"You have to promise," she giggles, teasingly pulls his arm.
He staggers in surprise, sends her an amused smirk, nightfall casting him in shadows. "Alright, I promise," he says, increasing the distance between them, nearly causing her to lose her footing.
"Promise what?" She tugs him closer, uses his hand for support, balancing herself atop the thin wall she walks, her path illuminated by a distant lantern.
He raises his gaze to meet hers, watches her indulge her childish whim, a perpetual smile on his lips. "I promise, when we visit your parents again, I won't laugh at your baby pictures."
"Pinky promise?" It's a full moon, a gentle wind carrying leaves through the air, more skirting along the streets with a gentle rustle.
"Pinky?" He frowns, momentarily halts his walk. "Is that supposed to be a promise between pink-haired people?"
She's forced to stop too, hand still tightly clasped around his. "No!" She laughs, raises a brow. "You know, a pinky promise." She shows him her other hand, holds out her little finger.
His frown deepens as he observes the digit, then says: "I don't follow."
It's a cloudless night, a darkened sky revealing countless stars. "You never pinkie promised as a kid?" she asks, resuming her balancing act, forcing him to follow.
He shakes his head, gazes off into the distance. "No."
She reaches the end of the wall, hops off in front of him, curiously looks him in the eye. "You never saw other kids do a pinky promise?"
He mulls it over, remains silent for a beat, a far-off look possessing his features. "I wasn't allowed too close." It's an answer he's given her once before, and he states it so easily, so matter-of-factly, she'd almost accept it as self-evident—but it's not; not even close.
"You never played with other kids?" She watches his expression, expects to catch an inkling of change, yet finds none. "Not even your siblings?" Just like their night out, she's reminded of what she'd witnessed, the details he'd let slip. She'd assumed he'd been treated differently when still very young, more sympathetically. Surely no one could consciously ostracise an infant? But she's well-aware of the harsh truth debunking such naivety, their current Hokage spared no scorn, and suddenly the notion seems rather far-fetched.
"No," he says again.
She considers him, takes a step closer, aware of the ease with which she enters his personal space. He sends her an inquiring look, watches her raise her hand and offer her little finger. "Now you wrap yours around mine." She takes his, shapes it into position, folding and outstretching digits, then curls it around hers. "Like that," she smiles, ignoring the ever-present static she feels touching him, raising the hairs on her arms, "now you've pinky promised."
He examines their hands, an intrigued flicker in his eyes, returns her smile with one of his own; graceful in its cordiality. "Thank you."
"No need," she says, quickly resumes their walk, feels herself flush. Her pinky remains locked around his, leading him along, and she uses her free hand to push her hair behind her ear. She considers him a moment, curiosity freshly awakened, burning from the inside of her. She hardly knows anything of his past, the kind of life he'd led. Again, she's reminded of earlier musings—his violence incongruous with the earnest gentleness he displays—and thinks of how there's still so much she yearns to know, questions on the tip of her tongue. "So what did you do? When you were a child I mean." It's out before she can stop it, and she feels herself tense in the wake of her words, hopes he won't mind her prodding.
"Not much, I suppose," he admits, raising more questions than she'd like, furthering her resolve.
"Not much is hardly an answer," she teases, careful to observe his every reaction, fearing he might grow annoyed, "there has to be more than that."
He hesitates, tension seeping into his posture, eyes clouding over with thought—there's memories there, nearly close enough for her to grasp, visions she can tell won't make either of them happy. She almost regrets asking, the last thing she wants—especially after only just being reunited—would be to reawaken past hurts. She's about to assure him he doesn't have to say anything, that it's fine if he doesn't want to open up to her, when he speaks again: "When I was really young my father used to train me, and if I wasn't training I'd be in the house with my uncle, either studying or playing by myself." He stares at their feet as he speaks, and she can tell—though strained and unaccustomed to such outspokenness—he's wilfully entertaining her inquiries. "Then, as I got older, I'd be allowed outside—or more like, they couldn't contain me anymore. A few times I did watch other children, but they were all so afraid..." he frowns now, "of me." There's a lot he doesn't say, and in its absence she can sense the years of isolation; a weighty presence needing no narration. "Then the assassinations started and my father..."
He pauses, and she's unable to hold her tongue, sends him a disbelieving grimace. "Hold on, the assassinations? They had you assassinate people as a child?" She feels the shock as it seizes her, cannot believe anyone could drive a child to such chilling deeds, strip it of its innocence—she's used to the shinobi world's cruel practices, but somehow always hoped children—especially after the first war—would be protected, at least to some extent.
