Three Years Later
A limping figure slowly approaches the entrance of the Sand. Most of the sentries don't recognize her, and those who catch a wisp of familiarity couldn't place their fingers on the identity of the woman.
She looks sure of herself, the female figure. Like she knows exactly where she is headed, and yet her eyes seem so… lost. Tanned skin glistened with sweat and blood, lips split; chopped hair knotted in several different areas, the woman appears so frail, so small. The thin shirt hangs loosely on her body and at the same time sticks to her back painfully.
"Ma'am, I'm going to need to see some identification if you wish to enter the village. For what purpose are you here?" demanded a broad guard. The girl tilts her head with effort to look up at him. At least he blocks the sun from her eyes. "Ma'am, why are you here?"
"Me?" She whispers, looking past him to catch a glimpse of the village, vision blurring. "I'm coming home."
It's all muscle memory once she steps foot into the sand. The smell, a mixture of Prickly Pear Cactus and Joshua trees and something just a bit musky, tickles her nostrils. The sand feels more compact beneath her feet, more solid, less like she would be swallowed if she missed a step. Her parched throat seeks water, but her mind seeks home first.
Yet Machi does neither. By the time she's come to her senses, her feet had already taken her straight to the Kage tower.
She isn't sure exactly what she expects, what she is looking for, as she stands before it. It towers over her, and just like that, all the previous confidence she had dissipates into thin air.
Really, what had she been expecting?
Machi's mind draws a blank.
Is it Kankuro's smiling face? Temari's warm embrace? Or perhaps just… Gaara? Just to know how he's doing? See if he's gotten taller? Watch his hair dance like rampant flames? Or is it just to hear his voice, honey and thorns, whisper her name, tell her she did a good job?
The questions in her head all fall to a screeching stop when suddenly, a woman comes up, shoving a flyer in her face.
Next Thursday – 7:30pm
Great Courtyard
Kazekage's Engagement Celebration
The frail woman freezes, and slowly, oh so slowly, raises a fist to rub deeply at her eyes.
There has been a mistake.
She's tired, she's not reading right.
She tries to blink – once – twice – but the letters, such harsh black on white would not change their shapes. The deep red swirls that supposedly symbolize love anoint and border the characters and burn into her palms; they burn like the 'Ai' engraved into the Kazekage's forehead.
Machi looks up at the tower, then back down at the announcement in her hand again. Cut-up fingers are beginning to tremble, but she barely notices. Perhaps her injuries are worse than she thought, because her chest has started to hurt, and for the love of her she can't figure out why. Her feet give in; her knees bear the brunt as she crashes down to the sand.
"Excuse me…" A deep male voice suddenly shocks her out of her trance. Machi looks up at the tall man who has somehow succeeded in creeping up on her. Then again, she supposes that isn't all too difficult, considering her current sight.
And what a sight she must've been for the taupe-haired man – a pitiful, tattered kunoichi, a stranger in her own homeland, kneeling before the Kazekage tower, trembling like an abused Chihuahua.
"Can I help you?" Machi feels herself croaking, suddenly aware how dry her throat really is.
The man looks down with kind, brown eyes, and for the first time Machi notices the deep scars on his skin, one on his chin, and the other across his neck. He smiles at her, "More like, can I help you?"
Machi looks down at herself. Right.
"I –I just got home from a mission," she murmurs. Not a lie.
"Must've been some mission…" The ninja kneels, a serious look veiling his face. "I'm Shira. Please let me take you to the hospital. I'm sure the Kazekage wouldn't mind postponing the report."
The r-report …right, ninjas report to the Kazekage post-mission, Machi gnaws at her bottom lip, disoriented. It's been too long.
"I'll be fine, I- I can," she makes a move to stand, only to fall right back. Luckily, a pair of arms scoops beneath her before she could touch the ground.
