His blood sings in his veins.
It’s a hot summer night. His skin is humid with perspiration. His breath comes out in short, ragged pants, mingling with the stagnant breeze.
Tobirama shivers under him. Madara grunts and pulls at the legs around his waist, tugging him closer. Nearer. Grips at the sweat-slick muscle of his thighs and digs in his nails. Tobirama locks his ankles behind the small of his back, arching into his touch.
He’s beautiful like this, porcelain skin and long lines, chest heaving and twitching at the slightest stimulation. Vulnerable, except Madara knows that he isn’t, even now that he’s been stripped of his armour and cold decorum.
There’s raw strength in him, in the broadness of his shoulders and the scars marring his body. Madara can’t resist mapping out a few of them with his tongue, licking and sucking until the skin blooms dark red under his lips. He nips at them, covering the scars he knows he hasn’t caused with fresh bruises and drawing blood. It relieves the dark calling at the back of his mind, the urge to claim and to possess.
The Senju moans. His abdomen tenses as he lifts his hips, pushing back into Madara’s unrelenting grasp. Madara doesn’t let him. He slides his hands under Tobirama’s knees and forces them apart, then pushes forward until he’s nearly folded in half. It gives him more space to lean in, to pin him down with his weight. They are chest to chest now, pressed together like two halves of a whole. All skin and bone and coiling tension, and barely anything at all between their beating hearts.
Madara doesn’t let the moment last. He pulls back, ignoring Tobirama’s protesting grunt. He shuffles onto his knees and spreads them to gain more leverage, and shoves forward into Tobirama’s welcoming heat.
Despite his trembling arms, Tobirama pushes himself up on his elbows and meets him halfway with a low moan. Madara doesn’t pause but relinquishes his grip on one of Tobirama’s legs to lay his hand on the chest under him. He rests his weight on that arm for a second, just to let Tobirama know that he could push him down, render him useless and take him, use him, and that it’s only because he enjoys the Senju’s struggling that he holds himself back.
Next time, perhaps, he wouldn’t be so kind. Next time, he would bind him with ninja wire, lock his chakra with the seals he’s so fond of and strap him down on his bed. He would take him, over and over, take everything he has and more. Madara would take him apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left of him. Because that’s what Tobirama has done to him. He’s stolen everything Madara has ever had, brothers and loyalty and friends. When Madara looks at him he sees Izuna and Hashirama, a faraway dream and childhood fantasies, a future that can never be.
He sees all his greatest failures in the blood-red eyes of a single man, and it sets his blood on fire the same way it sends shivers down his spine.
Tobirama snarls and grabs his wrist with one hand. It startles Madara enough so that he doesn’t fight back when Tobirama grips his messy hair and tugs him down. Madara stills, meeting the Senju’s sharp gaze with his own.
“Stop thinking and move. I have better things to do than to wait around for you all day.”
“Oh really,” Madara smirks. He moves his free hand down to Tobirama’s hip and squeezes, then pulls back and snaps his hips forward and up.
Tobirama’s breath escapes his lungs as if punched out of him. His fingers tighten in Madara’s hair almost painfully, but the Uchiha ignores the stinging at his scalp in favour of leaning in and licking up Tobirama’s neck.
“How about now?” He whispers into the other shinobi’s ear. Tobirama doesn’t reply, but the way he tilts his head back to give Madara more room is an answer in itself.
It isn’t a submission, not with how Tobirama’s gaze burns as their eyes meet, his brow arched in a silent challenge, but Madara likes it best like this. Likes it because it’s always a fight with Tobirama, a fight where they give and take in equal measure, a battle where casualties and rewards are not counted in severed heads and broken bodies.
Neither of them bothers to keep it gentle. They can’t, not when they are who they are, leaders and killers and everything in between. Tenderness is for their family, for women and wives and future children. It’s a duty, a tool to remind them that they still need to remain human in the confines of their homes.
Their time together is nothing of that sort. It’s wild, unrestrained, a place to let instincts loose outside of a battlefield. They find freedom within each other, give each other the liberty to hurt and pleasure. They are enemies, but here, without clans and expectations weighing them down, they can bear to be something else.
Not more, for they cannot afford to feel anything else but hate for each other. Rather something else entirely, something other than two shinobi at opposite ends of the world. It’s buried deep in their veins, curls around their essence. Ancient, older than their blood, and in moments like this it rises under their skin like a barely contained flood.
It’s hard to hold it back, almost impossible really, but he grits his teeth and forces it down anyway. He can see Tobirama doing the same thing, his jaw clenched and eyes tightening, but none of them acknowledge this shared pain.
Instead, Madara shakes his hand free of Tobirama’s hold and slides it up to his shoulder. Digging his feet into the tatami mats, he pulls him up and settles the Senju in his lap. Tobirama follows the movement with a grunt, but obediently shifts his legs until they’re crossed behind Madara’s back.
It’s unbearably hot like this, pressed together and using each other as support. But Madara can reach deeper now, so he shoves another inch of himself into this man he can never have, can never want, and it has to be enough.
Tobirama keens when Madara hits that sensitive spot inside him, and the taller man pushes himself up on shaky legs, then drops down with renewed strength. The sharp sensation forces a moan out of Madara, and he tries to hold the Senju back, to slow him down, but his hands slide on Tobirama’s skin and he is already too far gone to truly care.
Surprisingly, Madara loses control first. He grips Tobirama’s hips and thrusts into him one last time before he stills, muscles tense and spasming, cursing under his breath. Tobirama follows him soon after. The silver-haired shinobi curls into himself and hides his face in his partner’s neck, his hands digging into the meat of Madara’s back. He comes with a small cry, clenching down on Madara and coaxing one last grunt out of the Uchiha.
Madara lets Tobirama rest his head on his shoulder as he comes down from his peak. He can’t help but turn his face a little, just enough to inhale the scent of sweat and blood. There’s also an underlying smell, something close to lightning and wet earth yet wholly confusing that he can only label as Tobirama.
In a few seconds, Tobirama will be back to his normal self, poker-faced and cold-shouldered. It doesn’t hurt. Rather than loss, it’s anticipation that makes his heart clench. Because there will be a next time, sometime in the future, despite the battles and deaths they will have to face in-between.
Madara hates him. Hates him for his name, his blood, his gaze. Hates him because that’s all he knows, because hatred is the last thing he can still offer.
He doesn’t wonder often, especially about what could have been and what could be, but if they were anything other than who they are, Madara doesn’t think this not-quite relationship between then will ever change.