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Drum beats.
Solid, singular, low drum beats that vibrate through every deep crevice of his body and prick all his hairs to stand. That’s all he hears while he’s eye to eye with a twenty-foot chakra monster.
It began as a creep on his senses. A chakra signature, as volatile as acid, pierced through his range and piqued his curiosity. Tobirama had finished his mission early so he pinpointed the chakra signature and veered towards it.
After all, curiosity is not a drug he’s known to refuse.
But the chakra thickened, and thickened, until it threatened to choke him. Tobirama didn’t turn around. Not even his brother has such gigantic, such potent , chakra. Whatever he’s about to see, it can’t be human.
And he’s right. As the trees cleared, a fox looked back at him. A twenty-foot orange fox with his head on his folded front legs. Nine tails tucked under itself.
The stories are true: the bijū are real.
Tobirama doesn’t breathe any louder than he needs to, doesn’t dare look away. One of the fox’s eyes is bigger than his head, its iris a deeper red than his own. Vertical black pupils threaten to suck him in.
His throat dries, on the brink of cracking. He swallows slowly.
“Hello,” he greets, against all the nerves in his body.
He’s going to get eaten. That snout is going to chomp at him while he’s too frozen to hiraishin away and next thing he’ll know, his top half will be hopelessly unattached to his bottom. He’s calm enough to know that there’ll be some pain in there somewhere. Madara’s going to be pissed .
Tobirama holds his breath.
The bijū stares at him, its eyes lined in thick black. Tobirama can see fine strands of orange fur instead of pure coat of chakra. Whiskers poke out, longer than Tobirama is tall. His black, velvety nose seems to sneer at him.
For a long while neither of them moves, standing like frozen statues. Then, the earth rumbles as it huffs. The great beast closes its eyes and shifts its head away from Tobirama.
Disbelief runs through Tobirama. It’s napping? Then, relief, followed by adrenaline that staggers him – him, one of the most feared veterans in the Land of Fire – backwards. Tampering down his shaking muscles and his shaky breaths, he turns around and sprints.
A balanced nutritious diet, regular exercise and mental stimulation. Three things that Tobirama advocates in order to live one’s life to the fullest potential.
It’s a good thing that Tobirama enforces this with a chakra hardened fist, because with only one sentence uttered, he might have shaved off his husband’s lifespan down by about twenty years, at least.
“Let me get this straight,” Madara’s voice is steady, eerie in its stillness, “I sent you on a quick courier mission, one that only takes four days to get there and back, even less with your hiraishin, and upon sensing a chakra reserve the size of our water dams, you sought it out , without any form of back-up or informing me or our subordinates, found that it’s a twenty-foot chakra beast, and decided that the best course of action was to engage it in a staring competition.”
Even, modulated tone. Heart rate controlled and precise breathing. Madara is doing well, Tobirama nods to himself - Madara is improving his ability to cope with stress.
Tobirama considers the statement, biting his lip in a rare show of hesitance. “Yes, that’s accurate.”
Madara brings a hand up to rub his face, combing his fringe aside. He pauses, as if to consider the man in front of him, mutters a quiet, ‘fuck it’ and slams a knee into his desk. A compartment slides out – a compartment that Tobirama has no knowledge of, mind you – and Madara grips the neck of a bottle labelled with writing Tobirama recognises as Madara’s favourite brand of shōchū, swings it to his mouth and takes a hearty swig out of it.
Propriety is turning in its grave.
“How did you put a drawer down there?” Tobirama asks, curious. That desk is a product straight from his blueprints, and he knows for certain that he had not designed a secret drawer to slide out beside one’s knee. “And how did you hide that alcohol from Kagami?”
“A man needs his secrets as well as some reprieve.” Madara regards the bottle with a deferential kind of awe, one that would be more suited to sacred artefacts, before taking another swig. “Especially if a man’s husband is of the stubborn, hard-headed, reckless variety. Walk me through your reasoning before I relieve this whole bottle of its contents, please.”
Scratch that, his husband has not developed adequate coping mechanisms for stress. Instead, the only thing he developed is his budding alcoholism.
Tobirama makes a personal note to work on that. For their demographic, the risk of heart disease is substantially high without any bad habits adding to it, and Tobirama refuses to handle the shenanigans of their grand-nieces and grand-nephews alone.
“The chakra I sensed had the potential to be an immediate threat. Thus, I responded accordingly. At the time, I had no knowledge to confirm that it would indeed be a threat, so I did not send for back-up in hope to conserve our resources. Any form of chakra can be sealed, and since I am second to only Mito in fūinjutsu, as well as having a quick form of retreat at my disposal in the form of Hiraishin, I decided that I was well equipped to investigate the strange form of chakra without incurring any harm.” Tobirama knows that Madara’s only worried for him, knows that the only way that his emotionally stunted husband expresses his feelings is through his bristling, but he couldn’t quite help adding at the end, “Happy?”
“Okay, so reckless, but within reason,” Madara admits. “And this twenty-foot chakra beast?”
“Fox,” Tobirama rights. “Chakra fox. Similar to the children’s lore.”
The finger gripping the bottle neck jerks. Tobirama can tell that Madara’s refraining himself from taking a swig, that melodramatic bastard. “Children’s lore?”
“About the Sage’s and the Grand Feast,” Tobirama informs. “The fox I encountered had nine tails – much like the story goes.”
“ Unbelievable ,” Madara whispers with incredulity, shaking his head.
A whispered tale to lull children to sleep – a nine-year cycle, told with equal bouts of whim and reverence. The Sage had called for a grand feast, where all beasts could attend but only the first nine would be offered a seat, and the much desired mooncake. The fox came first, and was given nine mooncakes to eat. As the fox swallowed each mooncake, his tail was imbued with chakra before beginning to split with each increasing mooncake all up into nine pieces.
