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modernart2012 · 7 years

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You remind me of (Home)

@sumigakure Halloween Event 2017

Prompt 5: Urban Fantasy (Modern Magical Characters)

Word count: 17718

On AO3

Summary: “Dammit Hashirama, I swear on the Fire God’s eternal flame that if you’ve pissed off your house again, I’m going to let it kill you with absolutely zero regrets.” Madara growls into the receiver of the phone, head still achy and throbbing from having to coax his aunt’s house all yesterday in order to let the masons come and fix the exterior without It trying to cause accidents. It’s too fucking early to deal with Hashirama’s drama queen of a house. Of fucking course his nearest and dearest would have houses that were persnickety and have difficult personalities that necessitated regular placation.

MadaTobi AU where Madara has (slight) House magic, among other magic Or, I thought about Madara being able to speak to houses, then the Sumigakure prompt for Modern Magical Characters happened. I regret nothing.)

They say the reason the Uchiha are good at fire magic is because they can trace their lineage back to the first devotees of the Fire God and for their devotion they were Blessed. As far as everyone else was concerned, this was close enough to the truth as to make no difference, so there was never really any point in trying to tell anyone otherwise.

They also said, in quieter whispers, that there was no better homemaker than an Uchiha, that their homes were always warm, welcoming, and well-appointed and always had that little touch of magic that made a house a home. The sort of thing featured in magazines and were the envy of every housewife. Only, that warmth failed to extend to strangers. (Which considering, meant vast majority of the population, it was a wonder this was even a believable rumor, especially given the rather famed Uchiha reserve and their subsequent issue with making friends.) Everyone speculated as to why, but no one ever came within a stone’s throw of the truth.

Madara suspected that most Uchiha didn’t know either, since the Blessing wasn’t particularly noticeable from any other talent (unless you really were looking) and even then it could have been passed off as a learned skill. By virtue of having a younger sibling who could not recognize a bad idea if they tried, for the Fire God’s sake Izuna, Madara knew why. Hearth and home, intrinsically linked, so mote it be from now into the ever after.

Of course, there was a range of what constituted homemaker magic. Izuna was exceptionally talented with needlework and knitting, Cousin Mikoto had an affinity for appliances and gadgets and fixing them, and Cousin Kagami could work a kitchen without looking. All perfectly normal Blessings (for a given value of Blessings being normal). Madara, on the other hand, he got to talk to buildings. Unusual, and not that Madara was complaining (because he knows what happened to the last guy who complained about a Blessing), but why couldn’t he have gotten something like baking? He could handle being roped into baking things for everyone he knew and their friend circles besides. Being their on-call house doctor/ house-sitter/ human-building conflict mediator was a whole separate issue.

“Dammit Hashirama, I swear on the Fire God’s eternal flame that if you’ve pissed off your house again, I’m going to let it kill you with absolutely zero regrets.” Madara growls into the receiver of the phone, head still achy and throbbing from having to coax his aunt’s house all yesterday in order to let the masons come and fix the exterior without It trying to cause accidents. It’s too fucking early to deal with Hashirama’s drama queen of a house. Of fucking course his nearest and dearest would have houses that were persnickety and have difficult personalities that necessitated regular placation.

Hashirama laughs awkwardly on the other end of the line, “Actually.....”

Madara pinches the bridge of his nose, “Fires above, why am I even friends with you, you damn dryad-descended bastard?”

“Because I wouldn’t leave you alone on the playground and I grew on you like a fungus,” Hashirama recited the well-worn response without a hint of shame. “But actually, I don’t need you to talk to Konoha. They’re doing fine since we left the little fox in the garden alone.” Madara thought about the massive “bonsai garden” Hashirama nurtured and the equally massive “little” fox that lived there and decided it was exactly not-his-business enough to have to think about.

“Then what.” Hashirama had 30 seconds on the clock starting now, or Madara would hang up and go back to sleep. If it had anything to do with his best friend’s wife, he was going to punch Hashirama in the face. He was not going to play couples counselor before he had at least 3 cups of coffee today. Or before noon. He glances at the clock, squinting at the brightness of the digital display. Make that 4 cups of coffee and one of those weird energy pills.

“Ineedyoutohousesit.” Hashirama blurts, as if sensing he was on thin ice.

Madara lets the line fall silent because that was a single text message at best, and failed to warrant a call in any way, shape, or form. His gut told him there was something more to that, and the guilt would hit in, oh, about 15 more seconds - “AndTobiramawillbethere.” It comes out in a barely understandable rush.

And there it was. Fire God’s blessed ashes, Hashirama would expect him to house sit with his younger brother. Obstinate wood-brained optimist that he was, he might even expect them to not absolutely destroy his house. “Details. Now.” Madara mentally adds another cup of coffee to his total for being functional today; Hashirama usually had this effect.

“Uh, Tobirama had a small accident at his lab, and his apartment doesn’t have an elevator. So, he’s going to be staying here too?” Hashirama mutters sotto voce as if that would really obscure what he said. “Really, he’ll be no trouble.”

There’s a lie if Madara ever heard one; the Senju brothers were all trouble. He sighs heavily, “I’ll be there.” Then he hangs up, stares at the ceiling and contemplates his life choices.

Normally, Madara’s fire magic would repel plants and woody things because fire, but stuff tended to become imbued with magic over time, and then subsequently tended to echo the sentiments of the person who they were closest to. Which stood to explain why Madara was fighting Hashirama’s over-large blackberry bush instead of entering the house like a perfectly normal visitor.

“You know, they wouldn’t do this if you’d just say ‘hello’ like a normal human.” Madara knows that voice and that voice is unbearably smug.

He ceases struggling against the woody shrub momentarily in order to shoot back, “No, they wouldn’t do this if they were cared for by anyone sane, unlike your brother.” He felt a piece of shrubbery wrap closer, “Shit, watch the thorns! Your plants don’t do this, ever.”

By the time the bush had Madara completely trussed up like a roast pig in some kind of macabre hug, he’s more than ready to face Hashirama and Konoha’s wrath over setting fire to a bush. Tobirama huffs amused from the porch swing he's perched on, “That’s because I take more after my water-natured mother than my earth-natured father, and you and I both know it.” Still, he reaches out to tap the bush, and Madara feels the brush of still-quiet-current-cool that marked Tobirama’s magic. The bush slowly unwraps Madara until he is finally free of it’s clinging branches, dragging out the time it has him in its clutches, but by that time Tobirama had gotten himself indoors and there were no other potential witnesses.

“Hi to you Finn, please don’t do that again,” Madara murmurs as he lets a small touch of sun-warm trickle into the plant. It sends back a warm-sun-happy-yum. Then he finishes making his way up the path to the porch steps, and patting the rail to send a fond, greetings-hello-once-more into the foundations of Konoha, brushing against the ancient wards inscribed there. With houses this old, ones that had developed their own personality, it was better to be formal. Homes talked after all.

Konoha, for all their age, was still young and mischievous in temperament, and washed against his fire with green-wood-salt-water-come-in. Younger buildings, once they knew he could understand them, were prone to overwhelming with imagery and sensation, tugging and yanking on his magic as though they might be able to siphon enough to become sentient and rattle their thoughts to the world, spilling over the minutiae of what they saw and heard. It was something to be appreciated about grand old homes, really, even though Konoha had left the edges of his fires smoking with their wet wood impression. Even after all this time, he wasn’t sure if it was their way to describe Hashirama and Mito or their way of messing with him.

Mito is waiting for him in the foyer, a nine-tailed fox perched on her shoulder. “Well met Madara,” she greets as she flicks salt water from a mirrored bowl over him.

“Well met, Mito,” he responds by rote, letting her douse him with more water than strictly necessary by ritual. Much like her home, Mito has a mischievous streak hidden behind a veneer of decorum and stateliness, which she exercises healthily on the unsuspecting regularly. “Are you and Hashirama ready to leave?”

Mito sighs, ignoring the growling and hissing fox on her shoulder, “He’s farewelling the garden. Stars leading home only know how long it will take to finish. Feel free to set up your flame in the shrine.”

Madara sighs as well, feeling the throbbing behind his eyes that signaled an oncoming headache. Hashirama’s garden was less a garden and more a forest. “I’ll go drag Hashi out first.”

Mito smiles serenely; they both knew that she could very well go and drag her erstwhile husband from his plants, and would, but the plants were always more interested in pleasing Madara-burn-underbrush-gone than Mito-salt-water-death. “I’ll finish packing then.” The fox turns to keep an eye on Madara as Mito walks away, tails lashing all the while, and it’s not until Madara is leaving out the back door does he realize that it’s probably the same fox that Hashirama was complaining about upsetting one of his redwoods. He firmly tells himself he doesn’t want to know, because that is most certainly not leaving the fox alone and clearly it’s been well out of hand for sometime if the fox is being carted around like a small yappy purse-dog.

“Hashirama!” Almost as soon as his foot hits the moss that marked the edge of Hashirama’s gigantic “bonsai garden”, he can feel the tug of the flora around him trying to drag him into them, to Hashirama, to keep him in place. He’s too busy concentrating on keeping walking and not getting got by plants to notice the thumping that usually precedes Hashirama tackling him; it’s entirely too late when he sees Hashirama flying through the air.

Luckily, the moss Hashirama grows is always inexplicably rabbit soft, so getting tackle-hugged by his best friend really only bruises his ego and dignity. “Mada, you’re here!” He bears the ensuing cuddling and the way the tree closest to them is slowly winding roots over until a root gets entirely too close to his hair.

“Mito’s finished packing,” he announces in lieu of having to shove Hashirama off. It worked like a charm, Hashirama yelping and fleeing back towards the house faster than the time he was being chased by ducks. Madara followed just as quickly - Hashirama’s plants were just as tenacious as their caretaker, and given the chance they would try to carry him off into their depths never to be seen or heard from again. He wasn’t going to stand for a repeat of last time; the fact that Mito had to call in Search and Rescue to retrieve him was something that always came up whenever he had to work with them.

“One of these days Brother is going to catch onto the fact you and Mito are friends.” Tobirama murmurs into Madara’s ear as he hobbles past, once Madara was securely back inside the house. Mito had the last of the luggage neatly assembled by the door, fox secure in her arms, clearly overseeing Hashirama carry the bags to the car. “Waves carry you and Brother safely, Mito.”

“And may the tides guide us back,” she murmurs in response, kissing Tobirama’s cheeks, finishing the ritual farewell. “You know where everything is, don’t burn or flood the house down.” The last bit was said with a pointed glare, even though that was once and it was all entirely Hashirama’s fault.

“May the eternal flame light your path,” Madara presses his right hand to his chest, then extends it to brush fingertips with Mito, who mirrored the action.

“So mote it be,” she responds easily, then leads the way out. Tobirama moved easily on the crutches, and Konoha tugs hard at Madara safe-keep-still-water to his displeasure. Tobirama was a grown adult who knew how to take care of himself. Nonetheless Madara kept an eye trained on Tobirama; it wasn’t worth fighting with Konoha this early, especially given that they were more than likely influenced by Mito and her particular brand of payback.

