Love-in-idleness

A/N: Oof. Work-from-home stress and the extended work hours have me feeling antsy and frustrated. The recent chapters set in Yuukou made me realize that this can go beyond what I had initially intended. In all honesty, this was supposed to parody the "sex buddies turned lovers" trope by turning it into the "sex buddies turned strangers" trope midway through the story and ending things there, but I feel that there's potential in this?

Kakashi is not an easy character to write because I wanted to explore the tragedy and how this could affect forming relationships, and I'm getting there I guess. Shikai, even more so. She's her own thing and she's still evolving, but I think I've got her nailed down this time. Smut has never been one of my strong points as a writer, let alone intimate and personal scenes, so here's another shot. If any of ya'll remember the hilarious "one blanket" scenario in Chapter 12, this is what happened before that. I didn't think things through, yeah. None of the smutty chapters really weave into the narrative properly. Here's to hoping I write these better next time.

This chapter is dedicated to you all, dear readers and fans. Thanks for all the views/hits, kudos, bookmarks/favorites, subscriptions/follows, and comments/reviews. You don't know how much those mean to me as a writer. I never really thought this story would get to where it is, but here we are! I have, maybe, at most five chapters left before I begin The Ocean and The Wanderer later this year.

So here we go!

"It made sense that she is attracted to strong men. It also made sense that she is repulsed by his personality."

"He was kind. And it was his kindness that blinded me."

He should have known then. No, even earlier than that. The moment he asked her, "Who would?" The moment she asked, "What do you want out of this?" The moment he took her hand. The moment she sat resigned on the bench. The moment he told her he wanted to speak with her. The moment she unknowingly trapped them here. The moment he said yes to her invitation. The moment she told a joke, "Are you going to stare at it all day?" The moment he said, "It's good to see you again."

Yes. He should have known from that very moment. He didn't have any concrete plan then, he didn't really think he'd make it this far. But now that everything's somehow falling into place and becoming that thing he'd wanted months ago, his mind's at a standstill.

She's sitting so close and looking like she's about to cry. He didn't expect this. He isn't prepared. He's panicking in the silence of his own mind. He notices the stiffness in her posture and the sudden rigidity of her face, all tell-tale signs of what's to come.

She's never told this to anyone, has she?

She's about to cry in front of him and she doesn't even know it.

"You don't have to tell me everything, Shikai-san."

Ever the gentleman, of course.

He hesitates about touching her, fearing it might trigger something else. She might turn defensive again, put up walls faster and higher than he could. But he relents, she needs comfort anyway, so he places a hand on her shoulder.

"Don't." was what she would have said before.

Now, there is silence. It's comforting, to say the least, that she doesn't shrug him off, scold him, or burst into tears.

"You deserve to know, Hatake-san."

It's even more comforting that she is reciprocating and not just responding. It's surprising how cliched the entire scene is. Surely she wouldn't be as receptive and as open if it weren't for this forced scenario where they're stuck with each other. Or was this part of some elaborate scheme to get them alone together? Whether by her hand or someone else's? But he doesn't wonder for too long. He can feel her shiver slightly under his hand. She's crying now, and this is the closest he's ever been, and he doesn't know how else to proceed but to let her take the lead. Crying or not. As she's always done.

"No names. It's more impersonal that way."

Maybe he should have known then, months before the present, that this can never really end the way he wants it to. Clean, that was the agreement. Clean, beneficial, discreet. He has an itch to scratch and so does she, everyone does. Sure, she might have started the whole thing by listing qualities of a lover and he followed suit, but he didn't expect her old lovers to share the one thing that would make most men flee from her as fast as possible.

They met their deaths at her hand.

So maybe it makes sense now, why she acted like she did, why she didn't want any attachment or sentiment. Maybe it makes sense that she's afraid of being too trusting, being in too deep, being reminded of what she could have had if the circumstances were different. She fucks hard and she fucks rough, clean, and efficient. She scratches his itch and he scratches hers back. So maybe it's not really a wonder why she won't commit. Maybe it's this fear that tells her this is all she could ever have, all she could ever give, all she could ever take.

"You and I seek the same thing. Empathy."

Maybe he's always known what she wanted.

It was a weekday afternoon. Maybe they both had something better to do, but the weather thought otherwise. She invited him over, as discreet as she usually is, and he agreed. It had been a while, sort of, but it wasn't like he was waiting for an invitation. He's busy and so is she, and it's a surprise they've lasted this long with each other. The sex is fine, sure, nothing to really brag about or fantasize about, but it's sufficient. There's enough tension between them to make things interesting, almost. But they know close to nothing about each other. It's just like she said; this affair between their bodies has nothing to do with who they are. And he believes that.

