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For what is perhaps the first time, Shikamaru makes it a point to seek out his teammate.
Lately, it has been an endless round of debriefing and taking down various accounts of the events which transpired throughout the war. The who and what, the when and where, so scholars can cobble together the why, fifty years from now. It is not as if he expects her to look upon it favorably; it is more that for once, she simply is not handling it.
The streets are quiet and mercifully safe. Ever relaxed, current events keep him in a relative state of vigilance.
Crunch.
Lifting his boot, he raises an eyebrow at the shards of class; they radiate from a central breaking point, arrayed in an admittedly interesting display across the dirt. The few drops not yet dried indicate the leftovers of a dark, sweet flavor of whiskey. Raising his head to the clear night sky, he surveys the abandoned house to his right, eyes passing over the eerie details. An entire side blown out by a forceful ninjutsu, likely with side effects, judging by the odd shadows left on the brick. It’s ghastly, and the burnt grass gives him a dull ache of regret.
The real fighting may have been far away, but its effects rippled outward, down to the last modest home.
He sighs. “Troublesome.”
Stairs seem like a pain, so he takes the gutter route; only after he is finished does he reflect that perhaps both ways were a chore. Dusting himself off, he shoves his hands in his green flak jacket and tilts his head at his teammate. “What are you doing up here, Ino?”
Perched at the point of the roof, she swings the bottle back and forth well enough to prove her sobriety. Jaw set stern, she tosses her long blonde ponytail behind her and glares at nothing in particular. “What’s there to do?”
A sigh, and he walks over to join her. At least there are stars.
“Don’t tell me to slow down, Shikamaru,” she warns, and then takes an almost defiant draught from the bottle. Throat gulps in approval. Wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and it makes him a little uncomfortable.
“Look what happened while we were gone,” she begins, continuing to glare. “While we were out traveling, fighting big bads; look what happened at home.” Staring down into the shadowed remains of the house, she shakes her head.
“We were needed.” If he sounds sure, he is not convincing her. “We had a bigger battle to fight.”
“If we don’t fight for people who can’t defend themselves, then what the hell are we?”
“They were defended, Ino, to the best of the village’s ability. Remember, they don’t have powerhouses like Naruto, Sasuke, and Sakura running around.”
Ino flinches at the last name. “If I were as strong as her, this house—”
“You aren’t, but … you don’t need to be. You’re strong in different ways. This sounds so clichéd, Ino, don’t make me explain this all to you.”
Taking another angry swig, she slops some down her front. “So that’s it? We’re done?”
“What are you talking about—”
“So what do I do?” Her voice is droll and dripping with bitterness. “Do I retreat now, wave off the danger, and live a quiet life? Do I continue until I’m shipped home in a pine box?”
An angry roar sounds in her throat, rumbling with the foreboding of thunder in the distance.
“Or do I meander, like clouds? Waiting for nothing?”
It shuts him up temporarily, in which she takes the opportunity to balance the bottle near the peak of the roof. For a moment it seems it will stay; then it sways, slippery on the tile, finally succumbing to gravity.
It falls into Shikamaru’s waiting hand.
“You’re not the only one who feels this way.” Pause. “What do you think Sakura’s doing right now?”
Covering her face with her sleeve, she shrugs.
“She’s probably doing the same thing you are: Drinking, or just sitting, thinking, crying. About her life, and why she’s alive when so many others aren’t. Thinking about all the people she lost today, yesterday, and every day. She might be with one or both of her teammates . . . or she might not.”
Ino tries in vain to stem the flow of tears; roughly wiping them away, she sniffles.
“We’re not all so different; power doesn’t make a difference,” he says.
With that pronouncement, he falls silent. The wind teases them blithely. If they listen quietly, they can hear the ghosts of the broken house. If they halt their breathing, tears and sobs float toward them on the wind, likely ones they know.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she repeats: “Should I meander like clouds, and wait for nothing?”
Taking a swig, he sighs. Weakly, he raises a wavering hand to her hair and fingers the ends.
“That’s always what I do.”