"You were saying?" He almost grins good-naturedly, had it not been for the look in those cerulean eyes. They were so … empty. He's seen that look before, once before, in a pair of aquamarine eyes…
Machi flinches as the skin touched skin, and immediately struggles out of his grasp, however well-intended. She drops onto the hot sand with a thud, body twisted in an almost impossible position, but she doesn't seem to feel the twist of her bones.
"Wh- are you alright?" Shira reaches out, startled by the sudden reaction.
"Don't touch me don't!" The brunette screams out, pushing away. It had been knee-jerk reaction; logically, she hadn't meant to – lord knows her touch-starved body craves it so. And yet, three years of hardship, solitude, and physical abuse can ingrain that reflex in anyone.
"What's wrong?" The scarred man advances, but Machi jerks once more out of his reach.
"No! No, no-"
Her heart thump deeply in her chest, war drums pounding loud in her ears. Everything seems blurry in her mind – the moves she makes, the words she says – her body is reacting without her permission.
Hold me.
Pull me close.
"Stay away from me!" Her mouth blurts once more as she heaves painfully through her battered lungs.
"Okay! Okay!" Shira acquiesces, back away slowly; still, it doesn't ease the worry embedded in his furrowed brows and pursed lips. "Is there someone else I can get for you?"
At that question, Machi stills, breathing falling to the back corner of her mind. 'Is there?' She thinks. If there anyone left in this world for her? Does Temari still await her return? Does Kankuro miss having her around?
Does Gaara even remember her name?
The mere thought makes her entire body shake with ache. Not the physical kind of ache, post-combat. Something deeper. Something from the core. Something that tightens her jaw and glosses her eyes.
Something that makes her wish she had died.
Shira trudges up the stairs of the Kazekage Tower, passing fellow shinobis and secretaries alike. His eyes are far away, seemingly deep in thought.
It had been a weird encounter, half a day ago, when he stumbled upon the strange kunoichi with very obvious symptoms of PTSD. He had wanted to help her, at least take her to the hospital, but after the ordeal she had simple vanished without a trace – no chakra signs, no smells, nothing. He hadn't even managed to get a name! Briefly, he thought about forgetting the incident altogether – but her face – something about the look on her face keeps coming back to him. He can't quite put a finger on it, maybe he can ask the Kazekage -
"Hey, if it isn't Shira."
The mauve-haired ninja jerks up, shot out of his reverie. A familiar, strong presence towers over him. "Temari-sama!"
The kunoichi looks taller than he has last seen her – more refined, more sure of herself. Her posture is a little straighter, her jaws a little sharper, but aside from that, she remains the pale woman with the messy blond hair and the permanent smirk. Still, Shira does not miss the tinge of dark circles under her deep aqua eyes. That is unlike Lady Temari – he wonders what happened. "It's about time you showed up, Gaara could use a break from his paperwork."
"I'm sure," Shira stifles a good-natured laugh as he picks up his pace. "I should hurry then."
As he passes the Kazekage's Second in Command, Temari's smirk vanishes, and suddenly, a strange solemnity veils the air around them. "Shira." He straightens. "He's in that mood again."
Swallowing, Shira nods ones, then hurries upstairs.
The door opens with a start, disturbing every dust particle set in the past three years. Machi stumbles in, trembling fingers pressed firmly on the newly reopened wound on her stomach. She stifles a cough and staggers, doubling over, but it doesn't stop her from dragging her feet to the couch.
A knock.
"Enter."
Shira is on edge when he pushes open the wooden door. It's not like he's scared of the Kazekage per se, as the Kazekage is truly not a bad man – Shira himself can attest to that – however, that doesn't mean that the Kazekage is no longer a frightening man.
And the "moods" that Lady Temari speaks about, Shira has been present to a few.
They started roughly three years ago, if Shira had to make a guess. From the outside, one wouldn't have been able to notice a difference in his behavior; and yet, after having regular spars with the Kazekage over the years, even Shira was able to detect a slight change.
