Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

                        it starts with a twitch

Barely a flicker, like a shadow against the late afternoon sun, but Shikaku sees it—Shikamaru’s fingers curl faintly around the corner of the shogi board.

His right hand, middle and index finger, spasm once. Then again. Like he’s trying to pinch something that isn’t there. “You good?” Shikaku asks casually, resting his chin on one palm, pretending to study the board. Shikamaru hums, noncommittal.

Eyes half-lidded. “Mm. Yeah.” But Shikaku sees the vein in his temple pulsing. Watches his boy's eyelids flutter a fraction too long before opening again. Sees the smallest smear of red at his nose, wiped away fast, like it was never there. Another nosebleed. That’s the third one this week. Shikaku doesn’t say anything. Not yet.

It took Shikaku longer than he'd admit to see it.

At first, he chalked Shikamaru’s laziness up to genetics—his own tendency to drift through the day unless something truly demanded his focus. But one morning, when the sun barely kissed the edge of the forest and the world was still quiet, he watched his son asleep under a tree, brow furrowed even in rest, fingertips twitching like he was still playing Shogi against ghosts in his dreams.

There were many other moments the shogi games the way Shikamaru simply acted

And he realized: this wasn’t laziness.

This was exhaustion.

Not physical, no—Shikamaru had barely broken a sweat the day before. But there was a mental hum always behind his eyes. Like his brain refused to shut off. Always calculating, always seeing. A thousand possibilities, outcomes, patterns, dangers. It wasn't just intelligence—it was pressure. Constant, silent, suffocating pressure.

--- Shikamaru is ten when he first passes out during training. Choji thinks he’s dehydrated. Asuma brushes it off—too much sun, not enough breakfast. But Shikaku knows. He saw the way Shikamaru’s eyes unfocused halfway through the mission drill, the way he paused mid-thought like his own mind had tripped over itself. His son’s brain, always firing like a damn war council at high alert, had finally short-circuited. They call it laziness. But Shikaku has seen his son’s mind when it’s not lazy. It’s terrifying. ---

Sometimes Shikamaru would get a far-off look during dinner, then excuse himself early. Yoshino would huff and mutter something about discipline, but Shikaku knew better now.

He'd seen the way Shikamaru’s hands would tremble slightly after a strategy meeting.

He'd walked into his room once and found blood on the collar of his shirt—a nosebleed, shrugged off with a "just the heat."

He'd noticed how often Shikamaru looked up at the clouds not out of boredom, but desperation. Like maybe if he stared long enough, the sky would quiet his mind.

And Shikaku—master strategist, unshakable shinobi, Nara clan head—felt something twist in his chest.

Because his son didn’t get to choose his genius. He carried it like a too-heavy coat on a too-hot day, sweating under its weight but unable to take it off.

So when Shikamaru groaned and said, “Troublesome,” and walked away from training or missions or arguments—Shikaku stopped correcting him.

He let him rest. He let him breathe. He let him be.

Then there’s a notebook hidden under Shikamaru’s bed. Shikaku finds it one evening, not snooping—just looking for that damn kunai Yoshino said rolled under the frame.

The notebook’s wedged into the floorboards, carefully placed, clearly meant to stay hidden. Inside? Battle strategies. Political maps. Social behavior predictions of the Kage Summit.

At age twelve. Twelve. The diagrams are neat but frantic. Ink stains the paper like blood. The last page is smeared where Shikamaru’s handwriting fell apart mid-thought.

“I can’t turn it off,” it reads. “I don’t know how to stop thinking.” Shikaku closes the notebook and replaces it exactly as he found it. That night, he watches his son sleep and wonders what kind of curse it is to be born brilliant.

--- “Y’know,” Shikaku says one evening, pouring tea, “they all think you’re lazy.” Shikamaru glances up, slow and unfazed. “They’re not wrong.” “They are.” He passes him the cup. “You’re just... managing.” Shikamaru blinks at that. Something fragile flickers behind his eyes. Like someone finally found the right word for what he’s been doing this whole time. “I get headaches,” he says quietly, after a pause. “When I try too hard to stop it. Thinking.” Shikaku nods. “Yeah. I know.” They sit in silence for a while. The deer outside shift in the dusk. Shadows lengthen on the porch. “I’m not lazy,” Shikamaru says at last. “It’s just... the only way to slow it down. So it doesn’t eat me alive.” Shikaku rests a hand on his son’s shoulder. Firm. Steady. “I know, son,” he says again. “I’ve always known.” ---

Shikaku let's him breath ..let's him talk ... let's him do as he pleased

Because being a genius wasn't a gift. Not always. Sometimes, it was a burden only the lazy could survive.

Chapter Text

---

It’s a Wednesday when Shikaku starts counting.

One bite of rice.
Two chews.
A muttered, “Not hungry.”

That’s the third time this week.

Yoshino doesn’t notice right away—she’s mid-rant about the mission reports on the kitchen table—but Shikaku sees his son’s shoulders tighten, then relax, and then tighten again like he's bracing himself for something that never lands.

“Oi, kid,” Shikaku calls as Shikamaru rises from the table, “you training on an empty stomach now?”

“Just full,” Shikamaru mutters, not looking back. “Had dango earlier.”

Lie.

Shikaku lets it go. For now.

---

Later that night, the lights are out in the house, but a thin strip of orange glows from beneath Shikamaru’s door. Faint scratching of pen on paper.

Shikaku listens.

He’s always listened.

---

He waits until Shikamaru is on patrol to slip into his room. It’s not breaking privacy, not really—Shikaku knows that look in his son's eyes. That not-sleeping, not-eating, headache-squinting haze. He wore it himself once, before he learned how to cope.

But Shikamaru... he’s drowning in it.

Beneath the futon mattress, folded into layers of worn sheets, Shikaku finds the notebooks.

At least six.

All half-full.

One is filled with tactical scenarios—maps, potential invasions, worst-case simulations of Sand and Mist and Cloud. Another is philosophy—ramblings about human behavior, morality, questions with no clear answer. Another is just… thoughts. Unfiltered and raw.

> “What’s the point of resting if my mind’s already running laps?”
“If I let it stop, maybe I’ll break.”
“I think I’m faking being okay. Maybe I’ve been faking it for years.”
“I’m not even sure I’m lazy. Maybe I’m just tired. All the time. Even when I sleep.”

Shikaku shuts the notebook with shaking hands.

---

It happens again over dinner.

Yoshino’s made miso soup—his favorite, or at least it used to be. The smell curls up from the bowl like steam off a fresh mission report, and for a moment, Shikamaru looks normal. Relaxed, even.

He takes one bite. Maybe two.

Then he’s up.

“Not hungry,” he mutters, and his chair scrapes the floor like it’s trying to follow him out of guilt.

Shikaku watches him go without a word.

Yoshino sighs. “He’s always like this these days.”

He nods, takes a slow sip of tea. Doesn’t say what he wants to. Not yet.

---

Later, Shikaku knocks on the door to Shikamaru’s room. No answer. He opens it anyway.

The boy is hunched over his desk, writing furiously, jaw tight, face pale. His hand moves like it’s possessed—sharp, quick, frantic. Like he’s racing against a thought that’s too big to contain.

“You’re gonna give yourself a stroke,” Shikaku says, voice mild.

Shikamaru doesn’t even look up. “I’m fine.”

“You said that yesterday.”

“I was fine yesterday too.”

That’s when Shikaku sees the wastebasket. Crumpled paper, stained with ink, some with faint reddish smudges—nosebleeds again. A few balls of paper have deep pressure dents, like Shikamaru had crushed them out of sheer frustration.

“Come sit outside,” Shikaku says. “Fresh air might help.”

“I said I’m—”

“Shikamaru.”

He stops. And that’s enough. That’s always enough, when Shikaku says his name like that.

---

They sit on the porch. It's quiet, just the rustling of the Nara forest and the faint grunt of a deer in the distance.

“You haven’t eaten properly in days,” Shikaku says eventually. Not accusing. Just stating a fact.

