#and it will serve as a way to make kabu grow up and become more independent

[dokuhebi]

FIVE FOR KABU!

send a 🖐️ emoji ( or just ‘ 5 ′ ) for five times our muses touched .   // @raichoose​ The candles flame is sinking lower and lower, wax dripping down the sides of the long stick, pooling in the caved in center, coaxing the dying light to submerge and be vanquished. They should ignite the candle again, before the only source of dwindling light is completely erased. Yet they don’t. Golden eyes watch as the fragile little flame dies out completely. As the success from burning so brightly causes its own slow demise, erasing the very foundation it exists on. They are overthinking again. It is what they do. A simple item, a simple result of fire upon wax. It does not need to be symbolic of all they have come to know. It does not need to remind them of him. Of the burnt out bond that had seemed to be verging on success, so caught in the heat of the moment, yet damned itself somewhere along the way. Their most trusted companion, friend, ally... when had that fragile little flame burnt out? The document on their desk is growing harder to read as the light fades, sometimes flickering out altogether before somehow struggling back alive. But Kabuto’s face, a small photo attached to a report torn from a bingo book, is still visible. Until of course, slender fingers coil around the image, and hold its tip to the flames hungry mouth. Desperate for some means of survival, catching instantly, eating away at the image until once more its hunger has diminished its own foundation. They watch as the singed edges of the photo curl and flake in to ash, dripping on to the table below, embers still faintly glowing on the charred and broken pieces. They could burn an image, but they could not burn a memory.

The sun filters down through scattered tree leaves, a distant breeze not quite reaching the figures standing there. They watch him from across the small clearing in the forest. Golden eyes attentive, slender arms folded, a taunting smirk on their face. He’s not even twenty yet, but if he is to be their subordinate, then he is to learn what it truly is to be a shinobi. “Shall I make it easier for you dear?” they call to him, watching as he adjusts his glasses, wanting to see what has become of the man they decided had enough worth to be taken on to their team. Many wanted his position. None had been valued enough to get the opportunity to earn that right, “I’ll use nothing but kenjutsu. If you can disarm me, I’ll consider this your win,” they say,  a fanged smile giving away their arrogance during the training. That they truly think the young man will be unable to do even this. How pleased they would be of course, if they were to be proven wrong instead. The fight is a back and forth affair, as the serpent turns the exercise of training in to a game. Leaving their legendary katana alone and instead using an ordinary one, a slim and elegant blade all the same. They think it will be their win, until a few slip ups on their end, and a few cleverly taken advantage of opportunities on his, wind the serpent up losing their grip. The sound of their weapon hitting damp soil signals their loss instantly, no means to recover, as they find themself disarmed, their slender figure pressed to the nearest sequoia, a measly kunai held flush to their pale throat. A smirk tugs at their lips, so pleased it may trick anyone viewing to think this was some trap. That they wanted to lose. It isn’t quite the case. The serpent finding a victory in their loss. Porcelain digits coil around his wrist, loose and gentle, almost simply caressing the skin beneath their fingertips, “it seems I was right about you all along. You’re quite remarkable.” They push against him, inching closer to the blade knowing he would draw it away rather than cut them, their figure and a single slim hand pressing in to his chest as a dance of mischievous appreciation enters their yellow eyes. “It will be intriguing to see what you might accomplish in the future.”

But twenty years from that moment, the serpent would not have the luxury of seeing what the man would become. Twenty years from that moment, they are sitting in a dark cell, a step up from their life in prison, but a step before being released in to Otogakure. A small abode, locked and guarded. A few personal items allowed, research material, home comforts. An attempt to keep them from growing restless. But they are restless, and more than anything, they are left with their own thoughts for too long. Allowed to fall down the rabbit hole in to a twisted imagination. They force themself away from the table, moving to the kitchen which is only a few steps away, and in the same room. Fumbling in the dark and fishing out a glass, seeking next a bottle they know is half empty already. A dark orange liquid swishing in the glass container. They pour themself one drink, it steadily becomes two, then three, then four. But even the sake that was so adept at making people forget seems only to inspire more thoughts.

