​ Before the Chūnin Exams...​ ​ Shiori was in a happy, bouncy mood this morning. Lady Yoshino, Lord Shikaku’s wife and Shikamaru’s mother, had found time to join them at breakfast. For once, even Shikamaru was eclipsed in Shiori’s eyes.

There had been an uproar when young Lord Shikaku, barely ascended to his current post, had chosen not a clan ninja, not even a common-born ninja, but a powerless commoner to be his bride. Whispers, and sometimes more than whispers, accused him of diluting the blood, of shaming an illustrious line of Nara ancestors who had painstakingly bred genius, insight and shinobi might into the clan. Some called for him to step down in favour of older, wiser would-be leaders.

Time had proven them all wrong. Lady Yoshino was quick-witted, perceptive, silver-tongued and empathic. She was as much a socialite as Lord Shikaku was a bookworm. She extended the Nara Clan’s influence in ways that he could never have accomplished alone. It also didn’t hurt that she was the daughter of the head of an up-and-coming paper workshop, and in less than two decades no government clerk or elite businessman would dream of writing on anything other than Nara-optimised paper.

If Shikamaru was Shiori’s one true love, then Lady Yoshino was her goddess, and in her heart of hearts she dreamed of being half as good a wife to Shikamaru one day as Lady Yoshino was to his father. (I am choosing not to assess the probability of this event as that would be irrelevant to the topic at hand.)

“A new probability assessment has been made regarding that former Mori girl,” Lady Yoshino mentioned casually. “The whispers from the woods say her diplomatic value is due to rise, though of course her performance in the Chūnin Exams will also be a factor—as will yours. Gōketsu Keiko… do you feel prepared to marry her, Shikamaru?” I am not asking you to commit to a definite statement, but am interested in your informal perspective on the subject at this time.

There was the sound of something shattering.

Oh. It was the plate Shiori had been holding as it hit the floor. How strange.

“Be a dear and tidy that up, Shiori,” Lady Yoshino said, not unkindly. “I do enjoy seeing you at Shikamaru’s side, but it won’t work if you go around acting carelessly.” My opinion of you is not negatively affected by minor errors on your part. I cannot speak for others.

“Y—Yes, Lady Yoshino,” Shiori stammered. I apologise for my failure and will work to identify and rectify its root cause.

The rest of breakfast passed in silence as Lady Yoshino turned her attention exclusively to the food, while Shikamaru seemed grateful to avoid a topic that required effort to think about.

That left Shiori. Shikamaru married? Already? Before she had a chance to show him even a fraction of who she was? It was impossible. Unacceptable. Unbearable. Her odds might have been slim to begin with, but she had at least deserved a chance. And there was nothing she, a minor branch family member, could do to influence as political a matter as the heir’s marriage. She was, after all, nothing more than a personal assistant.

Nothing more than a personal assistant. An idea began to rise to the surface of Shiori’s mind. She wouldn’t do anything to sabotage the marriage—even if she could, Nara Shiori did not cheat—but if her rival was really a Mori, there was no way she could be as compatible with Shikamaru as Shiori. Shikamaru needed someone like Shiori the same way Lord Shikaku needed someone like Lady Yoshino, someone to complement rather than mirror him. He’d see that if given enough of an opportunity. He’d see how incompatible they were, and call the whole thing off. He just needed a little push…

“Lady Yoshino,” Shiori said, “on the subject of Shikamaru’s marriage, I’ve had an idea.” Please judge my proposal on its merits, without penalties for its spontaneity.

Lady Yoshino gave her a curious and oddly unsurprised look.

“Gōketsu Keiko is new to Leaf, isn’t she? It would make sense for Shikamaru to spend a little time introducing her to the sights. They’d have an opportunity to assess each other, and maybe even bond a little. I’d be happy to draw up an itinerary.” If this is unacceptable to you, please provide a critique and I will be happy to return with an amended version.

Lady Yoshino gave a warm smile. “Why, Shiori. I think that’s a delightful idea. I’m sure their time together will be highly entertaining.” Unconditional approval.

