Yearning for your love

Tobirama wakes with a start, the dim light of the setting sun spilling into his room at the inn. His heart pounds in his chest, a dissonant drumbeat against the stillness. Something feels off. His head feels heavy, his body faintly sore, and when he shifts, he notices the weight of his shinobi sandals pressing awkwardly against the sheets. He looks down, and his unease deepens—he’s still fully dressed.

Every piece of his equipment is intact: gloves, armor, kunai pouch, even his boots, crusted with the dried mud of yesterday’s journey. His belt is still tightly secured, his weapons untouched. His satchel lies on the bedside table, its contents unaltered. Everything seems in place, yet everything feels wrong.

Everything except his memory.

Tobirama rubs his temples, willing the fog in his mind to clear. His last clear memory is leaving the daimyo’s office, his satchel heavier with payment. After that? Nothing. No walk through the crowded streets, no return to the inn. Just a void.

The realization sends a chill down his spine. He doesn’t lose control—he never loses control. His mind is his sharpest weapon, a fortress of discipline honed by years of rigorous training and battlefield precision. For it to fail him now, to betray him so completely, is unthinkable.

His breathing slows as he forces his rising panic to heel. Panic accomplishes nothing. He needs answers, not emotion.

Tobirama slides off the bed and straightens, his movements deliberate as he begins a thorough inspection of his body. He pulls off his gloves first, examining his hands for any signs of injury or tampering. The skin is clean, free of cuts or bruises. He flexes his fingers, assessing their range of motion—no stiffness, no loss of coordination.

Next, he methodically removes his armor, setting each piece aside. His tunic follows, baring his torso to the dim light. He examines himself for marks—bruises, needle pricks, signs of restraint—but finds nothing unusual. His skin is unmarred. He presses along the major muscle groups, feeling for tenderness or abnormalities. Again, nothing.

Still, his unease lingers. His chakra flares softly, flowing through his body in precise waves as he performs an internal check. After confirming his scent suppression seals are still intact he scans every corner of his system, searching for foreign substances, irregularities in his pathways, or disruptions to his reserves. It takes time, but the process yields no abnormalities. His chakra is his own, untouched and untainted.

His next concern is genjutsu. Tobirama forms the release hand sign, focusing his chakra into the technique with practiced ease. The flare of energy ripples through him, breaking any illusion that might be clouding his senses. When the world around him remains unchanged, his tension tightens further.

If it’s not genjutsu, poison, or physical injury, then what?

He retrieves a small mirror from his pack, holding it up to his face. His crimson eyes meet his reflection, sharp and wary. He inspects himself for the smallest sign of tampering—a misaligned pupil, discoloration in the sclera, anything that might hint at the use of drugs or hypnosis. His face betrays nothing unusual, but the hollowness in his gaze unsettles him.

The scrutiny extends to his equipment next. He checks every strap, every buckle, every seal on his kunai pouch. He unsheathes a blade and inspects it for signs of tampering—no residues, no scratches. His satchel comes last, its contents emptied onto the desk in neat rows. Scrolls, tools, payment—everything is accounted for, and everything is undisturbed.

His frown deepens.

The process should calm him, but it doesn’t. Tobirama has left no corner unchecked, yet the void in his memory remains. He leans heavily against the desk, his eyes scanning the room as though the answers might be hidden in the shadows.

He forces himself to focus, cataloging everything he does remember. His mind replays the events of the previous day: the mission, the daimyo’s court, the heavy envelope of payment. He recalls the polished floors, the gilded accents of the chamber, the quiet exchanges of formality. After that... the bustling streets, the warmth of the sun at noon. But then...

Nothing.

The absence is stark and unrelenting, a chasm where his memories should be. He doesn’t even remember dreaming, or sharing a dream with Izuna again. Then again, Tobirama doesn’t know how long he was out for. It’s evening, suggesting that he slept from some time after noon to now, unless he slept for more than a day. Shared dreams only happen when both are asleep and Izuna is unlikely to take a nap during the afternoon.

Tobirama retrieves a scroll and brush, his hands steady as he begins to write. He maps out his movements in precise detail, marking every interaction and every location he can recall. The process is meticulous, but it yields no insight. The gap remains, glaring and impenetrable.

His chakra brushes against the walls of the inn, extending outward in search of anything unusual. He senses the faint presence of the other occupants—merchants, travelers, shinobi—but none stand out as threats. None seem to have been close enough to interfere with him.

Tobirama closes the scroll, setting it aside with a sense of mounting frustration. The unknown is a vulnerability he cannot tolerate. If someone had tampered with his mind, manipulated him, or worse, he needs to know how—and why.

***

Tobirama doesn’t linger in the inn. The walls feel too close, the air too still, and every moment spent here grates against his nerves like a kunai dragged across stone. The idea of remaining in this place any longer makes his skin crawl.

He packs quickly, his movements precise but tinged with agitation. His hands are steady as he folds his spare uniform, checks his weapons, and ensures the scrolls in his satchel are secured. The room is paid for; the innkeeper won’t care if it’s empty come morning.

When everything is in place, he moves to the window. Sliding it open silently, he casts his senses outward. His chakra pulses, brushing against the faint presences of others in the inn. The soft hum of a merchant dreaming, the faint, steady rhythms of a traveling couple sleeping in the next room—none feel threatening. Yet Tobirama doesn’t relax. He scans the area carefully, his gaze cutting through the shadows outside before slipping out into the cool night air.

