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He is thirteen years old. His hair is the color of blood. They tell him it’s a curse, that he is a curse. He is the third child of the King, hated and revered in equal parts. The throne is unlikely to go to him and he isn’t sure he wants it anyway. For what use would he have of it? A nation ruled by fear is no nation at all.
Gaara is thirteen years old and he resides in a castle that can house dozens, yet he feels stifled and trapped. There are more fireplaces than he has fingers and toes, more bedrooms than he bothers to remember. He can wander the halls and get lost in a maze of architecture that should be familiar. Part of him hates it, another is grateful that he can lose his family when they come looking.
He is not loved because he is a murderer. His mother perished as he was birthed from her womb, and her blood dyed his hair to rust. It is a curse, it must be, because no one else in Gaara’s family has coloring like him. Some questioned his mother’s faithfulness, but none could deny that he wore his father’s face.
He has no use for mirrors. He has no use for servants who tremble at the thought of touching him. He tells himself he has no use for people at all, but then he hurts in the darkest hours of the night and wonders why. Why? Why is it that he craves the company of another?
Gaara is only thirteen, but sometimes he wishes he’d never been born.
There is a meeting of Kings. Ten of them. They gather at a different residence every year. It is how peace is kept and the world remains whole. Gaara doesn’t recall the last time they hosted, for it was a decade ago and he could only have been three. He doesn’t recognize the people who walk through the doors and he does very little to acknowledge them either.
“Say nothing.” His father had said, pulling him aside. His grip had been so tight, Gaara still feels the ache in his arm.
That’s alright with him. He hadn’t wished to speak to anyone anyway. He’s not a fan of crowds, or the pompous behaviors of royalty. They never say what they really mean. They never act according to rules. Humans, Gaara thinks to himself, are too complex to be of any use.
It’s easier to avoid and hate from afar than to even try the opposite.
One after another, ten royal families arrive over the course of five days. He always stands behind Kankurou, just out of sight, hidden enough to pass unnoticed. No one looks too closely, and if they do they merely greet him offhandedly. He is the third child, after all, they would pay more respect to Kankurou than they would him; for if anything were to happen to Temari, the next in line would be the second child.
Gaara does not actively wish harm on his siblings, but he does not cherish them the way he sees peasant families interact. Love is so foreign, an alien concept to his childish, lonely mind. He wonders how it differs from indifference. He wonders how powerful it must be to bring a smile to their faces so readily.
The last family to arrive enters in a whirlwind of noise.
Gaara stands at the back as he always does and fancies himself invisible. He wants to go back to his room as soon as possible, or hide away in a dark corner eating confiscated food. There’s no way he’s going to attend the subsequent feast once night falls. His father would prefer it if he didn’t exist, after all.
“Heya!”
A voice greets him, loud and clear and so very close. A head of blonde hair pointedly shoves itself into his field of vision, and Gaara is blinded by the gleaming, white-toothed smile that follows. A boy about his age stands before him, skin a warm brown and eyes the shade of an empty sky. He wears an incredible amount of orange, though the material is well crafted and telling of his status.
“I’m Naruto!”
Gaara stares at the offered hand. At his side, Kankurou begins to sweat, paling under the traditional face paint he continuously sports.
‘Naruto’ squints when Gaara makes no move to reply. “Hey, can you hear me? Ya ain’t deaf, are ya? I dunno sign language, so that would make this friendship a bit rocky! At least to start — ‘cause I could totally learn it! In fact, I will—”
“I’m not deaf.”
“Then why didn’t ya say so!”
“I just did.”
“Hey,” Naruto shoves his way further into Gaara’s space, going so far as to take the redhead’s hand, “Let’s be friends!”
Gaara furrows his brow, teal eyes narrowed in confusion. His chest tightens. They both ignore Kankurou’s gasp.
“Why?”
“I think your hair is pretty!”
That’s impossible. No one likes his hair, for his hair is a sign of the curse. Gaara doesn’t understand this boy at all, or why the other is smiling so widely and so — much. Just, so much.
“It’s just like my mom’s!” Naruto continues, gesturing broadly to their left. “Er, well, a little darker. But still!”
Gaara glances over and sees a woman with long, scarlet hair. She has her head thrown back and is laughing loud enough to be heard across the massive hall. She is beautiful, in a very exotic way, and he sees elements of her face in Naruto’s. Gaara has never seen someone in Suna with hair like his.
“There are so many people in Uzushio with red hair, but I never thought I’d see it out here!” Naruto babbles away. “Hey, lemme introduce you to my parents! Maybe you can come over sometime!”
Gaara realizes that Naruto is still holding his hand, and before he can refute the blonde — he’s being dragged towards the redheaded woman and a man with Naruto’s coloring. He glances back at his siblings, who stare with open mouths, and his father who hasn’t even noticed at all. He looks back to Naruto, who greets him with another smile and too much light for one body to possibly contain.
His hand is warm.