Don't Want To Displease
~*~*~~*
Tobirama’s glacial glare could have turned a forest fire to frost, and Madara couldn’t possibly care less.
Kawarama, elbows on the table and chin in his hands, winked at Madara for the 100th time that night, his grin wide and leering. Hashirama’s cheeks were tinted red, and he looked anywhere but at Madara. When he did slip up and glance over, the blush brightened tenfold. And Itama, bless his little soul, seemed oblivious to it all, picking at the edges of his bandage.
As for Tobirama…. Well. Let’s just say that the attention grabbing outfit was doing its job.
Leaning back in his chair, Madara touched the pad of his index finger to his tongue, wetting it just slightly, and then ran his finger over the rim of the wine glass in front of him, half filled with rich, red liquid. Hashirama made a choking sound, and Madara didn’t even try to hide his smirk, gazing right at Tobirama and enjoying the heat flickering behind his icy stare.
“Well, isn’t this just a nice, cheerful family dinner?” Kawarama said cheerfully, tapping his fingers on the table. “How do you like the estate, Madara?”
“Considering I’ve seen maybe 3 rooms in total, I’m not impressed,” Madara replied, finally breaking eye contact to sip his wine. It was a little dry, but not too bad.
“We’ll have to remedy that,” the second youngest Senju mused, cutting his older brother a glance. Tobirama’s eyes finally moved away from Madara to give him a sharp look, which either went unnoticed or ignored by Kawarama.
Madara shook his head to himself, taking another sip of wine and glancing around at their surroundings. They were eating outside, in an equistive garden right next to a large pool. It was dark outside already, but the area was well lit with string lights and lanterns overhead. It was quite pretty, really.
A slender path through thick trees and sprawling bushes led to the mansion, and from this path emerged a small group of people, carrying serving platters. Quickly and quietly, they loaded all the plates on the tables with food, and then disappeared back down the path just as wraithlike as they had appeared.
“Oh, this looks great!” Hashirama exclaimed, his voice a few pitches higher than normal. Without waiting, he grabbed his utensils and started shoveling food into his mouth, barely even taking the time to chew and taste before swallowing.
Amused, Madara raised both eyebrows at Itama, and the youngest Senju wrinkled his nose back at him, a small smile shyly growing on his lips as he reached out to take his own utensils.
Tobirama didn’t move as his brothers dug in, his intense stare remaining on Madara. He stared back at him for a long while, until Tobirama finally sighed, and leaned back. “Eat,” he said gruffly, breaking eye contact and methodically tucking into his meal.
Madara briefly contemplated not doing so, but he figured Tobirama was likely to shove it down his throat himself if he didn’t. With a small sigh, he poked at his plate, pushing the food back and forth for a minute before digging in.
It was inarizushi, but a little different. Still good, and masterfully made.
The dinner was mostly silent, broken only by the sound of dishes gently clattering. Kawarama and Hashirama were the first done, and Kawarama stole a few pieces from Itama, who scowled at his brother, attempting to stab him in the hand with his fork.
It was weirdly domestic, and it reminded Madara violently of his own siblings. The sudden thought sent a pang of homesickness through him, and whatever appetite he had vanished. He nudged his plate away, half-eaten, and curled his fingers around his wine glass, tapping gently on it.
As Itama and Tobirama finally finished, a man that Madara presumed was the chef stepped out, as he was dressed in the typical white chef’s coat. “Good evening!” He greeted with a smile. He had a heavy accent, but Madara couldn’t place it.
“Good evening, Takahiro,” Itama said, waving. The chef gave him a two fingered salute in return, then stood with his hands behind his back.
“How did you find your meal this evening?” Takahiro asked, glancing around the table, gaze briefly pausing on Madara. “I have never had the pleasure of making this dish yet.”
“It was great, as usual,” Hashirama said, raising his glass as though to toast him.
“Unusual, but interesting,” Tobirama added, not so quick to praise. “Given as it was our guest's request. Madara, how did you like it?”
He took a sip of wine before answering. “It was good,” he agreed. “A little…unique. I’ve never had it this way, but it wasn’t bad. I can give you some pointers if you’re unfamiliar with it.”
The colour drained from Takahiro’s face, and Itama and Kawamara abruptly fell silent from their quiet squabble in the background. Hashirama sighed, looking down at his plate, and the atmosphere abruptly turned very, very tense.
