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“I should call him,” Madara says, pacing from the kitchen bar to the living room and back.
“It’s fine, Madara. He’s not alone, he’s with Kakashi and Rin,” Hashirama says as he opens the door. Cold air and a handful of crunchy brown leaves rush into the house. The beat-up skeleton on the porch rattles and shrieks, its fake plastic bones stained orange and purple from the blinking lights.
“Trick or treat!” the children scream at Hashirama. “Ooh! What a scary zombie…” Madara tunes out Hashirama’s voice, he’s using the same tone he gets with the kids in the pediatrician ward and there’s only so much of that lilting voice Madara can take.
“What if he gets separated from them? You know how bad Obito is with directions! Just last week I told him to meet me off Eighth and Freeman and he goes all the way to Park!” Madara paces until Hashirama sets the giant pumpkin-shaped candy bowl down on the small table next to the door and physically grabs his shoulders, holding him still.
“Madara that was unreasonable. He’s twelve, you should have told him to meet you at the library. Besides Sakumo is with them, you know he’ll be watching out for Obito. And if, by some chance, he does get separated that’s why he has his phone,” Hashirama bends down to kiss his cheek but Madara shoves him away before his lips can touch. He kept smudging his whiskers and he’s not letting Hashirama ruin his hard work, again. “Come on, let me kiss you! It’ll make you feel better,” Hashirama bats his eyelashes and leans in again. Madara pushes back against his chest and they bend, bend, bend until he’s practically snarling and about to fall over, trying to shove Hashirama’s heavy body away.
The doorbell rings, more kids scream, and Hashirama straightens up with a pout. The term puppy dog eyes has never fit him better with the felt ears, painted black nose, and white patch around his left eye. This was Hashirama’s year to pick out costumes and after Obito declared he wanted no part in family costumes, he wanted to be a ninja come hell or high water, and neither Madara nor Hashirama were allowed to be anything close, Hashirama eventually decided on the ‘classic cat and dog.’
Shopping went something like this:
Babies could be fun, that’d be unique!
If I wanted to deal with babies I’d just go down to that station, Hashirama.
Ohh maybe cops and robbers then?
I’m not wearing my uniform, I wear it every day for work. Would you want to go in scrubs?
Fair, but you could be the robber!
And never hear the end of it from those bastards at work?
Okay, how about ghosts?
No.
Come on—
No.
Fine, how about…
Madara is drawn out of reminiscing when his phone rings and he vaults over the couch to snatch it up from the table, almost knocking over the five candles that Hashirama insisted were necessary. He flips it open, Hashirama and his new smartphone every year can go fuck themselves, and shouts, “Obito?!”
“No, dumbass, it’s me,” Izuna’s irritated voice answers. “Do you get caller ID on that thing? If so, fucking use it. Where are you? It’s only nine and Fugaku is already wasted. I give him thirty minutes until he’s outback puking in the rosebushes. Hikaku and Naori are filming and Indra can go FUCK HIMSELF.” He yells, blessedly holding the phone away from his mouth.
Complaining about Fugaku and he sounds like he’s already downed an entire bottle of wine.
“I said we’d be there at ten thirty, Hashirama wanted to hand out candy this year,” Madara sits back on the couch with a sigh, crossing his legs and staring down at the cheap black costume. Obito had pajamas similar to this, it was disgraceful. But the one time Hashirama just had to be money-conscious was when Madara tried to buy a period-accurate renaissance falconer’s costume. Two thousand dollars for a costume was apparently unreasonable.
It even came with a suit of feathers he could have put Obito in!
“Yeah, whatever, bring me candy. Chocolates and not those tiny shitty ones,” Izuna slurs. Madara hears him bump into something and one of their cousins starts yelling in the background, “are you driving?”
“No, Tobirama is,” what kind of black magic, begging, and coercion combination Hashirama had to go through to convince his younger brother to play designated driver to the Uchiha’s annual Halloween party, is something Madara doesn’t want to know. All he knows is he’ll be able to drink, which is required when it comes to dealing with his family.
The annual party was always thrown at Indra’s because he was the only one with a big enough house to fit the entire extended family. The issue, however, was Indra lived in the middle of fucking nowhere. Cabs could never find the house and on a good day, there was reception. And Madara loves his husband but Hashirama, who struggled with saying no to a bit of alcohol on a good day, would be surrounded by his manic, piss drunk cousins.
Hashirama was never the designated driver.
