Tobirama heals slow. Not so much so as he would without Hashirama's help, but what might have otherwise been minutes now turns to days, and days to weeks. Hashirama assures him that once the open wounds have healed the rest can come quicker, but the pace still frustrates him.

It's not the healing itself, but rather the way it keeps him confined. Every day he grows more concerned that one more hour spent lying down, drifting in and out of sleep will drive him truly mad. The empty monotony of his time is beginning to feel like a greater threat than a failed recovery could ever be.

In the mornings, Hashirama will heal whatever is ready to be healed that day—never enough—before leaving, while Izuna works at the small table she's set by the futon, surrounded by a mess of scrolls and papers that makes him itch when he looks at it too long. She's almost worse than his brother and he cannot tell which urge troubles him more: to fix her mess, or have some of her work for himself so the day might be less dull.

Inevitably, he sleeps, and by the time he wakes in the afternoons, Izuna will be gone to the village to complete the work that can't be done from home. Mito often comes by during this time, seemingly heavier every day, and they'll pass the evening playing cards. A habit of his brother's she's picked up, though she doesn't have his bad luck.

"Perhaps we should make a bet."

"No."

"Come now, Tobirama, are you not at least half as bored as I am?" Of course, she already knows the answer.

"I am not so bored as to forget my own bad luck. Unlike my brother, I have the sense not to bet on it." Hashirama's unending threshold for losing has always been beyond him.

"So dull," she complains.

"No one confines you to bed." More bitterness than he means to allow creeps into his voice as he speaks. "What've you to be bored over? They still allow you to work."

"Is that whining I hear?"

"No."

"Of course not." Her tone lacks even enough belief to be polite. When she continues, she leaves no room for doubt over her irritated she's becoming with her husband's adulation. That, at least, he can sympathize with. "I have plenty to be bored over. To begin, your brother is so tormented over my condition he'll hardly even look at me, let alone—"

"Do not—"

"And now Izuna spends all of her evenings doting on you, we've not trained in ages—"

"Only just past a week, you mean."

"You don't deny the doting." In truth, he would not go so far as to say she dotes on him, but this past week has been the first time their marriage has truly felt like one and it vexes him to no end that he cannot act on it.

"It's not the word I imagine either of us would use, but she has been caring." When he turns to her, Mito looks horribly smug. Her expression is understated, but he knows her well enough to see behind it.

"Your face is an embarrassment," she informs him.

"I enjoyed you better as quiet company."

Mito is still there when Izuna arrives home and it's easy to allow himself to drift, lulled but the familiarity of their voices as they talk and helped by Izuna, sat by his side and running gentle fingers over his temple.

As a result of his injury, their routine has changed. That it's even become something they share is evidence enough.

Each night before sleep, he lays on his good side and she unknots his belt and pulls his sleeve from his shoulder to expose his side. The wound runs from the knot of his collar down to his hip and working the rigid skin and muscles soft is never a pleasant task for either of them. Still, she is thorough and never allows it to be rushed.

It aches when she pushes her chakra through him, but there's a cool undercurrent of relief that soothes the bruised feel of his flesh. Turns it from a nauseous throe to a soft burn, one of muscles worked and grown. The feel that his body is progressing, healing.

After that, she spends near an hour working the various ointments and oils Hashirama has instructed them to use into his skin to keep the muscles from cramping or his scars from going tight. By this point, it's always difficult to stay awake under her touch and he knows it irritates her that he tries. Impaired as he is, he cannot have her as he's almost certain she wants for as strongly as he does and so this remains the only time he feels her hands on his skin.

Typically, he doesn't mind the silence between them. Finds it soothing, even, but tonight it's more difficult to take. When he's covered and on his back after she's finished, he catches her wrist.

"How long will this go on?" She looks to him and he regrets having deprived himself of her full expressions for so long. He trusts her to know he doesn't speak of his slow recovery.

"A little while longer."

It feels ridiculous—he feels ridiculous—for how it eats at him. With little to do outside of his own head, he's begun to grasp the extent of what he feels for her and the need to acknowledge the feeling, to have it returned, gnaws at him.

"Lucky that I have little to do but wait."

"Lucky." She repeats the word as though it's a joke and he wishes he understood why.

When he's well enough to be better company, Madara brings Kagami to see him. It's not a thanks in so many words, but he understands it for what it is and finds some satisfaction in imagining what it must've cost Madara's ego to offer even that much.

In truth, there's more relief in the visit than he's willing to give face to. It may have been unfair—he doubts it, but is sure his brother and wife would argue otherwise—but he'd feared that Madara might teach Kagami to see him as the enemy. Turn him into something cold and unfeeling in his eyes.

