Author's Note: The story really is better than the summery makes it sound.
WHEE. Yes, this involves Kankuro. AMAZING isn't it? I know, I love this guy. This really doesn't have any specific pairings in it but if I decide to branch off of it or whatever it'd be Kiba x Kankuro. Which I'm sure all of you just giggle over about the idea, don't you? HAHA. Well, anyway, this was more an 'I really wanna write something' kind of thing and Kankuro is my favorite character.
I hate the title really.
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Night in the Sunagakure was a night like in any other village that would be found in a desert; despite the winds shuffling and blasting the sand against the protective glass it was cold. The Kazekage Complex was certainly no exception to this irrational yet normal weather. The bright sunlight had sunk low beyond the horizon and left behind a clear moon and beautiful stars. When the foul-tempered winds calmed down it could give a beautiful view to anyone who stood on a rooftop or happened to be jumping between the strung wires between the buildings. From one's room they may be able to see the entire moon filling the often circular glass even as the sand continued to beat against the glass.
Kankuro of the Sand, though not as terrifying or prominent as his younger brother, was making his own late night show. Gaara wasn't the only one in the family from the Sand that would find himself unable to sleep for one reason or another. Kankuro was thankful every other day of the year that he didn't have that monster inside him to eat away at his personality should he try to sleep. However he did have his own problems that would leave him unable or unwilling to fall asleep. Gaara often preferred to stalk silently throughout the halls and terrify the staff members if he wasn't sitting out on the balcony atop the Complex. He would watch the sands and wind settle into a calm of their own as the night wore on; Kankuro really didn't focus enough for that sort of thing.
His dark green eyes flicked towards the clock across from his room, he could only make out the numbers because of the way the moonlight managed to barely escape between his curtains and into his basement like dwellings. His back rested against the cold wall that was burrowed several feet into the sand – enough that he could comfortably stand – with a few windows that peered out so he could see up towards the sky but, more often than not, his view was one of people's feet as they shuffled through the city. He didn't really care though because black curtains were more often than not secured in front of the glass to block out the sunlight and views anyway. Nights like these left that unavoidable because he kept glancing towards his clock to see the time.
His eyes squinted closed in their usual way as his paint-free lips frowned and turned away in an annoyed jerk of his head towards the window to his right, Only eleven fifteen; still nine more hours at least. He could see the moon blocking out much of the rest of the view from his window, hidden partially behind some of the towering buildings. Somehow the light still always managed to leak its way into his room on these nights, or rather this night. He slowly brought his head back down and inclined it slightly, letting his eyes relaxed to a close for a moment. His right arm was propped up on his bent leg while his other rested limply against his stretched out left leg. His black body suit had been traded in for a pair of black pants to sleep in and he lacked a shirt; the cold wall against his back kept him awake.
The sixteen year old pried his eyes open to look at his hand, twitching his fingers uselessly and pointlessly in the dark. His eyes had adjusted to the light and he could make out the color of his skin and how it was unusually pale for one who dwells in the desert; but most of his family was pale anyway. Except for his father of course, but he was dead so what did that matter? The teenager furrowed his brow at his hand as he fisted it and felt his nails dig into the palms of his hand in warning that he should cut them or stop clenching. Neither warning he particularly heeded to as he continued to hold his nails into his palm, his well worked hand muscles strained and he was able to press it much harder and hold it for much longer compared to people who used their hands less than he. Inevitably, however, his hand started to shake and it was only then that he relaxed his and opened it slowly.
The skin of his palm stretched out the newly made marks and he tilted his hand in the moonlight to look closer at the crescent shaped markings. They were red against the rest of his white palm, but more importantly to him they were red against the numerous scars that laced his palms and fingers. All of them were old by many years but they had all happened on the same day at the same time. He stretched his fingers as far as they would go before relaxing them again and pulling his hand closer for more observation. His other hand moved up to run his fingers over the markings as though attempting to put his attention there when it really never was.
