Kimimaro
Orochimaru has seen more than his fair share of sad children. Lonely children, with wide eyes full of fear and despair. Children who have already born a lifetime of sadness despite their young age.
This one may be the most pitiful, however.
He’s so small. And thin. And ragged. And filthy. Wide, bright green eyes peer up at him warily from beneath a fringe of hair that Orochimaru figures would be white beneath all the dirt.
Poor child. The sole survivor of a massacre that really didn’t need to happen. He’s been stumbling around this marshland for days now, until Orochimaru had finally found him again, talking to a small, white flower that managed to sprout up and bloom in this gloomy place. Perhaps the first pretty thing he’s seen in his whole life.
He flinches when Orochimaru puts a hand on his cheek, expecting to be hit.
(How horribly sad. This must be the first time in his entire little life he’s been touched gently.)
“I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t need to be afraid.”
The child’s brow furrows. He watches Orochimaru in confusion, bowing his head and turning red in the cheeks.
“Do you have a name?”
“...um, Kimimaro?”
He says it like he’s not quite sure, in a tiny, fragile voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Well, Kimimaro-kun. I’m Orochimaru. I think it’s time we got you out of here, don’t you?”
Kimimaro tilts his head. Orochimaru reaches his hand out toward him, offering what he hopes is a reassuring smile. The boy hesitates, but perhaps realizing he’s got nowhere else to go, he takes the offer, grabbing the outstretched hand in both of his.
The boy’s hands are small, bony, and deathly cold.
He follows with tiny, uncertain steps, green eyes darting between Orochimaru and the spongey ground beneath their feet.
He only makes it a short distance, however, before he starts to wobble. A few more steps, and his spindly legs give out beneath him. When he tries to stand, they simply won’t cooperate, wobbling and caving in over and over.
Orochimaru bends over; Kimimaro lets out a sharp whine of fear.
“I’m sor-”
“-Oh, hush now. There’s no need for that.”
The boy is even lighter than he looks, and even compared to the marshland around them, smells ghastly- like bad blood and spoiled milk and something rancid but unidentifiable. He’ll need a bath (or three) to get that off him, but that’s for a bit later.
Kimimaro clings to him with all his might (which isn't much), hiding his face in Orochimaru’s shoulder.
This must be the first time since maybe the day he was born that he’s been held with any sort of care.
How depressing. He’s carrying with him the last lingering relic of a bygone age. Of a clan who no longer exists. A sad, lonely little relic who has never been treated kindly in his lifetime.
The poor thing has already endured so much. Dragged from a life of isolation, only to immediately have to fight for that life to not be taken.
He’d done well, all things considered. For a child with no fighting experience, he had enough natural talent in him to escape the massacre relatively unscathed. Too small, too quick to be caught so easily. Unlike his unfortunate clansmen.
Unscathed, but completely and utterly alone in the world.
He knows full well what’s going to happen from here. He’s had it happen dozens of times before, from his previous life where his experiments took place in the dark underbelly of Konoha.
He’d have whatever poor child he was experimenting on sat in front of him- sometimes a few years old, but usually far younger. Not wanting to frighten them, he’d talk to them softly, patting their heads and lying to them that it was going to be alright.
They’d always smile at him. Reach out toward him. Sometimes even giggle- because these wretched children brought before him came from the very dregs of society. They were lonely, forgotten children with nobody who cared about them. So of course, the first time someone gave them the barest token of affection, they immediately latched onto the source.
Desperate for love. Even if it’s a lie.
Just as quickly as these children attached themselves to him, Orochimaru betrayed that trust. He always did.
It had bothered him at first. But after so long, he’s gone quite numb to the guilt. Or maybe he’s repressed it because he’s starved for that tiny bit of affection, too.
At this point though, does it matter? The outcome is always the same, anyway.
And at any rate, Kimimaro is oblivious to the whole thing. Of course he would be- he’s bought the lie, taken the bait like so many others.