Shikamaru shrugs. “I’m not hungry.”

“Or you’re thinking so hard your stomach forgot what food is.”

Another shrug. But this time it’s tighter. Quieter. Defensive.

“Why’re you always pushing yourself?” Shikaku asks. “No one’s asking you to be the smartest in the room every second.”

“I’m not trying to be,” Shikamaru says, and now there’s something sharp in his voice. “It just happens. And if I don’t keep up, I feel like I’ll fall behind. And if I fall behind, I’ll let people down. And if I let people down—then what’s the point of thinking at all?”

Shikaku looks at him then. Really looks.

His son’s got dark circles under his eyes. His hands twitch like there’s still a pen between them. And his breathing is just a little too shallow.

“Hey,” Shikaku says, soft. “You’re allowed to rest. You're allowed to eat and sleep and not strategize the whole damn world before breakfast.”

Shikamaru swallows. Doesn’t speak.

“You think being lazy is the problem,” Shikaku goes on. “But it’s your solution. Your shield. And it’s not working anymore, is it?”

There’s silence. Long enough to make the night feel like it’s listening.

Then:

“I feel like throwing up when I think too much,” Shikamaru admits.

Finally. Finally.

Shikaku nods. “That’s your body waving a white flag, son.”

---

Later that night, Shikamaru eats a full bowl of miso. Quietly. Slowly. But he eats.

Shikaku doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

---

And that same night Shikamaru was able to sleep

That night, Shikamaru lets himself sleep on the porch.

No notebook. No writing. No overthinking.

Just the stars. The deer.

And a father watching from the shadows, not saying anything—

—but staying close, anyway as he should

Chapter Text

He still had the problems. All of them.

The chaos of an overworked mind, the pain he repurposed as clarity, the tics and twitches he smoothed into stillness with practiced ease.

No one noticed.

No one except Shikaku.

It was the twitching fingers first. The way Shikamaru tapped against his leg like he was running calculations even in his sleep. Then the eyes—glassy, unfocused, blinking slower than they should.

Shikaku caught the nosebleed in the hallway mirror before his son wiped it away. Saw the crescent-shaped marks on his palms when Shikamaru clenched his fists too tight.

Pain was a decoy. It always had been.

It gave the brain something simpler to fixate on. A blunt instrument to cut through the static.

Shikaku knew the signs.

He had used them once too.

---

Shikamaru is fifteen and it got worse.

More missions. More eyes on him. “Clan heir,” they said, like the title weighed nothing. As if his worth wasn’t already stapled to genius, to expectation, to the shadows curling at his feet.

He hadn’t eaten dinner three nights in a row. Not really. Picked at it. Stared at it. Excused himself with a mutter and a stiff neck.

He'd stopped sleeping inside too. Spent more time on the porch. Less in his bed.

And now—now his hand was shaking. Shaking.

Not from chakra exhaustion. Not from cold.

From everything else.

Shikaku didn't confront it, not at first. That wasn’t how the Nara did things. They didn’t scream. They didn’t pry. They watched. Waited. Moved when the shadow cracked.

---

It was the fourth bruise that tipped him off.

On Shikamaru’s wrist. Fresh. Purple. The shape not quite right for a training hit.

Too close to bone.

Too intentional.

So when Shikamaru stepped out that evening—another excuse, another “need some air”—Shikaku followed, quiet as dusk.

He found his son behind the training shed. Hands clenched, knuckles blooming red. Eyes unfocused. Like he wasn’t there.

And the worst part?

He looked calm.

Too calm.

Like he'd accepted that this was just how his brain would always be—too loud, too fast, too much.

Like hurting himself was a scheduled pit stop between thoughts.

“Oi.”

Just one word. Just that voice.

Shikamaru froze.

Didn’t turn. Didn’t breathe.

Shikaku stepped closer. No accusation. No lecture. Just presence.

“I get it,” he said. “You don’t want to be a burden.”

Still nothing.

“You think if you break, you’ll break someone else with you.”

Shikamaru’s shoulders twitched. A breath. Sharp. Like he wanted to cry but forgot how.

Shikaku stopped a foot behind him.

“You don’t have to earn your rest, Shikamaru.”

Silence.

A leaf fell between them. The deer in the distance shifted.

Shikamaru whispered, so quiet it almost wasn’t real: “I can’t turn it off.”

“I know.”

And Shikaku stepped forward. Rested a hand on his son's shaking shoulder.

“Then we’ll turn it down. Together.”

---

“Then we’ll turn it down. Together.”

It should’ve felt cheesy. Dramatic. Something from a storybook Shikamaru would roll his eyes at. But when Shikaku said it—voice low, calm, real—it didn’t sound fake.

It sounded like safety.

And something cracked.

Shikamaru felt it—deep in his chest. That weird pressure like a knot coming loose too fast. And it hit him like a kunai to the ribs.

Oh.
I’m a person.

And people cry, don’t they?

He hadn’t done that in years. Not since he was small enough to bury his face in Shikaku’s vest and not care what anyone thought.

He’d built walls. Tall ones. Made of sarcasm and sighs and "what a drags."

But walls were just waiting to fall.

And they did.

Not loud. Not dramatic. There was no screaming, no sobbing into someone’s chest like in the movies. No collapse.

Just a quiver in his breath.

Just water welling in his eyes without his permission. A sharp inhale that shook.

And then—

A single tear.

He blinked, confused by it. Like it betrayed him.

And then another.

He turned slightly, so his father wouldn’t see. But Shikaku already had. Already knew.

The hand on his shoulder didn’t move. Didn’t tighten. Just stayed.

Steady. Warm.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Shikamaru choked out.

“I know,” Shikaku murmured.

More silence. But this time it felt... full. Like a space was finally being made for everything he’d been cramming into himself.

“I hurt myself,” Shikamaru said, voice shaking. “I didn’t mean to. I just... I needed to think about something else. Anything else.”

Shikaku didn’t flinch. Didn’t ask for explanations.

“You’re not weak for needing a break,” he said. “You’re not broken for feeling too much.”

Another tear slipped down.

Shikamaru wiped it with the heel of his hand like it was a reflex. But his throat clenched. His whole body shuddered.

He wasn’t just tired.

He was tired of being tired.

And it took this—this tiny, stupid moment behind the training shed, his father not lecturing him—for him to finally admit that.

“I don’t want to be like this forever.”

“You won’t be.”

“How do you know?”

Shikaku’s voice didn’t waver.

“Because you’re not alone in it.”

---

They didn’t go back inside for a long time.

They didn’t have to.

Shikamaru sat on the ground, legs pulled up to his chest, forehead resting on his knees. Shikaku sat next to him, arms resting on his knees, back against the shed wall, watching the sky.

They didn’t talk again for a while.

And Shikamaru didn’t cry hard.
He just... let it fall.

Silent. Honest.

And it helped.

Not everything.

But enough.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

---

Chapter Text

---

Shikaku never said, “Stop thinking.”

Because that would’ve been like telling water not to be wet. Like handing Kiba flea shampoo just because he smelled like dog.

It was a stupid metaphor.
An offensive metaphor.

You don’t slap a Band-Aid on genius like it’s a bad habit. You don’t punish a bright mind for glowing too loudly.

You handle it.

With care.

With a slow voice and a soft look and just enough sarcasm to make it feel normal.

---

After that night behind the shed, Shikamaru didn’t say much. But his notebooks multiplied.

At first, Shikaku only found three tucked in the corners of his room.

Then five.

Then seven.

He didn’t comment. Just started leaving fresh ones in quiet places. On the porch table. On the windowsill. In his son's bag.

Sometimes they'd disappear.
Sometimes they'd come back, full.

Once, Shikamaru muttered, “You don't have to keep buying them.”

Shikaku shrugged. “You don’t have to keep breathing either, but here we are.”

That shut him up. In a good way.

---

They made a system.

Shikamaru didn’t always talk. But when his brain went nuclear—when his thoughts started spinning like shuriken made of anxiety and future war plans and maybe Kakashi tripping on a rake—he wrote it.

