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“Close your eyes.”
Madara did so at Tobirama’s behest, barely flinching when he felt a cool sensation on his left jaw, the brush softer, the paint colder than he had expected.
Tobirama had mentioned in passing, four times now, to be exact, his desire to paint his clan’s war stripes on Madara.
Madara didn’t understand what Tobirama was playing at. Every time he had asked for the significance of the striping practice, he was met with changes in the conversation topic or silence. Besides, from Madara’s understanding of the Senju tradition, they weren’t at war anymore, so there was no need to wear the stripes. And it made even less sense for Tobirama to paint Madara, who was his enemy, who was not a Senju.
Madara wasn’t exactly sure why he had agreed to Tobirama’s request. Maybe it was because in all the time that Madara had spent with Tobirama, he had never asked Madara for anything. Not even so much as his opinion on plans for the village, which all went through Hashirama to him. And when they had spent time alone, due to Hashirama leaving them in a room alone, or when he asked them to finish some paperwork on his behalf, it wasn’t like they had much to talk about either.
So he decided he would find out what Tobirama was planning by agreeing to the only request he had ever made from Madara. But only after the fourth time, he didn’t want to seem too eager. Tobirama had organized for them to have a room at an inn a little ways away from the planned village, with few rooms and a private bath for him to wash off the paint after. Yes, he’d find out what it was that Tobirama was scheming.
Madara actually did flinch, opening his eyes, when Tobirama moved his long bangs to access his right cheek. The only person he allowed to touch his hair was Izuna, and even then it was more like he tolerated it, rather than explicitly allowing it.
“Explain as you go,” Madara prompted again, as Tobirama painted the other cheek.
“Sh.” The sound was sharp but without animosity. Then, with the hand that had been holding back his hair, Tobirama gently cupped Madara’s face to tilt his head up for the chin stripe.
This was much more intimate than Madara had imagined.
Madara didn’t resist, simply observing the way Tobirama’s tongue curled in concentration, the way the low light of the room caught in his long, white eyelashes.
Madara blinked and brought himself back to the moment. The ink tingled on his skin. He had made sure that the paint had not been infused with chakra before Tobirama started, and he hadn’t sensed Tobirama use any chakra while painting his face, so it couldn’t have been for any sort of seal.
“Undress.” Tobirama said.
“What?”
He had sort of been expecting this, but a blush rose under the freshly painted lines regardless. The Senju were modest, preferring long sleeves and long pants, but he had seen paint on Senju bodies under tattered clothing on the battlefield.
Madara slowly slipped out of the bathhouse yukata Tobirama had forced him to change into earlier (unfairly, Tobirama was still in his blacks), wondering how far Tobirama was willing to take this charade. The fabric fell flimsily, revealing Madara’s broad torso. He neatly arranged the sleeves and collar over his obi, tightening it to keep everything in place.
Tobirama remained unbothered though, and moved to Madara’s back, pushing his hair over his shoulder. Madara sharpened his concentration to the danger of an enemy at his back, singularly focusing his mind and senses on Tobirama. He wondered if the Senju would finally try something now.
Madara felt goosebumps rise at the feeling of the bristles touching his back. Tobirama drew a stroke in the shape of a sickle on his upper back. When he was halfway through drawing a horizontal line through the circular part, Madara jerked away. Tobirama was drawing the Uchiha kamon.
“Are you mocking me, Senju?” He growled, glaring over his shoulder at the white haired man.
Tobirama pressed his lips together. “Would you rather me draw the Senju symbol instead? Then you would really think I was mocking you.”
When Madara didn’t turn back around to let him resume, Tobirama continued, “I have the Senju mon on my back. Obviously, I’m not going to draw that on you, so Uchiha mon it is.”
