Chapter Text
DAY 1
The light in Shikamaru’s bedroom didn’t change much anymore. The blinds were always closed, drawn tight enough that only the thinnest lines of daylight crept in, bleached slats across the wall that shifted slowly with the sun’s climb and fall. The rest of the room stayed in a kind of permanent twilight, grainy and dull, the kind of gray that clung to the skin.
It suited him.
He lay on his side, half-curled, facing the wall. His limbs felt like sandbags. His mouth tasted stale, and the back of his throat ached faintly with dehydration. He knew he hadn’t had water today. Maybe not yesterday either. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d stood up for something other than to piss.
Everything ached.
The sheets beneath him were tangled and sour with sweat, and his shirt, an old black tee he’d pulled from the floor the morning after the mission, was still stuck to his back. His pants were crusted at the knee with something he didn’t want to identify. His hair had come mostly undone, spilling across the pillow and his shoulder in a coarse mess. He hadn’t bothered tying it again. What was the point?
The ceiling didn’t offer answers, only cracks. He stared at them for hours each day, trying to trace new ones, but they were always the same. Stagnant. Like him.
Asuma was dead.
He could say it to himself now, in pieces. Not out loud. Not all at once. But he could think it, taste the ash of it in his mouth and force it down like bile. Sometimes it helped. Most times it didn’t.
Shikamaru rolled onto his back slowly, groaning at the shift of pressure in his joints. His muscles resisted movement. They were growing used to stillness, sculpting themselves into the shape of grief, limp and purposeless.
The silence was his only companion. Even his mother had stopped coming. She’d knocked the first day, then yelled the second, then threatened to drag him out by the ear on the third. But eventually she gave up, leaving only food at the door and an occasional note with sharp handwriting. He read none of them. They went straight to the trash.
Ino had called, left voicemails, her voice getting shakier with each one. He ignored them all. What was he supposed to say? What could he give anyone now?
Another knock came.
He didn’t move.
It was soft, controlled. Almost tentative.
It wasn’t his mother. Not Ino, either, not Choji. He’d learned to distinguish desperation from discipline. This one was measured, persistent, but not urgent.
A second knock followed, and then a brief pause.
Then he heard it: the faint scrape of metal, slow and careful. A key in the lock.
Shikamaru’s brow creased faintly. Only a few people had keys. His mother. Asuma. A couple of jōnin captains from the village, in case of emergencies. But none of them would use it like this, without yelling, without warning.
The door opened.
He didn’t look. He didn’t want to know who it was. If it was someone come to drag him to some grief counseling session or hokage meeting or strategy debrief, they could talk to the wall.
Soft footsteps crossed the threshold. Slow. Balanced. Familiar.
He closed his eyes.
“Shikamaru.”
The voice was quiet. Low. Even. Just the sound of it made something in his chest contract—sharp and unwelcome.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t breathe.
More footsteps, shifting now into the kitchen. A rustle of plastic. The dull thunk of something being set on the counter. Then the faint, unmistakable clatter of a pot being pulled from the lower cabinet.
Water. A stove ignition click. Then spice.
It hit his nose gradually, curry block and garlic, warm and fragrant and horribly out of place in the deadened air of his apartment. The scent curled into the corners of the room, coaxing his stomach into a weak growl that he quickly smothered beneath his breath.
He gritted his teeth.
Why the hell was Neji Hyuuga making curry in his kitchen?
It wasn’t a dream. He could hear the soft clatter of a wooden spoon against the pot, the gentle simmering of sauce, the slow rhythm of someone slicing vegetables on his cutting board. The faint rustle of Neji’s robes as he moved, quiet, efficient.
Shikamaru stayed still, trying to will him away with silence. It didn’t work.
He must have dozed off at some point because the next time his eyes blinked open, the light had shifted a few degrees across the wall. The apartment smelled even stronger now, rich, savory curry over steamed rice, cut faintly by a floral note of clean laundry detergent. He barely registered the sound of the bathroom sink running.
When the bedroom door opened, he didn’t lift his head.
The bed dipped near his legs. Shikamaru finally turned his head slightly, cheek pressed into the pillow.
Neji sat beside him, graceful even when cross-legged. In his lap, he held a bowl, black lacquer, warm with steam rising faintly from the curry nestled over rice. He’d added some green onion and something pickled on the side. A spoon rested gently inside.
“You haven’t eaten,” Neji said, voice soft but firm.
Shikamaru’s mouth felt full of dust.
“Not hungry.”
Neji’s expression didn’t change. He offered the bowl anyway, resting it lightly on the mattress beside them.
“It’s mild,” he said. “No chili. Just flavor.”
Shikamaru turned his face back to the pillow.
“I didn’t ask you to come.”
“I know.”
A silence settled between them, quiet, but not cold. The kind of silence that waited patiently for movement. Shikamaru didn’t give it.
After a while, Neji stood. The bowl remained.
“There’s water by your bed. Clean clothes in the bathroom. I also opened the window, no need to close it for the night, it won’t rain,” he said, his voice gentler now. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
Shikamaru didn’t respond. He just stared at the wall.
Neji didn’t sigh. He didn’t lecture or linger.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Only after the quiet returned, after the smell of curry lingered like an unanswered question, did Shikamaru shift slightly under the blanket. His hand moved, almost against his will, toward the warm bowl beside him. His fingers brushed the side.
Still hot.
Still waiting.
DAY 2
The scent reached him before anything else, ginger, sesame, something earthy and warm that didn’t belong in this room.
Shikamaru stirred.
His body expected it now, the subtle shift in air pressure, the creak of the apartment door opening softly, the footsteps that moved with precision instead of panic. No one else walked like that. No one else bothered to be quiet in his presence. Most people knocked, shouted, rattled the door and left. Neji let himself in like he belonged there.
He didn’t knock.
The door closed behind him with a gentle click. Shikamaru didn’t open his eyes. Not yet. He was curled under the same blanket, barely moved since the last time, though sometime yesterday he’d managed to drink half the bottle of water Neji had left. It sat on the nightstand now, half-finished and lukewarm.
From the kitchen came the now-familiar sounds of Neji unpacking a bag. The fridge door opened. Something was placed inside. More movement, soft and deliberate. Plastic crinkling, then silence, then water running.
