The amount of cuteness (moe) I tried putting in here... I might have failed. Please tell me. ._.

Also, tell me if it moves too fast, or if anything happens to suddenly.

I've been requested to up sexiness.

To which I reply: OHOHOHOHOHOHO.

Note: Naruto chapter 620 - someone stick Mariko into that chapter, please, so she can hug Tobirama and make him more stuck to that spot than Orochima-creeper-chan's Edo Tensei ever could.

Disclaimer: Leading to the fact that I don't own Naruto, because WHERE IS MARIKO IN THIS EDO TENSEI MESS. Lol, just kidding. Hashirama's a boss; he and Maddy = showdown.

Also, Mito is screaming her head off for her revived husband to go save Tsu-chan. NOW.

Chapter 5: Incredulous

.x.X.x.

Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday Second Princess, happy birthday to me.

I got a headband from Ryo, a dress from Sumi – I think I like mainland fashion quite a bit – and a stone horse figurine from Katsurou. Ryo wrote a note saying that he couldn't wait to see the mainland, Sumi wrote about the silk crisis in Hot Springs, and Katsurou, for some reason, went off on a tangent involving dolphins and ninjutsu. Something about Suiton style, and his new Ice Dolphin technique, or something bizarre like that.

I have something lovely to bring back to Katrina, though.

That is, if I see her.

.x.X.x.

"Birthdays do not go unannounced," Mito declared, slapping a cake in front of her. How she made it so perfectly in one afternoon was beyond Mariko.

"To think Arata almost lost you on your birthday," clucked Toka, clicking her tongue at her cousin. Arata rubbed the back of his neck, apologizing for the thirtieth time, with Mariko reassuring him that it was fine. She didn't mention her random encounter with Izuna, but she supposed that was all right.

"My dear, tonight, we celebrate. You're nineteen now, right?" Hashirama smiled warmly at her.

"Every time a birthday comes around, I make up a slang expression," Etsuko was busy telling her fiancé. "Last year, I made 'Mito's pan', which means you're about to get your ass whooped."

"Language," cautioned Toka, and Etsuko blushed.

"I also made 'Ghost nugget has appeared', which is code for Tobirama has arrived. That one isn't as interesting, though," mused the dark-haired girl, with a furtive glance at the albino. To her astonishment, the white-haired man promptly ignored her, but instead, was rather preoccupied with the birthday subject.

"I'm sure he loves that one," Kell told her sardonically, a small grin surfacing on his face. She smiled widely back at him, overly fond of his new, round glasses that took up half his face.

"Look at this," Mito said, shoving a package in Mariko's face. The princess accepted, curiously picking the wrapping open.

"You don't need to be ladylike when you open presents," deadpanned Tobirama. He earned a quick glare as the blunette ripped one entire side open just to prove a point. What point, she wasn't quite sure, but the present was open.

A horse's bridle, with a shining bit, smooth, supple leather, and a shining engraving on the headpiece. It was beautiful. From the looks of the Hokage, his wife, and his brother, this was a joint project, even though it was last minute. She tried hugging them all at once, thinking about thanking them all rather then the warm hand that rested on her shoulder.

.x.X.x.

Dear Momma,

The wedding's in the middle of August, when it cools down. For now, I'm a week into my 19th year, and I think I'm further into solving this puzzle of a man. Men are strange, aren't they?

.x.X.x.

Silently, so that no one would hear her this time, Mariko crept up at the first sliver of sunrise and padded back to the piano room. She didn't play this time, only put the tip of one finger along the ivory keys. She took it upon herself to grab a cloth from the kitchen and wipe down the instrument, for it was old and dusty. Besides that, it shone with the grace and elegance of an antique instrument, lasting through the ages.

The clock on the wall struck four-thirty, and a rustling was heard. Mariko paused in the middle of lifting the lid of the grand piano – it was quite heavy, and she didn't want to have it suddenly drop on her fingers – and glanced at the door. Whoever was out there walked at a leisurely pace, as if it was still too early and there was some time left.

Deciding to investigate, Mariko left the piano and slid the door open. She ran straight into the culprit as soon as she took a step out into the hall.

Blue armor clanged, and he hissed, straightening his fur collar; a collar that, Mariko thought mildly, made him look like an arctic fox. Katsurou had shown her an old, black-and-white photograph of the mysterious creature, eyes glinting in the snowy areas of the Frost Country.

"Preparing for a concert?" he deadpanned, though it was clear he was impatient and in no mood to stop and throw witty remarks back and forth.

"Perhaps. Where are you going?" she returned, this time blocking his path rather than the other way around. However, she was teeny compared to him, and with his armor and full suit of shinobi attire on, he loomed tall over her. The blue armor glinted, newly cleaned, and the portions that extended off his shoulders made him seem broad and rock-solid. He folded his arms.

"Mission," he replied curtly.

"Where?"

"Somewhere." Elusively, the glint of amusement in his eyes. Then, the hardening of his gaze and leveling of his brow. "I'm in a hurry, if you can't tell."

"With who?"

He gave her a perplexed look.

"You're on a mission with who?" she clarified, rolling her eyes. Why was he so dull sometimes? He was impatient, too.

"I'm leaving," he declared, clamping a hand on her shoulder to push her out of the way. Vexed, Mariko stared at his arm, which was maneuvering her out of the way. In a fit of temper, she grasped his wrist, hard, and refused to let go. If she wanted to, she would stick to him like a burr.

"Who?" she repeated.

"Let go," he said flatly, eyes sharp now. The pack on his back rolled over to one of his shoulders, freeing up the arm that she held so he could pull away. She clung, however, tightly to his wrist, so tightly that when he tried jerking away, he ended up launching her forward.

