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Tobirama is not well when Izuna finds him.
Izuna first catches his trail on the edge of Fire Country. Past each of their respective borders, along a meandering ravine. There is evidence of a battle between shinobi of some caliber. Gouges are left in the earth, water puddled into the river at angles unused by nature.
He isn’t looking for a trail, necessarily, but their missions do tend to align. Similar level of ability, rival clans. Things tend to shake out with them fighting opposing sides of a mission, more often than not. In the same areas. Assigned to kill, or protect, the same targets.
Izuna only found one body.
Clearly, there had been a struggle. Likely between two competent and powerful opponents. Judging by the excessive use of suiton and the proximity to Senju territory, it is not hard to guess who at least one opponent was. Yet, he is nowhere to be found.
Only a splatter of blood and a familiar, discarded happuri.
Uncertainty and discomfort sparking in his chest, Izuna tracks them.
Tobirama had been kidnapped. Izuna would marvel at the concept, were the circumstances not so infuriating. Tobirama was not bested, no, he was captured. These cowardly little mercenaries waited until Tobirama had battled a more competent opponent, then swept in to clean up the survivor.
It was weak. Inferior. Izuna hates them.
They hold Tobirama in a makeshift compound, isolated for the moment. Izuna slips in, unseen and undetected, quite easily. Another mark against their competency and general chance of survival.
He has been tortured, of that Izuna is certain. With vigor, too. The slashes are uneven and jagged, as if someone had stabbed into him in a rage. His wounds are packed with something, likely not particularly sanitary but preventing Tobirama from excessive blood loss. Enough to keep him alive and in pain for them to return to later. His armor has been disrobed, leaving him shockingly bare. Only thin pants protect his modesty. They did not even leave the shinobi mail on his person, likely looted and tucked away elsewhere.
His chakra must be low, weary as he looks. His eyes blink closed for a moment too long, then reopen, blearily looking up at Izuna. His mouth twitches slightly upward when he focuses on him. When Izuna’s presence registers. One eye remains stubbornly shut, swelling rapidly into a purpled bruise.
“Izuna.” He rasps, voice weak and scratchy. Izuna feels possession grip in a vice around his heart.
Mine. A voice whispers with in him. Mine. Mine.
Mine to fight. Mine to hurt. Mine to dance with. Mine to kill.
Izuna feels his own chakra surge, involuntarily. His sharingan activates. The world ignites into definition, into vivid color, the beaten Tobirama etched into his memories for the rest of his life.
Izuna unsheathes his blade.
“Tobirama.” He acknowledges. In a distant sort of way, he realizes he is angry. Enraged. His voice shakes with it, with barely restrained violence.
He closes in on his rival. Tobirama does not move to defend himself.
Maybe he wants this, the voice suggests, maybe he wants it to be you that finally kills him, over the cockroaches in this stronghold.
Izuna cuts through his restraints.
Tobirama breathes in sharply. Surprised. His uninjured eye is wide. His hands flex, uncertain and trying to regain feeling.
Izuna holds Tobirama’s dominant wrist, his fingers loose and prodding. Tobirama remains perfectly still as Izuna rubs in gentle circles, prompting the pins-and-needles prickling to leave him. His chest heaves. His current injuries are no doubt straining him. Izuna wishes he had learned even the most basic of medical jutsu. He has always thought it useless. Uchiha rarely received minor, treatable wounds.
“I can do nothing to heal you.” Izuna admits.
“I didn’t expect you to.” Tobirama responds quietly.
“Your captors are still alive.” Izuna continues, switching his ministrations to the other wrist. Tobirama allows it. “I saved them for you.”
A little current of tension leaves Tobirama, at that. Izuna doubts he would have noticed without the sharingan. His shoulders no longer hunched, Tobirama replies a simple:
“Thank you.”
“No need for thank yous. You’re mine to kill, not theirs.”
Tobirama blinks at him.
“Can you walk?” Izuna asks.
“Likely not very well.” Tobirama admits. “I believe my ankle is broken.”
Probably wanted to lessen his chances for escape, if Izuna had to guess. Well. Too bad for them, then.
“I can set it.” Izuna offers.
Tobirama studies him shrewdly. “I doubt I would make it very far on a broken ankle without getting killed.”
The beast within Izuna snarls, enraged.
He is mine. They will not touch him.
“They will not touch you.” Izuna asserts, hand tightening around Tobirama’s wrist. He feels the bone creak beneath his grip. “I will not allow it.”
