Chapter Text
“I should warn you — Oh, do green next.”
“Green? I was thinking yellow.”
“Yellow? Do you have a death wish? Green is the correct choice.”
Madara dubiously considers the bomb on his lap. “Dunno, there’s something about yellow that’s really calling to me.”
Tobirama’s sigh is a rush of static in his ears. “On your own head be it, then.”
“Reassuring,” Madara mutters, wiping a bead of sweat rolling down his brow in the tiny, cramped space he’s currently trapped in. The blades of his cutter move to carefully caress the yellow wire. “Anyway. You were saying?”
“Ah, yes. I should warn you — he’s nothing like me.”
“Apples from the same tree generally don't fall far from one another.”
There’s a derisive scoff. “Try a whole different orchard.”
He’s your brother, Madara thinks. I’ve seen his profile. I’ve seen his mission history. He can’t be that bad.
He expresses this sentiment in the form of a half-grunt.
Tobirama, bless his delightful little heart, manages to interpret it correctly anyway, and says, “You’ll see when you see. If you see.”
There’s a beat of silence in which Madara achieves a sudden epiphany. “Hey. What about green and yellow?”
“Simultaneously?”
“How else?”
“When you die, I’m taking that gaudy scythe of yours.”
“Fight it out with my brother,” Madara says, slides the two wires in question between the blades of his cutter, and snips.
-
-
-
Hashirama’s not going to lie, he’s very excited to meet this Madara Uchiha character. Not in the infamous-agent-who-regularly-usurps-my-rankings sort of way, no. That would be childish and unnecessarily competitive. His excitement is far more personal.
Because the thing is, Tobi doesn’t do friends. All he has in the way of interpersonal relationships are dead or estranged family (except Hashirama, of course), respectful colleagues and terrified juniors. And Madara Uchiha, who, apparently, sits honourably in a category of his own.
So, yes. Hashirama is excited. Curious. Emotionally invested, one might even say, in this enigmatic object of affection.
When the doors to the cafeteria fly open and a dark-haired man in a shiny new uniform stalks in, Hashirama doesn’t think too much about it. He starts paying attention when Tobirama almost upends his chair — as much as anyone as disciplined as him can ever accidentally upend a chair — in his haste to get up.
The two men meet somewhere in the middle. There’s some machismo posturing, followed by exchanged words and manly thumping of backs. Then, the dark-haired man tosses his hair over his shoulder, bares his teeth and mimes an explosion. And then—
Wow.
Hashirama leans forward, fascinated, as Tobirama Senju breaks into a grin and pulls the man — who can be none other than Madara Uchiha — into a tight hug. Hashirama vaguely notes that he’s not the only one gaping at this public display of camaraderie.
Here's the other thing: having someone as frustratingly competent and independent as Tobi as a younger sibling has sadly deprived Hashirama of the ideal Big Brother Experience.
Despite his deepest wishes, he’s never had to fight off bullies, navigate awkward (but educational!) conversations about the male puberty and subsequent sexual awakenings, or had to give potential lovers the shovel talk. These, amongst others, are important check marks he’s had to miss in the laundry list of life.
But, as he watches Tobirama sling an easy arm around Madara’s shoulder, the normally severe lines of his face soft, Hashirama realises that there is hope for his fantasies as of yet. The two of them there definitely have chemistry, and if one were to ignore the...situation under Madara’s eyes (nothing a few slices of cold cucumber and some aloe vera gel can’t fix) they would make quite the visually striking couple. There’s nothing more romantic than on-field partners becoming off-field partners. Just because his own marriage with Mito had failed spectacularly doesn’t mean that Tobirama’s has to go the same way.
So, Hashirama pushes himself off his seat, plasters his best and brightest smile, and strides over to introduce himself.
-
Madara’s not going to lie, he'd been very excited to meet this Hashirama Senju character.
This excitement had been purely professional. Senju was Leaf’s up-and-coming agent across departments, and the first person to have taken quite a few of Madara’s combat records for a ride. When he’d stalked Senju’s profile on the company’s version of LinkedIn, he’d come across a handsome, unsmiling man with a severe set to his eyes and mouth. A face carved out of a particularly stern block of stone. The similarities between Tobirama and his eldest brother had been instantly apparent. Madara had been eager to figure out what made the man tick, and maybe even take a few pointers from him along the way.
But now—
Madara pulls Tobirama into an empty bathroom stall and hisses, “What the fuck was that?”
“I warned you," is the equally stressed reply. "You chose to not take me seriously.”
“To be fair, you do tend to see the worst in people.”
“So do you,” Tobirama points out. “Which is why we are friends.”
“Let’s not digress. Does he give everybody unwanted skincare advice?”
Tobirama pinches the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know.”
“Does he give you unwanted skincare advice?”
“I don’t know. ”
“How can you not know?!”
“I have trained my mind to enter a state of meditation whenever Hashirama starts going off on one of his tangents,” Tobirama explains with utmost seriousness. “If you ever find yourself in a conversation with him, I suggest you do the same if you want to escape unscathed.”
But now?
Well, Madara’s not sure if he’s offended, terrified or turned on.
-
Hashirama’s plan to give himself the fairytale Big Brother Experience (and Tobirama the fairytale True Love Experience) is genius in its simplicity. All he has to do is ensure that the two spend as much time together as possible, and supervise their meetings to glue together the inevitable rifts caused by Tobirama’s...personality. Tobirama’s a good kid and a better agent, but unfortunately underperforms when it comes to expressing his warm and fuzzy side.
This plan promptly hits two major snags.
The first one is that those two are already together all the time. If Tobirama’s free to hang out, Madara will be there with him. To the extent that it’s begun to severely impact the time Hashirama can spend bonding with his baby brother.
It’s not fair. Hashirama was the one who’d spent formative years of his childhood caring for the pale, sickly, wisp of a child that had been Tobirama. Where had this Madara Uchiha been then, huh? Probably off experiencing a well-adjusted childhood, that's where.
