A cooling breeze caresses her skin, turns the sun's glare into a soothing warmth, evaporating the remaining water from her figure. There's a tree she suggests they pause under, her shirt thrown across one of its branches in hopes of it drying. They sit shoulder to shoulder, the lake before them sparkling beneath the afternoon glow. She smiles despite herself, raising her legs to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, fingers curling against her skin. There's peace in the rustle of leaves, the smell of wet earth and fresh grass—but also in the presence of her companion, the scent of him now draped across her shoulders, lingering on his shirt.
"Sorry you have to walk around half-naked." She turns toward him, watching as his fingers trail through the sand, his gaze following the motions.
"It's fine." Her eyes travel him, comparing his skin-tone to her own, wondering who might be paler.
"Oh!" She sits a little straighter, hand shooting to her pocket. "I've brought sunscreen if you need any."
He meets her gaze, limb halting its movement. "No thanks," he shakes his head, then closes his eyes. She watches as fine particles of dust float through the air, drawn to his skin and assembling into an invisible layer. She leans a little closer, squinting as she tries to find any trace. Curiously, she runs a finger down his arm, surprised not to feel a single grain.
"It's like it's not even there," she notes, mesmerised.
"That's because it's minerals, they're lighter and smaller than sand."
Her lips part, mouth shaped like an 'o', large eyes noticing the slight sheen when he moves. "Is that why you're so soft?"
His eyes bulge, darting in several directions before returning to her face, frowning. "What?"
"Your skin," she chuckles, "it's the softest I've ever felt!" He continues his staring, deepening frown drawing creases—as if wondering whether that's a bad thing. "Could you do me too?" she quickly adds, hoping to appease him.
His face goes red again. "I-I really shouldn't," he stammers, giving her pause.
She leans back, considering his reaction, her hand twisting into the grass. "You don't feel through the sand, do you?"
He turns even redder. "No," he admits, "only when I move it."
She feels her smile deepen at his demeanour, a warmth blooming in her chest. "Alright," she compromises, nudging him with her shoulder, "just my face then—if you're fine with that."
His gaze darts between the ground and her, one of his hands rubbing at his cheek, wrapping around the back of his neck. "Okay," he concedes, taking a small breath. Again there's a fine trail of dust in the air, and looking closer she notices its glimmer, carrying a slightly greyish tone. Its hardly noticeable as it moulds against her skin, though it does appear to have a cooling effect. She closes her eyes, enjoys the featherlight caress of him, thinks she could almost imagine it being his hands instead, dusting across her every feature. It's intimate in a way she hadn't expected, yet can't bring herself to rebuke for enjoying. Too soon it's over, her eyes fluttering open to meet his, releasing a contented sigh. She smiles, biting her lip, feeling more seen than she ever has, and doubtful she'd mind him knowing every angle of her.
"You can do the most amazing things, Gaara," she grins, fingers touching her cheek, recognising the same softness she's felt on his.
"You think so?"
She's surprised by his own reluctance, his gaze following the lake's current. "Absolutely. I'm jealous."
"Don't be." He looks her in the eye, expression unreadable.
She parts her lips, yet isn't sure what to say. She watches as he leans forward, pressing his hands to the ground, and she wonders what for. "Why not?" she finally asks, studying his features.
"You have too many talents to be jealous of anyone else's," he says, so casually she has to wonder if he has any idea how much the words mean to her—how relieving it is to hear someone like him say them. His eyes shoot to the ground then, and there's a slight smile on his lips.
"What are you doing?"
He doesn't answer, instead meets her gaze expectantly, waiting it seems...
"Gaara!" she gasps, a hand shooting to cover her mouth, eyes darting every which way; it's everywhere, glimmers in the atmosphere, refracts the sun into airborne stars. It surrounds him like a glittering mist, casts tiny dots of light across his features. "Is that gold?" She can hardly believe what she sees as a stream of it collects in the palm of his hand. His eyes crinkle, but he makes no move to reply, instead closes his fingers around the valuable minerals. She leans closer, tries to peer through his hold, but he keeps whatever he's doing well-hidden. Then, after what feels like an eternity influenced by a racing heart and dry mouth, his fingers open up, revealing within their grasp a detailed cherry blossom. Wordlessly, he offers it, raises the beautiful sculpture for her to take. She shakes her head, unable to rhyme within her mind the possibility of him gifting her such a precious thing. But he does, and her heart soars a little higher for it.
