The Cursed Son

by PhishyFish

Summary:

Tobirama was three when his baby brother was born.

Hashirama was born on a soft spring evening, when the trees were growing in with gentle green leaves and tipped with flower buds. He was so unlike Tobirama in many ways. Less sharp, warmer, with brown hair, brown eyes, and chubby cheeks. He cried upon drawing his first breath.

With Hashirama, the White Demon learned tenderness.

—

In which Tobirama is born first. This changes some things.

Chapter 1

Tobirama was born amidst a storm. The cracking thunder silenced his mothers screams, the flash of lightning glancing across her sweat damp brow. Rain slammed against the windows, heavy and incessant. He was born to the violent shriek of thunder and the crashing tide of water, greeted by a world of danger from the moment he took his first breath,

This would later be counted against him. He was his father’s first born, yes, but he was a boy, born pale and small, with hair white as freshly fallen snow and eyes red as blood. He was the cursed child. He who bore the red eyes of their enemy, he who was sickly and small, he who was born to the crack of thunder. Perhaps the only thing that Butsuma didn’t hate about his son was that when he was born, he didn’t cry. A fact that would carry on through his entire life.

The clan elders urged for his disposal. He was cursed, they cried. A demon, a danger, a bad omen. Butsuma, as clan head, was responsible for protecting the Senju. He was responsible for producing a strong heir and line. Tobirama had already threatened that plan. His mother was the thing that ended up saving him. Many forgot that she had once been Hatake long before she became Senju. She reminded them that night, clutching his body to her chest, teeth bared and a snarl in her voice. The thunder roared along with her.

Butsuma eventually gave in. Tobirama was permitted to live. He would forever be reminded of that fact. Everything he had in life, his home, his family, his body and breath, it was a privilege. Something allotted to him with generosity. He was not allowed to forget that.

By the time he was able to stand on two feet, Butsuma prepared him to return that boon in full. Tobirama had almost been cast aside due to his burden. Now he would have to prove it wasn’t a mistake.

Perhaps it was silly, handing a two year old his first Kunai, training him to always aim for the heart, the head, the jugular, the kill.  But Tobirama was firstborn, the cursed child, the White Demon. Not many knew that he earned that title long before he entered battle. It was not something the Uchiha had named him, nor any of the other clans he faced. It was a title, chained and heavy, that his father bestowed on him long ago, during a stormy night.

 

—

 

Tobirama was three when his baby brother was born. 

Hashirama was born on a soft spring evening, when the trees were growing in with gentle green leaves and tipped with flower buds. He was born to the warmth of sunlight on his skin, not the harsh cut of lightning. He was so unlike Tobirama in many ways. Less sharp, warmer, with brown hair, brown eyes, and chubby cheeks. He cried upon drawing his first breath.

He was so unlike his older brother. Tobirama loved him instantly.

Hashirama was loud. He cried endlessly, to the point their poor mother was at her wits end. He only calmed when Tobirama held him. He didn’t protest as he was made to hold him through the long nights. Tobirama didn’t think of it as a chore. He accepted the duty with a full heart and a soft smile. 

With Hashirama, Tobirama learned tenderness.

 

—

 

Kawarama and Itama followed shortly after Hashirama. Their mother died after Kawarama. Their last shield, last bastion of strength was gone. Tobirama had to step up.

Tobirama was often pulled away from his family for training. While his brothers, still young enough to be children - though, not for long - played in the compound gardens and along the forest creeks, Tobirama was in the training yard, pushing through bleeding knuckles and burning ribs. Tobirama was bearing his burden. He was the clan heir. He was allowed to survive by his father’s grace. He would earn it.

He was perhaps not the best at giving comfort, or being gentle, but Tobirama learned for his brothers. He learned how to be soft and bending as the willow, as constant and steady as the river, as shaded and warm as the forest. Though he was often whisked away, Tobirama spent every moment he could afford with his brothers. The only thing greater than his debt to his father, was his love for them.

His father did not approve. From his brothers, he learned to be human, from his father, he learned to be a blade. He was taught to kill, to overpower, to champion death on the battlefield. 

Tobirama was an adept Suiton user. Perhaps the best in his generation. Maybe beyond that. He was an even better sensor. He could feel all the way to the Uchiha compound, and as the years grew in number, his range followed suit in area. He often could not remember a time when the world didn’t scream at him the minute twitches of life tens of miles away. Tobirama learned how to hold a blade at four. By the time he was five, he was proficient in every stance Bustuma had ever taught him. His skill only continued to grow.

He took his first life at six. By seven he had killed more men - men, not children like he was - than he had fingers. Eight, he began to wonder if he should keep count. Ten, and he had long ago lost the number.

Though his brothers were not spared from training, Tobirama bore the brunt of their father’s force. He was the shield between them. When Itama was deemed too soft, Tobirama became twice as cold and hard. When Kawarama flinched from a blow, Tobirama took the punch across his face without hesitation. When Hashirama was emotional, dared to speak of ‘peace’, speak against the war, Tobirama turned the ground red with blood and earned his moniker of White Demon. 

Despite his moniker, Butsuma deemed him again and again too human, and beat it out of him, like impurities in iron, until he was forged into the perfect blade: sharp, unflinching, deadly. Tobirama was more stone than human, most days. But, he never forgot the heart in his chest. How could he, when he had brothers to protect, who he couldn’t go a day without, who he loved in spite of being a demon.

The day Hashirama developed Mokuton, Tobirama venged to be twice the Shinobi he would have been before. Father took to training Hashirama with a similar force he used on Tobirama. In response, Tobirama stepped up, became deadlier, became sharper, earned his worth twice, three times, a hundred times over.

It didn’t matter that Hashirama had Mokuton. Tobirama would forever be the older brother, who’s baby brother would not stop crying unless in his arms. He would forever strive to keep Hashirama safe from the Uchiha, from their father, from it all. 

He was an older brother. If that meant tempering his heart, so be it.

 

—

The day Kawarama died, part of Tobirama died with him. He had felt his life flicker out from miles away, felt as the last of his brother died. It was bearing witness to a crime, but being powerless to stop it. 

Tobirama grabbed both his brothers and held them during the funeral. Itama cried. Bustuma chastised him for it. His father called Itama weak, and Tobirama had to resist the urge to tear his throat clean out. Hashirama could not hold the tears in either, but he had the good sense to quiet them.

“Wouldn’t,” Hashirama had begun to say that night, when the three of them were lying in bed, sleepless, “Wouldn’t it be better, if no one - no brothers had to die in this war? Where kids wouldn’t have to be trained to kill?”

Tobirama had set his jaw and replied, “If they were not trained to kill, then they would be easy pickings for the next shinobi who happened upon them.”

Hashirama didn’t say anything more that night.

Tobirama took up their training, personally. He was gentler than his father. He did not beat or intentionally bruise them. He guided shaky hands, smiled when they messed up, laughed when they complained. He was weary, tired by then. But he trained his brothers still, hoping that they would make it.

He trained himself ruthlessly. He spared no softness to himself that he allotted to his brothers. He pushed himself into growth through broken bones, gritted teeth, and bloodied clothes. He was never still, never stagnant. He began to retreat into his room, drawing up charts and seals. Making a jutsu was an art, much as making a sword was. It required patience, discipline, and sheer will. Tobirama learned to have all three.

When Itama died, barely out of reach, Tobirama broke just that bit more. He could not protect his younger brothers. He was weak.

He was not earning his keep.

He was losing the one thing he cared for. 

At Itama’s funeral, Tobirama had turned stiffly to look at Hashirama. His one younger brother - brother at all, family - left. That night, he inked three marks onto his chin, red as blood and jagged as loss. One for each brother, two lost, one alive.

Itama’s death solidified a resolve in Tobirama. He would not lose his last brother. He would not lose Hashirama. His shield would not fail again. He would protect Hashirama, no matter the cost, no matter his life. 

Hashirama was his. Not death’s. He would keep it that way.

 

—

 

He had known for a while about Hashirama meeting with someone by the river. It had started sometime after Kawarama’s death. Tobirama had never paid much mind to it. The person wasn’t hostile, he could tell that from their chakra. It was brash, easy to anger, but it never was hostile. Tobirama decided to let it lie.

That was until Itama’s death.

He couldn’t take chances anymore after that. Tobirama followed Hashirama one day, hiding in the shadows of the trees, nestled between their branches.

His heart had nearly seized when he finally saw who his baby brother was meeting with. An Uchiha. Not just any either. Uchiha Madara. The clan heir. His brother had no idea the fire he was playing with. Neither did the Uchiha. He did not know how far Tobirama would go to protect Hashirama.

He dropped down from the trees, making his presence known.

“Hashirama,” He called, scowling, “Who’s your new friend?”

The two boys startled, not expecting his presence. 

“Who is he?” Madara hissed to Hashirama.

Hashirama whispered a rushed, “Brother.” back

Hashirama forced a smile on his face, “Nii-san! Fancy seeing you here! Ha ha. . . What do I owe the pleasure?”

Tobirama stormed over, grabbing Hashirama’s wrist,“You’re lucky father didn’t find out about this. Your friend wouldn’t have survived.”
“Tobirama what-”

“Come on,” he said, maybe too harshly, “We’re leaving.”

“Nii-san?”

He silenced Hashirama with a look, “Now.”

He began to drag his little brother away from the Uchiha. His ankles were cold and wet from the river. It was a comfort. Only an idiot would challenge a suiton user next to a powerful source of water. 

“I’ll uh- see you later Madara!” Hashirama called over his shoulder.

“No you won’t,” Tobirama muttered, voice of all the iron and stone that he had been made to be.

Madara finally seemed to have found his voice, “Hey what exactly is going on here?”

Tobirama caught him with a harsh glare. If looks could kill, Madara would be dead ten times over. If Madara had hurt Hashirama, he would have been dead a thousand times.

“You do not get to speak,” he spat, “ Uchiha.”

Madara glanced around nervously, “Uchiha? W-What? Pfft. There’s no Uchihas here!”

Idiocy. Absolute Idiocy. This was the person who Bustuma was convinced would be his rival, his adversary for life. This bumbling dolt? Idiocy. Absolute Idiocy.

He shot a glance at Hashirama. A ‘how did you fall for this’  kind of look. Hashirama shrunk away from the clear disappointment.

“You should be grateful,” Tobirama grimaced at Madara, who was still ranting on about not being an Uchiha, “That I am tolerant of stupidity, on account of my younger brother-” “Hey!” “-You should be grateful that you did not make the mistake of harming my brother. You should be grateful I am walking away from this. Two Senju vs an Uchiha is not good odds. If you know what’s good for you, not a word of this will reach our father’s ears.”

Madara blanched, pointing an accusing finger at Hashirama, “You’re a Senju?!”
Idiocy. Absolute Idiocy.

Tobirama dragged Hashirama away from the boy without another word.

 

—

 

Hashirama screamed at him that night. He cried over ‘the loss of their peace’ and ‘the village’ they would never get to build and yelled at him in frustration that ‘you just don’t get it’! It was true. Tobirama didn’t understand. Peace? With the Uchiha. The people who’d taken their brother’s from them. Who wanted them dead? Who would never stop fighting until they stole away everything Tobirama had from him? Impossible.

He sat there, face stoic, as Hashirama raged against him.

“You never listen to me!” Hashirama screamed.

He never listened? Did Hashirama really think that? How wrong he was. Tobirama always listened, always watched and smiled as he saw his brother grow and laugh. He kept each word, painful or bright, tucked under heart. It was the only place that was soft he allowed himself to have. Hashirama, and everything that came with him, Tobirama held in the highest regard.

There were points Tobirama did agree with. No more children had to die. Child soldiers should be ended. Same as the child hunting squads. The war was pointless, stupid. Hatred and hurt was the only thing keeping it alive. But Tobirama had been born to violence, raised by it, taught to be it. He did not understand peace. Couldn’t grasp the notion.

He sat in the garden long after Hashirama had stormed off, still thinking over his words. He sat there for a long time. He didn’t know how much time had eclipsed by the time someone finally shook him out of it.

It was his cousin, Touka who broke the spell.

“He got mad at you, huh?” She sat down beside him.

Tobirama huffed, “For saving his life? Yes. He told you.”

“Not like he could tell anyone else,” Touka shrugged. She was his cousin, older by a month, though she lorded that over him all the same. He was hoping she would grow out of it. He doubted she would. She was one of the few people in their clan that Tobirama could trust. One of the few who wouldn’t go running to Bustuma if she was told something he wouldn’t like. She was one of hundreds he cared for, one of the few he held close. 

“You know he’ll forgive you, right?”

Tobirama hummed, “He thinks I don’t listen to him. Blames me for ‘ruining everything’.”

Touka leaned back, “Could have been worse. You could have told the crabby old man.”

“If he heard you calling him that, he would have your tongue cut out,” Tobirama said.

“Whatever,” Touka rolled her eyes, smiling, “Everyone thinks it anyway.”

“Doesn’t mean you can say it. Do you enjoy the danger of playing with fire?”

“Yes, and when he’s dead, we can say it together,” Touka promised.

Tobirama laughed. Small and barely more than a huff. But his lips curled up a little at the ends, and his heart felt lighter, “I will not deny either of us that pleasure.”

“You’ll say it?”

“When he’s dead,” Tobirama stressed.

“But you’re thinking it, aren’t you?”
“Undoubtedly,” Tobirama said, “and I await the day I can speak my mind about it.”

“Tobirama, the Senju’s white demon,” Touka teased, poking at him, “Afraid to bad mouth a crusty bastard.”
“Unlike you, I value my life.”

“You’ve a sharp tongue, Kid. Aim it at the old fart.”

Tobirama frowned, “No.”

“Spoil sport,” Touka stuck out her tongue. She leaned forward, bracing her arms on her knees, “So, what did you think of the Uchiha brat?”

“He is an idiot,” Tobirama said.

“Yeah,” Touka agreed, “That’s in line with his parentage. Tajima can’t even come up with good insults. The Uchiha are supposed to be smart, mysterious, yet when he fights Bustuma, he sounds like a five year old insulting their sibling. The best thing I’ve heard him come up with is ‘fucker.’ That’s it, just. . . fucker.”

Touka made a helpless gesture with her hands. 

“At least he is honest,” Tobirama conceded, “That is more than I can say for his son.”

Touka laughed.

 

—

 

Hello, Hashirama.

If this letter has reached you, it means it has made it past your scary older brother. 

I trust you will not tell him or your dad about this. I do not want to die. I do not want you to die either, even insufferable as you are. Peace would not be possible without you.

I hope we can keep talking, even if we don’t meet up in person anymore.

Signed,

Uchiha Madara , Clan Heir of the Uchiha, Firstborn of Uchiha Tajima. 

—

 

Hashirama forgave him after a week. 

It was strange. He tended to pout for longer. He didn’t even burst out into fake tears anymore, crying ‘I will never love again’ like that line from a cheesy romance he’d once read and never given up. He usually kept doing that for at least a month. Tobirama shrugged it off, he would take what he could get with his dramatic brother. 

 

—

Madara!

I am glad we’ve found a way to continue to talk! DO NOT WORRY!!!! I will not tell Anija about our letters! He will look at me with his disappointed face and I will instantly combust. Be grateful you do not live with him, you would receive the look every day. (I don’t, obviously, because I’m so cool) He would have killed you three times by now. He would never accept a brother so shit at skipping stones. 

Most of that was in jest. MOST. He is actually a big softie, and I think you two will become friends if you just sat down together. 

I look forward to your letters. Together we will build our village. We’re gonna name it “THE VILLAGE OF AT PEACE PEOPLE” and it will be great. 

Signed,

Senju Hashirama, Secondborn of Senju Butsuma.

 

—

 

The first time Tobirama met Madara on the battlefield - nearly a year later - Tobirama learned two things. One: he had been right about Madara being an idiot. That had not changed. Two: he was a dangerous idiot. Tobirama had to push himself to keep up. They were evenly matched.

In truth, Hashirama would have been better suited to fight Madara. Both were flashy and powerhouses in terms of sheer chakra. But Hashirama was two years younger than Madara, and Tobirama would never pit his younger brother up against that monster.

His resolve had not cracked. He would bear the brunt of the weight. He would not back down, he would bear the burden, prove his worth, earn his keep.

So each time their blades crossed, Tobirama forced himself to keep up, to push back with equal force. Madara was stronger in power, but Tobirama was faster, smarter, more unpredictable. Each time they parted, between battles Tobirama would force himself to grow. Bring himself to new heights. His body and mind strained with the force it took to keep up, to stay even. It was a price he paid easily. That was Tobirama’s biggest strength - he did not think of ‘what if he couldn’t’ it was all or nothing. He would overcome the challenge, adapt to the opponent, grow and break even.

They were evenly matched, the two of them. Their battles a standstill. Hashirama was rather happy to keep occupied with Izuna. The two of them were the same age, but Hashirama was stronger on account of the Mokuton. Izuna didn’t stand a chance, but Hashirama’s bleeding heart - Tobirama admired it some days, cursed it others - kept the Uchiha boy alive. At least he was restrained and couldn’t hurt the Senju.

Hashirama didn’t offer to switch fighting partners with Tobirama either. He could probably keep up with Madara, but that meant his older brother was free to fight Izuna. The Uchiha clan heir would not survive. Hashirama’s mercy was not genetic.

