Chapter Text
His parents are not the fighting type. They bicker, yes, argue even. Give each other the silent treatment, abusing him as a messenger for passive aggressive threats. But they do not fight. Simply, because they do not have much to fight about. They make a good couple, Shikadai knows this. They work well together, have so since they were literally children.
So, when his mother comes to cut short his lunch with Cho-Cho – something incredibly out of character for her, she never restricts his life outside of home like this – he is too stunned to properly think at first. Cho-Cho stares at him with wide and worried eyes from her place at the booth. And he stands a few feet away in an awkward corner of the café, his mother with her arms crossed in front of him.
“I’m going to Suna for a while,” she says.
Already an odd statement. Usually she has a planned schedule, two weeks, a mission, Gaara’s birthday. A while can mean anything, but most significantly, this is a spontaneous visit.
“Did you and Dad…?”
“Fight, yes. Do you want to come?”
Shikadai glances back at his friend at the table, her arms raised in questioning, mouthing silently ‘What is it?’. He guesses if whatever happened was enough for his mother to want to leave the country, he should better tag along. He nods hesitantly, seeing his mother’s eyebrows raise just the slightest bit. He is too old to pick sides, he muses. Then again, it’s been a while since he has seen his uncles.
“We leave in an hour.”
His father is not home when he walks through the door. His shoes are not at the entrance, there are no broken dishes or disrupted books to show any sign of a fight. He is not outside sitting on the porch moping like he usually is, the door to his parent’s bedroom is wide open, inside not a soul. Shikadai goes to pack his bags quietly and wonders what it will be like to leave without saying goodbye to his father. The two talk a lot, even if it’s nothing trivial. Especially after he comes from work, basking in the cool evening breeze outside. His father holding him close at his side, the collar of his jacket twined with cigarette smoke and the smell of a dusty closed off office. Shikadai will call him when he arrives, he decides.
Suna is a long train ride away from Konoha. Too long for weekend visits, but that rarely stops his mother. His father works long hours, but Shikadai can’t count the times he has gone home after school to find his mother gone. When he was younger, he would often sleep on her side of the bed then, keeping his father company. He still wakes up early to do the dishes and make breakfast when she is not there. Gets Cho-Cho to go grocery shopping with him and huddles up Friday nights, half asleep, in the washroom, folding laundry. Every time he meets Boruto in the mornings, telling him he’s a loser for missing the last party, he has to remind himself – right, Boruto doesn’t do shit.
The train wagon they’re in is full, for some reason, they must have gotten stuck right during a popular holiday season. There’s a family sitting so close to them, Shikadai can smell the father’s deodorant. Their baby doesn’t stop crying for a whole three hours and he watches his own mother tightens the grip on her magazine, the sound of the paper crumbling and swooshing like the beetles flying against the window.
In Suna they stay in his mother’s childhood home with her brothers. It’s always a little dirty, so nobody truly bothers with cleaning. The hallways are atrociously drawn out, but all the rooms are tiny. They arrive right at sundown, his uncle sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper. A dainty bottle of beer stands before him, a small bowl with pickled olives. He looks up, face naked of any make up, slight stubble needing a fresh shave.
“Temari?” He asks confused and his voice breaks awkwardly.
His mother promptly ignores him, heading straight to her room. Shikadai lingers in the door frame, letting the bag fall to the dusty floor. Kankuro eyes him up quickly, his hair beginning to curl from the sweat.
“Hey, kid.”
The smell of red peppers and frying oil stings Shikadai’s nose, his shirt is already wet, his head is killing him. Kankurou picks up an olive with two precise fingers, holding it out to him, the grease slithers down his hand. The cheap lightbulb above him hangs on a thin wire, it flickers until it gives out completely. Behind him the window rattles against the wind from outside, the shutters loosen and knock loudly against the glass. Dirty dishes on the sink clatter from the force, a plate falls down and breaks. Kankurou continues blinking up at his nephew until Shikadai makes a move forward and grabs the beer.
Shikadai always wakes up early when he is in Suna. The sun is too bright, too determined to keep him from his somber. He has yet to call his father, he remembers. In the hallway, visible in the clear daylight is an old picture of his mother and her brothers. Rasa is cut out of it with heavy-handed incisions, making empty space hang above the siblings like a reverse halo.
