Blue.
Not of the sky taken respite from being laden by ash–of bodies burnt upon land no longer worthy of strife.
Not of the sky reflected upon the still waters of the stream housing a frightful ochestra of frogs. No more do they sing their horrid song. For even they cannot stand to breath rotten blood.
Blue
A hue not belonging to human flesh, not without death in tow. Yet belonging to him, and he breaths.
His flesh has become canvas, warm skin marred by strikes meant to bloom blood beneath defiance. A deliberate humiliation, one turned ritual.
Eyes of citrine, they invited fury. Their wide hope, their shimmering boldness. They were not bland, as brown should be. And thus needed correcting, and a father's warm hand knew to steer his son to salvation.
Blue
The tips of his fingers, ones that kissed the floor as he lay motionless. His back, stone beneath, in a dungeon, for his father was kind enough to give him a place to sleep in the aftermath of the son's defiance.
Pink eyes, quivering not in sorrow, assess the man on the floor. Man–a child who's seen the death of many to his own blade, earned such a title.
He has indeed grown out of his bowl cut, but never from defending himself from a father who is now weaker than himself.
'...mother's rights must be seen to. The advisors await your decision, elder brother.'
Pink eyes trail the motionless figure, aware the man heard him well. He remains standing, the air stale with the other's silence.
Murmurs and laughter just beyond the walls become a cause of agitation for the younger. His hearing was not good, yet the laughter rang clear with mockery, one he had no good reason to believe related to him.
His nails dug into his arms, jaw clenched, yet not painfully. He's learnt his fragile teeth fracture easily under such pressures.
'Get up, Hashirama.'
Only at the frustration laced instruction does the man on the floor crack open his eyes. The citrine gaze travels to the ceiling. He noted the whispers of idle conversation just beyond the walls.
'...father ordered that i remain here, Tobi.'
'Father has no right!'
The older son made no noise, not when Tobirama's rage was so palpable. He missed the way the other man had glared to the side after his out burst.
'you're the tribe's head...' Tobirama argued.
Hashirama lifted himself off the ground,elbows bracing against cold stone. The younger notes the motion, how effortless it seemed, despite the bruises that scarred.
'You understand father best, Tobi.' Hashirama states, almost flatly.
Even a man like him tires of being an outlet for a purposeless father's tantrums. Because indeed, Tobirama understood why Batsuma did this to his eldest son.
However, Tobirama wishes to pretend he knew not the reason Hashirama continued to allow their father such a power.
The younger stares, as his brother stands to full length, cloth rustling as he does. Once again he appears the man he is by daylight. Unshaken.
'...I've delayed mother's departure for long.' The man muttered.
'You rather keep father's words.' Tobirama muttered bitterly.
'Why would I listen to that senile.' Hashirama scoffed, walking out the makeshift prison with ease that suggested he would had done it anytime.
The younger kept his mouth shut, not confused of the switch in tone. Perhaps dreading the meaning of it. He had hunches before, yet he gave benefit of doubt.
He could not imagine his brother's mental fortitude to be fragile. But he was a man, worshipped as he was, he was still a man.
At times, he felt he had several brothers in one man.
