Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Izuna,” Madara said, with his head propped up against his hands. Every part of him was slumped.

Izuna froze. Madara had woken up that morning in a foul temper, and more pressingly, had not expressed any of this anger in the form of shouting or the occasional wailing.

Instead, Madara had looked across their kitchen and then… stopped dead. That hissing chakra vanished like Madara had decided that he was going to emulate a mix of Tobirama and one of Shamon’s soulless puppets for the rest of the day.

He had walked around in a daze, and ate breakfast in a daze, and dressed in his Hokage robes in a daze—although Izuna had noticed a faint tremble when he put the hat on, which reassured him that his brother hadn’t suddenly lost all his emotions.

Then he followed Izuna to the Academy and into his office. Dazedly. It was almost like he had forgotten where everything was, even though he built the whole damn thing with Hashirama.

The only moments where he seemed like he wasn’t off in la-la-land was when he stared at Izuna the whole time they ate breakfast with wide, unblinking eyes. It almost seemed like he was about to activate his Sharingan, but he saw Izuna every day!

There was also that time he was startled when Hashirama parted the door to the office with his Mokuton instead of turning the doorknob like any polite shinobi. At least Hashirama refrained from twisting the whole wooden tower to suit his needs now.

Even though Madara made a very valiant attempt at tripping in his seat, he still hadn’t reacted normally. He just nodded dumbly at everything Hashirama reported and took whatever papers were handed to him before adding them to the growing stack. Even Hashirama gave Madara a concerned look, which Madara didn’t even appear to notice. (His hawk-eyed brother!)

Izuna would’ve attributed it to shock, but Madara had been Hokage for a month. His brother was emotionally constipated, but surely he didn’t take a month to process how he felt about something?

In light of this morning’s weirdness. Izuna could be forgiven for almost dunking his stack of paperwork on their new Hokage.

He fumbled with his words and felt awkward around his brother for the first time in years. “Nii-san? Don’t tell me you’re hungover.”

He settled for teasing Madara—that was the best way to invoke a response, right? He was sick of receiving a blank look all morning. Izuna wasn’t serious, of course—Madara seemed to take it upon himself to be everything that the Senju brothers were not, and if they liked to be “damnable alcoholics” every Friday, Madara was always stone-cold sober in his house.

Madara’s eyes snapped up in that familiar, hawkish way that he had inherited from Uchiha Tajima, and Izuna was almost relieved, until Madara asked, “I drink alcohol?”

He sounded horrified and delighted at the same time.

Izuna stared a little longer before he abruptly dumped all of the paperwork on the desk and clasped his hands together. “Alright, this”—he gestured at Madara—“thing has been going on for the whole morning. What’s wrong with you?”

The bluntness had come from Madara.

Izuna gestured again at the tower of paperwork, which had stayed vertical through sheer architectural luck. It was leaner than Uzushio’s buildings, and kami knows how many seals they slapped on them before they stopped collapsing. “You’re even procrastinating on your paperwork. Like Hashirama!”

Madara blinked and looked around as if he was only just realizing the mountains of work that threatened to smother him in a cage of paper. “Ah…”

Izuna stared a little bit longer, hoping that these pauses would pressure his older brother into speaking more, but Madara just continued looking placidly around him.

“Did you—did you forget how to fill out the forms?” Izuna tried to tease him again, although his tone had lost humor. It sounded flummoxed.

Madara turned back to Izuna with bright eyes and nodded enthusiastically. “If you could show me… I would be most grateful.”

What the fuck. Izuna narrowed his eyes and used his last and deadliest technique. Desperate times, desperate measures. “You’re not trying to brush off all your paperwork to me, are you? Because I don’t actually enjoy all this legislative work as much as Tobirama did.”

Madara actually looked disappointed. “Oh. He’s still alive?”

“... Yes?” Izuna subtly made the snake sign behind his back and rested his weight on both his legs. First, Madara was unfamiliar with the layout of the house. Second, he was unfamiliar with the layout of Konoha. Third, he didn’t know how to do any of the administrative paperwork. Fourth, and most importantly, he didn’t start flailing around at the mention of Tobirama’s name.

“Nii-san, why does the sun begin to set when the moon is in the sky?”

There was a slight pause, before Madara replied, “Amaterasu-no-Mikoto is running away from her husband.”

“And why does Amaterasu-no-Mikoto shine upon our clan?”

“We carry her blood and wield her fire,” Madara said more confidently, although with none of the usual Uchiha pride.

“And what of Tsukuyomi-no-Mikoto? Who does he carry in his heavy heart?” Every Uchiha knew their clan’s gods and their stories, but this was a specific inside joke between Madara, Izuna, and Hikaku.

This time, Madara took even longer. “A white-striped cat,” he finally settled on. “Mikoto-sama?”

Izuna’s stance relaxed, but his face remained as severe as ever. “Madara,” he said gravely. “I think you have amnesia.”

-o-

Seeing as this was their illustrious Hokage with possible brain damage, Izuna dragged him off to see the foremost expert in the field of medicine at the greatest medical center of their time.

“Izuna, I studied the application of iryō ninjutsu on field wounds and dabbled in other surgical practices,” Tobirama gestured at Madara, who was seated on one of Tobirama’s creaky chairs. He looked back at him suspiciously. “Unless you want me to carve up his brain, I don’t see what I can do for you.”

“You can’t just shrug this off because this isn’t your department,” Izuna said, glancing worriedly at Madara. “Every department is your department! Surely you’ve dabbled with brains at least once.”

“I’ve had little interest in mental afflictions,” Tobirama said. “The only instance where I’ve even touched on this field was when I was testing out the Curse of Hatred hypothesis, and that was later disproven using statistics from your clan libraries.”

"What about Itama?” Izuna tried. “He works with the mind, right?"

"He specializes in civilians, Izuna. He could give therapy sessions, or brew Madara a cup of herbal medicine if you'd like?"

"Declined," Madara interrupted.

"Okay, but—" Izuna started again.

"There are no medical experts on the brain right now unless you'd allow the Yamanaka to poke around in our Hokage's head."

“But—” Now both Madara and Tobirama were looking at him disinterestedly. He was doing this for your sake, Nii-san! “If Madara is incapacitated, then Hashirama will have to act as Hokage again. Do you really want to pull him away from his wife and newborn son?”

“Hashirama had been pestering Madara about his Hokage duties the whole month,” Tobirama said blandly. “He’d probably take the job again happily.”

On the other side of the table, Madara raised his chin. “I’ve forgotten a month of events, and the most that has happened was that I got the Hokage hat and Mikoto-sama passed away. I’ll admit that I can’t quite remember how to do the paperwork, but it should be self-explanatory if Hashirama could’ve handled it. So there’s no problem at all, Izuna.”

-o-

“Aren’t you concerned that one of the Yamanaka broke into our house and brainwashed Madara so that they could have a puppet kage?” Izuna hissed after Madara left Tobirama’s dingy lab, citing that he had to catch up on paperwork.

Tobirama gave him an unimpressed look, as if to say, Is that the best you’ve come up with?

“Fine. Aren’t you concerned in general,” Izuna amended.

Tobirama neatly shuffled his notes on the examination. “I’ll have to review my memory of the patient’s testimony later. It was… a bit difficult to think under Madara’s intense scrutiny.”

Izuna rolled his eyes. “Great. So it wasn’t just Madara stuck in the honeymoon phase—you’re just more subtle in mooning over his eyes and whatnot.”

Tobirama gave him an inscrutable look. “Imagine if it was Tōka sitting there. She’s settled quite happily into domesticity and village life, but now she’s giving you the same blood-lusty look she wears in battle. Except—”

Izuna yelped and waved his hands around, moving to cover Tobirama’s mouth but thinking better of it. “Okay, okay, I did not need to think about you and my nii-san. But shouldn’t you be less casual about this development? He doesn’t seem to know about the—thing."

"However many times you blast my clan for being cold and aloof, I can assure you that if I had an idea about how to help Madara, I would have already sought out the necessary journals."

"That's not—how are you so calm when one of your people loses part of what makes them that person?"

"The same way I would adapt to other developments in their physique or mental state."

"..."

"Izuna, he's not dead, and anything else we can deal with."

"We could've dealt with his death. A quick Izanagi and everyone's peachy.” Izuna threw up his hands. “What we can't deal with is memory loss!"

Tobirama patted his back in a not-reassuring way, before pushing him toward the door. “If I find a way to fix this, I’ll let you know. He didn’t let me do a full-body scan, so look out for anything unusual, especially suspicious seals”

“Now just wait a minute here! Let’s decide on some course of action first at the very least.”

-o-

Half an hour later, and it was already time for an early lunch. Izuna didn’t finish any part of his paperwork—he was stuck in Tobirama’s lab—but he could hand that off to future Izuna. This matter couldn’t wait.

