A Look Back
~*~*~*~*~
The pain of the bullet ripping through his abdomen wasn’t unfamiliar, but that didn’t make it any less painful.
Spitting out a curse, Tobirama dove behind one of their cars, now full of bullet holes, and leaned his back against it, lifting the bottom of his shirt. A wide patch of blood was already staining the silky white material. Damn, it was brand new. He examined the wound as best he could in the dark, relying on the dim light of the flickering street lights.
Well, it certainly didn’t look good. But he could worry about it later. There were other, more important things at hand.
Such as those blasted Hagoromo bastards intruding on their city. For a while, the Senju family tolerated the presence of the small mafia trying to plant itself on the edges of their territory. They were no threat, so why bother? As all baby mafias did, they’d sprout up, gain support, and then peter out and fade away, like withering grass on a hot summer day. Their existence was short lived, unfruitful, unremarkable. So why should the Senju clan expend the effort of destroying them when they’d just end up destroying themselves?
At least, that was the idea. But for some reason beyond comprehension, the Hagoromo somehow were still there, still growing. Stronger, bolder. And now they had the nerve to enter the Senju’s turf; their city, their territory. They were testing the invisible boundaries unofficially placed on them; seeing how far they could go before the Senju finally came out to meet them.
It was akin to poking a sleeping dragon, resting upon its hoard of gold. And now, the dragon was awake. And furious.
In hindsight, Tobirama was glad he didn’t take his little brother along. Kawarama was eager to get out there, to join his older brothers out on the field. But he was too young yet, and while Tobirama did intend to let him get his feet wet, a situation like this was too much for him just yet.
Bullets were flying everywhere, pinging loudly when they struck cars or streetlights. Tobirama glanced over to the right, at where 4 of his best men were hunching behind another destroyed car, biding their time, waiting until the Hagoromo exhausted themselves, so that they could sweep in and crush them.
But until that happened, it was up to him and the rest of his crew to draw the idiots in. Perhaps Tobirama was getting too reckless, too bold. After all, he hadn’t actually gotten shot in a while. And the pain was not a kindly reminder of his rookie mistake.
Grunting, he rolled to his feet, crouching behind the bumper and peering through a bullet hole ripping through the metal. The Hagoromo were spread out in the intersection, still firing like madmen. As much as he hated to admit it, they got strong, and good. Quite quickly.
He glanced back over his shoulder, searching the rooftops until he spotted a nearly unseeable shadow settling, crouching behind a corner and slinging her rifle off her back. Seems his reckless run worked, as the Hagoromo hadn’t noticed Touka leaving the urban battlefield and scaling the side of a building.
His cousin was a ruthless sharpshooter, and it was high time she got to work. She was quick, too, and it was only a few more seconds until three of the Hagoromo men were down, struck by an invisible enemy.
Tobirama allowed himself a viscous grin, standing up tall from behind his cover, gripping his gun in both hands and firing. He brained a guy in the back of his head as he darted for cover, and grim satisfaction rippled through him as the other crumpled to the ground. He didn’t pause to watch, to preen over his victory. He just coldly sighted another, fired, and moved on.
Taking the cue, the men on his left leaped up from their cover to join him. Touka covered them from above, raining bullets down on the Hagoromo as they hunkered down behind bullet laden vehicles for safety against her onslaught and the advancement of the Senju. As they moved, the men on his right sprung into action, darting into a sidestreet to circle around and strike from behind.
Until they did, it was up to Tobirama, Touka, and the rest to keep them pinned down. His ears were ringing with the sound of guns firing, blood rushing, but the adrenaline was doing its job as he advanced, blocking the pain radiating up his torso from the bullet wound.
One of the Hagoromo popped up from his cover, gun in his hands, but Tobirama was quicker. He shot the man's hand, giving him an extra second, then shot him between the eyes. By now they had advanced so close they were almost at the cars the Hagoromo were ducking behind.
It was too close to a gunfight. Tucking his handgun into the back of his belt, Tobirama vaulted over one of the hoods, kicking a man in the nose as he started to stand up and knocking him back. The moment his feet touched the ground, he was fisting another man's hair in his hand and driving him face first into the bumper of the car. The sound of his nose breaking was very satisfying, and he pulled his knife from its sheath on his thigh, slitting the man's throat and shoving him to the ground, his choked gurgles lost in the sound of the fight.
