Naruto Fan Fiction ❯ Sandy Masquerade ❯ Lukewarm Conversations ( Chapter 2 )

A/N - I…yeah. The title was changed because we've been talking about this thing called Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs in school and I thought it fit really well with the ninja life and stuff like that. There are 5 levels of needs, and everything in the first level has to have the greatest intensity and must be met before you can step up to the next level. The levels are Physical, Safety, Love, Self-Esteem, and Self-Actualization. Yeah. I thought it fit. Oh, and the only reason I rally got interested in this again is that I absolutely love Gaara and Kimimaru's fight - it's airing in the states now in English. I've also been kind of preoccupied lately because of school and stuff, so deal with it.

 

Sorry for the shortness! I promise the next chapter will be longer and soon, too!

 

Sandy Masquerade - Hierarchy of Needs

VenusIsKnownForFlyTraps

 

Chapter 2: Lukewarm Conversations

 

To say Gaara wasn't happy would be an understatement. But hey, who would be happy to be told they had to move back in with their family?

 

Temari sighed, flattening the sheets on the bed in her younger brother's room and pulling a coin out of her pocket, dropping it and catching it as it became airborne again. Temari knew Gaara wasn't happy - he rarely was, but she hoped he wouldn't revert back to his old state of mind, where she and her other brother were the enemy and he felt the need to be secluded and away from them (though he was usually secluded anyway, only then by pretense of the law).

 

Feeling a presence behind her Temari turned slightly, still fixing the already perfect bed. “Will he?” she asked quietly.

 

“Dunno,” her brother, Kankuro, answered her softly.

 

Biting her bottom lip in frustration, Temari straightened her back and took a good look around the room. It was a nice size - 15 by 15 - and the walls were painted a deep chocolaty brown on one side with red accents and the other side was tan with the accents, something Gaara would hopefully still like, and there was nothing but a perfect bed with red and black sheets and a nice looking desk of a darker wood found outside of Konoha with an older clock on it, giving Roman numerals from across the desert and to the west in a circular fashion, making a small ticking noise every second. There was also a door, the same color as the desk except a shade off that led into an empty closet.

 

Ever since Gaara had been kicked out by their father when he was still alive this room had looked the same, exactly how it had been left. Kankuro stepped in almost hesitantly. “Never been here,” he muttered. And it was true. Neither Temari nor Kankuro had been in Gaara's old room until this day for his spirit might throw sand at them and laugh sadistically, but Temari has decided that it would be good to clean it for him since he had most likely left it a mess, then was shocked to see it already clean, the barren walls screaming “get out!”

 

“Me neither.”

 

“When's he coming?”

 

“Not sure. Today sometime.”

 

“I see.”

 

“I don't.”

 

“Good, me neither.”

 

Kankuro inwardly cringed at how retarded he sounded to himself. It was almost like he didn't know how to talk anymore, which in retrospect he guessed he didn't, especially since he hadn't spoken to his sister in at least three months. Come to think of it, neither of them had said a word to anyone unless a shinobi came around. No one in the town spoke of Gaara. He had been exiled, kicked out, and now it had been decided that he must come back to rule as Kazekage from inside Suna - he had been just fine doing so from outside.

 

Kankuro silently prayed to Kami that Gaara would still like his room, even if it was barren. He shivered, but not from cold.

 

Temari turned suddenly, walking out of the hot, dust-filled room, complaining of hunger or tiredness or something that Kankuro didn't hear in time. He sighed, looked around desolately and noticing the small scratch on his hand from when he was been practicing a new move with Karasu had now formed a reddish puss-like crust. He grimaced, leaving the room for a bandage and closing the door behind him.

 

Stalking to the bathroom, the looked around in the cabinets with anger. Where was the first aid kit? “Tems, where's the band-aids?” his voice cracked from lack of use at such a volume and his heart skipped a beat at the old nickname, no longer sure if he was aloud to use it.

 

“Look under the sink.” He noted quietly how her voice shook slightly, yet didn't crack. That was just like her, never showing weakness. Closing the cabinets and opening the drawer under the sink he found the first aid kit, reopened his wound under some lukewarm water, put on disinfectant, and wrapped it in gauze.