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Beep-beep.
Beep-beep.
Beep-beep.
This wasn’t a vibration anymore — it was a full-on nerve drill.
He shot up in bed like someone had rung the doorbell and announced, “Your problems have arrived. Express delivery.”
Feet hit the cold floor. The satin blanket slithered off the bed, the pillow flopped to the carpet with a defeated sigh, and his phone blinked red like it was about to combust. Its glow reflected in the mirror of the closet door, flashing like a silent alarm.
03:00.
Night in the heart of Tokyo. Calm. Neon-lit. Balancing on a knife’s edge.
And his phone — carrier of chaos.
That bastard.
Honestly, if someone had ever told Tobirama Senju that, at thirty, he’d be getting late-night messages from Madara Uchiha — the Madara he fell for in his early teens — he would’ve laughed. Or cried. Or both. Depending on his mood.
Back then, everything felt so much more dramatic.
His older brother’s friend. Striking looks. The kind of confidence you only see on billboard actors.
It all followed the classic script.
From age fifteen to twenty-three — five confessions.
Five.
Each one drafted, rehearsed, delivered with that desperate inner chant of “Maybe this time.”
And each time — ice water to the face.
No softness. No cushioning.
At fifteen:
“You’re not my type, Senju. Not even close. Don’t waste my time.”
At seventeen:
“You’re always arguing with Izuna. I’m not dating someone who disrespects my family.”
At nineteen:
“If I had to choose between someone who makes me feel good and someone who always tries to prove they’re smarter — you’re not even in the running.”
At twenty:
“You’re exhausting. Emotionally. Mentally. Everything’s complicated with you. I don’t want that.”
At twenty-three:
“Still at it? I thought you’d at least have some pride left after the third time. Stop. This is getting uncomfortable.”
And now, years later — post-university, post-PhD, post-glass-wall apartment with a Shibuya skyline view — Madara was texting. At 3AM.
Like a cheap romcom. Minus the rom. Minus the com. Just chaos.
Tobirama knew it was his own damn fault.
Who even tries that hard? When someone tells you no, you stop. At the first one.
But no — he’d gone full commitment.
Maybe that’s why now? He’s just done. Emotionally. Romantically. Sexually. Nothing left.
He reached for the phone. The screen buzzed in his hand.
Opened the chat.
03:01
Madara: Senju, pick up the phone.
03:02
Madara: Tobirama Senju, I will keep calling and texting until you acknowledge me. I’m serious.
03:03
Madara: Okay, fine, I was a dick today. But is that really a reason to ghost me?
03:03
Madara: Tobirama
03:04
Madara: SENJU, I swear to god, I’ll call your brother and have him drag your spine out of that penthouse.
03:04
Madara: Okay, yeah, that was aggressive. I agree. Also weird. But I don’t actually know where you live, I swear.
03:05
Madara: Tobirama, please.
03:06
Madara: Yes, I admit I was an asshole in high school and college. But like, who wasn’t? Come on.
03:07
Madara: You know I’m not gonna stop typing. That’s a threat.
03:07
Madara: You didn’t block me, right?
Tobirama closed his eyes, tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. The lines in the drywall looked like ancient runes now, hypnotic and oddly divine.
He didn’t need to check the screen. He could feel it — psychically, spiritually — Madara watching his “online” status like a hawk.
Outside, the world was still drowning in the cold light of the moon, the distant hum of traffic, and a thousand too-bright stars.
03:08.
He knew: Uchiha was still typing.
Tobirama exhaled.
You know what? Fuck it.
It was his day off. Tomorrow too. He had earned — earned — one goddamn night without emotional exhumation. Without midnight paragraphs from ex-walking-ego-complexes with model hair and a messiah complex.
03:08
Madara: Tobirama, I know you’re reading these, you—
Beep.
He hit the button. The screen went black.
He sank back into bed.
Slowly. Like exhaustion.
Tomorrow, he’d call Yuki Yamanaka.
They’d drink.
And roast Uchiha to hell and back.
With joy.