thank u, next

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Tobirama was wonderful, honestly. Principled, honest, strict, he seemed the epitome of a man capable of giving happiness. And that's how it was, at first. Madara, elated, chose an apartment for them closer to work, picked out kitchen appliances, and planned what color to paint the bedroom. He dreamed of how they would wake up lazily together and how a languid Tobirama would lie softly in his arms. But reality turned out to be harsh. It turned out that Tobirama woke up very, very early. Madara tried to wake up just as early, but it was simply torture. So the shared morning cuddles had to be postponed.

Despite this, Tobirama would always wake him with gentle strokes on his arm, back, or head, whispering for him to get out of bed. Sometimes he would say sternly, "It's already seven in the morning!" but Madara would still laze about. Afterwards, having breakfast together, Uchiha realized that this way of spending the morning wasn't so bad after all.

To be honest, perhaps Madara expected too much. He wanted them to gossip about colleagues together, chuckling over various silly things at work, but Tobirama clearly separated personal life and public life. He wouldn't allow them to hug if strangers were around, even if it was Hashirama. Holding hands wasn't permitted, let alone quiet giggles about others.

However, he always gave tender kisses every time Madara returned home. As the head of the Uchiha clan, he had many tasks to complete before there was even a ghost of a chance to leave, so such a welcome was especially pleasant. It was astonishing how Tobirama changed in those intimate moments.

I took absolutely all the flashbacks that flashed from the first chapter of The Thousand and One Vices. They were slightly🤏 modified, but generally preserved.

This chapter mentions the kanzan that Hashirama planned to grow in the garden back when Tobirama was a little pregnant. He seemed to like the idea so much that he repeated it in his new home, already in Konoha.

He had already come. Twice. Then three times. He had no strength left for choked moans or returning the embrace. Breathing in ragged gasps, Tobirama tried to distract himself slightly so his overly sensitive flesh wouldn't react with a painful jolt to every touch.

He knew what he was getting into, what he agreed to — from the sheer intensity of emotions alone, one could tell their master was equally intense in all aspects of life. Enthused, Madara found a second wind every time he saw his beloved in the throes of pre-orgasmic agony.

Sometimes it was too much. Twice a week was enough for Tobirama, but Madara demanded twice a day. So different, they had still managed to find a compromise. It seemed like peace, a chance to breathe easy, but that wasn't the case.

Tobirama was already spent by the middle, and the end was nowhere in sight. Lying down in bed after a hard day, he couldn't allow himself to relax, knowing the night was just beginning. He couldn't lovingly kiss someone's shoulders, tenderly massage their scalp, surrender to the flow. First, sex turned into making love, and only then — into a personal torment for Tobirama.

It seemed Madara understood. He would stop, take breaks for a few days, but the fire coursing through his veins wouldn't allow for too long a rest, and everything would return to the same old routine.

Madara finally stilled, collapsing heavily with his full weight onto Tobirama. The sweat-damp back under Tobirama's palm rose and fell like bellows. This was the end. For today.

The silence was torn by a growling mutter into the pillow:

"Did you like it?"

"Yes," Tobirama answered immediately, almost automatically. His voice was hoarse, alien.

Madara grunted with satisfaction and rolled over onto his back, removing his burden from Tobirama. The cool air touched her sticky skin, making her goosebumps. Freedom. Temporary, for a couple of hours, until Madara wakes up in the middle of the night, full of blind, insatiable affection that made Tobirama's throat tighten with helplessness.

He lay and stared into the darkness of the ceiling, listening to Madara's breathing become steady and deep next to him. My body ached, and there was a throbbing pain in my crotch. But worse was the quiet, methodical work of the mind, from which there was no escape even here.

Tobirama started. They had just left the residence — the last stack of documents was collectively finished, the office was empty after that, only the sun flirted with the dust, lazily flying in the air.

Senju looked away, as if the light had hit his eyes.

"I'm not used to this," he muttered.

"For what?" The fact that I'm touching you?" There was almost resentment in Madara's voice, but he stubbornly held it back.

"Because others see it," Tobirama hesitated for a moment.

