Never Mind, a naruto fanfic

DISCLAIMER! Except for original character Aina, all featured or mentioned fictional entities are from Masashi Kishimoto's manga series Naruto and Boruto. This fan fiction is written purely for entertainment and generates no profit whatsoever.

This oneshot is based on the roleplay threads and plot ideas between myself and my friend peepingtoad on Tumblr! Based on an AU where Aina gets to know Jiraiya prior to the events of the canon storyline. The prompt of the ask was: "Five times my muse thought about kissing yours, and the one time they did."

NEVER MIND

"Ah, I know y'got a house awready, but mine's closer t' where we jus' been," she'd said, bouncing off of her left foot beside him. "Come rest here awhile; I got more peace-n-quiet th'n I know what t' do with. Let's share it!"

The house is small and run-down and on the edge of the fields—one bedroom, one bathroom; there had never been a need to make room for anything larger when she was the only one living here—but it's cozy and it's got a garden she and Mama had raised up from seeds with a plum tree and a pond around the back. No inn or house in central Konoha can boast the same. Besides, she's made up for the distance from the markets of the village by stockpiling on what groceries she could not grow for herself, or else trading food and supplies with the neighbors in exchange for fixing this chicken house or tracking down that cat.

She would have thought she'd feel comfortable with everyone by now with the number of times she's run in and out of their farms and their stands. That she could look at any one of them and call them her friend without that same dryness in her throat and hollowness in her chest that she gets when the sun in a crueler mood creates mirages of puddles on the path at the height of summer.

Never mind. Jiraiya is staying here. She insists. He has free range of every space except the bedroom. The bedroom, of course, is hers.

Actually, she wouldn't mind sharing it. In fact, she'd like that very, very, very much. But sharing a bed—assuming he'd like to spend the night at all—could lead to trouble she's not brave enough to make or face, so she pulls all the furniture to the walls to make space—just in case—while he "takes the load off" in the backyard. She insists he do so. He is a guest, plus the furniture (two chairs, a couch, a low table, a lamp) must be kept in order. It's an order she can't explain to him even if she wanted. It just makes her nervous if they are not perfectly parallel to the faint round prints they've made on the carpet, like puzzle pieces she can find and easily click back into place when he leaves again. Pieces to a puzzle she's not even sure she wants to keep anymore.

Her labor completed, she dabs at her brow with her headscarf, then goes to the kitchen to fish out a pitcher of tea, chilled in the fridge, and two cups. It's all right. Today, it is spotless. Well, as spotless as it can be for its age.

He's already gotten comfortable on the stone bench overlooking the pond by the time she's thrown back the screen door, kicking his wooden sandals off to the side and hoisting one leg over his thigh.

As soon as she reaches him with the pitcher and stacked cups, she takes her turn kicking off her padded sandals before taking the empty seat by his right. "I brought iced tea," she announces, squeezing the stacked cups between her thick, soft thighs—closer to her knees, mind—before tipping the pitcher to fill the top cup. There is no deeper meaning to the move beyond convenience, yet she must pause at the sensation of eyes glancing down at…the cups? Her thighs? Both? Unlike him and his longer pants, she's wearing shorts. No deeper meaning to this other than dressing for today…although this is the shortest pair she owns. And the night before, she'd endured lathering on that stinky hair-removing cream to make her legs silky smooth and spare the razor. She never did that before meeting him. She'd never had a good reason to.

She leans down and tilts her head to return the glance, heat flashing through her that has nothing to do with the weather. Their eyes lock for a second before his face splits into that broad, shameless grin that makes her melt inside. Has he noticed her legs?

For an instant, she tries to imagine how it would feel to have her mouth over it while her freshly shaved legs wrapped snugly around his waist and her bottom tucked in his lap.

She can't. His smile is too big. Or is hers too small? She'd end up kissing more teeth than lip.

"Um…here y'go," she stammers with a shake of her head, clutching the filled cup around the rim as she uproots it to hand over to him. Then she tips the pitcher to fill the remaining cup still tucked between her thighs.

Feel my legs, she wants to tell him. They're smooth as silk!

Instead, she leans in to rub her shoulder against his, asks, "So tell me all 'bout your trip, right fr'm th' beginning!" and crosses her leg in the opposite direction he's crossed his so hers can brush along it with a wiggle of her toes. He may not be able to feel it through the fabric of his pants and his giant hands are preoccupied with his tea, but at least he can see her dark skin shine in the rays of afternoon sun cracking through the branches sheltering them.

Not that she doesn't care about his stories. She does; that's why she asked for one. He is quite possibly the best storyteller she's ever met after Papa. She just wishes he would stroke her leg while he was at it and punctuate every other five or so sentences with a smiling kiss on her mouth.

But she's too afraid to ask for that second part. And he either misses the hint in his thirst—for tea—or is too afraid to take it.

…

He's sitting cross-legged in the grass with the notebook in his lap and his pen pressed up against his face. Ah! The artist is contacting his muse. What does his muse look like? Do they have a name? What do they sound like? Are they temperamental like he is?

She stops about two meters behind him and scratches her left cheek, then the nape of her neck. Should she bother him while he's concentrating? The point of his pen is a bit too close to his eye. He could poke it out if he's not careful. If she sneaks up on him, he might just do that.

So she shuffles off to the side like a crab and half-circles around him before plopping into the grass herself, about a meter in front of him, mimicking his crossed legs and the hand he rests his chiseled jaw in. She looks him over up and down as she waits for him to break out of his trance. In the meantime, her eyes come to rest on his pouting lips.

