Yearning for your love

Tobirama stares at the katana in his trembling hands, the blade slick with blood that glimmers darkly in the fading sunlight. His breath comes in shallow gasps, as though his lungs refuse to expand fully. His grip tightens unconsciously, knuckles whitening against the hilt.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Izuna had been supposed to dodge, to move, to something. Tobirama had drilled him relentlessly, ensuring he could anticipate every strike, every maneuver. And yet, Izuna hadn’t evaded the blow.

The image of Izuna crumpling to the ground flashes before his eyes, replaying in vivid, nauseating detail—the widening stain of crimson on the fabric of his tunica, the sharp intake of breath, the slackening of his muscles.

Tobirama feels his legs weaken, but Hashirama’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts like a blade.

“What have you done?!” his brother roars, his chakra flaring with outrage and despair. The weight of it slams against Tobirama like a physical force, but he doesn’t flinch. He’s too numb.

Hashirama’s expression is a storm of emotions—anger, disbelief, disappointment. “Madara’s little brother, Tobirama! How could you? Do you understand what you’ve done? How is Madara supposed to agree to peace now? You’ve destroyed everything I’ve worked for—everything we’ve been fighting for!”

The words strike like arrows, but Tobirama barely reacts. His throat is dry, his tongue heavy. He wants to explain, to tell Hashirama that it wasn’t supposed to be like this. That Izuna had promised to wear armor, that the hit should have been faked.

But no words come.

Hashirama’s voice cracks, his chakra rippling with anguish and frustration. “Leave, Tobirama. I don’t want to see you right now.”

The finality in those words cuts deeper than any blade ever could. Tobirama doesn’t argue. He doesn’t plead. He simply nods once, stiffly, and turns on his heel.

He walks away, the weight of Hashirama’s judgment pressing down on him like a mountain. He keeps his head high, his face a mask of calm, but his mind churns with turmoil.

When he reaches his room, the pretense shatters.

He sheds his armor with mechanical precision, piece by piece, until he’s left in his underlayers. The katana clatters to the floor, forgotten. The memory of Izuna’s injury refuses to leave him, vivid and unrelenting. The blood. The labored breathing. The look in his eyes.

He sits on the edge of his bed, staring at nothing, until a cold resolve takes root.

He can’t let Izuna die.

With deliberate movements, Tobirama gathers his medical supplies, the marriage contract, and the notes he and Izuna had painstakingly compiled. As he packs, he pauses briefly, closing his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Haruto, but I can’t take you with me right now,” he whispers, his voice barely audible.

He slips out of the Senju compound under the cover of darkness, his steps silent, his chakra masked. He moves with the precision of a shadow, navigating the familiar paths toward the Uchiha compound.

When he reaches Izuna’s room, the sight that greets him freezes his breath. Izuna lies sprawled on the futon, his tunic still stained with blood, his chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths.

Tobirama doesn’t waste a second. He unpacks his supplies in one fluid motion and sets to work, his hands steady despite the storm raging inside him.

The wound is deep, the damage worse than he feared. Blood pools beneath Izuna, and the faint sheen of sweat on his pale skin speaks to the battle raging within his body.

“Please hold on,” Tobirama mutters under his breath, his voice thick with desperation. He channels what little chakra he has left into stabilizing the injury, carefully cleaning and stitching the torn flesh. The process is grueling, each step dragging his reserves lower and lower until he’s trembling from exhaustion.

When the bleeding finally stops, Tobirama slumps back on his heels, his breath ragged. He’s too drained to heal the wound entirely, but he’s done enough to keep Izuna alive.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead briefly to the floor. Relief washes over him, mingled with guilt so sharp it feels like a blade against his ribs.

A sound behind him jerks him upright.

The door creaks open, and Tobirama doesn’t have time to react before Madara and another Uchiha, this one dressed in a medic’s uniform, burst into the room. Madara’s chakra flares violently, filling the space with raw, unbridled fury.

