Work Text:
Tobirama startled when a teacup was placed directly in front of him, cutting off his line of sight from the stack of paperwork that just seemed to grow every time he looked at it. He was even more surprised to find that the person who had brought him tea—his favorite blend by the smell of it, jasmine and chamomile—was Uchiha Madara.
Even a year ago, Tobirama’s first thought would have been that Madara was trying to poison him. Peace talks might have soothed most of the tension between the Senju and Uchiha clans, but for Tobirama, it was the year of working together to make Konoha into a functioning village that had solidified his trust in Madara. Not just pretty words or idyllic dreams of peace, but the hard work of pacifying the other clans, working out filing systems and ranking qualifications, the inglorious labor of putting together sewage plans and the ragged nights spent pouring over budgets.
Madara had been as dedicated as any of them.
They weren’t friends, exactly, but they were civil, amicable even. They had learned to work together: for the good of Konoha, for the sake of Hashirama’s foolish hope of everyone getting along, for Tobirama’s own peace of mind and Madara’s blood pressure.
And secretly—something Tobirama swore he’d never tell another living soul—Madara was his favorite coworker. Anija was too easily distracted, too excitable and overeager, and had a tendency to think in ideals more than reality. Izuna was tolerable but could get into snits that lasted for days at a time. The clan heads were a toss-up between competent (Nara and Yamanaka, typically) and a real pain in the ass (almost always Hyuuga). But Madara, while occasionally prone to dramatics, took his job seriously and put in more effort than most.
“What can I do for you this evening, Madara?”
Madara’s eyebrows jumped to the top of his forehead. “It’s morning.”
Tobirama blinked, then glanced out his window where the sun was indeed beginning a slow crawl over the horizon. “Ah.”
“Kami, help me,” Madara muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Have you been here all night?”
“Apparently so.”
“That’s it. Go home.”
Tobirama frowned. There was still a whole stack of paperwork to do, things that needed to be reviewed and edited and approved. Complaints that had to be filed. Requests that had to be screened and submitted to the Hokage. Things that were crucial to Konoha’s continued success—
“You are doing the job of four people at least,” Madara said, clearly noticing his hesitation. “You need rest. And an assistant or three. But rest first.” Madara’s dark eyes narrowed threateningly. “Don’t make me carry you out of here.”
It wasn’t an empty threat, Tobirama knew. It had happened before.
“Fine,” he huffed, straightening his desk as much as he was able to before Madara lost his patience. “But I’m taking the tea with me.”
“Ah, but the tea was a bribe,” Madara said, swiping it away before Tobirama could grab it, and dear Kami, he must really be tired if he was too slow to pick up a cup of tea.
“A bribe for what?”
“The festival tonight. Your brother said I have to go and so do you. It’ll be good for people to see us out in the village or something like that.”
Tobirama grimaced. Crowds…well, people in general were not his preference. Madara, for all that he was as lively as any other Uchiha, seemed to value his private time and personal space almost as much as Tobirama did. Another reason they got along so well.
“And the Shimura clan needs to be reassured that the Uchiha and Senju are still getting along, don’t they?” Tobirama drawled, cutting to the heart of the matter. Konoha was always courting new clans to bring into the fold, but some were more reluctant than others. The Shimura clan was small, but they’d been kicking up a fuss nonetheless, and Tobirama just knew that if they did end up joining the village, they’d be another regular headache on par with the Hyuuga.
Madara huffed a laugh. “That about sums it up. I thought we could go together. Two birds, one stone.”
It was a good idea, Tobirama could admit. If they were together, there was less of a chance of any of the other clan heads cornering him about issues that were better left for the council room where he could tear into them properly. Madara’s company was good, too, which meant that even with the crowds, Tobirama would probably have a pleasant evening. And it would fulfill Anija’s request that they both be present and friendly. Tobirama could see no downsides.
