One of These Days

by notbillie

Summary:

A story in which it is Madara the one betrothed and Hashirama the one who must suffer with the idea of losing him, or, as I’d like to name this: the story in which our boys leave their liabilities to run away and find their so-longed-for peace at their own way.

Notes:

Alright, so, this is not the first fic I’ve written but the first one that is “ready” for publishing. It was one of my resolutions for this year, so this is it.

Also, special kudos to that anon on Tumblr who encouraged me to publish this when I was feeling the most insecure about it. Thanks! You rock, whoever you are.

Chapter 1

Hashirama knows when Madara arrives by the way the wind changes. He’s certain of his presence, on the vile breeze that goes through his body with the strength of a sharp blade, the one that makes him tremble, though the wind that night is not tempestuous.

It is a calm night, indeed, with clear skies and a bright moon just at its zenith. Still, Madara arrives wrapped in a cloak of complete darkness and Hashirama fears the moon won’t be of use to even distinguish his features.

He hears Madara’s voice asking him something and knows it’s a matter of importance for his eyes shine with a peculiar glow. He stares at him, waiting for his answer.

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you,” Hashirama excuses himself.

Madara recognises the lies in his words and gives him a half-smile.

“I was saying,” he repeats, “would you run away with me?”

Ah, that again.

At that moment, all the air in his lungs vanishes in response of yet another vile stab. Hashirama touches his chest with an unsteady hand, right in the place where he can feel his racing heart and he’s ripped in two: his head shouting a severe no, while his heart cries a staunch and unhesitating yes.

He wants to. It wouldn’t be an absurd idea. He had thought about it before, though, in his eternal sleepless nights when he would lose himself on the image of the other boy reflected in the moon. So, Hashirama is ready to finally accept his proposition, but then again, what would happen to his clan, to his family? Who would take care of Tobirama if he left?

His delay in seeking for a proper answer is misinterpreted by Madara, who huffs and turns his back on him. Madara’s hands are clasped behind his back and even though Hashirama can’t see his face, he knows Madara is looking at the bright red moon. She is shrouded in a pale, glowing halo; reddened as if aware of the carnage her friend the sun is bound to witness the next day.

“Madara,” he mutters. Yet, the other boy doesn’t move.

Hashirama is used to see him carrying his lethal gunbai clung to his back and, by not wearing it that night, he can’t help himself to remember the grumpy, timid boy he met by the river years ago. However, armed or not, he’s still his Madara: his proud bearing, the calm darkness of his chakra, the way his obscure mane dances briskly and free in the night breeze… it is all Madara.

So, why should it be so difficult? They are young and just want a change in their lives. They have been knowing each other for, what? Five years? Five years meeting secretly in that very river, even though their families are aware of their friendship and vehemently oppose to it. But they have come to a deal: they could have their minutes of relatively serenity, if, next day they fight a deadly duel against each other. Said duel would end up the same way every day: both exhausted and inked with other people’s blood, for their blades could never touch either of them. They are both untouchables; their skills so perfect, that when one boy goes ahead, the other is already catching him up.

The only friction between them comes once the slaughter is over, when they, both sons and heirs of clan heads slip from the rubble, relieved not to have to pick up the fallen or wounded. Their only touch comes once they meet blindly, groping under the security granted by the shelter of darkness as night approaches.

Their only caress arrives once they know themselves safe from prying eyes; it is then, and only then, that Hashirama would open his mouth, anxious and as hungry as Madara, to fuse with him in a turbulent kiss that would make them lose track of where and under what circumstances they were. To him there doesn’t exist nothing else in his world but Madara. His weight, his scent, the rise and fall on his chest, his racing heart.

“I understand,” Madara utters then, realising that there isn’t going to be an answer from Hashirama. “Sometimes, silence is the best of responses.”

Hashirama blinks in anguish. Madara will leave if he doesn’t say a word, and there is not a certainty that he would see him again the next day.

That’s not how things should be! Hashirama thinks. Not when in his heart he has the answer that he had been practicing for months, maybe years: Yes, yes, yes, yes!

“Madara, it’s not that simple,” he says instead.

What kind of an answer is that? Of course, it wouldn’t be easy. Madara is asking him the greatest of all requests: to abandon the Senju, his own blood, and follow the young Uchiha who has been his only friend for the last five years; to blindly follow him, that young man, heir to the clan he swore to end; to pursue him to the end of the world; Madara, the one who carries the same blood as the murderers of Itama. Madara, the young man he has fallen in love with.

“Wait!” Hashirama yells when Madara starts to walk in the opposite direction, where he supposes the Uchiha encampment is settled. “Would you give me some time to think about it?”

 Madara instantly stops and turns to look back at him. Not a single trace of his half-smile remains. His beautiful face is the same, though: frowning and weary. Perfect as always.

“There’s no time,” is his reply.

Hashirama walks up to meet him, until there are mere centimetres apart them. From that very spot, he can see the moon reflected in Madara’s dusky eyes, and without a second thought, he leans down and catches his face with a trembling hand as he presses his lips onto Madara’s.

“There’s always time,” Hashirama assures him after the brief exchange. Their lips barely apart. “We have always given ourselves the necessary time.”

His friend remains silent. But Hashirama is grinning for he is about to kiss him again. He knows how it works by now: the secret is a kiss. It has always been the best way to calm Madara down, to ease his rage and tame his passionate heart.

“I’m getting married,” Madara mumbles before the second kiss arrives and Hashirama’s smile flies away with the wind.

 Hashirama pulls back from him for an instant so he can search into his eyes for a trace of mockery but fails. It is himself the one reflected. That pair of abysses remain serious as usual.

“With whom?” he asks, dreading for his answer.

Madara lets out a long, tired sigh before turning his gaze back to the river. Hashirama bites his lip so hard it splits the skin and bleeds, but instantly wipes the crimson ghost with his swift tongue.

His friend doesn’t notice him; he’s occupied. Madara’s eyes are now attentively observing the surrounding trees in front of them, as if he had perceived some movement of which he doesn’t inform him.

In the meantime, Hashirama’s head is full of racing thoughts. He searches through the possibilities and concludes that, Madara’s bride-to-be, must be some lucky Uchiha kunoichi, because he knows the customs of his friend’s clan and it is, precisely, that custom the legacy of their power. The Senju are strong, renowned for breeding the most skilful shinobi, and one of their primal values lies in the ability to join forces with other clans to form allies; the Uchiha, on the other hand, strongly protect their kekkei genkai, the origin of their legend, and the easiest way to achieve this, Hashirama presumes, is through the miracle of their inbreeding.

He trembles at the thought of Madara’s progeny, his fierce and proud yet unborn offspring, with their dark hair flying free in the wind, and the same deadly eyes as their father’s.

“I don’t know,” Madara answers with a calm voice, but the tension is still present, engulfing them like the darkness of that dawn, “but I’ll marry soon, for my father lies on his deathbed and has ordered me to think of heirs.”

Of course! Hashirama thinks. The perpetuation of their blood is the priority of every parent who knows that their children can work wonders. They will both be nineteen by the end of that year, they should even be parents by now. And, although the idea of marriage seems alien to him, Hashirama understands the importance of getting a wife. Butsuma himself has been considering possible candidates for his elder child too, but, as always, Hashirama tends to ignore him, being unable to even conceive of his existence without Madara.

Incapable of getting away from the image of a young maiden lying down with Madara, Hashirama embraces the topic of Uchiha Tajima and asks: “How’s your father doing?”

Madara remains motionless, his gaze still fixed on the trees. Hashirama watches him biting his lip before replying: “Fine.”

He lies trying to appear indifferent, but Hashirama knows him better than anyone and recognises the hidden pain in his words. However, Madara’s response doesn’t surprise him at all, since he was there the day Tajima was injured; his own brother, the one who inflicted it. The wound looked dangerous and could be fatal if not treated soon.

Hashirama is aware of the Uchiha’s lack of physicians and, although Tajima is his enemy and therefore, he should be waiting for his death with joy, he cares for him, simply because he is Madara’s father. He considers the idea of offering him his help to save the father and thus save the son from the fate of a premature marriage, but stays silent, sensing that Madara will not allow it. Every self-respecting shinobi is proud, but Uchiha Madara’s pride is the fiercest of all.

“Madara, I…”

His gaze flies back to Hashirama upon hearing his name. His eyes now wide and attentive. Suddenly, the frown is gone, as if he had felt a hint of hope in Hashirama’s words.

“If your father is saved, you…?” he bites his tongue, treasuring the ceasefire that they have achieved in just a couple of seconds.

“What, Hashirama?” his friend laughs. “If my father is saved, then I won’t have to get married, is that your question?”

But there’s no humour in his laughter and it soon dies, alongside his smile.

“And for how long will it be?” continues Madara, now ferocious, almost roaring. “I am his heir, and that moment is going to come to me, and to you too, whether we like it or not. We’re cursed. As long as we remain their only hope in this… this eternal and senseless war, we will be trapped, forced to follow their wishes as if we were mere puppets. And you are pretty comfort with that, are you not, Hashirama?”

A single tear runs down Hashirama’s cheek, gleaming as it reflects the moon, which is now descending.

“And what do we do, then?” Hashirama inquires, his voice as feisty as his friend’s. “We just run away, like you’ve been suggesting me for months?”

Madara clicks his tongue.

“It would be much better than staying here, consuming ourselves under the gaze of our parents until we become their spitting image. Is that what you want?”

“No, damn it, no!”

He wants to say more, but his words clump together on the tip of his tongue and there, he rips them apart, mercilessly.

Now there are two silent streams of tears that shine on Hashirama’s cheeks, and they flow freely without remorse or shame. Madara notices his weeping and curses himself under his breath. He evades Hashirama’s gaze because, maybe, he senses that it will hurt less that way.

“It doesn’t have to be today,” Madara mutters and then, something changes inside Hashirama’s chest. It still hurts, but at least, there is hope.

At least, they have time, albeit ephemeral. Not today, but perhaps, one of these days.

Hashirama blinks away a tear that has just formed in his eye, and when he opens it back, he is alone by the river.

 

* * *

 

Madara goes straight to see his father as soon as he returns to the encampment. Tajima is awake and stares at him as he enters. He looks deplorable and utterly ill. On his face is the trail of Death, scoffing him, eager to snatch the Uchiha leader’s vitality at his son’s sight.

“Son,” his voice is barely a thread, audible above the sound of the tent flaps. It’s the voice of an old man, although its owner is still a middle-aged man. “You’ve taken your time.”

And Madara also takes his time to respond. He approaches the bed where Tajima rests with the intention of checking up his wound, but it is not necessary, the whole tent stinks of death. That insane miasma fills the air in both fear and despair. Madara knows his father has little time left. He might not survive to see the next day.

“It’s an important night,” answers the son, avoiding his gaze. “It was necessary.”

In response, his father groans as he tries to sit up, for he must settle matters of importance with his son.

Madara knows what’s coming, so he grabs onto the nearest table, as if his hands have turned into sharp claws.

“Uchiha Naori,” his father informs in a whistle that turns into another whimper.

Madara nods but says nothing. Instead, he thinks:

His father’s choice makes sense to him. Naori is strong and the bravest among all the Uchiha kunoichi. She is still young, but fit to become the heir’s companion, to give continuity to his blood. She will give him strong and insightful children, like her. Madara can still remember her dancing around the campfire on the night of the celebration for awakening her sharingan. He remembers the smile and joy in her face as she shared a dance with Izuna. It is obvious his father chose Naori as the future mother of his grandchildren; it would have been stupid to think of someone else.

And she is beautiful, even Madara can accept that fact. She is the best choice for a wife and any man would be proud and pleased to marry her, yet he is going to say no.

“Naori,” Madara mutters to himself, as if he’s trying to get used to the idea of saying her name.

But Uchiha Tajima has not been the clan leader for nothing and knows what floats inside his son’s head. He’s aware of his friendship with that Senju boy and knows of his preference for him. “I’ve given you plenty of time; I have been patient, but no more.”

Madara replies with a smirk.

“It won’t work. You know me, father. There must be another option… this encampment is full of capable men, willing to become clan head. And more than that, this place is bursting with healthy children preparing to become deadly warriors and…”

“That’s not how things work, Madara!” his father’s voice trembles when pronouncing his name and Madara doesn’t know whether it is because he’s dying or because he’s enraged. “You, yourself could surpass this whole army in a heartbeat. You have been the strongest of our kind since toddlerhood. Son, you are a prodigy! And there is not, nor has there been anyone among us like you. The future of our clan must come from within you, to inherit your miracles. To repeat them, to overcome them.”

Madara feels dizzy and clings his hands to the table to keep himself from wobble. Tajima is dying and even so, his regal bearing does not cease. No less is expected of his heir.

“You’ve grown up; you’re a man,” his father continues, even though each word seems to be a piece of agony to him. “At your age, I was already a father to three little…”

“…Of which, only I remain.” Madara finishes for him.

His father huffs and holds his son’s gaze. “You must instruct Izuna, so he can become your image and likeness. He admires you.” His voice sounds tired and somewhat forced. “He would follow you blindly.”

Madara would never put Izuna in such a situation, not if he can help it, but he wants to give his father the pleasure of leaving this world with the certainty that he will fulfil his wishes. So, he nods. “He would be a magnificent leader.”

“Yes,” answers the father, “he will.” Tajima grins and closes his eyes, knowing that he has done his best. “Protect your brother, Madara. Protect our clan. I couldn’t even protect my own children…” Tajima scoffs and his voice breaks. Time’s up.

His son says nothing. Tajima is aware that his orders will not be followed, but he has little left to do but to accept his fate. He didn’t try to change Madara, ever, nor wanted to. With his last strength, he mumbles something under his breath that only his son hears.

Madara puts on his battle clothes, puts on his armour, and slings the gunbai on his back. He leaves the tent with the first rays of sun hovering over the Uchiha encampment and walks towards the public square without looking at anyone, although he is aware that many look at him as he passes.

He arrives and, by the time he gets up on stage, the place is full of his people. Everyone has come out to hear him, even those who have never had to pick up a spear in their lives.

Izuna emerges from his own tent after a sleepless night and is himself ready for battle at the edge of the platform. He looks up at his brother and a few tears roll down his cheeks, for he knows what he will tell them.

“He’s gone,” Madara growls. Dry streams of tears that he shed hours ago rest on his cheeks, though no one can see them. “Just before dawn.”

The Uchiha are torn between sorrow for their leader’s death and joy with the emergence of a new one; one stronger and more capable. Most of them have known Madara since birth and have witnessed his growth from infant to warrior. They trust and love him. They know he will end that half-life they lead. They are certain that he will end that war and they embrace the idea of peace with a chant that starts from the palms of the older Uchiha, the ones who can’t fight anymore, those who are fed up.

Soon, the wave reaches the place where Izuna stands, and the boy raises a fist in the air while chanting his older brother’s name as if it were a praise.

“Madara! Madara!” Even the youngest Uchiha sing their chant, even though they do not understand what is happening. “Madara! Madara!”

Perhaps, they are fond of the name. “Madara! Madara!” There must be something in those three syllables that fills their hearts with hope and faith, and they sing their song until the murmur cuts through the woods and arrives like a cold whisper to Senju Hashirama’s ears.

 

* * *

 

Their final battle turns into a fierce carnage.

The field, once green, now lies emaciated and tinted in crimson, the grass erased to its foundations as if life had never set foot in there. There’s not a single flower left alive and even the trees shriek among themselves in a desperate way to ask the gods to stop such an atrocity on sacred ground. The answer does not come; even they stand idly by at the spectacle.

Soon, the skies darken when a cumulus of tick, dim, storm-laden clouds arrive to the battlefield, announcing an impeding tempest. Shortly afterwards, the first lightning flashes across the field and, just as its thunder is heard, a pair of weapons collide in unison, giving the impression that it was their holders the ones who brought on the storm.

“Madara!” The young Senju cries out, but his friend doesn’t respond. He seems to be far from the battlefield, as if some enraged entity had taken control of his deadly hands.

Madara’s eyes look different: bloodier, ferocious, and lethal. Hashirama knows Madara is almost blind, so he fears he’s exceeding himself just for this battle’s sake. Madara’s eyes are dangerous, even to himself. And something has changed in the design of his pupils; they run into Hashirama’s and, though he knows he’s the same boy as always, he can feel an alteration in Madara, and those reddened eyes make him tremble.

He is aware that Uchiha Tajima is dead, thus, Madara is now clan leader. He didn’t find out through blabbermouths or anything, but Hashirama knows, since there’s something different in their dance that day. They still can’t touch each other, but Hashirama thinks it is because Madara is holding himself back, not wanting to hurt him.

“Madara,” he tries again, now with a calmer voice. The one he uses when they’re alone, and Hashirama smiles seeing it works, for his friend blinks and stops a few metres from him. He holds his gaze and suddenly, he’s his Madara again.

There’s so much confusion in those beautiful eyes, so much pain, that Hashirama doesn’t know what to say or do to reassure them. Madara’s body looks still tense and ready to fight back if necessary. He has not forgotten that they’re in the middle of a battle and now, that he’s clan head, it is decisive.

“I can’t play with you today, Hashirama.”

Hashirama widens his eyes in surprise, as those are Madara’s first words to him that day. Contrary to his friend, Hashirama abandons his war pose and tries to get closer to him to bring that whole situation to an end, in the name of peace.

He’s bound to his father’s orders, but Madara does not. The Uchiha have always followed him as a leader, but now, his title is legitimate. Now, he has the power to end that war as they once dreamed on the riverbank, and the glow that continues to shine in Madara’s eyes lets him know that he hasn’t forgotten it either.

But apparently, the truce will not come that day.

Without saying another word, Madara runs to the opposite side of the field, there, where the rest of the battle takes place.

Hashirama watches in astonishment, for his friend has broken their agreement of not to strike against the rest of their armies. He’s in despair because it is unfair. None of them could ever beat Madara. He’s like a shadow; he’s untouchable.

Unless it’s him.

A terrifying rumble is heard across the field and Hashirama knows his friend has arrived at the main battle. We were going to end all this bloodshed, together, he thinks as he follows. The sound is unbearable. He wishes he had the guts to deaf himself, for it is all unnecessary. The whole war is pointless!

Perhaps, it was his father’s last will, he assures to himself as an excuse not to turn to his friend in a deadly match. “Madara!”, he cries.

Upon his arrival, Senju and Uchiha alike ignore him, knowing that neither of them would be able to touch a single hair of his, and step aside as he passes. His gaze sweeps in all directions, but it’s no use, Madara’s not there.

Hashirama runs down the hill, into a hollow, and a blood-laden airstream sends chills down his spine as it starts to rain. He feels fatigued and for the first time in his life, he wants to stop and rest. He longs for a warm campfire and his favourite sake. And at a certain point, he stumbles but doesn’t fall, because not even exhaustion makes a dent in Senju Hashirama.

However, what he sees leaves him breathless: at the bottom of the hollow, lies Madara. He is surrounded by a bunch of Senju who lick their lips at the ridiculous idea that any of them could end Uchiha Madara’s life. They wield their weapons tightly and none of them miss a detail; their spears and swords aiming eagerly to pierce his flesh.

Madara is knelt before them, with his gloved hands on the ground, waiting for someone to dare to give him the final blow. Even the gunbai is gone, lost, maybe, in the tumult behind their backs.

Hashirama looks at him in disbelief. Madara grins at those doubtee Senju before him and as he split his lips apart, a stream of blood pours from them, inking his neck. He is hurt, Hashirama notices from a distance. Madara has scratches and wounds everywhere, but it’s a pair of slashes that are of importance and the ones having him in such a state. Hashirama has no doubt he’s in pain, yet Madara’s grin remains unaffected…

…Until he sees Hashirama atop the hollow.

Their gazes meet and Madara’s smirk disappears into thin air. He opens his mouth again to mumble Hashirama’s name, and another mouthful of blood sprays from it, staining the rest of his broken armour. His blood is soon washed out by the rain.

Then, someone is moving. Hashirama notices it is one of his men the one approaching Madara with speed, his katana raised high in the air. That random Senju goes straight to Madara and, from that angle and being his friend that wounded, there doesn’t seem to be any chance for him to miss the blow. Hashirama thinks how placid his father will be when that random warrior brings him Madara’s head as a war prize. That random soldier, he reflects, would become a general for such a feat and, that night by the bonfire, eternal songs would be composed in his name.

The Senju arrives at Madara and is in such a frenzy that his hands stay still at his sight. He raises his weapon once more and its blade shines, reflecting the last rays of the sun in the horizon. Then, he places it on Madara’s once snow-white neck.

Hashirama trembles and gulps, for he remembers what it feels like to run his fingers down Madara’s neck. The smooth, thin skin and the shivery response of his friend following his touch.

A thunder breaks the battlefield in two. It is almost impossible to see anything under that rain.

He frowns. “Stop,” Hashirama says in a normal voice, though his words reach into the hollow. “He’s mine.”

The random Senju recognises Hashirama’s voice and drops his katana at his feet. His face turns pale as he sees that Hashirama has reached them in a single bound. He draws back to the group who have too now lowered their weapons; they’re unnecessary with him being present, and they do not dare either, knowing the devotion the Senju heir professes to the Uchiha leader. His men regroup and leave to check on the casualties, assuming it is Hashirama the one who’d finish Madara.

 Madara is his, indeed. Totally his.

“What happened?” he asks, knowing what follows: it won’t be long before his father goes there to check on the damage; if there is any chance to save Madara’s life, now is the time. “Please, tell me,” he begs him, caressing his face, wiping his lower lip with his thumb.

Madara looks mortally pale. His eyes have lost the crimson feature that characterises him on the battlefield and now, in his arms, they are dusky again, as Hashirama likes best.

“I can’t do this,” he answers in a whisper. Now that they’re alone, Madara allows himself to show the pain he’s feeling in his guts. “Hashirama, I’m tired. This war will never end, and I’m so tired.”

Hashirama wants to stay strong for him but seeing Madara in such a state makes him weak and his eyelids leak out treacherous tears.

“They deserve a leader willing to fight for them,” Madara continues. “To bring and assure them peace. But I can’t, Hashirama. All I can think about are my own happiness and d-desires.”

“You can have your desires, Madara. You’re a man, after all. And it is alright,” Hashirama’s eyes are full of tears. “And you’ll be the best of leaders. You’ll bring us peace.” He’s so certain of his own words that his voice remains steady. “You can achieve that miracle, Madara. You, more than anyone.”

Madara smirks and Hashirama feels his heart jump into his throat.

“I’m not worthy for them to follow me; I don’t want them to. I… I know Izuna would do better than me, leading the clan… though he wouldn’t do it. Not while I’m still breathing.”

 “Then you would rather die than face this new challenge, would you not?” Hashirama’s noble features harden, and his face reddens. “You’ve been called many names before, Uchiha Madara, but not a coward.” He bites his lip, his chest hurts. “You are not weak, nor would you allow anything to happen to your people. And this,” he assures, pointing to his wounds, “will not kill you.”

Madara utters a laugh that turns into a groan of pain. His wounds are deep and, although he is as strong as Hashirama claims him to be, he is still a man and his whole-body aches.

“Stupid Senju,” he jests. “You think you know me…”

“I do know you,” Hashirama interrupts him, his face still. “And know that, if there’s someone among us who can end this… how did you call it? This senseless war, Madara, that is you. So let me heal your wounds and I’ll take you to a place where you can be safe.”

“I deserve nothing but death, Hashirama.”

Hashirama growls just by hearing him. “You are a fool.”

A prideful and mulish fool, he wants to add.

“Well,” his friend insists, “do you have any idea how many Senju this fool have killed just this very day?”

Hashirama rolls his eyes and, ignoring his objections, proceeds to heal him. He places both hands atop the wound that looks the deepest, the one that bleeds the most and the one that seems the most dangerous. And then, his hands begin to glow a green tint and become warm as chakra pours out of them.

He knows better than anyone the sins Uchiha Madara carries on his shoulders. He is not a hypocrite and admits that he burdens a similar number of sins that he may never atone. It is a war, after all, and they belong to opposite sides. Murdering each other had seemed to be the most suitable option for centuries. So, how could he hate him for something that he himself hasn’t been able to evade?

I have killed Uchiha too, he wants to say. More than I can number. And some of them have looked a lot like you. In the end, he says nothing and continues working.

Madara winces at his touch and bites his lip to keep himself from groaning out loud, though Hashirama isn’t fooled, for he knows how an open wound burns when treated with healing chakra. His friend remains motionless and is angry, even Hashirama with his limited sensory skills can perceive it. Madara frowns and Hashirama reflects that, had he a free hand, he might as well raise a finger to smooth it out.

It has stopped raining and the last thunder roars in the distance.

However, his thoughts get lost in that thread as not far from there, the characteristic rumble of the Senju troops is heard. Hashirama senses they won’t retreat to the encampment as usual, since good news travel fast on the battlefield and a dangerous and badly wounded enemy is always a good cause of delay.

He understands that his father won’t leave those fields without first meeting his son and the enemy he already believes defeated. He is aware he’ll reach the hollow in no time. So, he stops his chakra flow and stands up. The major wound is almost healed, but it’s not the only one that endangers his friend’s life. It would have to do; his hands are tied.

Hashirama trembles, losing his patience. “They’re almost here, Madara. Go to the forest and look for a place to hide in while I distract my father. After that, I’ll go find you and then…”

“Then what, Hashirama?”

Yes. Then what?

The chill post-rain breeze begins to whistle around them and by that time, the twilight has engulfed the hollow. If they don’t flee now, night will swallow them whole.

“Death is waiting for me, Hashirama… I can see it. I just can feel it.”

“You’ve lost your mind!” Hashirama growls, his hands shake uncontrollably. “I won’t be able to do anything against my father’s word, Madara. If he finds you here and in such a state…”

Hashirama gets a lump in his throat as they hear the Senju’s horn in the distance and, forecasting his friend won’t move a limb, he prepares to carry Madara to safety.

The Uchiha looks at him in awe, his eyes glassy and half-closed. The only thing Hashirama did was to stop a possible internal bleeding, but the wounds in Madara’s belly and chest are still dangerous. If he walks even a little or if the talks with his father take too long…

“Hashirama,” Madara murmurs when he approaches to carry him in his arms, “what a great leader you will be in the future.” Their eyes meet. They are so close than speaking out loud is needless. “If there is someone who will change the world, that’s you. Only you.” He gives him the warmest of his smiles, the saddest and the most beautiful of all. “My Hashirama… I…” he licks his dry lips. “I love you. Oh, how I love you! From the day I met you by the river, to today, that is my last day on Earth. And I assure you that I will continue loving you long after I’m gone. I…” Madara stops as he feels a solitary tear fall on his cheek.

Madara’s grin has grown huge and now his face is not enough to contain it.

“Speak no more; save your strength,” Hashirama replies in another whisper. “I’ll get you to a safe place, all right? And we’ll continue this conversation later.”

Madara does not respond, for he has lost his consciousness. He’s still alive, as Hashirama can feel the slight rise and fall in his chest. However, they don’t have time left. He picks Madara up and takes him away.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama returns just in time to meet his father in the hollow. The field is now navy-blued tinted, and the only light comes from the blurry moon and the torches carried by the troop. Not a trace of war remains. All non-Senju, living or dead, have vanished from there. In no time, fumes of both Senju and Uchiha funeral pyres will be seen in the horizon.

Butsuma arrives on the back of his steed and faces his heir with a severe look. They have never gotten along and Hashirama knows they never will, so he waits with his head held high for his punishment.

“Son?” asks the father.

Hashirama has no reason to pretend that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Standing by his father, are the warriors that surrounded Madara moments ago. Everyone looks at him, expectantly.

“He has escaped.”

His father frowns. “He’s escaped? I heard he was invalid, minutes away from his death.”

Hashirama feels dozens of eyes on him, but he doesn’t flinch and holds his father’s gaze. Tobirama has arrived as well and awaits in silence by their father’s right side, perhaps with the intention of interceding, if necessary, in Hashirama’s behalf.

“We shouldn’t underestimate him, father,” says Hashirama.

Butsuma clicks his tongue and gets off his horse. He hands the reins to a man standing by his side and without further ado, walks towards his eldest son.

Hashirama knows his father well. Too well, and by the time the blow comes, he’s already prepared. Butsuma gives Hashirama a slap across his cheek, and he, who has gotten used to it, manages to remain serene though he feels his eyes watering and his skin itches.

“You know what, Hashirama?” asks his father, his voice calm but loud, to make his humiliation even worse. “I fear for the future of this clan. We Senju have endured through centuries, because our leaders have been capable to manage all kinds of adversities. But in your hands, son… we’ll fall.”

Hashirama is trembling and a tear betrays him and rolls down his cheek, where it hurts.

“You’re too soft,” Butsuma continues. “Especially with that Uchiha scum. He has taken advantage of your candour, brainwashing you.” His eyes are set on his son’s. “Hashirama, you’re not to be trusted anymore.” Then, turns to his youngest son alive, who waits patiently. “It is Tobirama the one who’ll inherit the control of this clan,” his words are addressed to both his sons, but it’s his troop who nods, “he’s the best of our kind.” The clan leader then adds, loudly, “Uchiha Madara can’t be far away. Find him. Bring him to me. He’s hurt and, therefore, is not lethal anymore.”

The Senju cry in ecstasy, raising fists, torches, and weapons. They look at each other greedily and many of them even lick their lips at the thought of all benefits that will come with the capture of the Uchiha leader.

Butsuma returns to his steed, calling his new heir to follow. Tobirama looks at his older brother one last time before obeying his father.

Hashirama knows that his brother doesn’t share his liking for Uchiha Madara. What’s more, he knows Tobirama hates Madara with a viciousness that resembles that of his father’s. But his youth is accompanied by sanity and even he understands that what Butsuma wants to do is hasty.

In the end, Hashirama is left behind, while the rest lose in the dark.

The Senju have scattered with the idea of laying their claws on Uchiha Madara, though Hashirama is calm for he knows they’re unlikely to find him. Only the best of sensors could possibly find Madara, and he’s now gone, right on father’s heels.

Hashirama guess his father will take his time going back to the Senju encampment, so he sends a clone with the remaining of his chakra and it runs with all its might to the place that was once his home. It arrives discreetly and takes dry clothes from Hashirama’s tent. The clone is aware it’s seen by onlookers and, before leaving, its gaze meets Hashirama’s cousin’s and when she tries to stop it, the clone vanishes with the wind.

He's not carrying a torch, nor he needs one, and he cannot feel Madara’s chakra either, but he knows how to get to him; he could do it with his eyes closed. His feet acclimatise to the ground, its soles communicate with the gnawed branches and half-dead grass. They whisper to him, informing and pointing him where the young Uchiha is.

Hashirama finds him covered in sweat and breathing heavily. He was gone for less than an hour, yet the progress of his chakra infusion seems to have been completely reversed. He trembles and drops down next to Madara. Hashirama carries a sharp kunai wrapped in a garter on his leg; if Madara succumbs to his injuries, he then will take the dagger and bury its blade in his own neck.

“Madara, please,” he begs, but his friend doesn’t answer. The only things that designate him as alive are his tremors and the sweat that covers his entire body.

Hashirama hovers Madara’s chest with his miraculous hands, and they turn shiny in a second, even though he’s exhausted. The clone reappears and gives him the supplies before vanishing, turning into a solid piece of wood.

The whole place is engulfed in darkness; the moon is useless. A cool breeze slithers through the trees, and they both shiver, because they’re still wearing their wet clothes. He needs to find a better place for them to spend the night. They need to change their clothes and a big and warm fire. Yes, he must light a bonfire, and then… He stops thinking as he hears Madara groaning in his sleep.

Hashirama worries. He knows that, in the dark, they’re an exposed prey, since the flow of chakra between them is enormous, and in the middle of the forest, they must shine like a pair of fireflies.

“Anija,” a voice calls from behind, startling him.

Of course, Hashirama thinks. Of course, Tobirama would go back to the forest to look for him. He knows his brother doesn’t crave for power or prizes with Madara’s head. If his brother had dared defying their father that far, it was because of him.

Hashirama stops his chakra infusion and glances back at his brother.

“What are you doing?” Tobirama insists.

There’s no light around them other than the faint moon above, so Hashirama cannot see his brother’s features. Tobirama is himself a mystery. Unbeknownst to Hashirama, his brother’s face is worried, not vexed, or indifferent.

“Please…” Hashirama pleads, “let me take him to safety.”

Tobirama is about to say something, but his brother is faster and stops him with a wave of the hand.

“I can’t let him die,” Hashirama can’t bear it anymore, “and I can’t hand him in to father either”. All the pain and fear he carries inside is too much, it’s killing him. “I love him!” he sobs. “Goddess, I love him!”

Tobirama remains in silence. In the middle of the night, the forest is teeming with life; full of curious little companions and they sing in unison under Hashirama’s voice.

“Anija,” Tobirama replies. Suddenly, he seems speechless. “I… I’ll have your back,” he assures him and Hashirama swears that he saw his red eyes glow in the dark. “But I don’t know for how long.”

Hashirama nods, gratefully. His cheeks shine, reflecting the moon, as they are soaked.

“But promise me,” Tobirama conditions, “that you’ll come back once he’s out of danger.”

“I do promise,” Hashirama lies instantly, and Tobirama may also be aware of his lying, but says nothing else. “Thank you, Tobirama.”

His younger brother answers him with a sound that is not a word at all. And that’s it.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama carries Madara’s body to a cave and allows himself to finish his work without fear of further interruption. The cave, which is, really, more of a hole in the stone, is prostrate on the side of a mountain, which, although is still in territory within the reach of the Senju, Hashirama is certain that no one will look for them there.

He dries Madara before dressing him up with his own attires and stops for a moment to stare on the scars of his torso, trying to imagine it clean as it sure was before meeting him. Madara looks fine in his Senju garments, though. He looks beautiful in beige. Hashirama grins and wonders how his proud Uchiha will react once he wakes up.

Two days have passed and Madara still lies unconscious, but Hashirama is calm as Madara’s body has returned to its natural paleness and his breathing tells him that he’s out of danger. Hashirama leaves him alone to forage for food and uses his miraculous mokuton to forge pots in which he carries water from a nearby stream.

The days feel eternal and soon, the weight of fatigue overcomes the Senju boy. Hashirama barely sleeps, not wanting to take his eyes off Madara or the cave entrance. So, when the miracle occurs, Madara finds Hashirama with his eyes closed, snoring lightly, and deeply asleep.

Madara stares at him in disbelief. He can see his own clothes piled on the opposite side of the cave. Surely, he reasons, the Senju boy washed them for him, but even Madara remembers the deplorable state they were in and knows they are unusable. It would have to do; he’s obliged to dress as a Senju for a while. Madara moves to the pile of clothes and grabs his gloves. He’s wearing Hashirama’s clothes and feels his face redden, and rejoices, as it feels like being wrapped in Hashirama’s arms.

To distract himself, he looks around and thinks of what must have happened while he was unconscious, and the answer strikes him in the face: they are both deserters now. Runaways. Their clans will hunt them down if they can.

Madara leans against the cave wall and notices he’s in pain no more. He’s not surprised; he, more than anyone, is used to seeing that miraculous young man working wonders with his hands. But still… He lifts a hand and touches his belly, just there, where the biggest wound was and is pleased realising it is completely gone. And then, remembers with a smile the words he heard from Hashirama before going unconscious: I love him! Yes, Madara grins as he remembers Hashirama’s very next words said to his brother: Goddess, I love him!

Suddenly, the cave is hotter than ever, and he just can’t stand it anymore. He feels a jump in his throat and then, something has changed inside the cave. The air smells different, it feels different. Madara lifts his face and he’s… Hashirama is awake. And he’s holding his gaze, until none of them can stay still.

Then, words are useless. Madara’s brain stops working and he just opens his arms, as Hashirama’s leaning forward. He hangs from his neck and finally presses his needy lips onto Madara’s until he knocks all the air out of his chest.

 

* * *

 

The nights are cold in the cave, despite the fire that warms it. They lie next to each other, and it feels so natural, that Hashirama can no longer dare to remember his nights without Madara.

But not everything is delight in their new life as run-aways. The Senju spend much of the day in his thoughts, and now, the Uchiha are there too. Especially the Uchiha. What would they be thinking of all this matter? Would they be also on their trail? It seems unlikely that they would be just sitting with their arms crossed, waiting for Madara to return triumphant after being so many days missing.

“I’m sure Izuna is looking for me,” Madara replies when Hashirama dares to speak the subject out loud. His voice sounds muffled in Hashirama’s chest. “I just know it. I dare to say I know what he must be saying as he leads his troops…”

His troops, the thought paralyses him.

 Hashirama nods since he senses something similar. Their younger siblings are more alike to each other than they would like to admit. He cannot talk of Izuna, for he only knows him by sight, but he does know the position Tobirama must be at that very moment: proudly following on his father’s footsteps, leading his troops, and facing the Uchiha with even more violence, taking advantage of the fact that the incredible Uchiha Madara cannot face them now.

Eager to get away from such dark thoughts, Hashirama stares at the dancing flames in the centre of the cave. He can see Madara lying motionless on his shoulder and, little by little, he manages to match his heartbeat to his.

After dinner, they lie side to side to amend the cold that engulfs the cave once the fire is gone. It’s colder than usual, the rain has been falling since noon. Hashirama built a door for the cave with the intention of keeping the storm out, and now, as a result, there is so much echo inside the place that even his thoughts seem to be heard aloud.

And not far from there, in the depths of the forest, a terrifying roar is heard that makes him tremble. Madara shivers too as quietly says, and with great certainty: “It is the Kyuubi.”

Hashirama doesn’t have a chance to respond, as the same roar is heard again, but closer. They both remain silent for a while, as if, somehow, the creature could hear them muttering inside the cave.

“I’ve heard it since our first night here,” says Hashirama. They are the two best prepared shinobi to face the creature, but he’s aware that not even the two of them, together, could do anything against the nine-tailed fox.

“I’m not surprised,” answers Madara. “This is its territory.” He’s now sitting down next to him and stretches out his arms and his back clicks with the movement. Then, he turns to Hashirama, grinning. “But don’t worry too much about it either,” he suggests him. “If the need arises, we can just face the creature.”

Hashirama giggles in disbelief.

“We are very strong, but it slips out of our reach,” Hashirama says, his voice echoing around the cave. “It would be best if we just left it alone. Besides, Madara, we’ve already lasted too long in here; we need to move, we can’t live on fish and creek water forever.”

What he misses the most about home is the delicious sake he used to accompany his dinners with. He also longs for a soft bed and a warm bath. All these things seem impossible to him after what has happened, but it only takes him to look to his side, at the pensive Madara, who loses himself too often looking at the fire, to realise that the company is much better now and that, despite missing his family, he wouldn’t trade Madara for anything in the world.

As if he had heard his thoughts, Madara glances back at him and covers the few centimetres that separate them and they merge into a soft kiss that makes him forget about the shortcomings, the storm and the Kyuubi.

 

* * *

 

Madara goes fishing the next day. The stream has risen in volume to the point it is about to overflow, and its current rushes down the mountain in freedom.

He collects his loot in a few minutes and on his way back to their makeshift home, he finds an area where the water runs calmer before overflowing into the nearby river. He then takes the opportunity to wash himself and after being done, he approaches a tree to rest. The days are getting colder, and suddenly, the warmth of the sun is not enough. Autumn will get harsh in a few weeks, and he fears the security of their cave won’t cover them when winter arrives.

Madara leans against the trunk and watches the sun through the dancing leaves. Knowing himself safe from prying eyes, he lays a hand on his chest, and it traces its way down until it reaches the knot that holds his—Hashirama’s—clothes on. He undoes it and takes himself in his hand, swollen as it is and traces a pace up and down, as he intertwines his thoughts, and suddenly, a smiling face appears in his head. And he is smiling too.

Hashirama has grown, Madara reasons in delight. He has grown into a tall, strong man. Even his rounded rosy cheeks from childhood are gone. His hair has also grown; now it reaches the middle of his back, and… Oh, Hashirama’s back… Madara increases the pace of his hand, and he’s running out of breath. His broad back… and the delicious sight of his muscles under his skin with each movement he makes…

Madara swallows. It’s impossible for him to continue thinking of Hashirama as a boy. His body has become muscular and his voice, how could he describe it? Ah, Hashirama’s deep voice, raspy in the mornings, when he has just woken up and his words still sound sleepy.

His hand goes faster and in that very moment, he lets out an inarticulate moan, and he’s calling him in silence, Hashirama, Hashirama. Madara remembers the image of his friend every morning, while he shaves. He evokes the movements of his strong arms and the care of his broad hands gripping the kunai to shed the morning hair off, leaving his beautiful skin bare.

He finds himself breathless at the thought of Hashirama’s skin. His beautiful brown skin, which smells of wood and the dew of every morning. And at night, when they are very close and silent, apart from their thoughts, Madara awaits in the dark until he’s certain that Hashirama is asleep, to approach him and inhale Hashirama’s essence, that is only his and which Madara adores.

Of forest and sun, that is what Hashirama smells like.

Madara gasps as he senses he’s close to the pinnacle. He licks his dried lips before closing his eyes and lying on the ground, until relief comes. He remains there for a while, motionless and without removing his sticky hand.

Ah, Hashirama, Hashirama.

The days in his company are half blessing, half curse. He loves having him so close and being the object of all his attention, but Madara feels that something is lacking. Furtive glances, soft kisses, and swift touches are not enough. He needs to rip Hashirama’s clothes off and caress his skin, to taste and adore it, till he knows it by heart.

Madara is a virgin but knows a thing or two about lovemaking. He has read about it before and, more than once, has imagined himself lying down with Hashirama. Then, the intrusive thought kicks in and he can’t help but wonder whether Hashirama’s already been with someone else. He’s a very attractive man, why wouldn’t he?

He goes back to the stream to clean himself. After delight, always comes fear and shame. He knows that Hashirama likes him to the point of preferring him over his own clan. But still… Madara lets out a tired sigh and is desperate. Going back to the cave is going to be terrible. And what would happen if Hashirama notes a change in him, be it his flushed cheeks or some stutter?

Madara rubs his hands as if that would remove the invisible stain of his hot seed. His chest rises and falls rapidly. Suddenly, he can feel the sun in his back no more, as all warmth is localized on his cheeks. He still imagines himself gasping for breath, sweating, and enjoying the sweet weight on his back… Hashirama himself, pressing into him, deep into him…

“There you are!” laughs Hashirama behind him.

Madara turns to him panting and with a flushed face, which his friend sure interprets as a sign of anger, characteristic of him.

“Damn, you could be more careful!” Madara growls, hiding his face. “Besides, we’re not sure this territory is safe enough for us to go around shrieking.”

Hashirama laughs again as a response, and then, widens his eyes at the loot Madara has gotten. He assures him that they will dine like kings that night, and together, head back to their cave.

Madara stays a few steps behind and looks in pleasure the image in front of him: Hashirama seems happier than before. He smiles at everything that catches his eye, which is, everything. All things surprise him, all things amuse him. His body has grown into a strong and handsome man, yet he remains the same. He’s still his Hashirama.

His guts knot at the thought of Hashirama being his. He doesn’t belong to him, despite all that has happened between them. After all, they both live alone in a cave, and no one can interrupt them. Had Hashirama wanted to go further with him… Goddess, Madara knows he wouldn’t stop him if he had.

Hashirama choses that moment to glance back to him. He’s smiling and it is contagious, as Madara finds himself smiling back. He’s impossible and he loves him. Hashirama then stops walking and waits for him and, upon reaching his side, he takes his free hand and intertwines his fingers with Madara’s. Only then, they head back to their improvised home.

 

* * *

 

Madara touches himself when thinking of Hashirama. He used to do it in the safety of his tent back at the Uchiha encampment and does it in the woods when going fishing. Never in the cave, though, as he has a feeling that Hashirama would notice.

That night, while Hashirama prepares dinner, Madara loses himself in the movements of his hands while cooking. Hashirama has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and Madara can see the wonders that time and hard work have marked on his body.

“Madara?”

He licks his lips before answer, but the words do not come out.

“Are you alright?” that fool he’s in love with insists. “You’re all red.”

Madara growls under his breath and looks anywhere but his stupid face. Later, they eat dinner in total silence, and it is good. More than good. Hashirama may be annoying, but he is the best cook in the world. At least, the best since mum.

It isn’t raining nor they hear the roars of the Kyuubi that night, so all those stone walls absorb are their two breaths. After some time, they both clean themselves with the basin Hashirama has made and then, proceed to lie down on their small mokuton bed.

The air inside the cave has become stifling. Having Hashirama that close is unbearable, so Madara proceeds to lie on his side, with his back to him. The silence stretches out for a long period and soon, Madara stops counting the minutes.

His heart is jumping in his throat; Hashirama’s still awake, damn him. He knows it from the arrhythmic way he breathes and from the fact that, from time to time, he moves restlessly on the bed. And what is he waiting for? Madara wonders. There is no way to tell the time inside the cave, but Madara knows that his bedtime is long past.

Everything was much easier back when Hashirama was his enemy. At least, back then, he could keep his mind clear with the thought of Hashirama’s hands being stained with the blood of his kin. Hating Hashirama was easier.

Now, Madara wants to burst out laughing, for he is fooling himself. He has never been able to hate Hashirama. Not even in the warring period did he manage to see him as his enemy, because, seeing Hashirama meant going back to their days in the riverbank, where everything was fun and games.

You’re a bloody traitor, the voice in his head tells him. You were a traitor before and are now, lying down with the enemy and begging in silence for him to turn you on your back and rip your clothes off!

“Madara?”

He feels a sting in his belly as he hears Hashirama’s voice muffled in his hair.

Hashirama is close to him, so close. There’s no point in pretending to be asleep, so he steels himself up and answers, “Hmm?”

“You cannot sleep?” he asks. Dammit, is he getting chatty all of a sudden? “I cannot sleep either.”

Madara answers with another unintelligible sound and closes his eyes, pretending he’s not feeling Hashirama pressed on to his back.

The cave is in total darkness, until a click resonates throughout the place, and then, the wooden door opens in hundreds of pieces and slides down the walls, leaving the entrance exposed.

It is a quiet night, and the moon shines huge before them, allowing Hashirama to see Madara’s body lying next to him. He notes him shivering and without a second thought, he covers him with his own haori.

“W-what are you doing?” Madara growls, exalted. Hashirama’s aroma caressing his nostrils.

“Seeing that we cannot sleep, well, we could chat…”

“Chat?”

His friend nods. “There are many things we could talk about, Madara, things we left unfinished…

Madara feels his blood run cold. He swallows but doesn’t answer.

“For instance,” Hashirama continues, “your eyes.”

“My eyes?” Madara frowns. “What’s with my eyes?”

Madara’s face is bathed in moonlight. He covers himself up to his chest with Hashirama’s haori, like a shield.

“That day, during the battle, Madara, your eyes looked so different,” Hashirama pauses, thinking, how to describe it, “lethal and deadlier. Somehow, changed.”

“You imagine things, Hashirama,” Madara replies, turning his back on him again. “You’re tired, we should sleep.”

And they do remain silent for a while, but Hashirama doesn’t take his eyes off him and can see Madara drawing invisible circles on the fabric of his haori.

