Chapter Text
The week was hell.
Madara had hoped the nausea would lessen with time, but it only seemed to grow crueler, twisting his gut and dragging him down every time he tried to eat. Rice, miso, even fruit—none of it stayed. Morning or night, it didn’t matter. Whatever he ate, came back up. The taste of bile lingered on his tongue longer than any food ever managed to stay down.
Some days, Madara didn’t eat at all.
The only thing he could keep down was tea, brewed strong and warm, the way the healer had instructed. Bitter, warm, grounding. The healer had prescribed it—three blends to be rotated with the hours. Each one tuned to the body of an Omega carrying in early stages. One for the nausea. One for the chakra strain. One for strength.
At first, he made it himself.
The tea helped. A little.
And even that felt like a battle on some days.
Then, Kaito began bringing it.
He didn’t ask. Just appeared with a tray. A cup. A shy smile. Always knocking once. Always gentle.
Kaito was twelve. Maybe thirteen. Too young to speak with such careful compassion, too attentive for someone born above a noisy tea shop. His hands were always busy, but his eyes—sharp, observant—missed nothing.
He knew.
Madara realized that on the third morning, when Kaito laid down the tray with practiced grace and said, quietly, “I added ginger. That blend helps more after noon.”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Kaito never asked about the pregnancy. Never mentioned the tea blends again. But the awe was there—in every look. Madara caught it in the boy’s eyes when he bowed, when he turned back at the door, when he lingered just long enough to feel needed.
At first, Kaito thought Madara was an Alpha. Everything about him said power—tall, straight-backed, too beautiful to be real. The kind of beauty that made people pause mid-sentence.
So when he’d seen the pouches in Madara’s room while tidying, he understood immediately.
Madara was an Omega.
Madara was pregnant.
And someone—some Bastard—had left him like this.
Kaito had stared at the empty soup bowl for a long time after that realization. And then, quietly, he started bringing the tea every morning.
Every afternoon.
And every night.
He never asked questions.
Just kept talking, chattering about the town, the people, the silly things the workers downstairs said, and how the neighbors’ cat had knocked over three sake bottles yesterday. Madara rarely responded, but he always listened.
And for Kaito, that was enough.
He didn’t know what made him want to help this stranger. Maybe it was the way Madara looked out the window when he thought no one was watching. Or the way he flinched—almost imperceptibly—at loud sounds from the bustling tea shop below. Or maybe it was because Madara was the most beautiful person he had ever seen.
Not just pretty—beautiful. Like a dream.
Long dark hair. Pale skin. Quiet grace. But not fragile. Something about him was sharp. Enduring. Like a blade left in moonlight.
Kaito didn’t understand everything about Madara, but he knew this: someone had hurt him. And someone had left him. Pregnant, alone, and silent in a room that was too loud with strangers.
The days passed slowly.
The inn, busy as it was, began to grate. The clatter of dishes. The hum of voices. The wood shifting under heavy feet. Even with the door closed, the noise pressed in. Madara’s headaches worsened. Sleep became thinner. The scent of roasting herbs downstairs turned his stomach, even when the tea didn’t.
So when Madara asked—softly, eyes half-lidded from another sleepless night—if there were any houses for rent nearby, Kaito didn’t hesitate.
“I’ll find one.” he told Madara
And He did.
For the next few days, they looked at three, maybe four houses together. Madara didn’t like any of them. Too small. Too close to the road. Too drafty. Too many neighbors. Kaito watched Madara’s expression closely, hoping for a flicker of peace, but it never came.
Until the fifth day.
They were walking back from another viewing when Kaito spoke up.
“There’s one more,” he said, hesitant. “I don’t know if the owner rents it. But… it’s near the stream. And there’s a garden.”
Madara didn’t reply right away. But when he nodded, Kaito lit up.
They went together, following a winding path away from the center of town, past the mill and a line of tall trees.
The house was small. Weathered. But warm-looking. The garden was a mix of wild herbs and overgrown flowers. And at the back, a narrow stream cut through the edge of the land, bubbling softly like a whisper. There was a wooden bench under a willow tree.
Madara stood still for a long time.
The owner came out shortly after. An older Omega—stooped, silver-haired, kind-eyed. His name was Yosuke. He looked at Madara only once and then smiled.
“You can look inside, if you’d like.”
Kaito did most of the talking. Madara said little, only nodded once when shown the bath—deep and stone-lined with a small window—and once again when they stepped into the garden from the back porch.
The agreement was made.
Yosuke didn’t ask for a name.
He only gave the keys and said, gently, “If you need anything, I live just three blocks down. There’s no rush to pay the full season. Rest is more important.”
