They want him to sign away his life, his freedom, and his purpose to a woman he's never met. To a woman he doesn't love.
“It's a simple matter, Kazekage-sama,” a council member explains.
“Is it?” he asks.
“Quite,” another council member says. “You are to marry by your next birthday, or else you will forfeit your position.”
Gaara stares down at the documents the council had presented to him at the start of what he'd thought would be a standard meeting on Suna's economic situation. It had been a ruse from the start.
“So you would force Suna to be without leadership all for the sake of a pointless tradition?”
“Pointless? Is it pointless? Look what happened to the Third Kazekage. One of the strongest Kazekage we'd ever had, but he died unmarried and without an heir. It was lucky that your father was old enough to take the position, and he followed the law to the letter—he married Karura and produced heirs as was mandated. What about that is so difficult?”
“You're asking me to marry someone I don't know.”
“As your father did, and his father, and his.”
“Temari's already married. Why should I be forced into this arrangement?”
The council mutters, a bunch of angry blustering men too hung up on old traditions. “Your sister's marriage, along with any children she might bear, will not be acknowledged by this council.”
Gaara's hands curl in his lap, anger pricking at his skin like hot needles. “Her marriage is as real as any marriage you'd expect me to agree to.”
A council member waves away Gaara's statement, his lip curling in distaste. “Real, certainly. But it has no weight on these proceedings. Your sister is not a candidate for consideration, and none of her children will be either. If you choose to forfeit your position over a simple matter, then so be it. Your brother will certainly make a... suitable replacement.”
Gaara stares across the room, eyes discreetly narrowed at the stone figure of his father that overlooks the council room.
“You have put off marriage and bearing children long enough, Kazekage-sama. You will be twenty-five tomorrow. It is time you took responsibility for the future of this village or forfeit your rights to rule.”
The meeting ends without so much as a word from Gaara. The council members file out, their silence heavy with judgment.
Gaara sits for so long he loses track of the time. By the time he leaves, he has memorized the ultimatum word-for-word, and his father's cold visage has been burned into his mind.
________________________________________
“Have you ever been in love?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I don't think I'd know if I was.”
________________________________________
Love is not as foreign a concept to Gaara as it once was.
He touches the scar on his forehead, the slightly raised edges disappearing as his sand cloaks his skin with its comforting weight. He knows the character by heart; knows all the ways he can use it, knows all the phrases it's attached to, knows every stroke. The word is affixed to his soul, welded to his bones, flowing through his veins. His every waking moment is defined by the word, by its thirteen strokes, by its compounds and various readings, by its absence from his life, by the emptiness it had left within him that nothing had filled.
He is certain to a degree—and uncertain to another—that he has an abundance of love within him.
Until the moment the council had given him the ultimatum, Gaara had never wondered at the other ways love could define his life, at the other ways love's absence might create an emptiness within him that nothing could fill.
Now, he contemplates love in a way he's never thought to, and love is once again a foreign language he has yet to learn.
________________________________________
“Have you ever been in love?”
“...Yes.”
“What was it like?”
________________________________________
He oversees a wedding in Suna six months after the ultimatum. He knows his own wedding would be more ostentatious, all pomp and flare—tradition, ceremony, and respecting the gods and alliances forged between village and tribe. A marriage for politics; a marriage for lineage.
Before now, Gaara had never wanted to marry, but now he knows he wants to marry for love.
He watches the bride and groom exchange oaths and symbols of their love. He watches them kiss. He watches them smile, their eyes focused on one another as though nothing else in the world could possibly matter more. He wants that.
He knows he doesn't want that with a woman. He also knows the council would never allow that.
________________________________________
“Why do people seek this out?”
“Love?”
“Romance.”
“Oh.” A beat. “It is different for everyone, but I believe it is special.”
“How?”
“I wish I could say, but I think it is something you have to feel.”
“What if I never feel it? What if I can't?”
“I am sure you will. When you meet the right person.”
“And what if I have, but I don't realize it?”
“Well, is there anyone you think about a lot? Anyone who makes you feel different? Special?”
You. “No.”
________________________________________
Gaara stares down at the finalized documents of his marriage arrangement without taking the words in. His hands frame the pages, pale as the sand that covers them, but they look less like his hands and more like skeletons as the words float through his mind without sense or meaning. They are disjointed and jumbling, and his sand swirls with his agitation like a dog with hackles raised.
“This should be acceptable,” a council member says, his tone deferential.
The leader of the Iron Plateau tribe gives a congenial nod. “I am pleased. My daughter is honored that she has been chosen as the bride for such a powerful Kazekage.” He slides something across the large table, moving a cloth-wrapped parcel towards Gaara.
“Kazekage,” someone snaps.
He looks up, dazed.
“This is a gift from my daughter—or should I say your betrothed?”
