Jesses and Other Means of Control [REWRITE; HIATUS]

The black smartphone buzzed angrily on the steel tabletop. Madara let the cleaver fall with a mighty thwack, splitting the rat cleaning down the middle; then he peeled the plastic gloves off his hands and squinted at the cracked screen.

 - Izuna 15:39

hey can u come pick me up

Madara frowned to himself.

-  15:40

Shouldn’t you be in class

The reply was instantaneous.

- Izuna 15:40

class just got out duh

prof let us go early

Madara’s mouth twisted. Izuna was supposed to have been busy until 16:30, at least – enough time for Madara to finish the day’s tasks at the Conservatory. Oh well. Izuna was just going to have to do his homework in the office.

Madara bagged the bisected rat and crammed it into the over-full fridge, pulled the cleaver out of the cutting board and shunted them both carelessly into the sink, and washed his hands with mechanical efficiency.

- Izuna 15:46

met somebody in class today

Madara grabbed the black hoodie off the hook by the prep room door. Car keys jangled from the front pocket as he pulled it over his head.

- Izuna 15:47

hes kind of a dick but i think ud like him

Madara didn’t bother to lock the door behind him as he strolled down the gravel path towards the parking lot. The Conservatory was far from any pedestrian malls, and the only thing of value in the prep room was a freezer full of vermin. The gravel path led him behind a row of mews. Faint rustling could be heard from inside.

“See you soon,” Madara said. The birds didn’t say anything back.

- Izuna 15:50

anyway im gonna b at the library cafe

do u want a latte

Madara slid into the driver’s seat of his shitty sedan and thumbed out, Just a black coffee. Then he turned the key in the ignition – please god don’t let today be the day okay there we go – and pulled out of the lot.

Madara’s life was simple these days. He took care of the birds; he kept an eye on Izuna. He stuck to his routine. He kept it together. Sometimes, keeping it together was all he could do. Today was one of the better ones – he’d actually managed to drag himself into the shower before slogging into work. His hair was curling slightly on the ends. He’d need to cut it again soon.

The drive into the city was short. The Conservatory was on the far side of a nature reserve, but the road cut directly through to the industrial district, and from there it was only a short distance to the university campus. The flowering trees were beginning to bud – the violent green of fresh spring was unfurling in their branches.

Madara pulled up alongside a large brick building and honked, eliciting sour looks from the college students passing along the sidewalk. He waited a second, then wrenched the gear shift into something approaching ‘P’ and pulled out his phone.

- 16:15

I’m here

- Izuna 16:15

outside the library?

- 16:15

where else?

- Izuna 16:15

lol b right there gimme sec

Madara rolled his eyes and pocketed the phone. A police car drove past, windows rolled down. The Uchiha family mon was painted in red and white on the license plate.

Izuna knocked against the passenger side window with a knuckle, a large white paper coffee cup in each hand. Madara stretched over and popped the door latch.

“Hey,” Izuna said, sliding into the seat and wriggling out of his backpack.

“Hey,” Madara echoed, pulling the car into the street. “Professor let you go early?”

“Yeah,” Izuna said, taking a cautious sip from one of the cups. His face twisted. “This one’s yours.”

“Pussy.”

“Yeah, you’re a big tough guy, drinking your coffee black. Here.” He managed to fit the cup into the broken cup holder between them.

“You got a lot of homework?”

“Ehh.” Izuna wiggled his hand. “We’re only like a month into the semester. I have some reading for history, an assignment from calc, and –” Izuna’s lips curled at the edges. “– a project to draft for biochem.”

Madara raised his eyebrows. “A project?”

“Yeah,” Izuna said, popping the white plastic lid off his own cup. “Apparently the semester’s ‘big assignment’ is going to be drafting up some kind of experiment proposal.”

“Sounds like a pain in the ass.”

“It is!” Izuna swirled the frothy milk, then took a tentative sip. “But, it means I’ll have an excuse to bother the TA outside of office hours.”

Madara pulled into the turn lane, blinker clicking tiredly in the dash. “Is this TA the guy you were texting me about?”

“I never said it was a guy –”

Madara shot him a withering look.

“Okay, yeah, fine, whatever – I don’t remember his name, but he’s got, like, white hair, and –”

Madara’s face cracked into a grin. “Are you – what’s the opposite of cradle robbing? Grave robbing?”

“Shut up, nii-san, it’s not like that – he’s albino, or something.”

Madara guffawed. “Oh, so he’s just malformed, got it.”

“Why are you like this,” Izuna whined, slumping back in the seat. “He’s hot, nii-san.”

“I’m sure he is,” Madara said placatingly, turning them onto the gravel road.

Izuna blinked. “Are we going back to the Conservatory?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought you were going to show me your apartment today.”

Madara snorted. “Don’t sound so disappointed, Izuna, you’re not missing much. I still need to finish meal prep and clean out Kuruma’s mew before I can leave.”

