Quantum Tunnelling
Did Izuna mean to kickstart a national crisis by egging on a conflict between a religious institution and the ruling house? Possibly.
Did he anticipate he’d succeed specifically because Fujiwara Yoshitaka actually decided to set fire to one of the most prestigious temples in the country? Not quite. He’d only really been aiming for some posturing and threats of violence. Provocation at best. Call him naïve but Izuna had assumed that jumping to arson was too much of an Uchiha katon-user response for the second son of a civilian noble family.
But Izuna is nothing if not enterprising. He takes the escalation of his original intention in stride and resolutely keeps his mouth shut while he watches his brother strap his weapons into place as he readies to face the Enryaku-ji monks who are reported to have breached the city walls.
“Isn’t it a bit of an overreaction to have you, Akimichi Chosuke, Sarutobi Sasuke, and Senju Hashirama present? Izuna remarks lightly. The four strongest shinobi in the country, none of whom serve directly in the Daimyo’s army but easily outclass the vast majority of enlisted soldier by a wide margin.
Madara makes a vague grunt that leaves his response largely up to interpretation. Izuna thinks he might be wordlessly pointing out that the Enryaku-ji have all sorts of obscure secret techniques of their own and that it’s better to be safe than sorry when so many civilians hang in the balance of this conflict as possible collateral.
“Senju and Sarutobi will be taking point, I imagine,” Izuna says, folding his arms and leaning back against the shelf of assorted weaponry in their armory.
“They’ll have to if the Daimyo wants a better chance of salvaging this later,” Madara replies, clasping his bracers into place before smoothly grabbing his gunbai.
The Akimichi don’t particularly subscribe to any faith as a clan, and the Uchiha follow Shintoism. Hashirama and Sasuke, on the other hand, are both from Buddhist families which should soothe over at least some of the injured religious sentiments that are bound to crop up publicly after this. The Daimyo is surely aware of this detail as well.
Izuna had been counting on as much.
There are other suitable candidates serving in the Daimyo’s forces officially as well, of course, but Hashirama and Sasuke outclass most of them as warriors, and have the added benefit of not being considered private forces. While they are still vassals to the Daimyo as all citizens of the country are, since they are not active duty soldiers, they can be considered independent agents regardless of whether or not they are acting under the Daimyo’s command. Plausible deniability will be more easily maintained this way should things go wrong and excessive force be required to quell the monks.
Of course, there is an upside to such an arrangement, and Izuna intends to exploit it as soon as the opportunity presents itself.
First, however, they must contain the present threat posed by the Enryaku-ji warrior monks.
“Only the Daimyo’s guard is available of the national forces and they have been posted around the main family’s residences,” Madara says, sweeping past Izuna and leading the way out of the armory, taking the stairs two at a time and rounding the corner to the courtyard. “None of us have as many of our own shinobi here as we’d like, so we’ll be a bit stretched thin. Yamanaka Inoue and Yashogoro Maya are coordinating the crowd control efforts. Leave half a guard here and take the others to assist them. Defer to their experience if you must but try to keep track of our clansmen as much as possible.”
“Yes, aniki,” Izuna accepts his orders.
Madara pauses and turns to flash him a wry smile. “There shouldn’t be anything too tricky for us to deal with,” he begins and then hesitates, gaze flickering away as if he is chewing on the right words to say.
Izuna smiles back at him knowingly. “I’ll be careful anyways,” he assures. “You will do the same.”
“Yes,” Madara promises. “I will find you once everything is over.”
“Alright. Good luck.”
Madara nods once and turns to take his leave, leaping onto the roof and disappearing from sight soon after. Izuna doesn’t linger for much longer either, flaring out his chakra thrice in quick succession to summon the shinobi guarding their capital residence so he can brief them on the situation quickly before selecting six to accompany him to the Akimichi manor where the others should be coordinating their efforts into damage control.
Nara Shikataro receives him at the door, waving them in with little more than a cursory glance at their numbers. His hair has been twisted into a neat braid instead of the usual practical ponytail today and there is something more awake—more present—in his kohl-lined eyes as he tells the Uchiha guard to wait in the reception hall before showing Izuna to the study.
