qasmavia

Yes, yes she is. 

The truth is she would be happy with nearly anything he came up with as long as she felt like he did it for her. She’s not at all bothered by his tone, both familiar enough with the way he is to not be offended and selfish enough to be happy she got what she wanted. 

His reward for helping her -- if he wants to call it that, or even values such a thing -- is an awkward seven year old smiling up at him. Temari has her hands clasped behind her back as well, to stop herself from reaching up to play with her hair. 

She’d rather be looking in the mirror. She always likes her hair after Sasa does it, and she wants to admire it before she goes and shows it off to others. 

Temari shifts her balance back onto her heels. There is a lot of energy contained in that gangly little body of hers, and it’s taking every bit of self control she has not to zoom out and find a mirror to see what he has done. 

 It was an unfair accusation. Gaara knew that. Rasa’s youngest child had been the pariah, a relic, more burden than son, but Temari had been the golden egg: Propped on a pedestal of idealism and a firm hand, her future written long before her birth. Kankuro had been caught between it all, an afterthought. And their father? For years, Gaara had viewed him as the puppetmaster behind the scenes, but his death had cast a vulnerable light upon him, and Gaara now recognized him as no more in control than the strings of the puppets themselves.

 Was there no mastermind orchestrating the destruction of their shattered family? Had they simply survived a series of coincidental events each more inhuman than the last? He grappled with the concept that there was no cosmic force at play, no predestination to blame, only their own circumstances and the choices which had laid the groundwork to them, and found the thought too dark to bear.

 The door to the deli jingled open and hit the wall with a bang. The interior was all reddish linoleum dulled by age; the smell of oil and oregano clinging to the tiles like a mold. A plastic-veneered counter jutted into the space, chipped and yellowed at the edges. A vintage letterboard sign hung above it, untouched since the first World War. Two cooks hollered at each other in Italian over the crackle of frying meat. Gaara grabbed a menu - a laminated page the size of a posterboard, offensively oversaturated, sharpied over to reflect changes in prices over the years - more for something to do with his hands than a genuine desire to eat. He did not sit down. His voice was brittle as bones.

 “Then what did you see? What did you need that he didn’t give you?” Here Temari stood before him, her nose turned up in judgment, an accomplished career and burgeoning family behind her. Despite it all, she had made it. What more could she want?

Oh, if she knew half the things he thought. How quickly she would rid him of his stupid, self centered notions that he had been the only one to suffer from their fathers approach on life. Watching Gaara, Temari takes that moment to be thankful of what she did learn from her dad: that not everything is about you. 

She’s less miserable for it. She’s not the kind of person to take a grievance and relive it. She doesn’t press unhelpful thoughts against her skin like knives and recreate old wounds just because the sensation is familiar.

“Do you want a list?” She asks, taking her own copy of the menu, looking it over and then quickly deciding she doesn’t care what she eats. Her question sits in the open air for a moment before she decides to clarify.

I’m way more into the idea of writing threads on Temari than I am of doing asks. They’re just less exciting with her. I want to interact with people. 

 “I didn’t have a choice,” he snapped. After all this time did Temari understand nothing of him? Nothing of their father? Nothing of the way he had snuffed the life from his youngest son, from every inch of that graveyard of a house, and built an wall around himself so cold and impenetrable he brought his secrets - quite literally - to the grave?

He turned again and stopped at the light, his fists clenching and unclenching in the pocket of his sweatshirt, a steely, flat-faced look piercing Temari’s eyes dead-center. His body weight teetered over the edge of the curb, as though chancing a hit in traffic was preferable to standing any closer to his sister than he was.

 “He was too busy raising you.” There was no resentment in his voice, no jealousy. Only the empty facts of he who had become an orphan long before his last parent perished.

“Oh please.” The comment is out of her mouth quickly, like she’s been waiting for reason to be exasperated. All of this family drama has been exhausting. It’s been this untouched, rotting carcass (of their mother and their uncle and all sorts of other important things) in the center of all their lives and no one has ever had the energy or sense of self to touch it.

“You’re not the only one he failed.” This is her first time speaking this thought to anyone else, and it still felt like blasphemy, even to family. Gaara needed validation and she needed to confess. “Do you really think I look at him and only see success? He made a mess of everything.”

Temari has certain personalities she’s drawn to. She knows this about herself, and considering the fact that she enjoys the people she makes time for, it’s not a quirk of hers she thinks she’ll be fixing anytime soon. 

Shikamaru fits more than a few criteria. She likes the conversation (long debates about politics, sources she has to go and research before she even considers conceding a point, random late night bullshit when her mind needs a break from academia). She likes that he’s not so easy to rile up. She likes the effortless way he handles her personality. 

It’s nice to be herself around someone and not have to worry about bruising an ego. To just be. He takes it all in stride anyway. 

He’s her partner now for this end of the year gathering, company she’s chosen to keep instead of socializing with the rest of their friends. It’s quieter out on the back porch. Just the silence that comes with the cold and the crunch of snow as she shifts her weight. 

The smoking habit is a bit gross, she thinks. But it’s his habit, not hers. 

She’s distracted by the lights when she sees it tucked away -- a not so discreet but not so obvious bit of mistletoe hanging right above them. And she thought she’d done an impressive job avoiding the plants Ino had hung around the house. 

That’s an interesting thought. She gives him a look - he hasn’t noticed, probably busy thinking whatever it is drunk men think - and then looks back up at the plant. 

Not the worst suggestion the universe has made. She wouldn’t be against it. 

But, again, he hasn’t noticed, and she isn’t going to be the one to point it out. It’s just something fun to humor.