Jesses and Other Means of Control [REWRITE; HIATUS]

- 11:53

Do you still want to meet up today?

- 12:16

Izuna.

- 13:44

I am sorry

Madara scrubbed at the stained wall of the mew until his hands were raw and bleeding. He raked out the gravel, hosed down the perches, and strung the Astroturf back into place where large claws had ripped it free. It was nearly five o’clock on Friday; tonight was supposed to have been one of Izuna’s ‘officially sanctioned’ visits, but he had yet to respond to any of Madara’s texts, so that apparently wasn’t fucking happening.

Served him right. Madara, anyway. He’d been a fucking dick to the only family member left who cared whether he lived or died – no wonder Izuna didn’t want to talk to him. He’d finally wised up.

Madara locked the mew behind him and walked back up the gravel path, spooling the hose on his arm as he went.

There wasn’t much to do around the Conservatory. He could defrost the deep freeze in the back room – but he needed a whole other empty freezer to keep the squirrels in. Not to mention he’d done that just a week ago, and it was probably still fine. He could power wash the front façade? Hadn’t done that in at least a month.

Madara’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He dropped the hose where he was standing and pulled it out, squinting through the ever-worsening cracks in the screen.

- Izuna 16:52

hey

Madara waited. The afternoon sun was hot on his back; the soap scum left a sticky film as it evaporated off of his arms and shirt.

- Izuna 16:55

sorry ive been awol

i do still want 2 meet up today

if ur down

Madara typed out a message, then erased it. He repeated this twice, then shoved his phone in his pocket without responding, gathered the fallen garden hose, and traipsed back up to the side of the Conservatory.  Then, once the hose was wound back onto its spool, Madara leaned against the painted wooden wall and reread the texts.

- 17:01

Sure. Do you want me to pick you up?

- Izuna Sent You a Map Pin at 17:01

- 17:02

Be there in 20 min.

Madara let his head fall back against the boards and took a deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes against the glowing orange sky. Just for a moment – just a fraction of a second – he allowed himself the luxury to wonder what Hashirama was doing. Was he with his brother right now? He held the thought in his mind, savoring it like a fine wine – then he opened his eyes, pushing off from the wall toward the door to the prep room. He smelled like bird shit and old gravel – he could at least change his shirt before he went.

Izuna was sitting on the wrought iron fence outside the Spring Avenue Café, heels wedged into the intricate metal whorls, looking up at the heavy planters overhead with an oddly closed expression.

Madara’s car pulled up to idle next to the curb. He popped open the door and leaned out. “Are we staying here or going somewhere else?”

“We can hang out here,” Izuna said. “They close at like, nine. They’ve got good coffee.”

“Alright. I’ll go find an actual parking spot.”

Izuna nodded, and watched the shitty sedan puff and wheeze its way back into the driving gear. Things that he’d just taken as his brother’s eccentricities before were being shown in a new light ever since the scene in Madara’s shithole of an apartment, and Izuna was having a distinctly bad time adjusting. He frowned to himself.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

- sexxi teacher man 17:33

Izuna. Are you busy.

?

Izuna blinked.

- 17:33

uh right now?? a little why

Three dots bounced on the bottom of the text box. Izuna watched them for a minute, nonplussed. When it was clear Tobirama wasn’t going to finish typing any time soon, he slipped the phone back into his pocket.

Madara was heading towards him down the sidewalk. His hair was a wet, matted tangle – there was a piece of straw sticking out of the left side. Izuna raised his eyebrows and fished his buzzing phone back out of his jeans.

- sexxi teacher man 17:37

jsut wanted 2 kno if u wanted to go get  adirnk some time!!! :D

The text was followed by a lewd string of emojis. Izuna stared at the phone in open-mouthed shock, long enough for another string of texts to arrive.

- sexxi teacher man 17:37

Do not read previous text.

Phone compromised.

Drinks y/n

Later

Madara reached the fence. “Busy?” he asked, leaning on the railing. “I can come back another time.”

“No,” Izuna said, firing off a quick response and turning off his phone. He faced his brother with a smile. “How have you been?”

