So, attempt #2, yeah? I thought it would be much easier to start this story towards the begin and explain background information unbearably slowly through flashbacks...just like a REAL anime. FYI, note that I wrote most of this while high on Remaron (it's a sleeping pill) so expect the unexpected. I also decided to try some weird artistic things, you know, experiment. And what's an artist without her critics. Please, let me know if something annoys the hell out of you. There's nothing like a good rant, yeah! Read, review if you'd like, but most of all, enjoy yourself. What's life without a little fun?

Disclaimer: Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue, but if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier spoke my lines. Nor do not saw the air too much with your hand, thus, but use all gently, for in the very torrent, tempest, and, as I may say, whirlwind of your passion, you must acquire and beget a temperance that may give it smoothness. Oh it offends me to the soul to hear a robustious periwig-pated fellow tear a passion to totters, to very rags, to spleet the ears of the groundlings, who for the most part of capable of nothing but inexplicable dumb shows and noise. I would have such a fellow whipt for o'erdoing Termagant, it out-Herods Herod, pray you avoid it.

-Hamlet 2.2 (P.S. I don't own anything I happen to mention in my story…especially Naruto).

Particularly Appropriate Music: In Our Bedroom After the War- Stars, One More Night- Stars, District Sleeps Alone- The Postal Service, Sour Girl- Stone Temple Pilots, Jigsaw Falling Into Place- Radiohead, I Will Follow You Into The Dark- Death Cab for Cutie

A Series of Incoherent Musings #1(Gaara): An Average Night at the Sabaku Residence

"There was political satire in The Time Machine?"

An innocent question. Stupid, sudden, and lacking any real background information (as I had never actually read H.G. Wells' work) but, nonetheless, I found myself asking it. Shikamaru stared at me from across the room, cocking an eyebrow and seeming distinctly curious.

As usual, we lazed around in my room. It amused me, considering that I never thought myself to be lazy until I befriended the master himself, yet, here we were. He had been dozing lightly on my bed, fully clothed, and hair still up in that ridiculous ponytail. White light shimmered in through the window, as it was late afternoon and cloudy, but he slumbered on, wishing that the weather was nicer so that we could lounge around outside.

I lay sprawled out on the rug adjacent to my bed, a book in hand. Oracle Night by Paul Auster: it happened to be a but obscure considering Kakashi-sensei assigned it for English, but at least Auster wasn't a member of the "Old, dead, white guy's club," like the author's we generally read. I had just made it to a particular passage concerning H.G. Wells and his work, when the question came to mind. So, as usual, I asked.

"It doesn't really seem like a political satire to me," I continued. "I mean, what's it supposed to be satirizing?" Shikamaru sighed, shaking his head. He continued to lie down, facing towards the wall, and away from me.

"Maa, Gaara, you've never read H.G. Wells." I cringed inwardly. I've never even told him that, yet he knew. Shikamaru always had a way of doing that. Never ask stupid questions: that was his motto…well aside from never do today what you can put off 'til tomorrow (or never do at all for that matter). But, then again, that was more his way of life. He always said that if you could figure it out yourself, don't bother asking. Considering that his IQ was over two hundred, he could virtually answer any question on his own. Shika was a strange one all right; in the time that I had known him, I had never heard him utter a single question.

"What do you mean by that, Sherlock?" From anyone else, this question would have been absolutely dripping sarcasm. Choji always told me that I was far too nice to use sarcasm. Personally, I saw in more as naivety. Since my father decided to drill, "I am nothing more than a monster," into my head from the very time I was born, "Nice" wasn't exactly the first word I would use to describe myself. Well, either way you look at it, I wasn't really the sarcasm type of person.

Shikamaru rolled his eyes at the nickname. "Well, my troublesome Watson, if you haven't actually read the book, you have no right to say there's no political satire in it."

Yup, that's Shikamaru for you, straight to the point. I pulled my trump card in response to that, "Shika, it's The Time Machine; the inner depth of this book involves Morlocks."

He grinned, "Fair enough, but that's beside the point. You still haven't read it." Yawning he stretched out on the bed, cat-like. He then proceeded to turn over, facing me, and curled up on his left side.

