Pascal's Mugging
The moon is high in the sky by the time Tobirama enters the kyudojo that is adjacent to the Hachiman shrine itself. He folds into the customary bow and then steps out onto the polished wooden floor, his bow already slung over his shoulder, prepared from the last time he was here.
He takes his place at the middle lane and falls into the stance with practiced ease, feet set apart at shoulder width, shoulders back, back straight. He nocks the arrow and lifts the bow. Breathes in. Draws. Shoulders relaxed. He holds. Breathes out. Lets go.
Thwack.
Off-centre. Tobirama frowns. He picks another arrow and prepares to repeat the process.
He has been practicing kyudo since he was four because he was absolutely hopeless at still meditation. Even now, Tobirama finds it much more effective to busy himself with repetitive motion that allows him to channel his energy into something physical as opposed to purely mental relaxation. After practicing archery for almost his entire life, the motions are as familiar to him as breathing itself.
And yet, today he finds himself unusually distracted.
In Tobirama’s dreams, he is dead. He is dead or he is dying, and above him stands Uchiha Izuna with his sharingan spinning and the world bleeds into redredred—
It’s completely irrational. Not only because he and Hashirama have managed to bully their clan into not picking unnecessary fights with the Uchiha, but also because Tobirama knows he has the skill and experience to survive anything this younger version of his oldest rival might throw at him. But nightmares are unfortunately not driven by logic, and he cannot reason with whatever trauma his subconscious seems to believe he has sustained.
Why Izuna and not the Kinkaku force when they are the one who actually managed to kill him? Why not even Madara who threatened Hashirama and Konoha and had been a source of genuine fear to Tobirama even if it wasn’t directly for his own life? He has no answers to these questions, and he finds himself growing progressively more frustrated as his sleep is plagued by images he can’t seem to make sense of.
“You are distracted.”
Tobirama flinches and the arrow veers off course to bury itself into the very edge of the target. He stares at it for a moment before lowering his bow and turning to look back at Amaya. “I didn’t realise you were here.”
She smirks at him and says nothing as she approaches on silent feet, melting out of the shadows she had been half hidden in. “That just means you’ve gotten too reliant on your sensing,” she notes and Tobirama is chastised even without any note of admonishment in her voice. “What has brought the illustrious clan heir to my humble kyudojo tonight? Surely not the lure of mediocre archery.”
Tobirama huffs and turns away from her mockery. “Just needed to clear my head a bit,” he mutters and nocks another arrow.
Amaya hums and watches as he draws and fires again, hitting the centre ring this time even if it’s not a perfect bullseye. “Distracted,” she repeats. “Shouldn’t you be resting at home? I’m sure I heard you’re on mandatory medical leave.”
“I’m not using any chakra; it’s fine.”
“Your brother will disagree,” the priestess says, levelling him with knowing eyes.
Tobirama scoffs at this. “Anija has more than fulfilled his quota of fretting for today. He’ll survive me escaping his mothering for an hour or two.”
“You certainly give him sufficient cause to worry.”
Sighing, he nocks an arrow though he doesn’t draw yet. “I’ve been made very aware recently, I assure you.”
“Have you?” Amaya asks quietly. Tobirama freezes under her gaze, inhaling sharply. “You hold yourself apart, and you let no one close. There are no exceptions anymore. You are afraid and you are ashamed of what you want.” A pause, choking in its silence. Then, when he does not reply, she asks in a whisper, “What do you want, Tobirama?”
He shivers in the night air, swallowing harshly. He remembers being much older, but he feels impossibly young as he stands now, unable to meet his mentor’s eyes. Instead, he draws the arrow, muscles straining under the effort. He holds. He breathes. He fires.
Dead centre. A perfect shot.
“Ah.” Amaya inclines her head. “Go get some sleep, Tobirama.”
“The arrows—” he protests.
“I will have someone clean up in the morning. An exception can be made just this once.” She looks at him pointedly. “Go home.”
