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Gaara of the Desert a roleplay blog

[desertgourd]

        I pray one day                                      you will learn to love yourself.

       —- an indie roleplay blog for Gaara from Naruto. open to crossovers and AUs. est. 2013.                                                     ⮩ intro || verses || ask             ©

[desertgourd]

I've been following you for years. Back when I used to RP but now I just mostly hang around like a ghost. I still enjoy seeing your writing and seeing how you characterized Gaara. Keep going, I'm cheering for you.

c: thank you friend I know I am not consistently here anymore, and I more or less never go through my dash. But I really do love this blog, what I've built with it over the past 12(!!) years, and all the connections both Gaara and I have made along the way. The Naruto fandom is more or less dead and I greatly miss all its glory in its heyday. It's good to hear that some folks are still kicking.

[samantha-scribbles]

Pondering

[desertgourd]

Cigarettes make Gaara cough something fierce. It is partly the rancid taste, partly what he suspects is asthma - something about premature delivery and underdeveloped lungs; he hasn't seen a doctor in years. He finishes his loathed mostly-for-show drag, restrains one last round of chest spasms, and passes it back with the resignation of one accustomed to desecrating their body for the briefest glimpse of emotional relief.

"You sound like you want it to happen." Even the impermanent sliver of space Miriam home echoes the sentiment. This time she's holed up in some apartment on a side of town he has never been to before. Bare walls. A broken spring poking out from one of the couch cushions. Gaara, a creature of rigid consistency, has been guardedly eyeing the doors since his arrival.

He tries to remember why he agreed to come over. Their texts are too often inscrutable half-conversations: A paragraph of introspection waxing depressed-poetic, gone unanswered; an Are you free?, yeah; silence for a week. Then the cycle restarts. Yet every time they share space he feels a sort of connection he hasn't felt since - well. Best not think about it. At the very least, seeing himself in someone else's face feels a little less lonely. Miriam sparks something kindred within him. If that realization hurts, he has only brought it upon himself.

"If that's so, then why did you bother leaving at all?"

[sunmad]

She is kind enough to give him a sympathetic smile when he fights his way through a mouthful of smoke. He's good at it, at the not-showing of discomfort. But so is she, and she can spot a tensing tendon from a mile away. Miriam retrieves the cigarette and does not ask him why he did not simply say no. Instead, she sticks the filter paper back to her lips and lets the cheap tobacco and tar (heavy on the tar) burn a hole into her lungs. She's been thinking about it lately, the word 'edema'. It sounds pretty, like a girl's name.

Miriam is glad that he found the time for her, but she never thinks he has to look for long. In a way she's glad of that, that he doesn't have anything better going for him either. She wonders if she's cruel, if she shouldn't wish him happiness, a way up. But then, she'd be so lonely.

And no one else really says to her what he says.

"Y'know, I don't think anyone's ever asked that." Miriam muses. His question skips across her surface like a stone on a still lake. She is smooth. She is still. All her depth is out of reach and the mud is safe at the bottom, where nothing can stir it.

"I don't think I want it to happen as much as... I know it will. Can you ever feel it, when something bad is coming and you can't prevent it, you can only wait for it to reach you? Something bad is on its way to me. But that's better than nothing wanting me at all." Miriam ashes the cigarette onto the carpet.

[desertgourd]

Miriam dislikes speaking about herself for long. Conversations with her have the natural athleticism of a tennis player; ask a question, bounce one back. Never let the ball linger in your court, and by God, never miss a volley. Gaara lets the current move him along, too starved for connection to disrupt what he daringly - hopefully - calls friendship.

"Something bad is always coming, but there is always something else in your control. Otherwise, you would return to them right now, of your own volition, and save yourself the trouble." Here he proselytizes from his barbed-wire pulpit with lungs full of smoke and an arm full of holes. Miriam must know he is not trying to criticize her or be contrarian; he speaks from hopes unrealized and dreams long since beaten into the earth.

He wrinkles his nose at the singing edges of the carpet. His father would throw a fit. Or, he would turn a blind eye, preferring ignorance to the reality of his youngest progeny. Or, he would join in MIriam's woes, lamenting at the disappointment of a failed childrearing. Despite seeing the ghost of his face every time he looks in the mirror, Gaara realizes does not know his father at all. His father, like the vague they and them of Miriam's pursuers, swirl menacingly above them, equal parts pleas and threats, both the cage and its key.

