It's surprisingly relaxing; watching her mom explain the process to him, black sleeves rolled up his arms as he accepts whatever tools she pushes into his hands. She hadn't understood the purpose of her suggestion at first, its hidden agenda only starting to dawn as Sakura notes the way her mom studies Gaara—somehow she knows exactly how to slip past someone's guard, guiding him into revealing more about himself than he would simply talking. She's testing the waters, bonding in a way that's inconspicuous enough to not raise one's defences—which confirms yet another realisation: her mother is keenly aware of his nervousness even if neither of them know his exact reasons or feelings. More and more, she lures him out through subtle compliments, observing how well he mixes the ingredients, how fast he works, how he's a good listener. Something strange happens under Sakura's watchful eye; a tentative trust she hadn't even noticed she herself had ever earned starts to take form between them.
"So, if you don't mind me asking, how did the two of you get so close?" her mother inquires innocently, handing him a bowl of ingredients to stir.
Gaara accepts the task, shoots Sakura a look where she sits at the kitchen table, watching them work alongside her dad. "Sakura offered to help with my inability to sleep," he explains, putting all his focus in his work. She can't say she minds watching him from afar, appreciates the way tendons dance beneath his skin, flexing as he stirs—loves the gentle movement of his hands, the fluidity of every motion, stares at the veins running up-
"I help your mom sleep too," her dad whispers with a wink, startling her from her thoughts. She hushes him with an annoyed hiss, sends a disapproving frown his way and sorely wishes she'd missed the innuendo, cheeks warming from being caught off-guard.
"You have insomnia?" Mebuki observes, continuing her own work with practiced ease. Sakura can sense his hesitance, reckons he'd be reluctant to delve too deep into a subject she and him both know isn't to be talked about over dinner—wether her mom senses this she can only wonder.
"How's work been?" her father asks despite her efforts to silence him, sipping another cup of tea, closely watching Sakura.
It takes her a minute to process the question, too wrapped up in the other conversation. Gaara's voice still reaches her, reiterating facts she already knows yet still wants to hear, if only to know how he'll explain: "I did for a long time, until she encouraged me to try curing it."
"It's been fine," she replies distractedly, thinking he offered a smart answer, "I'll admit I've been slacking these past months." She pauses, curls her hair around her finger. "I'm focused on other things, I suppose."
Her mother nods, smiling proudly. "Sakura's always been passionate about helping others—she simply can't resist."
Her father chuckles, momentarily steals her attention yet again. "I can tell."
She puffs up her cheeks, rolls her eyes at him, knows he's aware she's at the edge of her seat, unable to help herself and feeling as if she needs to… to, maybe…
"Yes, she-" Gaara pauses, visibly tenses, gaze locked on his hands as he appears to mull something over, all emotion somehow draining from his expression—and she thinks maybe she needs to interfere, thinks of all of them watching him, all seeing him fall silent and all waiting and... Sakura holds her breath, wonders what goes through his mind—thinks this has to be one of the hardest things for someone like him. If she's honest, she doesn't know how much her parents know of Suna's Kazekage. As shinobi they're bound to be privy to common information, but it's not as if she's ever spoken to them about someone she never expected to bring home in the first place. His eyes find her, seem to communicate a thousand regrets in only single a glimpse, dart to the ground right before something within him appears to crumble and he blurts: "I'm sorry, I hadn't intended fo-"
Mebuki lays a hand on his shoulder, offers a motherly smile Sakura easily recognises, interrupting him. "Don't apologise, Gaara, we're not owed any." Turns to look at his progress, adding with a grin: "It seems we're done here, thank you. It's no wonder my daughter's so smitten. We couldn't be happier on her behalf."
