Chapter Text
Tobirama has always had a problem with his scent.
Or rather—everyone else has had a problem with it.
When they were at war, it had been a significantly lesser point of contention. Not many had the time, nor the energy, to focus on how a shinobi smelled among the putrid tang of blood and rot that so often overtook the battlefield.
Toka had even called it a positive, once. “It must be quite jarring,” she had said, “To look over and see your clan slaughtered, surrounded by the smell of vanilla and caramelized sugar.”
Right.
If Tobirama had possessed the time earlier in his life—real time, not stolen hours between skirmishes—he might have researched it properly. The mechanics of gender. The biological absurdity of scent. Why some people smelled like smoke or salt or ozone, while others were cursed with something better suited to bakeries and children’s festivals.
If there was an answer buried in blood or genes, some explanation for why his presence lingered like fresh pastries cooling on a counter, he would have found it. He would have catalogued it, dissected it, and corrected it. If he couldn’t correct it, he would have learned to suppress it. Unfortunately, the war did not allow for that kind of indulgence.
And now there was peace.
Peace, it turned out, was not the absence of labor, but its reconfiguration. The work no longer came in bursts of bloodshed and retreat, but in endless accumulation: plans layered atop plans, disputes stacked in poorly filed reports. There were academies to design and staff, infrastructure to map and raise from bare earth, courts to establish, laws to codify, budgets to argue over until the candles burned low and the ink ran dry.
A village did not simply exist. It demanded to be built, argued into coherence piece by piece. All of it took time. All of it took precedence.
Which meant that, much like during the war, Tobirama found himself without the luxury to address the problem of his scent. It lingered on the list of Necessary Future Considerations, hovering just below more immediate concerns like food supply chains and interclan arbitration.
Still, if he was being honest with himself—and Tobirama prided himself on honesty, at least internally—it was becoming increasingly clear that a reevaluation of priorities might be in order.
“Here you go, cupcake.”
The report landed on Tobirama’s desk a little too gently, placed with mock care atop a stack of papers already aligned within a finger’s breadth of perfection.
Tobirama did not look up. He finished signing his name first, dotting the final mark with unnecessary firmness. Only then did he lift his gaze.
Izuna Uchiha was standing far too close, one shoulder leaned against the desk, expression open and bright with its own cleverness. His scent reached Tobirama easily—black pepper, sharp and rich, the kind of thing people expected a shinobi to smell like. The kind of thing no one commented on.
“Leave it,” Tobirama said. “And go.”
Izuna’s mouth quirked. “Busy? I figured you’d appreciate the efficiency. I even brought it myself—didn’t trust anyone else not to wrinkle it.”
Tobirama exhaled slowly through his nose. He returned his attention to the paperwork, flipping a page over. He did not rise to the bait. He would not give Izuna the satisfaction.
It was all very familiar—an alpha’s casual confidence, the assumption that proximity and commentary were privileges rather than intrusions. Hashirama possessed it as well, though his manifested as protective warmth rather than provocation; Madara carried it like pressure, a presence that filled space without apology. Izuna’s version was sharper, a testing of boundaries for the pleasure of watching them hold.
Izuna waited. The silence stretched just long enough to be deliberate.
“So,” Izuna said lightly, “did you think it was worse today? Or was that just because you’d been in here all morning, letting it… steep?”
Tobirama’s pen stilled.
“It is not a cupcake smell,” he said, without looking up.
Izuna blinked. “Sorry?”
Tobirama looked at him then, eyes sharp and flat. “Cupcakes are an imprecise classification. What you are smelling is vanilla, caramelized sugar, almond—”
“—those are cupcake ingredients,” Izuna cut him off, delighted.
Tobirama’s eye twitched. He rolled them, deliberately, and turned back to his work.
“Report received,” he said flatly. “You may go.”
Izuna laughed, soft and pleased, and did not move.
Tobirama flipped another page. He refused to look up again. He would not engage. He would not dignify this with further response. He had survived war councils, battlefield retreats, his brother’s optimism—he could survive Izuna Uchiha’s smug satisfaction.
Izuna leaned closer instead.
“You know,” he said conversationally, “if you didn’t smell like you’d just walked out of a bakery, I might just take you more seriously.”
Tobirama set his pen down with care. Too much care.
“Training grounds,” he said, already rising to his feet.
Izuna’s grin widened, feral and delighted. “Thought you’d never ask.”
