Work Text:
“INEZ: There. . . . You know the way they catch larks—with a mirror? I'm your lark-mirror, my dear, and you can't escape me. . . . There isn't any pimple, not a trace of one. So what about it? Suppose the mirror started telling lies? Or suppose I covered my eyes—as he is doing—and refused to look at you, all that loveliness of yours would be wasted on the desert air. No, don't be afraid, I can't help looking at you. I shan't turn my eyes away. And I'll be nice to you, ever so nice. Only you must be nice to me, too. [A short silence.]”
“GARCIN: (…) So this is hell. I'd never have believed it. You re-member all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the "burning marl." Old wives' tales! There's no need for red-hot pokers. Hell is—other people!”
Jean Paul Sartre, Huis Clos, 1944.
The full moon was high in the sky, it’s silver light shining against the warm light of the candle inside the office. The whole floor was quite except for the constant sound of metal against paper and the shuffling of documents. Tobirama loved that time in his day, when the Tower was empty except for himself and some guards on duty, finally alone with his thoughts, free to complete his paperwork uninterrupted. He would slow down his writing every thirty minutes to make a sweep of the village and its perimeter with his senses, making sure nothing was out of ordinary: shops closing, families cleaning up for the night, children falling asleep. It was in one of those check-ins that he first sensed him getting closer, deviating from his usual night-time routine. The man wasn’t even trying to dissimulate his presence, his flaming chakra standing out like a beacon in the dark ocean. Tobirama monitored his movements and was convinced after a couple of minutes the man was walking towards the Tower, and at his pace it would take him no more than five more minutes to reach the building.
In another time in history, not even a year back, Tobirama would have probably teleported home the moment he realized Uchiha Madara and him would be alone in the same building, but that night he meditated on it and decided that it was not worth the chakra waste. Moreover, Madara was a decent sensor himself and had surely known of his presence in the office and his sudden disappearance would probably upset wrongly the current diplomatic relationship between them, fragile and full of tenuous distrust as it was.
Ever since the finalization of the Senju-Uchiha peace treaty and the formation of the Village to the present moment, Tobirama had, despite himself, learned more things from the Uchiha clan head than he would initially say he cared about, information that wasn’t pertinent to his intel folders, things like how easily Madara found offense on everything, probably due to some sort of paranoia, though he wasn’t sure. So, no doubt, if he left now, Madara, who was fully aware that Tobirama was in the office, would take it as a personal slice, in fact, Tobirama could already see the angry tirade and how the whole speech would go over to Hashirama and then what his anija would say about being nicer to Madara and—staying was the way of least resistance, surely. He took a deep breath and decided to keep on reading and signing documents, hoping the man had just forgotten some inane object, grab it and be on his way back home, peace restored.
Madara’s office was on the top floor, a few steps from the main stairs, next to Hashirama’s, while Tobirama’s was further down the corridor, so unless Madara purposely went towards him, they had no reason to meet. Still, he kept his senses on the other man. Madara’s signature moved into his own office, stalled no more than a minute inside and started on his way back out. It seemed for a second he was going back to the stairs, when he halted abruptly, lingered in the same spot for a handful of seconds, and redirected the other way around. Tobirama prayed to whatever gods he could think of that he had just forgotten something again but was proven godless when the flaming chakra kept on approaching him.
Tobirama, once again, considered teleporting, but thought that maybe there was an urgent business in the odd hour that Madara wanted to discuss, unlikely as it was.
The Uchiha clan head didn’t even bother to knock, figures, Tobirama thought.
“Good evening, Uchiha-sama” Tobirama affected his most neutral, most diplomatic, non-confrontational tone.
This seemed to please Madara greatly, whose face changed into a dark smirk, laying his demonic eyes on him. Tobirama felt the cold sweat starting to condense on his spine and on the downturned palm of his hands. Water and he had always had an inexplicable affinity, not unlike his brother’s mokuton, reacting to his mood.
“Tobirama, hard at work as always, I see” Madara answered as he sauntered into the office, letting the door close slowly behind him.
