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It’s the same every day, this winding walk down busy streets and quiet alleyways. The outskirts of Konoha’s main thoroughfare haven’t changed in decades. Day in and day out, the path itself is a constant that Sakumo knows he can depend on; the same buildings, faces, sounds, and smells. A rare liminal space that has remained unchanging with the years, from Sakumo’s boyhood to the halcyon days courting his late wife.
These lonelier walks at dusk cast the path in further shadows—shadows he can feel in the depths of his soul.
The oncoming threat of a storm presses him to make haste, but his movements hold their pace, as if the threat will only serve to steady him with its promise of risk. His steps divert through a narrow alleyway, retracing the shortcut he’s taken since childhood, and once again he finds comfort in the familiarity of a routine he knows by heart.
It’s the small things that give Sakumo something to cling to now that so many former joys have been lost.
These small things are rare, precious really, considering how unmoored he's been since his wife’s passing. His Tsukiko's namesake might have been the moon, but in reality, his wife was as the earth beneath his feet, and he, the hapless moon suspended in orbit around her. Now that she’s gone, there is so little left to keep him grounded that Sakumo is almost certain that even something as small as a wayward breeze might sweep him off his feet.
Most days he feels as if his only tether to the ground is the one part of his beloved that still remains on this plane of existence; a small piece of immortality bound in a tiny boy with her radiant smile. There may be a new brightness to orbit within his small son, but even so, fatherhood seems an endeavor that Sakumo is destined to fail. Kakashi does not seem to hold his father's fumblings against him, but at three years of age, such measures are impossible to gauge.
His gaze drifts skyward as the shadows begin to morph and change. The sky above is as dark and clouded as his thoughts and mood. The scent of ozone is more intense now, and the storm is a looming presence, a phantasmal shadow waiting to catch them all unaware, to drench the village in cold rain. Even with his sense of smell to guide him, Sakumo has still never been able to pinpoint the exact moment when the sky might finally open up and spill its sadness upon all the unwitting civilians milling about.
The clouds continue their melancholic dance above, obscuring the waning light, and his thoughts drift to and fro with each and every new footfall set along the cracked pavement. Sakumo can hear the faraway sounds of the last Academy bells, and he finds himself caught in another lost reverie when a figure seems to materialize mere centimeters in front of him, avoiding collision only by virtue of their usual grace.
Grace, as it were, seems to be the last thing Sakumo possesses. Serpentine pupils narrow, centering him in their sights as the snake Sannin swiftly pivots to create space between himself and Sakumo, taking care to avert his gaze the moment after Sakumo's eyes meet his own.
“My apologies.” Orochimaru’s voice, when it comes, resounds in a low tenor — gravelly and dry, as if he’s not had cause to use it for a while.
They are peers, once of a slightly more robust acquaintance than the one that exists between them now, the latter once held together by virtue of the other two Sannin perpetuating socialization between their teams. With the dissolution of Team Hiruzen, however, it’s been an age and a half since Sakumo last caught so much as a singular sighting of the snake summoner not on official business or flanked by Shimura Danzo.
“No, no, I should have been paying attention to where I was going — my surroundings, all that…” Sakumo insists, trying to find a way to sidestep without the awkward human dance that often follows these sorts of incidents.
The dance happens despite his best efforts, despite all attempts made by either of the two Jounin. Instead of a simple sidestep, both mirror each other unintentionally, likely in part because both are master swordsmen, and trained to react. Sakumo is so used to parrying blows in a spar that it’s like a reflex, with three instinctive movements in succession, until he pauses in motion and considers the totality of Orochimaru’s bearing.
Sakumo usually looks to the direction of an opponent’s feet and fixes his attention to their center of gravity, though Orochimaru is not an opponent at all. He’s a comrade that the Hatake has always wanted to spar, and is aghast to realize that he never has had that pleasure. Not in full, at any rate; not in anything more than cursory demonstration for young Genin.
As Sakumo studies Orochimaru in earnest, it’s his eyes that catch Sakumo’s notice first. They hold a manic, almost despairing look; one the Hatake recognizes all too well. One like so many comrades he’s stood next to on the battlefield, facing certain death while desperate to live.