Shikamaru opened one eye.
It was dim, as always. But the door to the kitchen had been pushed open wider, letting in more of the afternoon haze. There was a small towel hanging now from the handle of the cabinet under the sink, fresh, pale gray. Not one of his.
Neji was cleaning.
He didn’t make noise about it. Just moved through the space like someone who had done this before, who knew the rhythm of a quiet room. There was no judgment in the way he lifted an old mug off the floor, no dramatic sighs when he swept aside the dried-up instant noodles near the trash bin. He cleared space without demanding attention for it, and somehow, that made it worse.
Shikamaru turned his face away, burrowing deeper into the pillow.
The smell grew stronger, stir-fried vegetables, soft tamagoyaki, short-grain rice. Home food. Real food. His stomach clenched at the memory of taste. But he ignored it. Again.
He stayed like that as Neji worked, dozing in and out, letting the haze claim him. When the soft footfalls finally returned to the doorway, he didn’t pretend to sleep. He just stayed still.
Neji said nothing at first. The sound of ceramic against wood as a bowl was placed beside the bed again. The soft clink of chopsticks wrapped in paper.
Then, after a long pause: “When was the last time you brushed your teeth?”
Shikamaru didn’t answer.
It wasn’t shame, exactly. Just a wall. He didn’t have the energy to scale it, and Neji didn’t seem like someone who’d force him over.
Another pause. The quiet hung between them like breath on glass.
Neji didn’t ask again. He didn’t press or pry or try to fill the silence with reasons why he should care. He simply sat down, not too close, but near enough that the mattress dipped again, and the warm scent of his clean clothes drifted toward Shikamaru, cedar and soap and faintly of green tea.
Shikamaru hated how much comfort he took from that. How his body loosened slightly at the edges.
A moment passed.
Then Neji stood again. There was the rustle of a bag opening, and the sound of running water. A glass was filled. Something clinked, porcelain against porcelain.
He returned a few minutes later. The food was still untouched, but he set something else on the nightstand: a folded washcloth, damp and warm, and beside it, a small ceramic cup and a travel toothbrush, white, simple. Not his.
Not a lecture. Not a demand. Just there.
Shikamaru blinked slowly, eyes barely open, gaze settling on the items. His throat tightened.
“You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, voice hoarse from disuse.
“I know,” Neji replied.
Another silence. But it felt different this time, less like a chasm, more like a breath being held.
Shikamaru shifted under the blanket, arm sliding out to reach toward the cup of water. His fingers brushed it, but he didn’t lift it yet. Neji didn’t move. He stood a few feet away, posture relaxed but not dismissive, as if giving him room to decide whether to reach for the rest.
Shikamaru stared at the cup a while longer. He didn’t touch the toothbrush. Didn’t touch the food. But he held the water in his hands like it mattered.
Neji glanced around the room, briefly, not lingering. His eyes swept over the rumpled blankets, the dusty shelf, the pile of laundry that had gathered near the foot of the bed. He didn’t comment. He just turned and moved toward the kitchen again.
Shikamaru heard the quiet clatter of dishes being rinsed, dried, stacked. The floor being swept. A cabinet being closed gently.
He didn’t need to be looked after. He didn’t need Neji to play nurse or houseguest or... whatever this was. But when he listened to the way Neji moved, without judgment, without performance, it felt less like being watched and more like being seen.
By the time Neji returned to the bedroom, the water glass was empty.
He noticed. A flicker passed through his expression, nothing overt, just a quiet acknowledgment. He nodded once, barely visible.
“I’ll come again tomorrow,” Neji said.
Still, no expectations. Just quiet certainty. A promise made without pressure.
Shikamaru’s gaze lingered on the bowl beside him, still warm, though cooling fast. He didn’t say thank you. Couldn’t. Not yet.
But as Neji turned to go, Shikamaru spoke.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said again, softer this time.
Neji stopped at the doorway. He didn’t look back.
“I know,” he said once more.
The door clicked shut behind Neji, softer than a whisper.
Shikamaru didn’t move at first. He just listened to the silence that followed, silence that wasn’t quite silence anymore. Something of Neji still lingered in the room. The faint trace of his scent, clean and herbal. The subtle warmth he’d left in the air. The memory of his voice, soft but steady: “I’ll come again tomorrow.”
He stared at the ceiling. Then at the tray by the bed.
The meal Neji had left this time looked… delicate. Balanced. A neat bento arrangement on a lacquered plate. Stir-fried vegetables, bright and glistening in light soy and sesame oil. Thin green beans, tender carrot slices, some slivered shiitake mushrooms. The rice was shaped into two compact triangles, dusted with furikake. Beside it, tamagoyaki, rolled egg, golden and soft at the edges, its layers curling like silk.
It wasn’t store-bought food. It wasn’t something thrown together in pity. It was food made with presence. Food that paid attention.
Shikamaru sat up, slowly. Every part of him protested the motion, his back stiff, knees heavy, shoulders creaking like old floorboards. But he pushed upright until he was slouched against the headboard, the blanket slipping from his bare chest.
His stomach twisted, not with hunger exactly, but with something more complicated. Hesitation. Guilt. Maybe need.
He reached for the chopsticks.
The first bite was one of the green beans. Crisp. Light. Glazed with flavor. He chewed slowly.
Then a piece of tamagoyaki, sweet and silky, still cool from being carried in Neji’s lunch container. The taste made something in his throat ache.
Shikamaru paused.
He glanced toward the door, even though Neji was long gone. It felt strange, eating something made by someone who cared about how it tasted. Who cared whether he ate it at all.
He took another bite. Then another.
The vegetables were warm at the center, perfectly cooked. The rice, slightly sticky, tender, clean. The egg melted on his tongue. Each bite reminded him that he was still capable of feeling things in his body. Of chewing. Swallowing. Wanting.
He hadn’t cooked for himself in over a week. Hadn’t had food that tasted like anything in almost as long. Everything he’d choked down since Asuma’s death had been bland, processed, textureless. An obligation to keep breathing.
This, this was different.
This felt like being remembered.
