Chapter Text
“Done,” Shikadai sat up triumphantly from plugging in the fridge. He threw a screwdriver casually onto the kitchen counter, and stretched his arms leisurely above his head. “We are officially moved in.”
“You’ve been living here for three weeks already,” Chocho pointed out, standing over him and handing him things as needed.
“But that,” Shikadai stood up, “was the last change we needed to make. This apartment is now one hundred per cent crazy-person friendly.”
“Takes some of the comfort out of it when you call me crazy,” Inojin remarked, sitting on the counter and occasionally drumming his feet into the cabinets below.
Shikadai shrugged. “The point is that now everything is perfect. There is not a surface or colour here that bothers you, the fridge is silent, squeaky floorboard has been fixed and,” Shikadai sent Chocho a look, “Thanks to me, the door no longer slams because I changed the lock to a quieter one.”
He stepped around the kitchen counter that divided it from the lounge area, throwing Inojin a soft, sideways smile as he went.
“Good job,” Chocho remarked. “So, did you make any changes for yourself, or did Inojin get a say on everything?”
“All I wanted was the couch and TV, everything else is Inojin-approved,” Shikadai said, flopping onto said couch. “From the curtains to my rewiring the fridge because it made too much noise.”
“It was noisy, though,” Inojin said, hopping onto the floor. “Even you said it was annoying.”
“I know. Now, this space is perfectly revamped to be an ideal environment for whatever gremlins live in your head,” Shikadai gestured to the TV. “And look at the size of this screen. This apartment is perfect. Imagine coming home after missions, lying down on this incredibly comfortable couch, and just watching movies or playing games for as long as I want, because my mom isn’t going to nag me about how much time I spend in front of a screen.”
“Sounds nice,” Chocho grinned, leaning on the counter that separated the lounge from the kitchen.
Inojin brushed his fingers over the counter, and looked over his shoulder at Shikadai. “I want to hug you to say thanks, but I can’t right now.”
“Bank it,” Shikadai said casually, studying the TV remote. “And surprise me.”
“So when do we have an official party for the new place?” Chocho asked.
“When I’m not home,” Shikadai replied. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Seriously, no party needed. This place isn’t big enough for one, and I don’t really want all my friends wedged into this space.”
“Fine,” Chocho smiled broadly. “Just the three of us, then. I’ll bring food.”
“Good,” Shikadai smirked. “Then you can have as many parties as you want.”
“You know I’m not feeding you every meal,” Chocho pointed out. “You’re going to have to get your lazy butt to do some of the cooking.”
“You won’t let us starve,” Shikadai grinned.
“I won’t let Inojin starve,” Chocho corrected. “I’ll feed him.”
Inojin smiled shyly at the counter. He liked when they chatted like this – because Chocho was witty and sharp and Shikadai’s voice was lovely to listen to. Sometimes he couldn’t focus enough to make out the words, and it was just noise in his ears, but the atmosphere always felt good.
It helped soothe the transition from living with his parents to living with Shikadai, which still felt strange and ungrounding at times.
“If that’s all you needed help with,” Chocho straightened up. “I should get going.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Shikadai nodded at her. “Thanks for your help.”
Chocho tapped her fingers on the counter near Inojin to get his attention, and he jerked his head up to stare at her shoulder.
“Which goodbye would you like?” Chocho asked briskly, and Inojin took a moment to think.
He extended his hand shyly, “Fingers.”
Chocho closed her fingers around his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Bye, Inojin.”
“Bye,” he murmured.
“Later, Shikadai,” she called, and he waved lazily from the couch.
Once she had left, Inojin wandered over to the armchair that sat perpendicular to Shikadai’s couch. He folded his legs underneath him, and leant on the arm of the chair.
Shikadai flicked through channels on the TV. “Wanna watch a movie tonight?”
Inojin shrugged. He didn’t really mind. Most of the time, he just listened, liking the background hum, while he did things like sketch and paint, or study one of his flower books.
Or watch Shikadai.
That was one of the best things about them moving in together. Inojin could watch him, without anyone telling him he had to focus on other things, or stop staring, and he could draw Shikadai all day if he wanted to, and Shikadai would never tell him to stop. And Shikadai could spend hours laying in place, watching TV or playing games, or napping, and so he was a beautifully stationary target.
Inojin laid his chin on his folded arms, eyes tracing the side of Shikadai’s face. Shikadai was quite a bit taller than him now, a little broader in the shoulders, and Inojin liked the way Shikadai’s skin darkened in the sun, while Inojin’s stayed the same pale as always.
He held out a hand, and Shikadai wordlessly reached for him, letting Inojin cup his fingers and run his thumb over the tanned skin of Shikadai’s hand. There was still an ink daisy painted on Shikadai’s wrist from training that morning, a system they had in place in case Inojin ever needed to call for help, but lacked the words to do so.
The happy feeling was bubbling up. Inojin had a puzzling reaction to spending alone time with Shikadai, one that felt like being happy, but spread a bit farther through his body, and burnt his cheeks, and sometimes made him shake.
“Sh-shikadai?”
“Hm?”
“The happy feeling is back again.”
“Okay.” Shikadai didn’t look at him, and Inojin was grateful for that. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to stop touching you?”
“No. Just wanted you to know it was back.”
