#gaarabday

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Age three and he first knows that he is different, though he’s not sure how.

Adults talk above him, quiet and distant and utterly incomprehensible, but their stares weigh heavy on him, pulled down by the indistinct whispers that always lingered just behind him, no matter how far he turned. He tugs on his keeper’s apron, holds himself up against stiff legs, but will not lift his head to look at him, nor will the man look down.

Family is just a word; he’s told it’s what Yashamaru and father are, though he doesn’t understand why other adults are not, or why it’s so important he remember it.

---

Age five and the feeling is growing worse every day.

He knows why everyone stares, knows why they whisper behind cupped hands, knows why they run. Father tells him that it is because he is valuable, he will become the salvation of the village, he does not need to interact with anyone but him and his uncle, stop causing trouble, just stay inside and behave. Yashamaru tries to hide himself from the truth, ignores him when he insists that Shukaku is being mean to him again, just pats the air just above his head – always the air, never his thick and unruly locks – and asks if he wouldn’t rather play with his toys.

Family is expectation and purpose, it is the long lectures on the state of the world and what he will do to change it; it is the siblings he’s heard about, but rarely sees, little more than ghosts at the edges of his mind; it is not-quite-meeting eyes and unfathomable sighs hidden beneath tight smiles.

---

Age six and blood runs thickly into his eye.

The truth has finally released him; he is not loved and he never had been, nothing will change it… but he no longer wants to.

Family is hate and fear and pain, it is the assassin in the night and the rage of a mother carrying out her final, terrible vengeance.

If no one else would love him, then he will just do it himself.

---

Age eight and he hardly notices anything anymore.

A knife cuts the air with barely a hiss, but the woman’s scream sings in the night. Sand crawls across his spoon before it can even reach his mouth, the way the poison splits the skin of its practitioner fascinates him for hours. Through his shield, he can feel the heat of the fire jutsu, it isn’t hot enough. Shadows move too quickly in the periphery of his vision, he drags the assailant out of them and watches the light die in his eyes. The girl had no weapon on her corpse, nor poison or scrolls, the blood spattered on his face dries quickly in the blazing sun.

Family is the rush of his heart as another body falls around him, it is the warmth and love that flows through him like blood flows from a split stomach, it is sand that wraps just slightly too-tight tendrils around his ankles when his demon needs to remind him what it wants.

---

Age twelve and his siblings immediately tense when he enters the room.

Baki’s explanation doesn’t interest him, nor does the prospect of doing anything that would benefit the village whose existence he only tolerates because its fear is on occasion mildly amusing. But the opportunity to leave this dead and empty place, go further into the world than he ever had before and tear away its foundations, announce his existence to it before the whole thing crumbled at his feet… that prospect is all-too enticing, even after father drags him aside one night and tells him that this mission will decide his fate, that if he doesn’t play along like a good child, then he will not be returning.

Family is more trouble than it’s worth. He agrees to the terms, not because of the threat – father doesn’t have the guts, doesn’t have the strength; why else would he leave the insulting attempts on his life to others? – but because of Mother’s whispers of all the games they could play in Konoha, he’d take her there wouldn’t he? Such a good boy.

---

Age thirteen and he is trying so very hard to be human.

His words and actions are clumsy, mimicking what he sees in others, without understanding any of it. Kankuro can’t relax near him, Temari’s words are carefully considered and placed, he watches them through his third eye one night, nursing warm drinks as they speak of a book Temari is reading, of Kankuro’s latest project, pushing and shoving and falling to the floor in breathless laughter and he wonders; is that what it means to a sibling? To be human?

Family is spying and learning and feeling a tight, burning sensation in his dry eyes as Kankuro’s hand brushes his shoulder, even as he brushes it away before the gentle touch can break him. It is the confusion when Temari offers him a novel, her tight-lipped smile as she says she thinks that he would enjoy it.

---

Age fifteen and the stiffness still lingers in his fingers and toes.

He has not been left alone for over a month now – not truly alone, even if they keep their presences hidden, he is aware of the eyes always nearby – shinobi wander into his office without an appointment almost eight times a day, Baki insists upon walking with him to and from council meetings and Matsuri has taken to leaving snacks and fresh cups of tea in his most-frequented rooms, with short notes written in bright ink reminding him of the medics’ advice to stay nourished, He doesn’t want to resent the attention, he’d spent half his life begging to experience it, but the acts fuel his old, comfortable paranoias and the effort to restrain his worst impulses at every friendly greeting exhausts him more than even death had.