It's also an expression that he sees in the mirror every morning while thinking acidic, hateful thoughts. Thoughts that corrode his will. Thoughts that make him forget his son, his village, and everything he has left to live for.
I don’t think I can save myself.
This clandestine despair scenting the air between them is matched — it's mutual. Neither are alone in it, and the realization forces words from Sakumo's lips before he even has a chance to consider what they truly mean.
“Say… Orochimaru, do you feel like grabbing a bite to eat?”
Gleaming golden eyes widen in stunned surprise, and Sakumo watches the Sannin swallow before answering, Orochimaru's voice a measure less rough. “Please don’t feel obligated to such things, it was a literal misstep on both our parts—”
“That’s not why I’m asking,” Sakumo affects a smile in an attempt to disarm the other, calling upon skills he's not exercised in some time. He was once extremely good at the art of charm and persuasion, perhaps he may be good at it again, even if only by these half measures. “The weather’s turning bad and something hot sounds nice, right? Company might be nice too, at least I think so.”
It comes out all wrong, in awkward platitudes that make Sakumo cringe, that make his stomach churn as he awaits the inevitability of rejection. Which is why it's Sakumo's turn to be surprised when Orochimaru responds as he does.
As the serpent straightens his shoulders, a shining lock of night-dark hair falls in front of his otherwise brilliant eyes, obscuring the Sannin’s expression, but his words remain clear. “Very well, then. I do have a few loose ends to organize at the lab first, if you wouldn’t mind waiting… or accompanying me there?”
Once again, Sakumo responds on impulse, as if these potential activities were commonplace. “Oh! No, I wouldn’t mind at all, and the labs are on the way to a good spot.”
“You’re certain?” Orochimaru’s head tilts to the left, as he scrutinizes the elder jounin, and for some reason Sakumo itches to push back that meddlesome lock of hair if only so that he can see the other’s face more clearly.
Something the Sannin observes while looking back at Sakumo meets some silent form of approval and he nods slightly in acknowledgement, in assent. “As you like. It shouldn’t take very long, but I was called to give a report and would have otherwise continued my work through the evening… if we had not collided.”
It’s not a lie. Orochimaru may consider himself a consummate liar for the sake of their profession itself, but to him the act of immediately reaching for falsehood has always seemed the work of a lesser mind. He prides himself on being masterful enough with spinning facts into a web so complex and multifaceted that he can often simply avoid lies altogether, at least when dealing with people who matter.
Hatake is hardly one of those, not even a friend if Orochimaru even has such in this village any longer, but he is a peer, a comrade in arms that the snake Sannin has never had cause to disrespect.
This is more than can be said of most of the shinobi of their generation; even his own teammates, both presumably as far away from the village as each might possibly get, leaving him here to rot. Of the three, Orochimaru stands alone in upholding a loyalty that feels ever displaced, as the years keep ticking away one by one.
No, the White Fang is another who doesn’t lie, at least not now, and if he had, Orochimaru would smell the deception on him as easily as breathing. Hatake Sakumo always reeks of honor and has somehow never seemed to have fallen short of it, so for that reason Orochimaru doesn’t simply reach for an easy excuse to avoid further proximity.
The edge of hope sparking within Hatake’s dark eyes almost gives him cause to regret it. Almost. Better to scare him away with the very same truths Orochimaru can spin into discomfort for others so very easily.
When Orochimaru finds himself sealing up his newest cadavers and tissue samples in preparation for cold storage accompanied by a nearly smiling Hatake Sakumo, he finds himself slightly perplexed. First, because Hatake is not ruffled by the macabre nature of the work lying before him, and secondly because he’s at ease.
Few people have ever held such ease in his presence, save two no longer present in Konoha, and another lost to this world altogether. Jiraiya, Tsunade, Dan Kato.
In subtle ways, Sakumo reminds him of all three; peculiar, and rather unexpected. Unsettling to a degree, and Orochimaru is not accustomed to feeling unsettled. He is usually the one inflicting such a torment on others, if only to make them leave him to his solitude.