He finished almost all of it. Not out of politeness, Neji wasn’t here to witness it, but because once he started, his body refused to let him stop. His chest hurt by the end, not from overeating, but from something deeper. From the quiet realization that he had missed the feeling of being full.
He set the chopsticks down, carefully, and leaned back.
The empty tray sat on his bedside table like proof. That he was still here. That someone still saw him.
His eyes drifted toward the water glass. The toothbrush. The folded towel.
He didn’t touch them yet. But he looked at them longer than he had the day before.
Something about the way Neji had left them, gently, without pressure, made it easier to consider the idea of trying. There had been no judgment in his voice, no edge of disgust. Just a question. A folded towel. A quiet act of care, like leaving the light on for someone who might come home late.
Shikamaru shifted, drawing the blanket around his shoulders again. The warmth in his belly spread slowly, radiating outward from the food. It made his fingers feel less cold.
He rubbed a hand over his face. His skin was rough, the stubble coarse, unwashed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked in a mirror. He didn’t want to.
Still, his eyes flicked again to the toothbrush.
Not tonight, he thought. But maybe, maybe tomorrow.
DAY 3
The third time Neji came, Shikamaru was sitting up.
It wasn’t by design. He hadn’t planned to be more present, more awake, more alive. He’d just been leaning against the wall when the knock came, dull and rhythmic, like always. Predictable. Gentle. And somehow… dependable.
Neji stepped in with the same soft footfalls, carrying another small cloth-covered bento. His eyes flicked over the room, still dim, but tidier now. The dishes had been washed, not by Shikamaru, but by Neji himself the day before. A few socks were gone from the floor. The blanket on the bed was straightened.
But what made Neji pause, just briefly, was the empty tray from yesterday.
He looked at it, then at Shikamaru. And though his expression didn’t shift much, something in his voice softened further when he said, “I’m glad you ate.”
Shikamaru didn’t reply, but his throat bobbed. He glanced at the tray, then away again. The words sank under his skin like a slow, warm tide. He hadn’t been praised, not really, since Asuma died.
Neji didn’t say anything more. He just walked to the kitchenette and set the new meal down. From his bag, he drew out another towel, a clean toothbrush still in its package, and a small bowl he filled with warm water from the kettle. He worked quietly, with the ease of routine, like all of this was normal.
Like it didn’t cost anything to show up again.
Shikamaru closed his eyes, but didn’t lie back down.
He heard Neji come closer. Stop just at the edge of the bed.
“Will you let me help you brush your teeth today?” Neji asked.
His voice was low, not coaxing, not demanding. Just simple. Like asking if it would rain.
Shikamaru swallowed. His mouth felt dry and thick and stale, coated in days-old shame. The kind of shame that clung to the back of his tongue like rot. He hadn't brushed his teeth in, he didn’t know how long. A week? Ten days? More?
His lips parted, but no sound came out.
He hated this. Hated the idea of Neji seeing him like this. Letting himself be seen like this.
And yet, he didn’t want to say no. So he nodded. Just once.
Neji didn’t respond aloud. He simply knelt beside the bed, setting the bowl down with a soft clink against the floorboards. The toothbrush, newly unwrapped, rested beside it. Steam still curled from the water’s surface, faint and curling like breath.
Shikamaru stayed still. Rigid, almost. His arms were loose at his sides, but every tendon in him felt wound tight, like wire.
Neji reached for a washcloth, dipping it briefly into the bowl before wringing it out with practiced care. Then he looked up.
“Sit forward,” he said gently.
Shikamaru hesitated. His heart thudded once, stupidly loud in his chest. Then he obeyed, shifting slightly toward the edge of the mattress, letting his knees dangle off. His balance was poor, core muscles weakened from days of disuse. Neji saw it, of course he did, and reached without pause to brace him.
A hand to the small of his back. The contact was firm, sure, and maddeningly kind.
Shikamaru hated how he flinched under it.
Not because Neji touched him, but because he didn’t know how to want this kind of tenderness without folding in on himself completely.
Neji raised the toothbrush. He dipped it into the water, then dabbed a small bit of paste from the tin cap he’d brought along.
“Open,” he said, like it was nothing.
Shikamaru’s mouth parted slowly.
And that was when the shame came down in full.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t violent. It was worse, quiet and creeping, like mildew through old wood. Like he could feel Neji’s breath on his cheek, his fingers resting under his chin for balance, and all he could think was: I’m disgusting. I’m wasting his time. I shouldn’t let him do this.
The toothbrush touched his molars. Shikamaru shivered.
Neji moved with care, no pressure, no judgment. He worked slowly, sweeping along the back teeth first, then the front, brushing softly near the gumline. His other hand steadied Shikamaru’s jaw when it trembled.
Shikamaru’s eyes watered, but not from pain.
Neji didn’t comment.
The brushing went on in silence. Not oppressive, gentle. The only sound in the room was the soft scrape of bristles and the occasional slow exhale. Neji’s hands smelled faintly of rice vinegar and sugar, a trace from the tamagoyaki he’d made earlier. It was so achingly domestic, so ordinary, that Shikamaru wanted to disappear.
When it was done, Neji held the bowl up. Shikamaru spat into it without meeting his eyes.
Then Neji took the washcloth again and wiped his lips clean, thumb and forefinger steady, movements unhurried. He brushed a bit of toothpaste from the corner of Shikamaru’s mouth, then paused, his fingers lingered, just for a beat.
Shikamaru stared down at the floor.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, barely audible.
Neji didn’t say you’re welcome. He just folded the cloth, set it aside, and reached up to smooth a lock of hair from Shikamaru’s temple. The touch was light, almost reverent.
And Shikamaru, against every instinct, leaned into it.
He closed his eyes. Just for a moment. Let it happen. Let someone care.
DAY 4
The rain came in thin, slanting sheets that evening, fine enough to blur the rooftops but steady enough to soak through sleeves.
Shikamaru heard it before he saw anything, the soft patter of it on the windowsill, the rush of it along the eaves. It was already dark, and the clock said Neji should’ve arrived nearly half an hour ago. Not that he was expected, exactly. Not that he owed Shikamaru a single goddamn thing.