It's very clearly not the case, given the way Kagami runs across the room as though he means to throw himself at him, only remembering himself at the last moment when Madara warns him—far from gentle yet without true harshness—not to re-open Tobirama's wound while it's still fresh. Kagami proceeds with such reluctant caution that Tobirama can't help but be charmed, squeezing him perhaps a little tighter than he should in his state when they hug, if only to reassure him he can.

Kagami remembers to be bashful, afterwards, but even that is quickly forgotten when he begins pestering them both for details of what happened. Madara doesn't stay long, leaves Kagami in his company, and Tobirama finds it inordinately difficult to shake his awareness of the fact that Madara trusts him with his sister, his ward—son, perhaps—and begins to understand that peace with the Uchiha is no longer something he accepts, but something he wants.

When he's permitted by Hashirama to return to work, the elation of the first days quickly gives way to the frustration he feels at his own lack of mobility. Neither his brother nor his wife do him the discourtesy of trying to help him unnecessarily. Madara, he suspects, places his things just outside of his reach for the simple joy of watching him struggle.

He holds his temper as he always has, but Hashirama knows him well enough to see when he is reaching his limits and has slipped not-so-subtly from his own office to give him space to collect himself. Izuna stays to needle him, a habit she's never let go of.

"You're doing nothing to help your reputation, you know."

"I do not care about my reputation." He feels the strain of his own voice against his throat as he leans over the desk, knuckles white over the wood while he tries to wait out the dizzying ache in his bones.

"Don't make me laugh." Her tone is light but in his current state, it feels like a taunt.

"Izuna, do not—"

"Breathe, husband, I only tease." She comes closer and he doesn't realize his arms are shaking until she runs a hand up one and the cool relief of her chakra follows the touch. "Sit back, Tobirama. There's no one here to see."

Allowing her to guide him back into the heavy wooden chair, he fears, not for the first time, that he will never return to himself, despite his brother's assurances. Izuna unwinds his obi and pushes his sleeve back while he focuses on the pace of his breathing. She soothes his scarred skin, first with her chakra, and then the small pot of healing ointment Hashirama has evidently hidden in his desk for her to find.

His body feels loose and heavy by the time she's finished and the worst of the aching has passed. Her fingers soothe his scalp along the edges of the metal that frames his face and he misses her touch as soon as it leaves him.

When she moves before him and gets on her knees, brings her hands up his thighs to play along the top seam of his pants, the want that runs through him is almost embarrassing in its intensity.

"Izuna," he breathes, half-wondering if he's slipped into a dream. She presses a kiss to his abdomen and heat radiates under his skin where her lips have touched. "Do you mean to distract me?"

"From what do you need a distraction?" She teases, tugs at the waist of his pants in a clear request for him to raise his hips, one he refuses.

"From my injuries. My work," he swallows, dry, "from you." From all the things you refuse to speak about.

"Mm, perhaps in part," she allows, watching him closely as she drags her tongue along the cut of his hip. He feels himself swelling and when she bites down on the knot of there, he twitches in his pants. She's grinning when she pulls away. "Am I not also allowed to be curious?"

"Someone may find us." A part of him balks at the thought of doing this here, in his brother's office, in public, but they haven't touched like this in weeks and it's not near enough to make him consider turning her away.

"You'll sense them coming." She relies far too heavily on his coherent thought. Still, when she tugs again, he lifts his hips to ease the way.

•

The silken weight of him has become almost familiar against her palm. He's still soft, but she can feel the slow-building heat under his skin as she works him. A slight weight lingers in her abdomen, but it's not quite heavy enough to smother out the thought of what she's doing on her knees and who for.

We aren't who we thought we were, she reminds herself, I want him. There's no word of a lie, but still some edge of self-disgust lingers in the edges of her mind, chasing every movement she makes, threatening to halt her efforts. I care for him. As close as she's willing to get to the truth.

Allowing intuition to be her guide, she pushes back the thoughts that crowd her mind and instead follows her own interest, running her tongue down from root to tip as the breath leaves him. He tastes just the same as she'd imagined he might.

Bringing her free hand to the bend of his thigh to support herself, she gets used to the feel of him under her mouth. Running her tongue over and under the head of him, repeating the movement a few times before pulling back to wet her lips and bring him between them.

Tobirama is swelling quickly and the weight of him against her lips is a strange one, made more so by her first instinct, to close her mouth around him and draw him deeper. It's one she tries to follow without hating herself for it. His hands find her hair and he makes a wounded noise as she works out how to use her tongue as she sucks, not allowing it to get in the way.

Glancing up to see his expression, she finds the way he looks at her sends heat spiralling out across her nerves to linger in her cheeks. He shivers while she works him and she knows there's something to her instincts because the hand not buried in her hair grips the arm of the chair so tight it's a wonder he's not crushed it.

She pulls back in part just to see the way it harrows him, in part to swallow the spit that's gathered in her mouth.

