Chapter Text
Kiba had never thought of a life other than the one he already had. He was born in that land like lambs are born in the middle of damp grass: with the certainty that the mud beneath his feet and the smell of the corral were, quite simply, the world. His family had lived in the countryside for generations, planting, shearing, accustomed to the sticky summer weather and harsh winters. However, that day was different.
The first time Mr. Aburame took his family to the big city was when Shino was eleven years old. He gifted him a music player with headphones, and they went to the movies for the first time. From that day on, there was a little bug in Shino's head, telling him he should find something else.
He didn't want to leave completely. Shino thought of his parents, and the image of them working the land in the fields, their hands numb, their backs hunched when they were old, made him frown in frustration. He wanted to have enough stability to help them and not have to watch them grow old working so many hours under the sun.
When they were both fifteen, Shino confided his worries to Kiba.
The Inuzuka's peach orchard was in its prime. The trees offered dense, fragrant shade, and the ground beneath their branches was covered with leaves and fallen fruit. The heat seemed kinder there, wrapped in a sweet summer scent.
Shino looked with the same posture as always, upright, restrained, confident. A subtle perfume—wood and some citrus fruit—left a barely perceptible trail in its wake. Kiba noticed it with his keen sense of smell, and his brain seemed to store the aroma in his memories as something meaningful. Perhaps it was a gift from his father for his last birthday.
Kiba went to a corner of the orchard and returned with a bucket of fresh water. A clean cloth rested on his shoulder. He washed the peaches one by one, running the water over them with his open palms. He dried one and offered it to Shino.
They sat together in silence. The sun passed through the foliage with an uneven light. Distant birds could be heard, and the constant buzzing of small life hiding among the branches.
Shino bit into the peach slowly. The juice slid down his hand, warm and sweet, and he wiped it away with the cloth. Kiba carelessly wiped the juice on his pants. Sometimes he ran his tongue over his palm.
"What are you thinking?"
There was a pause.
Kiba looked toward the nearest tree. The air smelled of ripe fruit and damp earth.
"I'd like to go to university… in the city."
"In the city?" Kiba wasn't sure why he was asking. There were no universities in the countryside. Suddenly, the peach didn't taste so sweet on his tongue.
His voice was different now that they were teenagers, with a thick accent that gave rhythm to his words. He had fangs that peeked out when he smiled.
Akamaru ran around them, occasionally launching himself at Shino's legs to demand attention. Shino bent down to pet him.
Seconds later, Shino nodded, chewing slowly. Kiba looked at him with a slight frown, not out of annoyance, but out of that awkward confusion, trying to digest his best friend's words.
He'd known Shino for as long as he could remember. He'd grown accustomed to his silences, his furrowed brows, his logical explanations. To pestering him, invading his personal space, sleeping in his bed while he read at his desk, old songs playing in the background from the record player in his room.
Out in the countryside, the houses were scattered as if someone had randomly dumped them on the hillside. The Aburame house was half-hidden behind a vast field of wheat and a row of wind-bent poplar trees, and was an hour's walk away from the Inuzuka house. The school was also far away, and the friends they had there lived even farther. The only person his age that was close to him was Shino. Shino was Kiba's best friend. Thinking about a life without Shino by his side made his stomach churn.
Even though there were three years left until Shino left for college, there was a selfish part of him that never wanted her to leave his side. Kiba was never a shy person. He had learned to speak his mind easily, without beating around the bush. But for some reason, he didn't say any of that. Not yet, as the heat gathered in his ears at the thought.
"Professor Iruka recommended a few universities to me. He told me how I should go about applying in a couple of years."
Kiba swallowed and knew that in a couple of years, Shino's world and his own would be separated, if only for a while. But nothing their friendship couldn't withstand.
"And you're going to leave all this?" he asked, even though deep down he knew the answer.
Shino looked out at the fields; he could imagine the tiny figures of his parents working in the sun, at the golden dust floating between the peach leaves.
“I don't want to leave. Just…do something different, try new things. Farm life isn't my thing, my parents know that.”
Kiba bit into his peach hard. The pit crunched between his teeth. His legs were stretched out on the grass, his hands sticky in his lap.
“If you leave, I'm going to stay here, ya' know, waiting for you.”
Shino turned his head slightly toward him. The shadows of the trees drew jagged lines across his face.
“I know.”
“Then you're going to have to call me every day,” Kiba said, as if laying down a rule to calm himself. “And tell me what you do every day in the city, all the places you visit, and all the people you meet.”
