Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The mission had left Tobirama feeling achy and drained, but he was used to pushing his own limits, used to looking his exhaustion in the face and saying not yet. He ran and focused on the steady beat of his footsteps, losing himself a little in the rhythm just to force himself to keep going. It was easier to ignore the pain that way: there was a gash at his side, a strained muscle in his left leg, a fresh burn along his shoulder blade, none of which he could heal with his current low-chakra reserves.

It would be fine. He was close to the Senju border, close to familiar forests and the relative safety of well-guarded homeland. He might even be allowed to rest, soon, if Hashirama had managed to stay on top of his own duties and if the clan elders could be held off for a few hours and if there was no one dying in the healing halls. He stretched his senses out to double check, but, no, there was no one following behind him, no one lying ahead in wait.

He could feel the green-bright-chilled-spring beacon of Hashirama’s chakra in the Senju compound right beside the much fainter, but no less familiar, ping of dark-earth-rosemary of Touka’s. Then, stretching out to feel into the Uchiha lands, nothing but patrols circling the far side of the border—nowhere near Tobirama, thankfully—and at the Uchiha compound…

Starburst-warmth-cedar-smoke. Madara.

Tobirama permitted himself only a minute to bask in the feel of it. He felt guilty enough taking even brief pleasure in an enemy’s chakra, no matter how much Hashi had extoled Madara’s virtues. And it wasn’t that Tobirama didn’t think it all true, because no one truly evil or dishonorable or cruel had chakra that felt so nice, that could warm him so thoroughly he felt like he was melting off his bones.

(Tobirama would know. He had felt many chakra signatures in his lifetime and could recall the most unpleasant ones. The wet-swamp-sludge of the bloodline thief he’d caught stealing two children barely old enough to walk. The scraping-iron-tar of the man who’d torn through nearly a whole town before Tobirama had stopped him. The rotted-sweet-sticky of the woman who’d very nearly succeeded in poisoning him. The acid-pinprick-scald of the man who’d killed Itama—that one was burned into his memory most, in part because Tobirama hadn’t managed to kill him. Yet.)

No, Tobirama felt guilty about lingering on Madara’s chakra because even if the Uchiha was a good man—and Tobirama thought he must be, even if he couldn’t claim to know him how Hashirama did—he was still an enemy. Still someone the Senju would have to face on the field. Still someone who might very well fall in battle one day, even if he was one of the two strongest shinobi in Fire Country, maybe in any of the elemental nations.

It was hard enough already to go into battle with the Uchiha and feel the heat of Madara’s chakra only a few yards away—always focused on Hashirama, always—and be reminded again and again how pointless it was to wrap himself up in it, to find comfort in the safe warmth of it, so much so that Tobirama had developed a preference for cedar firewood because it reminded him of the loveliest chakra he’d ever known, and—

Even if Hashirama found some way to make his peace happen, and even if Madara was a part of it, he would never be Tobirama’s anything. At best…at best, Tobirama would be lucky to continue to feel Madara’s chakra and be grateful not to have to fight him or anyone Madara loved.

Too attached, a sharp voice in his mind reprimanded, and Tobirama never could figure out if that was his own logic or an echo of his father’s training. Either way, it was right. Tobirama had no right to want—

(It didn’t matter that he’d been enamored with in awe of that chakra since he first felt Hashirama meeting it by the river when they were children. It didn’t matter that he’d sought it out for years, even if no one else knew.)

He forcefully turned his focus away from the tempting chakra, something which was aided by an awareness of three unfamiliar chakra signatures following a fourth smaller chakra signature into Senju lands.

Intruders, he acknowledged, mouth pinched half with displeasure and half with exhaustion, but the nearest Senju patrol was up a few miles to the north, and even if it looked like a group was in pursuit of someone and had probably lost track of the land boundaries, it wouldn’t do to let them think they could trespass without consequences. Especially when they were coming in from the Uchiha side, though…

Only the small chakra imprint was fire-natured: ember-spark-sun-dapple.

An Uchiha leading outsiders to the Senju to attack? he wondered even as he raced forward, changing direction just slightly so as to intercept them. It would hardly be the first time someone had tried to drag a third party into the Senju-Uchiha conflict, though that had been more common in Butsuma’s days as clan head, a tactic the older generations had tried.

He hoped, at least, that it would be a quick fight. The mission really had taken more out of him than he’d expected, and while he would do anything to protect his home, he was self-aware enough to know that he didn’t have the chakra or the energy for a drawn out conflict at this point.

Almost there.

It was strange; the ember-spark chakra had been in the lead, though not by much, but now they were slowing down and quickly, not anywhere near the Senju compound. The other three signatures hadn’t faltered at all; they were gaining, gaining—

Tobirama landed on a tree branch as silent as the ghost he was sometimes called, peering down at where the shinobi should be coming through in just…another…second.

Ember-spark burst through the underbrush first, panting and trembling with fatigue, dark-hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, the sharingan spinning red in panicked eyes, and Tobirama’s hand stilled where he had been ready to throw a kunai—the whole world stilled for a half-breath, and suddenly it was the least important thing in the world that ember-spark was an Uchiha, that they were trespassing.

Because it was a child.

A small—no older than seven or eight—terrified, very much hurt child. There was a slice against the boy’s cheek, mere inches from his eye, and the blood had dripped in a smear that did not look entirely unlike Tobirama’s own face markings. He was limping, too, and fatigued, and the other chakra signatures were still closing in, and no, just…no. There was no way this was an infiltration, no way this Uchiha child was leading enemies to the Senju stronghold.

He was being hunted.

(There was a moment in every fight where the entire field fell into focus for him. Some people got heated in the midst of a fight, but Tobirama had had battle-calm beaten into his skin from the moment he was old enough to hold a blade. Even when he was angry, even when he was at his most vicious, his senses remained calm. His blood remained steady. And sitting up in his tree branch, he had never felt steadier.)

The clumsy crunch of leaves signaled the arrival of the Uchiha child’s pursuers, and the boy’s head snapped around, desperately searching for a place to hide, though not fast enough.

“Nowhere left to run, little rabbit?” a cold, taunting voice called, and a man stepped out from behind a tree, the kunai in his hands tipped with the red of the boy’s blood.

“And on enemy land, too.” The two others came out from behind the first, spreading out into a formation designed to trap. The slighter of the two huffed a sharp laugh. “No one is going to save you here.”

“Just what he deserves, the little fucker,” the third one snarled, his own face bloodied from where the boy had obviously gotten a solid hit in earlier. “I’m gonna carve those eyes out of you and then some. If you’re real lucky, we’ll send the spare pieces back to your clan.”

