Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

一

“You’ve come a long way, Uchiha Madara.”

He inclines his head. “Nekobaa-sama.”

“Sit.” She gestures at the table, and he sinks to the floor. “What is it that you want?”

His fingers twitch minutely. Such insolence. He is the clan leader. She should be removed from the picture. No. She is a potential ally.

He resists the temptation to shake his head and carefully weighs the words on his tongue instead. “I come with news of Konoha.”

The old lady cocks her head to the side. She is not the first to base her appearance on a cat’s, nor is she likely to be the last. A tabby comes closer, stretching to sniff his knee. For a moment, it’s still, then its hackles rise and it scurries away. Nekobaa narrows her eyes.

“The village is growing,” Madara says. A breeze brushes his skin and brings a faint smell of meat with it.

“But?”

“The Senjus. They rule the place and they will crush us.” Perhaps not Hashirama, but his brother will. He killed Izuna in cold blood and he will kill them all when the opportunity arises; don’t you see how he looks at you?

He feels red bleed into his eyes, and this time, he shakes his head.

“Do you have any proof for that?”

Proof? I know it to be true! If she could only feel what he feels and see his thoughts and the way they all look at the Uchiha …

“Hashirama is the hokage. He rules over the peace we have. The rest of the clan hate us, and his brother…”

He killed Izuna. Kill him. Have your revenge. His existence is the very core of unfairness; that Hashirama is allowed to have a brother while he, Madara, isn’t, that Hashirama got to build his dream while Madara’s died with Izuna … The Senju clan got the better end of the deal, yet they pretend at equality.

Their peace is a lie. They deserve to die, every last one of them. If this is the path to peace… Let Hashirama play with his village; Madara will have his own dream. Somehow, he will—

“What of your clan? Do they agree?”

Her gaze is piercing, but he holds it. “Some should.”

“I see. You came here first. You’re afraid they wouldn’t share your views.”

“They’re scared of the Senjus.”

“And you of being left alone with your belief.”

He clenches his fists. “Hashirama’s idea of peace won’t endure. He is a fool to think alliances could preserve it. If Konoha can’t keep the upper hand, it will fall.” Whether the Uchihas will still be alive to witness its destruction is another question.

They’ll all get slaughtered. Control, control, you need control.

Nekobaa keeps observing him through slightly narrowed eyes, head tilted to one side. “I’m afraid I can’t help you in the way you desire.”

He grits his teeth. How unhelpful. She’s in the way. Everyone always standing in the way… His hand twitches, reaching for a kunai—

“Madara.”

He places his hand back onto his lap.

“If you had the support of your clan, what would you do?”

“Leave Konoha with them.”

“You know it would fall apart without the Uchihas. Your alliance with the Senjus is holding it together.”

“It was a failed experiment from the start. There can be no peace as long as men desire war.” As long as love can turn to hatred and hatred to violence, peace will not endure.

“You imagined it would be different,” Nekobaa says, and something constricts in his chest. She’s right. Konoha was always meant to be his way of protecting Izuna, except there is no Izuna to protect anymore. The only thing left is the promise to protect their clan...

He tries to swallow the knot that forms in his throat. She does not need to know. Nobody needs to know of the pain, of the nightmares. You’re all alone...

“I see.” She pauses. “It doesn’t bring you happiness.

He lets his gaze fall to his hands. No, his life is not one filled with happiness. Only pain. Only destruction and death. The war has ended, and he still can’t quite grasp the sins of the past are to be forgiven. The Senju killed Izuna. How is Madara supposed to let that go? True, Uchihas killed Senjus, too—but your last brother. The last one. They took everything away.

A small white cat appears at Nekobaa’s side. She leans down to it, whispering. The words are too soft for Madara to hear, and he can’t see her lips well enough to read them. A moment later, the cat makes its way to him, jumps onto his lap and sniffs around his neck. He moves to pull away, but the cat is back at Nekobaa’s side as quickly as it came. They look at each other, the woman and the cat. Some kind of silent communication takes place between them, and Madara frowns.

“I assume you will ask your clan to leave with you regardless of whether people of Sora-ku support you or not.”

He doesn’t say anything; nevertheless, Nekobaa nods. “Before you leave, I would ask for a favour as well.”

She doesn’t want to help. Why should you assist her? “Ask,” is what he says.

“I have a ritual to perform. A protective one, and I need a few extra hands. It would hardly take more than an hour.”

His frown deepens. Doesn’t she have assistants to hold things for her?

She looks him in the eye. “You are strong, Uchiha Madara. Your chakra would shorten the ritual considerably.”

He agrees with a sigh and an inclination of his head.

火火火

 She leads him into a room further back and lets him sit on the floor while she draws symbols on the wall and chants in a language even Madara doesn’t know.  She starts drawing symbols around him until he becomes the centre of a spiral. Strange... The candles come next, lighting up the room. The smell of incense hangs in the air.

“What do I—”

“Feel your chakra. Let me touch it.”

No. Get away! You must run! He ignores the voice in the back of his head and nods. Perhaps if he stays, she’ll be more inclined to aid him in the future…

Her chanting grows louder, and his senses prickle, a warning flaring up in his mind. Perhaps he really should bolt. Now. He tries to pull his chakra back, but something tugs at him—at his chakra, his body, his mind—and does it again, and then he screams because there is white-hot pain in every corner of his awareness and—

火火火

He wakes to a dull ache behind his eyes and groans. A cat meow reaches his ears.

Has something gone wrong during the ritual?

He makes to sit up, but his body feels all wrong, as if the proportions have been tempered with and his joints taken apart and reset in strange directions. Frowning, he looks down—and sees tiny black paws. What should be a noise of surprise comes out as a high-pitched mew, and he screws his eyes shut.

This can't be real. A genjutsu perhaps? He tries to put his hands together to dispel it, tries to activate his sharingan, and fails.

Impossible. How strong is the jutsu? Was it Nekobaa? What for?

He waits for his mind to use that small voice he's grown so familiar with and give him a clue as to what he really thinks, but it doesn't come. Everything in him is silent, only his breaths fill his ears.

The old lady must have done something. She is an elder; if anyone could trap him in a genjutsu…

No. That’s impossible. Nobody is a match for his sharingan... Unless the ritual has somehow weakened him?

The inability to use the sharingan still bothers him, and he can't find a purpose of an illusion such as this. The street he's in is narrow but clean. He sees strangers walk past the street’s entrance. There is nothing to cause him anguish, physical or emotional, and nothing to inspire positive emotions in him so as to convince him to stay trapped in here. The only thing out of place is the form of his body.

A cat.

Nekobaa must have done something, though perhaps ... this is not a genjustu? A forced transformation then?

He tries to revert it, but to no avail. His chakra feels sluggish and out of reach. Out of control...

It's not a transformation. He is a cat.

He sucks the air in too fast; in, out, in.

How? What has that witch done? Forget cooperation; he'll find her and then he'll have her blood on his hands and lead the Uchiha away from Konoha and someplace safe from the Senjus on his own.

He pushes down on the anger that would have him running before he could think (how he wants to, wants to push a blade between her ribs and force her to undo this curse while she screams for mercy). Instead, he takes a few seconds to get this body under control. Everything is too big and slightly blurry. With every breath, the smells grow stronger; the place reeks of cooking, and piss, and pheromones. He scrunches his nose.

(Her blood will drip out droplet by droplet, and then spurt like a spring, and she'll bleed like Izuna did.)

However much he wishes to bury his claws in her flesh, it’s not a viable option yet. There are probably other ways—no, surely there must be other ways—for him to get out of this predicament on his own, but finding Nekobaa should be the fastest. He’ll force her into helping him. This body may not be his own, but he is far from helpless. The claws seem sharp…

At first, his movement is unsteady, but the emptiness of the street spares him the humiliation of having to stagger. By the time he reaches a busier street, he has his limbs under control. He pokes his nose out. Which way…?

Something big appears in the corner of his field of vision—it’s wider, he shouldn’t be able to see that—and when he scatters out of the way, he realizes it was a human. They’ve never seemed so tall before…

He shakes his head. Nonsense. Of course they seem bigger now; he is a damned cat!

Focus. He needs to focus.

He hurries down the street, finding his way amid the legs. Movement comes with ease now; his body is agile and quick. The way shouldn’t be too long. He walks around a corner and another one, and he’s can already feel he’s getting closer when a voice stops him in his tracks.

“Oi!”

He turns. A tabby is perched by the wall. Another cat, a black one, is sitting on the pile of boxes next to it, yet another appears from behind them.

He looks at them for another few second, then turns to continue on his way.

Before he can manage more than one step, the tabby blocks his way.

“You can’t go down here.”

“I need to find Nekobaa.”

“Sorry, kid. Can’t do that way. That’s out territory, ya know?”

Kid?!

“Listen, you. My name is Uchiha Madara, and you will let me pass if you wish to remain unhurt.” Or alive.

A moment of silence follows. And then the cats make a strange sound, something that reminds him of huffing and crying, and he realizes they are laughing. Laughing! At him!

His hackles rise, and a hiss tears free of his throat. The tabby in front of him blinks and does it again, and laughs even harder. Its whiskers twitch and its snout is stretched into a grin. The black cat actually rolls onto its back, paws jerking, and flops to the ground; Madara jumps away on instinct. They are bigger than him—why? True, they are nincats, but…

“Oh, this is a good one,” the tabby says and chuckles. “Uchiha Madara. Listen kid, you’re a tiny kitten, not a shinobi. And while you don’t smell particularly sane, you’ve got nothing on Madara from what I’ve heard. So be a good boy and scram.”

He tries to gather his presence to make them let him pass; even a little usually has people scrambling away. The cats remain where they are, but their grins fade.

“Oi, kid. Trespassing on our territory is one thing, but trying to assert dominance here is a mistake.” A pause. “You should run.”

Run? He is Madara; he doesn’t run!

The next moment, claws carve gashes into his nose and he screams. Fighting in this body is something he hasn’t mastered, and he must be small, really small. But he strikes back. For a moment, everything stands still. Then the tabby growls and claws tear at his fur and teeth sink into his flesh, and the pitiful meowing he hears must be coming from elsewhere.

Surely, it must be coming from elsewhere…

火火火

He only opens one eye when he wakes up this time; the other eyelid won’t move. The aches he feels now are deep and sharp, and his body too heavy to move. He can smell people nearby and hear their footsteps as they pass him, but no cats. Nobody stops. It’s a small blessing; at last no one is trying to hurt him.

His ears twitch before he knows why. A voice coming closer. It’s familiar.  A groan escapes him, sounding like a wounded meow, and he closes his mouth shut, resigned to cursing internally.

This day could hardly get any worse. He is a bloody cat, quite literally, and now, somehow, the Senju is there, approaching and talking to somebody, and what has he done to deserve this?!

“...  sure they meant this way?”

“I’m sure.”

Oh, no. Hashirama’s voice. Both Senju brothers are here. Getting closer. Today is truly Madara’s lucky day.

The Senju sighs. “I do so hope—”

“Tobirama, look.”

No. No, no, no. Hashirama is standing right next to Madara and pointing at him. If only the earth could open and swallow him.

(Unlikely, since he can’t even use ninjutsu.)

“A cat.”

“A wounded kitten. Tobirama…”

“Anija, no.”

“But I haven’t even—”

“No. We’re not stopping for the cat.”

“It’s a kitten! It’s suffering! We can’t just leave him here!”

If only he had the energy to scratch Hashirama’s leg… He is not a kitten, Senjus be damned, and he certainly doesn’t need Hashirama to pick him up and attempt to nurse him back to health. He would sooner die than let that—

“Aww, poor kitten.”

Except Hashirama is right there, squatting and leaning over him, and talking in that high-pitched, sunshine-spurting voice.

“Anija.” The Senju grabs Hashirama’s arm and hauls him back to his feet. Very, very briefly, Madara feels something that could be compared to gratitude in some alternative dimension. Hashirama is too loud, and it’s getting harder for Madara to keep his eye open. He can’t afford to close it, though, not in front of them.

“You can’t take the cat. You want to find Madara, do you not?”

They're looking for him? It’s true he hasn’t told anyone he’d be leaving, but it’s only been a couple of days. Were they suspicious? Trying to spy, perhaps?

Hashirama sighs. “I do. If anything has happened to him…”

For all the gods sake, he is a shinobi! Things can’t just happen to him, and why is Hashirama even worried? A couple of days is nothing. Sometimes, he spends weeks in the forest to train, and while he usually lets somebody know he wouldn’t be home, it isn’t so very strange for him to be unavailable.

“He’s fine, anija. Madara can handle himself.”

Yes, indeed. Except this time, something really has happened to him.

Hashirama frowns. “You can’t trace him. Something’s not right.”

A nod. “We should keep looking. If we take the cat back to Konoha, we’ll lose even more time. The best we can do is end the cat’s suffering.”

He can’t mean to kill him. But he is the Senju and he does. It’s surprising there isn’t already a weapon in sight.

(Sinking his claws into the Senju’s ankles would be most satisfying.)

Hashirama looks at Madara, then at his brother. Then back at him. Slowly, he shakes his head.

“I want to take him with us.”

The Senju crosses his arms. “Madara.”

“You said Madara can handle himself. He’s a fine shinobi.”

“It’s not his safety that worries me.”

Madara huffs. Trusting as always… It hardly matters that he was about to win the Uchihas over to his side and leave Konoha behind. The Senju has no proof. Hmf.

“I’m not leaving the kitten.” Hashirama straightens, squaring his shoulders.  “He’s suffering. I’m taking him to Konoha.”

Tobirama keeps his mouth shut. His eyes narrow at Madara, who does his best to glare back. “It would be much faster if we take him to Nekobaa. Or better yet—”

“We’re taking him with us,” Hashirama says, and this time the Senju doesn’t object. The silence is nice; Madara’s hearing is too sharp and his head throbs. Keeping his eye open takes too much energy. If he could, he would scramble away when Hashirama leans over him again and hands gently lift him from the ground.

He’s never thought Hashirama had such large hands before.

The movement jars his wounds, forcing the smallest of sounds to escape him.

“Aww, poor kitten.” Hashirama leans even closer. “We’ll take care of you, you’ll see. It’ll be better soon.”

His eyelid slides closed. It’s hard to believe Hashirama’s words when the darkness is stretching its claws towards him, but it’s hard to distrust them too.

He hears the Senju say something else, and it sounds as if Hashirama agrees. Fingers turn him and brush over him, and there is more pain and more darkness.

(He should have learnt to love those by now.)

Something wet touches him, and he tries to twist his body away, but it’s not his to control anymore.

(Darkness is there, lurking around the corner).

He drifts away.

火火火

Nothing makes sense for a while. He’s jostled this way and that, and through it all, the pain eats at him. Sometimes, he hears a voice that reminds him of something he can’t quite place, but it soothes the burn and eases the fight: it is hard to keep demons away.

A touch comes, gentle and warm, and his vision turns blissfully black.

Chapter Text

ニ

Finally, darkness parts, but the lines that run across his vision remain.

His body is aching all over, but he can open both eyes again. He is awake, and not at all wet, and the lines he sees are wooden bars. Of a cage.

Somebody has put him in a cage.

It’s unmistakably wood style. Hashirama then...

With a huff, he gets to his paws. The surface beneath them is soft; somebody’s lain a towel into the cage. The goddamn cage! As if that’s not bad enough, it reeks of Hashirama. The whole room does. Understandable, since it’s his bedroom, but no more acceptable. A bowl of water has been placed into a corner of his cage. Is he expected to drink out of it?

His mouth is sandpaper dry, though, and his thirst beats his pride. Nobody is watching, and if somebody happened to come, they would only see a cat anyway.

Droplets end up on his fur, and he tries to rub them off with his paws, but to no avail. He licks them instead. The action seems to lessen the overwhelming scent of Hashirama, so he continues washing himself. It also gives him an opportunity to inspect the damage on his body: two of his paws and his torso are bandaged and there must be a slash on his snout; the injuries hurt.

 He hears the steps before the door opens. Even more of Hashirama’s scent enters the room.

“You’re awake,” the man says with a grin that makes Madara regret he opened his eyes. Hashirama is by the cage in a moment, opening the bars and reaching inside. Without hesitation, Madara swipes at him. The hands withdraw, and Hashirama’s smile fades.

“I won’t hurt you,” he says. As if any normal cat would understand him. “I know somebody was a meanie to you, but there are no such meanies here.”

Clearly, he’s lying. The Senju lives in the same house.

“Now, now, I mean that. You’re safe here. I’m going to take such good care of you. You’re such an adorable kitten…”

He hisses. Did he have to be turned into something so tiny?

“I need to see if you’re healed. Don’t be afraid.”

The hands return. His instincts tell him to defend himself, but they are not as strong as before, and he lets himself be lifted. His body is small enough to fit into Hashirama’s hands. Fingers probe at his torso, and a pained meow escapes him.

“The wounds seem to be healing, but it’ll take a while… You must be hungry. Come. I’ll find you something.”

Hashirama carries him out. It would be easy enough to guess they’re headed for the kitchen even if Madara didn’t know the way already. The familiarity of the environment makes it a bit easier to stay still.

Hashirama places him on the counter, and he realizes that higher ground offers him a feeling of safety and control; the room is still larger than he remembers, but the shapes don’t loom over him anymore.

The smell of fish reaches his nose. His whiskers twitch and he trots over to where Hashirama is placing pieces of meat onto a plate.

"Anija, really?" Madara freezes. He knows that voice. "On the counter?"

That's the only warning he gets before he's grabbed by the scruff and none-too-gently moved to the floor. Hissing, he glares at the Senju—who is suddenly very tall. Everything is large again, and Madara backs towards the corner. Without taking his glare off the Senju, he starts washing the invasive smell off his fur.

"Tobirama. I was about to feed him."

"Do it on the floor. And how do you know it's a he? Have you checked?"

"No, but he looks like a he."

With a sigh, the Senju stops doing whatever he's doing and walks over. He bends down. Madara dodges the first hand, but doesn't manage to escape the other. He's lifted off the ground, a hissing ball of claws and teeth, but he can't reach the Senju's hand or any other part of him; he hangs there while the Senju grabs his hind paws and lifts them.

It burns inside.

"You were right, it's a he."

He's dropped back down and retreats into the corner to clean himself again, thoroughly humiliated. It irks him that he can’t get to the fur underneath the bandages, but whatever happens, he will do his best to not reek of the Senju.

"You're scaring him." Hashirama approaches, places the plate with meat on the floor a few feet away, and retreats to the table.

Madara inches closer to the plate. The smell is inviting even though the situation is not ideal. His body is weak, small, and vulnerable, leaving him at the mercy of others.  But he's in a more or less familiar environment, has somebody to supply him with food and water, and sees no immediate threat; even the Senju doesn't seem inclined to hurt him right now. Later, he’ll have to make a plan to get back to Nekobaa. For now, sustenance is a priority.

He dips his nose into the meat and eats. When he looks up again, the brothers are at the table, discussing some accounting business. Madara is just about done when the Senju speaks up.

"When are you leaving?"

"Hm?"

"You're going to look for Madara."

It's not a question. For a moment, they are both silent.

"I worry, but... Perhaps I should send somebody. I'm the hokage, and..."

The Senju looks away. "Go. I'll take care of the village."

Hashirama's lips curls into one of his goofy smiles. "Thank you, brother."

"Don't mention it. If I can't sense him, nobody in Konoha can, and you're the only one strong enough to defeat him."

The words are flattering: it's fitting for the Senju to live with the awareness that Madara could crush him anytime.

"There will be no need for that."

"Be that as it may, I'll look after the village."

"And after him." Hashirama looks at Madara. "You’ll look after him, too?"

No. No, he is most definitely not staying in the Senju's care.

"Anija... If I had wanted a cat, I would have got myself a cat. I have a village to run; how do you propose I play with a kitten?"

Madara pouts. As if anyone would have to play with him.

"You can take him to the office with you."

"I most certainly cannot take him to the office. Anija, I'll be the representative of the hokage. I can't have a kitten in the office. That would be ridiculous."

It jars Madara to admit it, but for once, he agrees with the Senju. What is Hashirama even thinking?

"Give him to the servants," the Senju adds. He pushes the chair back and gets up, about to leave the table, when Hashirama catches his wrist.

"Tobirama, please. Do me a favour."

The Senju sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "When are you leaving?"

"In the morning."

Another sigh. "Bring his things to me before you go. Did you get him some box to pee in?"

What? He's not peeing in a box!

"Not yet. I thought I'd let him outside for that..."

And he is definitely not peeing outside where anyone could see him!

"...but I think you're right. A box is a better idea."

Madara frowns. It is probably the lesser of two evils. Hashirama is much less likely to watch him while he needs to use the bathroom—or sand. He had better not watch, or Madara still...

He shakes his head to chase the thoughts away. If Hashirama decides to disrespect his privacy, he can deal with it when it happens. For now, he settles for licking his whiskers clean.

“Don’t leave him in the kitchen,” the Senju says as he finally removes himself from the room. His smell lingers.

Hashirama stares after him for a moment before he squats down in front of Madara. “Come,” he says and scoops him up. The plate remains on the floor; Hashirama doesn’t seem to notice, and Madara can’t point it out.

They end up in Hashirama’s bedroom again. “I should name you before I go,” the latter says and sets Madara down on the floor. “You’re all black… So something with black perhaps. Blackitty?”

If he could, Madara would slap his forehead in exasperation. As it is, he lets out an annoyed meow. Hashirama’s naming skills are still underdeveloped.

“You’re right, it is unimaginative…” Hashirama starts pulling things out of the drawers and gathering them on the futon. “I’ll think of something else by tomorrow. I’m sorry I have to leave you so soon, but my friend is missing. I have to find him. He’s important to me, you know.”

An echo of warmth spreads through his chest for a moment before Hashirama opens his mouth again and extinguishes it.

“Don’t worry, my brother will take care of you in the meantime.”

So reassuring. He lets out a sound of protest.

Hashirama laughs. “He can be a bit grumpy sometimes, but he means well. To be honest, some company might do him good.”

Madara huffs; it comes out as a mixture of a strange hissing sound and a meow.

“Hopefully, I won’t be away for too long. A few weeks... Though it might be too late by then…“ Any traces of laughter disappear from his face and his depression takes over, over the top as ever. It’s for that reason, and that reason alone, that Madara trudges over and paws at Hashirama’s ankle. Light returns to Hashirama’s eyes. “Aww, don’t worry. Everything will be fine,” he says. Hands wrap around Madara again. “You should probably rest. After all, you nearly died yesterday.”

 火火火

He spends most of the day lounging in the cage, only getting up to eat and drink. Hashirama makes good of his promise to provide him with a toilet—a box filled with sand. It’s far from ideal, but Madara is left alone most of the time, which makes it bearable. His body is surprisingly content to rest so long as he is mindful of his injuries and avoids certain positions. Occasionally, he dozes off, but sleep evades him.

When Hashirama returns, the room is already dark. Madara doesn’t mind darkness; his vision is almost as good as by day. Hashirama does, though, and the sudden light that floods the space makes Madara snap his eyes closed.

He hears Hashirama walk across the room. After a few moments, Madara’s eyes adjust to the light, and he settles for observing the man as he packs. After a while, Hashirama comes to him. Madara huddles in a corner as the man adds fresh water to the bowl, checks the towels and the sand.

“There. I’ll feed you again before I go, and then it’s off to Tobirama for you and to Sora-ku for me.”

His ears perk up. Sora-ku?

That might be his only chance. This form is too small to make it all the way to Sora-ku. If Hashirama carried him, though...

“Maw?” He rubs against Hashirama’s hands. The man’s scent clings to him, but cleaning is not a priority right now. Turning his eyes up at Hashirama, he meows again.

“Sora-ku? That was your home, wasn’t it? I’m sorry.” Hashirama scratches him behind the ear; his fingers are a bit too strong. “I can’t take you back there. Even if you have any family left, it would be too hard to find them. You’d only get hurt.”

He meows again, a high-pitched sound meant to tug at Hashirama’s heartstrings. Judging by the expression he gets in return, his attempt is successful.

