Alone, Sakura watches the scene before her, the evening air pricking her skin. A departing sun sets the surrounding blossoms alight, offering the last of its warmth. It's beautiful—perfect—but then again, everything about Naruto's wedding has been flawless; from the cherry trees, to the spotless white of Hinata's dress. She'd watched her friends say their vows with bated breath, heart in her throat. She couldn't have been happier for them—so why, as the sun dips ever lower, does she still feel a dull ache? She downs another cup of sake, its sting a welcome relief. She really shouldn't feel sorry for herself; it's neither a becoming trait, nor an appropriate attitude to bring to her best friends' wedding. The magic she'd felt early in the evening has steadily worn away. Now, there's nothing magical about the way she's attached to the buffet, building an impressive tower of cups as she washes away the bitter tang of loneliness.
Releasing a sigh, she starts into a walk, feeling a slight bout of dizziness. She isn't drunk, but she can't deny being dangerously close. The last thing she wants is to embarrass herself, so—doing what any sane medical ninja would do—she sends a surge of chakra through her system (meaning the ritual of forgetting can start anew). The garden is filled with dancing couples, and Sakura has no trouble spotting Ino where she sways with Sai. She knows she can't blame her friend for ditching her—she'd do the same in her shoes. Besides, she has no desire to be a third-wheel either way. If anything, she's a little grateful; at least now she doesn't feel like burden. Her friends hadn't said anything of it, but they'd all shot her the same sympathetic look. She wraps her arms around herself, looking at the many groups bordering the area, wondering if anyone watches the dancers with equal longing.
"Sakura-chan!"
She recognises Lee's excited voice, realising she should be more careful with what she wishes for. He stands at one of the many tables, flanked by Kiba, Shino and the sand-siblings. Their conversation carries on, Kiba and Kankuro in the midst of some vulgar discussion—Sakura can't say she's surprised.
"Hi, Lee." She slightly regrets her choice of sobering up, if only because she doesn't think she can reject him—not after her own woeful musings.
"Come on, join us," he beams, an intoxicated flush staining his cheeks, waving her over with contagious enthusiasm.
Biting her lip, she smiles, reproaching herself for her thoughts; at least Lee makes for better company than her tower of poor decisions. Walking up to them, she fills the remaining space between Gaara and Kiba, noticing how the latter is undeniably drunk off his ass.
"Oi, Sakura!" Kankuro drawls, the purple of his face-paint smudged near his mouth. "Just what we needed, a girl's opinion!"
"You fool!" Lee knocks the puppet-master across the head. "You don't ask a lady such things."
Sakura blinks. "Wait," she starts, glancing around the table, "what kind of things?"
Silence falls, all five men sending her unreadable looks—well, at least four of them. Gaara stares straight ahead, lips set in a straight line and... is he blushing?
Shino clears his throat. "Excuse us, Sakura-san, such talk would be inappropriate."
She frowns, about to press the issue when Kiba bursts: "of course you'd say that!" Which launches yet another discussion.
At this point Sakura tunes them out, accepting another sake from a passing waiter. After all, there are more interesting subjects to occupy her mind; like when the Kazekage had started the habit of blushing? Though they'd met a long time ago, encountering each other throughout the years, Sakura realises she knows next to nothing about him. Gaara had always been... well, just Gaara.
Sipping her cup, she turns to the man beside her, noting how he refrains from joining the ongoing conversation.
"You don't drink?" she asks, tipping her head, eyes wandering his features. Up close, she's surprised to see there are freckles dotting his skin.
His gaze meets hers, face set in an inscrutable expression. "No," he replies, "I don't."
Sakura purses her lips, placing her elbows on the table. "Impressive; I wouldn't last a day sober with your brother."
If she wasn't so close, she almost certainly would have missed the subtle hint of a smile. However slight, it's enough to make her want to see if she can elicited more.
"What's that I hear!" Kankuro interrupts, face flushing as Kiba snickers. "I'll have you know I'm a popular guy!"
Sakura smirks, batting her eyelashes at the puppet-master as she downs the rest of her drink, ready to retort when her neighbour beats her to it.