“I think there’s a lot you haven’t told me,” Hashirama blurts out after a while.

Madara turns to him with wide eyes. There’s a lot they haven’t talked about, indeed, but Madara doesn’t want to recall those painful scenes, not when he’s feeling so calm. He sighs, tired. He remembers the night Tajima died and the time he offered him his eyes to counteract his blindness and to lead their clan to victory.

“I don’t want to talk about that,” he replies, and his words contain so much pain that Hashirama doesn’t insist for a moment.

Hashirama leans back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling of the cave. He’s not planning on sleeping, though; a sleepless night awaits them.

“Madara?” he insists, softly. “That day, after the battle…”

Madara lets out an ugly groan, and sits up on the bed, facing him. “I said, I don’t want to talk about it, damn it, just go to sleep!”

But Hashirama laughs in response and that wonderful sound disarms Madara’s defences completely. His brow furrows on its own.

“That day,” Hashirama stands firm. He seems exhausted, anxious to finally say those words, “you said you loved me.”

Madara’s frown disappears, and his face reddens. He appreciates that the cave is relatively dark, but he knows Hashirama knows, for he’s… oh, that fool is grinning, and Madara is about to lose his mind. Fuck.

“And, back then, I assured you that we would finish that conversation in another place and, well,” Madara hides his face, “neither of us is going to be able to sleep tonight, so, why don’t we…?”

Madara is trembling again, his hands are slippery from all the sweat that lays on them. Madara is aware of what that fool is going to tell him. He. Just. Knows. And, although he does want to hear it again, he is afraid—afraid that such a precious gift would be given to… no; wasted on someone like him.

“Madara, I…”

“Shut up, Hashirama!”

“Madara…”

“Shut up, dammit!”

“I love you too,” says Hashirama in the end.

And then again, silence sneaks among them. Not far from there, a cicada creeps into the cave and, suddenly, its song is the only thing that can be heard, for even their breathing has stopped. Madara can feel his blood running wild in his ears, deafening him.

“Are you not going to say anything?” Hashirama asks, forcing him to turn back and hold on his gaze.

What he doesn’t know is that Madara has lost the ability to speak. Hell, even the subject of his new eyes would be easier to tell. But his feelings… darn it, that was never his strong suit.

“What remains to be said?” Madara finally answers, fixing his black eyes on Hashirama’s. “Every word I said back then was true. Still is.”

Oh, Madara’s heart is racing out of control. He feels like standing on thin ice.

Then, unable to contain himself, Hashirama responds by pressing his lips onto Madara’s and time soon stops again, for it is no longer necessary. Next, he wanders his curious fingers all over Madara, to finally, stop at the knot that keeps him covered.

Madara’s face is a pomegranate. His long-lashed eyes are all glassy and he’s biting his lip. His friend asks in silence, and Madara nods, willing.

Hashirama releases him from his clothing with dexterous hands and leaves Madara lying helpless before him. He’s certain that he hasn’t seen anything more beautiful in his life and, without being able to help it, he takes a hand to Madara’s restless chest and runs his fingers down his muscled belly, until it reaches the path of dusky hair that ends in glory.

Madara arches his back at his touch, moving himself closer to him, surrendering, begging for his attention, for a simple caress. Hashirama nods and grabs him tight in his hand, where it grows, pleading.

“Tell me,” Hashirama asks, “do you like this?” Madara stays still, waiting for him to start moving. An inarticulate murmur is his reply. Hashirama smirks and begins to stroke it gently, as he suspects it will please him. “Ah, goddess, look at you. Madara, I wish you could see yourself.”

In response, Madara utters yet another unintelligible moan, and another, and then another, and he finally does remain limp as Hashirama’s skilled hand strokes him to his liking. He’s astonishing, Madara considers and swallows, lost on breath, letting all the pleasure stream through his veins, like boiling blood.

Madara opens wide his eyes and lets all those magical sensations born from his crotch flood to the rest of his systems. He covers his mouth to prevent Hashirama’s name being said out loud but fails miserably. Both are coupled to an ancient rhythm, as if it were common between them to share their pleasures; a rhythm where one raises his hips, so that the other catches him with an attentive and well-disposed hand.

And while that miracle takes place, the cold disappears in the cave and rapidly, it is suffocating, and humid and the atmosphere is filled with the most delicious aroma of petrichor. Soon, it seems to rain inside the cave, because Madara’s body is bathed in sweat, full in shivers.

“You do like it, do you not?” Hashirama mutters and he’s grinning since he knows it’s true.

Madara’s pride lies on the ground, wrapped in his clothes, so he nods and closes his eyes to pray. The feeling in his belly has become unbearable, and he seriously thinks about getting down on his knees before Hashirama and beg—beg to Hashirama to get on top of him, to spread his legs open and bury himself until there’s not a single millimetre between them. May he impale him to the root and may he remain in there forever.

He covers his blushed face with his hands, allowing the emotion generated by the friction in his flesh to rule his thoughts. Madara imagines, he wonders if Hashirama would know how to prepare him for their lovemaking. Hashirama smirks, that damned bastard, as if he knew what’s going on inside Madara’s head.

Madara lays back down again and adverts his gaze anywhere but Hashirama’s eyes and, ends up staring at the lump growing under that foolish Senju’s clothes.

Hashirama must be large, of that he is almost certain. Large, huge. Madara licks his lips as he imagines it. He has tried before with three of his fingers inside and can feel his body is dilating just by remembering it. Nonetheless, three fingers of his are nothing to compare against that bulge under Hashirama’s clothes, so Madara imagines how would Hashirama prepare him to receive him with the greatest possible care. Hashirama is good at everything he does, he sure is good at love too.

And then again, there’s a pain in his chest at the thought of the possibility that those expert hands had touched someone else before. Madara has remained intact for so long, waiting for an impossible. Was it all in vain? Would it have been better meeting Hashirama after having himself his own experience?

No, he shakes his head to dismiss the intrusive thought. He must stop thinking and focus on enjoying, because he doesn’t know if that miracle will happen again. Stars never fall twice in the same spot.

“What’s wrong,” Hashirama asks when he sees Madara frowning. “You do not like it?”

Madara swallows.

Hashirama is here, he reminds himself. “Everything’s fine,” Madara says out loud. “Do not stop.” He stares at the ceiling and bites his lip as he feels Hashirama’s hand going up and down, slowly, round and round, from its base to its top. Hashirama is here, the new voice in his head reassures him. It is not a dream or some fantasy. It’s him, flesh, and bone. It is real, and it’s his hand the one caressing you; it is he the one who’s touching you. And he would surely fuck you if you asked him to.

Ah, it’s not safe to think about getting fucked by Hashirama.

He’s near his climax. Should he… should Madara warn him? What would happen if he didn’t and just…? Hell. What would happen if he came in Hashirama’s hand? What would it feel like to being wrapped in his soaked hand? Goddess, help him! He wants to cum in that broad hand, to feel those long, slender fingers squeezing around him while they’re still wet with his seed.

Bloody hell, it’s just too much! Too much! His gaze goes back to the bundle that rises under Hashirama’s garments, begging to be released. And so, he gets an idea.

When Madara feels like he’s, finally, going to explode, he stands on his elbows and takes his own trembling hand to the place where Hashirama’s clothes are pinned. Madara sits up and the movement causes Hashirama to let go of him, but it matters not, for it is now his turn. He undoes the knot and before his sight, it is Hashirama at his fullest, aroused and, in effect, very large.

He watches in awe and rushes to hold him in his hand, marvelling at its thickness, its size… and wonders what he should do to please him. Should he stroke it too or… would he dare? Suddenly, Madara feels daring and without a second thought, he leans down to him.

Hashirama lets out a gasp as Madara catches him in his mouth, and soon is breathless as well. It is outlandish, fascinating, its wetness, the heat his mouth exudes. He caresses that dark mane that looms before him and buries his fingers amid those unruly strands and straightens them, tucking them behind his ears, so he can clearly see Madara’s face.

He’s hungry. Hashirama can tell, he can… feel it. It’s been too many years of yearning, too many years needing, but no more. They have reached a point of no return. The damage is done.

Madara stops thinking and focuses on tasting Hashirama, in smelling his scent, and memorising his shape and size. And it is delicious for he tastes of tree sap and smells of freshly cut grass. Hashirama is nature and is wrapped in wildness. He’s untamed, a wild waterfall. His nostrils are flaring. Hashirama’s chakra is out of control, feral and it now fills the entire cave, cloying his whole self. It is too much for Madara to handle; he’s going to explode. To fall into oblivion.

Hashirama groans his name and Madara stops a second to grin at him. His heart is racing, unstoppable. He then clutches to Hashirama’s legs with both hands, so he can hold himself still, as he takes him whole, again.

Madara moves clumsily, groping and testing, his mouth barely accommodating itself to receive him full. From time to time, he must stop to start again, and Hashirama loves it—oh, how he loves how inexperienced Madara is. He’s aroused at the thought of himself being the first man in Madara’s life. Hashirama wants—needs—to be Madara’s first and only man.

And in that moment, Madara’s eyes flick upward, to face him, as if he had heard his thoughts, wicked thing. Hashirama feels a sting in his gut and Madara lifts his brows, delighted with the sensations he’s causing on him.

A hundred of buds are spouting through those stone walls and now the scent of nature fills the whole place, to a suffocating grade. That pair of fireflies must be shining like never before in the complete darkness of the forest, calling for their persecutors to come. If the nine-tailed fox shows up… they wouldn’t care a little.

“Madara,” Hashirama mutters when he’s about to reach his peak. He’s shaking and passes the saliva he had retained in his throat. “Madara, I can’t… I’m about to…”

But Madara doesn’t give a fuck and continues to savour it, little by little, until Hashirama feels a lurch in his gut and then, without preambles, his long-awaited release comes.

It is love, Madara deduces as he swallows his sweet and warm ambrosia. He finally knows what to call that feeling that overwhelms him every time he sees, thinks of, or is with Senju Hashirama.

It is love. It is love. It is love.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama wakes up before the first rays of sun filter though the cave entrance and discovers that Madara is not there. He’s dazed and confused, and suddenly, memories come to his head at a speed that makes him lose his balance.

He walks dragging his feet until he reaches the basin and washes his face. By the time he’s clean, his expression has changed: he goes from sadness to confusion, and from that confusion to mischief and finally, to yearning. He longs for Madara and their possibilities together. He needs more.

Hashirama stands at the entrance of the cave and looks down into the valley, suspecting that his friend has already gone to the stream to bathe.

His friend, the thought hits him. After all they’ve been through the last few days—the night before—is it normal to keep calling him as such? Or what term should he use to address Madara from now on? His lover? Shivers fill his body as he imagines himself calling him that.

Unable to help it, he stares again in the direction Madara takes every day and decides to go down to the stream to help his lover fish. The grin in his face is huge as he runs down the slope and stops just in time not to be spotted by Madara.

Hashirama hides behind a tree and narrows his eyes and then, there he is: Madara is still in the water and is wringing his long hair. His upper half is bare, reassured that the autumn sun won’t do any harm to his sensitive skin. Madara has already washed his clothes too and has them drying a few metres from him.

He watches dumbstruck. Hashirama only needs to close his eyes to remember the scenes of the previous night: Madara’s exposed skin, the scars he himself caused and which cover a large part of his body. And how sensitive and soft it is; how sensitive Madara is to the slightest touch of his fingers.

“I know you’re there,” Madara growls as he climbs out of the water, “Hashirama.”

Hashirama comes out, smiling, and walks over to him. His lover, the sensor.

“Many times, I have wondered whether the Uchiha do have the power to read minds,” Hashirama replies as he catches up with him. Madara’s face is flushed and for the first time in a while, he holds his gaze. “You weren’t in the cave when I woke up.”

Madara turns his face to the cool breeze, to dry it.

“You’re a sleepyhead, Hashirama,” he says. “It’s the same every day.”

Indeed, Hashirama agrees. But the night before was not a normal occasion, one would have expected the next morning to be special as well. “I…” Hashirama begins. Madara looks so beautiful with his blushed cheeks and cloudy eyes. He looks younger and healthier and even a little happier. “I really wanted you to be there when I woke up.”

Madara’s blush only deepens. All right, he looks more than just a little happier. He seems way happier.

He opens his lips to answer, but nothing comes out of his mouth. “Whatever,” Madara says at last. “We should be on our way. We have already lasted too long in here.”

Hashirama nods, as he had thought the same. And while it is a good idea, he thinks Madara’s urge to get going has more to do with getting away from the cave and their memories in there than anything else.

“And where should we go?” Hashirama inquires. “The Senju have many allies, but by now, all of them must be aware of what has happened and…” he shrugs. “My father disinherited me in front of his troops, and he said it out loud, so that there would be no doubt.”

Madara frowns. Now he does look away, unable to face him. “Sora-ku,” he says in a whisper.

Hashirama rises his eyebrows, for he thought he had heard wrong. He doesn’t need to ask out loud, Madara understands his silence.

“Sora-ku,” Madara explains. “There reside the last allies of the Uchiha. We will be safe there.”

Sure, Hashirama thinks. But I do not look like an Uchiha at all. Still, he nods, his expression turned serious. He sure has heard of that name, though he has never been to that place. It is too far from the Senju domain and when it had been necessary to go there, the chosen one was never the leader’s heir.

Madara rises a gloved finger up to Hashirama’s back, pointing. “Going that way, it will take us two to three days to get there. It is the most reasonable plan I can think of and the only place I would think of going to.”

Precisely therein lay the danger of it all, Hashirama thinks and so lets him know: “It could be dangerous. They may be waiting for you to go to that place and plan an ambush.”

They. He bites his tongue, speaking of the Senju as if they were an external organism to him and not as part of his family. They may not hurt him, but he cannot be sure they’d respect Madara’s life, much less now that he’s so wanted.

Madara just lets out a long sigh. “It’s the only place I’ll go to,” he decrees in the end. His skin has dried, and it shimmers in the sunlight. He looks at the horizon and his eyes seem to shine with hope.

The mornings have turned chilly with the early arrival of autumn, and the cold breeze now feels inhospitable down the valley. Hashirama realises that the cave will not serve as their shelter when the first snow falls. Whether he likes it or not, he thinks, discouraged, they have no choice but to go where Madara suggests and hope that no enemy has thought of the same idea.

“You know? I really wanted you to be inside the cave this morning when I woke up,” insists Hashirama to dispel the thick air hanging among them, and Madara grins in response, though he still refuses to look back at him.

“What would you have done to me, Hashirama?”

Hashirama’s smile grows huge and notes in delight that Madara is blushing again. Mere words are enough to break down the young Uchiha’s defences and Hashirama wants more, he wants—needs—to break him down at his feet and continue what was left unfinished the night before.

But none of that happens, for not far away from there, up in the sky, a singular noise is heard that erases Madara’s grin and makes him open his eyes in surprise.

“Madara!” Hashirama tries to stop him, but it’s useless, Madara is already running back to the stream, where the valley lies open to glance at the sky without hindrance.

Madara makes a visor with a gloved hand and glances back up to the sky. Hashirama catches him up and notices Madara’s chest rise and fall, rapidly. And his eyes, goddess, his eyes have turned red again.

“Madara,” Hashirama hugs him from his back and whispers in his ear, “what’s wrong?”

“The pilgrim above,” he points out, “she is one of mine.”

A falcon? Hashirama hadn’t even noticed. He looks up and up there, indeed, is a small falcon doing quick somersaults through the air.

“It’s way up there,” Hashirama murmurs. It is such a blessing to be able to be so close to Madara. To touch him, to smell him. “How is that you can distinguish it as yours?”

He doesn’t answer, but Hashirama is certain that the reason is that new pair of eyes Madara doesn’t talk about. His jaw is set, his breath unsteady. Hashirama’s preparing himself to talk, but in that very moment, a grisly roar runs through the valley, from one side to the other. The falcon screeches and flies fast when she sees there’s a creature chasing her.

Neither of them has time to howl out that creature’s name, for they too run fast back to the forest, so that its trees serve to avoid the Kyuubi’s angry gaze.

Both hide among the branches of the trees and communicate casting glances in between them. They are serene but expectant. Prepared to face the creature if necessary. From time to time, Madara looks worriedly towards the sky. He does not doubt his falcons are fast, but all he knows about the Kyuubi comes from legends and thus, prefers to be ready to counterattack in case the nine-tail fox hurts the bird.

“She’ll be fine, Madara,” Hashirama assures him with a small voice. “She is swift.”

Madara nods and replies with a frown.

After a while, the falcon gives up her battle and prefers to flee on the opposite side of the valley. Behind, runs the gigantic fox and the fury in his chakra is such that it makes Madara tremble.

They wait in their hiding place for a while after the colossus disappears. Before heading back to the cave, Madara returns to the stream to collect his clothes, that now lie wet among the pebbles.

From that day on they are careful on their trips to the forest. Although they do not see or hear the Kyuubi again, Madara suspects it is still prowling through its forest, silent and heedful, as if it knew that a couple of intruders are hiding in it.

One night, after dinner, Madara sits at the entrance of the cave and takes his old clothes in his hands. With his kunai he tears off a piece of fabric and holds it up before his eyes, with a hint of nostalgia. He is aware Hashirama is looking, so he asks him, “You know what, Hashirama?”

Hashirama replies with a “hmm?” and walks over to sit by. He leans into Madara’s shoulder, and he allows him.

“I think I can stop the Kyuubi.” There’s so much certainty in his words that Hashirama feels a shiver run down his spine.

“With those eyes of yours?” he inquires.

Madara just nods as he looks at the piece of fabric on his gloved fingers. That night, they lie down together, but there’s no room for passion on their bed; they cuddle until sleep comes.

The next morning, Madara leaves early again, but now Hashirama is prepared and follows him as soon as he walks out of the cave.

Madara heads up to the opposite side of the valley, up a hillside, probably, Hashirama thinks, to search up at the sky for the pilgrim Madara claims is his. He runs until reaching the top, and as he does, a bird screeches in delight at the sight of him. Madara’s face lightens, and he smiles.

He takes his waistband off and wraps it around his arm, which he then lifts to the falcon. The clever bird, no doubt Madara’s, circles in glee before plummeting in the direction of the offered arm.

Hashirama finds himself smiling at the scene when he sees the happiness that little bird causes in Madara, and so, he approaches without caring that the falcon screeches at his sight.

“I am no foe,” Hashirama assures the bird, holding his hands up, as if she could somehow understand him. “Ask him, I’m sure he likes me pretty much.”

And Madara laughs. Laughs, listening to him. He also notes she’s carrying a note on her foot and takes it off carefully not to hurt her. Madara reads it in silence a couple of times, before turning his back to Hashirama so he doesn’t see the tears rolling down his cheeks.

“It’s Izuna’s,” Madara says and his voice breaks at the mention of his little brother’s name.

“It could be a trap, maybe someone knows we’re…” Hashirama suggests, but Madara shakes his head, certain.

“It is written in a code that only an Uchiha could understand. We’ve used it for centuries.”

The falcon screeches, still on Madara’s arm. Perhaps suggesting him to tell his friend about the letter? Madara opens it again, to read it aloud:

Nii-san:

I have sent you the falcon that misses you the most, knowing that she will not rest until finding you.

Rumour has it that a couple of men are hiding out in the woods and I’m confident that one of them is you. You need to get out of there and get to where our last allies are. I fear a trap and, although I suspect your friend has healed you by then, I know that even you couldn’t do against an entire army.

Senju Tobirama became clan leader the same night his father fell by our hand. We have agreed to a ceasefire, but I don’t know for how long it will be. I don’t know what the Senju or their allies are planning.

The Uchiha still wait for your return. I’ll take care of your title, but it will only be until you’re back, for it belongs to only you. I’m unaware of what the Senju leader thinks about his brother, as we haven’t spoken since the truce.

Nii-san, I will send you another letter in three days, but this time, it will be sent to our allies’. I hope to meet you there and that you can answer me then.

P.S. Your gunbai is safe at home.

I.

Madara wipes his eyes with his hand and wraps the piece of Uchiha cloth around the falcon’s foot, and after kissing her small, feathery head, he rises his arm, encouraging the bird to fly back to Izuna.

Although the news of Butsuma’s passing leaves him unsettled, Hashirama soon feels a sense of calmness rise in his chest. It seems that their little brothers have achieve the greatest of all miracles: a truce, no less. Apparently, their desertion was beneficial for all those who had suffered from the war, and now, things seem to be getting better.

The sun has reached them by then and hits in their eyes. Madara covers it with one hand and looks at what will be his—their—next destination.

 

Notes:

ok, this fic was actually going to be way shorter, but once I started typing, my fingers couldn’t stop until I wrote a +20k words story, so I had to cut a lot of it. I’ll upload the rest later, I guess, I don’t know lol. What I do know is that I left the story at this very point, because I considered it as prudent.

P.S. I’m sorry if there are some incomprehensible parts in this. Grammar? I don’t know her.

Chapter 2

Notes:

I'd like to thank Carlos, the shippuden walking encyclopedia, for all our hours discussing the uchiha.

‘…And, please,’ says the end of the letter, ‘come alone.’

Izuna gulps as he rereads those last words and walks to where the nearest lit candle is, the one that burns silently on his desk, and, afraid of being tempted to read it again, for the umpteenth time, he places the letter atop the flame and watches with delight as the paper changes in both shape and colour until it turns into dark ashes.

Come alone, come alone, come alone.

Per se, those words do not carry any implicit meaning in them other than Senju Tobirama ensuring himself that they’ll be able to have a conversation between leaders without worrying about any loudmouths eager to listen and spread important information without permission. But either way… he feels an uncomfortable sting in his guts at the thought of himself being in such a high position and, suddenly, he doesn’t feel quite as capable anymore.

Senju Tobirama is his enemy. Well, he used to be his enemy, so… what is this discomfort that rises from his stomach against his will and makes him imagine meaningless things? Nerves? Uncertainty or…? Something else?

Izuna groans in desperation and goes to sit down in his chair as he watches how the candles on the desk create dancing shapes within the tent. His chair. That huge uncomfortable chair, meant to be used by Madara and left empty for several days after his father passing, forgotten. In any case, it still seems huge to Izuna, even though he fits in it perfectly.

The fault on this whole matter lies in the elders of his clan, Izuna decrees, for having planted in his head so many fears, so many doubts, all of them born of his young age and the fortune of being Uchiha Madara’s young brother.

He lets out a long breath and shakes his head. He lifts a hand and touches a dancing flame nearby, caressing it with the tips of his fingers without feeling the slightest pain or discomfort. His hands were made to control the flames, to manoeuvre the fire at will. And there he plays for a while, thinking.

It is not the fault of the elders of his clan, who like any other Uchiha, want the best for their people; the fault is also not Izuna’s, nor is in his age or the circumstances that put him in the middle of that mess. And much less is it in his adored older brother, that among all things in the world, Izuna considers, what he deserves most is happiness.

So, who is left to blame? Fate?

Izuna goes astray in memories and abandons the flames to lean back against the chair. In front of him, on the desk, an infinity of papers of all colours, sizes and precedencies are scattered around. There is even an old map nailed to the table that once belonged to his great-grandfather’s grandfather and where dozens of Uchiha hands have marked their territories over the decades.

There are also letters sent and received from potential allies. Some lie open and half-ignored, while others await forgotten under the rest of papers. They are all important and they all give him goosebumps. However, it is the one that was written in the handwriting of Senju Tobirama the one that lingers in his mind, his words etched in his memory and without realizing it, he begins to move his fingers as if he could still feel the phantom weight of the paper in them.

It is a cold night. The wind seeps through the cracks in the tent and makes him shiver. All flames dance vigorously, suffocating the whole place. It’s cold, but even that doesn’t calm the cheerful atmosphere outside, in the Uchiha encampment. His people are calmer since the truce; they laugh and dance around the bonfire as soon as it begins to darken. They sit in circles to talk about stories of all kinds and well into the night, those who carry bottles of sake, come together, and sing in unison melodies that, according to them, have not been heard for decades, although Izuna cannot verify if that’s true, for he was born in a time where that kind of wonders did not occur.

He's fourteen years old, good lord. He is merely a child. A boy forced to take a weapon after taking his first steps; a battle-born child who learned that survival was only for those who were strong and capable; a boy who grew up without a mother or siblings to remember. His only bond—Izuna’s only real bond was the one he had with the one who is now missing.

Another sigh is heard in the tent. He puts his fingers to his eyes to ease the beginnings of somnolence and then decides it is a good time to go to sleep. Everything that had to be discussed is settled and all letters of urgency that had to be approved lie signed in the table. There’s nothing left to do for that day. And, if he wants to leave the next day unnoticed, he’ll need to do it before sunrise, so every minute of sleep is welcome. The truce has been settled with the Senju, sure, but it would be foolish to trust them entirely, so he needs to be well-rested next morning, while going through the forest.

And what’s with all that secrecy? Izuna thinks as he rises. Why not just arrange another assembly, one with their elders, generals, and themselves? That damned Senju. And who gave Tobirama the right to decide the whens and hows?

His thoughts lose at that point as he opens his mouth wide in a long yawn. He then walks over to blow out all the candles still burning on the desk, leaving him in total darkness except for the torches that burn outside the tent. As he turns around, ready to go to bed, a buzzing noise goes through the place, and he barely has a second to take his hand to the sharp kunai wrapped to his hip. He ends up frowning, growling with a barely supressed rage for being that inept, he—the clan head, to recognise when there’s an intruder in his own tent.

“If I were an intruder, Izuna,” calls a whispering voice in his ear, “I could have sliced your throat in a heartbeat without you noticing it.”

Behind him is Naori and hers is the kunai pressed to Izuna’s throat. She’s not that close to endanger the leader’s life, nor wants to, but her prank sure helps to lower his spirit and make him revive all the fury that laid asleep inside his chest. Izuna can feel the bile burning his throat with rage at being him so careless.

“Now, now, Izuna,” jests the girl, “it was just a joke. A little demonstration of how easy it would be for someone to slip in here to finish you off.”

Izuna feels his stomach churn. What a leader he resulted to be! And what would Madara think could he see Izuna? His eyes fill with tears but does everything humanly possible to keep them hidden within his eyes. He’s not going to cry in front of Naori; that luxury was granted only to his older brother.

“You’re the best shinobi in our clan,” adds Naori. “The most important; our only hope.” Izuna feels his whole-body tense, his hands shake uncontrollably. “You must not keep your guard so low. Or at the very least, keep someone outside the tent to alert you in case of any intruders…”

“Father did not need them,” Izuna replies, still turning his back on her. “Besides, we are in a truce. Any disturbance or attempted attack will be punished by death.”

Izuna’s words are meant to strike fear into Naori, but his voice is still that of a small boy and she is unfazed by his threat. Instead, the girl laughs and pats his shoulders with her hands so he could turn to see her. “Perhaps, what our leader needs is to relax a bit.” Izuna looks at her like she’s lost her mind. “You could join your friends by the bonfire and… singing has never hurt anyone, and you loved to dance…”

Certainly, he enjoyed it, but such liberties seem impossible now, with all that uncertainty inside his chest.

“It is late for me,” the boy replies after a while. His gaze locks onto hers. Naori is a pretty girl, with rosy cheeks and bright eyes; her purple hair has turned jet black in all that darkness, making her even more beautiful, if that’s possible. Her smile is one of those girls to whom the troubadours compose long sonnets and sing them around the world. However, in Izuna, such flairs cause not a single slight flush. “Shouldn’t you be with them? By the bonfire, I mean.”

The girl’s gesture changes and suddenly, she avoids Izuna’s gaze. A blush has appeared on her face, barely visible in all that obscurity. “I—” Her voice is also heard differently and now, the always confident Uchiha Naori seems to hesitate. “I don’t see it pertinent for myself to continue celebrating with the boys like before.”

Izuna rises an eyebrow in disbelief, not quite understanding what she means. They hear the laughter of a group of obviously intoxicated men and Naori waits until they have passed and disappeared into the corridor before continuing: “I-I mean, I’m getting married soon and…” she shrugs, her tongue knotted in desperation. “I don’t want Madara to think I don’t take o-our engagement with the seriousness it deserves for his bride to continue dancing around the bonfire with someone else.”

Her words lose in the silence of the night. The Uchiha encampment is settled in the middle of the forest, so an owl’s hoot is heard near the tent.

Good lord, Izuna thinks. Naori does continue to feel like his brother’s bride-to-be, although such an announcement was never settled as it should have for a number of reasons: first of all, the passing of his father and desertion of his big brother, both almost at the same time; second, their altercations against the Senju after the disappearances of both heirs; the truce and last, and, most important reason: the little chance there’s that Madara would dare to even think of marrying a woman.

Minutes pass: he is speechless.

He likes Naori. He loves her like he would love a big sister. And there’s nothing wrong with her either. She is, without a doubt, the most desired kunoichi in his entire clan. Two dozen of the most skilled shinobi wait in line for just one glance, one single smile from the sweet Naori. Most of them would be willing to rub themselves at her feet, to tear themselves open as a proof of their unconditional love for her. Everyone but the reserved Madara, the one she wants the most.

“Right,” answers Izuna at last, biting his lip. “It is late, anyway.” He makes sure to take anything of importance and walks out the tent, holding the entrance flap up for Naori to follow.

She stops meditatively next to him and searches up at the sky with melancholy; it is a moonless night. Her upper lip trembles and Izuna choses that moment to get out of there. He wishes her good night and starts walking towards his tent.

“Izuna?” calls the girl.

“Yes?” Izuna replies. He swallows hard as he waits.

“Are you planning to go somewhere tomorrow?”

Without being able to help it, the image of Senju Tobirama appears in his head. Izuna remembers him from their last meeting, the day they signed the truce, just after holding hands as a sign of harmony. He feels his chest rise and fall violently. Izuna appreciates Naori, he considers her the best of his friends and doesn’t feel fit to lie to her.

“You’re going to look for him, right?” insist the girl, suddenly unable to wait for an answer. “You will go in search of Madara, are you not?”

Izuna sighs and, above him, the same owl breaks the air in two, its swift wings fluttering his hair, as it approaches its prey. “I have business with the Senju leader.” He doesn’t dare to call his name out loud, fearing his voice will tremble. Only then he turns back and notices the girl observing him. She is the brightest of all the Uchiha, above himself, Madara and the rest.

“I’ll go with you, then.” And the most stubborn one too.

It’s no use dissuading her, so Izuna just nods and keeps walking. It is full dark outside; the rest of the encampment is plunged in almost total silence, broken only by the coming and going of the sentinels and the incessant drumming inside his chest.

He can’t sleep for a moment. Izuna circles inside his tent until his feet have traced a path in the gravel, and from time to time, he takes the rag his brother sent him days ago and talks to it about his concerns, tells it about his fears, but to no avail. No matter how much he calls that piece of cloth, it is not going to answer him.

Hours later, he puts on his armour and prepares his pouch with the necessary weapons in case of an ambush. Lastly, he takes his katana in hand and tests it inside the tent, breaking the wind around him in silent, deadly swift slashes. And outside, of course, it is Naori, already recovered, without his frown and with the usual smile on her face. The melancholy has disappeared from his features, although Izuna can tell from metres away that she didn’t sleep either.

It hasn’t dawned yet. The surroundings are still tinted in purple, the trees silent and the cold October wind caresses their limbs. They sneak through the trees and run until the encampment is nothing but a dark blur in the distance. And they move in silence: he ahead and Naori hot on his heels. She’s years older than him and Izuna does not doubt that she is faster and more agile, but they are battle-born children, and the Uchiha understand better than anyone the importance of hierarchy.

After a while, they stop in some high branches and wait for the first rays of sun to show them the way. And there, standing on the pebbles, in the riverbank, Senju Tobirama awaits. His bright red eyes are closed, his arms crossed at chest level. To Izuna’s surprise, the Senju is dressed casually, wrapped in his typical blue and white patterns.

He went dressed for a casual encounter, not a possible attack. That damned bastard, Izuna grumbles in his mind. He feels awkward and even childish coming dressed that way to a peaceful meeting. That idiot is barely a year older than him and already feels like an adult, and unlike Izuna, he acts like one.

Izuna feels the weight of Naori’s gaze on him but ignores it for he fears the young kunoichi will notice the worries marked on his face. “I’ll go meet him,” he informs her, unable to take his eyes off the Senju. “I will call you if necessary.”

He arrives in a single leap to the ground and slowly walks the distance that separates him from Tobirama. His hands are all sweaty and a squeeze eats away his belly.

He hates that place; Izuna hates that damn river. His feet are unsteady as he walks through the pebbles and the sound of the river running down the mountain makes him travel through time against his will. Then, the few metres of distance seem like an eternity, for it was in that same river where his brother met Senju Hashirama four years ago; it is the same place where Madara awakened his sharingan; it is also the same place where he directed his father to after having spent months following Madara in secret; it is the same damn place where the ties between the two heirs were severed, where their friendship died and… it was in that very riverbank where he saw his own brother kissing their sworn enemy.

Izuna hates that river for what it represents: it is a temple, a shrine, a sacred place. A monument of remembrance of two star-crossed lovers who left it all behind to honour their forbidden love.

Tobirama choses that very moment to open his eyes and fix them on Izuna, just as that terrible scene is replayed nonstop in his head. And then, time seems to stop; the mirage of the young lovers disappears from his mind for the only thing that catches his eye is Senju Tobirama, his intoxicating image and foul soul. Izuna hardly manages to supress the instinct to activate his sharingan at the sight of his nemesis.

The Senju leader has changed, even though only a pair of weeks have passed since their last meeting. Tobirama seems to have grown at a fast pace with his father’s passing, as if his new title came with maturity and wrinkles included. However, not everything that catches his eye seems negative to Izuna; Tobirama is only a year older, yes, but the differences among them are countless: the absence of his armour gives him a nice view of the Senju. He has always been much taller than Izuna, but now he appears to be enormous; now, he too notices the luscious shapes sculpted into his body from a life of training; he can’t help but to stare at his legs, long and slender, fast, and infamous among his clansmen. His bent arms emphasize taut and well-formed muscle, which end in a pair of gracefully strong shoulders.

It is not fair.

His face is still the same, or at least, it is what can be seen, for it is now covered by a happuri with his family’s crest carved in the metal. And that is not the only change in his beautiful face, as some thin scarlet marks adorn his skin on cheeks and chin, in the style of ancient men of war.

It is not fair!

“Izuna,” he hears him call and the Uchiha boy opens his eyes in surprise. Should he call him by his name too? “I thought we had agreed to come alone.”

Tobirama was born a sensor, it was a matter of time before he discovered Naori hidden among the trees.

“We were at war not long ago,” Izuna replies. “It would be stupid to suddenly trust a Senju.” He spits out his surname as if it were a curse. Then, rises a hand in the air to call out for Naori. “She is the best of the Uchiha,” he assures him, and adds when he feels the kunoichi reach his side: “I wouldn’t trust anyone else to accompany me.”

Tobirama’s face remains motionless, uninterested even, and ends up letting out a long sigh. “Anyway,” he utters. “I asked you to come today because the elders of my clan think and fear that what I’m planning to do is… unwise.”

Izuna feels an anxious sting in the pit of his stomach but has no chance to reply. “We’ve been enemies for generations, trained to murder each other without knowing the reason and delimiting territories with the blood of our fallen,” Tobirama continues. “It had been that way until the day our brothers came up with the ridiculous idea of becoming friends and reneging on what custom forced us to do. Now that it is no longer necessary to continue fighting among us, it is our duty, Izuna, to honour that miracle and unite our clans to form an alliance that goes beyond a simple truce, to build a place where we can live in peace and safety, together…”

Incredible, thinks Izuna, for those are the same words his big brother had said when he thought no one was listening. How far had Senju Hashirama’s influence gone on his brother’s mind? Izuna can’t tell.

“What do you say about it?” asks Tobirama.

“Unite our clans,” Izuna ponders, “Uchiha and Senju living in the same space, at peace?”

Tobirama nods. “Over time, other clans may join us, of course; in fact, I’ve already spoken with leaders of diverse clans and some of them seem really interested in joining us. The problem here lies in the oldest members of my clan, who above all things are opposed to change due to the idea of living with the murderers of their loved ones.”

Exactly, Izuna reasons. How could both clans live in peace after all that has happened? Tobirama gave Tajima the wound that took him to his grave; the same thing occurred with Butsuma and Izuna’s sharp and swift sword. It is nonsense. And he had thought it was Hashirama the Senju who used to live on daydreams.

“A village,” says Izuna after some meditation. “That’s what you have in mind.”

Tobirama nods again and a rush of adrenaline runs through Izuna’s body. “It was our big brothers’ dream. A village where both Senju and Uchiha could live in comradery…”

“Never!” Naori growls and for the first time is noticed by Tobirama. He casts an incredulous glance at Izuna’s side, as if he’s waiting for him to control the girl. “Madara and our elders will never allow it!” she insists. “Anything, except to share our meals with the Senju.”

Tobirama raises a pale eyebrow and his gaze flies back to Izuna. The truce is young, and the hearts of their former combatants are still spirited and full of pride. It will take more than a couple of weeks to suffocate the instinct of war in those who know no other life but battle. “The village will need a leader,” he continues, ignoring her. “A leader to protect them all.”

“And I suppose you plan to have a Senju to fill in that position,” Naori insists.

Izuna calls her by her name to soothe her, but she is determined and proud and fears no one, not even Senju Tobirama himself. She’s an Uchiha, after all.

“It would be elected democratically, but if that were the case,” Tobirama shrugs, “yes.”

Naori roars. Only the longing for peace within her heart is what prevents her from taking a hand to the hilt of her katana.

“This kunoichi,” Tobirama says, looking intently at her. “Who is she?”

Izuna’s face reddens, and a shiver runs down his entire spine.

“I am Madara’s bride-to-be,” Naori answers instead. She rises her face with pride and without showing a single tremor of those she had with Izuna last night.

Then, the whole place is silent. Even the river now flows calmly, almost expectantly. The sun has fully risen, and its light covers the length and breadth of the valley, but its meagre heat is not enough to cheer them up.

“You have no idea, do you?” the Senju leader blurts out, his pale face indecipherable, a total mystery.

“Tobirama, stop,” Izuna mutters, but his former enemy isn’t looking at him; his eyes are still fixed on the girl.

“Why?” Tobirama asks. His question is addressed to Izuna, although he’s still looking at her. “She is your friend, is she not? It’d be better for her to find it out now, instead of being ridiculed by gossip and spending her whole life waiting in useless hope.”

“What…?” Naori begins to say, but her words are lost at mid-sentence. Her beautiful face pales and then, she is speechless. She drops both hands in defeat and turns to run away, heading back the way they came from before the tears leave her eyelids.

She knows it, Izuna senses in the end. People in his clan sure love to tittle-tattle, and she just knows. The Uchiha know that Madara is alive and that, if he hasn’t come back yet, it is because he doesn’t want to, and not because he’s unable to. They may also be aware of that story of Madara being taken away, more dead than alive by the former Senju heir. There’s talk of how the incredible Senju Hashirama was disinherited in the middle of the battlefield for saving Madara, the one man he has been in love with for years. And it is reciprocated, although the Uchiha have had suspected that for a long time.

“You must be honest with her,” continues Tobirama once he’s certain the girl is unable to hear them. “It is your duty as clan head. Truth,” he insists, “although may hurt, will always be the best option. She must know that Madara will not return. That…” he bites his lip. Never had he looked so human, “that neither of them will come back.”

Izuna takes a hand to his chest, to the place where Madara’s cloth rests, above his heart. Days have passed, yet all his sent letters remain unanswered. The fault is not in his brother’s falcons either… Madara is very alive, yes, but perhaps it is true that he doesn’t plan to return. Not even for him.

Those bloody Senju… they destroyed everything that was precious to him.

“I don’t like you one bit, Senju.” Izuna spits.

And then, wonder of wonders, Tobirama’s lips curl up in a wicked crescent as he replies: “I don’t like you one bit either, Uchiha.”

And this is how things will have to be.

Nii-san, Izuna thinks and draws his gaze to the silent current of that damned river, and his vision blurs as he decides: I’ll go. Sora-ku is far from there. It is a several days journey. But he’s decided: I’ll go.

 

* * *

 

The rains in the forest have become a blessing.

“You should be more careful where you wander on,” Hashirama is scolding him. “What would have happened if I wasn’t around?”

Madara prepares to tell him some bold answer, but what escapes his mouth, on the other hand, is a groan of pain as Hashirama increases the greenish flow of his chakra at his foot.

“It’s just a sprained ankle,” Madara says, as if it’s not obvious that it hurts. “It’s not like I’m going to die from this.”

Hashirama responds with a grunt and does not look at him until he has finished with his work. He found him sprawled under a satsuma tree—a big one—surrounded by a dozen of bright mandarins. Madara had a few scratches here and there. His cheeks were caked with dirt and broken twigs hung from his hair. He could have broken his neck.

“Come, sit by me,” calls Madara and though Hashirama is still upset, goes as asked.

He sits next to Madara, cross-legged, and takes one of the many mandarins lying between them. The fruit of discord, the reason of Madara’s accident. He holds it in his hand and looks at it, carefully, as if it were a sparkling jewel.

“It is good, is it not?” Madara asks as he watches Hashirama peel the fruit.

His friend bites his lip to keep from smiling, as he still feels offended that Madara had risked his life for some simple fruits. But it is impossible, for it is, indeed, delicious. Hashirama takes another small slice in his fingers and looks at Madara as be bites into it.

Now, they are both grinning. Autumn fruits are sweet and juicy and the one Hashirama has bitten into is no exception. As he bites it, its juice slides between his lips to trace the contour of his chin, till it disappears under his clothes.

Madara looks away for he realises what he is doing. His face goes red. All the air inside the cave smells of citrus and rain and Hashirama’s essence of nature. It is intoxicating. And though he blushes, he lets out a long sigh and pretends to be tired and bored. Luckily, Hashirama is too busy eating to notice his blush and it soon disappears.

“Very much,” Hashirama replies. He is taking another slice while he speaks. “However, not enough to mean your death.”

Madara rolls his eyes and picks up himself a mandarin. He grabs the one that seems the prettiest and softest of them all. He chose them that way, though: the ones that looked the brightest, and the ones with the silkiest skin. And those were also the ones that were higher up the tree.

“Madara,” he hears him calling. He stares at the fruit as if he doesn’t know how to peel it. “Are you alright?”

He lets out another sigh. That’s how Hashirama starts his awkward talks. “Of course, I am. It is not like it’s the first time I’ve sprained an…”

Hashirama draws another hand to the pile of mandarins and begins to peel one more. He too fixes his gaze on the fruit, admiring in the colour of it and the soft sensation of holding it in his hand. “I did not mean that.” Outside, a thunder is heard receding into the distance, and he does not speak again till only the rain is heard. “What I meant is… it’s already been four days.”

Four days since Izuna’s letter.

“And I’m sure your brother is worried about not hearing from you.”

Madara stares at the steel curtain that falls at the cave entrance. He knew this moment was going to come sooner or later, and although he has had a lot of time to think about what to say about it, suddenly the words have evaporated from his head and has nothing. His mind is empty, his tongue heavy as lead.

Hashirama insists, “I would also like…” he stops and licks his lip, thinking how to land the stroke. In the meantime, Madara keeps playing with the mandarin in his hand, morose, his chest rising and falling rapidly. “I would also like to write to Tobirama and find out what has come to him.”

What Madara is doing is a cruel thing, and he knows it. keeping Hashirama away from the rest of the world just because he doesn’t feel ready to leave that cave is a heinous gesture, even for him.

“…To know what has happened to our clan and the truce.”

Madara can feel Hashirama’s gaze pinned on him, but he does not feel ready to meet his eyes. What will he find in them dare he look? Anger? Sadness? Weariness? Or perhaps a cruel combination of them all?

“Izuna wrote that it was an unstable situation. Although, you know?” Hashirama continues, “I like to think that they will be able to figure it out and lead it to a good solution and...”

Madara begins to squeeze the mandarin until he feels it break inside. He lets out a humourless laugh. He has seen Hashirama yearning for his old life in subtle and discreet ways that only someone who really knows him—like Madara himself—could notice. Sometimes they are mere sighs to worldly things, like when he stares blankly at his food; when he gazes at the dancing trees, or simply by looking at the fire’s flames; when he’s sleeping, and frowns and worriedly whispers Tobirama’s name… It is in those exact moments when his old wounds hurt the most, when guilt strikes him worse in the face.

Those desperate calls for his brother…

“Do you miss him, Hashirama? Your brother, I mean.”

What a stupid question, laughs the voice in his head. Madara also misses Izuna very much, despite his actions showing otherwise. He misses his cheerful voice and bright eyes. He misses talking to him and training until exhaustion knocked them both to the ground.

A swift lightning illuminates the interior of the cave. The whole place smells of earth. Madara holds his breath and silently counts the seconds till the thunder is heard.

“Of course, I do,” Hashirama answers. Ouch, a stab at the heart. Yet another thunder breaks his words, and they flutter within those stone walls. Three seconds. “But that does not mean I regret being here with you.”

“This cave is not the only place where we can be together, you know?” Hashirama insists. “I mean, in case that’s the reason we are still here.”

Damn him and damn his ability to read his mind.

They have not yet left for several reasons Madara does not understand—or maybe he does but prefers to pretend he doesn’t to feel less guilty. Madara hasn’t left that cave, simply, because he likes in there. He likes being with Hashirama. He likes that small cave, its freedom and silence. He loves in there, even though they have not eaten anything enjoyable in a long time, although their bed is uncomfortable, and the baths are cold in the stream. Hell, he could easily do without comforts, hot baths, and inarizushi in exchange for an eternity with Senju Hashirama. Madara is happy there!

Even without Izuna? Insists that mind of his. You claim to love your brother. You swore to protect him! Madara gulps. What is the last will of an ill man to you, Uchiha Madara? His eyes burn for they are full of unshed tears. You were about to leave the same night your father died, have you forgotten? Even though you felt Izuna hovering around the river as you begged Hashirama to run away with you…

Love is a curious and cruel thing.

“Either way, it does not have to be today, Madara, or tomorrow.” Hashirama says. He is busy peeling another fruit and now his hands are all full of that orange nectar.

Madara smirks as he squeezes the mandarin in his hand and the force applied is such that it opens a hole in it. It was the best one in the whole bunch, and now it’s ruined. He swallows. Unable to help it, he glances at Hashirama, who is also looking at him, as he puts the slice in his mouth. Madara feels a jumble in his guts, but also feels… aroused? Seeing that orange juice staining his neck. It would be pretty easy for him to lean forward and lick that reddish stain for good.

On the other hand, guilt torments him, for he knows that, sooner rather than later, Hashirama will end up just as ruined as the mandarin on his hand. He is the brightest and sweetest fruit of the bunch and by his side, he will rot.

He should have let him die on the battlefield, like the proud man he used to be.

“You should go back home, Hashirama,” Madara says after a while. His gaze remains gazed fixed on the falling rain outside. “I’m grateful for all you’ve done for me, I truly am. But you’ll be better back at home.” He waits till the new thunder disappears into the valley and adds, “I can see clearly now that everything we did that night was rushed and I…” he bites his tongue. “My father had just died and I…” he sighs. “You promised him, did you not? That you would return to him as soon as I was out of danger?”