"Is your project on a need-to-know basis or classified? Can you tell me about it at all?" Sakumo asks, gazing along the line of the skillfully wrought sutures that secure the fresh incisions crossing the flesh of the next cadaver that Orochimaru begins sealing.
"Not expressly classified, no. Hokage-sama allows me a bit of a wide berth to pursue certain objectives so long as they benefit the war effort. At present, I’m working to perfect the systemic agent of a new poison. The refined version, when applied as a component of the ink on an explosive tag, causes neurotoxic effects upon ignition,” Orochimaru muses, eyes locked upon his work. “It spreads through the pores and…"
This sort of social interaction is a slippery slope, the serpent knows this all too well. As he elaborates on such subjects, his discourse can quickly become too detailed, too excited, and such verbalizations are usually met with glazed over eyes or certain horror from comrades and apprentices alike. This may be the key — a few more intentional and graphically rendered pushes toward discomfort and the Hatake is certain to find himself suitably unnerved and perhaps even halt his friendly overtures.
Orochimaru hazards an upward glance, but to his surprise, Sakumo's grey eyes are wide with fascination instead of the hint of repugnance he expected to see.
“And causes nerve damage?” Sakumo asks, oddly enraptured by both the explanation and the possibility. Whether that is due to the topic itself or the rare candor being displayed by the individual relaying them, he’s not quite sure.
“Well yes,” Orochimaru says, with a curt nod. “That’s the simplest part. The challenge lies in preventing those effects from being set upon our own forces at the same time.”
Orochimaru has no choice but to turn his attention to the older jounin entirely, now curious… but that curiosity is also newly fraught with a niggling sense of irritation.
"That could be extremely useful! You’ll unlock the puzzle soon enough, I’m sure of it." Sakumo smiles, and it is the same charming, well-practiced and often genuine expression that Orochimaru has seen in the past. “I can’t wait to hear more!”
The serpent’s jaw clenches on reflex. Hatake’s cheerfulness, though slightly false, is not in fact a falsehood. The White Fang is interested now, and that is exactly what Orochimaru wanted to prevent. Dissuading Hatake will hardly be as simple as he thought.
And thus a shared dinner will be far trickier to avoid.
For Sakumo, the rosy tinge he can see spreading along the paleness of Orochimaru’s neck and ears proves that his actions have proven deeply effective. He’s never seen the snake Sannin react in such a way, save in the presence of one of his teammates, having grown bashful or embarrassed at the many levels of tomfoolery possible of Jiraiya and Tsunade when both deep in their cups.
“Are you well, Orochimaru?”
“Indeed I am — I simply require concentration at the moment. I cannot risk the loss of these samples. Perhaps you’d like to make yourself useful and assist me?” Orochimaru raises a brow and inclines his head towards an instrument tray. “You recall how to apply basic sutures, don’t you, Hatake?”
Sakumo blinks, but remains unruffled, reaching for the tray of surgical tools. “What kind of captain would I be if not capable of basic first aid, let alone repairs?”
“What kind of captain… one who cares far more for his squad than most, certainly,” Orochimaru scoffs, “You surprise me, Hatake, but I’d still like to see proof. Too many of our comrades are all talk until faced with human flesh requiring said repairs.”
With a wider smile and a slight scoff of his own, Sakumo rolls up his sleeves. “Challenge accepted, my friend.”
My friend.
Those words sound so strange coming from the lips of someone who has barely ever known him. The same words still resound in Orochimaru’s ears even an hour later, after Hatake has proven his assertions are no empty boast, delivering rows of clean sutures with such a deft hand that Orochimaru is surprised Hatake has never been sought after for more than his combat work. Before long, the Sannin is following his own feet to Ichiraku’s ramen shop, where the owner’s teenage son rattles off both their orders with cocksure ease.
“You forgot the extra order of ajitama instead of chashu for Orochimaru’s,” Sakumo asserts, and the Sannin coughs, shaking his head in denial.
“That’s too much food,” Orochimaru argues, but his voice is half resigned to the inevitable. “And how exactly do you know my preferences?”