It was easy to put together the situation in a fragment of a second. Young Uchiha, probably out on a simple courier mission or with a group—supposed to be safer. Purposefully driven into enemy territory where backup would be unlikely. Pursuers mistakenly think the Senju will either not notice or else ignore it.

If it had been anyone other than Tobirama—if it had been the usual border patrol—perhaps the Uchiha boy would not have lived. There were still many within the clan whose hatred ran deep, who would see this terrified boy and only think of him as an Uchiha, a potential threat that could be taken out easily now while he was young and fragile.

Despite the sharingan and other obvious Uchiha features, however, Tobirama could only see a child too young to be treated like prey, too young and too precious to someone to die out here, hunted and alone.

(He could imagine, almost, that this was Itama or Kawarama. He could imagine that, this time, he would not be too late.)

The three enemy nin were not particularly weak, and they were not mission-fatigued like Tobirama was, but they thought they were alone, thought they were safe, thought no one was coming to interrupt their hunt. He had the element of surprise, and really, for a shinobi of Tobirama’s skill and abilities, that was more than enough.

He ripped the blood out of two of them with little more than a flick of his fingers and a light pull of his chakra—that was a vicious technique, and a bloody one, but it required finesse more than power, and was ideal for when his reserves were low—and had launched out of his perch, seeming to fall out of the sky like a vengeful spirit, his blade already drawn and slashing through the last nin’s throat before the first two had even fallen to the ground.

In the aftermath, the forest was quiet but for the ragged breathing of the small boy behind him.

Tobirama sheathed his blade before turning to the boy—no need to frighten him further, if possible—and asked in his calmest, gentlest tone, “Are you injured?”

It took a moment for him to answer between the shaking and the little, gasping breaths as he tried to calm down, but eventually the boy shook his head. Tobirama only raised a brow, and the child ducked his head a little.

“My…my leg is…”

In the dimness of the moonlight through the trees, it was hard to see very clearly, but now that Tobirama was closer, he could make out the dark, wet circle on the boy’s thigh, little droplets of blood pattering onto the leafy ground. Fuck. That was…not good, to say the least.

But there was no question about healing it. Tobirama was sure he had enough chakra for that, even if it would mean he’d really be scraping the bottom of his reserves, enough that it would slow down his usual running pace.

“I’m going to come closer,” he told the boy. “I won’t hurt you. I’m going to heal your leg as much as I can. Alright?”

The boy nodded easily enough—too easily, perhaps, and without even the wariness that a shinobi should have had towards a potential enemy, especially an Uchiha dealing with a Senju. Tobirama could only hope it wasn’t that the boy’s trust was easily given, and rather that he’d realized if Tobirama had wanted him dead, he’d have done it already.

The wound was both better and worse up close. For one, it wasn’t nearly as deep as Tobirama had thought, and it hadn’t nicked anything critical: no arteries, no prominent veins, no tendons or bones or anything else that might have led to permanent damage. But it was a nasty thing, jagged as though it had been purposefully carved into, not at all a clean slice. Then there was the question of whether or not poison was involved.

“What name should I call you?” Tobirama asked as he knelt before the boy. “It doesn’t have to be your real one.”

“I…I’m Kagami,” the child said. “And you’re the—”

“I’m Tobirama.” Right now, he had no desire to be seen as the White Demon, the Senju Ghost, some creature of nightmares, some monster.

(He never really wanted that reputation, though it had served to keep his clan safe. Better they were feared and avoided than attacked at every opportunity. If it was the rumors of Tobirama’s coldness, his bloodthirsty viciousness and unearthly danger, his merciless attacks that kept would-be assailants away, then so be it.)

(Even though it hurt, sometimes, to be thought of as barely human. Even though there were people in his clan who believed in the rumors, who looked at him with mistrust and disgust and fear.)

(Even though for all that his brother still loved him, even Hashirama sometimes forgot about Tobirama’s very real heart, forgot that before Tobirama had become Butsuma’s blade he had been a child too, forgot that part of the reason he’d had to become closed off was because he felt everything so very deeply.)

“This is very important, Kagami. After you were cut, did you start to feel any different? If there was poison, you might be feeling slower, dizzy, overly warm. You might have trouble speaking or have trouble understanding what I’m saying.”

He looked the boy over as he spoke but was relieved to find no real indicator of abnormal symptoms. The boy had just run for his life through the forest—of course he was going to be sweating and tired and breathing hard—but now that his sharingan had faded back into black, it was clear that his pupils looked fairly normal, with no discoloration of the sclera. His breathing was starting to level out. The area around the cut on his cheek was clean, and there were no signs of puss forming on either wound. That was good.

Kagami shook his head. “I don’t think so, Tobirama-san. I only feel—”

He had cut himself off, but Tobirama could guess. “It’s okay to be scared, you know. You were in a bad situation, but you did a good job of keeping yourself together.” When the boy didn’t look particularly convinced, he continued, “Even grown shinobi get scared sometimes.”

Kagami’s brow furrowed. “They do?”

Tobirama hummed, and continued talking as he carefully rinsed Kagami’s wound, and began to heal, hoping to distract him from the discomfort. “Of course. Every now and then, you come across someone stronger than you, or perhaps you’re outnumbered, or you get caught when you weren’t expecting it. It’s natural to be scared, but the important thing is how you handle your fear.”

“How do you handle your fear?”

Tobirama smiled faintly. “You practice. You learn to keep moving, keep fighting. It helps to have something to fight for, a reason to keep going even when you think you’ve reached the end of your limits. I—” he paused, hesitating, but Kagami was watching with rapt attention, and Tobirama found that he could not help but indulge the boy “—think of my loved ones, and how there is nothing I want more than to come home to them, to hold them again and keep them safe.”

Kagami nodded solemnly, quiet for a moment, and then, “When I was running, I…I kept thinking that I didn’t want Madara-shishou to have to find my body.”

Oh, Tobirama thought, a sharp stabbing in his chest. He could remember far too clearly the feeling of Kawarama’s chakra flickering out of existence, far out of Tobirama’s reach, his remains only gathered later and barely recognizable. He could remember racing towards Itama—could practically taste the fear, the panic—but still too late, his brother dead but his body not yet cold.

No one deserved to die that young, and no one deserved to find their loved ones like that.

“You did very well,” Tobirama praised again, then carefully ruffled Kagami’s hair, amused when the boy pushed up into the touch like a cat.

There was a sharp, bright flare of chakra from deep in the Uchiha lands—Madara’s warmth turned raging and angry in a second. Ah, he must have gotten a report that the boy is missing. It took less than a moment for the chakra signature to start moving at a breakneck pace, a minute more to sense that Madara was crossing Uchiha land in record time. Time to go, then.

