TWO
It's almost a month before they clear him for duty.
He's fine — he'd be fine — but they wait until the doctor allows him back. Even though he is nothing but a glorified shadow, and, in the worst case, is well-able to pick up a weapon, he is still taken off her rotation.
Shikamaru spends his time outside the palace with his parents. The home they'd moved into after the war is small, but he has a room to himself, and ample space on the balcony to watch the clouds. He plays shogi with his father and the friends who come by, and, if he's not otherwise asleep, he reads.
It's a boring way to pass the time. He hasn't been this idle since he was a teenager.
But, alas, the stitches come out, and, slowly, he can go full hours without feeling any pain in his shoulder. And then, when the signature is finally received from Ryokan, Shikamaru packs the stuff he'd brought, and heads back over to the palace grounds.
It was the first real attack against the royal family in months. And the first, in more than half a decade, directed specifically toward the princess.
How lucky, her father had said. And it was true. She was lucky. She wasn't injured; she was in harm's way for less than a minute. They even let her back into the public square a few weeks later, returning her to the same amount of freedom she'd had.
The latter shocks Shikamaru. If they had more sense, they'd wait it out a little longer. They'd find out exactly how this man came to know the princess would go into the village that day. Shikamaru hadn't had any idea she planned to go — if it had been planned at all — until mid-morning.
If it was the fabled mole the people thought they were surmising, the rumors surely oversold his or her position — it was an attack built to fail. To frighten, if anything. The man had either been purposefully trying to worry the princess into something, or was just too stupid and overly eager to plan anything better. Whoever reset the princess's protections to the same as they'd been before the attack clearly assumed the latter to be true.
Of course, Shikamaru takes no pride in what he did — what he had to do. Shikamaru takes no pride whatsoever in his position:
He's made his choice.
He's just doing what he has to, following the orders (guarding her) he was given.
A patriot, he hears one woman whisper when he walks through the edge of the village.
The woman she is with giggles when Shikamaru looks over.
He bites his tongue and continues on his way, ignoring their looks, trying to understand what they mean.
A traitor, an older man doesn't bother to whisper two days later.
He hears more of the latter than the former.
At this point, neither mean anything to him.
"Good morning," she says upon his first day beside her bedroom door. "You're well?"
"Yes, your highness."
Last time, twenty-six days ago, she was looking at him with barely constrained fury in the dim light of his own bedroom, her heart set by stone. Now she looks content, if not cheery.
She smiles, but not wide, like he has seen her do with others. It's kind, almost benevolent.
"Good."
He nods, and follows her in silence as she walks to the dining hall.
She's easier when he comes back.
She's not as hard through Spring, as though she too warms up along with the weather. As though, like the buds on the trees, the change in season blossoms her personality too. Or maybe just his.
She takes more walks through the weeks, usually one or two a day.
There isn't much for her to do in the castle. Apart from her morning studies and her afternoon reading, there is little else to occupy her time. She is intellectually unfulfilled. Maybe physically too, though he supposes he is only thinking that because, before, when she was angry with him, he could feel her work to restrain herself from expressing her fury in other ways.
She wants more though. She idles. She walks ahead of him and doesn't press him as she used to.
He watches her read, watches her turn the pages, is able to tell when she is actually engaged or when she is struggling to focus, knows when she is getting uncomfortable under his stare and ends up fidgeting until he looks away so she is only in the corner of his eye and not so directly beneath his gaze.
She's bored. But, in all, she is nicer.
They still don't speak much, though now she says good morning to him just as she does with everyone (she never used to with him). And, sometimes, when things said during meetings border on ridiculous, she moves her eyes to his and smiles.
(it's like a jolt in his stomach)
Sometimes.
"Will you take me to the river?" She asks, putting down her latest book. It's an in-depth read on water rights and laws from the river that borders the south edge of town. "Around where the big bridge was?"
Shikamaru mulls this over. He has no choice, but she's posed it as a question any way, knowing his response.
"If you'd like," he says, though they both understand he means No. He means No, he intends not to, he doesn't want to, but if she goes, he'll take her.
"Did you learn much about it in school?"
"I lived through it."
There was a battle there, early on. Insurgents — or resistance fighters, depending on who was recounting — attempting to blow it. It was a heavy loss for Suna; but their retribution nullified any potential joy in the victory for the local populace. That was years ago though. Things — people — had changed since then. Histories had changed.