Shino didn't respond immediately. He looked at him, his eyes covered with shadows behind his glasses. His expression was the same as always, imperturbable, but the silence was different. Thicker. Slower.
Kiba spoke again.
“I won't be jealous if you make other friends.” A short, dry, innocent laugh escaped his lips. Then he sat up on the grass, with an energy that seemed to come from his heels. “Because I know no one will be as cool as me.”
Kiba looked at him, his mouth half-open, the peach pulp still clinging to his teeth. And without waiting for a reply, he leaned in and gave him a quick, clumsy kiss that tasted of fruit, dust, and the countryside.
Then he lay back again as if nothing had happened.
Shino put a finger to his lips, staring at the sky.
Time seemed to stand still between them. The warmth of the sun fell on his shoulders and the breeze swayed his hair. Kiba felt his heart beat faster than he had ever felt for anything in his life. Shino, though surprised, didn't pull away. His hand brushed Kiba's, an almost imperceptible gesture, but one that spoke volumes.
From that day on, their relationship quietly changed. There were no grand declarations, no repeated promises; only gestures, glances, and sweet shared kisses that filled the time.
Every morning they walked to school together, now holding hands. The dirt path kicked up dust with their steps, and Kiba smelled every scent of the countryside as a reminder that Shino was there. They chatted about books, songs, and dreams. Shino talked about college, about places he wanted to see, and Kiba listened intently, asking awkward, curious questions that elicited smiles. In the silences, the sound of the wind in the poplars and the birdsong seemed like enough company.
Summers found them at the lake, the clear, cool water surrounded by trees and reeds. They bathed together, splashing, laughing, and letting themselves be lulled by the current. Shino learned to swim under Kiba's guidance, and every touch of hands or shoulders as they floated side by side was a silent discovery of closeness. Sometimes, they simply floated, letting the sun and water envelop their bodies and thoughts, without the need for words.
The days in the forest were long and peaceful. They walked forgotten paths, searched for wildflowers, observed insects and birds, learning to distinguish their songs. Shino, ever observant, pointed out the small details that Kiba ignored, and he was surprised by each discovery. The forest became their refuge, a place where they could be themselves, where friendship transformed into something deeper and quieter.
Kiba liked to sit on Shino's lap in the grass, cover his face with kisses, and nuzzle his cheeks, neck, and hair, while pale firm hands held his waist. When he gave him a quick lick on the nose, even though his face expressed disgust, Shino didn't wipe away the trace of saliva.
When they helped with the cattle, Kiba taught patiently. Shino learned to recognize the cows' temperaments, to pet the calves, and to anticipate the animals' movements. Each day together strengthened their trust and complicity; each simple gesture became a reminder of their closeness.
The evenings in the kitchen were another ritual. They prepared meals together, Shino measuring and cutting carefully, Kiba mixing with enthusiasm. Between laughter, small fights without venom, and hurried tastings, they built a language of love, silent and tangible.
The passing of the seasons marked their lives: the warm, golden summer, the autumn with crunchy leaves under their feet, the cold, silent winter, the spring with flowers and new scents. Each season brought with it small shared routines: wrapping each other up in the fall, walking in the snow in the winter, picking flowers in the spring, swimming in the lake in the summer.
When they turned eighteen, Shino had been waiting for the letter without admitting it.
The closest school to his home was a two-hour walk away. That was the situation for many of his classmates. There was a group of three teachers, over-passionate and underpaid, who struggled to teach every subject in the school year so that young people in the rural area could have access to education.
Shino liked Professor Iruka's science classes, who always took the time to congratulate him after each exam. Perfect results, without much effort. He was the one who recommended to apply for university scholarships, writing recommendation letters for him.
Shino didn't usually spend time with his classmates; he spent most of his free time in Professor Iruka's office. As he grew older, he began talking to him about his future. The teacher would animatedly share anecdotes from his university years, and this left Shino with a kind of appetite, daydreaming about an imaginary future.
And one day, the letter was there.
It didn't have a fancy letterhead. The envelope wasn't thick. It was a plain sheet of paper, folded in three, with a signature at the bottom and a registration number. He couldn't remember the exact words. He only read "accepted," and everything became blurred afterward.
That night, he said nothing.
The letter slept under his pillow. He spoke to his parents two days later, when the wind began to change and the evenings grew longer, with that thick blue that September brought. They were at the table, eating in silence. His mother was cutting the bread into small pieces for the soup. His father drank slowly, leaning his elbows as if settling down in a familiar place.