Madara searched Tobirama’s eyes for another moment. Allowing an outsider to use the Uchiha symbol was frowned upon, but he didn’t sense any ill intent and besides, Tobirama was right in that the Senju symbol would have been much worse. Actually, Tobirama didn’t even look like he was enjoying himself, and although Madara couldn’t read what he was feeling, it wasn’t his usual indifference. He turned back around with a huff.
Tobirama must have taken that as approval to continue, because he gently wiped off the ruined line with a damp cloth and redrew it, completing the symbol on his back.
“To represent your clan having your back, and your responsibility to it,” Tobirama said quietly from behind him.
Finally, Madara thought, we’re getting somewhere.
The literature he had pored through contained little information on the format and symbolic meanings of the Senju war paint. It was a good sign that Tobirama had started talking. It meant that Madara could finally get the answers he wanted.
Tobirama drew an additional horizontal line under the Uchiha kamon.
“This one is to indicate your rank as first-born. I have two as the second-born,” Tobirama continued to explain.
Madara waited for the next stroke, but it didn’t come. The ensuing silence was loud, and Madara focused on not letting his nerves win out. Just as he was about to ask Tobirama what he was waiting for, he felt a finger slowly drag along where Tobirama had drawn the horizontal line.
Madara was embarrassed by the near yelp that escaped his mouth.
“What the fuck was that for?”
“Just checking if the paint is dry,” he heard from behind him.
Tobirama did not have to trace along the entire width of his back to check if the paint was dry.
They remained in a charged silence for a moment longer, before Tobirama moved back in front of him.
Madara tensed slightly as Tobirama leaned in, so close that he could feel the other man’s body heat. Tobirama’s slender fingers brushed his shoulder as he pushed Madara’s long mane back over his shoulder.
In some sense, it had been easier when Tobirama was at his back, when he couldn’t see him. Now, with Tobriama so close, he found himself overly aware of how Tobirama’s expression had gone back to being unreadable, of how the low light made the color of Tobirama’s facial stripes match his eyes, of how the shadows on his clothing pooled to reveal a muscular figure he had known of but never quite perceived before.
Tobirama worked on his stomach and chest, the patterns changing from the bold lines on his face and back to meandering strokes. Although Tobirama had gone back to working quietly, this time, Madara, sensing his concentration, didn't press him to explain. It felt strange to be receiving the full attention of Tobirama (or his body, he supposed, rather than his person), but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
In another life, it might have even been pleasant.
-is what Madara thought until he felt a flash of chakra, and Tobirama’s eyes on his throat.
If it had been any other shinobi, they would’ve been dead by now.
Instead, Madara caught Tobirama by the wrist, forcing Tobirama to drop the brush that had been about to touch his throat. The brush hit the yukata pooled in Madara’s lap with a muffled sound, red seeping into the fabric like spilled blood. His Sharingan spun to life, eyes bleeding red.
This must have been the White Demon’s plan, putting on this whole charade to get Madara to let his guard down, to kill him.
“Sen-” but the Senju’s chakra dispels quickly, his lips quirk into a smile, looking… pleased? And was that a trick of the light, or was there a slight redness of his cheeks?
“-ju.” He finished flatly, bewildered. Hashirama has a near permanent grin on his face, but Senju Tobirama does not smile. He most definitely does not blush.
“The last marking.” Tobirama pulled down his turtleneck to reveal a faded red circle on his neck. “A triangle on your neck. Triangle, symbolizing fire. On your neck, to strengthen your fire breathing techniques.”
“Will you let me finish?” Tobirama asked when Madara didn’t move. Madara loosened his grip at the question, then let go without uttering an apology.
“What did you activate your chakra for?” Madara growled as he closed his eyes. He had reacted on instinct, but he realized now that Tobirama’s chakra had lacked killing intent.
Tobirama simply picked up the brush, the little smile gone, and Madara might have doubted his memory, if his sharingan hadn’t recorded it.
The triangle on his throat was finished quickly, and Tobirama pushed him towards the bathroom, the paint not even fully dry yet.
