"Now remember, you heat it, but don't bring it to boil."
"Yes, thank you, mom."
"And feel free to visit whenever you like. Bring Sakura if you can, it'd be nice to see her from time to time."
"Mom..."
"Thank you for your generosity." Gaara smiles politely, ignoring Sakura's attempts at ending the conversation. "I'll try, though I've heard things are hectic for her, so I can offer no guarantees."
Sakura narrows her eyes at the redhead, his expression allowing no further insight. "Alright, it was a lame excuse," she huffs, wanting to cross her arms but unable to due to her heavy bag—she's pretty sure she won't have to worry about dinner for the entirety of next week. "Mom, I'll call you tomorrow, happy?"
Her mom sends her a satisfied smile, tipping her head innocently. "Yes dear, I'd like that very much!"
Sakura sighs before smiling, rolling her shoulders as she adjusts the bag of food. "Alright," she concedes, leaning in for a hug, "bye mom. Thank you for tonight, I love you."
"I love you, sweetheart. You take care of yourself now."
"Of course." She pulls back, returning to Gaara's side.
"Thank you for walking her home, make sure she doesn't get herself into any trouble."
"Alright, bye mom!" Sakura calls, already turning away.
Gaara nods, offering a final wave as he moves to follow.
Her mother happily returns the gesture. "Bye bye! And remember, don't be a stranger, you-"
"Just keep walking," Sakura mutters so only he can hear, "she can keep this up for hours—trust me I've been there."
Gaara nods, eyes darting between the both of them. She can sense his hesitance, and she doesn't think much about tugging his arm, feeling him tense beneath her fingers. He doesn't say anything, starting into a walk beside her. Touching others comes so naturally to her; it's easy to forget Gaara might not be used to it. As they walk, she notices he keeps perfect distance, always adjusting when she steps closer. She can tell it's habitual, rather than something he's aware of. She wants to ask him about these patterns, wondering if perhaps it's something common to Suna, but somehow the question feels misplaced. Instead, she decides to ask what's been on her mind all evening—something she feels she's permitted as a medic.
"Gaara," she starts, observing as the setting sun sets his hair aflame, the pale shade of his skin bathed in an amber glow, "do you have trouble sleeping?"
He meets her gaze, his own bag of leftovers swinging at his side, breaking the silence before he speaks: "I could ask you the same thing."
She starts, scrambling for a way to deflect, her lips parting and closing several times.
"You have a lovely family, Sakura," he continues, returning his gaze to the streets ahead, a subtle frown betrayed only by the creasing of his skin. "Avoiding them won't make whatever's troubling you easier."
He's right, but it's not something she's ready to hear. "Yes, they're nice," she concedes, straightening her shoulders, "but I'm an adult too; I don't need their worrying."
"They love you," he counters. "It hurts them to see you in pain."
She stops, trying to breathe. "I'm not in pain."
He halts too, turning to look at her with those piercing eyes. "Yes you are." She's about to shake her head when his free hand reaches out, the tips of his fingers brushing the skin above her heart. "Right here."
It races in response, and she's afraid the violence of it might startle him. Her gaze darts towards his scar, its angry, red lines like trails of blood in the dying sunlight. "I'm fine." She lifts her chin, hands balled to fists. He smiles, but this time it isn't happy, it's a sorrowful tilt of the lips that speaks of his compassion. Gaara is an inherently lonely person; perhaps that's why she can't pretend around him. It's enough to break her, unable to swallow the flood of all she's bottled up. It's too much, and it's been too long since anyone's understood her pain. He doesn't push her away once she feels her legs won't be enough to hold her, the crook of his neck the perfect place to hide the shame rolling down her cheeks. He doesn't respond right away, frozen as she holds onto him with crushing force; as if he'll disappear otherwise.
