So, since Gaara's birthday
was the 19th, I decided I'd write something to celebrate, and it just so
happened to fit quite nicely with the events in this story, and I figured I'd
make this a prequel of sorts. Hope you enjoy!
A Prelude
“Kankuro, what in all hell
are you doing?”
“Whaddaya mean, what am I
doing?” He gave his sister an arch look, cheek smeared with something Temari
assumed was batter. “I thought we were making a birthday cake, here, but
all you’ve done so far is pace back and forth with the damn recipe book
and nag at me about getting the directions wrong.”
His sister’s eyes narrowed.
“Wait a—”
“Maybe,” Kankuro’s
voice overpowered hers, “if you put the book on the counter so I can see
what I’m supposed to do, we won’t have a problem anymore.”
There is a reason why
siblings—these siblings in particular—should never be encouraged to partake in
the joys of teamwork of their own volition, because the probability for excess
name-calling, personal insults, and bodily harm increases tenfold. Temari and
Kankuro operated much more efficiently when they were demanded to cooperate; at
least that way, the threat of dire consequences applied to both
indiscriminately, and they had no choice but to set aside their differences and
get the job done.
Perhaps the root of the
problem lie with the fact that they each took a perverse joy in taunting one
another, and did so as often as opportunity arose. On the outside, it may have
appeared as though their relationship was strained, however the contrariness
was just their way of expressing love.
The term “touchy-feely”
didn’t exist in the family vocabulary.
Straight out of a scene
from an old western movie, the blonde kunoichi paused mid step—she’d been
making another trek across the kitchen—and stared hard at her brother, the aura
of her chakra nearly visible.
“Put it on the counter,
huh?” She grated between clenched teeth.
Kankuro stared back
impassively. “Right. Or, better yet, why don’t you postmark it to flippin’
Konoha, for all the good it’s doing here. That airhead Naruto can dictate the
instructions over the phone, and we may have a cake when the next ice
age rolls around, if we’re lucky.”
As if she were a fish flung
from its tank, Temari opened and closed her mouth, speechless until her
countenance changed.
“Ah,” she said calmly, and
slammed the book so hard on the counter that the dishes in the cupboards
rattled, and an egg Kankuro had set near the edge for a moment toppled off.
Unfortunately, when eggs
fall, they do not simply bounce a few times and roll like a marble. They splatter.
And boy, did it splatter.
Since he hadn’t been
wearing shoes, Kankuro felt slimy, raw whites trickle between his toes, and he
was reminded of the time he stepped on a slug as a kid.
Slugs burst.
He shuddered.
“Oh, that was real slick,
psycho.” Features screwed up in a grimace, he lifted his foot as high off the
ground as he could. The white was already becoming sticky, and he wanted it off.
Temari blinked, somewhat
astounded at the supreme mess a single egg can create. She hadn’t anticipated
her endeavor would yield such a dramatic outcome, to be honest. It seemed like
a good idea then.
But rage makes everything
seem like a good idea.
“Well if you hadn’t
provoked me—” she interrupted herself when she noticed her brother had his foot
in the sink. “Kankuro! That’s gross!”
“Whatever. You put dirty
dishes in the sink,” he retorted absently, squeezing a blob of antibacterial
soap onto his skin.
“It’s not the same
concept.” Temari’s reply was exasperated. “Lord knows what kind of nasty germs
cling to the bottoms of your feet…”
She heard the sound of the
tap running.
“For cripes sake, woman,”
the puppet master muttered as he scrubbed. “You think your mouth is any
better? There are major diseases that can be spread by breathing on
someone—”
“Okay, okay, point taken.”
Once her brother started,
it was well nigh impossible to get him to stop, and, fascinating a subject as
STDs were—she knew without a doubt he’d branch off in that direction—she wasn’t
in the mood to hear about them while they were baking.
“Fabulous.”
Temari’s fingers twitched,
so she balled them into fists. If she beat the snot out of him now, they’d
never finish the cake, and she was determined Gaara have a cake on his
birthday.
“Why? I don’t even like cake,”
he said when she proposed the idea, clearly unenthusiastic about the whole
thing.
But he did like cake. It
was the hoo-ha accompanying it that he didn’t like.
Temari ignored his
preferences, naturally, and insisted his birthday was going to be a normal affair,
with all niceties observed.
Gaara decided he would
sleep in on the morning of January 19. Now that he actually could sleep,
he discovered he was quite good at it.
The only downside was that
being woken up evoked his temper, which meant he was usually grouchy the rest
of the day.
Let them suffer his wrath
if they dared.
“What on earth did
you do now, idiot?”
Temari and Kankuro both
looked around and saw Sakura standing in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over
her chest. There was amusement in her eyes, and her cheeks dimpled when she
smiled. “Couldn’t make it to the bathroom?”
“Stuff it, Princess,”
Kankuro said, rinsing the last of the soap from his—eggless—foot. “Blame the
nutcase over there.” He gestured at his sister. “She needs anger management in
the worst way.”
“Do you want me to get my
fan? I’ll go get my fan, so help me.”
The medic raised her brows.
