear, I'm almost finished."
Chouji rubs his eyes wearily, like a child. "Okay, Shikamaru." He doesn't protest when Shikamaru helps him to his feet, and though his stance is rigid and strained, he allows his friend to wind a long bandage around his waist. Too tired to argue anymore, perhaps, or too wise to fight a battle he cannot win. Shikamaru motions to the bed after tying off the ends of the bandage.
"Wait there." Shikamaru strips the bed of its bloodied linen, taking the precaution of hiding the bed sheets in the closet. They're white; all shinobi prefer white sheets, because they bleach clean. It's a moment's work to dress the bed in fresh linen, and then he takes Chouji's elbow and maneuvers him into a semi-reclined position, propped up with pillows against the wall.
"I'm tired." He looks it. The blush has faded; he is pale and drawn and can barely keep his eyes open.
"Soon, Chouji," Shikamaru swears. "We need to wait for Ino, remember?"
"Ino…" he mumbles. "I need a shirt."
Shikamaru hesitates. Ino meant to deal with Chouji's hernias when she returned.
Without an ounce of the superior attitude she generally assumed when lecturing about medical matters, she had explained that bits of tissue that belonged behind the abdominal wall had burst through in a number of places, aberrations almost certainly due to the increased internal pressure caused by the chain. Potentially dangerous if left untreated, she said, but most of them could be repaired simply enough. The protruding tissue could be "reduced," manually worked back into place behind the muscle, though not without some pain. A carefully wrapped sarashi would support Chouji's shredded abdominal muscles until her chakra had recovered enough to heal the rips in the abdominal wall.
Soon, she would have to make incisions to repair the "irreducible" hernias, but she could not do so until her chakra had recovered. The majority of it had been spent healing a viciously deep cut below Chouji's navel; one, she conjectured, which had been gouged open multiple times. It would scar, despite her best efforts.
Chouji had barely tolerated Shikamaru's superficial touch, and Ino would have to knead and massage and dig into the flesh of which he was so ashamed. If he knew Ino's intentions, he would surely panic. A shirt, then, Shikamaru decides. For now.
He doesn't get the opportunity to speak.
"A shirt would get in the way," Ino observes. She is perched in the window, looking for all the world as if she had been comfortably ensconced there for hours. Resting on the sill at her feet is a bottle of juice and several paper bags of fragrant miso, hot rice, and something with eggs – omelets, Shikamaru realizes. Breakfast. It is nearly sunrise.
Chouji squeaks in embarrassment. He turns his face from the girl in the window, using a pillow to cover his bandaged stomach.
"That's going to get in the way, too," Ino says grimly, twisting so that her legs dangle into the room.
Chouji hunches over the pillow, eyes tightly shut. "Please, go away, Ino."
Shikamaru and Ino share a look, and then he takes the bags from the windowsill and offers a hand to help his partner into the room. He is awarded a slight smile for his gallantry, and he's suddenly relieved. He isn't going to have to be the one to explain what Ino has to do. For him, the worst of the awkwardness is past. They will settle into their comfortable roles: brain, heart, and face. He has only to observe, and if necessary, keep Chouji still.
Ino picks up the juice, plucking it from the sill like an apple from a tree, and crawls onto the mattress with Chouji. Her short pajama bottoms (that reveal entirely too much of her slim legs), and loose camisole (which would hide nothing from Chouji if his face weren't smashed into his pillow just now) do not seem to trouble her. A hot rush of displeasure surges in Shikamaru's mouth; he quashes it. It's Ino, after all. Ino doesn't look at guys like Chouji – or Shikamaru, for that matter – like that. It's a profound friendship, but that's all. The kittenish prowl, the sway of her rear end as she sidles up next to his… whatever Chouji is to him now… well, she probably doesn't even realize she's doing it. She's always been an overtly sensual creature.
