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Madara is twenty-three years old when he starts thinking about settling down.
It’s not so much the societal pressure that pushes him to (even though he’s aware that when his parents were his age Izuna was already running around kicking and screaming), and it’s not so much Hashirama practicing how to conjure geraniums at will that prods him to either.
It’s looking forward to crashing the Senju brother’s lunchbreak, three days a week, and watching the crinkle of Tobirama’s eyes when he chuckles. It’s the poking and jabbing, deliberately and with glee, at Tobirama over a cup of tea, inciting him until he’s about to throw a kunai at Madara.
It’s a certain smile, a certain head tilt, from a certain hard-headed Senju that certainly sends his heart pounding like drumming song.
Then one day, it hits him.
Madara’s bent forward, winded from a pretty nasty kick to his sternum when he looks up. There is sweat streaking down the marks on Tobirama’s face. His eyes are slanted and focused, vicious red lined with dark black eyelashes. The grind of his teeth promises pain, and the stern line of his jaw promises efficiency.
Gritty, fierce and deadly.
Oh no. Madara chokes on air, breathless for a completely different reason. Oh hell no.
“I have a hypothetical question.”
Izuna doesn’t pause from shovelling rice into his mouth with his chopsticks. It’s unfair, Madara notes, that his stuffed cheeks do nothing to mar his brother’s lean, sleek beauty.
Izuna hums for Madara to continue.
There’s only the two of them kneeling at their wooden dinner table. Yet, Madara feels the weight of fifty Sharingan users gazing down on him.
Madara weighs in carefully, settling his chopsticks down beside his bowl. He threads through his minefield of a question with the finesse of a veteran soldier. “If I, theoretically, wanted to… improve my standing with someone whom I’m already very companionable with-” He’s glowering at the admittance of vulnerability. Controlling the mangekyō is easier than this, “- how would I go about doing this?”
Now Izuna does pause, chopsticks halting mid-air. Izuna places his bowl on the table, arranges his chopsticks on top of it, and stares at him.
Then Izuna stares harder, as Madara’s ears strains for a reply, and the clocks ticks on behind them.
It’s the hesitation, Madara decides, the hesitation in his shaky statement that threw him to be ripped apart by the wolves – the wolves being his little brother. His brother has seen him slit throats without so much a twitch and now he’s tripping over his words like a blubbering kid slipping into a puddle of shame at the thought of his crush. He should be used to heat, literal or metaphorical – he’s the leader of a clan full of fire-breathers for god’s sakes.
Shaking himself out his stupor, Izuna reiterates slowly, “You want to improve your standing… with someone –”
“Theoretically,” Madara points out.
“- whom you’re already very companionable with and you’re wondering how you should go about doing this?” The last word is drawn on, then tasted, and weighed, and savoured like fine sake.
Madara tries not to let his nerves eat at his resolve. There’s a lump in his throat. It takes considerable effort to stop himself from swallowing.
Izuna stares again.
A sweat threatens to break out of him
Then, a grin cracks on his brother’s ethereal face.
“Hah. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were only interested in weaponry,” Izuna says, before giving him a pleased look. “So who’s the lucky woman?”
“It’s not a woman.” Madara stalls to consider revealing the next bit of information, to consider if he was willing to have his persistent, crazy little brother pester the person with his questions. “It’s a man.”
Izuna’s brows slants in confusion. Then his mouth tugs into a frown.
Madara frowns back at him.
“Brother…,” Izuna starts, his tone solemn. “I hate to tell you this, but I’m pretty sure that Hashirama isn’t interested in men.”
Madara blinks twice. What?
“Even if he is, he’s dead set on marrying the Uzumaki princess to establish a friendly diplomatic relationship with that village.”
He’s still in a daze. Hashirama? His mind conjures up memories of his goofy best friend, with his stupid remarks, and his bowl cut. Then his mind stretches to imagining Madara putting his arm around Hashirama’s waist, and smiling at him, and pulling him close until they’re chest to chest, laughing until they’re a hair’s breadth away from a kiss – no, no, no !
“I should’ve seen it really. I mean, you guys are close, like super close, and you were always talking about sharing dreams – eh? Brother? Are you okay?”
