Hey all. Soo.. This is my first story, and I'm telling you, it was terrifying putting it up. I honestly had no idea what I was doing. In fact, my hands still feel a little shaky. (Sad. I know.)
I would really appreciate some constructive criticism :) I've been writing since I was small, this is just the first time I've just ever bothered to upload it. As for the plot, it's touch and go. I'm LITERALLY just winging it. I don't have a plan, or a structure. I want it to be NejiGaa (I'm terribly sorry if you don't like the pairing, or the idea of Yaoi in general). Also, yes. Neji is Scottish. I know.
Apologies to any Scottish people! I've never been there, I'm probably doing an awful shot at writing the accent, feel free to correct me if I make a cultural mistake. Also, although the Sabakus are supposedly from America... I've never been there either. So there will be no references to that, lest I offend more people.
I did say I was winging it. I really am.
But, I will endeavour. I really hope you enjoy it. If you don't, no sweat, this is a bit of a trial run for me.
And, Disclaimer! I see people doing this all the time, so... I don't own Naruto. Sad truth.
Gaara dropped his iPod with a clatter on the faded bronze surface of the dining table, and sighed heavily. He was alone in the sun-filled room for a brief second, and took the opportunity to clasp his fingers together in a point and push his short fingernails into the bridge of his nose. He had four seconds of quiet with which to quell his headache before the door crashed open, rattling a little on its hinges, as Kankuro tried to force his remade, recently de-limbed puppet through the doorway.
"Kan…ku…RO!"
The enraged shriek came from behind the man's back, and he turned sheepishly to meet eyes with his sister. Temari had a savage look in her eye.
The man quailed under his purple face paint, and pressed himself against the wall of corridor. With power bordering on frightful, the blonde Sabaku kicked the puppet through the doorway. Bolts popped out of it, scattering through the room with a cheerful clatter as Kankuro looked in on horror.
"Not a word," Temari hissed, pointing a finger close to his face and closing in on him. Kankuro pressed into the wall a little further. "It's your own damn fault for putting it together in the living room. Whose fault is it?"
"Mine," Kankuro squeaked in a quiet voice and slipped past her to begin picking up the parts of his creation.
Gaara's headache worsened a little. What the hell was he doing in Scotland? Of all the places.
"Gaara, we're going out."
The redhead left the room in silence.
Temari pushed her fingers into her temples. "Kankuro."
The brunette froze on the floor where he kneeled, his palms filled with silvery nuts and screws.
Temari didn't continue for a second, rubbing her aching forehead. "Help me get Gaara."
Her brother didn't move.
"Kankuro."
In reply, he puffed up his cheeks, furrowed his brow and remained silent.
Temari knew what he was getting at. "Look, you can put it together later. Puppet, or food?"
The brunette considered this. "Food with crap loads of calories."
Temari threw her hands up in defeat. There went her diet. "Fine! The amount of exertion it will take to get the brat out of the house will require me to eat crap loads of calories. As you so eloquently put it."
Kankuro stood, poured the parts of his marionette into a bowl on the windowsill, propped the limp figure against the wall and pulled his black hood up.
"Let's do this."
10 minutes of planning later found Temari and Kankuro on either side of the room Gaara had claimed when they'd entered the cottage on the Scottish downs.
"Pss."
Kankuro stopped contemplating the creaminess of the carpet and met Temari's gaze. She jerked her head towards the door. The brunette's eyes widened and he shook his head fast enough to make the ear-like flaps on the hood pat together. Temari stifled the urge to kick him in the gut, and neither breathed until they were sure Gaara hadn't heard.
A flurry of comical silent argument ensued, as they gesticulated wildly at each, mouths moving noiselessly with the expletives they longed to hurl at each other. Face like thunder, Temari all but stabbed her thumb at the closed door, the door that, until then, had been closed.
Gaara stood where the door had been, staring impassively at the wall in front of him. Without a word, he walked between them and turned down the hallway, betraying no acknowledgement of them.
The siblings exchanged a look.
Silently, they darted after him, and Kankuro managed a brief tap on his forehead, navel and each shoulder before they each seized an arm.
"Get off." Gaara said quietly.
"Heave!" yelled Temari, and before the red head had time to protest, or kick them both in the guts, they were dragging him like a dead body back the way he'd come, each hooking an elbow resolutely under his armpits.
Kankuro kicked the door open and the three were out, into blustery, bloody freezing Scottish summertime.
Gaara shrugged them off immediately after the front door was closed and turned to face them, folding his arms.
"Yes?"
"It's lunch time Gaa," Kankuro smiled weakly, and Temari stuck a finger into the youngest's side.
"And you're coming with us."
Gaara just sighed.
The local pub was a quiet place, with recently painted red letters announcing 'The Lion's Hart' a contrast with the rain-soaked roof tiles and faded green paint. Kankuro grimaced. "No… Maccy D's?" He asked hopefully.
Temari shot him a cold look. "We wanted different, we got different. Shut up and get inside."