Landing lightly on the ground, Tobirama moves quickly but cautiously, blending into the darkness as he navigates the winding forest path. His footsteps are silent, his senses on high alert despite the weight of fatigue pressing down on him.

The mission in the capital lingers in his mind like an open wound, raw and unresolved. The forest’s quiet should be a balm, but instead, it feels oppressive. His hand brushes the hilt of his katana, the familiar contact grounding him.

By the time dawn begins to streak the horizon, the trees around him thin, their shadows stretching long and jagged across the path. Tobirama quickens his pace, choosing a shortcut through Uchiha territory. The decision is calculated. The risk is high, but the detour will save him hours.

He keeps his distance from patrol routes, his chakra suppressed as tightly as he can manage. Each step is measured, his movements precise as he avoids the areas he knows are likely to be watched. He relies on his deep knowledge of the terrain and the habits of Uchiha patrols, his mind running through their patterns. Every sense is sharpened, attuned to the faintest flicker of movement, the softest whisper of sound.

The forest stretches around him, dense and quiet, its canopy filtering the dim light of early dawn. The path is smooth beneath his feet, and for a while, it seems his precautions are working. The air is still, and no flicker of chakra disturbs the peace. His confidence grows with each passing moment, though he remains vigilant, scanning the shadows for any sign of danger.

But just as the first rays of sunlight begin to pierce through the trees, Tobirama’s instincts scream. A surge of power crashes against his senses, sharp and sudden, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The chakra seems to appear out of nowhere, raw and oppressive, like a storm breaking over calm waters.

Izuna.

The name settles in his mind, bringing with it a flood of tension. Tobirama’s gut tightens as he realizes the Uchiha must have been masking his presence with a chakra-suppressing seal. If not for that, Tobirama would have sensed him long before now. He barely has time to react before the attack comes.

Izuna appears in a blur, his katana slicing through the air with deadly intent. The blade gleams in the pale light of dawn, a streak of silver aimed directly at Tobirama’s chest. He raises his own sword just in time, the clash of steel reverberating through the quiet forest. The force of the blow vibrates up his arms, sharp and jarring, but he holds his ground, his teeth clenched against the strain.

Izuna’s chakra flares, a wild, untamed force that slams into Tobirama like a tidal wave. It’s overwhelming, laced with fury so intense it feels like it might ignite the very air around them. The Sharingan in Izuna’s eyes burns crimson, spinning with lethal intent.

“You again,” Izuna growls, his voice low and venomous. His words drip with contempt, each syllable like a blade aimed to cut. “Did you think you could sneak through Uchiha territory unnoticed? Or is this just another one of your pathetic Senju tricks?”

Tobirama doesn’t answer. Words are useless in the face of such raw hostility. Instead, he narrows his focus to the fight, his mind a razor-sharp edge as he meets Izuna’s ferocity with his own precision. Their blades clash again and again, each strike faster, sharper, more brutal than the last. Sparks fly with every collision, the air between them crackling with tenstion.

Izuna’s attacks are relentless, each one carrying the weight of his fury. His chakra is a storm, suffocating in its intensity, radiating a mixture of rage and something deeper, something rawer. Tobirama feels it clawing at him, a searing hurt buried beneath the surface that he cannot ignore.

“Fuck you, Senju!” Izuna snarls, his blade arcing toward Tobirama’s side with deadly precision.

Tobirama deflects the strike, but the sheer force behind it sends him stumbling back. His boots scrape against the dirt, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts. He steadies himself, muscles taut as he braces for the next attack.

But then, unbidden, the memory rises in his mind.

If I were bound to him, I’d commit suicide.

Izuna’s voice, cold and biting, echoes in Tobirama’s thoughts. The words slice through him, sharper than any blade.

His chest tightens, the ache blooming deep and visceral. It feels as though the air has been stolen from his lungs, as though the weight of those words has wrapped around his ribs, crushing him from the inside. The fight blurs—the forest, the clash of steel, even Izuna’s blazing Sharingan. All of it fades beneath the echo of that single, damning sentence.

Suicide. Because of him.

Tobirama’s hands tremble. His grip on his katana weakens, the blade growing heavier in his grasp. He tries to focus, to draw in air, but the pain in his chest won’t let him. The storm of Izuna’s chakra crashes against him again, amplifying the spiral of emotions threatening to drown him.

The katana slips from his fingers, hitting the ground with a muted thud.

Izuna pauses for the briefest moment, his chakra flickering with confusion, but Tobirama barely registers it. His vision swims, darkening at the edges, the world tilting wildly around him. He feels the earth beneath his knees as he crumples, his body no longer responding to his will.

Izuna steps forward, his blade poised for the finishing strike. Tobirama sees the movement, registers the intent, but his limbs refuse to move. His arms hang limply at his sides, his strength drained, his spirit crushed beneath the weight of Izuna’s disdain.

The dizziness intensifies, dragging him deeper into the abyss. His heartbeat roars in his ears, a relentless drumbeat drowning out all other sound.

The last thing he sees is the faint glint of steel in the morning light before the darkness claims him entirely.