Tobirama goes home.
He has to sneak in through his bedroom window by scaling one of the trees in their backyard and it’s only a mildly humiliating affair until he realises that Hashirama is waiting for him inside, at which point he is considerably more mortified by his late-night escapade. Maybe he should have just used the front door.
Before his older brother can even open his mouth, Tobirama assures, “I didn’t use any chakra.”
Hashirama’s eyes narrow. “You snuck out!” he screeches.
Well, there’s no denying that when Tobirama has obviously been caught in the act. Instead, he admits, “I just needed a moment to myself and some fresh air.”
This makes Hashirama frown, his crossed arms unfolding as he straightens and gives Tobirama a once over. “Are you okay, Tora?”
There is a reassurance at the tip of his tongue when Tobirama hesitates. ‘What do you want, Tobirama?’ he hears, Amaya’s voice ringing like an accusation in his head. He swallows. “Can you bring me a glass of water?” he asks.
Hashirama blinks, surprised, and then nods quickly, shuffling out of the room and to the kitchen downstairs while Tobirama sheds the haori he’d thrown over his yukata and settles back into his futon.
“Here you go,” Hashirama murmurs once he returns, kneeling at his side and holding the glass out.
Tobirama looks at it for a moment. “Do you remember,” he starts, “when Kawarama was little and just starting to sleep on his own, how he would always ask one of us to bring him some water?” A wry smile twisting at his lips, he continues, “Half the time, he wasn’t even actually thirsty. He just wanted the hand attached to the glass and for someone to stay until he fell asleep.”
When Tobirama takes the glass and sets it down beside him, still full, Hashirama releases a breath that sounds like it was punched out of his chest. His dark eyes are large with surprise as they meet Tobirama’s, but he still takes his little brother’s hand in both of his own, smiling shakily. “You’re silly, Tobira,” he says, and his laugh is wet. “If you want something from me, you need only ask.”
Something in Tobirama aches with the truth in that. His anija is always free with his affection, making it no secret that he draws comfort from physical contact, and Tobirama has been more indulgent of him lately. He rarely ever seeks it out for himself, however, having gotten used to denying these little moments of solace to himself even once they’d mended their bridges in his future. He’d felt too old and wary for it by then; wrongfooted and unsure even. Now, he wonders why he must maintain this distance from the only family he has and all but demands, “Anija, give me a hug.”
Hashirama’s wobbly smile widens and he practically tumbles onto Tobirama’s futon as he gathers him close, tucking Tobirama’s head under his chin like he’s still a little boy. Pressed close like this, with Hashirama’s hands rubbing at his back and his long hair tickling his cheeks, Tobirama’s breath hitches and his eyes burn. He turns to tuck his face into his brother’s neck and lets his eyes fall shut.
“It’s been a while since we did this,” Hashirama notes softly, lowering his head to press his cheek against Tobirama’s hair.
It’s not necessarily a statement inviting conversation. Still, perhaps it’s the late hour or the way Tobirama feels emotionally fraught from the nightmare and the conversation with Amaya, but he quietly admits, “Because I was angry at you.” Hashirama stiffens. Tobirama continues, “And then I thought you were angry at me, and then it felt like I couldn’t have this anymore.”
“That day at the river,” Hashirama guesses correctly, exhaling slowly. He slumps heavily, leaning further into the hold.
“Yes,” Tobirama confirms. “I know it wasn’t like that, but at the time, it…felt like you’d chosen an Uchiha over me.”
Hashirama makes a wounded noise. “I wouldn’t—”
“I know,” Tobirama cuts him off. “Father was being harder on you than ever, we’d recently lost Itama, and you were being forced to fight for something you didn’t believe in. You couldn’t stick around. You needed that escape for your own sake. I know.”
There is quiet for a moment. Then, in a whisper, as though ashamed, Hashirama confesses, “I did blame you for a bit after that day.”
