Dependence
The sun rays lit the Hidden Leaf village, casting long shadows against the forest’s edges along the training ground. Tobirama Senju stood by the sidelines, his eyes tracing the horizon where the new village met the wilderness. Peace was a fragile thing—far more fragile than anyone understood. The scars of the Warring States period were still fresh in the minds of the people, the blood spilled by clan after clan, each fighting for dominance, for survival. Yet now, they were trying something unprecedented: uniting in a single village, where children could grow without the weight of war hanging over their heads.
But the foundations were still cracked.
Tobirama knew his students well—too well. He could sense the growing tension, the silent pull between Kagami and Danzō. As the two sparred, their movements were sharp and precise, but there was an undercurrent, an unspoken energy that didn’t belong on the training field. It was something that wasn’t about technique or discipline. It was personal.
Tobirama had seen the way Kagami watched Danzō, his expression softening just a fraction when their eyes met. He had seen the way Danzō’s gaze lingered on Kagami, filled with something that couldn’t just be described as admiration—there was a possessiveness, a quiet intensity that set off warning bells in Tobirama’s mind.
The war had shaped them all in different ways, but it seemed that for Danzō, the fear of losing someone had begun to manifest in darker ways. Tobirama knew it wasn’t the first time he had seen that kind of obsessive behavior; his own brother, Hashirama, had been plagued by similar fears during their youth. But Danzō’s was different. It was a dangerous path, one that could erode a shinobi’s sense of duty, and worse, destroy relationships that had the potential to strengthen the village.
As the sparring session ended, Tobirama motioned for Kagami and Danzō to join him at the edge of the training ground. The air was thick with the weight of unsaid things, and as they approached, their expressions flickered between confusion and unease.
“Sit,” Tobirama instructed, his voice calm but carrying the weight of authority. He didn’t wait for a response before continuing. “There’s something we need to discuss.”
The two young men sat, Kagami’s usual stoic expression hiding his internal conflict, while Danzō's brow furrowed, his gaze flicking between Tobirama and Kagami. Tobirama paused for a moment, his piercing gaze flicking to each of them in turn, before he spoke again.
“Both of you are my students. I’ve watched you grow, both on the battlefield and off it. But I’ve seen something... unsettling between you two.” His words were sharp, but not cruel. There was concern in his tone—concern that came from a place of experience, not just as a teacher, but as a man who had lost so much in his own life to the brutalities of war.
Danzō immediately stiffened, his eyes narrowing as if he was preparing to defend himself. Kagami, on the other hand, seemed to shift uncomfortably, sensing what was coming. Tobirama’s sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing.
“You, Danzō,” he began, his voice cutting through the tension, “have a tendency to cling to things—to people—that you feel you can control. That includes Kagami.” Tobirama’s eyes softened just a fraction, but they remained serious. “Your attachment to him is... unhealthy.”
Danzō’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to retort, but Tobirama held up a hand, silencing him. “I’m not suggesting that you don’t care for Kagami,” he said, his tone low and measured. “But your obsession with him, with his power, is clouding your judgment. It’s making you careless.”
Kagami’s gaze was fixed on Tobirama, his face impassive, though his mind was racing. He’d always attributed it to the intense rivalry between them, the weight of their shared duty to the village. But now that Tobirama was speaking of it so openly, Kagami felt exposed, like something had been laid bare.
“You need to learn how to let go, Danzō,” Tobirama continued, his voice softening slightly, as if trying to reach the younger man. “You cannot control everything, least of all people. Kagami is not your possession, and you do not own him.”
Danzō’s hand clenched into a fist, his knuckles white, but he said nothing. He wanted to argue, wanted to fight back, but there was something about the calm authority in Tobirama’s words that made him hesitate.
Tobirama then turned to Kagami, his gaze piercing, as if searching for something beneath the surface. “And you, Kagami,” he said, his voice turning stern, “You need to understand that the bond you share with Danzō, as close as it may be, is starting to cross dangerous lines. You cannot be the only source of support for him. He is relying too heavily on you. You are not the answer to his problems, and you cannot bear that burden alone.”
Kagami remained silent for a long moment, his chest tight. He had always known Danzō relied on him—but hearing it from Tobirama, someone who had witnessed the way the bond had twisted, felt different.
Tobirama sighed, his shoulders sagging ever so slightly as the weight of his words hung heavy between them. “I know that you care for him, Kagami. But I need you to see this for what it is—a dangerous obsession, a need for control. This isn’t about you. This is about Danzō’s inability to trust anyone but himself. You can’t save him, no matter how much you might want to.”