Fine golden hair sways over her shoulders as she lays her head to one side. "No wonder your hair is so soft," she murmurs, reaching out to touch the wet locks. "You never do anything to it. No hairdryer, no product. Mine would be a mess."
Shikamaru raises a quizzical brow. She shakes her head with a wry twist to her mouth and gathers the damp hair into a tail. The russet mane is thick, so that she can barely circle it with her small hands. Shikamaru's eyes narrow, and a sudden flash of intuition informs him that he is absurdly jealous. Ino has always been demonstrative, but her effortless intimacy with Chouji, his best friend, his confessed admirer – it is inexplicably galling.
Chouji shivers beside her.
"You need to calm yourself," she advises gently, combing through the tail absently with her fingers. "You have some decisions to make, now. Whatever you decide to do, Shikamaru and I, we'll be here for you. There's nothing you can say that would make us think less of you. But these are choices you have to make for yourself."
Chouji rests his face in the pillow, still shivering. "… a shirt. Please, Ino…"
Pink lips purse slightly, and she glances up at Shikamaru, who shrugs, then nods.
"Okay, Chouji," she relents. "Anything to make this easier for you. But I'm afraid it's going to be unpleasant, shirt or no shirt."
An old wooden dresser stands by the bathroom door; Shikamaru goes to it and withdraws a clean black pullover from the middle drawer. Wordlessly, he hands it to Chouji. With a whisper of gratitude, Chouji tugs the shirt on as quickly as his exhausted body will permit.
Shikamaru moves to retreat toward the door, but a slight hand catches his to halt him. He pauses, looks down at the fine white fingers wrapped round his own bony digits. Ino nods imperiously at Chouji's other side. Rather than argue with her (futile), Shikamaru yields, climbing into the bed with his partners. He crosses his legs and his arms, lies back against the wall, and waits.
"Better?" Ino's voice is quiet, restful, unlike her usual frenetic babble. Chouji is no longer shivering, though he has not surrendered the pillow clutched to his belly. He nods hesitantly.
"Good. Drink this." Ino hands him the bottle of red juice. "Not too fast."
He stares. "It's… it's just sugar, Ino." Shikamaru's shoulder twinges a bit; there is something evasive in Chouji's manner. He doesn't like it.
Ino's pretty face is carefully blank. "It's not. It's medicinal, a specially prepared electrolyte replacement fluid, which has been fortified with essential nutrients. You can drink that, and several more of those over the next few days, or we can do it intravenously. It might be a little hard to explain an IV to your parents, but I can do it if I have to. Or we can go to the hospital, and you can talk to Psych about why you're suddenly terrified of sugary drinks."
Chouji flinches. "How many…?" Thinking better of it, he shakes his head.
"How many calories are in it?" Ino translates calmly. She's grasped something Shikamaru has not, to so swiftly interpret his thoughts. The thought is unsettling. "In the whole bottle, about three hundred."
The color drains from Chouji's face.
"Why does it matter?" Shikamaru asks uneasily. "You need it."
"Chouji," Ino asks, ignoring his disquiet, "when did you last eat something?"
Chouji looks at the bottle, not at Ino. "You were here when I ate dinner."
"Yes, dear, but I meant, when did you last eat something without making yourself sick afterward?"
Shikamaru looks sharply up at them both, but neither speaks. An awkward silence descends. Ino alone doesn't seem to feel it. There is sympathy in her eyes – not pity – and her gaze is very steady as she patiently awaits an answer. As the minutes wear on and on, it never falters.
Perfectly poised, like a slender green stem bearing a heavy bloom, strength both unexpected and humbling. Asuma had that quality too, that supreme composure in the face of the overwhelming. Shikamaru is suddenly unable to breathe.
Even now, she is aching; he knows it, even if he can't see it. But, as it had been for Asuma-sensei, the feelings – confusion, anger, guilt, regret, sorrow – they are simply a part of her, intrinsically Ino. Not weaknesses to be overcome. Nothing of which she should be ashamed or frightened, nothing from which she need detach herself in order to function.
