She's the first to wake, early rays of light spilling across her limbs, drawing streaks of orange. There's an arm draped across her waist, pinning her with its warmth. Her gaze trails its hand; long, pale fingers slack with sleep. She traces them with her own, and they curl into her touch, wrapping around her palm, gentle enough to hopefully miss the shiver running through her. Carefully, she turns towards its owner, mindful not to wake him. He's closer than she'd expected, her shoulder pressed against his chest, the beat of his heart on her skin. His breathing is slow, face showing not a single sign of awareness—he looks peaceful, long lashes interrupting marks of black, hairs of blond dusting his brow. She wouldn't mind remaining like this, counting every freckle to dot his skin, admiring the unblemished state of him—but she's kind enough to spare him the embarrassment, all too aware these aren't experiences for her to take.
So she carefully unwraps herself from his hold, immediately feels a chill where his warmth used to be, her skin longing for nothing more than to remain. But she knows; she has to be quick if she doesn't want him to wake before she returns. She forces distance between them, goes to ready herself. She changes into a pair of shorts, picks a white top suited for the heat of summer. She brushes her teeth, washes her face, stares for a while, and wonders what she might look like through his gaze—does he even care? Her reflection has little insight to offer, and she quickly turns from it, trying not to linger on triviality. It doesn't matter what he might think of her, whether he'd appreciate any of her features. That's what she tells herself, at least, certain someone like Gaara has no interest in a pink-haired little thing. She's out in a flash, relishes the morning air kissing her skin awake, refreshing her with its chill. There's purpose in her step, her feet carrying her with confident strides. She knows exactly what she needs to do, and she's excited to turn the tables on her guest.
She knocks, waits patiently, then knocks again. There's no answer, and she glares at the door. "I know you're in there!" she calls, this time sending a burst of chakra through her fist, the wood creaking beneath its force. It immediately swings open to reveal a very annoyed Shikamaru.
"Do you have any ide-"
"What does Gaara like for breakfast?"
He sends her a non-plussed look, raises a brow. "The two of you could do with just asking each other these things."
She narrows her eyes, juts her hip. "And ruin the surprise?"
He groans, rolls his neck, jawns from behind his palm. "Fine," he concedes, "just anything that's savoury—no sweets. He likes spices, so you can't go wrong with them."
She grins. "Thanks Shikamaru, you're a lifesaver!"
"Just stop knocking on my door at this time of day, it's exhausting."
She laughs. "Will do!" she calls as she turns to leave, waving goodbye. He gingerly returns the gesture, sighing as he frowns, one hand stuck in his pocket. The thought to ask for more tempts her, certain Shikamaru's one of the few to knowGaara—but she forces herself to keep moving, resolving to discover these things on her own. They have an entire day together, and it's been a while since she's last felt so eager to start. She makes short work of the market, hand-picking ingredients she thinks match Shikamaru's description. She'll admit she isn't too great a cook, but a decent breakfast is the least she can manage. She heads back home in a flash, a bag of groceries slinging at her side, occasionally bumping her leg. She hums as she walks, closing her eyes while soaking up the sun, happy there isn't a cloud in the sky—they'll need it for what she has planned.
She's silent as she enters her appartement, mindful not to wake her guest, relieved to find him still asleep. She unpacks with as much stealth as she's able to muster, thankful for her ninja training. Soon, her kitchen fills with the aroma of food, reminding her of when her mother used to cook for her, nostalgia warming her smile. In the background she can hear Gaara start to rouse, the bed creaking as he sits, narrowed eyes blinking against the light.
"Good morning!" she calls, chuckling at his extreme case of bedhead, hair sticking out at every possible angle. It's such a domestic scene, and more than ever she realises it's a glimpse of what she longs for—cliched, perhaps, but she can't help wanting to share her life, can't change her desire for something more meaningful than an occasional note. "Hope you're hungry."
He looks around the room, a hand running through his hair. "I just had the weirdest dream," he says, sleep still clinging to his voice.
