F lickering Hope
The weight of it all finally breaks Tobirama. Sitting alone in his room, he buries his face in his hands, shoulders trembling as quiet sobs wrack his frame. The tears come unbidden, hot streaks of frustration, grief, and helplessness spilling down his cheeks. He feels raw, stripped bare by the betrayal of the clan he has spent his entire life protecting. There is no one to turn to—no one who would understand, no one who would help.
He had tried. He went to Hashirama, his last hope, but the elders had already poisoned his brother’s thoughts. They had fed Hashirama a convenient lie, blaming Tobirama’s “reckless experiments” for endangering Haruto. And, just as they had known he would, Hashirama believed them without question. Without even asking for Tobirama’s side of the story.
The memory of Hashirama’s disappointment, the sharp edge of his rebuke, is fresh in Tobirama’s mind. His brother’s chakra had been a storm of exasperation and judgment, layered with the sickly-sweet veneer of misplaced righteousness. That trust, so freely given to the elders, is never extended to him. Not anymore.
He briefly entertains the thought of breaking into the elder’s home, of taking Haruto back by force. The thought dies as quickly as it comes. Hashirama would stop him, and Tobirama knows he cannot defeat his brother—not in strength, not in the hearts of the clan.
The realization twists like a blade in his gut. There is no path forward that doesn’t feel like walking a tightrope over an abyss. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to stem the tide of his tears, but it’s futile. The ache in his chest spills out, uncontained.
Eventually, exhaustion overtakes him. His sobs quiet, leaving behind a hollow, aching silence. He drifts into an uneasy sleep, his body heavy and his heart heavier.
When he opens his eyes, he is not in his room but on the familiar beach, waves lapping at the shore in a steady rhythm. The golden light of the dream-world sun reflects off the water, painting the sky in hues of warmth that feel almost mocking.
He turns, and there Izuna stands, waiting for him. The sight of his soulmate—a steady, unwavering presence—pulls the raw emotion back to the surface. Without hesitation, Tobirama crosses the distance between them, his steps unsteady, his chakra pulsing with desperation.
“Izuna,” he says, his voice cracking.
Izuna doesn’t hesitate. He closes the gap, his arms wrapping around Tobirama in a firm, grounding embrace. Tobirama lets himself collapse into it, burying his face in Izuna’s shoulder. For a long moment, neither of them speaks.
Finally, Tobirama pulls back enough to meet Izuna’s eyes, the words spilling out in a flood. He tells him everything—the elders’ ultimatum, their lies to Hashirama, the crushing weight of betrayal, and the helplessness that gnaws at him. His voice is raw, his chakra trembling with the emotions he has spent days suppressing.
Izuna listens in silence, his expression hardening with every word. When Tobirama finishes, the Uchiha steps back, his arms crossed, his chakra spiking with sharp, fiery anger.
“They’re monsters,” Izuna says, his voice low and venomous. “Your brother. Those elders. All of them. What kind of family does this? Hashirama is an idiot, and those old fools are worse. I swear, Tobirama, I will make them regret this.”
Tobirama flinches at the harsh words but doesn’t refute them. He doesn’t have the energy to defend his brother, not when Hashirama has given him no reason to.
“I managed to slip the contract into his paperwork,” Tobirama says quietly. “He signed it without reading, just as I expected. Once I get Haruto back, I’ll pack our things and come to you.”
Izuna’s anger softens, replaced by a determined glint in his eyes. “You’re not doing this alone,” he says firmly. “We’ll get Haruto back, Tobirama. I promise.”
Tobirama looks at him, hope flickering faintly in the depths of his crimson gaze. “How?”
Izuna grins, a sharp, confident expression that sends a wave of reassurance through Tobirama’s chaotic emotions. “You’ll use that space-time jutsu of yours,” he says. “The next time we’re in a skirmish, you ‘attack’ me with it. Hard enough to make it look real, but not enough to actually hurt me.”
Tobirama’s stomach churns at the suggestion. He shakes his head immediately. “No. I could kill you. Or seriously injure you. It’s too risky.”
Izuna steps closer, his hands gripping Tobirama’s shoulders. “Then you’ll train me,” he says, his voice steady and unwavering. “Teach me how to block or dodge. We’ll train until I can avoid it perfectly while still making it look convincing. Trust me, Tobirama. I can handle this.”
Tobirama hesitates, his instincts warring with his desperation. The idea terrifies him, but Izuna’s conviction is undeniable.
Finally, he exhales, nodding reluctantly. “Fine. We’ll train. But if it doesn’t work—”
“It will work,” Izuna interrupts, his confidence unshaken. “We’ll make it work. And we’ll get Haruto back.”
For the first time in days, a fragile thread of hope takes root in Tobirama’s heart.