He fought the strong urge to cry as he tried to force his chakra through a shaking hand raised shoulder high. The bones screamed at him warningly as he stretched out his fingers and struggled to make the connection to the limp puppet lying at his teacher's feet not five feet in front of him. His painted face was squinted tightly with concentration as the flow of chakra seemed to stop at his wrist and try to turn back down and loop through his arm. The more he pressed at the veins leading to his hand the more he could feel his muscles rejecting and his bones attempting to snap and splinter. His hand ached with a burn that felt like someone had tied his hand to a stone and let the sun beat down on it for days after removing the skin.
Tears brimmed at the edges of his eyes and he grew more frustrated with his inability to stable a connection while his teacher observed him with something mixed between annoyance and a hint of concern. His gloved hand popped softly, but audibly, and Kankuro flinched back but quickly moved his other hand up to steady his right. The trainer started talking to him, telling him that maybe he should take a break or remove the glove, but Kankuro ignored him. He knew what was under the dumb glove and the man was an idiot for asking; but Kankuro knew that he didn't know.
Before he realized that he had tapped dangerously into his chakra, the boy gave a solid shout of effort and his hand gave a brief blaze of blue coloring. The glove exploded like a balloon being popped, the black material shredded and falling towards the ground with an unusually awkward weight. Kankuro's green eyes widened in shock and terror as he watched the spray of blood erupt from his bruised and damaged skin. Random holes and cuts formed to exert the pent up chakra which took blood and skin with it; Temari screamed at the sudden spray and Gaara's childish eyes widened slightly.
Kankuro collapsed into a heap and clutched his bleeding hand against the black material covering his chest. It stung as the fabric grated into his skin and his entire body shook with pain as the blood continued to spurt even after he had pulled back the flow. Temari and Gaara were both sent inside as the trainer gathered him up into his arms and rushed him to the hospital wing. His hand was bandaged and medical ninja attended to it but his diagnosis was the same; 'severely damaged muscles' 'splintered bone' 'unlikely able to use chakra control'.
He hadn't been able to use his hand for several months after that and was trained mostly with his left one instead. Despite this he fell drastically behind in comparison to Temari and Gaara in his own art, puppet manipulation was hard and he struggled. He vigorously began working on his puppets in a form of 'physical therapy' for his hand despite the fact that he often scratched and bruised it. It would bleed furiously through the bandaging whenever he tried to manipulate chakra and wielding of weapons beyond most kunai or shuriken seemed to be out of the question. For months, Karasu sat unused and untouched with in the corner of his room.
The then boy could still recall the unnerving terror at realizing that he may never be able to do what his chosen art was. Puppet manipulation was the one thing he had been able to choose for himself and as the middle child the one thing he had been able to excel at quite well. Temari's control and chakra focus was much too off to be able to properly learn how to use a puppet and Gaara…well he had his sand. Of all the techniques passed down through the village, he was one of the rare potential 'puppet masters'. So it only made sense that it would be taken away from him by none other than the man who always had denied him his fair choices; his father.
Kankuro flexed his hand once more as the marks began to fade and tilted his head back against the cold wall. The slight shift sent a tremor up his spine and he shook it out before resting back against the warmed area where his body had been for the past several hours. He opened his eyes to stare up at his black, flat ceiling. Even though his father was dead, that didn't change the fact that Kankuro was no longer able to sleep on the day before his birthday. The night of May 14th was always something he terrified and thus his birthdays never seemed to be particularly happy events. That was the night his father had crushed his hand and ordered him to go to training the next day – resulting in the scars he now carried under his glove.
May 14th was the night that he had been punched for choosing to wear his face paint every day as a form of expression (and a tribute to his mother who had taken him to his first Kabuki theatre not a year before). It was the night that he had been threatened over the fact he got in trouble at the academy, the night he received a broken rib for back talking, the night he was kicked for not watching Gaara more efficiently. But more importantly, May 14th was the night he had been beaten for the suspicion that he may have been gay; or at least bisexual. It was the night his father told him that 'No son of mine' and 'You'll grow out of it' and 'I won't have this family's name tarnished'. It was the night he was dragged down, beaten, broken, and fixed all over again; the night where he really realized what he was and in turn who he was. Where he realized everything he wanted to be involved nothing his father wanted him to be.
