"Send me to Suna!"
A pause. "No." Resolute.
She balls her fists, slams them on his desk. Growls: "I'm asking you as a friend."
He assesses her, keeps his calm. "And I'm forbidding you, as his friend." Glares, then: "you're not in a right state of mind, Sakura."
"I'll decide for myself wether I'm in a right state or not—and he certainly doesn't need your coddling."
"I won't involve him in what's nothing to do with him."
"It has everything to do with him!"
"Does it?" He narrows his eyes, sends her a pointed look, says to her all she doesn't want to hear.
Her fingers dig into the wood, scowl deep enough to mask her doubt—what else could this pain be about? This divide of her being and vanishing of its scraps.
He releases a sigh, steels his features. "I won't let you go. And know that if you still decide to follow through, you'll be considered a missing nin."
There's ice in her veins, a chatter of her teeth. "Fine," she sneers, clenching her jaw to hide her flaws, quickly turning on her heel.
"I can't have you embarrassing our village, Sakura. You're supposed to be a role-model."
She bites her tongue, ignores his words, knows he has no idea what he's talking about. She slams the door behind her, hardens her resolve; she's done being a sitting duck for the men in her life, and—despite Naruto's warnings—still decides to go.
She's swift through the streets, doesn't care who she passes, knows there's no time for hellos or how've you beens—after all, she's known Naruto for years, and soon there'll be anbu tailing her. If she wants to go, she needs to do so now. She sweeps through her apartment, ignores the unmade bed, avoids the succulent that's sure to remind her of him. There's a cold in her limbs, a frosting in her bones, and if pushed too hard she's certain she'd shatter. Still, she grits her teeth, shoulders her pain—like she's always done—she's a kunoichi after all, and she refuses her heart's weakness. She dons her usual outfit, brings only what's absolutely necessary. Food she rations; there won't be much time to eat, or the hunger for it. When she catches her reflection, she hardly recognises herself in the hollow of her eyes.
The trip itself takes her three days, three entire days—despite her hardly stopping to rest or eat, too paranoid Konoha's ninja might catch up to her. At first it's all good and easy, through thick canopy and shadow-cast forest. The hardest part starts when she enters the desert itself, the sun harsh and unavoidable. Though she's made the trek before, on her own the heat feels more scorching. Stopping won't do her good, she decides, the last of her water quickly poured down her throat, and despite it still left parched. At times she swears she sees him, watching her from the horizon, uncannily at home in this land of grit and bite. She imagines it's the red of his hair, signalling her, leading her further into her self-imposed purgatory. It's evening when she arrives, her skin burnt and blistered, heels worn to the bone. She hardly cares, doesn't indulge the guards' shock when they spot her.
"I'm here to see the Kazekage," she commands, held up by the sheer purpose in her resolve.
"Um," one of them stumbles, eyeing her, "do you have the appro-"
"I'm Haruno Sakura, and I'm here to speak to your Kazekage."
They scramble, splutter to appease her. "Of course, Sakura-sama, excuse us, it's just protocol dema-"
"Protocol can wait," she snaps, crossing her arms, scowling at the both of them.
"Y-yes," they bow, slinking back to allow her entrance, "allow us to escort y-"
"I can find my way." She passes them, balls her fists as she walks, feels her determination flare at the sight of the village. She senses the many eyes trailing her, their whispers a tickle against her skin, a premonition down her spine. She's an outsider here, within the midst people who know more of the life of him than she. There in their stares lies hidden the past of what's been done. Do they think of it still, she wonders, of their leader with a son born to slay? Do they at times lie awake at night in remembrance of his cold-blood—like she does, though not his, somehow never his. She knows what it's like to wake with fear choking your lungs, burning your throat, and she thinks, in some ways, he might too. Closer now, the entrance in plain sight, beckoning her to come, mocking her for the vitreous of her ninja heart, the folly of her bones. Still, she enters, walks the halls without a word.
"Sakura!" A flash of blonde, and she feels a pair of hands warm skin she didn't know was cold.
"I'm here for your brother," she croaks through the gravel of her voice.
