Chapter 1

Tobirama is doing his brother's paperwork for him in the chair reserved for the Hokage. The day is slow and the early spring air is thick enough that Tobirama has an excuse to leave the window cracked open, airing out the room after a winter’s worth of stagnant air. Tobirama prefers cold weather, but in the wake of winter, the warmth is a novelty to be cherished. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that the spring’s scent is his brother’s. In an over-warm office, the last fanciful part of him is reminded of strong arms wrapped around his torso, long hair trailing down over his shoulders by a passive voyeur to his own ceded responsibilities. He could, he thinks, give in to the drowsy course of the day. 

It’s the middle of the afternoon when Hashirama intrudes, leaning, loose-limbed, against the doorframe and offering his help. 

Tobirama narrows his eyes.

"What? When have I ever done anything to lose your trust?"

"It’s not about trust, it’s about realism." 

The last time that Hashirama offered to help – or, more accurately, to do his job – he ended up folding the Hyuuga Clan treaty into a paper crane, setting it delicately onto his brother’s head as a makeshift hat. Tobirama won't let that happen again.

Enigmatic as ever, Hashirama smiles.

"Not like that," he promises. He advances with a quiet tread and nudges Tobirama's chair away from his work, folding himself, impossibly, under his own desk. He's not a small man. It can't be comfortable.

Strong arms pull Tobirama back with the scrape of wood against wood. With a minute adjustment, Hashirama has Tobirama's thighs framing his smiling face. Tobirama, who has always run cold, is just beginning to heat to the passive temperature of the office. Deft fingers untie the cord of his loose pants.

"Lift up?" Hashirama requests, and Tobirama complies without thinking. He's soft, but at this rate, he won’t be for long. Hashirama’s breath is warm and wet, tantalizing against the most sensitive part of Tobirama’s body.

It’s harder to say, "we shouldn’t," than Tobirama had thought it would be – hard to the point where he can’t repeat himself when Hashirama leans in, inhaling and licking a clumsy stripe from root to tip. In lieu of protest, he exhales once – wet and cracked and far too open for such a public space.

"If you won’t take a break," Hashirama says in a tone that would be smug on anyone else. "I’ll have to bring the break to you."

"You didn’t ask me to take a break."

"Will you take a break?" Hashirama smiles as though he’s already won. In a way, he has. 

"I have work to do," Tobirama says. "Your work."

"Well then let me help."

With that, Hashirama takes Tobirama into his mouth. He can feel his own pulse against Hashirama’s tongue, and he’s weak for it, melting into the nebulous warmth and the peripheral scrape of teeth. He tenses, preparing for movement that doesn’t come. 

It takes him to the count of five to recognize that there won’t be any movement at all, and then he’s indignant, face heating over at the idea of the prolonged humiliation that would be having his brother under his desk, waiting, on his knees, for Tobirama to finish with his work.

And Tobirama is sure that that’s what this is – a humiliation tactic, a way to distract him.

"Anija," Tobirama says, teeth gritted. "How am I supposed to get back to work if you don’t . . ." he trails off, not wanting to be crude or overly assertive. Hashirama just stares, owlish. Gives a weak suck. Tobirama groans, equal parts frustration and pleasure. "Fine," he mutters, forcing himself to relax into it. It’s already too late to argue – Hashirama gets what Hashirama wants. Wood scrapes against wood, knees drape over shoulders. The rules of the game are set.

The sun is beginning to touch down on the horizon, taking some of the day’s heat with it. Tobirama is grateful for it. Every nerve ending feels raw and overheated – his legs have begun to tremble where his ankles are crossed on his brother’s upper back. A thin chill that dulls the scent of spring is something that he welcomes, even if it puts the line of sweat trickling down his nape into stark contrast with his fever-warm neck. 

The heat of Hashirama’s mouth and the stutter of his own heart have spun Tobirama’s focus entirely around the axis of his older brother, which is why Tobirama is so easily caught off guard. He tenses when the door creaks open to frame the everpresent scowl of Uchiha Madara, the one person in the entire village who would forgo knocking on the Hokage’s door. Tobirama almost snaps his favorite pen in two – it’s a damn near thing. It creaks. Tense, Tobirama makes a mental note to chew his brother out for posing such an effective distraction. It’s not tactical to have his attention divided so soon after everything that’s happened. 

"Have you seen Hashirama?" Madara asks without preamble, skimming the visible areas of the room. With Tobirama’s luck, Madara will catch on to more than just the endless mountain of paper and the bookshelves that have yet to be filled. 