After the fox came the ushi oni, who was gifted with eight mooncakes, then the kabutomushi with seven, the slug, the horse, the monkey, the turtle, the bakeneko and lastly, the tanuki with their corresponding descending order of mooncakes.
They say that those born to the year of the tanuki are especially churlish people. Tobirama remembers Hashirama giggling in mischief as he told him of how the tanuki banded with the fox to equally come first, but the fox had betrayed him by pushing him into a river during the race, thereby sealing first place to himself. Tobirama doesn’t blame them one bit. He is not one to take any semblance of betrayal lightly.
“You’re proposing that the twenty-foot chakra beast you met was the one from the children’s lore with the Sage and the Grand Feast?” Madara begins with a steady tone, although the pitch of Madara’s voice threatens to ascend into a panicked pitch, and Tobirama fears for the fate of his office windows. “Assuming that your proposition is correct, that means we have eight other chakra beasts unaccounted for, running around the lands with the potential to raze it to the grounds.” Madara feels the inexplicable urge to rip his hair out of his roots. “Although if that were to happen, I suppose that we would’ve heard some inkling of that by now.”
“Or there could’ve been no survivors?” Tobirama adds, in all honesty with the intent to add depth to the conversation, and not Madara’s hospital records.
The scrunched up expression of Madara’s face doesn’t change. Tobirama hears his message as clear as glass. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?
Tobirama sighs, then breaks code. Striding around the table and to Madara, he spins the chair until Madara faces him. Tobirama slides his legs over, slipping into Madara’s lap, circling his arms around Madara’s neck and stroking his fingers through Madara’s hair in long, soothing motions.
Madara puts the bottle on the table, and unhinges his fingers from the bottleneck one by one, in time with the caresses. “I’m trying to be professional here,” Madara protests. It’s a weak protest, especially when he just dug his fingers out of the first point of evidence and wrapped his arms around the waist of the second point of evidence.
His voice betrays a sturdy foundation that’s been frightened enough to start shaking.
“That sake must’ve been for show then,” Tobirama soothes. He catches Madara’s eyes, a brown so dark that it bleeds into black, and tries to catch and cradle the pulsing fear that trickles out of it. “I was shaken too, you know.”
“I hadn’t–” Madara breaks off, then shivers. “I didn’t–” He stops again, chest wracking in a breath before he buries himself in the crook of Tobirama’s neck, his cheeks tickled by the scruff of Tobirama’s jacket. Parchment, sun and a subtle but distinct layer of musk that Madara knows to be Tobirama. It’s a cool cloth to his pinched nerves. Madara tries to concentrate on the fingers combing his hair.
“I’m sorry if I insinuated that you were incompetent.” Madara turns his head and presses his lips against the film of cloth at Tobirama’s neck. “You are the most competent man I know. Hands down, more competent than me. You put the Daimyo’s whole court system to shame, solely on your own merit. Efficient, sound judgement, level headed, etcetera, etcetera.”
As far as apologies go, it gets easier with time. Pride be damned.
Tobirama holds in a chuckle. “I know.” He moves his head so he could lay his cheek on Madara’s forehead. “I was scared too, but I had a whole expanse of forest to run through beforehand. Sage knows how you dealt with the stress of being clan head all these years.”
“You could’ve been hurt and I would’ve never known,” Madara whispers. “You could’ve called for me and I would’ve never known. That’s my worst nightmare.”
The chilling image makes the hairs on the back his neck stand at an end. His fingers itches to squeeze some comfort into Madara. Their nightmares seem to resonate on the same frequency - in a way it’s fitting, since they share the same bed. “I’m too stubborn to die without a fight. And you will know when I throw everything I have in my arsenal in.”
Madara chuckles. He'll definitely know; the seas itself would part, if Tobirama had thrown his whole arsenal in.
The fingers in Madara’s hair turn wondering, contemplative. A touch wary, as well as apprehensive. “I don’t understand,” Tobirama confides. “To be so off course – with something of this scale. What else could we be missing?”
A cautionary tale that flitters through his mind, popular to children as well. A mushroom that blooms poison over a whole village that needed to be cut. Chop at its stalk, and it will grow again. Pull at its roots, and the earth will be free of it forever. That’s what scares him, Tobirama thinks. The fear of the unknown.
It’s a beast that rises to eclipse any wisps of thought, any form of defence that he could possibly hope to conjure, and more. It leaves him wandering in the dark, ambling for some form of estimate. It drowns him in the harrowing depths of helplessness. Preparation is his specialty, and preparation without foreknowledge would be minimal at best.
“I need to go back,” Tobirama decides. “I want go to back. I want to learn more.”
Madara tenses, before sighing in defeat. “I hate it when you’re right. I’d ask you to bring another person along, but I’m not sure if the fox will take that as a sign of aggression. Plus, the situation with Cloud is precarious enough that I can’t spare either Izuna or Hikaku. And I know you prefer to work alone in these things.”
The hand that’s been brushing itself through Madara’s hair untangles itself to pat his husband on the top of his head. A smug form of pleasure coats his words, lifting the dreary atmosphere ensconcing them. “I’ve trained you well.”
The arms around Tobirama squeeze in warning. “Excuse you , I am your Hokage. I demand your respect.”
“And maybe one day you’ll get it,” supplies Tobirama. He pats Madara’s cheek in consolation.
“You, young people are getting wilder in your youth,” Madara observes, tone as dry as tea leaves. “As expected from a tanuki born.”
The plump dip of Tobirama’s cupid bow curves downwards into a frown, his eyes slants into a glare. “You’ve completely forgotten my birthday in your senile old age. I missed the tanuki year by a couple days, best remember this, old man, before I dump you for a younger man with a more agile memory.”