Every scenario. Every ridiculous, terrifying, or laughable outcome.

> “Naruto dies via rogue falling coconut.”
“Kakashi steps on rake, loses eye again.”
“Moon explodes. Unclear how.”
“Temari might be mad at me for not saying ‘thanks’ properly. Possible Sand retaliation. Unlikely. Maybe.”

He didn’t have to make sense.

He just had to get it out.

And Shikaku? He read them.

Not all. Never all. But enough.

Sometimes, he’d reply in the margins.

> Kakashi is too smug to die like that. Trust me.
Moon exploding? Backup plan: we throw Naruto at it.
Temari would probably just hit you. You’ll survive.

Sometimes, just a check mark. A “seen.” A “you’re not crazy for thinking this, but I’m here to hold the line if you need it.”

---

Shikamaru still twitched. Still clenched his jaw. Still rubbed the back of his neck raw when he spiraled.

But slowly, quietly, the spiral didn’t own him anymore.

Not fully.

Not with Shikaku standing there like a tree in a storm. Unmoving. Unshaken.

“You can think as much as you need,” he said one night. “Just don’t forget you’re a human, not a calculator.”

“I feel like one.”

“Then we break the machine sometimes. Let the gears breathe.”

“…Machines don’t breathe.”

“Good thing you’re not one, huh?”

Shikamaru snorted.

And that, honestly, was the whole point.

---

His dad didn’t try to fix him.

Just made sure he didn’t fall apart alone.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

---

Chapter Text

It had been a slow burn for Shikamaru.

First, it was just the notebooks, then small conversations in private. His father, as always, had been patient. But slowly—quietly—Team 10 started picking up on the small changes.

Asuma, for one, had always seen through Shikamaru’s usual “lazy genius” act. But it was harder to ignore the signs when the kid’s posture had gone from lazy but relaxed to perpetually tense, wound too tight.

And then there were the quieter moments. The ones where Shikamaru would zone out in the middle of a mission briefing, eyes slightly glassy, not really hearing what was being said. He would break from the group without anyone noticing, only to return a minute later with an apology on his lips.

No one said anything at first. Shikamaru was Team 10’s strategist; his mind was sharp, his tactics impeccable. But his mental health? That was a different kind of strategy.

---

It happened on a long mission that stretched into the late hours of the night. Team 10 was on patrol, the sky over Konoha turning to dark velvet. Shikamaru had barely said a word all evening, his brows furrowed in concentration.

Asuma, who had been watching him closely, finally spoke up, concern in his voice.

“Hey, Shikamaru,” he called. “You good?”

Shikamaru blinked, snapping out of his trance. “Huh?”

“You’ve been quiet tonight. You’re usually the one running the whole strategy.”

Shikamaru gave his usual lazy smile. “Yeah, yeah. Just thinking. You know how it is.”

Asuma wasn’t convinced. The way Shikamaru was clutching his left wrist, rubbing at it with his thumb like it hurt… The twitching in his fingers.

“I get it,” Asuma said, his voice low. “You think too much. But remember, you’re part of a team, kid. You don’t have to do it alone.”

Shikamaru was quiet for a moment before muttering, “I know.”

But Asuma could see the exhaustion behind his eyes. The everything behind the mask.

---

It wasn’t until they were back in Konoha, when the mission was over, that things started to fall apart.

Shikamaru had barely made it through the door before his father was there, watching him. He didn’t have to say a word. The look in Shikamaru’s eyes said enough. He was done. Not physically, but mentally.

Shikaku knew the signs. It wasn’t the first time his son had hit his breaking point. And it wouldn’t be the last.

He grabbed a notebook—fresh, brand new, never-before-written-in—and slid it across the table to Shikamaru.

“Write it down,” Shikaku said, his voice low, steady. “Whatever it is. Get it out.”

Shikamaru hesitated, looking down at the notebook. The words felt stuck in his throat. But his father didn’t press. Just sat across from him, waiting.

And then, before Shikamaru knew it, the pen was in his hand, and the words were spilling out. The nonsense. The fear. The overwhelming thoughts that never stopped, that never could stop.

> “What if I fail them?”
“What if the mission goes wrong?”
“I don’t want to let anyone down. I don’t want to let my dad down.”
“I’m tired of being tired.”
“I’m tired of being smart.”
“But if I’m not smart, then I’m nothing. So maybe I just keep going.”
“What happens if I can’t go anymore?”

As he wrote, Shikamaru’s hands began to tremble. And for the first time in a long while, he let it happen.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and without even thinking, he looked up at his father, expecting disappointment.

But Shikaku wasn’t disappointed. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t even surprised.

Instead, he just sat there. Quiet. Present.

“I’m not mad,” Shikaku said softly. “And you don’t have to fix yourself. You never did.”

---

Yoshino had been standing at the edge of the room, watching the entire thing unfold. She didn’t speak right away, just gave her husband a nod and turned to leave them alone.

She had seen it all. How Shikamaru’s mind never stopped—how the pressure of being the clan heir, of being the child of someone like Shikaku, was a heavy weight.

And she knew that there would be more days like this.

More nights where Shikamaru felt like he had to hide it. More notebooks. More quiet moments.

But Yoshino was used to this. She knew that Shikaku would always be there, quietly holding Shikamaru’s world together, making sure his son had the space to breathe.

---

The next day, Team 10 met up again. Shikamaru was quieter than usual, but he was present. He didn’t have a perfect plan for the mission, but he didn’t need to. The weight felt a little lighter.

Asuma met his eyes, offering him a small, understanding smile. “Hey, don’t overthink it, okay?”

Shikamaru gave a half-smile in return. “I’ll try.”

And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to do it alone.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

Chapter Text

---

Shikamaru was climbing again.

It was late afternoon, and the sun was dipping low, casting long shadows over the yard. Team 10 was relaxing after a long day, but it seemed that Shikamaru had once again retreated into his own world, his feet taking him somewhere without him even realizing it.

This time, instead of disappearing into the ceiling beams of the training hall like he used to do as a child, he had taken refuge in a large tree near the edge of the Nara estate. He sat there, legs dangling from the branch, looking more like a cat than a teenager—silent, still, with his back against the trunk, eyes distant.

It was a place he’d spent hours in as a kid. One of those places where he could breathe without the weight of the world pressing down. The way he could focus on the rustle of leaves instead of his swirling thoughts.

He’d outgrown the desperate need to escape into a physical space when the world got too loud—but the habit stuck, like an old friend you couldn’t shake. And tonight, it was a familiar comfort.

---

Shikaku had noticed it first. He wasn’t surprised; Shikamaru had always found ways to cope. As a child, it had been more obvious—the moments when he would physically escape from the pressure in his mind. When Shikamaru had been young, he’d climbed anything he could find—trees, beams, his own father.

The memory of little Shikamaru suddenly scaling his back in the middle of a conversation still made him smile. He had learned not to move, because if he did, Shikamaru would fall, and if Shikamaru fell, there would be tears, and if there were tears—well, then Shikaku would be losing sleep.

But now? Shikamaru was older. He didn’t scale his father’s back in the middle of discussions anymore, but there were still times when he needed to be somewhere else.

Shikaku didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there for a moment, watching his son from the porch. Then, he turned to the rest of Team 10, who had gathered around, and nodded.

“Let him be for now,” Shikaku said quietly. “He’s thinking. You don’t rush Shikamaru when he’s thinking.”

---

Asuma looked up at Shikamaru’s retreating figure in the tree and sighed. “I don’t get it. He can be such a pain in the ass sometimes, but I get it.” He chuckled, though his voice had a knowing edge. “I think he’s just gotta... get away from it. His brain’s always running, and the tree’s a good place for it.”

Shikaku glanced over at him, raising an eyebrow. “You remember when he climbed the ceiling beams at six?”

Asuma grinned. “Oh, I remember. It’s hard to forget a kid who just vanishes mid-test and doesn’t come down until you bribe him with dango.”

