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Blades clash, the setting sun’s rays reflecting off metal. Their blades shake from the strain of trying to overpower the other. With a forceful push, they spring apart, breathing heavily. They stare each other down, trying to spot an opening. They don’t pay mind to the three other shinobi scattered on the forest floor, bleeding out, most likely dead already from their fading chakra.
Tobirama’s muscles are burning. His breaths drag through his lungs, past his dried lips. Sweat building behind his happuri streaks down his face, down his neck, and into his clothes. He’s too tired to even twist his face in disgust. He never wants to take a mission to Kaminari no Kuni ever again. He almost always ends up ambushed only mere hours away from home. Just his luck that he’s been ambushed by a four-man team of nukenin from the newly-established Shimogakure for some reason unknown to him; perhaps for the bounty? Most likely.
Tobirama lifts his sword and flashes forward. They engage again, blades clashing and kunai flying. Tobirama starts to flag, hours straight of running back to Konoha right after a taxing and disastrous—but still successful—mission taking its toll on his body. The enemy shinobi grabs the opportunity to run him through his chest but Tobirama manages to dodge fast enough that it only stabs him through the shoulder.
The shinobi doesn’t let go of their sword immediately and Tobirama takes the opportunity to drive his own sword through their stomach and up their lungs with the remaining arm strength he has. A gurgled gasp of pain reaches his ears as he twists the blade.
The body on his sword starts to drop and Tobirama pulls his sword out before the shinobi could fall on him, pushing lightly to let them topple backward with a meaty thump.
The quiet sets in and his stabbed shoulder throbs around the sword. Ah, fuck.
He plops down under a nearby tree away from the dead bodies on the forest floor, bleeding on verdant green, and starts treating the wound on his shoulder, using the measly iryou-jutsu he can use with his depleted chakra reserves to stop the bleeding and stitch together as much of the cut tissue as he can without depriving himself of enough chakra to run home. He bandages it with gauze from his medical kit as best as he can even with exhaustion clawing at his back.
Treatment done, he doesn’t waste any more time dallying further. He stands, the weight of his armor threatening to send him back onto the ground—he should really move standardized, lighter cloth armor for the village shinobi up the priority list, his research on protective clothing has been sitting in his study for weeks—but he stays upright nonetheless.
Without another backward glance, he jumps back up into the trees and continues his way back home, taking care to not aggravate his shoulder wound further. It wouldn’t do him any good to start bleeding again.
—
Tobirama goes directly to Hashirama’s office, managing to keep himself from keeling over and still be able to put up a dignified posture by sheer willpower. The village has gone through enough of the other founders’ indignities.
Hashirama immediately welcomes him into the office with a cheerful greeting that bleeds into a concerned look at the giant bloodied splotch on his armor and clothes but Tobirama stems the imminent fussing with a harsh glare.
When he’s sure Hashirama will not interrupt, he gives his report as quickly and as concisely as possible. He’s relieved to see Hashirama focusing on the report, enough that he’ll let the concern in his eyes slide. When he finishes, he is foiled from his attempt at a quick escape by Hashirama’s voice stilling his feet.
“At least let me look it over, Tobira,” Hashirama says, looking ready to leap over his desk and onto his brother.
Tobirama lets out a huff, subtly inching away from Hashirama’s desk. “It’s not even bleeding anymore. I’m fine, anija. Just a scratch.”
Hashirama sends a pointed look at his stiff shoulder. Tobirama doesn’t budge, edging nearer to the doorway. He won’t win, clearly, so Hashirama sighs and shoos Tobirama home.
Finally.
—
When he gets home, Tobirama is greeted by a worried Madara, most likely having sensed his very much depleted chakra, who immediately herds him into a chair to tend to his wounds, summoning a clone to fetch the medical kit, even after Tobirama’s protests of it being only a mere scratch.
Tobirama is quickly stripped of his armor and shirt, Madara unwinding Tobirama’s admittedly shoddy bandage work. The clone comes back with the medical supplies not long after.
It seems Madara has made use of the iryou-jutsu he learned a few months ago, grumbling the entire time he’s treating Tobirama.
“Just a scratch, my fucking ass,” Madara says, cleaning the wound, applying some sterilizing iryou-jutsu as he goes.
Tobirama just barely restrains from pouting. He must be more tired than he had thought. “It’s not even bleeding anymore.”
“‘It’s not even bleeding anymore,’ he says,” Madara imitates in a nasally voice, hands still gently tending to Tobirama’s shoulder, “You once said an amputated arm was ‘nothing to be worried about.’ I don’t think I’ll trust your self-assessment of wounds anytime soon, love.”