Almost as if it were planned, Tobirama stumbles on the unsteady flagstone that refused to stay down no matter how much Hashirama begged or pleaded. Madara easily caught his upper arm, returning Tobirama to an upright position even as he moved to get the last bag to Hashirama before he closed the trunk. A part of Madara missed the feline grace that usually marked Tobirama, unfurled and flowed through his actions, but considering at self-same part tended to find all of Tobirama attractive it was to be expected. He sternly ignored that part, the one that had felt the well-defined muscle of Tobirama’s bicep and wanted.The final bag fit precariously, but the trunk closed and that was as good a win as they were bound to get with Hashirama packing the trunk. Hashirama turns to Madara, “Earth God keep you, Mada. We should be back in 3 to 4 days, but hopefully sooner if things go well.” Then conspiratorially, “You should take this chance to fix this UST thing between you and Tobi. Work things out via the motion of the ocean - ”

Madara smacks a firm knife-hand into Hashirama’s skull, frustratedly, “Why are you like this?” After a beat they share a grin, and hug farewell. “Earth God keep you too Hashi. Come back in one piece.” And with that, Hashirama and Mito were off.

Madara blows out the incense cone and lets the fragrant smoke fill the hall. The lamp representing the Eternal Flame of the Fire God was lit and the evening aarti had been completed. It felt odd to have non-participant while going through even an abridged version of his usual prayer, but it couldn’t be helped that the shrine alcove in Hashirama and Mito’s house fell across from the sitting room. Air disciple habit, to place the house shrine at the nexus of all four directions in the house, so the winds could carry the prayers to the ears of the God. For them, it didn’t matter if someone observed or overheard, their prayers were verbal and meant to be so, but it was odd for everyone else. He turned to meet Tobirama’s assessing eyes, only to find the person in question was attempting to use the end of his pen to reach a scratch inside his cast.

His reaction is instinctive, smacking the pen out of Tobirama’s hand with more force than was called for, “What are you doing?”

Unphased, the offender tracked the flight of the pen, “You’ll have to return that to me, I have notes to make.”

“No, you damned kelp-brained idiot, I am NOT returning your pen! Didn’t you listen when the doctors told you not to stick foreign objects into your cast?!” Madara points a finger in Tobirama’s face, “You are going to wait here and I am going to bring you ice and then you are going to ice wherever is itchy.” As he stalked down the hall towards the kitchen, he grumbles aloud, aware that the house and Tobirama are listening, “I swear on the God’s flaming balls that for all his supposed genius, he’s more likely to injure himself than use his STUPID WATERLOGGED BRAIN.”

He feels a sharp tug on his magic and the accompanying terse flash of impressions still-water-sputtering-fire and while translating that set of meanings, he completely misses the way Konoha purposefully misaligned a floorboard and trips. He flails, trying to remain upright, and instead crashes into the doorpost that marked the kitchen. “Of course you like Tobirama. And he doesn’t get the better of me!” Madara growls in frustration as he rights himself. However, it seemed like Konoha disagreed, since the freezer door stuck shut when he went to search it for frozen vegetables. “Are you sure you want to do that? The longer it takes to get something to stop the itching, the more likely he is to cause himself further injury.”

Almost as if to prove his point, there was a loud thump from the direction of the living room, and a muffled curse. As though conceding with ill grace, the freezer drawer unstuck with a put-upon sigh and Madara fished out a particularly well-frosted bag of peas.

He’d had low expectations of what he’d find when he returned, from Hashirama’s horror stories Tobirama was insufferable when ill or injured, but he really wasn’t expecting this. “Fires above and below, fucking how? What?” Madara sighed aggrievedly, “Could you not have sat still for the two minutes it took me to go and come back?”

Tobirama glares at him in response, but the effect is ruined by the fact he’s stuck bent over, face to the floor. “I would not be in this predicament if you had simply returned my pen.” His speech is dampened by the thick Kaze-style carpet, but the annoyance is clear.

“Because I ought to have returned to you an implement that you were probably going to use to keep itching. Yes, that seems reasonable,” He huffs a sardonic laugh as he hefts Tobirama upright by the waist. Madara very firmly thinks about things other than Tobirama’s ass, like the very nice fan Mito had put on the wall. It was a very nice fan. Silk, with dancing cranes. Lovely. He was not going to even begin to think about the feel of Tobirama’s hips in his hands, nosir he was -

From the floor, Konoha sends the impression of salacious-forward-approval and what feels like a smug titter, and realization spreads like fire quickly followed by burning embarrassment. “Wha - absolutely not you sentient hunk of wood!” Madara barks to the room at large, trying not to drop Tobirama as he fumbled uselessly between depositing Tobirama back onto the couch and burying his face in his hands. “Why would you even think that?” The sense that Konoha was laughing returned, doubled and echoed and crackled like Izuna wielding lightning to smoke a marshmallow like the massive show-off he was.

By some minor miracle, Tobirama had enough coordination with his non-dominant leg to maneuver in order to land on the settee, pen firmly in hand. “If you’re quite done arguing with inanimate objects, Uchiha.” That tone is both disgruntled and imperious, as is the set of Tobirama’s shoulders and the thrust of his hand, “My papers, if you will.” With a simple flex of his index finger, the peas flew across the room to land neatly on his cast.

Face still burning, Madara collects the strewn papers, entirely resigned to ensuring that they’re in order. He tries to ignore the crowing of Konoha in the back of his head. “Are you even supposed to be using magic for anything other than healing right now? Didn’t you listen when the doctors told you what to and to not do?” Madara distinctly remembers that lecture from when he broke his arm, though that may have been because close contact with fire and subsequent sweating was a serious risk for bacterial growth and rash. Fire wasn’t particularly known for healing properties after all.

A single eyebrow lifts, as if decrying the inanity of the questions, “It takes less than a thought to attract water, especially already extant water. And doctors are used to dealing with the average magic level of the general population; I can multitask. I’m sure you’ve done the same.”

Madara shoots back, “That’s not the point, and we both know it. You should’ve been able to heal this sort of mess already as a powerful water-natured magic user, but the fact that you’re on crutches after the fact means you’re drained and shouldn’t be throwing magic around.” He crosses his arms, “Go on. Tell me I’m wrong. Whatever the thrice-damned Twelve Hells you were up to in your lab exhausted you completely and you’re still recovering.”

The tightness around Tobirama’s eyes and the thinning of his lips betray him; Madara had hit the mark then. “Your papers. I’m going to go get groceries, try not to die while I’m out.”

There’s nothing better for healing than water, everyone knows that. It is one of the most common applications of water magic, after all. But without fire to boil, burn out infection and illness, healing would never work, and that’s something no one who bows to the Water God will ever own up to. And as sure as Madara is that Mito keeps a perfectly well stocked pantry, there’s no way she has the necessary spices for his famed soup. Sure to warm you from the inside out and cure whatever ails you. That over half the ingredients work towards replenishing magic reserves is added benefit.

He’s trying to recall which brand of Sichuan pepper is better when his phone trills. It’s Kagami, which is promising since it’s not Fugaku or Hizashi Hyuuga, both of whom fail to understand what a ‘weekend’ is. “Madara, why is Tamae telling me you’re buying the ingredients for your infamous soup. It’s no-where near time for the Midwinter Fire Dances.” Scratch that, Madara will take Fugaku and Hizashi simultaneously.

While left unsaid, Madara also clearly hears the, ‘and Izuna hasn’t even come close to hurting, harming, or outright maiming himself yet this month while gazing adoringly at Tōka.’ It might actually be a record for how long Izuna has gone without injury, and Madara makes note to investigate that at earliest opportunity. Eventually. He’s got a rolling priority list.

He sighs heavily, before grabbing the larger bottle of Sichuan pepper and moving onto the dried red chiles, “Tobirama -”

Kagami inhales in surprise, “Professor Senju? Fire God’s flaming balls, are you finally making a move?! Couldn’t you have put that off until I need him to sign off on my thesis? Wait, wait, no, this is fine. I just need you to keep him distracted when I go to defend. If I got you one of those wifi-enabled adult toys, would you convince him to have fun with it the day of my defense? You’ll do that for me right? Hang on, I need to call Uncle Hikaku and Cousin Mikoto, we need to settle up the betting pool - ”

“What betting pool,” Madara cuts in sharply, “And I’m not making a move! Except to housesit. That’s it. That is my only move!” He snatches up a package of dried wood ear mushrooms, and shoves it into his basket next to the anise and mugwort. He tries to remember if Mito keeps ginger paste or knobs.

“But you’re making soup! Your soup! The soup you only make for someone special, to show you care in your own unique Madara way! The recipe you guard so well even Izuna doesn’t know the whole thing! If this isn’t a passionate declaration of love I don’t know what is!”

Kagami really missed his calling in the dramatic arts. “I don’t even know where you got this idea of me being even remotely interested in Tobirama,” Madara hisses down the line, flustered, failing at keeping the memory of Tobirama stuck bent over and his ... shapely posterior from his thoughts, “but it is a complete and utter falsehood. A lie! Complete slander!”

“I think the lady doth protest too much,” Kagami sing-songs down the line, “Also, Cousin Izuna said your house had thin walls. You really ought to try being quieter. Don't worry, I’ll make sure Uncle Setsuna has a heart attack before the wedding. No one needs that asshole.”

“What wedding?!” Madara splutters, making mental note to strangle Izuna next time he saw him; eavesdropping on ... private time and gossiping about it was not okay. Then as an afterthought, “And don’t kill Setsuna. He owes me 5,000 ryo still.” The old lady next to him in the freezer aisle startles and stares. She quickly grabs a carton of ice cream and flees. Madara watches her go, and prays she wouldn’t recognize him as the current head of the Magical Crimes Division. This would be so hard to explain to IA. “In any case, Tobirama is currently crippled. That lab accident you missed by dint of having to teach class. Since Hashirama implied I need to take of Tobirama while housesitting, I’m going to do that.”

“And that means making him soup. From scratch.” Kagami’s tone is incredulous. “One day, you are going to look back at this moment and the rest of us are going to laugh. And you’re going to do that thing where you try to phase through the floor in embarrassment, because this is totally you trying to woo Professor Senju by demonstrating your superior househusband skills.” Then he hung up. With a sigh, Madara pockets his phone, selects a carton of ice cream at random, and makes his way to the check out.

It was one thing to know Tobirama was most likely a cat in his past life and thus contrary when it suited him (usually around Madara), it was a whole nother level to personally experience the willfulness in person. Meaning, Madara comes back to Konoha just in time to meet a pizza delivery man on the front step. He had said he was going to the grocery store, hadn’t he? That implied he was going to cook, right?

Awkward polite smiles are exchanged, but silence prevails. From inside the house, Madara could hear the steady thumping of a man on crutches making his way to the front door, but otherwise Konoha was silent. Time elongated, as he continued to nonchalantly ignore the stranger beside him, conscious of his nonchalance and the way the ice cream was probably partially melted in the late summer heat. Madara hoped that the carton wasn’t dripping, the sugar would attract ants.