Izuna stops because Madara’s not sitting upright anymore. Izuna stops because Madara’s on the floor heaving like a poor soul with a bout of food poisoning.
“ Hashirama?!” He’s struggling to erase images – somebody, douse his head with acid – from his mind. “You think I would do… those kind of things with… with that big doof?! That’s incest !”
Izuna rolls his eyes, because older brothers can be just as dramatic as younger ones, despite Madara’s fervent insistence. He cocks one eyebrow, ticks off a finger from one hand, and says the next statement as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “Well, yeah. Half of my memories during the war with the Senju Clan was of you screaming his name. ”
“I didn’t-,” Madara tries to deny, then stops, and grimaces. Because he’s a lot of things but he’s not a liar. “He was my opponent,” he protests.
“Then there’s the fact that you basically usurped father, bashed all his staunch supporter within an inch of their life, ignored the elders, and basically frightened everyone into getting along in order to sign the peace treaty with him.”
“I was tired of people dying . Tired, and desperate, enough to put the past behind me,” Madara says, letting his brother’s facetious comments bounce off his prickly shell. “Besides, he’s a friend. At most, he’s like a brother to me – a younger, louder, more idiotic brother that I trust not to pierce me with a blade when I turn my back to him. It’s completely platonic. It’s not like To–”
Madara stops but it’s too late. A small cup clatters on to the floor. Izuna’s expression lights up with manic delight.
“… Oh my god,” Izuna breathes in, scandalised, the pitch of his awe hitting tenor notes.
Madara is red, his chest is red, his cheeks are ridiculously red. “Izuna, shut up.”
“You were going to say Tobirama!” Izuna thrashes his arms around, struggling not to run all the way to their roof and holler the news to the rest of Konoha. “ You were going to say Tobirama! It’s not Hashirama! It’s Tobirama! You want to impress Tobirama !”
“Calm down, idiot !” Madara howls. This is a mistake. He made a mistake. Telling his brother was one big mistake.
Hell, Izuna’s conception was one big mistake.
Like the thoughtful, caring brother that he is, Izuna takes Madara’s words and mushes them back in his face.
“I thought that you abhorred his arrogance. I thought that you were beneath such attitudes. Wasn’t it you who said that the man needed someone to knock him down from his pedestal?” Then, Izuna waggles his eyebrows, the grin on Izuna’s mouth turns salacious. “Well at least I know it’s not just a stick you want to shove up him, don’t I?”
Growling, Madara grabs his chopsticks, wields them like a dagger, and aims for Izuna’s eyes.
“If you want to get to know him better,” Izuna says as they dry their dinner plates later on, smug and unharmed because damn his brother’s slippery, and his evasion skills are commendable, “Find out his interests, likes, and hobbies, and add a bit of romance to it. Butter him up a little.”
The next day, Madara invites Tobirama to play some shōgi on his patio and summons his ninneko for added incentive.
Tobirama likes cats, Madara muses, so he shall have cats. He also likes games involving strategy – Madara recalls him favouring shōgi – and quiet places, hence, a game in his household since he holds a healthy amount of respect (and fear) from his clan members. Thinking of ways to add romance into work, sparring and elemental research, however, is stumping Madara. He might need to - he shudders at the admittance - ask Izuna for more help later.
Across from him, Tobirama sits with a sleeping white cat, Izumi, draped over the fur collar of his jacket, Izumi’s white fur blending in with Tobirama’s own hair.
A grey cat purrs in his lap. Long fingers with blunted nails scratch behind his summon’s ears. Eyelids half closed, Shishi curls his mouth in happiness.
Madara eyes his cats. Lucky bastards.
They sit in silence, nothing between them except the click-clack of their board pieces. Despite having a cat lounging on his shoulders, his posture is square and stiff. Tobirama seems too focused with scratching Shishi, and Madara realises that Tobirama’s mind is elsewhere.
“Something wrong, Senju?” he asks.
One side of Tobirama’s mouth slants downwards, an internal debate creasing the side of his mouth. Then he sighs, and a part of Madara tingles in victory since Tobirama is a man who prefers to bear the weight of his problems alone. That he is willing to drag Madara under with him pleases him.