“Inoue-san is already at the square, overseeing evacuation of the areas closest to the palace,” Shikataro informs succinctly. “Yashogoro-dono is managing assignments from here for the time being.”
“How many allies do we have?”
“Not too many,” the Nara heir reports factually. “Most of the nobles’ private guards here are occupied with protecting their employers. The first division of the Daimyo’s troops is guarding the main family’s three residences while the second and third are divided among the main embassies, archives, banks and offices. Their orders are to hold the line and not engage unless directly attacked. Defending the civilians will fall to us.”
Nothing surprising then. Izuna hums. “I heard the Akimichi and Senju are maintaining perimeter.”
Shikataro nods. “A few of my clansmen are with Hashirama-dono since our clan technique will be useful for swift takedowns. I will leave to join them soon. I expect you will be asked to oversee uptown.”
“And Tobirama? Is he with the rest of his clan?”
Shikataro regards Izuna with a narrow-eyed look of consideration. “No,” he answers after a brief moment. “His sensing is more useful leading evacuation to make sure no one gets left behind, so he is probably at one of the main squares with Inoue-san.” They reach the study serving as a temporary base of operations and Shikataro knocks on the doorframe lightly before gesturing for Izuna to enter. “I must take my leave now, Uchiha-kun. I wish you well on your own assignment.”
“May the ancestors’ blessings be with you,” Izuna says, sounding out a phrase that is foreign to him but should be familiar to the Nara.
Shikataro blinks at the traditional farewell, eyebrows rising before his expression softens into a small smile and he properly meets Izuna’s eyes with his own for perhaps the first time. “Blessed be,” he returns and it lingers in the air for a moment before the other man is turning his back to Izuna and padding down the corridor on near silent feet.
To no one’s surprise, Shikataro is correct and Izuna does get assigned to watch over uptown. While the posh neighborhood is mostly inhabited by homes and businesses that already have private security or have mostly been evacuated, the area is also closest to the palace which is undoubtedly where the Enryaku-ji monks will be headed. The goal will thus become minimising property damage and generally trying to keep the ensuing fight contained to the streets and away from spilling into the residential areas proper.
There is no real signal for when the monks arrive. There simply is no need. The capital goes from a tense sort of stillness to an explosion of noise and activity between one breath and the other as the walls are breached. All at once, there is shouting and marching, glass shattering and the screaming of blades being drawn. Arrows take to the sky, smoke rises into the air.
The Enryaku-ji have arrived, and they call out for revenge in kind.
Madara looks out into the city, perched on the edge of the palace rooftop that offers him the best view over the eastern gate, watching over the calculated chaos breaking out in the city. The bulk of the fighting is being carefully limited to the main streets by the most skilled of their numbers and strategic applications of physical obstacles to deter the Enryaku-ji’s march from straying away from the paths leading to the palace.
They may be fewer in number and limited in how they have been discouraged from lethal retaliation, but the Yamanaka, Akimichi and Yashogoro have plenty of tricks up their sleeves to disarm, incapacitate and herd the invaders where they need them to go.
Not that it is particularly difficult when the palace had been the monks’ destination to begin with.
They approach, the hollow clacking of their wooden geta against the earth sounding like a distorted war drum with every step, the hypnotically unwavering hum of their chanting ringing in the air like a herald of death. Madara tracks their progress patiently, and below him, on the ground, Hashirama does the same from in front of the few shinobi they have gathered for this confrontation.
“We are not here to wage war or to cull,” Hashirama calls out to their allies, his voice laden with gravitas and solemnity. “You need only drive the monks away. Avoid fatality as much as possible. Under no circumstances are you to aim for the shrines that they carry—they are divine vessels, and we will not invite such misfortune upon ourselves.”
Simple enough in theory. Less so in execution for a bunch of shinobi who’ve grown to specialise in fatality. Still, needs must. Harming the shrines or slaughtering the monks will invite even more retribution from the temple and its followers, and the Daimyo’s reign will be weakened in the shadow of such a tragedy.
