Carnival
Temari is a connoisseur of masks.
But these masks are not tangible. Handcrafted, yes, elaborate and beautiful and grotesque, yes, but not touchable. Never that.
Her masks are faces. She puts them on. She takes them off. She scours them for dirt, for cracks, for flaws.
She wears them to survive. She wears them because she believes she must, truly believes. Without them, she feels inadequate, vulnerable, small. She feels everything she has, everything she works so hard to protect, will be stolen from her. Without them, she is just Temari, not Temari of the Sand, not Temari the kunoichi. Just Temari.
She hates Temari. She fears her, and loathes her, and keeps her hidden behind the masks.
Kankuro has watched his sister for years, since he was a child barely old enough to remember such things. He watched her so he would know which mask was which, and what her face really looked like in those rare moments when she wasn’t wearing any.
He loves Temari of the Sand. She is the strong one, the smart one, the diplomat and the Kazekage’s right arm. She is her brothers’ defender, their most trusted advocate. Whatever she needs to do to ensure their safety, their dreams, their happiness, she’ll do it, at the expense of her own safety, her own dreams, her own happiness.
“My first responsibility is to my village,” she says wearily, resting eyes that appear bruised after another sleepless night. “You’re part of the village. You and Gaara. So my responsibility is to you, too.”
He loves Temari the kunoichi. She is fierce. She is determined. She is not afraid of her reputation. A cold-hearted bitch, they call her, capable of inhuman cruelty. She’ll go to great lengths to see the mission through, because, to a kunoichi, the mission is everything.
Standing with her back to him, arms by her sides, her skin torn and bloody, she says, “Listen. Do you hear it?”
A whimper of pain, so low and guttural it could come from an animal. There is a man pinned to the tree in front of her, kunai buried hilt-deep in his palms.
“That is the price we pay, for being what we are.”
His entire life, Kankuro has leaned on her, and learned from her. He’s fought with her, and he’s been scolded by her. She is the shield through which all the bad things in life, all the suffering and the heartache and the ugliness, must pass before it can reach him.
But the person he loves the most is the person she despises.
“Your fingers are bleeding again, you idiot. Come here and let me bandage them.”
Her eyes soft but narrowed, taking his hand between both of hers, holding it a little too long. He bleeds on her, though she doesn’t seem to care. She hums to him as she cleans the cuts and binds them in fresh linen, her touch firm, yet gentle.
“Don’t push yourself so hard,” she orders once she finishes. “Or at least take a break once in a while to make sure you haven’t hit anything vital.”
Temari. Just Temari. No more, no less.
He wishes she could see herself the way he sees her, through his eyes. Maybe she wouldn’t be so ashamed of Temari then. Maybe she’d realize that Temari didn’t need the masks, because she already was everything they symbolized.
Maybe she’d understand that Temari had been the guiding light behind his faltering steps, always urging him forward, telling him to strive higher, to settle for nothing but the best.
Temari, just Temari, is his sister.
And he loves her for it.
He loves her.
“Read to me, wouldja?”
She’s sitting on the couch in the living room, staring blankly at the television, which is switched on to some movie about the yakuza. For whatever reason, she likes watching staged violence after engaging in the real thing on missions. She says it’s therapeutic, in a strange way, seeing fake limbs fly and fake blood spill. Makes killing easier to deal with.
She looks up at him when he comes in, her face drawn and pale, her hair hanging limply down her back and over her shoulders. Her legs are tucked beneath her, and the patchwork quilt their mother made a few years before her death is draped across her lap. She’s been picking at a loose thread that holds two of the squares together, as if determined to separate them.
The memories of their mother are not fond, but they are fonder than the memories of their father. Their mother was troubled, and often sought solace in her own little world. Their father was power hungry, and he neglected them when he wasn’t exploiting their talents.
Her lips curl in a wan smile.
“Hey, stupid.” She pats one of the couch cushions, inviting him to sit. “When did you get home?”
Rather than accepting, he strides to the couch, takes her by the wrist, and hauls her up, wrapping an arm about her waist to bar her escape. The quilt slithers to the ground.
“Not too long ago,” he says, starting toward the doorway, but Temari digs in her feet.
