All is wrong the moment of waking up—alone—bathed in cold sweat, muscles painfully tight, the scratch of sand- Or is it nails again? Darkness swallows shapes and blurs them into layered shadows, the way time swallows you into its whirlwind vortex. Fingers rake skin, feeling for familiarity, grains stuck beneath nails, raised knees digging into cheeks searching support—anything to keep from toppling. There's a constant drum; pounds through the skull, throbs within tips of fingers—transforms to approaching steps, always five before the damning strike. Keeps count despite not wanting to, loathes having memorised the timing; one, two, three, four… A freezing shiver followed by chattering teeth, throat grows tight with anticipation—knows soon the bile will follow and burn. It's been so long yet not a day has passed, an iron taste lacing the air passing lips, the crunch of bone and wet slop of muscle vivid enough to sear. All is expelled through a burning weight within the throat, impacting the chest until breath is forced from lungs and the heart struggles to beat, once, twice, somehow never fails despite it all. And thinks of thinking, though knowing you never can, not like this—how long has it been since last hoping it'd never be this way again?
Don't sleep, don't sleep, like a mantra. Always terrified of the, 'I'll get you!' Remembers claws and hungry teeth, tearing from the inside. Eyes heavy, head hurts. Starts to think maybe thinking isn't any better—rarely has been anyway. But there's no escaping now, no safety to latch onto, so counts: five. And it's too late—just like every time before—is back there with the moon's burn on too narrow shoulders and bile spilling like guts. Hates it here, hates the taste of acid, sting of nails scraping skin—hate, of all things, comes easiest. Scattered steps break the routine, unfamiliar in their weighty presence; has never heard them run, right? And it's the "Oh god," and "Hold on!" that truly unsettle, words falling between the heart's pounding beats. Something new to rattle the mind, unexpected yet non-offending—sand rattles likewise along the walls, brushes against skin until raw enough to breathe some more. How long has it been since now and then? Doubts time has passed, how else could you always end up stuck in the same place with the same sight? Is hardly anyone here, nothing but hollow bones to attach one's mortality onto—has been told time and time again, just a temporary prison of cartilage and sinew; 'just wait,' often reminded, 'wait until the day I'm you with a bellyful of dying thoughts.'
Yet somehow he still is, still thinks he thinks, heart thrumming, lungs burning. Heaves, feels his own lingering sick, sees red through closed lids, and forces a choked gasp in an attempt to find his lost voice.
"Careful," he hears in spite of his isolation, followed by a wet slosh, then hands, shocking him back into now—inside the body he's always been. A heartbeat, one, two, three, and his gaze finds gentle pink. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think—didn't expect…"
Right, he's here. Here. And he breathes a familiar breath, wakes up.
Nod, minds not to slump, watches the events pass—watches like always from further away than preferred. Another meeting, already too soon after just returning. Don't break eye-contact, don't forget to blink. It used to be easier—normal almost—then hands and: 'Lucky for you it's never too late to start.' For someone who never sleeps, awakening at a simple touch seemed impossible—the lack of which now plagues. Just like the hint of pink hidden beneath a councilmen's robes—a shirt, perhaps? It shouldn't be of interest in the first place, but ever since- Don't wander, scolds, tries to focus on the distant drone of voices, discussing the same things the council always discusses. Misses being here and now, misses that simple evening of Naruto's wedding where, for one brief moment, he was there.
There's no pink at night—doesn't know where the thought comes from or why, doesn't think it's ever crossed before. How many weeks has it been now? Enough to no longer remember just how those fingers had fit… unconsciously attempts to recreate, hand wrapping around the other- Snaps out of it in time to realise the absurdity of it. Blinks, forces gaze to focus, feels a scowl twist and pull. The village lay sleeping, earthen domes lit by a waning moon, windows dotting the structures appearing like empty pits, blacked out in the absence of light. Hands are cold but doesn't mind it, appreciates the sting for its distraction—that is until reminded again of the warmth they'd once felt, briefly, and- It's asinine. Entirely senseless—the council's words still repeat, echo even louder in the overwhelming silence of night.
