The desert winds of the Sand Shinobi Village swept over the wide streets, carrying with them grains of gold that shimmered beneath the relentless sunlight. The air was dry, harsh, and unforgiving, much like the lives of many who lived in this barren land. Peter stood quietly at the edge of the training ground, his eyes drifting toward the old swing that creaked faintly in the hot breeze.
A small figure sat there, swaying gently.
Red hair, pale skin, and heavy dark circles beneath the eyes—Peter instantly recognized those features. They belonged to only one person: Gaara.
Peter's heart gave a small jolt of surprise. He had not expected that the first person he would encounter upon entering Sunagakure would be none other than Gaara himself—the future Fifth Kazekage, the boy whose tragic childhood had left scars deeper than most shinobi could endure.
Gaara, however, had not expected the stranger's gaze to linger so intently on him. The moment Peter's eyes met his, a wave of unease surged within Gaara's chest. He instinctively shuffled backward, his small hands tightening into fists as if to defend himself from an insult that had not yet come. His turquoise-green eyes flickered with fear, the kind of fear born not of physical pain but of rejection.
He had seen that look countless times before. Hatred. Disgust. Fear. The villagers had branded him a monster from the day he could remember, their whispers cutting deeper than kunai.
Even his own father, even his siblings, had treated him as if he were a curse rather than family.
Peter observed the boy's trembling posture and felt his chest tighten. The nervousness in Gaara's every movement, the silent plea for acceptance hidden in his eyes—Peter could not help but feel an overwhelming wave of pity.
This was a child condemned before he had ever done anything wrong.
He let out a long sigh.
There was a saying Peter remembered well: Happy children spend their lives healed by their childhood, while unfortunate children spend their lives healing from it.
Gaara, without a doubt, belonged to the latter.
His childhood was nothing short of cruel. The One-Tail Shukaku sealed inside him had isolated him from everyone. His unique powers had only deepened that chasm. He was always alone, forever the outcast.
Peter's gaze lingered on the swing. He could almost picture the boy's days of loneliness—sitting there by himself, clutching a small stuffed bear as if it were his only friend, watching other children laugh and play together. His envy, his longing, his despair—they all painted a heartbreaking picture.
Peter's memory filled with scenes he had read about or imagined.
A ball once landed on the roof, and Gaara had used his sand to bring it down, his eyes full of cautious hope. He had wanted to return the ball, to be useful, to be accepted. He had longed for the children to reach out their hands and invite him to join.
But instead, the children had seen him use his power and fled in terror, screaming as if a monster stood among them.
Gaara had tried to reach for them, his heart desperate not to be left behind. Yet the sand within him, wild and uncontrollable, had lashed out like blades. In that terrifying instant, it had nearly cut the children down.
Only Yashamaru—his uncle—had stepped in, shielding the children with his own body.
Peter could imagine Gaara's horrified little face, staring at his uncle's wounds, drowning in guilt he could never fully comprehend.
Unlike other children, Gaara had never known the sting of his own blood. The sand—his mother's final gift, her chakra transformed into an unyielding shield—always rose to protect him. His body had never known injury, but his heart bled endlessly.
That was his curse.
Peter exhaled slowly. This child has lived in hell from the very start. Even his so-called family has abandoned him.
His father, the Fourth Kazekage Rasa, saw Gaara not as a son but as a weapon. Villagers whispered about assassinations, missions sent not to guide him but to test whether he could be eliminated. Even his siblings, Temari and Kankurō, feared him more than they loved him.
Only Yashamaru had seemed to show him warmth, and Gaara had clung to that fragile light like a drowning boy clutching driftwood.
But even that, Peter knew, was destined to shatter.
Peter's hand lifted almost instinctively. As Gaara stared at him, wide-eyed and wary, Peter reached forward and gently ruffled the boy's red hair.
Gaara froze. His breath hitched in his throat, and his eyes widened.
No one had ever touched him like that—not since his earliest memories. Not with affection. Not with tenderness. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. The sensation was alien, yet so achingly wonderful.