Whatever gods exist, this is perhaps the cruelest thing they've inflicted on this world.
Getting the boy cleaned up turns out to be about as much of a hassle as Orochimaru imagined it would be. Kimimaro behaves quite well through it all, though- probably because this is the first warm bath he’s received in his life (or proper bath in general, from the smell of him).
His hair comes out a soft off-white, his pallid skin pinkish from all the scrubbing. With some clean clothes and a warm meal, he starts to perk up a bit.
“Slow down a bit, you don’t want to get ill.”
Kimimaro doesn’t want to listen, but he does anyway, rather than continue inhaling his food at max speed. While he finishes, Orochimaru wonders how much waiting for him is driving Sasori mad. He’s always loath to spend any time apart, especially for an extended stretch like this one.
He’ll survive it, though. So he’ll just have to bear with it until Orochimaru hands the child off to where he’ll be safe for the moment.
Troublesome. But he couldn’t just leave the boy behind like that. Not when he has such a rare gift locked away in the bones outlined beneath his fragile skin.
A relic, sure. But a relic well worth protecting. What a shame, after all, were such a rare kekkai genkai to die out.
Kimimaro stares at him like he’s trying to figure out some great mystery.
Right before Orochimaru can ask what’s on his mind, he says so himself.
“...why’re you helping me?”
“Hm? Is it so hard to believe that I did it because I wanted to?”
“But that’s not why people do things?”
What would you know about why people do things? Orochimaru asks in his head, not wanting to offend the boy by saying it aloud.
“People do things for any sort of reason,” he says, instead. “I found you and thought you were interesting, so I wanted to take you with me. That’s all there is to it.”
Kimimaro ponders this, spinning his spoon around in his bowl and frowning.
“...did I do something bad?”
“Hm?”
“How come they kept me locked up? Did I do something wrong? Why didn’t they want me?”
“Oh dear.”
Kimimaro doesn’t cry, or whine or wail or anything befitting such a young child. However, there’s a deep sadness in his voice, a hurt that feels painfully familiar.
“It’s nothing you did,” Orochimaru assures the boy. “Sometimes people just find it easier to hate what they don’t understand.”
“But why? What’s there to understand?!”
“You have a very rare gift, Kimimaro-kun. This world isn’t often kind to the rare. It’s not fair, but we don’t choose the lot we draw when we’re born.”
Kimimaro bows his head, letting out a small whimper of distress.
“You don’t need to fret. Nobody will ever treat you that way again.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Orochimaru reaches across the small table to ruffle the boy’s soft white hair.
“Oh, by the time I’m through with you, you’ll be able to make sure of it yourself.”
“ Another one?”
Orochimaru isn’t sure whether Kabuto is just annoyed, or if he’s jealous. Whatever the reason though, Kimimaro ducks behind Orochimaru to get out of his line of sight.
“Be kind, Kabuto- he’s a good boy. And I’ll need you to look after him for a bit.”
“I’m not a babysitter.”
Even as Kabuto complains, however, he holds his hand out. Orochimaru nudges Kimimaro toward him, gently but insistently.
“Don’t give me that look- it’s not goodbye forever.”
Kimimaro looks distrustfully at Kabuto, who makes no effort to even fake a smile.
“...you promise?”
“Of course.”
Kabuto rolls his eyes. Kimimaro relents, crossing the distance to join him at the base of a miles-long bridge. He musters up a feeble smile and grabs the hem of Kabuto’s shirt, gestures of trust that neither of them feels they deserve.
“You’ll be alright.”
“The Rice daimyo already told me that if you drag any more kids into his country he’s gonna be unhappy,” Kabuto warns, halfheartedly.
“He’ll get over it.”
And he will, Orochimaru knows that. After all this time in contact, of course he will. That makes it alright as they part ways, so he can return to where Sasori is undoubtedly impatiently awaiting his return.
It’ll be fine. It usually is.