The years passed by. All of them getting stronger. Madara grew to immeasurable heights, Tobirama clawing his way up alongside him. Hashirama trotted and Izuna sprinted behind. 

Hashirama was known as the God of Shinobi. Tobirama was known as the older brother, the monster in the shadows, breathing down your neck, the ghost of the Senju, a confidant of the shinigami. But he was most well known as Tobirama: The Senju’s White Demon.

 

—

 

Hashirama,

I am nearly twenty now, and I still fear your brother. He scares me.

Signed,

Madara.

 

—

 

Madara,

He’s just like that. 

Signed,

Hashirama

 

—

The day Butsuma and Tajima killed each other in battle, both parties stopped fighting. Uchiha and Senju all came to a standstill, staring at their respective clan heads as they gasped their final breaths. Tobirama would forever take pleasure in watching Butsuma choke on the blade through his throat.

The two clans paused their fight, collected the cooling bodies, and retreated back to their compounds. Tobirama could feel their chakra signatures from afar, rippling with a mixture of emotions. There was the sting of grief, the harsh fire of anger, and strangely, the bright glow of hope. 

Tobirama could understand that last one. He did not mourn when he felt Bustuma die. He felt the chains on him crack. Not break, but weaken. Hashirama was free from him. Tobirama would no longer have to mediate between them. Never again would he have to see his father hit his brother. Never again would he bite his cheek and know he could do nothing.

When Tobirama stood over Bustuma’s casket, he felt nothing. He did not mourn his father the way he mourned his mother and brothers. He only mourned the fact he had not been the one to deliver the killing blow in Tajima’s stead.

“Burn in hell,” he whispered to the cold body, “You crusty, child-beating, blood tainted, disgusting old bastard. In the wise words of Uchiha Tajima, fucker.”

“I do believe,” Touka’s voice came from behind him, “That Tajima’s final words to him were ‘you bulbous, frog-fucking fucker’”

Tobirama’s mouth twisted down, “Why frogs?”

“Who cares,” Touka shrugged, “Butsuma is dead. You and I are going to get black out drunk.”

Tobirama didn’t protest the notion.

 

—

 

Tobirama was made clan head of the Senju, Madara of the Uchiha. 

The first thing he did was pull the child killing squads. He set an age restriction on being approved for the field. His brothers were too young when they died. It would not happen again. The age requirement was moved from six to fourteen. It was still too young, but Tobirama suspected it would never be old enough. There would never be a world where he would be happy with his clan members dying. But there would never be a world without war.

He secured trade deals and alliances. Tobirama knew patience as an old friend, but even he grew weary as political meetings drew on. His brother met with an Uzumaki princess during one such meeting, fell in love, and shortly after - with a lot of begging to Tobirama on Hashirama’s part - a betrothal between the two had been arranged. 

On the issue of the war, Tobirama knew he could not slack off. It had been a few months since their last outright battle, but he would not get soft in that time. Tobirama trained even harder than before. He drilled himself ruthlessly. He practiced forms and katas until he could do it blind, deaf, dead. If he died, he would die still swinging his blade. 

He created more Justu. The Kage Bunshin Justsu made their infirmary much more efficient. The Senju were renowned for their healers, but Iryo nin required a lot of training and were often in short supply. With the help of shadow clones he was able to tend to their vast injured after a battle.

Things became darker. Left alone, his mind returned to that cold, dark place his father had forged. Dead as he was, he was a constant whisper in Tobirama’s ear, whispering to be sharper, faster, deadlier. He created many Jutsu that he himself declared forbidden. Tobirama was the blade and shield of the Senju, but he would never be the demon his father thought he was. 

When Hashirama caught him one night, reviving a stray cat that had starved, Tobirama was again reminded of the humanity beneath his chest. Hashirama demanded that he promise to never use the Edo Tensei in battle, at all. Tobirama swore an oath, and burned his research. 

He prepared every measure so that he would be able to fight Madara in their next battle. Hopefully he would be able to end it. Madara was not his father, same as Tobirama wasn’t, but he was Uchiha. The Uchiha did not want the war to end, they wished vengeance and death upon the Senju. The Senju were the same, even as Hashirama was steadily convincing them otherwise.

And Madara fought him. Tobirama met him blow for blow.

Their blood watered the dry ground of the battlefield.

That was how it was, for years.

—

 

Madara,

I know you are not fond of Tobirama. I know you think he’s the only obstacle left in the path to peace, but I assure you he can bend and listen. At least try to convince him. My brother is kind, though very few get to see it.

I hope you can learn to see it as well.

Try to see it, old friend.

Signed,

Hashirama.

 

—

 

Hashirama,

Your brother is the White Demon. He is a ghost story we tell my clan’s children. I have fought that man for years, and he is as unbending as stone, unyielding as a blade. I have only known him as blood and destruction. He stands in the way of what we seek to accomplish, Hashirama. The only way past is through him. I do not seek to kill him to hurt you, I seek to kill him to end this war. Because that’s what he is. A symbol of war. You are here to tell me he is more than that?

I doubt you, Hashirama.

Signed,

Madara.

 

—

 

Madara,

You call him a symbol of war? He is not the only one who protests ideas of peace. Plenty of members from both our clans do. Izuna, in all the time I have known him, has never shown an inclination to try for it either. Is the only way to peace through him as well? 

When Tobirama stands alone in leading this war, I will consider your words. Until then, I’ll ignore them. You are willfully blind, and I know you have clearer vision than that.

At least try, Madara.

Signed,

Hashirama.

—

 

It was the strangest thing. When their next battle inevitably came, Madara did not jump at him, Gunbai in hand, he did not lunge with the intent to kill. He just stuck his hand out, and offered a small smile.

“Tobirama,” he said, “We’re both Clan heads. We can end this war. Your brother understands, wants it too. Peace is possible. We can make it so.”

Tobirama scoffed, “Don’t be ridiculous, There will always be competition between our clans, even in peace. For resources, for work, for land. Peace will only lead to another war.”

“Then let us work together, Senju,” Madara stressed, “Uchiha and Senju can coexist. We can share those things, be stronger together than we were before. 

Tobirama glanced down at Madara’s hand. There was a moment of hesitation, where for a second he considered it. In the back of his mind he could feel the battle. He could feel both Uchiha and Senju lives flickering out like candles extinguished in the wind. He could feel the hatred that burned from both sides.

“No,” He said, and dived at Madara, blade aimed for the heart. 

The battle raged on.

 

—

 

When they got home, Tobirama was tired, bloody, dirty, and utterly wished Hashirama would just shut up.

“You’re not listening to me!” Hashirama chased after him.

Tobirama stripped his armor and threw it haphazardly to the floor, “I am. You’re not making any sense.”

“Peace is possible,” Hashirama stubbornly refused to let it go, “Madara wants it. I want it. The clans are growing tired.”

“The clans grow angry,” Tobirama corrected, “They grow hurt that the other took from them. I have lost family to the Uchiha. So has every member of our clan. The Uchiha have lost family to us. Neither is willing to forgive such an action. The anger only grows.”

“All the more reason to stop it! Don’t you see, it will only get worse!”

“We are already far past the point of no return,” Tobirama sneered, “If you wanted peace, you’d have better luck convincing our great grandfather. He might’ve actually known what started this whole war, before all we knew is that Senju hate Uchiha, and Uchiha hate Senju.”

“Our clans can learn to get along.”

“No they can’t” and Tobirama knew it to be true, the world was too cruel for it to be wrong, “and I will not send our clan to die on that hill. One sided peace is another word for massacre, Hashi.”

“Madara and I like each other,” Hashirama protested.
Tobirama threw up his hands, “You and Madara are freaks against nature. You do not count.”

“If we’re freaks, then what does that make you?”

“A man, trying to keep his clan afloat.”

“You’re not even entertaining the notion of peace!”

“Because it is unrealistic,” Tobirama hissed, “I have to worry about making sure this clan has enough food for winter, has enough homes, enough jobs to offset our expenses. I don’t have time for daydreaming. Peace would never work.”

“Just think about it!” Hashirama pleaded, “We used to talk about a village. A place where both clans could live together, work together, where no children would have to die. No more would end up like Kawarama and Itama!”

Tobirama felt his heart become stone. He turned sharply on his heel, storming off. Hashirama cashed behind, continuing to shout.

“Think about it Anija! Don’t you ever tire of the war?”

“Of course I’m tired, Hashirama,” Tobirama replied gruffly, reaching the door to his room.

“This isn’t over!” Hashirama shouted.

Tobirama stepped into his room, “I think it is.” He slammed the door closed.

After a minute, he could hear Hashirama’s footsteps quietly shuffling away, dejected. Tobirama scoffed to himself. He ran a hand through his hair. 

A village. It was a ridiculous notion. Neither his brother nor Madara had clearly thought the idea over. It was the dream of two young boys, all ideals and no practicality. Really, a village? Did they know the disaster that planning that would be? Adequate housing for both clans, as well as civilians. Enacting policies, creating an entire bureaucracy from scratch.

Those two had no idea what they were talking about.

He grabbed a scroll from his shelf, scribbling ideas. Maybe he should draft up blueprints, just to show Hashirama how hopeless it was.

He began to design the basic layout. The clans would need to be separate, but not too far that they remained estranged. The ridiculous idea was about unity, after all. Both would be allotted equal amenities and distance from marketplaces and centers of commerce. There could be no favoritism, but he would have to account for the differences in architectural preferences between the two clans.

His pen dashed across the paper.

Beyond the clans there would have to be a central area of command. A leader. A hierarchy. They would need a better system to organize soldiers. Perhaps a ranking system. Exams that allowed movement up. A way to revoke someone’s status should it be necessary.

And on the topic of training and ranks, there would need to be standardized learning, like what he had begun to implement into the Senju.

An academy of sorts. . . 

His mind remained busy through the night. 

 

—

 

At breakfast the next morning, he shoved the hasty blueprints in Hashirama’s face. The hundreds of pages, in all their complex, expensive, difficult glory.

“Now do you think it’s possible?” He asked, rhetorically.

Hashirama’s eyes widened comically as he leafed through the papers. No doubt he was realizing the scale of the project. How it was near impossible.

Tobirama smiled smugly to himself when Hashirama was rendered speechless.

“Thought so.”

 

—

 

Madara,

DO NOT GIVE UP!!! I know Tobira can be an icy old man, but he has a good heart. Keep pushing for peace. He has softened to the idea, although unwittingly. You just need to give him the right words, and he’ll cave. I know it!!!

There may just be a chance it might work! I have sent plans for the village along with this note.

Signed,

Hashirama

 

(P.S, what do you think of a joint clan academy in The Village for At Peace People)

—

 

“Peace!” Madara screamed at him again. It had to be the twentieth time this battle. Tobirama’s blade was locked with Madara’s gunbai, the two of them close enough that he could feel the spittle land on his cheek. He recoiled in disgust.

He jumped back, “No!”

This had been going on for at least a year. Madara stubbornly insisting on peace, while providing no real solutions to achieve it, no convincing argument. Tobirama could not picture a world without blood, without war. Madara did not help him to envision it. 

Madara charged at him again, “PEACE!”

Tobirama parried every move made against him, striking back with equal fervor, “No!”

Madara just started screaming unintelligibly.

Tobirama punched him in the face.

 

—

 

Madara would like to think he knew Tobirama pretty well by this point. Been fighting him for years at this point. He could credit part of it to the Sharingan, which documented their encounters with crystal clarity. But it was also how long he’d been around him.

Years of fights had not left him without gathering some knowledge. He knew how Tobirama preferred silence to verbal exchanges. Could tell he winced - just as Madara did - when his sensing abilities picked up a clansman dying. He winced if it was Uchiha too, but neither deigned to address it. He knew Tobirama fought to kill, but he knew how he hated death regardless. 

He knew how to read Tobirama, in terms of a fight, and in emotional state.

Which is why he knew Tobirama was growing tired. His eyes were dead in his skull, flat and lifeless. He no longer looked like he was fighting for something. He looked like he was fighting because he didn’t know what else to do. 

The only times he’d seen those eyes regain light was when he thought Hashirama was in danger. Nothing made Tobirama more alive than that. He lived for his little brother, much as Madara did. He could see emotions in Tobirama then, worry, pain, fear, love. Hashirama was perhaps the only thing that changed Tobirama from an unwavering blade back into a human.

And yet Tobirama grew tired. He could see it in his eyes, his movements, his soul.

 

—

Hashirama,

I do not think it is working. I am trying to use my words, but he is resistant. Even Izuna is beginning to bend to the idea of peace after you sent me your blueprints. Who thought such a well thought out plan could come from you. Not me. 

Your brother, however, remains stubborn in the face of such logic. I shouted at him about how the village would be really complex and cool and he asked if I had ‘finally given up’. Is there something wrong with him? 

Side note: have you noticed the bags underneath his eyes? Make sure he gets more sleep. You as well. I am sure you are spending way too much time at night working on plans for the village. Speaking of, your name for it is stupid and always has been. Please refrain from using it.

Signed,

Madara

(The academy sounds nice. Good idea, Hashirama)

 

—

 

Years passed like that. The battle raged on. Perhaps it was his own stubbornness that kept the fire burning, but at the same time, he could see it was the clans themselves that did it. The common Uchiha and Senju had taken so much from each other. Even if their leaders joined together in peace, could they ever convince their clans to do the same? He wondered. 

Sometimes, Madara didn’t propose peace when they fought. He would go silent, like he had either moved past it or given up. But given time he would be back at shouting “Peace!” and nothing else, like a lunatic, when they fought.

The years were long with war, either way. 

On long days, when Tobirama couldn’t get his mind to calm, he’d watch the children training in the Senju’s main courtyard. They went through katas together beneath the branches of a sloping willow tree. His mother had planted that tree after his birth. Tobirama swore you could smell the petrichor and ozone of a storm beneath it.

He would wade through the sea of small Senju kids, teaching them all he could. Their smiles, their joy and laughter - it calmed him. On days when he could not even bring himself to teach, he sat in the shade of the nearby porches, working on designs for the village.

He’d taken to calling it Konohagakure. The village hidden in the leaves. Out of sight, hidden away in the safety of the forest. He hid the ideas of Konoha deep in his mind, out of sight, hidden safely away from the real world. It had become a pet project. He did not endorse the idea of peace that Hashirama so thoroughly pushed for. He only made the plans to prove it would be impossible to achieve.

As time went on, however, it began to do the opposite. Strangely, when he laid out the plans with more detail each day, Konoha became a real place. It became something he could touch, feel, hear. It sounded like the laughter of a child allowed to be young. A five year old who had never known the touch of kunai. It looked like Kawarama and Itama, alive. It looked like Hashirama’s smile. Bright, warm, something to hide away and cherish.

He was finally beginning to glimpse the peace Hashirama so often spoke of. It scared him how much he wanted it. How much he would give up to have it.

It was as an older brother - who despite it all, still had a heart beneath his armor - that he wrote the name Konohagakure tenderly across the top of his page.

But on the battlefield, he was White Demon again. A man bathed in blood, red as his eyes. He could not have that same softness out there, he could not be weak. He had to earn his right to life, had to keep his clan safe, had to keep his last brother alive. He had duties, he could not abandon them for dreams.

Much as he began to want to.

 

—

 

Tobirama was acting strange again. He was dancing around the battlefield in the way he always did when he had something up his sleeve. Madara was afraid. Tobirama was unpredictable. Whatever he was planning, it wasn’t good. Sometimes it was simple as a knife up his sleeve, sometimes it could be something as terrifying as a homebrewed jutsu - Madara still remembered the first time Tobirama had spat a water dragon at him. He’d nearly died from a heart attack alone.

Madara deflected yet another kunai. Tobirama was on the defensive now. He must’ve thrown thirty kunai - where did he store those? - at him while they were running all over the battlefield. They were scattered across random locations, their number only growing as Tobirama continued to run.

Madara narrowly dodged another thrown blade. It embedded itself a couple feet behind his foot.

He saw something shift in Tobirama. A subtle change in his stony face, a glint in his eye. Madara knew that somewhere along the line, he’d fucked up.

But before Tobirama could do anything, a loud wail sounded across the field. 

Both clan head’s gaze snapped over to the sound. It was a child’s cry. Madara felt his blood run cold. A young boy - black hair, black eyes, Uchiha - was stuck in the middle of the battlefield. He was clutching a chipped Kunai in his hands. One of the ones Tobirama had discarded before. The boy was backing up on shaky legs, tears pouring down his face. A Senju fighter was advancing on him, sword in hand. 

Kagami, Madara lurched forward. The Senju's sword drew up. Madara knew even he couldn’t make it in time.

Tobirama glanced from the child to Madara, then back at the kid with steel in his eyes. He tensed like he was preparing to shunshin. Madara didn’t even have a second to be confused before in a flash of lightning, Tobirama disappeared.

Tobirama reappeared in front of Kagami, shielding the boy with his back. Tobirama spun around, his hand jerking out and ripping back.

The blood of the Senju fighter ripped forward out of the man, splattering hotly across Tobirama. Tobirama, who was snarling like a wolf. Madara had never seen him like that. Tobirama has always dawned an impassive mask when he fought Madara. This was the first time he’d seen the White Demon ever furious.

The Senju fighted collapsed to the ground, sword slipping out of his hand. He wasn’t dead, but it was a near thing.

