Yearning for your love

Tobirama wakes abruptly to the muffled sounds of shouting outside, the commotion cutting through the early morning stillness. For a fleeting moment, he lingers on the warmth of Izuna’s presence in another shared dream—a warmth that feels comforting, steady, and painfully distant in ways he refuses to acknowledge, even to himself. He pushes the thought away, burying it deep where it won’t interfere. It isn’t real. It can’t be real.

Rising from his futon with practiced precision, Tobirama forces himself into the motions of the morning. The routine is automatic, grounding him. He washes his face in the cold basin, the icy water sharpening his focus as it shocks his senses. His fingers pause at his scent glands, tracing the suppression seals etched into his skin. They hold, as they always do, dampening any hint of his omega nature. It’s a necessity, one that presses against his mind like an unspoken truth he can’t afford to confront. Trust, fragile as it is, has no place in his life—not here, not now. Even with Hashirama, he cannot take that risk.

Once he’s armored and his weapons are secured, he steps outside. The morning air feels heavier than usual, the tension palpable even without heightened senses. It isn’t the kind of unease that comes from impending battle, but something closer to home, sharper and more personal.

“Touka,” Tobirama calls, catching sight of his cousin moving through the compound.

The Alpha turns, her expression tight, her usual composure clouded. “Momoko,” she says, her voice low, barely audible over the distant shouting. “She was killed in an ambush last night. The rest of the scouting squad made it back, but…” Touka’s words trail off, but Tobirama doesn’t need her to finish.

Momoko. A quiet, diligent kunoichi with dark hair perpetually tied in a messy braid. They weren’t close, exchanging words only when duty required it, but she had always been competent, reliable. Then, another image surfaces unbidden: a small boy, no older than four, with the same dark hair. Haruto. Momoko’s son.

“And the boy?” Tobirama asks. His voice is calm, clipped, but inside, something twists uncomfortably.

“That’s the problem,” Touka says, her gaze darkening as her words fall heavy in the room. “Momoko had no close family left. Her parents and brothers are gone. There’s no one to take him in. Probably because he’s been born out of wedlock...”

The words pierce Tobirama’s chest like a blade, sharper than they have any right to be. No one wants him.

A murmur ripples through the gathering, hushed and uncertain. A young omega woman steps forward, her hands trembling as she clutches the edges of her sleeves. Yumi, one of Momoko’s closest friends, her large eyes brimming with unshed tears, takes a shaky breath. “I’ll take him,” she says, her voice soft but resolute. “I can—”

“Yumi!” Sumire, her mother, grabs her arm, yanking her back with a force that makes the younger woman stumble. The older omega’s face is flushed with anger, her chakra brimming with disapproval. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Yumi stares at her, wide-eyed but determined. “Mother, I can’t just stand here and—”

“You most certainly can,” Sumire snaps, her voice lowering to a harsh whisper that still carries across the crowd. “Have you forgotten yourself? This isn’t your decision to make. Your husband would never allow it.”

Yumi’s resolve wavers, her voice faltering. “But Haruto-kun—”

“No alpha would agree to raise a child that isn’t his own,” Sumire says, her tone cold and cutting. “It’s not our place to take in a bastard. Do you want to bring shame to this family? To anger your husband?”

The words hit Yumi like a slap, and her shoulders sag under the weight of them. Tears spill freely down her cheeks, her chakra a tangled storm of sorrow and helplessness. She doesn’t try to speak again.

Sumire tightens her grip on Yumi’s arm, her chakra humming with a smug sort of finality. “Come,” she says, dragging her daughter back into the fold. “You’ve embarrassed us enough.”

Tobirama feels something inside him shatter. A raw, visceral anger surges in its place, white-hot and all-consuming. His hands clench at his sides, the nails biting into his palms. His chakra flares, sharp and suffused with rage, startling those closest to him.

How can they let this happen? How can they turn their backs on a child—a boy who just lost his mother? The callousness in the crowd’s chakra, the way they treat this tragedy as an inconvenience, is like poison seeping into his veins.

“You disgust me,” Tobirama says, his voice low and venomous, cutting through the murmurs like a blade. His gaze sweeps over the gathered crowd, his crimson eyes burning with fury.

He doesn’t linger. His stride is purposeful as he moves forward, the tension thickening as he approaches. A crowd has gathered—Hashirama is at the center, surrounded by a mix of elders and shinobi. Their voices rise in heated debate, frustration rolling off them in waves.

When Tobirama steps into the circle, he catches the tail end of an elder’s sneer, their tone sharp and dismissive. “Just give the boy to his father.”

