summary: The little brother fascinates Kankuro.
characters: Kankuro, Gaara.
disclaimer: Not mine. Title and subtitle from a Sigur Rós song.
warnings: Possible inaccuracies concerning Sand architecture. ._.
An Alright Start
We'll do better next time.
On a Saturday afternoon Kankuro likes to go up to the roof and lie down on his stomach. The mammoth blue sky stretches above him, with its unreachable clouds, and beneath him sprawls his entire village. With his feet nodding lazily in the air, and a tune on his breath, he waits. Most Saturdays a little figure appears from one of the sidestreets and pads down the main path, and when that happens Kankuro pushes himself up from the floor and bounds down the stairs.
Kankuro can tell it's Gaara from a mile away. He's been watching his little brother for a long while now. There's his teddybear that's more of an extension of his arm, there's his gait, the tiny steps he takes like he doesn't want to disturb anything, how his feet don't lift properly so they scuff the ground- but just lightly, because Gaara never kicks up any sand. Kankuro can always see him clearly, even though Gaara's just a tiny little thing, because the streets are always completely empty around this time.
Kankuro supposes, it's the afternoon heat that drives them indoors.
Kankuro likes to follow Gaara on a Saturday afternoon. Usually just with his eyes, from rooftops, but today Kankuro guesses he feels like following with his feet. So he does, but only from a distance. He keeps quiet, because that's what he's been taught to do. He walks when Gaara walks, pauses when he pauses, and when Gaara starts running Kankuro starts running too, until Gaara finally stops, dust swirling, and spins around and with his teddybear held up in front of his face, screams.
And Kankuro stops. The sand they've kicked up and set in motion swarms around them; there's something else here with them now, and it's as huge as the sky and powerful and most of all so terribly alive, so much so that Kankuro can feel it in the dust about him, in the sand beneath him. It moves the way fate does, persistent as the blood-bonds of siblings, and Kankuro can't run away, he can't even cry, he can't do anything at all.
Immediately his father is there, patting and smoothing down with his strong hands the fabric of his clothes and the shaking in his shoulders. His uncle is there, too, crouching down beside Gaara, hands on both sides of his small tear-stained face, saying, Shh, it's all right, I'm here, it's all right.
Kankuro swallows, already looking forward to next Saturday.