All around, Uchiha and Senju had stopped fighting to watch the proceedings. 

“Get him a medic!” Tobirama barked at nearby Senju, and then to the rest of the battlefield he shouted “He will live only to pay the consequences for his actions. The Senju do not tolerate child killers.”

By now, Madara had made his way over to Kagami and the Senju clan head. He could see the way the Senju clan head cradled Kagami to his chest as if he was the most precious cargo. Arms, which he had seen take the lives of many, were curled to protect a child of his enemy.

Tobirama pushed the shaking Uchiha boy into his arms.

Kagami whimpered. His wrist was bent at an odd angle, a long cut ripping down the arm. Tobirama reached out, hands a soft green glow. He set Kagami’s wrist straight, and began healing the boy. Beneath his sword-calloused hands, Madara watched in fascination as Kagami’s wound stitched back up, and the swelling around his wrist went down. Tobirama pulled his hands away.

The white haired man looked Madara in the eye, for the first time, “See to it he gets proper medical attention. Keep him off the field. This is not a place for children.”

Madara’s eyes widened. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Though gruff and icy, he had seen tenderness. Senju Tobirama displayed kindness. It was something he had long thought as mythical as dragons. Yet here it was, the fabled dragon. Tobimara’s heart.

Tobirama cast one last glance at Kagami, eyes soft and tender in a way he had never known them. For a moment, he thought he saw the beginnings of a smile tugging at Tobirama’s lips. Something in Madara’s chest stuttered. 

Then Tobirama was moving again, pulling his forces back. Full retreat. The fight was over. 

 

—

Later that night, in the Uchiha compound, Kagami got the talking to of his life.

“-I mean, what even went through your brain!” Madara was pacing, halfway through an hour-long rant, “Do you ever think, Kagami?! What possessed you to break age restrictions and follow us out there? Do you know how dangerous that was? How lucky you were?”

Kagami bowed his head.

“Well?” Madara demanded, “Don’t you have anything to say.”

“I just wanted to help,” Kagami mumbled under his breath. The curly-haired Uchiha had been somewhat of a clan outcast. His mother was accused of having an affair with a civilian. Madara and Izuna tried to put a stop to such rumors, but they could only do so much. Kagami was often treated as ‘the impure Uchiha’ when they weren’t around to stop the rest of their clan.

So that was it, Madara realized somberly, he wanted to prove his worth. Earn his keep.

“Kagami,” Madara laid his hand across the young boy’s shoulder, “You don’t need to help us yet. We can take care of ourselves. You’re going to be an amazing shinobi one day. When you’re old enough, I’m sure you’ll outshine us all.”

Kagami brightened.

“But you’re not old enough yet!” 

Kagami flinched back. He had forgotten that part.

“I mean seriously,” Madara threw his hands up, “Do you know how embarrassing it was having Tobirama save you?! Tobirama! I owe that bastard now! I can’t owe my rival! How could you be so irresponsible-”

“Buckle in, Kid,” Izuna said, “He’s going to be like this for a while.”

 

—

 

Tobirama paced around his room. He had wasted the Hiraishin. That technique had taken years to come up with, years to perfect, and he had wasted it in a second. It had been designed to be faster than the Sharingan could catch - the ultimate weapon against Madara. It could have ended the war. And he wasted it. Madara would never let it work a second time.

Part of him was furious. But he realized it was just that: only a part. The majority of him did not regret the action. There had been a child on the battlefield. He knew Madara had put a stop to child soldiers, same as him. Yet somehow, a kid, no older than Kawarama had been, had been on that field, mere moments away from death. It pained him that a clan member was about to cause it.

Senju Tsutomu was left alive, Tobirama had ensured it. It was not an act of kindness or grace. Tsutomu should be afraid he was permitted to live. Tobirama did not consider himself a cruel man - he knew he could be too much like his father, he knew he could be too cold, hard, harsh, but he would rather turn his blade inward than become that man - but there were a few things he did not tolerate. One such thing was harming a child.

He did not know how the Uchiha boy had ended up on the field, all that Tobirama knew was that he was trying to retreat, and Tsutomu was chasing him. Tobirama could not bring himself to regret his actions. The Hiraishin was unfortunate, yes. But he would never regret saving that boy’s life. Not when he would have died like his brothers did. Scared. Alone. Too young.

 

—

 

Hashirama,

It seems you were right. Senju Tobirama does in fact have a heart. I owe your clan a debt. I owe you an apology. 

Signed,

Madara.

 

—

 

Madara,

You do not owe an apology to me. No debt to my clan.

Tobirama stands alone as your recipient.

Signed,

Hashirama.

 

—

 

Tobirama spent too many late nights working on the village. It had been a while since their last battle with the Uchiha. Tobirama knew they were up to something, knew he should be in the war room, preparing to defend the clan. But, as time withered on, he had increasing free time. It was spring, a time when the Senju flourished. There were little pressing matters to attend to.

So he spent his nights, and now days, sitting over a scroll, designing a village that would never be.

“Working on another one?” Hashirama asked, setting a cup of tea down on his table.

“Hn.”

Hashirama sniffed, faking tears, “That’s what Madara would have said-”

Tobirama glared at him, “Really?”

Hashirama shrugged, “I’m your little brother. What purpose do I have but to annoy you?”

Tobirama rolled his eyes, “Why do I put up with you?”

“Another response drawn from Madara’s lips.”

“I am nothing like him,” Tobirama drew a harsh stroke across the paper.

“Aren’t you?”

“That idiot couldn’t be further from me. I cannot stand him. He’s so crabby, inarticulate, snappish, and idealistic.”

Hashirama smiled gently, “Tobi, those are all things you are.”

Tobirama paused, considering it, “I can conceded on the first three, but I am not an idealist like him. I mean seriously. He’s been pleading for peace for years, but never proposed a single way to make it a reality. If I suddenly agreed, without any proper work put into it, our clans would fall to ruin. We would be back at war by winter. I don’t believe in the notion of peace. It’s only a break from warfare, not an end.”

“And yet here you are,” Hashirama gathered a bundle of scrolls in his hands, “designing the village you call nothing more than a dream.”

Tobirama huffed, “I do it for you. So you’ll understand it’s hopeless.”

“Brother, It does the opposite,” Hashirama said, “Don’t you see? You are taking dreams and grounding them. Making them possible.”

“The village will never become a reality.”

Hashirama looked at him for a long moment, “Then why do you keep working on it?”

For that, Tobirama had no answer.

 

—

 

Madara,

My clan is finally ready!  Most of the clan doubts peace, but they are willing to try. Of course, there are the ones still firmly attached to the war, however they are outnumbered! THIS IS PROGRESS! I know your clan is almost there as well. It is only a matter of time.

Use your words, Madara. Tobirama wants peace. He does. He thinks that it will be useless if we fall back into war, and believes that ideals without practicality are useless. He does not want to lead our clan into a massacre, and fears that agreeing to your peace will do just that. Maybe don’t just scream ‘PEACE’ at him the entire time? He thinks you’ve had brain damage.

Tobirama wants peace more than he thinks he does. Convince him.

Signed,

Hashirama.

 

—

 

Their next battle was bloody. The Uchiha had no trick up their sleeves. They had simply been waiting. . . thinking. About what? Tobirama hadn’t the faintest.

All he knew is that Madara looked at him differently when they fought. He considered his words before he spoke. He didn’t just scream the words ‘peace’ ‘ceasefire’ ‘truce’ at him endlessly. He tried to convince him. He tried to articulate. He made an actual effort.

Tobirama didn’t know how to feel.

 

—

 

“Why don’t you accept?” Touka helped peel his armor off him. Madara had gotten a lucky shot on his arm. Nothing he couldn’t fix, but enough it was rendered useless until he healed it. Tobirama got him back though, cutting through his achilles tendon in return. 

“Accept what?” he asked. His blood saturated clothing stuck to him in a way that made his skin crawl. Touka had to help him out of his shirt so he could assess the damage on his arm.

She scowled, “Don’t play coy with me, Tobirama. Peace. Hashirama is slowly getting the clan behind the notion.”

Tobirama bit his lip, “Do you really think good intentions will be enough to prevent a knife in the back?”

“No,” she said, taking a wet cloth and cleaning his wound, “that's what you’re for. You’d see that coming from a mile away. If they have the audacity to incur your true anger, then I fear for them rather than us. I don’t doubt you, Tobirama. I never have. If you say we keep fighting, we’ll keep fighting. But I worry that you’re not being honest with yourself.”

Tobirama couldn’t deny that. He’d been . . . doubtful, recently.

“It will fail,” he said, “It will last all of a year. Two if we’re lucky. Peace cannot be sustained with ideals alone.”

Touka laughed, “Of course it can’t. Peace is built on the backs of dreamers. It’s held afloat by men and women who get shit done.”

Tobirama huffed a laugh. It was abruptly cut off with a hiss when Touka dabbed the cloth to his wound.

“And if it fails?” Tobirama asked, wincing.

Touka shrugged, “Then it fails. You will go down as a fool in history. The Senju will learn to pity and scorn your name. But, if it succeeds, then you’ll get to see Hashirama’s wish come true. You give your brother, your brothers, all they ever wanted. A place to be safe.”

“I cannot put my clan at risk.”

“If you think war is better, then it is.” Touka met his eye, “But I want you to say your answer, whatever it is, without hesitancy. I trust you, Tobirama, and you should trust your heart. It is wiser than you think it is.”

—

 

Their next battle started with silence. The two parties met on a barren field. It had once been a vibrant forest, but years of warfare had razed it to the ground. Once, there had been flowers and ferns in thick swathes along the ground, but that was long ago. Tobirama could not remember when the scorched ground had any signs of life. 

The Uchiha party stood quietly across the field from the Senju. Tobirama could feel his clansmen stiffed beside him. A quiet Uchiha was a deadly Uchiha. Tobirama brought his own forces to a stop, unwilling to be the one to break the standstill.

After a minute or so of silence, Madara stepped forward from his forces. He stood alone, striding across the scorched rock to the center of the field.

Touka began to draw her blade. Tobirama held a hand up, stopping the action. He walked forward from the comfort of the Senju, meeting Madara halfway.

“This is the end, Tobirama,” Madara said, “The war is over.”

Tobirama tilted his head, “And why is that?”

“Because our clans are tired, and they are ready for peace.”

“A temporary ceasefire?”

“An end,” Madara corrected, “Peace is possible. I know you know that. I, and my clan, are ready to sit at the negotiation table and hammer this out.”

Tobirama scoffed, “You? Ready to negotiate? Peace is not free, Madara. There will be compromises, from both clans, consequences, for all of us.”

“But there will no longer be this war.”

“And then what?” Tobirama snapped, “What happens after we sheath our blades?”

Madara took a step forward, voice just short of a plea, “We rebuilt. We heal the damage we’ve had inflicted on us and inflicted on others. We learn to do more than just fight.”

Konoha, Tobirama’s heart cried. For one of the first times in his life, Tobirama did not rush to silence it. It leaked through the cracks in his armor, thawed the ice in his soul, the iron in his skin.

“Perhaps,” he muttered, mostly to himself, “It is possible.”

Tobirama looked up at Madara, and he asked a question he had never thought to before, “Why?”

“Because I have seen too many die, and I know you have too,” Madara provided, “And I was gifted with a younger brother, and did not want to see him die too. This war takes so much. Izuna and Hashirama will one day become casualties.”

“I do not know you, Tobirama,” Madara admitted, “I know the bite of your blade, the hiss of your voice, but I do not know you. I do not need to. I know that like myself, you’re an older brother, and you must’ve at least once dreamed of a place where your younger brother wouldn’t have to fight in this war. Where he could be safe.”

Konoha. Tobirama had started designing it to prove Hashirama wrong. He continued working on it for Hashirama. Because when he saw the blueprints, the ideas he crafted, his face lit up, and he looked like that innocent kid Tobirama once knew again. The one Tobirama always tried to shield from the world.

Konoha was meant to be a shield. One that wouldn’t fail like Tobirama did.

“No more brothers deserve to die,” Madara said and offered his hand.

Tobirama glanced down at it. By his foot, he could see a dandelion blooming out of the harsh earth. He looked back up at Madara.

“No,” he decided, “They don’t.”

And he took Madara’s hand.

Their battle started with silence, and it ended with the cheers of Hashirama in his ear.

Chapter 2

Peace talks were a long and arduous process. 

A small party from both clans would meet at dusk and work until dawn. Peace wasn’t as simple as just saying ‘let’s stop fighting’, A fact Tobirama had tried to get through Madara’s thick skull for years. They had to resolve some of the issues they’d actually been fighting over. Beyond the mutual hatred and desire to exterminate the enemy, most of the war was fought over border disputes.

“I’m telling you,” Madara growled, jabbing his finger into the paper, “the Namajiki River was traditionally Uchiha territory. We have documents over 200 years old that include it in our borders.”

“The river has been in Senju possession for the most time,” Tobirama shot back, “It was captured by Senju forces just after those documents were written. We have established settlements and trade routes along the river. It belongs in Senju hands.”

“I was willing to compromise on Hayashiya valley, but not this.”

Tobirama considered it. Hayashiya valley had been an important location - long disputed by the two clans - on account of the fertile soil and strategic location. Madara had sacrificed it to him, and he supposed that counted for something. However the Namajiki river was an important Senju territory that he would not be convinced to give up.

“The Namajiki River will remain in Senju lands,” Tobirama decided, continuing on before Madara could protest, “However, the Uchiha clan will be permitted to operate within the establishments along the river, as well as create their own trade routes with it. They will be under Senju law while in our territory, but will be allowed to conduct business without interference.”

Madara considered it, “The Uchiha should be allowed to build settlements, as well.”

Tobirama’s brow twitched, “That is directly interfering with the idea of ‘Senju territory’.”

“Without settlements how are we supposed to conduct large scale trade?” Madara challenged, crossing his arms, “The Uchiha would need permanent buildings to do so.”

Tobirama hummed, “Fine. The Senju will permit the building of two trading posts along the river.”

Madara blinked, as if he was surprised Tobirama had agreed, “That is. . . acceptable.”

“Good,” Tobirama stood. His body protested with the action. He had been sitting at the stupid table so long that nearly every limb had fallen asleep. He glanced back at his party. Hashirama had fallen asleep, while Touka looked like she was bored out of her mind. 

“Let us leave it at that, today,” Tobirama proposed. Madara looked relieved.

Tobirama kicked his brother’s leg, waking him up. Touka rose from her seat, looking ecstatic that it was over for today.

“The Senju will draft a treaty that your elders can look over and review,” Tobirama said to Madara.

Madara nodded.

 

—

 

Just because the two of them had agreed to peace, it did not mean Tobirama and Madara got along. It was quite the opposite, actually. A lifetime on the battlefield had left them with a distaste for each other. Madara had only known him as the White Demon his entire life. Though he tried, seeing past that was near impossible. Tobirama was just as ruthless at the negotiation table as he was on the field. It was all too easy for Madara to block out the man behind the Senju monster.

Tobirama had always been taught to kill. All he knew was returning what he was dealt ten times over. In battle, a cut tendon earned his opponent a kunai in the gut in retribution. When Madara began to grow angry with him, or shut down, Tobirama did the same. It ended in many wasted days, where all they managed to accomplish was bicker and stubbornly dig their heels in. Hashirama and Izuna -Izuna!- had to pull them away before clawed out each other's throats. They went home empty-handed those days.

But one day always led to the next, and neither of them were stubborn enough to sacrifice this peace because of a disagreement.

Tobirama and Madara did not like each other. Madara thought Tobirama was a stuck up prick. Tobirama thought Madara was a hotheaded idiot who did not know the meaning of the word ‘think’.  

But they were colleagues. They had a common goal.

They ignore their hate long enough to accomplish it.

 

—

 

While most of their time was spent arguing, there were a few things Madara and Tobirama could agree on. Child soldiers were horrible, little brothers were to be protected, and clan elders were the worst.

“They demanded the Senju surrender our weapons and armor?” Tobirama asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” Madara said, dead-eyed in a way that told Tobirama he was just as done with it as he was.

“Your clan is crazy if they think we would comply with that demand. It has to be the worst one yet,” Tobirama said, “Even worse than your elders trying to force Izuna into a political marriage.”

“I’m not so sure about that one,” Madara groused.

Tobirama considered it, “You have a point. That was worse.”

Madara chuckled despite himself, “Izuna almost took elder Nanao’s head off for suggesting it. It was funny, in retrospect.”

Tobirama shot him a glare, “ You weren’t the one proposed to marry him. It wasn’t funny at all.”

Madara sent him a sympathetic look, “I earnestly wonder how they thought that was a good idea.”

Tobirama huffed, “They’re elders. They’re all half senile.”

“So that’s a no to the weapons thing?”

Tobirama gave him a look.

Madara winced, “I’ll tell them it was rejected.”

 

—

 

“We need a way to finalize the peace,” Madara said during the second week of negotiations.

Tobirama sighed. They had been dancing around this issue for a while. Tobirama had not been lying when he said peace would never last. Even if they resolved all their current disputes, more were only likely to pop up in the future. If their clans did not develop a close relationship - more than just one of hatred - then war would return.

The village. Madara had shouted at him about it before, on the battlefield. 

Tobirama would have to ask for his blueprints back from Hashirama. God knows what his brother did with them. They were probably hanging as motivational posters in his room.

