Chapter 1
It must've been the middle of the night, judging by the steely blue sky outside and the moonlight turning corners in his room into shadows.
And yet Gaara hadn't been able to sleep, not even a long wink. He lay in bed, drenched in heavy moon-softened shadows, his breathing slow and shallow.
That kind of thing wasn't unusual—housing that riotous psyche of Shukaku’s since the day he’d been born, sleep had always been elusive and, sometimes, he even preferred it that way. Restless nights often gave way to additional hours he could devote to his position as Kazekage well past the expected already-astringent demands of the office.
Tonight, though, like the last few that had passed, Gaara found himself unable to even work through these insomniac spells.
He rose from bed and padded barefoot to his window, leaned elbows against cool, curved sills as his eyes adjusted to the light just outside.
Sometimes, he could get away with bothering Shinki, would find his son mostly-awake even at odd hours. Some of Gaara’s favorite antics and conversations had begun that way—checking on his child in the dead of night only to dissolve into smiles (or tears) under watchful stars afterward.
It didn't feel right or fair to do that right now. Not when he couldn't clear his head enough to see past the fog, much less function despite it. He wouldn't make for good company, anyway. Best to leave Shinki asleep or alone—whichever applied. The last thing he wanted was to subject a child to this piercing, hovering gloom.
Gaara’s mind wandered again, raw and red-feeling behind his eyes.
Silence warped the seconds (minutes—hours—) that passed with his face close to the cold window and his eyes trained on luminous dark blue clouds gathered underneath the moon.
In no time at all, the way it usually happened when he got like this, he found himself contemplating unusual things; this time, it seemed, death.
Gaara didn't often think of the dead—the lives of thousands of living people depending on him remained at the forefront of his mind most of the time—and when he did, it was usually with his family or fellow villagers in mind.
But lately, his thoughts seemed to keep settling on someone fifteen years dead, as though he hadn't been forced to accept that fact over and over again for the first few years after it’d happened.
Neji Hyuga came to mind more and more each night that passed in sluggish, silent seconds—like a ghost or some other haunting, like a photo loved through the ages.
Gaara missed his friend.
He also missed so, so much more than that.
The time—that time—had to be close. The emptiness it brought with it radiated from every vein and artery in his body until he felt too hollow to seem real.
He of course couldn't think of Neji without thinking of the rest of the family-of-sorts who lived in the Leaf. Of Naruto and Hinata, of Shikamaru and Temari, of Kakashi and the multitudes of others he held dear.
He was acting like a child, thinking of childish things, dreaming a child’s dream—he knew that much. It didn't change the reality he faced.
There was a letter he had kept, in a top drawer by the bed—a place no safer than anywhere else but full of curious meaning—blessed with a bleeding stamp from many years ago. The last of a handful sent by Neji.
(Many’d come attached to Naruto’s, but there were much fewer of those since Naruto—like Gaara—spoke more clearly with actions than they ever could with words. And then technology caught up with them, eventually, overtaking letters in a way that Neji never even got to experience; he’d died so young...)
The number of times in Gaara’s life he'd had to remind himself that shinobi die—even ones who, by all rights, shouldn't—increased with each day since he'd crossed that letter again.
His attention circled it, touched then darted back as if afraid to sink too deep should he think on it longer than a second.
He let out a soft sigh against the window. His breath barely appeared, gossamer on the glass.
The climbing fever clinging to the underside of his skin, then, must've been in his head.
(But then again. Wasn't it always?)
***
Neji brought the letter to him not long before Pain, not long before the world stood poised to pitch straight to hell, when things were hectic but still somehow hopeful…
(Somehow? He knew exactly how. That guy…)
***
Gaara got dressed after checking the time—4:30 am—and headed for the greenhouses.
The wind washed through his hair, over his face, eager and desert-cool as it filled his lungs the same way it dipped down into the crater where the village sat. He barely blinked despite that, though, moving on muscle memory alone to the wide fields of flora which they'd carefully cultivated in front of the greenhouses standing silent and silver-lighted side by side in the dark.
His feet were careful pacing between the plants. Breezes passing by made it feel as though leaves, fingers, reached out to brush his ankles and calves. For some reason, it seemed the only thing he could feel at all.
It was definitely that time. Probably. Gaara could never tell, not exactly, just… experience. And hope to catch the signs before it affected his work and relationships too much.
Nothing had been appearing off lately, but then again, he was feeling like this, and he had for so long that he hadn't even noticed until tonight.
No matter how acclimatized he'd become to constant, chaotic exhaustion, even Gaara could only last so long before something gave. With his thoughts filled with that final letter sent to him by Neji over a decade ago, it was only a matter of time.
Pale light framed the edges of a cloud as it passed in front of the moon when he reached glass doors.
The same moon was visible over Konoha—did anyone there stare up at it the way he did?
Gaara shivered under shadows before finally stepping inside the last greenhouse in the row, all the way left.
***
The Shinobi Union—which made the daily struggle seem worth it even when all the little battles of the day had been lost—had started with the first alliance, the strongest: between Konohagakure and Sunagakure.
They worked together quite well, in political, military and even domestic spheres, once the dust of their initial conflict had settled. Tsunade and Gaara saw eye-to-eye on many if not most issues, and they shared a deep-seated desire to protect the bonds that Naruto had forged but also that they all tempered every day, for the sake of what amounted to the world.
Their shinobi, too, dovetailed well; came to rely on each other more so issues could be resolved diplomatically.
And they cooperated almost on the regular, even at the start, before any of the other nations wanted anything to do with wide-scale peace.
Like Kakashi had told him once, what felt like quite a long time ago now, The more problems we face together, the stronger our bond will become. For this reason and many more, joint missions increased between the two villages.
So the sight of Neji standing in the Kazekage Office before Gaara in his mission gear had likewise grown into a more common sight over the past few years.
His eyes. His smile. His cool, gentle light.
***
Sweltering warmth dawned around him, and dim yellowish mounted lamps lent the space an ambiance that didn't intrude on his eyesight despite coming in from the hard night darkness.
Gaara walked forward, numb to the beauty that surrounded him, the narrow path under his feet guiding him to the back of the greenhouse, where he went through another door—this one wooden, solid, and leading to a tiny private closet that he'd sequestered for himself. Mostly. Kankuro paid it more visits than he did these days, and anyone was welcome to the plants that budded there. It’s simply that so few did, it may as well have been private.