The Gōketsu girl would pay. Oh, how she would pay. Err, meaning that the itinerary would feature significant expenses, that was all. Shiori wasn’t the kind of person to feel vengeful towards a perfect stranger.

​ -o-

​ “Keiko, your secret admirer is here to ask you out!”

Kei nearly struck her head against the lamp as she stood bolt upright. Did Mari-sensei mean whom she thought she meant? But why here? Why now? Why at all? It made no sense!

Kei rushed out of her room and down the stairs, as if this new reality was so unstable that even a second’s delay might cause it to erase itself like a soap bubble.

Perhaps it had, because waiting for her in the entry hall was merely Nara Shikamaru.

“Must you, Lady Gōketsu?” he asked Mari-sensei in a long-suffering voice.

“We make our own entertainment around here,” Mari-sensei grinned. “Now let me leave you two lovebirds alone. Remember, young man, I want her back before nightfall. And no funny business, because believe me, you don’t want to see Jiraiya in overprotective father mode.”

Kei and Nara spontaneously exchanged commiserating looks.

“It seems I have missed something important,” Kei said as Mari-sensei disappeared up the stairs.

Nara gave her a look of wry resignation.

“It has been suggested to me—firmly suggested—that I invite you on a day out and show you some particularly noteworthy parts of the village. You are, of course, free to refuse, but it has been made clear to me that there will be consequences if I return empty-handed.”

“I see,” Kei said. “Am I to take it that, like myself, you would happily reject this plan in favour of going to bed with a nice book? Not that I have books for taking to bed. That is not at all what I am implying. This is a purely hypothetical scenario, and bears no relationship to my nightly life. Daily life! Daily life!”

If somebody had told Kei that her face was on fire at that moment, she would not have doubted them for a second. In fact, literally being set on fire would make a welcome distraction right now.

“Could we please reset this conversation?” she looked at Nara pleadingly.

Nara's face was completely blank.

“Lady Gōketsu, would you please do me the reluctant honour of accompanying me on an excursion?”

​ -o-

​ “According to this itinerary,” Nara said, “our first destination is the Nakamura Art Gallery. My personal assistant, Shiori, was considerate enough to purchase tickets for their latest exhibition in advance.”

Nara had his own personal assistant? It seemed the Gōketsu had a long journey ahead of them before they could imitate the true splendour of a noble clan, and not only because some of the piping still dripped a blood-red liquid that could only be seen in one's peripheral vision. Then again, the last thing Kei wanted was a stranger hovering around her at every hour of day and night, invading her privacy and forcing social interactions for her to fail at.

“What is this,” Nara said, without even the energy to make it a question.

“Nara?”

Nara winced. “This is an exhibition of the works of Heta Ahō, one of the most tragically inept artists of our time. Unfortunately, she is also the granddaughter of one of the village councillors, who ensures that her work remains in the public eye like a kunai embedded there by a marksman. I am very sorry, Gōketsu. We can leave at once.”

Kei’s attention, however, was captured by the nearest painting, which portrayed a towering, hyper-masculine First Hokage smiting a cringing, craven Uchiha Madara with what could either have been a vajra or a frozen herring.

“I admit my ignorance concerning the Uchiha Clan, Nara, but is it normal for them to have oni horns, tails and burning red saliva?”

“I wouldn’t have thought so,” Nara said slowly, “but now I look at it, perhaps this portrayal is accurate and my old taijutsu instructor was secretly an Uchiha survivor. Much would be explained.”

Kei snerked.

“Now that you mention it," she said, "that painting there, the one with the Nine-Tailed Demon Fox raising its claws in a doomed attempt to crush the Fourth Hokage as he bravely stands alone… the resemblance to my former head of class is uncanny. That is the exact posture she would take as she assigned me detention for refusing to play with the other children and thereby ‘selfishly disrupting the social dynamic.’ As if the questionable gains to be made from participating in their puerile gossip exchanges and competitions could ever outweigh the value of sitting in an empty classroom with a good book.”