Meanwhile, sitting on Hashirama’s overstuffed floral print sofa like it was causing him physical pain, Tobirama gaped at his phone.

Hashirama was leaning over his shoulder, his long brown hair almost obscuring the screen. “Holy shit,” he said. “He said yes after all that?” He laughed boisterously. “What a charismatic little brother I must have!”

“So,” Izuna said as Madara took the seat opposite. He stirred in another packet of sugar into his latte without continuing the sentence.

Madara sipped at the black coffee. “So,” he said. “Which part shall we dissect first?”

Izuna wrinkled his nose. “Gross,” he said.

Madara shrugged.

“How much do you get paid every other week?” Izuna asked abruptly.

“About 250 bucks.”

Izuna nodded, then pulled out his wallet and slapped a 50 on the table. “You said you’re being tracked,” he said, overriding the automatic protest that sprang to Madara’s mouth. “They can’t track this, can they?”

“But you’re in college,” Madara said. “You need this more than –”

“Bro, I’m the only official beneficiary in Tajima’s will, and I have no expenses,” Izuna said. “Take the fucking 50, for fuck’s sake.”

Madara pulled the bill over the table and shoved it into his pocket.

“Alright,” Izuna said, brushing a lock of hair behind an ear. “So that explains – some. I think –” He hesitated; swallowed; took a sip of his coffee.

Madara watched him with heavy eyes. “Do you want to know, Izuna?” he asked softly. “Once you know, you’ll always know.”

The music in the café was loud enough to hide their conversation; the morning rush was long gone.

Izuna lowered his cup down onto the table. “I don’t think I can avoid knowing anymore,” he said. He locked eyes with Madara. “Did you kill him?”

Madara blinked in a long, slow motion. “Yes,” he said.

Izuna swore softly under his breath and raised one hand to scrub at an eye. “Okay,” he said. He drew in a deep, steadying breath. “Okay. What did Butsuma do?”

At this, Madara turned, briefly, to survey the rest of the café. They were at least ten feet from the nearest other patron. He looked back at Izuna. “Like I said before. He fixed it.”  His voice was strung through with bitterness. “Tajima ends up having a heart attack. I end up having an ‘episode’ that lands me in a mental hospital and out of the family line. You end up the sole beneficiary of Tajima’s will, and Hikaku becomes the clan head.”

Izuna shook his head. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why did Butsuma step in?”

It was Madara’s turn to stall; swallow; look down, and away; to raise his coffee mug to his lips and set it down without taking a drink. “Butsuma stepped in because his oldest son was there,” he said shortly, not meeting Izuna’s eyes.

“His oldest son – you mean –”

“Senju Hashirama.” There was a visible uncoiling in Madara’s shoulders. His teeth held the name in his mouth like a cube of sugar; the line between Madara’s eyes vanished as it melted over his tongue. He composed himself almost immediately and shot Izuna a furtive glance before looking with a pointed nonchalance at one of the potted plants on the wall. “I don’t think you ever met him.”

Izuna hid his expression behind his latte. His mind was racing. “Tell me about him,” he said.

A silent laugh passed Madara’s lips. “What is there to tell? He’s not to blame for what happened. No matter what you might think, he is not to blame. He’s –” Madara broke off, clearing his throat. “When I knew him, he was… tall. Broad. Laugh like a foghorn. Terrible sense of fashion.” Izuna’s mind flashed briefly back to the heinous array of floral print shirts he’d seen Hashirama wear, and, privately, agreed. “One of the kindest people you will meet in this life.” Madara raised his mug to his lips again and actually took a drink this time, eyes gazing straight through the money plant on the far windowsill.

“Have you… spoken with him at all? Since – since then?”

Madara’s eyes refocused and he snorted. “No,” he said flatly. “When would – why would I? First I was in the psych ward, and then I was here. No, Hashirama left town soon after everything went down. He’s probably long gone.”

Izuna blinked at this but said nothing.

Madara swirled the coffee in his mug. “I sincerely doubt he wants to hear from me, considering the last time we saw each other I was covered in my father’s viscera on our dorm room floor.” He paused, as if remembering his audience, and glanced up at Izuna apologetically.

