moor

AN: A MadaSaku coming-of-age story based around 1910 in Japan (and later, England), where Madara and Sakura meet as children. Warnings for a parent spanking their unruly child, smoking, dubcon sexual content, sexual content between minors, and mild xenophobia. Based on artwork by yomi_gaeru as a gift for her after all the wonderful inspiration she has provided over the years!

[Part One] [Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen]

At Sixteen [Part Seven]

While it had been a very late night, Tajima woke before the sun, or at least what would have been the sunrise if the heavy clouds had broken. The darkness outside warned him the worst of the storm had passed but it was not entirely over yet. Already the occasional gust still broke over his home. He yawned as his back cracked and he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. He hadn’t risked dropping off until he heard Madara and Sakura safely back in their respective rooms the night before, and wished there were several more hours of night yet available to sleep. Alas, he must evaluate the damage wrought by the typhoon. The heavy rain and high winds had battered his home through the better part of the night. He wouldn’t be surprised if Tomo and Shichi, maybe even Koji, had scampered into their big brothers’ rooms to hide from it.

Hmm. Possibly not Madara’s, now that he thought about it; he had spent his time with Sakura and likely would not have wanted the boys’ company (or tattling). So, Izuna would likely be cranky that day from lack of sleep. With some luck and gentle persuasion, Sakura’s presence would help temper the worst of his son’s moods.

It didn’t sound like Madara and Sakura had gotten up to too much trouble the night before, thank the gods. Every time Tajima thought of Mebuki’s propensity for vengeance and wrath, his insides turned just a little watery. How gentle, good-natured Kizashi had found his heart moved by Mebuki’s fierceness, Tajima still didn’t know. But between them they had raised a daughter who, he had gradually come to accept, would become one of his own children in time.

Hopefully the boys wouldn’t be too upset when they learned they would need to share Sakura just a bit more than they used to with their eldest brother. Well, it wasn’t happening immediately. It would be something he could casually begin bringing them around to at some point in the future. It was still early, yet.

Tajima had just finished knotting his tie when a familiar knock rapped against his bedroom door.

Unfortunately, his calm was immediately shot from a canon over a waterfall when Madara, red-eyed and steel-backed, greeted him not with “Good morning,” but rather,

“I will marry Sakura no later than my birthday. How soon can we make the arrangements?”

In that moment Tajima yearned for the typhoon to have been the most dangerous item of his day’s agenda. How he wished he could go back to bed.

***

“And there were no further incidents last night?” repeated Tajima for the fifth time, sitting on the edge of his bed. In front of him, Madara stood several feet away with his back tall and his eyes fixed on him.

“None.”

“Then why the rush?”

“We both want to.”

“She agrees?”

“Yes.”

“Her father agrees?”

Madara narrowed his eyes. “I seek your permission before his, but I can ask him when I escort Sakura home.”

Oh, bother, his son wasn’t bluffing. He would have gone out in the typhoon last night if it meant he would have secured Sakura’s hand faster.

“I think you should wait until you’re both eighteen,” said Tajima after a thoughtful pause. His brows tightened when Madara puffed up his chest, opening his mouth. “A longer engagement will provide you both more time to get to know each other—I’m not done yet,” he snapped when Madara opened his mouth again. “It will also preserve propriety and show both families agree with and support the arrangement, and show there is no private reason for it to be rushed; which is exactly what others will think if you marry within three months’ time.”

“Private ceremony in December; only you and her parents attend; to everyone else, it’s an engagement party. We have a public ceremony and invite the clan when I turn eighteen,” countered Madara.

“And where will you both be living during this extended engagement?”

“Here. Or... I’ll… she’ll…”

“And what happens if you end up with a child before the ‘public’ ceremony? What happens to her reputation?”

Madara’s teeth ground together audibly.

“I have no problem—once Kizashi and Mebuki concur—with providing for an engagement announcement and party in December,” conceded Tajima. “But there are logistics to consider. Would she stay here once you’re married? Would she need her own rooms? How would she get to work? I’m assuming she would want to continue her family’s trade. How would that affect you? How would it affect the clan? When would she take on her own duties as the wife of the head of the Uchiha zaibatsu?”

“She can do both.”

“And raise your children?”

“Of course.”

“Does she want to attend university? Return to Europe to further her education in fashion? What of her plans?”

