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Dysphoria

(Gaara×Temari)

She stood in front of the window, staring sightlessly at the empty street below. It was too early for anyone but those on duty to be outside. The sun had come up less than an hour ago. It would be another scorching hot day, but having grown up in the desert she no longer noticed the heat.

The slow drifting of sand along the ground made the village seem almost deserted. She knew that if she opened the window, she would hear the familiar howling sound of the wind. It was comforting in a way to know that some things would never change. She wanted suddenly to escape this building, escape the village. She wanted to be in the desert, alone, surrounded by nothing but wind and sand, the only two things that she knew and trusted. The only two things that could never be taken away from her.

She forced herself to tear her gaze away from the inviting sight and turn instead to the figure spread out on her bed. Her eyes misted over as she looked at him, the blue shade growing darker with a mixture of affection and agony. He was wearing only the simple black pants and mesh shirt that he hadn't bothered to remove the previous night. The reddish brown shade of his messy locks looked almost like dried blood in the darkness of the room, reminding her irresistibly of the days when she would have to force him into the shower to wash away the blood of countless victims clinging to his skin. Days long past.

Back then, he used to need her. He would never admit it, even now. He relied on her then, depended on her for all the simple things that under normal circumstances parents were supposed to provide. They never had parents. Never needed them, really. Or at least so they would tell themselves. They had each other. She washed him, she cut his hair, she bought his clothes, she cooked for him. The only thing he never needed, never accepted, was love. But she gave it anyway. She would hold him when he was too weak, too exhausted from his internal struggle to push her off.

He never mentioned any of this, never returned any of her embraces, never admitted that they were connected in any way. To him, they've never been a family. He threatened her, he yelled at her, he had even hit her on more than one occasion. She lost count of how many times she wondered what it was that he did for her, why she continued to resolutely think of him not as a monster but as her little brother, despite all his claims to the contrary.

But when she broke down and was ready to give up, he always reminded her what it was that kept them together through all the fear, hate and violence. He was the only one that had ever seen her cry, the only one she would allow such intimacy. Not that he ever gave her a choice. Somehow he always knew. Every time she ran away into the desert, wishing for nothing more than to disappear and be left alone, he would always find her. He would appear silently beside her when the tears were already flowing down her face, never saying a word as he stood next to her. She never told him what was bothering her. It seemed that he always knew anyway.

She wasn't sure what it was about his presence that was so comforting, that chased away all her fears and doubts. He still seemed just as cold and distant as always. But he would never leave her alone when she was distressed. He waited until she was calm, back to the usual confident fa?ade that she put on to face the world, before he disappeared again.

He protected her from herself, never letting her give up, never allowing her to run away and take the easy way out. There was no escape for him, so he wouldn't let her have this luxury either. He protected her from others too. Despite his own countless claims that he would end her life, he would never let anyone harm her. In fact, he would kill anyone who dared to get too close to her. There was always something possessive about the way he treated his sister, even when he claimed that she was nothing more than another mass of flesh that was meaningless to him.

His relationship with her was just as unnatural and twisted as the rest of his life. To an outside observer, it would seem that there was no relationship at all. Only the two of them really knew what it was. There had always been something unspoken between them. An unbreakable bond. Something beyond blood, beyond team, beyond the village. Something that defied words. Words were too shallow to describe this. They never really talked anyway. Their conversations were always superficial, the true meaning of their thoughts always expressed in other ways. Their silences spoke more than words ever could. A shared glance, a nearly imperceptible movement, a barely felt brush of skin against skin. She was the only one who could ever touch him, no armor, no barriers to keep her away.

It had changed at some point. It seemed sometimes that it was completely by accident. Other times she was sure that it was planned. She couldn't remember when it had all transformed. Now, years later, she wasn't even sure that it ever really was anything else. Whatever this was, it seemed to just be, as if there was no other way to exist.

But then she knew that what had really changed was him. He didn't yell anymore. He didn't threaten. And only old scars confirmed that he really did used to hurt her. He was different. He didn't need her anymore. Not like he did then. Now, it was something else. Now, they all needed him. They relied on him to lead them, to keep them safe, to make their lives worth living. The irony did not go unnoticed. Even after everything he had done for them, there were those that said he shouldn't be what he is, shouldn't do what he does. There was still something about him that was just not right.

In a way though whatever it was that held them together was still the same. That invisible bond. In their own ways, they would always need each other, even if they really didn't. It was simply something that they couldn't escape. By virtue of what they were, their past, their inevitable future, this connection was simply something that was undeniably there. They didn't ask to be siblings. They couldn't change it. And now, finally, they didn't want to.

The solitary blink of his cold eyes alerted her to the fact that she was staring, probably had been for some time. The empty, hollow expression in his gaze suggested that he was looking past her, not really seeing her. She knew different. He was taking in every inch of her nearly naked body, only her most intimate parts covered by thin straps of colorless black fabric. The few rays of sun that managed to get in through the window were illuminating her pale skin, throwing shadow on all the old scars, outlining all the small marks and bruises. She had never thought that she was beautiful. Not until he told her. He said it only once and never repeated it again. But she believed him. If he thought that she was, that was all that mattered.

She turned away finally, moving gracefully over to the full length mirror beside her closet, seeming almost to float with her careful, measured steps. She could still see his reflection at an angle behind her. His gaze remained on the window, lips set in a tight, expressionless line. It wasn't really a frown, but anyone who didn't know him would've thought that he was angry. She knew that it was something else.

"What should I wear?" she said flatly into the silence.

"Something black," he answered with complete disinterest, seeming almost bored.

"Isn't that a little inappropriate?" she inquired dryly.

"I don't care."

She knew he would say that. She didn't really have to ask. The need for appropriate behavior was disregarded unless completely necessary, reserved only for diplomats and elders. This was something different.

"Who did you invite?" she asked for what must've been at least the third time.

"Nobody important," he provided the same answer again.

Something about her reflection in the mirror was unsettling. She couldn't quite figure out what. She turned slightly, then the other way, then back again. His eyes flitted to her for the barest moment before returning to the window.

"How much time left?" she asked matter-of-factly, only the slight frown on her face betraying her hidden agitation.

"Three hours, twelve minutes," he replied shortly.

Her hair wasn't right, she decided. She hadn't put it up in the usual four pigtails. That wasn't it though. Something else. She moved her hands up, pulling her hair into one bunch at the back of her head, twisting around to examine her reflection. Her teeth bared in a tense imitation of a sneer for a second. She let her hands fall again, hair cascading over her shoulders. Maybe she would wear it down for once. She might even look pretty.

"I haven't cut your hair in a while," she said, the attempted casual comment sounding unnerved instead.
No answer. Not even a glance this time.

"Do you want me to…? Before…?"

"No," he answered dismissively.

Maybe it wasn't the hair after all. Something was off though. She turned away from the mirror, walked impatiently over to the nightstand by the bed, stopped abruptly. He was looking away from her. Still watching the window. She knew though that he could sense her, could imagine all her movements and expressions precisely in his mind, his memory of every particle of her being perfect to the point that sight was no longer a necessity.

"Why don't you ever wear this anymore?"

Eyes trained on the object in question to avoid seeing the frown that she knew appeared on his face. His answer was predictable.

"Don't need to."

She picked up the hitai-ate from the nightstand, wondering vaguely what he had done with his and how many years it's been since she saw it last, before returning to her position in front of the mirror.

She tied it around her neck, the way she used to when she was younger – so much younger it seemed now, even if it was not really that long ago. She frowned and untied it immediately, then pressed it against her forehead for a moment before lowering her hands, clutching the offending article in tight fists.

"Put it on your leg," he offered idly. "Instead of a garter."

She glanced at him through the mirror, letting her gaze linger on his lean, muscular form for a moment before looking down. She tied the black strap around her thigh, bending the metal strip easily to fit the shape and turning the symbol to the side so it could be seen through a slit in her skirt. It looked silly. Mocking even. But that was probably why he said it. She left it there. The look on the faces of the council members would be worth it. She was only doing this because they were making her anyway.
That wasn't true though. She was doing it for him. He hadn't asked. But he never had to. She always knew what he wanted.

"I'm not getting you anything, you know," she said suddenly as the thought occurred to her. "The council probably won't like that."

"Doesn't matter," he answered indifferently. "I already took what I want."

If she didn't know him as only siblings could know each other, she would've never noticed the subtle smirk twitching the corner of his mouth upwards. There was something vaguely strange about that. They knew each other too well. There wasn't a movement, a gesture, a thought that went unnoticed. That never made it boring though. They understood each other perfectly. They could do things together that nobody else would ever be able to come even close to accomplishing.

"But what about…?"

"Doesn't matter," he repeated, cutting her off.

Her reflection still wasn't right, she observed. There was still something. Just something. She was nearly naked, of course, but that wasn't it. It was starting to really bother her. And she was sure that he knew the answer too, but she didn't want to ask. That was probably why he hadn't told her yet.

"Hey… little brother," she said quietly.

He glanced over at her again. She rarely ever called him that. She used to, when he would always defiantly answer that he had never considered her a sister. Now, when he would murmur the familial term to her as he finally returned all those desperate embraces of their childhood years, she seemed to have abandoned it. Almost as if they switched roles. In a way she supposed he really did see her as a sister now. Maybe always had. And in another way, she was anything but.

"Have I ever told you…?"

She broke off this time. He already knew. She didn't even have to say that much. She could probably abandon the entire pretense of talking. But there was something comforting in this odd, broken conversation. Something almost human. Almost normal.

"No," he replied. "You don't have to."

She waited, hands absently tracing an old scar across her stomach. A battle wound. She had told him not to interfere that time. Instead of bandaging the shallow cut after she had killed her opponent, he had licked the blood off her skin. On the ground right next to the corpse. In front of the rest of their team. That was probably one of the least disturbing things they'd done together.

"I do too," he added after a moment.

She smiled. A perfectly executed imitation. She wasn't really happy. Couldn't be. Not now.
"Why?" she asked with sudden frustration, the smile falling into something that was too sad to be a frown.

It wasn't addressed at the situation. Wasn't about his statement. Wasn't really about anything, she realized. It just was. A never ending question. The question to their existence perhaps. It was one of those things that shouldn't be answered, but she knew he would answer it anyway, knew that the answer would be brutally honest and exactly what she didn't want to hear, but he would say it just because she spoke and he was the only one who was entitled to ask this single cruel word.

