Y et Unspoken
Madara glances at his trusted medic, still fussing over Izuna. The sight of his brother lying so pale and still on the futon twists something deep inside him. But there’s no time to dwell on that now.
“Watch him for a moment,” Madara orders, his tone clipped. He stoops to gather the scattered papers the white demon had dropped. His initial intention is clear: scour the documents for anything useful to the Uchiha. Tobirama is no fool—anything he carries might reveal Senju strategies, weaknesses, or plans.
As he picks up the first sheet and scans it, his eyes narrow. His sharp mind quickly discerns its contents. Patrol plans.
Not just any patrol plans, though. The layout is meticulous, with detailed routes and rotations for both Uchiha and Senju forces. Current assignments are paired with projections for the coming week. Madara’s chest tightens as he notices a familiar script—Izuna’s precise handwriting marks the Uchiha plans. The other hand, neat and tidy, belongs to someone else, someone he doesn’t immediately recognize.
What strikes him more is the coordination. The plans are aligned in such a way that Senju and Uchiha patrols never cross paths.
His brows furrow deeply. Is this why the border scuffles have decreased in recent days? He recalls noting the uncharacteristic quiet at their borders, a stillness that had put him on edge. Now he understands—it wasn’t chance. Izuna, alongside his Senju counterpart, had orchestrated this.
Madara grits his teeth, staring at the paper as if it might offer more answers. A storm brews in his chest. He wants to trust Izuna—needs to trust him. His brother has managed border defenses for years without fail. Until now their lands remained secure, their clan unbreached. That loyalty and competence should mean something. But this?
Coordinating with the enemy?
Madara places the sheet aside, breathing heavily through his nose. “Think later,” he mutters to himself. He forces his mind to quiet as he picks up the next document, this one bearing the weight of official seals and fine parchment.
He reads the heading.
His heart stops.
The paper falls from his fingers, landing soundlessly on the tatami mat.
“What the—?” he hisses, voice sharp with shock. He kneels quickly, snatching the pages back up with trembling hands. His eyes dart over the document, and despite his best hopes, the words remain the same.
A marriage contract.
Between Uchiha Izuna and Senju Tobirama.
It’s not a draft, not a negotiation framework. This is a completed contract, 3 identical copies of it, all signed and sealed with Hashirama’s chakra, ready for validation. The only missing signature is Madara’s own.
His breath hitches as he reads further. The terms are staggeringly favorable to the Uchiha. Not only would they gain Tobirama himself—Senju’s second-strongest warrior—but also his research, jutsu, and belongings. A generous dowry is offered, along with an agreement of ceasefire and non-interference. The terms apply mutually, but Madara sees the imbalance immediately.
The Senju give everything, while the Uchiha gain everything.
The final clause catches his attention: a provision for Tobirama’s child.
Madara pauses, rereading the lines to make sure he understands. The contract stipulates that the Uchiha must accept and care for the child as if he were Izuna’s by blood. The only exception is that the boy cannot inherit clan leadership, a reasonable stipulation given his lack of Uchiha lineage.
Madara stares at the clause, torn between incredulity and reluctant respect. This is Tobirama’s demand, his non-negotiable term. He’s bartered everything else—his freedom, his skills, his life—but the child is non-negotiable.
His fingers tighten on the paper. “A child,” he murmurs, his voice barely audible.
He doesn’t have time to process that revelation before curiosity drives him to the final pages. The sight of Izuna’s handwriting stops him cold.
A rough draft of the contract, penned by his brother.
Some parts are crossed out, others rewritten in neater script. In the corners, doodles adorn the margins—exaggerated, humiliating caricatures of Hashirama in various states of failure and demise.
Madara snorts despite himself, the sound bitter. Izuna really despises Hashirama.
But the humor fades quickly. His gaze returns to the draft, his mind racing. Izuna’s involvement is undeniable. These aren’t the scribblings of a detached negotiator; they’re personal. This wasn’t just Tobirama’s doing—it was theirs.
Madara’s hands tremble as he sets the papers down. His thoughts are a maelstrom of anger, confusion, and betrayal. He feels the weight of the truth crashing down on him. Izuna knew about this. He wasn’t coerced; he participated.
