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Madara didn’t really like celebrations. Not that he couldn’t be merry and happy, far from it. He was Uchiha clan head, and he was good at his job—birthdays, marriages, festivals, and other celebrations included. He was able to tolerate heavy, embroidered and layered clothes, stuffy rooms, loud music, and copious amounts of sake. If it was required of him, he could even smile widely without murdering anyone.
But he didn’t like it.
Hence Madara had no clue why he had to be the one to attend the daimyo’s celebration. Undercover, no less.
Perhaps, it was all Izuna’s sly machinations, his revenge for Madara throwing him into the ice-cold pond last week. Or maybe Hikaku had had proper reasons for his decision and just hadn’t deigned to share them with his clan head. Either way, Madara was sulking, even if his makeup-covered face didn’t show it.
That morning, he’d spent three hours dealing with his hair: washing it with a brown dye, drying it, getting rid of the knots, brushing it thoroughly, and wrangling it all up in a sophisticated hairdo. He’d spent two more hours on the makeup, because using a henge in a place to which no shinobi had been officially invited would’ve been very, very dumb. Then he’d spent however long it’d taken him to put his fancy clothes on (at that point, Madara had been too annoyed to watch the time). By the end of it all, Madara was cursing profusely, and his mood only grew worse as the day went on, his general dislike of undercover reconnaissance missions compounded by the sharp-edged politeness and feigned niceties of the haughty crowd around him.
At least he’d met his primary mission objective early on, the young (and very drunk) merchant needing only a little prompting to spill everything (and sob miserably on his shoulder). After leading the man to the servants and making sure he left the spacious and richly decorated room, Madara turned to the other parts of his mission: gather as much intel as possible without anyone realizing his noble persona was completely made-up. Which meant staying late into the night and keeping his chakra in a tight hold to avoid suspicion.
If anyone asked Madara what he wanted right then and there (and if he allowed himself to answer truthfully), then he would’ve screamed, kicked the long table overflowing with food, torn his hair band away, and stormed off into the woods to sleep through the few remaining hours of the night. But he was a shinobi on a mission, so he refrained, pacifying himself by imagining his little brother spluttering indignantly in a koi pond. It’d always worked like a charm.
His fake face looked appropriately content, his body was relaxed in a civilian, non-threatening way, and his chakra flow was steady, not rising above that of a noble who’d been mentored briefly as a child. Madara ate from the tiny plates with food and obediently pretended to eat from the large plates with not-food; he put on an appropriately arrogant-but-well-mannered look and made meaningless (or overtly meaningless) conversations. When a servant brought him and other guests nearby a tray with sake cups, he dutifully raised his arm to take one.
Since Madara was suppressing his shinobi instincts, he even let the hand of one of the other guests brush his. And it would’ve been nothing of note, but then bright red bled over his skin.
Madara’s eyes darted to it the very next second and widened in shock.
His first thought was that it was blood, his or the other man’s. But then Madara knew it wasn’t—there was no viscous wetness on his skin and no smell of iron.
His second thought was that it was a seal, that the man had attacked him. This was proven wrong when Madara glanced at the man’s hand and saw a similar pattern there. No sealing matrices, no kanji that he could see, and no chakra in the color that had spread across their skin.
Since he was pretty sure that instant skin-deep tattoos did not exist, this left only one other option: a soulmate mark.
Madara had just met his soulmate.
~♪~
Tobirama didn’t like celebrations very much. As the Senju heir, he had to attend every single one of them in the clan: all births and marriages, all festivals and other social gatherings. As for the celebrations outside of the clan, Tobirama had to show up each time the Senju delegation was invited, which was more often than he would’ve preferred. Logically, he knew that the more good will his clan accumulated among nobles and allied shinobi, the better, but emotionally it was difficult. Inconvenient, too, more often than not. Draining—always.
Which was why it’d taken him so long to persuade himself that attending this particular celebration was necessary. It wasn’t really a mission, not in the traditional sense—in the Senju clan, Tobirama was the one who assigned missions, his brother quick to disappear at any mention of paperwork, so he might as well have stayed at home. This was all his own fault, no one else’s.
It was he who’d decided to travel to the capital to secretly attend the daimyo’s no-shinobi celebration of the marriage of his youngest daughter. It was he who’d determined that the hours of preparation, of putting on a wig and expensive clothes and heavy makeup, were necessary. So he had only himself to blame for the throbbing headache the massive crowd of civilians with their loud voices and obscenely strong perfumes had given him.
