Connecting hollows (Tobirama x Madara)

4. Paradoxical breathing (Tobirama)

I had been told that he was different.

Having been granted the honour of being deacon, and not only that but the deacon of the most well-known and visited cathedral in the country and, at least in my opinion, the most beautiful one in the world, he was bound to be special. But people who worked under me in the police force had expressed great reverence to his age of only thirty-two.

Despite him being six years younger than me, I had had a hard time imagining him as anything but an old priest. But he had surprised me, and I was not easily surprised.

"Please, sit down. Do you want coffee?" he asked. "Or Red Bull?"

"Red Bull, please", I said, surprising myself this time as I never accepted anything when on duty.

He gave one to me I cracked it open as I sat down at his wooden kitchen table in the small but clean kitchen, waiting for him to bring his own mug of coffee with him to sit down opposite me.

I liked the way he looked in my field of vision. Strong. Tall and broad. But still not as tall and broad and me, meaning he would still be very comfortable in my arms.

I had no idea where that thought had come from.

I took a sip of the slightly bitter bubblegum flavoured drink. It tasted strange seeing I had brushed my teeth not that long ago.

"What can I do for you?" the man asked me.

"My name is Tobirama Senju", I said. "I'm the police chief, head of all forces."

"Madara Uchiha. Deacon."

I couldn't help but notice how he wrinkled up his face as he said this, as if his own name and title causes him great discomfort.

"As you have no doubt figured out, we believe you might be in danger."

He frowned and went quiet.

"Actually, I haven't thought of that. Not really."

I smiled a crooked smile at him, not entirely sure if he was sarcastic or not. He didn't let go of my gaze. People usually did, and when they didn't, it was to challenge me. There was nothing challenging in the deacon's eyes. He seemed to be only looking, taking me in, drinking me and I hoped I was to his taste.

"Really?" I asked.

He shook his head. As he seemed to collect his thoughts, form them into sentences, I looked around me at the interior of his little cottage. My guess was that he had gotten it fully furnished; the contrast between the man and his home were just too great. The red-and-white checkered curtains, the copper kettles, the pine wood cupboards, the crème sofa visible from the kitchen through the opening into the living room... It was all accompanied by a scent of fresh wood and paint making me believe the place was maximum a few year's old. Then, I looked over at the man, so pale yet dark in a way that made him look very gothic. I had never met anyone who looked like him before. Never taken interest.

"I have been occupied thinking about the victims and my own blame", he said. "I have heard people whisper behind me, or thought I have, at least, but I've never thought myself to be in actual, physical danger."

"I see", I said, taking a sip. "What do you mean with your own blame?" I asked. When he turned to me with a frown, I couldn't help but chuckle. "Don't worry. This isn't an interrogation. I'm just curious. There are still some parts of this case we don't fully comprehend."

He kept looking at me, really thinking about his next move. He seemed to do that a lot and I liked that about him. It was rare. It was as if he felt he only had a limited amount of words being allowed to pass his lips over the course of his lifetime, and he wanted to make every one of them count.