The colors in the room were spinning—red, pink, blue, green, purple, yellow, orange. But, over all, the orange and red stood out the most. Like two beacons of light along the edge of a coastline during a terrifying storm, holding hope for those lost at sea.
He was burning, going up in a flurry of pretty flames that traced along his skin, slipping beneath the flimsy fabric of his shirt in the form of calloused fingertips. Burning, because the atmosphere was already so hot, and his skin was on fire, and he felt like he was dying in euphoria. That tomorrow he wouldn't live to see the horizon alight, wouldn't live to see the sun speak in streamers of red and orange (oh, more, oh god), wouldn't live to see the air ripple with heat.
(Oh, don't stop, don't stop.)
And he was on fire. And he was burning, a tongue of white-hot pleasure scoping areas he'd never dreamed to expose before, revealing his own vulnerability.
Vaguely, reality dawned on Gaara. Music, music and lights, and the room was spinning in an array of condescending colors—red and orange and back again. They were moving together so perfectly in line, their silhouettes crashing and colliding with beautiful ease.
Sasuke loved when Gaara danced. He loved it more when Gaara let Sasuke touch him while he danced.
Drabble.
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