"Because some things can never be changed."

"Fate?" she inquired sadly.

"No," he replied with a hint of distaste. "Just existence."

It would make no sense to anyone but her, but she knew exactly what he meant. Had known it from the moment he was born. You could change the way people saw you, could change your future, your destiny, everything around you. Could even modify your past, at least as far as history was concerned. But you could never change who you are.

Maybe it was the way her eyes seemed to be completely dead as they stared back at her through the glass. That had to be unsettling. But then, her eyes were always like that. Or at least they had been for as long as she could remember. It was probably a trait acquired from him at some point, but she didn't dwell on that. Regardless, that was obviously not the problem with her image.

She wouldn't even have to ask him, she could read the answer in his expression. Something was stopping her. She supposed that meant she didn't want to know. But she couldn't move past it. She hadn't even started to brush her hair, pick out her clothes, put on make-up. She had time though.

"How long?" she asked again.

The clock was in fact just to her right and she could simply look, could probably even see it with just a sideways glance. But she wanted his voice. Wanted to feel that he was waiting for this with as much agitation as she was, even if his tone suggested that he was completely passive about the entire thing.

"Two hours, forty nine minutes."

She didn't realize she had been staring at her reflection for so long. She was running out of time, apparently faster than she thought. She would have to figure out what was wrong with her appearance. She'd have to find something to wear to match him, to represent the village, to show her status, despite the blatant disregard of rules by wearing black and obviously having the need to show much of her leg for the symbol to be visible on her thigh.

"Can I bring my fan?" she muttered, seemingly to herself.

"No," he answered despite knowing that she already knew. "You don't need to. The ANBU will be there."

She turned back to him with a sneer befitting only the most arrogant of shinobi. She didn't trust the ANBU. He knew that. She hadn't trusted them since the day when they were children and a squad of the highest ranking ANBU had attempted to hold her back while attacking him. They had been eliminated in a hurricane of sand in the blink of an eye. But now it was different. Now they were under his control. They still couldn't overpower him, of course, everyone knew that. The statement referred more to the matter of appearance. They would have to look as if they trusted their guards.

"I really have to look like a girl for this, huh?" she said with a smirk, turning back to her reflection.

"You are," he replied unnecessarily.

She couldn't remember the last time she had worn something that was not ninja garb, much less something that was supposed to be elegant and formal. Probably some other ceremony. She remembered dancing with him some time in the past under the watchful eyes of the village. Brother and sister then. She wondered if she would have to do it this time.

Perhaps it was the lack of any kind of weapons on her body that was unsettling. She always had weapons somewhere within reach. Something about being able to reach down and feel the sharp metallic point of a deadly blade was comforting to her. But she had seen herself this way before. He always took away her weapons when he undressed her. She had seen this very look in the mirror countless times before putting on her clothes. Aside, once she had picked out her dress, she would be able to hide a kunai somewhere, she was sure. The problem had to be about something that was already there, she decided.

"Where should I sit?" she questioned slowly.

"With me."

She paused. That was an odd statement under the circumstances, yet entirely predictable.

"Isn't it supposed to be…?"

"I don't care," he cut across her characteristically.

Maybe it was the situation that was unsettling. She paused again. No, definitely her. Something about the way she looked was simply off. Something that had never been there before and she had a feeling would never disappear after this day. This unnerved her even further. Her shoulders moved slightly in a subtle indication of her discomfort. This wasn't right. Everything about this wasn't right.

"But then they'll know," she murmured, her voice sounding strangely pathetic with such a fearful note in it.

"They already do," he stated with a careless shrug.

Another pause, a mimicry of shock. She knew of course. It was obvious. Even so, he made a point to tell her before this whole thing was set into motion. He allowed himself a small scowl at her pathetic attempt at surprise before retreating to the usual blank look.

"So what about tonight?" she inquired, voice cold as if she didn't care for this entire charade.

"It's just a night," he replied, emotionless and completely devoid of meaning, avoiding her question entirely.

She knew what he was thinking though, what he intended to do when the ceremony was over. This was certainly promising to be a spectacle.

She turned again, walked back to the nightstand, stopped. This was turning out to be repetitive, she realized. It was like pacing in very slow motion. The thought made her issue a short, dry laugh. He turned his head at a minimal angle to allow him to look at her. She met his gaze silently, shrugged in response to his unspoken question, tried to smile and failed miserably. He continued to watch her. She sighed. She couldn't remember why she came over here. Instead she placed one knee on the bed and leaned down towards him. He was still watching her. His gaze made everyone else shrink away in fear and incomprehension. It never bothered her though, even all those years when it wasn't his consciousness that she saw behind those eyes.

She froze a few inches away from him, one hand planted on the bed as well to support herself. She studied him, her gaze never wavering from his. He didn't seem affected in the least. Nervous, angry, uncertain, happy… nothing. It was as if this didn't matter to him whatsoever, as if it was just any other day. She wasn't sure if that bothered her, wasn't sure if it should.

"Should we really be together right now?" she intoned.

"Should…?" he echoed, brows quirking upward in a gesture of mocking more than question.

It was a stupid question of course. What they should and shouldn't do had never been part of their calculations, least of all when dealing with each other. There was no particular reason why that would change now. Except that there were a million reasons. Just not precisely the right ones. Of course, right and wrong were also something to be disregarded.

He twisted a bit more towards her and reached up suddenly, a jerky movement that would've made her jump if she wasn't used to his strangeness. He slowed just before touching her, fingers slipping into her hair, expertly avoiding the brush of skin. He toyed with her locks carefully, a motion too calculated to be gentle, eyes never leaving hers. Her lips parted in a silent sigh, every fiber of her being longing to move closer, to lean into those fingers whose caresses she knew so well. She didn't. She remained still, waiting.

"Your brush," he said finally.

Yes, that was what she came for. She pulled back, hair sliding through his parted fingers and leaving his hand suspended awkwardly in midair before he lowered it soundlessly to the mattress. Her hand found the necessary tool sightlessly before she turned away and returned to her temporary sanctuary in front of the mirror. Definitely a pattern.

She began to run the brush through her hair idly, not even wincing as it slid through the tangles and pulled strands free of her scalp. She saw his reflection move, stand up from the bed, walk off into the distance. The brush ran through the same bundle of locks time and time again, now completely smooth and tangle free. She wasn't paying attention to it. Even without looking at the reflection, something about her was still not right. That had to mean it was something she could feel. Maybe a bruise, a wound, a cut? There were always bruises, though. She never noticed them, no matter how big.

The sound of water running in the shower. She wished suddenly that she hadn't showered already, that she could have an excuse to get close to him one more time. Maybe he'd need her to wash him again. Her gaze drifted back to the reflection and she finally moved the brush to a new spot, finishing the work with the same brutal force. She parted her hair in the middle, the blonde locks falling flat over her shoulders, her bangs obscuring her forehead. Despite the difference in shade and the way her expression was much harsher than what she remembered seeing as a child, she still reminded herself of their mother this way. She wondered if he would hate it.

She hadn't realized that the water had stopped until the nearly soundless padding footsteps and a movement at the edge of the mirror alerted her to his reappearance in the room. He was wearing only black boxers now, his damp hair tousled as if he had dried it with a towel. It looked almost crimson now and she still couldn't get the image of blood out of her mind. Her arms dropped to her sides, the brush clutched tightly in her hand, gaze returning to her image and a deep frown appearing on her face.

"It's fine," he said shortly, walking over to her.

He'd never really seen her, of course. She was dead by the time he was able to open his eyes for the first time. But he used to have a picture, she knew that. And the brother, their uncle, the treacherous bastard… they were nearly identical. She had no doubt that he knew exactly what their mother had looked like, could probably even imagine the way her face could light up in joy or contort with rage.

The way she looked when she had cursed the village for his existence with her dying breath.

"Don't I remind you of her?"

She glanced at his reflection behind her, slightly off to the side so she could see his face.

Predictably expressionless. He stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating through her.

"You're different."

His hand brushed up along her back, fingertips just barely making contact with the skin. When they were kids, these gestures used to always make her shudder and explode in goosebumps. She was too desensitized to it now, but that did not make the feeling any less electric. She wanted him to really touch her. The brush dropped to the floor with a thud when fingers began to trace the contours of the fabric around her torso.

Maybe the undergarments were the problem. They were much more frilly and decorative than the practical attire she usually wore. The lace and nearly see-through silk were definitely distracting. But she had worn things like these for him on occasion. He liked to see the contrast of something so delicate on her toned, scarred body. In fact, this was a pair he bought for her some time ago, she just hadn't had a chance to wear it before now.

"How long?" she inquired yet again.

His hands slipped around her waist, gliding down her stomach over the line of her hip bones, fingertips pushing just barely into the band of her panties. She leaned into him, her body fitting perfectly against his, back flexing slightly to rub skin against skin.

"Two hours, four minutes."

There was a hint of something in his voice now. Something to do with their proximity. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, the tickle of hair against his neck failing to make him shiver only because of its familiarity. Her eyes studied their reflection. They were so different, but somehow gave off the unmistakable impression of being siblings. Even standing as they were now. He had grown to be taller than her, but only by a few inches. If she wore heels, she would match his height. She decided she would. That way, if they did have to dance together she wouldn't be looking up at him.

"Remember our last mission together?" she questioned quietly.

"To Rain."

She turned her head slightly towards him, her hair brushing against his cheek. He mimicked the gesture, taking in the scent of her shampoo, lilies and wild flowers, reminding him of some distant memory of something they had done in the middle of a field.

"Yeah… When we stopped by that waterfall…"

"When you were covered in blood," he murmured, voice husky with something too cold to be desire.

"And what we did in the water," she finished, lips twitching in a mockery of a grin.

She placed her hands over his delicately, paused for a moment, then guided him gently, making him slide his fingers further down, towards the cleft between her legs, stopping just before the curve of her pubic bone.

"And that one before," she was whispering now.

"With the caravan."

"When they were too afraid to ask if we're siblings or lovers." If her voice had a texture, it would be
the softest of satin.

"And I told them anyway."