Family is the respect and devotion of a community and realising that protection goes both ways. He still asks his siblings to help stem the tide; they agree, but with every delicate chiding by his sister, every sincere inquiry into his health by his brother, the guilt remains.

---

Age twenty and he finally has time to stop and think.

The war had long been over and peace returned, there is still much work to be done, many bridges to be built, many agreements to be made. Even so, he also finds himself for the first time with friendships both intense and casual, and he actually has the free time to pursue them, he talks with Naruto every chance they get, Sakura sends him letters updating him on Konoha’s progress, Shikamaru regularly challenges him to games of shogi, Matsuri gushes to him about her new girlfriend, old lady Ohno makes him promise to keep her funeral small and humble, Baki cries whenever he reaches a new milestone in his career.

Family is learning that grand displays and solemn promises aren’t all that’s needed in a strong relationship, it’s also small gestures and simple understanding.

---

Age twenty-six and, for the first time since his turn, impulse takes him.

The three children look around his home with suspicious eyes, they move with the same care and uncertainty that he once had, as though terrified that a single step out of place will have them thrown back onto the streets. He doesn’t know how to reassure them, but he remembers what his siblings did for him when they first started living together – a pantry always stocked with favoured meals, a space entirely yours to retreat to when the paranoia proved too much, unspoken invitations to join in family activities only when ready – he’s not sure that he is doing it right, but when Araya first calls him ‘dad’ he smiles for what feels like hours.

Family is terror and panic and constant uncertainty, but it is also pride and caring and joy and an indescribable love filling the soul until it was lighter than air.

---

Age fifty-two and Baki’s death destabilises him more than he could have ever imagined.

He and his siblings trudge through the funeral preparations on memory alone, none of them quite present in the room, even as they perform the expected motions and speak of all that their sensei had done for them. Once his children retreat to their old bedroom – still with red eyes for the man they’d called ‘grandpa’ even now that they were all adults, already off starting families of their own – he, Kankuro and Temari huddle together under a blanket, under the stars. They talk of memories, of fathers, both unofficial and blood, of mothers and uncles and the pain of losing each and every one.

Family is looking back and looking forwards at the same time, sharing the loss of loved ones to make the pain just a little more bearable and hoping that when you go, those who live on won’t ever feel such grief for one so undeserving.

---

Age Seventy-nine and there is still so much left to learn.

Life continues, the world running around him, even after he has decided that he no longer has a place in driving it.

Family is something he’s sought his entire life, knowingly or not, but he’s sure he’s found it now; in the friendship of those who found a way to believe in a boy’s humanity when he himself could not, in the respect of a community that had willingly taken him into its arms, despite every hurt he’d brought it, in the smiles and adoration of three children he’d saved from mistakes of the past, in the sensei who had filled a void he’d not even known was there, in the siblings who had pulled him into a bond stronger than any force of nature, in the faint memories of sandy hair and the bitter taste of iron, in the embrace of sand that had never once left him, not even in his darkest moments.

Despite everything, it was more than worth it.

---

It was usually ill-advised to train at the height of noon in the Land of Wind, but they weren’t ones to let such logic deter them from testing their strength.

If the best in Suna couldn’t even fight in their own home – no matter the climate – then what use were they?

Up here, on the top of a small, rocky plateau, the wind that normally just howled and gradually eroded was instead laced with sharp edges, lingering, intangible blades from his sister’s dissipated jutsu, easy to run into if you weren’t paying attention. She threw another with a bellow, its path strong and direct, though some streams branched away, twisting around the huge stones littering their battle-ground, ready to strike at an unprepared back.

It didn’t affect Gaara, his shields were always prepared, though Kankuro was forced from his current hiding place, a quick jerk of his ring finger deploying a smoke canister to disguise his escape.

Karasu immediately shot towards Temari, still recovering her balance from her last attack, Gaara ignored them, instead focusing on his brother’s path – the three-way battle wouldn’t end until both of them were trapped and if Kankuro found a secure location it could take a long time to flush him out of hiding again.

He’d already lost sight of him, but that didn’t matter, his eyes had never been his most reliable tools to begin with.

