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“I have to say, Senju, this is a bit much even for you.”

Madara’s voice cut cleanly through the morning quiet, firm enough to draw every gaze to where he and Tobirama sat opposite one another at the council table. Sunlight slanted over the spread of maps between them, catching on red lines that marked patrol routes, festival boundaries, and the countless logistical adjustments for the village’s upcoming five-year anniversary.

Tobirama did not lift his eyes from the diagram. “Given the influx of merchants, additional guard rotations are necessary. Three squads will not suffice.”

Izuna scoffed before Madara could reply. “Three squads would suffice plenty. Who in their right mind attacks a festival?”

Tobirama inhaled a slow, measured breath that betrayed the exact effort he was exerting not to acknowledge Izuna directly.

Madara watched the hesitation with faint interest. “Izuna has a point. Your proposal assumes the worst of our own borders.”

“It assumes reality,” Tobirama returned. “Traffic will triple during the anniversary week. Increased movement invites increased risk. Ignoring that is negligence.”

Izuna let out a quiet hum, tilting his head. “Or paranoia.”

Tobirama’s jaw shifted by a fraction. “Prudence.”

“Paranoia,” Izuna repeated, savoring the word.

Before Tobirama could cut him down, the Akimichi clan head cleared his throat. “Perhaps additional patrols could be drawn from the reserves? A compromise, Tobirama-san?”

“Reserves are already committed to infrastructural oversight,” Tobirama said. “Unless you wish to manage civilian traffic yourselves.”

The Akimichi muttered something unflattering beneath his breath.

Hashirama leaned forward quickly, palms up in placation. “We’re all working toward the same goal, aren’t we? Let’s not—”

“Three squads are insufficient.” Tobirama’s voice cut cleanly through his brother’s. “We cannot protect a celebration with wishful thinking.”

“And we cannot protect it by stripping personnel from essential stations.” Madara’s tone remained even, but the edge beneath it carried easily across the table. “Unless, of course, you believe Konoha too fragile to withstand its own festival.”

Tobirama finally lifted his eyes, and Madara held the gaze as though he’d been waiting for it.

Izuna watched them with undisguised satisfaction, chin propped on one hand. “If we’re expanding patrols, perhaps we should assign Tobirama to the children’s scavenger hunt. He seems fond of chasing shadows.”

Tobirama didn’t bother turning. “If you spent less time provoking, you might grasp the difference between shadows and threats.”

“I grasp plenty,” Izuna replied lightly. “Mostly how to waste your time.”

Hashirama’s wince was nearly audible. “Izuna, please—”

The Nara head joined in, impatient. “Tobirama-san, Madara-san—either proposal could work if we—”

Madara spoke over him, eyes never leaving Tobirama’s. “Explain to me, then, why you require six squads to supervise a trade road we’ve secured for months.”

“Because stability breeds complacency,” Tobirama replied. “And complacency invites failure. You of all people should understand that.”

For a moment, the room held its breath.

Izuna straightened slightly. The clan heads exchanged wary glances.

Hashirama stepped in at last, too loudly. “Gentlemen—please. This is a festival. A celebration. Surely we can—”

But the argument had already slipped beyond his reach.

Madara leaned back a fraction, elbows resting on the arms of his chair. The movement was deceptively casual. “If you require six squads for one district, how many would you need for a village twice this size? Ten? Twelve? Or would you simply ban festivities altogether?”

“If it ensured public safety, I would not hesitate,” Tobirama replied.

Izuna let out a low whistle. “Spirits save us.”

The Aburame head exhaled, preparing to speak. “If we simply—”

He never finished. A sound bloomed beneath the floorboards, it vibrated through the soles of their sandals before any of them could recognize it for what it was.

Tobirama’s head lifted a fraction. Madara’s brows drew together. Hashirama inhaled sharply, too late.

The world detonated.

A burst of force tore upward through the council chamber, shattering stone and wood in a single concussive roar. The table split down the center. Maps and documents burst into the air as the light vanished under a storm of dust and debris.

Tobirama’s reaction was immediate, and disastrously characteristic. His hand shot out, not to shield himself, but to seize the nearest set of logistical schematics skidding off the fractured tabletop. The entire security layout for the anniversary festival. Uncopied. His fingers brushed the top sheet—

Madara saw it happen in a single, furious flash of clarity.

“Don’t you—” he began, voice swallowed by the blast.

Tobirama reached. Madara moved.

He crossed the distance in a blur of red and black, chakra flaring sharp under his skin. His shoulder slammed into Tobirama’s chest, driving them both to the floor as a section of the ceiling gave way with a groaning crack. Stone crashed down where Tobirama had been standing, splintering the table into ruin.

A heartbeat later, Hashirama’s mokuton surged outward in a burst of instinct. Wooden pillars erupting from the cracked earth, catching falling beams, shielding the nearest clan heads, sweeping Izuna out of the collapse with a barrier of interlocking branches.

But Madara had no such luxury. He braced himself above Tobirama, one arm caging Tobirama’s head as dust and debris hammered against his back. A rain of splintered wood and broken tile thudded into his armor, the impact vibrating through him.

Tobirama did not struggle; he merely exhaled through his nose, the smallest flicker of annoyance tightening his mouth.

The dust settled slowly, thick enough to taste. The sound in the aftermath was a ringing, disoriented quiet broken only by coughs and the creak of shifting rubble.

Madara lowered himself onto one elbow, breath sharp, hair hanging loose around his face. He blinked grit from his lashes, then looked down—

And found Tobirama staring up at him with infuriating calm, one hand still curled around the edge of a half-crumpled document he’d somehow managed to grab on the way down.

Madara stared.

Tobirama blinked up at him.

Madara’s voice, when it came, was furious.

 “Are you—” He broke off, coughed once, then hissed through his teeth, “Are you out of your mind?”

“I fail to see the issue.”

“You fail to—? Are you fucking kidding me?” Madara stared at him like that was the most offensive answer imaginable. “You were a heartbeat away from being pulped under half the damn ceiling.”

“I was aware of the trajectory,” Tobirama said, tone infuriatingly even. “I would have moved.”

“Aware—” Madara choked on air, then in outrage. “You reached for paperwork.”

Tobirama lifted the half-wrinkled schematic slightly, as though presenting evidence. “This contains the full perimeter grid. Losing it would have set back preparations by—”

“I don’t give a shit about the perimeter grid,” Madara snapped.

Tobirama’s brows rose a fraction. “Then you have become remarkably shortsighted.”

Madara leaned down another inch, eyes burning. “Short-sighted? Short-sighted? Tobirama, you have the self-preservation of a stunned deer.”

“You can’t honestly believe I did not account for the collapse.”

“You did not account for shit—I watched you fail to account for it in real time.”

Tobirama exhaled, faint and annoyed. “So you believe you can withstand some falling debris but I cannot?”

Madara froze. “That,” he said slowly, dangerously, “is so far from the point that I genuinely cannot follow the path you took to get there.”

“You tackled me.” Tobirama pointed out. 

“Yes,” Madara hissed, “because you weren’t moving, you suicidal maniac.”

“Your phrasing is unnecessarily dramatic.”

Silence expanded between them. Tense, tight, and close. Very close.

Close enough that every clan head was now carefully looking anywhere but the incident unfolding before them.

A few stray glances flicked between Madara’s braced arms, Tobirama pinned beneath him, the dust settling in their hair. The Akimichi head, mouthed something to the Nara head, who responded by studiously closing his eyes.

Madara did not yet notice. Tobirama, if he did, chose to ignore it. The rubble groaned softly around them.

Finally, Hashirama—mud-spattered, eyes bright with panic—lunged over a fallen beam.

“Tobirama!” he called, dropping to his knees beside the wreckage. “Are you hurt? Are you—” His gaze landed on Madara, still half-covering Tobirama, and flooded with relief. “Madara! Thank you. You saved him.”

Tobirama’s jaw twitched. “He did not.”

Madara’s head snapped back toward him, outrage reigniting like a struck match.

“Oh, for—You ungrateful, stone-hearted—” He broke off with a sound of sheer exasperation. “I should have left you there. Truly. I should have let the ceiling knock some sense into you—if you even have any to knock loose.”

“Once again,” Tobirama replied, “I would have been fine either way. Your involvement was redundant.”

Madara made an inarticulate noise of pure offense. “Redundant? Redundant? I—”

A new voice, far too casual for the circumstances, cut smoothly across the rising tension.

“So,” Izuna drawled, “are we comfortable like this, or should I give you two a moment?”

Madara went rigid.

Only now did he seem to become aware of the exact position he occupied: knees braced on either side of Tobirama’s hips, one hand planted by Tobirama’s head, the other gripping his shoulder, bodies pressed close enough that any shift in breath was shared.

Tobirama, damn him, remained entirely composed.

Madara, unfortunately, was not. A flush rose along the line of his cheekbones.

He pushed himself up at once, dust cascading from his armor, muttering something vicious under his breath that could have been a curse or Izuna’s name. Tobirama sat up just as calmly, brushing debris from his sleeve with neat, efficient flicks.

Madara stilled for a heartbeat, the set of his shoulders taut with something he clearly didn’t want examined. Then, with a sharp exhale, he extended his hand. Tobirama accepted it without remark, rising in one fluid motion. He released Madara’s grip the moment he found his balance, the contact dissolving as neatly as it had begun.

Before either of them could reclaim even a breath of composure, Hashirama surged upright with far too much frantic energy for the ruined chamber around them.