It was just…he didn’t think he and Madara were that close. Not friends, just friendly. This was the sort of thing the Senju would do with family, good friends or lovers. Even for political benefit, they wouldn’t go to a festival together with someone they were only loosely acquainted with, just be seen conversing a few times in public.
Another cultural difference, perhaps? Tobirama had noticed quite a few of those between the Uchiha and Senju. The Uchiha were more prone to casual physical intimacy—hugs and kissing on the cheek and the like—whereas the Senju were more reserved. The Uchiha tended to raise kids as a whole clan, whereas the Senju tended to stick to single-family units. Tobirama found it all fascinating, and, well, this was Konoha, now. A blending of cultures.
There was no harm in branching out from the Senju way of things, was there?
(And if there was a part of him that wanted to go with Madara to a festival and have it mean the closeness that the Senju would have given such a gesture, then the feeling was being shoved down and judiciously ignored. Madara was Hashirama’s friend, not his.)
Tobirama nodded. “I will see you this evening, then.”
Madara smiled, a proper one rather than his usual smirk or his fighting grin. “At seven.”
“At seven.”
Madara handed back the tea, gently placing it in Tobirama’s hands. “Now go rest. And I mean sleep, Tobirama, not working in that lab you have tucked away in your basement.”
Tobirama waved him off. He would sleep, if only because that meant he wouldn’t be awake to think about going to the festival and what it might mean.
(It didn’t mean anything, he knew, but what if—)
He woke sometime around four in the afternoon, which gave him more than enough time to eat, bathe, and then meditate to try to organize his thoughts.
It was just a festival. It probably didn’t mean anything to Madara because the Uchiha clan probably didn’t place any significance on such things. It was a nice idea, though, to think that perhaps Madara did see him as a friend, someone he wouldn’t mind passing the evening with, someone whose company was worth seeking out.
No, Hashirama told him we both had to be there. It’s just logical to go together. That’s all there is to it.
He smothered whatever flicker of hope had already grown in his chest, stamping it out viciously. It was ridiculous. He’d learned long ago to let go of any desire for attachment. Butsuma had all but beaten it out of him, calling it weakness—even if Tobirama didn’t strictly think that was true anymore—and if that hadn’t been enough on its own, he had plenty of other evidence to prove just how foolish it was to hope, how reckless it was to expect anything more than the bare minimum.
(That one orange-haired boy who had come with his father on a diplomatic mission to the Senju and had spent the afternoon with Tobirama, only to complain about it later, saying how boring it was to deal with someone so cold and emotionless and dull.
And the Senju just a few years older than Tobirama—he’d been 14, then—who had dark green eyes and freckles. He had flirted shamelessly, had leaned into Tobirama’s space with wily smiles and teasing touches, and Tobirama had liked him, at least he’d thought so. That had been his first kiss, but then he’d overheard the boy bragging about how he’d done the impossible, how he’d made the frigid Senju Ghost loosen up a little, how he was sure he’d get him nice and warmed up in no time.
Tobirama had never told anyone about that, too embarrassed and hurt to bring it up even when Anija asked why he’d gone into such a mood, so he’d shoved it down. Ignored it. He still avoided Itsuki whenever he could.
There were others: people who had feigned interest just to get a closer look at the infamous White Demon, people who pretended to like him to get closer to Hashirama, people who—
Well. Tobirama had stopped keeping count.)
So if Madara meant for this to be just business, then it would be.
If Tobirama didn’t have any expectations, then he couldn’t be disappointed.
On one hand, Tobirama was distracted from the overcrowded streets and the way people pressed in on all sides as they milled about. On the other hand, he was distracted because Madara was wearing a dark blue yukata with his clan crest stitched into a pattern around the neck, and he looked devastatingly handsome, softened somewhat without his typical armor and shinobi blacks.
(There was also a flicker of a thought that they matched somewhat, Tobirama’s yukata a complimentary pale blue with white waves reaching up from the hem. He tried to ignore it, tried not to read anything into the way Madara’s eyes had lingered on him a little longer than was strictly polite. He was only imagining things, he was sure.)
