仮面
There is no other time that Iro feels more pressured or less comfortable in his own skin. These visits to the compound are necessary, at least according to his parents. Of course, Hinata is too polite to phrase it like that. She emphasizes family ties, keeping bonds strong, but if Iro didn’t respect her so completely he’d let out the bitter laugh that rises in him at that.
If there were ever family ties more tenuous, he can’t think of them.
Hiashi is his own blood. His grandfather, though he’s never acted like it. Whenever Iro is forced into formal clothing and dragged inside those high white walls, the head of the Hyuuga clan will merely level an appraising glance at him with cool white eyes and inquire about his progress as a shinobi. And without fail Iro stands straighter, and answers in half-truths through clenched teeth. Daring the old man with his steady glare (eyes that look just like Hiashi’s) to call his bluff. To even suggest that he isn’t as accomplished as he says he is, as he knows he has the potential to be.
Hiashi never says a word. A nod is all he deigns to give, if he doesn’t simply turn away. It makes Iro feel half-invisible.
And yet somehow, seeing Hiashi isn’t the worst part.
In all honesty, he loves his aunt Hanabi. There’s warmth in her hugs as she greets him, and fondness in her smiles. She’ll tease him gently sometimes, but it only reminds him of his other aunt Hana. It’s comfortable. Feels like family.
Her son is the problem.
If Hanabi is humble and kind, as his mother was when she was the heir, they are the exception to the rule. In the Hyuuga clan main house, there is a streak of narcissism and self-importance that makes itself known, among the elders especially, and in their young scion, Hikoari.
He stands half a head taller than Iro now, he’s annoyed to discover, at sixteen years old. Even the timing of his birth speaks to the fractured trust within the family. Upon finding out that Hinata was pregnant (call it what it was – a mistake, a secret kept hidden until the last possible second they could get away with it), the clan elders quickly arranged a suitable marriage for Hanabi. Nevermind that anyone who knows Hinata knows she would never insist her child be named heir if the clan disagreed. Nevermind that she had never been power-hungry, and her chosen partner hadn’t either.
Hikoari was born because Iro was seen as a threat. They never stood a chance of escaping the rivalry inherent in that.
It doesn’t help that the kid excels in every area Iro is lacking. His chakra control is flawless. He’s mastered ninjutsu in the element of his affinity, and another for good measure. His genjutsu is miles ahead of Iro’s. He saw Hikoari cast it once, trapping his opponent in the chuunin exams, and broke out in a cold sweat.
If he ever had to fight his cousin, he knows he would lose. And while he never liked the kid much – always thought he was too cocky, too detached, too false in every smile and cunning attempt at social-climbing flattery – this fact is what tipped the scale from dislike into hatred.
Tonight he’s made an attempt to sit through dinner as a family, as he always does. Rarely does he make it this far. He suspects everyone’s past being disappointed in his lack of manners, and not one pair of eyes around the table so much as reacts when he wanders away from it, seeking solitude to blow off steam.
The Hyuuga compound is old, old as dirt, old as bones. It’s an overwhelming feeling to stand in the center of it, surrounded by such antique austerity, such understated opulence. There are more faces he doesn’t recognize milling about than those he does. Most ignore him, and those that don’t soon avert their eyes in distaste. He never did bother covering his curse seal.
He jumps a low wall, pries open a familiar window. He doesn’t know what draws him here again. It’s part curiosity – a need to know more, to understand this family that feels so alien to him. The empty sitting room has a lived-in feel, despite being spotless. The photos lined up along surfaces and hanging on walls are another similarity with his family’s home, a humble one-story dwelling just beyond the walls of the compound. Hidden behind it, shaded by forest, out of sight. Six identical white eyes smile down at him from the photographs. Hanabi’s crinkling with laughter, her simpering husband’s always drawn to her. No doubt feeling lucky still, after all these years. His own birth had been considerably lower than hers, but his byakugan had always been strong, and he belonged to the main house as well. Apparently that made him worthy.
He stares into his cousin’s face in the photographs like he never would in real life. Trying to understand what everyone likes about him. Why they don’t see the arrogance Iro does.
So he’s smart. Big deal. He’s talented too, but with the finest training available anywhere, how could he not be? He’s been doted on since he was born. And he never seems to realize just how lucky he is.
Our Hikoari made jounin, Hiashi himself announced, with the closest thing to a smile on his face that Iro has ever seen. His cousin, all barely-concealed smugness, had turned his eyes immediately to Iro’s.
He takes a deep breath now, exhaling the frustration that’d unconsciously furled his fists. He hadn’t been able to hide his reaction in time. Hikoari saw exactly what the news had done to him.
I didn’t hear anything about you taking the test! Hinata’s voice was all grace, pleasant surprise, obviously genuine. Too kind, as always. Oblivious to Iro quietly collapsing into himself. No test, Hiashi clarified, after the barest glance exchanged with the boy. He received a special recommendation for advancement.
Iro pushes open a door, switches on a light. Even his room is tidy, books alphabetized, scrolls arranged neatly in rows. He pushes aside a bookbag with his foot, peering into the trashcan, but it’s been emptied out. No dirt to dig up here. Not even a hint of imperfection.
He shouldn’t be looking through the kid’s closet. If they come back to the house sooner than he expects, there’s no way he’ll get away with this. It doesn’t stop him. He rifles through the neat rows of hanging shirts and slacks and vests. There’s a box at the bottom, shoved in a back corner. Iro stills at the sight. He shouldn’t be doing this, but if his cousin has any secrets to keep, that’s where he’ll find them. He just knows it.
Pulling it out and lifting the lid, he's struck fleetingly by disappointment. It’s just some spare clothes. But they’re black. All black. Shirts, pants, gloves, and under many sets of them, he spots the armor. That’s when his blood goes cold. He knows what he’ll find at the bottom, but that doesn’t quite prepare him for the sight.
Red on white. Cool porcelain under his fingers. He can’t stop them trembling.