Temari frowns, keeps pace with her, searches her for all she knows is on her sleeve. "Kankuro?"
She clenches her eyes, forces a breath. "The other one!"
"Gaara?" She can't help the leap of her pulse, the lurch of her stomach, still pulls through by the skin of her teeth. "A-are you sure? You don't look too good, perhaps you should see a medic first?"
"I am a medic."
"Alright, yes," Temari raises her hands, still trying to get her to slow down, "and I'm sure this is all very important but-"
His door, and she knocks on it, three times for every day spent, then waits for him to answer.
"Sakura, hold on-"
But he opens, eyes wide as they take her in, flicking between his sister and her, asking questions he doesn't say. "Didn't expect to see you so soon," he comments, obviously unnerved.
"She says she's here for you," Temari says, and Sakura doesn't miss the demanding look she sends her brother.
He nods, answers his sister through the narrowing of his eyes, then moves aside, allowing her entry. "Thank you, Temari, you can leave us."
"Okay, but..."
"It's fine," he reassures, though it doesn't appear to convince her.
Sakura steps past him, takes in the perfect state of his office—unlike Naruto's—notices the cacti on his windowsill and fights the smile that threatens. She hears him close the door behind him, and though his presence has pacified some of her anger, she feeds into it still. She faces him, watches those beautiful features, squashes her fondness for them.
She crosses her arms, scowls. "You left without a goodbye, only a note!" There's acid burning her throat, a throb behind her gaze.
Though his eyes widen, he quickly composes himself, smoothing his expression. "You needed the rest."
"I needed more than a fucking note!" she snaps, feeling the poison spread, burning through her veins, blurring her vision.
He tips his head, scrutinises her. "You came here, just to say that?"
It's in her teeth now, bares them to bite back the bile. "I'm sick of being left behind!"
"That's no-"
"You did! Without a goodbye, without a word. You left me! You left. And I-I," she feels herself start to choke, tears blurring her vision, "I don't want to feel like this anymore!"
He stands there, watches her crumble, sees her for the idiot she is, and despite that still moves towards her.
"Don't," she warns, wraps her arms around herself, clenches her eyes shut as she tries to breathe, "don't come closer." She thinks she'll break if he does.
He pauses, his gaze burning into her, exposing her for her shame. "Do I remind you of him?" he then asks.
She stills, chances to meet his gaze, feels her heart wither. "Who?"
"Sasuke."
"No," she's resolute, the answer instant, though her anger crumbles into the hollow of it, "not at all."
"Good." His eyes narrow, and she notices the clenching of his jaw, the cool of his gaze. "He's a coward, Sakura."
"What does he have to do with any of this?" She shakes her head, forces herself to feel anything but the chasm devouring her.
"Apparently everything, else you wouldn't be here."
Cold, rough stone, wet with her tears—he left her. "You don't know what he's been through," she argues, more to herself, to preserve what little faith hasn't shrivelled in its neglect.
There's a hardening of his gaze, a disbelief she doesn't truly think unjust. "He's had plenty of people who cared and still it wasn't enough."
She sucks in a breath, blinks away the truth spilling down her cheeks. "Is that what you think?"
"That's absolutely what I think."
"He lost everyone, he-"
"He had you!" It's the first time she hears him raise his voice, and she shrinks at the impact of it. "You could- should have been enough."
She shakes her head, buries the ache she knows matches his words—it's what's echoed through every of her tear-filled nights, where beds are stone and the moon shows no mercy for what is done.
"You and Naruto, both went to the ends of the world to take him home—your entire village."
"Of course, that's what friends do." That's what love does to keep a heart from breaking, despite it being broken over and over in its fallout.
"What has he ever done to merit such devotion, except throw it right back in your face?" How has he earned your love?
She stands, stunned to silence, skull pounding, tongue tinged with the taste of her denial.
"He left you, over and over. Not I." He does step closer now, close enough she sees the slightest hint of his tender soul, normally so well hidden. "You nearly died trying to drag him back, everyone has." Including me. Her heart seizes at the truth of it, hand shooting to cover her mouth, force back the bile she chokes on. She shakes her head, feels herself shatter beneath his words. And she knows; it's the little things he's broken that remake her. "And now, after everything, he's too much of a coward to properly face those he's hurt."