"No." Rattled but determined, the blunette glared up at him. There was no need to be in a rush, if only moments before, he had been going at an unhurried pace. He was trying to escape, obviously.

His hand was cold, which she wondered about. Why were his hands always so cold? Sure enough, mornings were cooler than the daytime, especially before the sun was fully up, but it wasn't cold enough for his hands to be so icy. The one she grasped hardly warmed beneath her fingers. An odd sensation crept through her; she should warm his hands for him.

Immediately, she battered this idea away, because it was completely absurd. Last time she'd been up this early, her mind had been scrambled and the time afterward had been a frenzy of confusion. Everywhere, befuddling things happened, from trying to kick a certain white-haired Senju to him slamming the door in her face.

"Look, Shorty," Tobirama snapped, "I've got a mission with my team, and we need to set out early."

"How early?" Her grip tightened, and he looked exasperated. Mariko could almost see the wheels turning in his head – how to escape her. Patience was not one of his fortes, because he was increasing growing roiled and fidgety. If he could punch through the wall, he would, and if he wanted to, he could easily toss her aside with the flick of his muscular arm. But he didn't. Her small hands, princess hands, against his shinobi finesse. She was light and small, he was built and tall. Yet she grounded him, and he was unwilling to throw her off. In any other case (for example, if a woman had been clinging to him unnecessarily), he would've thrown the annoyance off harshly, giving a cold shoulder.

Mariko waited.

"Early."

"Time," she demanded. She squeezed his wrist, hard, and though it didn't hurt him, he was obviously uncomfortable now. "It's probably around eight, isn't it? What are you really doing up so early?" Her eyes narrowed, and she scrutinized him just as he had done to her. "Do tell, Mr. Morning Ghost."

"Let go," he repeated, this time coldly. The glint of hardness in his eyes would have startled her, but she braced herself for in oncoming temper. She was angering him, and she knew it.

Then, unexpectedly, a sudden release of tension in his arm. Without time to react or push him away, her hands locked around his wrist, his other arm slipped to the nape of her neck and pulled her in. At first, she could only process the frigid quiver that his hand sent down her spine; his skin was freezing. Then, she realized how close he had gotten, and began to struggle.

A cold smile.

And then his lips were on hers, and she froze in shock. She hardly responded, but the fingers of his right hand brushed the hairs at the base of her head, keeping her in place. In a split second, he was gone, and she realized that she had let go of his wrist.

The clink of armor and the click of a door signaled his exit.

"Idiot!" she hissed angrily. She wasn't sure if she was calling herself a dimwit for being unable to deduce his plan quickly enough, or even comprehend anything as her mind turned to mush, or if she was calling Tobirama the idiot for doing such a confusing thing. A string of Hurricane oaths were slung from her lips, which she kept touching in a bewildered, awkward manner. If Katsurou had heard her, he would've laughed. Sumiko would've chuckled and winked. Ryouichi, calmly and coolly, would have shook his head. Meanwhile, at least half the maids and all the nurses would have fainted from her foul-mouthed swears.

She debated returning to piano, peering out the door, or going back to the room. Deciding the piano would calm her, she returned to the sitting room and touched a few keys. They rang softly, so she began a light-fingered scale that ran as far left and right as she could. Then, a soft waltz, its three beat bass a solidifying comfort to her. Her right hand danced with the melody, her toe pressing the pedal periodically, and her left hand consistently flowing along its three waltz beats.

At the end of the song, a visitor had appeared, and he was quietly and politely peering into the room.

Arata.

"Hello, Lady Princess," he greeted. "Early morning for the two of us, isn't it?"

"I couldn't sleep," Mariko admitted. And to be truthful, after that incident, she would not have been able to return to her pillows and dreams anyway.

"How about an early morning ride to loosen up the muscles?" he suggested. Mariko took note of the dark circles accompanying his eyes, and the irritated pink of his usually whitish scars. His hair was rumpled, and it was clear he had gotten out of bed upon hearing the piano.

"If you're up to it, then I'd love to," Mariko replied softly.

.x.X.x.

Dear Sumiko,

When did you have your first kiss? You know, I'm going to scrap this, because if I actually send it to you, Mito might read it first, and then she'll fuss all over me and probably give Tobirama a lecture. And if you receive it, you'll literally fly over from Hot Springs and smack him, and then you'll tell Katsurou and Ryo, and when you tell them, they'll take it upon their older brother's honor to defend my purity. Or something of the like.

I'm not even sure if that counted as a kiss.

.x.X.x.

Tobirama was gone for all of two days, during which Mariko spent most her time at the piano or in the stables, helping Arata brush one of the younger horses.

The tall, white-haired Senju's return was signified by the excited clamor of his team, which often came to the Senju house for dinner if they came back around the right time. Mariko was in the midst of brushing Yodel, who munched on hay quite contentedly – along with a few apples that Izuna had left her with the day before in the market – and now the Hurricane girl was discussing her options with herself. Should she go out and greet them, or stay here? Still muddled by her frustration and mix of feelings, she decided to stay in the barn and work out her stress through a thorough brushing and currying of Yodel's dark bay coat.

"Hashirama-sama, it was huge, this ninja was!" Hiruzen shouted. Mariko assumed that the Hokage had come out to greet them; she could also feel his warmth opened to them. Was it just her, or was it him? After all, she mostly only felt his intentions when he allowed them to slip through.

"Oh really?" asked Hashirama. Mariko could picture him laughing and placing his hands on his hips. If he ever had a child, she supposed he would be hoisting it around on his shoulders all day, playing with those little baby hands.

