Spontaneous Order
Tobirama bears exactly half a day of Hashirama’s hovering and stilted concern before snatching an urgent away mission and running off with only a half-hearted warning of his departure.
“He left the country,” Hashirama tells Mito later that evening, pouting while he waits for his wife (his wife!!) to step out from behind the screen once she is done changing. “Barely even said goodbye.” A pause. “He didn’t have to go so far as to leave the country. And people say I’m the dramatic one.”
“You’d know better than me just how skittish he is,” Mito points out over the rustling of fabric.
Hashirama huffs. “I was only worried. He hasn’t reacted so badly to a nightmare in years. Not since—” Itama died, he can’t bring himself to say. He clears his throat. “And such an ominous sounding dream at that. Do you think he really did get attacked by someone and just didn’t tell me? It’d be just like Tobirama to conveniently not mention something like that. I’ll have to ask around.”
“He’s a shinobi,” comes the dry interjection. “Any number of instances could have triggered that. It could also just be stress. Or it could be nothing at all. It was a dream, beloved. Perhaps you’re reading into it more than you ought to. Tobirama certainly didn’t seem that torn up about it.”
That’s because Tobirama would probably sooner try to drown in the lake than seem torn up about anything, but Hashirama sighs and refrains from mentioning as much. Not because Mito would disagree but because, usually, Hashirama can tell anyways when something is truly bothering Tobirama whether the young man shows it or not. His brother had tried to injure himself in his sleep, yes, but he hadn’t been emotionally disturbed in the aftermath—not as far as Hashirama could guess anyways.
It's just that, for some indescribable reason, Hashirama has a really bad feeling about the whole affair. Unfortunately, Tobirama wouldn’t accept being coddled on the best of days, let alone when Hashirama can’t even properly explain why.
“I can’t help but worry about him, I suppose,” he sighs, shoulders slumping as he leans against the low table at the centre of his new, larger marital quarters.
“I know,” Mito says fondly. She steps out from behind the screen and Hashirama promptly loses all other coherent thoughts as he takes in the swathe of exposed skin bared to him. He has seen it all before of course, but Mito really is so exquisitely beautiful that he can’t help having his breath taken away. “Your capacity to love is so great. It is one of the many things I admire about you.”
“You’re beautiful,” he breathes instead of responding. “Come closer.”
Mito’s mouth curls into a grin, free and uncalculated as she crosses the distance between them on bare feet before sinking down to sit before him, close enough that their knees touch. She is dressed only in the plain cloth that wraps around her chest and the loose pants that the Uzu wear under their more casual tunics. Her face is wiped clean of all makeup and her hair is loose over her shoulders, tumbling down her waist in a curtain of crimson that makes him think of autumn.
In the low, flickering light of the lamp placed on the desk, Mito is a vision and Hashirama feels his mouth dry at the thought that he has been fortunate enough to be chosen by her.
Reverently, he reaches to take her hands in his own, turning them over so he can slide his fingertips over her palms and up her forearms, tracing the carefully painted lines of ink that curl up both arms, stark against skin that is sunkissed from a lifetime of living by the sea. He thinks that he could look at her forever. It’s probably embarrassing just how much he does stare at her without even realising it.
The fact that Mito isn’t bothered by it, doesn’t think he is odd or creepy for his fascination, is more to her credit than his. She really is a saint.
“I’ve probably waited for this longer than I should say,” he admits to her, his thumb idly ghosting over the letters tattooed over the inside of her wrist, watching in fascination as Mito shivers slightly at his touch.
“Really?” she asks and her voice is soft and indulgent in a way it only ever is for him, when it is just the two of them alone. “Did you wonder?”
“Is it embarrassing to admit I had dreams about some of them?” Hashirama blurts out, flushing immediately when Mito barks out a startled laugh at that.
“And what did you dream of?”
Somehow he manages to redden further, against all odds and biological limits. Maybe if his head explodes from all the blood rushing to his face, he will be put out of his misery. “Maybe I should talk less,” Hashirama says mournfully, lifting his hands so he can hide his face in them. “I don’t know why I can never seem to think straight around you.”