She swallows her sense, tries still to balance the edge. "He's righting his wrongs."
"He's avoiding you." He's merciless to the point of tipping her, the ugliness of it all staring straight back at her. "There's no need to travel the furthest ends of the world to atone, I know all about that. It's not about helping the unknown, it's about rebuilding what you've destroyed."
She looks up, into the eyes of a man she knows has had to do just that, and sees—contrary to what she's grown used to—there's no darkness there, no lingering grudge. He's chosen the light and somehow it shines for her—for everyone—and in reaching for its glimmer, she feels her feet hit nothing but air. And then, she's falling. "I'm sorry," she chokes, wipes at her face, tries to cover the spilling of her heart, "I'm so, so sorry, I-"
He steps closer, wraps his arms around her, holds her as if she might break to pieces otherwise. "Don't be."
She twists her fingers into the red of his jacket, inhales the scent she's come to expect. "I-I've made such a fool of myself," her voice cracks, "I feel like an idiot."
"You're not."
"I just- I," she breathes a shaky breath, presses closer to his shoulder, feels the void inside her fill, if just a little, "I'm lost inside myself-"
"I know you are."
"-and I'm so sorry for blaming you." She screws her eyes shut, feels the sting of regret as it paralyses her. "I don't want to ruin our friendship."
"You haven't."
She shakes her head, holds onto him with all her might. "You have every right to be angry with me."
She feels his breath caress her ear, sweep down her neck, then he speaks: "I know what it's like to be twisted by grief—I wouldn't want you to be alone in it."
Like he has, she thinks, and it's another part of his life revealed. "Still, you must think I'm crazy—coming all this way to yell at you."
"I don't, but," she can hear the start of a smile in his voice, "let's not make a habit of it."
She laughs despite herself, the lightness of it a stark contrast to the heavy break of all she's known—all she's always believed she wanted. She cries for the girl she once was, the woman she is now, the woman she might have been. He runs a hand along her back, doesn't interrupt her grief, fills her instead with the warmth of his life, the comfort of his pulse in her ear—and in her sorrow there's the relief of him still being. She wants nothing more than to cling, capture this heart within the cradle of her hands and fill her broken chest with it. But she knows it's not for her to take, unwraps herself from his hold and sniffles as she rubs at her burning eyes, sweeps the stains from her cheeks.
"I should go home," she mutters, trying to regain some of her dignity, gaze cast at her feet.
He tilts her head to meet his gaze, uses his other hand to wipe whatever tears still remain. "Stay," he offers, her breath stuck in her throat. "At least until you're rested."
"I-" she pauses, bites her lip, releases a deep breath at the mess she's made. "Okay—you're right." She nods, tucking her hair behind her ear, wrapping an arm around her stomach.
"Do you need a medic?"
She looks up, then at herself, takes in her sunburnt skin. "Oh," she waves a hand, "no, I can take care of it myself."
He nods, turns to his desk. "Hold on," he says, rearranging the papers there, sorting through and creating several piles.
"You don't have to put aside your work for me, it's fine—I'll manage on my own," she quickly offers.
He looks up, studies her, then continues whatever he's doing. "It's no issue," he mumbles, frowning down at a particular note.
"I'd hate to be an inconvenience."
He rubs at his eyes, and she notices how tired he looks again. "You're not." He soon finishes his sorting, running a hand through his already messy hair, gaze scanning his office before turning to her. "Come on," he says, walking past her, opening the door. She obeys in silence, stepping into the hallway, feeling the sting of blisters beneath her heel. She curses at the reminder, sends a pulse of chakra through her system, closing her eyes as she focuses on undoing the damage of her journey. It takes her a minute, and when she reopens her eyes, she catches him staring.
"Told you there was no reason to be jealous," he comments, just like that, starting into a walk.