They cannot afford to make enemies of the people or their gods.
The monks are close now, their chants rising higher into the air and so ardent that it is almost as if the ground trembles from their voices alone. Madara rises and leaps down onto the ground, landing beside Hashirama and straightening, gripping his gunbai.
It is the monks who attack first, their arrows taking to the skies and flying towards them. Madara leaps up and swings, facilitating a particularly strong fuuton that he rarely finds use for to blow away the bulk of the arrows. Below them, Hashirama has finished forming the signs for a mokuton technique that has spindly branches erupting from the ground, breaking the monks’ formation and tangling around limbs and torsos and any reachable surface to hold them in place. It is like a living, breathing maze sprung to life despite the branches being a product of favouring manoeuvrability over strength—a clear testament to just how far Hashirama’s control over his gift extends.
It gives them the opening they need. The Nara shinobi spring into motion, latching onto shadows and holding them in place so Madara can flicker through enemy ranks and knock as many of them unconscious as he can possibly reach. Akimichi Chosuke has enlarged his form and seems to be taking the brunt of the monks’ attacks along with Hashirama so the rest can focus on attack over defence.
Sarutobi Sasuke joins the fray, leaping in and out view as though he is made of the same wind that he wields with the ease of breathing, spinning his bo staff like it is an extension of his own limbs as he strikes his enemies into submission. Madara has never seen him in action before and vice versa, but they are experienced and skilled enough that working around each other isn’t too difficult a task. However, the proximity to a wind-natured shinobi and the requirement of minimised destruction means that Madara himself cannot reach for the katon that come easiest to him.
The fight truly is an exercise in restraint. He finds himself falling back on the familiar comfort of taijutsu to keep from giving into the instinct for fire, enhancing his strength with chakra when he lands each hit, his sharingan spinning to give him the edge of an extra second to locate a weakness he can exploit in whatever opponent he is facing.
The battle is not an easy one. With so many restrictions placed upon them, Madara feels as though he is fighting with one arm tied behind his back. Meanwhile, the monks have no such need for restraint and show no mercy in the ferocity with which they wield their weapons and jutsu. The air is charged with the latent chakra leaking everywhere, and the smell of fire and metal burns Madara’s nose.
He ducks under the blade of a naginata, spinning into a kick right into his assailant's throat and coming up swinging with the name of a doton already on his lips. He swings his gunbai, knocking a monk out of the way and forcing another back. A plume of flames from behind gets uncomfortably close. He throws himself to the side to dodge, barely keeping from overbalancing as his sandals scrape against the ground with the inertia of his motion. A stray senbon whistles past him closely and he hisses as he dodges out of its path.
The rhythm of a skirmish is familiar and he fights not to lose himself to it. He may be out of practice after the months of peace with the Senju but war isn’t the kind of thing that can be left behind once someone has lived through it. Madara blinks. Focuses. Reminds himself this is not war. Yanks a monk out of the trajectory of a stray kunai and then slams his fist into the man’s face with the next breath to knock him out, barely keeping the shrine tied to monk’s back from falling and breaking.
And then, just as suddenly as it all began, there is a call for retreat.
Confusion ripples across the fighters. The call comes again and, this time, the monks disengage. They have been fought to a stalemate—the shinobi here will not kill them and claim victory, but they also will not let the monks march any further. The Enryaku-ji warriors fall back, reluctant though they might be.
There are some who fell in battle despite their best attempts at restraint. A few shrines lay broken on the ground too. Not all damage could be prevented unfortunately.
But Madara turns and meets Hashirama’s eyes across the battlefield, finds the grim satisfaction there of a mission objective sufficiently completed even if not perfectly so, and he knows that this is as much a victory as there was to claim today.
Perhaps they have done enough.
“I did not expect you to seek audience with me, Izuna-kun,” Fujiwara Shigehiro says, smiling wryly as he reaches into the polished wooden bowl and picks up a white go stone between his middle and forefingers. He does not look at the board when he reaches to place the stone down upon its surface, choosing to keep his eyes fixed on Izuna’s face instead as he adds, voice dry, “I certainly have not found myself with this much free time since I joined the imperial court.”
