Jesses and Other Means of Control [REWRITE; HIATUS]

Hashirama sat under the bright fluorescent light, one hand flat on the shallow tray of soil in front of him, the other hooked up to a thick plastic monitor that printed out a steady stream of numbers. Tobirama stood in front of him, pen and notebook at the ready.

“Go,” came the flat order.

Growth erupted from the tray. Delicate green sprouts unfurled into existence, vibrant and shivering under the harsh light. The soil cracked and buckled; pale white roots slithered through the thin crust.

The machine beeped.

“Stop,” Tobirama said.

The plants stopped.

Tobirama took the tray out from under Hashirama’s hand and carried it to a bare metal shelf on the far side of the room. He hung a metal tag underneath it and wrote 37-B on it in black marker.

“Alright,” he said, capping the marker. “I’m going to go collect specimens 30 through 36. Do you want a gas mask?”

“No,” Hashirama said.

Tobirama turned and made his way towards the far end of the basement. There was a large, gently humming laminar flow cabinet bolted to the floor. A tray with six plugs of dirt sat innocently behind a thick plexiglass barrier.  Tobirama unclipped a gas mask from the holder on the wall beside it, pulled it over his face, and unlatched the front panel.

Hashirama watched him place the tray on the small table in front of him in silence.

Tobirama pointed at the green sprout to the far left – there was a small 30 marked on the tray in permanent marker – and held up three fingers; two fingers; one finger.

Hashirama rested his hand on the patch of dirt by the delicate stalk. The roots thickened; widened; they broke deeper into the earth and greedily began to drink up the moisture they found there. The leaves shivered and split – the stalk began to twist and bend. 

Tobirama bent over to look at the small stream of numbers being printed by the machine. He made a motion for Hashirama to stop.

Hashirama set his hand next to the sprout labelled 31. Tobirama raised his hand again – three, two, one.

This stalk grew faster. The leaves split and the green divided into small vines, curling, twining, searching – at the base of it, on the ever-twisting stem, a bud began to form.

The machine beeped. Tobirama made a cutting motion with his hand. Hashirama stopped. Tobirama bent over to scribble something in a notebook; then he went to go get a small, thin-walled plastic pot from a shelf near the stairs. He set it on a tray; he wrote down the gross weight, tared the scale; he shook a handful of black soil into the pot; he wrote down the net weight of the soil. He brought this back to the small table in front of Hashirama, then, after dusting his hands, pointed at the sprout labelled 32.

And on it went.

Specimens 31 and 34 were repotted into the larger containers; specimens 30, 32, 33, 35, and 36 were sealed in a paper bag and thrown into a box with To be incinerated scrawled on the side. 31 and 34 were returned to their plexiglass prison, and, finally, Tobirama pulled the gas mask off of his face with a sigh of relief.

Hashirama sat motionlessly in the chair, hand still hooked up to the machine spitting out data.

“We’re done,” Tobirama said, walking over and flicking a switch on the machine. It died with a pop.

Hashirama began to peel the probes off of his skin. “When is your next report to Butsuma?”

“This weekend,” Tobirama said, gathering up the long spool of paper that had piled onto the floor. “I’m… not looking forward to it.”

Hashirama shook out his arms and cracked his neck, saying, “I could come with, if you want.”

“No,” Tobirama replied, uncapping a pen between his teeth and scribbling the date on the top of the paper. “That’s not necessary. You’d just make it worse.”

“Probably,” Hashirama said. He began to move towards the stairs.

“Hashirama,” Tobirama said suddenly, snapping shut a file. “Are you – busy?”

Hashirama blinked at him owlishly. “Uh,” he said. “No?” All he had left to do today was prune the bonsai in his living room. Did Tobirama need more tests?

“Do you still drink coffee?” Tobirama asked.

Hashirama squinted at him, nonplussed. “…Yes?”

“Let’s go get coffee,” Tobirama said firmly, briskly filing the folder into a squat metal cabinet and grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair.

“I – uh – okay,” Hashirama said blankly, moving to let him proceed up the stairs. “What brought this – I mean, aren’t you busy?”

“The samples aren’t going to walk away, anija.” Tobirama paused at the top of the stairs, then turned and stared down at Hashirama. “… They’re not going to walk away, right?”

