Naruto - Fragments 2 Series: Naruto Characters: Lee, Gaara Pairing: Implied past Lee+Sakura, LeexGaara if I can manage it in the future Type: weird introspective, futurefic, crazy, possible plot Warnings: Abuse of italics. Like woah Spoilers: Timeskip Word Count: 1,826 Etc: I have the next part partially planned out, but beyond that I'm not sure where this is going, or if I should keep writing it. It's very weird, but hopefully this part makes more sense and stays interesting. Thoughts on Lee's characterization would be much appreciated, or on the style, as they're both not quite what I usually do.
When he wakes up, the world seems solid like it hasn’t in forever. There’s something pressing against his leg, possibly a knee, and this time when he tries to sit upright, he succeeds. He isn’t sure where he is but it seems like a cave with blessed, blessed shade. He could go his whole life without seeing the sun again and be happy.
“Wh—” he croaks, forcing the syllable out despite the pain. He isn’t even sure what he is asking. Who? Where? What? But it feels good getting it out
Something shifts beside him. “Don’t try talking.”
Suddenly he must, must know if the voice is real, and reaches a hand out to the noise. There’s something solid—a shoulder—that tenses as soon as his fingers brush against it. He reaches out blindly and feels collarbone, jaw, nose, chest, and elbow. His hands are calloused and cracked and the skin he’s touching feels impossibly soft. He stops because he’s sure his hands like sand will shred something so fragile, and settles for the clothed wrist. He latches onto it as if his sanity depends on it. It just might.
“You’re real!” he breathes, forcing the words out in his astonishment.
There’s a long period of silence. The man without a name starts to think he imagined it after all, and grips the wrist tighter. This is real.
“The others will be here in a day.”
A small part of him is pleased by this. The rest doesn’t understand. Wasn’t the world full of sand and sun? Is this part of the things green and long gone? It’s tiresome thinking about it and he’s horribly nauseous, but he doesn’t want to sleep and risk his companion disappearing.
It turns out he doesn’t have much choice in the matter. As he sleeps, he dreams of tiny waterfalls and hands rubbing a wet cloth over his body.
He wakes up when the wrist he’s been holding disappears. The world is spinning and dark and he doesn’t understand what is going on. Something cool slides off his forehead.
Where has his imaginary friend gone? Perhaps he’s buried beneath a dune and doesn’t realize it. He tries to call out but only manages a strangled gurgle.
Light bursts in, stinging his eyes after so much darkness, but there’s a familiar silhouette and suddenly the world goes back to the way it should be—still and dark.
“A sandstorm is keeping them. They’ll be another day.” “Who’re ‘they?’” There’s a long silence, as if the man isn’t sure how to respond. “Eat this.”
Questions can wait, apparently. Or perhaps he isn’t supposed to know.
The man in tattered green isn’t sure what he’s eating or what it tastes like beyond “not sand.” The effort of chewing makes his jaw ache and blistering skin scream.
“Who are you?” Perhaps the not-so-imaginary friend is allowed to answer that one. “Gaara of the Desert.”
So it is a desert kami! And the ‘others’ must be more spirits. He isn’t sure if that’s a good thing, but there is no helping it. Perhaps the other imaginary friends are real, too? After all, the redhead is terribly familiar. Thinking that makes his left arm and leg ache, though he doesn’t understand why.
“Do I know you? I feel like I should.” His throat is protesting all this talk, but pain is merely another obstacle to overcome. Funny, that phrase seems like an echo of green times.
“Yes,” the following pause teeters over the unsaid, as if the real-but-not-always man is weighing something. “You are…a friend.”
Friends with a sand kami! Fancy that. Smiling is worth the pain at a nice comment like that. That explains why it decided to save him in the first place. The “others” must be spirit friends too. Maybe the desert isn’t so spiteful after all, despite what his agonized skin says.
Oh yes, more questions!
“Who am I?” “Rock Lee, a shinobi of the Village Hidden in Leaves.”
The world starts to tilt; he reaches for Gaara. Flickers of memory slide in one ear and out the other as his nausea comes back in full force.
Holding a triangular blade—kunai—and swearing to hit the targets 100 times or he’ll do 500 pushups. A girl wearing red with eyes the color of turquoise. Pink is a sad color. Fighting and blood and death because there’s something he must do or die trying. Bones shooting out from a ribcage to cut his face. A hand extended thumbs up. “Promise of a Lifetime!” Black eyes turning red.
He finally makes contact and the world rights itself. This is real. The hand underneath his is tense, the fingernails large and flat. It’s real.
There’s so much silence he’s afraid that he’ll be alone again if he isn’t holding on. He tries to catch the memories, too, but they skitter away and make his stomach lurch some more.
“I need to dress your wounds. Hold still.”
Lee (that’s my name, isn’t it?) starts to ask what wounds he has besides burns, when there’s a prickleBURNcrawl all over his body, centered around his side. He has a vague memory of being stabbed there. As suddenly as it happens, it’s over.