"Really! Right, Tobirama-sensei?"

From the lack of an answer, Mariko also assumed that Tobirama easily grew tired of his team. He was proud of them – he called them "his kids", after all – but there was a limit to his patience. He muttered something, and then left his group with Hashirama. Mariko knew this because footsteps were approaching the barn, and she knew exactly why.

She threw her brushes to the ground and crouched in the corner of Yodel's stall, pressed against the door so that no one could see her.

"You're not skilled enough to hide from he," he stated bluntly upon entry. "I could sense you from a mile away."

Sensory skills. She recalled Ryouichi describing Tobirama that day in the office.

"He's a skilled Suiton user, supposedly the best in the shinobi world," the First Prince said, sliding a paper from his folder to read off her fiancé's profile. Mariko didn't care much for that (though Katsurou would have found it interesting). "He's also a highly skilled sensory ninja and one of the strongest ninja out there."

"Ryo, you know I could care less about ninja stuff," Mariko huffed, shifting her weight nervously before his desk. The bespectacled prince pushed his glasses up his nose, shaking his head.

"What do you want to know, then?" he asked, at a loss.

"I want to know why I'm married to him," Mariko told him. "Why a Senju? There are plenty of other clans out there, and I don't have to be married to such a big one. What was the name of the dog clan? Inuzuka? That would be a nice relation, I love animals."

"Mari, you have to understand that the Senju are basically Konoha's royal elite," Ryouichi had tried to reason with her. "You—"

"There's plenty of other people dying for that hand in marriage. Marry me off to the daimyo's son or something, just—"

"What do you have against shinobi?" Ryouichi was frank now, for it had bothered him for quite some time. She was fine with a random son of a governor, but vehemently against shinobi?

"I don't have anything against them," she replied. To be truthfully, her conflicting emotions weren't telling her much of why she was so frantic. "I just…don't want to be a big deal. This is Konoha we're talking about, Ryo."

Ryouichi understood at least this much. By far, an alliance with possibly the greatest shinobi nation was big, it was huge, it was beyond him, almost. This was vital for Hurricane, and fragile as a spider's web. Should something go wrong, something come crashing down on that web, disasters could break out. War, even. Ryouichi knew all this, for this was the point of his being Crown Prince of Hurricane, but he felt the greatest duty to help his baby sister. He couldn't just throw her out there, for the venomous arachnid to wrap her up.

"I know, Mari."

Sumiko and Katsurou to the Hot Springs and Frost, respectively, were hardly comparable to Konoha and the Fire Country. It was, so far, their only alliance with a great shinobi nation. They were on good terms with the Cloud to the north, and on a debatable peace with Kirigakure — one of their more worrisome connections, really — but nothing solid was ever established besides consistent trade.

"Why isn't Sumi married to Konoha?"

"She doesn't go down easily," said Ryouichi, shrugging.

"No, Ryo, that's not what I meant, and you know it." Mariko shot her older brother an almost helpless look. "Why wasn't her original marriage with Konoha?"

"First of all, Mito of the Whirlpool nation had priority in the marriage department," Ryouichi told her, going off on a limb here. "I'd assume that most negotiations were busy with her betrothal to the Hokage."

"That was not around the same time, and you know it." Mariko folded her arms, as always an attempt to mimic Katsurou's firm stance, hoping to draw strength from the memory of his tall figure and broad shoulders.

"Okay, that's true," sighed Ryouichi, "but also, this opening came now. We were just looking for a way into the Senju, and the Hokage suddenly put out his brother on the market."

"Doesn't that seem a little cruel, to put one's sibling out for marriage? Like a horse for sale?" Mariko narrowed her eyes. She didn't quite mean it to reference herself, but it was similar nonetheless.

"You, of all people, should know," Ryouichi said softly, glancing warily down at his paper. He looked tired; his shoulders sagged.

"I'm sorry, Ryo. I didn't mean it that way." Mariko put a hand on the corner of his desk, and he shook his head.

"I'm worried for you," he admitted. "He's seven years older than you."

Seven. Why was a man so much older than her being offered as a marriage tool? Were the Senju as bizarre a people as they were? This last part, Mariko thought of herself, because while she loved her country, she hated her fate.

"I've still to come up with a plan," she mused aloud. "You'll carry it out for me, right?"

"Patch up the holes first," he said, a small chuckle sufficing her intentions. "Then we'll talk."

He leaned his arms on the stall door, peering down at her. His one eyebrow quirked upwards, amused. She must've looked a mess, covered in straw and hay and dust, probably with horse spit on her shirt. She wore Arata's old jacket, a pair of Konoha slacks that reached just before her ankles, strangely enough. Her shirt was one of her own, a simple tee that she wore while riding most occasions. Her hair was down, face smudged with dirt instead of pastels, and she was, all in all… a mess.

"I'm sorry for not being good enough, Mr. Shinobi," she told him flatly, bewildered by how strange she must look huddled in a corner like that. It was obvious she'd been hiding, too.

"Not a problem, Shorty," he drawled. "I'm sure we could teach you a thing or two."

"And I could teach you plenty more," she deadpanned, getting to her feet. Yodel whickered and nudged her side for a carrot, which she produced from Arata's jackets. His pockets seemed to always have treats in them, even when she was sure that she'd fed every single tidbit to all the horses.

"How are you wearing that?" He pointed to the jacket.

"I just am." She shrugged it off, and then grimaced at the dust and grime on her arms as she hung up the jacket on a bridle hook. A cautious glance at the white-haired Senju gave her the impression of boredom. "Not angry?" she asked curiously. "I didn't make you late, did I?"

Realization dawned on him when he figured out what she was referring to, and he took the slight smirk on her face as a cue to tease.

