The Moon is White

Chapter 32

When Madara wakes up blinking, it was with watery eyes at the sunlight peeking around the curtains. He would've groaned, but shinobi training made him stifle his need to voice his discomfort.

Contrary to his habits, his arousal from sleep was slow and it took a few moments for his eyes to adapt and realize that he was in his bed-chamber, alone. As soon as they did, he braces himself into a seated position, starting when a damp cloth flopped onto his blanket-covered lap from his forehead.

Madara couldn't remember going to bed, which wasn't a good sign.

The only time that this would happen was when he fainted from sheer exhaustion or sickness. Though judging from the damp cloth, it would be the latter this time. The sluggish movements of his chakra flow, the heaviness of his limbs, and the pounding in his head also suggest that he hadn't recovered enough to avoid bed rest.

Madara rolls his eyes. As if he would allow something so inconsequential to keep him in bed, anyway. He has too much to do.

(He needs to find a way to kill- help Kawarama. He needs to plan a countermeasure to keep Zetsu from digging its claws into another Senju's mind. He needs to attend meetings with the Senju delegates. He needs to check inventory and budget. He needs to read through his pile of letters and assign missions to his men. He needs to write a response to the shogun soon. He needs to assure his brothers that he was fine now. He needs to-)

Already, he was out of his futon and walking sluggishly towards the door, having to bite back his pride and depend heavily on the walls as a crutch. Disregarding his blurred and spinning vision, he just needs a moment to adjust and he would be okay again.

He slides the door open and walks straight into a wall, nose smashed as he unintentionally let out a soft noise in surprise. Momentarily dazed, his reaction to something unexpected was to take a step back, which, with how uncoordinated and muddled headed he currently was, meant that he tripped over his ankle in the process.

Whilst inwardly cursing whoever dared to place a block of brick to obstruct his exit, Madara expects to fall on his arse or something along those lines. What he got was an arm that snaked around his waist to pull him flush against a muscular body.

Madara reacted instantaneously by blindly punching the throat of whoever it was that had grabbed him, with whatever amount of chakra he could manage pooled at his fist to give him a better chance at crushing his enemy's windpipe in one blow.

His wrist was, however, unfortunately, caught. Before he could bring forth more violence, his interloper flares their chakra.

Belatedly sensing the familiar chakra signature, Madara halts all attacks and docilely slumps further into Tobirama's hold, digging his face in as if trying to mold himself into his friend's chest. He couldn't find it within himself to care about how embarrassingly needy he was behaving. Tobirama makes a good bolster. Solid, warm, and comfortable. He was completely at ease as he balances his chin on the muscled chest to peer at Tobirama through his lashes. The albino's face was akin to rippled water in a blob of white.

His head was beginning to throb harder and his limbs felt like jelly after having exerted himself. Madara airily reasons that a short break would fix this. Just for a minute.

Eyelids flutter shut as he falls into Morpheus's embrace, trusting Tobirama to keep watch. The arms holding him upright tightened as if to agree with his mental assessment.

- x - TMiW - x -

Madara trustingly settles against his chest with a soft snuffle.

It was utterly adorable.

"You, Uchiha Madara, are such a tease. At times like this, I speculate about the quality of your self-preservation instincts. Most would take this as an invitation." Tobirama sighed in exasperated fondness. Madara was a frustrating man. Whenever he acted this way, docile and soft, Tobirama couldn't help but be left wanting.