Sand scattered with every harsh step, it crunched and compressed underfoot, and Gaara could feel every grain. His brother had dropped off the edge of the plateau, likely clinging to the steep face to evade detection, taking advantage of the bust of chaotic wind that followed his sister’s ascent into the air, he let a small scattering of sand follow the wind down and around the edges of the cliff, allowing himself a short smile when it encountered a suspicious obstruction.

Kankuro was crouched against the sheer wall, his feet coated in sticking chakra as his hands continued to manipulate his puppets far above him. Temari was balanced atop her great war-fan, two significantly smaller – but no less deadly – fans in each hand, keeping Karasu at bay.

He’d have to end this soon, Kuroari was still around somewhere and with her new height Temari now had a drastic advantage.

Keeping hidden beneath his sand shield, Gaara started to prepare.

The crunch of wood, cloth and metal slamming into rock sounded distressingly similar to the cracking of bone; he braced himself against the gale that followed it, as Temari’s yell of triumph bounced across their tiny arena.

She was already swooping down once more, with speed and strength that would test even his shields, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a fragmented limb twitch.

Now or never.

At the second his sister was about to crash on top of him, Gaara jumped back, only barely making it unscathed – his taijutsu was still weak – but he did, just in time to see the look on her face shift from effort, to shock, to anger as she did not hit the rocky floor as expected, but sank her fan deep into sand, pulling her heavy fan straight under, her arms quickly following and dragging her body with them.

He gently constricted the sand surrounding her, just enough to restrain her without injury and quickly turned his attention to his other combatant.

A wave of sand easily protected him and Temari from the dozens of broken pieces of puppet that flew towards them from all directions and Gaara finally let his rigid control of his sand go. The plateau beneath him rumbled ominously, before the thin walls of rock that he had been gradually eroding away from the inside out gave way, sand blasting out in all directions.

There was a distant yelp as Kankuro found himself slipping from his position, but Gaara didn’t let him fall far before providing a helpful sand platform to cling to – idly doing the same for he and his sister – as the great rock formation dissolved from under them.

The three watched as the wave of sand crashed down, a new dune created to join the old, clouds of dust rising that could probably be seen from Sunagakure.

“…Seriously?” Kankuro eventually shouted, though his voice was hoarse and panting.

He didn’t bother to answer, instead focusing on carefully lowering them all, avoiding the worst of the lingering clouds.

By the time they were settled back on solid ground, Temari was howling with laughter and bringing a heavy hand down on his head. “Not bad little brother! Good use of terrain, how long were you planning that move?”

He turned to face the area of devastation, already beginning to sift out the odd bits of his brother’s puppets. “About eleven minutes.”

“Seriously?”

She snorted, bending to retrieve her weapon from the sand. “Oh, come on Kankuro, did you even see how cool that was?”

“Do either of you understand the concept of ‘overkill’?”

“Aww, is someone jealous that they can’t destroy a mountain or two?”

The argument – exhausted and half-hearted as it was – didn’t last very long, just enough time for him to finish gathering the last of Karasu into a single pile. Kankuro frowned at it when it was dumped in front of him, muttering darkly about Temari’s complete lack of restraint, but he apparently wasn’t angry enough to resist her when she collapsed next to him, loosely wrapping her arm around his neck and dragging him to lie down with her.

Neither of them asked Gaara if he wanted to join them, but Temari left her free arm splayed out in a silent invitation and his brother gave him a smile, the same one he always gave him whenever Temari was feeling affectionate; he’d not quite worked out what it meant, but it usually came with the expectation that he should come and help him bear some of the attention.

Moving with almost exaggerated care, Gaara settled besides the pair, awkwardly lying down so that his hand could just brush his sister’s if he breathed deep. He almost subconsciously let the sand around them raise into a half-shell, reliving his eyes and skin from the burning sun.

Lying side by side under the shade, the three siblings panted and groaned and idly swatted at limbs when they accidentally elbowed a waist or slapped a hand across a face as they stretched.

Kankuro was the first to speak. “So, Kazekage-sama, you think you’re ready now?”

“I’m not Kazekage yet.”

He snorted, waving his arm in his little brother’s direction, though he only succeeded in smacking Temari’s stomach. “C’mon, it’s only one day away now and you didn’t answer the question.”

Gaara thought on it for a few long, controlled breaths, wondering if he even knew what the answer was.

“…I don’t know. There’s still so much I need to learn.”

“Don’t worry so much,” Temari muttered, daring to brush her little finger against his, “you’ve got us here to help you, and Baki and everyone else. We wouldn’t let you do this alone even if you wanted to.”

