Rating: M

Warnings: Bad humor, bickering, Izuna being a dork, teenagers, seriousness, brief nudity (not the fun kind), Madara being a dork, etc.

Word Count: ~5300

Pairings: Pre-Madara/Tobirama, Hashirama/Mito, Tōka/Izuna

Disclaimer: Hah. I want some of whatever Kishimoto was smoking, but Naruto's not mine.

Notes: Aargh. *headdesk* So this was the chapter that refused to cooperate. The first part was easy, because I am decent at writing ridiculousness, but Madara and Tobirama will be the death of me, I swear. They're so serious, even when they're not in serious situations, and they always end up arguing. I don't even know how, but w/e. You're not here to listen to me whine. Onward!


As Is the Sea Marvelous

9. love

Tōka is lounging under the new green leaves of the peach tree in the garden, languidly accepting grapes from Izuna—by hand, since she immediately vetoed his offer to feed them to her (he's cute, but she's got a reputation to maintain)—when her little cousin stalks up the garden path, dripping wet and visibly fuming. If his chakra wasn't sealed, she's sure every bit of water within a mile would be thrashing.

Giving a low, impressed whistle, she pushes herself up and calls, "Hey, sunshine! Smile! It's a lovely day, isn't it?"

(Being his surrogate older sister is so impossibly rewarding at times.)

Tobirama shoots her a look so poisonous and furious that she can practically feel the grass dying around her. Then his red eyes—currently almost demonic, given the scowl on his face—snap to Izuna, and he levels a threatening finger at the Uchiha.

"Your brother," he spits, and then is apparently too overcome with rage to manage so much as another word. He snarls, sounding just as menacing as his summons have ever managed to be, spins on his heel, and stalks into the house, slamming the door so hard behind him that the entire frame shakes.

There's a long moment of silence, and then Hikaku, perched up in the branches above them, releases a low, sharp breath. "Wow," he says. "Why do I feel like I just faced down death?"

"Don't be stupid," Tōka dismisses with a wave, flopping back onto the grass. "Tobirama would never get that angry in an actual battle. But that was still slightly impressive—I haven't seen him that angry since Hashirama turned one of his bookshelves into a tree. With all the books still on it." She holds out her hand imperiously, gesturing for Izuna to resume passing the grapes over, but nothing comes. A little surprised, she glances over at him and raises a questioning brow.

The expression on Izuna's face is caught midway between disbelief, horror, and wonder. He's staring at the doorway of the house with wide eyes, mouth slightly open and cluster of grapes dangling forgotten from lax fingers. Tōka isn't even sure he's breathing.

"Izuna?" she asks, faintly concerned, and sits up again. There's nothing that she can think of that would have caused this kind of reaction. After all, despite her words to Hikaku, Tobirama does occasionally show some bits of temper on the battlefield, so he can't be entirely unfamiliar with her cousin in a snit. But—

"Oh my gods," Izuna breathes, caught between reverent and dismayed. "He—he—Madara dunked him in the koi pond."

Well. That would explain the pondweed decorating Tobirama's silver hair.

Tōka's first reaction is offense. Tobirama is, after all, her little cousin, as good as her brother, and Madara is their sort-of-enemy. Logic dictates that she should stand up, find Madara, and wedge something large into somewhere humiliating. Even a few days ago, that would have been her reaction without hesitation.

Now, however, her second reaction quickly overwhelms the first. She hoots with laughter, throwing herself back and giving in to the mirth until she practically cries.

From above, barely audible over the sound of her cackles, Hikaku lets out a despairing groan. "He didn't," the teenager says, though he doesn't sound like he believes the denial at all. "He did not. Tell me our noble Clan Head did not throw the greatest Suiton user in history into a body of water, wearing suppression seals drawn in ink."

Izuna winces. "Believe me, Madara's done it to me enough times that I can tell. That was definitely Madara's handiwork, and it was definitely the pool in our garden. I am completely certain."

At least it's a you-aggravate-me-greatly-and-this-is-how-I-express-emotions thing, rather than a revenge-against-the-Senju-by-way-of-humiliation thing, Tōka thinks, pressing her arm over her eyes and trying to quiet her giggles. But, damn, the look on Tobirama's face—

She loses it again.