Madara chuckles, pure irony tickling him since the statement came from the only one that between them has white hair. “I swear I remember Hashirama telling me that you were tanuki born. It was one of the first topics Hashirama and I bonded over, being born in the year of the fox. Those who are born in the fox year are said to be an ambitious lots, born to lead and take what is rightfully theirs.”
“By pushing your opponents into a river?”
“Coincidentally, I remember pushing Hashirama into the river a lot.” Madara smiles under the fluffy cloud of nostalgia. “Good times.” A glint of humour sparkles in the eyes that curves at his own red owns. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t the bakeneko known to be a shapeshifter that manipulates the dead?”
“Don’t,” Tobirama warns.
“I guess you don’t need me to send you back-up when you can raise them from the ground yourself,” Madara jokes, then snickers at Tobirama’s sour expression. “It’s like you were destined to hold nothing sacred to you.”
Tobirama decides that he’s going to tell Kagami about Madara’s alcohol stash. Madara will sputter, then growl, then ultimately wilt under the heavy, disapproving stare his apprentice has been refining with diligent and studious care for the last year. Under all that bluster, Madara can be a bigger sap than even Hashirama about his apprentice’s approval, and Hashirama is the original tree sap in their family.
Yes, Tobirama promises himself. That will be a most satisfying revenge.
Tobirama packs enough food rations for a week, enough paper for a whole library, throws a wad of Hiraishin tags at his husband (affectionately, of course) and sets out to hunt the chakra fox.
The first day goes the same. His heart threatens to pounce of out his chest, they engage in a stare off, no one moves for a couple of heartbeats- same old, same old.
There is, however, one difference. Tobirama decides to make the first move.
“Hello,” he greets. “My name is Senju Tobirama.”
The beast seems to ignore him with an air of disdain, and huffs again before settling itself down to sleep.
Tobirama feels a flicker of annoyance before running back to his camp. Annoyance is dangerous, because it usually causes him to take drastic measures. Then again, drastic might be just what he needs, sometimes it’s the only way to get the results he wants.
Tobirama resolves to do something drastic the next day.
And by drastic, he means combining his stubborn insistence with a tendency to boulder the subject over with conversation in order to emulate Hashirama’s overwhelming type of charm. It worked for the whole Uchiha Clan, so why not?
“For a physical manifestation of chakra,” Tobirama prods, “you tend to sleep a lot.”
Those red eyes that slide over to him, betraying some hint of annoyance. Good.
“I considered bringing mooncakes over to tempt you into conversation. Like in the lore of the Sage and the grand feast.” Tobirama registers the environment around them, the eerie calmness contrasting with the buzzing of the fox’s chakra, and decides to sit down, resting his palms on his knees. “But I don’t have any assurance that you actually understand what I’m saying. I don’t know if a physical manifestation of chakra could even biologically have taste buds to enjoy it. As for the excessive sleeping, would sleep be beneficial when you have no biological organs to recuperate–”
“Human,” the fox growls, voice as deep as the bottom level of the ocean. “I assure you, even if I don’t have taste buds, I can surely taste chakra. And your one tastes especially refreshing .”
His heart skips a beat. Either from excitement or fright, Tobirama doesn’t know. On the other hand, one of his hypotheses is confirmed; the biju do not have taste buds.
“Why use the word ‘refreshing’?” Tobirama asks. “Can you taste my chakra from where you lie?” And could the fox sense of Tobirama’s affinity for water?
Baring his teeth, the snout of the fox lunges at Tobirama. Tobirama flickers by instinct, back to his camp, his breathing stuck in his chest before compensating for that second of inactivity, and with his nerves pounding madly beneath his skin.
There’s an automatic urge in his mind, to direct his ire to his subordinates and growl, No one tell Madara. A split second later, Tobirama realises that he’s alone. The thought does not comfort him in the slightest bit.
Opening his notebook, he writes down a report. The fox does not have a biological form akin to forest foxes – pure manifestation of chakra, capable of human speech. Response was provoked.
Short, succinct, and not liable to give Madara a premature stroke upon reading the report. A solid effort on his part.
It irks for Tobirama to admit it, but Hashirama’s overbearing charm is actually a formidable strategy, even against hulking forms of chakra. After the rinse and repeat cycle of poke, prod, dodge, and retreat before death is invoked, it starts working on the fifth day.
“Stay still , human!” the fox snarls, swiping his claws through air where once Tobirama’s particles had hummed. Their relationship has evolved from nipping teeth, to swiping claws, to grisly snarls and the occasional fire ball. It kind of reminds Tobirama of his dating years with Madara.
No matter how vicious, or how much pure volatile chakra the fox had injected into that sentence, he could not hide the exasperation laced into that tone. Victory spikes through Tobirama. “Four days, and you’re already weary, fox?” Tobirama taunts. “I’ve had to live with this kind of incessant nagging for years . You would not have lasted long, had I brought my brother along.”
The fox snaps, rises up on four legs, all anger and furious red energy. “Then why haven’t you? Sage knows, all you humans ever want to do is fight.” All nine tails rise like flags of war, demanding his surrender.
Tobirama refuses to let the bottom of his stomach fall, and he refuses to back down, even when the chakra threatens to drown each one of his senses. He plants his feet, doesn’t falter or flicker away, as firm as the ocean he embodies, and cranes his neck to meet the fierce gaze of the fox.
Tobirama holds its gaze. Letting firm sincerity saturate his throat, he swallows, and vows, “I don’t.”
Tension encompasses them, thicker than tar, as immovable as concrete. With every second that passes, Tobirama imagines an orchestra of waves, churning and crashing and thrashing until it layers into a magnificent crescendo of a tsunami–
“Fine,” the fox barks.
–that settles down into a clear line of where light blue meets with opalescent green.
The fox plops back on its legs, and aims a glare at him. “What do you want, human?”