“Please,” Takahiro whispered, and Madara stared, startled and bewildered, as the chef turned, falling to his knees. “I can do better.”
Tobirama stood, roughly knocking his chair back, and pulled out a gun from out of nowhere. In disbelief, Madara watched Tobirama point it at Takahiro’s head.
“Please, I have a wife and three children!” the man begged, holding up his hands in a pleading way.
The corner of Tobirama’s lips quirked up, and he cocked the gun. The sound rang out like a death sentence’s announcement, and ice flooded through Madara’s veins.
“I do regret this,” Tobirama drawled, his voice cold and hard. “I quite liked you, in the brief time that you’ve been here with us.”
“Please!”
“I’m afraid you’re fired.”
“Wait, stop!” Without thinking, Madara leaped to his feet, lunging towards Takahiro and grabbing the back of his shirt, pulling him towards himself. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Senju?!”
Tobirama kept the gun trained on Takahiro, raising a white eyebrow at him. “His service displeased you.”
It took a minute for his words to compute, and he shook his head. “What?”
“His performance was inadequate, and we do not tolerate that in my organization,” Tobirama replied, and this time Madara got the meaning loud and clear.
“So you're just going to kill him? Just because he made something you didn’t like?”
“No. I’m going to kill him because he made something that you didn’t like.”
“You’re insane,” Madara breathed. Takahiro, still on his knees, was sobbing quietly, one of his hands wrapped around Madara’s ankle, clinging to him like he was a life line.
“Likely. Move, princess.”
“No, fuck you,” Madara snapped, crouching down and hooking his hands under Takahiro’s arms, hauling the man to his feet. “For your information, I thought that what this poor man made was delightful.”
“But it wasn’t what you wanted.”
“It was close enough, dammit, nothing can be perfect and if that’s what you think then you need a serious reality check!” He turned Takahiro, subtly putting himself between Tobirama and him.
Tobirama lowered the gun, just a little. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“You are not killing this poor man,” Madara said icily. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m retiring for the night.” Firmly, he pushed Takahiro ahead of him, guiding him up the path to the mansion. “Where are your rooms?” he asked lowly, and Takahiro shook his head slowly, too shaken to reply. Sighing, Madara looped their arms together, letting the man lean on him as they hurried back to the mansion.
Once inside and out of immediate range of a bullet, Takahiro seemed to get a hold of himself a little bit, and he guided them down a hall on the first floor, to his quarters. “I cannot thank you enough,” he whispered, nearly collapsing on the bed with relief.
“Thank me by packing up and getting out of here,” Madara said gruffly, and Takahiro nodded, getting up and starting to haphazardly throw his belongings into two small suitcases. “Why did you agree to work here?”
“It has good pay,” Takahiro said quietly. “My family and I, we were struggling after paying for my wife’s parents medical bills. The job I had was good, but we were going to be short on payments. When I was offered this position, I didn’t think twice. I’ve only been here for a month.”
“What happened to the last chef they had here?”
Takahiro paused. “Um. He made a meal that Itama didn’t like…..”
Madara pinched the bridge of his nose. “And Tobirama….fired him.”
“To put it plainly… I didn’t know about that until my second week here.” Takahiro zipped up his bag, hefting it over his shoulder. “You must get out of here too, my friend. No employment contract is binding.”
Madara managed a tight lipped smile. “I’m afraid I made no contract with Tobirama,” he said regretfully. “I’m not exactly here on my own free will.”
Understanding dawned on Takahiro’s face. “And if you leave….”
“I’ll probably just be dragged right back, so what’s the point?” He opened the door to his room, glancing up and down the halls. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” Takahiro hurried out with him, and led him down the halls to an underground parkade, under the mansion. He threw his bags into an old Mercedes and hopped into the drivers seat.
“I can take you with me,” he offered. “I can offer you some shelter, for at least a small time.”
“It wouldn’t be worth it, and it wouldn’t be safe for you or your family,” Madara replied, shaking his head. “Go. Leave the city, and probably the country too.”
Takahiro nodded seriously. “Thank you, really. I hope you’ll be safe.”
“As do I.” He closed the car door, stepping back as he fired up the engine and peeled away with a screech of tires. He stood there a minute after, breathing in the fumes, before turning around and heading back into the mansion, slowly wandering up the stairs to his room.
It was deathly silent in the mansion, and the silence was almost eerie, foreboding.
The silence should have been warning enough; the calm before the storm.