Madara turns to him and expects to find him as depressed as he once was by the riverside, but just the opposite happens; his face is serious, yes, but there is something different in there. What could it be? Anger?

“You heard us,” Hashirama says. It is an affirmation; he is not asking him. “What else did you hear that night, Madara?”

Madara’s head goes red. “You do not have to be a telepath to know what that brother of yours is thinking. It is obvious that he’s looking for you, especially knowing that you are with me.” He shakes his head. “You were forced to leave in a hurry, without even a proper farewell. How do you think that makes me feel like? This is all my fault! Do you not think I miss Izuna? He is a mere child and yet, I have thrown such a big obligation upon him, and…”

Hashirama interrupts him with a wave of the hand. “We will find a solution for all of this. Our brothers, our clans… the future. But we will do it together.” His voice stays firm. “Do not think for a moment that I regret following you into this cave.”

That’s what you say now, he wants to say. But what will happen in a month? A year? When our hair turn white, and our bodies cannot move anymore? Will you still love me, Hashirama?

“I will love you always,” says the telepath. “Never doubt it.”

Stupid and optimistic Senju.

“I will follow you to Sora-ku,” he adds. “And when we’re there, I will write my brother to assure him that I am well and happy. I will also apologise for breaking my promise and he will understand, because he is my brother and because he loves me.”

The clouds are dispersing; the rain is ceasing, and the last rays of sun filter into the cave.

“I will go wherever you want us to go, do you understand me?” Hashirama’s voice is deep, not at all suitable for such fanciful ideas. “So, you better get that silly idea out of your head, alright? I will notice if you run away, and rest assure that I will find you anywhere.”

“You’re a heavy sleeper,” Madara strikes back. “If I left, you wouldn’t know until noon the next day, and by then, it would be too late for you to follow.”

The Uchiha elders often repeat to youngsters that one of the purest forms of love is in letting go. If you love something let it go. Perhaps, Madara muses, perhaps, that is the true meaning of love. Maybe love is found in letting go what you love the most, to prevent them from a meaningless life by one’s side.

Hashirama bites his lip, the air feels heavy. Then, he lets out a grunt, “That night you asked me if I would run away with you, do you remember?” He asks. “Well then, here is your answer: yes. Yes, Madara, I will run away with you.”

He’s impossible. Hashirama is teeming with life; he’s nature himself. Some people have skilful hands that can change the shape of a rock into a beautiful figure; others can weave their passions and turn them into poetry. Hashirama is both and by his side, in that cave, all that splendour will end up burning to cinders.

“What will happen to that dream you embraced four years ago, Hashirama? Do you plan to abandon it right away? For me? Please.”

There is a trail of juice lingering from his lip to chin.

“It’s not the way I thought it would happen,” Hashirama admits. “But I like to think we’ve achieved it indirectly.” He grins. “The end of the war, the truce… what follows is the village, do you remember? Where all our people can live together, in peace. And if, somehow, it happens and it is because of our escapade, then I’m pleased, knowing that we were part of that miracle.” He turns to him, his face still glowing and stained with juice. “And that’s enough for me, Madara. I wanted to achieve this because our people deserved to live peacefully, not because I wanted to be recognised for anything. I wanted a better world, not to carve my name on some mountain so that everyone would notice me.” Hashirama licks the tips of his fingers, still stained with the mandarin, and then glances at him, with a gleaming smile. “Wouldn’t that spoil my good intentions?”

Madara does not know what to say. He throws the mandarin to the ground with more force than necessary, and it rolls till it falls through the entrance. His hand is sticky, his head full of doubts.

In the distance, they can see the appearance of a blurry rainbow.

“That’s the future you want?” Madara asks, dozily.

Hashirama pulls the remaining mandarins aside and leans on his shoulder. Suddenly, the aroma of citrus is more intense and atrocious, as if it were aroused by the simple contact with that silly tree-man.

“My future is called Uchiha Madara,” Hashirama kisses him on the cheek. “Do you happen to know him?” Madara shudders at the deadly combination that are his kisses and voice in the ear. “He reaches my nose, blue-navy and pointy hair; fair-skinned, dark beautiful eyes…”

Madara turns to him, fixing those dark beautiful eyes on his. “Moody and with pronounced eye bags?” He leans down, catches Hashirama’s lip and licks the citrus lingering stain. “Yeah, I think I know the bastard.”

Hashirama catches his earlobe with his teeth, and his friend flinches.

“I love when you shudder like that,” Hashirama says, whispering in his ear. “I love how you flinch at the slightest of my touches, Madara. I can hardly imagine what would it be like when you allow me to make love to you.”

Madara lets out a laugh, but it dies almost instantly. He gasps for air, his heart galloping at a rapid pace, and something begins to grow in the lower part of his body.

“Ah, it is such a blessing that you love me, Madara.”

“I am an Uchiha.” Says his lover, against his lips. “Loving is what we do best.”

 

* * *

 

Later, they stay awake well into the night. The fire before them is about to consume. The wind runs viler after the afternoon rain.

Both lie thoughtful, but their silence is never awkward.

“I was never meant to be a leader,” Hashirama says suddenly, as if his thoughts had slipped through his lips without permission. “At every council, Tobirama was the strategist; I was the secret weapon.” He shrinks. “Maybe they thought I was too bland. My father did, and maybe… maybe he hated me for it.” he gulps. “And the rest of the Senju? What else could they do but to agree?”

Hashirama covers himself with his haori, like a blanket.

Their bags are packed; there is no way back.

“They were wrong,” responds Madara. “You are full of love to give, and the necessary power and strength to protect your people. A leader must not only be a strategist, but they must be able to move the hearts of their people.” He glances at Hashirama. “And you are all that and more.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen in surprise but stays silent.

“I think Tajima was the same,” Madara continues, thoughtfully. “We talked about Izuna in his last moments, you know? He told me about his abilities and attitudes as a future leader. It’s like he knew.” Madara nods. “Yes, the old man knew.”

Hashirama squeezes his hand and listens:

“My father was an underappreciated man; he was acclaimed only for being the father of Uchiha Madara. But there was more to him than that. He was a wise man. You know, Hashirama? When he found out I was secretly seeing this Senju boy, he did not scold me or hit me or humiliated me in any way. Instead, he stood in front of me, his face very serious, and said: ‘son, trust your heart.’” Madara laughs. A stowaway cicada has snuck into the cave, and it is singing. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

 

* * *

 

Next morning, Madara lights a fire and picks up the remains of his Uchiha garments in hand.

They’re leaving everything behind but the clothes they wear and a pair of changes, one for each, that now hang in a bag on Hashirama’s arm. And suddenly, leaving the cave seems unbearable, as if they had spent a lifetime in there, instead of just a couple of weeks. The memories there are too precious to cast them into oblivion; his chest is swelling with nostalgia and Hashirama is barely able to keep his eyes dry.

How much he will miss that beloved cave. That hiding place in desperate times, that place of laughter and tears; their makeshift home.

Hashirama smiles at those stone walls and walks to the entrance to give Madara some privacy. But the energy his friend exudes is uncontrollably, and he ends up eyeing him against his will and despite the distance and shades inside the place, he can clearly see the tremors in Madara’s hands, and the doubts marked on his beautiful eyes.

Those are just a handful of old clothes, more tattered by the time they were worn than by the wreckage of that last battle. I will get you some new.

“I never thanked you for keeping them,” Madara says, sensing his eyes on him.

Hashirama smiles, clasps his hands behind his back and walks thoughtfully towards him. The flames have grown enough to destroy those rags in a few minutes.

“I thought you might like to have them, at least as a memento of you kin.”

Madara grins in response, still not taking his eyes off the rags in his hands.

Hashirama has heard about the shortcomings of the Uchiha and has always intuited, even from their earlier days together at the river, that Madara only has one outfit in which he fought, trained and was himself. So, no, those are not just a handful of old clothes. Therefore, he now understands the enormous sacrifice that it means to Madara to get rid of them. That’s why he has planned a funeral; the greatest act of respect he could find.

“While I was washing them,” Hashirama continues, and there must have been something in his voice, for his friend turns to him, his eyes intense and attentive, “I couldn’t help but be surprised. I was… oh,” he shrugs, “I just could not believe the state they were in. There were holes here and there, everywhere. I… held them in my hands and imagined you wearing them, and only then did I realise the true extent of the damage.” He shakes his head. “I could not believe it, goddess, I just could not believe how close I came to losing you.”

Madara opens his eyes exorbitantly and his pretty face gets tarnished with a rosy stain. He clears his throat and is speechless. He bites his lips and nods at something he just thought of. Then, takes one last look at his clothes before casting them into those hungry blazes.

They watch the spectacle till a dark thread of fumes billows out of the flames. Shadows dancing wildly along the stony walls. Just then, a stream of tears escapes from Madara’s eyes, and he bites his lip insistently to keep a sob inside his chest.

It hurts to see him like this, and all the pain he surely is feeling, spreads to his own chest and soon, Hashirama is unable to keep looking. He turns and leaves the cave. Goes down the mountain and waits until Madara is calm enough to follow him. He arrives a while later, his features gaunt and blue.

Talk to me, Hashirama thinks, seeing him. You can tell me anything.

 

* * *

 

Hours later, after having crossed a large part of the forest, both approach the river that runs down the mountain, to rest and feed. The sun is already plummeting towards the horizon; there are only a few hours left before the moon makes her appearance in the sky.

Madara lingers washing himself in the river, while his friend rests under the shade of a leafy tree. And is still rubbing his hands when a sense of alarm pinches his stomach. Madara searches into the distance discretely, and the slight, barely perceptible movement in the undergrowth between the trees on the other side of the river gives him a bad feeling.

He frowns but says nothing. He turns to Hashirama and finds him leaning against the trunk, his head resting on his hands clasped behind the neck, undisturbed.

That uneasy feeling remains inside his guts but does not give it a second thought.

Later, whilst they are talking about the most mundane topics as the weather, Madara feels that alertness again but now more intense and closer. He turns to look after their footsteps, leaving Hashirama mid-sentence. Now, they are both attentive, though is only the Uchiha the one who feels the approach of a group of chakras he does not recognise.

He grins and prepares to receive them. They are four, no… five. Or six? Madara licks his lips both intrigued and eager. It was too idyllic to be true, to have a vast forest and for it to remain deserted of people. “I know you’re there,” he blurts out, his voice calm, “and we are in a hurry. So, let us better settle this like civilised men, shall we?”

Hashirama positions himself next to Madara, also prepared for a surprised attack. He does not sense their chakra nor can tell how many intruders are following them, but he does sense the killing intent in the newcomers and that’s enough for him to be alert.

Upon Madara’s order, they come out of hiding and, certainly, there are six shinobi hidden in the bush. All covered from head to toe in umber cloaks, their skins sun-kissed, and armed to the teeth. However, Madara’s still grinning, self-assured, as he asks: “May I ask what a bunch of six sand shinobi are doing this far from home?”

“Those eyes see a lot, renegade shinobi,” answers one of the invaders, the one in the lead, the most confident of all and the one who’s not carrying a weapon. “But since these are you last moments on this Earth, I shall explain it to you: we are on our way to a newly formed compound in the outskirts of this forest, where both the Uchiha and Senju clans are settling with the intention of forming a village.” A current of wind runs thought them, causing a bunch of brittle leaves to hover into the air. “It is now the time, now that they’re all unprotected…”

“Unprotected?” Hashirama asks, interrupting him. His first instinct is to think of Tobirama, but his thoughts are soon interrupted by the sand man himself.

“Yes,” he nods, “both clans are fragile and defenceless since the Senju heir is a deserter and the fearsome Uchiha Madara is dead.” That imbecile dares to laugh. “We’ll finish them off as soon as we get rid of both of you.”

His sand companions giggle, their kunai, and spears avidly pointing towards them, scarcely containing the urge to kill.

“Why them?” asks Madara, his voice still disinterested. “Why the insistence against the Uchiha and Senju?”

The sand leader lets out another laugh before answering. He seems to be licking his lips in anticipation. “By wiping out the strongest clans, we can take control of all these lands.” He points a finger in the direction of the open valley. “These lands,” he asserts, “are rich in wonders and our people will flourish in there.”

It is a human motive, Madara accepts. However, there are many ways to achieve such diplomacies, and genocide is not one of them. Oh, hell, there’s no other way; he will have to kill them. Madara cracks his knuckles and stretches his limbs. He’s ready.

He walks past Hashirama and leaves him behind. His friend stays still, knowing that Madara can and will end this in the blink of an eye.

Hashirama shivers in morbid anticipation. “Let me bring you up to date,” says Madara, as he approaches. “The terrible Uchiha Madara is very much alive.” He makes an exaggerated bow and adds, “A pleasure.”

The only visible part in those sand shinobi are their eyes, and that’s enough for him to notice the horrid fear they feel at those words. Hashirama does not move a little nor bother to introduce himself to the sand men; it’s no use, they’ll meet their maker in no time.

He doesn’t look away, for he is used to seeing Madara fight, well… if that can be called fighting. It is a delight to watch him dance with natural ease, as if his handsome body had been made to engage in combat and cease existences. Those poor and arrogant souls… Hashirama trembles as he hears the bone snap, blood splattering the soil, and tendons break like the strings of a harp.

Madara defeats them with his bare hands, as they are deadlier than any weapon ever invented by man. He is the fastest of all; his opponents have no time or opportunity to even move their weapons. Everything happens in a few seconds. The flutter of a butterfly.

He leaves one alive, though. The one who looks the youngest. The boy falls to the ground, frightened, and the movement causes his cloak to slip from his head, revealing his features: he is just a child, of the same age and complexion as Izuna, and perhaps this is what stops Madara’s hands.

The boy is shaking, terrified; his clothes are stained with the blood of his comrades.

Madara stands before him, his dark chakra vibrating with such intensity that his hair floats wildly in the air. His gaze is deadly, even though Hashirama cannot see him; he just knows the sensations that pair of deadly eyes cause on one’s body.

“Go back to your desert, child,” his voice is guttural, intense. “Walk this world and tell them—tell them, that in this forest, there are things more horrid than the nine-tailed fox waiting for anyone who dares to go and attack the first shinobi village. Tell them to be careful of this renegade shinobi.”

 

* * *

 

By the time night overtakes them they are at the edge of the forest, only steps away from the Kyuubi’s last domains. Their priority is to find a place where it’s safe to spend the night in, and such place appears beneath the purple veil of a wisteria, nearby a clearing at the top of a hill. They’re situated high up, and the rest of the forest lies at their feet like a dark green mantle.

Hashirama prepares himself to create a shelter with his mokuton. He stands confidently on flat ground, clasps his hands together and concentrates, as he begins to gather the necessary chakra.

“If you continue with that, you will call all the creatures in this forest,” says Madara a few metres behind, leaning against the trunk of a tree, with his eyes closed and both hands clasped behind his head, “the Kyuubi included.”

“It is a cold night,” Hashirama reminds him. “The past days, we could at least light a fire in the cave, but now, out in the open…”

Madara walks away, feigning nonchalance, and goes back to the shelter of the trees. “I’ll sleep here,” he points to the sort of a bed he has made from tree debris and trails of half-flattened branches. “It is not like it’s going to be my first night outdoors.”

  They are shinobi, after all. The joys of the comforts were made for civilians, the common people. They, better than anyone should be made to withstand adversity.

In the end, Hashirama agrees with his idea and walks back to his side and lies down next to him. As Madara has foreseen every detail, as always, he fashioned his little nest with the intention and size that there were two adult bodies that could fit in there. And they realise with bliss that the cold is felt less when one hugs the other, under the care of the trees, whose greatest pleasure in life is to spy upon the most passionate lovers.

Hashirama starts snoring shortly after he kisses him goodnight. The fatigue in their bodies is such that it doesn’t offer them time for chats or caresses, and in a way, that is one of Madara’s favourite ways to spend a night in his company.

However, it is not long before that terrible voice inside Madara’s head makes its appearance and the young Uchiha, tired and fed up, rises with the intention to entertain himself in something else, fearing he would waste another night wrapped in doubts and uncertainty. His decision to leave Hashirama is well thought out and made, but it won’t be tonight. Not until he is sure Hashirama can find a safe way home.

He goes to the clearing and lies down in the open air and gazes with joy at the thousands of points that shine in the navy-blue tinted ocean above. And they are falling, approaching him, just before vanishing into the darkness.

Madara smiles with delight when he sees the meteors falling towards him, for they bring pleasant memories and he dares to embrace them, despite the fact that Izuna appears in all of them.

Nii-san! Nii-san! calls the memory, his brother much younger than he is today. A boy of, merely five years old or so. Madara grins for he remembers how much Izuna liked to catch the falling stars during those sweet October nights.

I’ve caught one! laughs the memory of little Izuna. Do you see it, Nii-san? Madara’s grin changes into a wistful smile. He closes his eyes and can see that very scene inside his head, rich in detail. Madara nods as if he is still there. I see it, Izuna, he answered and then, pointed his finger at the starry sky. More are coming, can you see them? The boy nodded, barely holding back his smile. Make a wish when you catch them in your hands, Izuna. His little brother shouted with joy and before he went back to catch falling stars, he turned to him and inquired, Can I make a wish for each star I catch, Nii-san?

It was the question of an innocent child in stolen time, in the middle of a cruel war, without the certainty of a tomorrow. All the wishes you want, Izuna, was his answer and then, the little Izuna from his memories ran out of there, laughing, to continue catching stars.

The memory ends there, as Madara feels a change in the air. His senses alert and perceptive as usual, feel a chakra approaching: it is a beautiful and downy aura, and it fills his chest with tranquillity and something else he considers to be love. It is Hashirama.

Madara’s smile that is still drawn on his face, widens when he feels him lying next to him.

“Ah, a meteor shower,” murmurs Hashirama. The voice comes from outside his head, so Madara dares to open his eyes. He looks to his side and there he is, lying down too and very awake and excited: Senju Hashirama.

“I love meteor showers, you know?” Hashirama continues, merrily. His beautiful brown gaze fixed on the spectacle of the firmament. “Shall I tell you a secret?” Madara nods, still smiling. He loves when Hashirama plays around like that. “They remind me of when I was a child and took advantage of my father being away, so I could go out and catch the falling stars.”

Madara says nothing, but he is surprised, and thinks: they shared the same childhood game, even though they were born and raised in two very different clans. A child is a child, after all, no matter what crest adorns their clothes.

“Mum used to let Tobi and I out, late at night, to catch a star,” Hashirama continues, his eyes sparkling with the sweet memory of his mother. “I remember myself running barefoot on the fields, from one side to the other, my hands held high up in the air, to catch the most I could.” Madara snorts and Hashirama turns to him, beaming, as if he just saw that memory again. “Can you believe it?”

Madara gulps and searches inside his head for an answer. In fact, he can—he can imagine him as a little boy, taking his sullen little brother by the hand, taking him away from all civilisation to where the stars were better seen. He can, certainly, imagine Hashirama’s round rosy cheeks; his bangs falling over his gleaming eyes, and that huge and authentic smile of his, the one Madara loves, the one that stole his heart. “You’re a fool, Hashirama,” he answers in the end.

Hashirama bursts out a laugh before turning his gaze back to the animated sky. It is a very lively night, with movements everywhere. As the moon is absent, a way is provided so that the stars are even more noticeable now and their rain is appreciated with the same intensity as a thousand fireworks. There are little living creatures on the ground too, singing and shimmering above the grass, climbing up and down the tree trunks, hanging from branches, or darting from side to side.

“Now, look at that!” Hashirama calls and Madara forces himself to look away from his friend, to observe where he points his finger at. “Madara, did you see it?”

Of course, he didn’t, as he had all his attention set on Hashirama. But it matters not much either, for from where one fell a hundred follow; there are many wishing vehicles on that occasion and the night is still young.

“Let us make a wish, shall we?” Hashirama asks in an amused voice, almost like whispering a secret. “That one is mine!” He cries as soon as he sees a star falling towards him.

Madara laughs. He can hardly breathe with all the happiness that gathers in his chest. “I didn’t know the God of Shinobi was prone to such childish things.”

Hashirama clicks his tongue, as if he doesn’t believe him. He has known Madara for years and knows that, inside his chest beats a fanciful heart, like his. He rises his hands every time a meteor approaches him, as if it were enough to carry him back to his childhood memory.

This is like going back to their days by the river, Madara thinks. There’s a similar feeling beating inside his chest. The same illusion, the same joy, the same… fears?

“And I don’t need any, though. I’m content as I am,” Madara mutters, as he sees Hashirama closing his eyes to ask for his own miracle. And a familiar squeeze is born from his entries.

“I’m satisfied and pleased too, Madara,” Hashirama assures, gazing at him, intently. That fool giggles. “But I made a wish, anyway.” Then, winks playfully at him. “A little game never hurt anyone, uh?”

Ah, Hashirama, Hashirama.

Madara shivers as he sees Hashirama moving his lips in yet another silent prayer before laying back on his side, to lock his eyes on his. There’s a curious sparkle in Hashirama’s brownish gaze, his face is bathed in starlight. The distance is almost zero; it would take either of them to move half a centimetre for their lips to meet. Madara stares at that playful mouth, bewitched. It is too much for him to handle. By his side, everything is too much.

“Do you want to know what I asked for?” Hashirama mutters. Now both pairs of eyes are staring at each other, deeply. He adds without giving him the chance to even think of a reply: “a cup of sake.” Madara snorts in response. “A cup of the most pleasant sake.” They’re both grinning. “Mmm, delicious.”

“You are beyond remedy, Hashirama,” laughs Madara. Then, he returns to his supine position, raises a hand up in the air and waits for a meteor to fall on it. When it disappears, he forms a fist and closes his eyes for a pair of seconds, before proudly showing it to Hashirama: “Done.”

Hashirama’s grin is huge and bites his lip before asking: “What did you wished for?”

Madara plays hard to get. He hadn’t had this much fun since he played star chasing with Izuna. “A huge plate of inarizushi.” To be by your side, forever, is his actual request. “A huge, steaming plate… delicious!” And that you may be always happy… with me.

That silly Senju blurts out laughing, and his joy is such that his face has turned all red. “I’ll cook it for you, Madara,” he promises, “as soon as I can.”

Madara smiles in response and thinks that, if his fake wish can be fulfilled that easily, perhaps so can his real one. “And I’ll get you that cup of sake, Hashirama.”

 

* * *

 

The only thing they see on the horizon is the natural and almost imperceptible boundary that separates the Kyuubi’s domains from the rest of the world. Just a few more kilometres, and maybe, they’ll be able to walk calmly again before noon.

They stop for breakfast and then, everything changes in an instant, for a tremor at their feet shakes their whole selves. Madara, who is still on the water, turns to him and Hashirama just nods, since he understands everything with a single glance: that tremor does not come from the bowels of Earth, but from some colossus running briskly towards them. And the only one that lives in that lush forest, is the Kyuubi.

Hashirama freezes right where he is standing and offers no resistance as Madara takes him by the hand to seek shelter within the forest. They hide behind a large rock, under the leafy mantle of some trees. And wait in silence, attentive. Ready to defend themselves if necessary.

It is not long before the giant fox’s steps approach them, creating violent waves that make the whole ground, and the rock in which they hide included, to shudder, as if it were a cruel earthquake. And suddenly, the horror, the creature arrives. The Kyuubi is furious, more than usual, and the vilest rage appears in his eyes; from his ferocious jaws heaps a stream of raging foam that falls at its feet.

And it is not alone, there the heart of the matter. The origin of his rage is in the person who is chasing it, in an attempt, perhaps, to finish him off once and for all.

Hashirama lets out a surprised sound, for it is not just any person but a woman. A kunoichi, nothing more and nothing less. Quick and agile, confident in her every step; a girl used to face monsters.

She is dressed for a fast trip, although her current appearance suggests that her battle with the Kyuubi is taking quite a time, as she is covered in dirt, her clothes slashed here and there. Her red hair falls loose and dishevelled down her back and has a scroll open on her hands, with the intention of sealing the creature for an eternity. Of one thing Hashirama is certain: she is an heiress of Uzumaki blood.

Madara winces uncomfortably by his side, perhaps sensing the Kyuubi’s uncontained rage or maybe, he’s feeling impotent over the power differences between them and the fox. Hashirama notes him scratching the rock with his gloved fingers whilst he watches in astonishment to the fighters on the river.

From one second to another, the kunoichi is overtaken by the creature and it throws her to the riverbank, not far from where they hide. Everything happens in a heartbeat inside Hashirama’s head. He knows what he must do. So, he rises with the intention of saving the girl, even if it means putting himself in danger. Madara reads his thoughts and try to stop him by the hand, but his decision is set; he’s resolved, so he jerks away from the gloved hand and runs.

Hashirama reaches the girl and stands in front of her, to protect her from the raging bijuu. He knows better than anyone the extents or his own power and admits that, at his age, he is still unable to stand up to the nine-tailed fox. However, young, or not, he is still a shinobi and has been taught from the cradle that dying to save a comrade is the noblest way out of this world.

He prepares to receive it; puts his body into an attack mode. The creature has now turned to him, catching him on its field of vision, surely sensing the enormous flow of chakra that rises from that unusual human. And so, the Kyuubi approaches him, shaking the ground.

Only then do things become clear to Hashirama as he acknowledges the differences between the two combatants. The nine-tailed fox is huge and fast and is enraged. Its eyes are shining red, and its jaws are sharp. It is livid, even the surroundings seem to burn and the closer it gets, the stronger the tremor feels.

He doesn’t have much time left. Hashirama is still gathering his chakra and forming the necessary seals. He braces himself and waits for it to arrive. He hopes with all his might that he can, at least, contain it, so they may escape. He doesn’t want to die in that place, at that moment and in such circumstances. There is so much he wants to do, so much to live for.

It won’t be long before the fox arrives. The seconds become heavy and slow, as if to prolong his agony. He thinks of Tobirama and that he will never see him again. His little brother, the last that remains. And Madara! Madara… that grumpy, stubborn Uchiha. Mere seconds are not enough to imagine everything he wanted to experience by his side.

Hashirama smiles, gloomily. The creature is right there, before him. Its size is impossible! Still, he has no time to flinch or step back, nor he intends to. His plan is a bet. He’s still very young and has only used his mokuton for war affairs or to fill his steps with flowery grass whenever he is with Madara. And he is not very good of a gambler either.

But there’s no other way. There is no time. The creature blurts out a hideous roar.

In a second, the ground cracks and from its depths sprout four thick, brownish, and flexible branches, smooth as silk, solid as steel. And each one flies and goes and catches on each of the Kyuubi’s limbs, holding it against its will.

The Kyuubi stays still, restrained, but at a hight cost, as it can be seen that Hashirama is overexerting himself. His whole-body trembles, and his face is drenched in sweat. His methods may be brilliant, but that skilful shinobi is too distracted and has yet a lot to learn and improve. He is still too green to be able to face the nine-tailed fox on his own.

From his nose a crimson thread runs until it disappears under his clothes.

“Hey, you!” yells the girl behind him. “Do you not think I’ve already tried something like that?”

Hashirama says nothing, for he doesn’t want to be distracted in the least. He’s aware of that too, this stratagem may be useful whilst battling the Uchiha but means nothing to the Kyuubi. It is not long before the beast breaks free with an angry roar at his direction. Its raging eyes are set at Hashirama’s, as if to absorb the image of that interesting and daring young man before it ends him.

The ground is vibrating again at their feet and its intensity is such, that Hashirama ends up falling next to the girl. Both await the end in helplessness, unable to take their gazes off the majestic fox.

“Kyuubi!” growls a voice from the opposite side of the river. Both the creature and Hashirama turn to the sound’s direction. It is Madara. “Come to me!”

The Kyuubi’s gaze sweeps from the pair of humans at its feet to that new and noisy human.

A sweet sensation is gathering inside Hashirama’s chest as he hears and sees his beloved is safe, but it soon turns to terror as he realises Madara—that stupid and senseless madman—is calling the Kyuubi to distract it from its prey.

The nine-tailed fox decides on the Uchiha and runs in his direction, rising all the water in the river as if it were a mere puddle. Hashirama is instantly on his feet and cries Madara’s name as he starts running at the fox’s heels.

However, when he arrives, what he sees leaves him stunned. The tyrannical Kyuubi, the nine-tailed fox, remains still, absorbed at Madara’s sight, as if it had turned into stone.

Hashirama does not understand what is happening, but he connects the dots and shudders, for Madara’s eyes have been activated again. Those are the same lethal eyes of their last battle; those awakened after Tajima’s death. The eyes Madara doesn’t want to talk about.

He runs to where Madara is, even though he heard several times the red-haired girl yelling at him to go hide with her. Hashirama catches up with Madara, whose fearsome eyes cry crimson tinted streams. And when turning to the Kyuubi, he drops to the ground in shock. The bijuu struggles to free itself from his control, but not even that giant is able to break free from his spell. It cries and shakes its head in desperation, perhaps hearing Madara’s commands within his thoughts.

And finally, everything happens as soon as it started. The beast turns and spirits away to the opposite side of the valley. Only after the last of the tremors hit the ground, do they allow themselves to breathe again.

 

* * *

 

Her name is Mito. Uzumaki Mito. And she travels alone though that forest, because not far from there, on the borders of the Kyuubi’s territories, is a small camp that she set up herself alone.

Hashirama has heard of the Uzumaki before, as he remembers Butsuma’s covetous eyes whenever he thought of them as possible allies. He also remembers hearing about their extraordinaries abilities on the battlefield and in the handling of chakra; and, of course, in their characteristic red hair.

He’s seizing Madara by the arm, although the Uchiha assures to be fine. Yet even though he has wiped his eyes and received an infusion of healing chakra, he is still frail, and his cheeks remain stained with a rosy shade.

They are invited with reluctance, especially since Madara’s murderous aura has not yet dissipated and because it is well known that wise people stride carefully in such places. They are invited to a beverage that only Hashirama accepts but does not drink. Their clothes are all dirty and they lost everything they carried in the Kyuubi’s attack, so only courtesy between shinobi serves as a bargaining chip.

“I’m on my way to meet the Senju clan head,” says Mito, sitting with them around a warm fire. There is food and drinks available. She speaks to both of them but is Hashirama the one she’s looking at. “He plans to build a village, where will unite the rest of the free clans in the Land of Fire; my father thinks it could be fruitful for our people to join the Senju.”

Hashirama nods, pensive. His broad hand grabs tightly the cup. “So, he sent his daughter to settle it down? On her own?”

It is an insensitive question, Hashirama senses. But his words are already fluttering through the air by the time he decides to keep them.

Mito takes a deep breath and evades his gaze. She has changed her clothes and combed her hair into a couple of buns on her head’s sides. The symbol of her family, the legendary red whirlpool is sewn on her back to display with pride. From her small ears dangle a pair of earrings, and they tinkle on her cheeks like little bells. It is a cruel sight, for she is a pretty girl.

“He does not know that I have come,” she replies. “He and his retinue have taken the long road, which goes around the woods, and he thinks me waiting for him at home.” Mito sighs. “I left barely half a day later. If I continue my way, I’m sure I’ll get there before them.”

By his side, Madara moves uneasy. Hashirama looks at him out of the corner of his eye, taking advantage of the fact that the girl is not looking, and notices that Madara is tracing patterns on the fabric of his clothes, broodingly, and staring off into space as he usually does when he’s restless. 

“And you planned to prove your father your worth as a kunoichi,” Hashirama says, vaguely looking at the liquid in his cup, “handing him a sealed bijuu, and not just any bijuu,” he smiles, “but the very nine-tailed fox.”

Mito grins in response and his pale and beautiful face tints in red.

Madara clenches his fists on his knees, out of the girl’s sight.

A question hangs in the air, and it is not necessary to be said out loud. “I know about it,” Hashirama explains himself. “I know what it feels like trying to please your father in the most… ridicule and reckless ways.”

The smile gradually disappears from the girl’s face. It is a common affliction, it seems. Even Hashirama feels low-spirited now. His own father died days ago, and he hasn’t had the opportunity or courage to mourn him as is expected. The wind blows a hint of Autumn, the fallen leaves dance around them, and one of those lands inside his cup.

Dusk draws near, the forest is bathed in the same colours as fire embers.

“I know who you are,” mutters the girl after a while, staring at him, her red lips curled in a clever grin, “Senju Hashirama.”

Both Hashirama and Madara draw their gazes to the girl, shocked.

Mito shrugs and explains: “You have a certain reputation among the clans. From the most numerous to the almost extinct, there is talk of a gifted and powerful shinobi of your like. A tall and attractive mokuton user.”

Madara barely manages to suppress a ferocious growl, as he didn’t like at all, that this pretty stranger considers Hashirama attractive, and much less did he like the blush that appeared on his dumb Senju friend’s face.

“Y-you flatter me,” Hashirama replies. His cheeks still half-inked in crimson.

Madara rises in that exact instant, interrupting him and walks into the forest, leaving them behind.

“M-Mada—”

“I’ll just go for a walk, alright?” His friend assures.

And Hashirama doesn’t get a chance to add anything else, as Madara instantly disappears. Then, he turns to Mito and finds her watching him, barely noticing on Madara’s absence.

“I also know that he is the infamous Uchiha Madara,” she continues when is certain that the Uchiha won’t hear her.

Infamous. The simple word sends shivers to his whole self. “I can see that your lands are not as far away as they say, to know us well.”

The Uzumaki girl smirks in response. At first glance, she seems just like a person born for combat, a kunoichi in the whole word; but if one look critically, one could notice other details, for there was, without a doubt, a regal touch in her. Her figure might be that of a warrior, but her mannerisms and gestures hinted that she belonged to a high status. An heiress.

“I am the leader’s daughter,” Mito confirms him, as if she has read his mind. “It is my duty to know things, especially when it comes to the safety of my people. I would not bring them close to any of their kind unless I had no other choice. We have been instructed to be cautious of the Uchiha.”

To any on their kind.

It was undeniable for him that this pretty girl had been corresponding with his brother for some time. “You have travelled half the world, by yourself, with the intention of unite your people to the building village.” He shakes his head. “There are Uchiha helping build that very village. Whether you like it or not, the future needs the Uchiha.”

Mito raises one reddish eyebrow. “That’s why he left so upset, is it not?” she blurts out. “Well, I’m so sorry, but I cannot be calm with him being around, much less with everything that is said about him.”

“Oh?” says Hashirama, also rising an eyebrow. “I’ve spent a lot of time away from home, can you enlighten me?”

She licks her lips before answering. “He is said to be a bloodthirst and fierce shinobi, capable of taking down an entire army without breaking a sweat. It is said that he snatched his dying father’s eyes with the idea of getting stronger and that, the next day, and to prove it, he caused such a heinous slaughter among the Senju, that now mothers often frighten their rebellious sons with the story of the deadly Uchiha Madara.”

Nonsenses. Hashirama clenches his fists till his knuckles turn white. However, he does nothing daring for fear of interfering with his brother’s possible negotiations with the Uzumaki.

“Many say he did it on revenge for his father’s death.” Continues the girl. A man can die peacefully knowing his son will avenge him one day, yes, that’s what they are taught since childhood. But that does not make sense either, for had Madara wanted revenge, he would have gone straight to hunt down Tobirama, and the worst of all, is that he could have not interfered. “And there’s that child, Uchiha Izuna.” Her eyes fly to Hashirama’s. “He finished off your father with those deadly little hands. They say he arrived at the battle next day, wrapped in a demonic halo, stained in blood and with his red eyes glowing…” she shakes her head. “Nobody knew Madara was still alive, by then. The Uchiha searched everywhere for him, except that forest, fearing the Kyuubi. It is not yet known how they found out he was alive. I guess the news flew with the wind, for now many know he lives. And they pray every day not to run into him… ‘the ghost of the Uchiha’ they call him.”

“He’s not like that,” Hashirama replies, unhesitant. His ever kind eyes turn dark and a bit irritated. “You can take my word for it. I… I know him well.”

Mito lets out a desperate sound. “I understand he is your friend, but this nomad life you lead is not fit for a shinobi of your kind.” She reaches one of Hashirama’s hand with her own. “Come to the village with me,” she grabs it. “It would be better than wandering blindly though the world, without a roof over or clean clothes to wear.”

Ah. Hashirama knew those astute eyes were scrutinising him for more than her just finding him attractive.

“The village will need a leader,” the kunoichi insists. “I’ve heard my father say that everyone seeks to elect you to fit into that position.” Their eyes meet. He gasps. Hashirama is tempted, goddess, is he tempted, for it has been his only dream since childhood. His mouth goes dry; the drink in his hand never looked more appetising.

Mito is clever and notices the inner hesitation in Hashirama, so she carries on, “I know you love him, alright?” A frown creases her pretty eyebrows. “But he is strong enough to take care of himself. We both see him handle the Kyuubi as if it were a mere puppy. It is more than obvious that he doesn’t need you anymore. Instead,” the girl gropes, “think of that village, full of people who will need a leader to protect them from future threats. You… ah, Hashirama, just think, what’s there to lose?”

Everything, he considers. Hashirama lets out an incredulous laugh, his hands are numb. She pulls her hand away as if he was scorching. What is there to lose? Asks the Uzumaki girl. Everything. He would lose Madara. Everything. The beginning and end of his entire existence. Everything. What he considers beautiful and deadly. Everything. What makes him feel, what makes him love. Everything. What is right and what is wrong.

They are so different from each other. They’re a pair of forces born from two opposite horizons. Yin and Yang. North and South. Day and Night.

Everything.

 

* * *

 

That night, they both are invited to dine with Mito, although Madara refuses to go near that camp again and does not bother to hide his displeasure with his host either: it is easily read on his face, his frown, grimaces, and all. He decides he’ll spend the rest of the night as far as possible of that sweet and gooey chakra that is drenched in that entire area.

He is furious, his rage barely contained within his body. His eyes eager to activate and sweep away all life that beats in the heart of that forest and its surroundings.

And there is Hashirama. That imbecile. That idiotic and charismatic asshole. With his contagious smiles, his stupid perfect hair, his dreams of peace and brotherhood, with his ways of being that make even the surliest bastard on Earth to fall in love with him. And he’s… damn! He just… Ah! Goddess, he hates him so much!

Madara reaches a log split in two and takes a seat in there. He takes his hands to his eyes, as if he just wants to tear them out once and for all and thinks—thinks about what he will do once Hashirama leaves, because of that he is certain. Hashirama’s leaving. He is going to go back to his brother, to that village everyone talks about, and the worst of all is that it is alright! It is the sanest option! Hashirama deserves to be happy; he deserves to fulfil all those stupid and fanciful dreams; those wishes he asked for when he was catching stars!

Then, why is he feeling that wrecked? Wasn’t he the one who was planning to leave in the first place? That’s moronic, Madara! Indeed, he is the king of fools. Should you not be at home as well, supporting your brother instead of being…? Yes, and what the fuck is he doing in that damned place? What was he thinking when decided to leave all his responsibilities in order to pursue his own desires as if he was an ordinary man?

“Quiet!” Madara growls at that annoying voice inside his brains. “Quiet, dammit!”

Up in the sky, another meteor shower is taking place. They seem to be faster than the night before, brighter and sharper. How he would like for one of them to come down for an instant and slash him in two, sharply and ruthlessness.

They’re hard to watch with all those trees on the way, however, Madara rises a gloved hand in the air and catches a meteor heading in his direction. He then lifts his face and shuts his eyes. The night breeze washes his frown, dancing with his dark locks. And he already knows what he wants to ask for this time: may that Uzumaki woman had never appeared; may I return to the cave and spend the rest of my days in there. No, it is just not right. He stares at the starry sky for answers. A shotting star approaches him and Madara dares to ask for his wish, eyes open and everything. May I return in time, he begins. The bright meteor disappears. I wish I hadn’t gone to that river. Another meteor is coming. I wish I hadn’t met that smiley, mushroom-haired boy. A silent tear caresses his cheek. I wish you hadn’t met me.

“Madara?” he hears Hashirama calling from a distance.

Madara remains silent to make him give up and return to the company of that Uzumaki girl, to her warm fire and delicious food whose aroma covers much of that forest.

He hastily wipes his eyes, as if that will prevent more tears to come. You were going to let him decide, were you not? His mind points out. What do you plan to do, Madara? Force him to stay out of pity? It worked for you last time…

“Madara.” Hashirama repeats, but his voice is now closer, behind his back. “Are you not coming to dine? We’re waiting for you and…” he stops talking when he sees Madara’s face is all red. “What happened?”

Dammit.

On several occasions Madara has come to wonder if Hashirama is really that innocent or is it just some part of his games. “Begone!” cries Madara with a hoarse and pierce voice.

Hashirama takes a seat next to him on that rickety little log. He lets out a laugh-like noise and then, his smile dies. “I’ll stay here, then.”

Madara says nothing. Hashirama looks up at the sky, at the falling stars, perhaps intending to catch another little miracle for himself, for the one he asked for last night was fulfilled. He is so close to him that Madara can notice the slight musky aroma of sake on his breath, that he surely recently drank. The image of Hashirama drinking in the company of Mito turns his stomach.

“Do you like her?” Madara asks in a fit of misgivings, unable to contain himself.

Hashirama smiles and turns to him. The outline of his face is traced in white chalk, bathed in moonlight. He reaches out a hand and it lands on Madara’s fist, and squeezes it, letting his heat go through the fabric of the glove. “She is very pretty,” he replies in a whisper. Madara’s heart beating in his throat, threatening to burst out of his chest. “But my heart beats only for someone else.”

To dispel his entire doubts, Hashirama shortens the distance between them, leans forward and sticks his lips to his, and stays in there for a while, until Madara has no choice but to return the kiss. The silence in there is total, except for the sound produced by their lips. And it is delicious, the clash of tongues, both needing and demanding.

Madara hesitates, and it is him who ends the kiss. He has learned to embrace opportunities when they come and feels that if he does not ask him right away, he may not have the chance again. “Hashirama, you…” he bites his tongue. Hashirama’s eyes are wide and attentive. “Have you ever been with someone else? I mean, you—”

In a wink, Hashirama’s eyes darken. The ominous flapping of a bird nearby is heard, as it takes flight over them. “Once,” he replies. He sets his eyes on the ground. “Just once.”

Madara realises he is holding his breath. Only after hearing him, does he dare to draw in some air, to fill his lungs with the aroma of the forest, cold and vivid that night.

“Once,” Hashirama repeats that damned word. “It was after one of our bloodiest battles,” he tells him, as if he could get rid of that memory by just speaking about it. His voice sounds desperate and sorrowful. “I returned to the encampment that night with barely the strength to move. I stripped off my blood-stained clothes and crawled to a place that would welcome me in my state, to pour myself a drink. It was a terrible sake, but it served me for what I needed it to, I guess.”

Madara waits silently next to him. “I walked out and ran into a girl I had known since I was a child,” Hashirama continues. “She was not a woman of war, but seemed to understand the battle within my eyes, and so understood my needs. She nodded, willingly, for what were her chances of stealing a few minutes from the clan head’s son? She knew of my worth and the value of my entrails. So…” he sighs. “She took my hand and led me to an empty tent and…” Hashirama shrugs. “It was all over in a few moments. I can barely remember it. But it was enough. I needed it, Madara.”

The Uchiha remains silent, processing his words and trying to erase the dire scenes that have appeared in his head.

“I had no other choice, alright?” Hashirama insists, as if looking for excuses. “Back then I still did not have access to your lips, much less to the rest of you.”

I’ve felt that way too, he wants to yell. And it only took me a hand and your memory to suffocate that fire. He bites his lips so hard that it spits open where a half-healed scab already rests. It is not fair for Madara to judge him either. You can have your desires, Madara, Hashirama had assured him long ago. You’re a man, after all. Well, the same applied to Hashirama.

“Madara?” Hashirama calls him. He is so stunned that his voice seems to come from far away, despite it being right there, next to him. “I told that girl I loved someone, you know?” he adds, his gaze still trapped inside his memories. “And she replied that it did not matter. What’s more, she encouraged me to think about her.” He lets out a laugh-like sound. “‘Think of her, Hashirama-sama’, she said to me. ‘Think of her beauty, her voice, her eyes’, and I, what else could I do but think of you?”

The wind runs now wild in there. Madara looks up at the starry sky. “Shortly after that,” Hashirama continues, “you kissed me at the riverbank, remember?” He does. “And then, I promised myself that I would never be with anyone else again, but you. Not even to calm my ardour.”

What can anyone answer to that?

“How about you?” Hashirama asks after a while. Madara has no reason not to tell him his darkest secret. He will say it and let those words fade away to nothing, like falling meteors.

“There has not been anyone, Hashirama.” He finally admits and thanks the heavens for being surrounded by darkness. You were my first everything, Hashirama. The first and only.

They had skipped dinner and now his belly hurts. Madara lets out a long sigh. “I’ve never imagined myself with anyone else,” he finally admits. To hell everything. He doesn’t plan to be there when dawn comes, anyway. “Not even with Naori.”

“Naori?” Hashirama asks right away. He has turned to him and looks at him interested.

Madara nods. “I was about to marry her. She waits patiently for me to return, so that I can fulfil my duty.” He’s not sure if that’s the case but seeing the unexpected mark of jealousy on Hashirama’s face feels like a delicious dish to his palate. Suddenly, his tongue cannot stop moving: “She’s the best of the Uchiha kunoichi and to top it, she’s pretty. She has bright eyes and purple hair like twilight. She is Izuna’s best friend; she liked to dance around the bonfire and tell each other stories until late at night.”

Now his grin is genuine.

“Perhaps we should go back,” Hashirama whispers. His hand squeezes Madara’s and the warmth of his skin is felt even through the fabric. “To that village, I mean. To meet our brothers again… to dance around a bonfire and kiss you under a rain of fireworks.” His fingers draw invisible circles in the glove, transmitting small and almost imperceptible amounts of chakra. “Mito says they plan to build a school, can you believe it?” His smile grows wide and warm. “It is like our dream: in the end, children will be able to be children, without the need to take up weapons at such a young age.”

Madara’s spirits evaporate at the mention of the Uzumaki girl. He rises, wriggling out of his grasp. It all happens so fast that Hashirama didn’t see it coming. “I love you; do you remember?”

“Go home, Hashirama.” Madara says, turning his back on him. “Go back to your family, to your clan, to your future…”

“I’ll go wherever I please!” Hashirama groans instantly. “Wherever you’re going!”

Madara clicks his tongue.

“You are a foolish dreamer.” There is a certain hesitation in his words. “Go back and pretend none of this ever happened. I’ll do it.”

He hears a noise behind and before he can react, Hashirama pushes him against the nearest tree and pins him to it. “I love you, dammit! Why can’t you accept the fact that I want to be by your side? Is it too hard to understand?” Hashirama can barely speak; he’s shuddering, his words piling one on top another. “You are everything to me, Madara, my life, my whole world. If you leave me now, I would be better drop dead on this very spot for I would not want to go on living without you. I-I’ve made up my mind…” he is interrupted by the sound of his own aching stomach, ordering Hashirama to drop all the drama and go find something to eat.

