Sarutobi Hiruzen does not wander the streets like a nobody and is not seen often. In his absence, Konoha's brood is left wondering, feeding off whatever remnants of information they come across. Desperate to fill in the gap and willing to do so haphazardly. A glimpse of his mere shadow sets his people ablaze.
Oh Sarutobi-sama, if you could see us now! Our wills remain unbroken. Though the fire may die, the ashes burn on.
Those sorts of things were once intriguing, perhaps even empowering in a vengeful way. To be a part of the herd, he wants nothing else. But now, those beliefs are terrifying; and now, the village shuns him even more.
Sensei tried to kill me when I showed him my television box. He grabbed me by my throat and I couldn't breathe.
Nobody believes him, Jiraiya least of all.
His friend was honored as an ember four months prior and it has severely limited his thinking, so much so Orochimaru finds it difficult to talk to him. He is a Chuunin now, for reasons beyond their skill level, and he acts as if that sets him apart from all of them. He was told he is special, so he believes he is—too special to talk to people like him anymore.
It hurts his stomach, the loss of someone he thought he knew. Everything Konoha touches is swallowed into the ground, but even she makes mistakes.
Jiraiya gets jittery around people that talk too nice for too long. He stays up all night during the missions he deems more 'fun than the others'. A battery not unlike the ones in his radio, he is a conduit of an energy he himself creates—gods, does he ever stop talking?
Jiraiya vomits constantly without ever saying anything important; there's so much inside of him that a single crack leads the whole to ruin. When he can't sleep during missions, he's found feverishly scribbling his thoughts down on paper. Orochimaru's read over his shoulders many times. He never likes what he sees. Maybe Jiraiya isn't a good writer. Maybe he hasn't lived enough.
Even at his age, he can tell when someone's feeding him lies. Maybe Jiraiya doesn't know he is.
Orochimaru believes this to be true until they're both gasping on a riverbank, chakra spent, panting and huffing and staring and hating each other.
"Don't ever talk shit about Sensei again," Jiraiya warns. "Or I'll finish the job he started."
His spine cambering over the pebble-laden shore, Orochimaru laughs at him—really laughs. Has a good chuckle at the anger blooming in Jiraiya's eyes.
"Sensei is a liar and you are an idiot."
That's all he says, and he isn't lying this time.
A brief roof of lake water collapses overhead, then Orochimaru feels Jiraiya's knuckles littering his jawbone like the henpecks from Tsunade, and his belly barfs cold chakra all over the riverbank. All over Jiraiya. All over himself. Exposing the will of fire he has and how much stronger it can be.
He yanks Jiraiya off of him. He slams him down on the shore. He's on top of him now. He's punching his face.
The pain goes on and on, until Orochimaru realizes he doesn't recognize what he's hitting, then all the anger seeps out in a wistful, quiet breath—not even a breath. More like a sigh. Jiraiya lies motionless between his knees and the sight is so empowering he doesn't sleep for two whole nights.
Sensei cries when he sees what he's done. "Orochimaru, how could you do this?"
He answers that hollow sentiment with an equally emotionless stare. "I felt like it."