"You're meant to be relaxing," she teases.

"I've never been less so."

"Should I stop?"

"I will give you anything on this earth if you continue." She considers his desperation, for a moment. Wonders what he might hate most, unable to keep herself from making a game of it.

"Will you thank my brother for your life?" He groans, disgusted, and she cannot help but laugh.

"I beg of you, Izuna," the tone of his voice is sincere in doing so, "do not mention your brother while you touch me."

"You've never begged before."

"I'll beg you for this." Some part of her wonders how much more she could drive him to beg for, wonders whether it's the feel or the sight that pushes him to it, but the longer she's without him the louder her thoughts become.

She wets her lips once more and leans in to kiss, undignified and open-mouthed, at the head of him. He's swollen stiff now and it makes it easier to begin pushing herself to take him deeper. Slow, at first, learning how far in she can take him and still avoid the scrape of her teeth, adjusting to the odd feel of her husband heavy over her tongue and across her hollowed cheeks. It's both more and less difficult than she imagined it would be.

There's nothing in the taste of him, the sensation of having her mouth filled in itself that is inherently unpleasant if she staves off thoughts of what's behind them. The way his fingers flex in her hair, his hips twitch under her palm, she finds herself wanting to push further, take more, if only to prove she can.

It's a misguided effort. Her throat seizes and forces her back to catch her breath when she pushes too far, still working him with her hand.

"You are—" He sounds fond, she cannot bear it in her current state.

"Don't speak." She returns her mouth to him, trying, this time, to find a steadier pace, now she knows her limits.

"Look at me, Izuna." The depth of his voice makes her ache behind her ribs.

Holding his eyes only serves to make her squirm. She becomes more aware of the obscene, wet noises that escape her throat and the too-easy slip between her thighs when she shifts her hips. The build of saliva and pre-release, smeared across her tongue and dripping down her throat so she has to swallow against the push of him to keep from choking. Some part of her wishes she could see herself as he sees her, the other is desperately grateful she cannot.

When she goes slow, takes him only incrementally deeper after growing comfortable with the length she's already tasted, and allows herself to pull back whenever she feels any whisper of a gag, she finds it's easier to train her body to the length of him. She wants to take him in full, wants to feel him push past her tongue and into her throat and feel under her hands what it does to him, feel him push every ugly thought from her head. It frustrates her that she cannot.

An ache mounts in her jaw and when she pulls off him, worried it might lock, he pushes her fingers away to massage his own into the joints, pushing his chakra through until the twinge has faded entirely. She cannot decide whether it's sweet or selfish.

After that, it's easier. Every time she falls back into rhythm after catching her breath feels more natural, and the weight of her own abdomen grows deeper, drives her to be shameless, to want openly. Whenever she pulls back she makes use of the moment, tracing the shape of him with her tongue and pressing soft, eager kisses to him with lips gone too swollen and numb not to be messy.

Breathing comes easier as she goes, learning to swallow as he leaks down her throat, and breathe through her nose without choking when he pushes just a little too far. Wait out the way her chest seizes and pull back only enough to get through it. His fingers massage at the base of her skull, trace her lips, her cheek, and she doesn't try to hold back the soft noises that escape her as he does.

"Izuna, my love, I can't—" Something sharp rips out across her nerves at the slip. She tries her best to hide it, to keep pace without flinching, keep her grip as if he hasn't spoken at all. She's heard enough to know that men often speak in the moment, without any true meaning, when they find their pleasure and she hopes desperately that's all he's done. When he begins to speak again she pulls back and wonders if the look she gives is as sharp as it feels.

"Be silent."

She feels his frustration, but he listens, and it's not enough to pull him from his pleasure. Before her jaw can begin to truly ache again, he spends in her mouth. The abruptness of it takes her by surprise as his hips seize and twitch under her grip and she fights herself not to choke as his release lands at the back of her throat. To swallow around the head of him as he pushes, stopping just short of too-far. It's not as easy to tolerate as the rest has been, but she'll forgive him for losing himself to it in the moment.

When he's finished, she pulls back, takes a moment to swallow everything she couldn't as he finished and find her throat aches enough it surprises her. She watches as he softens in front of her, still wet with her own spit. Watches as he tips his head back to catch his breath, and tries not to consider the way his taste lingers in her mouth or the way it makes her wet.

It's debasing in a way she thought she'd escaped, but his words make every thought she's tried to reason away grow louder and more impossible to ignore.

"Izuna," she tries to stay soft for him, to look more teasing than ill when she fixes his clothes, leans up on her knees to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat and tries to find comfort in his nearness. When she does, it makes her feel even worse. As she pulls away, he stops her with a hand over her nape. "What I said—"

"Let's not make the moment heavy." Her throat aches as she speaks, but the wounded look that settles over his features hurts worse. The transparency of his expression is new, not an easy thing to take. "A little while longer still, please?" She hates the vulnerability that creeps into her own voice. Tries to cover it with a smile and knows he sees through it.