Her back arched slightly, a soft moan falling off her lips. Her skin took on a slightly pink tinge, body growing warmer, heartbeat increasing slightly. It was agonizing to be this close, to know that he wouldn't stop her if she turned around, if she took him back to the bed.

"That time in my office," he breathed against her hair. "On the desk."

"When we knew the council was just outside the door."

"And they could hear everything."

There was a note of something feral and sadistic in his voice now, something reminiscent of his childhood years. The insanity that would never be completely gone. A primitive sort of inhumanity that allowed them to be together as they were, unable to separate from each other, unable to gain satisfaction in anyone else.

His mouth found her neck before she even realized she had tilted her head, his name escaping her lips in broken gasps, an unspoken plea for something that she didn't know but he would understand anyway.

"What happens next?" she managed to utter.

He didn't answer. He knew that she knew. It was obvious. Not to mention that they had discussed it already, every possibility and unpredictable outcome, every regret and reservation, every fear and uncertainty. If only to say that nobody had been deceived. There were no compromises here. It would be done as it had to be done. Feelings had never been a consideration in this ruthless village, much less in their own brutal, violent lives.

She knew though that he wasn't annoyed with her incessant questions either. It didn't matter to him one way or the other, but he understood her need. In the past, he would simply listen and appear to be ignoring her entirely while he read all the meanings behind everything she said. Now he would occasionally indulge her with his own empty commentary.

His lips left her skin and she found herself suddenly cold where she had been burning before. Her hands pressed into his, making his fingers depress indentations into her flesh, willing him to be closer but refusing it.

"I wonder what it will be like… after…" she murmured, voice wavering with a hint of an emotion she would not usually show.

No answer again. The question had really been the same. Slowly his hands slid out from under hers and she released him regretfully. She remained where she was, fingers lingering on the spot he had touched, as he pulled back and turned away. She glanced at the clock because she knew he would remain silent this time. Another fifteen minutes had passed. And something was still wrong with her.

He was walking out of her room. Her eyes followed him with a panic that he did not indulge as he pulled open the door and disappeared down the hallway. She sighed, picked up the brush, walked back to the nightstand. The brush was dropped onto the surface as she rummaged in one of the drawers for her make-up kit. She pulled it out, walked back towards the mirror, abruptly decided that she had to find clothes first, dropped the kit onto the bed instead. The door was open. That wasn't helping. They weren't alone in the house.

She ignored it, approached her closet, slid open the door with pent-up irritation, making it soundless nevertheless. A small sneer appeared on her face as she issued a quiet snort. Nearly everything she had was black. Everything else was dark shades of somber colors. There were only a couple of bright, graceful dresses that radiated happiness. Acquired only in case necessity should arise and meant for occasions such as this. He didn't want that from her though, didn't want her to play the diplomat. He wanted black, as if she was mourning, for him, for them, for what this was. He wanted the blatant sexuality of conforming contours and exposed skin. He wanted her to look cold and beautiful and his. He wanted them all to see exactly what he had possessed, what he could have forever if he so chose.

Regardless, this was not entirely helpful in picking her attire. There were more dresses there than she ever remembered buying. Nearly all were revealing enough to raise a few eyebrows. She had never been shy, after all. But it had to be somehow suitable to the situation, even if that seemed an impossible task considering she really did not belong in this setup. Still, she would have to be able to walk in as the elite shinobi that she was, as the sister of the leader of their village, and look the part.

She turned away from the closet, returned to the nightstand, opened another drawer. An array of weapons glinted in the light. She couldn't use a pouch or a holster, that would be too obvious. That meant she could only conceal one or two weapons. She could probably tape some shuriken to her leg, but getting to them if she needed to would be a problem. Not that she expected to need them. She simply wanted something sharp.

He walked back into the room to find her twirling a kunai between her fingers, his presence seeming to go unnoticed. The door closed soundlessly. He knew though that she had sensed him before he even came in.

"No," he said simply.

"I need something," she replied with frustration, the kunai dropping back into the drawer.

She turned around sharply. He was dressed now, and she was surprised to find that he wasn't wearing the formal robes. Instead, he wore his usual long black coat over black pants and what she was sure was fishnet and a black shirt underneath. She supposed it looked fairly formal anyway, but it was shinobi attire regardless. He really was making a mockery of this entire thing. She resisted the urge to inquire why she had to dress up while he, being the center of attention, didn't. She knew she wouldn't want to hear the answer.

"You already have something," he pointed out.

She realized immediately that he was referring to whatever it was that had been annoying her since she looked in the mirror. That meant it had to be an object, and she had already deducted it was something she was wearing. Given the limited amount of things on her body at the moment, the answer should've been fairly obvious. Oddly enough she still couldn't figure it out. He didn't elaborate, he knew she still didn't really want to know.

He was blocking her return path to the mirror, disrupting her routine. She eyed him warily, the apprehension in her gaze making him frown. He moved, sat down on the edge of the bed, glanced sideways at the make-up kit momentarily then lowered his eyes to the floor. This was too tense, she decided. It wasn't right to go into this with so much unease. The alternative though was something she couldn't deal with at the moment. She retreated abruptly to the closet, picked out three dresses at random, returned to lay them out on the empty side of the bed. He hadn't shifted an inch. She walked around the bed, picked up the brush again, stopped in front of him.
"Remember when we were kids?" she said quietly.

No response, his gaze still leveled on some obscure point off to the side. She slowly lifted her arm, poised to touch the brush to his hair. Paused. Brought up the other hand instead and allowed her slender fingers to glide through his locks. His hair had always been soft. She had marveled at that since they were little. His skin was soft too, she remembered, despite the harsh dry sand encasing him most of the time. She allowed her hand to drop lower, fingertips trailing smoothly down the side of his face.

"When we used to watch the sandstorms together?" she added finally.

"Yeah," he muttered. "On the roof."

She was the only one that would remain near him during those times. Everyone else was too terrified of what the raging sand brought out in him, his… urges. He had always told her to leave and she always ignored him. The sand would circle around her feet and cut lines into her legs, but she stayed next to him anyway. It wasn't till years later that they discovered another outlet for his violence.

She edged closer and finally allowed the brush to make contact with his hair. He remained still as she began to run it through the tangles. In the past, sand wound rise up and curl around her wrist if she made a motion too sudden or pulled out even a single strand. Now, she could tear at his hair and claw at his skin with the only retaliation being his own bites and scratches. This time though she was careful, in complete contrast with the way she had just treated her own hair. After a moment his arms wound around her legs, pulling her closer, hands grasping at the back of her thighs. She sighed, a pretense of being content.

The brush slid through his hair evenly, easily untangling the locks. She continued the motion even after it was no longer necessary. Eventually the brush dropped onto the bed and it was only her fingers gliding against his scalp. He pulled her in towards him, face buried against her chest, hair tickling the exposed area between her breasts, breath warm on her skin. There was still something childlike about him when he did that, even in this erotic position.

"Do you want me to go in after you… or…?" she inquired, letting the question hang in the air.

He didn't respond, a deep intake of breath indicating that he wasn't ignoring her but simply didn't wish to let her go yet. His hands slid up, gliding over her curves before coming to rest at the small of her back. She waited, fingers playing with his hair absently, one hand falling to rest against his shoulder. A sideways glance indicated that she had less than an hour and a half left. Time really was disappearing and she hadn't accomplished anything yet. He pulled back finally, hands remaining on her waist, eyes lifting to look at her.

"No," he said calmly. "You'll walk in with me."

She couldn't stop herself from smirking slightly. He was disregarding all the rules completely. He would make sure that there was no mistake about what they were to each other. Her fingers slid through his hair, pulling the locks back from his forehead, thumb brushing idly over the engraving on his skin.

The mark felt rough under her caress, the familiarity of the etched lines calming her slightly.

After several minutes of silence, his hands finally dropped, releasing her. She lingered for a moment before pulling back and walking around the bed to look at the dresses laid out in front of her. She didn't like them. Too long, too tight, too billowy. She walked back to the closet, pulled out three more, returned to throw them on the bed on top of the rejected clothes. He observed her with apparent disinterest out of the corner of his eye.

She glared at the dresses for a few moments, then finally picked up one and held it out in her outstretched arms, examining it carefully. It seemed appropriate, but she still hated it. She frowned and cast the garment aside on the floor unceremoniously. The other two followed shortly after. She swept aside the first three without a second consideration.

"Fuck," she swore under her breath. "I hate this."

"Deal with it," he answered harshly.

She scowled at him. The frustration wasn't really directed at him though. But the source of her anger was something he did not wish to discuss. It was pointless. It was what it was. They had all agreed to it. Whatever she might mean to him, he wouldn't let her interfere.

She returned to the closet to recover four more dresses and bring them back to the bed. This shouldn't be so complicated, she decided. It was just a day, just a ceremony. Even if they would all be watching her, waiting to see what she would do… what she and her brother would act like. To her, it was just another mission. And that meant she couldn't fail, couldn't do a poor job. She would have to look perfect, in control and happy. No matter how much she detested going through with this whole fa?ade.

She examined another dress, then threw it aside. Then paused. The dress that was in front of her now caught her attention. She picked it up carefully. He had bought this for her too, she recalled. She supposed that would be fitting, to be dressed entirely in garments picked out by him. He wanted to show her off as his possession, after all. Her lips formed into a sad smile as she slipped the dress on carefully. She turned to face her reflection.

The dress was a delicate satin, conforming to her shape perfectly and outlining all the curves. It was a unique design – a sleeveless top resembling a short tank-top connected to a skirt by four bands of fabric, two on the front and two on the back, the exposed portion around the waist covered with fishnet. The low square cut of the top showed off just enough of her cleavage. The skirt was short on one side, allowing the hitai-ate to be seen on her leg, and cascaded at an angle down to her ankle on the other side. It was elegant and formal, and provocative and blatantly sexual at the same time. It was perfect.

"How long?" she murmured, still studying herself in the mirror.

"One hour, five minutes," his voice was still completely neutral.

She was really taking entirely too long. She still had to do her make-up. And having little experience in the matter, she was sure it would take a while to get it right. She walked back to the bed, picked up the remaining clothes, leaned down to grab what she had discarded on the floor, then returned to the closet and threw the entire bundle in carelessly. She could clean up later. The closet door slid shut silently. She came back to pick up her make-up kit. He glanced up at her, expression blank, unreadable. She knew exactly what he was thinking though. A small smile crept onto her lips as she paused in front of the bed.