Madara looked over Tobirama’s work carefully in the bathroom mirror. The vermillion paint contrasted against his pale skin, making him look even wilder than he usually did. Madara had always needed to be presentable, as the clan heir and, later, clan head. His untamable hair had been the one concession he refused to make. But strangely, instead of the disgust he thought he’d feel at sporting the markings of an enemy clan, he felt free.
He glanced towards Tobirama’s chakra signature, sitting right outside the door. He had the impression that Tobirama had achieved his goal, with that smile, but he hadn’t the faintest clue what it might have been.
—
It had been 24 hours and the soft smile that had played on Tobirama’s lips hadn’t left his mind. (He had even had a dream, of Tobirama smiling at him seductively, and had jolted awake in a cold sweat. He did not go back to sleep.) The whole thing bothered him more than he cared to admit. Besides, anything that could make Tobirama smile, could not be good, and anything that could make Tobirama blush, could not be good at all.
He’d need to ask a Senju for answers. But the only Senju he could ask was Hashirama, and knowing how rabid Hashirama could be about his brother, this was not a conversation he was looking forward to.
(Had he gone to the bathhouse after waking up much too early to see if he could catch a glimpse of another Senju’s paint pattern? He may have, but they weren’t at war so the two Senju he’d seen had no paint on.)
His best bet was to ask one question and let Hashirama yap until he shed some light on what Tobirama had been thinking.
“Why is Tobirama the only Senju with facial stripes?” Madara asked the carefully crafted question, having joined Hashirama’s daily walk to get a moment of his time. Hashirama claimed his daily works were to check on the village building progress, but both Madara and Tobirama knew it was mostly a way for him to get out of paperwork.
“Oh?” Hashirama positively grinned. “Are you finally taking an interest in Tobirama?”
“I’m not interested in him, just curious,” Madara said quickly, a slight flush blooming on his face.
“Curious is the same as interested!” Madara was glad Hashirama missed what he had actually meant. “I’m so happy! I kept leaving you guys alone to give you time to get to know each other, but nothing was happening so I was getting worried-“
Wait, Hashirama had been intentionally orchestrating leaving the two of them alone? Madara had thought they were getting left alone more frequently, but he had just assumed that was due to Hashirama getting busier.
“Why would you do that?” Madara said, somewhat strained.
“Hm? Of course I want my best friend and brother to get along,” Hashirama said, slinging an arm over Madara’s shoulder.
Madara shrugged off Hashirama’s arm. “That’s it?“ If Hashirama suspected anything funny going on between Tobirama and himself, or worse, if he was trying to pair them together-
“Yeah, that’s it. But anyway, you were asking about Tobirama’s stripes, right!” Madara let out a sigh internally, glad that Hashirama had changed the topic himself.
“Yeah, about that,” Hashirama laughed, “It was really a whim on my part, like a toraneko cause he’s cute and kind of acts like one. Tobirama used to hate the way he looked, you know? But that first battle he wore them, he did really well, and he’s kept them ever since.” Hashirama chattered away, excited to tell Madara about his little brother. “It brings out his eyes, right? We’re not at war anymore so we don’t paint each other, but he paints himself with temporary paint every morning, kind of like a side ritual?”
This was going well. Sometimes, Madara thought Hashirama talked too much, especially for a shinobi, but for once, he was really glad about it.
“Anyway, I chose Tobirama’s pattern for him because Butsuma really couldn’t be bothered,” Hashirama grimaced at the thought of his long dead father, “he drew a single circle and called it a day, and I was not going to let my baby brother be sent to war with that little protection. I mean, I ended up gifting a non-replicable pattern, so maybe it wasn’t that much better, but! Tobirama liked it and that’s what matters.”
“Gifting?” Madara prompted carefully.
“Yeah, usually patterns are chosen and gifted by the head of the household to their children, and also, I guess, to spouses that marry into the family.”
