Chapter Text
Tobirama stares at the wooden ceiling above him, his sharp eyes narrowing with confusion. The dark brown panels are all too familiar—he's seen them countless times, enough to know every crack, every speck of dirt ingrained in the wood. Yet, something is off. It doesn't make sense. He shouldn't be here, lying beneath the ceiling of his childhood home. Not after everything that happened.
The last thing he remembers is Naruto and Sasuke standing victorious over Madara, and then that strange rabbit-eared woman, Kaguya, whose very presence unsettled him to his core. According to Naruto, she'd been pulling the strings all along, trying to destroy the world for reasons the blonde barely seemed to understand. Tobirama was prepared to return to the Pure Lands after all that chaos. His time in the world of the living was over, his duty fulfilled.
So why is he here? Why is he lying in the room he once shared with his brother, staring at this ceiling?
His confusion brews, but he pushes it aside for the moment. Instinct kicks in, and he spreads his chakra, letting it wash over his surroundings like a wave. It feels almost natural to him, a reflex as familiar as breathing. What he senses, however, pulls him into a sharp focus. The weight of their chakras is unmistakable—his brother, Hashirama, and their father, Butsuma. But it's not just their presence that catches him; it's the violent clash of their energies. The seething anger from both of them radiates like flames licking at the edges of Tobirama's mind.
Butsuma's fury is nothing new; his father's rage was a constant in Tobirama's life, an old storm that never seemed to quiet. But Hashirama? Tobirama could count on one hand the number of times he’d felt his brother's chakra this wild, this filled with unbridled anger. His heart clenches at the unfamiliar weight of it. Hashirama, the one who always smiled, always reached for peace before violence, was fighting their father.
Suppressing a pained groan, Tobirama slowly sits up on the futon, his body protesting with a dull ache that spreads through his muscles. His eyes flicker downward, methodically cataloguing each injury with a detached efficiency. He knows these wounds—knows them from long ago, as if the years between then and now have suddenly collapsed. He remembers the mission that led to them. Back then, he had thought it was simply a combination of bad luck and his own miscalculation. A foolish mistake on what should have been a routine mission.
The shame of that failure still lingers, even now. He hadn't told anyone what really happened, not even his brother. It was years later, after Butsuma's death and Hashirama’s rise to clan head, that Tobirama learned the truth. The mission had been a test, orchestrated by their father, to gauge Tobirama’s loyalty. A test he had only passed because Butsuma never discovered what really occurred.
Tobirama’s fingers twitch involuntarily at the memory. He had risked everything for an Uchiha child, a girl no older than five or six. He had nearly died for her. But he doesn’t regret it. Not then, not now. Even though he had been beaten to a bloody pulp by one of the Hagoromo clan's finest and barely escaped with his life. He had dragged himself, broken and bleeding, through the forest, his fledgling medical ninjutsu the only thing keeping him from death.
The futon creaks beneath him as he shifts, his mind replaying that painful memory with a clarity he wishes he could forget. He had been lucky to survive, lucky to stumble into a Senju border patrol before he bled out entirely. But perhaps the greatest stroke of luck had been that Hashirama, for the first time in six years, stopped treating him like a stranger after that.
It hadn’t restored their bond completely. The chasm that had grown between them after their younger brothers’ death and the lost friendship with Madara was too deep to be easily mended. But at least they had begun to speak again, to acknowledge one another as brothers. Hashirama, always so full of light, had eventually learned what really happened on that mission, though not until long after Konoha had been founded. By then, the girl he saved had grown into a woman. She had approached him one day, thanking him publicly for his sacrifice. A foolish thing to do, but she had chosen the moment well—Tobirama was no longer in any danger of retribution by then.
He lets out a quiet sigh, focusing his chakra. His hand lights up with the familiar glow of pale green, his medical ninjutsu at work. The worst of his injuries begin to close, though his chakra runs out sooner than he would like. Still, the sharp edge of pain fades, leaving him feeling less like he's on the verge of death.
Slowly, cautiously, Tobirama pushes himself to his feet. His knees shake with the effort, and he has to steady himself against the wall, his breath coming in shallow, steadying gasps. The steps he takes are slow, unsteady, but determined. He has always been stubborn, and this time is no different. With every shaky step, he wills his body to obey.
He needs answers.
The backyard beckons, and though his limbs feel heavy, he makes it there without collapsing. His gaze sweeps over the familiar space, the weight of the past pressing down on him like the air itself is thicker here. There's a strange sense of déjà vu, of being caught in a moment that shouldn't exist.
Tobirama stands in the open doorway, feeling his brother’s chakra snap to attention the moment their eyes meet. Hashirama freezes, his wide, dark eyes filling with shock and concern. “Tobi!” he wails, rushing toward him in a blur of motion. His hand hovers uncertainly, trembling in the air as if he’s afraid to touch him, to break him. "What are you doing out here? You should be resting!"
Tobirama narrows his eyes, barely holding back a wince as another sharp pulse of pain pierces through his skull. His brother's concern is genuine, thick with worry, but the roiling anger beneath it is impossible to ignore. “Can’t,” he mutters, his voice low but steady. “Your angry chakra is giving me a headache.”
The effect is immediate. Hashirama deflates like a child caught misbehaving, his shoulders sagging under the weight of Tobirama’s words. "Sorry..." he murmurs, his chakra flickering with guilt and remorse, the once fiery storm cooling to a simmer.
