Shion
Late winter transitions into spring at the first sign of a cherry blossom’s maturing bud. Tonight marks a similar change for the Senju and Uchiha head families.
Shion knew well enough that this evening would come, although she did not anticipate it. A departure from the standard unspoken meeting time and location, Hashirama took it upon himself to formally invite her family via a letter delivered by crow. Deep-hued ink sprawled along a scroll: the Senju estate, just after sunset, three days from now.
Those three days passed as swiftly as lightning strikes.
The dim light of the Hokage’s residence is the only source of illumination in the infant night. Everyone else is settling down, but festivities are just beginning for the two families.
“Welcome!” Hashirama greets. Madara makes a quip as he enters that Shion is unable to catch, but the Senju’s booming laughter tells her it must have been entertaining. Voices of more greetings follow, her sister’s, her mother’s, Izuna’s, but she finds herself incapable of anything else besides a mere whisper of “hello”.
Dinner with the Senjus, no matter how frequent, is an act of repeated motions. Shion congregates with her elder sister and Mito because it's more comfortable. Her mother does the same with Lady Senju. They talk and talk about whichever topic intrigues them the most that night. It is typical, but it is also pleasant. She enjoys their company, finding comfort in it for it’s what she has always know to be nice.
“Shion, are you alright?” A light voice asks as she slips off her winter boots. The season may have changed, but the weather certainly has not let up from its chilling temperatures.
The delicate question is asked by Mito, who gazes at her with worried eyes and a pout.
“Oh, yes,” Shion replies, “It’s just a bit bitter outside.”
Mito laughs in agreement. Her striking red hair falls over her shoulders. Shion can’t help but notice a freedom to how she carries herself in her own home. Even in the enclosure of the Uchiha head residence, she pulls her back and maintains a strict image, but Mito does not don her signature buns in the safety of her shared space with Hashirama. “Why don’t we retreat further in, then?”
The women gather in a quaint parlor adjacent to the main sitting room. There is a new addition to the space, an orchid, potted and still barren, waiting for the perfect moment to open itself to the world. Shion’s gaze fixes upon it, wondering when that day will come. Will it be soon? Later? The tedious flower blooms in infant spring, but perhaps a little coaxing will be necessary to persuade it to show off its beauty,
Shion tucks herself next to her elder sister, but she begins to feel that was the wrong choice when seemingly every set of eyes is fixated on her. Soran, Mito, her mother, Lady Senju. She shifts uncomfortably as a physical attempt to make sense of the situation.
“Is something wrong?”
Soran hides a snort behind her hand. “Are you not going to entertain your lover, sister?”
It takes everything in Shion to not shoot a sharp glare her sister’s way. Instead, she looks to her mother for help, eyes identical to a doe in fear, worry written all over her face. This was a mistake, though, as her mother poised herself to be of absolutely no help, merely hiding her amused smile behind her own hand.
“He is not my lover.” Shion cannot stand to state the following, but it is the most apt description: “I have no such relationship with him. He is my betrothed.”
“Nevertheless, it is improper to not acknowledge him.”
“Neither of you spend time with your husbands during these gatherings.”
“They have a special bond. We don’t like to interrupt.”
“A special bond?” Shion laces her brows together. Whatever that bond is, she certainly does not want to dwell on it too much. She will get answers later, and right now she will deflect until their pressure ceases and it’s time to indulge in the evening’s meal. “What if Tobirama and Izuna have formed a special bond? Who would I be to interrupt that?”
Soran rolls her eyes. Entirely unladylike, but it sends a message: Shion has no clue what she is talking about. “Izuna may be a flirt, but Tobirama is not his type. And we all know how keen you are on having loyal husband.”
“You should at least try,” Mito’s soft voice chimes in.
Lady Senju lends her voice as well, a final encouragement. Her eyes are kind, understanding although it’s for all the reasons she believes and not for knowledge of the true reason. “He enjoys the courtyard at this time. Offer to go out.”
“And look at him, he is only with Izuna,” her mother points out.” “You can steal him away without a fight.”
Shion turns her head to steal a glance at the man. Tobirama sits next to Izuna with an ample distance between them. Mouths move and the sound of conversation reaches her ears although she cannot make out what the topic is. It is likely unimportant, maybe matters that can be handled the following day but are enough to be small talk between acquaintances. There is a distinct detachment when their dynamic is compared to Madara and Hashirama, though. Upon observing the latter pair, Shion feels she may be interrupting something.
There is no winning this battle, four expectant women versus one hesitant woman. If this were the field of war, Shion wouldn’t give up without a fight, but this is the field of marriage. She is simply not in the position to clash with any of them. With a soft sigh, she stands and walks over to him without a sense of urgency, all the while four pairs of eyes burn into the back of her head.
