Notes: PHEW. It's done. God this felt like a long time in coming! My inspiration fell flat about three quarters of the way through this. Nor did I reach my target of 13 Word doc pages, but I felt another two pages of forced drivel was a bad idea. So here it is. I am now feeling reaaaally good about this, and I honestly cannot wait to get started on the next chapter! ^_^

Quickly, to the anonymous reviewer, Jayme. … Yup, I am a description-whore, unfortunately that's not changing! :) I am trying to iron out the surname-forename thing as I changed my mind halfway through - if you could point out where the surname comes first, then that would be super helpful. Thanks to everyone for reviewing, faving and alerting, I wub you all :3

Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. They have cool names. We English don't have cool names. Not ones like 'Gaara' and 'Neji' anyway ... Yes. Pity us. T_T

Chapter 3
Nothing But Lies And Crooked Wings

The shrill piping scream of the alarm clock sounded its universally hated bugle call. A lone hand emerged from its muggy cocoon of silk and pummelled it. Silence reigned for a blissful three minutes, before it started up again. Three hard slams later and the creature was put out of its misery; tumbling to the floor like a pheasant shot from the sky. Within its nest, the larger being – the predator – shifted. Sheer black fabric twisted and moved as the creature rose from the hips up – the bulbous protrusion turned, and horrifying, merciless green eyes blinked once. The distinct dark marking around the eyes labelled it as a male specimen – a brutal, cruel and unwilling early riser. The jade eyes – like a freezing forest caught in the throes of a harsh and endless ice age – blinked once more, and a deep throaty groan emerged from the long neck.

It was Monday.

The sinful warmth of the covers tried to entice him to slide back inside and bury his face into the plushness of the pillow, but it was with a badly-disguised curse that Gaara slid his body reluctantly from the bed; landing on the thick carpet on his stomach. His legs slithered out after him, and the toes popped out last, curling in the cool chill in the air as the redhead issued an aggrieved mumble. He lay splayed in the carpet for a brief second, still clad only in his boxers, until the thought of a certain uninvited houseguest swinging open the door had him swiftly moving to the bathroom. His morning routine was sluggish and reluctant as he powered through it. It was with slightly damp hair, the spiky locks at the nape of his neck curling lightly from the water, that he crossed the room to his wardrobe and pulled open the bottom drawer. Pulling out the neatly folded synthetic-green t-shirt, he ran his fingers over the embroidered 'CC' on the chest before he pulled it on. He was unsure how long he would be doing this in the morning – pulling on his uniform as he told himself that any day now he would be checking in a promotion and a pay rise. The redhead moved to the deodorant standing on his plain vanity and sneered to himself in the mirror. Yeah right, like that was ever going to happen.

"So you're one of those sorts then?"

Gaara lurched out of his skin, spinning to see the angel resting nonchalantly against the open doorframe. The smirk was already in place and it was only – the redhead glanced at the alarm clock dolefully lying on the floor – 6 o'clock.

"What?" he asked irritably.

"You know, you pull faces to yourself in the mirror." The brunet allowed a touch of faked concern to slide into his voice. The smaller man just glared at him and turned away, angrily yanking out a pair of plain black socks and pulling them on.

"Where are you headed?" The soft voice was so close the honeyed words emerged in a warm breeze around the shell of Gaara's ear. He jerked away, cussing indistinct expletives as he realised the proximity of the other man. A chuckle slid like intangible satin down the collar of his shirt.

"Stop fucking doing that," he snapped harshly, turning the collar up to settle the hairs that had raised there. The Hyuuga lifted a hand and pulled it through his long hair like it was a Zen art form and not an act of vanity.

"Doing wha-"

The words were cut short as the redhead strode past him without a second glance.

Gaara had just reached the door when a long arm reached and slammed it shut from behind him – the wood only just whistling past his noise – and, turning in surprise, he was pressed against it in an uncomfortably familiar position. The solid chest formed an impassable barrier in front of him, the outstretched arms blocking his left and right. The straight nose dipped and traced his jawline from his ear to his chin.

"Your sofa is uncomfortable." The words shimmered in the air like misted glass.

Confusion again filled the captive man – was the Hyuuga ever going to be predictable? "So what?" he said bluntly, "I can't do anything about it."

The Hyuuga's face pulled away, and the redhead chanced a glance into the unfathomable pools of white into his face and saw an icy sheen of glass filming them. They glinted like chips of hard flint at him. Gaara could read the statement in them without the brunet having to open his mouth. Choosing not to address it, he stood his ground despite the good six inches that the man towered above him, his head cocked like an inquisitive bird of prey.

"I need to go to work," he told him stolidly, running his hands over the panels of the door until they brushed against something warm and malleable. The smaller man tried to prise his way under the other man's palm where it was clasping the handle. Like it was glued to the metal, his nails barely poked under the ridged bone of the Hyuuga's hand. Irked, he half-turned, giving Neji the shoulder, and wrapped both hands around the marble wrist, trying vainly to open the door with a slowly darkening scowl. Finally, with a long hiss like a punctured tire, he snapped without turning to look at his captor, "Let me out already!" Any ideas of breakfast dissipated in an unsatisfying smoke, "I will be late, dammit."

Instead of lessening, the expanse of muscular flesh increased rapidly; flattening his smaller frame against the door. His ribs struggled to expand against the rigid wood. The man's entire frame was touching his – warmth on his back a contrast with the coolness of the door smashed against his face. The brunet's knees bent and pinioned his own to the barrier in front of him, the large, long-fingered hands easily enclosing his wrists and holding them there. The faint tickle of cinnamon and spring-flavoured breath fluttered on the crown of his head.