“You look…well,” Madara said somewhat haltingly, and Tobirama was relieved that the Uchiha seemed to be struggling to find what to say as much as he was himself. Small talk had never been his forte.
“As do you,” Tobirama replied easily enough, grateful for the dim evening light and the glow of the lanterns that had been strung over the streets that worked wonders in concealing the heat high on his cheeks. It’s only simple pleasantries, meaningless chatter, he scolded himself. Nothing to get flattered about.
“And the festival is nice,” Madara continued, waving his hands vaguely at the decorated streets, the wide array of food stalls and little game-booths set up for children. “Lots of…things to see. Very colorful. Very…nice.”
“Do not strain yourself, Madara,” Tobirama said, barely holding back a snort.
Dark slanted eyes cut to him with a familiar irritation, one that usually preluded one of their arguments that Tobirama had come to enjoy. Though perhaps, he thought, glancing around at the mixed crowd of shinobi and civilians, a public argument would not be the image Hashirama had hoped for them to project tonight. Not with the village still relatively new and with lingering tensions to worry over. Not with the Shimura gauging Konoha’s stability, and potentially looking for cracks in the Senju-Uchiha alliance.
Instead of indulging in the comfort of a back-and-forth exchange which might’ve broken the semi-awkward tension between them, Tobirama nudged Madara’s arm a touch more playfully than he might have otherwise to show that he was teasing.
Madara’s slightly agape, flabbergasted expression made it well worth it in any case.
“Aniki!”
They both turned to find Izuna’s slightly overenthusiastic waving as he darted through the crowds with ease. He stopped in front of them, seemed to notice Tobirama all at once, and then with a with an inscrutable expression, took a step back to look intently at Madara, then to Tobirama, then back to his brother. Izuna’s face became pinched for a moment—he really was terribly expressive for a shinobi—before he sighed, resigned.
“Right. So that’s—” Izuna gestured vaguely at Tobirama, sighing again. “Really? Him?”
“Eloquent as always,” Tobirama drawled, because even if he and Izuna had stopped being mortal enemies, they hadn’t quite stopped being rivals. Any excuse to poke at him in little, harmless ways couldn’t possibly be passed over.
“Izuna,” Madara said, a thread of warning in his voice.
The younger Uchiha held up his hands in surrender. “No, no. I’ll stay…way out of it, thanks. Enjoy the festival.”
He was gone again in another second, merging back into the crowd as if he’d never been there at all.
“What—”
Madara pinched the bridge of his nose. “Brothers.”
“TOBI!” a voice shouted from across the street, and Hashirama appeared as if on cue, smiling giddily and quite possibly already a bit drunk if the flush of his face and Mito’s long-suffering look at his side were any indicator. Then he gasped. “MADARA! YOU GUYS CAME TOGETHER?”
Tobirama resisted the urge to rub away the headache forming at his temples. He waved at his brother with much more decorum and breathed out a sigh before shooting Madara a side-glance. “Brothers.”
Hashirama had been surprisingly quick to leave them alone, all things considered, Tobirama thought, his brain turning over the information with no small amount of confusion. Mito had been responsible for dragging Hashi off and away with the promise of visiting more vendors—and more alcohol, most likely—but it had been Madara who had initially brushed him off.
(“Madara!” Hashirama had been pouting. “But we could go drinking—”
“No,” the Uchiha had said, utterly resolute. “You wanted Tobirama and me to be here. Well. That’s what we’re doing.”
“Together, though?” More pouting. “I thought I was your best friend.”
Madara had looked at him like he was being particularly dense. “You are, you overgrown tree.”
“Then we should—yes! All four of us could spend time together!”
Mito had looked like that was the last thing she wanted to do, frankly, and Tobirama hadn’t blamed her. Hashirama on his own was a handful. A drunken Hashirama and a drunken Madara, even with Tobirama to help? It would be chaos.