As he turned off the stairs and rounded the corner of the hall leading to his room, something exploded out of the shadows of the dimly lit hall. Automatically, Madara flinched back, but that didn’t do him much good. A hand seized the end of his ponytail, yanking hard and painfully, and another pressed against his chest, pushing him back against the wall.
“Who do you think you are,” Tobirama snarled, red eyes gleaming with fury. His weight pinned Madara solidly against the wall, and his forearm slid over the base of his throat, pressing down hard enough to hurt and restrict his airflow.
“You’re going to have to elaborate on that,” Madara snapped, rather weakly, tilting his head back and standing up on the tips of his toes to alleviate the pressure. Unfortunately for him, Tobirama just pressed down harder.
“Let me make one thing very, very clear,” the Senju growled, furious eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. His voice dropped lower. “The only reason you are still alive right now is because I just so happen to fancy you. Never, ever act against me again. Or you might find that the very weak hold I have over my self control will break, and I do something we both regret. Do I make myself clear, princess?”
Madara grunted, hands lifting up to curl around Tobirama’s wrist, digging his nails into the other man's skin. “If this is your version of wooing me,” he rasped, his voice straining from lack of air, “then you’ll never succeed.”
Tobirama hissed quietly. “What more do you want from me? I was going to kill a man who did you wrong. I thought most people would like that.”
“He didn’t do anything wrong!” Madara protested, scratching Tobirama’s forearms. The mobster didn’t even seem to notice. “I would never want him dead!”
“Then what do you want?!” he demanded, frustration darkening his tone further. He pressed harder against Madara’s throat, whether subconsciously or purposefully.
“To get my life back,” he hissed back, matching his glare. Tobirama scowled darkly, leaning forward, his hand fisting in Madara’s ponytail, pulling his head back further and tilting his chin up.
His eyes flicked down, just for a moment, and that was all the warning Madara got before Tobirama was sweeping down to mash their lips together, the kiss more of a bite, more of a tangle of teeth and anger than anything else.
Tobirama was firm, unyielding, and demanding. Spitefully, Madara bit the other's lip as hard as he could, drawing blood, and Tobirama growled low in his throat, his hands tightening, not allowing him a breath of space to twist free.
Madara curled his nails harder into the crease of Tobirama’s wrist, and when that didn’t work, he looped his hands around the back of Tobirama’s neck, grabbed two handfuls of hair, and twisted, ramming his shoulder into Tobirama’s chest, successfully breaking the kiss and pushing him back.
But his blood was boiling, his temper was lit, and he wasn’t quite ready to stop. With as much strength as he could muster, he hauled Tobirama’s head down and forward, bringing his leg up at the same time, and drove the mobster face first into the hard surface of his knee.
Tobirama bellowed with fury, lashing out on instinct, and his fist connected with the side of Madara’s face, splitting his lip and filling his mouth with blood. The blow knocked him back, and given as he was already pressed against the wall, the back of his head collided painfully with the solid surface, instantly filling his vision with stars and blackness creeping at the corner of his sight.
’Occipital lobe,’ he thought dazedly, leaning back against the wall and slowly sliding down it to the floor, a wave of sudden dizziness making it hard to stand. ’Center for vision and balance… holy shit that hurts.’
“That’s enough!” a voice roared, and someone else appeared out of nowhere, grabbing Tobirama by the arms, dragging him back and whirling him around. The blanchette immediately spun about again, hands raised to lash out, when he abruptly stopped.
The newcomer, whoever it was, turned away from him, and instead crouched down in front of Madara, lightly touching the corner of his mouth. The light touch sent tiny tingles of pain parading through the forefront of his head. “Dammit, Tobirama, this is not how you try to romantically pursue someone!” they snapped. Their voice seemed familiar, and Madara squinted, trying to force his bleary eyes to focus.
Oh, it was Hashirama. The oldest Senju was frowning deeply, wiping a trickle of blood away from Madara’s lip, and Madara slowly flicked his eyes past him, at Tobirama hovering behind his brother.
A sudden thought overtook the pain.
“You promised not to touch me,” he muttered, doing his best to stare Tobirama down. It probably wasn’t working very well, since he could barely see Hashirama right in front of him. His temples were pounding painfully.
’Do I have a concussion? I think I have a concussion…”
Tobirama looked taken aback by his words, the anger in his expression and posture melting away, leaving him standing there looking like a lost puppy. “I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly, remorsefully. So convincingly that Madara almost wanted to believe him.