“Is everyone alright?” he demanded, voice cracking with strain as he scanned the debris-strewn council room. “Is anyone injured? Kami—how could something like this happen inside the Hokage tower? Is anyone bleeding? Izuna, are you bleeding? Akimichi-dono, should I get a medic? Tobirama— otōto, are you—”

“I am quite well,” Tobirama cut in, brushing a fleck of shattered stone from his sleeve. His tone was perfectly even. “Though it seems,” he added lightly, eyes sliding toward Madara and Izuna, “that the notion of an attack during the festival season is not as far-fetched as some claimed.”

Izuna’s jaw dropped. Madara’s eyes flared.

Hashirama made a strangled noise.

“Oh, you absolute bastard,” Izuna exploded first, face scrunching with indignation. “You cannot possibly be using some shitty assasination attempt to win an argument—”

“Merely an observation.”

“‘Observation,’ my ass,” Izuna snapped. 

Hashirama clapped both hands over his face. “Tobirama, please, for once—”

“I am simply noting,” Tobirama finished, “that reality appears to have aligned with my earlier projections.”

Izuna made an outraged noise that only barely qualified as speech. Madara looked ready to throttle him.

But the rest of the council…

The rest of the council was watching something entirely different.

A short distance away, half-shielded by Hashirama’s wooden pillars and staring at the four men from the corner of her eye, the Aburame head murmured, “…Forgive me, but… why would Madara-san shield Tobirama-san so quickly? I was under the impression their relationship was… strained.”

The Akimichi head shifted, thoughtful. “I thought they disliked one another.”

“I thought they barely tolerated one another,” the Aburame corrected.

The Nara head, still coated in dust, let out a long, contemplative hum. “You’ve seen how they argue.”

The others nodded.

He continued, quietly:

“…Perhaps there is more between them than we’ve assumed.”

The silence that followed was tense, and dangerously interpretive.

---

The wind cut cold channels through the ravine, carrying dust that clung to armor plates and settled in the folds of the squad's cloaks. The landscape was unforgiving-walls of jagged rock and the Konoha shinobi moved through it with measured, deliberate quiet.

In the days after the Hokage Tower explosion, the investigation had been maddeningly inconclusive. The blast site was too badly damaged for clear answers; too many of the clues had been buried under collapsed stone. But a single thread had emerged, one that no one in Konoha could ignore.

An Iwa shinobi had been captured near the outer district the same night as the attack. Injured, disoriented, and very much out of place.

Under interrogation he revealed nothing useful, but his presence alone cast a long shadow. Whether he belonged to a rogue cell or a sanctioned unit remained unclear, yet the implication was enough to warrant concern. If Iwa had infiltrated once, they could do so again. And if they had struck the Hokage Tower intentionally…

Then Konoha needed to know whether more were gathering along the border. 

Which was why Tobirama and Madara walked this ravine now—two of Konoha’s strongest shinobi, supported by an elite squad. They were meant to scout, intercept, and, if absolutely necessary, confront whatever force might be waiting beyond the ridgeline.

Madara crouched at the mouth of a rocky outcrop, fingers brushing the faint scorch pattern on the ground. “They passed here within the hour,” he said. “Four, maybe five. We’re close.”

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed. “They’ll have prepared counter-surveillance.  I implore you to proceed with caution.”

Madara shot him a sidelong look. “I am capable of cautious movement.”

Tobirama made a noncommittal sound. “Debatable.”

They moved on, the ravine narrowing around them as the rock walls drew closer. The wind quieted here, swallowed by stone. Even the squad’s footsteps, seemed too loud.

Tobirama slowed.

Something in the air shifted. Subtle, wrong. The absence of chakra, a hollow stillness where the natural flow of signatures should have brushed faintly against his senses.

He lifted a hand. “Halt.”

But one of the shinobi had already taken a step forward.

The earth answered with a click—soft, metallic—far too late.

Tobirama’s eyes widened. “Move!”

The ground erupted beneath the shinobi’s feet in a blast of packed stone and fire, ripping through the canyon floor. The shockwave hurled the front line backward. Jagged shards of earth rained down, forcing the squad to scatter.

Tobirama hissed through his teeth. “Demolition corp.”

The next explosion detonated from the left cliff wall, showering them with rubble. And then, like insects crawling from cracked stone, Iwa shinobi emerged from hidden alcoves and camouflaged crevices, faces grim with purpose.

The ambush hit with full force.

Madara was already in motion, fire erupting from his hands in a sweeping arc that illuminated the ravine. Tobirama surged forward with a burst of water-edged chakra, intercepting two attackers before they reached the rear flank. 

The canyon erupted into chaos. Madara’s sharingan caught every motion, every shift of intent. He was untouchable. Until a single misstep that wasn’t his.

A Konoha shinobi, a freshly crowned jonin, failed to see the explosive tag embedded deep in the shale wall until its seal began to burn.

Madara saw it instantly. So did Tobirama, but he was too far—locked in a clash against three Iwa operatives.

The tag flared. Madara didn’t hesitate.

He blurred across the ravine, appearing between the shinobi and the detonation an instant before it triggered. His chakra flared outward in a defensive burst—but even for him, the timing was razor-thin.

The explosion hit like a battering ram, and Madara took the brunt of it.

Flame and shrapnel swallowed his silhouette, hurling him backward. He struck the canyon floor hard, skidding across the stone. 

“Madara-sama!” the young shinobi shouted, horrified.

Tobirama’s head snapped toward the blast. Madara was half-slumped against the rock, blood streaking down his ribs, breath unsteady. Fury, cold and sharp, cut through his focus.

He finished the three Iwa operatives around him in a blur of motion. The instant the last body hit the stone, Tobirama vanished.

He reappeared beside Madara in a flicker, the air rippling with the clean aftershock of Hiraishin. Dust still hung thick around them. Madara lifted his head, scowling through the blood smeared across his jaw.

“What the hell—” he rasped, “are you doing here? Get back in the fight, Senju. They need you. I’m fine.”

Tobirama knelt without acknowledging the order, eyes sweeping over the wound with brisk, clinical precision.

“You are not fine,” he said. “But I cannot waste chakra stabilizing you right now, which means you need to be relocated.”

Madara blinked at him, baffled and offended. “Relocated? In the middle of—”

“Take my hand.”

Madara stared. “What?”

Tobirama’s expression flattened. “Madara. My hand.”

“Are you kid—”

Tobirama grabbed him by the wrist.

Light snapped around them. The air folded, space buckled, and the ravine vanished in a pulse of disorienting speed. 

Across the battlefield, several Konoha shinobi faltered mid-strike, eyes widening as the flare cut through the smoke.

“…Was that—”

 “Hiraishin?”

 “Does he have a marker on Madara-sama?”

 “Since when can he take someone with him?”

They reappeared atop a high ledge overlooking the battlefield, dust swirling at their feet.

Madara jerked back, clutching his side. “Warn a man before you do that!” he snapped, blood staining his teeth.

“I said ‘take my hand,’” Tobirama replied. “You failed to comply.”

Madara gave a breathless, incredulous laugh. “Gods, you’re such an asshole.”

Tobirama turned away. “Stay.”

“Don’t you dare—” Madara began, reaching for him, but Tobirama was already gone.

He vanished in a sharp pulse of chakra, leaving only the fading hum of Hiraishin in the air and Madara cursing after him, voice raw:

“Tobirama—!”

Below, the tide turned sharply. Deprived of their detonator specialists and their element of surprise, the Iwa shinobi faltered under the renewed assault. Tobirama cut through their last line with surgical efficiency—a suiton jutsu severing an earth shield in one blow, a sealing tag snapping into place around another operative before he could trigger his explosives.

Within minutes, the canyon fell quiet again.

The remaining Konoha shinobi regrouped, breathing hard, uniforms torn, armor dented. Dust hung thick in the air, settling in pale sheets across the ground. 

Tobirama scanned the canyon once more, assessing not just the battlefield but the weight of his own chakra reserves. Teleporting an entire squad was out of the question. Teleporting himself again would be reckless.

He exhaled sharply. “We’re heading up. Madara is on the northern ledge.”

Without waiting for acknowledgment, he pushed off the ground in a fluid leap. The squad followed, though with more effort. Boots scraping against stone, breaths rough in the thinning air. The ascent was steep, the stones unstable from the earlier detonations, but Tobirama moved with unerring certainty, guiding them along the safest angles without needing to speak.

By the time they reached the final rise, the wind had picked up again. Madara sat where Tobirama had left him, one arm braced against the stone. He lifted his head as they approached, irritation flickering over his features as if preparing to protest again—but Tobirama was already kneeling, one hand pressing lightly against the skin beneath shattered armor, the other guiding chakra into the wound.

Madara scowled. “Stop. Your reserves must be nearly drained. Don’t waste them.”

Tobirama didn’t look up. “You are bleeding internally. Leaving that unattended is not an option.”

“I’ve survived worse.”

“I am aware,” Tobirama said, voice flat. “That does not make it advisable.”

Behind them, the squad shifted. Every single one of them attentive in a way that had nothing to do with battlefield readiness.

Tobirama’s chakra dimmed at last. He withdrew his hand and stood, expression composed but strained in the faint tightness around his eyes.

“We cannot continue tonight,” he said, voice carrying clearly across the ledge. “Several of you are injured. Most of us are low on chakra. We’ll make camp nearby and reassess at dawn.”

A murmur of agreement followed, weary but relieved.

One shinobi stepped forward, rubbing soot from his visor. “Tobirama-sama… our supplies took heavy damage in the blasts. Two tents were destroyed outright. We don’t have enough shelters for everyone.”