Izuna’s mouth twitches with amusement and his brows rise though he can’t say he is surprised. The confrontation with the monks happened only yesterday and the Daimyo is still in negotiations with them, using a few of the monks that were captured as leverage to get the temple to agree to some tentative peace. Yet, the country’s chancellor sits at home because of his inadvertent involvement in the affair and the possibility of a punishment for his wayward son. It is the only reason Izuna managed to set up such a sudden appointment with him. The man is being proper and dutiful by awaiting a verdict.
But that just won’t do.
“Perhaps I thought I could alleviate some of the boredom you must undoubtedly be feeling,” he suggests lightly, placing down a stone of his own.
Shigehiro barks a laugh at that. “Boredom,” he repeats and shakes his head. “What a kind young man you’ve turned out to be.”
The sarcasm is no bother. Izuna should have known someone as well versed in the world of courtly politics would see right through his facades. He decides to cut to the chase since Shigehiro clearly seems to be in no mood to entertain further banal niceties.
“I have come to offer you a deal, Shigehiro-dono.”
If Shigehiro is surprised, he does not let it show on his face. He places a stone down with a quiet click and glances up at Izuna with shrewd grey eyes. He does not ask what deal. He asks, “Why?”
Izuna responds readily, “I think we could benefit from one another.” He puts his stone down, slowly but surely expanding territory in the lower right corner of the board. “I will speak plainly—it is clear that the court will demand someone to blame for the unfortunate series of events that occurred.”
‘The court’ meaning the Daimyo who will want to wash his hands off the matter and possibly check the influence of his prime minister in one go by demanding reparations. He might also try to cut off some of Fujiwara’s support by claiming that it is their failure in keeping Enryaku-ji in check that caused the mess in the first place.
Shigehiro is already in a disadvantageous position. Countering now could go badly for him, which is why he is sat at home and biding his time instead, cautiously probing to test what allies he can truly rely on to support him in this troublesome time.
“I believe you should exile Yoshitaka-dono.”
Shigehiro stills. When he places his stone down, it is with a decisive thwack and he resolutely captures four of Izuna’s stones. “You are presumptuous, young man.”
Izuna watches him collect the black stones serenely. “Exile your son,” he repeats. “Donate to the main Enryaku-ji temples and announce your intention to go on pilgrimage.”
“You suggest I atone pre-emptively,” the chancellor observes.
Inclining his head, Izuna says, “The Uchiha will push for the motion that any additional punishment as overseen by the court would be unnecessary as evident by your sincerity. Our allies will support you. Yoshitaka-dono could be safe at any location of your choosing and, given the weight of his actions, it might be the best option for him.”
“Enryaku-ji will not be happy.”
“Enryaku-ji also just attempted a failed siege. They aren’t in a particularly favourable position either.” Calmly, Izuna points out, “Senju Hashirama, however, is. He has become a national hero overnight for leading the successful defence of the capital and his influence was already growing even before then. He has also proven his might over the monks and forced them into retreating while maintaining piety and honour himself.”
“And why would he want to help me?” Shigehiro already seems to have some idea.
“If you push for the Daimyo to agree to establishing the village, we will petition for mercy on your behalf.”
A quid pro quo—graceless in its simplicity but all the more intriguing for it.
Shigehiro regards Izuna openly. “The Daimyo will offer a reward to the shinobi involved regardless,” he points out. “My involvement would be rendered redundant. Unnecessary.”
“There’s no guarantee the Daimyo will let us choose a reward for ourselves. He could offer gold or favour. He might even make the Senju and Sarutobi nobility. And if he does fulfill the request for our settlement, then he may drag his feet on the matter and relegate it to be lost among bureaucratic complexities.”
There’s plenty of ways to weasel out of an arrangement for such a powerful man. Izuna isn’t about to take any chances. He’d given his word after all.
“I could campaign for leniency regardless,” Shigehiro points out.