Kagami nodded, his gaze lowering. “I understand, sensei.”
Danzō’s expression was unreadable, but there was an undeniable tension in the way he held himself, as if the air had shifted around him. Tobirama’s words had been like a punch to the gut, one that Danzō had not been prepared for, and though he said nothing, his anger simmered just beneath the surface.
Tobirama stood, his tone firm as he concluded. “You two are both incredibly talented. But your paths can only align if you understand the importance of balance—not just in combat, but in your relationships, in your emotions. If you don’t, it will hurt you both.”
He turned to walk away, but paused for just a moment, casting a final glance over his shoulder. “Think carefully about what I’ve said.”
As the words hung in the air, the two young men sat in silence, each feeling the weight of the conversation press down on them.
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Kagami’s crimson Sharingan spun lazily, the three tomoe in each eye rotating as they scanned the area, searching for any movement, any sign of danger. He was focused—too focused, perhaps—but something kept tugging at his thoughts, something that had nothing to do with the mission at hand.
Danzō, walking beside him, couldn’t seem to keep his gaze from drifting toward Kagami. There was a stillness in the way Kagami moved, in the way the moonlight caught the edges of his features, and it made Danzō’s chest tighten in a way he couldn’t explain. He had tried to bury it, this feeling, but it never seemed to go away. Kagami was beautiful, more than he had any right to be, and Danzō hated the way his heart reacted to him. His Sharingan, his face, the way he wore his armor with such quiet grace — all of it pulled at Danzō, but the strangest part was how calm it made him feel. Kagami was the anchor Danzō hadn’t realized he needed.
Kagami, on the other hand, felt the weight of Danzō’s attention too. His peripheral vision caught the way Danzō’s gaze lingered just a little too long. When their eyes met briefly, Kagami quickly glanced away, focusing on the mission, on the task at hand. It was easier that way. Distance made it easier to breathe, easier to convince himself that it wasn’t so complicated, that they were just teammates.
But the truth sat heavy between them. The words from Tobirama echoed in Kagami’s mind, warning him to be careful, to not let the lines between comrades blur too much. He had tried, they had tried, to keep things simple, but it was impossible to ignore the pull between them. And the more they tried to ignore it, the more it seemed to grow.
Danzō opened his mouth, as if to say something, but then shut it just as quickly, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips. His mind was at war with itself—he didn’t want to admit it, but the more time he spent with Kagami, the more he questioned whether this distance between them was what he truly wanted. They fought well together. They made a perfect team in battle. Their movements were synchronized, their understanding of each other unspoken but clear. They were in sync in a way that made everything else seem trivial.
So why couldn’t they be in sync in the same way outside of missions? Why couldn’t they fit together in a way that wasn’t just about combat, but about something more?
He wasn’t obsessed, he told himself. He wasn’t. But the more he looked at Kagami—the way his Sharingan glowed in the moonlight, the way his body moved so effortlessly through the trees, the way his jaw clenched in concentration—he couldn’t help but feel that this thing between them was different. It was dangerous but undeniable.
Kagami noticed the way Danzō’s hands twitched at his sides, his every movement a little more rigid than usual. He could feel the energy between them shifting. It was always there now, lurking beneath the surface, quiet but insistent. He couldn’t tell if Danzō was still struggling to push his feelings down or if he had simply resigned himself to them.
“What is it?” Kagami asked quietly, his voice low but sharp, his tone masking the unease he felt. He didn’t look at Danzō, keeping his focus on the mission ahead, but there was an edge in his words that he hadn’t meant to give away.
Danzō opened his mouth again, and for a second, it seemed like he was going to answer—but instead, he just shook his head slightly. The tension between them thickened, but Danzō didn’t say a word.
Kagami felt his stomach knot. There was something here—something wrong in the air. They had both been walking this line for too long, pretending it wasn’t there, pretending it was just a side effect of being so close, of fighting so often together. But now, in the silence, in the soft rustle of leaves underfoot and the distant sounds of the enemy camp, Kagami couldn’t ignore it anymore.
The crackling of twigs underfoot broke the moment, and without thinking, Kagami’s Sharingan flared, his eyes scanning their surroundings, just in case. But Danzō’s voice—quiet, almost strained—cut through the tension.
“Why can’t we just…” Danzō began, then faltered, his words dying on his tongue.
Kagami glanced at him then, finally meeting his gaze, though only for a fleeting moment. The sadness in Danzō’s eyes caught him off guard, as if the man had let his guard down for the briefest second. He felt a pang in his chest, something that went deeper than mere camaraderie.
