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YAMANAKA INO ❝山中いの❞ ([info]verdure) wrote in [info]last_stretch,
@ 2009-10-15 21:14:00

Previous Entry  Add to memories!  Tell a Friend!  Next Entry
Current mood: busy

[ closed | complete ] /spams forever
Who: Ino, Shikamaru, and a cameo from Suigetsu
What: When Ino gets rejected, everybody suffers. In which Ino breaks a cardinal rule, Shikamaru discovers that photographic memory really isn't all it's cracked up to be, and Suigetsu gets caught between a rock and a hot place. But don't worry, everything works out. Eventually.
When: October 9th, night & October 12th, evening.
Where: Shikamaru and Ino's apartment.
Warning(s): Some naked shenanigans, but it's pretty vague.
Note(s): This is a revised version of the drabble I wrote for Soo uh... whenever my bet with Ruxi was. We decided we just had to make it canon somehow... so we did. All godmodding is consensual.




When Ino decided that she was going to hijack his apartment, Shikamaru had very begrudgingly set only one rule for her, well aware that anything above and beyond would be cheerily ignored. She’d just as begrudgingly acquiesced, and he figured that, if luck and stars and other things he didn’t believe in were on his side, that would be the end of it.

The only warning Shikamaru had that he might’ve overestimated Ino was when he opened the door to his dark apartment and found himself faced with a hushed, “Oh my god--”

Automatically, he flipped the lights on, only to be immediately reminded of exactly why he hated his photographic memory.

From the bed, Suigetsu waved. “Yo, Nara.”

“Get out,” Shikamaru ground out, suddenly craving a cigarette. Or a million of them.

“You heard him,” Ino barked when Suigetsu drew breath to protest, shocking Shikamaru by coming to his aid, however briefly. Somehow, she extracted herself from the tangle of sheets with unearthly amounts of dignity and primly added, “Get out.”

Suigetsu’s brows nearly disappeared into his hairline, but he said nothing as he gathered his orphaned clothes from where they were scattered across the floor. He didn’t bother with anything but pants, and must have studied the Ino school of thought, because he grinned cheekily at Shikamaru before slipping from the room. When the door finally clicked shut, Shikamaru swiveled back on Ino, somehow managing to keep his voice completely level in spite of the unfamiliar amounts of ire welling up inside him.

“I told you not to bring any guys back here, Ino.”

“I know, I know,” she said, rolling her eyes and tugging the sheet higher up her bare chest. It was as if shame completely escaped her as an emotion. “I was going to wash the sheets and stuff, you know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” he snapped back quickly, and she flinched away from him. “I told you--”

“What’s the big deal, anyway?” she demanded, cutting him off with an accusing flick of her hand, her expression stubborn. “I would’ve cleaned up and everything before you got home and you wouldn’t’ve even known he was here!”

“That doesn’t matter either.”

“What does matter, then? That I never get laid?!”

It mattered that she broke her word, that she betrayed his trust. That mattered. Unfortunately, for all his brainpower, Shikamaru couldn’t think of a single way to say it without sounding stupid--so he didn’t say anything at all. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel, angling his head to the side just far enough so that he could glance at her over his shoulder.

“Wash the sheets.”

Her eyes widened, but he didn’t see the rest of her reaction, already striding from the room and slamming the door behind him.




A few days later, after being thoroughly and utterly ignored, Shikamaru walked into the apartment to find Ino curled on the couch, entranced by one of the classic American movies she loved so much. There was a cup of tea perched on the coffee table in front of her, as well as a stack of glossy magazines and a bag of half-eaten popcorn. Unbuttered, he couldn’t help but notice, and probably low fat to boot.

He was about to spin around and wander back to the library when he caught sight of the final, most alarming object on the table: a second cup of tea.

Suddenly, he couldn’t leave.

With a leaden sigh, he shed his shoes and bag and took his spot on the couch in front of his--his--cup of tea, wordlessly collapsing into the worn cushions. For the fifty seventh time since she’d barged though his door, he wondered why, exactly, he’d put himself through this.

“It’s cold now,” she said, barely audible over the musical number exploding to life onscreen. “Moron.”

“I know,” he replied, kicking his feet up on the table and watching the dark tea slosh against the rim of the cup.

He fell asleep, hands folded behind his head, to some histrionic tune he couldn’t name but would always associate with Ino.

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