The kitchen is full when he reaches it. It was originally only meant for three people and it shows. His mother stands at the stove, his uncles and Shinki sitting at the flimsy table, looking like it’s about to fall apart any moment. At home, he would never come to breakfast in just his boxers and without a hair tie, but here - it’s so warm, he feels boneless.
“Oh, nephew,” Gaara says with monotone surprise, “it’s been a while.”
“Yeah, kid’s grown a head since I last saw him,” Kankuro muses between bites of his breakfast.
Shinki, who sits closest to the door, turns his head awkwardly to greet him. His eyes appear too big without his painted face, hair sticking into every direction, stiff like his iron sand. Shikadai rarely sees him like this, just woken up, with sleep clouding his eyes and only underwear and a tank top covering his tanned body.
“Hey,” he grunts. His mother raises an eyebrow and waves for him to come closer. She grabs the side of his head and kisses his temple. He lets himself be manhandled, relishes in the smell of sunny side eggs and her comforting touch. The window is wide open, but the air still stands still and fuming from the heat in the small room. She shoves a plate into his hands and he sits on the countertop next to her, lazily eating up. The food in Suna is saltier, it has more bite. Claws its way down his throat and sits heavy in his stomach.
“How long are you staying, Tem?”
Kankuro scraps together the last bits of diced tomato in his bowl, red and black patterns lining the outside of it.
“I don’t know yet.”
Shikadai chews on thoughtfully on soft bread, tucks a strand of wild hair behind his ear. He still doesn’t know what exactly happened between his parents, but he does not feel himself growing curious. He simply wants things to be normal again.
“The festival is in a few days,” Gaara states, folding his newspaper in half. He is the only one who already looks ready to start his day. Thick eyeliner in place, hair combed back neatly and dressed for work. “Shinki, you should take Shikadai with you.” The red-head stares at his son blatantly, waiting for his okay.
“You should go,” his mother speaks at his side, sensing his hesitance. She is already in the midst of cleaning the entire kitchen, an untouched cup of coffee sitting on the counter. He faces his cousin, smiling tiredly. “Alright.”
In his room again, Skikadai calls his father. There’s rustling on the other line, the sound of cloth rubbing against each other. Is he just now getting out of bed?
“Dad?”
“Yeah, I hear you. Where are you?”
“In Suna,” he mumbles. They were supposed to be training together on the weekend and he had promised Ino to help out in the shop. His plans will have to wait for another time.
“With Temari?”
“Yeah.”
His father is quiet. Shikadai imagines him scratching his beard, deep in thought.
“Well, have fun-“
“What happened?” He asks, not because he wants to know. Usually it’s none of his business, however he has also left the country and so has been brought into the midst of it.
“Don’t worry about it. Spend some time with your cousin, it’ll be good.”
“Sure,” he kicks off his shoes and falls back into his bed. The sheets are hot under his naked skin.
“Can you tell Ino that I can’t help her on Saturday after all? And that I’m sorry.”
His father chuckles slightly, a warm sound. “Of course.”
Shinki takes him out, apun his father’s request for sure, but Shikadai appreciates it nevertheless. His mother is almost avoiding him, disappearing into Kankuro’s workshop. There is nothing for him to do and he welcomes the distraction. He has never had any friends in Suna, but he remembers Shinki’s team from the chunin exams. Yodo, especially.
“Ah, it’s the cousin,” she muses, smirking up at him. Shikadai’s memory is a little blurry, but he thinks she has changed since the last time he has seen her. The hood of her poncho is up, carefully woven with what he assumes is some desert specific wool, as its colors are deeper than the ones in the Land of Fire. A thick strand of blond hair hangs in her face, eyelids are dusted a sandy rouge, sticking out against the blackness of her eyeliner. Looking around him, he realizes – everyone is wearing eyeliner.
He doesn’t recognize Araya without his mask before he introduces himself, waxy strokes of the same purple that covers Shinki’s face, color his. Little gold pearls hang from his ears. Shikadai feels out of place with his contained hair and monochrome clothing. The streets around them are alive, crowds of people flowing in and out. Small lanterns hanging on strings light the village. So deep into the center, the black night is almost not noticeable.