Point is, Hashirama is owed a private meal or two with his own brother without Madara lurking around like a particularly unkempt vulture. It’s not like those two even do anything interesting when they’re together. Hashirama’s the one who has to end up carrying the conversation while Tobirama and Madara simply...sit there, with identical glazed expressions on their faces. Madara’s presence is weird, boring and completely unnecessary, and Hashirama is sure that he is better for Tobirama’s all-round social development than Madara Uchiha .
Deep in thought, Hashirama rounds up a corner and spots Madara and Tobirama up ahead, moving with the rest of the breakfast crowd towards the cafeteria. Their heads are tilted together in conversation. Madara is also in the process of tying his thick hair into a shaggy ponytail, the mesmerising sight of which reminds Hashirama of the second snag.
The second snag is that Madara is...
Well. Madara is hot.
Unfairly hot. In a way that turns Hashirama’s palms sweaty and tongue into jelly, in a way that makes him uncomfortably aware of the exact location of his arms and legs whenever he as much as even sets his sight on the other man.
In front of him, Tobirama snorts at something Madara says and checks his shoulder with his own.
The easy familiarity of the gesture sends irritation shooting through Hashirama’s nerves. He swiftly walks up to the pair, sharply elbows a startled Madara out of the way, and reclaims his rightful position by his baby brother’s side.
(Later, as things go downhill, a sad, pathetic part of Hashirama laments that this is what he’s devolved to— pulling pigtails like a jilted kindergartener. The worst part is that he doesn’t know who he's jealous of more — Tobirama or Madara.)
-
Madara is the kind of guy who judges people based on first impressions, and categorically refuses to be sorry about it. What had been a necessary skill, honed during his time in ANBU, and responsible for saving his ass on multiple occasions, had soon turned into a matter of principle. If people want him to play nice, then they should put an effort into how they present themselves to him. It’s as simple as that.
But with Hashirama Senju? Madara’s not sure what the deal with Hashirama Senju is.
After their very...unique first meeting, he’d pinned Hashirama as a handsome, eccentric but ultimately harmless guy. Nothing new; Leaf has always employed a lot of these types. The general rule of thumb in their community was that the weirder the individual, the more valuable the asset. And sure, Hashirama had a propensity for situating himself in Madara’s very limited social circle with the force of several large bulldozers, but Tobirama’s advice about training one’s mind to spontaneously enter a state of meditation in the presence of specific stimuli took care of that.
The professional crush notwithstanding, everything had been fine, till Hashirama started with the...pranks.
A pair of missing shoes, a few rounds of suspiciously salty ramen and all personal timepieces slowed down by quarter of an hour later, Madara can’t help but wonder: is this some sort of a hazing ritual for the new transfer?
Highly unlikely, he decides after sufficient contemplation. Tobirama is perfectly aware of his issues with hypervigilance. If Tobirama had had the foresight to warn Madara about the cross-connection in the hot and cold taps in the last stall of the third floor bathrooms, he would also have warned him about potential institutional bullying.
As Madara suddenly finds himself shoved and locked in a supply cabinet for the second time that month, he concludes that this can only be a test. A test for what, he isn’t quite sure. Perhaps his strength of character? His mettle as an employee of Leaf? Maybe to figure out if his bite measures up to his bark?
Hm. That could be it.
Madara is painfully aware that he hasn’t been pulling his weight ever since he got transferred (demoted, really) to Leaf’s general pool from ANBU. But he has deliberately kept his head down only because he doesn’t want to be permanently labelled as “worryingly bloodthirsty” or “a self-sabotaging, suicidal liability” or “in need of urgent psychiatric rehabilitation” or whatever else it was that his employer-mandated therapists liked to say about him after Izuna had gone and gotten both of his legs blown off.
Therefore, to ensure his continued employment, Madara had paid special attention to the webinar on GenPool's culture. He'd even taken notes during sensitivity training. They liked relatively nice people, and Madara had decided early on that he was going to be the very definition of relatively nice people while assigned to GenPool.
But.
"My brother is a child," Tobirama had said when asked. "And you're his newest toy. He won't stop playing with you till you break."
Break? Madara Uchiha? The things Madara Uchiha has done for this country could be used to traumatise the most jaded of adults into taking their own lives. Madara Uchiha does not break.
In the dark of the supply cabinet, Madara bares his teeth in the sharp, feral kind of grin he doesn’t let loose in public anymore for the sake of decorum. He digs out the lockpicking tools he’s begun to carry in his tac pants these days and starts letting himself out.
Distantly, he realises that his heart’s beating way too fast and his stomach is fluttering and squirming with a manic sort of excitement. He resists the urge to start cackling, but a chuckle or two still slips out.
Obviously, he's not going to break any time soon. If GenPool’s darling wants to fucking dance, far be it from Madara to turn the good man down
-
2.
A year later, Hashirama cheerlessly sighs, “It’s like I have two brothers now.”
When he doesn’t get a response, he adds, “Except, one of them is very attractive and I want to have his babies. All of them. Hey, is it weird that I want to fuck a man who I think of as a brother?”
“Perhaps you should try asking this to someone who’s not your actual brother,” Tobirama says flatly. “If you’re looking for an unbiased opinion, that is.”
“But you know me best!”
There’s a pause.
“Why do you have to call Madara your brother, " Tobirama blurts out. "You could have just called him your friend, Anija, and made this conversation infinitely less discomfiting.”
“Is he my friend, though?” Hashirama muses. “Friends are supposed to be nice to each other, aren’t they? He’s as mean to me as you are.”
"And who started this childish rivalry, again?"
"Wait," Hashirama frowns, realising something. “You don’t want Madara for yourself, do you?”
“No.” When Hashirama looks doubtful, Tobirama elaborates, “We tried it. Didn’t work. All we did was bring out the worst in each other.”
Hashirama’s brow darkens. “Did he make you feel unloved and unworthy? I’ll kill him if he did. Tobi, tell me. Do you have Stockholm Syndrome?”