"Oh, I hardly made it on time. Saru gave me a good scolding," he quipped, enjoying their light persiflage.

"I'm sure," she said, with a roll of her eyes.

"Surely," Tobirama continued, "you won't make me late for dinner, then?"

He was waiting for her, and she was still in boots and mucky clothing. This somewhat comforted her; in the back of her head, she believed that the horse-and-dirt flavored mixture would deter him from pulling another move as he had a few days before. She stepped out.

"I'll go extra slow," she chirped, grinning. His eyebrows rose again.

"I'm sure you will," he answered. He lashed out and mysteriously poked her in the stomach, hard. Her eyes widened and she swatted at him, which made him laugh, just lightly. In an audacious attempt to coax a reaction, he grabbed her chin and made his move.

Mariko was ready this time — she shoved him away with unexpected strength. In a glorious dash for freedom — her entirety of blue hair, green eyes, and a disheveled barn appearance making a dash for it — Mariko ran for the stable door. Had she been a split second slower, his hand would have wrapped around her wrist, and after that, she wasn't quite sure she wanted to know.

In any case, she didn't keep anyone waiting, for a quick shower and a change of clothes put her at dinner with Hashirama, Mito, Tobirama's three students, and the perplexing man himself.

.x.X.x.

Dear Momma,

I don't like being interrogated. Last night was interrogation, completely. The girl, whose name I keep forgetting, would only shoot strange glares at me. The one with glasses reminded me of Ryo, and Hiruzen was quite noisy, and asked me tons and tons of questions. I mean, I didn't mind that he liked asking me questions, but they become so complicated and some of them were nosy.

Besides that, he kept looking at me. What's that supposed to mean? I didn't know he was the playful type, either.

.x.X.x.

Morning found Mariko tacking up Yodel for a brisk hack around the nearby fields. The gelding cantered down the path smoothly, carrying her around for one long trip before returning to the Senju complex. There, she rubbed the horse down and then gave him a nice buffet of some carrots. Finding herself mucky all over again, Mariko jogged back to her room.

Suddenly, a fanfare, and it was so familiar that she cried out loud.

Hurricane's royal entering bugel, played by five trumpets and a string quartet. Well, this one lacked the strings section, and had only one trumpet, but it rang loud and clear by the Hokage Tower. Solitary and dignified, it signaled the entrance of a royal court member.

Someone, someone is here!

She immediately ran for the Senju complex gates, hoping to dash down the street to the Hokage tower. Was it Sumiko? Or was it Katsurou? Maybe, just maybe…

She arrived, panting before the tower, before any of her guard or maids could realize that she'd gone. Her people had been given free rein, only to keep an eye on her during formal occasions, and check in on her from time to time. And now, standing before her, so full of Hurricane nostalgia that tears came to her eyes, was none other than her Aunt Tari. It was not the blue-haired sibling she'd expected, but she was reduced to pathetic sobs anyway, running into her aunt's open arms.

After a few minutes of incoherent babble and rocking back and forth, Tari held her niece out at length.

"My dear, what have they done to you?" she said through a smile. "Stuck you in a barn all day?"

"They tried to get me out," replied Mariko, wiping a joyful slip of tears away. "Auntie, how are you here? How are you? How is Ryo? How—"

"One question at a time, girl," laughed the older woman, brushing Mariko's blue hair from her eyes. "I'm only here to deliver a message before I travel to the Tea Country for some special herbs."

"Special herbs?" echoed the princess.

"Yes. You see, my nephew, your cousin, is horribly sick. Despite this, he took care of your late uncle until the very end. Now he's fallen even more ill, and the Uzumaki tell me to request a healer from the Tea Country, specifically."

"Why not from Konoha, here? Why not the Uzumaki themselves? Aren't they—"

"Hush, child. It's only because he is a specialist in this disease's area," explained her aunt calmly. "I must deliver your future brother-in-law a scroll, and then I'll be on my way."

Dismayed, for she had been reunited with a family member for all of five minutes, Mariko clutched her aunt's sleeve. She noticed, now, the stark contrast between her aunt and the citizens of the Leaf, despite the older woman's otherwise bland appearance. The pastels made her face like the moon, and the colors were those of mourning.

"Let me give you something, then."

"I'll be at the Hokage Tower for a good hour, my dear. I'll see you there."

With that, Mariko turned tail and ran for her bedroom to dig out a present she'd just recently received, but felt the need to give away. She'd received Katsurou's heart, and then it became her own. Now, it felt right to give a piece of their hearts to their lovely Aunt Tari.

She tucked the river horse figurine into Tari's calloused hands. The woman's eyes crinkled at the corners, smiling, but sadly.

"This is meant for you," she said softly, upon exit of her meeting with the Hokage. Hashirama had been the most respectful during that time, politely conversing with Mariko's aunt and analyzing the scroll just as calmly. When she left, she came upon Mariko in the hall. "I cannot take it," she told her niece. "It's yours."

"I can't go home," Mariko insisted. "This can."

"There's no need to leave me with a parting gift, my dear." Aunt Tari attempted to slide the horse figurine back into Mariko's fingers, but the girl adamantly refused.

"River horses never leave Hurricane," she reminded her aunt. "This one needs to go home."

.x.X.x.

Dear Momma,

Aunt Tari came today. I hadn't expected to see her again so soon. It made me so happy, but also sad. Why am I sad? Mito is happy here, isn't she? I sometimes wonder if she suffers from the same feelings that I do. It's not loneliness, because there's always people. It's not frustration, because there's nothing to do. It's the feeling of being lost, and sometimes, that's the worst feeling of all.