Madara mistook his considering silence for hesitancy.

“I know you think it’s hopeless, Tobirama,” Madara said, “But I assure you, it’s possible.”

Madara beckoned Izuna forward, and the younger Uchiha deposited something into his arms. It was a scroll. Tobirama knew personally how dangerous a scrap of paper could be. He was a seal master, after all, he could turn pen and ink into something that would raze entire settlements to the ground. Tobirama reflexively stiffened, hand going to the knife on his belt.

Madara held up a hand, “Relax, Senju, I am not going to shatter the peace I tried so hard to establish.”

After a moment, Tobirama moved his hand away. He still kept his eyes on the Uchiha. 

Madara unrolled the scroll, the paper spreading across the table, covering the wood in drafted sketches, blueprints, and notes. The entire scroll was covered in careful penmanship that was just messy enough you could tell it was done in a rush. As the paper unfurled, Tobirama felt his blood run cold. He recognized each stroke. He knew each line. There was a splotch of ink on the corner of the scroll, from where he’d let his hand smudge it. There was a rip near the edge from when Hashirama took it a bit too hastily from him. And there, in tender script at the top was the word-

“Konoha,” he breathed. 

But- How? Tobirama felt his mind buzzing with possibilities. His heart had stopped beating in his chest. If the Uchiha had found a way into the main compound, undetected, much more important documents than plans for a dream village could be in their hands. This was dangerous. A security leak like the Senju had never had before. There was information on the whereabouts of every deployed Senju spy and soldier in his study. If the Uchiha got those-

Madara looked up in surprise, “You know about the village?”

Tobirama opened his mouth. He designed the thing.

Madara barreled on before he could speak, “What am I saying. Of course you know about it. There’s no way Hashirama wouldn’t have shared his plans with you. He never shuts up about it.”

Tobirama blinked, “Hashirama. . . did this?”

He could feel his baby brother stiffen behind him. He glanced back just in time to see Touka send a harsh look at Hashirama. Madara didn’t notice any of this.

“I know,” Madara leaned his chin in the palm of his hand, “I didn’t expect something so well thought out from him either.”

Tobirama forced his voice to be steady, “Me neither.” Hashirama flinched.

“It’s put together well, brilliant even,” Madara commented as his fingers traced the paper, “Hashirama has included plans for everything from compound designs and shinobi hierarchy, to an academy and fucking tax law!”

Tobirama blinked slowly, “You. . . like the plans?

Madara nodded, “They’re incredible,” he breathed it out as gently and reverently as a prayer. 

Tobirama felt something warm build in his chest. It was foreign, and he wasn’t quite sure he liked it. Madara thought his plans were incredible. Nobody - sans Touka - ever liked anything he created. All his life, he’d created things to destroy. Every jutsu, every plan, every thought he ever had - it was all devoted to war. All except this. And Madara thought it was incredible. Except, no, he didn’t. He thought Hashirama’s plans were great. He thought Hashirama was great. Tobirama was the White Demon - someone who Madara still detested, though forced to shove it aside for peace.

That same warmth blooming in his chest grew sour and sharp. 

Madara continued on speaking, unaware of Tobirama’s internal conflict, “With these plans, we could begin to build the village immediately. With Hashirama’s mokuton and the combined efforts of our clans, the village could be completed within the year.”

“We could,” Tobirama replied, voice stiff.

Madara looked up at him, eyes wary, “You don’t seem enthused.” Madara grimaced, he knew Tobirama’s reputation as a cold bastard - he’d lived the tale for the past decade. He knew first hand the elder Senju’s frigid nature. But he knew Tobirama was a realist too. If these plans couldn’t convince him, what would? Perhaps his kin had been right, all the White Demon desired was more war. 

Tobirama waved a hand, “Excuse my lack of energy - it has been a long day.”

“Senju,” his voice was gruff, “This could preserve peace for generations.”

Tobirama glanced up at him, expression guarded, “Let’s have a recess.”

Madara started angrily, “Tobirama, this is not an issue to be slept on! Don’t you dare walk away from this, you bastard-!”

Tobirama cut him off with a tired glance, “Let’s have a brief recess,” his voice was far too tired, “We’ll reconvene in thirty minutes.”

He stood gracefully, the simple movement filled with elegant deadlines that seemed to permeate everything Tobirama did. Senju Touka - eyes stormy - and Hashirama rose after him and followed their clan head out of the room. 

When they were gone, Madara felt the fight leave him. Gods damn it. They were so close. Tobirama had seemed accepting at first, he didn’t know where he misstepped. That bastard made everything so complicated, he swore.

Madara’s head hit the table with a heavy thunk. He groaned.

“Fuck.”

 

—

 

Once the three of them were safely out of earshot of the Uchiha clan, Touka wasted no time rounding on Hashirama and dressing him down.

“What the fuck was that?” she hissed at him.

“I-” Hashirama tried to speak, but Touka continued on without a care, “No. Shut up. Why on earth does that bastard have anything of Tobirama’s?! Have you been sending him letters? Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Tobirama held up a hand, “Touka, enough.”

She looked back at him, betrayed, “But he,”

“I know,” he sighed. He looked at Hashirama, “Hashirama, explain.”

He squirmed, “Touka is right, I’ve been sending him letters. But it was for peace, anija! We would have never gotten here without it!”

“Did you send him anything besides my plans and your letters?” he questioned seriously. 

“No,” Hashirama muttered, “I only sent him plans for the village.”

“Good,” Tobirama sighed in relief, before his eyes grew sharp yet again, “Hashirama, what you did was extremely reckless. You could have exposed the Senju, given Madara a weakness to exploit, guided their blade straight to the heart of us.”

“Madara is a friend,” he shot back, “he wouldn’t.”

“To you, ” Tobirama countered, “And to you only. To the rest of us he is the clan head of our enemy. You always forget that.”

“He’s an ally now.”

Tobirama frowned, “ Right now, he’s a neutral party at best. Back then, he was still trying to destroy us, and us, him. Do you understand how dangerous what you did was?”

“I was careful.”

Tobirama glared at him, “Not nearly enough.”

“But don’t you see? He likes the plans for Konoha!” Hashirama pleaded, “He could be an ally. This war could stop, for good. What I did was dangerous, but so was war. I was trying to help.”

Tobirama sighed once again, running a hand through his hair. He was tired, and angry, but Hashirama had always been his one weakness. He neither had the energy, nor will to deal with this right now. If he was being perfectly honest, he wanted to plug his ears and scream for an hour, but that wasn’t an option.

“I’m going to go calm myself,” he said through clenched teeth. He had made a rule long ago - after he stabbed an official from the capital for insulting Touka - to never enter negotiations when angry. He continued, “We will talk about this later. At length.”

Hashirama swallowed nervously.

When Tobirama left, disappearing around a corner, he breathed a sigh of relief. One that was cut abruptly short when Touka cleared her throat.

“Cousin,” he laughed nervously, “I don’t suppose this could wait too?”

She smiled and Hashirama felt suddenly worried for his life.

He laughed again, “No?” he squeaked.

“I don’t know why you did what you did, nor do I care,” she continued smiling, her eyes sharp and dark, “but Madara somehow seems to think you wrote the plans Tobirama spent years on.”

“I can explain-”

“But you won’t,” she bit, “not to me. To Madara. You fucked this up, and you will fix it. Tell Madara, or I will make you regret it.”

 

—

 

Tobirama sat on the engawa by the courtyard. They had decided to conduct today’s negotiations at a separate house of the Uchiha estate, as a sign of good faith. It was the first time Tobirama had ever seen the inside of the compound. Oh, he had felt it many times before. The swirling flames of chakra that walked through the halls, filling them with light - he had felt and memorized each long ago. 

But he had never actually been within the actual compound itself. It was different than he expected. It had a certain beauty and grace he had never expected from the Uchiha. The floor was a polished fire hardened wood - he could spot scorch marks hidden in corners, disguised among the already darkened wood. There was an overhang above him, shielding him from the afternoon sun flooding in from the garden.

And oh, the garden. It was so different from the lush ones within the Senju compound. There, each rose and bloom was manicured to perfection. Every angle planned out and trimmed accordingly. Each petal’s location was deliberate and coaxed into place. It was all perfectly sharp as Tobirama had been groomed to be. 

The garden here was different. It was mostly a stone one, with gravel covering the ground and large, moss capped boulders filling the space. The only sign of life was the strange purple blooms that sprung up in sporadic clumps around the garden. Wild and untamed, and - the last bit came to his mind as an afterthought - beautiful.

Looking closer at the purple flowers, he tried to recall their name. He laughed to himself - of course it was fireweed. He doubted the Uchiha could grow much else. 

The sun was rapidly approaching the horizon, golden light slowly creeping closer and closer to him, despite the engawa’s shade. 

His thirty minutes was almost up.

Konoha, his heart still clenched at the name. All it was was a couple of dreams, and hundreds of scrolls he’d kept tucked close to heart. He thought that was all it’d ever be. Turned out, he was not the only one who held the name dear.

It could be real.

One day, Tobirama could see it - perhaps there could be a place for his brothers after all. One outside of dreams.

He wasn’t exactly sure how Madara came to the conclusion that Hashirama had created it. It must’ve just been the first thing he thought, and he stuck to it. Afterall, the village was Hashirama and his’ creation. But Konoha had been Tobirama’s. He supposed Madara received the plans from Hashirama and jumped to the obvious conclusion: the sender must have been the creator. After all, who else would make plans for a dream village? The Senju were not known for being dreamers. Tobirama least of all.

No one, at least none in their right mind, would have ever thought the White Demon of the Senju created plans for a peaceful village with the enemy. It sounded like a very poor lie someone would tell. One you’d scoff at and dismiss almost immediately.

It was funny, how the truth could be less believable than a lie. 

Tobirama’s eyes scanned across the garden. What to do, what to do. 

Konoha! His heart cried. And Tobirama was becoming more and more swayed to its side with each passing day. His father would be disgusted. He smiled softly, - bittersweet, sad, small - all the better then. 

And what to do about Madara's misconception. Despite his heart crying out again to set it right, Tobirama would not listen. Not this time. He had to be practical - that was the only way to peace. Emotion would get him nowhere here.

If it was revealed that the White Demon of the Senju created those plans, they would immediately be considered suspect. What ulterior motive did he have? Was this a trap? How would he use this to destroy his enemy, the Uchiha, the peace? He might as well kiss Konoha goodbye.

No, Hashirama would remain the one hailed as its creator. He would be better. Charismatic, bright, joyful, a dreamer and an idealist. Someone the Uchiha - and hopefully other clans - could trust. Not like his brother. Strange, dangerous, solemn, a schemer, a snake. No, not him. He could not be the one leading them to peace. He would just be the one sheltering peace underneath his wing, invisible to the naked eye. The Senju Ghost; unseen, efficient, and necessary. For his clan, and for peace.

The sunlight finally reached him, pooling liquid gold in the soft blue folds of his yukata. He drew away from it, and back into the shadows. 

He had to return to negotiations.

 

—

 

The Senju party arrived back at the table exactly thirty minutes after their departure. Madara would never claim to be good at ‘reading a room’, but even he could tell something was off. Senju Touka was wearing a stormcloud above her head, her eyes darker than they’d been before she left. Hashirama looked embarrassed and uncomfortable, glancing back down at his hands and knees and refusing to meet anyone’s eye. And Tobirama? The moment he walked in the door, Madara almost threw a fireball at him.

Because that was not the Tobirama he’d been talking to just thirty minutes earlier. No, this was not the stubborn, quick witted man he’d been arguing with for the past two weeks. This was the demon he’d faced down time and time again on the battlefield - the only person who was his match. Tobirama’s red eyes were carefully blank, his expression set cold and neutral, and his posture stiff and rigid. 

This was a man, ready to do anything. 

Madara was worried that Konoha would forever remain just a dream on paper, when faced with a man like that. He settled back in his chair, trying not to look as unnerved as he felt. He knew the rest of the Uchiha in the room felt it too. He sensed the flares of wariness and unease within their chakra, and could feel them stiffen behind him, poised and ready for a fight, should it occur.

But then, Tobirama spoke, “The Senju will lend Hashirama’s mokuton and their collective labor to the building of the village. The Uchiha will be expected to do the same. We will begin construction in a month, and after completion, both clans will move from their ancestral lands and into the village compounds.”

Tobirama met his eye, red challenging and without fear, as if daring anyone to contest his next statement, “Konoha will be built.”

His tone left no room for argument or doubt. He stated it not as a question or request, but a fact as unchangeable and set in stone as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west. Konoha will be built. He said it, and so it shall be. 

Then Tobirama stood, turned sharply on his heel, and left.

Negotiations were over.

Peace started with the quiet hiss off shoji sliding shut, and the empty silence left in the wake of one, unchallenged statement: Konoha will be built.

 

—

Construction began three weeks later. Hashirama’s mokuton made quick work of the main frames of the buildings. It could not make things like shoji, plumbing, or any of the finer, non-wood details but it cut down construction time considerably.

Within the first month, they had built a skeletal village, filled with empty, hollowed buildings that wound through unpaved streets. It was hardly anything at all, but it was a start, and it was more than they had ever had before.

The Uchiha were incredible metalsmiths, and thus produced things like pipes and metal roofings, and the nails they needed to assemble everything. Meanwhile, Senju were craftsmen. Typically, the Senju were renowned for their skills at farming and the variety of skill sets amongst their shinobi - they were the clan of a thousand talents after all - but beyond that, the Senju were woodworkers and craftsmen. As such, they made the shoji and fusuma and all the finer wooden details that were needed in the buildings.

But even with a common goal, getting their clans to work together without tensions was a nightmare. Tobirama had lost count of the number of times he had to stop a Senju from spilling Uchiha blood, or vice versa. Tensions were high, but the clans kept working. In the end, even with the two sizable clans working tirelessly, the village took months to complete. But when it was done, oh, it made everything worth it. 

The first night Tobirama had seen the completed village at night, fully lit with paper lanterns and simply glowing in the dark of the night, Tobirama had felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. They did not fall, as he had not cried since Itama died, and even then it was in the privacy of his own room, where his father could not see him and fault him for it. But he almost cried. Because here was a place he’d never dreamed would be real, Konoha. A place where his brothers could have lived, a place where children didn’t have to die.

Who, really, could blame him for tears at such a thought?

 

—

 

It was strange, Madara had to admit, working with what had once been his most hated enemy. Konoha had been fully established for about three months now, and while it was still just the Senju and the Uchiha, there were whispers about other clans growing interested. 

Still, even with just the two clans, there was much work to be done. Construction was still going on. Things like the academy and homes for civilians had been pushed to the backburner during the original construction of the village, but now as traders and craftsmen and all manner of people were beginning to trickle into the village, and the clans were settling into their new homes, the issues arose again, this time taking more precedence. 

Madara was worked to the bone. Everyday he worked in his office, suffering under a never ending mountain of paperwork. By the time he finished it, there was already another pile for him to work on that had accumulated in the time he’d taken to complete the first. When he finally finished his work, the sky would already be dark, and he’d drag himself back to the Uchiha compound before collapsing in bed, only to rise the next day to do it all again. 

What was strange now, was instead of seeing Tobirama on the battlefield, he saw him when passing through the hallways, or when dropping some work off on the albino’s desk, or simply just saw him by chance when walking about Konoha. This man, who he had hated, feared, and fought with in equal measure was just an ordinary fixture of his life now.

He saw him at least once a day. Whether that be when he dragged himself to work in the morning, only to find the Senju already diligently working away, or when he clocked off and passed his office to see him still working. After the first month, Madara simply resigned himself to the fact that he could not outwork the White Demon. For Tobirama truly fit the inhuman moniker as he seemed to never sleep, never eat, never take a fucking break, only worked, and never raised a word of complaint. Unlike, you know, everybody else - cough, cough, Hashirama and Izuna - who would not quit whining about the workload. 

When Tobirama wasn’t working on paperwork, he was developing new plans for the village, when he wasn’t doing that, he was making trade deals with other clans and arranging diplomatic meetings, and when he wasn’t doing any of that, the bastard was actually out there woking on the village with his own two hands. 

It wasn’t an unusual sight to find the Senju Clanhead dressed in a simple yukata, carrying construction materials, hammering boards into place and raising a village out of the ground with nothing but sheer willpower and his own calloused hands. Madara had caught himself staring at the Senju - though he would never admit it - as he worked. A few hot days and shirtless enemy clan heads had left Madara with a lot to think about. He’d walked into a wall more than once. 

However, whatever feelings that may have arisen from such incidents were swiftly crushed under the fact that Senju Tobirama was an utter bastard. Sure, he had a handsome face or whatever, but that was completely wasted on his god awful personality. Madara had ended up going toe to toe with the Senju multiple times from actual issues - like village policy, or developing plans, and all the things those entailed, or just petty squabbles - like how the Senju never talked to anybody, and surely that was a sign of disrespect, as he never deemed it necessary to deign anybody with his time and genius. Bastard  Many such arguments had ended up in shouting matches.

Well, it was really just shouting on Madara’s part. Tobirama’s voice never raised to much more than a firm command. 

