When the clouds of dirt touch his cheeks after he buries that piece of shit, Shikamaru fully expects to feel relieved. It's over. Asuma has been avenged. He lights another cigarette, having not been satisfied by the first. He is new enough to smoking that the nicotine high has already made his head spin, new enough that he'd thrown up the night before after smoking an entire pack, desperate to keep the scent of his sensei fresh in his mind. He purses the cigarette between his lips, not knowing how to proceed. He doesn't feel any better.
Briefly, he thinks about Naruto's Sasuke. He wonders if Sasuke would feel any kind of catharsis when he reaches his own goals. Sasuke is a fool, though, too much of a slave to his whims and emotions. Shikamaru has never liked Sasuke, but he especially dislikes the thirst for revenge they share. Shikamaru knew the difference between him and Sasuke, however. He had the Will of Fire, and he knew when to stop.
When he wakes the next morning, before he even craves a cigarette, he stumbles outside in a robe to light up, glancing up at the clouds and taking a drag so deep that his lungs ache a bit. He envisions the bronchi of his lungs going black with tar as he does it and doesn't particularly care. He would be lucky to live long enough to get lung cancer given the high-risk nature of his profession.
Asuma smoked an old brand, favored by men in their sixties or older, so Shikamaru blends in well enough in the izakayas. He wants to play Shogi, smoke, drink, maybe. Everyone who frequents the bars before five o'clock is retired or a civilian, which is good because he doesn't want to be recognized. He is sick of that look of pity, the did you hears?s and the poor kids. He's not old enough to buy alcohol, but the lack of restful sleep and nauseating levels of nicotine in his system make him look much older. The waitresses don't think twice about serving him. He maintains eye contact with one as he brings the cup of sake to his lips and moves a piece on the Shogi board. His opponent, an older man with the thickest glasses Shikamaru has ever seen, sighs across from him. The waitress is still looking at him as she serves other patrons, and Shikamaru, despite knowing nothing about women, knows what it is she wants.
"I forfeit," he mutters, ignoring his opponent's protests, and stands and follows her swaying hips to the back, through a hall, and into a broom closet. He guesses that she's ten years older than he is, and as he brushes aside her yukata and rests his cheek on her inner thigh, he decides that he prefers older women. Surely a girl his own age wouldn't allow what he was doing with his tongue right now. Or at least, wouldn't allow it without exchanging names beforehand. He's never done this before, but figures it couldn't be nearly as hard as any of the older shinobi said. Judging by the noises his partner was making, Kotetsu is likely just an untalented lover. She yanks his head back by his ponytail and he groans, liking the sensation of getting his hair pulled.
"I figured you'd be the kind to want to get right down to business. I didn't peg you for the patient type," she said, her face flushed and and her breathing heavy.
"You watched me play Shogi for two hours with a blind man and you didn't think I had any patience?" Shikamaru smirks from between her thighs. "Or do you just want me to get on with it?"
Shikamaru pulls himself up and ducks his head to kiss her. It occurs to him that this is his first kiss, and it also occurs to him that he doesn't particularly think there's anything special or sacred about it. The way Ino talked about how she wanted her first to be, he had expected to feel something. What he does feel is the woman's small hands unbuttoning his pants to pull his length out. He closes the distance between them and pins her to the wall behind her, thrusting into her ungracefully and with a little too much enthusiasm. He tries to back off a little, tries not to look so much like a virgin, but he thinks she probably already knows. His suspicions are confirmed when he comes quickly and clumsily and she looks unsurprised if not disappointed.
"I can help you finish," he offers, but she's closing her yukata already.
"My break is over anyway," she says, clearly trying not to look annoyed as she smoothes her hair down and opens the door. He stands in the broom closet alone for a minute or two, both in an attempt to not make it obvious what they'd just done and also to reflect on his circumstances. Grief takes unusual forms, he reasons, as he tries to justify why he'd just done that. He'd long thought the concept of virginity was a falsehood, so the fact that he doesn't magically feel like a different man is no surprise to him. He doesn't feel an afterglow like he'd read about, though he knows logically that his brain is releasing oxytocin in the wake of his completion. In fact, he's overwhelmed by shame. He's ashamed that his first time had gone disastrously, and ashamed at the thought of what Asuma would think of Shikamaru's afternoon of vice.
"Troublesome," he utters with disgust at himself before opening the door.
His cheeks sting with embarrassment as he returns to his table and sees the waitress bussing dishes as though nothing happened. He pretends it's a flush from the sake. A different waitress looks at him and giggles. They all know already. How do they all know already? He downs the rest of his drink, half hoping that he chokes on it and dies right there, and puts a few coins on the table. He nods at the old man in front of him. He was going to have to find a new place at which to grieve. Maybe a new town, too. Asuma would find this whole situation hilarious, and that makes his chest ache to think about. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes as he walks home, a little intoxicated. He hopes that the heavy scent of smoke will mask the scent of a woman and the liquor that he's certain his mother would be able to detect as soon as he walks through the door.
He rounds the corner a block away from the Nara compound and sees a head of dirty blonde in the middle of the road. He considers turning right around and walking somewhere else, but thinking about the outcome of each of his options, he decides to square his shoulders, and walks past her.
"You aren't supposed to arrive until tomorrow," he says, facing away from her.
"The extra day was more of a contingency," Temari answers. "I figured I'd get here today."
"It's my day off," Shikamaru states. It'd be his luck that she would show up now, the scent of ethanol on his breath and a woman's musk on his lips and chin.
"I'll say," she says. "I didn't realize you were a lush."
"You can't keep anything from a kunoichi," Shikamaru responds, fully exasperated that all his careful precautions-staying downwind, keeping his responses curt, keeping his back to her-had not masked his condition.
"Not this kunoichi," she smirks. "This explains why Lady Tsunade couldn't find you when I arrived."
"I need a shower," he says, walking away from her and toward his house. He half-hopes she leaves him alone until his escorting duties are officially given to him by Tsunade and half-hopes she follows behind him. Instead she reaches out and grabs his wrist. His eyes go wide at the contact, but still he does not turn around.
"I heard what happened," she says quietly. She is uncharacteristically gentle, and if he didn't have such a finely trained ear he would think he was imagining her words. "I'm sorry."
"I've been hearing that a lot lately," he says, turning to look at her in the eye. It comes out a little more bitterly than he intends it, and he instantly feels like an asshole. To make matters worse, Temari winces like she's been hit. His skin burns where her hand is touching, and he looks down. They've been making physical contact for much longer than appropriate, and they both realize it at the same time. She drops his wrist quickly, and he stops slouching, standing to his full height, and looks down at her. She's wearing a yukata, and he briefly imagines it was her in the broom closet. His eyes drift down to where the left side of the garment wraps his around the right, and pictures brushing it aside and letting his mouth taste her. He compartmentalizes the thought to unpack later, or unpack never, and his cheeks turn red.
"Thank you," he says finally, and means it.