A well-known fact about the Mangekyō Sharingan: Even for true Uchiha, usage of the eye’s abilities can cause a great strain on the wielder. It drains a considerable amount of chakra when simply activating and maintaining the advanced dōjutsu, and even more through each technique used. Even more, it can cause considerable damage to their being, leaving the body in agonizing pain and causing deterioration to their vision until eventually, over-usage leaves them blind.
A not-so-well-known fact about the Mangekyō Sharingan: Lost vision can be restored by transplanting the eyes of a relative with strong blood ties – ideally a sibling – and in doing so awakening the so-called Eternal Mangekyō Sharingan. This second evolution eliminates negative side effects altogether, even reducing chakra drain to an unnoticeably minimal level. According to their esteemed Clan Head, this is proof that an Uchiha has continued to push forward despite great losses.
A virtually unknown fact about the Mangekyō Sharingan, and the Sharingan in general: The transformation of the optic nerves that allows for the awakening of the dōjutsu damages them irreparably, leaving the wielder much more susceptible to vision loss, cortical visual impairment, and most ocular diseases in general. They are just regular nerves, not designed to withstand the corrosive rush of chakra; over time they will degenerate, although this can be fixed using certain healing techniques that have not yet been invented.
A well-known fact about Uchiha Madara: He is a genius. His blubbering and blustering and frequent fits of anger simply obscure the true nature of the mind that lays behind them, and every time someone looks at him and sees emotion instead of calculation, he is underestimated to his advantage.
He is almost unbearably proud; it is his single greatest flaw, and the trait that supports his legendarily short temper in the first place.
Now, it becomes the trait that drives him to stay silent when he first looks up and notices that the world is less defined than it used to be. Now, it is what makes him hold his tongue when his husband smiles softly (blurrily) at him over dinner and asks him about his headache, and are you sure that you’re feeling alright, anata? Now, it sits like a physical barrier between he and Tobirama, separating them and shoving space between the two of them that hasn’t been there since before they began courting over three decades ago.
They’ve always gravitated towards each other, and over two decades of marriage have not changed that, but they are by no means immune to the arguments that plague every relationship. All it takes is one chilly January evening, and then suddenly, before Madara realizes it, they’re drifting away, slowly but surely, and he can’t see clearly enough to discover the problem, much less create a solution.
It begins with a scroll.
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Long days at the Hokage Tower and constant meetings with the Uchiha elders mean that Madara is almost always exhausted. This isn’t unusual for this particular household; Tobirama co-runs the Academy with Izuna, carries most of Hashirama’s weight as Hokage, and trains his six overexcited teenaged genin, which leaves him worn out more often than not.
Over years of too-long work days, they’ve developed a system – Madara will get home first, put together the meals Tobirama lays out (he’s a hopeless cook on his own, but with enough guidance he can make dinner pretty well), catch up on paperwork and cuddle with the cats until Tobirama gets home, and then they’ll eat dinner together, talk, and work in companionable silence until it’s time for bed or, more rarely now that they’re both so much older, sex.
Every night before they go to sleep, if the conditions are right and they’re not too tired, Madara will get out his reading glasses, slip a scroll from Tobirama’s ever-growing library, and then he’ll read his husband to sleep while they curl up together. It’s a small intimacy, but one very dear to the both of them; it’s a tradition Madara began when they first began dating thirty-six years before, as a way to worm his way into his beloved’s heart and bed with the warmth of his body and the soothing rumble of his voice and a way to beat back Tobirama’s constant insecurities. He’s always been anxious about his blindness in any context outside of battle. If his competency with work is questioned because of his lack of vision, he’ll snap back so fiercely that heads are in danger of rolling, but beyond that? It took four years for Madara to convince Tobirama that he wanted him not despite his many flaws, but because of how perfectly they rounded out his character. Madara loves Tobirama’s beautiful red eyes, sightless as they are, and he not-so-secretly delights in the opportunities he gets to read to his voraciously curious husband. The entirety of Tobirama’s formidable attention is focused on him and him alone, and it makes something hot and possessive deep within his Uchiha inner flame burn bright and satisfied to know that he’s so happy like this, that Madara can provide so well for his chosen one and keep him loved and safe and content despite the cruelty and the violence of the world they’re trapped in.
It’s also a kink – Tobirama really, really loves Madara’s voice – but their nighttime reading hour is one of their daily courting rituals, the little things they do to show that they love each other, just because, always, always, always. If these things were to fall away, it would very likely shake the foundation of their relationship as it has never been shaken before, something that the two of them, with their natural reticence, may not be able to survive.
Monday evening, 12th January, just into the twenty-ninth year of Hashirama’s reign as Hokage; that’s when Madara pinpoints the beginning of the trouble, however subconsciously. He doesn’t want to address it, he doesn’t address it, and he ignores it in the hopes that it will all just go away, but it takes root and festers like some dark twisted illness deep in the heart of their solid-steel relationship. Like rust it spreads, gory red and oh-so-poisonous as it uses the anger, the neglect, the poorly chosen words to weaken what was once so unbreakably strong.