It was strange. The person he’d negotiated peace with was an entirely different person than the one he worked with now. The man he worked with to stop their clans from warring was just that: a man. He got ruffled and angry, was stubborn and quick witted and human. But ever since the topic of Konoha had been brought up that fatal day, and the White Demon appeared, the man in Senju Tobirama had ceased to be. He was still stubborn and clever, but he no longer got angry, he no longer shouted, he no longer got offended. He was almost emotionless - living with the sole goal of working. All else fell beneath the weight of that goal, like grist beneath the wheel. 

The bastard was ice cold. Uchiha’s were fiery and passionate, and never did anything half-way. By comparison, the Senju Clanhead was. . . unnervingly calm and cordial. All the time. You could insult him to his face and call him all manner of insults ‘White Demon’, ‘Monster’, ‘less than human’, and Tobirama didn’t so much as bat an eye. He’d just blankly stare at you, face impassive, and then when you were done raise a single pale eyebrow and ask “Is that all, Uchiha-san?”

When Madara had caught one of his Uchiha clansmen doing just that, he had been furious and scared. Madara had dragged the offending clansman away, offering apologies to the Senju clan head and hoping he would be forgiving. Because this was the kind of thing that could end the village. A direct insult from one clan to another, and worse, straight to the clan head’s face. 

But Tobirama had simply frowned and asked, “Do you really believe me so vain as to threaten peace over one Uchiha’s words?”

He wasn’t even mad. Simply resigned and cold.  

It was unnatural.

Oh, Madara was grateful that Tobirama hadn’t taken offense, because he wasn’t willing to lose peace over one, stupid Uchiha running his mouth. But still, it was unnerving. Madara would have been frothing at the mouth had a Senju said half of what that Uchiha just did to Tobirama - ‘Baby killer’ ‘Eye-stealer’ ‘Demon’ - and yet Tobirama looked unruffled, beyond that even. He wasn’t saddened, or miffed, or even amused. Just- blank.  Emotionless. 

In fact, the Senju hardly seemed to hold passion for anything at all. For all the work he put into Konoha, he hardly seemed enthused about it. He was just. . . doing his duty. Doing the job he’d been assigned. He didn’t seem to particularly care for any aspect of it. He didn’t attend any of the celebrations they put on, didn’t ever stop to marvel at what they had accomplished, didn’t smile or seem happy at what they’d made. He just did his work.

Madara suspected the only reason he was working to make Konoha a reality at all was for Hashirama. That was all the Demon cared about. It was Hashirama’s will and Hashirama’s plans that brought Konoha into feasibility, and later, reality. Tobirama just complied with what his brother wanted, he indulged him. Madara was sure that if not for Hashirama, Tobirama would have been content to keep their clans fighting for all of eternity.

Peace wasn’t something the Senju wanted, war was. He’d seemed far more passionate about that. In battle, Tobirama was a lethal sort of quiet, but Madara could coax a biting remark out of him, or even a taunt, could get him to hiss in pain when a fireball seared across his skin, could get that impassive mask of his to break long enough to see a grimace or a snarl of even just a frown; anything at all beyond the blankness he donned now. 

The White Demon of now compared to the White Demon of then, while similar in all the ways that mattered, had such slight differences. Back then, Tobirama had some emotion on the battlefield, rudimentary as it was. Now? Nothing. 

It was this sort of perception about the Senju that led to growing bitterness in Madara. How could he see Tobirama as something more than a Demon when every day more evidence swayed him to that side. He didn’t hate Tobirama for what he did; because he did good work, he kept the village running, working harder than any of them. He hated Tobirama for what he was. Because how was he supposed to trust a man who was more of a living statue than flesh and blood?

And that was the root of it. 

Discomfort led to wariness which led Madara right back to the hate he’d once held for Tobirama. 

Madara wasn’t working alongside a human. He was working with a weapon. Someone who was taught to fight long before he was taught to love. Tobirama may have sheathed his sword, but the blade was still there, sharp and deadly as ever before. 

 

—

 

Money was an issue. The village had cost a lot to build, enough to the point that despite the Senju and Uchiha’s combined affluence, they were still pressed for funds. While the village was getting on its feet it needed money, and their shinobi were not making enough from the missions they were able to take between work.

Tobirama looked down at the paper in his hands. It was an assassination request. The task: killing the twenty year old daughter of a Wind Country’s noble. The night before her wedding day. The plan had instructions to make it as bloody as possible, to frame another noble clan. 

It was dirty. Tobirama would have immediately rejected it, would have never let it become a mission that any village nin could take. 

But they needed money, and they were vulnerable because of it. 

The Senju clanhead sighed, ran a tired hand through his hair, and knew what needed to be done. 

 

—

 

“You need to take a break,” Touka said, leaning over his desk.

Tobirama dipped his brush into a bed of ink, turning his focus back to the paperwork at hand. He was finalizing some of the plans for the academy. He knew there would be much argument over who was teaching who. What clan were the teachers? What clans were the children? How did they stop favoritism? Tobirama was writing a detailed outline explaining the answers to all of those questions and more. It would streamline the process and get the academy running sooner - and hopefully, diminish the amount of shouting in the council room.

A few more clans have joined over the past three months. The Hatake and Inuzaka had joined first, followed swiftly by the Aburame, Akimichi and the Nara. 

It made the shouting in the council chambers that much louder and that much more headache inducing for Tobirama. Any chance to minimize it, Tobirama was going to take. 

His brush touched against the paper, black, neat, scrawled filling the pages evenly, “Am I?” he asked, not really caring for an answer. 

“Look at your elders when they’re talking to you,” Touka griped. When he didn’t, she snatched the brush out of his hand. That finally got his attention and he looked up at her with a slight frown.

“Touka, I have things I need to get done.”

“No,” she said, “You need to take a break. This isn’t good for you.”

“The village is in a vulnerable position. The faster we get everything fully up and running the safer we will be. There is a lot of work, yes, but everyone is doing it. What would it look like if I suddenly stopped contributing my share?”

“Your share?” she exclaimed, “Tobi, you’re doing damn near half the work in this village! When was the last time you got a good night of rest? When was the last time you relaxed? When was the last time you did anything fun?”

“Such things are not important currently.”

“You’re going to kill yourself at this rate.”

He rolled his eyes, “I will be fine Touka. The work needs to get done. If not me, then who else?”

“That’s what delegation is for!” Touka looked very much unimpressed, “Ask Hashirama or Madara. I know you already have started taking on their work as well so they can have more free time, you fucking hypocrite.”

He huffed, “I get the work done faster than they would, anyway. It is not unfair, it is simply efficient. Now please Touka, the pen.” he held out a waiting hand.

Touka scowled and slapped his hand away, “See, this is what I’m talking about, Tobi. If this were you six months ago, you would have stolen the pen back already. You would have gotten annoyed by now. You’ve been stuck like- like that! With that goddamn expression on your face!”

She pointed an accusing finger at his face, which was stuck in a perfect neutral.

“You look like a statue, Tobi,” she said, “This is killing you. When was the last time you laughed? You’ve always been standoffish and an introvert, but I haven't seen you like this since before Bustuma died.”

Tobirama’s expression grew icy as he grit out the next few words in as even a tone as he could manage at the moment, “What, exactly, do you mean by that?”

“I mean you look like a soldier, not a man,” she said without fear. 

“I was raised to be a soldier,” he replied, tone still cold, “and if being a soldier is what it takes to get this village on its feet, so be it.”

Touka looked at him, and for a second, she looked sad, “Tobirama. . .”

He held up a hand, “Spare me it.”

“This isn’t healthy.”

There was a pregnant pause, where he refused to meet her eye. But then, “I know. But it is necessary. And so I shall keep doing it. I will bear my burden.”

And part of Touka’s heart broke. Years after that bastard’s death, and Tobirama still believed the things he had instilled in him. He had to earn his keep, bear his burden. His life was a privilege, something he had to justify. 

Touka had never hated Butsuma as much as she did in that moment, looking at Tobirama and knowing he would only ever think of himself as a dispensable soldier.  

She hated him, she thought venomously, she hated Butsuma for taking this boy with his gentle heart, and turning him into a blade. A weapon. 

She would never forgive him for hurting one she loved so. If she ever met Bustuma in the pure lands, she was going to rip out his fucking throat for ever daring to mutter the word ‘demon’ to a boy who was anything but.

 

—

 

Tobirama had managed to persuade the Hyuga to join the village. 

A large festival was being held, celebrating the village’s growing prosperity as well as the newly joined clan. It was a beautiful, almost gaudy thing, filled with lights and fireworks, food stalls and good sake to drink. 

“Madara Madara, look, they have a kingyo sukui stall!” Hashirama called, pointing over to a shallow pool with children crowding around it, trying to scoop up goldfish with paper ladles. 

“We’re not playing.” Madara said.

Hashirama pouted, “But whyyy” he whined.

“Because the last time I made that mistake you robbed my blind paying for it! And you couldn’t even catch a single fish!

Hashirama groaned, “Oh shut up! You sound just like Tobirama! Which it isn't fair that he calls me bad at it. He’s just too good! He doesn’t even understand it's supposed to be hard,” he huffed, “I swear sometimes I think he’s cheating.”

“Where is the white haired bastard anyway,” Madara asked. He hadn’t caught a glimpse of Tobirama all night, despite the enormity of the celebrations. He would have thought that something as big as the festival would have drawn the clan head out, but apparently not. 

Maybe the Demon’s allergic to fun, he thought bitterly. 

Hashirama frowned at him, “Don't call him that.”

Ah, Madara had said that bit out loud. Normally he would have never apologized, but well, it was Hashirama. 

“Sorry, it’s just what my clan named him,” Madara apologized, “I still haven’t gotten quite used to not saying it anymore.”

Hashirama gave him a weird look, “Your clan didn’t name him that.”

Madara paused, “What?”

Hashirama shrugged, “The Uchiha didn’t give him that name, Bustuma did. Tobirama didn’t even know his name until he was three, just before I was born. He’d always thought ‘Tobirama’ was a weird pet name mother had for him, since Butsuma only called him demon. One day he asked her why she called him something that wasn’t his name and well…”

“I had no idea,” Madara mumbled, half amazed and half disturbed. 

“He doesn't talk about it,” Hashirama said, “I think it makes him feel stupid. ‘How on earth did I not know my own name?’ and all, but he doesn’t really get that it’s not his fault.”

Hashirama shrugged again, and smiled, “But hey, it’s a festival. Let’s go get something to drink!”

Hashirama skipped off, leaving Madara standing shellshocked in place. How did someone not even know their own Name? How could a father call their son a demon? Somehow, Madara could not merge the image of this helpless kid called ‘demon’, wondering why his mother called him ‘Tobirama’,  with the ruthless man he’d seen on the battlefield. He could not match the man who felt ashamed that his father had tricked him into believing that an insult was his name with the man who he believed to lack emotions. 

“Madara!” Hashirama called back at him, “Are you coming or not?”

Madara shook the thoughts from his head, finally moving to follow Hashirama, “Of course.”

 

—

 

There was a lull in the workload. It happened from time to time, the paperwork would ease up for one reason or another and suddenly Tobirama would find that the neverending load of work would, well, end.

He was sitting at his desk, dumbfounded. He scheduled his time down to the very minute, and very rarely did he find himself done before he thought he would be. He thought to go train, but quickly discarded the idea. He always trained early in the mornings, because there was an afternoon rush that always filled up the training grounds, so he doubted he could go there.  

Maybe he should help with construction work? But no, they’d just finished up the latest project and were not set to start the next one for a month. Usually he would have gone to train the clan children, but they were all at the academy right now, and Tobirama doubted he would be welcomed there. 

He glanced down at the desk drawer by his foot. He had been far too busy to work on that project of his, and so the papers sat in the dark, gathering dust. They were hardly ever touched, and the last time he had even considered working on the project was four months ago. 

Tobirama sighed. He supposed it was time. 

He pulled open the draw and gathered the papers in his hands. He set them down and took the top piece from the pile. It was only one piece of paper, but it was filled with a dense black scrawl. 

Uchiha Kenzo 

Uchiha Isamu 

Uchiha Naomi

Uchiha Arata

Uchiha Kuhime

The list continued on in Tobirama’s neat handwriting. There were fifteen names in total, but it was a frighteningly small amount in context. Tobirama had killed many people, specifically Uchiha’s, in the war. He had a higher kill count than anyone in his clan - it was not a brag. It was a heavy weight he carried with him everyday, the blood he spilled still burning his hands like a brand. Out of all the Uchiha he had killed, fifteen was a frighteningly small number. In truth, he had no idea how many he had actually killed, he had stopped counting when he was a boy. He had killed so many of them, and yet he only knew fifteen of their names. 

It made sense. Sometimes he targeted specific Uchiha because they were particularly dangerous, or a Senju could identify them after the fact, or Tobirama heard another Uchiha scream their name as Tobirama’s blade pierced their heart. Sometimes he was able to learn his victim’s name, but for the most part he killed them in the heat of battle and had to move on. 

It was a terribly cruel thing to do, but it was war. It was all he’d ever known to do. No one had ever condemned him for it. Out of all the horrible things the White Demon did, not learning his victim’s names had seemed like a trivial matter. Tobirama had never even stopped to think about the horror of that.

Things changed after the peace.

Suddenly, as he worked alongside the Uchiha, the names of who he had killed mattered a whole lot. Tobirama would glance around at his foe turned friends and wonder ‘have I taken someone from you?’. 

So he took out a piece of paper and began writing down names. All the names he could remember - fifteen. Then he began to write down any relatives he knew. That he knew even less about. He only knew of two living relatives to the people he knew he had killed. Though he knew there were many of them, he could only name two.

His repentance was starting at a frighteningly small place. Perhaps it would end at just two people, and he might not even change anything, but he figured it was worth it to try.

He looked down at the first name on his list. 

Uchiha Kenzo.

It was the first person he had ever killed. 

Tobirama flipped through the stack of papers until he found the page that matched Kenzo’s name. It had all he knew about him written down on it. He had fought and killed the boy when Tobirama was six, and when Kenzo was ten. They had fought by the Namajiki river. He had a sister named Uchiha Ayumi. 

Tobirama’s hands tightened around the paper.

He had to do this.

 

—

 

Uchiha Ayumi liked the peace. It came as a surprise to her. All she had known from her birth was how to fight, how to be taken from and take back. She thought that was all she’d ever know, and had never stopped to dream about anything else. 

But then there was peace. It came as suddenly as a winter storm. All of the Uchiha knew about their clan head’s ridiculous dreams of ending the war, but none had actually thought he’d accomplish it. But then Madara-sama had offered his hand, the White Demon took it, and suddenly there was peace and a village. 

When Ayumi had gotten pregnant she had been terrified and overjoyed. Uchiha loved passionately and fully, and she could think of no bigger joy than holding her child and watching them grow old. But she was terrified of the day she’d have to see that same child join the battlefield, and maybe not come back. 

Ayumi had lost her older brother when she was eight. She lost her husband when she was twenty-six. He was one of the last casualties in the war. It had almost destroyed her. She had no misconceptions that if she lost her child she wouldn’t have been able to keep living. There was only so much loss one person could take. 

So when peace came, and Ayumi gave birth to a little girl, she suddenly understood why Madara-sama had always pushed so hard for peace. In this village, her child would not die young. She could hold her little hand without fear of losing her too early one day. 

“Settle down you little monster,” Ayumi huffed, placing little Aiko into bed. It was time for her afternoon nap. Her daughter squirmed and giggled, smiling with gummy teeth. 

Ayumi smiled, and tickled her tummy, “yes you,” she cooed, “you little, adorable banshee.”

Aiko howled another laugh. It always amazed Ayumi how loud such a little thing could be. Aiko was always making noise, laughing, crying, screeching. There were many long nights, bloodshot eyes, and desperate wishing for a reprieve from the madness, but it all seemed to melt away when Ayumi held her. 

She loved her daughter. 

Aiko caught her finger, wrapping her chubby fingers around Ayumi’s own. 

Ayumi hummed, a warm smile on her face. 

A knock on the door snapped her from her thoughts. She finished tucking in Aiko, flicked off the lights and shut the door. With a huff, Ayumi moved to answer the front door. Who on earth was coming to visit her? The only person who routinely visited her house was her mom. But Ayumi had asked her mother to babysit tomorrow, not today. Then again, her mother was getting old and often lost track of the date. 

She opened the door, “Hello-” she felt her voice die in her throat. A cold fear seized up her entire body. 

Because the White Demon was standing at the threshold of her house. The sun backlit him, setting his white hair and fur collar aflame. He wasn’t wearing armor, just a simple black haori and hakama, but Ayumi wasn’t delusional enough to think an unarmed Senju Tobirama wasn’t dangerous. 

Panic filled her body. Oh god, Aiko was only in the other room-

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Tobirama suddenly said, seemingly reading her thoughts. His voice caught her by surprise. It was deep and even, but surprisingly gentle. 

Ayumi’s guard did not lower, “Why are you here then, Senju-sama?” she could not quite help the way his name came out like a curse. 

He actually looked uncomfortable for a second, “I came here to apologize. May I come in?”

She glanced him up and down. She was still afraid and on guard, but Ayumi did not survive the war by being stupid. She knew Senju Tobirama was a rational person. For one reason or another, he had agreed to the peace. He would not break it now. 

Or at least she hoped. 

Hesitantly, she moved away from the doorframe and gestured to the table, “Take a seat. I’ll get us some tea.”