May 15th, the day of his birth, was the morning that he limped to training and claimed that he tripped over something. It was the morning that he ducked and dodged Temari's blows extra carefully because if she hit it was the day it took him two minutes longer than normal to get up. It was the day that, probably, more tarnished is relationship with his younger brother because as Gaara's sand moved to pick him up from a nasty fall he screamed. He screamed because it constricted not too tight but tight enough to crush a broken rib from the night before. It was the day that he ditched training to do something, anything, besides risk getting hit again. It was the day he treated himself to a hamburger at his favorite place in the town over and flirted with some of the local guys. May 15th was the day he spited his father as a treat to himself, and the day he taught himself to be a man.
The scars on his hand were a constant reminder of why, exactly, he was the way that he was. Even if it was to spite his father, even if his father was dead, that was it. It was his own choice to sleep with guys or girls, and it was his choice for what reasons. Yes, his father beat him without particularly good reasoning, and for ages Kankuro had never questioned it. Temari was the girl and even if she could take a hit that just wasn't right; he couldn't lay a hit on Gaara if he tried and even if he did the emotional damage on that boy was enough. On a lot of levels, Kankuro hated his father for everything he had ever done to him and his siblings and Mother; but on another level he knew he needed it. Call it the acceptance of an abused child but never call it fear; it was that explosion of blood, that broken rib, that extra two minutes to stand – it was all of that that made him the way he was. It wasn't an excuse; it was a fact.
The jounin scooted himself off the end of his bed and crossed the room, picking up a black shirt from the back of the chair at his desk. It buttoned up the front but he pulled it on with no intention of buttoning it all the way. His body was well toned and pale because of being hidden constantly under the black body suit. The skin was mostly flawless save for a few battle scars but because he fought mostly long distance he bore few scars on his form. He was untouched by piercings or tattoos; though he did plan on getting one soon. His face was free of its face paint and it was at times like these that he ignored mirrors, his lack of paint and messy brunette hair resembled his father too closely.
His bare feet were mostly inaudible as he headed up the stairs and paced down the chilled stone floor of the complex. The shirt shifted and moved around him as he headed down the hallways, passing rooms with both closed and open doors. He had been raised here since he was young so he knew each one by heart – even the ones he was never supposed to go into. The moonlight was even brighter here as it leaked between the larger rectangular windows high above the tops of the door frames. The floor's neutral smoothness was visible if he was to look down but he didn't, he didn't need know where he was going so the floor certainly wasn't going to lead him there.
The form had trekked down and through several archways and halls before he stopped in front of a large double doorway. It extended well above his head with the hanging curtains pulled back from the frame where they would normally hang closed, not quite inviting but less rejecting than the large, ominous door. One eye remained squinted closed in its usual way while the other fixed the door with a look as though it offended him in some way. He placed both hands on either door and pushed with little effort and they parted for him. He stepped into the room beyond and left the door open behind him as his eyes fell on the bed directly across from him.
Everything in the room was perfectly placed and neatly organized, all having its own spot that it was most likely never moved from at all. He couldn't remember a time walking into his father's room where everything wasn't in its perfect place. Even when his mother was alive it was as though he wouldn't let anything slip beyond where it was suppose to be, he often wondered if it was because of that she slept in another room most nights. It wasn't until the birth of Gaara that he realized that his father really couldn't be considered much of a father; his place as Kazekage ranked above his own family in his priorities. Kankuro sneered at the thought as well as the picture perfect room in front of him and quickly moved to destroy it.
He ripped the covers from their perfect placement on the bed and knocked the book shelves down; the bedside table and dresser were both toppled. He flung the pillows against the walls until the downy soft feathers were strewn about the room and covered the fabric of the blankets. The enraged teen pulled out drawers and flung them across the room where they crashed into numerous other objects including framed documents and mirrors. He shredded the canopy strung above the bed and mimicked the same destruction of the curtains tied neatly in front of the large window of the room. Time was lost as he obliterated whatever was left in this room that could have possibly memorialized his Fath-The Fourth Kazekage.