“Exactly!” Nara burst out with what was, by his standards, stunning vigour. “Everyone knows the Nara have naturally low energy levels. The mere fact that my father instructed the teachers to treat me as an ordinary child was no justification for punishing me for optimising my behaviour. What was I supposed to gain from playing hide-and-seek when the others’ preferred strategies were so blindingly obvious, or participating in the pointless phatic rituals that allegedly facilitate group socialisation? And detention! If you must insist on locking me in a room with a bored overseer, at least permit me to pursue my academic studies instead of wasting my time with repetitive physical exercise!”

He slumped on a nearby seat in a state of low-level emotional exhaustion.

“You had repetitive physical exercise for detention?” Kei asked. “We were forced to copy out passages from My Vision, the Fourth Mizukage’s original manifesto. While subsequently answering questions on the content was less than challenging, the overseers did not hesitate to use corporal punishment in response to inferior brushwork. I will never understand how having my knuckles rapped with a length of wood was intended to improve my manual dexterity.”

Kei shifted her attention from Nara for a moment so as to give him time to recover from his outburst.

“Ah, that portrait over there?” she said, “‘Mishima the Destroyer Rips Out the Second Mizukage’s Spleen’? Setting aside the fact that the Second Mizukage was a man, and that the organ being extracted is quite clearly a lung, and that the entire subject is counterfactual, Mishima the Destroyer with his bulging muscles and mindless gaze is the perfect image of Kuroda the taijutsu instructor. He was possessed of an irrational but intense belief that every Academy student must master the art of grappling, and that my… limitations… in that regard were nothing more than a sign of arrogance to be violently discouraged. Tell me, Nara, do I appear to you to have a size or bone structure suited to grappling?”

“Grappling,” Nara gave a bitter laugh. “Don’t talk to me about grappling. I come from a long and proud lineage of mid-range ninjutsu users. We have an arsenal of unique immobilisation techniques, all of which I’m expected to eventually learn. Why did they think it was a good idea for me to roll around in the mud with muscle-bound louts capable of snapping me like a twig the second I came within arm’s reach?”

Kei and Nara exchanged long, sympathetic looks.

“Oh,” Nara said as they moved on, “look at this one. This is a classic. Everyone in my clan is familiar with this painting.”

“Nara Shagure Strikes Down Uguraga Migazo, Dreaded Champion of Hidden Rock.”

Kei frowned. “Correct me if I am mistaken, Nara, but does your clan not have a consistent naming scheme? This is the first time I have seen an exception.”

Shikamaru gave a small pleased smile. “His real name is Nara Shigure. There are five other errors. Can you find them all?”

Kei studied every inch of the painting, a faint sense of excitement building inside her. This was the kind of challenge she delighted in.

“The Nara crest on his back is rotated by roughly a radian.”

“Check.”

“The supposed Rock champion is wearing a Hidden Sand scarf, which is neither historically accurate nor appropriate to the environment being portrayed.”

“Check.”

“I am less confident on this one, but I do not believe ‘Uguraga Migazo’ is a human name.”

“Indeed. At least, no Nara have ever been able to find anyone with the name ‘Uguraga’ or ‘Migazo’ in our library archives. So check.”

“Ironically, the shadows do not match the light source, despite Shigure not using ninjutsu.”

“Check.”

Those were the easy ones. Kei needed to concentrate now. She did not want to use the Frozen Skein, not on a puzzle she was capable of solving herself.

“Gōketsu, if you’re struggling—“

Kei almost told him to be quiet and give her space to think, but then a superior alternative came to her. Something taught to her and Hazō by the late Captain Minami, whose death she must never analyse in further detail.

Kei put her hands together in front of her. Processing; do not disturb.

Nara fell silent instantly. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, but Kei’s social skills were not sufficient to interpret it.

Where was the other one? The landscape, while a hideous abomination that hopefully resembled no earthly place, was nevertheless consistent in its hideousness. The figures were appallingly proportioned, but that was not an error as such. Was it their postures? Their expressions? Their equipment?

