Torn from Time
Izuna wakes with a sharp inhale, his chest rising as if yanked from the depths of unconsciousness. His mind, sluggish and uncooperative, reels from the sheer impossibility of this moment. He was sure he had died. The memory is there—burning pain in his side, his limbs going cold, his vision dimming to black. The overwhelming sense of finality, of slipping into something from which there was no return.
But now… there is no pain.
Instead, a strange numbness settles over him, not just in his body but in his mind. It is as if he exists in a haze, floating between reality and something else. The air is cool against his skin, but it feels distant, muffled, as if a thick fog separates him from his own senses. He tries to think, to ground himself, but his thoughts flutter and slip through his fingers like scattered leaves in a storm.
“Finally,” a voice mutters, heavy with exhaustion.
Izuna stiffens. He knows that voice. The familiarity sends a jolt of awareness through him, cutting through the haze like a blade. His sluggish mind struggles to place it, but his instincts don’t wait for confirmation. His heart lurches into a frantic rhythm, pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
He turns his head, ignoring the wave of disorientation that follows. His vision sharpens, focusing on the last person he ever expected to see.
Senju fucking Tobirama.
Shock slams into him like a physical force, stealing his breath. His muscles coil instinctively, ready to launch himself at the Senju bastard, to fight, to kill—except he can’t. His body betrays him. His limbs are unresponsive, weak, as if he is made of nothing but air. A deep frustration claws at his chest, the kind that comes from knowing he should be moving, should be fighting, but being utterly unable to.
“Careful,” Tobirama says, his tone infuriatingly neutral, like he actually gives a damn.
Izuna wants to snarl at him, to demand why the hell he’s here, but survival instincts take over first. He forces himself to focus, scanning his surroundings. The walls are unfamiliar, pale and sterile. The air carries the sharp tang of antiseptics, layered over something faintly herbal. A hospital. But not one he recognizes.
Then something even more disorienting strikes him.
His vision is too sharp. Too clear. It is unnatural, almost overwhelming.
A terrible suspicion grips him. His breath catches, and the words are out before he can stop them. “What did you do to my eyes?!” he hisses, his voice raw.
Tobirama moves in an instant, faster than Izuna’s weakened body can react. He leans over the bed, invading Izuna’s personal space without hesitation. His pale fingers brush too close, and then, suddenly, a cool, foreign chakra pulses against Izuna’s temples, flowing into his eyes like icy water.
Panic surges through him. Izuna tries to shove him away, but his strength is pitiful. The most he manages is a weak push, barely more than a twitch. Tobirama doesn’t even acknowledge it. His expression is impassive, clinical, like he is dissecting a problem rather than dealing with a living person.
After a few moments, Tobirama pulls back with a frown. “I can’t find anything wrong. Everything healed nicely.”
Izuna blinks. The words don’t make sense. “Healed?” The word feels foreign on his tongue , thick and heavy.
Tobirama watches him, cautious, as if gauging his reaction. “You and Madara exchanged your Sharingan, remember? Something went wrong during the transplantation, and your eye sockets got infected. Coupled with your injury from our fight—” His voice sharpens, carrying the edge of a barely restrained temper. “What the fuck were your medics thinking? Were they trying to kill you? Doing an eye transplant while you were already injured… Fucking imbeciles.”
Izuna stares at him, the words registering sluggishly. He feels like he’s wading through thick mud, his mind slow and uncooperative. None of this makes sense. His eyes were infected? He barely remembers the pain, just flashes of darkness and heat, the sensation of his body shutting down.
Tobirama exhales sharply, irritated. “I’ve never had the chance to study a Sharingan before, let alone perform a transplant. If something feels wrong, tell me, so I can fix it.”
Izuna’s breath catches. He must have misheard. There’s no way Tobirama just offered to help him. That’s insane. The man had been his enemy, had nearly killed him, and now he’s acting like Izuna’s health is any of his concern?
“Today, if you please,” Tobirama drawls, unimpressed by his hesitation.
Izuna narrows his eyes, the fire in him finally burning through the haze. “Why should I tell you anything?” His voice is a bit steadier now, his body catching up to his mind. He feels weak, fragile, like a blade chipped at the edges but still capable of cutting.