He focused on that gentle touch, before slowly curling his finger just a little, until it wrapped loosely around hers. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Kankuro snorted, pushing himself up and idly calling his broken puppets back to him.

“Guess we’d better get started then.”

Sighing as she sat up, Temari gave her youngest brother a long and loving look, before untangling their pinkies and swiftly rising to her feet, her fan slammed into the soft ground, her perfect military stance ruined only by the wicked smile on her lips. “Ready when you are.”

For once, Gaara let the smile tugging at his lips go unchecked, before joining his siblings, his gourd idly reforming against his back. “Lets go change the world.”

---

There was nothing in the world quite like the desert sky at night, especially out here, far from any cities or villages, atop a grand rocky pillar that jutted out of the sand – one of many in the area, covered in ancient, weathered carvings of a people long gone, whether they had shaped these stone monuments themselves, or simply placed their mark upon the desert’s own creation was a mystery lost to time.

Here, the sky was not pure black, or deep blue, or purple, or any other colour, it was all of them. Dark and beautifully rich, dotted with a million stars scattered from the highest point above, to the furthest edges of the horizon; so thoroughly covering the sky that it would be impossible to find a single patch clear of them, whether bright and glittering, or faded and subtle, clustered together or standing strong and alone, together creating the effect of rippling, shimmering waves, a mirror of the shifting sand below them, the impossibly distant twisting colours of a galaxy painted across the dark.

Gaara didn’t know when he’d started to smile, staring up at the sight, but he could only marvel how remarkable it was that he now had them to spare for such trivial things.

There was no moon tonight, which he was a little thankful for – those nights when it sat full and heavy in the sky were always a struggle for him, even now – and the winds howled, as they always did in the Land of Wind, ripping around the formation he sat upon as though screaming its rage at the obstruction in its path, willing it to crumble at its touch.

The monolithic pillar held firm against the onslaught, but Gaara knew the wind would win in the end. It always did.

He made no effort to shield himself from the bitter cold; though his chakra levels had always been great, age was starting to wear away at them and he would rather face the full force of the freezing desert night, than potentially lessen his ability to protect his village should the worst happen, besides, he rather liked the feeling of being so connected to his desert, at one with the land that had shaped his very being.

No doubt his family would scold him for staying out so late, Temari would snap about his reckless disregard for his own health, Kankuro would likely make a joke worrying about his age – ignoring the fact that he himself was sporting far more grey than brown in his hair these days – his children would want to bundle him up and send him to bed, fretting in that way that made him wonder what he’d ever done to deserve such love and concern, Matsuri would urge him to see a medic if he so much as coughed the next day…

Still, he’d always felt a kind of comfort out amongst the dunes, that not even his village and family could offer him. It was a place of refuge, where he was free to let his mind travel as far and free as it wished; whether it be treading old, long-hidden paths of his memories; or focusing so entirely on the sounds and sights and smells and touches of the desert, that he became a part of the landscape; or, like now, looking both backwards andforwards, seeing how far things had come, how much further they could go and accepting his part in both.

At the edge of the world, a crest of orange was just starting to spill into the purple, as the sun prepared to push the beautiful, calm darkness away.

He couldn’t stay here much longer, but there was still something he’d come out here to do…

Swaying to the rhythm of the winds roaring around him, Gaara sang – low and soft, words whipped away by the wind’s grasping fingers before they even left his mouth – an old Suna song that Yashamaru had taught him once, a song of hope and courage. A prayer for the future.

Carried away on the wind, he hoped that the desert would accept it.

Gaara stood, not quite biting back the grunt as weakened joints clicked their displeasure. He had done his part, now he needed to return home, after all, he didn’t want to miss the Kazekage’s inauguration.

---

“You sound a little down today, is something troubling you?”

Gaara’s gaze stayed fixed on the fine earthen bowl in front of him, entirely focused on the brush in his hand, rather than his company. “Do I not always sound troubled,” he muttered, carefully painting a smooth line of black onto the golden-brown base.

There was a long pause, the silence only broken by the woman’s long hum as she thought. He was quite used to it by now, Ohno’s words were always well considered before she spoke them – but he was just as cautious with his own, if not more, so their strange relationship had worked out rather well for them.

Finally finding her response, she clicked her tongue before saying, “Perhaps, or perhaps you use that naturally troubled voice of yours to hide your true feelings.”

