Jesses and Other Means of Control [REWRITE; HIATUS]

“Nii-san,” Izuna said to the mirror. “Remember how you told me about Senju Hashirama, and how you thought he probably wanted nothing to do with –” He broke off, shaking his head. “Nii-san,” he said. “Madara. I know where Hashirama – I have knowledge pertaining to the whereabouts –” He scrubbed at his face. “Nii-san, here’s an address, there’s a guy there who really wants to – ugh, god.”

Tobirama leaned against the heavy wooden doorway. “You sound like you’re having trouble.”

“This sucks!” Izuna said. “Madara’s so hard to talk to! If I say the wrong thing he’ll get all pissy and stop listening!”

“Why don’t we just lure them both to the same place?” Tobirama said, furrowing his eyebrows. “Just make it seem like a coincidence.”

“Because, Madara would run like a little bitch,” Izuna said, turning towards the door. “The dude already thinks Hashirama hates him – if he runs into him out of the blue, he’s going to assume Hashirama’s been here and just been avoiding him, and then he’ll –” Izuna made an evocative gesture with his hands. “I don’t know. Commit seppuku outside of the Conservatory, probably.”

Tobirama considered this. “Hashirama probably wouldn’t react well, either.”

“Yeah. Exactly. This takes a delicate touch.” Izuna turned back to the mirror and took a deep breath. “Okay. Nii-san. Hashirama doesn’t hate you. How do I know this? The hot TA from my class is his brother and he told me Hashirama doesn’t hate you.” He let the breath out in a rush of air and nodded. “Okay. That works. No room for miscommunication, there.”

Tobirama’s eyebrows flew into his hairline. “’The hot TA from my class’?”

“That’s you,” Izuna said distractedly, grabbing his wallet from the back of the toilet. “Alright. You can take care of your brother?”

“Yes,” Tobirama said, folding his arms. “What’s the location?”

Izuna stopped. “Uh,” he said. “I hadn’t – I don’t know. Neutral ground somewhere. A coffee shop?”

“Might not be the best idea to have onlookers,” Tobirama said. “Especially not ones that might report back to Butsuma.”

“I’m still not quite up to speed on why your dad’s so against this,” Izuna said. “But whatever. Um. How about this abandoned warehouse? In the industrial district?”

Tobirama shook his head as if to clear his ears. “What?”

“Yeah, it’s like this – I don’t know who owns it, but like, I’ve been to a couple raves there.” Izuna shrugged. “It’s close to Madara’s place, it’s far enough out that the noise doesn’t really bother anyone, and there are no cameras.”

Tobirama considered it. “Alright,” he said. “Give me the address. Not on your phone – write it down.”

“Old-ass man.”

“Phone’s broken,” Tobirama said blithely.

“Uh huh.” Izuna scribbled the directions onto a piece of toilet paper. “Here. Try to meet me there in, like… a couple of hours? I’ll text you if anything goes horribly wrong.”

“Likewise.” Tobirama folded up the toilet paper and slipped it into his pocket. They stood awkwardly in the hallway for a second, the heavy rafters of the Uchiha Estate looming overhead. The hallway suddenly felt very close. Izuna was looking at him with wide black eyes. “Bye,” Tobirama said abruptly, suddenly finding himself at a loss for words – then he turned and left.

- Izuna 16:30

ok niisan pls dont freak out but i have like big news

- 16:30

Did you get anyone pregnant

- Izuna 16:31

no!!!!

can u come pick me up

i want 2 tell u in person

- 16:32

I am suddenly freaking out

Izuna if you’re bleeding call 911

- Izuna 16:32

im not bleedomg either!!!! just come get me dick

- 16:32

Where are you

- Izuna 16:33

home

Madara’s car skidded to a halt. He opened the driver’s side door and was halfway out of it before he’d even shifted it into park.

“Took you long enough!” Izuna said, running around the hood to the passenger’s side. “Let’s go to your apartment. Unlock the door!”