As Izuna entered the Hokage’s office again, he saw his brother and Hashirama grinning like loons over a few bottles of sake. He couldn’t ask for a better situation—Madara was much less stubborn when he was drunk.

Izuna put his hands on his hips and tried to do his best rendition of Kou. “Hokage-sama, you know that Tobirama had expressly forbidden alcohol on Academy premises.” Nothing encouraged Madara and Hashirama better than Tobirama’s impending disapproval.

Madara looked up at him. “But I didn’t know that,” he pointed out wryly.

Beside him, Hashirama knocked back his sake. “Have a drink with us, Izuna. You’ve been around Tobirama too much; I bet you’ve even memorized all of the Shinobi Rules.”

“I’m not obsessed with paperwork or decorum,” Izuna protested, while Madara merely flicked Hashirama’s cheek in offense. He looked at the ever-procreating stack of paperwork and then decided to sit on one of the piles near the desk. Madara handed him a shot of sake.

Izuna nursed his small shot of sake slowly, careful to remain sober when Tobirama arrived. It seemed like Madara had snapped out of the daze he was in that morning. Now he was free with his smiles, and he whole-heartedly tussled with Hashirama on the floor for the last bottle of sake.

Was it shinobi paranoia if Izuna thought that Madara looked too pleased to see Hashirama? Instead of giving Hashirama the ‘who are you and what are you doing in my kitchen’ look that Izuna had the fortune of receiving, Madara was entirely too comfortable in Hashirama’s presence. That was the look Madara gave foreign dignitaries that screamed, ‘I would choke you with that sake bottle if I could, but I can’t because we’re pretending to be civilized shinobi now. Admire my gracious smile.’

Izuna might have had a lower alcohol tolerance than he thought.

Izuna discreetly signaled for the guards to activate the seal barriers—best not to begin Madara’s reign with bad rumors—and then went to Madara’s desk to find that hidden alcohol stash that Hashirama left behind.

Hashirama was quickly draining the alcohol he brought over, and soon there wouldn’t be enough to even knock over a genin.

-o-

Someone activated all the light seals on the wall. Izuna hopped in surprise and drunkenly wobbled off Madara’s desk. Madara, who had been sneaking up on Hashirama, took the moment of surprise to snatch the actual last bottle of sake from him and tried to guzzle it, although most of the alcohol ended up on his shirt. Instead of fighting back for the bottle, Hashirama turned to the front door with his aura of purple mushrooms. “Tobi—”

“Shut up, anija,” Tobirama sighed as he leaned on the door.

Madara turned around in surprise, eyes wide and slightly glazed. Izuna turned in the direction of the door too, leaning heavily on the desk and threatening the towers of paperwork that survived the first Izuna attack.

“Have I ever told you that you look a lot like a secretary?” Madara blurted out. What did Izuna say? Madara was an honest drunk. Any other time and Madara would've put more snark into his words.

With the hand that was holding the bottle of sake, Madara tried to wave at Tobirama’s eyes, and the binder of files propped up against his hip. In the background, Izuna slumped to the ground again, as if he was trying to avoid being identified with Madara. That was the other reason why Madara didn’t drink.

Tobirama raised an eyebrow. “I’m wearing my training clothes.” He tugged on the bottom of the shirt to emphasize that these were not clothes suitable for secretaries. Madara’s eyes widened further as if he had never realized what Tobirama looked like in casual wear.

The movement was ruined when Hashirama took the opportunity to drape himself over Madara, stealing the bottle of sake and conveniently shielding Madara’s eyes as well.

“Nope, nope, nope,” he sang. Unfortunately, Hashirama was also an honest drunk. But while Madara tended to embarrass himself, Hashirama the Shameless tended to embarrass others. “No weird flirting between my best friend and my otōto or—”

Behind him, Madara spluttered and shoved Hashirama off. “I don’t—” He spluttered some more. “Why—him? And me!”

He gave Tobirama a horrified look and then gave Hashirama an even more terrified look. “I think I remember my feelings from a few decades ago were still very much along the lines of ‘in a perfect world, either you wouldn’t exist or I wouldn’t exist.’”

Izuna, sensing the incoming rant—did he emphasize that Madara was also a coherent drunk?—shooed his brother out of the window before he ran his mouth.

Madara wasn’t a self-sustained ranter. They had all learned early on that the best way to end an argument was to endure his rants and nod your head politely at the right time. Unfortunately, by Tobirama’s raised eyebrow, he was in the mood to pick a fight he knew he’d win.

You can argue that you hate someone all you liked, but not if you married them when you still had all your memories.

Any more embarrassment and Madara will clam up and sulk somewhere, drunk or not. See? Izuna has got the art of wheedling information out of Madara down to a fine science.

Just as they were both out of the window, he turned his head and signed to Tobirama, Part I is-a-go. Get Hashirama to finish the paperwork.

-o-

Madara seemed to be perfectly comfortable traversing through the markets of Konoha. Albeit he was going around slightly aimlessly, like most drunks.

The summer sun was beaming, but that did not deter people from crowding around bars or fighting for the last discounted bag of tomatoes. The light illuminated the reds and yellows and blues of the market. The heatwave during the mid-afternoon had passed. It was a good time for those that had missed the Saturday morning rush.

If it wasn’t for the surprise Madara expressed at the bustling marketplace and the slight confusion he had when various individuals—even civilians and dogs—greeted him, Izuna might’ve almost said that this was like any other Saturday.

“Do you remember going Saturday market-hopping?”

“Eh?”

“Before you landed in the Hokage chair, we used to go through the small villages in the Land of Fire, loop through Uzushio for lunch, and then go for the hot springs. If we had time, we would also pass through Konoha again, drop off the groceries, and then spring down to the Land of Tea.” Izuna chattered. Quick, give Madara something to respond to. “You don’t remember any of this?”

“Even with a shinobi’s speed, we couldn’t have hit so many countries in a day,” Madara said. He sounded impressed, and most importantly, interested.

Izuna ambled beside him, occasionally weaving around civilians who were idling around. “I think you’ve lost more memories than just the last month, Nii-san. Tobirama showed us his Hiraishin, remember?”

“... Ah.”

Izuna frowned. And he thought he was making progress away from the single-word sentences and the monosyllabic grunts too. Surely his brother wasn’t so closed off a month, a year, or even a decade ago.

He seemed fine around Hashirama, after all. Why did Hashirama get the lively Madara when he could barely get his brother to hold up a conversation?

Madara seemed like he was drifting off again, or reentering that daze that befell him that morning. They slowly drifted away from the market and into the quiet residential areas.

After a while of silently ambling around, Izuna attempted to start the conversation again. “Say, how much of your memories do you think you’ve lost?”

Madara shrugged his shoulders lightly, unconcerned. “I remember everything I should.”

“That’s cryptic. What about that time we went to that forest with the small, dense trees, and Tobirama crunched some beans?”

“Would I remember that even if I had all my memories? I’ve run too many missions to remember the details of most of them.”

Izuna pointed triumphantly. “Hah! That was almost six months ago on a Saturday market-hop. And you should remember because Tobirama later made a sweet out of it and you developed your dark chocolate addiction.”

“Chocolate?” Madara tilted his head again, letting himself be pulled into the conversation.

“You don’t remember chocolate!” Izuna reiterated. “I’ll show you later. What about coffee? Also another type of bean product, but most people consume it in liquid form instead.”

“...”

“That was almost two years ago. I knew there was something wrong when you took the pot of tea this morning instead!”

“Don’t tell me I got addicted to that brown liquid too.”

“It’s really, really good stuff Nii-san. Imagine chakra pills, but milder and better tasting.”

“Who would willingly drink liquid chakra pills?”

“I did say it was better tasting. You can add sugar and cream to it too—it’s even popular with civilians too, and you know how picky they are.”

Izuna recounted all the things Madara had forgotten. By the end, he had a pretty good estimate of the events Madara had forgotten—and it was everything beyond the first year and a half of building the village.

They walked further away from the village center and deeper into the forest. It grew darker too, even though it was still the middle of the day. The canopy of the trees blocked the light from filtering in and the temperature became cooler to match the atmosphere. Izuna could almost hear wild jungle music in the form of distant predators on the hunt and rustling flora. Still, Izuna kept up the casual stream of words, trying to distract Madara before he realized their destination.

Around a fourth of a mile into the wilderness, he came to a stop and spread his arms around them. “This was where Hashirama and Tobirama used to have their spars; that’s why there are gigantic trees and a huge river that flows through the middle. We think Hashirama’s dense chakra must have done something to the flora and fauna though because they also grow extremely big. And dangerous.”

Madara nodded indulgently behind him. “Why did we have to actually come in here for this conversation?”

