(Wo)man of my life!

(Wo)man of my life!

Chapter 3


‘Caramelldansen’ was not the kind of alarm bell that could be ignored for long, no matter how asleep one was. It’s taken less than 5 seconds for Gaara to switch from more-or-less sleeping to ready to scream bloody murder.

One pale hand shot from under the bed sheets and groped the surface of the bedside table, pushing aside sleeping tablets, empty wine glasses, some change and various pieces of jewelry until it finally latched on a slim black cell phone, and flipped it open.

With blood red hair pointing in all directions and teal eyes foggy in both anger and sleep, Sabaku no Gaara emerged from under his silky covers.

“The fuck, Kankuro! Stop messing with my bloody ringtone!” he snarled.

He heard the quiet laugh of his older brother, who obviously could still manage to pull a stupid prank and grate on his nerves while being on the other side of the planet.

“Sorry, little bro.” he answered, not sounding the least apologetic. “I had to pick one I was sure you couldn’t sleep through.”

Gaara grunted, absentmindedly adjusting the strap of his cream coloured negligee.

“So, how did it go?” he asked.

“Nicely. Nearly every person we invited was there, plus some nice additions.”

Gaara listened to his brother’s report. If Temari’s cold business genius made her the top executive of Sabaku Corps while Gaara, the genial stylist, was in charge of designing their product line, Kankuro was undoubtedly their field man. He was good at charming and manipulating people and forging strong ties, commercial or further, with them.

They had sent him to organize the opening of their new shop in Paris, Bd Saint Honoré. Though they already have, like any self-respecting fashion brand, a shop in Saint Germain, le boulevard Saint Honoré was where the money was. Kankurou would ensure that all the right people would be there for the grand opening.

The red head reached for his cigarette case. He lit one and deeply inhaled the sweet toxic fumes.

“Gaara, are you smoking again?!” his brother’s sharp tone sliced abruptly through his conscience.

“Absolutely not!” he lied, while guiltily stubbing the burning end of his cig on his mule’s heel.

He didn’t really smoke…. And more than ever not when Temari and Kankuro were nearby and discreetly sniffing at his hair.

“Hm,” said Kankuro “and how was last night for you?”

“Boring.” he answered, his automatic response for any kind of event in which he had to play his part as the Sabaku heir. Damn Temari and her deadly PMSing mood swings that forced him to cover for her. Then a memory rose to the surface of his mind, of blond hair, blue eyes and alcoholic breath.

“There was that guy…” his hand went up to cradle his shoulder, a bit strained from moving the hulking mass of the assaulting blond. “He was a bit too familiar…I beat him up.”

“A guy? From our company? Did he hurt you?” Gaara rolled his eyes at his brother’s tone. First the smoke, now this. Kankuro could be oddly overprotective, especially considering that they had not been on speaking terms less than a decade ago.

“Not from the company, no, and it’s alright, he was drunk, but totally inoffensive” ‘If damn heavy’. “He did not hurt me.”

In fact, sore shoulder apart, Gaara probably hurt him more. Particularly if you took in account the humiliation that guy would felt once he’ll sober up enough to realize that: a) he had been flirting with a guy in a dress b) he had been totally owned by a guy in a dress.

That kind of thought would usually bring a smirk on Gaara’s lips but now he felt strangely… sad.

This guy’s eyes… they have been burning with a flame he usually associated with Lee-san’s passionate speeches about the joy of sports. He had watched him with such intensity, with burning eyes that were seemingly looking right at the core of him and seemingly loving what they saw. Gaara felt a shudder travel up his spine at the memory of that heated stare.

‘Must be nice,’ he thought, a tad bitterly ‘to be looked at that way, on a regular basis.' Of course, that blond had been a complete drunk cretin, but Gaara couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous of the girl he would finally choose to love.

“Gaara, you still here?” His brother’s voice brought the redhead abruptly back to present.

“When will you be back?” he pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Focus,’ he thought ‘No time to brood today, you’re meeting the Italians at two, and they’ll eat you alive if you’re not careful.’

“Tomorrow eve. Temari gave me a foot long shopping list before I went, care to add something? Oh wait,” Kankuro added, his voiced laced with amusement. “I passed Chantal Thomass’ shop today. I think I’m going to pick you a surprise.”

Gaara felt a prickle of heat color his cheeks. Over protectiveness apart, there were undoubtedly some perks in having a brother that knows your tastes enough to pick tasteful underwear for you.

“If you have the time.” He answered, trying not to show his eagerness at the idea of putting his hand on one of Thomass’ sinful black corsets. Judging by the slight chuckle that escaped his brother, he had totally failed.

After a few more exchanges, Gaara finally hung up. He looked with regrets at his rumpled –but inviting- bed; even though he was not a heavy sleeper, it did not mean that he did not appreciate lounging in it with a book or his sketchpad. He sighed; today he was not allowed too: he has to kick some business men’s asses, in lieu of Temari.

