Chapter Text
Menma gets a book.
He isn't a bookworm, far from it, but he's an orphan with a limited budget and he can only buy so many toys before his money runs dry. If he listened to Naruto, he'd regularly waste half of their monthly stipend on action figures and snack foods.
For a reason he can't pinpoint, he's good at making do with a small budget. Sometimes, he dreams of long winters and of dragging himself across snow-blanketed woodlands. His dream-self often has an axe in his hands and, occasionally, he uses it to cut down small trees. When Menma closes his eyes, he can feel the freezing wind. When he opens them back up, he's still in Konoha, in the middle of a warm Land of Fire spring, feeling like he has lost something of great importance, unable to figure out what it is.
Menma saves a little bit of each cash envelope the nice village elder, a man Naruto calls "Gramps", delivers each month. He hides their savings under a loose floorboard in their closet. The rest of their allowance goes into food, hygiene and clothes. His brother eats enough for three boys their age and he isn't much better. By the end of the month, they have little left over for necessities, let alone toys. He never complains. This way of life feels right. He thinks that he's grown up without luxuries before, in his dreams at least. His lot in life truly is not that bad, his brother is still there. He isn't alone.
Naruto doesn't understand why they can't buy every toy that catches his eye and he complains endlessly, one time, he even cries. Menma usually relents. He loves his brother, he wants to see him smile more than anything else in the world. There are nights when he lays awake, watching his twin brother sleep and feeling his chest hurt without understanding why. Naruto is his most precious person. To make his sweet little brother happy, Menma would pluck the stars from the sky and give them to him as a gift.
Most stores are too expensive for them, which makes it difficult to indulge Naruto, whenever the boy convinces him to splurge on a present. Shops belonging to retired shinobi tend to be safer, although Menma has noticed a handful of smaller civilian businesses tolerate them, as long as they pay them double the regular price. It's simpler for him to purchase child-sized mesh shirts and ninja sandals than it is to buy food for the week. He gathers kunai, senbon and shuriken in the Academy's training ground, but only when it's dark outside. He blunts them against rocks by the water stream they like to play in. Naruto gets them as a gift for their fifth birthday, he thinks they're the best thing ever.
One shinobi shop is held by a clan man, a retired warrior with scars that draw patterns on his face. They're thin, like cuts, and they look a bit like crosses. He smells of dirt and of something squirming inside his skin. Menma is always very polite when they visit and the ninja treats him like he's a welcome customer and not a monster. There must be a good reason why everybody else hates the Uzumaki twins, but he never asks.
This store sells books, both new and secondhand. The first time they visit, Naruto is so disappointed he tries to walk out. Unlike Menma, Naruto doesn't take well to reading and writing. He says the lines move around too much and they don't make any sense to him. At the time, they can't afford anything more than cheap pre-owned books, so Menma doesn't have much of a choice. To win over his brother, he makes their visits into a game, competing to see who will be the first to find a picture book. A surprising amount of them are aimed at children. They gather cheap copies of famous shinobi tales and stories from the lands beyond. The drawings are printed charcoal pieces or reproduction of great paintings. It's all very beautiful.
So, Menma gets a book.
He owns many more, of course, but this one is his. It's a tale of an ancient blade master from the Land of Storms, an old country at the easternmost part of the continent. She isn't a samurai or a shinobi, yet the printed drawings portray her as a powerful warrior, controlling water with her sword. There's something in the drawings that calls to him, echoes of a time he forgot. He forgoes groceries and walks straight to their apartment, for once ignoring Naruto's protests. His brother likes spending time outdoors, even when it's raining.
Dinner that night is simple, Menma finishes cleaning the table in a hurry and tells Naruto he can play for as long as he wants. He sits on his bed, places the book in his lap and traces bright blue sword slashes with the tip of his finger. In the story, the swordswoman is using water to attack her opponents. The drawings are still but he can picture her forms in motion in his mind, like they're from a movie he saw a long time ago.
The sky grows dark and Naruto falls asleep but he can barely breathe, there are memories stirring inside of him. He doesn't remember everything, not yet, but there's a name at the back of his mind and, suddenly, he feels older than his five years.
Tanjiro blinks and puts the book down.
He looks out of their bedroom window, up at the full moon above the village, and he feels odd. His heart is beating too fast, his hands are shaking.
oOo
They visit the playground every day. Both of them like wrestling in the grass and making castles in the sandpit, they find it much more fun that being stuck inside all day. They try to get other children to play with them but none stay for long. Kids and adults alike whisper behind their backs, calling them monsters and freaks.
Neither of them understand why. They've never been mean to these strangers, they've only ever tried to befriend them. Tanjiro is much better at pretending it doesn't affect him. It may sting but, in the end, he doesn't blame them. They must have a reason. No one can hate a child without a good reason. If only they told him, he'd understand. For now he's stuck wondering, asking himself what he's done wrong, why he can't ever seem to make new friends.
This afternoon, they quickly give up on bringing anyone into their group and stick to playing together, in a corner of the sandpit. Usually, that's enough to keep them safe. Not today.
