In the wake of Tobirama's return, their kisses are stolen – they're flashes of chapped lips pressed together, hidden behind the door of the open fridge the same day that he arrives. They're an open tongue laving over the crook of the neck when Hashirama leans in to look at his textbook, and they’re over before he can protest it at all. They're nothing more than dust to his knuckles, snowfall. Quiet and reverent and stolen.

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Hashirama twined a cuff of mokuton around each wrist before battle, discreet under Tobirama’s armor. It was casual, the way he’d drape the mantle about his brother’s neck, but his touch lingered and the funeral rains were still dampening the earth, soaking their tread. They left into the gray-early morning before the light could be anything more than water, transient and cold. Hashirama walked with a swaying stride, his brother trailing close behind. He lingered the way that Hashirama’s fingers lingered on his wrists.

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"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, holding firm. "Your work."

"Well then let me help."

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