(And how strange, really, to laugh like she hasn't done in years in the company of two Uchiha. How strange, to feel so relaxed in the middle of their compound after being caught staging a breakout of one of their prisoners. How amazing, to look into Izuna's dangerous, treacherous Sharingan eyes and see only admiration, only respect. They've been at war so long, forced to fight—

But maybe that's the answer, isn't it? They're all of them unwilling soldiers, placed on the battlefield by their history, their pasts, their clans as a whole. By a desperation to survive, an inability to see that the other side is doing the same, and….well.

Tōka has never liked anything less than wearing blinders, and with these ones removed, she feels almost…free.)

Fingertips lightly brush her face, shifting a few strands of dark hair out of her eyes, and the laughter catches in her throat. She opens her eyes, looking up to find Izuna leaning over her, expression caught somewhere between sheepish and appreciative. He clears his throat, but doesn't look away as he says, "Sorry, you…had something. Grass. There."

Tōka can't fight a small smile, just a faint quirk of her lips, but she feels…soft. Easy. "Very eloquent, Uchiha," she comments, and chuckles when faint red stains Izuna's cheeks. He huffs, offended, and the trace of a pout makes her laugh, watching him from beneath lazily lidded eyes. He's…pretty. Not devastatingly handsome like Hashirama is, or possessing Tobirama's coldly feral sort of beauty, but…nice to look at. She enjoys looking at him, which isn't something she allows herself often. Not because being a kunoichi means she can't be a woman, too, but because of who she is.

Always, always Tōka has put the clan's needs before her own, put her dreams ahead of her desires. And she's managed, become the Senju's strongest kunoichi by a wide margin, but frequent battles and even more constant training has left little time for family beyond Tobirama and Hashirama. For that reason, she understands Tobirama's distance from the rest of the clan, his aloofness. It's not one she cultivates herself, but—they're warriors. They're weapons made to draw blood and steal life. People fear them, even those they protect. It's an acceptable price to pay for the power they wield, but disheartening all the same.

She forgets, sometimes, that there's more to her than her naginata and her genjutsus. That a man can look at the muscles in her arms and still admire her face and her humor. That being a shinobi doesn't have to exclude being human as well.

Sudden impulse makes her lift a hand, and it's a little heartwarming that Izuna doesn't flinch. He simply holds still as she ghosts her fingers through his hair. It's silky, glossier and finer than her own, and immediately falls back into place after her hand has passed. Izuna watches her as she drops her hand back to her chest, smiling lazily up at him, and there's an expression in his coal-black eyes that's impossibly gratifying. He also doesn't seem to be breathing, which is even more so.

"Leaf," she offers in halfhearted explanation, giving him a wink. "Right there. It's gone now, though, don't worry."

He laughs, warm and startled, and holds a grape up between two fingers. One dark brow cocks challengingly, and Tōka chuckles, parting her lips in answer. He touches the very tip to her mouth, fingers not quite brushing skin, and Tōka takes it in her teeth.

"SENJU!" a familiar voice bellows, startling her so much she swallows the grape whole. Hacking, she jerks up, and through watering eyes makes out the figure of Uchiha Madara stomping down the path that her cousin just walked. His face is lobster-red in a way that hints at minor burns rather than simple fury, though there's plenty of that as well vibrating in the air around him. There's also grass in his hair, like he's been rolling around on a lawn—or, perhaps, knowing her cousin, been wrestling on a lawn.

Somehow, even without chakra, she doesn't think Tobirama took his dunking graciously. Or peacefully.

Feeling both amused and slightly miffed—because she knows brothers (and little cousins, come to think of it) are instinctively skilled at cock-blocking, but she had thought doing so was a conscious thing—Tōka watches Madara stalk up to the house, slam open the door, and violently kick off his shoes. Half a moment later the door slides shut with another house-rattling thud, and she can hear Madara start yelling. Tobirama doesn't yell back, but that's to be expected—Tōka can't remember a single time she's heard him raise his voice outside of calling orders on the battlefield. When he's angry, he doesn't get loud; he gets biting.

It's almost enough to make her pity Madara, except for the fact that he clearly brought it on himself.

"What do you think that's about?" Hikaku asks curiously, eyes spinning into red and black pinwheels as he studies the house.

"Are you spying, Hikaku?" Izuna sounds delighted. "I knew I'd get through to you someday!"

