MADARA
Madara's knuckles ache as he kneads at his temples. Long hours and endless weeks spent trapped around this table have taken their toll in the form of stiff joints and mounting tension caught behind his brow. After a lifetime spent in battle, nursing countless wounds and ailments, it seems rest is the thing that truly brings his body to heel. Of course, if this is the cost of peace, it's a negligible one, but he can't help but think it would come easier if not for the younger Senju. Madara has no desire to be inattentive or flippant when it comes to their newfound village, nor his peoples' place within it, but the way Tobirama's hackles rise over every inch of land, every cent of tax, feels like a needless drag meant to slow progress so much it becomes the more intolerable option. Haggling over tariffs and nitpicking property lines were never going to be his strong-suits, and were it not for his sister, Madara muses that Tobirama might have gotten his way and driven him so deep into restlessness he may well have gone mad.
Izuna possesses a patience for insipid detail and a knack for needling at Tobirama's nerves with an amicable face that Madara finds enviable. Each time the Senju clears his throat in preparation to dig his heels in over something minute once again, Izuna meets him with a diplomatic tone and a firm argument, and Madara watches as his seams come a little looser. For a man who prides himself so heavily on a steady temperament, it's quite a novelty to watch the way his knuckles go white and his shoulders tight over the words of a girl half his age. It's no wonder, really. The Senju waste their women, raising them as helpless foals, it's a favourable bet that he's never faced such opposition from one, let alone one so young. One might think he'd have learned by now not to underestimate Izuna, they've clashed enough times that he'd have to be daft not to know her capable and while Tobirama can be accused of many things, stupidity is hardly one of them.
Hashirama, at least, stymies his brother's most pedantic concerns, but even Madara can admit that it's clear Tobirama's sharpness is of value where Hashirama tends to be soft. To allow him no say would be foolish, and even in his exuberance, Hashirama has never been a fool, nor one to disregard his respect for his brother's opinion in favour of doing things with ease. So, the day drags on, as it always does, and by the time they've reached the limit of what can be done in one sitting, the sun has long since set. Hashirama catches his arm before he can leave with his sister.
"Stay back a moment, share a drink with me." Madara's back aches and he yearns to stretch his legs, but he's no more able to deny Hashirama's pleading smile than he was yesterday.
"As long as we can share it elsewhere. I'll go mad if I spend another minute here," he grouses. Hashirama tosses back his head to laugh as if he's told a joke and Madara is reluctantly charmed.
They settle at the top of the ridge that overlooks the land that will soon hold their fledgling village. Still air on a calm night. Even after a day spent agonizing over every painful detail there is to be thought of between them, the feeling that surrounds them is closer to one of peace than ever before and any chill brought by the breeze is chased away by the warmth of Hashirama's company.
"It seems too good to be true, doesn't it?" A wistful tone carries the words out with a sigh. Madara grins, as if Hashirama's faith in their dream was ever shaken.
"It always did."
"So you've maintained." Madara doesn't need to look at Hashirama to know that his expression will be even more pleased than his voice, but still he looks and allows himself to bask in the affection written plainly across his face. When Hashirama reaches out to place a fresh cup of sake in Madara's hand, his fingers linger too long, gaze too heavy, and Madara resents the ease of his own want. "And yet, neither of us would be here if not for your willingness." Hashirama's voice has dipped, Madara pulls his hand back with too much haste to be conspicuous to a man who knows whom so well, though his cup does not spill.
"How has your wife taken to the news, Hashirama?" The words curdle on his tongue as he speaks them, and when Hashirama laughs this time, it's not the jubilant thing that it was before.
"Madara, please. She would not—"
"Hashirama," a warning. For a moment, he fears it's one Hashirama will not heed, fears his capacity to refuse himself is less than Hashirama's determination to be heard, but then Hashirama's hand falls back to the ground beside him and a heavy sigh lets from his chest. Sadness, painfully transparent, settles over his features, but the worst of it is chased from his expression by the softening of his eyes when he speaks of Mito. It's a bitter mercy.
"Relieved." Madara stifles his own surprise. Mito has never been one to wilt in the face of war, she might not hold the same reservations over peace between their clans as Tobirama, but he'd expected more skepticism until negotiations are entirely settled, at the very least.