"Puppets don't count."
She snorts, free hand shooting up to cover her mouth.
"Oi, Gaara," Kankuro pleads, "is this still about the dancing?"
Sakura straightens, interest piqued, large eyes darting between the two brothers.
"It's never too late to perform the Hidden Sand Samba!" Lee adds, pumping a fist in the air.
Once again, there's a dusting of pink warming the Kazekage's face, eyes directed elsewhere. "Don't joke around like that," he mumbles, a frown creasing his brow.
Sakura leans forward, attempting to recapture his gaze. "You were going to perform?" This only seems to add further fuel to the fire, revealing a broader spectrum of emotions on Gaara's face than Sakura has ever been witness to.
"No, no," he shakes his head, raising his hands, "I-"
"The Hidden Sand would have written wedding history!" Kankuro exclaims through a grin.
A giggle escapes Sakura, teeth worrying her lip as she watches the group continue their drunken rambles. She turns to a silent Gaara, still smiling. "I think I would have enjoyed that."
He shakes his head, meeting her gaze in all earnestness. "I can't dance."
She waves him off, surely he's just self-conscious. "Nonsense, everyone can dance."
He briefly looks away, frown still in place. "I've never been taught."
She pauses, staring into those milky eyes, slowly starting to realise he's being completely serious. She can tell there are things left unspoken, words dancing in his gaze that never reach his tongue. She doesn't know why, but she makes a split-second decision. "Lucky for you it's never too late to start," she grins, grasping his hand, catching his subtle flinch, noting how he doesn't pull free.
If, at the start of the evening, Sakura had been told she'd be dragging Gaara off to dance, she most likely would have laughed and rolled her eyes—the thought completely ridiculous in and of itself. Gaara was just Gaara; a man who neither blushed nor danced. Yet here she is, grinning like a fool as she pulls him along, observing how he makes no move to stop her. The only protest comes from Lee, who calls after them, teary-eyed as he begs to be taken instead. She spins on her heel as they reach the many couples, an excited flutter in her stomach. It is when they stand facing each other that she notices they're nearly the same height. She knows Gaara was a short kid, yet somehow he's managed to appear much taller than he is. It's strangely endearing, and it lessens the figurative distance between the Kazekage and her. The sun has nearly set, painting the sky in hues of red, complimenting the blossoms surrounding them. She notes how, despite her own steady grip, he appears reluctant to return her hold.
"Now I don't know any Hidden Sand Sambas," she starts, taking his other hand as well, "but I do know a waltz, if that's not too simple for your taste."
He nods, eyeing their joined hands as she moves them, placing his palm against her hip. This time he does pull back, faster than she can react. "I'm sorry," he blurts, catching her by surprise.
She tips her head, searching his gaze and returning her hands to her sides. "What for?"
He looks away, briefly, the muscles in his jaw tensing. "I hurt you."
"Nonsense," she laughs, "it doesn't hurt when y-"
"At the Chuunin exams," he interrupts. "I never apologised."
She hesitates, surprised he'd mention it after so long. "You didn't mean to."
He shakes his head, and this time he doesn't avert his eyes. "I did."
Sakura quickly learns; Gaara is painfully honest. It would have been easier to pretend it was all the One-Tail's doing, that he had no control over his murderous tendencies. But that would have been a partial lie, and she can at least respect his unflinching sense of responsibility. Perhaps, she wonders, he doesn't drink for similar reasons.
"Thank you," she says, "for your honesty."
He nods, parting his lips to speak but pausing, his frown returning. Sakura had expected many things from the redhead before her—him being shy not included. "Why..." he hesitates, "why would you want to dance with me?"
She shrugs. "You looked miserable stuck between those drunken idiots." His smile reaches his eyes now, and she finds she likes the way it looks. "Besides, I wasn't having too much fun myself." His honesty is contagious, and she feels a little lighter admitting her feelings.
It's his turn to tip his head, and he looks at her as if she's a puzzle he hasn't yet figured out. Then, he offers his hands, his smile returning. This time it's softer and gentler than she would have thought him capable of, and she doesn't quite know what to think about the way her heart stutters. "I'm happy to help."
