Seeing Musutafu at night perched high above the streets is still a captivating experience, even after more than a decade of living in this world. The city is permeated by artificial lights, interconnected like chains in a tangled pattern that extends beyond the far horizon. It pulses with life along those webs of light, with noisy people and honking cars; they are the blood of this colossus of concrete and glass, moving to the heartbeat of the city. Madara wonders if the Elemental Nations will someday have a view like this, if the hidden villages will grow and spread until they disappear past the horizon.
"I swear, if you catch a cold from all this brooding, I'm going to beat you up."
Madara glances over his shoulder, only to be met with a piece of thick fabric hurled at his face, muffling any greeting he might have offered to his unannounced visitor.
"Wear it before you turn into an icicle," Izuna orders, plopping down beside him on the rooftop's edge.
"What are you doing up here? I'm on patrol," Madara says, realizing that the fabric is a scarf. Without objection, he wraps it around himself several times. Admittedly, he had become quite cold – maybe he should consider adding more layers to his 'hero costume'.
Izuna scoffs, "Apparently, I'm saving you from freezing to death. Seriously, at least keep moving to stay warm. Isn't that what you're supposed to be doing on patrol anyway? Running around, saving people, and all that."
Madara should indeed be on his feet, keeping an eye on the bright streets and dark alleys below. It's late, and he had barely scoured through the area he had been assigned for the night. "I will get moving soon."
Izuna sighs, the embodiment of longsuffering, "I'm sure you will, and you will totally not continue to stew in your thoughts alone in the cold."
"Izuna," Madara groans.
His brother pins him with a cutting look, "No, don't 'Izuna' me. You know I'm right. You and Obito are both idiots. If it were up to you two, you would continue ignoring each other and do absolutely nothing about it. I say this with your best interest in mind, with love from the bottom of my heart, but you are both socially inept idiots."
Madara clenches his jaw. If there is one thing he hates with a passion, it's being scolded like a child by his brother. "What would you have me do?" He asks sharply. "I already tried talking to Obito, but he didn't appreciate it. Maybe this is something that cannot be resolved."
Izuna sighs anew, a weightier exhale this time, entirely unfaced. He seems to be gathering his thoughts, roaming his eyes over the expanse of Musutafu.
When he speaks, his voice is carefully neutral, "You told me about every event that happened between my death and yours, down to the last detail. Everything, save for one seemingly inconsequential bit. You never told me why Obito. Why did you choose him as your successor, as the bearer of your name?"
Madara furrows his brows, "I did tell you the reason. His deep love had the potential of growing into even greater hatred."
"Do you honestly expect me to believe that? Do you?" Izuna's voice remains as light as a whisper in the wind, devoid of any judgment. "Did you deceive yourself to the point where you believe your own lies?
We both know that love is not bound to turn into hatred, and that hatred doesn't always stem from love. Even if that would be the case, there were undoubtedly plenty of talented shinobi out there for you to choose from if feeling emotions intensely was your only criteria. So, I'll ask again, why Obito?"
As loath as he is to admit it, Izuna is right. There had never been a guarantee that Obito would turn on Konoha, that he would give up on his dream of becoming Hokage and learn to hate the world. Madara had spent decades spying on Konoha from the shadows of his cave. Over the years, countless opportunities had presented themselves to acquire an adequate successor—shinobi easily malleable, rebels who harbored hatred for Konoha and the shinobi system, prodigies showing promise for greatness. Yet, he ignored them all. Instead, he chose the black sheep of the Uchiha, the dead last, barely clinging to life with half his body missing—a boy who, by all means of logic, shouldn't have survived, much less reached the level of capability that he did.
"You could have easily created a mindless puppet, a perfect pawn, but you didn't," Izuna continues, when Madara stays silent. "You left Obito his free will when it was never required for your plan. In fact, Obito was never required for your plan had you forced Uzumaki's hand at reviving you. Why did you choose to have someone stand by your side? Someone that is capable of 'deep love' as you say it."
"Why do you ask me if you seem to know the answer already?"
"Because I want you to face what you refuse to admit to yourself and stop deluding yourself with washed-out half-truths. Then we can work on salvaging your relationship with Obito."
Madara rubs at his tired eyes until phantom lights dance behind his eyelids. This is something he had resolutely avoided thinking about; it brings back too many painful memories and conflicting thoughts.