Gaara’s eyes adjusted again to the change of lighting due to the induction lamps that lit the flowers. Climate control kept the grow room comfortable though still warm compared to the cold desert night-winds. He didn't register much, either way. The numbness had sunken down into his bones, stuttering through cells, pressing against his skin.
His fingers twitched then clenched into fists at his side; he stepped further into the small room and reached for where curating buds sat on a shelf to the side.
Any would do.
After he’d gathered a few handfuls of green, he capped the jar and replaced it on the shelf with trembling fingers.
Was he getting worse? He didn't feel any differently than he had when he left, but—well—fuck, his heart hurt...
Gaara packed his flower away and left. Somehow, he made it home. Cold nose and chapped lips warmed again as he shuffled out of his shoes at the entrance before arriving in the kitchen.
He paused, turning the corner. A light was on.
“Kankuro?”
His older brother sat at the dining table with a half-glass of sake that he tossed back before bothering with a greeting. Then he grinned, gave a single wave of his hand, said, simply, “Yo.”
The sight of Kankuro at his kitchen table at who-knew-what-hour made Gaara feel young suddenly—younger than he'd felt in decades, though all his life he never truly felt his age.
Over 30 years, he’d spent in this life when he never thought he'd even get half as far…
“You're lookin’ lively, little brother, ja.”
Gaara blinked and forced himself to go to the counter, where he braced himself against the edge.
The details of that damned letter pressed at his mind, and he almost let it—welcomed it, in fact—worn too thin to turn away anymore.
To be the words of such a long-dead man, Gaara recalled Neji’s letter all the way down to the punctuation. It was ruining him.
Kankuro’s next words were pitched low, spoken softer than he'd dare to spare most anyone else aside from his family. “Didn't think you’d be out this early.”
Early?
Gaara shifted away from the counter with considerable effort and checked the time. 6:00am.
Where had the time gone?
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair—his fingers snagged on a couple small tangles—and he turned to face Kankuro. “Lively, huh,” he echoed.
At that, Kankuro’s grin returned, tempered by his sarcastic remark striking closer to home than he'd realized. His face, kabuki-painted as usual, settled into somber lines.
Gaara nodded at the empty glass on the table. “No livelier than you,” he said, unpocketing the bud he'd picked. “If you have a while, I'll make you tea.” He set some water to simmer in a kettle on the stove.
“Tea? Sure.” Kankuro eyed the bud on the counter. “I wondered where you’d gone. Plants lookin’ good?”
“You don't know?” Gaara found a grinder next to the sink and uncapped the lid, stuffed pulled-apart pieces of bud between its teeth.
Kankuro shrugged. “Been busy, so can't say I do. Why else do you think I helped myself to your alcohol? Thanks, by the way, ja.”
Some of Gaara’s listlessness lifted as he gathered ginger tea, coconut oil, two mugs, a metal tea ball and a small bowl and wooden spoon.
“You can take the rest with you, if you want,” he said.
He ground up the bud, focused fingers grateful for tasks to occupy body if not mind, then dumped it into the bowl with some coconut oil and got to mixing.
“Aah, still haven't got much of a taste for it, huh?” Kankuro said.
Gaara glanced up to stare Kankuro down; he knew Gaara couldn't stand the taste of the stuff.
Kankuro laughed—not his usual boisterous laugh but robust enough to enrich the space between him and Gaara. “Yeah, well, you can keep it. I have enough of my own. I was just bored waitin’ on you to show back up, ja.”
“You, bored. Imagine.”
“I was about twenty seconds away from tearin’ through the village to find you.”
“The truth comes out…” Gaara mused.
The marijuana mixture came together perfectly, so he spooned it into the tea ball, placed that in the simmering water and cleaned everything up before joining Kankuro at the table.
Kankuro’s eyes were serious over the half-dead grin he still wore. “Can’t help it. Little brother,” he added, warm-edged. “Sometimes, you disappear, and I know you're safe. Sometimes…”
Sometimes, Gaara got himself involved in one-on-one battles with notorious criminals that ended up with him captured—then killed.
He could forgive occasional bursts of overprotectiveness, especially after that, and especially without Temari nearby to do the other half of the mother henning anymore. In fact, despite the fact he needed it less and less over the years, that very overprotectiveness had kept him safe, settled, often sane.
Even that barely reached him through the soft sting of static covering his brain, though.
Gaara rubbed his eye. “I’m here,” he said, “safe and sound, so…”
“So, good, ja.” Kankuro leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms, lost the smoothness of his tone. “Because I wanted to let you know that you're going.”
He didn't mean to, but Gaara may have glared at Kankuro. “Going where?” he asked. Already knowing.
Kankuro played it straightforward as always. “Gaara. The children are concerned.”
That cooled him all the way down.
As much as he couldn't stand to worry his brother, with Araya, Yodo and Shinki, it was even worse. Father, Sensei, Lord Kazekage—no matter what they called him, their last worry should be him.
“They came to you?”
“Shinki did, and he was right to. How’ve you been sleeping?”
Gaara didn't answer, which spoke volumes.
“So go, Gaara. You need it. That’s okay.”
“The village—”
“Won't fall apart without you in a week, ja.”
“A week…!” Gaara shook his head. If he went, it was never so long as a week. Three days max, and only then to cushion official business visits. How could he justify leaving for so long without an official reason?
None of his qualms caught on to Kankuro, though, who shook his head right back at Gaara.
“No, see, you're not gettin’ it. Everything's been taken care of already. All you have to do is show up at the train station at five o’clock and board.”
“Kankuro.”
“Ga-ara.”
“That's unreasonable and unrealistic. I have to work—and the team—”
“It's cool, you didn't get me the first time. All right, let's try this again. Everything’s been handled already, and you are going. I can escort you if that's what you really want, ja.”
“Don't be an ass.”
“Don't be dense. I've got the kiddies covered and the Kazekage on speed dial if anything unexpected pops up. Not that I’d dare, but you seem to need the reassurance…” Kankuro lifted his shoulder in an insouciant shrug.
Gaara, again, found his reply in the silence that slipped between them, his eyes falling to the tabletop. He frowned.
In any case, Kankuro didn't seem perturbed by his resistance at all. How bad must he have gotten…?