He rose from the bed, pushing the slim and slippery fabric of his nightshirt over his head and letting it fall on the wooden floor for Genma, his male cleaning maid, to pick up.

Completely naked save for his mules, he padded across his bedroom to join the adjacent bathroom. He stalked directly toward the large shower stall, not sparing one glance to his reflection in the mirror. Then he turned the handles of the shower to full blast, letting the scalding hot water chase away the last grogginess clinging to his mind before the soap and shampoo took a more active role in chasing away the grit and the smell of smoke acquired the evening before.

He finally stepped out of the shower, drying himself on a fluffy white towel that he carelessly dropped, still for Genma to find. The mirror was now covered with fog, blurring everything beyond recognition, so Gaara felt comfortable enough to linger a bit in the bathroom and brush his teeth and put on some moisturizing cream.

Once done with his ablutions, he quietly reached the favorite part of his apartment: his walk-in closet. It was not as much a walk-in closet as an independent room, if one were to judge by its size. Gaara had to sacrifice the guest room to achieve enough space for his ever-growing collection of clothes, shoes, and underwear. Of course, between keeping a room to host a very much hypothetical friend and preventing his precious wardrobes from being crammed in an unfitting closet, the choice had not been that hard.

He knelt before his underwear drawers, eyeing the little heaps of satin, silk and lace with a slight smile, until his mouth curled in a more contemplative frown. What to wear? Since he had to meet some business men today, he’ll avoid wearing his most feminine articles of clothing. Not out of shame, but because even if most people expected eccentricities from a well-known fashion designer (like pearl earrings, kilt wearing, lacy gloves and fans…) they still weren’t prepared for one going to full-woman attire.

Furthermore, it would be tiring to have them gawking at him the whole afternoon. He HAD to make progress in the negotiations of those damn contracts or Temari would go after his ass.

That meant that he’ll have to tone down a bit his outfit today… but he fully intend to compensate by wearing extravagant underwear.

His eyes shone when he finally came across the pair he was looking for. He held them up with a flourish: it was indeed one of the most flamboyant pair of boxers he owned, if only by their colours. For once, they were pink, a color he usually found hideous everywhere except on the top of Dr. Haruno’s head. It was not a mute, flesh, or old rose pink, but a vibrant one, that should clash with his vermillion hair but strangely didn’t.

They were made of silk, and shaped like a mini skirt, with a few layers of wavy cloths adorning it. They bunched up nicely on his rear, giving the illusion of a shapely bottom, which was appreciable, because if Gaara has to admit that there was one area of his body that needed encouragement it was his ass which might be a teensy bit on the scrawny side.

He pulled them on, a tiny sigh of appreciation escaping his lips at the feel of silk on his skin. Then he fished for a matching pair of stockings, and found a pair of light taupe ones with a violet lacy top and slipped into them with a quickness and efficiency that would have made the most veteran lingerie model whistle in appreciation.

He clipped them to the pink suspenders adorning his boxers, and sauntered toward the part of the room where he kept his more…manly garments. He wrinkled his nose at the various suits hanging in front of him. They were all very fine –hell, he had created them, of course they were- but he was definitely uncomfortable wearing them. After some pondering, he selected a pair of light grey pants with thin white strips, and the matching three buttons jacket.

He was about to take them when he noticed a shape behind the suits. There, laying abandoned in a place where its owner did not often wandered, was the first item of clothing –or rather, accessory- he created. The calabash-shaped bag was worn-out and threadbare, just like the soul of the boy who had once sewn it together in Suna’s House for Juvenile Offenders, and stuffed with all the remains of that boy’s life.

Gaara watched it for a moment, wondering why he couldn’t find the courage to throw it away, before silently pushing the door close. He forcefully brought his mind back to the present, and moved toward the place where the only item of clothing that would make wearing the suit bearable was.

It was a blood-red waistcoat, made in thick satin and for a woman to wear -obviously; a man’s one wouldn’t dip so low in the back and would have short sleeves. That waistcoat only had two large buttons in front, and a collard to maintain it up. It left the shoulders and most of his back bare, which was how Gaara liked it best. It would still give him an androgynous look, only morphing to professional once he put the jacket –something he’ll do only for the meeting.

He quickly put on his clothes, and walked back to the bathroom.

Ventilation had kicked in and the fog had completely left the mirror, but it did not bother him; once he had his clothes, he did not avoid his reflection.

Sure enough, the redhead man looking back at him was eons away from the angry and wild and pathetic boy he previously had been, unloved by the two persons who should have cherished him the most, and loved by another for very, very wrong reasons.

Though, maybe because of his unwilling encounter with the remains of his past or the fact that his figure was more boyish than usual, he felt some disquiet rose in him, the uneasy feeling showing up in his eyes and briefly clouding his brilliant jade eyes in familiar pain.