***
The horizon is painted in soft hues of pink and gold when Tobirama arrives at the clearing by the river. Izuna is already there, his arms crossed as he leans against a tree, waiting with his usual mix of impatience and quiet confidence. His chakra hums with determination, bright and sharp like a blade freshly honed.
Tobirama doesn’t waste time. “We’ll start with the basics,” he says, pulling out a kunai etched with intricate seals. The hiraishin mark gleams faintly in the dim light, its complex structure a testament to his countless hours of refinement. He holds it out for Izuna to see. “This is what you’ll need to look for. I can transport myself to any object marked with this seal instantly, no matter the distance. Watch carefully.”
Izuna takes the kunai, turning it over in his hands as he studies the markings. His brow furrows in concentration, but his lips twitch upward. “Leave it to you to invent a teleportation jutsu,” he mutters, though there’s a thread of admiration in his voice.
“It’s not teleportation,” Tobirama corrects, though his tone lacks its usual sharpness. “The technique bends space to create a bridge between two points. The movement isn’t instantaneous—it’s near-instant. There’s a difference.”
Izuna rolls his eyes, tossing the kunai back to him. “Fine. Space-bending, not teleportation. Show me how to avoid it.”
Tobirama doesn’t respond, instead unsealing two wooden training swords. He tosses one to Izuna and grips the other firmly, sliding into a ready stance. “I’ll throw the marked kunai. When I appear, defend yourself or evade. I won’t hold back.”
Izuna’s chakra flares with anticipation, his grin sharp. “Good. I wouldn’t want you to.”
They train relentlessly, the quiet dawn punctuated by the thud of wooden swords and the whistle of kunai cutting through the air. Tobirama throws the marked blades in unpredictable patterns, each one a test of Izuna’s reflexes. As soon as the kunai is in the correct position, Tobirama is there, his blade striking toward Izuna’s midsection.
At first, Izuna’s movements are too slow, his reactions just shy of adequate. The blunt edge of Tobirama’s wooden sword connects with his unprotected stomach again and again, drawing pained grunts and curses from the Uchiha.
“Keep your focus,” Tobirama instructs, his voice even despite the sweat trickling down his temple. “Anticipate where I’ll appear. Watch the trajectory of the kunai.”
Izuna scowls, his chakra spiking with frustration. “Easier said than done when you’re trying to gut me.”
“If you can’t handle this,” Tobirama replies coolly, “you’ll never make it convincing.”
Izuna’s eyes narrow, and his chakra flares with renewed determination. He adjusts his stance, his movements growing sharper with every round. Slowly, painstakingly, he begins to improve.
By the end of the first day, Izuna collapses onto the grass, his chest heaving. “This is hell,” he mutters, wiping sweat from his brow.
Tobirama stands over him, his expression unreadable. “It’ll be worse tomorrow. Rest while you can.”
Izuna groans but doesn’t argue.
The next two days pass in a grueling blur of training. Tobirama throws the marked kunai in increasingly complex patterns, forcing Izuna to react faster and smarter. Izuna’s movements become more fluid, his ability to anticipate Tobirama’s attacks sharper. By the third day, when the sun hangs high in the sky, they finally achieve what they set out to do.
Tobirama hurls the kunai, watching as it spins through the air. The moment it is in the correct position, he activates the hiraishin, appearing in a flash. His wooden blade sweeps toward Izuna’s stomach, but this time, Izuna shifts just enough. A real blade would have cuts through the fabric of his tunic, leaving a shallow tear but missing his body entirely.
Tobirama steps back, lowering his sword. “Perfect.”
Izuna grins, triumphant despite the sweat streaking his face. “Told you I could do it.”
“Don’t get overconfident,” Tobirama warns, though his tone is softer than usual. “We’ll use protective armor under your tunic to ensure your safety. There’s still a margin for error.”
Izuna nods, the fire in his chakra tempered by a steady resolve. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make it work.”
When Tobirama returns to the Senju compound that afternoon, his body aches with exhaustion, but his mind is sharp. Hashirama is waiting for him near the gate, his arms crossed and his expression uncharacteristically serious.
“You’ve been gone a lot lately,” Hashirama says, his voice carefully neutral. “What have you been doing?”
“Practicing a new jutsu,” Tobirama replies evenly, meeting his brother’s gaze.
Hashirama frowns, his chakra rippling with a mix of concern and doubt. “You’ve been pushing yourself hard. Don’t let it interfere with the clan’s priorities.”
Tobirama nods, offering no further explanation. He doesn’t miss the flicker of suspicion in Hashirama’s chakra, but he doesn’t address it.
The elders, however, seem pleased when Tobirama passes them in the courtyard. Their chakra hums with quiet satisfaction, though their smiles never reach their eyes.
Tobirama doesn’t linger. He retreats to his quarters, his thoughts already spinning toward the next steps. There is no time to rest—not when so much is at stake.