Mourning White

stillwaters-run-deep:

“Tobirama, you can’t wear that,” Hashirama blurts out when Tobirama emerges, dressed and ready to accompany his brother to Konoha’s first festival. Tobirama has been anticipating those very words in that very tone for the entire time it took him to put on the kimono, and says nothing. Merely crosses his arms—hands very carefully placed under the sleeves—and waits.

The lack of response throws his brother off but does not deter him, and eventually Hashirama rallies. “Tobirama, that’s—those are your funeral robes,” he says, voice lowered awkwardly, as though Tobirama could have merely missed that fact. And still Tobirama does not dignify that with a response, fingers tightening on his arms.

He is indeed wearing his funeral best, a plain white kimono he last wore when their father finally died. He has grown taller since then, and had to get the layers adjusted separately to fit, hiding this set in amongst several others so as to not arouse suspicion.

Tobirama has planned to wear this from the moment Hashirama first mentioned the idea of a festival. His brother forgets some things far too easily for all that he clings to others; and while Tobirama has always believed that the past should not bind the future, neither can it be simply tossed aside. Like a viper sleeping beneath a pillow it may lie forgotten for a time, but if the past is not acknowledged and addressed, sooner or later it will rear up and strike. His brother’s dream is a fragile hodge-podge of war-torn shinobi, looking for a place of safety, yes, but still untrusting, still with their grudges and grievances. This festival cannot be mere celebration.

“We’ll be late,” he interrupts as Hashirama starts to splutter further, and the so-called ‘God of all Shinobi’ falls silent, still gaping at him like Tobirama is the most impossible thing to have ever walked the earth. Then, as he is wont to do, Hashirama shakes his head despairingly, sighs the way he does whenever Tobirama tells him to stop acting the fool, and slouches out the door.

“Sometimes I think you don’t respect me at all,” Hashirama says halfway to the village center, when he has finally stopped pouting and Tobirama is still mentally running through the roster of who is on guard duty when. He hums noncommittally, ignores his brother’s put-out expression. The Inuzuka and Hyuuga agreed to take the first watch on the wall; their scouts’ keen senses will allow them to enjoy the inaugural fireworks from a distance. And they will be relieved by a contingent of Aburame and Nara, both of whom are comfortable in the deepening shadows of the night and prefer quiet to noisy celebration.

The problem is that Tobirama cannot, for his brother’s life or the village’s survival, recall who the Uchiha, set to follow that round of guards, ended up paired with. He thinks—hopes, prays, furiously tries to remember—that Sarutobi Sasuke volunteered his clan members for the task. The Sarutobi are a generally inoffensive lot, with not much bad blood between them and any of the clans taking refuge in Konoha. It is by far the most sensible grouping, and yet—

Hashirama slips an arm around his shoulder, pulling him close. “Enough,” he murmurs in Tobirama’s ear, in that voice of command he so rarely uses. It shakes Tobirama from his thoughts, leaves him blinking and disoriented, and Hashirama smiles, half tender, half exasperated. “We went over the duty roster half a dozen times together; three more times with Madara and twice with the other clan heads. Stop worrying. This is your festival, too; enjoy it.” Then his lips quirk and his eyes widen into what Tobirama can only ever think of as Hashirama’s frog face and he stage mutters, “Just because you’ve dressed for a funeral…”

Tobirama shrugs the arm off, and almost, almost reminds his brother that there are many who deserved to see this village, this fantasy turned reality, who will never get the chance, starting with their brothers and expanding out to all those trampled under the specter of war. That he is not being obstinate but rather respectful of the fact that many who will attend this celebration do so out of duty, not desire; that there are hearts that will be mourning, for all that they must outwardly appear joyful.

That he has himself been the source of grief for many, the killer of fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, sisters and brothers.

But Hashirama is a soft-hearted fool, eager to see and rejoice in the apparent success of his dream, and for all that he wishes his brother understood him better—

Tobirama will not deprive him of this moment. That is why he dressed as he did, the symbolism subtle enough that the reasoning behind it will not occur to Hashirama, will not taint his enjoyment of the evening. He sighs, and tries to put practicality out of mind as he takes his place by Hashirama’s side, face neutral and unbothered by the murmurs that follow him for the duration of the night.

Over the years, he will relax, trading the plain white funeral kimono for something less austere; faint under-patterns of ice blue tracing veins through the outer robe, different textures and cloth softening the impression, but Tobirama’s festival garb will always be mourning white.