Hikaku casts him the type of deeply annoyed glance that only teenagers can manage with any regularity. "In case you've forgotten," he says acidly, "that's my Clan Head in there. I'm not about to let Tobirama kill him. If only because then you'd be Clan Head."

"I would be a fantastic Clan Head," Izuna snaps. "Fantastic, okay?"

Derision shifts to pity, and Hikaku rolls his eyes. "Whatever."

Tōka snorts, vividly reminded of Tobirama at age fifteen, five times smarter than everyone else and entirely done with adults' condescending bullshit and everyone demanding he slow down and explain things. That word featured frequently, in various tones of "you're a moron" or "why must you force me to lower myself to your level". Sometimes even "I really hope your idiocy isn't contagious". He hadn't tried it on her more than once before she cured him of it, painfully, but everyone else was fair game. Hashirama especially.

Sometimes she just has to stop and be awed by the fact that the little punk made it to adulthood without someone murdering him from sheer aggravation. Gods, but he was a little brat as a teenager.

With a slightly nostalgic sigh, Tōka stretches out her legs, then leans forward to hook an arm around one foot. From her left, Izuna makes a sound vaguely like he's choking, but Tōka pretends she can't hear it, hiding her smirk against her knee. She holds the stretch for a moment, then pushes upright again, letting herself fall backwards and sprawl out in the grass. The sun is warm on her face, starting to descend, and the grass is cool and dense. Her hair is loose, spread out around her, and she can't remember the last time she wore it down so many days in a row. Her topknot is for missions, for battle, and it's almost jarring to look back and see just how many of both usually fill her days. Peace is strange.

It's a strangeness she could get used to, though.

From the house, Madara's voice goes up a few decibels, and Tōka huffs out an amused breath. "Should we go make sure they don't kill each other?" she asks, though she doesn't really want to move. Besides, Madara has proved by now that he doesn't want Tobirama dead, and she trusts that he won't kill her cousin because of a little annoyance. Madara is petty, but it's the kind of pettiness that results in him dunking people who disagree with him in ponds, rather than him slitting their throats while they're relatively helpless.

(Hopefully the 'relatively helpless' will be done away with as soon as the peace talks are set. Tōka wants her chakra back, but more than that, she's getting tired of the pinched look Tobirama wears sometimes, the way his gaze will linger like he's trying to make out edges and distances. It's hard to remember sometimes just how much more Tobirama is used to seeing, even beyond his genius. It's not that she forgets, given how many times his range as a sensor—the best she's ever encountered, regardless of the clan—has saved lives, but she has a hard time understanding just what the absence of that skill means for him.)

But before she can even start to push herself up again, Izuna says very slowly, "No. no, I actually don't think we should, because I have a better idea."

Hikaku yelps, flails, and in a rattle of branches and a shower of leaves falls right out of the tree. Since he's a shinobi, he's up again in a minute, even though his hair has been pulled free of its short tail and is now full of twigs and bits of green.

"No," he snaps. "No, Izuna, no ideas. Whatever it is, it's stupid and suicidal and I refuse."

Izuna makes a miffed noise, sticking his nose in the air and pointedly turning away. "Fine," he says primly, plucking Tōka's hand off the grass and raising the back of it to his lips. He's smiling faintly, eyes full of a more mischievous challenge and a very clear dare. "You're not required anyway, Hikaku. I'm sure the stunning Lady Senju will assist me, since she's not a stick in the mud."

"When it comes to your ridiculous schemes, being a stick in the mud keeps me alive and out of whatever warpath you eventually set your brother on," Hikaku retorts. "Lady Senju hopefully has the good sense to just beat you unconscious before you can drag her into anything idiotic."

Tōka raises an eyebrow at him, then levels Izuna with her flattest look. "Explain."

Izuna smirks. "Your cousin and my brother are a lot alike," he says, feigning casualness. "Both stubborn, powerful, leaders burdened with painful pasts, willing to put their own desires aside for the sake of family…"

Hikaku groans and starts thumping his head against the tree trunk.

(Melodrama, it seems, is another of those universal teenage prerogatives.)

"Why are you making them sound like the leads in a bad romance novel?" Tōka asks, unimpressed.

"Haven't you ever wanted to just lock someone in a closet with someone else and see what comes out of it?" Izuna wheedles. "This could be our chance."

