Birthday Present
For most children, a birthday present is something familiar and cherished.
But for Gaara, the very word felt foreign—something he had never truly known.
In his nine years of life, he had never once received such a thing.
Now, faced with the scroll handed to him, Gaara's heart was tangled with emotions he couldn't name.
After a long silence, he turned his head, gritted his teeth, and forced indifference into his voice.
"I don't need it."
With that, he turned as if to leave.
"Oh? So you've already learned to say that?"
Unlike Temari, who would have chased after her brother with worry, Aizen didn't press. He simply walked beside Gaara with a soft chuckle.
"In that case, let me buy you grilled beef tongue. Temari tells me you like that."
"Don't follow me. Be careful, or I'll… kill you."
Gaara's voice wasn't a true threat—it trembled with irritation and something closer to fear.
Yes. He was like a stray dog that had been beaten too many times.
When offered food, he didn't rush to eat like a normal dog; instead, he bared his teeth, growling, suspicion written all over him.
"Oh, don't be so shy. It's your birthday today—you should decide what you want. I still have a little money left."
Aizen smiled lightly and placed a hand on Gaara's shoulder.
Immediately, the sand rose up on its own, trying to resist his touch.
But at the last moment—like a bird flinching from fire—it shrank back, allowing Aizen's hand to rest on Gaara's shoulder for the second time.
"You…"
Gaara began, but Aizen had already guided him into a nearby rotisserie.
Unlike Konoha, where snack stalls lined every street, Sunagakure had few such shops. With food always scarce, most families cooked at home to save every scrap.
"Boss, a private room, please."
Aizen's tone was polite, almost casual.
"Master Aizen! Welcome, welcome! Please—eh!?"
The mustached, round-bellied owner beamed, ready to flatter his guest, but the moment he noticed Gaara beside Aizen, his face paled. He nearly stumbled over himself in fright.
Gaara's eyes flashed with cold hostility, and the boss, along with the staff, froze in terror.
"What's wrong? Boss, a private room, if you would."
Aizen's calm voice broke the tension, as though nothing unusual had happened.
"Y-yes! Of course, right this way!"
The owner hurried to lead them upstairs.
The moment Gaara stepped inside, the entire restaurant—already quiet—fell into dead silence. Even the drop of a pin would have echoed.
By the time they reached the private room on the second floor, hushed whispers filled the hall, just like the fearful mutters of villagers on the streets.
Inside, Gaara and Aizen sat across from one another.
"Here, order what you like," Aizen said warmly, passing him the menu. "It's your birthday—be free."
Gaara stared at it coldly. After a pause, he finally circled grilled beef tongue and grilled liver—nothing more.
"That's all? You're still growing. Let's order more."
With a small smile, Aizen took the menu back and marked nearly ten more dishes before handing it to the owner.
The fat-bellied man accepted it with trembling hands and fled the room, breathing hard as if relieved to escape.
"…Why?"
Gaara finally broke the silence, his voice low.
"Why can you touch me through my sand?"
If someone had smashed through his defenses with brute force, he could have understood. But Aizen had simply reached out, casually touching his shoulder as if the sand hadn't been there at all.
This, Gaara could not comprehend.
"Maybe," Aizen chuckled, laying strips of meat onto the hot grill, "it's because I get along better with you."
The fire hissed and crackled as the meat sizzled. Aizen carefully placed a few pieces onto Gaara's plate.
It was the first time in his life someone had served him food.
Silently, Gaara lifted his chopsticks and took a bite of the grilled beef tongue.
The atmosphere in the room was quiet, but not suffocating. Not awkward.
After all, he was only nine years old.
He didn't eat much. But when he noticed the masked man hadn't touched a single piece, Gaara instinctively wanted to ask why.
The words caught in his throat and never came out.
Why?
Gaara didn't know. Maybe it was because he had forgotten how to speak to others—forgotten what it meant to share.
"Alright then," Aizen spoke casually, "where shall we go after this? Do you want to throw a party with your friends?"
Gaara frowned. He wanted to say I don't have friends.
But when the words reached his lips, he couldn't say them.
Suddenly—slide!
The door burst open.
A Sand Elite Jōnin appeared, breathless and tense. Gaara recognized him: Kinara, one of the shinobi who had gone to Konoha with Aizen.
"Kinara? What's the matter?" Aizen asked without rising.
"Forgive the intrusion, Master Aizen!" Kinara dropped to one knee.
"Just now, a distress letter arrived. Lord Ryu's team, while escorting the caravan to the Heavenly Kingdom, was attacked by unknown shinobi. The situation is dire. They request immediate reinforcements from you!"
"Ryu?" Gaara's eyes flickered. Even he knew the name—Temari's guiding Jōnin.
Aizen rose sharply. "I'll go myself. Summon Pakura at once."
"Yes, sir!"
Aizen turned slightly, speaking over his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Gaara. It seems I'll have to rescue your sister first. Consider that my second birthday present to you."
Gaara's expression twisted. His brow furrowed beneath the heavy shadows of his eyes.
But he said nothing—only watched silently as Aizen walked away.