Autumn welcomes the patrons with a bite of cold air, an unexpected nippiness. As it would turn out, the pretty layers of their hanfu would not serve to be as warm as they were beautiful. Various shades of ashen grey, black and white material falling around their svelte figure and speckled with the intermittent patterns of a violet wisteria, wraithlike, as if they may have stepped out of some mythical folklore. Pale skin is cast in a pleasant glow beneath the moonlight, while golden eyes seek only to compete with its brightness “How is our chatty comrade doing?” they ask Kabuto, standing elegantly amid a small gathering of lords, here only to make the necessary connections. Dark connections, allies who did not shy from dabbling in the black market. The small team accompanying the Sannin, to keep them from being targeted with the sizable bounty on their head, had since dispersed. But it hadn’t escaped their attention how one rather talkative Oto shinobi had been grating on Kabuto’s nerves. It hadn’t taken long for them to decide he was the right man for the job, when testing the drinks for poisons or other drugs and additives. With the chatty subordinate even more chatty, buzzed but certainly not dead, the Sannin knows they can indulge in the tested beverages. And how they will need that as a support and crutch when having to entertain the frivolous Lords with no grasp of reality. By the time the light weight viper has realized they are now gracefully off balanced rather than gracefully refined, they seek a different crutch. Inhibition's to the wind, as they lean in to Kabuto’s figure. One slender arm laced elegantly around his neck. But they would not only need help getting back to their inn, or at least, that wasn’t all they would end up asking of him. Not that they would remember the half of it. The next morning, they find themself dressed in a night yukata, sparing them from a night in the elaborate hanfu, courtesy of Kabuto helping them out the intricate dress in to a more suitable sleepwear no doubt. They also find themself in Kabuto’s room and bed, rather than their own. So as it would seem, their famed ‘guard dog’ would not solely be warding off enemies that evening, his loyalty had kept them warm too. But they are still plagued by a headache, and the sunlight seeping in through the blinds prompts them to hide their face against the crevice of the mans neck where it had just been buried before, “turn the blinds down, it can be morning when I say it is,” they mutter.

The sound of their parole shatters their thoughts, causes them to glance to the sealed and locked door. Someone’s joke evidently earning a great deal of laughter and debate. It had been a while since they had the opportunity for small talk, how they loathed small talk usually, how months in isolation could suddenly make them crave it. Conversations... was it something they said that made him leave? Had they chased him off with their ideas, their quiet moments together? Had it all be one lie after the other, and he never truly felt any shred of care toward them? Just a means to an end. Their end. A distraction is welcome, and they try and listen to what is being said. Something about a slip up during a mission. Something about the entertainment it had been for onlookers. Something about a strange nurse, a long stay at a hospital, a well earned dose of Ibuprofen. A simple word, yet even that manages to awaken ghosts of the past.

“I don’t care if it’s not recommended. Just make it stop.” Their voice is hoarse sounding, hissed and drenched in agony and venom. Feeling as if they are in their darkest hour, feeling at their lowest, their weakest, their most vulnerable. It instantly brings to life their fight instinct, it instantly makes them volatile and unpredictable. Too swept up in the sheer crippling pain. Agonized to the point of forgetting their own training in medicine, as they reach for any and every painkiller available to them. For the highest dose to stop the suffering/. The pain of the body was one thing, but Hiruzen was showing them a new kind of pain by severing their very soul. Leaving their arms growing thinner and bloodier, decaying on their very living person. Most of their medics had been casualties when overstepping boundaries around the Sannin, who was more a wounded animal than a person on these nights. The rest had refused to enter the chambers due to fear. All but one. “None of it is working,” they hiss to Kabuto, still trying to convince him that overindulging in the painkillers may lead to some numbness. Desperate enough to think it will be enough. If they had placed their arms in to open flames, they imagine it would hurt less than this. Their breathing becomes erratic, labored, forgetting even that simple task as their body wants to go back in to shock with the overwhelming sensations. Almost blinded and completely disorientated from the agony. Until his hands rest upon them, until the faint glow of blue offers a shred of mercy in a moment of pure torture. A second enough to catch their still shaken and ragged breathing. They find their slender form leaning against him, almost clawing for him, their only source of relief in a world of misery. A dozen medics had been in and out of these halls, a dozen treatments had been offered to give them relief. None had managed. Yet his single touch mitigated enough suffering, to finally give them rest. Enough that their body may succumb to fatigue, enough that the pain slips away from their mind, and only a distant sounding song can be heard as they finally find sleep. His song. Her song.