.x.X.x.

The white-haired Senju leaned against the doorframe casually, broad shoulders filling up the doorway. He folded his arms and listened to the girl play a devastatingly sad song, one with dark chords and the heaviness of a funeral march. It progressed into a slightly lighter tune, but all the more melancholy.

"This is a hunch," he said flatly, "but I'm going to say that what you play reflects your mood."

"Your hunch is off by miles," Mariko replied. "I'm happier than a duck."

He scoffed at this, muttering something about ducks and happiness having seemingly no relation whatsoever. She was bothered, and it was quite evident that she wanted him to go away, to leave her alone. As a result, Tobirama would do just the opposite.

He came behind the piano bench and leaned over the few scripts of music she'd pulled from her belongings. The blunette stared at him warily, wondering what he was doing, bent over so that his face was next to hers, intently staring at the paper.

"You find this interesting?" she asked. "Or is it just because you can't read it?"

He made a face and retreated, folding his arms again.

"I can read music fine," he claimed. "Besides, you smell not like horses, for once."

"I think that was a compliment," Mariko said suspiciously, "but I'm not quite sure. Care to elaborate?"

"Ah." He smirked. She was prompting him, daring him to tell her that he'd stooped down just to smell her. An odd idea, but amusing and unsettling all the same.

He wiped his hands on his shinobi trousers, dark and baggy things that she thought were ridiculously unprofessional. They were comfortable, was what he told her, and that was all he needed. She then pointed out how contradictory that sounded, because he wore that blue armor all the time. Plus more arm guards and leg wraps, and a bunch of things that looked the opposite of comfortable.

"Safety first," he supposed, narrowing his eyes at her. "You wouldn't have to worry about a dagger piercing your heart."

A bit hurt by this, Mariko trickled back to playing a few songs, cheerier ones now. She was pondering heavily over Tari's brief visit — it had been so short, it was as if she never came. Surely she could've stayed longer. It was true that many foreigners came through just to drop off a message for their leader, but this was far too quick, especially for Mariko. She had wanted to ask Tari how Hurricane was, if there was any chance of going back soon (a futile question), and if she could drop in on Katrina some time. No one could ride the feisty dappled mare, with the exception of Mariko and sometimes Sumiko. Mariko knew Ryouichi would check on the horse, unquestionably, but he would do little besides tell the horse master to let her run in the ring or release her to the paddocks.

"Hey."

Her fingers pressed a wrong key, and she winced, the sound jarring her. She had been going along well, so she picked it up again and ignored the insistent, deep voice beside her.

"Shorty."

She lifted her hands off the piano now, and stared at him flatly. Leave me alone, she sent mentally, as if he could hear her. Skillful as he was, he wasn't a mind reader. Despite this, her body language was crystal clear, and he leaned back, a sour scowl on his face.

Pushy blockhead, she muttered inwardly. You can't always get what you want.

Tobirama stared, arms crossed deliberately. If he wasn't going to leave, Mariko was terribly tempted to. When she finally broke under the pressure of her own nerves — more of a bad mood than nervousness — she stood and crossed the room briskly. The moment she reached the door, she had a disquieting thought: He was letting her go.

She denied herself a glance back at the tall man sitting quietly on the chair alongside the grand piano. Mariko pushed out into the hall.

If she thought that closing the door and walking a good distance down the hall meant she was free, then she was sorely incorrect. Like magic, he appeared in front of her, faster than a heartbeat. Mariko gaped at him in disbelief.

"Not bad," he murmured to himself, fingering a large paper seal plastered to the wall beside him. Mariko hadn't even seen the tag, and here it was, big and bright as day, a pale parchment hung up right in front of her. He studied the seal, then tucked it into his pocket.

"What was that?" she demanded, eyes still flying from the wall to his face to his pocket, then raking up quickly again.

"Time-space ninjutsu," he replied nonchalantly. "Though it doesn't always work like I want it to…"

Ignoring this baffling answer, for she knew little of time-space and its relation to shinobi, the blunette pushed past him. She actually would've made it past, this time, ducking around him, if he hadn't turned at the last minute to grab her.

"What do you want?" she asked, almost wearily, when she felt his cold fingers wrap around her small wrist. He obviously didn't know how to read the mood, and was especially pushy today.

"Tell me what's bothering you."

"Nothing is bothering me," she sighed, "except you."

She said this weakly, and wished she had been able to spit it out with more force. Maybe then, he would've let go. But of course, Tobirama, being the stubborn, thickheaded Senju he was, didn't let go. He was awfully dull for a smart man.

"Then I'll bother you some more," he replied easily.

She glared now, but it lacked energy. An arbitrary flicker of hesitation flashed across him; it didn't cross his eyes, but the thin line of his mouth wavered. The release of her wrist came as a pleasant surprise, and she rubbed it in wonder as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged.

"There's lunch in the kitchen, if you want it," he droned flatly. "None of us will be home around noon."

"Thanks," she said softly, though he'd turned away already. Perhaps there was a shred of understanding in that ghostly white heart of his — a something that held the semblance and form of guilt, though it hardly manifested itself in that way.

Hashirama, that evening, was oddly quiet. Usually, he was boisterous and full of stories to tell, but tonight, he was silent. Mito, who would have found this off behavior odd, did not question her husband about it. Tobirama simply took everything in stride, and did not ask. In fact, he preferred when his brother was not acting like an overly large child.

They did, however, have conversations at the dinner table. They weren't quite the fabulous stories that the Hokage recounted for them, but instead, friendly social communication, the typical kind.

"My dear, you know Mr. Hozuki?" Mito mentioned. "I heard he's in line to become the next Mizukage."