"Truly?" he asks. Hashirama nods, looking down at his own cup. When he speaks next, the weight behind his voice is a sorely familiar one.
"She has no wish to spend her life bearing children under the hope that at least one might survive her, and time grows thin." A part of Madara hurts in the same way it did the first day Hashirama laid eyes on Mito, the day they married, the first time she accompanied him into battle and held her own infuriatingly well. The part of him that hurts with every reminder that he is no longer the only one to know this part of him. What hurts worse, though, is to hear the way grief has stolen the levity from Hashirama's voice. They've all seen the toll of outliving one's children closer than anyone could ever care to, but Hashirama is not a man prone to easy fear. After all they've survived, this should be joyous news, no matter what lies between them.
Reaching out to grip his friend's shoulder and shake him from his gloom, Madara takes the bottle of sake that sits in the narrow gap between them. "This is cause for celebration, you fool." He fills his cup as he speaks and Hashirama looks back at him with eyes torn between hope and mourning. "You will make a fine father, and Mito a wonderful mother. Little else matters when your child will know peace, thanks to you." As he sets the bottle down, he doesn't expect for the way Hashirama takes his nape in hand, looking back at him so intently, gratitude shining from his eyes.
"Thanks to you." In his throat, Madara's breath seizes and he feels he might choke on the recognition in Hashirama's voice should he try to convince him any further.
"Thanks to us both, then," Madara allows. Hashirama keeps his eyes on him for a moment too long, and Madara can neither stand the feeling of it nor find it within himself to look away, even as he suffocates in the tension between them. Hashirama remembers himself just as Madara's resolve is beginning to weaken, he tells himself it's for the best as Hashirama smiles broad and faces the village, holding his cup up in a toast.
"To us, of course."
"To us," Madara sighs.
"What of you, my friend? No plans to fill the village with children of your own, now things are settled?" Levity has returned to Hashirama's voice, Madara has always marvelled at his ability to flip between selves with such ease.
"No plans of my own, certainly." Since the day his father died, the elders have made no secret of their desire to see him wed and sire children. In this matter, their urging, he knows, will only get worse once the village is named. Lingering around the edges of Hashirama's expression is a poorly concealed scheme that tells him they're not the only ones he has to worry about. "Out with it, Hashirama. What is it you really wish to ask?" Hashirama fails to conceal his grin, if he even tries.
"I only thought, wouldn't marriage be the perfect way to solidify the peace between our clans?" At that, doesn't bother to hold back his own laugh. It's exactly what he expected of his friend, and it sounds even more ridiculous said out loud.
"You want for me to take a Senju bride? Perhaps I trusted too easily after all, and your plan is to ruin me in the eyes of my own people." Not that it would take much, these days.
"Your penchant for drama never fails," Hashirama sighs, as if this is a well-worn argument and not one of the most ridiculous things ever said between them. "Itama is of my blood, she'd make a strong wife, given the chance. It's not so absurd, are most political ties not settled this way? Who would be shocked?"
"The Uchiha are not most." It's already exceedingly rare for them to bring in new blood and risk weakening their eyes. In the position of a clan leader, to risk children whose strength will not match his own is near unheard of. To risk it with a Senju, no less—
"Even so, we all must open ourselves to change! You will always be a man of the Uchiha, as I of the Senju, but are we not both men of the village, from the day we declared a ceasefire?" Madara hesitates to answer. Hashirama has always been too persuasive for his own good, and his words have merit. "I know it would not be an easy match, but the unity between our clans must be real, Madara. It cannot be in name only," Hashirama urges.
"Have you run this brilliant proposal past your brother?" He hears the derision in his own tone, but even still, Hashirama doesn't look half so discouraged as he should. "How does he feel of sending your only sister into the clutches of a madman?"
"Madara, please—"
"And with nothing to show for it in return? We both know—"
"About that," Hashirama interrupts. Something in the way his face twists stops Madara in his tracks. Whatever he is about to say, Madara is certain it will be even more outlandish than what he said last and rather than waste his time trying to stop him, Madara simply braces himself. "Your sister and Tobirama are quite alike—"
"Ah, I see."
"You do?" Hashirama looks so hopeful for a moment, Madara almost feels bad.
"I do. It's you who has gone mad, in the end."
"Madara—" Hashirama groans.