Kei was distantly aware of a member of gallery staff approaching her as she stood perfectly still.

“Miss, are you—“

The woman noticed her hands, bowed in apology and retreated. Some things about the Nara, it would seem, were universally known.

Things about the Nara…

“The kunai holsters,” Kei said. “All armed Nara I have observed keep their holsters on the left, where other shinobi keep them on the right. Since it is vastly improbable that all Nara are left-handed…”

“Check,” Nara said in an impressed voice. “As it happens, my clan has a disproportionately high proportion of left-handers, but this way of carrying holsters is part of our standard combat style.”

“That was reasonably entertaining,” Kei said. “If there are other similarly inaccurate paintings here, perhaps we could make it a competition?”

​ -o-

​ “Are you quite certain about this café, Nara?” Kei inquired warily. Not that she was a catering expert, but statistically speaking something was awry when a dining establishment in a central location had no other customers at the peak of lunchtime.

“I am certain of nothing,” Nara admitted. “I do not eat out except when compelled by my family or my team for some social purpose or other. However, this place has Shiori’s seal of approval, and she’s even gone to the trouble of providing meal recommendations.”

“You trust her judgement, then? Despite her choice of art?”

“She may be a touch overbearing, but she is also both diligent and thoughtful. I am confident that she researched local cafés extensively before settling on this one.”

“Sir, Madam,” the waiter approached, “two orders of flambéed chakra wolf intestines with fresh wild cabbage. Please enjoy your meal.”

“Hmm,” Nara said after a bite of his wolf intestines. “Mushy yet unchewably solid. An accomplishment of sorts.”

“Indeed,” Kei agreed, “and I do not believe they finished slaying the wild cabbage before serving it. Even now it is attempting to exsanguinate my chopsticks.”

“Is that what it is?” Nara asked calmly. ”By contrast, these intestines appear to have been incinerated by Fire ninjutsu, then doused using very dilute porridge. If nothing else, the taste is unforgettable.”

“Perhaps you could seek aid from the Yamanaka?” Kei suggested, the rest of her attention occupied with locating the cabbage’s core so as to deal it a deathblow. “Surely this is a case worthy of calling in favours.”

“I will seriously consider it. But first, I believe a refund is in order.”

Kei raised her eyebrows. “Surely, by clan heir standards the meal was not so expensive as to warrant unnecessary social interaction with strangers?”

“A natural instinct, I know,” Nara said, raising his arm to flag down a waiter. “But this is something you must learn now that you’re part of a great clan, Gōketsu. Every interaction is, on some level, a play for status. Acts of submission by senior clan representatives such as ourselves, even in trivial matters, accumulate to the detriment of the clan. The more such micro-conflicts you lose, the more drastic action will be needed to restore your status further down the line.

“This is one of many reasons why I prefer to stay in the compound.”

It did not take long for a waiter to approach, perhaps in part because they had literally nothing else to do.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“This meal was unsatisfactory,” Nara said in a colder voice than Kei had heard from him so far. “You will provide us with a refund.”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir. Please forgive our humble establishment.”

The waiter fled, if in a reasonably dignified fashion.

“You did not explain the manifold flaws of the food to him,” Kei observed.

“Don’t justify yourself unless it’s important that the other person understand you correctly,” Nara said. “Justifying yourself is an invitation for the other person to judge your reasons, and thus to judge you. A representative of a great clan has to act as if they are beyond judgement, otherwise they’ll be too busy dealing with other people’s criticism to get anything done. If you want criticism, which in principle you should, make sure you get it from those who have already proved themselves to you.”

Kei nodded. “The Mori did not furnish me with this kind of education. I feel as if I should be making notes.”

“This is common sense for clan heirs,” Nara said. “Come to think of it, the Gōketsu are freshly elevated. I don’t know if the Hokage, with his orphan background, would remember to teach you something like this.

“Perhaps I should check the library for a brief primer. It shouldn’t be too hard to sell someone a few hours to have them copy one out.”