Something cracks between them, something undefinable and dangerous. Izuna’s priorities falter, splinter, and rearrange themselves into something resembling affection. Possession. Izuna wants him hale and whole. He wants to be the object of Tobirama’s focus, wants to see the fear spark in his expression when Izuna presses in too close too fast. Wants him trapped in a genjustu of Izuna’s own creation, vulnerable and under his control, pinned down like a butterfly.
Under Izuna’s control, not the control of these useless cowards.
(Wants Tobirama to break free, wants him to come after him again, again and again, wants to dance -)
Izuna sets his ankle. Tobirama whines, sharp and pained and muffled by biting his hand. His uninjured eye shuts, white lashes fluttering against a bloody cheek. He must be in agony, dulled as his chakra is. Izuna doubts he has the awareness to manage his pain. He cuts through the bindings on his legs too – minding the crushed ankle.
“Stand.” Izuna demands. He draws a kunai, flips it so the hilt faces Tobirama. “Fight.”
Tobirama does.
It is not pretty.
Tobirama is weakened. He stumbles when weight is placed on his weak leg, crying out in pain. Blood drips down from his open wounds, leaving a little trail in his wake. He has one kunai.
The first enemy he strikes from behind, throat slit before he even knew Tobirama was there.
The second enemy raises the alarm, eyes widening with fear at the sight that beholds him. Tobirama, hunched and wounded, snarling like a loosed wild animal. Izuna behind him, uninjured and whole, sharingan activated and spinning.
Two shinobi approach him at once. Longer blades, so Tobirama has to get in close. Dodges the first attack, then makes a sudden swoop below, toppling over the second man and slicing open his stomach. Blood rushes out to the ground below in a wave of mush and gore. He falters a bit, his own wounds probably throbbing at the impact of bodies.
The second shinobi takes his opportunity to attack from behind.
Trapping him in the genjutsu is almost juvenile.
The man freezes, caught in a meticulously crafted terror. Weaklings like this are easy. A little pain makes them crumble, the promise of more sending them into panic. Nothing like what Izuna would trap Tobirama in, if he ever got the opportunity. That particular scenario has been lovingly curated over many long years. Personalized. Izuna would never insult his rival with anything less.
Tobirama heaves himself onto his back. He winces, looking up at Izuna from the ground. He raises an eyebrow when he sees the immobile shinobi, expression that of terror.
Izuna does not make any further moves of assistance.
Tobirama huffs a laugh. His head is thrown back against the ground with a soft bump.
“You saved him for me?” Tobirama asks with an incredulous little smile.
Well. Izuna thinks its a smile. He can’t really tell. Tobirama is atrocious to read.
“I said I would.” Izuna sniffs, offended. “Now, kill him and be done with it, before you die on the floor.”
Tobirama rises shakily to his feet. He breathes deep, balancing himself once more. Then, he snaps the man’s neck. His corpse crumples to the floor. His expression smooths into relief.
“How many more?” Tobirama asks.
“Thirteen.” Izuna answers.
He watches Tobirama carefully.
He should be okay for now. Wobbly, but alive.
Tobirama is watching him, too.
Not in the eyes, obviously. Tobirama has only just been reminded of how dangerous that could be. His gaze meets somewhere around Izuna’s cheekbone, brow furrowed and clearly mulling something over.
“There is one I would like to suffer.” Tobirama says carefully.
“Oh?” Izuna leans forward, intrigued. Tobirama’s eye narrows.
“I could handle it,” He tells Izuna defensively, “if I wasn’t as I am.”
“Half dead, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“You want me to take care of him for you?” Izuna offers lightly. Tobirama’s hand flexes on the kunai, a little show of repressed rage. Izuna wants to pry him open and cut it out, marvel at it twitching against the palm of his hand.
“He disregards what little honor shinobi have.” Tobirama spits.
Judging by the injuries marring his rival, Izuna can hazard a guess as to why Tobirama holds a grudge. It must have been particularly unpleasant, or otherwise dehumanizing, if Tobirama craves vengeance. For all that they have fought over the years, Izuna has never seen him so disgusted.
“I want to cause him pain.”
“I’ll take care of him.” Izuna promises.
I’ll take care of you. The voice inside Izuna corrects.
Another shinobi, number four, rushes toward Tobirama. There is no hesitation or monologue. Tobirama blocks with his kunai. Little sparks skitter across the locked blades. Tobirama grips the man’s wrist with his free hand and yanks, snapping bone and dragging him forward onto his kunai at once. Impaled.