---

Yoshino, who had been quietly watching from the window, spoke up. “You know, you’re all making this sound like a weird thing. But it’s just how he is. It’s how he’s always been. He’s always been thinking, always processing. Sometimes, that’s just how he handles it.”

The others fell silent for a moment. It was true. No one could deny that Shikamaru’s mind had always been both his strength and his burden. He had always been quick-witted, always one step ahead—but his brain never turned off. Not even when he wanted it to.

---

In the tree, Shikamaru’s hands were trembling slightly. His fingers clung to the branch, and his eyes were closed as if shutting out the world. His mind spun. The mission. His father’s quiet words. His friends’ expectations. The pressure of being the Nara heir. It all added up.

But the tree... The tree made it easier to breathe. It made it easier to think without the suffocating weight of everything.

It was a childish thing. Something he hadn’t needed in years, but now? It felt familiar. It felt like a way to just be for a moment.

---

Shikaku, noticing the subtle shift in his son’s posture—the way he looked almost smaller, more vulnerable in the tree—made his way toward him. He didn’t speak immediately, just stood below, watching as Shikamaru continued to stare out at the horizon.

Shikaku merely walked over to where the tree was

It wasn’t long before Shikamaru spoke.

“I’m not a kid anymore,” he said, voice quiet, unsure. “I shouldn’t be doing this.”

Shikaku tilted his head, his voice gentle. “And you’re not. You’re not a kid. But sometimes... Sometimes, even the smartest people need space to think without the weight of the world on their shoulders. You’ll always be my kid, Shikamaru. And I’ll always be here when you need a place to fall.”

Shikamaru stayed silent for a moment, then nodded. He felt the familiar weight of his father’s words settle on him, like a soft blanket. He could hear the wind rustling the leaves, and for once, he didn’t feel the urge to overthink it.

---

It was a long time before Shikamaru climbed down, but when he did, he felt... better. A little clearer. A little lighter.

Asuma, Choji, and Ino were still hanging around, but they didn’t comment on the tree. They knew. It was just one of those things. No judgment.

And maybe, just maybe, Shikamaru had found a little peace, even if it was just for the moment.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

---

Chapter Text

---

It had started like any other test: an exhausting, full-body trial meant to push the teams to their limits. But there was something about today that was just... too much for Shikamaru. The weight of overthinking pressed down on him, heavier than the sweat on his brow. His thoughts scrambled in endless loops, the strategy, the outcome, his role in everything... It was too much.

For a moment, Shikamaru felt his hands twitch again, his mind starting to spin. His breathing became shallow. It was one of those moments when everything felt like it was closing in.

Without thinking, he made his way to the side of the testing grounds, moving with a quiet urgency that no one seemed to notice at first. But Asuma, always aware, saw the small shift in his son’s posture—saw the way he started to edge toward the largest tree nearby.

Asuma sighed, a small smile pulling at his lips. He’d seen this before.

“That’s my kid,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “Just... a cat with a brain too big for his own good.”

Shikamaru didn’t even look back. He reached the tree, and without hesitation, he scaled it—smoothly and quickly, his body moving like a second nature. In the blink of an eye, he was perched on the highest branch, legs hanging loosely, his eyes staring out into the distance. A small part of his mind, the one not overwhelmed with thoughts, felt a little lighter.

And then, because this was Shikamaru, because he had the kind of friends who understood but also enjoyed making fun of him, Naruto didn’t hesitate for a moment.

“Oh, you’re up there? Cool. I’ll join!” he shouted, giving Shikamaru a thumbs-up before climbing the tree like it was just another way to waste energy.

The rest of the teams watched in silence, confusion and amusement flashing across their faces.

“What... what’s happening?” Sakura asked, her voice tinged with confusion as she stood near Naruto, trying to figure out what was going on.

Naruto waved from above. “It’s all good, Sakura! Just chillin’ with Shikamaru!” He grinned as he clambered higher, his energy bouncing off every branch.

Meanwhile, Team 8 exchanged knowing looks. Kiba shrugged, shino just raised an eyebrow, and Akamaru, sensing the sudden calm, gave an uninterested bark.

Hinate simply stared before she added on in her gentle manner "we all are unique in our way.." of course to that kurenia sensei nodded

“Yeah, we all do strange shit,” Kiba said nonchalantly, leaning against a fence as he watched the two boys in the tree. “Just let him climb. It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve seen today.”

Team Gai was busy flexing their youthful energy, of course.

“Ah, the power of youth!” Gai shouted dramatically, eyes shining with enthusiasm as he watched Shikamaru and Naruto. “The young heart of adventure! The courage to take on heights!” Lee mirrored his sense of vitality, fist raised to the sky. “Youth knows no boundaries, sensei!”

Neji, on the other hand, gave a quick, unimpressed glance at the tree before returning his focus to the test.

“Let them be. Not like we’re waiting for them to finish the test, anyway.”

Kakashi, as usual, had already returned to his book. His eyes flicked briefly to the boys in the tree before looking back down at his pages. “Kids,” he muttered, flipping a page. “I’m too old for this.”

But it was Sai, ever so perceptive yet awkwardly unsure of social cues, who broke the silence.

“Is this normal for a Nara member?” he asked, his tone curious but blunt.

Ino, always ready to provide an answer for her team, didn’t miss a beat. “For Shikamaru? Yeah, it’s normal.” She tilted her head, arms crossed. “At least now it is. He used to do this kind of thing as a kid, too. It’s how he deals with... his thinking. You wouldn’t get it, Sai.” and with that chouji nodded

Asuma sighed again, but this time it was a more affectionate sound, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “When Shikamaru was younger,” he added, looking over at the group with a slight grin, “he even scaled Shikaku.”

There was a collective pause as everyone turned to him, blinking in confusion.

“His dad?” Sakura asked, wide-eyed.

“Yep.” Asuma laughed softly, remembering the countless times Shikamaru had turned his father into an unwilling climbing structure. “Middle of a conversation, no warning. Shikamaru would just latch on—arms around his neck, legs over his shoulder like it was no big deal. Shikaku didn’t even flinch. He’d just... stand there. If he moved, Shikamaru would fall. And if he fell, well... you know the rest.”

The group was silent for a moment, all of them trying to picture this. Neji raised an eyebrow, and Lee gave a thumbs up as if to approve of the idea.

“That’s incredible,” Lee said, his voice full of admiration. “It sounds like Shikamaru has mastered the art of youth in his own way!”

Asuma chuckled. “You could say that.”

Shikamaru, from his perch in the tree, let out a long breath, his fingers tightening around the branch as Naruto finally settled next to him.

“You know,” Naruto said, kicking his legs idly, “this is nice. I can see everything from here.”

Shikamaru blinked, looking out across the fields and the people below. “Yeah. I guess. It’s... quieter up here.”

Naruto gave a grin, his usual energy cutting through the calm. “Next time, you should come down and do something. I think you’re getting too comfy up here!”

Shikamaru didn’t respond, but he felt something ease in his chest—his mind a little less noisy, just for a while.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

---

Chapter Text

---

It had been happening slowly, almost imperceptibly. But lately, Shikamaru had begun to notice how much more... cautious his father had become.

Shikaku was always a vigilant man, always watching the people around him with that quiet intensity that made him seem like a force of nature. But lately, his watchful gaze was never far from Shikamaru, even during the most mundane of moments.

In the mornings, when Shikamaru left the house to train or meet his friends, Shikaku would always stand by the door, watching until Shikamaru was safely out of sight. If he was even a minute late, Shikaku would call him, just to confirm everything was fine.

“Shikamaru, you’re taking the route with the least people, right? You remember that... you don’t want to run into trouble.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a reminder, one that always made Shikamaru’s chest tighten.

“I know, Dad,” Shikamaru would reply, trying not to sound annoyed. “I’ll be fine. Just... go back to whatever you were doing.”

But Shikaku never seemed to relax. Even in meetings or gatherings, his eyes would occasionally flicker toward Shikamaru, assessing the room. Every person was a potential threat. Every gesture, every tone of voice, every shift in atmosphere, it all seemed to register in his mind as a possible sign of danger to his son.