“And now, if you are well enough, it is time to return you home,” Tobirama said. “Your shishou is looking for you.”

Kagami’s eyes grew excited for a moment before he seemed to remember that he was on Senju land. “Oh no, I’ve got to—”

“I’ll get you to the border,” Tobirama promised. The boy’s leg was as healed as it was going to get right now, but it would likely still pain him for the next day or two. “It will be faster if I carry you.”

Luckily, Kagami had no issue with that, and Tobirama was able to hoist the boy onto his back easily enough before dashing off towards the Uchiha border. Madara was fresh and fueled by panic and anger, and so he was moving much faster than Tobirama was capable of right now, given his own injuries, fatigue, and his passenger. But if he was lucky—if he was careful—then there would be no confrontation.

Each step was difficult, but purpose drove him onward. Get Kagami home. Get him safe. Get him home. Get him safe.

The line of trees broke, finally, signaling the field that made up this portion of the Senju-Uchiha border. It had once been forest, too, but years of fighting had killed most of the growth here, so much so that even the grass was hard pressed to grow and only the most indestructible of weeds had taken up residence.

Tobirama would get Kagami close, and then try to put some distance between himself and Madara before the man showed up—

Too late, a part of his brain whispered, noticing the proximity of Madara’s chakra just moments before the man burst through the tree line on the opposite side of the field. Despite the dim light, his sharingan red eyes were practically glowing and, unfortunately, pinned directly on Tobirama. Madara’s chakra roiled.

It was beautiful even when it was rife with anger, and Tobirama had the absurd thought that at least if he was going to die, he could die surrounded in comfort.

“Madara-shishou!” Kagami called out happily, leaning up as high as he could get on Tobirama’s back and waving his hands. “I’m alright!”

He wasn’t sure if the child honestly had no idea of the murderous tension between Madara and Tobirama, or if he was ignoring it, or if his cheery call was meant to disrupt it, but whatever Kagami’s intent, Madara’s chakra shifted from outright killing intent to just wariness.

Slowly, carefully, Tobirama lowered Kagami to the ground, hyper-aware of Madara’s watchful gaze. Madara could probably cross the field in a matter of seconds, and while Tobirama was normally confident that he could outrun the man—he had always been fast, so much faster than practically anyone else—today he was far too tired for it. There was no need to provoke Madara by being incautious.

“Go on,” Tobirama encouraged gently. “Don’t keep him waiting.”

Kagami chewed on his lip for a moment, hesitating, before he darted out to wrap his arms around Tobirama in a quick hug. And then he was off, scurrying across the field as fast as he could with a slight limp, leaving Tobirama to just stand there and blink for a minute. By the time he’d fully come back to himself—stupid, don’t lose focus—Kagami was in front of Madara and the elder Uchiha was looking him over while Kagami chattered excitedly, too far away for Tobirama to hear.

Madara looked up, meeting Tobirama’s eyes across the field—stupid, don’t look him in the eyes, no matter how pretty—and seemed to assess him. Then he nodded his head, and Tobirama returned the gesture before stepping back into the forest, making sure not to turn his back, just in case.

Before he could fully disappear into the cover of the woods, however, Kagami—who was now atop Madara’s shoulders—called out, “THANKS TOBIRAMA-SENSEI!”

It wasn’t very shinobi like. Kagami seemed like he really needed a few refresher lessons on subtlety. And safety. And not trusting your enemy so easily. And—

He was too young, Tobirama couldn’t help but think, even if he knew it was standard practice amongst the clans. Sometimes, even if it was hard for him to imagine the peace that Hashirama talked about, he wanted that village so badly, wanted to know that with the clans banded together, they wouldn’t have to send children out quite so young.

(Still, his mind lingered on Madara’s respectful nod at the end, Kagami’s easy happiness, being called Tobirama-sensei. He smiled the whole way home.)

Chapter Text

Kagami wasn’t supposed to have been out on a mission. He wasn’t supposed to have been out of the compound at all. He was seven, for fucks sake, and when Madara found out which of the clan elders had seen fit to assign a courier mission to the boy—and it wasn’t like they didn’t all know exactly how he felt about children under ten at the earliest being out in the field—there would be blood.

But for now, he had to focus on getting Kagami back. The only good thing about this situation was that Ichiro—only fourteen, but a smart kid—had been with him when the bloodline thieves had set upon them, had taken out two of them himself while telling Kagami to run. When he’d realized there were more, and they had gone after Kagami, instead of trying to track them down himself, Ichiro had gone for help.

Madara would handle it. He wasn’t an especially strong sensor, but when he made an effort, he was good enough. Good enough to feel Kagami’s chakra, even if he couldn’t seem to find the three shinobi that were after him, and—dear Kami, what the fuck was Kagami doing in Senju territory?

They must have chased him there, thinking the Uchiha would be hesitant to cross over into enemy territory for one small child. Well, that’s where they were fucking wrong. If the Senju tried to stop him, Madara would fight every last damn one of them if it meant getting Kagami back.

That didn’t look like it was going to be the case, because even as he rushed towards the border of the territories, Kagami’s chakra was moving to meet him, and moving fast. Too fast for a seven-year-old who should by all rights be exhausted. Focusing harder, and with the ever-growing proximity, it became easier to pick up on a secondary chakra signature, one that filled Madara with dread and made him push even harder.

Cool-still-water. It was faint, but clear. There weren’t a lot of water affinities in Fire Country, and only one amongst the Senju. The White Demon. A man whose reputation was just as legendary as Madara’s own. Cold-blooded. Ruthlessly efficient. Fast as anything and clever. The cleverness was possibly the worst part, given that it was what made the Senju Ghost difficult to counter. He was lethal, and he was constantly growing more and more dangerous, or at least that was what Izuna was always on about.

(“Speed, the sharingan can match,” Izuna had said gravely. “And we’re equally skilled. But his mind…the things he comes up with—Every time we fight, it’s like facing a different person with a different arsenal of unknown abilities. Except that he knows all of mine. It’s…it’s terrifying.”)

And the White Demon had Kagami.

Madara ran faster.

Faster.

Faster—

He burst out into the field—just one of many that the Uchiha and Senju battled on along the border—and his eyes immediately landed on the tall, lean, ghostly figure of Senju Tobirama. In the moonlight, he really did look half-spirit and haunting. Inhuman.