But when the knock came, three soft raps, as always, Shikamaru still felt something in his chest loosen.
He didn’t move to open the door. He just let it creak open on its own, hinges complaining as Neji stepped inside.
His hair was wet. Not soaked, but damp at the length, strands clinging to the collar of his long-sleeved shirt. He carried a cloth-wrapped bento in one hand and a small umbrella in the other. His shoulders were dotted with rain. The smell of it clung to him, earthy, clean, something faintly electric.
“You’re late,” Shikamaru muttered without looking at him.
Neji blinked once, but didn’t seem fazed. “I was on a mission until this afternoon.”
He closed the umbrella, set the food on the counter. Shikamaru heard the soft rustle of packaging, the click of lacquered wood against porcelain. Everything he did was so precise.
So calm.
So deliberate.
“Don’t you have better things to do?” Shikamaru asked flatly.
There was a pause.
He didn’t mean for it to come out so sharp. But something in his chest was tight today, wound like a coil of grief that had nowhere to go. He hadn’t spoken all day. Not a word. Now Neji was here, wet from the rain, pulling containers from a bag, and Shikamaru hated, hated, how familiar it was beginning to feel.
“I mean it,” he added, quieter. “You don’t have to keep doing this.”
Neji’s hands didn’t stop moving. He unwrapped a small bowl of grilled fish, warm rice soaked with tea and pickled plum, ochazuke. Comfort food.
“I know I don’t,” he said simply.
Shikamaru looked away.
Neji finished laying everything out without another word. Two sets of chopsticks. Two bowls. He moved quietly around the room, wiping down a corner of the low table with a cloth he must’ve brought in his sleeve, placing the dishes with his usual care.
Shikamaru hadn’t moved from the bed.
“Come sit,” Neji said, not unkindly.
Shikamaru didn’t want to. He wasn’t sure if he had the energy. His stomach ached from being empty most of the day, but the hunger was flattened by the weight in his chest, as if grief sat there like a stone and pressed down on every urge to care for himself.
But Neji was already settling across from the empty spot.
He didn’t wait to be joined. He picked up his chopsticks, took a piece of fish, and began to eat with quiet composure.
It was the first time he’d done that.
Shikamaru stared.
The scent of the ochazuke carried through the room, smoky from the grill, tangy with umeboshi, and undercut with the comforting warmth of steeped tea over rice. A smell he knew from his childhood. A smell that made something ache deep behind his ribs.
He dragged himself to the table.
Sitting was harder than he expected. His limbs didn’t quite cooperate, and his spine gave a reluctant creak as he lowered himself down. He didn’t look at Neji. He didn’t say thank you. He just picked up his chopsticks and started to eat.
It was quiet.
But not cold.
They ate together without speaking, each movement between bites soft and measured. The warm rice soothed his throat. The pickled plum hit sharp against his tongue, waking something dull. Shikamaru’s hands shook faintly, but he kept going. He ate slowly, like someone remembering how.
Across from him, Neji ate with his usual elegance, gaze down, posture straight despite the long day. The rain tapped at the window, steady and silver, filling the silence between them like a third presence in the room.
Halfway through the meal, Shikamaru glanced up.
Neji’s hair was still damp. A lock clung to the side of his face, curling near his jaw. He hadn’t changed out of his uniform, there were light creases at the shoulders, a faint mark near the collarbone where a strap had pressed too long into the fabric. There was a kind of quiet weariness in the slope of his shoulders, but his face didn’t show it. He looked... grounded. Present.
Shikamaru looked back down.
He cleared the bowl. Didn’t speak until Neji was nearly done as well.
“You don’t have to keep coming,” he said again, more softly this time. “I mean it.”
Neji set his chopsticks down. There was no pause before his reply.
“I know you mean it.”
The words were simple. Nothing more. But they struck harder than Shikamaru expected. Like Neji saw through the brittle deflection of it all, understood that beneath you don’t have to come lived a quieter, smaller voice: please keep coming anyway.
Shikamaru didn’t say anything after that.
He let Neji rise and take the dishes. He let him rinse them. He didn’t move when Neji began to straighten the scattered things again, folding clothes that had been left for days, stacking the clutter from the desk into neater piles.
And when Neji sat down again, close this time but not touching, Shikamaru didn’t tell him to leave.
They stayed like that until the rain stopped.
DAY 6
The knock at the door came softly, late in the morning, and by now Shikamaru didn’t flinch when he heard it.
He didn’t move either.
The door opened after a pause. Neji stepped in with his hands full, a container cradled against his side, cloth-wrapped, and a paper bag rustling faintly. He didn’t announce himself, didn’t look to Shikamaru for permission. He slipped off his sandals, crossed the room, and moved with quiet efficiency.
Shikamaru lay where he always did, curled on his side, blanket tangled around one ankle. His eyes were open, unfocused.
He watched Neji set the food down, unpack it with clean, deliberate hands. Rice steamed softly from a ceramic bowl, and beside it, pickled daikon cut into delicate crescents. The miso soup was warm, dotted with tofu cubes and wakame. Grilled eggplant glistened darkly under a brush of miso glaze. Simple. Light. Kind.
“You should eat,” Neji said gently, sitting where he always sat, folding his legs beneath him.
Shikamaru didn’t answer, but after a moment, he pushed himself upright. His limbs protested. His back ached. He hadn’t changed clothes in days, and he could smell the weight of it on himself, sour, oily, human. He said nothing. Just sat down at the low table with the clumsy stiffness of someone unused to movement.
They ate in silence. Shikamaru slowly worked his way through half the rice and a few strips of eggplant. Neji didn’t press. He never did. The sounds were small and ordinary, chopsticks clicking gently, miso slurping quietly. The window was cracked an inch and let in the late spring air, heavy with the scent of distant sakura and damp earth.
When the meal was done, Neji gathered the empty dishes into their container, stacked everything neatly, and stood.
“Will you bathe today?” he asked, voice calm, quiet. Not demanding. Just… present.
Shikamaru looked down at his hands.
He didn’t say no.
He didn’t say anything.
“I’ll make you coffee after,” Neji added, softer now. “We could sit by the window while you drink it.”
A long pause. Shikamaru’s throat clicked when he swallowed. He nodded once, barely.