Once, during a simple lunch gathering at the Nara clan compound, a friend of Shikamaru’s had accidentally bumped into him as they were sitting down.

“You alright?” the friend asked, concerned.

Shikamaru waved it off, muttering that it was nothing. But Shikaku’s eyes narrowed the moment it happened, his gaze snapping toward the situation like a hawk.

“Is everything okay, Shikamaru?” he asked, his voice low, just loud enough for Shikamaru to hear, but soft enough to not alarm the others.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Shikamaru said, forcing a smile. But even as he said it, he felt the weight of his father’s concern pressing down on him.

Shikaku didn’t seem convinced. He watched the friend, then looked at Shikamaru. And then, as if on autopilot, Shikaku’s gaze flickered to the door, to the windows, checking for any exits, any threats, anything that might cause harm.

It wasn’t just a protective instinct. It was an obsession. Shikaku had always been protective, but now it felt different. Like he was scanning the world for danger, finding threats everywhere.

Even when Shikamaru was out in the field with the other teams, Shikaku kept his distance, but his eyes never strayed far. When Team 10 was out on a mission, or when they were simply training, Shikaku was always near enough to see the entire picture, just in case. He stood far enough away to be inconspicuous, but never too far to act.

When the teams were in the midst of a mission, Shikaku’s thoughts always found their way to Shikamaru. He would find himself wondering what his son was doing, whether he was managing his thoughts, if his stress was building to a breaking point.

One evening, after a long mission that had left Team 10 exhausted, Shikaku found himself watching Shikamaru from the doorway of their house. Shikamaru was sitting on the floor, looking over some of his notes—trying to make sense of everything. His brows were furrowed in concentration, his hand twitching occasionally as he wrote.

Shikaku didn’t say anything at first, just observing. His heart hurt a little, seeing his son so lost in thought, but not voicing any of the pain. Shikaku knew that feeling all too well, but it didn't make it easier to watch.

“You’re thinking too much again, aren’t you?” Shikaku said softly, his voice steady but full of concern.

Shikamaru didn’t look up, but he didn’t need to. His father’s words were like a constant reminder that he wasn’t alone. But it was also like a small pressure, an unspoken plea to stop.

“I’ll be fine, Dad,” Shikamaru said quietly, though the words felt hollow even to him.

Shikaku walked over and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You don’t have to do it all alone, Shikamaru.”

“I know.” Shikamaru swallowed, the weight of the words sitting heavy in his chest. “I know.”

But it was always the same. The pressure, the responsibility, the constant thinking—it never stopped. And his father, despite his love and good intentions, had his own way of making Shikamaru feel like he couldn’t even step outside without a hundred eyes on him.

Shikamaru closed his notebook and pushed it aside. For once, he didn’t want to think.

He just wanted peace.

But the older Nara, ever vigilant, would never stop watching. Even if it was only out of love, the walls that Shikaku had built around him were a bit too thick for Shikamaru to escape.

And so, they existed in this delicate balance, both trying to protect each other in their own way.

But sometimes, protection was its own kind of prison.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

---

Chapter Text

---

Shikamaru’s mind never stopped. Even when his body was at rest, his thoughts never took a break. It was as if his brain was a nonstop conveyor belt of ideas, problems, strategies, and what-ifs. But lately, the weight of it all had become unbearable. His father’s watchful eye was always there, yes, but it wasn’t just the pressure of expectations that was suffocating him—it was the constant hum of his own overactive mind.

He needed a break.

It wasn’t an idea he was fond of, though. Shikamaru had never been the type to ask for help, let alone show weakness. And yet, here he was, at 15, looking for a way to just stop. He wanted to find relief, even if only for a moment.

That evening, after another round of intense training with Team 10, Shikamaru found himself on the verge of mental exhaustion. He wasn’t sure if it was the stress of the mission debrief or the pressure to prove himself once again, but his mind felt like it was about to explode.

He’d been overthinking everything for hours: What if something went wrong on the mission? What if his teammates were hurt? What if his father was right, and he was just overestimating his own abilities? It was relentless.

Without thinking, he went home, found his father, and collapsed onto the couch beside him.

Shikaku had been reading a mission report when he felt his son’s presence beside him. He didn’t ask what was wrong. He could tell by the way Shikamaru’s shoulders were slumped, how his eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular.

“Come here,” Shikaku murmured, his voice soft and steady. Without hesitation, Shikamaru crawled into his father’s arms, the way he had done when he was younger. His body instinctively curled up, seeking comfort in the familiar warmth. He wasn’t sure why, but it felt like the right thing to do.

Shikaku adjusted, pulling his son closer, settling into a comfortable position. Shikamaru sighed, his head resting on Shikaku’s chest, as if he could finally breathe without his thoughts choking him.

For a moment, everything was quiet.

Then, Shikamaru’s voice broke the stillness. “I just... I can’t think anymore, Dad. My head’s... it’s too full.”

Shikaku didn’t respond immediately. He just kept his hand on Shikamaru’s back, rubbing small circles as if to calm him down.

Shikamaru’s voice came in bursts now, more rapid than usual, his thoughts spilling out. “What if I’m not good enough? What if I mess everything up? What if I can’t keep up with everyone else? What if—”

Shikaku didn’t let him finish. He tightened his grip slightly, comforting but firm. “Shikamaru, it’s okay. Just breathe. You don’t have to carry all of that alone.”

“I know,” Shikamaru muttered, but the words felt empty. His brain wasn’t so easily convinced. The thoughts kept spiraling.

But the more he lay there, wrapped in his father’s arms, the quieter his mind began to feel. His body had been so tense, but now it relaxed in ways he hadn’t even realized he needed. It wasn’t much, but for once, the overwhelming weight of his thoughts wasn’t so bad.

“I keep thinking about everything... like what’s gonna happen to Naruto if he gets pelted by a coconut. Like, is that a good way for him to go out? Or... I dunno... I wonder if Kakashi would step on a rake again... and what if the moon just... exploded?”

Shikamaru’s voice was small, almost uncertain, but the words kept coming, spilling out of him like a flood.

Shikaku chuckled softly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “I think you’ve been watching too many documentaries.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Shikamaru grumbled, shifting slightly but not pulling away. He was still curled up, like a cat that had found the warmest place in the house. He didn’t have the energy to fight the urge to relax, not when he felt so safe and comfortable.

“Your brain works a hundred times faster than most people’s, doesn’t it?” Shikaku said, his tone a mix of fondness and concern.

“Feels like a thousand,” Shikamaru replied, his voice muffled against his father’s shirt.

Shikaku’s hand never stopped its gentle movement on Shikamaru’s back. It was a gesture that spoke more than words ever could—a reassurance that no matter how fast his mind raced, he didn’t have to do this alone.

Shikamaru yapped about everything that came to mind, as he always did, but this time, there was no anxiety behind his words. His thoughts didn’t feel like a heavy burden. Instead, they came out in random bursts, like a release valve being turned.

And Shikaku let him, quietly holding him through it all.

---

TO BE CONTINUED

---

Chapter Text

Shikamaru is older, taller, wiser. But in Shikaku’s arms, he still fits. His thoughts don’t. But he does.

---

The Nara household was quiet in the way only a house full of thinkers could be—no yelling, no stomping, just the occasional sigh heavy enough to mean something.

Shikamaru had gotten taller. His shoulders had broadened. His voice was lower. His gaze had that far-off, strategy-spun look that made people back away slowly, like they’d stumbled into a live wire.

But to Shikaku, he was still the little boy who climbed him like a jungle gym and declared existential crises in the same breath he asked for snacks.

Tonight was no different.

Shikamaru had dragged a pillow and a blanket into the sitting room without a word, his movements too efficient, too practiced, like his body was always anticipating the next ten outcomes. He glanced at his father—silent question. Shikaku just opened one arm.

That was all it took.