Tanjiro is digging a trench for Naruto's castle when it happens. The flat rock he's using as a shovel catches onto a buried toy, when he digs it out, revealing a scuffed but functional chunin action figure, a boy his age runs over to slap his hand away and steal the toy from him. It takes Tanjiro an hour to get the sand out of his hair after he's shoved face down in it for daring to ask for it back. Naruto, who tries to protect him, gets his hand stomped on. No one says a word. The nearby adults watch and whisper, but they don't defend them or call out the rude boy. In the end, their castle is ruined and they go home bruised and frustrated.
They live in a civilian district and, unfortunately, civilians tend to hate them the most. They call them bad words and let other kids beat up on them in the park. Tanjiro hates not being able to protect his little brother. His brain screams and screams whenever he's pushed and tumbles down instead of dodging. He has this odd feeling he should be stronger than their tormentors and that little boys have no rights giving him such a challenge. He knows he has the power to protect Naruto but he doesn't know how he can use it.
The feeling festers until he's so frustrated he can hardly breathe. With no one there to show him how he can get stronger and with very few shinobi making it to their part of the city, Tanjiro turns to his favorite book. He brings it down with them to the playground the very next day, intending to learn the sword moves depicted in its pages. It lays open, propped up against a tree while he finds a fallen branch big enough for him to use as a practice sword.
Slipping into the first sword fighting stance is easy. He feels like he's been dying of thirst and, for the first time, he's being offered a drink. He hadn't noticed how painful the void in his mind is, it's only now that he can fully feel it. Still, even as his mind awakens, something feels wrong. The branch isn't balanced properly, despite him spending long minutes snapping twigs and smaller sticks off of its body and plucking off all leaves. It's slightly bent at the end and it isn't right, it's not perfect, but he doesn't mind. He instinctively changes his breathing, acutely aware of his lungs expanding, far past what he thought possible.
Tanjiro strikes, moving faster than anyone in this playground has ever hit him. Words glow bright inside his mind, nonsensical yet oddly familiar. First Form, Water Surface Slash. They burn the back of his throat and he wants to yell them out, yet he keeps it all in. He feels as strong as the woman in the drawings, strong enough to take on a shinobi and live. He breathes and he feels like he's at the heart of a hurricane, like he, too, is made out of violent waves ready to be unleashed to destroy his enemies.
A wave of energy ripples under his skin, then further down deep inside his bones. It feels foreign yet it pairs perfectly with his odd, rhythmic way of breathing. The two powers sing in unison and, for a second, it's enough to make him remember.
His name is Kamado Tanjiro. He is a big brother, a warrior and a hunter. He loves a woman who might be dead and he comes from a country that doesn't exist.
The energy in his veins, which he doesn't yet know the name of, and Water Breathing, which is so familiar, which he spent years learning and using in battle, mix together. The technique is close to perfect. His improvised blade leaves a trail of water behind it, a wave of blue power leaps forward and strikes in a slash at an imaginary opponent's neck. It goes past his target and slams into a nearby tree, slicing a part of it off.
Pieces of wood fall to the ground. Tanjiro smells sap and hears dripping water. Slowly, he begins to forget.
He staggers back. The branch in his hand cracks then splits in several pieces, unable to handle the amount of power he channeled through it. Someone behind him cries out. He hears yells of demon and monster. Children in the park sob and scream that he's going to kill them. Everything is fuzzy and his head is hurting, he can't think properly.
Before anyone can attack him, a figure drops down behind him. They smell like nothing, a void where there should be a person. Tanjiro is too stunned to resist when they grip his shoulders and cause the world to shift.
Shunshin, he will later learn, isn't pleasant to the uninitiated. Still, in less time than it takes him to register the pain in his hand and the wood splinters in his skin, he's standing in his apartment. Naruto is there too, held in the arms of a shinobi dressed in body-armor and wearing an odd white mask with red pattern at its edges. The strangers stay only for a few seconds and neither of them cares to explain why they brought them home. When they leave, they somehow lock their door behind them and secure their windows so tight neither of the brothers can open it.
"Hey! Who d'you think you are! Come back here!" Naruto yells, pounding on the walls, unhappy to have been dragged out of his play session. He kicks the floor and stubs his toe on the kitchen counter. Tanjiro winces.
His fingers sting. He can't explain why, but it's easy to ignore the pain.
Memories are trickling out of his conscious mind. Soon, he will be a child again.
He struggles to notice.
oOo
The kind elder visits them early this month. He's there the very next day, bringing with him bags of grocery and the order not to leave their apartment for at least a week. Naruto cries and cries. Spring just started and they have spent a full winter sheltering indoors. He screams, kicks and begs to be let out earlier. He's only five, he doesn't understand why he's being punished. Even Tanjiro's soft words aren't enough to get him to stop sobbing. In the end, Naruto runs into their room and slams the door but the Elder doesn't seem offended. He smiles sadly and shakes his head but looks more fond than furious, he's known them for as long as they can remember and he's always been patient.