"You mean for us to find peace only to lose both of our siblings regardless, do you? How long do you think it would take for them to kill each other?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Izuna and Tobirama want peace as badly as we do!"
"At each other's expense, perhaps."
"That's not true." Madara has his doubts, and when he looks at Hashirama, he does nothing to hide them. "It's not so true that they'd jeopardise peace after the fact," Hashirama amends. Knowing his sister's pride and her unflinching sense of duty both, it's likely there's some truth to Hashirama's words, but jeopardising peace within a marriage and being willing to enter it in the first place are different things entirely. If he considers any life Izuna might like less to lead than one amongst the Senju, tied to Tobirama and expected to bear his children, he's hard-pressed to find any answer that doesn't involve his own demise. Even her own, he's sure, she'd find more acceptable than ever taking Tobirama as her husband.
"It's not worth considering, Hashirama."
"It is, though," he urges, "I know how the news would be received, I'm not naive to my brother's views, but who among us is not willing to do what we must for the village? What could better present a show of strength between our clans than an equal exchange? A sister for a sister?" Privately, Madara baulks at Itama, raised to be meek and motherly and little else as all Senju women are, being held in esteem as Izuna's equal, but it's a thought he keeps to himself.
"I see your angle, Hashirama, and I admit it has merit." Madara continues as he does only because he knows that this particular cockerel will never return home to roost. "I'll entertain the offer you've made on behalf of your sister, but Izuna would never accept Tobirama as her husband, and I would not force her. Is the same not true of your brother?" In asking, Madara expects Hashirama's wheedling, his hemming and hawing. What he does not expect is the pensive look that seems to take him elsewhere as he speaks.
"My brother has always been… Focused, in regards to Izuna."
"The word you grasp for is frightened."
"I only mean to say that his interest in her may well change shape, given a chance. It would be good for him, I think. To take an Uchiha wife and sire children by her would challenge his views, no doubt. Is that not what we both want?"
"Are you under the impression I wish for my sister's life to amount to a lesson learned in your brother's favour?" Madara spits.
"No!" Sincere hurt colours Hashirama's voice, a part of him regrets his harshness. "My friend, surely you know me too well to take my words in such poor faith. Bridges must be built. Marriages must be made and children borne. If one might serve the greater good in the process, should it not be pursued?"
"Hashirama, you know me well enough to know that as you have fought for peace for your children, I've fought for peace for my sister. The thought of keeping her safe only to hand her to a man who would see her so reduced—"
"It needn't be so bleak. It may not be the Senju way, but Mito still fights—"
"And does your brother share your values in this?"
"I think," Hashirama speaks carefully, in a way that reveals clearly what he does not say, what they both already know, "were a woman to make it easy for him, he would prefer her to abide by our traditions." It's a point easily taken, and Madara wonders what Izuna would find most satisfying; a husband she could be easy with, or one who might scratch her itch for a fight. Though, some days he questions whether it's truly something she needs for in the same way he does, or if it's vanity that leads him to the assumption.
"If I ask and she refuses—"
"I won't say another word." It's unlikely to ever get so far. Hashirama, no doubt, underestimates his own brother's inevitable upset at the prospect of marrying Itama into the Uchiha, and Madara would never allow Izuna to marry the Demon Senju if he didn't stand to lose equally in mistreating her. If Izuna doesn't ensure Hashirama's ridiculousness dies a swift death, Tobirama surely will, of that he has no doubt.
IZUNA
It's late when she hears Madara returning home. Izuna is still up, going over the transcripts of the day's negotiations and looking for any liberties taken by the Senju that she might have missed in the moment. Listening idly as he slips his sandals off and slides the door shut behind him, she detects an unanticipated note of tension to his step. In her eyes, his friendship with Hashirama has always warranted caution, but the two of them have worked tirelessly to achieve a world in which they might openly indulge their affection for one another, she'd hoped an evening spent reminding himself of how close they are to achieving it would leave him in higher spirits.
Madara doesn't ask before entering her room, it's been a long time since either of them have. After being alone so long, having spent so many nights chasing away their shared demons and easing the weight of loss between them with no one left to keep the walls up for, the space feels incomplete without both of them in it. When Madara lies on his back across the floor on the other side of her small table, she briefly considers abandoning the scroll in front of her to crawl over and run her fingers through his hair. More than that, though, she wants to press him on the anxieties he still carries, but it wouldn't get the truth from him. With so little space to hide from each other, she will do him the courtesy of looking away until he's ready to be seen.