“You know why,” Kagami said, voice firm. “We can’t let this—whatever it is—get in the way. Not now.”
Danzō’s jaw clenched, and he looked away, frustration and something darker clouding his expression. “Right. You’re right.”
And just like that, the moment passed. The distance between them, both physical and emotional, returned. It wasn’t just about the mission anymore; it was about the fact that they were pretending. Pretending that there was nothing between them, pretending that the tension didn’t exist.
They moved forward again, the quiet weight of unspoken words hanging between them like a cloud. The mission wasn’t over yet, but something had shifted, and they both knew it.
____________________________________________
The mission had been over for days now, and the tension between them had been growing. The unspoken words had been weighing on both of them, but neither had given in — not until now. Kagami had tried to push it away. He had reminded himself, countless times, of the distance they needed. He couldn’t allow this, whatever this was, to consume him, just as Danzō had been consumed by his ambitions. But the thing about Uchiha blood was that once they loved, it was impossible to turn it away. It was relentless.
When Kagami arrived at the small, dimly lit room in ROOT’s underground headquarters, he hesitated before knocking. He wasn’t sure what he would find, but he knew he needed to speak with Danzō, to try and make sense of this madness between them.
The door creaked open, revealing Danzō leaned over his desk just inside, his silhouette shadowed against the faint glow of a single lantern. He looked different—tense, as if he had been waiting for this moment as much as Kagami had, but unwilling to acknowledge it until now.
Danzō’s gaze flickered over Kagami, eyes intense and unreadable. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the silence between them stretching. It was suffocating, but it was familiar. This was the space they had been navigating for so long, but now it felt fragile, like a crack that might shatter at any moment.
Kagami stepped forward, his breath shaky but steady. “I—” He faltered, unsure of where to start. The words felt too heavy to voice, but the weight of the silence made it impossible to ignore. “I’m sorry.”
Danzō stiffened. His eyes widened, a flash of something—anger?—passed through them before it quickly faded into something else. He said nothing at first, and Kagami feared that the anger would spill out.
But then Danzō’s gaze softened, and something inside him seemed to unravel. His breath, shallow at first, finally steadied, and he reached out, pulling Kagami closer. The gesture was gentle, but there was an unmistakable need in it—a quiet desperation that Kagami recognized as his own.
For a moment, they stood like that, just breathing, the quiet hum of the night surrounding them. Then, without a word, Danzō leaned in, his lips brushing lightly against Kagami’s forehead. The touch was delicate, almost reverent, as if he were trying to memorize the sensation.
Kagami’s eyes involuntarily slipped into the crimson whirl of his Sharingan. He couldn’t help it; the Uchiha blood ran too deep. The Sharingan activated, quietly recording the subtle shifts in Danzō’s expression, the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes softened when they met Kagami’s.
Danzō pulled back slightly, his gaze flickering to Kagami’s eyes, but he didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His actions spoke for him. He traced the edge of Kagami’s temple with the tip of his fingers, a light, almost hesitant touch that sent a shiver down Kagami’s spine. His breath hitched, but he didn’t pull away.
The next kiss landed on Kagami’s cheek, light, lingering for just a moment before Danzō moved to the edge of his jaw, his lips brushing against the skin there. It was intimate, but it wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t about urgency or need—it was quiet, measured, like the two of them were trying to communicate without words. Trying to find a way to bridge the chasm that had been growing between them.
Kagami closed his eyes, letting Danzō’s touch wash over him. For the first time in a long while, he let go of the tension in his chest. He didn’t need to fight this anymore. There was no need to resist. In the stillness of the night, surrounded by the quiet hum of ROOT’s underground hallways, it felt like they were the only two people left in the world. Tobirama must have been wrong; they needed this.
It wasn’t perfect. There was so much left unsaid between them, but for now, it didn’t matter. They didn’t need to fix it all tonight. They didn’t need to talk about the complications, the confusion, or the danger of what they were doing. Not now.
And as Danzō pressed another kiss to the corner of Kagami’s lips, Kagami let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
They didn’t need words to know. They both felt it—the unspoken understanding, the pull between them. It was enough for now.
Danzō pulled back, his hand resting lightly on Kagami’s shoulder, his gaze soft but searching. “We’ll talk,” Danzō murmured, his voice low. “But not tonight.”
Kagami nodded, his gaze flickering to the ground, then back to Danzō. “No... not tonight.”
And for a moment, in the quiet space between them, everything felt like it might be okay. Maybe they could find their way through this, despite the weight of the world around them. Maybe, just maybe, they could find a way to make this work—together.
But that was a story for another time.