Neji moved without another word.
From the corner of his eye, Shikamaru watched him open the door to the small bathroom. Heard the pipes creak as the water began to run. Steam started to rise. There was the faint scent of cedar and yuzu, Neji must’ve brought something from home. Not strong, not perfumed. Just clean.
After a few minutes, Neji reappeared. He didn’t make eye contact.
“It’s ready,” he said.
Shikamaru sat still. The weight of his own body felt enormous.
Then he moved.
It took effort. Not as much as the first days, but still, it felt like rising out of thick mud. His joints were stiff. His limbs moved like they’d forgotten how. But he stood.
Neji stepped aside, gaze fixed on the far wall. He didn’t follow.
Inside the bathroom, the air was thick and wet. The tub was filled, steam curling over the surface. Clean towels were folded on a stool beside it. A wooden bucket rested nearby. Everything had been arranged with quiet care.
Shikamaru undressed slowly.
He hesitated when he pulled off his shirt, staring at the inside of the fabric, grimy at the collar, stale with days of sweat. Embarrassment prickled at the back of his neck. He was sure he reeked.
His pants followed, then the rest. He stood there for a second, bare and cold, fists clenched at his sides.
Then he stepped into the water. It hit him all at once, warmth seeping into his legs, his back, his chest. He sank down, slowly, until it covered him to the shoulders. His eyes fell shut.
The relief was immediate.
Not just physical, though that was sharp and real. But something deeper too, something that whispered you’re still alive, and your body can still be soothed. The water curled around him like arms.
He didn’t hear Neji return until the soft pad of his footsteps reached the tile.
“I’m coming in,” Neji said, quiet but not hesitant.
Shikamaru didn’t open his eyes.
He didn’t tell him no.
He heard the rustle of Neji kneeling beside the tub. The sound of water being scooped. Then gentle hands in his hair.
Fingers slid into his scalp, strong but careful. Shampoo lathered between them, warm and slow. Neji didn’t rush. He didn’t speak. He scrubbed delicately, circling over the crown, behind the ears, down to the nape of Shikamaru’s neck. It was methodical. Almost reverent.
Shikamaru’s shoulders sank lower.
The suds were thick. Neji rinsed them with the bucket, tilting Shikamaru’s head just enough to keep the water from his face. He repeated the process, lathered again, rinsed again, until the hair was soft and clean and slicked down straight.
Then Neji smoothed the strands back with his palms, careful not to tug.
Shikamaru’s throat tightened.
Not from words, there were none. Just the sheer tenderness of it. The way Neji’s touch didn’t flinch. The way he didn’t look disgusted. The way he touched Shikamaru like he was something worth handling gently.
He didn’t know how to carry it.
Didn’t know what to do with the ache it left behind.
Neji’s hands left him, no final pass, no indulgent linger. Just the clean finish of someone who cared and knew when to let go. He set the bucket aside and stood with a rustle of fabric. Shikamaru heard the gentle drag of the door sliding closed behind him.
The silence afterward was strangely loud.
Shikamaru took a deep breath.
He let it out slowly.
His hair hung in heavy strands down his back and over his collarbones, dripping clean water into the bath. The air smelled warm and mineral-rich, comforting him as he slowly washed his body. His own skin, washed of its days-long burden. He could smell it now: neutral, not foul. Just… clean.
He moved slowly, with care. The towel Neji had set aside earlier was still folded on the wooden stool. He reached for it and stood, water sluicing off his chest in rivulets. It felt strange, the way his muscles moved beneath him again. Like his body had thawed.
He dried his arms, his chest, his back, then stepped out of the tub.
There was a moment of hesitation, one hand resting on the sink’s edge.
Then he wrapped the towel around his hips and sat on the cool tile at the tub’s edge, arms braced behind him, breathing in the damp air.
His hair clung wet to his shoulders. Drops ran down the back of his neck, but he didn’t bother wiping them away. He wasn’t ready to dress yet, not while his skin still steamed faintly and the tile pulled the warmth from his thighs.
He sat there for a while, quiet, towel snug at his waist. Just breathing. Staring blankly at the condensation beading on the mirror.
Waiting to feel dry. Waiting to feel something else.
And in the back of his mind, the thought bloomed quietly, Neji washed my hair.
Not like a nurse would. Not like an obligation.
Like a friend. Or something just past it, something nameless and unbearably kind.
Shikamaru shut his eyes, leaned his head back, and listened faintly for the sounds of movement in the other room.
The bathroom door slid open with a soft creak, and Neji stepped back inside without looking directly at him.
He carried a fresh towel over one arm and a folded change of clothes in the other, simple sweatpants and a clean t-shirt, things Shikamaru had probably forgotten he even owned. There was no comment on his state, no lingering glance, just a quiet presence and a kind of practiced grace.
“You’ll get cold,” Neji said.
Shikamaru didn’t argue.
Neji stepped close and opened the towel in his hands. He paused only a second, enough time for Shikamaru to nod, barely perceptible, and then reached out, drawing the soft fabric around his hair. His hands moved carefully, gently wringing water from the ends, then blotting the strands with slow, steady pressure. He worked in silence, fingers pressing warmth into Shikamaru’s scalp.
Shikamaru let his eyes fall shut.
His shoulders slumped a little with the contact, like something inside him had unclenched. There was a rhythm to Neji’s hands, efficient, but not mechanical. It was deliberate. Considerate. As if he were tending to something valuable, something breakable.
“You have a lot of hair,” Neji said, low, almost amused.
Shikamaru gave a huff of breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “Troublesome,” he muttered.
Neji’s hands paused for a moment on his crown, then resumed. “It suits you.”
He said it like it was a fact.
Shikamaru didn’t know what to say to that. His throat tightened around the words he didn’t say. He only nodded.
When his hair was mostly dry, Neji set the towel aside and handed over the clothes. Shikamaru stood slowly and pulled on the sweatpants first, tugging them up over his hips. Then the shirt—he had to wrestle a little to get it past the dampness in his hair, and Neji stepped forward instinctively, pulling the collar gently down over his head to help.
Fingers brushed his jaw.