Another Hagoromo lunged at him, holding two straight knives in his hands, and Tobirama enthusiastically met him, catching one of the blades with his and twisting out of the way of the other. It narrowly missed, and Tobirama lifted his leg to kick him in the ribs. The man grunted at the impact, but wasn’t swayed, lunging towards him once more.
Sooo, he wanted a real fight? Tobirama was more than happy to comply. He grinned sharply, viciously, as they reengaged, knives flashing in the dark. All around them, the rest of his crew fought hand to hand with the Hagoromo, heavy and brutal. Knives and fists flew, men groaned and snarled, and the sound of impacted flesh thundered out like some terrible symphony.
Tobirama glanced quickly to the side, checking on the status of his men. His action was unthinking, automatic, when he saw Touka’s brother stumble after a hard hit in the jaw. He pulled his gun out from his belt and fired, shooting his man's assailant before Tobirama’s cousin could hit the ground.
His distraction, his unthinking aid, cost him, and he turned back to his opponent in time to see the flashing, razor sharp edge of the knife arching towards him. He automatically leaned back, turning his body, and the action probably saved his life. The knife sliced through his face, tearing through the flesh of his cheek. Burning pain radiated up to his temple, and he swore, managing to leap forward, dive under the man's outstretched arm, and jam his knife, sharp tip first, up through the underside of the man's jaw, through his mouth, and into his brains.
He tore the blade out with a shower of blood, just the sound of bullets sounded again. All around them, the Hagoromo collapsed, as the four Senju mobsters from before finally came up from behind, picking their Hagoromo enemies out from the fighting. Their aim was impeccable, as always.
His men gathered themselves again, and Tobirama touched his cheek, his hand coming back stained in blood. One of the four that came up from behind hurried towards him, ripping his face mask off and shoving into his belt. “Holy shit, Tobi!” he exclaimed, gripping his shoulders tightly.
“Hashirama,” he grunted, unsuccessfully twisting away from his brother. Now that the fight was over, the pain from the bullet wound was reminding him of the gaping hole in his abdomen with a vengeance. “I’m fine, go and-”
“You’re not fine, you need a doctor!” his elder brother practically shrieked. Chuya, Touka’s elder brother and his cousin, looked him over with a pinched expression.
“He’s right boss, you’re bleeding, a lot,” he said, nodding to the rapidly spreading blood-stain on his shirt. Tobirama ignored him.
“Is everyone alright?” he asked instead, eyes flicking over his men, and not liking what he saw. Most of them had some sort of cut, but there were a few that were too deep, too severe. Their resident medic was off on maternity leave, and these injuries were too severe to treat themselves.
“We gotta go somewhere,” Chuya muttered, shrugging out of his jacket and handing it to Tobirama. He took it unthinkingly, balling it up and pressing it against the bullet wound to try and stem the bleeding.
“No hospitals,” Hashirama said helplessly, worried eyes never leaving Tobirama.
“There’s a family medicine clinic a few blocks away!” another mobster piped up suddenly. Chiko was his name, and he had a deep slash over the chest and a nastry cut on his arm. “Maybe they’re still open?”
Tobirama winced. He’d rather not intrude on a clinic, especially not at this hour and with the state of his men, but…
He was smart enough to get over his pride and admit they needed to do something. “Hashirama,” he said, beckoning to Chuya, who immediately stepped under his arm to support him. The blood loss was starting to make him feel light-headed. His brother immediately perked up, waiting for instruction with the eagerness of a golden retriever.
“Call in, get this mess cleaned up, and send for some cars to pick us up,” he ordered. Hashirama immediately opened his mouth to argue, likely because he wanted to stay with Tobirama, but he silenced him with an icy glare. “You’re one of the only ones uninjured,” he explained, slightly exasperated. “Do as I say, I don’t have the patience to argue with you right now.”
The coldness of his tone left no room for discussion, and after a brief stare down, Hashirama bowed his head. “Of course,” he yielded, digging into his pocket and pulling out his phone.
Tobirama leaned a little heavier against Chuya. “You know where the clinic is?” he asked, directing his question to Chiko. He nodded eagerly.
“Yeah, it’s just to the north of here. Come on!” Chiko ducked under the arm of another badly wounded member, taking his weight and heading down the street. Chuya gripped his torso tightly, and followed, along with the more severely wounded mobsters.
Trusting his men, Tobirama focussed on shoving aside the pain and not fainting, keeping his eyes down and glaring at the road as they walked. It seemed to take hours, but they finally arrived.
