Madara meets Hyuuga Aio’s opalescent glare with his own spinning Sharingan, gratified when she deactivates her Byakugan and looks away with a snarl. Her dōjutsu is simply lesser, and it would seem that she knows it, however unconsciously.
He sits back in his chair with a smug smirk hidden beneath the bristly black waterfall of his bangs – another round won for the Uchiha.
To his left, the Senju bastard rolls hellfire eyes, tapping his long, slender fingers impatiently on the meeting table and motioning at his brother to hurry up and finish what rambling speech about friendship he’d been giving to the newly-joined Hyuuga, like the Hyuuga are deserving of any kind of speech whatsoever. Their kekkei genkai is inferior to that of Madara’s own Clan, one of the two founding Clans of Konohagakure, and they should not have to scrape and grovel and bow to those pretentious snot-nosed assholes to get them to join their flourishing little village.
Tobirama looks like he’s three seconds away from strangling Aio when she gives a little sniff and softly accepts the proposal in her prim voice, so Madara assumes he feels the same.
It wouldn’t be the first time he’s ever agreed with Tobirama on anything, but it’s still surprising to him, enough to warrant a discreet sideways glance to catch sight of—
—pale collarbones, the joint of his jugular and clavicles, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.
It’s possible that Madara forgets how to breathe.
Doesn’t the damnable Senju have – have manners? What the hell is he doing wearing a yukata that gapes open to bare his neck and throat and the top of his chest to the kami and the Hyuuga and everybody? Why does he own clothing so ridiculously oversized that it reveals his lickable neck to the world at large—
“…adara, you agree, right? This is acceptable to you?”
“It is most certainly not,” he snaps, because he has a legitimate sense of propriety and would never permit Izuna to go walking around in public practically naked. “Why on earth are you letting your brother wear – wear that, Hashirama? He might as well be shirtless!”
Tobirama and Hashirama both turn to him, their eyebrows quirked in an identical expression of inquiry that somehow manages to come out as much fiercer on Tobirama’s sharp face, probably due to how Madara’s just embarrassed him in public in front of their new ally. She gives Tobirama’s bared skin a dubious glare, which is not okay, because only Madara is allowed to glare at Tobirama’s throat and wonder what noises he would make if it was licked and bitten and kissed-!
He realizes It just as Hashirama apologetically ushers the Hyuuga woman out of the room, just as Tobirama tugs self-consciously on the collar of his stupidly large shirt. It strikes him like a hammer to the head just as his brain decides to comprehend what the hell he’d just said out loud, into the air where everybody heard him, and before he knows it Madara can feel his face burning in a violent blush. It is a rare day when a ninja such as himself feels mortification, but he is no more immune to emotion than any civilian; if anything, it strikes him harder, stronger, more deeply because of his Sharingan and his heritage and his ruinous mouth.
As soon as Hashirama is clear of the office, Senju turns to him with absolute, unbridled rage boiling in his expression, face flushed redder than his eyes in his embarrassment and pretty pink mouth twisted into a fearsome scowl that, mercifully, does an excellent job at cowing the part of Madara’s brain that has suddenly and unexpectedly become addicted to producing fantasies about Senju Tobirama, of all people.
He does not swallow nervously. He is Uchiha Madara; he doesn’t feel nervous. He can hold his own in battle against Hashirama. He can fight a bijuu single-handedly and win. He is powerful, well-respected, feared. He is all of these things and more, and he’s never felt smaller than he has now, pinned beneath the burning anger of Tobirama’s glare, the sole unfortunate focus of his ire.
Instead of speaking immediately, he does something worse. He just takes a deep breath, inhale, exhale, repeating the action several more times like it’s a necessary precaution to take if he wants to avoid just leaning across the table to strangle Madara with his bare hands, something that wouldn’t surprise him at all. Given his own embarrassment, he might even let him, might even enjoy it if it’s Tobirama choking the life out of him—
“What,” Tobirama says, calm and gentle and soft like he’s speaking to one of his young summons, “the fuck was that, Uchiha?” His voice is velvety and venomous, laced with an undercurrent of threat that makes Madara want to curl up and hide very far away from him and what undoubtedly horrible things he’s planning to do in retribution.
His throat feels very dry, all of a sudden, and he shakes his head slightly so that the thick fringe of his bangs falls more securely into his face, blocking his view of Tobirama and, most importantly, Tobirama’s delicious throat.
“I asked you a question, Madara. What do you think you did there? What was the point of that?”
The pointed use of his first name feels like a knife to the heart, and Madara doesn’t quite shrink back from Tobirama’s accusatory tone, but it’s a close thing, and only his decades of shinobi training keep him firm and upright in his seat. If he’s going to die on this hill, he might as well go ahead and do it; he wasn’t wrong, after all, about the way Tobirama looks. His own thoughts are proof enough of that.
“Not my fault you choose to go around looking utterly indecent,” Madara rumbles in response, keeping his voice carefully neutral and doing his best not to reveal the fact that he would be the first offender in terms of thinking about his colleague with utter indecency.
Tobirama blusters angrily, clenching his hands into fists and flexing his fingers like he wishes he could wrap them around Madara’s throat. “Wh- I am not indecent, you’re just a pervert! Honestly, Hyuuga wasn’t about to jump my bones and I don’t know why you’d assume that she was, not that I’m interested in women-” An incredibly unhelpful sentiment, that. “-and there happens to be nothing wrong with my shirts!”
He seems to have misinterpreted Madara’s hateful libido as Madara’s famous distaste for the Hyuuga mixing with his famous distaste for Tobirama, thank every god there is.
“I don’t know where Hashirama gets the idea that he can just let his little brother go walking around like a two-bit whore-”
“A what,” Tobirama snarls, and Madara is definitely flirting with danger in riling him up so, but it’s just so damn fun and he has jealousy and horniness to get out of his system.
“-but if Izuna did that, I’d dress him myself until he grows out of it. Do tell your anija when you see him next that he really can’t be permitting people to get – ideas about you, especially if you wear clothes like that.”
Tobirama mutters something poisonous and pointed under his breath, but Madara really can’t be in the room with him any longer or he risks getting an erection, and he sweeps out the door with as much dignity as he can muster (read: not very much at all) to go find Hashirama and order him to make his brother dress more modestly.
Honestly. Someone might start to think of that too-pale rat bastard as attractive, and then Madara would have to kill them, for the sake of Tobirama’s honor, of course; if the man can’t be bothered to protect his virtue himself, Madara will be a gracious ally and future Hokage and deign to do it for him.
(He’s gotten very good at lying to himself.)