In one fluid, lazy motion, Shikamaru folded himself into his father’s chest like a long-limbed cat curling into a sunbeam. He was bigger now—long legs hanging off the edge of the couch, hair tied sloppily high, but somehow, he still fit. His head tucked under Shikaku’s chin, arms crossed, legs half-draped over Shikaku’s lap like he owned the spot by blood right.

Shikaku didn’t complain. He just rested his hand on his son’s back, thumb moving in circles like he always had, mapping the familiar heartbeat through layers of thought.

And then the yapping started.

“…if you think about it, gravity’s not even real, it’s just how mass manipulates spacetime. Which means technically everything we drop doesn’t fall, it’s pulled. And if it’s pulled, who’s to say Shino won’t one day fall straight into the Earth’s core—like, disappear. Just—whoop, gone.”

A pause. Shikaku blinked slowly. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Shikamaru said, muffled into his father’s shirt. “I’m just thinking.”

And so he kept going.

“…like if Naruto gets hit with a truth serum and just yells ‘I’m dating Sasuke now’ in the middle of a council meeting. Or if someone hacks Kakashi’s Icha Icha stash and replaces every copy with parenting books. Or if Sai paints an entire political cartoon campaign that leads to actual reforms. Is that art or terrorism?”

Shikaku just hummed, arm looping more securely around him. “Probably both.”

Shikamaru snorted.

A few moments passed.

“…Sometimes I wonder what it'd look like if you fell.”

Shikaku’s hand paused.

“Like. Really fell. Not in battle, not dramatically—just… stopped being so unshakeable. You know? Would it be quiet? Would you warn us?”

Shikaku didn’t answer right away. He considered his son’s words. The idea that this thoughtful, sharp creature in his arms was trying to imagine the fall of a mountain like it was a personal fault line.

He smoothed Shikamaru’s hair back gently. “Even the moon tilts sometimes,” he murmured. “But I’d try not to fall on you.”

Shikamaru made a sound like half a laugh, half an exhale. “That’s a Nara thing, huh? Calculated collapses. We all fall… eventually. I just want to see it coming.”

Shikaku nudged his chin lightly. “You’d spot the pattern before I did. You always do.”

They sat like that for a while. Shikamaru went quiet. Not because he ran out of thoughts—but because, here, they didn’t press so hard. They were allowed to float.

Still curled up. Still too big, too sharp, too fast for the world—but not for this couch. Not for this warmth.

And when Shikamaru finally murmured, “I think I still fit,” Shikaku didn’t say a word.

He just pulled him closer.
Because of course he did.

---

Chapter Text

The office was quiet.

The kind of quiet that pressed on the skull, folded over thoughts, and made even the scrape of pen on paper feel loud. It was that late afternoon lull—when sunlight turned dull and dusty, and both Shikaku and Shikamaru were buried in reports.

Shikaku sat by the far window, cigarette half-smoked in the tray, pen moving with methodical steadiness. His handwriting was deceptively lazy, looping in a way that said I’ve done this too many times but never once unreadable. He was working on something high-level, some logistical nightmare from the Hokage's desk. Strategy. Borders. Political nuance. One hand in his hair.

Shikamaru sat across from him, slouched deep in a chair that was too big for someone still technically fifteen. His own report was simpler—a debrief from a joint mission with Team 7. Tracking. Containment. He remembered the fight. He remembered who froze, who didn’t. He remembered the enemy’s angles before they even moved. He remembered everything.

He always did.

And that was the problem.

His pen slowed halfway through a sentence. He stared at the page. Thought. Thought more. His fingers twitched once. Then again. The world tilted in thoughts. If Kakashi had stepped 0.8 seconds later, he would’ve hit the tripwire. If Naruto hadn’t ducked. If Shikamaru hadn’t said “now” exactly when he did.

He blinked.

The report sat unfinished. The paper felt heavier than it should’ve. His breath had gone shallow without him noticing, and his head was doing that dull throb thing—the one where thoughts piled up like traffic in his skull.

He wiped his nose absently on the back of his hand.

Red.

He stared.

A single drop sat on the margin of his page. Bright. Obnoxious. Obvious.

His first thought was stupid: Oh, great, now I have to rewrite this page. His second thought was: How long has that been happening?

His third thought didn't form properly—too many others crushed it on the way out. Because now his vision was starting to blur at the edges. His temples ached. And somewhere, his stomach did a little swoop.

Shikaku didn’t look up immediately. He probably would’ve let it go, assuming it was a paper cut, or a scratch, or one of those stupid hormonal nosebleeds kids got.

But Shikamaru shifted.

Not a big movement. Just enough.

The kind of movement that Shikaku, the man who knew how his son breathed, recognized immediately as wrong.

His eyes flicked up.

And there was Shikamaru, blinking wide, pale like chalk, one hand still hovering near his nose, red staining two fingers and the edge of the mission report.

Shikaku stood up fast.

“…Shikamaru.”

“I’m fine,” came the automatic response, voice too tight, too fast.

Shikaku was already kneeling in front of him, cigarette abandoned, one hand reaching for his wrist to keep it steady, the other tipping his chin up. Shikamaru flinched like he might bolt.

“Hey. Hey. Look at me.” Shikaku’s voice was firm, not angry, and far too calm. “You're not in trouble. You're just bleeding.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Shikamaru said, which, ironically, was his favorite thing to say when it absolutely was a big deal.

Shikaku saw the signs. Eyes a little glazed. Breathing all wrong. His kid was halfway to panic and didn’t even know it.

“How long has this been happening?”

“I don’t know. I was finishing the paragraph and then…”

“And then?”

“…I was thinking too much.”

Shikaku sighed, grabbed a clean cloth from the drawer, and gently pressed it to his son’s nose. Shikamaru resisted for half a second, then leaned in—just slightly. Enough.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Shikaku muttered. “Your brain isn’t a weapon, it’s part of your body. When you run it into the ground, the rest of you suffers.”

Shikamaru didn’t answer.

He just let his father hold the cloth, head tilted back, breathing evening out slow, slow, like a plane trying to land.

The silence returned, this time softer. More padded.

“…Dad?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t think I can stop thinking.”

Shikaku looked at him—this too-tall, too-tired kid, still curled small in the big chair like he wanted to disappear into the upholstery.

“You don’t have to stop,” he said. “But you do have to let someone help you carry it.”

Shikamaru didn’t cry.

But he let his father sit down on the floor next to him, shoulder pressed to knee, hand still steady on his wrist like an anchor. The bloody report lay forgotten on the table.

The sun dipped lower.

Red, like a stop sign.

But no one was stopping here. Not yet.

---

Chapter Text

After the nosebleed incident, Shikaku didn’t say much.

He didn’t have to.

He just stood, muttered something about “putting on water,” and disappeared into the kitchen like it was the most natural thing in the world to brew tea when your genius son nearly passed out mid-sentence.

Shikamaru didn’t move from the chair.

His nose had stopped bleeding. The world had stopped spinning. Mostly. His thoughts hadn’t. They still looped, lower now, like a dull hum beneath everything. What ifs. How comes. Should haves. His own internal commentary narrating his pulse like a bored announcer at a chess match.

The smell of roasted barley filled the room. Familiar. Deep. Earthy. Safe.

Shikaku came back with two mismatched cups and dropped unceremoniously onto the couch, sliding one toward Shikamaru across the table with the grace of a man who’d spent years parenting with body language alone.

“Don’t spill it. You already bled enough today.”

“…Thanks, I guess.”

They sat.

Tea steamed. The windows dimmed into early dusk.

Shikamaru curled his legs under himself without thinking, spine slowly uncurling from the invisible weight that always settled around him after missions. His cup was warm in his hands. He hadn’t realized his fingers were cold until just then.

They didn’t speak for a long time.

Then—

“You know,” Shikaku said slowly, “your grandfather used to do this exact same thing.”

Shikamaru blinked. “What—make tea?”

“No. Bleed from the face ‘cause he thought too hard.”

“…What?”