"The building of it, I mean," she says, though they both know she was only using the technicality of her book as a front for the more obvious conversation.
Shikamaru doesn't bristle as easily as he used to with her. She always seeks a rise. It riles her more when he fails to give it.
"No, your highness. We did not." Though he has read that same book, once, a few years ago. He doesn't mention that.
The princess hums and goes back to the text before her. "We'll go then. I will teach you."
If their positions were different, of course, then things would be different. They'd be different.
There are parts of her — her interest, her wit, her humor — that he'd still follow behind, maybe, if things were different.
Vaguely, sometimes, he supposes they could get along if the situation were different. If they were different.
Except they're not.
And he doesn't get on with her. He'd never get along with her. He hates her.
He hates her.
Sure — sure, he knows the rest. He knows, and has known for quite some time (he knew, of course, as it was happening, when she asked him to her room, when she watched him train, when she stood as he undressed) that if she were anyone else, if he'd just happened upon her (knew, of course, that first time he saw her on his first day, knew when she looked at him beneath her lashes) that if he'd just seen her, he'd absolutely fall over himself to fuck her. To fuck her. To fuck — to bury himself inside her until it hurts them both.
Sure. He knows. He's always known.
So has she. Break him, right? Though he's already long broken.
And the violent nature of his desire is surely a desire to destroy her, to ruin her, to manifest his hatred for her. It's not pretty or affectionate. It's born of hate, isn't it?
It hurts him, this acknowledgement, but it's never too distracting. If he ever begins to think about how she looks at him, how she picks certain books from the shelves just to entertain him, how she leads them through the gardens where they can see the sky instead of walking along the trails under the arbors because she knows he prefers it, if he ever gets too stuck in the thought of filling her up… well. All it takes is for him to close his eyes and remember — to remember. A decade before. Her. The way her teeth gleamed.
All he has to do is close his eyes and remember their circumstances. And how they're not different: she is still the princess occupying his home, and he is still the bodyguard, sworn to protect her.
The palace exists very far from reality.
There are wars going on. It's been almost two decades since Suna "conquered" Konoha, but there is no sense of calm. No sense of safety.
Occupation cannot be peace.
There are wars raging elsewhere too. Suna has never been done with one country. Ego can never satisfy. There is no end.
In the palace though, one would never know of the people who die every day in their hunt for dominance. The princess wakes up, she washes up, she is dressed by others, she is fed, she is warm and dry and can spend her time on plush seats with others waiting on her feet.
She's bored, but she is safe.
The talk in the palace is almost exclusively minor gossip.
They may wander through the village on occasion, but it hardly paints a picture of reality.
There is simply no sense of it.
No mentions of the war except in some of her meetings a few times a week. She lives untouched.
She exists separate from his reality. And, in following her, she is pulling him down.
It's not until April that she wanders back into the same bar she'd come to before with his friends.
It's not yet late, and he's not yet drunk enough to have any semblance of tolerance for her arrival. He's sober enough. Enough. Too sober, really. Not enough, he thinks, over and over as he watches her enter, feeling his pulse pick up. Not enough, so he feels it in his stomach, in the slight tremor of his fingertips below the table. Not enough. Not yet.
He takes a big sip, quickly, and looks away.
"Will you talk to her this time?" Choji asks.
Shikamaru holds his gaze to the table, eyes narrowed.
"You get on," Choji continues. "You're happier than—" he cuts off as Shikamaru inadvertently white-knuckles the glass. "You know," this time it's slower, patronizing, recalling the times Shikamaru will never forget, "she's not much older than us."
"She was old enough," he bites back.
From the edge of his sight, Ino rolls her eyes. "I've seen you in town. If you're trying to compartmentalize, don't bother." And then, without waiting for further debate (or explanation or justification), Ino lifts her hand and waves the princess over.
"Your highness," Ino calls out, voice much lighter than when she speaks to him. The princess walks over and Ino lowers her hand. "What a surprise! Won't you join us?" Then, demurred almost: "if you'd like."
They're at a round table. It's only the three of them. Two seats are available.
Shikamaru leans further into his chair and, carefully, brings his eyes up to the princess. She's already looking at him, which he'd known before he'd confirmed it.
She doesn't answer Ino. "You don't show any deference when you're off the clock?"