The man entered first, grumbling under his breath. A bell pinged over Gaara's head as he uncaringly followed his siblings into the establishment, warmth engulfing his white skin and flushing it quickly back to normal heat. The pub inside was furnished in rustic copper and red, a thick burgundy carpet swallowing the feet of the mahogany tables. Tapestries in woven greens and oranges dozed on the lurid wallpaper as Gaara tried to cringe away from the onslaught of colour.
A young man in a white overall with long brown hair tied back in a loose ponytail looked up from the bar.
"Weel hello." He greeted them in a soft Scottish accent, "Noocomers!"
Temari beamed at the first friendly face in what felt like ages. "Yes, we're from the States!"
"Amerrica, huh? We haivn't go' nae twinkies in this poob." He winked.
"Not a problem," Temari chirped, elated that the first friendly face also knew what a twinkie was. Perhaps things were looking up. "But we, er, we don't really know Scottish cuisine."
The guy laughed. "Cuisine," he mocked her accent, "is a fancy word aroond haur."
"Sorry," apologised Temari, "I meant, like, food."
The man stared at her for a long second, before he burst out laughing.
"For tha'," he grinned, "you'ze can deal wit' Larry."
Still chuckling slightly, he stuck a head through the double doors. "Hey! Larry!"
"Lad, ahm busy!" Came a disgruntled reply.
"Lar', there's sum Americans, they've bin askin' fer ye."
There was a pause, and the long-haired man backed out of the way of a giant man with a beard like fire. He wore a stained chef's outfit and a slightly manic gleam in his eyes. Temari took a small, nervous step back.
"'Mericans, eh?" The giant bent down and appraised them.
"They accused me o' nae knowin' whit 'cuisine' was." The man smiled. "Dinnae be tieu hard on 'em." He lifted his hand in a parting wave before disappearing into the kitchen.
Temari gulped.
"Sooo," the chef began, planting both calloused hands on the counter and leaning forward.
Kankuro being unnaturally docile on one side, and Gaara being as unsociable as ever on her other, Temari hardened her resolve and stepped forward. "We'll have what the chef recommends," she announced. The man's eyes sparkled in a way that was anything but reassuring. "Gud choice lassie." He backed into the depths of the kitchen again.
"That was creepy," Kankuro piped up cheerfully from her right.
"Yeah, thanks for your help guys," she snapped, whacking the older brother over the head.
The trio moved to take a seat at one of the tables. Gaara edged in first, staring distrustfully at a tapestry of a very white man on a very red horse on what looked like a boat made out of a dragon. Gaara nearly put his head in his hands. The Scottish.
Shortly after came a familiar voice.
"Chef's compliments". The young waiter from before stood over their table, a platter in each hand.
Temari visibly relaxed with a whoosh of air. "Thank god," she mumbled weakly, "I was scared it would be Larry."
"Jus' Neji." He placed the dishes on the table and extended a hand to Temari.
She took it. "Temari. And this is Kankuro, and the red head is Gaara."
"Pleased ter meet youze."
Gaara ignored him. He was Scottish.
Aware of Temari muttering 'don't mind him', he stood abruptly and made to pass Kankuro.
"Gaara?"
"Toilet," he answered blankly in response to Kankuro.
"The cludgie? Third on tha left," Neji called after him.
He found his way no problem and locked himself quickly in the cubicle, before he pressed his forehead against the cool door and willed the throbbing in his head to fade. He was so tired, yet he couldn't sleep. He couldn't remember how to. Not anymore.
Gaara took a shuddering breath as wet black tendrils threatened to consume him, to suck him under again. He tried to shake them off, flicking his head as though flies crowded around it, until he finally pressed his body flush against the cold cubicle door and scrunched his eyes up. From in here the hallucinations couldn't get him, but he was never safe from the memories. They lingered like patient snakes until his resolve crumbled, his hold on the rocky reality weakened, and he plummeted into the black pool inside himself.
A grunt – breathy moan above him, tickling the red hair behind his ears.
'Papa' …
He was not Papa. Not with alcohol heavy on his breath, as he groped blindly for Gaara's leg. He pulled it against him and shrunk into the shadows of the bed, but his father found him, pulled him forwards. Unbuckling his belt and ripping at Gaara's pyjamas, in a fever, in a rage. He would hurt him. He hated him.
"I'm sorry," he pleaded, not knowing why Papa hated him. It was Gaara's fault. It was all Gaara's fault, Gaara's fault, all his-
Gaara emerged with a strained gasp. His knees shuddered under him and he fell heavily, his wrists hitting the floor with a painful thud. In the crotch of his black trousers, a tent had formed.
Gaara bowed his head, tears threatening to form. He heard his father's voice, sharp and cold as it bit his ear, leaving a moat of tooth marks that would bleed for days. You sick fuck Gaara. You aren't my son. You're sick. Turned on. You are no child of mine.
He was a sick fuck. Crying Gaara? Weak. You disgust me.