At least coming here wasn’t for nothing: Tobirama had successfully found and talked to the noble who he’d heard was selling the tough Snow country plants praised for their chakra conductivity. Shipping them so far south was troublesome (and illegal), therefore finding someone willing to do it was very fortunate indeed. Now Tobirama just had to stay at the party for a few more hours to avoid suspicion, and then he would go to the harbor and pick up his purchase. He knew it’d all be worth it when he finally returned home and got to experiment with adding the plant powder into his seal ink.
So he kept his facial expression neutral, his body language friendly, his chakra muted, and his smile perfectly genial. It was cumbersome, and the headache wasn’t helping any, but Tobirama was a shinobi loyal to his clan, and the daimyo finding Senju spies would result in a massive disaster, because even though Tobirama could faintly sense other chakra users in the area, none were explicitly invited. Therefore, Tobirama did as was expected of him: he gave meaningless bows and nods, uttered meaningless words, and participated in meaningless activities.
When a servant brought a tray with sake cups, Tobirama smiled amiably as if he was already half-drunk. He reached out for a cup and didn’t even flinch away when another person’s hand brushed his.
Then he saw red tongues of fire bleed into his skin.
He knew right away that this wasn’t a seal. It wasn’t some other attack either—even with his suppressed chakra, Tobirama was still the best sensor on the continent and a sealmaster in his own right. He knew this effect of their touch wasn’t something the other person had intended.
Tobirama also knew this wasn’t blood, poison, or some other red liquid. He’d seen too much death to err here. Which left only one other possible explanation.
He raised his gaze and saw the shocked face of the person in front of him, the one who now had a red vining pattern on his right hand that matched Tobirama’s left.
This man was his soulmate.
~♪~
Somehow, Madara still had the presence of mind to put up a quick, barely-there illusion to hide the activation of his sharingan.
He stared at the marks just a few shades lighter than blood: geometric maze-like lines, abrupt swirling spirals, short brushstrokes to the sides—all dancing to their own melody that Madara yearned to hear. Utterly mesmerized, he followed the trails with his sharingan… then stopped, not even breathing.
A wide splash of color on his index finger continued on the much paler skin of his soulmate, leading up into a gentle flower-like curve around one of the knuckles. It was as if their hands were two separate canvases that had always been intended to be viewed together as a single piece. Destined to never be apart.
Madara’s heart burned.
It'd taken only a few milliseconds for the sharingan-perfect memory of their marked hands to be created. It’d taken Madara three more seconds to make himself turn off the sharingan and lower the genjutsu, and even then, he was only able to do so because he still hadn’t looked his soulmate in the face. Which was…
Oh. Not his face.
Right. Of course, Madara’s soulmate must be a shinobi. It only made sense. And shinobi were not allowed here, so the man was undercover just like him.
This complicated things. Just a little. Nothing he couldn’t handle—he was Uchiha fucking Madara, after all—but it made things more difficult.
For one, Madara couldn’t just take the man’s hand and spirit him away with an overpowered shunshin. He also couldn’t grab the man’s face and kiss him right here, no matter what all of his Uchiha instincts were yelling at him. No, he needed to be crafty, witty, and cautious. He needed to achieve his goals without starting a war with the daimyo—or worse, scaring his soulmate away. Luckily, Madara was great at working under pressure, especially with proper motivation. And gazing into the blue (lenses?), intelligent eyes of the man in front of him, he knew with every part of his being that it’d all be worth it.
So he stilled his shaking hand and took the sake cup as if nothing had happened. Not looking away from his soulmate, Madara emptied the cup in one go, then put it back on the tray. The man—his soulmate, because Madara had a soulmate now—frowned for a single moment before his face relaxed and he followed suit.
Let us begin our game, sweetheart, Madara thought, flames roaring in his chest. I hope you’ll be pleased with my mating dance.
~♪~
Tobirama’s soulmate was a dangerous man.
The minute tensing of his form betrayed his shinobi training. The brief flare of his fiery-hot, wild, clogging chakra revealed him as an Uchiha.
The way his eyes locked with Tobirama’s—razor-sharp, intent, deliberate… it made Tobirama want to swallow nervously and look away. He didn’t, of course, because that would’ve been foolish. And Tobirama was many things, but a fool he was not.
So, his expression completely neutral, he emptied the sake cup and put it back on the tray. Glanced quickly at the servant, whose head was still lowered in a bow. Then at the guests, but no one was paying the two of them any mind.
It seemed the appearance of their soulmarks had gone unnoticed. Good.
The people around them were all rather occupied and far too drunk to remember how the hands of strangers had previously looked. Hence the best course of action was for Tobirama and his soulmate to act as if they had had the red tattoos from the start, as if it was nothing out of the ordinary. Which meant that Tobirama couldn’t just flee into a far corner without acknowledging the man in any way, because you can’t have matching tattoos with someone you’re not familiar with.
