Work Text:
Madara wished he was dead. It’s not that he was passively suicidal, or that he resented living. It’s that his Infinite Tsukuyomi plan was having a bit of trouble coming to fruition while he’s stuck in this ailing, aging body that could no longer handle the intense jutsus needed to fulfill the Sage’s prophecy. Every year he lived, while it allowed him influence over Konoha as the grand patriarch of the Uchiha clan, was another year that his plan would delay, with the world plunging further into countless conflicts, unending violence, and suffering.
Suffering, much like the setbacks he had to put up with after Zetsu disappeared to sage knows where. As of now, he only had one minion... His adorable, and incredibly annoying and stupid great-grandson.
A metallic clang on stone wrested his attention back to the stupid child in question. Obito groaned openly into the cold misty air of the hidden forest graveyard, overgrown with flora and lost to time since the founding days of Konoha.
“Ugh! This sucks!” Obito leaned his forehead on his shovel, shifting from foot to foot, no doubt sore from standing all day. In frustration, he kicked the crumbling gravestone he slammed his shovel on.
Perhaps Madara should go from quasi-passively suicidal to actively suicidal.
Things would move on much faster, wouldn’t they?
“I’m tired of this, grandpa!” Obito threw his shovel on the ground, making his relative cringe at the loud, ringing sound grating against his eardrums.
Such insolence. Did the younger generations have no manners? No veneration for their elders?
“Well that’s too damn bad, Obito,” Madara said dryly. “Keep digging!”
“Excuse me then,” muttered his great-grandson. Obito lowered his orange goggles back over his eyes and reluctantly picked his shovel back up. “Old fucking fart.”
“And pay closer attention to which graves you’re desecrating with your childish antics. Respect to those who came before you,” Madara pointed a shaky but accusatory finger in Obito’s direction.
Obito only rolled his eyes and turned away from him, much to Madara’s annoyance. He may be old, but he didn’t miss it when the boy muttered something along the lines of what do you know? you’re the one having me play graverobber anyways.
“And whose grave am I supposed to be looking for? All these things look the same,” Obito squinted closer at one on his left, slightly less mossy than the one on his right. “Couldn’t you have just left a bouquet or something and called it a day? This shit’s kinda weird.”
“As I have said before, we are searching for Hashirama’s burial site.”
“Who the hell is Hashirama?” Madara opened his mouth to reprimand the boy once more for his insolence, but also to question his basic Academy education and his grandson’s obviously faulty parenting. Obito interrupted him. “Eh, don’t answer that. I don’t really care.”
“Know that Hashirama’s cells are integral to the eternal peace that I will bring to this disgusting world!” He slammed his palm on the arm of his wheelchair, clenching with fury.
“Huh? Yeah, whatever you say, gramps.” Obito picked a bit of earwax with his pinky, inspected it, then flung it off into the underbrush. “You’re real loopy when you skip your morning shogi club.”
Madara pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefingers, willing away a headache from all the tension he felt rattling around in his skull. Death could not come quickly enough.