Toward the Future
Rehab is a bitch.
Izuna has been through his fair share of painful experiences—battle wounds, broken bones, burns from Katon jutsu gone wrong—but nothing quite compares to the sheer, infuriating frustration of waking up from a coma and realizing his own body has betrayed him.
Months of unconsciousness have left his muscles wasted to the point of uselessness. At first, even sitting up on his own had been a struggle. His legs had felt like dead weight, his arms had trembled under their own burden, and his pride had taken a hit with every humiliating failure. It had taken weeks of gritted teeth and sheer stubbornness just to relearn how to walk across a room without his knees buckling beneath him.
And the fucking chopsticks. Gods, the chopsticks.
More than once, he’d wanted to snap the fragile things in half, fury bubbling under his skin as his fingers refused to obey him. It had taken days of careful practice before he could hold them properly again, and even longer before he could lift food to his mouth without dropping it like a clumsy child. The first time he managed to eat an entire meal without embarrassing himself had been a quiet victory, one he had savored in solitude.
By now, he has recovered enough strength to walk through the village—Konohagakure. He still can’t get over the ridiculous name his idiot brother chose—without assistance. The stares from the villagers don’t bother him as much anymore, though he still catches the occasional hushed whisper or lingering glance.
He’s not sure what annoys him more: the wary, cautious eyes of those who still see him as an Uchiha first and a person second, or the pitying glances from those who know who he is and what he’s been through. Either way, he ignores them all.
A knock at the door pulls him from his thoughts.
Expecting it to be one of his overly concerned clan members checking on him while Nii-san is away on his first mission since being reinstated, Izuna doesn’t even glance toward the door as he calls out, “It’s open.”
To his surprise, it’s Hashirama who steps inside.
Izuna tenses instinctively, though he’s not sure why. Hashirama is irritatingly friendly at the best of times, but he’s never been a threat. Still, something about the Hokage standing in the home he shares with Madara feels… unnatural.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” Hashirama begins, his tone too damn polite. “But Tobirama went on another mad research spree. Normally I’d ask Mito to check on him, but she’s visiting her parents and won’t be back for a couple of weeks. Everyone else is either too busy or too afraid of him. You aren’t, so could you please check up on him?”
Izuna blinks. It takes him a moment to process the request, and when he does, he frowns. “Do it yourself if you’re so worried.”
Hashirama scratches the back of his neck sheepishly, and Izuna narrows his eyes. That’s a guilty look.
“I would,” he admits, “but my brother kinda… warded me out of his lab. Mito refused to help, said it was my own fault.”
Izuna snorts, already more amused than he should be. “What did you do? Turn his research notes into trees?”
Hashirama cringes, and Izuna stares at him for a beat before realization hits.
“No way.” He exhales a laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You actually did it? Gods, you really are an idiot.”
Hashirama has the grace to look embarrassed. “It was an accident,” he mutters, looking everywhere but at Izuna.
Izuna outright cackles, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in his chest. He can just picture the absolute fury on Tobirama’s face, the way his eye would twitch as he struggled not to throttle his own brother. “I can’t believe you’re still alive,” he wheezes. “What did he do to you?”
Hashirama clears his throat. “Let’s just say my bathwater was laced with something that made my skin turn purple for three days.”
Izuna wheezes harder. “I take it back. Maybe he’s not as humorless as I thought.”
Hashirama sighs, running a hand down his face before leveling Izuna with a look that is—gods help him—genuinely pleading. “Please, Izuna. Tobirama hasn’t come out of his lab in a week. He needs to eat, drink, and sleep.”
That does sound concerning, though Izuna is reluctant to admit it.
“He’s an adult,” he says instead, crossing his arms. “Surely he’s capable of looking after himself.”
Hashirama’s expression shifts, his shoulders drooping slightly, like he’s had this argument before and already knows he won’t like the response. “Normally, yes,” he agrees. “But if he gets too invested in his research, he forgets everything else. And I mean everything. If breathing wasn’t an autonomic function, he’d probably forget to do that, too.”
Izuna exhales sharply, annoyed. Not at Hashirama, not really, but at the way this village keeps dragging him into its problems, like he’s already a part of it despite his best efforts to resist.
He doesn’t owe Tobirama anything. In fact, he should probably enjoy the idea of the Senju working himself into exhaustion. And yet, for reasons he refuses to examine too closely, he finds himself saying, “Fine. But if he tries to kill me, I’m blaming you.”
Hashirama beams like an overgrown child, and Izuna already regrets everything. That expression—open, eager, completely unguarded—never means anything good for him. He barely has time to curse his own weakness for letting himself get roped into this before Hashirama turns on his heel and starts leading him through Konoha’s streets.
Izuna follows reluctantly, still not used to walking through this so-called village, much less doing so without an escort of Uchiha ready to fend off any Senju deception. The buildings are too orderly, the roads too smooth, the entire settlement reeking of that unbearable idealism Madara keeps rambling about.
Before long, they reach the Senju compound. Hashirama doesn’t even pause as he strides past several houses and toward a smaller building tucked at the very edge of the village.
“Finally found someone brave enough to drag the crazy scientist out of his lab?” an old man calls out, leaning on a cane, his tone amused.
“Crazy scientist?” Izuna repeats, frowning. That’s not exactly how he’s ever heard people describe Tobirama before. “You actually call him that?”
The old woman next to the man snickers. “Wanna bet he’s breaking another law of nature?”
The man hums, considering. “I don’t take bets I lose.”
Hashirama chuckles awkwardly, looking oddly guilty.
Izuna turns to him, eyes narrowing. “Are they serious?”
“Mostly,” Hashirama admits with a sheepish shrug.
The old woman winks at Izuna. “The last time Tobirama-sama disappeared into his lab for a research spree, he brought you back from the dead, Izuna-sama.”