Those lips have probably known at least a thousand other pairs of lips before she saw them…maybe a million. For all she knows, they've kissed people here in this very village when she's not there to see.

Not that she's asked. It's not her place to ask. She's too afraid to ask.

Never mind. They're all gone. It's just him and her, right here, right now.

Do his lips feel as plush as they look?

What might they taste like? The eggs she'd cooked him this morning? Tobacco? Garlic? Saké? A rainstorm? The mountain air? The universe itself? Not that she'd know what the whole ever-loving universe tastes like. Maybe he might, though? Maybe they could find out together?

Her reverie is broken by the jerk of Jiraiya's head, his voice ringing through her like a prayer bowl as he asks what she's staring at with a bemused smile. Has he got something on his face?

"Ah, nothin' that wasn' awready there, ahaha," she giggles, making a triangle with her fingers to peek at him through as her stomach fills with foam. "Wha'cha workin' on over there? Can I see?"

He says he's not sure, it's just a seed of an idea at present. She can't tell if he's teasing or not.

"Well, can I see it anyway? I could help, I reckon! I know a l'il 'bout growin' seeds. If it's keepin' your new story a surprise you worried about, I won' tell nobody. Promise!" She raises her left pinky in solemn oath.

Her heartbeat quickens when he reveals, after the slightest of pauses, that it's a passage from one of his smuttier works.

"Ah…ah well, ladies c'n like smut too, don't you know! C'mon, show me, show me it!"

This is how she ends up curled behind him, chest pressed against his back and chin tucked on his broad shoulder as he, with a little more gentle prodding (it's hard to make out his handwriting, no matter how hard she squints or what angles she tilts her head), tries to explain the context of this scene he's working on before he reads the first sentence out loud to her with but a pause of hesitation. He smells of parchment and smoked wood. She shuts her rubbing thighs as tightly as she's able and tries to keep her hands on the level of his biceps—rather than his waist, where the twitch in her fingers tells her they'd really rather be. Not that his biceps aren't nice; they're firm and muscly under his sleeves. Those arms could shut out the whole world, or they could hold it together.

She just wants to melt into him, with a kiss on his sturdy neck if not his mouth. Instead, she takes the wild tail of cloud-white hair that's always draping behind him and drapes it over her own shoulder and down her back. She could hide under this hair. She would if only he let her.

…

The Village's Madness. That's the nickname everyone here has for him. Even after learning this tidbit, Aina has wondered who they're talking about. Oh, it's not that she thinks they're lying about the peeping and everything else, necessarily. Why would they make up things they knew weren't true? She'd just rather check gossip on her own instead of taking it at face value. Is seeing not believing? It could very well be an exaggeration or a case of mistaken identity…even if there is no one quite like him.

There's no surefire way to account for all he gets up to when he's out of sight—she hasn't told anyone about the two of them; all they'd do is judge, as if she needs any more of that, and it's not their business anyway—but with her, he has been a relative gentleman. Yes, he ogles and tells jokes that sound vaguely dirty, but that's what she wants. For him to notice her. To speak to her on his level. Only then can they grow closer.

That's been the problem, actually. Maybe it's because she's been hiding things from him as well and they've been mirroring each other in that way (consciously or otherwise), but she's been unable to shake the feeling he's been…holding back on her. Like he's been telling himself he can't make a mistake in front of her, lest he lose her respect. A total opposite of the brazen man from the secondhand stories.

What has she done lately to make him think this way?

She's on her way to the bathhouse thinking about him the day she catches him in the act herself. The whole walk up there, she's been pondering if they should take things to the next level and visit an onsen on their next date. Maybe not here in Konoha, though; the baths here are separated by gender. Jiraiya should know some good places outside the village where men and women can bathe together. They'll book a room and share a bed, but not before they get a good long soak in the rejuvenating hot spring. They'll sit next to each other, skin to warm tender skin, and she'll rest her head on his broad chest and listen to his slowing heartbeat while she drapes his hair over them both and combs through the thick wet locks with her fingers. The rest of the world washes away in that bath in a wisp, and all they'll be able to see is each other.

She'll keep a hand on his cheek to anchor them both, while the other traces the outline of the red lines that mark his face…then his nose and the silver piercing studding the left nostril…then his lips, marking it for her own to find even as his face flickers in and out of the steam…

Huh? Who's that over on the side of the fence?

She blinks out the blue and gold blurring her vision and makes out a large bright red haori crouched down toward the sandy ground with the biggest mop of striking white hair she's ever seen.

…Jiraiya?

He seems to have come back early from his last expedition. What's he doing over there? Her head swims as if she's just stepped out of a bath she's soaked in for too long. She wobbles. Had he dropped something while hopping the rooftops? Did he sprain something?

Despite the dozen or two questions buzzing between her ears like radio static, she is silent as she walks to him, hands wringing in front of her. The pink flush in his cheeks, highlighting the bold red markings lining it, and the enticed coos drifting from his agape mouth, the likes of which he'd never made around her before, tell her everything she needs to know.

Still, she makes no sound. Either time has slowed down or she has, like a turtle trapped in ice, as she waits for him to notice the holes she's drilling into his back. Maybe he can't feel them? His back is made of steely muscle.

She finds just enough feeling in her legs to shuffle slightly to her left, her feet dragging extra-deep into the sand. This must break Jiraiya out of his trance because he turns his head with a whole-body jerk that would probably be comical in other circumstances, his hair swiping to the side as he looks over her shoulder, stormy eyes wide with shock.