Only to find the clinic closed.
“The lights are still on,” Chiko muttered. “Maybe there’s still someone here?”
“I’m not about to wait and find out,” Chuya frowled, gently disposing Tobirama on another mobster and marching up to the door, pounding his fist on it. After a minute or so, movement behind the glass door.
A young woman undid the lock, opening the door a few inches. Her dark eyes flicked over them all. “Ah….I’m sorry, gentlemen, but we are closed already….”
“We need to see the doctor,” Chuya barked, and the woman blinked.
“Ah…yes, I can see that. He’s already gone for the evening. I am sorry, but there’s nothing I can do for you. If you’d like I can call an ambulance for you. I think you need to go to a hospital, given the state of your injuries. I don’t think that this clinic-”
Chiko snarled, shoving his foot through the gap in the door and pushing it open. The woman resisted, but she was tiny, and it took little effort for Chiko to shove the door open, and march in, grabbing the woman and wrapping an arm around her neck. He pulled his gun out of his belt, and pressed it against her temple.
Wisely, the woman froze, her eyes wide with terror. “Listen here,” Chiko hissed. “No hospitals. Is there anyone else here?” The woman nodded frantically, her breath catching in her throat, and Chiko hummed. “Call them in for me, would you? I’m sure a nice young nurse like yourself can manage that?”
Shaking, the woman hesitantly cleared her throat. “Hey, Madara?” she called, her voice high and shrill with fear. “Could you come out here, please?”
Tobirama grunted, slumping against his supports side. The scent of his cologne made him recognize the man as Haru. Haru carefully guided him into one of the chairs in the waiting room, patting his shoulder carefully and stalking back to the front desk. He was probably one of the only ones who managed to get out of the fight unscratched.
Tobirama groaned, propping his head up on his hand and watching Chiko hold his gun to the woman’s head. A moment later, and another person entered the room and stopped in his tracks, immediately catching Tobirama’s attention.
He was young, probably close to Tobirama’s age. His hair was midnight black and long, twisted into a high ponytail, tip crushing against his lower back. Eyes as dark as his hair narrowed, darting left and right, taking in the crowd of bloodied up gangsters, and then settling on Chiko and the woman.
“Shira,” he said, completely ignoring the rest of them. “Alright?”
The woman, Shira, nodded once, jerky and quick, and Tobirama watched a sliver of tension melt off the newcomers shoulders.
“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” he asked, taking a step to the side and sauntering around to the receptionist desk. Haru moved then, pulling out his gun and pointing it at his face. Wisely, he stopped again, eyes trailing slowly from the gun, to its wielder.
He was surprisingly nonchalant about this all.
“You in charge here?” Haru growled, and something changed, just a little, in the raven's expression. A spark of irritation, of rebellion.
“Depends on who's asking,” he drawled back. Haru snarled, grabbing the front of the man's black shirt and hauling him forward.
“I’m asking, asshole! You the doctor?”
“No,” the other snapped. “In case you can’t read, the clinic closed over an hour ago. Doctor Yuko and everyone else has already left. Come back tomorrow.” The coldness of his voice, the steadiness of it, was intriguing.
Haru glanced back at his fellow mobsters, then leaned closer. “Why are you two here then?” he asked. “Madarraaa Uchiha,” he very nearly purred. “Nursing student, eh? The both of you still students? Anyone else in this little building I should know of?”
The man, Madara, gave him an icy glare, his eyes hardening. “No,” he replied. “It’s just me and Shira.” Haru hummed, adjusting his grip on his gun, sliding the barrel under Madara’s jaw, and he leaned back slightly to lesson the pressure, eyes narrowing further. “Why are you here?” he asked coldly.
Chiko stepped sideways, pulling the captive Shira along with him. “We have some injuries that need attention. Rather urgently.”
Madara glanced over, his eyes slowly moving over each individual mobster, assessing the damage done, and then his gaze landed on Tobirama, zeroing in on the slash on his cheek, then the bloodstained shirt he pressed against his abdomen. Automatically, Tobirama pressed a hand against his fist, holding the loose flap of flesh back in place.
Madara took a step back, then ducked around Haru, prowling towards Tobirama like a hunting cat. Chuya immediately stepped forward, grabbing his wrist and spinning him around. “Not so fast, cupcake,” he spat. “You don’t go near the boss unless he allows it.”
