terracotta

introduction: This is for Erishon -- Gaara fanboy extraordinaire -- who challenged me yesterday. The only specifications were 777 words and daffodils, and Gaara stepped up and I've never written him before, so I thought I'd give it a try. Beware the low-flying innuendo.

***

He felt the coolness of the door handle; relished as the door cracked open and slats of light poured onto the floor, sand-yellow. He was unaware of the time, but truthfully it didn't disrupt his thoughts. The boy on the bed was mumbling numbers in his sleep, and Gaara only knew because of obsessive attentiveness to lips.

Obsessive-attentiveness was what drew his concentration away from the boy to the bedside table, nothing on it except a drying ring of water.

He could hear footsteps.

For the moment he considered the possibility that they were his own. Still moving towards the bed he held out a hand -- wet fingers dripping where they'd brushed against the thin circle on the wood and sticky with sand -- not touching anything but the air around the digits.

He hadn't had enough. There was still breath and words in the boy, albeit words mumbled in pain and sleep, and he wanted to squeeze them away and feel in his hand the resistance that didn't truly exist; imagined as sand closed around windpipe and sinew and lungs--

That was enough. Both hands were shaking and he'd stood idle for too long. He knew because his skin was dry, and the sand was gritty to rub between his fingers. He couldn't recall uncorking the gourd. That was of no consequence, he thought, letting it fall to the floor and moving closer to the sleeper.

Ninety-seven.

A grin cracked Gaara's face, and he distinguished the strong odour in the air. Dried blood and the wet desert smells were pulsing around; miasma suspended around Lee's nostrils, open lips, face … Curiosity suddenly gnawed at him. He wanted to have the sand trickle into orifices and move beneath skin rather than a blind crushing sensation.

Mother could swim in blood before she drank it.

Ninety-eight.

He wondered fleetingly what the hand movements would be like. Pressing against air he tested dropping each finger individually to the top of his palm and then raising it, and the sand tinkled like a worn piano with an empty swish. It moved in keys.

Slowly he bent over the bed, dropping a knee to support his research. He pushed his whole arm forward, stretching fingers as far as they would and feeling the difference as he hooked his index finger into the place where the imaginary lips were. Softer, and pliable. He tested the boundaries of sleep.

Lee stirred, and slurred.

Nin'y-nine.

He knew there was a vein in the tongue, but he couldn't split it without grabbing a kunai, and kunai were inept and inferior. He could filter dry into Lee and come out wet. Sand and blood. He wheezed a hollow breath between clenched teeth. More footsteps were outside now, and he could no longer tell if they were passing or headed towards the room.

Unsure of whether he was imagining it; Gaara pressed his finger further to feel the pulsing thread of blood flowing through the muscle. The closer he leaned the more he wondered how far he'd have to press to near warm, writhing innards. Shifting Lee's blanket aside to become more comfortable his hand came into contact with a papery, shrivelled and ochre petal. Streaks of brown ran along its length.

Impulse. He pulled his finger back and wondered if it would be wet. If so, he wondered if -- because Lee hasn't brushed his teeth due to unconsciousness -- his saliva would smell like the blood crusting his mouth. Would he have to really touch the inside if he wanted to break out through it?

He's never had to touch to kill before. Perhaps Mother was denying him a pleasure. He shouldn't question it though, he thought; as he slid three digits against hot, pretend, wet tongue. Gaara was barely aware of the scratchy feeling of hospital sheet leaving his other hand when he lifted and dropped the petal into Lee's mouth.

Without touching, of course.

Un'und'd; blood, breath and sand.

There was no skin on skin, but the sand was course in Lee's mouth and Gaara felt the friction. He was sure the tingling could he attributed to that, and not because he'd held his hand too long in the same hooked posture.

As the gourd quaked with restless contents, Gaara was aware of two things; kill now or later. Killing now would satisfy blood-lust; sand gummy with blackened blood on the crisp white sheets and --

He caught his breath. As he left, his hands smelled coppery; like dying daffodils and running his hands inside of sanguine.

He hadn't had enough. But if he left some, there would be more to come back too.

***

a/n: I don't know what it says about me, but I loved writing this. I've never written Gaara before, and I didn't think I'd be able to… I'm still not entirely sure if I pulled it off. It was hellish to write, and took me the better part of the day. It's only 777 words long, for God's sake! I feel quite sorry for Lee. I'd apologise to him if I didn't love writing this so much. If I ever write Lee fic though, he is not having any memory of this because… I honestly don't think he'd want it.