"You work too hard," he drawls.
"Show me our alternative." Izuna would never sleep again if it meant keeping Tobirama from further sequestering the Uchiha from the rest of the village. Any slips she catches are well worth the lost hours. "I take it you and Hashirama put the day to rest, then?"
"Only to get started on the next."
"Is that why you're in such a dour mood?" Izuna sets her brush down and stretches out her legs, prodding at Madara's ribs with her toes from underneath the table. He catches her ankle and tugs just enough she nearly spills the ink at her elbow. When she kicks him, he settles, keeping hold of her ankle to run his thumb idly across the knot of it, and Izuna relaxes into the familiar feel of his callouses against her skin, allowing her neck to go lax and turning her eyes to the warm wooden ceiling as she leans back on her hands.
"Mito is with child." It's a better answer than any she asked for. It was an inevitability, but even so, her heart aches for her brother.
"A night of celebration and mourning both, then."
"Aren't they all?" Madara's voice is worn by the day's grief when he speaks, Izuna laughs with little humour and her brother sighs.
"Tell me, brother, does Hashirama tolerate your dramatics any better than I do?"
"Don't start." Madara tugs at her ankle again and Izuna gives up on her scroll entirely, pushing it aside and pitching forward to fold herself over the table and look down at him, reaching out to twist the ends of his hair between her fingers while he continues. "It seems he's so pleased at the prospect of fatherhood that he feels we should all know the same pleasure." Izuna knows well enough what's coming. Another inevitability. "He proposed a match between Itama and I." In theory, Izuna sees the sense in it. A union between the two head-families of the village's founding clans would create the impression of a stronger union to outsiders and encourage more open relations between their people. In reality, though, the thought of her brother, Uchiha Madara, taking a Senju bride, raised to be sweet and soft, deferent to her husband—it's so ridiculous that she can't contain her mirth, laughing openly in disbelief.
"Perhaps he doesn't know you quite so well as you thought."
"I told him I'd consider it."
"Brother, you cannot be serious," Izuna demands, letting his hair slip from her fingers to bring her hand down on his chest, left reeling at her brother's uncharacteristic charity in taking the offer seriously. "You would no more suit a Senju bride than I would a Senju husband." Madara laughs, and the ill-measure of it has a knot of dread forming deep in the pit of her stomach. She fears she knows the answer to her question even before she asks it. "What haven't you told me?"
"What makes you think—"
"No games, Madara." Izuna rises this time, coming around the table to drop to her knees next to him and grab at his yukata, forcing him to look at her. "If you've promised me to that—"
"I would never." Madara's voice is filled with offence enough to reprimand. "You know I would never. He did suggest it—"
"And what did you say?"
"I told him I would not make you," Madara hedges.
"But you did not refuse outright, so either you really are so powerless to deny him as our people fear, or some part of you thinks the idea has merit. Which is it?" From the look on his face, an open palm would've been a gentler reply.
"You trust me so little, as they do?" Madara's tone lacerates, doing nothing to mask the hurt that propels it. Indeed, Izuna has worked hard to keep faith between her brother and her clan, something she would not have done if she thought him a poor leader.
"No," Izuna breathes, relaxing her grip and straightening her back as Madara sits to face her properly. "No, I trust you. Of course, I trust you." Her fingers tighten around the fabric again, urging him to hear her sincerity. "It's only—the thought allowing the man who has taken so much to lay hands on me—"
"I understand," Madara insists.
"You don't." Izuna takes her brother's face in her hands, allowing his skin to warm her hands, and considers what it would mean to be the bride of Senju Tobirama. She has no doubt she'd never feel such heat again. Izuna hates to allow herself to be selfish, but the thought of wasting away under the Senju banner, starved for the love of her clan, raising children to be looked upon with suspicion by their own father—that is not the life she's fought for.
"Izuna." Madara's hand cradles her nape and Izuna finds some reassurance in his grip. "I told Hashirama outright that I would not see you come so far to settle as Tobirama's wife, but the answer is yours to give." Privately, Izuna thinks the greater reason is because it was Hashirama who asked, but Madara's answer feels near enough to sincerity that she allows it.
