“I’m starting to think all those rumors about the Hatake were true,” Orochimaru manages to get out, half an instant before he’s landing on his hands and knees on a thin bedroll, hands already tearing at his robes.

“Back from your mission already?” Orochimaru asks slyly, and the grip on his hair is too tight for him to turn his head, but he can see the fall of white hair reflected in the mirror on the far wall, can smell the crushed-leaf and dark-earth scent of the man, touched with sweat and metal. “I'm two days late,” Sakumo says into the nape of his neck, and the hand slides from his side up to the collar of his robe.