But he doesn't smell of cinders and smoke, instead the almost familiar scent of desert rain envelops her, and it manages to transform her tears into something nearly beautiful. His arms loop around her with obvious hesitance, his hold too gentle, too fragile to keep her together—but she's grateful he doesn't speak, aware how silly they must look in the middle of the road. Already she feels the beginnings of a headache, a dull throb behind her eyes as tears stain his shirt. It's her every insecurity pouring out; every solitary night, every hour spent without another problem to solve, another patient to fix. Shame claws at her gut, keeps her from pulling away. She knows they can't stay like this, knows she's selfish for putting this burden on Gaara—but it still takes all she has to uncurl her fingers from their hold, her feet moving in a sullen retreat.
She shakes her head, hastily wiping at her cheeks. "I'm sorry I-"
"It's okay."
"No, no it's not okay, I'm a ninja, I-"
"You're also human, Sakura."
"You're the Kazekage, and- and I shouldn't bother you with my issues—I shouldn't be-"
He picks up both their bags. "Come," he says, "let's walk."
Sakura nods, gaze averted, hands still rubbing her face, attempting to erase her weakness. Despite the remaining wobbliness of her legs, she's glad to be in motion. Somehow it feels like moving forward—if only from her momentary failings.
"I've been an insomniac since I was a child," he speaks, calm enough to soothe her. "Whenever I fell asleep, the One-Tail would take control of my body, murdering as many people he could."
Sakura remains silent, watching the redhead with large eyes, her sadness all but forgotten in the wake of such an admission.
"Though he's no longer with me, 16 years of avoiding sleep is a tough habit to break."
She bites her lip, wrapping her arms around herself. "Have you ever seen a medic for this?" Her voice is still hoarse, but she can almost pretend he doesn't notice.
He shakes his head. "I haven't been too set on solving it."
Sakura frowns. "I can't imagine never sleeping to be healthy." She rubs her shoulder, half-turned to the man beside her. "I have herbs at home that might help, I could give them to you."
He shrugs. "Perhaps it's also my own reluctance that plays a part." It's a confession she hadn't expected, not from him. "You can't control dreams, not like you can thoughts."
Night terrors—that's the real issue. She fights the urge to reach out, to offer comfort; she isn't sure he'd find it comforting at all. "There is a way to treat that." She fidgets with the sleeve of her dress, hoping she isn't overstepping. "If you'd be open to it, I could help."
He stares off into the distance, seemingly deep in thought, before his gaze seizes her up, causing her to stiffen. "I'll agree," he starts, the beginnings of a smirk twisting his lips, "but only if you promise to reduce your working hours."
She gapes at him, shoulders raised and hands balled at her sides. He has her and he knows it—the conniving bastard actually dares be glib about it! "Fine," she scoffs, well-aware she's played right into his scheme, "but only because I'd like to see you live past your twenties."
"Likewise," he rebuts, and Sakura finds herself grinning, the ache in her chest momentarily forgotten.
Sakura doesn't know if she should be annoyed by the eagerness with which she's awarded time off—like it's a bad thing she's dedicated to her job. Her fellow medics wave her goodbye with genuine enthusiasm, and she'd almost believe she's accomplished something special. The joke's on them though; tonight, Sakura has her own patient to treat. It excites her—the prospect of righting a wrong—and fills her with enough energy to scrub her apartment and hide her dying plants. She's made an extra bed for Gaara to sleep in, prepping herself with enough coffee and scrolls to last the night. Three of them, that's all the time she has to solve this. She knows this isn't entirely about him, not truly, but she doesn't want to think too much about it.
Her fingers brush the skin above her heart, emulating his touch, feeling its flutter beneath their tips. There are many things she doesn't want to think too much about when it comes to Gaara; like how such a simple gesture could bring with it such intricacy. She finds herself repeating it throughout the day, her hand rising to her chest without her noticing. It's a small comfort, a reminder she isn't alone after all. She wonders if, had she not dragged him off to dance, they'd ever be anything but strangers to each other. Though they're not quite friends yet, the thought itself aches. Already, she doesn't think she could miss him—and that alarms her. Part of her insists she's ridiculous; gravitating to someone because they said some nice things. But right now it's all she's got, and she can hardly blame herself for wanting to feel better than she has.