Two weeks. Feels the wind cut and chafe, wearing away at the rocks, buildings, even the people mindless enough to venture out at this time. Understands why they want to push the issue—even Kankuro's unwillingness to budge and accept instead—nonetheless feels the sting of betrayal. Feels… Nails dig into palm, the familiar sting of- Swallows, eyes closed and mind blank. The desert whispers its lonely allure, sings in sounds of shifting sand, moaning winds. Doesn't move once sensing her approach, forces a practiced calm, perfected over years of never knowing—never, ever feeling safe.
"Gaara?"
It's rare for her to come here, even more so at night. Turns to look, aware she's always loathed her own disadvantaged sight in the dark, acknowledges her with a nod before closing eyes again—if only to make her feel safe.
She steps closer, lowers herself onto the roof's ledge, close enough to be suspicious—already senses her pity. "I heard about the meeting…" she starts, must feel responsible judging from her consoling tone. It's not their fault, doesn't blame either sibling—blame, like most crutches, no longer satisfies. "I know this must all feel very sudden," Temari continues, releases a slow breath. "I know it's not what you want and…"
"I chose to become Kazekage." It's the simple truth, doesn't intend to fault anyone else or avoid taking responsibility. "Our father wasn't given a say, so why should I?" Can feel her observant gaze, meets it for good measure, challenging her to oppose such logic.
She frowns, obviously irked by the mention, leans forward as she turns to the village below. "Shikamaru's leaving tomorrow," she starts, picking at the fabric of her sleeves, "I've asked him if he'd be willing to accompany you to Konoha. Some time off might help; talk it over with a friend." She raises her gaze, searches for something unknown to maybe ease her mind. "I'm sure Naruto'd be more than willing to lend an ear."
Knows the now-Hokage would agree with her, only complicating things further. It's a delicate matter as is, doesn't think opinions would change anything—knows when it comes to the council these issues are practically settled. "I haven't agreed with their decision. Just offered an alternative."
"You and I both know that won't fly."
Had been well-aware when proposing the idea to a room of men notoriously unwilling to abandon tradition, men older than this new world they've created. "Then how is running away supposed to help?"
"Gaara," she chides, supposes it's not the first time she's offended by the truth, "I know we haven't had a typical family growing up, but…" Hears her soften, hand reaching closer, hesitates in the air between them, then balls into a fist and returns to her lap. "I'm your elder-sister, I know when my little brother isn't happy."
Almost—another not-quite, not yet, no contact. "I don't want you to burden yourself with my happiness," says it honestly, wants nothing more for her than to live life without the added weight.
"And I don't want you to think your only duty to this village is to sacrifice yourself over and over." But it is. Can't be another way without bending and breaking beneath every callous and cold-blooded crime committed. It has to be this or facing every life needlessly wasted, cruelly taken—thoughtless, most of all worthless. "Think it over. He leaves tomorrow afternoon. You've been working yourself to the bone—don't think I haven't noticed the weight you've lost. Take this little vacation, even if it's just for a few days."
What sane person could stand to touch—bear to even see—such a wretched shadow of a- Nails dig in palms, feels a squeeze of- There it is again, almost laughs at the idiocy of thinking it'd just go away. Thinking for weeks, years, always thinking and entertaining gullible thoughts—some naive remnant impossible to kill. Even harder to dismiss than the lingering sensation of hands on- "I can't leave my village."
"The village can manage just fine," she cuts in. "If the council get their way they'll demand you entertain their every whim. They'll turn this marriage into some political ploy, meaning these might be the final two weeks before you'll be forced to be their puppet."
To condemn someone to a life spent in the company of something void—hardly a person, hardly anyone—would be a fate too cruel. Feels another squeeze, another itch beneath skin begging to be chafed and worn away. Anything to avoid the humiliation of fake affection, unavoidable absence of feeling, bound by obligation and similarly for all the wrong reasons. Of course she's right, not a doubt in mind when it comes to the truth—truth is the thought of ruining even one more innocent life upsets deeply. Releases a breath, rakes hand through hair, nails running a path of temporary comfort. Night leaves a distinct taste in the air; something unlike the arid scratch of day, close enough to ocean spray to transform dunes into waves and wind into the roar of water. All can be altered through the unintentional slant of perception; to be perceived is to be fundamentally misunderstood. Whatever truth may be—truth is night drowns out every single shade of red. "I'll think about it."
