Sand and Sake
Part One
A soft, lazy sort of music drifted around the corner, pulled her forward. She followed the music and smell of expensive alcohol. Truth was, she was already sort of inebriated, but not on booze; she'd smoked a little too much grass at the party, and in her true fashion, she'd started a fight. Had gotten thrown out and told to get her head together before coming back. She'd tried. Sat sobering up on the monument for a solid twenty minutes before taking a leisurely walk around town and finding herself now standing before a descending staircase in a very narrow alleyway.
It was pitch outside, around midnight. Just a bit of light traced its way up the wooden steps, casting over half of her face. From where she now stood, she could make out more of the music. Mostly bass and drums. A hint of saxophone. The beat sent chills over her arms. Smiling to herself, she disappeared down the stairs and up to the heavily painted door, stopping for only a minute to trace some of the writing. This wasn't graffiti, but deliberate poetic phrases and scribblings. A jazz club with an apparent love for haiku. The small sign nailed right at eye level read "Speakeasy Lounge" in bright bold, red letters. She pushed the door open with one hand, holding the frame with the other and looking inside. The music wafted against her, louder for sure now.
The inside of Speakeasy was small and flush with tightly crammed booths and wooden tables. The walls were rock. The wooden floor was covered in a layer of sand. A stage, small and tucked away in the corner, housed the live band whose tune she'd been following. As she scouted the place, she wasn't entirely certain there was room for her. Speakeasy was packed. People were standing along the walls, even by the door. Buzzed with curiosity and itching to have a drink, she entered anyway, shutting the door gently behind her.
The bar was extremely busy. Despite this, Gaara managed to locate the most secluded spot near a back exit. Kankuro joined his brother at the booth and cracked open a tall, fat bottle of sake. His face felt bare without his paint. He smirked at Gaara. Absently, Gaara's slender hands toyed with the shot glasses set out in front of him. The clang they made was somewhat pleasant. Hypnotic. But also annoying. Without paying it mind, Kankuro reached out and swiped both glasses, filling them with sake and lifting Gaara's, shaking it dauntingly at his brother. They toasted and drank, no words shared between them. Comfortable. It passed over Kankuro's mind that there had been a time when sitting in the same room as his brother was a big fat no-no. Much less taking something from his hands. And without warning no less. Surely that would have meant certain death. The thought now was laughable. That time in his life felt strange and almost unreal.
"It's funny," Kankuro mumbled, sloshing the half empty bottle, "how memory and perception fade with time. You ever get that?"
Drumming his fingers on the table methodically, Gaara said, "Not really. But I find most people apparently do."
"Yeah I forgot. You're like an elephant," Kankuro laughed lowly.
Gaara looked confused.
"You know," Kankuro explained, rolling his eyes, waving a hand, "an elephant never forgets."
"I haven't heard that," Gaara dismissed, scrunching his face. "That's a ridiculous notion. Based on what facts do you know an elephant's capabilities?"
Kankuro laughed harder. "It's just a saying," he snorted. Relaxed as he saw Gaara's lips fall into a soft grin. He poured another round, never ceasing to be amazed at Gaara's high tolerance for booze. "I swear to god," Kankuro commented, feeling numb and fuzzy, "I think you cheat."
A child like playfulness touched Gaara's face. He sat back in the booth and smirked at Kankuro.
"You soak up half the shots with your sand or something," Kankuro shook his head, poured two more.
"No," Gaara piped in, "I just maintain myself more so than some."
Eyes popping, Kankuro licked his teeth. "Whoa," he smiled, "I didn't know better, I'd say that was a dig at me."
"You're usually a terrible drunk," Gaara shrugged. "You have no head for it."
"Pft," Kankuro rested his chin in his hand, tried to look unimpressed, "I've seen you get sloppy once or twice."
The slight drunken flush on Gaara's cheeks stained red. But in his fashion, he quickly regained composure.
As the bottle emptied further, the conversations drifted from carefree subjects toward personal territory. Kankuro didn't know what he'd expected. He'd known his own worries had been eating at him, and was well aware of the depressive side alcohol sometimes brought out in his personality. Taking a swig from the bottle, Kankuro sighed heavily and shook his head, facing down at the table. It ate at him. Here he was, moping to his emotionally stilted brother about his own god damn problems yet again. Gaara was a champ though. He listened patiently. Which was all Kankuro really needed at the moment.
"God," Kankuro apologized, rubbing his face, "I feel like a fucking woman, blubbering about this. I'm sorry."
Gently, Gaara gripped the bottle Kankuro held. He took it, paying little mind to the puppeteer's protest. It was practically empty. The last of it, for the most part, having gone down only Kankuro's gullet. "You can't keep blaming yourself," Gaara said, seeming to look at his own reflection against the bottle. "Whatever the reason Keiran ran off," he went on, "it had nothing to do with hating you. A lot of people were changed by the war. Some are at a loss for identity now."