“There was never a relationship,” Tobirama grits out, looking like he’d rather be stuck decomposing in a landfill in Mumbai rather than having this very important conversation about his mental health. Classic Tobirama. “We merely conducted a thought experiment.”
Hashirama hums, appeased, and returns to daydreaming about how Madara wildly oscillates between dressing either like he’s two seconds away from storming a terrorist outpost or writhing around in the gym wearing nothing but compression shorts.
Thinking about Madara’s delightful ass, beautiful collarbones and muscular tits causes him to segue into thinking about the man’s retaliatory pranks. What had at first been an attempt to discourage Madara’s clinginess had soon escalated into a merry, exhilarating back-and-forth independent of Tobirama’s schedule or presence. Hashirama hadn't really expected Madara to match him step for step — not many people could.
Exhibit A: the most recent stunt. Madara had snuck into Hashirama’s quarters undetected the previous night and replaced all of his uniforms with those two sizes smaller. Hashirama had then spent fifteen mind-bending minutes that morning convinced that he'd spontaneously grown larger in his sleep.
(In his defence, it hadn't been a totally random assumption. R&D has always had a reputation of treating people like unwitting lab rats. The rumours about Dr. Orochimaru being a connoisseur of non-consensual body modification hentai are rooted in reality.)
But the best thing about Madara is that not only is he hot, he’s exactly as talented and smart as you’d expect someone with his credentials to be. And most importantly, although he usually acts like he’s going to pick a fight with you irrespective of what you say, his heart is in the right place.
Hashirama fondly remembers Exhibit B, or the first op they’d run together as a team five months back. Madara had not only been a consummate professional, but he had also not hesitated to go against what had clearly been a bad call from their handler. Lives of three semi-innocent children had been saved in the process.
(Madara would make an excellent father, Hashirama thinks dreamily.)
“I’m not going to stop you if you want to pursue carnal relations with the only friend I've ever had,” Tobirama says curtly, pulling Hashirama out of his daydreams. “It’s obviously not my problem.”
Tobirama is right, as usual. It’s not his problem. It’s Hashirama’s problem, because Hasbirama doesn’t want to pursue just carnal relations.
Hashirama is certain, down to his very bones, that Madara Uchiha might actually be the love of his life.
-
When it comes to emotional commitment from a romantic perspective, Madara has a type. Said type is the kind of psycho where neither party knows whether they’re fighting or fucking (refer the subsections marked Otsutsuki, Kaguya or Kyuubi, Kurama in his file), and by the time anyone figures anything out, it’s too late.
Madara smoothly scoops up the smoke bomb before it can roll to a stop at his feet and chucks it back into the open ceiling vent from whence it had come. Delighted laughter booms out of the ceiling vent, which dissolves into harsh coughs when the bomb detonates with a hiss. Alarms start beeping as the contaminated HVAC section isolates itself from the rest of the building.
Madara is eighty percent sure he's not fighting Hashirama (not anymore, if they ever were), and they’re definitely not fucking. Hashirama is also as far as one can get from the common psycho. He’s kind, considerate and well-respected, and somehow manages to influence mundane things like water cooler gossip in his favour without actually being directly involved in it.
And the best part? The best part is that he’s also a deviously underhanded little shit.
There's some clanging overhead as Madara fondly remembers the first op they had run together as a team six months back. Hashirama had not only risked his otherwise impeccable record by backing Madara up when Madara had gone against mission parameters, but he’d also somehow convinced (or confused) that imbecile Danzo into thinking that the disobedience had been Danzo’s idea in the first place.
Hashirama drops down from the smoking ceiling vent, eyes watering, teeth bared, and tranq gun in hand. Madara finds himself returning the grin as he sprints towards the common room where he’d hidden a tranq gun of his own. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees some junior agents with clipboards following them at a steady jog, taking notes.
So, yes. Madara has a type, but he may have to re-evaluate it. At the end of the day, there are worse people to fall in love with than Hashirama Senju.
He could have done without the godawful pining, though.
-
3.
When a Leaf-affiliated scientist specialising in combat theory goes missing in a cult, Madara and Hashirama get picked from GenPool to investigate.
Hashirama arches a doubtful eyebrow. “Are you sure this needs the both of us? Bit of an overkill, don't you think?”
The two of them had developed a reputation as a team over the last year or so. Part of it was because of their individual skills, yes, but Hashirama believes that most of it is because all the continuous pranking ended up translating to a thorough understanding of each others’ operating styles, which made teamwork as simple as breathing.
“You will be the lead investigator,” Danzo says. “Agent Uchiha will accompany you since he has prior experience with cults.”
Hashirama arches another equally doubtful eyebrow. “I didn’t know ANBU did undercover work.”
“They don’t,” Madara confirms. “I'm familiar with these kinds of organisations because of personal reasons.”
“Oh, you belonged to one? I'm not surprised.”
“I wasn't exactly a member. Two of my exes happen to head very successful cults of their own.”
“Different ones?”
“Yes. Although,” Madara frowns, “my then-girlfriend did try to take over my ex’s cult as a token of affection at one point.”
Hashirama clicks his tongue sympathetically. “Must have been intense.”
“It was surprisingly transactional,” Madara replies with an easy shrug.
“Oh, was it?”
“Yes. Especially considering her habit of throwing people into her private volcan—“
Danzo clears his throat. “Gentlemen, if we can return to the matter at hand? Thank you. Please go through your dossiers in detail. I await your questions. If there are none, you are dismissed and we will ship you out next Friday.”
Hashirama turns a page. “Um, sir, excuse me,” he says, raising a hand. “Are our covers romantically involved or not?”
“They are,” Madara says, scanning his own pages. He pauses. “Sorry, they aren’t. Wait. Huh." He looks up. "Which underconfident dumbfuck wrote this shit? Why isn’t anything defined?”
“Because we’re not sure,” Danzo admits. “While Intelligence knows that young men join this organisation in pairs, they cannot say for certain whether new initiates are lovers or merely very close friends.”
“Sounds kind of homophobic,” Madara grunts.