Tanjiro stows the gifted groceries away and apologizes for his twin brother's outburst. He isn't happy about being locked indoors either but it goes against his nature to get angry over small setbacks like this one. His situation isn't that bad and he still feels echoes of the memories he gained and lost the previous day. Some of them paint dark scenes, worse than anything he's had to go through in this life. No one died and there is no blood drenching the floor of their home. No one has tried to eat him.
He bows for the both of them.
"He'll come around," he says, head facing the floor.
The elder chuckles.
"No need to apologize, Menma. I don't blame either of you for feeling disappointed. I promise you will be able to go out and enjoy spring again soon."
Tanjiro's shoulders sag in relief as the old man pats his hair. He leans into it a bit. The only friendly touch he knows is that of Naruto and this lack of attention feels wrong. He should be hugging friends, clashing fists and bumping shoulders with boys who have become brothers to him. He misses it without knowing why. He longs for a sword in his hand, for the dance of blades and the roar of water in his ears, for the warmth of sunlit flames. He prays for revenge, not against the villagers or his bullies, but against odd, shadowy silhouettes that only form in his worst nightmares.
"I didn't come just to tell you to stay home," the old man says, bringing his hand back and hiding it into his sleeves, no doubt clasping his other one. "I believe I have something that belongs to you."
He pulls a book out of one of his robes' many inner pockets. Tanjiro takes an instinctive step forward, recognizing the picture on the cover. It's his book! With all the excitement and the pain in his head, he hadn't noticed it'd been left behind until it was too late. His most precious belonging is handed back to him; he clutches it against his chest.
"Thank you sir!"
Tanjiro bows low to the ground. Some of his hair slips down to cover his eyes. It's red. Too bright. He makes sure to run a hand through it so it doesn't look messy when he stands back up.
"You don't have to be so formal," the old man laughs. "You're making me feel old."
Tanjiro isn't as informal as his brother. He shakes his head and bows again, shallowly this time.
"I'm very grateful sir. This book means a lot to me."
Another chuckle, his hair gets ruffled again. It's hard not to smile at that and he tries his very best to remain serious and formal.
"It's an interesting story," the man says. "This method of fighting has long since gone extinct. An ancient style, I hear. It was said to be beautiful to witness in action."
Tanjiro nods vigorously. He hoists himself up on a chair and opens the book on the table, flipping through the pages until he finds one of his favorite drawings. In it, the swordswoman is spinning in the air, creating a great wheel of water with her blade. He shows it to the village elder, who raises an eyebrow and leans closer.
"It's the prettiest," he tells the aging warrior.
"And you would like to be just like her, I assume?"
Tanjiro freezes. He remembers the playground and the tree, the screams. They called him a monster.
"Am... Am I in trouble?"
His voice sounds small but then he's young. He shouldn't be, his mind whispers. He doesn't listen to it, focusing on the present, on the old man's smile and the twinkle in his eyes.
The elder shakes his head. "You aren't in any trouble. If I had this book when I was your age, I'd likely have done the same. Training can be a lot of fun, especially when you're training to master a jutsu."
Relief floods over Tanjiro. He leans back in his chair and smiles shily at their guest.
"However," the man adds, voice still soft and slightly amused, "practice should be limited to the training grounds. Have you ever visited a training ground, Menma?"
Tanjiro shakes his head, but he feels like he should nod.
"You see, playgrounds are for games and toys. You can play ninja, but it's better not to use any jutsu or bring any weapons. Most of the little boys and girls here are civilians, they will never go to the Academy, and they might get scared when they see someone their age using chakra."
Chakra and jutsu are both words he has encountered in their picture books. He hasn't fully wrapped his mind around what both of them mean, aside from the latter being used as a way of fighting, and often looking very flashy and artsy in the drawings.
The second half of the elder's speech hits him, he shivers and asks: "Did I scare them, then?"
He doesn't say: they called me a monster.
He doesn't ask: is this why they hate us so much?
"You may have. You have to understand, many of these children will never be able to use chakra like this. People often fear things they don't understand. But don't worry, I'm sure that, in time, they will forget about it." The old man sounds like he believes it, which is a small relief. He seems to know what he's talking about.
"I hope so." Tanjiro looks down at his hands. They aren't bleeding anymore, they aren't even scarred. His skin should not heal this fast. He can almost remember weeks spent in bed recovering from severe injuries.
"They will."
"But only if I don't do it again," he whispers, and his heart aches. He has felt it only once but the clarity this sword move brought him is something he yearns for with all his being. He's convinced he has forgotten something of crucial importance, and mimicking his book is the only way he's found to bring his memories back.
"I wouldn't ask you to stop your training, Menma." The elder looks at him with eyes that are both warm and cold as ice. "We simply have to make sure you don't do it in a civilian playground. In fact, I know just the teacher for you and for Naruto. You'll see, he has a blade of his own."
Tanjiro is so excited at the prospect of getting to learn how to fight that it takes him an hour to start wondering how the old man has access to a private kenjutsu teacher.