“Your family isn't only here, Gaara. Shit, they're my family, too. You never throw this much of a fit when I or anyone else goes. And he’s there. And those two. Let them smother you for a little while, ja. It's been long enough. You can afford the time away. Take it. Take care.”
His voice drew Gaara’s eyes back to his face.
“Besides, Temari’s already expecting you, so it's pretty much ironclad, at this point.” A sly smile graced Kankuro’s lined lips, lifting the lilt in mood.
“You'll never leave that office.”
“Not true, but I'll manage either way. It’s not like you run this village singlehanded. Give your staff some credit, ja.”
Gaara’s shoulders hiked a bit—he did tend to overburden them sometimes, even if he wasn't nearly as bad about it as a certain other Kage he knew.
Just the thought of him made his fingertips tingle. Pins and needles flooding rejuvenated heartstrings.
Now that the option had been presented, the temptation to take it spiked like a low fever under his skin, as if he wasn't suffering enough already.
“Okay,” he said, finally, simply.
“Okay?” The way Kankuro’s face brightened may as well have been another light in the room. “Because I have something I want you to give Shikadai. He’ll love it.”
“Not another puppet.”
“You're one to talk. At least it's not kinetic sand and cactus shit, ja.”
“He loves my gifts.”
“Yeah, okay. If it makes you feel better to believe that lie, go on and believe it.”
They spent the last few minutes waiting for the tea to finish simmering by debating the validity of given gifts—and trading task outlines for the week to further flesh out once the day had fully begun—before Gaara stood to prepare the rest.
It had to cool for a few minutes more before they could drink it without scalding their insides, so Gaara added the bags of ginger tea, some honey (heaps of sugar, for Kankuro) and a touch of milk and finished cleaning everything else before bringing the mugs over to the table.
Kankuro glanced up from his phone when he did, tucked it back away.
“Thank you—oh, wow. This smells amazing, what the hell…?”
Gaara half-shrugged. He made cannatea quite often; it wasn't anything special.
Kankuro’s bighearted warmth pierced through more of the full-body veil that cloaked Gaara’s insides. Though it also highlighted the fact that he didn't get to simply sit and talk and relax with his big brother anywhere near often enough.
A morose thought, to be sure, but it had been that way for years. Too many, in fact.
He aimed to change that—as soon as he returned.
***
The two-man team Neji captained stepped outside the office, and, to be honest, Gaara expected Neji to follow them without saying anything outside of the mission parameters they'd just discussed.
Sure, they saw each other slightly more frequently, but that didn't mean much—and it didn't leave an awful lot of room for levity, either.
They were at work and short on time.
(As usual.)
After a single, slow second, Neji stepped closer to the desk that Gaara sat behind, alone in a mere nominal sense what with ANBU on standby at all times.
Still, it was as close to alone as they’d gotten in a quite a while.
Gaara didn't know why, but that fact weighed on his mind as Neji reached into his pack and withdrew a small scroll for Gaara to take.
His name had been penned in careful reddish lettering on the front.
“Since the mission is supposed to take two weeks, I figure I can give this to you now and receive your answer once we return,” Neji said. The letter trembled in his outstretched hand despite his face remaining neutral, his half-smile blank.
Gaara took hold of it. “Do your best, Neji,” he said, suddenly, but softly.
“You can count on me.”
A standard farewell, by all means.
That nevertheless sank deep into a space in his mind where it made a home.
***
As arranged, at 5 pm, Gaara hugged Shinki and Yodo against his middle—Kankuro and Araya hung back at the boarding gate, playing some game or another—then hefted a modest overnight bag in his hand and boarded the train.
He’d have loved to drag Shinki with him, but the team had training to get to, and no one else even appeared interested in tagging along. They wanted him to go alone.
The ride wasn't long; only a few hours, compared to the three day trek it used to take by foot, but it gave him plenty of time to think.
He’d spent most of the day with Kankuro and Shinki, very high for a few hours and then slowly not, making sure all the bases were covered. The last time he’d been away from the village alone and for so long… well, who the hell knew when that had been?
His phone pulsed. A text. From Shikamaru.
Dinner’s with us tonight. Your sister’s orders.
Gaara felt his face warm. He ached to bury it in Temari’s shoulder at the mention of her.
(Such childish things…)
Eventually he pulled a page from Yodo’s book and popped in some earphones to distract himself. He felt more level than he had in some time (throwing relief over just how low he must've sunken without even knowing), but the tremble in his hands, head and heart had returned as soon as he came down off his high.
He clasped his fingers together and tucked them between his knees for the duration of the ride.
***
“You’re here.”
It had been two weeks. Almost. As usual, Neji outperformed himself, completing the mission early and with minimal incident. His team opted to spend the evening in town while he hovered, alone in a rented room, waiting for Gaara to get some free time.
When he pulled the door open to find Gaara behind it—a scroll clutched half to death in one hand—relief lit his answering smile.
The same relief that echoed in Gaara.
Finally, they were here. Door locked, nerves alight, two feet apart. Together; alone.
Anxious, but eager, too.
Gaara’s throat tightened around his reply. “Yes.”
Neji’s eyes drifted down to the letter in Gaara’s hand. Long trails of hair slid across his face as he did. “Would this happen to be for me?”
“Yes.”
“May I have it?”
“Yes.”
His fingers brushed Gaara’s as they grasped the scroll before setting it aside on a nearby desk. The ink of his name written across the front faded in the barely lit room.
“Then,” Neji said, “I suppose this means you got a chance to read my letter?”
“Yes.”
It felt like the only thing Gaara could say, head wrapped in haze as it was. He hadn't the faintest what his face must look like; something dumbfounded, probably.
“Your answer, Gaara?” Neji’s voice went low, half-smile gone, eyes so intent that the room around them vanished.
They stood near the window, brushed warm blue along their sides as the sun fell beyond the horizon. A nearly physical tension snapped hot in the small space between them, and the whole world narrowed all the way down to just that, just them.
“Yes.”
There was so much Gaara didn't really get about attraction—most of it, to be honest—but sometimes when he came around certain people, the words altogether fell away from his mind, along with everything else, which mattered more than simple definitions and connotations.
Neji was one of those people.
He stepped closer to Gaara. Not close enough to touch, but if he reached out even a little bit…
“I'm not him,” Neji said. “I don’t have any interest in pretending to be.”
Despite his words, the play of his eyes didn't change. He actually stepped closer.