And maybe Tobirama had wanted to enjoy the festival in relatively companionable peace. Maybe he was enjoying spending time with Madara without the headache of paperwork or managing the council for once.
“You came here with your wife,” Madara had said pointedly. “Perhaps you ought to spend some time with her.”
Hashirama had turned to Mito in an exaggerated flutter of movement, suddenly aware of the implication that her company wasn’t enough. “Of course I want to spend time with you! Mito, my flower—”)
In truth, Tobirama could not really wrap his head around it. Yes, Madara had been the one to suggest coming to the festival together, but in the back of Tobirama’s mind, he’d at least partly assumed it was because anyone else Madara would have wanted to go with was busy. And yet Izuna had been alone and Hashirama certainly wouldn’t have minded—
Besides, Madara being seen with Hashirama would have been just as good for optics. The village leader and the Uchiha clan head. But maybe he’d asked Tobirama because it was less obvious? Everyone already knew that Hashirama and Madara were good friends, so perhaps Madara being seen getting along with another Senju—a notoriously standoffish and difficult one, at that—would better exemplify that it wasn’t a one-off situation?
That makes sense, Tobirama thought, slightly more at ease now that he was more aware of the motives of the people around him. Social situations were…complex. But strategy was simple enough, and Madara’s was a good one.
Now, with some of the initial unsurety and discomfort out of the way, Tobirama found it easier to talk with Madara as they walked along the streets, conversation flowing with the same comfortable familiarity as their work-related exchanges did.
“Kagami mentioned something about kittens?”
“He tried to sneak seven of them into his mother’s house.” Madara huffed a laugh. “She noticed. Obviously. Izuna has them now; he tries to act mature, but he’s really just as bad as Kagami sometimes.”
and
“I had an idea for a fire-style jutsu,” Tobirama offered. “I can do it, but it’s opposite to my chakra nature, so it’s not as powerful as it would be from someone fire-natured, and I’m admittedly curious about its range in the hands of an expert. If you’re open to some experimenting, I was wondering—”
“Yes,” Madara agreed eagerly, dark eyes practically gleaming in excitement. Then he paused. “As long as it’s not going to blow me up.”
Tobirama hummed for a moment. “No. I don’t think that’s very likely.”
“Not likely—how not likely?”
Another moment for consideration, and then Tobirama shrugged. “30% chance at most.”
“30%!”
Tobirama rolled his eyes. “I’ve brought the risk down significantly from the beginning stages.”
“Sage, help me,” Madara muttered. “Do I even want to know?”
Tobirama thought back to that first trial where he’d singed his eyebrows off even with all the protective seals in place, how he’d only managed to keep anyone from finding out by a very careful application of a hair-growth jutsu, and grimaced. “Probably not.”
and
“How are you adjusting to being clan head?” Madara asked. They had come across a quiet, unoccupied corner where they could watch the bubbling atmosphere of the festival without being in the midst of it too much. It was a nice reprieve from the loud, bright, too much energy. Even if they would have to return in a few moments in order to make sure they were seen again, Tobirama would savor the temporary peace.
“The elders are pushing their luck as always,” he said.
When Hashirama had taken the position of Hokage and passed the clan head title to him, he knew it was going to be a bit of a struggle. The elders had never liked him much, seeing him as unpredictable and more than a touch dangerous. Most of the Senju clan, really, had thought of him like that for so long, like he was a half-feral dog waiting to snap, and undoing even a little of that mindset had taken a monumental effort. Throwing himself into helping Anija make the village work had proven his dedication at least, and taking on Kagami as a student had softened their perception of him a little.
But really, Tobirama did not think he was much meant for being clan head. Hashirama had been so much better at it, and though he could not currently take up the role given that he was handling Konoha at large, there were surely better options than Tobirama. Their cousin, Touka, for instance. She was of the main line, though a bit more distantly though their grandfather’s brother. She would have done well—better with people and better liked in general, with enough of a brash, take-no-shit attitude to keep the elders in their place. Tobirama would have gladly served as her right hand as he had for Hashirama.