Tobirama, who had never been adept at small talk, even less when alone with someone he fell less than comfortable with, overworked his already tired brain to come up with an answer to Madara’s non-comment.
“A-”
But before he could say anything he was interrupted.
“Did you have dinner?” He asked as his black eyes swept around the desk area “I see. You should eat more. You look decrepit”
Tobirama couldn’t find it in him to be offended with the wording, dumbfounded as he was with the sheer absurdity of the interaction. It took him a couple seconds more than appropriate for him to find his voice, mouth still agape with his previous cut off sentence.
“I eat enough” He would not act like an undisciplined bristling cat.
His reaction, however, brought a shine to Madara’s eyes, the smile reappearing.
“Please, don’t patronize me,” Madara rolled his eyes, adopting an exasperated expression “Tobirama” The way he pronounced his name was laced with condescension.
For a second, Tobirama couldn’t help the pull of his lips, the edge of a canine showing, threatening. The sweat on his palms started to thicken. This too, pleased the other man.
“Can I help you with something?” Tobirama’s voice was tight, politeness all gone.
Madara tried to catch his eyes with his, but Tobirama kept them firmly on the valley of the crocked nose, sometimes raking his pupils lower, catching a clean cupid’s bow and the start of a dry lip.
“I don’t think so. In fact, I should be the one asking you that. You look tired. Any less rest and your eyebags will start looking like mine” Madara’s smile widened, not surprising of a narcissist to laugh at his own jokes.
“Madara,” he started, feeling his temper rising, the heat expanding in his veins, “it’s much too late for me to deal with whatever daft game you wish to play, so if you would be so kind,” he emphasized the last word with venom, “I’ll ask you to please leave me to finish my work so I can take the rest you think I need.”
The other man seemed surprised for a second at the direct rebuttal, maybe expecting Tobirama to beat around the bush some more, to keep the façade of politeness for a couple more exchanges. However, he gained back his composure far too soon to Tobirama’s displeasure.
“Is that anyway to talk to a superior and, to that matter, one so kind as to worry about your bad habits? I’m simply looking out for you.” he leered, his tone brimming with mockery.
Tobirama scoffed, face turning ugly.
“You know nothing about me or my habits. And rest assured, Madara,” the name rolled on his tongue like shards of glass, “if I ever needed help you would be the last man I would ever dream of going in search of it for.” He finished, his nostrils flaring.
But Madara did not back down.
“Oh, you see,” He started as he strode closer, steps slow and deliberate, voice growing deep and full of strange intentions, “that’s where you are wrong. I know a lot. I see a lot.” He rested both of his palms on the edge of Tobirama’s desk and bent over a few degrees, bringing their faces closer together, “Hashirama might be the fire’s shadow, but I am his and this village’s. Nothing escapes my eyes.” And Tobirama sensed Madara’s chakra, it was like tendrils of magma licking at the borders of his own cool one, the touch sounded like sizzling inside his mind, “So, yes, Tobirama, I know you. More than you could ever know me, in fact.”
The multiple implications of what Madara had just said prickled on Tobirama’s ego like barb wire.
“Is this how you show your care?” Tobirama accused annoyed and at lost for a better comeback, “Coming into my office just to needle me with offense?” He hated conversing with this man, even more so when his attention was wholly on his own person, without anyone else to function as buffer, without his elder brother to blunt the edges of their interactions.
“Am I being too harsh for you, Tobirama?” The teeth that peeked in between the smile reflected the warm candlelight, tinging them of red and orange, “I can be sweet too, lovely.” As he said that, he leaned even closer, palms sliding across the smooth wood, pushing papers in its way, and his elbows almost touched the furniture.
Tobirama felt the heat reaching his face, blushing in anger.
“So, now you are flirting with me?” he spat, not believing a single word as his brows furrowed deeper.
