Chapter Text
The immediate pity that filled the looks that came from Hashirama and Itama was not appreciated by Orochimaru. At all. Rogu’s death didn’t mean he needed pity, he has never needed pity for any reason though it seemed many didn’t believe that and would pity him for some reason or another. Though, it probably wasn’t something he should harp on now that it was over.
Mitsuki’s breaths are steady, coming stronger with each one and Orochimaru would thank the gods if the ones he has met hadn’t been bent on destroying the shinobi world. The desire to weep was not one he was familiar with as it had been decades since he had even shed a single tear. But relief was a strong emotion, one that made him determined to stick next to his child’s side until Mitsuki woke.
“You’re still bleeding,” Itama says, pacing behind the Sannin. “You’ll die, please let me take a look at your wounds!”
Orochimaru can’t fight a frown, glancing at his arm and scowling lightly at where the wound seemed to pulse under his sleeves. It should have healed by now, a handy side effect from Mokuton. If he had any less composure, the way he pulled at his kimono could have been seen as fitfully. “It should have healed itself by now if it was going to. And while I place Mitsuki’s care in your hands, I see no point in wasting your time with caring for me.” He replies simply, sighing under his breath as he carefully works open his nagajuban enough to let one side slide down over his shoulder.
“If you could bring me what I need to dress this wound, I would… appreciate it.”
Not something he would usually say, but if he wanted a safe place for Mitsuki to recover it meant staying on the narrow good side of Itama and Hashirama, as it was the only thing keeping Tobirama and Tōka from throwing them out. Itama looks displeased, eyebrows furrowing before the Senju sighs heavily, murmuring that he would be back in a moment as he left the room. Just as the door slides shut, the window slides open and Orochimaru swings his head around to mildly glare at whoever was trying to sneak in. Hashirama smiles at him before promptly going red in the face, covering his eyes with a squeak.
“I didn’t realize you were-! I can come back at another time! I’m sorry!” the Senju clan head babbles, taking approximately two steps away from the window before slipping off the walk with a squawk and a splash. More to see exactly what he could have landed in to make a splash, Orochimaru shoots to the window and leans out to see Hashirama spluttering in a koi pond. The brunet pushes his soaked hair out of his face, glancing up and immediately covering his eyes again with more muttered apologies.
How this man was considering the God of Shinobi was beyond even the Sannin’s comprehension, so he sighs and shakes his head. “What is it you want, once Itama returns I intend to give this wound the attention it needs.” Asks Orochimaru, carefully shifting his weight enough to ease the pressure on his ankle – not broken but sprained, which is just as annoying. Hashirama clears his throat a little, peeking between his fingers for a split second, asking if Orochimaru would like to fix his shirt before they talked.
Surely, surely this man – one of the strongest shinobi in all history – wasn’t so easily flustered that he couldn’t speak to another shinobi if they had their shirt off. “What for, have you not seen a man with his shirt off?” Orochimaru snaps, entirely irritated by the way this display was rapidly reminding him of… well. Sakumo and later Minato. Those ridiculous fools had too acted exactly like this, and never has Orochimaru understood why.
“Told you he was a man, Hashirama,” Itama says from behind him. Hashirama takes a few more peeks, slowly lowering his hands and flushing for a completely different reason this time.
“I thought you were a woman!”
Rolling his eyes so hard it hurt, Orochimaru turns and moves to study the items Itama had brought with him. Older tools, not the newer ones Orochimaru has grown accustomed to, but ones that certainly would have been used in this time. Not that it mattered as he could still use them well enough to deal with the cut in his arm.
Pulling himself out of the koi pond, Hashirama peers into room and watches in faint surprise as the shinobi takes a few – not all – of the items from Itama’s arms, sinking down to sit and turning his bright gaze on the weeping wound across his shoulder and down his bicep. “How did I manage to get this but not even scuff my clothing? This level of ridiculousness is nearly matched by Jiraiya.” He mutters, apparently already having disregarded them as he set to work on his injury. Itama looks partly aggrieved – about the shinobi or Hashirama, he didn’t know – as he bends down to place the rest of the items down, arranging them carefully even as Tobirama stumbles into the open door.
Hashirama hadn’t realized Tobirama was awake.
“Anija!” Tobirama snaps and it’s enough to make Hashirama climb through the window even though he was dripping wet.
“Tobirama, a child needed our help! You were only seeing the situation as Father would have!” he said quickly, stepping between his brother and the shinobi. Something flashes in Tobirama’s red eyes before it’s gone, smashed and buried just like Butsuma had taught them to do.
“I don’t care about the child anymore, anija, I’m more worried by him!”
“I did the only thing I could that would get Mitsuki the help he needed, yet keep you alive.” The shinobi cuts in, efficiently making everyone fall silent to instead look at him. Obviously practiced in wrapping wounds, the shinobi wasn’t even looking as his hands carefully wrapped bandages around his shoulder and arm. “I have many efficient, deadly seals up my sleeves. To put it simply. I used one I would only bother to use on a genin, or maybe even a lesser chunin. If I was kind enough.”
Tobirama visibly bristles taking a breath in order to say something, and Hashirama gets ready to cut him off-
“Even so, I stand by what I told you earlier. Mitsuki is still to the mercy of your medics, but shall he die.” He doesn’t even need to continue, everyone knows it clearly and Tobirama scowls furiously, grabbing at Hashirama’s arm to haul him towards the hallway. The Senju clan head goes, looking at Itama over his shoulder in a silent request. Itama nods once, flashing him a reassuring smile before beginning to help the shinobi tie off the bandages.
“Do you really trust them, anija?” Tobirama wants to know the immediate second there are at least five rooms between them and the three they left. A little frustrated – because why can’t Tobirama just accept that even if the shinobi had punched him it doesn’t mean he is their enemy – Hashirama sighs, long and slow. Convincing Tobirama to trust them was going to be difficult, but he was sure he could do it eventually. Itama would probably help if he asked.