[AIM Log] [Insomnia] [Kankurou + Gaara] [Closed]
[Kankurou and Gaara, played out over AIM.]
Kankurou sat cross-legged before his low table against the wall, upon which was propped a flat, regular mirror with a crack in the upper left-hand corner. His hair was tucked behind his ears, not bothering with slicking it back beneath a cloth headband when he was doing his evening ritual. After tipping the make up remover with a foam pyramid plugging the top, he carefully began to remove his heavy lip makeup without getting it in his mouth.
His music was on low, mostly so that his littermates didn’t hear what slow music he was playing. Dir en grey’s Shinsou III wove through the heavy air, a soft piano and drum piece from his favorite hard band. Yeah, fronts were let down at night. Just a little.
His mouth clean with naught but a smattering of stubble, he set to work on his neck. His eyes were always last, they were a bitch to get done. He’d mastered the practice of getting the most use out of the little pyramid before re-dousing it because he valued his precious supplier of remover just that much. In between he’d use plain water.
He readjusted to his knees, propped up on his toes and sitting on his heels by the time he got to his eyes, leaning closer to the mirror. It was difficult, using so little fluid so as not to gush it into his eyeballs yet having to rub harder in consequence. One eye done yet still darkened somewhat, he set about the left. It was not a routine he particularly liked nor disliked, it was all mundane and natural for him. Calming, even-a word not many would associate with the walking fuse.
And somewhere in his own closed-off world, Gaara lay sprawled on his flattened mattress, body positioned to avoid the jabbing spring always threatening to poke at his inner thighs. It wasn't as if he would have felt it, anyway. From years of habit, he'd blocked himself off from feeling much unless he chose to, and now, he was almost blissfully numb. The slide of his hair groped at his forehead when he tilted his neck to the side, rough sheets ungentle to the bruise having formed there.
He called it his own piece of existence, something to know he was alive. The experience had been enlightening, though bothersome because he now had to breathe through his mouth due to the enhanced tenderness of his busted nose. A small price to pay for unraveling the carefully constructed barrier he'd placed between others not in his gene pool. Gaara almost laughed at the thought.
Perhaps he'd gone just a little daft at having been knocked in the head a few times by those somewhat larger than him in actual size. Like most things, he didn't know, but he found himself slipping from the seen-better-days bed and moving through the preferred darkness of his bedroom to the door. The walls paper-thin, he could almost, almost hear the gentle rhythm of Kankurou's music from his own room, the sound lulling. Almost a drug.
Gaara hadn't the will to resist its pull on him, and before he could thoroughly think the consequences of his actions, he stood there, the door barely open. This certainly was new to him; he didn't bother to consciously seek out his brother's attention, but…
What harm was it going to do either of them to spend time together as if they actually cared?
It took him awhile to notice his privacy had been invaded. His eyes closed as he finished off finally, mask removed for sleep. Not that he’d get any anytime soon. Maybe a nice smoke on the roof first. He ran his fingers through his hair to dislodge it from behind his ears, shaking it out and opening his eyes.
Only to be met by a pair of bruised raccoon eyes in his mirror. After the initial bristling of not knowing someone else was in the general vicinity, he stood and turned around. He scowled his usual expression, a hand resting on his hip.
“Oi. What do you want.”
It wasn’t really a question. He prowled across the room and sat on the edge of his sagging nest of a bed, his way of inviting the boy he’d lived with for decades yet hadn’t visited his room in years. Probably not since they’d moved in. He looked like hell, like the fucking third layer of hell. Mentally he added his little brother’s assailants to his list of people-to-maim-upon-meeting along with several politicians and maybe the landlord.
God, this was awkward. Maybe he’d just say something was broken or Temari needed him…but what little variances of expression Gaara wore, Kankurou had begun to figure out, if not just a little bit.
It almost seemed as though he tread upon holy ground; if one could call the apparent ambience of Kankurou's room holy. The whole of the area was distinctly his brother's, down to the makeup lined along the table and the lingering smell of smoke from his cigarettes. He wanted to smile at the insight of having forgotten such minute details, but distances tended to do that; they'd become good at pretenses.
Unsure but not overly timid when it came to his sibling, Gaara crossed the length of floor to the place his brother sat, awkwardly sucking in a lungful of air before examining Kankurou's face. He looked relatively…normal without the paint he spread onto his skin everyday, though somewhat off-kilter to what Gaara usually witnessed on a daily basis. But his sibling probably wouldn't like the thought of fitting in with the masses so he kept it to himself.
Instead, he shifted his stance into a relaxed position which had him resting on the heels of his feet, hand tentatively touching the bruise on his cheek as if to relieve some of the pressure. Damn thing itched, and Gaara didn't know if that was normal or a cause to be worried. He wrinkled his nose slightly.
"Bothering you," he cooed softly, his voice almost lost in the continuing beat of the music playing in the background. "Enjoy it while you can." Gaara honestly had no clue as to why he felt the need to be even remotely sarcastic whenever he spoke to Kankurou; maybe it was his inner cry for help or maybe he'd just been knocked one too many times in the head, of which he obviously had no recollection of.
Tired eyes apprehended the figure of his brother as he stood, arms hanging loosely at his sides.
It was very hard to act angry with this fucking piano music crap. Especially when his little brother was being a creep. He rolled his obsidian eyes and clutched his black t-shirt in mock pain. Even in the stifling heat of his room he didn’t often go topless or even think of owning a wifebeater. “The joy overwhelms me; I’m having a love-induced heart attack”
He then proceeded to pretend the way Gaara said that hadn’t given him the chills. He rose then, brusquely and unceremoniously taking his brother by the cheeks to inspect his face. He lightly prodded a particularly nasty-looking bump. “I could probably cover that up for you before your next class. At least so you can’t see it from afar.”
Large, yet long and strangely graceful fingers left him then in favor of the front pockets of his flannel drawstring pants. Their quips were like a secret language, a way to interact without looking like they really wanted to. That, and Gaara was growing better at it with each day, to the point where he found himself more often than not getting frustrated because he couldn’t punch the monitor. Nor did he conceive of entering Gaara’s room to punch him.