For a moment Tobirama thought his retort had accomplished the intended effect of flustering opponent and shutting down the conversation. His body relaxed minutely when the other man stood up straight, giving him back the stolen space. But Madara, it seemed, had chosen that night to be as difficult as possible for Tobirama’s sake. Instead of turning away and leaving, he circled the desk, his gloved right hand gliding over it and tumbling piles of paperwork onto the floor, and reveling on the tick of Tobirama’s forehead vein. He stopped once on the Senju’s side, leaning his backside on the table’s edge and looking down at his still seated companion.
“Tell me, Tobirama, is that what you think is happening? Because I assure you,” he hooked his foot on the chair’s leg and pulled Tobirama closer, the scrape of wood against wood deafening in the otherwise silent night, “if I was, there would be no place for doubt.” And with Tobirama now at only a few inches away, Madara leaned down, resting each hand on the armrests, encircling the younger Senju in a cocoon of scalding chakra. Tobirama felt himself freeze, the killing intent in Madara wasn’t reaching his voice, it instead was veiled with faux sweetness, making the whole situation all the more insidious and threatening. “If I wanted you, I would have you, I would make you fall for me, crave for me.” Worn leather creaked as it gripped Tobirama’s pointed jaw, the hold was more like vice and less like the promise of love Madara was spouting. “As I said, I can be sweet, Tobirama.” He finished, whispering the last words right into the other’s ear, the sensation of humid breath like poisoned senbons in Tobirama’s brain.
Madara, with his lips still a few centimeters from the shell of his ear, watched from the corner of his eyes the reaction he elicited on Tobirama; And Tobirama felt frozen, unable to move, a part of him confused, the other afraid, both states impeding him of taking any sort of action. This close, Madara would see the drops of sweat coming down from his temple, the hairs of his neck erect, the nervous bob of his larynx; he would see it all.
Tobirama’s thoughts were scurrying: confusion, fear and the knowledge he was weaker than Madara in any way that mattered—all off these fed each other like an uroboros forever doomed to only devour itself. He never liked mind games, they seemed unnecessarily overly complicated but playing one with an Uchiha seemed to be especially dangerous, considering their proficiency in mind fucking gengutsus. He wanted this interaction to be over as soon as possible, and he could only come up with one thing to say to get what he wanted.
“I killed your brother, I don’t think he would approve.” He was expecting screams (angry, flustered Madara he could deal with, but not this strange mood he had dragged with him into his office tonight) or, better yet, silence and the sound of a slammed door.
Instead, Madara turned the chair around, forcing them to be vis-à-vis, the single candlelight blown off by the moving air. Automatically, Tobirama fixed his eyes at the space behind Madara’s right shoulder, the man’s red eyes and the moonlight coming in through the window were the only source of illumination in the otherwise darkened room.
Tobirama couldn’t remember the last time he had had a set of sharingan so close to his own eyes, and not just anyone’s, The Great Uchiha Madara’s, the proud owner of the Eternal Mangekyou Sharingan. He could feel every molecule of water in the air in a radius of ten meters vibrating in its place, waiting for the call of their master to come to his aid.
“Yes, I’m fucking aware, Tobirama,” the fake saccharine tone from before all gone now, “whose eyes do you think I’m using to look at you with?” Madara craned his head to the side, trying and failing to catch Tobirama’s pupils in his, “Did you know, he always had a strange fixation on you, would talk about you for days every time he got back from the battlefield, and now, ironically,” the grip on Tobirama’s jaw was unrelenting, it would leave bruises no doubt, the brand of a burning touch. Tobirama had to shut his eyes, scrunching his face like a child that refuses to see the monster, and Madara seemed to find it amusing if the minute lightness in his chakra was any indication. “I think I have started to understand him more and more.”
With his eyes still tightly closed, his heartbeat out of control, adrenaline flooding his veins and the feeling of claustrophobia growing by the second, Tobirama let out in an agitated voice, “Whatever game you’re playing, Madara, I’m not interested. Leave or I’ll be forced to remove you from my person by force.”
Madara outright laughed in his face this time, puffs of warm breath ghosting over his cheekbone.