Hashirama is angry, he can tell. His face is flushed and his eyes sharp. He has known him for four years and has confronted him numerous times, nonetheless he had never seen such suppressed rage in his eyes. Not even when Hashirama had to walk over his men’s blood.

“I am Uchiha Madara. Am I not considered a ruthless monster? You… you will be better off without me.”

His friend snorts. Little by little, all his fury evaporates into the air, leaving behind only a trail of nostalgia. “Uchiha Madara, the martyr.”

“Yeah, and you’ve lost your mind.” My, my, how the roles have changed. Now is it Madara whose voice is on the verge on laughter.

“That’s something only I can decide. And I decide to stay.”

Madara growls desperately, his chest heaving up and down, violently. “If you stay, Hashirama, I’ll drag you to hell with me.”

Hashirama looks at him in disbelief. “We’ll burn together, then.”

Madara breaks the moment, pulls away from him and walks. A couple of steps separate them, but the distance feels enormous. “I won’t leave you for anything or anyone,” Hashirama pledges him. “Not even for what you imply is my future. And do not worry much either, for this decision has nothing to do with today’s circumstances, as I resolved it a long time ago.”

It is late, and all noise around them seems to be dying. Even those delicious aromas coming from Mito’s camp have ceased and now, there is neither the hoot of an owl nor the click of a falling star around. Everything in there is total silence.

He grew up suffering from shortages in the Uchiha clan, and a night without dinner is nothing new to him, but what about Hashirama? How much longer is he going to keep him living on scraps, when the boy has spent his whole life living in a gilded cage?

Hashirama insists him to return to the camp to spend the night under the roof of a tent, but his Uchiha friend is stubborn and proud, so he decides that he will too spend that night under the cloak of night, counting stars until sleep overcomes them. In the end, there’s two stubborn men, lying side by side under a starry sky.

A couple of streams shine down on Madara’s cheeks whilst he watches Hashirama sleep. Nothing makes a dent in his spirit; not hunger, not dirtiness. Not even having to use the leafy ground as a bed. That fool falls asleep instantly and snores peacefully, as if the world weren’t such a cruel place.

I love you so much, he thinks wistfully. My beloved and persevering Senju. Madara can’t help but think of their days by the river, and how placid Hashirama seemed to be with his pretty and round cheeks as he smiled every time, they talked about the village they would one day build together.

Yes, Madara grins because he does remember, he can even hear his energic voice replaying inside his head; Hashirama’s weird yet promising plans of peace.

‘If you love something let it go’, or how was it? His grin widens and tears spill out of their course, falling into the ground. Go back, Madara wants to say. Go back home, Hashirama, to your family and friends, to your dreams… “I love you,” he whispers in his ear and Hashirama snores in response. Madara’s smile is huge, even though it is bittersweet. “I always will,” he promises. “And thank you for these days. Thank you for everything… my Hashirama.”

His voice breaks at that moment and although he wants to kiss him one more time, he supresses his urge, for he fears he will awaken him by doing so. Madara stares at those parted lips and decides he’ll go without touching them one last time. That’s what his memories are for; with them, he will live the rest of his days.

He rises carefully and leans against the tree as he looks at him one last time. There’s a slight movement among the trees, an almost imperceptible motion in the darkness. And then, there she is—Madara recognises her by smell, for she is impeccable when controlling her chakra. Only him could have seen her in that void. She knew it too.

And Madara reasons, is she there to stop him or…? No. Not at all. Those bright and clever eyes tell no lies. Mito is there—she has come to that place to make herself sure that that Uchiha nuisance will let them alone. That he’ll get out of her way, out of her plans and ambitions.

It is such a shame. He grants her victory.

Madara whispers Hashirama another farewell before turning around, and following a path laid out by a dozen of fireflies, runs away.

 

 

 

Notes:

I was raised on telenovelas, guys. Cheap melodrama runs in my blood.

Chapter 3

The rains were left behind, in the forest. The land has become arid and inhospitable, a sure sign that he is on the right path, getting closer to his destination. He feels his clothes stuck to the body from being bathed in sweat, and he does not stop when seeing the sun going down behind the mountains; if anything, his feet regain strength with the imminent arrival of the night and feeling like another shadow in all that darkness, they become more agile and vigorous, even after a full day of running without a break.

His sandals cry out for rest, his stomach begs for any form of food, but he is tenacious, his will does not cease, and Madara knows that if he is to reach the abandoned city barefoot, so he will.

Hours later, with the moon also descending, at last, he dares to stop, sure that he has covered the distance that an ordinary person would cover in two days and that no one will catch him up now. But then again, he knows that the one who persecutes him is anything but ordinary.

He is in the middle of the desert. Madara sits under a tall earth pillar and unlaces his sandals, so that his feet may breathe. He has wounds on his soles and his entire legs are shaking uncontrollably. And now that he has stopped, the coldness of the night creeps into his body, covering him in tremors. It would be very easy for him to light a fire, although he won’t, for there is always a possibility of someone to approach him.

So, he stays in the void. He can barely stay awake. His eyelids no longer have strength. And it is then that, forgetting pain, tiredness, and hunger, he falls into the unconsciousness of a deep dream. No… he frowns in response, for what appears in his mind is not a dream but a memory.

It is a diffuse memory, yes, like scrying into a mirror. Shapes move and colours change… suddenly, he can smell the metal of blood on his armour, clothing, and weapon again. The characteristic sounds of the Uchiha encampment after the battle return to his memories; the wounded being quickly taken to a special tent where they will be treated with some plant that will be of no use; and their fallen comrades, carried to the pyre without delay. Soon, the apparition of war that he so wishes he could leave behind, returns, as the entire area is suffused with the scent of death.

He's tired. Fed up. Not even in dreams does he get rid of his battles. That pointless war should have ended a long time ago—he—should have ended it a long time ago. It was his duty alone.

There is a memory of his early childhood that he has never been able to forget, and the dream transmutes to that exact moment: Madara is a very young child, and he approaches to the desk where his grandfather is plotting the next stratagem to defeat the Senju. The boy walks in, half-doubtful, half-determined; his grandfather had a reputation of being a strict man. Madara is such a little boy, he does not even reach the desk, so all he can do is to tug on his grandfather’s cloak for attention.

“What?” he hisses, rudely. Madara can tell he is tense and fatigued, and although everything is dark for it is late at night, he can see the sweat running down his neck. “Go find your mother,” his grandfather orders him in another growl.

“No,” says a voice behind them. Both Madara and the old man turn upon hearing it. The boy smiles automatically seeing his father and when Tajima calls for him with a hand, his son obeys instantly. Tajima’s hands are big and cold. “Madara, more than anyone in this clan must be here,” he says and takes the child in his arms, to bring him closer to the desk. “He will change this map,” Tajima assures with a smile on his face. “He will cover it with splendour.”

Tajima is a proud and grateful father. He knows he’s been blessed with a miraculous son. However, the barely speaking boy seems to be already thinking of war, as if it came naturally to him.

Madara takes a curious little hand to the cracked map on the desk. He hardly speaks a word and does not even read his own name, but he already feels called to the figures and words written on the leather. He draws a finger to a particular word; two syllables whose meaning he does not understand, a dot surrounded by a circle of half-dried ink.

His grandfather, seeing him, makes a gesture of revulsion. Madara has no idea what he has done to cause such a reaction, and as a natural response, the boy draws his hand away and takes it to his chest, where his heart is jumping.

‘Senju’ would read Madara years later, when approaching the map again, after the death of his grandfather and would notice with amazement the point that his baby-self had dared to touch. Senju. What had he been thinking? Senju. He, who was the future of that clan. Senju. No wonder the old man had been so furious about it.

Madara motions uncomfortably in his sleep, and that causes the reminiscence to fade away into the bottom of his memories. He doesn’t need to see it inside his head to remember what followed: Why the Senju, Grandpa? Had been his question later. The Uchiha grandfather, clan head at that time, had remained pondering the doubts of his first, and at that moment, only grandson. Yeah, why the Senju among all the clans? The question had been lost in the void. Why not?

It's freezing. His body is shaking uncontrollably. To hell with this, he thinks, and then his hands conceive the miracle of a warm and lively flame. He tosses it into a half-formed log and the flame hugs it until it grows fiery. And not only is it cold, but the darkness of those no-man lands is total. He cannot see past his nose, and does not look at the sky either for fear of feeling homesick with some shooting star, because that would lead him to think about…

No, stop! Why is it so hard to resist the memory of him? He does not want to remember anything, nor his name or the sound of his voice; not his brown eyes or any smirk…

He lets out a long sigh denoting all his fatigue. He shuts his eyes with the certainty that his instinct will keep him alert to any movement, and his head begins to think, to remember… and where the hell would that head of his take him to? It would be stupid to pretend he doesn’t know.

His memories take him home, and he’s not alone: Izuna is there too. The silence is uncomfortable, as Madara can remember the exact moment of that memory. The stains on his clothes do not fool him, the smells, the sounds… hell, they almost got slaughtered that day. What went wrong in his strategy? What could have gone wrong if the ploy was always the same?

“I’ll do the rest,” says Madara in the memory, using more force than necessary. Izuna draws both hands away as soon as he hears him speak. The boy lowers his face and steps aside, to a corner in the tent. Izuna has been meditative ever since, as if he carried a huge weight on his small shoulders. Madara knows he is the reason, so he half-smiles at him, encouraging Izuna to approach him again. “Come, Izuna; everything’s alright.” He tells him, but it is hard to feel comfortable when he is all covered in blood and sweat.

Izuna remains morose, but still goes as asked in the end, and helps him to remove the rest of the armour. It is broken and unstable in certain parts, but there is no other way, he will have to have it repaired, for he will use it again the next day.

Just thinking on the carnage that day makes his stomach turn. Those damned Senju have taken a big portion of their territory already; that night they might be dancing late into the night rejoicing at how easy it was for them to put the Uchiha to flight that afternoon. And it’s not the first time it’s happened, their victories have become common to the point that even Madara returns home shuddering.

He is strong, but he cannot do much with only his sharingan against that mokuton…

Izuna offers himself to take his armour to the blacksmith and his older brother thanks him with a genuine smile. Madara doesn’t stay inside the tent either and goes outside to get some air. It is a warm summer night; some stormy clouds are approaching, and the moon seems to smirk at him in a mocking crescent.

Despite the defeat, it is an intense night in the clan. There are a lot of people surrounding the bonfire. The air is already filled with the aroma of death and is mixed with the sourest liquor that can be found. These are difficult times, but one must find a way to cope with them.

“Where are you going?” The voice is his father’s, behind his back.

Madara is unarmed nor is wearing his armour; there’s no reason to be alarmed. It’s not like he’s going to escape. He hesitates a bit before answering, “I’ll go for a walk.”

Tajima sighs, thoughtful.

“Many have asked me about you,” says his father, as he walks towards him. “They were surprised by your power today.”

Goddess, the Senju swept the ground with us, Madara wants to remind him. We barely had enough hands and strength to carry all our fallen back home. “Perhaps later.” That is his favourite way to get out of uncomfortable and unwanted situations.

His father nods. “There is much I need to discuss with you, son.”

But Madara had been a naive and somewhat stupid boy and he had not craved a serious conversation with his father. Seventeen years old he was at that moment. He was young and believed the sun would always revolve around him. “Perhaps later,” he repeats.

Tajima sighs but doesn’t press the issue. He stares, as well as his son, at the moon that shines above them. The battle was terrible for them. They have a cursed streak that has lasted several weeks. There are no songs around the bonfire—or laughter—but there sure is a lot of alcohol and women willing to drive away the terrors of battle with a few caresses. His father knows about these things, and thus reminds Madara of it. “Maybe, son, what you should do is go for a walk by the bonfire. Who knows? Perhaps it could help you release…”

“Father,” Madara responds, hiding his face from him. “I’m just tired for that.” He feels the heat rise his neck, until his entire face is numb. “I just need some fresh air.”

And they both know he won’t get it there.

Tajima nods and glances at his son. He too was once a boy of his age and recognises the symptoms of a badly disguised flush. Madara is old enough to marry and be a father. And, although Tajima knows that children sometimes manage to be discreet on matters of love, he knows for a fact that Madara has avoided the subject in every possible way. And Tajima worries, for a leader must not only be good in battle, but in bed as well.

He is about to add something, but his son is faster. “I’ll be back in a moment.” Madara warns him and without looking at Tajima once, he walks away, avoiding the bonfire, barely looking at the sentinels as he passes.

However, the oppressive aroma of war is still impregnated there in the forest, covering the entire encampment and his very skin. He is sick and tired and finds no peace anywhere. He could have acted according to custom, gone straight to take a bath and then, barricade himself inside his tent; he could have gone to bed early, opened his robes and put a hand to his crotch, and jack himself off to sleep.

But no, he shakes his head as he begins to run in a familiar direction. His feet move on their own, following an ancient pattern they know by heart. Madara runs past the scent of burning flesh, the scent of unpleasant alcohol, and the sweet scent of maidens. He runs to the only place in that damned world where he was ever happy.

He had been to that river on multiple occasions. His people had always ignored it because it was far from home and because there was another river, closer and mightier from where they used to fish. Therefore, it had naturally been a brilliant idea for Madara to resort himself to that lonely space, knowing it would be unlikely for him to run into anyone else. And so, it had been for a long time, until the day everything changed; the day when he did find someone else in there. He could still hear that voice behind him saying: You should aim a little higher when you throw. Madara takes a wrong step, but soon corrects it and manages to avoid a fall.

It’s ridiculous to keep feeling that kind of things whenever he thinks of Hashirama. Ah, when did he last say that word? It seems to have been years. Ha-shi-ra-ma. He repeats it, but now out loud, scarcely above a whisper: “Hashirama.” Madara grins. It still feels good to say it.

Can you miss someone you see every day? He wonders to himself as he runs to the river. The moon illuminates his steps, as if she were leading him by the hand. Yes, you can, is the answer. And that’s when it hurts most.

It hurts to see Hashirama every day and not being able to talk to him, except to yell insults and curses at him. It hurts not being able to laugh next to him. It hurts that their fights are no longer training but fights to death. It hurts not being able to talk to him about the future, even when they both want the same. It hurts not being able to enjoy the mundane things in life with him, like stargazing or stone skipping. It hurts not to have a friend anymore.

Then, his feet come to a halt, and his skin prickles as he senses a chakra in the surroundings. Madara shuts his eyes, to concentrate. The wind blows cold through the forest and all its plants and nocturnal creatures alike create a deafening noise. It is the middle of the night, and those trees are very much alive, as if something was stimulating them. Everything shines, everything sings. And then, he gets it… dammit.

He swallows hard and clenches his fists tightly. A thousand curses could not describe what his body is feeling at that moment. His heart beats fast; he is drenched in sweat and has the urge to smash something to smithereens.

Hashirama.

Is he suffering from insomnia that night? Madara wants to laugh. And why has that bastard come all the way there? To calm himself down? Indra’s bones, from what? If during battle he hardly breaks a sweat, as he is untouchable with that damned mokuton of his. His katon is child’s play by comparison.

Madara turns around and prepares to head home. He feels sick to his stomach. It would be best to forget about that river for good. Yes, he thinks decisively, this is the plan: go home, a bath, go to bed and stroke himself to sleep.

Yet, his feet don’t move; they lie stubbornly planted on the grass. His toes soaked in newly formed dew.

And what harm would it do Madara to go see him one more time? You see him daily, the voice in his head reminds him. Madara agrees, but one thing is to see him wrapped in his armour and another thing is to see him being his true self, wrapped in nature, surrounded by tiny flowers.

His feet turn around again and now they begin to walk slowly towards the river. He approaches silent, and careful not to make a sound, like his falcons spotting a prey from the air. Either way, Madara meditates, he won’t be able to recognise his chakra. Hashirama will have no way of knowing he is being watched.

Madara feels a new squeeze in his guts the closer he gets, as that chakra grows stronger. His mouth is watering. A shiver runs through him. Those are the same sensations that attack him as he approaches the battlefield, but now more intense. He walks stealthily and spies on him through the trees and undergrowth. And, yes, there he is: Hashirama.

He’s sitting with his back to him. Hashirama is wearing his pale clothes, and not a single stain of war remains in him; his always clean hair falls silky and free on his back, as the nocturnal breeze plays with it. Madara closes his eyes and deeply inhales Hashirama’s scent against his nose. A thousand years could pass, and he would never cease to marvel at his fragrance.

What are you doing here, Hashirama? Madara knows the Senju live very well, that food is never in short supply and that they have, in fact, little reason not to be happy. Could it be that this little bird just got bored of his cage?

As if hearing him, Hashirama turns his head to a side and Madara barely manages to hide behind the tree.

“Is someone in there?” Hashirama asks.

Madara is tempted to answer but stays quiet. There is a noise in the surroundings, scarcely perceptible. Pebbles. Has he stood up? Madara is scared to look, but at the same time is anxious to see him again in a war-less environment.

Still in mid-thoughts, the noise stops after a few steps. Madara then dares to peek around the tree and notes that Hashirama has indeed gotten to his feet, though he’s not looking at him but the moon, as if he was asking her something.

It is a peaceful night. A quiet and silent one. Madara sharpens his hearing, but it’s useless; he’ll never hear his thoughts. They rarely saw each other at night during their short months of furtive friendship, so he has only a vague idea of what he might be thinking of. Hashirama had a lot to do with the Uchiha defeat that day, so maybe, he is there seeking advice from the dead. Had he not gone there before after the death of his little brothers? How can we end this war? Perhaps he is asking them. How much blood must be spilled? Which of us two will fall first?

Hashirama turns his head again in that exact moment. His eyes widen, even though the whole place is in complete darkness and the moon only creates silhouettes. “Wait!” he says softly, in almost a whisper, although the sound reaches Madara’s ears.

And everything happens so fast, that Madara has no choice but to take a couple of steps back. One. Two. Crack! A broken branch. “Madara, is that you?” Hashirama insists and now, he is walking towards him. And you call yourself a shinobi? “Please, stay.”

Madara obeys, waiting for him to come closer. Hashirama rises his hands up in surrender. A cold fear runs through him with every step Hashirama takes, and… that fool is talking to him, and what is he saying?

He frowns in response and his former friend grins at him. That damned gesture ends up disarming him completely.

“I’m asking you if you’ve come here to get away from that nonsense war too?”

Madara just nods helplessly and Hashirama’s grin turns into a tired frown. Now that Hashirama is close, he can see that his former friend looks as tired as himself. He is wearing the white headband with his clan’s crest, and perhaps it is what reminds Madara they’re sworn enemies. Foes shouldn’t speed up one’s heartbeat. “It’s been difficult days,” is Madara’s response.

“Very much,” agrees his rival. This war has become unsustainable for both clans. All that tiredness is noticeable in his eyes. “Come with me,” Hashirama says quietly, perhaps not very sure of himself, so he avoids his gaze and fixes it on the river instead. “Let’s sit by the river once more, Madara.”

And perhaps by the work of some spell, Madara obeys him. They walk side by side towards the riverbank, as they used to when they were younger. The pebbles rattling against each other with the motion. The water is now pale, moonlit, and here and there, several pairs of fireflies fly from one side to the other.

Madara loses himself within his thoughts and misses a large part of what Hashirama is saying. But there has always been a bit of telepathy in Hashirama, for he understands and starts over: “I was telling you that I really missed this river.” His smile is genuine and now, his eyes shine with the moon’s light. “I confess you that I usually come back here often. Well, not as often as I’d like to, but I...”

“What for?” asks Madara, who is also there without a rational explication.

“I don’t know,” Hashirama shrugs. However, his grin still unfazed. He looks stunning shining in moonlight. “Perhaps it is true that one always returns to where one was happy. And Madara, I was once very happy in this river.”

Madara tries to laugh at his answer, but soon realises he cannot. Either way, he doesn’t give him time to respond. “Do you miss it too, Madara?” asks his former friend, eyeing him. “Our days here? Our games? Our sparring sessions? Me?”

“You?” asks Madara in return and now, he does let out a small giggle, although it is more made of nervousness that disdain. “How can I miss you? I see you daily.”

Hashirama nods, distracted. The grin is gone. “What you see daily is this façade.” He points to his face with one finger. “That is the Senju’s secret weapon; the way we scare our enemies… but that’s not me. You know that well.” He places both hands at his sides and one of them lands dangerously close to one of Madara’s. “That’s why I’m asking you, do you miss me, Madara?”

The seconds are ticking by, and his dark eyes are locked on his; there is no escape. If he doesn’t give him an answer, would he consider him a coward?

“Of course not,” Madara laughs and says it with such a certainty, that he almost believes it himself.

Hashirama says nothing and takes his gaze away. He’s biting his lip and looking thoughtfully at the bright fireflies flying over the river. He lets out a sigh in response. A strand of Hashirama’s hair gets in the way of his eye, and to suppress the wicked desire to tuck it behind his ear, Madara buries his fingers into the pebbles.

“I do miss our days in here,” Hashirama confesses in the end. “I miss having a friend to laugh with; I miss having someone I trust enough to cry freely to; I also miss our practices and you helping me think of names for any new jutsu and…”

“…Some absurd names for any new jutsu of yours, you mean.”

Now they are both grinning. Hashirama bites a lip before continuing. “I also miss skipping stones into the river or just meditate on the plans for our village…”

“Your village.”

“The plans for our village. Have you forgotten?”

Madara has no reason to lie to him, so he shakes his head. Their eyes meet again.

“Where are all those plans, Madara?” Hashirama inquires. His eyes as dreamy as years ago. “We were going to do so many things when we grew up. We are older now, and what have we done to remedy it?”

Nothing.

“Those were mere childish dreams, Hashirama. There is no way for us to end this war. It will be this way until one of us two dies and then, the winner will take everything with him.” Hashirama also buries his fingers into the pebbles. His face has turned serious, his eyes darken, and his pretty eyebrows have frowned. “We were born with these powers for a reason. If not, what else would you use your mokuton for if not to fight the Uchiha?”

Hashirama shakes his head, takes a pebble in one hand, and throws it away towards the river, not with the intention of making it skip across its surface, but to let out a portion of all his pent-up frustration.

“You have gotten accustomed to the idea of a life in endless war. Hundreds of times we talked about how ridiculous it was to live in eternal conformity, Madara, and more than once, it was you who mentioned how much you detested this way of life…”

“I was a stupid boy.”

“You are lying,” Hashirama replies instantly, fixing his gaze on his, “I think that one of the things I liked most about you was your lack of conformity.” He smiles sadly. His eyes are now warm and his lips… oh, he should stop staring at those lips. “I also liked how you painted future. Oh, how much we planned, how much we imagined… What happened to those plans, Madara?”

They are still in there, somewhere within him, although he has no intention of telling him so. Madara has not stopped imagining; if anything, now, more than ever, he is given to imagine the impossible. Things that could never be fulfilled… Like kissing him.

“We used to think that…” Hashirama continues.

Unable to help it, Madara’s gaze flies to Hashirama’s chattering lips. Madara has imagined himself kissing Hashirama about a thousand and one times in the past.

“…Then, when everything is built, we would place…”

Everything could change with a single kiss. For better or worse. Madara could enrage him to the point of the impossible, to the point of Hashirama craving his blood in a deadly duel; or could happen quite the opposite: a miracle. Perhaps, Hashirama could reciprocate. Perhaps, he could return the kiss and take things to another extreme. Madara knows well that Hashirama likes him. Anyone with half a brain could notice it. Hashirama is an open book.

“Although,” continues Hashirama. “Now that I think about it, we could also…”

There is a certain sparkle in Hashirama’s eyes when their gazes meet. Madara has a keen eye for that sort of things, even though, ironically, he’s going blind.

Hashirama is grinning at him, as if he had asked him something. Go figure it out yourself, boy, I am not listening to you… The grin widens in that beautiful face, as if he had heard his thoughts.

There’s no doubt. Hashirama is, at least, a little bit attracted to him. So, what’s there to lose?

“And the name, Madara. We’ll need a name, for our village.”

A kiss. He just needs one kiss.

“Madara?” Hashirama inquires with an eyebrow raised high on his forehead. The boy himself has tucked the lock of hair behind his ear.

This is the moment. There is no way back; there may not be another chance. One could never know what might happen on the battlefield next day. So, without a second thought, Madara leans forward, closing the distance between them and shuts his eyes, tightly, as he presses his lips onto Hashirama’s in a light and furtive kiss.

A fleeting kiss. Barely a touch.

Half a second pass when he pulls away, as if his lips are on fire. Madara’s whole body is numb, his face filled with heat, and in the deep void in his head, an evil voice orders him to get on his feet and run the hell away, leaving his Uchiha pride behind.

However, none of that happens. Madara stands still where he is, and stares at some dark point in the nothingness around them, as he waits for the incessant pounding of his heart to stop. Time goes slow again. And he wants—needs—to know the state Hashirama is in, but suddenly he feels trembling, and incapable, and for the first time in his whole life, he is truly frightened.

“Madara.” That’s Hashirama speaking. His voice as calm as ever. “Madara,” he repeats, although now sounds dissimilar, almost anxious. Could it be that he is burning with rage? “Madara?” asks a third time, yet there is no response.

He had been kissed before; Madara is an attractive boy. But he is also a very absent-minded one, and several Uchiha girls had embolden themselves to imprison him, and so steal a kiss or two, perhaps with the stupid intention of making him fall in love with any of them, but nothing had ever managed to work for those silly girls. It is an impossible case. No one make his heart race like Senju Hashirama does.

“Madara,” that fool insists. Madara cannot handle this situation anymore, so he finally turns to face his fate. Hashirama widens his eyes in surprise, almost exorbitant. Here comes the blow, thinks Madara. He is angry, and I deserve it.

Yet, the second option happens. Time exists no more. The fireflies freeze in the middle of crossing the river; the clouds seem to remain static half covering the moon, and in that tiny second of darkness, Hashirama leans forward, and so, the miracle happens.

Madara slightly separate his lips and Hashirama takes the opportunity to deepen his touch. Soon, a warm tongue joins and it collides with Madara’s, as if it were the most natural thing for them. He comes closer, until there’s barely a thin space between them. The hands resting between the two boys have merged into one, their fingers intertwined. It is indeed a miracle!

A sound of disbelief escapes from Madara’s throat and Hashirama takes a second to grin with their lips still glued together. Then, Hashirama bents down again for a kiss, this time self-confident; Madara accepts it, drowning in the purest ecstasy. That earthy chakra flowing through each of Hashirama’s pores with the same naturalness with which Madara breathes. And that image is so livid, that his real body begins to tremble there, on the cold sand on the desert.

Around them, among their fingers, legs, and everything, his wondrous mokuton begins to sprout, evolving into bright, pretty flowers of different sizes and colours, hiding under their cloak both the pebbles and Madara’s worries alike.

Madara doesn’t remember who ended the kiss. He lost himself in that fearless darkness that is pulsing in Hashirama’s gaze. His friend reaches up with a free hand and cups his face. “Madara,” he begs, as if talking to himself. “Madara, I...”

But there’s no need for words when their lips tell no lies. It is now Madara who imprisons Hashirama’s lips. It is delicious, and even though Madara knows it is dangerous for he could get addicted, he cannot stop. Hashirama’s tongue has a slight touch of some fruity sake, and the whole experience is intoxicating.

Madara wishes he could forget about the world; forget his fears and duties, until there is nothing left for him but that chakra on his senses, that tongue inside his mouth, and his Hashirama. Just Hashirama, forevermore.

 

* * *

 

The incessant song of an early bird wakes him up.

Hashirama frowns and groans uncomfortably, as he has spent much of the night lying on top of a branch half-buried in the ground. He lets out a long sigh and stretches an arm out to his side—his eyes still lazily shut—to where Madara had lain in the night before. His hand falls straight to the ground; his fingers catch nothing but brittle leaves, and without much care, he crushes them to shreds.

Only then does he open his eyes and face reality: Madara is gone.

That perverse and stubborn Uchiha is gone.

Hashirama jumps to his feet. He cleans his clothes as best he can and sweeps his eyes around, trying to find any hint of Madara in the surroundings, but it’s useless. There is nothing there; not a sign of the white Senju clothes his friend wears.

Perhaps he went to wash, is what his mind wants to have him believe, knowing Madara is dedicated to his personal cleanliness. Perhaps, he went to look for some food. But all his hopes vanish when he hears some small steps behind. Hashirama does not have to turn around to know who it is. He recognises Uzumaki Mito’s small and light feet.

“He left last night while you were sleeping,” the redhead says, uncaring. “He will have left these lands by now, I’m afraid.”

Damn him for falling asleep, Hashirama scolds himself mercilessly. Hadn’t Madara told him how easy would it be for him to escape without a trace? And yet, he had dared to lower his guard?

Hashirama does a few stretches and combs his hair using his fingers like a fine brush.

The Uzumaki girl lets out a jaded sigh and crosses her arms across her chest. She is so much like Tobirama that she gives him chills just by looking at her.

“I say this is a hopeless case, Senju Hashirama,” Mito has also changed her clothes. She is ready to continue traveling, her luggage hanging from her back. “How much longer do you plan to continue following him? It is more than clear that he does not want you with him.”

He has left. Madara is gone. That’s all his head can think of. Hashirama turns to Mito with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. She is intuitive and knows what’s going through his mind.

 Hashirama senses that Madara has gotten ahead of Sora-ku with the stupid idea that he will be better off without him and that way, he will return to his home—his home? He wants to burst out laughing. Where to return if his home has gone from there? Fled into the darkness, to escape his fate and head to some ghost town whose location is limited to the knowledge of bandits and worse criminals.

The sun is high in the sky, although it is not noon yet. By then, Hashirama calculates, Madara must be kilometres ahead, and there will be even more if he doesn’t hurry to follow. His clothes are shabby and his stomach growls with hunger.

“Sora-ku,” Hashirama asks breathlessly. “Mito, do you happen to know where it is?”

She is an Uzumaki heiress, and such sites are not meant for someone like her, but she is also a traveller and a very capable one, so she must have heard of something.

However, Mito shakes her head and walks over to him. “Please,” she insists instead, “come with me. Think of your clan. I’m sure they will be very happy to see you…”

“No,” Hashirama cuts her off. His fists at his sides, a frown creasing his forehead. “I can’t. I will not come back yet. Not without him.”

“Everything is better without him,” Mito utters, as if she suddenly knew them both all her life. “Your brother told us to be careful with that very Uchiha. He said Madara cannot be trusted…”

Hashirama lets out a humourless laugh. The sun shines through the leafy branches of those trees and a hundred bright spots dance on the ground at their feet.

“With all due respect, Uzumaki Mito, but you don’t know Madara a bit.” He then adds, “Madara is,” Hashirama sighs, “he is the noblest shinobi I know. And if his past as a lethal warrior is a reason for mistrust amongst the clans, they may as well think the same of me, since the same amount of blood that lies on his hands is staining mine. I would do anything in his name. I would take my own life if he asked.”

Mito bites her lips to supress a groan.

“Hashirama,” she calls when seeing him turn around. It is too soon and too wrong to talk to him so familiarly, but the young Senju is leaving, and she seems to have run out of ideas, “come with us.”

He replies with a sad smile. How sad the circumstances; how cruel fate.

“Thank you, Mito,” he says. “But I’ve always loved him.” The girl looks at him in astonishment. “My dream was…” Hashirama corrects himself. “Our dream was to end the war and build a place where our people could live in peace. By leaving, we have achieved it, as a collateral result. And our escapade has been so beneficial for this world, Mito, that…” He shrugs. “It seems right to me to return to my clan, as long as I do it with him by my side.”

A current of wind crosses the forest at that moment and with its force rips the autumn leaves from those trees, tossing them over their heads.

“You should continue around the forest, though. It’d be safer that way.”

“That would take me twice as long,” Mito answers. Her eyes tell him that she has accepted her failure to convince him. “I will continue on the path I have chosen and hope that you will understand and catch up with me once you have come to your senses.”

Hashirama smiles and bows to her. He turns around and trusting his instinct, follows the invisible path that Madara travelled hours ago.

Mito looks in disbelief at Hashirama’s sixth sense, for, indeed, he is heading on the right way.

 

* * *

 

“It is the best option for our people!” Izuna insists before the crowd. “The village will bring stability to our clan!”

Somewhere in the crowd, a man rises a fist and replies to his young leader: “That’s what the Senju want, to have us on their claws!”

And the people nod and a hundred voices whisper among them and it’s such the murmur, that Izuna doesn’t know where to look at. He ends up shutting his eyes for a moment and without being able to help it, thinks of his father. How? He asks the memory of Tajima. How am I to solve this, father?

He does not receive any answer and has no choice but to open his eyes and sweep his gaze from one side to the other, as he explains: “I know this may bring many doubts to all of you… Believe me, I am doubtful too, but I am also certain that this will be beneficial to us all.”

More voices begin to waft above the crowd, now accompanied by incredulous glances as well. Perhaps they have lost confidence in him, seeing that he is so given to being alone with the Senju clan head. “Winter is coming,” Izuna continues. “Have you already forgotten how cruel winters are for us?”

There is doubt in certain members of his clan; it shows in their eyes. However, they all remain firm.

“We Uchiha have endured through rough time, for centuries, young Izuna,” says an Uchiha elder, prostate next to him. His eyes are closed, but is still attentive to every movement around, “and we have done it without the help of any Senju. The same will be this winter and those to come.”

People nod at what the old man said and Izuna clenches his fist tightly until he digs his nails into his hands.

It is a cold afternoon. The sun is going down at their backs, and the entire encampment is dyed in shades that vary from red to mauve. Somehow, it reminds him of the evenings that preceded the carnage against the Senju. That’s how it feels now. If Izuna doesn’t do something to calm the stoking hearts of his clanmates, they might think of doing something senseless and thus end the truce.

“I may be young, but that doesn’t mean I am insensitive or impressionable,” adds their clan head. “I have not forgotten my father’s concerns for our clan, and I am sure he would trust my judgment, could he see me, for he more than anyone else knew that my main concern was and is our people.”

And yet, perhaps many of they are thinking, you dare to play along with Senju Tobirama, the boy who sent your father to the other world.

Seconds pass and no one answers. The public square is full of Uchiha; some glance at each other and some murmur among them, without taking their eyes off Izuna. Perhaps they even distrust him. They may think that there is a common evil that attacks the children of Uchiha Tajima, forcing them to fall imprisoned in the clutches of the Senju.

“I am sure,” Izuna insists, his voice firm, despite the fact that he feels very insecure, “that my brother would approve my…”

“Your brother Madara, abandoned his own people, Izuna.” Adds another of the elders, an old woman sitting next to him. “He would have done it a long time ago, had he planned to return.”

His clansmen nod sadly, their gazes lowered along with their spirits. And Izuna cannot blame them, because he himself doesn’t know what is happening inside his brother’s head.

Izuna looks sideways, where Naori is and notices that the old woman’s words have hit a specific point on the girl’s chest, just above her heart.

“He hasn’t forgotten about us,” Izuna says and something inside his chest tells him that it is true. “My older brother, Uchiha Madara, is waiting for the right time to return to his clan.”

Half a hundred eyebrows rise in disbelief, but the young leader stands his ground. His brow is furrowed with conviction. “I’ve had contact with him.”

And, in response, a collective groan is heard that varies in tones, most incredulous, some surprised and other irritated. Nothing and no one, not even a few days of uncertainty, not even the current circumstances would serve to make the Uchiha clan to abandon their faith on their prodigal son.

“That’s right, and he’s heading to Sora-ku,” Izuna awaits, as another collective groan rises from the people before him. “It is even possible that he’s already there. And he is waiting for me to come.” He nods, “I will be leaving soon.”

His gaze is fixed on the crowd, but he can feel Naori staring at him, intently. Even the elders next to him seem to be holding their breath. Izuna’s word may not be taken seriously at his young age, but the promise of Madara’s return has altered their perspective and its change is felt floating in the air, wrapped in the various chakras that are gathered in there.

“I won’t travel alone, though, so I will choose a small group to accompany me,” the crowd nods. He sees Naori moving uneasily. Izuna bites his lip, for he senses that his plan won’t please the girl. “The rest of you will move to the point where the Senju clan head and I, are planning to build our alliance.” Izuna rises his hands, begging them to let him finish speaking. “Please, wait,” he licks his lips, “you will be safer in there, while we return. It would be imprudent to leave you unprotected in the middle of this forest.” They aren’t content, but their leader hasn’t finished yet, “Naori will be left in charge of the clan,” Izuna sentences. “It will be a quick trip.”

“Izuna…” Naori calls in a whisper. Izuna turns and notices the discontent in her eyes. She, who is most eager to follow him to battle; she who is more than anxious to see Madara again, will have to stay home to take care of their own.

He apologises silently, before gazing his people, who are now looking at him hopefully. “I ask for your trust, for nothing matters more to me in this world than the safety of my people. I would never do anything to harm any of you.”

One of those present raises a fist in the air in response. Izuna glances in his direction and notes with pleasure that it is the same man who argued with him minutes ago. If the mere mention of his brother has served to raise the hopes of the Uchiha, Izuna cannot imagine what wonders will be achieved once Tajima’s wayward son returns home.

 

* * *

 

Shortly after dark, Izuna sneaks through the forest and goes to a cleared area, where he runs into Tobirama. It is completely obscure and around them are noises of some nocturnal birds. Izuna looks to the side and notices several pairs of glowing eyes staring at him, curiously.

“Well?” Tobirama asks with a sigh. He was glancing absently at the moon and now looks annoyed and tired, as if he hasn’t slept well for several weeks.

Izuna goes straight to the point. “They’re not happy about the idea.”

Tobirama growls, fixing his red eyes on him.

“However, I have a plan to achieve it,” Izuna adds. Tobirama replies with a raised pale eyebrow. “Madara. I’ll go meet him and I’m sure he’ll talk some sense into them.”

At the mention of Izuna’s brother, Tobirama’s eyes widen. “Is he…?”

The Uchiha interrupts him by shaking his head. “I sent him a letter days ago, telling him that the most sensible thing to do would be for us to meet in Sora-ku, and he sent me a piece of cloth in return, and I...”

Tobirama lets out a snort and it seems to be the closest he gets to laughing out loud.

“Are you telling me that you are trusting a simple piece of cloth? What makes you think it is not a trap? Oh, come, Izuna, think, it is ridiculous to get carried away just by a…”

“Tobirama,” states the boy, “you know nothing about my brother. Only he could have read that letter and only he could have responded me in that way. I trust my brother is in Sora-ku already and I am sure he is waiting for me.”

The Senju lets out yet another long sigh. He puts his hand to his eyes, as if he wants to make the beginnings of a migraine go away. “Alright, let’s say Madara answered you—what does that have to do with anything? We already know that he has no desire to return. Besides,” he points out, “you are clan head now, and your duty is to stay home, to protect the Uchiha. Especially now that our defences are weak; now that there is so much uncertainty among our people.”

Our people. Izuna is barely listening. All that seems unreal. He never liked Tobirama in the least, and now they are even sharing advice? As if he hadn’t said anything, the Uchiha continues: “I have chosen Naori as interim leader.”

His throat goes dry with all that irony. Wasn’t he supposed to be an interim leader himself? Is that he had already forgotten it? Or could it be that it just felt very normal for him to take charge of his clan and so he has continued with the situation as if the title was really his by law?

“What? That—” Tobirama growls and takes another hand to the bridge of his nose. “And what will it do? There are easier ways to convince your clan—I have already convinced mine.”

And in that moment, the last-awaken crow in the forest caws in Izuna’s direction. The boy turns to see the bird and, in that very instant, it flies away, like his indecisions. “It must be me. Madara would listen to no one else. Besides,” he turns to see his former enemy, “they are together, are they not? Brining one home will bring the other as well. We both win with this.”

Tobirama’s eyes widen, and he silently mutters his older brother’s name. There seems to be a special sparkle in his red eyes and suddenly, he is speechless. Perhaps for him it is also a novelty to have so much confidence in an Uchiha and doesn’t know what to say.

“Protect them, Tobirama, while I’m away.” Says the boy, as he turns his back to Tobirama, intending to head back home. “Do not think of my Uchiha as the clan that had been the enemy of your blood for centuries, but as a part of the future village.” Izuna stops for a second, waiting for his answer and when it does not come, he adds, “That is the duty of a leader, is it not?”

 

* * *

 

Madara wakes up with some sort of a hangover. He feels fatigued and his skin itches with the sweat that has gathered on his body with the arrival of the cruel sun of the desert. He is exhausted; his throat grows dry, burning with each swallow, and the only thing his palate tastes like is of hot sand. It would be very easy for him to stay lying there, forever. Madara could also take off his haori and keep only the kosode to fight the heat, but he is a very sentimental idiot and the mere thought of abandoning a piece of clothing that once belonged to Hashirama seems unthinkable to him.

He goes hunting, although he knows his possibilities are limited since he is a young man born of the forest. A small desert creature feels safe from that outlander, and by the time it sees Madara coming, it is too late.

That old, grey city is nearby. He smirks seeing it as he wipes his lips with the back of a hand. And having satiated his hunger, Madara sits down to rest by the fire, meditative. Far away, across that desert plain, in a sharp and distant line that separates the sky from the earth, rises a shadowy stain of varied sizes, as if they were a long mountain chain. It is an abandoned city, a meeting point for traffickers and other criminals alike, home to no-one, the last of his clan’s allies; Sora-ku.

It is a long distance, but he sure will be there before dusk. There’s still time, so he takes advantage of it to rest, and lies down on the sand while watching the cloudy sky. High above, an unknown and large bird begins to soar in circles, surely looking for an opportunity with the remains of the prey he caught.

He smiles and closes his eyes with pleasure and a calmness he hasn’t felt in a long time. Perhaps it is a good omen after all, that bird. Maybe things will start to go better from that point.

But then, as if it were a bad joke, something rises his alarms and forces him to open wide his eyes. Not far from there, a group of unknown chakras are approaching. Six or seven, he cannot tell yet. They travel in a hurry, wrapped in a halo of concern. Bandits, maybe? It does not surprise him; the Uchiha have been in such a situation before and Sora-ku has always served as a perfect place to keep themselves safe.

Madara looks to the side and, in effect, there in the distance, is a group crossing that stretch of the desert with urgency. They are half a kilometre away, but he still manages to look at them precisely. They are covered wholly in dark cloaks, their hoods overlaying their heads, unidentified. And just as they pass him by, one of the travellers stops and stares at him. Not even half a second passes when that same person turns aside from the group and starts to approach in his direction. The rest imitate them without delay.

Goddess, Madara thinks as he rises. He puts out the fire by throwing dirt on it and prepares to welcome the newcomers. He stretches his limbs and analyses the circumstances. They are seven shinobi without any emblem or sign that identifies them as members of any clan. Renegades, just like him.

Madara waits for them to identify themselves. The shinobi who arrived first, a girl, walks up to him and removes her hood when she is steps away. She seems a few years his junior; a brunette with attentive eyes. She is all flushed, perhaps because of the sun, he senses. Madara tries to recognise her but fails. And perhaps the girl knows it, for she proceeds to say: “Greetings, Madara-sama.”

He responds by raising an unimpressed eyebrow. He looks away, at the girl’s companions but he too fails to recognise them.

“Who are you?” He asks instead, addressing the girl but looking at her mates. “How do you know who I am?”

The girl smirks and puts her hood back on. “Well, grandma told me about you and asked me to give you a hand, if I ever saw you along the way.”

Madara’s arched eyebrow continues to rise high on his forehead.

“You have been expected for a long time in these lands, Madara-sama,” the girl explains, her cheeks all red still. “The Uchiha clan head keeps asking us about you. He is waiting for you.”

Madara does not reply; he prepares to follow, sensing in his heart that this girl is saying the truth. He accepts the hood offered by those strangers and puts it on, to hide his identity as well. The mere mention of his little brother and the possibility of meeting with him again evaporate all the fatigue that had been accumulating for days within his body. He joins the group without saying another word and they run into town, together.

 

* * *

 

It was like walking unsighted. In the past, whenever he had been forced to follow a track, it had been to head to his secret spot by the river, trying to pass unnoticed from home and he had done it without realising it, like an automaton, as if his feet were accustomed to follow an invisible path that would lead him to his friend.

After a lot of thinking, he realises that this magic had nothing to do with his desire to be free in the riverbank. Perhaps his ability was increased by being surrounded by his element, yes, but the invisible hands that showed him the way had another origin: Madara. Well, it was just a matter of working that same magic again, was it not? It may not be instinct what guides him, after all, but the invisible thread that binds him to his lover.

On his second day of journey, Hashirama stops at the top of a mound, near the outskirts of the forest and such height, although small, allows him to see in detail the environment that surrounds him, from the trees that grow behind him, to the empty plain that opens far into the distance.

Hashirama is a young man made for war and knows how to read the roads with ease. He calculates his chances, but there is nothing before him that allows him to know where to go. A false step would take him to the opposite end of that wide world.

Where? He wonders repeatedly. Where are you, Madara? It is the only think he’s been thinking about those days.

He sighs and steps off the mound to continue his way. He is a strong man and fit for hard times, though his pedigree would have one suppose otherwise. He is a shinobi after all. And a strong and tenacious one, and that desert opening in the distance does not frighten him at all.

However, he understands the human limits. There are not many daylight hours left; the most sensible thing would be to prepare to spend the night there, while the forest undergrowth still surrounds him.

He always thought that wandering in the wild was easier for Madara. It was almost natural for him, to blend into his surroundings and become a no-one. Hashirama remembers being sitting next to Madara, on top of that cliff; he remembers them both laughing. Then, his friend would’ve looked up at the sky, at the bird who was now circling above him, telling him that it was time to head home.

Hashirama sits under one of those trees and comes to a resolution. Perhaps the answer is to sharpen one’s ears to the silence; maybe the answer is in the skies, where Madara’s favourite creatures used to be. Possibly, one of them might lead him to their master, hidden somewhere in that world.

And then, as if it were a jest, a ridiculous and unlikely jest, high up above, is a peculiar noise, and looking through the trees, a small bird can be seen circling above the forest, apparently lost or anxious, almost as if it was looking for someone.

It could be useless; it could be just any bird. The fauna in that area is abundant.

Hashirama rises, even though his feet hurt, even though his sandals are falling apart. He cannot let that coincidence pass and starts following the bird with speed. He cannot see the bird well and if he did, it would be of little use for him to identify it, since for Hashirama, all small birds of prey are falcons. During his brief time of friendship with Madara, he heard him talk hundreds of times about his birds and learned only basic things about them. The real pleasure for him had been in seeing Madara speak with intensity about what he was truly passionate about; he hadn’t expected to learn anything useful.

Another screech is heard in the air. Hashirama turns to the sound and notices that the creature knows it’s being followed and peers at him from the air. Hashirama narrows his eyes, but it is of little use for him to see anything from that distance. It is impossible to him to know if the bird carries some message on its foot.

Hashirama’s grin disappears when he hears movement in the surroundings. He lowers his gaze and sweeps around for the slightest movement, but suddenly, the forest has fallen silent, as if every living creature was lying in wait.

Indeed, there is someone else there, although the intention of that individual remains unknown to him. Were Madara in there, he would know how many of them are. He could even identify their intentions without missing a…

And then, another noise is heard, making him come back to reality—someone has been attacked! The scent of blood permeates the surroundings and is accompanied by a shriek of pain.

