Characters: Gaara, Temari, Kankuro
Summary: "Why don't any of us look alike?"
Pairings: None
Author's Note: I do love writing about the Sand Siblings.
Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
Temari is sitting on the edge of Kankuro's bed, Gaara holed up in the windowsill, as they wait for Kankuro to finish applying the purple war paint in slow, curling swirls. He's painfully precise about putting on the paint and the kohl around his eyes; this usually takes a good fifteen minutes, if not longer.
It's still a little strange, Gaara thinks numbly, to be in such close proximity to his siblings, and not at all for any important reason. Just waiting for Kankuro to put on his makeup, as he stares into the small, scratched mirror at the wall, earthenware jar of paint balanced on the narrow metal shelf. He's worse than Temari about that.
Trying to pass the time (Gaara, for all his faults, is patient, but he does have his limits), Gaara stares around the puppeteer's room, mentally cataloguing all the features of the bare-walled chamber.
The only adornment to the walls is the wooden shelves most likely carved and nailed on by Kankuro himself. They are piled high with broken bits of wood and nails and needles, odds and ends for him to use when creating his puppets. Kankuro has a workroom deep down in the basement, ventilated only by a low window on level with the earth, but he keeps some of his works up here, too. There's a work table pressed on the far wall from where Gaara balances in the sill, and, hidden between the taupe-colored wall and a wooden cabinet that probably contains clothes, a few canvases. Kankuro thinks his siblings can't see, but they can. They're all artistically inclined, though few would guess. Kankuro paints and carves, Temari likes to work with clay (though she's not always very good at it), and Gaara draws and sketches.
The bed is pressed up against a wall, away from the window. The sheets, plain brown (Temari's are a deep purplish-brown, and Gaara's a plain white, though he never uses it, in their own rooms nearby) are neatly made up. Gaara frowns slightly. He expected Kankuro's bed to be messy, the sheets crumpled instead of looking as though they've just been starched and ironed, apart from the place where Temari is precariously sitting (Her fan has been balanced against the wall). That part is wrinkling under her weight.
Then, suddenly, Temari catches his eye. She's seen him frowning and assumes he's impatient with Kankuro, waiting for him to finish up. The tall blonde girl smiles weakly at him, little particles of kohl falling from her eyelashes. Like Kankuro and most of the other inhabitants of the village, Temari's eyelids and lashes are smudged with kohl, a cultural affectation. The stark blackness makes her eyes seem especially green, a rare, verdant oasis in the desert.
Gaara tilts his head, an emotion—something like confusion—coming over him. Temari doesn't usually smile like that. If she smiles, it's full-bodied and strong, sometimes cruel, but never weak, never watery. Those smiles are not ones made for her full, proud mouth.
It's unbearably silent. Only the wind lashing from outside provides any respite, but even then it's just as bad because it sound like jackals howling again.
Finally, Kankuro finishes with his war paint, screwing the lid over the jar and straightening. He turns round, adjusting the black cap on his head.
Temari slides up fluidly from the bed, strapping her fan to her back. Gaara hops down from the windowsill.
They stand in a circle, and Gaara peers up at the faces of his older siblings.
"Why don't any of us look alike?"
Neither Temari nor Kankuro can answer, and both turn their heads away when he asks.
None of them really need or want an answer, anyway.