Both of them froze for half a second, breath catching in the space between them. Then Neji let go.
Shikamaru cleared his throat. “Thanks.”
“Mm.”
They didn’t speak again as they left the bathroom.
In the kitchen, the air was dry and warm. The coffee was already made, two mugs on the counter, steam rising from each. Neji handed him one and took the other, then gestured with his chin toward the window where the sunlight had started to spill across the floor.
Shikamaru followed.
They sat down side by side on the low windowsill, backs against the wall. Outside, the village moved at its quiet, familiar pace, civilians running errands, the occasional pair of shinobi crossing rooftops in silence. Birds stirred in the trees. The leaves moved with the wind.
Shikamaru cupped the warm mug in his hands and stared out, watching the way the light shifted across the rooftops.
Neji sat beside him, still and straight-backed, his own coffee cooling slowly in his lap.
Their shoulders didn’t touch. But they sat close enough to feel the heat of each other’s presence. No words passed between them for a long while.
But it was not an empty silence.
Shikamaru closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of roasted beans and damp earth and the faintest trace of Neji’s soap on the towel-dried air.
And for the first time in days, his chest didn’t feel quite so hollow.
DAY 8
The apartment was quiet when Neji arrived, too quiet.
The coffee cups from two days ago still sat by the window, cold rings of brown staining the wood beneath them. The faint scent of something burnt lingered in the air, instant miso, maybe. The air felt stale again.
Neji set the bag of groceries down on the kitchen counter, but his eyes were already moving, scanning for signs.
The bedroom door was cracked open.
He approached slowly.
Inside, Shikamaru was curled on top of the blanket this time, not under it. His hair was loose around his face, frizzy from sleep, and his eyes were red. He wasn’t asleep, he was just staring at the ceiling, unmoving, with that blank hollowness Neji had seen before.
Neji stepped in.
Shikamaru didn’t react.
Only after a long pause did he blink slowly and murmur, hoarse and brittle, “I tried to clean up yesterday.”
“I see that,” Neji said gently.
“I just—couldn’t today.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
But Shikamaru let out a sharp, stuttering breath, like he’d been holding it in for hours. “I thought I was getting better. I thought maybe I was okay for a second.”
Neji crossed the room.
Shikamaru’s eyes welled suddenly, his voice breaking. “It’s like—I keep thinking I’m moving forward and then it just—just hits again. I miss him so much I can’t think. And I keep dreaming about it. The smoke. His hand. Everything smelled like fire and I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t—”
He stopped himself with a choked sound, hand curling into his shirt like he could hold himself in place.
Neji knelt beside the bed without a word and reached out. His fingers touched Shikamaru’s shoulder, then slid up into his hair, gentle.
Shikamaru moved slowly, almost unsure, but he turned toward the edge of the mattress, sat up briefly, just enough to shift. And then his head found Neji’s lap.
The motion was graceless. Desperate.
Neji adjusted silently, folding his legs beneath him so Shikamaru could settle.
The moment Shikamaru’s cheek rested against Neji’s thigh, he broke.
A sob clawed up his throat and out, ragged and quiet. His body shook.
Neji said nothing.
He only combed his fingers through Shikamaru’s hair, smoothing it back with slow, methodical care. Over and over, long strokes from crown to nape. It was the same way he had touched him in the bath, but this time it was more intimate, less like caretaking, more like sheltering.
Shikamaru tried to talk through the crying. Tried to keep his voice level.
“I keep seeing him. His face. Afterward. I keep wondering if he knew he was going to die. If he saw me freeze up. If I—if I let him—”
He buried his face against Neji’s leg with a sharp inhale.
“I was too slow. I wasn’t good enough. I keep thinking if I’d just figured it out sooner he’d—”
More sobs, crushed down into fabric.
Neji didn’t tell him he was wrong. Didn’t offer platitudes or promises. He just kept petting his hair, and eventually laid his other hand on Shikamaru’s back, steady and grounding.
“I’m here,” Neji said softly, nearly inaudible. “I’ll stay as long as you need.”
Shikamaru didn’t answer.
But he curled in closer, fists pressed to his eyes like a child. And for a long time, the room filled only with the sound of quiet weeping and Neji’s breath as he stayed still beneath him, never once pulling away.
Shikamaru’s sobs gradually slowed, his body growing heavier and more still against Neji’s leg. The raw tension in his shoulders eased little by little, his breathing evening out.
Neji didn’t rush him. He just stayed, fingers threading through damp strands of hair, warmth radiating from beneath his hand.
Eventually, Shikamaru’s grip on his shirt loosened, and he shifted enough to sit up, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes with the backs of his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice rough and small. “For—getting like this.”
Neji shook his head, expression soft but serious. “Don’t apologize for how you feel. You’re allowed to break.”
Shikamaru glanced down, ashamed, but the weight of Neji’s presence made it easier to breathe.
Neji stood slowly, carefully pulling Shikamaru’s arm to steady him.
“I’m going to make something to eat,” Neji said quietly. “And you should take something for your head. You must be hurting from all the crying.”
Shikamaru nodded wordlessly.
Neji moved into the kitchen, his footsteps light.
He rummaged through the cupboards and fridge, pulling out ingredients for something simple, soft rice porridge with a touch of umeboshi for flavor, something gentle on the stomach. He filled a pot and set it to simmer.
From the medicine cabinet, he took out some painkillers, placing them carefully on the counter with a glass of water.
When the porridge was ready, Neji carried two bowls back to the small table near the window. The smell was faint but comforting, warm, mild, familiar.
Shikamaru sat quietly, still fragile, as Neji set the bowl in front of him and handed over the glass of water with the pills.
“Here,” Neji said softly. “Take these. You need rest too.”
Shikamaru accepted them with a small nod, swallowing the pills with the water.
Neji sat down beside him again, the quiet between them no longer heavy but steady.
It was the first time Neji spent the night at Nara’s house.
DAY 9
Shikamaru woke to the soft hush of morning light seeping through the bedroom curtains. The sky outside was gray, overcast, the kind of pale, cold brightness that hinted at rain later. The room was quiet, no birds, no wind, just the sound of breathing. Not his own.
For a moment, he didn’t move.