“Ah,” Madara said, sympathetically. “Mine are always a hassle as well. They like to micromanage, and we spend every meeting wasting time on inane details of the clan’s rice intake and whether or not the steel is steely enough. They like to complain just for the sake of it.”
“Mine want me to get married,” Tobirama said, and then immediately clamped his mouth shut. He hadn’t meant to say it, but the frustration had been churning under his skin for days and it seemed that no matter how much he would’ve liked to ignore it altogether, it was determined to come out.
Madara spluttered rather more aggressively than Tobirama thought the situation called for.
“They what?”
Well. It seemed they would be talking about this after all.
“Despite Hashirama being married to Mito and the likelihood of an heir being born now that the village is stabilizing, it is apparently not enough,” Tobirama said tiredly. “They say they want to strengthen ties either within the village or outside of it through a strategic marriage as well as ensure the continuation of the main line, though I am inclined to think it’s more an attempt to hinder me with an unwanted spouse. I suspect they think it will make me less of a threat, or at least give them something to leverage against me.”
“But that’s—they’re serious? And they’ll actually try to force the issue?”
“They have less influence than they used to before the village, but there are ways for them to apply pressure, yes.” Mostly, it would again rely on Tobirama’s image within the clan, and how they could make him appear uncooperative or neglectful. And the Senju would believe it, because while they were certain of Hashirama’s love for them, they were not half so sure of Tobirama, not when they only just now were starting to see him as human at all. He couldn’t afford a clan uprising now—peace was too fragile, Hashirama’s attention already spread thin. “They’ve already begun to compile a list of candidates.”
Madara’s face set into a hard line. “But Hashirama won’t allow it—”
Tobirama laughed bitterly. “Anija is perfectly happy with his arranged marriage to Mito. He won’t force it, no, but he doesn’t see why I should take such objection to a similar arrangement for me.”
“You’re not at all like him, though,” Madara pointed out sensibly enough, but it still made Tobirama flinch.
“I am well aware.” If he were more like Hashirama, perhaps it would be no trouble to attach himself blindly to a stranger and trust that affection and respect would grow. If he were more like Hashirama, perhaps the elders would not be out to spite him like this at all. “That is at least half the problem.”
“That’s not what I—Tobirama.”
He was not expecting Madara to grab him by the shoulders and forcibly turn him so that he was made to look Madara head on.
“You are not your brother,” Madara repeated, clearly agitated. “Thank Kami, because I doubt the village would be in one piece if there were two of him. I doubt the village would have been made at all.”
“Madara—”
“No, you insufferable bastard, just listen for a moment.” He scrubbed a hand over his face and groaned, muttering something under his breath about how nothing was going to plan. When he met Tobirama’s gaze again, his eyes were intent and focused and filled with some unnamable emotion that nonetheless felt as though it pierced Tobirama straight through. “Hashirama could have been married to just about anyone and found a way to make it work. He is lucky to be so well-matched with Mito, true, but he could have been betrothed to a brick wall and managed just fine. That’s not stubbornness on his part, or willpower—it’s a sickening amount of optimism and so much charisma it should be illegal. But for you—”
And here would be a list of his flaws, Tobirama was sure. Finite patience and a short temper. Not good with people. Not good with social cues. Not good with identifying feelings or expressing them. Too blunt. Too cynical. Too distant. Too quiet and odd and unappealing and—
“—it takes more than just hope and wishful thinking. You believe in concrete evidence, in reality. You put stock in facts, not faith. Your trust is slow to come and hard earned, and that is not a bad thing, because it is worth all the more for the effort. You are a brilliant, wonderfully terrifying, complicated man, and if you were betrothed to a brick wall, you would be bored to death in an instant. If you were betrothed to someone who could not match you in every way, you would be miserable the rest of your life. Even if you gave yourself over to it wholly as I know you are wont to do, it would not matter.”
