Chapter 1
For the longest time, Tobirama had believed there was no one stronger than his elder brother. Hashirama had been the center of his world, the benchmark for what it meant to wield true power.
But then Madara appeared, his presence like a thunderstorm that tore through the carefully ordered framework of Tobirama’s mind.
The first time Tobirama had seen him on the battlefield, he had been struck by the sheer intensity of the Uchiha clan leader. Madara’s very existence had shaken Tobirama’s worldview, forcing him to reconsider everything he thought he knew about strength, about the limits of power, about himself.
It was mesmerizing, in the way fire draws in the moth, and Tobirama found himself captivated despite the peril.
Madara matched Hashirama in strength, but there was something different about him.
Where Hashirama’s power radiated stability and protection, Madara’s burned with danger, with raw, untamed chaos.
Tobirama could watch the way Madara moved on the battlefield, each strike calculated and brutal, his eyes burning with a passion that Tobirama couldn’t look away from. He would catch glimpses of Madara in the aftermath, the way his hair clung to his face, the way his chest rose and fell as he caught his breath.
Tobirama had always admired Madara.
But it wasn’t pure admiration.
It was something tangled and raw.
It settled in his chest, heavy and inescapable, a storm that refused to dissipate.
Tobirama never spoke of it, not even to himself. Words felt dangerous, like they might unravel him entirely. Instead, he stole fleeting glances, brief and careful, from the shadows where he felt safe.
Madara was chaos incarnate, and Tobirama, against all logic, wanted to get closer to the fire.
By the time Tobirama realized what was happening, it was already too late.
His gaze, his thoughts, his very being—all of it had been drawn to Madara, as if tethered by an invisible string. Tobirama couldn’t help but observe the Uchiha clan leader, always from a distance, always careful not to let his gaze linger too long.
And yet, Madara had never looked at him.
When their eyes did meet, there was only indifference, cold and sharp as a blade. No hatred, no disdain—just the hollow acknowledgment of someone unworthy of attention.
To Madara, Tobirama was nothing more than a shadow, a pale echo of Hashirama’s light.
It shouldn’t have mattered. Tobirama told himself it didn’t. He was not a man who sought approval or affection. He moved through life with an austere detachment, unbothered by the expectations or opinions of others.
He didn’t need anyone. Or so he thought.
But this unspoken longing was different. It clung to him, inescapable and insistent. It burned quietly, like a faint flame in the dead of winter—fragile, but warm enough to keep him alive.
Even if it remained unrequited, even if Madara never knew, it reminded him that his heart still beat. The ache of it was unbearable, and yet, he clung to it.
It was both his torment and his salvation.
Tobirama had tried to kill it, of course. He buried himself in work, in duty, in the endless grind of building and protecting the village. But no amount of effort could extinguish it. The more he tried to push it away, the deeper it rooted itself inside him.
And still, he watched Madara. From a distance, always. He watched the way Madara moved, the way he fought, the way he seemed to carry the weight of the world with a grace Tobirama could never hope to emulate.
There were moments—fleeting, painful moments—when Tobirama allowed himself to imagine.
What it might feel like to stand beside Madara, not as an enemy, not as a shadow, but as something more.
To be seen, truly seen, by the man who consumed his every thought.
But these were just fantasies, fragile and cruel. Tobirama knew better than to hope.
And so, he continued. His life became a quiet cycle of duty and longing, of building a future he would never fully belong to.
The ache in his chest never faded, but Tobirama learned to carry it, to wear it like a second skin.
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Recently, Tobirama had developed a new jutsu, one born of necessity and loneliness.
A shadow of himself, a perfect replication that could assist him in his experiments.
He called it the Shadow Clone Technique.
The first time he summoned the clone, he felt a strange hollowness, as though he had split himself in two and both halves were emptier for it. The clone was him, and yet it wasn’t. It moved like him, thought like him, carried the same weight of silence. It felt like staring into a mirror that could see too much.
Still, the clone became a companion of sorts.
When Tobirama sat hunched over his desk, eyes burning from hours of study, the clone lingered nearby, quiet and watchful. It was the only presence in his life that didn’t demand anything of him.
When the nights grew too heavy, when Tobirama found himself crumbling under the weight of everything he refused to feel, the clone was there. A reflection of his own suffering, a silent acknowledgment of the cracks in his armor.
Tobirama hated that he needed it.
Hated that the only comfort he could find was in holding himself, in being held by himself. But he endured it, as he endured everything else.
His brother’s scorn, the villagers’ whispered words, the constant comparisons to Hashirama—all of it was irrelevant. As long as the village stood, as long as the work was done, Tobirama could bear it.