"What do you think?" she asked, a slow gesture of her hands indicating the dress.

"I think I want to rip it off," he answered quietly, the unmistakably animalistic undertone in his voice making a burning ache spread in her abdomen.

She said nothing and picked up the make-up, this time going to sit at the table that held a smaller vanity mirror. She laid out the assortment of unfamiliar tools in front of her. The loose hair was tugged back behind her ears, leaving her face open. She did learn how to do this properly once, a long time ago. Even a village as brutal as theirs had kunoichi training that included mundane things such as flower arrangements and maintaining proper appearances. She never paid much attention to it, but she did remember some things.

Foundation was first, that much was obvious. She picked up the flesh-toned tube and looked at it with distaste. The color seemed to match her skin. Whoever picked out these things for her had obviously known her. She had no idea where the things came from, they just appeared at some point. Probably a servant, paid to figure out exactly what she would need. She sighed and set the tube aside. It seemed pointless. Instead she reached for the bottle of lotion that always sat on the table and applied the familiar substance to her face. Powder next. Well she could deal with that, it didn't seem quite as annoying. She applied a minimal amount to her face, just enough to cover the shine and smooth out her features.

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all. She set the powder aside, glanced sideways at her brother who was still observing her silently. She gave another weak smile before turning back to find eye shadow. The colors were perfect once again. Applying it however was a little more complicated. She fumbled with the little brush, struggling to keep the color even and consistent. A very light grey under her brows and a dark blue, almost black over her eyelids. The perfect combination to compliment the shade of her eyes.

"I'm never doing this again, you know," she said with a hint of irritation as she set the little box of eye shadow down.

"You will if I tell you," he replied indifferently.

She scowled. That was true, of course. Despite everything else, she was still a shinobi in his employ.

If there was a mission or a meeting that required this, she would have to comply. He wasn't referring to that though. He was referring to the fact that she would do it for him, if he wanted her to, for any reason. She didn't want to think about that right now.

"Easy for you to say," she muttered, picking up the black eyeliner and examining the sharpened tip with apprehension.

"Stop whining," he answered coldly.

She turned to him with a glare that did not affect him in the least. He continued to watch. Eventually she turned back to the mirror and began to apply the eyeliner to her eyelids with slow, careful movements. It proved to be a difficult task and by the time she managed to get the lines straight she was thoroughly frustrated. The pencil was thrown down on the table with irritation as she suspiciously eyed the tool that was meant to curl her lashes. There was no way she was going to use that, she decided. She'd been through interrogation training and this reminded her entirely too much of a number of objects she'd seen there.

"How long?" she asked yet again as she picked up the black mascara.

"Forty two minutes."

Shit. She had practically no time left. And something was still definitely off, not right about her appearance in general, but she couldn't dwell on it anymore. She began to apply mascara hastily, stopping abruptly when she realized if she messed up she would have to redo everything else. She proceeded more cautiously, putting on just enough to make her eyelashes stand out against the dark eye shadow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stand and approach her. She remained where she was, putting down the mascara and examining an assortment of lipstick in front of her. She had no idea what shade to choose.

He stood behind her chair, hands resting against the back of it, knuckles grazing against her back. A movement of her head made her hair cascade over his arms, the blonde a stark contrast to the black of his attire. His eyes seemed to be fixated on her left hand, resting on the table among the array of make-up.

"Did you have them change the vows?" she asked suddenly, making him stiffen imperceptibly.

He gave a short disdainful snort. It seemed stupid given how ridiculous the entire situation was that the council had the biggest problem with this. They wanted a traditional ceremony with traditional vows. He refused. They threatened. But he had won in the end. He wouldn't compromise. With them, with her, with anyone.

"Yeah."

It had been reduced to not much more than a sentence now. Do you agree? That was all that really mattered in the end. She knew that's what he wanted, she didn't have to ask him to elaborate.

He reached down over her unexpectedly, hand brushing against hers before he picked up one of the lipsticks from the table. She raised an eyebrow slightly but took it from his fingers nevertheless as he straightened once more. It was a dark plum shade. She looked at it skeptically for a moment, then proceeded to put it on. It matched the rest of her look. It was seductive and dangerous. Just like him.

Fitting.

His hands were suddenly on her shoulders, caressing the exposed skin. She sighed quietly, instinctively leaning into his touch, melting under his fingers. Her gaze met his through the reflection, her face softening marginally. Despite everything, her tension and worry seemed to vanish when he looked at her like that, when those fingers made her forget that there was anyone else in the world besides the two of them. Except that she had to remember that. Especially now.

"Should I say anything?" she asked quietly. "Should I talk to her?"

"It doesn't matter," he answered predictably. "You can if you want."

She was standing before she even realized it, his hands dropping from her shoulders and catching her around the waist instead. She couldn't control the slight tremble that passed through her body. He pressed her closer despite her obvious attempt to pull away. That warmth again. That insane, unbearable warmth that made her lose her mind. He knew he did this to her. Knew it and was fully abusing his power.

"Little brother…" she breathed out, voice full of passion and grief.

That was the second time she called him that. His hands gripped at the fabric of her dress for a moment before starting to idly trace lines along her stomach. He leaned down, breath warm against her cheek, lips not quite touching her. He knew what she was going to say and wished she wouldn't. Her words came in broken gasps, forcing it out despite his attempt to make her forget.

"Somehow… I never thought… I would have to watch you getting married."

He didn't say anything. She didn't expect him to. There was nothing else to say. His fingers continued to stroke her absently, one hand moving to trace down the length of her left arm. Fingertips slid along the back of her hand before interlocking his fingers with hers. Something was odd about it. It didn't feel right somehow. It wasn't the fact that she was standing in his arms and holding his hand when she was about to see him in front of the altar with another woman. It was just something about the feeling.

She glanced down at their joined hands.

The realization hit her suddenly, the answer to what she had been searching for all morning. He smirked slightly. It was stupid of her to forget. But she didn't forget, really, she just blocked it out. The simple ring shone on her finger and she could not tear her eyes away from it. He had given it to her, not to the one that would in less than an hour be called his wife. She would have no ring, nor would he. Only her, his sister. Another way to flaunt it, to show the council his defiance of all the rules.

It meant something deeper though.

"She must hate me," she murmured, her voice shaking with the threat of tears.

"It doesn't matter," he hissed in response.

She tore her hand away from his then, moving to break free, to pull out of his embrace.
"Temari…"

His voice was like a caress, deep and harsh despite its velvety smoothness. The three syllables contained so much emotion that she let out an involuntary moan. He had called her by her name, she had called him brother. Just like all those years ago, when there was nothing between them besides some strained relationship of forced kinship. Reverting to something long gone. Perhaps hate was a safer emotion than love.

Before she could put distance between them he pulled her around and pinned her against the nearby wall, palms resting on either side of her head. He moved closer until his nose was brushing against hers, their eyes locked, her lip quivering slightly. This wasn't like then, like those distant memories of fear and uncertainty. This was now. Him, here, with her.

"Temari…" he breathed again, her eyes drawn to the movement of his lips. "I don't hate you. Don't worry about her."

"Gaara…"

Her voice sounded almost as a sob and she hated herself for it. It didn't bother him though. He didn't mind her vulnerability, so long as she confided it only in him. If she needed him, even for something as simple as a confirmation of his feelings, he could never hold that against her. The importance of such primitive gestures as embraces and token words of affection was still incomprehensible to him, but he indulged her because she needed him.

"Sister…"

Those lips were moving again, almost touching hers. Their breath mingled as she parted her lips as well and he hovered over her in a pseudo-kiss. Her arms wound around his waist without her realizing it, bringing him closer, pressing his body into hers. He didn't have to say anything else. She already knew. But he did anyway, just to see the way her eyes lit up at the words, the way she drew in a breath in response.

"You are mine. You will always be mine. Nothing will ever change that."

Only the fear of ruining her careful work with her appearance prevented her from forcing those lips to make contact, from crushing his mouth onto hers. She tilted her head to the side slightly, a quiet moan escaping her throat and spreading warmth across his face. Her hands fisted in the fabric of his robe behind his back as she allowed her tongue to glide along his bottom lip with excruciating slowness. His teeth brushed against it, biting lightly before she pulled back, her breath hitching in her throat.

"I feel sorry for her," she whispered.

A life of loneliness. She would not wish that for anyone. The girl, his soon-to-be wife, would be alone for the rest of her life. She would live in her own house. She would never see her husband except for business. She wouldn't even be able to have affairs, to protect his reputation despite the obvious lack of relationship between them. And when the time came that he chose to have children, she would have to participate in what was guaranteed to be a loveless act and birth a child that would be raised by her husband and his sister.

"Don't," he answered simply.

His sister was not the villain here and he knew there was no reason for her to think otherwise. He would not give her up. They had all known that. Even when the council approached him with the proposal, they knew it would be only for show. It was simply another one of his duties, to marry and produce a child that would be heir and in line to become the next Kazekage. They had overlooked his disregard of the law in his chosen relationship, but they could not allow him to endanger the future of the village.

Even to him the village came first and he agreed.

The girl had agreed too. It was her choice, she volunteered herself. She knew exactly what she was walking into. To her, it was worth it, for the title of the Kazekage's wife and all the fortune that came along with it. He thought her shallow for it, despite the service she was doing for him and the village, and did not consider her feelings an issue in the matter. She would be no more than a subordinate to him, not even a friend.

"Are you ready?" he asked after a pause.

She gave him one of her rare genuine smiles, clinging to him for just one more moment before she had to let go. Whatever happened, he would be with her. She knew that much. She had never been able to trust anything, but she trusted him. He was her brother. Always would be.

"Almost," she murmured.

One of his hands moved to cup her face gently, fingertips gliding along her cheek before he retreated and took a step back. A glance at the clock indicated that they were nearly out of time. She walked to the closet quickly and picked out a pair of black strappy high-heeled shoes. She slipped them on elegantly, taking a moment to adjust and regain her balance. She returned to his side with a steady step, the slight sway of her hips radiating confidence. She was the Kazekage's sister, his lover, his love. And today they would all see that nothing could stand between them.

She locked her hand with his, fingers intertwined as they headed for the door. Together. Through everything.

End.