Finally Tobirama swings open the door. His hair is damp and slicked back, as if he had just gotten out of the bath, his t-shirt damp and clinging to every muscle in a way that meant he had gotten doused with water while dressed. “Apologies, there was a slight mishap. Do you take credit?” A fat water droplet weaves its way down Tobirama’s neck and sinks into the saturated white collar, drawing the eyes towards Tobirama’s well-defined shoulders and pectorals. Madara was never going to be able to unsee that, it was going to haunt his dreams for the rest of eternity. Konoha seemed to agree, sending the memory of a wolf-whistle and a snippet of song, too-hot-hot-damn. Madara chokes and furiously sends back why as forcefully as he could manage. It wasn’t like he was unaware Tobirama was attractive; he was also aware that Tobirama had no interest in him.

While the pizza man tries to unswallow his tongue, Tobirama glances Madara’s way, and something like curiosity-aha-oh unfurls in ruby red. Wisely, Madara decides to pretend he hadn’t seen anything, grabs the pizza, and squeezes past Tobirama into the house. “Madara, before you go, there’s a slight issue with the laundry that will need your immediate attention.”

A quick questioning pulse of magic through the floorboards and Madara is flooded with the sense of gush-spurt-flee from the laundry faucet, and the slight sensation of oh-oh-no from Konoha itself. “Senju, what in the ten names of the Fire God did you do?” Then he’s dashing back towards the laundry, tossing the pizza box and groceries haphazardly in the kitchen.

It’s worse than what he’d initially thought, with the sink faucet spraying water like it’s a fire hose. Within a few minutes, he’s also dripping wet from the waist up, and blinded both by water and the weight of his hair being dragged down into his face. Even sending the image of a faucet turning off to Konoha only gets a wailed can’t-can’t-can’t! in response.

It’s a trial to even get close enough to the spray to grab and yank the handle to off, and it only does so with force. By then, Madara isn’t the only thing soaked, with the floor and walls slick and shiny. He hadn’t noticed before, but he’s rather sure there’s water on the ceiling too.

With an aggrieved sigh, Madara raises his hands to swipe off the excess water on his face. If only he hadn’t broken his last hair tie this morning -

A hair tie is thrust into his face, and he takes it without thought. Midway through tying his hair back, he realizes that magically appearing hair ties are not, in fact, a thing that happens normally outside of the office. “You are a walking hazard,” he grits out between clenched teeth. There is no way, no way -

“Despite your thoughts to the contrary, I know better than to tempt fate,“ the scoffed reply comes back quickly. “Crutches and slick floors are something I’ll leave Kawarama to test.” Madara inhales deeply and glances towards the corner where Tobirama’s voice is coming from. He is in fact safely perched upon the counter by the door, settling one of his crutches neatly in a dry section of floor, and in no clearly danger of getting his cast wet or causing himself further injury. Tobirama’s still soaked through, though, and the way his shirt is sheer and plastered to his abs makes Madara’s stomach twist like Izuna has electrically shocked him.

He can feel his face flushing, and the snap-crackle-spark of his fire rising.The ooooh-squee-excite that marks Konoha’s interest is tinged with the sensation of raised eyebrows and a discreet thumbs up. With a flick on intent, he marshals the rise of heat to the core of his magic and sends it out as a wave of scorch-boil-dry that flashes away the water into hot, heavy steam in the work of a moment. It takes even less to dry himself and Tobirama, and if he lies to himself and says it’s to prevent them from catching colds, then only he needs to know.

“Very impressive,” Tobirama’s voice rumbles through the heavy air, and almost just as quickly the moistness condenses into what is a rather large sphere of water that holds it’s shape just long enough splash harmlessly into the sink drain. The smirk is evident in just Tobirama’s tone, and with good reason; it’s no mean feat to convince something hot to cool and come together, especially if it’s very recently reached that state. It’s appealing, to know he has that level of control.

Except, “Why are you using magic?!” Madara hadn’t known his voice could hit that register post-puberty, but you learn new things every day. “Did you suffer a traumatic head injury as well?!”

“For the Water God’s mercy!” Tobirama snaps out, eyes alight with anger as he resettled himself on his feet. Foot. Foot and two crutches. “Are you so small-minded as to believe I am utterly incapable of taking care of myself?!” His nostrils flare as he pauses to inhale deeply, jaw clenched. “Let me take this ... opportunity to disabuse you of some misconceptions you seem to have arrived at. First, not every water magic practitioner has the skill or ability to heal. While most can do so at some level, for a minority more than basic first aid is the limit of their ability. I am among that number, no matter my power level, and I do not harbor any desire to be among the number who have the ability to heal.”

Madara scoffs, “Because Tobirama Senju would stop at nothing in the pursuit of knowledge. Weren’t you the one who said, ‘Knowledge, whatever the price, is worth having’?”

“Don’t twist my words to suit your own purposes, Uchiha! Knowledge is always worth having, but there is a distinct difference between ‘knowledge’ and being able to apply that knowledge.” Tobirama’s mastery tattoos twist along with his features, lips thinning into flat lines. “Given Uchiha proclivities towards obstinacy in the face of common sense, I’m sure you’ve seen enough fire magics blow up to have some grasp of the idea.”

“We’re obstinate? I’m not the one who kept expecting me to kill Hashirama over some centuries old feud!” Madara snarls back, leaning into Tobirama’s (slightly taller, gods-dammit) face. “And explosions are cool!”

Tobirama looks as though he was fighting the urge to roll his eyes, tone somehow still calm and rational.“What were we to think? The first Senju-Uchiha interaction in ages, and right after an assassination attempt? Of course anyone in their right mind would be suspicious!”

“I was 8! Expecting a 8 year old assassin is practically the definition of paranoia!” He gesticulates widely, attempting to impress the sheer amount of crazy it would take to even consider the possibility.

“A 6 year old assassin once killed the daimyo of Mizu no Kuni and stole the succession.” Tobirama interjects mildly.

“Why do you even know that?! Also, wasn’t that so-called assassination attempt actually Hashirama discovering he’s allergic to shellfish?!” Madara is completely done with this conversation. It was like trying to convince Setsuna that no, that person wasn’t giving him the evil eye, and no he didn’t need to go fight them for the sake of the family honor.

“That’s not the point!” Whatever point Tobirama was going to make is lost when he throws his hands up, over balances, and begins to fall. In almost slow-motion, Madara watches as Tobirama’s face rapidly approaches his, horrified shock written all-over. It was almost comical, and nearly made Madara’s violent introduction to the ground worthwhile.

They both lie there for a moment, silent, before the hilarity hit them all at once. “Stars leading home, your face!” Tobirama cackles, as he rolls off of on top of Madara. “I thought those faces were only in movies!”

Madara howls with laughter himself, “You looked like that time Izuna tripped into the rabbit pen at the petting zoo!” They were both set off again by the shared memory, and their laughs were joined by the pleased shimmy-jitter of Konoha.

When they finally had exhausted themselves to occasional chuckles, the quiet chirp of crickets in the yard was unavoidable. There is a companionable quiet for an instant, then Tobirama bolts upright. “Moonrise.”

Madara startles too. It was that late? “You go set up in the garden, I’ll grab the pizza?” With a firm nod, they both take off as quickly as they were able.

Madara had taken part in plenty of Moonrise Ceremonies; though the Water God and the Celestial Moon and Tides were not the God and spirits he kept by nature, it never did to piss off the fickle Water God or his court. Water was life, water was healing, and water was something you always wanted on your side. First the bow to the west, and the chants as the moon rose, and then the splitting of the chalice of water. Four sips, then pass. Any left over was spilt to the ground to be returned to the Water God by way of the Earth God’s halls. Life to death, death to life, such was the balance of the world since the stars first lit. Final blessings are uttered and then the ceremony was over. More involved than the morning and evening aarti, but less formal than an Earth God observance.

“So, why can’t you just go to some specialist healer and get your leg fixed?” Madara asks around a bite of pizza, wrinkling his nose at the lukewarmness. In the soft glow of the sun crystals dotted around the grass, Madara could make out the thoughtful tilt of Tobirama’s chin as he pondered the question.

“Magical accident means that magic will not work to heal it, only time will. A spirit healer might have been able to do so, but that art has been lost,” Tobirama explains slowly, trying to put something that he probably knew in minutia into vernacular, “It’s a hazard of academia; most people have had a few accidents and scars by the time they’re at my age. A minor miracle I’ve been able to go so long without major mishap.”

“That doesn’t actually make the situation any better.”

Tobirama snorts, the edge from earlier is gone, no bite in his tone. “Says the man who gets shot at regularly.” Madara valiantly ignored the cute fluttering around his diaphragm. He really needed to have a talk with Konoha about this teasing, because one-sided interest was to be pitied not encouraged. Also, possibly sexual harassment. “ - Not to mention the violent spells, hexes, curses, and otherwise black or forbidden magic you encounter.”

“But I signed up for that! You’re a professor. Nowhere in that job description does it say to expect bodily harm.” Playful banter like this is comfortable, like the burn of his fire warm through his core. For all their sharp edges, true arguments had tapered off in their twenties as they had to band together in the face of Hashirama making an utter fool of himself in trying to woo Mito. There’s nothing for setting aside animosity like having to fish Hashirama out of the shark exhibit at the aquarium without alerting security or getting eaten.

“I work in Experimental and Theoretical Magic. And explosions are cool.” A pleased smirk is dancing in the corners of Tobirama’s mouth.

Madara murmurs a quick supplication to the sky,“Small Lords of Ash and Smoke preserve me,” because he knows when his own words are being used against him, dammit. And it’s not supposed to be attractive, but on Tobirama it always is. Any matching of wits between them is attractive but this is doubly so. It’s not fair, and he could really really use a well placed lightning bolt to end his suffering.

As he’s leaned back he notes a flash of white at the base of his very grey chair. It’s only due to years of being around Hashirama’s plant nonsense and that memorable six months of Hashirama using flowers to romance Mito (making multiple runs a day to every flower shop in a 15 mile radius, triple checking flower meanings in Google until they were ingrained in his memory, the level of misunderstanding about his romantic life that had occurred with Tsubaki and Hanae at the flower specialty store - Hashirama has a lot to answer for) that he’s able to identify the flowers sprouting up through the spaces between the pavers around them.

Tobirama notices the way he’s frozen and also looks. “Those - “

“Jonquil.” His throat is dry, and not in the good way. Love Me; Desire; Desire for Affection Returned. Also a flower of the underworld and death, but that’s not particularly applicable. Konoha is being terribly obvert and it isn’t funny.

Next to him, Tobirama stiffens. “It’s gotten late. Perhaps we should go inside?”

Madara manages to croak out, “Agreed.” They stumble indoors, and Madara almost immediately falls into bed.

He gets almost no sleep that night.

Let it be known that trying to argue with a house is an effort in futility. Usually, usually, Madara knows better. Houses tend to take umbridge with such things and enact their revenge in various creative and plausibly deniable ways. Only Konoha was decidedly not even pretending to listen, and it rankled endlessly to be iced out. They weren’t even trying to exact vengeance, and that was more worrisome than the plate of naengmyeon stuck to the break room ceiling when he arrived at work the next morning.

