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Sweats roll down Orochimaru’s pale face as his attempt to stop the Reaper Death Seal becomes more desperate. The Third Hokage is determined to drag him along, he could feel the old man’s remaining chakra forges into surges of push. Alarmed, golden eyes widened.
“Don’t tell me that-” He mutters, as the Death Reaper appears vivid in his vision. He could see the damn creature already licking the blade clean, how ironic.
“Stop!”. Orochimaru screamed, but too late. The blade has swung down.
Thin hand covering his sweating face, Orochimaru pants, he could feel himself hyperventilating. He could swear his imaginative heart was beating frantically inside this Zetsu’s body.
“Fuck.” The dark-haired man let himself fall on the cold sheet once more, staring at the boring white ceiling before he pushed the blanket aside, planting his feet on the stone-cold floor. Golden eyes swept across the room, the enhanced vision was certainly not helping him in any way.
“It’s raining” He could murmur before a sharp pain was sent straight into his mind. Not an unfamiliar thing to him these years, the weather during season-changing time. Suigetsu and Karin always complain about his tendency to become moody and menacing towards them. Not that they need to know what’s bothering him to initiate that change though. With a delicate movement, Orochimaru strips down his sleeping yukata, leaving him in dark trousers and bare chest open. He never likes the cold, especially in an underground chamber like this.
Folding the white yukata neatly on his bed’s side, Orochimaru takes a moment to look at himself. Thin body with pale white skin, so white that he could see all the blue and red veins under his skin. It is not until the second month he hopped into Zetsu’s body that Orochimaru realizes not only this body flawlessly gives him his early 30s appearance but also the scattered scars here and there of his original body. He deliberately trails his eyes up his forearms, black inks in the form of a winding serpent to a band of arrows up near his upper arm.
There it is. Like a twisted yet finest work of the Kintsukuroi art*. A stark red line on where his arms were torn out by the Death Reaper. Being the egotistical bastard he is, Orochimaru cannot stand the feeling of being marked, being drawn on like a test subject, a victim. And yet, no matter how many bodies he has changed, how many nights he spent clawing his skin off, the mark is still there, reminding him of all the agony, and degrading past he has been through.
It is this miserable weather that makes his arms ache, Orochimaru hisses painfully while massaging his upper arms. But physical pain is not the only thing it brings to him, this mark has granted him an ability he had not known was possible.
At first, Orochimaru tried to refer to his new ability as a hallucination of having schizophrenia*. It took him several white nights and the eerie feeling of being tugged to finally come to terms with the fact that he could see ghosts. At first, it was the blurry shadows, following after him like a tail, and then shadows grew into voices. They all whisper beside his ears, some cursing him to death, some begging him to release them, to kill them out of mercy. He tried to ignore them, but then voices became touch. There are nights he could feel hands, tugging and clawing on his skin, straggling him while those voices chant his name in anguish. Log would often ask him if he was having nightmares with a concerning voice well hidden behind a cold exterior.
And Orochimaru would smile, faintly as he always would.
“Memories, just bad memories my child.”. And his son knows better than to pursue this conversation.
“For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.”
With his words, Suigetsu lazily stood up and left the room for the night, saying goodnight as a courtesy to Orochimaru. With that being said, the dark-haired man still insists on finishing his ongoing experiments, whatever could keep him through the night.
It was the voices again that made him grunt in his sleep, but then a calm and cool wind swept through the atmosphere, easing him immediately. Cracking his indigo eyelids open, Orochimaru saw a tall and broad figure staring at him. Alarmed, he stirred back, only for the shadow to reach out and stroke his hair almost lovingly.
“Jiraiya…?” He dares to whisper after what feels like an eternity.
The ghost in front of him now appears much more vivid, with wild white hair with sun-kissed skin, toned and muscular. Jiraiya leaned onto Orochimaru, looking at him with equal shock, the answer he received was rather a muffled, unclear voice.
“You can see me?” With that, the dark-haired man slowly nodded, unsure what to do.
Orochimaru’s eyes widen as Jiraiya’s ghost slips away, further from him. Reaching his arms out, he tried to grab Jiraiya’s limbs but all he could feel was warm air slipping through his fingers.
“Wait.” He tries to put his words together as Jiraiya stands still, frozen in place.
“...I could really use a bodyguard.” Orochimaru curses internally for sounding so weak and desperate but feels relief as the figure approaches him once more. This time Jiraiya encases Orochimaru entirely, bringing him the warmth he has longed for years.
With his face hidden behind thick strands of black hair, Orochimaru’s mouth curled up slightly, before darkness consumed his consciousness.
“Thank you”
“Lord Orochimaru has been really weird lately” Suigetsu boringly starts a conversation while Karin and Jugo sit at the other end of the table, eating their breakfast.
“Has he always not?” Karin dryly replied.
