Author’s Notes: Gift to my babe VerapwnsU. Thanks for being such an awesome reviewer! First time writing Shikamaru, guys, so any input or critique about his characterization would be greatly appreciated.

“Song of Marrow”

The present…

The smell followed him.

Each time he left here the smell followed at his heels, clung to his clothing, to his ponytail, seeping into every organic fiber. He didn’t bother to cover it up. After all, he always departed late enough that no one would be likely to meet him, let alone stop him long enough to smell him.

Shikamaru shrugged on his flak vest, uncomfortably hot after his exertions.

“Next month, Shika-kun?”

Shikamaru turned to regard the languid, lean limbs protruding from tousled blue satin sheets. The body’s slight frame was undeniably male, despite the pool of long, sand-colored hair that shrouded the man down to his hips. He shook his head in the negative.

“Mission?”

An affirmative nod.

“A shame.”

He shrugged his shoulders and went back to strapping on his thigh holster. While the village was on alert, the only place a ninja could take his weapons off was in the red light district. Even then, it was frowned upon, but Shikamaru never cared much for making a good impression. He did his best to make as little impression as possible. Lot of good it did him: He was still the only Chuunin in his graduating class and swamped with work in the wake of the attack by Sand and Sound.

He went to the window. As he leapt to the neighboring roof, a voice trailed after him, following him home like the smell of sex.

“Be careful, Shika-kun.”

One year earlier…

“Welcome,” the hostess bowed low, and swept her hand behind her to encompass the ornate entryway. “What brings you to Shimabara(1), Chuunin-san(2)?” Her gaze drifted up through full lashes, her exotic facial make-up highlighting high cheekbones and well-formed lips. She was older, but the type of woman who aged well. Her kimono would have cost him a year’s salary.

“What brings anyone to Shimabara?” Shikamaru replied pointedly, raising an eyebrow. He wasn’t impatient, but he could do without excessive pleasantries.

“Of course,” she said, rising from her bow and turning to her left. She gestured forward. “You have chosen well,” she said as he fell into step beside her. “My establishment is incomparable. You shall not leave unsatisfied.”

“Let’s hope not,” Shikamaru muttered, thinking of the exorbitant price tag he’d paid for a token entry fee.

They passed through a long hallway lined with open rooms, and he caught glimpses of plush pillows on starch tatami mats, hints of dainty hands playing musical trills on stringed instruments, flashes of jewel-hued geisha robes. They arrived at a cloistered, open air garden, surrounded by private rooms and a railed patio. Evening had long since passed, and the wind did little to alleviate the oppressive heat. Red lantern swung weakly in the heavy, humid air. Young courtesans flittered between the shallow pools of koi fish and lilies, serving tea to guests and entertaining with fan dances.

Shikamaru scowled at the fans, and turned away.

The hostess missed nothing. “They displease you?” she questioned mildly. “If it is not troubling for you to answer,” she amended, nodding her head in token respect.

Shikamaru huffed. “What questions aren’t troublesome?” He looked again at the fragile, silk-clad entertainers. “They do not displease me,” he answered after a moment, “but they do not please me either.”

The hostess nodded. “Perhaps you would like a different room? We have many beautiful women, some from foreign countries, if your tastes are for more exotic looks.”

“I…” he sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in slight irritation. “I find women too…troublesome, as well.” A girl nearby giggled. He winced. “Very troublesome.”

“I see,” the hostess said slyly, her mouth turning up on one side and a knowing gleam flashing in her eyes. “Follow me.”

This time she led him to a private suite. The room was well-furnished, bordering on excessively lavish, with a large Western-style bed carved from black ebony wood and covered in deep blue satin sheets. The red lanterns contrasted with the blue and white vases and the hanging blue silk tapestries. It was like another world.

He turned a skeptical eye on his hostess. Did she really think he could afford this type of entertainment?

“If you will trust my judgment, Chuunin-san?”

