#She relies on Orochimaru and Jiraiya's fondness for her to get over their trauma because they are all equally screwed up

[senjutsunade]

It had started off as a deceptively tranquil evening.

Or as tranquil as evenings could be now that she had returned to Konoha, taken on the Hokage mantle, and devoted her days, evenings, and nights to the curse of never-ending paperwork.

Shizune – the sly creature that she was – had somehow managed to hide all of her sake, leaving Tsunade desperate for a drink. And not the cheap kind she could buy from any random stall in Konoha – it was a shinobi village, after all; sake was sold more than water. In her quest to quench her thirst (or addiction), Tsunade decided to raid Jiraiya's stash – the toad sage had to have some good quality alcohol. Maybe she'd be lucky enough to score some Umeshu.

The air outside was unusually still, the village wrapped in an eerie calm, like the quiet before a storm. As Tsunade ventured out, the soft glow of lights flickered along the streets, casting whimsical shadows that danced and twirled in the corners of her vision. The promise of a stolen moment of indulgence hung in the air, whispering sweet temptations into her ears. She moved with a mix of determination and mischief, the prospect of raiding Jiraiya's secret stash adding a spark to her otherwise monotonous routine. 

She knew where he was staying, of course. The motel was old-style, not the best, but it had a sort of charm that suited her fellow Sannin. Breaking through his seals was laughably easy; his style hadn't changed after all these years. Nostalgia hit the blonde, turning the mischief in her expression into a softer smile. Perhaps not everything had changed. Stepping into the place, her eyes took in the clean setup, and she found herself sighing softly. The place was too organized for it to be the same Jiraiya from their younger days. A stark reminder that time had indeed passed, and the momentary nostalgia had been just that—a fleeting moment.

Banishing the sullen thoughts, not wanting to ruin her evening, Tsunade stepped further into the darkness, only to step on a piece of crumpled-up paper. She'd been ready to ignore it; one more step, and it would have never entered her thoughts again. And yet...curiosity got the better of her. That one scrap was an anomaly in an otherwise perfectly organized environment, and it was beyond her nature to ignore an anomaly.

In hindsight, perhaps it would have been better if she had ignored it. Some burdens were too much to bear.

What she had assumed to be some silly draft of his trash novels indeed contained content that left the Senju stunned. She knew his writing as well as her own, after all. Hazel eyes moved over the words once. Twice. Dread creeping onto her. Each word was like a kunai digging into her heart. Leaving new wounds while opening old ones.

The third time she tried to read them, expecting the whole thing to be some genjutsu (or a nightmare), she realized her vision was blurry. Tears spilled down ashen cheeks as she slowly sank to her knees, clutching the paper in trembling hands. How? Why? Why would he think that?

A thousand thoughts assaulted her—of their years together, of childhood days spent always next to each other. All happy memories from her perspective. Now she viewed each from how he might have interpreted them. How long? Her shoulders shook with choked sobs at the idea of him thinking he did not belong, even during those early days. Yes, Orochimaru and her had bonded over their shared scientific curiosities. Yes, the snake sannin had ensnared her mind from an early age, and much of her attention had unconsciously been directed at him—she could not deny. And yet, she had never even questioned Jiraiya's presence in their odd little dysfunctional family. How did the fool not realize he completed them?

From childhood to their days as Chūnin, Orochimaru's scathing words and her merciless fists—how much had they damaged their third half? How had they not realized? How did Jiraiya never see that there was never any actual heat in Orochimaru's words and that her hands were as quick to heal him as they were to deal damage?

It was now her tears that stained the paper, smearing the ink.

If only erasing the words was enough to erase her memory or erase his wounds.

She forced herself on her feet—she had to talk to him. To make him understand how much he mattered. Determined, she ruthlessly wiped away her tears, stalking towards the door, mind going over all the possible places she might find him, only to stop as dread filled her. She’d sent him on a mission…

A mission he may not return from. May not want to…

Her fist clenched tightly around the scrap.

Her feet rush her towards the gates of Konoha. The guards are startled at her unexpected appearance but a withering glare from them stops them from questioning her. She stands just outside the doors and knows this is where her boundaries are - for as desperately as she wishes to run after him, he has shackled her to this place. She shakes in anger, in despair. 

And she waits….

He is expected to return by sunrise. But sunrise is hours away. 

