"he doesn't want to see you," tsunade says flatly. she's sober for once, maybe for the first time since nawaki's death, and the lines of her face are harsh, brought too a keen sharpness by wartime hunger, and her honey glaze eyes aren't warm at all.
"but why," jiraiya doesn't want to admit he is whining.
"he doesn't want you to see him," tsunade amends, and her voice gains a harder edge to it. something not quite on this side of angry, but close. almost there.
jiraiya is too taken aback to retort. "he is asking you," tsunade stresses, "to give him his space."
"kami," jiraiya feels like someone's blown all the air out of his lungs. "what did they do to him?"
"he's fine," tsunade says. "physically, he's fine. or he will be." she isn't looking at him. her gaze is vaguely focused on the village, her steady hands clasped over the railing. orochimaru's house is in the older districts. heart of the village. he doesn't have hot water, or electricity after the latest barrage, but his home is standing. only he isn't standing in it.
"they sheared off his hair," she says, still deliberately not looking at jiraiya, her eye dancing over orochimaru's garden of poisons.
jiraiya can't help the sound in his throat. his hair is one of the few vanities orochimaru allows himself. had allowed himself.
"yeah," tsunade says. "pulled out a few teeth too, but – "
"it's not why he doesn't want me to see him." jiraiya finishes. he knows she is only telling him these things to quench some of the curiosity that had him staking out his teammate's home – a useless feat, since apparently he'd been in the senju compound this whole time. it was only by accident that he even ran into tsunade here. she was picking up something for him. poisons? scrolls? clothes?
it doesn't matter.
orochimaru doesn't want to see, or be seen by jiraiya.
"tell him i worry," he says, quietly. in the dusk that's settling over the garden, fireflies are emerging, glittering lovelights that drape themselves over the blooming oleander.
"he knows."