| :] | [Sep. 15th, 2009|10:59 am] |
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 that, if luck and stars and other things he didn’t believe in were on his side, 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.
“Get out,” he ground out to the dumbstruck guy coiled in his sheets, dark-haired and darkly handsome, just the way Ino liked them.
“Huh? Who are you?”
“You heard him,” Ino barked, extracting herself from the bed with unearthly amounts of dignity and shocking Shikamaru by coming to his aid, however briefly. “Get out.”
The guy, still bewildered but suitably cowed, hurriedly plucked his clothes from where they were scattered on the floor and made the quickest exit any man could in that kind of situation. 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, expression stubborn and just as self-righteous as his own. “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 betrayed his trust. That mattered. Unfortunately, for all his brainpower, Shikamaru couldn’t think of a single way to say it that didn’t sound 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, he walked into the apartment to find Ino 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, 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 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,” Ino 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 splash 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 her. |
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