Madara stared at him over the roof of the car. “What? Why?”

“So I can get in?”

“No, shithead, why my apartment?” Madara unlocked the door and slid back down into the driver’s seat as he said this, looking confused and mildly irritated as he did so.

“I’ll tell you on the way,” Izuna said. “Come on, let’s go!”

“You’re in a fucking hurry. Is the news bad? Should I be driving for this?”

“Honestly? Probably not,” Izuna said as the car creaked and shuddered into motion. “Anyway, so you remember that hot TA from my class, right?”

Madara’s eyes narrowed. “…Yes?”

Izuna took a deep breath and laced his fingers together. “Yeah. He’s – well, he’s a Senju –”

“…Okay? This city’s infested with Senjus, that’s not exactly surpri –”

“His name is Senju Tobirama,” Izuna said. “He’s Hashirama’s brother.”

Madara jerked the steering wheel to the left, nearly swerving into oncoming traffic. Horns blared at him as he righted the car. “What?”

Izuna forged onwards. “He told me that Hashirama misses you and wants to see you and was under the impression you hated him.”

Madara looked like he was on the verge of climbing out through the car window. “What the fuck are you talking about, Izuna?”

“So, I might have lied a little when I said we were going to your apartment – I actually need you to drive to this undisclosed location in the industrial district –”

Madara slammed on the brakes and wrenched the steering wheel to the side. The tires scraped against the curb. He forced the gearshift into P and twisted in his seat to stare at his younger brother. “I see you’ve been fucking scheming behind my back,” he snarled, one hand tight on the steering wheel. “This was none of your business, Izuna –”

“It is my business –”

“If Butsuma found out I tried to find his son – the first thing in that brick of contracts was a fucking restraining order, you moron –”

“Who is going to tell him?!” Izuna demanded, turning in the seat to face Madara in full. “Me? Hashirama, Tobirama? You?!”

“Yes!” Madara hissed. “I do not know Tobirama – for all I know this is a fucking set-up to tie off a loose end – it would be just fucking like Butsuma to pull some shit like this, to let me walk into the obvious trap all on my own –”

“You’re paranoid,” Izuna said, hands balling into fists. “Madara, Tobirama hates Butsuma almost as much as you do – I’ve talked to him, he has no reason to sell out his brother like that –”

“You’re so fucking willing to throw yourself under the bus for – for what? For me to see a childhood crush again?” Madara laughed mockingly. “This isn’t a fucking romance novel, Izuna – Hashirama does not care –”

“How do you know that?” Izuna was on his knees in the seat – he was a hairs breadth away from grabbing Madara by his grass-stained hoodie and shaking him until he saw sense. “Madara, I want you to see Hashirama – Tobirama wants you to see Hashirama – Hashirama wants you to see Hashirama! You are the only person who’s not on board, here!”

Madara glared at him venomously from under his ragged hair, chest heaving. He hissed from behind his teeth and covered his eyes –his other hand flew out in a fist and landed on the top of the steering wheel with enough force to bend the metal.

Izuna’s eyes went round.

“Do,” Madara began thickly, still hiding his eyes. He cleared his throat and started again. “Do you know – for sure – that Tobirama can be trusted not to tell his father about this?”

The image of Tobirama’s face on the rooftop; the way he’d held the cigarette when they’d first started discussing his family. “I am sure,” Izuna said.

Madara drew a shuddering breath, pressing his fingers into the hollows under his eyes. “Alright,” he said, swallowing. “Okay. You win, little brother. Let’s go… see Hashirama.”

“You’re sure?” Hashirama asked, hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. He kept looking at the rear-view mirror as if expecting to see police sirens.

“Yes,” Tobirama answered. They had had this same exchange at least four times since leaving Hashirama’s flower shop.

Hashirama took a deep breath. His face was pale.

