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Orochimaru says god doesn’t exist. Hidan says Orochimaru is full of shit.
What they can agree on is this: that the soul exists, and that death is not the end of it. But what happens after is where their paths diverge, and diverge violently. It is something they spend hours bickering over in the very short period after the Jashinist joins the Akatsuki, and before the Sannin leaves, over spilled tea and sake cups, between bloody rituals and bloodier experiments.
Orochimaru knows reincarnation as fact: He has worn enough bodies to prove it. Even this one, rotting from his shoulders down, is a testament to the cyclic nature of life, as he hops from one shell to the next.
Like a flea. Like a tick.
And, like a parasite reaching the end of its life, Orochimaru lays there, black hair plastered against sallow skin, gold eyes trained on the sliding screen door. He licked his cracked lips, tasting copper. Ash.
Where is that brat...
It’s a nice safe house, all things considered. Tatami floors and rice paper walls, with a modern finish. With ink snakes crawling over all surfaces, it is, perhaps, not the most subtle. But it works for a hideout. It will suffice as an operation room.
And, if all else fails, it will make a lovely grave.
“Damn it,” he hisses. An attempt to sit ends in quiet writhing, cracked nails clawing at his futon. “We don’t have... much time,” he gasps, breath puffing against their sullied sheets.
“Yeah yeah, hold your horses—” The door flies open, a light haired young man slumping into the safe house. “Honey, I’m home!”
The slam of the door knocks him out of his stupor. One quick inhale, and Orochimaru is bristling, thin bones and pale face disappearing under a glare.
“Hidan!” Orochimaru snaps. “Where the hell were you?”
“Since when did you believe in hell?” Hidan snorts, raising a plastic bag. “Getting takeout. Duh.”
“Hell is a state of being,” Orochimaru replies, “not a place.”
It’s an argument they’ve had too many times to count.
“Whatever.” Hidan sets down the takeout, then an unconscious woman, next to Orochimaru. Pale skinned, dark haired... a slim but strong figure. Exactly to my specifications, Orochimaru observes, biting down a snide retort.
Hidan was good at picking out victims, if nothing else.
Plastic rustles around as he bites his tongue, rummaging around in the bag. “Almost, almost... got it!” Hidan grins, lifting a syringe triumphantly.
“So you aren’t completely incompetent,” Orochimaru huffs, falling back into bed. “If you don’t get me in that body now, so help me...”
“You’ll, what? Die?”
A taunt.
“Maybe so,” the snake sannin diplomatically replies. “Maybe not. It all remains unclear.”
Hidan shivers at his wide, thin smile. Then he smirks back.
“Maybe I’ll wait, and you can visit hell yourself.” He laughs.
“And then how will we learn about your immortality?” the snake sannin shoots back. “Shall you summon me from the beyond? Mm?”
“Oh... right, hah.” Hidan rubs his head, sheepishly ruffling silver hair. “Forgot,” he adds, dimples curling quite cutely.
Golden eyes flick away. “Silly boy,” Orochimaru lightly reprimands, throwing his head back to chuckle. “Since you're so insistent, I’ll indulge my survival instincts, just this once. Go on and inject the painkillers.”
“God punishes those with no sympathy for others,” Hidan murmurs, tip-tip-tapping the syringe.
“Or, sensitive operations are easier when your patient isn’t squirming about,” Orochimaru dryly replies. “Screaming gives them wrinkles. I don’t enjoy crows’ feet, Hidan.”
“Vain bastard.” He jabs the woman. “Fine. We’ll fix you up, nice and pretty.”
“Again, and again, and again...”
“That’s life,” Hidan bluntly retorts. “You die.”
“How poetic,” Orochimaru comments, closing his eyes, and opening his jaw wide. A forked tongue flickers out, followed by two snakes. Then another. More.
“Hate this part,” Hidan mutters, turning his back on the hissing mass. He flips open the takeout, casually snapping open chopsticks. “So gross. So, so, so gross. Fuck.” He crams a wad of sticky rice into his mouth. Swallows. “Gross...”
The transfer process takes a lot of time and energy. Yet within the hour, the deed is done, and the snake has exchanged one skin for another. A fresher Orochimaru slips into a new robe, with lotus roots running down the sleeves, hair pinned into a bun that shows off the curve of his neck. Beautiful, for now.
Without a word, he accepts a takeout container from Hidan, and, just as quietly, begins to nibble on egg noodles, watching his partner exorcise so-called 'bad spirits' with a prayer.
It’s really strange, how thoughtful he can be.