“She can do as she pleases.”

“No, she can’t,” said Tajima, though not unkindly. “The moment Sakura agrees to be your wife, she effectively marries the next head of our clan. Whatever she seeks to accomplish as a personal goal she must accomplish before she takes on that role as the day you are married, you will be hounded by the elders for a son. She will be harassed until she provides one. That is what you are bringing her into. Her identity, at least part of it, will become subservient to her duty and yours.”

At his sides, Madara’s hands curled into fists, clenching and unclenching. Oh, his brilliant, headstrong, yet naively idealistic son. Tajima's eyes softened but remained alert.

“You aren’t just any rich, young man, Madara,” said Tajima patiently. “You were born to responsibility and privilege, both fortunate and unfortunate. If I were my father, you never would have met Sakura, let alone been granted any consideration for marrying her. My father tried to arrange your marriage when your mother expected you; if not for her vehement refusal—it was unforgettable, the way she rose up and hollered at him…—” Tajima’s eyes shone and became distant, his voice warming with the memory. He cleared his throat and focused back on Madara again, who regarded him suspiciously. “Your mother put her foot down and refused to allow anyone to arrange your marriage. She said that too much had changed and continued to change, and what may be a good idea at the time may turn out to be a burden later. I dare say she was probably correct in that,” he admitted. “But you being allowed to choose your partner, within reason, does not mean you get to choose what you do and do not perform in terms of clan duties. I’m sure you’ve already spoken to Sakura and explained some of this to her,” he added, his voice heavy in a You-Better-Have-way, “so she may make an informed decision with respect to your proposal. She must understand what it means to marry into our family and to take the place of a matriarch to support you as both an individual and a leader. This means privately. This means publicly. This means in business. This means politically. She will come under the same scrutiny as you, if not more due to her background. Neither of you can risk making the wrong move even before you marry.”

His palms planted on his thighs, Tajima stared deep into his son’s hard eyes. Resentment flared back at him.

“You already understand all this for yourself. Do you understand what it will mean for her? Does she?”

Madara’s jaw moved and he was silent. Tajima gave him a moment to take in his unspoken meanings.

“I know you care for each other. Of course you have my blessing. I am genuinely happy for you. Few like us are ever fortunate enough to marry for love. But your wedding is not yours to decide; your marriage is not a personal, private event, Madara. Your privilege denies both of you that. And before you consider eloping, for the love of the gods, think of how that would affect Sakura and her future.”

Standing in front of Tajima, Madara’s body was bow-taut, ready to snap with the strength of his emotions. Yet, to Tajima’s surprise, he did not.

“I didn’t ask for this,” said Madara, cold and low.

“No. But you have never rejected its benefits, either. The gifts you lavished upon Sakura. The books, the jewellery, the letters.” Tajima’s shoulders relaxed and pride entered his voice. “You will make a fine clan head. She is more than strong enough to meet you as your wife. I can agree to the engagement on your birthday; but marriage must wait. It will be better for both of you. Once you are engaged, we can look at a plan where you both spend more time together, too, without there being as much risk to you both.”

“I want our time together to start now.”

“Hn,” murmured Tajima, his brow raised. “Did I raise a spoiled son?”

“Of course.”

In spite of himself, Tajima chuckled.

“I suppose I did. But you are still my son. As your father, I can’t agree to a wedding on your birthday. However, we can certainly invite Sakura’s family over more often between now and then, so you will have more time together. It will also start the mills grinding with the rest of the family that plans are underway for your future.”

“They’ll interfere.”

“They’ll try, certainly. You’ll manage just fine; a bit of tact may not be remiss with the elders,” counselled Tajima. “It’s better to build a good relationship with them earlier rather than later.”

The sudden shifting of emotion behind Madara’s eyes had Tajima’s eyes narrowing.

Madara immediately schooled his features.

Mentally Tajima groaned. Oh no, now what had he thought of…

“Madara…” he growed.

But his son ignored the warning tone. “Thank you for your patience and guidance. I will plan accordingly,” said Madara, bowing neatly to his father. Tajima noted with no little suspicion that Madara had neither agreed nor disagreed with his advice. Slippery fish…

With a sign he waved him off. He watched Madara leave, closing the door behind himself before his footsteps hurried away down the hall.