Tobirama turns his head away with an indignant huff, marked cheeks warming from Madara’s address of him. He isn’t that bad. He looks back when Madara starts winding bandages over his shoulder, tucking the ends perfectly. His quick venture into medic-nin life had greatly improved his treatment of wounds, it seems. A smile creeps up Tobirama’s face.
“You have to take care of yourself, dammit.” Madara kisses the bandages over the wound as if by instinct. Then his face is immediately set aflame by his embarrassment, red flooding his cheeks and down to his neck.
Tobirama doesn’t hold back the chuckle in his throat, pulling Madara in for a thankful kiss before he could start sputtering.
He loves this man.
——
“Madara-sama! Madara-sama! Pleeeaaaaassseeeeeeee,” the children who mobbed him on the street pleaded, eyes sparkling with excitement.
With a heavy sigh, he relents. He has a minute he can spare. He bid the children to stand back before he started. Eyes shining, the children move to make a ring around him, waiting for his nod when they are far enough.
In his slightly ruffled state what with the unplanned sleeping in and the meeting he cannot be late for, his katon leaves his lips a little uncontrolled but no less majestic, reaching for the morning sky.
He feels flames lick at his palms. His unprotected palms.
...fuck, he forgot to put on his gloves. He’d removed them to ruffle the children’s hair before they presented their demands.
He pats his pockets only to not find the familiar weight he’s been looking for.
Shit. He’s forgotten his burn salve—where has his Uchiha memory gone—but he can’t afford to be even later to the meeting. He sighs. He’ll just have to deal with it in the meantime. He puts on his gloves, refraining from wincing at the drag of leather on his tender skin.
He bids the children goodbye with quick ruffles of hair, putting the pain aside, and leaves despite the loud, disappointed “Awws” he leaves in his wake.
What he does for the children. He shakes his head with a chuckle.
—
The meeting ends and Madara has to keep from wincing at the throbbing pain that shoots up from his hand when he pats Hashirama for a clever maneuver during the council meeting. He’d forgotten about his burned hands, fuck.
He tries to leave for his office—he remembers he has a spare container of burn salve there for emergencies—when he gets the chance but before he could get a foot past the door, Tobirama suddenly pulls at his arm without a word.
“What—”
“Just follow me,” Tobirama interrupts.
Like he could shake that strong grip off without dislocating his shoulder. He follows without much fuss.
Tobirama leads him into the Senju’s private office and sets him down on the couch where he knows the white-haired man often sleeps in whenever he pulls all-nighters in the tower.
Tobirama sits down next to him, pulling out something from his pocket.
A burn salve. Tobirama spots his eyebrows raising to his hairline and explains, “I started bringing them for Kagami, katon burns his hands often.”
Madara’s chest warms. He hums his understanding.
“Gloves off.”
Tobirama had noticed, apparently. Madara obeys, peeling his gloves off as carefully as he can.
The gloves haven’t even touched Madara’s lap before Tobirama takes his burned hands and starts carefully massaging the salve into one of Madara’s reddened palms. Madara’s chest is liable to catch fire at this point.
“Why didn’t you put salve on?” Tobirama asks, thumbs rubbing the salve in gentle circles, head bowed to see the palm in his hands.
“I was running late to the meeting. Forgot to bring my new one.” Madara admits, softly sighing at the ministrations soothing his irritated palms.
A disbelieving huff. “Where has your lauded Uchiha memory gone?” Madara can hear the smile in his voice.
Madara’s lips pull into a smile of his own. “Like you hadn’t forgotten where you put your reading glasses before only to find them,” he brings up a salved hand to poke at a pale forehead, “on your head.”
Tobirama tsks but doesn’t cease in his gentle massaging of Madara’s hands. When he judges Madara’s hands as satisfactorily salved, he takes the gloves on Madara’s lap and begins putting them back on. He’s gentle, mindful of the burns.
It’s strangely intimate. Tobirama’s hands are warm on the cooled cloth of his gloves, the heat reaching through to his now-covered hands.
Heat creeps into Madara’s cheeks. And then almost spontaneously combusts right then and there when Tobirama kisses the gloved hands when he finishes putting them on.
The bastard doesn’t even blush. He drags Tobirama into a kiss as retaliation, seeing lovely red eyes widen in surprise before closing to immerse himself in the feeling.
He hums with pleasure as their tongues intertwine.
He’s even more sure of it now.
This is the man he’s going to live his life with.