Silence

(Because it came from the most unexpected of places)

All my stories are MA for a number of reasons, some of which are included in the following content. If you are not on fleek with underage abuse/non-con, morbid behavior, and body horror: keep moving. This is your trigger warning. Thank you for understanding.

. . .

"Come here little one."

She was beautiful, all dark skin and dark hair. He loved the way she smelled and how her hands were so gentle when they held him close. He loved the way the silver in her lips jingled when she smiled, he loved her smile. His favorite thing to do was to sit on her lap and hold their arms together, tracing the differences between them with hushed awe. He was always observing, she called it, so curious and thoughtful with everything he did. She said he was so smart the first time he asked her why their skin was so different. He wanted to be like her, he wanted that same inky darkness that seemed to swallow the sun.

She said that his father had different skin, pale skin, white skin; so white it was hard to look at sometimes.

She told him that the differences did not matter because nothing could ever change them.

She tried to teach him to embrace the warm, sandy tan of his body; the strawberry brown hair she kept pulled back into intricate braids. She said he was beautiful, all the way down to the blue of his eyes. He did not agree, but he never said so. He did not want to be different, did not want to look like someone else. He wanted to look like his Mother; his aunts, and uncles, and cousins. The paint never quite looked right on him when they smeared it on his face and collar. Too white or too yellow, and the red made him look angry. They were beautiful, pure, perfect.

No, he was not beautiful.

The Others agreed.

They looked at him with tight expressions, twisted lips, and slanted eyebrows that always made his heart pound a little harder. His Mother did not seem to notice, but she would always pull him to her hip when they passed through the heart of the village. It was easy to ignore when she smelled like the sun and her own heartbeat was like the beat of a steady drum. His Mother was not afraid of anything.

But he was.

He did not know why they did not like him, but he knew.

His Mother was out of the village the day somebody yelled at him, told him he did not deserve to wear their braids; took them away. His uncles, aunts, and cousins watched while the man cut them off, and did not help when he was pushed into the mud. They did not help when the blade bit his skin and his tunic was ripped. His youngest cousin, younger than him, sneered as they turned away; leaving his naked – different – skin bared for all to see.

They lied when his Mother returned. They lied with their fake tears and shaking fists.

His youngest cousin was still sneering.

He lied because he was afraid.

He lied about the bruises on his neck and hips.

He lied about the jagged, angry wounds upon his eyes and lips (-and decided he hated the taste of blood).

His Mother did not smile anymore, and he hated them. Hated himself. He wanted to be like her with her dark skin and dark hair; he wanted silver rings in his lips too. He missed his braids and the sense of safety they used to give him, their weight along his spine was a special kind of comfort he had not realized he would miss. He did, and he cried. He cried a lot. They jeered at him and called him names, and he cried. His Mother cried too, but she did not know that he knew. It was… altering when he realized for the first time that his Mother was not the pillar of strength he envisioned. She was fractured and broken with nothing but lies and deception to fill the cracks with.

But she still smelled like tangled brush and hot sun and he clung to her lap like it was a lifeline.

"Please no cry."

. . .

"Gosh you're such an ugly little thing, but oh, look at those eyes…"

The man in the mask came to visit him every day, said he was the one assigned to watch him, guardian, caretaker, master. Every day he was sat on the edge of his make-shift cot so that the strange man could coo and fawn over his eyes. How blue they were, how clear they were, how they were the prettiest eyes he had ever seen ("do you think they'd look good on me?").

He thought they were ugly, like the rest of him. Nothing about him was beautiful or pretty. Not his face, his hair, his long limbs and thin body; not even his eyes, which were the ugliest of all. The masked man – Raptor – thought he was ugly too and spared no chance to tell him. He told himself it did not matter, because nothing could ever change it, so neither did the man's ugly words.

They treated him like a doll. He got used to the strokes of a horse-hair brush, layering make-up over his scars; the tug of a calloused thumb rubbing color into his lips. They made him beautiful for when Other people came to visit, to look at him, poke him, prod him. He stopped struggling against their wandering hands long ago, frightened of Raptor's eyeless gaze from beneath his porcelain mask. He said it was training, teaching him about what the real world was like, preparing him for the day he would need to use his own hands on someone else. He did not argue, and when he thought for a second that it sounded wrong, he pushed it away.

