It was, more than anything, a show of trust; Madara didn't need to braid his hair before bed, hadn't needed it when he started growing it out as a teenager and certainly didn't need it now, but there was a certain... comfortable domesticity to it, to pale fingers combing through his hair, leaving his spine and throat unguarded as his spouse carefully tucked each wild strand into the braid.

He hadn't imagined, at the wedding, that they would ever reach this point - that Madara could safely show his back like this to any Senju, even his old friend, to say nothing of the pale, moonlit Demon he was actually wedding. But the peace was secured now, nearly five years old; the village was well underway; and Madara wouldn't trade Tobirama's fingers in his hair and warm kisses to his shoulder as he tied off the braid for the world.