He could. It would look dishonourable and cause outrage among some, and the Fujiwara’s standing in court would be affected for a time, but Shigehiro could manage on his own for a given definition of the word.
So, here’s the clincher: “If the village comes to pass thanks to your support, we will agree to assuming responsibility over keeping the Enryaku-ji’s warriors in line. You will be able to wash your hands off them for good.”
As predicted, Shigehiro inhales sharply at that, a flicker of surprise crossing his face. Izuna has to resist the urge to smile as he springs his trap on the board and encroaches into Shigehiro’s territory on the upper right, simultaneously laying claim over the centre.
“That is quite the offer to make,” Shigehiro comments softly.
Izuna is aware. One of the biggest obstacles the Fujiwara currently face is how they will make future dealings with the Enryaku-ji temple that is still being rebuilt on their land. If the monks act out again or decide they want more thorough revenge, this whole debacle will simply be rehashed and there’s no telling what losses Shigehiro will have to incur then. Izuna is offering him a rather generous out.
“And the rest of your allies are agreed?”
Izuna makes a noncommittal hum and smiles vaguely because, truthfully, he doesn’t know. He’s acting on his own here and he’s aware that it’s quite the gamble to make, but he also knows that this is the path to guaranteed success. He’s sure he can get Tobirama to help iron out any other unsavoury details.
Shigehiro pauses and stares at the board for a long moment. Izuna wonders if he too sees that he ought to resign if he doesn’t want to lose in eight more hands. Finally, the man looks up and nods, a cunning smile beginning to unfurl on his lips that Izuna mirrors.
“Very well, Izuna-kun. We have a deal.”
The day the Daimyo issues the decree that officially allows to them establish their settlement on unclaimed land of their choosing (provided it’s within a certain criteria), the representative clan heads and their assorted clansmen gather in the Uchiha manor and finally celebrate their alliance.
There is food and drink aplenty despite the last minute arrangements, and the esteemed shinobi let loose for once to laugh and revel together. Stories are exchanged enthusiastically, there is music in the air, and they all mingle around the cheerful bonfire crackling in the large back garden as though there has never been need for caution in a room of full of contract killers.
Tobirama wears a faint smile and shakes his head as he watches Hashirama and Madara con Sarutobi Sasuke and Yamanaka Inoue in some card game. “Not a modicum of decorum to be found,” he observes, eyeing the bright flush of alcohol on his brother’s tanned face.
“Exemplary behaviour from respectable clan heads,” Shikataro agrees drily, snorting into his cup of pomegranate wine. His cheeks are starting to look pink too with all the alcohol he’s been sipping at over the course of the night, though it seems to just be making him sleepier judging by the way his eyelids are drooping and how he’s slumped against the wooden pillar supporting the roof over the engawa.
Fixing him with a sidelong glance, Tobirama says, “Isn’t it time for you to officially become clan head as well?”
Shikataro grimaces at the reminder and petulantly empties his glass. “Don’t remind me,” he grumbles. “My old woman has been threatening to run away for weeks if I don’t go back and relieve her of her regent duties soon.”
Tobirama’s eyebrows rise. “Nervous?”
“I guess.” Shikataro offers a noncommittal shrug. “It was bound to happen sooner or later.”
“You’ll do a good job,” Tobirama says knowingly, not because his future memories tell him so, but because he has faith in his friend.
“They could always depose me and get someone else to do it if I suck too much.”
“Optimistic,” Tobirama observes blandly.
Shikataro raises his empty cup in the mockery of a toast. “That’s me.” He sighs and leans against the pillar, eyes slipping shut. “It’s just unlucky that I’m being put in charge right when we have to work out the logistics of moving the entire clan. So much extra work.”
Tobirama barely manages to keep himself from wincing at the reminder. “At least you’re not the Hatake,” he offers after a moment. “Migrating across countries is an entirely different sort of beast. We’re still sorting out their entry permits for immigration, and then they’ll actually have to move.”
The Nara heir looks disgusted by the mere mention of the work that will have to be put into sorting out that particular affair. “My condolences to you, Tobirama-kun,” he says sincerely. With even more sincerity, he adds, “Do not drag me into that mess.”