This, too, had become routine.
Later, someone would survey the damage and sigh, already calculating repairs. The training grounds were riddled with scars—impact craters layered atop older ones, the earth never quite smoothed out again. It was an open secret that a not insignificant portion of the damage could be traced back to Tobirama Senju and Izuna Uchiha resolving their differences the only way either of them found satisfactory.
Tobirama told himself this was efficient. It did not, however, solve the problem.
The scent clung to him stronger after the spar ended, stubborn and warm beneath sweat and exertion, as present as it had always been. He scrubbed his hands later, rinsed his face, and found, unsurprisingly, that it made no difference.
The first time he learned that lesson, he had been thirteen. Already tall for his age. Already blooded. Already spoken of in the same measured tones adults reserved for weapons that worked too well. He had built his reputation early and deliberately, a careful accumulation of victories and competence and cold precision. By the time he presented, most people had already decided what Tobirama Senju was.
Which was why, perhaps, the scent had been the greater shock. Butsuma had stared at him for a long moment, brows drawn together in a way Tobirama had seen only a handful of times before. Confusion did not suit his father. It sat uneasily on his face, heavy and unresolved.
As an omega, sweetness was not unusual in itself. Most omegas he had encountered smelled palatable, subdued enough to fade easily into the background of a battlefield or council chamber. Naori Uchiha, who currently served as his assistant, smelled of cardamom. Mito’s presence carried the cool clarity of salt and wind, an ocean breeze that never overstayed its welcome.
There was, he knew, no scientific basis for it. But shinobi, omega or otherwise, tended toward sharper, darker profiles than civilians. A consequence, perhaps, of long exposure to violence, to chakra strained and burned into the body until even the air around a person seemed to remember it. It was an observation rather than a rule, a pattern noticed and quietly accepted without examination
And Tobirama had never fit patterns cleanly.
The omega presentation itself had been… unremarkable. A biological fact, filed and acknowledged. Manageable.
War had little patience for such observances. The Senju, for all their faults, had never possessed the luxury of indulging fragility where it could not be afforded. An omega was not a porcelain vessel to be tucked behind screens while others bled in their stead. An omega was another body on the field. Another set of hands. Another pulse of chakra to be spent.
Tobirama had understood, even then, that it was not the classification that bothered people. It was the contradiction.
---
Tobirama arrived early, as he always did.
The council chamber was quiet when he entered, the long table bare save for neatly stacked documents and the faint, lingering traces of those who had occupied the room earlier in the day. He took his seat and began arranging the required papers, allowing the stillness to settle.
It did not last. Conversation filtered in with the councilors, voices preceding them through the open doors before bodies followed. The air grew steadily thicker, each scent layering in as its owner took their place. Tobirama cataloged them automatically, the way he always did, grounding himself in observation.
He was not the only omega in the room. The Nara head sat across from him, posture relaxed to the point of deception, smelling faintly of bitter coffee and old paper. Alert, despite appearances. To Tobirama’s left, Naori took his position without ceremony, brush in hand, cardamom curling low and steady.
The Hyūga representative, cool and severe, carried almost no scent at all beyond a faint trace of clean linen and something mineral. He was a beta, controlled, difficult to read by design. The Akimichi matriarch was similar, warm grain and roasted tea, steady in a way that did not compete for space.
Hashirama came in mid-conversation, laughter in his voice, hands braced on the table as he leaned forward to greet the others. He smelled like damp earth and sun-warmed leaves. Dirt, really. Honest and grounding in a way some people found comforting. Tobirama had long since accepted that his brother’s presence tended to smooth edges whether anyone asked it to or not.
Hashirama did not go straight to his seat. He veered closer instead, close enough that his wrist brushed Tobirama’s shoulder, the scent gland there pressing briefly against the side of Tobirama’s neck in a gesture so familiar it barely registered as deliberate. Hashirama hummed, low and pleased, and only then moved on, already greeting someone else.
Tobirama did not react. He continued aligning his papers, pen placed precisely parallel to the page. If anything, the motion was smoother than before.
Hashirama had always liked his scent. Tobirama had heard him say so, more than once, with the same uncomplicated enthusiasm he applied to wildflowers, oddly shaped rocks, or meals that objectively should not have worked but somehow did.
That, admittedly, was the troubling part. Hashirama’s tastes had never been a reliable metric.