Tobirama adjusted the map on the car dashboard and said nothing.

The abandoned warehouse – true to form – looked like shit. It was a little after five thirty in the evening, and the sky was smeared bloody and red. The setting sun reflected off of the few unbroken panes of glass on the warehouse’s face. The faded paint on the cracked brick read Hyu – a Imp – rts in a white, flowing script. Hashirama pulled up next to the chain link fence – what was left of it – and shut off the car with trembling fingers.

“That must be his car,” Tobirama mused, nodding at the beat-up dusty sedan parked in front of them. “They’re already here, then.”

Hashirama had yet to release the steering wheel. “I don’t –” he began. “What if Izuna was wrong? What if he blames me? He should blame me, I’m the –”

“Anija,” Tobirama said, unbuckling his seat belt. “Either you go inside, or I will bring them out here.”

Hashirama jolted and fumbled with the belt’s clasp, muttering, “Fuck. God. Fuck.”

Pebbles scattered before them as they trudged up the broken sidewalk towards the open warehouse doorway. The door itself was long gone – the cracked concrete transitioned to faded, peeling linoleum. The interior was wide and mostly empty – there was a single rusty floor crane bolted down off to the side; the sky was visible through the ragged holes in the roof.

There was no one in the warehouse. Madara wasn’t there.

Hashirama stopped dead in the doorway – Tobirama collided with him with a grunt. “Anija, my god,” he said, shoving at the wall of his brother’s back. “Go.”

“Tobirama?” called a voice. In the far corner of the warehouse, next to the loading bay hangar, the door to the office opened and Izuna’s head popped out. He began to walk towards them, saying: “Man, this place wasn’t this wrecked last I saw it –”

Hashirama’s breath caught in his throat. Izuna’s voice faded to a background static, white noise – meaningless – the office door that had swung shut was opening once more.

Madara.

He was wearing a grass stained hoodie and jeans that were two sizes too big – he looked like he hadn’t cut his hair even once since Hashirama had seen him last – he couldn’t see his face from this distance, but it was Madara ­–

“Hashirama,” the figure said, and the quiet gravel rasp of his voice rolled across Izuna’s rambling like thunder breaking over the ocean.

Hashirama’s legs began to move without his willing them; the shape in the distance moved in kind, and soon they were racing towards each other in a dead sprint. The foundations of the warehouse shuddered under Hashirama’s feet as he passed – outside, clematis wound around frayed electrical wires and up the old coolant pipes –

They met in the middle of the warehouse in something akin to a football tackle, and they both crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs. Clover erupted through the cracks in the linoleum; lilacs sprang up from the holes in the concrete. Madara was lying under him; his hands were cupping Hashirama’s face, tangling in his hair – his eyes were wide and wild – violent, heady joy robbed him of all speech. The smile beaming across his face was like the rising dawn. Violets sprang to life around them; vines curled down from the high ceiling above; wisteria spilled from the holes in the roof.

A few miles away, on the 52^nd floor of a gleaming glass and iron skyscraper, a little red LED blinked into life. A pair of hard gray eyes narrowed; unhurried fingers dialed a four digit number into a sleek black phone receiver.

“Jane, cancel my dinner with Masahiro Yamanaka. And tell the boys in Suite 17 to get the convoy ready.”

“Understood, sir.”

Hashirama was at a loss for words – his breath was caught in his chest. Madara was staring at him like a blind man seeing his first sunrise. Hashirama’s left arm was pinned under Madara’s shoulder; his right reached up, as if of its own accord, and pulled a single strand of grass from Madara’s hair.

“You have –” he began dimly.

Madara focused on the strand of grass as if he didn’t recognize it. “Conservatory,” was all he said. His eyes were drawn magnetically back to Hashirama’s face.

 “Grass,” Hashirama clarified. Then he dropped the blade on the ground, burying his face in the curve of Madara’s shoulder, looping his hand around the back of Madara’s neck.