"But you don't go back. You don't care if they find you. You just want to be pursued, and you're willing to sacrifice your own freedom for it."

[desertgourd]

Gaara, who can claim no expertise in first aid, or aid of any type that does not involve leveling an unknown opponent or perhaps a small city worth of buildings into rubble, peers at her inscrutably.

She is not suffering the immediate throes of death, he estimates, given the lack of unexpected orifices on her body and the lack of blood flowing from therein. She more resembles a cornered mouse who has decided to be nonchalant about its predicament. But a mouse exists to be eaten, nonchalance aside.

His toes clench and unclench an inchworm dance in the confines of his sneakers. Ultimately, it comes down to the fact that Gaara has no particular reason to kill her. That, and he's tired.

He stands and offers her a hand.

[featherboots]

For a moment they stare at each other. The bruised and bloodied girl on the ground, and the strange pale boy scrutinizing her just as much as she is scrutinizing him. It's driving her mildly insane, this biting feeling in the back of her nose telling her that he reminds her of someone for sure. And somehow, Vicky knows, if only she can find out who that is, she would be able to make sense of this entire scenario.

Suddenly, he reaches out his hand, and it is in that moment that the biting feeling ambushes her from behind. She sneezes.

Ah. Maybe not a hunch after all, but simply dust still dancing in the still air. Whatever. She looks at the hand floating in front of her eyes, then glances back up at the stranger's face. Her surprise only halts her for a moment before she accepts the hand and lets herself be pulled back to her feet. Her scraped knees and palms ache in the most terrible way that only superficial wounds can.

"Ow. Fuck. Those were brand-new..." She huffs, if only to buy herself time the two of them definitely do not have. The crippled body oozing with blood only a few meters from them is difficult to ignore, and yet she cannot bring herself to inspect it more closely. Instead, she decides to tune out the sirens and the iron stench and focus solely on the boy instead. What's dead is dead, anyway.

"Thank you. For saving me, anyway." Granted, her plan of making a heroic entrance herself has pitifully failed, but it's not like the thing or the boy had given her much time to prepare. "I'm Vicky." She offers him a tilted glance. "What's your name?"

[desertgourd]

Gaara hears a blaring in the distance that resembles a laboratory contamination alarm. Something throbs fiercely in his arm, at which he steadfastly does not look. He wonders: Did they send the thing? Do they know already that it is dead? Are they cursing behind their big silver screens, or nodding in unsettling approval? Is it another escapee, a planned test, a 'rescue' mission?

He catches the end of what he recognizes as a question.

"Gaara." It is his name, not his title; it is the one they use when speaking directly to him, rather than about him. Vicky, meanwhile, is addressing him like a person and with a level of nonchalance he encounters rarely. Vicky is holding his gaze level and true. Vicky, despite all pretense, looks almost - curious? Unperturbed? Excited?

He steps back.

"You need to leave."

[desertgourd]

In the midst of the fray he had noticed the girl in the same way that a tsunami might notice a tugboat. The park around them lies in a similar state of disarray: Uprooted saplings and great swaths of disturbed earth serve a dire warning for any unfortunate passerby, and another for Gaara himself should he linger too long. He has long learned the benefits of going unnoticed.

Gaara drops into a catlike crouch and the sand moves with him. It sways uneasily about his feet as he peers at her from a generous distance, this strange girl caught up in matters she best ought to have left alone. When he scratches his temple his knuckles come away wet. He wipes them on his pants, which smears bright red down the back of his hand, his forearm. The effect is stark against skin so sallow that the thought of the sun feels like a dream.

"You're hurt," he informs her. His voice is rusty, as though he has not used it in some time. Somewhere by the main path, a battered signpost keels over in surrender with one final, hair-splitting squeal. "Will you die?"

[featherboots]

She has seen him before. She did not realise this at first, but looking at him now she remembers exactly how she spotted his pallid features near the subway the day before. He reminds her of someone, though who that was she cannot tell. The blood on his temple catches her attention - a mesmerizing trail of red - before the toppling signpost startles her awake. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

There is no way nobody heard that. Already Vicky can hear sirens blaring in the distance, though for all she knows those might not even be aimed at them. Either way, she needs to think, and quickly so. Adrenaline is still chasing through her veins like prey, and the hair on the back of her neck stands at full attention.