“No games, Tobirama. I’m just trying to get to know you better, I don’t think it’s inappropriate at all, we are allies after all, aren’t we?”
“Let me go, then” Tobirama grabbed Madara’s wrist, trying to dislodge the bruising grip on his face.
“Not before you look at me” and with his free hand he slapped Tobirama’s and pinned it on the armrest. The wood started cracking under the force and the air trembled with the depth of his voice.
Tobirama’s eyes were still closed, face almost red with the pressure he was pushing on his eyelids. He should have used the hiraishin the second Madara approached him in such a strange mood, he disparaged, but now his hand was pinned with such brutal strength he would have to break his wrist to escape. Maybe he should.
“Why in my right mind would I do that?” Tobirama asked in between his teeth, but it sounded like an almost scream. And he wanted to scream. But at the same time the need to keep some sense of decorum, at least for his own pride’s sake, stopped him. “Madara, please, just-.”
“I looked. Now it’s your turn, it’s only the polite thing to do.” he said sounding convinced of his own deranged request.
It irked Tobirama to be treated like some unruly child instead of the highly efficient deathly shinobi he was.
“I didn’t ask you to!” he let out, his patience finally cracking, and spears of ice materialized in the air, dozens of them hovering above their tangled form, their sharp ends pointing all at Madara.
The glee in Madara’s chakra was disconcerting.
“Regardless, I don’t need your consent to do so.”
And wasn’t that just the most horrible part? Being perceived against your will. The realization that the shadows you have created to shelter yourself from being seen had only existed in your mind. Being loved or being hated, both different but the same, both working as beacons for the eyes. The acceptance of this truth was, however, far too much for Tobirama to grasp at the moment. Probably not even Madara comprehended completely the repercussions that looking had, the lies he had told himself blinding in ways he could not understand, after all, he was only a shinobi: defected and fractured.
Tobirama felt the bump of the other’s hard skull coming to rest on his forehead, Madara’s dark locks closed their faces in, and through the veil of his eyelids, Tobirama could only see the red, hot, light of Madara’s deadly eyes. This man’s chakra burned through his like a ravenous beast, lusting for dominance, chasing submission.
“Look at me, Tobirama.” Madara’s voice was merely a whisper but held in it the full weight of his authority.
His eyes were the most beautiful he had ever seen. So, so bright and the color of life.
Izuna had been babbling nonstop about his cats for the past fifteen minutes, but Tobirama had disengaged after the first five, his ears, instead, picking on the lazy rush of the growing village, the voices of children playing in the nearby park reaching him like the tutting of birds, while the hot summer sun of Fire tinted the clear sky red.
“You weren’t listening, were you?” Izuna finally stopped his gushing once they reached the front porch of Tobirama’s home.
Tobirama merely gave him a side glance and a smirk, and Izuna drooped dramatically reminding Tobirama of his own elder brother. Why were all the men in his life so prone to overly emotional displays, he would never know. He smiled despite himself and shook his head amused.
“Cheer up or leave.” He threatened playfully and his used-to-be rival brightened up in an instant.
“Do you have more of that tea?!” He asked, already opening the door, and stepping in, kicking his sandals off haphazardly into the usual corner.
Tobirama entered after him, sliding the door shut behind himself, and pushed his guest’s sandals into a more orderly formation, taking off his own after. From the entrance, he could hear the quick trot of Izuna’s feet going to the back, and voices that travelled down his hallway from the garden. It seemed no one cared for the concept of private property, he bemoaned in his head, more the token of a protest than anything else. He went to the kitchen and started boiling the water, Izuna’s voice had joined Hashirama’s outside, and he heard Mito’s regal tone interrupting the playful name calling between them.
He listened with half a mind, his eyes tracking the red tongues of flame caressing the crimson clay teapot. It had been a long week and he reviewed over his work in his mind, making sure there had been nothing left that could not wait till the end of the weekend. Suddenly, the feel of warm, broad hands coming from behind, sliding over his hips and circling him in a lazy hug took him away from his meditations. He felt his body softening his posture in reflex, his knees conditioned to the smell of pyre. He lolled his neck to the side, and a set of soft lips started kissing the spot over in an instant. It was all so familiar and so domestic. So known, so real. He shivered despite the weather, despite the furnace anchoring him in his home.
