.

Afterwards, he walked her back to Temari's. He touched her purpling cheek as they stopped in front of the building, fixing her face in his memory. Her, he told himself. No one else. Just her.

She smiled faintly, hopefully, and with a whirl of sand he was gone.

He found Temari first. In the time it took Sakura to climb the stairs, he tasked his sister with dealing with the three kunoichi. Gaara didn't trust himself to do it, especially now. Things would undoubtedly escalate—and as voices raised so would his temper, until it'd only become logical for him to crush his annoyances like insects.

Temari recognized his body language and knew what he meant when Gaara told her he'd be busy for the rest of the day. But then Sakura was at the door, and Gaara disappeared before the Leaf-nin knew he'd been there.

It was time for him to hide.

He locked his door and drew the shades; he didn't want anyone to see him. He turned off the lights, because dark always seemed to help.

Insanity for him felt simply like a different way of thinking—like taking one street over, one just as familiar and well-seeming as his normal path, to reach a destination. But he knew this path would bring out his absolute worst; he knew giving in to it would endanger everyone he cared for and everything he'd worked for. But it still beckoned to him with the familiarity of the beast that'd been passenger in his head for sixteen years; it sang out to him, telling him it didn't matter if he confused Sakura with his mother because that way he'd have them both.

To give in would be the ease of an exhalation, the comfort of a warm blanket, as natural a feeling as putting one foot in front of the other . . . but the fight to keep from sliding was panic etched with terror.

He wedged his back into a corner, fists clenching, and made himself recall the faces of every ninja he'd sent out on missions that morning. He visualized and counted the sentries who'd greeting him; he even mentally traced through his conversations with Sakura from the previous night.

It was how he knew he was still sane. There were small mercies of the madness: he knew he'd been crazy and had done any number of terrible things—but he couldn't clearly remember most of it. But if he could keep in mind every person who trusted him or counted on him or looked up to him, then he could dig his nails—his nails, not his claws—into reality and hold on for the sake of all their lives.

Once grounded, he could begin to deal with whatever'd shattered his equilibrium—but not a moment sooner.

It took hours. His tendons protested when he finally unclenched his hands and his jaw; his back creaked as he straightened. He examined his calm; he tested it with images of her, then recollected sensations of her kiss, then with the memory of the taste of her blood.

Then, finally, with their combination—and his reaction.

Here, with no distractions and his mind held at an almost preternatural calm, he could dissect what he'd felt. It unsettled him that the first woman to hold his attention for more than a few days reminded him of dead immediate family . . . but perhaps, he told himself, it'd just been a terrible and extensive coincidence.

Or maybe he wouldn't have paid as much attention to her had her situation not been so familiar.

Or possibly, potentially, he just liked her.

But how could he know for sure?

He folded his arms over his knees and let himself feel something—annoyance. He just wanted a normal, comfortable relationship. And up until her blood against his tongue triggered some awful moment of confusion, he'd had one.

And her . . .

And to think, he grumbled to himself, seducing her had originally seemed like such a straightforward idea.

But she didn't want the Uchiha. She hadn't said she wanted to stay with Gaara yet . . . but he felt the moment was coming. He'd provided shelter, comfort, companionship; he'd proven superior. He hadn't fixed things—but he'd get there. And he'd certainly put a large dent in Leaf's plans for their kunoichi. And that was something.

And, he told himself, it wasn't like she looked like his mother. So things weren't that bad.

Right?

Something still seemed off—no matter what he told himself, he couldn't shake the feeling. But time had crept on as he'd stabilized himself, and Sakura'd probably be coming to find him soon . . . If she wasn't too upset with him.

Shifting from his forced calm brought a swirl of nearly tactile emotions. His worry was the heaviness of wet soil; his craving for the calm and normalcy of her company like a thick and broken piece of glass—alternating smooth, bumpy, and dangerously jagged.

The part of him that demanded a hunt, that knew hunting best, squeezed him like a snake: raspy, dry, rhythmically contracting. But that part felt too close to madness; instead he retreated to the craving.

Moving like a man three times his age, Gaara got to his feet. He couldn't let her find him like this.

ooo

It was after two in the morning when Sakura woke on her own, but for the first time in a long while she stayed in her bed rather than head out.

She missed Ino terribly. There were times when she needed another female friend to help decode the strangeness of males . . . and she was certain she couldn't ask Temari. The Sand siblings seemed extremely open, but she was still sure their little brother's possible irreparable sexual dysfunction wasn't something she could discuss with either of them.

But with the way he'd kissed her . . .

She closed her eyes and let herself remember it—his touch, his kiss, how their bodies had fit together—and she knew that if he hadn't balked, things might've gone completely, deliriously out of control. But with the way he'd balked, she now had to worry if it'd even be possible for him to have a physical relationship. Drifting, she wondered if she'd have this sort of problem with anyone else. Sasuke's features overlaid Gaara's for a second; for a heartbeat, it was his hands, his mouth, his thighs parting hers—

And the image violently, viscerally disgusted her.

