Chapter Text
It started with a clan-wide smallpox outbreak. Tobirama suspected it had been Marasu who introduced it—damn him. Not going to the medics when he returned from a mission to Land of Waves covered in mysterious blisters, like some kind of damn idiot.
Was stepping into the infirmary, after a mission, really that foreign to him? It was protocol. Mandatory. A very simple way to avoid ending up with, oh look, a full-scale epidemic, and a clan-wide quarantine.
As much as Tobirama would absolutely love to bash Marasu’s head in, it didn’t change the fact that the Senju were in crisis. Forty-five infected so far; sixteen already dead.
A mortality rate higher than thirty percent.
That was… concerning.
To put it mildly.
If this continued another week, the Senju wouldn’t have enough uninfected fighters to guard their borders, let alone keep fighting the war with the Uchiha.
Children were especially vulnerable, with over ten of the dead victims being under the age of fifteen. Which tracked with previous record of a smallpox outbreak, about two generations ago, when Tobirama’s father would’ve been but a child. Twenty percent of the clan had died that year.
Smallpox had no real cure—yet. Plenty of scholars and herbalists were trying, but as it stood, prevention was all they had: inoculation. Useful to make sure it didn’t happen, but useless for the people already suffering.
But Tobirama could at least ease their pain. Kawa-hana, a bioluminescent river flower, was known to soothe the blisters and calm the harsh inflammation. Cooling, numbing, gentler on the skin. A mercy, if nothing else.
It was also known to have a placebo effect, where if the patient felt like they were getting better, they would actually get better, as they would actually put in the effort to stay hydrated, which was one of the core reasons of people dying, amongst other things.
Only one problem, in trying to get some Kawa-hana, let alone as much as is needed, for a clan-wide outbreak: it grew exclusively in Land of Waves, the country’s natural biome being uniquely suited to the flower’s growth.
…And the Water Daimyō, because he had the emotional maturity of a spoiled toddler, was currently in a dick-measuring contest with the Fire Daimyō and had banned all trade between the two countries.
Which was… not ideal.
Just fantastic, really. As if being overlooked by the Fire Daimyō in favor of the Hyūga and Uchiha wasn’t enough—because those two clans had noble blood, and the Senju didn’t—now the Senju had even fewer missions from outside, to stabilize their income.
Tobirama wanted to scream. Or tear his hair out. Both would be cathartic, but neither would help.
And now he had to burn a political favor—for flowers. Wonderful. Absolutely fantastic.
He’d been saving that favor to secure a spot at the Daimyō’s university when Ishigami Ryotō came to lecture. Instead? He was spending it on symptom-relief petals. Which … wasn’t the worst usage, it would be helping his clanmates, but…
Lecture from the Ishigami Ryotō.
A knock pulled him out of his spiraling. A servant girl stood outside—young, dark-haired, tanned, stereotypical of the Land of Country. Her chakra, tiny as it was, even for a civilian, thrashed around, in nervousness. Great.
Tobirama rolled his eyes. Yes, yes, be terrified of the White Demon. As though he had the time or energy to murder random civilians (of his own clan, at that) when half the clan was bedridden. She must have been newly hired by Hashirama; he didn’t recognize her chakra signature.
“Yes?” he asked, sliding open the door.
She squeaked. Actually squeaked. Tobirama felt his patience shrivel. He repeated himself, sharper this time.
The girl shoved a letter into his hand, bowed so fast her hair slapped her shoulder, and bolted down the hall. Tobirama watched her flee and rubbed at his temple. Civilians. Always spooked.
He closed the door and sat at his desk. The envelope carried the Akashi clan seal. Finally.
He tore it open with practiced precision and—despite himself—smiled. Akashi Shintarō had (illegally) arranged the kawa-hana for him.
Then Tobirama schooled his expression. Even alone, indulging wasn’t a good habit.
Shintarō refused to give details by letter—too risky, that absolute insufferable bastard…—but he did include a location and time to meet him in person.
A party.
Hosted by the Daimyō.
While Tobirama’s clan suffered and died.
…Lovely. Simply lovely.
(The corridors were too quiet, other than the coughing.)
–
Now, Tobirama couldn’t exactly just go to the Daimyo’s party. He was much too easily recognizable, with his strange colouring, and it would be bad for Akashi Shintaro to be seen with a Senju, since the Akashi Clan has always been notoriously neutral about giving their favours to any one Shinobi clan.
Tobirama didn’t actually trust most shinobi, not even of his own clan, so he would have to go himself – Hashirama couldn’t go, of course, he was clan head; and Touka had been injured the month prior, which had shattered her leg, and Tobirama would not engage in her meaningless pursuit of fighting her boredom.