Tobirama considered this with a brief, efficient glance at the remaining packs. “Then we’ll share. Count what remains and pair up accordingly. I will go with Madara.”

Silence settled over the squad. Several glances were exchanged. Someone’s brows rose a fraction. Someone else looked sharply away, as though pretending not to interpret anything at all.

Tobirama inclined his head, “He requires monitoring. And as commanding officer, it would be inappropriate to assign any of you the inconvenience. Naturally.”

A round of quiet throat-clearing broke out like a chain reaction.

“…Right.”

“Of course.”

“That…makes sense. Naturally.”

Tobirama turned back to Madara, who was watching the squad with a faint, irritated squint—as though unsure what, exactly, he had missed but suspicious it involved him.

“Can you stand?” Tobirama asked.

Madara snorted. “I could stand before you started fussing over me.”

“That is debatable,” Tobirama replied, and slipped an arm beneath Madara’s to lift him anyway.

Madara hissed softly when he rose, the shift pulling at half-healed ribs. He leaned into Tobirama, just long enough for the man to adjust his grip.

The squad watched for one breath too long.

Tobirama turned toward the western ridge, where the rock face dipped into a gentler slope and a patch of scrubland hinted at more stable ground.

“We’ll set up camp beyond that rise,” he said. “There should be enough cover from the wind.”

Madara grumbled something about not needing to be carried, but he didn’t pull away. Or perhaps—Tobirama suspected—couldn’t, not without aggravating the injury.

They began moving, Tobirama supporting Madara’s weight with an unobtrusive steadiness. Step by step, they left the ledge behind, the squad falling into formation a respectful distance back.

Behind them, another round of quiet sighs and side-eyes rippled through the ranks.

“…Sharing a tent,” one murmured under his breath.

“Mm,” another agreed, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Naturally.”

---

The morning market was crowded but orderly: crates of fresh produce stacked in neat rows, barrels of rice lined up beneath awnings, and strings of drying herbs rustling in the breeze. Tobirama wove through the bustle with practiced efficiency, steps precise, focus unwavering.

He had a list. He did not intend to deviate from it.

Two weeks had passed since the border mission, and Konoha had settled, albeit cautiously, back into its rhythms. Repairs on the Hokage Tower continued, anniversary festival preparations resumed in full, and, at long last, his recommendations for reinforced border patrols were being implemented without argument.

He stopped at a stall selling seasonal vegetables. Three shopkeepers stood behind the counter: a middle-aged man wiping down crates, a younger woman arranging bunches of greens, and an elderly auntie with a gaze sharp enough to cut.

They were mid-conversation as Tobirama approached—low voices, animated gestures, and the kind of conspiratorial energy that suggested someone’s reputation was being dissected.

“I’m telling you,” the younger woman whispered, leaning in, “there was only one tent. One.”

The man clicked her tongue. “And you saw the spar yesterday. The tension, I nearly dropped my radishes.”

“That wasn’t sparring,” she countered. “That was… that was something.”

“And my cousin swears she spotted him at the Uchiha compound last week. Morning light. Hair mussed.” 

The younger woman gasped. “Mussed?”

“As if he’d just woken up—”

Tobirama set a bundle of long green onions onto the counter.

All three jumped like startled cats. 

The elderly woman recovered first. Barely.

“Tobirama-sama!” she blurted, voice cracking upward. “What a—hah—lovely morning! We didn’t see you there.”

Tobirama, entirely unmoved, added a bundle of winter greens to the counter. And miso paste. And dried kelp. And ginger. And a slab of yellowtail wrapped neatly in waxed paper.

“I require these,” he said simply.

“Yes! Naturally!” the man sputtered. “All of—these. Wonderful choices. Fresh. Very fresh.”

The younger woman nodded rapidly, then leaned forward. “If you don’t mind my asking, Tobirama-sama—what are you cooking?”

“Miso-braised yellowtail,” he answered without hesitation. “With winter greens. And rice.”

“Ohhh,” the auntie breathed, eyes shining with terrible excitement. “Dinner?”

“Yes,” Tobirama said.

“Dinner… for yourself?” the man ventured, attempting innocence and failing catastrophically.

Tobirama paused, brow tightening in faint confusion.

“…Yes?”

A tense silence filled the space.

The younger woman cleared her throat. “It just… seems like quite a portion for one person.”

“A shinobi of my caliber,” Tobirama replied, tone dipping into the tone he usually reserved for academy children. “requires at least three thousand calories per day to replenish chakra reserves.”

The man snorted before he could stop himself. “Uh-huh, I’m sure that’s the reason.”

The auntie’s elbow shot out with lethal, practiced precision. It landed squarely in his ribs.

He folded with a hiss.

She smiled at Tobirama as though nothing had happened. “Of course, Tobirama-sama. Naturally. Here are your things—perfectly portioned, just as you requested.”

The younger woman swooped in, bundling the ingredients into a neat parcel with hands that trembled only slightly. “Please enjoy your dinner, Tobirama-sama!”

Tobirama inclined his head. “Thank you.”

With that, he stepped back into the flow of the market. The sounds of commerce closed around him once more, easing away the odd tension of the exchange.

Behind him, the murmurs resumed almost instantly. He didn’t catch the words, only the cadence: sharp, breathless whispers, the scrape of the man straightening after the auntie’s attack, a soft gasp of disbelief.

He frowned, just a fraction. A strange interaction, even by the market’s usual standards.

No matter. People behaved unpredictably at times. Festival season had that effect.

Tobirama adjusted the weight of the parcel under his arm and continued down the road, already turning his attention back to the rest of his list.

The whispering only grew more fervent.

---

The council chamber of the Uchiha compound was cool and dim, lit by shafts of late-afternoon sunlight. Incense smoldered in a ceramic dish near the door—something sharp and clean meant to clear the mind.

Madara sat at the head of the long table, posture impeccable, expression carved in composure. Around him, the senior clan members discussed matters of patrol rotations, border tensions, and internal logistics with their usual blend of precision and fatalism.

“—the outer district storage houses have been reinforced,” one elder was saying, tapping a scroll with two knuckles. “Supplies should remain secured even if festival crowds increase more than expected.”

Another nodded, arms folded inside his sleeves. “The patrol roster has been updated as well. There are no inconsistencies.”

A low rumble of agreement passed around the table.

Madara acknowledged the report with a single incline of his head. “Good. Maintain the schedule. I don’t want any lapses in coordination—especially not this month.”

A chorus of “Understood” followed.

The discussion moved on: a minor dispute between two families, the reassignment of a genin squad, the procurement of additional medical salves for the coming influx of visitors. Methodical. Professional. Efficient.

Madara listened, contributed, corrected, commanded.  Everything proceeded as it always did.

Until it didn’t.

One elder—normally the first to raise unrelated personal topics—cleared his throat as they reached the final item on the agenda. Madara suppressed the faintest flicker of dread. Here it comes.

But instead, the man only said, “That concludes our outstanding matters.”

Madara blinked once.

The elder beside him nodded. “Indeed. Unless anyone has further business?”

They all looked around.

No one spoke. Not one skeptical hum. Not one suggestive cough. Not one thinly veiled: ‘Madara-sama, at your age, the matter of succession—’

Not a single pointed reference to his duty to the clan, the future, or the absolute necessity of producing heirs.

Madara’s brows drew together by a fraction. “That is all?”

“Yes,” the first elder confirmed. “A productive session. We should adjourn.”

Madara stared at him.

The elder stared back, pleasantly oblivious.

Another elder nodded, gathering his scrolls. “We appreciate your leadership, Madara-sama. Everything is proceeding smoothly.”

Madara’s confusion edged toward suspicion.

Smoothly?  The Uchiha elders never believed anything was proceeding smoothly. It was practically against their very existence.

He let the silence stretch, long enough that several elders shifted on their cushions. He scanned the faces around the table—men who had spent years interrogating his every decision, dissecting his personal life with surgical persistence—and found only polite composure.

At last he said, slowly, “There is nothing further you wish to discuss?”

A ripple of polite headshakes circled the table.

Madara’s eyes narrowed an imperceptible degree.

For a moment, he weighed the silence.  If they refused to broach the topic—if, for once, they chose not to hover over his personal life like crows around a corpse—he certainly wasn’t going to encourage them. He would not volunteer himself for interrogation.

If they wanted to drop it, he would let it fall.

 “Very well. This meeting is adjourned.”

Robes rustled as the elders bowed in unison, rising with the careful dignity of age and habit. Yet as they began filing toward the door, he noticed something subtle, something off-kilter in their movements.

Their expressions had softened into oddly knowing smiles, exchanged between them like a secret they believed he shared. And as the last of them passed, one of the elder women paused just long enough to tilt her head and give him a deliberate, unmistakably pleased wink.

Madara went still.

Before he could form a response, she shuffled out after the others, leaving only the faint scent of incense and the echo of sandal-scuffs fading down the corridor.

The chamber fell into silence once more.

Madara remained seated, staring at the closed door, expression caught between suspicion and sheer bewilderment.  

Perhaps, they’ve finally given up. 

---

The guests were already gathering in the reception hall when Tobirama arrived—clan heads and their families, senior shinobi, a scattering of foreign delegates invited for the anniversary celebrations. This was only the opening function: a diplomatic reception meant to establish goodwill and appearances before the true festival began in earnest over the coming days. Soft music threaded through the background, barely audible beneath the hum of conversation.