“I’m sorry.” The fingers return, running over his back this time. “I know how it is to lose your family. I only have one brother left. Well. Two, I suppose. I just got one of them back, and I can’t lose him again. That’s why I have to go.” Hashirama sighs. “You’ll be all right, little one.”

 Foolish Senju. Nothing will be all right if doesn’t get back to Sora-ku. Madara will remain a cat and, Hashirama might walk around in a permanently depressed mood. Gods know he is an idiot enough to actually mourn Madara’s absence.

He meows again, but it only earns him petting and sorrowful looks, so he desists. There must be some other way. Hashirama won’t take him to Sora-ku willingly; perhaps he will do it unknowingly.

Madara eyes the satchels prepared by the futon. His body should be small enough to fit in there. The journey would be uncomfortable, but it is by far a better option than walking. He must make sure Hashirama doesn’t close him into the cage for the night and then sneak into the biggest satchel during the night.

The plan is simple enough, and Hashirama plays right into it. Madara is free to roam the room as the man gets ready for bed (though he truly didn’t need to see Hashirama changing).

“Oi, kitty.”

Kitty? He chooses to ignore the call.

“Kitten. Come here.” He hears Hashirama pat his futon. “You can sleep here if you want.”

Narrowing his eyes, he turns.

No. No, he absolutely does not want to share a bed with Hashirama and possibly get squished to death.

The blanket looks more comfortable than the towel, though.

But he has his pride and he’s not a cat to be called over in this manner.

His injuries would welcome the softness…

Hashirama sighs and pulls the blanket over him. “As you wish… Good night, kitten.” Then, after a second of silence, “Don’t pee on the floor.”

Madara huffs. Once Hashirama’s breathing has evened out, he curls up at the furthest end of the blanket and waits.

火火火

The air in the satchel is stuffy, his paw going numb from the lack of space, and Hashirama won’t cease calling for him. How can someone care for a stray they only picked up two days ago quite that much?

Finally, the satchel gets picked up—and then a hand reaches in. Touches his side. Withdraws. The satchel is placed back down, and light forces its way in as the flap is opened.

Damn.

“Maw?” he tries, blinking. Hashirama stares back for a moment of two, then bursts into laughter. 

“This is not your sleeping place, kitty.”

Before he can do more than glare, Madara is caught by those huge hands. The glaring turns into a vocal protest and clawing when he realises Hashirama wants to put him into the cage, and he’s dropped in rather unceremoniously; a jolt of pain rushes through him. At least Hashirama is nursing a scratch, too, though it ceases to matter when he lifts the cage and carries it down the corridor and to the right.

The door they stop in front of resembles any other one in the compound. Hashirama knocks.

Shuffling comes from the inside. The door opens, and Madara holds back the urge to cough when the Senju’s scent assaults his nose. He settles for a hiss.

“Good morning.”

“Anija.” The Senju moves aside and Hashirama steps past him.

The Senju’s room is one of those Madara has never seen before. It’s similar to Hashirama’s in size, but furnished differently. A futon in the corner; a table covered with papers and a pillow beside it; books stacked in a pile and a basket with scrolls; wardrobes; chests of drawers; a door to what is likely a bathroom; the Senju crest on the wall and Konoha’s symbol on the opposite one. And everywhere—his scent.

Hashirama places the cage by the door. “I’ll bring the food for him.”

The Senju nods, kneels by the table, and proceeds to ignore the world in favour of his papers until Hashirama returns.

“I think we should name him.”

The Senju shrugs. “I’ll just call him cat.”

“You can’t keep calling him that.”

“He is a cat. What else am I supposed to call him?”

Hashirama opens the cage. “I can’t think of anything good. Perhaps Fluffy?”

The only thing that stops Madara from trying to bite Hashirama’s hand off is the plate that the said hand lowers into the cage. He starts gulping the meat.

“Anija, stop trying to name things. You have everything ready?”

“I think so. I’ll send messages whenever I can. I hope there’s no trouble.”

“We’ll handle it. Just focus on coming home soon.”

Madara glances up in time to see Hashirama nod and squeeze the Senju’s shoulder. “Don’t worry. I will.”

They don’t say anything anymore, merely exchange a look. Madara can’t see their eyes, but he knows their gazes say whatever needs to be said; it’s been so long since he’d communicated with someone that way. Even with Hashirama, the occasions are few and far between.

He shakes his head. Other things are more important now. Hashirama is leaving, and Madara needs to follow; perhaps the man will take him to Sora-ku if he sees Madara going after him. Or perhaps Madara can try to get into the satchel again. Either way, this is the only option he has aside from walking all the way to the city on his own, which would likely result in his death.

He gulps down the remaining meat. Hashirama is out of the door already, and the Senju isn’t so much as looking at Madara, who lets his eyes travel over the bars of the cage. The spaces between them are fairly narrow, but this body is tiny…

The Senju walks across the room and sits down at the table with a sigh. His eyes turns towards Madara.

Damn.

The gaze lingers on him long enough to become uncomfortable. Everything in him screams to stare back.

He can’t. He is a cat now and tries to act as one. Waiting for the Senju to lose interest is the only thing he can do.

Moments drag on. Those red eyes focus on the papers again. Must the Senju be dealing with paperwork now? Even if he isn’t looking towards the door, Madara knows the extent of human vision field well enough to tell the Senju would still notice movement in the cage from the corner of his eye.

Moments turn into minutes until finally, finally the Senju gets up and disappears though the other door. Madara is on his paws in an instant. He checks every opening until he manages to get his head through one of them. A hiss escapes him when the bars squeeze the wounds on his torso, but pain is part and parcel of a shinobi’s life.

Opening the door is somewhat harder, but nothing he couldn’t overcome, and the corridor opens in front of him.

 Finding the way is no challenge; he knows the grounds and he finds Hashirama’s scent has left a trail this form can track. The opportunity is too good to be wasted.

He runs.

He runs, and his body aches, but by the time he makes it to the woods, Hashirama’s scent has grown stronger again. The man must be walking; preserving energy for later, it seems. Madara should be able to catch up in a few minutes.

Good. His body is losing strength rapidly.

Panting, he grits his teeth and pushes forwards. Trees rush past him, roots forcing him to lift his paws higher, bushes making him duck.

Just a bit further… Just a little…

Hashirama’s scent grows weaker again. No. Remaining behind is not an option. He will catch up, he will get to Sora-ku, he will have his own body back…

His injured front paw hits a root, and the force sends him flying. He rolls on the ground once, tries to stop the fall, but his paws fail to hold him; the ground rises up to meet him. Why? Pain is something familiar, something to conquer, not something that would keep him down. He wills himself to move, gets to his paws—and they give out on him again. Why? Isn’t his will strong enough? He won’t be stopped by something so minor, not when he has endured so much worse in the past--

His eyes widen, then narrow again. This isn’t his body. It’s one of a tiny kitten instead, and no amount of will can create muscles and stamina out of nothing.

He lets out a sound of displeasure and does it again. It comes out as deep, drawn-out meowing that he doesn’t want to—can’t bring himself to—stop even though he knows he should; a forest is no safe place for his current form. His claws leave gouges in the dirt.

What should he do now? Walking to Sora-ku isn’t an option at the moment, nor is returning to the Senju. He needs rest and food and for the pain to stop. Perhaps a shelter first.

Wind ruffles his fur and he pulls his paws and tail closer to his body. The bandage on his front paw is soaked with blood. Damn. He has no way of changing the bandages. Licking the wounds would be the only option, but he would have to get rid of the current bandages first, and he doesn’t have the energy for it. Instead, he lies still, pathetic and craving some warmth. Branches form a canopy above him. Grey skies are visible through the spaces between them. The smell of rain hangs in the air, covering Hashirama’s scent more and more.

He can’t stay here, can’t die in a place like this. At least his brothers have died fighting. Izuna… He can’t waste Izuna’s eyes like this…

Somehow, he gets his limbs under control. His paws tremble, but they hold his weight, and he moves slowly, one step after another, closer and closer to the village.

The first droplets fall a little before he collapses again. By the time he gets up, it’s raining in earnest. He grits his teeth and walks. The trees part before him. There. Houses. Some place dry…

When he takes the next step, his right front paw gives way. It’s practically numb. He barely catches himself, but the next step brings him to the ground anyway. So close…

He hears voices before he can see anyone. Children, by the sound of it. Three different scents. He doesn’t need this right now.

“Hurry!” A girl runs past him, a few feet away. “Mum’s gonna be mad.”

“We’re coming, we’re coming—oh. Wait!” Two feet stop in front of him. A boy, smaller than the girl. Another girl stops next to him.

“It’s a kitten,” she says and pushes strands of brown hair out of her face. “It’s dirty.”

“It’s injured,” the boy says quietly. Madara squints up at him. “We should help.”

“I don’t know… What can we even do? It’ll be fine… Mum…”

“We should help it,” the smaller girl says. “If we go to the healers, they will know what to do.”

“But—”

“We’re going,” the boy says and squats. His hands wriggle under Madara; compared to Hashirama’s, they are tiny and unsure, and hold him as if were made of glass. He meows before he could stop himself because there is pain and then even more pain once the boy starts walking. Damn. He can’t even keep quiet anymore…

Keeping his eyes open is hard, but he forces himself to do it; he can’t afford to drop his guard in a position such as this. The children—the older girl, too—take him towards the centre of Konoha. They’re just passing one of the Sarutobi clan houses when he catches another set of footsteps.

“Wait,” a man calls. The rain masks his smell, but it is unmistakably the Senju.

Chapter Text

三

The footsteps stop, the Senju standing much too close for Madara’s comfort.

“To-Tobirama-sama?” the older girl says.

“I believe you found my cat.”

The hands around Madara tighten a bit. “We just found it outside… We’re taking it to a healer…”

“I can take care of his injuries. Don’t worry, he’ll be all right.” A pause. Madara looks up at him. Hair is plastered to his face, his kimono turned black from the rain

“All right, mister.” The boy’s grip shifts. Pain flashes through Madara’s side before larger hands come to support him. A moment later, he finds himself nestled in the crook of the Senju’s elbow with a hand shielding him from rain. The Senju reeks of, well, himself, but warmth seeps through his clothes. Despite himself, Madara presses closer. He can’t feel his front paw at all.

"Thank you," the Senju says. "Now get out of the rain. You'll get cold."

The children leave and Madara breathes a sigh of relief. The fewer eyes there are on him, the better.

A raindrop slides between the Senju's fingers, and he presses closer into the man without a second thought. The hand above him shifts a little and does it with every step the Senju makes. He allows his eyes to slide closed.

A few minutes later, they've left the cold and the rain behind. He tries to peek out between the Senju's arms, but can only see the floor. It's not until he sees the counter that he knows they're in the kitchen and only so the Senju can snatch something from one of the cupboards.

Their final destination turns out to be the Senju's bathroom. Madara is placed on a towel spread on the ground along with a bowl, more towels, bandages, and what appears to be some kind of a healing balm.

"Wait," the Senju says. Not that Madara could move. He places his chin on the paw he can still feel and averts his gaze because he really doesn't need to watch the Senju shed his wet clothes. He only looks up when the man kneels in front of him, upper body still bare but for a towel that hangs around his neck.

A droplet falls off the Senju's hair and slides down his cheek. Without a word, he holds his hads above Madara. A soft green glow envelops them, and the agony in Madara's body begins to subside. Feeling returns to his paw, and with it, the pain. A whimper escapes him, and he presses his lips together. Why is his self-control so lacking in this body?

The Senju unwraps the bandages next. Unlike Hashirama, he doesn't talk, but it's just as well—Madara has no desire to listen to his musings. He also has no desire to be bathed, but it turns out that is exactly what awaits him.

The Senju fills the bowl with water and lifts him up. Hissing, Madara starts to squirm. The grip tightens. It hurts.

"You brought that on yourself, cat." With that, he's pushed into the water. It's pleasantly warm, but the sting in his wounds makes him cry out.

"If you scratch me, I'll let you die next time."

A part of him wants to bury his claws and teeth into the hands that begin washing him. Another part holds back. The ordeal is as unpleasant as can possibly be, but he does need to be clean. He needs new bandages and a dry place to rest.

Though perhaps it wouldn't matter much if he died.

Whenever he squirms, the hands grip more firmly. When he tries to hold still, they are surprisingly gentle.

By the time the Senju finally decides to take him out of the bowl and starts to towel him, the water has turned muddy. Although soft, the cloth aggravates Madara's injuries. Before he can give it a though, his body reacts, clawing at everything and anything. He hears a hiss, and then he's hanging by the scruff of his neck with a pair of crimson eyes narrowed at him.

"Cat," the Senju says. I’ll kill you, hangs above them, unspoken. Surprising, that he hasn't done it already. Nothing's stopping him. Hashirama's gone and nobody else would miss him. Not even his clan cares anymore...

Still holding him, the Senju dips his fingers into the salve. Madara groans when they touch his wounds; it comes out as a pitiful meow. Moments later, a pleasant tingling sensation spreads though the places where the salve has been applied. He can breathe deeper again. When the Senju bandages him, he doesn't even try to resist, and when he's placed back into the cage, he curls up in the furthest corner. If only he were left alone now. He can't sleep with the Senju here... Can't sleep…

Mustn't...

He does.

火火火

"Cat."

Nothing.

"Cat."

The smell of meat caresses his nose and he opens one eye halfway—and then both entirely because the Senju is there, leaning over the cage. A plate with food has been thrust inside and the one wider gap in the cage that he used to escape closed with fabric.

Of course the Senju noticed that.

"Food," the man says as if isn't obvious what he's brought. "You have to eat."

Madara would snort at that if he wasn't so tired—even lifting his head seems too hard.

"Cat." The Senju sighs. "Eat."

Please. Madara turns his head away from him. He gets no reply to that, but he can tell by the strength of the scent that the Senju hasn't moved away. Then, a few moments later, he feels movement behind him, making his hackles rise. The Senju's hand appears, and Madara is just about to swipe at it when he notices a piece of meat held between the man's fingers.

Is the Senju trying to feed him??

"I know you're tired," he says as if on cue, "but you have to eat."

Madara grits his teeth and swallows. He feels no hunger, much less a desire to eat. He knows he should, that the Senju is right, because he has to regain his strength if he wants to return to Sora-ku…

And what then? If he returns to his true form, what then? He’d hoped to find understanding in Nekobaa. She is wise; if anyone could understand how he feels, she should. But the only thing that brought him was a kitten’s body for a prison and the person he hates the most for his jailer.

His clan won’t listen. They’re too happy with this illusion of peace, pacified by the offer of equality always dangled just out of reach. Why should he try? If it wasn’t for the promise he gave Izuna…

Izuna.

He can do it for Izuna. Nobody else will care anyway, not that he needs them to. When he returns to being human, he won’t need anyone anymore. Isn’t that how sacrifice works? Give everything and receive nothing in return? He will watch over the Uchihas. There is nothing else left for him but this.

“Hey, cat.”

Fingers scratch his cheek. It’s just the right spot… No. No. Why is the Senju pretending to be kind? He was ready to kill Madara mere days ago even without knowing his true identity. He doesn’t need mercy from a killer.

He opens his mouth and bites the meat—and Senju’s finger with it.

“Hey!” The Senju pulls back, shaking his hand. Madara can taste copper mixed with meat and sure enough, red beads appear on the Senju’s finger. “Don’t eat my fingers. Here, this is your food.” He pushes the plate closer to Madara, closes the cage, and disappears into the bathroom.

Madara stares after him for a moment. He forces himself to eat two more chunks of meat, then licks his muzzle clean and curls up to rest. The taste of the Senju’s blood remains imprinted in his memory.

He hears footsteps, but they don’t approach. A glance towards the desk confirms the man has gone back to work. Madara lets himself drift.

When the first sneeze comes, he ignores it and does the same with the second and third. By the tenth, he’s curled up in a ball as tightly as he can because the temperature in the room is a bit too low for his taste. He is a shinobi, however: a little cold is nothing to complain about. He covers his nose with his tail and sleeps.

Clouds drift above him, grass caressing his hands. His eyes slide closed. Slow breaths move his chest. It’s so peaceful out here, away from the politics and the war…

A familiar presence makes his eyes snap open. A shadow looms above him, a dark silhouette cut into the blue sky.

“Izuna?”

Empty eye sockets gape at him.

“Madara. What have you done…?”

He frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I told you not to trust them, didn’t I? And you let Tobirama feed you. He killed me! You killed me!”

“No. No—I—Izuna—your wound should have—”

“Silence!”

Blood drips from Izuna’s eye sockets and Madara flinches away.

“Look what you’re doing to my memory! If you loved me as you claim you do, you would never allow this village to be!”

He opens his mouth to protest—because he does love him, he loves Izuna, and every day there is a gaping hole where his brother should be—but all that comes out is a high-pitched meow, a sound so pathetic it makes him cringe and Izuna laugh as his shadow grows and grows until there is nothing but him and the sky turns red, and he screws his eyes shut—

Fingers caress his nape, gently, and do it again. His body uncoils. The touch is warm and soothing and there, and he presses into it without a thought.

“Hey, cat.”

No. No, no, no, not the Senju.

His eyes snap open and he tries to claw at the man, but his body is sluggish and somehow restrained. A moment of panic makes him trash around. Pain shoots through him and a hiss escapes him.

“Shhh. Easy, cat. Calm down.”

It’s soft but still a command, and those he is used to. The first thing he notices is the absence of the wooden bars. He’s on the Senju’s desk, wrapped in a towel—that explains his limited movement. The room is still cold.

“That’s better,” the Senju mutters and reaches out to scratch him again.

Madara’s first impulse is to pull away. But he is so tired and so cold, and the Senju is warm…

Izuna. Izuna was just…

He jerks away.

火火火

Time passes in a blur. Shivers rake his body. Everything hurts: his muscles, his wounds, his head. Izuna drifts in and out of his awareness, Izuna’s eyes staring at him—from Izuna’s face, from the mirror—and angry words—He killed me! You killed me! You killed me!!

He hears whimpers and meows and a deeper voice, soothing through the cacophony of shouting and moans. A warm touch he can’t enjoy, so he squirms away and trashes around and bites. Blood always tastes the same, always, always, and his hands are covered in blood of his enemies. Of his kin. So much blood spilled on the battlefields …

He is moved somewhat and it gets slightly warmer, and if only everything would stop hurting now …

He opens his eyes. The fire in his body has subsided to a bearable ache, and for the first time in what feels like days, he can think again. Everything inside him is quiet, strangely so. Usually, his thoughts would form a distinct voice, but it’s been gone ever since he became a cat. Perhaps the form is affecting the workings of his mind? It feels more … peaceful this way …

The room is bright: light is still spilling from the lamp on the ceiling even though it's already dawning outside.  A pile of papers lies next to Madara. So he is still on the desk; the Senju hasn't put him back into the cage. Why?

When he turns and almost gets treated to a mouthful of unruly hair, it becomes clear. The Senju is half sitting, half kneeling on the floor, his torso draped over the desk. One of his arms is stretched all the way to the other edge and covered with ink. An empty ink box lies next to it. A few droplets have ended on an open scroll.

It takes too much effort and too much time for Madara to free himself from the bundle of towels. Cold air caresses his skin, and he finds himself wishing for the warmth to return. Some kind of exhaustion has settled deep in him and the aches are as present as they were before. His mouth is parched.

Slowly, he turns to the Senju and listens to his breathing for a while. In, out. The man is certainly asleep. His cheek is pressed against a crumpled sheet of paper.

Madara has been right: the Senju really is a workaholic. The man has no life … How can he be related to Hashirama? Izuna had never been that different from Madara.

He licks his parched lips and paws at the Senju’s shoulder. The man stirs but doesn’t wake up, so he does it again and meows into his ear for good measure. Red eyes snap opened, and the Senju sits upright in a moment, his hand reaching under the desk before it stops in mid-motion. A kunai must be hidden under it then.

“Oh,” he says, voice raspy from sleep. “Cat. You seem better.”

“Maw.” He makes towards the end of the desk and is about to jump off when hands snatch him up.

The Senju frowns. “Still hot. You’re a strange one. I’ve never seen an ill animal make so much noise ...” He holds one hand above Madara, and moments later, the aches begin to subside even more. He’s only ever seen Hashirama heal others, but of course the Senju can do it too. He is a Senju after all.

He is tucked into the Senju’s elbow (and small enough to comfortably fit no less) while the man takes the water bowl from the cage and refills it in the bathroom. Madara gulps down as much as he can. The cold liquid feels wonderful on his insides. Once he’s done, the Senju picks him up again. He snatches the towels from the desk and folds them on the ground by his futon. What for?

“Stay here,” he says and puts Madara down on them. He even attempts to cover him with one, but gives up when it keeps sliding off, for Madara is still standing. Yawning, the Senju climbs onto the futon, haphazardly pulls the blanket over himself, and curls on one side. His hand comes to rest right next to the pillow. Madara would bet there is another kunai under it.

“Just don’t go anywhere,” the Senju mutters. “All right?”

Madara thinks he could probably go wherever he wanted because the Senju’s eyes close before he’s properly finished speaking, but the towels are soft, and he’s tired, and the Senju certainly won’t harm him while he’s asleep. Perhaps not even when he’s awake.

Madara curls up in a ball, tucks his tail around himself, and lays his chin on his paws. Scratches and bite marks mar the skin on the Senju’s hand.

It’s already completely bright outside (though the light is still on) when the sound of footsteps disturbs him. He lifts his head and sniffs the air. A group of people. They stop in front of the door. Madara has just enough time to tense before a series of soft knocks reaches his ears.

“Tobirama-sensei?” It’s a voice of a girl. Must be the Senju’s student then. He does have a girl on his team if Madara is not mistaken (though how the Senju could be a decent teacher with his grumpiness and hate for everything is still beyond him). Hashirama has asked Madara time and again if he didn't want a team himself, but the thought of somebody constantly following him makes him uneasy.

“Tobirama-sensei?” comes from the other side again. This time, it’s a boy who calls.

The Senju rolls onto his back and sits up. He rubs his eyes and runs a hand through his hair, which is even messier than usual.  “Come in.”

The door opens and four children spill into the room. Two of them are the Senju’s students if Madara is not mistaken—the girl and the boy with glasses. The third must be from the Akimichi clan. The fourth he knows. Uchiha Kagami.

They stop and stare at the Senju. The Akimichi boy lets his mouth hang half open. It’s the girl who speaks again.

“We’re sorry for interrupting, Tobirama-sensei.” She bows her head. “We were waiting on the training grounds for you, but you didn’t come and we got no message. We were worried.”

The Senju crosses his legs. “Apologies. Hiruzen stayed back with Danzou?”

“Yes, sensei.”

The Senju nods.

“You have a kitten, sensei?” Kagami asks. “May I see him?”

“Hashirama insisted we keep him. Careful, he’s been hurt.”

From Madara’s viewpoint, even Kagami is too tall. His scent is not overly unpleasant, but there are too many people in the room. Without a thought, Madara makes a step towards the Senju—and stops. Makes himself take that one step in the other direction. What is he doing? He wouldn’t get any help from the man. Or would he? Memories of the Senju’s actions burn in his mind. Strange; the touches seemed caring and mindful, an anchor amidst his feverish dreams. To think it’s the Senju of all people who is nursing him to health …

He snorts. It comes out as a kind of a huffing sound, and Kagami smiles at him and squats. He looks absolutely ridiculous, approaching in a crouch, but he is by far shorter than before, which is what matter the most.

“What’s his name, sensei?” Kagami slowly holds out a hand towards him. Perhaps he should sniff it? No. It’s only his cat instincts telling him to do so. He knows the youngster, and he can smell his scent from a distance as well. No need to risk contact.

“He has none.”

“I thought Hashirama-sama would try to name him,” the girl says and arches her eyebrows.

“Tried and failed.” The Senju turns to Kagami. “Still no word from Madara?”

“No.” The boy shakes his head. “The elders think he left for good. They’re going to choose a new leader soon. Most of them think it’s for the best.”

Something heavy settles in Madara’s lungs, and he needs it out, gone. His tail swishes to one side and then the other.

“Hashirama is searching for him.”