The sky darkens and thunder rumbles in the distance. It's going to rain soon.

"Rain check?"

She didn't answer his question. As usual, she's busying herself with something else. Now, it looks like she's cooking something. At least it smells like it. Is she going to offer him dinner, then? Do something outside of this arrangement and make him think of something else?

She covers the pot on the stove before she answers, "You're already here."

He nods, wondering what's inside, "So I am."

She looks away for a moment before taking long strides across the room to where he is. Her hands reach for his neck, but she pulls back and looks down. He notices. His single eye looks at her with curiosity.

"Might as well get it over with." She mutters, moving to unclasp the fastenings of his flak jacket.

"What, no offer of tea?"

That stops her, and she jolts away like she'd been offended. "Who does he think he is?" Maybe that's what she's currently thinking. Maybe she'd slap him, force him down and dominate him right then and there. Maybe he'd like it. Maybe she'd come all over his face. Maybe she'd like that. Maybe she'd make him finish the job. But the idea isn't enough to get him hard. Not when she's staring at him like she realized she had done something wrong. She's thinking too much about this. She's ruining it.

He clears his throat, makes his voice hoarse on purpose, "Later."

Later. The idea is attractive and tempting, like she wouldn't want him out as soon as the sky clears and they've both cleaned up. Later, like she would offer him dinner. Later, like she would make post-coital conversation and make an effort to get to know him. Later, like she would indulge him in the hazy afterglow with an open mouth and canting hips.

"Later." She chuckled. "Later."

He thinks that maybe she would allow him that, and moves in.

She meets him halfway, pressing her open mouth against his mask. Normally, she'd peel it off and rush into the kiss, so this is new. Kinky, maybe. Her mouth feels hot and wet, and she pants like she's been waiting. She pulls him by the flak jacket, pulls him until he's almost flush against her. She's grabby now, demanding and wanting, impatient.

Maybe.

His jacket comes off first. Then her yukata. His shoes. Her underclothes. He moves to strip off his shirt, but she stops him.

"Wait."

She stares at him, and then it hits him.

They've never really… Not this early in the day. Not when it's still bright enough outside. This is his first time seeing her this bare in the light. Her scars don't stand out that much from her skin. The ink spiraling around her leg draws too much attention, and he wants to touch it, to skim his hands over and around it. Would she allow him?

But she's staring at him, too. At the red ANBU tattoo on his shoulder, the Konoha symbol over his head, the mask covering his face, the scar over his eye that stands out too much. She's staring too much, too long. But he doesn't close the distance. Under her quiet gaze, he thinks he's being scrutinized, eyed like an antique at a jeweler's. She doesn't say anything else, doesn't do anything else. It's almost nerve-wracking. Has she suddenly realized something? Is she beginning to regret her actions?

"You look different in this light."

Oh, so that's what came to mind?

She said it like it was some forgotten secret, like he wasn't meant to hear it. Is she distracted? Is some kind of weight suddenly coming down on her? Was everything up to this point just a mistake? But neither of them moves, and the silence lingers. It's awkward. He feels hot. He feels cold. He feels nearly as naked as her. Is this what they're going to do? Eye each other until one of them–

Thunder echoes in the distance. It begins to rain.

"You're starting to look…" She halts.

The sigh from her mouth sounds like a whine.

She moves quickly, rushing through it all. Kissing and licking his skin. Stripping him of everything else until he's as bare and as naked as her. She doesn't look, she doesn't hesitate, her eyes are closed the entire time, as if reliving some memory kept hidden for so long. She pulls him, presses herself against him, rocks her body and grinds her hips until she feels him against her. Solid, warm, thick, almost intruding.

He doesn't meet her eyes either. He gives what she demands, pushes what she pulls, bites where she presses, takes what little she gives. He doesn't try to remember anything, doesn't need to, because there's nothing but bodies upon bodies. They're used and discarded, forgotten in the silence of the night. He learned early on that sex is a distraction, some twisted form of therapy to remind them that they are still alive, still human, still able to feel the sensation of life beginning. And early on, he learned that he should just take it lying down, not on edge and deadly, and–

He almost killed a few back then, when the lines between memory and fantasy blurred and melded and messed with his head. And for a time, he settled for the simple kind; whatever erotica was provided to him and his hand. But he wasn't one to turn down an opportunity that presented itself.

And this opportunity, well…

She pants and sighs, but speaks clearly when she asks him, "Where do you want it?"

He never thought he'd have the choice, really. She'd never really raised it, she was always leading the way.