Shikaku took a sip, smirking over the rim. “Okay, maybe not literally. But the man would stress himself stupid over war theory. Had that same vacant look, too. Like his brain was three miles ahead of the room.”

“Did he get nosebleeds?”

“Only when your grandmother found his draft scrolls and beat him with them.”

Shikamaru snorted.

The laugh slipped out without warning, thin and warm and tired around the edges. Shikaku grinned into his tea. It was quiet again, but different now—an ease instead of an edge.

“You scared me today,” Shikaku said finally. “Just a little.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just... I know that head of yours is sharp, but I need you to keep the rest of you working too.”

Shikamaru glanced down at the tea. He swirled the cup a little. Watched the leaves shift. “It’s not easy.”

“I know.”

“Like. I can’t shut it off.”

“I know.”

“And sometimes it feels like… I’m always ten moves ahead and still losing.”

Shikaku looked at him.

Not at him, really. Through him, in that way only a parent could—seeing not the shinobi, not the strategist, but the gangly little boy who once climbed trees because infinity made his chest hurt.

“You’re not losing,” he said. “You’re just young. And carrying too much.”

Shikamaru nodded. Not a full one—just a tilt, a flicker of agreement. Enough.

Then, softly, as if trying not to embarrass himself: “I like this.”

Shikaku raised a brow. “The tea?”

“The... us. Talking. Sitting.”

Shikaku smiled, slow and wry. “It’s just tea, kid.”

“Yeah. Unless it isn’t.”

“…Yeah.”

The tea cooled. The sun dipped behind the rooftops.

And for a moment, neither of them moved. They didn’t have to. Time, for once, wasn’t something Shikamaru had to outrun. It was just there—simple, kind, steeped like the warmth in his chest.

Shikaku reached over and flicked a loose strand of hair from his son’s forehead. “You still got blood in your eyebrow.”

“Tch.”

“Don’t pout. It’s cute.”

“I’m fifteen.”

“Still my kitten.”

“Dad.”

“I stand by it.”

Shikamaru grumbled and leaned sideways until his shoulder hit Shikaku’s. Didn’t move away. Stayed there. Silent. Thinking. Breathing. Letting the tea do its quiet work.

---

Chapter Text

Shikamaru threw himself onto the training field like a man betrayed by the gods.

Face first.

Groan included.

Chōji didn’t even flinch. “So... how’s the report going?”

“Died,” came the muffled reply. “Got murdered by syntax.”

Ino stretched her arms lazily above her head. “I told you not to start editing Asuma’s mission summaries. You’re not getting promoted to Hokage-in-training, you’re fifteen.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Shikamaru muttered into the grass. “Still getting a nosebleed in six hours.”

Asuma entered stage left with all the energy of a man who’d been raising dramatic teens since birth. A cigarette hung between his lips, unlit. He paused. Stared. Tipped his head at the human puddle of shadow and anxiety on the ground.

“Hey, princess. You alive down there?”

Ino immediately cackled.

Chōji wheezed and tried to cover it up with a cough.

Shikamaru didn’t lift his head. “I hate all of you.”

Asuma flopped down next to him and passed him a cold can of barley tea from his vest. “Tough. You’re stuck with us.”

There was a long pause as Shikamaru accepted the drink, opened it, and pressed it to his cheek with the air of someone who’d just survived a war.

“…Thanks.”

“Want me to lie to the Hokage and say the deer ate your report?”

“…Tempting.”

Ino crossed her arms, smiling fondly. “You know, for all your ‘how troublesome’ talk, you sure like being spoiled.”

“I’m literally having a stress-related internal hemorrhage.”

“You like being spoiled,” Chōji repeated, deadpan.

Asuma snorted. “It’s okay. You’re my princess. You're allowed to melt down and fall apart and lie in the dirt until your soul respawns. Just don’t bleed on my cig stash.”

“I hate you all,” Shikamaru said again. Then, in a smaller voice: “…But like. In a soft way.”

Team 10 grinned.

They didn’t always get to say it. Or show it. But this was the thing they had. A sensei who’d walk into fire for them. A genius who cracked under the weight of his own brilliance. A healer with a voice like lightning. A loyal tank who always shared his snacks.

They had each other.

And right now, they had shade, a field, and a long afternoon where no one was dying, bleeding, or reporting to Tsunade.

Shikamaru sat up eventually.

Still tired. Still a little burnt.

But better.

And Asuma leaned back on his hands, grinning like a man who definitely had tea and dango hidden somewhere nearby.

Because even princesses needed snacks to survive the war.

---

Chapter Text

Shikamaru didn’t like rolling up his sleeves.

Never had.

It wasn’t a fashion thing. Wasn’t about sunburns or aesthetics.

It was because sometimes, when the weight in his chest got too heavy and thinking became breathing and breathing became hurting—his nails found skin. And they clawed. Until he couldn’t feel anything except the throb.

He never noticed when it happened.

Only after. When someone said, “Shikamaru, roll up your sleeves.”

And he’d freeze.

Because they’d see. And then he’d have to feel.

But this time? Now?

Now it’s Asuma handing him a training form and saying, “Need your pulse. Roll ‘em up.”

Shikamaru does.

Automatically.

No flinch. No hesitation. Just fabric up, wrist offered.

Asuma stares.

So does Shikamaru.

Because there’s no mark.

No crescent dents. No scratch lines. Just smooth, pale skin and a wrist that looks like it belongs to someone normal.

And that’s when it hits.

His mind screeches. Full stop.

He’s not spiraling?

Why isn’t he spiraling?

Is this a trick? Is this the calm before his brain collapses again?

His heart starts hammering.

The noise rushes in—not from the world, but from inside. Questions. Possibilities. Threats. Reasons.

Asuma’s fingers tighten slightly around his wrist. Grounding. Real.

“…Hey.”

Shikamaru blinks.

Looks up.

Asuma doesn’t press. Doesn’t ask.

Just waits.

“I don’t know why it stopped,” Shikamaru admits, voice cracking slightly. “I don’t know why it’s... quiet. Why I’m not spiraling.”

Asuma exhales slow. “Is that scaring you?”

“Yes.” It comes out small.

“…Then maybe we just sit with that for a while,” Asuma murmurs. “Not force it. Not explain it. Just… feel it. You’re allowed to not spiral. Doesn’t mean you’re broken. Might mean you’re healing.”

Shikamaru swallows.

Wants to argue.

Can’t.

So he just nods.

Sleeves still rolled up. No marks.

And for once, that doesn’t feel like a lie.

---

Chapter Text

Shikaku finds it by accident.

One of Shikamaru’s old shirts—tucked deep in the bottom drawer, half-crumpled and forgotten, the kind of thing a boy outgrows physically but keeps emotionally.

The cuffs are stiff.

He unfolds them and sees the thin, dark-brown crusted edges. Faint, almost delicate. But he knows what it is. What it means. What it was.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t tell Yoshino. Doesn’t even set the shirt aside. Just folds it, slowly, and sets it back down where it came from.

Later that evening, he sits on the engawa while the cicadas hum and the air smells like dust and heat.

Shikamaru finds him there—barefoot, hair still wet from a shower, the curve of his spine softer than it used to be. Grown, yes. But at peace in ways that can’t be measured by height.

“Hey,” Shikaku says, not turning.

“Hey,” Shikamaru replies, and plops down beside him.

They don’t talk for a while.

They don’t have to.

The quiet is good now. It’s the kind that doesn't ring with warning bells or frayed thoughts—it rests.

Eventually, Shikamaru murmurs, “I was thinking today. Not about everything. Just… about the things that count.”

Shikaku hums.

“And I realized… maybe I don’t have to solve the world before dinner. Maybe I just have to remember who I’m eating with.”

That gets him a small, crooked smile from his father.

“That’s a good thought,” Shikaku says.

Shikamaru leans his head on his shoulder, just a little.

“I like the quiet now. I can sleep, y’know? Alone, even.”

“That’s because your head’s finally a room and not a war zone,” Shikaku mutters.

Shikamaru huffs a laugh. “Yeah. A messy room, but mine.”