She noticed the egg on the floor when she came in, but she no longer had to ask
what happened.
Though she’d only been a
resident at the Kazekage’s estate for a few weeks, Sakura, always observant,
believed she understood the dynamics of the family well enough to read between
the lines.
For all their quirks, she
had come to appreciate these people more than she ever thought she would. Sure,
she fully supported the cause that brought her here, but it was the Kazekage
and his siblings who cemented the deal, reasserted the passion for her job,
made her feel as though she were accomplishing something.
She grinned. “So the cake
was a bust?”
“What cake?”
Temari appeared mutinous. “Kankuro…”
The red flag was out,
waving in the gale.
“I’ll help,” Sakura
intervened. “I’ve been told I’m a pretty decent baker.”
And when she kicked Kankuro
in the shins a second later, she explained sweetly after he protested that her
vision had gotten sharp due to the nature of her training.
It was improper to stick
one’s tongue out at one’s sister, after all.
“Shuddup…go
‘way…”
Beep, beep, beep.
“I said,
shuddup…bas’rd…”
Beep, beep, beep.
“ARGH!”
Sabaku no Gaara, esteemed
Kazekage of Sunagakure and Sex God Extraordinaire—deemed by his legions of
female fans—flung his arm out aimlessly and mashed the button on his alarm
clock twice, which probably wasn’t necessary, but he didn’t care. Piece of
trash deserved rough treatment.
Screeching like that so
damned early…
His eyes shot open.
Ten o’clock.
Ten o’clock.
“One of them must’ve done
it,” he croaked, voice hoarse from sleep. “That alarm wasn’t set when I went to
bed.”
Damn meddlesome
ingrates.
Gaara rolled over on his
back to stare moodily at the ceiling. Birthdays. Bah. So he was a year older. Big
deal. He didn’t feel any different, wasn’t on the verge of some major epiphany
that would change him forever from this point forward. He’d already danced
that dance, right? Dying had to count.
“Oh no, of course not,” he
grumbled petulantly, flinging his red silk sheets to the side. “God forbid I
don’t want to make a fuss about some stupid—” he untangled one leg— “worthless—”
and the other— “event.”
Though the day of his birth
wasn’t exactly worthless, as the many individuals whose lives he’d
touched, either positively or negatively, could attest.
Motor skills slightly
impaired, Gaara slithered out of bed and almost fell flat on his face when he
went to take a step. Cursing like a slattern, he steadied himself on the
bedpost.
Wonderful start, indeed.
He knew it was juvenile,
but he couldn’t resist saying, “World, you suck.”
Yes, yes, and it would
continue to do so, too, thanks very much.
Whiner.
“Yeah? I’m allowed.” The
redhead—or, more appropriately, bed head—stuck his nose in the air. “I’m
Kazekage, damn it. I’ve got a pointy hat, ha!”
It was strange, not having
that other awareness around to answer him. Shukaku had always been very vocal.
Nary a minute went by without him spouting a wisecrack here, a complaint there.
The worst were his blatant
demands for blood. Selfish and self-serving, the tanuki was ruthless toward his
vessel when he wanted it, filling Gaara’s head with malice and hunger and needles,
sharp, deadly, destructive.
And while he didn’t miss
that, the silence now was still odd.
Stumbling into the
bathroom, he flicked on the lights—that blinded him temporarily—and peered at
his reflection in the mirror.
Puffy, half-lidded eyes.
Stubble—must be shaved. Hair…atrocious.
“Oy. Hello, junkie.”
He sighed.
Eighteen. Eighteen years.
He sighed again, though
this one contained a hint of desperation.
Going downstairs meant
attention, coddling, well-wishes. Going downstairs meant embarrassment,
and that was why he resisted it.
Going downstairs meant an
exchange, a glance, a touch…
What possessed him to ask
her to stay here? What naive whim had convinced him everything would be fine,
go ahead and do it, she’s just a medic, just a girl, just a fiery personality
that’ll consume you like an inferno and only leave smoke and ashes behind as a
memento…
He allowed his forehead to
fall against the glass with a thump.
“I don’t need this,” he
groused. “Don’t want it, either.”
But if he knew anything, he
knew you couldn’t always get what you wanted. Who tells the heart when to love
and when to hate? To conquer an emotion, you have to first admit it exists, and
that is the dangerous part. Admittance brings the thing you’ve avoided into the
open, forces you to see it for what it is, and by then it might be too late to
bury it.
Gaara was inexperienced
where love was concerned. Until very recently, he wasn’t able to distinguish
between the many facets because he didn’t understand them. Love for your family
was not the same as love for your friends, and love for your friends didn’t
equate to love for…for someone, the person who dominated your thoughts,
your fears, your dreams…
Time had taught him the
difference. Time. Choices. Repercussions.
And a medic from Konoha
named Haruno Sakura.
Ironic. Eighteen years
without her, and she was so twined up in his life that to cut her off was
suicide. Like amputating a limb and watching the blood pool on the pavement.
The Kazekage closed his
eyes.
She was everywhere,
and he had no explanation for it. None.
Except for one.
“Shower,” Gaara said
promptly.