He's caught mid-sentence, lips parted around a syllable he doesn't finish, eyes dancing across her face. Her mother had to have sensed it, Sakura decides, thinks she too understands a bit more—watches as some of the tension starts to dissipate, a reluctant smile forming, finally reaching his gaze. There's no need for them to know of all his mistakes, who he's been in the past. They're shinobi; none of them are without sin in a world where killing is often part of the job. She hopes he's able to see her mother's acceptance for what it is, hopes he understands there's no need for him to prove himself in order to be welcomed—because he's more than welcome, here.
"And here she is on her first day at the academy! Wasn't she just the cutest? She was so proud; becoming a kunoichi just like her mommy."
"See those teeth? She lost them at kunai practice," her father adds proudly.
Sakura groans, watches her mom push the pictures into Gaara's hands. She'd known this would happen, had been preparing herself for the inevitable embarrassment. She'll admit the precious smile on Gaara's face helps salvage some dignity—not all though. Her parents managed to find the worst images imaginable; from toothy grins missing teeth to red-cheeks covered in syrup and sweets. The only solace comes from Gaara's wide-eyed wonder, observing each picture he's handed with undivided attention. It's obvious he enjoys every glimpse into her life growing up, discovering new things about her she'd long forgotten herself. Albeit begrudgingly, she does enjoy his seemingly infinite fascination, flattered to be on the receiving end of it. It reminds her of seeing the pictures of his siblings, scattered about the mansion, offering just the tiniest peeks into his past—none of him though, his red-headed absence glaringly obvious.
Her mother chuckles as she retrieves another pile, quickly turning to her father. "Remember when she had the measles? I'd forgotten we-"
"Mom!" she shrieks, snatching them away, cheeks burning and heart pounding. "I'm sure we could all do without the reminder."
Her mother clicks her tongue, shakes her head in a way Sakura's come to associate with an oncoming lecture. "Now, now," she starts, doesn't mind her husband's hearty laughter.
"It's me," Sakura hears Gaara say, turns to see him closely inspecting a picture. She leans back in her chair, peering over his shoulder to get a better look. She instantly recognises the scene, an unmistakable backdrop of concrete walls jarring her memory, bringing back the sounds of demanding cheers, shrieking electricity, smell of burning earth—blood. Her gaze shoots to his face, sees his bottomless eyes stare at the image of himself; hunched over, arms crossed, scowling at the unmistakable figure of Sasuke. She vividly remembers that day, still recalls how happy she'd been to see Sasuke break through his sand. She hadn't known a single thing about him, only that she wished for him to lose. She wonders what memories are brought to his own mind, watches as he holds the picture closer, squints at something.
"I think I took that," her mother says, leaning around the table to see. "Sakura wouldn't have forgiven me if I didn't get at least a single picture of her teammate."
What does he feel? Regret? Anger? Curiosity? Is he reminded of the pain Sasuke had caused him, the rage he'd then unleashed?
"Back then," he starts, not taking his eyes off the image. She studies him closely, tries her best to decipher whatever flicker of feeling she can find. "No one ever helped cut my hair," he continues coolly, briefly glances at Sakura. "Doesn't look too bad, does it? I'm sure I might have even undone some tangles that day." He moves his fingers, implying he did so by hand, or so she thinks.
She follows his gaze, takes in the unruly mop—realises her memory of him has long been distorted by her own teenaged mind. She reaches for the picture, brings it closer as she takes in the two boys, considers them anew. No longer the ominous threat from her past, she sees instead a child too young to be so angry. He's short, skinny, unkempt and absolutely feral—almost like a stray cat. A very lethal one at that. To her surprise she finds herself smiling despite it all, gaze never leaving the boyish features yet to be reshaped by adulthood. "It looks good," she concurs, biting her lip, eyes meeting his, "very nonchalant." And there she has her answer, understanding what he must have realised long ago—the frailty of the ostensibly strong, the duality of them all inconspicuously seeping through each irrevocably flawed defence—even his.
"What happened to yours?" he asks, leaning his elbow on the table, chin propped in hand.