“Some fair-weather friend you are.”
Shikataro snorts. “I don’t know what kind of masochist you think I am, but you could not pay me to—”
“So this is where you two have been hiding.”
Tobirama cranes his head to look at Izuna as the Uchiha pushes past the shrubbery hiding the corner of the engawa that he and Shikataro had been occupying for the better part of the night. “Hello, Izuna.”
Izuna inclines his head into an acknowledging nod. The motion makes the silver of his earrings chime like bells. “No more wine?” he asks, gaze flickering to the empty glass in Shikataro’s hand and the absence of one in Tobirama’s.
“I don’t drink.” And then, because Tobirama can’t seem to help himself, “Setting fire to an Enryaku-ji temple was a bit overkill, don’t you think?”
Izuna instantly looks annoyed, and his chakra reaches out to swat at Tobirama’s which startles him enough that he can’t keep it off his face. They’ve never really interacted with each other using chakra—Tobirama hadn’t expected it, though his surprise certainly seems to please a smug looking Izuna.
“I didn’t set fire to the temple,” Izuna says with a roll of his eyes, voice pitched low so as to not be overheard. “It’s not my fault if some moron decides to go commit arson just because he can't think of anything better to do.” He folds his arms and adds, pointedly, “Besides, I did exactly as I said I would.”
Above them, the moon is in the same phase as it had been the day Izuna promised to get the Daimyo’s approval. Almost exactly a month has passed since.
“That’s true,” Tobirama acquiesces.
Arching a brow, his long-time rival says, “I believe the words you are looking for are ‘thank’ and ‘you’.”
“Thank you, Izuna,” Tobirama complies dutifully.
“You’re welcome.”
Shikataro snorts, the sudden sound cutting through the air sharply and drawing both Tobirama and Izuna’s attention to him as he grunts and rises to his feet. “I think that’s my cue to leave.”
“Had too much to drink?” Izuna asks, idly glancing at Shikataro’s glass when the other man brushes past him to head towards the open shoji doors leading inside.
Shikataro pauses and turns to look back at them, green eyes narrowed. He peers between them, almost expectantly. Tobirama doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. He glances sideways to Izuna who is looking similarly bemused if the furrow in his brow is anything to go by. Finally, the Nara snorts again and turns back, absently waving a hand at them dismissively.
“Sure,” he mutters, half under his breath. “Let’s go with that.”
“Odd guy,” Izuna remarks as they watch Shikataro stumble away into the dark house. “He’s going the wrong way too. That corridor only leads to a mudroom. Should we tell him?”
“I’m sure he’ll work it out for himself.”
Perhaps Tobirama is a fair-weather friend too.
“Will you be helping the Hatake move to Fire then?” Izuna changes the subject, ambling over on silent feet to sit down beside Tobirama, leisurely leaning his weight back on his hands.
Tobirama hums. “Probably. I’m more familiar with the route than they are.”
“And you can teleport apparently. I’m sure that will come in handy.”
“That too,” Tobirama concedes, amused. He straightens, allows his weight to sway so he can nudge Izuna’s shoulder with his own briefly. “I am grateful, you know. It would’ve taken us much longer to get here without you.”
Possibly entire months more of debating, networking and bargaining. They might have even had to agree to far more subservient terms to appease the Daimyo and assure him of their loyalty and service. With Izuna’s intervention, however, they’re off to a good start, and they’ve even got Chancellor Fujiwara on their side.
Peace is in hand at last, and it is Izuna who brought it to them so effectively.
Smiling faintly, Izuna tips his head back just enough to be able to look at Tobirama out of the corner of his eye, his hair falling away from his face with the motion. “Impressed?” he asks, and the smug certainty looks good on him. Makes his eyes gleam like shards of polished obsidian, pulls his full lips into an arrogant smirk that has always read like a challenge.
“Yes,” Tobirama admits without even having to think about it.
“I know. You’ve had that look in your eye all day—like when I’d manage to surprise you during battle.”