Hashirama looked over at the hermetically sealed plexiglass case, then back up at his brother. “As… far as I know?”

“Okay. Good. We’re getting coffee. Let’s go.”

They’d barely gotten outside when Tobirama slapped his forehead. “Forgot to set the pH probes,” he said, rushing back inside.

“I’ll start the car!” Hashirama called, still feeling very off-kilter about the whole thing. If Tobirama wasn’t the least duplicitous person Hashirama knew, he would suspect an ulterior motive – his little brother, volunteering to spend time with him? And not even coming up with a contrived excuse for it? Wild.

He needed to drag him to parties more often.

Tobirama slid into the passenger’s seat, fingers flying over his phone keyboard. Hashirama caught a glimpse of his screen as he backed the car out of the driveway.

- 15:22

I thought I blocked this number.

 - xxx-xxx-4032 15:22

block better next time lol

The Spring Avenue Café was a bright, airy building with large windows and wide, cushioned seats. A wrought-iron fence bordered in the sidewalk patio, and thick, verdant plants hung in coco wire baskets from the porch roof. It was Hashirama’s favorite café in the district. It was also one of his best customers. The pothos on the edge of the patio shivered as the car pulled up to the curb.

Hashirama stood, stretching. “Do you know what you want?” he asked Tobirama as he rounded the car.

Tobirama looked up from his phone like he’d just realized where he was. “Uh.”

“I’ll order you something,” Hashirama said brightly. “A cappuccino?” He stepped over the low iron fence and let his fingers brush the ferns overhead, as if in greeting, before walking through the open blue door to the building. The warm glow of the incandescent lights overhead illuminated the crowded interior of the café – more plants, trailing over shelves bolted to the brick walls, hanging from the exposed I-beams that spanned the length of the café’s ceiling; long, dark wooden tables, the enamel scuffed and worn from years of heavy use. College students, businessmen, and doctors from the hospital across the street littered the café. The low murmur of conversation was punctuated by the hot hiss of the espresso machine’s steam wand.

The barista behind the counter spotted Hashirama soaking in the warm atmosphere and waved, smiling widely at him over the steaming pitcher of milk in her hands.

Hashirama wandered up to the register and rested his elbows on the cracked marble countertop. “Busy today!” he said.

The barista laughed as she poured the latte – a delicately twisting rosetta – and turned to call to the customer at the other end of the bar. Rinsing out the pitcher and drying her hands, she turned back to Hashirama with a smile. “What can I get you today, Mr. Senju?”

“Senju?” One of the businessmen at a nearby table twisted around to look at him. “Are you part of the main branch, or –”

“Distant cousin,” Hashirama interrupted, raising his hand apologetically. “Sorry. No direct relation.”

The businessman frowned and turned back to his laptop.

The barista watched this exchange with her hands folded politely in front of her; as Hashirama turned back to face her, she raised her eyebrows.

“I’ll have a latte, and my brother’ll take a cappuccino,” Hashirama said. “How’s the aglaonema?”

“Flourishing,” the barista said. “Like everything else we buy from you. Not sure what black magic you do in that shop, but –”

“It’s not me.” Hashirama laughed off the praise, waving his hand. “You’re the ones taking care of it now.”

“Uh huh,” the barista said, accepting the twenty and popping open the drawer. “I’ll call your name when your drinks are ready, Mr. Senju.”

“Thanks!” Hashirama said. He began to head back towards the entrance. Tobirama had just ducked inside, still frowning down at his phone. Just as Hashirama opened his mouth to say something, a figure leaned with exaggerated nonchalance on the wall beside him.

Hashirama froze.

“Oh, excuse me –” said someone behind him, sidestepping his immobile form.

Hashirama was staring at the person next to his brother. Long, pitch black hair; skin like pale alabaster; black, black eyes. Was it – could it really –

“Well, well,” the figure said, and his voice was completely different than Madara’s – it was a lilting, slippery thing, not the flat growl that Hashirama knew as well as his own heartbeat. He let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “Fancy seeing you here, professor.”

Tobirama jerked like he’d been stung and stared up in askance at the mystery man beside him. “What are you doing here?”

The differences became clearer as Hashirama got closer. He was shorter than Madara; his figure was slender lines where Madara’s had been all rough angles. His hair had none of the wild energy of Madara’s; his lips were fuller. This definitely wasn’t Uchiha Madara… but they had to be related. 