"Let me go to work," Gaara said in a low, dull voice.

"No."

Something inside him, something that had been under a lot of conflicting pressure for the last couple of days, finally gave a violent shudder. From the crack that had formed in this newfound chord, something acrid and hot came bubbling. "Let me go," he spat, in a voice like dripping acid.

The voice, unnaturally flawless and silky; humming on the nasal consonants and ringing on the vowels, drifted into his ear with a faint strain of peaches following into his nose. "You won't come back, Gaara."

White flashed into his vision, and as if his body was acting of its own accord, his hips bucked, loosening the hold on that part of his body. His wrists writhed as he thrashed in a cold determination. Before long, the angel had backed off slightly, allowing just enough room for Gaara to throw off his inhumanly strong hold and throw open the door. It banged loudly off something, and the redhead viciously hoped it was the bastard he was stalking away from.

Down the stairs and winding with a mad gleam in his eyes through the chairs, he strode determinedly to the door off the kitchen. It was in Gaara's huge main room, under the glistening glass pebbles of the cheap chandeliers, with the entrance to the narrow hall directly in his line of sight, that Gaara heard a click.

His brain struggled with the sound, turned it over and over as many times as it could in the split second it had before the redhead turned around. Jade eyes widened, paled – the cream skin suddenly bleached all colour but an unhealthy ash grey. Hyuuga was down, standing in front of the door under the stairs with a sly smile bowing his lips. He stared at the hand that clasped the door handle. It pointed downwards. A step forward, and another; harsh, scraping little footsteps as if Gaara had forgotten how to walk properly. The white-washed panels of the door swung in with a silent whisper of air, the darkness of the interior engulfing the wood. A twisted smile, a cruel reminder, graced the angel's lips.

Neji walked inside.

Five pounding footsteps was all it took – he reached the doorway with a faint desperate breath spilling from his lips, just as the overhead light, a bare bulb, flicked on.

"Well, what have we here?"

An enormous workshop was illuminated under the unavoidable light; a huge room of cool grey stone floor – at intervals covered by thin rugs in bright colours – and white-washed walls and ceiling. Two massive windows, their sills at hip height and half shaded by gauzy yellow curtains, flooded the end corner with thin cracks of watery morning light. The thick windowsills were covered with chipped mugs with the handles broken off that were filled with sharp utensils. In the middle of the right window a spindly glass held a single thin-stemmed red tulip.

In the middle of the room was a long workbench, twice the length of Gaara. It was littered with small pieces of wood and fine piles of sawdust. A swivel work-stool was tucked under the high table at one end. A little way away, pushed against the wall, a collection of tables and chairs in various states of finish all touched in some way. At the fore was a smooth slab of varnished oak; the slightly indented seat carved with a lip for the small of the back. It stood on one single trunk of wood, in which intricate Celtic knot designs were painstakingly carved.

An intrigued hum resonated from the marblesque throat. Eyes like pools of captured moonlight darted inquisitively around the room, but the cynical smile still slanted the elegant lips.

"Get out," Gaara ordered hoarsely, feeling his lips quivering as he tried to fill his lungs with air. His own eyes flashed around the room with far more urgency than those of the brunet. The man turned to stare at him.

"No," he said slowly, thoughtfully. Gliding along the floor as if he were floating on the air, the angel neared him. His expression was cold and detached. The redhead stared with a dull hollow sound ringing around his stomach as the man appraised him, aloof. Nausea threatened to rise. His sanctuary violated, again.

"Oo, what's this?"

Gaara made a frantic grab for his wrist, but his fingers skimmed over it with a scrape and the sound of tearing skin as the brunet reached the other arm for a misshapen object covered by a coral red sheet. With a lightning-fast whip, the brilliant fabric was floating in the air above them. Gaara stared, mutedly horrified, as his latest masterpiece was bared to the intruder's eyes. The light cotton drifted down, folding on his head and obscuring his body completely. Jade orbs downcast, he watched the red sheet settle on the floor around his feet until his vision was surrounded by the scarlet. No light save that leeching through the woven fabric pervaded his self-imposed prison. Outside the barrier, he could neither hear nor see any movement; the angel moved too silently. A long minute passed before the sheet was whipped off his body, stinging his cheeks as the ends flicked past him, and the room reappeared in a blur. Gaara stared at his lodger. Some bright inner light glinted in the pale eyes.

"I like it," he purred.

Rotating his head jerkily, as if his neck had a crick in it, the redhead stared at the uncovered creation.

It was a throne.

It was, much like the rest of Gaara's home, a mess of seemingly mismatched creation. Different types of wood bowed over each other, intertwining in replica branches or else twirling in lavish knots and carved and polished ripples like cascading fabric. Yet, despite the wrongness of the combination of the materials, it was beautiful. The seat – carved, sanded and smoothed, polished until gleaming – was solid maple, glowing with soft auburn-tinged gold. The arms were likewise carved in perfect, sleek semi-circles, but the more orangey tone of beech, which fell in a straight and glossy waterfall to join the twisting spirals of varnished poplar legs. Their faintly green tinge winked innocently in the gentle light. The back, instead of solid wood, dissolved into thin, twisting corkscrews, each threaded so tightly together that it began to take on the appearance of chainmail. Every unnaturally twisted tendril of wood had been painstakingly heated, steamed, clamped and shaped by the redhead, who had worked deep into the hours of the night until his fingers bled and his eyes blurred. But the effect was glorious. Impossible. The thinnest wood seemed to turn into whorls of smoke, fragile and transient and impossible.