"Hard to imagine he does when he's on it," Ino quips.
Ino has met them together multiple times, but the comment makes the princess laugh loudly and it rings in his ears.
Not enough.
Shikamaru takes a long breath and gestures to the empty chair beside him, then raises his hand higher to beckon the tender. As she pulls out the chair, he straightens, watching the bar as she introduces herself to Choji, the only one at the table she doesn't know. As though there is anyone who doesn't know her.
He looks back in time to see Choji take her hand.
They've never sat beside each other. He stands near her all day, but rarely, rarely, have they even stood so close.
"I'd invite Araya," she waves a hand toward her guard not far off, "but he'll refuse."
"It's his job."
She turns her head slowly to Shikamaru, her eyes bright. "I feel safe enough."
There is a pause. A moment when Shikamaru doesn't respond and the silence falls as the rest of the table awaits it, but then Ino cuts in, the edge in her tone familiar only in its annoyance for his ostentation.
Indignation. That's what it is, isn't it?
"So," she begins, all charm for the princess, leaning over her elbows on the table, "does Shikamaru just complain all day? Be honest."
The princess waits momentarily before looking away from him.
"In every movement he makes."
"I'm surprised he can even stand for more than a few minutes. All he does on his days off is lay in bed or on some rooftop."
"And play shogi." Choji adds.
The interloper looks back, smiling, clearly enjoying Ino's pointed ribbing. "Oh, you do?"
Shikamaru huffs. "Three days straight." Another drink is placed in front of him and then one for her. The bartender didn't ask for her order, but a drink is placed before her nonetheless. "Unlike you," he continues, knowing it's not enough — not enough — and feeling the thrum of his pulse, "I don't live in leisure every day of the week."
She laughs again. She's not challenging him tonight. No rise for him to meet. No cliff to back him off of.
"You're the one who took the job."
"He needed a break from the military." Ino explains, and it feels like an interjection.
"Oh," a faux-sympathetic pout. "I'm sorry you weren't aware that just guarding a princess doesn't have any perks."
"I didn't say there weren't any."
Shikamaru brings his glass to his mouth and lets the alcohol wet his lips and she follows it with her eyes.
They're not friends. He wishes, when he can't just close his eyes, that it were easier to remember why.
"We're happy that he's back in town." Ino continues seamlessly, letting the last comment lie.
"His mom is happy." Choji corrects. "And I need his mother to be happy. For my own sake."
The princess laughs again. "Didn't come home in spec ops?"
"Maybe," Ino shrugs. "We have no idea where he was the vast majority of the last ten years. We were all," she pointedly looks at Choji, before leaning over to pinch Shikamaru's cheek, "happy to have you home, weren't we?"
He swats her away, annoyed.
"Ten years? Where were you all that time?"
Shikamaru takes another sip before answering.
"Can't say."
"Even to me?"
"Even to her?"
He rolls his eyes. Finishes his drink.
Not enough.
"I don't work for you, remember?"
She leans back and crosses her arms over her chest, looking coy.
"I remember."
She says it in a way that implies she remembers, and that, maybe, she thinks about it all the time.
He raises his hand again. He needs another drink.
"You have a light?"
He hadn't known she'd crept up behind him. He takes a drag of his cigarette.
She comes to stand beside him against the wall outside the bar toward the darker side of the street.
It's a relief, sometimes, like tonight, to only look at her when he chooses to.
Here, he can stand beside her, assured he will be fine feeling the heat from her arm only inches from his own, and look out at the street. Only three blocks down from here, almost two months ago, he'd thrown her to the ground. She'd dirtied her face. She'd cut her lip.
"You don't smoke."
"How do you know?"
Shikamaru exhales, long, letting the smoke haze in front of his vision, clouding up his view westward toward the direction of the square.
"I watch you all day," he says slowly, and then he turns to face her, leaning one shoulder on the plaster. He fishes out a cigarette for her anyway. She mirrors his position and takes the extended offer in silence. Shikamaru lifts his lighter, one hand cupped around the flame, and lets her lean in, watching the flame play on her face.
She takes a long inhale and he imagines it in her throat; in her lungs.
Then she leans back, her shoulder blades pressed against the building and exhales.