"That sounds horrendous," Mariko answered incredulously, stirring a breathy laugh from the red-haired woman across from her.

"Doesn't it?" agreed Mito. "Hashi, dear, there's some lemonade in the fridge, will you get it for me?"

Such a mundane thing to say, and yet the god of shinobi slid out of his chair and presented his lovely wife with a pitcher of it. He kindly poured everyone a glass, and upon tasting, it was quite the lemonade. Fresh and crisp and homemade.

"Tobirama made it," Hashirama blurted, evoking an exasperated glower in his direction. The brunet shrugged and pretended to study his chopsticks. "Stating the truth, simply."

"The truth is," Mito confirmed, patting Tobirama on the shoulder, "that this is a big white fluff-ball with a mushy heart in the middle."

All untrue descriptions, but amusing in the circumstances. Tobirama's face turned to a lasting scowl, which he held throughout most the rest of the meal. Outside, the wind began to pick up, and a tree's branches knocked against a window. A consistent pitter-patter came with the start of a summer storm, thunder rumbling menacingly in the distance.

"I'm going to go," Tobirama said abruptly, at the same time Mito stood up and declared that she needed to bring in the laundry she forgot earlier. Hashirama excused himself without explanation, and left Mariko to decide what to do on her own. Deciding to run back to her room — flopping down in a sea of pillows seemed like a good idea at the moment — she placed her plate in the sink and made for her room.

In the hallways, she came upon the man she always comes upon. From the looks of it, his bored stance, leaning against the wall, he was waiting for her. Perplexed, she hesitated.

"Hey Shorty, let me show you something." He gestured down the hall, and she followed. Mariko caught up to him, somewhat curious as to where he was headed. Tobirama changed his mind mid-step, and screeched to a halt. Mariko nearly ran into his back, nose brushing the fabric of his shirt as she muttered a quick apology.

He glanced over his shoulder.

She stared up at him, neck craned backwards just to see his entirety. He was far too close, all of a sudden, and she found herself staring into his garnet eyes for what seemed like an eternity. Mariko fought the urge to flee, to bolt with her tail tucked between her legs and her head down.

No, she wasn't fighting.

She was fighting the urge to stay. She told herself to run, but her body betrayed her and stayed routed to the spot, even when he leaned down so close she could feel his breath on her nose and lips. Push him away, she willed herself. Her body didn't budge. Move. Her shoulders were stiff, her spine straightened like a board, fists clenched at her side so hard, her nails were biting into her palms.

Had it been anyone else, she would've had a claustrophobic panic creep up on her. She wanted to run so badly, to shove him away vehemently and shamefully abandon all ladylike manners. Even so, the blunette stayed perfectly still, so that when he stopped just short of her lips, her throat made a tiny strangled noise that stabbed her mind. Her mind wanted her to run, but it seemed that every other fiber of her being was rooted.

Then, a proper kiss, with his fingers tilting her chin up and his other hand lightly touching her arm.

It was nothing like the whimsical, almost unreal drop of lips from that early morning. His lips were warm, his hands so cold they were hot on her skin, and she wasn't quite sure when, but she'd started kissing him back.

An inner Mariko shrieked, You don't even know how to kiss!

Her body laughed at her foolish brain, all elements of nature and emotion and instinct bringing her hands up to rest on his shoulders. His hands had dropped to her waist, where the gripped her shirt lightly for leverage. He was leaning down a ways, and she found herself tip-toeing to meet him.

A slick tongue brushed against her lips, and she gasped in surprise, forming a little "o" with her mouth. Her brain must've screamed something, but she had thrown out her head a while ago, and was just following whatever it was he was trying to tell her with his lips. Granted entrance, he melded his mouth against hers. Her hands crawled up to grasp his collar, and she could feel him smile through the kiss, sliding rhythmically to taste her lower lip tantalizingly.

All too soon, he pulled back, and her eyes snapped open. His eyebrows were quirked, almost as if he was poking fun at her. As her senses returned and her mind snapped back into place, the bewilderment turned to incredulous, spluttering indignation. When she failed to lucidly piece together an comprehensible sentence, he quipped:

"Am I bothering you now?"

"Men are idiots. Women do all the work because men are idiots, and men are idiots because women do all the work." Such was one of Sumiko's philosophies, especially when she encountered an aggravating block in her love life. Mariko had wondered, vaguely, how in the world the First Princess, whose schedule was strictly regimented to princess activities, had a boyfriend at all.

"Why?" was the most common word out of Mariko's mouth at age eleven, listening to a fifteen-year-old gab about the latest fashions and boys and other nonsense.

"Because, I just told you, Mari," Sumiko said, rolling her eyes. "It's stressful."

"What is?"

"Boys!" Sumiko patted her little sister's shoulder and motioned her into the room. "Let me show you. Did you know, Ryo is a complete dunce when it comes to girls? He should have a girlfriend."

"Maybe he doesn't want one. He's busy."

Indeed he was. Heir to the throne and nearly twenty years of age, Ryouichi was almost always chasing some court case or another, because that was his current topic of work. Sometimes, at the high court, he stayed long after the trial was over, debating ponderously over why one man was convicted while the other was not, and whether or not the judges were fair to the people.

"He's the First Prince," Sumiko reasoned. "He should have a girlfriend."

This made little sense to Mariko, who had yet to see an interesting change in both heart and body. Flat as a board, pitifully, and with less curves than a piece of paper, Mariko's sole interests were music and horses. At the moment, since they were in the middle of a bout of spring storms, it was mostly music.

"Katsurou, on the other hand," Sumiko said, rather amused, "seems to have stolen Ryo's flirting skills. He knows every trick in the book, and with two sisters, he's pretty good at reading girls."