He did as he was told, surprisingly compliant. A few minutes later, Ayumi came back to the table with two cups of steaming green tea.

He glanced down at the tea, subtly appraising it. You could take the Shinobi from the war, but you couldn’t take war out of the Shinobi. It had left them all scarred.Finally, he took a sip. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

“Why have you come here,” was her icy reply.

He looked at his hands, “You’re brother was named Uchiha Kenzo, was he not?”

Ayumi was startled, “How did you-”

“I was the one who killed him.” Tobirama was still looking at his hands. He almost looked guilty, beyond that cold mask he always wore, “he was the first life I ever took.”

Ayumi felt like the breath was stolen from her lungs, like she was suddenly suffocating.

They had never known who had killed her brother. They had found him deposited on the very edge of Uchiha territory, a kunai buried deep into his heart, and a trail of bloody footprints leading back into Senju territory. 

His death had left her destroyed for months. Even now, her heart ached. Her anger had always been aimed at some unnamed entity. When she was a younger girl, she had sworn she would find his killer and take her revenge. As she grew, she learned to live with the fact that she had never even known who killed him. In time, she had just learned to hate the Senju.

But as the village grew, she learned to work with her once enemies. Even learned to like a few. She found companionship in some of them, and learned to call one or two true friends. People she felt she could trust her life with on a mission. People she could laugh with. 

Her anger towards the Senju had abated. She had learned to forgive, even if it was just a little. 

But now she had a name. She had a face. Here was her brother’s murderer, sitting in front of her, openly admitting what he had done. 

Tobirama pulled loose the collar of his shirt, revealing a twisted scar resting just above his left collarbone, “I was almost the one who died. He was so close to hitting my jugular but he hesitated, just for a second. And I took advantage.”

Ayumi bared her teeth, “You came here to gloat?  Have you not taken enough from me?”

Tobirama looked at her, and Ayumi jerked back. Senju Tobirama, the ever impassive, ever cold demon of the Senju wore the look of guilt and regret across his face like a mourning veil. 

He bowed deeply, forehead almost touching the table, “I am sorry, Uchiha Ayumi. I cannot bring your brother back. I cannot heal the pain I have caused you. All I can do is apologize,” he repeated, “I am sorry. From the bottom of my heart.”

And Ayumi thought, ‘here is someone who knows loss’.

She looked down at the Senju clan head, who was still bowing to her, and asked, “Did you ever lose anyone to the war?”

“I lost countless,” he whispered, “Each clan member that fell, their death rested on my shoulders and no one else’s.”

“Did you ever lose a brother?”

“I lost two.”

Ayumi reached out to touch his arm, “Tell me, Tobirama. Would you forgive your brother's killers?”

“No,” he said honestly, raing his head, “and I do not expect you to forgive me. I will never be able to fix what I have done.”

“Then why bother?” she asked. 

He frowned, “Because I have taken so much and I have hurt so many. It is not right for me to ignore that fact. Absolving myself of guilt was never the goal. I know what being taken from is like, and it is an act that deserves apology. That deserves penance.”

“What is your penance, Senju Tobirama?” She said coolly.

“Konoha,” he answered simply, “I agreed to peace because I no longer wished to see the Senju be killed and kill in turn. I no longer wanted brothers to die.”

 And. . .

And Ayumi understood. She hated this man. She hated that he had killed her brother. But Ayumi had killed in her turn. Somewhere out there there was a sister or brother who she’d taken a sibling from. Ayumi was just as guilty as Senju Tobirama.

“It was war,” she whispered, horrified.

Tobirama nodded gravely, “It was war.”

“How did you find me?” Ayumi asked. She hardly knew the names of the Senju she had killed. And she had killed many. 

Tobirama frowned, “Your brother, when I stumbled across him on Senju land, leveled a finger at me and boldly announced, ‘My name is Uchiha Kenzo. It is the name of the person who will kill you’.”

Ayumi laughed quietly, in a rueful way, “he was always saying that, wasn’t he? Brothers and their proclivities.”

Tobirama laughed in the same way, “Hashirama was much of the same. Bold and brash. Almost unthinking.”

Ayumi hummed, and silence fell across the table. It was a strangely comfortable silence. A sort of mourning and grief settling across their shoulders like snow. They had never met before today, but they understood each other in the way only those who had experienced war could. They knew what it was to love and lose.

“When he died,” Tobirama’s voice started then died off. He tried again, “When he died, he said your name.”

Ayumi ducked her head, too afraid to look at Tobirama at that moment, “What were his last words.”

Tobirama spoke slowly, “He said ‘I’m sorry, Ayumi’.”

Ayumi choked a hushed sob. Her head was lowered so Tobirama could not see the tears. 

“Why did you bring his body back to Uchiha land?”

Tobirama shrugged, “It was an illogical decision made in the mind of a distressed child. I had never been killed before and all I could think was that I didn’t know how the Uchiha buried their dead.”

“We burn them,” Ayumi whispered, “We burn them, so that no one can take their eyes. We were able to burn Kenzo, since you carried him back.”
“I see.”

Something stuck out to Ayumi. Tobirama had referred to himself as a child. While Ayumi knew that Tobirama was younger than her, she often forgot that as he seemed so much more worn, like he had lived many more years than he had. But if Kenzo had died when he was ten then. . .

“How old were you, when you killed my brother.”

“I was six.”

Ayumi sucked in a sharp breath. She knew they used child soldiers. She had once been one. But she had taken her first life at ten. She had heard of younger of course but still-

“It was not your choice,” Ayumi said, “You were only a child.”

“It was the first of many choices,” Tobirama disagreed, shaking his head, “I could have stopped at any time. I chose survival, and I chose to keep killing to protect. It was never justified, but I made that choice unrepentantly.”

“We all did.”

Tobirama nodded, “It was war.”

“It was war.”

“I know I do not deserve it,” Tobirama began, and he placed a piece of paper in front of her, “but I would like to request your help. I have killed many Uchiha, and I only know fifteen of their names, and next to none of their relatives.”

She picked up the paper and took in the names, all fallen soldiers. Some names she recognized, some she had never heard. But they all bore the name Uchiha. Each had been some faceless soldier sacrificed to the war without a heavy conscience, but she knew each had ripped a family apart with grief. Uchiha Kenzo sat at the top of the list, 

“You want me to help you find the people you owe an apology too,” She concluded.

He nodded, “Yes, if it’s not too much trouble.”

She thought about it. After a minute, she decided, “No, it’s not. I’ll do it. I might have to look into the clan records, but I’ll see if I can muster something up. Stop by in a week.”

He stood, “Thank you, Uchiha Ayumi. It is most appreciated. And again, I am sorry for all the harm I have done.”

He turned to make for the door.

“Did you know a Senju around the age of ten, with blue eyes and light brown hair?” Ayumi suddenly blurted, the question punched from her lungs against her will, “She died fourteen years ago. She used suiton, like you.”

“Yes,” Tobirama said slowly, “I once helped train her.”

“What was her name?”

“Senju Kuriko. Why?”

“She was the first person I ever killed,” Ayumi said, “Does she have any family left?”

Tobirama looked taken aback for a moment, but then he smiled, “Her sister is still alive. Her name is Senju Siruja... I’ll tell the guards to let you into the compound when you stop by.”

“Thank you.”

“I do not deserve thanks.”

Ayumi shook her head, “No, Tobirama, I think you do.”

He stared at her, then huffed, “Do what you will,” he said gruffly. Then he stepped out and closed the door. 

 

—

 

A week later, Tobirama returned to the Uchiha compound to meet Ayumi again. She had told him to meet her in the central courtyard and that she may be late. Her daughter was a fussy one, she explained. Tobirama understood, and so he did not protest.

Which led him to now, standing awkwardly in the Uchiha courtyard trying to ignore the looks he was getting from the Uchiha passerby. 

It had already been five minutes and Ayumi was not yet there. He supposed that was fine. He had shown up early. He was taught to be punctual. Then five turned into ten and ten into fifteen. 

He sighed. 

“Are you alright mister?”

He glanced back at the boy that had snuck up behind him. Snuck up was a loose term. Tobirama had known he was there, but he wasn’t really in the business of taking pride in being a better shinobi than a literal child, so he used the phrase anyway. 

Tobirama realized he recognized this boy. It was the kid he had once saved on the battlefield. The one he had given up the Hiraishin for.

Man, he had already gathered that this kid didn’t have an accurate gauge for danger, as assessed by the fact he’d gone onto the battlefield against age restrictions. But he just casually approached the White Demon. Tobirama was far from ignorant of his reputation in the Uchiha clan. He knew he was pretty much a boogeyman for them, something that was used to scare kids. 

And yet this kid approached him with zero fear and a grin. 

“We meet again, little one,” he said softly, a smile forming at the edges of his mouth. 

The boy pouted, “That’s not my name! I’m Kagami! ”

“Oh? My apologies, Kagami,” Tobirama bowed.

“What’s your name? All I ever hear Madara-shishou call you is ‘bastard’ and I’m fairly sure that isn’t your actual name.”

“My name is Senju Tobirama.”

“That’s a nice name,” Kagami decided triumphantly, placing his hands on his hips.

“Why aren’t you in the academy, Kagami?” Tobirama asked him. He was definitely old enough to attend, and based on his battlefield-hopping past he most likely wanted to attend. 

Kagami grinned proudly, “I got suspended!”

Tobirama couldn’t help it, he laughed.

“Hey!” Kagami shouted, blushing, “It’s not funny. I got suspended defending your honor!”

Tobirama smiled, “Did you now?”

He nodded, “Some punk Hyuuga kid called you a demon, so I punched him in the jaw. He fell flat on his butt!”
“Must’ve been some punch,” Tobirama said.

“It was!” Kagami pumped his fist excitedly, “Once I learn Katon I’ll be unstoppable.”

“Very impressive. Katon is a hard release.”

“That's what I’ve been saying!” Kagami grinned, “But every time Shishou goes ‘what?! Katon is easy! You just have to think fiery thoughts!’ What does that even mean?!”

“That does seem like something Madara would say,” Tobirama chuckled to himself, “of course the dolt would reduce katon down into ‘fiery thoughts’.” 

“Do you know how to use katon?” Kagami asked, "you could you teach me!"

Tobirama sighed, “I am a suiton user, Kagami. Katon is the opposite of my nature. I would not be the best teacher.”

“What do you mean it’s the opposite of your nature?”

“It means it was very hard for me to learn, since my chakra is inclined to take the form of water,” Tobirama explained.

“All the better!” Kagami decided, “everybody I know was just able to do it! But if you can do it, and it’s hard for you, then you must know more than just ‘fiery thoughts’!”

“I, uh, well suppose,” Tobirama said dumbfounded. 

“Then teach me!”

“I-” Tobirama tried, but Kagami was beaming up at him with very Hashirama-esque puppy dog eyes. Something Tobirama was very weak to. He sighed, “alright.”

—

 

Ayumi didn’t know what to expect to see when she had finally arrived to the courtyard thirty minutes late - Aiko, the little monster, was refusing to eat and then crying because she was hungry - but seeing the feared White Demon being chased around by a child spitting fire at him was not it.

“Fur is very flammable, Kagami!” Tobirama shouted, ducking under a tongue of flame. 

“I’m doing it!” Kagami screeched, spitting another lick of flame out, still chasing after the Senju clan head. 

“I commend you!” Tobirama licked his finger and put out a tuft of fur that had caught fire, “now please stop for two seconds!”

“Hug me!”

“When you stop breathing fire, I will!”

That finally seemed to get through Kagami’s skull and the kid clamped his mouth shut and barreled forward, colliding in a messy hug with Tobirama’s legs. 

Tobirama gave an exasperated huff and patted Kagami on the head. Ayumi was willing to bet good money the Senju had no idea about the goofy-ass smile he was wearing. 

“Senju!” she called, attracting his attention. 

Two heads turned towards her, one in shock and the other in excitement. 

“Aunt Ayumi!” Kagami screeched. 

“Aunt?” Tobirama blinked. 

“Twice removed,” Ayumi explained, “but Uchihas are fairly tight knit.”

Tobirama began carefully removing Kagami from him, “I see. I am sorry about talking to Kagami. I offered to help him with Katon, but I apologize if I overstepped.”

She shook her head, “think nothing of it. Here,” she pressed a scroll into his hands, “a list of relatives to the people you’ve,” she glanced down at Kagami, “ met. The Uchiha keep an extensive record of battlefield uhm, encounters, so drop by next week and we can look through the records to find more names of the people you’ve spoken to. ”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Tobirama said, and he shot her a silent ‘thank you’ through his eyes. Kagami stared up at two of them, entirely oblivious to the real meaning behind the conversation. 

“Wait, Sensei is going to be coming back?!” Kagami screeched.

“Yes, Kagami, he’s here for work,” Ayumi said at the same time Tobirama muttered, “Sensei?”

Kagami grinned, “Then you can continue to teach me!”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Tobirama said gently. He didn’t have the best record with the Uchiha clan, as evident by the reason for his visit today. 

But Kagami was undeterred, “Please! Just when you’re over to visit. I’ll be a great student, I promise! I’m already suspended from school because of you! You wouldn’t want me to fall behind, right sensei?”

“No, but-”

“Then it’s settled!” Kagami decided, “I’ll see you next time, Tobirama-sensei!”

Then he bounded away, practically glowing with smug satisfaction. 

“I never agreed to that,” Tobirama muttered helplessly, face buried in the palms of his hands, “What is wrong with that boy? He’s like a Uchiha version of Hashirama.”

Ayumi shrugged, “It’s Kagami,” she said, like that was any explanation. 

Tobirama groaned.

 

—

 

Over the next few months Tobirama began to repeatedly visit the Uchiha compound. He would’ve liked to say that after doing it some twenty times, he got used to apologizing, but he never did. There wasn’t a science to it. It was pure emotion. He bared his soul for open judgment for these people, whatever they decided to give back he could not control, only accept. 

No matter what he got, he always came back, ready to apologize to the next person. He visited the Uchiha compound with a surprising frequency - at least two or three times a week. Sometime during the second month of his efforts to make amends, Uchiha Izuna had confronted him. 

It wasn’t really a conversation. It was more of an exchange of quiet understanding. Izuna caught his eye as he entered the compound, held his gaze in careful consideration for what felt like years, then gave him a stiff nod. 

His reluctant approval emboldened Tobirama to continue visiting. Each new apology was different, and he never got comfortable with it. He was never taught to apologize by his father, he was only taught to kill without remorse. He had never been much good at following his father’s wishes, however, so he kept coming back and back no matter what his penance was met with. 

Sometimes there was anger, shouting. He’d taken more than one punch across the face, but he always stopped it before things turned violent. He'd had more than one person collapse into his arms, sobbing, kunai still clutched in their hands. He would let them cry, rubbing their backs until they could summon the strength to tell him to get out of their sight. 

Sometimes he was met with apathy. The wound was scarred over and they had come to peace with what happened. It was a mix of shock and grieving acceptance. “Thank you,” they’d say coldly, but nothing more. 

Most oddly, though, was sometimes he was met with forgiveness. 

That, he didn’t know what to do with. The other two he knew how to accept and understand. He would have been furious if he met the people who had killed his little brothers. Forgiveness would have never even been in the books. 

Ayumi had once called him strong for being able to admit his wrongs and apologize for them. He didn’t understand that. She was so much stronger for being able to be near him at all when she knew he had killed her brother. Tobirama didn’t know how one person was able to possess that sort of strength. 

Speaking of Ayumi, they continued to visit the Uchiha archives. She was there as a guide and a guard in one. She kept him away from anything he shouldn’t see and together they combed through the archives to find any mention of Tobirama’s name. They reviewed the reports of old missions, battles, and even supply runs. Anything Tobirama thought he had probable cause to have been there in the time frame.

They had found many names through this, combed through many family trees to find where to direct the apology. 

When he finished up researching, he would often be dragged off by Kagami into some sort of lesson. He had never met such a mischievous, headstrong kid, and he had been the one to help train Hashirama. 

Kagami was incredibly talented however, picking up on Tobirama’s lessons easily. He could get distracted easily, but all it took was a stern “ Kagami,” to get him back into seriousness. 

Somewhere within the second month of their training, Tobirama stopped protesting Kagami calling him sensei. He would never tell anyone this, however. Especially not Hashirama. God knew his little brother would never let it go.

And so the days passed, filled with tears, hatred, teaching, and forgiveness. It was difficult, more so than anything he had ever done, but he did it anyway. It was the right thing to do, no matter the reaction he got. 

During the fourth month of his endeavor, when finding names became more difficult and apologies more sparse, Ayumi had paused during one of their trips to the archive, fingers stalling over the scrolls and eyes settling on Tobirama.

“I forgive you,” she said. 

Tobirama froze, deciding to focus even harder on the scroll he was reading, “That is not something I deserve, Ayumi.”

“That’s for me to decide, not you,” Ayumi went back to running over scrolls, “I spoke to Senju Siruja, you know. I told her what I had done, I said I deserved whatever anger she harbored. I apologized for killing her only sister. I thought she would hate me, how could she not? But, you know what she said to me,” Ayumi glanced up at the ceiling, blinking tears back, “she said, ‘I have never blamed you. I only blamed what war made you’.”

She looked at him, “You’re a good person Tobirama, but war turned us all into monsters. You’re forgiven, for what war made you do. I hope one day you can forgive yourself.”

