I own nothing.

One…

"Wounds to the heart are different than those of the flesh."

Two…

"But Gaara is just a child."

Three…

"And if you do die, tell your sister that she was right. This was never a good idea."

Having been employed on the shifts at the hospital and the full-time task of caring for Gaara as long as he has, Yashamaru can't remember the last time he wore his uniform. The chunin's flak jacket is as loose on him as it ever was and discolored with dust; he tries to wipe it off and sneezes. Yashamaru sighs as he zips it up and adjusts his sleeves; either he's lost weight during the time that he's been off active duty or the clothes have just stretched. The metal plate of the hitai-ate is tarnished, but it won't matter for the veil of darkness that has descended over buildings of stone and adobe and stucco. The only thing that seems entirely the same are the kunai, still cool and keen and deadly bright.

The kunai never changes, Yashamaru's noticed.

Vividly Yashamaru can recall the day he first laid eyes on his youngest nephew. The Kazekage had come out of the delivery room and he was holding something in his hands, staring intently down at it with a heavy, unreadable expression on his face. Yashamaru had stared, hollow-eyed at the thing until he came to the realization that he was looking at a baby. A tiny baby with a fuzz of crimson hair, wrapped for warmth in something that suspiciously resembled a handkerchief.

"This is…" Yashamaru breaks off in rawness, gazing down at the infant. He's so small…

"Gaara," the Kazekage answers shortly, not meeting Yashamaru's eyes, eyes fixed on his infant son. "She named him Gaara."

"…Oh."

Holding Gaara in his hands that day, after the Kazekage handed him over to him, Yashamaru couldn't help but marvel, over and over again, just how small he was. He was insanely premature, only twenty-two weeks along. That Gaara was alive at all no one could explain; by all rights he shouldn't have survived any longer than his mother. For himself, Yashamaru knew it had to be the Shukaku; there was no other explanation that made any sense.

He seemed so small.

It's so dark and empty and, as the Kazekage promised, completely empty; the village has been evacuated and all who remain are Yashamaru, Gaara, and anyone too stubborn to heed the evacuation notice. Yashamaru can see Gaara up on a rooftop, the sand swirling like a vortex around him, and he pauses, mouth dry beneath the veil.

How did it all come to this?

It doesn't take Yashamaru much strain to remember an infant seemingly too small to be real, nor a toddler taking his first steps, nor a sweet, melancholy child practically living for the moment when he hears his uncle's praise. Father is a man to be respected and feared, but Uncle is well-loved and Uncle is never feared. That's why it has to be me. I'm the one he'd never suspect.

This isn't a good idea.

People watch them together in the streets and they wonder, they always wonder, just how much Yashamaru hates Gaara, deep down. Yashamaru's capacity for deception is legendary—it's part of why he was chosen for this mission—and when anyone looks at him and sees that gentle smile, hears that ringing laugh, the word that inevitably runs through their mind is 'liar.

His sister's dead—wounds, more wounds—surely he must hate him—liar, liar, liar, liar…

That's the word ringing through Yashamaru's head (liar, liar, liar, liar) and he tries to blink it from his eyes the way he would sand.

In cold, hard truth and stark facts Yashamaru has once or twice entertained the thought of hating Gaara, in a hypothetical sort of way. What would happen if I hated my nephew just like the rest, what would happen if I hated him for being demon-kind, what would happen if I hated him for costing my sister's life? But then he sees Gaara's smile, his eager eyes and it all shatters to the floor.

Women die in childbirth every day. Of course, women don't die due to having their souls bound to the life of a demon and child every day, and Karura wasn't like those normal women who died in childbirth; she knew she was dying every day since the sealing and as the Shukaku grew stronger and her last child grew within her, she grew weaker.

Yashamaru protests weakly that he doesn't hate Gaara and they all call him 'liar'. He realizes that at times that warm feeling that spikes up towards his nephew is resentment and maybe Yashamaru hates himself for that, for not being able to control it—his life's become an exercise in masochism anyway so what's a little more hatred? He clasps Gaara's hand when they walk across the street and shields other children from the innocent attacks of the sand, never healing himself because Yashamaru knows a little pain is good for the soul.

The ANBU is a silent killer, and the ANBU show no mercy to those mandated to die. Yashamaru knows this, but he knows something else, something far more plain and obvious than that:

He's going to die tonight.

It's inevitable. Yashamaru knows Gaara's sand like he knows himself and knows that he will be doomed from the moment he attacks. The Kazekage must have known too—something in the reservations whispering in his eyes as he walked away. They're brothers-in-law and they've been the best of friends, but the Kazekage hesitated and Yashamaru knows exactly why. Win or lose, you're down a medic and you lose the one person willing to take care of Gaara.

And Gaara loses too, no matter what happens. He loses everything.

It's not a good idea; no one ever said it was. Not even the Kazekage, who had only agreed to the project because he honestly believed it would augment the strength of Sunagakure, had said such, and once he realized what a horrible mistake it was Yashamaru could almost feel pity when he watched the man put his head in his hands and groan. Almost. This was your idea. You killed your wife for the village. You dug your grave now lie in it.

Walking to death isn't something Yashamaru is totally opposed to; at the very least, he'll get seeing his sister out of it. It will scar Gaara beyond all belief, and may drive him completely mad, but he'll live this night and all those to come beyond whatever the Kazekage thinks. The sand always protects Gaara; he will survive.

Tonight he will break; tonight everything goes straight to Hell. How can I look him in the eye as I do this? How can I look him in the eye as I make him believe that everything he knows is a lie?

He will. He doesn't know how, but he will.

Yashamaru straightens, and starts to creep up towards the place where he can see the familiar sand, silent, breath all but still.

Sunagakure is going to Hell tonight; Yashamaru makes his peace with the inescapable truth, because it's a long way down to death and if he has to go, he wants to go with his eyes open. Gaara will snap, break and be lost, and there will be no one left to care. Yashamaru will die too soon to see the fires light, but he can already feel their heat eating away at him. The ones that called him liar should have listened when there was still time.

It's too late to protest that this isn't a good idea.