“Do you think he will find him?” Kagami’s gaze falls on Madaar again. His hand comes closer, reaching around and back to touch him behind the ear, but there is no way he will let anyone behind him in any way, no way he can let the boy—

 Kagami smiles. “I won’t hurt you, Sparky.”

A growl comes out of Madara’s throat. Fingers make contact and he lashes out, claws going for the wrist that is left so open and vulnerable, and then, before he can even touch the skin, a hand scoops him up and away. He meows in protest, meows because he wants his space and nobody respects that, meows because he can’t make them, because they should just wait and see, meows and doesn’t stop because he can’t, because he—

He squirms in the Senju’s hands until he is placed back on the ground. He needs somewhere to go, access to higher ground, but he knows his body won’t be able to handle the jumping, so he scurries under the chest of drawers, still meowing. It’s bad as far as shelter goes: they could easily hurt him, but at least they can’t reach him there.

Kagami’s face falls. “Sorry, Sparky. I didn’t mean to scare you.” A pause. “He sounds as if he’s crying…”

Madara pouts and tries to stop, but the meowing lessens the ache in his chest, and he doesn’t want to stop.

The Senju sighs. “Go back to the training grounds and tell Hiruzen and Danzou I said you're to run laps around the village. I have some things to take care of, but I’ll be there for your evening training.”

They go without protest. The Senju keeps his gaze directed at the door for a while before he crosses the room and kneels down with a sigh.

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth, cat.” He looks under the chest of drawers. Madara backs further towards the wall. Another meow escapes him.

“Shhh, cat. They’re gone. Come on.” The Senju sighs again. “Come on now.”

Their gazes meet and they stare at each other. A second. Two. Five. Then the Senju straightens and Madara only sees his feet as they walk into the bathroom and sometime later back to the desk.

It takes him a while to calm down. Strange. Displays of emotions are a weakness, and he never loses control of himself in such a way. It must be the cat form. If his control of his physical body is greatly diminished, it would make sense for him to lose control over his emotions and demeanour as well.

He crawls out slowly. The Senju doesn’t look up from his papers, but he must be aware of the cat sneaking around. Towels still lie of the floor by the bed, and Madara is just about to curl up on them when the Senju moves at last, coming to crouch beside him.

“You’re coming to the office with me.” He furrows his brow. “Behave.” Then his frown melts away and one corner of his lips twitches just the slightest. “And Hashirama will never hear about that, understood?”

Well, Madara certainly can’t tell him right now.

The Senju runs a hand through his mess of a hair. “Why am I talking to you? You’re a cat,” he says, picks Madara up, and puts him into the cage.

Mere moments are enough for Madara to realize he has a very ambivalent attitude towards the Senju’s teleportation jutsu. It makes his stomach turn, and he can’t quite keep Izuna out of his mind, but on the other hand nobody could gawk at him or ask unnecessary questions. Perhaps the Senju is trying to be considerate. Or perhaps he really wants to hide the fact he took Madara to the office after clearly stating this isn’t happening in front of Hashirama.

Either way, Madara can’t complain that is cage is put behind the desk and so hidden from anyone who might enter. And sure enough someone does.

The door opens with a bang that makes him cringe and back into a corner before he can stop himself. Hasty footsteps stop at the desk.

“Tobirama-sama. A message from Lord Hokage has just been brought. The label says it is important.”

The Senju reaches towards the man Madara can’t see. When he pulls back, a small scroll is resting in his hand.

“Thank you.”

The footsteps move away, and the door closes. The Senju opens the scroll. Deep lines appear on his forehead.

“Well, cat,” he says and leans back in the chair. “Hashirama wrote from Sora-ku. It seem your hometown is in trouble.”

Sora-ku?

“Meooooow!” He stands up on his hind legs, front paws leaning against the cage bars for support.

The Senju arches an eyebrow. “You understood that?”

“Meow, meow, meow!”

“Hey, shhh.” He leans down towards Madara and cocks his head. Their gazes meet. “Sora-ku?” the Senju says slowly.

Madara meows, and the corners of the Senju’s lips curl downwards.

“You can tell it’s your home. Cat instincts...” The Senju shakes his head. “It’s nothing terrible. In fact, it might be nothing at all.” He turns to his desk again.

Not an option. Any trouble in Sora-ku that Hashirama thought worth mentioning probably needs to be looked into. What the Senju says to a kitten is irrelevant. Madara has to see the original message; anything that requires backup could be his chance of returning to Nekobaa.

So he meows and keeps meowing when the Senju hisses at him, until finally the chair scrapes against the floor and the man comes to loom over the cage. Madara can’t sense chakra the way he used to, but his cat senses are almost as good—the Senju’s presence is overwhelming, murder written in his eyes.

Madara drops back on all fours, curled together but poised to strike should the Senju try to fulfil his unspoken threat.

He doesn’t. Instead he pulls all that presence back and rubs the bridge of his nose. “You are the strangest cat I’ve ever seen,” he says, squatting. For some reason, Madara doesn’t struggle when he’s taken out of the cage and tucked into the man’s elbow.

“Sora-ku will likely be all right. Hashirama wrote about some dark presence lurking in the city. Nekobaa-sama is his source. I’ll send a team to investigate.”

Madara pouts. This isn’t what he wants, but perhaps, if the threat proves to be serious enough, the Senju will go himself and hopefully take Madara with him.

(And he can’t quite fault the Senju for deciding the way any decent leader would either.)

Chapter Text

四

Spending time with the Senju while the man’s working is boring; there is nothing to do in the cage. He eats the remains of yesterday’s food soon after (partly because the Senju is so immersed in some book that he doesn't even register Madara’s meows, crushing any hopes that fresh meat would be available soon). The rest of the day, he spends in a constant state between sleep and wakefulnes. The children who found him the day before pay a visit. Luckily, the Senju sends them away with a few reassuring words, sparing Madara more interaction with children that lack all concepts of personal space.

When they return to the Senju’s home in the evening and Madara is fed again and finally left alone, he curls up with all the intentions to go to sleeps. He will sense the Senju’s return soon enough to not be seen in such a vulnerable state.

A few moments later, the ache in his side roars back to life, and he’s forced to shift, stretching his paws out in front of him instead. Not ideal, but comfortable enough. The tiny voice in the back of his head is still silent, and his mind isn’t trying to tear itself into two halves that forever contradict each other.

After so long, he falls asleep almost the moment he closes his eyes.

火火火

The scream that wakes him is muffled, full of dread, and entirely too close. Madara leaps to his feet. His vision needs less than a moment to adapt; the moonlight spilling in through the windows gives him plenty of light to see.

The first thing he processes is that he did not, in fact, wake up when the Senju arrived.

The second is that the Senju is sitting uprights on his futon with a kunai clutched in his hand. His chest is rising and falling in the rhythm of sharp inhales as his gaze sweeps through the room.

Nobody else is there, and the Senju uncoils.

His shoulders sag, the hand with the kunai drops onto the bed. He pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face into his hands.

Madara cocks his head. From the right angle, he can see the Senju's fingertips digging into his scalp. This kind of vulnerability doesn't suit him. It's too human for the Senju, turning him from a cold-hearted killer out for Uchiha blood into a person. Gods know Madara has seen his share of nightly terrors, and to realise the Senju suffers from them as well, that they share a common plight ...

Izuna's face drifts into his consciousness, and he pushes it away. What does the Senju dream about? His dead brothers? Fallen comrades? Some woman he may have loved and lost, if he is indeed capable of love? A man?

Whatever it is, it cannot be as chilling as Izuna's empty eye sockets staring at him through more and more blood. Surely the Senju has never held anyone so dear. Madara has barely seen him show emotions other than anger or discontent.  Until Madara was turned into a cat, he hadn't even been sure whether the Senju was even capable of facial expressions other than a frown.

A groan disrupts Madara's train of thought. The Senju gets up slowly, pushing his weight off the floor with his hands. Moonlight falls onto his face as he crosses the room, painting his skin deathly white.

Madara hears more heavy footsteps and then the water starts running. It doesn't stop for a long time.

He curls up again. One open eye should be enough to follow the Senju as the man drags his feet out of the bathroom, except he heads for the cage, and Madara opens his other eye as well. What does the Senju want now? He doesn’t have food for Madara, nor clean towels, or bandages, and he doesn’t look as if he would clean the litter box either (though it would be much appreciated).

“Sorry, cat.” The Senju kneels and opens the cage. His hand reaches in.

Madara is on his feet before he can even think about it. Why is the man apologizing? In advance? What is he about to do?

He backs into the corner, lips parting in a hiss. Sighing, the Senju withdraws his hand. His lips curl downwards. A droplet falls from his hair to the floor. “You want to be left alone?”

His gaze settles on Madara, but he doesn’t say anything else. They stare at each other in silence.

Slowly, Madara’s muscles uncoil. He feels his fur settle down. The Senju still doesn’t do anything, and Madara inches closer. He feels no ill intent now, although he would appreciate it if the Senju stopped trying to stare holes through him and removed himself, so Madara could go back to sleep.

Eventually, he does. He flips the light switch the on, sits down at the desk, and opens a scroll. Madara turns away from the light.

火火火

He gets food in the morning, along with fresh towels and sand. The Senju works in silence, lips pressed together. Dark circles mar the skin beneath his eyes, and his gaze is clouded. He stops mid gesture, staring at the sandbox. A frown forms on his forehead, and then he reaches into the cage again, takes the box out, and carries it into the bathroom.

“It can’t be very nice to sleep next to your toilet,” he mutters when he gets back, and when he reaches for Madara, the latter lets himself be grabbed. The Senju carries him into the bathroom and sets him down in the sandbox. “Here. Don’t pee anywhere else and don’t sneak out.”

Madara climbs out of the box and tilts his head. The Senju is leaving? Probably not to the office then, since he didn’t seem to mind Madara’s presence there the day before—and that is a thing Madara never thought he could say.

“Meow?”

The Senju squats. “Sorry, cat.” He reaches out and scratches behind Madara’s ear. It’s … It’s not entirely unpleasant. The pressure is just right. The fingers could move a bit lower though …

“Mito is visiting Konoha.”

Oh. Hashirama’s bride-to-be. He doesn’t remember if the wedding date has been set yet, but if it were to happen in the near future, Hashirama would have shared the news with him. Since the First is absent and the Uzumaki is still coming, it must be an unofficial visit, perhaps of her own choice. Hashirama could have done much worse than her.

Hashirama also chose to go look for Madara rather than stay in Konoha and entertain his future wife. Or is the visit unannounced?

He meows again, as questioning as he can. The Senju narrows his eyes at him, in thought rather than in anger, because his gaze doesn’t harden, and his lips aren’t pressed together just so.

“Hashirama had better come back,” he says. He scratched Madara behind the ear once more, than straightens and leaves the rooms.

Madara strolls back into the bedroom. His body still aches when he moves, but it’s far from unbearable. Still, some rest without the Senju nearby would be nice…

He doesn’t plan on going back into the cage, not when he has the whole room to himself. The towel makes for a warm enough bed, but the Senju’s futon looks a million times softer and—oh. His gaze lands on the white mess on the bed.

The Senju’s fur.

Oh.

He inches closer. Slowly, he lifts his front paw and touches the fur just for moment before pulling back. It seems soft and warm. But it’s soaked with the Senju’s smell. He can’t possibly ...

But it’s soft. And the Senju doesn’t stink so badly either. Madara can wash himself right afterwards, and nobody will ever know.

With a glance to the door, he climbs onto the fur. Small as he is, he mostly sinks into it. All the better; now he has protection from all sides, and he’s practically hidden from the world. The Senju is gone as well, so nothing should disturb his rest.

He turns in a circle once, twice, looking for the perfect place. Once he finds it, he curls his paws under himself, rest his chin on the fur, and closes his eyes.

It’s warm and safe and it doesn’t stink so bad after all.

火火火

He wakes up itching to move. Not to escape because there is no danger he can sense. Not itching to fight either, or train, so that perhaps one day he would be strong enough. Just ... move.

He stretches, arching his back, and climbs out of the fur. What should he do? He can hardly run in circles around the Senju’s bedroom, can he? Although … if he can run laps in his human form … Nobody would see him now …

He shakes his hind paw, stretching some more until the aches remind him his body in still on the mend even if the pain is but an echo of what was before. If feels good to wake up the muscles, to move. Hesitation gone, he lets his body do what it wants to and runs. A rush of energy washes over him, and he might be a tiny cat running circles around the Senju’s room, but he can’t bring himself to care. After so long, so impossibly long, the force behind his movement is the excess of energy and not his stubbornness, will to survive, and desire for revenge.

The corners of his lips curl upwards, his whiskers twitching. There’s a brush sticking over the edge of the desk just so. Stupid Senju. Couldn’t he put things in their proper place?

Madara turns away and runs another lap, but it bothers him. Really, it can’t be left sticking into the air in such a way. He stops, paws drawn in towards his body, tail twitching back and forth. He must kill it.

No. No, he is not actually a cat. That kind of thought has no room in his mind. He’ll simply push the brush back.

Without taking his eyes off the object, he inches closer and slowly touches the end of it with one paw. Now he just has to push a little … The brush rolls back onto the table—and Madara pounces on it. Sheets of paper go flying, a scroll falls onto the floor and unrolls, and he must catch that too. His hind leg hits something when he turns, but it doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter at all. He moves without thinking, rushes from one object to another, overturning even more things as he goes. Since one scroll is on the floor, perhaps all others should be too. The Senju will surely be annoyed, and that’s all the motivation he needs.

He pivots, barely avoiding the ink (couldn’t the Senju have put it away?), jumps onto the last scroll, then jumps right back. He feels the edge under his hind paw, and that’s the only warning he gets before the inkstone is overturned and droplets splash all over the table and Madara himself.

It’s wet, and cold, and very unpleasant. A loud sound escapes him as he scrambles away, but to no avail—the wetness sticks to him. He lifts one paw to his mouth, licks it once, twice, and stops. It tastes absolutely disgusting. There is no way he would lick it all off. Perhaps he can try to wipe himself into something?

His gaze settles on the sheets. The Senju will likely be mad, but if Madara has to bear the wetness for a moment longer, he will go mad, so he jumps onto the futon and rolls over a few times. Black stains remain behind, yet some of the ink still clings to him.

“Mrrroww…”

What else he can do? He looks around the room and does it again. In the end, he sighs and drags himself back to the fur. If nothing else, he can at least keep himself warm and hope the Senju will help him. The thought makes him hiss. Something inside his chest burns, so he pushes the idea away and curls up, hiding as much as he can.

His heartbeat refuses to slow down for a long time before he eventually drifts into sleep.

火火火

Rage slams into him a moment before words reach his ear.

“Cat, I'm going to kill you.”

He scrambles to move, head still foggy from sleep and limbs heavy, but the fur doesn’t serve as a particularly good foothold. He barely gets his front paws out before the Senju grabs him by the scruff  and lifts him into the air. Madara twists, hissing and clawing and growling, because he can’t die here in this pitiful form after all the battles he’s fought and survived. He has a clan to watch over, and he wants to go down fighting, wants to die a warrior’s death when the time comes, but the Senju is so much stronger and this time, this time he really—

He’s pressed against something firm and warm, and his next inhale is full of the Senju’s smell, but he is still breathing. Is the Senju going to do it outside? He probably wouldn’t want to be seen carrying a dead cat though the compound, although he could just teleport …

The man takes him into the bathroom. Madara hears water running and freezes. Of course. Of course the Senju would choose to drown him. Water has always been his element …

His chest constricts. Breathing comes too hard and too fast. Tremors run through his body despite his attempts to be still. It’s pathetic. Battle has always made his blood sing, and even the danger of being run through with a sword doesn’t dissuade him from fighting. Pain he can take. He could bleed to death and still hold his ground, and here he is, choking on his own breath at the prospect of drowning.

The Senju is a monster.

He’s gripped by the scruff again and moved towards the bowl. The bowl is deep enough to cover him. He tries to struggle, but it’s weak and pathetic, the sounds that escape him are high-pitched— he wants to live even if life is a nightmare of pain, he wants to live just a while longer—

The Senju frowns.

Madara’s hind paws hit the water. It’s warm, perfectly so. Why would the Senju bother with temperature?

“I know you don’t like this, but it’ll be over quick.”

No. He can’t die like this.

Gritting his teeth, he swings his paw up once more and finally, his claws sink into the inner side of the Senju’s wrist and tear into the flesh. Blood drips into the water bellow.

“Shit, cat!” The Senju grimaces. “What’s wrong with you?”

What kind of a question is that? Everything is wrong.  The Senju hasn’t let him go. Madara’s hind paws are still in the water, and the Senju dunks his free hand under the surface, cups some water with his palm, and begins to wash Madara’s right hind paw.

Wait.

The Senju is very gently washing his paw with warm water.

The Senju is washing his paw.

Air fills Madara’s lungs. One beat at a time, his heartbeat slows. He can breathe again.

The Senju sighs. “I hope you’re done fighting me, because I’m washing you either way.”

“Meow?” Wasn’t the Senju going to end him? He said so himself, and Madara felt the killing intent. There is no trace of it now, true, but … How can the Senju have changed his mind so fast? He’d said before he would end Madara; instead he fed him, and bandaged his wounds, and now he’s washing the ink stains out of his fur.

Madara cocks his head, gaze rising up to the Senju’s face. Was he wrong? Did he misinterpret anger for killing intent? Or did the Senju really want to kill him for a moment?

He keeps his gaze on the man, on the wrinkle between his eyebrows, on the straight line of his lips. The smell of blood is impossible to ignore, but the Senju doesn’t let go off him and persistently washes his hind paws. It feels … strange. He doesn’t mind the water too much, although a part of him is screaming to get away because it’s wet and repulsive. Mostly, the warmth soothes him. Or perhaps the touch does; the Senju is careful but firm, and Madara feels his muscles relaxing. It’s probably all right to allow the touching in this case. He is a cat and he needs the Senju to clean his fur, so he’s willing to allow a sliver of weakness for the sake of reaching a goal.

The Senju works methodically, dipping Madara deeper into the water and cleaning the rest of his body. He doesn’t say another word. Although his frown doesn’t disappear, it softens, and his eyes get a distant look. Seeing such red eyes outside of the Uchiha clan is odd, but then Madara's seen it happen in animals before. (They were always the unlucky ones, though, with white fur giving them away. Perhaps he’s never given the Senju enough credit for making it this far.)

Sometime later, he’s toweled dry, and then does his best to not look at himseld when the man redresses his wounds. He’s known the fur would be shaved under the bandages, of course he’s known, but he doesn’t wish to see the patches at all.

“They’re healing nicely. You should be fine in a day or two.”

“Maw,” he says because he can. His gaze slides to the Senju’s wrist. It has stopped bleeding; dried up blood is caked to the pale skin. Madara looks away.

The Senju carries him back into his cage, then goes about tidying the room. He picks up the scrolls and rolls them together, wipes the ink of the table, changes the sheets. The fur is the last thing he turns his attention to; picks it up, runs his hand over it. His lips curl downwards and he sighs. Shadows sharpen his features. His eyes slide closed. Then he opens them and disappears into the bathroom. Madara can hear the water running and running, and it doesn’t stop.

Ridiculous. Wouldn’t it be easier to just get a new fur? Surely the Senju can buy one or make one, if nothing else. Why bother with this one if it’s taking so long?

The sound of rushing water continues, and he curls up on his towel, chin resting on his paws. It should be amusing to see the man angered or miffed. Instead, guilt stirs inside him. The shadows that fell on the Senju’s face are too familiar. Sometimes they stare at him out of the mirror. Sometimes he watches them in his dreams, when Izuna’s eyes bleed out and he spews poison at Madara.

There is nothing he can do, though, and nothing he particularly wants to do either. The Senju is not a child. He may be attached to his fur, but he’s a shinobi, and such a minor thing can’t be enough to throw him off.

(Hashirama is a different story, but his depression comes and goes as the wind in the summer, and has never meant the loss of hope before.)

When the Senju finally emerges, his sleeves are rolled to his elbows and his hands tinged red from the water. Whether hot or cold, Madara cannot tell. No matter. The Senju disappears for a few more minutes, bringing food as he returns. He places a plate into the cage before he walks over to his futon and starts peeling off his clothes.

Could the idiot stop stripping so carelessly? The presence of a cat may not matter to him, but it very much matters to Madara, so he gets up and turns his back on the Senju as pointedly as he possibly can. Footsteps reach his ears moments later, and then the sound of running water yet again. At this rate, it’s a miracle the Senju doesn’t run out of it.

He eats and waits for Senju to come back. That the latter removes the empty plate from the cage is a nice bonus. So is leaving its door open. What Madara is truly waiting for is the click of the light switch and the darkness that follows. Hidden from the Senju’s eyes, he finds a more comfortable position and closes his eyes.

火火火

This time, it’s whimpers that wake him. The Senju is tossing about just enough for the sheets to rustle. Madara can’t see his face from this angle, but judging by the laboured breathing and the pathetic sounds, the man is still asleep.

He curls up tighter, determined to get more rest. Wars have casualties and peaceful sleep is but one of them. This has always been the reality and always will be. It’s a rarity that Madara has been sleeping as well as he has … It might be connected to his current form. In fact, this form seems to have affected many things. His energy levels are higher, he’s been able to sleep through a few nights in a row without being haunted by Izuna’s face, and he hasn’t felt the need to erase his existence and everything with it because the pain inside him would become unbearable. For once, he is … not adverse to existing a little while longer. It may have taken a percieved threat of death to awakan some primal part of him, but he knows that part has the will to keep holding on to this wretched existence, and perhaps he will someday even discover why.

His eyes refuse to stay closed.

He knows the pain the Senju is going through. How many times has he himself woken up screaming? How many times has he wished there was someone to shake him out of the terrors even as he knew he could never trust another person to be close enough to do it?

He couldn’t count them even if he tried.

Slowly, he gets to his paws and stretches. If he doesn’t do anything, he won’t be getting another minute of sleep tonight ...

He trods across the room on silent feet. Another whimper reaches his ears, making him grit his teeth. Is this what he sounds like when nightmares keep him tossing and turning? The sound truly is unbecoming of a shinobi. Although … At night, he is rarely the strong shinobi the world has learnt to fear. At night, he feels like a small child who can’t quite understand why his brothers won’t be coming home anymore, but the sadness in his mother’s eyes stops him from asking again. Feels as helpless as he felt when Izuna looked at him for the last time, insisting he take his eyes, feels as much agony as he felt afterwards, when he saw the wound heal and his brother’s body reject the eyes he tried to offer in turn. When the realisation finally sank in …

No.

He paws at the Senju’s cheek. Sweat clings to his paw when he pulls it away not a moment too early: with a gasp, the Senju snaps his eyes opened and bolts uprights. Once again, his gaze sweeps the room. Once again, his muscles uncoil and he curls in on himself. He looks smaller like that. Is this what Madara himself would appear like to anyone if they happened to catch him at night? So weak? So pathetic?

This is what war does, a voice whispers in the back of his mind. He thinks it sounds sad, but he can’t tell for certain. It does, he agrees, and for the first time since he saw Hashirama cry by that river that day, perhaps even for the first time in his life, he understands.

His clan was never the only one. He knew before, of course he did: Senjus killed Uchihas, and Uchihas killed in revenge for their fallen comrades, and Senjus came back fighting for their own men who had passed away. But they were numbers. Enemies to remove to ensure the survival of his kin, and their lives were always, always worth less than that of his family. As the opponent, they more often than not remained faceless and nameless, only obstacles to remove should he ever wish to ensure the safety of his clan.

The Senju turns onto his side, buries his face into the pillow and screams, and Madara understands. He sees muscles in the Senju’s shoulders tense, see the tremors racking his body. Moonlight falls on the Senju’s face when he turns; his eyes are completely dry and his skin unnaturaly white. His motions are choppy and slow when he drags himself into the bathroom.

Madara stares after him. Pressure builds behind his breastbone. Should he do something? None of this is his responsibility, least of all comforting the Senju. The room is silent now; he could return to the cage and get some more rest.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t move. There is something about that pressure that keeps him rooted to the spot. His gaze never leaves the gap between the bathroom door and the doorframe, not when he hears more water, not when it stops so much later. The Senju appears at the door. His body seems more coordinated, but his arms hang limp at his sides. There is just enough light for Madara to notice the reddish tint on his hands.