"No," Tobirama says tersely. Hashirama rewards him with a flat lave of his tongue, sending Tobirama’s heart skittering. "D-do you need me to deliver a message?" His words trip out of his mouth alongside a sharp exhale. The sweat reaches his collar. He must be red. 

Madara’s eyes catch on Tobirama. They’re dark for the moment, dark and narrowed. A strand of saliva escapes Hasirama’s mouth, making its lazy way down to Tobirama’s taint. He sets his jaw and stiffens further to suppress a shudder. It has to be on purpose – Hashirama doesn’t make stupid mistakes. 

The moment breaks and Madara softens back into himself, shaking his head and turning to go. Where Hashirama thrives in peace, Madara is incongruent outside of wartime, all contradiction and preparation in a way that would remind Tobirama of himself if he would only let himself make the comparison.

When the door is back to how it should be, Tobirama takes a fistfull of his brother’s hair. Tugs, once. The message is exchanged.

When the sun is fully set and the work is most of the way done, Hashirama begins to bob his head. Tobirama’s hand jerks, botching his brother’s signature on the page, and he slumps, tension winding taut in a matter of seconds until it breaks and he’s folded into himself. His world is compressed to a point. Breath hitching violently, he spends in mind-numbing pulses that Hashirama swallows without complaint.

He’s still gasping when Hashirama pushes him aside, unfolding to his full height and tucking Tobirama back into his pants. His lips are swollen and red. He shifts his jaw experimentally and stretches to his full height, rolling his shoulders back.

"See? Wasn’t that nice?" Hashirama asks, not waiting for an answer. He pulls Tobirama up onto shaking legs, steadying him. His erection presses into his brother’s hip. Tobirama tries to glare, but Hashirama’s smile is impenetrable. He says, "I think that’s enough for today," and then he kisses Tobirama’s brow, gentle and firm. There is no arguing with a force of nature who smells like springtime with bitter breath.

Bitter breath.

Tobirama flushes and shoves his brother away.

Alternate Ending

"See? Wasn’t that nice?" Hashirama asks, not waiting for an answer. He pulls Tobirama up onto shaking legs, steadying him. His erection presses into his brother’s hip. Tobirama tries to glare, but Hashirama’s smile is impenetrable. 

"Say thank you," he commands, and if Tobirama had anything left to argue with, he would bristle and pull away. As things stand, he’s far too unsteady to deny Hashirama anything at all.  

"Thank you," he says under his breath, directing his attention to the ground. There are deceptively strong fingers pulling his chin up. There is that smile like summer storm clouds gathering heavy on the horizon. 

"Thank you, Anija," Hashirama enunciates for him to repeat.

There is no arguing with a force of nature who smells like springtime with bitter breath. Tobirama sets his jaw.

"Thank you, Anija," he says with great effort, and then he pulls himself out of Hashirama’s grasp, straightening his clothing and trying to get his bearings. Hashirama palms himself openly through his pants from his casual stance against the desk. 

"Good," he smiles brightly, and Tobirama is certain, then – more so than ever – that Hashirama will be the death of him. 

Chapter 2

Tobirama dresses down in the chill of evening, letting the cold set in until Hashirama is back to drape across his back and ease the chill. Cicada trill worms its way inside, a drilling hum to trace the razor-edge of fraying nerves. The moon creeps across the sky.

For a while, Tobirama reads a report by the warm light of the andon, propped up by two pillows, one borrowed. Half of his mind is occupied tracing his brother’s chakra presence through the village. He’s not alone. Tobirama’s mouth sets itself in a thin line.

Hashirama comes back late with sweet breath. He nudges his head into the space between Tobirama’s neck and shoulder, inhaling long and steady, like coming home, and when he exhales, he leaves the scent of sake. Tobirama tenses against temptation.

"Were you out with the Uchiha again?" He demands instead.

"Eh?" The pause, strung out, lapses from simple computation to an admission of guilt. "No."

"You’re an awful liar."

"Mm," Hashirama nuzzles his nose against his brother’s pulse point, slinging an arm out across his chest. "We’re allies. You should try to trust him."

"You trust too easily. You compromise your safety by drinking with him."

Hashirama is only intoxicated because he wills it so.

"Tobi . . ." The God of Shinobi draws out the syllables like a child. "I can defend myself. And if I ever can’t," Hashirama squeezes Tobirama’s cheek. "You’ll defend me."