Voices, people passing, the endless drum of footsteps hitting pavement, interrupting thought after thought. There's too much noise in Konoha, too many people. Shikamaru hasn't said much, never does—at least not when it's just the two of them, like most. Still, is grateful for the silence, watches as they weave their way through the crowd, thoughts floating somewhere between then and later. Tries to focus, force the mind back inside, initiate conversation and finds it impossible. Head hurts, like it always does, somehow bothers more simply for the distraction. If she were here, would she- No. Enough. Urges to ask a question, the weather perhaps; there's plenty to say about it. Anything but the recurring thought of- Coming here was a mistake. Listening to Temari never yielded good results before—no idea why the expectation of improvement somehow settled comfortably between the rationale of experience. Someone runs past, steps drumming through thoughts, interfering with their foreign rhythm—what to say? Focuses gaze, is about to turn to company when freezing, spotting the least conducive colour. Pink. It's not as if she hasn't been a familiar for years—then why? Why does she occupy so much space? Stops a few steps away from her, watches her approach with disbelieving eyes.
Somehow she's always been there, somewhere in the back—except that one time- No, has already apologised. Don't mention it. If addressed say anything else. Takes a deep breath, only realises how close they are once it's already too late. What's changed now? Isn't this all as desired? Thinks again; coming here was a bad idea. She's not alone, accompanied by a woman who might be her mother. Stiffens, blank expression directed at the subject of nearly every thought. Tired, eyes dry. What are you even supposed to say? They're hardly friends, acquaintances at best. Why be like this? Catches a glimpse of those hands, delicately shaped, wonders- Feels the other woman's gaze, and it's only when right in front of her that Sakura takes notice too. Wide green eyes shoot up, send a chill down spine—doubts she has any idea how those eyes have haunted for years. Does a simple apology truly absolve of guilt? Gut tells it doesn't. Someone coughs passing by, a crying child receives a scolding from their mother. Gazes pass over them, distracted by the head of bright pink—safe for now, thanks to it.
"Gaara!" She's surprised, maybe, probably hadn't expected to meet here again—or wanted to. "I mean, Kazekage-sama." Could she regret approaching back then? She'd had quite a few drinks, after all, and if Kankuro's shown anything it's that alcohol doesn't make for wise decisions. Coming here was a mistake. Averts gaze, quells the disappointment knowing it's yet to be earned, distracts by glancing at the other woman. They look alike, are undoubtedly related. Would hate to end up embarrassed, tries to save the letdown by forcing out: "Please, Gaara is fine."
Watches her take a deep breath, then silence. There it is again, despite trying not to, skin itching, pulse stuttering. Wonders wether or not having blinked the normal amount, or is staring again? The longer time stretches on, the further everything drifts, edges of vision starting to blur, the surrounding noise blending together. Shikamaru was there too, wasn't he? It's fine, they're just acquaintances, hardly even friends. She doesn't have to say that name again, not if she doesn't feel comfortable doing so. Supposes just liking the idea of being… being-
"Kazekage-sama," the other woman breaks the thought, "it's an honour to meet you—I'm Sakura's mother, Haruno Mebuki."
As expected, and feels stomach drop watching her warm smile—doesn't deserve it. "The honour is all mine." Just wants them to know, after all this time and even if only just once… "We are indebted to your family." Bows, briefly squeezes eyes shut, takes a calming breath. They're hardly friends, he's hardly anyone—forget it- Forget it. Straightens back, smoothes features, wears the same diplomatic mask as always, feels the same growing distance. The crying child is carried away by their mother, red cheeked and dewy-eyed.
"Will you be staying long?" Sakura's question surprises, and has to wonder if she asks out of interest or obligatory politeness.