The fifth goes out with a kunai to the eye and a clawed out throat, open and gurgling viscera. Tobirama gouges out the other for good measure.
The sixth, kneecaps kicked in backwards, throat cut open to muffle the scream.
The seventh and eighth die at once, Izuna holding them captive while Tobirama goes for the kill.
The ninth, tenth, eleventh – they don’t matter. They die unceremoniously so that Tobirama may survive. Izuna is far more focused on the subtle shift of Tobirama’s muscles, on the way the blood splatters prettily against his skin. Izuna stabs the twelfth through the shoulder while Tobirama is otherwise engaged. He remains pinned on Izuna’s blade until Tobirama deigns to notice. Then, he too falls.
The thirteenth is Izuna’s.
Izuna can tell immediately by the shift in Tobirama’s deposition. He snarls, lips pulling back to reveal almost inhuman incisors. His stance defensive. This man hurt him, gravely. His sleeves are rolled up, arms still bloodied – as if he was savoring the evidence of his victory over Tobirama.
Izuna’s mangekyo flares to life. He captures the cockroach in his own personal purgatory.
“Don’t kill him yet.” Izuna says, when Tobirama moves for the kill. “He’ll be there for days, at least. Only a highly skilled or insanely lucky healer could break him out now.”
Tobirama pants with exertion. He eyes Izuna carefully, yet gratefully. His hackles have gone down only just.
“You have any poison on you?” Tobirama grunts. “They’ve stripped mine. Just in case.”
Is this love? Izuna wonders as he passes Tobirama the vial.
When they leave Tobirama’s prison, night has fallen in earnest. The gentle glow of a half-full moon is all that illuminates the two shinobi. Snow crunches under Tobirama’s feet, too chakra-exhausted to even attempt to control his footsteps. Izuna tilts his head, watching the flakes fall gently onto grimy shoulders, saturated with viscera and blood.
“There’s a town about 10 minutes east of our location.” Izuna suggests.
He watches Tobirama hunch over into the snow. The white dusting turns disconcertingly red in his wake. The fighting has likely not helped his condition. He spits a globule of blood onto the ground and groans.
“Why do you mention it?” Tobirama asks, voice muffled by the snow he has face planted into.
“There should be healers there.”
Tobirama struggles, but opens his good eye. He gazes at Izuna critically.
“Will you allow me to be healed, Izuna?” He asks softly. No, not with gentleness. With weariness. As if his voice no longer has the strength to raise.
“Yes.” Izuna says sharply. “I will not let you throw away your life on something so trivial.”
Tobirama chuckles and closes his eyes. Izuna feels a flash of irritation at being – at being mocked.
“Up.” Izuna demands. He shoves his hands under Tobirama’s arms and yanks him upright. The other man stumbles, head lolling to the side. “Up. Come with me.”
Izuna all but drags him.
Tobirama looks odd in the dim candlelight of the healers cottage.
His brow is furrowed. His eyes closed. Though struggling to sleep, he is clearly restless. His wounds still cause him pain.
Izuna reaches out. He touches his fingers against Tobirama’s temple, moving aside a lock of sweat-soaked hair. It is odd to see him without the Senju happuri. He looks softer here. Like he is resting at home, rather than a monstrous enemy on the battlefield.
“Tobirama.” Izuna says gently.
“Ah?” Tobirama grunts. Weakened and unaware, he does not think to avert his eyes.
Izuna catches him in a genjutsu.
(The Land of Waves, immortalized in Izuna’s memory from ten summers past. Clear water surrounding them at all sides, little archipelagos in the distance. The smell of sea brine in the air. The sun begins its descent on the horizon.
Izuna imagined this moment many times. He never expected it to be like this.
Tobirama stands before him. He is as Izuna remembers him most fondly: armored and uninjured and full of life. He blinks at Izuna owlishly. He clutches at his own abdomen, where the most grievous of wounds lie. His hand comes away clean and unblemished by blood.
Tobirama’s head snaps back toward Izuna, eyes wide and confused. It’s a good look on him.
“Rest.” Izuna orders, not a hint of compulsion in his voice. “I will protect you.”)
Tobirama sleeps. His body relaxes, tension of pain leaving him.
Izuna tangles his fingers in Tobirama’s hair. He brushes a thumb over the red ink on his cheek, tattooed over a scar Izuna left eons ago. He watches his chest rise up, then down. Up, then down. Clinging steadily to life.
Izuna settles in for a night of guard duty, ignoring the sinking suspicion that his life has been altered irrevocably.