Tobirama stills, his jaw tightening. The dismissiveness grates at him, but he tamps it down, the reflexive control learned over years of navigating these tensions. His fingers curl against his palm, the sharp edges of his gauntlets biting into his skin.

Hashirama’s posture is tense, his face drawn as he raises a hand to quiet the group. “Enough,” he says, his voice carrying authority, though his tone lacks its usual warmth. “We’ll discuss this matter properly and come to a decision.”

Tobirama’s eyes flicker to his brother. He searches for something—a sign that his beta brother feels the weight of this situation as keenly as he does. But Hashirama’s gaze is focused on the elders, his expression a careful mask of diplomacy. It’s the face of a leader, not a brother.

The quiet sting of disappointment lodges itself in Tobirama’s chest, but he doesn’t let it show. He stands straighter, schooling his features into a neutral mask. Hashirama has too much on his shoulders already. Tobirama knows that. He’s trying to keep everyone together; I can’t expect him to see everything.

And yet, a small, unspoken part of him wishes—longs—for Hashirama to look at him, just once, and truly see him. To recognize the trust Tobirama’s buried beneath layers of caution and silence. To care enough to push past the walls Tobirama has built.

But Tobirama knows better than to hope for such things. Trust is a fragile, dangerous thing, and he can’t afford to let his guard slip—not even here.

“Then let’s end the debate quickly,” Tobirama says, his voice cutting through the noise with practiced authority. He steps forward, the air around him growing heavier. “The boy is a Senju. He stays here. I’ll take responsibility.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with finality. Hashirama’s eyes flicker to Tobirama, a hint of surprise crossing his face. For a moment, Tobirama thinks—hopes—that his brother might say something, might acknowledge the weight of the decision Tobirama has just taken on. But Hashirama only nods, his attention already shifting back to the group. “Tobirama will take custody of Haruto.”

The murmurs ripple through the crowd again, but Hashirama raises a hand, commanding silence. “This matter is settled. Return to your duties.”

Reluctantly, the assembled shinobi and elders begin to disperse, though the weight of their chakra lingers, thick with judgment and disbelief. Tobirama senses it all—the disdain, the skepticism—but lets it wash over him like water over stone. Let them judge, he thinks, his expression impassive. It doesn’t matter. It never has.

As the last of the crowd departs, Hashirama turns to him, weariness etched into every line of his face. There’s something apologetic in his gaze, something that tugs at a quiet, painful place deep in Tobirama’s chest. But he looks away, unwilling to let that small flicker of emotion sway him. If Hashirama truly cared, he would’ve acted more decisively from the start, wouldn’t he? Tobirama pushes the thought aside. It’s easier that way.

“We should go to the boy,” Hashirama says softly, his tone gentle, almost hesitant.

Tobirama nods curtly, his voice clipped when he speaks. “Touka, come with us.” Without waiting for a reply, he strides ahead, his pace brisk and purposeful.

The walk to Momoko’s house is shrouded in tense silence. Tobirama doesn’t need to sense the boy’s chakra to know what awaits them, but when they round the corner, the sight still strikes him harder than he expects.

Haruto is perched on the wooden steps of the small house, knees pulled tight to his chest. His tiny frame trembles, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in his sobs. He doesn’t wail or scream—his grief is quiet, the kind that seeps deep into the bones. Silent tears streak down his cheeks, glistening in the muted light. He must have heard the commotion earlier. He must already know that everything has changed.

Hashirama moves first, crouching down a few paces away. “Haruto,” he says gently, his voice warm, the way it always is when he’s trying to comfort. “You’re going to live with Tobirama now. He’ll take care of you. You’ll be his ward from now on.”

Haruto lifts his head slowly, his red-rimmed eyes locking onto them. Confusion flickers across his face, mingling with the raw grief, and Tobirama feels the weight of it settle like a stone in his chest. He doesn’t often think of children—not beyond their role in the clan’s future—but seeing Haruto like this, so small and fragile, stirs something unfamiliar and uncomfortable.

Hashirama looks back at him then, his eyes searching, as though silently urging Tobirama to say something, to offer comfort. But Tobirama’s throat feels tight, and he can’t find the words. Instead, he does what he knows best—he acts.

“He’s not just my ward,” Tobirama says, his voice steady, carrying the weight of a final decision. “He is my heir.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unexpected. Touka’s eyes widen in shock, her chakra flickering with surprise. Even Hashirama freezes, his gaze snapping to Tobirama with something unspoken—a mixture of astonishment and something else Tobirama can’t quite name.