"No, no, I was to be assassinated," he corrects, and she freezes, feet refusing to take another step, gaze unable to leave his cool features. He halts too, stares off into the distance, continues talking in a voice much too steady to match the horrification rattling her bones. "My father considered me a failed experiment. Whenever I'd fall asleep or lose consciousness, Shukaku would rampage and murder as many as he could. I was unstable, so he decided he'd put me to the test, and if I failed I had to die."
There it is, spilling into her in all its twisted grandeur; the shadows she's seen all these months—no, years—illuminated and bared for her to digest. Part of her thinks it's what she wanted, isn't it? To touch upon these broken pieces she's always felt just beneath the surface. Yet another part regrets breaking their peace, and she almost doesn't dare ask, apprehension closing her throat, hands growing cold. She wraps them around his, searches for warmth, reassures herself through the wholeness of him; the unbroken and unaffected. She knows she has to be brave now, perfectly understands these aren't her woes to suffer. "How old were you?"
He meets her gaze, a nearby lantern alighting his features, adding an ethereal glow to those dark-rimmed eyes, those mirrors to memory. "Six."
When Sakura was six, her biggest worry had been her appearance, namely her forehead. A few comments had affected her enough to try and hide it, only feeding into the bullies' amusement, fuelling their torment. She'd felt like the loneliest thing in the world, as if her appearance divided her from others—as if she would forever be less then. And despite knowing perfectly well what it felt like to be excluded, she did everything she could to shun Naruto. Looking back, she understands it was fear driving her; fear of once more being an outsider, a freak by association.
"He ordered my uncle to conceal his identity and attack me." She doesn't have to ask to know, to figure he's talking about the same uncle as all those weeks ago, and she shudders to find out what's become of this person she'll likely never meet. "Defending myself I injured him, only to discover who he was after the fact. As he lay dying he revealed it'd been my father who'd ordered him, and that he'd been happy to oblige. He said he as well as my mother had never loved me, that—despite his feigning compassion—he'd always despised me for killing her."
Within her mind, the final dots are connecting, painting in full the picture of a prodigious family torn apart by ambition, loss, and finally scorn. She sees, for the first time, the sheer misery behind his crimes, the fettering wounds she'd never been able to notice nor understand. Bereaved of all that makes one human, of crooning comfort and basic decency—instead tossed and rejected and despised. He'd had to have been a gentle child, a sensitive little thing, yearning for love and acceptance—like any would. What would anyone become in the face of such hostility? What other options did he have, born into such a world and cursed to share a mind with vengeance and violence reincarnate?
"I had never gotten hurt, yet still I'd felt this unrelenting pain; wounds my uncle once told me could only be healed through love. That night, for the first time, I succeeded in wounding myself. I'd realised I could never be loved by another, that my existence would only prove meaningful through loving myself enough to continue on regardless…"
Her eyes are drawn to the etched symbol she's studied so many a time, its lines more jagged, more desperate than ever; finally revealing to her the intentions written in its uneven edges. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be." He actually smiles now, and she has to clench her teeth not to protest, berate him for his lack of ire, an offended flush staining her cheeks. "I'm the happiest I've ever been; you love me, and I love you. It's all the existence I need."
She wants to tell him no; that he's owed so much more, that these wrongs could hardly ever be made right—but realises, though these feelings are fresh to her, he's already spent too many years in resentment, so settles instead on something less embittered. "Still, what they did, what you've gone through—it angers me just thinking about it," she vents, feels herself burn with all the scorn she thinks him worthy.
"Don't be angry for what once was. I'm here now, with you. The past pales in comparison to the present, it's rendered obsolete, nearly forgotten."
Yet it hurts, the ache she feels seizes her throat, her heart, equally vicious and unrelenting in spite of his promises.
"Come," he says, takes off his scarf and wraps it around her shoulders, "you shouldn't stay out in the cold."
There's a prickle in her eye, a dull throb between her ribs, her skin itching with a cruel sting. Even still, he's kind; this precious soul she has the privilege of knowing. She follows his step, holds on just a little tighter, the fabric of his scarf pleasantly warm, the feel of his hand a reassuring comfort. "Thank you for telling me," she says, so softly she almost questions having spoken.
But he regards her still, turns those graceful features upon her. "I'll admit I'd prefer stories about your childhood," he returns, lightening the mood, earning the beginnings of an amiable smile—still, his short recital hangs over her, proves itself a burden she'd be hard pressed not to help him shoulder; if only through the happiness she hopes to dividend between them.
"You'll hear all about it from my parents," she says, resuming their journey home, "I'm sure you'll tire of it rather quickly, they'll drag on and on."
He chuckles, watches her circle around him, leading him as she walks backwards, entirely sure of her path. "I'm certain I'd never tire of it."
"No, really," she insists, raising a brow, "I've always been rather dull."
"I disagree," he rebuts, now circling her, "I've thought you to be remarkable for as long as I've known you."
