N ew Understanding
It is only thanks to the Sharingan—and Izuna’s sharp reflexes—that he stops his blade in time. The katana halts a hair’s breadth from Tobirama’s pale skin, the force of his strike scattering dirt and leaves into the air around them. Izuna stares, chest heaving, as the unconscious form of his rival crumples before him.
Izuna stares down at the crumpled form before him, chest heaving, his senses buzzing with adrenaline.
“What the fuck?” he breathes, the words barely audible over the deafening rush of blood in his ears.
The White Demon of the Senju—Tobirama, his rival, his equal—lies helpless at his feet. It feels surreal, like he’s stepped into someone else’s battle. Tobirama doesn’t fall. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t stumble. He’s the unshakable one, the constant thorn in the Uchiha’s side, always sharp, always lethal. But now? Now he is still, pale, and unnervingly vulnerable.
Izuna’s first instinct is to finish it. Years of war have burned the command into his very being: strike down your enemy before they strike you. Without Tobirama, the Senju lose their sharpest blade. Without Tobirama, the Uchiha have one less obstacle to victory. His katana is perfectly poised, trembling faintly in his grip, the fatal blow a mere flick of his wrist away.
And yet…he doesn’t move.
Izuna’s brow furrows, his jaw tightening as frustration coils in his gut. His hands refuse to obey the primal urge screaming at him to act. Something stops him, something deep and unnameable. He stares at Tobirama’s prone form, his Sharingan drinking in every detail—the pale skin, the limp arms, the slight furrow of his brow that hints at some internal struggle even in unconsciousness.
It feels wrong.
Not wrong in a tactical sense—killing Tobirama here and now would be the most logical, advantageous choice. No, it feels wrong on a personal level, a dishonor that prickles at the edges of Izuna’s pride. Tobirama doesn’t deserve to die like this. Not collapsed and vulnerable, not without his sword in hand, not without the ferocity that has defined every clash between them.
He’s his rival, a voice whispers in his mind, bitter and reluctant. That’s all this is.
Rivalry. A bond forged through countless battles, through blood and steel and unspoken respect. To kill Tobirama like this would cheapen everything. It would strip their years of conflict of meaning, reduce it to a coward’s victory.
Izuna growls softly, shaking his head as if to banish the thought. Fine. He won’t kill him. But what does he do then? Leave him here? No. That would be reckless—Tobirama would recover and return to the Senju.
Take him hostage, his mind supplies, the idea settling like a weight in his chest.
It makes sense. Madara could use Tobirama as leverage, perhaps force Hashirama into a compromise. The absence of the Senju’s most dangerous tactician would certainly tilt the scales in their favor. But the thought of dragging Tobirama back to the Uchiha compound brings Izuna no satisfaction. It feels more like a chore than a triumph.
He sighs, lowering his katana but keeping it within reach. His gaze sweeps the surrounding forest, his Sharingan spinning as he scrutinizes every shadow, every flicker of movement. If this is a trap, it’s a masterful one. Yet, the silence around him is unbroken, the woods empty.
Satisfied, though far from relaxed, Izuna steps closer and crouches down beside Tobirama. His movements are deliberate, his senses still on high alert. Up close, Tobirama looks worse. His face is paler than usual, his lips tinged with a faint blue that Izuna doesn’t like. Yet his clothes are immaculate—no blood, no signs of injury.
“What the fuck happened to you?” Izuna mutters, his voice a low growl.
His mind races through possibilities. Poison? Unlikely—there are no visible signs, no discoloration, no convulsions. Illness? Perhaps, though it seems absurd for someone like Tobirama to be brought down by something as mundane as sickness. Chakra exhaustion? No, that’s not it either; Izuna can see Tobirama’s chakra with his Sharingan.
Irritation prickles under his skin as he leans closer, his hand hovering briefly before pressing against Tobirama’s forehead. Cool, not feverish. His frown deepens.
“Fuck you,” Izuna hisses under his breath, his frustration growing.