But the defining feature of the magnificent wooden throne was not the intricacy in the design, nor the smoothness of the wood – it was the protrusions cutting out on either side. Delicately carved from thick hunks of finest red-rich mahogany until it was whittled down to finely-tuned limbs, two splendorous wings flared from the middle of the throne, illuminated until the exquisitely outlined feathers shone cherry-red. From the base of the wings, the hand-made branches in all their beige and white-red and chocolate and gold twisted like the visible trails of a butterfly's dance, curling tenderly around the wings without ever quite touching them. The effect was phenomenal. Despite himself, the redhead's brilliant gold-teal eyes roved proudly over the satiny lines before he turned to glare icily at the brunet.

The angel, finished his appraisal of his creation already, was regarding him with unconcealed amusement. It warmed the lavender in his eyes, but the smirk widened along with them. It was with a predatory look that he was watching the smaller man. "A wing fetish, Gaara? Surely not."

Acid rose in his throat. "Only on birds," he spat, wishing as he hadn't wished in a long time that he were venomous, that he could sink poison-tipped fangs into the man's smug face.

The lips tilted, slanted in a devastatingly handsome look of condescension as he ignored his words. "How can I ever let you go now that I know?"

And with that, the brunet walked up to the masterful throne and sank down into it, spreading his legs a little and giving the redhead a provocative come-hither smirk. Red flashed the instant the knees of the long limbs folded as he sat. His mouth hissing open in a roar of rage, the sculptor lunged for the other man, clawing and scratching and trying to maim as much as he possibly could, before his wrists were trapped by the taller man. The Hyuuga's face was contorted in a black look, but Gaara had achieved his goal in getting him off the chair. They stood, clasped in their strange hold, a few steps away from it.

"You're really trying my patience," the brunet snarled in a low, dangerous voice – his perfect lips barely moving as the growl ripping through them. But the redhead was past listening. Pure rage was quickly clouding his vision in a glistening, murder-fogged haze. He stared at his captor through the fug of blood-mist, and felt a huge upwelling of violence and bitterness and hatred.

Every little scrap of fury and resentment surged against the fleshy confines of his body, everything he thought he'd already purged and expelled came roaring back through a tunnel of freezing anger, filling him to the brim in all the most horrid of emotions.

And worst of all – jealousy. Jealousy that this… this stranger, this unworthy being had taken the first seat at his wooden masterpiece. Gaara had sworn, he had sworn to himself, he would sit once, enjoy once, and then never again. And nobody else ever again.

But this… this bastard had come, and he had ruined again.

No more.

The plush lips were moving, the eyes like liquid mercury flashing in anger that felt dull compared to the tidal wave within Gaara. The blood rushed in his ears, drowning the honeyed words he knew were pealing from that devil's tongue.

"ENOUGH!" He bellowed. He watched in rich, cruel satisfaction as the angel appeared to startle, but the emotion was quickly lost in the deluge of tar-like mess inside him. When he spoke again, his voice was blistering. "Enough. Get out of my house. Get out of my sight. Leave this place, and never return. I never want to see you again, I never want to think of you, I never want to hear your name. I want you out. I hate you. I hate you."

Gaara didn't feel better. He didn't feel worse – he felt the same, like he was smashing around, unbreakable, on a fatalistic series of rapids. From that crack, the one that had formed - had it just been minutes earlier? - the acid and sulphur and fire came exploding out, filling him in burning hatred.

The Hyuuga's face was dark, dangerous. A previous Gaara might have quailed under the malevolent glare, but a new Sabaku Gaara was emerging. Or rather – an old Sabaku Gaara, an old, thought lost or dead one. His face contorted in rage, the redhead watched as his motionless wrists slipped out of the large, long-fingered hands. Stood completely still, they stared hard at each other. Freezing opal met red-tinged jade. The time lumped past, and then the angel was turning, his alabaster face blank and lifeless, turning his back to the smaller man. He walked back toward the door, passing a hair's breadth away from one wooden mahogany wing, a couple of loose strands of hair lightly touching the carved feathers.

And then he was gone, swallowed up in the stark sunlight beyond the workshop door. A few long seconds past, and the redhead followed him into the bright light shining through the huge kitchen windows. The massive central room was empty; the array of chairs void of any sprawling long-limbed figure. Gaara was alone again.

He was so late.

Gaara cast a desperate glance at the watch on his wrist – 8:37. Goddamn, he was so late.

He hurtled across the road just as the green man flickered to red; sticking a wild middle finger up at the cacophony of beeping horns that followed his dash across the road. Skidding to a left, he pelted down the pavement. His feet slapped viciously on the concrete. He almost came to a slamming halt as he sped past a tall woman walking unthinkingly toward him – her long brown hair flipped out over her shoulder as Gaara turned his head, still running. She was looking back at him, similarly turned with her head tilted over her shoulder. Her brown eyes blinked, stunned.

Shaking himself, the redhead rid himself of the shudder and continued at his breakneck pace. He screeched into his work not five minutes later, bent double and wheezing.

"Sabaku!" Came the harsh voice from above him.

Wincing, the redhead righted himself and came face to face with his boss, Carl of Carl's Carpentry. He did not look impressed.