It was his birthday. May as
well milk it for all it was worth, even if he didn’t much care for the concept.
One should not have to
think on one’s birthday, especially about girls.
“Smells
divine, doesn’t it?” Sakura’s expression was blissful as she inhaled the aroma.
She loved chocolate almost as much as she adored strawberry. Almost.
“Be careful, Princess, or
you’ll get frosting on your nose,” Kankuro chided.
Temari made a smug noise. “Aren’t
you glad I suggested we do this?” She said, poking her brother in the side,
where he was incredibly ticklish.
“Woah!”
Sakura snickered. “Can I
leave you two alone for a second?”
“Where are you going?”
Kankuro wondered as he tried to fend off more attacks from his sister—and
failed.
“To find the birthday boy.”
“Good luck with that,”
Temari smirked. “I switched his alarm on while he was asleep, so he’s probably
in a pleasant mood—AUGH!”
Kankuro had struck back.
Shaking her head, Sakura
wandered out of the kitchen and down the hall a ways, mentally ticking off
possibilities. She doubted he was in his room, because listlessness bothered
him, and, in his words, “bedrooms encourage that sort of thing.” She knew he
didn’t have any meetings today, since his siblings went under his nose and
cancelled them, so he wouldn’t be in the council hall…there was a chance he
could’ve holed up in the library, though she doubted that, too…
Logic pointed to the study,
and Sakura was a logical person.
So she went to the study.
The door was cracked, and
light filtered through the gap.
Slowly, she eased it the
rest of the way open, poked her face in, and had to check herself fast, or she
would’ve blown her cover.
The Kazekage sat behind his
desk with his headphones on, chin resting in his palm as his free hand used a
pen to tap out a rhythm on the desk’s surface. He seemed to be staring blankly
at a random point in the distance, and he had yet to realize she was there.
Sakura bit her lip.
He was singing.
“Sweet home Alabama, na na na na nuh na. Where the skies are soooo bluwaugh—” Gaara finally perceived his
audience.
The pen dropped, and he
flushed.
“How long have you been
there?” His tone was harsh from humiliation, and he yanked the headphones off.
“Not very,” Sakura replied,
on the verge of laughter. She coughed once. “Er…Happy Birthday.”
He developed a twitch in
his right eye. “What’s so happy about it?”
“It’s just an axiom. You
say it to people on their birthdays.”
The twitching continued. “I
see.”
Sakura released her breath
in a whistle. “Um…we made you a cake.”
“Mm-hm.” She heard me
sing…oh dear lord, she heard me sing…
“Because it’s your
birthday.”
“I never would’ve guessed.”
This is bad. Bad, bad, bad…now she knows I’m tone-deaf…
The medic appeared as
though she wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. I’d smack him if he
weren’t a Kage…
“You’re obligated to eat
it, Kazekage-sama,” she said, voice clipped. “So come along.” With that,
she spun on her heel and strode out, aware that her conduct teetered on
insubordinate.
“Spoiled brat,” she
muttered.
Gaara blinked.
Did she say, “come along?”
to him?
The other eye twitched.
“Obligated. I’m not
obligated. It’s my birthday!”
But he stood anyway.
“There’d better be coffee
ready.”
Women were so difficult.
A tense
hush hung in the air, so tense it was almost suffocating. Three pairs of eyes
were focused on him, and the thing he’d placed on the dining room table,
next to a stack of dirty plates and the quarter of the cake that remained.
“What is it?”
Kankuro and Sakura
exchanged glances, and Temari exhaled impatiently. “It’s one of those birds
that you set near a cup of water and then give the head a tap, you know?” She
grabbed Kankuro’s glass and plunked it in front of them to demonstrate. “Look.”
She tapped it, and the
bird’s head began to bob like a seesaw, the beak touching water each time it
went down.
Sakura giggled. “How cute!”
Kankuro snorted. “Absolutely
adorable. It suits you, little bro.”
Gaara gave him a look.
“Bite me.” He then turned to his sister. “Were you high or something when you
bought this? I mean…what am I supposed to do with it?”
“I don’t know. Put it on
your desk.”
“And distract myself.
Great.”
“Shut up. Your office is so
boring. It needs personality.”
“Whose personality
is this, exactly?” Gaara poked the bird, which bobbed energetically. “Maybe if
I was a seventy-year-old eccentric—”
“Here,” Sakura interrupted,
shoving a small gift-wrapped box at him. “Mine next.”
He stared at it, a strange
fluttering sensation in his chest that he instantaneously quashed.
So she got me a present.
Doesn’t mean anything…
“Well?”
He started.
“Oh. Sorry.” Smooth,
dumb ass.
Tearing off the paper—red—he
lifted the flap of the box.
Gaara’s mouth quirked.
She had gotten him a coffee
mug.
“Nice one, Princess,”
Kankuro complimented, ruffling her hair.
Temari reached for her
camera. “Picture!”
The Kazekage frowned. “I
don’t—”
“Just smile, Gaara-sama,”
Sakura told him, and flashed a smile of her own.
So he smiled.
And whenever he was offered
coffee afterward, he wouldn’t accept unless he had his mug.