“Let’s go,” Shinki leads. They pass shaky street food stands, the smell of open fire, roasted meats and nuts reaching his nose. Everywhere he looks there is somebody laughing too loud, kissing each other’s heads with toothy smiles. He tries to imagine his mother growing up here, although he knows that Suna has changed quite a bit since her childhood. Yet, there are things that are ever outlasting. The dry, beige sandstone underneath his thin leather sandals, the brashness of the people – somebody bumps into him and he is the one saying sorry. He has been here so many times since he was a baby, but he knows almost nothing about the actual life. Always having relied on the company of his uncles, closed off in the house.
They enter one of the many blocky buildings and Shikadai follows the natives through the tight restaurant-like looking place to a wide backyard. Thin wooden pillars hold a clothed roof over the tables. Open at all sides, the garden grows chaotically, large ferns brush the simply banks to sit on. The lights hang in glass bottles around them, occasionally clinking against each other and Shikadai has to duck strategically on their way to an empty table.
They sit and Shikadai watches a pair of grown men grab each other’s head and kiss their temples and cheeks. Yodo in front of him, sees his stare and smiles. “It’s a Suna thing.”
Then raises an eyebrow at Shinki, who sits on the bank next to his cousin. “You didn’t tell him?”
The Kazekage’s son pokes with his metal straw in a curvy wooden cup. As he leans over, Shikadai sees inside of it only a mess of herbs to which Shinki adds water. He shrugs. “He didn’t ask.”
The cloak of iron sand that Shikadai is used to seeing on him is missing, but he is sure he is hiding at least a handful in one of his pockets. A waiter, without being asked, brings them a shallow bowl of dates and he bites on one, letting the sweetness spread through his mouth.
“You stayin’ for the festival?” Araya asks, thin strands of hair fall out of his messy ponytail and curl against his forehead. The two rings around his bottom lip move with the curve of his smile. If Shikadai looked like him, he would never wear a mask.
“I guess so.”
The festival is one Suna celebrates every year, labeled as a national holiday. Konoha sets its exam season around that time and so he has never been here to see it.
“You’ve never seen it?” Yodo raises her eyebrows astonished. Maybe her ears have gotten so good she can hear thoughts by now. “Do you have Suna citizenship?”
He nods hesitantly. It had been a bureaucratical nightmare to keep both of his citizenships and he remembers his mother staying on the phone for hours arguing with council members.
“Ahh,” Araya shakes his head, “then you’re legally a desert brother. Can’t just skip the festival.”
“You need some serious culture lessons, Leaf-boy.”
It’s a struggle to keep the shame from raising to his face. Back home, no one would think he might not know something. Nobody expects him, of all people, to be the uncultured one.
“I will take him around,” Shinki says all of sudden. From what Shikadai knows about his cousin, he would not so easily just sacrifice his free time for a tedious task as this. He has always been very invested in his schoolwork and training, never going out of his way to strengthen their family bond. Shikadai wonders where this change came from.
With fresh clothes huddled in his arms he makes his way over to the bathroom at the end of the hall. The door is closed, occupied. Shinki is already there, a towel thrown over his shoulder. Of course, they only have one bathroom.
“Uncle is in it,” he answers Shikadai’s unsaid question.
Standing in front of him, he sees that despite his cousin being more than a year older, Shikadai has at least two inches on him. Shinki is more filled out, visible muscle, while Shikadai is thoroughly his father’s son and so all long noodle-like limbs. The hair is all Suna though, they both share its stubbornness. Shikadai has always envied Inojin for the soft, compliant strands that are his hair, easy to comb, perfect to braid. His own, if he doesn’t tie it up, defies gravity in order to bulge around his head. Unlike his blond friend, his skin is neither smooth nor creamy. Looking down at Shinki’s arm, he sees the same brown lines of hair as on his own, decorating his chest and itching at the edges of his jaw. He has resulted on only shaving his face really, anything else is a waste of time.