Tobirama swallowed heavily. He had not expected—he had not thought…
How terrifying and relieving and awing it was to be seen so fully. To be known and understood, and more than that, to still be spoken of with respect, with something frighteningly close to reverence. He felt as if, somehow, he had been bared, and yet there was little shame to it for once. It was as though Madara had seen every detail, every facet of him, and decided he was not lesser for it. That there was nothing piteous in Tobirama’s hesitance to trust, nothing distasteful in his cool demeanor and stern countenance. That there was nothing wrong with him, no matter how many others had told him otherwise.
Since when had Madara been paying so close attention? And why? Why Tobirama, of all things, to study so thoroughly?
As if the man had read his mind, Madara gave an aggravated huff. “I am trying to court you, you dense moron, and have been for nearly a month already. I cannot make my intentions plainer.” There was a pinkness to his face that could not be easily hidden with his hair pulled back as it was.
Tobirama’s mind was uncommonly blank. “A month?”
“I was not sure if such…attentions would be well-received and opted for subtlety.”
The thing was, although Tobirama had not and would not have noticed if it was not currently being pointed out to him, it was fairly obvious in hindsight. The cups of tea Madara had brought him upon occasion. The offers to grab dinner together, easily excused by a late night of paperwork and their own grumbling stomachs. The way Madara had slowly been inching his way closer, sitting in the chair directly across from him or the one directly beside, and Tobirama had rationalized it by thinking that it was for the ease of trading documents or having conversation without having to raise their voices. It was true that Madara had not been overly forward—something Tobirama greatly appreciated—but the hints had been there, and if Tobirama had ever dared to imagine there was something beyond professional amicability between them, he might have seen it.
Tobirama knew he must have looked more than a touch bewildered, because Madara coughed uncomfortably.
“If you are not interested, I won’t allow it to impact our relationship as it currently stands, but I would know whether or not my affection is welcome.”
Madara wet his mouth thoughtlessly, and Tobirama followed the motion with his eyes, ignoring that he felt slightly breathless like a virginal civilian hime. Ridiculous, and a betrayal of his bodily functions, but not an unwarranted one.
Madara was an objectively beautiful man, made all the more attractive by his sharp mind and vicious wit, his devotion to both his family and his work, his capability as a shinobi and this newly discovered care with which he had paid attention to Tobirama. It was a heady feeling to be at the center of such a man’s attentions, and Tobirama found he did not dislike it.
“It is not something I had allowed myself to consider,” he spoke delicately, each word chosen with care. He needed to be honest, needed to express himself as best as he was able and hope that Madara truly did know him well enough to not think him stiff and unfeeling. “But I am not opposed. I prefer your company to most others and admire you greatly, and—” here he smiled faintly, a touch teasing “—there is little chance of boredom around you.”
“That’s a yes,” Madara breathed, wide-eyed and looking a bit struck, as if he had not really thought he would be accepted.
“It is,” Tobirama agreed, and then, because he would not be himself if he wasn’t at least a little bit of a shit about it, he raised a brow. “Somehow, despite you calling me an insufferable bastard and a dense moron in the midst of your confession, I still find you unaccountably attractive.”
Madara scowled for a moment, mouth opening to argue, before his expression suddenly shifted to something significantly more smug. “You find me attractive?”
The heat that rose to Tobirama’s cheeks rivaled that of a katon jutsu, and he huffed, looking away petulantly, muttering, “As if that wasn’t obvious.”
Rather than teasing further as Tobirama thought he might, Madara only continued to look all too pleased with himself as he extended his arm for Tobirama to take. “We ought to return to the festival.”
Tobirama looped his arm through Madara’s and allowed the Uchiha to pull him close. It would make a statement, undoubtedly, and with how everyone in the damned village was prone to gossip, he suspected the news of his and Madara’s closeness would have circulated throughout the entirety of Konoha by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.
