Chapter Text
His scalp went numb as his gaze zeroed in on the pale script engraved under his left clavicle—what? when? how?!
Chakra rioted beneath his skin, jagged and clumsy, and every pulse seemed to sear his blood like molten iron. His lungs stuttered, each breath freezing sharp, breaking him apart with every shuddering intake.
Panic and confusion flooded his system, and he just—
Stop overacting to everything, Obito. You never learn, do you?
He couldn’t calm down, couldn’t think, his mind kept spinning, lurching at breakneck speed, grasping for answers without knowing what the fuck he was even supposed to—supposed to seek—supposed to do—
Break it down. Rationalize. Think, you fool.
His fingers—shaking violently, though he hadn’t even noticed—scrabbled at the name, pawing and scratching as if he could tear the name from his skin by force. His nails split flesh, blood welled, wounds sealing only to reopen with each frantic claw, relentless, manically, almost uncontrollably—
You're a lost cause. Why do I bother with you, Obito?
No matter how deep he dug, how much flesh he tore off, the skin persisted to knit itself whole again—new, marked, directly atop the seal Old Man Madara had once placed on his heart—the neat script remained untouched by his futile attempts.
His ears rang, shrill and endless, chakra spiking wild with every lurch of his emotions.
What. What is this?
What the fuck is this?!
No matter how many times he tore through the half-blurred, spasming memory of his last breakdown, Obito couldn’t pin down if Tobirama (a seal master oh sage please no not again he can’t go through that again did he need another chidori to the chest?) had managed to touch him long enough to place a seal on him, or at least had done something similar whilst he’d been vulnerable.
Because, otherwise, why would there be Senju Tobirama’s name on him?! He felt ill. He felt violated.
“This makes no sense?!” OBito hissed under his breath, voice rasping, trembling like ice about to crack.
His eyes hadn’t blinked. Not once. And they felt dry and raw.
He felt unmoored from his own body, hands moving of their own accord. The wounds persisted to heal as fast as they opened, leaving the neat, bloodied script untouched, as if mocking him with every futile strike.
He wasn’t thinking.
Though he fortunately still had half a coherent mind to cover his wet body with the robes he had been provided with before he moved, slipping into the voids of Kamui.
Tobirama has always been a pragmatic and systematic man.
Every motion he made was ever calculated, every shift deliberate, and every plan had contingencies upon contingencies that might arise from unpredictable behaviours and situations from both ally and adversary.
Especially when they were in enemy territory, surrounded by Uchiha soldiers whose chakra signatures seethed with distrust at his and his clan's presence in their home,
Hence, Tobirama did not flinch; he knew better than to react when any response he could potentially make would be deemed a threat, no matter their purpose here.
His body remained pliant as a trembling hand abruptly seized the collar of his dark top. They propelled him into a half-kneeling position from his zabuton, and he kept his posture and expression controlled, devoid of any indication of surprise or concern.
It was fortunate that he had had the foresight to maintain his chakra sensing on the white-haired Uchiha, whose status as his potential soulmate remained undetermined, tracking both movements and chakra fluctuations from the moment Uchiha Hikaku had articulated that name.
When the white-haired Uchiha’s chakra had spiked abruptly, descending into a fit of confusion laced with manic panic, and an intent that spelled trouble, Tobirama had already raised a hand, issuing a single, precise command to his clanmates—
Do not attack.
His decision had been sound, even as the other Uchihas in the meeting room went eerily still, sharingan flaring, at his seemingly arbitrary decision to issue a code directly under their observation. Izuna's expression had twisted, hand reaching for his favored blade—
It took only a single heartbeat for the room to descend into uncontrollable chaos, marked by startled exclamations and erratic movement, Madara’s voice especially loud as he bellowed—
One moment, Tobirama was seated primly, hand still raised after issuing an order. The next, a white-haired Uchiha—frantic and crazed—materialized on the table before him, displacing scrolls and parchments, and dragged him in by the collar.
Tobirama kept his expression void of emotion, his mind systematically calculating every possible solution, already planning methodically ahead to ensure this situation did not escalate further.
“WHAT DID YOU DO?!” The white haired Uchiha, whom he aptly identified as Obito, screamed in his face, voice raw with hysteria, and heterochromic eyes (the mangekyou sharingan and... a purple dojutsu?) wild with panic.
Tobirama’s lips parted in preparation to initiate a non-violent de-escalation approach..., when his body was forcefully jolted.
For a fraction of a second, he felt unnaturally light, vision cut off, and then he was on his back— with one Uchiha Obito straddled on top of him, hands white-knuckled and trembling as they remained clamped on his collar, no doubt stretching the seams.
Tobirama’s expression remained cool, his gaze steady and unshaken, and his muscles stayed loose, even in the face of this unexpected development.
He assessed the intensity of Obito’s chakra fluctuations, noting the erratic spikes accompanying each bated, shaky inhale and fractured exhale. Each surge corresponded with sudden, uncontrolled movements—hands clenching and releasing, fingers twitching spasmodically. All signs pointed to a panic attack, Tobirama concluded.
Why? What was the trigger? What did he think Tobirama did? They were nowhere near each other.
Tobirama allowed his eyes a brief survey of their surroundings before returning deliberately to Obito’s forehead, avoiding eye contact with the most advanced iteration of the Uchiha clan’s famed dojutsu.
In the span of a single second, they had somehow changed locations—instantaneous teleportation, he grimly confirmed, validating his earlier theory.
Above them, the sky was pitch black; beneath him, the ground remained solid. Surrounding them were cuboid structures in varying shades of grey, precise yet seemingly disordered, stretching into what appeared to be an endless abyss.
And the most surprising of all… he sensed no other chakra signatures apart from the blazing inferno directly above him.