“I think the word you’re looking for is queerbaiting ,” Hashirama says. “Pun not intended.”
Madara glares at his packet like it’s personally offended him. It probably has, the poor thing. “So we have to play it by the ear.”
“We play it by the ear,” Hashirama repeats weakly, and prays that he can finish this mission without accidentally coming across as the weak-kneed degenerate he turns into whenever Madara’s involved.
-
Madara is Madara Sato, who pushes office goers into overcrowded trains for a living. He wears plaid shirts, sensible shoes and thick glasses.
Hashirama is Hashirama Yamaguchi, a scuba diving instructor who pushes young socialites into the open ocean for a living. He wears v-neck tee shirts, painfully skinny jeans and has a pierced lip.
Madara hates Hashirama’s cover. No one over six feet tall should look that good in what are basically tights. He’s also...not sure if Hashirama’s wearing underwear, or will ever wear underwear while undercover.
The thought haunts him all the way through their flight to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia.
-
They are welcomed into the Springtime of Youth Movement by three energetic men with identical bowl cuts, eyebrows and green bodysuits.
“We’re so pleased to have you join us!” Dai, the founder, booms enthusiastically.
“We’re so pleased to be here!” Hashirama booms back, equally enthusiastic.
“Please!” Gai, Dai’s son, insists. “Allow me to give you a tour. You may leave your luggage; Lee here—" Here, Lee beams and gives them a double thumbs up "—will ensure your things are safely brought to your accommodations.”
As they meander through the sprawling estate situated in the Mongolian grasslands, they see men of varying ages and ethnicities in bowl cuts and bodysuits having what can only be described as a good time. Sure, some of them are openly making out, but most are either exercising or having picnics on chequered blankets. There's a general air of love, intimacy and happiness all around.
Hashirama gingerly takes Madara’s hand in his. Madara doesn’t flinch or stumble, and simply interlaces their fingers together like they've been doing this for years.
Hashirama almost misses a step, but only the one.
-
Apparently the Springtime of Youth Movement attracts only MLM couples.
Which works just fine, as far as Madara’s concerned. He can be touchy-feely with Hashirama for the sake of public appearances and, on a more personal front, get some masturbation fodder out of the mission. Sure, his hidden motive is kind of pathetic and rife with all sorts of consent issues, but he's going to ignore that because he’s never been the kind to waste his resources and squander his opportunities. He’s efficient and practical first, and morally virtuous second. Or third. That’s why they employed him in the first place.
So, heaps of PDA, and in the privacy of their accommodations, they can let the act down and go back to being colleagues.
Except—
"Oh, fuck," Hashirama says emphatically.
"Oh, fuck," Madara says, also emphatically.
Except, the entire north wall of their private, open concept apartment is made of clear, transparent glass. They can see out of it at the lawns below, and into their opposite neighbours' apartment. Who, presumably, can see them back.
Hashirama raises his free hand in an experimental wave. The middle-aged couple occupying the apartment across the lawn waves back cheerfully.
"Is there a problem?" Lee beams.
Hashirama lowers his hand and laughs sheepishly. "It's just that my partner and I were expecting some privacy. You know how the nights can get…"
Lee's round eyes grow impossibly wider.
"Please!" He cries. "Don't worry about it! We at the Springtime of Youth Movement believe that to be truly at peace with your internal self, you must learn to be at peace with your external self. Only then can you hope to open the Eight Gates of your soul and blossom into your true potential. You will find that your fellow initiates are extremely supportive of every aspect of your life, especially the absolutely stunning passion I can see you share as lovers. This is a safe space. There is no judgement here, none at all."
"How wonderful," Madara grits out. Hashirama squeezes his hand in warning.
"Indeed! Now, I am sure your journey to our caring arms has been long and arduous. Life is rarely easy for people like us. Please rest. I will come to collect you for your inaugural haircuts at nineteen hundred hours. This will be followed by a soiree where you can socialise with the other initiates, both new and old."
Hashirama smiles warmly. "We can't wait."
Lee departs, but not before giving them a long, heartfelt hug each.
Madara kicks off his shoes, tosses his glasses on the nightstand and flings himself on the bed covers. He lets out a low groan as the memory foam mattress starts doing nice things to his spine. Hashirama, meanwhile, unzips his suitcase and takes out a scaled-down, souvenir-sized model of the Tokyo Tower from his suitcase, fiddles with it, and places it on the bedside table. A minute later, the tacky LED on the tip of the tower flashes a discreet green.
“Room’s not bugged,” Hashirama announces.
“Thank God for small mercies,” Madara grunts. He jabs a belligerent finger at the transparent north wall. “Still have to keep up the show, though.”
Hashirama winces and fiddles with his bottom lip. Madara battles the urge to tug at the silver ring there. “Since we’ll have to keep up the act all the time, do you have any boundaries I must be aware of?”
My only boundary is my lack of boundaries, Madara thinks nonsensically. Logically, he says, “This is a cult of exhibitionists and voyeurs. The fewer boundaries we have, the closer we can get to the community, and the quicker we can get to finding out what really happened to Dr. Hyuuga and get out of this horrible place.”
Something like panic flickers through Hashirama’s eyes.
"True,” Hashirama says, despite what are clearly personal reservations. This mission-first-everything-else-second mindset makes Madara respect him even more. “Guess we have to make it look as authentic as possible, huh?”
-
The inaugural haircuts are bowl cuts involving an actual bowl.
“Reminds me of middle school,” Hashirama comments to nobody in particular, checking himself out on the closest reflective surface. His lip piercing glints in the tasteful overhead lighting.
He glances at Madara, whose similarly-shortened hair sticks out in every which way, stubbornly going against the very essence of his new hairstyle. He also happens to be faking pleasantness very well, chatting up the other initiates and laying the groundwork for potential sources of intel.
He looks positively adorable in that forest green bodysuit they make everybody put on. It makes Hashirama want to cry.
-
“Wow,” Madara comments later that night. “I didn’t think my day could get any better, but you never cease to amaze me.”