Tobirama smiled bitterly, picking up another scroll. 

Forgive himself? It was a pitiful notion. The things he had done were not things that could be forgiven. It was not even within the realm of possibilities, and Tobirama had never been one for unavailing dreams. 

 

—

 

Madara was awoken quite rudely by the feeling of his blankets being yanked off of him. The cold hit him like a tidal wave, and he curled in on himself, grasping for his missing blanket. 

“Get your lazy ass out of bed Aniki,” Izuna kicked his calf. 

Madara cracked open one sharingan-red eye, “Give me back my blanket, you heathen.”

Izuna cocked a hip, “You have a meeting with the clan elders today. And you can’t just skip it again today. I know you’re busy with the village, but you can’t just skirt clan duties just to daydream with Hashirama. You’ve hardly even been around the compound at all these days.”

Madara glared at him, grabbing his blanket back, “Ironic for you to say. You’ve been ignoring both village and clan duties to go galavanting with Touka.”

“Hashirama doesn’t have any issue with it,” Izuna pointed out.

“Hashirama doesn’t take issue with anything,” Madara shot back.

Izuna snorted, “Sure, but what are you gonna do about it? Report me to Tobirama?”

There were two people in the entire village that Izuna would listen to: Touka and Tobirama. Touka, because she was pretty and Izuna was absolutely smitten with her to the point he would probably cut off his own arm if she just asked. And she was terrifying. That helped too.

But also oddly enough, Tobirama. Madara wasn’t exactly sure why. Sure, he was equally terrifying, perhaps moreso, but Izuna was never the type to gauge danger properly. For some odd reason, Izuna actually seemed to respect the Senju clan head. 

More than he seemed to respect his own brother, that brat. 

“I will never understand why you like that demon,” Madara grumbled

Izuna gasped, “I will have you know that Touka is a lovely woman!”

“The other demon!” 

Izuna shrugged, “He’s an efficient leader. He knows what he’s doing and takes his duties with a serious sense of responsibility. You know, unlike some people.”

Madara grimaced, “Come off it, would you.”

“The elders are expecting you, Aniki,” Izuna rolled his eyes, “so get your ass out of bed and try to look presentable. Although with your hair, we know that’s an uphill battle.”

Izuna reached into his closet and pulled out some robes. He promptly tossed them haphazardly at Madara’s bed, the bundle of dark fabric landing with a heavy ‘ thwump’ smack-dab on Madara’s face. 

Madara ripped the robes off his face and launched out of bed, “I will throw you in the koi pond, demon-brat!”

Izuna was already running, a trail of laughter left in his wake. 

Madara huffed in annoyance. He loved his little brother, he really did, but sometimes he wanted to punt him through a wall. Or several. The poor koi pond hadn’t had fish in it for years, as at some point it had to be considered animal abuse to keep tossing a flailing, occasionally on fire, little brother into their home, and so the fish were transferred into another pond. One far, far, away from the clan head’s residence. 

With a sigh, Madara shrugged on the outfit Izuna had tossed at him. He did suppose it was time he met with the clan elders, as he’d been putting them off for long enough. In his defense, the village had kept him busy, although not nearly as much as it had in the beginning. He did spend a good amount of time hanging out with Hashirama, but he was a grown ass man, and a clan head, so he could do whatever he wanted. 

Madara fixed his collar and began to make his way to the clan meeting room. 

He walked through between the pillars of the engawa. The morning was proving to be dreary, with a constant drizzle and cold mist filling the courtyard. Madara tucked his clothing tighter against him, burying his face into the high collar to stave off the cold. He was, not for the first time, grateful for the outrageously large collars all Uchiha shirts had. Sure, he could admit it made them all look emo, but they were all already too committed to that brand to worry about it now. 

Madara passed from his wing of the main house into the main courtyard. 

It was only his skills from two decades as a shinobi that had him throwing himself down onto the wooden deck as a large swathe of fire cut across the engawa. Immediately a tidal wave of water followed it, putting out any fires that had caught and thoroughly soaking Madara. 

He spread his sensor range out, trying to identify who dared to attack the Uchiha compound only to find the taste of Gunpowder-charcoal-willow wait he knew that signature. . .

Kagami?!

What the fuck was that kid doing, trying to burn down the compound?! And more importantly when the fuck did he learn katon? Despite all of Madara’s careful lessons and in depth explanations, the kid had never managed to pull it off. 

He was so shocked that he almost didn’t notice the second signature of cold-salt-mint that Madara knew only belonged to one person: Senju Tobirama. 

Immediately, anger shot through Madara. What on earth was that bastard doing here? It took a lot of self control not to immediately shoot up and launch himself at the demon, but Madara didn’t survive this long from being entirely irrational. He pressed himself down further into the soaked deck, trying to catch a glance at whatever the fuck was going on. 

“Kagami, please do not burn down the Uchiha’s main house,” he heard Tobirama’s smooth voice say.

Kagami laughed, “But did you see that? Did ya, did ya? That was awesome!”

Tobirama sighed, “Yes, Kagami, it was very impressive. However please, learn when and where not to do katon justu.”

Kagami actually looked abashed, a feat even the strictest of Uchiha teachers had never managed to make him do.

“Sorry Tobirama-sensei,” he muttered.

Madara’s brain crashed. Sensei?!

Madara caught Tobirama smiling, just ever so. Tobirama reached down and ruffled Kagami’s curly hair, “It’s alright, no harm was done, but don’t do it again. I’m very impressed with how far you’ve come, you just need to be more careful.”

Kagami beamed.

“Tobirama!” Madara’s head snapped over to see Hikaku trotting over to the two. He was wearing a pleasant smile over his face and carrying a scroll under his arm.

“Hikaku,” Tobirama greeted him, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Ayumi was busy with Aiko today, so she asked me to hand you this,” he pressed the scroll into Tobirama’s hands. It was an older scroll, maybe fifteen or so years old, obviously untouched for a long time, if Madara was going by the dust still clinging to it. 

Tobirama took the scroll, and as soon as his fingers touched the paper all warmth fled from his figure and only the cold seriousness of the White Demon was left. Tobirama tucked the scroll away and pulled a different one from his belt,“Thank you Hikaku. Would you mind returning this to the archives? It was from the east wing, in the third row, shelf four.”

Madara did a double take when he saw the Uchiha insignia branded on the edge of the scroll, printed in red ink. 

That was an archive scroll. That was private, clan information. 

Why the fuck did Tobirama have it. 

And based on that conversation, Tobirama had been into the Uchiha archives. Enough that he knew how the organization system worked. 

Madara could not emphasize this enough: What. The. Fuck. 

“I’ll see you next week, Kagami,” Tobirama said, snapping Madara out of his ‘whatthefuckwhatthefuckwhatthefuck’ freak out session, “try and stay out of trouble until then.”

“Of course, Tobirama-sensei!”

Tobirama walked off, and as soon as he was gone, Madara shot up in all of his red-faced, soaking wet, singed-haired glory.

“Hikaku!” he roared, making the two younger Uchiha’s in the courtyard jump.

Hikaku blinked at him, “Madara?” he pulled a face, “Wait, were you just hiding there, lurking in a puddle this entire time?”

“Not important!” Madara furiously fought down a blush, “What the fuck was the White Demon doing here?!”

“Don’t call him that!” Kagami shouted.

Madara rounded on the boy, “And you! What are you doing fraternizing with the enemy?!”

Hikaku raised an eyebrow, “Madara-sama, stop flailing.”

"I am not flailing!” Madara flailed, “and why are you so calm about this! Senju fucking Tobirama was at our compound!”

“And?” Hikaku shrugged, “He’s been stopping by for months.”

Madara bristled, “He’s been what?!”

Hikaku’s eyes widened, realizing how bad he’d fucked up, “Madara, whatever you’re planning, don’t-”

But Madara was already storming off, murder on his mind.

 

—

 

Tobirama had only just sat down to work through some of his paperwork when his door was kicked in with a bang! An irate Madara stormed in, chakra lashing wildly and teeth bared in a dog-like snarl. 

“What are you planning,” Madara demanded, slamming his hands down on Tobirama’s desk. 

Tobirama paused whatever he was working on, his hand stalling over the blueprints he had been drawing up. He looked down at the paper on his desk, then back up at Madara, “The new sewage system for the Inuzaka district.”

Madara roared and swept a hand across his desk, sending everything on it clattering to the floor.

“Don’t play coy with me Senju,” he growled, “What are you planning with my clan.”

Tobirama looked up at him with those carefully blank eyes, and it only served to heighten Madara’s rage.

“I’m not sure what you mean, Uchiha,” Tobirama said coldly.

“Drop the bullshit. You’ve spent the entire year in this village withdrawn from everything, never attending festivals, never seeming to appreciate the thing we’ve accomplished, never smiling, never taking missions, never showing any inclination of being human, and now suddenly you’re loitering around the Uchiha compound, snooping through clan records and interacting with Uchiha children.”

Tobirama sighed, “If this is about Kagami-”

“Of course it’s about Kagami!” Madara screamed, “You’ve never interacted with a single child from any of our clans, and here you are trying to take the position of teacher. Are you trying to gather information? For what? An attack? To learn the secrets of our dojutsu? Is this one of your sick experiments?”

Tobirama frowned, and his eyebrow twitched, emotionless mask cracking, “What are you implying? That I’m an eye stealer? A bloodline thief?”

“Are you,” Madara leaned close, teeth bared, “I have a duty as Clan head to protect the Uchiha, and you seem the biggest current threat.”

“Why? Hashirama visits the compound all the time. You visit the Senju often and I have yet to accuse you of espionage.”

“Because Hashirama and I are not the White Demon,” Madara said lowly, “You’re an emotionless monster, Tobirama, and I will not allow you to hurt my clan-”

He was cut off by a sharp, harsh sound. 

It was the first time he had ever heard Tobirama laugh, but it was twisted and cold. Tobirama tilted his head, fury hidden behind a sharp smile, “You think I’m a monster?”

Before he could answer, Tobirama continued on, “Perhaps I am, perhaps I made myself to be - but I have cared for this village with the twisted emotions I have left.”

“You never-”

Tobirama snapped, and all the emotions Tobirama kept carefully under a tight lid exploded out, “Oh I never what? Got angry at the insults I heard muttered behind my back? Felt fury when I was called monster, child killer, demon? Lashed out and killed those who insulted me and my clan to the highest degree? No, you’re right, I never did those things. Maybe I am emotionless. That is what you blamed me for, is it not? But would it truly have been better for this village if I had been more like you? More volatile?”

Tobirama barked another harsh laugh, “Perhaps I should have let the peace I love so much break beneath the fickle things you seem to admire such as passion and pride. But no, you’re right, I never cared. I have never loved this village because the need to protect it has always been a higher priority than allowing myself the vulnerability to love.”

“You want honesty, Madara? Here it is: I never stop to marvel at this village because I have no time to do so,” Tobirama continued, slowly rising from his seat, eyes dark, “I never stop to play with the village children because I have work to attend to.”

His voice grew louder, sharper. Each word was spat out with venom, “I turn down invitations to festivals not because I want to, but because I have to be there in the shadows, making sure those festivals go well! Make sure our clans do not try to claw out each other’s throats, like you have accused me of trying to do. I do not attend and I pretend to not hear the sigh of relief that no, the White Demon will not be there!”

He was suddenly aware he was shouting, but he couldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. He was angrier than he had been in a long time, and by god it felt good to just fucking scream for once.

“I never smile because that shows weakness. Weakness I cannot afford to have, weakness this village cannot afford to have! I have to be the strong one!” he screamed, “Not everyone can be like Hashirama, and not every enemy is swayed by charm!”

Madara took a step back.

Tobirama didn’t let him retreat, “I never seem to take missions because the ones I do you never find out about! I take the dirty assassinations! I take the court killings! I take things vile enough that I could never bear to let anyone else take them! The village needed money and support and so I took them and I killed and I hid the scars so no one would ever know!” 

“Tobirama-” Madara tried.

Tobirama grabbed him by the collar and jerked him forward, “You think I don’t have a heart?! You’re right, I cut it out myself! I don’t have a heart because I was never allowed to! I became a demon so no one else would have to!”

“Tobirama-”

With a scream, Tobirama punched him. Madara landed flat on his ass, clutching at a bleeding nose.

“Just stop talking,” Tobirama was whispering to his bloody fist, eyes shut, “Just for once, stop talking. Stop assuming. Stop judging. Just leave me alone.”

He opened his eyes, regret and shame in them, but that burning anger still refused to let those emotions take hold. He would not apologize. Not today. Not yet. One day, he would. Most likely tomorrow, when the implications of what he did set in. But it was not tomorrow yet, and he was oh so very tired of apologizing for what he was. 

“I’m going home,” he said. And when he moved to leave, Madara didn’t even try to stop him. 

 

—

 

Madara sat on the floor, blood dripping down his face and eyes still trained on the door Tobirama had left through. 

What even-?

His mind was racing, and his heart was thundering dangerously fast in his chest. Tobirama had not yelled at him, at anyone, in months. And never before to that degree, ever. 

Fuck he had been so wrong.

He had thought, since the creation of this village, that Tobirama did not care. He had known he had a heart, somewhere in there - after all he had agreed to the village, and he had rescued Kagami when it would have benefited him greatly to let him die - but Madara had always thought it was a cold, shriveled thing. 

He could no longer pretend anymore.

Tobirama cared, he cared so much that it hurt him.

There was something missing here, something Madara did not know. Why Tobirama had visited the Uchiha, why Tobirama felt the need to hide his emotions, why Tobirama thought he had to bear the burden alone, why Madara had missed how much he loved this village.

But there was one thing he knew for certain.

He owed Tobirama an apology. 

 

—

 

knock knock knock

Hashirama groaned, throwing his arm over his eyes. He willed the knocking and dreary sunlight streaming through the windows away. It worked, but after a few seconds of blissful silence, the noise returned. 

knock knock knock

He groaned again, but this time pulled himself out of bed. Mito had gone to work hours ago, so he didn’t have to worry about waking anyone with his grumbling and whining. He quickly threw a robe on and tripped down the stairs. 

knock knock knock

“I’m coming!” he shouted, “jeez, have some patience!”

knock knock knock-

He ripped open the door, “Are you freaking serious-  oh Madara. What are you doing here, especially at this hour.”

Madara looked disheveled, moreso that usual, which was an honestly difficult task. There was a certain sense of unease and shame that clung to his skin, an agitation or worry that had his eyes flicking nervously at his hands and the ground, refusing to fully meet Hashirama's gaze. 

Madara grimaced, “Hashirama, it’s 1pm.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but it's a Saturday.”

“Izuna is at work,” Madara pointed out.

Hashirama shot him a ‘no shit’ look, “Our brother’s are workaholics. Now, what was so important that you had to wake me up this early?”

Madara looked guilty, “It’s about Tobirama.”

Hashirama’s face dropped, “What happened. Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“No, no,” Madara grit his teeth, “not physically at least but I may have. . . made some assumptions and blew up on him.”

Hashirama sighed, “Why did I know this was going to happen? What did you do?”

“Shit Hashirama, I really fucked up. I accused him of stuff that even you would have been appalled by. I don’t know if he would ever begin to forgive me.”

“Slow down,” Hashirama guided him to the couch, settling him down, “Start from the beginning. Anija isn’t the type to hold grudges, I’m sure anything you did we can work to fix.”

“I may have implied he was an eye stealer trying to bring the ruin of my clan and called him a heartless monster,” Madara muttered.

Hashirama stared at him with wide, horrified eyes, “Holy shit, Madara.”

Madara buried his face in his hands, “I know.”

“No, holy shit, dude. I thought we were past this!” Hashirama shook him, “Didn’t we resolve the whole ‘demon’ thing like a year back?! I thought you had moved on! I mean, gods, how on earth could you say that to him?”

“I know!” Madara shouted, “I fucked the whole thing up. I was just so angry at him. I thought he was slinking about the compound, hanging around Kagami, being his cold emotionless self and I jumped to all the wrong conclusions!”

“Emotionless?” Hashirama slapped a hand on his forehead, “Madara, he’s been visiting the compound to apologize.”

“What?”

Hashirama snorted, “he doesn’t think I know, but I’m not a total dolt. Anija has been going through Uchiha archives to find any mentions of Uchiha’s he killed so he can apologize to their families, Madara. He feels horrible for all the things he did in the name of protecting the Senju, of protecting me.”

The more Madara learned, the more Madara learned how much he had fucked up. Tobirama was apologizing. That was more than Madara himself had ever done. He had killed Senju soldiers before, every Uchiha had. He had killed soldiers, he had killed people. Of course he knew that those people were brothers, sisters, parents, friends, but he had never taken the step to try and heal the wounds he had caused to their loved ones. He didn’t have the strength to. 

Madara went cold. Oh god, Tobirama had finally taken the step to show his heart to others, to apologize for the things that no one else had the strength to and. . . “and I accused him of espionage because of it.”

His voice cracked as he continued on, “oh gods, I thought he was a monster. I treated him like he was a monster. I didn’t care about how hard he worked, I didn’t care about how he protected his village, how he worked for peace- oh gods, oh gods, what did I do?!”

