Apart from Gaara, the cemetery was empty and still as a - well, you know.
When had been here last his grave was a mound of fresh dirt. The service had been unusually chilly after a week of hot late-summer days. Both he and Kankuro had lurked toward the back of the crowd. At the time it had been unclear whether or not they were welcome. The family did not greet them, nor did they ask them to leave. Kankuro had made a move to stand in line for the shovel, but then he retreated before his turn, out of place amongst the Inuzuka clan who were loud and brazen even in their grief. The brothers had left soon after the final prayers in silence.
Now Gaara sat at the gravesite itself. He reached for the headstone, faltered, and found purchase in the grass instead.
He had not planned to speak aloud. He had not planned to speak at all. The dead don't have ears. But once he began, the rest spilled out in a deluge.
He told Kiba everything. When he ran out of words to say he found himself talking about nothing, almost rambling, in a way so uncharacteristic of him he wondered for moment if the dead truly do have ears, if they even had a power beyond what he could comprehend, sucking the life out of him with an otherworldly straw. By the time he had finished, the shade of the tree under which he had taken shelter had crept, leaving him exposed under the light of early day. Birds had flocked to the branches; a mourning dove cooed and received a distant coo in return. Somewhere, a cricket chirped.
"You always pushed so hard. I never asked you to. I wasn't always kind to you in return, and I didn't make things easy for you." Kiba hadn't always made things easy for Gaara, either, but that was something of a moot point now. "I’m better now - I’m getting better. I think you’d want to know that. I'm in recovery. They don't say recovered. I don't think it - I don't think the addiction ever goes away, not entirely. But it's a clinic..."
He had removed his sandals and his feet were caked in sod, having tunneled beneath the dewy grass into the dirt beneath. He felt connected there, this broken shell of a body tying him from the worms and beetles of the earth to a pair of ravens circling above. In each scar a nightmare of a memory, in each breath the will to thrive in spite of them. He sat there a while. When his shoulders began to burn, he only shifted, something stronger than his own muscles rooting him in place. He reached out again, this time tracing his fingers across the granite inscription with goosebumps stippling his arms, and felt at once as if every atom in him had dissolved into the womb of the universe; as if he could no longer call himself a separate human entity, but merely matter in this temporary form, waiting, patiently, to be released back into stardust.
A maintenance van pulled into the nearby parking lot. Across the way, a group clad in all black began gathering by the gated entrance. Beyond, the world came alive with a construction crew down the street, children making their way to school, the groan of a train chugging across ancient tracks. Gaara gathered himself to his feet.
"Well, don’t let me take up your entire day," he said in an attempt at a joke he hoped Kiba would appreciate. God knew they could have both used some levity, a lifetime ago.
From his backpack he pulled a small potted plant. "Flowers die," he explained as he nestled it against Kiba's headstone. Its tender leaves stretched up, up, up towards the waiting sun. "But someone has to care for this.” For a moment more he lingered. In his chest he found softness, and cradled it close.
“Now you’ll know I’ll be back. I’ll come back.”
