Chapter Text
Tobirama stares at the sight before him, his shock barely concealed. Uchiha Madara, proud and unyielding, kneels before him, his voice thick with desperation. Tobirama never imagined seeing him like this. The shock of it freezes him in place for a moment, his mind racing to process the implications.
“I’ll do whatever you want, anything. Just save him. Please,” Madara pleads, his voice cracking under the weight of fear.
The raw emotion coming off Madara’s chakra is suffocating—rage, panic, desperation—and it hits Tobirama like a physical blow. But he doesn’t have time to linger on that. He shakes himself out of his stupor, the clinical part of his mind snapping back into focus. Izuna is dying.
Without wasting another second, Tobirama kneels beside the injured Uchiha. His hands hover over Izuna’s body as he uses a diagnostic jutsu, his chakra probing for the extent of the damage. The results make him curse under his breath. Most of the stab wounds aren’t lethal, but there’s far more serious damage. One of Izuna’s lungs is punctured, and worse yet, he has a brain hemorrhage.
“Fuck!” Tobirama mutters. His chakra surges, more focused now as he assesses his options. He isn’t skilled enough for this. Not for this kind of delicate brain trauma. His hands clench into fists. But there's no one else.
There’s no time to take Izuna to the Senju compound. Using hiraishin to transport him would likely kill him on the spot. And Hashirama? Tobirama stretches his senses and searches for his brother, but he is too far away—out on patrol, too distant from any of his markers. By the time he retrieved him, Izuna would already be gone. The weight of that fact presses down on Tobirama like a vice. It’s up to him.
With a sharp breath, Tobirama summons two shadow clones, each appearing in a burst of chakra. One immediately unseals his medical supplies, while the other assists him without needing any orders. He can feel the Uchiha’s shocked reactions as they see him use the jutsu, but he ignores them.
“Izuna’s lost too much blood. He’ll need a transfusion,” Tobirama says bluntly, his voice cutting through the tense silence. “What are your and his blood types?”
The blank, confused stares he gets in return make him want to scream. Fucking Imbeciles. He bites back another curse. They don’t even know about blood types? Of course, they don’t. The Uchiha may be skilled in battle, but they’re woefully lacking in basic medical knowledge.
He doesn’t waste time berating them for their ignorance. Instead, Tobirama summons a third clone. “Test Madara. See if he’s a match,” Tobirama orders. The clone immediately sets to work, explaining the procedure to Madara with the same clinical detachment Tobirama uses.
Madara, to his credit, hesitates only for a moment before nodding. “Take as much as you need,” he says, his voice low but firm. He’s trying to hide the fear in his chakra, but Tobirama can still feel it thrumming just beneath the surface. Madara’s desperation is palpable—if Izuna dies, so does a part of him. That much is clear. Luckily Madara is a match.
While the third clone prepares the blood transfusion, Tobirama focuses on the more immediate issue. He kneels over Izuna and uses his Suiton techniques to drain the blood from Izuna’s brain, manipulating the liquid with delicate precision to prevent further damage. He’s careful, far more careful than he would be in any battle, but his heart pounds in his chest. There’s little margin for error. Once the blood is removed, he sets to healing the hemorrhage, his chakra straining as he works.
His two clones are focused on the punctured lung, repairing the damage with careful bursts of medical chakra. The bleeding slows, but it’s a race against time. Even with their combined efforts, Izuna’s condition is still precarious.
The third clone, meanwhile, finishes setting up the blood transfusion. It instructs Madara to lie down beside Izuna, attaching the contraption between them to transfer blood. “Let me know if you start feeling dizzy,” the clone orders. Madara only nods, his eyes fixed on Izuna, his expression a mix of fear and fierce determination.
Tobirama doesn’t stop. His chakra is running dangerously low, but he continues healing the stab wounds, closing them with precision and leaving only faint scars behind. He doesn’t care about the aesthetics—only that they stop bleeding.
Finally, Tobirama pauses, scanning Izuna’s body one last time with a diagnostic jutsu. The major wounds are healed, and the transfusion is working. Izuna’s life is no longer slipping through his fingers, but the blood loss is still concerning. Time will tell if he suffered any permanent damage from the brain hemorrhage. Tobirama hopes he hasn’t, but he knows better than to offer false optimism. He dissolves his clones, feeling the flood of fatigue and memories hit him all at once. His vision swims for a moment, but he forces himself to stay upright.