Tobirama smiles wryly. “I know,” he repeats simply. He’s heard it before.
“I’m sorry.”
“You thought I was like chichi-ue.” Hashirama flinches back from the statement like the words physically struck him. Tobirama waits, unmoving. When no response comes, he adds, quieter still, “It felt like you couldn’t forgive me because I’m not Madara.”
At this, Hashirama pulls away and looks at him aghast, meeting his eyes and hissing vehemently, “Is that what you think?”
Tobirama looks at him, unperturbed. “I did.”
Hashirama’s face crumples. “I—” His voice breaks. “I never meant to make you feel like that.”
Eyes closing, Tobirama breathes. Then, he whispers, “You gave up on me and I didn’t know how to fix it.”
“Because it felt like all I ever did was disappoint you.”
“You could never truly disappoint me. You’re my brother.”
Careful fingers card through his hair and Tobirama allows himself the indulgence of leaning into the touch. “I didn’t give up on you,” Hashirama disagrees, breath trembling. “I just—it felt like you didn’t want me around. I only ever seemed to anger you. I know you love me, Tora—I knew then too. But…I was sure you didn’t like me very much anymore, and nothing I tried to change that seemed to work.”
“You worry about that even now,” Tobirama says knowingly. He has seen how Hashirama tends to walk on eggshells around him after all. He can tell what that means for them.
“I just don’t want to make you leave.” Pressing his forehead to his younger brother’s shoulder, Hashirama whispers, pleading, “Don’t ever go where I cannot follow.”
Fingers curling into the soft cotton of Hashirama’s yukata, Tobirama snorts. “Where would I even go, stupid anija? You’re the only home I’ve ever known.”
“Good,” Hashirama says, sniffling. “I don’t want you to be like Madara or anyone else. I don’t even care about if you’re a perfect shinobi or perfect clan heir. I don’t need you to be useful to me or to prove your worth somehow. What I want is for you to be able to lean on me and to tell me what’s troubling you, so you don’t have to bear anything all alone. I want you to be happy and healthy and to stay. That’s all.”
It feels like a weight is pressing down against Tobirama’s lungs, his next exhale shattering around it.
(“What do you want, Tobirama?”)
“I’m scared,” he says out loud. He doesn’t say of what because he’s not sure himself. There’s plenty to be afraid of when he is one man determined to change the balance of fate as he had known it.
Hashirama doesn’t ask him to explain anyways. Instead, he holds him tighter and says, “It’s okay. Whatever it is, I’ll protect you.”
Tobirama’s eyes sting. He does not cry. “Stay with me,” he says. “Until I fall asleep.”
“Okay.”
And he does.
“It’s not pneumonia,” the head healer, Uchiha Naomi, pronounces. “Or, well, not entirely. Mostly, it’s tuberculosis, and then there are a few cases presenting pneumonia as a secondary infection.”
Hikaku’s fingers tap nervously against the edge of his clipboard. “There are reports of a tuberculosis epidemic in south-west Land of Water. We had a recon team return from there recently. Only two out of the five showed symptoms and were quarantined, but it’s possible the other three were asymptomatic carriers,” he reports, placing down the respective personnel files and medical records onto Madara’s desk. “They’ve all been instructed to go into isolation and provide a list of everyone they may have come into contact with. I have people going through it as we speak.”
Madara gives into the urge to massage his temples though it does little to stave off the building headache. “Tuberculosis,” he repeats flatly. Somehow an even worse outcome than expected since it’s likely to be chronic with long-lasting health consequences. “What can we do for the patients now?”
Naomi purses her lips. “I spoke to the head priestess, and she has agreed to empty the eastern wing of the temple so we can move the patients there as a sort of makeshift sanatorium. We can try to ensure they get plenty of sunlight and fresh air, as well as specially curated diets to build strength.” She sighs and adds, “For the worst cases, we’re considering thoracoplasty or artificial pneumothorax.”