Madara clenches his fists, his breath coming fast and sharp. His chakra swirls, barely restrained, filling the room with oppressive heat.
Madara glances back at Izuna’s still form, his face softening momentarily despite the storm raging within him. His brother looks so vulnerable, so fragile, in a way that Izuna rarely allows anyone to see. The sight twists Madara’s insides with an ache he cannot name.
What have you done, little brother?
Madara’s gaze drops to the papers in his hands. The marriage contract feels heavier than mere parchment should, its implications weighing down on his chest. Why would Izuna negotiate something so absurd—a marriage to the white demon, the enemy who nearly killed him? It defies logic. Izuna has a soulmate, one who clearly needs him, as evidenced by the dreams they share.
But then, Madara pauses. His eyes catch on a detail he had skimmed over in his initial shock: Tobirama’s secondary gender.
Omega.
The realization slams into him, sharp and unforgiving. Male omegas are incredibly rare—one in a thousand, if that. How many male omegas could exist who are shinobi, from rival clans, and somehow tied to Izuna?
Two?
Impossible.
The odds aren’t just low; they’re almost nonexistent. Everything points to the same conclusion, no matter how much Madara wants to deny it: Senju Tobirama is Izuna’s soulmate.
The thought is as unsettling as it is revelatory. It explains the contract, explains Tobirama’s audacious decision to infiltrate the Uchiha compound and risk everything to save Izuna. Yet, it upends everything Madara thought he knew about the infamous Senju strategist.
He pockets the papers, their contents far too volatile to leave lying around, and storms out of the room. His mind races with questions and doubts, but one thing is certain—he needs answers.
“Taka, Kaeru,” he barks when he reaches the front door of the dungeon.
The two guards stiffen to attention, their confusion palpable.
“Get Hana,” Madara orders curtly.
The beta woman had married into their clan from the Yamanaka two decades ago because she found her soulmate in Uchiha Shun, a cousin to the main line. Back then their clans had negotiated the terms so the soulmates could be together. Terms that still hold.
Kaeru hesitates for a heartbeat before bowing and rushing off. Madara doesn’t wait. He takes the keys from the hook near the door, his movements sharp with frustration.
The dungeons are dim and cold, their silence broken only by the faint drip of water somewhere in the distance. Madara activates his Sharingan, the crimson glow illuminating the dark stone walls. He scans each cell, irritation bubbling beneath his skin. Without chakra sensing, finding Tobirama is unnecessarily tedious.
When he finally locates the cell, his anger flares. Tobirama lies slumped against the wall, unconscious, his white hair stark against the shadows. The state of the cell only fuels Madara’s fury—no blanket, no water, and bruises that weren’t there earlier.
Madara clenches his fists, suppressing the urge to lash out. He gave explicit orders. Whoever disregarded them will face consequences.
He unlocks the cell and steps inside, his shoes echoing against the stone. He crouches beside Tobirama and presses two fingers to the man’s neck. The pulse is faint but steady. He isn’t dying—not yet.
Madara’s eyes narrow as they fall on the seals lining Tobirama’s skin. They’re designed to suppress his scent, a measure no alpha or beta would need unless on a stealth mission. He isn’t well-versed in seals, but he knows enough. Channeling fire chakra to his fingertips, he presses them to the center of one seal. It burns away with a faint sizzle, the heat erasing it entirely.
A small whimper escapes Tobirama, a sound so soft and vulnerable that it momentarily stops Madara in his tracks. His hand hovers above the next seal.
He shakes off the hesitation and destroys the others.
The scent hits him immediately—a bittersweet aroma of distress, sharp and cloying. It twists in his chest like a knife.
Madara’s jaw tightens, his hands curling into fists. His mind flashes to Hashirama. This—this suffering—is the work of that fool. No omega should carry this level of anguish.
Madara inhales deeply, his control fraying at the edges.
When I’m done with you, Hashirama, you’ll regret ever being born.
For now, though, he has an omega to protect. An omega, that – more likely than not – is his little brother’s soulmate.