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When Madara escaped that thrice-cindered tower, he didn’t expect to come across a thief (of some sort; who is also apparently a scholar of some sort with all the knowledge he had about plants and other odds and ends Madara had stared or paused a little too long at) on his mad dash through the woods, the man with long, braided, white hair taking down a squad of soldiers from a kingdom in the north that he’d seen in one of his few books at that fucking tower.
Neither did he expect to have said thief sat behind him, braiding his hair in a park because he and other people kept stepping on it after accompanying him to the southern kingdom.
A fierce scowl sat on his face as he waited for the gentle hands to finish their self-imposed task. The scowl gradually softens when he feels no rough pulling at his hair as Tobirama works a brush through his no-doubt tangled and dirtied hair. It’s actually relaxing. It reminds him of his brothers.
Not at all like what he’d experienced at that accursed tower.
A huff of anger blows through his nose at the thought of it. It took from him his memories of his life from before it all. It was only through sheer spite that he had held on to his memories of his family, now faded with time but still present.
His thoughts suddenly turn to his barren room at the tower. Bare shelves, a bare bed, a laughably pitiful excuse for a window, and bare walls painted with multiple moons that kept giving him the feeling of being watched. No night ever felt safe. The world looked bleak and gray and lifeless. Some days even breathing felt tedious.
Every day he planned and plotted his escape, wanting to find his brothers, his parents, again. Every night he looked at the stars, a faded reminder with his mother’s voice saying, “We look at the same stars no matter how far we are.” The only meager comfort he’d had during his captivity. The only thing that drove him when everything looked hopeless, whenever he felt as if he would never be able to escape.
Flashes of his time at the tower come unbidden through his mind. His hair roughly pulled and brushed to siphon energy from it to power— something he still doesn’t know, leaving him exhausted and weak and strands of his hair glowing like embers. He remembers the boiling heat under his skin, made ever fiercer with each day he’s held captive. It finally reached its peak a few days ago and he had escaped through the pathetic window, the bars melted off by the power of his hair and slipped through as soon as the melted metal cooled enough to not burn his clothes.
After a decade, he had finally breathed in air outside of the stale and depressing atmosphere of his prison. He had felt like he could float into the dawn sky with the weight of captivity off his shoulders as he ran and ran and ran with his hair gathered in his arms.
The outside world is so bright it almost blinded him that day. He’s glad he’d gotten out near dawn break instead of the day though it would have been the most advantageous time against his nocturnal guards. The light and colors of the outside had made him halt when he’d gotten far enough away.
After a decade, he’d finally gotten out. He’s free. And he couldn’t help but bask in the sunlight, feeling the grass with his bare feet, breathing in the scent of greenery, of life.
Then his basking had been interrupted by the clanging of metal against metal.
Long story short, he ended up accompanied by the white-haired thief-scholar who introduced himself as Tobirama. How fortunate that they had similar destinations. Unfortunate that they both had smart tongues but they tolerated it well enough. ...Those first few hours were best left to fade from memory, he thinks with a wince.
Now that he’s here, his memories of his life before the tower couldn’t help him, faded with time. Only remembered moments of his family. Hopefully, he’ll come across them soon even with the frankly huge size of the kingdom.
“Done.”
He’s suddenly pulled out of his brooding when Tobirama let go of his now-braided mass of hair to fall on his back with a quiet sound. It only reached his lower back instead of triple his height.
He can’t help running his palms over his head and hair. Smooth and clean. He whips his head around to look at Tobirama only stop stock-still at the sight of softened red eyes. He’s—
He opens his mouth to speak, not sure of what would come out but was interrupted when a small hand taps on Tobirama’s shoulder. They both turn to look and see three beaming children with a mass of flowers in their hands.
Madara’s not sure how to handle children, isolated for a decade as he had been, but it seems Tobirama does.
All thoughts flew from his mind at the sight of the stern man softening in the face of children, an almost imperceptible smile on his lips as he listens to them.
He looks handsome like this, sharp red lines on his face a bit softer, the slant of his eyes kinder. His broad shoulders are a bit more relaxed through his clothes.
“You may have to ask him yourself.” Tobirama tilts his head in his direction. His words prompt the children to turn to him in synchronicity—did they rehearse this? It seemed like it—, their large eyes bright with hope.
The one in front takes courage and speaks, “Mister, may we please add these to your hair? We think you’d look very pretty with them!”
He can’t say no to such eager faces so he sighs and turns to give them free reign over his hair. “Just— Don’t pull too hard okay?”
Tobirama moves to sit a little more to the side to give the children room, an indulgent light in his eyes—he knows that look well enough from his older brother letting him play and roughhouse with all their siblings to recognize it.
He employs the long-buried patience that he had had long ago with his younger siblings, very much glad that they didn’t accidentally pull too hard as much as he’d anticipated.
Once the children finish fiddling with his braided hair, he pulls it to his front over his shoulder to see what they’ve done.
His braided inky locks are now decorated with flowers of all kinds, he recognizes some of them from Tobirama’s explanations and that one book he had. He thinks he had read their meanings before but he couldn’t really recall.
He looks up to see Tobirama beside the children, all of them staring at him—is he just imagining the red on pale cheeks and ears? Surely, it was only from the heat of the sun; Tobirama looked like he’d be the type to burn from direct sunlight—and his hair. They seem to be waiting for his word.
He doesn’t know what else to say except, “Thank you.” At this, the children seemed to brighten up even more, seemingly a trio of suns to his eyes. Adorable. He resists the urge to pinch their full cheeks.
“Thank you for letting us play with your hair, mister!” the children speak and bow in tandem then rush off with blinding smiles, possibly to tell stories of the man with the ridiculously long, ink-black hair who they adorned with flowers. Both of them watch them go, hearts warmed by such adorable children.
“They fit you.” Tobirama’s deep voice rumbles and Madara turns to him. Tobirama doesn’t wear a smile on his face but the crinkles of his eyes are enough of an implication. A pale hand reaches to touch the petals of a flower.
All of a sudden, Tobirama’s hand feels too near and Madara can’t breathe with all this fluttering in his chest and stomach.
In a fit of impulsivity, he takes a flower from his braid and perches it on Tobirama’s ear to the man’s obvious surprise, slanted red eyes wide.
Madara suddenly forgets to breathe when the white-haired man starts chuckling, eyes forced closed at the force of his amusement, his hand on the stem of the flower on his ear.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a gorgeous sight in his life before.