Chapter Text
Madara made a show out of it. He made sure to dress in his most pristine, most formal attire, the way he promised Tobirama he would. He let Hikaku lead him, kept his pace slow and posture exemplary. He was heading to an execution and made sure that his wrath was known, intention lingering in the air.
He heard whispers travelling at his heels. Caught dithering stares hanging heavily in his periphery. The streets were silent, murmurs crawling quietly through the cracks and corners. On days like this they feared him, forgetting he had a name and not just status.
Uchiha Madara was their Clan Head, but their Clan Head didn’t have to be Uchiha Madara.
“Why would you need that? Wouldn’t a quick and traceless one be more efficient?” Izuna asked while filing through his assets. “Here, this is the thing you’ve asked for.”
“I want it to be a spectacle,” Madara answered, taking the bottle into his hand and rolling it around. “And quick death is something this bastard doesn’t deserve.”
“Alright,” Izuna nodded, “I trust your judgement.”
That bottle now rested inside of Madara’s robes. It was a strong paralytic that had some vile side effects, if Izuna was to be believed, so consumption of it would have led to some less than stellar consequences. He hoped it would be enough to have an effect on the spectators as well.
Hikaku opened the door for him, letting Madara step inside. The council members startled in their seats, panic clear in their features.
“Madara-dono,” Tonemasa hastened to greet him with a bow, “we never sent for you as per your request.”
“Today I seek you on my own,” Madara answered, lowering himself into his usual place.
“What brings you here then?” Tonemasa asked cautiously, fear and worry stark on his withered face. That was expected. Madara wished it this way.
If they want to play politics, then he will play.
“Your esteemed Clan Head wishes to speak to the honoured elder Utsugi,” Madara intoned formally.
“What is it that you wish to discuss, Madara-sama?” Utsugi readjusted his glasses, looking rather disturbed. Good.
“Come hither,” Madara gestured to the other side of the low table set in the middle of the room. They didn’t remove it yet, he has intruded on their morning tea. Utsugi moved, his step unsure.
Madara took a deep breath before starting, his voice low and thunderous. “I, the Head of the Uchiha Clan, Uchiha Madara, son of Tajima,” he fished the bottle out of his robes, it’s bottom making a loud clang as it hit the table, “offer you this rice wine from my own table,” Madara snarled, his teeth on display and eyes bleeding red, “now, drink.”
The realisation hit them like a lightning bolt, faces of every council member going deathly pale at once.
“If I may clarify, Madara-dono–” Tonemasa swallowed nervously, his fingers fiddling with his sleeves.
“Drink,” Madara ignored him, staring Utsugi dead in the eye.
There was no way he would refuse.
Utsugi took a sharp breath, his scowl deepening, sweat beading over his furrowed brow. His hand was trembling as he raised the bottle up to his lips.
Madara could wipe out his entire lower branch.
“I, the honoured elder of the Uchiha clan, Uchiha Utsugi, accept the generous offer of our venerated Clan Head and thank him,” Utsugi heaved, “may his health never wane.” At that he threw his head back and swallowed the contents in one big gulp.
Nothing happened. Elder Utsugi placed the bottle back on the table, his hand trembling even worse than it did before.
And then he careened forward and crashed into the table himself.
The looks of pure horror on the elders’ faces were fascinating. Utsugi convulsed and clutched at his throat, starting to scratch at it viciously, his eyes rolling back, foam gathering at the corners of his mouth. Izuna didn’t lie then, what a relief. The paralytic constricted Utsugi’s throat, quickly stretching the effects to his lungs, making him suffocate slowly and painfully, his organs failing in the process. His face turned violet, starting to bloat from strain of the disturbed circulation.
Madara stared.
He could almost hear the hare-paced heartbeats of those in attendance, their faces whiter than chalk and forms rigid enough to shatter if touched. They sagged more at every gurgle, not allowing themselves to utter a sound. Whomever disrupted the play would be next, with their children, their loved ones, their whole branch.