(Which should be impossible... unless they were currently between spaces. Between one plane and the next. Space and time. A concept that he had been researching for close to a year now. Utter fascinating. And validating to know that he was on the right path.)
It was mildly disorienting—for a sensor of his calibre to be abruptly isolated, cut off from all others, and left with only the singular signature above. But even as disconcerted as he was, Tobirama remained nothing if not efficient and adaptable.
He compartmentalized, cataloguing the variables: Obito’s apparent panic, his unpredictability, and the potential fallout involving the two parties they had left behind.
For a brief, horrifying moment, Tobirama envisioned the consequences should his brother and their ten guards clash with an entire clan of bloodthirsty Uchiha, but he pushed the thought aside. His priority remained the containment of the immediate threat—his own safety first.
He extended his analysis to observe Obito’s body language, even though he could practically taste the man’s derailing thoughts and unstable emotions with his chakra senses alone. Yet his attention wavered momentarily when he registered Obito’s physical state more closely.
Wet, shoulder-length white hair plastered sharply to defined features. Finely shaped lips parted slightly in an almost desperate attempt to contain the shuddering, raspy breaths of distress.
A damp, dark blue yukata clung sensuously to his mismatched, scarred skin, tied so carelessly that one side had fallen off his left shoulder, exposing orange ink in a winding, spiral-like pattern down his arm, vanishing precipitously beneath the fabric.
He noted, almost injudiciously, the feel of Obito’s quivering thighs pressed against his sides, separated only by the thin barrier of damp fabric—and if he had been any lower…
The meticulous and rational part of him faltered at the unexpected thoughts.
He was beginning to feel… a divergence between cerebration and impulses.
Something primal in him seemed enthralled, for lack of better wording.
Compromised, a distant part of him seemed to scream.
A warning. He needed to leave. Now.
And yet—as if in rebellion against his shinobi training—he remained, the maddening pulsing of his heart turbulent in his throat.
Heat seemed to pool near his guts—causing an ache he dared not acknowledge.
(It felt like a compulsion. As if he he was a shipwrecked sailor enchanted by a siren.)
His fingers twitched, as if they had minds of their own, drawn toward the man straddling him in a way so provocatively intimate that he had to forcibly restrain all movement lest he acted on an impulse he would later come to regret.
Tobirama tried to regain control.
His nostrils flared slightly as he inhaled for four seconds, held it for seven, and exhaled for eight, following the disciplined rhythm he had been taught. But the scent of sandalwood—and something else his distracted mind could not quite place—reached him, and he nearly produced an embarrassing wanting sound, had he not caught himself, pressing his lips into a thin, rigid line.
He knew his control was slipping, and once again, he ventured to clear his mind back into a state of clinical tranquility, to return to cataloging and analyzing variables in an attempt to separate himself from the distraction pressing down on him.
To forcefully focus on the man’s chakra fluctuations and mental state, and not his scent, his warmth, his proximity, the subtle press of muscle against muscle—
And then his attention landed on a stray droplet of water from the ends of Obito’s wet hair, sliding down his pale, exposed shoulder, tracing the enticing curve of his collarbone, continuing lower—
Tobirama’s mouth went dry; his pupils constricted.
He had suspected, of course. His soulscript was factually Uchiha Obito. Yet he had denied it relentlessly; it could've been a case of mistaken identity, someone with an Uchiha surname but not actually related to their clan.
(Because—fucking sage damn it—he had already crossed a boundary with this man on their very first meeting. If this Obito truly was his soulmate… then what he had done was nothing short of atrocious. He’d never forgive himself... and he doubted forgiveness came easily to an Uchiha.)
It was—there was no denying it, however. Not anymore.
A soulscript.
A soulscript written in his handwriting.
A soulscript written in his handwriting, bearing his name.
Even with characters half-hidden by cloth, he knew them by heart. Of course, he knew them.
The same strokes scrawled on every report, every thesis, every seal, every damn thing he had ever put to paper.
千手扉間
Etched clean, blatant, and eternally carved into a pale expanse of skin.
His breath hitched.
His fingers twitched.
He wanted to touch it.
No matter how conscientious he was, how could he remain calm when the man above him carried proof that he was no longer alone in this world? That he was not an anomaly without a soulmate? That he bore a soul just like any other human?
But oh, how cruel the heavens were. A cosmic joke with teeth.
(A soulmate between a Senju and an Uchiha was unprecedented. Their ancestors took it as confirmation that their clans could never co-exist, as there had never been records of soulmates between them.)
An Uchiha. Bound to him—him, a Senju—by a soul-tied connection, bodies branded by fate as if mocking everything they and their ancestors had bled for. His other half. His missing piece. His destiny.
Despite hailing from opposing sides—despite centuries of blood-soaked enmity, despite the seething hatred he carried for the Uchiha clan, who had produced child-hunting squads that had slaughtered his younger brothers ruthlessly—he felt it anyway: the compulsion to yield.
(How could anija have possibly mistaken this for indigestion? The attraction and lure he feels toward Uchiha Obito was maddening.)
To cast aside his blade, to bare his throat, to offer himself in some wordless plea. For forgiveness, for acceptance… he couldn’t even tell which. Everything felt too much. And that gnawed at the edges of his control.
Compose yourself, his father would have sneered. You’re being irrational, he would have pressed, outraged if he ever knew of his prized soldier’s most hidden desire, buried deep beneath layers of self-discipline and rigid rules.
For the first time, Tobirama felt the thin line between control and surrender waver—a tension coiling tight in his chest, forcing his trained mind to fight even harder just to remain himself. To remind himself that soulmate verification required permission from both parties, for an equal partnership to be formed.
But he really wanted to touch it.