Tobirama sets his jaw. "Against Madara?"

"Madara will never hurt me again," Hashirama says with simple, drunken conviction. The power of his belief is almost contagious, and Tobirama hopes, for Madara’s sake, that he never proves Hashirama wrong. He’s not sure if his brother could another betrayal.

He sets aside the half-read report with a lenient sigh, deciding that it can wait until morning. Redistributing the pillows, they settle back to front, Hashirama’s latent warmth permeating thin fabric. Hashirama’s hands wander, tracking down his sides and through the v-front of his sleep yukata, landing to press sure and steady over his heart. Hashirama leaves a line of kisses at the hinge of neck and jaw. He turns back part way, distracted from sleep and inclined to address it sooner rather than later.

"If you want something," he says, "you should ask for it." 

His annoyance is interpreted as a challenge. Hashirama grins. 

"I want to be inside you."

It’s filthy. It’s provocative. It is so incredibly tempting.

"It’s late," Tobirama says, mostly to avoid resurrecting an argument with no resolution. There are heated embers stirring in his stomach that could be ignited into a burning inferno, but he’s built steady and firm, a clock that operates down to the second, a routine already disrupted, his brother’s stable shadow. The cicada song is getting under his skin. He’s tired as an itch.

"Why did you tell me to ask if you were going to say no?" Hashirama asks with an exaggerated pout. His warmth is seeping into Tobirama’s skin.

"Because I didn’t know what you wanted," he lies, teeth gritted. "Now go to sleep."

"Tobirama," Hashirama whines, dragging Tobirama to lie on his back. Hashirama props himself up on one arm, posture languid and inviting. It’s not as easy to stand firm when their eyes are locked.

Sake and cicada song. If you wanted me so badly, says some treacherous part of Tobirama, why did you go drinking with Madara? You missed your chance to have me tonight. He swallows, up-down. 

"I just want to be closer to you," Hashirama drags his hand up to cup his brother’s face, igniting every nerve on his slow trek up exposed neck and collarbones. "Please? We don’t have to fuck."

"You want to . . . put your cock inside me. Without having sex," Tobirama says without inflection, staying blankly up at his brother and the curtain of hair creeping down over his shoulder.  

"Yes," another chaste kiss. It’s too much to bear. The embers are sparking. He’s trying and failing to keep composure.

"Not a very clever loophole," Tobirama tucks a stray hair behind his brother’s ear. It’s acquiescence at its finest, Hashirama can tell. "I expected more from the God of Shinob –"

Hashirama leans down to capture his lips, flaming, burning, the dam breaks. Hashirama is caging him in, his warmth unrelenting, his chakra flaring. Sprouts shoot up through the tatami, looping over the futon to twine through Tobirama’s fingers, over the race of his pulse. They’re rutting like teenagers, thighs tangled and clothes catching. Here is the full rage of spring, the unblinking eye of his brother’s attention, burning everything in its path down to clear the underbrush for saplings. The last thing Tobirama sees will be a smile, he knows it. 

It’s so good. It’s so good, it’s always so good, Tobirama never dared to ask where Hashirama learned to kiss and coax, knowing he’ll never be satisfied with the answer. Vines ruck his yukata up around his hips. He’s wearing nothing underneath. 

"How dirty, Tobirama," Hashirama pulls away just long enough to chide, and then there’s the probing coil of smooth wood coated slick. When Tobirama clenches around the intrusion, his brother moans a response, arms shuddering to give way. He removes the wood by hand, a mokuton coil just ambiguous enough in shape to stand to attention with the other "sculptures" they display on a shelf in the front room. Repositioning them so that they’re on their sides, Hashirama slides in, stopping when he bottoms out, and Tobirama’s pride is the only thing that stands in the way of saying that it’s not enough, that they’re not finished, that he’ll get what he wants if he has to take it by force. Hashirama rests his open palm on Tobirama’s bony hip. 

"Good?"

Hashirama’s is maddeningly close to where Tobirama really needs him. If he moved, the friction would ignite Tobirama to the core. He would give anything to force a lull in the incessant screaming wall of noise.

"Yes."

He’s comfortable, at least, he always is with Hashirama right beside him. They’re less than a hair’s breadth apart, close enough that when Tobirama inhales to regain his composure, it’s a conscious choice that Hashirama chooses not to comment.