“Kagami’s parents have expressed…” Tobirama’s sharp features scrunches in distaste, “displeasure at my teaching methods.”
It’s Madara’s turn to sigh. It’s not so much Tobirama’s teaching methods that’s in question, and more of an old, bitter, war-wound flaring. Kagami’s parents have lost many to the war, and Madara himself knows how easy it is to be overwhelmed by the spinning tornado of loss.
“I’ll talk to them,” declares Madara.
Children, to Tobirama, are the tangible form of his idea of peace. Children are the future. That’s why Tobirama is devoted to nurturing them, to equipping them with knowledge, in order for them to flourish in the face of adversity. Children fill Tobirama’s face with hope.
To have someone undermine Tobirama’s loyalty to the children of Konoha must’ve hurt him. In turn, displeasure simmers in Madara.
Tobirama refuses. “Don’t.”
“I’ll talk to them,” Madara says again, more firmly. “They’re old, and unbending. I know how easily it is to turn grief into something raging, something ugly . The child’s grown a lot more confident and happy under your tutelage - even Izuna admits that Kagami’s got some spunk in him. I’ll speak with them after work today.” There’s a glint of humour in his eyes as he moves a shogi piece. “And if I so happen to carry my gunbai with a little bit of blood splattered on it during our conversation, well, that’s just a coincidence, isn’t it?”
Tobirama barks out a laugh. “You’re a menace, Uchiha.”
But the heavy set of his shoulders is gone. Madara gives himself a discrete pat on the back.
Then, Tobirama huffs. “Running a clan using fear tactics, so primitive . As expected with an Uchiha,” Tobirama admonishes with a small smile, although no accusation weighs his words. “No wonder you run off collecting cats, they’re the only beings that can tolerate you.”
Rising to the bait, Madara grins, and slides into familiar territory.
“You are the one to talk. I blink , and a new kid appears on your genin team.” Madara makes a show of exaggerated pondering, taking a page out of Izuna’s book. He leans forward, fringe in his eyes and squints at Tobirama. “Most people would call that kidnapping.”
“As if I need to grab them by force when they come to me willingly.” Tobirama’s eyes roam up and down Madara’s sitting form. “Kagami took one look at you, and ran away shrieking in terror.”
Shishi snickers, and Madara glares at the cat’s betrayal. “Good,” he states. “A little fear is healthy for that shameless boy.”
Tobirama turns his attention back to Shishi, and Madara feels lucky. He clears his throat once, then tugs on the sleeves of his yukata, then clears his throat again.
“I may have found myself in a bit of a conundrum, Senju,” Madara tries. “I’d like to hear your opinion on it.” His voice is strong, clear, and doesn’t waiver once. Satisfaction swells in him.
“Have you tried using that organ in your head - it’s called a brain by the way - and thinking it through first?”
“Shut it,” Madara snaps at him. “This is serious.”
“To you, everything’s serious.” Tobirama nods to himself. “You and Izuna can be as dramatic as my brother.”
That’s unnecessarily cruel. A scowl bends his mouth. Madara brings a shōgi piece up and levels it menacingly at him. “Any more offensive remarks and I will burn you.”
This rips out a snigger from Tobirama as he slides one arm under Shishi’s belly and cradles him, amplifying Shishi’s purring. “Don’t be silly. You’ll lose your only friends in Shishi and Izumi.”
The shōgi piece goes flying, and Tobirama leans to the left. It flies over Izumi’s head. A beat passes. “Your aim sucks.”
Madara jerks his arms away from throwing the whole board at him. Tobirama is looking way too smug and Madara has to take a deep breath. Pure talent, that’s the only way to describe how Tobirama can goad him with a simple few words. He’s not allowed to be distracted. He’s on a mission damn it.
“ Anyway,” he grates out, “I have a companion with whom I’m already very… congenial with and I want to improve my standing with said person.” He can feel himself getting hotter, his words getting harder to chew out. This is mortifying. “What would be your idea of a nice gesture, in which I can act out to elevate my standing with this person?”
Huh. His statement does not get any less awkward with repetition. Did I emphasise the word ‘your’ enough?