Tobirama sighs, exasperated. “I don’t have time for this. Either tell me or don’t. But don’t come crying to me later if whatever’s wrong with your eyes worsens to the point of no return.”
Izuna clenches his fists—or tries to. His fingers are so weak it’s almost ridiculous. The frustration is suffocating, pressing against his ribs like a vice. “What did nii-san offer you in exchange for treating me?” Because there has to be a reason for this. There always is. Tobirama wouldn’t lift a finger for him unless there was something to gain.
“Nothing.” Tobirama crosses his arms. “He doesn’t know you’re here. Or that you’re alive.”
Izuna’s breath stutters. “What?!” The world tilts for a moment, his stomach lurching. He grips the sheets beneath him, needing something solid, something real.
Tobirama meets his gaze, unflinching. “You died.”
The words hit like a kunai to the chest, sharp and precise. He can’t breathe. It doesn’t make sense. He’s here. He’s breathing. He shouldn’t be, but he is. How can he be dead and alive at the same time?
“I was hoping bringing you back would stop his descent into madness,” Tobirama continues, as if discussing the weather. Like resurrecting his enemy is just another Tuesday for him. “It took me forever to get the seals right. Edo Tensei wasn’t an option—your clan burned your body. There was nothing left. Except for your eyes. But Madara would have never let me near them… So I developed a new seal. One that allowed me to take you from the past, moments before your death, replacing your body with a golem.”
Izuna’s mind reels, his thoughts spiraling. He is a ghost of himself, plucked from a moment that should have been his last. He should be dead. By all rights, he should be nothing more than a memory. But he’s here, breathing, heart pounding, feeling the phantom ache of wounds that should have ended him. And the man who killed him is the one who saved him.
Izuna stares, stunned. He doesn’t know whether to feel grateful or furious.
Time travel.
Tobirama is insane. Completely, utterly, undeniably insane.
Tobirama huffs, clearly annoyed by Izuna’s silence. “You should fire your medics. I have never seen such incompetence.”
Izuna snaps his gaze to him, incredulous. “You’re the one who cut me up! And you’re complaining that our medics couldn’t fix me?!”
Tobirama looks even more annoyed, if that’s possible. “It was a clean cut. I made sure to avoid anything vital. Even without medical ninjutsu, all they had to do was stitch it up and keep it clean. How incompetent does someone have to be to mess up something so simple?! Yes, you would have been out of battle for months. Yes, it would have scarred. But it shouldn’t have killed you.”
Izuna doesn’t know what to say. He can only stare at his enemy. His mind reels at the implications. Tobirama—his enemy, the man he thought had killed him—hadn’t even been trying to deal a fatal blow. He had cut him down with precision, avoiding anything that would ensure a quick death. Had Tobirama intended to spare him all along?
He doesn’t understand.
Izuna barely has a moment to process before Tobirama stiffens beside him. The shift is subtle—a tightening of his jaw, a flicker of tension in his shoulders—but Izuna has always been good at reading faces.
“It seems we’re out of time,” Tobirama says sharply. “Madara just made contact with anija, and they’ve started to fight. If we want to stop this madness before anija kills Madara, we need to leave now.”
Izuna’s breath catches. “What?” His pulse thunders in his ears. Madara—his foolish, reckless, grief-stricken brother—is fighting Hashirama?
Of course he is.
There’s a knot of dread curling in Izuna’s gut. He remembers too well how his brother was after their siblings’ death—Madara doesn’t do well with grief. And if he is truly spiraling, if he was truly lost in his pain, then…
Tobirama just moves. Without ceremony, he yanks Izuna up from the bed, dragging him to his feet. White-hot pain lances through Izuna’s body, stealing his breath, and his knees nearly buckle beneath him. He barely bites back a curse, and before he can properly struggle, Tobirama turns to a nearby cupboard, pulling out a thick, woolen yukata and wrapping it around his shoulders.
Izuna scowls. “I can—”
Tobirama doesn’t wait. In one smooth motion, he sweeps Izuna up into his arms, his grip solid and unwavering.
Izuna freezes. His mind blanks, his body going rigid as he is cradled—bridal style—against the broad chest of his mortal enemy. He is too stunned to react, too shocked to do anything but gape in sheer mortification as Tobirama launches them both out of the window and into the night.