Arching a brow, Izuna summarises, “Removing their ribs and collapsing their lungs?”
“It will reduce the size of the lung cavity and hopefully curb the spread of infection. Because the collapsed lung will be forced to rest, the diseased areas will get the chance to heal,” Naomi explains.
Frowning, Madara asks, “And medication?”
“We’re trying to treat the symptoms for now.” Hesitant, the healer admits, “I know there have been developments made to treat the cause itself but, personally, I am unfamiliar with what medications should be prescribed. I can write to some of my contacts in the capital and see what they recommend but, even then, the antibiotics will be expensive, and I’ve heard it’s easy to build up resistance to the drugs, so we might have to invest into more than just one kind.”
“Right, of course,” Madara breathes. Naturally, his problems can never just have a direct solution. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, let us see what your contact has to say and commission the medication accordingly. How many infected do we have at the moment?”
Hikaku responds promptly, “Twenty-four.” And growing, he doesn’t add.
“We’ll have to declare emergency and mandate some form of quarantine to reduce contact as much as possible,” Izuna muses, crossing his arms. “Especially since the illness is airborne.”
Madara nods. “We’ll also levy compulsory check-ups for those returning from missions and trips to make sure they’re not carriers as well.” He catches the flicker of disgruntlement that crosses Naomi’s face and adds, “I’ll sanction a temporary extension to the medic’s hall to prepare for the increased occupancy.”
She hums, mouth pulled into a frown. “I will let my staff know then.”
Madara refrains from wincing in sympathy for the healers that will undoubtedly be forced to push themselves to deal with what is shaping up to be a budding disaster if they don’t contain it as much as possible now. They’re going to have acquire more bedding and whatever other supplies the medics are going to need too, which means he’ll have to draw up new contracts and cash in more than a few favours to get these things as soon as possible.
Their current supplier for most medicines is a Hyuuga branch in the capital. Since they’re more involved in pharmaceutics and merchantry, Madara finds them far more tolerable than their shinobi cousins. Really, the Hyuuga are doing the world at large a favour by staying holed up on their ugly fucking mountain. He’ll have to write to them and ask about their antibiotics stock, and then he’ll have to haggle about the price because tuberculosis can take at least six months of treatment according to Naomi and sourcing the medication for that long will require the entire annual budget to be reworked as it is.
Six months of potentially being in a locked down state of emergency where they’ll likely be spending money faster than they can earn it back. The Uchiha treasuries are sizable, yes, but it seems like it will be a tight preparation for winter this year, and that’s assuming no other disaster finds them. At least the Senju seem content to stay behind their barriers and not engage in contact with them. Funding a war would have been the last thing Madara needed at a time like this.
“Hikaku, go see the accountants about any expenses we can potentially cut down on until further notice, and warn them about the situation. Get them started on a revised budget. Naomi-san, thank you for your time. You may return to your duties; we will not keep you any longer,” he instructs, returning Hikaku and Naomi’s parting bows with a nod of his head. He turns to Izuna who is watching him with a knowing eye.
“Want me to start sounding the alarms for a compound lockdown?” he asks.
Madara smiles wryly. “Yes, thank you.” Then, remembering what the medic had said about repurposing the temple, he adds, “Go see our grandmother first.”
Izuna pauses and inclines his head in acknowledgement before taking his leave. As soon as the door is slid shut behind him, Madara slumps over his desk and drops his forehead against the cool wood, feeling far older than his years.
Being clan head really has just been putting one fire out after the other. Madara briefly considers running away to retire on some remote island before deciding that Izuna would just hunt him down somehow and drag him back by the hair because he absolutely doesn’t want the promotion. There will be no getting away. Besides, unlikely fantasies aside, Madara has no real interest in abandoning his clan to deal with this mess on their own.
As their leader, it is up to him to see them all through this as best as he can. Madara only hopes that it will be enough.
