Orochimaru slumped back against the wall, his knees bent close to his chest. His head hung limply, and his long, black hair hid his face from view. Around his glass, his hand shook uncontrollably. He was numb, or, at least, he convinced himself that he was. It was too much for him to bear. Tsunade's hysteria had run its course, and he could hear her hiccoughing sobs from across the room. It was enough to make him feel like his stomach was being pulled up through his throat.
There was no reason that any of this had to happen. If it weren't for this goddamned war, if not for their lack of manpower, if not for his own assignment as a jonin squad leader, maybe, just maybe, Nawaki wouldn't have died that night.
In his mind's eye, he was tortured by repeating images of the dusty-haired genin rushing ahead, despite his orders. He saw the blinding flash and heard the explosion, which reverberated through his core. He saw himself standing in that damned hallway, Hashirama's necklace in his hand. The look of horror in Tsunade's eyes would haunt him for the rest of his life.
His fingers tightened around his glass until it shattered, sending shards and alcohol in every direction. He could feel the gashes in his palm, but he did nothing. His heightened sense of smell picked up the iron scent of his own blood.
A strong hand gripped his wrist, and he lifted his head, making eye contact with Jiraiya. His teammate looked down at him in concern and began to pick the pieces of glass out of Orochimaru's pale skin.
"Don't touch me," he hissed through clenched teeth, but he didn't have enough energy left in his body to forcefully tear himself away.
Jiraiya ignored the threat and used the tip of his kunai to dig out the shards he couldn't reach with his fingers. Orochimaru's hand rested limply in his, and he could feel the irregularity of his pulse from where he held his wrist. His teammate turned his head away, but Jiraiya still saw the tearmarks streaking his cheeks. The black-haired man was far too proud to admit his sorrow, but it was an emotion shared by them all.
"Get up," Jiraiya ordered, almost lifting Orochimaru from the ground by his wrist.
Finding his strength, Orochimaru ripped himself from Jiraiya's grasp. The larger man stood imposingly over him, but Orochimaru scowled up at him with unbridled rage. "What did I just say?!"
In all their years together, Jiraiya had never heard Orochimaru raise his voice. Beneath the anger hung tones of agony, and his golden eyes betrayed him. At his outburst, the room fell silent. Orochimaru looked past Jiraiya and saw Tsunade, red-eyed and broken, regarding him with worry. She, of all people, should hate him. He hated himself. Yet, here she was, concerned. He felt like the lowest life form on Earth.
It was like he'd been stabbed in the gut with a kunai. His knees faltered, and if it weren't for Jiraiya, he would have fallen to the floor. He let his grief take him.
Jiraiya physically supported his teammate as he led him to the couch, where he fell in a heap. He looked on as the two most important people in his life fell apart, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. Trying to help in the only way he knew how, he sat down and pulled Tsunade to his chest, holding her close. Orochimaru was never one for physical affection, but he risked putting a hand on his bony shoulder to reassure him of his presence.
Tsunade's hands knotted in the front of his shirt, and her small frame shook as she began to lapse into a panic attack. Jiraiya gently rocked her back and forth, murmuring reassurances in her ear. Tonight, he had to be strong. They needed a rock, something to hold onto. He refused to think about what either of them would do if they were left alone. And so he used his thumb to wipe a tear from Tsunade's cheek.
Orochimaru leaned forward and placed his hands on his knees. His head hung in his hands, and his fingertips dug harshly into his scalp. His knuckles turned white, a hardly noticeable difference from his normal skin tone.
For the first time that night, since hearing about Nawaki, Tsunade spoke. Her voice was hoarse, barely louder than a whisper. "It's not your fault, Orochi."
Refusing to give her a reply, Orochimaru grabbed the bottle of alcohol from the nearby table and put the neck to his lips. He took several large swallows, relishing the burning sensation that drug itself down his throat like nails. He let go only when Jiraiya took it from him, taking his own swallow rather than scolding him.
"Don't lie, Princess." Orochimaru measured each word carefully. He took in a deep, shuddering breath. He longed to drown himself in inebriation, but Jiraiya held the bottle in his left hand, which stretched across the back of the couch, putting it well out of his reach. He turned his rage inward, verbally flagellating himself. "I don't even deserve to be here." He tried to stand, but Jiraiya's hand held him firmly in place.
"You're not going anywhere," the white-haired ninja declared.
"Who are you to decide that?" Orochimaru's golden eyes flamed, violently throwing off his hand and standing up.
"I'm your best friend. Now sit the fuck down," Jiraiya roared as he got to his feet, meeting his teammate head-on in stubbornness and rage. "I'll be damned before I let you out of my sight. I know where you're at right now, and we're not losing anyone else!"
Feeling like a chastised child, Orochimaru lowered himself back down onto the couch. He didn't resist when Tsunade moved to his side and wrapped her arms around him. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and her breathing was uneven. He hesitated before wrapping his arms around her waist. Impulsively, he pulled her close.
The two grieving teammates held one another long enough for Jiraiya to finish the last of the alcohol. He leaned forward and groped underneath the couch in search of their stash. Their haunt of an abandoned office building was their sanctuary, the one place they could escape. His fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle as he pulled it out, pleased to see they had yet to break into this one.
The cap twisted off in his hand, and he covered the first inch of his and Tsunade's glasses with the brown liquid. Orochimaru's shattered glass wouldn't be of much use, now. In a fleeting thought, Jiraiya wondered if Hiruzen-sensei was looking for them.
Tsunade pulled away from Orochimaru and took his face in her hands, forcing him to look her in the eye. Each word she spoke carried the weight of her soul: "It is not your fault." Her eyes glistened, damp. "It's this fucking war, but it's not you. Do you hear me? I don't blame you, I will never blame you."
Orochimaru lifted a hand and placed it overtop of Tsunade's, at a loss for words. As relieved as he was that she didn't blame him, it did nothing to soothe the pain. All he managed to do was nod before moving her hand away, much gentler with her than Jiraiya.
Silence reigned until the three ninja had drained the second bottle. Even in their inebriated states, sleep refused to come. The edge had been taken off the pain, and they dreaded its inevitable return.
When the morning light crept through the windows, they saw how disheveled they had become. Tsunade's red-rimmed eyes appeared sunken, and strands of her hair had come loose from their ties. Jiraiya, despite his frame, appeared small, as though he had been physically beaten further and further into the couch. Orochimaru stared listlessly at his injured hand, examining the scratches that covered his palm and fingers. He pressed the pad of his thumb against one of the deeper gashes, and a biting pain shot through the heel of his palm.
Humans were so fragile. Life was fragile. The only thing it produced was sorrow. He knew that pain dearly after the loss of his parents. Now, Tsunade had become intimately aware of it as well. Death tore through life, throwing the pieces of those it discarded without any regard for those it had yet to take. Surely, there was some solution. Orochimaru was sure it was out there, and he was determined to find it.
That would have to wait. In that moment, the war raged on, and lives continued to fall on the battlefield. For perhaps the thousandth time, he and his comrades would rush headlong into the fray, pitting their existence against that of their foes. It was all so fickle. Yet, as long as they donned their headbands, this was their fate. As shinobi, they would swallow the pain and sorrow. They would close their hearts and continue to fight for the village they called home. Grief would have to wait.