Chapter Text
Sandstorms.
It was always the same: they appeared from one minute to the other, if you were fortunate they only started as comparably small storms, and you would only feel like being roughly treated with a piece of sandpaper. If Lady Luck played the bitch again there would be no warning, no small winds but a fully-fledged tornado from one minute to the other and in the worst case no town, village, or hideout visible. Thankfully, he had never experienced these kind of storms while outside of Suna. Fortunately the storm today had been one of the slower kinds. But nonetheless, no matter what strength the storm had, afterwards there always was the questionable fun of having sand in every wrinkle and fold of your clothing. And no matter for how long he had been living in the desert, he would never get used to that and never be able to predict these fuckin' storms.
Temari could do it, she had a knack for wind and weather in general. But he hadn't, and Temari was surely asleep, safe and sound in her bed, untroubled by the coming storm. It was far after midnight as he himself returned home from his latest mission, slightly cursing at the trail of sand his sandals left in the entrance.
He didn't bother to put on the lights, he knew all the corridors by heart. And hopefully not only Temari was asleep, but Gaara as well. The concept of needing to sleep was new to his brother, and he only adjusted slowly to it. Maybe light was enough to disturb his well-earned sleep, Kankurou wasn't sure of that, so he didn't put it on in the first place. But the lights in the Kazekage's office had been out, so Kankurou deemed that a good sign that Gaara was at least trying to get some rest.
On his way to his own room he briefly stopped at his brother's door, and listened.
No sound. Good.
No sound meant hopefully no nightmares. At first, the nightmares had been terrible, and Gaara had had his problems with them. Not that Gaara talked a lot about his nightmares, he liked to keep them to himself. Kankurou and Temari had tried to worm details out of their brother, but mostly he only delivered a small and vague description, and said he would learn to deal with it. Kankurou had agreed with himself that maybe it was best not to torment his brother with wanting too much details, only to offer over and over again a friendly ear. And as the months after Shukaku's extraction went by, Gaara's dreams became less terrible. He had started on his own to confide more details in his siblings, and by all Kankurou knew he was glad not to have those dreams himself, and sorry for Gaara that he had to live through the worst memories of his life again and again in his dreams. But if Kankurou knew something, than that Gaara was strong. And that, even if he didn't like talking about his dreams, Gaara had learned that he, if the unlikely case occurred that his own strength wasn't enough, could always confide in his siblings for help.
But that knowledge didn't prevent Kankurou from silently looking after his brother every once in a while. Stopping by in his office to make sure Gaara got some rest sometimes. Taking up with the nasty paperwork. Dealing with council elders. Stopping by his brother's door in the mid of the night to make sure he did sleep. He never opened the door, a question of privacy. He only listened for unusual noises. But tonight all was silent. Perfectly fine.
He smiled a bit as he took on walking again towards his own room some doors further down the corridor. The smell of sawdust and oil was familiar, he finally was at home. He had no idea what time it was, only that it was after midnight, and decided it was best he didn't try to figure it out precisely. It would only make him count the hours of sleep he had left until the morning, and he was nearly sure there weren't as many as he would have liked. Not that he was tired, he was used to live with only a couple of hours of sleep, but sometimes he wished to for once not be woken up by that nasty alarm clock at six, but at a more friendly time. Eight would be fine. Or even nine.
But as a shinobi, additionally as the brother of the Kazekage, one didn't have that privileges (there were others, of course, like a housekeeper who came thrice a week or the benefit that nearly nobody talked back to him if he went to get a sake and was – minor technicality – not old enough to drink alcohol at all). But he didn't complain, after all, he had chosen that life for himself. So six it was, no matter how many hours there were left for sleeping.
