The night is just cold enough to creep its way under his clothes and make its home there. The chirring scream of the cicadas is singularly deafening. They’re nearly loud enough to drown out the terror that Tobirama can’t dispel, the rush of blood in his ears, the cloying, paralyzing dread.
It’s not on his behalf.
Rather, Hashirama’s face has long since given way to shocked pallor. He stares down at the bound form of his brother, his horror wide-eyed and indiscernible. They’re surrounded by the stares of the whispering, and, when a light breeze stirs the courtyard, the shadow over Hashirama’s shoulder presses the kunai knife into his unwilling grip.
Tobirama imagines the feel of his brother’s palm. Tacky with fear-sweat, soft as new leather, callused as a sandal sole.
“Do you know what you’ve done wrong?” Butsuma asks, voice even. By now he knows that it’s not a question. Tobirama has made rigorous study of his father’s crafty words. When Hashirama doesn’t answer, Butsuma continues, tenor never rising or falling. He speaks as though he’s discussing the weather. “Conspiracy. Treason. Reckless endangerment.”
With all of his big ideas stripped away, Hashirama is a child, gawky and young. He hasn’t quite grown into his face, and his hair is a curtain over his brows that is always a second behind him when he moves the way he does – shameless and without care. When his face changes, Tobirama watches so that he can copy the correct way to feel, but it never comes out right when he practices to his reflection in the river. Next to his brother, he’s sallow and pale. He’s Hashirama’s lighter shadow. Here, now, they’re positioned opposite each other, and Hashirama is holding a blade, and, despite this, Tobirama is not afraid of him.
He’s never been afraid of his older brother. If he could speak, he would tell Hashirama as much. Just get it over with. I’m not afraid, so you shouldn’t be either. Curt. Short. Hashirama never scolds him for talking short and curt.
“Three lines,” Butsuma says. His voice doesn’t change, but there’s a new tension in his jaw. “One on each cheek, and one on his chin.”
He steps back. The gathered crowd makes room for him. Hashirama’s breath comes all at once, heaving into something like a sob. His hand is trembling on the loop of the kunai.
Don’t make this into something bigger than it is, Tobirama tries to say without saying. They’ll remember. They’ll never forget this weakness. They’ll never let you forget.
“I’m really sorry,” Hashirama says without grace, turning to their father. “Chichi-ue, please forgive me. Elders, please forgive me. I’ll cut my own face. He has nothing to do with this.” He holds his hand up to demonstrate, hand steadying, and, all at once, their father’s iron grip is on his wrist.
“You don’t get to choose the punishment,” he says.
Hashirama whispers, “Please.”
They all hear it. Tobirama squeezes his eyes tightly shut.
Anger paints the space behind his eyes red. When you see the world through red eyes, it’s no wonder you have a temper, his aunt had said to him. He had overturned the bowl onto the table and it had rolled onto the floor. White ceramic shards mingled with chunks of tofu. They had locked him in the closet with his arms tied behind his back until he knew better than to show his endless, hapless anger. Now, he lets it simmer in his throat. Dread and anger are amiable friends.
Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Don’t show weakness. None of it applies to Hashirama, of course. He’s different. In his mind, he calls out, you can’t turn the blade on yourself, you’re different. He doubts his brother hears.
“Let me scar myself, he has nothing to do with this,” He pleads, shame thrown to the wayside.
“You will listen, you will do as you’re told.”
“It’s not fair,” Hashirama’s voice is going up in pitch. He’s struggling against the hold, tugging his hand closer to his face. Their father doesn’t budge except to grab Hashirama’s other shoulder, shaking him briskly in warning. The two of them create such an absurd scene that Tobirama imagines laughing, imagines turning their eyes back to him, imagines a sound as wild and careless as a bird buffeted by the wind. He imagines his brother’s laugh from his throat.
Nothing comes out. Anjia. Nothing comes out.
Hashirama’s head jerks to the side.
The slap rings out through the courtyard, echoing as though uninterrupted, and Hashirama’s cries catch in his throat. There’s a handprint on his cheek, blood rushing to the surface, sure to bruise. Butsuma moves again, motion too fast to track.
“You’re not a child anymore, boy,” he admonishes. “Quit your squalling and act like the man you are. If you’re sorry, earn your forgiveness.”
“Anything else,” Hashirama stands his ground, stubborn even when he’s shaking.
Tobirama swallows down disgust.
Hashirama’s shaking turns to tears, brow darkened, shoulders heaving. He cries with all the unplanned rage of a summer storm, punishment to parched earth. He chants, “I won’t, I won’t,” all pointless heroism. His face is a mess, bruised and ruddy, snot and salt. The next strike sends him stumbling back, and Tobirama swears he can see the moment that Hashirama breaks altogether.
“If you can’t hurt him, how can you keep him safe?”
There’s a certain look that Hashirama gets when he’s forced to stop crying all at once. It’s like a light goes out behind his eyes, mouth falling slack, a mask of their father. In the courtyard, he straightens as something brittle inside him falls apart.
He pauses, sways on his feet. His wrist falls, strings cut, and then he turns to face Tobirama head on. Their father falls back into the crowd.
The first sting is cold. It takes a moment for his nerves to register a clean cut, but when he does, his chin throbs. Next is the thin skin of his cheeks. When he closes his eyes, blood tracks down to his neck, tickling and cooling too suddenly. He imagines wincing, twitching, the kunai slipping and cleaving into his mouth. He can feel the press of the blade with his tongue through his cheek. He holds it there.
Hashirama comes to his senses in the middle of the third cut.
“Chichi-ue,” he says, but their father keeps his place. “This is wrong, this is –”
Tobirama squeezes his eyes shut tighter. His blood is sticky and cold. His face throbs with every pulse of his heart.
“Tobirama, I’m sorry,” he interrupts himself. “I’m really sorry, I’m sorry.”
It’s more sting than anything, and a sting is different than pain. Even if it was pain, Tobirama doesn’t cry when he’s hurt. He doesn’t cry when he’s sad. He didn’t cry when their mother died, and he didn’t cry for their brothers.
Hashirama’s hand jerks. The final line is jagged where it meets his jaw. He pulls away, stumbling back. There is blood on his pants and at the hem of his shirt. He can’t imagine that it’ll wash out.
Hashirama looks more pained than he does, which means that the punishment worked, which means that it’s over. Tobirama bows his head and says his thanks. His brother kneels, tipping his chin up as though in a daze. He stares at the gathered crowd, and then up to the sky. The kunai clatters against the ground. Heedless of the blood, Hashirama presses his palm to Tobirama’s cheek, tacky with fear-sweat, soft as new leather, callused as a sandal sole. It’s salt in a wound. Tobirama’s bound wrists hurt more than his face. The gathered crowd watches, slowly dispersing, their presence as witnesses no longer required.
When it’s just them left in the courtyard, Hashirama gathers him up and hauls his freshly-cut face to the crook of his neck. He’s sure to stain the fabric, but his wrists are still bound and the awkward position has it so that it’s impossible to pull away, impossible to breathe. Hashirama holds him like he’s fragile.
The embrace is a beacon, a white flag in the breeze, signaling to the entire world that Senju Hashirama is soft and easily broken.
The dread does not disperse.