The Senju took a step forward, lifting his hands. “Can I-”
“I think you’ve done enough, Tobirama,” Hashirama said harshly, shooting his brother an unreadable look. Tobirama blinked at his brother, taking half a step back again.
“I-”
“Goodnight,” Hashirama cut off firmly, shuffling closer to Madara and carefully, slowly hoisting Madara to his feet like he weighed nothing. The movement brought a fresh wave of dizziness, and nausea. He leaned heavily on Hashirama, and he took his weight without complaint or question, looping his arm around Madara’s waist to better support him.
Tobirama stood in the middle of the hall like he didn’t know where to go, watching them head to Madara’s room. He lingered like he wanted to follow, and Madara was glad when Hashirama finally got them to their destination and closed the door.
He was gently deposited on the bed, and Hashirama briefly disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a damp cloth and a glass of water, along with a bottle of Aspirin. He shook out two pills, and handed them to him.
“Here,” he said quietly, keeping his voice low. “You’ll need them. Tobirama hits hard.”
“Thanks,” Madara muttered, taking the pills and swallowing them dry, following it up with a sip of water. Hashirama sat down beside him, taking the glass when he was done, then reaching out to gently grip Madara’s chin with one hand. With his other, he wiped the drying blood from Madara’s face, patting the corner of his lip where it was starting to crust.
Madara watched him warily, but he could find no hint of ill motives. At least he could look at him now without turning a brilliant shade of red. The thought made him want to laugh, but…His head hurt.
“I’m sorry about him,” he said after a while, setting the towel aside. “Tobirama, he…..He struggles, sometimes. I know he can come across as a little intense, but he means well. He’s a kind man, really.”
Madara stared at him for a long moment. “He tried to kill an innocent man for no reason,” he reminded, furrowing his eyebrows, and Hashirama winced, frowning.
“Well. Yes. But listen. Tobirama is young. He took over for our father a few years back, and it's been hard. This way of life, it’s very cutthroat. Right off the bat, he had to show himself as strong, efficient. Cold, maybe ruthless. It’s a mask that he wears, and he wears it well. So well, that sometimes he has a hard time taking that mask off. Such as you saw tonight.”
Madara raised an eyebrow. “You want me to believe that Tobirama has a heart of gold under that awful personality of his?”
Hashirama made a face at his phrasing. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. But Tobirama is kind, and sometimes this life, his job, it doesn’t allow for that. Maybe you’ll be able to see that kindness hidden away sometime.”
“What are you asking of me, Hashirama?” Madara snipped, taking the glass back and downing the rest. “Are you asking me to play ‘Beauty and the Beast’? To bring the man out of the monster?”
“No,” Hashirama said, shaking his head. “He’s not a monster. You just haven’t given him a chance.”
“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t need to. He kidnapped me, or have you already forgotten?”
Hashirama winced. “I agree his methods are….unorthodox. But I’ve never seen Tobirama so intrigued by another person as he is with you. You can probably tell, he’s a little inexperienced when it comes to these kinds of things. You know, relationships, dating, the likes. He’s still figuring it out."
“And his lack of experience means I have to forgive him for everything he’s done?”
“Well, no. I don’t know!” Hashirama threw up his hands. “Okay, I don’t really know what I’m asking. You’re not obligated to fall in love with him, or even be nice to him, I get it, but just understand that it’ll take him some time to get things right. You know what I mean?”
Madara sighed, putting a hand on his aching jaw. “Sure, I get it. That doesn’t change the fact that I’m furious with him.”
“And that's justified,” Hashirama agreed. “I’ll have a talk with him. Things will get better, Madara. I promise.”
“Sure.” Madara rubbed his temples, wincing at how tender they were. “I hate to be rude, but I’m pretty sure I have a mild concussion, and I would really like to sleep it off.”
“Ah, of course! Do you need anything else?”
“Nope.”
“Ah, right. Okay. Well. Goodnight, Madara!” With a gentle pat on his knee, Hashirama stood up, and scurried out of the room, closing the door behind him. Madara groaned quietly, slowly rolling off the bed and forcing himself to wiggle out of his clothes and into something more comfortable before curling up under the sheets.
A moment later, something small jumped up beside him, meowing quietly as it padded up the blankets to snuggle against his chest. Kurama must have been hiding from Hashirama. The cat's presence was soothing, and his low purrs, combined with the discomfort in his head and the mental exhaustion, had him passing out within minutes.