Carl was a man of rugged build; thick, heavyset frame and slightly stocky stature, with a once honey-ish and now greying blonde beard which was coarse from an uncaring cleaning regime. His own green work shirt was faded from the wash, and the hem down the sides was unravelling. A matching and more new-looking cap sat atop his head, above sharp, flinty eyes. But it was his hands that were his defining feature – thick fingered, and laced with a multitude of white scars, from paper thin to thick, short termite ridges. The work-faded fingertips were calloused and harsh, the nails were short to the point of non-existent, and yet the sawdust still managed to stick under the short stubs. He was a man constantly telling Gaara that he did not look like he was built to be a carpenter. Privately, the redhead agreed. Truthfully, he was more of a sculptor, but he sculpted wood and wood was his field. So it made sense to him to work in carpentry.

"Ye forty minutes late," the man said gruffly.

"Sorry about that," Gaara shrugged his over-the-shoulder bag off and slung it over one of the free employee's hooks. "Something… came up." He grimaced to himself.

"Yer on sanding today," was the short reply. "Had to fire Melly yesterday."

The redhead's stomach sank, and he barely repressed a groan. Sanding was, hands down, the most boring of all the jobs at the carpenter's. Refusing to complain – which was probably the worst thing to do in his situation – Gaara pushed through the door behind the counter in the small reception and entered the workshop.

The smell greeted him first, the heady aromatic scent of the sawdust blood of every type of wood available floating as dust motes in the air. He inhaled greedily as he neared the sanding bench and pulled on the dust-covered goggles which lay on the table, wiping them to clear his vision. He set about with the large, electronic sander – a nifty oval contraption the width of his two clenched fists – which released a thick plume of sawdust back at the user. It was the legs of a beech table that he was smoothing, and before long Gaara was covered all over in canyon-orange powder. Spluttering, he allowed himself to fall into the monotony of the actions, catching his mind whenever it wandered and bringing it forcibly back onto his task at hand. And yet he couldn't seem to rid his brain of the satiny cocoa locks, flaring in an imagination-made breeze in the back of his mind. Whenever he thought he'd pushed it out, it would be back – or worse, accompanied with the twin pools of diamond and melted lavender.

Growling, he realised he'd finished the table in record speed. Frustrated, he left it standing there, stripped down, and moved on to the next. He worked in a kind of frenzy until lunchtime, at which point Carl emerged from his office – a now-familiar grave look on his face, and patted the redhead's shoulder. His back and shoulder muscles protesting, Gaara looked up, and with ears still ringing from the roar of the sander, determined from the motions of the man's mouth that it was lunchtime. Stretching and twisting his aching joints tiredly, the redhead sloped through a door on the other side of the room, emerging in a small lunch room. Wide, unembellished windows let in a bright swell of light. He collapsed in the seat next to a skinny wraith of a man named Ellis, who Gaara had spotted earlier doing the whittling. Now the redhead may have lamented the sanding he'd been given that morning, but whittling was the one everyone despised. Every aspect was hard, and every was crucial, but if you got the whittling part wrong, you were fired and there was nothing you or anyone else could do about it. You were as good as gone. The man looked ashen, and his fingers trembled slightly as he bit into his roll.

With no lunch – the prick that morning (Gaara furiously steered his mind away from further thoughts) had prevented any food at all from entering him – the redhead crossed to the cool box in the darkest corner of the room. Once fairly well-stocked and often replenished, now Gaara was hard pushed to rummage for a semi-wilted Caesar salad.

"No food Gaara?" Jemima smirked as he returned to the table, distastefully holding the limp salad. He shot her a withering look. She stared uncaringly back, a brutish-looking woman with a hard jaw and another set of scarred hands.

"I ran late this morning," he replied blankly.

"I know," she said in turn, primly inspecting her (sawdust filled) fingernails. The redhead didn't bother with a response.

Unenthusiastically scooping up his salad, Gaara turned to Carl. He lent against the wall, untouched plate on a cabinet next to him, poring over a calculator. "Why is Melly gone, Carl?" He asked.

As if emerging from some disorientating dream, the small, sharp eyes focused on the younger man. "He wasn't pulling his weight," he grunted, "Not worth the wages."

Next to him, Ellis was nodding vacantly. Melly had been a slob. A nice guy, sure, but a lazy one.

"I've had to pull Shikamaru back in for temping," Carl continued, displeasure evident in the grating voice, "But only on the minimum wage."

The redhead released a derisive snort, and begun to shovel in the salad as fast as he could so that he wouldn't have to taste it. Ellis gave him an 'I know' eyeroll in the corner of his vision, and even Jemima's lips twitched up at the news. If Melly was bad, then Shikamaru was a hopeless case. Brain like a planet; motivation of a sloth. But at least he, unlike their recently-fired colleague, didn't care much for money anyway. As long as Shikamaru had his campervan and his cigarettes, then all was right with the world.

After their half an hour was up, the team sloped with diminished spirits back to the workshop. Carl immediately disappeared back into his office, the door closing loudly and decisively behind him.

"Hey boys, did ye see the closed down furn'ture store down Abey Way?" Jemima asked once they'd settled at their positions. Ellis shook his head, but Gaara grunted the affirmative. "We'll be next," the heavyset woman assured them cheerfully in her throaty voice, chuckling with a dark humour that the two slight men didn't share. Huffing a sigh, Gaara bent and, snapping on the goggles, began to sand again.

XXX

Ping. Ping ping ping!

The three employees were gesticulating manically at each other. The redhead was making stabbing motions with his index finger at the broad woman, who was a step further on and was violently making rude gesticulations at the skinny man who completed the triangle by first jabbing his finger back at the redhead and then at the door which led to the reception.