That evening, Madara moved.
There wasn’t much to take from the inn. A few scrolls. His travel satchel. The pouch of prescribed teas. Kaito helped carry them, then insisted on accompanying him into town to buy new utensils and supplies. Kaito bartered with two vendors and scolded another for overcharging.
The house was quiet that night.
Two rooms. Clean kitchen. A good tub. Wooden floors warmed by late summer sun. And at the back, the soft sound of water winding through stones.
Madara lay down that night on the futon Kaito had laid out for him. The tea, already steeping in the corner, filled the house with scent. He didn’t vomit that night. He didn’t even gag.
Outside, the stream whispered softly.
And for the first time in days , his body rested.
His hand curled again over his stomach.
He didn’t think of Konoha. Didn’t think of what had been lost. Not tonight.
Just this—
The stream.
The tea.
The life he carried.
And silence.
A silence that didn’t feel empty anymore.
Just quiet enough to breathe.
Hashirama hadn’t left the Hokage Tower.
The floor was scattered with scrolls, ink still damp where his signature should’ve gone. The bottle of sake on his desk was half-drained and bitter. He couldn’t remember when he stopped drinking—only that it didn’t numb anything.
His eyes burned from tears unshed, and his hands trembled over the last page Madara had written before he left. It wasn’t a letter. Just a name. A date. The day he'd walked away.
Hikaku telling him at the meeting . “He’s gone.”
And that was it.
Just like that, the world tilted, and Hashirama felt himself fall through the cracks.
The next day came like punishment.
Tobirama dressed him in silence, armor gleaming, robes pressed. The Hokage needed to smile. To stand tall. To greet the Uzumaki as if his heart hadn’t been carved out with Madara’s last look.
The gates of Konoha opened in full celebration. Banners fluttered. Flowers were scattered in the streets. And at the head of it all stood Lady Mito Uzumaki, red hair bright as flame, posture regal, eyes locked on him with knowing intent.
Hashirama bowed to her, lips tight, gaze empty. She was beautiful, but not Madara. Her scent was cloves and honey—not petrichor and cedarwood. Her voice was melodic and clever—not dry and sarcastic and cruel in that way Madara made sound like affection.
Everything around him reminded him of what he lost.
The welcome feast was held that evening, and the whole village turned out to see it.
Tobirama barely looked at him. Mito stayed close, brushing against his sleeve, pouring him wine with fingers that trembled slightly—as if she already thought she owned him.
Hashirama let her.
Let her smile. Let her laugh. Let her claim the space beside him as if he weren’t already haunted by a promise whispered against his throat.
“Only you get to mark me.”
He didn’t touch the wine. He didn’t taste the food. Everything felt cold. Everything sounded too far away.
When the announcement came—his engagement to Lady Mito, formal and final—he smiled.
He bowed.
He performed.
But inside, he felt his soul shrink and burn, like the last cinders of a fire choking on its own smoke.
Mito reached for his hand under the table. Her fingers were warm. He flinched.
She didn’t notice.
Later that night, when everyone was gone and the candles had burned down to wax pools, Hashirama sat alone in the garden.
The flowers were fragrant.
The air was sweet.
And all he could smell was the ghost of Madara’s skin against his chest, whispering: “I love you.”
He pressed his hand against his mouth.
And for the first time since Hikaku said the words—
He wept.
The cottage had begun to feel like something Madara hadn’t dared hope for in a long time.
The nights no longer stank of strangers’ voices. The stream at the edge of the garden sang softly even in his dreams, and the silence inside the walls was no longer crushing. It was still. It breathed.
And so did he.
Kaito came by every day. No knock anymore—just the shuffle of soft sandals on wood, a familiar tray, and that same voice chirping endlessly about things Madara never thought he’d bother to care about again. The shopkeeper’s new baby goat. A customer who argued over tea prices for an hour. His mother’s attempt at pickled plums.
Kaito always brought food now. Light soups. Fermented rice cakes. Broth and crushed herbs. His mother’s doing, clearly—but Kaito always pretended it was all his idea.
Madara let him pretend.
They ate together, Kaito still talking, Madara still listening. Always listening. It was the only time of day he didn’t think of Konoha. Didn’t feel the hollow echo of betrayal curl against his ribs.
The boy was persistent. Loud. Endearing. And for all his noise, Madara found it… easier. To breathe. To sit. To exist.
So when Kaito insisted Madara come to the Light Festival, Madara didn’t argue.
There was no winning against him anyway.
The boy arrived that evening bursting at the seams with excitement. He was in a brand new yukata, dark blue with gold stitching along the sleeves. His hair had been carefully brushed, and his grin could’ve lit every lantern in town.
