Chapter Text
Tobirama overhears their conversation by accident.
He’s on his way to his brother’s office with a stack of papers from the Nara clan that require Hashirama’s attention when he realises that there are two presences inside Hashirama’s office instead of just the one. Madara must have come by for lunch, Tobirama thinks to himself, recognising his chakra (bright and warm, like a contained wildfire and isn’t that a contradiction?). He sighs, deciding to come back later, when the sound of Madara’s raised voice gives him pause.
“—just so unreasonable of them!” Madara says and the tone is so familiar that Tobirama can almost see the Uchiha throw his hands up in the air, his hair bristling like a cat behind him.
“Well, you are the Clan Head, Madara,” Hashirama says, “it’s only natural that they expect you to marry, especially now when we have peace.”
And oh, Tobirama hadn’t realised that the Uchiha clan elders were pressuring Madara to take a wife—although he probably should have. It makes sense but Madara never mentioned anything. Tobirama knew that the two of them had a rocky start—the first few months were frosty at best and volcanic at worst—but he’d thought that they had gotten over that in the many late nights spent at the Tower trying to get the village up and running.
He and Madara wouldn’t ever have the kind of relationship that Madara had with Hashirama (a brotherhood borne out of similar circumstances, of similar dreams and a path forged together) but after all those quiet conversations over paperwork, he’d thought the two of them could at least be called friends.
“That does not mean that they have any right to prepare a bride for me!” Madara yells, jolting Tobirama out of his thoughts.
“That is not so different from how Mito and I met, you know,” Hashirama says. “But if you are so opposed why don’t you just choose someone you can tolerate? Even if they do not hold your affection, at least you could be wed to someone of your choosing.”
Madara makes a noise not unlike the whistle of a tea kettle and Tobirama slips away, not wanting to intrude any further.
The thing is though, Tobirama can’t quite keep the conversation out of his mind.
It’s illogical but a small part of him wishes that Madara had told him about it. Which is stupid, of course because what could have Tobirama done? He certainly wasn’t in any position to somehow help Madara and if the other man had merely wanted to vent rather than find a solution, Hashirama was surely more suited to that role.
No, Tobirama thinks and resolves to put the entire thing out of his mind. Of course, that’s when Madara decides to storm into their shared office one morning and slam something onto his desk.
“What is this?” Tobirama says, staring at Madara. The other man looks flustered as if he had been running laps around the village this morning. Madara scowls but doesn’t respond, gesturing at the object that now sits on Tobirama’s desk.
It’s a box. Not just any box, Tobirama notes, but a beautifully crafted lacquer box with vibrant red camellias carved in an intricate pattern across the lid. Not quite knowing what to make of the entire situation, Tobirama glances at Madara who is bright red and staring at the box with an intensity that he usually only reserves for the battlefield.
He stares at the red camellias painting the outside of the small food box. If this was during the first few months in the village, Tobirama might have suspected that Madara was perhaps wishing him an early death but seeing how they’ve been at peace for the better part of the year he doesn’t think that a noble death is what Madara means with his gift. Which only leaves—
“Is this a courting gift?” he chokes, disbelieving.
Madara goes even redder, which Tobirama didn’t know was possible, and gives him a jerky nod.
“Only,” he says, gruff and looking like he wants to hide, “only if you want. I know this isn’t the proper way to do things but I wanted to before—well. Doesn’t matter. Would you accept?”
Tobirama stares at him, feeling like he’s somehow slipped into an alternate universe. In fact, he’d probably consider genjustu if not for the way that he can feel that both his and Madara’s chakra are completely undisturbed (nevermind that there is hardly any genjustu that could trap Uchiha Madara of all people).
But if not for genjutsu, Tobirama has no idea what is happening unless—
Even if they do not hold your affection, at least you could be wed to someone of your choosing.
Ah of course, he thinks. Such a union out of convenience is not unheard of after all and both his position within the village and the Senju clan would mean their marriage has too many political advantages for the Uchiha elders to object to.
Tobirama is suddenly absurdly glad that his face is often difficult to read as he squashes down the (illogical) pang of disappointment that comes with this realisation.
Movements slow and deliberate, he lifts the lid off the box and places it aside gently. Inside, there are a pair of manju, still warm. Tobirama picks one up and takes a bite. It’s sweet.
“I suppose you should speak to Anija next,” he murmurs.
Madara blanches at the thought and it’s enough to make Tobirama smile. And if his smile was a little strained, nobody had to know.