Izuna turned around, flicked his hair sheepishly. “Sorry, Nii-san. This is... ah. For your own good?”

Then he quickly shunshined to into one of the trees just as a water dragon crashed into the spot Madara was just in.

“You should have sobered up by now!” he called toward Madara’s general direction as he leaped up into the canopy.

Chapter Text

Tobirama hid behind one of the great trees in the Forty-Fourth Training Ground, quietly molding his chakra. He could sense the approach of Izuna and Madara. Izuna’s chatter grew louder as they neared, prompting him to drop the sensory technique in favor of relying on his ears.

As soon as Izuna apologized to his brother, Tobirama flipped onto one of the tree’s mossy branches and weaved the signs for Suiton: Suiryūdan no Jutsu.

A stream of pure water shot out and manifested itself as a light blue dragon. The dragon curled around Madara’s form, aiming to strangle him.

Madara jumped out and landed on one of the large tree branches and whirled around, as expected. He didn’t enter a fighting stance, but instead stood taller and more proudly. Tobirama had seen it over the years as Madara anticipated a “dance”—first with Hashirama, and now more commonly with other Kage who pissed him off.

Less expectedly, Madara didn’t wait to lure his assailant out with a fireball, instead opting to barrel through the trees toward the general direction of the jutsu. It seemed he remembered his general mannerisms but lost his sense of strategy.

Tobirama leaped higher up in the trees to gain the high ground advantage. The billowy Hokage robes Madara still sported should hinder him, although the wide-brimmed hat was currently on Hashirama’s head. He could easily hear the flap of the robes against the wind, not that that had ever stopped Madara from sneaking away any other time.

Tobirama paused for a minute to throw paralyzing senbon toward the quickly approaching Madara. He needed to put more distance between them; if he was caught too soon, Madara would trounce him in taijutsu.

Madara’s eyes snapped up to him as he ducked to the ground in a free fall. Instead of meeting Madara’s Mangekyō Sharingan, Tobirama’s red eyes met the classical dark Uchiha eyes. Excitement, surprise, frustration, Tobirama read. No suspicion yet. Madara flipped onto the ground and continued the chase.

Tobirama planned to head straight for the tower, but he should take this time to do reconnaissance and finish the physical examination.

He summoned two other Kage Bunshin, intending to lead Madara on a longer chase to the middle of the Forty-Fourth Training Ground. The river would give him an edge—although Madara knew that too.

Tobirama snuck a glance behind him and frowned, ducking back down in the foliage There was more distance between them, but Madara was still on his trail. That meant he had either given up on catching him—unlikely, given that Tobirama engaged him in the spar first—or he was planning something that needed time.

Behind the cover of the trees, he could hear trampling through the ground—why wasn’t he tree-hopping—before he heard a low voice roaring, “Katon: Gōka Messhitsu!”

Flashy orange flames caught on the dead undergrowth, the dry season of summer spreading it like greased lightning.

Tobirama released his clones and immediately leaped off his branch with a chakra-enhanced kick, rolling onto the ground before the smoke hit.

That fool…!

The man himself appeared on a high branch, seemingly completely unbothered by the temperature spike and the smoke. “Gaishū isshoku,” he said. Armour-sleeved single hit—or defeating someone with a single blow.

Tobirama narrowed his eyes, sweat already dripping down his pink cheeks. “You’re going to burn down the entire training field, you moron! Release the jutsu.”

Madara smirked fiercely, casually summoning his gunbai into his hands and readying to fan the flames further. “Why should I? I’ve got you where I want you.”

Tobirama dropped the pretense of continuing this spar, waving his hands at the burning trees around them. “Do you not see how massive property damage would raise doubts on our new, esteemed Hokage?”

“Aren’t there benefits to forest fires? It’ll open the understory up to the sunlight and nourish the soil,” Madara waved dismissively. “Let’s get back to our spar.”

“This is an uncontrolled forest fire, you dolt.” Tobirama coughed as the wind blew more smoke in his direction, before summoning a ball of water and dunking his head into it. Madara seemed more inclined to watch him suffer than to actually spar with him, despite his words.

Madara was rarely cooperative even during the most pressing of situations, so what did Tobirama expect? He shouldn’t have introduced ninjutsu to the spar when the field was especially flammable. There was little time for regrets though—did he place a Hiraishin seal on the tower? He could use the river to douse flames, but half the training ground would be burnt before the fire spread to where the river was. Think!

Against his kunai pouch, he felt that tell-tale warmth before Izuna popped up beside him, looking disgruntled. “Did no one think about the other poor fool in this training ground?”

Madara scoffed and leaped down from the tree branch to join Tobirama and Izuna on the ground floor. “You’re an Uchiha. We don’t get burned by a forest fire.”

“Hokage-sama!” One of the Jōnin guards burst in through the smoke. “There’s a crown fire—it’s going to burn up the forest. We must evacuate until Shodaime-sama gets here!”

“It’s a part of the spar,” Madara grumbled.

“#5 of the Shinobi Rules, shinobi-san,” Izuna added helpfully.

Madara shot an aggrieved look at Izuna as if to ask, Why did we hire this guy to protect the kage?

The most important criteria were that they didn’t poke around, Izuna conveyed back with various eye and eyebrow movements. Then he shrugged, to express the general feeling of, There’s nothing I can do about it.

In the meantime, Tobirama tried to calm the guard down and save him from the smoke, although the threatening ball of water floating toward his head only made him seize up more.

“Everything is under control,” he said, contrary to his previous statements. “Conduct yourself properly.”

Madara turned back to the guard and channeled his long-lost Clan Head authority. “How many other people are in this training ground, and how many are approaching?”

“I was the only shinobi sent to find Hokage-sama because I’m a sensor,” he tried to give a bow with his head inside the sphere of water. “The rest of the squad are securing the perimeter. A messenger was sent to find Shodaime-sama.”

Madara nodded crisply. “Thank you for informing me. Please leave quickly with Izuna and Tobirama, and tell them not to bother Hashirama.”

The shinobi’s head snapped back up in surprise, but Madara was already ushering all three of them toward the entrance, despite Tobirama firmly planting himself on the ground.

“Senju. We’ll continue this dance—we’ll spar later, alright? Taijutsu and kenjutsu only,” Madara tried to push Tobirama away without touching too much of the man; this involved covering his hands with the long sleeves of his robes before touching Tobirama.

“And who’s the suiton user among us? What are you going to do—fight fire with fire?”

Madara scowled and lost any shyness as he bodily pushed Tobirama across. “In the Uchiha clan, the perpetrator of the fire puts out the fire. Rest assured, I am more than capable of putting out this tiny flame without yours or Hashirama’s help. Find a less flammable training ground next time, if you want to engage in ninjutsu with me.”

-o-

“There are some discrepancies, but it’s undeniably Madara,” Tobirama said as he and Izuna watched the smoke bloom from the previously green forest. After the large burst of a futon jutsu, they saw and heard nothing else from Madara.

They had ushered all of the surrounding shinobi away, telling them that Madara could handle a little forest fire. Plus, Shodaime-sama was currently in the Hokage’s office, serving as regent. Wouldn’t it be too bad if assassins decided to take this time to attack the unguarded Hokage?

Izuna idly flicked his hands, urging Tobirama to continue.

“He’s confident and less careful with his chakra reserves. He said gaishū isshoku after using that large katon jutsu.”

“Yeah, he’s fond of that phrase,” Izuna said. “Never against you or Hashirama though. We’ll need to whack you a few more times to keep you down.”

“So that leads back to confidence,” Tobirama confirmed. “Our spar did not continue as long as I had hoped, but Madara seemed sure that he could’ve ended it soon. If I did not have Hiraishin to change the setting, he definitely would’ve been right.”

“What was that jutsu called?”

Tobirama paused, rerunning the scene in his head. “Gōka Messhitsu. Is it an Uchiha clan specialty?”

Izuna shrugged. “Probably. We are the only prominent katon-focused clan that I know of, so there’s a high chance that all katon jutsu came from the Uchiha in one way or another.”

Tobirama scoffed. “Arrogance. Does he get it from you, or do you get it from him?”

Izuna smirked as they ran through the same old argument again. “It’s an Uchiha thing. But none of my clan members were presumptuous enough to raise the dead, Tobirama."

“... Point. Mito is still furious about that, so please try not to anger her while she’s still in the early motherhood stage.”

“Worry not; she handles my eyes monthly. Happy brother-in-law’s sister-in-law, happy life. Although that reminds me—when am I going to enter unclehood, Tobirama?”

Something was bugging him about that statement, but he focused on the more pressing part of the sentence.

“Well, either we fix Madara’s memories soon, or I’ll have to wait three more years to have sex again.” Tobirama smiled lecherously just to get a rise out of Izuna again. And he reacted just as predicted—by looking away in disgust and mock gagging.