He looks up when the Senju stops barely a foot away. Red eyes narrow at him, glazed over and absent. Then the Senju heads for the entrance to his room, still moving slowly, and disappears. Not much time passes before he is back. With a hairbrush in his hand. Why does he need that? His hair is short enough. Besides, Madara saw a comb in the bathroom before…

He reacts on instinct, making a step back when the Senju sits down beside him, but forces himself to relax. The man is no threat at the moment. Perhaps not ever, so long as Madara remains in this form. They stare at each other for a long moment before the Senju lifts the hand with the brush and reaches towards Madara.

This … makes more sense. Barely.

He lets it happen. The pressure isn’t too strong, and it’s not until the bristles pull on a tangles in his fur that he lets out a sound.

“Sorry,” the Senju murmurs, barely audibly even to his ears. “I should have brushed you before.”

He blinks. Perhaps the Senju really should have. It would certainly mean he would have less tangles in his fur now. Although washing him would probably have undone the work, so perhaps it makes no difference at all.

The Senju places the brush onto the ground. Instead, his fingers start threading through Madara’s fur, working out the tangles with care; they barely cause any pain, and soon, none at all. Only the gentle pressure remains. Before he knows it, he’s relaxing into the touch. This isn’t so bad. The Senju somehow scratches him just right and …

No. What is wrong with him? He can’t allow the Senju—Izuna’s killer—to pet him! He shifts, making to step away, when his gaze lands on the Senju's face.

Half-closed red eyes stare at him, or perhaps they’re watching some other place far, far away. The man’s lips are slightly parted, and for once, no frown pulls on the skin of his forehead. Strands of hair frame his face. One of them hangs over his right eye, but the Senju doesn’t seem to be bothered. He keeps moving his hand, running it over Madara’s back over and over, without pause or a change in rhythm, and Madara knows the Senju is lost somewhere else entirely. But his breathing is even and slow, and even his shoulders seem rather relaxed.

Just this once, he could allow the contact. As much as it pains him to admit it, he does owe the Senju. The sooner he can repay his debt, the better.

So he folds his paws under himself and lies on the floor. The wood under him isn’t overly comfortable, but it’s not cold either, and he’s seen much worse on his missions. Sleeping in the mud with rain plastering his clothes to his skin is far more unpleasant.

The Senju’s hand stops moving for but a moment before it resumes the motion. Madara closes his eyes. Little by little, tension leaves his body. He curls his tail around his side as much as he can, preserving warmth and creating an illusion of a more closed off space. When he was younger, he often spent time just lying in grass, observing the clouds. They always seemed to drift around so lazily, so secure of their destination, or perhaps so unburdened with the need to reach a destination at all. There was something about them, something freeing and soft, that drew his gaze up again and again...

Tomorrow, he could climb onto the windows sill and watch the sky from there …

His mind grows foggy and warm. Distantly, he feels the touch disappear, but he is too pleasantly tired to move. Let the Senju do what he will …

The fingers return sometime later, slowly scratching his cheek, and then slower still. Eventually they come to a halt and fall away. Slow breaths reach his ears. Yawning, he cracks one eye open just enough to see the Senju lying on his back, arms crossed behind his head and gaze fixed at the ceiling. Then he closes his eye again and lets himself dive into darkness some more.

When he wakes up again later—it must be just around dawn—the man is still there, eyes still staring upwards and dull.

Chapter Text

五

Mito Uzumaki smells much more feminine than the rest of the Hokage’s office; if he tries, he can make out a flowery note in her scent. Still, she doesn’t seem out of place. Her back is straight and her head held high as she sits across the desk from the Senju, but her shoulders are tilted forward just enough to indicate the absence of tension. Though unable to sense chakra in this form, he feels her presence, strong and firm—Mito Uzumaki doesn't come across as a woman to be trifled with. But her eyes are soft when she looks at him, and Madara, settles on the Hokage’s desk and holds her gaze.

“This is the cat you found? What’s his name?”

The Senju shrugs. His skin is still paler than usual, with dark shadows beneath his eyes, but he looks fresher; the look in his eyes is sharper again, and his hair isn’t plastered to his face anymore.

“Cat, I suppose. Kagami called him Sparky.”

Mito cocks her head. The tag hanging from her left bun brushes her shoulder. “Who’s Kagami?”

“Currently my student. His teacher is recovering from an injury, though I might keep mentoring his team even afterwards. They’re a talented bunch.”

Madara narrows his eyes. Shouldn’t the Senju wish to get rid of the Uchiha as fast as possible? Or is he hoping to win Kagami over, brainwash him into loyalty to the Senju clan so he could use that talent he’s just praised?

“Sparky,” Mito repeats, leaning forward. Madara makes a step back. “It does suit him somehow.”

“He’s Hashirama’s cat, not mine. It’s not up to me to choose a name.”

Mito’s lips curl up into a small smile. A spark lights up her eyes.  “I wouldn’t be so sure. You are his caretaker for the time, and I think he likes you.”

The Senju’s eyes flicker to Madara for a moment, then back to Mito. He had better disagree with this statement. Madara does not like the Senju. What’s more, the man has no reason to think anything else; Madara has scratched him and caused problems often enough. Staying here is simply the most viable option, and if he’s come to accept that the Senju is not purely a monster and there is more to him than being Izuna’s killer, it doesn’t automatically mean Madara likes him.

Perhaps he tolerates his existence now, but that is all. (Being treated with basic decency is not a reason to endear someone to him, nor is the constant waking up or the sound of water. The Senju barely talks to him and he’s certainly not trying to go extra lengths to guarantee Madara’s happiness.)

“I doubt I’m doing a very good job. He should probably have other kittens to play with and fight, but you can surely imagine Hashirama's reaction if I suggest we should give the cat to the Uchihas. He would probably be better off there …”

Mito cocks her head again. “How come?”

“Their clan has an affinity for cats, it seems.” The Senju leans back against his chair and reaches towards Madara. The latter allows the slightest of contacts before twisting out of the way.

“I can introduce you to the clan if you wish. Their leader is currently away, but I’m certain Hiroki would be willing to meet you, though you might have to wait for a few days. I believe his wife is just about to give birth.”

“Of course. And their leader… Madara, wasn’t it? Hashirama wrote of him in his letters. Is he on a mission?”

The Senju shakes his head. “Hashirama is looking for him. We don’t know where he is, but I can’t sense his chakra. Naturally Hashirama is worried.”

Madara scowls. Of course the Senju won’t share his opinion with Mito, will he? He is probably still convinced Madara is hiding somewhere and plotting some natural disaster. It would serve them right… But if he were to leave—when—he would at least tell Hashirama. Konoha may be a failed experiment, and he really can’t stand to even hear Hashirama’s name sometimes, but… However unfortunate, their friendship used to be genuine at some point. Once, it would inspired him and pushed him further, helped him gain the strength he possesses now.

Of course his current strength is also a consequence of Izuna’s death.

Claws dig into the polished wood under his paws. Izuna’s death is a gaping hole inside his chest where his heart is supposed to be—the Senju may as well have cut it out when he slashed Izuna open. Although …

His claws dig deeper.

Although … Madara has twisted the sword himself when—

“Cat?”

He jerks, gaze snapping to the Senju, who is frowning down at him.

“What is it?”

He wouldn’t reply even if he could. Glaring, he forces his claws to retract. The Senju keeps his gaze on him for another second before he turns back to Mito.

“I hope Hashirama finds him,” she says with a certain heaviness. “You wouldn't know when he’ll return?”

“I sent a message after him, but I am no longer certain where he is. Last I heard from him, he was in Sora-ku. I hope he stayed a while longer.”

Ah, so the Senju won't mention the sinister presence Hashirama spoke of. Though to be honest, Madara wouldn’t either. It is but an unconfirmed assumption, and should it be true, Mito could hardly do anything.

Mito inclines her head. “So do I. Nevertheless, I came here to become more familiar with the village and its people. Whether Hashirama is present or not, I can accomplish that.” She leans forward, a hand coming to the side of her mouth. “My uncle won’t like it, but he’s a grumpy old man. Perhaps you could provide a guide for me, so I can tell the geezer to rest his old bones?”

The Senju gives a curt nod. “I’ll send somebody over after lunchtime.”

“Thank you. I’ll be taking my leave then.” She gets to her feet, clasps her hands in front of her, and bows her head. “Tobirama-dono.”

“Mito-hime,” he returns, and then she crosses the room. Madara catches a glimpse of another woman in a kimono when the door opens, but they’re both gone in a second.

The Senju sighs, then pulls a scroll out of a drawer, dips his brush into ink, and begins to write.

火火火

Another cloud drifts westwards and disappears from view. Madara turns his head to follow it with his gaze, but the window frame cuts a sharp line across his field of vision. His tail twitches one way, and then the other, and back again. Trying to keep it still has become futile. Every inch of his body itches with the need to move, to do something, to quiet the chaos in his head. He misses training, droplets of sweat drawing lines through the grime on his skin, the breath filling his lungs when he’s gasping for air, the singing of his blood, even the hair that gets in his face. Misses the freedom to move, the breeze on his skin, and the sounds of nature around him.

It’s too quiet in here. The Senju leaves him in his room more often than not. Madara only ever gets to come to the office, and even then only when the Senju has no meeting on the agenda. While the man makes sure to provide enough food, fresh water and sand, Madara still has nothing to do. The Senju is gone most of the time, coming home late and collapsing into bed. Sometimes he sleeps through the night. Sometimes he doesn’t, and those nights he gets the brush and starts working it through Madara’s fur, though he mostly discards it in the end in favour of using his fingers. Twice now, Madara has been woken from his own dreams of corpses and blood by the Senju’s hands.

A bird lands on a nearby branch. His song barely penetrates the glass, but it’s enough for Madara to hear. A part of him sighs in relief. The other part wants to rush up to the bird, sink his claws inside its body, and tear it apart. His tail hits the window sill, and he needs to move, needs to hunt and to kill—

His gaze falls onto his reflection in the glass, and he turns away.

Ever since the Senju removed the bandages, Madara’s been avoiding his reflection. Patches of hair had been shaved off his body, and while his fur is already growing back, it’s still not even half as long as it should be. He looks ridiculous and pathetic, and if he changes back into a human and it turns out he is still missing hair then, he will make sure to find the Senju and strangle him.

He gets up and stretches, back forming an arch. His body moves on its own accord, carries him to the end of the window sill and back again. Two weeks now since he’s become a cat. Two weeks to recover, and he is stuck between these four walls with no semblance of a plan. Sora-ku is as far as it used to be, and his dreams of peace even further away. He needs to do something.

First, he has to find Nekobaa. It’s unlikely he could force her into changing him back to his true form, so perhaps somebody should do it for him. But who? How? How will he—

He jumps off the sill, tail swishing back and forth. Curse it all. He can’t even think straight in here anymore. Forget Nekobaa, first he needs to go out and move and breathe—

The door opens and the Senju enters the room. The smell of ink clings to him; a droplet is smeared over his jawline. He must have missed any and all appointments with mirrors today.

“Maw.”

The Senju stops for a moment, turning his gaze downwards. “Are you hungry?”

What a fool. As if food is the only thing on his mind.

“Meoowr!”

“What is it?” The Senju squats and reaches out. Madara dodges the hand. A single jump takes him onto the Senju’s thigh. As far as he knows, the man’s going to go out to train his bunch of tireless ten-year-olds. And two teams at that. Why does he bother when he could simply choose the most talented one to tutor and send the rest to others? Spending time on anything but the best is an idiocy, and, unlike some, the Senju doesn’t even have time to waste.

“Is something wrong?”

If the Senju keeps up the questioning, he is really going to start believing the man expects something other than “meow” to come out of Madara’s mouth. He jumps off the Senju’s leg and hurries to the open door. Walks one way over the doorstep, then the other, then out onto the corridor. Cocking his head, he looks back at the Senju.

A frown answers him. The Senju narrows his eyes. “Do you want to go out?”

Madara keeps shifting his weight and stepping every which way as he remembers the cats at the Uchiha compound have always done.

“I have a training to lead, I can’t take you out.”

He makes the most high-pitched, heart-wrenching sound he can manage, hangs his head, and flattens his ears. He needs to go outside, or else he will really go mad. Although some people already think he is and he will be, and then they’ll have reason to talk—

A finger rubs the underside of his chin. “You had better not get hurt or Hashirama will have my head. And you'd better not run off either. Wait…” The Senju runs his fingers over the red line on his chin. For a moment, Madara wonders why he has the lines. They don’t wash off, that much he knows, so they must be inked into his skin. The Senju clan wears no marks upon their skin; they must be of some personal significance then.

The fingers return. They press against him where his front paw meets his torso. Madara jerks away. Something was wrong with that touch. It was too precise, too brief for all the purpose he felt.

“There.” The wrinkles of the Senju’s brow smooth out. “That’s taken care of.” He scoops Madara up in one fluid motion. The latter goes still. Instincts tell him whatever strange happen was over, but the Senju has clearly done something to him, and he needs to know what. A part of him would enjoy nothing more than to sink his claws in that pale skin, but it would go mad just like the rest of him if he was forced to stay here, and whatever the Senju has done bought Madara a ticket to the outside world.

It has to be worth it.

They are the last to arrive. A semicircle of children meets them, all six of them. A gust of crisp, early spring wind penetrates his fur and makes him press against the Senju chest. The next one brings with it a faint smell of sweat.

“You’ve run the laps,” the Senju says. It’s not a question.

“Yes. Tobirama-sensei, you’ve brought Sparky.”

“Ah, yes.” Long fingers wrap around Madara’s torso and he finds himself moved to the Senju’s shoulder. His claws sink into the fabric, and he inches closer to the Senju’s neck. The height provides a good viewpoint.

“I expect you to avoid aiming any techniques in his direction.”

The group nods almost at once.

“Why did you bring the cat?” a dark-haired boy with a scar on his chin asks.

“He wanted out. Danzou, what’s wrong with you ankle?”

The boy—Danzou—crosses his arms over his chest. “Nothing.”

“You’re favoring your right foot.”

Danzou averts his gaze. “Hiruzen and I had a spar, sensei.”

The Senju doesn’t say anything. He can’t possibly be considering sending the boy home, can he? Or has the heartless Senju gone completely soft?

“You’ll be working on your teamwork,” the man days at last. “Team against team. Hiruzen and Kagami will be the captains.”

Not Danzou? Madara could have sworn Danzou carried himself like a leader more than Kagami, who was an Uchiha to boot and so all the less likely to be put into any position of power… Perhaps he is overanalysing things. This is but a training exercise. Then again, the Senju doesn't seem to waste his energy on meaningless actions (though his judgement of what is meaningless is questionable).

“Only taijutsu is allowed. No weapons. Go.”

There are no questions asked, but the children waste a few moments looking at their teacher and each other.

A few moments could mean death on the battlefield.

Then members of Kagami’s team move closer together. Their lips move, but Madara can’t read then from that angle and especially not when the Senju lowers himself onto a nearby tree stump and crosses his legs.

The girl moves first and sets the whole group into motion.

The Senju doesn’t say anything, simply keeps his eyes on them. Madara would be willing to bet he knows every move the children make. He watches, too, for a while, before the urge to move makes him jump off the Senju’s shoulder. He sniffs the ground, the air, the chunk of wood half embedded into the soil. A swish of tail, two, then he trots towards the wooden training log at the edge of the clearing. The smell of sweat and blood reaches his nose. The dirt is packed tight beneath him. He rises onto the hind paws, leaves sharp lines in the wood with his claws. The motion causes his muscles to stretch just so, and he decided to challenge gravity, runs up to the log, and climbs. Blood rushes through his veins.

More. He needs more, so he runs.

By the time dusk falls, his lungs are burning, his muscles aching, his paws trembling. He curls up next to the Senju again and washed his fur, one lick at a time. He hears the children panting and running, but pays them no mind—they are too busy to focus on him. Besides, he is partly hidden behind the Senju’s knee, so he finishes his grooming, then climbs onto the Senju’s shoulder; it makes for a better view and some warmth.

When Hiruzen and the chubby boy collide and the impact sends them both skidding over the ground, the Senju moves. He unfolds his legs, reaches up as if to steady Madara with one hand, and gets up. The fighting stops. Hiruzen remains seated on the ground. He belongs to the Sarutobi clan if memory serves. Hashirama has mentioned him once or twice. Perhaps Madara should take more of an interest in the Senju’s students. The boy will amount to something. Danzou as well, unless Madara is mistaken, which is near impossible. He knows talent when he sees it, and he can see it clearly—in Kagami too. When he returns to his original form, he will make sure the boy will be properly tutored. By an Uchiha. Nobody else knows the techniques of the clan. Nobody else can teach him.

The Senju might think highly of himself in that regard, but he is no mentor for an Uchiha. Unless of course that is his plan. Offer the honour of being taught by the First’s brother and thus ensure Kagami’s potential never develops.

Right now, Madara misses hands he could ball into fists.

“Team Hiruzen wins this time,” the Senju says. The children approach. Hiruzen scrambles to his feet and falls in line. “Koharu, you can’t rely on speed so much; you need more strength. Danzou, injury is no excuse for disadvantage. Adapt your style. Hiruzen, you usually rely on ninjutsu too much, and you, Torifu, on your strength. Kagami, you need to work on your leadership. Homura, if you lose your glasses, make up for it with other skills. Your eyesight cannot become your handicap. All of you showed some excellent work, but you lack awareness of what your teammates are doing. You have a day off to come up with training strategies to improve. I’ll review them with you individually.”

“Yes, sensei.” The girl, Hokaru, nods. “Sensei, is Sparky missing fur?”

Tension grips Madara’s body. He was too thrilled to move before to care, but she must have seen him.

“He was injured. Hashirama shaved some fur off to treat him.”

“He looks funny.” Something inside Madara’s stomach tightens. “Like my brother did when a jutsu exploded in his face. He had patches of hair sticking every which way.” She leans forward a bit. “It looked really funny.”

He presses closer to the Senju before he can stop himself. A hand cups the side of his body. “Koharu, don’t mock. Everyone, get some rest. You’re dismissed.”

A chorus of affirmation, and then they start turning away. Homura mutters something to Hiruzen, who places his hand on the boy’s shoulder. Madara watches their backs until the Senju’s voice snaps him back into alertness.

“Kagami.”

 The boy turns. “Yes, Tobirama-sensei?”

“Come here.”

He does.

“You look troubled.”

Kagami averts his gaze, hanging his head. “It’s nothing.”

The Senju squats down. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

No reply comes at first. Then Kagami looks up again.

“Something isn’t right in our clan,” he murmurs. Madara leans forward. A part of him wants to hear any news that pertain to the Uchiha. Another part wants to scream at Kagami for sharing internal clan business.

“With Madara-sama gone… He has no successor, so everyone is looking at Hiroki-san for leadership. I think most people like him. They like him much better than Madara-sama, and they would let him lead, but … he can’t truly decide anything that would go against Madara-sama’s politics, so some of the elders grow restless. I … I think others are afraid of Madara-sama.” Kagami pauses, gaze directed at the Senju. “I don’t think anyone really likes Madara-sama.”

Madara pulls back. He knew, of course he knew that before, but after everything he has done for the clan, after everything he is still doing, to find so little loyalty …

“Madara is a broken man,” the Senju says, his voice devoid of emotion. “Which makes him dangerous.”

“What happened to him?” Kagami asks, and there is a sliver of innocence in the question that ten year-olds of Madara’s time never had. Madara shifts from one paw to the other. The gal the Senju has, as well, to presume to know him!

“The same thing that happened to all of us.”

“War,” Kagami says.

“Yes. My brother doesn’t see it, because he is a dreamer. He lives in and for the world where goodness and peace prevail, and perhaps he succeeded in building such a world for you.” The Senju places his hand on Kagami’s head and ruffles the unruly hair. “Perhaps the village can be a family for you beside the one you lost. But it’s too late for us. We were born and bred in war, Kagami, and we keep waking to a battlefield. Don’t ever forget that. This peace belongs to your generation, not mine. Madara, and I, and so many others—we are remnants.”

“I heard he hated you, sensei,” Kagami says, voice barely above a whisper. “I heard you hated him.”

“Should he put a toe out of line, I will do my best to kill him, and likely die trying. He is dangerous, he’s unpredictable, and I would sleep easier at night if he were gone, but hate him? No. You’re a shinobi, Kagami. You probably understand this already: sometimes hate and love don’t matter. We fight for what we believe. We endure. My brother … He will do anything for the village. Madara … might do anything for some other dream. They might clash at some point, and they will have to decide what they stand for. Someday, your time to choose will come too.”

Kagami nods. He digs into the soil with the toes of his right foot. “What do you fight for, Tobirama-sensei?”

The Senju doesn’t answer right away. Madara can feel his body moving ever so slightly in the rhythm of his breaths. They slow down.

“People who are precious to me,” he says at last. Whatever Kagami sees in the Senju’s expression makes him smile, though the quirk of his lips is gone as fast as it comes.

“Sensei… Sparky looks sad.”

Madara feels the Senju turn his head. “I could give him to you. He’d likely be happier among the Uchiha cats. Perhaps Hashirama would even agree with my choice.”

Kagami’s brows rise. It makes him appear younger. “Why would you give him away?”

A sigh. “I don’t know what to do with a cat.”

“They like petting. And playing. Or just … talk to them. Like to other people.”

As if the Senju knew how to actually talk to other people...

“I swear he understands me when I talk,” the Senju mutters.

Kagami blinks and shrugs. “They usually respond to us.”

Another sigh, longer than before. “I will have Hashirama’s head for this. Cat aside, are you worried your clan will get split over Madara?”

“Not exactly … There is ... something else. About Hiroki-san. Miyao-san just gave birth and everyone congratulated them. They seemed really happy with their baby girl. I heard she is a bother, though, and keeps on crying. But Tayo-kun says she is adorable, so I don’t know. Well, they seemed happy, and then two days ago, Hiroki suddenly changed. They say all the joy has gone out of him, that he shouted at the elders yesterday and listens to no one. Nobody dares to say it, but some think Hiroki met with Madara. That would be bad, wouldn’t it, Tobirama-sensei?”

“I don’t know.”

Madara leans forwards again, ears perked up.

“It depends on where Madara is and what he’s doing. If Hiroki knows his whereabouts, I’ll need to have a word with him.”

For once, Madara can agree with the Senju’s plan. Something is wrong here. Hiroki most certainly did not meet with him, and while such behaviour might turn out to be nothing more than a mood swing, his instincts insist the situation requires caution.

“Don’t worry.” The Senju places a hand on Kagami's shoulder. Strange, to see him initiate touch with anyone. “I’ll look into it. Will you join me for dinner? I believe Hashirama will never forgive me if I don’t try the sushi place by the Akimichi compound.”

“We better look out for Torifu then,” Kagami says and grins. “Or he will eat all your money, sensei.”

火火火

The meal is a quiet affair. Madara has barely seen the Senju eat in the last two weeks. Seeing him consume food now is both comforting and disconcerting; it assures the Senju is a slave to mundane activities like any other man (and decreases his chances of sudden collapsing, especially with Madara on his shoulder), but it also reminds Madara how human the Senju is, how not different from him and the Uchiha clan. He expects some clever manipulation from the man—inquiries about the situation, teachings about that will of fire, emphasizing the graciousness of treating an Uchiha orphan to dinner. None comes. The two eat in silence until Kagami begins to talk about an Inuzuka girl whose pup tried to make friends with one of the Uchihas’ cats. The Senju nods and hums from time to time, asks about the pup, about the cat, and Kagami’s story turns into an easy chatter about the bakery that is due to open in two weeks and the healing of his teacher’s ribs. The lull of the conversation makes Madara’s eyelids grow heavy. He presses closer to the Senju’s neck and curls around it. If only the man wore his fur today...

Movement wakes him, the steady rocking of footsteps. A hand is wrapped around him, keeping him in place.