A slow smile curled Shikadai’s lips, and Inojin felt his heart speed up at the sight of it. “Cool.”
Inojin hid his face in his arm, feeling his cheeks burning and a stupid grin that he couldn’t control on his face. He muffled a squeak against his arm, overwhelmed. It wasn’t a bad feeling, but sometimes Inojin didn’t like it, and sometimes he needed to be alone to push the feeling away, or curl up into himself and ignore it.
Today, the feeling wasn’t too bad, and Shikadai being close by wasn’t making it worse. Inojin thought the feeling might have appeared because Shikadai had fixed everything in the apartment, just for him, and sometimes when Shikadai did things for Inojin, it made unexpected and unnamed emotions swirl through the blond’s body.
He kept his face hidden, occasionally squeezing Shikadai’s fingers, and Shikadai gently squeezed him back.
Life was feeling good.
Inojin liked the routine Shikadai had created. After missions in the evenings, they had supper together in front of the TV, and then Shikadai would play games for a while, and Inojin curled in the big armchair and drifted off in thought, or sketched, or read, or watched Shikadai.
When Shikadai had played for long enough, he prompted Inojin into getting ready for bed, and Inojin really liked that he didn’t have to think of things to do on his own. He knew Shikadai stayed up later, sitting at the small desk in his room and doing all manner of important things, and sometimes Inojin sat with his ear against the wall between their rooms and tried to listen for any movements he made.
It was quiet, and calm, and if Inojin wanted to talk, Shikadai would listen.
Now, his thoughts were stuck on training with his mother. They were working on some of the Yamanaka techniques, on the ones that didn’t make his skin crawl and his chest tighten. Lately, she had been coaxing him into mind reading, and he was enjoying it. People had bright, glittery thoughts, and he liked to look at them and then paint the shapes and colours.
He had never looked into Shikadai’s mind before. Chocho’s was purple, with amber swirls, and emotions that flowed like caramel, and he wondered what colours Shikadai thought in.
Inojin would paint it if he knew.
Inojin watched Shikadai carefully. Shikadai had not once taken his eyes off the screen in front of him, face expressionless as he fumbled joysticks around and pushed buttons, and Inojin wondered if everything was okay. Shikadai seemed to be thinking a lot lately, spending hours researching and brooding.
Inojin didn’t want to interrupt his game, so he kept silent, but he lifted one hand and formed the symbol for Shikadai’s name.
“Hm?” Shikadai still didn’t look at him. “Need something?”
Inojin bit his lower lip. “Can I read your mind?”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Shikadai shrugged.
There always seemed to be so much going on in Shikadai’s head, and Inojin wondered what it looked like and what it felt like. Inojin shifted a bit more comfortably in his chair, and stared at the side of Shikadai’s face. It wasn’t hard to read minds, but it was easier when he was touching the person. He wanted to try without touching Shikadai.
He bit his lower lip again, trying to concentrate, and focused his thoughts the way Ino had taught him to.
He carefully reached his chakra out, trying to link to Shikadai. It was harder than it was with Chocho, and for a minute Inojin felt like nothing was happening. Finally, with a little ‘pop’ in the back of his head, Inojin felt the world drain into dark grey and forest green, but these thoughts didn’t move in syrupy waves like Chocho’s. Shikadai’s thoughts bolted, in maddening, intense loops, nauseatingly fast and too distracting to follow.
Inojin felt like he was tugged underwater, and brighter sparks of colour flashed, fast and furious, until one red thought hit him behind the eyes like a flame, and he jerked his head back with a disconcerted whine, snapping his chakra back inside him, hands flying to his eyes to rub at them.
“Hey,” Shikadai frowned. “You okay?”
“There’s a burn,” Inojin said, blinking and trying to get his thoughts back on track.
“What?” Shikadai was confused. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” Inojin shook his head. He took a moment to gather his thoughts. “You have a thought that burns.”
Shikadai paused to think that over. “Okay . . .?”
“It’s red,” Inojin said.
“I don’t see thoughts like you do. You’re going to have to give me a bit more information than that.”
“It’s red and it burns,” Inojin said. “I don’t know how else to say it.” He shifted in his seat. “It’s on the left of your mind.”
Shikadai’s lips quirked upwards. “That’s not helpful.”
Inojin made an irritated, frustrated noise in his throat, then sat up straighter, trying to gather back enough composure to show Shikadai what he meant. Shikadai sat quietly, smiling fondly, and eventually Inojin was able to reach back into his mind, and push the thought purposefully forwards.
“There,” he said, before retracting his chakra. “That one.”
“That’s you.”
“Why does it burn?”
“Doesn’t burn me,” Shikadai gave him a sideways glance.
“It’s bright.”
“You are.”
Inojin repeated his irritated noise, and Shikadai laughed softly.
“Don’t be upset.” His smile widened. “You’re always on my mind, that’s all.”
“That’s . . .” Inojin hesitated. “That’s how you feel things for me? Bright and burning?”
“I guess so.”
Inojin fell into silent contemplation for a while. He spoke unprompted, “You feel cool and green in my head.”
“Yeah?”
“So we feel the opposite for each other.”
“Not the opposite,” Shikadai said. He reached a hand across the gap between their seats, and Inojin curled his fingers around Shikadai’s. “Complementary. Two halves that complete each other.”