“Don’t try to fuck with him, Izuna.” Tobirama still complains about the time Izuna, a grown-ass man in his thirties, decided to start a prank war. It was less a war, and more constant harassment that ended with black dye in Tobirama’s shampoo and Izuna drawing on his face with some kind of cursed permanent marker. The red lines were still visible.
“I would never, aniki!”
“You’re full of shit.”
Izuna gasps and Madara can picture him clutching at his chest in mock offense.
“My own brother, flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood—”
“Go throw up in the rosebushes with Fugaku,” Madara interrupts before snapping his phone shut.
“Izuna?” Hashirama asks, leaning over the back of the couch. His hair tickles Madara’s chin as strands come loose from his bun. Madara bats at it ineffectively and grunts. He thumbs open his phone again and brings up Obito’s number. “He’s fine, Madara. You know how excited he’s been to go out with his friends and sleep over at Kakashi’s.”
“The accident—”
“Both his doctor and his PT cleared him. He’s doing fine with the prosthetic,” Hashirama kisses the point where Madara’s neck and jaw meet. “If he needs you, he’ll call, okay?” Madara grumbles and closes the phone. Obito is fine. He’s with Sakumo and his friends. He wants this to be a normal year, just like any other. Madara repeats to himself. He’s been looking forward to trick-or-treating for months, working hard at his physical therapy classes so he could join his friends. But still, Madara can’t forget that afternoon at the station, bitching to Mikoto about the DA when his phone rang and it was Hashirama, crying and out of breath, Madara come to the hospital, Obito’s been—
“Madara,” Hashirama kisses his cheek, edging dangerously close to his painted whiskers, “he’s okay.”
Madara doesn’t have time to linger, because Tobirama shows up half an hour later. He’s not in-costume, something Hashirama complains about before trying to wrestle a pair of dalmatian ears on his head.
“I’m an adult,” Tobirama hisses, glaring at Hashirama. “You take this too seriously.” He glances back at the entryway and the wall of photos, now with their Halloween frames.
“No you’re just a killjoy,” Madara mutters from his spot on the couch. He has Izuna’s bag of chocolates in hand and has already confiscated Hashirama’s wallet so his cousins can’t try stealing it or goading Hashirama into gambling his money away. They were all lousy fucking officers.
“Says the man dressed in a black cat onesie.”
Madara reminds himself of all the reasons why it’d be a bad idea to look the other way when Izuna inevitably tries to put laxatives in the chocolates and give them to Tobirama.
“Don’t be mean, Tobi, Madara looks adorable!” Hashirama coos, dragging Madara to his feet.
“Adorable.” He repeats in a monotone. “You should have been rabbits since you fuck—”
“Tobirama!” Hashirama wraps his arm around his brother’s neck, pulling him close. “You’re being so mean!” His eyes brim with tears as he starts to drag both of them out of the house. “Obito helped me come up with the idea!” Madara side-eyes him as Hashirama flips off the porch lights and locks the door behind him. Obito was twelve and thought anything to do with their costumes were lame. If it wasn’t a ninja, he didn’t care about it. Next to him the beat-up skeleton cackles and shakes, its eyes glowing red and Madara barely restrains himself from punching it…again. “Are you saying my son came up with a bad idea?!” They make their way down the stairs, past the bushes strewn with fake cobwebs and plastic gravestones littered about the yard.
“No anija,” Tobirama sighs, pulling his car keys from his pocket.
Hashirama grins and turns his head to wink at Madara.
Madara rolls his eyes and slides into the backseat. Tobirama didn’t share many of Hashirama’s more hedonistic tendencies, but cars were a rare exception. He never road with others, lip curling at the mere thought of sitting in something not made of real leather. Madara, who doesn’t know shit about cars except they are pieces of shit and every week something seems to go wrong with the patrol cars, takes special pleasure in calling each and every one of in Tobirama’s fancy-ass collection a jeep.
The look of rage in his eyes makes every time Madara has to deal with his brother-in-law in an official capacity as chief of the police and district attorney a little bit more bearable.
When they pull up to Indra’s, the house is on fire.
Madara checks his watch, ten-fifteen, and whistles.
“Damn, usually Naori doesn’t get ahold of the matches until eleven,” Madara cracks his neck, watching as four of his cousins scurry to put the small fire out.
“Anija…” Tobirama looks pleadingly at Hashirama, who grins.
“Nope! The whole night.”
Hashirama grabs his arm and starts tugging an extremely reluctant Tobirama forward. As they get to the door, Madara waves at the small fire brigade and swipes the keys from Tobirama’s back pocket. He’s not spending the night here and at this rate Tobirama will lose the keys the moment he steps through the threshold.