Luckily, the building that housed the police department was too jaded to even care about a little surface damage, but as a function of it’s imbued cynicism, it completely failed to warn him that Fugaku had made the coffee (mmmm liquid glue) or that Izuna had commandeered his desk when he returned from making a run for actually palatable coffee.

“So, Mada, what’s this I hear about you making soup for Tobirama?” Izuna rests his head on his hands, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Are congratulations finally in order?”

Kagami had blabbed, that rat. “There was no soup.” Madara collapsed into one of his guest chairs; there was no way he was going to stand for this conversation especially after spending his sleepless night arguing with the silent ceiling.

Izuna straightens his spine, “What do you mean ‘there was no soup’. Tamae saw you buy soup ingredients, Kagami confirmed, why was there no soup. Was there an accident. Did he not appreciate your superior homemaker skills? Do I need to talk to Tobirama? Do I need to murder Tobirama? I’m pretty sure I could take him, Tōka would forgive me eventually - “

“Fires above, Izuna. There was no soup because we had pizza instead.” Madara rubs his face tiredly. “While I love you enough to fight the Lady of Death herself in your name, if that’s all you’re here for can’t it wait until lunch? I have a backlog of work to get done before Yoshino Nara at the mayor’s office figures out how to dispose of me remotely, and I need to figure out how get Konoha to talk to me even though they’re currently ignoring me. Plus, the investigatory team over at the Bureau of Magical Affairs has requested a report about some unusual findings about the most recent magical explosion at the university, and I don’t even know who’s free enough to investigate that. ”

Izuna brightened, “Oh yeah, I heard rumors about that. They say the researcher was looking into something for the military, something highest level of clearance only. Lots of red tape, hush hush.” Izuna spun in Madara’s chair. “But whatever it was, it backfired, and backfired loudly. Most of the black magic practitioners have all gone quiet, cause whatever was going on, it’s caused a lot of interference with the spirit world.” With a sudden halt, he began spinning in reverse, aggravating the nascent throb behind Madara’s eyes, “Whatever it is, you’ll probably be shut down pretty quickly. Wonder if Hashirama could give you a heads up about when the gag order is coming down? That way you don’t have to waste time and money on investigating something that won’t go anywhere.”

Something about that niggled at the back of Madara’s head, but he was already feeling the beginnings of a stress headache and he couldn’t quite put a finger on what. “Izuna, shouldn’t you be putting all that into a report?”

Izuna had the gall to laugh, “Yes yes, it’ll be filed in triplicate by the end of the day.” Then he swanned out of Madara’s office, leaving Madara to sigh and sag into his chair.

He tiredly rubs his temples, then curses aloud, “Dammit Izuna.” He resettles himself at his computer and starts digging.

Madara feels the subtle flare of Konoha’s wards unlocking just as he finishes frying up the peppers in oil for the temper. He notes the time idly - it’s early for Tobirama, who usually has to be forcibly fished out of his lab - but considering said individual is probably stuck on administrative work while he’s injured, it’s to be expected. “Kagami, I expect the simulation to be done by tomorrow morning, please have the final report ready before our thesis meeting.” A beat of silence, as Tobirama sets down his bag, maneuvering around the clunky crutches while still keeping the phone clenched between his ear and shoulder. “Yes, I do expect that meeting is going to occur on time. I don’t have any meetings before that.” Madara waves his ladle in Tobirama’s direction, and met by red eyes widening in surprise and something warm. Is it so odd he can cook? “I’ll speak to you in the morning. It seems I’m holding up dinner.” He falls quiet as Kagami chatters on the other end. “Yes I think it is soup.” The line of his spine stiffens. “I hope you have appropriate and ground-breaking results for me in the morning.” He hangs up without further adieu.

Mildly, Madara queries, “Kagami wanted to have you torture the recipe out of me?” There’s little other reason for having such a sharp response; he quickly sends a text to Hikaku to go and haunt Kagami for a bit, make sure whatever betting pool exists remains unfulfilled. The sizzle of hot oil reacting with the broth is satisfying, much like the hunted look Kagami will wear come morning.

Tobirama clears his throat lightly as he accepts a proffered bowl, “Something like that. Thank you.” He blows on the steaming surface, then takes a sip that ends in an startled series of coughs. By the end of it his eyes are watering. Madara nonchalantly sips at his own bowl, pointedly not reacting though the back of his throat burns with the spice of red chili oil. “So this is the famed fire soup of Uchiha Madara,” Tobirama chokes out. “It’s certainly - something.”

Madara chuckles. First time tasters were fun to watch. “Try mixing in the oil instead of taking a mouthful of it.” Madara pointedly glances at his own thoroughly mixed bowl before scooping out a piece of tofu.

“Because I need to trust the man who served me liquid fire.” The spice was taking effect, a delicate pink color flushing across Tobirama’s cheeks. Konoha taps at Madara’s awareness, breaking their silence with a superimposed image of that self-same wash of color, but paired with swollen lips and panting. He is suddenly glad for the red staining his own face - no one would know if it was the soup or the vivid imagery Konoha was so helpfully providing. Flight-human-matchmaker, Konoha crows in delight, clearly under some operational delusion about how compound words worked.

He busies himself with the act of eating, instead of paying attention to Tobirama and the poorly stifled moan said man lets out at the second sip. Definitely not foraying down that path. Konoha upgrades the last image, and Madara mentally swears himself blue. He had to have attempted world domination in a previous life to deserve this. There’s a damn house thinking they’ve got wingman status, waggling their nonexistent eyebrows salaciously. Why did Konoha even have that sensation? And that wasn’t even good wingmanship, for all that Madara had to remember Hashirama in a speedo to avoid having a visceral reaction.

“Perhaps this is worthy of kissing the cook.”

Madara is jerked from his thoughts by that sentence. Tobirama is smirking, and that smirk is the same smirk that gave Izuna a mullet in the 7th grade. “What?”

Tobirama’s lips tilt upward minutely, and his gaze drifts down to Madara’s chest. Madara follows, and, groans. “Fires above, Hashirama why.” Of course Konoha would give him the most embarrassing apron, after burying the lede with the frilly pink one. The black, masculine apron that Madara hadn’t double checked because there were only two choices and clearly only one right answer. He pulls off the offending article and throws it into the kitchen.

“Mito.” Tobirama corrects, eyes dancing with mirth. “That apron is Mito’s. The frilly one is Brother's.”

“You’re joking.” Tobirama pulls out his phone, still smirking. The photo of Hashirama in the pink frilly, slightly too small monstrosity startles a disbelieving laugh out of him. “You have to send that to me.”

“Fair warning, this won’t be good blackmail material,” Tobirama commented, tapping away at his phone, before looking up to serve himself another bowl.

Madara saves the newly-sent image. “I can’t imagine Hashirama being even remotely phased by this going around. No, it’s to make me laugh when work’s a cluster fuck.”

“You make it sound like work is regularly a ‘cluster fuck’.” The amount of chili oil going in was conservative at best. How sad.

He leans over and pours in a larger amount of red chili oil into Tobirama’s bowl, baring his teeth in a playful challenge to Tobirama’s wrinkled nose. “Mixed bag - crimes aren’t really anything but a cluster fuck, but. Somedays are better than others? Today was a prime example of high levels of FUBAR.” Because red tape and stonewalling and not even a hint of rumor was suspect in normal circumstances, but even more so when it involved the government. That all major criminal players had gone into hiding was a secondary, if triply worrisome, situation that needed to be looked into once they had the first situation manageably wrangled.

Tobirama looks intrigued, interest captured. It sharpened his features into something open and genuinely curious - wholly invested and focused, expression the same sort of soft-sharp neutral that was found in models and captivated. To have it focused entirely on him sends shivers down his spine. “How so?”

Konoha nudges him with a finishing blow of intent ignited in carnelian eyes paired with Tobirama’s usual feline grace prowling over him. His temper finally breaks, no matter his usual policy about houses, slamming around in his seat to bark at the rest of the dining room. “For the Water God’s mercy, Konoha!”

Tobirama startles at the violence of his tone, his own tone sharp. “What’s happened?”

“This damn house is suffering delusions of grandeur.” Madara catches the irony and self-corrects, “The other grandeur, not the physical grandeur.” Because Konoha was large and elaborate and deserved the meticulous restoration and hidden modernization work they had all pitched in to do, though if he ever saw antique wallpaper glue ever again in his life Madara was liable to set the whole damn bucket on fire.

Tobirama cocks his head, amused, “Don’t you have a policy about arguing with buildings? Especially Konoha - ”

The sharp ring of a phone cuts off whatever he was going to say next, and Madara shuffles in his seat to pull out his phone, frowning when the number appears to be from a government office. As he trips into the hall, dinner abandoned, he answers, “Madara Uchiha speaking.”

He doesn’t recognize the voice, “ Yoichi Yamamoto with Emergency Response. We’ve got a situation sir. There appears to be a group setting up some sort of mass summoning.”

Madara feels like he ought to smack his head against the nearest hard surface, since everyone and their mother likes to call in summonings as crimes when they really really aren’t his department’s purview, but grits out instead, “That is not necessarily a crime.”

“Your office has been abundantly clear on that point sir, but the group appears to be under some sort of magic-induced hypnosis mind-control. And no one here can break it. They also have been shooting guns and black magic spells at anyone in the vicinity and piling the bodies on their conduit seal.”

Which actually are crimes. Three separate felonies, and possibly intent to commit a fourth. Or fifth, if the person(s) being used are still alive for the ritual and their soul(s) wind up harvested to power it. Fuck fire and brimstone. The paperwork alone is a bitch to contemplate.“Any clue what they’re summoning?”

“Unclear, but there are quite a lot of tori hand seals.” Tori meant air, and air never meant anything good when summoning. In the corner of his eye he could see Tobirama easily commanding water to clear the table, leading the symphony of movement with nothing more than intent. His mouth went dry; it was one thing to know that Tobirama was powerful with his element, it was entirely another to see precisely how talented he is. That level of control - even among those who had earned master’s marks, it was rare. Idly, Madara wonders about applications of that. Applications-implications-testing Konoha helpfully shares. He doesn’t even have the wherewithal to deny the lewd implications there.

“Please hurry, they’re mixing magic natures.” The man on the other end hangs up to the sound of gunfire and the distinct roar of magic passing close by. Madara releases a slow breath, because mixing magic natures without proper training was liable to blow the scene to the 12 Hells, back, and then further on to the 12 Heavens. If they were lucky. Dammit, would he need to stop for a magic-resistant bulletproof vest?

“I can’t imagine that that call was anything good.” Sometime during that phone call, Tobirama had managed to quietly hobble over. A thermos is helpfully floating behind him like a particularly enamored puppy. “If they’re desperate enough to call you when you’re not on duty, then you’re likely to need this.” It’s like being blindsided by a truck. Madara’s head’s swimming with things to accomplish before he goes, and it shows. “Soup. Did you think I wouldn’t notice what property half of the ingredients share?”

