Author: Ri-Ryn
Genre: Horror/Angst
Chapter 2: Ronyon
Word Count: 1336
Rating: M for Mature Teens/T+
Summary: Butsuma never held his second child, not even at birth. So why now, under moonlight, did he lie? That he was fixing Tobirama's swaddling?
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Musashi Kishimoto.
A/N: Imma trying my best. Also, Siderea on AO3 is such a good person. Nikkia and Master_Torch_Master too! ( ；∀；)/' I almost didn't tag this as child abuse, like, how the fuck do you forget that when you write this!?
A/N 2 - Ronyon: (n.) a mangy creature
Whumptober 2021 Prompts; D#2: O garrote | O choking | X gagged
Warnings: Horror, Descriptive Imagery & Wounds, Attempted Strangulation of a newborn, Attempted Murder, Infanticide, Mental Health Issues, Angst, Tragedy. Child abuse.
Sinisterly cold, deep into winter, Senju Tobirama is born. Snowfall beckons the week prior and into the week after, the Land of Fire laden where it freezes the tops of rivers. They only knew his birth was heralded by a full moon due to the lunar cycle. He's delivered in the dead of night during a time with little food, historically plummeting temperatures - a poorly chosen time for babes and a subtle slight to the competence of their clan head.
Worse yet, he is spun from the same ice and the decay it welcomes. The Senju are a clan of fertility, harvest, and the bounty of spring; thus the rejection of his birth is felt if not spoken.
It's inauspicious.
With the same feelings, Butsuma doesn't hold the baby when it's born though it was the spare he and his quarter-blooded Hatake wife were trying for. It looks like porcelain; fragile. It looks like an egg dropped from a spider's web; hatching ill omens. His wife's instincts are muted enough that she is reluctant to feed the increasingly unwanted spare, never mind bond with it.
Butsuma's second cousin, Touka's father, holds the naked winter pup up for the viewing. A viewing hardly any clan members attend, they are reluctant to brace themselves against the storm. No jubilation arose as they've been blessed by the wrong God.
Saya reluctantly calls for it back so the cold will not reclaim the shard too soon. She names it 'Tobirama' when Butsuma refuses to accept responsibility for it.
Hashirama, newly turned four, is utterly delighted and cannot understand the adults' trepidation. One night afterwards clears of clouds briefly, letting a waning moon touch the snow. It's absolutely ethereal, ephemeral even and now he has an otouto comprised of similar fragments all to himself. Tobirama exceeds what Hashirama prayed for and the thankful reverence he offers their ancestor Ashura after his safe birth.
Tobirama cries in their father's general vicinity and the man endeavors to become scarcer. The little one only seemingly tolerates their mother if generous. His elder brother? Tobirama glistens, always in want of Hashirama's touch and rewards his protector with the faintest of babble making Hashirama adore him.
Their parents see this and task Hashirama as its caretaker. At four with a three week old sibling, he is unsure of his ability to mind someone precious, doesn't know why they haven't invited Baa-sama back to care for the infant the way she had him.
Their mother encourages him to sleep beside tiny Tobirama with the oddest serenity; it makes Hashirama a level of disconcerted he will never achieve during the rest of his years.
Her consent contradicts every cautionary anecdote Hashirama grew up internalizing: the Senju's tales of new mothers, always a second time because babes smother oh so very easily and tired dames sleep pleasantly deep in newfound parenthood. Compressed tissues, muffled death wails, the family compound is safe. Instead, warming newborns means parents are to sleep with their offspring mission ready, swaddled skin-to-skin and the parent's back against the wall.
His whatever cousin, who Hashirama delegates as an uncle since Hashirama deigns to tolerate Touka, pinches his lips tightly when Hashirama relays his mother's assent. Touma instructs him to do what he thinks best and that Senju stories embody an element of wisdom.
Hashirama places a head roll on the futon between them, one he knows he cannot pass over. He tried it. The Senju heir still worries Tobirama won't be warm enough.
