Yearning for your love

Tobirama stumbles into the Senju compound under the shroud of twilight, his body battered and trembling from exhaustion. His armor is shattered in places, the jagged edges biting into raw, bloodied flesh. One arm hangs useless at his side, while his robes cling to his skin, damp with blood that refuses to clot. Every step feels like wading through quicksand, pain pulsing with every beat of his heart.

But the mission comes first. It always comes first. Hashirama would expect a report immediately, and Tobirama wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail him. He presses forward, each movement a testament to sheer willpower. Luckily his scent suppressing seals still hold.

The door to Hashirama’s office is ajar when he arrives. Warm light spills into the corridor, along with the muffled sound of his brother’s voice. Tobirama pauses, leaning heavily against the frame. The warmth of the room beckons, but he hesitates. For a fleeting moment, he imagines his brother rushing to him, concern softening his features as he orders Tobirama to rest, to heal. The thought is a foolish indulgence. He exhales slowly, steadying himself, and pushes the door open.

Hashirama looks up, his smile fading the instant he sees Tobirama. The beta’s brow furrows, concern flickering across his face—but only briefly. “Tobirama,” he says, his tone tight. “You’re injured.”

“The mission was successful,” Tobirama begins, cutting off any further comment. His voice is clipped, betraying none of the effort it takes to remain standing. “The enemy’s plans were thwarted, their forces routed.”

“Tobirama, you’re bleeding,” Hashirama interrupts, standing now, his expression growing stern.

“It’s not important.” Tobirama’s reply is sharp, almost reflexive. He sways slightly but catches himself, forcing his hands behind his back to hide the trembling. “The Uchiha were involved.”

The words land heavily, and Hashirama’s chakra ripples faintly. “The Uchiha?” His tone sharpens. “What did you do?”

“I engaged Izuna,” Tobirama answers, his voice steady despite the tension building in the room. “Neither of us sustained life-threatening injuries.”

Hashirama’s hands grip the edge of the desk. “Izuna? You fought Izuna? Tobirama, do you understand what this means? He’s Madara’s little brother! How can you expect peace when you keep clashing with his family?”

Tobirama’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice level. “I don’t seek him out. He engages me as much as I engage him. I ensure the injuries are minimal. There were no deaths—”

“That’s not the point!” Hashirama’s voice rises, frustration breaking through. “Do you think Madara will care about ‘minimal injuries’? Do you think he’ll just overlook it because no one died? Tobirama, why can’t you stop antagonizing them?”

“I’m not antagonizing anyone,” Tobirama says, his tone growing strained. “I’m protecting us. If I don’t act, the consequences—”

“Are you?” Hashirama cuts him off, standing now, his chakra flaring. “Are you protecting us, or are you just refusing to let go of the past? Do you even care about what I’m trying to achieve? Or are you so stuck in old habits that you can’t see the damage you’re doing?”

Tobirama’s breath catches. The accusation isn’t new, but it still strikes deep. His lips part, but the words he wants to say—I do care. I care about you. I want you to care about me—stick in his throat. Instead, he says, “I am doing what’s necessary.”

Hashirama shakes his head, his disappointment cutting sharper than any blade. “You sound like Butsuma,” he says, his voice low but laced with bitterness. “Always talking about necessity, about sacrifice. But all you’re doing is keeping us trapped in the same cycle.”

The mention of their father is a slap to the face, and Tobirama’s composure falters. “Don’t compare me to him,” he snaps, his voice sharper than he intended.

“Then stop acting like him!” Hashirama roars. His chakra lashes out, filling the room with oppressive heat. “You’re my brother, Tobirama. I’m trying to build a future where we don’t have to keep burying the people we care about. But every time you go out there, you set us back. Do you even care about what I’m trying to do? If I didn’t know any better I’d think you’re an omega with how brainless you’re acting!”

Tobirama’s breath catches in his throat. The words cut deeper than any blade ever could. “I—”

 “I can’t do this right now,” Hashirama says, turning away. His voice drops, cold and final. “Leave, Tobirama. I need space.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, Tobirama doesn’t move. He stands frozen, the ache in his chest eclipsing the physical pain. Finally, he bows his head slightly. “As you wish,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.

The walk back to his room is a blur. He moves mechanically, each step sending fresh pain through his broken body. When he finally collapses onto his futon, the empty silence of the house presses down on him. The walls, once filled with warmth and laughter, now feel hollow and suffocating.