There’s a look in Tobirama’s eyes that Madara can’t parse, oddly open in the face of his usual firm logic. “I might not be back until late, if at all,” he says instead, collecting his coat and wallet. It’s not worth spending time wondering on things that can be left by the wayside when it’s likely that he’ll be embroiled in a literal fire fight in the next half hour.

“See that you come home in one piece.” The words are an unmistakable order, but tinged with an undercurrent of fondness. Just as suddenly, Tobirama’s mouth tilts up playfully, mischief in the gleam of his eye, “I still need to seduce that recipe out of you.”

With finality, he closes the door in Madara’s face, leaving him flustered on the porch step.

In a turn of events that surprises exactly no one with a brain, Madara ends up not only not going back to Konoha, but singed, scorched, and sooty on top of deprived of sleep for the second night in a row. And more paperwork than should be possible to even exist. He’s contemplating the benefits and consequences of taking a nap on his office couch (uncomfortable, but he can lock his door and get uninterrupted sleep) versus the break room bunks (broken in, but noisy and prone to high traffic) when Izuna barges in and drags him out to lunch. For lunch? Language.exe has stopped functioning, try again when he’s had some quality rest.

“Mada, you smell like you were on fire.” Izuna wrinkles his nose in distaste, frog marching him through pedestrian traffic like a man to his execution. “Did you burn a hole in your shirt again? I’m not going to fix it this time.”

In all fairness, there were holes in his shirt, but not just burn holes and entirely not his fault. Mind controlled cultists from Kaminari no Kuni (probable cultists, though if they were cultists before the mind control is the question) were entirely at fault, both for the holes, the burned patch of his hair, and the massive crater in front of city hall. Luckily, spare suits were a staple of his locker, and that shirt had been too trashed to salvage. Still, Izuna didn't need to know that, so Madara settled on, “There are no holes in my shirt.”

Izuna clearly did not believe him and settled on sarcastic placation, “Yes yes Mada. Just like you aren't wearing eu de smoke right now.” He pats Madara on the shoulder soothingly, “Very masculine. It’ll go well with crisp ice pine.”

The subtle dig doesn't register until they're seated at a table in some yuppie cafe. “Goddammit Izuna.” He wants to bash his head against the surface of the table; first a goddamned house and now his little brother are implying he should have sex with Tobirama. Also, why does Izuna know what Tobirama smells like? He sulks into his coffee, which the waiter has blessedly brought over the largest size the cafe carries. (He tries not to think too hard about how he looks if a waiter can tell he needs it.)

“Look, I’m just saying. And being supportive of your long-standing appreciation of a pretty Senju. Which you're finally doing something about, good for you. If you can manage to start dating in the next two weeks or by December, that'd be much appreciated.” Izuna was not a master of subtlety, no matter that most of his job description was talking to people. How he even got half the information he did was a marvel, truly.

“December would be ideal,” Tōka grins as she drops into an open seat.“I’d like to win the pot outright.”

Madara nearly spits out his freshly refilled coffee, “Why are you in on it?” He hadn’t known Tōka would be showing up, or that someone outside of the Uchiha were taking bets on his still-entirely-nonexistent love life. Especially a Senju, one close to Tobirama. Thank the Four Above that Hashirama wasn’t aware of it, Madara’s life would be a living hell then. Tōka doesn’t seem to have heard the beginning of their conversation though, so small mercies, even if it’s ultimately moot.

She eyes him concernedly, but her words are aimed at Izuna, “You’re right, Madara can get shrill.” Tōka unfolds a menu calmly, “So, are we talking shop first, or gossiping first? Also, how’s the eggplant parm panini here?”

“Shop,” chirps Izuna unphased by the death glare Madara is sending his way, “Kaminari no Kuni cultists in Hi no Kuni? That reeks. I think the quiche sounds good. Mada?”

“It does reek. Something fierce. But as far as anyone can tell, they were all civilians who were hijacked and illegally trafficked into Hi no Kuni,” Tōka closes the menu, and crosses her arms on the table. “Some parties think there is something to the kidnappings, but Kaminari no Kuni swears up and down and to all the Four plus some smaller spirits that there was no obvious linkage in the disappearances when they happened. No evidence of there being a motive except that the victims were easy targets.”

They’re silent as the waiter comes back to take their orders, nominally because Tōka is still in uniform and while none of this is a secret (there’s probably several reports on it already, plus several dozen newspaper articles), it’s better to not start rumors about information leaks. The television blares on about vandalism and break ins at ruins across the Elemental Countries, that the culprits are still at large and that there are no current suspects.

“So, what you’re saying is we have a bunch of bodies, warm and cold, but nothing beyond ‘cult’ as to what happened.” Madara sums up when the waiter has left. That could have been a memo. A literal memo, whereby everybody and their uncle who went back after the fact to point fingers about fucking up would find that there was a paper trail for interagency conclusion of ‘cult’. He might just set an intern on just that, if he’s honest. No one needs a paper-pusher screaming at HR and IA over a piece of paper that any idiot could draft.

“Nothing beyond ‘Kaminari no Kuni cult’.” Izuna corrects lightly. They breed the crazy ones up in those mountains and everyone knows it; the long-standing joke is that all the lightning fries the brain so that pretty much everyone's running around well scrambled upstairs. It neatly accounts for the crazy idiots and the crazy strong ones. (Unfortunately, there are no crazy smart ones by dint of the ‘fried brains’, but if there were, they'd be trying to take over the world or something equally maniacal.)

“Because that makes such a difference,” Madara grouses. “It’s the equivalent of saying ‘that's not MY house on fire, so it's not my problem’.” Only with more collateral damage, by way of bodies in the morgue and in the cell than the average house fire.

“Except, it is someone else's crazy cult, and since it's a sovereign nation, we can't just go and get rid of the crazy.” Tōka points out distractedly. “Did anyone else see that there's a large storm headed our way?”

Madara and Izuna both groan. They'd need to finish processing the scene tonight before the storm washed away evidence, and CSI was already grouchy. “Izuna, I'm delegating this to you.” Izuna opens his mouth to argue, but Madara cuts him off. “You told Kagami about something you overheard, and I still haven’t decided if I want to strangle you.” Izuna tilts his head in confusion.

“Thin walls,” Madara prompts, and finds satisfaction in the way Izuna blanches. Serves him right. “If this cult was known, why wouldn't you send in someone like Hashi to go take care of it? He's a government negotiator, he's meant to negotiate for things like having the ability to take out a threat.”

Izuna recovers, then interjects, puzzled. “Isn't that what he went to do?” Madara’s brow furrows, Hashi hadn’t actually mentioned why he was going, or on such short notice. Usually he knew well in advance if he needed Madara to house-sit; he usually had a firm timeline too, come to think of it.

Tōka frowns too. “I wasn't aware he had anything in the pipeline? He asked for some time off, actually.” She drags a fry through the garlic-basil-parmesan aioli provided, “Wouldn't Mito stay at home too then? She’s still faculty at the university.”

They chew their respective thoughts quietly as the waiter passes by to refill cups and to drop off their food. This itches in Madara’s brain, like there's an answer just there, but fatigue eats at him. His eyes keep straying to the spray of myrtle and sage over the door. Myrtle for luck in marriage or prosperity, sage to ward off bad humors. There's an answer on the tip of his tongue but it doesn't feel quite right. That might just be the pine nuts in his salad though, he’s always suspected he is allergic. He takes a long draught of his quickly cooling coffee, “It’s been ... 9 years since Mito and Hashi got married, right?”

Tōka shares a speaking glance with Izuna, who eye speaks something right back. That weasel, and here Madara thought he hadn’t made it past the stare-adoringly phase. Madara is going to permanently assign him to run interference with their father, so help him. “Madara,” Tōka begins carefully, “It’s been 10 years.”

Madara squints at her. “No, I’d know if it were 10 years, I was best man and got knocked out when Mito’s great uncle tried to dance and hit me with his cane instead.” He remembers that cane vividly. Mostly because he woke up to his father berating him for failing to duck.

She shakes her head slowly. “No, their anniversary already passed.” Which would make it 10 years, goddammit. But also explains Hashirama calling him frantically at 3 am a week ago for the name of the florist one town over. He needs to send an apology note to Hanae and Tsubaki then. And get them a gift. Dammit. Would Mito appreciate a commemorative vase?

“Fire and brimstone.” Tōka and Izuna have the gall to nod sympathetically. “Well, then they must have gone on a belated ten-year anniversary trip then.” It still sounds too easy, his detective senses tingling, but they seem to accept it readily enough.

Silence pervades as they each chew on their lunches. For all the yuppie-ness of this cafe, the food is decent. A distinct outlier in terms of general fare, but still has that air of pretension that means they’re catering to people who like the latest fads. They’re probably back there in the kitchen trying to make mermaid avocado toast with matcha powder and poached egg, and Madara is judging them.

“So what’s this I hear about you seducing Tobi, hmm? Finally finished flirting and made an honest man out of him?” Tōka smiles all teeth, breaking his thoughts, and it transforms her face into something that screams of shovels and mischief. Izuna eeps next to him, and Madara gives up entirely because he’s not getting his brother back anytime in the few minutes.

“There was zero seduction!” Tōka looks unimpressed with his token defense, and he feels the need to explain. “It was only soup!” She still looks like she’s trying to determine if he needs to have a back alley meeting with her and Hashirama over his intentions. Which, currently, are to not have a back alley meeting with her and Hashirama.

Izuna has somehow marshalled himself, a minor miracle in the face of a display of power by Tōka. He clarifies, “Mada’s special soup that he doesn’t share with just anyone.” Madara knew he should have made a bigger fuss about returning Izuna when his parents first brought him home from the hospital; he hadn’t wanted a younger sibling and now he's got this on his hands.

Tōka seems even more unimpressed with him at this point. “So you’re trying to seduce him with soup. Is that just a Madara thing or...?”

And Fire God, please, send a bolt of lightning to end him forthwith. He doesn’t need to see that face ever again on his baby brother. It is a face that promises whatever he is going to endure after this point is going to be torture. Madara valiantly tries to flag their waiter - if he hurries he can make it back to the office and not have to witness this.

Only, too late. Madara regrets everything. Izuna leans forward, propping his head on one hand, “Mmmm, yes and no. We Uchiha have a thing for... how should I put it?” Coyly, from under his lashes, because he knows he got their mom’s pretty eyes, “Caring and caretaking. Really, we’re prone to homemaking. Traditional housewife skills and the like, little things to show we care. We all have various talents towards that end, incidentally.”

“Oh?” Tōka’s tone was intrigued. Nope, nope, nope, Madara was going to phase straight through his chair and through the floor and let the Earth God take him to the Lady of Death’s hall. Reincarnation erased memories right? “So Madara makes soup, and you...?”