Madara felt his anger rising in him, burning hot enough to melt steel. Where is Kagami? What did he do to him—

“Madara-shishou!” Kagami’s unmistakable voice broke out across the clearing as the boy climbed up the White Demon’s back like that was totally fine and normal and not heart-stopping in the slightest. He was waving, too, and grinning, clearly unharmed. “I’m alright!”

With the sharingan active, it couldn’t be a genjutsu. None of it could be a genjutsu, but—

But then why was the White Demon lifting Kagami off his back so gently, settling him on the ground with a little pat to the head, his usually stern face all soft and relaxed and almost…pretty. Madara blinked, and then Kagami was lunging forward to hug the man—what the fuck—and instead of gutting the Uchiha child for it, the Senju just…stood there, looking utterly confused.

And then, like a miracle, Kagami was running across the field, only limping a little and with a visible cut on his cheek, but otherwise whole. He came to a stop in front of Madara, still smiling though it was easier to see the exhaustion and lingering fear up close.

“Kagami,” he breathed, and immediately set to checking the boy over. There was a nasty looking wound on his thigh, or rather, a nasty looking scar, given that it was mostly healed up, just a bit pink and inflamed. “What—"

“Madara-shishou, you came!”

“Of course,” he said seriously, resting his hands on the boy’s shoulders and making sure to look him in the eye so that Kagami knew the gravity of the words. “I will always, always come for you if I can.”

Some tension in the boy’s shoulders dropped, and the smile widened. “Madara-shishou, you should’ve seen it. I was running and running and they were chasing, and then I was in the woods and I knew I wasn’t supposed to be there, and they caught up to me and said no one was coming, but then there was blood everywhere and Tobirama-sensei jumped out of a tree and killed them. And then he asked if I was hurt and fixed my leg, and then he said you were looking for me and he carried me all the way to the border—even though I think he’s really tired and maybe hurt—and he told me it’s okay to be scared because sometimes he gets scared too, but if you think about something worth fighting for, that can help, and he thinks about coming home to his family just like I do!”

It was…a lot. Kagami tended to ramble, even more so when he was excited or stressed, and apparently right now he was both. Madara could only process about 70% of what was coming out of the boy’s mouth, but it was…

The White—Senju Tobirama had apparently not only rescued Kagami, killing the bloodline thieves with extreme prejudice, but also healed the boy knowing he was an Uchiha, then returned him safely to Madara, and—

Madara looked back up at the man on the other side of the field who had not moved so much as an inch. He all but glowed in the moonlight, white hair like frost, skin just as pale, those pretty red eyes. Not a monster or a demon, Madara thought. Not if he would save Kagami, heal him, bring him home.

Even if there was some ulterior motive behind it, Madara didn’t care. He’d thought the only Senju who wouldn’t kill any Uchiha on sight was Hashirama, and only because the great fool couldn’t seem to get his head out of the clouds with his ideas of peace.

But if even the coldest of the Senju can show mercy, then maybe peace isn’t impossible.

He tipped his head at the pale Senju, because it was the least he was owed after what he had done this evening. Tobirama nodded back, and then stepped backwards into the dark forest.

“THANKS TOBIRAMA-SENSEI!” Kagami yelled out at the last second, and Madara closed his eyes, wincing.

They really were going to have to work on the whole shouting-across-battlefields thing, lest Kagami end up like—shudder—Hashirama. But that was tomorrow’s problem.

“Let’s go home,” Madara murmured, and then, making sure Kagami was secure in his place on Madara’s shoulders, took off at a sprint back to the compound. He was bringing Kagami home, alive and well and whole.

And it was all thanks to that Senju.

If Madara thought that Izuna had talked about Tobirama a lot—mostly complaining, really—then he was in despair knowing that it had nothing on Kagami’s hero-worship for his Tobirama-sensei.

Which was a whole other thing to unpack. Why was Tobirama called sensei?

“He’s so smart,” Kagami gushed when Madara had made the mistake of asking. “He was telling me about symptoms for poisons, and then he was teaching me about how to learn to control my fear, and he was so cool! I bet he knows a lot of jutsus. I mean, he pulled the blood out of two of the bloodline thieves before I even knew he was there!”

That was…fucking terrifying, frankly, and also more than a little bit hot. Madara didn’t even know that was possible. He knew Tobirama was deadly and a genius and ridiculously good with water jutsus, but this was just…something else.

The problem with Kagami’s obvious adoration of his Tobirama-sensei was that Madara was being forced to think about the man all the time, and that inevitably led to thinking about the way Tobirama had looked when he was soft and unguarded for that brief moment, when he had been gentle and beautiful under the moonlight. It led to thinking about what sort of man Tobirama was, to be so careful with Kagami, to have jumped in to save him when he didn’t have to, to have returned him to Madara with no ransom demands or threats.

The previous image he’d had of the White Demon didn’t fit with the man that Madara had met in the forest. It didn’t fit at all.

If Tobirama could tear the blood from his enemies, then why hadn’t the White Demon ever done it to Izuna?

If Tobirama had saved Kagami from bloodline thieves, then was there any stock at all in the rumors that the White Demon wanted to steal the sharingan?

If Tobirama could look so fond at a boy from his enemy’s clan, then why did everyone say the White Demon was emotionless and inhuman?

And if Tobirama had all been an illusion, a lie, an act, then what…what was the possible benefit of a deception like that?

None of it made any sense.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Hashirama was saying even as he sent his mokuton in a wide, destructive arc, pushing forward only to be beaten back with a wave of Madara’s fire. “Let’s end the fighting! Our dream—”

Madara blew another fireball into his old friend’s face, shutting him up rather nicely. It wasn’t that he didn’t want an end to the fighting, but it was awfully hard to picture peace with the Senju when Hashirama—for all his pretty words about their childhood dream, their safe village—rushed to the battlefield with joy. Maybe it wasn’t fair to judge him by that alone, because experience had told him that the idiot tree was only so happy because he saw these fights as opportunities, as potentially friendly squabbles. But if Hashirama really believed in peace that much, why didn’t it feel like he was taking it seriously?

A ceasefire. Opening negotiations. Making compromises. Sending an offer of peace that had actionable plans to make it happen. Actual diplomacy, not just shouting at each other while they fought, while their kinsmen fought just paces away and with more intent to harm each other.

And it wasn’t that he thought Hashirama didn’t mean it. Madara was sure Hashirama wanted peace more than anything, and if the world operated on the good word of honest men alone, that would be enough, but…

But how was he supposed to trust that the peace would last if it was built on flimsy promises and childhood fancies? He needed something concrete or else it was never going to happen, and Hashirama didn’t seem to understand that.