"You don't smoke in front of me." She says. There is a hardness to her voice, but she's not cruel. Tired, maybe. But not hesitant. "We're the same, Nara," she continues, head shifting so she can appraise him under her lashes, "you say you watch me all day. I see what you do too."
He thinks of long halls and open fields and her bedroom door. His name on her tongue.
"We're not the same."
She closes her eyes for a second.
His knowledge doesn't extend too far apparently. Apparently. Once they're outside the palace walls, apparently, he can't tell what she is thinking.
"Here we are."
He watches her mouth around the cigarette as she takes another drag.
"Here," she repeats, exhaling, gesturing to show them in the same shadow, standing side by side. His chest is so close to her arm, that if he leaned down, if he dropped his head, it'd be held by her shoulder.
Here, she means (he understands this much of her intention), standing here. Araya is surely watching them from some nearby shadow, but she is pointing out the otherwise supposed lack of authority between them.
Here. "We're equal," she finishes, turning her head to look at him. This close, she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes.
Shikamaru thinks of how, if anyone were walking down the street right now and saw them — saw her, and saw him — standing so close, using one flame, they'd shudder in disgust.
Traitor, they'd say again. Traitor, he thinks, leaning down.
Not enough.
"No," it's hoarse to his ears. He blinks and looks back to find Araya come into view not far from them. Then he looks down. Looks at her shoes. Silk. Her legs, soft. Equals? No. "We're not."
They're just men he thinks much, much later. They're not equal, not in their power, but they're still just… men. Just people. People who live and breath and yearn and grieve and die.
It's not a justification. He doesn't mean it like that.
But they're just people.
If he couldn't see humanity in everyone, he would never have been good at his job (and he's so good, the best, isn't he?). Who is he to see anyone — anyone, him, her, them — as anything other than the people they are? They're just people. And there are choices that have been made. And prices that have been paid.
The door opens when he is only two steps away, prompting him to turn back.
Her maids have already left after getting her ready for the night, but when he turns to see her, she's standing in the open doorway still dressed.
"Would you come in?" She asks, clearly directing her question toward him.
Shikamaru blinks, glancing at Mijin.
"I know your shift is over," she supplies. "So if you're busy.…"
Mijin bites his lip, so Shikamaru nods and steps forward. "Of course."
She huffs, but stands back, holding the heavy door open for him to come through.
He steps in far enough for her to close the door behind him. Her room, as always, is warmer than the hall. On a chair is her nightdress. On her bed is another book. And on the floor near her dresser is a fully-set shogi board.
"If you want," she proposes as his gaze settles on it.
He turns to her and she clasps her hands behind her back, lips settled in a light smirk, taking his expression as some sort of confirmation although he hasn't made his own mind up yet.
"Equal or not," she continues, walking past him to take a seat on the floor, "don't go easy on me."
Go easy on her? Nothing with her is ever easy. Shikamaru is put-off. But she is sitting there, expecting him. She always gets what she wants in the end, doesn't she? It's one of the things he dislikes about her the most.
"I'll win."
And she smiles, wider, beckoning him over, as though she wants that too.
"Why'd you join?"
They're two games in. He's won both.
He's off the clock. Mijin is her guard now. He doesn't owe her anything.
Shikamaru licks his lips, eyeing the board and then blinking up at her under his lashes.
Why'd he join?
He thinks of his parents. What he owes them and what he'd sacrifice for them. What they have now, with his paycheck, because of him.
"We all must make our choices."
He makes a move and when he looks back up, she is staring at him, head tilted, contemplating something. He looks away, letting his cheeks burn.
There was the moment they met.
He dreams about it that night. He dreams about it so many nights. So many nights, for sixteen years, he wakes up sweating, his eyes wide; his heart pounding.
And he hates her. He hates her.
It's only half a dream, really. It's more of a memory. A diplomatic success — games hosted between two countries. And he's slight and young and he thinks he understands so much, thinks he suffers so much, but he has no idea what suffering means. He has no idea what it will mean. He is so free. Freedom —unabashed — is only understood by those who don't have it. And so he doesn't understand it.
Not then.
Shikamaru falls back against his bed, wiping the hair back from his forehead where it's stuck with sweat.
He hates her. He hates.
That is what he remembers.
It's not the worst memory he has. Not by a long-shot. But he remembers her. He remembers her so well.
He places his palm on his heart, pressing, willing it, vaguely, to stop.
