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What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well
Gaara does not remember ever getting lost in the desert: sand has always been, will always be, too much of an integral part of him for him to reject the immensity or the loneliness of it all.
He does not remember- but that doesn’t make it any less true- being four and crying just two hundred meters outside of the city, his father refusing to bring him back inside, waiting for him to get back on his own, always expecting more of him than what Gaara could ever offer.
He does not remember- but that doesn’t make it any less true- Kankurō’s small hand grabbing his shoulder and guiding him inside under the steel-cold stare of their father.
Swiping the red off Rasa’s grave is not a public affair.
The death of a Kazekage should be an event of grieving but also of respect. An event of strength, of moving forward. Of the village letting go of its past to look forward to a brighter future.
Instead, there is nothing now but shame.
Gaara had insisted he wanted to be the one to do it, and his siblings are looking over his shoulder but two steps behind, Kankurō with a lowered head, Temari with her jaw clenched so tight that it must be painful.
Gaara does not dare look to the side of the grave, at the name of his mother. He does not need it: he carries her with him everywhere he goes.
There are no tears in their wake, but Kankurō squeezes his shoulder while they leave and Temari fusses over the collar of his robe, and Gaara has more family now than when their father was alive.
Once Shukaku is gone, only his sand remains.
Gaara never thought about it before, about if he could do sand ninjutsus on his own if he weren’t a jinchūriki . The Spirit of the Sand has always been a part of him, there was no reason for him to ever consider the possibility of them existing as separate entities: his chakra was Shukaku’s chakra and it always had been.
But now Shukaku is gone and only the sand remains.
It feels like a curse, sometimes. The same sand that he used to kill and to maim and to destroy still responding to every beat of his heart.
But there is so much to do in the village, always, but especially now, and he can help. For so long sand has been his shield and his weapon, that it takes him some time to realize that it can be a tool, too.
It feels like a blessing.
Temari is the one that mentions it, barely after the war is over.
“Do you think you still need to carry that around?”
It takes Gaara a second to realize she is talking about his gourd, and another one to understand what she might mean. He has been carrying the gourd around for as long as he can remember, she can’t certainly…
“We are at peace now, Gaara.” Her voice is low, and he has learned that is the tone of voice she uses to express tenderness. She doesn't know how to make her voice go soft. He is not the only one that is having a hard time adapting. “You don’t need to carry your shield around at all times.”
“Maybe not,” he concedes while he gives her back the papers she brought for him to sign. “We will see about that.”
Temari’s bow is very formal, but there is also a small smile tugging at her lips. She knows him well enough to not comment anything the next time they see each other and he is carrying a smaller sand gourd.
Baby steps.
“It makes it all worth it, doesn’t it?”
Gaara refuses the impulse to turn around from his balcony. It is a bit hard on his nerves, still, to have Temari’s fiance visiting. He has nothing bad to say about the man, but he is not used to having around someone who is not family but who understands, someone who is not a stranger. Though they will be family soon enough, he supposes.
“What do you mean?”
Shikamaru makes a vague gesture with the hand that is holding a cigarette.
“The hard work. The sleepless nights. The anxiety and worries. Looking over Konoha at night always makes me feel like, well, like what I am doing has a purpose, like I am not throwing my life away, despite how much I pretend I would like that.”
Gaara remembers, briefly, how the Rokudaime Hokage jokingly mentioned once that he wanted Shikamaru’s father to take the job instead of him. Now Shikamaru himself is working for the Rokudaime Hokage, learning the delicate mechanisms of the village in order to help Naruto when his time comes. Maybe Shikamaru understands more than Gaara thought.
Instead of acknowledging it, he says, “Temari doesn’t like it when you smoke.”
Shikamaru places his elbows on the balcony rail, the now lit cigarette a distracting orange point between his fingers.
“Well, but you are not going to rat me out, right, Kazekage-sama?”
Gaara mimics his position and observes the village sleeping for a couple of seconds longer. Shikamaru is not wrong, after all. About the village, that is.
“We will see.”
It takes Gaara around four months to gather enough courage to go visit Konoha after Temari gives birth. He manages by putting up excuses about having to take care of many different issues in Sunagakure, but by the time Kankurō has done the trip forth and back three times, Temari starts to threaten to come to Suna herself, and Gaara is sure there is not much Shikamaru (or anyone else, for that matter) could do to prevent it if she really puts her mind into it.
It’s not that he doesn’t care about his nephew or his sister, totally the opposite. It’s just that… a baby. The epitome of purity, of goodness, of something that hasn’t been corrupted.
Gaara is not sure if he is ready to deal with something like that, and he’d almost rather not find out.
But he can not give excuses for forever, and that is how he finds himself sitting politely in the Naras’ living room, a bundle of blankets pushed onto his chest. He looks into Temari’s eyes while she does it; if there were the tiniest speck of doubt or fear in his sister’s eyes, Gaara would refuse. Stand up. Leave. Pretend he doesn’t need to be good with kids to feel like he has finally shed the skin of the monster off.
But there is nothing but love and fierce determination in Temari’s eyes, and Gaara breathes through his nose deeply to center himself while he cradles his arms the way Kankurō is smugly describing like he is a full expert on the matter.
“Hello, Shikadai.” He pushes the blankets apart with his thumb, and Temari’s exact same eyes look up at him from the baby’s face, and a knot that is somehow not panic appears on his throat. “I am your uncle Gaara.”
A cactus is the first gift he gives Shinki once he gets settled in. Years later, Shinki will argue that it’s not true, that before taking him to the greenhouse, Gaara gave him clothes and all kinds of perfunctory things. Years later, it will still pain Gaara to see how unloved his child was before him.
Shinki, still a bit afraid of both being next to Gaara and of Gaara abandoning him, took the pot and bowed his head, and said thank you. He did not ask what was the gift for, and Gaara did not explain himself.
When weeks later he walked past Shinki’s bedroom and saw him talking to the blooming cactus in hushed tones, he didn’t say anything either, but a weight was lifted from his chest.
Even in the desert, there can be a growing season.
Love.
He thought he knew what that word meant, even if sometimes it hurt. Yashamaru. His siblings. Naruto. His village. Shikadai.
And then there was Shinki.
He didn’t know what love meant, before.
“It never gets easy, doesn’t it?”
By now, Gaara is not surprised to find Temari in the kitchen at 4 am. It has happened for the last three days since Shinki and Shikadai left on a joint mission, and in a shinobi's life, even at peace, three days is long enough to feel like a routine.
He does not reply, but he takes the cup of coffee she offers. It’s too sweet for his taste, but he says nothing. Her hands are trembling and he feels sympathy for her. She doesn’t have a weak bone in her body, but he has a lot more experience with insomnia under his belt.
They drink half a cup of coffee each, standing there in companionable silence until the first shy rays of daylight start to shine through the windows. Only then he decides to speak.
“Isn’t that the point? To forever care about them, no matter how old and capable they are?”
Temari turns around so now she is fully facing him, and Gaara looks down at his cup, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. He can hear the tears in her voice, and he wonders at what point in life he earned the privilege of Temari showing vulnerability in front of him.
“Yes, it probably is.” She wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her shirt, and Gaara looks to the side to give her some privacy to compose herself. “Want to wake Kankurō up just to annoy him?”
“We are not children, Temari,” is the immediate reply that comes out of his mouth and he regrets it immediately when she presses her fingers on the flesh of his forearm.
“We never were.” Her voice is firm just like when she commanded a full division in the war, and Gaara almost smiles. “Let’s change that now.”
They wake Kankurō up.