They sit in silence again. And it’s beautiful. Honest. Clean.

And Shikaku thinks, He made it.

---

Chapter Text

It’s little things.

The kind you don’t notice until you do—and then can’t stop seeing.

Shikamaru’s laugh comes a second faster now. Like his brain isn’t dragging it through a minefield first. Like it just… comes.

He doesn’t snap at Ino when she messes with his hair mid-report. He rolls his eyes, but there’s no venom. No crackle of tension in his shoulders like he’s trying not to detonate.

Choji notices first.

They’re on the training grounds, Asuma running drills, and Shikamaru is present. Actually there. His eyes track the movements. He makes jokes, teases Ino, finishes the routine without muttering “what a drag” once.

Ino kicks Choji’s ankle under the tree. “Is it just me or is he—?”

“Lighter,” Choji finishes. “He’s lighter.”

Asuma knows too. Of course he does.

He watches Shikamaru scribble something into a notebook between drills—nothing urgent, just ideas, patterns. But he doesn’t look manic. His fingers don’t twitch. His breathing is calm.

He’s writing for himself. Not to outrun a panic spiral.

“Kid’s finally catching up to himself,” Asuma says, smoke curling from the side of his mouth.

Even Kakashi notices during a debrief. “You’re smiling more,” he comments lazily.

“Not really,” Shikamaru replies, deadpan.

Kakashi nods. “Still counts.”

Back at the dango shop, Ino keeps staring. Not in a worried way. In a proud way.

“You’re good,” she says after a while.

Shikamaru raises an eyebrow. “That’s vague.”

“No, like… good. Better. Peaceful, even.”

He pauses, chopsticks midair.

And instead of brushing it off with some cynical retort, he sets the food down and says:

“I don’t know why, but yeah. I feel… okay.”

Choji smiles. “That’s enough, y’know? You don’t need a reason. Just take it.”

So Shikamaru does.

He sits back in his chair, lets the hum of conversation wash over him, and doesn’t worry about the thousand things that could go wrong.

Because the things that matter?

They’re here.

---

Chapter Text

Shikaku doesn’t recognize the sound at first.

It’s loud—sharp, weird, absolutely unfiltered.

Then it hits him.

Laughter.

Shikamaru’s.

Not the amused huff. Not the polite chuckle to keep people from asking if he’s okay. Not the sigh-laugh hybrid that meant “I’m dying inside but I’ll make it funny.”

No—real laughter. Loud, uneven, from the chest. The kind that makes you wheeze a little.

Shikaku’s eyes narrow as he peeks around the corner of the training field.

There’s Team 10, and there’s his son, doubled over, trying—and failing—to deliver the punchline to some horrible pun about chakra and chicken nuggets.

“…and then the clone said—wait, wait—I’m not a snack, I’m a full-course genjutsu—”

Ino is screaming. Choji is wheezing into his sleeve. Even Asuma is biting back a grin like “what the hell is happening to my emotionally constipated son?”

Shikaku squints.

Shikamaru is pacing like a madman, arms flailing as he reenacts some obscure mission scene that definitely didn’t happen the way he’s describing it.

“AND THEN THE CAT LAUNCHED ITSELF OFF THE WALL AND I HAD TO USE SHADOW POSSESSION ON A POTTED PLANT—”

“Stop yelling, you maniac!” Ino chokes.

But she’s smiling so hard it hurts.

This?

This is him.

The real him.

Not just the fragment left after war and fear and spirals ate him whole.

Shikaku steps closer but doesn’t interrupt. He just watches.

Watches as his son gesticulates wildly, makes an awful Naruto impression, dramatically flops into the grass, and then starts quoting some obscure movie like it’s scripture.

Shikamaru looks up suddenly—sees him.

Freezes.

Shikaku tilts his head. Raises one eyebrow.

“You okay, kid?”

Shikamaru blinks.

Then nods slowly.

“…yeah,” he says, voice a little breathless. “I think I’m… finally getting there.”

And Shikaku, the man who’s seen entire nations fall, exhales like he’s the one being saved.

---

Chapter Text

The storm had passed, but the air still buzzed from it.

Shikamaru didn't walk home—he floated. Barely noticed the journey. His mind, for once, wasn’t outpacing his feet. It was comfortably trailing behind, like a loyal shadow instead of a wild beast.

The front door creaked open and Shikaku didn’t even look up from the table.

“You sound lighter,” he said simply.

Shikamaru dropped his bag with a thunk. “I feel it.”

There was a long silence. Peaceful. Not awkward.

Shikamaru wandered over, half-dragged himself to the couch, then rerouted—like instinct—straight to where Shikaku sat. Without a word, he curled up in his father's side like he used to, limbs tucking in like a tired cat.

Shikaku didn’t even blink. Just shifted a little to make room. Rested a steady hand on his son’s hair.

“…you good?” he murmured.

Shikamaru nodded into his shoulder.

Then, muffled:
“You know, I think Naruto’s hair is technically a natural disaster.”
Shikaku snorted. “You’re one to talk.”
“Bro looks like the sun got a personality disorder and joined the academy.”
“You sound like Ino.”
“…Don’t threaten me like that.”

They sat like that for a while. Shikamaru mumbling nonsense. Whispering snark and physics jokes. Joking about time loops, dango inflation, and the politics of summoning contracts.

Shikaku didn’t answer much. He didn’t have to. Just let his son talk.

It was the kind of quiet that healed.

Eventually, the rhythm slowed. Shikamaru’s voice faded into hums. His hands loosened their twitchy grip on the edge of Shikaku’s shirt. The weight of him went heavy, warm, safe.

And for the first time in a very, very long time—

He slept.
Peacefully.
Alone, but not alone.
Quietly.

Like he’d finally earned it.

---

Chapter Text

Joint training sessions always started the same:
Kakashi yawning.
Gai yelling.
Ino complaining about the heat.
Lee sprinting in circles.
Sai drawing vaguely offensive things.
Hinata nervously greeting everyone twice.
Naruto eating something that shouldn't be food.
And Shikamaru?

Shikamaru, for once, was already there.

Perched on top of the training post like a smug cat.

“Good morning, fellow carbon-based disappointments,” he said, holding a stick like it was a mic.

Naruto blinked. “Yo, what?”

“Don’t worry,” Shikamaru said solemnly. “That joke’s like my will to live in the academy—nonexistent, but still legally binding.”

Team 10 blinked. Then Choji cackled.
Like really cackled.
Even Ino barked a laugh.

“What’s wrong with him?” Kiba whispered to Shino.
“I believe he is... functional,” Shino replied, unnerved. “Which is unfamiliar.”
Sakura called over: “Shikamaru, you okay?”
“Oh I’m great,” Shikamaru called back, “I’ve just reached Enlightenment Through Suffering.”

“Ah,” Neji said. “He’s doing a Naruto.”

“HEY!”

Training hadn’t even started and Shikamaru was absolutely unhinged.

During sparring matches, he narrated them like a badly dubbed soap opera.

“OHHH NOOOO, KAKASHI-SENSEI’S LEFT HAND—WILL IT SURVIVE?”
“Hinata used Gentle Fist—but can it fix emotional damage?”
“Lee has entered the Eight Gates of Protein Powder—”

“SHIKAMARU.”
“YES MA’AM,” he saluted Tsunade, who wasn’t even present.

No one knew what was happening. But everyone knew something had changed.

This wasn’t the Shikamaru who stared into the dirt calculating planetary extinction.

This was... a boy who was light.

So light he made the others laugh.

So light it made Kakashi glance at Asuma and murmur, “About damn time.”

So light that Gai, nearly crying, declared: “HE HAS UNLOCKED THE POWER OF JOYOUS YOUTH!”

So light even Neji cracked a smile.

The training was messy. Loud. Chaotic.

But when Shikamaru walked home with Asuma, still telling a truly horrible pun about shadow possession and taxes, the world felt... better.

No one said anything.

But they all noticed.

He was laughing now.

And it didn’t sound like a defense mechanism.

---