"Oh?" She moves everything to the table, arranging plates and glasses like a form of art. "Want to share it?"
"Well..." he hesitates, rubbing at his eyes, silent as he considers. He stands from the bed, scratches at his cheek, walks over with hesitant steps. "There was Lee."
"The start of any weird thing around here."
"And I was bald..." He shakes his head, and she has to stifle a laugh at the mental picture. "And Kankuro offered to paint new hair, but then Lee insisted to make the eyebrows bigger, and..." His gaze is faraway as he stares out the window, hands wrapped around a chair. "I don't think I can do this sleep thing anymore."
She snorts. "How about we eat breakfast and then decide wether or not self-imposed insomnia is a good idea."
His eyes flick to the table, darting across its contents. "You made all this?" he asks, and she's certain he's raising his brows.
She chews her lip, grinning. "I couldn't do with you always spoiling me, now it's my turn."
He smiles, meeting her gaze, bringing a flutter to her stomach she doubts has anything to do with food. "Thank you, Sakura."
"We'll be out in the sun, so don't dress too warm."
He raises a sceptical brow. "Your clothing hardly protects from the heat."
She glances down at her shorts, crossing her arms. "Just looking at you and your siblings gives me heatstroke."
"The same could be said about you."
She shakes her head, a smile tugging at her lips at how easy conversations have become between them—she's well aware Gaara isn't known to be a man of many words, and it amuses her how talkative he can be when given the chance. "I'm just not a fan of bathing in my own sweat, which is what'll happen if I wear anything you would."
He frowns at that. "Temari doesn't bathe in sweat."
She narrows her eyes, fairly certain he's comparing them because they're both women. "Your bodies are more acclimatised to the heat, so no, she wouldn't." As a medic, she's fully aware covering skin works better to insulate body temperature; but, as a woman, she can't deny her redheaded friend looks particularly disarming in a tee. "Now go get ready, I thought you Kages were supposed to be punctual?"
He sends her a look that's telling enough; the last three Kages of Konoha aren't exactly known for their tight scheduling. Still, he does as she says, headed for the bathroom, and Sakura can't wait to show what she has planned.
She's excited as she leads, hands joined at her back, cheeks sore from grinning. He humours her, a perpetual smile on his lips as he listens. She can't recall the last time she's talked this much, the words pouring out of her, glad he doesn't seem to mind. It's turning into a game; observing every minute change in his expression. She tells him the most ridiculous of stories, if only to hear his laugh. It's not that hard a feat to accomplish, and she wonders if Naruto's ever even tried—she wouldn't have, had she not noticed Gaara's sense of humour. It's easy to miss, and she's not surprised it flies right over the blond's head.
They arrive when the sun is at its highest, broiling her with its heat, droplets of sweat pebbling her skin. She wipes at her brow, annoyed by Gaara's apparent tolerance. He neither appears flushed, nor remotely close to breaking a sweat—proving her earlier point. The smells of grass and leaves permeate the air, imbuing it with a sense of summer. She's surprised by the many couples and children visiting the park, sullenly realising she hasn't been there in months. It's a nice change of pace to go out like this, the sounds of laughter and birds refreshing her mind, reminding her why she's always loved the dog days.
It seems Gaara's happy to be there as well, his gaze flitting across verdant fields, watching the many families. It warms her heart to think of how much he's changed—how hard he's worked to be the man he is now—and she's grateful he's content spending his precious time with her. Her cheeks warm at the thought, fingers threading her hair as she averts her gaze, noticing they've arrived at their destination. She can't help the lingering grin, brimming with excitement as her plan finally comes to fruition. She turns to Gaara, snatching his hand from the air, surprise flashing across his features as she starts pulling him along.
"We're here!" she declares, watching his eyes go round as he follows. She bites her lip, slowing her pace, waiting for him to speak.
"A boat rental?" His gaze darts between her and the sign.