Tobirama exhaled quietly through his nose and forced his attention back to the door.
Madara and Izuna arrived last.
Madara did not announce himself, but the air shifted all the same. Bonfire and smoke, banked low but intense, his scent pressed into the room with unapologetic certainty. He took the seat beside Tobirama, close enough that the heat of him was unmistakable even without looking.
Izuna lounged a few seats down, black pepper sharp and restless, attention drifting between the discussions and Tobirama with equal interest.
The meeting began the way it always did.
Routine matters came first. Patrol rotations along the eastern border. Trade disputes settled with more paperwork than satisfaction. A brief argument over budget allocations ended, predictably, in compromise no one particularly liked. Tobirama listened, interjected when necessary, his contributions concise and measured.
Scent flared around the table in small, involuntary tells. Irritation sharpened the Nara’s coffee-bitter presence. Hashirama’s earth deepened when he grew impatient, the weight of it pressing warm and steady against the room. Izuna’s black pepper spiked whenever someone talked too long. Madara’s smoke remained constant.
This was normal.
A shinobi learned early that scent betrayed what discipline concealed. Anger soured it. Annoyance thinned it sharp. Satisfaction warmed. Interest—unfortunately—sweetened. It was information whether one wanted it to be or not, a quiet commentary on the inner state that no amount of composure fully erased.
Tobirama kept his face blank. When the time came, he cleared his throat and presented his proposal.
It was a practical measure: a standardized rotation for mixed-clan patrols, designed to reduce friction and improve response times. The logic was sound. The numbers were thorough. He had already accounted for the objections he expected to hear.
There was a pause when Tobirama finished.
It was brief, evaluative—people skimming the proposal again, checking figures, aligning it against their own experience. Tobirama waited, hands folded, expression neutral.
The Akimichi head was the first to speak.
“I like this,” she said, blunt and immediate. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest. “Clear rotation. No favoritism. Less time wasted arguing over whose patrol got reassigned where.”
A few heads turned. A few nods followed.
“It cuts down overlap,” the Inuzuka head added, tail of his attention flicking through the numbers. “Mixed teams’ll learn each other’s rhythms faster. Fewer scuffles over jurisdiction.”
“Assuming the rotations are enforced evenly,” the Hyūga said, cool and precise.
“They are,” Tobirama replied. “The schedule is fixed six weeks at a time. Adjustments require council approval.”
That earned another nod.
The Nara exhaled, long and thoughtful, coffee-bitter scent smoothing out. “Less friction. Faster response. Fewer grudges carried forward.” His mouth quirked faintly. “I don’t see a downside that isn’t already present.”
One by one, agreement settled around the table. The proposal passed with surprising speed, objections anticipated and dismissed before they could gain traction. Someone called for a formal vote. Hands lifted. The matter was settled.
Efficient.
Tobirama inclined his head. “Noted,” he said evenly, and moved to gather his papers.
He did not smile. He was aware, however, of the subtle warmth beneath the layers of sugar and vanilla, a flare of satisfaction Tobirama could not fully suppress. It settled into the air like fresh heat from an oven door cracked open.
Across the table, Hashirama beamed. It was immediate and unguarded, a grin so wide it bordered on indecent, pride radiating off him in waves. The earth-and-leaf scent deepened, rich and pleased, pressing warm against the room.
Tobirama pointedly did not look at him.
He kept his gaze on the documents in front of him, aligning the edges again even though they were already straight. He would not acknowledge it. He would not engage. This was not necessary.
Unfortunately, others had noticed.
“Well,” the Akimichi said, amused, “someone’s pleased with himself.”
A few quiet chuckles rippled around the table. Tobirama’s jaw tightened.
Izuna tilted his head, considering him with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “You know, most plans don’t come out of the oven that clean on the first try. I’d call that a success worth savoring.”
The Nara closed his eyes briefly, as if appealing to patience he did not possess. “You cannot possibly think that was subtle.”
Madara, beside Tobirama, huffed a low laugh. “If nothing else,” he said, “it’s the first council decision I’ve witnessed that didn’t leave a bitter aftertaste.”
Tobirama’s pen snapped shut.
“That’s enough,” he said, tone clipped. “The matter is settled.”
Hashirama laughed, bright and unguarded. “Oh, come on. It’s not a bad thing.” He leaned forward, elbows on the table, smiling at Tobirama. “I like it when you’re happy. Makes the whole room feel lighter.”