Carefully, he rolls Tobirama onto his back, his movements firm but cautious. The limp weight of the Senju is unsettling, a stark contrast to the man who usually fights like a storm incarnate. As Izuna shifts him, his fingertips briefly brush the exposed skin of Tobirama’s neck, right where the scent gland rests.
The reaction is immediate.
Tobirama shudders violently, a tremor that courses through his entire body, and a sound escapes his lips—a soft, broken whimper that freezes Izuna in place.
His breath catches, his eyes widening in disbelief. That sound—it wasn’t pain, wasn’t even the groan of someone on the edge of consciousness. It was vulnerable, raw in a way Izuna has never associated with Tobirama Senju.
For a moment, Izuna doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. The sound echoes in his mind, tugging at something sharp and familiar in his chest. His heart pounds.
It had been years ago, during a mission that ended in the rescue of a young omega stolen by bloodline thieves. She’d been curled up in the corner of a filthy, dark room, trembling so hard it seemed like her fragile frame might shatter. Her scent was smothered beneath the acrid stench of fear, distress, and despair. When Izuna had approached to lift her gently into his arms, she had made that sound—a soft, broken whimper. Fragile. Helpless.
The sound had struck him like a blade to the chest, an instinctive plea for help that resonated deep in his very soul.
Later, the clan healer had explained it to him, her voice soft with understanding. “It’s an omega’s plea for safety,” she had said. “A sound born from deep within, one you only hear when an omega has been mistreated severely. It’s their soul crying out when there’s nothing else left.”
And now, that same sound comes from Tobirama.
Izuna freezes, blood turning to ice in his veins. His Sharingan spins rapidly, as though it might uncover some clue, some reason why Tobirama Senju—the unyielding White Demon, his equal, his rival—would make that sound. His mind rebels against the possibility even as his ears echo with it. It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t be possible.
“...No,” he breathes, the word barely audible. His chest tightens painfully as the world narrows to just the man crumpled in his arms.
Tobirama is an omega.
The realization crashes into him like a landslide, leaving chaos in its wake. It can’t be true. Tobirama, the cold and calculating tactician, the warrior who has faced him countless times on the battlefield with unrelenting water, is…an omega? The dissonance is staggering, like the ground beneath his feet has shifted into unfamiliar terrain.
But then, that sound. That broken whimper echoes again in his mind, clawing at his composure. It’s undeniable.
Before his thoughts can spiral further, his body moves on instinct. He reaches out, hands steady despite the storm roiling inside him. Gently, carefully, he pulls Tobirama closer, cradling his rival’s weight against him as though the very act might shield him from whatever torment has brought him to this state.
Izuna leans in, his nose brushing against the curve of Tobirama’s neck, right where the scent gland is.
Nothing.
His frown deepens, frustration prickling at the edges of his focus. There’s no scent. None at all. It’s wrong. All omegas have a scent, even if it’s faint. He pulls back slightly, his Sharingan sharpening as he studies Tobirama’s pale skin. Then, just below the curve of his neck, he spots it—a faint, nearly invisible seal, so subtle that only the Sharingan could catch it.
“A scent suppression seal?” Izuna mutters, the words dripping with disbelief. His gaze hardens, his chest tightening with fury as the pieces start to fall into place.
His jaw clenches as he channels his chakra, focusing on the delicate threads of the suppression seal. It’s a complex design, woven tightly to mask every trace of scent, but Izuna is nothing if not precise. The first seal cracks under his chakra, and a faint wisp of Tobirama’s scent escapes—fragile, barely there, but tinged with raw, overwhelming distress.
Izuna bites back the growl rising in his throat. His pulse pounds in his ears, but he forces himself to remain calm. One by one, he searches for the other seals, methodically unraveling them. Another on the other side of Tobirama’s neck. One along each wrist. Two more at each ankle. Each seal breaks with a flicker of chakra, and with each one, more of Tobirama’s scent seeps into the air.