“Tobirama,” Izuna said, watching the scene unfold in the warehouse with palpable alarm. “Is it just me, or is it getting… green?”

Tobirama turned to look out the open warehouse door. Ferns were clawing their way through the surface of the parking lot; ivy was choking out the far fence. He turned back to the interior.

“Hashirama!” he called. “Turn it off! Someone’s going to see!”

Hashirama jerked, lifting his head off Madara’s shoulder. “Shit,” he said.

Izuna stared between them. “Wait,” he said. “Hold on –”

Madara was laughing. One hand rose to cover his eyes again as he said, “God, Hashirama. God. You still dress like shit. Where do you even find shirts like this?”

Hashirama propped himself onto his elbows and scowled ferociously down at him. “I do not,” he said.

“You do,” Madara countered, lifting his hand back to thread through Hashirama’s heavy brown hair. “I missed you.”

Hashirama couldn’t trust himself to speak. He pressed his mouth to the soft skin under Madara’s ear, where it met his jaw, and tightened his grip around his torso.

“Okay, I don’t need to be watching this,” Izuna muttered, turning away and grabbing Tobirama by the arm. “I need some answers. Now. Come on.”

Tobirama followed Izuna back outside, walking around the edge of the building until they came to a broken air conditioning unit. Izuna climbed on top of it, extracting a pack of cigarettes from his coat as he turned to sit, legs dangling off the side. The evening sun cast an amber glow over the cracked concrete.

“Goddamn,” Izuna said, lighting up one of the cigarettes. “That might have been the gayest thing I’ve ever seen.” He shook his head. “I was in an orgy once – a gay orgy – and that was somehow still gayer.” He offered the cigarette to Tobirama. He accepted. Izuna shook his head disbelievingly. “Good for them. Jesus.” He pulled another cigarette out of the pack.

“How many of those do you go through in a week?” Tobirama asked, leaning on the warm metal of the AC unit.

Izuna’s cheeks went hollow as he sucked in the smoke, tucking his lighter back into his jeans. “Packs? I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe seven? Eight?”

“You’re going to develop some new kind of lung cancer they’ve never seen before,” Tobirama said, folding his arms, elbows resting over the pitted metal. He blew a cloud of smoke towards the clematis that was slowly encroaching up the wall beside them.

“Okay, so, that,” Izuna jabbed his cigarette towards the vine. “What’s up with – like, I’m not going crazy. I’m not. Your brother has magic powers.”

Tobirama took a deep drag off his cigarette and considered his words carefully. “My brother has… a… genetic disorder,” he said. Izuna opened his mouth. Tobirama continued: “It’s magic, fine. But it is genetic.” The smoke was a white haze around his head. “It’s called the mokuton.”

Izuna frowned. “Woodescape?”

Tobirama rolled his eyes. “’Wood release,’ technically. Don’t ask me. I didn’t name it.” He blew out another cloud of smoke. “If you think this is wild, you should see him make trees sometime.”

Izuna gestured again at the clematis. “How is this a genetic disorder?”

“There’ve been a couple other people in our family history who could manipulate plants,” Tobirama said. “We’re not sure how it works, exactly.” He flicked the ash off his cigarette.

“And Madara… knew about this.”

Tobirama hunched his shoulders. “Yes.” He paused. “I would assume so.”

Izuna nodded, cigarette dangling between his lips. His eyebrows were low and tense over his eyes. He pulled his phone out of his pants and fired off a quick text. Then, taking the cigarette out of his mouth, staring at the street behind Tobirama, he said: “Does this have anything to do with Tajima’s death?”

What doesn’t have anything to do with Tajima’s death? Tobirama thought. He said: “Do you remember when I told you that my father had put me in charge of an experimental study?”

Izuna looked down at him, frowning around the mostly-spent cigarette. He nodded as he plucked it from his lips and snuffed it out against the rusted metal. He shook another one out of the box.