Keeping his face still, not letting any hint of triumph leak through, Tobirama replies. “To talk.” Tobirama settles to sit, palms on his knees once more. “My questions still stand. For one, why do you sleep? I’m aware that animals need sleep to recuperate from the strains of our physical body, but how does that work when you’re a pure manifestation of chakra?”
A thick, furry eyebrow rises at his barrage of question. “You’re a curious one.”
“And what would you like me to address you?” Tobirama forges on. “I’ve been addressing you as ‘the fox’ in my mind, but that’s hardly polite. I’m Senju Tobirama.”
“I remember,” the fox states. “For now, you may address me as the Kyūbi.” His gaze travels up and down Tobirama’s relative tiny stature, and the Kyūbi twitches its ear. “There’s a saying in the human world about your kind…” the Kyūbi grins, fangs flashing with intent to scare, “curiosity killed the cat.”
It doesn’t work. Instead, Tobirama gives the fox a small one sided grin. After all, he’s known to be reckless within reason. “But satisfaction brought it back.”
Tobirama stays two nights more than he intended to. When there is a gigantic chakra fox ready to answer his questions, Tobirama’s hardly going to back down. It’s a good thing he’s packed enough tea to caffeinate a whole army. Sleep, it turns out, is only a useful way to pass time. When one is as old as the land itself, things tend to get boring pretty easily.
Somewhere on his notes, Tobirama jots down that they might even get a tad lonely too.
“How much is it true?” Tobirama asks, while cradling a thermos of tea and leaching from the heat of the crackling fire beside them. Tobirama shifts in his seat, admiring the darkness around them, and how it even seems to cover the orange glow that is the Kyūbi.
Eyes closed, head in its paws – because after all this time of using polite speech, Tobirama hasn’t quite pegged what pronouns to address the Kyūbi. “Hm?”
“The Sage and the Grand Feast. Did you really push the tanuki into the river?”
The Kyūbi scoffs. “A human tale made and embellished to be told to human ears. I’ll leave you to decide. Although,” dare Tobirama say, that a bit of humour flickers through the Kyubi’s eyes, “the tanuki is a churlish bastard.”
The Kyūbi speaks like it knows the tanuki, personally – and it leaves his mind whizzing. Tobirama sips his tea to wash down the fact that there are eight other chakra beast roaming around the lands. “So all the others exist too, huh?”
“Unfortunately.”
The grumble in the Kyūbi’s tone draws laughter out of Tobirama. He recognises something similar coming from his own. “Doesn’t this make you the eldest sibling? From my knowledge, eldest siblings seem to find enjoyment in pestering the lives of their younger ones.”
Well, to be fair, he only has Tōka, Madara and Hashirama as a sample size to base his observations on. Which results in high precision, but not the most reliably accurate conclusion.
“They exist to aggravate me,” the Kyūbi mutters. “Righteous, nagging fools that won’t let me have my peace. Sort of like humans.”
“What sort of subjects would they nag you about?” Tobirama asks, dodging the jab with an expert ease derived from evading the vicious guilt traps that are Hashirama’s pouts. “Admittedly, I’m curious. My brother nags me about not visiting enough, and it’s not like your siblings can swing by to exchange greetings.”
“Upholding the Sage’s word, keeping balance, watching humans and the likes. I’ve stopped listening to them centuries ago.”
Tobirama makes a sympathetic noise. “Siblings can be annoying like that.”
“They do not get better with age,” the Kyūbi says wryly.
“But the Sage is real,” Tobirama whispers to himself with awe. “I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised. Although, confirmation is nice to have.”
At this, the Kyūbi laughs, the sound harsh and rough like the tree bark he lies against. “Of course he is real, dumb human. He created your kind in his likeness.”
Surprise lifts his eyebrows till it hides under his faceplate. Not so much as what the Kyūbi said, as to the intonation that strokes his ear – it closely resembles affection. “And what do you mean about the Sage’s word, about keeping balance?”
The Kyūbi stays quiet, as if to negotiate with himself as to how much to reveal, and how to much to keep. Tobirama’s surprised that the Kyūbi has already revealed so much, and without any blood compensation on his part. “Every being in this world was created with the intent to fulfil a purpose,” the Kyūbi begins. “Agreed?”
Tobirama thinks about it, can’t find any fault with the reasoning except for one. “Agreed, with the exception of accidents.”
The quickness and the surety of the reply halts the Kyūbi’s next statement. “You’re not of the sentimental variety, are you?” the Kyūbi drawls, surprised bemusement lacing its words.
“I’m practical. I know I’m a child of war,” Tobirama offers. “I am fully aware that I was made to replace my older brother had he died during the warring era.”
Even though thoughts of a world bereaved of Hashirama always beckons him to clutch his heart. And he won't start to address the old, stretched scars that are his little brothers.
This seems to amuse the fox greatly, tilting its head until the Kyūbi rests its cheeks on its paws. “The human tales skim over our origin, but we never came to this world existing, we were made, much like you were, by the Sage. He made us as he split up a beast greater than any of us could ever be.”
The words tumble through his head, over and over. Tobirama finds himself catching his breath. Dread sucks his lips dry at the thought of a beast that could rival not one, but nine beasts like the one in front of him.
“The Ten-Tails, a manifestation of chakra so foul, that only the Sage could seal it within himself.”
They go quiet. Nothing between them but the whispers from the wind, and the crackling of fire.
“At some point, the Sage grew too weak,” the Kyūbi continues. “He split the beast into nine pieces, into nine of us. He told us that we had to keep the peace. He told us that one day we will be united once more. He then sealed the husk of the Ten-Tails into the moon, so that no one may ever reach it.”
Tobirama shudders out a weak laugh. “The mooncakes.”
Even the Kyūbi chuckles. “The mooncakes,” he agrees. Even the most convoluted tapestry of tales has some threads of truth interwoven.