Ah, goddess! A shiver runs him head to toe. Please, do not! Hashirama looks up and watches the bird plummet into the trees with speed. If the attack didn’t kill the little bird, surely that big fall will.

Hashirama feels his heart pounding as he runs with all his might. There are experienced shinobi who kill messenger falcons to intercept messages from enemies. It’s a common practice and his clanmates have shot down plenty of innocent birds in the past.

He looks around, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. He’s trembling as he searches through the undergrowth praying that the bird is found—by some miracle—alive. He hears a screeching noise and turns instantly. Hashirama finds the bird lying on a low branch; it is alive. A sharp shuriken grazed one of its wings and it was the speed blow what knocked it off.

Hashirama takes the bird in his hands and lowers it to ground level. “This is nothing,” he assures the falcon—he is now certain of what it is—which looks at him with wide open and attentive eyes, as if it understood him. “You’ll be fine soon.”

The animal responds with a chirp. Hashirama notices that it has indeed a message on its foot. A messenger falcon, and it just looks a lot like the ones Madara usually breeds.

He takes the message and keeps it inside his clothes, even though the little bird tries to move to stop him. Hashirama tries to calm it down with some whispers, as if it were an infant. He places his hands atop the bird, and they glow as he begins to transmit it some of his healing chakra.

Footsteps are heard behind him, and they both grow alert. Hashirama turns with a frown and faces the newcomer: a young shinobi, just like him; brown haired and handsome. However, there is something in him that makes Hashirama suspicious: his gaze is sharp and his smile’s too sassy.

The stranger looks at him raising an eyebrow and crosses both arms at chest level.

“It was hit,” Hashirama growls. The falcon raises its voice, for it sure too is upset.

“It’s just a messenger falcon,” answers the young man. Behind him, a bunch of seven shinobi, dressed in the same motifs as their leader, gather. “We are in times of instability; it is necessary to prevent the enemy’s messages from spreading.”

Hashirama doesn’t say a word until he’s finished with the bird. When the falcon is healed, it flaps its wings cautiously, and flies up a high branch, to where it feels safe.

“Of that I’m sure,” Hashirama replies as he stands up, brushing the dirt off his knees. “But that bird just so happens to belong to me.”

A bold gleam appears momentarily in the other shinobi’s eyes, as if he didn’t buy his lie. He grins at Hashirama.

“That being the case, I apologise very much for the audacity,” says the other man. He bows poorly. “Although it is wise to keep an eye open.”

Hashirama nods. Only then does he allow himself to observe this group with precision: they travel light and are well armed. On top of their armour lies the crest of the Sarutobi clan engraved and, by the state of their clothes, they have not been away from home for long.

“It is very convenient for a shinobi with such a chakra control to be wandering alone, searching up for his birds.” The Sarutobi group leader points out, interrupting his scrutiny. He raises a perceptive eyebrow high on his forehead. “You are far from home, Senju.”

Hashirama does not flinch, as his clan clothing is easy to recognise among the rest of the clans. The Senju has found it necessary to form alliances with the Sarutobi in the past, so he is not surprised at all. Still, he senses that keeping his identity hidden from them is the smartest thing to do.

“I’m heading to Sora-ku,” he replies as he tries to look as confident as possible. High up in the tree, the falcon is heard chirping.

The Sarutobi nods. “It would be unwise to cross the desert at night,” he says. “The nights out there are inclement.” That young man turns to his clanmates and point his thumb at Hashirama. “He will spend the night with us. Make sure he is comfortable.”

His men nod and turn around, knowing their leader is safe without them. Hashirama returns his gaze to that young Sarutobi, who doesn’t take his eyes off him, as if he is trying to unravel all the secrets he carries hidden in his head. “I may introduce myself, then, as we are comrades now: Sasuke. Sarutobi Sasuke.”

 

* * *

 

Hashirama has not heard of that young man before, but he has sure heard of his father, the current head of the Sarutobi clan. Butsuma never stopped praising the peculiar characteristics of the Sarutobi or the advantages that a union with them would mean for their war against the Uchiha. What’s more, his father even searched once for a bride of Sarutobi blood for his firstborn son.

They set up their camp not far from there, on the outskirts of the forest. There is a fire burning vigorously in the centre of the place, which one of them just lit minutes before. They will all sleep under the blanket of the stars. Hashirama has chosen a strategic point under a tree and still feels a bit insecure sleeping among so many strangers, even though their clans have been linked by camaraderie for as long as the Senju have been fighting the Uchiha.

As if reading his mind, this Sasuke approaches and offers him a long stick on which a well-roasted piece of meat is impaled. Hashirama accepts it, though he’s not hungry.

“Your clan leader sent us several messages,” that young Sarutobi tells him, taking seat next to Hashirama. He also carries a stick in one hand, and he sure does take huge bites into it, “announcing to us that there would be certain dangers on the way, though he didn’t mention in any message that he sent one of his own to Sora-ku.”

Hashirama prefers to stare at the piece of meat in front of him. A large part of the stick is stained with the juice the meat released when it was roasted. He finally takes a bite to avoid looking impolite.

“Then, surely you know Senju Tobirama’s cautious nature.” His stomach clenches when saying his brother’s name. “He will never mention anything unnecessarily. He sent me with the intention of being well prepared in case of finding new enemies.”

“Our enemies are skilled warriors, indeed,” Sasuke agrees to his lies. Ours, he says, as if the village was already a reality and they were already brothers and not mere strangers united by convenience. “The most practical thing is to be well prepared,” he takes another big bite with which he ends almost all of his piece, “armed down to the teeth.”

Hashirama stares at him curiously. Sasuke’s cunning eyes gleam in the darkness, as if he’s playing along. “Our enemies?” He dares to ask. “The Uchiha?”

Sasuke lets out a laugh and tosses the stick aside as soon as he finishes his dinner. “The Uchiha?” Then turns to face him, the grin still on his face. “You sure have been away from home for a long time, Senju.” He shakes his head. “The Uchiha are allies now… well, that’s what your leader has tried to convince us of, though, don’t judge me, but I don’t trust them very much yet. I’ve told my father many times about it, but he mentions that it is best for us to keep them on our side, as allies, at least. He says the Uchiha are a necessary evil.”

Hashirama nods and then takes advantage of the silence to finish the rest of his dinner. He sets the stick aside and gazes longingly at the great starry firmament. The night has eaten the entire plain and the small visible strip of the moon shines at the top of the sky. It is a very starry night, although there are many greyish clouds darkening it.

“Tell me,” Sasuke whispers next to him. His voice in now serene, as if he is tired of all the lying. “Have you deserted them, perhaps?”

Hashirama eyes him instantly. That young Sarutobi has his gaze fixed on the fire. If he takes too long to answer, he will surely look suspicious.

“No, I…” He sighs. “I—I am looking for someone and I know that person has gone to Sora-ku. I like to think that I’ll met them there.”

Sasuke nods and stays quiet for a while.

Hashirama bets for the most judicious reason and attacks: “How about you? Are you also heading to that future village everyone talks about?”

The Sarutobi chuckles. “I see you are not so lost in detail, mysterious Senju.” The smile remains in his face. “Indeed, there we go. Although,” Sasuke lows his voice to whispers, “to be honest, I wish I could have stayed home. My wife, she… she’s with child and I’m afraid I won’t be back in time when the little one arrives.” His voice is filled with pride and melancholy. Hashirama can’t help but smile and when Sasuke turns to him, they hold their gazes. “Oh, man, how I wish to be home.”

“Yes,” Hashirama answers and then, loses himself on the horizon, where he senses Sora-ku is. “Me too.”

A log splits at that moment and its sap burns as it drips through the flames. On a nearby branch, in that same tree, the little falcon is prostrated half-asleep, half-awake, and it moves at the slightest of noises.

Sasuke follows in the direction of Hashirama’s gaze and apologises again, now with some sincerity. “I’m so sorry for your bird. But these are difficult times and the best we can do is to be alert to any sign. It is fortunate for the bird that a shinobi with such chakra control had been on its trail, though. Your ninjutsu,” he points out, “would be prized by any clan. Ours would pay you triple the price of a common warrior for it. How could Senju Tobirama let a member as competent as you leave?” Maybe he’s trying to get his identity out of him through flatteries or maybe he’s actually interested, Hashirama cannot tell.

“I promised I’d be back soon,” is the most he’s willing to reveal to a stranger.

Sasuke giggles again and kicks away a beetle that was walking in his direction. Hashirama remains thoughtful and then remembers he mentioned certain enemies. He also has his own methods of getting information. “By the way, who are those enemies to watch for, if not the Uchiha?”

The young Sarutobi no longer jokes or beat around the bush. He stares darkly at the flames as he replies: “There are riots in the Land of Wind, we’ve heard. There is tension among their clans, and they fight over land without showing mercy even to those who do not offer resistance. They just take everything that gets in their way, and they have been keeping an eye on the fertile lands on the borders, near where your blood settles, for nothing is more tempting in the eye of those born in the desert that green and living lands.”

Hashirama doesn’t mention a thing but remembers the scouting group Madara finished off days ago. He keeps his features calm, for he feels the Sarutobi’s scrutinising gaze above him, searching his face for some answers. He does remember the ambitions of those sand shinobi; those sounds and aromas… He sure remembers Madara’s threat, and the horror marked on that sand boy’s features.

“They say they have an outstanding debt with the Uchiha,” Sasuke adds.

“With the Uchiha?” Hashirama inquires, his voice marked with genuine curiosity.

The Sarutobi nods. “It is said that the ghost of the Uchiha single-handedly exterminated a sand scouting group. They say that the evil in his eyes was such, that he mercilessly killed them although they claimed they were only passing by; even when they begged for mercy.”

Hashirama clenches a fist out of sight of Sasuke and bites the inside of his cheek to ease the rage that boils in his blood.

“I’m not surprised, you know?” Sasuke adds with conviction. His eyes remain fixed on the fire that burns before them. “That Uchiha is known to be lethal,” he shakes his head. “It is well known that he is deadly, almost as if he takes a visceral pleasure in something as disgusting as slaughtering. It would have been better if the rumours of his death had been true, do you not think? How scary are the sand shinobi compared to the mere mention of Uchiha Madara?”

Hashirama does not answer and it’s not necessary either. Sarutobi Sasuke doesn’t last much longer there. It is late and for those who travel, any hour of rest is a blessing. It is one of the Sarutobi the first to keep the watch. Soon, the camp is completely silent, except for the murmur that comes from the fire and the logs when they burst.

The moon is descending by then, and even the falcon seems to have fallen asleep. The night is cold and dark. The watch believes him asleep and stares distractedly at the starry sky.

Hashirama takes out from his clothes the wrapped paper the bird was carrying in its foot. Out of pure instinct, he looks in the direction of the bird, but it remains asleep. He unrolls the paper and smiles helplessly after seeing the message. There is a message in there, but the meaning of it escapes him, for there are only meaningless scribbles. It is written in a code that only an Uchiha could understand, Madara had assured him. There is no doubt; that message was written by an Uchiha with the intention that it would reach another Uchiha hand. Is it another message for Madara? It’s impossible to tell. But still, he rolls it up again and keeps it right where he hid it before, atop his heart.

He leans against the trunk, clasping both hands behind his neck. His first instinct when looking at the bright starry sky is to think of Uchiha Madara. He smiles wistfully as he realises that his last quiet night in his company was the one, they spent staying up late, catching stars. Maybe he should have told Madara his real wish; maybe, if he had, he would still be there, by his side.

A cup of sake, Hashirama? Really? What the hell was he thinking?

What will Madara be doing in those moments? Is he seeing the same stars as him? Will he have the same difficulty falling asleep? And most important of all, are you thinking of me, Madara?

Hashirama loses consciousness just at this point, as he yawns, before fully entering the valley of dreams.

 

* * *

 

Dim silhouettes appear before him and what appears to be a dream is actually a memory. After the first kiss, they began to meet under the discreet mantle of an old maple whose leaves seemed to be inked with the same blood of those who fell in battle.

There were no talks or jests or any kind of insult; none of that was necessary. They came blind and sensing with their hands, recognising each other by mere touch and scent. And it was there that Hashirama discovered with delight that the brilliant warrior with deadly hands and swift feet, who breathed fire and used to put his enemies into deadly mirages, was in fact, a noble and sensitive boy, whose access to meet him in such a vulnerable state was his alone.

From a kiss another was born, and from a caress the possibility of something else. Hashirama touched him confidently to learn his shapes so he could have a solid, realistic picture of what it would be like to possess him, so he could touch himself that night, when alone in his tent.

Madara’s breath had been warm and sweet. He had whimpered quickly, and Hashirama was thrilled to hear him gasping for air. And he thought that, if a simple kiss or caress could achieve such a miracle… oh, Madara, the things I would make you feel when you allowed me to enter you.

The thickness of his arms and the delicate little circumference that was his waist; the scent of smoke that permeated his hair and clothing; the metallic odour of blood that clung to his armour… Everything in Madara was vivid and raw sensations, like the birds of prey he so much loved.

And it was on one of those days that the question first came up. His friend was more serious than usual. His face and neck glistened with sweat. He was out of breath and even though the battle was long over, in his beautiful eyes, his mysterious sharingan was still manifesting.

Hashirama held his gaze, though he always got shivers from that red vision. His friend spoke with the same confidence with which he had challenged him to skip stones on the river. “Would you run away with me, Hashirama?” His skin bristles although he is dreaming.

Everything had happened so fast that he barely managed to cling to the tree to avoid falling face down to the ground. That had been his response that night. And even though Madara had asked him several times again in the future, the answer had always been similar: a murmur, a speechless hesitation, an ‘I don’t know’, or an ‘I have to think about it.’

Hashirama wakes up just then and notices the watch has changed and the new one is adding more logs to keep the fire from dying.

He remains calm and pretending to be still asleep, keeping his eyes shut; and he doesn’t plan on going back to his slumbers either, fearing that sad memory will continue.

Hours later, there is a sound of someone putting out the remains of the fire. He opens his eyes reluctant, for the place is still dark. In the distance, on the edge of the horizon, the thin mauve line of dawn is just appearing. Everyone but him is on their feet, and unable to do more, he follows suit as Sasuke approaches.

“What do you intend to do today, Senju?” he asks him bluntly. The rest of the Sarutobi carry out their tasks normally, although it is noted they don’t lose any detail of their conversation.

Hashirama remains undeterred. It will take more than a few hours for him to forget about Madara.

“I’ll continue on my way to Sora-ku.”

Sasuke smiles as if he had already been waiting for that answer. He’s a nice guy, Hashirama considers. He might even like him if the circumstances were different.

“Fine,” he replies. “We’ll go on our way, too. Should I tell your clan head about our meeting with such a talented shinobi?”

Although he does want to send certain words to his brother, Hashirama keeps them to himself, knowing that they would not feel the same coming from that charismatic stranger.

Still, Hashirama says: “Please, could you tell him I’ll be back as soon as I’ve settled everything down?” Sasuke raises a curious eyebrow in response. “He will understand,” he finally adds.

Sasuke grins and replies: “Of that I am sure, mysterious shinobi.” He bows slightly to Hashirama, before he and his group disappear, moving through the trees.

Hashirama watches the Sarutobi until he lost sight of them. Now, the line of dawn is thicker and through the hills he can see the first rays of sun coming out.

The falcon is awake and waiting for him, still high on the tree. The bird stretches its wings flying low above him. Hashirama looks at it with a smile. “Go on.” His words reach the small ears of the falcon, who chirps in response. “Fly, little bird; take me to him.”

 

* * *

 

They arrive wrapped in a shadow from the desert, their bodies completely covered in sand. He does not see anyone else as they enter the city, although he can feel different gazes on his back, perhaps coming from the many empty windows of the surrounding buildings. They walk crestfallen, though Madara is still very attentive to the details as to what appears before them. He does not dare to look over his shoulder for fear of being recognised. After all, that girl recognised him at a glance, didn’t she? And it’s not like he’s scared or anything of the sort; few things can scare him and no shinobi on Earth gives him a single tremor. It’s just that he prefers to stay hidden till he knows the situation he’s in.

He follows the girl through the narrow alleys, the tall buildings attached to each other, all of them abandoned and dilapidated by the passage of time, until they stop and wait in front of a building’s entrance, as the girl whispers some orders to her comrades. Madara looks up and observes it is a multi-storey building; it is missing most of the panes in its windows and appears to have been abandoned for years. Everything around them feels dark and gloomy. The façade of that building seems to bring him back some embarrassing memories from his childhood, and he soon gets rid of them like an annoying swarm of flies.

“I will guide him from this point on,” the girl says to the last of her comrades. “I will call you if necessary; and please, come as soon as you notice any change in the sand.” The man nods, and then, disappears down the nearest alley following the rest.

She then turns and asks him to follow into the building. It is empty and dark inside, and it is divided into a complex circuit of corridors that seem to go around endlessly. His guide is a pair metres ahead, silent, and serene, with a calm step.

Madara looks at the long tubes in the ceiling and hears the murmur of tiny footsteps in the distance. All of that is annoying. He remembers parts of the way, but it’s frustrating that he cannot get to his destination on his own.

“We’re almost there, Madara-sama,” the girl announces, perhaps in response to one of his annoyed sighs.

The girl’s voice sounds a bit comical, so he tries to answer calmy, without playing along.

“The truth is that I don’t need escorts of any kind,” he says. “I have been to the city several times.”

The girl giggles. “Ah, you do need them here, Madara-sama. Or is it that you carry some valuable object in your luggage, perhaps, to bribe the guards in these corridors?”

“There are no guards here,” Madara announces, although he really has no idea what he’s talking about and decides not to waste more saliva as he hears a new giggle from the girl.

He clenches his fist tightly at his sides and continues silently through the corridors of that maze.

The girl stops at a specific point. Under the door, a sliver of light can be seen, and he ends up dazzled when the girl opens it, to take him to where a peculiar woman is sitting in the centre of the room, surrounded by a dozen of playful cats.

Around them are shelves with weapons of all kinds. There are books and scrolls of different sizes and colours; kunai and shuriken hang from the walls and shelves; priceless objects shine under the reflection on the lights.

“Look what I found in the desert, grandma,” says the girl with a prideful voice and her face still all flushed. “Just like you said I would.”

The woman lifts her face when she sees them enter. A grey tabby cat is lying on her lap and seeing the newcomer, she gets up, stretches her legs, and walks to scrutinise Madara. She is the only one of those felines who dares to approach or shows any genuine interest in him. The little cat walks confidently and wagging her tail back and forth, curious.

She greets him with a meow and upon reaching his feet, she begins to rub herself on his legs, gamely, as she purrs.

“I can see that,” laughs the old lady, still from her place, now petting a new cat that has taken that coveted spot. “Tamaki, child, you know what to do.”

Tamaki nods and before disappearing down the hall, she sends one last dreamy look at Madara, though he doesn’t even notice, for he is now too busy staring into the tabby’s green eyes.

The atmosphere changes when he is alone in the room with the old lady. He turns to her, narrowing his eyes, as if he could search through his memories, as Madara is still under the impression that he has seen her before.

“Be welcome, young Madara,” says the woman, her voice choking on a poorly concealed laugh.

Oh course! He remembers. Every time he came to the city with Tajima, his father had hauled him there in the very first place. How could he have forgotten about the peculiar Nekobaa? Her simple headband with cat ears is unforgettable.

“It is the 22^nd of October, Uchiha Madara. You sure took your time getting here.”

The date puzzles him, although he doesn’t have the time to think about it. He bows to Nekobaa at once. “Yes, thank you.” He can still feel his father’s hand squeezing his shoulder to indicate that he should greet the old lady as soon as he saw her. “I’ve had some setbacks on my journey, I’m afraid.”

A fleeting glint of astuteness appears in the woman’s eyes. No further introductions are needed either. That old lady has been running that place for more than fifty years and it always have been due to her shrewdness and sharp instinct.

Madara’s lineage shows in his face. He has the same frown as his grandfather’s, the same sad eyes as his father’s, and the same pretty features as his mother’s. With her age, Nekobaa has met a large part of that line of the Uchiha, whose greatest value lies in having borne the best shinobi of their name.

But it’s been a long time. She hadn’t seen him since Madara was about ten years old, when he started going to battle at his father’s side. Therefore, Nekobaa missed all the changes that young man had to go through to become the man who is standing in front of her, and suddenly, he seems to be someone completely strange. Madara looks tired and somewhat ragged; hungry even. Thoughtful and nostalgic. He is everything she hoped to find.

“Izuna,” Madara asks, his eyes fixed on the lady’s. “Is he…?”

Nekobaa lets out a giggle that sounds like a purr. Her feline companions are moving inside the room, always keeping a prudent distance from that peculiar human they’re not used to.

“Ah, sure,” replies the old lady. “You brother wrote to us a lot, insisting if we know something about you—anything. He hasn’t stopped worrying about you.”

Madara nods and lowers his head to the cat still purring at his feet, as he hears her meowing.

“And is he here?” asks Madara, looking at his hostess. “Ma’am, please, tell me if you know anything about my brother.”

“He hasn’t arrived yet,” she answers, “although he did send a message saying he planned to come, but I ignore if he has already left home.”

The cat at his feet meows at him again, insistently.

“She likes you,” laughs Nekobaa. “The same cannot be said for others, for she is often reluctant to approach strangers.”

The cat meows again, as if she understood her. She raises a paw and exposes her sharp claws with the intention of bury them in his leg as a greeting.

“Now, come, leave him alone!” Nekobaa cries, clapping hands to ward off that furry creature. “You may inspect him all you want later.”

That talkative cat backs away, reluctantly and meows in her direction as if she were arguing with her. However, his hostess is now serious, and all her attention has been placed only on her guest.

“I’ve been away from home for a long time,” Madara explains. “Could you give me some news?” He also remembers the value of that significant tongue. “You know well we Uchiha have always paid your services as you deserve.”

That city may seem to be abandoned at first, but Nekobaa has learned to get news from the limited visitors she receives. Of course, she has heard of how the world is moving; of course, she has answers for him.

“There’s no doubt that you are Tajima’s son,” the old lady laughs, and the cat on her lap flicks its ears. “You just arrived and the first thing you do is secure my knowledge with a payment. Well, well, Uchiha Madara, I can tell you what has happened in the world since your disappearance: you fled worried that the Senju might capture you and your friend, but they stopped hunting soon after the fall of the former Senju leader. His heir ordered a halt to the search for you and his brother. They stopped calling both of you deserters to prevent people from wanting to take your heads as prizes.” The woman lets out a muffled giggle. “As if that could happen.”

Her cats meow in response. The tabby that was chasing Madara now lies on top of a shelf, busy licking her paws.

“Now, however,” she continues, “the ones who have put a price on your head are those shinobi who live in the far reaches of the desert on the other side of the world.”

Madara keeps his mouth shut as he calculates the possibilities. The scenes of his slaughter in the forest turn livid before his eyes. Everything seems to happen again: the sounds, the smells, the terror drawn in the eyes of those sand shinobi.

He swallows hard as he remembers the little boy he left alive. He can still see his golden eyes in his mind; the boy’s cheeks wet with tears, his feet stepping on a puddle of his own urine, his cloak stained with the blood of his companions. It seems the little bastard did go to spread his message throughout the world. However, Madara does not fear for his own safety, but for that of those of his blood that he left behind, unprotected.

“We ran into a scouting group that came from the desert.” Madara admits. “I finished them off in an instant. They came threatening our people, they mocked our power. I couldn’t let them live.”

A shinobi’s pride is a priceless thing. There is no honour in letting such an offense go.

“And yet, you did, Madara,” says the woman with a serious voice, but with her characteristic grin still present on her face. She has spent a lifetime subsisting on the sale of lethal and prohibited weapons; she more than anyone enjoys a good gory story. “And now, they’ve claimed that they’ll exterminate your people, since they know they cannot touch you.”

Madara’s frown deepens.

“Word came that they are also aware you’re far away from home and that you’re not planning on coming back,” Nekobaa adds. “And nothing seems to please them more that the idea of finishing off the Uchiha and taking away their blessed lands.”

His blood runs cold. Everything has happened so soon. Few minutes ago, he had only two concerns: the hatred that could be born in the hearts of the Uchiha, or worse, in Izuna’s; and his separation from Hashirama and his current unknown whereabouts.

“I—I need to go back.” Suddenly, he doesn’t know what to do. This changes everything. “I have to go back right now.”

Nekobaa stays thoughtful and stands up, causing the cat on her lap to meow in annoyance. The grey tabby lying on top of the shelf is now looking at him, intently. “You only arrived a moment ago. You need a bath, food, new clothes, and a good night’s rest.”

The old lady walks to the door. Madara takes a few steps back to make way for her and collides with a display case. Turning back, he notices that inside of it are sharp blades of different sizes. The kama that hangs from the opposite end of his gunbai was bought with that peculiar old woman, and his father once assured him that no other similar has been made ever since.

“There is no time for that,” he says, staring into the void. “I can travel long distances without rest. My clan has done it for centuries.”

“And your clan have been stupidly stubborn for centuries too.” Nekobaa opens the door and as she does, her clowder of cats runs to scatter into the darkness of the corridor.

Madara is about to protest, but then, hurried footsteps are heard approaching down the corridor. And not only that, but he has also begun to perceive a tangle of chakra rapidly approaching through the city.

He falls silent and perceives blindly. One of those chakras feel too familiar, too close to him. And although inside his chest he wishes it was Hashirama’s, he knows for sure that it isn’t so. However, there is not much to lose in that situation, for there are only two chakras in that vast world that make his heart race, and if it is not the one that belongs to the man he loves, it surely is his little brother’s, whom he adores.

The footsteps are already at the door and are Tamaki’s. She comes in a hurry and goes to tell her grandma: “They’re already here.”

Madara does not need to hear anything else and runs down the corridor. That maze is dark, and he surely cannot recognise the way out. He walks blindly, guided only by instinct, recognising the path that will lead him back to Izuna.

Several minutes pass by the time he manages to find his way out. That girl was not exaggerating when she assured that a guide was necessary to travel through those desolate corridors.

He goes straight into the street; the wind is getting cold, and the sun is already well below those tall buildings, so everything is plunged into the first shadows of sunset. He walks with a dry throat. There is sand in his eyes. Dammit, where is he? All streets seem to be the same, each alley like the previous one. And then, suddenly, he hears it, a voice coming from behind. “Nii-san.”

Madara stops. Almost trembling, he turns to face him. His eyes are brimming with unshed tears. It’s been just a few weeks, but it felt a century. It hurts to hear him; it hurts to see his little face. His younger brother, the last one left. It is he, Izuna.

“Nii-san,” Izuna repeats, in case he hadn’t heard it the first time.

Madara walks towards him, biting his lip. He opens his arms wide and Izuna does the rest. He runs and slips into his warm arms. His clothes—Hashirama’s clothes—are in a terrible state; he smells terrible, but he knows that none of that matters to Izuna and he even clings closer to him, as if he had heard his concerns. It feels so good to hug him again.

“Nii-san,” says his little brother for the third time.

“You’re here,” is what Madara manages to say. Unable to help it, tears leave his eyes and run down his cheeks as he hugs him tighter. “Izuna, you’re here.”

Since the days of war, Madara has always thought that the sweetest thing in his clan, the best thing in his family, was his little brother Izuna and the hug with which he always received him after a tough battle.

 

* * *

 

The candles are about to burn out completely. It’s already late at night; that assembly has lasted for too long. The clan heads seem impatient and tired as well, many of them only arrived that morning and after a long journey, what they want most is to go rest.

Just like her.

Both the Yamanaka and Nara have made their intentions to join very clear, they have contributed and accepted, and their signatures lie dry on the paper on the table; the Shimura, on the other hand… Mito makes a gesture as the Shimura clan head is what has them held there.

“We came here with the intention of joining the Senju,” says the man. “By the promise that our union would bring benefits to our people. We did not come here to take any unnecessary risks or to fight against new enemies, just because Uchiha Madara cannot go more than a few days without causing problems.”

His subordinates agree, and although the other clan heads stay silent, Mito observes that they remain thoughtful about his words.

Mito puts a hand to her temple, where she feels the birth of a headache piercing through her skull. She looks up and finds Tobirama staring at her from across the table. His eyes are intense, but very different from his brother’s.

“It would be unwise to let ourselves be carried away by the rumours spread by those who want to take away our lands,” Tobirama answers instantly. “The best thing will be to continue this assembly tomorrow, so those who are still on the way can be present as well.” Several heads nod at the same time. The Senju leader is very young, but what he lacks on age, he makes up for in cleverness. “What do you think, clan heads?”

Nara and Yamanaka nod; the Shimura clan head growls but ends up agreeing. And in the end, Tobirama turns to her, silently asking for her opinion. The redhead feels her face redden, but she doesn’t hesitate a bit. “I too think it would be better to wait till tomorrow, when we’re all rested and with a clear head.”

Tobirama nods as well, and that counts as the ultimate decision on his clan’s part.

Sounds of relief can be heard from inside the tent. There are still very few allies. The rest of the Uzumaki and the representatives of the Sarutobi have yet to arrive; the Uchiha, on the other hand, are already in the compound but were absent, for they did not send anyone to represent them, although Mito suspects that their absence has more to do with the fact that there was no one who bothered to notify them of this assembly.

Little by little, the tent empties, until only Mito, Tobirama and his cousin remain, with whom he is discussing something that has to do with their borders. Mito doesn’t know exactly what she’s still doing there, as everything that had to do with alliances is settled, besides, she has a tent all for herself and it is spacious and well equipped, so…

Mito nods with a smile at Tobirama’s cousin farewell—Touka, that’s her name—and feels the enormous weight of Tobirama gaze once she is left alone with him. Tobirama is only fifteen years old, but his mere presence imposes more than that of his older brother’s. Ah, Hashirama… suddenly, she remembers why she has stayed in there. She must tell him about his older brother, and about Uchiha Madara abandoning him, and…

“I suspect that what you have to tell me has nothing to do with the alliance,” says Tobirama, reading her thoughts.

Indeed, Mito thinks. There is so much to tell him about: her talks with Hashirama and her failed attempt to convince him to return; the altercation with Madara and the shocking and disturbing power he wielded over the Kyuubi…

“I…” Mito begins. Before her, one of the candles burns out on the table. “I met your brother in the forest.”

“Did you see Hashirama?” Tobirama asks, suddenly losing interest in the map or the alliances. “Where? When?”

“A couple of days ago.” Would it be wise to tell him about the Kyuubi now or should she wait until tomorrow? “We—”

Outside the tent a noise is heard. Mito looks towards the entrance, for the struggle of several people and the urgent voice of a woman is also heard.

“Mito, please.” Tobirama calls her, his voice almost a whisper. He doesn’t seem to care about the brawl at the compound; everything is unimportant at the mention of Senju Hashirama.

Mito purses her lips, and a shiver runs her entire body. She has always been given to premonitions and feels a pressure inside her chest that takes her breath away. Suddenly, she seems to have forgotten how to speak.

Tobirama walks past her and approaches the door; she imitates him. The Senju leader asks the guards the reason for all that skirmish and shuts his mouth up as he sees that all the trouble is being caused by a young purpled haired woman. There is no doubt at all; Mito would recognise Madara’s lineage anywhere. That woman is an Uchiha.

“Naori,” Tobirama calls, not without being able to hide his discontent. “What is all this? We were waiting for you all afternoon.”

Naori cuts off his words with a wave of her hand. She looks worried, upset and, above all, furious. A couple of Senju men are holding her by the arms, as if she were a criminal.

“You’d do well to ask these idiots to let me go, first,” the young Uchiha growls. “I’m sure you’d like to listen what I have to say, Senju.” Her pretty dark eyes sparkle with the reflection of the torches.

Tobirama orders them to release her, and all guards move out of her way, to allow her to reach their leader.

Naori’s gaze sweeps from Mito to Tobirama. She then says, “My men have found a bunch of dead men outside the forest. They were attacked and their belongings were not stolen. They were travellers and sure headed here. The emblem of the red whirlpool was stamped on their clothes.”

Notes:

There’s a wide park near where I live, and I go there often to forget about what happened in my day. The nearest forest is several hours away from this city, so I use said park to feel at one with nature. Sometimes, I get lucky and run into some peculiar birds that appear at night. The birds in this fic (except for the falcons, sadly) and their interactions with the characters, are real events that have happened to me.

Chapter 4

Her father is gone… Attacked on the outskirts of the forest he so much wanted to avoid, as if he were some low-level shinobi and not the leader of a powerful clan. Dead and left forgotten. Abandoned, with the sole intention to leave one sordid message behind: here we are, and we do not fear you.

“Mito?” She hears someone calling, though she cannot recognise whom that voice belongs to. The words resonate, until they lost in the distance with the wind.

He is dead. Very dead. Mito swallows, but she can barely manage not to choke on her own saliva.

“Mito?” The same voice echoes. “Mito?” It insists. Mito. Mito. Mito.

Is-is this a bad joke? A bad illusion? A cruel jest? Could it be that those people want to take advantage of that naïve foreigner and make her have a hard time? After all, the Uchiha are known to cast illusions on their enemies, are they not? Who can tell this is not another of their tricks?

“Mito, please, you need to calm down.” Says Tobirama next to her. She has just identified the Senju clan head, and he’s putting a hand on her shoulder. Barely touching her, a soft gesture.

Her gaze is watering, and it only seems to take a slight movement for her tears to spill on her pale cheeks. “I am aware that this is… shocking,” he continues, “but we won’t know for sure until we see it with our own eyes.”

The Uchiha girl growls at him. Mito recovers her posture and turns her gaze on the other girl. She stares at Naori but makes out only a blurry image through her tears, still falling. “Are you mistrusting my men’s word?” Naori howls.

“It wouldn’t be the first time that the Uchiha dare to speak with such fallacies…” Is his answer.

They continue arguing, though Mito is barely listening.

What could have happened? As much as she thinks, she cannot make heads or tails of that situation. It is too soon for the sand shinobi to start their skirmishes; it would be stupid to even rush into a blind attack just to save the honour of an imprudent scouting group, so why the bother then?

Nothing seems to make sense in blaming the sand shinobi. The answer seems simple, almost obvious: were there a carnage, were anyone to take advantage of the camaraderie that surrounds the forest after the truce, surely it would be the Uchiha.

Mito jerks out of Tobirama’s grasp and shoots Naori a murderous glare. From the folds of her garments, she pulls out a kodachi and jumps to where the young Uchiha is.

But, that Uchiha sure is swift, Mito observes, half-pleased and half-annoyed. Naori quickly dodges the attack and jumps to safety some metres behind. In half a second, the Uchiha has drawn her own kodachi out and moved into an attack stance; their weapons are pointing and well sharpened, and in all what surrounds them, it can be inhaled the vile intention of killing.

In the dark eyes of the Uchiha, now shines a deadly sharingan, which seems to glow in the dark.

The torches outside the tents vibrate with the wind current, now coupled with the silent cutting motion of the swords being drawn. The Senju leader stares at both kunoichi. It is a goddamned truce; he wants to remind them. It is well known that weapons are prohibited inside the compound for anyone who is not a guard. Even he goes unarmed, to set the example.

The atmosphere has become tense as it has not been felt since before the truce and the storm clouds that hover the tents have ended up covering the brightness of the moon for a second, plugging them into a silent night.

It would be very easy for Uchiha Naori to attack her in all that darkness. Mito has heard legends about the Uchiha and their ability to sneak around at night like wild cats.

Yet, none of that happens. They are still outside the Senju’s clan head’s tent. And he is not pleased with all this situation.

“Stop, both of you, now!” is Tobirama’s call. His voice sounds stern and sharp with the same edge that of their swords. His fifteen years old have vanished from his body, for who is right there is not a boy, but a man. “This truce was agreed to stop all attempts of revolt. That is also expected from both of you.”

He lets a heavy sigh as he sees Mito’s gleaming sharp blade slide into its sheath. Then, Tobirama turns to his side, where his guards are stationed, well-disposed and ready to protect their leader. Every one of them stands at attention and wait, attentive for him to start giving orders.

“Keep a guard at all entrances and exits of the compound.” Tobirama says. “Let no one enter or leave without a forceful motive.” His men nod and disperse among the tents. There is a lot to do. Another round of nights without rest are coming.

Mito sees Tobirama is tense. He has spent all afternoon devoting himself to unite the common interest of the clans, quelling disputes and agreeing on prominent futures, and now, this.

As if he had felt the weight of her gaze, he turns to her and says, “We have to go to the attack zone.” Mito turns to stone, suddenly she doesn’t feel so capable. However, she is the only Uzumaki in that place and the only one able to recognise the bodies—bodies! She feels her belly fill with nausea. “Naori,” Tobirama adds. His voice sounds rough and unfriendly still. Mito is sure she is not the only one in there who feels uneasy with that Uchiha girl. “Guide us.”

Naori nods and sheaths her sword without taking her gaze off Mito. And what is that thing appearing in the Uchiha’s eyes? Is she challenging her? Warning her, perhaps? The wind plays with her purple hair and messes it up, forcing Naori to tuck it behind her small ears.

“This way,” she announces. She turns and ignoring all sentinels posted by the compound entrance, she dashes through the trees, with both Senju and Uzumaki on her heels.

Travelling in the company of that pair of strangers makes Mito uncomfortable and without being able to help it, she yearns like never before for her old home, full of water and far from all those trees. Memories of her old life bring back images of her father. She evokes his trust in that alliance and the enormous faith he had in that fifteen-year-old boy who is now running in front of her—a boy who claimed to be able to change that world with an end to the war, what he assured was his brother’s main maxim in life.

Mito can hear again her father’s words and how reluctant he was to let her go with him through those faraway lands. The Uzumaki clan head had been a wise man. Had she gone in her father’s retinue… the girl trembles. She was now certain that her own corpse would be lying in that foreign forest too, alone, and cold, waiting to be found by a bunch of strangers, not to be mourned but displaced as if it were just some carcass.

“You must stay.” The image is livid in her mind again: the candles inside the tent create twirling silhouettes of father and daughter, and the map resting on the desk indicates two specific spots in that enormous continent and its surroundings: one where the Uzumaki are spotted and the other, where the Senju are stationed. That distance looks insignificant in that piece of leather compared to reality. Mito had taken that map without permission when her father had left the tent that night; with it, she had travelled half the world alone. It waited for her now inside her tent in the alliance’s compound. “But do not be afraid, child, your turn will come to accompany me to those lands. This ceasefire is a historical event, and your name will sure be filled with glory when your time come.”

Mito had no illusions on such flattering words. She knew what her place would be in all this; she was a smart girl and not at all was the first heiress in that place. She was aware that her role in all that turning point would be having to spread her legs open to some clan head to give him heirs.

She bit her lip to muffle a moan of rage and to keep everything she was thinking of from leaving her mouth. Mito knew her father wanted the best for her. He had not chosen to take place in that alliance to fill himself with glory, since he was already an old man and his golden age was in the past, but to ensure a good future for his only daughter, for he lacked other heirs who would take care of her after his death.

Their clan was powerful and feared by most, but its lands were small and far from everyone. There was little future in the whirlpool for a young woman as capable as Uzumaki Mito.

“And who would it be, father, the man you chose,” Mito enquired. The wait for his answer seemed both eternal and tormenting. He was doing it on purpose, she was sure. “The Senju clan head, as I have heard, is not yet a man.”

Her father smiled discreetly. Everything about him had been serious and cautions until then; his smiles had been counted for certain people only, and at that time and having lost all his family, every one of them belonged to Mito.

He walked over and placed a heavy hand on her delicate shoulder. Her father’s arms were already tired and full of whitish scars, his hands full of old calluses, vestiges of distant wars. The life of a shinobi should be short and should end with honour, in the middle of some battle; his time had passed by then.

“Butsuma was survived by two sons.” Replied the old man, his voice scratchy and tired. “The youngest is the current clan head, and indeed, he’s rather young; his eldest, his firstborn, on the other hand, is closer to you in age. But he was disowned by his father at the end of the war and while a blemish such as him being disinherited might tarnish our name, his abilities as a shinobi make up for it. As the Senju leader told me, his brother wanders in the Kyuubi’s territories as a preventive measure.” Mito had shivered at the mere thought of walking that forest. “He’s likely to return to his people now that his father is dead, who can tell?”

Mito could still remember the weight of his father’s breathing next to her, his favourite sake. “I am sure that he has grown into a good man, this Hashirama.” It was the first time she had heard of that peculiar name. “His father was a strict man, but just as well; no less is expected of his son.” She hadn’t known what to say. She was already imagining his features; her face was all flushed. Her mother died when she was a child, so she had no one, not a single friend, and never had imagined herself talking with her father about a future husband. It was all wild and impossible in her head. “I met him years ago when he was still a child. His hair was like a mushroom,” he had grinned. Mito too bit her lip to supress a grin. “Yes, I suspect that he will have become a handsome lad by now. He will be good for you, Mito. By his side, I can rest assure that you will lack nothing, as you deserve. You are full of love, child. I’m sure he’ll get to love you as soon as he meets you.”

Mito was a practical woman and knew that in that world and in her situation, there were few opportunities for a marriage in love. Besides, there was always the possibility that there was already some lucky lady on his heart.

“In the days to come,” her father had continued, “there won’t be any shinobi who can compare to him, of that, I am sure.” He turned to her. “You will give continuity to his blood, my daughter. That is your role in this story.”

Mito lets out a groan in pain as she comes back to the present. Up to the front of the group goes Naori, and metres behind, Senju Tobirama, and fortunately none of them turn to see her, if they even heard her. She wipes the streams of tears from her cheeks and bites her tongue as another sob threatens to escape her lips.

I am more than a breeding mare, father, Mito had thought at the time, as her father hugged her last. She had eaten her thoughts with the intention of proving him that she was more than just a womb available for some highborn shinobi to impregnate.

However, now what was there to prove? Who was going to see her now that her father was gone? Who to prove her worth to? She was just an heiress… No—she was now the new clan head of the Uzumaki.

“We’re close,” Naori says from a distance. Mito sees Tobirama nod; she does nothing. There’s no one to see her anyway.

They follow her to a random spot in the forest. In the surroundings there are hints of a recent battle: some trees lie broken in half and those that are still standing bear severe scars from sharp and deadly weapons. There are broken branches everywhere; still green leaves scattered on the ground. And there are also dark spots here and there, and although no body remains, the scent of carnage lingers, and its nauseating scent is such that Mito puts a hand to her stomach to supress the urge to vomit.

A young shinobi appears from the bushes—another Uchiha—and goes straight to Naori as he arrives. “We’ve taken them to the compound.” Mito goes numb. The newcomer stares at her and, perhaps seeing her hair colour, he connects the dots and recognises her as an Uzumaki, kin to the unfortunate deceased. “They lasted too long in this forest; they’re in a tent now, being cleaned and prepared.”

Mito must have heard that the Uchiha are superstitious. She knows that they treat their dead with the greatest possible respect, to help them cross to the other side and to prevent their souls from wandering in sorrow through those forests they frequent so much.

Tobirama turns to her at that moment and Mito nods resolutely. She fights another wave of sobs and bites her lip until the pain applied there is stronger than the one tearing at her heart. This is not the place or time to cry. Her revenge will come in time.

She is determined as she has never been in life. How curious that she had to be embraced by death to feel so alive.

So, who to prove her worth to? Was her question and now she has the answer: myself.

 

* * *

 

By dinner time, both brothers had caught up on news and circumstances around them. Izuna had told him about the alliance and the tiresome and long councils; he also told him about how hard it had been for him to talk to the elders; and obviously told his brother about Senju Tobirama and his distinctive personality, so unlike how he had been painted before.

Madara raises an eyebrow, incredulous to hear his little brother speak so familiarly of someone like Senju Tobirama. Each one is on opposite sides of the chabudai, and on top of the table rests the delicious dinner that Nekobaa prepared for them.

“He is not as bad as he seems, you know, Nii-san? That Tobirama,” says Izuna. Madara lets out his first laugh in several days and, upon hearing him, the grey tabby that has followed him to the room runs to his side, to snuggle up next to him. Madara scratches behind the cat’s ears as he listens: “What I mean is… that once you get used to hearing his monotonous voice, and his bossy attitude, and having to look at his ugly face all day, yeah, it is not that bad.”

What now echoes in the room is a snort coming from Madara’s lips.

“In the end, we are not that different, as I can see.” Izuna continues, staring out the nearest window, as if that way he could cross the distance of that desert and forest and get back home. A slight grin appears on his lips. “We both seek the best for our people.”

Madara’s smile dies, the weight of guilt crawling through his limbs again. Even the cat has left him, to go chase something she saw move in the dark.

“Now, you don’t have to feel guilty for having chosen your own happiness, Nii-san,” Izuna adds. He may be young but is observant. “I would hate to see you unhappy, were you forced to comply with father’s wishes. And after all,” he points out, now staring at his cup. “It is what’s expected of us. We Uchiha do a lot of silly things out of love.”

Madara shudders in horror as he feels that those very last words were spoken from experience.

Eager to change the subject, his gaze shifts to the opposite end of the room, to his gunbai lying on top of a futon. Unable to help it, Madara smiles as he remembers his little brother arriving in Sora-ku, wrapped in sand, with his gunbai and kama slung from his back and wearing the clothes of a man.

Izuna, who does not miss a thing, brings the remnants of the tea in his cup to his lips, before commenting: “I thought that you might be missing it. So, I brought it to you. It looked very sad hanging in your tent alone, gathering dust from the lack of use.”

“I am no clan head,” Madara whispers, staring at his gunbai still. “With the truce came the alliance, and with the alliance, the cease of fire. It is the end of an era, Izuna. In the days to come, all use of the gunbai will be to tell stories or remonstrate status.”

Izuna nods and evades his brother sight. He follows as well the old Uchiha custom of hiding inside his thoughts, although he still says: “They found it in the middle of the battlefield, splintered and bloodstained; we took it home and there was restored. We… we were told that you were dead, Nii-san. The Senju came to our gates to boast that you had been slew by their own hand. I was frantic. It was my duty to take your place and go seeking revenge… and so I did, you know?” Madara listens attentively, holding the cup on the table tightly with his hand, its content still intact. Izuna’s eyes are overflowing with unshed tears. “I’ll tell you about it, later,” he promises and proceeds to finish the rest of his dinner in silence.

The entire room is filled with the scent of the Uchiha. Izuna’s clothes, although seem new, are already impregnated with the smell of ashes that usually hover over the tents in the camp; they smell of the Uchiha clan, of fire and freshly cut wood, just brought from the forest.

Madara also wears a new attire. His new clothes are comfortable and his size, and the fabric they were made with feels much softer yet resistant than before. They look like the ones his father used to wear, with the high collar and the Uchiha crest sewn into the centre of his back. He wears his hair in a high ponytail to display it proudly.

The night has advanced; the moon is no longer visible inside the room. The bamboo blinds that hang on the windows are now slamming vigorously against the wall, with the strong wind. The gunbai lies forgotten in the shadows.

“Nii-san,” Izuna says, his voices soft and delicate, like the boy he really is. It seems impossible and almost ridiculous to imagine that this little lad could have ended Senju Butsuma’s life. “The alliance is a reality.”