He hates her. He always has. He hates the hate he sees in the eyes of others when he walks behind her in public.
But what else can he do? What more can anyone expect of him?
It's been sixteen years. He's twenty-eight. He made his choice.
He hates her. And he hates them. What should they expect? What should they judge him for? Should he be one of the bodies swinging on the edges of town for speaking out?
Shikamaru closes his eyes. He can still feel the ringing of that day in his ears, the taste of dust in his mouth, the grip of Asuma's hand pulling him away.
He hates her. He wishes that were harder to forget — because right now, these days, if he's not careful, it's too easy.
He hates her.
What more should they expect of him?
"I heard it's because of the mole," one of the younger boys says to him on the training field Saturday morning.
Shikamaru raises his brow.
The boy gestures with his chin to the far fence where the princess sometimes — though not for the past three weeks — comes on weekends.
"That they're not letting her wander the grounds as much."
Shikamaru chuckles, turning away from the fence he'd half-expected to see her at. He's with her more than half the week and he's been given absolutely no direction to stay indoors or limit her access any more than already custom.
"Didn't you hear?" He says, walking back toward the buildings. He's finished for today. It's the warmest day of the year yet. "Guy already attacked."
"Gave you that scar, yeah."
Just the mention of it is enough to bring a twinge of phantom-pain.
"But they say that wasn't the mole. That he's still here."
Shikamaru huffs, looking at the guy. "Where'd you hear that?"
The boy shrugs. "Around."
Shikamaru nods, thinking it over. "And you heard it's a man?"
"Hey, you're right. A woman could get access to her way easier. As long as she's the only family member here, that'd make sense."
"For another two weeks," he says, stopping to gather his things and slip on his shirt where he'd discarded it earlier.
"So you think something'll happen when they're here?"
"There's always rumors," Shikamaru says, disinterested. "It's been sixteen years. You'd think if something were to happen, it would've."
"I'm serious. You guard the princess! You should take these things more seriously."
"Whatever."
The kid shrugs again, and then leaves Shikamaru to retire for the morning.
He waits though, for a second, looking out where the tree line at the edge of the training fields meets the clear sky.
It has been sixteen years. At this point, any known resistance has been whittled down so far to be almost unrecognizable from the original Konoha defense forces. And now the next generation wouldn't even know a different life. How can they love Konoha when they'll never have even known it? He hardly did.
Hm.
He's sure her lack of attendance at the training fields has nothing to do with potential threats.
Though surely if there was anything to be known, this random guard-member wasn't the one to ask.
She's only ever come to the training grounds to annoy him. She probably just gets enough of that now that he spends half his nights on her floor with a shogi board between them. That's all. There's no directive to change anything, he is sure.
They're just rumors. Best to ignore them.
"My tutor taught me to play."
Shikamaru raises his brows.
"Not him — this was years ago. When I was a kid."
He moves a piece, drumming his fingers on his chin.
"My dad taught me."
"Is he the one you play with when you're not with me?"
"Mostly."
He watches her make a move.
"But not the only one?"
"My friends. Sometimes my mom."
He pauses, glances up at her. When they're like this, when they're here, she doesn't look at all like he's used to.
He's never seen her look this way — never seen her look at anyone this way — until that first night they played. It's… gentle, almost. But it's not delicate. He doesn't feel like he'll lose it (her gaze) if he moves too quickly, but there's also nothing hard about it. There's none of her usual charm or manipulation, none of her usual challenge even though this is the only setting in which she can put word to an actual challenge between them. She's just… always — she's just looking at him.
"My goddaughter." He says it softly, watching her inhale. "I play with her too." The corner of his mouth tugs. "When she's not thinking she's too cool to hang out with me."
"How old is she?"
"Twelve."
"Ah, then she's definitely too cool to be seen with you."
He laughs, low, and makes his move.
There's a fire going behind him. It's making the back of his neck hot.
"I like her a lot," Ino glances momentarily back at the sole customer wandering through the flower shop. "Just call if you need anything!" And then she turns back to him, leaning close to whisper. "It's unfortunate, maybe."
Shikamaru frowns. He isn't sure how they got onto this topic of conversation. He flips his lighter open to see the flame and then closes it again.
"Maybe," Ino clarifies, "in another life, we could've been friends."
"Doubtful."
She's so irritating.