“The experiment,” Tobirama said, raising his own cigarette back up to his lips, “was primarily concerned with ascertaining the chemical makeup of the gas that was emitted during the incident concerning your father.”

“Gas,” Izuna said flatly.

“Gas,” Tobirama repeated. He took a long drag, shaking his head. “Fuck. Why am I the one who gets to tell you? I wasn’t even there.” He scraped the cigarette against the air conditioner, leaving a black streak of ash against the chipping paint, and held out his hand for another. Izuna wordlessly handed him the one he’d been smoking, and, as if reading from the report, Tobirama said: “In response to adverse external stimuli, Senju Hashirama was found to have propagated the growth of the specimen hereto after identified as Sierra-Hotel 42.” He paused, sniffed, said in an aside to Izuna, “Meaning this was the 42^nd time Senju Hashirama made a plant that we don’t have any record of existing before.” He turned back to look at the distant chain link fence at the far end of the alley. “Sierra-Hotel 42 was observed to secret a kind of noxious gas that, upon inhalation…” Tobirama paused, faltered. He shook his head. “We think it drove Madara berserk, is the easiest way to say it.” He held the cigarette between his lips. “Hence the whole ‘beating your father to death with his bare hands’ thing. He wasn’t crazy. He was just…”

“Drugged,” Izuna said. He had yet to light up another cigarette. He was staring at the street with an intense stillness. “Your brother… made a plant that drove my brother insane.” He took a deep breath. His hands clenched on the edge of the AC unit. “Hashirama was the reason Madara killed our father.”

Tobirama looked at him out of the corner of his eye.

Izuna was trembling. “Hashirama was the reason Madara killed our father,” he repeated, “and you knew? You knew, and you let me bring Madara here, anyway?”

Tobirama stood up straight, flicking the cigarette aside. “It was your idea to get them to meet again.”

“And you didn’t try to talk me out of it?” Izuna hissed, looking down at Tobirama with fury in his eyes. “Hashirama ruined his life – how do I know this infatuation Madara has is even real – how do I know it’s not something left over from the psychoactive poison he was gassed with?” He slid down from the air conditioner and raised his hands, palms out, shaking his head. “If Hashirama is the one who made the gas – he’s the reason Madara killed our dad – then Hashirama is the reason Madara got fucking institutionalized,” Izuna said, taking a step backwards. “He’s the reason Madara lives in a fucking slum, now. Him and your dad! Fuck this – fuck this. I don’t care if they’re fucking soulmates – your brother is dangerous. We’re fucking leaving.”

“Izuna,” Tobirama said, taking a step towards him. “Hashirama wasn’t –”

“Shut the fuck up,” Izuna snarled, turning towards the street. “I seriously thought I could trust you, Tobirama – I thought you’d warn me that I was about to throw my brother into the fucking lion’s den – Tobirama, Hashirama is the reason my father is dead –”

“Izuna?” It was Madara’s voice. He rounded the far corner, looking worried. “I heard your voice – is something –”

“We have to go, nii-san.”

“What? We only just –”

“I have to go,” Izuna said, reaching the corner. Hashirama came up to stand next to them, looking concerned – Izuna ignored his presence. “Nii-san, I have to leave, now, please take me home?”

Madara’s eyes flicked between Izuna and Hashirama. Slowly, he said, “Alright. Fine. Hashirama, do you –”

“I’ll text him your number,” Izuna interrupted. He grabbed Madara by the sleeve and began to pull him towards the car. “We need to go, come on.”

Madara twisted around and shrugged at Hashirama. “Bye,” he said as they crossed the broken fence, covered in ivy. “See you around, Hashirama.”

“See you,” Hashirama said numbly.

Tobirama walked along the edge of the building, hands in his pockets, smelling like cheap cigarettes. “Anija,” he said, eyes following the dusty sedan as it pulled away from the curb, “I… might have fucked up.”