Chapter Text
“Blood red hair. Like his father.”
“Such long fingers!” exclaimed a young voice, gentle and wondering.
“And those lashes—”
“Same bloody path as the father, do you think?” a gruff voice interjected.
“How can you say such a thing!” protested the younger. “Look at him sleep. So innocent.”
“The mother’s a shinobi, too,” someone else reminded.
“Such is the world we live in,” said the gruff one. “He’ll know his path soon enough.”
The babe opened his eyes. Silently, he surveyed the adults crowded around his crib. He didn’t fidget or fuss. He blinked. Small, unsteady hands waved in the air, clenching and unclenching tiny fists. Not a sound slipped from his lips. When he failed to find what he sought in the sea of faces, a furrow appeared on his brow.
“He ought to cry, or something,” someone muttered. “Right?”
“Aunty, he’s awake!” the youngest called over her shoulder. “Can I hold him?”
“Oh!” came the reply.
The babe perked up at the sound of this voice. His eyes searched the parting sea, and he cooed in delight to be swept into a curtain of soft brown hair.
“No, I’m sorry, but he’s very particular.” Mother’s voice resonated from her chest directly into his little body. He molded himself to her, clumsily threading thin fingers through her fine locks. “He will only be held by me, or his father. Cries like a demon, otherwise.”
Mother carried on speaking, gently bouncing and swaying as she elaborated on her precious one’s idiosyncrasies. The babe was content but alert. Busy little hands wove through Mother’s hair: he was looking for something.
When he found it, he yanked hard.
“Ow, ow! Sasori, let go!” Mother laughed, tugging a braided strand free from his grasp. The braid was wrapped in red string—a traditional decoration for new mothers.
“How did he know it was there?” the young one asked. She stepped closer, and offered a finger for little Sasori to grip. He wasn’t interested.
“Red is one of the first colors a baby’s developing eyes are able to distinguish,” Mother explained. “He started obsessing over my braid at about two months, I think?” She smiled fondly at the memory before remembering that she had an audience. “My husband can tell you more about it. He’s read just about everything there is on child care!”
With strength and ease that could only come from years of physical training, she switched Sasori’s position in her arms, cradling his still-developing neck in the crook of her elbow while balancing his growing body in her palm. He still groped for her hair; she smiled at the happy nonsense noises he made.
“You’d think it was just the two of you in this whole world,” the young one sighed. “He doesn’t care a bit that this party is to celebrate his Hundred-Days, and that all these people are here to see him!”
“He’s three months old!” Mother exclaimed, punctuating her words with playful laughter. “What do you expect? He can barely hold his own head up, let alone recognize who all of you—”
“He knows you,” the young one countered with a tinge of jealousy.
“I’m his mother,” she murmured, bringing her face close to nuzzle Sasori’s plump cheek. He squealed and smiled.
As she pulled away, Sasori caught sight of something by the door. Those clustered around followed his gaze, and instantly recognized the red-haired man entering the room.
“And look at that! He knows his father!”
“I’m not too late, I hope?” Father called from the door, smiling at his wife and son.
“Just in time to tell everyone about Sasori’s developing senses,” Mother replied, smiling back.
“Ah yes!” Father said excitedly, rushing over. He planted a kiss on Sasori’s forehead before turning to address his audience. “Did you know that the first color they see is red?” Mother rolled her eyes—she’d heard this a thousand times already. “They only see black and white—light and dark—at first, and—well, it isn’t that they can’t see color, it’s just…”
~
Blood oozed slowly from the cut on Sasori’s finger. He watched it with fascination: a shining orb of red, glistening in golden morning sunlight.
The next second it was gone, wiped away by Mother’s clean gauze.
“You have to be more careful, little one!” she admonished, working swiftly to disinfect and bind the cut. “Stay out of Daddy’s bags, alright?” Over her shoulder, she called: “Dear, you must keep your things out of his reach. He’s at that age where he’ll explore anything he can get into.”
“I know, I know,” Father called from the workshop.
Sasori strained in his mother’s arms: he wanted to go look. When Mother was out, Father would sit him on his lap as he worked, surrounded by the scent of wood shavings and metal polish. The rest of the time, when both of them were out, the door to the workshop was locked.
“Why don’t you take him outside for a bit, dear?” Mother sighed, frowning at the greedy look in Sasori’s eyes. “Get some fresh air, the both of you. It’s your day off—you should spend it with your son.”
Father paused.
Wooden stool legs scraped on stone; whispering footsteps approached.
“Let’s all go out, hm?” Father murmured, kneeling beside them. “Who knows when we’ll get another chance like this?”
Sasori cuddled into the shared embrace, and then lifted his finger to inspect it.
Specks of blood had soaked through the gauze, dying the threads a brilliant red.
“Look!” he said, holding it up for his parents to see.
“Oh!” Mother immediately reached into the first-aid for more gauze to wrap around the cut. “Hold your finger up high, little one!”
“That’s right, Sasori. You see, the blood needs time to clot—”
“Don’t bore him with the science,” Mother laughed, getting to her feet. “Come, let’s take a walk…”
~
Blood-red rays of a setting sun seeped through the curtains. Dinner for two was laid out on the kitchen table.
“Why aren’t Mother and Father home yet?” Sasori asked as he settled into his seat. The chair was much too large for him.
“They are on a mission, Sasori-chan,” Grandma Chiyo replied lightly.
“I know. You said so already. When will they be back?”
“Soon enough.”
Sasori frowned. “You’ve been saying that for weeks.”
“Eat your dinner, Sasori-chan.”
Light faded from the room. Sasori stared at his plate. The twists of noodles in red sauce reminded him of something…
“I don’t think they’re coming back,” he said in a small voice.