And so he placed his backpack on the floor next to his workshop and crossed his room towards the small adjacent chamber, throwing his hat and kimono half-heartedly into a corner, leaving another small trail of sand. The chamber once had had no particular use (Kankurou deemed that former inhabitants of the palace had used it as a broom closet or something like that), until he had decided to use it as a storage room for everything he needed to apply and remove his face paint. A small table, pots of purple paint, some in other colours, various brushes, a book about the traditional use of kumadori paint in theatre (he had read it at least three times in his childhood). He even had installed a small mirror in this chamber. Applying the paint was a ritual, and it took its time, removing it wasn't as time-consuming. But it took its time nonetheless, and sometimes he thought of just not removing it for saving that time. When he had been younger, he hadn't removed the paint every night, only restored it in the morning, or even left it smudgy to annoy his father. That had been a time when he had used the paint as a mask, as a way to cover his own self, until he had believed in the image the paint had conveyed, the image of a cunning, cruel show-off. Those times were over now. But he still used the paint, and to make sure it never became a mask again he always removed it in the evening, for council meetings or when spending the rare private time he had with his family. He made no exceptions when it was late at night.
Once his face was clean, he left the chamber, got rid of his shirt and trousers and grabbed fresh clothes. Silently, and again in complete darkness, he left his room for the shower. Every time he entered that room he couldn't help but be thankful that they had enough fresh water to maintain such things as private showers. Bathing was a rarity in the desert, and usually they only did it once a month, but the fresh water supply was good enough to guarantee every person in Suna a shower each day. And even if most people only saw it as a necessity to clean themselves, nothing to enjoy, Kankurou never fully got used to the sensation of water pouring down his skin. It always felt like one of the rare rainy days he had lived to see, and he couldn't help but enjoy the feeling of water, and always lifted his face towards the shower head to have the water trickling down his face. Showers were in a sense the complete opposite of living in a desert – no hot sun, no wind, no high temperatures (at least not for him), no dryness. He never understood why people who were exposed to heat the whole day bothered to warm up the water for the shower. If they wanted heat, they only had to step outside. No, a shower had to be cold and refreshing. And he never turned the tap back to the warm water. He just loved it when his dear sister forgot that he liked the water to be cold, and set out a small high-pitched scream (normally very unlike Temari, but she was a girl, after all) when under the shower. She loved her water to be hot.
But even with all the pleasures that showers surely held for the inhabitants of Suna, they all were more careful than other people to not waste any water. And so showers were always short and effective.
Cleaned and refreshed (and not a bit tired anymore) Kankurou changed into fresh clothes. Now there was only one thing left to do before going to bed and hopefully getting some hours of sleep (even if not tired, sleep was never a bad thing except for maybe Gaara). Finding something to eat. The housekeeper hadn’t been here today, he knew, which meant, either Temari or Gaara had cooked. Hopefully it hadn’t been Temari. If there was something she couldn't do, it was cooking. He didn't get why, he didn't find cooking to be that demanding himself, and even if it wasn't his strong suit, at least what he cooked was edible. Even what Gaara cooked was digestible, what Temari tried to cook was mostly black and not identifiable as food any more. Maybe everyone needed a weakness. Temari's were a love for hot showers and the inability to cook something without burning it. And one of his weaknesses was his occasional laziness. If there wouldn't be something edible in the kitchen, he would consume Gaara's stock of green-tea ice-cream or go for his own stock of what Temari called junk food (he actually didn’t really see the problem with chips, crackers and chocolate). No way would he cook in the middle of the night. Eating healthy stuff only went so far.
But Lady Luck was on his side again, he didn't even have to put on the lights. The kitchen smelled of fresh fish (another rarity, Lady Luck did really have a good night), and just one look in the fridge told him that Temari had made Nagiri, something even she couldn't ruin (as there was no frying involved, so no chance to burn the food), and by the look of it, it was enough to satisfy his growling stomach for now, just as if Temari had anticipated him back home this night.
With not being too tired, he had the idea to relax in his workshop, with the Nagiri and his newest plans to modify his puppets, only for a small while before going to bed.
But he had hardly closed the fridge when the sudden flash of light roused him from his ideas, and he instinctively narrowed his eyes and turned towards the door.