Tobirama sighed, a little annoyed at his cousin’s loyal devotion. “Enough, Chuya,” he rasped, his voice coming out weaker than he expected. “Let him go, nitwit.”
Madara gave Chuya a look, pulling free and approaching again. He crouched down in front of Tobirama, dark eyes searching, assessing, attentive. Tobirama watched him carefully as he reached forwards, gently but firmly pulling Tobirama’s fingers away from his face. He took only a few moments to examine the nasty slash on his cheek, then shifted closer, nudging Tobirama’s knee aside and shuffling between his legs so he was closer.
“What happened?” he asked, nudging Tobirama’s hands away and pulling aside the bloodsoaked shirt he held against his wound. He pursed his lips when he saw it, and wordlessly pulled the bottom of Tobirama’s shirt up, gently palpating the flesh around the wound.
“Shot,” Tobirama grunted, wincing when he pressed down a little harder.
“But what, a freaken tank?” Madara snapped. “How long ago did this happen?”
“Maybe an hour or so?” Haru suggested, frowning. Madara whipped his head around towards him, glaring.
“An hour?” he growled. “You bloody idiots.” Tobirama resisted the urge to stare. No one dared call his mafia idiots, at least not to their faces. “You need to go to a hospital, not to a closed family medicine clinic.”
“No, no hospitals,” Tobirama grunted, wincing when Madara pressed down on his abdomen again, then took his hand away. “We’re here now, we’re not going to a hospital.”
“You need the resources a hospital has,” he pointed out. “And an experienced surgeon. There is nothing that we can do for you here, and-”
Annoyed with his blatant disregard, Tobirama summoned his strength, grabbing him by the front of his scrubs and pulling him closer. “No hospitals,” he hissed. He glanced down at the little silver name tag on the left side of his chest. “You’re a fourth year, you can fix this.”
The other frowned, marring his pretty face. Wait, pretty?
“No,” he said firmy. “I do not have the experience or training needed.”
“Figure it out then,” Chuya barked, hovering behind them, and then pulling Madara back with a hand on his shoulder. “Or kiss your little friend goodbye.” Haru waved his gun meaningfully, and pressed the barrel against her throat.
Tobirama watched Madara hesitate, and could almost see the thoughts racing through his mind. “You need surgery,” he said, glancing back at Tobirama. “I can’t do that. None of us can.”
“So figure it out,” Tobirama grunted, pressing the shirt back against his wound. “You seem like a smart individual.”
Madara pursed his lips, shaking his head defiantly. “I can’t-”
“Only two of you in the building, eh?” one of Tobirama’s gangsters interrupted gleefully, marching into the room and dragging another woman in with him.
“Let go of me!” the woman snarled, and Madara whipped around, and froze. Tobirama managed to clear his blurry mind long enough to stare at the raven in surprise. He had been threatened with a gun to his face, but….he lied to them. Straight faced, without a hint of fear. He had lied, to keep his friend safe. To the Senju mafia.
“You lied,” he rasped, unable to make his voice louder, given his state. Madara turned to him, dark eyes gleaming with barely concealed hate. “Right to our faces….””
“Bastard,” Chuya snarled, launching forward. He seized the end of Madara’s ponytail, yanking back to haul him to his feet. Chuya shoved the barrel of his gun under his jaw once more. “If you can’t help, then what’s the use of keeping you around? I’m sure one of these pretty ladies can do it for us.”
“No!” the first woman cried, finally seeming to find her courage. Chuya gave her a look, and she flinched, but didn’t falter. “Madara is the most experienced in the OR of us.”
“And he has the highest marks,” the other woman bristled, coming to her teammates' defense. “He’s your best shot, it’d be foolish to kill him.”
“Then why keep you two around?” Chuya sneered, and Madara bristled like an angry cat.
“Seriously?” he snarled. With movement unexpectedly smooth, Madara twisted out of Chuya’s hold, cleverly twisting his elbow to force him to let go. “Just who the hell do you think you are, marching into the clinic looking like you got into a losing fight and demanding us to help you? What makes you think we’d do so?”
That…..That was why he seemed so fearless.
“You don’t know who we are?” he questioned, managing to slap a lazy grin on his face under Madara’s withering glare “How curious….”
