eyyy looks like we're back to my fave theme that is the hardest one to write! why do I do these things to myself.. this one….. this one got kinda very dark at points. I uh…. yeah, tw suicidal thoughts, it's only implied and he gets better but please avoid this chap if you need to
just a lil reminder that in these fics I've altered ages a little so the sibs are each a couple years apart instead of being born basically back-to-back, for poor karura's sake. also autistic kank hcs abound!
Day 3 - Family
Age two and the world is far too big and scary for him.
Outside there is wind and sand constantly brushing his skin with their feather-light touch that turns him inside out, and his mother insists upon holding his hand loosely wherever they go, no matter how her grip rattles down to his bones; he much prefers inside, where it is cool and quiet and he's allowed to play alone with his toys as much as he likes, even if Temari keeps trying to take them for herself.
Family is a word mother keeps repeating to him, broken up into small, slow sounds, eyes wide and hungry as she waits for something, he doesn't know what, but he knows that the word is the long sigh when he flips his bowl onto the table, is a firm press of lips against his forehead every night before he falls asleep.
Age three and he realises how much he misses routine.
There doesn't seem to be any explanation for why mother hasn't taken him out for several days now, no reason for father's sudden disappearance from family dinnertime, just the reassurances of his sister as she pulls him away from mother's room, she's tired, she needs to sleep, c'mon I'll tell you the story with the owl again, you like that one, mother will get well soon, then we can all go out together, don't worry, I'll look after you till then.
Family is worry and feeling the sharp pain of a missing presence at his side, wishing he could be big and strong like Temari, so he could help make mummy feel better.
Age six and he hates how everything is being kept from him.
Father has been spending less and less time with him and when he does, it's only to instruct him on jutsu and frown when metal does not shiver at his touch; Temari is busy with her tutors, he can't remember the last time they said hello without her apologising; uncle Yashamaru's hair is wilder and his eyes darker every time he sees him, apparently his little brother is doing well, but he wouldn't know, he hasn't seen him since he was a baby.
Family is trying to piece together the broken fragments of an old life, work out what he did wrong and how he can make it right, it is asking father what he needs to do, is it picking up a weapon for the first time in his life.
Age ten and he can no longer feel his fingertips.
Chakra burns as he forces it from his body, it whips and flails like a desperate animal as he stretches it out further and further, a distant voice barks at him to focus, silk-fine threads snap and the puppet crumbles to the ground in a heap of fabric and wood. He holds his aching hand with a white-knuckled grip, bites his lip until it bleeds, holds his eyes wide open until the urge to cry burns away under the scorching midday sun.
Family is the wrinkled old men and women of the puppetry core, with their sharp tongues and hard glares, the ancient, crumbling papers that are quickly becoming the only thing he truly understands.
Age twelve and he is sick, sick, sick of it.
He's not good enough, never has been, never will be. The Kazekage's disappointment comes through in every curt, backhanded compliment that slips out of his slimy mouth and his tutors dismiss every win he takes, grinding away at his pride until he can't bare to even look at himself in the mirror. When the first strokes of deep purple cross his features – paint laced with a mild poison, in Suna tradition – he claims it's because he knows he is ready to call himself a true puppet master, whether the elders accept it or not, in private, he tells Temari that it's because he's seen the venom in the stares Gaara sends their father and has no desire to face an early grave, but when he's alone, with nothing but a mirror to judge him, he knows it's because he can't bear that hate reflected back at him in his father's eyes.
Family is never feeling safe, never feeling content with himself, because himself was worth less than the dirt on Gaara's shoes. He spends a long time staring at the kunai, carefully sharpened to a dazzling gleam; Temari's call from down the hall jolts him back to reality. Blade hidden back under his pillow, he welcomes his sister home with a smirk and a joke and tries to believe that the warmth in her tired eyes and weak smile prove his value to the world.
Age fourteen and he doesn't realise how much he loves Suna until he leaves.