Izuna wrinkled his nose. “Gross. Hope you’re not expecting me to help with that.”

“Never,” Madara said with complete seriousness. “Kuruma’s a mean old bitch. He’d go straight for your eyes.” He sighed fondly as the green Conservatory roof came into sight. “I love that bird.”

The car came slowly to a stop in the parking lot, the brakes squealing in displeasure. Izuna hopped out of the car, backpack swinging from his shoulder.

“It’s unlocked,” Madara called to him from the driver’s seat. He delicately extracted the paper coffee cup from the holder and popped the lid off, setting it on the dashboard. Then, with his other hand, he pulled the phone out from his back pocket and scrolled through the contact list until he reached the surnames beginning with S. He took a sip of coffee – bitter, had clearly been left in the pot too long – and let his thumb hover over the name Senju Hashirama.

He could call him. It had been years, and he probably didn’t even have the same phone number anymore, but Madara could call him. Could try to, at least.

Madara took another sip of coffee and shoved the phone back into his jeans. He had rodents to chop. The spring air was bracing through the open car door. Madara finished the coffee in a series of scalding gulps, tossed the empty cup into the back seat, and stood, stretching.

Izuna had already posted himself behind the large desk in the office, laptop braced against a stack of books on natural conservation, earbuds lodged firmly in his ears. Madara nodded at him through the open doorway and proceeded to the prep area, pulling a new pair of plastic gloves from the box near the door.

An hour passed, then two. At last, when every square inch of space in the standing freezer had been filled with vermin, Madara was satisfied. The next ten minutes saw him outside, thick leather glove ad jesses in hand, walking the narrow path to Kuruma’s mew like a man mounting the gallows.

Kuruma was – according to the records, anyway – a ferruginous hawk. Madara disagreed. He rounded the corner of the mew and paused, eyes travelling up to the hulking form on one of the upper perches.

Kuruma glowered down at him, exuding raw malevolence from the knobby tree branch. There was bloodlust in his eyes. Madara took a second to strengthen his resolve; then, like Izanagi descending into the Underworld, he opened the door latch.

“Twenty-seven percent,” Tobirama said, without looking away from the microscope. “It was twenty-five yesterday. Hand me that log?”

Hashirama passed him the battered notebook over the cluttered countertop. “Butsuma’ll be happy.”

Tobirama tore his gaze away from the cell culture in front of him to send Hashirama a dark look. “No, he won’t.”

Hashirama sighed and leaned back in the office chair. “No, he won’t.”

Tobirama twisted a knob on the microscope and scribbled something onto the crackling paper. “I don’t get why you can’t just –” He cut himself off with a click of teeth.

Hashirama watched him fiddle with the dials and said nothing. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. At last, he said, “I’m getting closer, at least.”

“It’s been years,” Tobirama said. His hands were still on the microscope’s dial, but his eyes were unfocused. “He can’t seriously still expect to get results at this point.”

Hashirama didn’t respond. Tobirama wasn’t really talking to him, anyway. He stood, popping his back. “Do you need me for anything else, Tobirama? I need to get back to the shop.”

“No,” Tobirama said, turning in his chair to inspect a row of small glass vials with bright plastic orange caps. “I should have all the samples I need for this week. Keep trying in the meantime.”

“Uh huh,” Hashirama said, picking his way out from behind the long metal table. “I’m getting a shipment of geraniums tonight. I’ll bring you one tomorrow!”

Tobirama grunted noncommittally, pen scratching against his notebook.

Hashirama mounted the stairs out of the brightly lit basement and stood for a minute in the hallway, willing his hands to relax out of the fists they’d formed. He could remember better times with his brother. Not that times were bad now, but – they used to be better. They used to actually be able to have a conversation beyond ‘nice weather’ and ‘pH is trending again.’

Whatever. Didn’t matter! Hashirama had a shipment to sign for. He pulled his coat off the hook by the front door, ignoring how the wood shuddered at his touch, and considered getting himself coffee on the way home. If he made it in time, they might still have pastries left over from the morning.

Tobirama’s front door swung shut behind him, and Hashirama breathed out into the cool night air. He tipped his head back, briefly, and drank in the sight of the fat moon sitting, swollen, over the glittering and tall buildings of the financial district. Far in the distance, on the highest building of the lot, picked out in brilliant white LEDs, the Senju clan’s mon glowed in the night.  

Heat. The acrid stench of blood. The grinding glass under his knees as he pinned the older man to the floor. Vines, twining through the vents, choking out the light. The red haze that suffused the air, that clogged the nostrils and stuck to the back of his throat like syrup. Blood on his fists; the bones of his knuckles breaking under the impact. The ragged claw marks down his face and neck where the other man tried to fight him off. Vines erupting through the floorboards. Clumps of flesh and matted bits of hair sticking between his fingers.

