Gaara doesn't mind sleep because he has nightmares.
He minds sleep because when he wakes up, it crashes back down that nightmares or not it was probably better.
Naruto doesn't mind sleeping either. It's not that different from being awake. Over time, he begins to hate the period of waking up.
That tiny fuzzy moment where he doesn't remember is a terrifying addiction.
He finds he can replicate it by not eating, or by losing too much blood.
He finds doing both together gives a fuzziness that lasts much longer.
Gaara pops caffeine pills, staving off sleep until that moment he collapses, and the dreams are lucid and horrendous, but they are still better.
After the chuunin exams, they exchange methods to forget.
Gaara remarks that if you get sunstroke, you dream vividly.
Naruto tells him you can get delightfully fuzzy-headed by asphyxiation.
The next time they meet, Naruto tells Gaara that if you get cold enough, you feel like a ghost.
Gaara tells Naruto that sensory deprivation is beautiful.
They are smoothing a veneer over cracks.
Gaara confides in Naruto that he can't stand the feel of sand.
Naruto smiles bitterly, and says it is better than the feel of fists.
They are starting something wrong by societies definition.
Naruto tells Gaara that he likes being called monster.
Gaara concurs. It is easier if you don't have to pretend to be human.
Naruto laughs, and it is a harsh, grating sound.
He says after seeing how others act, he is glad that he is not.
Gaara wonders what they are.
Naruto takes his hand, and presses their chests together, and they listen to the sound of heartbeats.
We are the world.
Encased in sand and blood and hurt.
We are the world.
They swap methods in other ways now. Naruto presses into the other's neck, waiting until his lips turn blue. Gaara sends a shock of electricity into Naruto's neurones at the same time he releases.
They collapse on each other, giggling fruitlessly, a cacophony of madness.
Sometimes they try something else.
They tear not with fists and claws but with kisses and thrusts.
When they are done, they curl round each other, chests heaving with words unspoken, uneeded. Their heartbeats beat in time to a rythmn once forgotten.
Suna burns, glass forming, bubbling in an unnatural flame, settling into twisted shapes. Ocassionally a figure is caught inside the glass. Preserved instead of cinders.
Konoha is crumbling. Everything degenerates. People look with horror as they dissolve.
Dreams are shared in breathless whispers as they meet.
It was a game at first, pretending. But now it is a dance, movements perfected. Shout, be obnoxious. Be calm, unfeeling.
When they are together, Naruto is solemn, marked with vicious mockeries of grins and blood-tinged smiles. Gaara is wild, unhinged. They collapse together, hands clenched over chests. Heartbeats entwined.
It was inevitable that one day they would miss a step in the dance. Gaara laughs at a Kage meeting. Naruto snarls at Sakura.
This time when they meet there is blood and fire and sand and war and pain.
And as yellow hair glints in the sunlight, there is an answering shock of red.
This time when they meet there is blood and fire and sand and war and pain.
Blue eyes meet green and they grin.
Konoha burns and Suna crumbles.
And finally they sleep unworried. Because now the world fits.
It too is encased in sand and blood.
We are the world.
And the world is broken.