“Ain’t all genius that way?” Jugo adds, although with a bit of interest in his tone.
Suigetsu swallowed his remaining share of the food before putting his legs on the table and tilting his chair back.
“No like, lately I’ve caught him talking to someone in his private room while there is certainly no one or even a summon! And this one time when I delivered his tea before bedtime, I saw him lying on one side of the bed with another pillow beside him as if he was sleeping with someone.”
“Now that you mention it, I don’t see him acting all grumpy and having occasional mood swings anymore” Jugo deliberately recalls his interaction with the man.
“Well, I think he is hiding someone in this hideout and keeping that person away from us!” Suigetsu loudly exclaimed before Karin swatted him into a puddle of water.
“Dummy, why must he hide it from us? He is the boss here remember? But either it is an anonymous person or just lord Orochimaru going insane, as long as I don’t have to hear him scolding me anymore. It’s a win for me.”
“For all of us.” The blue-ish water puddle agrees.
Jiraiya’s appearance by his side has slowly become something Orochimaru has grown familiar with. A sense of security, of having someone being there for him. Jiraiya, to his surprise, isn’t as talkative as he remembered he was, but he is contented with this, this for him is enough.
He would be working on his experiments and skimming through documents while Jiraiya wandered closely, hooking him up on sudden conversation. And they would talk, mostly about Orochimaru, his sons and subordinates, Naruto and Sasuke, and many more littering topics. But not once, do they dare to tap into their story, as if it is a taboo. Orochimaru would spend the afternoon, savoring his favorite jasmine tea, gazing at the rain droplets splatter on his window glass. And Jiraiya would stand behind him, rough hands put firmly by his side, pressing and squeezing his arms in order to ease his pain. It almost makes him laugh out loud how much of an old married couple they sound like. During nights, Orochimaru would take the left side of the bed while lecturing Jiraiya that Jiraiya sleeping beside him would be more effective in keeping haunted souls better than while he is sitting on the nearby couch.
These recent days have been easier for Orochimaru, mainly because of Jiraiya’s presence. But something was weighing his soul down, a still wall separating their feelings.
“Was it worth it? Abandoning me for those kids?” Orochimaru blurts out, golden eyes fixed on Jiraiya’s charcoal black.
“I made a mistake” Jiraiya answered, staring at Orochimaru’s face “I know nothing can make up for it, but from now on I will always be by your side, no matter what.”
“Why?” Orochimaru mutters, wanting to hear an honest, straightforward confession from his heart. Instead, Jiraiya crouches down to Orochimaru’s level and whispers to his heart.
“Because I have always loved you” Their lips were pressed against each other, Jiraiya’s effort to seal his promise. Orochimaru closes his eyes, drowning in the bitter yet sweet sensation. The sensation he craves so much after all those years, to finally kiss the one true person he loves so much. The feeling slowly fades as Orochimaru opens his eyes, his hand still holding the cooling teacup.
Drinking another sip of the bitter green tea, Orochimaru looks outside his window with a pensive stare.
The rain has teemed down, bright sunlight is now reflected in glimmering golden orbs.
The young boy with blue hair crept up by Orochimaru’s side, looking curiously at the new tea set he had bought.
“Waaa, the tea smells so good.” A five-year old Mitsuki exclaimed but his brows immediately furrowed after in questionable attitude.
“What’s wrong, my dear?” Orochimaru looks at the boy’s facial expression with confusion.
“The tea is newly harvested and fresh! But why prepare it in a broken tea set with golden crack?”His naive voice makes Orochimaru smile fondly. He looks at the marine blue-violet tea set, his eyes lingering on the golden lines embedded in it.
“It is not a crack, Mitsuki. It is called “Kintsukuroi art”, the act of repairing broken pottery with liquid or powdered gold.” He hands his son a teacup so that the boy can get a better look, under bright light, the gold cup shines glamorously.
“It’s really beautiful, but they could make other beautiful things with gold too. Why must they repair a broken tea set, isn’t buying another one much faster?”
Orochimaru fluttered his eyes closed, mind thinking about his own porcelain skin. Thinking about the blood-red mark on it, and the teacup on his hand. The dark-haired man laughs half-heartedly.
Kintsukuroi.
“Some people tend to throw away broken things, but never once did they think because of its imperfection that makes it unique. By repairing broken ceramics it’s possible to give a new lease of life to pottery that becomes even more refined thanks to its “scars”.” He said as his hand stroked the blue head lovingly.
Humans, are no exception. It is because we are hurt, are scarred that make us unique. Through scars and agony shall we learn how to grow. In the end, it is not about trying to discard the past, nor to shove it aside or to bury it in the back of our heads. It is about constantly reminding us of who we are today. The restoration marks after the gold repairing process do not pretend that there is no damage, but rather express the value of accepting the vessel as it is, as a vessel with a new value.