Maybe because he didn’t know if he’d actually do it. Not as hard as he’d done to others, anyway.
Had he known any better or thought to have known any better, Gaara would have assumed Kankurou was playing a feral, pretentious game of cat-and-mouse with him, their own secret contest where neither could win. It was odd standing there, semi-exposed and vulnerable, his skin burning with his brother's removed touch as if he was still holding his face and inspecting the damage. Being unfamiliar with such emotions when it involved other people, including his own family, Gaara scoffed to hide the uncomfortable silence that had surrounded them.
"And hide my battle scars? I thought you'd be proud." A trite comment to conceal the unease beginning to settle slowly in the pit of his stomach. His nerves were eating at him, too, and he didn't know if it was because he wanted to retreat back to the safety of his own room or punch someone. However, seeing as how the closest someone was Kankurou and that he'd gotten his ass handed to him hours prior, Gaara merely curved the edge of a surprisingly unblemished mouth into a hinted smile instead.
Turquoise eyes flickered over his brother's posture in alert attention, strangely drawn to the lines of a face similar to his own but so very different. The curve of the jaw, the hollow of dark eyes… Gaara had a habit of staring without realizing it, but somehow, he was solidly aware he examined Kankurou without blinking. "How do I know it's safe, anyway?"
His question came off mocking, but had anyone understood the lingo between them, it would have spoken 'why bother?'.
A very feral grin coursed over Kankurou’s rigid mouth. “I’m supposed to look like the mutilated corpse of the family, if I let you parade around like that I might lose my edge. It’s your job to be the ghost.” His hands withdrew from his pockets to fold across his broad chest, cocking his head back and to the side slightly to look down on his little brother imperiously. He did notice, however, that about a half inch of gap had closed between their heights recently.
When he became unsettlingly aware of his little brother’s staring-something he was used to observing Gaara do to others more often than be on the receiving end of-he clashed his brows and swallowed a lump in his throat. He felt like a Petri sample under the scrutinizing glare of a scientist. Yet he squared off and held eye contact with him, with that strange glow of an underwater limestone cave’s pool, alternating between endless blue and a green so pure it hurt.
Then he snorted at the question. “Because if I did anything to worsen your condition Temari would have my hide replace the old shower curtain. I’ve covered up enough love bites to know what I’m doing.”
Crudely translated, that may have meant ‘trust me.’ In any case, he held out his hand near Gaara’s cheek in order to judge the difference in their complexion, calculating in his mind what he may have been able to do and rather going off into his own little world for a spell. Afterwards he shrugged, then out of nowhere, (lightly) punched his little brother’s left shoulder.
“That’s for your fucking cheekiness.” He said with a sadistic grin.
"I'll be sure to file that under harassment," came the smooth retort, his body jarring unconsciously with the light, teasing blow to his shoulder. Gaara, who'd already had difficulty moving on his own in forward motion without risking a dull flare of pain, unintentionally winced, and the knot hovering above his cheekbone tightened, scalding his face with pain.
Not that he was unfamiliar with such a concept, but it hurt. And in an understated amount.
A flash sparked in the ocean-flecked jade of his eyes, an evident grimace distorting the usually serene features calmly presenting cooled indifference to those that did not bother looking deeper, wanting to decode his layering. Kankurou somehow became the central focus of his gaze in an attempt to ignore the faded wave working its way to the center of his brain, a throbbing rhythm that matched the echo of his heartbeat. Pupils narrowed on the slide of his brother's unmasked throat, absorbing the way he stood to help forget the previous sting and heightened sense of transferred warmth when Kankurou had almost touched him for a second time.
"Heh." The supple laugh resembled a quiet gag. "You probably wouldn't make a good shower curtain. Temari knows better." Talking helped relieve the foreign imbalance he was unused to feeling, even in the smallest of amounts, and Gaara let the words slide free. "And who in their right mind would want to give you a love bite?"
Joking aside, the hidden meaning in their conversation was slipping into an uncharted territory typically left alone, especially between brothers. They, more specifically Gaara, had never bothered prying before, so why was now so different?
Kankurou’s retort was automatic, slipping sardonically from his stern lips without a moment’s thought. “You should probably file your entirety of being my little brother under harassment while you’re at it.”
He then went on to mask his concern for the pain he witnessed bolting through his little brother’s eyes, the moment fleeting as glimpsing a white colt rush past through slats of wood. Rubbing his shoulder and rolling his arm in a subconsciously empathetic manner, he squinted his own obsidian shard eyes. They both just stood there, unsure how to behave in this both alien and familiar setting, unable to just sit. He heaved a rumbling sigh, dropping his arms to his sides as Gaara’s rebuttal sidestepped from natural to something unexpected.
Already this week Gaara had asked sarcastically if Kankurou was even into girls. That was a small insight into the threadbare, close-knit family. They stuck together like a ragged vagabond tribe of wolves, remnants of a larger, missing pack. Each of them could both hunt separately and bring down larger opponents with combined efforts, yet they were more apt to seeking their own dens come night. Always so close, yet always so far away.
An indignant grunt was his answer to that question. “Nobody important.” He evaded, bypassing the black and blue redhead to shut his door. Damn thing had been bothering him the entire time; he just…hated it being open. He couldn’t function with an open door. Though still some nights, before bed, he’d go nudge it ajar minimally to allow a chink of the common room in. It was a habit from childhood, a fire escape for running to one another’s rooms when their parents argued before Gaara took the one that cared about their well-being away. Yet Kankurou had long ago abandoned that mentality, for honestly, he’d grown to the point where he’d take his little brother over the faceless memory of his dam.
