AN: This fic was written rather quickly and with very little back checking, except for the last part, and I kinda took some artistic liscense with it and sorta left some things out. It's called negative thigmotaxis because that is the term we learned in biology to describe negative response to touch. This idea has been bugging me for quite some time now, but I finaly got up the nerve to write it. I feel just about everything that Gaara does in this fic, (cept for the dying). I have always felt contact to be odd at best, but recently underwent a slight change of mind, and it was very disorienting, but not unwelcome. Hopefuly this fic illistrates that.

Title: Negative Thigmotaxis

Rating: G

Warnings: Ummm...Gaara's mind? Death? If you put on your ship'o'vision goggles, add some stuff and squint REALLY hard there might be some Gaa/Naru?

Touch was a sensation. It was a sensory input apparatus. He didn't understand why everyone obsessed over it so much. Couples holding hands, children and parents embracing, people shaking hands. There was such an emphasis on it, making it intimate. He was mildly curious, but the few times he had been touched had felt invasive, alien, not horrible, just strange. He knew that people were supposed to feel comforted or soothed by touch, but it did none of that. It merely created another barrier between him and normal people. So he put up his own wall, the sand protected him from having to feel nothing when he was supposed to respond. Not that many people wanted to touch him, most recoiled and ran, but still, it was an extra precaution.

The first time he had been touched truly, without the thin barrier of sand he wore like armor, was rather unpleasant. Rock lee's shins, feet, and hands stripped him of it. He could feel the touches burning for weeks afterwards, to remind him that he had failed, and he marveled at the things his sister had called 'bruises'. The next had been far from pleasant either. The searing waves of lightning jolted through his shoulder. He could feel Sasuke's fingers embedded in his skin and muscle, down to the second knuckle. It was painful, gut wrenchingly so. The blood was pouring out of him, cascading down his shirt, pooling on the ground. He didn't know how to deal with it, so he descended into incomprehensible screams, moans, and growls. And when, the nerves in his arm still buzzing with hurt, he collided with Naruto and hit the ground, no longer able to move, he decided he had had enough physical contact for a life time. The few times it had been tolerable were not nearly enough to outweigh the negative extreme.

But society doesn't work that way, and he was still occasionally put into the position where someone would in fact initiate the cumbersome process. And since he had grown from the brat who decided that the world revolved around his own misery and he could separate himself from social norms just because he felt like it, he took it without complaint. He let his sister hug him, or his brother pat him on the back or shoulder, and he shook hands with dignitaries as he rose through the ranks to become Kazekage. But he still never enjoyed it, and felt open whenever someone touched him, and the urge to just use the sand to create a wall and push them away was stronger than ever.

His death was horrible. Hanging suspended in mid air, part of his very soul leaking out his pores, all he could think was why am I still alive, I gave up hours ago, just kill me, just kill me, oh god, just let me die. When he finally did, after 72 hours of mind warping torture, his body fell to the ground, but he didn't feel it; nor did he feel when Deidara sat victoriously on his chest, in an attempt to further the humiliation. He was unaware of everything that happened afterward, as if asleep, but much, much deeper. In sleep, his lungs would still be expanding and contracting, his heart would still be beating, and he would hear the anguished cries of his orange-clad friend…

The first thing he was aware of was the high, piercing scream, then his hand appeared before him. His mind was clouded, nothing was right, this didn't make sense. He seemed to remember that he had died, so was this…? And then he saw himself, or was it? His thoughts were moving slower than usual, as if struggling against a strong wind. When he finally concluded that the crying figure was himself, he stared dejectedly at the picture of abandonment and loneliness that was curled before him. He almost felt like returning to…where ever it was that he had been immediately before this, although he wasn't quite sure where, when, or what that was. And then there was a hand on his shoulder, touch, he could feel again. He was alive again. And there was someone touching him. It still felt just as alien, just as strange, but he couldn't help but just revel in the fact there was contact. His mind still wasn't moving fast enough, because now there was sight, a field, why so many people? And sound, cheers? Why were they cheering? And smell, wet grass, and a musty smell that he realized with a shudder was the smell of death still clinging to his clothes, and ever present, touch. The grass was cool on his palms, his clothes were soft on his body, Naruto's hand was warm on his shoulder, and he realized he didn't want it to leave. But all too soon, it did, and he was able to fixate on the flood of memories, sensations and information rushing through his skull. As he tried to stand, and found he very nearly couldn't, there were hands on him again, touch, and out of habits and reflexes that he had just regained, he pushed them away but another caught him soon afterward. Naruto again. He had feebly resisted at first, again out of habit, but then just decided to let it happen, because for once, he didn't seem to mind.

After a few very overwhelming hours for the newly resurrected Kazekage, he found himself in a state of more vulnerability and physical contact in one time than he had probably ever had in his life prior to dying. One arm over Nartuo, the other draped over his brothers shoulders, he was leaning practically all of his weight onto them, their hand supporting somewhere on his back. He knew he was fixating far too much on this, that normal people would have stopped thinking about the fact that they were touching someone long ago. But he was actually enjoying the feeling. It was extremely unsettling, the feeling of intimacy was still mildly frightening, but he was glad this was happening, and wouldn't complain if it happened in the future.

There you have it. Personally I think the end is the worst part...but whatever. Concrit is welcome and EXTREMELY appreciated. In fact all comments are loved.