They called him stone-hearted, a man carved from granite, cold and unyielding. Tobirama didn’t argue. He didn’t care what they thought of him, as long as he could return to his sanctuary. His laboratory, where the cracks could show, where the stone could crumble without anyone watching.
When Tobirama allowed himself to break, it was always in the stillness of the night, when the shadows stretched long and the weight of the day pressed too heavily against him. The laboratory walls, cold and silent, seemed to echo his pain back at him, amplifying the ache he refused to acknowledge in the daylight.
Summoning the clone in these moments felt like tearing himself apart.
The jutsu left him trembling, raw and drained, as though the very act of splitting himself was a physical manifestation of the fractures he hid so well.
The clone stood before him, quiet and unassuming, mirroring his stoic expression.
When Tobirama reached for the clone, it wasn’t with the careful, deliberate movements he was known for. It was frantic, almost violent, his hands gripping its shoulders as though afraid it might vanish if he didn’t hold on tightly enough. The tension in his body gave way all at once, his knees buckling as he collapsed against it.
And then he cried.
Not the quiet, restrained tears he had learned to shed as a child, when even grief had to be silent. These were the sobs of a man who had held too much for too long, a storm that tore through him, relentless and consuming. His hands clutched at the clone’s robes, twisting the fabric as if it could somehow anchor him. His face buried itself in its shoulder, muffling the sounds that escaped him.
The clone wrapped its arms around him without hesitation, its movements slow and deliberate, as if it understood how fragile Tobirama was in this moment. It held him firmly, its grip neither too tight nor too loose.
The clone didn’t speak, didn’t offer words of comfort or platitudes. It simply held him, one hand resting gently on his back, the other cradling the back of his head. The silence between them was heavy but not oppressive, a quiet acknowledgment of pain that words could never hope to touch.
Tobirama clung to it as though it were the only solid thing in a world that constantly demanded more of him than he could give. The warmth of its body, identical to his own, was a bitter mockery of comfort, but it was all he had.
This was enough, he told himself. Enough to hold his own reflection and pretend it was companionship. Enough to live with the ache of a heart that longed for something it would never have.
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The first time Tobirama summoned a figure resembling Uchiha Madara, it happened entirely by accident.
Curiosity had led Tobirama there, as it so often did. The transformation jutsu was already a staple among shinobi, but Tobirama had wondered what would happen if it were combined with his own Shadow Clone Technique.
A theoretical experiment, Tobirama told himself. Nothing more.
But when the jutsu activated, and the swirling chakra settled into form, Tobirama froze.
The figure that emerged was Uchiha Madara.
Not just a vague imitation, but a near-perfect replica.
The sharp lines of his face, the commanding posture, the heavy aura that seemed to fill the room—it was all there. The image of him was so vivid, so precise, it felt as though Madara himself had stepped into Tobirama’s laboratory.
For a moment, Tobirama could only stare, dumbfounded. This was the first time he had ever seen Madara so close, unmarred by the chaos of battle or the distance of silent observation.
Even knowing this was only a clone, a creation of his own making, Tobirama felt heat rise to his face.
When the clone’s crimson eyes met his, piercing and familiar, Tobirama’s breath hitched. He averted his gaze instinctively, shame blooming in his chest. It was ridiculous to feel this way over a projection, an echo conjured by his own hands. And yet, the weight of those eyes—it was overwhelming.
He sat down, lowering himself into his chair as if grounding his body might still the erratic rhythm of his heart. But even seated, his gaze was drawn back to the clone.
“Uchiha Madara,” Tobirama murmured, his voice quieter than he intended, “come closer.”
The clone moved without hesitation. Its presence filled the space between them, and Tobirama couldn’t look away. He tilted his head upward, the distance between them shrinking until they were only a breath apart. The clone’s intensity remained, but it stood motionless, waiting for instruction.
Tobirama swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. “Uchiha Madara,” he said softly, almost reverently. “Can I touch you?”
The clone didn’t answer. It sank to its knees, settling between Tobirama’s legs, its gaze unwavering as it looked up at him.
Tobirama’s chest tightened at the sight, his pulse a chaotic drumbeat in his ears. His skin also felt feverish, an unfamiliar heat pooling beneath the surface and spreading outward in waves. His breath came shallow, uneven, as though he couldn’t quite draw enough air into his lungs. His hands trembled slightly, a traitorous quiver that betrayed the storm raging beneath his composed exterior.
Tobirama’s gaze lingered on the clone’s face, so vivid, so alive, and he couldn’t help but feel his control slipping. The sharp planes of Madara’s cheekbones, the stern line of his mouth, the piercing crimson eyes—all of it was overwhelming. Tobirama’s heart thudded in his chest, a desperate rhythm that echoed in his ears. He swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight.