“Make things. I’m good with thread and yarn.” He is going to say a hundred hymns of thanksgiving for their waiter on Thursday. Their waiter deserves the biggest tip he has in cash, plus whatever blessings Madara can pray up. He’ll even throw in another 100 ryo if he gets here before -

“Yarn? There’s nothing quite like a new ball of yarn in the hand, don’t you agree?” This is flirting. Why is there flirting. This was supposed to be the ‘have conversation with subtle hints of interest stage’, there should not be innuendo-laden flirting (about yarn!) anywhere near him. Tōka is supposed to be sensible and keep ignoring Izuna until he finds another lady who can break him in half with just her pinkie finger, not engage in flirtation.

“Mmmm. Do you like your yarn forward or back?” They’re not really talking about yarn, and Madara can sense it. He hastily signs the receipt, uncaring that he just paid for Izuna and Tōka as well as himself, and factors in a massive tip, because he's so sorry in advance. Then he flees; he needs mind bleach not further trauma.

He gets no mind bleach. He doesn't even get another break, since some paper-pusher has finally reviewed and filed his all of his recent paperwork and now he has explanations to do to whichever hireup(s) didn't read his report(s) and decided he needs to do more paperwork to cover their ass(es). How is he supposed to put more detail in a 6,000 word report that already has all the pertinent details? He considers being petty and recording every time he blinked or breathed, or moved even a fraction of a centimeter, but instead adds three paragraphs and calls it done. He still nearly melts his computer when the same paper pusher tells him it’s quote acceptable unquote.

Further causing complications is the fact that Fugaku and Hizashi have devolved into actual children and are embroiled in some inconsequential feud that has had casualties in the form of: a broken wrist, a burned desk, as well as half the regular officers and most of the detectives getting food poisoning from the coffee. Mikoto can’t even figure out what they did to make it spit out an actual biohazardous substance, much less fix it, so they’re all out the last good coffeemaker and stuck with the one that only produces tar and is, in it’s own way, a biohazard. Madara doesn’t even want to think about the paperwork it will take to requisition new coffeemakers.

All that and it still doesn’t touch the findings of the lab explosion, or the cultists, or the rest of the on-going cases. By the time he’s halfway done with the cultists situation and running in proverbial circles, he’s got a headache that only judicious application of acetaminophen and a maximum strength anti-migraine seal prevent from turning into a full blown migraine. He calls it quits then, even though it’s only 3 in the afternoon.

By the time he comes back to Konoha and collapses into one of the many plush couches in the living room, slightly damp from the just-beginning drizzle outside, he’s done and been done with the day. Konoha seems to feel it, somehow, and he’s soothingly rocked to sleep with the gentle memory of a long ago lullabye.

He wakes up to the crack of lightning and the boom of thunder, and he has to fight the couch he’s sprawled across to get out. Fire God bless Mito for insisting on couches that swallow you whole, Madara feels like he went to sleep in a horizontal hug. Also, slightly trapped, but he’s not going to look a gift rest in the mouth.

It’s a narrow thing, but Madara manages to roll out and land on his feet instead of on his face. Konoha is dark and quiet in the face of the violent, thrashing storm, the dark halls made eerie in the brief flashes of lightning and reverberating with near back-to-back thunderclaps.

Faintly he can hear the lull of the stereo playing, some tune he knows but can’t name dancing just on the edges of his hearing. It’s coming from upstairs, grows stronger with every step, soft rock that’s almost drowned out by the sheer roar of rain pouring down outside. Finally, at the end of a hallway, in a half-hidden room, Madara finds the source.

Tobirama looks up from the book he’s reading, the light of the lamp glinting off his glasses. “Ah, you’re awake.” Rain sheets off the windows, and shimmers where it refracts with Mito’s wards.

Mito's wards and seals are things of beauty, elegant structures that spire deceptively delicately for all their diamond strength, tied directly to the foundations of Konoha. “I was almost worried when I came home and saw just your arm hanging out of the couch.”

“Almost?” The tone is just as teasing as Tobirama’s, but there’s something underneath the white-haired male’s that Madara can’t dissect.

The soft smile flirting with Tobirama’s mouth draws Madara’s eyes to his full lips, and he has to forcibly keep his brain on track. “Mmmmm. You dying on me would certainly throw a wrench in my plans.” Shala-la-la, My-oh-my, Kiss-the-male Konoha croons softly, humming a snatch of The Little Mermaid.

He doesn’t understand, then he remembers Tobirama’s parting words. “Still intent on my soup recipe?” Is the room hot, or is it just him? Madara hasn’t had an issue with thermoregulation since he was a child.

Tobirama stands and saunters past Madara - when did he get a walking cast? - glancing at him archly from under his eyelashes as he puts his book away. “Not just your recipe.” Crimson eyes slowly track downwards, a slow appraisal that burns.

Lightning flashes outside, followed in quick succession by thunder and the flicker of the lights. The stereo skips with a touch of Konoha’s influence, and a new song queues up. It’s a remix, a song that Madara knows, a song that makes Tobirama outright smile predatorily and start backing him up to the wingback chair Tobirama had vacated. “Wha- ,“ It takes him a minute to catch the insinuation Tobirama just made, and insinuation about sex, with himself and Tobirama as the key players in the scenario. His head can’t make heads or tails of it, can’t fathom Tobirama. Something sane in him has snapped, that he’s seriously letting himself be backed up like a patron at a strip club. Not that such a scenario hasn’t ever crossed his mind, because there’s only so many ways to interpret Tobirama’s fluid stride, but that’s all fantasy. Fantasy doesn’t happen in real life. He’s not entirely sure this isn’t a joke, even if it’d be a painfully sick and twisted one that’s not in Tobirama’s style.

“Come now, Madara, I think you’d recognize a seduction if you saw one,” Tobirama purrs, and every nerve comes alight. The carefully constrained fire at his core flares with the burning path Tobirama caresses across his shoulders, licking at the tenuous control he has. “And here I was, thinking you would understand that I’m just as interested in you as you are in me if I was... obvert about it.” His breath ghosts over the shell of Madara’s ear, and his words send Madara’s head spinning. “You certainly have been willfully ignoring every other signal I’ve been putting out.” A finger traces over his throat, and he can’t hold back a choked moan. Which, that would explain a lot, wouldn’t it? The missing piece of their last few interactions; has Tobirama been flirting with him? The fire that is the core of his magic goes from a blaze to an inferno, to magma burning and consuming and wanting.

Madara lets himself get pushed down into the seat, lets Tobirama straddle him, pin him in place, can’t take his eyes away from burning red staring back at him. The molten rise of his magic feels like it’s about to burst through his skin and he can’t rein in any control; there’s small consolation in the hiss of steam where Tobirama grips his wrists and guides them to his waist, the equally strong sense of still-quiet-current-cool rising from Tobirama that betrays how uninhibited he has also become. He’d willingly drown in that sensation, he thinks as Tobirama’s breath mixes with his own. “Please,” he pants out, desperate. Another centimeter and he would feel those lips against his -

Three things happen near simultaneously: lightning hits the house, the power stutters and dies and so do the wards; something unnatural prickles at the edges of Madara’s magic and howls enraged; Madara realizes that Konoha had the music player play a remix of “Careless Whisper”. All three things alone are enough to prick at Madara’s instincts, but together serve to rouse him to full alertness and he stiffens in his seat. It’s like being doused in freezing water, three bucketfuls at once, and the moment is ruined.

Tobirama’s head falls against his shoulder, “Fuck.” Madara whole agrees with the sentiment, prods at Konoha with a general question, but Konoha is silent. Silent as a tomb, with not even the impression of them left. Somehow, that is more frightening than the animalistic snarling audible even over the raging storm. He says as much, and Tobirama goes stiffer in his lap before clambering off. “That’s - expressly dangerous.” At the look Madara sends him, “Konoha isn't linked to the wards, but it is the keystone to the wards since the wards were laid into the foundations. If Konoha’s consciousness is knocked out, then the wards are down, but not vice versa.”

“Meaning?” Madara doesn’t deal in wards, beyond knowing how to he’s keyed into the ones at his apartment, his parent’s home, and at Konoha. Honestly, there’s a reason there are experts in wards and seals, and a trillion more reasons that Madara isn’t one of them.

“Meaning those... things out there,” Tobirama pointedly nods out the window, where the noise has yet to stop, “Can get in here. Unless they’re still outside when the wards come back online. Come on. We need to hurry.”

Madara would like to point out that all his blood is otherwise occupied still, so the amount of time it takes him to process is not indicative of his usual cognition rate.“Things? Multiple? And hurry to do what precisely?” Tobirama is already skating down the hall, having slicked the way with ice, so Madara has to slip and slide in his wake. Its rankling, to see how quickly Tobirama can switch gears.

“I know enough about the ward and seal matrix here to reionize the interseal matrix. You'll need to keep them out. It won't be easy; surviving alone might be all you can achieve.” Which, in normal person speak means Tobirama is going to reboot the wards. Cool. Not dangerous at all or at risk for blowing them all into the next epoc. Not in the slightest.

But. “Why won't it be easy? Do you know who’s -what's- out there?” He demands, because Tobirama has always been in the 98% percentile for magical ability and base magic quantity, Tobirama who can and has gone toe to toe with him and Hashirama - both of which have objectively larger pools of magic from which to draw - and kept up due to sheer analytic prowess, Tobirama saying a fight won’t be easy. Madara can’t suppress the way his back raises - from fear or anger, he can’t say.

“Those are the Kin and Gin brothers out there. They were reanimated in an experiment, and escaped.” It's matter of fact, to the point, but Madara feels like there's ... self-flagellation tinging Tobirama’s tone. Also, weren't the Kin and Gin brothers among the most prolific Kaminari no Kuni assassins ever to live? And intensely powerful? Reanimating -

Madara stops dead at the top of the stair. “Reanimation is a lost art.” They covered that enough in school, drilled it into students heads to discredit urban myths and legends and scary stories whispered to little kids.

“To conventional knowledge, perhaps. It takes a very distinct set of parameters to manage. Not everyone has background in Earth magic and Water magic to even begin the process.” Tobirama looks back, face blank. “It’s also not foolproof.”

Things start fitting together, and the picture Madara is getting isn't good. “You were meddling with Reanimation and you exploded your lab at the university. Fire God’s most fiery balls.”

Tobirama’s mouth twists wryly, “To be fair, the explosion was not my fault. The Kin and Gin brothers overloading the paralysis matrix in the seal with conflicting magic resonance was.”

Madara can't wrap his mind around the amount of gall it would take to think - “You brought back assassins.” Then, because that doesn't really capture the essence of the amount of why going through Madara’s head. “You lost control of undead assassins.”

“They're not undead, they're still perfectly dead. They've just had their souls returned.” Of course Tobirama would think that it was vital to be precise in terminology usage.

“This isn't the time to quibble semantics!”

“It's not the time to quibble at all. If they get in here, they will kill us both and continue to roam free until the world is bathed in blood. As things stand, I'm one test result away from knowing how to put them down, and I fear that they know that. Until then, feel free to go wild on them.” That was a dismissal if Madara ever heard one, but considering he might actually be going to die - well, he has unfinished business from earlier. Becoming a ghost is not on his to-do list.