Izuna scratched at a nick in the porcelain of his latte mug and frowned. “Do you…” he coughed. “Do you remember why you did it?”

“You want to hear something funny?” Madara said quietly, picking up the coffee cup again. “I don’t know if it’s all the drugs they had me on, or the adrenaline, or – maybe I’m just actually getting old, but – I don’t actually remember what it was that finally set me off.”

Madara’s eyes met Izuna’s for a long moment and a silent understanding passed between them. At the heart of the matter – at its very core – it didn’t matter which of the myriad offences Tajima had committed that had ended up being his last.

Madara drained the last of his coffee and cleared his throat. “I understand,” he said stiffly, sitting back in his chair, “if you decide to discontinue our communication in – light of –”

“Shut the fuck up, nii-san,” Izuna said bluntly. He reached over for another packet of sugar and tore it open above his half-full latte. “I’m –” He sighed, aggravated, and shook his head as he reached for the spoon. “I can’t say he deserved it – he was our father –” He paused, spoon hovering over the still-frothy surface of the milk. “But I’m not going to pretend I didn’t celebrate a little when I first heard the news.”

Madara looked at him blankly.

“I don’t hate you,” Izuna said, because he clearly had to spell this shit out for his blockhead of an older brother. “I want to keep talking to you, I want your life to improve, and I want to keep hanging out at least once every week. You are still my brother and I love you.”

Madara reflexively brought the cup up to his face, then, remembering there was no coffee left in it, set it back down on the saucer. “Oh,” he said numbly. “Okay, then.”

“I am a little pissed that I was lied to,” Izuna said, stirring the sugar in. “And that you didn’t try to tell me the truth at all. The fuck, nii-san?”

“I didn’t know how you would react,” Madara said. “I wasn’t sure exactly what they’d told you, either.”

Izuna rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Done now.” He pulled the spoon out of the milk and levelled it at Madara. “Don’t fucking lie to me again.”

The knowledge of Senju Hashirama burned under Izuna’s tongue. But if Hashirama lived in the city, and his brother lived in the city, there had to be some reason they weren’t already in contact with each other. Izuna raised his latte to his lips. Was Madara actually right? Did Hashirama simply not want anything to do with him? That seemed… unlikely, just from what Izuna had gleaned of his character in the few times they’d met.

Maybe he should ask Tobirama. How much did he know about all this?

“– actually lost a finger,” Madara was saying.

Izuna shook his head. “Zoned out, sorry, what?”

“One of the other workers at the Conservatory,” Madara said, resting his chin on the butt of his hand. “Idiot tried to feed Kuruma on the glove.”

Hashirama dropped Tobirama back off at his house with a cheery wave. He watched, arms looped over his steering wheel, as his little brother unlocked the front door and slipped inside.

Texting Izuna had been Hashirama’s idea. Let Butsuma see Tobirama testing the waters – Hashirama was confident that he probably didn’t care that much what Tobirama did or didn’t do.

He wasn’t the one with the mokuton, after all.

Hashirama pulled the car into reverse and backed out of the driveway, flicking on his headlights and steering towards his cozy little shop. He really was going to miss that place, if Butsuma made good on his word.

On the drive home, there was nothing to distract Hashirama from the torrential storm of emotion that had been slowly building in his chest. What was he even feeling, at this point? Relieved that Tobirama was finally actually talking to him? Terrified of their father, of what they knew he could do? The thought of meeting Madara again rose to the forefront of Hashirama’s mind, and his grip tightened on the steering wheel.

