Three Sentence Ficathon

Tobirama stood, head high, weapons discarded, as Madara slid open the door; he looked weary and even more stressed than he always did, bruised shadows below his eyes, shoulders not so proud.

"I am not here to beg forgiveness." Tobirama said, swallowing thickly, aware that his lover - his beloved, the man he had shared his bed and his heart and his mind with for years - might strike him down at any moment, and his armour and weapons all laid aside.

"No?" Madara ground out, fingers flexing.

"How is Izuna?" Tobirama asked softly, and didn't brace himself - if Madara struck him, then fair enough and he would take the blow. Madara took a shuddering breath, then lunged, catching hold of Tobirama and clinging, head against his shoulder, shocking him silent and breathless . . . and sparking cold alarm deep in his chest.