The Flower Shop [A Gaara Love Story]

37: The Endless Ballroom

A/N: I wanted to address something that I think may raise a few questions. I really wanted to explore the idea of Gaara's sand being it's own separate entity to him (since it is, canonically, his mother) so I'm playing with the idea that it's able to and does actively function without him. Some of you may not agree with that idea, so I wanted to address it before the start of this arc.

As always, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

——

Someone was saying his name.

It could have been a citizen, a coworker, a councilman, or his siblings. There was a hand on his arm, someone trying to talk to him, but the only thing he could focus on were the embers at his feet and the golden hair held tightly in his fist.

He should have stayed. He should have been there. He should have saved her.

He knew she wasn't dead; whoever had taken her had made it a point to let him know that by leaving her hair outside. They wanted him to know she didn't die in the fire, she was just gone. He didn't know what to focus on: who had taken her, where she was, if she was alright, the smell of carbon in the air, the bubbling anger in his blood. He wanted to scream, tear apart every inch of the Land of Wind until he found her again, but all he could do right now was stare at the ashes.

Sand twirled the strands of her hair before moving to brush against his white knuckles in a way he knew was meant to comfort. Maybe it had comforted him once before, but it didn't now. The sand brushed his skin again but Gaara didn't turn his eyes away. Instead he stood, shoulders trembling, someone still talking to him, and tried to find the reason amongst the rage.

"I don't know what you are," He spoke, his words low and dangerous, and the sand stilled against his skin, "But I need your help."

The sand moved again, now with a frenzy as it swirled up his arm and seemed to wrap tightly around it as though it was waiting for his next command.

"Find her."

It fell from him to the ground, and Gaara finally turned his eyes from the embers to watch the way tendrils of sand circled his feet for a moment before scurrying away in every direction.

Whoever had taken her was going to pay. Dearly.

The first thing she felt was someone's hands running through her hair.

Next was how cold it was, the draft on the back of her neck, and how cool the surface she laid on was.

Last was the pain in her wrists, her shoulders, and then the rest of her body.

She shifted, groaned, and it took a moment for the world to come back into view as she opened her eyes. Every part of her ached and every subtle movement made her joints scream with strain. The more aware she became, the more aware she was of how her arms were fixed behind her back by some kind of metal cuffs.

At first she was confused, unable to understand where she was or what was going on, until the memories came flooding back and she sat up with a start. The fingers left her hair, and the movement was followed by a yelp as a sharp pain shot up her back.

"Shh," A smooth voice soothed and the hands were back, "The more you move, the more it'll hurt."

Momoko turned her eyes from the stone floor and looked up, trailing over a clean satin kimono the color of ivory and crimson, up an exposed chest and to two amber eyes that stared intently down at her.

His face was sharp, his nose a little pointed and his smile sickeningly sweet. Long ivory hair flowed down his shoulders in a straight white curtain, pooling on the floor as he sat in front of her. His skin was paler than anyone she had seen before, nearly the color of his hair and kimono. Just as the rest of his face, his gaze was sharp and a little cold, despite the warm hues of amber that looked down at her. When he reached out for her again, Momoko noticed how his nails were long and finely pointed.