Mito gently pries his hands away and takes hold of them again. “I like when you talk,” she chides primly. “I always like when you talk. Tell me more right now, in fact. What did you dream of?”
“What? No! I can’t tell you—it’s weird!”
“Too weird to tell your wife?”
Hashirama pouts. “I don’t want my wife to think I’m lame.”
Mito rolls her eyes but there’s a smile pulling at her lips and she does nothing to hide it. “I like you too much to think that.”
And that’s unfair, really. Mito knows he’s weak to the things she says. And does. Hashirama is weak for Mito in general actually. He’d be worried about being pathetic but she seems to find him endearing enough as he is.
He chews on his bottom lip. “Okay,” he says, “but later. I want to do this first.”
Mito doesn’t push. She just nudges his knee her with hers and says, “Alright. Which one do you want to start with?”
Hashirama points to a set of numbers nestled on her collarbone. “I know this one at least. Uzushio’s coordinates on the standardised maps, right? When did you get it?”
“Before my departure for our wedding,” Mito answers shifting to stretch her legs out before her slightly, so her feet are practically in his lap. “So I could always have a bit of home with me.”
He nods along to her answer, humming as he examines the canvas of her skin to decide where he will go next. He’s been curious about her tattoos since the day he caught a glimpse of her forearm all those months ago and realised that not all the symbols were seals and some were just drawings. It is exciting to satisfy that intrigue today.
“This one,” he says, thumb smoothing over a bird in flight. A seabird that he is unfamiliar with but thinks he might have seen while on Uzushio.
“It’s an albatross,” Mito supplies. “They are symbols of good luck in my culture. When mariners spot one, they know that land is near and it brings them hope. They are known to be able to fly for days or weeks at a time, so they’re resilient and strong.” More coyly, she adds, “They’re also among the rare animals that mate for life. I thought it’d be romantic.”
Hashirama grins at her for that, eagerly hunting for the next one. “This,” he pronounces. “Why an orange tree?”
“They’re native to the island,” she tells him. “But really it’s a reminder. See, when I was younger, I thought that the same colour meant the same taste. So, tangerines and oranges were all the same to me, as was the sun. I would watch men use knives to cut the orange while my mother would split a tangerine with her bare hands and I wondered if she could do the same with the sun. I suppose I saw a metaphor where there may not have been one, but something about her subtle, softer strength stuck with me.”
“I like that,” Hashirama says. There’s an orange tree somewhere in their orchard. Maybe he should show her. Tomorrow, he decides. He’ll show her tomorrow. His eyes flick towards the inside of her elbow, where a kunai and paintbrush are crossed. “This one’s kind of self-explanatory,” he notes. “For the shinobi and sealing arts.” Mito hums in confirmation. “Okay. What about this then?”
A string of letters in the Devanagari script—he recognises it as more commonly used in Lands of Water and Waves but he never learned to read their languages despite knowing how to speak them. Mito traces it with her thumb but her eyes do not stray from his, ultraviolet and otherworldly as they are. “In your choice lies your fate,” she reads out for him. A pause, the barest hesitation, and then she says, “I got it soon after I learned of our betrothal. At the time, I was…wary. Afraid. I am not anymore, of course, and I do like you, but—”
“I understand, Mito,” he interrupts gently, leaning into the little space between them to press their foreheads together for a moment. “You have no reason to worry. Admittedly, I had my own concerns.”
Mito exhales slowly and nods. “I want to be defined by what I make of my life. Not by what my life makes of me. I—It’s important. To me.”
“Okay,” Hashirama accepts, smiling at her. He moves on. “This is a fig,” he observes, referring to the illustration higher up on her arm. A branch, the fruit and— “Is that as a wasp?” he asks, peering closer. “The fig and the wasp.”
“Is it odd that I find the idea fascinating?” Mito asks, almost sheepish despite the smile that has returned.
“Symbiosis, you mean?”
“Sure.” Mito inclines her head. “They rely on each other for their continued survival, no? The figs cannot live without the wasp and the wasps need the fig to lay their eggs in. In a way, it is almost love in its most natural, carnal form.” She lowers her chin, levelling her gaze on him with intent, and asks softly, “Would you be the wasp or the fig?”