“I trust you know your trade,” he answered hesitantly, “but do you know my salary?”

The woman smiled. “Indeed I do.”

The room was alluring, tantalizing. He found himself wondering at who the occupant could be. He nodded, fighting against his logical mind that was crying over his imminent financial destitution.

The woman bowed low once more. “I shall send your company shortly,” she said softly. “May you find what you seek and leave refreshed.” She turned and exited, the swish of her heavy cloth fading with her departure.

He had not waited long, when his fingers began to itch. Where should he sit? Should he undress? He twitched his shoulders in aggravation. Would the girl expect to entertain him first? He hoped he wouldn’t have to make small talk. He was paying for sex, so he hoped at least he could skip the warm up and get right to what he wanted. Women were so troublesome like that. Foreplay. Hmph.

“Excuse me, Chuunin-san.”

Shikamaru turned sharply, eyes widening at the sight of the person filling the entryway. “You’re a–” he coughed. “You’re a guy.”

“Yes,” the man replied with a relaxed smile. “I am not a woman.” Small, sock-clad feet stepped inside before the man turned and closed the shoji. He wore a cerulean and cream hakama(3) covered by a deep red haori(4). Sandy hair was elaborately rolled and twisted, held up by two blue glass hairpins. His face was oval and young, but his jaw and cheekbones were sharp and defined. His nose was hooked slightly, something that would normally be considered unappealing, but seemed to only make him more attractive. “I am Hokama Utashin,” he offered with a brief bow. “It is an honor to meet you.”

“I don’t recall asking for a male,” Shikamaru added, not giving his name, his tone curious. “I merely said I found women troublesome.”

“Ah,” Utashin replied, sliding closer. Shikamaru couldn’t help noticing how graceful and soundlessly he moved, or that he was moving to his blindside. “An onna-girai(5) are you?”

“I don’t hate women,” Shikamaru added, turning to keep his front to Utashin, who was putting him on edge. “Stop moving,” he bit out.

“My apologies,” Utashin said with another bow. “What would you have me do?” he asked politely. “Do I displease you?”

Shikamaru opened his mouth to reject his courtesan, but that last question stopped him. He examined the man more closely, calculating his toned build by the fall of his clothes, re-examining the heavy mound of tan-colored hair and the striking facial structure. (Odd features. Perhaps from a western territory?) No. He was not displeased. “You are not what I expected,” was all that he could think to say. “My name is Shikamaru.”

Utashin smiled easily. Shikamaru found he liked his lips. Not too thin. Not too full.

“Well,” he paused, swallowing around his suddenly dry tongue. He looked away with a frown. Perhaps it would be easier to request a woman. At least he knew the rudiments of what should happen between a man and a woman. He had no idea how to please or be pleased by a man.

“Leave it to me, Shikamaru-san,” Utashin murmured, his voice intensifying, coming from deep within the column of his throat. “I promise to not be…” There was that smile again. “…so troublesome.”

The present…

“How was your mission, Shika-kun?”

Shikamaru dropped through the window, having made sure to announce his presence with a light tap on the shutter. He never snuck in on Utashin. He’d done it once out of habit and almost given the man a stroke. He scanned the glowing white skin wrapped in blue satin and became acutely aware of his sweaty, mud-stained state.

“Successful,” he said perfunctorily. “No casualties.” None on his team at least. The other team hadn’t been so lucky. He’d probably see the death mask of the woman he had shadow-strangled for weeks.

Utashin raised his eyebrows, and then beckoned him closer. His feet carried him instinctually until his knees hit the soft mattress and the sleek bed covers. “That bad?”

He jerked his head in acknowledgement.

“Let me?”

Shikamaru sighed softly as long-fingered hands pushed off his flak vest, then pulled up his mesh shirt. “I don’t have anything…” he started tiredly, already laying down, feeling his muscles relax as skilled fingers went to work kneading his upper back and shoulders.

“You should know, by now, that my services are no longer for sale to you.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“It is nothing.”