If he was hoping to somehow dissuade Gaara with that information, he didn't stand a chance of it. Not when Gaara had spent the last almost-two weeks garnering the guts to give just the response he wanted.
“I know.” He tilted his chin up in a false show of confidence that made him feel weaker rather than bolder—but he pressed on regardless, grateful the knot between his collarbones eased somewhat when his fingers found the cuff of Neji’s sleeve, wrapped up right in it. “You explained that in your letter.”
Tremulously, Neji’s mouth turned up at the corner. “I did.”
“So then—”
“So then you're sure you're okay with it being me?”
Blood pounded in Gaara's head, loud enough to disorient him. Why was Neji doing this to him? He’d said yes. He couldn't think of anything else to say.
Except for a single, slight “yes, please.”
An odd feeling burned sharp at his ears and cheeks and down his chest, and he closed his eyes against it, afraid to do much of anything anymore with his whole heart peeled open, bleeding between the cracks in his ribs.
The person he had been then didn't understand. Even now, he couldn't find too much of a reason for it, just took it at face value as two fumbling teenagers trying to fit into their new adult skin, navigate each other in a sea of circumstance.
It only lasted a second, anyway.
The rest belonged to Neji.
Warmth and light in a press of lips that Gaara wished would never end; incandescent, his night-long first.
***
Gaara jolted out of his reverie just as the train pulled to a stop at Konoha Station. He tugged the music from his ears and gathered his things to leave.
The sight of Hinata standing on the platform, Himawari hugged close to her leg but clearly engaged in a mobile game, caught Gaara off-guard. He even found himself checking around the station for others she might be there for, but when his eyes snapped back to her, it was him she waved to, smiled at.
Slight. Sweet. Sleek. She glowed in that subtle way of hers, like a flower under stars.
His chest tightened. He marched toward her without thought, as though drawn by firelight.
“Gaara,” she said when they were within speaking distance.
He didn't stop there.
A vague little voice—Himawari, finally noticing his proximity—gasped in excitement, but he only noticed Hinata’s as he leaned down to take her into his arms.
It wasn't something he always did. They gave each other different things, links between lives that neither of them pretended to hide. Navigating this, at the start, had been a trick of miracles that they managed. But needing her—Hinata, not Naruto’s wife, not Neji’s sister, Hinata—had its own void in his soul that wrapping around her helped to smooth over.
He breathed in the faintly floral smell of her almost to the brink of tears and waited for the pain to lessen. About a second passed, and then she wrapped strong arms right back around him, their bodies pulling closer together under streetlights.
“Welcome home, Gaara,” she said. One hand lifted to slide through the hair at the back of his head.
Gaara stopped just short of crushing her to him when he felt little hands tug at his trenchcoat. He nodded against her hair and left the quick ghost of a kiss there before stepping back to catch her eyes.
Thank you, he said with his own.
If he tried to open his mouth to say the words right now, there was no telling what would come out.
He already felt better, though, and hoped to settle soon enough to talk to her properly.
“Uncle Gaara! Hug me, too!” Himawari raised her arms to help guide him to her.
A brief laugh broke through the remaining tension in his body as he reached down and squeezed her to his middle.
“Okay, Hima,” Hinata said. “We should get going before it gets any later.”
“Hold my hand?” Himawari turned bright blue eyes and a hopeful smile on Gaara.
“I would like that,” Gaara said. He took Himawari’s hand with one of his own and made to grab his bag with the other before Hinata beat him to it, a smug smile on her face, their exchange complete.
And he knew better than to try and argue the point—to her, in particular.
They left the station.
Konoha at night had the same glow as Suna though that’s not what made the village feel so much like home. It had less to do with the wind spinning restless between the trees and more to do with the woman walking at his side, the house she steered them to without even breaking step, the shower she offered him, the room she had prepared for his stay.
Another bout of tears threatened to overtake him at the mere thought, light slowly working around the edges of whatever gaping wound had sprouted inside his brain, his bones, his blood.
Hinata settled him, climbed on the bed behind him to rub love and lilting laughter right into his skin, then sent him off to his sister’s with a kiss.
***
“Gaara!” Despite the easygoing tone, Shikamaru’s put-upon longsuffering face answered the door. “You’re late, as usual, I see.”
Gaara had the decency to blush. His shower had run longer than anticipated when the heat that hit his skin left him gasping and oversensitized, shaking from the return to safer headspace. He was still incomplete.
And then he had decided to give Shinki a call on the walk over—both to get some fresh air and before it’d be too late to do so—which he’d only just ended.
“Forgive me,” he said.
Shikamaru shrugged. “Consider yourself forgiven. Well, come in. Food’s still hot, at least.”
Gaara followed him inside, slipped out of his shoes at the entrance and got about five steps into the house before a shorter, black-haired clone of his sister materialized in the way.
Her son, Gaara’s nephew, Shikadai.
He had a light jacket in his hand and an expression somewhere between apprehension and excitement. “You’re here!”
“I am,” Gaara said, kneeling. “And I brought something for you.”
Shikamaru chuckled as he walked past them into the living room. He dropped his hand to the top of Shikadai’s head along the way.
Predictably, with that attitude so much like his father’s, Shikadai feinted from underneath him and delivered the classic “what a drag” akin to a curse.
Gaara watched, bemused. He pulled his gift from a jacket pocket, curled his fingers around it.
Shikadai’s small grin, when he turned back to Gaara, seemed to mirror Gaara’s own.
“So, what is it this time?” Shikadai asked. His eyes fixed on Gaara’s outstretched hand. He reached to accept it as easily as anything.
Gaara unclenched his fist to drop a thin silver chain with a small-faced watch for a pendant into Shikadai’s palm. He had discovered it among his mother’s things a while ago—come to think of it, probably around the time when he’d begun to lose his grip—but hadn't known what to do with the dainty necklace. Wore it, for a time, trapped beneath the collar of his trenchcoat. It didn't bring him any more peace than knowing he had his mother’s love, though, so gifting the momento to Shikadai meant more than shelving it somewhere again.
Having no idea of its significance, of course, when Gaara turned Shikadai about by the shoulders to place the necklace around his neck, Shikadai grabbed the pendant and studied it for a moment.
“What is this?” he asked, unimpressed but not ungrateful.
“I’ll tell you a little story later. Let’s not keep your mom waiting any longer.”