From where he stood, the soft click of the bedroom door as Kankurou shut it somehow amplified the thundering pound of Gaara's heart, his back to his brother's current stance. He couldn't visually see him unless he turned to the side, angling his eyes to focus in on the somewhat taller figure, but that heat was still there, running in shivering paths down his arms until he clenched his fists to steady himself. He couldn't explain it, didn't really want to think what it could have meant when this peculiar emotion emanated from his own sibling's close proximity.
Perhaps it had to do with an innate fear he harbored of unexplained loss. Gaara barely knew love. He understood the idea behind it, the semblance of what love could actually be if given a chance to blossom within those raised under its tutelage, but with his sister doing her best to support them by working long hours and a brother purposefully ignoring him other than the typical sarcastic stint, he lingered at its edge. If he were more of a poet, he would compare the empty sensation to those related in his dreams, of a mother he'd never known and a father he barely understood before the premature death robbing them of him. A family he really didn't have.
Yet, it seemed different now, at that very moment. So very different, and Gaara felt the need to withdraw to protect himself before it raged out of control and hurt someone. Like Kankurou. Or both of them.
"I'm sure that's it," he muttered casually, trying to resume the apathetic tone of his voice to hide his indecision. Gaara didn't want Kankurou suspecting something, anything out of the ordinary, though it was difficult to determine the level of normalcy in their lives anyway. He'd just stand there, invisible chills crawling through his skin, slapping sarcasm upon sarcasm to deter the odd atmosphere clouding the room. "Nobody fits you perfectly."
But maybe, just maybe, that had been a little too much…
Kankurou turned, arching a brow at his little brother’s back. The boy really had little concept of proper social interaction. Though when the subtle redhead threw that in his direction, he was glad they weren’t facing one another for he paled and froze up.
What the fuck did he mean by that? Sure, he could agree that those casual fucks he’d had in his post-pubescent years weren’t perfect for him, obviously, but…the heaviness and intricacy woven into so few words unsettled him. He folded his arms back over his chest, though this time his fingers curled round his biceps-hugging himself in.
He padded back around his static littermate who had been fucking with his sturdy walls, shooting him a well-aimed glare before sitting himself on the floor against a dark, mottled brown wall. Good a place to sit as any, it allowed Gaara to sit on common ground which wasn’t his bed-which would be immensely weird. Kankurou didn’t put much stock in silly things like chairs.
He turned his body and cracked open his window, pulling the ashtray that was sitting on the outer side of the sill towards himself. He then gave the redhead a stern look. “Don’t tell sis, I only do it sometimes.” With that, he fished out a rumpled soft pack of smokes from his pants pocket and lit it up, crouching to be able to easily exhale out the window and draping his smoking arm on the sill.
Once properly eased into the calm nicotine brought him, he finally returned his attention to the disconcerting statement. “What do you mean, nobody fits me perfectly?” A foggy exhale floated into the city in his pause. What would Gaara know about that, anyways? His insight from observation was disturbing sometimes.
Gaara caught himself before the preemptive shrug worked its way into the motion of his response, and he pursed pale lips in thought, wondering what he had meant by such a statement. It wasn't as if he gave much consideration to the sardonic things rolling off his tongue in answer to Kankurou's own; it was just natural to retaliate with an uncomfortable phrase or two to deflect the brunt from himself. Not a very productive technique when his brother persisted in asking.
Asking in a tone that scorched Gaara's spine with a deep shiver too profound to stop.
"Whatever you want it to mean," he murmured morosely, haunted eyes used to the shadows and outlines of a habitually darkened room finding the faint glow of Kankurou's cigarette a mysterious addition of luminance to the makeup-free countenance. He wasn't going to say anything to Temari about his brother's little habit of smoking; even if he jabbed at his choice of early demise, Gaara found it unproductive to play tattle-tail. He wasn't a child anymore, though some might have disagreed wholeheartedly about such a concept.
He felt the soothing breeze from the open window caress his skin in a gentle whisper, instigating another shudder, but Gaara ignored it, still unsure of what he was actually doing there. Kankurou really hadn't seemed overly busy, just interested in removing what stuff he caked onto his face. Yet, it still didn't answer why he'd slithered through the dark halls of their shoebox apartment and stood before his brother's door with every intention of going in. None of this was making any sense, and it unsettled him for more than the first time that night.
Sniffling a little as he accidentally inhaled through his sensitized nose, causing it to sting slightly in precursor to the pain it was capable of producing, Gaara sidled his way to where Kankurou sat, inviting himself to a relatively close spot beside his older sibling. He crossed his legs, resting his arms on sweatpants-encased thighs for a moment before correcting his posture and leaning against the wall. His face was beginning to enunciate hurt, and in return, his brain was screaming in relentlessness.
"I won't tell," he added as an after thought, rather positive he wasn't thinking straight because he really hadn't the need to verbalize his finalized decision. Gaara gave a hushed sigh and closed his eyes.
Kankurou furrowed his mouth, watching his little brother in a strange role reversal. With Gaara’s eyes closed he could simply study him without scowling. His perfectly even, unblemished pallid complexion was marred with the remnants of the cake war. His lips were perfectly unharmed, creased with the very slight pout that he wore as a neutral expression. The bruises were in their yellow phase, dark like the peels of very ripe bananas with a tinge of green.
He breathed deeply, leaning back and closing his own eyes for a moment, enjoying the burning wrap of paper and dried leaf at the corner of his mouth nearly to the filter. Once stubbed out, he slid down the wall and let his legs splay out, purposely knocking Gaara’s foot with one of his own. “Oi.”
He opened his eyes, looking at his little brother seriously. “You all right?” Inwardly, he decided he’d just double the hell he gave Gaara come morning. Yeah, that’s it. Little pipsqueak.
Their feet were touching. That fact alone had Gaara leveling his gaze with Kankurou's own when he managed to peel his eyes open, the habit of sleeping odd hours and never enough with the addition of physical abuse putting him as close to exhausted as he'd been in a long time. In fact, his body was begging him to curl up at that very moment and rest, but Gaara persisted in withstanding the urge. He didn't know how well Kankurou would take it for him to catnap on his floor, either.
