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Izuna storms into his quarters like late winter: stumbling over dead leaves, uncertain. The bitterness of his scowl is only matched by the air that gusts in his wake, stabbing into the eaves of their lungs.
It is hard to believe that he was once made of fire when he falls into the futon, fumbling for warmth. His hands clamor up the body in bed, then crawl upwards, scratching at striped red tattoos all the while.
At one time, Izuna had thought of the marks as arrows, pointing the way to an assuredly brutal decapitation, or evisceration at the very least. Now, he settles for seeing with his hands, splintered black nails tracing the face of the second-oldest Senju, muttering, “You should have left me dead.”
It had been three days since Uchiha Izuna had been resurrected, on the winter solstice. Two days since he had been released from interrogation; one day after his eyes had been plucked out. For insurance, or so the council of elders said. Any attempts at covering the wounds only resulted in Izuna ripping off his bandages and screaming bloody murder. (“You cowards! How dare you try to hide your crimes!? Face what you’ve done!”)
It is simpler to leave his eyes to fester with hatred. Harder to have them stare at Tobirama, dark and empty, begging him for something he cannot give.
“Release me,” the corpse demands. Ash pale fingers still over Tobirama’s brow. Then they trace around russet eyes, tickling their lashes, digging into the soft lids of sleep-weak skin. The Senju knows exactly what the Uchiha is threatening. ‘An eye for an eye,’ or so the saying goes.
“You are too angry.” Tobirama stares at Izuna’s right cheek. How it cracks like ice. “Your spirit will corrupt the peace of the Pure Land, and shatter the reincarnation cycle.”
Hands clamp down on his head, tufts of white hair clenched between strained knuckles.
“Peace!” Izuna spits it out like a curse. “How many of my clansmen did you kill for your ‘peace’?!”
“Do not blame me for your belligerence,” Tobirama replies through gritted teeth. “My brother offered his hand in goodwill. Madara died for your war.”
Restlessness grows, scraping down the back of Tobirama’s scalp, down his skull, to shake him by his collar. “Your peace is as worthless as the pact between our houses! I should wipe my ass with your so-called treaty! Then it will have some use—if it can even do that.”
Everything Hashirama had worked for—insulted. Dishonored. Dragged through the muddied slush, as if is worth nothing. As if Itama’s death was nothing.
Tobirama frowns.
In a split second Izuna’s broken face is slammed into the wooden floor. A knee bears down on his spine. The corpse snarls.
“Watch your tongue,” a voice hisses in his ear. “Or I will cut it out for you.”
A beat.
Then Izuna bursts out in laughter, shaking Tobirama with the force of his giggles.
“You have already taken everything from me! I have nothing but my words!” He declares with a toss of his head, hollow eyes crinkling with mirth. “Give me back my death, Senju. Give me—give me that ‘peace’ you love so much. Release me.”
Izuna’s smirk fans flames that Tobirama will never admit to hating.
“Never,” he intones, inwardly seething at ink-black hair. It reeks of flint and steel, feathery soft against a deceptively slender neck.
It would be so easy.
Water, he reminds himself, water. Temper your passions. Forge your fury into a blade, and wear it with honor. A noble warrior is the one that seeks peace through understanding, balancing the wants of man with the demands of nature.
He does not think about stabbing a blade through Izuna’s stomach.
He does not revel in the memory of it.
He does not.