"Fine." I waved my white flag, quite used to losing my arguments with him. "Well then, tell me, is there any satire in The Time Machine?"

He scoffed, "No, not really." I think I was twitching at this point. Sulking, I chucked my ripped-up, un-annotated copy of Oracle Night at him.

"…I hate you." He just laughed, and I smiled back. Our arguments tended to end this way.

After a few moments of him sleeping, and myself pondering, I reached over to grab my book, only to realize that it was splayed out on the other side of the room. "Shik, will you throw my book back over here?" I asked tentatively. He waved a hand dismissively, burying his face in one of my pillows.

"You threw it; come over here and get it." I seethed, Lazy bastard, but at this point, I had enough experience to know that there was no winning with Shikamaru; he always found a way. So, I trudged over, but just as I reached to pick the book up, Shikamaru grabbed my arm and pulled me on to the bed next to him. I fell on the side closest to the wall with a soft "Oof."

"Relax," he urged with a smile, "You'll have plenty of time to pretend to do your homework later. Let's take a nap before dinner." I allowed a soft smile to cross my face.

"All right," I murmured, lying down and making myself comfortable. Shikamaru drifted off quickly as usual…unless he was feigning sleep (he had a prodigious amount of skill at that). I, however, had never been a very good sleeper. Between the terrifying nightmares and traumatic abuse from my father, sleep had never been my strong point. Then again, Shikamaru always had a way of calming me. I closed my eyes.

Warmth. Everything was soft, blurry, hazy, dark. Yellow, a flash of yellow. Bright cobalt blue eyes. A view of a shrine from the window. Comforting cotton sheets, a familiar room. Not my room. Cold! Dark and frightening. An unwanted reminder. Escape, longing. Where am I? Who am I? Why? A safe, wonderful home. A person. Black hair. Green flashes. A loving embrace. A new beginning. Shaking! Motion. Warm hands gripping my shoulders. A voice. "Gaara."

I gasped as my eyes snapped open. I was back in my room, on my bed, Shikamaru looking down at me. "Wha?" I slurred sleepily. The genius sighed.

"You had me worried there for a minute," he confessed. "You wouldn't wake up." I blinked, still confused at the entire situation.

"I slept?" The concept seemed foreign. Me sleeping?

"Yeah, you slept." Shikamaru checked the clock. "For a couple hours even. I had enough time to beat myself at checkers." He shook his head, obviously still a little shaken. I should be proud of myself; it takes a lot to shake him up. "Well, anyway, dinner's ready." I sat up in bed, the covers falling into my lap. When did I cover myself? Shikamaru must have done it when he woke up.

"Okay," I whispered, still a little out of sorts. He helped me up; I felt so weak, like he alone supported my entire weight. Maybe he did. Somehow, I was reminded of the first time we met: that cloudy winter's day. The uncertainty I felt when he appeared, seeming to have emerged from the shadows themselves.

"Gaara." His voice put an end to my odd reminiscence. I looked up, but before I knew it, his hand was on my forehead. "You don't seem well." I said nothing, basking in the warmth of his hand, basking in his presence. Yet, at the same time, a strange churning sensation in my stomach made itself known. Had it always felt that way to be around him? What was I feeling? His voice again: he was talking. I blinked.

"What?" Apparently that had come out a lot more dazed than I had intended, for Shikamaru's gaze grew concerned.

"I said you're warm," he repeated. Fever: perhaps that was the explanation for this puzzling feeling. "Troublesome," he tsked to himself. With a hazy mind, I vaguely wondered why he seemed so worried about me. Was I really acting that off? "No wonder you were able to sleep for so long. I should have know," he berated himself. My rational side wanted to tell him that he shouldn't blame himself for something like this, but, with such a fuzzy brain, the command never reached my mouth. "Let's go downstairs," he continued. "I'll let Temari know you're sick, and maybe some food will do you some good." He grabbed my hand and started towards the door. That odd sensation overtook me once again, and, for reasons I couldn't understand, I wondered if I was blushing. Either way, the fever would have masked the presence of reddened cheeks.