Early on, he had found out that Izuna had no boundaries on these matters, and the only way to make him back off was to be even worse. Really it seemed like everyone in the Uchiha clan was shameless in times of peace—except Madara, but who knew what he was like when he drank alone.

“I guess the tube baby could just have my half of the DNA,” Tobirama added thoughtfully, returning to the conversation before he could review every memory he had of Madara drunk.

“This conversation has been going on far enough and I have regrets,” Izuna waved frantically. “Let’s—let’s get back to your battle with Madara.”

“I don’t have much more to say. The whole fight was a total of three jutsu before Madara decided to set the whole forest on fire.”

“How did he fight you before the memory loss?” Izuna pressed.

“You were watching the entire match and you two spar more than us,” Tobirama said. “I’m flattered that you think so highly of my observational abilities while Madara sends off low killing-intent every time we see each other, though.”

“We’ll address how your brain turns to mush later.” Izuna eyed him dubiously. “If I would have to categorize Madara’s fighting, it’s the same style as the one during the Fifth Uchiha-Senju War.”

When he saw Tobirama’s raised eyebrow, he added, “That’s when he first unlocked the Mangekyō Sharingan and spammed Amaterasu against Hashirama.”

“So when he was even more of a pyromaniac,” Tobirama said. “... why is it the Uchiha-Senju War and not the Senju-Uchiha War?”

“Don’t you know?” Izuna said in mock-surprise. “History is written by the victors. And it rings better.”

“These wars ended in a truce, and eventual unification.”

“We still won the Fifth Uchiha-Senju War!”

“What about the third war? Will our historians name it the Third Senju-Uchiha War then?”

“Sure. But of the five major wars, we still won three of them!”

“That doesn’t make sense. What are we going to call the collective conflicts then—the Uchiha-Senju Wars or the Senju-Uchiha Wars? Plus, Hashirama had been working on his Sage Mode. If we had the sixth war, Hashirama would have beaten Madara.”

Izuna laughed and waved him off. “Still the Uchiha-Senju Wars. We won the last battle, but Hashirama got to be the Shodaime.”

“I’ll write the Academy history books just to spite you” Tobirama grumbled. “But we’re getting off-topic again. So Madara acts like he’s in war-time, and he’s even more pyromaniac than before. That indicates that he’s lost more than a month of memories.”

Izuna nodded. “Yep. During our conversation here, Madara didn’t remember chocolate, or coffee, or Saturday market-hopping,” He tapped his foot impatiently as they faced the smoky forest again. “He remembers less than a year and a half into Hashirama’s reign.”

“So he hasn’t just forgotten paperwork procedures or our relationship,” Tobirama hummed thoughtfully. “What about”—he froze as he figured out what had been nagging him before—“Izuna, did Madara’s eyesight seem off to you?”

Izuna’s eyebrows furrowed but he shook his head. “I think it’s been deteriorating. He forgot to grab his glasses today and he’s been looking at me blankly sometimes.”

So Madara’s eyesight is deteriorating faster than expected. Tobirama made a note to accompany him the next time he goes to see the clan optometrist—he was allowed now that they were married, right?—and to force that fool to see Mito at least once.

“When we were sparring, we made eye contact,” Tobirama said. “Madara didn’t activate his Mangekyō Sharingan or even earlier stages. But he had excellent vision.”

Tobirama was completely sure of that. Madara’s eyes were clear and hawkish, and he had almost thought that Madara had his Sharingan activated under an illusion, if not for the fact that he didn’t immediately try to put Tobirama in a genjutsu.

“Eh?”

“He tracked me by sight,” Tobirama explained. “He wasn’t kneading chakra, and I was testing out muffling seals during our spar. The only way he could have followed the chase was by keeping track of my coloring. Yet, when I summoned those Kage Bunshin, he trailed after me.”

“... It could have been luck?” Izuna offered feebly, but Tobirama shot him a look as if to say, “Shinobi don’t get lucky.”

He was about to retort when Izuna flicked Tobirama’s hands subtly. Tobirama shot him a look, but Izuna jerked his eyes to the black and white figure approaching them.

-o-

“Where are we going?” Madara let himself be dragged off in Izuna’s whirlwind, with Tobirama drifting behind them. Izuna had cooperated with his plan, and so he played his part in this, too.

“Back to the Academy, of course,” Izuna chirped. “You still have a lot of paperwork left. You’ve missed the entire morning, and then you got drunk with Hashirama. I left him back there to help a bit, but he wasn’t too sober.”

Madara snuck an unsubtle look at Tobirama trailing behind them. Tobirama raised an eyebrow, and Madara glared again before turning to his brother. “And why did you shove me into that forest and force me to spar with Tobirama?”

“It was the physical exam part of Dr. Senju’s examination,” Izuna said, always ready with an excuse. “And to help you walk off that alcohol. Can’t have our Hokage acting like a drunkard, yes?”

Madara huffed—his bullshit-detector must have been ringing. Internally, Tobirama poked at the holes in Izuna’s logic and prepared his own excuses. If it was a physical exam, why did Tobirama leap out with ninjutsu? Checking chakra flow. Wasn’t alcohol metabolism was not affected by physical activity? Time and fresh air would've done him some good. Didn’t everyone already see Hashirama drunk while he was in the Hokage’s robes? Yes, but you do really want to be like Hashirama.

Before Madara could voice any of these possible contentions, Tobirama took hold of the direction of the conversation. “Would you like to hear the details of your examination?”

Madara looked behind in surprise. Most of his clan medics would only briskly sew up the wound, prescribe a bowl of daily herbs, and then send you on their way. “Are you going to prescribe something?”

Taking that as his cue, Tobirama launched into the spiel as if he was giving a report. “Your condition is more severe than we suspected. Important milestones such as the development of coffee and chocolate, and Mikoto-sama’s death, were lost to you. The last three years seem to be unclear.”

“Your physical condition is fine. You appear to have experienced no physical trauma to the head, except for unclear eyes. The spar seems to have resolved that symptom. In battle, you are more aggressive and less clear-minded about your surroundings. I would recommend that you avoid engaging in fights until we have more information about your condition.”

Tobirama paused for emphasis. “As your physician, I must ask you to activate your Sharingan.”

In front of him, Madara stiffened and almost stopped walking altogether. Izuna shot Tobirama a startled look as if to say, This wasn’t what we agreed on. Tobirama waited patiently.

Madara said, in an even tone, “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Suspicious.

Tobirama hummed and continued walking. “That’s fine. Moving on—”

-o-

“I can’t believe you guys left all the paperwork to me!”

The wooden walls of these offices were too thin if he could hear Hashirama while he was still two feet away from the closed door. Or maybe Hashirama was too loud.

Tobirama turned the handle of the door to the Hokage’s office politely. Both Uchiha brothers had hopped through the window, but he was trying to lead an example for all the students and the new genin at the Academy.

The office was immaculate. Bottles were cleared and the hidden shinobi were dutifully covering their chakra—any other shinobi would not have been able to sense the four guards in the trees outside. Hashirama even made progress with the paperwork.

Madara stood with his hands on his hip, confronting Hashirama. Both of Hashirama’s hands were slammed on the desk, and he had an expression of mock-anger on his face.

“Blame it on Izuna,” Madara said. “And then thank him for making us come back to finish the paperwork. Grow two chairs, too.”

“Three chairs,” Tobirama called out. He walked further into the room until all four of them were crowded around the relatively small desk. Madara gave him a startled look as if to say, Are you here to help me with paperwork too?

“If Izuna taught you about our administrative system, jōnin would be taking pest-clearing missions and genin would be running around Kumo,” Tobirama answered the unspoken question and took a seat on the viney chair that sprouted from the floor.

“Why does Madara need to relearn the paperwork system…?” Hashirama said. He grinned at Madara and tried to slap his back. “And you’ve always complained about what an incompetent Hokage I was.”

“You’re the reason why Kumo won’t ally with us,” Izuna and Tobirama said in unison.

Hashirama scratched the back of his sheepishly and laughed. “We never got to have that spar, either way… Plus, Madara was the one who boasted that I take on all of their top shinobi at once!”

He shot Madara a conspiring look, and Madara nodded. “You need to establish dominance or wait to be looted and conquered.”

Some things never change, even in three years and a radically new lifestyle. Tobirama shot a glance at Izuna, but he waved his hands dismissively and grabbed a random stack of paper, nudging his chair toward Madara.

Well used to his brother-in-law’s mannerism—he reacted similarly to Madara and would’ve interfered if he disagreed—Tobirama snapped a silencing seal on the table. Best to be blunt with Hashirama. “Madara lost the last three years of his memory last night.”

“What‽” Hashirama shrieked and buckled the desk when he stood up again. Madara and Izuna quickly reached out to steady the wobbling stacks of paper. This was why silencing seals were the first type of fuinjutsu Tobirama set out to learn.

