Chapter Text
“Why are you like this, Senju?” Madara predictially yelled when Tobirama ripped yet another one of his ideas for the village to pieces.
Hashirama allowed himself a long-suffering sigh as he deflated back into his seat and carefully blew steam from the cup of tea warming his hands before he took a small sip, mindful of the heat. Thankfully they were in the Hokage office with no one there to witness the spectacle Madara and Tobirama were yet again making out of themselves.
Someday, Hashirama never tired of telling himself, Madara and Tobirama would get along swimmingly. The three of them would band together to join their individual strengths while making up for their respective weaknesses. During the days, they’d bully the council into submission to lead their village into an age of glory, and afterwards, they’d visit the onsen to relax, maybe even share a drink or two. It would be glorious.
(Even in his most colourful daydreams, Hashirama wasn’t delusional enough to seriously contemplate Izuna joining them in their budding bromance. Even now, Madara’s brother hadn’t forgiven Tobirama for beating him without delivering a killing blow, hadn’t forgiven Hashirama for healing him from certain death, and hadn’t forgiven Madara for going along with peace between their clans afterwards. If nothing else, the brat was determined to hold a grudge.)
“Like what; someone capable of stringing together a sentence that actually conveys their thoughts in a sensible manner?” Tobirama’s dry drawl brought a nostalgic smile to Hashirama’s face as he selectively missed the following squabble with patience born from sheer exposure. Dry-witted insults were Tobirama’s love language, Hashirama knew. There was no doubt that Tobirama would take the bits and pieces of what Madara had been trying to say and weave it into something that the council wouldn’t be able to deny, not if they didn’t want to get accused of hindering Konoha’s progress.
His sweet otouto was a brilliant little munchkin like that, even if no one ever wanted to believe Hashirama. Granted, Tobirama’s habit of gloating when his approach bore fruits where others weren’t able to get their way didn’t really help to endear him to the general populace either. But since Madara was no better, that shouldn’t be an issue.
Hm. Maybe Hashirama could stage a competition of some sort? That might even work; he’d only need to-
“Eat me!” Madara’s yell cut through Hashirama’s long-practised selective deafness like nothing else, if primarily due to Tobirama’s by far too interested “You’re serious?” following right after.
“NO!” Hashirama yelled, startling his friend and brother into springing apart where they’d gotten closer and closer over the duration of their argument. In a swift move that was more habitual than truly necessary at this point in their life, Hashirama grabbed Tobirama at the nape like the unruly kitten he sometimes pretended to be and pulled him firmly to his side. “Not like that, Tobi.”
There was a moment of stillness, a pause where everyone blinked owlishly at each other while trying to process whatever the hell just happened, but Hashirama couldn’t enjoy Madara’s dumb face and neither could he enjoy Tobirama’s carefully blank expression, the clear indication of surprise that so rarely made it past his defences. How was Hashirama supposed to enjoy anything when he was forced to remember the single most gruesome act the Senju as a clan had ever condoned?
How they had shunned his sweet otouto, blaming his tears for the winter that came early and ruined their harvest shortly after Itama had been buried. The same winter that made them huddle together for warmth while leaving Tobirama to fare for himself at the edges of the compound where Hashirama couldn’t reach for him while his Mokuton was forced to hibernate alongside nature. They had left Tobirama to starve, but then again, they had expected him to die since the moment he was born too pale and too quiet for any Senju’s tastes.
Leaving him to his fate, the Senju somehow had collectively forgotten that Tobirama never once in his life had just rolled over to die.
Since he’d been born, Tobirama clung to live with everything he had and there had always been very little he wasn’t willing to do in order to survive. That his moral compass was skewed on a good day and became entirely non-existent with Hashirama’s prolonged absence did only help in this regard. Hashirama consoled himself that his precious Tobirama didn’t suffer too much hunger until he figured out how to survive with no access to the Senju’s stocks or living spaces.
It was one of Hashirama’s most cherished memories how, came spring, their clan did realise that they had just created the very demon they’d been afraid of for so long. And with Hashirama’s power back at full strength and the protective streak for his last living brother a mile wide, there wasn’t anything the Senju were able to do about it. Not if they didn’t want Hashirama to abandon them, to let loose and allow his roots to raze them down for their sins, allow his roots to feast on them alongside his sweet, ravenous brother.
The force of the sudden memory was enough to pierce Hashirama’s hold on the tightly controlled bloodlust thrumming in his vines. For all that it was Tobirama who was called a demon thorough all of the Elemental Nations, and that there might even be some truth to the most gruesome tales told of him, barely anyone realised it was Hashirama they needed to look out for, bumbling fool that Tobirama’s long shadow allowed him to be for most of the time. It was him who-
“What?!” Yet again, it was Madara’s aggravation that yanked Hashirama out of his own head. He’d be grateful for the distracting screech if he weren’t as perplexed by the volume. “You filthy animal!”
Equally confused about the sudden turn in mood, Hashirama and Tobirama watched Madara sputtering half-formed words, how his hair puffed up further the more agitated he became, and, most surprisingly, how his lone visible cheek turned as red as a Sharingan, the colour bleeding down his neck until Hashirama got the impression the only thing missing to complete the picture was steam coming out of his ears.
“You seriously think I’d ask your brother to eat me out while you’re right there?! What the fuck?!” Madara yelled, noticeably worked up, thrusting an accusing finger into Hashirama’s chest, only for his face to lose all colour as soon as his own words registered.
That…
What?
No.
Wait.
What?
Did Madara just-
No.
He wouldn’t, right?
That’d be-
No.
