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Even within the solitude of his mind, Tobiama felt ashamed to admit that, at first, he hadn’t noticed the lie.
He had been pathetically pining after Madara for so long that it didn’t register as odd when he, in a sudden rush of endorphins, readily submitted to his pursuer as soon as he was caught against a tree. As if he were one of the airheaded damsels starring in Hashirama’s trashy romance novels.
No matter how pragmatic and level-headed Tobirama prided himself to be, falling victim to some sort of rose-tinted view was to be expected when your secret beloved proudly declared a marriage hunt in front of your warring clans and showed every intent to consummate it then and there under the eyes of the gods, right?
It was only when the adrenaline had burned through his blood and the heat of the moment was lost to a foreboding chill settling into his weary bones that Tobirama did manage to shake off the remains of the genjutsu Madara placed him under while he had no chakra to protect himself.
Because his brother had betrayed him. And to add insult to injury, as if the act didn’t burn enough on its own, he’d even dared to use one of the suppression seals crafted by Tobirama’s very own hand to make him vulnerable and leave him open to weakness with an enemy hot on his heels.
For all that Hashirama liked to pretend that his dream of peace was for the children, in memory of the little brothers he’d lost and to protect the one he still had left, he sure didn’t show much concern for Tobirama’s continued wellbeing. Apparently, he ceased to care as soon as it might bring him the village he so desperately wanted for reasons that were his own.
Privately, Tobirama wondered if Hashirama had simply taken the opportunity to gain the brother his heart desired at the price of the brother who merely shared his blood, but who knew? It wasn’t as if they talked. As if Tobirama cared to connect with anyone anymore.
Ever since the first Sharingan-induced rosetinted view had been shattered, broken beyond repair by the numbing chill of fast-cooling sweat on his bared skin and the sensation of his husband’s victory tickling down his bruised thighs, the world was grey and dull, and Tobirama rarely saw need to grace it with his attention anymore.
What was the point?
He was left betrayed by his blood and his heart alike, left to rot in the midst of his hereditary enemies who didn’t even have the decency to be wary of him. And why should they? Even on the rare occurrence when Tobirama was in his right mind, when he managed to shake off the reddish-tinted haze that forced him to go through the motions of living, to take care of himself, he was already too weak to hold up his renowned speed or battle prowess. Tobirama had become a mere shadow of himself, and he knew it. Embraced it even.
It was a mockery of circumstances that, of all people, Izuna was the one to notice.
His self-proclaimed rival, who’d somehow turned into a nagging mother-hen, intent on seeing Tobirama through whatever it was that left him in his current less-than-stellar shape as if his waning state was an insult to Izuna’s very own honour. Tobirama was positive his devoted husband hadn’t even noticed Tobirama’s chosen fate until Izuna drove it into his thick skull. Not with how busy he was, constantly playing pretend with Hashirama at the edge of Tobirama’s sensing.
As it was, it was only due to the nauseating fullness within his stomach following every imposed reappearance of colour within his world, that allowed Tobirama to know Madara had noticed his silent protest. And true to how their marriage had started in the first place, the Uchiha didn’t bother to use his words, didn’t bother to take into account how Tobirama felt, what he might think.
How painless must life be when one could simply shape the world to their tastes with the blink of an eye, limited only by the vastness of their imagination?
It would have been oh so easy to succumb to the thrall, to believe the pretty lies Madara liked to tell himself and Tobirama by extension. But Tobirama was contrary by nature, and, at this point, spite was the only motivation that let him continue with this pathetic farce of existence.
Madara might apologise because he regretted how he achieved Tobirama’s presence in his life and might think he’d be able to redeem himself in his husband’s eyes eventually, but Tobirama was having none of it.
He would allow for himself to be kept alive, yes. But only to force Madara to witness his gradual deterioration, the silent suffering while he was held alive exclusively by the violation of his autonomy, by Madara’s continued misuse of his beloved and revered Kekkei Genkai.
Tobirama would persist in his suffering until Madara and Hashirama finally finished building the village they envisioned as children, until they’d poured their souls and hopes into the epitome of their dream.
Only then would Tobirama let go of the last thread of spite that kept his soul tethered to his failing body. He’d wait until Uchiha and Senju were living in close proximity, and Hashirama couldn’t ignore the consequences of his betrayal by wishful thinking alone anymore.
Neither Hashirama nor Madara knew the agony of honest regret yet, not truly. But they would.
He could almost taste the sweet irony on his tongue. It was only fitting for having Hashirama’s precious village’s first grave to be Tobirama’s own. With his dying breath, he would make sure the both of them would intimately understand how Tobirama had felt when everything he’d believed he’d wanted turned to ash between his fingers and burned them beyond repair. They would know the taste of despair that soured his every waking moment ever since.
The instant those thoughtless fools believed they’d fulfilled their dreams, Tobirama would force them to bury those very same dreams alongside his frail body.
Their clans’ children would come to know peace behind the village’s walls, but Tobirama would allow neither his husband nor his brother the same mercy.