Shikadai accepted the response with a half-disappointed look on his face, and together they braved entering the dining room. Gaara left him there to find Temari and Shikamaru sharing a drink in the kitchen where everyone’s dinner plates had been put together, set out on the counter as amazing as usual.
The food wasn't what had him stopped in his tracks.
(Nor was it the abrupt recollection of Yashamaru that flickered the in corner of his conscience. The first glimpse of Temari always seemed the trigger that in him, due to their resemblance.)
Shikamaru had one hand tucked behind Temari’s back as she drank from his glass, with a light in her eyes that Gaara could only describe as serrated, but the energy between them was so calm and self-assured that he almost stepped back out of the room.
He didn't have an awful lot of examples to follow when it came to marriage and romance. His own love life felt half-borrowed most of the time, and even that seemed more a result of him clumsily clinging to first loves who, for some reason, put up with him all this time. His parents—well, they had their legacy. His father never remarried after his mother’s death, but that didn't set any kind of precedent Gaara wanted to emulate. The closest he could find were in the small moments Temari allowed others to see when she was with Shikamaru, like this; comfortable. Something tender and right that fit over them both.
She caught sight of Gaara out the corner of her eye, noticing him after a prolonged second, the serrations vanished from her gaze as it shifted to a different kind of light. Still love, though, and so familiar that Gaara lowered his eyes away from it.
Away from the way it made him feel too young. Away from the memories of her lingering stare on his face when their father forced them apart as children.
“Gaara…” Temari was in front of him in moments. Her hands reached down to cup his face and bring it up to hers. She smelled a bit like alcohol and a lot like dinner but, under that, the same sharp citrus scent of ozone he always associated with her.
Just as he'd wanted to—as he feared he would—Gaara found himself with his head bowed against Temari’s shoulder.
She let him. “You've been gone a long time, huh?”
Gaara didn't answer—couldn't yet—but Shikamaru, as always, knew exactly what to do. He lay a hand on Gaara’s shoulder as lovingly as any touch from Kankuro and teased him just as easily, too.
“Well, you're home now. That’s what matters. No reason to let the food get cold.”
A single shiver ran through Gaara; he picked his head up, met with warm twin stares from his siblings, their smiles slight but full of understanding.
This was a love that he knew better than any other: between them, unwavering—never left unsaid.
It calmed the pain squeezing close to his heart.
He glanced away for a second before returning to Temari’s face. “Right.”
Temari let out a sigh. Her smile blossomed, eyes shut. “Let’s set the table.”
***
Neji stopped first.
Without him, Gaara fumbled a bit, collapsing back against the desk as his head continued to spin from scattering sensations. He grasped the edge of the desk with one hand while the other automatically darted to his mouth.
White eyes caught the movement, but Neji only watched as Gaara ran hypersensitive fingers across his lips. The thunder of his heartbeat pulsed there.
The air in the room slowly cooled his head, giving him space to breathe for the first time in—forever.
“Are you okay?” Neji asked.
Gaara didn't know how to answer that. His face was flushed from racing blood already, and now his throat clenched whenever he tried to swallow. He let his hand fall to his collar, push the unease there away.
“I’m sorry,” said Neji.
“No—I…” Gaara breathed in deep to gather himself. “I’m fine. I just…” A creeping blush resurged across his neck and cheeks, reminding him of a few moments ago, how radiant the heat of his skin felt against his clothes with Neji pressed so close to him. “Shit.”
Neji seemed to get it then. “You've never been kissed before.”
Frustrated with himself, Gaara glanced away but at least managed to stand on his own.
That stupidly endearing half-smile of Neji’s rang clear in his voice. “So… you and Uzumaki don't do this…?”
“Of course not.” Gaara met his eyes again.
Neji had his arms crossed, and he looked somewhere between amused and annoyed, his hair falling in front of his face as he captured Gaara’s gaze. “Why would that guy ask such a thing then?”
Gaara had a guess that he decided to keep to himself for now. Naruto Uzumaki—he could be absentminded but never cruel or insincere, and Gaara knew better than anyone just how perceptive, too.
“He knew you would,” Gaara said.
For a change, Neji was the one who had to search for words. “I apparently have a hard time denying him much.”
Gaara knew the feeling. Thoroughly.
It made him think…
He took a step toward Neji, his hand reaching through hesitance for the other’s chest. “Then you, too. You’re…”
Some of Neji’s confidence fell away at the touch. His expression slackened into soft lines.
“You're in his heart, as well.”
That much was clear.
Neji said, “So are you.”
“It’s a big heart.”
“Too damn big.”
“Perhaps. But you're not him.”
“No.” Neji’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not.”
“So that was for him. Please give it to him for me.” Gaara stepped closer. His fingers tightened around Neji’s shirt at his chest. “This is for you. Will you accept it?”
A shuddering breath, then, “Yes.”
***
It was almost enough to make him feel whole again, being surrounded by the laughter of his family in such a carefree way as they ate and—after sending Shikadai to bed for the night—drank until the moon reached its peak.
Shikamaru retired around then, stating a certain workaholic as his reason for having to get up early but not before making Gaara promise to return when they had more than a few short hours to spare. Gaara agreed; he did have Kankuro’s gift to give Shikadai, anyway, which he’d left at the Uzumaki’s, and he had all week.
For another hour more, he helped Temari clean up after the meal while she stuck slyly close to him, her smile never far and her eyes always kind.
He adored being one of the handful of people who knew so well this side of the kunoichi known as the cruelest of them all. That moniker of hers came later in life, though, because to him, she was just his concerned older sister, shrewd and watchful—cautious of who she trusted her love to. Like him.
This. He had missed this. Missed her.
They wound up on the porch around one in the morning as Temari finished the last of her after-dinner drink and Gaara loaded his pipe. Without it, he wouldn't be able to sleep tonight, either.
“Did you want to stay?” Temari asked. She toed the grass beneath the deck with her bare feet and leaned her shoulder against his. “That smells good.”
Gaara passed her the pipe, blew a lungful of weed smoke up into the star-speckled sky. Lights from the village drowned out most of the light from above, but here at the Nara house, close as it was to the sacred woods where their deer ran free, more of them became visible. Especially at this time of night.
“Are you tired? I can leave,” he said.
Temari took the smoke into her lungs then released it into the night, smooth as ever. “You don't have to, is my point. You’re welcome to stay.” She passed the pipe back.
Gaara stayed silent as he accepted it.