“Long day?” His partner murmured, his lips still nuzzling up and down the vulnerable line of Tobirama’s artery.
“Long month.” Tobirama closed his eyes, relaxing further into the other’s body with the knowledge that he would catch him, always, and placed both his hands over his partner’s.
“You did amazing. The school is up and running smoothly thanks to you.” The praise was kissed into his skin raising goosebumps and sending tingling down the marrow of his bones. He couldn’t resist the low moan that escaped his mouth.
He was then turned around, the force surprising but also familiar in the setting of their private abode by now, and a pair of black eyes stared deeply into him like cotton or satin.
“So brilliant. So smart. So, so perfect, and all mine.” Singed his lover, his calloused hand coming up to trace lovingly the red lines of his face. Tobirama could no longer remember why he had had them tattooed so long ago.
“Gods, you are so sappy.” Critiqued Tobirama as he leaned closer, lips almost brushing with his partner.
“I prefer sweet.” Clarified the other, dancing his words over his lover’s mouth, their lips yearning to kiss but more willing to wait for the sweetness it added.
“Ugh, aniki! Get a room.” Izuna’s voice came from behind Madara and popped their intimate bubble.
“This is literally my home, you little weasel.” Madara let go of Tobirama to go up to his little brother and attempted to grab him by the ponytail.
“Oi, Madara, let me help!” chimed Hashirama from the doorframe with too much cheer. He slapped his hands together, with a manic smile in his face and the slabs of wood on his kitchen floor started to tremble. “Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” Mito pulled his husband from the ear, making the man drop to his knees in an instant and release the chakra he infused the wooden floor with in the next second.
“Don’t use your mokuton inside the house.” She chastised him without releasing the hold on Hashirama’s earlobe.
“Are you insane?!” Madara’s eyes were open like saucers, incredulity obvious in his face, “You are going to become a father in less than a month and you lack the common sense to know not to go around deforming other people’s houses?!” and his voice was reaching that high peach that meant headaches for Tobirama.
“Madara…” Warned Tobirama.
And his partner shut up immediately.
Tobirama looked at Mito, her round belly popping under her red silk kimono. Her sister-in-law looked positively radiant, all of the cliches of pregnancy suiting her so well.
“How’s my little nibling doing in there?” He asked, walking closer to her, and reaching his hand to touch her belly, waiting for her nod of approval.
“Go ahead.” She allowed with a soft smile.
He sensed under his palm the primitive chakra system running inside the growing body, it felt strong and steady, like a heartbeat. Suddenly, he felt a kick in response; it pleased him immensely and it showed in the radiant smiled he gifted Mito. He got his mouth closer to her belly and talked directly to his nibling.
“Hello to you too.”
It was then that Hashirama decided to interrupt the tender moment with a surprise attack to his brother, the arms encircling him too suffocating to be called a hug and the fat tears and snot staining his hair too disgusting of a display to move anyone to compassion or empathy.
“Let go, you clown!” both Madara and Tobirama shouted at the same time.
“No!” wailed Hashirama, hugging tighter, “My little brother is such an amazing uncle I can’t—control—myself!” and he wailed some more.
Thankfully, Madara came to his rescue, pulling Hashirama by his robes and hair, dislodging the forceful hold and allowing Tobirama to wiggle a safe distance away. Hashirama then saw fit to grab onto Madara instead and started sobbing onto his friend’s shoulder. Izuna watched horrified from the side but unwilling to help in case he suffered the same fate.
“I’m so sorry you had to marry him.” Tobirama whispered to Mito, disbelieving of his brother’s lack of decorum or any sort of grace.
