twenty:
The chains do not creak; they twist in his hands as he watches the other children. Their shouts are clear in the hot desert air, their laughter carried over the sand, he presses his lips together, unable to work out the right shape.
He holds the ball in his hands, his mouth is trying to make it, but they’re already running. It’s Gaara of the Sand! Run for it!
He can look, but he can’t touch; his fingers grope the heat in the air, brush against loose grains of sand, sand ropes around their limbs, I don’t want to be alone, and Yashamaru is bleeding.
(Yashamaru is bleeding and vomit burns in Gaara’s throat, has splashed over his thumbs, into his palm, Yashamaru looks at him with hollowed eyes and without apology, You were never loved).
It’s love! Yashamaru teaches him, his finger bleeding from the knife that could not cut Gaara. Gaara’s hand clutches his chest, unmarked fingers digging into the rough-hewn cloth, pressing for bone and tissue and the pumping organ beneath. This part hurts so much.
A high kick; the ball totters and stills on the ledge of a high wall. The children mutter, bitter over their lost game, yet to master the ability to climb walls with chakra. It is a simple task, sand carrying the ball down to the swing set, his stuffed bear forgotten on the ground.
When he looks at his hands, cupped for the ball, they are raw, red, as if scoured again and again by a sponge of steel, of needles, of razorblades, and that isn’t right. Difficult to focus on but drifting on the periphery; there are candles, black and ornate, in the air and on the walls, and something wild and consuming scrapes against them, jeering at their intrusion. He finds his lips moving, mouthing, if you’re going to sleep, asshole, then let me out let me the fuck--
(Yashamaru’s hands jerk up, and that isn’t right, seized as if involuntary and curl around his wrists, Fucking let me out, brat, Yashamaru hisses, his lips folding into teeth, his eyes a bright yellow, pupils crossed, For this, the streets will be rivers of blood, let me taste it, let me-- Gaara pulls free, grips his head, howls--)
Yashamaru is the only one who looks at him and smiles. Your mother’s will remained in the sand to protect you, she loved you so very much… Lord Gaara, you are my precious one around me!
(I tried to love you, but I must’ve always resented you.)
The door slams in his face, the girl’s words lingering in his ears; get away, monster. He drops the ointment borrowed from his uncle, the only one who smiles. The girl had those eyes; a man on the street looks at him, looks at him, glowers and the sand snaps his neck before Gaara’s eyes have finished narrowing. And his father has those eyes.
Only one thing can cure emotional scars. It’s love!
She named you Gaara… the demon who loves only himself, to carry on her grudge, not out of love or concern for you. You were never loved.
He is on his knees. Please die, Yashamaru urges, before igniting the explosive tag. Please die.
Yashamaru is in pieces.
Gaara is alive. Please die.
He is alive, and he is singing in a whisper hoarse and breaking, sand sawing into his forehead lovelovelove,
[voice post]
The millennium earl is searching. He is searching for a precious heart. Let’s check to see if you are it.
[ooc: yes, he’s still “unconscious” so he won't answer. 8) song sounds like this only lol in Gaara voice]