Hashirama turned abruptly to Madara, who kept his eyes on the paperwork in front of him. “Yep,” Madara said nonchalantly. He tried to divert the conversation by pointedly turning to Izuna, but—

“Have you forgotten Mito? Uzumaki Mito? My wife?”

“Even if I had forgotten more than those three years,” Madara stated flatly. “I don’t think I could’ve forgotten that witch even if I tried.”

There was a hint of bitterness—Tobirama had always suspected that his husband once had a thing for Hashirama, not that he’d ever mention it to Madara’s face—and reluctant respect in his voice, but none of that grudging affection. Tobirama mentally set back the date to half a year into Hashirama’s reign.

“What about Namima? Do you recognize the name?” Hashirama was close to grabbing Madara’s shoulders.

Madara scrunched up his face for a moment, then replied. “Of course I do, you oaf. That’s your offspring, yes?”

“Oh good, you remember all the important things.” Hashirama slumped back down to his seat.

“...” Madara’s head was bowed, and he shook his head. “Of course that’s all you care about, you dolt.” But when he raised his head again, he was grinning at Hashirama. He was being companionable.

Hashirama gaped—and Tobirama couldn’t see Izuna’s expression, but there was no way that he wasn’t surprised too. If Tobirama had less dignity, he would have shot a wide-eyed look toward Madara too, instead of pretending to focus on his share of the paperwork.

In an instant, Madara’s smile was replaced by his signature grumpy look. “What?”

“He really has lost his memory,” Hashirama whispered and grasped the edge of the desk dramatically. “How—who are you?”

Izuna nodded solemnly beside him.

Tobirama noted possible brain damage, and that Madara was very friendly with Hashirama a few years ago. He was a man of war after all—maybe Tobirama should “dance” with him more often, when Madara joined Tobirama in daily excursions to the depths of the Uchiha clan library so often in the past. Tobirama refused to be part of the sad love line where Madara pined over Hashirama while he pined over Madara.

“Do I not smile at all?” Madara asked, baffled. He turned toward his brother, who shook his head slowly. Then he turned again to Hashirama and even looked to Tobirama.

“You do have moments,” Tobirama began, “when you are overwhelmed with an unknown feeling and your face betrays you. Like when you’re drunk.”

Beside him, Izuna muttered, “That’s reason three why we never drink with the Senju.”

“Or when there were other emotionally heavy events,” Tobirama continued. “Like. Er. The founding of Konoha?”

He sounded unsure, and Izuna shook his head. “No, that was rain, I think. We had a bad choice of venue for choosing our historical handshake-turned-hug.”

“When Hashirama told him that Mito was pregnant?”

“Shock and disgust. I think he was horrified at the thought that Hashirama could procreate.” Izuna abandoned any pretense at paying attention to his paperwork in favor of his second favorite hobby: teasing Madara. “If he could have gained another tomoe in his Sharingan, that would’ve been one of those moments.”

“Now wait a minute—” Madara spluttered, but Hashirama nodded agreeably. “Really, I’ve only seen Madara smile genuinely once.”

“I concur,” Izuna declared, raising a finger.

“Undoubtedly it was only this moment,” Tobirama said, “when Madara smiled genuinely, of his own free will and clear mind.”

“During his wedding—”

“Wha—?”

Fuck.

Izuna waved his hands frantically, while Tobirama leaped across the desk to—to do something. Several towers of paper met their doom.

“Hashirama—”

“I was going to say it was that time Mikoto-sama rolled over for a belly rub,” Izuna squeaked.

Madara turned toward Hashirama, but Tobirama was already pulling Hashirama out of his desk.

“Maybe the memory loss thing is contagious,” Tobirama offered lamely. “We need to have a talk. Please excuse us.” He shot Izuna a look that perfectly communicated, Shit. Fix this.

Then he pulled on one of his Hiraishin tags and disappeared with a confused Hashirama in tow.

Chapter Text

“Anija—”

“What is going on between you and Madara, Tobi?” Even under the confusion, Hashirama sounded the slightest bit accusing.

“He doesn’t have his memories of our relationship, you oaf,” Tobirama snapped back, annoyed that Hashirama never thinks.

“So just tell him,” Hashirama said plainly.

Tobirama glared at his brother. “Are you being deliberately obtuse? I can’t just tell him!”

“Why not?” Hashirama furrowed his brows back. “Do you think he’ll reject you? He’s still the same man, even without some of his memories.”

He hated that Hashirama used the same argument he pulled against Izuna.

“He’s not the same person, Hashirama. He’s not in love with me, and I’m not going to make him feel obligated or awkward about anything.” Tobirama pointed at Hashirama. “And neither are you.”

Hashirama gave him the disapproving look he had seen so often during the wars. “So you’re just going to let him go? Brush away all your feelings again?”

“What? No?” Tobirama said. “I’m either going to fix his memories, or I’ll do all the—wooing and stuff, this time.”

Why did Hashirama give him the same incredulous look as Izuna?

-o-

The office was suspiciously silent when Tobirama and Hashirama reappeared by Izuna’s side again. Madara twitched but determinedly kept his gaze on his paperwork. Izuna gave Tobirama a look that said, He didn’t believe me when I pulled more excuses out of my ass, but at least he didn’t guess who he married.

Tobirama nodded subtly and retook his seat. He grabbed a stack of paper from Hashirama’s pile and began to work. In a miraculous show of teamwork and cooperation, nobody acknowledged that anything happened. Even Hashirama, sensing the subdued mood, didn’t try to start another conversation. Maybe he felt pity for Tobirama.

The four of them slowly gobbled down the paper mountain, until there were only a few modest stacks that reached Hashirama’s eye level.

It was very late afternoon by then or early nighttime. Who knew with the long summer days. The sun was shining dark orange and red light through the window, and the wind was still pushing the comforting warmth of the previous hour.

Hashirama quickly filed his last sheet, before he whipped it neatly in another pile. Standing up, he took off the Hokage hat and dumped it softly on Madara’s head, before proclaiming, “I’m retired again! You younglings can finish this up.”

“We’re the same age,” Madara groused, but even his voice had lost its bite in the wane atmosphere.

Tobirama and Izuna gave him polite farewells as he strode out through the window, but gave each other mutual looks of relief when he was gone.

Hashirama didn’t respond to any helpful nudges—convincing him to leave would have to be overt and something along the lines of, “Mito would want to have dinner with her husband tonight, Hashirama." Best not to raise Madara’s suspicions any higher.

The three of them continued to work peaceably together until the paperwork had dropped down to Madara’s nose-level. Then Izuna got out of his seat with a dramatic stretch and yawn. “I’m going to retire for the night. Nii-san, your new residence doesn’t have any furniture, but you can pick up your futon from our house.”

“Do I have to move into that building?” Madara said.

“Easier to guard and it sets a precedent,” Tobirama replied, dipping his brush in a vat of ink. Hashirama, Madara, and Izuna all adopted pens, but he liked to practice calligraphy. “It’s also better if the Hokage does not reside on clan grounds, to show that they represent the entire village.”

“Mito took out the fuinjutsu wards the other day,” Izuna added. “So it’s almost empty right now. If it’s too late by the time you finish, you should stay the night again.”

Madara nodded his head, and Izuna bounded out the window.

Any awkwardness that was buffered by Izuna immediately diffused between them again. At least, that was how Tobirama felt. Madara was scribbling away at the paperwork like there was nothing unusual.

Tobirama knew Madara though, even if peace had changed him so much in the last three years. This wasn’t the most cohesive or intricate plan, but considering that he and Izuna had one conversation to discuss it, he’d say that their teamwork was on point.

So he waited. Patiently.

He let himself be absorbed in the details of Kumogakure’s foreign policies until he no longer had to pretend to not be affected by Madara’s presence.

More hours slipped by, and the small glaring orange sun was replaced by a simple purple sky. Tobirama activated the yellow light seals scattered across the room.

At one point, he even brought over his paperwork from his and Izuna’s office. If Madara wondered why Tobirama kept him company, he didn’t ask. The silence stretched on, except for the scratching of their pen nibs and the rustling of the papers.

The guards shifted rotations outside the building.

The light purple sky grew bluer and then blacker. It wasn’t cold and probably wouldn’t grow cold, but the dark night made Tobirama itch for something heavier than his training clothes.

He considered starting the conversation, or accosting Madara tomorrow instead, but stayed his hand. Tomorrow was Sunday, but that meant many more people that Madara could encounter. Kawarama and Togakushi should be back from the land of Iron, and Tobirama didn’t even want to think about encountering Tōka with Madara near.