"Howdy, Jiraiya," she mumbles flatly, returning his incredulous expression with a blank one as all but one thought crumbles into a puff of ash and smoke. "You, um, you fixin' t' have a bath, too? Ha. So was I. But the, ah…th' entr'nce's back 'round that way." With a tremble of her fingers that ripples through the rest of her body, she hoists up her left hand to point her thumb around the corner. "Y—you also standin' on th' women's side. Th' men's bath's on th' opposite side."

One of the many things she loves about him is the broad funny faces he makes in nearly any situation you can think of. If only she could muster up even half the humor and flair and confidence he has about life! She takes her turn to kneel down, mimicking his squat. A crane of her neck reveals a small round hole in the fence, the perfect size for inconspicuous peeping. Her breath still in her chest, she can hear the chatter and laughter of women in the bath, all of whom presumably naked and not yet aware they are being watched.

If she had gotten into the bath any sooner, would he have noticed her in the group? What would he have done, then?

She doesn't ask. It doesn't occur to her to ask. Her tongue keeps sticking to the roof of her mouth. Her throat keeps tightening no matter how many times she gulps. She can't get out much more than: "Ah. Hole in th' fence. Gotta—gotta let 'em know 'bout that. Th-th' hole, I mean. Sounds crowded in there t'day…better come back another day."

It takes her longer to stand back upright than it should. Never mind. There's always the creek. Or she could just walk back home and draw a hot bath, sprinkle in some salts to simulate a hot spring.

Maybe she should have done that all along?

She turns on her heels and wobbles away. Her ankles suddenly feel weak, her insides rolling and twisting like raw ramen noodles. Her hands find their way up on her head, where they fist bunches of her own curls. Anything to keep from exploding where she stands. Her head hangs down to keep the sun off her brow. She tries to block out his face by squeezing her eyes shut, but the inside of her eyelids is as red as he is. He's bled indelibly into her thoughts.

"Aina, wait—"

"Quiet!"

…

"Quiet. Quiet, please, b—be quiet. I…leave me alone."

Briefly she slumps against the fence two meters away from him, snorting through her nostrils and panting through her drying mouth as she tries to get air back in her lungs. She doesn't want to make a scene. Really, she doesn't! She can't stand commotion, especially in moments like these. She only pounds her fist once into the fence to buck off whatever this thing is that's crushing her into the dirt, break whatever seal is keeping all her energy in the pit of her flopping stomach.

She doesn't see the indentation her fist leaves, and she only vaguely catches a woman on the other side demanding, "What was that?"

If the ladies catch on to Jiraiya then and there, she wouldn't know. The instant her fists recoils, she launches off the fence with her hands over her ears like a kunai. Maybe a little slower.

…

They don't see each other again for three weeks.

To be fair, as it occurs to her once her head stops throbbing and her eyes are dry and more rational thought trickles back to her, she'd told him to leave her alone. She hadn't told him for exactly how long. She could have meant a day, a week, a month, forever…he has not the luxury of waiting for her to calm down. He has people to see, places to go, books to write, a village to protect, a world to change, fancies to chase.

Did he…set up that whole thing on purpose? He's a shinobi, a spy. Surely he would have been more careful about not getting caught…unless he had meant for her to catch him? Had the whole thing been a test? If it was, then she had failed it.

Why would he peep on women who don't want him to, when he could just as easily get someone who wants him to watch? One of those ladies from the brothel, for instance? Maybe one of his flings she hopes she never meets? Or…

Or could it be that he most prefers people who don't want him?

Where is the sense in that, she wonders with a turn within her bed sheets on another sleepless night, tucking herself in as if she is resting in a cocoon—maybe in the morning she will rise from it beautiful?

And yet, it might explain why he wouldn't respond to her advances as she'd wanted him to.

But then why would he have spent all that time on her that he could have just given to a stranger? Jiraiya isn't the type to waste time on people he doesn't like. Why keep coming back to her? Why send her those hydrangeas mottled with blue and purple and pink, just like the emperor in the story?

Gratitude. Genuine emotion. Apology.

She rips herself out of the cocoon of blankets to pull in the book next to her. The flowers are still pressed in its pages. She traces the petals with the gentlest fingertip, able to tell their colors despite the dark of night concealing them from her sight. Heaven knows how often she's taken them out.

Surely he'd meant it when he'd said he wanted to try to…open up?

She rubs her watering eyes on her forearm. She's missing a piece to this puzzle, if not more.

She's missing his smile, his laughter, his stories, his colors, his handwriting, the twinkle in his eye, his jokes that she doesn't always get (at least on the first time he tells them), his warmth…even if the closest she's ever gotten to it is through the cuff of their hands or the entwining of their arms.

All right, so he peeps sometimes. His eyes and his hands wander as much as his feet do. He has an inexplicable appetite for the joys of the flesh the size of Earth itself she'd never be able to satisfy—no matter how much she might wish she could. But that's no reason not to have him in her life!

No…this is good. This is good, actually! Whether Jiraiya had planned it or not, this was meant to happen. It's a lesson. Love isn't supposed to be conditional. The only way you can know that it is so is to have someone…hurt you? Disappoint you? Those words are too strong. Do something you wish they hadn't. Yes, that's it! Love must be unconditional if it remains even as someone does things you'd rather they not.

Besides, what right has she to criticize? She's…hardly a perfect person, herself. She's not even really a good person. Frankly, she's about a hop, skip, and jump away from being a monster—if she isn't one, already. She's taken things from people, up to and including their lives. Sometimes, she'll leave the dishes unwashed and the stove cold for days because there are splatters of blood that won't come off the counters or the floor no matter how hard she scrubs. It doesn't matter if this is a different kitchen than the one she and Mama had run out of all those years ago in the Land of Lightning, after she…

It seems no matter where you go, you can't run from yourself. Unless you change yourself.