His tongue flickered between his lips to moisten the edges as he readied himself to speak, grateful his mouth had escaped affliction. Gaara had difficulty concentrating on what he wanted to say, however, the pressure in barely touching limbs considerably heavy. What was this?
"I'll survive," he finally answered, unconsciously tilting to the side so that their shoulders were ghostly joined by the barest of contact. "You shouldn't worry about it." And though he said it with defining, detached articulation, his facial expression fell.
“Oh, shut up, idiot.” A touch of a snicker accented his harsh comment as he lifted his arm nearest Gaara on his left, arching it out smoothly to extend his bicep across the back of his little brother’s shoulder, his large hand closing on the shoulder furthest from him and effectively drawing him against his own. Despite the brashness and casualty behind his action, this closeness was awkward as hell. Even with people he’d slept with, well, he never was much of a cuddler. Okay, he never was anything near cuddly. He preferred to leave his lovers in favor of a shower and a cigarette.
Maybe Gaara had said something far too insightful, after all.
After making sure he wasn’t crushing any particularly tender bruises to his shoulder, he adjusted his position and got comfortable. It was difficult to ignore the bristling he was suffering all over from the close contact he’d stupidly initiated in the first place.
Scratch that. He’d triple the hell come morning.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Without realizing it, he had begun to paternally stroke the claret hair splayed over the back of his little brother’s neck.
In that instant, leaning into Kankurou's body with the weight of his arm and the unusually tender petting running light quivers down his spine, Gaara melted. It was a slow emulsifying of combined inner and outer layers, the minutes of chipping at his concave barriers as he'd swallowed his brother with his eyes and mentally lingered on his words causing the whole of it to crack. He felt next to nothing because he had blocked it all out, the youngest of a troubled set of siblings tossed into the cruelty of the world by the death of their parents and greed of others.
To be held like this. Why did it…hurt so much?
A shaking hand found its way into the material of Kankurou's shirt, fisting it tightly as he lay against him, the smell of tobacco and makeup and cheap shampoo mingling into the solitary scent of something vaguely familiar, like he'd known this part of his brother all along. He found his face paying homage to the curve of Kankurou's chest, thinking to comfort his own misgivings and experience what would have been possible under drastically different circumstances. Gaara had been hugged before, Temari loved to smother him on occasion, but Kankurou stayed out of reach, as if wary of him.
Now Gaara was hanging on as if his very life depended on that touch.
"I never can remember," he whispered into the dark fabric, eyes far more tired and strained than they should have been.
As Gaara’s layers washed away, Kankurou let go of his fronts and allowed them to dissolve with his shed mask. Following a heavy breath he shifted, sliding his free arm beneath the arch of his little brother’s knees and ascending to his feet, lifting him as he stood. Gaara was frightfully light, but then again, he himself was pretty damn broad. He padded over to his slouching mattress on the floor, pressing a knee against its edge as sturdy purchase as he laid the insomniac down. Following soon thereafter he went about ruffling his nest of blankets and a throw, sinking in with him. They’d never shared a bed, let alone a room; with how well off their family had once been before fate had wretched it from their childish hands.
The sounds of the city were as slight through the open window as the nonexistent breeze, especially with his low music playing over it. The song had long ago played out and weaved through other slow and ambient Dir en grey singles and album tracks, now Higeki ha mabuta wo oroshita yasashiki utsu had just started its rhythm which Kankurou was so addicted to. This one single song was what he played to get himself to sleep on the nights when he barely wished to cling to this world. He swallowed and closed his heavy eyelids, arm still beneath his little brother’s shoulders and fingers woven in his hair.
He didn’t bother saying anything. Words had suddenly lost meaning to him as he forgot where he left off and his little brother began, a tangle of limbs and warmth beneath the worn covers.
Gaara thought he was floating, some significant malfunction in an already bruised thought process that provided the tender massage of hands intertwined in his hair and the heavy but otherwise welcome weight warming him to his toes. But as a child, younger than most, he learned the truth of such things. One could not float in the sense he perceived, and if he wasn't floating, he was certainly drowning under Kankurou's gentle movements, tumbling faster and farther than he ever had in his life.
In recompense, he sought out the source of his delusion, recognizing the drape of well-used blankets and the solid mass that was his brother almost curled around him. Gaara even ignored the pressure in his face from the knuckle-induced knot as he cuddled against Kankurou, silently communicating where they once hadn't even dared to venture. A slight whimper when his nose collided with the chest pillowing his head, a mumbled, incoherent mess of sounds resembling words, and his fingers were splayed across Kankurou's cheek, burning with promise and knowing and unvoiced appreciation.
Was it wrong of him to want this slip in character to last? Why did he have the gnawing feeling that if he fell asleep, wrapped around such an embrace, a newly found placation to a fatigued barricade, it would disappear come sunrise? Pointless to think, to pretend understanding, Gaara clung tightly to his brother, not wanting to let go. Maybe things were better off without words, but like so many other things, he wasn't convinced.
Kankurou’s temple ticked lightly at the intimate touch imparted to his cheek, his lips tensing and brow furrowing for a moment before allowing himself to unwind. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and expelled his tension in a long, slow breath. The thickness of blood lying with him comforted him far more deeply than water’s presence ever had. Lolling his head to the side so that his chin perched lightly atop his little brother’s claret crown, he resumed his leisurely hair stroking.
The heavy weight of exhaustion settled on his chest with as much tangibility as Gaara’s cheek. He accepted it gratefully, enjoying the heady feeling of numbness in his body that heavily contrasted with his constant wound-up state. He was aware of Gaara’s warmth, knobby knees and ankles clashing with his firmer structure, though he didn’t bother shifting.
“So this is what a sleepover is like...” He mumbled almost incomprehensibly, barely noticing that he had thought aloud. Then he clumsily pressed his mouth to Gaara’s crown in a goodnight kiss he’d probably learned from Temari when they were little. With another, less audible string of nonsense, his breathing slowed and he ceased to shift, slipping into the grasp of dreams.