Shino waited until the bowl was almost empty. Then he spoke, without looking at anyone.
"I got accepted to the university."
It was a short, casual sentence, like someone announcing that it will rain tomorrow.
His mother raised her eyes. She said nothing. She only paused in the gesture of breaking the bread. His father adjusted the glasses he wore even indoors. Then he nodded once, as if that were all the necessary response.
Silence.
It wasn't an awkward silence, but one filled with what didn't need to be said. They knew he wasn't made for country life. They'd always known it. They'd seen him look at the sky with more interest than the wheat, collect insects in glass jars, read during the sowing.
It was his mother who spoke, finally.
"So you're leaving," she said. "When?"
"Soon," he replied.
His father got up from the table. Not angrily, but with a slow gesture. His mother touched his hand as he passed, barely. There were no tears. Just a piece of bread cut into small pieces, and a clock that marked ten.
That evening, Shino went out into the yard and sat by the hives. The buzzing of the bees was familiar, almost reassuring. He thought of the times Professor Iruka had bothered him about his insect jars, and how he would have to visit him to give him the news.
He didn't feel sad. Not happy either.
He felt in transit. As if something inside him knew he had already begun to leave for a long time.
The next day, Shino decided to tell Kiba about his acceptance to the university. The sun streamed through the branches of the poplar trees, casting long shadows on the dirt road they walked together toward school. Kiba watched him walk with his usual characteristic calm, greeting him from a distance with a toothy smile and waving his right hand high in the air.
Shino had kept the folded letter in his pocket, feeling the edge of the paper every time his hand brushed against the fabric of his pants.
Sitting under the shade of an old oak tree, the wind stirring the leaves and dust around their feet, Shino finally began.
"Kiba, I have something to tell you."
Kiba looked up, immediately sensing the seriousness in Shino's tone. His heart, accustomed to his companion's calm, began to beat with a mixture of anticipation and fear.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, as if afraid to break the moment.
Shino took out the letter and handed it to him. Kiba took it, opened it, and read the few words written in it. His eyes widened with disbelief and joy, but a small knot of sadness formed in his chest.
"You're going to leave..." he said, his voice hoarse, mixing pride with a fear he didn't want to admit.
"Yes," Shino replied, calm, but with a gleam of determination in his eyes. His hands went up to the brown-haired man's face, who quickly sat on his lap.
They stayed there for a while, in silence, the whisper of the wind and the singing of birds surrounding them.
As Kiba hugged Shino's neck, his fingers tangled in the hair at his nape, the older boy's thumb slowly traced the bridge of his nose, his eyebrows, the freckles and sun spots on his cheeks, his lips.
The following days were a mix of routine and anticipation. Every walk in the fields, every chore with the cattle or the chickens, was tinged with the thought that in a few weeks Shino would be gone. Kiba clung to every daily gesture: the touch of shoulders as they walked, the laughter while cleaning the corral, the kisses shared under the trees. Every moment became more intense, more precious.
One afternoon, while they were bathing in the nearby river, Shino broke the silence.
"You know?" he said, wetting his hair with water and letting the drops fall on Kiba's skin. "Even if I'm gone, I want us to continue doing this when I can come back."
Kiba smiled, albeit with a hint of melancholy. "I know. And I'm going to wait too, even if it's hard."
On the day of his departure, Shino got up before dawn. The sun's rays barely touched the wheat fields and poplars along the road. Kiba refused to start the day.
Despite his grief, Shino gently dressed Kiba in his own clothes. Before he finished sliding his pants back into place, he kissed the inside of his tanned thighs.
Raising his arms for Shino to put his shirt on, Kiba said, "Promise me you'll write to me," trying to keep his voice from trembling.
"I promise," Shino replied, kissing his forehead.
Shino's suitcase looked small next to the vastness of the landscape, and each step toward the station seemed a reminder of the distance that would soon separate them. Kiba stood there, watching his beloved's silhouette grow smaller, feeling a mixture of pride and emptiness in his chest.
Hi no Kuni University, 1992
Dear Kiba,
This week has passed with the usual cadence of my days in the city, although nothing I do here can replace the calm of our forest or the closeness of your presence. I've spent long hours in the lab, observing samples under a microscope, recording results, and patiently fine-tuning my research. All of this seems important, even necessary, but sometimes, while I'm working, I close my eyes for a moment and can imagine walking with you among the poplars on our hillside, feeling the breeze on my shoulders and the sun on my back.