"In the Mountain's Graveyard, I spent most of my time asleep, dreaming of my perfect world. My vision of it morphed and changed ever so slightly with each day. However, one thing would without fail stay the same; you would always stand by my side, Izuna."
Izuna smacks his arm, "Don't get sappy with me as a distraction."
"I'm not. I'm trying to order my thoughts. You wanted me to speak, so listen," Madara snaps. "So, as I said, in my dream, you would be by my side. On the other hand, whenever I was awake and envisioned the day I finally freed the world from reality and cast the Infinite Tsukuyomi, I saw myself standing there under the moon in solitude. There was no one left I could share my victory with, not you, not the clan, and not Hashirama.
Then came the day Obito sacrificed his life. In his supposedly final moments, when he gifted his eye to the Hatake brat, he reminded me too much of you, of the night you pleaded with me to take your eyes. I suppose that was the last push I needed. Buried under a boulder in enemy territory, it was either certain death for Obito or damnation by my hand, if he survived the healing process. I knew that, and I made my choice, knowing it was not mine to make. I instructed Zetsu to retrieve Obito.
Don't misunderstand, Izuna; he was never supposed to replace you. However, he wasn't supposed to be a mindless pawn to be sacrificed either. He was supposed to be, well…"
"A comrade?" Izuna suggests.
"Perhaps," Madara allows reluctantly. "Does it matter? In the end, he betrayed me and I betrayed him. We were nothing but enemies. Are you happy with that answer?"
"Very much. Thank you for telling us. I know you hate this kind of stuff, but communicating your thoughts and emotions is good, and necessary in this case." Izuna smiles widely, giving him a quick hug before jumping to his feet. "I promise, things will turn out just fine from here on out; you will see! Go beat up some villains for me, love you!" With that and a wave, Izuna steps over the edge of the rooftop and lets himself fall to the penthouse balcony beneath.
Madara exhales a long weary breath, standing up from his perch as well. He is considerably more exhausted than he had been when he sat down and even less desire to finish his patrol. He will have to trust Izuna on this.
.
.
Obito grits his teeth until he can hear them grinding in his jaw, digs his nails into the steel railing of the balcony until his fingers are aching. If he had any chakra left in his body, the metal would be bending in his grip.
Izuna gracefully drops down from the rooftop above, landing in a crouch next to his hands like a nimble cat, uncaring of the fact that they are hundreds of meters above ground and missing his landing would mean certain death. The asshole grins self-satisfied.
"I was not supposed to hear that," Obito snarls under his breath.
"Of course you were. I told you to wait here for me for a reason," Izuna says dismissively, leaping to the floor with excessive flair. He strolls over to the balcony door and pushes it open with a sense of ownership, as if they hadn't broken into the penthouse apartment just thirty minutes ago to reach the rooftop more easily.
"Izuna, what the hell?" Obito curses, trailing after him into the darkened room. Neither of them bothers to turn on the lights as they navigate toward the actual entrance door.
"You two weren't going to talk to each other, so I decided to play mediator. Don't worry, Madara knew you were there; he said what he wanted you to hear."
Obito pinches the bridge of his nose. He said it already, but, "What the fuck, Izuna." He hadn't wanted to hear what Madara had to say, but now he has. The urge to punch through a wall, preferably made of solid concrete, increases by the second.
He had often uselessly racked his brains about what would have happened had he died under that boulder, if Madara had not saved him. More than once, had he wished he hadn't survived. Just as often, he imagined what would have happened had someone else been crushed under it, and how the course of history might have changed. Now, he is forced to hear that the only reason for his survival was because Madara was lonely, because he needed someone to stand by his side?
Hysteria bubbles up in his chest. He has no idea how to process this revelation. During the war, he had readily accepted Madara's explanation – that Obito's love and its potential to transform into hatred made him the perfect middleman. It made sense, and, more importantly, it kept things simple and straightforward between them. Obito was a tool suited for the task, and Madara was an evil manipulator. End of story.
Having heard Madara's actual reasoning makes things complicated, and that's exactly why he hadn't wanted to hear anything about it. It reminded him that Madara is human, living in the gray between black and white. Sage, life would be so much easier if it were otherwise, if Madara was the big bad, unfeeling evil. But he isn't, and Obito may have to accept the fact that, in a majorly fucked up way, he was not just a convenient tool. Whatever that means for him.