“That would be very kind of you,” Kei said. “In more immediate terms, however, we are still without lunch. Do you have any alternative locations in mind?”

Nara took a few seconds to think. “Did I mention that I seldom leave the compound? I mean, I suppose there is one place I know well, but… no. Entirely inappropriate.”

“Nara?”

Nara studied her face. “Well, no time like the present, I suppose. Gōketsu Keiko, I am aware of a location a couple of streets away that consistently provides satisfying, nutritious food. However, it is a somewhat low-class establishment, especially compared to the one we are now vacating, and I am hesitant to suggest it on an excursion such as this. Please do not feel under any pressure to accept this suggestion. I will not be offended or otherwise emotionally harmed by a refusal, nor should you feel compelled to come up with an alternative idea merely because you reject my one. At the same time, while I have described it as a low-class establishment, I do endorse it, such that you accepting the suggestion would in no way reflect negatively on you.

“Is that a reasonable approximation of the technique?” he asked in a more Nara-like voice.

Kei nodded. “What establishment are you recommending?”

“Ichiraku Ramen. Unless noodles aren’t to your liking?”

“Nara,” Kei said meaningfully. “Over the past two years, I have frequently partaken of edible tree roots, live grubs, and microscopic pieces of deer that still smelled of exploding tag. Please, lead me to this promised corner of the Pure Land.”

​ -o-

​ “Was it to your satisfaction?” Nara asked one glorious meal later.

“I may have overeaten,” Kei admitted. “Eating here has made me feel as if I now contain the Nine-Tailed Demon Fox, its size as portrayed in that abysmal painting.”

“Sorry about that,” Nara said. “I should have warned you about the portion sizes. If it makes you feel better, I had the same experience the first time Naruto dragged me here.”

“What is next, dare I ask, on your assistant’s itinerary?”

Nara pulled out the small scroll. “’A romantic walk through Senju Memorial Park. Don’t forget to hold hands!’

“All in favour of striking this item from the list and forgetting it ever existed?”

“Aye,” Kei said flatly.

“Good,” Nara said. “Having to follow romantic cliches is a flavour of troublesome I have no desire to sample.

“But that is the last item. Shall we call it a day here?”

“As it happens,” Kei said, “contemplating your assistant’s approach to composing this list has given me an idea. Since you rarely leave the compound, would I be correct in inferring that you also rarely visit shops?”

“You would.”

“Then allow me to introduce you to a place Akane recommended to Hazō, and Hazō in turn mentioned to me. You may find it illuminating.”

​ -o-

​ “How can there be so many?” Nara gazed at the shelves in wonder. “Are they all analogous to the one our teams played together?”

“Not at all,” Kei said. “I have now experienced a variety of board games and roleplaying games, yet I am given to understand that my knowledge is but a drop in the ocean.”

“Sensible Optimiser, Ninjutsu Samurai, Settlers of Snow Country… Were it not for the social requirement of board gaming, I would be inclined to experiment with a few of these.”

“There are solitaire rules for many games,” Kei said. “As well as other variations. I would like to draw your attention to this one, for example.”

A younger, more innocent Kei would never have thought of this. It was almost certainly all Mari-sensei’s fault for corrupting her. It was also more directly her fault for explaining to Kei the various possible reactions to her Nara marriage, and the motivations behind them. Now, however, all the mental pieces were in place, and Kei had found her inner Mari-sensei’s temptation too much to resist.

Nara cautiously extracted the slim box, having been taught by a close call of the potential for box avalanches. Kei wondered how those without shinobi reflexes were expected to survive such disasters unharmed.

“Focused Dominance, for one to two players. It appears to be a variant of the game we played.”

“I was thinking that it would make an appropriate thank-you gift for your assistant,” Kei said innocently. “She has worked very hard for you, results notwithstanding. And of course, if she chooses to play with you, the extra practice will make you an even more challenging opponent during our gaming nights.”

Nara examined the text on the back of the box. “That is an excellent idea, Gōketsu.”

“Thank you. If you give me one second, I would like to add my own thank-you note.”