"My brain is dying," Hikaku complains, "just from listening to you."

Tōka's eyebrow goes up another level. "In a closet," she repeats dubiously. "Tobirama. And Madara. Just to point out the most obvious flaw in all of this, I can't think of a single closet in all of existence that could hold both of them when they didn't want to be there. And don't say they would want to," she adds as Izuna opens his mouth. "Or I'll have to assume that you haven't met either of them before."

Izuna looks disappointed, but not deterred. "They could, though," he defends. "They really are similar."

"So are Tobirama and Hikaku, but I don't see you pairing them up." Tōka frowns at him. "If this is just an opportunity to rile your brother…"

"Finally, someone shows sense." Hikaku narrows his eyes at the other Uchiha. "That's totally what this is about, don't try to deny it, Izuna."

The man scowls at both of them, crossing his arms petulantly. "It is not—well, it is," he admits when Hikaku makes a noise like his head is about to explode. "But it would be funny. You have to admit that at least, Hikaku."

Tōka groans and kneads at her forehead. "You're lucky you're so cute," she informs Izuna, and shakes her head. "I am as fond of teasing my cousin as anyone, but this will only end in disaster. Besides, the only thing Tobirama's ever had a crush on is a sword, or maybe a particularly shiny new jutsu. He doesn't let anyone get that close unless they're family, and that's out for the obvious reasons."

For a long moment, Izuna hesitates, clearly searching for a decent argument. Then he asks carefully, "Would you say Tobirama treats Madara like family right now?"

The idea is so ridiculous that Tōka scoffs. "Of course not."

"And yet he let Madara get close enough to chuck him into a pond." Izuna smiles, edging towards smug. "Also, I know Madara doesn't see Tobirama as family, and was relaxed enough around him to apparently get a cup of tea tossed in his face."

"They could just be getting closer to being friends," Hikaku points out, but from the despair edging into his expression he already thinks the whole conversation is lost.

Tōka is still not convinced. Not in the least. She knows her cousin. But since the reality of the situation isn't dissuading Izuna, she switches gears. "Izuna. Think this through. If—if—my cousin and Madara have any sort of non-platonic feelings for one another, and you push them together, they're going to kiss. They're going to date. They're eventually going to get naked together and have sex. Together."

As she expected, Izuna blanches chalk-white and his expression turns queasy. With a low, wounded noise he clamps his hands over his eyes, scrubbing like he's trying to remove the images from his retinas. "No. Why would you say that? Why would you even think of that? Aargh."

Hikaku takes one look at his clansman and turns to Tōka. He pulls himself up onto his knees, claps his hands together, and bows over them. "Teach me, master," he intones solemnly, and Izuna whines pitifully and flails a hand at him without removing the other from his face.

"Monster," he complains. "You base traitor. I'll have you thrown in the cells, asshole, just see if I won't!"

Tōka gives in and laughs so hard it hurts.


One of the things that Madara shares with Hashirama is, it seems, his lack of acknowledgement in regards to boundaries.

Because he's used to his idiot older brother barging in on him at all moments, Tobirama just sighs when he hears the door of his room crash open. He doesn't turn to face the intruder, but carefully finishes stripping his kimono shirt off.

"Yes?" he asks coolly. "Can I help you, Uchiha?"

Madara splutters wildly. "You—you—you—why are you getting undressed?" he shrieks.

At that Tobirama does turn, fixing Madara with the drollest look in his admittedly expansive arsenal. "Because someone," he bites out, "decided to throw me into a pond. I am wet, so therefore I must change." Pointedly, he reaches for the fly of his pants, and Madara gurgles something and whirls around to stare at the wall.

"Have you no modesty, Senju?" he complains heatedly. "In addition to no sense?"

Tobirama growls, stripping out of his pants and throwing them over the windowsill to hopefully dry in the sun. While he hardly minds water—it was one of his few self-indulgences as a child, going swimming, and still remains that way now—he does mind getting tipped into a fish pond for disagreeing with Madara's opinions. Given that, he feels no remorse in shoving past Madara in only his soaked underwear as he heads for his cousin's room. It's not as though a shinobi's life encourages a sensitivity to nudity or anything approaching shame.

"I have more sense than you would even know what to do with," he snaps, ignoring Madara's wordless snarl of outrage. "Punching my brother, especially at a peace talk, is the height of stupidity."