Hashirama knocks and the door opens to reveal great-uncle Indra himself. The man, who has to be in his seventies, looks no older than thirty-five. He’s wearing an odd high-collared coat with black swirls on either side, dark purple eyeliner, and red contacts.
“Nephew,” he nods at Madara and plucks an unopened wine bottle from the shelf and hands it over, “Senju,” Indra’s lip curls but he steps back to let them inside.
“This is a den of iniquity,” Tobirama mutters, glaring at Indra’s unblinking eyes.
“Come on, Tobi, loosen up,” Hashirama pats his shoulder while Madara grabs the wine bottle’s cork between his teeth and tugs. He slips the cork into his pocket instead of spitting it on the floor, there’s a reason Madara is the favorite and will inherit all of Indra’s shit if the old man ever decides to die, and takes a swig.
He passes it to Hashirama as they make their way further into the house and fully descend into the chaos.
The Uchiha love Halloween. Not for any particular reason, it’s well regarded among the extended family that the decision to let loose on Halloween rather than any other holiday was quite random. It could have easily been Valentine’s Day, Saint Patrick’s Day, or hell even Earth Day.
But Halloween was chosen and it was, among collective agreement, a night where, as Mito once described, the collective Uchiha clan decided to get rid of the sticks up their asses and let loose. No expense was spared, and every single Uchiha within the legal drinking age would be at Indra’s, no exception.
It was a glorified frat party with middle-aged adults.
Madara takes the bottle back from Hashirama as they stomp down to the basement. Music blasts, the bass vibrating through Madara’s bones and making his headache. Five ransacked buffet tables are lined up along the left side of the room, with the right side having been portioned off into a makeshift dancefloor. On the far sides of the basement, two small hallways branch off. Most doors in the house are locked, another thing Indra spared no expense on given he’s well aware of the family habits, but the few open doors lead to gambling rooms. Technically the rooms were for any kind of entertainment, but even the simplest of activities turned into gambling. Upstairs the only room not padlocked to hell and back was the kitchen. Which, from past experience, would be the source of almost any and every fire for the night.
“Aniki! You brought my chocolates!” Izuna melts away from the pulsating crowd of bodies to stumble towards them.
“And what are you supposed to be?” Tobirama asks as Madara forks over the chocolates.
“A sexy black cat, can’t you tell?” Izuna grins, grabbing the fake tail tied to his belt and swinging it. At one point he might have had ears and whiskers drawn on, but he’s lost the ears and the paint has chipped away. It’s just Izuna, without a shirt, short-shorts, and his tail. He’s also lost his shoes somewhere along the way.
“You’re really never going to stop are you?” Madara asks before he takes the wine bottle from Hashirama and drains the last of it. Izuna had been dressing up as the “sexy” version of whatever Madara was since he and Hashirama first started dating. Absolutely every costume. Somehow Izuna found a way. For almost twenty-five fucking years.
“Never.” Izuna pats his cheek and saunters off, chocolates in tow. Madara scowls back at him and physically grabs the cousin nearest him, Hikaku, and takes the wine bottle from his hand. Hikaku grumbles but keeps walking when Madara glares at him.
“Why did you have to marry him and his entire family, anija?” Tobirama complains.
If he eats anything Izuna gives him, it’s his own damn fault.
Madara tips the bottle back.
The next hours are a blur.
He’s marginally aware of Tobirama occasionally showing up to check on them and complain, but that’s a blip in Madara’s memory. Most of what he does remember is alcohol and Hashirama. They end up in one of the gambling room, cards he thinks, and he watches as Hashirama bets, and loses, all of the remaining candies he had for the trick-or-treaters. His cousins poke and prod for real money but Hashirama’s wallet is safe in his pocket. He directs them to Tobirama instead. One of the Tobirama blips is definitely him yelling at Madara that one of his cousins stole fifty dollars before Madara tuned him out.
It’s rather tame compared to the past years. When they were younger it’d be nothing but grinding on the dancefloor and then Madara desperately trying to break into one of Indra’s padlocked rooms while Hashirama’s was pressed against his back, hand in Madara’s pants, stroking him. Now the craziest thing is the ax-throwing room. Madara wins back Tobirama’s fifty dollars, he makes sure it was the bill from Tobirama, and tucks it in his own pocket.
His costume was a cheap piece of shit onesie, but it was one Hashirama picked out. Tobirama could go fuck himself.