Utsugi was continuing to writhe on the ground when Madara got up slowly and addressed the silently watching elders, terror frozen on their faces, one last time. “Treason is an offence punishable by death. Make sure you never forget your place again.” At that he turned and slammed the door behind himself.
***
It took Tobirama some time to settle with the thought that this will most probably be his life now. It wasn’t so bad, it wasn’t bad at all, but there were certain issues to address. Namely his family matters and his research.
The precautions he’d set up ran out some time ago, and there was only so much Mito-aneja could take upon herself without outside interference. He had to work out a transition program so that the clan wouldn’t fall in disarray without him, as well as distribute his responsibilities upon his clansmen. Or, uh. Formerly his clansmen. Either way, there was work to do.
In regards to his research, however, the complications only solidified. The technique he had been working on could have been transitioned under the jurisdiction of Uchiha easily enough, as long as he refused to acknowledge that the work was started while he was under Hashirama’s custody, but all of his other notes required an elaborate scheme of extraction, because technically everything that was developed under the Senju name could be considered Senju property. Or, more precisely, heritage.
Maybe, if he tried hard enough, he could convince Madara it was a good idea to steal it.
And about the jutsu that Hashirama had banned already, those couldn’t have been retrieved at all. Tobirama sighed. Working for the benefit of the clan meant permanent suspension of the right of authorship, what a shame.
Having thought so he’s finally managed to make his way to Madara’s study. He intended to present him with the fruits of his labour as his new Clan Head, the same way he did with Anija usually beforehand. The calculation was based in practical: even though they were not officially espoused for now, it was best not to wait until the new technique became unavailable to him the same way his old ones did. Tobirama might have intended to leave the seal unfinished before, but under the new circumstances the ordeal got hastily flipped on its head and demanded immediate interference of a higher authority. Desperate times, as they say. Maybe this time around he will even get to use it.
Madara sat in his usual spot at the low table, going through the manuscript of the treaty with miniscule remarks and paraphrasing to weave the new condition into the pre-existing text. There were a lot of notepapers scattered around, some of them crossed out with big blobs of ink carelessly.
“May I?” Tobirama asked from over the door, making Madara raise his head.
“Come on in,” he gestured to the opposite side of the table, letting Tobirama know that he was welcome to join.
As Tobirama took his spot, Madara asked him, the papers rustling in his hands, “Is there a chance that Hashirama won’t agree to the proposal?”
“How should I know?” Tobirama felt slightly distraught. He didn’t perceive it as much of an issue what his brother thought. “It’s not like he could just demand my return if I do not wish it so.”
“I’m sure that is something he is authorised to do,” Madara said dubiously, “legally speaking.”
“Hm,” right, the heritage rule. “We’re talking about Hashirama here. He would agree if I insisted.”
“He’d threatened to turn me into fertiliser,” Madara answered absentmindedly, his gaze falling back to the papers.
“What,” Tobirama blanched. “When?”
“When we’ve held talks for the first time,” Madara looked up at him again.
“Have you intended for it to end in this way from the very beginning?” Tobirama asked incredulously, his mind suddenly doing a metaphorical flip.
“You could say that,” Madara nodded nonchalantly. “Or at the very least from the point soon after you’ve settled.”
“Oh gods,” Tobirama exhaled, covering his face with his hands. “I’m not playing shogi with you ever again.”
“Never say never,” Madara smirked at that.
Tobirama sighed, lowering his hands to extract the scroll out of his yukata, “Too late for regrets, I suppose.”
As Tobirama learned previously, there was no way to revoke the betrothal. Either he got married, or never married at all. He was now promised to one man. The daimyo recognised the Uchiha matrimonial tradition, so Tobirama was kind of absolutely stuck at this point. Despite the common ‘heritage’ rule being considered one of the most influential, the kekkei genkai-specific ‘blood preservation’ clause overruled it completely, and so, as Tobirama agreed to take Madara’s name, he wasn’t allowed to take on another clan’s mon anymore, not even his own. He could complain all that he wanted about the fact that he got tricked and trapped for perhaps the hundredth time, yet still, at the end of the day he agreed to this whole thing solely because he… was actually in love.