“The Nara clan head has passed away,” Daichi reports quietly. “Rumour has it that they’re not having their heir step up yet though. It is said a regent will hold fort until his training is complete—the heir’s mother, I believe.”
Tobirama hums, finger idly tracing the rim of his empty cup as his eyes narrow unseeingly at the street outside the teahouse they are sat in. “No funeral yet?”
Daichi refills his heir’s cup and answers, “Not yet. There will be one within the fortnight, however. The highest-ranking Nara soldiers have been granted special leave to attend it. They will not partake in the mourning period though.”
“Nara custom only asks the direct family to observe a mourning period,” Tobirama murmurs. “They will halt all trade and mission activity until then either way, however, so this is a good opportunity for us to capitalise on their absence in the pharmaceuticals market. Forty-nine days is plenty of time to steal some of their would-be contracts after all.” He turns and nods to Daichi. “Thank you for informing me, Daichi-kun. This will be helpful to us.”
Daichi dips his head. “Of course, Tobirama-sama. Thank you for the meal.”
“It was no trouble,” Tobirama waves him off.
In the wake of Hashirama’s strict cracking down on some of the more vocal supporters of the orthodox factions, it is imperative to smooth over the ruffled feathers of the remaining members who are afraid of being caught next. Who better to assure them of their continued standing in the clan than the victim of their supposed schemes? Tobirama already has some rapport established with them; he may as well put it to good use regardless of how thoroughly he has burned some of those bridges. The more sensible ones know better than to look this gift horse in the mouth when neither side is at loss.
Senju Daichi is one such example. He had personally reached out to ask after Tobirama’s health and has evidently taken appropriate steps to distance himself from the brewing discord of their clan after it became clear that the clan head was in no mood for mercy. Now, he is in prime position to catch them up on all the information that circulates the capital, and he has realised this with admirable speed. Tobirama is quite hopeful for Daichi’s future if he continues to make such good decisions.
The timing works out quite well too. Tobirama had just about reached the end of his rope with being forced to rest to recuperate when he received an invitation to attend a luncheon being hosted by one of his associates at the university. He had assured a fretful Hashirama that it would be an entirely civilian affair and promptly fled to the heart of the nation for a much-needed change of scenery.
And if that gave him an excuse to check in with the rest of their clansmen stationed in the capital, then that was no one else’s business.
“How long will your visit last?” Daichi asks conversationally.
“Four more days,” Tobirama replies. “I have a few acquaintances to meet with.”
Eyebrows rising ever so slightly, Daichi carefully selects a cookie from the small platter on their table. “Will you be alright exerting yourself like this, Tobirama-sama? I thought you were still healing.”
Just about managing to refrain from openly rolling his eyes, Tobirama sighs. “I’m hardly about to keel over, I assure you. I am more than well enough to manage this much so long as I do not strain my chakra coils too much for another two weeks, give or take.”
“If you say so,” Daichi says, shrugging. “I hope you will recover well then.”
Tobirama opens his mouth to give a perfunctory thanks for Daichi’s equally perfunctory concern when he is interrupted.
“I thought that was you, Senju. Are you following me or something?”
Without even needing to look and with no access to his sensing, Tobirama knows exactly who is so rudely addressing him. He closes his eyes and sighs deeply.
“Hello to you too, Izuna.”
Izuna wears a sickeningly sweet smile when Tobirama finally turns to face him. He is in his more formal civilian wear, probably in the capital on business as a representative of the Uchiha judging by the extra care put into his appearance. Even so, in Tobirama’s opinion, there is something inherently sharp about his countenance, and no amount of expensive silks would ever be enough to hide the way Uchiha Izuna holds himself like a weapon.
“Why is it that you seem to be everywhere I go these days, Senju?” Izuna asks rhetorically.
Tobirama snorts despite the obvious tension hanging between both their companions, not even bothering to acknowledge the two Uchiha guards warily flanking Izuna or the way Daichi’s hand keeps twitching towards the blade strapped to his side. “No one forced you to approach me here,” he points out instead.