All the previous conditions still applied, too. Tobirama must not retire from the room for the next two hours. He definitely couldn’t just shunshin away and leave all his problems behind, no matter how much he wished to.
This unfortunate conclusion had Tobirama shift his attention back to the Uchiha in front of him. The man’s appearance had definitely been altered, as expected. But even if it hadn’t, Tobirama knew very few Uchiha in the face, what with their eyes being their main weapon. Chakra sense would’ve been more useful here, but both Tobirama and his soulmate were hiding their signatures at the moment, so it wasn’t much help either.
Not that the identity of the man would’ve mattered anyway. Senju and Uchiha were at war, with no treaty in sight. Not to mention that soulmate or not, Tobirama was still the White Demon, the monster from Uchiha children’s nightmares. If this man had had any idea who now shared his soulmark, he would’ve cut off his own stained hand before lunging. And Tobirama would not have blamed him.
It made one thing crystal clear: Tobirama’s soulmate must not, at all costs, find out who he was. This Uchiha realizing who stood before him would be too dangerous—for everyone. A shinobi battle amidst daimyo’s daughter’s wedding would terrify the nobles and make them stop any dealings with both clans. It’d leave Senju and Uchiha with no missions, no source of income, and most likely with another war on their hands—something that could not be allowed to happen.
Thankfully, two hours wasn’t very long. Nothing too hard, really. Tobirama just needed to keep calm, be ready to adapt his general strategy to the ever-changing situation, and not give the Uchiha any clues to his identity.
It’d be like another fight with Izuna, albeit a less violent one. Observe, stay focused, react only when necessary. His goal wasn’t to win, but to survive long enough to leave the battlefield in one piece, with as few other casualties as possible.
And then it’d be just another secret for Tobirama to keep. He’d leave this city, return home, and cover his hand with seals. No one would know he’d been here at all, least of all the Uchiha.
He could do it.
~♪~
His mind made up, Madara allowed himself no doubts or hesitation.
"Mm, Takaichi-sama's taste is impeccable as always," he commented in appreciation, then nodded to the servant who bowed and tactfully left them alone. Madara wasn’t even lying—the sake was great, the best he'd had in his life actually, because it'd brought him his soulmate. A truly wonderful beverage.
Madara expected his companion to develop the conversation further, maybe even switch to a form of code to discuss more important matters while still in plain sight. He also irrationally hoped for another touch of that marked hand, of those shinobi-scarred fingers, even if he knew that it’d look too strange in their situation. Still, what he certainly didn’t expect was a one-word reply.
"Indeed.”
And then silence.
Madara waited for a few moments, but nothing followed. He frowned a little in confusion.
Any shinobi who’d ever worked undercover knew how to change their accent and tone of voice, so worry over blowing up his cover should not have kept the man silent. Definitely not when the threat came from civilians. Even Madara would’ve found it challenging to recognize a person only by their word choice and speech patterns, so someone with no proper training would’ve had no chance. Which made Madara think that he was the problem here, that his soulmate was afraid of being exposed by him in particular.
Did this mean that his soulmate was someone Madara had met before? Were their clans enemies? They definitely weren't allies, because otherwise there would not have been this tension thrumming in the air between them…
Well, enemies or not, this didn’t change anything—not to Madara. Even if his soulmate was a Senju, he would not care. He'd just wrangle the elders into signing the peace treaty the very next day, and Amaterasu help anyone who dared stand in his way, Izuna included. After all, the pond was still there, and Madara knew how to use it.
Uchiha were creatures of love—it’d always been their strongest and most dangerous companion. Madara knew this first-hand, could feel the sharp edge of madness creeping in each time Izuna entered a battlefield. So losing his soulmate, and to the cursed politics no less? That would be one clean leap right into the gaping maw of insanity. And in the wake of his rage and suffering, he knew, only a smoldering wasteland would remain.
Madara took in a silent breath, then let it out. No way but forward.
He turned his gaze away from his soulmate, giving him this illusion of privacy, but remained seated at his side. Their bodies were close enough to feel the heat, but not enough to touch. A simple but effective declaration: I won’t leave you, not now and not ever.
Madara waited. His companion didn’t say a word or move a muscle, seemingly content to remain as they were for the rest of the night.
He could feel the corners of his lips rise in a smile. His soulmate sure was stubborn, wasn’t he?
At least the man wasn't running away yet. Madara could work with that.
"On the white canvas," he began in a whisper, as if this was just a stray thought he'd decided to share with a fellow guest and not his feverishly beating heart on a white porcelain plate. "Fires dance in a greeting, bleeding morning-red."
~♪~
Tobirama couldn't do it.
This man had just gifted him a poem.
Him, Senju Tobirama, the notorious White Demon. A poem.