"My Tobi," Hashirama says on rumbling exhale, so perfectly content that it sends want ballooning through Tobirama’s stomach, huge and terrifying. He’s a formidable shinobi in his own right – his desires are oversized, bloated with the power. The difference between them is that he makes the conscious decision to not give in to blatant hedonism. "So good."

Sometimes Hashirama doesn’t make it easy.

Extinguishing the wick in the andon with a thimble’s worth of water, Tobirama gives himself over to a night of faking sleep.

He only knows that he managed to fall asleep when he wakes in the pitch-black to an overwhelming warmth and the spit-fire of a building orgasm. There is tacky sweat down his back. The sun hasn’t risen yet and he is so hot he might just crawl out of his skin. He is reminded of their situation only when Hashirama shifts, sending sparks of pleasure skittering up Tobirama’s spine. He balls up his fist and crams it in his mouth, biting down hard against unyielding bone. Hashirama thrusts again. Sometime in the night, his hand found its way to Tobirama’s stomach, one of the few places left unmarked. It’s the bars of a cage, keeping them close, keeping them pressed into each other. He fucks in again, clumsy and uncoordinated in sleep. Hashirama’s mouth is open against his brother’s shoulder. 

"Anija," Tobirama whispers, trying to catch Hashirama’s attention. He’s always been a deep sleeper. Tobirama clenches the muscles of his thighs, either to coax it on or hold it off. Something. With the way he’s already close, he can’t gauge how long this has been happening. It’s dark and he’s so erect that it hurts against his thigh, afraid to bring himself off for fear of the overstimulation that will follow when Hashirama inevitably continues. "Anija," he repeats, louder, trailing off into something like a moan. This time, Hashirama hits his prostate dead on, lighting him up. His pace is quickening, jolting and imprecise. There’s more sprouting through the tatami, the green of summer, tracing Tobiarma’s veins through his skin. He’s dribbling a steady stream of precome. He tries to be disgusted by it. He can feel his heartbeat in every finger, against his tongue where a fist tries to keep him in composure.

"Wake up."

Again, again, the vines wrap around his wrists, around his cock, it’s nearly enough to set him off. There are tears building in the corners of his eyes. Humiliation is the burn in his throat, Hashirama’s pace is ceaseless. He’s coiling tight. It’s too late for his brother to wake, he would find a way to stop this close to the edge, to keep his promise that they wouldn’t fuck. It’s too late. It’s too –

"Hashirama," Tobirama says as a sob, nearly choking around his fist as he’s pushed over the precipice. It’s a long way down, it seems to last for eternity, a war drum’s pulse rocketing through his body. Hashirama finishes some time after during the dying pulses of his brother’s orgasm, but he doesn’t pull out, settling instead with the contented sigh of a man truly sated. 

There is come dripping down the insides of Tobirama’s thighs. He turns his head into the pillow in an attempt to clear the salt from his eyes, but it only serves as an irritation. He’s breathing hard, breath hitching awkwardly. He decides that it’s a good thing that Hashirama slept through it. The alternatives are all far, far worse.

Tobirama is almost back to sleep when he realizes that Hashirama is still hard. Shit.

Hashirama wakes well rested, stretching into the morning sun and glowing twice as bright. He is the paradigm of perfect sleep, golden and glowing and loose.  

Tobirama is heavy with the sleeplessness of the truly troubled, wincing when his brother slides out. He can’t sit up just yet. 

"I’m never doing that again," he says, firm and final, curled protectively around his stomach. "I’d rather pack my bags and move to the Uchiha compound."

Hashirama’s eyebrows shoot up nearly to his hairline. 

"Really? I’ll tell –"

"I am not moving to the Uchiha compound," Tobirama snaps. His brother has the nerve to look disappointed. He leaves without a word, tread light, and it’s a surprise when he comes back with a wet washcloth, cool and refreshing where it drags against Tobirama’s inner thighs. 

"You’ll learn to like him someday," Hashirama says, conviction misplaced. In Tobirama’s opinion, it is neither the time nor the place for this conversation. 

"I would prefer not to think about Madara while you’re cleaning your come out of me," he says, and Hashirama has the nerve to laugh. In the watery morning light, it feels like a dream more than anything. The cicadas drone on, but the sprouts that breached the tatami are nowhere to be seen. 

"You’re both so precious to me," Hashirama says with a final rasp of the washcloth. Tobirama can finally turn onto his back. There’s a hollow ache splitting him open. He elbows Hashirama off of the futon without another word even though leaving him unattended to make them breakfast is almost always a bad idea.