“Wh—” he tries to ask. “I removed the sand from your wounds. Hold still.” The darkness suddenly bothers him. He wants to see the man who became real, to know he’s not asleep and dreaming. “I need light.”
A small window in the cave appears. The cave is made of sand that moves. He has a memory of sand rushing towards him, of sand moving like a tsunami, but surely it’s all a fever dream. At least he doesn’t feel like vomiting any more.
Instead, he takes a moment to note that the redhead is wearing a long maroon coat. He didn’t disappear in the light. But the sand moved on its own, and that isn’t right, even though it echoes in his head.
“You’re still real?” “…Yes.” “Am I real?” “Yes.” “Oh good.”
Hands begin unwrapping the bandages around his forearms, handling it like a snake that may bite. Awkward, distant, mechanical. He doesn’t usually touch people.
“I can do that—”. “No,” Gaara’s voice cracks like a whip. “Hold still.”
His skin protests the bandages coming off, clinging. His fingers are raw, sore, burnt, and blistered, imprinted with the texture of the while cloth. It isn’t so bad. Pain is an old friend, older than Gaara, as old as the green time.
In the dim light, he looks at his hands, noting they’re riddled with old scars. That explains why pain is so familiar. Logs are involved, somehow. Green trees.
Gaara pulls a tube out of a pouch and squeezes something green onto now-bare palms. Lee doesn’t need to be told it’s medicinal and spreads it over his hands without comment, but he can’t quite hold back a wince.
As he looks back to Gaara he sees hands reaching for his face. He flinches as one finger touches his cheek, covered in that cool gel.
A cheerless pink smile. A kiss on the cheek. “I’m sorry, Lee-san, but—”
“Stop moving,” commands Gaara. “I’m sorry,” mutters Lee, distracted by the memory. Catching it proves futile, so he sits still as the strange redhead rubs something—probably aloe—over his face. Gaara’s touch isn’t gentle or sensual, especially considering the pain, but the sunburned man enjoys it. Physical contact means that they’re both tangible and alive. Or perhaps he stopped being real and went to the place where mirages live?
For lack of anything better to do, the green-clad man stares at his companion’s face. The eyes he’d thought were deep-set are actually dark-ringed, as if with kohl. He guesses the age around twenty, but surely sand-spirits live much longer than humans. The face is unreadable, deadpan, but handsome. No eyebrows. A kanji too obscured by hair and half-light to read.
Gaara is giving him a look. Somehow, without words or moving more than a few facial muscles, Lee hears the question What are you staring at?
“How do I know you?” “Our countries are allies. We’ve fought together,” something ripples back. “Not against?” Lee tilts his head back so Gaara can reach his neck more easily, careful to hold back a grimace. “At first, we were enemies. It’s been years.”
He takes a moment to digest that. This man was once an enemy (there’s not enough blood) but now they’re friends. Friendship can overcome anything!
“So you’re a shinobi as well?” Lee’s throat burns, but it’s worth talking though. Finally, some answers! “Yes. I’m the fifth Kazekage of the Village Hidden in Sand.” “Not a sand demon?” Maybe that’s what a Kazekage is. No, that’s not right. It means he’s a leader. The hands pause. “No.” Not anymore. “Because you died?” He isn’t sure why he said that, but knows it’s true. If only it would all come back at once, instead of dribbling in at random moments. The dark rings narrow a fraction. “How much do you remember?” “I’m not sure; it’s all bits and pieces. Are they really memories?” “Yes.” His hands go back to rubbing in the last of the lotion. “I’m not dead, too?” “No.”
Gaara finishes and pulls back; Lee can’t help but be disappointed. Perhaps he’ll have to get used to feeling dizzy and falling all the time, so he won’t be a burden. “Your other wounds can wait until Sakura comes.” “Sakura…-san?” Squirrel. “A medi-nin. You’ve known her some time; she was on Naruto’s genin team.” “Naruto-kun?” Fox. “A friend and future Hokage.”
There’s so much missing, something important he should know but it won’t come to him. His head feels like it’s splitting; his hand goes to his forehead as if it could help hold his brain in.
“You’ve talked too much, you need more rest.” “I’ve been sleeping all the time! I want to know what I can’t remember!” “Don’t overdo it. You always do,” the corner of Gaara’s mouth twitches, but Lee can’t tell if it is meant to be a smirk or frown. “You always try too hard and hurt yourself.”
If you keep pushing yourself like this, you’ll get yourself killed! shouts a woman he doesn’t recognize.
“No pain no gain,” mutters Lee, bordering on petulant. “Sleep,” insists Gaara, eyes hard. “You won’t disappear if I do? I’m not dreaming already?” “I won’t abandon you. I’m your friend, and I am real.” There’s an odd emphasis on “friend,” as if the young man has trouble saying the world. His voice is monotone and it sounds so very sensible Lee can’t help but believe him. He lays back and reaches for Gaara’s wrist. “So the world doesn’t run away from me again,” he explains as the redhead eyes him warily.
His eyes close as he drifts off. He doesn’t see the hints of worry and discomfort on Gaara’s face.