She bites her lip in an attempt to contain her grin, overjoyed to hear Naruto's words confirmed, continues their rotation, realises it's a bit like dancing. "Why didn't you say something—before, I mean—why didn't you seek my friendship?"
It's silly, she thinks, to be emulating this almost-dance, yet—at the same time—the ease of it helps cleanse the gloom left by earlier words. "I didn't believe you'd have a care for it, and as I've told you, I didn't have the courage—guilt and shame prevented me."
She feels her grin widen, the world continuing to spin for reasons unrelated to their turns. "So you liked me, then? You've always liked me?" They've almost reached her apartment, and she can't help but feel disappointed for their walk to end, despite the surprise she knows awaits them; the moonlit streets a perfect refuge to their little reverie—hidden from the truth of day. Now is the closest she's ever felt to anyone.
"Yes," he says through a lop-sided smile, bordering on a smirk.
She presses on, almost doesn't feel the pavement beneath her feet in her suspended state, light as air in the aftermath of his assent. "And what did you think? When I asked you to dance?"
"I thought I might make a fool of myself—but I also thought you looked the prettiest you ever had in that dress, and I'd be an even bigger fool denying you."
"I'm really glad I did," she says, tightening her grip. "I wish…" she starts, falters, thinking there's too many things she wishes for; wishes she'd noticed him sooner; wishes she'd discovered his smile long ago; wishes she could have stood by him back when hardly anyone did—but those are all in the past, and she already knows what he'd say, so instead resolves to think only of the present. "I wish I were as eloquent as you, so I too could speak of my feelings as if they were poems."
He laughs, and she thinks it the most charming sound in the world. "I'll take the compliment."
They halt as they arrive at her apartment, a giddy thrill running through her, knowing what lies ahead. Unable to contain her excitement, she ignores his questioning look when he notices her grin. Instead she turns to her door, fishes her keys from her pocket, and once unlocked, beckons him to enter first. It's dark inside, but—even without sight—the scent of her surprise envelops them. It's sweet, fills the air with a mixture of aromas indistinguishable from one another. Silently, she closes the door, runs her hand along the wall, eagerly pressing the switch. Instantly, the space around them is bathed in light, revealing a mass of plants and flowers, covering every inch of her apartment and transforming it into a private jungle. Gaara stands frozen amidst it all, lips parted, gaze roaming the lustre around him, an unreadable expression possessing his features.
"I wanted to make you feel more at home," she says, shyly moves to his side, studies the result of her and Ino's hard work.
"This is for me?" he asks, turning to her, gaze wide.
She bites her lip, smiles as she nods, then jokes: "You'll have to help me take care of these, though."
He blinks, takes another long look around the room, the surrounding greenery reflected in those opaline eyes, then rests his gaze on her, stares for a beat, until—lastly—a bright grin spreads across his face, transforming his features into an endearing display of delight. She doesn't think she's ever seen him as openly excited—it's a becoming expression, so much so she feels herself drawn in, captivated by such rare radiance. Her heart beats high in her chest, its pace a thundering rush, sending an infatuated jitter through her veins. Again, she feels that familiar urge; the desire to press her lips to his, capture the taste of his joy, as well as the rush of his efferent soul.
"No one's ever done anything like this..." he manages as her hand wraps around his, the warmth of his palm welcoming her touch. Like him, she too finds herself on unfamiliar territory, these experiences equally new to her. She's overtaken by a new mixture of feelings; their unspoken attraction a magnetising force between them, the realisations he's hers, this creature of the desert itself, permeating her being.
"Do you like it?" she asks, gaze transfixed on his features, finds herself unconsciously leaning in.
"Yes," he immediately replies, grin unwavering, "yes, of course!"
She smiles, feels affection swell within her chest, and infers that—no matter how badly she might want for more—it's a delicate issue, and the last she wants is to overwhelm him. It's a trying urge to resist, and it takes a special kind of control to move away. She immediately directs her focus elsewhere, tries to make it easier. "You must be tired. We can discuss each type of plant tomorrow—there should be a list, actually." She glances around the room, tries to recall where she'd put it, reckons it might be a bit late for a search.
"Sakura." She feels him grasp her hand again, surprises her as he pulls her back to him—what bewilders her further is the sudden feel of his lips against her cheek, a surge of blood rushing to her face, hot and dizzying. "Thank you."
It's just her cheek, she reminds herself, nothing but a simple peck—she sucks in a deep breath, discreetly attempts to steady herself. The rising roar within leaves a heavy throb in her fingertips, hands clammy, fearful of betraying her stirring wants. She swallows, smiles, and nods, mutters an absentminded 'you're welcome' somewhere in between, and—being the recipient—thinks she finally understands why he might have resisted such simple gestures in the past. Blinking, she straightens her back, absentmindedly tucks her hair behind her ear, quickly leads him further inside, mindful not to trip over any plants.