Kankurou sat cross-legged before his low table against the wall, upon which was propped a flat, regular mirror with a crack in the upper left-hand corner. His hair was tucked behind his ears, not bothering with slicking it back beneath a cloth headband when he was doing his evening ritual. After tipping the make up remover with a foam pyramid plugging the top, he carefully began to remove his heavy lip makeup without getting it in his mouth.
His music was on low, mostly so that his littermates didn’t hear what slow music he was playing. Dir en grey’s Shinsou III wove through the heavy air, a soft piano and drum piece from his favorite hard band. Yeah, fronts were let down at night. Just a little.
His mouth clean with naught but a smattering of stubble, he set to work on his neck. His eyes were always last, they were a bitch to get done. He’d mastered the practice of getting the most use out of the little pyramid before re-dousing it because he valued his precious supplier of remover just that much. In between he’d use plain water.
He readjusted to his knees, propped up on his toes and sitting on his heels by the time he got to his eyes, leaning closer to the mirror. It was difficult, using so little fluid so as not to gush it into his eyeballs yet having to rub harder in consequence. One eye done yet still darkened somewhat, he set about the left. It was not a routine he particularly liked nor disliked, it was all mundane and natural for him. Calming, even-a word not many would associate with the walking fuse.
And somewhere in his own closed-off world, Gaara lay sprawled on his flattened mattress, body positioned to avoid the jabbing spring always threatening to poke at his inner thighs. It wasn't as if he would have felt it, anyway. From years of habit, he'd blocked himself off from feeling much unless he chose to, and now, he was almost blissfully numb. The slide of his hair groped at his forehead when he tilted his neck to the side, rough sheets ungentle to the bruise having formed there.
He called it his own piece of existence, something to know he was alive. The experience had been enlightening, though bothersome because he now had to breathe through his mouth due to the enhanced tenderness of his busted nose. A small price to pay for unraveling the carefully constructed barrier he'd placed between others not in his gene pool. Gaara almost laughed at the thought.
Perhaps he'd gone just a little daft at having been knocked in the head a few times by those somewhat larger than him in actual size. Like most things, he didn't know, but he found himself slipping from the seen-better-days bed and moving through the preferred darkness of his bedroom to the door. The walls paper-thin, he could almost, almost hear the gentle rhythm of Kankurou's music from his own room, the sound lulling. Almost a drug.
Gaara hadn't the will to resist its pull on him, and before he could thoroughly think the consequences of his actions, he stood there, the door barely open. This certainly was new to him; he didn't bother to consciously seek out his brother's attention, but…
What harm was it going to do either of them to spend time together as if they actually cared?
It took him awhile to notice his privacy had been invaded. His eyes closed as he finished off finally, mask removed for sleep. Not that he’d get any anytime soon. Maybe a nice smoke on the roof first. He ran his fingers through his hair to dislodge it from behind his ears, shaking it out and opening his eyes.
Only to be met by a pair of bruised raccoon eyes in his mirror. After the initial bristling of not knowing someone else was in the general vicinity, he stood and turned around. He scowled his usual expression, a hand resting on his hip.
“Oi. What do you want.”
It wasn’t really a question. He prowled across the room and sat on the edge of his sagging nest of a bed, his way of inviting the boy he’d lived with for decades yet hadn’t visited his room in years. Probably not since they’d moved in. He looked like hell, like the fucking third layer of hell. Mentally he added his little brother’s assailants to his list of people-to-maim-upon-meeting along with several politicians and maybe the landlord.
God, this was awkward. Maybe he’d just say something was broken or Temari needed him…but what little variances of expression Gaara wore, Kankurou had begun to figure out, if not just a little bit.
It almost seemed as though he tread upon holy ground; if one could call the apparent ambience of Kankurou's room holy. The whole of the area was distinctly his brother's, down to the makeup lined along the table and the lingering smell of smoke from his cigarettes. He wanted to smile at the insight of having forgotten such minute details, but distances tended to do that; they'd become good at pretenses.
Unsure but not overly timid when it came to his sibling, Gaara crossed the length of floor to the place his brother sat, awkwardly sucking in a lungful of air before examining Kankurou's face. He looked relatively…normal without the paint he spread onto his skin everyday, though somewhat off-kilter to what Gaara usually witnessed on a daily basis. But his sibling probably wouldn't like the thought of fitting in with the masses so he kept it to himself.
Instead, he shifted his stance into a relaxed position which had him resting on the heels of his feet, hand tentatively touching the bruise on his cheek as if to relieve some of the pressure. Damn thing itched, and Gaara didn't know if that was normal or a cause to be worried. He wrinkled his nose slightly.
"Bothering you," he cooed softly, his voice almost lost in the continuing beat of the music playing in the background. "Enjoy it while you can." Gaara honestly had no clue as to why he felt the need to be even remotely sarcastic whenever he spoke to Kankurou; maybe it was his inner cry for help or maybe he'd just been knocked one too many times in the head, of which he obviously had no recollection of.
Tired eyes apprehended the figure of his brother as he stood, arms hanging loosely at his sides.
It was very hard to act angry with this fucking piano music crap. Especially when his little brother was being a creep. He rolled his obsidian eyes and clutched his black t-shirt in mock pain. Even in the stifling heat of his room he didn’t often go topless or even think of owning a wifebeater. “The joy overwhelms me; I’m having a love-induced heart attack”
He then proceeded to pretend the way Gaara said that hadn’t given him the chills. He rose then, brusquely and unceremoniously taking his brother by the cheeks to inspect his face. He lightly prodded a particularly nasty-looking bump. “I could probably cover that up for you before your next class. At least so you can’t see it from afar.”
Large, yet long and strangely graceful fingers left him then in favor of the front pockets of his flannel drawstring pants. Their quips were like a secret language, a way to interact without looking like they really wanted to. That, and Gaara was growing better at it with each day, to the point where he found himself more often than not getting frustrated because he couldn’t punch the monitor. Nor did he conceive of entering Gaara’s room to punch him.