Hashirama swallows, mouth going dry and head going empty. “I—uh—” he stumbles intelligently, desperately trying to string his thoughts into something coherent.
Mito chuckles. “You need not answer. It was rhetorical.”
“Great,” Hashirama says with some relief. He looks to her shoulder, where the lines twist into the shape of a familiar flower. “An anemone?”
“The first letter you sent me through Tobirama,” Mito reminds. “It was shaped like one. For sincerity, I believe?”
He can’t help the pleased smile that curls at his lips. “Yes. I thought it’d be fitting.” His fingertips brush over the inked petals. “It’s beautiful on you.”
“Thank you.”
“Do you think I could get one?” Hashirama asks.
“A tattoo?” Mito arches a brow. “I don’t see why not.”
“Will you give me one?” He shifts, nervous but eager all the same. “I know it’s common practice on Uzushio to give loved ones tattoos.”
“It is,” she confirms, beginning to grin, her eyes lighting up. “If you’d like it, it would be my honour to give you one. Would you like to give me one in return?”
A part of him wants to say yes immediately. Mito looks so excited by the idea of sharing this with him, and he cannot deny that the thought of something of his living under her skin permanently sends a jolt of possessive satisfaction curling in his chest. But, well, “I’m not the best at drawing. I’ll have to practice first. I don’t want to ink something ugly onto you.”
Mito laughs, throwing her head back as she does. The column of her throat is exposed and Hashirama is seized by the sudden impulse to kiss it. Before he can even process the thought, Mito is talking again, and he hurries to pay attention.
“You can take all the time you need,” she assures him. “Let’s start thinking about what tattoo to give you too.” Her smile sharpens. “First, though, I’d like to hear more about those dreams of yours.”
It takes him a moment before he realises what she’s referring to, and then Hashirama is blushing again. “Why are you bringing this up again?” he asks, and he knows he’s whining, and Mito has the gall to laugh at her poor husband while he’s so miserable.
“Come now, don’t be so shy, beloved.”
“You can’t judge me,” he says. “You have to promise, okay? It’s silly and I know, and I judge myself enough.”
Mito rolls her eyes. “I promise,” she says with emphasis.
Hashirama pouts, more for the drama than anything else, but even that is a fruitless endeavour because Mito is leaning forward to kiss him in the very next breath, leaning back before he can so much as blink. As far as incentives go, however, it’s a much better motivation than most other offers Hashirama has received so far in life.
So, he sighs and looks back down to the orange tree blooming along her forearm. “Well, I had this one dream,” he tells her. “You and I are in the kitchen. Our kitchen, I mean. And we’re making nerikiri, which is strange because I don’t even know how to make nerikiri in the first place. But anyways, that’s what we’re doing, and you have flour on your cheek so I wipe it off for you, and then you kiss me and we just finish making the sweets even though I don’t think I really saw them. And then, right in the kitchen, this orange tree just starts growing out of nowhere.” He pauses, thoughtful. “It was probably my fault,” he decides after a moment. “But that’s it. That was my—fantasy, I suppose.”
Mito blinks. She doesn’t look offput. Just contemplative. Then, she says, “It sounds almost prophetic.”
“Prophetic?” Hashirama repeats, brows rising. “You think so?”
“Well, orange trees can be symbolic. I don’t know about Fire, but back home, they symbolise purity and innocence.” She leans closer ever so slightly and adds, “They also represent hope for a fruitful union.”
“Fruitful union?” Hashirama tries to sound exasperated, misses and lands somewhere on hopelessly fond. “Very funny.”
“I’m glad you think so.”
The thing about a shinobi settlement as detailed in the proposal the Uchiha clan received is that it demands abandoning a survivalist mentality in favour of a more pragmatic, community-based approach that sounds almost blasphemous to war-weary shinobi who have grown to be suspicious of everything.
The proposal had come alone with a packet of papers elaborating on possible legislation and execution, outlining goals, budgets and plans for the next five years, and extensively discussing benefits and likely issues along with potential solutions. They’d had the whole thing copied and distributed among the key members of the Uchiha, and it had taken a week just to complete the initial read through with everyone present.
Now, halfway through the second week since they received the proposal, they are still debating the pros and cons of this commitment. Izuna thinks it’s funny; they’re all acting like there’s any real choice to be found here.