"A few days." Long enough to appease his sister, short enough to not be a bother here. "I've just arrived." An ache behind the eyes, all too familiar in its growing presence. Fingers twitch, resist the urge to scratch and scratch and feel. Aware of Shikamaru's gaze, notes the shadow-user's unusual silence—surely Sakura and he are acquainted enough to at least share a few words? It's uncharacteristic, and-
"You must be hungry after such a long journey?" Mebuki asks, interrupts thoughts again.
It's an unusual observation, not one many people make—more used to an awkward 'did you have a pleasant trip?' or 'you must want to rest?', questions to pass the time until gotten rid of. "Yes." Usually conversations are close-ended, a one way street to cross sooner rather than later. Which leads to wondering if it's something appearance-wise which has her assuming? Doesn't think so, despite Temari's complaints of being too thin, too overworked…
"Well Sakura and I will be preparing a special meal tonight, it'd be an honour if you'd decide to join us."
Pauses, gaze darting between the two women and- did Mebuki just wink? Swallows, turns to Sakura and notices the unreadable look she directs at no one in particular—hasn't a clue what's going on. It seems obvious there's some hidden suggestion, judging by the encouraging looks Sakura's mother sends, suspects she might want the offer accepted—won't pretend to know for sure. It's a bad idea, knows it through and through. Already she infects nearly every thought, has left a new sense of solitude in her absence; it's all eyes and hands and kind infectious smiles warming the inside and- Despite every critical thought, every listed reason as to why the idea is a poor one, feels a smile tug at lips—no idea how or why, feels the words slip: "I'd like that." And as simple as that, Sakura's mother hands over their address, bids them farewell and leads her daughter away. Watches them leave, silently observes as the head of pink grows ever smaller, doesn't miss when she throws a quick glance over her shoulder, eyes briefly meeting and-
"Nervous?" Hears from beside, reminded of Shikamaru's presence.
Regrets looking the moment they make eye-contact, the quirked brow telling enough. Don't mind it, he doesn't know as much as he thinks he-
"So tell me, who is it you're interested in: Sakura, or her mom?"
So maybe he does—or at least suspects it. "I didn't even know her mom." Averts gaze and runs a hand through hair in an attempt to relieve the headache.
"Thought so."
What does that mean? Decides not to answer, instead resumes their walk, silently replaying the conversation…
"I suppose you didn't pack casual clothes, did you?"
"Why?"
The shadow-user shrugs. "You shouldn't show as a leader or shinobi, but yourself."
Frowns, glances down and wonders what's wrong with the usual clothes—not as if planning on showing up dressed in Kage robes, hat included. Crosses arms, chews inside of cheek and stares ahead, frown lingering, tries to ignore the scuffle of feet passing by.
"I'll lend you something," Shikamaru says, causing further confusion—why should it matter? What difference would it make? "Oh, Sakura's favourite sweets are mochis, I hear." It's a weird fact to throw out there, which has to be exactly why Temari's marrying the guy: they're both prone to making little sense.
It all starts to make sense when she opens the door, bathed in the light she allows in, reaching those eyes which suddenly take on a new gleam. It's reminiscent of the evening of the wedding, when suddenly she took notice and, for what might be the first time, saw an equal instead of an other—hadn't realised how badly such a simple thing had been missed.
"Hi," she says, holds on to the door as if for support, eyes straying to the gift Shikamaru recommended.
"Hey." Isn't used to such an informal greeting, has no idea if it's conventional for their questionable connection. Blinks, straightens shoulders, raises the gift in hopes of acting natural. "This is for you."
Her reaction is immediate, eyes widening and a smile lighting up her features—realises now just how tired and unhappy she'd looked. She accepts the gift, gently lifts it from hold, fingers brushing without her probably realising, eliciting a shiver which momentarily anchors him back down, back here. "Thank you, that's very kind. Come in." And it's like waking up again, welcomed by her grace.