The boy seems strangely calm for a guy who just dug up and crushed an an entire playground worth of gravel with a single flick of his finger. Vicky coughs a little.

"Been worse", she mutters, and it is not a lie. The cold amulet rests heavily on her chest underneath her t-shirt. "Not planning on dying just yet. Why? You wanna help?"

[desertgourd]

Gaara, who can claim no expertise in first aid, or aid of any type that does not involve leveling an unknown opponent or perhaps a small city worth of buildings into rubble, peers at her inscrutably.

She is not suffering the immediate throes of death, he estimates, given the lack of unexpected orifices on her body and the lack of blood flowing from therein. She more resembles a cornered mouse who has decided to be nonchalant about its predicament. But a mouse exists to be eaten, nonchalance aside.

His toes clench and unclench an inchworm dance in the confines of his sneakers. Ultimately, it comes down to the fact that Gaara has no particular reason to kill her. That, and he's tired.

He stands and offers her a hand.

[sunmad]

@desertgourd : Gaara says:

"You   have   no   idea,   do   you?"

Cruel enough to ask. Miriam slumps back against the sweaty couch covers, presses her thighs to the upholstery. Little ruined thing, she doesn't look hollow so much as burned out. There was something here, once, and now it's gone. Cold smoke escapes through the hollows of her eyes. Or maybe that's the cigarette.

She flicks her tongue against the taste in her teeth. She wishes it were something else. Something better, or worse, which is the same. Miriam sticks her hand out to Gaara, offers the smoke back to him, now with a faint girlishly pink lipstick mark on the paper. It's supposed to smell like cherry, but Miriam doesn't know what cherries smell like and can't comment.

"Who really knows what they're doing?" She mutters back. Her hackles are raised now, though even her paranoia doesn't amount to much anymore. She's learned to let it go. Yes, everyone is looking at her. Yes, everyone is out to get there, and they know everything she's doing. The angels spy on her day and night. Yes, all that. But she's lost track of whether she wants or dreads this scrutiny. She wants to go home.

"Really? Like, without the fake hopeful bullshit? This is all nothing." Her chipped nail polish gestures to the entirety of the room, with them in it. "I'm just waiting to get picked up. It's coming for me, and there's nothing I can do. I pity anyone who doesn't even have that going for them."

[desertgourd]

Cigarettes make Gaara cough something fierce. It is partly the rancid taste, partly what he suspects is asthma - something about premature delivery and underdeveloped lungs; he hasn't seen a doctor in years. He finishes his loathed mostly-for-show drag, restrains one last round of chest spasms, and passes it back with the resignation of one accustomed to desecrating their body for the briefest glimpse of emotional relief.

"You sound like you want it to happen." Even the impermanent sliver of space Miriam home echoes the sentiment. This time she's holed up in some apartment on a side of town he has never been to before. Bare walls. A broken spring poking out from one of the couch cushions. Gaara, a creature of rigid consistency, has been guardedly eyeing the doors since his arrival.

Why did he agree to come over? Their texts are too often inscrutable half-conversations: A paragraph of introspection waxing depressed-poetic; an Are you free?, yeah; silence for a week. Then the cycle restarts. Yet every time they share space he feels a sort of connection he hasn't felt since - well. Best not think about it. At the very least, seeing himself in someone else's face feels a little less lonely. Miriam sparks something kindred within him. If that realization hurts, he has only brought it upon himself.

"If that's so, then why did you bother leaving at all?"

[desertgourd]

|| @featherboots

Gaara pants like his lungs are falling out of his chest. It's mostly adrenaline, a side of physical effort, hold the panic. He is too well-trained for panic. The thing - that thing - lies lifeless or near-lifeless some meters away, the dark-soaked patch around it blooming outward, matting the grass, tinging the air metallic on the tongue.

He refocuses on the girl slumped against the bench. The one still moving, against all odds. The fight is over, but he is a rampaging bull force-fed a sedative, he is a rollercoaster halfway down the slope and someone has hit the emergency brake. For one terrible moment her life, too, hangs in the balance; he is not too well-trained to make mistakes.