(Madara needed Hashirama to understand. Now was the perfect time to push for a ceasefire, with the whole clan having heard about Kagami’s experience with Senju Tobirama. Madara had been subtly working the angle that maybe they could coexist as neighbors without fighting, that Tobirama’s benevolence was proof of the possibility, and his people were actually considering it. No one could doubt Kagami’s story when it was backed up by Madara, too, and it had gotten people to stop and think.

But it wouldn’t last long if they kept clashing on the battlefield, reinforcing the violence and old mindsets.

It wouldn’t last long if some of the more…troublesome elders had their way.)

Speaking of Tobirama, Madara found himself keeping half an eye on the pale Senju, watching him clash with Izuna. He half wished he could have just watched the fight without being distracted by his own, because in the few glimpses he’d caught, Tobirama was exactly as beautiful as he’d remembered, and seeing him in motion showed off Tobirama’s grace and speed in a way that made Madara hyper-aware of just how dangerous he was.

Except, now that Madara was looking for it and actually paying attention to Tobirama instead of just worrying over Izuna, it was obvious that Tobirama wasn’t fighting to kill. Not really, anyway. Oh, it wasn’t that he was pulling his punches or purposefully allowing Izuna to slow him down, weaken him. Tobirama was definitely taking the fight seriously, but…well. He was only using his water jutsus to extinguish whatever fires Izuna set. He managed to cut Izuna a few times with his blade, but never anywhere too dangerous, though it was close enough to pass it off as a lucky dodge on Izuna’s part.

Madara knew Izuna was a good fighter—in the clan, he was second only to Madara himself—and the same could be said for Tobirama, and he’d always thought them evenly matched right up until Kagami had given the account of his rescue. And now Madara couldn’t get it out of his head that while Tobirama was clearly making an effort against Izuna, he certainly wasn’t using any particularly deadly techniques.

But maybe Kagami was exaggerating Tobirama’s skills, he thought, because it was of course always possible that Kagami’s excitement (or even his fear and panic in the moment) had smudged the memory. Except that was also when he’d activated his sharingan. He remembers every detail flawlessly.

Madara’s attention was forcibly returned to Hashirama in the next moment when another spike of mokuton broke through the earth at his feet, forcing him to dodge and burn at the same time, all the while trying to ignore Hashirama’s shouting. When he next had a moment to glance over at Izuna—and Tobirama—he stilled when he realized that Tobirama was not there and that Izuna looked…confused.

All of which was cleared up in the next second with Hashirama shouting, “Tobi! NO!”

Madara turned towards where Hashirama had been shouting, only for everything to come to a standstill, the world moving in horrifying slow-motion, because there, for some Kami forsaken reason, in the midst of the battlefield, was Kagami.

What the fuck was he doing here? How, and why, and most importantly, who? It reeked of one of the elders’ schemes, just as the courier mission that had nearly gotten Kagami killed had.

But Madara had no time to think on that in the moment because the worst of it all was that although Kagami had been at the edges of the field—hidden along the tree line where Madara had failed to notice him—one of the Senju had noticed and had been advancing on him, Kagami scrambling to get out of the way, but unused to moving steadily on mud. He had slipped and fallen—too young, too fucking young, Madara had fucking told the clan not to put children on the field, so help him someone was going to die for this—and Kagami was so far away. Madara was fast, but he wasn’t that fast. Not fast enough to clear the field in a single breath with so many people between them.

Tobirama, though.

Years of instinct screamed at Madara that the Senju was a threat, that this was it and Kagami would die, and he felt something in him begin to fracture already. Kagami was not his son but some days it felt like he might as well have been since he had taken the boy in after his mother’s death, and Madara could not lose anyone else so close to him, he would not be able to bear it, not again—

He prayed that he had not imagined the Tobirama that had stood in the field at night, softened and human, a revelation. He prayed that he had not imagined the compassion, prayed that he had not misread—

Kagami could not scramble to his feet in time to avoid the blade of the Senju approaching him, but he did not have to, not when a strong, pale arm scooped him up and out of the way as if he weighed nothing. In the next moment, he was being held so very gently and water swirled—beautiful and deadly and with vicious precision—around Tobirama where he stood, the tendrils of it lashing out at anyone who got too close.

“Enough,” Tobirama snarled at the Senju who had tried to kill Kagami, and when his voice carried across the field with ease, Madara finally noticed that all fighting had stopped, both sides quiet and tense and waiting.

“Traitor,” the other Senju spat. “You’d protect an Uchiha over your own blood?”

“This,” Tobirama hissed back, teeth bared and eyes dangerously sharp, “is a child.”

“It’s an Uchiha.”

The water twisted sharply at that, and the Senju shut his mouth, paling under Tobirama’s unforgiving gaze.

“Tobi?” Hashirama called, sounding significantly more unsure than he had a moment ago. “Um. Why don’t you put the child down?”

For a long moment, Tobirama continued to glare at the steadily paling man, before he finally turned to Hashirama with a pinched face, and then to Madara, meeting his eyes head on. Which was…yeah, that was extremely attractive.

“Madara-sama,” Tobirama said, and his voice was clear and pleasant and smooth. “I once again find myself in possession of something that belongs to you. Though I would like to know why such a young one would be here.”

It was distinctly not a question. Luckily, Madara was of a similar mind.

“I find that I am also curious about that,” he answered, his barely contained anger at the situation lowering his voice into a near-growl. He took a breath to calm himself. “Kagami?”

The boy mumbled, his face pressed mostly into Tobirama’s collar. The white-haired Senju sighed, having caught at least some of it.

“Nobody is angry with you,” Tobirama said, his expression softening again in the way that Madara found extremely pleasing. “But it is very dangerous for you to be out here, and your shishou is very worried about you. We don’t want you to be in danger like this again, so you need to tell us how you came to be on the battlefield.”

Instantly, Madara understood why Kagami would want this man as a teacher. He would make for an excellent one—straightforward but caring, reprimanding but not harsh.

He would make an excellent parent, an unnecessary thought stampeded through Madara’s mind, and he shoved it to the side.

“I wanted to see Tobirama-sensei,” Kagami admitted guiltily, still not looking at anyone. “Elder Masahiro said I could. He said if I watched from the trees, it would be okay.”

Well, at least Madara had a name, and he couldn’t say he was particularly surprised. Masahiro had been a pushy old bastard even when Madara’s father was clan head, and he hadn’t gotten any easier to deal with over the years. But to send a child out to certain death…that was a bold fucking move.

He probably didn’t expect Kagami to live through the battle and reveal his involvement. Maybe he thought he’d dull the clan’s tentative admiration for Tobirama by getting Kagami hurt or killed during a battle with the Senju, reignite the clan’s hatred for the Senju?