To start off, the Kazekage is by no means inept in the field of taijutsu; however, there is always room for improvement, as can be said for everyone. It was what impressed Shira in the first place, that the Kazekage himself was not too proud to ask for help. While Gaara may not be the best in the area, somehow, during every single one of his 'moods,' Shira would always come out more damaged than usual. The red-head's attacks were stronger, faster, and more brutal, although his techniques remained in need of refinement. He was quicker to anger, and the agitated snakes of sand hissed louder as a result. The first time Shira had faced Gaara in that state, the mauve-haired nin ended up unable to command his limbs for the twenty-four following hours.
Luckily for him, those 'moods' of the Kazekage have since become less and less frequent. But still, when they come, they come as ferociously as ever, and Shira is yet again kept on his toes, for the Kazekage always seems to come up with newer, sneakier ways to knock him off his feet.
Currently, on the other side of the paper-filled desk, sits the red-haired shinobi himself, shoulders tensed and face dark, not necessarily because of the shadow of his cap. The air around him is heavy as Shira listens to the scratch of pen on paper; the mauve-haired nin opts for not saying anything for a moment. Sure enough, the scratching eventually draws to a stop.
Before he could open his mouth however, the Kazekage stands abruptly, wind swirling around his intimidating person. One moment he's at the desk, the next, he stands besides Shira, frame small, presence tall.
His hat and robe fall an unruly pile by his desk.
"Let's go."
Shira doesn't dare do anything else but nod.
Light filters through the thin cream-colored curtains, casting a gentle shine into the previously deserted apartment.
Machi sits on the cold tiles, heavy breaths leaving a trail of fire from her lungs to her mouth. Her back presses painfully to the side of the couch as she heaves, feeling her broken ribs constrict the expansion of her lungs.
She had tried to get on the couch, she really did, but she hadn't expected her legs to give out this soon.
She had no time for Sabaku no Gaara. He didn't deserve her, didn't deserve everything she gave up for him. And maybe it's unfair of her to think this way since he hadn't asked for any of this, but her broken spirits could not be rational right now even if she tried.
She focuses on her breathing, hoping the bleeding on her abdomen would stop soon before it dirties the floor.
Gaara backflips into a crouching position, effectively dodging Shira's impending kick, then reaches up to grab the Jonin's leg, using it as a means to swing the bigger man back into a pair of concrete pillars too close for Shira to have the time to position himself to bounce off them.
As Gaara intended, the mauve-haired nin slams face first into the rock-hard structure – the only reason he can still come out with a face is entirely thanks to his quick reflexes to focus all his chakra on his head, minimizing the damage. Shira gets up, and the sparring continues.
The spar had gone on for three hours now, with Kankuro appearing to observe at a little over the two hour mark. He's on his lunch break anyway.
His little brother has gotten significantly faster, Kankuro has to admit. The Kazekage is not to be taken lightly after all – even without his sand, Gaara still makes quite the shinobi. Not only is he strong, he is cunning, nimble, and at times, brazen as well.
Something is pushing his brother to fight, he can tell. Gaara doesn't normally spar as though his life depends on it; his usual quiet confidence has since been taken over by this- this simmering anger, and no one, not even Temari, has a clue as to why. He might have become a kinder, gentler man than he was before, but Gaara of the Sand still remains discrete to the point of terse.
The puppet-user sighs deeply, leaning back against a training post. The sky is so blue, and the weather is scorching hot, just like that day. He pulls a bento from his bag, tearing into it.
As he chews on the slightly overdone chicken and rice that he had made himself, because Temari has long told him to "kindly fuck off and stop relying on women to do everything," he lets his mind wander to a girl he once knew. She was too chatty, too pushy, too curious, too rancorous, too stubborn, and he loved her very dearly for it. He wonders where she is now, if she's still alive. The anniversary of her disappearance should be coming up, making Kankuro more agitated than usual during this time of year.