Tobirama had never before had to deal with anything like this. In his life, he'd seen countless battles, taken hundreds of missions, killed so many he'd lost count… but he'd never been admired by someone. Complimented, sure—for his fortitude, intellect, skill as a shinobi—but even this had rarely been a genuine appreciation of Tobirama as a person. More often than not, praise was a veiled mockery flung at him by known enemies, his own clan elders, and complete strangers alike.
Well, he supposed children liked him well enough while he was still their teacher and not their war commander. One might even say that some of them were looking up to him. Even so, Tobirama couldn’t really call it admiration.
Perhaps, this was why this Uchiha’s words had hit Tobirama so hard.
If he'd had time to prepare beforehand, to steel up his mind... But he hadn't. He was still reeling from meeting his soulmate in such unlikely circumstances, still in the process of making peace with the thought that leaving the man and never talking to him again would be best for everyone.
And now Tobirama had no way out. It was still too early for him to leave, not to mention that the Uchiha would likely give chase. He couldn't completely ignore his companion either, because that was the quickest way to blow the whole charade up. And also…
Tobirama couldn’t remain unmoved by this man going poetic on him. He just couldn’t. Because behind all the cold masks and cutting words, Tobirama was still a human.
A shuddering breath left him against his will.
He closed his eyes for a moment to gather his scattered thoughts and get his feelings back under control. It hadn't taken him too long, but it'd taken him long enough to show the other man that the blow had landed. Fair and square.
Denying it would’ve been pointless, so Tobirama didn't even try.
"You have a way with words," he commended the Uchiha as was only proper. He’d definitely never expected his soulmate to have an interest in haikus. The few times he’d considered the possibility of having a soulmate at all, that is.
The man's dark eyes turned to him again, scrutinizing Tobirama with typical Uchiha intensity. Tobirama purposefully didn't look away, because doing so would instantly mark him as a Senju—no other clan had fought the Uchiha often enough to develop such a habit.
"You flatter me," the Uchiha responded with a small smile, his eyes still glued to Tobirama. "I have nothing on my brother, I assure you."
Tobirama made a noncommittal sound and didn’t say anything else. Regrettably, this didn't deter his companion one bit.
"I must admit I have always been driven by passion rather than talent. A folly of mine, in the eyes of many." The man shrugged, unconcerned.
"What about yours?" Tobirama couldn't resist asking.
The man tilted his head. A few strands of thick brown hair fell into his face, but this did nothing to the grasp these Amaterasu-given eyes had on Tobirama.
"I think it's my greatest strength," came a quiet reply. "My heart burns hot and true. It never wavers."
To his horror, Tobirama flushed.
~♪~
Beautiful. Madara's soulmate was beautiful.
Of course, with the fake hair and the elaborate makeup it was impossible to tell the man's exact appearance, but Madara could gather enough from the bone structure, the eye shape, and the elegant bow of the thin lips. The tiny bit of pink that surfaced through the paint only confirmed his observations.
This man was beautiful.
Majestic.
Divine.
Madara witnessing such beauty was a blessing. The two of them sharing a soulmark was Amaterasu’s miracle.
Madara vowed to prove himself worthy.
~♪~
Tobirama wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was panicking.
He hastily averted his gaze and searched for anything that’d allow him to change the topic or end the conversation altogether. To his luck, the dancers' performance was currently in full swing, and a large crowd had formed in that corner of the room. Tobirama stood up and silently nodded in that direction, not trusting himself with words. The Uchiha looked up as well, finally turning his fervent gaze away from Tobirama, and hummed thoughtfully.
"Very well," the man decided and rose from his seat.
Together they approached the low impromptu stage. If Tobirama had been more reckless, he would've tried to disappear into the crowd right next instant, but he wasn’t, so he didn't. Instead, he stood there at his soulmate’s side and watched the show (or tried to).
Like this, he could pretend that the tense silence between him and his companion was just an unfortunate effect of their surroundings. When listening to music and watching a live performance, one was expected to savor the moment—not be engrossed in a conversation. This was the social norm everyone who didn’t wish to stand out needed to follow, so why should they act differently?
(Tobirama prayed this’d give him a few peaceful moments to think, because gods above he needed a pause. Desperately. This maddening back-and-forth between them could not continue, or Tobirama’s whole plan would be torn to pieces, and his conviction along with it.)
~♪~
Watching the dancers move across the stage, Madara got an idea.
The idea was risky, but with big potential. Just like those other plans Izuna liked to yell at him for. The best kind.
Besides, Madara had no time to wait for another opportunity to fall into his hands. His soulmate could still run away if given half a chance, and who knew how long it'd take for them to meet again. And what circumstances they’d find themselves in next time.
(Madara couldn’t lose him. Not this man, not ever.)