“What are you doing?” she replies, sounding annoyed. “I was comfortable, and the best part of the movie’s coming-”
Because he knows she’s going to be obstinate if he doesn’t do something drastic, Kankuro snakes his free arm under her knees, holding her like a husband would his new bride. She squeaks in protest, and he laughs.
“Who cares about the movie? You’ve seen it so many times I’m surprised the DVD hasn’t crapped out yet. Watch it later. I want you to read to me.”
“You know how to read,” Temari grumbles. “Read to yourself.” But she does rest her weight against him and hug him around the neck.
She feels so light. Probably not eating enough. Kankuro frowns.
“Did you have breakfast this morning?”
“Mm.” Her eyes are closed. “A banana…”
“Just a banana? Nothing else?”
“Wasn’t hungry.”
He carries her up the stairs to where the bedrooms are, his frown deepening.
“And lunch? Did you eat lunch?”
She opens her eyes to glower at him.
“Kankuro. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
He walks past his, Temari’s, and Gaara’s rooms, heading for the spare bedroom at the end of the hall, the one they’ve dubbed the “reading room.” Along with a king-sized bed, the room has a large, old-fashioned nursery rocking chair that they’d found in an obscure village in River Country, as well as a variety of pillows, big and small, spread out on the floor by the foot of the chair for someone, or many someones, to lounge on while the person in the chair read.
Usually, Temari is the person in the chair. She has a soothing, expressive voice, unlike Gaara, and she rarely loses her spot on the page, unlike Kankuro.
“How about you let someone else take care of you,” he says quietly, setting her in the chair. “It isn’t a sin to depend on others, Temari. You’re not perfect, so stop trying to be.”
She runs her fingertips along the smooth wood of the armrests, saying nothing for a while. The tearstains on her cheeks are the only outward signs that his words have had any impact on her at all.
“Sit,” she says finally, reaching for the book on the nightstand beside the chair. It’s an old story, about an angel who cannot return to heaven after the man who becomes her husband steals her feathered robe, and she’s read it to him many times before, but it hasn’t lost its appeal. She opens the book to the spot she marked and waits for her brother to get comfortable before she begins.
And she’s Temari.
Just Temari.
Back resting against her shins, Kankuro listens to her read.
--
I hope you guys enjoyed. XD
But these masks are not tangible. Handcrafted, yes, elaborate and beautiful and grotesque, yes, but not touchable. Never that.
Her masks are faces. She puts them on. She takes them off. She scours them for dirt, for cracks, for flaws.
She wears them to survive. She wears them because she believes she must, truly believes. Without them, she feels inadequate, vulnerable, small. She feels everything she has, everything she works so hard to protect, will be stolen from her. Without them, she is just Temari, not Temari of the Sand, not Temari the kunoichi. Just Temari.
She hates Temari. She fears her, and loathes her, and keeps her hidden behind the masks.
Kankuro has watched his sister for years, since he was a child barely old enough to remember such things. He watched her so he would know which mask was which, and what her face really looked like in those rare moments when she wasn’t wearing any.
He loves Temari of the Sand. She is the strong one, the smart one, the diplomat and the Kazekage’s right arm. She is her brothers’ defender, their most trusted advocate. Whatever she needs to do to ensure their safety, their dreams, their happiness, she’ll do it, at the expense of her own safety, her own dreams, her own happiness.
“My first responsibility is to my village,” she says wearily, resting eyes that appear bruised after another sleepless night. “You’re part of the village. You and Gaara. So my responsibility is to you, too.”
He loves Temari the kunoichi. She is fierce. She is determined. She is not afraid of her reputation. A cold-hearted bitch, they call her, capable of inhuman cruelty. She’ll go to great lengths to see the mission through, because, to a kunoichi, the mission is everything.
Standing with her back to him, arms by her sides, her skin torn and bloody, she says, “Listen. Do you hear it?”
A whimper of pain, so low and guttural it could come from an animal. There is a man pinned to the tree in front of her, kunai buried hilt-deep in his palms.
“That is the price we pay, for being what we are.”
His entire life, Kankuro has leaned on her, and learned from her. He’s fought with her, and he’s been scolded by her. She is the shield through which all the bad things in life, all the suffering and the heartache and the ugliness, must pass before it can reach him.
But the person he loves the most is the person she despises.
“Your fingers are bleeding again, you idiot. Come here and let me bandage them.”