She follows, smiling to herself, smoothing down her hair, then her shirt, watching him from the corner of her eye. Her anger has melted, and in its place is the weight of her sadness, sinking her heart deeper. But it's familiar, at the very least, and it leaves plenty of room for thought—and thoughts she has plenty. Like how knowing he'd gone was worse, broke her into two and took her other half with him—and now, with him here, she's less a hulk than she's been these past months. She knows it's wrong, reprimands herself for losing her heart in his arms, but what's done is done, and all she has to remind herself of is that he's not him. So, she eases her mind, allows herself to relax, accept his kindness. She has no idea where they'll go from here, but at least being left behind isn't a part of it—not this time.
"Well," Temari's voice reaches her, "you look a lot better."
Her eyes lock onto the blonde, leaning against a wall, arms crossed. She feels her face heat, runs a hand down her cheek.
"She'll be staying with us," Gaara announces, not slowing his walk.
Temari hums in approval, pushing off the wall with a smirk, falling into step with them. "If that means you'll leave your office."
He doesn't reply, though he does frown.
"I already told him I don't mean to impose," Sakura quickly adds, eyes shooting between the siblings.
Temari chuckles at that, grinning in her direction. "Impose all you like—anything to get my little brother to socialise."
She smiles, finding it easy to see why Shikamaru likes her so much.
"Temari, you hardly go out yourself."
The blonde splutters, propping her hands on her hips. "That's because someone has to take care of you!"
He frowns, opening the door, allowing them to exit the building. "I'm not a child."
"No, you're a spoilt brat." She sticks out her tongue, then winks in Sakura's direction. "So how long will you be staying?"
She's taken aback by the shift of attention, swallows as she grapples for an answer. "Actually..."
"You can stay as long as you like," Gaara says, as if he doesn't have to upend his entire schedule to fit her reckless decision.
"Oh, I can take you to our spa," Temari lays a hand on her shoulder, squeezing her, and she's surprised by her familiarity, "have some girl-time!"
She smiles, meeting the blonde's gaze. "That sounds lovely, I'd like that."
"We can talk about hair, and boys, and periods—I've always wanted to do that."
Gaara sends his sister a disturbed look, causing Sakura to burst out laughing, grabbing his arm as she grins up at him. "Don't worry Gaara, we can talk boys and periods too if you want."
Temari snorts, covering her mouth with the back of her hand, eyeing her brother as he blinks, then smooths his expression.
"Sure," he says, closing his eyes, "if that means I'll understand Temari's mood swings."
"You're one to talk!" The blonde narrows her eyes. "I remember two weeks ago you left Kanku-"
"Have you eaten anything, Sakura?" He meets her gaze, and the way her heart thuds reminds her she's still holding him.
"No, actually," she admits, suddenly aware of the pangs in her stomach.
"Then let's get you something," he says, ignoring his sister's miffed expression.
They pass through busy streets, only now brought to the eye with the douse of her temper. She watches people interact, laugh at an inside joke, sneak glances at their leader—it's peace and it's amiable, and somehow she feels right at home between these happy faces. They take her to a food stand, order what they promise is the best in Suna; the scent alone is promise enough. She helps carry their bags, happy to give her hands something to do, and soon they reach their destination. It's large and slightly daunting, looming over her in its grandeur. They go through the door and up the steps, and her first impression is of how empty every room appears—unlike the home of her parents, where knickknacks litter the area—there's hardly anything personal here.
That is, until they enter a small sitting room. Here, she can see the house is actually lived in, cluttered by scrolls, puppet parts and even photographs. At the far side, Kankuro lounges on a couch, startled by their entrance, hair tousled by sleep—she can see it's a family thing.
"Oh, hey guys," he slurs as he rights himself, face-paint smudged on one side. Then, eyes locking onto her, he freezes. "Oh! Sakura-san." He quickly smooths down his clothing, sends her an apologetic grin. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"We can see that." Temari raises a brow, moves to clear a nearby table. "Help me with the dishes, would you?"