The sun is different in Konoha, washes over its citizens in foreign hues, wraps a warmth around you not dissimilar to the buzz still felt upon skin, left again by her hands—steadies breathing, refrains from glancing her way in fear of her noticing. Reminds; back straight, don't slouch, beware not to unsettle by straying too close. Heart still races, yet to recover from the sudden jolt of her touch, fingers itching to trail after its remnants. Mouth dry, thoughts scrambled, hears rustling and- Stay here, focuses on the sun's warmth. This'll probably be it, the last time seeing her for another while—until needed again, which is hardly ever. Unsure what about her fascinates so—actually, that's untrue, is well-aware of all that makes her fascinating. It just shouldn't have been a problem, their lives neatly separated by village borders. Was never supposed to want to know more about her, be in her company, entirely consumed by how she'd smiled and taken-
"Gaara, do you have trouble sleeping?"
Meets her gaze, feels grip on bag tighten, tries not to let nerves show. Don't scowl, clamps teeth together—ignores the oncoming throb behind eyes. Has known it for a long time, perhaps from the moment of first seeing her—disregarding past incompetence at understanding all that stirred within—she's beautiful. It's hard to ignore the shade of her eyes, shape of her smile. Harder even not to want to listen to her speak or tune out her laughter. It's as if every little detail has been designed to draw attention; what kind of Shinobi has pink hair? How are you supposed to not notice or care about a colour so striking? Feels saddened to see an all too familiar darkness rim those vibrant eyes, the angles of her features sharper than when seeing her last. "I could ask you the same thing." It's clear she's unhappy, the signs easy to recognise; they aren't as different as originally thought, which doesn't please in the slightest. Swallows, averts gaze, frowns at the heavy weight bearing down—doesn't come from the self, yet somehow becomes so all the same. "You have a lovely family, Sakura." Hopes to at least—in whatever way—be able to leave her a little lighter. "Avoiding them won't make whatever's troubling you easier."
She's quick in her reply, sharp as well, suspects hitting home. "Yes, they're nice, but I'm an adult too; I don't need their worrying."
Doesn't miss the way she tenses, the practiced frown, supposes it's what she tells herself to appease the guilt. "They love you." It's not what she wants to hear, but it's better than simply watching her suffer; watch her be similar. In this case, hopes it's what she needs. "It hurts them to see you in pain."
"I'm not in pain."
The way she says it is almost petulant, as if speaking directly to her parents instead of a Kage. She can't fool though, not when it comes to this. There's plenty difficult to understand, nuances hard to grasp, but there's one all too familiar thing—perhaps knows more than most. "Yes you are." Sucks in a deep breath, arm moving on its own accord, fingers reaching for the hurt she hides away, the weight now felt in her stead. "Right here." There's little to actually know about her, their lives lived on separate sides, shaped and transformed by divorced experiences—none of it matters, not once his skin brushes hers, cements the both of them in this instant, right here and now.
"I'm fine," she says with little insistence, still defiantly lifts her chin. He's always known her to be a fighter, waging battle against every odd; it's what drew him to her in the first place. It's what's kept her going for who knows how long now. Weeks, months, or perhaps even years? He doubts she even realises she's been holding on by the skin of her teeth, blinded by her own will to succeed, be fine for everyone else's sake: don't be a burden. And that's the crux of it all, isn't it? He wonders, with the cards she's been dealt, if she'd ever even stood a chance. A sorrowful smile pulls at his lips, leaves a bitter taste in its wake, stings him with its lament. He owes her, in more ways than one, a debt he doubts he could ever hope to repay. Why can't he just- maybe- hasn't a clue where to start, what to do. How? How's he supposed to help anyone when he's-
Arms latch onto him, wrap their warmth around his neck, the unfamiliar press of a body freezing him into place. Don't move, breathe—in, out, calm. Droplets trickle down the side of his throat, warm, leave a trail of wet. Tears? Her body shakes, stutters against him and… should he offer comfort? Yes, of course—right? He hardly knows how, doubts he's able to in the first place, yet resolves to try. Gentle, be gentle, take care not to hurt, don't hold too tightly—how high is he supposed to place his arms? His heart beats in his throat, dizzies him, blood thundering. Don't ruin it, don't chase her off. She continues to sob, doesn't loosen her hold following his embrace—which is good, he supposes, except it's also bad. The sun's too bright, rustling leaves, pounding heart, racing thoughts too loud. No one, ever, not a single time. He's all wrong, caught up in a moment never meant, impossibly—how's he supposed to make a difference when he's the one needing help?
