A/N: One-shot. Younger Temari and Gaara struggle with the horrors of moving. AU.
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Temari sat on her bed and cried. She wasn't sure which was more depressing, the fact that she was leaving everyone and everything she loved behind, or the bright pink flowers on her bedspread.
"I HATE YOU, TOU-SAN!" she shouted down the stairs for the twelfth time that afternoon. Her throat was sore from screaming at him, but she would continue to do so until he changed his mind. Or at least until she developed laryngitis.
There was no response from the lower level, and so she burst into tears again, louder this time. Her father merely turned up the volume on the television set. Temari cursed at him, vocally this time, cursing until her head spun. She moaned into the crook of her arm, allowing the sadness to leave sticky wet trails all over her elbow.
"Onee-chan?" The voice came from the other side of the door, tentative and questioning.
"Go away, Kanky," she muttered, in no mood for his goofy ventriloquism and stupid dolls.
There was a brief pause, and then the door opened and a scarlet head poked in. "Onee-chan, it's I."
It's I. Only Gaara would care so much about correct grammar. "What do you want?" Temari said in her prickly manner, trying to glare at him through bleary eyes.
The seven-year-old just stood there, his arms folded behind his back. Stupid Gaara. "I said what do you want, melon-head?"
Gaara regarded her with pale eyes that were neither green nor blue, as taciturn as ever. "Baka! If all you're going to do is stare, then—leave me alone!" She began a fresh bout of histrionics, and the boy turned to go, still wordless. He closed the door gently, but Temari could hear him breathing softly outside her bedroom. Then, he slipped something underneath the door and scuffed away through the thick carpet.
She waited until she was absolutely certain he was not watching outside anymore— with Gaara, one could never be sure—and went to the piece of paper lying face down on the floor. It was crumpled a bit, and she could see holes from where he had erased through to the other side. She turned it over, the paper crinkling in her shaking hands.
The crayons had smeared some with his attempted erasures, and multi-colored fingerprints marked the upper left corner. The simple, childish style and rough figures were poor craftsmanship to an artist's eye. But she couldn't help cracking a smile.
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"Gaara," she called softly, rapping on the wood of his door with a free hand.
"Entre-vous."
He was sitting on his bed, staring out through the blinds at the street below. Or rather, she realized as she followed his gaze, at the moving truck in their driveway.
"It's ugly, isn't it?" He didn't move as she sat down beside him, smoothing out an airplane-covered wrinkle in the comforter. Temari nodded, putting a hand up and tenderly ruffling his spiky hair.
"Hideous," she said flatly. The siblings sat in stillness for several moments, hating the van more than any automobile had ever been hated previously. "I like your picture," she began, putting the drawing into his lap. "It's very good." That sounded lame. "This is us, right? Tou-san, Kankuro--"
"Nee-chan and me," Gaara finished with a small smile. He ran a finger across the paper, tracing the wavering, waxy lines slowly.
"And what's this?" Temari tapped a mangled box-shape in the center of the page.
"Our new house," he said in his 'duh' voice. "See, this is the door and the roof and those are window-boxes--"
"Window-boxes?"
He gave an exasperated sigh. Sometimes his onee-chan could be so dumb. "For flowers," he explained with a condescending air that seemed strange emanating from such a small person.
She nodded, understanding: for Gaara, a flower garden was as much a necessity as food or clothing. They were quiet again. Gaara seemed lost in thought—or on the brink of a seizure—and Temari knew to leave him alone when he got like that. She slowly stood, making her way back when a choked sob stopped her in her tracks.
"Gaara?" Temari was beside him again, enfolding him in a clumsy embrace. He was so fragile.
"We will have flowers, won't we, Tema?" He whimpered, wiping his nose on her sleeve.
A tear rolled off of her nose and splashed against his forehead. "Of course."