Jesses and Other Means of Control [REWRITE; HIATUS]

Tobirama paced. It was objectively his worst habit. It was annoying, it annoyed people around him, it revealed way too much about him for comfort – Tobirama stopped in front of his dresser and briefly closed his eyes. The clock above the dresser read 17:25 in glowing red numbers.

“This is a mistake,” he said.

Then he turned and walked back to his bedroom door. Back to the dresser. Back to the door.

His phone lay unlocked on his bed, on top of a clean, black shirt.

- U. I. 16:33

so do u want to meet somewhere or

lol ur bros the only one i know w a car, so

Tobirama hadn’t bothered to correct him on this. Tobirama hated driving with a passion.

- 16:35

Let’s meet somewhere. Do you know any good

Bars?

Tobirama kept reminding himself that this was just to gather information. He’d already spent more time around Izuna than he had anyone else for the past month – this was only going to be weird if Tobirama made it weird. Two dudes, getting a drink. Totally fine. Guys did that all the time, according to Hashirama, but Tobirama trusted his assessment on this matter about as much as he trusted Butsuma to give him dating advice.

The fact that Izuna had said he wasn’t straight kept helpfully presenting itself in Tobirama’s mind. He violently suppressed this knowledge. Just because someone wasn’t straight didn’t mean they were automatically into him. And just because they were going for drinks didn’t mean it was –

Tobirama was going on a reconnaissance mission. He was there for intel. He was –

He sat down on the edge of the bed and scrubbed at his scalp.

- U. I. 16:37

lmaoooo yeah i think i know a good place

meet me here @ like 1730-1800?

- U. I. Sent You a Map Pin at 16:37

- 16:40

I’ll be there.

- U. I. 16:41

nice

c u soon

;)

Tobirama grabbed the phone off the bed beside him and reread the messages. He ignored the winking smiley and opened the pinned location on the map. It would take about 20 minutes by taxi. He pulled the clean shirt over his head.

- sexxi teacher man 17:50

Almost there. Sorry for the wait.

Izuna looked down at his phone and rolled his eyes, smile tugging at his lips. Naori finished wiping down the counter in front of him and set his glass back down on a new coaster. She wasn’t a close relation, but there was a small Uchiha fan painted above the bar back all the same. It was vaguely reassuring to Izuna. It was also one of the main reasons the bar was mostly empty, despite it being almost six on a Saturday.

 - 17:51

i said between 1730 and 1800 ur still in the clear

10 min and counting tho

- sexxi teacher man 17:51

9 minutes.

Izuna laughed. He flicked over to the other messages tab in his phone and took a sip of his beer.

- 17:52

hows kuruma

The reply came with uncharacteristic speed.

- maddie 17:52

Youd call it ‘on one’

- maddie Sent You a Picture at 17:52

Izuna squinted at the screen. He could make out – that was probably Madara’s eye. The mass of black was his hair, definitely – god, his brother was bad at taking pictures – and in the background, mouth open in an unholy shriek, wings spread wide like the ragged banners of war, eyes flashing in the camera light –

“Hey,” Tobirama said.

Izuna jumped and fumbled for his phone. “Hey!” he said, turning on the bar stool. “How are –” He stopped, eyes flicking over Tobirama’s outfit. It was black pants and a black shirt. Funeral director was too generous – he looked like a goth in disguise. Unfortunately, it really worked on him. Izuna let his eyes travel back up to Tobirama’s face. “How’s it going?” Izuna said, laughter coiling on his tongue.

Tobirama rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said, stepping forward to rest his elbows on the bar. “What are you drinking?”

“No idea,” Izuna said, taking another sip. “Hey, Naori, what is this?”

“PBR,” Naori said from the register on the far end of the bar. “I’m not wasting our good beers on you, Izuna.”

Tobirama wrinkled his nose.

Izuna raised his glass appreciatively, then turned back to Tobirama with a grin. “She has some good sours, if that’s more your speed.”

“Whatever you recommend,” Tobirama said, sliding onto the stool.