Tobirama crossed the room with his usual measured calm, exchanging brief nods with those who greeted him. He located Madara near the edge of the hall, half in shadow, speaking with a pair of Uchiha officers. The moment Tobirama approached, the officers excused themselves with haste that bordered on abrupt.

Madara watched them retreat, then glanced at Tobirama with a faint lift of one brow. “You’ve managed to frighten off my subordinates without saying a word. Impressive.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Tobirama replied, accepting a sake cup from a passing server.

“You rarely need to,” Madara said dryly.

Tobirama’s mouth tightened. “If they cannot tolerate being in the same room as a Senju, it reflects poorly on your clan’s training.”

Madara huffed, more amused than irritated. “Trust me, their behavior has little to do with your surname and everything to do with being painfully aware of what you’re like”

Tobirama gave him a sidelong look. “You’ve grown far too generous in your assessments of people.”

“And you remain too skeptical,” Madara countered. “Equally inconvenient.”

Before Tobirama could reply, a sudden burst of laughter passed near them. Three young kunoichi walked by, dressed in festival colors, their sleeves drifting behind them. One glanced openly at Tobirama, another pressed her lips together in an effort not to smile, and the third looked between him and Madara before stifling something that sounded suspiciously like a squeak. Then they hurried on, shoulders shaking. 

Tobirama’s brow creased, subtle but unmistakable. He glanced back at Madara, his gaze questioning.

Madara’s expression was equally perplexed.

Tobirama opened his mouth to speak, but Madara cut him off, lifting his hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s nothing, teenagers are always like this. Let’s sit and eat.”

Tobirama hesitated, then nodded, deciding not to dwell on it. If Madara wasn’t concerned, there was no reason for him to be. They turned toward the table together, the soft clink of utensils and low murmur of conversation folding around them.

Izuna stepped directly into their path.

He dropped into the empty seat between them with an ease that suggested forethought, not coincidence, folding his arms and leaning back as if he’d been there all along.

Tobirama stopped short. Madara halted beside him.

“Izuna,” Madara said, disbelief flattening his voice. “What are you doing?”

Izuna didn’t look up. “What?” he drawled. “You were about to sit together, weren’t you?” He tipped his head back, eyes flicking lazily between them. “Sorry. It’s a little crowded. Thought I’d help make sure you two didn’t get too cozy.”

Madara stared at him.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Cozy?” Tobirama muttered, baffled.

Izuna shot a look at Tobirama, his lips curling. "I'm staying right here. You're welcome to go somewhere very far away, if you need more space."

“Izuna, are we not past this?” Madara sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose

Izuna’s gaze was still fixed stubbornly on Tobirama. "Apparently not." 

Tobirama, already feeling the weight of the situation, began to shift away from the table, his intention clear. He would simply walk away, leave the squabble to them. It was, after all, hardly worth the trouble.

But before he could take another step, Madara’s hand shot out, fingers lightly curling around his elbow. 

“Stay,” Madara said, his voice quiet but insistent.

Tobirama froze, caught off guard. 

A sharp gasp cut through the ambient noise behind them, quick and unmistakable. Not loud enough to draw attention on its own, but enough to make Tobirama acutely aware of how many eyes were on them.

Izuna, of course, caught it too. He groaned in exaggerated annoyance, “Oh, this is rich.” 

Tobirama shot him a flat look, irritation flickering beneath his composure. Then, stiffly, he inclined his head. Drawing any more attention would be counterproductive. 

He stepped past Madara and took the seat beside Izuna instead. Madara hesitated only a fraction of a second before following, his posture a touch less assured than usual as he settled into the remaining chair.

Now firmly settled between them, Izuna made no effort to hide his scrutiny. His eyes remained fixed on Tobirama, sharp and unwavering, as if he were waiting for something, anything, to reveal itself. 

The servants arrived, setting down an array of carefully prepared dishes. Steam curled upward; plates clinked softly against the table.

Izuna didn’t look away.

Tobirama ate in silence, posture precise, movements controlled. And yet he could feel the weight of that attention pressing in on him. The space between them grew thick, uncomfortable, every bite measured.

At last, he set his chopsticks down with a quiet, deliberate sigh.

“Did I do something?” he asked, half-exasperated. “What is wrong?”

Izuna’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharp as he spoke. “Oh, I don’t know. You tell me.”

Tobirama met Izuna’s glare with a level, unimpressed look. “If you have a grievance, state it plainly. I don’t speak whatever dialect of sulking this is.”

Izuna scoffed. “Oh, trust me, I’d love to state it plainly. I’m just trying to figure out which part of this—” he gestured vaguely between Tobirama and Madara, “—you’re pretending not to notice.”

Tobirama’s brow dipped. His gaze flicked—briefly, involuntarily—toward Madara before returning to Izuna. “Your theatrics are incomprehensible.”

Izuna leaned in, voice low and pointed. “And your denial is embarrassing.”

Before Tobirama could answer, a too-bright voice split the tension. 

“I’ve been looking for you guys!!”

Hashirama practically launched himself into the empty seat beside Madara, a grin too wide to be entirely natural stretching across his face. 

“How’s everything going over here?”

Madara raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have some foreign dignitaries to entertain, Hashirama?”

“Oh, that. Well—they’re mingling!” Hashirama waved a hand vaguely, nearly smacking a passing server.  “They love mingling. Very independent. Very chatty.” His laugh came out thin. “I just thought I’d… check in on my brother. And my best friend. And—” he hesitated, glancing between the two, “—the general… atmosphere.”

Tobirama blinked. “The atmosphere is fine.”

“Right!” Hashirama nodded too fast. “Right, that’s what I was hoping. Because from a distance it looked like—well, not hostile exactly, but—tense? Charged? Something.”

Madara’s suspicion deepened. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird!” Hashirama’s response was almost too immediate. “But, all I’m saying. Is that if you two have something to share, that’s perfectly fine! You’re welcome to.”

Izuna cut in immediately. “No, they’re not.”

Madara’s restraint finally snapped. “Right. You two weirdos can keep playing whatever bizarre game this is while I get a drink.” He pushed up from the table, exasperation radiating off him. “This is why I avoid talking to both of you for longer than five minutes. Much less together.”

“Oh?” Hashirama perked up. “If you’re offering drinks—”

“I wasn’t,” Madara said flatly, “but fine. Whatever. Izuna?”

Izuna scoffed, clearly less thrilled by the idea. “Not interested.” He turned his attention back to Tobirama, who was still sitting stiffly.

 “Tobirama?” Madara asked. “Care for a drink?”

Tobirama blinked, a bit taken aback by the sudden question. “I suppose.” 

“Just had to ask him, didn't you.” Izuna mumbled under his breath. 

Madara exhaled through his nose. He chalked the entire evening up to Izuna’s lingering Senju allergy flaring at the worst possible moment and turned on his heel.

The bar had been set up along the far wall: dark lacquered wood, lanterns hung low, a small cluster of shinobi and civilians already gathered around. Madara slipped between bodies with the ease of someone used to being given space whether he asked for it or not. He gave the bartender his order and leaned one elbow on the counter, letting the low hum of the room wash over him.

He was halfway through his first cup, savoring the burn, when the conversation to his left finally filtered through the sake.

“…obviously Madara-sama tops, look at him. Have you seen the man fight?”

A second voice, female and unimpressed: “Strength isn’t everything. Tobirama-sama is taller. Height advantage changes the entire dynamic.”

Madara’s cup paused an inch from his lips.

A third voice chimed in, gleeful and a little tipsy: “Exactly! You put those two in a room and it’s not raw power that wins, it’s leverage. Long legs, longer reach—”

“—and those hands,” someone else sighed, reverent. “Have you seen his seal work? Precision like that translates. Though, I can imagine he might get tired of running everything around here. Maybe Tobirama-sama needs someone to take over.”

Madara’s face flushed crimson at the remark, his hand tightening around his cup, though he said nothing. Who the hell talks about this sort of thing out in the open?!

Someone else snorted. “Please. Madara-sama once split an entire mountain in half. A mountain. There’s too much aggression there to not be on top.”

“Counterpoint,” came a new voice, dry as desert stone. “Tobirama invented a jutsu that rewrites reality in mid-air. You think he lets anyone else drive?”

A thoughtful hum. “They switch? But, Madara-sama is usually on top.”

“They switch,” came the immediate, conspiratorial reply.

Madara shifted uncomfortably, swallowing the sake down with a little more force than necessary. 

Another voice, this one younger, earnest, piped up. “I still say Madara-sama’s the possessive one. Did you see the way he grabbed Tobirama-sama’s elbow earlier?”

“And Tobirama-sama didn’t even flinch,” someone else whispered.

Madara stared into the empty cup like it had personally betrayed him.

The first speaker began again: “All I’m saying is, if I had to put money on who leaves marks, it’s the Uchiha. Fire nature, passion, the intensity—”

“—and Tobirama-sama’s pale skin shows everything,” someone finished, dreamy.

There was a collective, appreciative sigh that rippled down the bar

Madara set his cup down with deliberate care. The ceramic clicked against wood louder than he intended. He could feel the heat creeping up his neck. The conversation around him continued, but the words were fading into a dull hum.

He closed his eyes, inhaled once through his nose, and felt the last piece of a very confusing puzzle slot, with excruciating clarity, into place.

---

The council chamber smelled faintly of wet earth and old ink, the usual perfume of the water-management division.  The meeting had been productive, if tediously protracted; debates over seasonal runoff had stretched longer than anticipated, but agreements were reached, assignments delegated.