When Tobirama finally reached out, his movements were slow, hesitant, as if afraid the clone might shatter under his touch. His fingertips hovered just above its skin, and for a moment, he almost withdrew, the heat in his face nearly unbearable. But then his fingers grazed the clone’s cheek, and the contact sent a jolt through Tobirama.
The warmth was startling, a soft, radiant heat that felt impossibly real. Tobirama’s hand stilled, pressing lightly against the clone’s face, his palm curving to fit its contours. His thumb brushed over the high ridge of a cheekbone, tentative and reverent, as though he were touching something sacred. The skin beneath his fingers was smooth, unblemished, the kind of perfection that only an illusion could possess.
But in this moment, it didn’t feel like an illusion.
Tobirama’s touch grew bolder, his fingers trailing along the line of the clone’s jaw, tracing the sharp angle with a deliberate slowness. His thumb moved to the corner of its mouth, hesitating there before ghosting over its lower lip. The sensation was electric, sending a shiver down his spine, and he exhaled shakily, the sound barely audible in the stillness of the room.
His own face burned hotter, the flush spreading to his ears, his chest tightening as he struggled to keep his composure. He couldn’t stop himself from leaning closer, drawn in by the warmth, by the illusion of Madara’s presence. The heat radiating from the clone felt intoxicating, a stark contrast to the cold detachment Tobirama usually surrounded himself with.
“Madara,” Tobirama murmured again, his voice barely audible. The clone’s skin radiated heat, as though it carried the same fire that burned in the real Madara. Tobirama’s thumb ghosted over its cheekbone, his fingers trailing along the sharp edge of its jaw.
Tobirama wondered if this warmth was his own projection, the way his mind had envisioned Madara. If this was what his heart had created in secret, drawn from years of stolen glances and suppressed desires. His thumb lingered on the clone’s cheek, tracing slow, delicate circles, as though trying to memorize the sensation.
The clone’s gaze never wavered, its crimson eyes locked onto his, unblinking and expectant. Tobirama felt his heart lurch, a pang of longing so fierce it nearly made him falter. His breaths were shallow, each exhale brushing faintly against the clone’s skin as he studied every detail of the face before him.
The heat in his own body was suffocating now, his flushed cheeks and trembling hands betraying everything he tried so hard to suppress. Tobirama’s fingertips traveled upward, brushing against the edge of the clone’s hairline, then back down to cup its jaw.
Before he realized what he was doing, Tobirama leaned forward.
His lips brushed the clone’s in a touch so light it barely qualified as a kiss.
It was fleeting, hesitant.
And yet it sent a tremor through Tobirama.
The moment broke as quickly as it began. Tobirama pulled back abruptly, his eyes wide, his breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a sigh. He stared at the clone, his own shock mirrored in its unchanging expression.
Embarrassment flooded him, hot and suffocating. Tobirama raised his hand and released the jutsu without a second thought. The clone dissolved into a haze of dissipating chakra, leaving only empty air and silence in its place.
And Tobirama, alone once more, sat frozen in his chair, his hand still hovering where the clone’s face had been.
The flush creeping up Tobirama’s neck was impossible to ignore.
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Tobirama hadn’t expected the clone to haunt him as much as it did.
At first, it had been an experiment, an idle fusion of techniques born out of his insatiable curiosity. But the moment the clone appeared before him, looking exactly like Madara—strong, unyielding, devastatingly vivid—it was as though something deep inside Tobirama cracked open. He hadn’t realized how close he had been to shattering until he saw the face he’d only dared to admire from a distance, now standing before him. That first time, he had been paralyzed, dumbfounded by the sheer presence of it.
Even though Tobirama knew it wasn’t real, his body reacted as if it were.
His heart pounded in his chest, his breath hitched, and an unbearable heat surged through him. He’d had to look away, his face burning, because even meeting the clone’s eyes felt too intimate, too raw.
But the memory of that moment stayed with him. The warmth of the clone, the way it moved, the way it looked at him—everything about it was painfully vivid.
Tobirama understood now, with a clarity that burned and embarrassed him: every time he dispelled the clone, the memories of its existence returned to him. Every fleeting moment, every stolen glance, every touch, filtered back into his mind as if he himself had lived them.
He remembered it as though he had been the clone, as though he had stood in its place and gazed back at himself.
The weight of it—of his actions, of his desires—made him cover his face with trembling hands.
It was shameful, unforgivable.
Tobirama should have stopped. It was dangerous, reckless, forbidden.
