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They both have rough palms.
His, covered by sand, carefully holding up a cactus for her to see. It has a square clay pot. Simple, and with no designs. Crowning the succulent is a blanched Sunan flower, blooming pale lavender under the blue night sky.
“It reminds me of you,” Gaara tells Hinata. “A survivor.” Living off the scarcest hints of affection. He has no doubt that, should she be given the attention and affection she deserves, she would drown and die happy for it. As would Gaara.
They are two petals of the same flower, after all.
“D-don’t be silly!” she insists, eyes darting down as as pushes away the compliment. But her hands reach out to pull the gift closer, overlapping his. He can’t feel the heat or heart of her through his ultimate defense.
Knowing she is there is enough.
Her gentle fists, scarred with chakra burns, cup the flower pot carefully, transferring the weight from him to her. She sets aside the cactus, and glances at him—briefly—then at the stars dangling in the sky—back at him, his shoulder, his hand—at the moon. His hand again. Her back tenses. She goes even redder.
A little voice that sounds like Temari urges Gaara to take her hand, so he does. Girls like this, Kankuro nags. Considering his luck with women Gaara is not so sure.
Do girls like to be told their eyes look like pearls? Probably not. Oysters make them out of unwanted, foreign objects, but Hinata?
She is a gem.
The Hyuuga visibly relaxes when his fingers graze the top of her knuckles, gingerly seeking the gaps he can fill. The ones that would bring them together.
Maybe if they hold hands long enough, they can erode each other’s barriers,
and get down,
to an inner layer of softness.