Hashirama hit himself mentally. Of course, they were related. This was the mystery Uchiha his brother had befriended. This city was full of Uchihas – this man might not even know who Madara is.

Tobirama was saying something. “– graduated to full-on stalking, now?”

The man laughed, a show of sharp, white teeth. “You’re stalking me! I arrived first, see?” He pointed to a window seat in the corner. True to his words, there was a laptop plugged into the wall, books scattered in a messy semicircle around a deflated backpack, and a half-drunk mocha.

“Hello,” Hashirama said, finally closing the last few feet between them. “I don’t think we’ve met, yet.”

The man’s eyes grew like saucers. “Oh my god,” he said. “It’s you!”

Tobirama and Hashirama stared at him.

“The guy! From my party!” He slapped Tobirama’s arm with the back of his hand. “Pink Drink guy!”

Tobirama whirled on Hashirama. “That was you?”

Hashirama blinked. “What are you – oh, you mean out on the lawn?” He laughed sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess so?”

“Dude, they have not stopped talking about you,” the man said, crossing his arms and staring at Hashirama with a mixture of admiration, respect, and fear. “You downed like three gallons in the span of like… twenty minutes. Like, not even talking alcohol poisoning – how did your stomach not explode?”

“Medical condition,” Tobirama said automatically. He turned. “We should get out of the doorway. Izuna, we’re taking your table.”

Hashirama faltered. “Wait – Izuna? That’s your name?”

The man laughed. “Oh, my bad – Uchiha Izuna. Nice to meet you, uh –”

“Hashirama,” Hashirama said numbly, offering a hand to shake. “Senju Hashirama.”

Izuna’s smile faded at this for a brief instant. His eyes flicked down to Hashirama’s open hand, then back up to his face. He opened his mouth as if to say something – then shut it again in a close-lipped smile, taking Hashirama’s hand and giving it a single, firm shake.

“Mr. Senju!” called the barista.

“Excuse me,” Hashirama said, turning away.

Uchiha Izuna. Madara’s brother’s name was Uchiha Izuna. This was Madara’s brother. Did he – did that mean that Madara was – could he even ask? How much did Izuna know? Was he even on good terms with his brother, after the incident? He was clearly a college student, an adult, so it wasn’t like he necessarily lived with his brother, but maybe he had a way to contact him? A phone number that actually worked, instead of –

Hashirama accepted the drinks with a smile and turned to walk back to the table.

If Izuna knew, did that mean he knew Hashirama? Did he know Hashirama’s role in what happened, or was he fed the same story as the media and the court? If he knew, would he even be willing to put Hashirama in touch with his older brother? It was a bad idea. It would surely jeopardize some part of his contract with Butsuma – Hashirama didn’t know the specifics, but he did know his father –

What if Madara was in the city, and had been in the city, and just hadn’t contacted Hashirama? What if he just… didn’t want to talk to him?

Tobirama was already sitting at the table with Izuna, looking at something on his laptop screen with a disgusted scowl. Izuna was barely suppressing laughter behind the coffee cup raised to his lips.

Hashirama’s hands tightened on the porcelain mugs. He wouldn’t mention it. If Izuna knew who he was, he’d volunteer that information – no point in Hashirama dragging the messy tangle of his past into Tobirama’s life like this.

Tobirama accepted the cappuccino without tearing his eyes away from the laptop screen. “This is atrocious,” he said. “Hashirama, look at this.”

Hashirama pulled up an empty chair and squinted at the computer. It was a picture of a lab. Some kind of viscous black goo had exploded over all over every visible surface.

“They just left it like that,” Izuna said, raising his eyebrows expressively over the rim of the coffee cup.

“Ew,” Hashirama said. “Do they know who it was?”

Izuna snorted. “No.”

“The cameras in lab six have been broken since last semester,” Tobirama said, pushing the laptop back towards Izuna. “Did they let you move your project?”

“My project was not impacted,” Izuna said succinctly, “as I have not yet started it.”

Tobirama stared at him disbelievingly. “The first dataset was due a week ago. You turned one in – I graded it. What do you mean you haven’t –”

“Did I hear you say you run a plant shop?” Izuna interrupted, smoothly turning towards Hashirama.