Tobirama set the final scroll aside with a decisive tap.

“Very well. If that is everything, we shall adjourn. I have a meeting with Madara shortly.”

He said it the same way he might have announced the weather. The room, however, reacted as though he had detonated a bomb in the middle of the table.

Seventeen heads swivelled toward him in perfect synchrony.

One of the younger engineers, still clutching her abacus like a shield, perked up. “A meeting with Madara-sama?”

Another, older man with ink stains on his fingers, leaned forward so eagerly his chair creaked. “Just the two of you?”

Tobirama blinked. “Yes. Patrol rotations and joint training schedules require coordination.”

“Will it be in his office or yours?” another woman asked, eyes shining.

“His office has better light,” the ink-stained man added helpfully. “Very romantic light, actually. All those red banners.”

Tobirama’s brow creased. “I fail to see how ambient lighting is relevant to patrol rotations.”

The abacus girl chimed in again.“Will there be tea?”

“The Uchiha keep tea,” Tobirama said, puzzled. “They are not barbarians.”

A collective, wistful exhale rippled through the room.

“Will you be staying long?” someone ventured.

“Until the schedules are finalised,” Tobirama replied, now openly suspicious “Why?”

No one answered. They were too busy exchanging looks that could only be described as rabid.

The abacus girl stood so fast her chair toppled. “We’ll just—um—clear out then! Don’t let us keep you!” She practically sprinted for the door, the rest of the department stampeding after her in a flurry of dropped scrolls and muffled giggles.

The heavy doors slammed shut. One lingering voice drifted back through the wood: “Good luck, Tobirama-sama!”

Tobirama stared after them, baffled. Civilians were strange. Festival season made them stranger.

He straightened, scanning the room out of habit. His gaze caught on a forgotten folder at the far end of the table—leather-bound, unassuming, likely belonging to one of the junior engineers who'd fidgeted through the entire session. Tobirama exhaled softly, a touch of irritation flickering through him. Sloppiness like this invited errors, and errors in water management could flood fields or parch them dry.

With brisk efficiency, he crossed the room and lifted the folder, intending to chase down its owner before they vanished into the tower's corridors. But as he turned it in his hand, a loose sheet slipped free, fluttering to the floor like a discarded leaf.

Tobirama bent to retrieve it, fingers closing around the edge, and froze.

It was a drawing. Ink on rice paper, rendered with bold, sweeping lines that screamed amateur enthusiasm over technical skill. But the content... the content was unmistakable, and utterly incomprehensible.

Madara (anatomically optimistic Madara) loomed like a small mountain, shoulders so broad they threatened to eclipse the sun, biceps the size of Tobirama’s actual thighs, hair flowing in heroic, wind-machine gusts that had no business existing indoors. He had one hand planted beside Tobirama’s head; the other was clamped possessively around a waist that had clearly been drawn by someone who had never seen a human spine.

The proportions were exaggerated to an absurd degree. The expression on his face, half-lidded eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted in what could only be described as melodramatic surrender, was so utterly foreign that it made Tobirama's actual stomach twist.

He stared, unblinking, his mind grinding to a halt. This... this was not possible. Not real. A hallucination, perhaps, or a genjutsu slipped past his senses. But the paper was tangible under his fingertips. The smudged ink on the bottom right corner read, in tiny, proud letters: “For the anniversary zine!! ♡ Don’t kinkshame pls.”

His thoughts fragmented: Who? Why? How had this infiltrated a professional meeting? The implications cascaded like a poorly sealed dam.

A flush crept up his neck, hot and unwelcome, his pale skin betraying him as surely as the drawing suggested. He couldn't tear his eyes away, trapped in a loop of horrified fascination.

The door swung open behind him.

"Hey, Senju," Madara's voice cut through the silence, casual but edged with purpose. "I was wondering if you'd finalized those patrol rotations for the—"

Tobirama's reaction was instantaneous, visceral. Heat flooded his face, a deep crimson that burned from his collar to his hairline. He slapped the drawing face-down onto the table with a sharp smack, the folder tumbling atop it in a clumsy attempt at concealment. His hand lingered there, pressing down as if to bury the evidence beneath sheer force of will.

Madara paused mid-stride, one brow arching in slow, suspicious curiosity. The chamber seemed to shrink around them.

"What," Madara said deliberately, his gaze flicking from Tobirama's flushed expression to the hastily covered papers, "do you have there?"

Tobirama's hand stayed pressed against the paper, his fingers digging into the table as if he could force it into the wood itself, vanishing it entirely. “Nothing that concerns you.”

“You look like you swallowed a live eel. That is rarely ‘nothing.’”

Tobirama took one deliberate step sideways, angling his body to keep the table between them. The motion was smooth, almost casual; the kind of retreat he used on battlefields when he intended to vanish the instant an opening appeared.

Madara matched it without seeming to move at all. One moment he was three paces away; the next he was simply closer.

“Show me.” 

“No.”

“Tobirama.”

“I said no.”

Madara’s hand darted out, quicker than courtesy allowed and far quicker than Tobirama’s mortified reflexes could counter. Two fingers hooked the edge of the folder, flicked it open, and plucked the drawing free before Tobirama could do more than inhale in outrage.

The paper unfolded between them. Madara looked at it.

For one heartbeat the chamber was perfectly still.

Tobirama's stomach lurched in horror. He couldn’t bring himself to look at Madara. Instead, he fixed his eyes on a point far beyond him, anything to avoid the suffocating embarrassment.

“Ah,” Madara said slowly, the word drawn out as his eyes continued to scan the absurdity of the sketch. “This.”

Tobirama’s throat tightened. “You don’t seem surprised,” he managed, his voice coming out more hoarse than he would’ve liked. “Why do you not seem surprised?”

Madara cleared his throat. “I… may have overheard a conversation at the reception a couple nights back. Several conversations, actually. Extremely detailed ones.” He paused, eyes flicking down to the drawing again. “Though none of them prepared me for—” He gestured vaguely at the paper. “—whatever this is.”

Tobirama stared at him, something fragile and dangerous fracturing behind his eyes.

Madara’s gaze lingered on the illustration, brows drawing together in genuine bafflement. “…Why have they drawn your waist like that? It’s not that small.”

Tobirama kept staring.

Madara’s eyes darted back up to Tobirama’s face, his own features twitching in an uncomfortable mix of realization and fluster. "Not that you’re, you know, fat or anything," he added quickly, "I mean—you're fit. I mean, slender. Very, uh, slender. But not—" Madara shifted awkwardly. "Not small. In fact, you’re taller than me. I just mean…” He gestured vaguely to the drawing, as if trying to defuse his awkwardness with an over-explanation.

Tobirama did not respond. 

Madara cleared his throat. 

“…I believe,” he said carefully, “I will stop talking now.”

Tobirama’s voice was very quiet. “Yes. I think that would be wise.”

Madara held the drawing out between them for another beat. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he placed it face-down on the table.

"Anyways," he said, straightening up and folding his arms across his chest in a bid for nonchalance, "don't pay it any mind. It's just... village nonsense.

Tobirama’s head snapped toward him.

“Do not pay it any—Madara, what are you talking about?” His voice was tight, incredulous, pitched just an octave higher than he would ever willingly allow in public. “We have to stop this.”

Madara stared at him. “…Stop it? Tobirama, it’s a drawing.”

“It is not just a drawing,” Tobirama countered, gesturing sharply at the offending paper. “It is a—public misrepresentation. An infiltration of official proceedings.” He drew himself up, affronted on a cellular level. “It was in a water-management folder. During a meeting.”

“That part is admittedly concerning,” Madara allowed.

“Concerning?” Tobirama demanded. “There could be dozens more. Hundreds. Circulating publicly.” 

Madara pinched the bridge of his nose. “Tobirama. You cannot—cannot—control what villagers imagine. Or draw. Or trade. Or whisper about behind our backs. Unless you intend to track down every citizen in Konoha and personally police their creative output—”

Tobirama did not respond.

He didn’t have to. The dangerous, contemplative gleam in his eyes said If I could Hiraishin fast enough—

Madara slapped a hand down on the table. “No. Absolutely not. You are not launching a village-wide censorship campaign because someone gave you dramatic lighting and a tiny waist.”

Tobirama bristled. “You are only dismissing this because they gave you enormous shoulders and an unrealistic musculature. Of course you have no objections—your depiction panders directly to your ego.”

Madara jerked back, scandalized. “My ego—?! That is completely untrue!”

“Is it?”

“Yes!” Madara snapped, gesturing wildly at the drawing. “Look at this! These proportions are absurd!”

“You do not seem overly disturbed by it,” Tobirama said coolly.

“I—Tobirama, I know the difference between reality and badly drawn—whatever this genre is,” Madara insisted, voice climbing in pitch. “It’s insulting. Deeply insulting.” His eyes drifted back to the drawing, lingering with unmistakable fascination. “…Though they did capture my hair rather well.”

Tobirama stared at him, the silence heavy with judgement.

Madara coughed, snapping himself upright. "As I was saying, short of mind-wiping the entire population, what do you propose? A public announcement? 'Citizens of Konoha, cease your imaginings forthwith'?"

Tobirama inhaled slowly through his nose. It was the kind of inhale that, historically, preceded either (a) a groundbreaking jutsu or (b) catastrophic violence.

Madara immediately tensed. “Tobirama.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tobirama said, voice clipped and cold. “I have no intention of wasting further time debating with you. If you wish to allow this farce to propagate unchecked, do so.”