Izuna has no idea how to respond to that. The casual way she says it, like Tobirama resurrecting, or rather time travelling, his mortal enemy is no more remarkable than him perfecting a new jutsu—it sends a chill down Izuna’s spine. He knew the younger Senju was brilliant, but this is something else entirely.
“I still remember it like it was yesterday,” the old man chimes in, grinning as if recalling some fond childhood memory. “Tobirama-sama left his lab after working on some project for two weeks nonstop and caused a mass panic. Because instead of one Tobirama-sama, two stepped out of the lab.”
Izuna stares. “Please tell me you’re joking.”
Because one Tobirama is already a pain in the ass. If there are two—
“Ah, yeah, the Kage Bunshin Incident,” Hashirama recalls, and just like that, all of Izuna’s hope that this was a joke goes up in flames.
Izuna rubs his temples, already feeling a headache coming on. “I better go drag the crazy idiot out of his lab – by his ears if I have to – before he decides to do something worse than resurrecting the dead, breaking the space-time continuum, and, apparently, cloning himself.”
Without waiting for a response, he strides toward the lab door and knocks once before shoving it open without ceremony.
The first thing that strikes him is that the lab looks… oddly lived-in. He expected something sterile, all sharp edges and precise organization. Instead, there’s an actual cot in the corner, though judging by the thick layer of dust on the cover and pillow, it hasn’t been used in weeks. There are shelves stuffed with scrolls, bottles of unknown substances, and strange artifacts that radiate chakra so thickly that even Izuna—who has never been particularly attuned to sensing—can feel it.
He walks past a sink piled with moldy dishes and grimaces. Eugh.
And then, at the far back of the room, he finds Tobirama.
His rival stands rigidly in front of a massive glass tube, its surface covered in intricate seals. Inside is something Izuna can only describe as a writhing black mass. It shifts and pulses, an amorphous blob with no discernible features except for two glowing yellow eyes, bright and inhuman, without pupils or sclera.
Tobirama watches it intently, notebook in hand, meticulously scribbling down observations as he prods the thing with his chakra. He is completely absorbed, his entire focus narrowed down to this one moment of discovery, to whatever new horror he has created or uncovered. He doesn’t even notice that he is no longer alone.
Izuna steps closer—and immediately regrets it.
The stench hits him like a brick wall. His nose wrinkles in disgust. “When was the last time you took a shower? You stink.”
“Hello to you, too, Izuna,” Tobirama replies, still not looking up from his work. The lack of reaction tells Izuna everything he needs to know—Tobirama hasn’t spoken to another person in days. He is entirely locked in his own mind, his body running on sheer habit and intellectual drive alone.
Izuna crosses his arms, gaze flickering between the grotesque black mass trapped in the sealed glass tube and the utter disaster that is Senju Tobirama. Hashirama wasn’t exaggerating—if anything, he had understated the issue.
Tobirama looks worse than Izuna has ever seen him, and considering their history, that’s saying something. His normally pristine clothes are wrinkled and smudged with ink, dust, and something Izuna doesn’t want to think too hard about. His hair is a tangled mess, sticking up at odd angles like he’s been running his hands through it for days. And his face—pale, drawn, dark circles deep enough to rival Madara’s when he forgets to sleep.
This might be harder than he thought.
Against his better judgment, Izuna gestures toward the thing in the tube. “What the fuck is that?”
Tobirama finally spares him a glance, but only briefly before turning his attention back to the notebook in his hands. His eyes gleam with that sharp, analytical focus Izuna has come to recognize—one part fascination, one part obsessive curiosity, and about five parts ‘this is probably a terrible idea.’
“I’m not completely sure,” Tobirama admits, his voice carrying an irritating amount of excitement for someone who looks like they’re on the verge of collapsing. He presses his fingertips against the glass, sending a pulse of chakra into the seals wrapped around it. The thing inside twitches, its yellow, pupil-less eyes narrowing in response. “It’s been lurking in the streets since Madara returned. Took me some time to capture it.”
Izuna processes that for a moment. “So what you’re saying is—you don’t know what it is, but you still dragged it into your lab and started poking it?”
Tobirama shrugs, clearly unbothered. “Of course.”
Of course. Because why would Senju Tobirama ever think to exercise caution like a normal person?
Izuna eyes the sealed tube again, suppressing the urge to take several large steps back. The thing doesn’t move much, but he can feel the malice radiating off it, thick and oily, even through the layers of protective seals. Its featureless black form shifts slightly, and something about it makes Izuna’s stomach twist.
He turns back to Tobirama, who is still scribbling notes like an overworked scribe. This man is a menace.
Enough of this.
Holding his breath, Izuna steps forward, snatches the notebook straight out of Tobirama’s hands, and slaps it onto the nearest shelf.
Tobirama lets out an offended noise, finally tearing his gaze away from his work to glare at Izuna like he’s just committed an unforgivable crime. “I was in the middle of—”
Izuna doesn’t let him finish.
He grabs Tobirama by the collar, ignoring his indignant sputtering, and hauls him toward the door with all the strength his still-recovering muscles can muster. Tobirama might be a genius, but physically, he’s not much heavier than a damp towel right now.
“Hokage’s orders,” Izuna announces with exaggerated cheer. “You are to eat, drink, and sleep. Preferably in that order. Try to argue and I’ll dump you in a river for the shower you desperately need.”
Tobirama scowls, but he’s too exhausted to put up much of a fight. His feet drag as Izuna pulls him along, and though he mutters complaints under his breath, he doesn’t resist nearly as much as he could.
Which tells Izuna everything he needs to know.
Tobirama really does need the break. And Izuna? He might not like the bastard, but for some reason, he finds himself making sure he gets it.