Madara woke like a gun had gone off, body flying off of the ragged futon like a bullet. It took him a full second to process his surroundings – not the dorm room, but his apartment; shitty carpet, instead of polished hard wood; the hazy yellow streetlight filtering in through the broken blinds on the window. Madara’s back was drenched in sweat – the room felt stiflingly close, the air heavy and humid.  He ran a shaking hand through the damp, tangled tresses of his hair and hissed out a curse. His voice was hoarse. He could feel his heartbeat pounding in his ears, his nervous system still screaming at him to run, run, run – yeah, he wasn’t going back to sleep tonight.

Madara forced his legs to move towards the tangled mass of clothes that littered the floor around his duffle bag, and dropped to his knees, hands searching blindly for a clean shirt. He peeled the sweat-soaked gray tee-shirt from his back with a grimace and threw it onto the floor. He was going to have to do laundry soon. That meant driving to the laundromat, paying for parking, paying for the laundry service, driving home. Fucking laundry. Fuck.

Madara sat back on his heels and pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes. After a long minute, he turned, and fumbled for his phone. 04:13. Of course. He flicked the screen over to the messages tab and wrote Don’t forget to eat breakfast before class, Izuna. The message sent with a tinny whoosh. He then staggered to his feet, both shirts left forgotten on the floor, and made his way into the cramped kitchenette, fumbling for sink tap. The water was bitingly cold, and Madara couldn’t be bothered to find the dish soap – did he even have any dish soap left? Didn’t matter. He scrubbed his palms with his nails; between the fingers, around the dull crescents of the nail beds. He stopped only once his fingertips had begun to prune, turned the sink off, leaned against the stainless steel ledge, violently suppressed the frustrated shriek building in his chest.

The Conservatory. The weathering yard needed to be mowed. By the time he got there it’d be five o’clock, which meant he wouldn’t be violating his curfew. Madara pushed away from the sink, back towards the clean shirt he’d left next to the duffle bag; seized his keys and wallet from the floor by the futon, and left, slamming the apartment door behind him.

The cracked black smartphone screen lit up from the floor.

- Izuna 04:16

bro how r u already awake

Tobirama scowled at the projector. It was supposed to be showing his laptop screen, and all it was doing was flashing an incomprehensible string of numbers onto the board. It was, objectively, the worst piece of machinery in the building – and that was including the centrifuges in lab four.

There were ten minutes left until the start of class. Tobirama held down the power button with the steely vengeance of a matron drowning a bastard child in her bathtub – the light in the projector sputtered meekly and died.

“Hey, professor.”

Tobirama closed his eyes. It was going to be one of those classes, wasn’t it? “Not a professor,” he said without turning around. “Just a TA. We’ve been over this.”

“Sure, but the actual professor hasn’t even come to a single class,” Izuna said, letting his backpack fall into the open seat nearest the front desk. He lounged back against the polished wood surface of the table, a languid smile coiling through his mouth. “Having trouble with the projector?”

“No,” Tobirama said, ripping the power cord free of its socket.

“If it’s giving you a random string of numbers, it means it’s not level,” Izuna continued, damnable smile still curling his lips. “It’s real bitchy about that.”

Tobirama narrowed his eyes at him from over the top of the projector. Izuna returned his gaze serenely. His grin deepened. Tobirama turned towards the projector’s knobby little feet. They were uneven. Bastard.

“By the way,” Izuna said. “Since we’re on the subject, how are you a TA? You’re a year younger than I am.”

Tobirama’s head jerked up to stare flatly at the man across from him. “Where did you get that idea?”

“Your file. Obviously.”

“My file –” Tobirama shut his eyes again and drew in a measured breath. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Violations of my privacy aside, it’s none of your business.”

Izuna cocked his head. “I just think it’s impressive, is all. I mean, I’m only a Sophmore, and here you are, leading your own class.”

“Don’t flatter me,” Tobirama said flatly. “It’s not like this is a hard subject.”

“It can be,” Izuna said, and – was that a wink? Before Tobirama could respond, the old wooden doors to the lecture hall were opening, the students poured in like livestock being herded into pasture. Under the dull chaos of books and bags being unloaded onto weathered countertops, Izuna slipped back into his desk, a picture of politely studious attention.

Tobirama gritted his teeth and forced the projector cord back into the wall socket. Ignoring him during class would be easy enough – he’d had a lifetime of practice ignoring people, after all.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

- xxx-xxx-4032 08:01

btw im planning a party

well partys kind of a big word

but like a get together

soiree

fete

whatever

u should come

might loosen u up a little ;)

Tobirama stared blankly at the phone for a solid minute as the clamor began to subside in the hall. Then, inexorably, his eyes were dragged over to Izuna, sitting in the front row. He waved.

Tobirama blocked the number.