Tobirama didn't know he had any such characteristic look, but then he supposes he has never had such a dedicated long-term enemy aside from Izuna who could notice such a thing either.
“Sometimes, that would feel like a win of its own,” Izuna continues. “You’re always so hard to blindside. It felt like I was always falling half a step too short.”
Tobirama blinks at that. “I invented a teleportation technique just to get a few seconds’ edge over you.”
Looking caught off guard, Izuna turn his head to face him more fully. “What?”
“I physically couldn’t catch up to you otherwise. You’ve always been faster than me.”
Izuna is easily one of the best taijutsu specialists in the country; possibly even the continent. His mastery over his physical form translates to how he wields his sword as well. Tobirama has hardly seen anyone else with so much command over their blade—like the sword is simply an extension of Izuna himself. Tobirama had known that if he couldn’t figure out how to move faster somehow, Izuna’s blade would eat him alive one day.
“You’re practically unparalleled with ninjutsu techniques,” Izuna points out, sounding bewildered like he doesn’t understand why he is having to point out something so obvious. “You’re a genius,” he stresses.
Tobirama frowns. “So are you,” he says. For a given definition of the word anyways. There really is no set metric for what defines a genius, but Izuna is incredibly skilled, creative, intuitive, and certainly doesn’t lack intelligence. Surely, he must qualify.
Izuna stares, wide-eyed. After a long moment, he turns away and eloquently says, “Huh.”
“What?”
Shaking his head, he mutters, “It doesn’t really matter anyways. Currently, you’re probably better than I am.”
“At teleportation perhaps,” Tobirama says, rolling his eyes. “You’re the better swordsman and martial artist. You’re also better at katon and raiton. Not to mention genjutsu.”
“That one might be an unfair category,” Izuna points out with a wry smile, his eyes flickering with a scarlet glow between one breath and the next.
Tobirama scowls at him. “Don’t even start with me.”
That makes Izuna laugh. “Alright,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. He drops them into his lap and offers a lopsided smile, knocking his foot against Tobirama’s. “Thanks. For defending my honour or whatever.”
“I can’t have people thinking I spent my formative years struggling against an idiot.”
It’s true enough that it makes Izuna chuckle again. “How’d you even come up with teleportation? What kind of person thinks of that and then decides to just...do it?”
Tobirama shrugs. “I had a very unique set of tools to make it happen, so why not? The worst I could do was fail.”
Izuna arches a brow. “And somehow launch yourself into oblivion or something.”
“Or that,” Tobirama agrees, barely concealing a wince at the reminder.
“You’re a slave to your own convictions,” Izuna notes. He clicks his tongue. “No self preservation.”
Tobirama considers this. “Selective self preservation,” he decides.
“No self preservation,” Izuna insists. “None.”
It becomes clear immediately that Izuna can never find out the truth about the poisoning incident if this is already how insistent he is about Tobirama’s more...destructive tendencies. “You sound like Hashirama,” Tobirama tells him flatly because he knows it will offend the Uchiha.
And lo and behold, Izuna gasps loudly and whips his head around to glare at Tobirama so fast, something in his neck clicks. “How dare you—”
“In fact, now that I think about it, the both of you—”
“I swear to Amaterasu herself, if you don’t shut up right now, you’re going to get stabbed, Senju.”
Tobirama laughs, open and from the chest, while Izuna fumes and huffs next to him, his chakra popping like static from irritation. He uses it to swat at Tobirama’s again and Tobirama swats back, still grinning.
“Laughing at a threat like that,” Izuna sniffs, shaking his head. “See? No self preservation.” Then, for good measure, he kicks at Tobirama’s shin too.
“Anija isn’t that bad,” Tobriama says, rolling his eyes. “You’re overreacting.”
“Do you think I don’t have several knives on me right now? Is that why you’re pushing your luck? Or did you lie and you really are drunk?”
“I don’t drink,” Tobirama repeats. “I don’t have the constitution for it.”
“Lightweight?” Izuna's brows shoot up.
“Sensory overload. I can’t regulate the input on my senses and end up very ill.”
