“Hello?” Madara demands, in the tone that means he’s entirely distracted and mostly picked up by accident. It’s a promising start; Izuna's gotten him to agree to let Izuna borrow his car most consistently when he’s like this.
“Madara!” he says, and leans out his bedroom window, watching the street. A figure in black is just sliding down the drainpipe, and he only just contains an inappropriate sound at the graceful twist and flip that lands the man on the lawn. He glances back, and Izuna waves. Face flushing pink, Itama waves in return, then pulls his black beanie off his head, tucks it into his backpack—no pockets, since he’s wearing tights, and Izuna appreciates bold fashion choices in a man—and slips through the hedge. A moment later, Izuna can see the top of his two-toned hair disappearing down the road, and he sighs.
There's a pause, suspicious and wary. “Izuna?” Madara asks, in a more attentive tone. “Is something wrong? It’s…” The pause as he pulls the phone from his ear to check is telling, as is the squawk and the curse as he sees the time. “It’s two in the morning, what are you doing up?”
“What are you doing up?” Izuna retorts cheerfully, and can't resist the urge to melt against his windowsill, possibly like a Disney princess. He also maybe possibly kicks one heel up, but he’s taking that with him to his grave.
“Paperwork,” Madara says, and for a moment he sounds entirely exhausted, worn to the bone. Izuna can picture him rubbing the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses askew. There's a pause, then footsteps, a door opening, and a loud thwump that says Madara just hit the mattress in a graceless belly-flop. Someone else mutters something, and Madara mutters, “Sorry, sor—get your hair off my pillow, you useless lump—”
Hashirama laughs, sleepy and warm, and Madara makes a disgruntled sound and collapses onto his pillow again. “So?” he asks, half-muffled. “What do you want, Izuna? It’s late.”
“I,” Izuna says gleefully, “just got robbed.”
“WHAT,” Madara screeches, and there's a loud crash like he just fell out of bed. Hashirama yelps, the phone bounces, and Izuna winces as he pulls it away from his ear. He can hear the mad scrabble to grab it, Hashirama asking something in a concerned tone, and then—
“You got robbed?!” Madara demands. “At your house? Are you all right? Did you get hurt? Did they steal anything?”
“Just my heart,” Izuna says happily, and there's dead silence on the other end of the line.
After a long moment, Hashirama’s voice comes through, clear enough that he must have grabbed Madara's cell. “Izuna?” he asks in concern. “Do you need to go to the hospital?”
“Only for lovesickness,” Izuna tells him. “He was so cute, Hashirama. I almost took his head off with a poker, and he blushed! He told me I have a good arm!”
“You do,” Hashirama says, carefully, like he isn't quite sure of the best thing to say. “I—you’re all right?”
“I'm fantastic. I have a date for Saturday!”
Madara screeches something in the background, high-pitched enough that likely only dogs can fully hear it, and there's another crash.
“WE’LL BE THERE IN TWENTY MINUTES, IZUNA, DON’T DO ANYTHING DRASTIC!” Madara bellows, and snatches the phone. He hangs up hard, and Izuna rolls his eyes. Really, Madara can be so dramatic sometimes. Izuna doesn’t have time for that. It’s Thursday, and he has a date on Saturday, and that’s barely enough time to prepare. Itama is definitely the cutest burglar ever, and Izuna would know, being a cop.
Itama stole his heart without hesitation, and he’d better take responsibility, Izuna thinks with a pleased hum, and slides the window shut. This is going to be wonderful.