Madara blinked, startled by the sudden shift. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Tobirama said, gathering his scrolls with brisk, surgical precision, “that I am rectifying the situation myself. Alone.”

“Tobirama—”

“And,” Tobirama continued sharply, lifting his chin, “until this matter is resolved, I refuse to be seen in the same room as you.”

Madara froze. “What?”

“It is clearly our proximity fueling these… illustrations.” Tobirama’s eyelid twitched at the word. “Therefore, the obvious remedy is to eliminate the source of speculation.”

Madara stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”

“A month should suffice.”

“A month? A month? Tobirama, that is—”

Tobirama snapped the folder shut with unnecessary force. “It is settled.”

“It is not settled!” Madara stepped forward, incredulous. “You can’t just—avoid me into submission!”

“I can and will,” Tobirama said, sweeping past him. “This absurdity ends now.”

Madara turned to follow, but Tobirama’s glare rooted him to the floorboards.

“I am leaving,” Tobirama said, the words crisp enough to frost the air. “Do not follow me.”

And with that, he strode toward the door, each step sharp with offended precision. Madara could only stare after him, caught between outrage and bewilderment.

The door slammed behind Tobirama with enough force to rattle the inkpots on the table.

---

The Hokage’s office was unusually quiet for the hour. Late sunlight slanted across the paperwork Hashirama was not reading, the teacup he was not drinking, and the small, innocuous wooden crate sitting at the edge of his desk — the one he had been rifling through ever since it arrived.

Or rather, since it had appeared. Rather anonymously.

 “Oh dear,” he murmured to the empty room. “How terrible. How truly, deeply terrible.”

Inside, stacked with care and reverence, were seventeen confiscated drawings — each more dramatic than the last — along with a note written in large, clipped handwriting:

PLEASE ADDRESS THIS IMMEDIATELY.  THIS IS AN ATTACK ON KONOHA’S FOUNDERS

Hashirama let out a long, suffering sigh that was absolutely not a laugh in disguise.

“Oh nooooo,” he said again, louder this time, as Mito slid the door open with the serene precision of someone who had married into this circus knowingly.

She paused at the threshold.  Her eyes drifted from her husband…

 …to the overflowing crate of art…
…to Hashirama’s expression, which was equal parts scandalized and delighted.

Mito inhaled.

“…I assume,” she said, stepping inside and closing the door behind her, “that this is related to the ‘urgent anonymous packet’ your assistant claimed you received.”

Hashirama held up the top drawing between two trembling fingers. “Mito. My love. My wife. My eternal partner in diplomacy.”  He cleared his throat with self-important gravity.  “This is a travesty.”

Mito set down her paperwork on a nearby table. “Is it.”

“Yes!” Hashirama insisted, nodding vigorously. “Someone is besmirching our founders. I mean — look at this. Madara hasn’t been taller than Tobirama since we were teenagers”

Mito raised a brow. “So your concern is the accuracy?”

“No! No. I’m horrified.” He clutched the drawing to his chest. “Horrified and dismayed and traumatized.”

She gave him a flat stare. “You have been smiling since I walked in.”

“That is just my face.”

“It’s absolutely not.”

Hashirama wilted a little, but only for a moment. Then his eyes lit with conspiratorial brightness.

“I mean, we’ve known this has been going on for a while, but Mito,” he whispered urgently, “do you think… this will finally bring them together?”

Mito closed her eyes as if praying for strength. “Hashirama.”

“No, think about it!” he continued, warming to the topic at dangerous speed. “The villagers clearly sense something. These depictions are simply an expression of collective intuition!”

“Collective delusion,” Mito corrected.

“I think we can agree to disagree.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “Hashirama, are you actually doing anything to curb the spread of these?”

Hashirama seemed inclined to ignore her. “…I asked the question about whether this would bring them together first. Could we stay on that?”

“No.” 

But Hashirama was already rummaging through the crate again, muttering, “Because — hear me out — I really do think Tobirama might respond to a firm nudge from fate. A shove, even.”

Mito’s patience visibly strained. “Hashirama—”

“Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly, pulling out another sheet. “Look at this one. Madara is calling him ‘kitten’.”

He beamed. “Do you think Tobirama likes nicknames? He does have that sort of… feline energy. The glare. The pouncing. The rigid territorialism.”

“Hashirama.”

“And he lands on his feet remarkably well—”

“Hashirama.”

“And he does that thing where he stares at you like he’s calculating your weaknesses before deciding if you’re—”

“Hashirama.”

He stopped mid-ramble.

Mito stepped closer, each footfall measured, the sound of a woman preparing to peel her husband gently but firmly away from the ledge of his own enthusiasm. She laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“I understand you want the best for your brother.”

Hashirama’s expression went a little sheepish, a little earnest, the way it always did when someone acknowledged that yes, he loved too loudly and too impulsively. He opened his mouth — likely to insist that of course he did, he only ever wanted Tobirama to be happy, or at least less miserable — but Mito continued before he could derail himself again.

“But,” she said, “you and I both know he would be… very distressed if he discovered any of this.”

Her hand swept pointedly toward the crate. Hashirama winced, guilt flickering across his face.

“Distressed,” Mito repeated deliberately. “Humiliated. Irritated. Possibly murderous, depending on which drawing he saw first.”

“That seems harsh,” Hashirama murmured, though not very convincingly.

“Harsh,” Mito said, “is the appropriate term for artwork portraying your brother with—what is that? A tail?”

Hashirama made a small choking sound, but slowly, reluctantly, the brightness ebbed from his posture. His shoulders dropped. His grip on the drawing slackened. Reality seeped back into him by degrees.

“Yes,” he admitted with a sigh, turning the page over. “He would probably… not appreciate this.”

“Not even slightly.”

“And he might… misconstrue my motives.”

“He would absolutely misconstrue your motives.”

The second sigh was larger, heavier. The sigh of a man lovingly burying a dream. Hashirama sank back into his chair, elbows sliding onto the desk, palms bracketing his face.

“Fine,” he said, voice muffled. “Fine. Fine.” He peeked up at her.  

“What do you propose?”

---

The days that followed were, in Tobirama’s opinion, incontrovertible proof that fate was not only real, but personally malicious.

The anniversary festival loomed closer with every passing morning. Lantern frames rose along the main streets. Banners were strung between rooftops, bright with clan crests and commemorative symbols. Schedules multiplied. Committees proliferated. And with them came crowds.

Avoiding Madara should not have been difficult. Konoha was a large village. Tobirama was a master of silent movement, strategic timing, and, when necessary, disappearing into walls. And yet every attempt to avoid that man only seemed to summon him forward.

It began in the administrative wing.

He had slipped out of the archives with a stack of annotated mission logs clamped under one arm, moving with the quiet purpose of a man hoping not to be perceived. If he moved fast enough, if he kept his head down, if he cut through the west corridor instead of the east, he could—

He turned the corner. Madara emerged from a doorway at that exact instant.

They collided.

The scrolls exploded outward like startled birds, showering the hallway in an avalanche of paper. Tobirama inhaled through his teeth, already dropping to retrieve them—but Madara dropped even faster, gathering sheets with infuriating efficiency.

“Tobirama,” Madara said, voice maddeningly calm, “you should watch where you’re going.”

“I was,” Tobirama replied, clipped.

“You clearly weren’t.”

“I was.”

At the far end of the hallway, a young civilian clerk stood frozen in rapture, her ink brush mid-air, her eyes gleaming with the kind of unholy fervor that suggested she had been waiting her entire life for precisely this moment. She began scribbling into her ledger at a speed bordering on dangerous.

Madara, oblivious, handed Tobirama the last scroll. Their fingers brushed— and the clerk gasped so loudly it echoed.

Tobirama snatched his hand away as though burned.

Madara blinked, his brows drawing together in mild suspicion. He gave the clerk a sidelong glance then looked back at Tobirama.

“So,” Madara said, “still avoiding me?”

Tobirama stared at him. It wasn’t a glare so much as a perfectly distilled concentration of annoyance.

Madara raised a brow, clearly amused. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Tobirama didn’t dignify the remark with words. He gathered the rest of the scrolls in a single, efficient sweep and turned on his heel, striding away as fast as possible. 

Naturally, that was only the beginning.

A joint academy demonstration had been scheduled for the following week — part of the anniversary’s educational programming, meant to showcase Konoha’s founding principles to visiting dignitaries. Tobirama had, in desperation, attempted to escape it through every means short of faking his own death.

He cited logistical obligations. He cited clan reports. He cited a fever that he absolutely did not have but which he was fully willing to develop if necessary.

Unfortunately, Madara was also scheduled to attend. And as one of Konoha’s founders, Tobirama’s presence was not optional. Appearances had to be maintained, especially now.

And so Tobirama arrived at the training field… only to find half the village already there, sitting on rooftops, atop fences, balanced on tree branches.

The academy instructor stepped beside him, baffled. “This… is a much larger audience than usual.”

Tobirama stared out at the sea of eager faces. The expectant hush spread in a slow, palpable wave. Not the polite attention of parents and diplomats, but the focused anticipation of spectators waiting for something specific.

Madara joined him at his side, and the quiet tightened.

“It is a children’s demonstration,” Tobirama said slowly. “Why are there so many people here?”

Nearby, a pair of kunoichi leaned toward one another.

“I can’t believe we get to see them do this,” one whispered.

The other clasped her hands. “Do you think they’ll bicker while fighting? That thing they do?”

Tobirama closed his eyes for a long, dignified moment. “I am being punished,” he murmured.