When the final seal shatters, Tobirama’s true scent hits Izuna like a tidal wave.
He staggers slightly, his breath catching as the full force of it overwhelms him. The scent is unmistakably omega, but it’s broken. It feels raw, jagged at the edges, frayed with distress so deep it makes Izuna’s gut twist painfully. He exhales shakily, his heart pounding against his ribs as anger and protectiveness surge in equal measure.
What did they do to him?
Omegas are precious. Omegas are to be cherished, guarded, their safety ensured above all else. The thought of someone suppressing Tobirama’s nature so thoroughly—of binding him with seals to the point where his body cries out in instinctive desperation—is almost more than Izuna can bear.
His hands curl into fists, the rage boiling inside him nearly impossible to contain. The Senju. It has to be them. His thoughts turn immediately to Hashirama, to the so-called peace-loving bastard who would dare allow this to happen to his own brother. Izuna inhales sharply, the urge to storm into Senju territory and raze their compound clawing at him.
But then his gaze falls back to Tobirama, limp and vulnerable in his arms, and the fire of his anger tempers into something colder, sharper. That won’t help. Not now.
Right now, taking care of him comes first.
Izuna moves quickly, his motions precise and fueled by a cold, simmering anger that he refuses to let erupt. He collects their fallen weapons, the blade in his hand trembling faintly with the emotions he struggles to suppress. Once the area is clear, he crouches back down beside Tobirama, his jaw clenched so tightly it aches.
Sliding his arms beneath Tobirama’s body, Izuna lifts him with care—though it’s more than he feels this situation deserves. He’s immediately struck by how light Tobirama is. For all his height and the muscular strength he’s displayed in countless battles, he doesn’t weigh nearly enough. The realization twists something dark and bitter in Izuna’s chest. He shouldn’t care—this is Tobirama, after all—but the notion of any omega wasting away, Senju or not, stirs his protective instincts.
He moves swiftly, his pace steady but urgent as he makes his way toward the small camp he set up earlier. It’s not far, and for once, Izuna is grateful that this mission was meant to be a solo operation. It gives him time—time to think, time to figure this out before Madara or anyone else sees him like this. Before questions are asked that he doesn’t yet have answers to.
As he walks, Tobirama stirs faintly, his body shifting ever so slightly in Izuna’s hold. Izuna tenses immediately, his Sharingan flickering to life as he glances down. Tobirama doesn’t resist, doesn’t even open his eyes. Instead, to Izuna’s utter shock, the omega shifts closer, curling ever so slightly against his chest. Then, as though the universe itself decided to upend all logic, a soft, quiet purr vibrates through Tobirama’s chest.
Izuna stops dead in his tracks.
“What the—?” The words fall from his lips unbidden, his voice hushed and disbelieving.
He stares down at Tobirama, searching for some sign that this is a trap, a trick, some elaborate ruse. But Tobirama’s face remains relaxed, his brows smooth, his lips parted just slightly as though he’s in the deepest of sleeps. And yet, he’s purring.
Izuna swallows hard, his mind racing to make sense of the impossible. Tobirama isn’t drugged—he’s checked. And even if he were, Tobirama should recognize him. There’s no mistaking Uchiha Izuna, his sworn enemy. Not after the countless battles they’ve fought. Izuna hasn’t even masked his scent, for Kami’s sake!
Tobirama should recoil, fight back, try to escape. But he doesn’t. Instead, he seeks comfort—comfort—in Izuna’s presence, purring softly as though…as though he feels safe.
Safe.
Izuna’s breath catches. His heart stumbles in his chest as the pieces finally begin to fall into place.
There is only one Non-Uchiha that has a reason to associate him with safety. His soulmate.
Izuna’s steps falter, the weight of the realization slamming into him all at once. His lips part in disbelief, his mind refusing to fully process it.
“...Fuck,” he mutters hoarsely, the word barely audible.
Sometimes—just sometimes—Izuna really is dense.