It wasn’t the original plan with Izuna—that was ‘get Madara to finish that physical examination’ before turning into ‘solve the Sharingan mystery’ for Tobirama and ‘figure out why Madara can’t talk to him normally’ for Izuna. Hashirama had always made good points even when he was being an idiot though, and Tobirama knew he couldn’t keep this quiet from Madara. The entire village was aware.

He had to ease this topic into the conversation. Tobirama racked his brain for a conversation starter. Izuna was never a dangerous topic, but that was after Madara trusted him as allies. He could mention Hashirama, but that wasn’t preferable because they’ll dive into the topic too quickly. While he idly ranked the various missions people hired the village for, he sketched out a favorable conversation path in his mind.

He’d start with the cover of informing Madara about the current political situation between Kumo and Konoha, and then shift into discussing trade routes and the village’s economic developments. Then he could slip Izuna into the conversation. That’ll hedge on Madara bringing up his conversation with Izuna though, and the man is disagreeable at the—

“Tobirama?” Madara put his pen down.

Tobirama snapped to attention and carefully set down his own brush. “Yes?”

“What Hashirama said—” Madara already looked like he regretted speaking, but he had always been stubborn. “Izuna wouldn’t say anything outside of a few excuses and a blatant lie. So what happened?”

“You got married a few weeks after you became the Nidaime,” Tobirama said, haltingly. “It was a big affair. And… you smiled during it.”

“So it wasn’t a political match? Not another Uzumaki?” Madara prompted again, while Tobirama tried to figure out what else to add. He could answer these specific, definite questions though.

“No, it wasn’t political.” Tobirama tried to maintain his stoic face. “There were strong rumors, but both parties married for love.”

Madara’s eyes narrowed in thought and he pressed on. “That doesn’t make sense. Are you sure?” He continued on. “We seem to have been… amiable. Did you check my chakra? No drugs? No alcohol?”

He had forgotten how suspicious Madara had always been. “The two of you had been dating for three years previously. And… I was told that you proposed.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Madara repeated.

“What doesn’t make sense?”

Madara avoided looking in Tobirama’s direction. “Say… how… companionable were we?”

Tobirama deliberated revealing everything then and there but—"We’ve talked. The two of us had lunch with Izuna every day, and both of us had standing invitations to Mito’s table every Sunday.

Madara looked contemplative. “I suppose I’ve always thought that we could’ve been amicable if the situation was different,” Madara said. “But—okay. Tobirama. I’m not attracted to women.”

Tobirama nodded his head slowly. “You didn’t marry a woman.”

Madara stared. “I did not mean to make a distinction between genders, although I suppose a male would be more preferable.” He scrunched up even more. “But I meant to say, I never liked the idea that my spouse would sleep with another, even though I couldn’t—”

He fell silent again and avoided Tobirama’s eyes. On Tobirama’s part, he felt like he had completely lost track of the conversation.

“You couldn’t?” he prompted.

“Do the… thing,” Madara said.

“... sex?” Tobirama asked. His—Madara had always been a bit prudish about these topics, and the s-word was even worse than the l-word. How did he even survive living with his four siblings?

Madara nodded jerkily and tried to finish. “That’s why I didn’t think that I would ever marry. I had always thought that Izuna would produce an heir.”

Ah. Children was never a topic Tobirama or Madara had ever discussed in depth, tube babies or adoption or otherwise. It must have been important for the next Clan Head to wield the Sharingan though, and Madara didn’t have any inclinations of siring an heir with a woman.

But marriage was out of the question too, so either Madara had never thought about men or it wasn’t possible in his clan at the time. Tobirama couldn’t recall any objections from the Uchiha Council, but maybe a more permanent affirmation of the unification between the Senju and the Uchiha clans was more important.

That explains why Madara had never considered marriage in his future, and the inability for sex part—well, that had a reasonable explanation too.

“Madara,” Tobirama said delicately. This was best told by someone Madara trusted, but Tobirama knew that it’d be worse if any of Madara’s younger brothers approached him about it—or even worse, Hashirama. “I am speaking as your physician. Your condition is very common. Sometimes, especially during times of high stress, there are difficulties. This is not a reflection on—”

“What are you talking about, Senju?”

Madara had always groused about people not speaking straightforwardly. It was clear that he still had no idea about what Tobirama was talking about.

Usually, Tobirama encouraged nurses and medics to adopt some semblance of bedside manner for the civilians, but shinobi often needed a blunter hand. Especially Madara, now that he thought about it.

“We have effective treatments for your condition,” Tobirama said. “There are therapists who can help you identify the cause of your stress, and others who can help you create a comfortable space to—”

“There are no treatments for my condition,” Madara interrupted again. His face was set in that stubborn way again, and Tobirama fought valiantly not to grow annoyed.

“The medical arts—notably medical iryō ninjutsu, but also the civilian therapy—had experienced an unprecedented revolution in the past two years,” Tobirama tried again. “We have a specific medical expert for it now.”

“It’s not—I’m repulsed by that thing,” Madara snapped. “Female and male! It’s not whatever condition that you think that I have so much as the fact that I’m severely misanthropic.” He threw his hands up. “Or that’s how my set of shinobi issues manifest.”

Tobirama’s narrow eyes widened and he blinked owlishly. “But you enjoyed sex,” he said automatically.

“Why—How would you know,” Madara spluttered. He had pushed his chair further away from Tobirama and seemed to be on the verge of scrambling out of his chair and running away from this conversation.

Not that Tobirama was any better. His face lit up in pink quietly, in contrast with his red markings. This was possibly the most mortifying conversation he had ever had. Kami, he should have started with the political situation in Kumo.

Madara stared at Tobirama while Tobirama steadily glanced away to the side.

“We—us?” Madara said. “What sort of hellish nightmare am I living?” He did not sound horrified, only disbelieving.

Tobirama’s gaze moved away from the office plant and to the ceiling, deliberating avoiding the man next to him. He was blushing red down to his throat, but his face had valiantly retained its stoicism. “When I told Hashirama that I could… romance you, I did not remember how much difficulty you faced with me,” he said quietly, in juxtaposition with Madara’s bout of angry flailing.

More silence. Tobirama was sick of how many awkward moments of silence one could have with a person. If he had just stuck with the original topic, and then transitioned nicely into the marriage part, they could have avoided this clusterfuck of a conversation.

Did he not communicate with Madara properly? Was he completely oblivious to Madara’s feelings from three years ago? There were only bits of memory, back in the days when he was more concerned about surviving the second-oldest Uchiha brother.

At the beginning of the third war, when he first met the elder two Uchiha brothers, he remembered comparing Izuna to a vile fire spirit, and Madara to some sort of unholy demon. It was like Madara ravaged the Land of Fire, and civilization was only standing due to Hashirama’s sturdy trees.

He also remembered thinking that fire should not be able to burn water, back when Madara first unleashed Amaterasu on them. Back then, it was still those undousable flames against Hashirama’s ever-recovering branches.

And of course, he remembered that time Madara and Hashirama had their handshake, and Madara somehow tripped and transitioned into hugging Hashirama. Hashirama had responded gleefully, even when Madara scrambled away from that oaf.

The problem is, even when Tobirama could imagine Madara swinging his gunbai in the background, and could even fully picture him in some vivid memories, he didn’t know him. They’ve never battled like he and Izuna, nor simply talked like Madara and Hashirama.

Over almost a decade of battles, he had grown to know Izuna, and all his tells in battle. He smiled when he was about to lose like he was accepting death, up until that moment where he stabbed you. He favored kenjutsu, and never fought with more than one sword. He thought that Tobirama was pretentious for carrying a sword, pouches of kunai and senbon, and more explosive seals. There was a lot more he could say, but how did he explain that the way Izuna held his sword was a certain ‘tell’ that told Tobirama that he wished he could kill everyone on that battlefield and then himself?

Tobirama would grow to know Madara later, but by then—that wartime Madara was already gone. And Tobirama was learning that he knew nothing about this Madara.

While Tobirama quietly agonized over his life choices, he could feel Madara’s chakra rolling in the background. At least there wasn’t any disgust or anger. If it was there, it was largely shadowed by the roll of disbelief and confusion.

Abruptly, Madara stood up. His chair scraped across the wooden floor, and only then did Tobirama look back at him.

“I’m going to go outside. To think.” Madara edged toward the window, with his body still faced toward Tobirama. “Just give me a minute,” he said, as he flipped around and jumped out of the window.

Chapter Text

On the outside, Tobirama was outlining his points for the next council meeting. On the inside, he was running through the conversation again, identifying missing points of knowledge and other clues that could be tied back into the newest investigation.

Tobirama had thought that Madara was, at his core, a straightforward man. He wasn’t simple, or plain, or any other related synonym; he was too much of a shinobi and an Uchiha for that. But he did not wrangle the threads of his life to trip people up, nor did he drop truths and half-truths in every conversation. In another life perhaps, Madara would have made a fine samurai.

