Red

Mito has begun taking on more duties in Konoha-now she manages the appointments of the village representatives. In the official sense, she is only expected to meet and placate the visitors while Hashirama is rounded up from whatever corner of the Village he is lost to when he should be politiking.

In the days and weeks that unfurl between her arrival and the first time she thinks of the Leaf as home, though, Mito begins to feel more like a secretary. And along with the boredom comes a faint sense of belonging.

She realizes this as she sits idly, early one morning. Her over-long nails are slipping along the channels of grain in her beautiful wood desk. It, too, had been a spontaneous gift from Hashirama. He had carved it of a rare wood, he had assured her, which could not stain and needed no varnish. It stood out, curved and luxurious beside the spartan lines of the rest of the office.

"Hello, Mito."

A shallow nick appears in the smooth surface-scratched by her nail as she jolts with surprise. Rather than look up she smooths her fingers over the blemish. Hashirama won't notice, but she feels guilty.

Madara is gathering a the tips of her hair between his fingers before she can reply. "What hair you have." He teases again, sitting atop the papers she had intended to review.

She knows he means the unusual sight of her unbound hair. "A gift to myself."

He hums with interest, encouraging her to continue. The caginess that seems to follow him is dissipated today-it's certain that Hashirama has finally consented to a spar.

Though their rivalry confuses Mito, she is beginning to see it form cycles.

She only smiles and asks lightly, "You're pleased. Should I worry for Hashirama?" Or should I worry for you? Mito studies the young man before her, thinking of the worry lines deepening in Hashirama's face recently. There is a roiling pressure building in Leaf, but she isn't sure when it will boil over.

Red eyes hunt down the expressions on her face. For a lurching moment Mito wonders if he can read her mind.

A darker cast has fallen over his angular features. Slowly he leans forward, working his wrist and twining her hair over the back of his hand.

A faint sting at her scalp encourages her to bow her face as well. As the hard line of his jaw meets her temple, Mito keeps one hand on the raw wood desk. Just a pulse of her chakra will bring Hashirama. She knows it, but she waits instead.

"He is not worthy of your concern." Madara's voice is a hot rasp against her brow, and Mito feels her heart jog at the sensation.

"Mito." A deep voice calls, and Mito straightens like a shot.

"Hashirama, your appointment schedule is here. I-" Her words are cut short as she smiles toward the doorway where Hashirama has appeared. Though Madara has moved, and the paper she needs is just out of reach-because he still has not released his grip.

Rather, the Uchiha lingers just behind her chair with the long fall of her hair coiled like rope in his grasp. An unnaturally warm palm finds the crook of her neck and Madara calls in greeting, "Hashirama."

The two men watch each other for longer than is comfortable. Mito can see only Hashirama-and he seems focused on the possessive touch at her shoulder. Madara's fascination with her hair has always been reluctantly tolerated by the taller man. Mito would not call the expression on the Hashirama's face anything like tolerance now.

"I will be receiving for the rest of the day, Mito." The dismissal in his tone is clear.

Gathering the few things she brought along, Mito quickly turns to leave. She can hear Madara stir to follow. Hashirama tenses, and it's as if the frustrated capability that usually trails the Uchiha has clouded over him instead.

His dark eyes flick to Madara and he says, "A word?"

Madara makes a faint, amused sound but Mito can feel her shoulders wilt. She thought, perhaps, he would ask her to stay.

Rather than comment, Mito joins Hashirama near the door. Tucked for a moment under his arm, she tries to meet his eyes. He instead watches Madara as he bids, "Remember the dinner with the Mizu damiyo, next evening."

"Yes." Is her plain reply.

Something in Madara's expression must have frustrated him. A terse goodbye and the door slams as Hashirama slides it closed behind her.

Mito lingers on the stone steps. Although his voice is calm, Hashirama's disappointment was clear. It weighs, curiously heavy in her thoughts.

There come no voices from behind the thin door and Mito knows they will not discuss whatever it is that has them at odds, so long as she lingers. With a conflicted mind, she turns and walks slowly home.

Beneath the mottled shade of a thousand branches, Mito feels the first crack race along her hope for Konoha. How long, she wonders, will they last this way?