There they were again. Those eyes. Those cold, ruthless eyes, filled with terror and hatred, telling him that he would be dead in a second if he did anything wrong. How long had he not seen these eyes. How long had he hoped that he would never see them again. His breathing became faster, and his jaw dropped a bit, and the demon inside his own heart began to stir. The demon that had slept for so long, that he had hoped to be dead by now… but there it was again, in fear of those cold eyes and the death thread written in them. It was like a nightmare without sleeping, seeing those eyes again, and feeling again the hatred directed towards him. He felt his hands tremble, and suddenly he was fourteen again, and afraid of his own brother, who stood in the door frame, one hand still at the light switch, and glared at him with his death-stare. He could nearly hear Shukaku growl, hear the swirls of sand reaching out for him...
But Shukaku was … gone. Extracted. He wouldn’t come back, and Gaara wouldn’t have let that happen if he would have been there. And he himself wasn’t fourteen anymore. Kankurou forced his own breathing to become steady again, and fought back the demon of fear in his heart. He had sworn to himself to never fear Gaara again. He had sworn to never again let that demon win. Try to understand, he thought, something’s wrong…
And then he understood. Cautiously a bit of relief flooded his heart, the demon of fear held its breath and stayed silent. There was only one way to find out the truth.
“Hey man”, he said and lifted one hand to greet his brother. “I’m back.”
In an instant the hatred in Gaara’s eyes vanished. Instead he looked startled now, a bit shocked, and a bit apologetic. “Kankurou”, he said weakly, “I…”
A small and cautious smile spread over Kankurou’s face, and the relief was now far stronger. The demon of fear was sleeping again, hopefully a never-ending sleep. After all, the old Gaara wasn’t back. It had just been a small, waking nightmare.
He took a deep breath and his posture became more relaxed. Now it was time to deal with someone else’s nightmares. “Little snack?”, he said, and held out the plate with the Nagiri towards Gaara, who still stood a bit forlorn in the door frame.
His brother nodded slowly, and Kankurou seated himself at the worktop, inviting Gaara with a gesture to do the same. It didn’t make any sense to press on Gaara, his experience had shown. Better he waited until Gaara talked himself. Right now his brother made the impression of being startled and tense, and Kankurou hoped he could get to the reason of that somehow. He had an idea, though, a feeling. And this time he wouldn’t be satisfied with rough descriptions.
Slowly Gaara crossed the room and hopped unto the worktop as well, seating himself next to Kankurou. His instincts told him that it would be best to create (or at least try to) an at least semi-relaxed atmosphere, only then he had a chance to ask what exactly was wrong with Gaara. But the question was – what exactly was relaxed right now?
For a moment they sat in silence, Gaara staring at the plate with the Nagiri, while Kankurou helped himself. It was all he could think of at the moment, though is thoughts raced to find something to say or to do.
“I did not know you were back already”, Gaara said finally, his voice calm again, as if to show that everything was okay. Kankurou wasn’t fooled by that, and hadn’t been once in four years. He knew when Gaara was troubled, he was his brother after all.
But for now, he decided to play along.“Since half an hour or so, didn’t want to wake you and Temari up.”
“All went smoothly?” It was typical for Gaara to speak about work first. Work looked like a simple topic to his little brother.
“Nice’n easy. We found that bastard somewhere around the borders, two days ago. Brought him back to prison, and went straight back from there. Were nearly caught in that bloody storm.”
Both brothers looked towards the window, where they could see the sandy winds blowing around the houses. It wasn’t unusual in the desert, so nobody heard the winds growling any more in a regular storm. Except they were outside. Kankurou could nearly feel the sand pattering on his face again and had the suspicion that he would find sand in his clothing tomorrow at places he didn’t find amusing. Damn, he hated sandstorms.
