This was originally going to be much longer, but I like the way it turned out. Short, yes. But I think it's meaningful.

To Look On Tempests

Chapter II

Gaara pushed the door open just a bit, listening for a shift in breath, a rustle of cloth. None came; and assured of her deep sleep, he leaned into the room.

The Kazekage's Suite, the set of rooms set aside in the Kazekage's Mansion for the living quarters of Sunagakure's ruling shinobi, had been a sparse, white collection of purely functional space when Baki had finally talked Gaara into moving into them. It hadn't taken long for Temari and Kankuro to get their hands on the decoration; Temari complained, loudly, that the place looked too much like a hospital, and Kankuro maintained that he was there because he said that she had told him to be. Gaara had been ushered out early; when he was finally let back in, it was to step into rooms painted in soft, darkish greens and greys, with traditional tribal designs and framed pieces of art hung up on the walls. Nara Shikamaru had sent him one of them (as a sort of peace offering to make up for the unspeakable crime of marrying Gaara's sister, or so Kankuro had theorized), and Uzumaki Naruto, on one of his diplomatic visits, had considered it necessary to paint a vibrantly orange smiley face on the inside of the bedroom door. The cabinet had been stacked with dishes, the stove replaced, and Kankuro had tinkered around with the wires for a while, replacing some and re-coating others. Temari, unbeknownst to Gaara, had even recruited Matsuri to help her go shopping for new clothes for her younger brother, who at the time was outgrowing much of his ensemble of black and red; Gaara had come home to a closet full of blacks, greys, browns, blues, and greens, and a sister insistent upon him trying out each piece and telling her exactly which ones did not fit and why.

Gaara hadn't minded that. After six years of resorting to wearing Yashamaru's clothes or stealing new ones himself in the dead of night, when there were less people around to stare, scream, and run, it was . . . comforting . . . to be . . . taken care of. After all those years of blank and silent walls, it had been comforting, he supposed, to see color. The words didn't seem quite right, but he was used to feelings not having names.

Now, after nearly five years, the suite was familiar. Homelike. In fact, it would have been his home, all those years ago, if he hadn't been born a Jinchuuriki. If he hadn't been given to Yashamaru to raise. This set of rooms had been where Temari and Kankuro had spent their childhood; where the Yondaime Kazekage had lived, breathed, slept, fretted over a weapon spinning out of control; where his mother had been brought to after her wedding, when she and his father had been newly wed. Baki hadn't wanted to ask him to move in for this reason, but the Council had insisted.

Gaara did not know how his sister and brother felt about this; Temari and Kankuro had simply backed him without comment. They had, though, thoroughly dismembered the suite, removed all the furniture from the Yondaime's household, all the curtains, all the color, and replaced everything with something new. Painted the walls of their past over many coats deep. Neither of them had actually said anything out loud about the task; the closest Gaara could remember was Temari pointing out a spot on the wall that she had drawn on years ago, and been punished for the crime. Kankuro had muttered something that Gaara hadn't quite caught, and then offered to buy everyone dinner.

"They didn't want you there, with all those ghosts still in place," Matsuri had said, later, when he had spoken to her of it.

All those ghosts . . .

It was dawn outside, just breaking dawn; blue and cool and shaded below the desert sky. Light was weak at this hour, but Gaara preferred it that way. Shadows softened people, he had discovered; shadows hid flaws, rounded edges, smoothed sharp corners, muted harsh colors. Shadows cradled the young woman curled up on his bed, took her tousled brown hair and turned it to smoke, her skin to ivory and remnants of moonlight.

Gaara stood there, one hand on the doorknob, watching her breathe.

He made two cups of tea, his with some milk, hers dark and almost bitter, the way she liked it. Hers he covered carefully with a cloth, wrapped and waiting for her on the counter. His he poured into a thermos and slipped into his backpack. There was probably a more dignified name for the professional-looking case he took around with him, to and from work, something more elaborate to be worthy of the Lord Kazekage, but Gaara had always hated fancy names. To him, a backpack was a backpack.

He slipped it on over his shoulder, and moved some of the boxes on the counter aside, looking for the spare key. He would have to lock up, but Matsuri needed to let herself out later on, and the door was could be unlocked only with the key. It was hanging up behind the sugar. He moved the jar aside, and brushed the picture frame set up on the counter with his thumb by accident, tilting it back and over. Gaara paused to right it; after a moment, however, he simply put it into his backpack, with the papers from yesterday.

He left the spare key on the table with a note, and closed the door as quietly as he could behind him.

Matsuri had wanted it taken.

It had been a chilly day, windy and rainy, with a downcast sky brooding high above it all, in that small fishing village. Minor mission – something the Council had given Gaara to get him out of Suna, but it had been valuable time with which to teach Matsuri, and Gaara hadn't minded it.

He remembered the wooden planks, always soaked and slick, that comprised the pier that led out to the grey sea. Remembered the people ducking under their long hats and cloaks, the vendors selling food that steamed. The smell of fish and roasting nuts in the streets; and always, everywhere, the scent of water, of salt, of rain.

Matsuri had asked someone, a person passing by, to take it. She was on the pier, standing next to him; he had been watching the water, but had looked up for the photograph. Six years ago? Seven? He had been thirteen, nearly fourteen. She had been nearly twelve. Six years, he supposed, and a few months. They both looked so young. Incognito for the mission; dressed in standard, Suna uniform, grey, with the tight-fitting vests that were never really quite the right size.

Gaara & Me, on the Pier, was what Matsuri had written on the back, in her small, neat script.

Gaara turned the picture back over, looked down at both their faces again. His dark-rimmed eyes, pale, next to her black ones. His hair was covered; so was his forehead. The flash had caught the metal emblem on both their hitai-ate, blurred the hourglass with light. She was smiling, her small, quiet smile, something said more with her eyes than with her mouth. Behind them, the churning sea was frozen, at peace at last.

He put the picture back into its frame, and set it on his desk. Where he could look up from his work and see them, those two little faces, a picture he had never showed Temari. Matsuri and him, on the pier.

Together.

Together . . .

He stood and watched the sunrise from his window, the picture in his hands.