Maybe because he didn’t know if he’d actually do it. Not as hard as he’d done to others, anyway.
Had he known any better or thought to have known any better, Gaara would have assumed Kankurou was playing a feral, pretentious game of cat-and-mouse with him, their own secret contest where neither could win. It was odd standing there, semi-exposed and vulnerable, his skin burning with his brother's removed touch as if he was still holding his face and inspecting the damage. Being unfamiliar with such emotions when it involved other people, including his own family, Gaara scoffed to hide the uncomfortable silence that had surrounded them.
"And hide my battle scars? I thought you'd be proud." A trite comment to conceal the unease beginning to settle slowly in the pit of his stomach. His nerves were eating at him, too, and he didn't know if it was because he wanted to retreat back to the safety of his own room or punch someone. However, seeing as how the closest someone was Kankurou and that he'd gotten his ass handed to him hours prior, Gaara merely curved the edge of a surprisingly unblemished mouth into a hinted smile instead.
Turquoise eyes flickered over his brother's posture in alert attention, strangely drawn to the lines of a face similar to his own but so very different. The curve of the jaw, the hollow of dark eyes… Gaara had a habit of staring without realizing it, but somehow, he was solidly aware he examined Kankurou without blinking. "How do I know it's safe, anyway?"
His question came off mocking, but had anyone understood the lingo between them, it would have spoken 'why bother?'.
A very feral grin coursed over Kankurou’s rigid mouth. “I’m supposed to look like the mutilated corpse of the family, if I let you parade around like that I might lose my edge. It’s your job to be the ghost.” His hands withdrew from his pockets to fold across his broad chest, cocking his head back and to the side slightly to look down on his little brother imperiously. He did notice, however, that about a half inch of gap had closed between their heights recently.
When he became unsettlingly aware of his little brother’s staring-something he was used to observing Gaara do to others more often than be on the receiving end of-he clashed his brows and swallowed a lump in his throat. He felt like a Petri sample under the scrutinizing glare of a scientist. Yet he squared off and held eye contact with him, with that strange glow of an underwater limestone cave’s pool, alternating between endless blue and a green so pure it hurt.
Then he snorted at the question. “Because if I did anything to worsen your condition Temari would have my hide replace the old shower curtain. I’ve covered up enough love bites to know what I’m doing.”
Crudely translated, that may have meant ‘trust me.’ In any case, he held out his hand near Gaara’s cheek in order to judge the difference in their complexion, calculating in his mind what he may have been able to do and rather going off into his own little world for a spell. Afterwards he shrugged, then out of nowhere, (lightly) punched his little brother’s left shoulder.
“That’s for your fucking cheekiness.” He said with a sadistic grin.
"I'll be sure to file that under harassment," came the smooth retort, his body jarring unconsciously with the light, teasing blow to his shoulder. Gaara, who'd already had difficulty moving on his own in forward motion without risking a dull flare of pain, unintentionally winced, and the knot hovering above his cheekbone tightened, scalding his face with pain.
Not that he was unfamiliar with such a concept, but it hurt. And in an understated amount.
A flash sparked in the ocean-flecked jade of his eyes, an evident grimace distorting the usually serene features calmly presenting cooled indifference to those that did not bother looking deeper, wanting to decode his layering. Kankurou somehow became the central focus of his gaze in an attempt to ignore the faded wave working its way to the center of his brain, a throbbing rhythm that matched the echo of his heartbeat. Pupils narrowed on the slide of his brother's unmasked throat, absorbing the way he stood to help forget the previous sting and heightened sense of transferred warmth when Kankurou had almost touched him for a second time.
"Heh." The supple laugh resembled a quiet gag. "You probably wouldn't make a good shower curtain. Temari knows better." Talking helped relieve the foreign imbalance he was unused to feeling, even in the smallest of amounts, and Gaara let the words slide free. "And who in their right mind would want to give you a love bite?"
Joking aside, the hidden meaning in their conversation was slipping into an uncharted territory typically left alone, especially between brothers. They, more specifically Gaara, had never bothered prying before, so why was now so different?
Kankurou’s retort was automatic, slipping sardonically from his stern lips without a moment’s thought. “You should probably file your entirety of being my little brother under harassment while you’re at it.”
He then went on to mask his concern for the pain he witnessed bolting through his little brother’s eyes, the moment fleeting as glimpsing a white colt rush past through slats of wood. Rubbing his shoulder and rolling his arm in a subconsciously empathetic manner, he squinted his own obsidian shard eyes. They both just stood there, unsure how to behave in this both alien and familiar setting, unable to just sit. He heaved a rumbling sigh, dropping his arms to his sides as Gaara’s rebuttal sidestepped from natural to something unexpected.
Already this week Gaara had asked sarcastically if Kankurou was even into girls. That was a small insight into the threadbare, close-knit family. They stuck together like a ragged vagabond tribe of wolves, remnants of a larger, missing pack. Each of them could both hunt separately and bring down larger opponents with combined efforts, yet they were more apt to seeking their own dens come night. Always so close, yet always so far away.
An indignant grunt was his answer to that question. “Nobody important.” He evaded, bypassing the black and blue redhead to shut his door. Damn thing had been bothering him the entire time; he just…hated it being open. He couldn’t function with an open door. Though still some nights, before bed, he’d go nudge it ajar minimally to allow a chink of the common room in. It was a habit from childhood, a fire escape for running to one another’s rooms when their parents argued before Gaara took the one that cared about their well-being away. Yet Kankurou had long ago abandoned that mentality, for honestly, he’d grown to the point where he’d take his little brother over the faceless memory of his dam.
From where he stood, the soft click of the bedroom door as Kankurou shut it somehow amplified the thundering pound of Gaara's heart, his back to his brother's current stance. He couldn't visually see him unless he turned to the side, angling his eyes to focus in on the somewhat taller figure, but that heat was still there, running in shivering paths down his arms until he clenched his fists to steady himself. He couldn't explain it, didn't really want to think what it could have meant when this peculiar emotion emanated from his own sibling's close proximity.