"I could kiss you right now," she mutters as she accepts the crafted treasure, blinking away the elation fogging her eyes.
"Please don't," he says, and she looks up in surprise, a weight on her chest—takes in the bright shade of red colouring his skin, the surprised widening of his gaze. Has he ever been kissed? The thought comes unexpectedly, lingers, and she thinks she knows the answer by the shy dart of his eyes, uneasy fumble of his fingers. "There'll be sand."
She laughs, sends him an affectionate grin, then leans in, innocently pecks him on the cheek—a simple gift she offers in return. He's warm beneath her lips, leaves a lingering buzz when she retreats, the ghost of him remaining as if to remind her of the weight of her actions—no sand though. "There," she says, sitting back, "that wasn't too bad, was it?"
Though there remains a subtle dusting of pink on his cheeks, he appears relatively calm. "You're ruining me."
"And you me!" she rebuts with a snort. "You can't go around giving gold to girls—especially not shirtless."
He props his elbow against his knee, resting his cheek against his knuckles, raising his brows. "Why not?"
"Because-" she starts, but pauses, smile faltering. Because what? Because she can't deny the obvious pull of attraction he evokes? Or, maybe, because she knows this tiny blossom to be the most precious thing she's ever received? She looks away, suddenly out of air, her gaze returning to the sculpture in her hand. She clears her throat, musters another smile. "I had no idea you could do that."
He remains silent for a little while longer, before his voice punctuates the air with its baritone presence. "I save it for surprise attacks."
She nods, squinting at his handiwork, admiring its detail. "Still, I've never seen you use it."
"I don't like to," he admits then.
She looks up, frowns, searches his gaze for something she knows won't be so easily found. "Why?"
He averts his eyes, returns to trailing the earth beneath. "It's inherited."
"A bloodline limit?"
He nods. "Magnet release."
She's heard of the ability, remembers reading about it somewhere. "The signature technique of the Yondaime Kazekage," she muses aloud, brought to wonder why his father should evoke such aversion. Then, remembering Chiyo: "he ordered the sealing of Shukaku."
He doesn't look up at the observation. "I've forgiven him for the choices he's made. As a child, I wasn't always able to recognise him prioritising the well-being of the village above all. As a Kage, I've come to understand his cause much better."
There's a bitterness on her tongue, a weight deepening her frown. "Condemning a child to a lifetime of alienation has nothing to do with prioritising the village," she snaps, "as a father his love for you should have weighed stronger—as a father, he should have found another way."
He blinks, closes his eyes, then sighs. "It's easy for us to reject outdated customs and beliefs with the advantages of hindsight."
She knows he's right, knows she used to be no better than those she now criticises, still she's unable to acquiesce the idea of ever making such a decision herself. "Could be," she concedes, raising her chin, "still there's no fault in acknowledging his failure as a father, or that you deserved better than the scars he's left."
Despite the ugly truth of it all, there's a smile dawning on his lips, his gaze meeting hers. "I'd hope so."
The day's coming to a close, despite her wishing her hardest for it not to be so. She insists he joins her at her favourite restaurant, maintaining it's far better than Ichiraku despite what Naruto might have claimed. He agrees, and though she'd previously felt relieved at this not being a date, part of her can't help but wish it was. The golden petals of her cherry blossom cool her skin, dangling elegantly from her neck, resting against the beat of her heart like the touch of his fingers once. She's back in her own shirt and he in his, long since dried by the sun—though she misses the scent of him against her, especially since he'll be gone tomorrow. She braces herself for the truth, convinced they'll see each other again, sometime, surely. In three days time, she's come to care deeply for her redheaded friend who she's only regarded as such for two.
In the depths of his eye, she at times catches a similar fondness she's sure wasn't there before, and the thought of it helps thaw the neglected part of her that's long since lost its ardor. And in its fuelling, she fires question after question, unable to quench her thirst for all that is him. What's his favourite food? Where does he like to go? What's his favourite colour—and more importantly, what does he like to do? Not even the serving of their meal can bring a halt to her barrage, her smile unending as she listens to his life. Then, she's reminded of something she should have asked sooner, forgotten in between her own exhaustion and their ever-changing plans.
"Your sand," she starts between bites, "It moved without your chakra."
He considers the question, frowns. "I kind of forgot," he admits, then picks up his knife, turns it in his hold.
She eyes the gesture, thrown off by the certainty of it. "Wait," she leans forward, gaze darting between the object and his calm expression, "what are you doing?"
