Chapter Text
Tobirama had always known there was something off about those Uchiha bastards—especially the younger one, Izuna. It was laughable how protective Madara was of him, how he hovered like a mother hen, all fire and fury when it came to his brother’s safety.
It was humiliating. If Hashirama had coddled him that way, Tobirama would have taken his own sword to his manhood and then buried himself in the dirt to feed the maggots. No proud shinobi would ever depend on the safety of another man to protect him.
But Izuna was weak. Small.
There had been a time, when they were boys, that the other had been taller than him. Then, one day—over the span of a fortnight—Tobirama had shot up in height, and from that point on, the Uchiha could never keep up. Tobirama bested him in every way: speed, strength, and sheer mass.
One night, after too much sake—though Tobirama usually didn’t indulge—he and his brother snickered around a burning fire. Tobirama didn’t like how the liquor loosened one’s lips, left one in an inebriated state, vulnerable to questions and… honest answers.
Still, he added wood to the fire while Hashirama kept filling their cups. They joked about an old battle. It had ended with only a few scrapes, and Tobirama getting launched across the field—he had managed to pin the slippery younger Uchiha down. Their bodies flushed, his kunai to the other man’s throat. The soft brush of skin, the exposed neck and collarbone beneath shredded armor. His body had responded almost instantly, when he met dark eyes staring at him with a look he couldn’t discern. In a fit of rage, Madara had left his fight with Hashirama and caught Tobirama by the armor and sent him sprawling, rolling into a ravine.
Izuna had vanished soon after, without a word.
When Tobirama managed to climb out, he was left with a sick feeling in his stomach—so he buried it. Something that day had changed between them.
It was years until he even allowed himself to relive that. But that night, those thoughts resurfaced––unwelcome. Around the fire, they mocked Izuna’s stature, his delicate hands, his too-round face. He wasn’t handsome. He didn’t look like any man they had ever seen.
Toka, their cousin, looked more masculine than he did—and she was as homely as any other Senju woman.
The laughter died as Tobirama stared into the fire, a heat rising under his skin that had nothing to do with the sake souring on his tongue, because that was when Tobirama realized it.
Izuna was… pretty.
And he hated that he noticed.
He didn’t dare voice it to his brother, Hashirama, but he hated how Izuna drew his attention without even trying. Hated how his presence lodged itself in the back of Tobirama’s mind like an unresolved puzzle. Hated how something about his chakra sent a prickle down his spine.
Hated that he wanted to know why.
He hated how confused he felt. How drawn he was to an enemy.
So when he saw him alone, wandering the border between the Uchiha and Senju––picking useless flowers, frilly things that held no medicinal value—no Madara, no guards, no witnesses—he should have just walked away.
But his hands itched for violence.
Tobirama didn’t hesitate.
He struck.
Maybe if he killed him, the traitorous thoughts would die with him. The sleepless nights. The shame of reaching for himself in the dark and the messes he hid, afterwards. The unwanted fascination. The confusing, burning frustration that coiled in his gut and left him aching in ways he refused to name.
He remembered the soft curve of the man’s jaw, his small hands, his eyes—deep obsidian that seemed to capture his soul.
Tobirama expected a fight.
What he didn’t expect was for Izuna to run.
And the man was fast—for such stubby legs.
But Tobirama was faster.
He felt the familiar pull of one of his seals—teleporting him right into Izuna’s path.
This time, there would be no escape.
Tobirama had wanted more of a fight. He craved it. Wanted to unleash his aggression and frustration— he wanted the satisfaction of destroying these confusing thoughts.
Instead—
The moment his strike landed, Izuna crumpled like paper. His armor tangled in the fabric of his enemy’s sleeve, and together they tumbled down a ravine, crashing through brush and loose rock before hitting the mouth of a cave. Tobirama wasted no time dragging the man’s unconscious body inside and pinning him to the cold stone floor––reminiscent of that day in that field, body flush––Kunai to the throat.
It should have been over then.
But instead, Tobirama found himself frozen.
The sheer softness of the man beneath him was… jarring.
Years of training had turned shinobi into living weapons—honed, hardened, unyielding. Even those not built for brute strength carried a certain steeliness in their bodies.
But Izuna felt as soft as wisped cotton wrapped in silk beneath his hands.
Tobirama recoiled.
His breath hitched as he jerked back, moving to the other side of the cave as if burned. His gaze lingered on his fingertips, still tingling from the contact. Izuna smelled faintly of jasmine and parchment. Tobirama’s eyes dropped to the crumpled figure before him, the dying daylight casting long shadows across his face.
And then the horrifying realization finally crept in.
His sharp eyes traced over the delicate features—the impossibly smooth skin like unblemished cream, the small hands, the too-large, almost doe-like eyes framed by thick lashes. Lips, soft and heart-shaped.
His heart pounded, threatening to escape his chest as the panic grew.
And then—lower.
Tobirama’s breath caught as his gaze locked onto the faint rise and fall of a chest that—beneath loose fabric—held a shape that should not have been there. His eyes drank in the softness of the body. The gentle slopes—no longer hidden by armor. The curve of hips that were too rounded, too delicate for a man.
Subtle. But unmistakable.
Izuna Uchiha… was a woman.
He had wanted to kill a man.
Not murder a woman.
The realization sat like a stone in his chest, heavy.
Izuna was a girl.
Tobirama was no butcher of women. He did not slay the defenseless in their sleep. And yet, unease prickled down his spine—not out of guilt, but because he now knew something that must have been a deeply guarded clan secret. Uchiha women didn’t go to battle. They were kept in the compound—hidden away like princesses in a tower.
He knew what horrors haunted those women.
He heard the stories––
What targets they wore on their backs.
And he also knew—if the Uchiha clan found out he knew, the war between them would intensify to bury that secret. Also, he now knew how loaded each blow he laid on her weighed—every event in their life, suddenly making more sense. Madara would burn the world to the ground. Killing his brother was one thing… but his sister?
Izuna stirred.
With a sharp breath, she sat up, her head snapping toward him. Her eyes—already wide—widened further. She clutched at the fabric of her yukata, as if checking to see if he had ravaged her. Small hands trembled as she looked at him in shock.
Tobirama looked away, scowling. He was an enemy—but he wasn’t a monster.
“I’m still alive?” Her voice was different now—softer, more delicate.
His jaw tightened. “I don’t kill women in their sleep.”
Her lips parted, trembling slightly. “I—”
The look on her face wasn’t mistrust. It was a plea–– a silent agreement of sorts.
Begging him to keep her secret.
And in return, she would keep his.
Their clans were enemies. But she had nothing to fear of him knowing her true identity as a woman, the Senju… were not monsters.
He averted his gaze.
“Save it,” he snapped. “This changes nothing. The next time I see you, I will kill you.”
And then, in a blur of motion, he was gone—vanishing into the night.
Leaving her alone in the cave.
Shivering. From the cold… or from fear.
He didn’t know.
And he didn’t care.
At least, that’s what he told himself.