Perhaps it had to do with an innate fear he harbored of unexplained loss. Gaara barely knew love. He understood the idea behind it, the semblance of what love could actually be if given a chance to blossom within those raised under its tutelage, but with his sister doing her best to support them by working long hours and a brother purposefully ignoring him other than the typical sarcastic stint, he lingered at its edge. If he were more of a poet, he would compare the empty sensation to those related in his dreams, of a mother he'd never known and a father he barely understood before the premature death robbing them of him. A family he really didn't have.
Yet, it seemed different now, at that very moment. So very different, and Gaara felt the need to withdraw to protect himself before it raged out of control and hurt someone. Like Kankurou. Or both of them.
"I'm sure that's it," he muttered casually, trying to resume the apathetic tone of his voice to hide his indecision. Gaara didn't want Kankurou suspecting something, anything out of the ordinary, though it was difficult to determine the level of normalcy in their lives anyway. He'd just stand there, invisible chills crawling through his skin, slapping sarcasm upon sarcasm to deter the odd atmosphere clouding the room. "Nobody fits you perfectly."
But maybe, just maybe, that had been a little too much…
Kankurou turned, arching a brow at his little brother’s back. The boy really had little concept of proper social interaction. Though when the subtle redhead threw that in his direction, he was glad they weren’t facing one another for he paled and froze up.
What the fuck did he mean by that? Sure, he could agree that those casual fucks he’d had in his post-pubescent years weren’t perfect for him, obviously, but…the heaviness and intricacy woven into so few words unsettled him. He folded his arms back over his chest, though this time his fingers curled round his biceps-hugging himself in.
He padded back around his static littermate who had been fucking with his sturdy walls, shooting him a well-aimed glare before sitting himself on the floor against a dark, mottled brown wall. Good a place to sit as any, it allowed Gaara to sit on common ground which wasn’t his bed-which would be immensely weird. Kankurou didn’t put much stock in silly things like chairs.
He turned his body and cracked open his window, pulling the ashtray that was sitting on the outer side of the sill towards himself. He then gave the redhead a stern look. “Don’t tell sis, I only do it sometimes.” With that, he fished out a rumpled soft pack of smokes from his pants pocket and lit it up, crouching to be able to easily exhale out the window and draping his smoking arm on the sill.
Once properly eased into the calm nicotine brought him, he finally returned his attention to the disconcerting statement. “What do you mean, nobody fits me perfectly?” A foggy exhale floated into the city in his pause. What would Gaara know about that, anyways? His insight from observation was disturbing sometimes.
Gaara caught himself before the preemptive shrug worked its way into the motion of his response, and he pursed pale lips in thought, wondering what he had meant by such a statement. It wasn't as if he gave much consideration to the sardonic things rolling off his tongue in answer to Kankurou's own; it was just natural to retaliate with an uncomfortable phrase or two to deflect the brunt from himself. Not a very productive technique when his brother persisted in asking.
Asking in a tone that scorched Gaara's spine with a deep shiver too profound to stop.
"Whatever you want it to mean," he murmured morosely, haunted eyes used to the shadows and outlines of a habitually darkened room finding the faint glow of Kankurou's cigarette a mysterious addition of luminance to the makeup-free countenance. He wasn't going to say anything to Temari about his brother's little habit of smoking; even if he jabbed at his choice of early demise, Gaara found it unproductive to play tattle-tail. He wasn't a child anymore, though some might have disagreed wholeheartedly about such a concept.
He felt the soothing breeze from the open window caress his skin in a gentle whisper, instigating another shudder, but Gaara ignored it, still unsure of what he was actually doing there. Kankurou really hadn't seemed overly busy, just interested in removing what stuff he caked onto his face. Yet, it still didn't answer why he'd slithered through the dark halls of their shoebox apartment and stood before his brother's door with every intention of going in. None of this was making any sense, and it unsettled him for more than the first time that night.
Sniffling a little as he accidentally inhaled through his sensitized nose, causing it to sting slightly in precursor to the pain it was capable of producing, Gaara sidled his way to where Kankurou sat, inviting himself to a relatively close spot beside his older sibling. He crossed his legs, resting his arms on sweatpants-encased thighs for a moment before correcting his posture and leaning against the wall. His face was beginning to enunciate hurt, and in return, his brain was screaming in relentlessness.
"I won't tell," he added as an after thought, rather positive he wasn't thinking straight because he really hadn't the need to verbalize his finalized decision. Gaara gave a hushed sigh and closed his eyes.
Kankurou furrowed his mouth, watching his little brother in a strange role reversal. With Gaara’s eyes closed he could simply study him without scowling. His perfectly even, unblemished pallid complexion was marred with the remnants of the cake war. His lips were perfectly unharmed, creased with the very slight pout that he wore as a neutral expression. The bruises were in their yellow phase, dark like the peels of very ripe bananas with a tinge of green.
He breathed deeply, leaning back and closing his own eyes for a moment, enjoying the burning wrap of paper and dried leaf at the corner of his mouth nearly to the filter. Once stubbed out, he slid down the wall and let his legs splay out, purposely knocking Gaara’s foot with one of his own. “Oi.”
He opened his eyes, looking at his little brother seriously. “You all right?” Inwardly, he decided he’d just double the hell he gave Gaara come morning. Yeah, that’s it. Little pipsqueak.
Their feet were touching. That fact alone had Gaara leveling his gaze with Kankurou's own when he managed to peel his eyes open, the habit of sleeping odd hours and never enough with the addition of physical abuse putting him as close to exhausted as he'd been in a long time. In fact, his body was begging him to curl up at that very moment and rest, but Gaara persisted in withstanding the urge. He didn't know how well Kankurou would take it for him to catnap on his floor, either.
