He is of sand, of royalty and blood and phantoms and sun-kissed plains, and dry coarse skin stained, but- [It doesn't matter here. Here, the sand is different.]
Sometimes, he thinks they're a stain. Every grain of sand shoved in every crevice of every everything, and it has never gotten into his eyes but he likes to think he feels the burn all the same. Everything is a stain, everything he touches turns to piles of dirt clotted in his fingernails, every shift of his skin, stains everywhere.
The sun is an ugly, cool mistress, burning without touching, kissing every grain of sand, every pathetic creature lounging in the dunes, and the sun burns without thinking, without thought; a cruel master. He supposes it could be endearing or attractive, his home (home is a hollow word in his hollow hollow mind),but that is a gentle term. His home is nothing but shifting of sand and sweaty bodies and he has never gotten a paper cut.
Sometimes, he thinks they're a stain. Their loyalty too strained, too easy (even if it's formal, even if it's fake, loyalty is loyalty). Shallow smiles that used to be hostile stares in the street, and every grain of sand shifts uneasily. He thinks if robes are enough for smiles he doesn't like them at all. They are heavy and formal and regal, and perhaps it was never about them. Vaguely, he wonders if Uzumaki has problems like these.
But, of course not. Uzumaki is like the moon. Everything he's ever wanted, except when he's not. Sand is a stain, but it is a fond one and Gaara wouldn't rid it for the world. Perhaps that is the difference. Uzumaki loves to forgive and forget, and Gaara loves to remember and learn and never ever forget. Uzumaki doesn't have problems with loyalty except for the one. Occasionally, Gaara feels like the blessed one, he has never experienced a friendship like that. A friendship that shatters Uzumaki one small particle by another. It is an intricate process and something Gaara admires. Uzumaki for his perseverance, and the Uchiha because there was a day when Gaara admired torture. (He loves to watch the moon when sleep forsakes him.)
He blinks, breaking off the tangent of thought and scrutinizing the waning moon in front of him. He studies it closely, every small crater his eyes can furnish, and does not think about the silence in his head. (If he gives it too much thought, too much subject, it will start again.)
He tilts his head back when he hears an awkward shuffle of feet against carpet. The person tries to leave without acknowledgment. So Gaara gives it to him.
"Kankuro." The soft lilt of his own voice almost startles Gaara. He remembers when it used to be deep and heavy and not entirely pleasant. Now, it is soft in his own ears and he does not know if that is a good thing.
"Gaara," his brother (there is a different feeling in the word, now) replies after a moment's hesitation. "Having trouble sleeping again?" He walks forward slowly and when Gaara does not protest, comes to stand beside him. There is a carton of milk cradled in his hand and Gaara decides not to ask.
Kankuro's face is clean in the moon's shine and Gaara studies it for a moment. The skin is soft without the crease of war paint and it'd be so easy to cut it. But, he doesn't because Kankuro's blood is his own and that would be redundant, no? (There is a growing fondness in his heart; a weed for his siblings, and it's something he's still trying to understand.)
Kankuro looks slightly perturbed at the attention but doesn't comment on it. It is funny, how he steps around Gaara like he might break.
"Do you still hear it?" And suddenly it is not so hard to picture Kankuro's broken skin. Gaara stiffens and Kankuro is pulling back and blood is thicker than water, remember that.
He inhales the world into his lungs, sand in the thicket, and just as easily exhales. Kankuro falters beside him.
"Yes," Gaara answers, because it's the truth. Gaara will always be a jinchuriki. Even when they take it away, take away the red in the sand, he will always be a herald of Mother because there's still voices in his head. Voices, because guilt is something he was never aware of until now.
"Oh," his brother says, and doesn't move closer. He drinks his milk silently and the siblings watch the moon together. He wonders what Kankuro sees in the shine. This is family even when Gaara thinks it's a poor example of it. Kankuro doesn't run and that's enough.
He wants to see this thing blossom, this strange feeling of family and the same tainted blood filling their veins. It is a foreign concept. He knows there's TEMARIKANKURO, but there's only every been GAARA. They say it'll be TEMARIKANKUROGAARA, and he hopes and dreams.
But Gaara has a cruel master. The sun kisses the sand, turns it into a dirty sweltering thing, and one day, it'll brush Gaara away like he never existed in -this- world.
