Chapter Text
The sun shone glaringly bright on the day of Nara Yoshino’s funeral. Most of the people in attendance seemed to agree that she would have approved, as ferociously bright and in-your-face as the woman had always been herself. I stared at the bouquets bunched around the memorial picture—red spider lilies of course, the flowers of the dead—and wished that I was somewhere else.
I hadn’t known Yoshino very well. That didn’t stop me from mourning her death, of course, but it was mourning in a somewhat distant, regretful kind of way that left me feeling out of place among the crowd of people who felt her loss so deeply. Truthfully, I had been surprised to be invited at all, my acquaintanceship with Yoshino had been so passing, but I couldn’t exactly say no. The invitation had come from my boss, the bereaved husband himself, Nara Shikaku. He was someone I respected a great deal, possibly even more than the Hokage, and also one I might have, maybe, had a massive, embarrassing, guilty crush on.
That last detail was a large part of the reason that I felt so wrong, so fake, being here. I’d been nursing this crush on Shikaku, on this dead woman’s husband, almost as far back as the days when I’d first started working directly under him as his assistant. I only really knew Yoshino at all through occasionally running into each other when searching him out for something or other, but it was obvious to me that they loved each other very much, despite the yelling that I often stumbled upon. Especially when Shikamaru came into the picture.
Despite knowing that they were happy and in love, and that Yoshino was a good woman, probably the perfect one to be partner to a man like Shikaku to be honest, I had never actually been able to squash those pesky feelings. Which was why I didn’t belong here, didn’t deserve to be among the people who had loved her so, shouldn’t have come, but—
But Shikaku had asked me to come. He had opened the door to accept the paperwork I hadn’t been able to put on hold for his mourning, little Shikamaru clinging to his neck in his sleep, looking desperately in need of some rest (and a hug) himself. Helpless in the face of his grief to find anything actually meaningful to say, but needing to say something, I’d awkwardly offered my assistance with whatever he needed, not just paperwork. And he had looked at me and simply asked if I would come to the funeral.
And so I came.
No matter how tight my chest felt at just being here.
Shikaku didn’t look any more well-rested now, standing stone-faced at the front and center of the crowd, Yamanaka Inoichi and Akimichi Chouza flanking him on either side. Shikamaru was on his hip again, awake this time but quiet, almost pensive. I wondered how much the toddler actually understood of the situation, if he was reacting to the somber air around him or if it was his own nature. Were three-year-olds normally capable of understanding death? One of the few times I’d actually exchanged more than a few words with Yoshino in the past year, she’d gushed about how smart and thoughtful Shikamaru was for his age and complained about him showing signs of inheriting his father’s laziness nearly in the same breath.
I ached for the years of Shikamaru’s growth that Yoshino would never see, for the hole that I knew this was leaving in the lives of her family. I ached at the reminder that, even in times of peace, there was still and always loss. That was not just a a fact of shinobi life, but a fact of all life.
After the memorial service was concluded, I made my way over to them. There was a line of people giving their condolences, and I could see by the subtle clench in his jaw that despite their good intentions, Shikaku was very ready to leave. Even Shikamaru was starting to get antsy, squirming in his father’s arms. I sidestepped the line and smiled at the little boy instead of greeting Shikaku right away, since he was still busy with someone else.
“Hey there, Shika-chan,” I said. He squinted at me, which was, frankly, much more adorable than it should have been. “A little too bright out to nap, huh?” The answering nod and aggrieved sigh was very grumpy and very much like his father when he thought something was too troublesome to deal with. How could one child possibly be so cute?
(It probably helped having devastatingly attractive parents.)
I pulled an exaggeratedly sympathetic pout onto my face. “Bet you and your dad could both really use a nap, though.”
“I don’t think anyone in the village would take you up on that sucker’s bet,” Shikaku said, having finished speaking with the last person and turned to face me fully.
“Ah, but wouldn’t it be more of a sucker’s bet if I said you’d really like a nap, instead of a nap just being useful? I think a nap is always useful, no matter who you are,” I replied, and then immediately wanted to kick myself for thinking nitpicking would be funny.
Shikaku’s lips pulled briefly into a smirk, though, and instead of worrying about my own dumb attempts at humor I worried about the way they fell back to a serious line far too quickly. It was probably awful of me to want him to act normal this soon, selfish to just want him to be okay when I knew that wasn’t how grief worked, but I couldn’t help it. It was painful just to see his grief. I couldn’t imagine being the one in that position.
“Thanks for coming,” he said before I could word-vomit something stupid into the silence. “Yoshino always liked you. Especially the times you brought the paperwork to me when I was trying to escape it. She always got a laugh out of that.” The last few words were said in an almost nostalgic tone.
I blinked and tried not to let the guilty thought that Yoshino wouldn’t have liked me so much if she knew about my hopeless crush on her husband show on my face. “Of course, Shikaku-sama,” I said instead. “You asked me to.” Wait, too much, could be taken the wrong (right) way, time to backtrack— “I wish I’d known her better.”
Not entirely the truth, but not exactly a lie either. It had been painful to be around them together, and I’d often found myself jealous of her, but Yoshino on her own was very nice—she’d had a big personality and hadn’t seemed to mind that I never had much to say. I’d always been more of a listener than a talker; it was what made me suited to being an administrative assistant. Especially to Shikaku, who only listened to people chatting his ear off when it was either particularly important or someone very close to him.
Shikaku gave me another short-lived smile, shifting Shikamaru on his hip. Something tickled at the back of my throat. I cleared my throat lightly, trying to push the sensation back, but it stubbornly remained.
“Well,” I said, coughing shortly and looking up at the sky. It was still very bright out, not a cloud in the sky, but I could see how much time had passed by the angle of the sun. “We’ve all probably kept Shika-chan from his nap long enough, I think. Go on home. Is there anything I can bring you?”
“Not paperwork,” Shikaku said dryly. “And anything else I think I can get myself, since you’re not on the clock right now.”
My face went hot. “Oh, right, of course,” I spluttered. “I just meant—that is.” I cleared my throat, louder this time, and almost choked on something that came up it. I coughed and hacked until whatever it was fell into my hand, which I closed immediately because really, no one needed to see that. I realized that Shikaku’s free hand was on my back. When I looked up at him he raised an eyebrow at me. “Sorry. I’m fine.” My voice was raspy and not nearly as confident as I wanted it to be.
“Troublesome,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I guess what I should have said was thank you for offering.”
“Of course,” I said again, unable to meet his eyes any longer. “Um. I’ll bring the more important documents around tomorrow, if that’s okay, Shikaku-sama.” He nodded, and I turned to give another soft, if somewhat strained, smile to Shikamaru. “Goodbye, Shika-chan.”
Shikamaru blinked lazily and waved. Then I was out of there as fast as I could walk without looking like I was running away—which, to be honest, wasn’t very fast at all, shinobi are very good at reading body language. As soon as I was far enough, I opened my palm and looked at the thing that had choked me.
Small, shiny and slick with spit, the slightly crumpled flower stared back up at me. Kunoichi class came back to me then, despite the years since a situation had ever called for less well-known flower identification and meanings. It’s pink petals were similar to cherry blossoms, but I could remember seeing several flowers like this in little globes. Sea thrift, for sympathy.
Ah. It seemed that my stupid, embarrassing, major crush had progressed even further than I’d already realized.
This was...not good.