Making a thoughtful noise in his throat, Izuna tilts his head. “Then I suppose you can’t have any sort of intoxicants.”
Tobirama nods. “My cousin and I accidentally did mushrooms once. I thought I was going to die.”
Izuna snorts. “It’d be a stupid way to go.”
“I would probably come back out of spite,” Tobirama agrees.
“You’re not missing out on much on the alcohol front anyways. I’ve never been fond of it myself,” Izuna says. “I don’t drink if I can help it either.”
“I noticed,” Tobirama admits.
That catches Izuna’s attention, his dark eyes narrowing and mouth twisting into a lopsided smile. “Watching me, Senju?”
Tobirama feels his breath catch. The pinpricks of starlight reflect against the endless blackness of Izuna’s irises, as though he has twin shards of the sprawling sky captured in his eyes. Tobirama looks away before he does something stupid like stare thoughtlessly.
“You did ask me to,” he points out instead.
Something almost quietly pleased settles into the edges of Izuna’s smile and softens his face. “That I did.”
Izuna’s weight shifts, brings him closer, allows their shoulders to brush. Tobirama holds his breath and keeps himself still. Waits; he doesn’t know for what. When Izuna settles, their shoulders press together more decisively, and Tobirama exhales slowly, relaxing after a moment.
Neither of them moves away.
Tobirama leaps through the trees, feet swift and sure, vision blurring with the speed he is going at despite the burning of exerted muscles in his legs. Leaves whip against his face, branches breaking skin where he is too impatient to push them away. He has no time. He has somewhere to be.
Where is he going? He doesn’t know. He just knows he has to get there. He’s searching for something. For someone. He can’t be late.
His foot catches, his lungs slam against his ribs, his stomach drops. Tobirama is falling through branches and leaves, the world spins out of control around him. He hits the ground hard. Pain flares—everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. He pushes himself up. He has to.
A crack of weight against wood. The rustle of disturbed grass. His head snaps towards the sound. There—
“It’s you.”
The rabbit freezes, its ears standing long at attention as its head turns towards him. They stare at each other. Predator. Prey.
Tobirama moves. He doesn’t remember moving but he must because he is now holding the rabbit. It stares at him with vacant scarlet eyes. Unafraid. Tobirama frowns at it. Uncomfortable.
“What do you want from me?” he asks. Demands. Pleads.
The rabbit stares and stares and stares. Tobirama looks away, looks to the forest. He was searching for something. What was it? Where is he?
A whimper draws his attention. He turns back. His hands are black with blood so dark that it looks like pitch. Tobirama stares. The rabbit stares back. The rabbit is dead, its guts spilling out out out. It opens its mouth and Tobirama can’t look away from the rows of razor sharp teeth. He watches as the mouth opens too wide, frozen as the teeth sink into his hands, break skin, draw blood that is red and then black.
Predator. Prey.
Tobirama screams, dropping the creature. Pain like nothing he has felt before lances through him. His heart is beating so loud, it’s going to rip right out of his chest. The blood doesn’t stop, it’s everywhere now.
‘It’s inside me,’ he thinks with horror.
Tobirama reaches out into endless nothingness and tears himself apart.
He does not scream this time.
Tobirama wakes up alone, covered in sweat and twisted in sheets, his heart hammering in his ears. He wrenches himself free and holds up his shaking hands, desperately trying to focus past his blurry vision, blinking away tears and sweat, forcing himself to see. His hands are clean. They are clean and just as they are when he went to sleep. The callouses and scars familiar.
His stomach twists and Tobirama closes his eyes, swallows past the way his mouth waters with the threat of throwing up. He is shaking, he realises belatedly. He is shaking and he can’t stop. His face is wet with tears and every breath rattles in his chest.
It is a blessing that his privacy seals held up and Hashirama hasn’t come crashing into his room to demand answers.
Answers that Tobirama doesn’t have. He doesn’t understand what is happening to him. Doesn’t know why he’s dreaming or what he’s seeing or why the fear within rings so true, it’s almost deafening.
The only thing he does know with a startling clarity—
‘Something is wrong with me.’