"I'm sorry I-" She steps back, returns the breath to his lungs and- It's okay. Everything's okay. Doesn't understand how or why yet, just knows.
"It's okay."
This was a horrible idea—absolutely outrageous. Yes she's trusted, more than most, it's the self that's not, never has been. Already feels limbs grow heavy, vision blurring, stares in the mirror—because of course she has a mirror. Like any sane person would. What does she think of when seeing what its reflection now reveals? Does she ever remember the moment, back then, when all that was enacted was regret? Blinks, edges of sink cold beneath hands, sways. Never should have, always vowed not to, but then she- She and those pretty eyes—knew this would happen. Focus. She's a capable shinobi, incredible medic too—knows there's nothing to worry about, nothing except the possibility of the heart spilling out. It's fine, if she sees it's fine, can't just try and help her; she needs to be allowed as well. Give and take. It's what she's owed. Breathe in, don't be distracted by the familiar scent of her shampoo, stronger here than in the air around her. It's a nice smell, suits her; something sweet and fruity. Cheerful, unlike her, now.
Frowns, gaze wandering and… has hair always been this red? Narrows eyes, except vision only gets blurrier, unable to focus on the unruly mess. Does she like red? Recalls she wears it, so she must not- What does it matter? Shakes head, wobbles with the movement. Whatever she thinks is irrelevant, the only priority is- Is… It really does smell fruity in here, what kind? Cherries? Like her name, which also suits her. Cherries are appreciated, they're a decent fruit, not too sweet or bland like some. A happy fruit- And, right, the only priority should be her happiness. It's the least to be done; attempt to cheer her up. Gives the reflection a final scowl, leaves it, feels as if somehow winning—hasn't a clue what from or why. Feet are heavy, steps slightly unbalanced. It's funny, in a sense; being in some girl's fruity bathroom. At least is certain Kankuro would think so—maybe even the council would agree, pictures them all laughing at the prospect. Snorts at the idea. Able to muster enough control to at least walk straight, finds it difficult to keep eyes open, maybe shouldn't have spent so much time staring off.
"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's bad to sleep with make-up on?"
Make-up? Like Kankuro? Wouldn't such a thing be noticed while gazing at the mirror? Doesn't remember any—not aware of, at least—looks exactly as always… Which, when thinking about it, starts to make sense—something Kankuro would certainly find funny, too. Understanding dawning, picks the chair next to her, barely able to move without falling over. She watches, intrigue reshaping her features—directed at him, quickens his pulse, flushes his skin. Unsure what overcomes him, a rare grin slips through his composure—doesn't know what possesses him to touch her, but he does, lifts her hand to his face as he closes his eyes. Her thumb is warm against his lid, traces it ever so gently, outlining the black he knows won't smudge—he's tried plenty of times. Her breath hits him, warm like her touch, slows his pulse into a steady beat. Her other hand joins in, palms pressed to his cheeks, both thumbs softly tracing his skin. There it is again, that familiar whiff of fruit, a welcome invasion of his senses. There's a silence he's unused to, a rare sense of presence settling over him, feels himself sink into her—reminded exactly why he'd been wanting so badly, unable to forget.
Close enough to pretend he's someone, soothed and made whole, coaxed back into being. Her skin against his, the heat of her veins radiating life, fills him too until he's sure he'll bleed like any other—equally human. Such a small feeling to be chasing, always itching for, highlighting the hollows of him. Lids open, gaze drinking in the reminder of her, traces thick lashes framing familiar eyes. Somewhere deep inside he realises the grave mistake he's made, the detrimental indulgence done; there's no going back, no returning to ignorance. Truth is he's always been aware, yet used to know better not to, mindful of his inadequacies—of her indifference.
"That's pretty cool," he thinks he hears her say, knows when she clears her throat after. She lowers her hands, fingertips skirting his skin, send an unexpected shiver through him.
"Hm?" He studies her, certain this is the closest they've ever been, able to see every little scar decorating pale skin—signs of hard work and courage, creating a texture befitting her spirit.