Description
Dysphoria

(Gaara×Temari)

She stood in front of the window, staring sightlessly at the empty street below. It was too early for anyone but those on duty to be outside. The sun had come up less than an hour ago. It would be another scorching hot day, but having grown up in the desert she no longer noticed the heat.

The slow drifting of sand along the ground made the village seem almost deserted. She knew that if she opened the window, she would hear the familiar howling sound of the wind. It was comforting in a way to know that some things would never change. She wanted suddenly to escape this building, escape the village. She wanted to be in the desert, alone, surrounded by nothing but wind and sand, the only two things that she knew and trusted. The only two things that could never be taken away from her.

She forced herself to tear her gaze away from the inviting sight and turn instead to the figure spread out on her bed. Her eyes misted over as she looked at him, the blue shade growing darker with a mixture of affection and agony. He was wearing only the simple black pants and mesh shirt that he hadn't bothered to remove the previous night. The reddish brown shade of his messy locks looked almost like dried blood in the darkness of the room, reminding her irresistibly of the days when she would have to force him into the shower to wash away the blood of countless victims clinging to his skin. Days long past.

Back then, he used to need her. He would never admit it, even now. He relied on her then, depended on her for all the simple things that under normal circumstances parents were supposed to provide. They never had parents. Never needed them, really. Or at least so they would tell themselves. They had each other. She washed him, she cut his hair, she bought his clothes, she cooked for him. The only thing he never needed, never accepted, was love. But she gave it anyway. She would hold him when he was too weak, too exhausted from his internal struggle to push her off.

He never mentioned any of this, never returned any of her embraces, never admitted that they were connected in any way. To him, they've never been a family. He threatened her, he yelled at her, he had even hit her on more than one occasion. She lost count of how many times she wondered what it was that he did for her, why she continued to resolutely think of him not as a monster but as her little brother, despite all his claims to the contrary.

But when she broke down and was ready to give up, he always reminded her what it was that kept them together through all the fear, hate and violence. He was the only one that had ever seen her cry, the only one she would allow such intimacy. Not that he ever gave her a choice. Somehow he always knew. Every time she ran away into the desert, wishing for nothing more than to disappear and be left alone, he would always find her. He would appear silently beside her when the tears were already flowing down her face, never saying a word as he stood next to her. She never told him what was bothering her. It seemed that he always knew anyway.

She wasn't sure what it was about his presence that was so comforting, that chased away all her fears and doubts. He still seemed just as cold and distant as always. But he would never leave her alone when she was distressed. He waited until she was calm, back to the usual confident fa?ade that she put on to face the world, before he disappeared again.

He protected her from herself, never letting her give up, never allowing her to run away and take the easy way out. There was no escape for him, so he wouldn't let her have this luxury either. He protected her from others too. Despite his own countless claims that he would end her life, he would never let anyone harm her. In fact, he would kill anyone who dared to get too close to her. There was always something possessive about the way he treated his sister, even when he claimed that she was nothing more than another mass of flesh that was meaningless to him.

His relationship with her was just as unnatural and twisted as the rest of his life. To an outside observer, it would seem that there was no relationship at all. Only the two of them really knew what it was. There had always been something unspoken between them. An unbreakable bond. Something beyond blood, beyond team, beyond the village. Something that defied words. Words were too shallow to describe this. They never really talked anyway. Their conversations were always superficial, the true meaning of their thoughts always expressed in other ways. Their silences spoke more than words ever could. A shared glance, a nearly imperceptible movement, a barely felt brush of skin against skin. She was the only one who could ever touch him, no armor, no barriers to keep her away.

It had changed at some point. It seemed sometimes that it was completely by accident. Other times she was sure that it was planned. She couldn't remember when it had all transformed. Now, years later, she wasn't even sure that it ever really was anything else. Whatever this was, it seemed to just be, as if there was no other way to exist.

But then she knew that what had really changed was him. He didn't yell anymore. He didn't threaten. And only old scars confirmed that he really did used to hurt her. He was different. He didn't need her anymore. Not like he did then. Now, it was something else. Now, they all needed him. They relied on him to lead them, to keep them safe, to make their lives worth living. The irony did not go unnoticed. Even after everything he had done for them, there were those that said he shouldn't be what he is, shouldn't do what he does. There was still something about him that was just not right.

In a way though whatever it was that held them together was still the same. That invisible bond. In their own ways, they would always need each other, even if they really didn't. It was simply something that they couldn't escape. By virtue of what they were, their past, their inevitable future, this connection was simply something that was undeniably there. They didn't ask to be siblings. They couldn't change it. And now, finally, they didn't want to.

The solitary blink of his cold eyes alerted her to the fact that she was staring, probably had been for some time. The empty, hollow expression in his gaze suggested that he was looking past her, not really seeing her. She knew different. He was taking in every inch of her nearly naked body, only her most intimate parts covered by thin straps of colorless black fabric. The few rays of sun that managed to get in through the window were illuminating her pale skin, throwing shadow on all the old scars, outlining all the small marks and bruises. She had never thought that she was beautiful. Not until he told her. He said it only once and never repeated it again. But she believed him. If he thought that she was, that was all that mattered.

She turned away finally, moving gracefully over to the full length mirror beside her closet, seeming almost to float with her careful, measured steps. She could still see his reflection at an angle behind her. His gaze remained on the window, lips set in a tight, expressionless line. It wasn't really a frown, but anyone who didn't know him would've thought that he was angry. She knew that it was something else.

"What should I wear?" she said flatly into the silence.

"Something black," he answered with complete disinterest, seeming almost bored.

"Isn't that a little inappropriate?" she inquired dryly.

"I don't care."

She knew he would say that. She didn't really have to ask. The need for appropriate behavior was disregarded unless completely necessary, reserved only for diplomats and elders. This was something different.

"Who did you invite?" she asked for what must've been at least the third time.

"Nobody important," he provided the same answer again.

Something about her reflection in the mirror was unsettling. She couldn't quite figure out what. She turned slightly, then the other way, then back again. His eyes flitted to her for the barest moment before returning to the window.

"How much time left?" she asked matter-of-factly, only the slight frown on her face betraying her hidden agitation.

"Three hours, twelve minutes," he replied shortly.

Her hair wasn't right, she decided. She hadn't put it up in the usual four pigtails. That wasn't it though. Something else. She moved her hands up, pulling her hair into one bunch at the back of her head, twisting around to examine her reflection. Her teeth bared in a tense imitation of a sneer for a second. She let her hands fall again, hair cascading over her shoulders. Maybe she would wear it down for once. She might even look pretty.

"I haven't cut your hair in a while," she said, the attempted casual comment sounding unnerved instead.
No answer. Not even a glance this time.

"Do you want me to…? Before…?"

"No," he answered dismissively.

Maybe it wasn't the hair after all. Something was off though. She turned away from the mirror, walked impatiently over to the nightstand by the bed, stopped abruptly. He was looking away from her. Still watching the window. She knew though that he could sense her, could imagine all her movements and expressions precisely in his mind, his memory of every particle of her being perfect to the point that sight was no longer a necessity.

"Why don't you ever wear this anymore?"

Eyes trained on the object in question to avoid seeing the frown that she knew appeared on his face. His answer was predictable.

"Don't need to."

She picked up the hitai-ate from the nightstand, wondering vaguely what he had done with his and how many years it's been since she saw it last, before returning to her position in front of the mirror.

She tied it around her neck, the way she used to when she was younger – so much younger it seemed now, even if it was not really that long ago. She frowned and untied it immediately, then pressed it against her forehead for a moment before lowering her hands, clutching the offending article in tight fists.

"Put it on your leg," he offered idly. "Instead of a garter."

She glanced at him through the mirror, letting her gaze linger on his lean, muscular form for a moment before looking down. She tied the black strap around her thigh, bending the metal strip easily to fit the shape and turning the symbol to the side so it could be seen through a slit in her skirt. It looked silly. Mocking even. But that was probably why he said it. She left it there. The look on the faces of the council members would be worth it. She was only doing this because they were making her anyway.
That wasn't true though. She was doing it for him. He hadn't asked. But he never had to. She always knew what he wanted.

"I'm not getting you anything, you know," she said suddenly as the thought occurred to her. "The council probably won't like that."

"Doesn't matter," he answered indifferently. "I already took what I want."

If she didn't know him as only siblings could know each other, she would've never noticed the subtle smirk twitching the corner of his mouth upwards. There was something vaguely strange about that. They knew each other too well. There wasn't a movement, a gesture, a thought that went unnoticed. That never made it boring though. They understood each other perfectly. They could do things together that nobody else would ever be able to come even close to accomplishing.

"But what about…?"

"Doesn't matter," he repeated, cutting her off.

Her reflection still wasn't right, she observed. There was still something. Just something. She was nearly naked, of course, but that wasn't it. It was starting to really bother her. And she was sure that he knew the answer too, but she didn't want to ask. That was probably why he hadn't told her yet.

"Hey… little brother," she said quietly.

He glanced over at her again. She rarely ever called him that. She used to, when he would always defiantly answer that he had never considered her a sister. Now, when he would murmur the familial term to her as he finally returned all those desperate embraces of their childhood years, she seemed to have abandoned it. Almost as if they switched roles. In a way she supposed he really did see her as a sister now. Maybe always had. And in another way, she was anything but.

"Have I ever told you…?"

She broke off this time. He already knew. She didn't even have to say that much. She could probably abandon the entire pretense of talking. But there was something comforting in this odd, broken conversation. Something almost human. Almost normal.

"No," he replied. "You don't have to."

She waited, hands absently tracing an old scar across her stomach. A battle wound. She had told him not to interfere that time. Instead of bandaging the shallow cut after she had killed her opponent, he had licked the blood off her skin. On the ground right next to the corpse. In front of the rest of their team. That was probably one of the least disturbing things they'd done together.

"I do too," he added after a moment.

She smiled. A perfectly executed imitation. She wasn't really happy. Couldn't be. Not now.
"Why?" she asked with sudden frustration, the smile falling into something that was too sad to be a frown.

It wasn't addressed at the situation. Wasn't about his statement. Wasn't really about anything, she realized. It just was. A never ending question. The question to their existence perhaps. It was one of those things that shouldn't be answered, but she knew he would answer it anyway, knew that the answer would be brutally honest and exactly what she didn't want to hear, but he would say it just because she spoke and he was the only one who was entitled to ask this single cruel word.