Somehow, they end up in one of the quieter dice rooms, sitting on a loveseat. Hashirama is desperately trying to fit his larger body on Madara’s lap as he runs his hand through Madara’s hair. He tips his face up and catches Hashirama’s lips in a kiss, prompting whistles from the rest of the room’s inhabitants. Madara flips them off as Hashirama laughs against his mouth.
Then Madara blinks and Tobirama is there again, face flushed with anger and growling that he was leaving now.
Madara doesn’t know what happened or how, but he knows it’s Izuna’s fault.
But since it’s already two in the morning and they’re not twenty-five anymore, Madara shakes Hashirama awake and hauls him out to Tobirama’s car. They’ve both lost their felt ears, and the white spot over Hashirama’s eye is cracking. Madara pulls Tobirama’s keys out of his pocket and the other man snatches them with a snarl. They both stumble into the back and Hashirama barely buckles his seatbelt before he’s asleep and snoring on Madara’s shoulder.
Madara meets Tobirama’s narrowed red eyes in the mirror and sinks back against his leather seat.
He’s not entirely wrong to be suspicious. Alcohol always has one of two effects on Hashirama. He either gets incredibly lethargic, or incredibly horny. And on one memorable occasion, both at the same time.
Tobirama starts the car and Madara rests his head on Hashirama’s. He’s thinking about trying to count Hashirama’s eyelashes and the next thing he knows the car stops, their dark house in front of him. How much did he drink again?
Madara pulls Hashirama out of the backseat and his head swims as he straightens up. Tobirama grumbles and helps him drag Hashirama into the house. Madara squints at him, are the faded red lines on his face more prominent?
“Are you going to die if I leave you?” He asks as Madara lays Hashirama down on their bed. Tobirama stands in the doorway, he refuses to cross the threshold into their bedroom.
“No, we’re good.” Hashirama never got hungover, the bastard, and in all their years together Madara had only seen him throw up once from alcohol and it was when they were still in college and he drank an entire keg by himself.
“Hmph. Your brother is a menace,” Tobirama growls before stalking out of the house. Madara can hear the skeleton shriek, a thump, and then Tobirama’s low growl.
Madara laughs to himself as he pulls Hashirama’s shoes off and yanks the sheets out from underneath him. Hashirama whines and cracks open his eyes.
“No…” He complains as Madara unzips the front of his costume. “I’m comfy.”
“You smell like a winery,” not a cheap one because god knew Indra would never keep cheap wine in his house, “and this can’t be comfortable to sleep in.” Hashirama whines again and Madara has to manhandle him out of the costume until he’s in nothing but his underwear. Madara changes, sets his phone down on the nightstand, and rubs the cracking, itchy paint off his cheeks before returning to the bedroom with a cloth to do the same for Hashirama’s eye and nose.
“’lemme sleep,” he tries ineffectively to bat Madara’s hands away.
After Madara gets the last of the paint off and takes several painkillers, his hangover tomorrow is going to be terrible, he slides into bed next to Hashirama. He fumbles for the charging cord and when he finds it, sees a missed call and message lit up, both from Obito.
No. No, no, no. Did something happen?
Madara shoots up in bed and frantically selects the message icon.
Obito: hey dad I called u, everything is fine don’t freak out .
Madara, freaking out, taps on his voicemail.
Hey Dad, Mr. Hatake said I should call when we got in so you wouldn’t worry. You and Pops are still probably at Uncle Indra’s so don’t freak out when you see this, I’m fine. In the background Madara hears a door close and Obito’s heavy thud as he sits down. Trick-or-treating went really well. I got so much candy you aren’t gonna believe it. Madara can just imagine the stomach aches and puking now. Like seriously, so much. I bet I even got more than Kakashi and we went to all of the same houses. And when Mr. Hatake took us to the nursing home? Goldmine. And I got to see Mr. Tanaka again and apparently he told all of his old people friends how I used to help him with his groceries so they all loved me and…
Madara pulls the phone from his ear and checks the length of the message. Thirty-two minutes.
He smiles, something warm and light unfurling in his chest as he lays down next to Hashirama, phone once again pressed to his ear. With every word, he feels something calm and warm settle in his chest. No longer nervous or frantic.
Hashirama blinks his eyes open and catches sight of Madara’s expression. He smiles, tiny and soft, and reaches under the blankets to grab his free hand.
“See? I told you he’d be fine.”
Madara hums and squeezes his husband’s hand as his son chatters, off on another tangent, in his ear.