Madara shifts uneasily, as memories come to his head: their days in the sun, atop the cliff. The feeling of having dirt and stones on the soles of his feet, the wind caressing his hair; Hashirama’s plans, his dreams, and illusions. Madara feels a squeeze on his chest. If only he had caused such blessings…

Izuna proceeds to narrate about such wonders; he can see the pride stained in his eyes and words. Madara is glad for him, and proud, above all. According to what he tells him, little time has passed since his last meeting with Senju Tobirama, but the place has already been chosen: that grove that lies under the cliff where he and Hashirama used to go to talk between their games and training; both clans have sent people to clean up the place, and by the time Izuna left home, the first Uchiha were already heading there. “The founding stone has already been laid; you know?” He tells him. “It was a very simple ceremony, though. But what it means, that stone, Nii-san… that is different. It is there where a building will be built from where the leader will protect the village and its people.

“Even you would have liked to attend the ceremony,” they both smile. “There was music and games, and food… lots of food. The banners with both Uchiha and Senju crests fluttered freely in the wind. And a singer chanted about the unification of both clans and the future that there would be in union. There are still only tents, mere temporary homes, but who knows? I’m excited, Nii-san. I, who used to hate the Senju the most, am now looking forward to the future. What do you think father would say could he see me? Do you think he would be upset with me, for feeling this way?”

Izuna used to asks such complex questions and say them like they were a simple thing.

“No,” answers Madara. “He always had faith in you. He was confident that you would be a great leader one day. He would be proud of you, Izuna. As I am.”

Izuna manages to nod; a single tear falls on his cheek. Outside, some cats are meowing in the darkness.

“It is still early to decide, about who will lead us,” Izuna’s voice is intense. Much of the plan is still in their heads, they do not have a name yet. “As the village will have to be erected first, but the elders and leaders have been considering possible candidates already. Of course,” he indicates, “it has been pointed out that such a title will belong to an Uchiha or Senju, at least for now. It’s only fair.”

There is a peculiar gleam in Izuna’s eyes.

It’s only fair.

 

* * *

 

There was no point in making a sneak attack. Such a move lacked logic and denoted a poor planning. More than that, it showed that the only thing that stoked the fire in those sand shinobi was the excuse of a blood debt.

It does not take long for them to return to the Uchiha compound. They head straight into the crowd without attracting attention. There is a lot of movement there, too much noise, everyone talks, everyone is busy. The threat of the sand shinobi is yet unknown to them. The environment is not only noisy but cordial, as the peaceful atmosphere produces a feeling of tranquillity they had not felt in a long time.

“This way,” Naori’s subordinate leads them to a point separated from the crowd, to a restricted area and protected by several guards dressed in dark clothes in the Uchiha custom.

The young man stops at a specific tent and looks at his leader, waiting for orders. Naori is quick for her duty and soon turns to Mito, who’s standing next to her, numb. They do not exchange words, they make themselves understood with simple glances and so, after asserting to her fate, Mito lets out a sigh and accepts the gesture of the Uchiha subordinate, who lifts the tent’s door for her, and they all disappear from his sight.

Tobirama is ready to hear her cries, but that does not happen. Since they are children, they are informed of the lifestyle of a shinobi and any child knows from an early age that there is always a possibility that, at any moment, their lives could end in a blink.

He knows of this, for he has been in the dire need of being the one in charge to recognizing corpses since he was a child.

First, it was Kawarama. Ah, the mere memory breaks his stomach. Tobirama was a child back then, why would his father have forced him to witness such a thing? ‘It is the duty of a shinobi,’ it had been his excuse, but even now, at his age and new mindset, Tobirama knows it was an irresponsible act on his father’s part, be he a shinobi or not.

The Senju encampment was drenched in death, and he had spent so much in the stench that he had gotten used to it. Yet, one never gets used to such horrors, he well knew. Even Tobirama who was known to be level-headed and practical, came to spend many nights thinking of the images of his dead siblings; their eyes forever shut, their bodies inert. They were almost of his age, why had he managed to survive, and they hadn’t?

Itama’s discovery had been even worse. He still… oh, hell, Tobirama could still remember those days after his passing: the increased hostility of his father towards Hashirama. How much Hashirama suffered in guilt that he hadn’t been faster, more capable… and then, there was the abuse he received from his father every time he saw him crestfallen or meditative, or worse still, when he committed the terrible sin of bursting into tears at the mere memory of their brothers.

The fists his father planted on Hashirama’s body produced a peculiar sound and Tobirama still feels his blood run cold every time he remembers it.

Tobirama releases the air contained in his chest and discovers that he has been clenching his fist for a long time and that a small blood button has formed on his lip where he sank a cuspid. He stretches his limbs and walks to a post near the tent, where he leans and thinks: should he go in too or should he give Mito the necessary privacy so the girl could get used to the idea? It had been easy for him to deal with the notion of his siblings and father being dead, but he is no Mito, and, above all, it is more than obvious that they do not think or feel the same way.

At that moment, the pair of Uchiha leave the tent, but go straight to the other end and only Naori has the precaution to watch behind her back, looking for him. They hold their gazes for a coupe of seconds and that’s enough, so he lets her go.

But there’s no trace of Mito. His head tells him that he should retire to his own tent while he has a chance to rest, yet his feet don’t move. Mito is a girl who has come alone from home to a strange place, where no one knows her and where no one who does will arrive, at least, not for a long time. So, he stays and lets out another sigh. It is easier for him to get lost in the moonlight.

Under normal circumstances, recognizing a body is simple; assimilating it… therein lies the problem.

In his mind, he conjures up an image from a short time ago. The memories are still so fresh, that he is not sure if he should call them as such. It was so recently, that he can still see it in detail. He can hear and smell, he can feel; sometimes, when he wakes up at night, he can see the scene as if it were happening again: the Senju encampment has turned scarlet, there is smoke everywhere. The aromas are nauseating, suffocating, but he still manages to find the strength in his body to force himself to entre home.

The battle is long over, so there wasn’t much to do except to revise the damage and think what to do. His first idea is to go straight to the main tent, where his father used to always be at. So, he calls the men who accompanied him and orders them to look for the origins of that disaster. Tobirama dodges tents and people in search of his father.

It is not uncommon for an enemy clan to attack the encampment while their troops are duelling far on the battlefield. However, the Uchiha had never acted in such a way, for there was little honour in killing unarmed women and children, the elderly and sick or just anyone who was not fit to fight, and if their enemy clan is known for anything, it is for their pride.

On his way to the tent, he observes damage of different scales, although he notes with surprise that it is mostly material damage, since those vulnerable groups had not been touched.

There are dead, of course, but those bodies belong to sentinels or those charged with protecting the encampment in the absence of the army. Tobirama’s heart begins to drum uncontrollably as he moves closer to the tent. His father is a shinobi recognised and feared by the Uchiha. He hadn’t carried his title just by inheritance. He is a competent warrior and if he had guards posted outside his tent, was more to demonstrate status than necessity.

However, something seems wrong there, for he feels a tingling in his stomach coupled with the now defeating drumming in his chest. He is the best at sensing since childhood. Hadn’t he bragged about it when he discovered his older brother was secretly meeting with an Uchiha?

Uchiha? He can’t be wrong! All that disaster has the name Uchiha marked in all of it. And who would have ordered such an attack, if that bastard of Uchiha Madara is away with Hashirama? Who else, but the only one who carried on his shoulders the obligation to avenge the honour of a fallen brother? Everything becomes clear to Tobirama in that instant and already knows for certain his father’s fate. His steps are losing speed, for it would be of little use to get tired now: whether he run or not, the scene that would await him inside the main tent would be the same.

He stops a few metres from it, when a thin, and small, dancing figure appears out of the smoke. Tobirama knows that silhouette, he has faced him numerous times in the past, and had rightly missed him that afternoon on the battlefield. How was Izuna going to face him on battle, if he was so busy terrorising the Senju encampment?

Izuna appears before him like a vision from the underworld. His hair flutters loose in the wind, and a bright and sharp katana dripping with blood dangles from his hand; his clothes are dirty and heavy with the mixture of dirt, blood and sweat; and his once pale face now is tarnished with soot, his cheeks stained with the same crimson tears that appear after the continuous use of the sharingan. Izuna’s sharingan, if that’s what one could call that reddish design that is spinning still in his pupils.

Out of habit, he turns around to avoid falling into some genjutsu, but it is no use; Izuna’s intentions there were others, and he now seems to be tired and ready to leave, as if he was already satisfied with his work there.

Tobirama looks at him and endures that crimson weight in his gaze for a long time. The little boy’s hands are trembling, barely managing to hold his katana tightly. They stare at each other for a few more moments, before it is too much for Izuna, as he is the first to look away. He slips his blade onto its sheath and speeds towards the entrance with his feet as swift as those of his infamous brother’s. Behind him follows the bunch of Uchiha who helped him achieve his mission.

Only once he senses Izuna’s chakra far away from the encampment, does he dare to come back to reality. He feels someone tugging on his sleeve and reluctantly pushes it away. It is Touka. She seems agitated and her clothes are stained with blood, although it is clear that it isn’t hers.

“Don’t go in,” she pleads, as if he were still the little cousin she had to protect.

He is the clan head, now. He knows his father is dead. How the hell was he not going to go into that bloody tent?

Tobirama ignores her begs and lifts the flap that serves as a door. Inside it is dark, all torches had been extinguished and lie on the ground. If Izuna had been careful not to set the tent on fire, it had been to give his nemesis an appropriate gift upon arrival. An eye for an eye, though not in honour of Tajima—Madara has already taken care of that—the reason for that reckoning, the reason for such viciousness, such an atrocity, lay in the fact of Madara’s disappearance, because that stupid brat—Izuna—thinks him dead. If only little Izuna knew his brother is very much alive and well, in the protective arms of Senju Hashirama.

Touka arrives behind; she is an experienced kunoichi herself. Sure, that kept her from being horrified by the scene in there. Oh, father, how much you must have suffered losing your life and honour to that rabid Uchiha boy. The grimace of terror and disgust is still engraved on his features and with it, he would travel to the other world.

Casualties that night were few but significant. Izuna made sure that only those prepared to fight would fall. They cleaned his father’s body without delay, as he would have liked it; both horror and disgust still stained on his face.

It is done. Izuna’s duty is done. His family’s blood was avenged.

Tobirama remains alone with his father for a little longer, to pay his last respects privately. As soon as his remains are consumed, the Senju would be called to the public square and right there and without decorations, his appointment as new clan head would be made official. He is already dressed for the occasion, wearing the same motifs and colours that characterises his older brother. It is Hashirama who should be there, about to take his oath, proudly swathed in green and beige.

“I will make the blood of Uchiha Izuna run, for that is my duty as your heir,” Tobirama tells his father. His features stern as always, but now, in the grip of death, his face seems to have suddenly aged, and now looks like an old man. “Although you do not deserve such an honour. You were a good leader. But as a father… you…”

The first and only tears he shed for Butsuma leave his eyes in that instant. “You always felt a peculiar and wicked pleasure in mistreating Hashirama. Every smile of his, every display of kindness he showed was a magnet from your fierce fist to his soft face.” Tobirama clenches his fist tightly, as he shuts his eyes to try to stifle the tears that his father doesn’t deserve. “Had he been free to mourn at home, father, I am sure he would never have had the need to go and hide in a river. We could—Ah—we could have inflamed his hatred towards the Uchiha for having murdered our brothers… By now, Uchiha Madara would have already been defeated, of that, I am sure. And he—Hashirama—he would be here, where he belongs to.” His red eyes gleam fiercely under the dancing candles that surround the coffin. “I hated you every time you hit him and hated myself a little more for allowing it. I guess my fear of you was always stronger, father, for that was what made me obey you every time. Fear, and not respect. And maybe, that’s why I had to wait for you to die to have the guts to tell you all this.”

After the cremation comes his ceremony, but he can hardly think of anything other than reaching Uchiha Izuna. His bright red eyes, his navy-blue hair blowing freely in the wind, calling out to him, challenging him. What are you waiting for, Senju? Tobirama could almost hear his voice already. Come.

He heads out of the encampment as soon as the paraphernalia is over, when the cries of his name and the smoke of the pyres are still billowing over the forest. Behind him, is a large bunch of shinobi ready to follow his orders and enter the Uchiha encampment to carry out their revenge. They are warriors fit for the situation; even Touka, who always stays behind to guard their people is there, prepared for battle, at the head of the group.

Tobirama doesn’t doubt they are capable of such a task, but that is something he has to do on his own and so he explains to them, and although there are grimaces of discontent on their faces, they obey.

He crosses the forest that stands between their two clans and approaches the open area where their territories are disputed in each battle, where no one would ever worry about the damage: the perfect place for a reckoning. And he walks to the top of a hill, to where he can feel Izuna’s chakra calling to him.

Aware of his abilities, Izuna is waiting for him up high, surrounded by nature, embraced by the wind. He is wearing different garments and one could see from afar that they are not his. If that foolish boy had wanted to usurp his older brother’s title, it would have been enough to take Madara’s gunbai with him.

Their final battle is long. By the time they are exhausted, the last rays of the sun had turned the field to crimson, like the blood that those two children are trying to avenge.

Blood. Children. Revenge. This is ridiculous.

None of that make sense. Hadn’t he heard Hashirama say a thousand times that he was tired of seeing children having to pay damages caused by adults? What would his older brother think of him, could he see Tobirama? Would he be disappointed? Would he forgive him for always following the same path that was once imposed on them or…? No—no wonder Hashirama had abandoned him, preferring to leave his clan, taking instead Uchiha Madara in his arms.

With a swift movement of his katana, he launches Izuna’s sword into the air and it lands several metres away from them. Izuna lies now strengthless before him, his small chest rising and falling relentlessly. Exhausted, Izuna shuts his eyes for an instant and when he reopens them, the sharingan is gone. Tobirama sees himself reflected in the boy’s bright dark eyes.

The sun is gone too; above, in the firmament, only a thousand stars twinkle.

Izuna seems to have accepted his fate and lie motionless before him, waiting for the final blow. His clothes are torn and although he is bathed in his own blood, his pride remains intact, his eyes wide open and fixed on Tobirama’s; his body prepared to receive the slash that will take him to reunite with those who he once loved.

“Are you not going to fight back?” Tobirama yells. “Will you just stand there, patient, like a good boy?”

His voice trembles, perhaps from the fury he can barely contain. Or because of tiredness, or a mixture of them both, who can tell? Tobirama is not used to an easy prey; he detests weakness like nothing in the world.

“You have beaten me. I can accept my defeat. You are some capable warrior, Senju Tobirama.” The boy licks his dry lips. Then, he does wince; his teeth are stained in red. “I will meet my father and brothers soon, gladly knowing that I did my best and fell in battle with such an opponent. Only then will I go with them, bringing them honour.”

Tobirama growls again, his own katana still grabbed in his hands. It would only take a swift blow to end the whole situation. Centuries of war in his hands. He could return home with Izuna’s body and proudly display it as a trophy, hanging it above the public square. His people would be proud and ecstatic. And that would please his father’s spirit as well; that is what a good son should do, a worthy heir.

Perhaps that is why he prefers to throw the sword into the air and, instead, reaches a hand down for Izuna. The Uchiha boy frowns and narrows his eyes. He rises himself with his last strength, avoiding touching that cold and pale hand before him. Izuna takes a hand to his abdomen, where has a deep and painful gash.

“Madara is alive,” Tobirama explains. Izuna looks at him with wide, exorbitant eyes. “He ran away with my brother. They both left days ago, heading for the Kyuubi’s forest. He… he was injured, but surely, you’ve heard of my brother’s healing abilities.”

Izuna manages to nod but says nothing. He remains meditative, trying to process all this information that he has suddenly received.

“Let’s get this nonsense over with, shall we?” Tobirama adds, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his arm; his headband with the Senju crest was lost at some point in that final battle. “This can end right here. What do you say, Uchiha?”

The boy stares at him as if he has lost his mind and maybe he has. Although, half a second later, Uchiha Izuna is accepting his hand, and thus, ending the war.

Memories dissipate into thin air as Tobirama sees Mito leaving the tent. Her face is swollen and red from crying. The redhead watches him and says goodbye with a wave of the hand. Tobirama knows that it will take time for her to assimilate and allows her to leave without him.

Tobirama stays in the Uchiha compound for a good while longer, till the night progresses and hunger begins to sting his insides.

 

* * *

 

Hours pass and the words do not stop flowing from Izuna’s lips. He seems happy although the situation back home is so uncertain. It’s full dark outside and after dinner, they both clean up themselves and get ready to go to bed.

As he wipes his face, Madara can feel his brother’s eyes on his back. Izuna wants to ask him something but has now become shy. It has been this way since he was a little boy. Madara turns to Izuna with a serene face so as not to disturb him even further. Izuna, who understands everything, attacks: “And what about you, Nii-san? How was your journey?”

The question he dreaded the most. Madara walks over and grabs his gunbai, still lying on his futon and places it against the nearest wall. It has pronounced splinters in some places and the reddish ghost of blood is still visible in certain spots; if one looks at it closely, one can tell how old the wood is and that it needs a touch up paint. It is beautiful still, even when being that neglected. Objects often are alike their owners.

The fact that Madara is still dressed makes his brother understand that it is still early for him to go to bed.

“It’s been quite interesting,” the older Uchiha replies, avoiding his gaze. “Hashirama and I spent several days in the forest, in a cave.” Izuna rises an eyebrow, but Madara does not notice. He just feels his face filling with heat. “One day, we watched a meteor shower, Izuna, like the ones we saw as children, do you remember them?”

Izuna is no longer the innocent child he used to be and does not take the bait for such cheap distractions. “Nii-san,” he utters. His voice has matured and only then Madara notices, “where is your Senju friend? Where is Hashirama?”

Madara gulps and looks out the window, where the blinds keep bumping against the wall.

“I assured Tobirama that I would take his brother back—that I would take you both back with me…”

“Since when do we owe the Senju anything?” Madara ends up biting his tongue. “Especially to him. You owe him nothing.”

Izuna rises his hands in surrender and lets out a long sigh. He walks and flops down on his own futon, exhausted. “You know what, Nii-san? Let’s forget this topic for good. I will not allow the Senju to be a reason for you and me to argue again.”

Madara feels terrible. He soon feels very insecure about everything he wants to do. He approaches the door and as he takes the handle in his hand, he can hear the cat meowing on the other side, from the corridor.

“You don’t have to go,” Izuna assures him, seeing his clear intentions. “No more will be said about the subject, I promise. As for me, let’s forget about those Senju. Let them go to hell!”

A half smile appears on Madara’s face. He himself, as well, used to swear uncontrollably at his age to look mature.

“There is something I need to do,” Madara replies. Then, turns to him. “Izuna, did you bring enough money with you?”

His little brother nods from the futon. “But do not worry about that, I’ve already left Touma in charge of buying our supplies.”

Izuna. So practical, so cautious. He is so young, yet already shows that he is identical to his father.

“It’s not that, it’s just—” Madara bites his lip. How to tell him without enraging more the burning heart of his brother? “As I see things coming, it is inevitable for me to return to the clan, to that alliance or whatever it is, you know, to solve everything I’ve caused.” Izuna sits cross-legged and stares at him in silence. “Hashirama and I had an argument of sorts, back there in the forest, and he came back already to his brother. And he’d be there for sure, when I return, and—hell, Izuna, tomorrow is his birthday and I’d hate to come back home empty handed, and I hate that I still care so much about what he thinks of me, huh, but I cannot help it. Fucking hell!”

Izuna can hardly believe it. His older brother, a young man of eighteen years old, is all flushed up, like some silly, enamoured lass. “You are decades too late, Nii-san, in order to find some worthy gift here.”

Madara giggles and catches the pouch his brother threw. It is not overflowing with coins but is it fuller that the last time he held it. “I… I’ll go find Nekobaa, Izuna. I already know what I want.”

He opens the door, and the cat takes the opportunity to sneak into the room and jumps onto the empty futon while Madara gets lost in the darkness of the corridor.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama is a competent fisherman, but nothing more.

Yet, that day, he could not catch a single damn fish. The God of Shinobi was doomed to starve if the tide didn’t turn or if some miracle wasn’t manifested there soon.

Suddenly, a noise is heard in the sky. The Uchiha falcon is back. She circles in the air, encouraging him to follow. Hashirama remembers that Madara always used to heed his bird signals and imitating him, he gets out of the water and runs to where she is. That was the last of the known rivers in that part of the world. If he doesn’t get to Sora-ku soon, then thirst will be another one of his concerns.

At last, he catches up with her and notes that the cunning bird has gone hunting and not only to feed herself but also on behalf of her human friend. Hashirama soon kindles a fire and after cleaning the prey, he prepares to roast it like the Sarutobi did the night before.

“You are a magnificent hunter.” Hashirama says to the bird, which is eating a few metres from him. Little by little, he has been gaining the trust of that talented bird. The falcon continues eating, undeterred by his question, which earns Hashirama another grin. “Did Madara teach you, perhaps?”

The bird chirps at that moment, possibly recognising his master’s name, and Hashirama feels a squeeze in his chest, for he likes to think she said yes.

Time pass and his food is ready. While he eats, the bird cleans her feathers. She opens one of her wings, stretching out its feathers and Hashirama sees that her skin is fully healed.

“Are you the same falcon that once came with Izuna’s letter?” Hashirama insists, as if the bird could really understand him. The falcon chirps again and Hashirama takes it, conveniently, for another affirmative answer. “You miss him, huh?”

Silence, silence. The bird is just too occupied for him. He feels his throat has tightened. Hashirama gazes out into the distance, at the tall earth pillars that rule solemnly in the desert he’s about to enter. “Aye, little bird, I sure miss him too.”

 

* * *

 

Madara easily climbs to the top of a building. The night has covered the entire city with its mantle and those nooks and crannies that seemed eerie in broad daylight now look sinister. Although, that is a matter of view, of course; he hasn’t been afraid of the dark since he was an infant.

He has done a full sweep of the area and feels confident enough that no one besides them is there, in Sora-ku. The only chakras he feels belong to Izuna and his clanmates; to Nekobaa’s granddaughter and her comrades. He had never felt so alone even though Madara is used to embrace silence by his own.

He walks to a point where he can visualise the desert properly. Half-eaten curtains and flags fly loose from the many windows and walls of that city. They look like a hundred ghost fluttering in the cold breeze. That desert current feels unlike from the cold winds coming down the mountains back at home. And he stops when reaching the desired point. It’s some distance from Nekobaa’s building and up to there, Izuna’s chakra feels just slightly, barely perceptible.

Madara takes a seat under the moon’s gaze. Then brings a bare hand to his neck, from which hangs a necklace. He feels naked without his gloves—which have not quite dried yet—so, when he grabs tightly the crystal’s cold surface, a cruel current of shivers runs through him from head to toe. He holds the gem between his thumb and forefinger, and rises it above his eyes, so that it is bathed in the chill moonlight.

“It is a peculiar gem,” the old woman had assured when Madara asked. “I got it from an old man who came to the city escaping from an enemy clan, in exchange of hospitality.” It was a crystal gem of aquamarine tints. Precious and seemed invaluable. It looked very much like a gem his mother used to wear around her neck. As Madara had heard, it had been a gift from Tajima, given just after their wedding. “I am sure he will love it.”

Madara giggled after making the exchange. He hung the gem around his neck, smiling like a child with a new toy, and said: “Sweet lady, I assure you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He wasn’t exaggerating. It was a precious gem, expertly carved and made with the sole intention for it to being perfect. Madara was sure that, like any other product obtained with Nekobaa, in the entire world, there would not be another necklace alike. Just like Hashirama himself.

Time passes and the moon crosses the imaginary line that Madara placed above him to know the time. By his calculations, it is past midnight: it’s officially Hashirama’s birthday. Nineteen years old, he is. Madara can’t help but smile pensively, imagining him. He now knows it precisely: Hashirama is not just some delicious, ripe fruit, but a precious stone.

Madara thinks of the Senju encampment and imagines Hashirama walking among the tents, laughing, and greeting everyone who stops him with a smile. He never got to visit the encampment, so everything that appears in his mind is a product of his imagination. Hashirama is a man so loved and desired, that it is ridiculous to have entertained the illusion that one day he would belong to him.

Then, he drops the gem as if it had burned his hand. A resolution comes to him that leaves him breathless: the clans are already united and surely the man himself is now wandering, grinning through the alliance’s compound. Maybe there is even a campfire burning in the centre and Hashirama is just there, sitting and singing as he brings his much-desired sake to his lips.

Another sting in the heart. They could be together, right there, sitting on top the building, looking at the moon, and why not? Allowing him to take certain benefits with his body now that it is his birthday. It could have been that way a long time ago, when they were still in the cave—Ah, when was the last time he touched himself while thinking of Senju Hashirama? He hasn’t since that day in the forest, after fishing, when he leaned against a tree and…

It is freezing up there, but even so, the hand that rest immobile on his belly draws a hesitant path until it slides under his clothes. The Uchiha garments are made to withstand the cruellest winters, and his high collar sure is a blessing; above, the moon glances mockingly at him, and without any discretion.

Madara has always thought, he muses as he begins to rub his covered erection, that those Senju garments were too revealing for his liking. Although, of course, they are perfect for someone with Hashirama’s complexion.

He grabs himself whole with the hand and a tremor leaves him panting. It’s been a long damn time, indeed. With the free hand, he grips the crystal again, as if he could somehow connect it to Hashirama. That hand—whispers a voice in his head—should be Hashirama’s. Madara leans back against the wall and shuts his eyes. Have you already forgotten that afternoon in the cave when you stopped his advances?

No, he hasn’t. He could have been possessed the very day he reunited with his falcon; the day that was supposed to be their last night at the cave. But he had been so insecure and undecided. He likes you; he wants you. What else were you waiting for, Uchiha Madara? A marriage proposal?

Soon, his clothes are suffocating and although it is very cold up there, what he wants most is to tear off his garments and lie unhindered before the moon’s gaze. Would you like to go back to that cave, Madara? He hears that damned voice say again. He does, for sure. Madara whispers a breathless yes and remembers:

“Come,” Hashirama whispers in his ear and Madara can’t do nothing but obey, as if his feet were moving on their own.

They barely reached the cave before the downpour fell mercilessly on the valley. The humidity is palpable in the air; the whole forest, with all its corners and fissures are iridescent and smelling of earth.

Hashirama presses Madara against the nearest wall and pins him there, covering him with his full size and weight. The urgency that intoxicates him is such that Hashirama has forgotten to create a new mokuton door and, consequently, the water is now splashing inside the cave, forming small puddles here and there.

He yanks Madara’s clothes open, urgently. His hands quick and trembling, as if he’s walking blind, for the stormy clouds have brought the night prematurely, although it is not yet nightfall, and now, it is almost impossible to see anything else inside that place.

Uchiha Madara’s clothes fall heavy to the ground, soaked. One after another, they form a new puddle at their feet. Madara kicks them aside, not ever looking. All his attention is set on the sensations he’s feeling on the surface of his skin, on the teeth that bite him here and the tongue that caress him there. He parts his lips urgently for a gasp of air and as he does, a moan erupts from them engulfing the cave.

He remains still and motionless, dead of shame. Madara feels Hashirama’s smile pressed against his neck, as he listens: “Can you feel it too, Madara?” His voice raspy in his ear. “This urgency? This… need?”

And Madara nods, because of that he is certain. He feels the raw need in his guts, that unholy hunger consuming and reducing him to crumbs. He’s not the only one shaking with anticipation inside those stony walls, though. Madara can also feel Hashirama’s urgent flesh pressed to his bare belly, even though his friend is still wearing all his clothes. And soaked, they stick to his body, turgid and seductively like a second skin.

Madara embraces him while Hashirama continues to devour his neck and his chin, and the once fearful hands now roam freely, memorising his figure by touch and imagination. His silky, long hair; his broad and warm back; the narrowness of his waist, the long and shapely arms, his shoulders… He stops in pleasure at his well-marked forms, his flexed muscles and soft sensitive skin—all that together in union form the perfection that is Senju Hashirama.

“Ma-da-ra”

And the damned way he pronounces his name.

Madara rises his head by mere instinct, to let that daring tongue run from his sternum to his chin. Then, he feels it stop at his Adam’s apple as he swallows, but not for long, as Hashirama has changed his position and proceeds now to carefully mark his territory on him. First there, where his heart beats fast, passing through the perfect forms that rise and fall in his tummy, until reaching the dark hairy path that crowns his already erect passion. Hashirama buries his face there and inhales his pure essence.

“S-should you not take all of that off too?” Madara asks shuddering, his voice turning into a purr. “Your clothes, I mean.”

Hashirama grins against his skin.

“Later,” he replies, now staring at the suggestive flesh before him. Hashirama instinctively licks his lips and swallows, preparing to feed. He opens his mouth up and it disfigures into a grin when looking into Madara’s eyes. “If you don’t want this,” Hashirama says, the grin widening, “you just have to tell me.”

That’s the bloody problem, Senju, Madara wants to say. I want you to do it. His breathing is unsteady, his eyes, watering. Madara can imagine how quickly passion escalates: this is first and then, hell, then, Hashirama would take him to bed, where he would lay him down on all fours, and then…

“I-it’s not that,” Madara lies. Hashirama’s grin has disappeared, for he knows. If he doesn’t say something clever, the moment will pass, and he’ll just end up flaccid against his own leg for the rest of the night. “O-of course I want to, Hashirama!”

Hashirama rises, and places both hands on the stone walls, pinning Madara inside. No light is needed to see the sparkle in Hashirama’s eyes and by doing so, something is born inside Madara’s chest. Love is in Hashirama’s silent love confessions, in understanding his fears and identifying his insecurities.

Then, it is Madara the one encouraged to take the first step and lifts his head forward for a kiss. His friend opens his mouth and both tongues collide with ease and skill. Minutes pass and everything that happens in that wild world ceases to exist, except for that pair of hearts beating inside the cave.

“The other day, Madara,” Hashirama whispers later, when lying in bed, “you went fishing earlier than usual, so I followed you.” Madara feels a squeeze in his stomach, as he remembers the day he’s talking about. Hashirama’s lazy hand rests on Madara’s tummy, touching and acknowledging the scars that adorn his skin. “I searched for you in several places, for the stream is long and you never usually tell me where you’re going… till I found you.”

Fleeting memories of that day appear in his head: the fast fishing, the cold wind down the valley, the warm sun on his back, the sweet comfort of the tree, the flush on his face… a swift hand, warm seed on it, and thousands of thoughts of Hashirama.

He swallows hard and waits for him to continue, as Madara doesn’t know what to say. His head rests empty. Hashirama’s hand moves in response to his silence, and it lowers to his frizzy hair, to catch that wondrous thing resting against his leg.

“Would you forgive me, Madara, if I admit I saw you?” He whispers, but Madara can barely hear him over the wild rush of blood in his ears. “Would you pardon me if I told you that… I enjoyed it?”

The cave is dark by then. Madara looks away, at the iron curtain that continues to fall outside, but now with less intensity.

“I didn’t stay long, because I knew it was wrong,” Hashirama continues. “And, as I was leaving, I heard you.” Madara’s heart skips a beat. “Oh, Madara, the way you whispered my name when you were about to finish…”

Hashirama’s hand increases its pace and now, Madara doesn’t know if he should focus on the swirling sensations in his gut, on his insecurities, or just ride the tide. Suddenly, he begins to raise his hips to match the rhythm of Hashirama’s hand.

“I left and gave you time to finish, you know? To steady yourself. I like to think I am a gentleman myself.” adds Hashirama with half a grin, his hand inclement and fast. “And when we were coming back to our cave, darling, I was thinking of all possibilities—of everything I would do to you so that you’d cry my name again, Madara, but now out loud and before me.” Hashirama leans over and kisses him, biting his lip. Madara wipes the blood button with his tongue a second later. “I couldn’t do much that night, though, but I didn’t mind, as I assured myself that we could continue next morning. And, in the end… You. Were. Not. Here. Goddammit.”

“Language,” Madara whimpers.

“Bloody hell, Uchiha Madara.”

Madara bites his lip and his teeth colours in crimson.

“Please, Madara,” Hashirama begs in his ear. “I need you.”

An indomitable fear gnaws at his insides with ill anticipation. It would be easy for him to just say yes. What was there to lose? Wasn’t that what he was wishing for in the first place?

Last-minute nerves? Asks the voice inside his head. You said you wouldn’t stop him if…

Madara’s face looks uncomfortable and worried. Seeing him, Hashirama moves away instantly, as if Madara’s inner fire had reached to him. He can almost hear that evil voice in his head bursting into laughter.

“I need you too,” Madara assures him, and he is not lying, hell, one has just to look at him to notice that he is in the same cruel need as his friend.

“But not here, right?” Asks Hashirama, a soft smile in on his face. “Not here,” he answers himself. Not here.

Madara doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. In the end, his seed ends up on his own belly, as usual. Both their bodies sprayed in dew. And from each of their pores, disguised as sweat, gushes the delicious ichor that is born from the purest entrails of the mountain.

Hashirama helps him clean, carefully.

Cooooward! The voice laughs.

“It doesn’t have to be today, or tomorrow, Madara.” Hashirama insists in a whisper by his ear, yet his words fluttered around the cave, echoing his own words spoken days ago. He leans down once more, and that soft kiss is the definition of tenderness. “Only when you’re ready,” Hashirama adds with half-closed eyes, smiling lazily.

The illusion ends right there, when Madara feels his clothes get damp from a precocious seed. He cast a curse to the wind, as he surveys the size of the damage. The stain can be covered with his clothes as he has done before. He waits a little longer before cleaning himself off and gazes once more at the glistening seed resting on his fingers.

Madara can hardly wait to see him again. What was he thinking when he left him that night? He was already a man, yet he acted still like a child. Fucking hell.

Once the passion has vanished, the cold begins to climb through his limbs again. He rises and decides that there is no reason not to go to sleep now. It is so similar to the nights where Madara would escape to the forest to touch himself, for he always felt it impossible to do something like that inside the tent he shared with Izuna.

Madara adjust his clothes as best he can and lets his hair fall loose with the breeze. He hides the necklace, so that it hangs freely under his clothes.

Then, he feels a change in the air; a presence whose change is slight and silent. Madara walks over to the edge and looks for any movement below; he closes his eyes and tries to find any perceptible change and then, there it is. Down there is a stealthy and fast runner, who entered through the opposite side of the city, and is heading for Nekobaa’s building, as if it knew the way by heart. It is obvious that the runner is used to those dark streets; he has been there before.

He gets down quickly and prepares to intercept him in the streets surrounding Nekobaa’s. There is not much for the newcomer to do, really. Turning into an alley, this speedy shinobi stops as he bumps into a sinister shadow in front of him. The glowing eyes and long flowing hair serve as a sinister omen, yet Madara knows instantly that he has been recognised.

“Madara-sama,” the newcomer greets him before giving him a quick bow. He lets out a sigh of relief and uncovers his face. Madara half recognizes the young man. He is one of Izuna’s friends, though his name escapes him. “Naori sends this message.”

He notes that the note is addressed to Izuna. Madara takes a minute to read the missive and so, he freezes. “Izuna is inside,” he tells the young Uchiha and hands him the letter. Only when he is left alone in the alley, does he think about the content of the letter as it should. In his mind, few words linger: Attack. Uzumaki. Dead.

When was the last time he saw Hashirama? No survivors. Suddenly, he cannot remember. That Uzumaki girl… Mito, she mentioned something about her family, did she not? Come back soon. He cannot remember a goddamned thing, for at that time, he was utterly possessed by the vilest jealousy watching the sassy flirtations of that beautiful redhead to his friend.

Madara remembers traces of the conversation: Mito’s father was on his way to the alliance compound too. But that was days ago and by then, they should have already arrived. How many more Uzumaki were on the way? That kunoichi impressively handled the Kyuubi by herself, so how likely was she to be ambushed… and then, Hashirama—wasn’t he following her?

He gasps for breath and leans against a wall as he tries to think straight. Hashirama is the best shinobi among the Senju; the best of any clan… only Madara could face him in battle. The God of Shinobi, he was called from a young age. Senju Hashirama, the miraculous boy who grows life from his very hands.

It is ridiculous to even think that something so insignificant could have happened to Hashirama. Besides, Naori knows him well. Had something happened to him… his name would have been written in the letter too, is it not?

The wind runs cold in the dark; it lacerates his body. Hashirama. He moves a foot and the other follows, back into the building. My Hashirama. There is movement in the tunnels, the chakras are grouping, getting closer.

 

* * *

 

Izuna was awake when the messenger arrived. He was waiting for his brother to return, even though he told him not to. He wasn’t the only stubborn Uchiha there, anyway.

“You cannot leave yet, Nii-san,” Izuna insists for the umptieth time, while he watches Madara prepare the things he will take with him on his trip. “You just arrived yesterday, as well; you have hardly rested, you have not even slept for a moment!”

“There is no time to rest, Izuna!” Madara growls and seeing his little brother opening his eyes in surprise, he understands his mistake and bites his tongue. The tabby cat gets restless too and mewls at him from the corner of the room. “Forgive me, Izuna. It’s just that I...”

Izuna nods and sighs. He shortens the space between them and traps his older brother in his arms, causing the things Madara was carrying in his hands to fall to the ground.

Madara returns the hug, almost suffocating him. Izuna listens to his brother’s restless breathing. He feels his chest rise and fall irregularly. It seems that he is already running, that he is short of breath, and he still hasn’t left yet.

It’s been this way since Izuna has memory usage. His hugs manage to weaken the shield his brother raised to stay alone and pretend that nothing is happening inside him, when Izuna himself could clearly hear Madara’s heart breaking into pieces.

“I’m not telling you no to go, just to wait a couple of days before leaving.” Izuna whispers. His words stifled in his older brother’s chest. “What good will it do you to leave in a hurry, Nii-san? Even if you do, it will take you three days or more to arrive.”

It will already be too late. Whether Hashirama is dead or alive, Izuna muses, his brother’s hasty departure would not change anything.

“I… I shouldn’t have left him alone,” is Madara’s reply. He speaks slowly, so that his voice is understandable despite the hoarseness with which the words came from his lips. “He is very strong and capable, but he is also absent-minded and reckless. Sometimes, he can really be a fool…”

Izuna senses a hard figure hanging under Madara’s clothes, though he decides not to say a word about it.

“I’m sure he’s already home, with his brother and clan.” Izuna says and this time, he does make his words sound sincere. “Otherwise, Naori would have written us. She would have told us, Nii-san. She… is aware of how much you love him.”

They both loosen their hug and that allows Izuna to look him in the eye. His brother’s eyes look empty and serene, without any trace of tears.

“Naori, is she still waiting for me?” Madara’s words are said with no other intention than to calm the waters.

Izuna nods and takes his distance. “When you get home,” he says, “you will have to talk to her about this matter.”

The imperative voice that came from his lips leaves him stunned. He had never even dared to think of ordering his older brother around. Either way, Madara ends up nodding too. “I will,” he promises. Madara not only inherited the stubbornness of his blood, but his pride as well.

It does not make sense to delay his departure. Once Uchiha Madara has put something on his head, he won’t stop until he accomplishes it.

Madara has few belongings in Sora-ku: the clothes he wears and nothing else. Now, though, he will also carry a waterskin and a pair of sharp kunai. As his brother changes, Izuna catches a glimpse of an object tinkling in the dark, hanging from his neck. He notes his brother touches it through his clothes from time to time, especially when he thinks he’s not being watched.

“I will wait until dawn,” Madara says from his futon. “At least that way, I can boast of having rested a bit, right?”

Izuna looks at his brother as if he were insane, there are only a few hours left until dawn. Either way, Izuna manages to fake a smile, though Madara is not looking, as he has turned his eyes away, to the gunbai still leaning against the wall.

“You must take it with you,” Izuna says, reading his thoughts. “Tomorrow, when you leave.”

Madara turns instantly, his face slightly flushed. “Do you think it convenient?” he shrugs. “I am no clan head.”

That is the bloody problem, Nii-san, you are.

“I brought it here with the sole intention for you to use it.” Izuna replies. “If you do not take it with you, well, then I’ll have carried it all the way for nothing. And let me tell you, Nii-san, that it is not light at all.”

Izuna looks across the room and sees a white line shining on his brother’s face in the obscurity: a shy and sincere smile.

“Alright, then,” Madara says after a while. It took him that long to answer, that Izuna got the idea he had already fallen asleep. “I’ll take it with me, Izuna. One last battle by my side.” The youngest Uchiha has no idea what to answer, so he does not say a word.

Madara dozes off. Izuna wishes that, for once, he would fall asleep deeply and not wake up until well into the next day, but nothing of the sort happens. A few hours later, when the deep darkness that precedes dawn covers the city, his brother is the first of them to be on his feet. He goes and opens the door so the cat can go out to look for food.

He turns instantly as if he had heard Izuna breathing. The older Uchiha is already dressed for his journey, the gunbai and kama hanging from his back. A pouch also dangles from his hip; there is no way back. Madara’s leaving.

Izuna does not know what to do. His brother has just arrived, they met again hours before, why does everything have to be like this? The mere memory of that idiot Senju has served to liquefy his brother’s brains.

“We’ll follow you in a couple of days,” Izuna says as he stands. He ties his hair in a loose ponytail. “Perhaps such a trip will not be a problem for the great Uchiha Madara, but the boys need to rest. We came with the idea of spending some time here; I thought it would be harder for me to make you go back home.”

Madara replies with a grin and walks over to catch him back into his arms. Izuna feels a tightness inside his chest, and he can barely hold back the urge to cry.

“I wish you could stay here, Izuna, where I can be sure you would be safe.”

Izuna shies away from his brother, to look into his eyes. “I do not need to hide, Nii-san.” Madara widens his eyes in surprise. “What would father think if he saw me hide while our people are in danger? What would that make me?”

“I’m telling you now, just like I told you the day our father passed, I’m not going to hide until all this is over—as long as we are shinobi, these wars will continue happening… such is our nature. And I may be young, but I can handle this. I am your brother, the closest to you in blood—I hope I have inherited at least a little bit of all your greatness and that one day you may notice it.”

The younger Uchiha leaves the room slamming the door and Madara, who has done the same thing countless times in the past, knows that it is best to leave him alone.

When Madara comes down from the building, he does it on his own. His hostesses are preparing to follow him to the city gates, to bid him farewell: Tamaki barely supressing her tears; her grandmother surrounded by her cats, especially the grey tabby that has followed his steps during his short stay there.

Nothing escapes Nekobaa and she notices that the cat in question is melancholic and sad, constantly meowing or rubbing her face against his legs. “She will miss you very much. She has taken a lot of affection for you.”

Madara crouches and scratches the cat behind her ears. “I remember her now,” he says to the old woman. A soft smile is on his face. “She is the same cat I used to play with as a child, when I accompanied my father.”

Nekobaa shakes her head, though she doesn’t stop grinning. “It is her mother the cat you remember. Many years have passed since then, Madara. Come back for her as soon as everything is resolved. She will fill any place you call home with light.”

Madara nods. “I will.” And as if she had understood him, the cat is encouraged to return to the arms of her peculiar old human.

Through the tunnel come the Uchiha, ready as well, to continue their journey back home. Izuna is in the lead; his collar high, his katana hanging from his hip and a wide grin in the face.

“What’s all this, Izuna?” Madara asks. He does not sound happy at all.

“What kind of a leader would I be if I’m left behind?” asks instead. “If I did, then it would only reinforce their idea of me as a wimpy immature kid.” Ah, pride, as always. It’s that damned Uchiha pride what makes those two boys always act with insanity.

Madara looks at Nekobaa and the wicked grin on her face makes him understand that she knew. There’s no reason for them to delay, then. The Uchiha are escorted to the city gates. Behind them, the first rays of the sun begin to make their way through the buildings.

Before they leave, Madara turns again to pay his respects to his nice hostess.

“Listen to your heart, Uchiha Madara,” says the old woman and her words make him shiver. “Follow your instincts and live.”

He strides pass the gates, and the Uchiha follow him with a firm step. He can hear Izuna’s light feet reaching for him. Ahead, the road seems endless.

When they’re about halfway the desert, with the sun almost at their heels, he stops abruptly, feeling a squeeze in his gut. He gapes at the surroundings and closes his eyes, trying to concentrate. There, not far from him, something is coming, moving… something familiar.

Izuna comes to his side and asks if he’s feeling alright. Madara shakes his head, thinking he has lost his mind. “It was… it felt like Hashirama’s chakra, but how can that be, Izuna?”

“You’re exhausted,” is his brother’s explanation. Behind them, the rest of the Uchiha arrive and wait. “You are tired and raving.”

Madara licks his dry lips and Izuna opens his own waterskin and offers it to him. He accepts it; just one drink will do clear his mind. It’s like a mirage, Izuna thinks, as he watches him drink. The inclement sun of this desert deceives you. “It’s a cruel mirage that shows you what you long for the most, Nii-san, to divert you from your path.” Izuna dares to say out loud.

He gives his little brother his waterskin back and wipes his lips with the back of his gloved hand.

“Let’s continue,” Madara says as he restarts his pace. His clanmates look at each other before following him. “Let’s keep going.”

Ahead. Ahead. Ahead.

Madara leads the way with Izuna at his back. He runs close to him, just to be ready to catch him in case fatigue knocks him to the ground.

But again, it happens; the sting is now in his chest, and he cannot be wrong. And he does not plan on disobeying Nekobaa that soon either. He cannot be wrong on that, not about that! Without stopping, Madara switches and speeds to his left. His swift feet lighten and take the same step he used when running away from Hashirama. Soon, the rest of the Uchiha, Izuna included, are following far behind.

Faster, dammit, faster. He cannot be wrong. That chakra is Hashirama’s. How is he not going to recognise it? He hasn’t been able to get rid of that scent since the day they met by the river. It is him. It must be him. Faster.

With each step he takes, that chakra grows bigger, stronger, more intoxicating. He can almost smell it; it is suffocating and arousing. There is no doubt. His mouth waters and from the corners of his eyes, tears of longing begin to stream, but they end up evaporating before they even caress his cheeks.

Hashirama.

He flies at such at speed that Izuna’s chakra is now far away, almost unrecognisable. And from the skies comes a screeching noise that pulls him out of thoughts. Madara widens his eyes in surprise.

“Tomoe, Tomoe!” He cries, and throws a bare arm into the air, not caring about her sharp talons. When Madara sees the bird hovering above him, he finally stops. “Tomoe, why do we always meet in the least expected places, you silly girl.”

The falcon responds with a chirp, as delighted as the man himself.

“Tomoe?” Asks a deep voice behind him. “I’ve been calling her ‘little bird’ all this time.”

The falcon flies away from Madara’s arm and only then does he regain his sense of time and space. He turns slowly and there, few metres in the distance, is Senju Hashirama, in the flesh.

Madara opens his mouth, and a silent prayer forms his name. Hashirama sees he is stunned and decides that he will be the one to close the gap.