"Because some things can never be changed."

"Fate?" she inquired sadly.

"No," he replied with a hint of distaste. "Just existence."

It would make no sense to anyone but her, but she knew exactly what he meant. Had known it from the moment he was born. You could change the way people saw you, could change your future, your destiny, everything around you. Could even modify your past, at least as far as history was concerned. But you could never change who you are.

Maybe it was the way her eyes seemed to be completely dead as they stared back at her through the glass. That had to be unsettling. But then, her eyes were always like that. Or at least they had been for as long as she could remember. It was probably a trait acquired from him at some point, but she didn't dwell on that. Regardless, that was obviously not the problem with her image.

She wouldn't even have to ask him, she could read the answer in his expression. Something was stopping her. She supposed that meant she didn't want to know. But she couldn't move past it. She hadn't even started to brush her hair, pick out her clothes, put on make-up. She had time though.

"How long?" she asked again.

The clock was in fact just to her right and she could simply look, could probably even see it with just a sideways glance. But she wanted his voice. Wanted to feel that he was waiting for this with as much agitation as she was, even if his tone suggested that he was completely passive about the entire thing.

"Two hours, forty nine minutes."

She didn't realize she had been staring at her reflection for so long. She was running out of time, apparently faster than she thought. She would have to figure out what was wrong with her appearance. She'd have to find something to wear to match him, to represent the village, to show her status, despite the blatant disregard of rules by wearing black and obviously having the need to show much of her leg for the symbol to be visible on her thigh.

"Can I bring my fan?" she muttered, seemingly to herself.

"No," he answered despite knowing that she already knew. "You don't need to. The ANBU will be there."

She turned back to him with a sneer befitting only the most arrogant of shinobi. She didn't trust the ANBU. He knew that. She hadn't trusted them since the day when they were children and a squad of the highest ranking ANBU had attempted to hold her back while attacking him. They had been eliminated in a hurricane of sand in the blink of an eye. But now it was different. Now they were under his control. They still couldn't overpower him, of course, everyone knew that. The statement referred more to the matter of appearance. They would have to look as if they trusted their guards.

"I really have to look like a girl for this, huh?" she said with a smirk, turning back to her reflection.

"You are," he replied unnecessarily.

She couldn't remember the last time she had worn something that was not ninja garb, much less something that was supposed to be elegant and formal. Probably some other ceremony. She remembered dancing with him some time in the past under the watchful eyes of the village. Brother and sister then. She wondered if she would have to do it this time.

Perhaps it was the lack of any kind of weapons on her body that was unsettling. She always had weapons somewhere within reach. Something about being able to reach down and feel the sharp metallic point of a deadly blade was comforting to her. But she had seen herself this way before. He always took away her weapons when he undressed her. She had seen this very look in the mirror countless times before putting on her clothes. Aside, once she had picked out her dress, she would be able to hide a kunai somewhere, she was sure. The problem had to be about something that was already there, she decided.

"Where should I sit?" she questioned slowly.

"With me."

She paused. That was an odd statement under the circumstances, yet entirely predictable.

"Isn't it supposed to be…?"

"I don't care," he cut across her characteristically.

Maybe it was the situation that was unsettling. She paused again. No, definitely her. Something about the way she looked was simply off. Something that had never been there before and she had a feeling would never disappear after this day. This unnerved her even further. Her shoulders moved slightly in a subtle indication of her discomfort. This wasn't right. Everything about this wasn't right.

"But then they'll know," she murmured, her voice sounding strangely pathetic with such a fearful note in it.

"They already do," he stated with a careless shrug.

Another pause, a mimicry of shock. She knew of course. It was obvious. Even so, he made a point to tell her before this whole thing was set into motion. He allowed himself a small scowl at her pathetic attempt at surprise before retreating to the usual blank look.

"So what about tonight?" she inquired, voice cold as if she didn't care for this entire charade.

"It's just a night," he replied, emotionless and completely devoid of meaning, avoiding her question entirely.

She knew what he was thinking though, what he intended to do when the ceremony was over. This was certainly promising to be a spectacle.

She turned again, walked back to the nightstand, stopped. This was turning out to be repetitive, she realized. It was like pacing in very slow motion. The thought made her issue a short, dry laugh. He turned his head at a minimal angle to allow him to look at her. She met his gaze silently, shrugged in response to his unspoken question, tried to smile and failed miserably. He continued to watch her. She sighed. She couldn't remember why she came over here. Instead she placed one knee on the bed and leaned down towards him. He was still watching her. His gaze made everyone else shrink away in fear and incomprehension. It never bothered her though, even all those years when it wasn't his consciousness that she saw behind those eyes.

She froze a few inches away from him, one hand planted on the bed as well to support herself. She studied him, her gaze never wavering from his. He didn't seem affected in the least. Nervous, angry, uncertain, happy… nothing. It was as if this didn't matter to him whatsoever, as if it was just any other day. She wasn't sure if that bothered her, wasn't sure if it should.

"Should we really be together right now?" she intoned.

"Should…?" he echoed, brows quirking upward in a gesture of mocking more than question.

It was a stupid question of course. What they should and shouldn't do had never been part of their calculations, least of all when dealing with each other. There was no particular reason why that would change now. Except that there were a million reasons. Just not precisely the right ones. Of course, right and wrong were also something to be disregarded.

He twisted a bit more towards her and reached up suddenly, a jerky movement that would've made her jump if she wasn't used to his strangeness. He slowed just before touching her, fingers slipping into her hair, expertly avoiding the brush of skin. He toyed with her locks carefully, a motion too calculated to be gentle, eyes never leaving hers. Her lips parted in a silent sigh, every fiber of her being longing to move closer, to lean into those fingers whose caresses she knew so well. She didn't. She remained still, waiting.

"Your brush," he said finally.

Yes, that was what she came for. She pulled back, hair sliding through his parted fingers and leaving his hand suspended awkwardly in midair before he lowered it soundlessly to the mattress. Her hand found the necessary tool sightlessly before she turned away and returned to her temporary sanctuary in front of the mirror. Definitely a pattern.

She began to run the brush through her hair idly, not even wincing as it slid through the tangles and pulled strands free of her scalp. She saw his reflection move, stand up from the bed, walk off into the distance. The brush ran through the same bundle of locks time and time again, now completely smooth and tangle free. She wasn't paying attention to it. Even without looking at the reflection, something about her was still not right. That had to mean it was something she could feel. Maybe a bruise, a wound, a cut? There were always bruises, though. She never noticed them, no matter how big.

The sound of water running in the shower. She wished suddenly that she hadn't showered already, that she could have an excuse to get close to him one more time. Maybe he'd need her to wash him again. Her gaze drifted back to the reflection and she finally moved the brush to a new spot, finishing the work with the same brutal force. She parted her hair in the middle, the blonde locks falling flat over her shoulders, her bangs obscuring her forehead. Despite the difference in shade and the way her expression was much harsher than what she remembered seeing as a child, she still reminded herself of their mother this way. She wondered if he would hate it.

She hadn't realized that the water had stopped until the nearly soundless padding footsteps and a movement at the edge of the mirror alerted her to his reappearance in the room. He was wearing only black boxers now, his damp hair tousled as if he had dried it with a towel. It looked almost crimson now and she still couldn't get the image of blood out of her mind. Her arms dropped to her sides, the brush clutched tightly in her hand, gaze returning to her image and a deep frown appearing on her face.

"It's fine," he said shortly, walking over to her.

He'd never really seen her, of course. She was dead by the time he was able to open his eyes for the first time. But he used to have a picture, she knew that. And the brother, their uncle, the treacherous bastard… they were nearly identical. She had no doubt that he knew exactly what their mother had looked like, could probably even imagine the way her face could light up in joy or contort with rage.

The way she looked when she had cursed the village for his existence with her dying breath.

"Don't I remind you of her?"

She glanced at his reflection behind her, slightly off to the side so she could see his face.

Predictably expressionless. He stepped closer, the heat of his body radiating through her.

"You're different."

His hand brushed up along her back, fingertips just barely making contact with the skin. When they were kids, these gestures used to always make her shudder and explode in goosebumps. She was too desensitized to it now, but that did not make the feeling any less electric. She wanted him to really touch her. The brush dropped to the floor with a thud when fingers began to trace the contours of the fabric around her torso.

Maybe the undergarments were the problem. They were much more frilly and decorative than the practical attire she usually wore. The lace and nearly see-through silk were definitely distracting. But she had worn things like these for him on occasion. He liked to see the contrast of something so delicate on her toned, scarred body. In fact, this was a pair he bought for her some time ago, she just hadn't had a chance to wear it before now.

"How long?" she inquired yet again.

His hands slipped around her waist, gliding down her stomach over the line of her hip bones, fingertips pushing just barely into the band of her panties. She leaned into him, her body fitting perfectly against his, back flexing slightly to rub skin against skin.

"Two hours, four minutes."

There was a hint of something in his voice now. Something to do with their proximity. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, the tickle of hair against his neck failing to make him shiver only because of its familiarity. Her eyes studied their reflection. They were so different, but somehow gave off the unmistakable impression of being siblings. Even standing as they were now. He had grown to be taller than her, but only by a few inches. If she wore heels, she would match his height. She decided she would. That way, if they did have to dance together she wouldn't be looking up at him.

"Remember our last mission together?" she questioned quietly.

"To Rain."

She turned her head slightly towards him, her hair brushing against his cheek. He mimicked the gesture, taking in the scent of her shampoo, lilies and wild flowers, reminding him of some distant memory of something they had done in the middle of a field.

"Yeah… When we stopped by that waterfall…"

"When you were covered in blood," he murmured, voice husky with something too cold to be desire.

"And what we did in the water," she finished, lips twitching in a mockery of a grin.

She placed her hands over his delicately, paused for a moment, then guided him gently, making him slide his fingers further down, towards the cleft between her legs, stopping just before the curve of her pubic bone.

"And that one before," she was whispering now.

"With the caravan."

"When they were too afraid to ask if we're siblings or lovers." If her voice had a texture, it would be
the softest of satin.

"And I told them anyway."