His tongue flickered between his lips to moisten the edges as he readied himself to speak, grateful his mouth had escaped affliction. Gaara had difficulty concentrating on what he wanted to say, however, the pressure in barely touching limbs considerably heavy. What was this?
"I'll survive," he finally answered, unconsciously tilting to the side so that their shoulders were ghostly joined by the barest of contact. "You shouldn't worry about it." And though he said it with defining, detached articulation, his facial expression fell.
“Oh, shut up, idiot.” A touch of a snicker accented his harsh comment as he lifted his arm nearest Gaara on his left, arching it out smoothly to extend his bicep across the back of his little brother’s shoulder, his large hand closing on the shoulder furthest from him and effectively drawing him against his own. Despite the brashness and casualty behind his action, this closeness was awkward as hell. Even with people he’d slept with, well, he never was much of a cuddler. Okay, he never was anything near cuddly. He preferred to leave his lovers in favor of a shower and a cigarette.
Maybe Gaara had said something far too insightful, after all.
After making sure he wasn’t crushing any particularly tender bruises to his shoulder, he adjusted his position and got comfortable. It was difficult to ignore the bristling he was suffering all over from the close contact he’d stupidly initiated in the first place.
Scratch that. He’d triple the hell come morning.
“When’s the last time you slept?” Without realizing it, he had begun to paternally stroke the claret hair splayed over the back of his little brother’s neck.
In that instant, leaning into Kankurou's body with the weight of his arm and the unusually tender petting running light quivers down his spine, Gaara melted. It was a slow emulsifying of combined inner and outer layers, the minutes of chipping at his concave barriers as he'd swallowed his brother with his eyes and mentally lingered on his words causing the whole of it to crack. He felt next to nothing because he had blocked it all out, the youngest of a troubled set of siblings tossed into the cruelty of the world by the death of their parents and greed of others.
To be held like this. Why did it…hurt so much?
A shaking hand found its way into the material of Kankurou's shirt, fisting it tightly as he lay against him, the smell of tobacco and makeup and cheap shampoo mingling into the solitary scent of something vaguely familiar, like he'd known this part of his brother all along. He found his face paying homage to the curve of Kankurou's chest, thinking to comfort his own misgivings and experience what would have been possible under drastically different circumstances. Gaara had been hugged before, Temari loved to smother him on occasion, but Kankurou stayed out of reach, as if wary of him.
Now Gaara was hanging on as if his very life depended on that touch.
"I never can remember," he whispered into the dark fabric, eyes far more tired and strained than they should have been.
As Gaara’s layers washed away, Kankurou let go of his fronts and allowed them to dissolve with his shed mask. Following a heavy breath he shifted, sliding his free arm beneath the arch of his little brother’s knees and ascending to his feet, lifting him as he stood. Gaara was frightfully light, but then again, he himself was pretty damn broad. He padded over to his slouching mattress on the floor, pressing a knee against its edge as sturdy purchase as he laid the insomniac down. Following soon thereafter he went about ruffling his nest of blankets and a throw, sinking in with him. They’d never shared a bed, let alone a room; with how well off their family had once been before fate had wretched it from their childish hands.
The sounds of the city were as slight through the open window as the nonexistent breeze, especially with his low music playing over it. The song had long ago played out and weaved through other slow and ambient Dir en grey singles and album tracks, now Higeki ha mabuta wo oroshita yasashiki utsu had just started its rhythm which Kankurou was so addicted to. This one single song was what he played to get himself to sleep on the nights when he barely wished to cling to this world. He swallowed and closed his heavy eyelids, arm still beneath his little brother’s shoulders and fingers woven in his hair.
He didn’t bother saying anything. Words had suddenly lost meaning to him as he forgot where he left off and his little brother began, a tangle of limbs and warmth beneath the worn covers.
Gaara thought he was floating, some significant malfunction in an already bruised thought process that provided the tender massage of hands intertwined in his hair and the heavy but otherwise welcome weight warming him to his toes. But as a child, younger than most, he learned the truth of such things. One could not float in the sense he perceived, and if he wasn't floating, he was certainly drowning under Kankurou's gentle movements, tumbling faster and farther than he ever had in his life.
In recompense, he sought out the source of his delusion, recognizing the drape of well-used blankets and the solid mass that was his brother almost curled around him. Gaara even ignored the pressure in his face from the knuckle-induced knot as he cuddled against Kankurou, silently communicating where they once hadn't even dared to venture. A slight whimper when his nose collided with the chest pillowing his head, a mumbled, incoherent mess of sounds resembling words, and his fingers were splayed across Kankurou's cheek, burning with promise and knowing and unvoiced appreciation.
Was it wrong of him to want this slip in character to last? Why did he have the gnawing feeling that if he fell asleep, wrapped around such an embrace, a newly found placation to a fatigued barricade, it would disappear come sunrise? Pointless to think, to pretend understanding, Gaara clung tightly to his brother, not wanting to let go. Maybe things were better off without words, but like so many other things, he wasn't convinced.
Kankurou’s temple ticked lightly at the intimate touch imparted to his cheek, his lips tensing and brow furrowing for a moment before allowing himself to unwind. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and expelled his tension in a long, slow breath. The thickness of blood lying with him comforted him far more deeply than water’s presence ever had. Lolling his head to the side so that his chin perched lightly atop his little brother’s claret crown, he resumed his leisurely hair stroking.
The heavy weight of exhaustion settled on his chest with as much tangibility as Gaara’s cheek. He accepted it gratefully, enjoying the heady feeling of numbness in his body that heavily contrasted with his constant wound-up state. He was aware of Gaara’s warmth, knobby knees and ankles clashing with his firmer structure, though he didn’t bother shifting.
“So this is what a sleepover is like...” He mumbled almost incomprehensibly, barely noticing that he had thought aloud. Then he clumsily pressed his mouth to Gaara’s crown in a goodnight kiss he’d probably learned from Temari when they were little. With another, less audible string of nonsense, his breathing slowed and he ceased to shift, slipping into the grasp of dreams.