The red streaks on Tobirama’s face straighten, his face grows impassive. It irks Madara that he can’t read anything off of it.
“A companion with whom you’re very congenial with,” Tobirama echoes with care, emphasising each word with a caress down Shishi’s body. “Why can’t you come out and say that you want to do something nice for your crush?”
Madara sputters and points at him with a gloved finger. “Don’t do that!”
“Do what?” demands Tobirama.
“Don’t just take my words and reduce it into something so, so…”
“Easy to understand?” offers Tobirama. “Concise?”
“So simplistic ,” Madara cuts off. He folds his arms belligerently and shift his gaze away. “Because it’s not and this is really important, okay?”
He’s bluffing. It is simple, he’s just annoyed at how easily Tobirama can pierce straight to the heart of such matters.
But it is important. This is important. Above the buzz of irritation, Madara admits to some joy. Even when they’re bickering like this, Madara is happy. Madara is just content to have Tobirama there.
Tobirama gives a deep sigh. “You’re overthinking things. Even if it really it important to you, it’s still simple. Hence… you should act as such.”
That turns his head. “What do you suggest?”
“Take them somewhere with an admirable view, and bring some food as well,” suggests Tobirama. “Something to drink would be quite pleasant too. It’d be a peaceful date.”
Cogs and gears turn in his head, slotting all the details into place. “And this is something you’d do?”
“Yes, it is,” Tobirama agrees. “May I the recommend the top of the Hokage mountain? The view is scenic with some tempura and yakitori and shōchū to wash it down.”
Madara had thought that Tobirama doesn’t favour fried things but he must’ve if he’s the one suggesting it. “Tempura, yakitori and shōchū,” he repeats, giddiness rising in him. His mission is a success. “That does sound nice.”
“Yeah,” states Tobirama, burying his face into the warm, furry body in his arms. “It does.”
Madara is too excited with his plans to notice it then, but the thin smile that Tobirama hides is wan and doleful.
Hashirama only groans when a figure vaults through his office window and lands into a crouch.
“Hashirama,” Madara greets, curt but warm. He rises from his crouch, dusting dirt off his clothes. “Signal your guards to leave. I have a favour to ask of you.”
“Why does nobody use the door around here?” Hashirama whines. “Is it so hard to open and close a piece of wood?” Nonetheless, Hashirama motions for his guards to leave. Shadows flicker, indicating their departure.
Madara is unfazed, picking at a stray lint on his shoulder. “Your brother uses it, and the general consensus prefers to swim through lava than to get in his way,” he discloses factually. “Also, I travelled by roof.”
Hashirama exhales tiredly and puts his pen down, leaning back in his chair. He folds his hands together, his tan skin a deep brown contrast to his white robes. “Tobi’s been in such a dreadful mood lately. It’s probably why window traffic has increased. Anyway, how can I help you my dear friend?”
Hashirama is his friend first, Hokage second. He’s the person that Madara turns to for questions that itch away at his skin. Every time Madara looks at Hashirama, he sees the mischievous, affable boy by the river side. It’s funny to think his friend is the most feared man in the land of fire.
A mental list appears in his mind, and he crosses it off one by one. “Recommend me a place where I can get the best tempura, and somewhere I can get good yakitori to be packed and taken elsewhere. Also, what’s a good brand of shōchū? And at what time does your clan meeting end tomorrow?”
Instead of answering like Madara expects, Hashirama furrows his eyebrows. His reply is careful. “…why are you asking these things?”
Great. Hashirama is wary, and Madara doesn’t quite know why. “Isn’t it obvious?”
Hashirama exhales. He brings his folded hands to his mouth, contemplating him with a stern gaze. Admittedly, it’s very alarming. If Hashirama’s face went any more sombre, then Madara fears that it’d start cracking to reveals his somber brother underneath.
Their eyes meet and the solemnness of Hashirama’s dark eyes is starting to make Madara sweat.
“Madara, you are my dearest friend,” Hashirama begins earnestly. “I hope you know that. I hope you’re aware of how much I cherish your opinion and how I always will.”
Damn, what did he do to warrant Hashirama’s lecture tone? Madara hasn’t even thrown anyone into the Naka River this week. “Okay…?”