Which is, of course, utterly incomprehensible to a man who fears what he feels more than anything. Emotions are distracting and cumbersome and unpredictable, and sometimes, like now, they just fucking hurt. By their very nature, they introduced an unknown factor into the most carefully laid plans. Feelings are dangerous, stupidly, recklessly so for shinobi. And so he suppresses them as best he can.
It had been a point on which he and Asuma had never agreed, and Shikamaru is at once vividly aware that Ino had been as much a student of Asuma's character as he had been. She has chosen to adopt a different aspect of the man than Shikamaru had, but it is Asuma he sees in her now. It a surprising comfort, to know that he isn't carrying on Asuma's heart and will alone.
"Chouji?" Shikamaru asks uncertainly. Ino watches the bowed head intently, but the big man doesn't answer.
Her eyes flash with something less corrosive than anger, something shinier and more brilliant than determination, and Ino releases Chouji's hair to hold his hand. "I'm sorry," she says softly. "A lot of the questions I have for you don't have to be answered right now. The hard questions, the whys, those can wait until they're easier to talk about. I do need to know this, though. When did you last eat? "
"There was… an apple…" he replies finally. "I didn't mean to," he goes on, in a rush of words. "I didn't even want it. I just… I couldn't sleep…" He rubs his face, frustrated. "I ended up running all night anyway, so it was stupid. I didn't need it." Light flashes from the shine on his cheek; he's crying.
Shikamaru seeks out Ino's blue-green gaze, bewildered. A raise of her shoulders is all the answer she makes. "When?" she presses.
"I don't… it wasn't today."
"Today's already tomorrow," Ino observes, turning briefly to the open window, where morning birds have already begun to greet the day. "Not yesterday, then. The day before?"
One big fist clenches the bed sheet tightly. "Three days, then," Ino surmises – but she's wrong; Chouji bows his head in shame. For a split second, the fear Shikamaru feels building in his breast is visible on Ino's face. She hides it quickly, however, and goes on.
"When did you last eat a full meal?"
Another shake of the amber hair. "Don't remember."
Shikamaru's temper flares, he closes his eyes and counts. "This isn't a diet," he observes inanely, mostly to force Ino to explain. Of course it wasn't a diet, he'd known that – but what the hell was it?
"No." Ino sighs. "No, it's not." Rubbing Chouji's shoulder absently, she gathers her thoughts before speaking again.
"Chouji, I know you've been taking spinach pills."
"No!" Shikamaru can't contain this outburst, but at Chouji's cringe and Ino's warning glare, he manages to bite his tongue.
Ino glowers at him, still rubbing Chouji's shoulder. "I need to know how many, and for how long."
He's shivering again. "I don't… I don't… know."
"Guess," she encourages, with that same calm, unruffled tone. It is soothing Chouji's jangled nerves somewhat, and Shikamaru's as well. It's out of character, but Ino is an expert at being out of character, at channeling her emotions into words and actions that suit her purpose. Equanimity is what is necessary; she will be calm and they will follow suit.
This subtle, powerful ability will earn her a jounin rank someday, and a role in ANBU or the intelligence division, if she wants it. The self-discipline to control one's emotions, the skill to convey whatever attitude will further a cause, and her own sheer genius for discreet manipulation – together, those will carry her far. Shikamaru realizes that he is deeply pleased with her for her grace under fire tonight.
"It was three weeks ago," Chouji is saying, haltingly, "but I didn't take whole ones. Seven? Maybe… eight, altogether?"
Eight.
Shikamaru had once insisted Chouji describe the effects of his family's secret soldier pills. Racing pulse, and fire that spread from the stomach to the heart, and scorched through the veins bit by bit by bit until every fiber of muscle, every cell was inflamed with it. Pain, sharp, stabbing pain as the liver, gallbladder, and pancreas function at many times their normal pace, as the stored carbohydrates in the liver evaporate and metabolized fat turns to glucose and then, through the secret Akimichi jutsu, into chakra. With a rueful grin, Chouji had admitted the first time very nearly put him on his knees.