“Yeah,” Hashirama said, feeling relieved to be back on familiar ground.

“I’ve been looking for a houseplant or two,” Izuna said. A mischievous twist curled around his mouth. “Do you have a business card? I can text you a picture of the one I want.”

“If you wanted his number, you should’ve just asked me,” Tobirama said.

“You’d lie,” Izuna said blithely. “I really am looking for a houseplant! So suspicious.”

“I don’t have any business cards,” Hashirama said, pulling out his phone. “But I’ll see what I can about the plant situation. What’s your number?”

Tobirama, stone-faced, sipped at his coffee as Izuna rattled off the string of numbers. Hashirama typed out a quick, Hello this is hahsirama! :) and sent it off.

Izuna responded back almost immediately.

- xxx-xxx-4032 15:56

this is the plant ;)

It was a screenshot of an image search for the term dank weed. Hashirama let out a sharp bark of laughter, covering his face. “Yeah,” he said, turning off his phone and reaching for his latte. “Yeah, I could probably do that.”

The sly grin on Izuna’s face turned to astonishment. “Wait, really?”

“Why not? Our father’s always berating me about diversifying my stock, after all.”

Tobirama’s face pinched. “Do I want to know?”

“No,” Izuna and Hashirama said simultaneously.

Madara groggily opened his eyes. The sunlight was shining outside, casting uneven bars of light over the worn carpet floor. His phone buzzed at him again from the floor beside the futon. He covered his eyes with the crook of his elbow and didn’t move.

- Izuna 10:09

hey its been like 3 days

even an old man like u wouldn’t still b hungover at this point

come on dude

text me back

-Izuna 12:32

called the conservatory

they said u haven’t checked in at all

- U. Izuna 17:33

hey hashirama I know ive known u for like 2 days but can u do me a favor

ur the only person I know w a car

- 17:59

Sorry for the wait!! whats the favor

- U. Izuna. Sent You a Map Pin at 18:02

- U. Izuna 18:03

I need 2 b dropped off here? ill pay u for gas I know its a lil far

- 18:03

You dont have to pay me!! do u want me 2 pick u up at the uchha compound?

Also when?? now?

- U. Izuna 18:04

yeah, and now would b best

- 18:06

omw :)

Hashirama raised his eyebrows. “You’re sure you don’t want me to wait for you? It’s really not a problem.”

“I’m sure,” Izuna said, bouncing his leg agitatedly in the passenger’s seat.

Hashirama looked out the windshield at the looming shadows of the industrial district. The setting sun cut fiery streaks across the sky and cast the sides of the old warehouses into deep darkness. “Just a little concerned for your safety,” he said. “This is… not what I’d call a good part of town.”

“No shit,” Izuna muttered. He flashed Hashirama an apologetic smile. “I’m meeting someone, don’t worry.”

“Is this, like… a crime thing?” Hashirama said blankly, turning onto the side street.

Izuna wheezed out a surprised laugh. “No?” he said disbelievingly. “Dude, half my family’s in the police force.”

“It’s the perfect cover.”

Izuna laughed. “God, right? Oh – right up there. Near the post drop box.”

Hashirama pulled up in front of a dilapidated looking apartment building. A streetlight sparked and popped into life overhead, casting a sickly yellow glare over a cracked parking lot. The few cars in front of the entrance looked hunched and resentful in the dying sunlight.

Izuna popped the latch on the door. “I’ll text you if I get murdered,” he said. “But seriously, I’m fine. Thank you for the ride.”

Hashirama waved, watching with anxious eyes as the young man jogged over to the iron gate that barred the front door. It opened with a rusty creak that Hashirama could hear clear across the lot; then, with a flash of dark hair, Izuna disappeared inside.

Massively unsatisfied, Hashirama idled on the street for another five minutes – just to see if he was going to run back out – but it soon became clear he wasn’t coming back. Hashirama shifted gears, pulled up his flower shop in the map, and began to drive home.

There was a dull banging at his apartment door. Madara sat up, rubbing the crust from his eyes, mind blank with confusion. It wasn’t like he was late on the rent – it got dispersed automatically from the trust every month, just like his biweekly checks – so who the fuck was it? A neighbor with a noise complaint? Maybe the sink was leaking again. The pounding resumed in earnest.