So risk-taking it was. Gods be willing, this’d not only allow Madara to reveal his soulmate’s identity, but also steal a kiss or two.
Decision made, Madara met the eyes of the person overseeing the dancers' performance. He didn't even need his sharingan to plant a tiny bit of information that’d set the whole thing up. Then he turned his attention back to the stage and waited.
It’s taken eighteen more minutes for the spectacle to end. Madara had grown bored after the first, but still he patiently stood there and watched the dancers as if their work was worth the daimyo’s money and not lazy at best even for their mellow audience. When it’d finally ended, Madara and his silent companion applauded together with everyone else who wasn’t already sleeping by the walls and under tables. The dancers left the room to prepare for the next performance (if it were to be given at all, of course, which wasn’t guaranteed).
This late into a celebration, guests were free to use the stage, should they wish to. Usually it was the nobles who tried to get their words passed down to the daimyo and receive the man’s favor: they commandeered the stage for way too long and gave pompous, flowery, and vaguely insulting speeches. This time, however, Madara had made sure it’d be something different.
Right on cue, the supervisor introduced another performance.
A traditional Fire country dance to give respect to the bride's heritage and plead the gods for good fortune! The moves every peasant, merchant, and lady would know! Something to raise the spirits of the esteemed guests and demonstrate the hardiness of their bodies!
The crowd murmured in appreciation, some louder and with more choice words than others. Madara knew they didn’t really care what was happening as long as they got entertained. Stumbling drunkenly into each other suited these people just fine—not much worse than throwing passive aggressive remarks at puffed-up landowners, that’s for sure.
With the stage set, Madara finally did what he'd wanted to do for too damn long (or about an hour) and grabbed his soulmate's arm through the sleeve. The man jerked almost imperceptibly in surprise. Then, realizing that his resisting right now would look too weird even in the mostly unfocused eyes of those around them, he complied. Madara counted this as a win.
Not willing to test his luck, Madara quickly led his precious soulmate through the crowd and onto the circular stage, which was differentiated from the rest of the room by an elevated row of tatami mats and little else. There they positioned themselves in front of each other, on the opposite sides of the circle.
As they stood there, waiting for the musicians to get the clue, Madara admired this impossible man. A bit taller than him, he noted, but closer in build to Izuna than to that oaf Hashirama—body conditioned primarily for speed, not for strength. And, to his delight, Madara was even able to read the man’s face for once: shock when he fully grasped Madara’s plan, annoyance at having to play along, dismay at the whole situation, and finally acceptance of his fate. The mask of neutrality covered it all right after, of course, but Madara had already seen it.
He’d made sure to look appropriately smug about it. The man’s lips flattened again in annoyance.
A traditional duet of koto and shamisen started the well-known tune. Madara and his companion bowed to each other, then bent their knees, raised their arms with none of shinobi grace, and took a step in the same direction, but on opposite sides of the circle. Like two koi fish chasing each other in a pond, they tilted a bit to the side and swiped their hands down. Lowered their upper torsos in a bow. Took another small step, moved their arms to the other side. Straightened up like tongues of flame. Then they took a half-step back, shifted their balance, and moved forward again.
Hands to one side. Bow. Step forward. Hands to the other side. Look up. Step back. Stop. Step forward. Repeat.
Slowly, listening to the melody, they moved like this along the edge of the circle. The dance was very simple—it had to be, for large groups of civilians to be able to follow. Already some people in the audience had joined the dance, while those more inebriated than others improvised their own. Feet were stepped on, uncoordinated hands hit jaws, fingers poked at eyes, and the habitual politeness steadily grew into the ruckus known to anyone who’d ever been in a tavern on the night of the harvest festival.
The nobles who still wished to give the speeches no one cared for used this opportunity to gain the attention of their neighbours and inelegantly brag. A way too expensive vase got smashed to pieces with a loud bang. Tired servants flittered around, carrying bite-sized food and more strong drinks.
Sensing the change in the mood (and totally in line with the dance tradition), the musicians made the melody grow in intensity. It got quicker and quicker, more and more erratic. Now even the simple steps could not be followed, not unless you wished to out yourself as a shinobi. Madara grinned and, taking advantage of this development, started adding his own alterations to the dance.
Nothing much, at first: a stomp of a foot, a full turn where there should be none, a snap of his fingers. Now both he and his partner were moving out of tune, but it seemed only one of them wished to preserve some normalcy, and it definitely wasn’t Madara.
Fox-like eyes were watching him closely, wearily. Madara only smiled wider, acting way more drunk than he actually was.
Then he took an abrupt step to the center of the circle, knees bent low, and reached out with an open palm. His partner froze, eyes wide. One of the blue lenses got skewed just a little, revealing the brilliant red behind it, before the man blinked and it moved back into place.