That was just speculation though. The truth would come out in interrogation.

Madara met Tobirama’s eyes over Kagami’s head, both ignoring Hashirama’s confused, spluttered wailing about how proud he was of his brother, and how did Madara and Tobirama know each other?

“This is the second time you have saved my ward, Tobirama-san.” If Hashirama would not propose peace in a reasonable manner, then Madara would have to do it, and this, at least, gave him the perfect excuse. If Tobirama was even half as smart as he was reputed to be, then certainly he would see the merit in it as well. “It is your actions which give me faith that hostilities between our clans may find their way to an end. For the sake of my ward, and for all the children of our clans, I would propose a ceasefire.”

Hashirama gasped, stars practically shining out of his eyes. “A ceasefire? Madara, really?”

Tobirama’s pretty red eyes went wide for a fraction of a second before they returned to their calculating lean. “I will draft one and have it sent to you by tomorrow.”

Madara nodded his assent, allowed Hashirama a single handshake (after prying himself out of a suffocating attempt at a hug), and called for everyone to pull back from the field.

When Tobirama passed Kagami over to Madara, he accidentally brushed against the back of the Senju’s hand, and never before had he wished so much that he did not wear gloves.

“Esteemed Elders,” Madara greeted with much more contempt than he’d normally risk. But now, with Kagami safely tucked away in the main house with Izuna to guard him, Madara was feeling far from charitable. “Masahiro. A word about my ward.”

Masahiro swallowed heavily and paled.

Oh. So he did know what awaited him, then. Madara grinned. Good.  

Chapter Text

A ceasefire.

A ceasefire.

Tobirama could hardly believe it even as he finalized the wording of the document. As much as Hashirama dreamed of peace, and as much as Tobirama had quietly supported him in the background—as much as he’d quietly, secretly wished for it just as badly—there was a part of him that hadn’t truly believed it would happen in his lifetime. Not with the ongoing cycle of hatred, the fears and the resentment and so much mistrust. Not to mention how powerful Madara was, even with Hashirama to balance him. Not to mention how Tobirama’s own reputation was more than enough to make the Uchiha wary.

(It stung, the way Hashirama’s praise for rescuing Kagami was tinged with surprise.

“I’m so proud of you otouto,” Hashirama had said, his emotions bubbling out of him in big, weepy tears. “When I saw you running at him, I didn’t know—but you saved him!”

Of course, Tobirama had wanted to say. Didn’t you see how small he was? Smaller than our brothers were when they died.

Don’t you remember how I raised them? he wanted to ask. That I was the one to feed Kawarama when he whined? That I was the one to hold Itama when he was scared?

Did you really think I’d hurt a child? he had been too afraid to ask, already sure of the answer and not wanting to hear it.

It was obvious what Hashirama thought.)

(Tobirama held on tight to the memory of Madara’s words: It is your actions which give me faith that hostilities between our clans may find their way to an end.

There had been no disdain, no surprise, nothing but sincerity and relief in his starburst-warmth-cedar-smoke chakra.)

Ink dry, Tobirama rolled up the scroll and carried it down the hall, bracing himself. It was as good as he could make it, which meant it was very good, and with Madara the one to propose the idea of a ceasefire, there was little reason to believe it would be rejected. He only needed Hashirama to sign it before sending it off.

He knocked on the door to his brother’s office, entering when Hashirama called him in. The older Senju was seated behind his desk, smiling happily as a plant behind him sprouted dozens of flowers.

“I’ve finished drafting the ceasefire. With your signature, I’ll send it off immediately.”

“Really?” Hashirama blinked at him, still smiling. “That was fast.”

“I had a few basic drafts ready that just needed to be refined,” Tobirama admitted, and tried not to be irritated with his brother.

After both Butsuma and Tajima were dead, when Hashirama and Madara had taken over as the heads of their respective clans, Tobirama had tentatively suggested a ceasefire, saying that if Madara truly was as committed to peace as the boy Hashirama remembered, this would be a good first step in testing that. Hashirama hadn’t wanted that, though, too sure that the strength of their childhood friendship would be enough to push for full out peace, too certain that he could get through to Madara on his own without having to complicate things with politics.

But now that Madara was the one suggesting a ceasefire, suddenly it was acceptable. Tobirama tried not to be bitter about it. What mattered most was that peace—even a small fragment of it—was within reach.

Hashirama unfurled the scroll when Tobirama handed it to him and skimmed it, nose scrunching by the end. “It’s a bit…formal, isn’t it?”

“It will appease the clan elders,” Tobirama explained. “To show them that we are offering respect and approaching the matter with the proper gravity.”

In truth, it wasn’t just for the sake of the elders, though that was a large part of it—the Senju clan elders were prickly, self-important bastards, and he doubted the Uchiha elders would be much different. But while Hashirama might have been content with a casual, friendly letter promising a non-aggression pact, that wasn’t how these things were done. Precise language was necessary when brokering such important agreements. He could not afford to leave any convenient loopholes for those less-enthused with the ceasefire to exploit.

Hashirama made a considering sound. “I suppose it will help appease the more conventional elders. You don’t think Madara will be offended to be written to like a stranger?”

“I think Madara is an intelligent, clever man who will see the benefit in a more formal contract,” Tobirama countered. If everyone were as idealistic as Hashirama, then perhaps not, but shinobi in general tended to be more distrustful. If the Senju offered a ceasefire that was just more of Hashirama’s battlefield propositions, Tobirama suspected the Uchiha clan would not be moved.

Hashirama drooped. “I suppose.”

“If it concerns you so, perhaps you may write your own, more personal letter specifically to Madara.”

At that, Hashi brightened significantly. “Yes. I’ll do that and send them off immediately.”

“You’ll sign the ceasefire,” Tobirama prompted.

“Yes, yes.” Hashirama waved his hand dismissively and hastily scrawled his signature at the bottom of the page. But it was clear he was distracted already, mumbling under his breath even as he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment to scrawl out his own letter. “Peace. Finally, after all this time. We did it.”

Tobirama had half a mind to remind his brother that nothing was settled yet, and that a ceasefire was not the same as a peace treaty, not the same as a village. There was still a long way to go, and that was only if things didn’t fall apart disastrously.

And yet, at the same time, Tobirama was reluctant to crush his brother’s optimism. There would be time for that later, no doubt once the negotiations started in earnest and both sides revealed their suspicion, their greed, their fear. For now, however, Tobirama could afford to let him celebrate.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, backing towards the door, only pausing again right before he left. “I am happy for you, anija.”