Neji was beside him. No, not beside. Closer than that.
Curled into the curve of Shikamaru’s side, head tucked between his neck and shoulder, breath warm against the base of his throat. One hand was resting gently on Shikamaru’s chest, the other folded beneath himself.
Their legs were tangled under the blanket.
Shikamaru’s heart stuttered.
His first instinct was to freeze, to analyze the moment, to question what led here, whether he had shifted in the night or whether Neji had simply never moved away.
But that analytical part of his mind fizzled out when Neji exhaled, slow and peaceful, his breath stirring the loose hair clinging to Shikamaru’s collarbone.
His skin prickled.
The blanket had slipped a little off his shoulder, and Neji’s fingers were pressed lightly to the space just over his shirt, warm and unconscious in their resting place.
Shikamaru didn’t dare speak. His eyes lifted toward the ceiling. He didn’t know whether he wanted Neji to wake up or not.
He should have pulled away.
He should have cleared his throat or turned over or done something. Anything.
But he didn’t.
Instead, his hand inched upward, hesitantly, until it hovered near Neji’s back, uncertain, before resting there lightly, barely a touch.
The weight of Neji against him was oddly grounding. Real. After so many days of drifting, of dissociating through grief and fog and shame, there was something about the heat of Neji’s body that tethered him.
Shikamaru blinked, slowly.
He was blushing. And not from embarrassment exactly, but something more fragile, more unfamiliar. He swallowed hard, careful not to disturb Neji’s sleep, and let his eyes fall closed again.
Maybe just for a minute longer. Just to stay in this stillness, this softness. Where everything didn’t hurt quite so much.
Neji stirred softly against him.
Shikamaru felt it in the shift of breath first, then the slow tightening of Neji’s fingers against his chest as consciousness returned.
There was a long pause before Neji moved. His head tilted back just slightly, enough to lift his face from the hollow of Shikamaru’s neck. Long lashes fluttered, and his gaze met Shikamaru’s.
Neither of them spoke.
The moment stretched.
Shikamaru thought of pulling away, saying something dry or offhand to break the tension, but Neji didn’t move. He didn’t look startled or embarrassed, just quiet. Awake. Watching him with that same steady calm he always carried, though there was something softer around the edges this morning.
“…Good morning,” Neji said at last. His voice was hushed and husky with sleep.
Shikamaru’s mouth felt dry. “Morning.”
Neji blinked slowly, then shifted to push himself up a little, but not far, not entirely away. His hand slid from Shikamaru’s chest, resting instead on the mattress between them, and he sat propped on one elbow.
“I didn’t mean to fall asleep here,” he murmured, eyes lowering.
Shikamaru shrugged, barely. “It’s fine.”
Another quiet.
“I didn’t want to leave you alone last night,” Neji added. “You looked like you needed someone close.”
That made Shikamaru’s throat tighten.
He looked away, out toward the faint light coming through the curtains. “I guess I did.”
Neji didn’t press. He just let the silence linger, comfortable and unhurried.
Shikamaru rubbed at the back of his neck, his voice low. “I’m not used to this. Letting people see me like that.”
“I know.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
Neji’s gaze softened. “It’s human.”
The words were simple, but they landed with weight. Gentle and undeniable.
Shikamaru glanced back at him then. Neji’s hair was loose, falling over his shoulders. His face still carried the faint creases of sleep. And his expression, calm, open, made it hard to look away.
He didn’t know how to say thank you in a way that wouldn’t sound clumsy.
So he didn’t. He just held Neji’s gaze, and let something unspoken hang there between them, fragile but real.
Neji sat up slowly and brushed his hair behind his ear. “I’ll go start breakfast.”
“Okay,” Shikamaru murmured, sitting up too, the absence of Neji’s warmth suddenly sharp across his skin.
But before Neji stood fully, he turned slightly and said, softer now, “Shikamaru… if you ever need to be held again, you don’t have to wait until you break.”
Shikamaru stared at him, wide-eyed.
Then Neji rose and walked quietly out of the room.
The apartment smelled faintly of toasted rice and fresh coffee.
Shikamaru wandered out of the bedroom slowly, barefoot and quiet, still warm from the sheets, his mind tangled from Neji’s words. He found him in the kitchen, shoulders loose, hair swept over one shoulder, one hand resting on the counter as he poured coffee into two mismatched mugs.
Neji glanced up as Shikamaru approached, and offered a small nod, neither a smile nor a question. Just… presence. That quiet, unshakable way of his.
Shikamaru took the mug he was offered, fingers brushing Neji’s in the handoff. Just a touch. Just enough to stir the warmth beneath his skin.
They didn’t talk as they moved to the window.
The small table there was barely wide enough for two mugs and an ashtray full of old butts, but it was something. The glass panes were streaked with leftover rain from the night before, catching morning light in pale reflections. The world outside was gray and slow.
Shikamaru sank into the chair beside Neji. Their arms almost touched.
The warmth of the coffee seeped into his palms.
They drank in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, it was the first time in days that the silence didn’t weigh on Shikamaru like an accusation.
He tilted his head back and let his gaze blur through the glass. Neji, beside him, sipped without hurry. His posture was straight, but not rigid. He looked out too, calm and still.
The line of his profile caught the light, cheekbone, lashes, the delicate slope of his nose. Shikamaru watched without meaning to. Without understanding what was happening in his chest exactly.
It wasn’t gratitude. Or at least, it wasn’t only that. It was something softer. Something dangerous.
His hand tightened slightly around the mug.
Neji noticed. He turned just a little, gaze meeting Shikamaru’s, a quiet question in his eyes.
Shikamaru looked away, quickly. Cleared his throat. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Neji nodded. “You’re welcome.”
And then, for the first time since he started coming over, he smiled. It was faint. Barely there. But it hit Shikamaru in the ribs like a sucker punch.
He stared down into the swirl of steam rising from his cup. Words itched in the back of his throat, but none of them made it out.
He didn’t know what they were to each other. Or what they were becoming.
But for now, he could sit here. Side by side.
Their shoulders nearly touching, breath shared over bitter warmth, hearts stammering quietly inside the comfort of silence.
DAY 14
By day fourteen, the apartment didn’t smell like rot anymore.