He closes his eyes, but there’s no comfort in the darkness. Hashirama’s words echo in his mind, each one cutting deeper than the last. You sound like Butsuma.

Tobirama presses a trembling hand to his chest, as though he could hold himself together. The memory of Hashirama’s fleeting concern—the brief flicker of care—clashes with the cold dismissal that followed. He doesn’t resent his brother. He never could. But he wishes—desperately, achingly—that Hashirama could see him. Not as a weapon, not as a failure to the dream of peace, but as his brother.

The pain in his body is unbearable, but it pales in comparison to the loneliness that gnaws at his heart. He’s fought battles that left him on the brink of death, but nothing has ever made him feel as hollow as Hashirama’s disappointment.

His vision blurs with unshed tears as exhaustion pulls him under. For a fleeting moment, he imagines Hashirama at his bedside, his hands warm and steady as they tend to his wounds. It’s a fantasy, one Tobirama knows will never come true. But for tonight, it’s enough to hold onto, even as the darkness takes him.

***

Tobirama blinks awake, his senses sluggish and disoriented. Warmth surrounds him, and as his eyes adjust, he realizes he’s lying in soft, sunlit sand. The rhythmic sound of waves gently lapping against the shore fills the air, mingling with the scent of salt and the faint cry of distant gulls. Confusion stirs in his chest. A beach? How did he get here? The last thing he remembers is—what was it? Pain? Exhaustion? It’s hazy, distant, like trying to recall a dream after waking.

The moment he tries to sit up, he notices something—someone. His head rests in the lap of another person. A hand slides through his hair, combing gently, soothingly. The touch sends an unfamiliar sense of peace coursing through him, warmth that melts the tension in his body. For a fleeting moment, he allows himself to sink into it. It feels good. Comforting. He doesn’t want it to stop.

The person murmurs softly, their voice low and filled with a mixture of frustration and tenderness. “Idiots,” they mutter. “How dare anyone treat an omega like this? Don’t they understand? Omegas fade away when you mistreat them like that.”

The words send a jolt through Tobirama, confusion mingling with unease. Omega? What is this person talking about? Before he can process, the hand in his hair stills, and he hears the faint hitch of breath. “You’re awake,” the voice says, warmer now, but tinged with concern. “Good.” The hand resumes stroking his hair, as though to calm him. “Don’t worry. You’re safe.”

The words sink into him, wrapping around the cracks of his resolve like a balm. Safe? Tobirama doesn’t know the last time someone spoke to him like that—or if anyone ever has. His heart clenches, and he forces himself to take a steadying breath. He tilts his head slightly, enough to catch a glimpse of the person’s face, but the angle is difficult. Their chakra is what draws his attention instead. It’s steady, bright, yet powerful, vibrating with emotion—protectiveness, anger, and something softer, gentler. Devotion. Tobirama swallows hard.

The stranger speaks again, breaking his thoughts. “What’s your name?” they demand, their voice firm but not unkind. “Your clan? Who are the bastards who did this to you? I’ll make them pay.” There’s a fierceness to their words, a promise that makes Tobirama tense. The hand on his head immediately stills, then resumes, this time slower, more deliberate. “Easy,” the voice soothes. “I’m not going to hurt you. You don’t have to be afraid.”

Afraid? Tobirama isn’t sure that’s the right word. Alarmed, perhaps. Wariness coils in his chest as realization begins to dawn. This can’t be real. It doesn’t make sense. He shifts slightly, glancing toward the stranger’s chakra again, letting its signature brush against his senses. And then it hits him. He knows what this is. His blood runs cold.

A shared dream.

His breath hitches as the truth solidifies. This only happens in the most dire of circumstances, when an omega’s soul reaches out instinctively to its soulmate. A last resort, an unbidden cry for help. His mind reels. The answer is there, waiting in the ache of his bones, the hollowness he’s been feeling for so long. Fading.

The stranger stirs above him, breaking through his spiraling thoughts. “What’s your name?” they ask again, softer this time, but insistent. “Tell me. I’ll take you home. You don’t have to stay wherever you were—whoever hurt you, I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Tobirama’s throat tightens. He should answer. He owes his soulmate the truth. He turns, pushing himself to face them fully. His lips part as he tries to speak, but the moment his gaze lands on the person before him, the words die in his throat.

Uchiha Izuna.