She blinks, feels herself grow warm beneath the intensity of his gaze, nearly forgets her parents are still there. "Mine?"
He nods, eyes skimming her features. "Your hair. It used to be long."
She straightens in her seat, studies him in return, gleaning not a single thing. "I didn't think you'd remember."
He cracks at that, unable to keep the corner of his mouth from lifting, a hint of bashfulness settling over him. "You were the first to have hair more noticeable than mine," he replies, the intensity of his gaze adding emphasis to the words, his voice traveling down her spine, teasing familiar places, "it was hard to forget."
Her mother reaches for a picture, jolting Sakura from whatever she's sunken into—quickly recomposing herself, she watches Mebuki smile before offering it to her. "Sakura had the most beautiful hair."
"Still does!" her father chimes in, patting his own.
"Did you prefer it?" she asks Gaara, accepting the image her mother passes, revealing a younger Sakura, the sight of her long tresses unfamiliar after so many years.
He appears to consider the question, still carefully observes her like he always does. "No. You looked happier after."
She smiles, not quite knowing why she feels a sense of relief. "I wanted to be taken seriously," she muses, returning her attention to her younger self. "I don't think it worked the way I'd hoped, but…" Laying the picture aside, she raises a hand, combs her fingers through Gaara's crimson strands, returning some of that youthful unruliness. "It felt freeing."
He doesn't move to correct her, frozen as he stares, thoughts flitting behind his gaze she needn't grasp in order to understand what she's cemented between them. In that instant she wonders, however briefly, what they'll look like in 10, 20, or even 30 years; if they'll be seated here again, perhaps with a family of their own, looking through pictures yet to be made, showing new milestones and faces; if she'll embarrass a red or pink-haired little version of herself… perhaps a little version of him, with eyes of teal and countless tiny freckles to dot pale skin.
She smiles, feels each happy beat of her heart, cherishes the warmth brought on by such simple reveries, glancing between her parents as she takes the pictures. "I'd like to keep these."
Her mother nods, a knowing look in her eyes, making Sakura wonder if she'd somehow been contemplating similar things. "Of course, sweetheart. They're all yours."
She takes the picture of her long hair, gives it to Gaara who studies it gratefully, holds the one of him to her chest, happy to have found such a small and unexpected treasure—hopes to someday be able to share it again to someone new.
Bag of leftovers in hand, the moon illuminates empty streets, outlines the many structures making up her home—or what used to be, she decides, glancing to the man at her side, reminded of a similar evening not too long ago. They walk the same route, pass the same street she's seen a million times yet only specifically remembers because she once saw him in it—latched onto him hoping he wouldn't let her fall. How different they are now, their lives linked through such simple gestures. She runs her fingers down her collarbone, rests them above her dancing heart, feels its happy flutter. His shoulder bumps hers, contrasts the evening chill, the transient recollection of them, then, and ignites a secretive little smile.
"I'm not in pain," she softly repeats, tasting the words, watching as his gaze finds hers. Unlike then, she means it now, hears the unmistakable truth carry through her cadence, clear as day. No longer does she feel she's chasing impossible shadows, clinging to words once spoken, ideas once worth committing to—if ever. The usual pang of guilt—a previously unshakeable sense of betrayal—has faded and shrunk until no bigger a burden than a single grain of sand, weightless in its solitary insignificance. Her destiny, she now understands, was never set in stone, never imposed upon her the obligation of a fate far too heavy, too demanding for her to fulfil. Never has she truly longed for greatness, esteem, fame… never has her actual goal been to reserve a place in history. Her gaze sweeps his features, those gentle angles betraying his kindness, embedded into the very core of him. It's there she once again finds the answer she didn't know she'd been missing, the desire she's chased all along—the only willing fate she longs to commit to. All she's ever wanted, everything she's uncovered in the last place she'd think to look...