He knew what the real world was like, recognized the bruises on his skin. Just a different kind of make-up, hiding another kind of scar. At night on his cot he pulled on his hair, tugging and twisting until the broken strands came away between his fingers and blood caked under his nails. In the morning Raptor would 'tut', wag his finger, and prepare him for another day.

He missed his braids.

. . .

It hurt, so much.

He was afraid, and it hurt. The hand wrapped in his hair was firm, unforgiving. Blunted nails clawed at his shoulders, leaving shredded skin and smiling wounds at the back of his neck. Hot breath fanned across his face while desperate fingers forced their way through the seam of his lips, hooked against the back of his teeth, and using the other hand: forced his mouth open. It hurt. He could hear that familiar creak of bone being pulled too far, too hard, while the muscles struggled to compensate for the involuntary motion. He was afraid that if they jerked any harder, it would break.

. . .

He knew there were other children, they had watched him when they first walked him through the doors. But that was it. He was not allowed to be with them. Raptor said he was so special that he got his own room, all to himself ("isn't it nice? You'll never have to share!"). His room and the lab were the only places he was allowed to go; somebody brought his food to him. There was no way of knowing how long he had been there, nobody talked to him unless it was to teach or tell him how pretty his eyes were.

At some point he had simply forgotten about the others.

Now he was reminded, that somewhere beyond the door of his room, there had been others; his mind was blank, and he realized he did not care. Not while they screamed and cried and ran, throwing themselves on the floor and into walls. The same doors he once marched through were forced open, though he did not know why. The walls around it were gone, brick shards and plaster dust covered everything within blasting radius. Strange adults, adults he did not recognize had invaded the large, open space. They shouted and yelled. Some cried, a lot of them cried. He watched a man vomit in a corner, raking his hand down his face.

He had been sleeping when the earthquake came, jolting him awake. Even with panic in his throat, he tied his hair into a messy knot on his head, reaching for the horse-hair brush that Raptor made him sleep with. He had been warring between two evils: risk a peek and learn something, or risk a peek and suffer for learning. The choice was made for him when his door was kicked in, not open, in. He should have been terrified, a part of him was. The other part was mystified while he clenched the brush in a white-knuckled grip. One of the strange adults he now watched had been there, all greens and blues, wide eyes taking in the scene before them. But not for long, there was no time. With their long legs they crossed the room in seconds, gripped him by the arm, and pulled him into the hallway.

He was not prepared for the sense of utter dread he felt upon crossing beneath the threshold of his door.

When did his room become a safe place?

Now he was numb, staring at the dissonance with neutral disinterest. His gaze found what was left of a small arm a few feet to the left of where he stood. Fingers missing, torn open from the palm to the inner elbow. A fine, alabaster dust turned it an unnatural shade of white and he wondered, is that what my father looked like? Pale skin and whiter than snow, so white it could blind you if you stared too long. That is what his Mother always said, her dark eyes soft with fondness.

Then he was being grabbed again, lifted. The same stranger from before – a man – had him by the waist, pressed to his side, dangling. It was uncomfortable and awkward because clearly he had grown some in his time there. He was too big to be carried like a child anymore. But the man did not look bothered, did not look at him at all, in fact. His eyes were set in front of them as he weaved through screaming children, past his fellows, over the rubble, and into the unknown.

He did not remember what lied beyond those double doors.

There was a lot he did not remember, whenever he bothered to think about it.

He was carried down more hallways, not unlike the ones he used to get to the lab. The shadows were different here, though, some of them seemed to quiver as they passed, shifting in a way that he could only catch by looking out of his peripheral. But he did, he saw it. And then they were swallowed by darkness, and although he was totally blind, heart racing in momentary panic; the stranger was unfazed, striding forward on confidant feet. He wanted to speak, to say something, yell even. He stayed quiet, clamping down on his wicked tongue that struggled to form words, to betray him. He was afraid.