"Of course," he allows. This time, when she pulls back and he stops her, she almost snaps at him, only quieted when his thumb runs across her lips and she feels the healing burn he pushes through them. When he releases her she can't help biting at them to soothe the itch.

He reaches out to grip her knee as she leans against the desk.

"Aren't you—"

"I'm fine." His face falls and she knows he won't be easy over this.

"I don't care to take my pleasure and leave you without, it feels too familiar." Tenderness and anxiety swell in her chest.

"You can return the favour this evening, we're already lucky neither of our brothers has come knocking."

"The door has been sealed." Of course it has, she thinks. For the best, if not particularly subtle.

"Has it."

"You were too distracted to notice." The smugness that underlies his words makes her want to choke him before he speaks again. His enjoyment at her own irritation is far too plain on his face. "I feel very relaxed," he offers.

"I'm sure. Next time, though, I believe you'll do fine with a rest." His face twists and she doesn't give him a chance to turn from the subject. "I mean it. Next time you're overstretched rest, please." She hasn't forgotten how he'd looked, worn down by his pain, wonders if he's even truly aware.

"The village—"

"Isn't as unstable as it once was. We can spare you for an hour or two."

Their brothers do come knocking, then, and Izuna spends the entire rest of the day trying not to be distracted by the ache in her throat.

It's late when they get home, and she can see the strain of the day weighing down his movements, but he refuses to be pushed off without reason, as if the fact he's hardly capable of standing under his own strength isn't enough. Some part of her, the same part that makes the ground go soft under her feet every time he looks as though he might kiss her, wants to allow his hand to continue its steady creep up her thigh, but when his grip tightens it trembles and she pushes him away more insistently.

"Tomorrow."

"That's hardly fair."

"You'll survive the injustice, I swear it."

"That's hardly fair to you." Even as he argues, he sinks back into the futon. She sits by his thigh, facing him with her ankles crossed by his head and he brings his good hand to rest over them, thumb pressing into the sharp swell of bone.

"How courteous," she teases, quietly pleased to find the discomfort she felt early has mostly faded. "My own pleasure is no burden, you know. Or do you think you're the only one able to please me?"

"You could show me?" Phrased as though it's an offer, the ridiculousness of it almost draws a laugh from her.

"Could I? You'd let me?" He doesn't allow her teasing to deter him in the slightest.

"Allow me to observe." A shiver breaks out across her skin at the idea. A lantern burns bright to the side of them, he'd see her clearly.

"What do I gain in being observed?"

"Plenty." The grin he wears isn't one she's ever seen on him, it makes her want to laugh. It makes her want to put her hands on him. "If it allows me to know your body better."

"I suppose you are not a terrible study."

There's a certain pleasure to being watched and she finds it as she pulls herself closer by the heels and bends her knees enough to let them fall open. Feels the lascivious weight that settles into the curve of her hips, burrowing deep under the skin and easing the way when she lets him push away the fabric that blocks her from view as she begins to tease at herself.

It's enough until it's not, and when she's already brought herself to climax twice, he tugs at her thigh and guides her to kneel over him and drop her hips until he's able to taste her. She has the fleeting thought that he enjoys this far too much, but it doesn't last long in the face of her pleasure.

•

It feels good to train again.

It's not the most vigorous session, more having Kagami show him the progress he's made than anything, but it feels good to be back in the open air of the clearing. To be able to use his speed again, if not quite in full.

Despite his misgivings, it's clear that a home with Madara has done Kagami well. His dōjutsu skills have grown leaps and bounds, and there's a confidence to the way he carries himself, the way he speaks, that wasn't there before. Confidence born of security. Tobirama has heard no official announcement of Kagami being made Madara's heir, but he has no doubt one is imminent.

He feels Izuna's approach and thinks little could ruin this day.

"Tobirama sensei?" He nods for Kagami to continue. "Do you truly believe I'll go mad, one day? If I love someone?" The question takes him off guard, it gives rise to a strange feeling. An itch under his skin that's lingered too long, perhaps. It doesn't ache in the way he'd have expected, doesn't make him nervous to know Izuna has stopped, that she waits for his answer. Trusts him to give it honestly.

"I think," he begins, bending to crouch by Kagami where he picks at the grass, clearly nervous of his answer, "that love could drive anyone mad. It's not something to be feared in the way I once thought."

"Are you sure?"

"Very." Kagami smiles brightly at him, so easily relieved of his worries, and Tobirama tries not to let his mind linger on the fact that he'd felt Izuna turn back the moment he gave his answer.

A/N: Don't get too comfortable in the fluff 👀