he waits, listening for the creaking hinges of his home's front door /before/ he pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. he hisses through grit teeth, wishing the dull ache in his groin would subside; that's just what accompanied prolonged arousal without release, he knew, and temari was not to blame for that. he /has/ condoms, he /knows/ he does, his mom had been the one to provide him with a small package, as horrifying and embarrassing as that was. but /where/ had he placed them?
/why/ had he forgot, especially when he was prepared to put one to use? flexing his jaw, shikamaru runs a hand down his face and sighs. that night, when he /finally/ drifts off to sleep, he dreams of /her/, of what could have been that evening, of what it must feel like to be inside of her, and to fall apart at the seams in her arms.
when he opens the door the next afternoon, he’s a flurry of emotions upon seeing her; images from his dream flash before his mind’s eye, and he struggles not to blush as they share a kiss. hand-in-hand, he welcomes her into his home, answering her question as he leads her to the kitchen. (he’s keen on avoiding the living room sofa, for memories of yesterday will truly torture him, further.) “I’m good,” he clears his throat. he most certainly is /not/ good, but he can’t exactly tell her that, can he? “are you? are you good?”
–
she’s barely paying attention to which room they’re heading into; she’s barely been able to pay attention to anything since last night, since they almost… she’s paying so little attention that she makes the mistake of answering honestly. “i’m… not so good.” she’s moping, she knows she’s moping, but she’ll be damned if she ever says the word out loud. at least shikamaru’s doing okay, she can be happy about that. for the first time, she looks around, mildly confused. “why are we in the kitchen?”
glancing around, her eyes at last settle on him. bright teal clouds, brows scrunching together in concern. “you’re not good.” she accuses. “why did you lie?”