Dear Nara Shiori, thank you for arranging such an enjoyable day out. I hope this gift will help you attain a better grasp of strategy. Cordially yours, Gōketsu Keiko.

“You know, Nara,” Kei commented as they left the shop, “this outing has been considerably less tedious than I had originally anticipated. I find I would not be averse to repeating it.”

“Me neither,” Nara said. “You are surprisingly untroublesome for a woman. Then if you are amenable, I may call upon you again at some point in the future, ideally after I have finished researching the vulnerabilities of the wild cabbage.”

Kei snerked.

“Well, then, milord, will you escort me home?”

​ -o-

​ The next day…

Kei envied Shiori’s agency. To so effortlessly arrange two people’s lives for a day despite her lack of overt influence…

Meanwhile, here Kei was, unable even to take control of her own life. Stolen, guided, recruited, chosen, adopted, traded… Sometimes Kei doubted that the Frozen Skein was truly responsible for her lack of initiative, as opposed to it being yet another of her own failings.

But there had been an exception once, she remembered. A shining, glorious exception. And now Shiori’s manipulation had made her wonder if there could be one more.

“Mari-sensei,” she opened tentatively, “I find myself lacking specialised training, and it has occurred to me—“

“You want to go see Tenten,” Mari-sensei said immediately.

“I… yes, but why…?”

“Excuse me? Just who do you think you’re dealing with, Keiko? I’m Gōketsu Mari, which incidentally sounds even more badass than ‘Inoue Mari’. I can read you like an open book. With me having the Byakugan. And you being a book I know off by heart. Actually, the Byakugan’s probably better with scrolls than books, but let’s not get stuck on the details. You want to go see Tenten.”

“Yes,” Kei said. “To train.”

“To train,” Mari echoed. “Well, you can’t go out like that.”

“Why not?” Kei looked down at her training clothes. They were perfectly functional, with an assortment of standard equipment, and shaped for easy mobility. She told Mari-sensei as much.

“Oh, Keiko. There’s functional and then there’s functional. Take it from me, seducing somebody on the battlefield is no different to seducing them in the bedchamber—everything you do matters, and the most subtle details can make the difference between miserable failure and highly pleasurable success.”

“I—I am not planning on seducing anyone!”

“Sure you’re not,” Mari-sensei said slightly condescendingly. “You know, I feel like this ought to be a good time to introduce you to the wonders of makeup.” She put a finger to her lips contemplatively. “Oh, wait. That’s no good if you’re planning on getting all hot and sweaty together.”

“Mari-sensei!”

“Well, your current outfit won’t do. You’ve got five minutes to get your stuff—we’re going clothes shopping!”

“Mari-senseiiii!”

​ -o-

​ The only good part of the cavalcade of torment that was clothes shopping with Mari-sensei was that it had given them an opportunity to send a message to Tenten to check that she was in fact available for a training session, and thankfully receive a positive reply. If her torturous experience had turned out to be for nothing, Kei would likely have dropped a pangolin on someone.

Instead, here they were. Alone together in the Training Grounds. Mercifully sans Rock Lee, Hyūga or Maito Gai. Kei could only hope that they would not turn up at an inopportune moment. Or any moment. In fact, their permanent absence from her life would only be a boon, though she supposed Tenten’s opinion might be more nuanced.

What would Tenten think of her new uniform? The accentuated red and black, ostensibly there so her enemies couldn’t see her bleed, was something Kei nevertheless felt belonged on a decorative dress rather than combat gear. What if Tenten found it unnecessarily ostentatious, or worse, girly? What if her impression of Kei was irreversibly damaged by what would seem like a frivolous clothing choice?

The concern was—probably—unwarranted. Tenten acknowledged her outfit with a single look, either approving or simply noting a fact, and then wordlessly handed her a stack of practice shuriken.

Tenten, of course, was wearing her standard uniform. It would have been ridiculous to expect anything else. However… did her hair seem slightly neater than the last couple of times Kei had seen her? And her fingernails more carefully trimmed?