He only grunted, leaning back from his task to re-coat his brush and consider where he wanted this pattern to go next; something geometric, or maybe he should push himself to try something more naturalistic…

Ohno-san offered no advice – though considering that she was blind, that was unsurprising – just sat at her potting wheel, cutting the edges of a round vase into petals with her steady hands. Together they worked in comfortable quiet, the bustle of people walking the streets barely reached them here, in the back room of an old and unfrequented shop, so the scrape of a tool against dried clay and the whisper of his brushstrokes sang clear.

Gaara wasn’t quite sure how this ritual had started, he’d only come here to replace a cup accidentally broken by Temari in a fight with Kankuro, neither of them had seemed to care, it was one missing in a set of twenty and no one had used it since their parents were both alive. But Gaara had felt uncomfortable knowing that the set was incomplete, so he’d tracked the maker’s mark to this run-down pottery shop on the outskirts of Suna’s market district, fully intending to find a single cup and leave before his presence tainted the merchant’s image.

But, when he’d gone inside, there’d been no one there and no obvious means of summoning a shopkeeper, so he’d lingered in the most shadowed corner of the store he could find, idly studying the plates and pots on display.

The work was beautiful, but everything was coated in a fine layer of the sandy dust that pervaded every inch of the desert city, most of it had clearly not been touched in days, maybe even weeks. By the time someone finally materialised from the back rooms, the night chill was just beginning to set in and he’d managed to go through the entire stock, clearing off the dirt and marvelling at the patterns and amazing shapes to be found.

And clearly the elderly woman hadn’t been expecting anyone, as she was already halfway to the door before he cleared his throat to draw her attention.

Despite the late hour and her being completely unprepared for an actual customer, she had listened to his problem and, even though she had to inform him that the set was one of a kind and the designs had been lost with her parents, she’d smiled and wished him a good night when he left.

When he returned four days later, he found that the store was almost exactly as he remembered, with only a handful of items missing. The woman – Ohno, she’d asked hm to call her – had come out after hearing his movement and had once again engaged him in a polite conversation, she told him about her work and remarked how strange it was that a young boy like himself had any interest in pottery.

By the end of that visit, Gaara had worked out that the old woman was blind; she never quite looked you in the eye and her movements were too careful, hands brushing against counters and walls as she went to show him her most recent piece.

Besides, there was no other way that anyone in the village outside of his siblings and Baki would tolerate his presence, let alone cheerfully talk about their art to him.

She’d never asked his name and he’d never given it, but he kept returning a few times a week, eventually she’d insisted he come into her studio so that she could continue working as they talked, then she’d shown him how she went from a heavy lump of clay to a tall, graceful vase, how she would shape and twist, cut and fold, until she had created the most elaborate and beautiful of shapes, entirely through touch, her unseeing eyes closed the entire time so she could focus on her hands.

Eventually, he would just come straight to the workshop, greeting her as he settled down to watch and talk with someone who couldn’t judge him for his history.

After a few more weeks, she’d offered to let him paint something, as she apparently felt bad that he was sitting so quietly indulging an old woman with nothing to do his with hands – something that she couldn’t even imagine, her wandering fingers always looking to fiddle with her tools and sculpting tiny figures of animals as she waited for a cup to dry or the kiln to come to temperature – he hadn’t minded simply sitting and listening, but he also found the act of bringing colour and pattern to the amazing forms Ohno created oddly soothing.

Very rarely, she would be called away to serve a customer, but their meetings were usually uninterrupted. Her family was mostly dead, she had told him in their third month of meeting, frowning as she worked, collapsing the vase several times unsatisfied with the shape, she had some distant cousins and great-nieces and nephews, but they’d not spoken in years, she had lived alone for years now and was happy that way.

“You’re thinking too loud again.”

Gaara blinked at his bowl, before glaring as he noticed that he’d been holding his brush over it for a while now, enough that paint had dripped down and pooled under it, ruining the pattern he’d been planning.

Maybe he could still save it though, work with the mistake instead of trying to cover it up… “I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Ohno chuckled. “I’ve got good ears.”

“…The vase I painted last week, it wasn’t in the shop when I came in this morning.”

“Ah yes-” her careful carving halted for a brief second, before starting up again “-I actually got a customer come in yesterday, he was very interested in that piece, thought the detailed painting was astounding.”

He frowned, somehow uncomfortable with that notion. “You sold it?”