It only took two steps for Shikamaru to realize that he was more dragging me than helping me along. "On second thought, maybe you should stay up here." Then, he picked me up, and that weird feeling intensified tenfold. I wanted to curl into Shikamaru and never leave; I wanted to melt into him so that I could be a part of him for all of eternity. Somewhere in my musings, I had actually closed my eyes and leaned into him.

I felt like crying when he gently laid me on the bed. He was kind enough to even pull the covers over me, but I barely noticed. I wished I could be surrounded by his warmth and scent forever. To drown in the essence that was Shikamaru.

"Gaara," he called softly, "I'm going to go tell Temari you're sick and grab our dinner." I just stared dazedly at him. "I'll be back soon; don't do anything stupid while I'm gone," he smiled, only to have it falter at my lack of response. I watched him leave, and as that door of mine closed with a soft click, for a moment there, I thought I felt my world dim and seem to fade away.

The next few minutes were chaos: a haze of leftover emotions, ordinary sounds and sights, and fever. It was a dizzy sight. The room seemed to gently rock back and forth, like the cabin in an old wooden ship. The rustle of the wind blowing through the trees became the distant crash of waves as the current carried my ship off. The world was reforming. When was the last time I had felt this lonely? The soft creak of the house settling lost its way from my ear to my brain; instead, I was certain that the creaking came from the foundation of my boat. It was too old; I would have to replace it before my next voyage. Assuming there was a next voyage, that is. These seas are dangerous, and you never know when you'll topple over the edge of the Earth.

Then it came: the telltale lurch right in the pit of my stomach. I was falling; my time had come. I had left the world I knew behind and crashing into oblivion. Nothing but me, the edge, and my vessel. Strangely, the lurch came again stronger than before, and I found myself crawling over to my trashcan. I retched, quickly emptying my stomach of all of its contents. Hot, salty, wet tears ran down my cheeks. I was crying; why was I crying? It was my time. I was going to die alone at sea, so I may as well accept it. But no matter what I told myself, the tears just kept falling. Soon, I would be sailing across the river Styx in my trusty ship; there was no avoiding it. I began to sob, choking as I retched again.

Then, it was over. I was lifted away from my body. Funny, I never thought being caught in death's cold clutches would feel so comforting. I must have been a better person than I thought, for this could be nothing but heaven. I relaxed; it smelled like Shikamaru. A voice. The first voice I had heard in a long while.

"Sorry…I'm so sorry." Sorry? Anyone who smelled like this would have to be an angel, and angels should never have to apologize. I allowed my eyes to flutter open. In my confusion, I could have sworn that it was Shikamaru looking down at me.

"Stupid, I'm so stupid! I never should have left you alone." That nasally voice was an exact replica of the one that I knew so well. If I hadn't known better, I would have bet money that it was truly Shikamaru beside me.

The angel sighed, gently tousling my hair, "You're can't even understand me right now. You're so troublesome."

"Shikamaru," I rasped softly, barely audible. I wasn't even sure why I called for him. Perhaps it was some sort of foolish hope, but why would Shikamaru be in the underworld with me?

"Yeah," he whispered, a soft smile directed at me, "it's me." Angels don't lie; it had to be Shikamaru. I couldn't hold back after that realization. I buried my face in his lap and cried like I had never cried before.

"Y-you came for m-me," I sobbed. "You came all this way to rescue me! Y-you f-followed me to the end of the Earth." From there, I completely broke down. He seemed so unsure as he gently rubbed my back and whispered, "Yeah, I suppose I did, and I'd do it again too." He just let me lie there in his lap, until I had lost my voice from all the crying, and my sobs became soft hiccups. He shushed me when I murmured a soft, "Thank you…" By then, I had forgotten the true reason for my gratitude. All that I knew was that I had my Shikamaru by my side, and that was enough to allow me to drift off into a sea of dreams.

Let me know if there are any major mistakes, yeah? I'm still a little shaky on the extended metaphor part, so tell me if you think it's too confusing. I can't guarantee when I'll update again (junior year and everything), but I'll try my best. Until next time!