“Huh? ”
Tobirama’s small huff forced Hashirama’s brain back into working order, if only barely. Equally wide-eyed, if for different reasons, Hashirama and Madara turned to look at Tobirama, who was still hanging somewhat limp in Hashirama’s grip at his neck, a hint of pink at the tips of his ears and high on his cheeks. This close, Hashirama had no trouble noticing his brother’s dilated pupils, the way the tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips in a way that - for once - didn’t look menacing at all.
(It made Hashirama wanna die.)
(Or murder someone. He wasn't that picky.)
Notes:
Idea by TheCheshireMistress:
It was a very harsh winter, and the clan was being a dick and refused to feed Tobi. They blamed the winter on him. So Tobi did what he had to do and ate some deceased clan members, and later the occasional dead enemy.
Supportive good bro Hashirama also would occasionally kill a less liked clan member when Tobi couldn’t find any corpses to eat
Chapter 2: Madara Pov
Summary:
“I made dinner. For us to share.”
Madara was over the moon, a puddle on the ground. He was-
rightfully suspicious.
Notes:
Take a random update full of silliness ✨
I'm tipsy, so no editing whatsoever and probably also no sense to it
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“I made dinner. For us to share.”
The meaty smell wafting from the plates standing on the table between them was delicious, and the presentation of the food as well as the arrangement of the table down to the burning candle and tastefully chosen flowers was impeccable.
Madara was over the moon, a puddle on the ground. He was-
Rightfully suspicious, if only due to Hashirama’s insistent warnings after the memorable shovel talk he delivered.
“I thought the Senju were vegetarians?”
The slight pout on Tobirama’s lips didn’t escape Madara’s notice. Nothing the pale Senju did had escaped Madara’s watchful observations ever since peace had been made and the battlefield had changed from bloody mud to dry paperwork, allowing him to discover a precious pearl among stones, a mind sharper than any blade, poisoned words sweeter than any honey.
In his heart—no matter how much Izuna gagged or how bloodthirsty Hashirama had turned out to be where his marvel of a brother was concerned—Madara was already a taken man. No one else but Tobirama would ever succeed in captivating his attention, especially not now that Madara knew there was a possibility.
As much as Hashirama had tried to beat the memory from his mind in a ‘friendly spar’, Madara would never forget sweet Tobirama’s reaction to his accidental misstep and mishappened confession.
“Just the others, I’m not,” Tobirama murmured, eyes going wide and round, willing Madara to drown in the vivid red that shone brighter than any Sharingan. Madara would gladly meet his fate with seeing eyes if only he hadn’t promised Izuna (and Hashirama, for that matter) not to take any of Tobirama’s presents at face value. Ever.
“How come?”
And Madara was genuinely curious. It was an odd habit for an entire clan to adopt. Especially at times of war when no one should be able to afford to be picky. Madara wondered-
“They’ve got weak digestion.”
Huh. Could it be-
“Anyway,” Tobirama pressed on, obviously done with Madara’s questioning and ready to eat. He looked positively ravenous. “It’s a very special dinner. I made it all by myself. I even hunted it down, too.”
It was-ngh. Tobirama was perfection. Madara couldn’t put into words how turned on he was in this exact instance. His heart hadn’t only chosen a brilliant mind and sharp-eyed beauty in their patron goddess’ image. He had chosen a keeper.
No matter Hashirama’s half-baked warnings and Izuna’s post-war paranoia, there was nothing in the world Tobirama could do that would Madara off. Not ever. The albino could raise the dead, and Madara would only gratulate him on a job well done.
But still, a promise was a promise, as much as Madara loathed to stall their lovely evening even further.
“And it looks truly fantastic, I can’t wait to taste it.” Madra sat down, mouth watering from the smell and the vision Tobirama made, both, “But… Hashirama instructed me never ever to eat anything you gave me without asking what it is first?”
Madara could admit it was a somewhat sensible limitation. At this point, anyone and their mother knew about the Senju heir’s penchant for experiments, and as clan head Madara had enough experience with his own clan’s mad genius’ habits of licking whatever came across his greedy little hands. But honestly, the distrust between the Senju brothers was astonishing. Madara would never -
“Spoilsport,” Tobirama pouted again and Madra lost track of his thoughts. By the sun, those thin lips jutted out like this… Madara wanted to contribute to their chapped look and bite them so badly, he could barely contain himself. (Unbiddedley, he wondered how they might look covered in red, matching the colour of Tobirama’s seals. It was bound to be glorious.) “It’s Kumo.”
Kumo. Something about Tobirama’s piercing gaze clued Madara in that there was more to his throw-away statement, but-
“Kumo…?”
Hm.
“Yeah,” Tobirama nodded sagely, piercing a piece of still sizzling meat with prejudice before throwing it into the air and (ngh) catching it with his teeth, devouring it whole without much chewing. Madara was reminded of a wild predator and he couldn’t find it in himself to care.
“They tried to ambush me. They’ve lost, obviously, but it was a good effort. Would have been disrespectful and a waste to leave them to rot, so-” Tobirama trailed off with a vague shrug, picking up another piece of meat as he watched Madara from beneath his long lashes.
That-
It-
When he said ‘Kumo’, did he mean—-?
But that would be-
No, right?
Without ever lowering his gaze Tobirama continued to pick up pieces from his plate, forcing Madara to see the sharp teeth in action, sinking into tender flesh and ripping it apart without much effort and with a hunger that barely held a flame to the ravenous appetite for Tobirama’s person that Madara stopped denying in that very instance.
“Oh.”
Notes:
sometime in the future, Tobirama witnesses his first funeral pyre:
T: I... I don’t understand. Why would you waste perfectly good nutrition?
T: I’m serious: they’re good now. Don’t overcook them
T: honestly, you’re a hazard in the kitchen, Madara. This is why I won’t let you cook
M: shut up and eat your salad.
T: there isn’t- oh. You think you’re funny, huh? We’ll see who’s laughing last.