Brown eyes flickered open to glance at him for a brief second, even though she couldn’t see anymore, some habits died hard apparently. “No, I was going to, but he dropped it after I told him that it was decorated by Sabaku no Gaara, didn’t even pay for the damage! The nerve of some people-”

The rest of her words were utterly drowned out by the static exploding in his ears, his hand dropped, brush streaking a thick, black line across his design, the ringing words Sabaku no Gaara, Sabaku no Gaara, Sabaku no Gaara bouncing around his head until it was a deafening roar.

His breathing had immediately hitched and now he was having trouble keeping it controlled, even as he stuttered out a short, “You know who I am.”

Ohno’s laughter was croaky and guttural, but she was smiling wide. “Of course! You think I wouldn’t remember who originally purchased that old tea-set that brought you here in the first place? I was only a girl at the time, but it’s not every day you get to meet the Kazekage.”

“…You never asked me to leave, even knowing what I am.” He pulled his brush away with exaggerated care – a pointless gesture, he’d already ruined the painting.

There was another long pause, him holding his hand as though that might stop its shaking, her easily scraping the edge of a petal smooth and fine, before she finally replied, voice warm and smile tender. “You’ve been kind enough to keep an old woman company, I think that you deserve at least a little sincere friendship for that.”

All the air fled from his lungs and he simply couldn’t think of of an even remotely satisfactory response. But, when they’d each finished their current project and she was walking him out of the shop into the cold night, he knew that this would not be a bond he would throw away lightly.

“…I will see you tomorrow, Ohno.”

---

For as long as he’d understood what ‘parenthood’ meant, Gaara had been adamant that he’d never have children.

Even if he’d felt completely comfortable around them – and he never had, not when his earliest experiences with other kids were so invariably negative – the idea of being responsible for bringing a new life into the world and raising it to be a good and contented being… Well, he had very little knowledge to draw from and absolutely no intention of ever recreating his own childhood.

But, that was before.

“Daaaad, I can’t find my owl shirt anywhere.”

Carefully marking his place in his book, Gaara turned to look at his son, standing in the doorway, rocking on his heels and fiddling with his hair.

“Have you looked in your wardrobe?”

Araya whined, pushing his mask up to glare at him. “Obviously, and Shinki’s and Yodo’s and in the washing pile!”

He laid his book back on his desk, staring at it for a long moment as he thought through the problem at hand. “When did you last wear it?”

“Uh, sometime last week, I think.”

Pushing himself to his feet, Gaara walked over, pausing to uncertainly pat the boy’s shoulder as he passed into the hall. “Then, let’s look for it together, have you been through the clean laundry pile yet?” he asked, already creating a third eye to send in the opposite direction – the conflicting visual feeds were always disorienting, no matter how many times he used the jutsu, but he knew the halls of his home well enough that he could walk them blind if he must.

Gaara had been surprised to discover that much of parenthood was made of this; solving straightforward, banal, everyday troubles of lost belongings and frustrating schoolwork, he spent more time comforting his children after a nasty fall and repairing their clothes than he did establishing in them a strict moral compass – though that was also an important aspect.

There were always struggles of course, raising even one child was apparently enough for most people, taking in three orphans had proven to be an incredibly steep learning curve, especially with such troubled children. There was frustration, there was arguing, there were long nights spent staring at the ceiling wondering why he’d ever thought he would be capable of this monumental task.

But that just made the results that much more worthwhile; knowing that he’d kept another child from ever falling into that deep pit of despair and hatred that he’d once had to claw himself out of, was worth any number of sleepless nights and terrified uncertainty.

Besides, bringing a smile to their faces was often as simple as cooking a favourite meal, or complimenting a new skill shown off to him and, despite that ease, every smile gifted to him made his chest tighten and flutter, in a way that was neither painful nor unpleasant and always had him hoping to feel it just once more.

Their search didn’t take long, apparently the lavender shirt – emblazoned with a pattern of cute, cartoon owls – had fallen behind the counter when laundry was being sorted into piles. His clothing finally recovered, Araya had wrapped his arms around his father and rushed back to his room to change, Gaara stayed exactly as he was though, carefully memorising the warmth of another person’s touch, the giggle to his son’s voice as he’d thanked him, how the boy nearly reached his shoulders now…

Change, he’d long ago learned, was a good thing, it could heal wounds and broken hearts, bring a war-torn world together and teach a despairing person how to hope once more. But he couldn’t help thinking that this change of heart was the best one of all.