Hashirama looked up from his letter, something in his face softening in a way Tobirama hadn’t seen directed at him in years.

(Not since before The River Incident. Had that been the moment Hashirama stopped seeing his little brother when he looked at Tobirama, and started seeing Butsuma’s tool instead?)

“Thank you, otouto.”

Madara stared down at the ceasefire on his desk, re-reading it for what had to have been the dozenth time. The elders would want to see it soon—had already been badgering him about it since this morning—but he could hold them off a little longer yet. Learning a little patience would do them some good.

And if, perhaps, he wanted to read over Tobirama’s words again, marveling at the sharp, precise lines of his handwriting, admiring the clearly laid out terms and elegant turns of phrase—well, that was nobody else’s business. Even if Izuna had caught him at it an hour ago and made a loud gagging sound before running away, the brat.

Madara huffed. Izuna could think what he liked. For so long, Madara had barely made note of Senju Tobirama’s existence, disregarding him as an individual and seeing him only through his relation to others. Hashirama’s younger brother. Izuna’s opponent. An enemy to the clan. A dangerous shinobi, but one that didn’t require Madara’s direct intervention.

In hindsight, it seemed like such a waste.

Because Tobirama was so much more than what Madara had given him credit for, and beyond that, he was worth paying attention to.

The blinding intelligence discernible in the way he crafted his words in the ceasefire. The impossible speed with which he’d moved across the battlefield to reach Kagami. The seemingly effortless use of water jutsu, and what that meant about his chakra control. And most significant of all, the kindness, the gentleness he’d shown Kagami, scooping him out of harm’s way and holding onto him like something precious, his soothing words, his soft tone—

Madara couldn’t decide if it was a curse or a blessing that he’d had his sharingan active for that.

Turning back to the letter—letters—on his desk, Madara sighed. Hashirama was getting ahead of himself like always, overeager with his vision for peace and total unity. It was lucky the actual ceasefire was more moderate, a temporary bid for non-aggression that could be expanded on if it went well. That would be tough enough to sell on its own.

Though less so, now that Elder Masahiro was…retired.

Of the other seven remaining elders, at least three were fully ready to end the conflict with the Senju, and had just been waiting for reason to believe peace would last if they tried for it. Two more were on-the-fence, but Madara felt certain he could convince them to give the ceasefire a chance. Especially since Kagami’s great aunt was one of them, and Tobirama having saved the boy twice now had gone a long way in softening her war-hardened heart.

The final two were adamantly opposed to any form of peace with the Senju, and they would undoubtedly be the primary source of Madara’s headaches over the next few weeks. But unlike Masahiro, they had thus far avoided outright plotting to exacerbate the tensions between the clans, so really, it could have been worse.

And if the skirmishes stopped, and the violence stopped, and the Senju proved they could cohabitate peacefully, then that would severely undercut the arguments against peace.

For the first time in years, the idea of a village where shinobi clans could live together, protect each other, didn’t seem like a complete pipe dream.

Madara traced Tobirama’s handwriting again, a faint smile on his face. What an extraordinary man.

“Ugh! Really? Still?” Izuna’s affronted voice came from the doorway. His face was scrunched up in abject disgust. “Please, for the love of all that is holy, just give it to the elders already.” Izuna gave an exaggerated shiver. “I thought I had to worry about you with the tree idiot, but this is so much worse.”

Madara glared at him. When Izuna was younger, a severe look had been enough to cow him. Not anymore. He’d long since learned that Madara’s anger—at least when it came to family—was all bluster.

“But seriously, quit dithering. I’m assuming the ceasefire is good enough, isn’t it?”

Madara hummed his agreement. “It is.” Then he paused, frowned a little, and brought up the one thing that had been holding him back. “You would accept a ceasefire with the Senju?”

For as long as he could remember, Izuna’s hatred of the Senju had been much like their father’s. Not unwarranted or irrational, at least most of the time, but still…overbearing. Izuna took everything personally—every battle, every death. He had a hard time acknowledging that the Uchiha had done as much hurt to the Senju as the Senju had to them.

For a moment, Izuna’s face shuttered, the cold, hard suspicion back at the forefront. But then he sighed, leaning heavily against the doorframe. “I don’t…like it, exactly. And I sure as hell don’t trust it. But—” he shrugged helplessly “—Kagami should be dead twice over now, and he’s not. And the man who saved him isn’t what I thought he was. Isn’t acting the way I was so certain he would act.”

“Are you admitting to being wrong?” Madara couldn’t help but tease. In truth, he was shocked by Izuna’s honesty, almost as much as he’d been shocked by Tobirama’s humanity the first time he saved Kagami.

“I didn’t say that,” Izuna teased back. But then he shrugged again. “But, you know, maybe, sometimes, I expect the worst from people. And maybe, occasionally…”

Madara grinned. “Maybe, occasionally, you’re wrong.”

“Fuck off,” Izuna said, laughing a little. “I suppose we’ll see. But only if you stop mooning over—blegh—Tobirama’s handwriting and show that ceasefire to the elders.”

“I’m not mooning—”

“You are sooooooo mooning.” Izuna leaned back into the hallway, a smirk that spelled nothing but trouble tugging on his lips. “Isn’t that right, Kagami?”

A much smaller figure popped into the doorway, ducking under Izuna’s arm. “What’s mooning mean?”

“Nothing—”

“It’s when one person likes another person a whole, whole lot,” Izuna said, like a devious little shit. “So they think about them all the time and get sad when they’re not nearby.”

“Izuna.”

Kagami tilted his head. “So…Madara-shishou is mooning over Tobirama-sensei? ‘Cause he’s not here?”

“No!”

“It’s okay, Madara-shishou,” Kagami said, pushing further into the room so he could climb into Madara’s lap and give him a hug. “I’m mooning over Tobirama-sensei too. But we’re gonna see fire, right? Um, which means we can see Tobirama-sensei every day.”

Izuna was wheezing. Madara ignored him.

“Ceasefire,” Madara corrected. “And it doesn’t mean we’ll see Tobirama every day. It just means that when we do see him, we won’t have to fight.”

Kagami frowned. “But you weren’t fighting before.”

“Well, not directly—”

Kagami sighed deeply, cutting Madara off. “Is this more complicated grown-up stuff?”

Well, that’s an easy out.

“Yes,” Madara said.

“And you’re gonna fix it?”

“I’m working on it.”

Kagami squinted at him for a long moment, and then nodded. “Okay. And then we won’t have to moon over Tobirama-sensei anymore?”

Madara opened his mouth—though he wasn’t sure how, exactly, he was supposed to untangle all that nonsense—when Izuna cut him off.