There was no way that man could ever be considered a father or anything even close to it, he wasn't even a husband. He tortured his children and his own wife and for what? The benefit of the village? The question of his status being more important to him than his family was never a question at all for Kankuro; he had always known the answer. He felt the bitter and biting urge to laugh at his own stupidity as he recalled not even questioning it. Assuming that his father was looking out for all of them in those naïve years of his life, however few they were. He had destroyed everything while intending to really save it all. Didn't he know that you could never have it both ways? And what did he leave his family with!
Temari was strong but arrogant and though she tried to look out for both her younger brothers she was unable to do it as all of them should have. Gaara had been destroyed from day one and not only that but the entire village was nearly poisoned against him. His only refuge could be considered found in Konohagakure where he had people that at least attempting to realize his strife. Their father had destroyed not only their relations to each other but everyone else as well. Temari still acted like a young girl and picked on the boys that she liked because she was too afraid to show how she really felt. Gaara was unable to get close to anyone in the way that he thought he should, for fear of him as well as them. Kankuro was…wrong. He knew he was wrong, in so many ways, aside from his gay or straight or bisexual status that was never his problem.
He demanded more than he needed or even wanted yet at the same time didn't want what he received at all. He soughed out conflict and became abusive with it and knew when and why that it was he did it. He realized it and accepted it but no one cared for someone abusive and even if they did, everyone around them knew it was wrong. He loved that feeling of control, desired it to the point he would hurt other people for it. Even if he knew his limits, even if he had never killed or seriously damaged someone beyond the point they could walk – he knew it was twisted. Had he been entirely scarred from finding anyone decent? For the longest time he accepted that to be the way it was…
Eventually he heard bare feet slapping against the hallway beyond the door but he ignored it as he walked over to the window and yanked down the remainder of a curtains with a cruel rip. Moonlight streamed brightly into the dark room and at his back he could very, very faintly tell the sun would be making its usual early rise. He placed his hands on either side of the window and leaned his head forward against the cool class, breathing hard as he tried to clear his thoughts. A smirk and laugh tugged at his lips and chest, straining to be let out as the day eventually would break out towards them. The insanity residing in him was immense and aimed no where; the room he had hoping to use to relieve it had been entirely demolished by now.
"Kankuro!" Temari shouted as she stopped outside the door, looking in at the room with eyes so wide it may have been hard to guess that she was sleeping a mere five minutes ago. Kankuro remained near the door even as he felt his sisters burning look on his back. He bit back the urge to laugh by sinking his teeth into his lower lip sharply and digging his hands into the wood outlining the window. Something about this was too funny but he didn't know what; god he hoped Temari didn't ask, "What the hell are you doing? What's the meaning of all of this? You demolished this room!"
Something about her tone made that switch flip in his head and he stopped laughing and his grip on the window was for a much more annoyed reason. He took a deep breath and exhaled it, watching the fog form on the glass and its edges gradually disappear. He counted to ten and gradually fifteen before relaxing his hold on the frames of the window as his sister snapped out another demand at him, "Kankuro! Answer me!"
"Yeah, yeah," he mumbled in his usual distant tone. Turning around he let his eyes fall over the room and his usual bemused smirk lined his lips as he took in the view. He gave a light chuckle as his eyes rose up to his sister and brought a hand up to the back of his head, "Really did a number on this place huh?"
"Are you kidding me?" she looked at her younger brother with intense disbelief before gesturing widely to the room. She wore a pair of black pants with a dark purple tank top and her blonde hair fell about her shoulders from its usual up state. Kankuro lowered his hand from the back of his head as he made his way back across the room, "What the hell did you do all this for?"
Kankuro made his way to his sister's side before looking at her with open and confused eyes, clearly seeming lost as though his sister had just identified herself as the stupidest person on the planet, "Don't you know?" Temari gave him a stern look to which he shrugged a little, "It's my birthday, I turn seventeen today." He pointed towards the clock – one of the few things left standing and working in the room – which gave the time as being one minute past midnight, and moved to head down the hall; a pillow was whipped at the back of his head before he got five steps away. He ducked under it and waved over his shoulder as his sister shouted numerous curses after him which echoed down the hall and followed him back to his room.