A/N: Back to Kankuro's POV. This story won't leave me alone, so I'm just going to keep going until it does.

Translation reminders: "ototo" means younger brother, and "jan" is the random syllable/word Kankuro adds to some of his sentences because he speaks with a punk/Yankie accent.

Chapter Three: What is Love?

When I awakened in the morning, Gaara was sound asleep, my arm still armed around him. I felt an odd surge of pride, or happiness, or . . . some bizarre mixed feeling that I'd finally been able to take care of my ototo and that he'd letme do so. Connecting with him over the past few years had not been easy, even with us both trying in our awkward but determined ways.

Sunlight poured through the round windows lining the right-hand wall, illuminating the beiges and blues of the Kazekage suite. My internal clock informed me I'd overslept by about two hours, but since I was on medical leave, I didn't care. I pulled back and watched Gaara's peaceful, sleeping face for several minutes, realizing he looked oddly young, and pondered whether to awaken him. Since he'd been ill, he needed as much sleep as possible — twice so given he wasn't used to sleeping. At the same time, he'd apparently been thrown off by waking up and finding me not present during the night. I had several disturbing thoughts on that matter, but they'd have to wait until later.

Deciding he'd prefer to know I was leaving, I rubbed his shoulder, and after several moments, he opened his eyes and gazed at me blurrily.

"Kan . . . kuro . . ." He stretched rather luxuriously and then yawned.

"Hey," I said, aware that I didn't sound like myself but not caring. Since he wasn't feeling well — since no one else was around — I couldn't seem to muster my usual persona. "How do you feel this morning?"

Gaara paused and stared at my shoulder, and I knew he was assessing himself. "Better. I'm not nauseated now, but I feel a bit weak and dehydrated."

"That's normal." I squeezed his shoulder and then climbed out of bed. "I'll have some benign food sent up. You stay put until you feel like moving around, okay? I'll update your personal aide and secretary."

He nodded slowly, and I could tell there was something he wanted to say. I paused, but when he remained silent, I gave him a smile of encouragement and left. I knew that, just like during the night, there were words caught in his throat. Despite the fact Gaara was an eloquent speaker when he wanted to be, he didn't have any more luck than I normally did at coughing up his deepest feelings. But I had seen the look in his eyes, watched his actions and body language, and listened to the tone of his voice, and I felt sure I understood what neither of us could say. Or at least say well.

Still, after I had the food sent up to Gaara and talked to his secretary, I sought out Temari. Something bothered me . . . well, several things bothered me, and even though I had a pretty solid intuition, I knew I'd have to bounce some ideas off my sister. I found her in the kitchen attempting to make a bento box for her lunch.

"Yo," I called as I entered. I plopped down on the table stool and watched her. The entire Kazekage mansion was old and traditional, with hardwood and tatami floors, kotatsu tables, and a central garden, but as the decades had passed, some modern, imported furniture had been added, such as the high-top kitchen table and stools.

Temari glared at me as she dipped a clump of rice into her bento. "Don't just saunter in here and say 'yo.' If you have this much free time on your hands, the least you can do is fix lunches for those of us who are on duty."

I grinned at her, translating her attitude immediately. "Oh, so you burnt your lunch and want me to fix you a better one, jan?"

"Jackass."

I laughed, and she grinned back at me. We rarely fought about anything, but my day wasn't complete unless I gave her a hard time. "Sure, sure," I sighed, sliding off the stool and joining her at the counter. "Damn, what would you and Gaara have done if I hadn't figured out how to cook?"

"Don't rub it in." She picked up the knife on the cutting board. "I'm armed, and you aren't."

I snorted. Her day wasn't complete unless she gave me a hard time, too. "You don't want to be some traditional wife, anyway."

"Fair enough." She set down the knife.

Score.

"Well, the rice seems fine." I retreated to the refrigerator for pickled eggplant, wasabi sauce, and salmon. "I suppose you can handle the carrots and stuff, right?" I nodded toward the vegetables she'd cut up.

She smirked at me. "I can at least do that much."