The furious silent battle continued for about another minute, before Ellis and Jemima shared a look, and simultaneously pointed at Gaara. He shot them a black look.

"It's your turn," hissed the woman, making sure her voice didn't carry into the reception. Ellis, who avoided being directly confrontational, nodded to back her up. Face livid, the redhead shot them both a 'you-will-die-when-I-return' glare and stomped to the door.

He affixed a smile – it felt slightly painful – and stepped out behind the counter. In front of him, his hand poised above the silver bell in the middle of the desk, stood a customer. An orange sign faced away from the redhead, but the man knew what it said off by heart – 'please ring for assistance'. The man in front of him brought his hand down on the bell again again, dark eyes meeting Gaara's as the silver chime rung through the gap in between them. Gaara's smile wavered.

"Did you need," he tried to ungrit his teeth, "Assistance?"

"Why yes," the man smiled, a little bit too widely. "I'm looking for someone."

Gaara's face was completely unimpressed. "This is a carpentry store, not a Lost and Found."

The man chuckled jovially, as if sharing a joke, before seriousness ruled his face again. "I've heard that a, uh, Sabaku Gaara has recently been in his company."

Suspicious, the carpenter stared blankly at the strange man. Apparently unperturbed by the hard scrutiny, he ran a hand through his silver mop of a fringe. His hair at the back was pulled into a loose ponytail. There was a glint behind the lenses of his glasses, as if he already knew that he was standing in front of the man whose name he'd just spoken.

"And what would you say if I told you Sabaku Gaara wasn't here?" The man said in a testy voice.

A chuckle – the amusement was self-directed. "I've been told he has bright red hair and a kanji tattoo. Tell me, have you been in the company of a man recently?"

A tentacle coil was beginning to sleepily twist around his abdomen, reaching for his internal organs to squeeze them. His exterior remained completely unchanged as he replied. "No."

The politely amused expression still remained on the stranger's face as he studied the redhead, but there was a hardness that settled along his jaw. "That's not what my sources have informed me."

"Your sources are obviously idiots then," Gaara replied, his voice cold.

Another small laugh, this time less cordial. "I think not," the man replied in a cool voice.

The redhead sighed, bored now. He leaned on the counter, rested his head on his hand and assumed an unenthused position. He waited a moment or two for the stranger to stand uncomfortably, as if unsure of his next move. "Are you going to buy something?" He asked after a couple of minutes had passed in an emotionless tone. "Or are you just going to stand there and waste my time?"

A smile spread over the silver-haired stranger's face, and his eyes crinkled as if he was genuinely humoured. His eyes gave him away though – flat, unreflective black.

"I'd like to make an order of ten tables and forty chairs," he said, still in the fake pleasant voice, "Provided, of course, that you tell me where this man is."

Still bent over the counter, Gaara's spine went rigid for a split second. An order that big – there hadn't been one in months. He straightened, unable to keep from twitching in his previous pose, and lightly drummed his fingers on the polished wood of the desk. "Throw in a cocktail bar," he said in a slow, deliberate voice, "and you've got yourself a deal."

The silver-haired man beamed at him, his eyes dead. "That sounds wonderful."

Gaara refused to answer any questions until he had fully processed the stranger's order, taking his debit card and address – a prestigious street in The Hub – and workplace, also grand and ostentatious, and filling out the order form in a dull monotone. He watched the silver eyebrow twitching irritably with intense inner amusement as he brought out another sheaf of forms. "Would you like beech, maple, mahogany, pine-"

"Mahogany," came the snippy reply.

"Would you like the chairs to match?" the redhead droned.

"Yes!"

"Would you like covers on the chairs?"

"Yes!"

"We have red or blue or green or orange or-"

"Red, dammit!"

"Would you like patterned red or plain re-"

"Plain, is this all really necessary?"

He was losing his rag, Gaara noted in satisfaction. "We have a discount on kitchen work to-"

"No."

"We have a special edition of claw-footed tabl-"

"No."

"Would you like a notched chair seat or a-"

"No!"

"I'll say notched." Gaara scratched it onto the form slowly, gleeful inside. Under his silver locks, the man's face was reddening with rage.

"How much more of this?"

"It's standard procedure, sir," he drilled in a monotone. "Now, when do you want these by?"

"Next fucking year, I don't care!" The stranger snarled. The redhead blinked lazily at him.

"We can do this in two months, if you'd prefer," he intoned slowly.

"Whatever." The man looked like he was slowly losing the will to live.

"We have a no-return policy at presen-"

"Fine!"

"And we no longer use instalme-"

"Fine!"

"So you'll pay upfront," Gaara drawled unconcernedly.

"I said," the customer hissed, "that's fine!"

Gaara stared at him for a moment. He tapped on a few keys, deliberately taking his time. "Please take your card," he said at last. The man whipped it out of the machine. The receipt whirred out after it. Snatching it, the man didn't even look at the price it totted up to.

"Now," he hissed, "Your end of the deal."

Gaara lent back on the counter and placed his head on both hands. "I don't know," he replied tonelessly, "He left this morning."

He stared impassively into the stranger's face, which looked like it didn't know whether to swell, blow up, vomit, or all three. "Well where did he go?!" He said in a voice like acid.

Not wanting the order to be rescinded, Gaara thought quickly. "To the Hu- the centre," he corrected himself, "to… Central Park. I believe he was going to make his way from there."

The silver-haired man looked faintly appeased. "And when was this?"