Her back arched slightly, a soft moan falling off her lips. Her skin took on a slightly pink tinge, body growing warmer, heartbeat increasing slightly. It was agonizing to be this close, to know that he wouldn't stop her if she turned around, if she took him back to the bed.

"That time in my office," he breathed against her hair. "On the desk."

"When we knew the council was just outside the door."

"And they could hear everything."

There was a note of something feral and sadistic in his voice now, something reminiscent of his childhood years. The insanity that would never be completely gone. A primitive sort of inhumanity that allowed them to be together as they were, unable to separate from each other, unable to gain satisfaction in anyone else.

His mouth found her neck before she even realized she had tilted her head, his name escaping her lips in broken gasps, an unspoken plea for something that she didn't know but he would understand anyway.

"What happens next?" she managed to utter.

He didn't answer. He knew that she knew. It was obvious. Not to mention that they had discussed it already, every possibility and unpredictable outcome, every regret and reservation, every fear and uncertainty. If only to say that nobody had been deceived. There were no compromises here. It would be done as it had to be done. Feelings had never been a consideration in this ruthless village, much less in their own brutal, violent lives.

She knew though that he wasn't annoyed with her incessant questions either. It didn't matter to him one way or the other, but he understood her need. In the past, he would simply listen and appear to be ignoring her entirely while he read all the meanings behind everything she said. Now he would occasionally indulge her with his own empty commentary.

His lips left her skin and she found herself suddenly cold where she had been burning before. Her hands pressed into his, making his fingers depress indentations into her flesh, willing him to be closer but refusing it.

"I wonder what it will be like… after…" she murmured, voice wavering with a hint of an emotion she would not usually show.

No answer again. The question had really been the same. Slowly his hands slid out from under hers and she released him regretfully. She remained where she was, fingers lingering on the spot he had touched, as he pulled back and turned away. She glanced at the clock because she knew he would remain silent this time. Another fifteen minutes had passed. And something was still wrong with her.

He was walking out of her room. Her eyes followed him with a panic that he did not indulge as he pulled open the door and disappeared down the hallway. She sighed, picked up the brush, walked back to the nightstand. The brush was dropped onto the surface as she rummaged in one of the drawers for her make-up kit. She pulled it out, walked back towards the mirror, abruptly decided that she had to find clothes first, dropped the kit onto the bed instead. The door was open. That wasn't helping. They weren't alone in the house.

She ignored it, approached her closet, slid open the door with pent-up irritation, making it soundless nevertheless. A small sneer appeared on her face as she issued a quiet snort. Nearly everything she had was black. Everything else was dark shades of somber colors. There were only a couple of bright, graceful dresses that radiated happiness. Acquired only in case necessity should arise and meant for occasions such as this. He didn't want that from her though, didn't want her to play the diplomat. He wanted black, as if she was mourning, for him, for them, for what this was. He wanted the blatant sexuality of conforming contours and exposed skin. He wanted her to look cold and beautiful and his. He wanted them all to see exactly what he had possessed, what he could have forever if he so chose.

Regardless, this was not entirely helpful in picking her attire. There were more dresses there than she ever remembered buying. Nearly all were revealing enough to raise a few eyebrows. She had never been shy, after all. But it had to be somehow suitable to the situation, even if that seemed an impossible task considering she really did not belong in this setup. Still, she would have to be able to walk in as the elite shinobi that she was, as the sister of the leader of their village, and look the part.

She turned away from the closet, returned to the nightstand, opened another drawer. An array of weapons glinted in the light. She couldn't use a pouch or a holster, that would be too obvious. That meant she could only conceal one or two weapons. She could probably tape some shuriken to her leg, but getting to them if she needed to would be a problem. Not that she expected to need them. She simply wanted something sharp.

He walked back into the room to find her twirling a kunai between her fingers, his presence seeming to go unnoticed. The door closed soundlessly. He knew though that she had sensed him before he even came in.

"No," he said simply.

"I need something," she replied with frustration, the kunai dropping back into the drawer.

She turned around sharply. He was dressed now, and she was surprised to find that he wasn't wearing the formal robes. Instead, he wore his usual long black coat over black pants and what she was sure was fishnet and a black shirt underneath. She supposed it looked fairly formal anyway, but it was shinobi attire regardless. He really was making a mockery of this entire thing. She resisted the urge to inquire why she had to dress up while he, being the center of attention, didn't. She knew she wouldn't want to hear the answer.

"You already have something," he pointed out.

She realized immediately that he was referring to whatever it was that had been annoying her since she looked in the mirror. That meant it had to be an object, and she had already deducted it was something she was wearing. Given the limited amount of things on her body at the moment, the answer should've been fairly obvious. Oddly enough she still couldn't figure it out. He didn't elaborate, he knew she still didn't really want to know.

He was blocking her return path to the mirror, disrupting her routine. She eyed him warily, the apprehension in her gaze making him frown. He moved, sat down on the edge of the bed, glanced sideways at the make-up kit momentarily then lowered his eyes to the floor. This was too tense, she decided. It wasn't right to go into this with so much unease. The alternative though was something she couldn't deal with at the moment. She retreated abruptly to the closet, picked out three dresses at random, returned to lay them out on the empty side of the bed. He hadn't shifted an inch. She walked around the bed, picked up the brush again, stopped in front of him.
"Remember when we were kids?" she said quietly.

No response, his gaze still leveled on some obscure point off to the side. She slowly lifted her arm, poised to touch the brush to his hair. Paused. Brought up the other hand instead and allowed her slender fingers to glide through his locks. His hair had always been soft. She had marveled at that since they were little. His skin was soft too, she remembered, despite the harsh dry sand encasing him most of the time. She allowed her hand to drop lower, fingertips trailing smoothly down the side of his face.

"When we used to watch the sandstorms together?" she added finally.

"Yeah," he muttered. "On the roof."

She was the only one that would remain near him during those times. Everyone else was too terrified of what the raging sand brought out in him, his… urges. He had always told her to leave and she always ignored him. The sand would circle around her feet and cut lines into her legs, but she stayed next to him anyway. It wasn't till years later that they discovered another outlet for his violence.

She edged closer and finally allowed the brush to make contact with his hair. He remained still as she began to run it through the tangles. In the past, sand wound rise up and curl around her wrist if she made a motion too sudden or pulled out even a single strand. Now, she could tear at his hair and claw at his skin with the only retaliation being his own bites and scratches. This time though she was careful, in complete contrast with the way she had just treated her own hair. After a moment his arms wound around her legs, pulling her closer, hands grasping at the back of her thighs. She sighed, a pretense of being content.

The brush slid through his hair evenly, easily untangling the locks. She continued the motion even after it was no longer necessary. Eventually the brush dropped onto the bed and it was only her fingers gliding against his scalp. He pulled her in towards him, face buried against her chest, hair tickling the exposed area between her breasts, breath warm on her skin. There was still something childlike about him when he did that, even in this erotic position.

"Do you want me to go in after you… or…?" she inquired, letting the question hang in the air.

He didn't respond, a deep intake of breath indicating that he wasn't ignoring her but simply didn't wish to let her go yet. His hands slid up, gliding over her curves before coming to rest at the small of her back. She waited, fingers playing with his hair absently, one hand falling to rest against his shoulder. A sideways glance indicated that she had less than an hour and a half left. Time really was disappearing and she hadn't accomplished anything yet. He pulled back finally, hands remaining on her waist, eyes lifting to look at her.

"No," he said calmly. "You'll walk in with me."

She couldn't stop herself from smirking slightly. He was disregarding all the rules completely. He would make sure that there was no mistake about what they were to each other. Her fingers slid through his hair, pulling the locks back from his forehead, thumb brushing idly over the engraving on his skin.

The mark felt rough under her caress, the familiarity of the etched lines calming her slightly.

After several minutes of silence, his hands finally dropped, releasing her. She lingered for a moment before pulling back and walking around the bed to look at the dresses laid out in front of her. She didn't like them. Too long, too tight, too billowy. She walked back to the closet, pulled out three more, returned to throw them on the bed on top of the rejected clothes. He observed her with apparent disinterest out of the corner of his eye.

She glared at the dresses for a few moments, then finally picked up one and held it out in her outstretched arms, examining it carefully. It seemed appropriate, but she still hated it. She frowned and cast the garment aside on the floor unceremoniously. The other two followed shortly after. She swept aside the first three without a second consideration.

"Fuck," she swore under her breath. "I hate this."

"Deal with it," he answered harshly.

She scowled at him. The frustration wasn't really directed at him though. But the source of her anger was something he did not wish to discuss. It was pointless. It was what it was. They had all agreed to it. Whatever she might mean to him, he wouldn't let her interfere.

She returned to the closet to recover four more dresses and bring them back to the bed. This shouldn't be so complicated, she decided. It was just a day, just a ceremony. Even if they would all be watching her, waiting to see what she would do… what she and her brother would act like. To her, it was just another mission. And that meant she couldn't fail, couldn't do a poor job. She would have to look perfect, in control and happy. No matter how much she detested going through with this whole fa?ade.

She examined another dress, then threw it aside. Then paused. The dress that was in front of her now caught her attention. She picked it up carefully. He had bought this for her too, she recalled. She supposed that would be fitting, to be dressed entirely in garments picked out by him. He wanted to show her off as his possession, after all. Her lips formed into a sad smile as she slipped the dress on carefully. She turned to face her reflection.

The dress was a delicate satin, conforming to her shape perfectly and outlining all the curves. It was a unique design – a sleeveless top resembling a short tank-top connected to a skirt by four bands of fabric, two on the front and two on the back, the exposed portion around the waist covered with fishnet. The low square cut of the top showed off just enough of her cleavage. The skirt was short on one side, allowing the hitai-ate to be seen on her leg, and cascaded at an angle down to her ankle on the other side. It was elegant and formal, and provocative and blatantly sexual at the same time. It was perfect.

"How long?" she murmured, still studying herself in the mirror.

"One hour, five minutes," his voice was still completely neutral.

She was really taking entirely too long. She still had to do her make-up. And having little experience in the matter, she was sure it would take a while to get it right. She walked back to the bed, picked up the remaining clothes, leaned down to grab what she had discarded on the floor, then returned to the closet and threw the entire bundle in carelessly. She could clean up later. The closet door slid shut silently. She came back to pick up her make-up kit. He glanced up at her, expression blank, unreadable. She knew exactly what he was thinking though. A small smile crept onto her lips as she paused in front of the bed.