“It’s still like that for you, then, huh?” Temari said. “Honestly, Gaara, you're so hopeless sometimes.”
He faced her without interrupting.
“I’m a little amazed you three haven't figured this out yet, but if you ask me, you may as well make it official. Everyone else has it parsed out, and here you are, hiding from him at your sister’s house.”
“I’m not hiding.”
“Oh, yeah? Then have you been to see him yet?”
“...No.”
“You should. You could do it right now—the guy sleeps about as much as you these days, according to Shikamaru.”
His concerned thoughts darted to Hinata first before he pulled them back. It wasn't worth troubling Temari over any further.
“Please don't worry about me. I’ll be all right.”
“Sure, we can get back to that any old time, I guess, since you seem satisfied to let yourself suffer alone.”
Gaara frowned at Temari.
She winked and put a finger to his brow, conscious of the tension he held there. “I guess you'll do things your own way like you always have. Just so long as you know we have each other’s backs, no matter what.”
“Always.”
“I wanted to ask you something else, anyway.” Suddenly, her eyes turned serious, and she leaned away from him. “That necklace you gave Shikadai. It's Mother's, isn't it?”
“You recognize it?”
“Just barely. I think I saw Yashamaru with it after she’d died…” Her words gentled as she spoke.
Gaara took another hit and passed the pipe again. He started to feel lighter, fuzzy around the edges. Calmer.
“Is it okay,” he asked, “that I gave it to him?”
“No, it's fine. More than fine. I'm glad you did. I have a hard time figuring out what’s important to him, sometimes. You know—what will keep him grounded. I like that something from back home could be that for him. I guess what I'm trying to say is thank you.” She smoked.
“It’s nothing. Shikadai is an amazing child and promising young shinobi. You don't have much to worry about there.”
“I-I know that! I’m his mother! Jeez. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore. Please take this back.” Temari shoved Gaara’s pipe into his hands.
“Aah, Temari, have you had too much to drink?”
“Maybe. It doesn't take much anymore, these days. I'm so tired.”
That sparked Gaara’s attention. “Are you taking care, Temari?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She waved him off. “I don't need my little brother worrying about me. I have a husband for that.” A playful note slithered into her tone as she returned to leaning against Gaara’s shoulder with her own, their faces close and her smile sly. “You might think about doing much of the same for yourself, you know.”
Gaara nearly choked on smoke. “Temari! That's not funny.”
“Who made a joke?”
“You said you'd drop this.”
“Did I? Hmm.” Temari reclined on her hands with her eyes to the sky. They closed as she breathed in, out.
Her profile looked tranquil to Gaara. Unburdened. Or, rather, at peace with her burdens and unbothered by them. It was a look he could trust.
“Huh?” Temari blinked long and slow at his face. “What's that expression for?”
“Nothing at all. I think it's time for me to go home now.” He stood.
“Oh? Give those two my best, will you? I feel like I hardly ever see them anymore.”
He blushed at the realization that he'd said as much out loud, but the night and Temari’s buzz at least hid that much from her. Besides that, if there was anyone he would be comfortable with knowing how much that meant to him, it would be Temari.
She stood, as well, put her hands to his shoulders. “Before you go…” Her lips touched his forehead, which he bowed in thanks to her. “Goodnight. Gaara. I love you.”
Warmth spread throughout his chest, reaching almost deep enough to soak into his sore, sad bones. Almost…
“Thank you. I love you, too. Goodnight.”
***
“Can I ask you a question?” Gaara stood by the window, arms crossed, watching as the color of the sky deepened into cold dark blue.
Neji was nearby, not quite close enough to touch unless he reached out. “That's not like you.”
“You don't have to answer.”
“What is it?”
“Back then…” Gaara searched his heart for which words to pick first in the sea of them swirling around his head. If this were the only night they’d get... “During the chunin exams—Konoha’s—when you fought Naruto… what you said about your family and father… there was such darkness in your eyes. You wrote a little about it in your letter, but you didn't mention what had changed.”
Neji held in check a startled response, but Gaara didn't miss the way his fists clenched then loosened again.
“You were paying attention during that time? I seem to remember you being a bit preoccupied.”
With bloodlust and malice that he would never be done trying to atone for—yes, yes. A knot swelled in Gaara’s gut at the memory, but it eased as Neji continued.
“Darkness, you say. I did have such darkness in me, then. I wonder if, even without knowing the truth behind my father’s death, just his words alone were enough to pull me up. I think so…”
Gaara straightened his shoulders, listening intently.
From the corner of his eye, Neji noticed, as usual; being the center of focus for those perceptive eyes filled Gaara with a strange sense of security.
The way he felt around people who had saved him.
(The way he felt around Naruto Uzumaki.)
“I had been so bitter for so long that I just gave up, at some point. That's what I told myself, anyway. It didn't matter that I was called genius or that I considered myself unrivaled—I was miserable and angry all the time, and he was… him. You know. That guy…” Neji smiled, so soft and fond that Gaara ached to witness it. “I still remember the way he spoke to me in the middle of the match, in front of the entire stadium. ‘If it's too much for you to take, then you don’t have to,’ he said, like he could shoulder all my hate for me. Like he could shoulder all the world’s hate. He would take care of it himself if I couldn’t. He made me that promise then shut me right up.”
Gaara thought for a moment. “He has a way with words, doesn't he? Of chasing away darkness with them.”
“Stubbornly.”
“And your promise to him?”
Their eyes met in the enshadowed room.
“I’m still catching up to him, it seems, but he's also the only one I could ever consider strong enough to be my rival, so I think I’m keeping it well enough.”
“Not even Lee?”
“I made a few promises. He’s included in that.” Neji didn’t bother trying to hide his smile.
“You haven't fought me.”
“I’d rather save you.”
“You’ve done that already,” Gaara said quietly. “Twice.”
“Hm. Do you think so?”
“It's why I feel so safe with you.”
That smile… It would live in Gaara’s heart forever.
Neji unfolded his arms and extended his hand for Gaara to take. Their fingers touched without any of the nervousness from earlier in the night, pulling each other closer until it seemed only natural to wrap around each other.
Gaara had never been so comfortable touching another person so openly and for so long.
“Thank you,” he whispered into Neji’s shoulder.
“You're my friend,” Neji whispered back, into Gaara’s hair. “There isn't a thing I wouldn't do for you.”