"I set up an extra bed," she starts, showing him her bedroom, "since I wasn't sure wether you'd mind... you know."
"I don't mind."
"Good!" she cuts herself off, averts her eyes, fumbles with her sleeve. "I mean," she tries again, attempts not to sound too eager in fear of putting him off, "I don't mind either, so..."
"Good," he chuckles, earning a gentle shove.
"Go, get settled," she orders with a playful smile, relieved to see him comply. As they busy themselves, Sakura doesn't miss Gaara's tendency for distraction, his gaze often straying to a particular plant or flower, silently studying them before catching her amused looks. It gets to the point where she'll ask whatever species he's observing, and he'll offer an answer, only to realise she's caught him again, to which he'll flush an adorable red. Despite these delays, they're quick to finish, settling with effortless familiarity. It's when they're both facing each other, stretched out across her blankets and illuminated only by the nightlight Sakura keeps, that his words return to her. She knows he wouldn't want her to feel sad for him, knows he's long left his grief behind, yet still she wishes, somehow, to make it better, alleviate sorrows long passed.
"Hey Gaara?" she whispers, aware there's only so much she can offer—assures herself it's more than he'd expect either way.
He hums, eyes closely studying her.
She chews her lip, raises a brow. "You really won't laugh, right?"
It takes him a minute to understand, chuckling as he does. "No, of course not."
"You're already laughing!" she whines, intentionally furthering his amusement. In a bold move, she crawls across his figure, planting a knee on each side of him, bringing him pause.
"What are you-?"
Above all, she knows there's a single, simple thing, which never fails to amuse him. She might not have lived through equal hardships, but there is something she's had her fair share of; the mundane, common ordeals of life, of normalcy and simple experience which he himself has been so wrongly deprived of. Though it shouldn't come as a surprise, Gaara, as it turns out, is extremely ticklish. Before long, she has him reduced to an incoherent fit of laughter, regardless how hard he tries to make her stop. Unfair as it may be, she finds she's much stronger than him, his attempts at pulling her hands from beneath his shirt all resulting in failure. Merciless as she is, she has no qualms making him suffer her little prank, quite enjoying his fruitless struggles. It catches her by surprise, then, when he manages to overthrow her, discovering the familiar scratch of sand against her skin.
"You cheat!" she exclaims, acutely aware of their switched positions, his face hovering above hers.
He's out of breath, cheeks flushed an endearing red to match his hair. "You were killing me," he pants.
She snorts, feels a blush of her own start to rise for reasons entirely different. "I was only tickling you."
He's starting to calm, a sullen look in his eyes as he frowns down at her. "I'll definitely laugh at your baby pictures now."
She gasps, starts to struggle—knows she could easily overpower him if she truly wanted to. "You unbelievable-!" He's forced to press down her legs with his own, one of his hands gripping her wrist, unable to contain the arm darting beneath his shirt again. He flinches, tries to capture the errand limb but fails, already struggling not to topple over. It's all comical enough for Sakura to burst out laughing, her hand undeterred from its destination, the smooth skin of his stomach warm beneath her fingertips.
"Don't make me tie you down," he warns, straining not to laugh himself, his grip loosening.
"No sand!" she protests between giggles, wriggling her legs in a half-hearted attempt to get him off. It causes him to lose balance, his body landing atop of hers, the both of them stunned to silence. They're frozen, stare into each other's eyes, the following silence a staggering contrast. She's able to feel the beat of his heart, drumming against her chest, their stomachs pressing together with every breath. The heat of his body seeps into her, settles somewhere deep inside, awakens a craving she knows not how to ever satisfy—though there's a hunch she dares not address. Her hand still sits beneath his shirt, and—in another bold gesture—she allows it to travel up his side, feels him shiver, until it rests on his back, muscles tensing beneath her touch. Their eyes remain locked, search each other, a forwardness in his gaze she finds contagious—she's stronger than him, and reflected she sees they both know it.
"Kiss me," she whispers without thought, too caught up in the sensation of touch, mind filled with nothing but the distinct outline of his body. She feels the deep breath he takes, as well as the movement of his muscles, her hands instinctively balling up, bracing against the flood of his presence. Against her expectations, he complies, touches his lips to her own; the gentlest of presses, steals all reflection and draws her in. She's teetering, tempted by the slightest taste, feels her chest rise and rub his in response—the friction's the worst, truly burns through the last of her resolve. Just a little further—anything to soothe the simmering inside.