“Does the name Senju ring any bells?” Haru huffed. At the mention of that feared name, the woman paled abruptly, and Madara pursed his lips, keeping his nearly impeccable poker face. Tobirama didn’t have the strength to try and listen to whatever discussion continue. The pain was becoming intolerable, distracting him, demanding his attention. He closed his eyes, pressing the bloody shirt harder against his abdomen.
Damn, it hurt.
Warm hands gripped his wrist, fingers pressing against his pulse, and he cracked open his eyes again to peer blearily at Madara, crouching down in front of him once more. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. It took Tobirama a moment to comprehend the question, distracted by the warmth of his hands. Surprisingly warm, like fire flowed through his veins instead of blood.
“Like I got shot.”
Madara scowled. “Don’t be a smartass. Any dizziness or lightheadedness?”
Tobirama paused, loath to admit weakness. “Yes,” he said finally.
Madara didn’t seem inclined to mock him for it. “Difficulty breathing?”
“A little,” he said truthfully.
“Blood type?”
“AB positive.” Being injured so often at least allowed him to know that for sure.
“Lovely.” Madara leaned back again, and Tobirama slumped back with a grunt. He was dimly aware of his shirt being worked off him and discarded, and then being helped onto a cold, cold metal table. He was pushed down onto his back, and the metal was shockingly freezing against his skin. Cold alcohol pads swiped over his skin, cleaning the blood and the dirt, and he dimly recognized a blood transfusion being set up for him.
Movement approached him from the side, and he narrowed his eyes to make them focus. Madara had returned. “Hey dreamboat,” he greeted. “What’s your name?”
Tobirama grunted. “Tobi,” he rasped. Madara turned to the side to fiddle with something on a silver metal tray beside him.
“Alright, Tobi. Close your eyes, and take a nap for me, okay?” It was then that he realized what the nurse was messing with. Anesthetic. He meant to put him under.
He reached up, grabbing his wrist with as much force as he could muster. “No,” he protested. “No needles, no painkillers. Just do it.”
Madara raised an eyebrow, looking utterly unamused. “You do know what surgery entails, right?” he drawled. I’m literally going to cut you open and rummage around your insides for a while. It’s going to hurt.”
“I don’t care,” Tobirama growled, even though the thought of it did not seem pleasant. “Don’t you dare put me under.”
“Fine,” Madara said simply, putting away his needle and offering no argument. “Your loss.” He turned away again, muttering something quietly, and Tobirama took the chance to let himself slip back into a daze.
“You sure you don’t want anything?” Madara’s voice came again.
“Try it and I’ll kill you,” he grumbled, not opening his eyes. Madara snorted.
“Alright.” He disappeared again, giving Tobirama a few minutes of blessed silence.
The coldness of cleaning saline on his skin made him jerk, and he cracked open his eyes to find Madara next to him once more, frowning seriously. His hair was twisted up into a messy bun now, keeping it out of his face. “This is gonna suck.” he warned.
How cute. “Do your worst, princess.”
“Don’t tempt me.” A razor sharp scalpel glinted in his hand, and Tobirama closed his eyes, willing himself to relax as much as he could. The blade sliced through his skin, sending fresh flares of pain through his body, and he groaned, feeling sick as Madara’s skillful hands pulled his flesh open, rummaging through his insides to locate the bullet.
Throughout, he disassociated, and the surgery went by in a haze.
It seemed like an eternity passed afterward before a warm hand pressed against his forehead. “How are you feeling?” Tobirama cracked open his eyes to find Madara gazing down at him, one eyebrow very slightly raised in a somewhat judgemental expression.
“Like shit.”
“Probably.” Those warm fingers trailed down his face, brushing over the slash on his cheek. With a quiet sigh, Madara got back to work, cleaning the wound, and silently stitching it up. “This will leave a nasty scar,” he commented after a few minutes.
“Scars tell stories.”
“Not always good ones.” He gently pressed a covering over the stitches. “What happened? Really?”
“We got into a fight,” he replied. Damn, he felt weak. But Madara….he was intriguing. Worth summoning the effort for.
Madara rolled his eyes. “Noted. Why?”
“The city only has room for one crime ring,” he said somewhat snidely.
“Mhm.” Madara glanced over, out the window, and the barefully blank expression on his face morphed into a smirk. “Well. I can’t say it was nice to meet you. But it’s nice to see you go.”
The tone of his voice, the finality of it, had Tobirama furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “What?”