Never mind. Aina grabs her lantern and shuffles outside to brew a cup of tea in the firepit. Jasmine, this time. One of his favorites. It had been one of Papa's favorite scents, too.

She mustn't let the past define the present, let alone the future.

She doesn't want to return to loneliness again. Nor does she wish to cast him back into it.

She prays she hasn't destroyed their bond beyond repair as she searches for Hiruzen in his office the following morning. Hiruzen used to be Jiraiya's sensei. As Hokage, he would know, at the very least, his general whereabouts for missions. She needn't know where he is at the moment if it's supposed to be secret. She just needs to pass along a message.

"Oh? And what might that be?" asks the old man with a bemused smile, removing the pipe from his mouth before he speaks.

"I…it's kinda pers'nal, Hiruzen."

"Lord Third."

"Sorry…L-Lord Third Hokage. I'll jus' say this much. We kinda, ah, had a disagreem'nt las' time he was here…"

Is that the right word for what happened? She can't think of a better one. "Fight" and "argument" imply mutual conflict. She hadn't even given him a chance to explain himself.

"…an' I need t' make up with 'im. Please, when you see 'im again, tell 'im t' meet me at my farm any day a-at either sunrise or sunset." The only two times she's certain to be home. She's not planning on camping or going anywhere else until this is settled. "He knows where it is."

"Ah, I see. Well, I'm afraid I can't give you any promises as to when I'll see him. But I'll be sure to pass the word on for you when I do."

"Ahaha! Yippee!" Aina softly claps her hands before pulling Hiruzen in for a tight hug that lifts him off the ground, prompting him to drop his pipe. "Thank you thank you thank you! I'm countin' on you!"

"You're welcome," he half-grunts, half-chuckles uneasily. "You can, er, let go of me now."

"Ah. Right-right!"

She is out by the firepit watching the dimming sun sink into the trees that cradle their village when she spots him in the corner of her tired eye. Five children from the orphanage dash past him with their pay for the day's work either gripped in their fists or bouncing in their pockets. They pay him no heed as they debate amongst themselves how they're going to spend their award.

She hasn't had the chance to freshen up, having spent the whole day showing the children how to gather up the fruits, and vegetables, of their labor for market (next week, they'll go over selling them). He will have to see her in her dirt-caked work clothes, tugging off her headscarf to wipe the sweat and dust off her brow. To be fair, he hadn't said when he was coming. Neither had Hiruzen, no matter how often she'd come back to ask.

"Well, this is new! Opted to hire some help, huh?" he asks her with a hand cradling the back of his head. He hasn't changed a bit that she can tell from the last time she's seen him. Thank Heaven!

She wrings the old tattered scarf in her hands. She's been practicing what to say to him for the past two and some weeks. Yet now that he's standing in front of her, she's forgotten the opening lines. The sleepy orange glow of the sun bathes them both, its warmth seeping through her like tea. Is it a good sign or a bad one that he hasn't asked why she'd requested his presence?

"Ah…yep! I reckon you could call it that. I've invited th' children fr'm th' orph'nage t' come help me 'round my farm once a week. I get th' chores done faster, they earn some money, they learn import'nt skills they're gonna need f'r life…"

And if all goes well, they shall one day inherit this place. Not that she's told them her plans, yet. It's too soon. Maybe after they've gotten more comfortable here? You can't take your worldly possessions with you when you die, and she has no remaining family to leave these things to. Those children could make good use of it. What else do they have in this world besides each other?

Jiraiya gives her this strange, crooked smile, cupping his chin in his fingers. "I see! Good thinking; kids're cheaper, too."

Aina tenses in her seat on the stone bench. "W-what d'you mean? I'm payin' 'em all as much's I'd pay an adult for th' same work."

For a moment, Jiraiya blinks at her as though taken aback, though he quickly recovers from the confusion with laughter. "Ah, sorry! I keep forgettin' you're not fluent in sarcasm. My bad." He places his left hand on his hip, while his right flashes a thumbs-up accompanied by a wink. "Seriously, that's great! Hope they're not givin' ya too much trouble. Kids can get awfully stubborn about hard, tedious work. I'd know that from experience—I was once one of them!"

Aina shakes her head. "They been awright. Th' older ones do seem t' 'preciate th' value of this work more easily than th' younger ones, though."

Then she falls silent, peering down at her boot-clad feet. Her feet itch with heat and confinement. Now, she supposes, is a good time to kick them off, so she rotates to face away from the firepit and does so, placing her bare feet on the warm grass. C'mon, Kame, get to th' point!

She fixes her gaze on his sandal-clad feet. "I, ah…thank you f'r comin' over."

"Oh well, what choice did I really have?" he chuckles with a shrug. "The old man said you've been buggin' 'im every day askin' about me since I left. He was all, 'Jiraiya, you've gotta talk to 'er! I'm gonna lose what's left of my hair at this rate!' So here I am!" he proclaims with a broad wave of his arms.

Her stomach grows taut. The part about coming to Hiruzen for updates is literally true. But is that really how Hiruzen had described it to Jiraiya? She can't be that bothersome…can she? She rises onto her bare, clammy feet, tying the old scarf around her hands and tugging. "I…did'n' know how else t' contact you…an' I got worried he'd f'rget. What with how busy he is…"

Mustering a pinch of will, Aina glances up to his face, where she notices the features of it softening. One of his hands drifts back around the back of his head, this time lowering to the level of his neck. "I may be hyperbolizing again. A classic writer's technique. Anyway, I suppose we both share a little blame for that. I never told you where I was goin', and you, uh, ran off without askin'."

