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It was the first time in a long while that Madara felt alone.
The hand at the back of his head tangled into his hair, rougher than normal. It tugged back to tilt him for better access, Ryouji’s lips desperate things against his own, tongue and teeth coming into the mix without warning. Fingers tight on his jaw even as his thumb stroked his cheek, Madara’s own knuckles white where they tightened themselves into the fabric of the other’s uniform.
It was not like them to kiss like this out in the open. Years of hiding any sort of affections had made Madara wary and ill of public affairs and yet he couldn’t find it in him to stop. To push or pull away, to tell Ryouji this wasn’t the time or place - Madara had been the one to yank him down for the kiss to begin with, and now that there was no guarantee there would be a next time-
Madara had not been alone in so long. For so many years, Ryouji had been by his side: through the assassination of his father (his hands would never be clean), through Izuna’s illness and recovery, through the creation of the village he’d know be leaving his lover behind to protect.
Never would he judge his love for needing to retire; peace had been made, and those who could make use of it deserved to.
And yet now, at the cusp of their second war, Madara could not use it.
Once Madara’s breath hitched for a different reason, Ryouji pulled back. Just enough for them to breathe, just to press their foreheads together and exist in that moment for a little longer.
“Come back to me.”
Madara ran one hand up over Ryouji’s collar, over the scar that made his voice raspy, up to run the back of his knuckles against his husband’s cheek.
“Always.”