Madara feels the way his lower lip splits catching on Tobirama’s teeth, mouth open in alarm at the way he had yanked Tobirama around. Their teeth clack painfully together, messy in haste, tasting of blood. His hold doesn’t falter on Tobirama’s waist; he can feel the fist that came distressingly close to punching him in the temple loosen then clench tightly in his hair. Madara disengages with a gasp for air, ignores the hand that’s brushing just under the waistband of his pants, “When all this is over, you and me, we’re going on a date. Then we’re finishing what we started.” It’s a growled promise, and Tobirama flushes a pretty pink that Madara wants nothing more than to chase with his tongue down down down until the end.

Madara stalks out the door without another word, because if he stays then he’d surely given into temptation to kiss Tobirama more, leave marks across that pale swathe of skin, and there are zombies at the door this is not the time to think about ..... all of that. He inhales deeply and evenly as he steps onto the porch, into the dark dull shadows of twilight and heavy rain; emotion could make magic stronger but it always made it sloppier as well. Rigorous mental control was the cornerstone of fire magic for this reason, after all: to know what path one was going to take and to take it with intent to see it through without wavering was the most fundamental tool for bending fire to one’s will; the slightest doubt and it would burn you alive from the inside out. Madara has a twitchy feeling he’ll need every ounce of control with the way his skin starts crawling the minute he steps out.

Fire God and all the Small Lords, zombies weren’t supposed to be a thing anymore. If this was anything close to the ancient Reanimation technique, then Madara can completely understand why a single zombie would send whole battalions fleeing in war. His every sense screams at him to flee, but if legend was to be believed that would do little to save him against Kinkaku and Ginkaku.

As if they had been summoned, two men melt out of the deep shadows surrounding Konoha. Hashirama’s damned plants were lovely in daylight, but at night they made the entire area a perfect setup for ambushes and traps. And in the deluge of rain, they’re in constant movement creating thousands of false alarms. And even then, Madara has the lovely handicap of having the plants wanting to become-one-together with him, and isn’t that a lovely thing to have on one’s side in a literal firefight with undead notorious killers?

They didn’t look like much, one taller with gold flowing locks and one shorter with a silver mane, both seeming perfectly normal by general (soaked) appearance. It didn’t really fool Madara though - people didn’t wear their bloodlust or advertise their confidence in their ability so openly; their pitch black eyes were also a dead giveaway of their... zombie-ness. Their magic leaked everywhere too, but the only read Madara got off that was the overwhelming sense of death-death-death, like a black magic practitioners’, setting his nerves on edge.

“What do we have here, Kinkaku?” The silver one leered. He must be Ginkaku then. “This isn’t the white-haired Master who summoned us.” His dark smile promised pain and suffering, and the confidence to mete that out at his own leisure. “This one will be a tasty appetizer before we get to the other one.”

“It can’t be helped; that Master won’t be able to get far on that leg of his.” Kinkaku seemed to eye him contemplatively for a moment, before also dismissing Madara.

That suited Madara just fine, “Already talking about the living as if they’re dead? I won’t be that easy to win against, old timers.” With a touch of intent he ringed the yard with flames as tall as Konoha’s roofs, trapping them together. One trap negated, hopefully. Now to deal with slippery mud, puddles, and half a sea of water combating his magic.

“Oh? No hand seals, and you can only create a piddly fire ring in a storm? The quality of magic users has dropped since we were alive.” Ginkaku almost seemed to disappear, before reappearing right in front of Madara holding a small knife; he barely dodges in time to avoid, a thin line of blood welling across his face. Right, preternaturally-good, bloodthirsty, undead killers; this wasn’t time to think of this as black-magic high thugs coming at him.

The next blow is easier to anticipate, now that Madara knew that the brothers are fast - he ducks under a reaching blade, breathes out flame and sparks against Kinkaku’s face when he materializes in Madara’s periphery. It’s not enough, though, as Madara takes two small kunai high on his thigh- a roundhouse kick to block a punch from Kinkaku, only to have two kunai cut through his pants up near his hip, followed swiftly by Ginkaku launching a cross that strikes true to Madara’s cheekbone. A flaming open fist punch blows all the wind out of Ginkaku, but buys Madara enough time to retrieve the kunai and fit them between his knuckles for a more lethal blow.

It pays off when Kinkaku whips up behind him; a touch of magic along the blade has it bathed in blue flames and Madara slashes home across Kinkaku’s eyes as he launches neatly into a butterfly kick, spraying dirt into Ginkaku’s eyes before landing a heavy blow across Ginkaku’s throat. The aborted choke and burnt smell of flesh offer some satisfaction - they’re a step above the normal criminals Madara has to deal with regularly on raids, but at least Madara is giving as good as he’s getting.

“Ginkaku, perhaps we need to stop playing around.” There is a sharp hissing sound that carries, and then Madara is looking Kinkaku in the eyes - not even a small scar to show where Madara had burned away his sight and the flesh beneath it.

“I agree Kinkaku; let’s go.” And that isn’t the sound of a man who’s had his windpipe crushed. Fire God and all the Small Lords, of fucking course they’d be regenerating zombies; Madara pours his magic through his veins, coaxing the muscle to burn higher, hotter - fire for energy, fire for strength, fire for burning through limits. If the brothers had been playing earlier - a shockwave reverberated out, extinguishing his flame ring in an instant. Then the brothers were gone.

There. He bends backwards to evade the massive chunk of rock hurtling towards him, only to have to do a back handspring out of the path of an air blade then jackknife back up out of the path of water spikes. He doesn’t have time to think just move, like sparring with Hashi, only no holds barred. Madara pulls flame after flame from his core, dodging and weaving around Kinkaku’s and Ginkaku’s own reaching magic, flinging knived fists and feet into, bone and muscle again, again, once more again. Blood splatters, limbs fall off, smouldering carbon husks of bone and ash in the downpour. Tree trunks splinter, go up in flame, as their bodies go smashing through, the earth splits and scorches and the very air grows sluggish with heat and steam as they clash around and around in a whirling dervish of sparks and blood.

One thing remains constant - no matter how badly the brothers’ are wounded, they simply regenerate. They don’t flag or falter, nor do they seem to feel any of the damage Madara wreaks on their bodies. Bone crunches sickeningly back together, muscles ricochet back into place, limbs regrow from stumps. On the other hand, Madara’s seen better fights; only his magic has prevented serious structural damage to his bones and muscles, but he feels every inch of the many bruises and cuts the brothers have left on him. Twelve Hells, no wonder the military wants Regeneration in its arsenal. He’s powered through a little less than a quarter of his magic pool, but he’s already feeling the fire of overuse rippling down his nerves and the general wooziness of blood loss. Kinkaku and Ginkaku didn’t seem to have broken a sweat. Madara catches and melts the kunai aimed for his heart, “This all you over-hyped fried-brained thugs have?”

Kinkaku snarls in his face, though whether he’s taking exception to being called over-hyped, the implication he’s been hit by lightning once too many times, or being called a thug is anyone’s guess. It’s enough to make him miss the pillar of lava Madara pulls up through the earth, only able to survive by dint of diving forward and catching only his lower half in the fire. “Kinkaku!” Ginkaku yells, materializing out of the heavy rain with a kunai gripped tight and another two hurtling towards Madara. Diverting lava while keeping it molten against it’s wont to cool to rock in the rain is taxing - Madara is no Master, and he’s feeling the strain against his will - but it works to scorch Ginkaku and divert him away from Madara and his brother. Suddenly, there’s a ripple of green slashing through the air from below, what looks like a thousand roots come tunneling up through the muddied ground and through Ginkaku where he lays on the grass regenerating.

He stumbles back - there’s a bloodthirstiness to the way the roots keep stabbing up and through and pulling Ginkaku to pieces. Kinkaku is receiving similar treatment, stomach-turning in the ferocity and the tsunami of sensation coming with. As he leaves the garden to deal with the brothers - and leaves before the garden turns on him, if it can even differentiate between friend and foe - he tries to parse the layers; faint Hashirama green-wood-grow-strong overlaid by Konoha’s creaky-timbers-warm-walls tinted with Tobirama still-quiet-current-cool. Madara hopes that means that the wards are back up - he’s burnt up at least half his magic but he’s pretty sure he’s blown out at least three of the major pathways in his chest and back and that means nothing good for his control, so being able to duck behind some kind of shielding would be fantastic.

Whatever Tobirama did, it feels impressive. Mito’s wards are back, but bulked out with previously hidden seals that have the dual sensation of being thick plates of steel but also a thousand knives poised to fall upon whomever sets off the trap. Madara doesn’t want to even imagine what the seals actually do, since Mito never advertises what her seals do until they’re triggered.

Tobirama meets him at the door, slightly dusty. “Oh good, you’re alive.” Because apparently that outcome ranks higher on the “unexpected surprise” scale than not being maimed. He’d take offense if only said undead assassins didn’t have limitless energy.

“You and I need to have a talk about full disclosure before the next time you go fiddling around with magic,” Madara responds flatly as he wrings out his hair. Konoha pricks at him distractedly for the water he’s spilling onto the floor, and he can’t be impressed upon to care. There’s what’s probably a pulled groin muscle screaming at him with every step he takes, now that he’s dropped his magic usage, and the myriad cuts protest movement as well. His shirt and pants are shredded as well, but maybe he can bribe Izuna -?

“There are much more interesting things to do than talk.” That quicksilver grin promises things, but there’s no heat behind it. Pity, because even making out on the couch like teenagers would be amazing, but who knew how long the forest would be able to keep Kinkaku and Ginkaku occupied. Konoha agrees, which given their disappointment over the lack of making out means that the making out has to come later.

“Not while there are zombies at the door.” Madara responds lightly as he hobbles over to the swing. Tobirama tries to help support him, operative word being “tries” because there’s nothing like one person with a lamed leg trying to help someone with the opposite leg lamed walk. It’d be comedic if either of them were in a position to laugh - as it is Madara can hear Kinkaku and Ginkaku rampaging, though it also sounds like the garden is still doing it’s best to murderize their faces. It can’t hold out much longer - the magic pushed into the plants will be exhausted soon, and if not that the forest will take critical damage and be unable to bounce back from it.

Once Madara’s settled, Tobirama speaks, “Brother and Mito are on their way, but it might not be much help - Kagami’s finished running the simulations - thank you for having Hikaku harass him into incompetence, by the by - and it doesn’t look like anything less than a God is going to work to deal with them.”

“Hashi and Mito?” Madara diverts half his attention away from prodding the laceration across his ribs - would it need stitches? Sloppy job on his part; he’d realized entirely too late he wasn’t wearing a tactical vest.

“Mito was adamant that the brother’s be stopped forthwith, especially once it became clear that they were using their cult to terrorize the populace of the Elemental Nations again,” Tobirama seems to realize something before slapping Madara’s hand away from his cut. “Is that what you took away from that?”

Madara considers, then shrugs. “It explained things, like why Hashi took off so suddenly. I usually get more warning you know.”

“And you’re not at all concerned about needing a God?” Tobirama is clearly astonished, and it’s almost cute. Almost because this is literally the stuff of children’s tales.