His response is immediate, has her writhing against her urges; meet him in every curve of his body, kiss deepening and grip tightening. She partly registers the touch of his hand, mirroring her own; sliding up her side, across her ribs, slipping behind her back and pulling her closer—she doesn't believe separation possible, melded together by shared heat, every want pooling in her stomach and mingling with his. His lips leave hers, make their way down the angle of her jaw, curve of her neck, send ripple after ripple down flaring nerves, bring her spine to arch and toes to curl, a fragile whimper at the back of her throat. He stops, stills in place, holds his breath.
"It's okay..." she quickly assures, licking her lips, takes the opportunity to compose her thoughts. Is it too much, too fast? In truth, she fears her folly's effect, afraid it'll undo the advance of their intimacy. Then, much to her relief, he relaxes, the tip of his nose skirting along her skin, his breath a hot tickle. She holds him tighter, doesn't think she can meet his eye just yet, too overcome with- no, he wanted it too, right? This wasn't all her, a one-sided attempt; he'd been equally complicit, like her. Her heart pounds in her chest, dizzies her, skips when he rolls them to their sides, legs and arms still entangled. Eye to eye, she can't avoid his gaze, feels herself flush beneath his attention. He lifts a hand, uses it to brush the hair from her face, gently tucks it behind her ear. She's relieved to find he hasn't shut her out, the warmth in his gaze still there, showering her with its brilliance.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, observing the gentle tilt of his lips, the lingering colour on his cheeks. "Did I..." Talk, she thinks, all she has to do is talk. Communication is key, no matter how unwilling her tongue might seem to form the words. "Did I push too far?"
His fingers continue to trail along her features, tracing her cheekbones. "I don't think so." His voice is raspier than she's used to, reigniting the excited flutter within her. "How are you feeling?"
She's calmed, comforted by his touch, his welcoming gaze, realises: she merits no scorn for her lapse of restraint. She closes her eyes, relaxes as he continues his soothing caress, thinks of ways to console him in return. "I feel like..." There's so much she feels, things she finds near impossible to put to words; these sensations, wholly corporeal yet more all the same. "Like I'm the shore," she starts, stroking his back, fingertips skirting along bare skin, "and you're the sea, rolling in," she smiles, not opening her eyes just yet, committing the feel of him to mind, "warm and tempting. Wearing away at me, beckoning me to drift off—allow you to take me along." Her eyes flutter open, lock with his unguarded stare, his fingers running through her hair.
"And if the tide is too strong?" he asks, allowing his digits to travel down her throat, along the curve of her shoulder.
"Then I'll happily go under. I've never been scared of the deep; I'm too stubborn to submit to the current."
He remains silent, eyes following his touches, transfixed on every detail, studying her with unrestrained intensity. She watches him in return, observes the black rings surrounding his gaze, their sharp and perfect edges, interrupted only by dark lashes. "You were wrong," he mutters.
"About what?"
The corner of his mouth tilts ever so subtly, betraying a smile. "You're more poetic than you think."
She bites her lip, grins, inches closer into his hold. "You're just rubbing off on me."
He hums, arm wrapping around her shoulder, welcoming her against his chest. They remain in comfortable silence, each caught up in their own thoughts, the rise and fall of their chests the only movement. "Thank you," he rumbles into her hair, and she knows exactly what for, when he quickly adds: "save for the tickling."
She chuckles, nuzzles into his shirt, feels the beat of his heart against her cheek. "You didn't enjoy it?"
"No."
"We'll see about that," she laughs. "I'm sure you'll learn to love it."
"I'm much too fond of breathing."
She smirks, raises a suggestive brow as she says: "I love you and you take my breath away." She hears him laugh in response, his chest dancing beneath her cheek, bringing a pleased smile to her lips.
He falls silent, hand pleasantly trailing along her back, presses a kiss to the top of her head. "I love you too."
Meet him at the park after work, bring comfortable clothes; they're hardly unusual instructions, yet fail to leave her mind alone for so much as a minute. Though she thinks she's gotten to know Gaara quite well, she still has not an inkling what his plans might be. It's a surprise, he told her, with no lack of amusement. They both left early that morning; him to the Hokage's office, her to the hospital. It had been no easy departure, made even harder by her overwhelming delight following the night prior. Vowing to have zero expectations, she had been surprised to find them far exceeded—she'd gotten more than she'd dare wish, and then some. When both had surrendered to slumber, she'd momentarily woken, noting how—even more so than before—he held onto her, encircling her with every limb. It's another thing she greatly appreciates, finally able to confidently say Gaara is—without a doubt—the clingiest person she's ever known. To her, it's nothing short of a blessing; her tendency for physical affection happily welcomed by the redhead, who, in turn, appears equally eager.