Izuna bats his eyes. “What—and risk looking rude for ignoring my oldest enemy? Do you really think so little of me, Senju?”
Blatantly rolling his eyes at that, Tobirama scoffs, “As if you care what I think of you.”
“That’s true. I really don’t,” Izuna agrees cheerfully. “Maybe I was just curious to see if you really were following me.”
“I promise you I have much better things to be doing with my time.”
Izuna arches a brow. “And here I thought we had something special,” he drawls.
Tobirama blinks, surprised by the odd familiarity in his rival’s tone even if he doesn’t show it. Izuna’s clansmen are clearly taken aback as well, probably having expected a far more violent confrontation taking place than the one they’re currently witnessing.
Daichi is looking no better, wearing his discomfort openly in the bemused furrow of his brow. Pitching his voice low, he says, “Tobirama-sama...?”
“Relax, Daichi-kun.” It is a thinly veiled order and they all know it. “We are in the capital after all.”
Within the borders of the Daimyo’s own home, they are all banned from bringing their conflicts into the capital and picking fights with their enemies, whether they are civilian or shinobi clans. No one is exempt from this rule—not the Uchiha, and certainly not the Senju who don’t even have the status of nobility attached to their name. Tobirama’s words to Daichi are as much a pointed reminder to him as they are to the Uchiha.
Izuna inclines his head in acknowledgement. “We aren’t here to pick a fight today,” he says, looking darkly amused when Daichi glares at him defiantly in response.
“Then why are you here?”
Tobirama doesn’t reprimand his clansman for speaking out of turn to someone of higher status because, admittedly, he is curious as well. He would have expected Izuna to ignore them if anything, especially judging by how off-kilter he has looked over the course of their recent interactions. If they are not seeking to openly antagonise each other, then the best Tobirama can hope for from his oldest enemy is mutual avoidance.
“Watch how you address Izuna-sama, Senju,” one of Izuna’s guards spits, dark eyes narrowed into an impressive glare.
Izuna lifts a careless hand to gesture for his companions to be at ease. “It’s alright,” he says, his sharp smile widening. “I was just curious about what brought the Senju heir to the capital and thought I might come see for myself.”
What a pleasant way to say he’s just being nosy.
“A personal visit to some acquaintances,” Tobirama admits easily. His academic pursuits should be of no real interest to the Uchiha; no harm done is revealing this much about himself when Izuna already has an inkling.
“From the university I’m assuming,” the Uchiha heir says, confirming that he was already aware to some level. “I read your paper. Do your colleagues know you can jump through spacetime or are they blissfully unaware of how you play around with the fabric of reality?”
Tobirama purses his lips and doesn’t respond but Izuna seems to take that for the answer it is if the intensifying amusement in the glimmer of his dark eyes is anything to go by. Changing the subject, Tobirama politely asks, “And what brings you to the capital, Izuna?”
His familiar address makes both their companions shift with discomfort, though they wisely refrain from interrupting when Izuna himself doesn’t seem surprised or upset by it.
“Business,” comes the clipped reply. Then, begrudgingly disgruntled, he adds, “With some…distant relatives of ours.”
Probably the Hyuuga then. Tobirama hums in understanding.
Though the Uchiha are far more traditional than the Senju ever have been, it is nothing in comparison to the Hyuuga who are downright neurotic about stubbornly adhering to their customs and conventions as if it is a matter of life or death. Dealing with them is always a testament to one’s patience, in Tobirama’s opinion.
When he blinks back to attention, it is to find himself on the receiving end of Izuna’s open consideration. Tobirama lifts an eyebrow in silent question and the Uchiha heir’s obsidian eyes narrow further, his lips pursing as he silently debates with himself for a long moment.
Finally, Izuna says, “Did you truly mean what you said the last time we met?”
