They never spoke in terms of want. Lee simply gave, and Gaara simply took. He didn't really understand why things ended up this way – how the indomitable force of Lee's personality found so much to offer in words and gestures and an alien form of chivalry without lapsing like Gaara suspected Lee should have. There was just more, even when Gaara didn't know how to ask. More words, more silence, more companionship, more belief. An older form of respect, as well – something Gaara hadn't know how to face before. Now he had respect from most of Suna, and their love as well. Respect had been hard enough to handle; love was something he could not.
Kankurou couldn't understand, but he'd never been concerned outside of their family. He had pride in his country, in his village, but he couldn't comprehend what mattered to Gaara most. He knew what mattered, but didn't know how to translate into his terms the exact meanings. Temari, too, wasn't able to exactly understand. She tried, and Gaara appreciated her effort. Or at least he thought it was appreciation. He didn't have the words to know, precisely.
Lee did. Lee also had strange words Gaara thought he invented, or his teacher did. Words like, "Springtime of Youth," and "Yosh." Gaara took them all in stride, with the same unblinking stare he had when reading over reports and theories, hypotheses and speculations. Just as he took the intensity of Lee's energy when he called him out of the defensive depression he'd fallen into when loosing Shukaku. The friendly, shallow challenge leaving Gaara inquisitive and lighter than he ever remembered.
And he was greedy. He wanted more. Now, with a village who needed him, a family who openly cared and didn't shrink back as he grew groggy. A world where sleep was no longer death, and he could feel himself each morning, feel the lack each morning and fill himself with words. Like, "Springtime of Youth," and, "Yosh."
Whatever yosh was, anyway.