His light was different—a reflection of the sun, like the moon that illuminated life in its absence—but Gaara gravitated toward it as much as he ever had Naruto’s.
***
Most of the lights were off by the time he made it back home. (Home, home—a repetition as much as an affirmation.) He padded quietly up the stairs to his room and sat at the edge of the bed in the dark.
It was another long, long, sleepless night.
***
“I thought for most of my life that I would never love anyone other than myself,” Gaara said.
“Hate is easier to hold onto,” Neji said. “Especially when you’re kept in the dark about all the circumstances that led you to it in the first place.”
“But it's cold. And it's destructive. Sometimes I feel like I'll never recover from clinging to it so hard.”
“You're doing just fine right now.”
“You're biased.”
“Because I love you?”
Gaara tensed. “Don't say such a thing so easily.”
“And why shouldn't I? It's true, that’s all. No one’s ever told you that, either?”
“Just my family…”
“Family, huh? Those are the only people I've never heard the words from.”
Neji became lost in thought, and Gaara kissed his collarbone. Dawn wasn't far.
“Hinata loves you.”
“She loves a lot of idiots.”
Neither Neji nor Naruto could be called idiots, not to Gaara, but he wanted to press a different issue at the moment.
“She never told you, though…?”
Neji’s arms tightened around Gaara. “I hated her for so long, I don't think I ever even gave her a chance.”
“You should tell her—before it's too late,” Gaara said, thinking of his own missed opportunities. “She's a sister to you, isn't she? I trust my sister most in the world, and she me, despite all that I've put her through.”
“Family is a strange thing.”
“What in this world isn't?”
Neji went quiet for a short while. Then he said, “I’ll find a way to make it clear to her someday.”
***
Hours pulled at his bones, stretching across his skin as he lay stock-still in bed and let his mind rest then ramble, in turns. After another few hours passed until the hushed sound of sleepy rousing began to issue through the walls.
Hinata’s footfalls came to a stop outside his door. “May I come in?” she asked.
Gaara sat up. “Of course.”
She went right to sit next to him on the bed, angled to face him. The light was still off. “How did you sleep?”
“Okay,” Gaara said.
Neither of them was surprised when she caught the lie. Her hands came up to either side of his face, thumbs falling under his eyes; they shut at her touch. Her hands were warm against his skin.
She said, “You look tired.”
“Did you sleep well?” Gaara placed a hand against hers.
“Better than you. I was going to ask if you wanted to help me with breakfast, but I don't want to impose if you don't feel up to it. Traveling can be draining. You have time to relax.” Hinata stood as she spoke and made to leave, but Gaara kept hold of her hand, following her downstairs to the kitchen.
He let go and crossed his arms once they arrived.
Hinata didn't miss a beat and passed him a pot. “If you handle the rice, I’ll make some eggs and chicken to go with it.” She winked when she handed it over. “You can cut some vegetables for me, too.”
Blushing, Gaara got to work on the rice. After that, he chopped onions, garlic, cherry tomatoes and scallions. Then he washed his hands and, having reached the limit of his usefulness in the kitchen, offered to round up the kids.
“Naruto left for the day already?” he asked. Halfway through, he wished he could shove it back down his throat.
Hinata’s expression froze for a moment before she smiled over it, turning to face away from him. “He stayed out working all night.” The heat of oil in the pan hissed as she dumped seasoned pieces of chicken into it. “If you don't have plans, you could take him a lunch box after we eat. I'm sure he'd love if you went to see him.”
“We can talk about it after the children have gotten ready,” Gaara said.
He went upstairs and made sure Himawari and Boruto were awake before returning to his room to clean up a bit himself.
Boruto and a headful of blond hair that stuck out in nearly every direction ran into Gaara as he stepped back out into the hallway. He was rubbing one eye with the back of his hand, a toothbrush balanced between his teeth.
“Ahh, good morning, Uncle Gaara. Is Shinki here with you, too y’know?”
“Not this time,” Gaara said. “Should we make it a habit to come together for future visits?”
“It would be better if I could go see you, Uncle Kankuro, Old Man Baki and everyone else over in Suna instead, but I guess that will work for now, y’know.” Boruto shut an eye and smiled wide.
It was as infectious as his father's had ever been. Gaara responded to it the way he always did—his heart reaching for the light.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said. A smile graced his own face.
“Nice, y’know!” Boruto ambled down the hall into the bathroom.
Gaara shook his head and checked on Himawari, who answered the door bright-eyed. “Good morning, could you get ready for breakfast? It's almost done.”
“Yes, yes, good morning.” Himawari yawned into her hand.
“Did you stay up too late last night, Himawari?”
“Well, I was reading a book—here. It got really good really fast.” She ducked back into the room and returned to the hall when she came back, the book she’d mentioned in-hand.
It turned out to be a short story about a prince who was hypnotized by his own shadow or something. Gaara didn't understand the way she explained it, but he listened closely until Boruto finished in the bathroom, and she went to clean up.
Downstairs, Gaara helped Hinata set the table.
“So, Gaara, did you have anything to do today?”
“Actually, I thought I would spend the day with you—and the kids, if they want. I'm not used to having so much free time, but I know I’d like that much, at least.”
He left unsaid that it seemed to be something she would have no objection to because she needed it, as well. They could support each other in that unique way they’d nurtured between them so sweetly and hesitantly like this.
“That sounds nice.” Hinata wrapped her hand around his for a brief moment.
Small, swift footsteps descended the stairs. Himawari appeared in the kitchen first; Boruto followed a short while later, and breakfast brought everyone together at the table.
They discussed their schedules—Boruto had a mission and Himawari had business with the Hyuga until early afternoon, so Hinata thought she and Gaara could visit Iruka-sensei after dropping off the kids—as food disappeared from the plates.
The room was bright with sunshine and warmth.
***
Morning light made everything look new. Gaara paid special attention to the sky that day when Neji left, but it wasn't supposed to be a significant point in time.
(Heaven revolved.)
All too soon after that, the world descended into war, where they lost each other, and Gaara continued to lose even more than that—always stopping just short of his life.
Not that it mattered, though. He had a death wish wrapped in a curse hovering over him this whole time, and it veered its head every few years without fail.
The curse of assassination—as with every Kazekage to come before him—and he had gotten a head start on it thanks to his father.
Had he even truly recovered from that yet?
Not likely. No… He was still working on that—on healing.