But Gaara loved them. Kankurou never fully understood why. But he never fully understood his brother’s curious, ambivalent love for sand either. It wasn’t the same love for sand that a usual desert-dweller showed. It was something else, and even if Gaara had tried to explain it once, Kankurou was sure that the love-hate Gaara held for the sand would always be only understood by Gaara himself. The sand had been “mother” to him, had been Shukaku as well – something he had to rely on, loved and hated simultaneously – just one mystery about Gaara he would never solve. But that was perfectly fine – Gaara would never fully understand his own love for puppets and kumadori paint either.
Somehow watching the sand storm seemed to have a relaxing effect on Gaara, Kankurou felt that his tension decreased, and heard him breathe deeply.
“I am sorry”, Gaara said suddenly, and his voice was low and a bit regretful. His eyes were still fixed on the storm.
“Forget it, eh?”, Kankurou replied and smiled wryly at his brother. “We all’ve nightmares.”
Gaara’s eyes changed from the sandstorm towards his brother, looking a bit surprised. “How did you…?”
Kankurou chuckled. Sometimes Gaara’s social understanding was miserable. “Wasn’t difficult.” But inwardly he asked himself why he hadn’t noticed it half an hour ago when he had stood in front of Gaara’s door, listening for unusual noises. That method wasn’t fool-proof. Not a bit. He should have realised it earlier, then this all wouldn’t have happened.
“I suppose so”, Gaara said silently, sounding a bit ashamed. He hated it to have those weaknesses in sleep, Kankurou knew that. He hated to be haunted by all those things they had spent years on forgetting, hated it to feel like a vulnerable child again. Of course, for him it was even harder than for other people. But in general, everyone felt weak after a nightmare, and everyone hated that. “Thinking about how I get those every night.”
“Getting any better?”, Kankurou asked, but inwardly thought to know the answer. Of course not.
“Yes”, Gaara answered promptly, sounding a bit as if to convince himself. A short silence followed, and Kankurou didn’t dare to break it by objecting. They both knew Gaara couldn’t fool him as easy as that. “And no”, Gaara added finally, in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper. “Not… tonight… at least.”
Sometimes, in moments like these, Gaara looked still incredibly frail to him, like a child more than the Kage of a mighty and proud nation. When his defence melted, when something invisible forced its way into his mind, something Gaara couldn’t fight so easily, when one of his few weaknesses showed that made him only human. A dream couldn’t be chased away by Gaara’s sand. A dream was bodiless, uncrushable, so unlike their usual enemies. It were moments like these in which Kankurou wanted to protect his brother with all his might, be stronger than he actually was, pull an ace out of his sleeve, just to show Gaara that if he couldn’t fight his demons, he could always count on his big brother to chase them away. But Kankurou had his own demons, his own weaknesses, his own fears, and unfortunately no hidden ace. He wasn’t so strong that he always knew what to do. Actually, he never knew. It was guesswork, mostly, listening to his instincts. Instincts weren’t always failsafe. Sometimes they made things even worse. But he guessed he had to risk it this time, risk to listen to his guts. They had, in most cases, not betrayed him.
“Of our old man”, he said finally, his voice low and flat. That was what his instincts had told him all along.
Gaara nodded slowly. “He appears often in those… those dreams.”
Actually, Kankurou would not have needed any more word. He fully understood, he knew that dreams himself. When his father appeared in front of him and yelled terrible things, when he was a child again who only wished to be loved for once for who he was… He didn’t notice that his eyes narrowed again and that he let out a small grunt. Anger and hatred boiled up inside him. If he once got the possibility, he would definitely give his father a nice right hook. He was the most vocal out of Gaara, Temari and himself when it came to expressing how much he despised their father. Even Gaara, who had more reasons to hate him in Kankurou’s opinion, mostly kept quiet about it. Maybe it made Gaara the better man that he didn’t hate their father like Kankurou did, but it couldn’t be helped for him. He just couldn’t forgive that man, couldn’t even find one possible reason why a man who called himself father of three children had managed it to bring up the ruthlessness to seal away a demon inside his own son. How a man who called himself a husband was willing to sacrifice the life of his wife for his own ambition. How a man who called himself a brother had ordered his own brother-in-law to assassinate his own son. How a father could try to kill a child.