"This morning." He left out any indication of time. As soon as the words left his lips, the silver-haired stranger was out of the door, a swirl of cool air rushing in his wake. Starting to smile for real, the redhead turned from the counter and walked back into the workshop. "CA-ARL," he yelled; a smug grin forming on his lips.

"And then," he sniggered, "He just ran from the shop like someone had stuffed a lit dynamite stick up his arse!" The moment, even funnier to Gaara than it had been a few hours previously, suddenly incited an uprising of hilarity and he burst into laughter again. Lee looked slightly concerned.

"But why was someone looking for our dear Neji?" He asked to no one in particular unhappily. "Oh Gaara, why must you try to argue with everyone?"

The redhead sobered a little. "I don't argue with everyone. Our personalities just clashed," he replied, somewhat truthfully. The athlete frowned at him as his small smile spread wide again. "And he bought… he bought…" A snort erupted from him, and he bent double over his ribs, "he bought nearly three and half thousand quid's worth of furniture!" Gaara cackled again, and Lee, encouraged by the fit his friend was in, smiled slightly despite himself.

"I'm worried though," he continued when Gaara had finally calmed down, wiping ink-stained black tears from the corner of his eyes. "What if Neji is in trouble?"

The sculptor snorted again, this time in derision, "Who gives a flying fuck anyway?"

"Gaara!" Lee hit his friend over the arm just as his girlfriend walked in. She appraised the scene curiously, taking in the redhead's still present grin and Lee's frown – a puzzling sight on both sides.

"What's going on?" she asked questioningly, looking between the two men.

Casting a reproving look at his friend, who looked like he was about to dissolve into snickers again, Lee turned to answer his girlfriend. "Neji is missing," he replied mournfully, "he ran out after he argued with Gaara this morning, and now some stranger has been looking for him. I'm worried."

Tenten said nothing as she came and sat down on the footstool in front of the pair, but she smiled and patted Lee's knee when she was seated. "I'm sure he'll be fine," she said brightly, "He seems like a capable man."

The redhead made a contemptuous 'pschh', his spirits still lifted, and leant back against the sofa cushions with a pleasantly warm ball in his stomach. His memory replayed the resounding clap on the back from a beaming Carl, the silver-haired prat hightailing it from the shops with a £3400 pound receipt in his pocket, and finally the prospect of the rest of his life without Neji Hyuuga. The air had never tasted sweeter.

He stood, unable to keep from chuckling, and waved a hand slightly at the couple. "I'm gonna head back now, pick up a celebratory donut or something." Leaving their murmured 'bye's in the air behind him, he exited the pretty house and made his way back to the main street. Merriment lightened his footsteps as he strolled toward the main street, and he barely restrained another laugh – there were some things he wouldn't sink to when by himself in public.

He envisioned his home – blissfully empty, but forced himself not to speed up. He would enjoy this moment, just like he would enjoy every moment as he had never before. Still smiling, he listened intently to every sound around him, documenting each that he loved – the thrum and roar of the engines as they growled along the road a way ahead of him, distant staccato of women's heels, beneath it all, a peeping of a bird.

Behind him he could hear heavy thwumphs of footsteps – a fat man, he though with amusement to himself, and at around the same distance, a deep, growling hum. A car?

As he was about to turn and acquaint himself with the maker of this new sound, his shoulders were roughly grabbed. Startling, he barely had time to struggle, brain barely formulated the thought of long brunet hair, flashing pale eyes – before his head was turning, and a sleek, long car was sliding past. His reflection in the tinted windows was wild-eyed, overshadowed by a thick, skinhead man wearing shades, before the door was open and he was falling in. The car pulled away from the pavement with a low roar.

Stunned, the redhead looked up at his captors. Three burly bodyguards, decked in stereotypical black suits, dark shades and buzz cut hairstyles sat around him, one against either side of the car and one against the partitioned off driver's seat. A black grating, so tightly woven that only the dark outline of someone's head behind it was visible, was the only gap in between.

"Gaa-raaaa," was the first word uttered. It slithered through the grating in the partition like cloying syrup, caressing the syllables in a sickening manner.
"Let me the fuck out," he said harshly, desperately pushing the fear down.

"Now now Gaara," the crystallised voice rebuked him, humour in the sticky liquid of the tone. "We're only going to ask you a few questions."

The car rolled slowly down the street, weaving through the traffic effortlessly. A spike of fear jolted through the redhead. "What do you want?" He asked shakily.

"Gaara," the decaying voice said affectionately, extending the vowels sounds, "You know perfectly well. We're looking for your new acquaintance."

"And who might that be?" The redhead rocked to the side as the car turned a corner, bumping his elbow against the seat. The bodyguards all stirred, flexing their biceps and cracking their muscles. He tried to remain still.

"I don't know where Hyuuga is," he said slowly.

A slimy laugh was his only response. "Oh, we doubt that Gaara," the voice chided after a deep pause. The sculptor could imagine pursed lips, oozing poisoned treacle. His stomach clenched.

"I don't," he said honestly, miraculously keeping an even tone despite the fear he could feel setting his face into a stiff mask.

The laugh this time was loud and unnatural, both in its cadence and its timing. The redhead's entire body went cold at the sound. "Oh, he'll be back," came the ominous reassurance. There was a slight slurping sound, almost as if – Gaara recoiled at the thought – he was sucking on his lips, or something worse. "He'll be back… Gaara."

"No," the redhead swallowed the bile that had suddenly risen in his throat, "No, he won't, he really won't."