If it wasn’t his natural character to be shifty, circumstance shaped Madara this way. Nothing significant happened that Tobirama knew of, but he knew very few things about what Madara was like then. It could have been a specific mission, a mental malady, or symptoms from one of the bloody wars.

Tobirama set the date even further back. It was most likely a long mission during the Senju-Uchiha conflicts. That would explain why Madara stared at Izuna in wonder over breakfast, and shared bottles of sake with Hashirama even though Madara didn’t drink.

If Madara had a complete set of memories for that era, along with most of the accompanying feelings, but had occasional recollections from the nearer past—Konoha, the Hokage seat, Namima—it might’ve pushed and pulled Madara into the character he is today. A juxtaposition of past and closer past.

When Madara did not return after another hour, Tobirama left the Academy and followed his chakra.

The sky was a new color, not that Tobirama could distinguish it from plain black. He relished in the anonymity away from the light and bustling village life. It reminded him of hasty and gut-wrenching missions sometimes, but also of quiet comradery. Times when life was simpler, and it was just you and your squad under the heavy night.

He found Madara skipping rocks on the bank of the Naka River, and rustled the grass to announce his presence. Madara did not respond. He continued to pick up each rock from his pile of flat stones and throw it harshly across the river. Sometimes it whizzed like a shuriken and skipped three times at most. Occasionally, a rare stone made the leap onto the other side.

Tobirama watched his husband of a few weeks flick each stone silently, with only the blow of the wind against his long hair and the splash of the water disturbing him. When Madara finished his pile, he bowed his head and squatted down on the riverbank. Tobirama sat down beside him.

Neither could see the other under these lighting conditions. Perhaps it was the anonymity of the night that prompted Madara to speak.

“I went through my memories,” Madara said. “I remember what we had.” He didn’t look back at Tobirama.

“But none of the feelings associated with it?” Tobirama hedged a guess.

Madara shook his head. “I remember those. I can even feel those emotions again, especially the ones I recorded with the Sharingan.”

Tobirama nodded. He didn’t know how to express any of his thoughts. Were they still together? Did Madara want to put this on hold while he figured things out?

Next to him, Madara reached across and covered Tobirama’s hand with his own. Although Tobirama turned his head in question, Madara continued to look across into the dark. Tobirama thought he could imagine the flowing Naka River, flowing absently.

It was almost like a date night, although Tobirama usually took Madara to the top of the Hokage Rock.

“I met you during the second battle of the Second Uchiha-Senju War,” Madara started abruptly. “I was impressed that a man old enough to have a full mane of grey hair would step into the frontlines of the battle.”

“And I was immediately taken with the size of your hair in proportion to your height,” Tobirama said. Madara rolled his eyes at that, and something in Tobirama eased at that bit of normalcy.

“The next time we met, Hashirama shouted your name while you were fighting Izuna,” Madara continued. “And I realized that that white-haired shinobi was Hashirama’s brother.”

“Did he speak of me before?” Tobirama nudged the story along. Madara’s hand rested over his, and he gently flipped it over so that their palms were touching.

“He tried not to, but his daily life revolved around his brothers,” Madara confirmed. “Never mentioned the red eyes, but always the reading and the experiments.”

“He never liked those,” Tobirama said fondly. “Even though he was dabbling in senjutsu by himself and inventing things like Shin Sūsenju.”

“Petrification or turning into an animal is much less dangerous than summoning the dead," Madara huffed. “And the ‘True Several Thousand Hands’ was excessive, even for Hashirama.”

“I think he invented it to impress Mito. She said that there was nothing she couldn’t seal, so Hashirama made the largest and creepiest thing to prove her wrong.”

Madara cocked his head. “I haven’t explored those memories. Did he win?”

“No, Mito easily sealed it with a tag,” Tobirama said. “It was only a huge wooden statue.”

For once, Madara turned toward Tobirama with a wild grin. “So you haven’t seen it move? Or hit down on the ground with enough force to crack a valley in half?”

“He showed it off to you?” Tobirama shifted a bit closer. “And it was a practical jutsu?”

“We will not talk about the circumstances,” Madara flapped his hand dismissively like Izuna. “I wouldn’t call it a practical jutsu, but half of my arsenal wouldn’t be considered practical now anyway.”

“You two mess around with the ninja arts as much as I do,” Tobirama said. “I’m just more practical. Remember that time you had the bright idea to combine Susanoo and Amaterasu?”

“It worked,” Madara defended cheerfully. “The only thing better than an impenetrable shield is an impenetrable shield of immortal flames.”

“Don’t be dramatic; Amaterasu burns for a week in total. Plus, an impenetrable shield that can’t trip would also be ‘cool.’”

“I have never tripped.” Madara shook his head lightly and looked ahead into the darkness. “It’s almost the next day.”

“Do you want to head back?” Although Tobirama was enjoying the suddenly peaceful conversation, he knew Madara was punctual about getting off work by midnight and sleeping his required six and a half hours.

However, Madara made no move to get up. He shifted closer instead and warmed up the hand holding onto Tobirama. Even at this time of night, the weather was mild and humid, but Tobirama appreciated the gesture nonetheless.

“I want to continue talking,” Madara said simply.

“And what do you want to talk about?”

A small wave of his head. “Anything. I came here to think, and now I really don’t want to continue.”

“Ah.” Almost daringly, Tobirama scooted a little bit over again until their arms touched. It felt like everything was new again, like Madara was a new lover he had taken to bed. This Madara was startling, and Tobirama was still trying to figure out how he felt about it. “I lied before. I’m not actually your physician.”

“Togakushi is my usual medic, right?”

“Right,” Tobirama confirmed. “He’s on a mission in the Land of Iron right now, with Kawarama.”

Madara made a noise of acknowledgment. “What about Kou and Kuro?”

“Kou teaches at the Academy on weekends. But today, he was probably with the Uchiha children,” Tobirama said. “Kuro could be anywhere. He travels for the information network, so we hear about him from Tōka.”

“I didn’t see them today, but I suppose knowing they’re alive is enough,” Madara said wistfully. “What of your brothers, Tobirama?”

“You know where Kawarama is.” Madara hummed in agreement. “Itama is a medic in the hospital, but he treats civilian ailments. He went to the Land of Tea yesterday, for herbs.” Tobirama tacked on, “And tea, of course.”

“Tōka?”

“She has a team now: Shimura Danzō, Akimichi Torifu, and Kagami. They went on their first mission to Suna as chūnin, but they’ll be back tomorrow.”

“What about your brats?”

“They’re smarting over being passed for chūnin.”

“Hn?”

“They did not work as a unit yet,” Tobirama elaborated. “Hiruzen had the aptitude to lead the other two, but he did not communicate well. During the exams, Homura and Koharu teamed up with each other against Hiruzen, and then Hiruzen went off on his own.”

“And Kagami, Danzō, and Torifu did better?” Madara seemed to pick up the loose threads of his memory faster if he could remember what Team Tōka was like.

“They did,” Tobirama admitted begrudgingly. “They listened to each other, and Kagami and Torifu didn’t let Danzō control the squad. They worked without a predetermined squad leader, which impressed the council.”

“Perhaps you should adopt Tōka’s methodology then,” Madara suggested. “Some groups need to be forced into teamwork, and it even worked with personalities like Kagami and Danzō.”

“I’ll think about it,” Tobirama said. “She did an interesting experiment with bells. I can’t recreate it now that they’re out of the Academy, but they might believe me if I told them I could make two of them chūnin.”

Madara hummed and they fell silent again.

“You must be wondering about what happened to my memories,” Madara said without preamble.

“... Yes.” Tobirama looked back and met Madara’s eyes before he turned back around. “You could find your memories again, but they were gone when you woke up.”

He frowned into the darkness. “I’ve never found a medical condition like that. Temporary amnesia has limited usefulness, and most of the uses could be covered by permanent amnesia. We already have methods for those, even if a Yamanaka could easily reverse it.”

“Ah. It was self-inflicted,” Madara said casually.

Tobirama sat up straighter. The words were blunt and burned of Madara’s normal speech pattern, but even the tone couldn’t detract from how cryptic the statement was.

Unbidden, a conversation with Izuna barged into his mind. “Madara doesn’t respond well to word-play or half-truths. He’ll share more when he’s drunk or tired,” Izuna had said. “Not with words, though—keep track of body cues.” They had planned out the spar together, but Tobirama had taken the additional liberty of arming Hashirama with booze and sending him to Madara’s office.

It seemed like this characteristic of Madara would aid Tobirama again. Madara was already droopy.

“It wasn’t that you weren’t unable; it was an important, conscious decision,” Tobirama said, laying out the pieces. “What haunts your mind and memories then?”

A pause.

