Shinobi Isekai: Round Two

Give an Inch

For a moment, Hashirama really thought Madara would take his hand. Then he sighed and Hashirama knew he'd failed. Again.

"Hashirama," Madara said with considerably less bite. "I wish it was possible. I really do. Those days with you are among the best of my life, but this isn't about me." He tilted his head back, snowflakes catching on his ark eyelashes. "My dreams don't matter, anymore. If they ever did." His gaze was sad and unfocused. Then, his jaw clenched tightly. "I refuse to be put in a position where I must choose between my clan and anything else—or anyone."

Hashirama didn't try to stop him as he walked away. How many times had he watched this exact scene? His hand outstretched toward Madara's proud back.

Snow fell into his open palm, melting against his calloused skin. That could have gone better, but it also could have been worse. No blades were drawn this time and Madara's eyes remained black, so that was an encouraging sign, right?

"Wow~, that was a shit show."

He looked up at the littles Uchiha where he lay stretched out across the top of the carriage. What was his name, again? Kyou? Was it Kyou? He didn't look much like either of his brothers, but the way he was looking down at Hashirama, the arrogance and disdain in his dark eyes, was something all Uchiha seemed to share.

"What did you expect to happen," the boy continued with a shake of his head, long, inky black hair falling over his shoulders. "Did you think he would just leap into your arms and you would run off together into the sunset?"

Hashirama closed his extended hand and brought it back to his side. "Are you mocking me?"

"Yes."

He laughed despite himself, the smile on his face just soft enough to be friendly. Kyou—if that was his name—returned it with a sneer that tugged oddly at the scar bisecting his lips. Hashirama jumped up and joined him on the roof of the carriage, folding his legs comfortably beneath him.

"What do you think of peace, then? Do you also think it's a childhood dream?"

Kyou shrugged. "I was a little busy trying to live everyday. Dreams are a luxury us cannon fodder can't afford."

Cannon...? That was a new term for him, but it didn't take much thinking to figure it out. "Don't you think peace would have made that easier?"

"I dunno. Is peace edible?"

Hashirama's rebuttals died on his tongue. "What?"

Kyou's smile was not a kind expression. "Peace. Can you eat it? You do realize that we get paid to fight each other, right? One old fat guy in a castle hires us and his enemy hires you and bing bang boom! We're at war, again. It's not like we're going out of our way to fight. I'm sure there are oodles of people back home who would be happy to let bygones be bygones, if only they didn't have kids to feed. Now, I'm sure your pretty little Mokuton makes agriculture easy, so maybe this isn't something you need to think about as the future clan Head, but it is for Madara. How many missions do we need to take to purchase enough rice for the winter? How many battles can we afford to avoid? How many do we have to fight, or risk starving? How many need to be against the Senju, and how many other clans can we afford to make our enemies?" Kyou leaned in, brown eyes—so different from the usual black—focused and angry. "These are questions Madara has to ask himself every time he makes a decision. If we stop fighting, we lose a serious source of income. Unless you have a plan to make up the deficit, I'd keep talks of peace to a minimum around him."

He opened his mouth to say that, yes, he did know that fighting was a shinobi's primary source of employment—the Senju were shinobi, too, after all—and that, no, the Mokuton wasn't used for agriculture, who would do that, but the cocksure grin on Kyou's face had him hesitating. The younger ninja saw that show of weakness and pounced.