"He deserves it!" Madara snaps back. "And where the hell are you going without clothes on?"

Tobirama rolls his eyes. "The maid took my other clothes to wash them. Tōka and I are of a height, so I'm going to borrow some of hers."

Madara makes a noise like a tea kettle boiling over. "You're going to wear a dress?"

"Would it matter if I did?" Tobirama checks Tōka's closet, then snags one of her looser sleeping yukatas and tugs it on. He strips off his nearly see-through underwear and pulls the robe fully closed, tying the obi as he turns to face the other man. Madara's face is flushed, though Tobirama is willing to write most of that off as the heat of the tea and his anger in equal measure.

There's a long moment as Madara obviously gropes for something cutting to say. Clearly unable to find it, he finally spits back, "You don't have the figure for it!"

Tobirama can't help it. He snorts, barely managing to hold back his laughter, and has to turn away again so Madara doesn't see the amusement on his face. "I'm crushed," he deadpans. "Your words wound me deeply, Uchiha."

"You're impossible!" Madara snarls, throwing his hands up. "And about Hashirama, too! He's an idiot and a fool and—"

"And my brother." The flare of annoyance helps squash Tobirama's mirth, and he glares at Madara. "Sure you of all people can understand what I mean when I say that, Madara."

There's another struggle for words, and then Madara sighs aggrievedly, raking a hand through his wild hair. "I…do," he admits, though it's entirely reluctant. "I understand, but…"

Tobirama stares at his bent head for a moment, then rolls his eyes—mostly at himself—and heads for the kitchen. "We never finished our tea," he offers. "Would you like another cup?"

"Are you going to throw it at me again?" Despite his sour words, Madara follows, and settles at the low table as Tobirama puts the kettle on the stove and turns it on.

"That depends," Tobirama says mildly. "Are you going to keep threatening my brother?"

"…No." Madara crosses his arms, looking away with a grimace. "But I wished to speak with you about something."

Expecting this to be yet another rant on Hashirama's faults—which, admittedly, Hashirama does have, if not in quite the volume that Madara likes to imagine them—Tobirama sighs and sinks down across from the other man, folding his arms over his chest. "Yes?"

Taking a deep breath, Madara rubs his long fingers over the bridge of his nose—a habit when he's gathering his thoughts, Tobirama has noticed. "Just—try to picture what I tell you, and don't interrupt. Can you do that?"

Tobirama's curiosity has always been his downfall. He inclines his head, waiting, and the Uchiha regards him narrowly for a moment as if judging his sincerity before nodding. "All right. You love your brother, yes?" At Tobirama's quiet scoff he waves a hand. "Yes, yes, I know. Fine."

Another breath, and then Madara says very softly, "You love your brother. Picture him old. Picture him with children, and grandchildren, in a garden somewhere. Picture that wife of his, happy and smiling. Picture them laughing, and the lines on their faces are from joy, not grief. The garden's gates stand open. There's no guard; there's no need for one. From beyond the walls, you can hear people—many, many people. They're happy, too, but they don't matter. Look at your brother and his family, at his children who have children of their own. There's no hate in them, no anger, no fear. What does that look like to you, Tobirama?"

His throat shouldn't feel tight. His chest shouldn't ache. He shouldn't be able to see that image so clearly, not when it's only a daydream, inspired by a former enemy's words. "A fantasy," he says, and means it to come out short, sharp, cold. It rasps in his throat instead, sticks on his tongue, doesn't want him to dismiss the image so easily. "A particularly weak genjutsu meant to distract me."

Madara laughs. It's short and pained, but there's an undertone of hope to it that's like nothing Tobirama has ever heard before. "Maybe," he agrees, and the word emerges soft. "But to me, that's peace. That's all I've ever wanted for Izuna, or my other brothers. That's what I've clung to since I was a child, Tobirama. I thought you of all people would be able to understand why. It's not Hashirama's peace, for the greater good. It's selfish, because I'm a selfish man. But don't you want to see it, someday?"

There's no possible way to say no, no chance that Tobirama would—but then, Madara already knew that. He knew just what effect his words would have before he started speaking. After all, when it comes to what they would do to make their families happy, or to ensure they survive, they're very much alike. But rather than saying that, Tobirama keeps his silence.