Hazel eyes stare ahead though, willing him to appear on the path leading back. He does not. Time passes. The night's chill creeps in and yet nothing can move her from her spot. Shizune’s brief appearance is ignored and her apprentice knows her enough to know it is better to leave the Senju alone. 

Minutes, hours. They tick away slowly. 

All the while her heart aches for the sight of him. Her mind tries to come up with all the ways his mission could go wrong. It was an A rank but there was never any certainty, right? 

Kami-sama, had she sent him to his death? 

She waits as the sky lightens, dawn breaking and her heart beats faster. He has to return. He must. 

He will….right? 

Minutes stretch on. 

The guards are sending her curious and concerned looks, not sure what to make of their new hokage and her clearly unhinged act. But it’s a shinobi village, so they may amuse themselves with gossip but deep down they understand. 

She feels his chakra before she sees him. And then she is moving, finally, her muscles complaining after she had stood still for so long. Chakra enhances her speed and she only stops once she stands before him. Momentary just taking in the sight of him - there. Alive. 

And then she assesses him from the eye of a medic. Her eyes, trained and precise, began their silent assessment. Starting from his head, she notes the slight droop in his shoulders, the faint lines of tension around his eyes, and the way he favors his left side. Her gaze moves down, observing the way he holds himself, the stiffness in his movements. Every bruise, every cut, every subtle sign of injury is registered in her mind.

And then she feels like she can finally breathe again. A momentary relief as her listless eyes finally rise to meet his dark counterparts. 

Her lips tremble and she can not stop the hand that raises as she slaps him. There is no power behind it. It's not even hard enough to leave the slightest mark on his skin. “How dare you….” 

Her hands shove against his chest. Once. Twice. Again and again, until his back is against a tree and she has to stop, her rage waning as grief overwhelms her. “How dare you think you wouldn’t have mattered?” she chokes the words out as tears fall again. Even saying the words makes her feel sick. Her trembling fingers curl in the threadbare material of his haori as if she were intending to shake him but has no strength left. 

Self hatred, grief and guilt has drained her like nothing else could. 

She stares up at the man that had more often than not been her rock and wonders when he started to crack under the pressure. “We were all fucked up Jiraiya. From the first mission to the day we became the sannin. We were always a mess but as long as it was all three of us, it didn’t matter. The sannin are three, not two.” Words were never her strength. They were his tools. More desperate tears fall as she shoves the crumpled up paper in his hand, wanting it away from herself. She wants to burn it. To erase its existence. But she needs for him to know she knows. 

“Orochi and I could afford to fuck things up….test our limits because we always knew you’d be there to catch us. We knew that and that trust allowed us to be who we became. We both had a penchant for getting lost in our own heads and it was you who always pulled us back to reality. You who always….” reminded us to live. She shakes her head, unable to continue that thread, as she is momentarily overwhelmed by bitterness and grief. 

“Orochimaru may have been the brains and I the strength but you were the soul and the very heart of the sannin, you fool!! “

I’ve always been alone. Others will try to convince me otherwise but when I take the time to think beyond the surface I see it too. They just think I’m dumb enough to not realize it. I’m not one of the team. I’m just a shared burden for them to laugh at. The shared love for medicine and scientific discoveries bonds them in a way I can never be apart of. I’ve seen them whisper behind my back. I’m not an idiot. I know it was about me. My own teacher lacking any faith of what I can do. I’m just someone to laugh at. I guess they never believed in me. No one does.

If they did truly love me, they wouldn’t have left me.

If I truly loved them then I shouldn’t have been such a coward. Maybe if I died I wouldn’t feel like this. I’d finally stop being a burden. Even now. As I forced us together and created a fight. I felt that same distance. That maybe if I weren’t here it wouldn’t have mattered. They share a bond even if on opposite sides. Even then they have someone when there isn’t each other. Their students are still alive. Where I failed mine.

And they forgot about me.

If I weren’t here then nothing would have changed. I don’t think I’ve ever mattered. Maybe I should stop pretending that I do. It eats away me. This… loneliness. I guess the only change I’ll ever make is when the bugs thrive off my flesh and the earth that grows from my remains.

The page it’s written on is crumpled up to the point it’s almost soft and the integrity of the paper is close to falling apart. The ripped edge implies its from a journal and was hastily torn out. There’s inky fingerprints everywhere and the sloppy writing itself suggests it was written in a messy emotional tirade. A feeble attempt to get out the thoughts that cloud his brain. It isn’t signed or dated. But those who have seen this handwriting before know who it belongs to.