"Where?" He almost laughed. "Where…"

He considers the choice. Her bed? The couch? Against the wall? On the floor? Perhaps on the small dining table, or on the dresser across the window for everyone to see? They've only ever done it on her bed or on the couch, simple and straightforward. He wonders what it would be like to have it where he pleases. Maybe however he pleases.

In the end, she takes him where he is, in the tight space between the couch and the trunk. He feels the floor bite into his back, feels the taut muscles in her thighs as she grinds against him, wet and warm. It's an uncomfortable position, but not unwelcome. He knows she feels the rough floor with each push and pull, and wonders if he should ask.

"Here…" She pants. "Here?"

He'd really prefer to have her on her back, but thinks she'd complain about the floor. She rises to her knees now, hands pressing on his chest. Her eyes are dilated, glossed over, looking at his face but not at him. She rubs her cunt against the tip of his cock, slowly, tauntingly.

"Tell me–"

He takes her offer, places his hands on her hips and grips, firm and decisive. He sits her on the couch, just on the very edge, and follows with his body, keeping her in place. She leans back as he leans in, just hovering above her. She rests her arms beside her, parts her legs and nudges closer to the edge, where she can feel the head of his cock press against her.

"Here?" She looks up at him, one of the very few times, and smiles a little, which is even rarer.

She's bothered and impatient, he can tell. But she's given him enough of a command of where and how to take her.

"Yeah." He presses his thumb against a nipple, another against her clit, and rubs and strokes without saying anything else.

He strokes, feather-light, then presses, taps, flicks, circles until he can feel her cunt clench around him. He doesn't move any closer as he watches her pant and whine, eyes closed and neck craned against the backrest. She doesn't move to have him closer either, simply slouches against the couch; her arms shaking as if desperate to latch onto something, her toes curling against the wood, her hip rising ever so slightly to pull him in deeper. But that's all she does, like some desperate, submissive animal.

She can take control at any moment, now, push him back down and ride him until she comes.

But she doesn't.

Maybe he'll take pleasure in the fact.

"Right here." He whispers.

He thrusts into her.

The sound that escapes her mouth is caught between a moan and a scream.

It sounds nothing like her.

Right here.

She curls and folds around him. Her legs wrap around him, curling and pressing closer. Her arms wind around his neck, his back, grabbing and pulling and pushing all at the same time. It almost feels like a spider around its prey, rushing through the whole process and taking and taking and taking. She presses her fingers, blunt nails, on his skin the same way his hands press against her waist and hips. She pulls when he pushes, grinds where thrusts. This is something different. This is something new. It almost feels like they want this, like there's a mutual interest, a shared lust, like there's something there.

He wonders if she'll let them finish like this. But in their position, with him in this position… This twisted advantage it has given him… He wonders if he'll use it, if he'll finish inside her, if he'll finish her like this, if she'll even allow it. She presses her fingers across his scalp and hisses.

Maybe she won't.

And he takes it as his cue to leave and let her finish on her own, but he doesn't do it quietly. He grunts, groans, pushes himself off her, but not without lingering just enough to kiss her neck.

"No."

In one quick movement, she pulls him down beside her and straddles him. But she doesn't face him, instead she has her back against his chest as she directs his cock back inside her. His breath hitches. She gasps. It's more intrusive, tighter, deeper.

"Like this." She says, sliding even lower until she's sat on top of him, "Like this."

He can't see her face, something he's already used to, but he still asks, "You would…"

The rest of the words are trapped in the back of his mouth, but she understands. At least he thinks she does. She starts rocking her hips, grunting and groaning until she hits that one spot–

That's when she sings.

Well, she makes that sound again.

And that gets him. Really gets him.

So he starts thrusting, catching up to rhythm she's set. She moves his arms around her, one at her breast and another at her belly. And he follows, grabs at whatever soft flesh is there. Their fingers intertwine, calloused hands pressing against each other.

"Like this, like this…" She continues, sounding like some distant chant, "Finish it like this."

And that's how it does. It finishes with him inside her, with his arms around her, with her hands on his. It flows around him, sticky and warm, as she clenches and shakes. His eyes tighten at the sensation. It spills inside her, quick and hot, and she whines, sounding offended, sounding pleased. He doesn't know. She pants, collapses on top of him, and he feels the veneer of sweat across her body. He relaxes, lets go, his arms falling across her legs where he think she would shove them off her. But she doesn't, she lets them stay there as she breathes.

This is too intimate for the both of them.

