Madara frowned at the paper in his hands. He probably should put on his glasses, but he'd forgotten them in his bedroom that morning, and he wasn't in the mood to go grab them now. Still, it was kind of hard to read anything when the attempt made his head hurt and meant he needed twice as long to read anything.
Fuck.
He sighed, putting the paper down on his desk, and brought a hand up to massage at his face. Losing his sight had always been one of his fears and here he was, unable to even read his work in peace. Sometimes he missed being so worried about his brother that he barely took notice of whether he could see or not.
"Madara?"
Oh, of course. He glared up at his idiotic best friend who had just entered his office without knocking. As always.
(he wondered when Hashirama's presence became so natural he barely realized when the man was near. It certainly hadn't been when the village was first built, that's for sure)
"What do you want."
Well. Hashirama was used to his temper. He probably wouldn't mind the flatness of his voice, would he?
"Are you ok?"
No, he didn't — instead, he got worried. Of course he did. Madara resisted the urge to sigh again.
"I'm fine, Hashirama." He waved one hand. "That is not why you came here. What is it?"
"Doesn't matter!" Hashirama pouted, approaching with fidgeting hands. "If you're not feeling well, you can take the day off! Or— or I can heal you, if you want! Your health is more important, Madara!"
The emotion was appreciated, but Madara would prefer if Hashirama just allowed him to be in peace so he could wallow in his stubbornness alone. If he told Hashirama about his glasses, his friend would offer to go grab them for him — or, knowing Hashirama, he would get several copies to keep at work, and that would be. Embarrassing.
He opened his mouth to complain — or, well, something, he wasn't entirely sure what he intended to do, actually, but he figured he'd do something convincing or… well. Something.
(he felt as if his thoughts were running in circles. It was probably the headache, wasn't it?)
Thankfully, though, he didn't need to do anything, because right then he was saved by Tobirama's perfectly timed arrival.
"Anija," Tobirama nodded in his brother's direction before coming to Madara. Madara smiled, leaning his head to the side automatically as Tobirama's hand raised.
It was only as he felt the brush of lips against his temple — and a sharp relief of rudimentary healing chakra with it — that he remembered their audience.
Or, well. That he was reminded of their audience. Very shrilly.
As Hashirama kept screaming nonsense (Madara wasn't sure if he was happy or angry, only that his voice was reaching a volume that could probably raise the dead, and that the wooden walls around them were vibrating with the man's emotions), a small bundle hit his lap.
He looked down — any excuse to ignore his best friend was a good one — and saw his glasses in his lap.
Had… Had Tobirama done it on purpose?
He looked suspiciously to his— partner. Who was smirking lightly. And retreating silently.
Oh, he had. The ass.
"Tobirama…" he growled lowly. Tobirama had the gall to offer him a cheery wave before disappearing with barely any effort, leaving Madara to his fate. At Hashirama's hands.
And people had the nerve to say Madara was the childish one between them!