All she says is his name. He looks up at her, and for the split moment of silence between them she can’t help but take in his expression. A half empty cup of sake lingers on the table, explaining his flushed face despite his ability to hold alcohol well, his skin is simply too fair to hide it. He peers up at her through light lashes and his lips remain sealed together. She can’t recall the last time she’s taken him in from this angle. His features are sharper than they once were, but he is still rather… cute.
She swallows so as to not allow her mind to wander too far. “Would you like to join me in the courtyard?” Her eyes quickly dart to Izuna. “Just us?”
“Now?”
“Now.”
He heeds her request with little resistance, an action which stuns her. Tobirama almost never listens to the commands of others without a quip, yet he now gets up and leads her to the veranda without another word. Maybe his conversation with Izuna was truly not all that interesting, no need to keep it going on for longer than needed. The sliding door is left ajar, just a crack open to convey that they are outside and closed enough to ensure a degree of privacy. Still, Shion senses the prying eyes of several women through the protection of sliding walls.
Sitting next to him is a foreign practice. An energy has shifted, what was once ease and comfort is now stiff and unfamiliarity. His body tenses in the same way it used to, he carries himself in a similar yet mature manner, however, Shion no longer recognizes him for the teenager he was. Perhaps he can observe all the same aspects about her.
Silence looms and she fears that she lacks preparation for a talk with him. There is nothing to discuss besides the obvious matter at hand. This is awful. Shion is cold and forced into interaction with the one individual she has deliberately kept minimal contact with like a fatal illness. For better or for worse, though, it is Tobirama who initiates.
“Lady Shion,” he begins. He pauses for a moment, seemingly unsure of how to proceed. “What do you think?”
“About the arrangement?”
“Yes, the arrangement.”
“It has been beat into my head that it is a newly assumed duty of ours, unique to the needs of the new village.”
Her words come off as harsh to any bystander; she knows this, however, that this is the most pragmatic she can be. To have Tobirama next to her in this very moment is surreal, it plays out like a scene she once lived, sitting under the deep night sky. There is a distance, though. Irreconcilable, who he is now is as foreign as who he was when they first met in the forest all those years ago.
“It is our duty,” he says. There is no tone, no inflection. Not even so much as a second layer of meaning hidden between breaths.
“I don’t want to marry you, Tobirama.” Her head remains fixed towards the center of the courtyard. Crickets hum. The water in the tiny pond ripples with the gust of an evening breeze. She conjures images of Mito and Hashirama, complexions kissed by the spring sunlight, laughter erupting, pleasant strolls through the garden.
“I am well aware of your desires.” Shion cannot question him before he continues. “Madara enjoys prating on about how you want to uphold Uchiha tradition through love despite no effort to attract suitors. This will not be a love marriage.”
He is frank with his words, utterly correct yet it sends a searing pain through her heart. She gave up her love of him years ago. They were never destined for the life they wished for, that is what she was sure of until recent. There was never a reason to so much as think of rekindling what was. Now, they are both plagued with a marriage thrust upon them under the guise of duty to the village. There is no love in that. So why was there a small, deep-seated hope in her heart that he wouldn’t view it that way?
“What do you want?” she asks, voice barely above a whisper. She is unsure if she’d like an answer, but it felt most sincere to beg of his thoughts.
Tobirama does not speak for a few solemn moments. It is only in this time Shion finds herself capable of prying her gaze away from the courtyard. His expression never reveals too much, at least not when he is in deep thought. Sharp, stone cold, she wonders when he gained those stark red chakra marks.
Attending the Hokage’s office must be a nuisance these days. The loud chatter of his brother and Madara, the occasional smug remarks from Izuna when the younger Uchiha brother is there, the desire to simply complete as many administrative tasks as he can in a day. Madara complains often of his hardheaded nature, and she responds with a sip of her tea and a neutral expression; Soran can entertain his complaints. It compels Shion to contemplate what kind of wife she will be, although she urges herself to not think too deeply of it right this moment.
He lets out a rough exhale, his mulling long and difficult yet still coming to a head. “I want what is best for the village. If that is our marriage, then so be it.”
Shion inhales sharply. A typical answer. It does not reveal how he feels. He’s guarded. She fails to understand why he would act in such a way when she has plainly stated her feelings. A chance for vulnerability lost. And so she turns her gaze forward once again. This time, Tobirama fixates on her. What does he see? A clenched jaw and lips pressed tightly together. Long lashes flutter open and shut to keep tears from forming. What is her body reacting so emotionally? It’s ridiculous, she does not care what he thinks, she was merely extending the favor of acknowledging his perspective.
In the split-second Mito slides open the veranda door and announces supper, Shion scrambles to her feet without a glance in his direction. She does not look his way the rest of the night, not even when they are urged to sit next to one another. Irrationally, it pains her. It shouldn’t. Years ago she would have been delighted at the prospect of loving him freely, loving him without care of consequence. But she can no longer love him, not like this, even if this arrangement is better than never seeing him again.