“This relationship is a safe space, honey,” Hashirama says loftily without missing a beat. “Keep your toxic masculinity out of it.”
Madara crosses his arms and leans against the jamb of the bathroom door. “What’s toxic is the bullshit on your face. Why do I smell rotting fish?”
Hashirama turns towards him, something mottled and green smeared all over his face. “This is a seaweed mask. There’s nothing wrong with adequate skincare. Speaking of...” He trails off and selects a small jar from the dresser and holds it out. “I packed this amazing eye cream for you.”
Madara stiffens, all traces of humour gone. “No.”
Hashirama laughs. “Come on, don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared,” Madara splutters. “I don’t want my bodily integrity compromised by questionable chemicals sold by unethical businesses.”
“See, it says here it’s organic and ethically sourced.”
“Everything is organic and ethically sourced these days, Hashirama. It’s a marketing gimmick. You can’t trust—”
He cuts off abruptly as Hashirama carefully unscrews the cap and scoops out an unhealthy amount of the slime with two fingers.
Hashirama smiles, innocent and disarming.
Madara’s eyes narrow.
Hashirama lunges.
-
Madara, bless his dear little heart, takes to performing the role of Madara Sato like it’s war. There are skilled, declaratory kisses, dark, smouldering looks, and his hands are pretty much glued to Hashirama’s ass whenever they get the chance and have an audience. Hashirama gives as good as he gets, and additionally tempers the...softcore porn, really, with chaste kisses and tender touches.
Madara looks briefly poleaxed the first time Hashirama kisses him on the forehead, like he’s never known a gentle touch in his life, and Hashirama worries that he might have done something wrong. But Madara cottons on soon enough, and together, they put on a spectacular show for anyone who’s looking. And it is spectacular — Madara Sato and Hashirama Yamaguchi find their bond receiving multiple compliments.
Hashirama Senju, on the other hand, finds himself taking more colder, guiltier showers than he has ever taken in his life.
-
After nearly five weeks, Madara concludes that this mission is going absolutely nowhere.
His secondary objective is going just fine. He’s getting enough masturbation fodder, what with the constant touching and feeling, and the answer to his question re: Hashirama Yamaguchi’s underwear is jockstraps.
The problem lies in how their first objective isn’t throwing up any leads.
They sign up for all the courses and workshops possible, all of which involve physical, mental or spiritual wellness, depending upon one’s capabilities. They have the most inane conversations with as many people as they can to subtly milk them for information. While Hashirama’s cover has the more exciting profession, the other cultists are more interested in hearing about Madara Sato’s experiences as a Japanese passenger pusher and then feeling up his biceps — and not always after asking for consent. Non-sexual intimacy seems to be the norm here. Madara is proud to say it had only taken him two days to get over feeling like a dirty voyeur and start treating the whole affair with the sort of brisk professionalism that Hashirama treats it with.
On the logistics side, Hashirama and Madara plant their bugs in all the areas they have access to, and replace and replenish them without fail. They disappear into the bathroom of their apartment — the only private place — together or separately to parse through the chatter the devices have picked up. Despite all their combined cryptography and pattern-analysis skills, they get absolutely no leads on Hyuuga.
And then, one day, another door opens for them.
“Madara, Hashirama,” Lee says warmly during their weekly private counselling session. “The both of you have shown phenomenal progress in your time here. Very well done.”
“Thank you!” Hashirama says brightly, which means that Madara is spared the trouble of faking pleasantness this time.
“When you first came here, I could tell immediately that you were two halves of the same soul. Created from the same primordial source, fated to find each other amongst the millions of others that inhabit the myriad planes of existence. But! You were still separate. Distinct. But slowly, over time, I have found your essences mingling, getting closer. Becoming one. Today, now, as you sit before me, I find it impossible to tell where one of your chakra ends and the other’s begins.”
Hashirama wipes at his face. “Really?” He says, voice wobbly. “We’re so happy to hear that. Aren’t we, Madara?”
Madara strains his lips into a smile. He’s sure it fails to reach his eyes. “We are. We couldn’t be happier. We owe all our joy to the SOYM.”
“No, no,” Lee shakes his head. “We merely gave you the environment to flourish. Your bond is rooted in your own efforts and wills. That said, I understand you are not yet bound by marriage, correct?”
“Correct,” Hashirama sniffles.
“That is unfortunate,” Lee says, sympathetic, and pushes a pamphlet across the table. Madara stretches an arm out and drags it towards himself with his index finger. “Luckily, I was going to recommend you for our advanced programme. You may notice that marriage is a prerequisite. But don’t worry! We offer full matrimonial services for those who are willing and want to take their growth here to the next level.”
Madara shows the brochure to Hashirama, who leans closer so that he can take a look. The material is promising: it makes them eligible for more workshops, sessions and events, which should give them access to more members belonging to the inner circle.
Madara purses his lips, which means, Looks good.
Hashirama twitches his nose, which means, Let’s go for it.
Lee takes their silent communication as hesitation and quickly exclaims, “Please! If you’re worried about the legality of your marriage, you need not worry! It will be accepted by all major and minor governments across the globe.”
Madara frowns. “By all, you mean…?”
Lee beams. “Precisely that! Our influence extends far and deep, Mr. Sato. All marriages carried out by the Springtime of Youth Movement are recognized and respected everywhere you go, even if homosexuality is not recognized by or against the law as a whole in that country.”
Madara is not sure whether or not to take the nutcase seriously. “So,” he says, after briefly weighing the pros and cons of simply shutting up, “if you’re as influential as you claim you are, why don’t you just make it legally acceptable everywhere instead of this selective shi— stuff. Instead of this selective stuff.”
“Unfortunately, as you may be aware, homophobia and its variants are a cultural mindset. Yes, we could change laws overnight, but it will lead to mass chaos. Large segments of very vocal, very entitled people will not understand why their perception of ‘normal’ has suddenly changed without warning. They will revolt.
“No, no. You see, their very mindsets need to be changed. Change needs to come from the grassroots, come from within the population. It cannot be enforced. Therefore, SOYM and her sister organisations are working around-the-clock to subtly influence communities and win allies.”
