Written for Christmas, for WinterOfOurDiscontent.
Shikamaru hates grey skies. He hates the winter, when everything's grey and sleet and slush, when the sidewalks freeze to ice, and salt's sprinkled around to keep people from sliding and falling. Shikamaru still falls.
He falls when Chouji doesn't come home anymore. He slips and slides and can't find his center of balance when Ino disappears, and when the smell of Asuma's cigarettes fades away. His feet can't find purchase on the damn ice, and when he falls onto his ass, slush melting into his clothes, sinking into his skin, then his bones, and then his heart, there's no one there to laugh and grab his hand and pull him up.
Sometimes, like right now, when he's standing next to the memorial, and the bandages are wet and he's not sure if it's dirty water or blood, and when his hitai-ate, tied against his arm, is freezing to the touch, and there's no one there but some names carved into a piece of obsidian too big and too wide to be that full of names, he decides he hates winter.
How he hates the grey skies.