Why had his wife left him so soon? Tajima lamented it more and more every day Madara matured—his son taking as many shortcuts as he could to reach his goals. It looked like Madara had just figured out—or, knowing him, created—another shortcut. But what it was, Tajima couldn’t fathom.

Well, he would find out at some point, he supposed. He just hoped Madara didn’t cause a ruckus in the meantime.

Then shouting ignited by the stairs and Tajima sighed as he rose to his feet, already feeling heavy.

Why, oh why, couldn’t the typhoon have been the worst the day had to offer?

***

“She doesn’t need you to escort her down the stairs,” snapped Madara.
“I offered as a gentleman,” countered Izuna, standing his ground.

“Thank you both, but I can manage the stairs on my own,” said Sakura, slipping between them to descend the first step. Izuna had not released her elbow, however, and she was caught in her half-step. She glanced back at him, her brows questioning.
“Let her go,” ordered Madara, stepping closer to Izuna.

“I’m going to, I heard her,” said Izuna, glaring at Madara. “Give her some room.”

“Don’t tell me what to d—”
“Mada—Uchiha-san,” Sakura corrected herself, but it was enough to catch both boys’ attention. Their heads whipped towards her. “Would you like to join me for breakfast? If we have eggs, milk, flour and butter I will make you crêpes.”

Madara blinked. Before he could speak, Izuna turned on his heel, ignoring Madara, and joined Sakura at her side. “Would you like help?”

“If you can show me where the ingredients are, and the bowls, we can make them very quickly.” She glanced back at Madara for a moment but followed Izuna when he squeezed and gently tugged on her arm.

They started down the stairs; Madara’s blazing eyes were pinned on Izuna’s hand where it refused to release Sakura’s elbow.

“Oh, and we’ll need salt,” said Sakura, thinking aloud.

“We have plenty of salt,” said Madara. “The cooks use it in our rice porridge for breakfast… and nearly all our meals. It’s also found in soya sauce, kelp, kombu…”

Sakura looked back at Madara and smiled.

“You know how to cook?”

“I know where the kitchen is. It can’t be that hard.”

“Famous last words,” teased Sakura.

“What do you enjoy in your crêpes, Haruno-dono?” asked Izuna, drawing her attention again.

“Hmmm, I enjoy them like galettes, ham, egg and cheese; though they’re usually made with buckwheat flour, not white, baking flour. For dessert, lemon and sugar. And you?”

“Crêpes au sucre,” said Izuna, smiling at her warmly.

“Ah, they’re delicious, too,” agreed Sakura pleasantly. “If we have extra butter and sugar, we can make a batch of those on the side with some fruit.”

“Madara,” called Tajima from behind them.

His features pinched before they smoothed out, Madara stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up, meeting his father’s gaze.

“Did I hear you were making crêpes?”

“Yes. Would you like some?”

“Hn. Make enough for your brothers, too. We’ll meet you once they’re changed out of their pyjamas. Check the main floor, advise me if any more areas must be cordoned off,” said Tajima.

“Ah,” said Madara, exhaling quietly. With a last look at Izuna and Sakura, he stalked off to the furthest wing of the house, exploring each room quickly and appraising it for damage. He mentally catalogued each one’s condition and moved to the next, seething at having to leave Sakura with Izuna.

Meanwhile, Izuna stood a bit taller at Sakura’s side in the kitchen, reaching for pans and bowls and wooden spoons, giving her his full attention.

“And then you beat the eggs separately in this bowl before you fold them into the mix,” instructed Sakura. From her right, Izuna pressed against her side and she shifted her weight to her left, giving herself some breathing room. He pressed in more, his warmth making her uncomfortable.

“I need a bit more room for my arm to stir,” said Sakura politely.

“Could I stir?”

“Sure,” said Sakura, moving the bowl to the side only for Izuna to clasp his hand around her fingers on the spoon handle. “Ah, I… I need to let go, first.”

“We can stir together.”

Sakura forced a small laugh through her dry throat. “I will check the butter on the stove, it should be melted by now.”

She tugged her arm away and checked the stove. Sure enough it was and Sakura shrugged her shoulders several times to loosen them up. She had been curling in on herself with Izuna crowding her at the counter.

