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Madara peeks at him out of the corner of his eye and Tajima laughs inside his head. Oh, he keeps his face stern and unmoving, not giving away his amusement in word or gesture, playing the part of the stoic shinobi so no one at this table will know what he's thinking.
Except for one man, of course.
Butsuma's countenance is equally stern, a mask that could have been hammered out of iron, but Tajima learned to read those eyes over the course of countless battles and it's a skill he's never lost.
Hashirama licks his lips nervously before advancing another proposal, a very familiar one despite being inked in an unfamiliar hand. Written in the precise strokes of a seal master, it's much neater than when Tajima first saw it, scribbled by Hashirama in the corner of a letter and partially covered by a sketch of a flower, later marked with multiple questions and additions by Butsuma, but it's the same idea.
A village, for both clans to reside in.
A union of rivals, to end the war and strengthen both.
The shinobi gathered here on the banks of the river murmur to hear it, but Tajima stays still and silent, as does his conspirator, and soon heads begin to nod in tentative agreement.
Butsuma catches his eye across the table, and twitches his fingers. It's just the tiniest flicker of movement, half obscured by the cup of tea he brings to his lips, but Tajima reads it as clearly as if he shouted.
He lifts his own cup, drinking calmly in a silent toast that no one else around them sees, an unspoken agreement.
Yes, they raised good sons.
The future is in good hands.