Tobirama throws himself onto the bench next to Tōka with a scowl like a thunderstorm, and growls, “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”
Tōka, predictably, doesn’t even glance up from where she’s lovingly running a whetstone over the gleaming blade of her naginata. “I told you to go for the killing blow, kitten. That cheater’s jutsu of yours is fast enough that you can't say it wasn’t an option.”
“Brother would have been disappointed in me,” Tobirama mutters, sinking lower in his seat until he almost disappears into his ruff. “He would have given me The Face.”
“So you’ve traded The Face for the Uchiha brat,” Tōka says without an ounce of sympathy. “You dug your grave, now lie in it.”
“I don’t think that’s quite how that saying goes,” Tobirama informs her pointedly, eyes narrowing in irritation. “Not that you would know, given how you butcher language on a regular basis, cousin.”
Tōka, who was raised a lady even if she has more skill at breaking heads than stitching clothing, narrows her eyes right back, then offers Tobirama her sweetest smile and calls brightly, “Izuna! How nice to see you again!”
Any other Uchiha, hearing that tone, would remember that Tōka has the second-highest kill-count in the Senju clan, behind only Tobirama himself. Uchiha Izuna, with all the bold-faced bravery that Tobirama finds reluctantly admirable, meanders up as if he hasn’t been trailing Tobirama since his morning exercises and waves politely. “Tōka. Tobirama.” His voice grows noticeably brighter on the second name. “What a coincidence, seeing you here.”
“Yes,” Tobirama answers blandly, ignoring the man’s hopeful smile. “What a coincidence. If you’ll excuse me—”
Of course, Tōka catches him by the arm before he can so much as shift his weight, and offers him her brilliantly beatific bullshit smile. “Don’t rush off, cousin, you just got here. Didn’t you say you’d let me check over your armor?”
Tobirama said no such thing, and his glare tells her as much. Tōka just flutters her lashes at him sweetly, and hisses under her breath, “Do it, or I make your life hell.”
Tōka’s version of hell is to be avoided at all costs. Tobirama’s already been scarred for life just witnessing her inflict it on Hashirama for interrupting one of her dates. His hands are on the buckles and the chest-plate is halfway off before he even consciously considers moving.
The armor falls away into Tōka’s waiting hands, and Izuna promptly trips over his own feet and chokes on his tongue—impressive, given he’s neither walking nor speaking.
To hell with this, Tobirama thinks icily, and rises to his feet with his temper snapping hard under his skin. It doesn’t matter that he’s only wearing the thin, clinging tunic that goes underneath his armor, even though Izuna seems to have had a mild heart attack at the sight of it.
“Enough,” he growls. “Uchiha, you're insane. I nearly killed you!”
Izuna's eyes are fixed unwaveringly on Tobirama’s abs, and don’t seem to be in any hurry to move. “Right,” he says, faintly dazed. “With the speed, and the sword, and—has anyone told you recently that you're really strong? As a shinobi. And physically. And mentally.”
Deciding that even Tōka’s worst won't hold a candle to this, Tobirama throws up his hands, turns on his heel and stalks away.
This is all Hashirama’s fault. Maybe if Tobirama beats him up, he’ll feel a little better.