She gulps. "I…that's what I wanted t' talk t' you about, act'lly."

Somehow, she wills her feet to move in his direction, far enough to let her come to a stop right in front of his toes. Her eyes glue themselves to his square chin. He still smells of parchment and smoked wood. Without touching him, the heat of the sunset radiates off him, like he's a prism capturing the twilight.

It's slight, almost invisible, but she could swear she spots him stepping backwards. His hands rise up, palms facing her. "Hey, easy—"

What's all that for? Her hands, now clenched in fists clutching the scarf, rise from the bottom of her vision.

"Uh, please correct me if I'm misreadin' you, but you almost look like you're about to hit something."

Aina jolts in horror. No! She wasn't going to hit him! She was just—she rapidly shakes her head. After taking a moment to wrangle her hands out of the binds she's created through her wringing, the scarf flutters to the ground, coming to rest between their feet. A flag of surrender, perhaps? Her hands now free, they float in front of her in space before lacing together in prayer.

Her eyes resume their place on his chin. Every few seconds, his lips bob into view from the top of her vision. "I—I reckon I been unfair t' you. You…you been tryna tell me all along how things are…how you are…an' I ain't lis'ned. I-I did'n' really lis'n. Ev'n when I thought I did. I'm…sorry I lost my temper. An'…an' I'm sorry if I made you feel unwant'd. I did'n' mean to. I hope you c'n f'rgive me an' my ignor'nce."

Now it's his turn to fall silent. She itches all over. Her eyes roll up to soak in his lips, which have pursed into a small, tight line. What is he think—

"Kai!"

Aina tumbles backwards to land on her rear in the grass, a short jolt of electricity ripping through her. Towering over her, Jiraiya makes the hand sign to dispel genjutsu.

"Wh-what're you doin'?"

"Hmmm…either I've fallen under a genjutsu, or I've somehow stumbled through a portal into a bizarre parallel universe. What was that last thing you said, Aina?"

"What're you doin'?"

"No, before that."

"I-I hope you c'n f'rgive me an' my ign'rance…why'd you think you're in a genjutsu?" she asks, momentarily short of breath.

He laughs again, this time more softly. "Beg your pardon. This is just the first time in my life that I can recall an instance of a woman catching me red-handed with my research and she apologizes to me, instead. It's so strange…I'd even go so far as to call it eerie. Unreal. So if my senses aren't mistaken, then maybe yours are?"

"B-but I'm tellin' th' truth! I been thinkin' 'bout this f'r weeks I mean ev'ry word I'm sayin' right now!"

In a second, he kneels to her with a hand outstretched in offering. "I believe you," he says, more softly, this time, as he glances off to the side at something down the road only he can see. "I mean, I believe you now. I'm just…a bit in shock."

She doesn't notice his hand, right away. She's staring more fully at his mouth, soaking in his words. Has this happened before? Him getting caught peeping, or looking at someone else? Playing with someone else? Had all the other women before her reacted more…angrily? She can't find it in her to ask, but that might explain his supposed shock.

It takes her longer than it should to finally notice his hand, and her depth perception must be suddenly gone because she grabs his forearm instead. He hoists her up nevertheless with breathtaking ease, and in another hitched breath, they're standing chest to chest and she swears she's floating, every hair on her body standing up from the soft current of electricity coursing from the point where her hand clutches his arm.

Can he feel it, too? Or is this more like a flock of thunderclouds striking the earth with lightning before drifting onward? Whichever it is, for a second, she wants to feel that spark dance between their mouths. The lighting is so tender and perfect. She wants to dip him in her arms—to Hell with their size difference!—and pepper his mouth with slow, long kisses, only pulling away to get enough air to chant I love you I love you I love you I love you—

Instead, she blinks hard, shakes her head, pulls away to rub the dust and tears and reverie from her eyes. Damn it! She isn't supposed to do this! She's got to stop this, for both their sakes! "Th-thank you. F-f'r helpin' me up," she mumbles.

"No problem. So, uh…what, now? I got a feelin' that's not all you wanted to say," he comments, arms akimbo now that they are free. "What are you thinkin'?"

She swallows down a lump that may or may not be her heart. "Well, ah, way I see things as they are now, it appears we want, um, s-somewhat diff'rent things…when it comes to romance, I mean. I'm pretty awful sure I am, as some folks would call it, in love with you. But…I don' think you feel quite this same way 'bout me. Who knows if, o-or when, y'ever will?"

He doesn't answer, and her heart sinks to her feet on top of the scarf. Silence can be an answer in itself, she's found. Is that a "no, I never will"? An "I don't know"? It most certainly cannot be a "yes". If it were a "yes," he would say it to the universe.

Would he not also say so if it were a "no"?

She forces herself to look him more squarely in the eye. "Well, that—that's fine." No. It doesn't feel fine. But no wound does when it's fresh. If she leaves it be, it will heal with time. The physical ones work like that, at least. Surely this sort of wound does, too?

"It will be fine. Let's not worry 'bout that no more." She's swaying side to side on her feet, the daze still tipping around the edges of her mind. "I…won' try bein' your girlfriend no more. I mean, aha, I wasn' never really your girlfriend t' start with, right? Fr'm now on…I'll, ah, I'll be your friend who happ'ns t' be a girl."

Yes, there is a difference. Sometimes she loves words. Sometimes she loathes them. Especially the ones with more than one meaning.

He frowns. "I'm not sure I follow."

"Well, w-we got that much in comm'n now, don' we? We are friends. We done found friends in each other…I don' wanna give that up no-how! You—" Gulp. "You c'n go where y'want, see who y'want, come-n-go as y'want, an'—a-an' tell me only as much's you wanna tell me."