What did Tobirama say the last time they met? That day in the woods feels like it might as well have been a lifetime ago for all that has happened since then. It was probably something about peace since most of their conversations since Tobirama’s tryst through time have been in a similar vein.
Tobirama shrugs and replies simply, “Yes.”
Exhaling slowly, Izuna nods once. Then, he turns to address his guards and orders, “Leave us and wait outside. I will join you shortly.” Before they can even properly gear up to protest (rightfully so since their heir is apparently demanding to be left alone with his sworn enemy), Izuna levels them with a silencing glare and sharply jerks his head at the exit.
Tobirama’s gaze slides to a bewildered looking Daichi and he inclines his head ever so slightly. Taking the hint, the younger Senju makes to stand before lowering his voice and asking, “Are you sure, Tobirama-sama? You are not—” He cut himself off, glancing warily towards Izuna who is tapping his foot impatiently.
“It will be fine. You need not concern yourself on my behalf, Daichi-kun. Go on. I will seek you out later if I require anything else.”
Dipping his head at the polite dismissal, Daichi bows to both of them and takes his leave, choosing to hop right out of the window instead of taking the exit where he would be likely to run into the Uchiha accompanying Izuna.
Now that they are more or less left alone, Izuna slides into the seat Daichi just vacated, pushing away the used teacup and plate. “Heard you nearly got yourself killed,” he says apropos of nothing, mouthing twisting into a smirk. “Losing your touch, Senju?”
“Hardly,” Tobirama answers levelly. “I simply made an investment.”
Izuna lifts an eyebrow in an obvious question but when Tobirama does not volunteer any more information, he moves on. Linking his fingers together on the table, he leans forward slightly. “How much do you know about antibiotics?” he asks.
Blinking, Tobirama answers, “Enough. What do you want to know?”
“Specific treatment for tuberculosis.”
Tobirama exhales slowly, stretching his memory and thinking it over. “Isoniazid,” he says after a moment, “in combination with rifampin, pyrazinamide, and ethambutol. For at least six months. Several cases can require up to six different antibiotics daily, with appropriate changes in case of drug resistance development. Of course, this isn’t accounting for secondary infections or preexisting issues like diabetes.”
Open despair briefly crosses Izuna’s face before it flickers back into a careful blankness. “How easily are these medicines available?”
Ah. A much harder question. Tobirama honestly says, “Not very. Several of them are still considered experimental at best, and they aren’t anywhere popular enough with the general public just yet. They are difficult to procure and supply, and rather expensive as a result. I assume that is what brings you to the capital?”
Izuna closes his eyes and exhales slowly. He swallows harshly and admits, “The Hyuuga don’t have enough of a source to meet our demand for six months or longer. The best they can offer is five weeks, and that is only for about half the medication we actually need. I’ve been pointed to inquire with the Nara since they’re the most well connected in the industry but—”
“The Nara clan head just died and they’re in mourning,” Tobirama finishes.
“Assuming they even have access to the required drugs in the necessary quantities in the first place.”
Tobirama scratches at the grain of the wood idly, thinking. “You could take the Hyuuga up on their offer for now and inquire with the Nara for a future supply even if they cannot deliver just yet.”
“I suppose,” Izuna sighs, shoulders drooping as he makes an aborted motion towards his hair, probably wanting to rake his fingers through it to self-soothe. “At least all that money will go into a good cause.”
Wincing in sympathy, Tobirama ventures, “How bad is it truly?”
Izuna regards him with a tired wariness for a moment as he seems to debate whether to answer or not before quietly responding, “A fifth of the working population so far.” But growing worse by the day, particularly among the children and elderly, he doesn’t say. It will continue to do so unless extreme caution is exercised to contain the illness, and even then, things will slip through the cracks as they are wont to do.