With the batter whisked and ready to pour, Sakura showed Izuna how to move his wrist to circulate the batter so it ran across the pan, using a roller she found in another drawer to spread it out. A quick flip and it was ready for the plate. Soon they had a stack ready, the scent wafting through the kitchen and nearby corridors. There was the occasional burnt one, but Sakura set those aside. “If we have some whipped cream, chocolate, coffee and sugar, we may still be able to save them,” she said. “The chocolate and coffee will cover the taste, and the sugar and whipped cream will help the consistency.”

“How did you learn how to do this?” asked Izuna as he diced oranges, pears, bananas and mangos.
“I help my mother cook,” she explained.

“You don’t have a cook?”

“We don’t have staff for our home, no,” said Sakura, grinning. “Only staff at the shop to help us with the kimono.”

“So you know how to take care of a household?”

“I suppose so. A small house. We’re only a family of three, and we have our routines. It’s easy to plan and sort out,” she said, thinking it over as she rolled her wrist with another crêpe in the pan. “Cooking, cleaning, expenses, purchases, there’s a rhythm to them.”

“Do you enjoy it?”

“Hmmm… I like being with my family, and we all chip in, so no one has to do everything. It isn’t so bad because we share it. When we all work together on our New Years cleaning, it’s kind of fun,” she said, smiling at the pan. Her eyes shone with amusement. “My mother is very strict about New Years cleaning; once, my father tried to sweep a small patch of dirt under a rug, but then she found it. She made him take all the rugs out and beat them twice before she let him inside again. It was very cold. He was very careful after that.”

Izuna chuckled with her and she slid the crêpe onto a plate.

“Do you think you’ll teach your children how to cook and clean?”

The batter spilled as Sakura was pouring it; she caught it before it made a mess on the stove. Her throat tightened and she swallowed to wet her tongue.

“Hm? Oh, I hadn’t thought about it. That’s a long way off,” she said breezily. “I’m very busy at the shop.”

“You haven’t thought about children, a family, at all?”

Pressing her lips together, Sakura shook her head and forced a smile. “Nope! I’m bound to the shop, especially with my parents getting older.”

“Do you want to keep working? You could have a much easier life if you married into a wealthy family. Especially if you married a second or third son, as they wouldn’t have the responsibilities of their eldest sibling,” said Izuna, still chopping up fruit. “You could hire someone to do your job and run the shop.”

“I enjoy designing kimono and running the shop,” said Sakura, mildly offended. She reminded herself that Izuna probably didn’t understand how condescending his suggestions were. He had been raised in privilege, waited on by staff because he was above such petty trifles as chores. “I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if I didn’t have it.”

“Run your husband’s household,” said Izuna easily. The knife continued its regular clacking against the cutting board. “Have children. Be a wife.” Clack-clack-clack. “Buy all the novels you could ever read and infinite more…” Clack-clack-clack. “Make your husband happy.”

Sakura set the pan down on the hot stove, forcing herself not to drop it or smash it against Izuna’s face. Pressure built at her temples.

“What about my happiness?” she asked, pitching her voice high, though the thread of steel that wound through the last two words pulled them taut.

“You would have your husband and children for—”

“I have my own happiness already and a husband and children are not part of its foundation,” said Sakura evenly. “I take pride in my own accomplishments, my own job, my own career. Why would I give those up for a husband or children, duties and responsibilities that would weigh me down, when my happiness is found in exactly who and what I already am?”

From beside them a door swished shut.

Sakura glanced over and found Madara watching her, silently. Her face fell.

The scent of burning crêpe reached Sakura’s nose and she hastily removed the pan from the heat. Too late, it was blackened beyond saving.

Her back tensed at Madara’s calm words when he spoke.

“I came to see if you needed a hand, but it sounds like you don’t need me,” he said.

Biting the inside of her lip, her eyes warming, Sakura nodded and cleared her throat.

“We have lots to share.”

Izuna set down his knife. “And plenty of stuffings to fill them.”

He lifted the platter of perfectly diced fruit, accompanied by a pot of honey, and bowls of whipped cream, sugar, and sliced meats and cheese.

“Join us?” Sakura smiled at Madara.

“I’m not hungry,” he said, turning and walking away.

Sakura bit her tongue to keep from calling him back. Her heart clenched in her chest and suddenly it was hard to breathe. Had Madara ever walked away from her before?

“More for me,” said Izuna, stepping up beside Sakura and taking her elbow again.

TBC