The night has not been kind to her brother and although she won't begrudge him his exhaustion, she tires of his company. Pressing a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat, Izuna stands to ready herself for sleep. It soothes them both to remain in each other's presence and more often than not, they fall asleep in the same room, tonight is no different. While she may not shoo him away, when she slips behind the screen of silk and snuffs the lantern she's carried over to her futon, it makes it clear the time to talk has passed.
Listening as Madara settles on the other side of the screen, Izuna allows herself to let go of the day's tensions, but even as her breathing slows and her limbs grow heavy, her mind continues to wander back to Hashirama's proposal. Marriage has never loomed particularly large in Izuna's mind. When her father was alive, the prospect was more present, but with a war to fight and the loss of her siblings, it felt like a petty concern, one she'd leave until he had found her a match with a strong Uchiha man who would be honoured at the idea of wedding Uchiha Tajima's only remaining daughter. In her dreams, being a mother rarely features, but in an abstract sense, it's something she's always expected and an accepted inevitability. Izuna may not have warred for as long as her brother, but she's fought enough, lost enough, to know the value of strength. Both she and Madara hold a duty to the Uchiha to reproduce, but it would not hold the same under the Senju.
Were she to marry Tobirama—Izuna knows there are ways a woman can avoid a child. Perhaps not in detail, but she's rarely wanted for knowledge she couldn't find, and she's certain that another Uchiha woman would understand her plight well enough to help her stay rid of the Demon Senju's babe. Still, marrying into the Senju would be a fight unto itself. There's no doubt in her mind that Tobirama would take pleasure in seeing her cowed into the life of a Senju woman; no training, no position of her own in the hierarchy of the village, no right to move freely within her own life nor to treat her body as her own. Izuna knows what she would lose in becoming his wife, but what would she gain?
An opportunity, she thinks. Tobirama is no warmonger, but Izuna is not naive to the wants of men, nor anyone with power. What he wants, what they all want, at the root of it, is control. To have control over the Uchiha heiress would please him in no small way, she's sure, and with him kept occupied by his own satisfaction, there must be something worthwhile she could take in return. His dignity, whispers a voice in the back of her mind. His pride. All the power he's worked so hard to cultivate, that serves as a credit to his word when he wields it against her clan. The idea isn't without risk, there are rumours—unsavoury enough that even Izuna hesitates to believe Tobirama capable of such things, but at times, they are difficult to deny. Bodies unrecovered, eyes removed with too much precision for the chaos of war. A marriage would mean allowing Tobirama into her body, but if she could find her way inside of his mind, might it be a worthwhile price to pay? To leave her home in favour of finding the vulnerabilities in his?
Now the idea has taken hold, it's a difficult one to shake. How gratifying would it be to drive Tobirama mad after all he's cost them? Izuna is no fool, no one comes away from war with clean hands. The Uchiha have taken Senju lives just as they have lost them, but what Tobirama, more than any other Senju, has taken from the Uchiha is their future. Because of his vile rumours, even those who have no stake in their fight look at her clan with fear in their eyes. Distrust. He's made it near impossible to find allies and while Izuna understands the utility of spreading such rumours in winning a war, his tune hasn't changed a note since the ceasefire was called, and the future of her clan hangs in the balance of his words. If his people and the village were to lose faith in them, see him as the vile creature Izuna knows him to be, perhaps her brother's dream could truly begin to take shape.
Come morning, Izuna does not greet her brother before questioning him over tea.
"Do you truly mean to consider a match with Itama?" Madara doesn't look up at her, remaining focused on the transcripts she poured over last night, he must've taken them from her room this morning.
"I mean to think very little of it. Tobirama would never allow the match to proceed, I agreed only to entertain Hashirama's kindness."
"Tobirama will likely be distracted by his own match." At that, Madara stills and looks up at her as though he's waiting for a joke to take shape. Izuna says nothing, and eventually, his anxiety begins to show.
"Izuna, you cannot mean—"
"I will marry Senju Tobirama, you cannot rely on his distraction to avoid marrying his sister." Izuna does not delight in unsettling her brother over something so serious, but there is something comical in the way his mouth falls open.
"What—Izuna, you speak in jest."
"I do not."