“Stop talking, anija.”
Hashirama gave him a very characteristic pout.
Izuna grinned, clearly still pleased with himself. “Face it, cupcake. You make bureaucracy go down easier.”
Tobirama’s gaze cut to him. “Stop calling me that.”
Izuna only smiled wider. “Can’t help it. Suits you.”
Tobirama gathered the remaining papers in one smooth motion and rose to his feet, chair legs scraping softly against the floor. The sound cut through the lingering amusement at the table with efficient finality.
“If there is no further business,” he said, voice even, “this meeting is adjourned.”
“Oh, come on,” the Akimichi said. “We were just joking, Tobirama-san.”
Hashirama opened his mouth, already half-laughing. “He didn’t mean anything by it, really—”
Tobirama did not wait to hear the rest.
He turned and left the chamber, the doors closing behind him with a firm, controlled click that left no room for further commentary. The air followed him, sweetness trailing despite his best efforts, warm and lingering in a way that felt suddenly oppressive. He kept his pace steady as he moved down the corridor. He did not allow himself to hurry. He did not look back.
He did, however, feel Madara’s attention lingering like heat at his back, smoke and ember pressing close even after distance should have thinned it. Tobirama refused to acknowledge it, just as he refused to acknowledge the familiar tightening in his chest.
Unprofessional, he told himself. A distraction.
The meeting had been efficient. Productive. And yet, once again, the focus had shifted, however briefly, away from substance and toward him. Toward something he could neither control nor fully suppress.
He exhaled slowly, counting the steps until his breathing steadied. Clearly, Tobirama thought, his presence remained a disturbance.
---
“Sensei!”
Tobirama turned at the sound, already halfway across the academy grounds after the council meeting, his thoughts still aligned to schedules and reports.
Kagami stood a few paces away at the edge of the training field, feet planted, hands clasped behind his back in an attempt at formality that was already slipping. There was dirt on his sleeves and grass caught in his hair; whatever lesson had been in progress had clearly ended, though his attention had fixed firmly on Tobirama instead.
“Yes?” Tobirama said.
Kagami hesitated, glancing sideways at the others gathering nearby. “We were wondering if you could show us that water technique again. The one where you only used one hand seal.”
A chorus rose immediately.
“Yeah, that one!”
“Please, Sensei.”
“I almost had it last time—”
“You said we could try again!”
Tobirama let the noise wash over him, waited for it to settle on its own. It did, eventually, the children quieting with varying degrees of success, attention snapping back to him in uneven lines. It was not one of his assigned instructional days. The schedule was clear on that point; he had reviewed it that morning. He should, by all rights, have continued on his way and left this to the instructors already on duty.
He did not.
Tobirama had never found a satisfactory method for refusing students who asked in earnest.
“Line up,” he said calmly. “If you intend to learn it, you will need to watch properly.”
They scrambled to obey, feet scuffing against packed earth, shoulders bumping as they jockeyed for position. Kagami took his place near the front, expression serious now, brows knit in concentration.
Tobirama stepped forward and demonstrated the technique slowly, breaking it down as he went. His voice was even, pitched to carry without sharpness. He corrected a stance here, a hand position there, never raising it, never rushing.
The children followed him closely. He noticed, as he always did, how near they drifted without thinking. How easily they closed the distance, how readily they lingered at his side when instruction paused. It was not deliberate, but the instinct was there all the same, a rudimentary form of scenting they did not yet have language for. One child leaned against his knee as he knelt to correct another’s stance; another sat cross-legged at his feet, chin tipped up, eyes heavy with concentration.
Their scents were light and unformed, still shifting—sun-warmed skin, grass, sweat, the faint sweetness of rice cakes eaten too quickly before training. Beneath it all, his own presence settled over them, familiar and steady.
They relaxed. Tension bled out of small shoulders. Restless fidgeting stilled. Even the more anxious children, those who hesitated before moving, who glanced to others for reassurance, seemed to ease once they were close enough to him.
Tobirama had noticed it before. He noticed it every day. It was difficult to ignore the conclusion that followed.
If he had smelled differently—if his presence had carried something sharper, something more severe—would the Uchiha have been as willing to place their children under his instruction? Would there have been more hesitation, more careful distance, more conditions quietly imposed?
He suspected there would have been.