Haruto blinks up at him, his small mouth parting in surprise.

“Your heir?” Touka echoes, her voice cautious, uncertain.

Tobirama turns to her, his gaze firm, unyielding. “Yes. I have no intention of marrying or fathering children. Haruto will carry my name and legacy. I see no reason why it shouldn’t be him.”

Hashirama straightens, his brow furrowing as he studies Tobirama, searching his face for a motive that isn’t there. “Tobirama has a point,” he says at last, though his tone is hesitant.

Tobirama doesn’t look at him. He focuses on Haruto instead, stepping closer until he’s within arm’s reach. The boy looks up at him, uncertainty and fear etched into every line of his small face.

“You’ll live with me,” Tobirama says, his tone quieter now, almost soft. “You’ll be safe.”

For a moment, Haruto doesn’t respond, his small hands clutching the fabric of his shirt tightly. Then, slowly, he nods.

Behind him, Tobirama senses Hashirama’s gaze, still lingering, still searching. A part of him wonders what his brother is thinking—if he’s proud, or surprised, or simply relieved that Tobirama has stepped in where Hashirama himself hesitated. But Tobirama doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t ask.

He straightens, looking ahead. Whatever the boy needs, Tobirama will provide. That is his duty now. It’s better to focus on that than to dwell on what Hashirama’s care might feel like, on what it might mean if his brother ever truly saw him. Better to let it go, as he always has.

The packing is done quickly and quietly. Most of Momoko’s belongings remain untouched, the stillness of the small home heavy with a sense of absence. Haruto doesn’t speak, and Tobirama doesn’t press him. The boy moves with a detached, mechanical air, clutching a small, battered toy in his hands as if it’s the only thing tethering him to the world.

By the time they return to the clan head’s house, night has fallen. The quiet here feels different—emptier, though Tobirama supposes it always has. Hashirama leads the way, showing Haruto to the spare room next to Tobirama’s own.

“I can make some furniture,” Hashirama says softly, his chakra radiating warmth and good intentions. “With Mokuton. Whatever he wants.”

Haruto doesn’t respond. He just shrugs, his small shoulders rising and falling like he’s already too tired to care. The sight stirs something unfamiliar and sharp in Tobirama’s chest.

“We’ll revisit that later,” Tobirama says, his voice calm but firm. “He needs time to grieve first.”

Hashirama nods, though he lingers a moment longer, his gaze heavy with concern. Then, with a quiet sigh, he turns and leaves the room. Touka follows, pausing briefly at the door to glance back at Tobirama. When the door clicks shut, it’s just the three of them—Tobirama, Haruto, and the silence.

Tobirama remains where he is, watching Haruto sit stiffly on the edge of the cot. The boy looks impossibly small, the toy clutched tightly in his lap as though it’s his last connection to something safe. His chakra flutters weakly, trembling but restrained. He doesn’t lash out or scream. Instead, tears streak down his face, silent but unrelenting.

Another sob escapes him—a small, heart-wrenching sound.

Tobirama hesitates for only a moment before stepping closer. He crouches down in front of Haruto, lowering himself to the boy’s eye level. Haruto doesn’t meet his gaze, but Tobirama moves slowly, deliberately, and reaches out. Gently, he pulls the boy into his arms.

For an instant, Haruto freezes, his small body rigid. Then, as though something inside him has broken open, he collapses against Tobirama. His tiny fists clutch at Tobirama’s armor, and he cries harder now, harsh, uneven sobs shaking his entire frame.

Tobirama doesn’t speak. He doesn’t tell him to stop, doesn’t offer empty assurances that everything will be alright, because it won’t—not tonight, and maybe not for a long time. Instead, he holds him, one hand pressed firmly against Haruto’s back, the other cradling the back of his head.

The sobs eventually begin to slow, though Haruto’s grip remains tight. Tobirama lets him hold on, anchoring the boy to something steady. For the first time in years, a quiet certainty settles over him.

This is the right decision.

He sits there in the dim room, listening to Haruto’s breathing even out, his own thoughts steadying as well. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tobirama senses Hashirama’s chakra nearby, lingering faintly, as though his brother hasn’t gone far. He knows Hashirama cares—Hashirama always cares—but caring isn’t the same as knowing what to do.

That has always fallen to Tobirama.

He adjusts his grip slightly, settling Haruto more comfortably against him. There’s no resentment in his heart, only a quiet acceptance of what must be done. He doesn’t need Hashirama to say anything or to see him differently. Tobirama knows his place.

And for now, that place is here, holding the fragile beginnings of someone else’s future.