He looks up, utterly serious. "Demonstrating."
She doesn't understand at first, not until she watches him stab at his wrist. "Oh god!" She flies forward, tries to stop him, but finds a layer of sand between the knife and his skin, shielding him from it.
"It moves beyond my control," he explains, more matter-of-factly than the situation should merit; considering he nearly chopped off his wrist.
She breathes, hand still wrapped around his limb, heart thundering, when she feels the sand start to slither across her own. When she looks down, she notices it's locked them together, their limbs joined by curling tendrils. This time it's Gaara who seems taken aback, all colour drained from his face, attempting to pull away but unable to.
"I'm sorry," he splutters, "it's not-"
"Forehead!"
"Oh god," Sakura slaps her remaining hand across her mouth, eyes darting towards the noise, spotting her childhood friend, waving animatedly. Beside her is Sai, who sends Sakura one of his trademark smiles. "Hey, Ino," she replies, raising a reluctant hand in greeting, hoping they'll move along. They don't, instead pushing an extra table against theirs.
Ino sits down next to her, lounging in her chair as she bumps Sakura's shoulder. "You didn't tell me you were close to the Kazekage!"
She releases a nervous laugh, hoping said Kage doesn't feel the jitter of her pulse through her palm. "Actually we-"
"Woah, where'd you get this?" The blonde leans closer, fingers wrapping around the blossom of gold, eyes wide as she admires it.
"Gaara made it for me."
"You guys!" Ino fawns, starry-eyed as she glances between them. "That's so romantic."
"No, no," Sakura quickly raises her hands, shaking her head, "it's not like that, we're just-"
"Right," Ino winks, and Sakura knows there's no arguing with her now, "I too hold hands over dinner with my friends."
"You do?" Sai asks.
"No darling, I'm being sarcastic," she smiles sweetly, tipping her head.
"Well, no, you see we-" She glances at their hands, only to find the sand has gone. She looks at Gaara, seeing he's noticed as well, gazes locking. She isn't sure what to do, whether she should pull back, or remain; either way, she doesn't want him to think she's ashamed—because she's not, but giving her friends the wrong idea won't do him any good. She decides on a reassuring squeeze, offering an apologetic smile as her fingers slide across his skin, releasing him.
"I'm happy for you, Ugly. It's about time you moved on."
Is that what her friends truly think? What they tell each other when she's not around? There's ice in her veins as she sits a little straighter, lips parting to speak when suddenly: "did he just call you ugly?"
Her gaze meets with Gaara's, who looks genuinely affronted. She shakes her head, rubbing her temple as she shrugs. "It's a nickname he once gave me, it's fine."
Still his eyes narrow, locking onto Sai who continues to smile. "Don't call her that." Something shifts in the air, a heaviness draping over them like a coming storm, and she realises it's a sensation she's felt before.
"He doesn't mean anything by it," she quickly placates, ignoring the part of her that delights in Gaara's support—she's protested the name a million times, "it's an old joke."
"It's not very funny," he remarks, crossing his arms, exuding every bit of authority despite their casual setting.
Sai regards the redhead with interest. "What would you suggest I call her, Kazekage-sama?"
Gaara's eyes turn to slits. "Her name."
"Touché." The other man's smile returns.
Ino takes his hand, sending Sakura an approving grin that's far too mischievous to mean anything good. "He's right darling, I think you should apologise."
Sai nods, turning to the other occupants of the table. "I'm sorry, Sakura-san, Kazekage-sama. Consider the nickname discarded."
"It was a lousy name anyway, hardly fitting," Ino starts, eyes gleaming, and Sakura's mouth runs dry at the sight of it, "after all, Sakura's a beautiful girl, isn't she?" Her smirk turns to Gaara, who's composure deflates, leaving nothing of the intimidating presence he previously possessed.
He glances Sakura's way, a frown between his brows, then back to Ino, expression frustratingly neutral. Sakura runs a hand across her face, resists the urge to groan at her friend's nerve—Gaara can be painfully honest, and the last thing her ego needs is- "She is." She perks up, cheeks flushing, eyes searching his—but there's not a hint of malice or deceit. "The most beautiful I know." His gaze sharpens as it turns to Sai, then to Ino. She isn't sure what to do, fingers curled around the sculpture, feeling the throb of her heart through her skin, an excited thrill coursing through her veins. There's a smile dawning on her lips, a warmth settling over her, melting away her worries.