He had inflicted that on himself repeatedly over the last three weeks, and for what? For Ino? Gods forbid, for Shikamaru? Why?
"Okay." Ino's eyes are closed, but her brow is peaceful, untroubled. It's a mask, but only Shikamaru would know it. "I want you to drink that, now. I wanted you to have breakfast, too, but I hadn't realized how little you've been eating. And gods only know what eight soldier pills may have done to you. I'll have to do a more thorough examination when my chakra recovers. Until then, we had better to stick to liquids for a day or two."
The big shinobi swallows hard, looking ill. The bottle shakes terribly as he attempts to twist the cap off. Shikamaru mutely reaches over to open the bottle for him.
"We can do an IV, or take you to the hospital, if it's too hard. Or we can get your parents." Ino's eyes are very gentle as she reminds Chouji that he has choices – unpleasant ones, perhaps, but choices nonetheless. "You have to get used to eating again, and soon, but it doesn't have to be here and now. I know you're tired."
"Not that tired," Chouji mutters. He draws a deep breath and takes a long pull off the juice. His face registers disgust, but he takes another drink before lowering the bottle. "I don't… don't take me to the hospital. Don't tell my parents."
A nod of the slender neck, a shiver of blonde hair. "You want it to remain between us, then?"
Chouji's eyes are closed, and he looks nauseated. "Please. Please."
"Alright, dear," Ino agrees quietly. "But you need to understand this. If we don't feel like we're able to help you, we will get you to someone who can. So don't give us a reason to doubt ourselves."
Chouji's lips form a thin, tight line, but he nods briefly.
"Ino." Shikamaru sit up a little straighter. "What exactly is… this?"
"I can't say for sure until we dig a little deeper." Ino shrugs and taps the bottle, reminding Chouji to drink. "Anorexia fits."
Shikamaru shakes his head blankly. "What?"
Ino laughs softly, and Chouji caps the bottle to rest his head on the pillow still clutched against his belly. "Why doesn't it surprise me that you don't know?" she asks, with an oddly affectionate note in her voice. "Chouji knows. He accused me of it, a long time ago."
"I'm not." Chouji mumbles into the pillow. "Anorexic."
"I won't make you defend that statement tonight," Ino remarks, "but soon enough."
The shaggy head raises just enough for Shikamaru to see something darkly amused in Chouji's eyes. "I'm not…" Chouji squeezes the pillow. "Not thin enough to be anorexic," he jokes weakly, with a rough exhalation that's meant to approximate a laugh.
Neither of his teammates joins in. "Anorexics don't start off emaciated." Ino opens the bottle and firmly wraps Chouji's hand around it. "Most of the time, they're people-pleasers with low self-esteem and a lot of misplaced guilt, who think somehow self-denial and suffering will make them better people. You don't think that's you?"
Chouji hides his face in the pillow again.
Shikamaru growls softly as his patience runs thin. "Hello?"
The chill in his voice earns him a raised blonde brow. "It's a psychological disorder where someone becomes obsessed with a desire to become thinner, with a concurrent fear of gaining weight." Ino turns her eyes back on Chouji, who flinches under the words. "Distorted body image. Excessive dieting and exercise. Extreme weight loss. Often accompanied by other forms of self-harm."
"That… makes sense, I guess." Shikamaru uncrosses his arms and stares at the backs of his hands.
"I'm not!" Chouji's cry is muffled, but his chagrin is obvious, nonetheless.
"Okay," Ino shrugs. "Whether you are or you aren't, you are malnourished and dehydrated, you've lost entirely too much weight for such a short amount of time, and you've deliberately injured yourself. The symptoms are there; the diagnosis is less important than the treatment."