I joined her at the counter again and, while we worked on her lunch, pondered how I was going to bring up what I needed to ask her. "Temari . . ." I paused in slicing up the fish for her nigiri-sushi. "I know people don't really act like themselves when they're sick, but something weird happened last night while I was taking care of Gaara."

Temari glanced up from the vegetables she was cooking, and a worried look knitted her brow. "Well, he was very sick for a few hours there, so I guess that's not surprising. Why? What happened?"

I resumed cutting the fish, which I then pressed against the sushi rice. "Well . . . he passed out pretty good there for an hour, so I went to change clothes and get him more medicine. But when I came back, I found that he'd woken up and begun vomiting."

Temari raised one eyebrow. "That's not weird."

I shook my head. "No, no. When I came back, he acted like he thought I'd abandoned him. He seemed . . ." I hesitated, bothered by the memory, and packed the sushi into the bento box. "Well, he was . . . crying. And he was, like, shocked that I'd gotten more medicine and returned to stick out the night with him." I frowned as I bound a second piece of nigiri sushi together.

Temari turned off the stove and leaned against the counter beside me. "Are you really surprised?"

I glared at her and flopped the sushi into her box. "I always stick it out with you, no matter how many times you puke your guts out, jan.." I sighed and picked up the pickled eggplant, arranging it around one side of the bento. It seemed easier to bare my thoughts if I was doing something with my hands. "Why would Gaara assume it'd be different for him? I've stuck by his side the whole time he's been Kazekage, and if he had any doubts left, wouldn't they be settled by the way we all rushed to save him from Akatsuki?"

"I don't think that's the problem." She cocked her head, and her eyes seemed to turn darker green. It was some odd effect I'd noticed years earlier — it always happened when she was either analyzing something or ill. "Kankuro . . . consider for a moment the difference between Naruto-kun and Shikamaru."

I paused to stare at her. "One's stupid, and the other's a genius."

She laughed. "No, no. I mean, Shikamaru is an analyst, like me. In fact, as a strategist he's better than I am, even if I've had to rescue his sorry ass."

Her eyes twinkled when she mentioned his name, and I felt an evil grin coming on. "Uh-huh."

"Naruto-kun, on the other hand, seems to react to the world through his feelings. Yeah, it makes him brash, but he also has a profound effect on people." She shook her head. "Don't get me to pondering that, though. What I'm saying is . . . emotions are easy for Naruto-kun. He understands them easily; he views the world through them. He understands other people's emotional motivations readily, and he can predict things about people or fights if their decisions are emotion-based."

I resumed fixing her lunch, grabbing the pan of veggies and scraping them onto the compartment by the rice. I knew Temari's analysis was heading somewhere, if I could be patient enough to wait for her conclusion. "Yeah, and your point?"

"You're like Naruto-kun." She joined me again, picking up the wasabi sauce and squeezing some into a small cup in the box. "You intuit others' motivations and feelings and react accordingly. You know if someone cares for you, and you expect them to uphold that care consistently."

I considered her words and realized she was right. "Okay, yeah. But Gaara?"

"Gaara is like Shikamaru or me." She set down the wasabi and stared out the kitchen window. "Emotions aren't so intuitive to us. We deal with facts and analyses and stratagems better." She bit her lip momentarily. "Kankuro . . . it's not that our ototo doesn't see that you love him."

I flinched at the bald honesty contained in those words.

"It's that he's afraid it won't continue."

"What?" I wiped my hands on a towel and turned to face her. "Why wouldn't I keep loving him?"

Temari put her hands on my shoulders and squeezed them. "It's not an insult to you. Think about it. The only person who cared for Gaara when he was young was our Uncle Yashamaru, and he tried to kill him. Add to that the fact that Gaara was insane for six years, and as a result threatened and insulted us all the time. He's assuming the problem is with him."

"Oh . . ." It did make a kind of sense. A disturbing kind of sense.

She smiled sadly. "I believe he thinks he has to continually pay penance, continually earn our affection, and work the rest of his life to keep the familial bonds between us intact. He just doesn't understand emotions well enough to know that he can forge a bond with us, and it'll hold because we love him. He doesn't understand that he's been forgiven."