In the end, Gaara had survived. In the end, it had been their father who had died, had freed them from his claws with his death. But even in his deserved death that man kept on haunting his children in their dreams, couldn’t just let them be. What a failure of a father.
But his anger was certainly not helpful now, so he tried to swallow it. “I don’t think the old geezer keeps his mouth shut in those nightmares.”
“No”, Gaara replied flatly.
“Wanna talk about it?” As an answer of Gaara remained missing after several seconds, he added: “I could guess, you know. And you’d only have to nod or shake your head.”
Gaara exhaled sharply, what sounded a bit like a suppressed laugh, but remained silent.
Kankurou sighed. “You know, you’re not the only one with those dreams”, he sat gravely, hoping it would help Gaara to understand that he wouldn’t laugh at anything or condemn him for anything that happened in his dreams. He had seen those things all by himself.
“No. I suppose you see him, too. And Temari?”
“’Course we do, man. We both”, his voice lost its sharpness, and his anger cooled down. “I guess… its normal with a father like that.”
Gaara took a deep breathe. He was about to say something, Kankurou thought, and seemed to choose his words with care. “Does he… scream at you?”, he asked gravely and Kankurou nodded slowly. “And tell you… that you are…”
Gaara didn’t seem to be able to end the sentence, but Kankurou’s instincts told him that they had to voice it for once. “A failure”, he ended his brother’s statement flatly. “He yells it at me every time.”
A feeling of understanding filled the air between the brothers, and with it a bit of tension seemed to leave Gaara. “Do you believe him?”, he asked carefully.
Kankurou sighed a bit. He wanted the truth from Gaara, so he had to tell the truth himself. His instincts made it clear that pretending false strength wasn’t really helpful right now. Maybe giving him the feeling that even if he struggled, he wasn’t alone because others stumbled as well would be better. “Not… really. Though it’s hard, you know. Sometimes I do believe him.”
“Well… nightmares are not made to tell the truth, I suppose”, Gaara said thoughtfully, and Kankurou heard a bit of genuine concern in his voice. This indirect approach of encouragement made him chuckle, and made him feel warm inside. He would tell his father the next time when he visited him in his sleep that he gave a shit on his opinion. Gaara’s was worth much more.
“Don’t worry, otouto”, he said then, and laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder. He was very thankful that Gaara didn’t cringe anymore or use his sand shield when he or Temari showed affection in such a way. He had done it in the beginning, and it hadn’t felt all that nice to be rejected those tiny little gestures. But now, Gaara had become used to it. He even hugged his siblings sometimes – even if Kankurou insisted that hugs were for girls, and that hugging Temari was enough. Secretly, he loved hugs as well.
And Gaara, slowly and steadily, became a person that you could not even remotely name a failure. Kankurou deemed that Gaara knew that, at least when there was no dream image haunting him. At those times, Kankurou would remind him of it. “I’ll get along. And I’d bet with anyone you’ll do it, too. No matter what he calls you, you’re no failure.”
“Thank you.” It was the first honest smile that spread over Gaara’s face now that Kankurou had seen tonight, and the warmth in his stomach spread a bit wider.
But then the smile vanished, Gaara took a deep breath and looked straight towards his brother. Kankurou took away his hand and frowned a bit. “I… apologise again for earlier tonight. It should not have happened. And do not say I should forget it.”
“Then I don’t say it. But…”, he searched his mind for words to voice what he wanted to say. It wasn’t as simple, even if he had known that his first guess why Gaara had looked at him that way at first had been right. It wasn’t as if he was good with words, either, the only one who was in their household was probably Temari. “Really… don’t bother. I… know very well how I look. And that people are weak after a nightmare.” It happened to him often enough, when something had disturbed him, when he had had a nightmare and then looked into the mirror. Every time his father stared back, shoving all his failures in his face and laughing at him. Too emotional, too rebellious, too weak, his father sneered. Fuck you, he always replied. He fought that fight often with his own image. Why shouldn’t it happen to Gaara or Temari, when they had been plagued by a nasty dream? Even if he was sorry that things like that happened, even if he hated it that his face alone could revive memories in them that they had all hoped to be dead, what was he supposed to do about it? He couldn’t hide forever behind his face paint, that was what he told himself over and over again when his father stared back from the mirror.