Not just because Madara has already decided for them and is pretty much just playing nice until he can trick majority of the clan into thinking they chose this all by themselves, but also because it’d be akin to ritual suicide for the Uchiha to pass up on this invite. They’d make social outcasts of themselves, lose favour in the Daimyo’s court, and lose clients who’d probably prefer the variety afforded to them from a village. It’d be highly unsustainable, and they’d risk dying out without their main source of income. Izuna knows there’s no turning this offer down.
He also knows why most of the advisory council is so apprehensive. A lot of them have gotten comfortable with their perceived power and the respect it affords them in the clan. They’re used to having considerable sway and the weight put on their words because they help dictate the fates of their fellow clansmen. If the Uchiha join a village with such comprehensive plans for a collaborative government that will be making the laws (barring certain, non-negotiable clan laws according to the tentative plan), a fat majority of this council will become redundant and be reduced to little more than accessories for mundane decision-making. It’s making them shifty and nervous to agree to letting go of this control.
Madara scoffs at them when they’re in private, but on some level, Izuna can sympathise with the uneasiness.
To him, it’s less of a matter of losing relevancy (he’ll be clan heir no matter what after all), and more so that there’s no going back if this does happen. If they help establish this village, then there’s nowhere to hide in case something goes wrong. They’ll be giving up some of their autonomy and allowing themselves to be subject to the majority’s opinion which may or may not be favourable to them. They’ll go from waging war outright to more subtle political machinations which are far less direct but still fairly dangerous. They’ll have to give up their ancestral grounds and move to wherever this village sets up which means that there’s no leaving if they ever change their minds in the future. Not everyone in the clan will want to leave the ancestral compound in the first place.
For better or for worse, there will be no undoing this decision. Izuna can’t help but find that terrifying.
His mind runs in circles as he thinks of the worst possible outcomes and frets over how he could solve them, spiralling like he hasn’t in months. It’s cloying, like a buzzing under his skin that he can’t claw out no matter how hard he tries, and Izuna can’t help the nauseating mix of disappointment and fear that churns in his stomach.
He’s been doing well lately. The nightmares have been at bay, the complex tangle of his feelings regarding Akio and his death has felt less accusatory, the constant terror and paranoia of waiting for the next battle or betrayal have finally abated. Izuna has been more focused, more patient and level-headed, and almost content. Madara has finally stopped looking at him like he’s worried Izuna will snap and run away to live on the volcano at the earliest inconvenience. Izuna has been good.
With the return of this anxiety and uncertainty, however, it feels almost like all of that had been for naught. Like he’d made it up and he’s just as volatile as he always has been. Izuna feels like an open wound, like he’s festering rot and will bring ruin to all that he touches if he doesn’t get himself under control soon.
He’d go to his brother, but Madara will worry and get that look in his eyes and start treating Izuna like he’s made of glass again. It will distract from the major decisions being made about their clan and, now that Izuna has seen how overjoyed Madara is to be so close to realising his childhood dream, he doesn’t want to taint the experience for his brother. He’s done enough of that over several years as it is.
So, Izuna keeps his reservations and fears to himself, and instead busies himself with simply following Madara’s lead to get this done. After all, despite his concerns, he’s still cognizant of how there’s only the illusion of a choice in joining this alliance. He throws himself into smoothing over ruffled feathers and putting out eyes and ears everywhere to squash any discontent before it can properly brew, leaving Madara free to argue with his council until at least majority of them are in favour.
“I had to stake my own name and honour on this succeeding for them to stop arguing further,” Madara admits later since Izuna missed the latest council meeting to spend the day chatting with the civilians about this move. The clan head presses his signet ring into wax and then uses it to sign the document confirming the Uchiha’s participation in the alliance, as well as the letter formally agreeing to an alliance with the Senju.
Izuna watches silently, heartbeat loud out of nervousness despite the outward peacefulness of this moment shared between just him and his brother. Madara waits for the ink to dry, methodically rolls up both letters and seals them shut before carefully tying them to the leg of his personal messenger hawk. The bird takes flight soon after, its form becoming little more than a speck in the sky under both of their eyes.
Izuna breathes slowly.
