Gaara didn’t respond to his actions, but frowned, brow puckered in thought. A low chuckle escaped Itachi’s lips, “well Kazekage-sama, I didn’t picture you as the type that were into that sort of thing.”

The red head’s eyes narrowed unable to help being provoked, “into what?”

“Bondage.” A few, slightly confused blinks were Gaara’s only response. “...My hands?”

Scowling at the smugness on Itachi’s face, he loosened the sand’s grip on his wrists, stepping back from him. He couldn’t tell if the man was an idiot, or a genius. It was rather unsettling not to be able to tell the difference.

Itachi didn’t rub his wrists, though they itched fiercely. Instead he continued to keep eye contact with Gaara, bending one knee to rest his foot against the wall. The sun had almost sunk below the mountain horizon, but it still gave Gaara a fiery halo, and the desert’s cool evening began to set in. He hoped there wouldn’t be any wind; it would be unsightly to shiver now.