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Sometimes it was the sound of dripping blood that woke him. Other nights it was the screams that echoed forever. But for the most part, when the nightmares woke him, it was to the sight of himself killing Temari and Kankuro that broke him out of the horror's thrall.

Those nights always prompted him to seek the two of them out, wake them from their slumber and drag one or the other to the same bed and just- hold on. Sometimes tight enough to bruise.

They never complained or asked why, for which Gaara was thankful. He didn't think he could stand describing the horrors he saw aloud. He always feared that if he spoke of them- they would become true. He knew in his head that wasn't possible, but he still feared it.

He didn't want to lose them- he couldn't lose them, they were all he had. There was no one else, and he was fairly certain there would be no one else. At least, not for him. Kankuro would eventually find some girl and Temari would find some guy and they would have weddings and children and lives outside of him- and that was all right.

Most of the time.

But sometimes, the thought of losing them to others would take over his mind, and he would howl and shiver from cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. At those times it hurt and he couldn't do anything about it.

They never asked why he clawed himself to ribbons or why his voice would be so hoarse or why for days afterwards he wouldn't let them out of his sight.

Not once, but Gaara knew it wasn't because they didn't care.

He knew they cared because all they ever said were comforting words, gave him gentle touches, cleaned and bandaged his self-made wounds, willingly stayed within his periphery vision at all times and never- not once did they ever reprimand him.

Gaara wondered if that was what love was.