Already, she's come to learn several new insights; Gaara, by nature, is neither rigid, indifferent, nor reticent—despite her always having thought him so. On the contrary; he is playful, affectionate and conversational. It's evident—in light of all he's told—how these qualities, through nurture, have been repressed, at times even buried. It amazes her how well-adjusted he is regardless, and realises—had he been truly evil—he could have done much worse. Taking all into consideration, she's absolutely certain his intent could never be to kill her. There's no denying the obvious desire between them, and it's far from the malignant kind. The attraction she feels seems mirrored in the burn of his gaze, the spark of his touch. Throughout the day, she finds herself recalling each rousing detail of their tussle, wishes they could pick up where they left off—sooner rather than later.
But first, she reminds herself; the park. The weather is pleasant, a low sun casting long shadows, reflecting off multi-coloured leaves as if set aflame. It makes finding him a bit more difficult, the abundance of reds all melting together, concealing him within their midst. It's not his hair which gives him away now, nor is it his chakra; it's the exuberant figure in green spandex, waving frantically as she approaches.
"Sakura-san!" Lee shouts, jumping up and down—a stark contrast to the reserved redhead at his side.
She waves, spots an already tired looking TenTen nearby, notes how the brunette perks up at the sight of her. Gaara meets her half-way, the sun's warmth in his eyes, envelops her in his arms without hesitation. She grins into his shoulder, all she's been missing found through the press of their bodies. He pulls back, sends her a secretive smile, further fuelling her intrigue.
"Is this part of the surprise?" she asks, raising a brow.
"It most certainly is." He leads her to the others, both TenTen and Lee waiting for her. "I know I still owe you a taijutsu match," he continues after they've all greeted each other, "and I figured this might come close enough to spare myself the humiliation."
"Are we fighting?" She sends an inquiring look between the three of them, notes the excitement in Lee's eyes.
"No, it's a trial of youth and love, Sakura-san!" he exclaims.
TenTen recoils at the words, quickly waves a hand in his direction. "Don't make it sound like that..."
"Friendship is as much a form of love as any other!"
"A... trial?" Sakura asks, unable to keep the amusement from her voice.
"Yes! We'll see how well you and Gaara-kun work as a team."
She looks to the redhead in question, snickers at his self-deprecating smile.
"Lee has prepared several challenges for the four of us," he explains, crossing his arms.
"The losers will have to pay through shame and dinner!"
"I think just dinner would be quite enough," TenTen deadpans.
"Don't worry Sakura-san," Lee offers her a thumbs-up, "I have the utmost respect for Gaara-kun's abilities and spirit! I am certain it'll be a close call."
She laughs, offers Gaara a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Sounds exciting!"
"I'll have to warn you though, as it appears Gaara-kun has laid claim to your heart, I have no choice but to give it my all—as is required of rivals in love!"
TenTen releases a weary sigh. "Lee, don't make it weird..."
Sakura chuckles at the taijutsu-user's vigour, humours him for all it's worth. "Fair enough."
He claps in his hands, a resolved look in his eyes. "Follow me!" He leads them a little distance away, everything already in place—most elaborate of all an obstacle course. "I have prepared 3 different challenges for us to compete in as teams," Lee starts, hands on his hips. "First off, we'll start easy with blanket volley!" He points to a net, hanging between two trees, the playing field marked by white lines. "This one is about teamwork, rather than strength. The aim is to keep the ball from hitting your side of the field, and bounce it over the net using the blanket you'll both be holding."
Sakura considers the information, looks to an amused Gaara. "Sounds doable enough," she concludes, accepting the blanket Lee hands her, experimentally rubbing the fabric as Gaara takes the other side. Lee and TenTen are already in position when she looks up, blanket held between them. "One more thing," she starts, sending Gaara a pointed look, "No sand allowed!"
He raises his brows, appears almost affronted. "I'm on your team, remember?"
"I don't care, I'll allow no cheating!" she insists, a smirk spreading across her lips. "No chakra, no sand; just pure physical prowess."
"Alright," he concedes with a lop-sided smile of his own, "I promise I won't cheat."
"Good. I want to see you break a sweat." She sends him a playful wink, watches him blink in surprise, then signals for the other to start. What follows could hardly be described as a match, each of them reduced to alternating fits of laughter, their competition stumbling around in an equally uncoordinated manner. TenTen berates Lee several times for moving too fast and pulling too hard, meanwhile Lee urges her to channel her inner fire more. Gaara, for his part, truly tries—though not to much avail. It's the effort that counts, she supposes as she holds back another snort, watching him as she nearly pulls him off his feet. Soon, the entire competition is reduced to a surprise pulling match, both attempting to floor the other at the most inopportune of times. In the end, it's no surprise to find out they lost, and though Sakura isn't too eager to buy everyone dinner, she doesn't regret their blundering; there's something wholly riveting about the wicked glint in Gaara's eyes, and she doesn't mind a little sacrifice in return.