Gaara's vision swims as he stares at the small gift, at the beautiful cloth hiding a token of no-affection. He thinks he's going to be sick. He doesn't give his thanks.
“Kazekage.” He looks away from the gift, his heart thudding like a drum in his ears. “Will you accept your gift?”
His gourd rattles, sand hissing at his feet. He reaches across the distance and takes the parcel. He inclines his head.
The meeting adjourns not long after, with well-wishes and promises of 'soon'.
Too soon.
Gaara wants to run away and never look back.
________________________________________
“Would you do something for me?”
“Anything.”
“Kiss me.”
A heavy silence. “Why?”
“I don't want my first kiss to be with a stranger.” I want it to be with someone special.
The silence grows still heavier. “But you do not love me.”
I do. “You are my friend.”
“I am.” He hesitates. He never hesitates. “I do not know if I can do this.”
“Why?”
There are tears at the corners of his eyes, like blown glass. “Because I do not think I could stop.”
________________________________________
The token from his betrothed goes unopened.
He doesn't want to know what she has given him; if she has made him something special; if she has spent hours working on something unique and exquisite. He doesn't want to know that he will be married in three months time. He doesn't want to think about this strange woman lying in his disused bed, expecting things from him that he cannot give her, wanting him, touching him, trying to love him.
The thought makes his skin crawl.
He doesn't hate her.
And yet he does.
It isn't even her fault.
He wishes the council would acknowledge Temari's marriage; wishes he could change the laws as easily as he controls his sand, but he is not a tyrant. He will not overrule the council without taking the proper steps, but there hadn't been enough time, and with the contracts finalized there is no turning back. Though the wedding is still months away, he has already signed away his heart for the sake of tradition and alliances.
________________________________________
“I want to kiss you again.”
Please. “You can.”
“What if I do not let you marry her?”
“If I could, I would marry you.”
There are tears in his eyes again, caught within his prominent lashes like dew drops on a spider's web. “I wish we could run away together.”
He swallows—swallows down how badly he wants that, swallows down the reckless abandon that steals over him. “Just kiss me again.”
________________________________________
The final three months before the wedding are chaotic. The Kaze Daimyo arrives in Suna, followed by the leaders of other tribes and villages, followed by tradesmen hoping to profit from the upcoming wedding, followed by the other Kage and their delegations.
Naruto immediately crowns himself Gaara's Confidante—after all, who better to help Gaara on his journey towards becoming a husband than his best friend? Gaara didn't ask, but he doesn't mind. He could use someone to talk to, someone he can trust as he trudges towards that fateful day. But Naruto doesn't understand the role he's given himself, nor does he listen to Gaara's concerns.
“You've just got cold feet!” Naruto laughs. “I had cold feet when me and Hinata got married, but look at us!”
Gaara stops trying to have heart-to-hearts with Naruto after that. He allows Naruto to drag him from celebration to celebration without complaint. The many parties leading up to his wedding are a poor excuse to drink to excess and Naruto insists they go to as many as possible, waxing poetic about Gaara's upcoming wedding the entire time.
He acts like the expert on all things nuptial.
Gaara has not seen Naruto so much as speak to his wife.
Yet Naruto crows about Gaara's marriage as though it is the greatest thing since instant ramen; toasts to Gaara finally joining him as a married man; gets sloppy drunk and cries about Uchiha Sasuke, who still refuses to live in Konoha.
Night after night, party after party, it's the same thing.
By the second week of celebrations, Gaara can predict how each night will go, which makes it only slightly bearable. Once Naruto makes it past his third drink and starts getting weepy, Gaara slips away. He always finds himself in the company of Rock Lee, who has been the only person apart from his siblings and Shikamaru to not revel in the festivities.
It's an unexpected relief finding someone outside of his family who isn't caught up in the chaos.
He doesn't think to question why Rock Lee, of all people, seems so subdued in the midst of so much excitement.
________________________________________
“She's arriving tomorrow.”
“I would rather not think about that.”
“It's unavoidable.”
“Right.”
“You're angry.”
“No.” He breathes deep. “I am sad.”
“Oh.”
“We cannot meet like this after tonight.”
He feels as though he's suffocating, feels his heart cracking like his sand armor. “I never should have said anything.”
“Do not say that. I am happy that we had this, even if it was just for a little while.”
“Stay with me tonight.”
He opens his mouth, but words do not come. He swallows. “...Are you sure?”
“I love you.”
“It has not yet been two months.”
“Isn't that enough? If this is all we'll have?”
________________________________________
Two months until his marriage. One month until his bride-to-be arrives.
He watches Rock Lee from across the crowded room. Another party in a sea of parties. Lights, colors, and the smell of alcohol should overwhelm his senses, but it only seems to heighten his focus. Rock Lee smiles at him from across the room. He'd never noticed before how wistful his smiles could be.