“It’s done,” Tobirama says, his voice blunt and clinical. He looks between Madara and Hikaku, both of whom are watching him with wide, desperate eyes. “I did everything I could. He’ll live.”
Relief washes over them in waves, so strong Tobirama can feel it in their chakra like a heavy sigh. But he holds up a hand to silence any thanks. “Don’t be too relieved yet. He had a brain hemorrhage. I did my best, but there could be lasting damage. We won’t know until he wakes up.”
Madara’s face tightens at the words, but he doesn’t argue. Tobirama doesn’t expect him to. Both brothers are dangerously low on blood, and Madara himself is looking pale from the transfusion.
“You’ll need treatment for blood loss as well. I had to take more that what would be healthy,” Tobirama says to Madara, standing unsteadily. His chakra is nearly depleted, but he pushes through the exhaustion.
Tobirama calmly assesses the situation, scanning the surrounding area for any more potential threats with his chakra. There are none, and a small wave of relief passes through him, though it is quickly overshadowed by the fatigue that gnaws at his bones. His chakra is drained to its limits, and Izuna’s life still hangs in the balance. He doesn’t allow himself to rest, though. There’s still work to be done.
“Hikaku,” Tobirama says in a tone that brooks no argument, “set up camp here. You’re not going anywhere until both of them can move.”
Hikaku glances at Madara and then at Tobirama, but doesn’t protest. His chakra is still simmering with residual stress and worry, but he nods and immediately begins to work, gathering supplies and equipment without question. At least that Uchiha knows when to follow orders.
Tobirama turns to Madara, who is worryingly pale. His eyes, usually burning with sharp intensity, are clouded now, his exhaustion plain. “You can sit up,” Tobirama tells him, “but wait a few minutes before trying to stand.”
Madara pushes himself into a sitting position with a grunt, his hand going to his forehead as he winces. “I don’t think I’ll be walking anywhere today,” he mutters, his voice thick with weariness. “It feels like the world’s spinning.”
“That’s the blood loss,” Tobirama replies clinically, his eyes never leaving Madara’s pale face. Of course, you feel dizzy. You’ve just given away a significant amount of blood. He doesn’t bother offering any unnecessary sympathy. Instead, he unseals a storage scroll and retrieves the rations inside. He begins preparing a simple fish stew, his movements practiced and precise, as if they’re a natural extension of his medical work.
Madara watches him from the side, his gaze distant but focused. His chakra is flickering erratically, still swamped with concern for his brother and frustration at his own weakness. Tobirama feels the weight of Madara’s eyes on him, but he ignores it for now, concentrating on preparing the food. Izuna hasn’t woken up yet, but there’s always a chance he might during the night. He’ll need sustenance, just like the rest of them.
Hikaku, having set up the tents and arranged their camp, walks over quietly to help Tobirama with the cooking. He’s quick and efficient, handing over the necessary ingredients without needing instruction. Tobirama appreciates the lack of questions—it allows him to work in peace. When the stew is finally simmering over the fire, filling the air with the scent of warmth salt and herbs, Tobirama turns to more immediate concerns.
He hands Hikaku a small jar of disinfectant cream and a flask of water. “Clean all your open wounds. Even the small ones. Use the water, then apply the cream, and bandage them properly.”
Hikaku takes the items, his chakra flickering with acknowledgment, but Tobirama isn’t finished. “When you’re done with yourself, treat Madara. I don’t have any chakra left to heal you two, so your wounds will have to close on their own.”
Hikaku nods silently, though Tobirama senses the brief spike of irritation in his chakra—likely at the discomfort of having to tend to Madara’s wounds, too—but he complies without complaint. Hikaku hisses as he dabs the cream on his injuries, the sting sharp and biting. Madara, still sitting on the ground, watches in silence.
The fire crackles between them, its warmth a welcome reprieve from the cold tension that still lingers in the air. Tobirama watches the flames dance, but his mind is elsewhere. Izuna's stable for now, but anything could still go wrong. And the Uchiha, with all their bravado, are far more fragile than they realize.