Madara squints down at whatever dry, dusty work of literature he’s snagged from Tobirama’s myriad piles of scrolls this time, and it chills him to his core to discover that even with the reading glasses, even with the lamps turned on to full brightness, the neat lines of kanji are too small and blurry to read. The characters flow into each other in a nauseating way, tangling up under Madara’s scrutiny and becoming nigh unreadable.
He can’t – he can’t tell what it says, he can’t read to Tobirama like this, he can’t serenade his love with incomprehensible garbage. With a low snarl he hurls the offending document at the far wall, vindicated and alarmed at the same time when it rips right through the fusuma panel – he’s going to have to explain that to his husband, and sure enough, when Tobirama comes out of the bathroom five minutes later, ready for bed, there’s a questioning frown on his face and his pretty white eyebrows are raised in confusion.
“…Was that the wall,” he says, his voice drier than Suna and slightly raspy with the years that have passed.
“No,” snaps Madara, a little too quickly, a little too sharply, “that was a stupid gibberish scroll, that’s all.”
Tobirama makes his way unerringly towards their futon with a soft, fond sigh that makes his stone heart melt into overly affectionate magma. “A stupid gibberish scroll making rather violent contact with the wall, I assume,” he says with some sly amusement, and normally Madara could chuckle and kiss his darling forehead goodnight, but he’s been riled up by his failure to do something as simple and necessary as reading to his husband and instead he growls, “It’s not my fault the damn thing is practically nonsense.”
Tobirama, too, is a genius, though, and that single sentence is more than enough to pique his curiosity. Madara has been more careful than usual not to breach any subject concerning eyes or sight; odd, considering how it hasn’t been a point of contention between the two of them in decades, and little jokes like ‘see you later’ coming from the blind Tobirama never fail to put a stupid happy scowl on Madara’s stupid whipped face.
Of course he has noticed this and analyzed it. Of course his mind immediately strays to the eye problems that run rampant among those who wield the Sharingan. Of course he must realize almost instantly what the issue is, but for whatever reason, he doesn’t come outright and say it – he wouldn’t, not when he can tell Madara is in a mood, and he hates going to sleep when they’re unhappy with each other – and instead he simply frowns a little, his brows pinching together and his forehead creasing slightly with his confusion.
“Your eyes are bothering you, anata? Do you have – have you got a headache?”
The meaningful pause there where Tobirama specifically does not ask Madara about his vision is not lost on him, and perhaps it’s that statement that breaks the dam. Perhaps it’s that which drives him to damn near roar at his own deeply beloved husband, stirred up into one of his rages by the intentional, good-hearted jab at his sorest weak spot.
“No, no, Senju, it was just the print, that’s all. The print is old and dusty, and the ink was smeared, and the light isn’t bright enough, but it’s not like you could tell that, yeah? Believe me, it was just unreadable. I’m – fine.”
Tobirama freezes from where he’d been busily tucking himself into Madara’s side as he’s done in some way every night that he can for the past thirty-something years.
Madara never – Madara is never cruel or rude to him about his disability. Madara has never snarled at him in rage and in doing so belittled him for his blindness. Tobirama is by no means immune to his own husband’s bad temper – what with how close they are, he frequently bears the brunt of it and is nearly always the one to work him back to calmness – but that was a low blow that had never before been dealt, not once in all of their time together. Never.
He’s shocked silent, and Madara goes still as well, socially unaware as he is; he knows when he’s overstepped, and immediately all of his anger melts away into guilt-guilt-guilt sorry-sorry-sorry, and before he can stop himself there’s hideous blame roiling in his gut – how could he have done that, why did he say that, he loves Tobirama, he cherishes Tobirama, he would never stoop so low as to insult him for something that’s entirely out of his control-
“Koibito, koibito,” he whispers, locking his arms – still strong, even though he’s well into his fifties – around his husband and wrapping himself around his Senju like an overly-affectionate octopus, “darling love, Tobira, oh, no, please, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that-”
When Tobirama speaks, it is quiet and deadly and hurt, and the smallness of his tone shatters Madara’s heart in his chest.
“No, anata. You shouldn’t have.”
“Poor choice of words, my love, I’m sorry, today’s been too long, and I haven’t worked my temper out.”
“…It’s alright, Mada-ki, really. Today’s been tough for everyone and I can feel the restlessness of your chakra now, hmm? Let’s just go to bed and the morning will be a new day.”
That’s the first time Madara chooses not to read to Tobirama, and it’s far from the last.
The frayed nerves hidden behind sharp black eyes continue to degenerate and Madara continues his recent trend of not-reading, and Tobirama – Tobirama misses being able to focus solely on the soothing sound of his lovely voice, but it’s not like he can’t read for himself. If it puts Madara in a shitty mood, he can suck it up and go without.
He’ll just miss the intimacy, that’s all. He’s just going to miss the hours they’ve spent wrapped up in each other, with Tobirama’s face buried in Madara’s neck beneath the secure curtain of his long wiry hair, and Madara keeping one hot hand firmly on his lower back as he speaks, deep and low and oh-so-enchanting.
He’ll just miss his voice and his warmth and the comfort in knowing that he’s the only thing in the world Madara cares about as fiercely as he does, knowing that Madara would die for the chance to go above and beyond for his odd, broken husband the way he doesn’t seem to want to do anymore.
It’s just a little lonelier without him there, that’s all. Not a big deal.
Everything’s fine.