As with his question about Edo Tensei, Madara seems to take it as affirmation regardless. He nods, apparently satisfied, and looks down.

The kettle is boiling. Tobirama takes a breath that he's very careful not to let shake, then rises to his feet and heads towards the stove, turning off the heat and then laying out everything required. Even as he measure out the powdered tea, though, he can't quite manage to tear his thoughts away from Madara's words, from the image of Hashirama and Mito, smiling and wrinkled with their heads bent together and laughter around them. It…stings. Aches like a muscle overstretched in an unfamiliar exercise, and Tobirama has to stop, leaning against the counter as he stares blankly out the window.

He had never thought of it quite like that, even when he intellectually knew what Hashirama meant when he spoke of peace. He's never felt it before, like a longing, like a loss. As if the world is somehow lesser right now, for the unlikelihood of that vision coming to pass. Hashirama old is something he has never contemplated, and that seems…painful. Sad.

It's easy, like this, to understand the depth of Madara's fury and madness when Izuna lingered on the edge of death. The loss of that possibility, even the smallest chance of it—it's enough to break even a strong man.

Shaking himself from his thoughts, Tobirama finishes whisking in the tea, then sets the cups on a small tray and carries them out to the table. He's silent as he sets Madara's in front of the man, and the Uchiha seems content to let him be. From outside, through the open window, Tobirama can hear Tōka laughing, bright and mirthful, without the sardonic edge that all too often colors her laughter. He smiles to himself a little, and closes his eyes. Without Madara's prompting this time, he thinks of that sound enduring, of hearing it again. Of Tōka laughing until she's bent and worn but never frail, raising hell and giving no quarter and still painting her lips heart's-blood red just because she can. Of her surviving, when he'd never allowed himself to contemplate it before.

Shinobi don't survive into middle age. Tōka is thirty, and that's already beyond the average. To give her a chance to live, to give Hashirama that chance, to see Mito's firstborn, or grandchildren, or—

For that, he can believe in peace. For that, he can fight for it.

Across the table, Madara hums as though agreeing, and Tobirama raises his head to find pitch-black eyes lingering on him, full of something that looks like gratitude, like approval. "You understand," he says, and it's not a question.

Holding his gaze is still strange, still rare. The Sharingan was one of the first things Tobirama learned to fear, and to have that fear banished in the space of a week—well. He supposes he'll get used to it. Inclining his head, he focuses on the steam drifting lazily from his cup, and keeps his silence.

"You'll stay?" Madara asks. "The three months? I think with groundwork, peace will be simple. The village—that will follow shortly. All the clans need is a little bit of certainty, and together, our families can provide that. You and Izuna, Hashirama and I—I have faith that it will work."

Many, many times Hashirama has told him to have faith. Never before has Tobirama truly understood those words. He's not one to rely on hopes, or to base his expectations on anything but the harshness of reality. But apparently this is a day for firsts, because locked away under his breastbone is a small, tight knot of something. It feels light, buoyant, but fragile. Delicate. Tobirama will keep it locked away until it's stronger, hoarded and nurtured, fed scraps the way he once tamed a feral cat. And when it can finally endure the cold light of day—well. Who knows?

Rubbing a hand over his eyes, he nods. "I will. And after, if it's needed. My brother can construct a village quickly, thanks to his Mokuton, but he has no head for planning. Or architecture. Or logistics."

Madara huffs out a laugh at that, sounding reluctantly amused. "We drew plans once," he admits. "In the sand, with sticks. Your brother had three barbeque restaurants and a bonsai garden on every street. I'd forgotten that."

That sounds very like his brother. Tobirama rolls his eyes, glancing up to catch Madara smiling, just a little, with his eyes gone distant. It's the first time Tobirama has gotten the opportunity to study him without propriety driving his gaze away, and he takes the chance, studying the sharp chin and oval face, the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. His hair falls over his right eye, thick and so dark it bears hints of blue in the sunlight.

He's handsome, Tobirama realizes with some surprise. It's not really something he's ever had a reason to contemplate before, but it's true. And…interesting, perhaps. Tobirama hasn't quite decided yet.

He drops his gaze to his tea again, studying the pale green liquid as it shimmers, and then closes his eyes and simply breathes. Right now, sitting here in the silence with the sun warm outside and the air between them companionable, he doesn't need to do any more.