His skin seems to prickle now, as his mind works a thousand miles a minute, thinking on the way Sakumo smiles at him, as if he knows something that the snake Sannin does not.
“Because the village only has so many worthwhile eateries, and our teams have eaten in the same places since we were children. Kato always used to remind me that when quiet people speak, it’s usually valuable to listen.” Sakumo pats the stool beside him. “Come on and eat, it’s my treat… and oh yeah, Teuchi-kun? Make sure the broth in my friend’s bowl is full of shio broth straight from the pot - scalding.”
Orochimaru can feel the now-familiar and utterly damnable heat rising around his ears and it’s such an unnerving sensation that he very nearly enacts a medical jutsu just to make it stop.
Nearly.
Instead, he finds himself seated where he’s been bid to do so, and when the steaming bowl of noodles is placed before him, he focuses on it instead of the keen grey eyes watching him with certain interest. Eyes that not only remind him of someone he’s lost, but also eyes that have clearly been watching him far longer than he ever realized, knowing him despite his own certainty that no one ever would, not truly.
Hatake Sakumo doesn’t truly know him though, and he likely never will. Even so, something about being seen makes Orochimaru feel far warmer than he has in months. He can almost admit to himself that it might not just be the effect of hot soup, prepared in exactly the way he’s always liked, from the time he was a Genin having his first team meal.
For the first time in months, Sakumo feels as though his well-practiced smile becomes a true grin, unprompted and natural. Orochimaru becomes even more fascinating company as he relaxes, until Sakumo finds himself relaxing in turn, and laughing in a way that reaches deep into his chest and belly, another sensation that has been missing for so long that it almost feels foreign.
It also seems as though his meal holds far more flavor than it has in just as long.
Walking Orochimaru home requires true convincing, and tangling with perhaps the most ingenious mind in the village proves to be a feat requiring the utmost charm and wit. The serpent appears poised for a getaway at any moment. Though it’s hardly a challenge in the end, and the inevitable victory is far sweeter than it has any right to be.
For Orochimaru, the final parting should be a relief, and it’s perplexing when it’s not. His home is cold and empty, and he realizes that up until this point in the evening, he’s felt truly warm within and without.
The rain falls steadily, almost as if with purpose, pooling among the stones when Sakumo finally makes his way back down those ever familiar streets and pathways. Only now he savors it, warmed throughout by an emotion he can hardly begin to name.
“And what do we call the shift from one output to another form?”
“Ch-change in chakra nature?”
“Is that a question or a statement, Kakashi-kun?”
“A statement, sensei!”
“Good, one must always be certain of that consideration when they choose to speak.”
“Yes, Orochi-sensei!”
The scene that Sakumo walks in on is a new and frequent novelty that has been added to his days of late, and one he’s certain he might never tire of. His small son sits surrounded by books and scrolls in piles strewn over the kotatsu, while Orochimaru nurses a cup of hot tea, lecturing the boy like any one of his apprentices. Apprentices who are by requirement, Chunin-level and beyond—in fact, most are Jounin.
Kakashi, barely four and an absolute terror, shows far more nerve and capability than any of the aforementioned Jounin, and he has the vocabulary and dexterity to keep up. Sakumo is certain that the lecture and exercises are deliberately scaled to step just beyond what his son can follow without further instruction, to pose a challenge that the little boy can still continue to chase. Kakashi seems happy as a clam even with the small furrow between his pale brows holding true as he reads. Sakumo studies Orochimaru in turn, noting — not for the first time — that the curve of Orochimaru’s lips and the ease of his bearing proves yet again that the process of teaching is something that brings the serpent considerable joy.
Learning Orochimaru’s hidden joys and passions has brought Sakumo a fair amount of joy in turn.
He sets down bags of newly acquired groceries on the tabletop and strides into the living room, hands on his hips. “Looks like your new sensei is teaching you quite a lot, isn’t he, my love?”
“Tou-chan! I’m a shinobi…” Kakashi grumbles, especially as his father ruffles his hair. “Orochi-sensei says it don’t matter how old — a shinobi is a shinobi.”