“I care for you, Madara, very deeply, but I’m sorry. I just don’t feel same way.”
Madara blinks twice. Again. “Wait, what?”
“I hope we can still continue our friendship. If I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, please tell me. I still value our time together despite me not reciprocating your feelings.”
The absolute sincerity in Hashirama’s voice brings back images, bad images. Bad, vivid, and unwanted , mental images.
“ Feelings ?!” His voice races until it’s at fever pitch. “You think I have feelings for you?!”
At the rising panic etching on Madara’s face, Hashirama frowns. “Isn’t that what it’s about? You were asking me out on a date. You even found out my favourite food, and my favourite kind of alcohol.”
“ I was not.” Madara flushes red as a lychee. He waves his arms around in a frantic attempt to explain. “It was supposed to be for your brother!”
“For Tobi?” Hashirama questions. “Tobi hates fried things! He’s such a health freak. He dislikes tempura with a passion, he prefers sashimi over yakitori (which he also dislikes), and sake over shōchū. Seriously, it’s like he bases all things he hates after everything I like, I don’t know whether he did it on purpose or not.”
“Not the time for your mumblings, Hashirama.” Although it’s a viable theory, since Tobirama can be such a smartass. Madara moans, “I didn’t know they were your favourite foods, I was just following Tobirama’s suggestion. He was the one that recommended it to me, he said that it’d make a nice date when I asked him about it. He was even the one that suggested the food…”
Suddenly, the pieces of the puzzle finally fit. The solution, however, horrifies him.
“Tobirama was the one who suggested it,” he whispers in realisation. “Tobirama was the one who told me – oh my god , your brother thinks I have feelings for you!”
Hashirama purses his lips in confusion. “So you don’t?”
“No, I don’t!” An aggravated scream tears through him. He’s this close to slamming himself through the window and let the earth bury him in his shame. “This is Izuna all over again. Why does everyone just assume that the person I like is you ?”
“ Well , you were always yelling out for me during the Clan wars, not to mention that we used to secretly meet by a riverside, despite the consternation of our warring family members. It all sounds like a sordid romance novel to me. Plus, it’s those gaping yukatas that you wear whenever you visit the Senju compound,” Hashirama tut-tuts in disapproval. “People are starting to talk, you know.”
“That was a rhetorical question.” Madara turns around to start pacing. “And those yukatas are comfy. I asked Tobirama because I wanted to know what he liked so that I could do something nice for him , and impress him, and maybe even romance him a bit – this is Izuna’s fault!”
It’s a rule that Madara lives by, that all the trouble in his life can be traced back to Izuna. He will swear to it reverently till the day he dies.
At once, Hashirama zips up from his chair. He’s in front of Madara, eyes starry, hands to his heart, looking like an overfed chipmunk. “Does that mean the person you have feelings for – is Tobi?! ”
Then, Hashirama wraps his sturdy, bear arms around Madara in a hug, lifts him up and shakes like a ragdoll.
“My brother in arms and my actual brother! Together – this is great!” the big buffoon hollers as his grip gets even more clenching with every word. “This must be why Tobi’s been so grumpy lately, he’s heartbroken because he thinks that you’re off confessing your love to me at the top of the Hokage mountain. He’s got feelings for you too!”
Madara can’t feel his ribs. “Hashirama,” he wheezes out. “Let me go. And quit yelling about ‘ feelings’ !”
“We have to tell Tobi straight away!”
Madara snaps his head and glares at him. “ No . Absolutely not.”
Hashirama pouts. “Why not?”
“Because I need to lie in a hole and gather my dignity first!” Madara finally admits that he might have a small, miniscule, flair for drama. “I need to regroup and plan this through.”
Hashirama shakes his head, squeezing his disagreement. “We can’t let him stew in his sadness!”
As luck would have it, a knock rings through the room at that moment, before the door to Hashirama’s office opens. The man in question strides into the room, his voice brimming with authority.
“Brother, if I may have a little of your time –,” Tobirama forcefully closes his mouth when his eyes lands on the two figure in front of him.
Silence encases the room.
Tobirama surveys at the arms wrapped around Madara. He shifts his eyes to the small gap between their faces, before moving on to the breathless look on Madara’s face, and his jaw hardens.