Madara staggered to his feet, ambling towards the kitchenette long enough to grab the single chef’s knife from the drawer, and – still rubbing sleep out of his eyes – walked over to the door.

“Who is it?” he rasped.

“Nii-san, it’s me!” came Izuna’s exasperated voice through the thick boards. “Let me in!”

“Izuna?” Madara blinked, squinting in confusion. “How did you get my address?”

“Open the door, nii-san!”

Madara tossed the knife back towards the kitchen sink – it embedded itself in the cabinet with a dull thwack – and unchained the door. He’d barely gotten the deadbolt unlatched when the door burst open and Izuna was shoving his way in. He seized Madara in a hug, but almost immediately released him, nose wrinkling.

“Nii-n, you smell disgusting.”

Madara stared at him flatly. “Thanks. What do you want?”

“You weren’t answering my texts! And you didn’t message me when you got home from the party. I had to come see if you were still alive.”

“Should’ve told me you were coming,” Madara muttered, rubbing his face with both hands and walking deeper into the room. “I’d have – I don’t know. Cleaned up. Showered.”

“I did text you,” Izuna said, still in the doorway. He stared around Madara’s studio with a terrible look darkening his face. “Nii-san, what is this? Is this where you live?”

Here it comes, Madara thought sourly. He let himself fall back onto the futon and laid there, face-down.

“They told me you were getting stipends!” Izuna said, voice rising as he took another step into the apartment. “Out of the family trust – they said you were doing fine – this doesn’t fucking look fine, nii-san!”

Madara didn’t say anything.

“After you came back from the hospital I told you to move in with me, why didn’t you just –”

“What part of ‘I am not allowed inside the Uchiha Compound’ isn’t processing for you, Izuna?” Madara growled, finally sitting upright. “You don’t know what you’re talking about – I am fine. I have a job. I eat food. I’m fucking fine.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Please, just leave. I’ll talk to you on Friday.”

“The fuck you will,” Izuna said, marching over to the kitchen. “’I eat food,’ no you fucking don’t, look at this – you have one pan –” He wrenched open the fridge. “– one carton of eggs –” He started rifling through the cabinets, only stopping when he found the half-empty box of instant ramen packages. “This is it?”

“Are you trying to humiliate me?” Madara demanded, rising to his feet. “I know what it looks like, Izuna, you think I don’t? Senju Butsuma –”

“Who gives a fuck about Senju Buts –”

“I DO!” Madara roared. “I have to, Izuna! Those stipends they told you about, they’re fucking tracked. Every fucking thing I do is tracked – where I work, where I sleep, where I piss and take a shit – his lawyers have me under contracts thicker than my thigh –”

“Then break them!” Izuna said, eyes wild. “Fuck ‘em! Just fucking leave! He can’t make you stay –”

“What do you think happens to you if I do?” Madara asked. “Do you think you’re not involved in this? Why is it you can still live in Tajima’s house, even though Hikaku’s clan head? Why do you think that is?”

“I’m – I don’t –”

“It was the one concession they allowed me,” Madara said. “Butsuma fixed everything after I – he fucking ‘took care of it,’ you understand – and if I step out of line, he’ll rip the rug out from under our entire family.”

“Took care of what?” Izuna said. “Tajima had a heart attack in your dorm room, what is there to fix –”

Madara began to laugh. It was a wretched, hollow thing. “Of course,” he said, covering his eyes. “Ah, bless our dear departed dad and his weak heart.”

“Don’t mock him,” Izuna said, hands clenching into fists.

“Oh, I’ll do more than that,” Madara snarled. “Do you really want to know what Butsuma had to ‘fix,’ Izuna? Do you really want to know how Tajima died?”

There was a tense, trembling silence. Izuna fumbled for his phone. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he said, dialing a number. “I’ll leave. Sorry for intruding.” He retreated into the hallway. Madara could hear him saying, “Hey. Yeah. Sorry for the confusion – I do need a ride, turns out – no, I’m safe –”

Madara shut the door behind him; locked it; staggered back to the futon and picked up his phone from the floor. There were nineteen missed texts from Izuna. He swiped over to the contacts list and, before he could talk himself out of it, scrolled down to Senju Hashirama and pressed the phone icon.

The line was busy.

Madara threw the phone across the room and crumpled onto the floor.