His reputation alone should have inspired caution. His history certainly warranted it. And yet, the children had been brought to him readily enough, guided forward by adults who watched from a distance and did not intervene. His scent, for all that it invited commentary and ill-considered humor elsewhere, softened something here. It made him, if not safe, then at least familiar.
A small, unwelcome advantage.
His secondary gender likely helped as well, easing expectations, smoothing edges people might otherwise have kept sharp. Tobirama was uncomfortably aware of how much perception governed trust, particularly where children were concerned.
A tug at his sleeve drew him back.
“Sensei,” a student said quietly, eyes bright, “can you watch me next?”
“Yes,” Tobirama replied at once.
He shifted closer, attention narrowing to the student in front of him. Her stance was solid, but her shoulders were tense, chin lifted too high in anticipation of failure. Tobirama reached out and adjusted her grip, fingers light.
“Relax here,” he said quietly. “You are forcing it.”
She nodded, breath hitching once before she steadied. He stepped back and gestured for her to try again.
The water answered more readily this time, lifting in a wavering arc before splashing back down. It was not perfect. It was progress. A smile broke across her face anyway.
“That was better,” Tobirama said. “You felt the difference.”
“Yes, Sensei,” she said, beaming.
Around them, the others watched closely, the earlier restlessness replaced with intent focus. No one drifted away or looked bored. They waited, patient and unselfconscious, for their turn.
Tobirama straightened, folding his arms loosely as he surveyed them.
Perhaps, he allowed himself to think, it was not entirely bad after all.
---
Tobirama revised that assessment less than two days later.
The Kaguya delegation arrived without fanfare, a small contingent from the north where clans clung to isolation like a second skin. They were not allies yet, nor even petitioners in the formal sense—merely curious observers, drawn by whispers of a village forged from old enemies. Hashirama had insisted on extending every courtesy, lest opportunity slip away in the fragile dawn of peace.
Tobirama had not joined the welcoming party at the gates. There was no need; Hashirama and Madara handled such gestures with their usual blend of charisma and intensity, a tandem that disarmed as often as it intimidated. Instead, he remained in the council chamber, arranging everything they would need for the meeting. The maps of potential border integrations, preliminary alliance terms, resource assessments laid out in neat columns.
He heard them before he saw them: the low murmur of voices approaching down the corridor. Tobirama straightened, folding his hands behind his back as the doors swung open.
The Kaguya entered in a loose formation, their leader at the fore—a tall alpha woman with pale hair bound in a severe knot, her eyes sharp and assessing beneath the clan's distinctive markings. Two others flanked her, men with the same angular features, their postures alert but not overtly hostile. They smelled of cedarwood, flint, iron, a metallic tang that spoke of blood recently spilled, though whether in battle or ritual, Tobirama could not say. It was a fitting profile for a clan that wielded their own skeletons as shields.
Hashirama gestured them forward with expansive warmth, Madara a step behind, his presence a steady counterweight.
"Just this way, if you don’t mind." Hashirama said, voice booming with genuine enthusiasm. "We've prepared a brief overview of our structure—nothing too formal yet."
The delegation's leader inclined her head, gaze sweeping the room before settling on Tobirama. Her expression shifted subtly, a flicker of something appraising, almost indulgent. She stepped closer, extending a hand toward the stack of papers on the table as if to inspect them.
"You must be the scribe," she said, her tone polite. "These look well-organized. We'll need copies for our records, if you don't mind."
Tobirama blinked once, his face remaining impassive. The mistake was not uncommon—omegas in administrative roles were a familiar sight in many clans. Still, the directness of it here, in his own domain, carried a sting he filed away for later examination.
Hashirama froze mid-gesture, his smile faltering. "Ah—no, actually," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a chuckle that bordered on awkward. "This is my brother, Tobirama Senju. He's our head strategist, oversees village operations, patrols, academy curriculum... pretty much everything that keeps this place from falling apart."
He shot Tobirama a quick, apologetic glance, the earth-and-leaf scent around him spiking with mild discomfort.
The Kaguya leader paused, her hand withdrawing as she reassessed him. "My apologies," she murmured, though her eyes lingered, interest flickering in their depths. Her scent shifted, curiosity bleeding into something more instinctive.
Tobirama inclined his head in acknowledgment. "No offense taken. Shall we begin?"