"Bet this is something you can't do in Suna." She smirks, releasing him as she crosses her arms, jutting her hip. It earns her a chuckle, and she prides herself for the accomplishment.
"You're right," he admits, eyes shining with mirth.
"As per usual." She sends him a playful wink, immediately scolding herself for such behaviour, quickly turning towards the booth and arranging a boat for the two of them. She tries not to linger on the way he'd looked at her, her pulse disobeying her every attempt at reigning it in, telling herself it's the novelty of his attention that has her respond in such undue ways. She feels silly for her inability to hold her composure in his presence, and she's happy he doesn't judge her for it (or he simply doesn't notice, which she heavily suspects). "Let's go." She sends him a close-eyed smile. "Time to get you some sea-legs."
They head for one of the boats, the water calm as it laps at the dock, the gentle sound of it soothing to her nerves. She's surprised he offers her a helping hand, her palm sliding across his as she steps into the bobbing vessel, ignoring the shiver running down her body—it's the water's spray, she tells herself. He joins her as she settles, her hands wrapping around the paddles, thumbs tracing along weathered wood.
"Have you ever done this before?" she asks, watching as he unsurprisingly shakes his head. She smiles. "I'll demonstrate, and you can try later."
It's an offer she soon comes to regret, the heat even worse now she's exerting herself. Lucky for her, Gaara's stare seems captivated by the churning waters, and she's relieved this isn't a date—she'd be mortified if caught oozing sweat in such a case. Still, she feels herself relax in his presence, the gentle tilt of his lips easy to mirror. It doesn't take them long to reach the center of the lake, its depth enunciated by the rich blue of the waves. She slumps against the wood, fanning herself in an attempt to cool down. It doesn't help much, fresh droplets budding her brow, and she feels a flare of annoyance at her companion's lack thereof.
"I can't believe you're not bothered—I'm sweating bucketloads."
He shrugs, the subtlest of smirks on his lips. "Suppose your outfit doesn't help."
She narrows her eyes at him, an idea forming in her head. "You know what," she starts, returning his smirk, "you're right—but I know something that might." She bites her lip, his eyes searching hers quizzically. She stands, the boat bobbing beneath her feet, hands keeping her balance.
"What are you-"
She doesn't allow him time to finish, the chakra in her arms enough to rock the vessel, launching the both of them into the water. It's refreshing as it hits her, an instant relief from the sweltering heat. There's a satisfied grin on her face as she emerges, gasping for air, her legs kicking to keep her afloat. She scans her surroundings, trying to spot Gaara, noticing he hasn't surfaced yet. A flash of doubt crosses her mind, her grin faltering—she hasn't just drowned the Kazekage, right?
"Gaara...?" she calls, attempting to spot him through the water. Nothing. She searches, trying her best to find even the tiniest hint of red. "Gaara!" Shit. She dives, legs thrusting her forward, gaze locking onto his floating form. Her hands reach for his, and she's surprised to see him staring straight at her. His eyes appear to glow beneath the shimmering of waves, the vibrant red of his hair dulled by the swallowing azure—it's like seeing him for the first time, graceful features laid bare by rays of blue, and she has to remind herself this is Gaara. It's too late when she realises she's fallen for his trap, line, hook and sinker. His hands wrap around her shoulders, using her to push himself up, forcing her further down in the process. She thrashes in response, hoping to catch up with him—to no avail. She's gasping for air when she finally does, the water's surface breaking against her face, plastering her hair to her skin.
Her eyes find his across the tide, her cheeks puffed up in chagrin. "I can't believe you did that!"
He's laughing—actually laughing at her shock, hair equally drenched and ridiculous.
She grins despite herself, muttering: "you complete asshole," shooting a wave of water in his direction. He braces against it, but it still manages to wash over him with a satisfying splash.
"You're the one who started it with the attempt on my life," he replies, pushing his hair from his eyes and messing it up in the process. Despite the lake's cool, her shoulders are hot where he touched, and part of her wishes for more. It's a dangerous want, and she feels the grin dry from her face, eyes turning to their abandoned boat.