Actually, she doesn't want to hear about the others. Not that he's bragged about them to her! But until now, she'd figured that was because he was trying to hide them…without really hiding them. But if she'd said, "I don't wanna hear none of it," he might take it as her passing judgment on him. Or jealousy. She's not sure if both are true—from the bile that's boiled up her throat, at least one of them is—but she won't say it either way. She can't afford to. It's best to leave that part to his discretion. He surely won't be so cruel as to share every sordid detail of his affairs now that he needn't hide them anymore…except maybe in his books, dressing it up with embellishment and selling it as fiction.

Never mind! If she doesn't have names or faces or voices, it should be easy enough not to imagine them. She has not the energy to give them these. She still has more to say. The rest pours out of her like blood from a vein in her arm. The right one, which she takes a moment to squeeze as she re-focuses on his eyes. They've lost some of their shine, if only for this moment. Is that because of her?

"I-I only ask in r'turn that you…you let me stay a part of your life. I—I wanna keep makin' breakfast with you an' have you in my gard'n writin' an' read your manscripts 'fore anybody else does. I wanna go fishin' with you an' learn how t' play mah-jongg with you an' see parts of th' world I ain't never seen an' I want you by my side as my guide. I wanna hear all your stories and laugh at all your jokes even if I don' get 'em th' firs' time around. I wanna keep doin' all we been doin', but without any, ah…expectation of any romance. Or, um, s-sex." The last word tears out of her like a hiccup.

"But I reckon most of all…I want a chance t' prove you ain't gotta pr'tend you never sad with me. That you c'n come t' me f'r help of any kind. I—I wanna be somebody you go to when you are sad. I want you t' trust me." I wanna trust you, too!

"An' I-I now reckon that c'n only happ'n if we, um…focus on jus' bein' friends. 'Cause a real friend's somebody you ain't gotta try t' impress all the time."

One day, she hopes, she will tell him the whole story of how she'd ended up here. So far, she's only fed him the more palatable pieces. But like romance, that can wait. This is all about him.

"D—don'cha agree, Jiraiya?"

He doesn't answer right away and she's paralyzed. Did she say it all wrong? Is she wrong about their mutual desire for friendship, too?

"Jiraiya?"

"Ah, I'm listenin', I'm listenin'!" he insists with a hard nod. "Sorry, it's just a lot to process. Soooo your point is, we should just be friends. For now?"

She nods more rapidly. "Please! I-I ain't pr'posin' this 'cause I don' love you no more! I'm doin' it 'cause I do! I—" Oh, she might as well, if honesty is the goal. "You ain't stopped bein' attractive t' me! I-I almos' can't stand it! We touch an' it's like you send sparks through my whole body…"

Suddenly he smiles as if to write over a grimace, like he'd eaten a spoiled piece of fried chicken he hadn't realized was spoiled in his hunger and is just now feeling it churn through his guts. Could they even work as a couple anyway, when he loves chicken so much while she retches at the mere smell of cooked meat, spoiled or fresh? "You get electrocuted every time we touch? That doesn't sound very pleasant…"

So he doesn't feel it, too?

What does he feel when they touch?

"B-but it is! It's much more th'n ple…I-I'm not explainin' it right! Lotsa times, it's—it's much softer. An' warmer. Feels like all my muscles loos'n up…"

"Ohhhh." He perks up, eyes widening and lighting up with renewed clarity. It's amazing how quickly his face changes expression from one moment to the next. Like one lightning strike after another. "Y'mean like…vibrations?"

"Ah, yes! I reckon so!" Vibrations, like the soothing downpour of hot water along her body in the shower. Or a summer rain. She can think of nothing better to describe it.

"Ha! So I'm a walking, talking vibrator! I knew my sex appeal was beyond measure, but it seems I've grown so potent as to make a woman tremble just through the casual brush of my fingertips!" he declares with a theatrical roll of his head and a flash of his palms.

Is this one of his jokes? Or is he implying something more behind his antics? She doesn't ask. In that moment, nothing else matters except the brilliant grin returning to his face. Yes! This is the first dirty joke he's told in front of her (or at least the first she'd realized in the moment was a dirty joke). It's working! He's opening up, bit by bit!

The sight of that grin splitting his face splits apart the tension in her own body, and with the warmth of the last lingering rays of the sunset flooding her full cheeks, she holds her fluttering stomach, no longer so taut, and laughs with him. Above them, the sky starts to paint over the pearly pinks with velvety violets.

When the laughter tapers off into giggling and the giggling ebbs, Aina rubs her eyes on her wrists and steps forward, reaching out for him only to jerk into a stop.

Jiraiya peers down at her, his smile shortening but otherwise stuck on his face. "I think we got a little off-topic, there. But I understand. Maybe we should take a break? From romancing, I mean," he says with a wink that melts her almost as much as his touch does.

"Uh-huh…you ain't disappointed, are ya?"

"Oh, no! Me, disappointed? Noooo…mm, well, awright, maybe an itty-bitty bit," he admits, pinching his index finger and thumb as if holding a grass seed between them. "But that's a me-problem. I know I can be overpowering in large doses—even in small doses. We have been getting real hot-n-heavy. It's for the best we cool it for a while."

Aina's mouth makes an "O." "Really? 'Cause I been worried that maybe I been overpowerin' you?"

The twilight could be playing tricks on her eyes, but Jiraiya turns a touch paler, though his complexion turns ruddy again with a crooked smirk. "Oh sweetheart, you don't have that kind of power!"