So, he needed to disguise himself. After some consideration, he’d decided that henge-ing was probably a very bad idea, since many other invitees to the party had contracted shinobi from various clans as security.
And any shinobi worth their salt would sense a henge immediately.
Which meant henge-ing himself was just as good as basically painting a sign across his forehead, saying: Yes, I’m a shinobi. Come stab me, please.
So, Tobirama would have to do this the old-fashioned way – dyes and makeup. Tobirama sighed, as he began rummaging through his chest of useless stuff that he always forgets to clear out.
He must have some dye left, from his last under-cover mission, and it probably hadn’t gone bad, yet. That took at least a year, yes?
Probably safe to use. Probably. Hopefully.
And he also had makeup stashed away that didn’t make his skin break out in rashes somewhere around, too.
_
That night, Tobirama stepped out of his room at about midnight, hood up. He walked down to the compound gates, noting how the streets were entirely devoid of human beings, probably out of fear.
(The smell of funeral smoke was heavy in the air—)
He’d notified Hashirama about his departure, made sure to remind him to enforce the quarantine no matter what.
Had checked-in with the infirmary to see how Kadae-san was doing – four more found infected with smallpox, three more dead—he left three shadow clones (as Hashirama had dubbed it), to help, as the healers were overwhelmed, with the number of patients.
Reassured Touka that no, he wasn’t going on a high-stakes mission, and, no, there was no risk of dying, he also reminded her to not sneak off, as it would worsen her leg.
(Which…was a lie – the dying bit. But there was only a 19% chance. Practically nothing, compared to his usual missions.)
After he’d reached the main gates of the Compound, one of the shinobi guarding the gates, Tsukasa, spoke up, “Who is it?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Tobirama pulled his hood down. Tsukasa blanched – “Lord Hashirama—! Oh, Tobirama-sensei. Sorry. Very good disguise.”
Tobirama’s lips curled, against his will – he liked Tsukasa, he was one of the kids he’d taken under his wing, and he was genuinely a good shinobi, too. “I’ll take it as a compliment, Tsukasa-kun. Apparently, my brother is very handsome.”
Tsukasa went red. “Fuck off! I was a kid! You– you bastard!”
Tobirama rolled his eyes. “I need to go. You better not be infected by the time I come back – adhere to the quarantine.”
Tuskasa’s eyes hardened, at the mention of the epidemic, all the light sucked out of him. His chakra shifted, too: frayed, barely held together. He looked at his feet. “Yeah…Rika's been infected, ya know that?”
Tobirama sighed – he had known. Had seen the girl, Tsukasa’s soulmate, in the infirmary right before, actually. “I’m trying to find some kawa-hana, ok? It probably won’t cure her, but it’ll bring her relief.”
“I– Thanks, Tobi-sensei…” Tsukasa murmured. “It’s better than nothing.”
Tobirama hesitated, before placing a hand on his head, not ruffling his hair, but just…showing him support. Tsukasa exhaled heavily, shoulders slumping.
He stepped back, after a moment. “I’ll be back. Soon. …Stay safe, Tsukasa.”
He slipped out of the gate, over the boundary of the compound gates, and ran off into the darkness, towards the Capital.
–
Tobirama reached the Daimyō’s palace the next day, just before sunset. The party was starting right now, which meant he had the absolute honour of sprinting through the gates like a man late to his own execution. The guards didn’t even check under his hood.
He was half-relieved, half-annoyed.
Because, seriously? This was the Daimyo's party. The Daimyo was here – the ruler of this damned land. You’re telling him this was the security standard?
Hashirama could’ve walked in disguised as a shrub and gotten waved through.
Tobirama sighed and pushed his hood back down—no sense tempting fate when his entire clan was busy dying—and slipped into the kitchens. Servants swarmed everywhere, balancing dishes and shouting orders, while waiters scampered off toward the upper halls.
He grabbed a tray at random… and froze.
Herbal teas.
The tray was full of little steaming cups of herbal tea.
Tobirama blinked at it, offended on principle.
Who in their right mind came to the Daimyō’s party to sip chamomile? Hashirama, the sake addict he was, would’ve cried real tears at this betrayal.
Civilians were so… strange. Truly alien. Tobirama had no earthly idea how the Uchiha or the Hyūga, or even the Akimich or the Aubrame, kept marrying them on purpose. Half the time those clans even ignored their soulmates in favour of “proper noble matches”—a concept Tobirama had opinions about, most of them rude.
