YESSSSSSS CAN YOU IMAGINE THE TERRIBLE PICKUP LINES? Because I can. I can also fully imagine Izuna feeding him said terrible pickup lines because Madara is a walking disaster and (in one of a long list of poor life decisions) trusts his brother to help him interact with other humans.
When Touka leans around the shelf Tobirama always hides behind for her break, she’s wearing that particularly smug, taunting expression that means she’s about to take great pleasure in Tobirama’s pain. He eyes her warily, because unlike his brother he doesn’t still think of her as their nearly-angelic babysitter. He’s taken Chem with Touka. There’s no possible way she’s anything close to angelic.
“I have sixty-seven seconds of my break left,” he informs her, in a futile attempt to head things off at the pass.
“That’s nice,” she answers, entirely merciless as usual. If anything, her smile gets smugger. “But you’ve got people at 12. Lover-boy’s back, and he’s asking for you specifically.”
Tobirama would groan, except that he’s not about to give her the satisfaction. Instead, he breathes out very slowly through his nose and pushes to his feet. “I hate you,” he hisses as he stalks past. “And I hate him, too.”
Of course, Touka just blows him a kiss. “No, you love me,” she croons. “And I’m sure if you can get his pants off you’ll love him too.”
He has no desire to learn how she knows that. With a wordless growl of frustration, Tobirama ties his apron back on, curses his brother for ever starting a restaurant, and slams out through the kitchen’s swinging doors. The bane of his current existence is easy to spot, and Tobirama counts to ten, decides that’s nowhere near calming enough, and switches to naming human bones in order of size.
By the time he gets to fibula, he’s mostly certain that he won’t simply throw his order pad in the man’s face. Steeling himself, he stalks over, pastes on the neutral expression that is the closest he’s getting to a friendly smile, and rattles off, “Good evening. I’ll be your waiter tonight. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Izuna - who is a bastard, and Tobirama would think so even if he hadn’t spent half of their philosophy class arguing at the top of his lungs with him - beams at him and jabs a finger into his brother’s side.
As is to be entirely expected by this time, Madara flinches, glares, and raises his eyes to meet Tobirama’s unimpressed graze. “Excuse me, but I think you dropped something,” he says.
This is going to be awful, Tobirama can already tell. He arches a brow.
“My jaw,” Madara finishes, and it might be slightly more convincing if he didn’t grimace as he said it.
Tobirama seals his teeth over the scathing retort that wants to emerge, repeats the first twenty numbers of the Fibonacci Sequence in his head, and flips his pad closed. “Right,” he says blandly. “A glass of Chianti and a dry martini.” Izuna opens his mouth, and Tobirama rolls his eyes and adds, “Shaken, not stirred.” Then he turns on his heel and heads for the kitchen, shooting a grinning Touka his sharpest glare.
She smirks like a cat in an aviary and puts a deliberate swing in her hips as she moves towards her next table.
When Tobirama returns with the drinks, Madara glances up, flushes slightly at the sight of him, and tries valiantly, if pathetically, “Do you drink milk? It certainly did your body good.”
It takes effort not to throw the tray at him.
“I am well aware that this is entirely your fault, Izuna,” Tobirama hisses, slamming the martini glass down in front of him. “If you don’t stop, I will make you.”
Izuna, the ass, just smirks at him. “You’ve lasted three weeks so far,” he taunts, so quietly it’s unlikely his brother can hear him. “That’s two longer than I thought you would. Ready to surrender yet?”
Tobirama grits his teeth, breathes out through his nose, and turns to place Madara’s win in front of him with deliberate care. “If,” he says sharply, “You swear on your mother’s ashes that you will never use another of those awful pickup lines, I will let you take me to dinner once.”
Madara blinks. He looks at Izuna, then at Tobirama, and splutters. “You mean they work?” he demands.
“Not the way you seem to think they do,” Tobirama counters sourly, gives Izuna a poisonous look, and snaps, “I expect you to double my tip, Uchiha.” When Madara opens his mouth, Tobirama adds blandly, “I’ll leave my number on the bill. Do you know what you want?”
“You,” Madara blurts, then looks surprised. Then surprise shades into horror, and he flushes crimson and drops his head onto the tabletop with a pained groan.
Tobirama feels heat creep up his cheeks, and decides that a strategic retreat is in order. He manages, “I’ll give you a few more minutes to decide,” before he makes tracks for the kitchen again.
Touka is laughing at him from the corner.
