Summary: Temari, on life and love and not being in love.
Warning: Passing mention of blood.
Disclaimer: Characters, sadly, belong to Masashi Kishimoto and are being (ab)used as plot devices as I type.
AN: For hungrytiger11, who is awesome and who wanted something for the prompt "one of the ladies, on not being in love". Temari seemed perfect.
Much love goes out to my wonderful beta, Satiah, without whom this would've been a lot less readable. She is one of the most understanding individuals I've ever met, and I want to hug her for putting up with me.
i
They say girls grow up faster in Suna. Temari knows it's true. By the time you're five, you cease to be a girl (a person) and when you come back from target practice with scraped knees and raw hands, there's no one in the house – she refuses to call it home – to welcome you back with a kind smile, no one there to quietly chastise you for being so careless.
Instead, there's an urn of ashes waiting forgotten on the table and sand curling around the legs of a wooden cot. There's also Kankurou, whom she's decided she'll love and baby Gaara, whom she knows she should love but cannot.
They say you can't miss what you've never had. Temari does not miss her mother, for she takes care of her own wounds. And Kankurou's. She's decided she'll love him, so she throws a roll of bandages in his direction and tells him to patch himself up. Little Kankurou rolls the bandages around fingers that bleed from pulling strings. Temari pretends she doesn't feel large, innocent eyes boring curiously into her back.
On some days, she hardly sees her father, and when she does, it is almost always for business. Temari always stands at attention before him, for she knows her worth is measured not by blood, but by how well she performs, how many bodies she's disposed of so far, and how long she can endure.
Then she comes home from a mission one day – take out the target, swift, clean, and silent – to find Gaara bathed in blood, eyes wide in a parody of horror and looking so demented and beautiful, of all things, all sickly pale skin and red hair, red blood and fearful green eyes, their mother's eyes. Temari claws at her throat, drowning, suffocating and retches when no one is there to see it.
After that, even the cold, silent nods of approval become scarce and her father becomes a stranger, a man of dark cruelties that she has no choice but to carry out. The incense sticks that stand like sentinels around the urn stop glowing, leaving the faint trace of smoke behind. Nobody bothers to relight them.
She does not know when he does it, when he carves that red tattoo on the side of his skull, but that's mostly because she never dares to look at his face, let alone look him in the eye. Gaara becomes withdrawn, literally retreats into a shell, and Temari ignores the red marking which signifies what is so largely missing in their huge, empty house.
In a house where fear resides like an unwanted guest, love is foreign, only as familiar as the kanji engraved on her brother's brow.
ii
As much as she appreciates that blond jinchuuriki saving her brother, she doesn't appreciate him blurting out, "Are you two dating?"
They deny it at the same time and it only serves to further strengthen the misconception that they are, in fact, dating. Temari can see it in the others' eyes that they're not convinced and can't help but laugh internally at the sight.
Pathetic, she thinks, Konoha ninja really were too soft. Especially that brat who beat her at the Chuunin Exams. She doesn't know what she felt that day, after that mission which had gone so horribly wrong it left him weeping.
Awkwardness, because nobody's ever cried in front of her and she doesn't know what to say. Irritation, because shinobi don't cry, do they? So why was he? And perhaps mild pity. She refuses to call it compassion because compassion is for the weak – not for a killer – and she's killed that part of her long ago.
"How did you wind up this alone?" Nara asks her one day, not too long after that ill-fated encounter in the market. He sounds bored.
They're sitting on the tatami mat, a shogi board between them. Steam rises from the cups of tea placed at their sides, coiling in the air like snakes. Temari isn't surprised by his question, and if she is, she hides it by taking a calm, measured sip of her tea.
The cultured countenance drops, however, as soon as she sets the cup down. An impish grin curls around her lips.
"What's this?" she mocks, raises an eyebrow, makes a show of being surprised. "Little Nara wants to have a heart-to-heart, does he?"
Shikamaru looks chagrined for all of two seconds before he shrugs, nonchalantly, and moves a piece forward. "Just asking."
The match goes on as if uninterrupted and Temari manages to knock out his queen.
She doesn't seek out the Nara boy's presence because she's in love with him, Temari thinks with no small amount of disdain. She seeks out his company because he's easy to be around and easy to mock and it's entertaining, to say the least. But mostly, she seeks out his company because he doesn't push, he lets matters drop and leaves them be, and despite the many arguments – and disagreements – that define their professional relationship, they agree on one thing unspoken: Love is troublesome.
iii
In Suna, people make way for her as she walks by, head held high and expression molded in apathy. Nobody dares to look at her and it is only after she turns a corner that she hears the whispers behind her back. They know her family's bloody history; they know whose daughter she is, whose sister she is. In essence, they know who she is, but they don't know her.
It's different in the dust-laden paths of Konoha. In a village full of shinobi, nobody stares at her when she strides through a jostling marketplace, shoulders bumping amiably between strangers. The weapon maker explains to her the details of an ornate ninjato with an enthusiastic smile on his face, and when Temari points casually to her metal fan and inquires after a particular brand of varnish, the kind old man nods his head – once, twice in recognition – and proceeds to show her all the varieties on stock.
Sometimes she finds it hard to believe Konoha is indeed a hidden village, for the people – a vendor, perhaps a florist some days (because flowers are rare in Suna and curiosity compels her), but more often than not a weapon smith – are warm and open. They don't know who she is – to them, she is just another foreign kunoichi come to visit their humble village. Temari likes the anonymity.
In the more civilian streets, however, she doesn't miss the way their eyes linger when she walks by the quaint cafés, the traditional ramen bars,or the muddy riversides on the way to the training grounds; not because of the giant fan she carries around like a toy – although, that is part of it – but because they find her attractive.
Temari pretends ignorance, face as stoic as befits an ambassador from Suna, though internally she smirks and thinks they're fools, all of them.
For she is a kunoichi and men are just a poor imitation of the puppets her brother makes, easily broken by a flick of her wrist, or irreparably crushed by the wind she wields. The thought carries not a fleeting touch of smugness, only the clinical quality of fact and the ringing quality of truth.
Fear breeds loneliness and loneliness lends strength; strength that saves her the trouble of waiting for foolish men to come back to her; strength that allows her to slice through bodies as easily as a hot knife through butter and smirk triumphantly in the aftermath; strength that is hers and hers alone, and that gives her freedom. It's enough for her – has to be enough for her – besides, she doesn't want anything more anyway.
For a long time, fear has ruled her life, but not anymore, and Temari has decided nothing ever will again – and certainly not love.
She doesn't want love because her brothers already love her and that's more than she's ever dared to hope for. She doesn't want to be in love, for she knows – she has seen her mother – that when women love, they love with all their being, but men are a different matter altogether. It is not equivalent exchange, and that is something she'll never agree to.
Temari is fierce as the desert heat and just as harsh. She is not ready to compromise because she's first and foremost a kunoichi, and real kunoichi are selfish and don't settle for anything less.
Temari is not in love and she revels in it. Those who are held – trapped– in another's arms cannot hope to understand what it's like to be free, cannot fathom the small victories of those who are not.
Like spring flowers and summer rain, love is a luxury in Suna – one she knows she can't afford, and one she knows she does not need.
Doves take flight as she approaches a training ground beside a wooden bridge. It is autumn now, and Temari looks up at the sky and smirks. She'd trade love for freedom any day.
-End-
Do take a minute to review if you liked this. A lot of thought and anxiety went into Temari's characterization (did I mention it's my first time writing her?) and in the end, I just went with the ~vibes~ I felt from someone with her sort of personality. :p I'd love some concrit on the writing style chosen, since I'm usually more verbose than this. :)