The door at the side of catches his eye then, a flimsy piece of paper glued to it, the name ‘METAL’ written in crayons. He nudges it open, ignoring Shinki’s questioning look, taking in Metal Lee’s room. They are rarely in Suna at the same time and even in Konoha, not the closest of friends. He has never bothered to ask how his relationship with his stepbrother is. Shamelessly rummaging through his wardrobe, he finds a green jumpsuit, pajama edition.
“He has it as pajama too?”
“He has multiple,” Shinki answers from where he is standing in the doorway.
The room is nothing much, most likely hasn’t changed much from where Metal was a kid. There is an old piggybank on the nightstand, bedsheets with colorful patterns and stuffed animals.
“Do you get along?” He asks.
“Sometimes.”
He silently wonders, what it would be like if his mother remarries. It’s incredibly unlikely that his parents will simply divorce out of nowhere, but he can’t help but see it as a possibility. The way they are acting, this certainly wasn’t a small fight.
They both turn their heads towards the sound of the bathroom door opening. The hallway is so narrow, they can’t stand side to side. Kankurou grins, smelling like fresh mint and shampoo.
“The water’s out.”
“What?” Shikadai thinks he must have not heard him right.
“Too many people showered already.”
“You were in there for 35 minutes,” Shinki deadpans.
“It is what it is. Go shower at Yodo’s.”
So that’s how he ends up going out during the brutal mid-day sun, waiting for his cousin’s teammate to open the door. There is no wind at all, Shikadai’s feet burn from the hot sandstone. Yodo raises an eyebrow when she sees them.
“We’re out of water,” Shinki holds up his towel.
“So, you decided to come here and steal mine? Yeah, sorry to disappoint. Fucking asshole down the street is throwing a pool party or somethin’, we don’t have any either.”
Shikadai makes a mental note that if his father would simply apologize, he wouldn’t have to go through this.
“You can use the pump,” she shrugs.
Shinki seems to decide for him too, for he walks wordlessly straight through the small house to the plantless backyard. An old water pump sits in the middle of it on a square stone step.
“Really?”
“You want to stay dirty?”
He sighs loudly, jerking slightly when he hears Yodo drag a chair out of the house to sit with them. She holds a plastic bottle, filled with bronze ice tea and some ice cubes, sips from a scrawny straw in it. At his horrified stare, she only smirks, sharply flexing her teeth.
“Strip,” Shinki says, eagerly pulling off his own clothes, like they’re not some losers about to handwash themselves in his friend’s backyard. Shikadai isn’t naturally shy, he wouldn’t consider himself prudish either. The sun burning the back of his neck and dry sand sticking to his feet though, makes it harder to ignore his public nakedness. With his underwear soaked through, he tries to ignore how exposed he feels. He settles on the step of the pump, pulling his legs closer to his body.
Shinki and Yodo chat nonchalantly at the side, a few birds settle on the sandstone façade, chirping loudly like a live audience. He catches Yodo glance at him every once in a while, as he tries to disentangle the mess that are his curls. The harshness of the water makes his hair even more disagreeable to work with, its coldness biting at his skin and the temperature makes him dizzy.
“What does you dad do actually?” She asks suddenly.
It’s probably the first time he got this question. Back home, everybody knows his father.
“He’s the Hokage’s adviser.”
“Ah, somebody got important parents. Makes sense.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Shinki ducks his head to hide a smile, which is odd enough, but Yodo joins the light chuckle.
“You know,” she draws out and when Shikadai raises his eyebrows higher, rolls her eyes.
“It’s just that you can tell when somebody’s sitting on a high horse.”
Rapidly he raises his hands to gesture to Shinki. “His father is the Kazekage!”
“Really? Does Shinki seem like a spoiled brat to you?”
A gasp escapes him and he tries to store it away to the furthest part of his mind, to not get too embarrassed about it. “I’m not a spoiled brat?!”
“Damn, your voice gets really high when you’re angry.”
“Yodo, leave him alone,” Shinki hums, although he does not seem in the slightest upset about the exchange. His hair is so relentless, no matter how much angry water he pours on it and it looks ridiculous standing up like wet miniature mountains.
“Does your house have a backyard?”
“We have a lawn…”
“Fucker.”
Shikadai’s teeth clash together in a scowl and he slaps the small towel against the stone step in frustration and perfect synchronization with Shinki’s startled laugh.