Darkness was blackening the edges of his vision when his pants were removed and fingers rubbed out the tension in his hamstrings and calves. By the time Utashin’s hands reached his feet, he was long past dreaming.

Six months earlier…

Shikamaru made his way through the long, shoji-lined halls on autopilot, less than a shadow in the darkness. The path was imprinted in his feet. They went forward without his command, with hardly his consent. These monthly sojourns had long passed the point of convenience. It had become troublesome, like an itch he couldn’t scratch, another complication in his increasingly taxing life.

He stopped short at the familiar doorway, face heating, mouth drying, glaring at the small handhold. He tapped once, then pushed the screen open. The smoke of cardamom incense wafted into his nostrils. His eyes watered from the heavy scent.

“Good evening, Shikamaru-san.”

Shikamaru drew his eyes up and down the displayed flesh, pulse jumping at the sensual drape of the silk robe over a pale hip. Dusky nipples drew his eyes up, a gentle fingernail gliding down the owner’s sternum. Utashin touched himself a lot when Shikamaru was looking. He wondered if it was for his benefit or if the shaky breaths were an indication of some exhibitionist tendencies. He wondered if Utashin touched himself and thought of him when he was alone in the blue-black room with red lanterns.

Shikamaru shook his head briskly. Foolishness. This was a simple arrangement. He paid. He got laid. He left. He came back…

… again and again and…

“Shikamaru-san?” the voice shivered with need.

He grunted and stepped forward, shedding his clothes without preamble, naked the moment his flesh met Utashin’s. He tugged the man’s robe open and scissored their legs, feeling the hot, damp press of the head of his rented lover’s erection against his thigh. The corded muscle of his quadriceps rubbed brutally against the other man’s arousal.

“A-a-ah!”

Shikamaru reluctantly puzzled out how much money each moan was costing him.

“Why did you stop?” Utashin panted, hands clawing sharp into his back, trying to pull him closer. Narrow hips rolled needy against his leg. “Please, Shika-kun?”

He stiffened.

“Sorry, Shikamaru-san,” Utashin corrected quickly, head turned away and erection flagging. “I did not mean to presume.”

“No,” Shikamaru said hoarsely, repositioning himself and aligning their erections. He thrust forward, drawing a sharp inhale from parted lips. Utashin’s eyes were still closed, face turned, sand-colored hair half-covering his features. “Again.”

“Wh-what?” Wide, sea-foam eyes stared at him through a veil of sand.

“Again.” He massaged their hips together brusquely. “My name.”

“Sh-shika-kun!”

An hour later, collapsed in a heap of sweaty limbs and musky body fluids and racing heartbeats, Shikamaru decided that this had become entirely too complicated.

The present…

The sky was a slate grey of early morning. He wiped tiredly at his eyes, the crust of deep sleep making his vision blurry. Shikamaru blinked for a moment before sitting bolt upright.

He didn’t sleep on satin.

“Good morning, Shika-kun.”

Shikamaru tried to erase the shock from his face at waking up in the courtesan’s quarters. He felt he did admirably, considering.

Utashin placed a tray of rice and pickled plums on the nearby table, before rising and coming to the bed. He laid an unassuming hand on Shikamaru’s forearm. “Would breakfast please you?”

“Maybe I should be going,” Shikamaru started, stepping from the stifling bed sheets, only to discover he wore a silk robe that did not belong to him. “You…” He remembered the filthy clothes he’d arrived in, and the caked mud and sweat. “You washed me?”

Utashin smiled minutely, though his face seemed tight. “You did stink a little.”

Shikamaru snorted, before looking to the window. “I should go.” He stood, fumbling with the knot at his waist. Nimble hands covered his own, stilling his movement.

“Let me.” Utashin slowly untied the silken belt, letting the backs of his knuckles run over the olive-skinned torso to push the robe off lean shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, voice husked and hoarse. Shikamaru held his breath as fingernails trailed feather-light down his arms. Shivers jumped along his nerves like electric current. Gooseflesh rose in the aftershocks of the delicate touch.