He shook himself, and deliberately carried on with his morning routine, intent on broadening the wedge between himself and the ghost he could see in the mirror. First, he combed his hair, and then fluffed it a bit with his fingers. He had considered letting it grow, just because he would have a considerably larger choice of hairstyles. He gave up upon realizing that he had inherited the same kind of hair as Temari, which meant his locks wouldn’t grow into a slick, docile and shiny mane that could be tamed into nearly everything, but rather into wild curls that could only be disciplined through gravity-defying hairstyles, such as -shudders- four ponytails.

Besides, he thought that he was mistaken for a girl enough as it was. Despite loving women’s clothes, and wearing them on a regular basis, he strongly disliked being taken for one. It was mostly due to the fact that in nearly everyone’s mind –even girls’- lingered the notion that any female trait was tainted with weakness.

Of course, that was pure crap. Anyone who knew his older sister couldn’t nurse that kind of ideas for long. The eldest Sabaku fought dirtier and meaner than a whole team of testosterone-riddled rugby players. But Gaara did not care for being even thought of as weak, so he made no special effort to appear overly feminine, never trying to soften his voice or curb his rude manners. Well, if being feminine was mistaken for being soft-spoken, sweet-mannered, smiling and well-behaved, then Gaara was undoubtedly male. But then again, if you followed that logic, so was Temari.

He let go of his hair and turned to his favourite activity: the make-up. First came the eyeliner, hiding the ever-present bruises around his eyes, born from too little sleep and natural paleness, the kind that give bags easily. He could have used concealing stuff, but the kohl was also helping for his lack of eyebrows, preventing his face for being too bland from its lack of colors, while deepening and enhancing his pale jade stare. Today he even added a bit of eye shadow, going for a ‘smoke eye’ look that was fitting for his androgynous outfit.

Then would come the tattoo, and whether he wanted it covered or not. His own aesthetician had refused to sell him foundation, explaining that selling something that would cover his perfect skin would be against –of all things- deontology. Gaara had pointed at his tattoo and the professional had finally relented and directed him toward heavy concealing products. But that was still a bit of work, so the ‘Ai’ symbol had become the distinctive mark of Gaara the Stylist, and the days where he chose to conceal it, he would wear it on other part of his body; discreetly painted on a nail or in bold, red strokes across his whole face. Today he chose to let it show on his forehead, and even highlighted it with a bit of red glitter paint.

He would finally finish up with the lipstick, or rather, its absence of it. With his naturally full lips and heart-shaped face, the redhead thought that painted lips made him look like a whore. He usually settled for a beige or flesh-coloured gloss, like today, or just a bit of chapstick.

He set to work, his motions quick and efficient but also careful and, well, caring. For Gaara, make-up was the quintessence of ‘prettying up’, and he relished in it. It was astonishing for him that people thought women to be the most selfless creatures, the image of devotion, when they invented such a morning ritual, something that was the ultimate homage one can pay to their own bodies. Each stroke of the brush on his eyelid, each sweep of gloss across his lips; in his mind it was like a caress to his ego, another stone to help build the image of himself that was in his head.

Quickly, that image began to take form in the mirror. Gone the pathetic boy, loved by no one, feared by everyone: now staring back at him was Sabaku no Gaara, designer extraordinaire, successful owner of his own brand at the tender age of twenty three, and feared but respected co-owner of Sabaku Corps. He lifted his chin, the hint of a smile tugging the corners of his lips up: and he was damn sexy to boot. His mind called back the memory of the blonde man with burning eyes, and he gave a real smile while a -now pleasant- shudder traveled up his spine. Now he can see why that man had looked at him in such a way.

He turned his face, left and right, to survey his handiwork, and adjust one last time his clothes, straightening up the collard, smoothing a crease…He checked his ass in the mirror and nodded. Time to go.

He chose the most depressing pair of shoes he owned, a pair of Gucci (what else for a grey suit?) that looked out of place next to his buoyant Manolos and Louboutins. He picked up a Sabaku handbag, one with the stylised hourglass that served as a logo for the brand on the handle, and large enough to contain his whole life, namely, his mobile, a novel, his organizer, a small sketchpad, a small mirror, a few mints…

He left his apartment and called a cab. It took him the whole route to listen to the message his sister left him, full of instructions and general nagging about the afternoon’s meeting, then to read the texts she wrote after she exploded for good his voicemail.

He was just done and closing his cell phone when he passed the threshold of Sabaku Corps’ building. Momentary distracted, he failed to see the tall figure that was ready to leave the edifice. Only when two strong hands closed on his bare shoulders, preventing him from bumping in their owner, he looked up, startled.

His eyes were suddenly locked with familiar, deep blue ones.


-TBC-


Wow. At some point I was afraid that this chapter was going to be the shortest… and it’s the longest. Oh, well, Gaara had little screentime till now, hadn’t he? XD

And Gaara has the same ringtone as Naruto… I’m not growing senile; it’s a plot device in case I decided to write the half-formed sequel that’s in my mind (just like the too-sensible elevator from the previous chapter).

Anyway, next chapter is… the last! That is, unless I wrote the sequel.

See you next time! Don’t forget to show your appreciation of Gaara’s panties and REVIEW!