Chapter Text
Gaara builds a villa. Several of them, in fact, as the first handful were quickly destroyed by natural disasters—a tempest storm, an earthquake, or a lava flow that had broken loose. Mortal years slip by. Mud and mortar, timber and stone. Hard, backbreaking labor with his own two hands to create a massive, sprawling structure with all the amenities, bathhouses, and gardens a goddess would require.
The villagers construct a temple, a utilitarian marble structure, along the path he takes when he traverses into town. Fires burn inside at all times of day and night, maintained by priests in dark robes.
The stretch of road between the temple and the village becomes a hotspot to sell his wares. Pieces of armor and gladii were traded for gold and silver. Soldiers and sailors of all ages turn up to try and barter for his workmanship, whispers that his little island is the place to come to purchase the highest quality weaponry spread through the mortal realm.
The village is a decent trading post for seafaring ships. Gaara is able to slowly acquire any household necessities he cannot make himself. Linens and proper clothing, livestock and grain.
Obito frequents the forge even more frequently now, bringing paintings and etchings of the new goddess who is the source of his infatuation. Gaara takes them hesitantly, for Obito’s words of offerings are correct, but his tone is condescending, as if he is in on a joke Gaara is not privy to.
There is one other thing the village can provide for him that his volcano cannot: a brothel.
He goes with a desire for knowledge of how one goes about the act of sex. The picture in his head of being highly overcharged by an ugly, surly whore with decades of experience tending to sailor men—the only thing that would take him as a patron. But much to his surprise, the matron of the establishment, after ensuring he was good for the coinage required, lets him loose to roam the halls and choose his own enjoyment.
Picking on his own is more problematic than he expects, finding himself walking from doorway to doorway, reading the names, services, and prices listed for each of the women. Peeking in on those not occupied only to find they lack the radiance he strives for, none rile him as he would like.
Gaara finds himself abandoning his search to admire the paintings and mosaics depicting the scenes that are surely being reenacted on the other side of the walls. His fingers spider over the couplings, trying to imagine what it must be like for the artists watching such spectacles.
The ash and soot embedded in the skin of his knuckles smudges and smears when he brushes against the painted image of a woman straddling a reclining man. Pert breasts and pink nipples, face twisted in a palpable pleasure, dirtied by his very touch.
Stepping back as he appraises the damage, he swallows, unsure if he likes the physical reminder of how his touch sullies, of his chances at earning back his place in the heavens with the loveliest of wives sat by his side.
Gaara pays the matron for the services not rendered, a palmful of bronze coins, unsatisfied, but slightly more aware of the sensual interactions of men and women.
The walk home is long as ever. Gaara catches a second wind when the temple's fires come into sight, or maybe it's just the comfort of the smoke, black columns rising to haze the skies.
The forge is not empty when he arrives. Obito’s nonsensical singing rings from the mouth of the cave.
Checking in, before his half-brother can break anything, Gaara is surprised to find a second visitor inspecting the bits and pieces of armor lying about.
Sasori, god of war, fiddling about the forge. One of the siblings who's never cared to visit, Gaara has not seen him since before his fall when Sasori had himself fled the heavens and inscribed himself into the mortal armies.
And here he stands now, infuriatingly godlike as he wrinkles his nose at Gaara’s handiwork, looking every bit like what Gaara imagines he would look like, the god he could have become had he not been tossed away by their father.
“Little brother!” Obito sing-shouts, having noticed Gaara’s appearance at the mouth of the cave.
“What are you doing here?” Gaara questions dryly. “Leave.”
“Well, which is it?” Obito asks, startling Gaara when he pops up next to him, slinging an arm around his shoulder, and leads him to the middle of his workspace. “What are you doing here? Or leave?”
“Whichever will get you out of my forge with haste.” Gaara’s annoyance grows, as well as the pounding of a headache forming in his skull.
“You’ve really made all this?” Sasori’s gaze remains on the assortment of half-finished blades scattered on one of the tables.
Gaara huffs, this collection is nearly a fraction of what’s been accomplished in his forge. “I have plenty of free time.”
Sasori takes a pointed inhale through his nose, another wrinkle that irks Gaara to no end. “I’d imagine so, with the way you reek of the brothel.”
Gaara resists the urge to bury his own nose in his shirt and check if the scent of the oil lamps does linger on his clothing.
“I am in need of a breastplate,” Sasori informs, never one to waste time, attention back on the weapons scattered about. “Obito claims you are quite the metalworker these days.”
Shrugging off Obito’s hold on him, Gaara’s limp feels more pronounced than ever with the eyes of his brothers on him. The uneven sounds of his steps echo through the cave.
Whether it is the presence of Sasori and all his bridled rage or the self-consciousness of their judgement, spitefulness settles over him.
Choosing a piece ill-suited for soldiers at war. Gaudy and golden. Ornate and only big enough to cover the front of one’s rib cage, thin leather straps to wrap around the back hold it in place.
“What is this?” Sasori questions when Gaara returns to hand him the armor.
“A breastplate,” Gaara deadpans, turning to limp to a nearby pile of wood and metal, shuffling them around as he searches for the right one.
“Where’s the rest of it?” Obito laughs. “What good’s a hunk of metal like that going to do?”
Gaara opens his mouth to speak, but Sasori answers for him. “Mobility, speed. Without the extra weight, one could carry an extra gladius.”
“Won’t stop you from getting stabbed in the back,” Obito teases with a slap to Sasori’s shoulder.
“No,” Sasori holds the breastplate up to his chest, a perfect fit. “But the size of the shield you could carry—”
Gaara finds what he was looking for, hefting it out of the pile it occupies, sending other pieces clattering to the floor.
Sasori smirks when he sees it, a massive thing, large enough for one to cower behind. Layers of wood and sharp, metal-shrouded edges. “Perhaps you are a fledgling smith after all.”
Somehow, even with the backhandedness of the compliment, it feels like the highest praise Gaara’s ever received.