“... If I remember too much, and if I stay too long, I’ll forget,” Madara said. That was even more cryptic.

“You think the past holds you back from the future,” Tobirama settled on. “You’re moving toward something, and you can’t forget that in favor of this."

“You’re too clever for your own good,” Madara huffed, but contrary to his tone, he leaned on Tobirama’s shoulder. “What do you think I’m running toward, then?”

“War?” Tensions were rising in Kumo and there was a hit on Hashirama just last week from Taki. “You kept all of your battle capabilities but limited your memories of the last three years. You think Konoha has made you complacent or soft. That’s why your memories are scattered between periods.”

Abruptly Madara turned around and pushed Tobirama to lay flat on the grass. Then, he laid down on top of him in some sort of horizontal hug.

Madara’s chin settled on Tobirama’s shoulder and his wild hair threatened to both tickle and suffocate Tobirama. Tobirama didn’t know where to place his hands, but eventually, he settled on putting them around Madara’s back, awkwardly tangling in Madara’s hair.

Then Madara said plainly, “No. It’s because you’re not real.”

Tobirama blinked at the sky. “I am real. I can tell you about what I’ve been up to for the last twenty-eight years of my life.”

“And I can tell you the same,” Madara sighed. “It doesn’t make it more real.”

Tobirama held Madara tighter. It wasn’t unusual for shinobi to experience bouts of mental instability, especially if they dabbled with genjutsu as much as the Uchiha do. Even Tōka had once acted like she had an amputated leg for three days.

“Alright, clearly you need to see a better medic than me.”

“I’m being serious, Senju. Plus, medics hate me; I’ve figured out how to live longer than the Uzumaki.”

He really shouldn’t find amusement from his husband’s condition, but he’d reiterate it again: there had been too many times when Tobirama had thought that Madara was either dead or would die to be too phased by anything else.

“What’s the secret then?” he teased.

“Hashirama’s cells,” Madara replied. “Just grab some of his flesh, cut a hole in your body, and shove it in. I recommend your back because then you don’t have to look at it.”

Tobirama gave a huff of laughter, but Madara muttered, “I’m getting morbid in my old age.”

“You’re in your late 30s, Madara. Longer than the average lifespan for someone born during the Warring States Period, but barely half of an Uzumaki’s lifespan.”

“Well, my memories are a mess.” Madara tried to shrug horizontally. “I think that I’ve lived through my 30s at least three times by now. Now shush. I get to indulge myself before the next day.”

“You have your own house now. We could do this on a futon, instead of on the dirt floor outside.”

“... We were going to move in together,” Madara stated. “You planned out the wards and other defenses already, but the sprinkler system I wanted would’ve messed with the fire elements of it.”

“That’s why we should get up. Before Hashirama barges into the unprotected house and finds neither of us there.” Tobirama made to shift over, but Madara didn’t budge. He only curled over Tobirama tighter.

Madara didn’t reply for a moment, but then he said, “We have 8 minutes left.”

“Hm.” Tobirama stared up at the sky. There wasn’t anything to see. It was a blanket of darkness, still tinged purple. It was a clear night, not that he would’ve been able to see the clouds even if they were present.

“Were you preparing for inter-country war?”

It would be on a scale that would make the Senju-Uchiha wars seem like small skirmishes. Tobirama thought about it occasionally, when unfavorable reports arrive from Kumo or when nothing arrives from Iwa. There was no concern that Konoha wouldn’t come out on top, but war was distasteful nonetheless.

This was a perfectly reasonable explanation for what ails his husband, except—it didn’t fit, no matter how Tobirama tried to stretch it over the problem. Why would Madara lock away years of his memory and then convince himself that Tobirama wasn’t real, to prepare for war?

Madara huffed a little, before he replied, “You’re brilliant—Edo Tensei, Hiraishin, even that Kage Bunshin you made by accident. The great shinobi of the future will carve out their names using your jutsu.” He continued, “But, for all your brilliance, your observations lead to the wrong conclusion.”

“Is this about the Uchiha Curse of Hatred?” Tobirama protested. “That was a widely-held rumor, and I debunked it later.”

“I know you think that I was being cryptic, but I’ve never managed to pull that off. Take my words at face value.”

Tobirama tried to rewrite all of his previous assumptions about the scenario. It wasn’t about war, but it was intentional. Madara chose to forget all his past memories so he could remember something else. He thought that Tobirama wasn’t real. He remembered people—Namima, Tōka, Team Tobirama—but he didn’t remember events unless he specifically looked around for it.

He thought that Tobirama wasn’t real.

“You think you’re in a genjutsu?” Tobirama asks in disbelief. “You have the Mangekyō Sharingan.”

“... Even from my century-old memories, you’re still awfully clever.” Madara rolled over until they were side-by-side. He was looking into nothingness; Tobirama was looking at Madara.

“Unless you don’t have the Mangekyō Sharingan,” Tobirama said. “You didn’t activate it during our spar.”

“And then you jump to conclusions and reinforce it with dubious evidence again, Senju,” Madara said. “4 minutes left.”

“You think someone cast Tsukuyomi on you?” If Madara still had the Mangekyō Sharingan, then the only one who could possibly trap him in a genjutsu would be another user. There was no better user of the Uchiha dōjutsu than Madara, but Tobirama was working with limited knowledge.

“In a previous conversation, you called this a ‘hellish nightmare,’” Tobirama continued. “So the caster thinks that the best way to torture you would be to create a world where we were married. You’re not disgusted by me, so—I’m dead in that world?”

“You don’t even agree with your own conclusion,” Madara said with amusement. “Starting with the part where you’re part of an illusion.”

Tobirama hummed. “This is too elaborate, even for Tsukuyomi. I have thoughts, feelings, and autonomy. If this was an illusion that wasn’t meant for me, I shouldn’t have consciousness. Or think I have consciousness, at least—if the genjutsu was for you, you wouldn’t know either way.”

“Well, this is a genjutsu that could trap even me. It’s very good,” Madara said. “I’d even say whoever cast this was a genius, if only he wasn’t also a raving lunatic.”

“... you’re being self-deprecating.”

“I don’t have regrets.” Madara sighed, staring at the endless abyss in the sky. “Tōka is a genjutsu master. She must’ve taught you that every illusion had a weak point.”

“Teeth are normal. Time flows correctly. Even Tsukuyomi’s red moon doesn’t exist.”

“Look up.”

Tobirama did.

“What’s missing?” Madara continued patiently, staring up at the same sky.

“It had always been that dark, Madara.”

“Yes. There’s no moon. 80 seconds.”

“What?”

Madara cackled. “I’m good, but I’m not that good, apparently.” He seemed to be entering that same daze he was in during the morning. “My wants are creating paradoxes.”

Tobirama reached out and wrapped his arms around Madara. He was shivering, even if the weather carried that same warmth as before.

“You’re going to make me want to stay,” Madara muttered, even though he burrowed in further. “1 minute.”

“Madara,” Tobirama whispered. The solemnity of the night demanded it. He looked away from the sky and focused on the man in his arms.

“Too bad I really need to fix a lot of things, and the only way Izuna and Takagushi and Kuro and Kou could all be alive is in this Infinite Tsukuyomi. And the only way I could love you and you could love me and I could be perfectly well-adjusted about sex is in this ideal world where I forget everything and you’ve never experienced those things,” Madara babbled on. “40 seconds.”

“Sorry I can’t… give you anything more than a hug, even in the dark where I can’t even see your face.” Madara laughed humorlessly. “But you’re not even real. And the Tobirama I’ll see soon would sooner stab me through with my own rods.”

“Madara,”—Tobirama ran his fingers through Madara’s hair, both a familiar and an unfamiliar act—“Even if there is no morning tomorrow, the ‘real’ me is still outside. And Hashirama, and Izuna, and Tōka, and all of your brothers and all of my brothers. If they’re not there, they’d be waiting in the Pure Lands.”

Madara didn’t respond, but his fingers curled about Tobirama’s training clothes. In the absence of light, and the absence of sound, Tobirama almost felt weighless. Like he was drifting along, and only the fingers digging into his skin was keeping him from flying off.

“Huh,” Madara huffed softly. “I guess I do have regrets—”

He sounded both despairing and resolute. Before Tobirama could tense, Madara’s eyes whirled into an unfamiliar pattern, forming purple rings that rippled and ripped the seams of the world.

And then he was gone.

And Tobirama, lying on the field under the moon-less and star-less sky, was gone.

And Izuna, filling out the last of his paperwork so that Tobirama could finish talking to Madara, was gone.

And Hashirama, tucked away with Mito and Namima in bed, was gone.

The world of as much peace as Madara could believe in, unraveled together and sprouted, like a rose unfurling, until Madara was shoved out.

-o-

He broke out of the white wrappings and plummeted to the ground.