This moment passes in the sound of his slowing breaths and the dull hum of traffic. Then it is her he approaches with unsteady knees, eyes all whites. To say he towers above her would be something of an exaggeration, but the nudge of his shoe against her hip is none too gentle.

[featherboots]

It is one of these moments in which Vicky Bouchard - a girl who has never believed in regret becoming relevant before your thirtieth birthday - falters, and curses a decision she made. Her whole body aches. She is lying face-down in gravel, her lungs desperately searching for the wind that got knocked out of them. The leather jacket that she wears like armor had protected her arms and shoulders from the fall - something her bloodied tights cannot not say for themselves.

It's not fair, she thinks. She had not even actively been on the hunt. Just trying to go for a walk. Clear her head. Pick up some food for the team. Scoffing at Nanouk's warning to not go out alone this late. As if she is just an ordinary girl without a gun, or a magic amulet, or silver bullets meant to put down actual werewolves. As if she is just a civilian.

Well. Right now, she certainly feels like one. Not that she has ever been a fighter, but the absolute ease with which that thing had tossed her aside reminded her again that, when it comes down to it, she may as well be just a pretty rag doll. That thought hurts worse than her bruised ribs, or the foot nudging her now.

"Ow..."

Slowly, she pushes herself up on her hands and knees. Whatever or whoever this cursed boy is, and whatever happened to that creature that launched at him from the dark... if they do not want for Vicky to survive the night, there is nothing she can do about it anyway. Might as well take her time.

The boy comes into view after a few moments. In the fuzzy light of the park lanterns, he looks almost gaunt... not the most threatening silhouette for sure. But such impressions can be treacherous. Her gaze falls onto the thing bleeding out onto the gravel. "Ooh shiiit." She sighs more than she swears.

[desertgourd]

In the midst of the fray he had noticed the girl in the same way that a tsunami might notice a tugboat. The park around them lies in a similar state of disarray: Uprooted saplings and great swaths of disturbed earth serve a dire warning for any unfortunate passerby, and another for Gaara himself should he linger too long. He has long learned the benefits of going unnoticed.

Gaara drops into a catlike crouch and the sand moves with him. It sways uneasily about his feet as he peers at her from a generous distance, this strange girl caught up in matters she best ought to have left alone. When he scratches his temple his knuckles come away wet. He wipes them on his pants, which smears bright red down the back of his hand, his forearm. The effect is stark against skin so sallow that the thought of the sun feels like a dream.

"You're hurt," he informs her. His voice is rusty, as though he has not used it in some time. Somewhere by the main path, a battered signpost keels over in surrender with one final, hair-splitting squeal. "Will you die?"

[aleksandracoffan]

One step and you're in the dark

[desertgourd]

|| @featherboots

Gaara pants like his lungs are falling out of his chest. It's mostly adrenaline, a side of physical effort, hold the panic. He is too well-trained for panic. The thing - that thing - lies lifeless or near-lifeless some meters away, the dark-soaked patch around it blooming outward, matting the grass, tinging the air metallic on the tongue.

He refocuses on the girl slumped against the bench. The one still moving, against all odds. The fight is over, but he is a rampaging bull force-fed a sedative, he is a rollercoaster halfway down the slope and someone has hit the emergency brake. For one terrible moment her life, too, hangs in the balance; he is not too well-trained to make mistakes.

This moment passes in the sound of his slowing breaths and the dull hum of traffic. Then it is her he approaches with unsteady knees, eyes all whites. To say he towers above her would be something of an exaggeration, but the nudge of his shoe against her hip is none too gentle.

[aleksandracoffan]

"Heritage" Color sketch for understanding the atmosphere

[chaoticclaybomber]

His name from Gaara's lips carries some kind of weight he can't quite place, something between expectation and disappointment. Or that's what Deidara hears, maybe it's all in his head. The bomber tips his chin up a little, just enough to be bent but not broken. There's fight in him yet, even if it's not the kind he's good at or enjoys.

Gaara could kill him, right now, easily. He could skewer Deidara with his sand without so much as a flick of his fingers and the blond knows this well. The twinge of forever damaged muscle and nerves in his left bicep reminds him whenever he forgets.

