House Rules [apartment eight thread] [closed to Temari and Kankurou]
Apartment eight was entirely at his disposal, the kitchen empty, the general living area void of moving bodies, and he felt no remorse as he wandered from room to room, eyes half dead to those that would have looked upon him.
Gaara hadn’t bothered sleeping. Not that he actually knew what that felt like. The definition was easy, took a few seconds to flip through dictionary pages and find it between two other random words he also cared nothing for, but recalling the difference of what it was and actually experiencing it was entirely diverse in complexity. He just moved without thinking, hair mussed from raking fingers through it repeatedly, too annoyed to stare at his computer, think of anything to do or write or say that would dissolve the (as Kankurou would put it) pissy attitude boiling beneath the surface.
For a time, he’d merely sat on the edge of his bed, following the layout of his bedroom, glaring at nothing, his expression hot enough to melt the wax of the candles spread randomly throughout. Afterwards, the intense urge for something sweet hit his stomach, body on automatic as it dragged him to the kitchen.
Chocolate milk, almost a comfort. But there hadn’t been any milk, the chocolate syrup emptied and left in the fridge as if to taunt him.
Bottled the frustration, dumping the container in the garbage and making a beeline towards the bathroom instead, red hair chaotic as he shut the door, Gaara stripped off his clothes and stared at himself in the mirror before sliding into hot water. He didn’t like being in there alone, too many odd memories, too many things that reminded him, and as much as he tried to ignore it, there simply wasn’t any other thought to appease it. Without so much as a blink, he reached for Temari’s shampoo, flicking the top open, smelling it, wondering where she was.
They were long overdue for many things, those tiresome sibling things that Gaara really had no interest in but almost always indulged because (secretly) he liked the way Temari smiled, the annoying, yet satisfying way she spoke to him. Not like Kankurou, hardly at all. His brother seemed to have some unspoken vendetta, hadn’t actually harassed him in weeks.
Was everyone avoiding him?
That simple thought just fueled the anger, brought it right back to the top of his mind, made his skin itch, and Gaara abandoned the bathroom as quickly as he’d entered, leaving Temari’s shampoo overturned, clothes in a rumpled pile. For modesty’s sake, though definitely not his own, he’d remembered to grab a towel, hair dripping, thin body pale under the artificial light brightening the apartment.
Unable to clear himself of ridiculous, half-formed thoughts, body draped in the confines of cotton that somehow irritated his skin, Gaara returned to the kitchen. Not amused, far from anything relatively happy (at least, in his case), he rested himself in a chair and dropped his head onto the table with a less than pleasant smack.