Then again, they had the Daimyō’s favour, didn’t they? Ancient bloodlines. Prestigious lineage. Generational titles.
Meanwhile the Senju… the Senju were still “descended from farmers,” as nobles loved to remind them.
In strength, the Senju stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the Uchiha and Hyūga, and by far outclassed the Auberame and Akimichi.
In social status? In the Daimyo’s favour? Not even close.
…Still. Herbal tea? At a party? Is this what all the Uchiha on the battlefield returned home to?
He almost snorted. The mental image was too much—Izuna, Madara, all grim and stoic… daintily sipping little cups of mint-and-hibiscus like they were some noble ladies gossiping about the latest scandal.
Tobirama shook his head sharply, slipping into the hallway, making his way to the hall where the party was being held, trying to dislodge the visual before it made him laugh out loud.
–
The party was as you would expect – quite boring, by Senju standards, who were known for parties lasting weeks long, leaving most of the adult population hungover – with lots of chatter and strongly-scented perfumes that gave Tobirama a headache strong enough to rival a kunai to the skull.
He still hadn’t spotted Akashi Shintaro, which meant he couldn’t leave yet. Annoying–and impractical. Tobirama’s clan was still dying of smallpox, one of the deadliest diseases of the era.
(Why couldn’t the man be normal, and just meet at his mansion or something?!? He had one, of course he did—as Tobirama had said before: Civilians were truly alien.)
And the fact that Uchiha Madara—yes, that Madara—was leaning against a marble pillar like a bored predator next to the Daimyō (who was happily chatting away with some merchant or the other) absolutely did not help.
The Uchiha had been hired as security for the Daimyo. The same way the Kawahara had contracted the Inuzuka, and the Hiroshi had employed the Ino-Shika-Cho.
And the Uchiha had sent only Madara. Normally, that’d be an insult to the Daimyō’s status… except Madara’s reputation was so terrifying that civilians saw it as it was – Madara is a one-man army, and terrifying. Second only to Hashirama.
Uchiha Tajima was making a statement.
Madara didn’t move from his post. He just leaned there—arms loosely crossed, head tipped back, eyes half-lidded—tracking movement with the lazy precision of a cat that absolutely could pounce but can’t be bothered quite just yet.
Tobirama half-wondered if he acted like this when he actually had to mingle in events like these – which he undoubtedly had to, seeing as his mother was a Furihata, and a niece of the Daimyo himself. The man, and Izuna, too, must have spent a lot of time in events like these.
(Which brought the question:Were they shinobi who carried noble lineage, or nobles who’d mastered the blade well enough to be mistaken for shinobi?)
When Madara had first been seen, walking in with the Daimyo, many of the merchants and lords had tried to speak to him, not quite sure how to work with this social situation. However the Madara had easily ignored them all.
It’d set an easy precedent – he was here due to business, not for mingling. Everyone had left him alone after that.
Mostly. Some unmarried noble girls did try to catch his attention, but he wouldn’t even look their way. The noble girls had been most embarrassed.
Madara not moving a single muscle was perfect. Tobirama decided that since “serving herbal teas at parties” was not actually his job, and just a disguise, he would simply avoid that entire half of the room.
Two hours.
Two whole hours in the same room as Madara Uchiha, and he had not started a fight. Hashirama better praise him for this.
Unfortunately, fate never liked him much – which is easily seen, all you need to see is Tobirama’s unnatural colouring, and luck with parental figures. However, right at the moment, Tobirama decided that Fate must really hate him.
A noblewoman waved her hand dramatically and called, “Tea, please!”
And of course Tobirama—Tobirama—had the only tea tray in the room at that exact moment.
And of course she was standing three feet from Madara’s pillar.
He briefly considered acting as if he hadn’t heard. Which, unfortunately, wasn’t possible – the woman was staring right at him, and had seen him glance at her direction.
So, instead, he calculated his escape odds-–because, really, there was no way he was going to win a fight with Uchiha Madara, second strongest shinobi on the continent.
76%.
Not ideal—he would’ve liked above ninety—but probably survivable.
He took a breath and approached the woman, offered the tray, endured her dismissive wave, and turned to retreat back to the other side of the hall—
“Wait.”
Tobirama forced himself not to freeze. He turned toward the raspy voice.
Madara Uchiha was looking right at him.
He didn’t speak—servants weren’t supposed to. He simply inclined his head, to show that he heard.
“I want one,” Madara said with an eye roll, like the idea of asking for tea personally offended him.
Tobirama blinked. Uchiha Madara wanted tea? And, herbal tea, at that? That was… objectively hilarious. But he stepped forward and extended the tray, keeping as much distance as possible.