But he doesn't believe the Kazekage is the kind of person to draw things out. He'll either be dead in a moment or not at all and so Deidara lifts his head and doesn't fear looking him in the eye.

"Kazekage," he returns roughly. Each breath is carefully measured and he holds his chest as still as possible. His hair is long fallen from it's tail and just a tad choppier then before, missing a few inches. The visible blue eye is just as vivid, if exhausted. A tiny, mostly self-depreciating smirk twists his lips.

"Terribly sorry for that, un. And here I was trying not to cause any scenes, yeah." He tries to shift and freezes in a way that's very clearly holding back a flinch, then just subsides and lets the wall take his weight again.

"You're looking well for a dead guy, yeah. That's good, you were definitely the best fight I've ever had and it would have been a shame for such an interesting person to get cut down so soon, un. Maybe we'll have a rematch at some point, un." The funny thing is, there's not an ounce of mocking in Deidara's voice. Not so much as a sliver of disrespect, even if his words might be taken as inflammatory. He does believe t was a shame that the extraction had killed Gaara and, for all his poor handling of the younger man's body, he respects the man himself. A body is a just a body, regardless of who was in it. But Gaara is living and breathing and that's.... good.

"That's the question, yeah. What are you going to do with me, un?" They wouldn't give him back to Akatsuki, that would be stupid. But Iwa... yeah, that would make more sense. Pump him for information and hand him over to his former village in chains, he could see it.

"How about I make you a deal, un. I'll give you every bit of info I have on Akatsuki and you let me go, yeah. I never wanted to join their club in the first place, un."

[desertgourd]

"Yes. It took a significant amount of effort to resurrect me. You were a formidable fighter as well; managing your attacks towards me while also protecting my village was beyond my capabilities at the time." Obviously, he does not add aloud.

"Which is why you understand why I cannot simply free you."

Gaara steps toward the bars. He understands, likewise, that he cannot simply kill Deidara, either. Perhaps if he had been the one to find him. Perhaps if he had been alone. He imagines Deidara's windpipe crushed within a sandy fist; he imagines a sharp stone blade severing his brainstem at the junction where it meets the spinal cord. He would liquidize the corpse thereafter, the contents of his gourd enriched by the iron in his blood. Nobody would ever know. Calm, silent, and ruthlessly efficient: This is Gaara's specialty. He would have taken little pleasure in it, for in adulthood he understands that the maniacal glee of his youth in the face of murder was in fact a mask for the gut-wrenching burden of government-sanctioned isolation. No, it would have been his responsibility as Kazekage; it would have been irresponsible, in fact, to leave him alive, this potent danger to Sunagakure and all it holds dear...

Gaara unclenches his hands. His fingernails leave stinging little crescents in his palms. He forces the tingle in his chest, some vestigial remnant of Shukaku that comes to life at the mere thought of a fight, to settle.

"If you have information to share, share it. If we can confirm your claim, you will be in a better position to negotiate terms."

[desertgourd]

Hey dg, where have you been, are you dead, have you abandoned Tumblr forever? No! I am in the midst of some very major and very exciting life changes that have taken up all of my time. Summer has also been very busy. Thanks for your patience!

[desertgourd]

“I have long since closed my eyes. My only goal remains in the darkness.”

The entirety of Konoha and half its allies had rallied to prevent one man from descending into this very darkness, to no avail. Nothing more could be done. Gaara had perched on this ledge before; he had nearly lost himself to it. The support from his family and those who would come to be his friends was invaluable, but it was he who had taken the first step.

"Whether or not they remain closed is up to you. You may not see it now, but you will always have a choice."

[saligiare]

Indeed, he was. Asmodeus could sense him even before the telltale sound, silent as it was. But even that demanded more of him than any regular old human would have ever dared to, which was yet another reason for him to dislike Hassan. Whatever fabric that man's flesh had been crafted of, it was as unassuming and elusive as the shadows he used to cover his tracks. At times the demon prince seriously doubted he even possessed a soul at all, and perhaps that was the most unsettling part. It left even an archdemon with very little to threaten.

Addhir turned in his seat, a lazy blink following Gaara's announcement, and there he was. Their guide for the night. Hassan, while his head and shoulders were covered by a black scarf, once again ruined any and all sense of modesty by showing off the intricate tattoos wrapping across his chest, arms, and all the way down his back. Sitting on the edge of the balcony, he flung a small bag of clothes over his shoulder and onto the tiled floor.