“ Doesn’t, Kakashi-kun. Remember to use proper grammar,” Orochimaru says, his eyes brightening as Sakumo turns towards him. “If what your father says is true, you might have already surpassed him in being ready to address your academy entrance requirements. I believe he was eight years old, isn’t that right?”
“That’s right! So is my little man ready to test in?”
“Not little, Tou-chan!” Kakashi stands up and points to the measuring marks on one wall. “I’m bigger now, r’member?”
“Oh, that’s right, a whole two inches bigger,” Sakumo grins, taking in the excitement on his son’s face. “Well then, a growing shinobi really needs to eat a good dinner to keep his strength up. And I think I might have brought home some favorites…”
Kakashi’s dark eyes light up in genuine delight, as close to open glee as the youngster ever really shows. It’s another quality he holds that is quite like his mother, and quite like one snake Sannin; taciturn and hard to read, except by those who know them well.
“He’s going to turn into an eggplant one of these days,” Orochimaru states, deadpan. “Do tell me you’ve brought more than that.”
“Are you joining us for dinner?” Sakumo pours more tea from the pot into their cups, quietly pleased at the presence of a third, placed on the tray by a thoughtful hand and awaiting his arrival home.
“Orochi-sensei, please? It’ll be good food! Promise.” Kakashi pipes up, his little hands fisted in hope and restrained excitement.
“I don’t have anything pressing to attend to this evening, so I suppose it might be arranged.” Orochimaru settles, his shoulders losing a measure of their tension.
It’s not lost on Sakumo, it never is. And he knows the serpent will be utterly delighted when dessert brings around a newly established favorite — egg tarts, kept warm in a box with a cunning seal — procured just for his pleasure.
Later, Orochimaru embraces him hastily at the front gate in an utterly uncharacteristic gesture of thanks before awkwardly withdrawing to leave for his own home. It’s a first, and Sakumo isn’t at all sure what to make of it, but he finds he can scarcely contain the fluttering in his chest.
He feels more alive again with each passing day.
The return home after a deployment often makes for heartwarming reunion stories throughout the village, but for a soldier of Sakumo’s caliber, the truth of the return is that as sweet as it is to be home, a part of him always remains on the battlefield. He’s sometimes hardly sure he can even feel the joy of walking through the entry gates to the village, or the excitement of the first sight of his home, his child. His Tsukiko…
She’s still gone, nothing can change this, but after a moment of contemplation, Sakumo realizes for the first time since her passing, the ache is no longer as marrow-deep as it was for so long. Its resonance is somehow far easier to quell, and as he senses the prickle of dark chakra in his garden, he knows why.
The numbness of his return fades as Sakumo thrills anew at the potential sight of Orochimaru with his pale, oddly delicate hands in the soil, tending to the vegetables he’d planted several weeks ago.
It started as a bid to widen Kakashi’s palate, to ensure his nutritional intake was sound. But it’s even more delightful to know that the Sannin’s sense of ownership over such things ensures that Orochimaru has ever more reason to remain present on Hatake lands, to share meals with them both.
Sakumo shields his chakra for the sake of catching the serpent unaware, but it’s likely that Orochimaru already felt him moving in from beyond the gate. Between the two of them, senses of smell and hearing are almost equally keen, but Orochimaru has the added benefit of being a sensor nin. With that gift manifesting through touch and a sort of second sight, surprising him is remarkably difficult.
It is very hard to catch the Sannin off-guard, but today Sakumo does.
His movements are lightning-quick, finding a space immediately beside Orochimaru, who startles but doesn’t so much as reach for a kunai, his eyes meeting Sakumo’s in an instant. Those serpentine pupils give away much more than Orochimaru may wish to display today, their momentarily narrowed slits widening immediately, as a ruby flush disperses across pale skin.
“You’re home,” Orochimaru’s voice is the same rough tenor it always is after long periods of silence, quite like the very first day their near-collision brought the two of them towards something like friendship. It’s the same after every long lab jaunt, every solo mission, such that Sakumo relishes when it turns fluidly melodic again, colored with the depth of its true timbre.