“But I should have learned by now that he is dead”, Gaara replied flatly. “I should not see him anymore when … it is you I look at.”
Kankurou closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Assuming it was one thing, hearing it from Gaara and knowing it another, he realised. Hearing it send icy waves down his spine, and the warmth was gone completely. Maybe, Gaara saw their father much more often than he had thought. Maybe it hurt Gaara deeper than he had feared. Maybe he shouldn’t take off that paint so often. He hated it when something he did hurt his family, even if he wasn’t to blame for how he looked. He had thought that after a while the association would vanish, and that wearing the paint always would only be a narcotic. Something that eased the pain of the memories, of the nightmares, but nothing that cured those pains. His instincts had told him that only accepting it would cure that pain, that it was more difficult maybe to be reminded every day of the man they all could blame for their disastrous childhoods, but that, after enough time had passed, the wounds would heal. Maybe his instincts had fooled him. Maybe it couldn’t be cured, only narcotised. After all, he wanted to protect Gaara at all costs. What he didn’t want was to hurt his little brother even more. And maybe he had done exactly that. If it was for Gaara, than he would put the paint back on full time. If it spared him the waking nightmares.
Slowly he opened his eyes again to find Gaara staring at him. He tried to smile wryly. “Maybe it can’t be helped, huh? Not your fault, otouto. It’s just Lady Luck’s twisted sense of humour, and a freak of genetics”, he knew that his eyes betrayed his casual voice, they always did when he tried to sound more secure than he actually felt. After all, he was as see-through to Gaara as vice-versa.
“Maybe”, Gaara’s voice sounded calm now, not troubled anymore, and a bit concerned. “But you are not responsible for that. It is not my fault, maybe, if my subconsciousness tricks me. But neither is it yours.”
“Really?”, Kankurou said rhetorically, his voice silent now and melancholic. “I could at least… spare you the sight.”
Silence entered the room again, and while now Kankurou stared at the last remaining Nagiri he felt that Gaara examined him.
“Yashamaru once said to me there are wounds that cannot be healed, not even by time”, Gaara said silently, and Kankurou felt startled and looked up to meet his brother’s eyes. They had never spoken much about Yashamaru. It was a sensible topic, very sensible; and if Gaara brought it up, he was indeed serious. And his gaze was firm now, as was his voice. “And father has left such wounds in all of us. Maybe they cannot be healed, maybe we will never get over all what has happened. But those wounds… I do not think they are meant to be sedated. We are not meant to forget about our past, and distort what is left of it. We are meant to accept it. And I appreciate that you try to do so.”
“Even if I look like him?”
“Not even, but because you look like him.”
A small, cautious, but genuine smile formed on Kankurou’s face. Maybe his instincts weren’t so wrong after all. Maybe Gaara knew just fully well why he removed that paint every evening, and maybe there was no more word needed about it. It were moments like these when he was really proud of Gaara, and somehow… proud of himself. Proud of the bond they had rebuilt, and of the men they had become, with all the obstacles to overcome.
But there was one thing left he needed to know. “Honestly Gaara… does it happen often? That you see him… I mean, when you see me?”
“Honestly? No. Only if the nightmare was too strong and I had not expected you to be home, sneaking through the house like a ghost and stealing the remainders of dinner”, Gaara replied dryly and Kankurou started to laugh. He loved his brother’s deadpan humour that always appeared when he didn’t expect it to. The last bits of tension in the room vanished like a nasty smell after a breeze of fresh air. They would make it through somehow, as they always did, even if there were nightmares sometimes. Fuck you, old geezer, he thought with a smirk in his face. It were moments like these he realised that demon was demon, if that demon was called Shukaku or fear, or self-doubt, or father, it didn’t matter. For Gaara, he would fight every demon. And for him, he knew that, Gaara would fight any demon. This was what it meant to have not only a brother, but a friend as well. Something their father had failed to teach them. They had learned themselves.