It is moments like those that makes them wonder how they may have imagined it all. How Kabuto could possibly have never cared when he had stayed holding them all night on that dreaded evening. When he had sung a personal song in a hopes of capturing their attention and outdoing the pains grip on them. It had to be real - now didn’t it? It could not be made up, feigned or fabricated. So what then? It being real, his devotion and care for them being real back then, did it change that farewell? If he had wished to be at their side at their lowest on the day of Hiruzen’s assassination, when exactly had it started to fall a part of irreversibly? When had they lost him?

It’s hard to tell dawn from dusk in their underground home, to know when the sun had risen or set, as darkness constantly engulfed them beneath the earths surface. Hidden away from all that wanted to harm them, but equally hidden from the pleasantries of life too. Perhaps this inability to keep easy track of time is the excuse the serpent will use for why they so often fail to keep an orderly sleep schedule. Why they skip entire nights, sometimes several, throughout the week in exchange for more hours to work. But they aren’t the only one overworking in these halls, as they enter the next room, about to speak, when they see Kabuto has fallen in to a slumber. Scattered around him are the many scrolls and documents he was taking on for them, to relieve the Sannin of some of their duties - perhaps to ensure they may have time for sleep themself. Sacrificing his own. They can’t be sure what precisely has kept him up. It is no mystery he has nightmares - what shinobi didn’t awaken regularly due to the trauma of their job? The serpent certainly skipped sleep for more reasons than just their work, flashes from the past an ugly reminder they didn’t need at night. They cross the distance quietly, placing a hand gently to his forehead to inspect for a temperature and ensure he isn’t sick but merely tired, before delicately removing his glasses, and then his hair tie. Combing out the slight tangles and indents from being held together by the hairband, before placing both items carefully aside for his ease of access and reach when he woke up. Catlike steps, nimble and silent, allows them to move about the room undetected. A skill harnessed for insidious assassinations, but would now be far more affectionate a need. A final act of drawing a blanket around his shoulders, and trying to help him lay down properly on the couch without disturbing him. Only to disappear like a phantom, as was all their acts of love and care perhaps. Too timid to be caught in the act of fondness. Hiding their heart over hiding their crimes.

That may have been the problem then? Surely, who could ever stand by a person who would brandish their killings and veil their love? Who could tolerate such a juvenile trait? For they know, as much as they think being distanced from their own heart is a clever defense, that it is also a sign of emotionally stunted development. That while they can not break a habit with knowledge alone, they had read up on it to link their orphaned childhood and constant attendance to loved ones funerals to connect the dots. That they were as much protecting themself from loss and unnecessary human fragility in an effort of being wiser, as they were simply too afraid to brave the risk. Whichever way, they imagine it doesn’t matter a terrible amount anymore. They are here, and he is not. And the memory most burnt in to their mind seems to replay like some cruel Tsukuyomi. 

The war was starting to pique in its volatile and violent arrival, torn from the land of the dead to be placed back amid the chaos. Resurrected. But the serpent isn’t frazzled or overwhelmed, the stimulation simply feeds their more ambitious side - and they are not alone. Not when the first thing golden eyes awaken to see, is him. Kabuto. ‘Of course it would be the young doctor’, is the first thought to enter their mind. From the moment they felt Sasuke’s blade embed itself in to their weakening and sick body, they had known if anyone would save them from that fate, it would be Kabuto. And here he stands proving them right, as a fanged smirk reveals itself on their lips, pleased and satisfied, as they automatically, instinctively, move to his side. And somewhere along the way, what they believed they saw, and what was really happening did not align. Somewhere between the fighting, the strife and the forced great alliance, he slipped through their fingertips like running water. So when the Sannin knew the battle was over and won, they did not feel as if they must face the uncertainty of execution or imprisonment alone. Moving once more instinctively to Kabuto’s side, as if the two of them were really just one person, one entity. To attack him was to attack them, and visa versa. Yet when they place their hand to his shoulder, both offering a touch of support and looking for someone to lean on - for what may be the last time without their realization - they find themself faced with words they hadn’t anticipated. Words that struck them more than the injuries sustained in combat, shook them more than the tremors of the bomb fire. ‘ I can’t go back with you. I have to leave. ’