How interesting…
Madara winked, then flicked his wrist up and moved it quickly side-to-side as if holding an uchiwa fan. He dropped his hand down in an arc and raised it up again to bring it to his face where he pretended to drink from it as actors did in kabuki theatre.
Madara watched his partner’s face closely, searching for surprise or fear. He found none—only familiar annoyance.
Apparently, the man already knew he was an Uchiha. But how?
Definitely not from Madara's appearance, which was as generic a Fire native as he’d been able to make it. He also hadn't used any jutsu worth mentioning or shown his sharingan...
Wait. He hadn’t shown his sharingan. But Madara sure had used it.
Madara’s soulmate was a sensor.
A sensor who’d met Uchiha before. No, not just that—the man knew their chakra well enough to instantly identify Madara as one. A stranger passing by would not have been able to do that.
Madara screamed in the confines of his mind.
Who are you?!
~♪~
The Uchiha didn’t give up so easily. Tobirama hadn't really expected him to, well familiar with their clan. No, he'd just needed a break and, to be fair, he'd gotten one. It hadn't been very long but it should’ve been enough for Tobirama to regain his sanity, which he did.
For a time.
No, the dance that the Uchiha had pulled him into was just the kind of reckless move Tobirama had anticipated. The growing chaos around them that the man had orchestrated was also nothing new—Tobirama had once witnessed Uchiha Izuna successfully wrangle a group of bandits into chasing a ninja cat for hours. Everything that was happening was within the scope of Tobirama's assumptions and predictions... until it wasn’t.
Not abandoning the urge to reveal his identity—this Tobirama could understand. He could also understand the man's casual flirtations, even if he didn't like them. But then something changed.
The look in the Uchiha's eyes... it wasn't just playfulness anymore or curiosity. As Tobirama looked into those dark, dangerous eyes, he saw desperation rise like a high wave. A burning, all-consuming need to know, and to know it now. Hurt, too, although Tobirama had no idea why. He was quite sure he hadn't done anything to elicit such a reaction.
For a moment, Tobirama just watched the man, dismayed and confused. Why must his soulmate be like this? It would’ve been far easier if it had been another Senju. An Uzumaki, even. Or, better yet, if there’d been no soul mark on his hand, if it’d been just another facet of life Tobirama never got to experience.
Strangely, these thoughts brought an ache to his own chest. As if he hadn’t gotten used to loneliness a long time ago. As if he’d still naively hoped to seize happiness for himself.
Tobirama breathed through the emotion and let it go. Entertaining these foolish thoughts would do him nothing good. It definitely wouldn’t make the pain any less.
So he silently continued with their dance, even though his moves were too slow for the music now. He wasn't here to serve the crowd anyway. Just a few more minutes of this spectacle, and he'd be able to leave the stage, the room, the city. Maybe he'd even use one of his experimental seals once outside the range of potential sensors. Anything to help him escape faster, before…
Before Tobirama would do something he’d later regret.
~♪~
Madara was seething. Because why…
Why the fuck did he have to play these senseless charades? Why couldn't he and his soulmate just talk properly?!
Oh, and also, when would all these fucking people stop gawking at them so that he could go up to his destined soulmate and shake him a little?!
Madara knew he was running out of time. Fuck, he knew it, all right?! And once it was over, his soulmate would leave, of course he'd leave, they didn't really know each other! No, even worse—they'd fought each other for so many years that even their soul bond couldn’t possibly salvage it.
Fuck, Madara wanted to destroy something. Burn this whole fucking city down, actually, and then kneel before this man and beg him to stay. Please, just stay.
Madara stopped dancing. His partner continued on for a few more moments before stopping as well, the sound of his steps no longer audible. Madara took a shuddering breath and turned around.
He’d made a vow. He wasn’t about to break it.
Not now and not ever.
~♪~
Tobirama watched his dancing partner stop and turn around. Then the man lunged towards Tobirama and missed him by only a few centimeters. Quick, precise steps ended in a full turn, the flowy layers of the yukata whirling around the Uchiha’s figure.
Tobirama furrowed his brows.
Was the man trying to attack him in such a weird way? Or was this still a dance? Tobirama assumed it was the second, because he doubted even a drunk Uchiha could mess up a punch this spectacularly. It must be intentional. But why?
Tobirama didn’t know the answer. This fact wasn’t helping his already crumbling mental fortitude any.
Now that the two of them were just an arm away from each other, the Uchiha switched to slow moves from foundational taijutsu kata. For some unfathomable reason.