Sleep will be elusive for the next few days; he can already tell.
.
.
The rhythmic sound of vegetables being chopped is interrupted every few seconds as Fuyumi throws pinched glances over her shoulder at Shoto, who sits idly at the dining table. She isn't subtle about her concern, but minutes pass like this before she finally breaks the silence.
"Shoto, are you sure you are supposed to be handling knives so casually?" She asks, her voice strained.
Shoto blinks down at his hands, wrapped up in bandages and patches, as he twirls a kunai, as Madara had called the knife, around his fingers in a fluid motion he learned during training. He's improving at these little tricks, only cutting himself once or twice a day now, as opposed to every few minutes.
"Shishou says I need to familiarize myself with my weapons until I know them like my own limbs and build up finger dexterity. The best way to get used to them, he said, is to handle them on a daily basis in all kinds of situations."
"I see…" Fuyumi doesn't sound entirely convinced. "How is your training with Madara?"
"Good. I'm learning a lot." And, to add a silver lining, he's barely training with Endeavor anymore, which is a blessing.
"You are learning a lot about… knives?"
"We started on them a few weeks ago. Shishou says it's imperative to at least be decent at handling a handful of different weapons."
Fuyumi looks at him for a long drawn-out moment with a complex expression. "You seem to like training with Madara."
The kunai stops short between Shoto's fingers. Does he like it? It's undoubtedly better than Endeavor's tortuous regimen, even if it's just as exhausting, if not more so. He has made a lot of progress recently in areas he had never thought about exercising before, like blade combat. It's nice to learn new things.
Shoto shrugs. "I guess."
A warm smile suddenly lights up Fuyumi's entire face. "I'm glad you're having fun. Tell me a little more about Madara."
Shoto starts spinning his kunai again, his mind circling back to his training with Madara and his never-ending questions. He still hasn't found an answer to the question of what a quirk is—at least nothing that he didn't know already or that feels quite right. He doesn't even know what answer Madara is looking for; they never talk much about quirks.
"Fuyumi, what is your quirk to you?" He asks.
"Huh?" Fuyumi tilts her head in confusion. "I'm not a hero. I don't use it for any grand or for impressive feats, but it is useful for daily tasks on occasion." As if to prove her point, she grabs a spoon and fishes an egg out of the bubbling water on the stove. With practiced ease, she cools it down with a flick of her wrist. Then she carefully taps on the hard shell until it cracks open and pulls it off in one smooth motion.
"See?" She says, taking another hard-boiled egg to repeat the process. "Peeling them is a lot easier if you cool them down beforehand. I also use my quirk in the summer sometimes to make ice cream or to simply keep my room pleasantly cool."
Shoto does cool his room too sometimes, though his body mostly self-regulates its temperature efficiently enough on its own—a convenient side effect of his quirk. On the other hand, he never thought about using it to make ice cream or to peel eggs. It seems like a silly thing to do when he has frozen over entire rooms with his quirk before, when he could kill a grown man with it if he is not careful. Fuyumi is right, though; it does seem rather practical to know how to do.
"Can you show me how to do that?" He asks, pointing at an egg.
Fuyumi's smile gets even brighter. "Sure!"
.
.
As Madara nears the end of his patrol, a subtle presence makes itself known in his periphery. He quickly identifies the telltale white scarf and fixes the man with an irritated glare. Exhaustion and the biting cold have left him with little patience for idle chit-chat; he's more than ready to wrap up the night.
"Madara," Eraserhead greets with a nod. Sensing, perhaps, that Madara is in a foul mood, he doesn't bother with pleasantries, cutting straight to the chase. "I need a favor."
Madara raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "A favor?"
"Yes, nothing time-sensitive or overly complicated. It should only require a couple of hours of your time," Eraserhead says, his stoic face unreadable.
Madara eyes the hero suspiciously. He still hasn't mentioned what exactly he needs help with. "Why would I help? What do I get out of it?"
"Quid pro quo, a favor of equal value owned."
He considers that for a moment, weighing his options. Debts owed are rare and powerful leverage to have, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't curious about what Eraserhead wants with him.
"Fine," Madara says. "You have a deal."