"Gaa-raaaaa," the tone was almost fond – a sick, backwards version of a loving undercurrent. A new shape appeared in the darkness of the dividing metal – a hand print, the fingertips darker as if they were pressed like claws against the grill. "Men like Hyuuga, they alllllways come back…"

A can lifted slightly into the air, emitting a tinny clunk as it met the ground again and continued down the slight slope at an increasing speed. A second quickly followed, urged on by the brown suede toe of a man's size 8 shoe.

Neji Hyuuga watched the rubbish rattle to a stop against damp-stained brickwork with a disinterested expression. Blowing a long tendril of his hair out of his eyes, he strolled around a corner and came upon a long, narrow alleyway. The thin lip of the main road was visible at the other end, the slim gap of the exit obscured at regular intervals by the traffic. He watched the cars pass with only half his concentration, a half-coherent list formulating in his mind behind the bored grey eyes. Silver. 2 seconds. Blue, navy. 3 seconds. Red. 4 seconds. Silver. 3 seconds. Grey. 2 seconds.

A slightly uncomfortable twisting in his stomach alerted him to his growing hunger, and a sardonic smile passed his lips briefly.

An interval of 10 seconds. Long, sleek and shiny black. Tinted windows and a low thrum for an engine, like the heartbeat of a hawk.

Curiosity turned Neji's head despite the fact that the car had quickly vanished from the window of road that he could see. West. He looked the way it had gone, back where he'd come from. Something else was rippling in his stomach, something smaller, tighter, more subtle than hunger pangs. Making a quick decision, he turned around at a ground-eating lope, settling into the strenuous rhythm with lithe ease.

The store fronts sliding past were starting to look achingly familiar. Gaara shifted, and gasped at a resulting stab in his ribs. His head shot up to see the blunt nub of a shotgun withdrawing from his chest, the handle in the thick grip of the middle bodyguard. It left a dull pain in its wake, and the promise of a large bruise.

The car, despite its size, made a few neat, curving turns like an elegant bovine, before it slid to a stop outside the redhead's home. The guard closest slid open the door with an animal grunt for him to get out. Throat tight, Gaara conceded, and he felt a hand pushing him roughly through the door. Losing his balance, he fell to the ground in a sprawl. The final oil-slicked words oozed out of the grate after him before the door hissed close again, and the panther-like vehicle was accelerating away from him.

The sentence turned over and over in the redhead's mind.

We'll be in touch… Gaarrrra.

Neji Hyuuga leaned against the wall around the corner, his head inclined towards the house he had, until that morning, been inhabiting. The black car sped away with a rumble, leaving the small, slender-limbed redhead lying in a heap on the concrete with a dazed expression. It was heavily tinged with terror. He sat there for a few seconds, seemingly frozen, before he hauled himself up and sloped slowly to his front door.

Neji stared at the slim hips under the forest green t-shirt, the arch of the shoulders and the brilliant fiery mop, ruffled and unconsciously choppy, and felt again the inherent urge to have, to possess. The need surged up inside him, and a scowl darkened his features like a looming storm. His anger was directed at the black car, at those inside it, and it boiled and roared inside him like an inferno in a land of dry timber. He watched, narrow-eyed, as the redhead opened the door and slunk inside, and felt something inside him reach gleaming claws out to the disappearing back, trying desperately to grab the lean figure and drag him back, to consume him, to have him, to keep him safe and unharmed and with him.

He didn't move from the wall. His arms, which had been tightly folded across his chest, unwound themselves and pushed his long body away from the bricks. He turned eastwards and spotted a can. He kicked it as he walked with his back to the house behind him.

Breath after shuddering breath ripped from Gaara's chest as he bent over the sink in the kitchen. He could feel acid bile, and the urgent need to purge his body of the poison, but he resisted and slowly his breathing calmed. He pushed away from the worktop and staggered over to the chairs, falling into one with a clipped, half-swallowed exclamation which he realised as he buried his face into a black cushion was a sob. His sheathed ribs caging his vital organs heaved as he convulsed in sobs, and tears leaked furiously from his screwed eyes.

It was as he felt the warm water cooling quickly on his cheeks that an uncontrollable rage surged up. He leapt from the sofa he had fallen on – lime green – and hurled the ebony pillowcase across the room, wiping his face harshly with the balls of his hands. As quickly as they started, the tears stopped. Gaara was furious. The anger, for the time-being, was mainly self-directed. The nerve of himself to cry, like some foolish teenage girl! Like that would help. Stupid.

The rage took a turn, and his fists balled as he recalled the putrefied voice of the man in the car. How dare they. How dare they demean him like that! Gaara stalked over to the wall, changed his mind and whirled back, and as he did, spotted the white door under the stairs. It was ajar. It was not bile but venom, stinging and spitting hot that bubbled in his throat this time, and he all but tore over to it. The angry rattle of the door on its hinges only worked to further madden him, and it was in a blind fury that he spun around, looking for something to maim, to hurt.

His eyes alit upon the violated throne sitting innocently in the rippling play of light from the gauzy fabric curtains. Red bloodied his vision, and he grabbed the first thing off the tabletop next to him – a broad-handled hammer, the metal end dented from years of hitting nails. Emitting an animal cry, he lunged for the things that were taunting him – the beautiful mahogany wings. He smashed the hammer down on the closest, feeling splinters explode and rain upon his face and chest and arms in some kind of useless defensive attack. A savage pleasure filled him as he watched the painstakingly carved feathers crumple under the power of his blows. He wanted them off. Madly, with no comprehensive thoughts going through his head, he aimed blow after blow at the base of the wing, trying with an intense, desperate passion to remove the ugly limb from its owner. The wood peeled limply, coming away in huge jagged chunks, but the fucking thing stayed resolutely on.