“Sneaking? And stealing? Thank you, man. Not that I don’t live here as well. Really Gaara…”, he then said and looked at the remaining Nagiri. Suddenly he had noticed that he was still hungry. “You haven’t taken a single one. Make your claim or they’ll be gone for good.”
“I am not hungry, so help yourself. Additionally it is now”, Gaara had a look at his wrist watch, “Five thirty in the morning. There will be breakfast in an hour.”
Kankurou nearly choked on the last Nagiri. “Five thirty?! No way!”
“I am not joking.”
“Oh man. Bye bye sleeping.”
“Sleep is by far overrated, if you ask me.” A bit of Gaara’s voice seemed to be serious and tense again.
“Only because you never had the pleasure of a deep, dreamless sleep”, Kankurou replied, and smiled encouragingly. “You will have someday. Think of it as a present, and you don’t know when you get it. And when you had that, a good, dreamless sleep, or even a nice dream, you’ll love occasional sleeping.”
For a second, both brothers stayed quiet again. “Speaking about sleep and taking the time into consideration, you should maybe take a short nap before breakfast. You still have one hour”, Gaara said finally, and hopped down from the worktop.
Chuckling at his brother’s ability to change topics in an instant back to work, he stood up himself. At a small nod from Gaara the brothers went to leave the kitchen in direction of their private rooms. Kankurou thought that if it was only for one hour, he could skip the sleep as well. “Who needs sleep when there are things like cold showers. I’ll just take the time and clean and check Kuroari. What about you?”
“Paperwork.”
“Oh yeah, sounds like fun.”
“Somebody has to do it. By the way, I will need your mission report in the afternoon.”
“Nah… don’t remind me of that.” If there was one thing he hated more than sandstorms, then it was writing reports.
They stopped at Gaara’s door, and the thought that he had to invent a new method to check if Gaara had nightmares crossed Kankurou’s mind. “Until breakfast, then”, Gaara said seriously.
“Right. Don’t skip it, eh?”
“I promise.”
“’Kay then”, he lifted his hand in a greeting gesture, Gaara nodded and opened the door to his room. “One thing, Gaara. Thanks for the encouragement.”
The suspicion of a smile went over Gaara’s face. “That is what family is for, onii-san.”
Onii-san. For Kankurou, Gaara could hardly have said something more meaningful, more appreciated with thousands of other words.
---
Two hours later he was in his room again, after having had breakfast with Gaara and Temari. Gaara was back in his office, working. Kankurou had already applied his face paint and was nearly dressed in his fighting attire. Temari sat on the rim of his bed, hearing the story of his mission and his nightly talk with their brother. And suddenly she started laughing like mad.
“Why the hell are you laughing, Temari!”, Kankurou exclaimed, though laughing a bit himself. “It’s not funny at all!”
“I just find the thought amusing of our father sitting in the kitchen on the worktop with Gaara in the middle of the night in a probably half-opened yukata eating Nagiri. It’s ridiculous”, she answered, still giggling.
“Disturbing, more likely”, he shrugged, shaking out the sand in his kimono. “Jeez… sandstorms. Come to think about it, maybe he'd have been a better father if he had been more ridiculous at times, and not all strict and stern and never smiling.”
“A good father should be someone to look up to, I think. Not someone who ignores that worktops aren’t made for sitting, steals food in the middle of the night and accidentally “forgets” to put the tab in the shower back to the hot water to tease unsuspecting inhabitants of this mansion. Those things are reserved for annoying little brothers.”
Kankurou was just about to object that she was annoying herself, but the warm, genuine smile in his sister’s face shut him up for once.