“It’s done.”
The arrangements for the formal signing of the Naka River Agreement are hastily thrown together four days before Hashirama is due to leave for the capital to finally approach the Daimyo about the village. It’s a smaller affair than either clan had expected, but perhaps this is for the best. The sooner they can get the ceremonies out of the way and focus on the next big task, the better.
Tobirama sits through the long meeting where the very last kinks in the terms of their alliance are ironed out. There’s an understanding to gloss over details like trade agreements and pledges of aid since these things could very well become irrelevant if the village is sanctioned. It’s mostly just a written statement pledging both sides to ending the centuries’ long war between them.
Honestly, the most interesting part of the affair is the luncheon held after the signing is done and both copies of the treaty are sealed away for posterity. The idea is for this select group of people from both clans to start mingling and smoothing over the frayed Senju-Uchiha relations. From the Senju’s side, Hashirama has brought along some of the more pacifist elders, his most trusted generals and informants, a few of the more receptive civilians and the healers who went on the relief mission to the Uchiha compound. Tobirama spots a few familiar faces in the Uchiha camp (including Kagami’s mother who he offers a nod in greeting), though most of their names allude him despite both sets of his memories featuring them.
As soon as the meeting is adjourned for lunch, Madara is marching over the unsaid boundary right into Senju territory, a stubborn scowl set on his face as he beelines for Hashirama. Tobirama keeps his shoulders loose, his body relaxed even as he takes one step back out of deference for his brother’s privacy despite how seeing Madara like this—as though the Uchiha is marching to battle—sets his nerves on edge and makes him to snap his teeth in warning. He exhales carefully and takes another step to the side.
“I owe you an apology,” Madara says without preamble, “as well as my sincere gratitude. You kept faith in our dream when I did not. If we are here today, it is only because—”
“It’s alright, Madara,” Hashirama interrupts, and even with his smile too reserved to be fully honest, his eyes are warm and his voice is soft. “I understand. I can’t honestly say I wasn’t…upset, but it’s alright because we’re here now. We finally made it happen. Both of us. Isn’t that really matters in the end?”
Uchiha Madara looks young and bemused and achingly hopeful all at once. His voice is hoarse as he says, “Yes. Yes, I suppose it is.”
Tobirama looks away, suddenly feeling like he is intruding. A cursory glance around the gathering shows him that he isn’t the only one hastily finding something to occupy himself with to give the two clan heads the illusion of discretion—as much is possible when surrounded by shinobi anyways. Taking the cue from Hashirama and Madara, a few others are tentatively crossing borders as well now. The Senju medics are the least reserved about it as they are most familiar with their former enemies, and Touka has never been one to shy away from a challenge, so she too has thrown herself right into the fray and cornered a bewildered looking Uchiha Hikaku into conversation.
He casts his eyes over the crowd, idly drifting towards the fringes where he’ll be able to observe undisturbed when his gaze catches. Tobirama blinks, step faltering as he meets the stare of one Uchiha Izuna.
For a moment, they simply watch each other. Izuna’s arms are folded, though he is noticeably careful to not crease the sleeves of his indigo kimono. His face is unreadable, and when Tobirama extends his senses to survey his chakra, Izuna’s signature hangs suspended around him like a cloak of stillness. It’s unusual for someone like Izuna, whose large reserves and proclivity for ninjutsu means that his chakra output is naturally an active one even it is in its passive state, and is even more telling when he feels emotional, which is often. He is rather like Hashirama in this way.
Tobirama arches a brow in silent question. A beat passes, and then Izuna dips his chin ever so slightly in acceptance. Tobirama sweeps across the rest of the distance between them and comes to rest at his rival’s side.
“Peace,” Izuna says apropos of nothing as he looks out at the slow merging of their clansmen.
Hesitation and tension are palpable in the air, and Tobirama has to stop himself from wrinkling his nose at the feel of so much collective apprehension off the battlefield. But he also picks up on curiosity, bemusement and surprise in equal measure, and…it is almost worth it.
He returns, “Peace.”
