The Other Face of the Coin
The doorbell jingled over his head. As he walked into Suna's Art Crafts and Supplies, the aroma of oil paints mingled with the earthy scent of freshly cut wood filled his nose. Ever since he'd discovered the place, about a year ago, he'd often come once a week on his day off to find a sense of serenity, browsing through the shop's aisles. His mother had never uttered a word about his father, but the way she would sometimes gaze at his art supplies with a blend of bitterness, animosity, and longing led Daisuke to believe that he had been an artist of some kind. Like your sister, you have a gift too, my little sun. Don't forget it.
His thoughts got interrupted by a familiar voice. "Have you thought about my offer, yet?" inquired the shop's owner as he walked up the aisle, his cane striking against the wooden floor.
"Good morning to you, Isuma-sama." The corner of his lips quirked up. "I'm sorry to disappoint, but I'm not ready to share my art to the world."
One day, he'd inadvertently dropped his sketchbook on the floor, and its pages had opened in front of the man's eyes. The sight of his art had lightened up his expression, and a handful of emotions had traversed his stern gaze. Ever since, the man had insisted for him to expose his art into the shop, saying that it had to be shared to the world. But he could never share his art to anyone – the demons of his nightmares he'd given life to on his canvases. They weren't meant to be seen.
"It's a shame really. Your art speaks a lot," the man simply replied. "But I respect your wish. I'll be at the back if you ever need anything. We've just received this month's order."
On those words, the old man disappeared at the end of the aisle. The door's bell suddenly jingled to announce a new customer, and Daisuke prayed it wouldn't be the old lady that'd harassed him to pose nude for her art class, last week. He listened to the creaking of the planks under the weight of the new visitors, ready to flee at the slightest sight of the old lady. But sensing a chakra signature that wasn't one of a simple civilian, he stilled. When the puppeteer turned the aisle corner, it was too late to turn around. As his gaze lingered on him, Daisuke couldn't help but notice the way the puppet-master still leaned slightly on his right leg, the stiffness in his movements betraying his recent injury. The man's eyes widened a bit, taken by surprise.
"I didn't know you were a customer here," Kankuro said. His gaze noticed the paint brushes he'd put into his basket, and he grinned. "Those are mostly for children, you know? They're cheaper. You'll find some of better quality in the second aisle."
Daisuke's lips curved into a small smile. "I particularly enjoy those," he explained. They reminded of him of the cheap art supplies his mother managed to buy him with the leftover money she'd earned by selling potions, trinkets and other stuff at their village's market. "But thank you."
A silence fell. They weren't friends. Barely acquaintances. They'd never held a full conversation. As the silence grew, he was tempted to make a small talk about a type of natural paint he'd wanted to try for a while, but he refrained himself from doing so. Kankuro dropped the pot of pain he'd been looking at, and turned his attention to him.
"How's your sister?"
Daisuke froze. He hadn't expected this question. It wasn't exactly a strange question, considering the two of them had spent a lot of time together. But he couldn't forget his sister's extenuous complaints about the guy during the time she'd been treating him. Or the way he'd become such a constant into his sister's life that she couldn't help but mention him almost every day. And ever since she'd discharged him from the hospital, one month ago, she'd managed to bring up his name into their conversation almost twice a week. Even if the man had tried to appear nonchalant by asking about his sister well-being, Daisuke could feel the weight of his gaze on him, while he eagerly waited for his answer.
"Some patients are really draining the energy out of her, these days," he simply replied. "But she's doing fine, mostly. Why do you wish to know?"
Kankuro almost dropped the paint brushes he'd been playing with, stiffening. "It's just- Nothing."
Daisuke grabbed his basket of purchases on the floor, and refrained himself from rolling his eyes at the man's lack of coherent answer. He didn't like the expression of worries that crept onto the Kazekage's brother face, for a brief moment. His eyes narrowed as he watched the shift of the man's expression. The smirk he'd often heard being described by his sister lifted the corner of the puppet-master's lips, full of arrogance. But it was too late; he'd already seen what he needed to. He looked into the man's eyes, deadly serious.
"Are you interested in my sister, puppet-master?"
Kankuro scoffed, dismissing his question. "Come on, man. It's a well-known fact that we can't get along. Don't be ridiculous."
"I see."
He'd asked his sister the same question, a week ago. She'd answered almost the exact same thing. And whenever his sister's emotions were getting involved, something was bound to go wrong. He had a sense of it. A wave of warmth hit him as he stepped out of the Suna's Art Crafts and Supplies, his purchases carefully put away in a bag with the shop's logo. He let out a deep breath, feeling strangely pulled in different directions. He didn't like it. He couldn't bear to lose his sister again in the name of a concept as deceptive as love. This time, he wouldn't allow it to happen.
Daisuke's footsteps echoed through the lonely streets as he made his way home. The evening sun cast an ethereal glow, illuminating his path, but no amount of light could dispel the darkness that consumed him. Memories flooded his mind, unrelenting and haunting. A passerby's enthralling eyes caught his gaze, and time seemed to freeze. It was her. Or at least, the woman painfully looked like her —his mother. His breath caught in his throat. His twisted mind liked to play cruel tricks on him. He forced himself to keep walking, but the floodgates of his memories had already burst open. He was transported back to that fateful day when he'd discovered his mother's inert body, lying near the pound's wooden bench. The image of the cranes, their majestic forms tainted by the brutality of death, seared into his mind. That day, the water had turned into a deep crimson hue. His mother had died because she'd desperately tried to salvage her clan's heritage. Forgive me, my little sun, she'd barely been able to rasp out, a red trail of blood dripping from her lips. My time is up.
The weight of grief crashed upon him once more, threatening to shatter his fragile gazed upon the setting sun, a melancholic smile gracing his lips. Once a radiant sun, he no longer held that brilliance. Now, he was but a fading star, slowly succumbing to the embrace of the night, casting its dying embers into the vast expanse of the darkened sky.
He only wished for their mission to be over. Soon. And then, maybe they'd finally be able to heal.
