Work Text:
The crunching sound filling the office as the Senju’s head hit the floorboards was sickening. He grunted, his hands bracing against the floor as Madara grasped at his scruff and pushed him further into the pool of blood gathering there. His nose must have been broken.
They never were at war. The village was built by the fathers of their fathers, eternal peace, eternal happiness.
“What did I tell you about passing policies without approval?!” Madara hissed, pressing down harder on the Senju’s nape.
Izuna is alive. Their brothers are alive. Hashirama smiles so brightly when they meet at the river.
“I do not answer to you,” the man under him gasped, his nails scraping against the polished wood.
It’s always lively. The days are busy, much work to do. There are children running around, laughing. There is no war. They are civilians who never learned to fight.
“You seem to forget your place,” Madara leaned in to breathe the words into his ear, “let me remind you.”
Their fathers were friends. They knew each other since childhood. Tobirama is beautiful when he smiles.
There was a sharp inhale as his hand gripped at the Senju’s hip, hauling his hind part upwards.
Hashirama isn’t happy. He needs more time to come around on the thought. Madara tells him to grow up.
“Your abuse changes nothing, Uchiha,” the Senju spat through gritted teeth, “Hashirama will not stand it once it is known.”
“Because you’ve told him so many times already. Don’t make me laugh,” Madara sneered, yanking the Senju’s pants down. He showed the man’s head down again, more harshly this time, his cheek planting into the floorboards with force. He gurgled, the blood getting into his mouth and messing up his breathing pattern, his hand coming up to try prying Madara’s fingers off, scratching at them frantically.
They go around the town, enjoying the view. Hand in hand, quiet chatter drifting on the breeze. Madara thinks he could spend an eternity like this, just the two of them.
“Go on, tell your brother. I wonder if he would say a word. I wouldn’t mind seeing you shatter when he pretends he is blind.”
Madara’s hand traced up the Senju’s thigh, making him shudder.
The kiss is soft and tender, they don’t have the need to rush.
“Are you going to keep teasing me like that?” Tobirama laughs.
“Forever and ever,” Madara smiles, taking his hand. They are perfect for each other.
“You don’t know him the way that you think you do,” the Senju gritted out, his form tensing up further, nails scraping across Madara’s hands where he could reach them.
“Then I am more than willing to take him on. Would you pray for him to be the one that survives?” Madara asked, lining himself up. “Do you fear that in the end I am the one who returns?”
They murmur softly into the depths of the night, sharing secrets and plans for the future.
“I wish it could stay this way forever,” Tobirama sighs.
“It could, you know. There’s nothing stopping us,” Madara answers, a small smile on his lips.
“Anija wouldn’t like it,” Tobirama frowns, doubt and anxiety stark on his face.
“It isn’t about him,” Madara says, his thumb drawing circles into Tobirama’s palm.
“It’s too fast,” Tobirama flushes, averting his eyes.
“I can wait,” what is an eternity if it is with you?
The first thrust was brutal, the Senju’s back arching in a silent scream. He crumpled after, his shoulders shaking violently, sweat breaking out over every uncovered patch of skin. Madara waited it out to start setting the pace, the other writhing beneath him, twitching frantically as his hands gripped at Madara’s to the point of his knuckles whitening, his efforts at an escape ceasing as his skin paled sickeningly.
“Imagine that,” heavy panting filled the air along the obscene sound of skin coming onto skin with enough force to bruise, “me giving you Hashirama’s head as a present.”
They meet on the bridge. It is chilly outside, the first snow dancing in the wind, so Madara covers Tobirama’s shoulders with his haori. They take a long walk that day, their respective families preoccupied with Hashirama’s wedding preparations. They come through the market and borrow a few books from the archive, ending up at Madara’s house to play shogi as the day fades away.
“I am worried for Anija,” Tobirama sighs.
“They are a good match,” Madara shrugs. “She fits him well.”
“Mito is perfect,” Tobirama answers, some unease behind his words. “That’s precisely why I’m anxious Anija would mess it up.”
“Hardly there’s much intrigue left anymore if she managed to fall for him in the first place,” Madara laughs, Tobirama’s features finally easing up.
Hashirama manages to fall onto the priest with a shriek as the vows are being professed.
There were no pleas and no begging, the Senju keeping the last pretence of dignity as one would armour. Madara slammed in harder, the action eliciting a loud inhale, the other’s back arching again, his thighs beginning to tremble. He still refused to produce any sounds, making Madara snarl resentfully.
They spend so much time together. It’s like there’s nothing else in the world that matters anymore.
“I wish your head wouldn’t be in the clouds so often, Aniki,” Izuna sighs, his form sinking into the pillows dramatically.
“Maybe you should find someone for yourself as well and stop bothering me,” Madara answers, not sparing him a glance. He has too many reports to finish until morning.
“Maybe you should move in together, so I don’t have to listen to you gushing about him all the time,” Izuna whines, his limbs flailing in the air.
Madara considers it. “Isn’t it too fast?”
Izuna stares at him incredulously. “Aniki, it’s been years already. You are moving at a pace of a snail.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Madara hums.
“Disobey me again, Senju, I dare you,” he growled into the man’s ear, his chest pressing flush over the other’s back, the movement becoming erratic. His arm found its way around the Senju’s waist, pulling him closed, a low grunt following along with some minor resistance. Madara sighed into his nape, his other arm retreating to do the same thing as well, locking the man into a twisted embrace.
There is no war. Izuna is alive. Hashirama smiles at him when they meet at the river.
“I’m glad we are friends,” he sighs. “I really want to punch you in the nose though.”
“Get in the line,” Madara waves him off. “Too many people chasing after what’s mine as is.”
Hashirama jumps at him with a screech. They tumble down, limbs tangling, screaming and spitting, hitting, biting and scratching. It is no better than how it was when they were ten. When they get back to Mito’s judgemental frown, Hashirama is sporting a black eye and a considerable limp, Madara with a bruised jaw and a partially dislocated shoulder.
“You owe me one,” Hashirama whispers while Mito prepares the ointment.
“You owed me one before this one,” Madara huffs.
They start quarrelling again, Mito hitting them both over the backs of their heads to stop it.
A few beats more and everything stopped with the last brutish motion, the Senju shuddering in his grasp, his face grinding further into the pool of blood and snot, the hot pull subsiding to transfer the feeling inside the other’s twitching form. Madara breathed him in, his hands sliding down the trembling thighs, finally releasing the man and allowing him to collapse into a graceless heap on the floor.
They meet on the bridge. Tobirama is beautiful, and Madara can’t look away.
“Next time you will wait for the approval,” Madara got up, righting his clothes. “Do not ever forget your place.”
“I love you,” he says. Again and again and again.