"You can't say it had nothing to do with me," Kankuro growled.
"I know that she cares a great deal for you," Gaara remained careful. "She told me so."
"Then why leave?" Kankuro said, the words tasted like acid. But he was hopeful and startled by what Gaara revealed.
"Stop worrying. She'll be back once Suna is repaired," Gaara said.
Cupping the back of his neck with both hands, Kankuro touched his nose against the table and exhaled loudly.
Not typically in the business of playing a shoulder to cry on, Gaara was relieved when Kankuro stumbled from the bar. He rubbed his temples and his eyes followed Kankuro's obnoxiously bright green dress shirt all the way to the door. The girl entering as Kankuro left nearly ran into the eldest Sand sibling. She wavered, Kankuro teetered back, but both regained footing quickly. Still holding the almost empty sake bottle, Gaara glanced away and poured the remaining booze into one of the glasses. He'd since forgotten which was his own. He took the shot quickly, sat the glass down, and reached into the pocket of his black pants for his wallet. As if on their own volition, his eyes looked back at the door, then darted into the crowd where he spotted the girl again. She was hard to miss. Her pale blonde hair in contrast with caramel colored skin saw to that. As did the slashed band she wore around her forehead. She weaved through the sea of people and up to the bar. The only area of the lounge that was brightly lit. She squeezed between two buffalo built men and waved at the bartender. Losing interest, Gaara stood and made for the register at the far end of the bar.
The line of people waiting to pay curved around to the bathroom stalls. Briefly, Gaara looked to the exit and contemplated leaving without paying the tab. Were it not for his title, he might have followed through. Instead he stood patiently. When the register came back into view, once again Gaara found himself looking sideways, back to the girl.
She was still in the same place. Only instead of the easy going smile she'd seemed to have before, her face was angry and panicked. Her back, pressed against one of the large men surrounding her. Gaara couldn't hear what she was saying. She bared her teeth at the other man in front of her. He held her wrist, spilling the glass of drink onto her white blouse. No one except Gaara seemed to notice the tuffle. And if someone did, neither did they intervene.
"Sir?"
Gaara's attention broke and he looked in front of him at one of the bartenders manning the cash register.
"You're the Kazekage, right? Gaara of the Hidden Sand village? Congratulations on your sister's wedding! My brother works with Shikamaru on the council," the man was yelling over a particularly booming drum solo. "Don't worry, it's on the house."
"No," Gaara held out a bill, "that's not necessary."
"Fair enough," the bartender shrugged, taking the money and opening the drawer.
Turning to leave, Gaara took a deep breath. He blinked at the sea of people between him and the exit. His head swam a little. While he might handle alcohol better than his brother, to say it didn't affect him would be incorrect. Gaara didn't drink often, and true when he did it took quite a bit to tilt him. Tonight he'd had just enough. He wasn't quite drunk, but definitely feeling relaxed. He'd sleep well.
Slowly, he edged into the crowd but quickly decided his best path to the door would be along the far wall, so Gaara took a left and yet again found himself staring at the girl and her surly company. Before, when he'd first noticed her predicament, Gaara paid little mind. Bar fights were common place as were rowdy, groping men and drunk, offended women. He found the entire act juvenile and disgusting. But what he was now noticing went beyond an ordinary display of unwanted attention. He only caught on because bloodbending jutsu gave telling signs. The hand symbol held by the man behind her was unhidden. And while it wasn't his business, Gaara found he couldn't call himself a Kage and walk away knowingly from what might be a future rape.
Sighing, Gaara flattened his palm, outstretched to the dusty floor. He didn't have his gourd full of sand and wasn't going to get physical with anyone while buzzed. So he made do with what little bit of dirt coated the lounge floor. It proved to be enough.
"You pigs!" she growled, frozen solid and glaring at the sack of fat in front of her. Her veins felt stretched and heavy. It hurt. She opened her mouth to cuss him, yell for help. Suddenly even her tongue stopped. Her heart raced. Her stomach sank.
His scratchy laughter reached her ears, repulsing. Behind her, the other man wrapped a hand around her hip. Bile rose up in her throat. She wasn't an exceptionally strong woman and had barely kept alive during the war, but she'd always been able to defend herself against petty thugs. Whatever jutsu these two were using against her had come as a surprise. She couldn't counter it. Couldn't break free. Her eyes darted around the room, panicked and furious. No one seemed to notice her situation. The music was far too loud and everyone in the bar was too engrossed in their own selfishness.
"What's the matter," the man behind her cooed, "cat got your tongue?"
"I think she wants to get out of here," the other one said, wetting his haired lips. His hand, holding too tightly to her wrist, once again sloshed more drink onto her neck and shirt.
She stared at his tattooed knuckles, eyes stinging and cheeks now wet. Her breath caught as a mixture of confusion weighed on her. Snaking up the man's arm, closing around his hand, was sand. It sank between his fingers, brushing against her skin in the process. Loosened his grip.