Tobirama wondered bitterly if there could be a possibility that that was what Madara meant when he threatened they will be one Senju down. He sighed.
Then he placed the relic on the table, presenting it to Madara. “This is Edo Tensei.”
“Your research?” Madara intoned, unfurling the scroll to get a quick glance. “And it really raises the dead?”
“Yes,” Tobirama answered, offended with the doubt, “aside from technicalities.”
“Which are?”
“It requires a living sacrifice,” Tobirama crossed his arms, ready to go on a spiel about every minute detail of his discovery.
Madara blinked, looking between the scroll itself and Tobirama repeatedly, “Then I suppose it would be best if we’ve set it aside for now.” His face remained unreadable.
“You’re banning it,” Tobirama said incredulously. He expected Madara’s reaction to be vastly different since he’d been so interested in the technique before.
“No, I’m not,” Madara sighed heavily. “It’s just that I’ve thought for now we could focus on something else. Better. Like Hashirama’s village, maybe? It can wait for an occasion for now.” He nodded to himself, placing the scroll back on the table. “That, and I don’t want to hear anything about corpses for the next two years at the very least.”
“So,” Tobirama clarified doubtfully, “you are saying it will be possible to test it at a later date.”
“Precisely,” Madara gave him a reserved smile, looking at him with a certain softness.
Tobirama felt a pinch of affection rush over him suddenly, so, without another thought, he snatched Madara’s hand and pressed it tightly to his chest with both of his own, the fingers splaying over his sternum. He couldn’t help how nice it was. “If it so happens that you are murdered at some point in time, I will make sure to bring you back,” he breathed out sentimentally.
Madara stared at him.
“I’m banning it.”
“What?!”
“I’ve just had a thought that you might try and smother me with a pillow to test it,” Madara said, his eyes wide and unblinking. He looked well like one of his birds at that moment.
“That’s not what I’ve meant,” Tobirama felt extremely offended. He was only trying to express his feelings, not threaten anyone.
“Too late, should have thought it through beforehand,” Madara huffed as Tobirama released his hand. That. That wasn’t a good turn of events. At this rate Tobirama will just end up the same way he started, with all of his techniques locked away and actively guarded. He couldn’t afford to have to resort to trying to steal his own research twice. Maybe an explanation could have remedied the situation somehow? It did help before on multiple occasions.
“I was trying” Tobirama stuttered, unused to these kinds of talks, “you see,” he swallowed, “romance.”
“Ooooh,” Madara drawled, the astonishment clear on his face. “I see. You are impaired in that regard. It’s alright, just let me handle it.”
A hand grabbed Tobirama’s chin, angling his head, lips covering his own gently. It was a nice feeling. He sighed into the kiss contentedly.
After a moment Madara moved away just so and breathed out, the soft puff of air ghosting over Tobirama’s skin, “But I’m still banning it.”
***
There was one last issue to address, of course. The Uchiha delegation arrived at the outpost early, and, as Hashirama only just made his way to the shed, all of the utensils were already laid out for the signing.
“Madara! Tobi!” he screeched cheerfully from some distance away, hastening his step to get to them as quickly as possible.
“How does he manage to embarrass himself every chance that he gets?” Madara shook his head regretfully at the sight of his best friend approaching.
“It’s only embarrassing if you feel embarrassed,” Tobirama answered, looking in that same direction with a long-suffering expression.
They were meant to meet at sundown, in the same place and in the same composition, the minor changes being Izuna staying behind while his place was taken by Tobirama, and the council missing a member concerning cerain… circumstance. Of which they did not talk aloud.
Madara had to, as always, grudgingly accept the necessary condition of wearing formal attire, way more formal than he was used to, as the occasion called for. They’ve forced him into a sokutai, as if he were present for the court affairs, and, even if his high noble standing allowed for him to don such robes in the presence of the daimyo, it was still to be regarded as offensive by the Senju, since surely they would view it as him meaning to demean them, instead of showing effort in vying for his intended’s hand.
