XXIX - It's a Long Road
There's blood on his hands, blood so ruby red and bright. It gushes, it laments, it sings in his head all the wonders he denied, and he hates it. It's vicious hate, hatred for something that exists behind the boundary, beyond his own comprehension.
Takahashi is sick—that is what he thinks, at least. He trudges on the road, pausing slightly to let Shiro catch up. The rolling hills are still green, still pure. There's something of innocence, or whatever is left of it. If he bothered to look closely, near the verge, at the edge of his vision, he could see a rose bush, fluttering in the evening wind.
"Hurry up." he orders, looking away from his little brother. He can talk to him later, and maybe—no, best not to think of it. It's hard to find the right words, especially when he himself doesn't know what to say.
Shiro doesn't respond, lips curving downwards. It's something of a somber sight, but that's life. Sometime later, Shiro will look back at this scene, and say this is where it all started. His descent into hell.
But that time isn't now. "Ni-san..." Shiro murmurs.
"We can talk later." This time, Shiro doesn't miss the glazed look in his brother's eyes, and remembers the dead body, the corpse, and- no; he can't think. Takahashi protected him, why can't he see that?
Looking at the back of his hero, uncertainty clouds his mind.
Their home is burnt, is the first thing Takahashi sees. To see the smoke billowing in the evening wind and moving from the shredded ruins—it drives something primal in him, and his eyes narrow.
Each fragment, each and every drop of blood, they're all etched into his mind. His eyes push, and it becomes clear. But most importantly, he doesn't know what to say.
How can he tell Shio?
So, he doesn't- short and simple. He pushes open the cracked paper screen door and surveys the property. Pushing inside, words catch in his throat, and wheeze their way out of his open lips, "I-I'm home..."
No one responds, not father or mother. But when his foot meets the floor, he feels a surprising wetness—only to look down and see it.
Blood, blood, blood—it's everywhere, flowing, and oozing, all over him—he screams. He gasps at the sight before him, torn from looking away or keeping his eyes affixed on the sheer blasphemy. His mother's body lies twisted and broken, lying in a pool of saccharine sweets. She labors in the embrace of it, smooth porcelain skin blemished with the first vestiges of rose.
He grabs her, only to pull back in horror, and simply freezes. Then, like a madman, he scrambles across the floor, searching, searching for his father, in some foolish fantasy. But even now, his dreams will forever remain distant—his father's corpse leans against the wall, hand reaching for his wife. A simple slit to the neck, and Takahashi's heart twists in rage as he cradles his father.
He screams, and Shiro comes running in, and turns pale at the sight. Tears are flowing from Takahashi's eyes, rivers of grief and anger and hatred. His eye bends and twists, and Takahashi flinches as he sees a sliver of red on his cheek.
His fingers shake as he dabs at the liquid, and watches it flow over his thumb. It's just like water, he thinks, already feeling its putrid scent rotting into the floorboards. And as his eyes flick to his mother, the anger emerges, only harsher.
But he then looks at Shiro, meek and scared, who flinches at the sight of his older brother. Because Takahashi was a killer—he can't understand his eyes have morphed, that's he's using a skill he shouldn't have. All he says is fear, the blood—so he laughs.
It's twisted, evil, and filled with such agony and pain that it only makes him laugh harder. It rips into his spine, up his stomach and pools into his mouth, spit flying into the air as he laughs. Every frame is immortalized into his mind—his mother and father, Shiro's fear, everything.
His fists slam against the floor, ripping through the floorboards as water flows down his cheeks, washing away his bloodstained face. Like that changed again. He doubles down, back hunched, wheezing and still laughing until Shiro finally punches him.
Right in the cheek, and for once Takahashi snaps. He forgets that Shiro has witnessed the same sight, that Shiro is in shock, and for once he is filled with hate. Because of Shiro, they left the house.