Her eyes soft but narrowed, taking his hand between both of hers, holding it a little too long. He bleeds on her, though she doesn’t seem to care. She hums to him as she cleans the cuts and binds them in fresh linen, her touch firm, yet gentle.
“Don’t push yourself so hard,” she orders once she finishes. “Or at least take a break once in a while to make sure you haven’t hit anything vital.”
Temari. Just Temari. No more, no less.
He wishes she could see herself the way he sees her, through his eyes. Maybe she wouldn’t be so ashamed of Temari then. Maybe she’d realize that Temari didn’t need the masks, because she already was everything they symbolized.
Maybe she’d understand that Temari had been the guiding light behind his faltering steps, always urging him forward, telling him to strive higher, to settle for nothing but the best.
Temari, just Temari, is his sister.
And he loves her for it.
He loves her.
“Read to me, wouldja?”
She’s sitting on the couch in the living room, staring blankly at the television, which is switched on to some movie about the yakuza. For whatever reason, she likes watching staged violence after engaging in the real thing on missions. She says it’s therapeutic, in a strange way, seeing fake limbs fly and fake blood spill. Makes killing easier to deal with.
She looks up at him when he comes in, her face drawn and pale, her hair hanging limply down her back and over her shoulders. Her legs are tucked beneath her, and the patchwork quilt their mother made a few years before her death is draped across her lap. She’s been picking at a loose thread that holds two of the squares together, as if determined to separate them.
The memories of their mother are not fond, but they are fonder than the memories of their father. Their mother was troubled, and often sought solace in her own little world. Their father was power hungry, and he neglected them when he wasn’t exploiting their talents.
Her lips curl in a wan smile.
“Hey, stupid.” She pats one of the couch cushions, inviting him to sit. “When did you get home?”
Rather than accepting, he strides to the couch, takes her by the wrist, and hauls her up, wrapping an arm about her waist to bar her escape. The quilt slithers to the ground.
“Not too long ago,” he says, starting toward the doorway, but Temari digs in her feet.
“What are you doing?” she replies, sounding annoyed. “I was comfortable, and the best part of the movie’s coming-”
Because he knows she’s going to be obstinate if he doesn’t do something drastic, Kankuro snakes his free arm under her knees, holding her like a husband would his new bride. She squeaks in protest, and he laughs.
“Who cares about the movie? You’ve seen it so many times I’m surprised the DVD hasn’t crapped out yet. Watch it later. I want you to read to me.”
“You know how to read,” Temari grumbles. “Read to yourself.” But she does rest her weight against him and hug him around the neck.
She feels so light. Probably not eating enough. Kankuro frowns.
“Did you have breakfast this morning?”
“Mm.” Her eyes are closed. “A banana…”
“Just a banana? Nothing else?”
“Wasn’t hungry.”
He carries her up the stairs to where the bedrooms are, his frown deepening.
“And lunch? Did you eat lunch?”
She opens her eyes to glower at him.
“Kankuro. I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
He walks past his, Temari’s, and Gaara’s rooms, heading for the spare bedroom at the end of the hall, the one they’ve dubbed the “reading room.” Along with a king-sized bed, the room has a large, old-fashioned nursery rocking chair that they’d found in an obscure village in River Country, as well as a variety of pillows, big and small, spread out on the floor by the foot of the chair for someone, or many someones, to lounge on while the person in the chair read.
Usually, Temari is the person in the chair. She has a soothing, expressive voice, unlike Gaara, and she rarely loses her spot on the page, unlike Kankuro.
“How about you let someone else take care of you,” he says quietly, setting her in the chair. “It isn’t a sin to depend on others, Temari. You’re not perfect, so stop trying to be.”
She runs her fingertips along the smooth wood of the armrests, saying nothing for a while. The tearstains on her cheeks are the only outward signs that his words have had any impact on her at all.
“Sit,” she says finally, reaching for the book on the nightstand beside the chair. It’s an old story, about an angel who cannot return to heaven after the man who becomes her husband steals her feathered robe, and she’s read it to him many times before, but it hasn’t lost its appeal. She opens the book to the spot she marked and waits for her brother to get comfortable before she begins.
And she’s Temari.
Just Temari.
Back resting against her shins, Kankuro listens to her read.
--
I hope you guys enjoyed. XD