At this point it became clear that none of the open-palmed blows were aimed to land—the man's fingers were relaxed, he wasn’t trying to force a physical contact—but Tobirama evaded them all the same as if this was not an Uchiha in front of him but a Hyuga. He also remained mindful of his own movements, lest they look too smooth and instinctive for a civilian. Perhaps, it was because of all these calculations constantly demanding his attention that the Uchiha’s next words made Tobirama stumble.
"Dance with me," the man asked him, voice hoarse and almost brittle. "Please."
A memory resurfaced in his mind, unbidden:
‘Dance with me, Hashirama!’
Tobirama's breath stuttered.
No. Surely not. It couldn’t be him.
There had to be something Tobirama was missing here. There had to be.
~♪~
Burning with desperate longing, Madara danced.
No more demure steps and slow waving of arms—now Madara was listening to only one melody, and it was the rapid beating of his own heart. Because this, too, was a battlefield, with time as his enemy. And Madara was no samurai to follow the rules—he was a shinobi. A wild, unquenchable, red-hot flame made corporal.
He had the eyes of a goddess. Rivers of blood were marking his hand. His soul burned bright; it wasn’t blinded by masks and illusions.
So he let it show him the truth.
Madara took a big step forward, coming intimately close to his enigma of a partner. He dropped low in a wide squat, shifted his weight to his front foot, rose up in one move, and brought his clenched fist up as if aiming for his soulmate’s chin.
The man leaned back reflexively to avoid it and shifted into the stance most natural to him. It was an automatic reaction, not a conscious decision—something ingrained by years of training and fighting. No one would’ve been able to react in time to change it, not when this exact instinct had saved their life before.
And Madara knew this stance. He knew it so well he couldn’t possibly mistake it.
This shinobi... he was a Senju.
~♪~
Tobirama was distracted from his swiftly returning panic by the same Uchiha he was panicking about. Typical Uchiha behavior, if you asked him.
He realized what that particular feint was for only after he’d already reacted to it. So the damage was already done, and now Tobirama had to accept that his clan affiliation was no longer a secret.
At least he was pretty sure that no Uchiha other than Izuna had paid enough attention to his personal taijutsu style to be able to recognize it on sight—they were both way too fast for other fighters to follow, especially with the view obstructed by fire, water, mist, or all three. Even their older brothers had rarely intervened in his and Izuna’s fights, too occupied with their own.
This had managed to settle Tobirama’s nerves a little, which he was immensely grateful for. He needed all the self-control he could scratch together if he still entertained the idea of escaping this building with any of his wits remaining.
It was all fine. This was just a dance, so he should treat it as such. Plain and simple.
…
(Who was he trying to fool here?)
~♪~
Madara’s soulmate had clearly realized his mistake and took measures not to repeat it: now he was using the most basic kata moves that even a civilian might know and kept his guard up even if it didn’t look like it. There was something different in his eyes, too, some new wariness that Madara didn’t like.
(God, this was a Senju. Madara's soulmate was a Senju. No wonder he was keeping his identity a secret...)
Madara took a step back, putting distance between them as a sign of good will. He’d hoped it’d make some of the tension in his partner’s shoulders go away, but no such luck. The man just stood there, halted mid-step, the heel of his back foot raised a little to dodge more easily. He was watching Madara's every move, evidently expecting another trap.
(So distrustful. Justified, in this case, but still. As if Madara would ever hurt him.)
Brute forcing his way through all these frozen barricades would not work. Carefully constructed conversations required the time Madara didn’t have. Dancing, it seemed, had also reached its limit. Now all he had left was begging and trickery.
Well, Madara wasn’t picky.
"Please," he repeated, his heart in his throat.
He slowly raised his right arm in a move so natural to him it’d barely taken any thought at all. Even though his hand was empty, he clenched his fingers as if around a wide, heavy handle.
See me…and let me see you, too.
~♪~
This couldn’t be… No, it made no sense…
But Tobirama knew this move. Anyone who’d ever seen it and lived to tell the tale would recognize it immediately. There was no mistaking it.
Tobirama’s chest tightened, his breath trapped in his throat. Unable to do anything else but stare, he followed the trajectory of this man's arm with his eyes, the way muscles flexed as if used to holding something massive like a giant Kiri sword. Or an Uchiha gunbai.
He knew what would come next, could feel it in his bones, as if all of his own and his ancestors’ experience fighting the Uchiha was encoded in his blood. Once again, Tobirama was powerless to stop his reaction. He thrust his hand forward like there was a real war fan about to smash into his head.
But of course there wasn't.
There were no deadly weapons, no boiling chakra, no killing intent. There was only a man. Someone the universe, in a cruel joke, had decided to mark as his equal.
The man whose hand touched Tobirama’s. Palm to palm, as if this were a belated continuation of their dance. Except that it wasn’t—not a dance, not a fight, and not an accident. The stark red marks on their skin were a testament to that.