There are a lot of issues Madara has with that line of thought. But since he’s not getting paid to discuss queer politics, he decides to let it go and returns to considering the potential nuptials between Hashirama and himself.
Objectively, it looks promising.
Subjectively...
He thinks about his own feelings, lust-driven and otherwise. He thinks about how refreshingly soft Hashirama Yamaguchi is, and how Hashirama Senju might also be (in addition to being the most interesting guy Madara has ever met) if given the chance.
Subjectively...well, subjectively, it’s a different matter altogether.
-
They agree to get married, which is cool. Totally cool. Hashirama is absolutely on board with it.
It’s just that Madara says that he’s okay with it, but Hashirama can tell that he’s actually stressed out of his mind.
“I’ve been married before," Hashirama tries to reassure, with the final ceremony only five minutes away. "It’s only scary in theory. Trust me.”
“Your marriage ended in a divorce,” Madara points out tersely.
“So? What’s that got to do with anything?”
Madara stares at him like he’s stupid. “You’re not exactly one to speak about the merits of marriage.”
“So what? Different people have different circumstances.” Realisation dawns and Hashirama says, “Are you concerned about the fake bit? I’ve been fake married before too. Twice, in fact. Marriages officiated during missions don’t really count unless one of us submits the paperwork to HR.”
Madara sighs heavily. “It’s not that. There’s just something so...I don’t know, blasphemous about doing it like this, when everybody else here is treating the relationships they have so seriously.”
“Huh. I didn’t peg you as the kind of guy to believe in the sanctity of marriage.”
Madara shrugs. “I just think the concept is nice, is all. To have someone who won’t take advantage of your weaknesses. Someone you can come home to. Someone who will always have your back, like a safety net. What we’re doing here is spitting in the face of love and all that.”
“Madara!” Hashirama chuckles, genuinely charmed. “Who’d have guessed you’re actually a closet romantic.”
Madara shrugs again and looks away. His shoulders are oddly defensive, the corners of his eyes tight behind the fake glasses.
Hashirama sobers up. “For what it’s worth,” he says gently. “Anybody would be lucky to have you as a husband. I know there’s no one else I’d rather be fake married to.”
The air between them is suddenly thick with a strange sort of tension, and Hashirama desperately hopes that he didn’t let his actual opinions about Madara and marriage and marriage with Madara filter through. He racks his brain to come up with something to diffuse the tension, but his brain refuses to cooperate.
The moment stretches taut between them, till Madara mercifully snaps it.
“That’s enough heart-to-heart,” he says and holds out his arm. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
-
They get married without a hitch. Vows are exchanged, they share their first kiss as husbands, and good food and alcohol is distributed all around.
The real problem arises when they’re told that the consummation of their marriage needs to happen in public.
“So,” Hashirama begins amicably. “Who gets to top?”
The two of them are on a large stone altar on a raised dais, naked and every inch skin glistening with golden, aromatic oil. For good measure, they had each taken a pill each of the handy performance-enhancing drug that R&D foisted upon agents whose missions demanded sexual activity while simultaneously keeping their mental and cognitive faculties intact. A curtain of silk brocade encircles them, hiding them from all the married couples that form the audience. Dai is the emcee, and is effusing ebulliently about the union of souls and chakra and how the springtime of one's youth is never over.
Madara scoffs. “The entire concept of penetration during gay sex being the pinnacle of intimacy is built upon heteronormativity . I thought you’d be above all this.”
“I mean, yes, but they’ll be expecting some degree of anal sex from us. So, who gets to bottom?”
“I don’t care,” Madara says flatly.
“Madara,” Hashirama reprimands, “you should be more open to negotiations. I know this is a mission and I respect how you would do anything to see it to success, but preferences matter. Especially if you’re working with me.”
“Well, what would you prefer?”
“I don’t mind either way.”
“That was spectacularly unhelpful, Hashirama. Thanks.”
There’s a pause. Then, “Let’s rock-paper-scissors it?”
“Winner takes it up the ass.”
“Alright,” Hashirama says, and they rock-paper-scissors it.
Dai finishes his speech to applause, which grows louder when the curtain drops in a pool of silk to reveal the newly-wedded couple. Hashirama’s face blanks for a split millisecond, before taking on the countenance of the besotted newlywed.
Madara pulls him down by the back of the neck, distantly bemoaning the other’s disgustingly short hair. He bites Hashirama’s lower lip, ring and all, and kisses him deep and filthy.
People break out in cheers.
A few minutes and copious amounts of lube later, Hashirama groans breathlessly into Madara’s ear, “You’re— hah— fuck. You’re so fucking warm."
“God, shut the fuck up,” Madara growls, and then grunts through clenched teeth when Hashirama promptly cants his hips and drives into his prostate just to be a dick. His feet curl so hard that they cramp.
Hashirama has the strength and stamina of an ox, and it’s objectively the hottest sex Madara’s ever had the (mis)fortune of having. He jolts out of his drooling, shivering haze when he realises that the audience's clapping and hollering has stopped, replaced by—
“Holy shit,” Madara pants. “We’re the epicentre of an orgy.”
“What?” Hashirama squeaks. Sweat drips down his nose and onto Madara’s cheek, and his hips still. He tries to turn his head to look, but Madara stops him by grabbing his face with both hands, forcing their eyes to meet.
“Don’t.”
“But—”
“Trust me,” Madara whispers grimly, as the sounds of skin against skin and breathless moans waft through the air. The night stinks of heat and sweat and incense. “You don’t want to see.”
-
Being married, as expected, opens them up to more activities and exclusive circles within the Springtime of Youth Movement.
They still get absolutely no leads on what happened to Dr. Hyuuga.
By unspoken mutual agreement, they also don’t joke about, discuss or refer to the sex they’d had. They are professionals, after all. Leaf’s best, even.
-
A week later, when Hashirama wakes up as the little spoon with Madara’s morning wood seared against his ass like a challenge for the fifth day in a row, he decides, purely for the sake of his sanity, that something has to give.