“It’s not what it looks like,” Madara protests feebly, half because of embarrassment, half because of Hashirama squeezing the air out him.
Hashirama gives Tobirama a sheepish grin.
Madara kicks at Hashirama’s thigh and he slumps to the floor.
Tobirama looks away, fingers gripping the doorknob like a lifeline. Red dusts his high cheekbones. He clears his throat, “Ah, I suppose I’ll come back another time.”
The bottom of his stomach falls out. “Tobirama–” he whimpers – yes, he’s whimpering, and wondering what he has ever done in his past life to warrant such savage embarrassment.
The door closes with a resolute click.
All energy leaks out of him, letting Madara flop on to the floor, his back meeting cold, hard wood. His face is inscrutable. The lines bagging his eyes highlight the empty black orbs looking vacantly at the ceiling.
Inside, he’s screeching like a hawk.
Slapping his knee, Hashirama guffaws. “Hah! I guess that did look a bit compromising.”
Madara has enough fire in him to raise one hand and flip his friend off.
A long while later, Madara is still lying on his friend’s floor, still stewing in misery.
Seated behind his desk, Hashirama pauses from his paperwork. He claps his hands in front of his face, and directs a serious gaze at him, a look Madara knows to be rare and uncommon.
“I have an inquiry,” intones Hashirama, grave and severe. “Is it possible for the same person to be the best man of both grooms at a wedding?”
Madara goes forward with his date plans with some questionable help.
“I am honoured to be able to help you, Madara-sama,” says Kagami.
Madara peers over his tea at the child sitting across the table. Wisps of curly black hair frame a soft cherub face and glimmering black doe eyes. On his lap, Izumi rubs her face into a hand that’s curled under her, and languor over the one that’s combing through the length of her body. Innocuous and innocent, what pair they make.
Kagami quirks his lips in contemplation. “I have the utmost respect for Izuna-sama, but his heart is fickle and it changes with the seasons. Izuna-sama leaves a lot to be desired. I much prefer you as sensei’s husband.”
Nonplussed at the kid’s abrupt inclination to speak like a sage, Madara wholeheartedly thanks him. “I owe you one.”
He shouldn’t feel so pleased at the kid’s approval. He is, however.
At the child’s bursting cackles, Madara feels like he has sold a tiny bit of his soul to the twelve-year-old embodiment of the Shinigami.
“I should have known that you had something to do with this,” Tobirama grumbles.
This , being the swift, and thorough, incapacitation of his genin team. Danzō had excused himself from training due to a ‘stomach bug’, Koharu the ‘flu’, Homura had a sudden urge to volunteer with the academy children, Biwako had promised to help her grandmother, and lastly, Hiruzen had been pulled away to an unexpected clan meeting.
Which had left only Kagami to lure Tobirama to where Madara waits, hands behind him, before backing out of training due to ‘sudden cramps in his chakra coils’.
That kid is devious . Laudably so.
Tobirama is still muttering. “Sudden cramps in his chakra coils, my ass – that kid needs to pay more attention to his anatomy lessons.”
Madara makes a noise of amusement, and points to the square mat laid on the floor. “Sit.”
Tobirama sniffs. “Why?”
“You haven’t eaten, I haven’t eaten, and I’m hungry. Sit.” Madara bulldozes over his sourpuss tone, produces a basket from behind him and kneels on to the mat.
Tobirama folds his arms petulantly, his face stiff and stony, and sinks down onto the mat. “Is there a reason I’m here, Uchiha? I’ve got a lot of things to do and wouldn’t you rather spend your time with my brother? I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Madara still had doubts after his visit to Hashirama, and subsequent crisis on his floor, that Tobirama considered him as anything more than a friend. Those doubts are turning into flutters in his stomach at Tobirama’s horrid attitude.
Tobirama can be such a churlish asshole. Madara loves it.
Madara starts unpacking his basket while rolling his eyes. Tuna, salmon and squid sashimi, check. Hashirama’s recommended brand of sake, check. Thermos of tea, double check. “You’re assuming a lot from one hug , Senju.”