It was a bit silly, but Tobirama liked that idea. Liked that Madara was unafraid to be seen attached to him. Liked that Madara wanted people to know that Tobirama was his. It didn’t feel like he was being shown off and toted around like an accomplishment, not with Madara’s focus so centered on him and him alone even as they drifted between the various stalls and sampled some of the food. Even when people started to stare and murmur, Madara barely looked away from him.
It felt like being seen, being known, being wanted—and wanted for the simple pleasure of his own company, at that.
Tobirama allowed Madara to lead him up to the top of the mountain where they could view the oncoming fireworks in relative privacy, allowed him to sit close enough that they were pressed together from knee to shoulder, the heat between them a steady comfort. He leaned into it, pleased when Madara’s arm slipped around his waist to accommodate a further closeness.
It felt like belonging.
*omake 1*
The festival was winding down with the late hour and the fireworks done with, though there were still a fair number of people out and about, probably looking to get drunk and find some other…entertainment now that most children had been sent home and to bed. The partying would likely go on until the wee hours of the morning, but Tobirama was drained and as he walked with Madara back down the mountain and through the significantly less crowded streets, all he could think about was getting home and making himself a nice cup of tea.
Perhaps he would even invite Madara in for a cup, and just extend the peaceful, quiet ease that had settled between them for another hour.
“Ah, Uchiha-sama! And…Senju-sama,” a voice called, gritty and nasally and generally unpleasant.
“Fuck,” Madara muttered under his breath before turning towards the approaching Shimura delegate with feigned pleasantness. “Shimura-san. Did you enjoy the festival?”
Shimura-san looked entirely taken aback, eyes glued to where Tobirama still had not let go of Madara’s arm—not that Madara would have let him, given the pleasantly firm grasp Madara had on him.
“The festival?” Shimura repeated blankly for a moment before gathering himself. “Ah. Yes, it was…nice.”
Tobirama disguised his uncontrolled huff of laughter as a cough, and enjoyed watching Madara’s mouth twitch in response, as if he too was holding back his amusement.
“Good. Well, then, it’s getting late—”
“I had hoped to speak with you this evening.” Either Shimura wasn’t getting the hint, or else he was rudely ignoring Madara’s obvious desire to leave. “About my clan’s concerns on several matters. The academy, for one. My clan head does not understand why we cannot continue to train our own children. And the power structures are a concern, too. Who decides the Hokage? And who decides who counsels the Hokage? I—”
“I understand you have many concerns,” Tobirama said, cutting him off coolly and ignoring Shimura-san’s obvious nose-wrinkling disdain. Why the Shimura clan had sent a man clearly ill-suited to diplomacy, Tobirama couldn’t imagine. “But perhaps you would not mind waiting until tomorrow? During the meeting you scheduled?”
It was not a suggestion, yet another thing that apparently went over Shimura-san’s head.
“I thought Uchiha-sama might prefer a less…stifling environment.”
Madara smiled pleasantly, if not entirely convincingly. “It’s no trouble, Shimura-san. I actually like to keep my work life contained in the office if I can manage it.”
Shimura-san’s brow furrowed, and he looked pointedly at Tobirama. “You seem to have little trouble speaking with Senju-sama this evening. Is that another thing the Shimura should be worried about? That your two clans should always take precedence over the rest of us?”
Tobirama could admit that for all that Shimura-san was not particularly subtle and his delivery was clumsy and heavy-handed, he had raised a decent point—the Uchiha and Senju alliance needed to look strong but not preferential, or else all the other clans would think themselves at a disadvantage. It wasn’t true, of course, because the village had been set up to allow for fairness and equality as much as a shinobi village could reasonably afford, but appearances mattered.
“I had time for Tobirama this evening,” Madara said, and his voice had taken on that slightly smug edge again, “because we are on a date.”
Oh. That…neatly handles that, doesn’t it?