She had done a really stupid thing, Kankuro reaffirms to himself. Who was she to be so cocky as to think she could take out every single person threatening the Kazekage all by her damn self? Who was she to be too proud to ask for help? Who was she to leave without so much as a goodbye.
To this day, he still doesn't understand why she left. People threaten Gaara all the time, what made it different that time? Even someone as stupid as Uzumaki Naruto wouldn't do that.
Stupid, stupid girl.
"God, so stupid!" Machi half-yells, half-laughs in a near maniacal manner, cracked voice echoing throughout the otherwise silent apartment. She slams a fist on the couch seat in frustration, coughing as dust flies and fills her lungs.
The bleeding has slowed but hasn't stopped, and she is getting drowsier by the second. Her head has long since been up in smokes, and her thoughts no longer form correctly. Her body fights to stay awake, but she is sure that her eyelids must be attached to anchors.
She should've gone to the hospital, should've let that guy, what's his name, Shiro, Shiko, Shikamaru, take her. Why did she have to go and make herself disappear like an idiot?
Maybe that was what she wanted, to disappear.
Going to the hospital would have meant leaving a record, which would have in turn eventually gotten back to the Kazekage when the staff realized that she was the missing-nin who left the village three years ago.
Still, she isn't quite sure that dying when she finally got home is really the better option.
"That's it, I'm done!" Shira pants from the ground, chest heaving enough to induce a small earthquake in itself. He is sure that every bone in his body has melted, and it's not from the searing heat of Sunakagure.
Wordlessly, Gaara approaches the Jonin's pitiful figure spread atop the hot sand, and offers his arm. Shira gratefully pulls himself upright by the Kazekage's outstretched hand, and pats himself down the best he can despite his screaming muscles.
How impressive. How frightening.
The Kazekage does not have a single mark on his body, yet Shira is covered in cuts and bruises from head to toe.
And there is still a little inkling that the Kazekage had been holding back.
Maybe next time he should invite Kankuro-sama to join, then they can both attack Gaara-sama at the same time.
Speaking of the puppet-master, Kankuro walks up with bottles of water in hand, and Shira does not hesitate to swipe one off him and take a swig. Gaara does the same, albeit with much less conviction and vigor.
When his thirst is sated, the mauve-haired nin turns to face his Kazekage fully, intent on broaching the subject of the strange kunoichi.
"Gaara-sama?"
"Hm."
"I know it's probably not exactly… conventional to ask, but," Shira begins, staring straight into his intense gaze. He has caught the Kazekage's interest with that preface, clearly. "who was the kunoichi who came back from a mission yesterday?"
"Shira, you know how many people come back from missions everyday," Kankuro chuckles good-naturedly, "how is Gaara supposed to know?"
"This one is different, Kankuro-sama," the scarred Jonin explains, turning to the man in face paint, "she must've come back from an A-rank or S-rank solo mission. She was completely battered. She disappeared before I could get her name."
"Weird," Kankuro begins, turning to his younger brother, "has anyone been sent on an A-rank or S-rank recently?"
Gaara's eyes narrow, "no."
The Kazekage thinks back. No, he would've known if one of his shinobi has been sent away solo, and he would've definitely remembered a shinobi reporting to him, badly injured. He himself would've insisted on their immediate hospitalization.
"That's strange. She was pretty injured for someone who isn't on a high-ranked mission…" Shira turns, mumbling to himself. "And then she just disappeared?"
"Disappeared how?" Gaara asks suddenly, drawing both Kankuro's and Shira's attention.
"I'm not sure," Shira answers uncertainly, brows furrowing in concentration. "One minute I was offering to take her to the hospital, the next she's just…gone. No chakra, no smell, nothing."
Beside him, Kankuro hears his brother's breath hitch for the first time since the sparring commenced.