“You mess around in the realm of Gods, of course you need a God to fix it.” All the stories agreed on that. Sometimes Madara forgets that for all the Uchiha reputation for coolness to outsiders, they were still warm to each other within their family (for a given value of “family” - fuck Setsuna). There was always someone to tell him a legend when he was little; something that seems to have been distinctly lacking in Hashirama and Tobirama’s lives. Would it be weird to insist on reading Tobirama the more instructional ones? “You’re probably not in good with the Earth God so getting that God to retract the brother’s souls is a no go; the Water God is probably pissed you’ve mucked around with life - you should probably go on pilgrimage to fix that. The Lady of Death is out on grounds of she’s maniacal and has plans of zombie apocalypse, which this plays neatly into. That leaves Fire and Air, but neither of us has any traction with Air, so Fire it is.” Madara ticks off on his fingers, “Any objections?” Kinkaku drops into the front yard, slashing at pursuant vines and roots through the rain, Ginkaku still hidden in the tree line. Konoha outright snarls die-destruction-DIE and the wards ripple with malicious aim.

“Yes! Do you have some half finished summoning for the Fire God hidden around? Or even the basic tools for communication with the Divine?! How exactly are you going to go about getting Divine Assistance without that?” So Tobirama had read some of the tales (if not all of them), good to know.

Ginkaku gets hurled into the wards, and screams as he’s fried. Konoha is screeching a litany of die-death-die; that must be his cue. “I’ll have to tell you later.” Madara steps out of the cover of the porch confidently before letting his core burn hotter than he’s dared in a long time, bleeding red-hot heat into his eyes. “Amaterasu.”

The world goes up in black flames.

Madara wakes to dull pounding in his skull and a ringing in his ears. He feels like one massive contusion, sore from the roots of his hair to ends of his toes. There’s a funny throbbing under his fingertips, low and even but not lumpy. Madara doesn’t know why he expects it to be lumpy, but moving his fingers is a massive mistake. His eyes shoot open at the pain, meeting a deep velvety darkness instead of light. The beeping of a heart monitor going berserk is dim in his ears, the shouting and flurry of noise fuzzy and Madara vaguely realizes he’s in a hospital. It doesn’t help. The world closes in until it’s a pinpoint revolving around his eye sockets and the encroaching black.

“Madara, breathe before one of these half-witted quacks doses you with a sedative.” Of course Tobirama would simultaneously order him around whilst in the hospital and insult the medical staff; the thought loosens the constriction around his lungs and the roiling tumult in his gut. Izuna is arguing now, low and hot, and that’s dangerous territory. He doesn’t think Izuna ever forgave Tobirama for that one school fight, no matter that they were both idiotic for using magic in an uncontrolled setting during puberty - of course a spell was going to blow up and injure someone badly.

“‘Zu-zu,sh’t ‘p,” Ah the joys of a dry throat. At least it sounded like language. He was going to count it as a win.

“Mada! You’re awake!” Izuna (highly likely, at least) grasps his hand and squeezes while babbling about something. Whatever noise escapes him is pained enough to make Izuna loosen his grip; Madara must be on the good drugs then, that Izuna didn’t slap him for ending up in the hospital. There’s a murmured conversation before Izuna breaks, “Mada, you still sure you don’t want Dad or Mom anywhere near you in a hospital room?” He hopes that is rhetorical - Dad would lambast him while Mom would intimidate the hell out of the staff and not-so-subtly imply that they were blundering fools and both would drive him up the wall with stress. Izuna, blessed brother that he is pats his hand consolingly, “I’ll go drive them off. Don’t mess with the bandages, your eyes were bleeding.” Fuck fire and brimstone, the Fire God, and all the Small Lords too. At least now he knows he’s got bandages on?

The door slides shut, taking with it the gaggle of medical staff as Izuna helpfully reminds them that he’s Madara’s medical power of attorney until after he’s off the good drugs. All that’s left is the drone of the machines and the steady breathing of another human - probably Tobirama. The silence is comfortable, and Madara wants nothing more to sip some water and then go back to sleep.

“Here.” A ice chip knocks against his lips; he must have said that outloud. It takes conscious thought to open and take in the chip to suck, but the low amount of liquid it yields is soothing.

“Thank you.” Another ice chip bumps against his lips, and he gratefully captures that one too.

“Think nothing of it.” Tobirama’s tone is clipped, but not noticeably different from his usual ‘I’ve had to deal with utter imbeciles’ lilt. This time the silence is tacky with potential, but it all dances around the main issue.

Madara decides to pursue the elephant in the room before it festers, “You have questions.” He hopes his meaning is clear - he doesn’t want to waste precious hydration on unnecessary words. For his efforts he’s rewarded with a third ice chip.

“I do. I’m sure you do as well.” Ah, tit-for-tat. Sensible, really. “Let’s start with what exactly you did to the Kin and Gin brothers.”

“I used heavenly fire to burn them from existence,” Madara pauses to tuck the ice chip into his cheek. “It’s an Uchiha thing.”

“Explain.” Tobirama sounds like he’s shuffled his position.

“You know that myth about Uchiha and fire magic? Well, devotee worship is one way of describing that situation....”

Tobirama connects the dots quickly, especially given the context. “The first Uchiha were demigods.”

“The first Uchiha were demigods.” Madara agrees, nominally because it’s less words than ‘At least one of my ancestors made like a bunny with the Fire God and lived to have babies,’ but also because no one needs to talk about their ancestors making like bunnies. “If it helps, only a handful of us are probably capable of channeling the Fire God’s magic - me and Izuna are the only ones who are known for sure.” Because nothing says channeling God level abilities like starting a chain of centuries-dormant volcanoes to erupt via lightning and then reversing the eruption.

“The Fire God tends the flame/ Of hearth and home/ Kith and Kin/ All drawn back to the fires that warm and the ties that bind.” Tobirama quoted from an ancient Fire text. “Quite literally in this case.”

Madara shrugs; it wasn’t untrue. The Fire God did tend to look out for Uchiha a little more than other people; they had an entire extra Blessing to that effect. “It’s not useful otherwise, there isn’t a need to have the power of the Gods roaming around freely and the human body isn’t really meant to handle it, even if Uchiha are little more resilient.” Thus the migraine and bleeding eyes, but those should pass normally.

Tobirama pauses, then, “So you could walk out - for a given value of walk - right now and be fine.”

“Something like that? Uchiha don’t have a healing Blessing, but as long as it’s not fatal overuse, we heal up just fine.” According to records anyways, apparently the ability to channel the Fire God’s power used to be much more common.

“That’s impressive.”

“Says the one who rediscovered Reanimation and lost control of a pair of historically renowned assassins in an event that terrified all of the criminal magical element.” Madara wishes he had his sight, to gauge the expression Tobirama is making.

“That’s a statement, not a question.” Tobirama sounds amused, which is better than clipped. “Is the demigod saying I’m impressive?” Another ice chip comes, and Madara blames his numb mouth for the entirely unintentional way he carefully sucks it in. The abruptly ended inhalation is gratifying, but also mortifying. He’s probably a massive contusion, how?

Yet. So many possibilities. “Really?” Madara playfully licks his lips, catching the droplet resting over the scab on his lower lip, and the hitch in breathing gives it all away. “You know, isn’t the hero supposed to get a kiss from the pretty love interest after saving the day?”

“Is that how it’s supposed to go?” Tobirama matches his flirtatious tone, “Then I suppose I owe Konoha a kiss for sending the forest after the brothers and keeping you in one piece.”

“Nothing for me?” Madara pretends to pout. There’s movement and a line of warmth close to him; Tobirama must have moved closer.

“Not as long as Brother, Izuna, and Kagami are listening at the door.” There’s a series of yelps and shushed whispers, and then the patter of feet swiftly leaving. A chair scrapes nearby, “I think I’ll speak to my PhD candidate about a certain betting pool while you and Brother catch up.” Breath tickles his ear, “And then, I think you made me a promise that I fully intend to cash in.” Then the door slides open and Tobirama is gone, leaving Madara flustered.

Hashirama must come in, because the chair screeches over the linoleum again. Madara hopes he’s not flushed, or that if he is, Hashirama won’t ask questions. For the first time in a long while, the silence is awkward. Fire God save him from this. Just. All of it.

“So I suppose congratulations are in order?” Is there a nearby canyon or outcropping? Hashirama sounds tentative, he needs to preemptively go lemming off a cliff. “I think this is the point where I give a shovel talk. At least that’s what all the tv dramas say, but usually that’s right before the wedding and I don’t have a shotgun. Or is that a shotgun wedding?” Then, Madara can practically hear the lightbulb go off, and he wishes he could flee for his life. “Madara. WE COULD BE REAL BROTHERS.” And there goes the bear hug. Madara doesn’t have stitches in his ribs or anything, this is is fine.

He’s on the verge of vomiting when Hashirama lets go. “Hashi why.”

“Why what?” Hashirama punctuates his statement with a melodramatic sniff. Whether he can mean excitement over his best friend and little brother finally acknowledging the UST or excitement of the idea of a wedding is unclear. Madara tries to tell himself that it’s obviously the former, but it’s most likely the latter and now he really really hopes that Hashi and Kagami never have a discussion.“Can’t I be happy for you both?”

“Yes. No. Yes and no?” Madara sorts the questions before ignoring them entirely. “So what’s the official verdict from on high?”

Hashirama sighs. “It’s research for the military that went wrong. You know how they do, they’re wrapping everything in gag orders and red tape a hundred miles long and selling the story that it was Teleportation gone awry rather than a successful Reanimation technique.”

Madara parses that, and concludes it’s got more holes than a ship built in Kaze no Kuni. “Tobirama doesn’t do research in Teleportation.”

Hashirama sounds tired, “Now he does.” A nurse bustles in and changes his IV, reminds him not to touch his bandages until the doctors come back. She sounds like the type of nurse who would punch in the face of a recalcitrant patient, and Madara takes her at face value. “Anything else?”

“Yeah.” Madara wishes he could glare at Hashirama, but bandages. “For the love of the Four, why is your goddamned house invested in matchmaking? Konoha is terrible at it.”

Hashirama has the gall to laugh, “Not so terrible, since it worked. Besides, are you complaining? I hear you have a hot date with my little brother to look forward too.” Hashirama is probably waggling his eyebrows salaciously. Madara makes note to murder him at earliest possible convenience. Then the chair shrieks across the floor again. “I’ll stop by later; I need to regrow my entire garden.” Madara can hear Hashirama’s sulk and decides that no his guilty conscious does not get to volunteer him to help fix the mess. Especially given the sheer quantity of paperwork probably now waiting for him. How was he supposed to explain this one? Can he blame cultists? At least he has a date to look forward to. “Earth God keep you, Mada. Don’t get caught sneaking out of here.”

Madara returns the farewell in time to hear Tobirama re-enter and Izuna gasping for breath in the hall. “Madara. Why did Kagami just give me a wifi-enabled adult toy?”

#sumigakure halloween event 2017 #sumigakure halloween event 2017: prompt 5 #madatobi #art writes #i am so done with this #please leave concrit

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