Shimura-san spluttered. “What? You…and the White D—and Senju-sama?”
“Yes?” There was an edge to that, too, a subtle threat that if Shimura-san did not lose that borderline disrespectful attitude and quickly, Madara would not be pleased.
“I had not realized you were…attached. To each other. In that…way.”
“Yes,” Madara said again and did not elaborate.
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them, but Tobirama felt no need to intervene. If Shimura-san thought he had ever had the upper hand in this conversation—in the negotiations in general—it was only right that he be corrected.
“Right. Um.” Shimura-san blinked and managed to find at least some of his footing and manners. “Then please forgive the intrusion. I will speak with you tomorrow. Have a pleasant evening, Uchiha-sama. Senju-sama.”
They watched him rush off, half tripping over his feet as he scrambled. It was probably for the best—the good mood of the evening meant that neither Tobirama nor Madara were as short on patience as usual, but there was no guarantee how long that would last in the face of Shimura’s blatant bullshit. A quick peek at Madara’s face revealed that he was likely thinking along those same lines. That solidified the evening’s plans, then.
“Tea?” Tobirama offered and enjoyed the tiniest flutter of his stomach when Madara agreed.
*omake 2*
Somehow they’d made it to noon the next day before the news broke to Hashirama, but once it did, they knew immediately.
“TOBIIIIIIIIIIIIIII,” Hashirama cried, all but kicking down the door to Tobirama’s office, where Madara was currently sitting across from him, eating lunch. “You didn’t tell me—”
“Anija—”
“Tobi, I’m so happy!” And then Hashirama lunged for his brother, wrapping him up in a too-tight hug and practically swinging him around. “My brother and my best friend! I knew you could get along!”
“Anija, put me down.”
Hashirama did, still beaming until he turned towards Madara. In a rare show of utmost seriousness, Hashirama pinned his best friend with a look that was not-quite-hostile, but also not-quite-not-a-threat.
“My brother, Madara?”
Sometimes it was easy to forget how powerful Hashirama was, or why he was considered a God of Shinobi. He was often silly, loud and childish at times. He whined about his paperwork and cried over plants that were being “neglected” and drank to excess and gambled poorly. He was charismatic, yes, and optimistic, and a people-person, and that all made him a good leader, but the real reason he’d been trusted to become Hokage was that underneath all the bluster, Hashirama was incredibly dangerous.
Madara knew that better than anyone, but he was being reminded of it again now.
(There was a reason he’d never gone after Tobirama on the battlefield back when their clans were fighting. Some people liked to say that it was because Madara and Hashirama were only able to match each other and had refused to fight anyone else so that they could keep casualties on either side to a minimum. After the village had been built, others had started a rumor that it was out of respect of their childhood dream to protect their brothers.
But the truth of it was that there were few things that could make Hashirama get angry—get serious—in a fight, and if Madara had ever hurt Tobirama, let alone managed to kill him, they would not be in this village right now. Madara and rest of the Uchiha might not even be alive.)
(Madara had never judged Hashirama for that. He knew if it was the other way around—if it was Izuna hurt or dead and at his best friend’s hand—there would be no forgiveness, no peace, no trust. They loved their brothers; that was what had bound them together in the first place.)
“My baby brother?”
Tobirama was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Hashi, don’t.”
“Otouto. Why don’t you wait outside?”
Oh fuck, Madara realized with sudden clarity. This is serious.
“No,” Tobirama said, but he sounded resigned. “You take it outside. To a training ground, preferably. I want my office and the rest of the Tower to stay in one piece.”
There was a hand on the back of Madara’s collar, and then he was being forcibly lifted out of his chair.
“Great idea!” Hashirama said, his voice cheery yet underlaid with that same dangerous tone. “Let’s go, Madara.”
He always enjoyed a good spar with Hashirama, but he had a feeling this one was going to hurt. Tobirama, that smug asshole, just smirked as Madara was hauled out the door.
“Have fun.”