He gestured to the seats, ignoring the faint heat rising at the back of his neck. Embarrassment was a useless indulgence, but he could feel the room's attention sharpening, scents layering in involuntary commentary. Hashirama's earth deepened with protective concern; the other councilors, already seated, exchanged subtle glances as their own profiles remained carefully neutral.
Madara, however, tensed immediately. He had taken his place beside Tobirama without a word, his smoke-and-ember scent coiled tighter. It pressed against Tobirama's awareness, heavy and insistent, but he dismissed it as another distraction, one of his own making.
The negotiations commenced with deliberate formality, the councilors settling into their roles as Tobirama outlined the benefits of integration: shared defenses, access to Konoha's growing trade networks, collaborative training that could refine their kekkei genkai without the isolation that bred stagnation. His points were logical, backed by maps and projections, each one designed to appeal to a clan accustomed to self-reliance. Yet the delegation listened with a veneer of politeness that thinned with every word he spoke.
The leader—Kimi, she had introduced herself curtly—interrupted midway through his explanation of resource allocation.
"Admirable structure," she said, her tone carrying the edge of condescension, "but we've managed our borders without such... oversight for generations. What assurances do we have that our ways won't be diluted in this melting pot of yours?"
Tobirama met her gaze evenly. "The village thrives on mutual strength. Your kekkei genkai would remain yours to wield, enhanced by alliances rather than eroded."
One of the flanking alphas snorted softly, his flint-and-iron scent sharpening with amusement. "Enhanced? By scribes playing at strategy?" The words were low, but they carried, drawing a few stifled chuckles from his companion.
Tobirama's expression did not change, though internally he cataloged the slight. He had encountered such attitudes before—the Hyūga, with their rigid hierarchies, had been insufferable in their own way, viewing omegas as adjuncts to power rather than wielders of it. But the Kaguya's dismissal carried a rawer edge, unpolished by the wars that had forced the Senju and Uchiha to value competence over classification.
Clans like theirs, spared the ceaseless grind of central conflicts, clung to older traditions: omegas sequestered in supportive roles, their scents deemed invitations rather than markers of individuality.
Hashirama stepped in smoothly, his voice warm and redirecting, elaborating on the communal benefits with anecdotes that painted Konoha as a beacon of unity. The delegation nodded along, their interest rekindling under his alpha charisma, but Tobirama felt the undercurrent persist. A subtle dismissal of his contributions, as if his words carried less weight simply because of the air that followed them.
A break was called after the initial round, the room stirring as people rose to stretch or confer in low tones. Hashirama drew Kimi aside for a more personal discussion near the windows, his laughter once again cutting through the tension.
Tobirama remained seated, reviewing notes with feigned absorption, though his attention extended outward as it always did. The two male Kaguya had stepped into the corridor during the recess; the council chamber doors had swung shut behind them with a muted thud, sealing their voices into privacy.
For a time, there was only the low hum of conversation within the room. Then one of the Inuzuka excused himself to fetch additional documents. He slipped through the doors and, in his haste, failed to pull them fully closed behind him. They remained slightly ajar.
The corridor carried sound more efficiently than most people realized.
"—trusting them," one muttered, a low chortle following. "No wonder they keep that omega tucked away in here. Imagine that on the field."
The other laughed, sharper. "It’d be distracting for sure. Bet he heats up the whole council when they argue. Useful, in its way."
Tobirama's fingers tightened on his pen, the ink blotting slightly under the pressure. The words were crude, predictable. But unwanted attention was nothing new; it clung like humidity in summer.
He did not react outwardly. Reactions only fed such things.
Madara, who had lingered nearby, examining one of the border maps, had also overheard.
His posture shifted minutely, shoulders squaring as he turned his gaze toward the corridor. The smoke in his scent thickened, embers crackling with barely restrained ire, and he stared down the offenders with an intensity that bordered on feral.
It was not subtle, Madara rarely was when provoked, and the Kaguya faltered mid-conversation, their laughter dying as they met his eyes. One shifted uncomfortably, the other averting his gaze, but Madara did not relent, his presence a wall of heat that demanded acknowledgment.
Tobirama exhaled sharply, voice a low murmur pitched for Madara's ears alone. "Enough. Stand down."
Madara did not so much as blink, his gaze locked on the corridor like a predator sighting prey. "They've disrespected the village," he growled under his breath.