Once Hikaku finishes bandaging his own wounds, he moves to Madara. The Uchiha Heir’s pride flares briefly in his chakra as Hikaku kneels next to him and starts cleaning the gashes on his arms and legs. Madara doesn’t protest, though Tobirama notices the quiet groan of discomfort when the disinfectant burns against his skin. Tobirama watches them silently, observing how even in their vulnerability, they both cling to their shared strength, determined to endure.
He checks the stew again, stirring it once before setting the ladle down. The air is filled with the soft sounds of the forest around them, the crackling of the fire, and the quiet breaths of exhaustion.
“Dinner should be ready soon,” He says, his tone sharper this time. His own exhaustion weighs heavy on him, but he pushes it aside. The night isn’t over yet, and there’s no guarantee it will pass peacefully. He glances at Hikaku, who’s already finished bandaging Madara’s last wound. The Uchiha look tired—exhausted—but Tobirama knows better than to trust that fatigue will keep them grounded. Pride runs too deep in their veins.
Tobirama stirs the stew in silence, his mind drifting between the rhythmic motion of the ladle and his own internal assessments. His chakra is nearly depleted, but not dangerously so. He’s survived worse situations with less energy. The crackling of the fire fills the silence, and the Uchiha are quiet, though their chakra pulses around him—Madara’s still simmering with an anxious edge, Hikaku’s calmer, though fatigue is beginning to set in.
After a while, Tobirama straightens and glances at both Uchiha. His voice, when he speaks, is as blunt as ever. “There’s no danger nearby. I can’t sense any enemy within a few kilometers of this camp.”
Both Madara and Hikaku look at him, surprised by the announcement. Tobirama pauses, then adds, “Other than of a small group in the capital and another in Wind Country, there aren’t any Kaguya I can sense beyond their compound.”
Madara’s eyes widen slightly, and Tobirama can feel his chakra flare with a brief spike of shock. “You can sense that far? How do you even know we were attacked by Kagu- Never mind, you probably sensed that as well.”
Hikaku frowns at Madara, giving him a sharp look. “Madara, show some respect. He just saved Izuna.”
Tobirama doesn’t bother responding to the reprimand or Madara’s astonishment. He merely gives a curt nod and turns his attention back to the stew, pulling the pot from the fire and setting it down.
There’s a brief silence, filled only with the sound of the fire crackling and the stew bubbling lightly. Tobirama is about to begin serving when Madara speaks again, his tone more controlled this time, though there’s an undercurrent of discomfort. “What do you want in return for saving Izuna?”
Tobirama stops, his hand hovering over the ladle. He can feel Madara’s chakra—a complicated mix of pride and unease—waiting for an answer. He considers the question briefly before replying, his voice as measured as always. “I’ll wait until he wakes up. Then we’ll discuss it.”
Madara seems to relax slightly at this, nodding in agreement. “Fair enough.”
Tobirama resumes his task, ladling the stew into bowls. Hikaku, without being prompted, moves to assist him, passing the bowls over with quick, efficient movements. He’s silent for the most part, but when he takes a taste of the stew, he pauses, then nods in approval. “This is good.”
Tobirama doesn’t react to the compliment, though a flicker of surprise runs through him at Hikaku’s casual praise. He hadn’t expected such a comment from an Uchiha, much less in the middle of this situation. Not that it matters. The stew is simple, meant to replenish their strength more than anything, but it’s enough to keep them going through the night.
As they eat, Tobirama takes a moment to observe the two Uchiha. Madara’s chakra is steadier now, less frantic, though still tense. He keeps glancing at his brother, the worry in his chakra like an undercurrent he can’t shake off. Hikaku, on the other hand, is calm, his chakra level-headed, though Tobirama can feel the quiet respect radiating from him now. Good. At least one of them has some sense.
Tobirama’s own exhaustion presses at the edges of his mind, but he doesn’t let it show. There’s still work to be done, and he needs to be alert in case anything changes with Izuna’s condition. But for now, the quiet hum of their chakra tells him they’re all stable—physically, at least.