The world seems to freeze. Tobirama stares, his heart thundering in his chest. Izuna’s face is impossibly close, framed by the sunlight, his dark eyes sharp yet softened by something unfamiliar—concern, perhaps. It doesn’t make sense. Of all people, why would it be him? The younger Uchiha brother, the man he’s fought against countless times, his sworn enemy.

Izuna doesn’t recognize him. His brow furrows as he takes in Tobirama’s silence, the way his body has gone rigid. “Hey,” Izuna says, tilting his head slightly, his hand brushing against Tobirama’s temple. “It’s okay. You don’t have to tell me right now if you’re not ready.” His voice is gentler now, tinged with worry. “But you need to know you’re safe with me. I’ll take care of you.”

Tobirama feels a sharp pang in his chest. Izuna’s chakra, strong and steady, radiates sincerity. The weight of it presses against him, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. He should say something—anything—but his tongue feels heavy, the words lodged in his throat. His mind churns, caught between disbelief and the undeniable truth of what this connection means.

Uchiha Izuna is his soulmate.

***

When Tobirama wakes, he is greeted by something unfamiliar—peace. For a few precious moments, he feels better than he has in months. His mind is clear, his body free of the heavy fog that usually lingers after a mission, after another night of fighting or surviving. But as the rest of his senses return, reality settles like stones in his chest. The dull ache of his injuries hums beneath his skin, and when he swallows, his throat feels like sandpaper, raw and parched.

Slowly, he sits up, wincing as the motion pulls at half-closed wounds. The sight of himself is enough to draw a frown—his clothes are stiff with dried blood and dirt, tattered at the edges and reeking of sweat. Pathetic, he thinks, irritated at the state of himself. This is not how a Senju should appear, especially not him.

Stripping off the ruined garments, Tobirama forces himself to move methodically. Each stretch and twist of his muscles protests, but he grits his teeth and pushes through it. The basin of water in the corner is lukewarm by now, but it doesn’t matter. He washes himself clean with measured strokes, ignoring the sting as water hits the gashes along his skin. The worst of the grime and blood is wiped away, and with it, some of the filth that clings to his mind.

Next, he focuses on his injuries. His hands move with the efficiency of a seasoned healer as he disinfects each wound. The sharp smell of antiseptic stings his nose, but it grounds him, keeps him from drifting into the maze of thoughts pulling at the edges of his mind. He wraps fresh bandages tightly, knotting them with precision.

For the deepest wounds—the ones that ache with every breath—he channels what little chakra he can spare into medical ninjutsu. A cool green glow pools in his palms, sinking into broken skin and knitting muscle back together, but the process is slow, and he feels the strain almost immediately. He curses under his breath. Not enough chakra.

When he finishes, the exhaustion settles over him like a thin shroud, but he forces himself to sit up straight. His body is as patched together as it can be, for now. He has other things to think about—things far more dangerous than torn flesh or fractured ribs.

Last night.

The memory surfaces without warning, vivid in its detail. He can feel the phantom warmth of Izuna’s arms wrapped around him, the steady rhythm of his breathing as Tobirama leaned into him. He remembers how he felt safe, even though he knows he shouldn’t have. Even though it was Izuna.

Uchiha Izuna. His soulmate.

Tobirama’s stomach twists at the thought. He exhales sharply, leaning back against the cold wall behind him. His white hair, still damp, clings to his forehead, but he doesn’t move to brush it away.

His soulmate. The word feels foreign in his mind, too strange to say aloud. Tobirama has spent years training himself not to rely on others, not to hope for softness in a life ruled by war and duty. Soulmates are a concept for dreamers, for people like Hashirama who still think the world can be saved with nothing more than kindness. Tobirama has never had the luxury of dreaming.

And yet...

His hand drifts up, fingers brushing absently at his neck where his scent glands lie, sealed beneath carefully constructed suppression tags.

Tobirama clenches his fists. He shouldn’t be thinking like this. This is dangerous. The Uchiha would never accept him, even if Izuna did. No amount of soul-deep connection could erase decades of hatred and bloodshed. He knows exactly how they would react if he walked into their compound and told them the truth. They wouldn’t believe him. They’d laugh or—more likely—accuse him of manipulation. They’d see him as a weapon, a threat to be neutralized.

And Izuna…

Tobirama’s chest tightens. The man would hate him for it.

The room feels smaller suddenly, as if the walls are pressing in on him. He shuts his eyes and presses his hands to his face, drawing a slow, shuddering breath.

No. He can’t tell him. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.