“A hug doesn’t need all the ANBU guards to leave the room, Uchiha ,” Tobirama fires back. “And it definitely doesn’t leave one person out of breath and redder than tomatoes.”
Madara smirks. “Are you jealous , Senju?”
Tobirama snarls, red eyes glaring at him, “No. I’m not jealous. I’m annoyed that I’ve been pulled away to humour you with your stupid whims.”
Despite his snappish tone, Madara snickers. “Stop being so grumpy.” He waves one hand to point in their surroundings. “If you say you’re here to humour me, then humour me . Look around you and tell me what you see.”
Tobirama exaggerates looking around to hammer in the fact that he’s annoyed, and how he’d much rather haul Madara by the shoulders and throw him off the cliff. “Is there some sort of landscaping I’m supposed to be commenting on? It would be redundant if you did something to brother’s face when we’re sitting on top of the mountain facing the same way his face is–,”
Tobirama’s eyes widen slightly when he realises where they are. He realises that they’re sitting on top of the Hokage mountain.
Take them somewhere with an admirable view, and bring some food as well.
His eyes jump from the plate of sashimi, to the cup of tea Madara is offering him, to Madara’s snigger, and his retort dies on his tongue. “Oh.”
Madara asks again, and he is considerate enough to let all his snide elation bleed into his tone. “Are you jealous, Senju?”
Tobirama accepts the tea - his face doesn’t twitch, but the red dusting his cheeks betrays him, and it’s not from his birthmarks. “Shut up.”
God, Tobirama looks absolutely adorable miffed. And he’s miffed because of him, and that makes it a million times better.
“I can’t believe you basically asked me to plan my own date. How have you survived this long with such gawky social skills?” Tobirama’s mumble is barely audible.
“ Shut it, Senju. A simple thanks is enough,” says Madara, taking a bite out of their lunch. Although if he were honest, he asks himself that every day. “Besides, I wanted to be sure about to what you liked, what you thought was a nice date. Instead, you send me off chasing after Hashirama like a lovesick puppy.”
Tobirama absolutely blushes then grimaces. “Apologies. I thought that you were pining over my brother. I thought it would make you happy.”
“You, Izuna, Hashirama and the whole of Konoha it seems like,” mutters Madara. “I don’t get it, is it the things that I wear?”
“Well, your yukatas do show quite a lot of your chest, but it looks…,” Tobirama coughs out the next word, looking away in an unforeseen bout of shyness, “… nice on you. No, it’s because you were attached to the hip with Hashirama in the beginning so people assume that you’re attached in other places. ANBU are flagrant gossipers.”
Madara gags. “Firstly, ew. Secondly, I was asking your brother for advice . Hashirama will always be a big log with a bowl cut that I value as a friend nothing more.”
A deep chuckle rings out because Hashirama’s bowl cut was truly one of the many tragedies of the warring era.
Tobirama finally puts his tea away. “I finally understand why Izuna’s been giggling at me all day. I was afraid that Izuna was developing affection for me and wanted to act on it.”
“Don’t talk to me about my brother.” Madara pinches the bridge of his nose, instantly looking years older because Izuna’s secret bloodline is to suck the youth out of him. “You’ll give me headache. I don’t want to think about the Red Day disaster.”
The Red Day disaster had been, in fact, the opposite of an actual disaster. After assigning Izuna the responsibility of improving village relations, Izuna concluded that the best way to raise village morale was to hold a festival where people are encouraged to shower the object of their affection with chocolate. He then single-handedly organised the affair, and coined it, ‘Red Day’.
It was a complete success.
Except that Madara knows that raising village morale was more of a by-product of his primary goal – inventing a shameless excuse to where he could lavish Senju Tōka with gifts without the whole village judging them. Madara wonders what amazing discoveries could be unearthed if Izuna actually uses his mind for things other than his outlandish schemes.
“He wants to start another festival called White Day that takes place one month after Red Day,” Madara recounts. “On White Day, the people that receive chocolate on Red Day are supposed to return gifts to their admirers – he just wants to provoke a reaction from that cousin of yours. I hope that woman will beat some sense into him.”
Tobirama’s lip twitches. “At least your brother didn’t make Tōka plan her own festival . Now, pay attention, Uchiha, I’m about to teach you something important.”