“Exactly, Kagami. Just as soon as Madara gives the elders that letter there.”

Kagami’s head whipped back to Madara. “THEN WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Go! Go now!"

He scrambled off Madara’s lap and started tugging on his arm, trying to haul him up with little success.

“Alright, alright. I’m going,” Madara said, a little amused despite himself. At least when it came to Tobirama, he knew he had one staunch ally. “Perhaps while I do that, you can practice the fire jutsu I taught you on Izuna.”

“YES!”

“Wait, no, hold on—”

“Really, otouto.” Madara clamped a hand down on Izuna’s shoulder as he passed him, and Izuna paled. Considering all the shit he’d just pulled, Madara thought he was getting off pretty lightly here. For now. “I insist.”

Two weeks, more than a dozen letters exchanged back and forth to hammer out the wording, and more than one sleepless night as Tobirama struggled to balance his existing duties with the clan with his new responsibility of single-handedly drafting the documents that would secure their peace with the Uchiha, and they’d done it.

They finally, finally had a ceasefire that appeased all the clan elders. It was, in Tobirama’s opinion, a kami-damned miracle.

And now they’d arrived at the Naka river, sentimentally chosen by Hashirama but also a decent enough mid-way point that was as close to neutral ground as they were going to get. They’d agreed to keep the delegations small, only five people each. Hashirama and Tobirama, two of the Senju elders, and one other active-duty shinobi to serve as a guard. The Uchiha were the same: Madara, Izuna, two of their elders, and another Uchiha that Tobirama didn’t recognize off the top of his head.

Hashirama was all but vibrating, and Tobirama suppressed the urge to roll his eyes, instead tapping his brother lightly on the elbow and reminding him to walk forward to meet with Madara—as a clan head, not as a friend.

To everyone’s credit, the signing of the official ceasefire went quickly and without objection, even accounting for Izuna’s pinched and vaguely nauseated expression every time Tobirama caught his eye. After, Hashirama and Madara shook hands, which then turned into a short-lived hug, and truly, Tobirama thought they would all go their separate ways as soon as possible.

He was surprised when, instead, one of the Uchiha elders made her way over to him.

“I am Uchiha Nanako,” she said. Despite her age, her voice was firm and clear, her eyes sharp, her posture steady. Tobirama could imagine she had been a formidable shinobi in her prime, and he suspected that if age had stolen her strength, it had not yet taken her cunning. “Kagami is my grand-nephew.”

“Ah.” Tobirama inclined his head to her. He wasn’t sure what she wanted from him, but he was genuinely fond of Kagami, and a compliment was never unwelcome. “He is a bright child. You have much to be proud of.”

“Hm.” Nanako squinted at him, like she was trying to peer into his soul. And then she bowed at the waist, all but folding herself in half. Around them, the forest hushed, even Hashirama’s joyous blubbering cut off with a sharp inhale. “Thank you for saving his life, Senju-san.”

As quickly as it had happened, it was over. Nanako straightened and, without waiting for a response, returned to the rest of the Uchiha party.

There was some muttering, and then, before Tobirama could pull himself out of the shock at having been thanked by an Uchiha elder, Madara was before him. A warm, ungloved hand enveloped his own.

“Once again, I find myself in your debt,” Madara said lowly, and Tobirama felt heat rise to his cheeks, unbidden. This close—touching skin to skin—his chakra was a blaze of warm comfort, and only years of practice kept Tobirama from being swept away by it. “Not only have your actions swayed the opinion of many in my clan, but your diligent, competent work has allowed us a true ceasefire faster than I had dared hope for.”

“I was only executing my brother’s will,” Tobirama said, his voice not as steady as he would have liked. Some strange feeling was fluttering in his gut, and he was hyper-aware of every point of contact between them. Hyper-aware of the way their chakra seemed to be reaching out to each other.

One edge of Madara’s mouth curled up, and a thumb swiped over the back of Tobirama’s knuckles. “Still, I look forward to our future correspondence.”

Tobirama’s mouth felt unusually dry, and he swallowed. “As do I.”

Madara’s hand lingered in his for another moment, and then it was gone. In his absence, Tobirama felt…cool. Unpleasantly so. Strange, because he could count on one hand the number of people he had ever wanted in his personal space like that.

A side-effect of lingering in his chakra too much, Tobirama told himself. That had to be the reason. Though it didn’t account for the way his heart thudded erratically against his ribs.

“What did Madara say to you?” Hashirama asked once they were back in the Senju compound, in his office. He set his copy of the ceasefire in the uppermost drawer of his desk, and sank into his chair, a small furrow between his brow.

Tobirama, standing before him, tilted his head. “Nothing of import. Simple pleasantries. Why?”

True, the tone of Madara’s voice, the feel of his hand, the promise of future correspondence—all of it was burned into his memory in perfect clarity. But that had more to do with Tobirama’s own illogical interest in the man rather than it being anything noteworthy of itself. Madara was being polite and, alright, maybe a bit more complimentary than Tobirama had expected. But that’s all it was.

Hashirama’s eyes darted to the side. “It just looked…intimate.”

He felt his eyebrows crawling up his forehead, even as his cheeks heated again. “Intimate?”

 “He took off his glove to hold your hand!”

Yes, Tobirama was aware. He’d felt the warmth of Madara’s skin, felt the spots where his hands were calloused, felt his thumb sliding over Tobirama’s knuckles—

“He shook my hand—”

“He held it!”

Semantics. Tobirama couldn’t afford to think anything of it.

“And he made you blush!” Hashirama insisted, pointing at him. “Like that!”

“I’m not blushing.”

“Tobi,” Hashirama reprimanded. “You’re pink. What did he say?”

“Stop being nosy, anija,” Tobirama said, and then sighed. “He was only being polite. He thanked me for my work on the ceasefire, and said he looked forward to further communication.”

Whatever juicy gossip Hashirama thought he’d be getting, it wasn’t that. “Oh. That’s…all?”

“Yes.”

Possibly the best five minutes of Tobirama’s life, but yes, that was all.

Hashirama’s cheer couldn’t be dampened for long, though. “That’s great! He wants to keep working with us towards peace! I can’t believe—and you!”

Tobirama startled. “Me?”

“You!” Hashirama agreed, excitably, getting up from his desk and grabbing Tobirama into a hug. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d hugged like this, almost couldn’t remember how to hug Hashirama back. “You did so much to make this happen, Tobi. Thank you!”

(For a moment, it felt like he was five again, back when he knew his older brother loved him, back when it wasn’t complicated, when it didn’t hurt.)

Tobirama clutched at Hashirama just as tightly. “Of course, Hashi.”