And yet, no matter how much Tobirama scolded himself, he couldn’t stop. He summoned the clone again, and again, and again.
In the confines of his lab, the clone became his constant companion. It helped him with his experiments, its movements seamless and efficient.
But more than that, it filled the silence that had always suffocated him.
Before, his own clones had been enough to assist him. Now, the presence of Madara’s image felt indispensable.
In the stillness of the lab, with no one else to intrude, it felt like a secret world made just for the two of them.
When Tobirama collapsed from exhaustion, it would catch him, steadying him with hands that were firm yet gentle. And when sleep finally claimed him, it was the clone that held him, its arms wrapped around him like a shield against the cold. The warmth of its body was an anchor in the tempest of his thoughts.
Tobirama couldn’t deny the comfort it brought him. For once, he didn’t feel entirely alone.
But the comfort was tinged with shame, a deep and gnawing guilt that only grew stronger with each passing day.
The kisses were what broke Tobirama most.
It started innocently—if anything he did with the clone could be called innocent. A fleeting impulse, a stolen brush of lips against the clone’s cheek, so light it was almost imperceptible. But the moment he felt the warmth of its skin against his own, something inside him unraveled. He couldn’t stop.
A kiss on its forehead. Another on the corner of its mouth. And then, trembling and hesitant, a kiss on its lips. The contact was brief, barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to set his heart racing, to leave his entire body burning.
This was wrong, Tobirama told himself, over and over again. But his hands still reached out, his lips still sought the clone’s, desperate for the solace that only it could provide.
He hated himself for it. Hated how weak he had become, how he clung to something that wasn’t real.
It was madness, he knew. A sickness without cure.
And yet, he couldn’t bear to let the clone go.
He couldn’t bear to.
He let it linger, let it remain in the lab with him, an unspoken indulgence in his otherwise austere life. What terrified him most was the knowledge that when the clone finally vanished, the memories would return.
From the clone’s perspective. From Madara’s perspective.
He couldn’t stop thinking about how the real Madara would react if he knew.
He avoided the real Madara now, unable to meet his eyes without the image of what he had done in the lab surfacing in his mind.
The thought of meeting Madara’s eyes, of seeing the indifference or disdain that lay within them, left Tobirama trembling. Worse still was the fear that Madara might somehow find out what Tobirama had done, what he continued to do.
The shame of it was too much to bear.
The thought of Madara’s contempt, his cold indifference morphing into disgust, was unbearable. But in the lab, in this private world Tobirama had created, the clone was gentle, tender even.
When Tobirama whispered, “Can you kiss me?” the clone would comply. Soft lips pressed against his forehead, his cheek, sometimes his lips.
It wasn’t real, but it was enough to make his chest ache with something he couldn’t name.
When the world outside grew too harsh—when the villagers’ whispers turned to accusations, when his brother’s disappointment weighed on him like a stone—Tobirama endured it all in silence. He was stone, as they all said. Unyielding, unfeeling. He let their words cut him, let their scorn strip him down to nothing, because he knew that when it was over, he could return to the lab.
There, he could crumble. There, he could fall apart. And the clone would be there to catch him.
The tears always came without warning, spilling over before he could stop them. He would bury his face in the clone’s chest, his hands clutching at its clothing as though it were a lifeline. The clone never spoke. It simply held him, its arms steady and unyielding as Tobirama sobbed.
The lab smelled faintly of iron and ink, of sterile cleanliness and something unnameable that felt like home. The only place where he allowed himself to be fragile, to be human. Tobirama would cry, the tears spilling silently as the clone held him, its hand cradling the back of his head. Its presence was a balm, a refuge. Tobirama clung to it, burying his face in its chest, his tears dampening the fabric of its clothing.
The warmth of its body was intoxicating, a sharp contrast to the cold emptiness that surrounded him. Its hand would move to the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair in a soothing gesture that broke Tobirama even further. Tobirama cried until his chest ached, until his throat was raw, until there was nothing left inside him but exhaustion.
And through it all, the clone remained. A silent presence, a reflection of everything he longed for but could never have.
Tobirama knew it wasn’t real. Knew that the tenderness the clone showed him was nothing more than a projection of his own desires, shaped by the jutsu and the emptiness within him.
But in those moments, it felt real enough. Real enough to make his chest ache, to make his heart long for something more. Tobirama let himself pretend. He let himself believe that, in this space, he wasn’t alone.
The real Madara could despise him, could cut him down with words sharper than any blade. It didn’t matter. Because here, in the lab, Madara’s image was kind, and it held him when he fell apart.
When the weight of the world threatened to crush him, when the ache in his chest felt too sharp to bear, he told himself this was enough.
For Tobirama, that was enough.