It was Gaara's eleventh birthday and Kankuro had got him chicken guts. It wasn't even a joke. Gaara actually seemed to enjoy them.
Well, at least that meant he wouldn't have any people guts to deal with. Thing was, people who were nasty to Gaara didn't get that, if Gaara was happy, no-one would die. And that in itself was enough for Kankuro
Mostly his brother was ignored; the villagers having got it into their heads that Gaara only killed the people who made him angry and, if you ignored him, he'd ignore you. The flaw with that plan was that it didn't work. Gaara regularly killed whenever he felt like it, the victims usually being the ones who didn't know him. Or couldn't take a hint.
And Kankuro felt that, if he could keep Gaara happy (or at least occupied), then innocent people were less likely to die screaming. And tou-baka wouldn't shut him in the cupboard.
That was how it stood: if Gaara was happy, no-one got killed. If no-one got killed,the kazekage was happy, if his father was happy, Kankuro didn't get it in the neck. And he didn't get shut in the cupboard.
That's what his father did if Kankuro or Temari were bad: he locked them in the dark, mouldy-walled coat-cupboard under the flight of stairs the servants used and left them alone (or alone together) all night. He didn't with Gaara - Gaara could've gotten out. So he set Kankuro as Gaara's minder and blamed his eldest son whenever anything got out of hand.
If Kankuro didn't know about the asassination attempts, he'd swear his dad had favourites.
He ran the gizzards under the tap, chopped them up, seasoned them with salt and pepper and dumped them in a bowl. They wobbled unappetisingly and the boy shuddered. Gaara better be grateful.
"What's for dinner, Kanky-boy?" came a voice from the living-room, "I heard you're cooking!"
It was Temari; he knew even before she appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in a grey silk kimono and matching pyjama bottoms, her hair loose and wet, running down her back with the hairbrush that untangled it.
"Gizzards. It's Gaara's birthday, jan."
"It is? Oh. Cool. THat makes him eleven now, doesn't it? I'll wish him a happy birthday then. I take it Dad's not going to throw a feast."
Kankuro laughed, "Who'd turn up, jan? Better to throw a memorial service: eleven years of death. And their creator."
"Careful - he'll hear you!"
"Nah - he's with Baki-sensei."
"Your doing?"
"And your problem is? He's coming back at six, anyway. That gives me twenty minutes. Are you going to help or not?"
Temari gulped, "Not with gizzards."
"Ha ha. No, jan: decorations!"
"Won't Tou-sama... be cross?"
"Why should he care?"
"It's his house."
"It's not his cake, jan!"
"Oh," Temari smiled, "right, ok."
The cake was to be coffee flavoured and slathered with chocolate icing (even though their brother's sweet tooth seemed to have been amputated at birth, they thought it was a nice gesture). It was to have ten candles round the edge and a sparkler stuck into the iced G in the middle.
The two siblings made sushi, salted slices of tongue, mixed punch (the non-alcoholic kind, mind you) and slowly, slowly, heaped the table up with all sorts of food (most of it unconventional, being mainly just stuff they'd found in the fridge).
Kankuro smiled eerily as the last place was set. He glanced over at Temari, "Let's turn the lights off, jan."
"What?"
"Y'know. It'll be cool. If we have it all dark except for the candles."
Temari chuckled. "Do you think it'll make a difference? He doesn't notice it the majority of the time."
"Come on, nee-chan! It'll be fun!"
"Fine, fine." And the lights went off. All that was left was the orange glow of the ten candles, warming the kitchen. All you could see was the cake and the big red G iced into its centre. All you could smell were wisps of candle smoke and, every now and then, slightly weirdly, the bowl of chicken gizzards, slithering about in their bowl like sloppy jelly. All you could hear was taut breathing and a key being turned in a lock.
"It's him!"
"Shut up, jan!"
Silence. The clicking of a light switch and the slight buzz that always comes with it when it flickers on. A short gasp.
Gaara was standing in the doorway, key still in his right hand and door handle in his left, his red hair swaying slightly in the breeze, black-rimmed eyelids blinking and tea-green eyes staring at the scene in front of him. He was actually speechless.
Kankuro wasn't sure how to start.
"H-Happy birthday, Gaara...Gaara-sama," he squeaked, his knees knocking. Any moment now his little brother would tell him how pathetic it all was: that he hated cake and despised punch and candles. That he couldn't stand them.
But, still, Gaara just stood there. Not moving. Not blinking. Eyes wider than black-rimmed portholes. Then he started shaking.
"Gaara?" Kankuro was unsure of what to do next. His normally nonchalant, steadfast, irritatingly stoic, ruthless, untouchable, utterly unlovable little brother was trembling like a leaf. And Kankuro was actually feeling sorry for him!
"Why?" Gaara's lips were dry and his eyes were becoming so blurred, he couldn't see an inch in front of his face. The word had slipped out when he'd opened his mouth. He was been wondering if it were all real. He was insane. He had dreamt about this. Maybe it was all sleep-deprived fabrication... maybe...
But he felt Temari's hands on his shoulders, her wet, recently-brushed hair on his cheeks and on top of his head; smelt the little dabs of sweet-berry perfume she put on her neck in private; the coffee of her breath and the soap underneath her nails.
Heard the slam of the door he'd neglected to shut, the keys in the lock, the jangle as they were hung on the peg. But he couldn't see anything: his eyes were full of tears.
Finally, the two words he most wanted to say in the world were forced up out of his throat;
"Thank you," said Gaara. And Temari kissed him. And Kankuro smiled.