"Ha." Ino smirks. "She's very similar to you actually."
Shikamaru straightens his shoulders in a jolt, almost scoffing aloud. How?! They're nothing alike. "In what way?!"
Ino gets called over by the customer before she can answer.
He thinks about the princess and her face in the flame. They're nothing alike at all. She is so…much. There is absolutely nothing similar about them. He has no idea what Ino is talking about.
She's idle. And she's stifled.
It's always been obvious. Obvious in how she asks questions she knows the answer to. Obvious in how she speaks to everyone, how she engages as much as possible for no reason other than her own enjoyment. She's stifled. He's been saying it for months.
There is nothing here for her.
She makes no executive decisions in her meetings. She listens and, sometimes, options ideas, but she is quickly brushed over. He sees it happen without hesitation.
And so, during these engagements, she usually speaks about nothing of import.
She's stifled. Wasted, here.
He thinks, sometimes (has thought, sometimes, for a long time), that that is why she picks fights with him.
She's filled with rage too. She, too — she, always — is violent.
Violence with no outlet.
Stifled. Wasted.
So is he. Like everyone has said to him since the moment he put in for this: he could be doing so much more.
So could she. She's so interested in the world.
And she's not satisfied.
Sometimes, especially during a meeting where she has chosen to speak, he thinks she hates her position as much as he does, as though maybe the role of princess is as much as prison for her as it is an enemy for him.
She's beautiful and privileged and so manipulative it makes him sick. And still, for her, it's not enough.
As Asuma used to say: only the failures of the great are glaring.
It's almost hot out the first Thursday in May. Hot, like summer.
She walks without a jacket, the breeze blowing open the back of her collar just slightly. She walks slow, fingers occasionally reaching out to run over a set of flowers or a curated hedge. He watches.
They're further from the palace than usual when she stops.
He stops too, as he always does.
He's surprised though, when she turns around to face him. It's rare that she is ever facing him when he's working.
"I want you to walk in front of me."
They haven't spoken in over an hour. It's clear she's been considering this long before she stopped. She isn't speaking on any whim.
Shikamaru, in any other situation, might laugh.
She's not goading him though. She's not pushing for anything. She means it. She's standing there, shoulders squarely before him, serious.
"I can't protect you if I can't see you."
She doesn't blink.
"Listen for me," she says, tone constant, measured. "Imagine me."
He opens his mouth to respond, but closes it again when she steps forward.
"Close your eyes."
He shouldn't. But he does.
Slow, thinking it over, but still, he does it. His eyelids close. The world goes black. He leaves her out in the open, far from other help, vulnerable to most things, and closes his eyes. For all intents and purposes, given everything he has been trained for, he has left her alone.
"Stay there."
She hasn't moved.
He's nervous. He feels unsteady, as though in losing his vision, he's lost his ability to plant his feet as well. He's completely deracinated. He's used to working in the dark, but somehow closing his eyes, despite not being able to see less than some nights when he was in the military, feels much less solid. His pulse is quickening, his breath loud in the struggle to keep low so he can keep hearing her.
She moves. He can hear it when he tries. It's light, but she is circling. She's not trying to disguise it or tiptoe. She's walking to his left.
Around him.
"Where am I?"
Slowly, not sure enough to move with confidence, he raises his left arm in a straight line, a few degrees from the side of his body.
"Close."
She continues, circling behind him.
He should open his eyes. He should turn around. He should never be facing any direction away from her. She should never be behind him.
Blood pounds in his ears. His breath comes quicker.
He works to keep his eyes closed.
"Again."
She's not asking.
With a long breath, he turns around, lifting his arm once more in the direction he believes she is, trying to picture where they are in his mind. He can picture the garden, the grass, the sky. She's standing there, her collar open, her black dress brushing the very tops of the grass, her eyelashes, light, waiting for him to reach her.
"Where is my shoulder?"
He pictures her, pictures her height, her spine, always in his line of sight, and lowers his hand a few inches.
She moves, stepping forward, stepping beneath his hand so it falls lightly on her shoulder where he'd imagined measuring it. He's never touched her, not really. Even a hand to a shoulder has never been extended. He wants to open his eyes. He wants to see her. His hand shakes.
"And my neck?"
His own throat hurts.
He moves so easily. He knows how to do it so easily, he knows how clear it is, how much he's imagined it.