“What happened with keeping the peace – not that I’m asking you to fight for us,” Tobirama rehashes quickly at the sight of narrowed eyes. “I only want to talk.”
The Kyūbi doesn’t take its eyes off Tobirama. “The same thing that always happens.”
Tobirama gulps. “Which is?”
At this the Kyubi sighs, and it is so deep and so long that Tobirama can recognise exhaustion in its rawest form. “Human lives are too short. As soon as some semblance of peace is reached, the progenitors die, and the fighting begins anew. Eventually it turned into a tedium. It’s absolutely ridiculous repeating something again and again, expecting the outcome to change, with humans demanding you at every turn to change things.” Sprouts of anger are punctuated with flashes of sharp teeth, short snarls and bursts of chakra. “Even physical manifestations of chakra can become tired, even if we don’t sleep,” the Kyūbi throws out with a bit of humour. The Kyūbi pauses, and his ear twitches in thought. “Conflict is inevitable, and so is death. You are the first Tobirama I’ve met, but you will hardly be the last.”
Tobirama can’t find any fault with the Kyūbi’s reasoning, because it’s something he could conclude for himself. It’s why immortality is the one area of research he will not touch. He loves too hard, and too fiercely, to survive so many instances of disappointment, and heartbreak. Life is evanescent but death is permanent. Distance seems like a very attractive defence mechanism.
And if there happens to be a slight desolate tone to the Kyūbi’s statement, well, Tobirama’s not going to mention it one bit.
“If it’s any consolation,” Tobirama says, honest resolution pouring out of him. “I can’t say the same – I don’t think I’ll ever forget you.”
The Kyūbi folds his face away from him. Tobirama never does anything in half measures, including attempting to veil his sincerity. He tinkers with the idea that a smile could be playing at the Kyūbi’s snout.
When the hints of sleep start tugging him, Tobirama tries for another conversation. This experience is too unreal, too precious, to cut short because of some inconvenience like sleep .
“You’re very free with your information.” Tobirama prompts. He fights back a yawn. “Aren’t you afraid I might spread news of your existence to everyone else?”
The Kyūbi laughs, then grins at him in way that leaves Tobirama swallowing. “They’ll think you a madman without proof. And when you bring them here, to show them your proof, I’ll sense you from afar and swallow you whole.”
Tobirama blinks. “Fair enough.”
With the warmth radiating from the fire, and nothing but the rumble of the Kyūbi’s voice to concentrate on, Tobirama listens to the tales woven around him, and finds amusement at how the issue of vexing siblings can transcend even the human form.
Waltzing home with a whole bunch of scribbles tucked in his storage scroll, Tobirama is decidedly in a good mood. That comes crashing down inevitably when he reaches Madara’s office, and a stern faced Madara hands him a manila folder.
“I want your full, personal recommendations when you finish this,” Madara informs him, pressing his lips into a thin line. “You’re going to want to take some time off to read this.”
Stern looks are not unfamiliar to Madara, but one of this severity leaves a disconcerting feeling churning through Tobirama. So Tobirama heeds to his wishes. Only when he’s cocooned in his personal study does he open the manila folder, and begins to read.
A jōnin from Cloud, experienced sensor, infiltrating the eastern border to investigate an unidentified chakra source…
One by one, he flips the pages while his pulse picks up momentum like a rocky avalanche. The clock ticks on behind him.
…append any form of research pertaining to experimentations on storage seals and chakra coils…
…neutralise the source without provoking attention from Konohagakure…
…reach out to contacts within the Uzushiogakure for potential containers…
Tobirama slams the folder closed, staring at it with wide, unblinking eyes. It doesn’t take a huge jump to figure what Cloud is planning.
The eastern border is close to where he had originally sensed the Kyūbi, before pinning him down further in their Land of Fire. Storage seals and chakra coils. The Ten-Tails, he remembered the Kyūbi hissing, a manifestation of chakra so foul, that only the Sage could seal it within himself.
A human container. A walking storage seal for a twenty-foot chakra beast at the beck and call of their village. And who would be better to handle the surge of overwhelming chakra in their coils, than the clan that is already lauded for their gigantic reserves.
There’s a war tearing through him. Heavy drum beats of rebellion beating at every turn of thought. One side screams to step ahead, to pull the poisonous mushrooms at its roots, to take the necessary steps so that he may never have to see another comrade with their innards spilling on the ground, or another student lying unmoving in a hospital bed. The villages encroaching on their territory will take advantage of their old age and their waning reputation, and they will attack with their new human-sized weapons, and they will lay waste to their home.
It would not be difficult, Tobirama weighs with a heavy heart, to develop a seal that could store a bijū within a human’s chakra coil, were he and Mito to work together. If the other villages had even an inkling of the knowledge they have, then it would only be a matter of time before they caught up.
A side of him recoils in disgust. Remember what Hashirama said to us at the peace treaty , his mind urged desperately, remember that you cannot punish someone for a crime they have not committed. The bijū are sentient. A picture of the Kyūbi huffing flashes like a painted scene. They never asked to be split in nine. They don’t deserve to be imprisoned and rot in a breathing, human cell.
The red tomoe of the Sharingan spins in his mind.
He can see Butsuma with his cold eyes, and colder demeanour, flashing the edges of blade into the light, teaching him to strike down the opponent before it can even be a threat. It’s them or us, he used to say, before a smack would send Tobirama to the ground. The words would end up being a chant beaten into his skin.
He can see an orange glow of a crackling fire and a dozy fox, of rumbles echoing around him and red eyes bigger than his head. He can see fangs longer than his torso, flashed in a toothy grin that’s akin to a smile.
He needs a drink.