Dealing with epidemics and endemics is always an undertaking with the limited resources and technology of their time, especially when knowledge on healing is hoarded from potential competitors. Disease spreads quickly, devastating large chunks of the population. Treatment often feels like a futile effort that must be made regardless, draining treasuries in exponential amounts for months on end. Recovery is slow, especially financially since contracts are lost and manpower is down. For smaller clans, a disease outbreak is often equivalent to a mass death sentence.
Tobirama frowns and considers the signs of exhaustion in Izuna that are more obvious now that he is close enough for him to see through the clever application of makeup. The Uchiha hadn’t had to deal with such an issue in the timeline Tobirama disrupted, but he supposes he is past the point of being able to predict the consequences of his changes. Still, this development is worrying. Tobirama thinks of little Kagami and feels his own stomach drop with dread.
“The little boy I rescued,” he can’t help but ask. “Kagami-kun. Is he…?”
Izuna’s eyes narrow, an alertness bleeding into his face, but he still answers, “He’s alright. His mother is making sure he stays inside and they’re being careful.”
Feeling the knot in his chest loosen, Tobirama nods. “Good. That’s good.”
“What—don’t tell me it took one day for you to get attached to an Uchiha brat. Are you truly going soft, Senju?” Izuna asks incredulously, peering at his rival as if he has never seen him before.
Tobirama glares at him. “Children are blameless for the wars waged by adults,” he says flatly. “Kagami-kun is a child with lots of potential.”
“If you say so,” Izuna relents though he still sounds deeply disbelieving.
They are quiet for a few minutes, chewing on the gravity of the Uchiha’s predicament, and then Tobirama quietly ventures, “Antibiotics aren’t the only way to treat tuberculosis.” Izuna looks hopeful right up until he adds, “Iryo-ninjutsu is uniquely suited to purging infections from the body and diagnosing even before symptoms make themselves known.”
The Uchiha heir passes a hand over his face. “Our healers don’t have any iryo-ninjutsu techniques suited to dealing with sickness.”
“The Senju medics do.”
Izuna’s gaze sharpens. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Tobirama leans back in his seat. “If Madara-sama makes the request, anija will not refuse. Our clan has recently undergone a few…changes in its internal workings, so the decision probably won’t be met with much notable opposition either.”
Blankly staring at him, Izuna points out, “The Uchiha would never accept help from the Senju.”
“Are they truly in a position to refuse?” Tobirama challenges softly. “And if they are, then how long will they reasonably be able to hold that position? Would it truly be worth it?”
A loaded silence sits between them for several moments before Izuna swallows roughly and asks, “And what would be the price for this assistance?”
It is difficult to accept unconditional aid, Tobirama understands. Especially when said aid comes from an enemy. The Uchiha would never be able to trust such an offer. And if Tobirama uses this opportunity to herd them into an absolute agreement for peace, they would enter it as unequals and never truly trust that either. He cannot leverage their weakness for his own gain; not like this. That doesn’t mean he can’t lay down a foundation to ease them into it further down the line, however.
So, he says, “The price will be open to negotiation, though I suspect it might have something to do with spices or coal. Maybe even your metalworking.”
Only the barest trace of surprise flickers over Izuna’s face before it tamps down into neutrality once more. Slowly, he nods. “I will bring your offer up for consideration with aniki,” he promises quietly. “You’d better have meant it, Tobirama. Even to an enemy, this is not a time to exercise cruelty in such a way. Not by giving hope and then taking it away.”
“I swear by my name and my blood, with Yahata-no-kami as my witness, I have not lied to you, Izuna,” Tobirama says, not thinking twice before swearing his oath. He meets Izuna’s gaze despite his instincts screaming at him for the vulnerability when he is alone and without his chakra, all but challenging the Uchiha heir silently, asking, ‘Is my word enough? Will you believe me even if it comes at cost of your beliefs? Would you meet me halfway?’
Izuna’s lifts his chin and keeps his eyes on Tobirama’s for several heartbeats. Then, he nods and says, “Very well, Tobirama.”
It seems his word is enough.