Her shoulders slacken. What kind of power does she have?

He blinks twice.

There are very few things she dislikes about him. She could probably count them on one hand, but only if she felt like sitting and thinking about it, and most days, she'd rather not. One of said things is how he sometimes says things without thinking about how they might make people feel. As a writer, he should appreciate the power of words better than most. Either the link between his mind and his mouth is fickle, or it's another one of his seal-enforced defenses.

"Jiraiya? Are…friends allowed t' hug each other? Or would that be too…"

A stupid question, maybe. But between what she's just confessed to and the fact that he may well be the first friend she's had in years that she could call her friend with a fuller feeling in her chest…she honestly doesn't know. When she was small, she used to get pushed to the ground by the other children who lived on her street when she'd try to hug them. Their faces are blurs to her now, their scolding half-coherent crackles in her memory, but the scrape of the clay against her legs taught her well.

Adults are, usually, more subtle about their displeasure when it comes to their personal space being encroached upon, but the lesson was the same: don't touch.

Something flickers through his face that almost looks like pain, like she's accidentally stepped on his toes. Has she? His pain tolerance is extraordinarily high—can his toes even be stepped on in a way that could cause him discomfort? Not that she's inclined to find out. She shuffles back a bit just in case.

"Heh-heh! I can't speak for everyone else's stance on it, but I personally don't see why not. If a hug is what you want," he says, holding out his arms. She wastes little time launching herself into them. Her arms are just a bit too short to link together around his torso, but she's just as happy to bundle him up in them, to bury her face in his chest and wash away the troubles of the day and the past three weeks with his scent. The electricity from before has morphed into a more solid warmth, the likes of which she gets from a hot spring. The sort of cleansing heat that assures her everything will be all right.

There is also a hint of tobacco wafting about him. And spilled saké. He must have had a smoke and a drink before coming here.

She turns her head to press her cheek against his sternum. "Thank you. An' welc'me home, Jiraiya. I really missed you."

Either she's imagining things again or he tenses in her embrace. Was she not supposed to say that?

He doesn't say he's missed her back. Does he really have to, though? He's gone out of his way to see her. He never would have come here just because Hiruzen had urged him to. That alone should prove his feelings. Jiraiya says a lot, but as with everyone, she supposes, one needs to look more closely at his actions to know better what he means.

Aina sighs as his arms strap over her, rub the spot between her shoulder blades. The purple of dusk darkens into silvery blue. "Ah, since you're here…I'm makin' soup f'r dinner. Kenchinjiru. I'd love you t' come help me cook it. It's all veg'tables but it's very filling. We're gon' cook it outside over th' fire…with th' stars out."

The kitchen is too messy to look at.

When she takes his hand to lead the way to the firepit, his warmth simmers more evenly throughout her being. Her hand could very well be glowing with it. It's enough to make her swing their arms.

Jiraiya beams at her. "Veg'table soup, huh? Under the stars? Sounds like my kinda setup!"

"As friends."

"Aha, good."

Aina leans to rub her arm against his. It's smooth and firm, like one of her crystals. "I-I'm jus' gonna say this, an' then I ain't gonna say no more 'bout it. If you're gonna, um, peep, you oughta be sure th' people you peepin' on really wanna be, ah, peeped on."

"Eh, note taken."

…

Tsunade. Orochimaru. Jiraiya hasn't shared too much about them, and it's not from a lack of asking on Aina's part. What she does know about them that she didn't get from Jiraiya, she's gotten secondhand from neighbors. They're war heroes. Konoha's Legendary Sannin.

She's not sure how oblivious he thinks she is, and it's true that she may not be particularly smart, but even she can't ignore the way he speaks of them in the occasions when he does, how his eyes light up when he says their names. He tends to stick with happier memories when sharing with her—of which he is spoiled for choice. How he used to be rivals with Orochimaru and pursue Tsunade's love no matter how many times she shot him down (sometimes literally). How he and Orochimaru shared what little they had with each other, with Tsunade chipping in as the richest of them being the granddaughter of Hashirama, the First Hokage. How the three of them used to gang up on Hiruzen and worked seamlessly off each other in combat…even if they frequently disagreed off the field.

Then he stops before his yarns roll into unhappier territory.

Where are they, now? Do they ever call? Ever write? Ever write back?

How is it his fault that Tsunade had caved in from her grief and Orochimaru had gone mad with his ambition? Why keep running away from people who want him to keep chasing after people who, from what she can tell, do not—even if they might have at one time?

He won't tell her.

Does she hate them? She's not sure. But as things stand now, she'd probably spit in both their eyes if she ever saw them. She doesn't even know them or their sides of the story and she's imagining spitting in their eyes. How insane is that?

They'd probably kill her for her disrespect. Either of them could snap her in pieces like a twig. Together, they could grind her up into splinters too soft to pierce their skin. But somehow the image of dying by their hands doesn't chill her all that much.

No. What does is the accompanying image of Jiraiya doing nothing to stop them if it came to it. Because he'd be too in love with them to raise a hand against them. Not even for her sake. In her dream, she can hear him garble into her ear as she bleeds out that she should understand their pain.

Never mind! Never mind, never mind, never mind! She's just overwhelmed by the buzzing lights and the shouting and laughter across the street on either side of her. Above her, Jiraiya starts to slide off her, forcing her to stop and hoist him back up on her back and shoulders until he becomes a cape of blushing, gurgling, dimly conscious hair and flesh reeking of musk and alcohol trailing behind her.

What are the chances such a meeting with the other two would happen, anyway?

Where on Earth is his house? She shouldn't be forgetting such important details!