He shoots up, saluting her with a 'yes captain' before heading to another room. Sakura smiles at the interaction, placing her bags on the table, allowing her eyes to wander. It's cosy here, within these walls of beige, charming in its unpolished state; traces of life lingering in every corner. Her eyes find the photographs again, a smile curving her lips at a picture of the three of them. There's many more, of Temari and Kankuro, red-cheeked and mischievous as children. Also of a woman, who bears a striking resemblance to the eldest sibling, and who she assumes is their mother—it's strange, seeing her face, and though she hasn't been told explicitly, she thinks it's safe to assume she's long passed. She's been wondering what Gaara meant, but, looking at her picture, she thinks she knows—she's certain she's felt that smile, met those eyes, as if lingering in the air around him.
She helps unpack the food, smiles as she watches Kankuro stumble—probably still dizzy from sleep—then Temari's exasperated frown, shaking her head as she follows behind. She's offered a seat, and she feels her smile widen when Gaara joins, sitting down next to her as he passes them their drinks. Watching them all, she enjoys the normalcy of it, feeling lucky to get to join their little family, if only for a night. She sneaks glances as they serve the food, admires him in silence, through batted lashes and easy smiles. Her heart tells her things her mind doesn't wish to know, yet does, fills her with the idea that this is what coming home must feel like.
"So what brings you here, Sakura-san?" Kankuro asks through a mouthful of food, jolting her from her thoughts.
"Don't be a pig," Temari scolds him, slapping his arm, chopsticks in hand.
"Well..." she starts, unsure what to tell them, certain sharing her meltdown won't do her any favours.
"I forgot something," Gaara cuts in, allowing her to breathe a little easier.
"Must have been important," Temari notes, eyes flicking between the both of them.
"Indeed." Gaara meets her stare, both refusing to break eye-contact.
"That's what you get for going to Konoha without us," Kankuro points out, "you see, Temari never forgets a thing—especially when it invo-"
"What, and have you piss off yet another girl, like last time?"
"Hey now, that was all a misunderstanding!"
"You invited her to our hotel!"
"Gaara wasn't using the bed anyway."
"You're such a pig, Kankuro!"
"Nothing happened, so what's the big deal?"
"You're setting a horrible example."
"To whom?"
"Your little brother!"
"I'm not a child."
"Well you better not follow Kankuro's example." Her eyes dart between the both of them again, and Sakura has a feeling she's coming to her own conclusions.
"Come on now, Tem," Kankuro tries to placate her, "Gaara's not like that, right Sakura-san?"
"W-what?" she splutters, nearly choking on her food, feeling her cheeks heat.
"Yet!" Temari points an accusatory chopstick at the puppet master. "But you're going to have to take responsibility once I'm gone."
Kankuro sends her a sour look. "He's old enough to make his own decisions—he's Kazekage."
"Kazekage or not, you'll be the eldest so it's your job to look after him."
Sakura turns to Gaara, finds him looking at her, elbow propped on the table and chin resting against his hand. He sends her an apologetic smile, though there's humour in it too, and she chuckles in response. He doesn't seem bothered by his siblings' bickering, instead appears to think them rather amusing—and that's when Sakura understands, that through Temari's stern accusations and authoritarian attitude, there's a deep love for her brothers, and, in light of what is to come, a genuine fear of leaving them behind.
The guest room is nice, more than enough to suit her needs, yet...
"You haven't slept, have you?" She turns to Gaara, crossing her arms to hide the thrumming of her heart.
He meets her gaze, leans against the doorpost, catches the light in a way that has her breathless. "No."
She raises her chin, simulates confidence. "Why?"
He mirrors her pose, studies her features, then averts his gaze. "I didn't like the idea of sleeping alone."
She takes a step towards him, lays a hand on his, and musters her courage. "Then let's go to your room."
He looks to where she touches him, appears to falter as he turns his hand in her hold, brow tensing before finally nodding. "Okay."
"Okay," she repeats, smiling, trying not to let her relief show. He leads, takes her further down the hall, past more doors and around several corners. It's a surprisingly far walk, and she wonders if they all sleep in this part—but the absence of sound has her suspect they don't, makes her think perhaps they dreaded the idea of their brother ever sleeping. She knows it's a reasonable fear; he's told her enough to justify such. Still, it has her wondering why—after Shukaku's extraction—he hasn't moved. They reach another door, and her pulse quickens when he moves to open it, a mixture of excitement and curiosity coursing through her. He gestures for her to enter first, holds it as he waits. She doesn't need much convincing, steps inside without hesitation, feels her breath stop at what she sees.