He touches her skin. She's so soft, so unburdened, so warm to the touch. He knows his hand is rough in comparison as he easily encircles his fingers around her neck.
"You could do it." She says. It's so sure, so sure in what she is implying, so sure in how much she knows he wants to (has imagined doing so, for years), it makes him press his fingers deeper.
He squeezes.
She inhales sharply and, without meaning to, his eyelids flutter open. They're standing there — alone, his hand around her throat. When she speaks, he feels it vibrate against his palm. "But you won't."
Shikamaru lets up.
He steps back, letting his hand fall away naturally. She'd spoken with confidence, but her eyes are wide… scared.
What is she doing?
What is he?
"They hired me to protect you."
It's the truth.
"They did." She says, and, just for a moment, he thinks she shakes.
It's past six when they return and Mijin meets them upon reentering the palace.
"Good evening," she says kindly to Mijin and then turns to nod at Shikamaru in parting, but she keeps her eyes lowered, not looking up at him. It's not rude though — it's….
Shikamaru lowers his head in return and then does the same with Mijin, not exchanging a word with either, and then walks away, working hard to keep his strides slow so it doesn't look like he is running away from her even though he wants nothing more to be away from here.
They've been in silence for so long, so long, it's only made it worse.
And then, right before he turns the corner, he looks back.
Mijin is saying something to the princess, but she is watching Shikamaru, her fingers, lightly, absently, without her even seeming to realize it, are on her throat.
He turns before they've made eye contact. He leaves before she sees him too much. It's one thing for her to watch the back of his shoulder — it's always one thing to watch someone's back — and a whole other to see them head on. He knows so much of it, knows this truth of nature all too well.
He's running when he gets back to his room. He closes the door and locks it and presses himself back against it as he reaches for the button on his pants. His hands are deft even though every part of him is shaking. He feels the arousal all the way in his toes. The noise he makes with his lips still closed — as soon as he gets his hand on himself — hurts his throat.
She was here, once. She stood right here! Her shoulders pressed into this very door.
He closes his eyes, hangs his head, thinks of her in her white slip, thinks of her when she was wet, her nipples, her pubic hair dark through her dress, her shoulders against this door, against this door, bare, digging into the wood. He'd lift her up, press her weight against the door, hurt her skin, bury into her; bite her shoulder.
Once, here, in this very room. She hadn't been in her pajamas that night, but it hardly mattered.
He's sweating. It's at his temples, at the back of his neck. His hand is wet. He's so hard. She makes him so hard. Her eyes. Her mouth would be open, her cheeks red.
Wood, in her shoulder blades, just like the wood that was in his. Her blood, his mouth. Her, here, if she'd stayed. If she hadn't left. If she'd stayed, just as angry as she always was.
It's coming, quickly, taut in his stomach, in his groin. He'd fuck her here. Push her into this door until she hurt too. He'd fuck her on his bed, the wires creaking loudly. He wants her on top of him, her breasts before him, her ribcage in his hand, her hipbones, her hands on his stomach, his thighs, her falling apart before him, her voice; her noises.
With one hand, Shikamaru brings his pants lower to get better access to himself, hand jerking so quickly, his forearm aches with it. His whole body aches with it.
He wants to be buried inside her. He can't understand it. Nothing makes sense. He wants to come inside her. To finish with her around him. To fill her with himself. He wants her to feel it. It's so violent, so explicit, so crass, so incredibly unlike anything he has ever felt. He's never hated someone so much. He's never wanted someone so much either.
Shikamaru comes loudly (louder, he thinks later, than he has since he was a teenager), straining to keep it down, head thrown back into the door as his legs give way.
It's so humiliating. No one is here, yet he is humiliated.
He's done this before, of course. Many times. Done this here, done this imagining her, done this — but never like that. To come so hard. To be so uncontrolled. To want someone so much.
It's humiliation, plain and simple and true.
He falls to his knees and opens his eyes, flexing his hand before himself in the light, partially smeared with cooling semen, where less than an hour before, it'd been pressed against her throat.
a/n: the biggest thank you to em, apps, carol, and evie
and to all of you for reading i love nothing more than the stressed messages
^a line attributed to asuma here was stolen from The Hamilton Woman (1941). i had held onto it for a few years and completely forgot until rereading this that i had used it here. great film
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