I stared into her eyes for several moments, knowing she was similar enough to Gaara in basic personality to gain some insight into him. "So how do I convince him that I'm not leaving? That I won't betray him, or that I've forgiven him, or that he doesn't have to pay penance in order for me to care?"

"Time." She squeezed my shoulders again and then let go. "You just have to do what you do best: stand by his side, listen to him, and care for him." She shrugged and smiled, turning back to her lunch. "Um, this looks good now." She put the lid on the box then glanced back at me. "Over time, the consistency of your actions will prove that you're not changing. He'll get the picture."

I frowned and nodded. I didn't want it to take time; I wanted him to be able to trust in me now. Was it really so hard for him to see? But if I really did possess an intuition that Gaara didn't have . . . "Okay. I get it, jan." I understood it, but it was kind of disheartening. Still, I had always been stubborn; I could outlast him and prove myself, right?

Temari smiled as she wrapped her bento box into a handkerchief. "Good. So take care of our ototo while I'm gone."

"Sure thing." I snatched up a piece of pickled eggplant and popped it in my mouth. "Don't get your ass whipped or something. You only pulled a B rank, after all."

She smirked at me, and I grinned in response.

"I won't." She snatched up her lunch and headed for the door. "Oh, and you're welcome for the advice," she called over her shoulder.

"And you're welcome for the lunch," I shot back. What a smartass.

Then again, that was one of the best things about my sister.

I stood in the open doorway and stared at the garden. After running errands and making some arrangements, I'd returned to Gaara's bedroom and found it empty. I'd searched the private quarters and even found Gaara's empty breakfast tray in the kitchen. But I'd only now discovered the boy himself sitting on a bench outside.

For several minutes I leaned on the lintel, resting my head against the wood. The morning sunlight seemed unnaturally bright, creating a glow in the garden. Magenta adeniums, or desert roses, lined the mosaic tile pathways. The flowers reminded me of the petunias, except the desert rose leaves were thicker and darker — succulents' leaves. Orange desert poppies spread beyond the adeniums, and desert sunflowers added their mustard-yellow blooms to the mix. Under the sun's glow, the garden looked almost ethereal. A light breeze stirred the flowers, causing their heads to bob, and the wind chime hanging from the eave tinkled.

Perhaps the scene's surrealness was what made me feel unreal. Momentarily, I felt suspended in time, as though I were a thought sparking in a grander being's mind. Gaara, his dark red hair shining like a flame in the light, wasn't real either. He certainly had never died, and I hadn't spent a torturous hour staring at his corpse. The pain I'd suffered hadn't actually happened.

The chime tinkled again, a random chord of metallic notes, and I blinked. The glow in the garden remained, but I saw and heard the honey bees as they buzzed from flower to flower. A troop of red ants marched near my feet, heading toward some unknown destination, and a wind gust splashed sand across the mosaic pathways. I stirred from my spot, sliding the door closed behind me, and stepped off the wooden deck. Even though I wore wooden geta sandals, my footsteps were quiet.

I knew Gaara both sensed and heard my approach, but he continued to stare at the ornamental fountain in the garden's center. His absent gaze, so glassy I imagined I could see the fountain reflected in his pupils, told me he was deep in thought — or, more precisely, analysis. Temari was right: Gaara was a rational thinker, an analyst, one who did his best to determine by logic what his purpose was, what his life meant, and even what his feelings were. But logic could only carry one so far in the realm of emotion. Gaara could analyze his reactions, even rationalize his fears, but the underlying cause of a feeling . . . a wound of the heart . . . could not be healed by logic.

And I don't work by logic, I admitted to myself, knowing Temari was right about me as well. I strategize in battle, but when it comes to my siblings . . .

I sighed. I could only be who I was, even if my superiors said I lost my composure or acted rashly. I walked over to Gaara and sat by him. Propping one arm on the bench's back, I stared at the fountain as well, watching water trickle from the trumpet-shaped, desert rose blooms. Some 60 years earlier, an artist had sculpted the fountain as a gift to the Kazekage, but the fountain only functioned during years when we got decent rain.

