Shikamaru was leaving Suna and turned to look at the last signs of life before his trek through the unforgiving desert began. He thought he might have seen Temari's face looking at him leave from the window, but the sun was bright and the glare hurt his eyes. He couldn't look for long enough to be sure. He closed his eyes tightly. Don't think of her.
Don't think about when they made this journey together. On the second day, they'd finally made it to a river. She stripped off her clothes as she ran, and dived in. Shikamaru avoided looking at her. He'd set up camp there to keep himself busy, to keep his eyes averted, despite the fact that he was sure they could have continued for another hour at least. He found out later that she always did this leaving Suna, and her brother had purposefully not warned him.
Don't think about the dirt her long leg had kicked at when she'd finally redressed and said, absently, that she needed to figure out a way to bring topsoil back to Suna. She said farmers had never been successful in her village and she thought it was because the soil was dogshit. He told her that dirt was heavy. It'd be a huge waste of energy to haul that across the desert. She should get earthworms, instead, and start a compost program in her village. She had asked him where the hell she could get earthworms. Months later, when he was in Suna for a mission, he set a heavy bag of dirt at her feet. Apparently you can't transfer live worms across the desert without the dirt. And apparently the Aburame like to price gouge when they can tell you're desperate. The wages mission he was on didn't cover his loss.
Don't think about the time he saw her sparring with an ANBU member. How her two powerful hands had grasped the mask and she'd broken in in half and teased the ninja that revealing his face had been too easy. He tried not to think of her, but he was naturally pensive.
When he had set up camp that night, he opened a scroll and forced himself to concentrate on international law. Forced himself not to imagine her sitting in her home in Suna doing the same thing. He could see her listening to that shitty radio she had, shaking it when all she got was static. Suna was always behind in terms of technology. iDon't think of her/i, he reminds himself.
Don't think about her swearing under her breath as they walk side by side. iHow come we always end up walking behind the slowest motherfuckers in the goddamn universe./i Swearing at the weather. iWhy did you have to come to town when its hotter than the fucking sun? I'm sweating in places I didn't know existed./i Swearing at everything.
Don't think about the long periods of time he has to go without seeing her. Don't think about the things he doesn't know about her, the things he never finds out. He'd seen a camera resting on top of the bookcase in her office and wondered what it was she photographed. He'd seen bruises on her knuckles and didn't ask where she had channelled her fury.
Don't think about when she'd approached him on his downtime and yanked the book he was reading out of his hands. She glanced at the cover and threw it over her shoulder. She told him the ending. Now instead of reading it, you can help me with something. She could have led him off a cliff if she wanted.
Don't think of her in Konoha, on the face of the mountain where they carved their leaders, staring at the place where a few shinobi had found her father's body years before. She had asked him to bring her to these precise coordinates. It took him some time to figure out the significance of the location, to find the report of the location of Rasa's body. He didn't let on that he knew the significance of where they were, but he was quiet and distant and realized it gave away that he'd done his own research. Don't think of her unreadable expression, of how she spat on the ground after a minute and turned on her heel, marching away. How she never, ever brought it up again.
Don't think of how he'd seen her hours before daybreak from his window, jogging laps in what looked like civilian clothes. The shirt had holes in it and was too small. He could make out her breasts heaving beneath the thin cotton, and he blushed. But he didn't look away. He kept looking out the window as she circled back, bathed in the blue light of early morning. He watched, mesmerized, until the sun began to peak over the horizon and she bent over with her hands on her knees, breathing heavy. She stood and stretched, and finally walked away.
He closed his scroll and sighed, rolling off his cot. He did a set of jumping jacks, and when the exercise did nothing to banish his thoughts, he did a set of push ups. He alternated between the two, focusing on his muscles and nothing else. He wondered if the journey would take longer if he had a build up of lactic acid in his arms. He wondered what she had been thinking about as she jogged around Suna in a T-shirt that was falling apart and ifuck/i.
Don't think of that fucking shirt. Don't think of the skin under it. Don't think about her on the outskirts of her village, with sand dusting her calves as she hikes through the treacherous terrain. Don't speculate about what she does for fun. Don't think about her going to some high point to take a picture with that camera he saw. Or to get a better signal on the radio. Or to enjoy some solitude.
Don't think about how fucking inconvenient being in love would be. And don't think of her. He can't stop thinking about her.