"He can't read you," Mariko deadpanned.

"Still, he's got more knowledge as to how they'll react."

"Like how the time he told you that you were flatter than a table, you hit him?"

Sumiko through her little sister an entertained grin: "Precisely."

When Mariko turned thirteen, then fourteen, and the changes she underwent frightened her especially now that her mother was absent from their lives, Sumiko was her saving grace. Sumiko taught her the ways of men and women in the world, of a woman's bleedings, and of all the things she thought were necessary to share. Boyfriends and their brothers' troubled love lives included. Sumiko helped her with her clothes, Sumiko helped her with anything that worried her.

Second to Sumiko, Aunt Tari.

After Aunt Tari, sometimes Lemma the elderly nurse.

"Listen, Mariko, men are voracious creatures," Sumiko had told her, approximately four months before her wedding with a different man than was originally proposed. Mariko listened carefully, for hardly enough time had passed since the queen's death, and Sumiko's voice was achingly similar to Manami's. Maybe not the pitch, but the lilts and the accents and the tendencies of speech. "Be careful," the older princess warned. "Especially when I'm gone, I won't be able to whoop any bad guys away for you."

Mariko smiled and embraced her sister.

"Promise me one thing," Sumiko added.

"Anything." Mariko could tell her sister anything, if her heart wished so.

"Tell me when you have your first kiss, and who it's with." Sumiko supplied a mischievous grin, to which Mariko flushed slightly. "Don't deny it, I know you see boys now."

It wasn't that she didn't see them, it was just that she didn't quite care. She had her music and she had her riding. Sure enough, as she grew older, she noticed the male population a good amount, but her schedule was not unlike Ryouichi's: eternally secluded to history lessons, music, horses, and other precisely correct activities suitable for a princess.

"Don't forget this." A packet of circular herb capsules, a condensed medicine pill taken in twos with water. Its sole purpose was to prevent pregnancy.

Mariko stared dubiously at the supply that Sumiko had pressed into her thirteen-year-old hands. She was thirteen, she wasn't about to go anywhere or do anything. Even in the market, a maid and a guard followed her. She was watched all the time.

"I know, don't look at me funny!" Sumiko exclaimed. "You'll need it, some day. I don't mean now, of course, but when you're older. Just in case I'm not back when it happens. You can always tell Lemma, Aunt Tari, or ask a healer in the lower courtyard for them. Don't be embarrassed."

She'd never used them, and never planned to. Mariko had planned to run away, as she recalled. A failed plan, but still, she'd been thinking. She read lovely books of romance, where the ill-fated lovers were nearly torn apart, but then brought together in an impossibly dramatic plot. She had a warm fondness for these novels, a fuzzy feeling for them, one that relished the happiness of the couple. But for herself? It was never even a question in her mind.

That is, until now.

"You are bothering me so much, I want to slap you."

"Go ahead." A smirk, a twitch in his cheek that was so irritating, she wanted to shove him away. But his hands were still resting on her hips, hips that had rounded out into fine curves that she'd hardly ever considered, but was mildly grateful for, because now they provided a natural resting place for his cold-hot hands. That brought her to another subject: his hands. How were they so cold all the time? It was as if his blood ran out of heat and life-energy, and his hands turned to ice. But she knew this wasn't true — from the chakra poured through her hands, down the reins, and to the horse during that one exhilarating gallop, to the stunning electricity he shot through her nerves upon contact.

So she slapped him, hard, across the face. He clearly hadn't expected her retaliation, because his eyes went wide and he stared at her disbelievingly. Mariko stole his smirk and proudly planted it on her own face.

"Serves you right," she leered smugly.

"You," he stated plainly, shaking his head. Straightening to his full height so that she'd have to look up at him, he rubbed his cheek, which would be sore later on. And then he grabbed her wrists, palms cold despite the previous, fiery contact with her. He drew them up above her head and pinned her to the wall.

A surge of panic, because now she was trapped. The urge to flee returned, and this time, she was restrained physically, for real.

"That was gutsy," he told her dryly, eyes narrowing.

She turned her chin up at him defiantly. In a split second, she realized that this was the wrong thing to do, because all at once, there was a burning, excruciatingly pleasant sensation at her neck, and the feeling of his lips against her jaw branded her with an inexplicable rush of excitement. Whatever he was doing — she was frozen, stunned, melting — he was good at it.

It occurred to her that he had an entire bank of experience, whereas she had none. He was having far too much fun with her, and now she kicked herself mentally for not considering any of this. He was playing with her, and from the looks of it, she was falling for it.

Her savior turned out to be Toka, whose voice jarringly interrupted the white-haired Senju.

"Steal that girl's innocence before my eyes, and I cut off something you want to keep desperately," she growled. Tobirama immediately backed off, lowering Mariko's hands and returning them to her gently, as if dropping them was like letting go of fine china. "That's a good boy," said Toka, eyeing the tall Senju narrowly. She wrapped an arm around a still-bewildered blunette. "Let's go, my dear. I was going to find some dessert because Etsuko has the oddest cravings at the oddest hours. Also, Kell wants to talk to you."

Toka led Mariko away, and the blunette, giggling, noticed the sour look the dark-haired woman threw at her albino cousin, who was left looking awkward and lost.

.x.X.x.

Dear Sumiko,

I had my real kiss this time. This is sort of funny to write, but I suppose it's all right. I promised you, after all. Please don't pull a Toka and come chop him to pieces. I think I'll do that myself.

.x.X.x.

