The part of Gaara that imagined, almost wildly, that the other children would wait to greet him had shrivelled to almost nothing, but the hope was lodged in him like a burr. Every so often he'd make another attempt. He swallowed, making himself look away from their backs and choose which area of the playground he'd occupy today. Honestly the appearance of an armed stranger before he could pick was so familiar that it filled him with a sickly relief.

No point talking, really. They never wanted to talk. They didn't expect him to respond. It was so easy. A bludgeon of dark sand cracked towards Obito in greeting, instead.