Impossible. Did he really fall asleep on the Senju’s shoulder? Is this body so pathetic a little exercise tires it out to the point of throwing all caution to the wind?

The Senju crosses the street. They pass a lamp, and the brightness makes Madara squint. The entrance to the Senju compound stands before them, tall and proud, painted a deep scarlet. Hashirama fashioned it with a sparkle in his eyes and more dreams upon his lips—Madara was there.

The Senju doesn’t stop. He makes his way between dimly lit buildings and finally pushes open the right door. The corridors are dark and the atrium equally so. Faint ripples of water reach Madara’s ears, but the Senju doesn’t give him a chance to look around. His footsteps are sure and soundless against the wood, and it only takes a minute for them to reach the Senju’s bedroom. Just before they enter, an owl hoots into the night.

The Senju flicks the turns the light on. Then he wraps his fingers around Madara and holds him in the air.

“Are you bored?” he asks.  Madara stares at him. “What do I do with you?” He lowers Madara to the floor and pinches the bridge if his nose. “Treat you like a person, huh? Treat you like a person…” He starts pacing. “I can’t tell you to go home. You’re a cat. A cat. I don’t have to entertain you, do I?” Red eyes turn to Madara, and if he were a human, he would laugh. Trust the Senju to know what to do with people about as well as he knows what to do with cats. It’s not exactly a surprise. He knows the Senju will put his feelings aside and work with most people whenever business is concerned, but he’s also never seen him go out of his way to socialise. Brooding in the darkness must be more his thing. It makes sense, too. Entertaining people for its own sake is a bother and a waste of time.

“I don’t even know what to do with people…I’m going to shave Hashirama’s eyebrows for this.” The Senju sighs. “Do you want to play?” He squats down and starts moving his forefinger left and right on the floor. Madara’s eyes track the motion. As if he is going to jump after it. Though the constant movement is a bit annoying. Very annoying. He should stop it.

Without another thought he pounces on the offending digit, but his paws only meet wood. One look upwards and he notices the finger moving in the air. He jumps. Hits only air.

Damn the Senju. There is no way his reflexes can be better than Madara’s, no matter how many people call him the fastest shinobi of their time.

He’s already in the middle of the next jump when he realised just what he’d doing. Even though instincts in his body scream at him to continue the hunt, he forces himself to stop.

“Not the playing type then. I see.” The Senju moves to the desk and folds his legs beneath him. “Would you rather help me figure out what to do with the Uchihas?”

Madara’s hackles rise. Is the Senju going to plot a massacre with the head of the clan he wants to eradicate?

“They need to get integrated without feeling forced to forget their allegiance to the clan …” The Senju sighs and Madara’s ears perk up. Is this some clever plot to gain their trust and strike when their guard is down? Or could there really be no hidden meaning behind the Senju’s words, no sinister second stage in his plan?

The Senju turns his gaze towards the window. “Schooling, perhaps…” He frowns. His lips move a few times, but his words are too muffled to be comprehensible. “Need more information…” is a bit Madara catches, that and words like sharingan, emotions, and value. The muttering hardly makes sense. It would be better if the Senju closed his mouth and worked in silence as usual. That way, Madara could continue his nap.

“... something about love and loss… Like a curse...” The Senju mutters. Sighs. “Well, cat, that would go over well, don’t you think? Going to Madara and asking if I can interview some Uchihas about their sharingan. He’d have my head for it.”

Madara flattens his ears. How can the Senju even consider the Uchihas would share their secrets? And why is the sharingan even relevant here? Does the Senju think it a curse? Sees it as a reason the Uchihas can’t get integrated? Fool. If he has to look for reasons, he should think back to his own actions.

The Senju stretches and directs his gaze towards Madara. “Kagami would help me, but he’s a child; he can’t get involved with politics. Gods know we’ve seen enough of that in our generation.”

The corners of his mouth curl downwards and he reaches out towards Madara’s head. The latter allows the touch for a moment before moving away. The Senju’s hand lingers in the air for a moment.

“They have more passion than all the Senjus combined,” he says, a frown twisting his brow, “and it’s going to be the end of them.” He places his palms on the floor and gets to his feet,

“You really are a strange cat,” he adds as he walks into the bathroom on silent feet.

Madara stares after him. Then he gets up and curls up under the desk. His body feels heavy and his eyelids even more so, but the events of the day keep running through his head, and no matter how he tries, he can’t get the Senju’s words out of his ears.

A curse.

And a cursed clan.

Chapter Text

六

Five minutes of meowing and climbing all over the Senju are the price he pays for the opportunity to visit the Uchiha compound. It’s sheer luck that the Senju has apparently decided to attempt to communicate with him more and shared the plan for the day. Madara might even forgive him for waking him in the middle of the night again. He still hates the whimpers (does he sound so pathetic as well? Night after night?), but the Senju usually sleeps right through his dreams and stops making sounds sooner ratehr than later. Cats seem to find it easy enough to continue their slumber after disturbances, which is a small mercy Madara is grateful for.

He shifts and buries himself deeper into the Senju’s fur. The sun is only just climbing over the mountain peaks, and the air is crisp. Madara’s tail twitches, slipping from the Senju's fur. He lets it be. There is too much blood in his veins, too much curiosity, too much tension in his chest to let him be still. Too much distance between him and the Uchiha district still, and then not enough.

The Senju stops in front of the entrance. He takes a deep breath, then another one.

Madara’s tail flicks to the side. Whatever will hesitation achieve? They’re so close to seeing the situation, and he needs to know his clan is all right. If they are truly divided, he’ll find a way to fix this. Unless the Senju was right and they are cursed … But he can’t believe that, not after spending his whole life among these people. Nowhere else has he seen stronger bonds of loyalty and love. They value power and would go to great lengths to protect their kin—there is nothing Madara wouldn't have done to protect his family. And all that hasn’t been enough.

His claws dig into the fur.

The Senju moves; long steps carry him into the district. Only a few people are out in the streets. Most incline their heads when the Senju passes. A young man lowers his gaze. Arana, now a widow of sixty, glares daggers. Madara remembers the songs she used to sing more than twenty years ago and the tears that coursed down her cheeks when her son fell in battle against the Senju clan.

Hashirama is a fool to think they will ever know peace, but then it seems enough for him to know the next generations will grow up away from war. Perhaps it should be enough for Madara too, but the Senju was right: they are remnants of another time. For a moment, he wonders why nobody talks about it. They can’t all be all right. People like Arana and himself, people who lost and lost and kept losing—they’re not quite there anymore, and nobody ever mentions it.

It took a Senju to put the feeling into words. At least now Madara knows is not alone in feeling out of time.

The Senju makes his way between the buildings until he comes to stand in front of one of the bigger houses. He knocks. A moment passes, then two. The door opens, revealing the face of a man in his thirties. Dark circles underline his eyes, and his skin seems too transparent. He's looking at the ground.

“Hiroki-san,” the Senju says. “I apologize for interrupting so early.”

“Tobirama-sama,” Hiroki returns. His gaze travels upwards, but stops somewhere around the Senju’s collar bones. He makes no move to step away from the door and free the way inside.

Madara shifts to get a better view. His insides feel cold and tight, and there’s something prickling at his senses.

Something is not right. The man in front of him is not the Hiroki he knows, and he needs to find out what is happening. If his clan is in danger …

But he can’t do anything, can't ask, can’t look around. The Senju may be curious, but nobody will trust him enough to explain what’s happening or what they suspect.

Damn. The Senju may be the only one capable of solving this, what with the Uchihas fighting among themselves and the change in Hiroki.

It burns. To lay his hopes in a Senju—in this particular Senju even—is a lethal blow to his pride, and he hates the old cat woman even more. Were he not a cat, he could help his people. There would be no need to rely on the Senju. With how things are now … No. He can’t. He can’t put his hopes in his brother’s killer. The man doesn’t even care about the Uchihas; he’s killed so many in cold blood and never missed an opportunity to remind Hashirama they shouldn't be trusted.

Madara screws his eyes shut. Something hot burns in his stomach, craving freedom. His throat seizes up, and he wants to puke because for the first time, he has to hope he’s been wrong about the Senju all along, has to hope the man cares about the Uchihas enough to find some answers instead of letting them conveniently self-destruct. He doesn’t want to, and it goes against everything in him, but he has to hope he’s been wrong, or there will be nothing left to hope for.

“I wished to talk about the current situation,” the Senju says, his voice calm and polite, “and I thought it better to discuss this in private before talking it through with the council. May I come in?”

Hiroki presses his lips together. His gaze flicks from the Senju to the ground and back again. Madara’s hackles rise.

“Of course. Please.” Hiroki steps aside. Madara can’t see the Senju’s expression, but he can sense the tension in his shoulders and caution in his step. Madara has accused the Senju of many things, but incompetence has never been one of them. Perhaps … Perhaps there is hope after all …

Hiroki leads them into a small room, empty but for the table in the middle and the Uchiha symbol on the wall. The Senju kneels first, facing the entrance. Hiroki follows his lead.

“Is that a cat?” He gestures at the Senju’s shoulder.

“A stray my brother picked up. He likes to go outside, it seems.”

Hiroki humms. “What did you wish to discuss, Tobirama-sama?”

“The current situation. You are stepping in for Madara-sama, correct? Is there any new development in your clan regarding the leadership?”

So the Senju has enough manners to address him properly in public.

“No, nothing. I’m representing the clan in his stead.”

“You can’t do that indefinitely. Surely you’re discussing the duration of the wait among yourselves. My brother is looking for Madara-sama as we speak. As far as I know, you haven’t sent out any search parties.”

Hiroki shakes his head. “How long before he’ll be declared a missing-nin?”

The Senju doesn’t answer right away. He turns towards the Uchiha symbol, and the next few moments pass in silence.

“Considering Hashirama’s stubbornness, probably long. The elders can elect you as the leader much sooner.” He turns back to Hiroki. “I understand you’re in a precarious situation.”

Hiroki stares at the Senju, and Madara narrows his eyes. Something is clawing at the back of his mind, a feeling he can’t quite place. His kinsman looks exhausted in all the wrong ways. Madara has seen his share of new fathers, but Hiroki’s behaviour is different.

Something else must have happened, and it certainly wasn’t a meeting between Hiroki and Madara. It must have happened behind the scenes, since nobody seems to know. Or perhaps they do and simply choose not to mention it—a child like Kagami, albeit talented, is hardly the most reliable source.

Hiroki frowns. “You have the authority of the hokage at the moment, don’t you, Tobirama-sama?”

The Senju nods.

“And you wish to ensure Konoha's stability?”

Another nod, fast and sharp.

“Then I ask of you to announce Madara-sama a missing-nin.”

The words knock the air out Madara’s lungs. His own clan is trying to get rid of him? After all the battles he’s fought for them, all the times he’s bled for them?

He tries to swallow the knot in his throat, but his mouth is too dry. He feels his body tremble from the impact of the truth and wants to scream. Wants his arms back so he could bury them elbows-deep in somebody’s chest—Hiroki’s, the Senju’s, his own. Wants to curl up in the furthest corner of the world.

“I thought you two got along rather well,” the Senju says over the pounding of blood in Madara’s veins.

“I have the clan’s well-being in mind,” Hiroki snaps. “As long as Madara is out there, the elders will hesitate to name me the official leader. They’re afraid of him. But a clan without a leader loses stability, and that would affect the whole village. If you declare Madara a deserter, he'll have no claim to the leadership.”

It’s over. Madara can feel every heartbeat reverberate through his body. Heat flushes over him, followed by coldness. He could stand the disapproval of his clan; after all, he’s already decided to carry that burden. But to exclude him in this way, to take away his right to leadership—he could never live among them as just another member where he would get all the fear and disapproval without the chance to protect those fools from themselves. Would he even be allowed to stay? Hashirama would surely agree to change his status from a missing-nin back to a villager of Konoha, but what of the clan?

Perhaps he really should leave. What is left for him anyway? His own clan sees him as an obstacle, and he’s forced to rely on his brother’s killer. Konoha is as far from his childhood dreams as the era of war used to be.

“I won’t do that.”

What?

“What?” Hiroki echoes Madara’s thought. “Why?”

“Your elders already fear what would happen should Madara come back. Do you think he would take kindly to being branded a deserter without a proof? There is no love lost between the two of us, and such a decision from my side would only make matters worse.” The Senju shakes his head. “Let Madara—let Madara-sama stay where he is. He’ll be back sooner or later, and even he should understand that somebody needed to lead the Uchihas while he was gone.”

Hiroki presses his lips together. “Are you hoping he will return?”

He receives to answer. The Senju directs his gaze towards the wall again. Why doesn’t he reply? It’s clear as day he would be happy not to see Madara again. But his mouth remains closed. Madara feels the Senju’s torso move in the rhythm of his breaths—and realises he himself can breathe again.

“What’s wrong?” the Senju suddenly asks.

“Pardon me?”

“What is wrong?” His head snaps back towards Hiroki. “I’m far from considering you a friend, but we’ve been on the same council for a few years now. I know your behaviour well enough, and I know something’s amiss. Don’t make me ask again.”

A flicker passes through Hiroki’s eyes. Madara has seen it often enough on the battlefield to recognize it without a problem—fear.

“Nothing is wrong, Tobirama-sama. I apologize. The last few day have been … tiring.”

Silence. Then, “Congratulations for the child. I trust she is well?”

“Yes,” Hiroki says. It might be just a play of light, but his face seems even paler.

“And your wife?”

“Doing well, thank you.”

“I’d to congratulate Myiao-san as well if I may.”

“No!” The answer comes too fast. “I—no, she’s with Amai. Out child. Resting.”

“I understand. I’ll take my leave then. May I use the back door? Kagami lives that way, and I’ve promised to help him devise a training plan.”

Hiroki lets out a breath. “Of course. This way.”

He leads them out of the room and further down the corridor. They pass a door, then another, and suddenly Madara's hackles are raised, and he can barely hold back the hisses. Danger, his mind supplies. He can feel something dark behind the thin paper wall. It smells sickly sweet, a bit like rotting fruit, but it’s a less tangible sense that urges his muscles to move. Whatever the presence is, it feels wrong and decidedly not human.

A hand reaches towards him, and he buries his head into it, inhaling a much more familiar scent.

“Inform me if your clan comes to a decision,” the Senju says when Hiroki opens the door for him.

“I will.”

“Good. I’ll await your word.” Without a goodbye, he heads up the street. Are they going to Kagami’s? The Senju can’t be planning to inform a child of what has just transpired.

It turns out he isn’t. Instead, he turns at the first corner, squats, and presses two fingers to the ground. Madara climbs onto his shoulder. Is the Senju checking the strange presence?

“Well. Myiao-san is with their daughter. At least he wasn’t lying about that.”

There is an unnatural presence in the house and the Senju focuses on checking who is in which room?

“Mraw!”

“What is it?” Fingers close around him, and he ends up in the crook of the Senju’s elbow before he can resist. “You didn’t like it there either.”

“Meow, meow!”

“Hmm. You were strangely quiet … And you stiffened … Was something wrong with that room we passed?”

He meows urgently. How did the Senju not feel it?

“Myiao and Amai are in there. Both alive and well, by the feel of it.”

What is that thing if the Senju with all his sensory abilities couldn’t feel it? How is he to investigate if he can’t even feel the presence? Madara can’t tell him and even if he could (perhaps he could write with his paws despite the wetness and the coldness of ink), it would only blow his cover. The Senju might kill him, or toss him out, or let others know, which could very well lead to death as well. He can’t tell the Senju. On the other hand, the Senju is the only one looking into this.

Damn. He wants to curse in frustration, but an angry meow comes out instead.

Narrowing his eyes, the Senju cocks his head. Madara half expects to get shushed, but what he hears instead is, “Come. I have work to do.” The Senju holds out his arm. Madara uses it to climb back onto his shoulder, hoping with all he has that the Senju doesn’t mean bureaucracy.

“You’re coming to the office with me.” He turns his head a few degrees towards Madara. “Don’t do anything stupid. And then I’m having lunch with Mito, so you’d better behave there as well.”

It’s not as interesting as Madara hoped, but at least the Senju won’t leave him in his bedroom again to go stir crazy. They leave the Uchiha district and head towards the Hokage office. The Senju only stops long enough to talk to a young ninja Madara doesn’t know, then continues his way.

Once they're inside, Madara settles deeper into the Senju’s fur and closes his eyes. The place is ideal, warm and hidden from view. His limbs go heavy, mind drifting. Suddenly, there’s a bang he knows all too well—doors hitting the wall—and quick strides, and he climbs out of the fur to peek past the Senju’s neck.

He’s seen the woman before. The short kimono she wears over trousers now was an armour back then, the braid on her shoulder a topknot. The bangs falling over her face are the same.

“Touka. Lovely to see you.”

“You called for me, Tobi-kun?” She narrows her eyes. “I hope you have some new job for me. If I have to see Mito’s uncle one more time… You assigned me on purpose, you bastard.”

“He didn’t want to see Mito venture outside unattended, so I assigned you to accompany her. It’s hardly my fault he didn’t specify who the companion should be.”

“But he won’t complain about your choice because that would mean straining the relationship with Konoha, and he’s too afraid of causing a conflict.” The corners of her mouth twitch. “Clever Tobi.”

“The man is a nuisance.”

“Oh, trust me, I know.” She crosses the room and leans against the table with her hip. Madara makes a step backwards. “You signed me up for mental torture.”

“I thought you’d get along with Mito.”

“I do.” She leans closer. “Does Hashirama know she’ll have him wrapped around her finger?”

“She already does. But that’s not what I called you here for. I need you to watch Hiroki.”

“Hiroki Uchiha? What has he done?”

“Nothing I’d know of. Something isn’t right with him though, and I need to find out what. I can’t have a fight among the Uchihas.”

Madara shifts. Must the Senju share this information? Then again, if Touka can find out more … And at least the Senju isn’t brushing the events of the morning off.

“What about Mito?”

“I’m having lunch with her today.”

“All right.” She shifts her weight.

“Don’t be seen. I don’t know if he’s up to something or if he’s in trouble. Whatever the case, it needs to stop.”

“Understood,” she says and the Senju nods.

火火火

The one and only time Madara’s been in Hashirama’s dining room was the day after the house had been built. Hashirama wanted to celebrate the speed at which Konoha was growing, but soon after that, he decided he found the room too formal for meeting a friend, so Madara hasn’t set foot in this place since. Somehow, he’d never thought to associate the room with the other Senju brother as well, though it makes sense for him to host Mito here. Of course he wouldn’t invite her to the kitchen or his room. Still, in Madara’s thoughts, the house has always been Hashirama’s. The Senju has only ever been an afterthought, an annoyance to avoid.

Seeing him seated at the table in formal clothes makes his presence in the house seem much more tangible. Mito sits across from him, clad in a combination of white and green. The table is big enough to comfortably accommodate at least ten people. The seat at the head of it is empty. Hashirama’s, no doubt. In a different house, Madara holds a space of his own. Now, he’s lying on the table, a good three feet away from the two shinobi, curled up in a way that hides the patches of shorter fur as much as possible.

“I sent messengers after Hashirama.”

Mito straightens, angling her body forward a bit. Fans painted with trees and flowers adorn the wall behind her. “You found him?”

“Yes.” The Senju snatches a piece of bamboo with his chopsticks. “They should reach him in about a day now. If he returns by the shortest route, we can expect him in five to six days.”

“Konoha must have an impressive network.”

“On the contrary. It's severely lacking. Our village may be strong and respected, but we need connections and a better information network. The world is copying our way of functioning. Soon, we’ll be a part of a global political game.”

“I’m certain you’ll play it well.” She takes a bite and swallows. “Your network is still big enough to let you locate Hashirama in …?”

“The Earth country. It is not. I found him through other means.”

Madara snaps his head towards the Senju. He can't mean …

“You sensed him?” Mito’s eyes widen. “Hashirama told me you’re a sensor, but I’ve never imagined …”

She’s not the only one. A week’s travel away from here, and the Senju can find Hashirama? Granted, the latter’s chakra is strong. Nevertheless … It means that when they were still fighting each other’s clan, the Senju could always find their location. They could have attacked the Uchihas at any time. Hashirama must have been the one to prevent that.

He shifts, inching a bit further away from the Senju. Madara is still the more powerful one of the two of them, but perhaps he’s been underestimating the man.

“I don’t exactly do that every day. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share this with anyone.”

Mito nods. “Of course. My clan specializes in sealing techniques others would kill for. I know how to keep secrets.”

The Senju inclines his head. His chopsticks touch a piece of meat on his plate, but he doesn’t lift it. “Thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all. After all, we’ll be family soon. This little guy too, it seems.” She turns, and Madara feels strangely exposed under her gaze. “He seems to be healing well. His fur is much shinier.”

“Mmhmm. He’s quite a special cat.”

“You aren’t still calling him ‘cat', are you?”

“Hashirama is still absent.”

She gives the Senju a strange look, almost disbelieving, before turning back to Madara.

“Hi, Sparky.” She leans in and slowly reaches towards him with her hand. Madara makes half a step backwards.

“It’s all right. I won’t hurt you.”

Of course she won’t. He isn’t about to give her the chance. On the other hand, she really doesn’t seem inclined to cause him harm. Her gaze is soft, lips curled in a small smile. Most importantly, Madara can’t sense any ill intent from her. Perhaps she simply likes cats. Not that he is a cat, truly, but she doesn’t know that.

Her hand moves closer still. “Don’t worry. Tobirama-dono wouldn’t let me.”

She smiles. Against his better judgement, Madara doesn’t move away this time. It’s almost as if there is a cloud of calmness around her, however absurd that sounds when he considers it. Must have something to do with his cat senses.

Her fingers are gentle against his skin, their movements shorter than those of the Senju’s, but the touch is soothing and warm, and she is still smiling at him in a way nobody’s done in a long, long time. An image of his mother arises in the back of his mind, and something tightens in his chest; even though he’s done nothing to earn it, her eyes are full of acceptance and joy. Of course she wouldn’t be looking at him that way if she knew who he is, but that hardly matters. He know what he wants and what he’s prepared to suffer, and there is nothing missing in his plan. He’s outgrown the need for such affection long ago.

Still the cat form’s instincts make him lean into the touch, and he wants more of it, more, and the room seems so much colder and lonely when she withdraws her hand and turns her attention to the Senju.

“He’s a sweet cat,” she says, and just like that Madara’s opinion of her plummets. The Senju actually makes a sound that resembles a quick laugh.

“He’s a sad cat, I think.”

Madara hates them both.

火火火

The sky is beginning to turn pink when the Senju rises to accompany Mito out. He never makes it to the door. It’s pushed open so fast Madara is surprised the paper doesn’t tear. Or, for matter, that the door remains attached to the wall at all. Touka stops on the doorstep, one hand still on the door, the other pressed against her shoulder; blood is smeared all over her fingers. She sucks in a breath and words fall out of her mouth.

“He’s gone, Tobi-kun!”

She doesn’t need to specify whom she means. Something clenches in Madara’s gut, and the only things that keeps him from reacting is the inability to decide what’s made a bigger impact: the news Touka has just delivered or the fact she hasn’t come alone.

Standing is the corridor behind her is Nekobaa. 

Chapter Text

七

For a second, everything hangs in the air. Then he loses it. The growl that comes out of his body shocks even him, but there’s no time to be surprised. He gets past Touka in a heartbeat and jumps. Finally, finally his claws sink into flesh and the taste of blood spreads through his mouth. It tastes the same as the Senju’s blood did, but at the same time not the same, not the same, because the Senju took care of him while this woman cursed him, and the blood he spills now has the taste of satisfaction.

Voices speak up. He doesn’t pay attention to them. What matters are the hands that try to close around him and the skin he wants to destroy, so she’d know the same pain as him.

(And yet she wouldn’t—no one can feel so much pain—to have lost everything, to be tortured by a voice in his head that tells him to maim and to kill, and he does, he does because the dull pain in his insides retreats at least some when he fights for his life).

A hand catches him by the scruff, and he comes face to face with Nekobaa. Squirming doesn’t help him, so he tries hissing and clawing at the air. She only looks at him, though, and blinks very slowly, then does it again.