"Cute costume, but those garms haven't seen a day of work in their life. People are gonna smell your perfume before they even see ya", he sneered, before faltering under Addhir's smoldering gaze.

"Show some respect, you wretched street rat."

"Sure, sure, sure." Hassan raised his hands and went to pick up the bag again, though Asmodeus could not help but notice the small tilt in the corner of his mouth. With a theatrical bow, Hassan presented the bag to Gaara.

"My deepest apologies, your highness. But I really think you should get changed. Your dear pet, too. I'll wait by the balcony. Hope your highness isn't afraid of heights?"

~*~

The plan, that much Asmodeus quickly figured, was as risky as it was impossible for anybody prone to what Luzifer had once called the human condition. Luckily, it was aided by the fact that more than half of their little group of escapees did not succumb to it beyond surface level. Their biggest challenge consisted of getting the prince safely to the floor, back up a high wall and down again, while making it all seem as mundane a feat as possible. A long line of rope that Hassan attached to one foot of the heavy gigantic bed, a series of skilled knots and impeccable timing triumphed over the first part of their arduous journey. Asmodeus quietly thanked whomever that the prince, for all his youth and naivety, was far from a coward.

Addhir and Gaara both watched from the gardens as Hassan scaled the rope once more to remove any evidence from the bed, only to climb down the ornamented palace wall freestyle like an overgrown monkey. The next part would prove to be a lot trickier. After slinking through the shadows of a couple of cedar trees, avoiding two patrolling guards who seemed more than a little distracted by their own conversation, and carefully treading along the smooth sandstone wall encircling the gardens, the trio came to stop at the edge of an almost forgotten flower bed, as far away from the golden prison behind them as possible.

How on earth, in heaven, hell and below Hassan managed to cross the wall, which measured a good nine metres in height and provided a lot less stepping stones than the palace, would likely remain a mystery to Gaara. Asmodeus could only come up with a careful guess. Still. About ten agonizingly long minutes after Hassan had told them to wait here and disappeared within the shadows, the same rope as before came flying down the edge of the wall. Now was the time for Gaara to put his daily physical training to some practical use. Addhir followed suit, though he made sure to pant and shake appropriately once they reached the top. The view of the city, a sea of hundreds of bright sandstone houses and streets winding between them like veins on the back of a hand, was breathtaking.

"Quickly now", Hassan whispered. "I slipped the guard something to make him sleep. Don't know how long it'll stick though. Pretty boy, you're gonna go first. Our dear prince will come right after. Wait for me at the bottom and stick to the shadow."

[desertgourd]

The journey from his room to beyond the palace walls was a feat more hair-rising than any martial arts course Baki had ever concocted. The peasant's costume was well-fitted but not suited for strenuous activity, and he could not forget for even a moment of the consequences should he be caught. By the time they had scaled and hoisted and crept their way across the perimeter, perspiration had beaded along his brow and down the small of his back. But the night was cool, and the air crisp and sweet. They dropped down on the other side into a labyrinth of narrow alleyways, and Gaara, for the first time, stepped as a stranger into the city he had only ever traveled in curtained caravan.

Hassan disappeared immediately. Addhir and Gaara did not waste a second. In time, the canopied slums stank less and less of refuse, and the densely packed mud-and-straw homes gave way to cleaner and wider streets. They passed not more than a handful of others on their way to central plaza, and once they arrived, Gaara understood why.

The heart of Suna was an explosion of color and movement and sound. Women's waist beads and anklets shimmered in the torchlight as they danced barefoot to a lively circle of drums and strings. Children shouted and ran about like gremlins. Encircling the plaza were carts and caravans selling every imaginable ware: Reams of fabric in a rainbow of hues, vats of stewed dates and honey, jewels and all matters of trinkets, all being hawked by sellers fighting to be heard over the celebratory din.

Gaara inhaled the perfume of incense and smoked lamb and sweat. The faces of his people whirled past in groups, and not one cast him a second glance. Despite his planklike posture and naturally shrewd demeanor, his eyes were everywhere, unable to fully mask their wonder. So painfully aware was he in this moment of the crisp line drawn between him and Suna's citizens, and of the trust he had placed in a slave and criminal for dipping even one toe across that line.