I pondered my wandering thoughts and realized that in a metaphorical way, Gaara's soul lacked rain. "Gaara," I began, glancing toward him, "I want to ask you —"

"I thought you'd left me," he said quietly, as though sensing my questions.

I cringed, his words proving my hypothesis. Temari and I understood him after all.

"It only made sense," he continued, his gaze still on the fountain. "I spent years insulting you, even threatening your life. I told you outright I didn't consider you my brother. Yes, I chose a new path, but even now, I have nothing to offer you. Why . . ." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Why would you go out of your way to care for me, to l —" He stopped again and frowned. "I've thought about this all morning. I've gone through every thought I've had since I returned to life. And I know I have nothing to offer you. I don't know how to be your brother."

His words made me feel lost. I wasn't sure where to begin. He had never been properly loved; he didn't even understand what it was. But I'd promised him I'd protect him, and the only way he could learn was for me to show him. Surely he wasn't trying to push me away? He had called me "nii-san," and he'd let me hug him, even hold him while he slept.

Unless, of course, he regretted allowing himself to appear so vulnerable around me. Perhaps he was internally cursing himself for accepting my care, for showing he neededmy care. If any trace of his old paranoia remained, he would pull away, repressing his facial expressions and body language to recreate his impassive persona. Without any words, without any direct action, he would shut me out again and make himself unreachable.

A sickly fear jolted through my stomach like a lance of ice, and I felt my heart plummet. No . . . I thought to myself, nauseated. I showed you the real me, the one beneath the mask. Don't turn me away. I lowered my defenses for you. If you shut me out now . . .

Gaara turned and met my gaze. His eyes looked listless. "I've burdened you for the past two nights, and I have no way to repay you. It doesn't seem fair, and it has to be exhausting for you. If —"

"You are not burdening me!" It came out as a yell, and a bird I hadn't even sensed suddenly flapped its wings and flew from the flowers, knocking off blooms in its hasty retreat. This was what always happened: I lowered my guard and dropped my act, and the target of my affection rejected me. My emotions weren't welcome in the shinobi world.

Gaara blinked at my vehemence, although his expression was otherwise as stoic as usual. "But—"

"'But' nothing!" How could I explain? Even after all these years, he still lived in such emotional darkness that he was going to reject me without even understanding what I was offering. "You're my ototo! I don't want anything more than that from you."

He shook his head, his brow knitting with confusion. "But I don't know how to be a brother. And I don't want to use you. I don't want to be the monster I once was."

"Of course you don't know! And you're not going to learn unless you let me teach you." I was getting angry — angrier by the second. Was my love so useless? Was I useless? "You're not using me. If I got seriously injured tomorrow, wouldn't you visit me at the hospital? You would do the same for me as I did for you last night — you just haven't had the opportunity yet."

Gaara looked away, blankly staring at his feet. "Would I?" he whispered.

In that moment, I saw the ghost of self-hatred that haunted him. "Yeah, you would. Don't sell yourself short. You're the one who busted his ass to become Kazekage and sacrificed himself saving the village."

Gaara frowned, and I knew he couldn't accept the rationale just then. "The village was endangered because of me in the first place."

He was missing the point, getting caught in a hamster wheel of bent logic. "That doesn't change the fact that you'd help me if I were sick or injured."

Gaara didn't reply; he simply crossed his arms over his chest.

I was getting frustrated. "This has something to do with last night, doesn't it? When you woke up the second time, you didn't just think I'd left. You thought I'd completely abandoned you."

He flinched. "Like I said, I have nothing to offer you in return."

I grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him to face me. "I don't need anything in return, dammit! You're my ototo. I've been trying to reach you for years." I both did and didn't understand. I saw his problem, but I knew he was wrong. "Just —" I paused, unsure how to explain. "Just stay!" My own words hit me so hard I released him and stood up, facing away as tears stung my eyes. All I'd ever wanted was to be useful to him, to care for him, and to have him accept that bond. I wanted my brother. It had never even occurred to me that he wouldn't return my love as he healed. I still didn't doubt it. Just as hatred would breed hatred, love would breed love. But Gaara couldn't know that . . .

A long silence followed, then Gaara, his voice quiet but pained, replied, "I'm hurting you again."

I growled in aggravation. I'd never tried so hard to communicate my true thoughts to anyone, and I seemed to be failing miserably. I clenched my fists and whirled to face him. "Of course you're hurting me. I love you, and you're basically telling me to go away!"

Gaara's eyes grew enormously wide. "Kankuro . . ."

I paused, shocked by my own admission, then slumped suddenly, feeling strange tremors in my arms and legs. I couldn't take back the words now, and I wasn't even sure I wanted to even if I could. "That was one thing I never thought you'd do." My voice sounded flat to me. "After getting so upset with the kids who ran away from you, I never once thought you'd try to run away from me." I glanced over my shoulder at the fountain and absently noted that the trickling water reminded me of tears. "Even it if were true that you know nothing about being a brother — and I'm not really convinced it's true — I thought you'd remember how much it hurt to be rejected."

I heard him gasp faintly, but I'd burnt up all my emotions. I felt nothing. The world seemed lifeless — to be washed out and grey. From the corner of my vision, I saw Gaara stand, his posture rigid and resolute, and clench his jaw with what appeared to be steely determination. Then he walked over to me and stiffly hugged me.

"Nii-san," he said, "I'm not going to reject you. I just thought — It just seemed . . ." Seeming exhausted, he thunked his forehead against my chest. "I just don't understand why you love me."

The strange tremors in my limbs subsided, and I gazed at the top of his head. "Does it matter?"

He raised his head and met my gaze. "Yes. Because if I don't know why, then . . ."

"Then you don't know how to keep my love?" I guessed, thinking back to Temari's explanation. It seemed bizarre to me that anyone could think that way.

Gaara's eyes widened again, but he nodded faintly.

"Love is a gift," I said, reaching up to touch his cheek. In his confusion, he seemed almost like a porcelain doll — easy to shatter. I knew it wasn't really true, but I couldn't shake the image. "You don't earn it, and you don't pay for it." I paused, wracking my brain for an explanation. "It's accompanied by other gifts that grow with time, like trust and respect, and your actions and words have to uphold those things." Could he understand that? I wasn't sure how else to define it. "But in the end, love is generated within one person and then freely given to another."

"But I did nothing in the past that would maintain trust or respect," he whispered, his voice strained. "I hurt you and threatened you and —"

I moved my hand, putting my fingers over his lips to silence him. "You aren't that child anymore." I sighed and dropped my hand. "Do you really need an answer for why I love you?"

He nodded slowly, his gaze reflecting the same sadness they'd contained when he was a six-year-old.

How to explain? There was no way. "Because you're mine."

Gaara blinked, and I hoped it made sense. I certainly didn't mean it in a creepy way. His blood, my blood . . . his hair, my hair . . . we were inherently a part of each other. Nothing past, present, or future could change that, even a past as rocky as ours had been. He was my ototo, period.

"'Because' —" he began, as though he meant to repeat my words, then he stopped and all the tension seemed to drain from him. His face smoothed, his frown vanished, and his shoulders relaxed. Without another word, he leaned his head against my chest and tightened his arms around my waist.

Logic could never fully explain emotion, I knew. Never. To do so would be to void the power of feelings.

I smiled and hugged him back, wrapping my arms around his thin body, and feeling once more that sense of protectiveness that pervaded all my thoughts of him.

"I'm not going anywhere," he finally said. "I won't run away, and I won't reject you."

"That's all I need to know," I replied, and I realized the garden seemed to glow again. Color had returned to the world, and with it, my peace of heart.

A/N: Chapter 4 will be in Gaara's POV, of course. I'm about a third of the way finished with it. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and/or faved the two previous chapters. I appreciate your support!