Naori finished ringing up her other customer and fished a clean glass out from under the bar.

Izuna pulled his box of cigarettes out from his coat pocket.

“Izuna, I swear to god,” Naori said, pointing the soda nozzle threateningly towards him.

Izuna raised his hands, cigarette already between his lips. “What? You let Hikaku smoke in here all the time.”

“Hikaku’s the clan head, and he smokes maybe one every two hours,” Naori said. She shook the hose towards the lighter that had slipped into his fingers. “I’ve seen you go through an entire pack in forty minutes. You are not lighting that thing in my bar again.”

“Outside?” Izuna implored.

Naori narrowed her eyes. “The far end of the porch,” she said.

Tobirama was looking at Izuna out of the corner of his eye. Izuna popped the cigarette back out of his mouth and pocketed it, shrugging ruefully.

“Bars and cops,” Tobirama said, eyes travelling up to the fan painted on the high wall. “Interesting mix.”

Izuna smirked. “Venture capitalists and politicians. I’d say my clan’s got it better.”

“Maybe,” Tobirama said under his breath. Naori set a drink in front of him. It was a lowball glass with clear, sparkling soda water and a single slice of lime. There was a visible tremor in the air around the glass. A faintly acidic tang burned in their nostrils.

“First one’s on the house,” Naori said. “If your stomach lining survives, I’ll give you another one.”

“I don’t need free drinks,” Tobirama protested, reaching for his wallet.

“Yes, you do,” Izuna said. “Come on, grab your drink, follow me.” The cigarette was back between his lips.

“The far end of the porch!” Naori called after them.

Izuna waved in acknowledgement as he held the side door for Tobirama to pass.

The porch was an actual wooden structure that stretched from one end of the building to the other. String lights hung between wide oak beams glowed over small metal tables. Across the street was a row of old masonry brick houses. In the distance, the Senju Enterprises Building cut a black stripe against the purple dusk.

“Want one?” Izuna offered the pack of cigarettes to Tobirama as they took seats far from the door.

Tobirama looked at him levelly. Before he could accept the cigarette sticking out of the box, Izuna jerked it back, shaking his head and grinning around the filter held between his own lips. The spark of the lighter cast a brief warm glow over his face – he took a long draw, then held the cigarette out to Tobirama.

“Here you go,” he said, smiling.

Tobirama accepted the cigarette and, for the twelfth time since entering the bar, reminded himself that his only actual goal tonight was to get information. He was here to collect data. The thought was somewhat soothing.

“So, your phone was ‘compromised,’ huh?” Izuna said, leaning back in his chair and kicking his heels up on the wooded rail as he lit up another cigarette.

Tobirama started – how did he – then he remembered Hashirama’s lightning-quick sabotage and frowned. “In a manner of speaking,” he said flatly.

Izuna smiled at his scowl and took a draught of beer. “You’re not worried about the potential moral or ethical quandaries of dating one of your students?” he said, wagging his eyebrows.

Tobirama made a face. “You aren’t one of my students, because it’s not my class,” he said firmly. “Also, the power dynamic is completely different. You’re older than I am, for a start.”

Izuna took a long pull on his cigarette and raised his eyebrows. Exhaling the cloud of smoke, he said, “Oh, we’re already talking power dynamics?”

Tobirama flushed and turned away. His drink was beginning to leave a ring of condensation on the whirling metal designs of the patio table. He lifted it to his lips and hesitated. “What’s the likelihood,” he said, “of this actually doing irreparable harm to my insides?”

Izuna puffed on his cigarette, one arm folded over his chest. He cocked his head, considering. “Well,” he said. “Taking into account Naori’s business reports to Hikaku… and the Bureau of Food and Drugs’ report last year….” He took another drag off his cigarette and narrowed his eyes. “Probably about 30%?”

Tobirama raised the glass to his lips and let the carbonated liquid slide over his tongue. He set it down immediately, almost hard enough to crack the glass – he turned away, coughing, eyes watering.

Izuna’s smile broadened.