He turns to face Madara, who either wakes up at the movement or has already been awake for some time.
“So,” he begins carefully, “we’ve already fucked once.”
Madara gazes deep, right into his soul, not a trace of sleep in his eyes, and says, “It was fairly decent too, the orgy notwithstanding.”
“And you’re hard now.”
“A completely natural phenomenon.”
The entire situation is surreal. Hashirama feels like he's having an out of body experience. He distantly wonders which one of his Eight Gates he has accidentally opened now.
He says, “So am I.”
Madara hums. “Seems like a waste to not do anything about it.”
Hashirama puts a brave hand on Madara’s hip. “They say bottling up hormones is detrimental to making important judgments.”
“So they do."
"Getting comfortable with each other should make our cover more convincing."
"Our next course of action is obvious, then.”
“Ever the pragmatist, Agent Uchiha," Hashirama murmurs, slips his hand under the waistband of Madara’s pyjamas and pulls it down.
“Anything for the mission, Agent Senju,” Madara says quietly, cupping Hashirama’s face. His fingers end up tangled in Hashirama’s depressingly short hair when Hashirama slithers down to his crotch.
“I’m glad we have an agreement,” Hashirama grins. “We make a good team,” he adds, just to make it less weird and more professional, and finally puts his mouth on the cock he’s been simultaneously dreaming about and having nightmares over for the last eighteen months.
-
It’s not the last time they explore the limits of their teamwork. All for mission-related, pragmatic purposes, of course. After all, they are professionals. Leaf’s best, even.
-
Madara’s in the middle of some intense couples’ yoga under the loving guidance of Lee and another member, trying to get his Gate of Pain to open (both Hashirama and he having apparently opened the previous four Gates), when Dr. Hyuuga practically falls into their conjoined laps.
Madara’s draped over and around Hashirama, face pressed into the cushion of his pectorals, their interlocked bodies arranged into a complicated Celtic knot-type structure. He feels Hashirama’s muscles tighten for a second, his body moving minutely out of position. Madara flags the incident, planning to ask him about it later.
When they pause for a small break, Hashirama rests their sweaty foreheads together and murmurs against his lips, “Stage.”
Madara kisses Hashirama’s cheek and uses the angle to furtively glance at the stage. There’s a new guy there, chatting and getting handsy with Lee. The guy’s got glossy brown hair in a bowl cut, brown eyes and is wearing a sweatband on his head in addition to the mandatory green bodysuit.
Now, Madara’s always had a knack for seeing through bullshit, and there’s something about the shape of the newcomer’s face, the elegant tilt of his hands, that instantly raises Madara's hackles.
Ah.
Madara’s lips curl. “Found you, you little rat.”
-
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Neji says, chin raised in defiance, when Madara and Hashirama lure and corner him in an empty restroom stall after the yoga session.
As they loom over the younger man in the tiny, cramped space, Hashirama smiles his nicest smile and says, “I think you do.”
Madara glowers and plucks off Neji’s sweatband, revealing the green swastika tattooed on his forehead.
Neji’s nostrils flare. “If you’re going to stand there and accuse me of being a Nazi sympathizer , I must insist you sign up for our sessions on cross-cultural sensitivity immediately.”
“We’re clearly Japanese, you moron,” Madara snaps. “And I’m Buddhist. We’re here to rescue you.”
“Ah.” Neji’s shoulders slump. “You’re from Leaf, then.”
“Haircuts and contact lenses do not a good disguise make, kid.”
“I don’t need rescuing.”
“I think you do.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Neji sighs. “I have a good life here. I’m with the SOYM out of choice.”
Hashirama places a fatherly hand on Neji’s narrow shoulder. “It’s the brainwashing, Neji," he explains gently. "That’s what they want you to think.”
Neji bristles, eyes flashing.
“Brainwashing?” He demands. “Hardly. What’s wrong with giving people emotional support and acknowledgement? Yes, these people are overzealous and yes, some of their lifestyle choices are...unconventional” — he doesn’t quite manage to hide his grimace at the word — “but they’re not harming anyone. They’re good people. All they do with their power and influence is illegally make illegal marriages legal.” Here, Neji scoffs, bitter. “Marriages that shouldn’t be illegal in the first place. I guarantee you, Hashirama or whatever your real name is, I have never felt as loved and accepted as I feel here. Not with Leaf, and definitely not with my family.”
Hashirama winces. There’s a lot to unpack there, and while he has the reflexive desire to have a heart-to-heart with the boy, they do not have the time for it. But then again, the more he thinks about it, the more he realises that there's some merit to what Neji is saying.
"Look," Hashirama says. "I personally believe you're right to some extent, but I might also be a victim of their brainwashing. Madara, you're the expert on the psychology of cults. What do you think?"
Madara frowns at a piece of mould on the ceiling. "What I think is that this is either the most dangerous cult or the most harmless cult I've ever come across. That said, I do agree that their methods and goals aren’t...entirely abhorrent."
Hashirama nods, walking Madara through his thought process. "Even the Eight Gates thing is more about fitness-based self-improvement rather than something weird, like mass-suicide or cannibalism. All the people here are of age too, so the pedophilia and child trafficking angle can be ruled out."
"Of course they're of age," Neji interrupts coldly. "Minors and unredeemed antisocial elements are not and will never be allowed into our ranks. Our fifteen-step membership verification process is absolutely foolproof. That said, I have absolutely no idea how you two idiots managed to—"
“Regardless," Madara tells Hashirama conversationally, completely bulldozing over Neji and ignoring his subsequent offended spluttering. "I’ve never failed a mission, and I’m not going to start now just because some twink with daddy issues thinks he’s in love or whatever. You shouldn’t, either.”
"He doesn't need to agree to come with us," Hashirama offers. "We can just— you know. Kidnap him or something."
Neji's eyes bug out of his head and he takes a huge breath, presumably to start screaming for help. Hashirama swiftly clamps his right palm over Neji's mouth and lightly presses the blade of his left forearm against Neji’s throat.