“What are you afraid of?” Utashin asked softly, eyebrows pulled together in an uncharacteristic show of frustration, muscles taunt with restrained emotion.

Shikamaru turned away, ignoring the desire thrumming in his veins.

“Why do you hate the fan dance?” Utashin murmured.

Shikamaru’s head jerked around instinctually, his mouth set in a grim line. “I don’t hate the fan dance,” he denied testily. “I dislike women, and festivals are troublesome.”

Utashin deflated, tension flowing out of him like water from a broken gourd. “I suppose everyone has secrets.” He turned his back, kneeling at the low table and the pleasant spread of food. “Next month then?”

For once, Shikamaru didn’t answer, silently dressing to leave the way he had come.

“Will you live your whole life afraid of taking what you want?”

The words dogged his heals as the shadow-user fled.

Three months earlier…

“I don’t know why we’re here,” Shikamaru grumbled, pointedly looking up at the sky and ignoring his surroundings. “This is so troublesome.”

Utashin sighed. “It’s festival night, Shika-kun,” he answered, playfully poking the Chuunin in his side where he knew he was ticklish. Shikamaru twitched reflexively and shot him an irritated glare. “You need to get out more.”

“I get out plenty.”

“Missions don’t count,” Utashin admonished. “Besides, the dancers have been practicing for months. The performance will be worth it.” He made sure to catch Shikamaru’s gaze. “Promise.”

They were in the entertainment sector of Shimabara, still within the pleasure district. Shikamaru would not have walked the streets so easily with his companion in the midst of the Hidden Leaf Village. “If you say so,” he capitulated reluctantly.

“This is the least you can do to pay your debt,” Utashin teased. “Otherwise, I might have to start charging you again.”

Shikamaru shot him a dark look. This unwanted bond had developed far beyond his control. He needed no more irritating reminders.

Utashin rolled his eyes, then smiled with a tenderness better suited for post-coital bliss. Shikamaru’s pulse sped involuntarily. “Just kidding, Shika-kun,” he purred in a sultry, masculine tenor. “How could I charge a customer who brings me so much…” hot breath caressed his earlobe “…pleasure?”

Shikamaru moved away self-consciously, feeling the heat on his cheeks and ears. “That’s enough,” he said gruffly. “Let’s watch this show and leave.”

Utashin laughed quietly, tossing his hair over his shoulders and flashing his perfect teeth. His hair was done up in a half twist and adorned with his preferred glass trinkets. Red tonight. Utashin looked sinful in red.

The drums sounded, saving Shikamaru from indulging in an embarrassing loss of control and dragging his partner back to their bed.

How would red silk bleed into blue?

“Hurry!” Utashin added excitedly. Shikamaru had never seen the reserved man so animated. “I have special seats.”

Shikamaru quirked a skeptical eyebrow as they made their way to the reserved seating near the front of the stage. Though Utashin was by no means cheap, a courtesan’s salary hardly afforded the best in the house.

Utashin caught his questioning look. “My mistress owes me,” was all he offered by way of explanation.

Shikamaru shrugged. Not his place to pry.

No sooner had they sat down, when Utashin promptly hopped back up. “Wait here,” he directed hurriedly. “I’ll be right back.”

He scowled, watching his companion retreat through the press of bodies until even his luminescent hair disappeared. Now he was alone, at a festival, watching some stupid show. He crossed his arms and slouched in his seat, ignoring the disapproving stares that some of the gentry directed at his posture. He snorted. He didn’t have anyone to impress.

The first act – some woman dancing on huge stilts with an umbrella – ended. He shifted his weight again, glancing from side to side. Where the hell had Utashin gone? This was his damn idea, after all. The trilling of a flute heralded the next act. He sighed and settled down to watch.

The performer was facing away from the crowd, clad in blood-colored silk, desert-hued tresses falling halfway down his body.