"Then you've been addled." The knot between Madara's brows has grown tight and Izuna reaches out to smooth it for him.
"I'm of perfectly sound mind, brother. When I considered the idea, it occurred to me that an heir is the only true purpose to marriage within the Uchiha, our duty to uphold the strength of our clan and bloodline. A vital one, no doubt, but if we're to strive for lasting peace, would to do so with a close eye on the man determined to undermine it not be of more use to the clan than a child?"
"Tobirama is not our enemy—"
"I'm not certain he would agree."
"And if he were," Madara continues, pointedly ignoring her words, "I would not have you marry him."
"I thought the answer was mine to give?" Between them, Izuna is typically the one to keep a level head, but she has put every ounce of trust she has to give in Madara, and whenever it seems he may not trust her the same, even with her own life, she cannot keep her hackles from rising.
"It was, when I thought you'd give a sensible one!" Madara hisses, bafflement both clear in his voice and anticipated on Izuna's part.
"If you truly trusted him, you'd let me—"
"Of course I don't trust him, Izuna!" Madara brings his fist down on the table, unable to contain his frustration any longer, tea and scroll both forgotten. "To cooperate with his brother's wish, perhaps, but to care for you?"
"I don't need his care." Izuna snaps, struggling to gentle her tone as she pleads her brother's understanding, leaning forward as she implores him to hear her, bringing her hands up to his shoulders. "I need his focus."
"He's cunning, Izuna. If you don't take care—"
"Who between us has faced him more oft, these last years? I am aware of his cunning, Madara. Or do you think me stupid?" At that, her brother begins to look angry, and Izuna is satisfied to have gotten under his skin just as he has hers. Izuna stands, intending to leave, but Madara follows and catches her by the arm before she can reach the door.
"You know that I don't," he insists, voice still less harsh than his grip would imply. "Even so—" Izuna wrenches her shoulder trying to pull back from him but Madara only takes her other arm as well and pulls her closer, leaning near enough she cannot even escape his eyes, much less his hold. "Izuna, you are young—"
"I am not too young to fight and die by your side." Anger has made her words harsh and she sees the sorrow, the fear, that creeps into Madara's expression when she speaks them.
"Please, listen to what I'm—"
"I am not too young to advise you," Izuna cuts off his plea, her patience has run thin. "I am not too young to mend the rift between you and our clansmen." That one is enough to make her brother flinch and a part of her regrets it, but she will see her point through. "You cannot decide I am still too young only when it suits you best. You cannot treat me like a naive child when you know I am not. I might be young, brother, but I know what I am capable of, and I know what Tobirama is capable of, perhaps better than you, even. If you say this answer is mine to give, let me give it." Agony colours Madara's face, but she feels it the moment he relents. His grip softens and she allows him to pull her closer still. Every part of her remains taught with slowly waning anger, but she understands Madara's fear enough to allow him this, at least.
"Just be careful, Izuna, please. For my sake, if not your own." His sorrow saps what's left of her rage and Izuna yearns to assure him she's not so fragile, but she knows it's not truly her that's at risk of breaking between them. She relaxes into him and allows him to wind his arms around her shoulders and kiss the crown of her head as she smooths her hands over his back in turn, fisting them tight when she reaches his obi.
"You as well, brother." She feels the way he scoffs against her and tilts her head back to look at him, bringing one hand up to take hold of his face and make him look at her. "I mean it, Madara. Itama is a woman of the Senju. She may be meek, but she cannot be trusted. You must remember that if you mean to marry her." Madara hears the question she's not asked.
"I've yet to consider it, but I'll heed your words, my love."
"We're meant to treat with the Senju in an hour's time and you've not decided?"
"I had relied on you and Tobirama to make it impossible." It's a weak attempt at humour that fails to mask his weariness, but Izuna takes it for the olive branch it is.
"I suppose you'll have to think quickly."
A/N:
I know I said no updates until the 27th, but as it turns out? I'm a filthy liar.
I have some editing to do, but otherwise, this story is already written and I'll be publishing new chapters a few times per week until it's finished 💜 It takes a minute to get porny, but once it does, the PWP tag very much applies. Please temper your expectations of the "plot" accordingly ✌️
Additional forewarning: this fic suffers from The Author Wants To Fuck Madara So Bad That All the Characters Do Too Disease. There is no known cure.