Mother eyes the cautionary object in a manner later recognized as revilement. While Tobirama latches on to feed in their shared room, the barest amount of light for vision makes her amber eyes glow. The matriarch soothes Hashirama, that the paramount of brothers and blood are unable to perform the perceived atrocity.
"You can put the pillow away, Hashi-kun. Your love is ample enough." She harshly pats its back while saying this, making it spit up more of her milk than necessary and Hashirama doesn't know better yet.
The brunette beams, readily acquiescing to her. She is right. Tobirama fusses the right amount when Hashirama is too close, a pulse he later understood to be his otouto's chakra signature.
It's another blissful week until Hashirama stirs late and Tobirama is gone.
Hashirama bolts up, rushing in the dim the luminescence seals provide just to navigate the main house at night. He stops at the shoji of a nursery Tobirama never knew, feels his cosmic piece in there now and opens the door.
His sire, Butsuma, stands at a firm oak cabinet meant for all things infant care. Moonlight shines from outside where it shouldn't be, the waning long finished, but the Heaven's seem determined to witness mortal happenings.
Hashirama dry swallows, unsure of his fright's source.
Tobirama, in his downy blue sleep wear, lays atop the oak, a Senju green swaddling blanket underneath his lightly malnourished body. Butsuma's calloused fingers touch the triangle ends.
The air is charged and Butsuma folds the cloth incorrectly, watches as the spawn struggles. It opens its eyes for the first time in his presence, damnably sanguine, and Butsuma feels hatred - no longer indifference - simmer outwards. He tries again, holds the cloth longer before it starts fussing again and tiny pearls spills out of blood pools. It's the choking whimper that prompts Hashirama.
"Father," he asks quietly, "What are you doing?"
"Fixing it." The clan head fiddled with the fabric. "Fixing the swaddling you did so poorly, Hashirama," he clarifies.
"Tobirama's?" He questions though they are both aware of whom they speak. The other has never spoken of his otouto as a son or person.
Butsuma stops. "…Tobirama?"
The pronunciation is unnatural, stilted, and Hashirama feels horror bloom somewhere that Butsuma did not know.
Butsuma never held his second child, not at or after birth. So why now, under aberrant moonlight, did their sire lie? That he was righting Tobirama's swaddling?
Their patriarch folds the cloth tighter this time, holds it down with equal force and the thing under his palms begins to cry, limbs kicking with fervor because they remain incorrectly free and Butsuma is not wrapping for comfort. He sneers, until the house groans, and side eyes his eldest.
Hashirama is unerringly still, hands outstretched. "Father." Hashirama addresses him at a whisper and Butsuma feels his hand slacken of their own volition. The infant cannot catch his breath, trying to cry and inhale air back into its lungs. "I need to put Tobirama back to bed now."
Butsuma seems to contemplate the statement before moving away towards the door, his heir stepping aside to allow his exit though he catches no glimpse of said child moving before the shoji door slams shut.
Hashirama is on his brother in an instant and scowling at the baby fabric he'll never touch in hell nor the technique he'll ever use again, rocking him and murmuring soft assurances. When the moonlight dims to nothing he is exhausted, the way after training when his chakra pools are nearly depleted. Tobirama is settled, calm puffs of air while his face no longer ransoms a faint blue hue. He cradles the little one close, scurrying to the corner away from an unsafe window and furthest from the door.
He sits heavily, opening his sleeping yukata to place Tobirama unto his chest and heart before wrapping them both, choosing to go without a blanket tonight.
Hashirama will not sleep unguarded again for another year, year and a half when Tobirama begins to protest his hold at night with a firm 'no, Hashura', preferring to be tucked into his side upon their forgotten futon. 'This is fine,' he'll think, slowly knowing that a bed of roots rest beneath their floor boards and a sibling is to be born in the month before summer.
Until then, Hashirama will take up his post, stardust chilled on his soul till the Senju leave his otouto, leave Tobirama where he belongs and not a step further.
D#3: Caitiff
taunting | insults | "Who did this to you?"