(For now, let him dream. You will take away it away soon enough.)
Quick sand is a myth in the fact that its danger is exaggerated in media and tales. Gaara lives in a desert and he has never heard of any victims to its prowess (no, they were all by his hand). But this is not quick sand. It is a whirlpool, sucking and drowning, and it is ironic if he dies here. The sand does not bend to his wishes and the voices in his head dull away.
There are no shouts of concern because his attempt at solace will kill him. Gaara has never hated so much in that moment. The sand churns to his emotions, but it is a stubborn thing, eating at his legs, eager and burning. He is far away from the village where sand lingers in the air. Here, he breathes sand.
Sand fills every crevice and burnsburnsburns the boy away like he never existed. The sun is the only spectator.
Sleep is a dark inky well. He does not dream. It does not do good to dream. Dreams are for weaker men who waste away in front of a dusty mirror, or the ones that stain the sand with red but whichever applies.
He wakes up with a conjuration of his sister's blueblue eyes painted in his mind. He wonders if she resembles their late mother (the one that was supposed to love him- maybe she did, he doesn't know). He thinks, if the sand did not cover the sky, her blue would resemble its blue (Uzumaki's did). Her hair reminds him of pure sand, ones that churned silently in the hills, ones that didn't obey to his whims, to his demands to killkillkill (he still does, but for 'nobler' reasons.) There is not much honor in the ninja profession you see, so they take what they can get.
He wakes up thinking (with a distracted longing) of blue and yellow and comes to the realization that he won't be seeing it for a while (maybe never). Ninjas are paid to kill and killing takes intelligence, and he is not stupid enough to offer genjutsu as the answer. Genjutsu is for optimistic endeavors and Gaara's never been into that.
Perhaps he would write it off as genjutsu if it weren't for the sand. Sand is a stain to Gaara's skin and he knows it like the back of his hand. Knows it like the rusty taste of blood when he was helping his uncle, his loving uncle, his uncle who died because he lied, and it all rhymes in the end. Carefully, he straightens from his cradle in the sand. It clings to him like a second skin and while he would usually relish it, this sand is different.
This sand is a foreigner in his lands, or perhaps it was the other way around. Each step is taken with measured patience. The sand is sluggish here, weighing him down with each movement, and the sun beats down on his back. (He is swathed in a sea of sand but there is none to protect him.)
Thoughts of seeing the blue of the sky keeps his legs steady.
(Silly, if you had only looked up, you would have seen it.)
The waves of the ocean are as loyal as the wind (that is to say, not at all). The sand carries him recklessly around, wind shifting each direction to its whim and maybe Gaara is going in circles. He doesn't know. The sand is rebellious here, teasing him. Listening for a second before dropping to its comrades, giggling and crawling around his legs.
The voices in his head start to pick up wind, crashing into existence at the same moment. A buzz of instruments in his ear. Is it sad he craves it? There is only the howl of the wind and the laughter of sand dunes here. But in his mind, a wave of voices, each distinctive and unique and maybe he's going insane. (He always was, see.)
They talk in a flurry, intent to out-talk the other, and Gaara allows a tentative smile. Mother's voice is notably absent, but she always did like to fill silence. If there is none, what is she to do but leave? (FOREVER, washed away by that different shade of obscure yellow and one blue eye. GONE.)
Is it sad he misses her screams?
(Yes, yes it is.)
He walks for what seems like centuries, because sand is the epitome of time slipping away, and it likes to mess with people. It is only a few hours. There are specks of color amongst the sand far far away. The color springs closer, and the sand starts to shift uneasily. Gaara tastes blood in the air. It excites him.
The sand carves a path for a ship. Suddenly, an ocean of sand does not seem like a long-winded analogy. It sails closer and closer and Gaara stills, as do the voices. Excitement laces the tension in his body, and the grains of sand start to agitate.
The ship comes to a close, jerking to a stop. There are shouts that his ears pick up, a dispute. His lips do not know a smile so it settles for a scowl. The sand shifts to encompass the feet of a man. A cloth is wound tight around his face, a ward off sand. Gaara dares not laugh. He squints at Gaara for a moment, testing, measuring, eyes trailing over old scars and faltering. He twists his head back, calls to his companion.
"Ghashiun! He has hair like blood and green eyes! We'll get good price for this one!"