"The, um... the markings. You never have to worry about ruining your make-up when you cry."
He snorts, thinks it's a silly thing, certain of being more worried about the crying itself. Then again, he's not a girl—or Kankuro—so what would he know? The thought leaves a smile, only noticing his eyes slipped closed when he no longer sees her. Tries to fight it, wants to watch her still, but only feels heavier and heavier. Fading, he thinks, hasn't for years, left ignorant on the matter. If he told her now, would she care? He's here, closer than ever, doesn't expect her to think anything of him—he's just, after so long… So tired.
Again, is here again, a stabbing ache behind the eyes, between the spaces of ribs, hungrily digging deeper and deeper. Breathe, don't panic, don't allow treacherous claws of played comfort to latch on, destructive rather than soothing. Guts filled with sick, sick like the guts spilled all around. It's too much, too violent, tang of blood in the air—suffering never worth remembering. Knows by now what's next, goes through the motions. The same anger scalds, sends through a burning like the burn left up throat. Long past screaming, only reacts to the searing itch begging to be torn, ripped until devoid of feeling—feels the dried up remains of the only success, carved deep into skin, marked for what he is. Focus, stay present, don't wander off if you know what's good for you. Mind's fragmented, torn between states of being and having been. Where and when is irrelevant, everything always happens all the same. It's not so much the reminder which stings—not anymore—rather it's the knowing, forced to carry the weight. Doesn't want to think about it, hates the bitter aftertaste, feels body curl in on itself, knees pressed to chest. Now it'll come, as it always does, and starts counting: one, already prepares despite knowing never being, not for this, clenches fists; two, scratch of sand against skin, humming with anticipation, knees sharp against forehead; three, feels the throb of the heart through skull, matching each counted step; four… it's the taste of death that's loathed, no longer finds comfort in—doesn't want to, doesn't want to-
Touch, drags him away from the repeated ritual, snaps his attention towards the perpetrator—pink, a rare shade in the desert, especially in his world of grit and gore. But he knows this one, has a name memorised: Sakura. Naruto's teammate and friend. The one who faced him head on without a trace of fear in her eyes—stared him down like she does now, determined and unyielding. His gaze roams her gentle features, heart beating a lop-sided rhythm and breath deepening. Remembers now, recalls just how he wound up here, all unfolding from a simple: 'Lucky for you it's never too late to start.' It's what he unknowingly came here for; to Konoha, all by himself, for no other reason than to be reminded. A small taste of could have beens, out of reach yet closer than ever. He swallows something thick at the understanding in her eyes, feels, for the first time in a long time, as if he's seen again—he's right there, sucking in breath after breath and thinking thought after thought. He's there, feeling, just like a few months ago, as if he's finally noticed.
The bed creaks, followed by the warmth of her body, arm snaking around his back in a tight embrace, head resting against his shoulder. He closes his eyes, relishes the foreign feeling of being held, notices how their breathing coincides, and wishes he didn't have to be him—because he knows it's wrong, selfish to accept, but can't bring himself to reject all he's wanted. Only human, can't help the tightening of his throat, sting of his eyes. Well-aware she'll never consider him as anything other than the Kazekage, Naruto's friend, just Gaara—always just Gaara—but likes to pretend, despite the hurt, he could be someone she'd want to protect as she did back then, with fearless eyes determined and unyielding—even if he doesn't deserve it. He knows they're content using the other for comfort—a mutual understanding allowing for more than either of them would normally permit—knows it's only because she needs it; he does too. Ultimately, he's interchangeable, could have been anyone else willing to offer—for now appreciates the fact it's him, in this moment, shared with just her.
A/N: So here's me attempting to embody the feeling of dissociation and the ways in which our minds try to cope with life in spite of it. I really wanted to try something new, writing wise, so let me know if I managed to succeed a bit or if you disagree. Gaara is a character very close to my heart, whose themes I've often found myself relating to (not murder, excuse you). But as someone who's gone through some similar experiences, there's nothing more soothing than being able to write about it. So this is basically me indulging myself and enjoying the process as much as the exploration. As always let me know what you think and if you like it or not!