"I suppose that makes us even," she starts, feet kicking against the waves, "now it's your turn row."
She's the first to wrap her hands around the side, trying to lift herself across, limbs slippery. He follows in the corner of her eye, and she can't resist giving him another playful shove, laughing at his look of shock as he plunges. She uses the opportunity to lift herself aboard, crawling into her seat. He's spluttering as he reemerges, hands wiping at his eyes—it still surprises her to see the rings of black stay perfectly put—until he pauses. She's about to ask what's wrong, wondering if perhaps she went too far, when he lifts out of the water, stepping off a plateau of mud and into the boat with her.
"You cheat!" she gasps, watching the water drip from him, leaving marks across the wood.
His eyes lift to her face, lips already parted when he freezes, the pale skin of his face quickly matching his hair, gaze flicking to the side in the process.
She snorts at the sight, certain it's the deepest she's ever seen him blush, when she realises she's the cause. She looks down, takes in the state of her shirt, and quickly wraps her arms around herself—because of course she had to wear her brightest, flashiest bra that day! "Oh god," she laughs, feeling like a complete idiot, surprised to see him taking off his shirt. She's stunned to silence, unable to look away despite the burning of her own cheeks.
"Here," he says, handing it over, eyes still averted.
She accepts the soaked fabric, mumbling a soft 'thank you' as she removes her own, replacing it with his. Though they're not too far apart in height, it's still loose around her frame, its shoulders halfway down her biceps. "There," she says, clearing her throat, "better?"
He turns to look at her, sincere in seizing her up. "Almost," he mutters then, leaning closer, gaze focused on her features.
"What?" She's breathless as he reaches for her face, fingers wiping at her cheeks, leaving trails of warmth in their wake. She blinks as she tries to force the air out of her lungs, eyes darting across his calm expression, trailing along his slightly parted lips. She feels herself lean in his direction as he retreats, as if her body protests the growing distance.
"Better." He smiles, and she sees him wash what appears to be make-up off his fingers. Right—she could have known her mascara wasn't water-proof. She's tongue-tied as she watches him reach for the paddles, her fingers trailing the places his have been. She's wise enough to busy herself with her hair instead, hoping he hasn't noticed, digits sliding through slick strands. She's unsure what to say next, her arms wrapping around herself, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt crinkle beneath their press. There's a flutter of something at the reminder, her gaze flicking to his calm features as he rows.
She watches as his arms repeat the motions, the muscles beneath his skin flexing with every push and pull. He's more toned than she would have expected, his shoulders and back well-developed despite his lack of physical combat. She supposes the gourd he used to carry could be to blame, her gaze trailing every carved line of his physique, down to his abdomen, the sharp contours of his hips drawing in her attention—until she realises what she's doing. She rips her eyes away, blood flooding her face again, pounding in her ears. She busies herself with his shirt, fumbling with its fabric, gaze focused on her hands. Still there's a lingering heat inside her, a want begging her to get near, to feel every of his muscles ripple beneath her palm. She bites her lip instead, daring another glance in his direction, noticing he's watching her.
She finds herself releasing a nervous chuckle, averting her gaze. "Guess I'm lucky you listened to my clothing advise."
There's a silence, interrupted by the continuous slosh as he rows, the sound of wood grating against wood filling her mind with his image. "Suppose you are," he rumbles, her heart jumping in response. She continues her fumbling, trying not to let her nerves show—after all, there's a hankering inside her she thinks dangerously close to attraction, and it fuels a desire she's spent years trying to suppress. For what is the use of lust without reciprocation, or even a person to divvy her needs onto? Still, there's no saying any of her wants might be mutual, and she finds herself daring another glance at her companion, wondering if she alone's alone in what she feels. His features betray not a single answer, but there's a luster in his gaze she could easily mistake for admiration, and she supposes, for now, that's enough for her.