“I’m sick and tired of you running away, Uchiha Madara.” Hashirama growls as he approaches him. He does not even look like the dapper man he used to be. His face and clothes are dirty and in a deplorable state. Barely recognizable. “I am tired of you taking the liberty to think you know what’s best for me and holding yourself in such low regard that you think I’d be better off without you.” Now, they are separated by a couple of metres. “I also hate those insecurities of yours and that you think of me as an idiot not to see them, that you feel that stupid need to suffer in silence with all those thoughts you keep inside that head of yours—and for you to think that I could wish to spend the rest of my days in the company of someone other than you.” Less than a metre separates them now. “Why would you think you can escape from me—Oh, please, I am chained to your soul—haunted by your memory; I would find you anywhere.” Now, not half a step separates them. Hashirama rises a hand and reaches for his face. “I love you, Uchiha Madara. Now and always, since the day that grumpy boy challenged me to throw pebbles into the river; since the day that pensive lad understood my silences and helped me endure them. That boy, who understood my dreams and helped me shape them.” A fleeting kiss arrives; Madara eagerly returns it. And one more. And another, and another—suddenly they cannot stop. “In the end, the biggest dream is you, Madara. It has always been you.”

Madara is impressed and his face grows red. He manages to reply: “A-anything else, Senju?”

Hashirama grins. His words appear to die in his tongue and hesitates a bit. “…Yes,” answers the fool. He knocks Madara down and gets on top of him, pinning him against the sand. “Madara, would you—?” Hashirama gulps, then, averts his gaze, his face all red. He clears his throat and finally says, “Madara, do not run away from me again.”

Madara can barely breathe, though he does not complain, for it sure is a delicious weight. His entire body trembles. “Never,” he assures him and now means it.

The falcon soars joyfully above and far behind the lovebirds, a cloud of sand rises high with each hurried step of the Uchiha.

Unconscious to everything in the world other than the young man lying beneath him, that stupid and presumptuous Senju tilts his head with half a smile. Hashirama cups his face with one broad hand and his thumb draws the outline of the soft lips he just kissed, “Madara.”

 

* * *

 

They had spent a long time suffering under the hostile desert sun, so when evening came, accompanied with the first cool breezes from the mountains, they embraced them with pleasure, even though their hairs stood on end.

The Uchiha and their peculiar guest prepare their camp on the outskirts of the first forest they come across. Some have brought freshly cut wood and others prepare to go find their dinner; and others—Izuna included—have gone to a nearby stream to wipe off their sweat and sand.

He and a trio of Uchiha find themselves in the water, though he’s the only one left out of the conversation, caught up in his own memories instead. It is hard to escape memories when there are little reminders in sight and the itch, he feels on his left side is a constant reminder of his past actions.

Izuna remembers himself in the very last battle between an Uchiha and a Senju. He had worn his brother’s old clothes and even though they belonged to Madara when he was his age, they were still huge on him.

That Senju talked to him, but the lethargy he felt in his body was such that everything he saw or heard him say, began to blur, until he almost lost consciousness. Izuna remembers the fall that never came; he does remembers seeing his world turn around and lose his balance, but he never reached the ground. A pair of arms had prevented him. Tobirama was about to place him on the ground, but his Uchiha pride awoke in that instant, forcing him to stand on his own.

He ended up leaning against a tree, while that stupid Senju tried to heal him.

“It is impossible,” grunted Tobirama. “My chakra cannot penetrate your clothes. You’ll have to take it off.”

Izuna suppressed a groan. He did not even have the strength for that. Yet, he had obeyed, and the top half of his body laid exposed. The wind was cold, and it lacerated his open flesh. Though none of that had compared to the burning feeling that came hand in hand with the flow of Tobirama’s warm chakra into his wound.

“Why are you doing this?” Izuna asked him after a while. His words sounded somewhat incomprehensible as he had to bite his lip to supress a groan of pain.

Tobirama had taken his time answering him. His attention was well paced on his work.

“Because I cannot settle truces with a dead man.” His gaze locked on Izuna’s for an instant before he returned it to the half-closed wound under his hand. “Do not move so much; endure the pain.”

Izuna was about to cry, the pain had overcome him. He remained for a long time leaning against the tree while his old enemy saved his life.

“Was it Tobirama who healed you?” His memories fade upon hearing Hashirama’s voice behind him. Izuna blinks and before him is his own self, reflected on the dancing water. He hadn’t even realised that he was left alone.

Izuna finishes his bath and gets out of the water, to confront him. He searches behind the Senju, but there is no sign of his brother. Izuna remembers his question and ends up nodding.

“He was also the one who hurt me,” Izuna replies, “the night we called the truce.”

Hashirama smiles, perhaps at the mention of his own brother, perhaps because of the truce, who knows? Instead, he sends his eyes to the red mark Izuna wears on his left flank. The scar is obvious on his pale skin.

“I suspect Madara is not aware of that.”

Izuna tenses up and avoids his gaze. He does not respond until he has finishing dressing. “If he knew, he wouldn’t have allowed me to come with him.”

“And with good reason.” Hashirama’s voice sounds stern, like the one Tajima used on him. “From the state of that wound, it is easy to tell that it has not healed yet. It is deep and I’m surprised it didn’t open during your journey.”

Izuna stays silent. He stares at the horizon, where the sun is setting behind the mountains. “I can finish healing you if you want to, Izuna. Right here, so Madara won’t notice.”

Why bother if it’s not your damned problem, he wants to groan, but lacks courage.

He tightly ties his waistband, and the pressure burns his wound, though he manages to hide the pain. “What about my brother?” Izuna asks instead. “How come you are not with him?”

Hashirama’s expression changes and a hint of nostalgia appears on his face.

“Madara has been taciturn all afternoon.” Hashirama shrugs. “If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he is hiding me something.”

Izuna senses what may be going on his Madara’s head but prefers to remain silent. He is not in the position, nor the mood to solve the love problems of his older brother. “Maybe he needs to rest, that is all,” is what he manages to say.

Slowly, he begins to walk heading back to the camp, leaving Hashirama behind, who is now approaching the stream. In the nearby trees, hundreds of birds chirp incessantly as they fight each other for the best places to roost.

“Sure,” Hashirama says. Izuna does not turn around, but he can hear Hashirama removing the remnants of his clothes. “He went hunting and although I offered myself to accompany him, he asked me to stay.” The dull sound of heavy clothes falling on pebbles is his own response, so he adds in a bitter voice: “He took one of your clanmates instead.”

Izuna soon hears the splash of water as he enters it. Unintentionally, his eyes wander to the clothes lying disorderly on the pebbles. “You’ll need new clothes.”

Hashirama laughs from the water. “Guess I will.”

“We carry a change in our stuff,” says the boy. “The problem, Senju, is that they are all Uchiha attires.”

“I don’t see the issue at all.”

A grin begins to appear on Izuna’s face, and little by little, it grows bigger until it covers most of its surface. He imagines the gesture Senju Tobirama would make when he sees his dear older brother coming back home dressed as an Uchiha. He can almost see his frown already, and his lips twirling into a disgusted line.

“Touma is almost as tall as you; I’m sure his clothes fit you.” Says Izuna with his gaze lost into the void. The fire in the camp is already taking shape. Probably his brother has returned already. The grin is still on his face as he adds, “I’ll go get you some clothes, Senju.”

“It sounds perfect to me, Izuna.” Hashirama replies from the stream, as he rubs his hair. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

The moon is full when he sees Hashirama coming, and he is so shocked with his image, that his heart begins to gallop uncontrollably inside his chest. His shiny hair, moonlit; his radiant eyes and the expression lines marked by an omnipresent smile. And best of all, he now comes dressed as an Uchiha.

He can feel a growing tension under his clothes, so he fixes his gaze anywhere else, remembering they are not alone.

On a high branch sleeps his falcon, and in the distance, among the darkness of the trees, there’s a curious fox, watching attentively and slobbering for a part of the delicious food that is being prepared on the bonfire.

Madara absently moves the small stones on the gravel where he is sitting in. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Hashirama approaching.

“Hello,” Hashirama whispers as he sits next to him. The bole makes a noise with the increase in weight. He smells of the stream and rocks kissed by the rain.

It is impossible for Madara to hide his blush when the night is so bright. To control the tremors in his hands, he intertwines his fingers together and hides them between his legs. “Hello,” he replies in another whisper.

Nothing more is said while dinner lasts. Madara is a great fisherman and the last fish coming down from the mountains looking for warm currents didn’t stand a chance against his skilful hands. A young Uchiha notices the fox and goes over to throw the remnants of his dinner at it, and everyone laughs in harmony when they see the little animal escape grateful with his gift.

The camp is wrapped in different aromas: those of fish being cooked, the sap that still flows from the stacked logs that will feed the fire throughout the night, and the perfume of the trees as they are moved by the night breeze.

He is also intoxicated by Hashirama’s own scent, although Madara suspects that this is something that torments him alone. He stares into the flames and all the Uchiha there, Izuna included, have started chatting amongst themselves.

Madara plays with the stick in his hands and feels an impossible increase in weight on the crystal hanging from his neck. Perhaps the gem is eager to finally hang around the neck of its rightful owner. He just needs to find the perfect opportunity, the right place to give it to him and…

“Did you say something?” Madara inquires without hesitation seeing that Hashirama is speaking to him.

The Senju’s smile is huge, for he knows Madara was so lost in his thoughts that he hasn’t heard a word. He repeats, “I asked if you are tired.”

Madara rises an eyebrow and the playful gleam in Hashirama’s grin turns his stomach.

“N-not really.” His heartbeat is untamed, and he is short of breath. It is too much. He’s sure his blush is easy to see in the dark. “What about you?” He asks. “You really haven’t rested at all. You must be… oh, exhausted.”

Hashirama’s still grinning and looks away, up to the moon, which is already rising. “I am a bit tired, yes, but not exhausted.”

Of course. “Who am I talking to but the God of Shinobi himself, right?” Madara replies with a shy smile and Hashirama reciprocates.

Izuna’s friend, has stood up and now is singing aloud with the rest. Izuna laughs and cast glances towards his brother from time to time. Madara recognises the song, but in a different tune; it was his mother’s favourite, the one lullaby she used to sing him in bed.

“Can I… Madara, can I see your arm?” Hashirama asks in his ear, his voice loud under the Uchiha chants. Madara stares, confused; the Senju elaborates: “Tomoe landed on your bare arm. And, as I recall from your falconry lessons, her talons are sharp and can tear your skin off.”

Madara looks at him surprised that he remembered. Indeed, he was hurt, though the fault was not his beautiful bird’s but his. He reluctantly accepts and taking advantage that his clanmates are busy singing among themselves, he lifts his sleeve up to his elbow and shows him his arm. The wounds are deep, but they do not endanger his member. It will be quick.

Hashirama wastes no time, and his hands instantly glow green atop Madara’s arm. He remains quiet. Madara’s stomach churns; Hashirama works silently, never taking his attention from the wounds. Madara is so used to being healed by him, that he is no longer fazed by the pain. Every little sting he feels in the pit of his stomach comes from the mere presence of Hashirama.

“Done,” he murmurs when finished, as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

Madara feels a squeeze in the gut. “Thank you,” he tells him, unable to take his eyes off his.

“You do not have to.”

Then, they fall into yet another awkward silence.

They have a lot to tell each other, but Madara does not feel confident enough to doing it near all those ears. All the shinobi present are young men. Izuna is the youngest of them all, and the oldest Uchiha is just a few months older than Hashirama in age. Only some of them were in real battles against the Senju; the rest, did not really know Hashirama except for the talking that was told among the clan. Gossip that also included him, about their prodigy, the great Uchiha Madara and his Senju lover, with whom he ran away from home.

There are no more songs around the fire. Now, they are talking about how cold it is; who will be the first to take the watch; the fox over there and that owl over here; the sleeping falcon on the tree… In the meantime, the paranoid instinct that governs Madara’s thoughts continues with its tortures, causing him feeling fleeting glances, prying ears, and pointing invisible fingers on him.

Surely, they will all arrive with heavy tongues about all the things they will have to tell. They could hardly take their eyes off each other; their faces were two ripe pomegranates; they looked at their lips and opened their mouths, hungry for air and something more.

In that instant, Madara feels Hashirama pressing his thigh against his as he turns to throw his stick away. It is a normal reaction, but still, his blood runs cold. When Hashirama returns to his old position, his thigh remains pressed against Madara’s, unafraid or embarrassed, a natural and involuntary gesture.

Madara breaks out in a cold sweat and is silently grateful for the moment Izuna stands up and announces that it is time to choose who will take the first watch. Everyone volunteers, but Madara is quicker and stands up as well, as an excuse to put a proper distance from Hashirama. “I’ll be first,” he announces in a deep, calm voice.

Izuna turns to him with a raised eyebrow on his forehead. “You hardly slept last night, Nii-san. I’ll be first.”

Their men instantly refuse, seeing it impossible for the heirs of Tajima—the leader they grew up with—to take such a task.

“Izuna,” Madara utters with a voice that stands above the rest. He fixes his eyes on his little brother’s and repeats, “I’ll be first.”

Hashirama chuckles, still sitting on the bole and Izuna turns to him with a frown. However, for him and the rest, it is impossible to disobey. So, sensing that his older brother has a huge reason to be left alone, he ends up agreeing, and instructs the rest to follow him to sleep.

“But you’ll wake me up in a couple of hours,” Izuna stops midway. “Will you, Nii-san?”

Madara hardly nods, “I will,” before returning to his seat next to Hashirama. He can see that his brother and clanmates have settled under the shelter of some trees, but even so his heart does not stop beating fast, in anticipation.

“Are you not going to rest too?” He asks Hashirama in a whisper, minutes later, still not daring meet his eyes.

Hashirama lets out a sigh before replying, “Not yet.”

They join again in silence. The firewood that he just threw into the flames cracks as it is embraced by the fire. Disperse clouds are gathering above, so they cannot see if there are any falling star. Only the moon remains immutable and observant, his eternal companion on lonely nights.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Hashirama whispers beside him, his words barely audible. He touches his hands through his body until he finds it. “The little bird was carrying this message in her foot when I found her.”

Madara turns to take the piece of paper and as he does, their fingers touch against each other. He opens the note and rises his eyebrows for he notices that it is indeed a message written by Uchiha hands.

“How did you get her to give it to you?” Madara is certainly interested and points the bird sleeping above them. “She is not given to trusting strangers, even if they are Uchiha. She only responds to certain people, really.”

Hashirama shrugs and looks away. “Maybe she recognised me; perhaps she remembered what I mean to you.”

They both giggle in unison. “You are a fool,” says Madara, before returning his attention to the piece of paper.

Madara reads it. It was written by Naori with the intention that it would reach Izuna’s hands. On this occasion, the message is concise: The Uzumaki who were traveling around the forest were ambushed by a bunch of sand shinobi, near the Uchiha compound, where I assume, they seek to pass off the shedding of that blood as ours. Come back soon, Izuna, and if you can, bring Madara with you. N.

He folds the paper again and thinks.

“Are you alright, Madara?” Hashirama asks in a whisper. The firelight marks the contours of his pretty features.

Madara opens his mouth to answer but prefers to bite his tongue. Hashirama has no notion of the ambush, nor the status of the alliance, nor his brother, nor his clan. He preferred ignorance in the pursuits of love.

Love.

It just still feels so unreal having him so close. Just that very morning he left Sora-ku in a hurry for he feared Hashirama would not be still alive. Everything has changed, his plans are now forgotten. He suddenly feels unable to hide him all that information.

“There has been an ambush in the forest surrounding the alliance compound, near the place where the Uchiha are settling; it was a group who was traveling to see your brother,” he says. Hashirama’s smile evaporates into thin air and his pretty eyebrows form into a frown. “All of them are dead. Naori says it was the work of the sand shinobi and calls Izuna and me to come back soon.”

Hashirama is now worried. His chakra feels uneasy. Madara hates seeing him like this, for he knows what he is going to ask him next: “And have they been identified? The dead, I mean.”

Madara bites the inside of his cheek before replying in a simple whisper, “Uzumaki. A bunch of Uzumaki shinobi.”

“What?” Hashirama hisses, instantly rising on his feet.

“Wait—!” Madara cries, grabbing him by his wrist, as if he could somehow prevent him from running away.

Noticing what he just did, and Hashirama’s shocked face, he lets go off his hand as if it were red hot. Madara stares into the fire, trying to calm his racing heart and soon feels Hashirama sitting next to him again. Then, Hashirama reaches for his hand in the dark and squeezes it when he finds it. Both speak at the same time:

“Madara.”

“I—”

Madara does not need to see Hashirama to know he is smiling. He can feel it in the slight streams of chakra penetrating the fabric of his glove, seeking to comfort him.

“You first,” Hashirama murmurs in his ear.

“I…” Madara begins. He lowers his face, and his features are lost in the darkness. “I left Sora-ku earlier today because I… I thought that—last night we got another note from home, telling us the same message.” He shrugs. “I guess Naori found it strange that we didn’t respond the letter she sent with the falcon, so… In that other letter, she mentioned that the victims were Uzumaki, and I thought that… I was worried about you, for I thought that you had gone home with Mito, and I just needed to be sure that you were still alive and…”

“Did you think I had gone with Mito?” Hashirama’s voice is so serious that Madara raises his face and moves the hair out of his eyes. “Really?” He seems to be furious. “Do you know me so little?” He shakes his head. “The night before you left, I assured you that I would follow you anywhere until I found you, and yet you still doubted me?”

“The others are sleeping, Hashirama,” Madara grunts.

Hashirama frowns and poses his dark eyes on the fire before them. “Do not change the subject.”

“You said you missed your brother and clan.”

“And I do!” Hashirama turns to him and shortens the distance between them and even being surrounded by half a dozen of sleeping youths, he dares to press his lips onto Madara’s. Madara feels his face fill with heat. “But I also thought I made it clear how much…”

“Ha-Hashirama—” Madara pleads in a whisper.

“…I love you.” A fleeting smile is born on his lips. A truthful, gleaming smile. “How can you continue doubting when I have travelled half the world running, searching for you—and I would do it again and again, just as many times as necessary!”

Madara looks up, at the bright moon above them. That night is too much alike that of their first kiss by the river. Suddenly, he remembers the crystal on his neck and pushing aside all the nerves, he says, “Hashirama.”

“Hmm?”

“I…” Madara shakes his head, before fixing his eyes on him. “Could you shut your eyes for a moment?”

Hashirama rises an eyebrow coquettishly and complies. “Oh?” He turns his face to the fire, his eyes tightly closed. “What are you up to now, Uchiha Madara?”

Ah, tranquillity has returned to them as the bad news has been left aside for the moment. There will be time for the horrors of war next day. In the meantime, there were still minutes left of his birthday.

Madara does not answer. Instead, he reaches under his clothes and takes off the crystal. It shines brightly in the moonlight. He holds it whole in his hand and places the necklace on his knee, before calling out to him, whispering a nervous, “You can see now, Hashirama.”

He feels sweat dripping from under his clothes, the uncontrollable flow of blood deafening him in the ear.

The Senju obeys instantly, and then follows the direction of Madara’s eyes, towards the glowing object on his knee. “It is a necklace? Can I?” He asks and seeing Madara nod, Hashirama takes it in his hand. He observes it, and his eyes sparkle with genuine interest. “Oh, it is beautiful, Madara.”

Madara cannot take his eyes off him. He feels a pressure in his chest and his face is as red as the wood feeding the fire. “It is, I—I thought of you as soon as I saw it.” Hashirama takes his eyes off the crystal and fixes them back on Madara’s. “And I thought that, it would be a good present for you.”

“A present?” Hashirama grins and looks at the pendant again. “Oh, Madara…”

“Happy birthday, Hashirama.”

Hashirama widens his eyes in surprise. Then, counts his fingers silently. “How so, has it been a month already?”

Madara forms a fist on his knees. “Do you like it, Hashirama?” He asks shyly.

“I love it.” Then, he leans in again for another kiss. “Thank you,” he says, caressing its surface. “Come help me put in on, can you?”

Madara feels a squeeze in his chest as Hashirama hands him the crystal. He gets closer until there is no space between them, and he watches Hashirama gather his hair and hold it up, to expose him his neck. That delicate bare skin, goddess, and now that he is so hungry. Madara places the necklace and ties it, his fingers intentionally touching his soft skin. Hashirama smells of the first rains of the season. His throat is so dry.

“Done,” Madara manages to say and then, Hashirama lets his hair fall free.

Hashirama looks at the pendant hanging above his chest, unable to stop himself from grinning like a fool. “Thank you, Madara, for remembering.”

An inarticulate sound is Madara’s response. He spent the entire afternoon thinking about what he would say to him and there, before the man himself, the words had just blown away. “I figured you’d like it.” Hashirama smile is huge, and so is his. “I figured it would look good on you.”

Among the flames, a log splits in two and its sap burns as it touches the fire. The first watchers of that night have discovered that the best use they can make of their lips is to press them against each other’s. Their gazes meet, and they forget everything that exists in that wild world, except the other.

“This is the best birthday ever, Madara,” Hashirama whispers with his lips barely parted from his lover’s. The distance shortens again, and they remain that way, for a good part of the night.

Notes:

Special thanks to Marina for choosing the names of the OCs in this chapter, even though she doesn't even watch naruto lol, but always listens enthusiastically as I tell her what the chapters are about

Chapter 5

Notes:

*"She's in Love With You" by Suzi Quatro starts playing*

‘Naori, we have found my brother and right now we are all heading back home. We'll be there soon, weather permitting.
Please let Tobirama know that his brother is also traveling with us.
We are all well.
I.’
Madara is in charge of placing the message on his falcon’s foot, as she calmly waits for him to finish.
It is a cold morning, not a slight trace of the sun has been seen yet, which remains hidden behind a huge, greyish cloud that covers the entire firmament.
For Tomoe it will be a fast journey. Madara has taken care of her since she hatched and has sent many other messages for him in the past and to far more inhospitable places. She will do the job well.
When he finishes, Madara pats her little head and the bird chirps in response, her little eyes wide and attentive. Hashirama approaches from one side of the Uchiha brothers, and the bird, who now trusts him, looks at him with interest.
“Fly carefully, will you, little bird?”
Both brothers look at each other, raising their dark eyebrows. Izuna snorts, but Madara dares to go further; he explains:
“She is the best of my falcons; I like to boast myself that I have taught her well.” A wide, proud smile spreads across his face. “She's done much more dangerous journeys before,” he adds, turning to Hashirama. “She will do just fine.”
Hashirama does not doubt it for a second, but it’s obvious that he knows something the Uchiha ignore. He waits in silence for the falcon to be ready. The bird looks at everyone before leaving and his small and intelligent eyes stop for a second on Hashirama, as if she was saying goodbye to him.
Madara then raises his arm and encourages her to go back home.
“Last night…” Hashirama whispers next to Madara when the falcon is far away. The Uchiha doesn’t take his eyes off the bird but tilts his head to one side very slightly. “I didn’t have a chance to tell you how I met your falcon, remember?”
Madara nods. His eyes still on Tomoe. “We could have talked about it, but…somehow, something distracted us.”
Hashirama giggles. “Yes, yes, we got a bit distracted...”
Apparently, the Senju is not much given to talking in secret, because Izuna, who is also standing next to them, points out: “Remember, that I'm still here and can hear you. You pair of idiots.” The little Uchiha is blushed and maybe a little annoyed.
Madara suppresses a smile and shakes his head.
In the end, everyone—Uchiha and Senju—look ahead, until the image of the falcon disappears.

* * *

“We met your brother about three days ago,” Sasuke Sarutobi says, grinning at Tobirama, who is giving him a sour look. He takes a sip from the cup he has on a hand, and the grin widens as he adds, “He seemed to be in quite a hurry. Said he was on his way to Sora-ku, according to him, to meet Uchiha Madara—though, of course he didn’t give me his name.”
Tobirama doesn’t say anything, although one can tell he’s a bit uncomfortable. Mito watches him form a fist on the table.
“He didn’t identify himself,” Sasuke continues, “your brother, I mean, although it was easy to tell it was him by his physical characteristics,” he shrugs. “As for the Uchiha Madara matter... well, I had heard that the two of them had run away together so, seeing Hashirama’s insistence on going to Sora-ku in search of ‘someone’ —it was just easy for me to know who he was talking about.”
Tobirama clears his throat; The entire tent falls silent.
“My brother has always been prone to go to extremes.” He says as an excuse, “especially with the things he is interested in.”
Nobody else says a word. In the main tent, besides them two and Mito, is also Tobirama’s cousin, Touka.
“Uchiha Naori has sent letters to Sora-ku,” interferes the latter, to save her cousin’s neck, “where she explains the circumstances at home and, perhaps, get my cousin Hashirama to return…”
Sasuke lets out a snort.
“Why would he come back now, when it’s taken him so long to escape out of here?”
That Sarutobi is observant and cunning. The word ‘escape’ hung uncomfortably in the air for a while.
To the Senju, Hashirama had not deserted, but remained hidden in the forest, evading his father’s wrath; something similar happened with the Uchiha, since, for them, Madara’s disappearance was due to the fact that he had been mortally wounded in battle and that, fearing reprisals from the Senju, he had preferred to wait in Sora-ku until he regained his strength.
Mito applauded both Tobirama and Izuna since it had been their plan. There is no shame in healing your wounds in a safe place. So, they could come back home with their heads held high.
“And this Naori you speak of,” asks the astute Sarutobi, “shouldn’t she be here as well?”
Tobirama lets out a tired sigh and looks for some excuse to give.
But Mito is much quicker: “She warned us that she couldn’t be present.” Tobirama and Touka turn to her, somewhat shocked to see her lie in favour of an Uchiha. “Actually… you know what? I’ll go find her right now.”
“Mito, that’s not necessary,” says Tobirama.
“No problem, really,” she replies, heading for the door, “I’ll see you guys later.”
Mito leaves Tobirama’s tent, for it is a relief for her to leave the scene, as the meeting was becoming tedious.
Five days have passed since then.
She sent a couple of letters home, telling what really happened, fearing fake news will get through and cause even worse chaos in the islands.
The sun is barely rising behind the mountains, and the cold breeze coming down the forest is icy to the touch. The days are getting colder. Most of the villagers wear thicker clothes now and it is very common to see whole groups of people gathered around the fire, rubbing their hands together vigorously as they chat in the evenings.
Everything has changed. These distant lands are very different from home. The islands are usually warm most of the year, so Mito is intrigued to experience the change of seasons in the forest and even has the illusion that she might see the snow fall.
She is imagining just that, the forest covered in a white blanket, when she sees Uchiha Naori heading to the village’s main entrance. Mito frowns and crosses her arms at chest level. And where does she go so calmly to? Shouldn’t she even worry a little about going to the meeting to give her point of view, as a clan leader should?
Pulled by the invisible strings of curiosity, Mito walks away from Tobirama’s tent, and follows. Naori is carrying a long bow and a quiver slung across her back. The young Uchiha gets into an argument with the guards at the entrance and it lasts for a few minutes before she manages to emerge victorious, heading to the forest.
There are people in charge of going hunting and she, of course, is not one of them. That Uchiha is up to something, so Mito decides to follow her.
“Tobirama-sama has decreed that no one enters...”
“...Or leaves the compound without a forceful motive,” Mito agrees to the guard who prevents her from leaving. “I am aware of that, good man; I was present when he decreed it.”
Both guards look at each other and then, at the young redhead before them.
“However, we are in dangerous times, and we must be prepared for when our enemies decide to attack again,” Mito continues. “I also go to my archery practice, along with that Uchiha lady.”
There haven’t been the necessary introductions between the inhabitants of the village, so, except for the clan leaders and a few busybodies, no one else knows who this peculiar red-haired young woman is, and that includes that pair of men.
“Miss, you don’t carry a bow,” one of the guards points out.
Mito breaks out in a cold sweat, though she tries to look sure of her words.
“Naori and I will share hers… as we always do.”
The guards raise their eyebrows high in their foreheads.
“Tobirama doesn’t have to know about this.” Mito looks determined, her eyes fierce. She is not going to let herself be stopped by anyone. “And even if he does—” says the Uzumaki girl as she leaves the compound, “he is just an interim leader, yet to be voted. Good morning, gentlemen.”
And she runs in the direction where she saw Naori disappear.
Minutes later, she hears the murmur of running water in a nearby river and her feet are drawn to it as if moving by their own. Her instinct is not wrong: standing on the sandbank, is Uchiha Naori, ready to shoot a specific tree, where she has marked a target on.
Mito waits in silence, and just as the arrow ends up penetrating the wrong tree, she does dare to come out of her hiding place towards Naori.
Naori watches her arrive as she goes to retrieve the arrow from the tree. She is not happy to see an intruder there, and she does not even bother to hide her displeasure face when she sees who it is. She takes aim again, not caring about the Uzumaki.
“Tobirama has told me a lot about you,” Mito says from a safe distance. The Uchiha smirks without taking her aim off.
She releases the arrow and this time it does hit the indicated tree, but still below the target. Naori goes to pick up the arrow. “Don’t believe him a word; Senju Tobirama knows nothing about me.” She replies, sending Mito a half smile. “Although—I have managed to get him to tell me certain things about you, Uzumaki Mito.”
Naori aims and releases. The arrow cuts the air between them again; this time, it almost hits the target.
“Oh?” Mito says, and this time, she is the one who takes the arrow out of the tree to return it to Naori.
Naori nods and thanks her. “He told me that he chose you as his brother’s wife-to-be.” The Uchiha shrugs and aims. “It’s a shame that Hashirama thinks so differently, I’m afraid.”
As the next arrow flies by, it takes Mito’s grin with it. Now it is Naori who has to go and collect the arrow by herself. When she returns to the launch point, the frown has returned to Mito’s face.
“Well,” Mito utters. She knows that Naori is listening, while she pretends to be aiming at the tree, “Tobirama also told me about your status as Uchiha Madara’s official bride and, let me tell you that, when I met him in the forest, he didn’t seem to be very... um, interested in return to his woman.
Naori lowers the arrow and turns to her. Mito can see that she has managed to hit the centre of her heart.
“We are not the same, alright?” The Uchiha says. “You didn’t grow up with Hashirama, sighing every time he passed by you and always dreaming with the ridiculous hope that one day he would choose you as his wife, did you?”
Naori aims again, but her fury is such that it has clouded her mind to the point that the arrow ends up lost in the undergrowth. Fortunately, her quiver is abundant with them.
“I grew up with the idea that one day I would marry some shinobi to form an alliance, just like my mother did,” Mito begins to say without really knowing why. Naori draws another arrow and takes aim again, though it’s quite obvious she’s paying attention to Mito. “Politics, after all. So, I made up my mind that I wouldn’t have a love marriage.” The arrow flies out. “Oh, come, I didn’t even know about this Senju Hashirama until a month ago.” Mito lets out a kind of laugh. “All I knew of him was from the descriptions my father gave me, but,” she shrugs, “he was too a man, how was he going to describe the details that matter to a young girl like me? When I left home, I ran into certain people who did know of Hashirama and from there, I made a mental image of what he would be like; I knew he was a strong shinobi, but I didn’t know if he was attentive, or interesting, or if he would be nice to me, or if he was even a bit attractive… it was a relief that he was all that, of course.”
Naori lets out a laugh as she returns from picking up the arrow. “You’ll get over him,” she tells Mito, winking. “Besides, you’re already free. Now there is no one forcing you to marry anyone against your will. And although Tobirama pretends that he is saving the position of leader for when his brother returns, we all know that this is not the case, that he is making merits to keep the position and it is obvious that he will not marry against his will just for some alliance.”
“The obligation of a leader is to protect their people, and alliances are vital, especially with young villages—”
Naori shoots again, and it almost hit the target. “You are the leader of your clan now; if you want to join the Senju, just write your name on that piece of leather and that’s it, instead of wasting your whole life next to someone who will do their duty by impregnating you, while still pining for someone else—running away from home—or telling you some silly little lies while you know he’s going out to fuck someone else.”
Mito’s jaw drops as she watches the Uchiha walk back and forth to get her arrow. It shows that there is pain in her words. She is an Uchiha after all and based on what Mito has heard, it is difficult for them to speak openly about the matters of the heart.
For them it is preferable to hide the pain in sharp words.
When Naori returns to the launch point, Mito knows that she is going to ask her: “Do you really love him?”
Naori bites her lip and lowers her bow, looking away from her. “Madara is the strongest shinobi in our clan and the heir to command it, so that alone makes him the most eligible bachelor of them all.” She stares at the water that runs freely down the snowy mountains. “It has been that way since we were children. Ever since I was little, my mother would whisper in my ear when we saw him pass by, pointing a finger at him, with her voice telling me, ‘He is the future leader of the clan, Naori, and one day you will marry him.’”
When Naori turns to Mito, her eyes are wistful. Out of the corner of her eye, Mito sees that her hand is tightly gripping the bow.
“And the more insistent my mother’s whispers became, the more I wanted to get him to notice me. Over the years, it was not only my mum’s insistence, but I had also gotten used to the idea that one day he would be mine, although back then, he didn’t even turn to look at me a little. When I awoke my sharingan, the whole clan celebrated it. He, as the leader’s son, congratulated me in public and when later, his father asked him to dance a piece with me, Madara pointed out that he had a migraine…”
Naori raises her arrow high and shoots, hitting the wrong tree again. The Uchiha girl doesn’t seem interested in getting it back. She raises a hand to her quiver and takes a new one.
“Even so, I… kept imagining what our life together would be like.” Naori lets out a sad laugh. “His father, Tajima, doted on his wife. He showered her with presents and was attentive to her and their children. He… truly suffered when he lost her, at the birth of their youngest child, Izuna.”
“The current leader of your clan,” Mito points out.
Naori just nods. She caresses her arrow’s fine wood and continues: “I came to think that one day, Madara would be as attentive as his father; that one day I would send our children to sleep and they would throw tantrums, wanting to wait up for their father—while I would wait for him to return at night from some battle and that I would help him take off his armour—that I would move the dirty hair from his face and would cleanse his skin, and… maybe he would want to kiss me; that he would be happy to come home, to his family and that, we could be happy…” Another sad laugh. “How silly, right?”
Mito doesn’t answer; she feels a tightness in her chest. She averts her gaze so as not to see Naori wipe the traces of tears from her cheeks.
“I observed him all the time,” Naori continues. It seems that her practice has been left forgotten. “And I noticed every change in him, as well. Until, one day… he began to sneak away from the encampment. He—Madara returned home hours later, dirty and flushed. I… I was afraid that he had found some other girl in the forest and, furious, I followed him. On the way, I met Izuna, as he was also suspicious of his older brother’s activities. We both followed him to his hideout in the river and there, we saw him training with some strange boy. And Madara played as well with him, and he laughed and blushed and... I had rarely seen him so happy, and I tell you, Mito, I used to observe him all the time!” Mito feels a squeeze in her chest. “And I knew it at that moment. I—I knew it. I knew that I would never have a chance with him, that he would never make up his mind for me—”
Naori raises her bow again, an arrow is ready to fly, however, she continues: “When Izuna and I saw that both children had become so close, we got very angry. So much so, that Izuna confessed to me one day that he would go to his father to tell him that his older brother was meeting with a boy from another clan. Tajima listened to our description and the gesture on his face changed, for he understood that his firstborn, the golden child, was meeting with some Senju lad, our fiercest enemies.”
The arrow flies out; again, it errs, but for little.
“Madara knew that his family was up to something and tried to alert his friend, but the ambush still happened. And there, in front of that river, he awakened his sharingan and his friendship with that Senju boy concluded, at last.”
Naori prefers to draw another arrow from his quiver. “That night we had a huge party to celebrate him, but he didn’t want to know anything about it. Something died inside him, I suppose, and the serious and indifferent child became lonelier... until,” Naori bites her lip, “one day, after a battle against the Senju, I followed Madara, seeing that he was injured and I—I saw him under a maple tree… kissing Senju—” she releases the arrow; it hits the tree, “Hashirama.”
Mito gasps. Naori nods; she draws one more arrow.
“I got so upset; you know? I thought—as I watched them—how dared that Senju steal my imaginary husband? To steal all my plans. And there he was, my dearest Madara, in love with someone else, while I was already thinking about the names of our future children...” Naori turns to her, and her smile seems sincere. “You asked me if I love him, well—I don’t know that, but still, I feel like it will take a while to make him disappear from my head, anyway.”
“Our parents thought differently,” adds Naori, “they made our engagement official after Tajima received a fatal wound. My father was his childhood friend—his most loyal companion. He was even present at the tent, along with Madara, the night Tajima died and helped him—” The Uchiha girl bites her tongue, “It doesn’t matter. Days after Madara’s disappearance, we heard rumours that a couple of men were hiding in the Kyuubi’s forest and I insisted Izuna to write him a note, asking him to hide from the Senju…”
“From the Senju?” Mito asks.
“Izuna had just killed Hashirama’s father, what else could be expected but a reckoning? Hashirama was already banished and the other one was an Uchiha, they were both an appetizing target and they soon started moving… I bet that’s when you met them.”
Naori raises the arrow and takes precise aim. Mito comes to her side and with one hand, raises Naori’s, helping her to correct her position. Her voice comes close, almost in a whisper: “I spoke with Hashirama, but too little to go into details. He couldn’t talk about anything other than Uchiha Madara, it was a real bummer, to be honest.”
The Uchiha girl bites her lip so as not to laugh. She shoots, but still narrowly misses and returns to take another arrow; she repeats the operation, now, as Mito instructed her. “There I understood that perhaps he was not very interested in obeying his brother. That night, he stood me up during dinner and I went looking for him and found them arguing, and I had no other choice but to listen to their conversation, where they declared that they loved each other and—I won’t lie—I was very happy to see Madara leave in the middle of the night. Somehow, I thought that Hashirama would let him go, but of course that was not the case.”
Naori looks at her; she releases the arrow and misses by mere centimetres.
An icy-current tousles their hair and makes them shiver.
She’s so tired of talking about men.
“It’s cold,” says Mito, her face turning as red as her hair, “let’s go have some sake, shall we? I invite.”
Naori tucks an unruly lock of hair behind her ear. “Yes, why not?”
A soft movement cuts the wind, although without making the slightest noise, since it is only Naori who hears it and raises her face to the sky. Watching her, Mito does the same, but to no avail; clouds cover all blue tint above. “Up there,” Naori points out, “there’s something... it’s—”
“—A bird,” Mito points out, folding her arms.
Naori nods.
And then they see it, approaching them. It is a bird, indeed, and not just any bird, it is a falcon. The bird flies over their heads, perhaps not even noticing them. “It’s one of ours,” says Naori, seeing the creature approaching the place where the Uchiha aviary is located. Her voice is restless, and Mito notices a slight tremor in her words.
“Let’s go back,” Mito suggests. And her companion nods again. Naori bites her lip and her cheeks have reddened.
Mito prepares to leave, when Naori stops her, “Look at this, Mito.” The Uzumaki girl turns to see her and notices that Naori has planted herself in the correct position, aims and shoots, until the arrow breaks the air and ends up sticking in the centre of the target.”
“Nice shot, Uchiha!” Mito celebrates; her words are genuine.
The young Uchiha no longer hides her smile. She looks really pleased.
“Not bad, huh?” Naori asks after she collects the rest of the arrows.
Mito heard different stories during her journey. She first asked about Senju Hashirama to every shinobi she came across with, and when she started hearing gossip about his forbidden relationship with a certain man named Uchiha Madara, she started asking everything about the Uchiha clan instead.
“Not bad, not bad.”
All the people she came across with spoke falsehoods about the Uchiha, portraying them as heartless and unfeeling monsters, invincible on the battlefield.
Naori stops and looks at the sky and notices that the clouds have completely covered the sun. The scent of rain is unmistakable. “Snowfall will come sooner this year,” the Uchiha says, before turning to her new friend. “When the river freezes, I’ll teach you to skate on it.”
Mito is very pleased to see that so much gossip was false and prejudiced.
“I cannot wait,” is her reply.