"What do you think?" she asked, a slow gesture of her hands indicating the dress.

"I think I want to rip it off," he answered quietly, the unmistakably animalistic undertone in his voice making a burning ache spread in her abdomen.

She said nothing and picked up the make-up, this time going to sit at the table that held a smaller vanity mirror. She laid out the assortment of unfamiliar tools in front of her. The loose hair was tugged back behind her ears, leaving her face open. She did learn how to do this properly once, a long time ago. Even a village as brutal as theirs had kunoichi training that included mundane things such as flower arrangements and maintaining proper appearances. She never paid much attention to it, but she did remember some things.

Foundation was first, that much was obvious. She picked up the flesh-toned tube and looked at it with distaste. The color seemed to match her skin. Whoever picked out these things for her had obviously known her. She had no idea where the things came from, they just appeared at some point. Probably a servant, paid to figure out exactly what she would need. She sighed and set the tube aside. It seemed pointless. Instead she reached for the bottle of lotion that always sat on the table and applied the familiar substance to her face. Powder next. Well she could deal with that, it didn't seem quite as annoying. She applied a minimal amount to her face, just enough to cover the shine and smooth out her features.

Maybe this wouldn't be so hard after all. She set the powder aside, glanced sideways at her brother who was still observing her silently. She gave another weak smile before turning back to find eye shadow. The colors were perfect once again. Applying it however was a little more complicated. She fumbled with the little brush, struggling to keep the color even and consistent. A very light grey under her brows and a dark blue, almost black over her eyelids. The perfect combination to compliment the shade of her eyes.

"I'm never doing this again, you know," she said with a hint of irritation as she set the little box of eye shadow down.

"You will if I tell you," he replied indifferently.

She scowled. That was true, of course. Despite everything else, she was still a shinobi in his employ.

If there was a mission or a meeting that required this, she would have to comply. He wasn't referring to that though. He was referring to the fact that she would do it for him, if he wanted her to, for any reason. She didn't want to think about that right now.

"Easy for you to say," she muttered, picking up the black eyeliner and examining the sharpened tip with apprehension.

"Stop whining," he answered coldly.

She turned to him with a glare that did not affect him in the least. He continued to watch. Eventually she turned back to the mirror and began to apply the eyeliner to her eyelids with slow, careful movements. It proved to be a difficult task and by the time she managed to get the lines straight she was thoroughly frustrated. The pencil was thrown down on the table with irritation as she suspiciously eyed the tool that was meant to curl her lashes. There was no way she was going to use that, she decided. She'd been through interrogation training and this reminded her entirely too much of a number of objects she'd seen there.

"How long?" she asked yet again as she picked up the black mascara.

"Forty two minutes."

Shit. She had practically no time left. And something was still definitely off, not right about her appearance in general, but she couldn't dwell on it anymore. She began to apply mascara hastily, stopping abruptly when she realized if she messed up she would have to redo everything else. She proceeded more cautiously, putting on just enough to make her eyelashes stand out against the dark eye shadow. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him stand and approach her. She remained where she was, putting down the mascara and examining an assortment of lipstick in front of her. She had no idea what shade to choose.

He stood behind her chair, hands resting against the back of it, knuckles grazing against her back. A movement of her head made her hair cascade over his arms, the blonde a stark contrast to the black of his attire. His eyes seemed to be fixated on her left hand, resting on the table among the array of make-up.

"Did you have them change the vows?" she asked suddenly, making him stiffen imperceptibly.

He gave a short disdainful snort. It seemed stupid given how ridiculous the entire situation was that the council had the biggest problem with this. They wanted a traditional ceremony with traditional vows. He refused. They threatened. But he had won in the end. He wouldn't compromise. With them, with her, with anyone.

"Yeah."

It had been reduced to not much more than a sentence now. Do you agree? That was all that really mattered in the end. She knew that's what he wanted, she didn't have to ask him to elaborate.

He reached down over her unexpectedly, hand brushing against hers before he picked up one of the lipsticks from the table. She raised an eyebrow slightly but took it from his fingers nevertheless as he straightened once more. It was a dark plum shade. She looked at it skeptically for a moment, then proceeded to put it on. It matched the rest of her look. It was seductive and dangerous. Just like him.

Fitting.

His hands were suddenly on her shoulders, caressing the exposed skin. She sighed quietly, instinctively leaning into his touch, melting under his fingers. Her gaze met his through the reflection, her face softening marginally. Despite everything, her tension and worry seemed to vanish when he looked at her like that, when those fingers made her forget that there was anyone else in the world besides the two of them. Except that she had to remember that. Especially now.

"Should I say anything?" she asked quietly. "Should I talk to her?"

"It doesn't matter," he answered predictably. "You can if you want."

She was standing before she even realized it, his hands dropping from her shoulders and catching her around the waist instead. She couldn't control the slight tremble that passed through her body. He pressed her closer despite her obvious attempt to pull away. That warmth again. That insane, unbearable warmth that made her lose her mind. He knew he did this to her. Knew it and was fully abusing his power.

"Little brother…" she breathed out, voice full of passion and grief.

That was the second time she called him that. His hands gripped at the fabric of her dress for a moment before starting to idly trace lines along her stomach. He leaned down, breath warm against her cheek, lips not quite touching her. He knew what she was going to say and wished she wouldn't. Her words came in broken gasps, forcing it out despite his attempt to make her forget.

"Somehow… I never thought… I would have to watch you getting married."

He didn't say anything. She didn't expect him to. There was nothing else to say. His fingers continued to stroke her absently, one hand moving to trace down the length of her left arm. Fingertips slid along the back of her hand before interlocking his fingers with hers. Something was odd about it. It didn't feel right somehow. It wasn't the fact that she was standing in his arms and holding his hand when she was about to see him in front of the altar with another woman. It was just something about the feeling.

She glanced down at their joined hands.

The realization hit her suddenly, the answer to what she had been searching for all morning. He smirked slightly. It was stupid of her to forget. But she didn't forget, really, she just blocked it out. The simple ring shone on her finger and she could not tear her eyes away from it. He had given it to her, not to the one that would in less than an hour be called his wife. She would have no ring, nor would he. Only her, his sister. Another way to flaunt it, to show the council his defiance of all the rules.

It meant something deeper though.

"She must hate me," she murmured, her voice shaking with the threat of tears.

"It doesn't matter," he hissed in response.

She tore her hand away from his then, moving to break free, to pull out of his embrace.
"Temari…"

His voice was like a caress, deep and harsh despite its velvety smoothness. The three syllables contained so much emotion that she let out an involuntary moan. He had called her by her name, she had called him brother. Just like all those years ago, when there was nothing between them besides some strained relationship of forced kinship. Reverting to something long gone. Perhaps hate was a safer emotion than love.

Before she could put distance between them he pulled her around and pinned her against the nearby wall, palms resting on either side of her head. He moved closer until his nose was brushing against hers, their eyes locked, her lip quivering slightly. This wasn't like then, like those distant memories of fear and uncertainty. This was now. Him, here, with her.

"Temari…" he breathed again, her eyes drawn to the movement of his lips. "I don't hate you. Don't worry about her."

"Gaara…"

Her voice sounded almost as a sob and she hated herself for it. It didn't bother him though. He didn't mind her vulnerability, so long as she confided it only in him. If she needed him, even for something as simple as a confirmation of his feelings, he could never hold that against her. The importance of such primitive gestures as embraces and token words of affection was still incomprehensible to him, but he indulged her because she needed him.

"Sister…"

Those lips were moving again, almost touching hers. Their breath mingled as she parted her lips as well and he hovered over her in a pseudo-kiss. Her arms wound around his waist without her realizing it, bringing him closer, pressing his body into hers. He didn't have to say anything else. She already knew. But he did anyway, just to see the way her eyes lit up at the words, the way she drew in a breath in response.

"You are mine. You will always be mine. Nothing will ever change that."

Only the fear of ruining her careful work with her appearance prevented her from forcing those lips to make contact, from crushing his mouth onto hers. She tilted her head to the side slightly, a quiet moan escaping her throat and spreading warmth across his face. Her hands fisted in the fabric of his robe behind his back as she allowed her tongue to glide along his bottom lip with excruciating slowness. His teeth brushed against it, biting lightly before she pulled back, her breath hitching in her throat.

"I feel sorry for her," she whispered.

A life of loneliness. She would not wish that for anyone. The girl, his soon-to-be wife, would be alone for the rest of her life. She would live in her own house. She would never see her husband except for business. She wouldn't even be able to have affairs, to protect his reputation despite the obvious lack of relationship between them. And when the time came that he chose to have children, she would have to participate in what was guaranteed to be a loveless act and birth a child that would be raised by her husband and his sister.

"Don't," he answered simply.

His sister was not the villain here and he knew there was no reason for her to think otherwise. He would not give her up. They had all known that. Even when the council approached him with the proposal, they knew it would be only for show. It was simply another one of his duties, to marry and produce a child that would be heir and in line to become the next Kazekage. They had overlooked his disregard of the law in his chosen relationship, but they could not allow him to endanger the future of the village.

Even to him the village came first and he agreed.

The girl had agreed too. It was her choice, she volunteered herself. She knew exactly what she was walking into. To her, it was worth it, for the title of the Kazekage's wife and all the fortune that came along with it. He thought her shallow for it, despite the service she was doing for him and the village, and did not consider her feelings an issue in the matter. She would be no more than a subordinate to him, not even a friend.

"Are you ready?" he asked after a pause.

She gave him one of her rare genuine smiles, clinging to him for just one more moment before she had to let go. Whatever happened, he would be with her. She knew that much. She had never been able to trust anything, but she trusted him. He was her brother. Always would be.

"Almost," she murmured.

One of his hands moved to cup her face gently, fingertips gliding along her cheek before he retreated and took a step back. A glance at the clock indicated that they were nearly out of time. She walked to the closet quickly and picked out a pair of black strappy high-heeled shoes. She slipped them on elegantly, taking a moment to adjust and regain her balance. She returned to his side with a steady step, the slight sway of her hips radiating confidence. She was the Kazekage's sister, his lover, his love. And today they would all see that nothing could stand between them.

She locked her hand with his, fingers intertwined as they headed for the door. Together. Through everything.

End.