She sighs heavily. "Speaking of that, dear… I hoped you would calm down enough for us to get somewhere tonight, but I think maybe it would be better to back off for awhile. We all need a chance to rest and get our bearings. But before that, I'm going to need you to take your shirt off."
"What? No!"
There is a painting of cherry trees by a river hanging on Chouji's wall; Shikamaru goes to stand before it as Ino begins to explain the other thing she is going to do tonight. Neither of his teammates needs to see his tears, and he's already seen the shine of them in Ino's. They're shattering; she can't hold them together, and it's breaking her heart. Chouji couldn't hold them together, and it's killing him. Shikamaru knows he can't hold them together - he's half over the edge himself. But, he wonders, watching them try, watching them fail and try harder, maybe they felt the same way?
That's another revelation. They suffered under this crushing sense of culpability, too.
All of them were determined to not be a burden, resolved to bite down on their own pain to avoid exacerbating the others'. It's tearing them apart, each attempting to alleviate the others' grief while shouldering their own suffering alone.
She can't say she's scared to death they'll leave her, can't give voice to the nightmares that leave her twisting and moaning on his floor in the middle of the night. Chouji can't say he isn't strong enough to keep his team together, when one is clinging tightly enough to suffocate them, and the other is drifting away like an outgoing tide – and Shikamaru has been drifting, aimless, empty, and useless.
He had believed that a failed attempt to support his broken teammates would be a greater evil than allowing them to rely on him for anything beyond floor space and poor company. Maybe he had been wrong.
Maybe they needed to shatter, only together, not separately. Maybe they needed to stop pretending to strengths and convictions they no longer have. Maybe the lie that they were okay, or that they were going to be okay, or that it was going to be okay or whatever fucking platitude they were telling each other and trying to believe – maybe the lie weighed on them more than the truth ever could.
Yes, he thinks, feeling clear-headed for the first time since Ino had taken his hand in the window. He gathers his shadow regretfully. No more lies. No more false bravado or cheer or apathy. Ino is scared. Chouji hates himself for not being enough to keep everyone together. Shikamaru's a fucking coward who can't find the courage to face his own grief, never mind theirs. They're all fucked up, but maybe it doesn't matter as long as they're fucked up together.
Ino is standing as well, now, on her guard.
"I'm sorry," she tells Chouji simply. "I understand how you feel, but it has to be done. The medics at the hospital can do it, or I can, and that's the decision you have to make, dear. You will not harm yourself further, and you will get the healing you need. You don't get a choice about that. If you want this to stay between the three of us, you need to lie down."
"No!" Chouji's feet hit the floor, but before he can get himself erect, Shikamaru's shadow is lapping his ankles, thwarting his efforts. Fresh tears stream down his face as he struggles vainly to free himself. "Shikamaru!" he cries. The plea breaks Shikamaru's heart, but not his binding.
"She's right, Chouji. For once. One way or another, you have to get better. I can take you to the hospital, if you would prefer." Quiet sobbing and a shake of the head form his answer, and he slowly releases his jutsu. "Okay, then. Pull yourself together, and let's get on with this."
Outside, the sun is casting a dingy glow through a darkly clouded horizon as Ino motions for Chouji to lie flat on his back. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs. "That last thing on earth I want is to hurt you or embarrass you, and I have to do both. But you know what?" Her eyes are very soft. "You're the strongest person I know, Chouji, and you can do this. I've seen what you can do for the people you care about."
Smoothing hair back from his face, she smiles. "I need to know you're going to be okay," she says, and there's a sweetly bitter ache in her voice as she unconsciously echoes Shikamaru's earlier remark. "So be strong for me, now, and let me help you." She leans over him, and to Shikamaru's chagrin, presses a firm kiss to his forehead.
Chouji's terrified gaze lands on Shikamaru as Ino's hands come to rest on his bared stomach.
I'm here, Shikamaru mouths silently. He has nothing to give but his presence; he prays it is enough.
Don't be afraid.