No more sour sheets or cold takeout boxes stacked like guilt beside the bed. The windows were open most mornings now, letting in the pale March air, and the trash didn’t pile up unnoticed in the corner. Dishes didn’t sit for days. The futon was aired out. The table was wiped clean.
Neji had a habit of cleaning when Shikamaru didn’t have it in him. Silently, efficiently, like it was no burden to him at all. Like he had no interest in making it a performance.
He came every day.
He brought food, cooked from home, always warm and fragrant in simple containers. Stir-fried greens with sesame. Light miso soup with mushrooms. Tofu simmered in dashi, seasoned just enough that Shikamaru could eat without complaint. Sometimes curry again, sometimes sweet tamagoyaki. There was rhythm in it. A quiet pattern of presence and care.
Neji didn’t always talk. He didn’t ask much, either. Sometimes they sat on the floor, shoulder to shoulder, bowls balanced in their hands, a soft drama murmuring on the television they barely watched. Sometimes they didn’t speak at all. It didn’t seem to matter.
And sometimes, when the nights ran long or Shikamaru looked particularly hollow, Neji stayed.
The first time he’d taken the futon or the couch, careful not to impose. But by now, Neji usually woke curled on one side of Shikamaru’s bed, a respectful inch or two of space between their bodies. Sometimes Shikamaru found his own hand resting too close. Sometimes Neji’s hair brushed against his arm in the morning light.
He never pulled away.
The small, ordinary intimacies added up like rainfall. Slow. Unassuming. But relentless.
Neji washed his dishes. Brushed his hair out for him when his hands were too heavy to bother. He folded the clothes that Shikamaru left wrinkled on the edge of the bed. He brewed coffee the way Shikamaru liked it, more bitter than Neji preferred himself, but he never said a word about it. He never once made Shikamaru feel guilty for the things he couldn’t do. Only made them less lonely.
And Shikamaru, gods help him, was starting to notice things he shouldn’t.
Like how neat Neji’s fingers looked when slicing green onions. The quiet way his lashes kissed his cheeks when he blinked. How his voice lowered when he was tired, how he never flinched when their knees brushed under the table.
Or the way Shikamaru felt when he watched him clean up a spill without a word, slipping into his kitchen like it was second nature, like he belonged there.
It was dangerous. The way his chest tightened when Neji tied his hair back before cooking. The way he caught himself waiting for Neji’s next visit. How his lungs loosened when he heard the knock on the door.
It was a crush. He could admit that to himself now.
He was falling for him, quietly, helplessly, in the spaces between shared cups and brushed shoulders and a silence that no longer felt empty.
And the worst part was he didn’t know if it was returned.
Neji never hinted at anything beyond friendship. His touches were practical. His care was quiet. There was no blushing, no nervous glances, no romantic words tucked beneath the surface of his voice.
It made Shikamaru ache a little. Just a little.
He couldn’t afford to want more than this, not when it might shatter the fragile thing they already had. Not when he still needed Neji like this, in the most basic, human way.
So he kept it to himself.
And Neji kept coming back.
It’s almost noon when Shikamaru opens his eyes for real.
Not the half-conscious stirring he’s done so many mornings in a row, turning toward the wall, tugging the blanket higher, breathing in the scent Neji left behind on his borrowed pillow. This time, the light through the curtains is enough to make him squint, and the weight in his chest feels thinner. Lighter.
Still there, but no longer enough to pin him down.
He lies there for a while, listening to the hush of the apartment. The faint hum of the heater. The distant sound of traffic and birdcall. The spot beside him is cold, untouched.
Neji hasn’t arrived yet.
Shikamaru exhales slowly, then forces his body to move. The covers slide off his chest. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and sits up, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.
It’s not a dramatic triumph. His limbs still feel heavy. His head dull. But it’s the first time he’s gotten out of bed on his own before Neji could come and coax him.
In the kitchen, the light is golden and slanting in wide stripes across the floor. A familiar ceramic mug sits near the edge of the counter, Neji’s, the one he uses every day. The sight of it stills something uneasy in Shikamaru’s chest.
He rinses it out gently, like it’s something precious. Then he puts water on to boil.
The smell of coffee fills the room like something remembered. Bitter and grounding.
He makes two cups.
Neji arrives twenty minutes later, the door unlocking with a soft click.
“Shikamaru?” His voice, familiar as breath, calls in gently. “I brought—”
He freezes in the doorway of the kitchen.
Shikamaru glances over his shoulder. He’s seated by the window, two mugs already cooling slightly on the table. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, hair loose around his shoulders, eyes clearer than they’ve been in days.
“I thought I’d try being awake first for once,” he mutters.
Neji stares at him a moment longer, bags under his eyes, wind-chapped cheeks, the strap of his bag slipping down his shoulder. Then he steps out of his shoes.
“You made coffee?” he asks quietly.
“Not very well.” Shikamaru gestures toward the table. “But it’s hot.”
Neji crosses the room, the scent catching him, bitter and strong and comforting. He takes the offered cup. Their fingers brush briefly.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, fingers curling around the ceramic.
They sit down together, side by side, knees bumping under the table. The light catches in Neji’s hair, and Shikamaru doesn’t look directly at him, but he watches the way Neji breathes. The way his shoulders rise and fall. The soft clink of the spoon as he stirs.
“I thought about doing this for days,” Shikamaru says after a long pause. “Getting up first. Making something. Just… doing something.”
Neji turns his face toward him, expression unreadable. “What changed?”
Shikamaru shrugs, fingers wrapped around his mug. “You keep showing up.”
That pulls a small smile from Neji’s lips. Not smug, not teasing, just quiet. A kind of warmth that lives behind his eyes.
“I’ll keep showing up,” he says simply.
Shikamaru feels something catch low in his throat. He clears it, glancing toward the window.
“I know,” he replies. “That’s the problem.”
Neji doesn’t respond immediately. He takes a sip of coffee. Then reaches out, without a word, and brushes a lock of Shikamaru’s hair away from his cheek, tucking it behind his ear.
Shikamaru doesn’t flinch.
They sit like that a while longer, side by side in the noon light, the silence around them full of something that wants to be named.