He was distracted by a light, no, a door. An open door which let light through, pushing away the shadows to unearth the grungy, brick walls that seemed to make up a majority of the building. That was no surprise, it was all he had known for so long. What waited beyond the door, though, was breath taking. The sun was violently bright. His body jerked, muscles tensing from his neck, to his toes. His limbs curled inward, the brush in his fist snapped as he fought to draw himself as close to the stranger as humanly possible. If only he could dig a hole in his side and hide there. The stranger had to stop to re-adjust his grip, and as he was jostled, he choked on a sob. The world outside was alive, vibrant, bright, too-bright, it hurt his eyes. He saw little more than old-familiar shapes and blurred colors behind the veil of his lashes, anymore and the pain smarted.

Why, though?

Why did the sunlight hurt so much? Why did it make his insides coil? Why was it so hard to breathe all of a sudden? Where were they? Where were they going? Why had they stopped? Because the man was setting him down, that was why. He balked at first, but eventually allowed his legs to be coaxed out, stretched so that he could stand. And then there was nothing. Nothing but the distant squawk of birds and the occasional breeze that tickled his nose. He knew Nothing, they were well acquainted. This was not the same, though possibly bred from the same idea. The man was silent, but still there, his presence becoming less daunting with each passing minute. In that time, he worked on opening his eyes: wrinkling his nose, blinking, touching his eyelids with gentle encouragement.

It was not until they stayed open, and everything slid into focus, that the stranger spoke.

"I'm sorry." He said, "I should have done something earlier, but I couldn't."

He did not know this man, or recognize his voice, but he spoke as if they were familiar.

He said nothing, the man clenched his fists.

"You're a very special boy, I hope you realize. You have no idea how lucky you are… you really don't." The man said with surprising softness, looking down at him with furrowed brows, dark eyes rife with some emotion he did not know. He threw around those nasty words, special, lucky. He was none of those things, and then some. He scowled, then gasped when something sharp bit into his hand. Looking down, the two halves of his brush dropped to the ground, a small drop of blood welled from the point where the wood had gotten him. He wiped it on his pants and looked back up at the man, saying nothing.

He would have to get a new brush.

"You don't recognize me and that's okay. It's better this way. Knowing me doesn't change what has to happen." He said at last, something hardened in his tone of voice, and his eyes glinted like black steel. It was intimidating and not remotely comforting. "I'm going to take you to a place no one would ever expect to look for you. Someplace you'll be safe from wandering eyes and curious hands. Someplace far away from here."

He was once again hoisted from the ground. This time he was maneuvered to the man's back, arms reaching instinctively to find a grip. As soon as he secured himself, they were moving again, too fast for him to follow. Trying to look made him dizzy, so he squeezed his thighs tighter and rested his cheek on the soft, brown tail of the man's hair.

. . .

"Do you remember your name?" The stranger asked, squatting down before him, hands pressed into his shoulders as he was pinned to an alley-wall.

"No." He replied, finally, and his guardian sighed.

He had many names, too many, he could not remember them all. He vaguely remembered his real name, but also, not really. The ones from Raptor, and Whitecap, and Quill, and Fly were there, but convoluted; mixing and mating, impossible to individualize. His identification number, and many more all bubbled to the surface, but he could not choose just one. There were too many.

"Good, pick a new one. Something unique, or important if you can. You don't want to live by something you hate." The man said, fixing him with another one of his strange looks.

A name? How did someone pick their own name?

What was considered unique?

What was important to him?

Mother.

But he could not remember her name.

Somewhere in the streets a vendor was calling to a customer, and a mother was shouting at their child. He listened to the symphonic chaos, the purposeful kind, as his mind wandered. Until something stuck, just on the outside edges, wedging itself between subconscious thought and the forefront of his mind. A name, a simple set-up of letters – kanji – designed to create a thoughtful descriptor for someone. He had a lot of those, but none of them were important, or readily accessible from his memories. He knew what Raptor called him, heard it every day. It was not his name. Just like the one that came to mind now, was not his name. It belonged to someone else, some distant figure nestled amongst hundreds, blissfully unaware of his conundrum. But he would use it, because it was what stuck out to him, what clung to the back of his mind like an itch that would not go away.