Madara snorted. He clapped a hand on each of Tobirama’s shoulders and leaned in, radiating the kind of infuriating confidence only he could manage.

“Come on, Senju,” he said, grin sharp, voice carrying across the suddenly breathless crowd. “Let’s give them a show.”

Half the audience gasped.

Tobirama jerked out of Madara’s grip. “You are not helping.”

Madara blinked, almost offended. “I’m trying to be encouraging.”

“Encourage me from over there,” Tobirama snapped, pointing to a spot roughly three meters away.

The demonstration that followed was somehow both perfectly executed and catastrophically interpreted. Even their simplest maneuvers drew murmurs, pointing, breathless commentary. By the end of it, Tobirama resolved to avoid all communal spaces for the foreseeable future.

This resolve lasted until the next morning. Because even Tobirama Senju could not reasonably justify abandoning his laundry.

Which was how he found himself standing in the laundromat — a humble, ordinary space with wooden counters, steaming vats, and, unfortunately, an ever-present trickle of villagers beginning their day.

But he had arrived at dawn. Dawn should have been safe.

Tobirama reached into the drying bin and froze mid-motion. In between his preferred blacks and blues lay a slightly wrinkled white shirt, emblazoned with the Uchiha fan on the back — bold, unmistakable, and very much not his. Tobirama held it up, frowning. Someone had clearly mixed their laundry with his.

A sharp inhale sounded near the doorway.

Tobirama turned just in time to see a young chūnin standing rigid like a deer in headlights. Her gaze traveled from Tobirama… to the shirt… to Tobirama again…

Her mouth formed a tiny, trembling O.

“This is not what it looks like,” Tobirama said instantly.

She took a single step back.

“It is a laundry mistake.”

Another step.

“I am not—” Tobirama said sharply, lifting the shirt as evidence, “—washing Uchiha clothing.”

She drew in a sound that was half squeak, half strangled sob.

“Do not run,” Tobirama warned.

She ran. Sprinted, really. A blur of mortification and feverish imagination barreling out so fast she had completely abandoned her laundry behind. 

Tobirama closed his eyes again. He set the shirt down, inhaled through his nose, and wondered — not for the first time — whether it was too late to relocate to the Land of Iron and live among monks who knew nothing of romance or rumors or shirts that did not belong to him.

---

Madara woke up to the sound of pounding on his door. His dark orbs, like coals in the middle of the night, shone dangerously. He stood up quickly and put his hair in a messy ponytail, going downstairs to check what all the noise was about. 

“Finally, you’re awake,” said the Uchiha clan elder. “Just in time, your new clan is here.” 

“My new clan?!” The ravenette asked, surprised.

“Yes,” said the clan elder, “We have sold you to the Senju.”

Just as he said that, the door opened. A man stood on the other side. His hair was white like pure snow or perhaps a piece of paper. And his eyes were red like blood pools. 

“Hello, I am Tobirama Senju.” said Tobirama Senju.

“He is blessed by Amaterasu.” said the clan elder. “That is why this union will be most fortuitous.” 

The man was indeed blessed by Amaterasu because his eyes were red like blood pools.

Madara looked at him appreciatively for a moment. Well, if he was going to be sold to anyone, this was not so bad a choice. 

Tobirama stared at the paper in front of him in barely concealed disbelief.

“What,” he began, voice carefully neutral. “Is this.”

Madara rubbed the back of his neck. “Some sort of—short story and art collection,” he muttered. “I confiscated it from a pack of teenagers this morning. They were trading it behind the Uchiha dining hall like contraband.”

Tobirama blinked, slowly. “This makes no sense.”

“On that,” Madara said tiredly, “we agree.”

They were in Tobirama’s private office—at his house, no less—where Madara had barged in uninvited despite being explicitly told to stay away. He had shoved the manuscript at Tobirama, declared it an “emergency,” and seated himself before Tobirama had finished glaring.

Tobirama tapped the page. “Why,” he demanded, “would they sell you to the Senju? You are the Uchiha clan head. Politically, structurally, and strategically, that is—” he paused, disgust tightening his mouth, “—nonsensical. Do they expect Izuna to take over? That would be the worst case scenario.”

Madara shrugged helplessly. “If anything, it would make more sense if you were sold to me.”

Tobirama gave him a blank stare. 

Madara cleared his throat. “Or—at the very least—if I were sold to Hashirama.”

Tobirama didn’t blink. “Why,” he said carefully, “do you want to be sold to my brother?”

“I don’t!” Madara sputtered so violently it rattled the paper on the desk. “I do not want to be sold to anyone. I am merely pointing out internal narrative logic!”

Tobirama made a low, skeptical hum and returned his attention to the manuscript.

He began skimming.

Madara’s breath caught in his throat as he gazed upon his snowy beloved beneath the sakura tree that existed in the Uchiha compound. The pink petals swirled around their person.

“Tobirama,” he whispered, voice raw with yearning and other emotions he didn’t know he had. “Your face markings… they are exquisite. Like strokes from the brush of destiny itself.”

Tobirama looked away shyly, which was unusual for him because he was usually stoic and cold like ice.

“I’m not like other shinobi,” he murmured. “I was born… with them.”

Madara gasped softly, overwhelmed. Truly, no one understood Tobirama Senju like he did.

Tobirama’s reaction was visceral, and offended on a fundamental academic level. He recoiled instantly. 

“I—what—Madara.” He turned to him sharply, face scrunched. “You said you confiscated this from teenagers?”

“Yeah, a whole group of them.”

Tobirama jabbed a finger at the page. “They believe I exited the womb already tattooed?”

Madara raised his hands. “I mean, I don’t know that they—”

 “…Is the educational curriculum in this village truly so deficient? Do we need to revise the academy’s biological sciences? The history modules? The—basic understanding of human development?”

Madara coughed. “I don’t think this is a science issue so much as a—” he waved the manuscript in the air, “..creative liberties.”

Tobirama exhaled sharply, then reached out with a sudden, decisive motion and plucked the manuscript straight from Madara’s hands.

“I want to see,” Tobirama said, voice icy with academic dread, “just how many more ‘creative liberties’ were taken.”

He flipped through the pages with brisk efficiency. Each page stiffened his posture a fraction more, shoulders locking, jaw clenching, his expression narrowing into something brittle.

He stopped abruptly.

“Oh no,” Madara muttered. “What now?”

Tobirama didn’t answer. He held the page very still. 

Then, in a tone that could only be described as grimly fascinated, he read:

Madara and Tobirama were walking together beneath the moon, their footsteps soft against the lonely dirt road that led away from the village. The air was crisp, filled with the scent of pine.

“Thank you,” Tobirama whispered, his voice trembling. “For staying by my side even though I am broken.”

Madara’s heart clenched. “You’re not broken,” he said fiercely. “You’re perfect.”

Before Tobirama could reply (for he was too busy biting his trembling lip), shadows burst from the forest.

Three Senju men stepped forward, rage burning in their eyes like wild flames.

“There you are,” snarled the tallest. “Tobirama Senju—betrayer of our clan.”

Tobirama gasped, shrinking back. “P-Please… stop…”

The tallest one grabbed him by the wrist, shaking him violently. “You abandoned us for the Uchiha! You turned your back on your heritage!”

“Let him go!” Madara roared, his Sharingan igniting with righteous fury.

The man only yanked Tobirama closer. “Why should we? He belongs to us!”

“Madara…” Tobirama whispered weakly, tears shimmering in his doe-like crimson orbs. “Don’t fight… this isn’t… you…”

“NO,” Madara declared, launching himself forward. “I won’t let them hurt you!”

He fought them off with the strength of ten men, sending the Senju crashing into the dirt with each heroic, devastating strike.

Tobirama collapsed into his arms, shaking like a wet leaf.

“I’m so sorry,” he sobbed. “Why… why can’t everyone just leave me alone?”

The silence that followed was indescribable.

Tobirama stared at the page the way one might look upon a fresh battlefield strewn with casualties.

Then he spoke, very calmly:

“…Madara.”

“Yes?”

“This is the most idiotic thing I have ever read.”

Madara didn’t disagree.

Tobirama continued, voice growing flatter with each word. “First of all, no Senju would ‘hunt me down’ for a betrayal that never occurred. Second, if someone grabbed me by the wrist and shook me, my immediate response would not be—” he flicked the paper,“—to tremble like a wet leaf.”

“I mean—”

“I would break their arm.”

Madara nodded slowly. “Yes. That sounds more accurate.”

“And third.” Tobirama’s brow furrowed with intellectual offense. “Why would I beg you not to fight? If anything, I would tell you to stop being dramatic while I eliminated the threat efficiently.”

Madara leaned back slightly, arms crossing, an unmistakable glint lighting his eyes. “So, you don’t enjoy being saved? Because I seem to recall a very recent incident where I heroically, valiently saved your life from a collapsing ceiling beam. Maybe the village used that for inspiration.” 

Tobirama inhaled through his nose, slow and sharp. “Not this again, you pushed me to the ground like a panicked ox.”

“I’m the reason you’re alive right now! Or at the very least, not hideously deformed!”

Tobirama rolled his eyes and chose, with immense dignity, not to respond. Instead he redirected his attention to the manuscript. 

His eyes narrowed.

“…What,” he said slowly, “are all these pages marked in red?”

Madara blinked. “Marked—?”

Tobirama flipped toward the back. A thick section had been tabbed with scraps of crimson cloth, the pages slightly thicker, ink heavier, the edges suspiciously smudged.

Madara leaned in just enough to read over his shoulder. He froze. 

