|03:41 am - Fanfic100: 016. Purple|
Title: Contemplating A Matter Of Colour
Characters: Nara Shikamaru
Prompt: 016. Purple
Word Count: 1,414
Summary: When Shikamaru is asked for his favourite colour, he realizes he has never actually thought about it. (Shikamaru/Kankuro)
Link To My Table: Here.
A/N: Slightly implied male/male. Little plot. Contemplative. (Duh.)
For some reason, when Shikamaru is asked about his favourite colour by one of the genin at the academy, just out of curiosity, just so the little girl can have peace in her mind about her favourite teacher’s favourite colour - for some reason, when he is confronted with that question, he finds that he doesn’t really have an answer.
For some reason, he’s just never thought about it. He’s not even sure why - everyone seems to know exactly what their favourite colour is. Chouji’s is a deep, warm red that speaks of strength and security. Sakura’s is pink - soft and feminine, but with enough sting to it to keep you from fooling yourself into thinking that’s all there is to it. Naruto’s is, of course, orange. Vibrant, loud, never afraid to make a show of itself and tell everyone just how special it is, but also warm and comforting.
And what about himself? Shikamaru finds himself wondering. He’s never had one of those phases that all kids seem to go through at some stage, when everything has to be bought in red or green or yellow, from socks to toothbrushes to chewing gum. He knows he’s always gone for the less flashy colours in terms of clothes, but that doesn’t mean his only option for a favourite colour is browns and greens, does it?
Thoughtfully he goes through the colours he thinks might make nice candidates. There is no need to rush - careful contemplation is everything, fingers crooked in a rough circle in his lap as he thinks.
Yellow. Yellow like Ino’s hair. An impulsive ray of sunlight that can tear even Shikamaru out of his lethargy - sometimes. A teammate that he has come to cherish and even love to the point of being more than willing to sacrifice his life for. Things haven’t always been like this and it has taken him some time to get used to her exuberant personality, but now he knows he has a friend in her that would do anything for him in the firm knowledge of having the favour returned.
Green. Green like his flak jacket. His relationship with his flak jacket - and for some reason he finds it hard to call his connection to the thing anything but a relationship - has always been a bumpy one, one that he was reluctant to get into in the first place. His first motivation to become a ninja was the lack thereof, thinking that being a ninja couldn’t be all that hard. Sadly enough, he proved to be much more promising than was properly suitable for his love of doing nothing, and after his fight at the chuunin exams, one thing came after the other - responsibility, adulthood, problems shoved upon him, and not least of all the damn green flak jacket that marked the change in his life. Today, he has come to wear it with a sense of grim pride knowing that one day he will live up to everything it stands for. Complaining about every reluctant step of the way there, yes, but get there he will.
Red. Deep red like Chouji’s clothes that he wears under his Akimichi clan armour. Light, coppery red like Chouji’s hair when the evening sun catches it in just the right way. Shikamaru isn’t the type of person for sappy, romantic thoughts and he knows that it probably sounds too cheesy coming from him - or anyone else, for that matter - but he knows deep inside that whoever he himself might end up setting his heart upon, Chouji will always be the most beautiful person he knows. Because Shikamaru has learnt at a very early age to see the cruelty in others; to recognize the harshness in children when they shun a peer for some stupid reason; to grasp the truculence in girls’ fights over this guy or that; to pick up on the contempt and arrogance and sheer pleasure of others’ pain in many dozen battles. And because Shikamaru has never found any of that in Chouji.
Blue. Blue like eyes that are so dark they appear black from afar, but reveal themselves to be a very deep greenish blue if you only let yourself look into them close and long enough, which is something Shikamaru fears he does way too little - but there's also always a stare coming back that makes him back off again; not because it's hostile but because he's aware of some boundary being pushed that's too close for comfort. Blue like the skies framing the clouds he so often gazes up at. There’s nothing as calming in the world as a blue sky dotted with clouds, scattered with heaps of white thick swirls, pulled and stretched and squashed by the strong winds that blow up in the heavens somewhere. Shaped by the skies to tickle his mind when it’s thick and lazy and doesn’t care for anything but the time slowly crawling by while the long grass blades brush along his ears and wrists and ankles.
White. Although it’s not a colour by definition but rather the absence thereof, he figures that it’s as good as any. He doesn’t see a plausible reason to put it aside, but then Shikamaru has never been one to exclude anyone or anything for not fitting the standard. White as skin cleaned and smoothed in preparation for battle paint. White like the fluffy clouds that have kept him company for so many hours, waking and in his dreams. But he also knows that he can never truly be friends with white, because it’s a relationship of hate and bitterness as much as of affinity. Bitter like the smoke spiralling from his nostrils, white and thick, and white as the paper wrapped around the cigarettes that he still finds himself smoking from time to time, even so long after Asuma’s death. He knows that he and white will always stick together somehow, but he knows that he will never be able to look at its pure translucence again without feeling a pang of remorse.
Black. Black like Kurenai’s hair and Asuma’s hair and the hair that their baby will probably have. Shikamaru hopes it will be a boy but he has learnt to accept that fate seems determined to set him up with women all the time, and a little girl with Asuma’s blood and hair doesn’t even seem all that bad anymore. Black like fabric that is surprisingly breezy and light despite its looks to allow for better air circulation in a place as hot as the desert, and that is eagerly removed to reveal what’s underneath. Something else that he does not do often enough. And still too often to allow for easy comfort in the revelation.
Purple. Purple like bruises left after battles fought and won - if won simply for the reason that he is still alive to see the bruises turn purple, blue, green, yellow, disappear. Purple like bruises left after battles of a different kind have been fought, battles that don’t have a winner because both get something out of it that makes up for the bruises left on the inside and on the outside. But mostly, purple like the edges of paint on skin as the lines smoothly run their course over the bony bumps of the cheekbones, the cartilage of the nose’s broad rise, down past the jaw, and then disappear beneath a high collar to follow the lines of a body hidden too well beneath fabric to give away much of its strength and capability usually. Purple as the artificial taste of that paint smeared on his own lips another time too often, another time not enough.
There are many reasons to like as many colours or not and Shikamaru knows that he will never be able to decide on anything for long - he has grown up, or what passes for growing up in a world where people make decisions to kill others based on greed for power; but he also knows himself too well to believe that he will be able to keep his thoughts from changing again on the trivial matter of a favourite colour, like clouds shaped by an ever-changing wind.
For now, however, he is satisfied to settle with purple and he hopes that he will continue to find reasons to keep it that way for a long while to come yet.
Hope you enjoyed it. Feedback would be much appreciated.
Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Beats Antique - Beauty Beats