But the prince of Suna did not come here to muse over his lot in life. He turned to Addhir and passed him a handful of coin he had drawn from his pocket.

"Order some food," he said, nodding in the direction of a kebab cart. "Get something for yourself, if you'd like. Then we'll walk."

[desertgourd]

do you ever think about how much temari looks like your mother and uncle? that fear in her eyes whenever she'd look at you? whenever you lost yourself, she'd cower behind the father that tried to have you killed. the one thats a spitting image of kankuro. how can you stand with them?

He thinks about it every day: Yashamaru's blood-soaked throat, his broken body. His siblings' faces twisted into abject terror, the taste of iron still on his tongue. And the loneliness; always the loneliness. These images will replay in his nightmares until the day he dies.

"It isn't their fault. They were children, and right to be afraid of a monster. They have chosen to forgiven me, which is more than I had ever expected. All I can do is make sure I've earned it."

[handtame]

The moment his evaluation starts scrapes across her mind like nails on chalkboard. She fights not to fidget. Her bruised knees won't shine through the tights and she is swallowing hard against the black bile that creeps up the walls of her stomach. She can keep it in. She can can appear unspoiled. His glazed gaze flickers impartially. There is none of that hunger she is looking for, no disdain or pity. It disquietens her, to elicit nothing. But she's put herself out there so she must submit when the fourteen wheeler runs her over.

Miriam stands strangely frozen, like a doll out of batteries, as she waits for his verdict. Her foggy mind won't allow her to fall into her small hysterics, a miniature apocalypse which she tends like private gardens. She is too high to be more than superficially out of step and he passes his judgement before she can follow any cursed white rabbit.

It is a relief, his non-answer. It's a reprieve. Try again. Her smile does not waver. And besides, he is right. It is cold. Miriam steals a soft sigh, a gasp of relief as her shoulders sag. She nods along. "Good call, lead the way." She says that but ultimately it is her who animates him into motion. Miriam brushes her hand against his elbow to motivate him and together they dive back into the oxygen-starved air of the apartment.

The atmosphere shifts drastically. Gone are the smog-dim stars and the chill clarity of the cool night. Gone is the distance between them and the unbearable stickiness of other people's skin. Miriam shimmies her way past a throng of college students who attempt, poorly, to hold a conversation over the music. The volume spikes uncomfortably when the singer leans into her performance but Miriam's heard louder. She leads Gaara past the sitting area where two couples have already made their nest. They have begun the laborous task of morphing into a many-limbed tangle, stuck in their drunk rut.

"What do you want?" She asks as the two of them safely filter into the crowded kitchen. Miriam unceremoniously pops open the fridge and begins rummaging. "They got Grey Goose!"

[desertgourd]

It is her brief touch, this pseudo-connection, which centers him as they enter the fray. Between this and the drug he is deaf to the din and blind to the chaos of bodies, and moves through them like a mote of dust, or like a god. He had suggested the drink as a distraction rather than through any genuine thirst. Now, his general unfamiliarity with alcohol forces simplicity. Grey Goose it is, with whatever juice or soda he finds already open on the counter. He barely tastes it. His senses are on another planet.

He will make a drink for Miriam, too. Whatever she wants. The moment he passes her the glass he disappears. Instinct tells him she will follow. Quiet is a steep expectation for a cramped apartment party, but after a brief door roulette - bedroom, occupied; coat closet, mysteriously locked - they stumble into a narrow room with a futon crammed in one corner and a bookshelf in the other. A fish tank perched on the shelf gives the room an sapphire glow Gaara finds oddly comforting, if alien.

They're close, here. They have no choice. He can feel her breath on his arm. The fish dart about like metallic confetti.

"Do you think they realize they're stuck in there?" He sips at the drink just enough to prevent it from spilling over as he moves. He finds himself watching for her response to his every move. It is the only thing he sees. As their eyes meet he wonders what emotional placeholder she sees in turn. It would be hypocritical of him to fault her for this.

Does he want to fuck her? he had thought, but this is the wrong question. Does she want him to fuck her? Will that please her - will it make her pleased with him? Will it fill the hole in his heart if he does, at least for a little while?

"I wonder if they mind. I would mind."