"What the fuck?" the man behind her yelped in surprise and anger.
Her eyes looked as far behind her as possible, aching at the force to do so. She could barely see it, but sure enough the sand was also covering this man as well. Suddenly he yelled out in pain, fingers bending backward. The hand sign he'd been using crumbled as his fingers broke all at once. In a strong, quick wave, her body went limp. She reached out, catching herself on the bar. Her veins pulsed with relief. She steadied herself as blood pumped strongly, dizzying her. By the time she regained her senses, both men were encased in a thin layer of sand. They groaned and struggled to break free. Eyes wide, she looked away from them, following the trail of sand to her savior. By now, whoever he was, he'd gained an audience. several people had finally noticed what was going on. The band included. Abruptly, the music stopped.
Looking from his feet upward, she took note of his every detail. He stood no taller than five feet eight inches, decked in all black dresswear. Pale. His hair a deep shade of red and his eyes an icy blue. If he was angry or disgusted by these men, it didn't show on his collected face. She recognised him immediately as the Kazekage of Wind Country. Gaara of the Desert. Formerly feared monster. Stories about him stretched even to her left behind home in Amegakure. Some said the Kazekage was a redeemed man. Others said such evil couldn't be suppressed, but only well hidden.
"When I release you," Gaara said, "it would be wise to leave this place very quickly." His voice, while deep, held an airy quality, hushed and calm like a lover's whisper.
The sand around the men collapsed to piles at her feet. She gasped, expecting them to attack blindly. However it appeared their foolishness didn't stretch quite that far. As instructed, the men ran past Gaara, through the crowd. The exit slung open then slammed closed as they disappeared.
She met Gaara's eyes and swallowed hard. She thanked him with a still shaky voice as her body slowly came to normal.
"You should sit until it passes," Gaara told her.
"Show's over everybody!" the bartender called out, startling her.
She held her chest, sweat dripping from her forehead, and fell back into the barstool. The music started up as if nothing had happened. Her heart slammed in her chest but did begin to slow as she held Gaara's gaze. Touching her face in effort to further calm herself, she found her high had rushed away. Sober as judge. The fear she'd been crippled with left, was replaced with a sudden urge to rush after the two attackers and gut them both before either saw it coming. She closed her eyes, counted to ten, decided her better option was to let it go and have the drink she'd come in for. After all, shit happens and karma was a real bitch. Those two would get theirs eventually. Opening her eyes, she figured maybe a proper show of appreciation was warranted. Dismay struck her.
Gaara had already turned to leave but hadn't gotten far.
"Wait!" she called out, standing halfway. When Gaara turned to look back at her, she smiled. "At least let me buy you a drink as thanks," she offered. Part of her hoped he'd decline. He was a very intimidating person.
For a second, he appeared uninterested. His eyes flashed over her and she recognised that glance. Sizing her up for one reason or another. Either the Kazekage was checking her out or debating her motives. She found herself surprised as he nodded and approached the bar. He sat in the stool beside her somewhat awkwardly. Unsure.
Thirty minutes and four shots later, the two of them had moved to a table near the back. She'd purchased a bottle of imported sake. It was stronger than most. Already she was feeling buzzed again. He wasn't sober either. She wasn't a fool, the only reason he'd entertained her was because he'd obviously been deep in a bottle before saving her skin. But he was good at maintaining himself and it was kind of impressive. At first they hadn't talked much. After one shot, he'd seemed apt to leave, yet he hadn't. Booze was good at doing that, at making even the hardest of men open up in some way or another.
Sitting back in his seat, Gaara smirked at her. And shook his head, inhaling deeply. His chest deflated as he spoke. "You're a bad liar," he said.
"How can you tell that," she huffed, a little taken aback.
He held her stare. She had to admit, he was very handsome. And his presence was a bit intoxicating. More so maybe than the sake. He uncrossed his arms and took his glass, sipped the alcohol, still watching her closely. Inquisitive.
"In my lifetime," Gaara began, "I've learned a lot about deception."
She breathed, heart rate picking up. Suddenly she felt her eyes being drawn to the exit.
His smirked softened and his face fell into a sort of neutral stance. "It's not my place to question you," he said. "But if I'm to share a drink with someone," he reached out, bending forward just enough, and grabbed the bottle, filled both glasses, "I'd like a truthful name."
Taking the glass from him, she chewed her bottom lip, hesitant. "Naoko," she said, tracing the rim of her glass, unable to look away from him. He seemed satisfied. As well he should, being as she'd not given him a false one this time.
"Well," he tilted his chin at her, "whatever the reason you're in this village, Naoko, I trust it's friendly." The tone was purposeful and chilling. Hinting at being threatening.
"Scouts honor," she assured him, dipping her pinky into the sake before bringing it to her lips and absently sucking it dry.