New holes burst open in his heart all the time; amends stitched slow.
He started with the returned Shukaku and simply took steps, one at a time, from there on.
Sometimes, though, he wondered if he would fall prey to that curse one day too soon—if he would be whole by then or still filled with fissures caused by constant fear.
***
Gaara brewed a batch of tea while the kids and Hinata got dressed for the day since he already had. The situation was about as far from routine as a thing could be, but somehow familiar, too, or maybe reminiscent…
Hinata was the first to return to the kitchen; they shared the tea between them as they stood nearby the stove, their eyes never leaving each other.
Some time later, Boruto came bolting through, grabbing a juice before sparing Gaara and Hinata a single sunny wave in his departure. When Himawari made it down, changed into mission training gear, Hinata put together a bento, tied it off then handed it to Gaara.
“I'll see you later,” Hinata said.
“Yes.”
She opened her mouth to say something more but stopped short.
“Bye, Uncle Gaara! I love you!” Himawari said on her way out the door.
It stuck in his throat, but Gaara managed to get the words out before they became separated. “I-I love you, too… Himawari…”
Just as the latch slid into place, Hinata’s voice carried back to him, although he couldn't hear what she’d said over the sound of it snapping shut.
***
“Acceptance” and “heart” made “love,” made him whole. Whenever he felt empty, he thought of himself as a vessel filled with all the love he had ever been given because, more often than he cared to admit, it was only too easy to forget he'd ever experienced any.
He did, after all, have to deal the rest of his life with these sick, garbage memories of being told, “You were never loved…”
***
Gaara finished the rest of the tea before braving the walk to the Hokage Office. He wanted to be less nervous for his first time seeing Naruto—most of all, though, he didn't want a reason to even be nervous in the first place.
They were the oldest friends and considerably damned close; he should be at ease, the way he always was around Naruto.
What was wrong with him? What was nagging at him?
The thoughts spiraled down into deep rumination as Gaara walked. Before he knew it, his feet had taken him up stairs and through halls and over thresholds to stand in the Hokage Office before Naruto Uzumaki with all of Konoha shining at his back. He was a regular sunrise.
“There you are, Gaara! I'm sorry I haven't gotten to see you until now, but I can't believe you're here—take a seat, uhh… Shikamaru should be back soon, too, if you wanted to bother with him. How have you been, y’know?”
Gaara processed it bits at a time, walking toward the desk Naruto sat behind; he rose as Gaara approached.
“This is from Hinata,” Gaara said. He extended the lunch box made from their breakfast earlier plus a few fruits and veggies. “I didn't expect that you still weren't coming home at night.”
“Eh—” Naruto’s face fell somewhat, his eyebrows creasing in the middle. “At least let me take you out on a date before we get to talking about that sort of stuff, Gaara.”
He could concede that much. “Sorry. I have a lot on my mind; I don't mean to take it out on you.”
“It's okay. I really do wish I had been able to meet you at the station, y’know. Hinata said she could, though…?” Naruto’s gaze pinned Gaara in place—a strangely lulling blue.
Gaara felt as though he'd known it his whole life.
“Yes, she and Himawari met me. I still can't believe how alike you and your daughter are.”
“That's a compliment, right?”
“It's whatever you want it to be, but for what it's worth, that is what I meant.”
“I knew it.” Naruto winked as he grinned, and Gaara borrowed strength from it. “And about my other question?”
“You asked another question?”
“I guess it wasn't much of a question the way I phrased it, but I still meant to ask you y’know. What do you think about goin’ on a date with me, maybe later tonight? Or for lunch, if you aren't busy right now?”
Through a faint blush, Gaara tried to concentrate on anything other than Naruto’s eyes, intense despite his easygoing smile. “It's too late notice for lunch. Hinata and I are going to see Iruka today. Dinner would be nice, though,” he said, then paused. “It’s not like you to be so formal.”
If he had to describe the look that darted across Naruto’s face, it would be something like having been caught in a white lie, as possessing both a guilty conscience and good intentions.
Naruto propped his arms up on the desk and leaned against them. “It's nothing bad y’know. I just had something I always wanted to say, and thought I could feed you at the same time. I'm really happy you're here, Gaara.”
“Enough. I get it.”
“Haha! Sorry, sorry. You know I'm not that great with words, I'll give it a rest now—”
Though Gaara disagreed—Naruto had a brilliant way with words—he didn't get the chance to say otherwise because the door opened up then.
Shikamaru had arrived.
“Hey, there, Gaara. You're not keeping Hinata waiting, are you?” He smiled.
“Not at all. I'm going now,” Gaara said, standing.
“See you tonight,” Naruto said.
He never was one for subtlety.
Gaara left it at that rather than address Shikamaru with his head so in the clouds. Hinata laughed when they met back up, and laced their fingers together as they walked through leaves and petals in soothing sunlight.
Iruka’s apartment was empty, and he wouldn't be at the school since it was the weekend, so the only other place they could think to find him was at the hot springs with Kakashi. They had their hands full dealing with catching up in ten different ways between the three of them.
(The newest class of bad kids and stressed teachers kept Iruka busy as always. Kakashi had taken up writing lately—“It’s turning into a novel, I think. No, not that kind. Well, not entirely.”)
Gaara admitted to social exhaustion within hours. As he and Hinata left, Guy and Yamato took their place, but not before stopping to talk for just a little while longer.
It turned out pleasant, the way he imagined it might feel to speak to his father if they hadn't hated each other so much. Probably better. Yes, better—almost like talking to Baki. And there were four of them.
“You look tired,” Hinata said. They had made it back home and were quickly coming down at the same time. “You should take a nap while I go pick up Hima. Those old men sure are a lot.”
“That's one way of putting it.” Gaara was staring at the ceiling from where he lay across the bed.
Hinata leaned over him, body tilted toward his and a hand against his cheek as she pressed her lips to the other. “I'll be back soon,” she whispered.
Gaara turned his head before she could turn away, his own hand covering hers on his face. Something sharp gnawed at his gut at the thought that she might pull away; it lingered even after their lips touched, careful and so conscious of each other, then slowly, as they moved, it unwound.
Still, they separated too soon. Gaara wanted to grab onto her arm—stuffed his own into the bed sheets instead.
Hinata dropped a last touch to his chin with soft lips. “Sleep well,” she said.
Then left him fast enough that, between one long blink and another, Gaara was alone.