So this… this is what it feels like?
Peter smiled softly. He could not help but think ahead, of what was supposed to happen.
That Yashamaru—the only person Gaara trusted—would one day be ordered by Rasa to assassinate him. That Rasa, in his paranoia, had decided to test his son's control by pushing him into despair. That Gaara, upon learning this betrayal, would carve into his forehead the word "love" and vow to live only for himself.
What kind of father would do that?
Peter's expression hardened briefly. He muttered under his breath, "Rasa… you deserved to fall to Orochimaru's schemes without even scratching him. What kind of man does that to his own son?"
At that moment, Gaara raised his head timidly. His pale lips parted, and his voice was small, almost trembling.
"Big brother… aren't you afraid of me?"
Peter blinked, then let out a sudden laugh, unable to contain it. He gave Gaara's head another affectionate pat.
"Afraid of you? Why would I be afraid?"
Gaara's face fell. His shoulders slumped, and his voice lowered to a whisper.
"But… everyone says I'm a monster. No one… no one wants to play with me."
Peter's heart twisted at the words. Such a simple, innocent desire—to have someone to play with, to be included. And yet for Gaara, even that had been denied.
He crouched down so his eyes were level with Gaara's, his tone gentle but firm.
"Who says no one wants to play with you? I'll play with you. From now on, I'll be your friend."
Gaara's head shot up, disbelief and hope warring in his wide eyes.
"R-really?" he stammered, his voice breaking. His little hands tightened around the stuffed bear he always carried. After a pause, as if mustering all his courage, he held it out toward Peter.
"This… this is my favorite bear. I'll lend it to you… so you can play with it too!"
Peter accepted the bear carefully, smiling as he ran his fingers over its worn but soft fur.
"Gaara," he said gently, "I don't have a gift for you, not for our first meeting. But I can give you something special—a companion who won't ever leave your side."
Closing his eyes, Peter summoned the magic of the Rat Spell, channeling its essence into the little bear.
Light blossomed in his hands, dazzling against the desert sun. Gaara gasped, his mouth hanging open as he stared.
The stuffed bear stirred. Its button eyes blinked, its tiny arms lifted, and in a small, cheerful voice, it called, "Gaara!"
Gaara's knees buckled. His lips trembled. He could barely believe what he was seeing.
Peter placed the now-living bear back into Gaara's arms.
"How about it?" Peter asked warmly. "Even if I have to leave someday, you'll never be alone again. This little one will keep you company."
Gaara clutched the bear tightly to his chest. Tears welled in his eyes and spilled freely down his cheeks, though a radiant smile broke across his face. He bowed deeply, his voice shaking.
"Thank you, big brother… I like it. I really… really like it."
The little bear mimicked Gaara's bow clumsily, causing Peter to laugh aloud. For the first time, Gaara's smile was not born from malice or loneliness but from genuine joy.
As Peter watched him play with the animated bear, his heart eased. For this lonely child, even a small act of kindness was enough to light the darkness.
Then a distant voice rang out across the courtyard.
"Gaara! Gaara!"
It was Yashamaru, calling him home.
At the sound, the little bear quickly stilled, returning to its lifeless form in Gaara's arms. The boy looked up at Peter reluctantly.
"Big brother… my uncle's calling me. I have to go now. But… but I'll see you tomorrow, right?"
Peter nodded with a reassuring smile.
"Of course. Tomorrow."
Gaara hugged the bear tightly and ran off, his small frame moving with uncharacteristic lightness. His steps were almost cheerful, almost… normal.
Peter stood in silence, watching until the boy vanished from view.
"What a lovely child," he murmured to himself. "A child who should have known love, yet was condemned to loneliness and torment because of Rasa's cruelty. No… this can't be allowed to continue. I need to speak to that man. Tomorrow, I'll confront him."
The decision solidified in his mind like stone. He would not allow Gaara's fate to unfold as it had in the original story. He would not stand by while such a poor child was crushed beneath the weight of despair.
Gaara's future would change—because Peter had decided it must.
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