Tobirama's jaw tightened, frustration coiling in his chest. He set his pen down, refusing to let the exchange draw more eyes. "At most, they've disrespected me. It is not the same."
Madara finally tore his gaze away, turning it on Tobirama with an intensity that felt no less scorching. "Isn't it?" he countered, voice low. "You are this village's foundation. An insult to you is an insult to all of us."
"And escalating now undermines the negotiations. Control yourself, Uchiha. For once." Tobirama hissed.
A muscle in Madara's jaw twitched, the embers in his scent banking slightly. He held Tobirama's gaze a beat longer, before he inclined his head minutely and turned back to the map, posture easing into feigned nonchalance. The Kaguya, sensing the shift, muttered excuses and reentered the chamber, their earlier amusement soured into wary silence.
The session resumed with strained efficiency, Hashirama steering the discussion back to safer waters. Tobirama contributed sparingly, his points crisp and unadorned, letting the logic speak where charisma might falter. The delegation's responses grew more measured, their dismissals tempered, though the undercurrent of skepticism lingered.
By the end, as the sun slanted lower through the windows, Kimi rose with a stiff grace. "We will consider your proposal," she said, her sharp eyes sweeping the table. "Konoha offers much... potential. Expect our response within the moon's turn."
The councilors murmured acknowledgments, chairs scraping as the meeting dissolved. Hashirama rose with his usual buoyancy, already clapping a hand on one of the Kaguya attendants' shoulders in a gesture of camaraderie, guiding the group toward the doors with promises of a village tour.
Kimi lingered a moment longer, her gaze drifting back to Tobirama with calculated intent. She took a step in his direction, mouth parting as if to initiate a private exchange. Perhaps a veiled proposition, or simply to probe the strategist who had piqued her curiosity. But Madara stood just beside Tobirama's chair, his arms crossed and stance unyielding, the smoke of his scent still smoldering with residual heat. His glare bored into her like a forge's glow, unblinking.
Hashirama, ever the intuitive host, intercepted seamlessly. "Kimi-san, allow my secretary to show you the hot springs first—nothing like them in the north, I wager!" His voice boomed with forced cheer, steering her away without offense. She cast one last glance over her shoulder, lips quirking in faint amusement, before allowing herself to be led out.
Tobirama remained seated, his thoughts turning inward. It was fortunate, he reflected, that Izuna had been absent, away on a mission that kept him far from the chamber. His sharp tongue and sharper temper would have ignited the sparks into a conflagration.
The room emptied gradually, councilors filing out with nods and murmured farewells, Madara called away with vague words about clan head duties, until only the Senju brothers remained. Hashirama lingered by the window, watching the delegation recede down the path outside, his expression thoughtful. He turned back to Tobirama, brows furrowing at the stillness in his brother's posture.
"That went rather well, don't you think?" Hashirama ventured, his tone optimistic as always. "They seemed intrigued by the end. A step toward alliance, at least."
Tobirama exhaled slowly, setting the last document aside. He rose, movements deliberate, but the weight in his chest refused to lift.
"Well enough," he replied evenly, though the words tasted hollow. He gathered his materials under one arm, gaze fixed on the table rather than his brother.
Hashirama tilted his head, voice laced with concern. "What's troubling you? You seem... off. Did something happen that I missed?"
Tobirama hesitated. There were several ways to phrase the problem.
He could approach it tactically: the delegation had demonstrated a bias that would complicate future negotiations. He could frame it in terms of optics—perception shaping leverage, leverage shaping outcome. He could even reduce it to precedent, cite the Hyūga, the smaller river clans, the patterns he had catalogued and filed away each time his presence shifted a room in ways unrelated to his competence.
What he could not do, was admit that it felt personal.
Hashirama watched him in the silence that followed, the optimism in his expression softening into something more attentive. “Tobirama,” he prompted gently.
Tobirama adjusted the stack of documents against his hip, though they did not require adjusting. “Their hesitation was not about infrastructure,” he said at last. “It was about authority.”
Hashirama tilted his head. “They’ll come around. Kaguya are blunt. It’s how they test people.”
“They were not testing,” Tobirama replied evenly. “They were dismissing.”
Hashirama’s brows drew together. “You handled it well.”
“That is not the issue.”
He exhaled, slow and controlled, then forced himself to look up. Hashirama’s presence filled the space as it always did. Earth and green things, steady and uncomplicated. Tobirama had spent his life measuring against that steadiness, calibrating himself accordingly.
