They burned: his eyes. Deprived of sleep they felt like globes of smouldering cinder slowly eating their way into his head, melting his brain. They made the world incohesive and blurry, as if it wasn't hard enough to make sense of in its natural state. And to think that it would be so easy to remedy – would but sleep come to him – only further aggravated him. He grew agitated and restless, unable to stay put, let alone lay down. So he walked the skies instead.
The desert was where he found himself when he slowed his pace, and looking around it reminded him much of the ocean. The winds would play and shape the landscape here just as they did out at sea, and the grains of sand were as numerous in the deserts as the droplets of water in any ocean. The way light reflected off the sand dunes, gave them different colours and changed their nature, was eerily similar to how light would dance on water. If he closed his eyes as wind gently whipped through the barren landscape he could hear something aching to the sound of waves. He could even smell the salt in the air; taste it on his tongue. It filled him with calm, made him feel at home.
He hadn't planned his route, simply woven his strings at random, yet here he was. Exhaustion weighed on his body, not as recklessly as it clung to his mind, but his movements felt strained. He should sit down, just for a few minutes, only to catch his breath. Reel himself in before he lost himself altogether.
So he found himself a railing to sit down on. And there he sat, on the stone railing of a large building, watching the sun scorch the lands as it moved across the sky. Jittery, he couldn't sit quite still. He rocked his body back and forth, drummed his finger against the smooth stone, and when nothing else helped he got up and walked the length of the railing a few times before plopping down again.
Sighing, part in frustration part in resignation, he let his right hand rise towards the sky, palm facing the sun. Lazily, his eyes drifted to his hand and studied each finger closely, subconsciously scanning for imperfections, something to rectify. Finding nothing he pulled his hand closer, turned his palm to his face, cradled his fingers and grinned: there it was. A loose strap of skin, so small it could easily have been overlooked, but he wasn't one to be fooled that easily.
"Disgusting"
His teeth were just about to graze the offensive piece of skin when the comment, cold and snide, made him halt all movement. For a second, for a moment, or an eternity, he couldn't quite tell. But it ended in laughter, his laughter. And of course that voice didn't stop him, if anything it goaded him, made him attack the insulting skin sliver with more aggression than it deserved, more than was necessary. It didn't surprise him when blood broke surface; if you prod an imperfection it is bound to grow, after all.
"Truly, you've outdone yourself" the voice drawled. It was bait, and he wanted to bite, but he was preoccupied by the sting which started at his fingertip and ran throughout his body. He could hear the man behind him growl, could imagine the irritation had worked its way into his features. It made him grin harder.
"I'm busy, what do you want?"
Not as much a question as it was a demand, but it mattered little. There was no answer to be given either way. His finger stung and his eyes burned, that was all.
"Stupid bird," because that is all Doflamingo will ever be to Crocodile, "fly off!"
The contact was brief, and the hook digging into his spine cold. A shove and he fell, plummeted towards the sands below like the bird without wings he was. He imagined himself a rock dumped into the sea, and just like the rock hit the bottom so did he hit the sand with a muffled thud. He groaned, but remained still. The sand underneath him was hot and coarse, begging for someone to notice it. So he did. He looked at the sand, relished in the burning sensation brought on by it. He remained there for hours, watching as the small dust particles danced around in the wind, performing only for him.
Night fell when the sun set. The moon took its place and painted the desert a shade of blue that reminded him of the dark, untouched trenches of the sea. Temperatures dropped rapidly, but heat still lingered in the sand itself. He lay almost buried in it by now, but to him it felt more like a lovers embrace than a grave. The smell of dry air and musky herbs tickled his nose, and the rough sand scrubbed at his cheek whenever he moved his head. It felt almost familiar, almost calming. This, of course, had to necessarily be when the voice chose to come back.
"Your hopeless" it said, and the contempt woven into the voice stung like acid.
"No, I'm swimming" he replied, his voice raspy from having inhaled too much desert.
A haphazard kick at his side and he was flipped onto his back, and he realized the sky was full of stars. Millions of stars swimming in space, and, oh, two golden, angry eyes. He decided to put some extra work into is grin, and was surprised to find it unusually taxing. It didn't provide him the desired results either, as the reptilian eyes made their retreat and vanished from his line of sight, leaving him with only the ocean of stars. A shiver racked his body and suddenly he became aware of the cold. The air had grown chill, and the sand, too, has lost its luster. All the more like the sea, raw and unforgiving, pulling him under.
"Well?" it called, the voice, and he almost startled. It was not an invitation, but as close as he would ever get. He'd be a dead man if he didn't take it. He rose. His feathery coat, having been buried by sand, weighed heavy on his shoulders. He could have taken it off, shaken it free from sand, but he quite liked the idea of having a sandy coat – wanted to know how long the sand would remain embedded among the feathers.
As the pair walked quiet along empty hallways he wondered if someone would ever follow the trace of sand he left behind them, if someone would understand to pursue it. Not that it mattered, nothing but pure curiosity. What would happen if someone found their way inside, or broke through the locked door? But why idle on things that would never come to pass when the present was far more interesting, and held far more promise.
The hand against his neck was warm, pulsating with life and blood. It made him feel alive, and real. He wanted more of it, wished to devour all the heat in this world. He stared into Crocodile's eyes, and they were like pools of liquid gold, and he wondered if they burned holes into his mind, too. He wanted to ask, almost did, but his world, swimmingly hazy, made it hard to tell if his wants and desires were truly what they seemed.
"It's like we're under water" he whispered instead, and apparently it was not a good thing to say because the hand on his neck stilled, then retreated. He bit his tongue in order to stop more words, forming unbidden in his head, from slipping past his lips. Instead he sulked over to the bed. It was too small for him yet he threw himself onto it, occupying most of it so that there would be no free spot on it that wasn't close to him.
"You'd better be gone by morning, you damned bird" the other man muttered as he felt the mattress shift and dip close to his left foot.
It wasn't what he wanted, but it was good enough. It had to be. So he closed his eyes and breathed. He caught a whiff of smoke as he lay drifting, and first he thought of gunpowder and the sea, but this smoke was different, more refined and more familiar, fused with scents of musky herbs and desert sand. He was no longer drowning, merely adrift. It was god enough, he thought, and grinned at nothing in particular.
He walked the skies because he did not want to face his dreams. He rested because he did not want to leave. He didn't speak because he did not know how to ask. He remained still because it was better than facing rejection. It stung because it was true. He silenced himself because he did not know how to be sincere. He would never stop grinning because then he would fall apart. He was a good liar though, and by tomorrow he would have the perfect excuse, so impeccable that he'd believe it himself, too.