Work Text:
They both stood facing each other, breathing heavily as the cold downpour soaked them both to the very bone. Both of them red in the face from the cold and the anger. The white haired man was the one with the last words, having cut his beloved off with words that had cut her deeper than any blade ever could. She now stared at him in utter disbelief; it made her wonder if this was her husband speaking at all. Her own anger boiled inside her and ran thick in her veins so much that it blinded her. The cold rain was no match for it, she didn't feel it, she felt nothing at all in truth now. As her expression fell, so did Tobirama's angry look, confusion and shock sparkled in his scarlet eyes for a moment, something she would have missed if she blinked. But her eyes were stuck on him, her jaw clenching as she debated what to do. She turned on her heel slowly before padding away in long strides through the mud and the wet shrubs, leaving the Senju to stand alone in the storm. The thought of him suddenly felt like a bed of nettles and weeds, it made her gut churn and her wound burn, and her walking soon turned into running.
As minutes turned into hours, and hours turned into days, and the mission dragged on to the end, Tobirama had almost fully rid himself the memories of your arguments. He looked forward to returning to the village and your shared home, although he knew the reunion would be sour; you were overreacting, you were being stubborn- he told himself. But it all made him worry, every step he took to the house made all concern suddenly blossom strong, thorny stems hugging his heart tight. Just as he placed his hand on the door handle to open it, he realized that it wasn't locked, it was cracked open for anyone. The storm from days prior was followed by freezing weather and the hall was still wet at the entrance. Cold air hung humid and old inside. The steps Tobirama took grew slower and slower as realization was even slower to hit. His mind could barely process this.
The painting of the two of you was on the floor, faced down, some glass was spread in the kitchen, the bedroom closet was a mess, left in a rush, your things were missing, mainly your clothes and basic necessities. Droplets of blood were splattered everywhere, matte and old. Were you attacked in your own home, he suddenly wondered. No. You were wounded, he remembered.. The smell that wafted was nothing but akin to the wet leaves that were slowly rotting away. There was no letter, no last words, nothing. Now there was only your slowly fading presence left, what used to be of it, still lingering on the walls and dark corners of the rooms as Tobirama dropped to his knees before the painting.