The Uchiha was silent, but there was no condemnation in that silence. He just nodded, as if that explanation was really worth something. And, strangely enough, he did not let go of his hand. He just snuggled closer as they walked each to their own house. Closer than he should have been, but he didn't touch it.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

Tobirama was used to the silence. I'm used to keeping everything to myself: fears, desires, attachments. He knew how to be polite, impassive, courteous—but only up to a certain point. Where tenderness began, it retreated. Not because I didn't feel it, but because I felt it too strongly.

Madara was different. He did not set boundaries between "here — I" and "there — you". He touched if he wanted to, looked if he wanted to look, and asked if he was interested in something. But he never pushed.

The next day, they stayed in the office for a while. It turned out that an unpleasant incident had happened during the night — Hatake had not shared something with Inuzuka. Once again, Madara and Tobirama were left alone.

"May I?" Uchiha asked, and without waiting for a verbal answer, he held out his hand.

This time Senju didn't pull away. He didn't respond to the touch, didn't interlace his fingers, just let her. My heart was beating somewhere in my ears, my ears were almost boiling with embarrassment. But the hand remained in his palm, warm and a little heavy. The real one.

"Just a hand," Madara said softly, gazing tenderly at the features of the face opposite.

Tobirama wanted to say something in response, but his tongue seemed to have dried up. He just nodded. Silently, in his own way.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

They had been dating for some time, and every gesture felt like a step on the edge of a cliff for Tobirama—without insurance, without balance. Madara patiently led him along this edge, knowing that there was no hurry.

One day, in izakaya, near the main road, where they wandered by chance, when it started to rain, Madara slid his palm along his thigh. Softly. Easy. He didn't commit to anything. Just like that, as if he had the right to do so.

Tobirama froze. There weren't many people there — someone was flipping through the menu, someone was drinking sake after a hard day's work. But suddenly everything was buzzing in my head, as if the whole room was staring at them.

"You can push me away," Madara whispered, not looking away.

Tobirama swallowed, forced himself to breathe. And then—not immediately, but still—he put his hand on top of someone else's. And again he didn't say anything. He just stayed.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── ·

The world gradually became different. The people in the clan stopped being observers. The looks of passersby are a verdict. Madara's shoulder, to which she could cling, became not a threat of vulnerability, but an anchor in this shaky, mobile world. Tobirama studied—slowly, sometimes taking a step back—but he learned to be real and not be ashamed of it.

And yet... when it was time to leave—just for a couple of weeks, a mission—Tobirama felt that familiar urge to step back again.

They were standing on the border of the settlement. There were a lot of people — someone was escorting, someone was meeting, someone was just standing, waiting for his squad to gather.

Tobirama was holding a self-made bento in his hand. Everything inside was squeezed by the thought of separation, that he would stay and Madara would leave.

"Well," Madara said, "will you promise to write?"

"Of course," Tobirama replied, lowering his head a little lower. It was as if this was the last step he was still afraid of.

And that's when he thought: if not now, then when?

A jerk from the inside. An impulse that made my heart ache. And before the fear took his body away from him again, Tobirama stepped closer and kissed Madara.

Not fast. Not flashy. He just touched it with his lips. Enough to feel the warmth and taste of goodbye.

He had already turned the sheet over several times, as if it might be easier to write on the other side, shift the brush from one hand to the other, and adjust the position of the inkstone. However, the lines stubbornly did not add up.

The first reason: he's an Uchiha

It's too corny. Konoha shone, so much so that anyone would envy. Uchiha, Senju, Aburame lived in such a peaceful world that it became too sweet.

The second reason: his grouchiness.

To be fair, Tobirama had the same sin. It was almost impossible not to roll his eyes at some of his older brother's suggestions, so he didn't dare blame anyone for wanting to do the same.

The third reason: his hair.

It is impossible to ignore the condition of your hair so much. After all, you have to comb your hair from time to time, braid your hair before going to bed, and use aromatic oils! On the other hand, Tobirama was perfectly able to do all this, so he could help...

Ink from the tip of the brush onto the paper, spreading out into an ugly smudge.

Perhaps the problem wasn't the complexity of the task. Perhaps it was because it was impossible. It was impossible not to pay attention to those bottomless eyes and a bright, albeit rare smile.