She answers with a grin, accepting the offered limbs. His hands wrap around her, and she realises they are softer than her own, his skin free of the usual blemishes and callouses common to their lifestyle. An absolute defence, that's what they'd called it. Gaara had never suffered an injury during his life... that was, until Sasuke. /Her/ Sasuke. She's reminded of his note, safely tucked away like a precious gift—a better gift would have been his presence, at least now she dares be honest enough to admit that. She shakes those thoughts and the dull ache accompanying them, returning her gaze to the man waiting patiently before her. She meets his stare as she places a hand on his shoulder, stepping a little closer.
She can feel the heat radiating off him, the distinct fragrance of greasewood enveloping her—she feels as if the desert itself embraces her, and it is an odd yet pleasant experience. Up close, she notices how he draws in a sharp breath as she touches him, almost as if it hurts to be so near. If he's uncomfortable, he doesn't show it, and Sakura takes it as a sign to carry on. She explains the first few steps, gently guiding him through the movements. Gaara is an attentive student, carefully listening to all she has to say. She can't remember the last time anyone regarded her with comparable interest, and it flatters her to be on the receiving end of such adherence. He follows her in all she does, not once showing any signs of annoyance or exasperation. It's refreshing, and the longer she spends in his presence the less she thirsts for forgetting.
"You're not too bad for a beginner," she says, sucking in a breath as his smile broadens into something more excited, revealing a sliver of teeth.
"I have a good teacher," he rumbles through the beginnings of a grin, releasing her waist as she spins, leaving behind a chill where his hand used to be.
She ignores the fluttering in her stomach, telling herself it's her own inability at dealing with appraisal, or maybe it's the circling that leaves her dizzy—either way it has nothing to do with the brilliance of his eyes. She finishes her turn, arriving straight into his embrace. "Not that good, you just don't know any better," she jokes, blaming her lightheadedness on vertigo.
"Don't do that." He's blunt in his delivery, and in his tone she hears the leader of a nation.
"Do what?" She attempts to catch her breath, starting to feel out of her depth. The music, the lighting and the setting exude intimacy, and she feels like a blustering stranger in the arms of a man she doesn't know.
"Devalue yourself."
She swallows something, gaze not quite meeting his but instead trailing the dark markings, noticing the bruising beneath that has her wondering if he ever sleeps.
"You are one of the bravest shinobi I have ever met," he then utters, bringing Sakura to a complete halt.
"Me?" She wonders if maybe she was wrong; surely he has to be lying.
He doesn't release her as she holds her breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "You faced a jinchuuriki head on to protect those you love."
She releases a self-deprecating laugh. "I was naive thinking myself heroic, simple as that."
He frowns, eyes darting between hers, as if he's trying to figure out if she's still joking or not. "You're one of the greatest medics of our age, filling an invaluable role. Your profession embodies the very essence of heroism."
She feels her eyes stray to the kanji decorating his skin, wondering what imbued this once ruthless man with such ethos.
"There is nothing commendable about taking life—but preserving it; there is little I admire more."
There's a pit in her stomach as she realises what she's looking at. The skin is twisted and angry, cut with precision and permanently reddened. She meets his gaze again, registering the acquiescing look in his pale eyes. They remain silent for a while, the heavy throb of Sakura's heart drowning out the surrounding clamour. There's a sense of resignation in the way Gaara releases a slow breath, and she finds herself wishing for the confidence to ask why.
Then, his lips part, and she can tell whatever he's about to say marks the end of their unlikely interaction. "You recognised a shared want and didn't hesitate to reach out, something I myself am not brave enough to do." He releases her and takes a step back, robbing her of his warmth. "Thank you for this dance. I'll treasure it."
"You're welcome," she manages to mumble in return, swallowing against the dryness of her throat, the beat of her woes.
He stops a small distance away, sending her a look over his shoulder. "Oh," he starts, gaze briefly averted, "happy birthday." He smiles a final time, resuming his trek shortly after, filling her mind with infinite more questions.
Gaara is Gaara, she reminds herself, realising she has no idea what makes him so.