"Alright!" cheers Lee, pumping a fist into the air. "That's all for the warming up. Now the real challenge starts!" He impatiently directs for them to follow, ignoring TenTen's protests of his haste—Sakura isn't surprised by his taking it all too seriously, and though she feels for his teammate, she's much too amused to say anything in her defence. He leads them to his self-made obstacle course, picking up two pieces of cloth, presenting one of them to Gaara. "For the next round, we'll be doing a blindfolded-piggyback ride! TenTen, Sakura-san, the two of you will have to be our eyes and give directions."
"From your... back?" Sakura asks, eyes darting between the two of them.
"No way!" shouts TenTen, only to find Lee already blindfolded and squatting for her to hop on.
"Come on, TenTen," he encourages, "we can do this!"
Sakura is about to ask Gaara for his opinion, when she notices he's already tying the fabric. "Are you sure?"
"We'll win this one," he says, half-turning away from her, suggesting she climb on. She's surprised by his confidence, wonders at how he thinks he'll outrun someone like Lee, when she remembers Gaara's probably best trained for this sort of thing.
"Alright..." she concedes, moving closer, raising her hands to his shoulders. She briefly wonders if she won't be too heavy—quickly dismisses the thought, figuring she can't weigh much more than his old gourd, if not less. His arms are ready to wrap around her legs, and with a deep, steadying breath, she gathers her courage to jump. He neither stumbles nor flinches when she does, his hands sliding across the bared skin of her thighs, securing her into place. She sucks in another breath, wills herself not to get distracted, makes sure she has a firm grip. He's steady beneath her, and she's certain she feels the muscles on his back flex as he shifts.
"Is this okay?" she asks, observing the wisps of hair falling across the blindfold, the short fuzz at the nape of his neck, discovers there's the lightest dusting of sun-kissed freckles there too.
"Yes," he says with a nod, angling his ear to her, "where do I go?"
She's momentarily distracted, takes in the new perspective; the smooth angle of his jaw, the gentle outline of his profile—shakes her head to clear her mind. "Uhm," she starts, spotting Lee and TenTen already in position, "eight steps to your right."
He nods again, does exactly as she says, stopping just before the starting line and right next to a grinning Lee (and a very disgruntled looking TenTen).
"Sakura-san," Lee calls, half-crouched and ready to run, "I'll allow you to give the signal. The team who returns here first wins!"
"Alright." She offers TenTen a sympathetic smile, grateful to the girl for all she's willing to put up with. "Three..." she starts, looks down at Gaara, "two..." his head remains tilted in her direction, "one..." he bends through his knees, "Go!"
They're off, and he's surprisingly fast, keeping up with Lee despite the taijutsu-user's remarkable speed. She buries her fingers into his shirt to keep balance, eyes cast ahead at the coming obstacles. She figures he must really trust her, relying upon her instructions without question, risking a pretty bad fall were she to fail. They're fast approaching an obstacle, and she warns him well ahead of time, explaining both distance and height. Though Lee is gaining on them, he overestimates the jump, wasting time on height and allowing them to take the lead. Gaara clears it without issue, much to Sakura's relief, and next up are several poles they'll have to weave through. Behind them she catches TenTen giving instructions, warning Lee not to go too fast.
Sakura bends forward, tells Gaara what is to come, feels herself linger there, arms sliding forward and chest pressed to his back. It's pleasant, she thinks, a small smile blooming on her lips, heart swelling with fondness. He obeys when she tells him to slow, sidesteps in whatever direction she suggests, the two of them working together smoothly. Meanwhile, from the corner of her eye, she spots Lee running into one of the poles, half-tripping, earning a reprimand from TenTen about going too fast. Sakura chuckles to herself, tightens her grip, feels a surge of adrenaline at their likely victory. There's one more obstacle for them to clear; a wooden beam they'll have to balance themselves across.
They're able to maintain their lead, hear Lee run into another pole, followed by the protests of an exasperated TenTen. At Sakura's careful instructions, Gaara manages to step onto the beam, slowing his pace as he crosses it. He has no issue keeping his balance, even while carrying her. They've already reached the end when Lee starts on his own, swaggering as he tries to hurry across. Sakura knows it's now or never, and she makes sure Gaara's faced in the right direction before starting their final sprint. She laughs when he takes off, rests her cheek against his, enjoys the breeze caressing her face. She can hear Lee and TenTen following in the distance, trying their best to catch-up. Though Lee is fast, it's impossible even for him to close the distance, and Sakura doesn't hesitate to celebrate once they've crossed the starting line.
Out of breath, Gaara comes to a halt, a wide grin on his face as he allows Sakura to untie the blindfold. She can't contain her cheer, giggles as she watches Lee stop beside them. She feels the exultation of their victory, sees it mirrored in Gaara's eyes once she pulls the fabric away.