“Fuck,” Tobirama said, straightening back up in his chair. He blinked the tears out of his eyes – he could still feel the vapor clinging to his nose. He scrubbed a hand over his face. “The hell did she put in this?”

“No idea,” Izuna said. He raised his glass of PBR in a salute. “You’re a brave man, Professor Senju.”

“I am literally not a –”

“I have a question for you,” Izuna said abruptly. His boots fell down to the deck floor with a thump as he stubbed out the last of his cigarette on the metal table.

Tobirama stared at him, caught off-guard by the sudden change in tone.

Izuna shook another cigarette out of the pack and offered it to Tobirama. He held up his, less than half-gone, still smoldering – Izuna lit another one for himself.

“So,” Izuna said, blowing smoke to the side. “I was wondering –” He stopped, hummed, took another drag off the cigarette. His eyes focused somewhere beyond Tobirama’s shoulder. Finally, he simply said: “Tajima.”

Tobirama took a pull off his own cigarette. To business, then. “Tajima.”

Izuna sighed and brushed a lock of hair behind his ear. “How familiar are you with the circumstances involving my father’s death, Tobirama?”

Tobirama frowned. Was Izuna asking him for the truth? Panic bubbled in his gut. Why the hell hadn’t he insisted that Hashirama be the one to handle this? What should he say?

Izuna watched him fret for a long moment. Then he nodded. “So, you know, then.”

Tobirama let out the air in his chest in an explosive sigh. “Know what?” he asked, fingers wrapping around his glass once more. This time, he barely even tasted the acid.

Izuna scratched at the side of his face with the hand holding the cigarette. “You know how he actually died.”

Tobirama sat with the same stillness as he had in Butsuma’s office – the frigid immobility of a hare hiding in the briar, watching the hounds prowl beyond the thorns. “Yes,” he said.

“Does –” Izuna flicked ash off the tip of the cigarette and hissed to himself. “Fucking Christ. Just fucking say it.” He took a long drag of smoke and, in the exhale, said, “Does Hashirama hate my brother?”

Tobirama stared at him blankly. What? “What?” he said stupidly.

“Does Hashirama have an issue with Uchiha Madara?” Izuna asked bluntly, fingers wrapped in a white-knuckled grip around the base of his pint glass. “Like, I’m just – I don’t want to blunder into –” He took a deep breath. “He’s gotta have some kind of issue with him, right? Or else why wouldn’t they be in contact already?”

Tobirama felt breathless, and slightly dizzy. He stared down at the lime in his drink, then back up at Izuna. “Izuna,” he said. “Hashirama’s fucking in love with your brother.” He wasn’t quite sure how this fact had escaped Izuna’s notice – everything about Hashirama screamed I am pining for a lost love, don’t worry about me, it was so obvious even Tobirama could tell – but then, maybe it was because Madara –

Izuna’s face went slack. “No shit,” he said, half to himself. He frowned. “But – wait, if he – why haven’t they gotten in touch?”

“Because Madara left,” Tobirama said, confused. “He left the city after the incident, and didn’t – Hashirama tried to call him at least a hundred times, I was there –”

“Madara was in a mental hospital,” Izuna said simply. The words cast a thick, heavy pallor over the table.

Tobirama frowned. “That doesn’t – Madara wasn’t insane,” he said.

Izuna cocked his head. “He beat our father to death,” he said. “With his bare hands.”

All the pieces suddenly clicked into place. Izuna knew about Tajima’s death – but he didn’t know about the mokuton. Of course he didn’t know.

“Do you talk to your brother often?” Tobirama asked. “Are you still on good terms?”

Izuna raised an eyebrow and fished his phone out of his pocket. “I got a text from him about twenty minutes ago,” he said. “So, I’d say so, yeah.” He took a drag off the cigarette. “Not sure how this connects to the mental hospital thing.”

If Madara and Izuna were on good terms, why didn’t he tell him about the flowers? The gas? But – if Izuna didn’t know about Hashirama’s role in the death of his father, why didn’t he tell Madara about him? Unless he had? “Does Madara know that Hashirama is in the city?” he asked abruptly.