Tobirama doesn’t move. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t defend himself. He’s too tired, too hollow.

He only looks at Izuna, ensuring he’s still breathing, still alive.

Madara’s hand clamps down on Tobirama’s shoulder, the grip bruising and unrelenting. Before Tobirama can process the movement, he’s yanked backward, dragged away from Izuna’s side. The sudden force nearly sends him to the floor, but he catches himself, barely.

“Get away from my brother,” Madara growls, his voice low and edged with lethal intent. His chakra flares violently, an oppressive wave of anger and fear that presses against Tobirama’s frayed senses.

The medic immediately rushes to Izuna’s side. His chakra flickers with concern as he kneels, hands hovering just above the bloodied tunic. For a moment, there’s only the sound of labored breathing—Izuna’s shallow gasps blending with the strained silence of the room.

The medic freezes, his gaze fixed on the stitched wound. His shock is palpable, an abrupt spike in his chakra. “How?” he murmurs, disbelief dripping from the word.

Madara’s fingers tighten on Tobirama’s shoulder as he stiffens. “Is something wrong?” His voice cracks, betraying the fear beneath the rage. “If the white demon hurt him any further—”

The medic shakes his head sharply, cutting him off. “No, it’s… It’s the opposite. He treated Izuna-sama.”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

Madara blinks, his grip faltering for a moment before tightening again. “What?” he asks, his voice low, disbelieving.

The medic gestures toward the wound, his voice quickening as he explains. “The injury—it’s been stitched cleanly, and the wound itself is smaller than it should be. The infection is gone, and his fever has broken. He… he should have been at death’s door, but…” He looks up, his gaze darting between Izuna and Tobirama. “Izuna-sama is stable. He’s healing.”

Madara gasps softly, his chakra pulsing with confusion and an undercurrent of reluctant gratitude. Tobirama feels the shift as clearly as he feels the exhaustion weighing on him like a boulder.

He sways, the edges of his vision blurring. His body screams for rest, for release from the strain of chakra depletion and the mental toll of the day. He wants nothing more than to collapse beside Izuna, to feel the reassurance of his soulmate’s steady breaths against his shoulder.

But Madara’s hand remains iron on his shoulder, keeping him upright.

The sound of hurried footsteps cuts through the air as guards rush into the room. They take up defensive positions, their weapons gleaming in the dim light, their chakra bristling with tension.

One of them steps forward, his voice steady but questioning. “Madara-sama, what are your orders regarding the white demon?”

Tobirama keeps his gaze down, his breathing shallow. He doesn’t fight, doesn’t argue. There’s no strength left in him for that.

Madara hesitates. His chakra fluctuates, a storm of conflicting emotions—anger, wariness, confusion, and something softer, buried deep. He looks at Izuna’s still form, the rise and fall of his chest, and then back at Tobirama.

“It doesn’t feel right,” Madara says slowly, his voice measured. “To kill him. Not after this.”

The medic stands, wiping his hands on a cloth. “But Madara-sama,” he interjects, “he’s also the one who injured Izuna-sama in the first place.”

Madara sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. His chakra shifts again, a swirl of resignation and calculation. “A life for a life,” he mutters. “We might not be as honorable as samurai, but even I know when a debt is owed.”

His gaze sharpens as he looks at the guards. “Throw him into the dungeon. Treat him as a political hostage—no more, no less. I want him alive. No funny business.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing. “If Hashirama wants his precious little brother back, we’ll see how much grain and supplies he’s willing to trade.”

The guards exchange glances but nod in unison.

As they approach, Tobirama doesn’t resist. His legs nearly buckle as they pull him to his feet, his chakra reserves utterly depleted. He spares one last glance at Izuna, his vision swimming, before the guards haul him from the room. He doesn't notice the bundle of papers slipping out of his pouch.

The last thing he hears is Madara’s voice, softer now, almost uncertain. “Why would he…?”

Tobirama closes his eyes, letting the darkness take him.