“I’m home.” Sakumo says in response, and all at once his palms itch to take Orochimaru’s hands, to pull him into an embrace.
It would not be the first time such an action has happened, but never quite like this. Even so, Sakumo’s pulse feels like a staccato war march in his own ears, speeding even faster in answer, his chest and belly filling with the near-giddy warmth that’s accompanied these greetings more times than he has been able to count. So many greetings, accented throughout the process of Orochimaru becoming friend and confidante to Sakumo; teacher and mentor to Kakashi; becoming like family. Becoming like pack .
The simple truth dawns upon Sakumo with considerable weight, though it shouldn’t be as much of a shock as it is. Orochimaru has clearly been part of their pack for some time, perhaps as quickly as he started spending time with them in earnest. For Sakumo, it’s something more than that as well, since there is clearly a part of him that opened up and could finally breathe again upon the sight and feel of the serpent nearby.
Not only nearby, but part of what makes home feel like home again, even after a return from the front lines.
The quirk at the edge of Orochimaru’s mouth bears testament to his own underlying thoughts that remain unspoken, thoughts that Sakumo cannot quite decipher at a glance or even via scent. Instead he simply stares, trying fruitlessly to piece the puzzle together as quickly as he can before realizing that graceful hands have just pushed the rucksack from his shoulder.
When it falls, slender arms begin to coil around his waist. Orochimaru pulls Sakumo into the sphere of personal space that the Sannin rarely opens to most people, and if he does, it’s not always a conscious decision.
Orochimaru still averts his gaze on reflex, his face tipping downward so that the damnable fringe of his night-dark hair begins to obscure his features, but Sakumo wants none of it. He lifts a hand to push back that lock of hair as if it has always vexed him — which it has — and his fingers move to cup a proud jawline, drawing Orochimaru’s face back upward and in line with his own.
“Oro… you don’t have to…” Sakumo forces the words out, despite the fact that his every impulse is suddenly screaming and desperate to do the opposite, to rest against the silken edge of everything that the Sannin is to him.
“The return home from any battlefield is easier when one is met with warmth,” Orochimaru states, nonplussed, though the fervid reddening of the skin along his ears and cheekbones does not abate.
He still tries to avoid eye contact, but Sakumo knows that Orochimaru’s own returns have almost never been met with warmth or even a kind word. He can’t help but wrap his free arm more tightly around the other, as if trying to comfort Orochimaru in return. For a few seconds, it’s nearly as awkward as the first time they were this close, but their breathing slowly falls into sync in a joined rhythm.
The world itself stands still, and Sakumo inhales, taking in the sweet herbal scent always clinging to Orochimaru’s skin and clothes, the soft greenery around them, the cooling breeze.
The remaining tension between them finally unravels, and the new awareness of it is nothing short of enchanting. Orochimaru leans his cheek fully into the cradle of Sakumo’s hand, and golden eyes meet his own again without further hesitation. All fear and awkwardness has seemingly melted away, leaving a magnetism in its place, a call to something deep within.
Instinct beckons and the Hatake answers, leaning forward slowly enough to give Orochimaru room for an escape. When the Sannin holds his ground, what follows is at first an innocent brush of lips; soft as a whisper, barely more than a graze against that quirked corner of Orochimaru’s mouth. The serpent’s arms tighten around Sakumo’s waist, and Orochimaru shifts ever so slightly, so that the next movement places his kiss fully upon parted lips that welcome it. Gentle and undemanding, but a kiss through and through.
Not a mistake or an impulse. An act of choice and a clear desire.
“Thank you, Orochimaru…” Sakumo whispers against his cheek, overcome by a sense of near reverence. “For everything.”
“You’ve nothing to thank me for,” Orochimaru says, drawing back with a wry expression. “Your son is waiting at the window — expect to answer questions.”
Morning always brings with it an unexpected warmth, a lassitude in Orochimaru’s limbs that speaks of bygone days lost to the dreamlike haze of youth. The fantastical sensation of waking safe and sound, and never alone. Such mornings are still so strange, no matter how many times they’ve occurred in exactly this fashion, for exactly the same reasons.