Madara feels the fight leaving his body. His mind is screaming that this is wrong, that he should be trying to cause as much harm as he can, yet his body is beginning to relax, convinced somehow, that she isn’t going to hurt him, and he finds himself blinking back.

Damn. Cat instincts messing with his brain again. He doesn’t want to calm down, but a part of him seems to believe that the woman present no threat.

Ridiculous, after what she’s done. On the other hand, perhaps she’s done all she wanted. If so, why is she here?

“Apologies,” the Senju says. “He has a bit of a temper. A special cat, this one. I’m quite sure, however, there is no cat you couldn’t handle.”

Nekobaa inclines her head towards the Senju. One of her hands comes to rest under Madara, supporting his hind paws and some of his weight.

“Quite right,” she says.

“You must excuse me.” Tension shows in the angle of Senju’s shoulders and the frown on his face. Madara’s tail twitches one way, then the other. “I need to talk to Touka in private. It will only take a few minutes.”

“Think nothing of it,” Nekobaa says. But he should, he really should because it seems he intends to leave Madara with her, and that won’t do at all. He meows as loud as he can. A familiar hand comes to rest on his head.

“Be good, cat. I’ll come get you. Nekobaa-sama, if you could keep an eye on him for a bit?”

“Go,” she says. Madara huffs. What is it with her agreeing and going along with everything the Senju says? She had no qualms about disagreeing with him, Madara, in Sora Ku. What's more, she tricked him, turned him into a cat, and the Senju should watch his back, really, before something happens to him.

Of course the idiot can’t hear Madara’s thoughts. Instead, he jerks his head down in lieu of a nod, turns and disappears down the corridor with Touka in tow. Madara sighs—it sounds strange, coming from this body. He waits for Nekobaa to do something, to say something, but she doesn’t. She keeps holding him in silence, so he settles for watching the door.

As promised, the Senju returns. His lips are pressed together tightly enough to turn even paler than usually, and his eyes are narrowed in a way Madara has come to associate with thinking. He takes Madara again and places him in the crook of his elboew. It was about time. Madara’s tail twitches as he climbs up to the Senju’s shoulder to wrap his body around the man’s neck. Strands of silvery white hair tickle his nose, and he sneezes. The sound is unbearably cute. He would really appreciate the earth opening and swallowing him up.

Without much talking, they reach the guest rooms near the hokage tower. The Senju stops in front of Mito’s room, arches an eyebrow when she doesn’t move. It gets him a firm stare in return. Stubborn, the Uzumaki woman. Hashirama’s perfect match, it seems; gods know that idiot needs someone to knock some sense into him. Perhaps then he would actually lead the village properly instead of throwing smiles and dreams left and right and leaving his brother to do the paperwork and clean up messes after him, and Madara to—well. Hashirama never let him to do anything after him, always wanting them to walk side by side even when Madara couldn’t. Can’t. The paths Hashirama walks are those of a visionary, an idealistic dreamer who pulls crowds to him and is surprised when they cheer as if he were entirely unaware of the magnetic power of his personality. Madara is no visionary. He wants and he fears, and those two had driven him in life until his fears came true and there was nothing to want anymore.

Except, of course, there is still something, there always is, and he still can’t walk by Hashirama’s side. He is shadows, and intimidation, and chaos, and he needs his own role in this show called Konoha. If the Senju can have one, can be where he’s needed and useful, then by the gods, there must a place Madara can fill if only Hashirama would stop pushing him into a mould that no longer fits.

Fingers scratch him behind the ear, and he feels tension he wasn’t even aware of leaving his body. A different room surrounds them, clean, minimalistic, with the scent of lotus flowers enriching the air. The wood doesn't creak underfoot yet; it is too new. No doubt Hashirama grew it. The Senju gestures at the table, the only piece of furniture aside the wardrobe that nearly blends in with the wall. Somebody has painted a koi pond onto another wall; the strokes are delicate and precise.

“Please,” the Senju says and kneels. He only continues after the women joined him. “Have you come to Konoha because of the presence my brother wrote about?”

Nekobaa nods. “My cats told me of a dark presence lurking in the streets, moving as if looking for something. It is troublesome. I could barely feel it, and other people sense nothing at all. Not even Lord hokage could find it. A few days ago, the presence left Sora Ku.”

A breath hitches in Madara’s throat. A dark presence that shinobi can’t sense. Was that what he noticed in Hiroki’s home? Are the Uchihas in danger?

He has to do something.

“You’ve come here in pursuit,” the Senju says.

“In search of the thing. From what ninja cats have told me, I came to the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Her gaze lands on Madara. He glares, drawing his lips backwards. Air caresses his teeth.

“Do you have reason to believe the presence will return?”

“It might.”

Silence reigns for a few moments, then the Senju speaks again. “That’s not the only reason for you visit, is it?”

Nekobaa narrows her eyes. Mito look from the Senju to her and back again, and the Senju lifts his chin just the slightest.

“Cats can sense it,” he goes on. “Uchihas are famous for their affinity for cats. Your allegiance is with the Uchiha clan, yet you come to me. Why?”

“Basic manners dictate I see the leader of the village.”

Another silence follows. Madara can feel the tension in the air, the crackling electricity of two shinobi measuring each other up.

“You’re a great liar,” the Senju says, “particularly because you never actually lie.”

Nekobaa laughs, and with it the tension breaks. “I’ve heard of the disarray within the Uchiha clan. I believe it unwise to turn to their elders when they are divided. They would either ignore me or try to win my favour and so the argument. I have no need of that. They need a strong leader, not an old woman.”

Madara holds back a snort lest it come out as some humiliating sound. As if the woman has any right to conclude what his clan needs. She caused this mess in the first place.

“That presence and the Uchihas … They’re connected. That’s why you’ve come.” He pauses. “What of Madara? He paid you a visit, didn’t he?”

“He did.”

“What did he want?”

Nekobaa rests her palms on her knees, and tension builds in Madara’s body. If she tells the Senju …

“Nobody knows.”

He can feel a change in the Senju’s energy, a slight irritation. “Madara does, for one.”

“No,” the old woman says. Madara leans forward. What nonsense is this now? “I think not even he knows what he truly wants. I am hoping, of course, that he might learn in time.”

The Senju doesn’t reply. Somewhere in the distance, a door opens and closes. Breathing echoes in Madara’s ear, and it takes a while before he realises it’s his own.

Abruptly, the Senju stands up, causing Madara to sink his claws into fabric and skin as he struggles to regain balance.

“Apologies. I must go now. Nekobaa-sama, Mito-hime. I’m sorry to ask this of you, but—”

“We’ll take care of Sparky,” Mito says, and Madara doesn’t like it one bit, doesn’t like the “we”, though if it’s because it includes Nekobaa or because he probably needs to be alone with her if he has any hopes of becoming human again, he doesn’t know.

“Thank you.”

Then he’s lifted up and put into gentle hands, but not a smooth as they seem—a kunoichi’s hands, hardened by the handling of weapons. The scent of flowers that’s always clinging to her grows stronger, still it remains pleasant even to his nose.

Mito places him in the crook of her elbow. Absolutely unacceptable. He starts wriggling to break free when a poof almost makes him jump.

He turns and barely catches a whiff of smoke in the air. The Senju is gone.

Strange. The flying thunder god is usually a completely silent technique.

“A corporeal clone,” Nekobaa says slowly as if she has to consider each sound. “Impressive.”

“He’s an inventor, Hashirama tells me.”

A pause. Madara manages to wriggle free and settles on the floor a few feet away. Inventor indeed. But the Senju is also a pathetic bureaucrat who hasn’t done anything but work and teach in the last weeks, and at least to Madara’s knowledge has no friends. Madara was more used to different younger brothers. Izuna was always spending time with this or that friend or talking about how little time training and fighting left for other things. In the earlier years, those things were usually treehouses and games. Later, they became girls. Madara was the one with no social life, the one who’d given up falconry years ago, who strove to stop the fighting so that Izuna could have his treehouse dreams.

“Nekobaa-sama? Excuse me, but …” Mito’s teeth graze her lower lip. “Is Madara-sama… unstable?”

Tension grips his body and his throat closes up. He isn’t, is he? Dissatisfied with everything, yes, haunted by Izuna’s death, and plagued by voices in his head. (It doesn’t matter if they’ve been quiet for a while. They come back, always.) And yet—he’s seen mad, and it’s definitely not him. Those shinobi, catatonic, muttering, seeing things—he’s none of them. He is none of that, and for the woman to insinuate it …

Nekobaa inclines her head, and a strange strangled noise escapes Madara’s throat. Tail twitching, he scans the room for a hiding place and finds none. He has to, though, he has to; his skin is itching and he wants to claw at it to get to that something lodged in his chest that threatens to suffocate him.

“Is that why Tobirama-dono dislikes him?”

No, no, it’s Izuna, everything goes back to Izuna—

“Hashirama mentioned it,” the Uzumaki woman adds quickly. “Tobirama-dono never …”

“Do not worry, my dear. I don’t blame you trying to understand the dynamics in the town. After all, you are to be married to the hokage.” Nekobaa’s eyes find Madara, who hisses back. He’s had enough of her and her tricks.

“I don’t know them too well, so I can’t say,” she continues, and Madara wants to cover his ears, but he can’t—he hates this body, the smallness, the weakness. “However, it might be simpler than you think. Madara is unpredictable. It’s quite common for someone who promotes rules and order to fear chaos. After all, chaos is abundant in wars.”

Mito doesn’t respond at first. If she does so later, Madara can’t tell—he curls up in a corner with his head hidden by his tail and paws. Growls come out of his throat and he can’t hold them back, but they help him tune out the world, so he stops trying in the end.

火火火

Somewhere amid the noise is a voice. “Hush now,” it says, and “calm down,” and “I apologise.” He curls up tighter and tries not to hear when she talks.

“It’s for your own good,” Nekobaa says, and “I did it to protect you,” and all he can think about is that he wants people to finally stop telling him what’s good for him, or what he wants, or what he should do. They’ve tried and failed, tried and failed again; nothing good has ever come out of it.

For his own good. Truly.

People have proven ignorant. Madara doesn’t believe her.

“Listen to me.” Firm, but the hands that touch him are soft. Instincts make him twitch away.

“Listen,” she says, “listen.” He keeps his gaze directed at the floor. If he looks at her, she’s going to do that calming trick again.

“This is important. I can’t tell you why just yet, and I can’t undo it yet either. I had to hide you, and this seemed to be the best way. You weren’t meant to end up in Konoha, of course. My cats were meant to guard you until I could come for you, but there were … complications. When I can, I will reverse the spell.”

He curls in on himself even more tightly, limbs sluggish and insides cold and heavy, wishing he could erase her words from his mind. He can’t.

He is a shinobi, second only to Hashirama in his abilities, so what did she have to protect him from?

火火火

The Senju comes to pick him up. Madara can’t say how much time has passed. The sky outside the window is dark, and his exhaustion runs bone-deep. Hungry for familiarity, he inhales the Senju’s scent, presses into the warmth of his neck, buries his head into the waiting palm. Closes his eyes. Not everything smells familiar—the scent of forest, of sweat, of other people—but the core is the same, and rubbing his cheek against the Senju’s skin a few times covers the foreign smells well enough.

The rhythmic up and down of the Senju’s steps calms him. Too soon he is placed onto the desk, right next to a neat pile of scrolls. Fingers scratch behind his ear.

“Hey, cat. All right?”

He sounds tired. For the first time since the Senju’s returned, Madara looks up at him. He seems unharmed. There is no blood; if there had been, Madara would have smelt it already. No other visible injury either. The circles under his eyes are more pronounced, and there is a tired drawl to his words, but tiredness is not a new look of the Senju. Still, some sleep would do him good.

The Senju sits down, intertwines his fingers and stretches his arms above his head. His exhale is deep and slow. His eyes narrow.

“Nekobaa-sama says you’re a very special cat. Just how special, I wonder ...”

He pats Madara on the head once. Then he scoots a feet or two further away from the desk and crosses his legs. His knees come to rest on the floor, and he takes a deep breath.

Preparation, but for what?

The Senju spreads his fingers and presses the tips to the floor. Another breath, and he closes his eyes.

Nothing happens on the outside, but Madara can feel the force like a wave washing over him. Chakra pours out of the man and spreads, spreads, spreads. What is the idiot trying to do? Let it run dry?

Sweat breaks out on his brow, and Madara meows. The Senju wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill himself by means of chakra exhaustion. Not that Madara would mind if he did, but, well, then he couldn’t kill him as revenge for Izuna …

After a few minutes, the Senju is panting, his face covered in sweat, and when the first blood oozes out of his nose, Madara moves. He pawns at the Senju’s knee first, at his trembling fingers, and finally sinks his claws into pale skin. It earns him a grimace, but nothing more. First droplets of blood fall from the Senju’s chin, and he sways.

What is the idiot doing? Something in Madara wants to grab the man by the shoulders and shake him until all the stupidity has left his body, until he snaps out of it and ceases this. He meows instead and keeps at it. A cough rattles through the Senju’s body, bringing blood with it. He sways again. Madara barely has time to scurry away before the Senju collapses like an empty sack.

Neither of them moves. The Senju is still breathing, but it’s ragged and strained as if every breath requires tremendous effort. Blood is trickling from his nose and smeared around the corner of his lips.

Madara meows quietly, then louder. Nothing. He comes closer, reaches out to paw at the Senju’s cheek. The tiniest amount of blood sticks to his paw, and he licks it off; the taste is oh so familiar, the smell even more so. Coppery. He licked the metal once, as a child, just to see if everybody was right in comparing the two. Now he doesn’t want to taste either.

There is nothing else he can do, so he curls up, paws folded under his chin, and closes his eyes. The Senju won’t die, that’s certain.

Later, he’s not so sure anymore.

He can’t sleep. The energy coming from the Senju is fetid. Soon, the man moves: muscles on his face contract into a frown, his head falls to one side and then the other. Sweat breaks out on his forehead, more and more. His movements increase but stay jerky, pained. Moans fall from his lip, moans and gasps.

Madara inches closer. He can feel the warmth radiating from the Senju's body now. Fever and dreams don’t mix well, that much he’s learnt early on. He’s still a cat, though, and there isn’t really much he can do. Even as human he wouldn’t be of much use: medical techniques have never been his strong suit. So he lies there, listening to broken whispers, and pleas, and mumbled words. “Mother,” he hears, “mother!” and “brother,” and “why?” “Please don’t,” and “I’m sorry, it’s my fault, I’m sorry,” more and more words that don’t make sense to him until he realises he’s shaking all over, so hard he has trouble relaxing his muscles enough to get up.

He’s got to do something or he’ll never get a chance to rest, so he forces himself to the bathroom. The smallest towel he can find is still big for him and awkward to drag around, but he manages. The tap is a bigger problem. It takes all of his strength and body weight and minutes of considerable effort to turn the knob. He drags the towel into the sink. Droplets end up on his fur. They’ll have to wait. Letting the water flow, he grabs the towel with his teeth and begins dragging it out of the bathroom.

It’s hard. The soaked fabric is heavier than he imagined it would be, and his muscles are burning by the time he's covered half the distance. A wet trail remains behind him.

Damn the Senju. He brought this on himself: why does Madara have to be the responsible one now?

Nevertheless, he manages to get the towel to the Senju and awkwardly bunch it up against his cheek. Actually dragging it onto his forehead seems too hard.

The cold seems to startle the Senju out of his delirium for a moment. His head lolls to the side like so many times before, but he makes a weak attempt at getting the towel: his hand moves halfway, then some more, but the most he manages is to loosely close his fingers around the fabric. Still those red eyes open a fraction, and if Madara could, he would arch his eyebrows. But then the Senju’s lips move, first without sound, then succeeding in forming words.

“I’m sorry,” the Senju says,  “really,” and Madara wonders who he sees in his place because surely he wouldn’t apologise to a cat (and why should he in the first place?), but the Senju’s gaze is clear for a moment and so sharp that he could as well be seeing to the deepest recesses of Madara’s soul. Then those red eyes close, and don’t open again. His cheeks are wet.

For a few seconds, Madara is completely still. Finally, he moves one paw and then the other. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing, not really, but the cat part of him is so certain it’s the right thing, the way he can help, that he doesn’t object. He curls up pressed against the Senju’s side and purrs.

Sometime later, when he can no longer feel the Senju shifting every other second and when the rise and fall of the man’s chest becomes more regular, his consciousness drifts.

火火火

Sunrays blind him as he opens his eyes again. There is a weight on his side, and warmth all around, and it takes him a moment to realise that the Senju is cured around him, one arm slung over Madara. Although an air of sickness still surrounds him, his breathing is slow and calm. Madara shifts and closes his eyes again.

The next time he wakes it’s to insistent knocking and footsteps and children’s voices.

“Tobirama-sensei!” The Sarutobi boy rushes forward. Koharu and Himura aren’t far behind.

“We need a medic,” the girl says as she places a hand on the Senju’s forehead. Madara hisses. She should be looking for someone more knowledgeable already, not squatting and looking worried. Besides, the worst is already over. Where were they before?

“What's wrong with him?” Homura asks, and Madara wants to slap him and the Senju both. The boy must be about ten; at this age, he should know. But then … These children have never seen people pushed to their limits in battle. There is also no reason why the Senju should be found suffering the consequences of chakra exhaustion in his room, so perhaps he hasn’t entirely failed as a teacher for neglecting to beat the symptoms into his pupils’ heads. At least they don’t waste any more time.

Madara has seen the two medic nins who come to get the Senju before though he doesn't know them by name. Senjus. Hardly a surprise, considering their versatility. An average Senju could probably heal about ten times better than an average Uchiha. When it comes to raw power, however …

He scurries away when one of them tries to touch him and watches them carry the Senju away from a safe distance. The children follow, and so Madara is left alone. Blessed peace.

A few hours later, he changes his mind. There is only so long he can spend on grooming himself. His water bowl is still have full, but he hasn’t eaten in a day. With the Senju gone, he isn’t likely to get any food either. Luckily the Sarutobi brat left the door ajar, or else Madara would probably have no option but to meow until somebody passed the room and heard him. Ugh.

He checks the kitchen first. As expected, all food is hidden from view (and his paws), so he makes for the exit.

The way seems longer now that he is a cat, but he could walk it blindfolded. The closer he gets to the Uchiha district, the stronger the smell of other cats becomes. Good. He needs them. If he understood cats in Sora Ku, he should be able to understand these as well. The Uchiha cats were always somewhere around, though they tended to avoid him, and he didn’t care to approach them either.

Will they know who he is now? Will they be willing to talk? Or will they perceive him as a threat as the cats in Sora Ku did?

Nobody stops him as he enters the territory. He stays on a lookout, but no cat is in sight, so he tries to follow the smells. There are many, hard to tell apart, if he manages to do so correctly at all.

Finally a large grey cat crosses his way. It smells feminine, buy Madara can’t be sure. He gets a glimpse of narrowed eyes, then the cat continues on its way. Not what he needs. So he opens his mouth and unlike when he meow at the Senju, he thinks of words and tries to shape them with his lips and hopes they will come out right in whatever language will be understood.

“I need some answers,” he tries to say and hears himself meow. Great. But he keeps going. “Do you know about Hiroki Uchiha? Allegedly a dark presence appeared around him.”

The cat stops and gives him a dead stare. “Are you stupid?” it says, its voice a tone that could be either female or male, so Madara remains none the wiser. But what matters right now is that the cat apparently understands him, and he can understand it.

The cat stares at him some more. Then it makes a step towards him and leans forward with the air of self-importance. “You ask the wrong questions, cub,” it says. “The presence has always been here.”

Chapter Text

八

The world lurches. Everything is askew, and his mind is reeling.

Always been here.

Are they a cursed clan, after all? Where, where did all their love come from then? The ties that held their families together? Are they damned despite it all?

Each breath drags through his throat indefinitely and still fails to fill his lungs. All the air in the universe couldn’t fill them now, and he gasps, gasps and shakes, the way he’s only ever done as a cat or a child, so young back then. It doesn't matter. The efficient shinobi part of his brain forces him to use the opportunity and speak regardless of what's going on in his body. “What … What does that presence do?”

“Nothing to us.” The cay sits down, curling its tail around its front paws. It keeps on leaning forward. “The humans. They become different. Aren’t smart enough to avoid it, so they become strange.”

“Strange how?” The question is little more than a breath, filled with dread of the answer.

The cat cocks its head and blinks once, a slow, dragged-out movement. “Wait until the real leader comes back. You’ll see what I mean. It’s all over him, that darkness.”

He feels trapped. The world continues to spin under him, but he’s frozen, his insides are frozen, dead from the cold, yet pulsing with pain in the rhythm of his heartbeat.

He sucks in a breath. Thud thud thud. Blood echoes in his ears. His body moves, one paw in front of the other. The cat calls something after him, but he breaks into a run and doesn’t stop until he’s back in that familiar room. He curls up on the Senju’s pillow because he can and waits for his panting to stop. His heart keeps on pounding. Slowly, slowly, the sounds inside him calm to a steady rhythm. Slowly he closes his eyes.

The rational part of his brain takes control. It doesn’t matter that the cat form makes him succumb to emotions and display weakness. He is still a shinobi. Taking things in and processing the information is what he’s wired to do. Acting based on the situation at hand. Pieces fall into place, and a picture begins to form in his mind.

Whatever the presence surrounding Hiroki is, it used to follow him, Madara. Nekobaa’s cats must have alerted her to it. The ritual she used to turn him into a cat must have worked: she hid him, otherwise cats would still feel the same darkness around him. And if she could hide him, it means the presence is more than a curse. It must be sentient. It must be able to move, it may even have an agenda.

He doesn’t like the implications of that at all. He’s never noticed the presence in his life, and he’s not acting any differently now, not by much anyway, so perhaps it can’t influence him. Or perhaps it was dormant, waiting. With Hiroki, though… Even the Senju noticed a change in him.

Madara uncurls. Somethings is happening, and it needs to be stopped, and right now, the Senju may just be the person closest to figuring it out. He, or Nekobaa, or both, but probably the Senju. He’s always been a smart bastard. Of course, everything would become clear much faster if Madara could talk, but … If he were human, or even if he found a way to communicate as a cat, the Senju wouldn’t want to listen to him anyway. Such a wasted chance, really.

Regardless, he gets up to leave the room. The Senju isn’t home yet, which means he must still be at the hospital. And whatever he would do if he knew his cat was Madara doesn't matter, because he doesn’t know, and Madara doesn’t want to be alone in an empty room until he goes mad or starves, and he is allowed to be selfish sometimes.

By the time he finds the Senju, he’s tired and hungry. Even breaths tell him the man’s asleep. He jumps onto the bed and curls up in the space between the Senju’s neck and shoulder. It’s not the first time he’s had to go hungry, nor is it likely to be the last. Ignoring it is still easy at this point. Besides, sleep will make him forget.

It does.

火火火

Madara wakes the next morning to dim light, heavy clouds, and familiar red eyes greeting him as he stretches. 

“Hey, you.” Pale lips curve a bit. They lack colour even more than they usually do. “I heard you came here after me. You really are strange.” A pause, a minute shake of the head. “Thank you.”

Fingers scratch behind Madara’s ears, and he finds a comfortable position on the Senju’s chest.

Time becomes lazy. It stretches and grows slow, but most of all, it calms down. Madara soaks in the warmth of the Senju’s body, the softness and the firmness of his touch, the quiet hiss of his exhales. Every now and then, the Senju shifts. When they bring him food, he shares it and pours water onto the empty plate for Madara to drink. Madara takes a few short trip outside to empty his bladder and to give the Senju the privacy to do the same (he knows the unpleasantness of not being able to get up and the awkwardness that follows. Besides, he has no desire whatsoever to watch). Other than that, minutes pass on the edge between wakefulness and sleep and vague, fleeting thoughts of appreciation.

Towards the evening, the sky clears. The door opens to admit Mito; he can tell by the smell and later, by her voice. She and the Senju talk in hushed voices, and Madara should probably care, should open his eyes and observe, but he doesn’t. He’s half asleep, and comfortable, and not alone, and for a few stolen hours, he gets to forget the rest of the world.