Gaara bowed his head as he closed his fist around his erection, jerking himself off with no pleasure as the words slithered through the black drapes of his mind. As he reached his climax, he lifted his head, green eyes ablaze with a red hot hate; an empty gaze that promised no mercy. No recompense. He climaxed with the image of his nine year old hands slamming his father's bloody face against their black, solid steel door wedge.
By the time he arrived back to their table, Temari was staring suspiciously at a tureen of soup that sat amongst other foreign lumps that hunkered like carnivorous beasts on the crockery.
His sister looked up as he sat down, poked a finger at the soup and explained in a slightly ill tone that it was called 'Cullen Skink'. Gaara looked down at the slab of meat sitting on the plate closest to him. It was tinged a faint off-grey.
"That one's called 'finnan haddie'," Kankuro supplied helpfully as he watched Gaara eye it up.
"It's cold smoked haddock," Temari muttered bluntly, spooning the Cullen Skink into a bowl. She stuck her spoon in, drew it back out and inspected it closely. "Hasn't corroded…" she muttered distractedly, scooping a tiny amount and tasting it. The three Sabakus didn't speak for a second.
"8… 9… 10… Not dead yet, it's safe," Temari concluded cheerfully, and spooned it delicately into her mouth.
"Try the roast woodcock," the blonde said around her mouthful of soup, pushing the plate over to Kankuro innocently, before snorting at his unimpressed expression.
Face stony, Gaara ignored his siblings, dragged a random plate over and began to eat it without really tasting it. It had the consistency of glue.
"Ah, gud ter know the Haggis goos doown a treat."
Neji was back.
"Who's eating this Haggis?" Temari asked with a flutter of her eyelashes.
"Yer brother there. Enjoyin' it lad?"
Gaara placed his spoon on the bowl and fixed his blank stare on Neji. To his credit, the young Scot didn't even squirm.
"Sheep heart, liver, lungs, with a tad o' onion ter spice it up."
Temari carefully put down her spoon. "That sounds…"
"Yer American lassie, yer dinnae have tae be polite," Neji said good-naturedly.
"It sounds gross." Temari turned a faint green.
"On th' cont'ry. Tastes o' nuts."
Kankuro squared up. "Gi'sus a try Gaar?"
The red head pushed it over without a comment.
Kankuro dug his fork in and put it without hesitation in his mouth. He chewed for a while, swallowed, and went silent. He roved his tongue around his mouth once, before conceding.
"It does taste of nuts! Hey Gaa, you finishing this?"
Gaara flapped a hand. Everything tasted like cement to him now. It made no difference.
"Cheers man!"
Gaara was aware of Neji watching him, but he ignored him.
"Gaara, yer says?"
"That's our little bro all right," Kankuro said cheerfully, "chuck us the pepper Temar."
"Weel Gaara, ah suggest the tatties. Goo doown a treat wit' foreigners."
Gaara looked up to meet disquietingly pale grey eyes. The man flashed him a quick smile before saluting Temari, grabbing her now empty bowl and darting back to the kitchen.
Gaara looked at the spread before him.
"Pass us…" he croaked.
Temari pushed the bowl of what looked like seasoned potato over to him. "Tatties, Gaa."
Gaara sat back on the patchwork quilt on his fat mattress and laid a hand on his stomach. He felt a little queasy.
Standing on unsteady feet, he made his way into the bathroom, peeled off his sweaty clothes and stepped into the shower. The knobs were alarmingly uncomplicated compared to the touch screen dials in his vast en suite at home, and for a moment he was stumped. Pressing 'on', he tilted his head back into the freezing crystal droplets. His body shuddered a moment in the sharp bite of the water, but it seemed to gradually warm up.
Gaara let his head fall forwards; the red strands plastering possessively against his forehead. Black droplets splashed onto his bare stomach and slowly trickled down in pale grey; running over his thighs or getting lost in the thicket of hair at the bottom of his navel. He wiped the soft skin under his eyes, and his fingers came away dark and bruised. He stared in intense fascination as the black ran away, hid from the clear water, down the drain into darkness.
That was what Gaara was. Gaara was the ink you wash away, the stain you wash off your skin in a bid to clean yourself. The drain was where he lived; skulking in festering blackness as behind the peepholes he watched the cleanliness shed him off. He was disgusting. He was dirt.
Gaara threw his head back with a small scream – pale green eyes wide, pupiless. Mouth agape in a silent roar; he cracked his head against the tiles once, twice. He felt something smash. He wasn't sure if it was the peach tiling or his skull.
He slid down the wall until he rested, bare arse next to the drain. His head fell forwards onto his knees. He was so tired.
The water stung as it pounded on his head, hitting more than solid bone. Gaara put his fingers to the crown of his skull, and they came away red, sticky. The water washed the fluid away before he'd had a chance to put it to his lips, to taste its rust.
It was cold, he realised, the water was very cold. It was freezing. His lips shivered, chaste, bored almost. His head swum, black stars dancing in the corner of his vision as he swung his head. He cracked his head once more, and stayed there, a little limp under the ice that was being hurled at him. Icicles from his roof. Sharp. Pointy little teeth as a man screamed, animal like.
Papa.