A complain stops itself from spilling when Tobirama shifts closer. He takes one of Madara’s gloved hands, admires the contrast between dark grey leather and his own pale skin, and entangles their fingers together one by one.
Madara’s throat dries up. He is close enough to leech on the warmth emanating from Tobirama. He meets the smile in Tobirama’s eyes, and he feels like he just spat the biggest fireball in his life. And since he has the social skills of a bumbling teenager, he can’t help but blurt out a silly remark.
“Going all soppy on me, Senju?” Madara prods, trying to hide the fact that his insides are turning into mushy goo. “I have to warn you, even though we’ve gone through a war and we’ve built the infrastructure of a village together, I prefer to take things slow.”
Tobirama’s grin is gleaming with mirth, Madara can’t help but grin back. “You’re as jumpy as the cats you keep.” A soft squeeze from their joined hands, a slight stroke from Tobirama’s thumb. “It’s a good thing I like cats. Come to my place for dinner tonight?”
Madara is twenty-three years old when he thinks that settling down might not be that bad.
- epilogue -
Instead of finding his brother in his living room, Izuna finds a twelve-year-old boy sipping tea by the table, a book on its mahogany surface, and Shishi purring happily in his arms.
“Kagami-chan,” Izuna greets, surprised. A conscientious and cautious clan heir would have questioned the boy – asking Kagami how he got inside when the door was locked and Madara is nowhere in sight, and how long it's been since he’s made himself comfortable in their living room.
Izuna, however, is neither conscientious, nor cautious, and is, unless Madara had his way, not the clan heir.
So he eyes the little boy for all the wrong reasons, and after passing him through some sort of inspection, Izuna nods. “You’ll do.” He raises both arms high, a red singlet on one, and a black one on the other. “Which one of these showcase my biceps better?”
Kagami tilts his head and deliberates. “I like the red one. It compliments your eyes better, Izuna-sama. I heard that Tōka-san favours red too.”
“Huh.” The more you know. “Thanks kid. Where’d you hear that?”
“Toka-san likes to talk to sensei during training sometimes,” supplies Kagami. A delighted smile appears on his face. “Toka-san says that I’m a cutie.”
A sigh. Then a body, saturated with absolute longing, slumps onto sitting position across from Kagami. Kagami pours him a cup of sympathetic tea.
“Lucky,” Izuna sulks. “I wish she’d come by during my training sessions and calls me a cutie.”
Kagami watches his superior’s sullen pout, and machinery starts cogging in his mind. “Sometimes, she joins for dinner too.”
If it’s possible, Izuna’s expression becomes even more sullen.
Giving Izuna the most wholesome expression in his repertoire, Kagami offers, “I can get Tōka-san to have dinner with you.” He pauses for effect. “For a favour, of course.”
“Hah!” laughs Izuna. “You’re cute but not that cute.”
“Truly, I can,” insists Kagami. “Even if you don’t believe me, isn’t it worth trying anyway?”
Consideration filters through his eyes. Izuna regards Kagami with curiosity. “And what favour would you ask for?”
A sparkle appears in his eyes. All of his diplomatic slyness is thrown out the window. “Please let me fly on your falcons, Izuna-sama, I’d be over the moon .”
Izuna weighs his offer, not even remotely wary of Kagami’s eagerness at swapping favours as he should be.
Izuna leans forward, and conspires . “Tell you what, Kagami-chan, if you get her to have dinner with me, I’ll let you fly on my falcons and sign a contract with my crow summons.”
Kagami gasps – because talking crows are so cool.
The details are flying back and forth in Kagami’s head. Tōka-san has no reason to accept a dinner invitation from Izuna-sama but she’d accept it in a heartbeat if it’s from Tobirama-sensei. Tobirama-sensei would ask her if Madara-sama didn’t mind having her for dinner. And Madara-sama…
Madara-sama owes him a favour.
Incidentally, Izuna-sama never specified that he wanted to have dinner with Tōka-san alone.
“Deal!” he agrees.
As they shake hands, Izuna wonders why it feels like he’s sold a tiny bit of his soul to the twelve-year-old embodiment of the Shinigami.