He looked at the man, looked him in the eye for the first time since leaving the compound.

"I can have whatever I want?" His voice was small, unsure. His body quivered.

"Anything, it will be your identity, how people will know you, recognize you." The man replied.

"… okay, I-I know what, I know what I want." The words tumbled awkwardly from his mouth, sticking to the back of his throat like a burr. The name, his name sat tattooed on the back of his tongue, a promise given to him by a stranger that no one could take away.

. . .

The Kazekage was a rigid sort of man who was politely objective on the best of days. He sat through meetings, wandered the levels of the tower to wherever he was needed, and occasionally got some paperwork done. There was even a time or two they had caught him sleeping, face planted unceremoniously on whatever he worked on, ink smeared across his cheek. Not that they ever told him that. Those moments were theirs and theirs alone, like the time they walked in on a woman pressing him to the edge of his desk. If not for the fact that he was in the process of climbing said desk in a bid to escape, they would have turned tail and ran. That particular incident, no matter how awkward and dangerous it had been, was still something they could call their own.

Yodo still brought it up now and again, reminding their Teacher of how he could have stopped it at any time. Humility was not something that came naturally for her. When she stayed behind to chastise the Uzumaki boy before they left, though, he had to stop and reconsider his opinion. It was not that he had ever really disliked the girl. He just did not really like her either. Appearing as a quiet individual until the time came to take action, after which the illusion of blithe indifference was discarded to make way for crass humor and thinly veiled arrogance. It was no wonder she made it to their team, she and Shinki shared just enough in common that the Sunese Prince would tolerate her. He could be wrong, but probably not. The quiet, overly cautious, calculating character was his. Genuine to the point he was able to appeal to the Kazekage's brother, obtaining an apprenticeship that eventually had him grouped with the other two.

Team Shinki, Team Sand, or the New Sand Siblings as some liked to call them.

Neither were quite sufficient to describe the working relationship between the three of them, and he was not sure anything ever would. They served their purpose more like a glorified cheer squad once Shinki really dug his claws into something. No amount of natural ability or special talent on their part could come close to breaching the raw, uncensored power that moved within that boy. Their teammate was like something out of a storybook rather than something real and tangible, flesh and blood. Even his respected uncle, a powerful man in his own right, could be cowed under the Prince's gaze. Someone at one point said they expected him to surpass the Kazekage, and after watching him in the arena, destroying every opponent that entered the ring… well, he was inclined to believe it.

Perhaps that was why he sat on the far edge of the couch, letting Yodo sit between them. A buffer to a situation that none of them were even aware of. The gentle rocking of the train was not comforting, but in this instance, he tried to let it be; to align his heartbeat to the steady thrum of power that pulsed at specific intervals along the tracks. He was not upset, disturbed, or even nervous. Yet something was there, creeping along just below the skin, just out of reach from his seeking fingers. He did not scratch; he did not move. His eyes carefully blank behind his mask, neutral, indifferent. He could remember – with an ease that came far too readily to him now – a time when the silence scared him. Deafening in its intensity, pressing in from all four corners of the room. The Nothing screamed.

Now he viewed it as a welcome companion, using it as a tool to strengthen, and learn. Back then he had not known it could be used that way, but that was the point. Now though, his gaze shifted to peer through the slits in his mask. He turned his attention to the Kazekage, watched him with narrowed eyes. The Wind Country's strongest warrior used the silence too, needed it almost as desperately as he did. That knowledge was his and his alone. He looked back in his minds eye to the red head finding him hidden away in the most unexpected of places. The conversation they had, one of very few, had been tense. The two of them danced around each other as if avoiding broken glass. But it was also informative, eye-opening even, and by the time he had left for his bed; the blood in his veins coursed with something other than brick and plaster dust.