The depth of her aversion startled her wide awake. Once the shock abated, she mentally ran through every guy she'd had a crush on, gone out with, been remotely interested in. None made her feel as dirty as imagining Sasuke; none made her question why she'd sullied the memory with his interjection. But none appealed to her in the same way as the wiry, damaged redhead.

But Gaara, with the sting of his tongue against her lip and the warm, intimate pressure of chest and stomach and hips . . . She closed her eyes again, savoring, letting the rekindled memory wash away any trace of any other possibilities.

Things might've just gotten weird for them, she thought to herself, and frowned. Now she wondered if she should even go see Gaara that night. But when she came out of her room she found him sitting, waiting, his back against the door frame.

"You okay?" she whispered as she knelt beside him.

"Enough." But he didn't look at her when he spoke.

"Do you want to . . . well, talk about it?"

"No."

"Just . . . let me know if I can help. Okay?"

At last, eye contact. "Okay." And then he was attentive again, examining her face confusedly. Aside from a small scab where her lip'd been split, she was unmarked.

Sakura smiled, then quickly showed him another technique of hers. A bruise was just a series of tiny clots under the skin; a chakra pulse at the right wavelength would break them up and send them on their way. It was precision work, yes, but better than a genjutsu some people could sense anyway.

He knew the trick to it; whoever was paying attention at Sand would only know that she'd taken on three kunoichi at once and walked away virtually unscathed. It was silly to congratulate himself on his good taste, but he did so anyway.

Sakura took his hand, held it between her own. "I just want you to know where I'm coming from here. You've told me so many things, and I've seen you do so many things . . . that if suddenly something happens that's so awful you can't tell me about it? I've got to wonder how bad it can really be." She squeezed his hand. "I'm not scared of you . . . but I'm scared of what it means if you won't talk to me."

"It's not you. I promise. It's something I have to deal with on my own." Yet another part of his father's legacy, he thought bitterly.

"I'll wait," she told him. "If that's what it takes, I . . . I want you to be okay too."

"I don't want to upset you." His other hand joined hers, and any hesitation she might've felt fell away.

"There's some things I shouldn't have to accept," she told him. "But there's some things I can choose to."

Any further conversation on the subject stilled as Temari joined them, drawn by the sound of Gaara's voice. She hadn't expected him to be out yet. "Reports now or later?" she asked him, unsure of how much he'd told Sakura—or even if he should be out.

"Later."

Temari read one of her answers in his tone and expression: he hadn't told Sakura much of anything. She hoped Gaara would come clean soon—because while Sakura'd been remarkably accepting of him, it wouldn't do well for her to think he'd been hiding things from her.

"Make sure he eats something," she told the Leaf-nin. "He probably hasn't all day."

The pair had a tiny rooftop picnic with rice balls and cold noodles collected from his place, then sat in companionable silence, passing a bottle of tea back and forth. In the meantime, Sakura sifted through the clues she'd gotten—clues which proved unfortunately and painfully straightforward. They'd kissed and he'd freaked out—and Temari's offhanded comment about feeding him implied that he did this enough for his siblings to recognize the signs and know how to react.

He might've told her he wasn't broken, but he certainly wasn't unmarked either.

But she'd known he wouldn't be normal, even if she couldn't help but feel this wasn't what she'd signed on for.

But if they could still have this . . .

Sakura knew he was right: It'd upset her to not have a more physical aspect to their relationship—but she refused to be the kind of person who'd shove it on him, knowing he wouldn't be able to handle it.

Later they sat on the wall again for the sunrise, silent, their knees touching, letting light like liquid wash over them on a dewless morning.

She missed Leaf's mornings, she told him; she missed the sunlight on wet grass and the rising swell of birdsong. She missed humidity and rain showers and running streams and a gentle, not-punishing sun; she missed walking the gardens, thick with blossoms and bees, and the pleasure of finding the plants' scent on her clothes for the rest of the day.

He asked if it was home for her, and she recognized the depth of the question.

"I miss it," she told him, "and I'm fond of it, yes . . . but I feel like I'm drifting now."

"We have a rainy season," he offered.

"What's it like?"

"Wet."

She rolled her eyes, then laughed. "Is it really?"

If she stayed around for a few more months, he suggested, then she could see it herself.

She considered, shifting weights on mental scales . . . then shyly smiled and told him she might like that. Smiling as well, Gaara felt himself relax a little more.

After a few minutes a messenger arrived, a scroll for Gaara in his hand. Gaara accepted and read it, then closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and wondered if Tsunade was laughing at him.

"What is it?" Sakura asked.

He rolled the scroll up and blinked at her. "Naruto's coming."