Tobirama rises from his seat, hastily knocking down some picture frames in his haste to get to Madara’s desk. He turns through all the drawers, grunting in frustration when all he finds are papers. Goddamn, if only his sensing ability stretched to alcohol.
Then he remembers Madara banging his knee onto his desk, and knocks all over until the slam of his knuckles rings hollow.
Bingo.
Using his palm, he slams at the hollow spot. A drawer slides out. Tobirama rummages through it, and falters.
Inside are the bottles of shōchū he’s searching for, a sprinkle of black hair ties, and a small half-folded picture with a yellow grainy texture that betrays its old age. Tobirama unfolds the picture, and with a huge amount of surprise, runs his thumb over the face that stares back.
A black and white picture of him glaring at the camera. His chubby cheeks and short hair belong to his younger self. Tobirama remembers how Hashirama had bounced up to him one day, shoved a camera at his face, blinded him with white light, and giggled at the final product.
Tobirama thought the picture had been long gone.
Once, Tobirama had been the Uchiha’s greatest prosecutor back when the Uchiha were their most daunting enemy and the wounds that their dead left behind were still throbbing fresh. They are Uchiha, brother, he remembers growling at Hashirama. They will stab you in the back, they cannot be trusted.
Hashirama had taken one look at his wariness, and rolled over his concerns using his desperate and boisterous charm. You have to trust them, Tobi, Hashirama answered him, all earnest determination and radiant hope. You have to give them a chance. You cannot punish someone for a crime they have not committed.
It’s been five years since he’s married the Head of the Uchiha clan. The same Head of Clan that had cut a swathe through his Clan with a bloody fan, and the same Head of Clan that keeps a picture of a young, surly Tobirama in a secret compartment of his study desk.
Tobirama laughs and laughs and laughs because, suddenly, it’s a lot easier to breathe. “Madara, you sentimental fool,” he chokes out, adoration cracking his voice. He traces the lines of the photograph. “You absolute sentimental fool.”
Kagami pauses his writing when a thud reverberates behind him. A muffled but creatively colourful string of expletives follows shortly after. He wheels his chair so he can open the door and poke his head through to put on his best disapproving face. “Language, shishou,” chides Kagami. “Or I’m telling sensei.”
Madara throws a glare at Kagami, and if their roles were reversed, Kagami would even describe the look as recalcitrant. “I can swear if I want to,” Madara declares, pulling out his favourite defensive phrase. “I’m the Hokage around here.”
Kagami tut-tuts. “Pulling rank’s not going to charm those diplomats into giving you what you want, shishou.”
“Remember when you used to be afraid of me?” Madara mutters under his breath, with a lot of grudging done between each word. “You used to be so cute back then.”
Kagami nods, solemn in his response. “Primitive times, indeed.”
Someone clears their throat, and both Uchiha turns their heads to find a Yamanaka, dressed in grey, struggling to hide a smile.
“Hokage-sama,” the Yamanaka reports. “The prisoner is ready for you.”
Being the Hokage’s apprentice comes with perks, Kagami recognises, perks of the high clearance variety. As Kagami follows Madara and the Yamanaka down to Torture & Interrogation Headquarters, he reflects that not everyone is lucky enough to be in the position that he’s in, Uchiha or not. Not even people twice his age and older had the same clearance level that he does. Not that he’s loose when it comes to classified information: he’d rather chop off a limb than see disappointment on his shishou’s face - or his sensei’s.
Some may describe Kagami’s devotion as a little fanatical. Kagami doesn’t disagree. Uchihas don’t just love – they obsess .
As far as he’s aware, only three people are privy to the current Kyūbi situation; his shishou, his sensei, and him. That’s not a privilege that everyone has, even if his privilege is due to the service that he’s about to be complicit in.
Eventually they stop trailing down the drab hallways to a thick, slab of metal Kagami recognises as a cell door. Inside, the room is dark. A figure slumps in a chair, hands tied behind him. Briefly, he registers the blond hair, pale complexion, sturdy build, and exhausted eyes that shoot them a hefty amount of vitriol. Surprise, however brief, flickers in his eyes when he lands on Kagami. His headband belongs to Cloud.
Even at fourteen, Kagami still retains a lot of his baby fat. Biwako and Koharu stated their jealousy at his soft, curly hair coupled with his delicate features many times. Kagami knows he looks as soft as a porcelain doll - and he knows it unnerves people. Not that he minds, it adds to a sort of subtle threat to his presence in the cell.
His shishou and sensei discussed the prisoner, assessing the advantages and disadvantages of their captive’s survival. A quick, clean cut to a loose thread, or to use the jōnin to barter with the Cloud. To the astonishment to the room, Kagami had spoken for the prisoner’s survival, but not for the purpose of bartering.
Insurgence, he had suggested, big doe eyes unflinching in the face of his superiors.
A village is built on bonds of blood, debt and loyalty. No village would act like they have any jōnin to spare. With a little bit of chakra, Kagami could change that.
Kagami could twist and twist, until time doubles, and the darkness in this hole lengthens, and a small voice whispers to the Cloud nin with aching betrayal that maybe Cloud hadn’t even glanced at their negotiation attempts, and had instead rescinded all knowledge of him and left him to rot. Kagami could plant instances of a budding resentment against a Kage so easily willing to throw away a loyal soldier for his aimless attempts at power. All for a false rumour and null research. He's wasting away in this prison for nothing.
What kind of Kage would sacrifice a man for some false rumours and redundant research? Would a Kage, unable to see the worth in his own people, be the kind worth following?
Plant enough doubt and paranoia to fuel a raging fire in the soldier then set him free. His loyalty still ties him to the village, but the nin will never forget how he had to tear his way, alone , to freedom. Either he will shake the core of Cloud’s foundation by inciting others or he will be executed for cultivating treason. The rumours of the Kyubi sighting will be deemed false, and everything ties itself into a neat bow.