Madara shrugged, pulling his hair tie out and letting that long, thick waterfall of midnight lock spill down his back and over his shoulders. “Oh, the police will be here in a few minutes. So, I’d suggest you leave.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” the other challenged, giving him a look.
Tobirama stared at him. “You planned this out,” he realized.
Madara’s little smirk grew. “From the moment it became clear you needed surgery,” he said smugly.
The sneaky little bastard. “How?”
“That’s for me to know, and you not to find out.” He leaned forward a little, and Tobirama could smell the scent of whatever shampoo he used. “I saved your life. You owe me a favor.”
“It sounds like you already know what you want.”
“I do. You are not to come here again. And you are to leave Doctor Chiyo in peace. Without him, you’d be dead.”
Doctor Chiyo….? Oh, right. The person Madara was talking to this whole time to walk him through the surgery.
“You were the one who did the surgery,” he pointed out.
“And I would have fucked up royally without him. You owe it to him.”
Tobirama gave him a long look. He didn’t often give in to people’s demands, but Madara’s fierceness, his spark of rebellion…..It was rather intriguing. “Alright, princess. He won;t come to harm, even though I’m pissed off at him for calling us in.” In truth, he wasn’t all that bothered, but he had an image, a reputation, to maintain.
“Be pissed off all you want. Now get out.” His voice was hard, unyielding, and Tobirama had to appreciate his firmness. With effort, he started to sit up, and Chuya soon came to his aid when it became clear Madara wasn’t going to lift another finger to help him.
“We’re going,” he ordered weakly to his men. Slowly, they started moving, picking themselves up.
“Shouldn’t we let you rest for a little bit?” one of his cousins asked worriedly.
“No. Let’s move.” Madara watched them go with cold, dark eyes. Chuya guided him to the door, and he glanced back at Madara. “I suppose I owe you thanks.”
“You can thank me by never being seen by me again,” Madara snarked. And that would be a shame, but he forced himself to fake a smile.
“Sure thing, Ojo. Bye, princess.”
Chuya nudged him firmly, and led him out the door. Hashirama had made good on his commands. 5 cars were waiting out front for them; black, windows tinted darkly. Chuya hauled him into the first, and the jousting pulled at his stitches.
But the pain would be temporary, unlike the memories that would remain in his mind as he watched the clinic fade in the rearview mirror.
~*~*~*~*~
Two years later, two years after silently keeping tabs on his favorite little nurse from afar, he saw him again, in person, at the club where he liked to arrange his drug dealings. He saw him, looking like that, and Tobirama was entranced. That defiant light was still there, still gleaming in those obsidian eyes. The club lights danced over his face, highlighting sharp cheekbones. And Tobirama couldn’t resist, couldn’t stay away any longer.
He had saved him, all that time ago, and Tobirama hadn’t been able to get him out of his head. His dreams were haunted by the memory of snarky replies and warm hands. He didn’t want to call it an obsession. It wasn’t. It was just a memory. One he recalled over and over and over. One he longed to become real again.
When Madara laid eyes on him that night, their agreement was null and void, in Tobirama’s view. With that agreement over, what was there to stop Tobirama from being the ruthless mob boss that he was, one that took what he wanted and didn’t care about the repercussions?
~*~*~*~~*
Tobirama didn’t have many regrets in his life, but he did now. And judging by the smirk playing on Madara’s lips, the little demon knew exactly what he was doing. Tobirama clenched his hands tightly into fists on the table, watching Madara saunter towards the table and take his place on the opposite side from him.
Kawarama whistled lowly, glancing between the two of them. “Damn, Tobirama, if you ever change your mind about him, let me know. I wouldn’t mind taking him to my bed.”
He glared darkly at his brother, and the 16 year old grinned at him without fear. Madara raised an eyebrow at Kawamara, and the teenager winked at him. If he wasn’t his brother, Tobirama would kill Kawamara for such a comment.
But he understood why he said it. Madara looked like sex on legs, dressed in skin tight leather pants with slits that exposed more skin then was appropriate for a family dinner, and a shirt that revealed even more than what he wore at the club. Black, lacey, and highlighting sharp collar bones and fair skin. A slender band circled the base of his throat and attached to the shirt with a delicate silver chain.
Madara caught his gaze, eyes framed by slender sweeps of black eyeliner, and smirked further. Oh, he knew exactly what he was doing.
If he didn’t want him so badly, Tobirama might have been tempted to kill him, just so he wouldn’t have to deal with the terrible temptation right in front of him.