And he knows, if this was like one of those stories, he would reach over and kiss her, and she would tell him she loves him. But he doesn't reach for her, simply breathes deeply when she steps off him and stands up, and he catches the sight of it. Him mixed with her, her mixed with him, all over her, all over him, all over the old leather of the couch… It feels wrong, somehow.

"Thank you."

It's her quiet monotone that disrupts the thought.

"It's…" She has her back turned to him. He sees the liquid dripping down her thigh. "Sorry."

She moves to a drawer, walks like there's nothing wrong, like that didn't just happen, and gets a towel.

She has a lot of those, doesn't she?

"Here." She hands it to him. "I'll go first, if you don't mind."

He knows she's referring to the shower. It's a routine of hers, a routine that makes sense. It's nothing close to an invitation for another round. After she finishes, she'll ask him to leave.

"No." He replies once he finds his voice, "Go ahead. I'll clean up here."

Routine. But he doesn't know whether that response is automatic or natural.

That's when she frowns. "No need to trouble yourself too much."

He doesn't say anything after that, and she leaves him to it.

Minutes later, she returns looking clean and fresh. She makes her way to the kitchen, sets a kettle over the stove and checks the cupboard.

"Peppermint I have a lot of, but there's some hibiscus blend if you prefer that. I think I also have…" She trails off and he hears the sound of tins being opened.

It's like there's nothing wrong.

He simply gazes blankly at the space in front of him, flexes his hands open and closed, trying to think, to reflect. What just happened?

The word finally forms in his mouth. "Why?"

He hears it, when she breathes deeply, and sees it, when she turns to answer.

"A change, for once." She mutters. "I'm tired of finishing myself."

She says it like it's obvious.

"I'm sure you are, too."

It feels like an insult.

"I'm sorry if it wasn't…" She stops herself. "We can end this here if you want."

And there she goes again, ending something before it can even begin.

"No, just… You let it… let me…"

This is embarrassing.

"It's not a big deal." She dismisses it, but he can tell she's embarrassed too, "It happens. It's normal."

She doesn't look at him.

"But if you want to talk about it, clean yourself up first and I'll make tea."

It sounds so domestic.

"Coffee's better if you have some." He shrugs, makes his way to her bathroom without any second thoughts.

Might as well.

And it's surprising how she has no complaints about anything.

She tells him she doesn't have coffee, tells him it doesn't help her. So he drinks her tea. She offers a plate, and he eats her food. He sits on the chair with a sense of ease that should trouble her. He doesn't chatter about his day and neither does she.

A silence falls around them as she cleans up the dishes. He knows she's going to ask him to leave any moment now. So he waits. She finishes the dishes, puts away the leftovers. And he waits.

The rain begins pouring again.

"You're still here?" She asks tiredly, but she's making no sign that she wants him to leave.

She might be thinking, Does he even want to leave?

"The rain's back." He tips his head to the open window. "Can't go out in weather like this."

"You were right about the rain check." She jokes, opening an overhead cupboard, "Drink?"

She shows him a bottle of sake. It looked old and expensive, as if it was something worth saving for a special occasion.

"That?"

She shrugs, placing the bottle on the table. "It's the only one I have."

He's sure that isn't true. He saw some other bottles in the cupboard with it.

She places two cups on the table and pours herself a drink.

"Just this once." He hears her whisper, sees her raise her cup to a toast. "Just this once."

He doesn't know for who that might be, but she might think he doesn't hear her.

He turns to her, "Shikai-san."

He hears her hiss at the bite of the alcohol, "Do you still want to talk about it?"

Not this late.

"Because it's exactly as I said." She pours another cup, "Sometimes…"

The words are caught in her throat and she swallows them down with a drink.

"Sometimes a change is nice, no?" She sounded wistful.

"It wasn't accidental, and it wasn't on purpose either." She assures him, "It's just something that happens."

She's in the middle of pouring another drink when he speaks.

"Sometimes." He adds to her previous statement. "It's just something that happens sometimes."

She scoffs. "Want to drink to that?"

He takes the cup she hands him and sniffs. It's a strong kind, definitely an expensive one.

"To sometimes."

She frowns.

"To sometimes."

They don't toast. They just drink. After that, he stares at her. She stares at him right back.

"There's someone, isn't there?"

She's the first one to avert her eyes.

"Didn't I tell you already?"

He doesn't reply.

"Yes." She clears her throat. "But he's not here. Nowhere near here. He's…"

She pours a drink for herself, and he doesn't ask any further. He hands her his cup, and she fills it, just stopping near the brim. That question caught her off guard. She's wary. She's thinking too much. She's bothered. She's breathing too loudly. She wants to say something, doesn't she?