She had gotten home later than she'd planned from her camping trip, held up by both her pondering over when and how to pitch her new idea to Jiraiya about becoming a shinobi (even if she never had much in the way of formal training and she can't ask Hiruzen about getting registered, for fear of him finding things out about her if he looks her up—then again, won't Jiraiya, too?) and an injured turtle on the road whose side she had refused to leave until she was certain it would make it. She'd spotted Jiraiya slumped against the front of one of his favorite bars, drool pooling at the corner of his scowling mouth as he'd swiped at some youngsters who dare to make passes at his pockets, tossing a slurred curse or two their way. In an instant, she'd descended upon the rogues, fending them back with her frying pan before they'd given up and disappeared.

He's always been fond of the drink, almost as much as he's fond of people, but it's…not like him to get this intoxicated. With his size, he would have had to drink at least twenty bottles of saké to make this happen. Or maybe ten bottles of something stronger, like whiskey. What could have possibly happened to drive him to this? An exceptionally bad day, is her best guess. The explosion of one too many bad days crammed and shaken in the same vessel.

Suppose she could ask Mama the same question? They'd rather get "wasted" than talk about their pain or even acknowledge it. Aina herself has pondered the value of alcohol to numb her own, only to decide against it. Somebody has to remain the sober one, and anyway, she's tried it once. She hadn't liked being drunk. Jiraiya likely wouldn't like her drunk, either.

How is she supposed to understand anyone's pain, never mind his, if they won't tell her about it? Hypocrite! Does he think she can't handle it? Why, because she wasn't there like they were? Because she isn't strong or smart like they are? Well, if he's trying to protect her from it, it's not working. And if this is a ploy to drive her away…that's not working, either.

Even if she did know where it was, Aina can't carry him all the way home like this. Not with her skin and skull threatening to split open from all this overload. Luckily, there's an inn just a few more staggering steps away that she can just barely make out in the haze of black, gold and red. It seems decent enough.

One room, one bed. She'll pay for it. She'll apologize to the innkeeper in the morning for snapping at her the instant she'd crossed over the threshold. She just needs to get him a bed to sleep in and herself a corner in which to sew her mind back together.

Either Jiraiya is too big or the bed is too small, because when she rolls him onto it, his arms and legs dangle off the sides like the air roots of a banyan tree, his hands and knuckles brushing the polished wooden floor. He's missing one of his sandals, the right one. It must have slipped off while she was dragging him down the street. Hopefully, it'll still be out there tomorrow. Even if not, he could be missing more important things.

Aina sits on the floor by the foot of the bed with her knees curled up to her chest, eyes shut and matching her breath to the circles she rubs with her left thumb into the rose quartz tucked in her hand. All the lights are out save for a few beams of artificial light peeking through the cracks in the shades. She can't stand lights any longer, not until these rings and worms have left her vision. Behind her, Jiraiya snores away like a chorus of bullfrogs.

It could be half an hour later; it could be more than an hour later. There is no clock to check even if she wanted one. However long it takes, Aina pushes herself back up on her feet to check up on him once she feels stable enough again, the quartz still clutched in her hand. One of Papa's crystals. It attracts love and enables healing. Its rosy pink color and warm smooth texture, at least, soothe her in times like these.

Aina hovers over him to untie his lumpy horned forehead protector, pausing to trace the kanji etched into it before she sets it aside. "Oil." Oil feeds fire. The toads from Mt. Myōboku make their own special oil. That's probably what Jiraiya's band is referring to. She hopes he'll take her to see that place sometime. Hopefully, she'll be worthy of it by the time they make that pilgrimage.

His mouth hangs open in a way that can only be described as unflattering, fluttering with every snore. The scent of alcohol hangs even heavier on his breath than it does on his clothes. And yet, as she combs back those thick, damp white bangs with her fingers, she sees herself latching her mouth onto his, the two of them adrift in space and the darkness. She'd inhale all his demons through their kiss and store them at the bottom of her lungs like smoke.

Then she'd track down Tsunade and Orochimaru and spit them all into their eyes. It'd only be right that they should take his demons. They're the ones who cursed him.

She slaps her own cheek. Stop it! Stop it stop it stop it!

She doesn't have that kind of power—literally or figuratively. She is petty, selfish, too weak in spirit. In such concentrated form, the demons might consume her. She hadn't the stamina to even look for his house tonight. It's one reason why she follows him. Even if he hasn't necessarily reached enlightenment himself, he has gotten closer to it than she has.

Besides, even if she had the capacity, she couldn't take them upon herself if Jiraiya won't give them up. An exorcism only works when it is sought out by the afflicted.

With a resigned sigh, Aina places her rose quartz next to his headband. He can borrow it for a while. May it soften the edges of his dreams…whatever, or whoever, those might look like.

Her left hand free, she smacks her lips against her palm before pressing it gently to his flushed cheek. "G'night, Jiraiya," she whispers, not expecting a response. She wishes she could climb into bed with him, tuck his arm over herself and rest her weary head on his chest, drift off to sleep to his heartbeat. But there's no room, and even if there was, it would just cause trouble. More trouble than she has the courage or energy to face.

Never mind. She'll set up her sleeping bag on the opposite side of the room.

Before she pulls away to do just that, Jiraiya's head turns into her hand so his cheek is cradled more fully in her palm, squeezing her hand into the mattress. Maybe it's an accident; maybe it's subconscious? Either way, her heart aches at the touch, tender as a bruise. Every part of her aches as his warmth seeps through it.

So she lingers, only pulling away when she remembers that he ought to be on his side rather than his back. In case he throws up before he regains consciousness. She can never be too careful.