The other servants did that too—half for etiquette, half because Madara radiated “touch me and die.” So it wasn’t that suspicious.
Madara reached for a cup. Their hands brushed.
Just lightly. Barely a whisper.
And Tobirama’s world snapped – metaphysically, unfortunately, however literally may have been better.
Heat. And then—colour.
Red. Sharingan red. Blooming at the point of contact like spilled ink.
Tobirama recoiled fast, quickly pulling his burning hand away…
He kept his expression blank, but his brain had absolutely blue-screened.
No. Nope. Absolutely not. He must’ve fallen asleep on the road here. He was dreaming. Hallucinating. A victim of the perfume cloud these civilians emitted. Anything.
Because what were the odds?
Actually… knowing his life, the odds were very high.
He was suddenly, violently grateful for his disguise. He could run. Wash off the dye, and the make-up.
Pretend this never happened. Pretend Madara’s fingers hadn’t left phantom warmth on his palm.
Well, he would have to wear gloves, to hide it from Hashirama and Touka, but that was manageable.
He turned on his heel, walking briskly toward the ornate doors, ignoring someone calling for tea. In his peripheral vision, he spotted Akashi Shintaro finally arriving.
Five minutes earlier.
Just five minutes earlier and he could’ve avoided all… this.
Too late now.
Tobirama strode out of the hall, heart hammering, colour still burning on his wrist.
He’d get the info from Akashi another way. Later – probably ambush Akashi for the date and time later tonight, as he’d wanted to do earlier.
Because there was no universe—not one—where Tobirama Senju spent one more second in that room after this.
(He glanced at Madara, as he left—the man was still staring at his wrist. Then he glanced up, looking right up at Tobirama. Tobirama swiftly looked away, heading for the kitchen, missing Madara’s look of irritation.)
–
Tobirama did end up ambushing Akashi Shintaro, after the man was back home. He quietly slipped through the open window of the bedroom, watching as the man went about stripping himself of jewelry.
When it became clear the man still hadn’t noticed Tobirama’s presence (how?! Are civilians naturally this oblivious—), and was about to start undressing, Tobirama cleared his throat sharply.
Akashi jumped.
“Holy— Shit—!”
Tobirama cleared his throat again. The older man blinked rapidly.
“Oh! Senju Tobirama! Hey-o! You’re here for the shipping info, right? Obviously. Silly me. Tea?”
Tobirama pinched his nose, he did not have time for this. He was in a hurry—his clan was literally dying—and also he was pretty sure he was going to swear off tea forever. At least herbal tea.
No. Bad Tobirama. Stop thinking about the soulmate thing. Focus. Smallpox. Dying clan. Priorities.
“No. Just tell me where and when,” Tobirama said, voice clipped. He ignored the soulmate mark still buzzing pleasantly on his wrist.
Akashi sighed dramatically. “The docks, tomorrow, just before dawn.”
Tobirama nodded—finally—and slipped out the same window he came in through.
–
He thought about washing off the makeup that made him look tanner, but decided against it. His natural skin tone would stand out far too much right now.
But... Uchiha Madara had seen him. Madara would probably come hunting for him now, if only to buy his silence.
Tobirama wondered if he’d ruined everything by being undercover as a servant. Then he reminded himself that he was the White Demon. The Uchiha probably used him as a bedtime horror story:
“Go to sleep before the White Demon comes to steal you away.”
His own clan certainly did worse when scolding children.
(Five more dead. Two more deteriorating fast. One of his shadow clones had popped—warning him someone had taken a turn for the worse. Nearly 50% dead so far.
Bad. Bad bad bad—)
If… that incident with Madara had happened with Tobirama undisguised, as himself… He didn’t want to think about it. It would’ve ended in a fight. Obviously.
Not that it mattered. The Uchiha married for power and status. Madara probably had suitors with ancestral titles lined up back home.
(Why was Fate so cruel? Truly. To not even give him a chance? Was he cursed? Yes. Probably. Everyone said so.)
Tobirama shoved all thoughts of soulmates down deep where they belonged. His clanmates were suffering, dying—he couldn’t even get them the basic relief he’d promised. The whole thing made him feel stupidly useless.
He exhaled sharply and settled himself on a rooftop with a clear view of the docks. The night air was cold enough to sting, and the distant funeral smoke hung faintly even here. There were still a couple hours before dawn.
Better early than sorry.
He stayed there, watching the quiet black water, legs swinging slightly over the edge, trying not to think about red eyes or warm fingers or the mark still burning faintly beneath his sleeve.