There was some comfort in knowing that he was not totally alone, and that of all people, he had the Kazekage to look back on as an example, and a reason. He was unsure of whether he would ever be able to look at the other two children and see friends, like Boruto and his kin seemed to do. But, at the very least, he could try to get to know them. The exams had been an exciting distraction, but now it was over, and the train hurdled steadily through the night back toward home.

His breath caught, and he averted his eyes.

"Ah, my little sunspot." She crooned and smiled.

He loved her smile.

"Do you know why I gave you your name?" She asked, brushing long, elegant fingers through his hair. The sensation made his eyelids droop and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead to her shoulder.

"No… why… you do?" His little tongue struggled to shape the words, to make them into what he wanted. He furrowed his brow, gripping handfuls of his Mother's tunic. Stupid words!

She thought this was the funniest thing, and he flushed when she laughed.

He gripped the edge of the couch, the muscles in his arms jumping against his will.

Just a slip of the mind, that was all.

"Because it is a symbol of new life in a place where life should not be able to thrive. Your Father lived beside one, and it kept his village alive when everything else perished." She explained, leaning down and smoothing her thumb across his wrinkled brow. "That, and because I like the way it sounds."

She giggled then, nudging her nose against his. He could see the flecks of color in her irises, deep mahogany browns and dark reds ringing her pupil, only to burst out in contrast against a dark chocolate sea. They were beautiful, and warm, and they glowed with something that came from deep within; he knew. He loved her eyes, he wished he had eyes just like them. But his were blue. Just blue.

"It reminds me of your Father." She whispered; her breath soft against his face.

"You remind me of him, all the time. You look just like him."

He looked up at her with wide eyes. It was not often his Mother spoke so freely about his Father, although when she did, it was never with anything less than love. A love so strong that he could feel it through his skin, straight to his bones. It made him shiver, he could not understand why she felt so passionately for a man he did not know. He could only look at her, cocking his head ever so to the right, and try to figure out the expression in her eyes. Her big, beautiful eyes.

Her smile was wide and toothy, "My little Arroyo."

A/N: I already liked him, but I came upon two pictures on Pinterest that tipped me over the edge. I don't know why, but I'm attached to his character. There are a lot of empty spaces in here on purpose, it's just a one-shot of snippets from a much larger story, from an even bigger story. We don't have a lot of info on the new sand kids and Shinki is the only one whose gotten any real focus, so I thought I'd show Araya some love. He wears a mask and manipulates a literal puppet of himself, come on. Now, a few things:

1. When I first saw Araya's design I immediately thought of Spain, and I still do. In my Universe Araya isn't native to the continent, he's a foreigner, and was later brought over through unsavory means. Why? Because my headcanon includes the Shinobi Nations slowly reaching out to foreign countries (China, Australia, England., etc..) to make connections, and vice versa. For a basic timeline, he's about 3 in the beginning and probably 11-12 at the end.

2. His Father lived on the Spanish plateau, born and raised, until he was later sold off for being albino. His mother was the daughter of a South African tribe who defied everything to be with his Father. In my head he probably looks a lot like what his dad would look like if he wasn't an albino. What even are genetics? fanfiction, am I right?

3. I feel like Araya and Yodo are both going to get shafted because Shinki is Gaara incarnate x10 kaioken! So I've adjusted accordingly and now you have KekkeiGenkai!Araya. I wonder what kind of bloodline limits Spanish borne ninja might have. Araya's been subjected to the mandatory Tragic Backstory™ and can now move on to follow in Sakura's footsteps.

4. According to Google: Araya can mean 'wild valley' or 'new valley' and both of those work pretty well alongside his birthname, Arroyo. He doesn't consciously remember his birthname, but when he heard the name Araya, his brain told him it was familiar, and he kept it.

In regard to the way I've written this: you'll be seeing a lot more of it. I found something I like, I can make it flow well, and somehow it makes it easier for me to spend more time writing on it, win/win. For anyone who has favorited and followed 'Teeth', don't be alarmed when it comes down. I'll be re-writing it to fit this new style before putting it back up, updated lol. Thanks!