Once, he’d have described them as the simple result of spending a great many nights up late at his own toils and troubles, with forced companionship until said companionship was missed when it was no longer there. Then he would have stated they were the product of more shared meals and a deepening camaraderie with someone who didn’t merely find Orochimaru somewhat worthy of the effort, but rather was a friend who desired the serpent's presence.
And now that the snake Sannin also holds the lost joys of guiding the education of a promising mind, and one so young, Orochimaru cannot help but call the current conditions favorable. They've been favorable for a long time now.
The speed at which the time sped by still baffles him. It might have begun with that singular rainy-day gesture, but it was familiarity that kept him moving toward Sakumo, mirroring his steps in one way or another. They continued this coexistence, in a spar or a dance, Orochimaru still hasn’t decided which one it is, if not still both at the same time. The truth remains that somehow mere days became weeks, until weeks became months, and now those months have transformed into the better part of year.
He can’t quite recall the point at which staying the night was no longer a simple thing to refuse, until it too was repeated with enough frequency that it practically became part of his weekly routine. Once he became accustomed to sleeping in a house that was not fully devoid of human life, Orochimaru’s departures from the Hatake homestead had become far more difficult, even at daybreak in the mornings that followed. Perhaps especially so.
Sleeping alone used to be a point of pride, of choice, until the blissful warmth of another body provided a much greater indulgence that became addictive far too quickly. Quite like Hatake himself, though Orochimaru has yet to openly tell him so.
Orochimaru is fairly sure that Sakumo already knows this as truth. There is data to support such a supposition, at any rate. Perhaps he realized it the night that the Sannin welcomed Sakumo home from his last long bout at the front, or the night he fell asleep in Sakumo’s arms after too much umeshu and another accidental kiss. There was also the night they spent tending a sick Kakashi together, or simply the many nights spent sharing warmth in this very bed. Whenever it might have been, Orochimaru can tell that Sakumo is aware of his regard.
This morning is different, as wakefulness brings even greater awareness to this place of peace. A comfortable weight presses along Orochimaru’s chest atop fluffy blankets, leaving the faintest scent of ozone light upon clean linens. The serpent shifts, and there is a loose pull at a lock of his hair that halts further movement in its tracks. New familiarity sinks in as the clarity of consciousness settles his sight and the remainder of his senses sharpen with each breath.
Chubby little fingers curl in his hair as their child sleeps. Kakashi’s breath is soft and even, untroubled, and his pale lashes flicker gently as he dreams, safe and secure. Another soft weight at Orochimaru’s waist reminds him that Sakumo holds them both, ever vigilant even in sleep.
Safe and sound, far from alone.
The serpent hasn't been alone in months now. Despite all logical thought, he's not quite sure how this came to be.
He only knows that the peaceful breathing and glowing warmth surrounding him are utterly precious; more precious than anything he’s known in his life up until now. They are a reason to fight, to strive despite the darkness that looms at the edge of every bright day. Despite the spectre of death poised and waiting to strike either of them —all of them— in recompense for a single fateful misstep.
Sakumo dances that same dance each day, with Orochimaru close by, a perfect mirror of those complicated steps. Each as the other’s counterbalance, their anchor, their protection from a fatal fall.
As he shifts, Kakashi doesn’t stir apart from tightening his little fingers in Orochimaru’s hair. At the sound of movement, Sakumo’s silvery lashes flutter slightly and his eyes open, focusing on Orochimaru’s face in an instant, their darkness soft. Kind.
Orochimaru finds it interesting, nearly blessed, that he might hold the regard of a chosen companion capable of reflecting his own darkness, yet still retaining a kindness unmatched by any other.
As his gaze is pulled to meet his partner’s, Orochimaru swears silently, in a vow more ancient than both his clan and the serpents of Ryuuchi Cave, that Kakashi will never learn the full savagery of death’s dance. He will never be dragged beneath the surface of a living death, nor poisoned by a life knowing little but war and cold.
By scale, and by fang, if it takes his own willing savagery and cunning to make it so, Orochimaru will thwart the reaper for all three of them.
He’s always had a way of achieving his goals, and this will be no different.