Madara’s mouth went dry. Spouses? Obviously, Tobirama had been sharing an intimate clan tradition with him, but as for why, well, Uchiha Madara was clearly not a Senju, so…
Had they gotten married without Madara knowing?
“Madara? You don’t look too well.” Hashirama said concernedly, pressing his hand against his forehead. (What was up with these siblings invading his personal space?)
“Excuse me,” Madara choked out before taking off.
What was this disappointment settling in his chest?
Tobirama should know that the Uchiha take marriage very seriously. That they highly value love, the sanctity of marriage.
Madara also knew that Tobirama held no feelings for him. Tobirama had never once shown any interest in him when they had spent time alone together, no attempts at starting conversations, no stolen glances, no lingering touches. Even today, Tobirama had ignored him as usual, as if nothing had happened between them.
Madara honestly would have preferred if Tobirama did like him.
Because the alternative was that he was using marriage to tie Madara to himself and to the village. That his plan was worse than trying to kill him, it was trying to control him.
The gentle smile burned into his memory morphed into something saccharine, a show of triumph. Even off the battlefield, he was the White Demon after all.
—
It took Madara a few hours to get back to the Hokage tower. There, he was met with a Hashirama who was clearly not doing any work, and his brother, whose eyes finally met Madara’s.
Before Hashirama could smother him with concern over his well being, Madara kicked him out under the pretense of distracting Tobirama from his work, all the while keeping his eyes trained on Tobirama.
Hashirama finally leaves, with a not-so-subtle eye wiggle at Madara. The words were out of Madara’s mouth as soon as Hashirama shut the door.
“Senju.” Madara’s voice was low and measured, “When did we get married?”
“No-”
“Is this some sort of ploy to tie me to your clan and the village?” Madara continued, looming, for once, over the seated man. Tobirama’s guilty expression was all the confirmation he needed.
Madara turned away. While Uchiha marriage was binding, he could not recall giving his consent to marriage, so he was pretty sure he could get it annulled. Being the Uchiha clan head had some privileges. He’d go and demand an annulment… from Hashirama, which he was really not looking forward to-
Tobirama stood abruptly, and caught his sleeve, grip ever so gentle, as if, if he held any tighter, Madara might shatter.
“We haven’t gotten married. There’s a ceremony for pattern gifting, and besides, I used temporary paint, not Senju paint.”
Tobirama spoke steadily, leaving no room for misunderstandings. Still, Madara couldn’t bring himself to look at Tobirama.
“I just thought your sharingan would look good with the paint color,” Tobirama continued. “I… acknowledge that I was out of line.
“But I was right, you were pretty.”
Madara’s head jerks to look at Tobirama, seeing now that the man’s face had turned bright red, almost hiding the ever present stripes (temporary paint, Hashirama had said, just like what he’d used on Madara’s body). He felt his own face flushing at Tobirama’s words.
No one had ever called him pretty before. Some called Izuna that, but the words used to describe him had always been muscular, handsome, imposing. Never pretty.
Madara spluttered, at a loss for words. Tobirama’s tone of voice had been clear, but even more so than that, Madara knew that he wasn’t capable of faking a blush like that, so he must be sincere.
So there hadn’t been any scheme, just Tobirama’s insane fixation on seeing him with Senju stripes. Because he thought he’d look pretty? Surely, there must be some other reason for Tobirama to go so far.
“So what did you draw then?” was what he asked instead.
“Actually, I did design something for you, but I didn't draw it then. I just sketched what I was feeling in the moment,” Tobirama answered, face still bright red. “It doesn’t… mean anything.”
Madara removed Tobirama’s hand from his sleeve.
“It must mean something,” Madara probed, “for you to ask this of me.”
“Fine, but it doesn’t have to mean anything.”
“But it could.”
“It could,” Tobirama acquiesced, still holding Madara’s gaze.
Madara could work with that.
“Next time,” Madara said softly, threading his fingers through Tobirama’s. “I want to see what you designed for me, next time.”