"I'm glad," he says, lips quirking, a hint of relief in the crinkle of his eye—as if he'd been waiting just to hear those words. His hand wraps around hers, fingers weaving together, connecting them, assuring her they're both happy to have found—through and thanks to each other—what it means to be loved. In spite of all their shortcomings and doubts, they've found a way to become more than strangers, more than friends, too. Somehow their imperfections don't matter the way they appeared to in the solitude of their own minds, offered a new perspective through the other's eyes, highlighting strengths neither of them knew they possessed—creating strengths anew through attachment. She's grateful for the risks they've taken, fears they've faced, believes the happiness they share to be only the start of much, much more—even when, from the corner of her eye, his smile starts to falter and she feels the evening chill wrap more and more around them, eliciting a foreboding shiver.
Was it happiness, then? Tipping the balance, reopening wounds barely glimpsed. She recalls again that faltering smile, desperately wonders if there's anything she could have said, should have asked. Was it something she or someone else—her mother, maybe father—did to offset this turn of events? Or was it this complicated thing called love all along? Waiting for just the right moment to break him apart, unleash all to have brewed right beneath the surface; shadows barely caught from the corner of the eye. Bare feet slap against wooden boards—only realises she's the one running once they creak beneath her weight. Sand hisses, scratches—overloads her senses—creates a dizzying flow sweeping along the walls, the ceiling; every corner filled with undulating waves. She gasps for air, feels it burn her throat—heart and thoughts racing, leaving no time to be registered. Nonetheless hears herself say: "Oh god," only half aware of her own movements, forced to view everything unfold as a distant spectator. Has a bowl of water before thinking to get one, feels the words: "Hold on," pass her lips. For what, she has to wonder, notices her breathing falter and choke—aware she's panicking, somehow manages not to feel the squeeze of her heart, tremble of her hands.
He's right there, there where she left him last, left him if only for a minute, if only to get a drink in the darkness of night. Her stomach turns, cold sweat pebbles skin, body wracked by a terrified shiver. She catches the bone white of his knuckles, hears the way nails rake along his skull, never quite breaking the skin. The sheets glisten with what can only be his own sick, drenching him, turning the sound of his breathing into wet, nauseating rasps. Face buried in his knees, back and shoulders shaking with each halted heave—she has no idea if he's awake or not. Without hesitation, she sits down by his side, sets the bowl on the nightstand. Sand scratches her skin, whirls around them, creating a high-pitched roar—she steels herself, refuses to budge despite the overwhelming fear of failure, of being in far over her head and dealing with things beyond her capabilities. Another gasp, guttural and anguished, and she immediately switches back into action.
"Careful," she says, hands wringing a towel, then moving to take hold of his shoulder. His reaction is instant; body tensing, head whipping around, widened eyes staring straight at her—glazed over, entirely vacant for a brief moment. "I'm so sorry, I didn't think—didn't expect…" she whispers, gently running her fingers through his hair, soothing where she knows it must hurt, other hand pressing the towel against his skin, cleaning away the sweat and sorrow. Time slows down around them, recognition unfolding across his features, returning the life to his eyes. With it comes an awareness she wishes she could spare him, soothe out of existence and memory. She isn't sure what to do, how to help ease something she has not the right understanding of—more than ever she feels... No. Closes her eyes, arms pulling him against her and ignoring the chafe of flying sand. Streams of chakra flow from her fingertips, straight into his temples, clear away the worst of the anguish—or at least all she's capable of soothing. She knows she cannot fix, cannot possibly hope to offer more than temporary relief, still does the best she can. It burns like ice—eats away at the flow of life in her veins, leaving behind burned and blistered fingers. She doesn't pull away, knows now's the time to be strong, to not allow herself to be dragged down into someone else's pain.