He was rather torn between easy malice of wishing them to eat dirt, and simultaneously accept the match without much contempt. Thankfully, as Hashirama made his way to them, Madara noted he was, like the first time, also considerably overdressed.
“How good to finally see you, Tobi!” Hashirama huffed from exertion, the Senju delegation rushing after him, clutching their hakama hems up, trying not to fall behind. It was a funny scene, seeing them disgraced like that while trying to catch up with their unruly Clan Head. Served them right, Madara smirked.
Hashirama scrunched his nose at Tobirama’s garb. “What are you wearing. That does not suit you at all.”
It suited him perfectly fine. Tobirama had to borrow one of Madara’s formal pieces for the occasion, again, by which Madara was just the slightest bit thrilled. It was not an everyday happening for him to witness his lover acknowledge the claim. He did briefly consider if he should… manipulate the budget slightly though. To make it more permanent.
“Whatever was available,” Tobirama sighed, crossing his arms. “It’s not like you’ve mailed me in any clothes.”
“Husband,” Mito sighed, coming up to them at last. She looked perfectly composed even though Madara could have sworn he saw her running as well. “I am sure there are more pressing matters than that.” She addressed Tobirama then, “How are you faring, Tobi? Were you treated well?” She glanced at Madara accusingly, and he smiled, the expression so nasty it made a muscle in Mito’s cheek twitch over her flawless fake smile.
“Maybe a bit too well, Aneja,” Tobirama exhaled, “there were no issues for me to complain.”
Mito blinked. Then she turned her head to squint at Madara. “To spend this long under one roof without a disagreement? Such bliss is unavailable to most married couples.”
“What can I say?” Madara shrugged, “I am a good host.” He was almost sure he heard her vein pop.
“Anyways, what do I need to sign?” Hashirama asked, looking around for a brush and an inkpot.
“There’s the agreement,” Madara nodded at the scroll carefully spread out on the table, by this point marked with his own signature, “but before you-”
He didn’t get to finish because Hashirama already smacked his inked fingerprint onto the paper and wrote his full name and title next to it in a rush. “Here, done,” he gave Madara that big goofy grin, unconcerned with anything the world could offer.
Madara stared in disbelief.
Mito covered her mouth with her hand.
“Anija!” Tobirama hissed, looking bewildered beyond compare.
“What?” Hashirama asked, “We’ve agreed on all of the points last time, didn’t we?”
“That’s exactly what I’ve wanted to discuss,” Madara intoned weakly. Sweet sage, how did it even get to this? He fished the scroll out of his garb and held it out to Hashirama. “This was added to the draft that you have just signed.”
Mito started to shake. Her face looked so stormy, Madara could almost smell the pronounced scent of ozone. “No,” she whispered under her breath.
“What is that?” Hashirama asked, his brows knitting together, realisation of a possibly life-altering mistake dawning on him quickly.
“A biju that I’ve had to come to great lengths to capture and seal,” Madara forced out. Tobirama squeezed his eyes shut and turned away at that.
“And what are you offering it to me for?” Hashirama’s face darkened momentarily, promising a swift and painful death.
Madara thought it was better to be done with it quickly. “Your brother’s hand,” and yet he couldn’t help the tide of mirth that overcame him, a nasty smirk tugging at his lips, “and you’ve just given me your blessing, it seems.”
Mito covered her face with her hands.
Thank heavens for how perfect it went.
Hashirama stood there dumbfounded, his face blank and eyes wide. Then he said solemnly, “I love you like a brother,” and breathed out slowly after that, “and when I kill you, I’ll bury you like one.”
Hashirama’s chakra exploded, levelling half of the old shed into rubble, a dust cloud enveloping the space momentarily.
“You want to dance, Hashirama?!” Madara cackled madly, debris settling around him, the glee consuming him completely. “Let’s dance!”
After all, what proper wedding didn’t end up with a fight?
THE END.