The hand against Tobirama’s own was very warm, all the way to the fingertips. Its skin was rough and dry, covered by raised scars and old calluses. The tone was darker than his own but not by much, protected from the sun by habitual leather gloves.
And behind all the incense suspended in the air, there was a smell Tobirama could no longer ignore. It wrapped around him like a veil of smoke, muddling his thoughts: heavy and sharp, almost bitter. Like coals in a furnace, glowing red with heat.
For a moment, Tobirama didn't move away. Couldn't, really, too stunned to do anything, his mind emptied of all thoughts but one:
This man was Uchiha Madara, and he was Tobirama’s soulmate.
~♪~
Madara didn't know this hand that touched his: its shape, lines, scars, or how it held a kunai. He couldn’t in good conscience say he knew the man it belonged to, either. They weren’t friends or family; they’d never even fought against each other for more than a few seconds. All he knew was that this hand was covered by his soulmate mark—but it was enough.
Now, with direct skin-to-skin contact, he was able to sense the cold, brisk chakra of this man. It flowed sluggishly through the coils, hidden masterfully enough to be barely noticeable even at this distance. Still, Madara might not be as good of a sensor as his apparently genius soulmate, but he wasn't completely rubbish either. He was more than capable of doing something as basic as recognizing a chakra signature, if he’d encountered it before.
And he had. Madara knew this chakra, had felt it too many times to count. Tracked it obsessively across the battlefield where it clashed with that of his little brother.
Back then, it was biting like merciless north winds, freezing everything and everyone in its path. But where Madara once thought it abhorrent, going against his very nature, now it felt like the complete opposite.
A cool sea breeze on a swelteringly hot summer night. Droplets from a roaring mountain stream sprayed into the air where they hung for a moment or two, glistering in the sun. Hands full of crisply clean water that soothes your very soul.
Madara breathed this new feeling in like the revelation it was. With Sharingan activated behind a genjutsu for less than a second, he made sure that even at his deathbed he’d still have this memory.
Then he smiled gently and threaded his and Senju Tobirama’s fingers together.
Against all odds, it felt right.
And even though Madara didn’t fully understand it, not yet, he knew he would. All he needed was time, and now he’d have it. Of that, he’d make sure.
Tobirama could run away once Madara let him go, but if he thought that'd be the end of it, he'd be in for a surprise. Or several, actually.
What face would that giant tree-brain make, Madara wondered. Would he be furious that Madara intended to steal his little brother? Elated that their families would no longer be at war?
Ah… Hashirama would probably just cover his shoulder with snot and tears, wouldn’t he?
~♪~
The second Tobirama regained his bearings, he snatched his hand away. And then he was leaving.
This night had been enough of a disaster. He certainly didn’t wish to make it any worse.
His hand with the mark was hot and tingling, but he ignored it. His heart was pounding against his ribs, but he ignored it as well.
He stopped his brisk walk only when outside the city walls, and only to use a series a shunshin. He’d refrained from testing any of his space-time seal prototypes, his thoughts too frantic to produce even remotely correct calculations.
The last couple of hours before sunrise Tobirama had spent in the woods, hiding from the pursuer that never came. Madara evidently not trying to follow him brought Tobirama no peace of mind, however, not after everything that had happened. When he came to the harbor for his purchase, he felt restless and on edge—an occurance so rare for him he struggled not to do something irrational like search for Madara himself, if only to make sure the man wasn’t actually behind his back.
He still had this itching in the back of his mind when he reached the Senju compound in record time, his white hair tousled, red eyes wide, and face pale even with some of the hastily scrubbed off makeup still remaining. But then, once he got inside the safety of the main branch house, he fell on his futon and slept through the whole day because of chakra exhaustion.
When Tobirama woke up the next morning to the worried face of his brother, he realized that he’d forgotten to hide the soulmark on his hand. Not like it mattered anymore, of course, not with the Uchiha clan head already knowing everything.
Tobirama might’ve continued lying on his bed and staring unseeingly at the ceiling until Hashirama grabbed him and carried him away to the healers, had a hawk not dabbed at his window. At the sound, both he and his brother straightened and looked up in confusion.
Then Tobirama saw the Uchiha mon on the letter tied to the bird’s leg and lay back down, too tired to deal with this right now.
“What is it?” he asked his brother, because exhausted or not, he was too responsible a clan heir to leave Hashirama alone with paperwork.
Hashirama’s chakra bubbled up so abruptly Tobirama had to close his eyes to not get blinded. Then he was squeezed tightly in a hug and got tears of happiness spilled all over him.
“They offer a peace treaty! Tobi, the Uchiha, they…” A sob, then some more incoherent babbling.
Tobirama sighed heavily.