Izuna inhales slowly. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
In another lifetime, he hadn’t. Tobirama had almost forgotten that. In the future-past that exists only in his head now, they had built peace on the back of Izuna’s death and the way his absence gutted Madara enough for him to give up on warring entirely. Yet, today, Uchiha Izuna too has seen the birth of this new era because Tobirama had done enough to change his fate.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Tobirama says without even meaning to as he realises this truth for himself.
Izuna’s unreadable mask slips for a moment as surprise flickers across his face before he schools it back into neutrality. Glancing sidelong at Tobirama, he inclines his head and poses, “Feeling sentimental, are we?”
Tobirama’s lips twitch despite the ribbing. “Maybe,” he allows. “Some allowances can be made for special occasions.”
“Well, if there ever was a special occasion,” Izuna remarks wryly. He unfolds his arms to slide his hand into his sleeve and pull out a folding fan that he smoothly whips open to hold before his mouth, effectively hiding half his face from anyone trying to look. Izuna sighs, and Tobirama is intrigued to observe the subtle relief in his body language now that he has something of a barrier to hide behind. “I suppose now we have no way of keeping Kagami away from you.”
Tobirama smiles more fully. “I trust that he is well.”
Izuna snorts. “A little too well if you ask me. He’s been a staunch advocate for this treaty, you know.” He pauses and tosses a meaningful look at Tobirama. “Though everyone knows about his ulterior motives.”
How flattering. “Kagami-kun really is a wonderful child. I look forward to seeing him again.”
“He’s been talking about wanting to see your lab.”
“The lab?” Tobirama considers this carefully. “Arrangements can be made,” he decides. He can child-proof a portion of his laboratory and make sure to keep Kagami sufficiently occupied and contained there.
This appears to surprise Izuna. “Really?” The Uchiha heir peers at him curiously. “I would have thought your workspace would be more off-limits.”
“It is usually,” Tobirama accepts. “Largely so I can keep anija out,” he adds, jutting his chin out in his brother’s direction, “but I’m not necessarily against visitors so long as some ground rules are followed. I deal with lots of sensitive equipment and temperamental experiments, and caution must be taken.” Tobirama stops, blinking. “You’d be welcome to visit,” he offers haltingly, suddenly unsure. “If you’d like, that is.”
Izuna’s eyebrows rise. “An invitation to the genius scientist’s personal lab? I’d be a fool to refuse such a generous offer.”
Rolling his eyes, Tobirama says, “Genius is a subjective term—there is no true objective way to quantify intelligence.”
“Humility doesn’t suit you at all,” Izuna observes blandly. He folds his fan and idly taps his chin with the tip as he regards Tobirama with open contemplation. “I do have something to return to you,” he says after a moment.
Tobirama had almost forgotten. “Perhaps you will be kind enough to play the koto as well,” he suggests softly. “You did offer once.”
“I’m surprised you remember,” Izuna says, and his bemusement is genuine.
Of course. It had made an impression on Tobirama along with the startling realisation that perhaps he hadn’t really known Izuna too well at all. He’d had no idea his old enemy knew to play, let alone enjoyed it enough to suggest having a career as a composer even if only in some hypothetical reality. The curiosity born by Izuna’s half-hearted offer at the time had similarly stuck with him as well.
Tobirama shrugs and doesn’t answer, lacking the words to explain just why he remembered something relatively inconsequential simply because it was Izuna who told him.
Izuna hums, meeting his gaze briefly before smiling, small but true, and turning back to the mingling crowds. “Very well, Tobirama,” he accepts. “I will write to you so we can set up a formal appointment for myself and Kagami.”
Tobirama smiles as well, unbidden, and dips his head ever so slightly. “I will look forward to hearing from you.”
The Daimyo is wary.
For all that Senju Hashirama is a charming and convincing speaker, delivering his two-hour presentation with unfaltering confidence and obvious passion, it doesn’t change just how unconventional the idea of a shinobi settlement is. Not to mention, the Daimyo is bound to suspect collusion if he hands off the military reigns to them entirely—after all, the man must remember how only three decades ago, the previous generation of the Daimyo banded together to overthrow the Emperor and undo the unification of the Five Elemental Nations. It’s natural that he is seeing parallels where there aren’t necessarily any.
“This is going to take a while,” Shikataro states grimly at the gathering of the clan heads of their alliance held after the presentation.