"Do you want to end this here?" She asks suddenly. She looks at him, her eyes not betraying any emotion. She isn't pleading, she's simply asking.

He admits to himself that finishing inside is definitely better, but was this where she normally ends things? If she finds any bit of attachment in her partner, she lets them go? If she's reminded of her partner… But wasn't she doing this for that in the first place? Should he have pressed her for answers? Or should he have kept his theory to himself?

"Do you?"

His eyes, equally blank, meet hers.

There's no attraction between them, no spark of infatuation, nothing but the momentary lust that disappears as quickly as it had appeared. They both understand this. There's someone else for her, whether he be dead or alive, there's someone tangible and real. But for him…

He hands her the cup and she pours another drink for them both. He drinks, and so does she, and that's the answer she gives him.

She looks past him to the window, "Are you going to stay the night?"

It's still raining.

"Can I?"

She leans back on the chair and pours another glass.

"How ungracious of a host would I be if I kicked you out into the rain?"

He smiles a little, and so does she.

And there's only understanding.

And maybe he should have understood then, why she hesitated when he accidentally touched her back. Did she want to be held? Was that day some special anniversary or occasion?

"I killed him because I had no choice."

He thinks she might have, maybe. The same way she's always had a choice in whatever happened between them. But she's also keeping things on purpose, and he understands. Maybe it was difficult for her, maybe it was even heartbreaking. Maybe the one she imagined all those times was this Atsumori figure in her life.

"And in those moments of clarity, I wondered if he still loved me."

Or maybe it was of this man, this criminal whom she loved from before the war, this man who had manipulated her attachment to better serve his interests. Maybe she was imagining this idea of him who loved her as much as she did him. Maybe this was atonement, perhaps, a twisted kind.

"I watched him die. But he never left me."

He's never seen her this vulnerable, this open about herself, and he thanks whatever bad luck of circumstance that has befallen them that he could witness it. So he lets her cry, carefully holds her, readies himself in case she strikes.

But she speaks to him then, voice smaller than he could ever imagine, and holds his hand in hers. It almost astonishes him that she can still speak with this clarity, as if her face weren't tear-stricken and she wasn't shaking just moments before. It's like a practiced movement, a movement he knows all too well.

"You have Atsumori's hands and his kindness. But you are not him."

This is the answer he's been waiting for.

"You will never be him. Thank you."

The silence was brief, but needed. She's finally understood. Maybe she's finally come to terms. Maybe she finally knows. Maybe this is the first step. Maybe this is the end.

"Kanemitsu-sama!"

Well, that's the end of this scene.

"Oneesan?"

As if on cue, her brother appears with an entire entourage of exasperated servants. The cat is there, too, wagging its tail as if feigning innocence to something.

"What are you doing there?"

She's facing away from them, but he sees her stilted body. She tightens her eyes to rid of her tears, wipes her face, and breathes shakily. In one moment, she's a crying woman, and the next she's standing tall and calm.

It's a sight.

"Kanemitsu."

But the minor tremor in her voice betrays it, just a little.

She notices it too, and clears her throat. "Mother wanted me to show our guest around."

She's back to formalities.

"The barrier set-up here is apparently still in order." She chuckles, "Would anyone care to release it, please?"

The entourage scrambles before a woman, who she calls Tsubomi, murmurs something in front of the entrance. The seal breaks with a soft breeze.

"Well then," She turns to him, "I think I've bored our guest enough already. Why don't you show him around the rest of the compound, Kanemitsu?"

Her brother smiles brightly, like an excited child, "Really, oneesan?"

She walks through the entrance before he can say anything. "Yeah. You spent more time here than I did, anyway."

She flashes the smallest, briefest of smiles before walking away.

That's definitely something new.

"Well…" He sighs.

He doesn't really like being the center of attention, especially with this many strangers around him.

"Rokudaime-sama…" Kanemitsu spoke with a knowing grin.

It seems he saw her smile, too.

"What exactly did you two talk about here?"

Shit.

"Nothing much." He replies casually. "Just some stories about how she was as a child."

No use lying in their house, is there?

"Really now." Kanemitsu drawls out, before addressing his entourage. "You may leave us, I'd like to speak with him alone."

So they did.

But the cat stayed, eyes drifting from him to her brother.

"She told me you named the cat Ginko." He says, trying to break the awkward silence.

Kanemitsu acknowledges the cat, but his grin doesn't leave his face.

"You and her must be pretty close, huh?"

Things might've gone from bad to worse then.

A/N: Fun fact, I made a spicy playlist just to write this chapter properly.