Tobirama doesn’t miss the way their father, Butsuma, watches them from a few paces away, his frown deepening with disapproval. His sharp eyes shift between his sons, his chakra a cold, rigid presence in the room. “Now that you’re awake, Tobirama, you can give me your report,” Butsuma says, his voice cutting through the tension with the same chill his chakra carries.
Tobirama bows his head in acknowledgment, grateful that his injuries save him from having to kneel. “Of course, Father,” he replies, his voice level despite the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. “The mission went without incident, and I retrieved the payment from the client.” His eyes dart toward his father, sharp and calculating, as if searching for any sign that the money had been taken while he was unconscious.
Butsuma is still frowning and his face is as expressionless as before. “I know,” he says, his tone giving nothing away. “The money was still on you when the patrol found you. I put it into the treasury myself.”
On the outside, Butsuma seems as unreadable as ever, but Tobirama is no longer the child who once struggled to interpret his father’s stoic façade. He can feel the underlying suspicion, the faint searching in his father’s chakra that betrays him. The tension, the mistrust, it’s all there, simmering beneath the surface. The first time, Tobirama hadn’t sensed it—hadn’t even realized how close he came to disaster. But now, with his heightened sensory abilities, the mistrust is as clear as daylight.
Tobirama tells his father what he wants to hear. His voice is steady, composed, as if lying to the clan head is the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t flinch as he feels Hashirama’s chakra recoil beside him, a bitter tremor of discomfort at the deception. But Tobirama can’t afford to care. Not now.
“I see,” Butsuma says, his words carefully measured, but Tobirama doesn’t miss the subtle shift in his chakra. The coldness recedes ever so slightly, replaced by a faint warmth—a grudging approval. “It couldn’t have been helped,” Butsuma continues, his voice taking on a practiced neutrality. “A whole squad of Hagoromo was after you, and you were still exhausted from your mission. You made the right decision not to stay and fight to your death.”
It’s a lie. Tobirama knows it. Butsuma would have preferred him to die fighting, to take as many Hagoromo with him as possible. The only reason his father isn’t furious is because he believes Tobirama lured the enemy away toward an Uchiha child—an easy distraction that saved his life. But the truth, the reality of what Tobirama did, would have earned him nothing but scorn.
The sick feeling settles deeper in Tobirama’s stomach, twisting uncomfortably as his father’s chakra edges toward trust. He feels the bile rise in his throat but forces his expression to remain calm. He stands there, listening to his father’s hollow approval, until his legs give out from under him.
A startled cry escapes Hashirama as he moves quickly, catching Tobirama before he hits the ground. His brother’s chakra flares with panic and protective urgency, but Tobirama feels only the growing ache of exhaustion tugging him further down.
“I apologize,” Tobirama manages, his voice strained as he addresses his father. “It appears I’m more tired than I believed. May I be excused?”
Butsuma, in an uncharacteristic show of leniency, merely nods. He waves his hand dismissively, as if Tobirama’s collapse is an inconvenience he’s willing to overlook for the moment. Tobirama’s too drained to care about the unusual show of restraint.
“Can you help me back to my futon, anija?” Tobirama’s voice is quiet, almost embarrassed, as if he’s ashamed to need his brother’s help.
Hashirama doesn’t speak. Instead, he gently slides one arm around Tobirama’s shoulders, the other under his legs, lifting him effortlessly into a bridal carry. Tobirama feels the tension in his brother’s body, the unspoken unease in his chakra. Hashirama carries him back to their shared room in silence, his chakra a tumultuous mixture of lingering anger, guilt, and protectiveness.
When they reach the futon, Hashirama lowers him down with careful precision, as though Tobirama might break if he’s not gentle enough. Even as he lays him down, Tobirama can still sense his brother’s chakra recoiling, pulling away in conflict.
Tobirama doesn’t think about what he’s about to do—doesn’t let the consequences stop him. His body is too heavy, his mind too clouded with exhaustion and the dull throb of pain. More than anything, though, he wants his brother back, the brother he once had before everything changed between them.
So he reaches out, wrapping his arms around Hashirama’s neck and pulling him close. His grip is firm but not desperate, the kind of embrace he hasn’t given in years.
Hashirama stiffens at the contact, his chakra spiking with shock, but he doesn’t pull away. His hesitation lingers, his chakra tense, unsure, but Tobirama can feel the faint warmth of his brother’s emotions—reluctant, conflicted, but still there.
Tobirama closes his eyes, resting his forehead against his brother’s shoulder, and allows himself the brief, fleeting comfort of the moment. He doesn’t know how long it will last, or if it will ever be enough to heal the rift between them.
Tobirama knows the weight of his next words, knows the risk he's about to take. The consequences could be catastrophic—execution for treason, banishment, worse. Yet the knowledge of that danger doesn't stop him. His heart pounds, but not out of fear. It’s something else. Something deeper, like a burden that has been suffocating him for too long.
“I lied to Father,” he confesses in a voice that is little louder than a whisper, but it seems like a roar in the still room. . It comes out easier than he anticipated, the truth slipping past his lips with a strange kind of relief. He feels the weight of it loosen, like a tightly bound knot finally unraveling. He expects resistance, some pang of regret for betraying the clan head, but there’s nothing but a hollow acceptance.