Kei knew Tenten’s hands in enough detail to notice such things. She was one of the creepy obsessive stalkers that Mari-sensei said the Kunoichi Special had been invented for. She hoped Tenten couldn’t tell.

“Today,” Tenten said, “point-blank throwing to open up distance.”

She looked at Kei, seeking affirmation. Kei nodded.

Tenten stepped in close, demonstrating a lithe, side-on stance, weight on the balls of the feet and knee joints unlocked.

Kei imitated her.

It was the beginning of an afternoon of patient but relentless training.

​ -o-

​ Finally exhausted, they’d returned to the same spot as before, possibly one of Tenten’s favourites—lying down in the gaps between the twisting roots of a great oak, seeing glimpses of the sun through shifting gaps in the canopy.

Kei didn’t fall asleep this time. It would have been a waste. Instead, she lay still, unable to see Tenten but keenly aware of the proximity of her presence, just the other side of a root separating their lines of sight.

It was peaceful. Peaceful in a way that another person’s company shouldn't have been. Did Tenten feel the same? She suspected so, somehow, but there was no way she could possibly tell. It wasn’t that they were unable to understand each other. It was more that Kei did not understand what she understood, or how she understood it. Like magically speaking a foreign language she did not know, the words becoming incomprehensible to her the second they left her mouth. It was irrational, and confusing, and it should have had her paralysed with anxiety. And still there was that sense of peace.

Would words make it better or worse, she wondered. Tenten avoided speaking, that much was obvious. To someone like Kei, who could only make sense of the world by trapping the unknown within a cage of words, it was an unimaginable way of life. How could Tenten live this way? And why?

“Poor verbal skills.”

Tenten’s voice. Neutral, detached, somehow ethereal.

“My conversations don’t work. People get frustrated. They reject me.”

A brief pause.

“It’s too much.”

It was not difficult to imagine that anyone spending a significant amount of time in Tenten’s presence would ask the question. But Kei could not begin to guess how Tenten knew that she was asking it now.

“The silence changed,” Tenten said as a seeming afterthought, an explanation that did not explain anything.

Keiko stayed still, her gaze still semi-consciously seeking the sun behind the leaves. Her heart was beating fast. She knew Tenten would have her own question, and that this was the time to answer it, but she was afraid—inexplicably afraid—of how Tenten might react.

“When someone touches me, I feel as if they are taking control of my body,” she said to the leaves. “I panic.”

Silence. Minutes and minutes of silence.

Tenten’s voice.

“If you are ever ready.”

Only that and nothing more.

Minutes.

Kei also had only one thing she could say. Only one thing she wanted to say.

“You too. If you are ever ready.”

The words hung between them, intertwined. Like a promise. Like a pact.

For some reason, Kei’s heart slowed to a peaceful pace again.

​ -o-

​ It wasn’t the end of training, of course. Tenten took her self-appointed responsibilities as an instructor seriously, and Kei would not be one iota less dedicated. They ran, and threw, and evaded, and Tenten demonstrated stances and corrections and techniques, and she was better at everything in every way except when Kei managed to surprise her. Everything was exactly the same, except for the twelve words that had taken residence in the silence between them.

They had to stop eventually, too tired for the pinpoint accuracy Tenten’s style demanded. Kei did not want to leave—of course she did not want to leave—but they were done training together, and she was out of excuses.

But it seemed she was not the only one who felt that way.

After they were finished collecting the stray shuriken and otherwise resetting Tenten’s corner of the Training Grounds to a pristine state, but before Kei was able to say her farewells, Tenten gestured to her. An inviting wave, with that questioning look that said I would like this, but it is optional, the one Tenten gave her when suggesting activities at the start of training.

Kei took a couple of steps towards Tenten, indicating her willingness to follow.

​ -o-

​ Kei, used mostly to living in either clan compounds or makeshift shelters, was unprepared for the size of Tenten’s flat. Literally a single room, with a bed in one corner and a tiny kitchen in another. Pale wooden walls that might never have seen better days, and a ceiling insufficient for a tall adult. Leaf’s temporary missing-nin accommodations had been more luxurious than this.