And then Gaara starts running, and he's shouting, and all of a sudden sand bursts into the air, rustling louder than autumn leaves. The sudden assault on his auditory sense renders Kankuro momentarily deaf, and all he catches is the faintest hint of a nod from the shinobi beside him.
Kankuro has seen his brother's lips move; all he said was,
'Brown hair, blue eyes.'
"I'm leaving."
"Yes, Gaara-sensei." Matsuri bows quickly, stacking together the remaining pile of mission reports to file for tomorrow. "Shall I accompany you?"
"No."
The Kazekage's brown-haired disciple nods, eyes-downcast. Gaara has been more taciturn than usual, even by his standards. Matsuri has heard, and so has everyone by now, that a brave kunoichi of the Sand has set out to destroy a web of rogue ninja activities operating on the Fire-Wind border, and that she, alone, intends to protect the Kazekage from afar.
It didn't take long for her to put the pieces together, but what is most troubling is that her dear mentor has never mentioned a word to her. Has that girl truly made such an impression on her laconic Gaara-sensei? She who was put on probation, who disgraced the Hidden Sand? She who used the Kazekage's own sister to get to him? In any case, Gaara never seems to want to speak of the girl – hell, he doesn't even like her name mentioned in his presence. Yukata is probably right, Matsuri shouldn't worry.
Still, it doesn't stop Matsuri from looking out the small window, watching the Kazekage's retreating back.
Gaara stalks through the street, silent as a shadow. The wind whips past his long robe, unrelenting as he moves. He doesn't know where he's going, but he walks as though he has a destination in mind.
He doesn't go home.
Gaara can't remember the last time he's been home – a week ago? Maybe two? These days, all he wants to do is roam the desert streets, hearing his sandals crunch against the gritty path, crisp as though snapping a bone.
Sleep has never come naturally, even after all his time. He sleeps, because Shukaku no longer prevents it, but that doesn't mean he can't go without.
But sleepwalking – this is new.
Gaara isn't even certain that he is sleepwalking, but last night, when he came to, he was standing on the edge of the stone cliffs that double as the Hidden Sand's only entrance, looking out into the vast horizon. He didn't know what he was looking for, or why he was even there, all that was clear was that he felt the need to be there, the need to scour the sand with his own tired eyes.
Tonight, his trance has brought him to a difference place. A familiar place.
As per usual, the playground is empty this time of night, save for the ghostly creaks of the rocking horses. Sand swirls around the swings, almost as if it's inviting him.
'Come.'
Gaara lets himself be drawn by the strange feeling and approaches the swing set with half-lidded eyes. A single tug at his sash, and his gourd drops with a 'thud'. The wind tempts him to sit, so cool against his bare skin, so alluring.
He nestles carefully between two familiar chains, fingers wrapping around the cold and the rust. Another gentle gust rocks him.
A small smile tugs at his lips. Temari and Kankuro must be sleeping now, and here he is, at the playing after hours, doing something he isn't supposed to.
And it feels good.
'Monster!'
Gaara's eyes suddenly snap up. "Who's there?!"
Laughter.
"Identify yourselves this instant!" Gaara growls, standing. He surveys the surrounding, only to be answered by a deserted playground. Clenching his teeth, he curses beneath his breath. His trances are getting worse – he's hearing voice now?
Coming here was a bad idea – he needs to go home.
Angrily, the Kazekage yanks the gourd up by its strap, swinging the large container over his shoulder. His feet jerk him forward to the other side of the street, and within moments, his fingers are tapping furiously on the intercom.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"Arg!" The ordinarily-calm Kazekage slams his naked palm over the machinery, effectively cracking its frame. "Why isn't anyone an- …"
He pauses, retrieving his burning hand, staring at it with widened-eyes. The rosiness of his cheeks suddenly drains from his face when the realization hits.
The Kazekage backs away from the intercom, nearly falling down a small series of shallow steps. Wide, aquamarine eyes travel up the building, to the middle window on the top.
Why has he come here?
…
Wasn't he trying to go home?