"I hear you're in search of medicinal pills," Kell said knowledgeably. At first, Mariko stared at in him in confusion, with a hint of horror. Was he implying that she needed to take the herb capsules for pregnancy? At least, that was her first thought. Then, slowly thinking back, she realized he meant Aunt Tari.

"My Aunt is searching for a certain medicine man," she informed him.

"It's probably Lord Gen, then. He and his wife are skilled medicine makers and healers. Trust them to aid whoever it is that is ill," Kell said. He pushed his glasses up his nose. At first, it reminded Mariko of one of Hiruzen's teammates, the brooding one who mostly kept silent, and then she thought of Ryouichi, who would've eagerly poured over the different types of medicine available.

"Are they willing to go to Hurricane?" inquired Mariko. She suddenly felt terrible that she knew little to nothing of this distant cousin, save that he looked like her mother's side of the family. The royal family kept to its blue-haired half, and kept to the queen's closest relatives, at most. Mariko had known that her late uncle, a friendly brown-haired fellow whose stubble prickled her baby cheeks, she remembered, and had started going bald early, was a friendly cobbler. She'd met him probably three times, but only when she was small. He'd been kind, but she never knew this cousin, her uncle's son, who had fallen ill.

"The lord and lady love travel," Kell reassured her. "Hurricane is one of the few places they've never been, among many other islands they wish to travel to. I'm sure they'll agree."

Mariko smiled kindly, to let him know she appreciated the knowledge.

Etsuko bounded into the room then, from her short trip to the ladies' room. She pulled out a tub of ice cream and asked if anyone would like any. Kell laughed and agreed to it. Mariko watched this bubbly exchange brightly; it seemed as if this relationship had developed faster than her own. Etsuko and Kell were on lovely terms with one another, and could be seen laughing so hard that tears came to their eyes in the courtyard.

A bold Senju girl, and a usually mild, studious Tea Country boy. They fit together quite well.

Suddenly, Mito stormed into the room. Her eyes were dark and she looked quite distressed. No, not distressed, it was more of an outraged expression that lined her beautiful features.

"What's the matter, Mito?" asked Toka, accepting a small portion of ice cream that Etsuko generously spooned out.

"Tell me where he's gone, and I'll hack him to pieces and feed them to the dogs," she hissed. Then, seeing Mariko, she softened. "Hello, my dear."

The stunning difference between the two sentences was so disconcerting, Mariko had to make sure they were still on the same subject.

"If you want Tobirama, he's probably in his room," Toka said. "If you want Madara, he's at the Hokage Tower."

"Thank you," Mito said simply. Then, she paused. "Wait, why would I want Tobirama?"

"Nothing, forget that."

Obviously, Mito wasn't falling for anything, and she shot the other woman a look that clearly meant she wanted a spymaster's meeting when she finished what she was doing.

"What's he done now?" called Etsuko across the table. She giggled at something Kell whispered in her ear, and slapped his thigh amicably.

"I have no idea, because Izuna told me that he didn't want to risk his own life telling it to me. It went along the lines of, 'My Lady, I already lack eyes, please don't take anything else away from my poor body', and then he fled." Mito put her hands on her hips. "If it's as bad as he says, please bring umbrellas, because there is a high likelihood of rain, and it'll rain Uchiha."

Perplexed by this fit of temper, Mariko watched the redhead storm away to the Hokage Tower. She slung an umbrella around her arm as she went, flapping it open as soon as she entered the rain. Mariko randomly recalled her wish to flop down on her bed — so much for that.

Tobirama peered into the room, a head of messy white hair in the dark doorway.

"Hey, Tobi, wanna explain why Toka is threatening to kill you?" Etsuko asked bluntly, spooning ice cream into her mouth. He didn't answer, and did his usual tactic: answering a question with an off-topic jibe at the person of interest.

"With all that ice cream you're eating, it's like you're pregnant. Are you?" Tobirama asked, pointedly glancing at Kell, who accomplished the incredible feat of perfectly regulating an expression of nonchalance and blankness onto his face.

"I'm not, thank you very much, Nugget Head," spat Etsuko, hardly wavering. She was probably one of the best at countering her pale-haired cousin; she merely batted her eyelashes and deliberately answered as bluntly as possible. "Now. Is that an allusion to something else that I'm sensing?"

Tobirama scowled, and Etsuko did a small dance in her seat. She'd hit a bingo, and now Tobirama was uncomfortable.

"Frown all you like, Tobi," Toka called. "And joke all you like, because nothing you do is going to save those male reproductive organs of yours. The Senju don't hold back, you know."

"In anything," he deadpanned, shooting a smirk at his cousins. Kell snorted at this, almost spitting his ice cream back out at the absurdly perverted side of that comment. The mousy-haired man turned and nodded approvingly at the Senju, something Mariko had not expected from him. Etsuko too, because she poked his leg insistently.

"Tobirama, I'll give you to the count of three before I come—"

The head of white hair vanished, and Toka pushed herself back from her seat.

"I'll be right back," she said, an ominously evil, terribly delighted grin slipping into place.

"Mariko, make babies fast, because Tobi might not last long," blurted Etsuko. This time, Kell burst out into a fit of laughter, and Mariko reddened.

She could only imagine what would happen when Mito returned.

Bang! Two kisses, one chapter.

Errrr...

Questions, comments, burning concerns?!

FERVENT DESIRES?

(Also, I was told that I accidentally made the status say "COMPLETE". That's totally not true, lol.)

Ahhh, Tobirama's so grumpy. I love it.

Note: So I'm at 80 Microsoft Word pages for this story (wowww). I looked it up, and it seems that if you double that number, it's the approximate number of pages it would be in a real book (average size). I have a 160 page book. Not bad XD.