"That's quite the compliment, isn't it, Sakura?" Ino nudges her, batting her lashes. "Coming from a handsome man."
Sakura's smile deepens, heart leaping at the reddening of Gaara's features, endeared by his self-conscious nature. "Indeed," she grins, "the most handsome I know." And she means it, no ifs ands or buts—there's no competing with the brilliant jade of his eyes, or the sincere warmth of his smile. "Though I've never seen anyone with as bad a case of bedhead," she teases, eyes crinkling.
It earns her a chuckle, the tension draining from his posture. "At least I have hair."
There's laughter bubbling in her chest, the mental picture of his dream brought to mind, ridiculous enough to reduce her to giggles. An arm wraps around her shoulders, and she knows it belongs to Ino, her friend pulling her into an embrace.
"Don't let this one go, forehead," she whispers into her ear, "it's good seeing you happy." There's an audible smile in Ino's voice, her hand rubbing Sakura's arm affectionately, and suddenly she realises her friend was there for her all along; she just never gave the blonde a chance, too holed up behind her own walls. "And you'll have to tell me all about how you know about the Kazekage's bedhead."
She snorts at that, pulling back to look the blonde in the eye. "Trust me, it's not as exciting a story as it seems."
Ino tips her head, smile deepening. "Yet," she teases, giving Sakura's shoulder a squeeze before releasing her. The promise of it has her skin buzzing, cheeks flushing at the idea. "Darling, it's about time we leave these two alone," Ino announces, standing from her place. "I'm sure they'll visit us sometime, right?" She sends Sakura a pointed look, to which she quickly nods, earning a pleased smile from the blonde.
"You're a funny man, Kazekage-sama, you'll have to teach me sometime."
Gaara frowns. "I'm really not."
Sakura snorts at his deadpan, biting her lip as she grins.
Sai eyes the both of them curiously. "I see," he says, rubbing his chin, "very subtle. I look forward to seeing you again." He bows to the both of them, wrapping an arm around his girlfriend.
"Bye!" Ino calls, turning away, waving. "Have fun you guys." She winks suggestively, bringing Sakura's face to heat.
She smiles as they leave, trying to ignore the response of her body, crossing her legs as she dares a look at her companion. He's staring straight at her, eyes studying her curiously. He props his elbow on the table, rests his chin against his palm, and she can tell there's a lot on his mind. She feels her pulse start to calm, the silence allowing her to contemplate. She mirrors his position, returns his studious gaze, wonders what secrets might lie beyond those pale eyes. There's words echoing at the back of mind, but to her relief their tone's nothing like Naruto's reproach—no, this time it's Ino, reminding her that, yes, she's happy.
She wakes him before the nightmares start, sends a healing flow of chakra through his mind, eases any tension she finds there. It's the final time she gets to do this, and she hopes it's enough to break the cycle. His eyes flutter open, illuminated by the green glow of her healing. They find her, watch her curiously. She smiles down on him, and though it isn't strictly necessary, heals what she can of the other damage she finds in his mind, most likely left by Shukaku. When she's done, he looks peaceful, gaze heavy-lidded with sleep. She brushes his hair to the side, fingers darting along his forehead, soaking up the cool of his skin.
"Thank you," he croaks, and she can tell he's fighting sleep.
Her smile warms. "You'll have to do without me now." She wishes she didn't, wishes he'd stay.
He's silent, though by the light of moon she swears there's a similiar thought in his eyes. She scoots closer, and he allows her, moves to accommodate her presence. The bed creaks beneath her weight, the blankets rustling as she slips beneath, until the only thing to break the silence is the sound of their breath. He watches her still, gaze roaming her features in the dark. She feels a little breathless, a little bold, and he makes no move to stop her when she rests her cheek on his shoulder, hand spread across his chest, feeling every rise and fall. He surprises her when he snakes his arm around her, cradling her in his embrace. It's warm and welcoming, and she marvels at the beat of his heart beneath her palm, the press of his skin against her own.
"It's my mother," he says then, his voice a deep rumble in her ear, "she's in the sand."
She feels a smile pull at her lips, an excited flutter in her chest, humming through her limbs. "I'm glad she likes me."
Though she can't see his face, she can sense his answering smile, his own pulse a heavy throb. "It's hard not to."
She grins at the words, burrows a little closer as she closes her eyes, thinking to herself Gaara is Gaara, and somehow—after only a few days of getting to know what that means—she can't imagine a future without him near.