Uchiha Madara. It had been – it had been a really long fucking time since he’d last seen Uchiha Madara. Too long. Hashirama had spent so much time trying to convince himself of the impossibility of another meeting that he’d forgotten just how keenly he felt Madara’s absence. As much bluster as he’d had in the park aside – now that a reunion was a possibility? Now that he could sense the potential to see him again, to hear his voice, to –

Hashirama was going to see Madara. The idea had calcified in him with an ironclad certainty -  he was going to see Madara. He was starting to care less and less what that meant for his own contracts with his father. So Madara knew he had the mokuton, so what? What evil could possibly be caused by their meeting? Madara already knew. The cat was out of the bag – unless something actually had happened to Madara in the past three years. Unless –

Hashirama knew better than anyone the lengths their father would go to preserve a competitive edge. He’d seen the autopsy reports. He’d heard the news broadcasts on the radio of the unfortunate accidents that befell the enemies of Senju Butsuma.

If his father had –

There was no point in speculating. Tobirama was going to gather more information from Izuna; they would proceed from there.

Madara was probably fine.

Hashirama pulled off onto the side of the road and got out of the still-idling car. He was on one of the wide downtown thoroughfares – in the daytime, this area would be packed with vehicles and pedestrians alike – but now it was empty enough for Hashirama to rest his hands on the roof of his car, bow his head, and quake.

God, he wanted to see Madara again. Madara’s warm black eyes; Madara’s unruly mess of hair that clogged every drain in their dorm; Madara’s strong, corded forearms. He wanted to hear Madara’s snorting laughter at Hashirama’s dumb jokes, see his awe when Hashirama showed him another cool new plant he’d ‘found,’ burn cookies in the communal kitchen and eat them on the rooftop, staring at the moon.

A car honked angrily at Hashirama as it blew past. The sudden noise broke from his reverie – he sighed, and slid back down into the driver’s seat, latching the seatbelt over his hips as he went and shifting the car into gear.

He arrived at his home in a kind of blank serenity. He unlocked the front door and stood, for a minute, soaking in the interior. The row of mulch samples to the right, under the warmth-seeking annuals that he’d hung in front of the window; the broad, glossy leaves of the calathea he’d been cultivating crowded the corner to the left. Trailing vines hung over almost every surface, twining under and between the stacks of brightly painted terracotta pots. As Hashirama shut the door behind him and waded through to the rough-hewn countertop, their tendrils stretched out behind him, like he had a faint magnetic pull.

Hashirama stood for a minute next to the abandoned pot he’d been painting hours earlier. The paint was dry now. The half-finished ladybug stared up at him accusingly.

Hashirama sat the pot upright – then, after a moment’s consideration, picked it up and carried it over to one of the new bags of dirt piled in the corner. He split the seam with a utility knife and shook some of the black earth into the clay vessel. It was almost completely dark in his shop, but Hashirama didn’t need to see to know where he was going in here. He carried the pot back to the counter and sat behind it, hands wrapped around the base.

“Alright,” he said out loud.

Warmth. The tremulous stasis of the air held in his mouth. The gritty surface of the pot under his fingers. The loosely-packed soil; the minerals; the decay; the faint industrial spill-off that coated each molecule with an oily sheen, even though Hashirama bought his dirt from organic sources – he could taste them on his tongue. Eroded mountaintops; rivers sluicing through the landscape like knives carving into a feast; sediment and silt.

Hashirama released the breath he’d been holding. “Come on.”

Deeper; older. The first trees, shaking out their branches under a sun that was too high and too hot; roots shattering stone and driving the water down; the destruction of the water-plain for the creation of a field of grass. Veins, twining and twisting, filling leaves with bright, blisteringly green chlorophyll, greedily drinking in the sun, the sea, the nutrients they could rip from the world around them –

Older.

Life began to twist into shape in the small terracotta pot. It writhed under Hashirama’s control, screaming at its existence, screaming at the cold earth and the dry soil, screaming at an atmosphere that wasn’t meant to support it any longer.

“Come on.”

Thin roots pushed out into the earth. On and on they went, splitting, searching – one centimeter, now two –

The pot broke with a resounding crack. Hashirama stared askance at the jagged line that ran straight through the ladybug’s face. The sliver of roots that he’d willed into existence immediately shriveled into dust. Black earth trickled onto the countertop. 

He stood, the wooden stool falling to the ground behind him with a clatter. He didn’t pick it up. Hashirama turned, went through the small doorway to the back room, and mounted the stairs to his apartment. His hands were shaking.