Mito just laughed and went over to her husband, patted him in the back and redirected the emotion to her valiant self. Hashirama hugged her lovingly and kissed her face subsequently. It was nauseatingly sweet and Madara wasted no time in stepping away from his childhood friend and going to stand next to his partner instead, staring at the married couple making out in their kitchen.
“GET A ROOM!” Shouted Izuna understandably uncomfortable and ready to separate them by force.
The sound of his front door sliding open and close made Tobirama turn away from the picture, his attention grabbed by the newcomers. He could hear two voices chatting, growing louder and louder. They reminded him of cicadas and old homes. Of removed soil and salted water.
Two men—two boys appeared at the kitchen door, the black and white hair of one, and the particular face scar in the other, unmistakable.
“Yo,” Saluted Kawarama nonchalant, “watcha playin’?”
Itama bent his head to the side, watching curiously with his big doe eyes as Izuna tried to grapple Mito and Hashirama apart.
“Wrestling?” He asked assuming the innocence of a child in his voice. As if anyone in the room didn’t know what an accomplish shinobi he had been by the age of ten.
“Wait! I wanna join too!” Declared Kawarama loudly as he jumped into the strange embrace between the three.
“No!” Screeched Izuna while Hashirama opened his arms to receive the brute force of his little brother’s tackle. “You fucking Senju giant genes!” Izuna screamed some more and tried to get away, but unable as he was being held in place by both the Senju brothers who pulled at him by his arms and top.
Tobirama could feel his eyes burning as he watched the scene. His chest heavy with rocks.
“Are you okay, aniki?” asked Itama as he propped his chin on Tobirama’s shoulder and looked up at him with honest, clear eyes. They were not brown like Hashirama’s nor red like his, but a sort of deep maroon.
Tears started to fall from Tobirama’s eyes, he could not control the emotion, nor could he control his reaction. The whole room had gone quiet and still, all the participants staring at him eerily. He would describe the sensation like being underwater, except water had never felt this oppressing.
“Please, stop.” He uttered between trembling lips, snot and tears flooding his mouth.
Madara came from behind, grabbed him by the jaw and made Tobirama face him. From between the tears Tobirama saw Madara’s red eyes. His family was gone now, and they were alone in the room—their room.
In a parody of tenderness, Madara placed both his hands on Tobirama’s cheeks, stroking him with his thumbs.
“So beautiful.”
And the walls and floor melted around them.
The illusion was dispelled, and all that was left was the very real pain of lost. The lost of his brothers, his perfect cozy family, his friend, his lover.
“Why?” Tobirama let out between ugly sobs.
“Because I know you, Tobirama.” Replied Madara simply.
“You—!” Tobirama stood up, pushing Madara back, and all the water in the air responded to his ire.
Madara answered in kind, thick red chakra coating his body, readying to fight back.
Sudden flashes from his fictitious life came rushing into Tobirama’s minds eye: his little brothers alive and grown, they looked just like he had imagined they would if they had lived; Mito, pregnant, finally after years of trying to conceive; Hashirama in his home, smiling at him with easy hugs; even Izuna’s face next to Madara’s, no resentment to be found in them, no bad blood between them; all of those images made his resolve falter, confusing him for a moment for he couldn’t tell reality apart. He buckled to his knees, his face on the palm of his hands, the tears running unrestrained.
Madara dropped his own defenses.
“I could give you all that, Tobirama.” He took a step towards the kneeling man and instantly the molecules of water still hovering in the air started vibrating in warning. He stopped moving, but kept talking, “I could give everyone their dreamed life.”
“LEAVE!” The years of anger he had been holding onto burst out of him and Madara had merely a fraction of a second to protect himself from the edges of ice flying at him. The nick of one blade slashed the side of his face, next to his right eye, and drops of blood ran down his face in the next second. The cut was deep, and it would leave a scar, but it would heal without much issue.
“We are the same, Tobirama. This hell we share—I can change that.” And with those last words he turned around and left through the same door he had used to break any semblance of balance they had created in the past years.
A week later Madara deserted the Village, leaving behind a dream on fire.