“We will have to secure more support within the court and the capital if we wish to have the proposal accepted,” Akimichi Chosuke agrees. “We alone will not be enough.”
“It’s a shame the Uchiha couldn’t make it,” Yamanaka Inoue sighs. “Their presence would have helped at least a little bit.”
Hashirama offers an apologetic smile on behalf of his newest allies. “It was a bit short notice for them unfortunately. Perhaps next time.”
Sarutobi Sasuke surveys the occupants of the room with pursed lips. “Speaking of next time,” he says, “we might have to rethink our strategy. We’ve already begun approaching our contacts, but the Daimyo was more apprehensive than I anticipated.”
Yashogoro Maya nods gravely. “Indeed; we may need more help than we accounted for.”
“We’re already approaching the contacts who’d have influence over the Daimyo though,” Inoue points out.
Shikataro watches them with half-lidded eyes, considering the dilemma. “Not necessarily,” he says after a moment of tense silence. Immediately, all eyes turn to him and he fights not to shift in discomfort under the weighted attention of so many powerful shinobi. Chosuke smiles encouragingly at him and Shikataro bites the inside of his cheek before continuing, “The Daimyo is a major patron of the arts and sciences, and almost every member of his court is either an alumnus of one of the major universities in the capital or is closely related to someone who is. A lot of the capital is home to artists and scholars too. If we can convince them that a shinobi village serving as a major military base for the country is a good idea, the Daimyo will be under more pressure to hear us out.”
Hashirama blinks as he processes what Shikataro is hinting at. “You want us to appeal to the students and the scholars of the courts,” he concludes.
“The universities make for a pretty politically charged environment actually,” Shikataro confirms with a careless shrug. “They are full of well-connected people and can also serve as a middle ground to reach other influential members of court that we don’t have direct access to. As long as they think they have something to gain from this, I bet they’ll bite.”
Sasuke is frowning thoughtfully as he asks, “But how would we go about convincing these people?”
“We’re back at the start of the issue,” Maya says.
But Chosuke looks like he’s catching on, which is unsurprising since he’s an alumnus of the University that Shikataro himself attends now. “The newsletter,” he says knowingly, smiling once he catches the younger boy’s eye and receives a nod in confirmation.
“The arts department runs weekly and monthly publications that are an accessible and fairly popular source of news for most of the capital,” Shikataro explains for those who don’t know. “I’m…familiar with one of the people in charge of running it. If we submit articles or essays that are compelling enough in their argument, it is likely the paper will run it. It might take a while and several articles, but we’d reach a lot of people at once.”
Chosuke nods. “They also hold public debates and presentations that are open to anyone for participation provided they’re on an approved list.”
Hashirama looks encouraged by this direction. “We’re going to be busy networking for a while anyways. I think it’s worth a shot.”
Sasuke hums. “But who will write these articles?”
“My heir—Tobirama—has practically been doing as much for the written proposals anyways. I will ask if he is willing to assist us with this endeavour as well,” Hashirama says immediately with the quiet confidence of a man assured in his brother’s devotion to him and his cause.
Shikataro purses his lips, exhaling slowly through his nose and feeling vaguely like he is walking himself to slaughter. “I can probably help as well,” he volunteers begrudgingly, steadfastly ignoring the looks of surprised approval being shot at him by Chosuke and Inoue. No doubt they’ll report to his mother about this and she’ll be insufferable in her teasing and prodding for the next two weeks.
“My daughter can also extend her expertise,” Maya says decisively. Her daughter is currently a junior professor of juridical science at the University; her help would be undoubtedly priceless.
“Sounds like we have a plan of action then,” Inoue remarks, sounding pleased.
“It will be helpful if you can remain in the capital to work on this angle closely,” Chosuke points out. It is a silent invitation to occupy the Akimichi’s capital residence as Shikataro does during term time when he is not staying in the university dormitories. Shikataro dips his head in acceptance and gratitude.
“I will let my brother know as well,” Hashirama murmurs, more to himself than anyone else.
Reluctantly, Shikataro perks up at that. If he is to be stuck in misery of his own making for the foreseeable future, at least he will have a friend to suffer along with him.
After all, misery loves company.