火火火

After that, the Senju recovers quickly. He’s up and about the next day, in the office the day after that. Touka comes and goes, her exchanges with the Senju always too quiet for Madara to catch. Regardless, he is nearly certain they talk about Hiroki. Why else would they try so hard to not be overheard? Mito comes once, too, and so does Nekobaa, taking the Senju with her and leaving Madara alone. Not for long, but it’s enough for restlessness to show its ugly teeth. The questions are quiet at first. In the end, his mind is screaming. What does that presence want? What has it done to Hiroki? Where has it taken him, to what end? And what, what is it?

He wants to talk to the Senju. Something is coming, his instincts say. He has nothing to back up the statement with, but something is coming, and it’s going to be bad.

At night, he lies at the edge of the Senju’s futon, next to the man’s shoulder, and watches him stare at the ceiling with a frown on his face. It makes him want to yell at the Senju, because the man needs to sleep to preserve energy for the storm up ahead.

Then again, perhaps he’s wrong. Nothing has happened yet, no news have reached them. It’s entirely possible that the absence of events puts him on edge (silence during war can mean many things, after all). At other times, though, he’s convinced the Senju can feel it too. His nightmares escalate; when he sleeps, he tosses and moans, and more often than not, Madara hits him awake. He disappears into the bathroom, and there is always the sound of running water, always the water, and pale skin rubbed raw.

On the third night, the skin between the Senju’s forefinger and middle finger cracks open. The man licks off the blood. He doesn’t move. Then he does, slowly, and gets up, unrolls empty scrolls over the desk, and starts drawing seals. Madara knows the drill, although his routine is somewhat different. Kunai, shuriken, water. Food pills. Some he recognises, some he doesn't. Exploding tags and light bombs, what looks like a medical kit, even the Senju’s sword. A whole arsenal of weapons neatly hidden in a few scrolls in preparation for war. Madara has been right then.

The Senju places his scrolls into a pouch alongside a few kunai. He disappears into the bathroom. When he returns, a small jar is half hidden in his palm. Madara notices a hint of blue inside.

Pills.

The Senju takes two. Within five minutes, he's asleep. Madara curls up next to him. This body doesn’t need help falling asleep, but once he’s back to his usual self, he has to find out what’s inside that jar.

The pills hold until early morning. The grass outside is still covered with dew when the Senju makes it to the training grounds, Madara draped around the backside of his neck and hidden by the fur. Six pairs of eyes in various degrees of tiredness meet them and grow more or less disappointed when the Senju has them work on their stamina. Foolish. Sometimes, endurance means the difference between life and death; they should be grateful. On the other hand, he’s never seen the Senju train. Surely he isn’t neglecting his own practice. Perhaps he’s simply never taken Madara along. A cat would likely hinder him (though the thought of observing the Senju, of studying his techniques and movements, is appealing).

The Senju sits down in his usual spot and observes. He only speaks to correct his students’ form.

“They’re doing great,” somebody says. “You should praise them more.”

Both of them turn around.

“Mito-hime.”

“Hello.” She smiles, reaches up towards what little of Madara is visible, and strokes his paw once. Then her hand retreats.

“Hahirama should reach Konoha today, perhaps early tomorrow.”

“I’m glad, but I didn’t come just for news.” She turns her head towards the students. Hiruzen is watches her right back until Kagami swipes his legs from under him and says something about Tobirama-sensei and not telling them to stop.

The kid makes a decent Uchiha despite his weird liking of the Senju.

“I’ve heard you’re a good teacher.”

The Senju shrugs. Madara can tell from the way he hunches his shoulders just a bit, from the shifting of his weight, that he’s uncomfortable.

“You enjoy teaching, don’t you? Hashirama’s told me once you had plans for a school. You could teach.”

“I’ll probably try to establish a police force first. When Madara gets back. Uchihas would run it well, I think.” A hand comes up to scratch Madara; he presses into the touch. “I want a second opinion first, though.”

“A ninja police?”

The Senju nods. “A divide of power would prevent its abuse. Hashirama is the hokage: he has a council that advises him, but ultimately, he makes the choices. He makes the rules. We need somebody to reinforce those rules, however, since my brother cannot do everything and be everywhere.” He pauses. “I want the police to ensure people comply with the rules. Equally important, I want them to make sure Hashirama obeys the rules. Still, the suggestion would stir trouble… With Madara on the coucil—”

Mito’s eyes light up. “A mutual system of control. That could—”

The Senju holds up his hand. Madara feels muscles tense under him, feels the motion of breathing stop. Then the Senju drops down into a squat and presses two fingers to the ground. He sucks in a breath before quickly steadying the next one and the next.

“Tobirama-dono?”

“A tailed beast. Heading for Konoha. At this rate, we have approximately until nightfall.” He straightens in an abrupt motion; Madara presses against his neck in the attempt to remain on the Senju’s shoulders. He can feel blood pumping under the pale skin, fast, in sharp contrast with his calm demeanour.

“Hiruzen, Danzo,” he says, his voice clear and sharp, “notify the council. Kagami, Torifu, tell your clans. Koharu, Himura, report to Touka. I want the village evacuated before nightfall. I’ll meet with the council shortly. Go.”

They scatter without a word. For a second, the rustling of leaves is the only sound.

“You’ll face the beast if it comes.”

“When it comes. Hiroki Uchiha is with it. There’s no doubt about their destination.”

“You don’t want the council to know.” Mito cocks her head. Her eyes are full of thoughts. “Why?”

“Because there is enough mistrust in the village as it is, and I suspect Hiroki might not be doing this out of his own free will. Though how he managed to get the beast to do his binding, I do not know. Even if the sharingan could enable him to do that … If anyone could do it, it would be Madara. Hiroki may be powerful, but he’s certainly not Madara.”

He pauses. Madara shifts. It’s ... odd. The Senju isn’t supposed to think about the reputation of Uchihas. He isn’t. He shouldn’t figure things out, he shouldn’t care, shouldn’t acknowledge Madara’s power for reasons other than to fear him, and yet—breathing comes easier. If nothing else, the Uchiha clan likely won’t get blamed for whatever is coming. Of course Madars used to want them to leave with him, but to be thrown out of the village forcefully, to be made enemies while the Senju clan would keep their allies, would destroy them.

He wants the clan to be safe, and if the Senju can keep them safe, then, by the gods, he wants the Senju to survive, even if it means never avenging Izuna. After all … Izuna wanted Madara to protect the clan. Perhaps Konoha isn’t as grave of an insult to his memory as Madara thought. If only he could bury the guilt now, wash the blood off his hands—

A voice startles him out of his thoughts.

“I’ll come with you,” Mito says.

The Senju nods once. Her eyes widen.

“You won’t try to stop me? My father would never allow me to be anything but the last line of defence.”

“I could use a sealing master.” The Senju speaks slowly as if he only has half the attention to spare for the words his tongue is shaping. “And I’ll have Hashirama to protect you.”

Her eyes go wider still, eyebrows forming arches. “He won’t be back so soon.”

“I’ll get him when he’s close enough. I know a technique. A little luck would help us, of course, but at this rate, he should be just about fast enough.”

Mito’s eyes return to normal. She shakes her head with a small smile upon her lips. “I suppose I should stop letting your arsenal of techniques surprise me. Who taught you all that?”

“We were at war,” he says. “I invented it.”

火火火

The Senju stays away from the village. Madara suspects he’s avoiding a possible confrontation with the council. Which, if he’s honest, is both understandable and appreciated: his cat ears are too sensitive to handle all the shouting that would ensue. He uses the time to stretch his muscles (there is only so long he can spend draped around the Senju’s neck no matter how warm or how comfortable the white fur is) and groom himself. No wonder he spends all the time hidden from view—his fur is growing back with the speed if a lame snail, and the short patches stand out in a way that makes his insides burn. Still, wind feels fresh on his skin and the outside offers a sense of freedom. If he wanted to, he could leave anytime. But where else is there to go? For better or for worse, Konoha is his home.

He stretches again and walks through the grass to the Senju’s hand. Two fingers are pressed to the earth, as they have been most of the time, motionless like the rest of the man.

Madara rubs against the Senju’s wrist. He can feel tension rolling off him, but even without his cat senses, there would still be plenty of signs to read. The tightness around the Senju’s mouth. The way he pulls his shoulders towards his ears just the slightest as if he were trying to hide in his fur. Perhaps he is. The fur, the face guard … They both do a rather good job.

He turns his face towards the last rays of the sun. The sky is dressed in hues of purple and gold, and shadows have grown impossibly long. Slowly, the Senju turns his head towards Madara.

“It’s time. Come. I’ll take you home.”

A growling sound comes from deep within Madara’s throat. He is not leaving. Something is out there, manipulating his clanmates and tearing the clan apart, perhaps even fuelling their dislike of him, and he’s already decided—if there is nothing else for him, he can still protect his clan. Honour Izuna.

Izuna.

A pang of pain squeezes his insides, there and gone in an instant. Familiar.

“You can’t come.” The Senju presses his lips together and places his palm on Madara’s head. It obscures his vision completely. “Hashirama will murder me if anything happens to you. And then proceed to mope for the rest of his life. Nobody wants to deal with that.”

Madara growls again, shakes his head. An idiot Senju won’t stop him, especially not with empty threats. Hashirama has no reason to care so much for a stray he picked up half dead and took care of for a couple of days. Animals die. Besides, Hashirama is a shinobi. (Except somehow he’s never seemed to grasp what that means or let him stop it from acting like his usual hyperactive ball of goof prone to depression bouts and obsessed with world peace. The world should be grateful that he is the one with the capacity to use wood style and not some more serious ninja. The thought of the Senju possessing Hashirama’s gift is ... unsettling.)

“Fine.” The Senju holds out his arm, and Madara climbs to his usual spot. “Let’s find Hashirama then.”

火火火

The flying thunder god is as unpleasant as ever. Seeing Hashirama’s face is not much better; his mouth gapes open, his eyes go wide, and his hair sticks to his cheeks in an entirely unflattering way.

“T-tobirama!”

“Anija.” The Senju places his hand on Hashirama’s shoulder. “We’re on a tight schedule.”

“So that chakra … It is a tailed beast?”

“Must be.”

“Why would it attack Konoha then?”

“Anija.”

“We’ve done nothing to anger them, have we? Tobirama, have you—”

“Anija. Shut up.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when the Senju whisks them away. A familiar room materializes around them. Hashirama stumbles. Arms reach out to steady him, and he turns around, coming face to face with Mito. Redness spreads over his cheeks. He squeaks, “Mito!” and moves backwards, stumbling again, and falls flat.

Laughter bubbles up in Madara’s throat—and comes out as a purr. He feels the vibration in his body, yet before he can move in surprise, fingers come up to scratch his head.

Hashirama picks himself from the floor and steps towards the Senju. “Is that out cat?” His eyes lighten up. “You carry him around? I knew you’d grow to like him!”

“It’s purely for practicality reasons, I assure you.” The Senju’s voice is dry, but the fingers behind Madara’s ears are gentle.

“Can I hold him?”

The hopeful look in Hashirama’s eyes makes Madara want to punch him.

“He’s comfortable where he is.” The Senju takes hold of Hashirama's head with his free hand and turns it to face Mito. “You should pay attention,” he says, ignoring Hashirama’s yelp. Mito gives him a little wave. She’s dressed for a mission: short dark green kimono, thighs, satchels with weapons. The tags usually hanging from her buns are gone.

Hashirama’s gaze slides down her body before he quickly brings in back to her face.

“Listen,” the Senju says. “We don’t have much time.” His description of the situation is brief and to the point. If only more shinobi were this efficient … Madara has never managed to keep emotions in check for long enough to do it despite knowing they make him seem unprofessional. Shinobi don’t have emotions, everyone knows that. Except somehow they all do, and they feel them with a sharpness that leaves scars. People who can keep their calm are rare, and even they crack sooner or later. The Senju may be ice cold sometimes, but … Madara curls up tighter around his neck and thinks of running water and whimpers and glassy eyes.

They are all broken things, every single one of them.

“Everything clear?” the Senju asks. “Anija, this is your opportunity to get supplies. We meet in front of your room.”

Hashirama nods and leaves. Mito follows him, falling into step. The Senju looks after them for a few moments. Then he reaches for Madara and lifts him out of the fur. Colder air envelops Madara’s body; he shakes on impulse.

“All right.” The Senju places him onto his desk. “You wait here. If anything goes wrong, Nekobaa-sama will take care of you.”

No. A growl breaks free from his throat. No. He will not be left behind. The same force that used to lurk around him is manipulating Hiroki and trying to attack Konoha for whatever reason it has, and he will not stand aside when he might have a chance to stop it.

“That wasn’t a question. You’re staying here. I told you Hashirama will have my hide if you get hurt. And you’re a cat. You will get hurt.”

He growls again, and this time, the sounds keep on coming. Does the Senju think he can’t be careful on a battlefield?

“You are awful,” the Senju grinds out, but he places Madara back onto his fur. “Just remember: If you get killed, I’ll murder you myself.”

Chapter Text

九

The Senju staggers.

Madara feels the jostling movement of quick steps as the Senju rights himself, feels the sharp intake of breath, and his own lungs suddenly feel tighter. No doubt transporting two additional people and a cat is tasking, but it shouldn’t be enough to tire out the Senju so much. It wouldn’t be, he thinks, if the fool didn’t bring about his own chakra exhaustion a few days prior. Why did he do that? Was he looking for Hashirama? Waiting for a tailed beast? If so, how could he have known? No … That would take too much guesswork. Perhaps he was trying to find Hiroki? Most importantly, how is he planning to fight now?

Mito and Hashirama don’t seem to notice anything is amiss, which is both logical and somewhat strange. But to be fair, they are preoccupied with the massive load of chakra heading their way.

Madara can feel the enormity of it right to his bones. Nothing he’s ever encountered has possessed this much power. He may be strong himself, but for a moment, he is so very aware of his vulnerability that it takes his breath away; there are no words, no words in the world that could express how insignificant his existence must be to the universe.

Then they see it.

The Senju has chosen the position well; they’re on a ledge not too far from a lake. It serves as a vantage point and grants them the advantage of height, though Madara suspects it won’t matter for long.

The beast is enormous, a mass of orange fur, claws, and tails that lick through the air like flames. Its eyes glow in the dusk, two narrow slits of red, sharp and yet dull at once. It sniffs the air once, twice, holds still for a moment. Slowly, it turns its head towards them, and its lips curl up to reveal pointed fangs, coated in saliva. Without thinking, Madara bares his teeth as well. He can feel his fur standing on ends. The Senju’s hand appears out of nowhere and rests on his side for a second or two before it disappears again.

It's then when he sees him. Hiroki is a dark speck against the sea of orange underneath his feet, and his skin looks deathly pale. Too pale, even for someone with the classical Uchiha coloration. Something's not right ...

He meows, a short sound coming from the back of his throat. The Senju doesn't move a muscle, and Madara presses against him as the fox comes closer and stops, and although they're looking down on it, it's close enough Madara can smell its breath when it turns its snout towards them. Not even his human nose would have been immune.

But there is something else, too. He can feel it again, that presence, and he nudges the Senju with his snout, does it again and once more. Whatever is going on, it's connected to that, it has to be. Hiroki should have no reason to guide a tailed beast to the village. Madara has thought of it before, a few times in the wee hours of the morning after yet another sleepless night when he couldn't stop seeing Izuna with bandaged eyes and hurting all over. This village is a betrayal of everything Izuna fought for, and if there is a chance seeing it go down in flames might purge Madara of his guilt ... But Hiroki—no. Too conformist, too invested in peace. The losses of war never touched him so deep. How is it possible, to lose and still live and love? It’s different for the Uchihas, he remembers some people saying. Their emotions are like the fire they breathe—they burn and burn, and all that remains when they pass are ashes and barren land. And yet there have always been exceptions like Hiroki, like that boy, Kagami, like Madara's mother …

Whatever is happening makes very little sense. Hiroki won't profit from attacking Konoha, not with a newborn child in the village, and he has no quarrel with Hashirama. It must be something else.

"Hiroki-san!" Hashirama yells. A part of Madara wouldn't mind if he just attacked, no questions asked. After all, this is the man who tried to get Madara proclaimed a missing nin mere days ago. But another part wants to know what is happening.

Hiroki doesn't reply. His hands form a seal, and the fox roars, lunges forward. Hashirama clasps his hands in front of him, and Madara can feel the Senju already forming seals, and then—nothing.

Hiroki's legs give way. He crumples together like an empty sack, pale and trembling. The fox stops and the haze begins to lift from its eyes.

Hashirama makes to dash forward. Only the Senju's grip on his collar stops him from jumping.

"Anija. Look."

A black mass rises seemingly from nowhere, wraps itself around Hiroki like a second skin, and settles on one half of his body. This. This is it, Madara knows, and he meows and doesn't stop, because this is the presence he couldn't pinpoint, and it’s right there and finally visible.

The Senju's hand comes to cover him, and he thinks he hears the man say "I know," but he's not sure—a black bomb erupts from the fox's snout. A moment later, the cliff underneath them shatters.

The heat and the power are overwhelming. He buries his claws into the fur around the Senju's neck, presses his face against skin to protect himself. He hears rocks crumble and the Senju groan, and it takes so long for everything to settle, but eventually it does.

Strange. Why give them time to recover?

He finally dares to look up only to find the fox looming above them. Debris us everywhere. He can see Hashirama and Mito to the right, apparently unharmed. Hashirama's power is useful for something after all.

"What is your goal?" the Senju raises his voice. "What do you need Hiroki for?"

Laughter is the first response he gets, mirthless and unnatural.

"You're the clever one, aren't you?" The thing moves, using Hiroki's body. It jumps off the fox and lands with a thud. "You weren't meant to see me, but you would have known anyway, would you not? It's true, I had this fool bring Ninetails here. But he is too weak. All of them are so weak ..."

"Let him go!" Hashirama yells. The thing laughs again, and Hashirama's hands rise to form a familiar seal. Just a moment, and a forest will burst from the ground like so many time before …

"Wait." Mito pushes his hands downwards. Her eyes are lowered at Hiroki. "Wait. What are you?" she asks.

"I am my mother's will. You may call me Black Zetsu. Of course that information will be meaningless to you. You know nothing about me. I, on the other hand, know of you.

You see, I'm an observer. This here … Well, I wouldn't want you to walk away today."

Madara feels his hackles rise even more. This can't happen. Who will defeat it then? Who will protect the village, the Uchihas, if they fall? If only he could do something ... It would be so easy if he could only get his real body back. All he’d have to do would be to take control of the fox ...

"We forced your hand, didn't we?" the Senju says.

"You give yourself far too much credit, Tobirama Senju."

At least, Madara thinks, credit should be given where credit is due—the Senju shows no sign of surprise that Black Zetsu knows him by name.

"You were completely insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Now, your brother... Ah, but things have changed." Zetsu's shapeless mouth stretches into a grin. "I have been waiting for millennia. All those generations, all the effort, and no one was ever quite strong enough."

"Until now," the Senju grinds out, and Madara knows what the answer will be before he hears it.

"Yes. Until now. I knew it practically the moment they were born. Your brother here, and Madara."

"Tobirama, what is he—"

The Senju holds up his hand. He probably doesn't know either what all this is about, but at least if the Zetsu keeps talking, they might find out.

"Hashirama is a fool," the things goes on. "Even now, ignorant, innocent, too enthusiastic. But Madara—he was perfect from the beginning, I made sure of that."

What? The cat told him there had always been a presence about him, but what does this mean, made sure?

"And you can't let all the hard work go to waste."

Zetsu crosses Hiroki's arms. "You mock me, Senju, but I've done more than you could even imagine. Ever since he was a child, I've groomed him to become who he is. I will not wait for another millenium to be reunited with Mother!"

"You would have had Madara do this." The Senju gestures at the fox, and something inside Madara clenches. He's considered it before. A few years down the line, no, a few months, and he may very well have done it.

"Of course. He is powerful enough. He has enough hatred. He was a visionary, you see, but those become the most bitter of men. Take from a child all he holds dear, and he will destroy himself."

Take.

Take.

What does he mean with take? It was war that killed his brothers, war and his own weakness and stupidity. So why use the word take? Zetsu couldn't possibly...

He only notices how rigid he's become when the Senju presses his fingertips into the knots around Madara's spine.

"You can hardy call yourself an observer," he says, "if you pulled all the strings."

Zetsu laughs. "Nobody's ever noticed. You wouldn't believe how easy it is to whisper into someone's ear or to change some old writing on a stone ... To ensure a child is dead. That brother of his, he listened so eagerly. Can't trust the Senju, I'd tell him, and lo and behold, he would not."

Madara's blood goes cold. Zetsu can't be referring to Izuna, he can't be. If Madara has been manipulated, he can live with it, but if Zetsu has done something to his family …

But then, what could he have done that would be worse than Madara's failure, than the blood on his hands? He can still see it, his own eyes in his hands, curses spilling from his lips because logic and medicine failed him, and it's all his fault. He could have accepted Hashirama's offer, and Izuna would have lived. He could have refused Izuna's offer, and Izuna would have lived.

But he did none of that, and his brother's death is on him. No matter how he hated the Senju, he'd always hated himself more.

It burns. He can never wash the blood of his kin off his hands.

"Madara performed splendidly," Zetsu goes on. "I made sure he was left with only one sibling. He's a fool. Nothing he wouldn't do, no wish of his brother's that he wouldn't fulfil, no matter how stupid. I barely had to do anything in the last few years. I’d changed the Uchiha tablet long ago. All there is to do now is to watch him destroy himself."

"If you find him, that is," the Senju says. The sound seems to be coming from somewhere far away. The air is too thin.

"I will have your help."

There is a pause. Madara can feel each breath drag through his throat as he struggles to suck them in.

"Did you know," Zetsu drawls then, "that Izuna's wound was never fatal? Ah"—he chuckles—"you did. But you"—he points at Hashirama now—"you did not. Tsk, tsk, such brothers you are. Of course, Izuna believed he was dying. It's why he gave Madara his eyes. Most people thought he took them by force, but that was only an added bonus. I admit, I used a few tricks to ensure Izuna's body didn't accept Madara's eyes in turn ... It was only a matter of time before Izuna died. Awful, don't you think, to look into the eyes of the person you killed every day. He must—"

But Madara never hears what he must or must not. He can't breathe, and there is only one thing on his mind, and that is to sink his claws into the black creature and tear it apart until there is nothing else.

Just.

One.

Thing.

The next he knows, he's running. There's a fire inside him threatening to tear him apart, and if he could, he would scream, and perhaps he does, in whatever way he can in this body, because the rage and the pain are too much—

He sees the movement too late. One giant paw rushing towards him in various shades of orange and red. Claws as sharp as blades. No. No no no nononono—

The smell of blood hits him hard, and for a moment, that's the only thing he can process. He waits for the end, but it doesn't come. Only the dull ache of an impact is there, the heaviness that comes with it, the pounding in his head. He's enveloped in darkness and warmth. Something solid is pressed against his side.

Then he feels the ground tremble. Slowly, his brain starts to connect the dots, and he opens his eyes. Most of his vision is covered with blackness—fabric, it seems. Past it, he can see an enormous green canopy stretched across the sky, and for the first time in far too long, he finds comfort in the trees.

Hashirama can stand his ground. He's an idiot and a dreamer, utterly impossible, an old wound that may never quite heal, but he won't be defeated so easily. Konoha will be protected.

A breath passes his lips. The blackness lifts from his vision, and a hand rests on his head, so familiar by now.

He inhales the scent of blood again. How long has he wanted to see it spilled? Now, he doesn't want to look. It seems easy, with a forest all around him and Hashirama handling the fight, to just lie there. But he can't. So he climbs from under the Senju's hand and onto the man's shoulder to see the damage: a pool of blood, broken armour, shredded clothes. Not the disaster he's been fearing, though. If the hit landed fully, it would have probably taken the last brother from Hashirama. Perhaps then he and Madara would be even.

And yet. And yet.

It's not decided yet. Somebody needs to stop the bleeding before it's too late, and he sure as hell can't do it. Damn it all.