Because of Shiro, their parents are dead. And in his bitter anger, he grabs Shiro's wrist and snarls. "Don't you touch me, bastard."
He ignores the chill in his heart at the face of his brother and stands up. His face creases together, and he lashes out in the very spot his family was eviscerated. "This is all your fault! Why did we go to the forest- because of you!"
And Shiro is crying, crying as he runs away, retreating, and Takahashi smirks in victory. But only then does he look at his mother's face and pauses. She looks like she always had, reaching for her sons.
Sons.
"W-wh-what..?" He grabs his face, thoughts whirling and emotions roaring in anguish until he makes a decision.
He rushes after Shiro.
Two months later, the two sat quietly near a bubbling creek. They never do talk about that day—it's something murky, almost akin to a dream. They haven't forgotten it, no—Takashahi chokes every time he looks at Shiro, at the slight scar along his wrist and remembers.
And for Shiro, his brother has morphed from kindness to sorrow. There's no more life in his body—his flesh is satiated, but soul remains empty. The only time he smiles is when they talk about the past, before everything.
Whatever food they have is scavenged from the grassy plains where they lost their innocence. Dirt streaks their faces, bruises and scars litter their bodies. Takahashi uses this time to read some scrolls he found with their parent's bodies.
Shiro has never bothered to touch them—there's too many bad memories. But his brother insists on teaching him, fighting forms, jutsus using 'charka'- he says it will help them.
It has, Shiro will admit. But he can't understand why his mother and father would hide such things, and what this web of lies means. His heart longs to know, to try to understand why.
There are too many secrets buried beneath the cracks.
"Ni-san?"
Takahashi turns towards him and tries to smile. It's fake, but Shiro appreciates it for what it means.
"Why did they hide it?"
"Maybe they wanted us to never know." is Takahashi's response. He doesn't elaborate, and Shiro doesn't press it. Absently, he rubs his cheek.
Shiro pushes deeper into Takahashi's back as the older carries him through the trees—Shiro is far too young and small for such an activity. It's just been the two of them, oddly enough, for the past three months.
They've survived, he supposes.
They met Danzo after a year.
He is simply waiting at their camp—the makeshift cabin the two have assembled over their journey. His frame is stiff, wrapped in white-green robes. But most jarring are the bandages swaddling his face.
Silence envelopes them, before Takahashi speaks up. "Who are you?" He's tired after the day, and nearly ready to collapse. Winter is fast approaching, and food is running out.
The elderly man nods his head. "I am Shimura Danzo."
Takahashi stands taller and shifts his feet so he's in front of Shiro. "What do you want?"
"It's sad to see one of Konoha's proud clans reduced to this." Danzo comments ruefully. Shiro can feel the regret in his voice, and wonders what he means-
"Uchiha..." Takahashi says, recalling the words of the man he killed. He's in shock, staring at Danzo.
"Yes. That was what your family was, and if you wish, you have a home with me."
"Why didn't you come earlier?" Takahashi questions.
"Your parents had many enemies. They didn't want to be discovered." Danzo reaches into his pocket and withdraws a photograph. It's frayed at the edges when Takahashi takes it in his friends, and his eyes widen.
Mother and father stare back at him—Father's hands are resting on his mother's swollen belly. "Everything they did was to protect you... even keeping you from me." Because in the picture is a younger Danzo, smiling as he looks down at the scene.
"I was your godfather, you know." Shimura says, voice trembling at the end. Shiro looks at the man, and back at the picture. His parents never talked about their past, preferring discussing stories or books. Never once did they say a word about a home, about a godfather, about anything.
He doesn't know what to say—what should he?
"We accept." Takahashi's voice breaks his train of thought. He leans down to Shiro. "We can't survive out here forever, Shiro. This man seems trustworthy, and I'll protect you."
Shiro looks back at his brother, thinking.
He makes his choice. Danzo smiles at them, ruffling Shiro's hair. It's gentle, and he allows himself to hope once more.