Mother, holding him. She hums a tune, low in her throat, and her fingers brush through his hair.
He can feel the notes of her song reverberate in the chest against which he is pressed.
He feels 'safe', though he has never really known what that means. Mother is soft and warm, and gentle. No coarseness, like the sand that guards him now; sweet and calm, like the lazy desert winds around his ankles in the morning. He turns his head toward her, and she smiles and is gone.
Gaara awakes to a hard desk under him, the rustling of papers, and a light shining in his eyes. He frowns. At the round window of the Kazekage's office, Temari stands, her back to him and her head cocked to one side. The blinds have been raised, and the window propped open. A breeze rustles the documents under his elbow again.
Next to his elbow is a tray with warm bread and a mug of cool milk. Cautiously, he picks up a slice of the bread. Temari turns and watches him take a bite, silently. He chews with a deliberate slowness, thinking that it tastes like butter but also like sand, flat and plain. He swallows, and she fixes her eyes instead to his throat, to the bob of his Adam's apple.
"I...I thought I'd try baking," she says. He doesn't reply. "You shouldn't sleep at your desk, Kazekage-sama. You'll wake up with a stiff neck."
Like always, he ignores her concerns that are not for him but for propriety. He glances down at the papers he had used for a pillow, to see if the ink is smudged. It looks fine. Temari watches him and he watches her eyes, and the way her pyjamas crease at the waist and around her knees. "I had a dream," he begins, and then does not want to finish the thought.
Slowly, Temari walks toward him. He feels a little afraid, suddenly, irrationally; he has broken their routine, and does not know where it will lead. She stops at the side of his desk, and peers down into his face.
"What do you remember about mother?" It comes out rightat the momenthe decides not to say it after all.
She hides her surprise well, shock turning to a thoughtful pursing of the lips. "Not much," she says after a while. "I was little, and she was always away. But sometimes she cooked dinner for all of us, and she'd sing. I used to try to remember the song, sang parts of it sometimes, but father hated it. He hated thinking about her – about what he'd done to her."
"What was that?" He knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it from her lips, wanted to see in her eyes if she resented him like everyone else.
"You." There is nothing. No bitterness, no anger, and only a prick of pain. She is honest and she is simple, and she does not blame him. He can't remember seeing that before in anyone. Yashamaru's eyes looked like hers when he talked about "love", but Yashamaru was a liar and Temari means all of it. "I hate him," she says suddenly, quietly, like she almost doesn't want him to hear it, and then puts a hand to her mouth. She does not often speak openly like this. He is intrigued.
"Why?" he asks, leaning forward. His hand grips her wristwhere itleans on his desk. She pulls away a little.
"Because of what he did to both of you." And this time there is anger, but it is for him, not at him. The bared skin of her arm is soft and warm under his fingers. He lets them climb up, and pulls. Her eyes come level with his.
"And me? ...What do you feel for me?"
The catch of her breath is audible, and little grains of sand drift and whisper in excitement all around the two of them, waiting like he does for her reply. "I feel fear –" He knew it, knew she would say this because she is Temari who is always honest, "– and I fear losing you, as much as I fear you."
Slowly, he wraps his other arm around her and pulls himself to her front, drinks in the smell of her. The tension seeps slowlyfrom her body, and her arms fall around him. "Am I safe with you, sister?" he asks hesitantly.
Temari, who does not lie, is honest in her almost-steady heartbeat and her strong arms hugging him when she says, "Yes, Gaara."
Leaning over his desk, Gaara ignoresthe uncomfortable press ofits edge on his stomach, letting her softness make up for it.His sister presses her cheek to the swirl of his hair, and begins the tentative notes of a familiar melody.