“He accepted my peace, and still I thought all he cared about was war,” Madara turned to his oldest friend, “I thought he only agreed to peace talks, only agreed to the village because it was what you wanted. I never even considered that he might have wanted it for himself too. I thought this - this peace and this village, was you. It was your plans, but how could I have not noticed that it was him working to take the blueprints you drafted and making them into reality.”

Hashirama looked at him guiltily, “About that, Madara. The plans for the village, I didn’t- those were. . .” he glanced away, “There’s something you know.”

 

—

 

It was early in the morning, before the sun had even fully risen, when Madara gathered up the courage to approach Tobirama. He knocked on the door to the white-haired man’s office, knuckles rapping quietly against the solid oak. 

“Come in,” a soft voice murmured, muffled by the door. 

Madara drew a deep breath, and finally twisted the door handle, pushing forward into the room. 

Tobirama was sitting at his desk, working on some paper or other, like he always was. It occurred to Madara that he had never really seen Tobirama take a break. He was always working. 

He looked terrifying in the soft light of the morning. He was slumped over his desk, made of jagged edges and harsh shadows. Madara could see the deep scowl that hung on his lips, the intensity of blood red eyes trained on his work before him. His hair was like a pure white flame, glowing in the splitting light of dawn. 

He looked human, ruffled and tired. Madara felt it would have been easier to do this if he was actually speaking to a demon, but Tobirama wasn’t one - no, he was so painfully human, a fact Madara had been all too eager to dismiss. Before this side of Tobirama, its harsh edges and its soft heart, Madara was a terrified boy again, stepping out onto an uncharted battlefield for the first time. 

Madara steeled his resolve and cleared his throat. 

“You wrote the plans for the village,” he said, voice quiet. He was still standing at the threshold of his office, not daring to step foot inside just yet.

Tobirama didn’t even look up from his work, just kept writing away with even strokes in that handwriting which Madara knew so well, “That is one of my jobs in the village, yes.”

“Before it, I mean,” Madara clarified.

That got Tobirama to stop writing. He set his brush down gently, finally looking up to meet Madara’s eye, “You found out.” it wasn’t a question.

Madara took a step in the door, distraught, “Why?”

“Why?” Tobirama repeated, then sighed, “I can assure you, Madara. I held no ill will to your clan when writing those. I don’t know what you think, but whatever it is, I am not planning it. I created those plans for peace as an older brother, not as the White Demon. If you never believe a word I say, then just believe this.”

“No,” Madara stormed forward, hands coming down on Tobirama’s desk. He spilled over an ink pot, but didn’t seem to notice, “Why did you hide it?”

Tobirama picked up the ink pot and moved the now ink stained scroll to the waste bin by his foot, “You know why, Uchiha. I see how you, how your clan, how everybody in this village looks at me. I am not to be trusted. And if my ideas for peace were to be thrown away simply because I was their creator, then I did not mind if the credit was given to the wrong person. Peace was needed, my pride didn’t matter.”

“I thought you were heartless,” Madara confessed it like a sin, “This entire time, I thought you didn’t feel a thing at all. That this was all just a duty to you. If you had told me-”

“Then you would have thought I was heartless still,” Tobirama said, his red eye’s meeting Madara’s unflinchingly, “and peace could have crumbled beneath that assumption.”

“I would have taken a second look!” Madara screamed.

Tobirama did not scream back. He just looked at him with those quiet, empty eyes and said, “No, you wouldn't have. You had already made your decision upon the first.”

Madara was taken aback. Silence filled the office, dreadfully cold. It had a weight to it, a silence like this. Heavy, carrying thousands of words that went unsaid, halting in the throat before being tossed away in the search of a different, better thing to say. In the end, nothing came out.

“You’re right,” Madara finally admitted quietly, “Your brother insisted for years that you had a heart, I saw you rescue Kagami and I began to believe it, I even used it to bargain for peace, peace which you accepted, and still, I thought you were a monster.”

Tobirama opened his mouth to speak, but Madara cut him off, “But to know you’ve been dreaming of peace for as long as I have? To see the work that had brought this dream into reality was made by your hand? To know that there was a heart I was just too keen on ignoring there the entire time? I am sorry, Tobirama.”

He dipped into one of the deepest bows Tobirama had ever received in his life. And immediately Tobirama had the urge to yank him out of it. No! This was… was wrong! They were equals, Tobirama perhaps less so. Madara hadn’t been wrong - he was a demon in many ways. While he had forged himself into that heartless creature to protect his brothers, he still did it, and he did it willingly. He had lied, he had fought, and he had killed, all without remorse. Madara should not be bowing.

“Raise your head, Madara,” Tobirama said, “you haven’t done anything wrong. You got angry at me for something that was my fault. I let myself become a demon when I was a child, I’ve acted as one my entire life. It was to protect my family, my clan, and later this village, yes, but I still did it. I shouldn’t have gotten upset with you for perceiving me as I presented myself.”

“My mistakes are not your fault, Tobirama,” Madara frowned, “They are not anyone’s but mine. You are human, and beyond that you are a good person. I carry the burden of thinking you were anything less, not you. If you can’t accept that, then I’ll just have to spend the rest of my life reminding you of it every day.”

Tobirama felt off-kilter, unsure, some strange emotion twisting like vines between his ribs. 

“I’d rather you didn’t,” He huffed. 

“I have to make it up to you somehow,” Madara insisted, “I’ve done you a great disservice. You don’t have to forgive me, you’re well within your rights to never even consider it, but I’d still like to try to make amends.”

“Madara,” Tobirama’s voice died off, unsure of what to say. 

“This afternoon, when the sun begins to set, meet me on the cliff overlooking the village,” Madara offered, “And let us just meet as Madara and Tobirama. Not clanheads, not leaders. No titles, no responsibilities, no world resting on our shoulders,” Madara gave him a small smile, “just two men, trying to fix the fucked up lives they’ve made.”

Tobirama looked at him, considering. After what felt like a lifetime caught within a breath - the seconds turned excruciating as Tobirama’s clear eyes seemed to look right through him - Tobirama finally breathed out, “alright. Tonight, before the sun dies.”

 

—

 

Madara waited at the top of the cliff for hours. It was mostly his fault. He’d jumped the gun and arrived long before sunset, but he could hardly do anything else productive, his thoughts instead straying back to Tobirama and how on earth Madara was supposed to fix this.

As the sun began to set, Madara started to grow worried. Maybe Tobirama had second thoughts. He couldn’t exactly blame the man. The majority of their relationship had been antagonistic. He couldn’t help but feel disappointed, though. 

So when he felt Tobirama’s cool chakra approaching, he was relieved. His head whipped around, catching sight of Tobirama walking over. The red of dusk clashed horribly against his light blue yukata, but lit up his hair and skin magically and made his eyes glow a brilliant ruby. He somehow looked soft.

Madara realized that it was because he wasn’t looking at Senju Tobirama, clanhead. He was just looking at Tobirama, a man who was weary beyond his years.

“You came,” he said.

Tobirama shrugged, “You called.”

“I’m sorry, Tobirama,” he said for what had to be the hundredth time.

Tobirama cocked his head, “So you’ve said.”

“I really am-”

“I don’t blame you, Madara,” Tobirama cut him off, “ We were born enemies, clan heads pitted against each other. Destined to fight. I know what I was raised to be. Besides, it wasn’t like I was nice to you either. You’re not a bad person, but you were the opposite of what I was raised to be, and that. . . made me uncomfortable, made me feel unbalanced. I reacted to that by acting how I was trained to, I shut down. My father raised me to be what I am now: a soldier. I wasn’t raised for love, I was raised for war. You were right about that much. Love was more of a nasty habit I somehow picked up.”

Madara laughed bitterly, “I suppose it’s impossible to kill one’s heart.”

Tobirama nodded, “I suppose. It did not stop my father from trying.”

Madara’s hands curled into fists by his side, guilt pooling heavily in his gut, “I’d like to try to explain myself, if that’s alright, Tobirama.”

Tobirama waved him on, “We came all the way up here for a conversation. It would be a waste to not have one, go on.”

“I was wrong to judge you, I know that now,” Madara grimaced, “but I was a fucking idiot back then. Uchiha’s are defined by their passion. My mother used to say we were the clan that loved the most, and that gave us great strength as well as terrible weakness. Passion, love, emotions, Uchiha see those as things to take pride over. Uchiha’s love and rage and never taking anything lying down and when I saw you taking insult after insult, blow after blow, without flinching or even striking back, some part of me whispered ‘that’s not human’.”

He continued on, “because Hashirama was always so expressive, I didn’t think that you might have had a reason for being the way you are. I never stopped to think about your side of things, never stopped to wonder if there was a reason you never laughed, never smiled, never got angry. I extended that courtesy to everyone around me, but never you, and for that I am really sorry.”

He held Tobirama’s gaze, unflinching from whatever criticism that would be justly thrown his way. But criticism never came. Instead, he watched as mirth filled red eyes in the place of anger.

“Wait,” Tobirama said, the edge of his mouth curling up in amusement, “So all this time you hated me because, what? I didn’t insult you back?”

“I mean,” well, it sounded stupid when he put it in such simplistic terms, but, “Yeah, essentially.”

Tobirama did the unexpected. He laughed. 

It was nothing like that harsh sound he had heard yesterday. Instead, it was quiet and gentle, deep like a cool summer lake. It was sort of unrefined in a way, had a lopsided lilt to it that made it sound like a school girl’s giggle. It was nothing like a sardonic bark, or a polite court laugh. It was small, and soft, and real.

…and really fucking cute. 

Tobirama calmed himself and flashed Madara a crooked grin that made his heart stutter, “Are you telling me that if I just made a comment about your stupid hair we could have avoided all of this?”

“Hey! My hair’s not stupid!” Madara squawked. 

Tobirama shot him a look, “Sure, tell yourself that. I thought being insulted was what you wanted?”

Madara rolled his eyes, “I’m not a masochist! I just, I just wanted some proof you were human, that you felt things, and I was wrong for that. I had all this evidence that you did care, but I forgot about all of it because the second you looked at me with your carefully blank eyes I would be fifteen again, facing the White Demon down on the battlefield and wondering if I would make it out alive.”

“So you want insults, but compliments too,” Tobirama reasoned.

Madara groaned, “Ugh, stop reverse-engineering human interaction. No, I don’t expect you to sing my praises, that’s like asking the sky to turn red. I just want you to stop hiding yourself. Say what’s on your mind.”

Tobirama squinted at him, “Are you sure you want that?”

Madara felt like he was making a deal with the devil, “Yes.”

Tobirama shrugged, “Fine. The tax law that you proposed last week is incredibly stupid and will never be adapted into the village so long as I live.” Tobirama glared at him, “And you are the by far most irrational, unpragmatic, bullheaded person I have ever met. I decided you were stupid the first time we met, and it has been over a decade without an ounce of evidence to change that conclusion. You are borderline insane.”

Madara bristled, “Listen asshole-”

“But,” Tobirama softened, “you are also one of the most caring individuals I have ever known. You care for your family with a ferocity I could only wish to match. You love this village with every piece of your heart. You’d die for the things you believe in, and have a will as unyielding and passionate as a fire. It makes you infuriatingly stubborn, yes, but it's what makes you a good person.”

Madara was speechless. Tobirama took one look at his dumbfounded expression and smiled - a sight that made something in Madara’s brain short-circuit. 

“I have never hated you,” Tobirama admitted, “Not even while we were at war.”

Wait, what?

“You were trying to kill me! Wholeheartedly!” Madara sputtered, “Our fight’s weren’t like Izuna’s and Hashirama’s! Neither of us had Hashirama’s penchant for mercy.”

“Trying to kill you and hating you are two very different things,” Tobirama glanced at his hands, “I feared you. I knew what damage you could do to my clan if I wasn’t there to be a buffer. If I didn’t kill you, the Senju would have been in danger. I fought that war not to annihilate the Uchiha, but to protect the Senju, no matter what anyone insisted. You got on my nerves, regularly, but it never evolved past annoyance or distaste. I feared you, I had to kill you, I hated the threat you posed, but I never hated you.”

“The day you saved Kagami,” Madara began slowly, “You could have killed me, couldn’t you. The jutsu you used - it was faster than the Sharingan could follow.”

“It was designed to kill you,” Tobirama confirmed, wincing.

“It should have,” Madara realized, “You had a kunai behind my foot. It would have been an assured victory if you had used it. But you didn’t. You chose to save Kagami when you could have easily killed the greatest threat to your clan. Why?”

Tobirama sighed, eyes far off as if he was lost in a vision Madara could not see. For the first time, Madara noticed how sad Tobirama looked. He hid it well, his pain tucked neatly away beneath the crisp folds of his yukata, his sorrow hidden behind a mask of cold red eyes. This man had always been so fearsome, so collected and cold and deadly. For a long time, that’s all Madara had ever known him to be. And yet, Madara felt so ashamed that even with the sharpest eyes in existence, he had not been able to see the sadness that leaked from behind Tobirama’s armor like tears. 

“My brothers died young,” Tobirama finally whispered. The White Demon of the Senju looked fragile as he said it, “Kawarama was only seven when he died. Itama died at six. Not even a decade of life was alloted to either of them. I had to feel their lives flicker out, their chakra snuff out in the wind because I was just too slow.”

Tobirama was a sensor, Madara realized with horror. A far better one than Madara. He would have had to stand by, helpless, as he practically watched his brother’s die. Would have felt the fear in their chakra signatures and feel as they slipped away from his grasp. 

He could picture a younger Tobirama, looking so small and fragile as he howled in pain, knowing his brothers were gone. He could picture that boy crying silently in the night when no one could see him. 

Tobirama touched the tattoos on his cheeks, “I carved these into my skin after Itama died. So I would never forget them, and how I was too slow to save them,” he gently touched the mark on his chin, “and this one as a promise to never let my last brother go.”

Tobirama looked him dead in the eyes. It was a show of great trust, something Tobirama had almost never done before. He always looked at his cheek, or shoulder, but never at his eyes. Madara could have easily put him into a genjutsu, something that even the great Demon would have struggled to break. Tobirama knew this, and still he looked into Madara’s eyes without fear. 

There was a certain sadness, a sort of anger, within those red eyes. It was almost palpable, red hot like a flame but deep and endless as the ocean. 

Madara had lost a sibling to the war, though he was much too young to remember his once older brother. But he had also lost a parent, aunts and uncles, cousins and friends. He knew grief, and when Tobirama offered him his own grief, Madara instinctively reached back. 

Madara grabbed Tobirama’s hand with his own. His grip was weak, really just his palm resting on top of Tobirama’s own, something Tobirama could have easily pulled away from, but the message it sent was clear: I understand you, I see you, I am here. 

After a second of wonderful stillness, Tobirama hastily looked away. But his hand tightened in Madara’s own.

“I was too afraid to accept you peace at first, not because I didn’t want it, but because I didn’t understand it,” Tobirama muttered, face still turned away from Madara’s, “and once I began to want peace, began to dream of Konoha, I didn’t accept your peace because I was too afraid. If I laid down my sword, what was to stop the Uchiha from taking the rest of my family away from me? How could I let my last brother die?”

Tobirama cursed, “The war took everything from me. I could not let it take the scraps I had so desperately held onto as well.”

“And you really never hated us,” Madara said, amazed. Even he had come to hate the Senju to some degree. How could he not, when they took and took and took from his clan. He often forgot that Uchiha did the same. And yet Tobirama had never blamed them for it.

Tobirama huffed, “No, I didn’t. You asked why I saved Kagami?” Tobirama finally glanced back at him, “it's because I had to watch my brothers die. And I hated that so much more than I had ever desired to win the war. Kagami was too young to die, and that was all there was to it.”

“You’re amazing,” Madara blurted out. 

Tobirama blinked, “I’m sorry?” The tips of his ears were turning red.

Madara flushed. He quickly tried to backtrack, “I-I mean, you’re just well,” he looked down at his lap, “you’re just a really good person, much more than I am. I’m sorry that I never saw that.”

Tobirama opened his mouth to argue, but Madara cut him off, “Don’t try to be humble. You never hated the people that openly hated you, that is so much more than I’ve seen anyone in the war do. I can never hope to make up for how I treated you, but I hope you’ll allow me to try. I hope in the future you can look at me and see something more than an irrational idiot.”

Tobirama smiled gently, “The past is the past, Madara. It’s unchangeable. We’ve both said and done things that we can never take back. The future is uncertain, and there’s nothing we can do to see how things will end. But we have the present, and I think that’s as good a place as any to start,” he gave Madara’s hand a squeeze.

“Friends?” Tobirama offered, looking at him with gentle eyes and a lopsided smile. 

Madara smiled back, tentative and hopeful. He squeezed Tobirama’s hand back, “Friends.” he decided.

Notes:

sorry its been so long.

Anyways that's the whole 'depression arc' out of the way. Next chapter we'll see more sassy, confident Tobirama return as more romance. Tobirama ( at least in this ) I think returns to being more subservient, more like a soldier when he feels like he needs to do something. He doesn't compromise on things he believes in, it' just that he doesn't see his own mental health and the way he's treated as something worth fighting for. More than anything, he sees them as pawns to sacrifice to protect what he cares for.

BUT FUCK THAT NEXT CHAPTER

next chapter we're gonna have romance! sass! probably more angst! Madara being stupid! All that good shit.

ANYWAYS PLEASE COMMENT!

See you next time!

-Phishy!