He thinks about kissing that smile; he's thought about it far too often in the last week. Every time Rock Lee looks at him, he wonders what it would be like to kiss him. He'd never wanted to kiss anyone before.
“—and then you've got the presents—Gaara, are you listening?” Naruto's voice pulls him from his contemplation.
“Sorry. I have a headache.” He makes his excuses and leaves, catching Lee's eye as he winds his way through the crowd.
________________________________________
“Do you... feel different?”
He feels content. “Yes.”
“Me too.”
He touches the scars on the bare chest before him, tracing their rigid lines with a gentle finger. “Are you happy?”
“Yes.”
The eyes watching him are blown wide, deep black pools like the expanse of space. Instead of stars glittering there, he finds only love. He wants to cry. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”
“We could.”
“We can't.”
They'd always known this couldn't last.
________________________________________
“It is an honor to finally meet you.”
She's pretty the way art is pretty. He can appreciate her beauty, but that is all. He is not attracted to her and he cannot love her. He wonders if she thinks she can love him, or if she dreads this as much as he does. Perhaps she has a secret lover, too.
Not that he has a secret lover. Not anymore.
The introduction ceremony is a private, quiet event. Gaara sits in a room with his betrothed, wearing an unadorned silk robe. She sits across from him in a plain robe of her own. As the days pass and the month draws to a close, their robes will transform as they do. On the day of their wedding, their formerly plain robes will be traded in for the ornamental robes of the bride and groom.
Between them is a pit of hot sand with a beautiful tea set on a flat metal plate. The scent of pomegranate curls from the pot on tendrils of steam.
His betrothed watches him with wary eyes. They are a soft honey-brown color and nothing like Lee's. She doesn't look at him with love sparkling like stars in the sky, she doesn't grace him with soft smiles meant only for him.
They go through the motions of the tea ceremony in utter silence.
________________________________________
“You're leaving?”
“I cannot stay.”
He stares at him, at the determined line of his jaw, at the furrow of his thick brows, at the tears lingering on his lashes. “Take me with you.”
“You have obligations.”
“Damn the obligations.”
“You do not mean that.”
He doesn't. He does. “Please. Don't leave me.”
“I cannot watch you marry her.”
“Then don't. But I can't do this if you're not here.”
“All the more reason for me to go.”
________________________________________
The parties become more raucous as the dreaded day draws near.
Gaara doesn't allow Naruto to drag him out for endless nights of drinking anymore. He cannot stand the crowds, the noise, the celebrations, the congratulations. He cannot stand the sight of her. He cannot stand the absence of Rock Lee.
No one knows why Rock Lee has abandoned Suna so close to the wedding, and no one thinks to ask Gaara.
He hides away from it all—Lee's absence, his betrothed, the well-wishers, his family. He only ever leaves his home when he has to attend the numerous ceremonies expected of him and his bride. The ceremonies are long and arduous, a painful reminder of what he is heading towards and what he has already lost.
The plain white of his robe is being taken over by blue. The dyeing process is as meticulous as the ceremonies. Eventually, the white will be consumed by blue and he will be a married man.
He smooths his hand across a newly embroidered detail, ignoring his betrothed as they leave another ceremony.
“Do you hate me?”
It is the second time she has spoken to him.
Gaara looks up at her, tearing his gaze away from the silver threads at his sleeve. “No.”
She watches him with her thoughtful honey-brown eyes. “Do you think they'd call it off? If we hated each other.”
Gaara huffs a bitter laugh. “No.”
She looks away from him, looks down at her hands. They are soft from the pampering she has received since her arrival, the brown skin glistening with oil and her nails neatly manicured. She curls her fingers, making fists. “When they told me, I was excited to marry you.”
The feeling is not mutual. “I'm sorry.”
She covers her face with her hands. Gaara realizes that she is hiding her tears. “Do you think you'll ever love me?”
He won't. Not the way she wants him to, not the way a husband should love a wife. He might come to care about her, but he will never be in love with her. “No.”
“Can you try?”
“I love someone.” He hadn't meant to tell her.
“Will she be at the wedding?”
“No.”
The tears caught in her short lashes remind him of Lee. “Once we're married, you can't see her.”
“I know.”
She nods, wiping the tears away. She doesn't speak to him again as he escorts her back to her quarters.
________________________________________
“Do you remember when you asked me if I'd ever been in love?”
“Yes.”
“Ask me again.”
“Have you ever been in love?”
“Once.”
“What was it like?”
“Indescribable. Singular. I'll never love anyone else.”
“Truly?”
“Will you stop loving me?”
“Never.”
“Would you do something for me?”
“A kiss?”
“Yes.”
“I might never stop.”
“Then don't. Keep me here with you... forever.”
“Your wedding...”
“Just kiss me.”