“It is inefficient,” he continued. “Every negotiation begins at a deficit. I must spend time establishing credibility that would otherwise be assumed.”
Hashirama’s mouth quirked faintly. “You enjoy establishing credibility.”
Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. “Not repeatedly. Not for the same reason.”
Understanding dawned in increments rather than all at once. Hashirama straightened slightly, his expression sobering.
“Ah.”
“It is not merely today,” Tobirama went on, because once begun, clarity demanded completion. “The Hyūga required three months before they ceased directing correspondence to you instead of me.” His mouth flattened. “Competence should suffice.”
Hashirama studied him for a long moment, then crossed the room in two easy strides. He stopped just short of crowding him, hands settling on his hips in a posture that was equal parts leader and older brother.
“Everyone knows you’re very competent” he said, and there was no humor in it now. “You scare half the council into proofreading their own reports before they hand them to you.”
Tobirama’s grip tightened imperceptibly on the documents. He chose his next words with care.
“Anija,” he said quietly, “no one enters a room and takes me seriously.”
Hashirama’s expression softened further. Without a word he closed the remaining distance, lifting his wrist to brush it gently along the side of Tobirama’s neck. Right over the scent gland, the way he had done since they were children whenever Tobirama’s composure threatened to crack under pressure. The dirt scent rolled over him like a blanket, steady and grounding. Hashirama lingered there a moment, breathing in deeply as though confirming something for himself.
"That's not true,” he murmured, “They take you seriously—more than anyone. And if they don’t initially, then they learn better.”
Tobirama held still, letting the familiar gesture settle the restless edge in his chest even as part of him bristled at needing it. “They learn because you correct them,” he countered. “Or because Madara looms.”
A huff of laughter escaped Hashirama despite himself. “Madara looms at everyone. That’s hardly specific.”
“It is undesirable.”
Hashirama drew back just enough to meet his eyes, thumb brushing once more along the curve of Tobirama’s neck. “Tobirama. The plans, the systems... without you, it'd all be dreams and dirt." He chuckled lightly, trying to coax a response. "Even if you do smell delightfully cute."
Tobirama's eye twitched, but he didn't pull away, allowing the familiar contact to ground him. Hashirama's unwavering faith was a balm, even if it was an exasperating one. Blind to the nuances that chipped away at authority.
"Your optimism is noted," he muttered, stepping back with a faint nod. "I'll review the notes tonight. We can discuss contingencies tomorrow."
Hashirama beamed, the earlier concern easing into something brighter. “Rest well, otouto. I’ll see you at home later?” He paused at the door, one hand on the frame, “Don’t stay in the lab too long. And don’t bother pretending you’re not going there—I know you too well.”
Tobirama gave him a flat look. “Good night, anija.”
The door slid shut behind Hashirama with a soft, final click.
Alone in the chamber, Tobirama lingered, the setting sun casting long shadows across the maps still spread on the table. He exhaled, slow and measured, letting the day's accumulated weight settle into place. The slights had not been catastrophic. Merely persistent, the same refraction of perception he had catalogued for years.
He gathered the documents beneath one arm and stepped into the corridor.
The administrative wing was already quieting for the evening, voices drifting away as doors slid shut one by one. Tobirama moved through it without haste, the way he always did when his mind was turning over a problem too large to solve in a single breath. The air cooled as he passed into the stairwell leading below the main floors, the scent of ink and parchment giving way to stone.
The entrance to his private laboratory was unremarkable, set at the end of a narrow passage few people bothered to traverse. Tobirama unlocked it with a flick of chakra, the seal yielding silently, and stepped inside.
The space was his in every sense: shelves lined with sealed jars of compounds, dried herbs, distilled essences; low tables scattered with notebooks; the faint metallic bite of alchemical tools mingling with the warmer undertone of his own persistent scent.
His next heat lay two months distant, a window wide enough for careful experimentation. Enough time to isolate variables, to observe diffusion rates under controlled conditions. He had notes already—scattered entries from stolen hours over the years, hypotheses waiting to be tested.
Tobirama lit the nearest lantern, its steady flame throwing sharp shadows across the workbench.
It was unlike him to allow an uncontrollable factor to persist once identified.
He set his documents aside, rolled back his sleeves, and reached for a clean sheet of parchment.
Two months would suffice