The air here is too sticky, the people too loud and the colours too garish. He finds himself urgently fidgeting every time he sits down, fingers going through the motions that would see a hidden blade spring from Karasu's arm, a pack of senbon scattered in a wide arc, lethal, invisible gas released in the middle of a crowded street, only when a hand lightly slaps against his and a warning is hissed in his ear does he stop and recognise the exact same restless agitation in his little brother's face.
Family is seeing the life and joy of the people around him and wishing for the simple, familiar distrust of home, where he knew where he stood and didn't feel the aching want when he saw a trio of siblings playing in the street, running away laughing when their mother called them home.
Age fifteen and, for the first time in years, he can breathe.
New responsibilities and worries keep him busy, distracted from emotions that he refuses to look at, lest the old, comfortable claws of anger once again claim their rightful place at his throat, but suddenly he doesn't have to rely solely on himself. Temari demands that he stop shouldering his burdens alone in an attempt to protect her, Baki-sensei shows up at their home unannounced bearing food, gentle, uncertain touches and sly warnings of political machinations. More than them though, Gaara is the one who finds him in his pit of heavy, guilt-laden quicksand and reaches out, not to pull him free, but to find comfort from one entombed in the same suffocating place.
Family is support and comfort, it is warm meals eaten together to the sound of laughter, it is long, dark talks stretching long into the night, it is desperately clinging to the one person you thought would never understand and dragging each other back to the surface.
Age eighteen and he couldn't stop the emotions escaping if he'd tried.
He still hated touch, hated how it made him feel trapped in his own skin and so uncomfortably close to another… but when they were finally home and free of prying eyes and constant attention, he pulled his siblings into the tightest, most painful hug he'd ever experienced. None of them let go, not even as they fell to the floor together – legs bent and tangled awkwardly beneath them – not when Gaara started mumbling every pain and fear he'd never let out, not as Temari finally broke down and howled, long and wretched and terrified, into his dusty, bloody coat, not when the hall became too dark to see, not even when Gaara had passed out from exhaustion and Temari fell into a light, fretful sleep; Kankuro refused to close his eyes or let go, keeping silent watch over them until the sun rose.
Family is horrible and wonderful and he will never, ever, lose a piece of it again, to do so would be to lose a part of himself.
Age twenty-nine and he has to wonder what the hell Gaara was thinking.
As much as he'd grown past his childhood hatred of those younger than him, there was a difference between tolerating children in specific situations, and suddenly having them infiltrate every part of his life. He wants to resent them for it, wants to pretend that he doesn't get a kick out of Yodo's games, doesn't enjoy sharing his love of puppetry and art with Shinki, doesn't feel a deep connection with the boy who loathed his own face.
Family is half-hearted protests and insincere complaints, poorly hidden laughter and smiles that warm him down to his soul. Araya lights up when he gives him a mask, cries when he assures him that there's no shame in hiding, as long as it's on your own terms.
Age fifty-six and he's looking forwards to an early retirement.
The news that the three Kazekage siblings would be stepping down from their political posts had rocked Suna to it's foundations, though Gaara's calm words and unshakable faith in the next generation had soothed most concerns; they hadn't done all they could in shaping the new world, but they had done enough and as much as they cared to, now was the time to let those with new ideas for change and progression take the stage. Now was the time to experience all those things they'd missed out on growing up.
Family is finding the time for the small moments as well as the big, it's sticking together through the bad, in the hopes that one day you'll be able to enjoy the good and the mundane and the thousand states in-between.
Age eighty-two and there simply isn't enough time in the world.
He refuses to stop moving, no matter how his joints complain and eyes cloud; as long as he draws breath, he will live each day to its fullest.
Family is messy and confusing and he could never properly describe it, but if asked he would say it is the friends who stand by you, through thick and thin, the communities you build with like-minded people, the children you mentor, comfort, encourage and raise, the not-quite-father who embraces you, sharp, broken edges and all, the siblings who push you to be better, to be your truest self, it is accepting someone as they were, good and bad and so terribly human, it is the comfort found in a gentle touch against the forehead.
Nothing in the world would ever be as precious.