Gaara narrows his hair at the insult. At this point, anything is insulting. (He needs an excuse, you see.) He supposes it is surprise that grips his face when the sand bends to the other man's will, trapping Gaara's own. Or annoyance. They hold the same expression on his tired skin.
"Sorry kid. It'll be easier if you don't struggle." The man moves closer, coarse fingers reaching for him. Gaara is supposed to be a changed man, but change does not occur over night and he deludes himself into thinking he can ever emanate Uzumaki. He will hurt others. It is the easiest thing he's ever done.
Here, the sand is different. But Gaara does not only control sand, the sand controls him. They are one and the same and strangers are strangers but sand is sand and it does not matter (not with these feelings, no), the sand rushes listlessly to meet his hand's guidance. He crushes the stranger before he can even blink and it is not regret that crashes the adrenaline in his veins.
There are cries of alarm, of pain, of emotions that Gaara does not want to know, does not care to know (he does not mean it, but with the absence of blue eyes and milk cartons, it's easier to lie). The sand rises in a fit of irritation, uncertain of its true master. The other men, (Gaara counts them off with each finger as he releases them), don't care for prizes and prices anymore.
(But the only opinion that's ever mattered is your own, isn't it?)
Later, over red sand and the churning of a bloody sun, Gaara notices the movement on the ship. It squirms under a bright white coat. He watches with half-hooded eyes, contemplating on ending another life.
(Tell me, do you fancy yourself a god?)
But, he doesn't. Exhaustion pulls at his legs, and he collapses against the wood. The movement stops, and he sleeps with the sun burning his retinas. He does not dream, but when he wakes up there is an echo of feminine laughter and the lilt of a male baritone. Family.
(Are they dead, or you?)
Gaara lets the strange beast go. It hesitates at the edge of his vision, huffing out sand. He does not watch it go, his eyes do not want to burn anymore. So it comes as a mild shock when a breath of air pushes against his back, a wet nose nudge his shoulder. He wonders if the animal can smell the blood, or chooses to ignore it in face of its savior.
Either way, it is strange, this beast of fur and arrows and intricate designs that Gaara does not know the meaning of. He was taught how to kill a man, not understand him. Village symbols don't count. It blinks in mild agitation when sand licks its eyes, and Gaara almost smiles. He lifts a hand up slowly, unsure, before stroking its fur. Sand lingers, and Gaara brushes it away. He thinks it looks perfect untouched and unstained. Sand makes everything ugly. He does not tell it this of course, or it would shy away from his touch.
It beats its might tail, upsetting a sandstorm. Gaara turns away, grits his teeth and forces the foreign sand away. In a moment outside of battle, sand does not obey. It seems blood must be spilled. Gaara eyes the beast for a moment before shifting his eyes. You cannot change a man overnight, as evidence shows, but Gaara would like to think he's had a change of heart.
In all his life (short as it is), Gaara has never hurt an animal. No, leave that to the humans. They are the wild ones.
Eventually, he climbs onto the plains of the beast's back. It huffs before beating its tail one last time and then there's wind cutting his lips and carding through his hair. Sand doesn't burn him but air does and Gaara closes his eyes.
(Silly, if you had looked, you would have seen it.)
The beast trails paths on a map. Or he is creating plots in his head to banish the voices. They do not provide comfort at the moment. For a moment, he lets his mind wander and then it's a frenzy of voices beating against his head like a drum, demanding attention, and Mother is not there.
(Maybe the one blue eye took it after all.)
There is no one to tell this to, not that he would anyways, but he twists his fingers into the long hairs and pretends there is grass caught between his fingers. Sand would just fall through.
It is a strange coping mechanism, but Gaara likes things favored by the moon (his sun would just burn the plains and turn it a dying color). He starts when they descend. There is a desperate rush to the beast's movements, hurried.
There is a strangled cry. And, "APPA!"
There are a unison of voices and as the beast lands, sneezing away sand, Gaara feels something closing.
A/N: This is what happens when you attempt to write Ch. 2 of Offerings, or anything really, jajajajaja. My mind can't stay committed. Reviews would be adored! :)
By 'Attempted', I mean my definition of Gaatoph is a little different and slow. So yep, heads up. Also: it's in the 'friendship' genre because that's basically what it is. Basically.
Next Up: THE GAANG.