Perhaps the Senju could heal himself?

Madara jumps back to the ground, nudges the man's cheek with his muzzle, once, twice.

Red shows behind pale lashes. He nudges at the Senju's hand instead, willing healing chakra to appear. And slowly, slowly, the Senju drags his hand to his back. Something cold inside Madara's lungs thaws. As the adrenalin in his veins begins to subside, exhaustion makes his body go weak, and he curls up, head pressed against the Senju's neck. It might be instincts, it might be something else—as if on its own, soft purrs rumble deep in his throat. Every ragged breath the Senju takes reverberates inside him, making him purr louder.

He closes his eyes.

Somewhere, at the edge of his awareness, he hears the sounds of fighting. Then, silence. Careful footsteps. One last thought before everything fades out.

How did the Senju get to him so fast?

火火火

He wakes to the sense of wrongness and disorientation, a pounding headache, and a dull ache in the right side of his body. The stench of blood is gone and so is the warmth. Fabric is touching his skin, and when he opens his eyes, his vision is all wrong. It's too dark, his surroundings too indiscernible.

“Madara.”

The word is spoken softly, and he turns towards the source of the sound. The place—a room, he realises, his room—is bathed in soft candlelight that falls on the walls and casts shadows on Nekobaa’s face.

He jerks upright. The motion makes his head spin and his hair fall over his shoulders and—oh, oh. Hair. For a moment, Nekobaa’s presence fades into the background as he holds his hands up to his face. Then rage swells up inside him. Exhaustion is the only thing that keeps him from leaping at the woman.

Well. Perhaps.

He balls his hands into fists instead. Then he forces himself to suck in a deep breath. Release. Another breath.

“Do not exert yourself,” Nekobaa says.

That does it. He’s on his feet in a blink of an eye—and back on the floor in the next, clutching his midriff. He realises two things. One, motion makes his insides turn on themselves. Two, under a thin sheet, he’s very, very naked.

“Witch,” he snaps as he attempts to breathe through the sickness.

“Get over yourself,” she tells him. “You must know what was happening by now.”

He bares his teeth but says nothing. She is right, after all. He’s heard enough to put the pieces together, and from what he can tell, she was ultimately trying to look out for him, though her methods were rather questionable.

“You turned me into a kitten,” he points out lest he spend too much time considering that perhaps, just perhaps, he ought to thank her. But then again, he almost died a few times, so that must make them even. “Without a word of explanation.”

“I apologise.” The old lady inclines her head. “At the time, I did not know enough. I had to act quickly. You needed to be hidden, and hidden well.”

“What of Zetsu? What happened to it?” To Hashirama and Mito?

“I’ve been told all is well. Zetsu and the Ninetails were both sealed away. Hiroki-san is well.”

“And—” The Senju. He bites his tongue. But he needs to know.

“Tobirama-san is all right as well.”

“What do I care,” he mutters out of principle. Nekobaa raises an eyebrow in a way that reminds Madara of his mother entirely too much. Not in a good way, either. It was the look that always let the children know she saw right through them.

“That’s something you must clarify for yourself,” she says. “I believe you’ll want some privacy now. When you’re ready, Hiroki-san would like to see you.”

She rises to her feet but Madara’s words make her halt.

“Tell me something.”

“Yes?”

“In Sora-Ku …” He pauses. There is no easy way to ask this—he hates mentioning his own weakness in any way. “I woke up in the streets,” he says at last. “Why?” Why did she not keep him in her home? Why did she toss him out like a broken kunai?

“I had my cats take you out. Zetsu followed you into my home, but couldn’t enter the ritual room. He was still lurking around when it was finished. Sooner or later, he would have realised what happened if I walked out of that room with a kitten. Now, there may be only one entrance I can use, but there are other ways for cats to come and go. Any contact me or mine would have had with you too soon could lead him back to you, and all would have been for naught.

“When the Senju brothers found you, they came looking for me first.”

He frowns. “I heard them talk of taking me to Konoha.”

“It’s not too surprising that they should try and find someone who could take care of you in Sora-Ku first. Of course I had to pretend to be unavailable, but you were taken care of and about to be taken out of town.”

He doesn’t say anything. What she’s saying is logical enough, just as his silence should show his agreement well enough.

“Make no mistake.” Nekobaa straightens, and with candlelight dancing over her features, she suddenly seems ancient. “I do not regret what I did, nor do I need to ask for forgiveness. However, I am sorry for the pain that I caused you.”

He swallows the knot that tightens in his throat. “Are you staying in Konoha?”

She shakes her head. “I must return to Sora-Ku. I have my cats to take care of and you have a village to run. Good luck, Madara-kun.”

He watches as she nods at him and leaves the room. Only when the door closes behind her does he murmur, “Farewell.”

Chapter Text

十

He spends the next two days in the privacy of his rooms with no food or bath. The room opens to the back garden, and so he sits by the door, moving only to drink out of the fountain or relieve himself. His eyes follow the clouds by day and the stars by night, and though no particular thoughts occupy his him, he can practically feel his mind struggling to process everything that happened. He's exhausted, and hollowed out, and feels as though he's caught in a limbo with no future and no past.

On the second night, tears come. After years and years, he howls into the fist he pressed over his mouth. A fire burns behind his eyes, almost as if his tears are not tears at all but poison trickling out of his system.

He'd been used and used again, and in the end, he almost turned on the one thing he had left. Everything was his fault and yet not his fault at all. His family. Izuna. It's too much.

Dawn finds him curled up in a ball by the door. A sheen of tears and sweat covers his skin, and the yukata he put on two days ago clings to his body. He's filthy and exhausted and hungry to the point of sickness, but the air fills his lungs so, so easily.

He falls asleep sitting up. There are no voices in his head.

He rises with dawn, shakes the stiffness out of his muscles, and finally leaves the room.

Impatient, he draws himself a bath, fetches a bucketful of water and a cloth to wash himself first, and strips. It's then that his gaze slides over his biceps and stays there. A dark mark is clearly visible against the background of his skin, a collection of black lines that resemble a tattoo. Where has that come from?

A memory of the Senju's hand on his paw comes to mind. The warm tingling sensation of chakra.

Madara laughs against his will. The sound is coarse and rattles through his throat. This must be the Senju's flying thunder god. That's how he got to Madara fast enough. Oh, the irony, that the same technique that had killed—defeated—Izuna saved Madara's life.

(The Senju had better be able to remove the mark. Madara really doesn't need the other man to be able to teleport to him in an instant. He really, really doesn't.)

Forcing himself to forget about this, he climbs into the bath and submerges his head. At least his hair hasn’t suffered from the same indignity as his cat fur did; finding shaved patches on his scalp would have been too much.

Later, scrubbed clean and no longer hungry, he sets foot in the Uchiha district as a human again. The first gaze lands on him, then more and more. A wave of murmuring arises. People move to approach him, but he strides past them and only stops to bang on Hiroki's door. Hopefully, Hiroki is home. Gazes burn through Madara's back, full of curiosity and hatred and emotions he cannot and doesn't care to recognise. There are things he needs to do, and while he's not yet sure as to what all of them are, he can feel with deep certainty that something has shifted in him and his life must shift with it.

The door opens a crack, enough for a pale strip of skin and a dark eye to become visible.

“I’m afraid Hiroki isn’t well enough to—” Myiao begins. Then her voice disappears and her one visible eye widens, and in it, he can see fear that makes her step backwards. “Madara-sama!” She stumbles as she retreats further, and he swallows as he slips through the crack and closes the door behind him. Is she afraid of him because of what happened with Hiroki or because of who he is?

“I would speak with your husband,” he says, voice just a little raspier than he’d like. “It won’t take long.”

Her pulse must be through the roof, yet she plants her feet and meets his gaze. “I must insist.”

The hallway around them is narrow and dark. Somewhere, there is a child sleeping. Yet she’s not with her daughter. She’s here, so much smaller and slighter than him, and for a moment, he doesn’t see her at all. There is Mito, smiling at him. Hashirama, planted as firmly as a tree in face of adversity. The Senju always behind his brother’s shoulder, silent, watchful. All of them ready to die to protect. The Senju—Tobirama—lying in a pool of his own blood.

“It’s all right,” he says, and he thinks his voice is softer, and perhaps everything else about him is slightly softer too. “Was it you that Zetsu used against him?”

Something inside her crumbles. “Our daughter,” she says. Then she takes him to Hiroki, and Madara breathes a little easier when he finds the man unharmed. It would have been on him if anything happened to Hiroki. Another life on him.

No sentimental words are lost between them. Madara needs to know what has occurred within the clan since he left, and though he knows he receives a shortened version, it is enough, and he leaves in good time. He has a council to reign in. Apologies he can’t bring himself to say. The Senju brothers he doesn’t want to see. What would he say anyway? The Senju risked his life, yes, but for whom? For a little cat?

(Underneath it all is fear. He is not a people person, never has been. The strange connection he’s managed to build within the last few weeks may very well be for naught. After all, he may have got attached to the Senju—a little, just a little, and oh it burns to admit it—while the Senju started to like and then lost a cat. Nothing binds them together anymore. And gods, he doesn’t want to be left all alone in a village that hates him. Not again.)

Swallowing, he pushes the thoughts deep into the darkness they came from. Zetsu mentioned changing old writing, and there is nothing older than the tablet the Uchiha clan has been passing from generation to generation. If he’d truly changed it … It demands Madara’s attention. But how is he to know what has been changed? What should he do?

He finds his answer later, in a dark room where candlelight dances over his robes. He’s been staring at the tablet for what feels like hours like he’d done so many times before. It had taken him a long time to try to understand the message. Where he wasn’t sure before, he is now. He and Hashirama are the key. Their blood, their chakra—the Eternal Tsukuyomi and, so he thought, peace. Except this was Zetsu’s dream. His reunion with Mother, whoever that was. Or is.

Madara clenches his fists.

Two nights weren’t enough to burn through all the hatred and the shame that being used like a puppet brought about. Is there enough time in this world at all?

He forces his fingers to uncurl, pushes them through the motions, slowly, slowly, every seal rough around the edges. At last, he presses his palm against the stone, and watches it crumble to dust.

火火火

He faces the elders and the other members of the Uchiha council with his head held high in a display of confidence he doesn’t feel. There are questions they ask, and many more they don’t, questions about trustworthiness and reliability. Familiar sensations run through his body: the throbbing in his temples, his temper trying to escape because he hates, hates, hates dealing with this. Anger shortens his breaths. Underneath it all, there is a current of dread.

Is this what the rest of his life will be like, until he either snaps or bleeds out on some battlefield? Has nothing changed? Has he not changed?

No. Something has to give. It has to.

火火火

The letter arrives the next day at noon in the hands of a currier. A request from the Senju to visit the Hokage’s office.

Madara sends the boy back empty handed.

火火火

Next comes a package, filled with papers and scrolls. A detailed update on the political and administrative happenings in the village during the time of his absence, says the note. He’s asked to review it and consider the proposition at the end.

When he peels the edge off the first scroll, he’s greeted by the Senju’s tidy handwriting, small and forming lines that are entirely too straight. A knot forms in his throat. Try as he might, he can’t swallow it, and he places the scroll back into the box. The proposition will have to wait.

(It can’t be that important anyway.)

火火火

This time, the message comes early in the morning. If Madara is unable, or unwilling, to fulfil his duties towards the village from the office, anything that needs his attention may be sent to his home for the time being.

At least, that’s the beginning of the text. What follows is something so bureaucratic it makes his head hurt: description upon description of what is considered important enough to be forwarded directly to him.

He skips at least a half of it and signs at the bottom.

Which, in hindsight, might have been a mistake. Only a few hours later, another scroll requires his signature, and then another, and another. By the time the sun disappears behind the trees, he really, really hates the Senju’s guts. How can there even be so many things that need signing? Is that bastard sending him everything he missed in the previous weeks?

Slowly, cold spreads through his insides. What if he shouldn’t have signed anything? He can’t stay hidden inside his house forever, of course not. He should go to the office. He needs to meet Hashirama, or else he truly will end up excluded from everything. Perhaps he already is. How else is he supposed to understand the fact that Hashirama hasn’t tried to contact him yet?

火火火

A new day brings with it a new pile of paper, delivered at an ever increasing pace. Before long, a vein begins to throb in his temple, and after he gets a paper stating I hereby confirm I am still alive and nothing else, he is really, really done with this foolishness.

A knock on the door draws him to his feet. He pulls it open, words already spilling from his lips.

“If you have another message from that accursed idiot, I swear to all the gods I will—”

“Shut up,” says the Senju and pushes him aside to enter the room.

For a moment, Madara stands still. Then he snaps.

“What the hell are you doing here? Get out!”

“You agreed to meet me today.” His voice is flat, his words to the point, yet there is a shadow of a smirk hanging around his lips.

“I most certainly did not!”

“You most certainly did, and if need be, I’ll cite you the letter and the paragraph that entailed that particular detail.”

He opens his mouth, ready to yell, and forces it shut again. Fire burns in his guts. Curse the Senju and his bureaucracy. Gods know what else Madara has agreed to without knowing. He has half the mind to start raging about the validity of those papers, but he pushes the words back down instead. What comes out of his mouth is a growl.

“So that was the true purpose behind all the paper. And now? Care to enlighten me what I agreed to?”

“I have a proposition to discuss. You’ll listen to it, and we’ll see what can be done.”

The Senju sits down and crosses his legs. His movement is just slightly off, the usually fluidity absent, which suggest his injuries have yet to heal fully, but there is no visible mark of what happened.

Perhaps it’s the memory of the Senju covered in blood that has Madara sit opposite to him. Sighing, he crosses his arms. “Talk.”

And the Senju does. He talks of the division of power, of control, and the solution he would propose. Hokage, with the council, is the law, the head of the village. But the law must be obeyed.

“A police,” the Senju says, “to ensure all follow the law. All. I was thinking of entrusting the leadership of this institution to your clan.”

Several thoughts arise, battling for dominance. Not my clan, he wants to say, but they are, still, always his. You would make others hate us, is next, because people tend to fear and to hate the iron hand that enforces the law. And to love. To trust, if they are on the right side of it. And the Senju would trust the Uchihas with the power to decide whomto punish, to imprison, to kill if need be.

“Why us?” is what Madara actually says.

The Senju cocks his head to one side just the slightest, presenting a glimmer of skin between his hair and his collar.

“You are a powerful people who helped to build this village. It’s your home. I trust you will keep it safe.”

He’s probably staring now. Probably. Over the past weeks, he’s heard the Senju speak in less hostile, even friendly, tones about the Uchiha clan (and Madara himself), but this is more than he’s ever expected to hear face to face. A part of him doesn’t believe it at all. The other part doesn’t know what to do with the information. He’s heard the Senju say he doesn’t hate Madara or his clan, of course he has, but never …

“However,” the man continues, and his lips form a serious line in that fraction between one word and the next, “there is a dilemma. That’s you.”

Madara doesn’t exactly trust himself to say anything (for fear of violence, embarrassment, or something worse). He waves for the Senju to go on.

“You’re head of the clan, and as such, leadership would logically fall to you. Even if it does not, you’re still on the council. Since it would be up to the police to supervise the council … If you supervise yourself, the system becomes meaningless.”

A part of him wants to ask what, by the gods, the problem is. Clan heads and elders have run clans for centuries. It’s always worked. But the other part of him—oh, that’s the problem. He can see the vision behind the Senju’s words, something new, something yet untried, just like Konoha used to be back in the day when it was nothing more than a dream shared with a friend. Except this isn’t a dream. He knows from experience—the Senju’s dreams are nightmares, and this, this isn’t some illusion either. This is business, practical and to the point, this is having both feet on the ground while Hashirsma threads the clouds only he can see. Madara is not an idealist anymore, hasn’t been for a long time, but this, this he could hold on to.

“What will you do?” he asks, and if it comes out more as a rasp than words, well, there is that knot stuck in his throat.

“Now’s the time when you offer suggestions.”

“And Hashirama?”

“Is in favour of the suggestion so far. He is not, I’m sure, entirely aware of the position this puts you in yet.”

He nods. His arms are still crossed, and he feels frozen in place.

“The council will vote on the idea,” the Senju continues. A strand of hair falls over his eye, and he flicks it away with his fingers. The motion makes the collar of his hanten shift, and Madara remembers the warmth of his skin, the comforting scent that is too faint for him to catch now. Is he to pretend the past weeks never happened? That he doesn’t know the Senju screams at night and scrubs his hands raw, that he can’t feel the peace they live in either? That the wound he sliced through Izuna’s side wasn’t deep enough to kill?

How?

“Give me a day,” he says at last. “And I’ll let you know what I decide.”

“There is room for discussion,” the Senju says, but there isn’t, not really, not for Madara. It’s a matter of choosing a side, deciding where he belongs, or perhaps where he wants to belong.

He nods anyway.

火火火

The Senju leaves. With no distraction, Madara’s thoughts turn on themselves, over and over again, until he’s thinking in circles he can’t escape. He is left on the floor, curled up by the door again, and if this is becoming a habit, it’s not one he wants to develop. Although his chest aches, no tears come. He knows what he’ll do when morning comes. Perhaps he’s known it all along.

He spends the night mourning his loss. At dawn, he finds a scroll and some ink, and he writes the words that determine his future. He leaves the document in the meeting hall of the elders and doesn’t linger.

 The streets that lead to the Hokage tower are empty. If he has any luck on his side, the Senju will be in the office already, or perhaps still. Madara really doesn’t want to visit Hashirama’s residence right now. He really, really doesn’t.

For once, it seems fate favours him. The Senju is at his desk, bleary-eyed and with a myriad of papers in front of him, and for the shortest moment, exhaustion shows through the cracks in his indifferent façade. Then he looks up, and his features smoothen into a mask. What Madara once thought to be the man’s nature is nothing more than a wall erected between him and the world.

The thought makes him swallow. He knows so much more about the Senju now, things that probably weren’t meant to be seen, ever. And here they are now, after a sleepless night, and he feels the weight of the world on his shoulders and doesn’t know why.

“I’ve decided,” he says, voice all too weak for his liking, “to stay on the council.”

“You’re the head of your clan,” is what he gets in response, but there is a crack in the Senju’s façade, and Madara wants to dig his fingers into it and pry the plaster apart.

“Not anymore,” he manages. As soon as somebody finds his signed abdication, chaos will erupt. After all, he didn’t name anyone as the next clan head. But the clan will be fine. They’ve wanted to move on without him, and now, perhaps, it’s time he moves on without them. Somebody will take the lead, and they will adapt, and perhaps, perhaps the village needs him more than the clan—somehow, he is the glue that holds Hashirama’s dream together, at least a little bit, and if he leaves, it might shatter, so he hopes his staying will hold it together. He hopes perhaps for once in his life he can build something instead of tearing things down, the way Hashirama built this place on his dreams, the way the Senju is trying to ensure those dreams function in reality. Perhaps this is his shot at making something a little bit better, his shot at (if only, if only) redemption. “I resigned.”

Silence hangs over them for a moment, and then for another, and stretches on. Red eyes hold his gaze.

“You may have acted with too much haste. The motion needs to be accepted first. Your clan needs to agree. You could still change your mind.”

He shakes his head. Despite the pain lodged behind his breastbone, he knows this is right. He and the clan—they would drag each other down. It’s time to move on. No more going backwards. No more. But how should he make the Senju understand if he can barely find the words in his mind?

The Senju stands up. He walks around the desk, towards Madara. His hand, so familiar, comes to linger barely a hair’s width away from Madara’s upper arm for a moment before he steps a little further, just past Madara.

“I’m sorry about that,” he says, “I’ll find a safe way to remove it,” and Madara blinks because—what is the Senju talking about? And then he blinks again—oh, oh! The mark, that seal on his arm—

Somebody must have punched the air out of his lungs. He tries and tries, and finally sucks in a breath, and—

“You knew?” he says, his words a whisper on his breath, and whips around. “You—how?”

The Senju turns too. His gaze rests on somewhere around Madara’s knees. “I figured it out. You weren’t exactly acting as your typical house cat. Though I wonder how much of it was you and how much the cat…”

“Mostly me,” he hears himself say, and why is he even telling that to the Senju. But then, why not? “With some cat instinct added to the mix. But, this”—and now that he’s started talking, he can’t seem to stop the words from escaping, that one question that won’t cease torturing him—“if you knew—you knew… All these years when I hated you—when I was trying to hate you… You knew Izuna’s wound should not have killed him, and you never said anything. Why?” Why, why, why?

There is no reply. Then those red eyes slowly turn upwards until their gazes finally meet. And then—silence.

“Why?” he says again, his voice almost lost on his exhale.

“Would you have believed me?”

He sucks in a breath. Would he?

“I don’t know,” he says.

The Senju nods. “I know. And miscalculations happen.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He can’t very well blame the Senju for Izuna’s death, but the idea that the Senju was trying not to kill Izuna doesn’t exactly sit right with him either. Hashirama’s never aimed to kill—not once has Madara had to fear for his life. Not once but that time he lay on the floor, and the Senju held his sword above him. No, the Senju fights to kill. For him to be mindful of Izuna … Was it a miscalculation that the wound wasn’t fatal? But the Senju also fights to keep Hashirama’s dream alive now, and maybe, maybe Madara doesn’t want to know the answer.

He nods. What do they do now?

The Senju’s words cut through the building tension. “I’ve tried to keep Hashirama off your case, but you’ll have to see him soon. He’s worse than a kicked puppy. That, and I had to tell him I gave the cat to the Uchihas, so find something small and dark to show him.”

Another nod. He should probably think about Hashirama, about what lie he is going to tell him about his absence, but he can’t. Something tugs at his mind, a voice that refuses to be silenced. Maybe he doesn’t need to know the answer, but what if he does? What if, what if?

"Miscalculation...” he says, and now he has to go through with it. “ Did you mean...?"

The Senju crosses his arms. "We didn't fight like you and Hashirama. Your fight would never end in death," he says, and as much as it burns to hear somebody state it so blatantly, Madara has to admit it's true. Hashirama wouldn't kill him—he was still needed for this dream to come true—and he couldn't kill Hashirama either.

"But we weren't stupid. If one of us died, both clans would go down. The last battle may have gone to the Senju, but we buried too many of ours. Hashirama nearly killed himself. He wouldn't, I think, go after your head if I was the one who died, but the clan wouldn't take it lightly."

There is bitterness in his words, minute tension in his neck and jaw—things Madara had never seen before, now laid bare in front of him.

"Look at what happened after Izuna's death. The village stands despite it, not because of it. You nearly tore the alliance apart."

For some reason or another, the bluntness doesn't trigger a throbbing in his temples. He holds this village in his hands, and he's decided, chosen everything that's always been right in front of him.

"You didn't mean to kill him." The words are heavy on his tongue. A weight slides off his shoulders as he speaks.

"We always walked closer to the edge, but killing was not a part of the deal." The Senju inclines his head. "He was a good enemy."

Madara looks at him, the red lines on his face, the nightmares behind red eyes. The words hold no apology, offer no condolences. They give so much more.

He's not sure whether his brain really sends a signal to move to his arm, but he sees his hand rising until he's holding it out to the Senju, and he can't avert his gaze from it. It's perfectly still despite the trembling he feels under his skin. Then another hand slides into his, a shade paler, warm, and familiar.

"Truce?" the Senju asks.

"Truce."

"Good. I believe you owe me a drink."

Madara blinks. "I do not."

A single arched eyebrow is the only reply he gets.

“No. No, no, no, don’t tell me that was in your papers, too?”

One corner of the Senju’s lips curls upwards. “You should always read what you sign.”

“That can’t be valid, you bastard.”

The smirk spreads to the other side of the Senju’s lips. Damn him. Damn him, and his paperwork, and Madara’s falling for it, and that stupid, stupid smirk that he’s never expected to see.

“I can always destroy the scroll,” he says.

“If you can find it first.”

He sucks in a breath, even opens his mouth to snap back, but there is nothing where anger should be, nothing fuelling him to rage and fight.

“Challenge accepted,” he says, but he already knows he won’t look too hard. And perhaps, perhaps that’s not a bad thing at all.