The doorbell rings, and again she's up in a flash. She smooths down her shirt, tucks her hair behind her ear, and checks her reflection a final time. This is the Kazekage, she tells herself; she wouldn't want him to think her unkempt. He's in his usual red this time, but the familiarity of his outfit isn't what throws her off.
"You didn't..."
His eyes shoot between her and the object in his hands, frowning. "I clearly did."
"You didn't have to—you're too nice, I-"
He tips his head, eyeing her before pushing the succulent into her hands. "If the dead plants in the other room are anything to go by, I'd wager it's absolutely necessary."
She starts, widened eyes darting between him and the hidden collection of potted plants in her closet. "How'd you..."
"I can sense the earth," he says, passing her as he enters, "I've seen deserts with more moisture."
She watches as he slides his bag off his shoulders, searching for a way to retort but finding he's absolutely right. She huffs, crossing her arms, the small succulent still in her hand. "Here I thought you walked me home to be a gentleman, not to spy on my plants." He chuckles—actually chuckles at her words—and she's certain she feels the brush of his fingers again, the ghost of their touch quickening her pulse. But he's at the other end of the hallway, and she's reminded it's her own hand that trails her skin.
"Your home shouldn't be a graveyard, Sakura."
The sound of her name sends a shiver down her spine, and she quickly closes the door behind her, as if she can hide from it that way. "Well," she swallows, holding the succulent close, "it's hard to argue with that." She gestures for him to continue on ahead, following close behind as he moves. The plant is actually very cute, its thick leaves rimmed with a hint of pink. And it's a thoughtful choice too; succulents hardly need water, so it should be able to survive her neglect. She doesn't want to think too hard about his comment—after all, there are ghosts in her closet that aren't exclusively plants. She swallows against the dryness of her throat, clearing it before speaking: "would you like something to drink?"
"Water would be nice."
She nods, turning towards her kitchen, placing the succulent on her windowsill. "I've also prepared a special tea for you to drink. It'll help you sleep, as well as block your chakra to make sure you don't hurt me on accident." She pours two glasses, carrying them both to her kitchen table, offering him a seat. "Tonight we'll be timing when the dreams start. I'll need to know how long it takes for them to occur so I can break the pattern tomorrow." She sits down opposite of him, holding her glass between her fingers, feeling the water move in response. "Nervous?"
He shakes his head. "You?"
Of course she's nervous; she's about to witness a powerful man at what might be his most vulnerable. Yes, she's a professional, but Gaara is Gaara, and he's not supposed to be vulnerable—ever. "Slightly."
He releases a small breath, leaning back in his chair. "I trust you."
"You hardly know me," she speaks before thinking, biting her tongue afterwards.
He smiles. "I know you enough."
Enough to leave himself defenseless, apparently. Still she finds herself nodding, gathering her courage before retreating into her kitchen. She boils the water in silence, staring at the small plant on her windowsill. It's sweet, and it begs the question whether such had always been Gaara's nature. If so, what could have possibly twisted his soul into something so ugly? Her hand caresses her stomach, remembering the crushing weight of his sand, the smell of death and gore. That's the Gaara she's known, the untouchable killer—will it be him she'll encounter tonight? It doesn't frighten her, if anything she's more afraid to lose the current him—the Gaara who somehow knows exactly what she needs. She shifts her weight, watching as she allows the herbs to steep, their fragrant smell filling her kitchen. Then, she filters them out, straightening her shoulders before returning to the table.
"This will need about an hour to take effect," she says as she hands him the tea, glancing towards the bed she's made. "It's best you get ready to sleep right after drinking, since you'll become increasingly dazed. The bathroom is that door over there." She nods to the door in question. "You'll be sleeping here, and I'll be staying on the couch beside you." She returns to her seat, watching him as he slowly drinks his tea. "I'll leave a light on so you don't get lost."
He makes a sour face, lowering the glass with a subtle frown.