He could already see Hiruzen with his frowning face and stubborn set of shoulders, because for all that he is ninja, Hiruzen still keeps close his strong ideals about kindness - ones that encompass everyone including enemy shinobi. He would be upset at Kagami, upset at his apathy while programming a human into a ticking-time bomb, ever the noble hero that he is.
Danzō flashes in his mind. With him, three beeps of the heart monitor and white walls and the finality of his resolve.
Let Hiruzen be the one with the steel morals and a bleeding heart. That is not Kagami’s role to play.
Madara places a hand on his shoulder, sturdy, unbending and consenting. Kagami smiles and closes his right eye. Like stormy whirlpools that crashes without mercy, his red eye swirls. Three black tomoe merges into three points of a cuboid shuriken. The walls begin to spin. “ Kotoamatsukami .”
Not many people could hold the scorching brown of his husband’s gaze without wavering, Tobirama muses, and fewer find his intense staring as comforting as he does.
“Personal recommendations?” Madara prompts. He sits with his hands folded in front of his mouth for contemplation. The neat state of the office, even with the mountainous piles of papers weighing down his desk, reminds him that Madara can be just as much as a perfectionist as he is, much to the village’s benefit.
An underlying layer of nerve threatens to eat away at his skin, but the heat from Madara’s attention is soothing in its familiarity. “Some would say you’re entirely too biased towards me,” Tobirama observes.
A smile twitches on Madara’s lips. “Well, they’re not wrong,” Madara points out. “I came to this seat with a premade set of biases, and they gave me the hat anyway.”
“Does brother know of the situation?”
“I have yet to inform him,” Madara says. “But I already have an idea of what Hashirama would say. Tell me, what Cloud wants to do…” Madara pauses, trying to wring his mind around the idea of human containers. “…is it possible?”
Tobirama presses his lips into a thin line. “Very.”
Madara lets out an exhausted breath, and leans back into his chair, the lines on his face appearing deeper than moments ago. “Then I know exactly what your brother would say. Sage knows what else Cloud has been planning under our noses, at some point all we’re doing is racing against time. Hashirama would tell us to secure the beasts and divide them between the Nations to even out the power imbalance. Meaning that we'll give them a precious, prestigious commodity that will strengthen our alliances between the villages. Because Hashirama has dangerous humanitarian impulses that I’ve been trying to beat out of him since we were twelve.”
That is…eerily close to the conclusion Tobirama came up about Hashirama, although the suffering tone of the last sentence makes him laugh. “You forget that his humanitarian impulses are what brought Konoha together.”
“I know,” Madara groans. “It’s a curse and a gift, and I never know which it is until hindsight. Which is why I want your opinion first. I’d rather we don’t give other villages a charged weapon with only a shark smile and a thin promise in exchange.”
Tobirama tilts his head slightly. “And what would you rather we do?”
Madara grins, the flashing of his teeth a tad too vicious and a tad too cynical to fit in the domesticity that surrounds him. “I’d rather we come out on top.”
Tobirama laughs, apprehension that he didn’t know he has leeching out of him. Maybe one day he’d get to introduce Madara to the Kyubi. They’re both grouchy, crotchety, cantankerous beings: either they’d get along swimmingly and rue about humanity’s faults together, or the whole Land of Fire will explode with, well, actual fire.
Tobirama finds himself enthusiastic at examining the outcome.
Then all smiling humour leeks out of him, and awe takes its place, dousing each word with the wonder of the night sky, the crackling fire and the stories told from a grouchy fox. “They’re sentient, Madara. They live, they think and they’re older than we can ever imagine being. Nothing good can come out of sealing these powerful beings, against their will , into someone who might not be able to handle the strain of their gigantic chakra reserves courseing through their coils. All that would do would nurture a dangerous kind of hatred towards us should they ever break out – when they break out.”
Madara’s gaze sharpens. “You’re confident that they’ll break out?”
“They’re too wily not to. Too intelligent and too powerful for any current sealing technique we have to contain them without any incidents. It would be hubris for us to expect to control them.”
Weariness drives Madara to rub his face. “And yet Cloud wants to try – and soon after, every other god damn village will want to jump on this boat. On top of that, the thought of these creatures simply resting in the wild, waiting for anyone to blunder into them, is an absolute nightmare.”
“There hasn’t been any incidents with them so far. They’ve been keeping to themselves – when I talked to the Kyūbi, it was disillusioned, Madara. The Kyūbi sounded tired. If we leave them to be, I’m confident that they’ll return the favour,” Tobirama adjures. Catching Madara’s eyes, he holds it, unblinking and earnest. “They haven’t done anything harmful to us. We can’t punish them for a crime they haven’t committed.”
It’s ironic that Tobirama is using Hashirama’s words to oppose the course of action that Hashirama would have suggested. But Hashirama doesn’t know anything more than the lore – he doesn’t know that the Kyūbi could talk about its siblings with an irritation in its tone that likens itself to Tobirama. If Hashirama knew, then Tobirama is sure that he would feel the same way.
Madara recognises the abject plea in his statement for what it is. Tobirama’s not a man who begs. It unsettles him. “Your personal recommendations?”
“Sabotage,” Tobirama suggests. “Falsify research to be leaked. Keep the beasts as the lore they’re known to be. Wipe any trace of the Kyūbi within the Land of Fire. Plant spies within the other villages to monitor the situation, mislead their research, outright steal if we have to. If need be...” Tobirama swallows, the lump in his throat bopping, “…I can start working on the seal with Mito as a precaution.”
“That’ll only buy us time,” Madara points out.
“I know.” Tobirama couldn’t think of anything else. “That’s what I need. Time. I’ll figure something else with a bit more time.”
A few seconds of silence pass as Madara hold his folded hands against his chin in thought. Tobirama counts the seconds with a bated breath. This is only a recommendation, and Madara’s the Hokage. Ultimately, he doesn’t have to accept it.