She feels something pull her shirt, realises it's him fisting the fabric, as if holding on for dear life. A sharpness takes hold of her heart, stings her with its force, causing her to gasp for air—realises it's the understanding of all he's carried around, kept neatly stored inside near-impenetrable walls of proper conduct and desirable pretence. How has she never noticed just how much-? How could she have been so selfish, so- It's all spinning out of control, falling through her fingers like sand, crumbling because she hasn't the ability to keep it together, keep him whole—and how could she? All this time it's been him who's been her support, helped her heal the many wounds she wasn't aware she bore. All this time he's been feeding her assurances, confirmations of her worth, filling her with his admiration and pride. All this time he's been apologising over and over and…
"I'm sorry. I hurt you."
"I'm so sorry," she says into his hair, absorbing every trembling breath from his body, weathering his own storm for him. He's been endlessly giving, has selflessly self-sacrificed knowing exactly what the cost would be—somehow he must have always known.
"I'd like to make up for that."
Deep down, he's had to have been painfully aware of the overwhelming sorrows he's kept safely contained—exactly as Naruto warned her. "I'm so sorry you've had to-" Feels her voice crack, tears falling from her lashes, mixing through perfect strands of perfect crimson, perfectly at home against her cheek.
"I don't desire to encumber anyone."
She's been too negligent, has too easily settled and taken all at face value, accepting words for whole truths and never bothering to look beyond—too wrapped up in her own insecurities, too occupied with worries of rejection that all she was willing to hear were affirmations to suit her own desires and nothing less.
"The fact remains I'm hardly anything anyone deserves."
He's everything to her, the only person she's ever dared bare her soul to—yet what she's failed to realise, what she of all people should have known better than anyone, is that love alone simply doesn't fix a person. "I should have…" she starts, not knowing what to say next, how to communicate all she intends.
"Sakura, I can't. What if I disappoint you?"
The signs had always been there, had caught her attention plenty of times. But she'd been pushing and pushing and unleashing her every little insecurity onto a man no better off than her. A man pulling her ashore not caring if he'd drown in the process, always making endless amends for being nothing more than simply human.
"I'm afraid. Part of me is convinced you'll either leave or betray me, but the other part tells me I'll be the one scaring you away, and I don't want to lose you."
It hurts to feel how hard he clings to her, hurts to realise how terrified he's been of paying the price for feeling—because allowing oneself to feel, even if it's happiness or love, means opening up to everything else as well. And then all that's left is all the mind cannot rationalise away, cannot stop from infecting every single thought, every single waking breath. So what changed? Have these feelings been silently brewing out of control; an accumulation of interactions and boundaries being crossed? Or is it simpler than that; an inescapable consequence, and had there been nothing to prevent the inevitable? It's hard to reconcile these conflicting views of who she believed him to be, always thinking him practically infallible, too mature and stable to be deeply broken on the inside—how could someone so calm, so intelligent and considerate possibly be shouldering so much hurt?
"I'm sorry, I hadn't intended fo-"
She sucks in a calming breath, ignores the pain stabbing her fingertips, forcing the chakra to continue its healing flow. He doesn't break away from her hold, clings to her still, shivers wracking his body, skin cold to the touch. She presses consoling kisses to the crown of his head, hopes to lessen the hurt in any way she can. "I'm here," she breathes into his hair, "it'll be okay." It has to be. For all he's done for her without her even fully realising, this has to be the least she can do. She'll find a way to help him heal—healing is what she's good at, she tells herself.
"I'm sorry," she hears him croak.
Hushing him, she strokes his temples, arms tightening their hold. "You're only human," she repeats back to him, knows he's been through so much, more than anyone ever should—validation for all he's been made to feel is the least he deserves. "You've been strong for so long, it's okay to need rest." She feels his every laboured breath, does her best to soothe when he grows increasingly panicked. "Just let go," she whispers, pressing another kiss to his skin. No matter how ugly things get, she'll be there for him, she'll be the one to pick him back up, catch him if need be. "Let go," she repeats, feels him bury his face into the crook of her neck, "I'll be here," and breathe a deep, surrendering breath. "I'll love you through it all."