Today I ordered my usual coffee. The aroma was strong, the warmth of the liquid in my hands reminded me of the mornings we shared breakfast before school. I've attached a photograph of my cup on the table, hoping that when you see it, you'll remember our simple routine, and how here, even amidst the noise and the rush, there are small moments that can feel like home.
This afternoon, I looked out my bedroom window. The city unfolded before me like a sea of tiny, flickering lights, full of movement and life. I've also attached a photograph of that nighttime view; although it amazes me, I feel a pang of nostalgia in my chest. No city could replace the serenity of being with you, but there is also beauty in the fabric of this metropolis.
Kiba, I miss you with the silent intensity of the days that stretch by, and yet there is no sadness in it, only a constant desire for us to see each other again. I think of you always. My heart has never stopped wandering the country paths where your every gesture has left its mark on me.
I love you. With the firmness and certainty of someone who knows that everything I am is tied to you, that my return will be inevitable, and that waiting only makes me appreciate even more the moment when I can embrace you again.
Who thinks of you constantly and always as yours,
Shino.
Attached:
1. A photograph of my coffee at my usual spot. I got used to always ordering a cappuccino, since the barista here always draws pictures with the foam. Isn't that interesting? Today it was a heart.
2. A photograph of the view from my dorm window, showing the urban city at night, with its lights and movement. The height of the buildings never ceases to amaze me.
Against all odds, the city hadn't swallowed him up.
That was the first thing he noticed. There was a lot of talk about the noise, the chaos, the unsustainable pace.
He was almost finishing his first year of college. Biology, as Professor Iruka had recommended. Sometimes he didn't know if what he felt was joy or a quiet form of belonging. He was doing well. The classes were demanding, some of the professors more distant than others, but the books remained his allies, and the lab his favorite place. He could spend hours observing, classifying samples, staring into the microscope in complete silence.
He'd also been lucky with his assigned companion. He shared a dorm with a law student, a boy with haggard eyes and long hair named Shikamaru. He had a particular way of existing in the world: he always seemed tired, but he understood everything immediately. They didn't talk much, but they got along well. There was an implicit peace between them, like a tacit agreement not to disturb each other.
Sometimes they played board games on the balcony while smoking a leisurely cigarette. The smoke drifted and dissolved in the air as Shikamaru talked about how he'd like to live a quiet life, have an easy job, marry a normal woman, "not too pretty, not too ugly." Shino nodded silently. Other nights, Shikamaru would come home late from the library, plonk himself down on the sofa, and mumble some legal reflection that Shino listened to without understanding.
Some afternoons, when his classes ended early and the sun filtered through the buildings with just the right amount of warmth, Shino would go for a walk with no fixed destination. He let the city guide him, accompanied by his old headphones. He liked discovering new alleys, small plazas between buildings, moss-covered walls, bookstores with cats, markets with records of music he didn't know.
He had his favorite café on a nameless corner. Hinata had been working there for a few months and always smiled sweetly at him when he came in. She knew his order by heart, and when he was away for several days, when he returned, she would say, "Nice to see you again," in a very sweet voice that seemed like a whisper. She also drew very interesting things in everyone's order.
Some nights he went to the jazz club near campus. Not to socialize, but to listen. He sat alone at a table in the back; sometimes Shikamaru kept him company, they would order sake, and he would close his eyes while the double bass kept the tempo. That was one thing he liked about the city: being able to slip away without completely disappearing.
Adjusting was relatively easy. But sometimes, when he closed his eyes while walking down a busy street, he remembered the sound of crickets at night, the smell of wet earth after a summer rain, the creak of his house's wooden gate as it opened.
An infectious laugh, kisses that tasted like sweet peaches, a tanned back covered in freckles.
But the distance didn't erase Kiba. Every evening, upon returning to the dorm, Shino checked the mailbox for letters and messages from his beloved. Some came with details of life in the countryside: a drawing of the barnyard, a brief comment about the chickens, an observation about how the grass grew after the last rain. Others were long letters, speaking of shared memories, of how Kiba felt his absence and, at the same time, celebrated his achievements.
His calls became a ritual. Several times a week, Shino found a free moment between classes and labs to dial Kiba's home number from the public phone booth. The brown-haired man's voice was an anchor, a reminder of home and what always awaited him.
“I really like your photos ya take with your anolog… aneloga camera? How was it?” Kiba said on one of those calls. “Are you laughing at me, boy!? Analog! Yeah, whatever. But it would be much better if ya took a picture of your handsome face and sent it to my house in an envelope, ya know?”