“Tobirama,” he began, voice strangled. “Maybe we shouldn’t—”

But Tobirama’s scientific curiosity had already ignited like a fuse. He turned the first red-marked page with brisk, clinical precision, utterly ignoring Madara’s rising panic. Madara hovered beside him, expression contorting through disbelief, horror, and the kind of secondhand embarrassment that could kill a lesser man outright.

Tobirama’s eyes scanned downward. His eyebrows lifted by a millimeter.

“Oh,” he said, “These appear to be explicit.”

“Yes,” Madara rasped, “I had gathered that. Which is why I suggested—quite reasonably—that we stop reading.”

Tobirama flipped the page.

Madara’s hand shot out instinctively, hovering uselessly above the manuscript. “Tobirama—!”

But Tobirama had already landed on a specific drawing.

The artwork leaped off the paper in bold, unapologetic strokes. It was a sequence, panel by panel, building with the kind of escalating fervor that suggested the artist had poured their soul (and possibly several late nights) into it. In the first frame, Tobirama—rendered with his armor half-discarded, pale skin flushed an improbable pink—stood between two identical Madaras, their Sharingan eyes gleaming with predatory intent. 

Tobirama's breath hitched,  a flicker of heat creeping up his neck. But his expression remained clinically detached, brows furrowing as he tilted the page slightly for better light. The next panels escalated: one clone Madara pressing Tobirama to his knees (conveniently located in what appeared to be the Hokage's office, of all places), the other sliding in from behind, their movements synchronized. The lines blurred with motion, Tobirama's depicted face twisted in exaggerated ecstasy—mouth parted, eyes half-lidded, a hand clutching at dark hair that could only be Madara's.

Madara risked a glance, then immediately regretted it. "Tobirama, for the love of—close it. This is—"

"Pornography, yes," Tobirama murmured, undeterred, flipping to the climax. 

The final panels were a crescendo of indulgence: Tobirama arched between the clones, penetrated from both ends in a tangle of limbs, the artwork capturing every thrust with gratuitous detail. Muscles straining, skin slick, the air around them dotted with stylized sparks.

 And then the release: ropes of white splattering across Tobirama's chest, his thighs, his face, the clone dissolving in puffs of smoke just as the "real" Madara (in the comic) leaned in to claim a kiss amid the aftermath.

Tobirama exhaled slowly, the sound measured but laced with something sharp. His cheeks burned, but his mind—ever the innovator—had latched onto a single, anomalous detail amid the depravity.

"Well," he said at last, voice steady despite the faint tremor, "this was certainly not the intended use when I designed the technique."

Madara choked on nothing, his head snapping up only to drop again, gaze boring into the floorboards.

Tobirama set the manuscript down with careful deliberation, though his fingers lingered on the edge, tracing the red tab absentmindedly. Internally, gears turned: the shadow clone jutsu was a recent creation, barely tested beyond battlefield applications. He'd demonstrated it to a select group of jonin just last month, emphasizing its tactical versatility—decoys, reconnaissance, overwhelming numbers. Clones dispersed upon sufficient damage, yes; no blood, no lasting harm. But excretion? Fluids? He hadn't considered the... physiological extensions. 

The chakra constructs mimicked form so convincingly—breath, sweat, tears. Could they produce other secretions? Semen, for instance? It was a glaring oversight in his experimentation logs.

This required testing. Empirical, controlled testing.

He glanced at Madara, who was studiously examining a nonexistent speck on his sleeve, face aflame, refusing to meet his eyes. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, charged with the absurdity of the moment and something perilously close to curiosity.

"Madara," Tobirama said evenly, breaking the silence. "Do you know how to use the shadow clone jutsu?"

Madara's head jerked up at last, eyes wide. "What? No.”

Tobirama's gaze sharpened, unflinching. He leaned forward a fraction, the manuscript still open between them like an unspoken challenge. 

"Madara," he said, voice low and deliberate. "Turn on your Sharingan."

---

The council chamber in the Hokage Tower had been repaired with admirable speed—Hashirama's mokuton weaving fresh beams into the ceiling, the scent of new wood still lingering faintly beneath the polish. 

Hashirama sat at the head of the table, Mito composed and inscrutable beside him. Tobirama was opposite her, posture impeccable, expression unreadable save for the slightest tension in his jaw. Madara was beside him, arms crossed, though his attention seemed less on the proceedings and more on the man next to him—eyes lingering with an intensity that bordered on distraction. And Izuna, slouched with deliberate nonchalance at the far end, like he was daring someone to tell him to sit up.

Hashirama cleared his throat dramatically, drawing all eyes to him. He leaned forward, palms flat on the table, his face a mask of solemn concern that didn't quite hide the gleam in his eyes.

"As you all know," he began, "Konoha has been... experiencing a bit of a creative fervor lately. Depictions—artistic ones, mind you—of certain founding members have been circulating in ways that are, ah, enthusiastic. Overly so, perhaps. It's come to my attention that this could be disrupting village harmony."

Izuna gave an unimpressed huff. “The only thing being disrupted here is my appetite, and it’s been ruined every time I walk past a market stall and see some giggling kunoichi clutching a scroll titled ‘Madara-sama’s Secret Hiraishin Nights’.”

Tobirama's gaze slid toward him, cool and unimpressed, but Hashirama waved a hand before the retort could land.

 "Izuna, this is serious! But fear not!" He straightened, puffing out his chest . "I have a plan to curb this. New guidelines on intellectual property. No more unauthorized allusions to real-life figures in creative works. Drawings, stories, even poems—if it's based on actual people without permission, it's out. We'll frame it as protecting the dignity of our leaders. For the good of the village, naturally."

Mito nodded, her voice calm and measured as she interjected. "And to enforce it practically, we'd establish a review board—discreet, of course. Clan representatives could oversee submissions for festivals or public displays. It would prevent escalation while encouraging... healthier outlets for expression. Perhaps redirect the energy toward historical reenactments or landscape art."

Hashirama beamed at her, clearly thrilled by the addition. "Exactly! See? We've thought this through. No more—"

Tobirama cleared his throat then, a single, precise sound that cut through the air. All eyes turned to him. He folded his hands on the table, expression as even as ever, though a faint flush lingered at the base of his neck—barely noticeable unless one was looking closely. Which Madara was.

"That will not be necessary," Tobirama said flatly.

Hashirama blinked, his grand momentum derailed. "Huh? What do you mean?"

Tobirama exhaled. "I believe I was too hasty in my initial request—the confiscated materials I submitted anonymously." He paused, letting the admission settle. "Upon further reflection, I see no need to limit the village's creative pursuits. In fact... we have much to learn from them."

The room went still. Hashirama's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. "That was you?! The crate? The note about 'an attack on Konoha's founders'?"

"Yes," Tobirama confirmed without a trace of embarrassment, though his fingers tightened fractionally on the table's edge. "An overreaction. Creativity, even in its more... unconventional forms, can inspire innovation." 

Mito arched a brow, her composure unbroken, though a flicker of amusement crossed her features. Hashirama, meanwhile, stared at his brother as if he'd grown a second head, then turned to Madara for backup.

"And you, Madara? What do you think? Surely you agree we need to curb this somewhat?"

Madara jolted slightly, as if pulled from a trance. He blinked, processing the question belatedly. "Uh... yeah. Sure. Whatever Tobirama wants."

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Then Izuna lurched upright in his chair,  “Are you kidding me?!” he demanded, looking between Madara’s dreamy expression and Tobirama’s infuriating calm. “We’re just—just allowing the entire village to keep drawing porn of you two?”

Madara shot him a warning look, but Izuna only jabbed a finger in his brother’s direction. “You don’t get to agree with him,” he hissed. “You’ve been useless this entire meeting!”

“I was not useless,” Madara muttered weakly, still very much staring at Tobirama out of the corner of his eye.

Tobirama did not return the glance.

Hashirama, meanwhile, looked genuinely confused “I don’t understand, otōto,” he said, leaning forward as though physical proximity might yield clarity. “What changed your mind so drastically?” 

Mito said nothing, but her eyes drifted to Tobirama’s hands, to the faint flush along his throat, to Madara’s steadfast refusal to look anywhere else. Something like dawning comprehension flickered across her expression before she dutifully schooled it back into serenity.

Tobirama, for his part, kept his gaze fixed on a neutral point just beyond Hashirama’s shoulder.

“I reconsidered,” he said simply. “The village’s creative cycles are transient. Fads rise and fall. I am confident the population will grow bored and move on to something else soon.”

Izuna made a strangled sound. “Oh, yes, because history shows that always happens. Nothing motivates artists like giving them free rein! They’ll be drawing you two until the end of time!”

Tobirama ignored him. It was an old skill.

Hashirama, however, was unconvinced. He studied his brother with faint, puzzled concern.

“Are you sure, Tobirama? You really don’t want us to implement the guidelines?”

“No,” Tobirama answered. A little too quickly. A little too firmly. “There is no need. Let the villagers… express themselves. It may even be beneficial for morale. For Konoha, as a whole.”

Hashirama sat back, uncertainty giving way to reluctant acceptance.

“Well,” he said softly, “if that’s truly how you feel…”

“It is,” Tobirama said.

“No,” Izuna declared to the room. “Absolutely not. Something happened. I don’t know what it was, and I don’t want to know, but it definitely happened.”

Tobirama’s posture remained immaculate. Madara turned a shade redder.

Mito, at last, allowed herself the smallest, most elegant sigh.

“Yes,” she murmured, “I imagine the village will find something else to entertain themselves with soon enough.”