With one sentence Madara could order Tobirama to prepare a living, breathing cage that would rip away the freedom of the land's oldest sentient beings. It's an unsettling thought.
“I want you to start working with Mito before you head out to see the Kyūbi again,” Madara decides. “…and start arranging the infiltrations with Tōka. I’ll inform Hashirama later today.”
Closing his eyes, he savours the relief rushing through his veins, plucking cords strung to the atrium of his heart. “Thank you,” Tobirama breathes out.
With a push from his table, Madara rolls his seat out, and Tobirama recognises an invite when he sees one. Rolling his eyes – because they’re really supposed to be working right now – he slinks onto Madara’s lap like before hefting his legs over the seat’s armrest, and sinking his fingers into Madara’s frazzled hair. Combing his fingers through the black locks, Tobirama makes sure to gently scratch Madara’s scalp. Madara’s hair acts like an extension of his mood, at times, and Madara so likes his scratching.
This close, Tobirama can trace every curve and fold of Madara’s face. He can tell which ones are derived from age and which are from stress.
“I’ve always hated my father for sending people out to die,” Madara says in a quiet voice, round eyes drooping on the edges. He gives a sardonic laugh. “Now a war is right around the corner, and I’ll be doing the exact same thing. Sometimes, I don’t know why I bother getting up and putting that hat on in the mornings.”
No question as to what ‘that hat’ refers to, even if Tobirama doesn’t have an addendum that could assuage his fears. Instead, Tobirama curls his fingers at the top of his head, and presses his lips at the dip of the temples, hoping that the quiet ardour of his touch will speak for him.
It works. He can tell from the way Madara clenches his eyes shut and leans into his warmth.
“Thank you,” Tobirama murmurs against Madara’s skin. This time it’s for rolling himself out of their bed each morning, for shouldering the burden that the hat represents with all the strength he can muster, and for doing it day after day, without fail. This is the job that dulled Hashirama’s soulful eyes at times. Tobirama is glad, albeit even a bit selfishly, that he hasn’t had to do the same – at least, not in this lifetime.
“Our apprentices need to duke it out and take the hat off me before my body turns cold,” Madara grumbles. “Maybe, if I’m lucky, Biwako will ditch her law career and snatch it off of me before the boys can even blink.”
There is too much hope in Madara’s tone. It begs to be squished and that's just too much temptation for Tobirama. “You’ll sooner see the village burn before Biwako leaves the courthouse,” Tobirama says with a wry tone.
Madara grimaces. “You’re right.” And the mention of villages burning, especially his village burning, is enough to make him lean around Tobirama to smack the side of his desk. The iconic secret drawer slides out in all its alcoholic glory, and Madara raises his gaze from the bottle to meet Tobirama’s flat look. “Oh,” Madara realises, as if unearthing a world shattering fact for all to see. “Kagami got that face from you.”
Tobirama’s slanted eyes go even narrower, if it’s even possible. “What face?”
“That one,” Madara gestures to every inch of Tobirama’s face, “The one he wore when he dropped off all these pamphlets for substance abuse this morning – I know you snitched on me, by the way, thanks for that.”
“Good,” Tobirama approves, without mercy. “Then you’ll know it’s not just him you’re disappointing.”
“Shut it, Senju.” Madara uncorks the bottle cap and takes a swig. “Sage knows half the reason I’m drinking is because of your experiments. I should designate the alcohol as part of your research budget.” In fact, Madara makes a face of deliberation, whether it's because he's impressed with his own suggestion or something else, Tobirama doesn't know, before swooping in and pressing his lips against Tobirama’s.
His lips are soft and tingly. There’s the bitter aftertaste of shōchū which he doesn’t mind, but Tobirama makes a show of pulling away and gagging anyway. Madara snickers in delight.
Tobirama waits until Madara takes his next sip, before saying, “I know you keep a picture of me from when I was eight in your study drawer, you creep.”
It’s worth seeing Madara spray his drink and choke on his coughs.
“Do you contact your siblings often?”
The Kyūbi peels one eyelid half open. “Why do you ask?”
Tobirama doesn’t sit today. In fact, he shouldn’t be here in light of all the work he’s undertaking. But as he watches the sun dip into the ground and the sky turning a mixture of purple and orange, he feels a pull to sprint until he sees all nine tails curled in sleep. So he follows the instincts that lead him here, and he doesn't feel a single drop of regret for doing so. “I have something that concerns you and your siblings.”
The Kyūbi raises an eyebrow, one eye still closed. “We don’t speak with each other but there’s a way for us to congregate, if that is what you’re after. Them listening to me, however, looks to be highly improbable.”
Tobirama draws on all his diplomatic experiences, and ponders on a way to word his statement without evoking an ire on humanity’s behalf that could end up with him being devoured. Tobirama quite like himself wholse, thank you very much.
“Things are moving within the shinobi world,” Tobirama informs the Kyūbi. “It’s best that you and your siblings are vigilant about humans, especially the ones in the Land of Lightning.”
“Do you have something to tell me, human?” The Kyūbi’s tone bubbles with a warning.
Tobirama debates his answer, but admits that honesty has gotten him pretty far with the beast. “Maybe when you’re in a more generous mood,” Tobirama answers.
This startles an amused huff out of the Kyūbi, the simmering warning in his question toning down to a calm lull. The Kyūbi regards him with something akin to reluctant mirth. “Fortitude or hubris, I still have not decided what drives you.”
It doesn’t sound like a thanks, but it’s close.
Giving a jerky nod, Tobirama turns to leave. He stops at the mention of his name.
“Senju Tobirama.” The Kyubi weighs each syllable with care. Their eyes meet, once again, red upon red. “Next time you visit; you may call me Kurama.”