Slowly, his enraged ardour cooling, Gaara's limbs grey heavy. He dropped the hammer with a loud crash and stared desolately at the product of his anger. The left wing was completely mauled, the delicate end feathers smashed and shattered beyond any means of repair. The wood around the base was mutilated, like the flesh of a felled animal torn apart by hyenas – ripped, shredded, dead. The other wing, resplendent in its brilliant cherry, was flawless and elegant.

What have I done?

As though his limbs had just given way, Gaara fell to the floor in a trembling heap. Agonisingly slowly, he pulled himself to the wall and leant against it. Around his body was the aromatic sawdust blood covering the crude hunks of wood that were scattered on the floor. Blankly, his face numb and his eyes stinging, the redhead heard a faint, mournful splintering. The wing, finally defeated, fell to the ground with an enormous bang. A cloud of sawdust hung in the air, stirred by its fall.

Gaara put his head on his knees and allowed the tears to come.

There was an answerphone on the landline when Gaara awoke the next day. It was from a distinctly more cheerful sounding Carl, explaining that everyone had a day off because he had an important meeting with The Big Boss that day, and besides, they'd deserved it. The message clicked off, but the lifeless green eyes stared at the faintly glowing box for a few more listless minutes.

Just great. Just when he needed something to distract him.

An irrational fear gripped him at that moment, and his body went rigid in bed. What if they came back? They knew where he lived now, what if they came back – what if he had to move? Where could he move to?!

Another wave of terror, different, but more familiar than that of the last pushed through him. He couldn't leave. Not when he had finally forged a life here. No. His fingers itched for the phone, his forced instinct to call the police, but a stronger, more primitive instinct stopped him. A sigh filtered through his teeth. These people could do nothing to him, he thought deliberately to himself, I don't know where the bastard is. His thoughts soured. Leave it to the bastard not to be here and still cause me grief.

He'd forget about it, he decided as he got out of bed. Push it under the rug. He wouldn't think about it anymore. His stomach grumbled, and as he walked down the stairs and toward the fridge he didn't even spare a glance for the locked white door under the stairs.

It was sitting in his favourite blue armchair with a stack of buttered toast and a coffee later that the redhead spotted a sheet of unfamiliar paper dangling off the top of the tallest book pile. Balancing his breakfast on the arm of the chair, he reached up for it, nearly sending the teetering stack flying.

When he got it down he found it covered in a loose, sprawling script. No spare inch of white paper was left – it was completely swamped in the words.

Neji, were the ringing words in the redhead's mind as he awaited the usual bitter hatred. For some reason, it didn't come. He settled back to read.

Recollection 2: A thought occurred to me this morning. It was completely unbidden. I thought, "I am under the Caelum now", and then I continued to drink my coffee.

Gaara snorted with faint laughter. Comprehension dawned as the reason his coffee granule levels had been sinking became clear. He lifted the paper to his face again, squinting, and then, with a sigh, reached for his thin black-frame glasses sitting on one of the table-height book piles.

And then I asked myself what the fuck a caelum was. I had to think and think – and get the same fucking headache inbetween my temples because I just can't remember. Then, just when I think I'm close, fucking butterfingers goes and drops a plate on the floor and breaks my concentration.

Gaara scowled. He'd liked that plate as well. "Fucking Neji," he muttered to himself.

Gone. So I'm just about to go and yank on that lovely red hair when it comes to me, so suddenly it was like shoving an ice cube through my ear – The Caelum. Forgot about the flamehead and figured I better go and goddamn write it down before I forget it again.

Stewing slightly over the jibe at his 'lovely red hair', Gaara struggled to determine the words as they became quicker and more messy.

Caelum is a gem, a kind of horizon-wide jewel ... blue as.. I am about to say sky, but of course that's what it is ... when I fell ... crack which the wind ... was too strong ... but I can't remember? I can't ... I remember the clouds and the blue ... but not really – the blue? No ...

Exasperated, the redhead tried to make sense of the mess of letters. It was useless. It was so incomprehensible it was nearly encoded.

A single well-formed line in the middle stood out. The Caelum is the Human Sky and the ####'s Sea. Gaara stared irritably at the words. What the hell? He couldn't even read that one. With a sigh, he tried to pick out the letters. Two e's, definitely. An… m? And a y.

Eyme.

That wasn't even a word. Pursing his lips, Gaara sounded it out. "Ee-mee? Ay-mee? Eem?" With no one to ask, he was none the wiser. He tried once more – "ime?" It rhymed with chime. Irritably, Gaara flung it back on the stack of books. He downed his coffee. Who fucking knew anyway.

Notes: Just a quickie. I have no idea what a carpenter's is like. I have no idea what they do. I'm lazy, and researching makes me lose interest faster than if you turn all the writing in the world into algebra and Latin. If you don't like how I'm describing it, if you disagree, if you find it unrealistic… If you find it particularly excruciating and unbearable, please, I implore you, drop me a quick one liner to say that you can't go on until I sort out my information or that you can't read more than a couple of lines before you unconsciously begin slamming your head against your (probably not sanded) table, and try and avoid flaming too badly. There IS a lot of wood around, remember?

Also: OMG A NEJI POV. I realised I had none so I just figured I'd drop a few tasters in ;) Complete Kudos to anyone who recognises the song whose lines I am using for chapter names! Don't google the lines, that's cheating! (I'm watching you o.e) See you all in Chapter 4!