"We could," Madara muses. "Remind me to not hit him too hard on the head. R&D won't be happy if he ends up with brain damage."
Neji begins to twitch.
"He's just pulling your leg," Hashirama reassures in a rush. "Nobody's going to hit you on the head. We have enough tranquilizers to last you two trips to HQ. Three, if it's on an empty stoma— Neji," he chides. "Stop that. I'm not going to let go and you'll just end up with a mouthful of my blood."
Neji shoots Hashirama a look of pure venom and stops trying to chew a hole through his palm.
Something shifts in the hallway, and they fall silent. A few seconds later, there's the shuffle of approaching footsteps and someone walks into the restroom. There's a pause, followed by the distinct tinkle of a thin jet of water hitting something hollow and ceramic.
Neji jackknifes suddenly and, with the force of a murderous kangaroo, kicks his feet loudly against the door. Hashirama decides to stop being nice and roughly shoves him back into the wall, knocking the air out of chest and digging his forearm sharply into Neji’s throat.
With a completely straight face, Madara lets out a wet, shuddering gasp and thunks the door again with his fist.
"That’s it, babe," Hashirama croons. “You take it so well.”
Madara wrinkles his nose at him. Hashirama sticks out his tongue in response. A few seconds later, there's the sound of the tap running, and the man outside throws out a supportive, "You go, kings," before exiting.
Once the footsteps recede completely, Hashirama looks at Neji, who's gotten considerably blue in the face. "I'm going to let you breathe now, okay?"
Neji gives a short, jerky nod, the contact lens on his left iris askew, and Hashirama eases the pressure on his windpipe.
"You know," Madara says thoughtfully, "we can force him to come, but think of it from a long term perspective. Will he still be the same quality of employee if he doesn't want to be there?"
"Good point," Hashirama concedes. “Do you think we should...update the mission objectives?”
“We could. I mean, R&D doesn’t care about him as a person.”
“Correct. All Orochimaru really wants is R&D’s IP.”
Madara gives Neji a long, considering look. “Bringing back the research should be good enough for Leaf, yes?”
“We’ll convince them if it's not,” Hashirama says breezily. “Neji, I’m going to uncover your mouth now. Please don’t make a fuss, okay? Otherwise my colleague here will probably punch you in the throat."
"Nothing probable about it," Madara says casually.
Neji glares at them like he wants to punch them in the throat too. Finally, begrudgingly, he jerks out a nod.
"My thesis is complete," Neji says as soon as Hashirama removes his hand. "I mean, it will be soon enough. You can have it. I may have gone rogue for personal reasons, but my work ethic remains impeccable."
Madara looks like he has some very specific opinions about Neji’s work ethic, so Hashirama quickly interjects before he can say anything. “Are you sure you’d be okay with handing over your work when you complete it?”
“Yes, if it means you’ll leave me alone.”
“By when can you get it done?”
“Give me three weeks.”
“Perfect! Oh, and one more thing. Are you aware of any non-disruptive ways in which we can leave this place? We have escape routes, but I’d rather avoid the property damage. The SOYM compound is absolutely breathtaking.”
Neji’s eyes wander up to stare at the same piece of ceiling mould Madara had been inspecting earlier. “All you have to do is tell Gai a fortnight in advance if you want to leave,” he says blandly. “But in all my time here, I’ve never known a single person who has wanted to.”
-
A part of Madara hopes that it isn’t actually as easy as marching up to Gai and telling him that they want to leave. He’s looking forward to Gai putting up some resistance. He’s seen the man’s sheer vitality in the workshops. He’s good when it comes to kicking ass. And has a nice ass to top it off. Neither of those qualities are as good as Hashirama’s, of course, but still. A decent opponent will Gai make.
So, two weeks before Neji’s supposed deadline, Madara does his preparatory stretches, slips a knife into his shoe and goes to let Gai know that they want to leave. If Gai does object and everything goes tits up, Hashirama’s on standby, prepared to kidnap Neji and go ahead with their original plan. There’s nothing to be concerned about.
To Madara’s deep disappointment, Gai nearly keels over in shock instead of resisting.
Madara ends up spending a harrowing couple of hours first convincing Gai that no, the Springtime of Youth Movement has not fallen short of their expectations and needs, and then politely giving detailed feedback on every workshop, event, meal and member soothe the other man's frazzled nerves.
"What took you so long?" Hashirama asks when Madara returns. "I would have come to get you, but you didn't send the distress signal."
"I don't want to talk about it," Madara says shortly. "After we get back to Tokyo, I'm isolating myself from human interaction for a week. Here, I got you the kombucha you seemed to like so much the other day."
"Do you have a headache?" Hashirama asks, accepting the bottle. "You look like you have one."
Madara does, in fact, have one. The fact that Hashirama noticed makes it ease significantly, which makes him feel all kinds of pathetic, which in turn elevates the headache back to its previous levels.
Hashirama continues, "Do you want a massage? I have this excellent balm. It's organic."
Yes, Madara does want a massage. The balm (probably not organic) is as excellent as advertised.
A fortnight later, Neji hands them all eight hundred spiral-bound pages of his thesis. Hashirama skims through it since he’s the primary investigator, while Madara hangs over his shoulder and critiques.
“I trust everything is in order?” Neji finally says a touch impatiently. “Can I go now?”
“So this is what your work was,” Madara drawls, just to rile the kid up. “To find the best way to slap someone.”
“Excuse me?” Neji says indignantly, much to Madara’s delight. “Slap someone? If you really deserved the salary you are given, you would have realised that the Gentle Fist technique is a derivative of the Baguazhang. I suppose it’s a stretch to assume a violent, uneducated brute such as yourself would know anything about the pristine art that is—”
Madara tunes out, too busy looking at how Hashirama’s lips quiver as he tries to suppress a grin of his own. Madara wouldn’t think twice before pissing off a thousand twinky baby scientists with daddy issues just for the sake of Hashirama’s amusement.