Shino laughed softly. “Can I get a dried peach leaf for the next time you write to me?”
Time passed naturally, but each call reminded them of the fragility of distance. Kiba learned to wait, to receive each letter as a gift, to value each word, each detail Shino sent. Shino, in turn, learned to keep the connection alive, to recount each discovery, to share his life as a student without the city erasing the essence of who they were.
Konoha Post Office, 1992
My handsome and brilliant Shino,
Sometimes I close my eyes while cleaning peaches and I can see you there, bent over the fruit, focused, with that serious expression that has always fascinated me. Today, while doing chores in the yard, I thought about writing to you.
The routine at home remains as intense as ever. This morning I had to fight with my sister to be able to use the phone at the time you call me. She insists on talking to Aunt about things I don't understand, and I end up demanding that it's my time to talk to you, period! Sometimes my mother intervenes, her patience hanging by a thread as you know, and manages to free the phone for me.
This week your mother has invited me to lunch several times. We constantly mention you when we talk at the table, and we exchange the information you give us both. Your parents look healthy, and your mother smiles a lot when we talk about your long-awaited return home.
Today I was tending the cattle and thought about how Akamaru would have run after the calves with you by my side. I found a pair of calves that had escaped from the corral, and I had to chase them through the damp grass, feeling the soft earth beneath my boots and remembering your hands helping me hold them. I laughed to myself, imagining you were there. I'm more careful now. What's the point of being careless if you're not here to reprimand me?
Yesterday I walked to our secret place by the lake and sat, waiting for the wind to bring your memory to me. Since you asked me, and I'd do anything for my man, as soon as you called me the other day, I pressed some peach leaves to send to you. Are you going to think of me while you look at them? Will you put them in your notebook to look at in class? You can't lose focus like that!
Walking to the post office, I always hum the songs we used to listen to together. Do you still hear them over there?
I love you.
Forever yours (and you always mine!),
Kiba.
There were two weeks left until the end of the semester. Shino had already taken most of the final exams. The lab notebook rested on his desk, the ink fresh from the professor's signature. Everything was in order: the room was clean, the mental to-do list almost finished.
He felt calm.
There was something comforting in knowing he would return. Not with urgency, but with a kind of anticipated gratitude. Returning to the silence of the countryside, to leisurely lunches, to the smell of freshly baked bread, to the wooden gate that creaked as it opened. But he also knew he would miss some things about that city he had, against all odds, learned to inhabit.
That night, Shikamaru went out onto the balcony with a bag of chess pieces. He sat on the ground, lit a cigarette, and looked at him with that usual expression: somewhere between tiredness and curiosity.
"You're leaving in how long?" he asked, as he set up the board.
"Two weeks," Shino replied, moving a black piece without thinking to much.
They played in silence for a few minutes. Faking it well, Shikamaru let him win.
"It's almost three months of vacation," he said suddenly. "Can I come visit you sometime?"
Shino looked at him. It wasn't usual for Shikamaru to ask for things.
"Sure," he answered without hesitation.
Shikamaru took a long drag.
“I'm not saying this because I'll miss you or because I want to meet your chickens,” he added. “It's just… all this tires me out. Sometimes I think I'd like to leave the city, at least for a while. See the sky without wires, breathe the fresh air… you know?”
Shino didn't respond immediately. He looked into the bedroom. The fan was spinning slowly. On the table, a cup of cold coffee. Everything was in its place.
“I miss the silence,” he said. “My mother's cooking… the smell of the earth after the rain.”
“A simpler life.”
“Not simple,” he corrected gently. “Just different.”
Shino knew that life in the countryside wasn't easy. The work done by the people who lived there required immense effort. Thinking about his parents in the future, grown older and still having to work so hard under the sun or during the bone-chilling winter frustrated him.
Shikamaru nodded. He said nothing more. The pieces remained on the board.
That night, Shino turned off the light and went to bed with the window open. Warm air entered, laden with the distant noise of the city, like a river that never stops. He listened to it without discomfort. He thought he didn't want to choose between one world and the other. He thought that, perhaps, there was a way to maintain both. He wanted to finish his studies and have a good job to support his parents in the future. He wanted to experience the silence and homeliness of the countryside with the comforts of the city.
He called his mother, knowing that by then she would be sitting at the nightstand, waiting for the phone to ring. He told her about his day and asked how things were going at home. The woman affectionately reminded him that they would see each other soon and promised to cook his favorite meals to celebrate his arrival.
He closed his eyes.
It wasn't long before he returned.