Shikamaru forgot to breathe.

Utashin held his pose as the music opened, a haunting melody of the lilting flute and a gently plucked shamisen(6). His right leg slowly extended, sweeping back to turn him to face the crowd. His face had been painted, a mask of white with red stripes along his cheeks and blue accents around his eyes. His arms rose steadily. The flute cascaded up the scales in anticipation. The shamisen thrummed, pace becoming frantic. White hands extended suddenly from the cavernous sleeves of his red yukata, flicking open two hand fans. Pale blue-green.

The color of his eyes.

Shikamaru stiffened, rising to his feet without conscious thought. The tune rose and fell as he turned his back and pushed his way through the spectators.

Utashin was more trouble than he was worth.

The present…

It had been almost nine weeks by the time Shikamaru returned to Shimabara. He rapped lightly with his knuckles before slipping soundlessly inside. The first thing he noticed was the smell of lavender. Utashin detested flower-scented incense.

His mouth parted on a silent exhalation.

No bed.

No blue satin.

No flowered vases.

Only fresh tatami mats and the usual adornments of a pleasure suite. He stepped back, jarring his hip hard against the window sill.

“You.”

Shikamaru turned, ears ringing, vision unfocused. The brothel’s hostess stood several paces away.

“I thought I heard a knock,” she said slowly, eyes narrow. “What are you doing coming through the windows of my establishment?”

“Where?” he managed to gasp.

The woman’s face hardened. “Dead,” she spat. “And if he wasn’t already, he would be now for conducting business behind my back. “

“Dead?” he parroted back. “Dead?”

“Yes!” she said impatiently, before smiling coldly. “Suna brats never last long in Konoha’s wet climate. I always pay less for them. He was wasting away for months.”

...everyone has secrets…

Shikamaru left.

The smell of lavender blossoms lingered long after he returned to his own bed.

The memorial stone had no space for whores. Shikamaru carved the kanji into the side, near the foot, out of sight to anyone not looking. He realized he’d never bothered to learn how Utashin spelled his name. He thought the kanji for “song” and “marrow” fit him well.

絵虎

“Shikamaru-san?”

Shikamaru glanced up from his defacement of a Shinobi monument, and ice flooded his veins.

“Yeah, I’d know that pineapple hair anywhere.”

Hair the color of sand dunes.

“You’re one to talk,” Shikamaru managed, throat tight.

“Where have you been?” Temari demanded with a sneer. “How the hell am I supposed to get around this village without a guide? You Leaf nin make your streets like a damn maze.”

It was that time of year again. He’d forgotten. One year since that day.

“Whatever,” he muttered sulkily. “I’m coming, woman.”

Temari’s mouth quirked in a half smile, no more soft than the edge of a blade. Her eyes were too dark, like the bottom of the sea rather than the ocean spray bouncing off rocks. Her fan should have been too big for her slight body. Then again, it was not made for dancing.

“Hey, Shika?”

He stiffened.

“What you Leaf nin got for grub?” she called over her shoulder, already sauntering away and hardly giving him a chance to actually guide her. “I’m starving.”

The purple silk sash at her waist flipped like a tail.

“Troublesome.”

… live your whole life afraid of taking what you want…

The End

(1) Shimabara is an ancient red light district outside modern Kyoto. I chose the name for its historical richness and sound, nothing more.

(2) Shikamaru is an honored guest and is therefore being address by his rank, not his name. Doing so is to say that he is so far above her stature, that she must not even utter his name, but only his title. This is a sign of utmost respect.

(3) Hakama is a traditional Japanese male’s clothing.

(4) Haori is a jacket worn over a Hakama.

(5) Onna-girai is a term used to describe a type of homosexual male in ancient Japan. Literally it translates into woman-hater. These men were characterized as sleeping with men merely because of an aversion to women. I thought the term fit Shika nicely.

(6) Shamisen are traditional, three-stringed Japanese instruments, crafted not unlike a banjo.