Izuna swirled the beer in his glass. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so. I didn’t tell him.”

“Why not?”

Izuna raised the cigarette back up to his lips. The glowing orange ember had almost reached the filter. “I assumed Hashirama was keeping on the DL for a reason,” he said. “Or that Madara hadn’t mentioned him for a similar reason.” He exhaled. “When I finally did ask Madara about him…”

Tobirama took another sip of the clear drink in front of him.

“Just to clear this up,” Izuna said, stubbing out his second cigarette and setting the butt next to the first. “My brother is heads-over-heels in love with your brother. Like, he didn’t say it, but –” Izuna shivered as he shook another cigarette out of the pack. “– I’ve never seen Madara look tender about anything before. Honestly, I never want to see it again. It was creepy.” He lit the cigarette in a flash of flame. He handed it again to Tobirama – he accepted it this time, crushing the spent filter of his last one against the table leg. “So, the question remains,” Izuna said, snapping his wrist and pulling another cigarette free, “if your brother’s fine, and my brother’s fine – why haven’t they met up already? Why all the confusion? I mean, it seems like all of us were fed a different version of events, so –”

“Not just seems like,” Tobirama said through the smoke. “We were.” He shifted in his seat, running his tongue over the sharp edges of his teeth. “What do you know about my father?”

“He’s a dick,” Izuna said. “I’ve been saying that since I first heard about him.”

Tobirama couldn’t suppress a grin at this. “That did turn out to be a pretty fun party,” he said, meeting Izuna’s eyes. “Got me in trouble, later – but fun, all the same.”

“Glad you thought so,” Izuna said. He drained his glass. “Why would your father be sowing disinformation like this? What’s the end goal?” His tongue ran briefly along his bottom lip. “Madara said he got involved because Hashirama was there during… everything. Is that true?”

Hashirama hadn’t just been there, Hashirama had precipitated the event. Tobirama considered telling him the truth – but the mokuton was not his secret to tell. He’d leave that to Hashirama.

Izuna watched him with eyes like black stones. He clearly knew Tobirama was withholding information from him.

Tobirama flicked his eyes down in apology and lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug.

Izuna hummed shortly and placed his cigarette back between his lips. He shook his head, ember swaying against the darkness of the street beyond, and huffed out a puff of laughter. “Alright,” he said musingly, holding the cigarette between two fingers. “So, clearly, we need to get Hashirama and Madara in the same room again.”

“Yeah.” Tobirama knocked the ash off against the wooden railing. He contemplated bringing up the contract – the messy tangle of clauses and agreements that had bound their lives for the past three years – but it was just one meeting. Butsuma didn’t need to know. Tobirama held the cigarette up to his lips.

“Great. Well, since that’s settled, can we… stop talking about our brothers for a minute? As far as topics of conversation for a first date go –”

“You were the one who brought it up,” Tobirama reminded him.

“Yeah, and I regret it now. Our brothers want to fuck. Great. Cool.” Izuna pulled on the cigarette. “Moving on. How’s your stomach lining?”

- 12:02

Izuna, someone just gave me 5 dollars

- Izuna 12:02

why??

- 12:02

I was walking into the grocery store

I think they thought I looked homeless

Hashirama placed his hand flat on the tray. The machine continued to spit out the string of numbers. The glass tubes on the far wall quaked as the soil ruptured under his palm.

Butsuma snapped the file shut. “Still no dice, Tobirama?” Steely gray eyes over an empty desk. “Time’s running out, you know.”

Madara threw Garuda into the sky in a flurry of feathers, the leather jesses snapping in the wind.

Tobirama ran the calculations again. The green shoot in the glass case sat mocking and inert.

Izuna watched Tobirama lecture, not even pretending to take notes anymore. He was going to get an A in this class, just like he was in all the others.

Hashirama heaved over the toilet, the memory of antiseptic cleaner clinging to his nose, the feeling of restraints burning on his arms.

Madara’s thumb hovered over the icon marked Senju Hashirama.