"We did it!" she laughs, hugs him from behind, turns a smirk on their opponents. "Hope you guys brought your wallets because I'm starting to get hungry."
"Don't celebrate just yet, Sakura-san," Lee cautions, "there's one more round to go!"
"Hah! We'll be victorious no doubt," she taunts as she slips down, both feet back on the ground.
"Don't be so sure; next up is the hardest challenge of all," Lee starts, motioning for them to follow again. "You see, we'll be doing a tug-of-war," he says, pointing to a nearby rope. "But! It won't be any ordinary match." He crosses his arms with a smirk, sends them all a pointed look. "Each of us will get a turn to use humour to their advantage, aiming to reduce the other team to laughter and affect their strength in a game I like to call: pun-of-war." He sends them all an expectant grin, a stilted silence falling over their small group. He clears his throat, moves to the end of the rope, beckons TenTen to join him. "Whenever you're ready."
Sakura and Gaara take their places at the other side, picking the rope off the ground and securing their grip. When they're all set, Lee gives the sign to start the match, the rope pulled tight between the two teams. As expected, it appears they're equals in strength, the thick cord unmoving between them. It'll prove a challenging match, Sakura's certain, especially considering she hardly believes herself funny.
"TenTen, you go first," Lee says, straining as he exerts himself.
She tenses at his directive, eyebrows drawn into a concentrated frown. "Okay..." she starts, hesitating, "uh-" she searches for words, grits her teeth as she continues pulling, finally piques up when it appears she has an idea. "So one time, Lee asked me if I could throw him one of my weapons, and I said..." she pauses, looking the competition in the eye, "shur-i-ken."
Sakura snorts, relieved to remain unaffected. "That's awful, TenTen."
"Yeah," the brunette agrees with a chuckle, shrugging her shoulders, "it's all I got."
"You try next, Sakura-san," Lee instructs, cheeks flushed from the strain.
"Oh!" She bites her lip, tries to conjure something funny as fast as she can—she's never been much of a comic, and even now the only jokes she can think of she's heard from Tsunade. They're not good, by any means, but they're all she has, too. "Why couldn't the sesame seed leave the poker table?" She gauges their reactions, prepares to pull as hard as she can whether they laugh or not. "He was on a roll."
It's Lee who chortles at her awful attempt, though not enough to loosen his hold. He's quick to regain his composure, a serious look sweeping over his face. "My turn," he starts, a flicker of mischief in his eyes. "Why did the chicken cross the road?" Sakura steels herself, takes a deep breath and closes her eyes; she won't have them win this round. "To find its ninja way!"
She laughs, she can't help it, and she has to try her best not to let her hold slip. She glances behind her, gauges Gaara's reaction, sees he's still as put together as ever. Biting her tongue, she attempts to calm herself, willing her arms to pull harder.
"It's your turn, Gaara-kun!" Lee calls, disappointed to see the both of them unbudging.
"I don't have any jokes," she hears the redhead admit behind her, "but, I do have a story." She has no idea what he might tell, but she's determined not to laugh; they have to win no matter what. "No one ever explained to me what... boobs were," he starts, and already Sakura has to fight a chuckle at his deadpan delivery. "Used to be I thought girls stored items in there. Until one day, while we were on a retrieval mission..." She closes her eyes, focuses on her breath, anything but his words. "There was a lot for us to take home, and we couldn't possibly carry it all. So... I asked Temari if she couldn't empty her chest pockets and use those since-" he pauses, and she can hear him take a breath also before rushing the final part, "-since they seemed pretty spacious to me."
It's TenTen who bursts out laughing, quickly followed by Lee. Sakura seizes the opportunity, gathering her strength. She pulls as hard as she can, feels the slightest movement and pushes through, dragging their opponents off their feet. She falls backwards, only to be caught by a stumbling Gaara, his surprised face the first she sees. They're both on the ground now, and she finally allows herself to laugh, feels a pang in her stomach as she relaxes in his hold.
"No way!" she giggles, watches him go red as he averts his gaze, affirming the truth behind his words. She grins, turns in his hold, wraps her arms around his neck and—to redirect his thoughts—pecks him on the lips. "We won thanks to you!"
He mirrors her smile, blush lingering, and helps her back to her feet. She doesn't release him, squeezes his hand in silent thanks, the unexpected surprise a welcome success.
"Well, I don't like admitting defeat, but you guys earned it," TenTen says as she approaches, a sulking Lee coming up behind her.
"Gaara-kun!" he pouts. "It seems I've lost to you again," then, waving a fist in the air, "you're as formidable a rival as ever!"
He laughs, turns to Sakura with a warm smile. "I had great help."
"You can tell us all about this great help over dinner," TenTen teases, winking at them both.
Sakura grins, delighted to spend more time with them, aware it's been too long since they last talked. "Sounds lovely."