"You don't like it?" she asks, suppressing an amused grin as he shakes his head. "Medicine's not supposed to taste good."
"That's no justification."
She clicks her tongue, unable to keep from smiling as he sourly downs the rest of it. "It's to ensure you're not going to need it in the future. Now go and get ready before I have to carry you."
He sends her a sceptical look—or at least she thinks so; it's hard to tell in his case—before standing, slinging his bag over his shoulder as he heads to her bathroom. She takes the opportunity to make herself some coffee, aware she'll have to remain alert all night. She's laid out the appropriate scrolls, as well as placed her clock in clear sight. She runs several scenarios through her head while he's away, trying to prepare herself for the unknown. It's a near impossible task, and she just hopes she's equipped to handle him at his worst. But this is Gaara, and he wouldn't trust her if he didn't think her capable. It's a small relief, and again she repeats his praise in her head, feeling less like a hack and more like a medic who carried their weight during the war.
He reenters the room in a black shirt and pants, somehow managing to look at home in her apartment. It's a disconcerting thought, and she quickly gulps down her coffee, if only to distract from her own folly. Her eyes move towards his face, a frown puckering her brow at what she sees.
"Hasn't anyone ever told you it's bad to sleep with make-up on?"
He pauses, blinks, then frowns, appears to realise what she's talking about. He takes the seat next to her, the beginnings of an amused grin on his face, causing her to hold an anticipatory breath. Her lips part when he touches her, long fingers wrapping around her hand, lifting it off the table. He closes his eyes, gently bringing her thumb to the edge of his right lid. She's frozen for a beat, her breath still stuck in her chest. His face is warm beneath her touch, the hint of lashes brushing her thumb sending a shiver down her spine. She swallows, releasing a soft breath as she traces the patch of black, for the first time noticing it doesn't smudge or fade—unlike Kankuro's face paint. She frowns, leaning in to get a closer look, her other hand joining to trace the other one. Slowly it dawns on her; it's the colour of his skin. She's never questioned the markings before, and she reckons they might be similar to Naruto's whiskers.
His eyes open, and she's barely able to keep from flying back, her face flushing once she realises their proximity. Up close, she's able to tell apart the pupils from his irises, their outline revealed only by the angle of the light. It's dizzying, and she can't help but fixate on those iridescent depths. Swallowing, she lowers her hands, her fingertips accidentally trailing the skin of his cheeks. "That's pretty cool," she mutters, clearing her throat afterwards.
He blinks, as if he wasn't all there, his gaze darting across her face—and she's now able to notice the way his pupils focus on her. "Hm?"
"The, um... the markings. You never have to worry about ruining your make-up when you cry." Shit. That was a stupid thing to say.
He snorts, closing his eyes again, his smile lingering as he sways ever so slightly, and- wait... is he falling asleep? She panics, grabbing his shoulders, attempting to get his attention. It doesn't work, and just as she's about to stand, he falls into her arms, his head resting against her chest and... oh god. Oh god! There's a heat spreading to her face, and if her heart doesn't wake him then nothing can. She doesn't quite know what to do, her hands shaking as she tries to push him off—but he's heavier than he looks, and the soft tickle of his hair distracts her. She tries not to think about how nice he smells—she's drugged the Kazekage after all, she shouldn't be thinking anything! She bites her lip, releasing a breath through her nose, forcing herself to calm.
She sends a steady stream of chakra through her arms, giving them the strength to carry him. Cautiously, she drags him towards the bed, trying not to bump into anything. She uses a hand to lift the blankets before attempting to lower him, releasing a shriek when he doesn't let go. For someone who flinches when touched, he's surprisingly clingy. She has to peel his arms off, one by one, before she can finally put him down. He doesn't stir, or react in any way, which means the herbs are doing their job better than she is. Dropping onto her couch, she rubs her face with her hands, eyes traveling towards the small succulent on her windowsill, reminding herself there's no need to worry: Gaara knows exactly what she's capable of.