If Tenten was embarrassed to show something like this to a stranger—or worse, someone whose opinion she cared about—then she concealed it well. Then again, that was an advantage of Tenten’s mode of communication. That which she chose to express, she expressed clearly. Everything else, she did not express at all. (Though perhaps that was merely Kei’s ineptitude at reading body language.)

Tenten indicated her kettle with an open hand. Kei nodded, accepting the offer, then looked around while Tenten was busy making tea.

There were many weapons decorating the walls. No, not decorating. Waiting to be used. That was the feeling they broadcast, of alert functionality rather than glamour. Kei did not doubt that Tenten was proficient with every one of those weapons, even the ones with forms Kei could not begin to identify, and that each was regularly taken off its hooks for practice. They had a sense of quality about them, almost of perfection, that made them feel as if they belonged to a different world than this apparently poverty-stricken flat.

There was a table in the middle of the room. Two chairs. (Only two chairs? Then Tenten did not invite her team here.) Bookshelves filled with scrolls and books. A solid-looking, secure chest. And on parts of the walls from which weapons must have been removed to offer pride of place… two enormous posters.

The one on the left was the most detailed diagram of the human anatomy Kei had ever seen. Every muscle, joint and bone was clearly labelled, not only with its name but with instructions. “Strike here to force a hand open.” “The shape of this muscle makes it easy to sever.” “These joints are weakest in older ninja.” Kei thought for a second this might be Tenten’s writing, unexpectedly broad and excitable, but then she noticed a circle drawn around the diagram’s groin. “It is most unyouthful to strike here,” the admonition read. Perhaps it was the voice of a certain young man’s experience.

The other diagram, in some ways a mirror to this one, had a much less detailed image of the human body, but instead it was covered in blue lines and red points. Kei had an inkling as to what it might represent, and her suspicions turned to certainty as she read the sharp, precise script. “Strike sharply at this angle with claw fingers to disable the upper arm.” “Pinch to disrupt chakra flow and induce incapacitating pain.” “Hold these two points simultaneously for a temporary anaesthetic effect.”

There was a very small book, almost a pamphlet, on the low shelf between them, set in an exact position as if together the three objects formed an unreligious shrine. “Maito Gai’s Guide to Attaining the Spirit of Youth”. Kei was unconvinced that it had ever been opened.

Then the tea was ready.

Kei and Tenten sat opposite each other, each holding their cup of green tea.

Kei took a sip. It was nondescript.

Now, though they were not particularly close together, Tenten filled her field of vision, her silhouette set against the last of the sunlight shining through the window behind her.

In an ordinary place, between ordinary people, there would have been conversation.

Instead, the two girls sat in silence. And because there was silence, each of them had nothing to focus on but the other.

Kei’s eyes traced Tenten’s features. Never stopping in any one place, never staring, only moving over her face, her hair, her neck, down as low as her shoulders, then back up, in no particular pattern. Not even memorising. Only seeing.

She could tell Tenten was doing the same.

Their eyes met only occasionally and briefly. No gazing in each other’s eyes, no forced contact. No expressed emotion. Only being continuously aware of each other.

Occasionally, one of them would drink some of their tea.

Tenten was within arm’s reach, if Kei leaned over. Part of her longed to reach out and touch her, even as the very thought brought a discomfort that she knew would intensify to terror if she let it.

Was Tenten feeling something like this as well? Did their synchronisation reach that deep? Kei had no way of knowing. Tenten’s mouth was very slightly open. Occasionally, her top teeth would touch her bottom lip. If it was a signal, it was one Kei could not begin to read.

They stayed like that, simply aware of each other, and only the words between them touched.

Then the sun set, and the tea was finished, and they were out of time.

Tenten looked at her as she held open the door. Again?

Kei’s eyes flicked in the direction of the Gōketsu compound, then briefly but firmly settled on Tenten’s. Yes. This time, for certain.​