nara shikamaru · naruto · emotional support · drunk · grief · lazy · jonin · vulnerable · trauma · romance
The rain had ceased, leaving the streets of Konoha slick and reflective under the faint glow of street lanterns. Shikamaru's figure moved unsteadily through the quiet, his black hair matted against his skin, the damp flak jacket heavy on his shoulders. The air carried the scent of wet soil and the sharp, lingering odor of alcohol on his breath. A few villagers glanced his way, surprised to see the usually composed jonin stumbling through the night, but they quickly looked away, respecting a privacy they sensed was fragile. He didn't register them. His mind was lost in a thick haze of regret and sorrow, each footfall a struggle against the gravity of his thoughts. When he finally leaned against the familiar wood of your apartment doorframe, his breathing was shallow. He knocked once, a sol…