“You promised,” he said before Madara could even greet him.
“I remember,” Madara said, smoothing down his own yukata—plain, cream-colored, no crest, sleeves loose. His hair, tied loosely at the nape, caught the faintest scent of the tea he brewed earlier.
He still wasn’t used to wearing light things. Still caught himself checking for his forehead protector before remembering he no longer wore one.
Kaito practically dragged him into the town square.
Light spilled from paper lanterns overhead, casting golden hues on every face. Children raced through the crowd with sparklers, vendors shouted from their stalls, and strings of bells rang with each soft wind.
Madara stayed alert.
Too many shinobi. Too many scents.
He scanned the faces around him, looking for crests, for symbols, for anyone he might recognize. If anyone from Konoha was here, he needed to know first.
But for now, the air held no threat.
Kaito tugged him toward one of the food stalls where a short, lean figure waved at them. His mother—Kenji, a soft-spoken male Omega with wide eyes and strong hands.
“You must be the one my son won’t stop talking about,” Kenji said warmly. “You’ve made quite the impression.”
“Kaito is… a wonderful child,” Madara said softly. The boy beamed between them, caught in some whirlwind of pride and embarrassment.
They spoke for a while. Quiet words, pleasant ones. Kenji mentioned the tea, the garden, asked if Madara was finding enough rest.
He lied gently. And Kenji let him.Their gazes locked for a second — an unspoken knowing passed between them, the kind only shared by those who carried the same weight in different lifetimes.
But peace, as always, didn’t last.
Later—when they’d drifted toward the central market square, Madara keeping to the edge of the crowd—a shinobi staggered out of a stall, clearly half-drunk, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Madara.
“Didn’t know they let that kind of Omega out these days,” the man said with a leer.
Madara said nothing.
The shinobi reached to touch his arm.
His wrist snapped backward with a single twist of Madara’s hand—clean, precise. The sound of bone breaking was swallowed by the music, but the scream wasn’t.
The man dropped to his knees.
Kaito stared in awe.
The whispers started quickly.
“…Didn’t even move…”
“…What was that chakra…”
“…male Omega? Can’t be…”
More shinobi appeared—friends of the first. Four of them. Maybe five. They surrounded Madara in a loose half-circle, their stance anything but casual.
One of them scoffed. “You think you’re tough, Afterall you are just an omega ?”
Madara didn’t reply. His hand rested at his side, loose, relaxed.
To him, it wasn’t even a fight.
The first moved.
And fell.
Then the second—slammed to the ground by a gust of raw chakra he hadn’t even sensed until it crushed him.
The third paused—and was knocked cold by the back of Madara’s sleeve as he turned away, bored.
It wasn’t even a spar.
And Kaito’s eyes sparkled, wide with fierce joy. “They said male Omegas were weak,” he whispered, almost breathless. “They lied.”
That was when someone else stepped forward.
A different kind of presence.
Not loud. Not boastful. But heavy. Unignorable.
Madara sensed him before he saw him—an aura of chakra so tightly coiled it was almost invisible. Refined. Disguised. But there.
And then—he saw him.
The man pulled his hood down.
Long crimson hair spilled over his shoulders, deep red like fresh blood in moonlight. His eyes were striking—violet, stormy, glowing faintly under the paper lanterns.
A strong jaw, elegant cheekbones, tall frame wrapped in traveling armor. His expression was calm. Focused. Curious.
But it was the way he looked at Madara—like he had seen a comet fall from the sky and was still stunned by the afterlight.
Madara didn’t blink. His body held still. Controlled.
The man stepped beside him, effortlessly brushing off the last of the thugs with a casual flick of his hand. Not even a jutsu. Just presence.
He turned, offered a short bow, and said, voice deep but composed:
“Apologies. I dislike bullies.”
Madara arched an eyebrow.
The man continued. “Uzumaki Nagato. Passing through. But I think I might stay a little longer.”
Madara’s heart clicked like a trap.
Uzumaki.
Of course.
And yet, this man had no arrogant nobility in his voice. No scent of politics. Just quiet, radiant power. And eyes that still hadn't left Madara’s face.
“Madara,” he replied coolly. “A traveler.”
Nagato smiled faintly. “A traveler,” he echoed, as if tasting the lie—and not minding it.
His gaze flicked briefly to Madara’s hand, where it hovered unconsciously over his stomach.
Then returned to his face. “It’s… rare,” Nagato said slowly, “to see something so beautiful and dangerous in the same breath.”
Madara didn’t flinch. Didn’t smile.
But for the first time in a long while, he felt seen.
Really seen.
And the red-haired stranger wasn’t looking away.