It's small, smaller than she'd expected in a house this large, for a man with his status—then again, he's a notorious insomniac, so having a large room wouldn't fit him either. The size, however, isn't what gives her pause. Instead it's the abundance of plants, coupled with their scent; creosote the most familiar of all. It's like stepping inside him, as if he clings to the very air, embraces her with every breath. She turns to him, smiles, feels closer than ever before, and revels in the sensation.
"I love it," she says, takes another excited look around, marvels at the variety of life, shades of green, and thinks she could spend days just appreciating all he's cultivated. He watches her with a smile, the red of him strangely at home in this ocean of green, colouring beautifully against the leafy backdrop—like a flower, she thinks, like her.
"It gives me something to do," he says, eyes darting across the room, and she can tell there are thoughts there, memories perhaps.
She looks at the bed, bathed in moonlight, its sheets perfectly straight and its pillow showing not a single sign of wear. Then remembers she packed light—too light. "I didn't bring any extra clothes," she admits, biting her lip, shifting her weight.
He chuckles, surprising her. "You must have been in a hurry," he teases, and she feels her face heat at the truth of it. He moves past her, opens a drawer, picks several items and offers them to her. "I could also ask Temari, if you'd prefer."
"No!" She's quick to accept the bundle, not keen on having to explain anything to the blonde. "This is perfect, thank you."
He nods, points to a door she hadn't noticed. "Bathroom's over there."
They both get ready, and Sakura relishes the feel of his clothes against her skin, appreciates their clean scent and large fit. She likes the novelty of it, the feeling of being someone close to him. She climbs onto his bed, admires the view from the many windows, watches him return with bated breath. He switches off the lights, leaves them in the glow of the moon, enveloping all in rays of silver. She smiles as he joins her, feels the pitter-patter of her heart at his touch, warming parts of her invisible to the eye. They melt straight into comfort—as if it's something they've had years to master, instead of new to them both. Thinks if life could stay like this she'd be happy living it. But there are ghosts in her closet she knows need airing out, and so, she takes a breath, rests her head on his shoulder.
"Do you think me foolish, loving someone who doesn't want me to?"
She can hear the beat of his heart, the air in his lungs. He runs a finger through her hair, brushes it from her face. "No," he says, his voice a rumble in her ear. "Sometimes it's those who don't want it who need it the most."
She doesn't think it's love, not anymore, but how could she find the means to explain? How could she bring into words the obligation it's become, the growing expectation she'll be there? It's years of fighting, sacrificing and risking lives that feel justified only by her love—so what's left once she decides it's not what she wanted? Does she owe Sasuke, or Naruto for that matter, anything?
"What if I don't want it, either?" She turns to look up at him, tries to see into his eyes. "What if I'm just too afraid of breaking the mould of who I've always been?"
He meets her gaze, frowns, then looks away. "You're always allowed to grow from who you've been, and anyone opposed doesn't love you as much as they love the idea of you."
It's on the tip of her tongue now, close to dropping off if she isn't careful—but she reins it in before it has the chance, instead opts for her other problem. "I might be in trouble when I go back home," she admits, feeling the weight of it return, "Naruto forbade me to go."
This surprises him, she can tell, and he searches her for answers. "Why?"
She takes a deep breath, traces a finger along the fabric of his shirt. "He thinks I'll end up hurting you."
His frown deepens, creating creases she wishes she could smooth away. "It's nice of him to consider my feelings, but it's neither his responsibility nor place." He pauses, then: "I'll contact him tomorrow—tell him you'll get to decide what you want to do next."
It's liberating, lifts whatever worries remained, and in its relief she dares admit what she wouldn't otherwise. "I don't want to go."
"Then stay," he's sincere in his suggestion, "I…" he pauses, and she hears the heavy throb of his heart, feels it beneath her palm. "I'd like you to."
She smiles, pulls herself a little closer, nestles into the safety of him. "Then I'll stay," she whispers, closes her eyes, listens to the flutter of his pulse, and embraces whoever she'll become after tonight.