* * *

The menu remains the same as always: fresh fish from any stream that crosses their path. And, as the best fisher is still Uchiha Madara, therefore, he is the one who teaches the class that morning.
He goes barefoot and nude from the waist up. The rest of the Uchiha, except Izuna, imitate him and follow to the stream. The water is cold to the touch and the cool breeze coming down from the mountain makes them shiver, as the sun still does not appear in the sky, still hidden by the huge, thick grey cloud.
Izuna waits on dry land, alongside Hashirama, who is watching the fishing lessons with genuine curiosity and attention. The youngest of the Uchiha is in charge, meanwhile, of keeping the fire ready for when the rest bring their breakfast.
It’s close to noon and his stomach is already growling, insistently. According to Izuna’s calculations, they still have a couple of days to go before reaching the village.
“First—you have to stand like this,” Madara is explaining, clinging himself to the bottom of the stream, his feet planted firmly on the rocky ground. His clothes are rolled up above his knees, but even so, they’re already soaked. “Just like that, and then—”
Hashirama’s grin is huge. He couldn’t hide it, even if he wanted to.
“He used to help our father fish since he was little,” Izuna tells him as he takes a seat on a rock next to his. Hashirama turns to look at the youngest of the Uchiha, although Izuna doesn’t take his eyes off his clanmates, “well, that’s what I’ve heard.” Hashirama looks back at Madara, who is now showing them how to wait for the right moment to catch fish. “He’s always been very talented at a lot of things, I guess.”
“We’re fishing sanma; they’re swift and sharp. If they get caught like this—” he shows them, “they’ll cut your fingers off.” Madara warns them.
It is like listening to Tajima again.
“Madara is usually very intense with what he is passionate about.” Hashirama replies. They are at a distance that does not allow their conversation to reach the fishermen. “That’s his real talent.”
One of the Uchiha raises a hand and groans in pain as he realizes that Madara’s warnings are, indeed, correct. Madara scolds his subordinates and starts over. But there is no real anger in his manners at all, but trustworthy camaraderie.
Izuna smiles. He likes to see his brother happy.
And as much as it pains him to accept it, Izuna suspects that such a miracle has something to do with Senju Hashirama’s presence. He glances to his side and notices that that Senju is looking at the stream, his grin huge. An elbow to the knee, his chin in his hand and the spectacle before his eyes: Uchiha Madara and his fishing class.
Izuna prefers to avert his eyes back to the stream. It is much better than seeing that Senju all blushed.
There was a time when he used to hate Hashirama with all his might, that just the very mention of his name made his blood boil—much worse still if he got to see his own brother gloomy or melancholic, for Izuna knew that that idiot was the cause of all his pain. And now, they shared the fire, food, clothes… and Madara.
Hashirama laughs and its sound snaps him out of his memories. Izuna turns to the Senju with a deep frown. But Hashirama doesn’t notice—he doesn’t even look at him; it seems to be impossible for him to take his eyes off the stream—off who is inside the stream.
His stomach churns, and maybe that’s why he says, “I haven’t seen my brother this happy in a long time.”
Against all odds, Hashirama nods, pleased, then turns to look at Izuna. The grin still on his face. “He needed to be among his people. He likes to teach others and is good at it, even though he likes to pretend otherwise.”
From the stream laughter and shouts of euphoria reach them when the first catches of fish begin to arrive. Izuna looks ahead and sees his clanmates laughing at each other; their hands dart in and out of the water; there are splashes everywhere, their clothes are completely wet and the greatest of all improbabilities: Madara is smiling, watching proudly at the fruit of his brief instructions and then, his gaze turns to him—no—his brother’s gaze flies to the sandbank, yes, but it hurriedly searches for a pair of brown eyes that belong to the young man sitting next to Izuna.
Izuna catches the tall grass growing next to the rock he is sitting on with his fingers and pulls it up as he remembers how their lives changed after Madara’s friendship with Hashirama.
How he implored Madara to forgive him, the days after their parting. The festivities for his sharingan’s awakening—the greatest possible celebration within his clan—went unnoticed by his brother, for such an achievement was accompanied by a bittersweet memory. He is our enemy; he had wanted to remind him. Nii-san, he is the heir to our greatest enemy; his duty, his main mission in life is to end your life. Just as your mission is to end his... Madara had spent three days without speaking to Izuna, at least beyond what was necessary for them to speak before the scrutinising gaze of their father. Being melancholic would have gotten him in trouble, even if it was Madara. Within the world of shinobi, it was the worst of disgraces, after all. If anyone even suspected that his older brother loved a Senju, that would mean betrayal, and the clan head’s heirs were not exempt from suffering the consequences. Izuna had already heard of similar cases in the past.
And then, over time, his brother had gotten a little better. Soon Izuna heard him speak again, albeit in short sentences. He continued to live as usual, although he remained taciturn. With Izuna and Naori’s sharingan had come equally big celebrations and although they tried to encourage him to participate, in the end, it was of little use.
Izuna was worried about his brother, for he feared that his sadness would never go away. When he heard his father talk about the possibility of getting Madara a wife, he had helped find possible candidates, placing Naori first, because—being his best friend—Izuna knew that the young kunoichi might work wonders with his brother. Perhaps she would help heal his heart. Maybe she would make the change; perhaps Naori could perform the miracle of making his brother forget about Senju Hashirama.
But that had been a very ridiculous idea, hadn’t it?
“I think they’re secretly meeting again,” his father told him one night, when they saw Madara sneak out of the encampment. “It is somewhat common for young men to take other young men as lovers, sure,” continued his father, his chin on a hand. Izuna’s pale face turned the colour of red-hot charcoal. “However, we must encourage him to consider marrying an Uchiha woman. This is the only way to create heirs.”
Izuna felt that his face was growing as hot as the candles that were vibrating on his father’s desk.
“These eyes, Izuna…” Tajima had continued. “Sometimes, I don’t know if they are a blessing or a curse, that we were granted with.”
The talk was not suitable for such a young child, but Tajima knew that Madara had no other friends in the encampment and that he listened to Izuna’s advice religiously.
Izuna held his father’s gaze, knowing the pressure was too heavy. He also knew that his father was observant and that he was not mistaken either: about a month ago, Madara left home at night, and Izuna followed him; he reached that damned river again, and there he met Senju Hashirama. They sat on the riverbank, they talked, and then…
“Son,” Tajima insisted. The last time Izuna was loudmouthed with his father, Madara was forced to end his friendship with Hashirama and as a result of that enormous pain, his eyes turned scarlet. “Think that you will do your brother good, if you tell me the truth.” Now the consequences of his loose tongue could be even more catastrophic than before. Madara was furious with him, and every tear he shed for Senju Hashirama was like a stab at Izuna’s little heart. “He is our enemy, and his duty is to finish off Madara. Or do you think, Izuna, that that Senju would prefer your brother over his own family?” If Izuna were to speak, the consequences would be unimaginable. What would his brother do if he was forced to choose? Would he prefer that Senju, perhaps? Izuna got shivers just by imagining it.
“Izuna,” insisted the father, “you follow him everywhere and I dare to think that you know very well the reason for his escapades.” If he were to speak, his brother would not only lose a friend, but something else. “He doesn’t have to know, son—If you tell me, I’ll watch your back.” A lover, perhaps? “You know you can tell me anything, Izuna, especially if it’s about your brother.” A partner, maybe? “He is our heir, the future of our clan.”
It had been too heavy a weight for such a small child.
“Izuna?” Hashirama calls, and his voice makes the bittersweet memory vanish into thin air. “Are you alright?”
The Uchiha boy blinks a few times before turning to the Senju and nods. His stomach drops. “I’m fine.”
Maybe, now that Madara is coming back home with that Senju by his side, maybe, now he too can get rid of all that guilt, at last.
“Is it your wound, perhaps?” Hashirama asks him in a whisper, hiding his lips with a hand, though it is not necessary; the Uchiha in the stream are still busy fishing. Madara’s commands continue to be heard in the distance. “I can heal you right here, if that’s the problem.”
How is he going to be able to keep hating that nosy Senju when he is usually that helpful and serviceable to everyone? Izuna hates to see the reason why everyone in the alliance compound is longing for Senju Hashirama and waiting for him with open arms to make him their leader. Who better than a literal saint to unite them all in brotherhood?
Dammit.
“The wound is fine, Senju.”
But the frown on Hashirama’s forehead and the pout on his mouth let Izuna understand that he doesn’t quite believe him. If there is any discomfort in his stomach, it has little to do with his injury. Over the years, the scar will fade; his bad memories, maybe not so much.
“Either way, you look tense,” Hashirama insists, staring back at the river. “Is it because I’m here?” Izuna looks at him with wide eyes. “Is it, Izuna?” He presses on. There’s no answer. “I really hope that one day all the hatred between our clans may fade until it is nothing more than a bitter memory.”
Izuna snorts to lighten the matter, but unfortunately, Hashirama doesn’t fall for it.
“Too much has happened between our clans to suddenly forget everything,” Izuna says. “Although of course, it should not be impossible, if my brother managed to forget everything the moment he met you.”
“It hasn’t been easy for me, either.” Hashirama clasps his hands in his lap; the smile is gone with the wind. “I lost many loved ones by the hands of the Uchiha.” From the stream, new laughter comes; one of them has slipped into the water. “There are times when it is impossible for me to get up because of guilt.”
“Guilt?” Izuna inquires, his dark brows furrow.
Hashirama nods thoughtfully; it seems like he wants to change the subject, but at the same time, he needs to get it all off his chest.
In the end, the latter happens.
“I once had three siblings,” he says, speaking very slowly. “Two of them younger than Tobirama.” There is so much pain in his words, that Izuna feels a squeeze in his own chest. “They… I suffered with the death of both alike, you know? B-but Itama—” He shakes his head and raises his eyes to the sky, trying to hold back the tears; the same method Izuna has used since he was a child. “With Itama everything was different, I dare say that it was the moment when everything changed inside me. I was so upset, so fed up, there was so much hatred inside my chest… but not only against the Uchiha, but with my father for forcing such a small boy to fight in a war; and with myself too, for not being faster, for doubting so much...”
Izuna took too long to be born. His older brothers were born, grew up and died before he knew how to speak his own name. By the time he had use of reason, the only one left alive was Madara and he clung to him blindly and tightly ever since.
“I can still remember him… he was very young,” Hashirama turns to Izuna, his eyes are red. “If he lived, he would be even younger than you, Izuna.” Then, he looks away again, beyond the Uchiha in the stream. “After it happened, I spent hours and hours imagining what his last thoughts were. I’m sure he was terrified—I mean, he wasn’t stupid, you know? And neither would he be the first of us to die at the Uchiha’s hands. Sometimes I wonder what he would think of me if he were alive. I spent days traveling alone, when following Madara, and had a lot of time to think about it. I imagined what he would say of me for leaving our clan to go with an Uchiha. Could he forgive me for leaving our family, for not mourning our father as proper? —And the greatest of all my sins—could Itama forgive me for loving an Uchiha and not repenting about it?”
Izuna gasps helplessly. He moves a hand to his side, but he discovers that there is no grass left to pluck.
How to continue hating the Senju, when he saw in them the same pain that he felt in his heart? Senju, Uchiha. At the end of the day, they were just people dressed in different clothes. They loved, they suffered, they enjoyed, they yearned… it was all the same. The only difference, the excuse for that pointless bloodshed, was in the colours they wore.
What a stupid thing.
“Perhaps it’s not so easy to forget everything in a day or a year,” Izuna replies after a while. Hashirama surreptitiously wipes the corners of his eyes, “but we can at least try. We, who pride ourselves so much on being different from our parents, can do it.”
Hashirama nods as he smiles.
“Is that why you’ve become Tobirama’s friend?”
Izuna snorts. He’s the worst of them all lying, “We’re not friends.”
Another smile from the Senju.
“Of course,” Hashirama looks at his hands thoughtfully. “Tobi has always been very lonely, ever since he was a little boy. Unlike me, he didn’t have any friends to sneak out from home with, and even if he did, I doubt very much that he would have dared to disobey father. So, I really appreciate it, Izuna, for being with him during the time that I decided to be away from home.”
The wind blows cold that morning, as Izuna shivers.
“My brother told me that you were about to return to your clan, what prevented you from doing so, if you say you miss Tobirama so much?”
Hashirama takes his time responding. A frown has appeared on his forehead and his eternal smile has disappeared again.
“It’s not the same, Izuna.” Hashirama tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. “Madara, Tobirama—I love them both, but it’s not the same. Tobirama is my little brother, the only one I have left; Madara, he—” He licks his lips and lets out a sigh. “I understood a long time ago that there are different ways of loving. And the fear of losing Madara was stronger than the weight of my blood. I don’t feel proud about it, but I don’t regret doing it that way either.”
Izuna knows what he is talking about. He once forced his brother to make the same decision.
“Father knows that you’re seeing him again,” he had scolded his older brother just the same night that Izuna spoke with their father, “but, even so, he has insisted me to confirm it.”
His brother had been low-spirited.
“Nii-san, are you listening to me?”
Madara nodded, his eyes cloudy, distracted. “And what happened? Did you tell him?”
Izuna had been really surprised to confirm that his older brother already knew that he knew. He was such a sensor since he was little, how could he not be able to identify the familiar chakra that was hot on his heels the other night?
“I remember well what happened the last time I talked with father of the matter. It took a long time for you to spoke to me again, do you think I want the same?” Madara continued to avoid his gaze, as if he was hiding a terrible secret from him. “Nii-san, what’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong with me, Izuna.”
Izuna discovered, that during that time, the idea of running away from home was already being formulated inside his brother’s stubborn head.
“You are my only brother...”
“I am well aware of that, Izuna.”
The youngest of the Uchiha had shaken his head. “...And I see that I will never change the way you see the Senju, but—”
“The Senju?” Madara frowned. “My loyalty remains firm and faithful to the Uchiha, Izuna…”
“And what about Hashirama then?” The little boy had bitten his lip so insistently, that his wound would not stop bleeding, no matter how much he licked it. “Isn’t he the epitome of a Senju?”
“He is different.”
That same night, Madara had gone to their father’s tent to settle the issue once and for all. When he entered, Naori’s father was there as well, pointing a finger to the map. The very image of the heir and his frown and the fury of his chakra had served to indicate him that the young Uchiha urgently needed to talk to his father.
So, it had been. Izuna sneaked into the tent and waited in a corner, quiet and attentive. He clenched his fists throughout the meeting and bit his tongue whenever he was eager to comment. It was not his position to have an opinion; nobody was going to take it into account, anyway.
In the end, Madara had bluntly confirmed his new ‘friendship’ with Senju Hashirama and his father listened carefully. Even Izuna who didn’t have chakra sensing skills had been unsettled by the sharp atmosphere left behind after the talk. His father was furious and a little disappointed, but he wasn’t going to object. He would be patient, for that was his nature. He would be content with what his son could give him at the moment: Madara would fight without holding back against Senju Hashirama and ensured his father, that one day, he would bring victory to the Uchiha.
When Madara returned to his tent later, Izuna secretly followed him… or so he imagined. “Izuna?” He heard him call.
Of course, of course.
“Nii-san,” a curious calmness had appeared on his older brother’s face, as if being honest with his father had lifted a great weight of guilt from his shoulders. “Tell me, do you love me?”
It was a very childish question, silly even, but nevertheless, it had always been around Izuna’s mind, for nothing caused so much uncertainty in the head of a child who grew up without a mother, than sensing he was unloved.
“You know I do,” had been his brother’s response, his words just as sincere. “Come, Izuna.” The little boy ran without hesitation. His older brother’s arms were warm, and he felt very safe in there. Madara gave him a kiss on the temple. Izuna was growing up so fast. “Even if a hundred years have passed, even if I am far away from home, you can be sure that I will love you always.”
Izuna was already a big boy, was he not? So why didn’t he want to and couldn’t hold back his tears?
“Then decide,” Izuna told him. His voice muffled by Madara’s clothing: “Is it him or me; Nii-san, you must decide.”
Madara’s chest had risen and fallen rapidly with his laugh that was heard guttural in his ears. His brother’s laughter was as precious as the spring thaw; and just as wonderful to witness.
And all that miracle was due to a young man named Hashirama—the boy with whom he once skipped stones into the river with.
“I’m not going to decide on something like that, Izuna,” was his answer. When Izuna looked up to see his brother, Madara was still grinning, “please, don’t ask me something like that again.”
He was a very insecure child and thought he was going to lose his older brother.
With some pain in his chest, Izuna knew the truth now. He sends his gaze back to the stream and sees that the Uchiha are coming back. His brother is still smiling in reality, and as he approaches, the gesture only grows bigger. Upon reaching them, he goes straight to Hashirama.
That’s why Tobirama is also low-spirited and crestfallen, Izuna thinks as he rises. Both their brothers have decided.
They eat in a hurry; Madara talks alone with Hashirama.
The sunless day is turning into sunset, and then they get startled: from the other side of the valley, far away, comes a noise that makes their blood run cold. It’s the Kyuubi.
During the outward voyage, the Uchiha circled the forest, fearing to run into it. But now that they are commanded by Uchiha Madara in the company of Senju Hashirama, there is no time for detours, and they have ended up crossing its path, anyway.
Izuna watches as his brother locks eyes with his friend. They don’t say a single word, but they make themselves understood—it’s not a new experience for them and now they come better prepared.
The young Uchiha can’t think of anything else, because soon a second roar reaches them and then the rain also comes.

* * *

A cave appears on their way. It is quite small, but it will surely serve as a place for the travellers to spend the night.
Madara waits for the Uchiha and his brother to enter and settle inside. The rain managed to wet their clothes only a little. It’s a couple of hours before nightfall, and he is sure it’ll stop raining soon and so, they’ll be able to light a fire.
Hashirama is the one who comes at the end of the group. Despite the fact that the wind is cold and that the falling drops are the prelude to the snowfall, Hashirama walks calm and serene, smiling and with one hand up to catch the raindrops.
Madara feels a squeeze in his chest when seeing him, for that image is similar to the one in his memories of a smaller Hashirama who danced in the rain by the river.
“What’s wrong?” Asks the Senju upon reaching the entrance of the cave, where Madara is waiting for him. There is a frown on his face and has turned paler than usual. “Oh, Madara, you are not afraid of…?” Hashirama looks back at the forest. “It was heard right on the opposite side of our path, I’m sure—”
“It’s not that,” he interrupts, avoiding his eyes. Either way, he casts a glance at the forest that now looks inked with traces of an early autumn, “We’re safe. The Kyuubi won’t come near us again.”
Hashirama forms a smirk on the edge of his lips. And looking at it, Madara’s heart skips a beat. Hashirama’s cheeks have a slight pinkish tint to them and are drenched from the rain; it shines like a bud that has just opened.
“You seem very sure of it,” says the grinning fool.
Madara only hopes that the darkness of sunset is enough to hide the reddening on his own cheeks. “I am,” he blurts out with a hoarseness in his voice. “I am,” he repeats, this time to see if he himself believes so.
Hashirama leans down for a second. He grabs Madara by the arms and presses his lips to his in a quick, hot kiss. Madara is the one who ends it, and just in time, for at that moment, a very inopportune growl is heard again, now much closer, which forces all the Uchiha inside the cave—as well as the pair of lovers at the entrance—to cast their eyes into the darkness of the forest.
Another roar follows. The creature is moving; It’s not getting closer, but it’s not getting away either. It prowls around, as if it knew, and perhaps it is the case, that there, in some hiding place, is a feast of chakras that undulate in intensity. And two of them belong to those who already faced him once; and the most appetising of them all, belongs to whom the fox remembers with hatred the most: Uchiha Madara.
That night they all settle around the small space that is their shelter. Madara and Izuna take the back of the cave, so that their gazes go straight to the entrance. Hashirama takes a long time to enter and takes a seat near the entrance, where the wind runs wilder. The rest of the Uchiha have taken into account his proximity to Madara and have left a vacant space on his left side, just in case.
At times, Madara glances sideways at the entrance, using whatever excuse he can find, to sweep the limited area in search of Hashirama. He is there, that is obvious. His chakra is the most felt within their little refuge; the sweetest and most intoxicating too, the one causing his tremors.
Or maybe it’s a cold thing, the thick fabrics do not do much to mitigate the icy currents that sneak through the rocky walls.
Darkness and cold forces them to sleep early; Izuna is the first to fall and it doesn’t take long for the rest to follow. They are young and strong, but a full day of running is hard for even the fittest of shinobi.
The cave is in total darkness. In the end, they did not dare to light a small fire for fear it might call the nine-tailed fox. They are children who grew up hearing stories and warnings of its power; they will bear the cold as long as such an image they have of the creature remains within their imagination. Neither Madara nor Hashirama told them about their encounters with the Kyuubi and it’s for the best.
The rain has stopped falling and all that surrounds the cave is darkness and silence. It is a dead season; the animals have gone to hibernate; one would think that the case would be the same for the Kyuubi.
Just then, Hashirama rises and crosses the small den, carefully passing through the sleeping Uchiha scattered on the ground. The only thing that guides his steps is the moonlight that is emerging from between the passing clouds. That’s how he gets to the empty side next to Uchiha Madara.
There are no words, and they can barely see each other in the eye. Hashirama presses his lips against Madara’s again, but this time slowly, embracing the darkness to be emboldened to caress his face and open his lips with the light demand of his tongue.
The minutes pass quickly in the company of Senju Hashirama. He soon settles down next to him, stretching out his long legs and laying his head on Madara’s shoulder. Beneath them, between the two bodies, one hand stealthily approaches the other; one finger is intertwined with another, and their entwined hands mark the limit of what they are allowed to show to others. There will be time for cuddles, for snuggles and other signs of intimacy.
Soon, in a couple of days.
Madara tries not to think too much, so as not to spoil the moment. Hashirama has started to breathe easy on his shoulder. Even he is exhausted; Madara is tired too. Maybe it’s not too hard for himself to risk closing his eyes and…
But then he feels it. The forest is dark and silent. The tops of the trees are shiny from the freshly fallen rain and apart from the moon there is nothing else to cause brightness. But either way he feels it… Someone or something is observing him. The hairs on his neck rise on end to alert him that he is being watched.
From the depths of the forest comes a roar that penetrates every tree and rock. Madara looks at that dark ocean with a frown. The Kyuubi’s dark and evil chakra manages to reach the cave, with the difference that now it does not cause the slightest tremor in the young man. What’s more, he was almost expecting it.
The earth moves again, but it is such a slight movement that it is barely perceptible, and then, in the distance, far from there, he manages to make out something, a couple of bright dots appear in the blackness that are not stars nor reflections of the moon: a pair of red and angry eyes. Looking for him, excited for having found its prey among all the hiding places that exist in that forest, its territory: there’s no doubt, it is the Kyuubi.
As if hearing his thoughts, the forest vibrates in an unnatural way. But Madara is unfazed; what he least wants is to wake up Izuna or Hashirama. So, he will just observe it from his seat. The young Uchiha well knows that the nine-tailed fox will not dare to take another step towards him. Or have you already forgotten? he asks the creature in his mind.
It has not, Madara is sure, for he has neither forgotten: It all happened in a matter of seconds. If he didn’t do something soon, that vile creature would dare lay its foul claws on Hashirama.
In his memory, Madara left the rock behind without a second thought, fleeing to the opposite side of the river, far from Hashirama and the girl that idiot was trying to protect. His friend was very strong, even stronger than him, but, sometimes, Hashirama could also be a consummate fool.
He closed his eyes and when he opened them again, his sharingan had appeared. And not just any sharingan, but the one that awoken after Tajima’s death. His father’s eyes still seemed to refuse to be handled by a foreign body and the burning Madara suddenly felt was such that it was about to make him fall into the river; they stung him as if on fire and crimson rivers begun to stain his cheeks.
Madara closed his eyes again to oppress the pain. By activating them, he again remembered his father’s last words. Madara, Tajima whispered to him. In death, these eyes will be useless to me, but on you, my son... Madara slowly opened his eyes. On you, they will work wonders.
Father and son had discussed the importance of being a complete leader. A leader had to be strong and skilful, and his senses had to be optimal. A half leader would bring his clan to ruins.
He then watched the Kyuubi come dangerously close to Hashirama, breaking free from his mokuton’s grip. Please, Hashirama, he thought at that moment. You can do more than that. Yes, but when terror fills the body, it makes one lose every ounce of intellect.
“Kyuubi!” he yelled at the creature, in a guttural voice. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Hashirama.
The beast turned instantly, hearing his call. Its nostrils vibrated with pleasure, perhaps recognising the same evil that inhabited its chakra within that interesting human. Whatever the case, his call had worked, for the creature had come in his direction.
Blood continued to flow from his eyes, already staining even the pale clothes he wore. It didn’t take two seconds for the creature to reach him and then, it fell.
It was all quite simple; too much for Madara’s taste. He expected much more from it, who had been the source of all his childhood nightmares. The Kyuubi, the great and fearsome nine-tailed fox, caught in a genjutsu from a young lad who was barely a man, who was still testing his new eyes.
“Kyuubi,” Madara repeated, but now in the world he created within his illusion. The whole place was coloured in red, and the gigantic fox lay immobilised on the ground in his light grasp, like a puppy.
The beast sent its bloodshot eyes at the diminutive human speaking to it and still within the control of his genjutsu tried to break free of his grasp, but to no avail.
Madara took a few steps forward, to face it. Dared the Kyuubi break out of his grip, it would only take the fox half a meter to catch him in his ferocious jaws.
“Stay still and I will let you go,” Madara conditioned, without taking his eyes off the fox’s. “Listen...”
I will never listen to the words of a mere human, a voice growled inside Madara’s head.
The young Uchiha grinned from ear to ear seeing that it was not a simple beast.
“Oh? You see, you’d better understand that the one holding you like a puppy is not some mere human, but an Uchiha.”
Uchiha, the Kyuubi echoed. Madara’s grin grew even wider. He loved his name to be etched in the minds of his enemies.
“Uchiha Madara,” the young man agreed, showing his teeth, “you would do well to remember this name… Kyuubi.”
The veins inside the fox’s eyes were huge, it seemed to be at its limits. Madara also felt on the edge, because Uchiha or not, it was very difficult for him to keep the enormous amount of chakra that lived inside the bijuu at bay.
“Listen, neither my friend nor I have any business with you.” The Kyuubi looked at him, its violent expression didn’t change a bit. “If you promise to turn around and leave, we’ll be on our way too.”
We? The fox growled inside his head.
“The mokuton user and I,” Madara explained.
What about the Uzumaki?
Madara frowned. Only then did he remember the young redhead who brought the Kyuubi to them.
“Let her go as well,” Madara said, remembering that Hashirama had planned to put his life at risk for that strange woman and, sensing that he would not follow his path until he knew she was safe… “Do not hinder her steps again.”
The Uzumaki have peculiar characteristics, Uchiha Madara; That girl will not stop until she has me in her power.
Madara had heard legends of the Uzumaki and their sealing techniques. Surely the bijuu had reason to be worried.
“Leave,” Madara growled. “I will let you go far from here, to some hidden corner of your lands, and never get in our way again. If you ignore my warnings, Kyuubi, then I will put you into a genjutsu again and I assure you that you will never come out of it… you may notice that my skills are even superior to those of any Uzumaki you have met.”
The creature howled in his head, as if it didn’t quite believe it. Its evil chakra engulfed everything around them. Madara felt so exhausted; he had to finish that shit soon.
No bloody human is going to come and threaten me in my own domains, said the Kyuubi. I will first crush that mokuton user and then finish you off, Uchiha Madara.
Madara grinned and snorted. Then he closed the distance between them even more, moving closer to the fox’s bright red eyes. “Even with all your might, you could not take down someone like that mokuton user. He may be young, but the day will come when his power and ability will be so great, that he will be able to take you down and reduce you to pleas...” Then, his grin faded. “Do not come near us again. It is my last warning. I will seal you in an eternal genjutsu if you ever get in our way again. Do not strain my patience, nine-tailed fox.
I do not make deals with just anyone, the Kyuubi growled at last.
“Neither do I.”
And then it was all over. The next thing he remembers is the Kyuubi fleeing to the opposite side of the valley and Hashirama standing by his side.
Madara looks at the entrance and notices that the pair of glowing eyes are gone.

* * *

They move fast the next day, stopping just over an hour for breakfast.
It is a sunny day, and the rickety rays of the sun barely serve to prevent the cold current from being intolerable on their skins. In mid-afternoon, they stop near a creek to wash their feet and fill their waterskins. The water there is too cold to take a bath in; they will save it for the next day. Tomorrow, Madara thinks, they will head southwest, where he guesses the waters will still be warm before they reach home.
Most of the travellers lie down on some large rocks to try to absorb as much heat from the sun as possible; Hashirama is one of them, although he is sitting, looking around.
Madara is close to him and listens, “We are almost home, now.”
“How can you know?” He is really interested.
Hashirama shrugs, not taking his eyes off the slopes around them. “Do you not remember?” Then, he points a finger to the side. “The great rock of herons, as you yourself called it,” he lets out a giggle and adds. “You and I used to come here to train.” Madara opens his eyes and tries to remember. For some reason his eyes gleam and Hashirama laughs again, knowing. “Now you do remember, don’t you?”
Certainly, he does. The stone was easy to see from a distance, and its long, jagged peaks seemed to be the beaks of birds. They were the limits of the Kyuubi’s forest. They are located at a strategic point that delimits the beginning of the territories of the nine-tailed fox and those lands fought over by the clans, in the northernmost area of the forest.
Hashirama used to challenge him to cross those rocks and Madara had always refused, feigning indifference to hide his fears. “Are you scared, Madara?” Hashirama had asked curiously, but in the Uchiha’s ears it had sounded like the greatest offense, even though he was, indeed, very scared.
“Of course not, stupid Senju!” Madara lied.
But it was true. Madara could remember the nights Tajima would sneak into his eldest son’s tent and tell him stories about the Uchiha and their history with the Kyuubi. He had told him about the power their clan had over the rest, thanks to their eyes. “It shouldn’t be different with the Kyuubi, Madara,” his father had assured him. “The creature dwells beyond the great rock of herons, as I like to call it; it is easy to recognise. Although, preferably, do not try anything daring until you are older and stronger, when you are a great shinobi capable of controlling something as powerful as the nine-tailed—”
“Tajima, you are scaring the child again,” his mother had said at the time. She was carrying a dark-haired baby in her arms that calmly suckled from his mother’s breast, unperturbed by his father’s stories. “Madara will have nightmares if you continue.”
Madara got up from his futon in a hurry. “I am not afraid, mum,” the little Uchiha assured.
His mother smiled fondly at him, knowing her eldest child was not a scaredy kid. She approached Madara and with a soft hand combed his hair. “I know my Madara is a very brave boy,” her smile still on her pretty face. “But come, it’s already late, you have to sleep.”
Madara was not going to resist; he was attentive to his sweet mother’s voice. As he lay back down, mum had kissed him on the cheek. Then, she called out to her husband with her gaze, and she was instantly obeyed. Madara’s grandfather may have been the clan head at the time, but no one—not even the most stubborn or proudest of the Uchiha—could disobey an order from Tajima’s wife.
“Good night, Madara,” his mother had whispered before blowing out the last candle inside the tent. With that darkness, his memory ended.
Madara could still smell the smoke from the recently extinguished candle there, in front of Hashirama, as he remembered the place.
“You’re right, we’re almost home now,” he says.

* * *

“Is it not strange for your Uzumaki friend to spend all that time training with that Uchiha girl?” Sasuke Sarutobi asks Tobirama, while they take an excursion around the outskirts of the village. The rains that have recently fallen destroyed the supports of some houses and Tobirama fears that if its foundations are not strong enough to resist the water, then they won’t do much against the snow.
“An army is not complete without archers,” Tobirama says and gives some orders to his subordinates regarding the supports, before turning to Sasuke again. “It is normal for them to want to train.”
Sasuke chuckles in response. He had little interest in keeping an eye on the construction, but the sun was warm that day and any excuse was good to enjoy it. In addition, the Sarutobi would settle in that area as soon as they began to arrive in the village. Even his own wife would live in one of those houses.
“Perhaps we should try another type of wood.”
“The wood is fine, it’s just that there was a problem during construction,” Tobirama points out. “Only this area had damage.”
Sasuke frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. “You don’t think it’s another sabotage of…?”
But Tobirama is quick to shake his head. It is not healthy or recommended to blame the sand shinobi for whatever problems they have; this was how the hatred of the Senju for the Uchiha was first inflamed. Although, of course, Tobirama has little intention to talk about it in front of that charismatic foreigner.
“We’ll be ready, alright?” assures the Senju. “The rest of the families will be able to move in before the snowfall begins. They will be able to celebrate the new year in a new home.”
Sasuke hopes so too, as his own family is already on the way. He himself sent a letter calling for them as soon as his name dried on the alliance’s leather.
“Your son will be born in the village,” Tobirama continues, looking at the horizon, very sure of himself. “He will be among the first to be born here.”
The Sarutobi nods and without being able to help it, his chest tightens just by imagining seeing his family again. He averts his eyes away, so Tobirama doesn’t see him shed a tear, and then he sees something move in the distance.
“What’s that?” Sasuke asks, clearing his throat.
Tobirama narrows his eyes: it is a group of travellers, all dressed in dark colours. And when seeing them, he feels a shiver that runs through his entire body. He takes a step forward, then another and another, and before he knows it, he’s running, forgetting propriety or pride. Suddenly, he’s seven years old again.
Behind him, he can hear Sasuke’s laughter.
The two men who are walking in the lead of the group talk among themselves, but the moment Tobirama’s hurried footsteps are heard, one of them watches ahead and—recognising him—starts running in his direction, leaving the other on his back.
Tobirama’s heart is about to burst out of his chest; he, who always boasted himself of being the fastest, suddenly, cannot accelerate as he wished.
There is no doubt: that figure, that hair, that smile, those eyes, and that chakra—it all belongs to his older brother. Hashirama.
It’s been a little over a month, but it feels like a century.
Time stops at the moment in which both brothers collide in a tight embrace, knocking the wind out of their chests. “Tobi,” Hashirama whispers in his ear. One broad hand rubs his back while the other strokes his hair. “Tobi, how I’ve missed you.”
Both brothers separate to be able to verify that it is about each other. And the greatest of impossibilities: Tobirama is smiling.
“Anija, you—” then he returns to his natural self, frowning, “Just what the hell are you wearing?”
Hashirama lets out a laugh; his face is all flushed, and he is just as short of breath. “It’s a long story, Tobi, but what matters is that we’re back.”
We. Tobirama ignores the word and lets it hang in the air. He doesn’t want his attention taken away so soon, so he changes the subject.
“A lot has happened since you left.”
Hashirama nods, suddenly getting serious. “So, I’ve heard.” Then, another smile, he cannot help it. “I’ve missed you so much.” Then he points to the marks on his face. “What do those lines mean? They suit you. Oh, Tobirama how much you have grown in such a short time.”
Sasuke is approaching, walking at a leisurely pace and very amused. Hashirama narrows his eyes at the sight and then identifies him: “Sarutobi Sasuke, it’s nice to see that you arrived safely.”
The newcomer bows as he reaches them. “I say the same about you, Senju Hashirama.” Then, he looks behind Hashirama, at the Uchiha bunch that finally arrives. “And also, to you, Uchiha comrades.”
However, the Uchiha are more cautious and serious than the Senju and just stare at him warily. Even the youngest among the group have been put on guard.
“We received your message a few days ago, telling us that you would be back soon,” Tobirama says to his brother. “Although I did not think it would be this soon.”
“We saw the falcon arrive at the Uchiha aviary in such a hurry,” Sasuke continues, looking at Hashirama. “Now, it wasn’t hurt at all, I promise you.”
And Sasuke let out a laugh that dies on his lips, as Madara growls an angry “What?”
Hashirama sends the Sarutobi a warning look, before turning to his friend. However, it is Sasuke who speaks: “Let me explain you, Uchiha Madara: several days ago, when we were on our way, we saw a falcon that was circling in the forest; I shot it down fearing it was some sand bird and thus, be able to intercept its message; upon arrival, I found Hashirama healing the bird, assuring that it was his and—”
The young Sarutobi has no chance to continue, for Madara is furiously approaching him.
“Madara,” says Hashirama, standing between the two, trying to calm his friend down. “It all is true, though luckily, I was able to save Tomoe. I, myself, checked her wing and it healed up properly and so I—”
“If you knew she was hurt, why did you still let me send her on such a long journey?” he growls.
Hashirama suppresses a gasp as he remembers Izuna’s injury and that Madara is also ignorant of it.
They look into each other’s eyes. Hashirama feels a cold sweat run down his back.
“Hashirama took good care of the bird since then; he spent that night with us,” Sasuke adds, adjusting his clothes as he approaches the pair. He is almost Hashirama’s height, though his personality makes him even bigger. “And so did your little falcon, Uchiha Madara; it is alright.”
Madara turns pale and a frown covers his entire forehead. A straight, stern line are his lips. He seemed to be a stone’s throw away from baring his fangs.
Sasuke can see the fumes coming out of his ears and conscientiously continues:
“We spent a pleasant evening talking about our future as comrades here in the village and…” Sasuke doesn’t finish speaking, as Madara pushes past him. He passes by Tobirama as well, completely ignoring him, and continues, purposefully towards the fence. One gloved hand fisted, the other, ready to grab the gunbai.
Hashirama runs to him. “Madara, wait a minute.”
“There’s a lot to do, Hashirama,” he yells without turning around. “We’ll talk later.”
They all turn to Izuna hoping for an explanation, but the boy just shrugs. What can the little Uchiha do, anyway? His fierce and infamous brother is bound to no other will but his own.

* * *

Madara is the first to arrive at the village. The guards stationed at the entrance identify him from the very moment they see him appear in the distance; they say nothing, neither a greeting nor a gesture. A pair of wide-open doors welcome him, as he runs into the crowd.
He knows that he is identified. Those who haven’t seen him in battle have surely heard of him. And he is unmistakable, after all: his long, unkempt dark hair, his Uchiha clothes, and the fearsome gunbai on his back. Everything about him tells them it is Uchiha Madara, and the news spread fast.
Madara crosses the place and arrives directly at the area where he feels the Uchiha are gathered. Everyone is busy with some tasks, and it takes a little time before being identified by someone.
“Sir, are you Madara, perhaps?” A small boy asks behind him.
Madara turns around and sees a boy who looks like him, at his age. The little one carries in his hands a toy, a bird carved from wood. His eyes are glowing and one of his front teeth is missing.
“Aye,” Madara agrees. “Where—?” He hesitates for a bit. He does not know where to go. The only one he would feel safe with is Izuna and he stayed behind with the rest. Everything around him is unknown and new. There are few tents, and wooden houses under construction. He doesn’t even have a place to call his own. “Where’s the aviary?”
The boy squeezes the toy and his face fills with a blush. He knows the answer! The time to serve the one he has seen as his whole-life-personal-hero has come. His friends won’t believe it when he tells them. “Follow me, please, Madara-sama,” asks the little boy and Madara does just that.
He leads him through the houses and tents, and all the people—young or old—stop their duties to look at the young man who walks through the rudimentary paths that one day will be streets. It would be very impolite of them to ignore Tajima’s son, and quite impossible, too.
“I cannot believe my eyes, my son—it’s you, Madara!” He hears a woman shout in the crowd. His mother’s sister, as Madara remembers. It is easy to see the resemblance between them; she is the second person to be encouraged enough to greet him. “I knew we’d see you again—oh, look how much you’ve grown...”
It’s only been a bloody month, goddess, there’s no way he could have changed in any way. But, nevertheless, for his people it seems so. It is all different for him too; the surroundings sure feel dissimilar: children are playing in the streets, young people no longer wear armour over their daily clothes; in the distance, the unmistakable sound of music can be heard. Young people approach him and ask about his adventures; the girls look at him with rosy faces; the little ones ask him if they can see—and touch—his gunbai; and others, more daring, ask him if he could teach them how to throw a kunai.
Everything is so different for Madara. He doesn’t quite know if he preferred it when people moved out of his way in fear. He has no idea how to respond or even where to look at. He gazes out, and out of the corner of his eye, he notices that a purple-haired girl is staring at him. Knowing that she was trapped in the act, the young lass turns her face away and runs back down the street. Naori. Who else would it be if not?
His aunt follows his eyes and nods, grinning. “We’ve all missed you so much, especially her. Tonight, there will be a big celebration for your return, Madara. Now, come with me, child, you will need a proper change of clothes and a bath.”
It’s not just about the Uchiha celebrating the Uchiha anymore. Now that everyone is part of a large assemblage of people from different clans—a village! —that means the celebrations will be bigger… and a whole-lot terrifying.
Madara swallows hard and looks for his little guide. “Take me to the aviary,” he insists when finding the boy with the wooden toy again.
And it is he who saves Madara from the crowd, pointing out that it is his personal duty to show Uchiha Madara the way to the aviary.
Madara turns and sees that Naori has disappeared from his sight. His hands are sweating. Everything is too much, too fucking much. His aunt has also reoccupied herself and his name is heard through whispers, until they form a large cloud that covers the entire place.

* * *

For Hashirama, the reception is no less warm. Most of the Senju remember him as a smiling, well-mannered boy; they are not surprised to know that he has become a man of impeccable demeanours.
Tobirama takes his brother straight to his tent, where he offers him a change of clothes of his own, as if seeing him wearing those is suddenly unbearable to him. Hashirama thanks him but makes no attempt to change.
He looks around and observes that Tobirama’s tent is just an exact replica of the one their father owned at the Senju encampment: the desk littered with papers, the trunk with clothes, his clan banner perched atop the futon. All in there smells of Butsuma, as much as he wishes it didn’t.
The youngest of the Senju notices his gesture and says, “Anija, you can stay in this tent while I choose something more appropriate for you. I didn’t think you were going to arrive so soon,” he apologises. Tobirama has taken a seat in the only chair on the desk, “You want me to ask someone to cook you some dinner, or perhaps you prefer to dine in the celebration tonight? We can attend it together.”
Busy people come and go, their silhouettes reflected across the tent’s walls.
“It would be a little impolite of me not to attend that party, do you not think so?”
A slight imitation of a smile appears on Tobirama’s lips; how much he missed his brother being home.
“Now then, let’s get back to this,” Tobirama continues reviewing the papers he has within reach. “If we put the academy on the edge of the village, won’t it be a bit incoherent?”
Hashirama sits on the edge of the table, a gesture his father hated like few things in life, and points to a different spot, surrounded by a red circle. “Here, what is this?”
Tobirama raises an eyebrow high on his forehead. “We’ll built there the edifice from which our leader will observe the village.”
Hashirama puts a hand to his chin, thinking. “Here,” he says, pointing his finger again to the map. He taps the surface a couple of times. “Place the academy here. It will do the children good to be at such an important point; it will cheer them up.”
His younger brother nods and again, another burst of smiles.
“I like your idea, Anija, even though you always tend to add a cutesy touch to everything you do.” Tobirama starts accommodating a pile of papers on the table. “Now, the next issue to decide is about the warehouses. Winter is coming and we cannot leave them in such an unprotected area or else—”
Hashirama gets off the table with a pout and turns his back on him.
“Tobi, I just got home and all you want to talk to me about is politics and administration and stuff like that.”
“It is the primary duty of a leader to be attentive to the needs of their people…”
The oldest of the Senju returns to the table, leaning over his little brother. “From what I’ve heard, they have not elected an official leader yet.” Then he tilts his head to the side like a puppy. “Did you not miss me? Or aren’t you even a bit curious about how my trip went? Or about Madara?”
It is getting dark, and the torches posted outside the shops are being lit at that moment.
“Madara?” Tobirama says. “What might I be interested in knowing about Madara?”
Hashirama looks down at the map that stands between the two brothers.
“He is important to me, that’s why... that’s why I guess you would want to talk about him.”
Tobirama snorts and pushes the stack of papers in front of him.
“Or we could talk about Uzumaki Mito, instead,” Hashirama adds, still avoiding his gaze. “I met her on our way, didn’t she tell you?”
His younger brother nods. The reflection of the candles gives a different touch to his pale face. He does look much older than his tender fifteen years. Hashirama suddenly feels too old and immature by comparison.
“She told me about…” Hashirama continues, “your plans for us, when Madara left us alone for a moment. Do you not have the slightest interest in knowing what we talked about?”
Tobirama excuses himself. “Anija, those were our father’s plans—well—he saw that this war was taking too long and thought that maybe with the help of the Uzumaki, we could finish off the Uchiha once and for all.” Hashirama listens attentively. “He asked me to exchange letters with the leader of the Uzumaki clan, taking advantage of the fact that he had a young daughter of marriageable age and who—fortunately—had not been previously rejected by you... But everything was left unfinished with our father’s passing, and I, what else could I do? After you left, I insisted on the matter, knowing that it would be good for you… I only want the best for you.”
Hashirama feels a tightness in his chest. The corners of his eyes begin to burn.
“I know, Tobi,” he whispers. Tobirama is about to interrupt him. “Wait, please…” Hashirama pleads. “It’s just… oh, Tobi, ah—I’ve already made up my mind.”
“Anija…”
“No, no, wait; I’ve decided what I think is best for me, and…” He shrugs. “I choose him.”
Tobirama freezes. He suddenly starts making noises that aren’t words at all, as if he’s forgotten how to speak.
“Mito is a good girl, Anija. I’m sure she will give you some children for you to protect, and—who knows? You may even be happy by her side… Why not give her a try?”
His older brother fixes his dark eyes on his and they are so intense that it makes Tobirama shiver.
“And why not give Uchiha Madara the same opportunity, then?”
Tobirama growls and his eyes seem to have turned even redder.
“I’ve already chosen.” Hashirama’s voice is firm, like his gaze. “And I choose him,” he repeats. “Him, Madara.”
Hashirama has already given too much. He has sacrificed much for the common good. So, for the first time, he is going to take a risk, to follow his instinct. He will choose by his own will.
“He… will ruin all that is golden within you.”
Hashirama giggles and walks over to his brother again. He embraces him from behind the chair. “I would really like my two favourite people to get along.” And then walks determinedly to the entrance of the tent.
Something changes in the air, as if Tobirama knows that he has lost this war.
“That will be impossible, Anija, as long as I am your brother. But if he really is... the person you have chosen to share your life with… So be it.” He sighs. “What else can I do to avoid going against your will. It’s what I hated most about Father; I will not become him. You are an adult, after all, it is your decision to join that... Uchiha.”
Hashirama looks over his shoulder at his brother. “Oh, I heard that you and Uchiha Izuna have become great friends, too.”
Tobirama has in his hands a handful of papers of some importance that he plans to take to his own tent. He clings to them tightly, the sinews in his hands and arms are taut as bowstrings.
“Politics, that is what has happened between us.”
Hashirama knows his little brother too well to not believe those words. There even seems to be a slight, discreet flush to his pale cheeks. “Hmm, sure, I also used to talk about politics with Madara after our battles, in fact, that’s how we planned out this manic plan in the first place.”
“I would never do something like that with an Uchiha.”
Ah, how he missed being able to have these kinds of conversations with his little brother. “Whenever you want to look tough, Tobi, you start sounding like Father.”
“I beg you, Anija, never compare me to that man again.”
Hashirama’s eyes are as bright as the moon.
“You know, Tobirama? I am glad you have put aside that habit of yours of letting yourself be carried away by other people’s ideas. You are the smartest of us all; I’m sure you don’t have to abide by anyone’s will anymore.” His older brother has always had the guts he lacked to dare to swim against the tide. “Madara is a good man and I love him—Maybe it’s because he is misinterpreted as he’s not used to open himself up to strangers and that’s why no one else knows him like I do.”
Tobirama’s eyelid twitches. Hashirama gives him another warm smile. “And that’s all that matters to me. See you later, Tobi.” He finishes before leaving the tent.
Hashirama almost expects to hear Tobirama’s hurried footsteps behind him, but that doesn’t happen. He looks up to the dark sky. The first stars are visible now, as well as the moon, which is already high.
The murmur of the party reaches him. There is even music, and the children are playing at chasing each other; delicious aromas also appear and make his gut growl. He is so excited to try something other than stream fish. He could go find some sake and—oh—he would love to share some sake with Madara. Didn’t that Uchiha owe him a drink?
Madara. His memory causes a lump in the pit of his stomach. Where are you?

* * *

Hashirama stops at a certain point in the Uchiha district and watches carefully. People are rushing to make a celebration worthy of Tajima’s children. He can see the Uchiha coming and going carrying either firewood or large heavy jars towards the centre of the village. And he draws the attention of passers-by, for, although he still wears the Uchiha clan’s attires, they know from miles away that he is not one of them.
“Are you looking for my brother?” Someone is talking to him behind his back. It’s Izuna and his hair looks freshly washed, and he’s wearing a navy-blue nemaki.
“I do, but now that I see you—” Hashirama sweeps the place with his gaze. “Where can we find an empty tent to talk in?”
Izuna does not quite understand what he means, but still nods and asks him to follow. They end up sneaking into a darkened hovel. Izuna hurries over to light a couple of candles and soon, the place lights up. “Well, Senju.”
“Your wound; show it to me and I’ll finish healing you here, once and for all.”
The little Uchiha frowns.
“I told you before that it’s not necessary; it’s almost cured.”
“‘Almost,’ is the key word here, Izuna,” Hashirama sends a furtive glance at the entrance and insists. “It will be quick, I promise you, and that way, no one will have to know, and so, I won’t have any further arguments with Madara.”
Izuna finally understands. “Is it because of his falcon?” The boy shakes his head. “You cannot blame him. He—my brother takes his falconry very seriously. It’s like he... somehow has this need to nurture and protect. You better than anyone should understand him.”
“And I do; but now he thinks of me as cold-hearted wretch for keeping it from him.” Hashirama bites his lip. “I was the first one to worry about the little bird—and I’m good at medical ninjutsu.” Hashirama would be considered the best in the field if it weren’t for the fact that he doesn’t like to brag. “Whenever I heal someone, I make sure myself to do a good job. That’s why I trusted that the little bird was fine, that she would fly like before. That’s why, Izuna, I insist on seeing your wound.”
Izuna leans against a desk and gazes out at the dancing figures on the walls. “Maybe later. Tonight, there is much to do and… y-you should go find my brother instead, to convince him to attend the celebration as well. I’ve already tried it, but he is still just as stubborn as usual, worse even… besides, now it’s your fault.”
“My fault?” Hashirama lets out a laugh.
But then, Hashirama gets to thinking that it is true. It’s not only about their misunderstanding with Sarutobi Sasuke, but about Tomoe’s wing. Tomoe… falcons—an aviary. Of course, how had it not occurred to him?
“Y-you know what, you are right, Izuna,” says Hashirama, suddenly feeling the enormous urge to run across the district. “We’ll leave it for another time, but promise me we’ll see each other here again tomorrow—”
Just then, the door opens, and a tall, thin figure stands in the doorway; his gestures barely distinguishable in the dim candlelight: Tobirama.
“Anija, what business do you have to attend here tomorrow?” asks the youngest of the Senju, but Hashirama is already leaving the hovel.

* * *

After asking a couple of distracted passers-by, he finds the aviary at the edge of the district. It is a small building, made of wood with lattice walls; from the gravel road he can see the glow of a candle inside.
Since the door is open, he takes the liberty of sneaking inside. “Madara?” Hashirama calls in a whisper and an endless concerned flapping of wings is heard as soon as his voice echoes off the walls. “Madara?” He insists—there is someone inside—their figure is hidden in half-shadow and is carrying a bird in his hands.
It is a tall person—although shorter than him still—with a slim build; his long hair is tied up in a high ponytail. How is he not going to recognise his Madara?
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you," says Hashirama after closing the door. The flapping and shrieking are still intense at the appearance of a stranger. “Madara?”
“Wait for me outside, you’re frightening them,” the reply comes in a growl. Either way, he keeps turning his back on him. Now it’s easy for Hashirama to see that Tomoe is the bird in his hands. Madara is carefully examining the structure of her wing, her feathers’ shape and the vile pale line that is the long and deep scar that divides the structure almost in two.
It sure was a deep and dangerous wound; Hashirama was truly concerned about the bird’s life when the accident happened. Fortunately, he was able to prevent such an incredible creature from dying over something so ridiculous. Tomoe turns to him at that moment and chirps, maybe greeting him or maybe encouraging her master to notice the other man?
Hashirama waves at him, in case it’s the latter; however, Madara stays ignoring him. Goddess, he has already spent too much time looking at the same outstretched wing; the bird is fretting.
“Madara.”
“I asked you to wait for me outside, Hashirama.”
The Senju raises his hands in surrender and turns around. He says goodbye to Tomoe and adds: “Even if you plan to spend the whole night inside here, evading me, know that I will just stand there, outside, waiting for you.”
There is no answer, but Hashirama didn’t expect there would be one. He walks out of the aviary and listens to the birds’ chirps slowly fade away as he makes his way back to the gravel road.
That area is almost isolated, and only a torch illuminates the building. The rest of the life is settled metres below, where the bonfire is glowing and from where aromas and sounds come.
It’s not long before he hears the aviary door creak. He waits without turning for Madara, however, he walks past Hashirama, leaving him behind. Now he can distinguish him quite better; he has too changed his clothes to a nemaki, alike Izuna’s; his hair smells and looks freshly washed as well. His hands are bare, only the falconry glove is there. He is gorgeous.
“Madara,” Hashirama calls as he begins to follow.
The Uchiha goes slow, purposely, and Hashirama soon reaches his level. His pale face lit by the moon; his eyes are unreadable, even disinterested or… annoyed? Indifferent? Hashirama doesn’t know how to describe it as appropriate. “Madara, are you still mad at me?” The silence continues. “You know that not telling you about Tomoe’s incident was never my intention—”
“Incident?” Madara snorts, still looking straight ahead. “You call the game your friend Sarutobi plays with the birds he runs into an incident? Any idiot would be able to recognise a peregrine falcon at a glance...”
I didn’t quite recognise Tomoe until I saw her up close, he wants to say, but he does not, as he sees that Madara is very, very mad. That skill with birds is yours alone, and no one else’s, Uchiha Madara.
As if he had read his thoughts, Madara then turns to the smiling Senju. For Hashirama it is easy to see a slight flush on his cheeks, despite the dim lighting.
“Oh, Madara,” Hashirama whispers, getting closer, trapping Madara by his arm. “You have no need to be jealous of Sarutobi Sasuke.”
Madara lets out a fake laugh and that’s all his reply. He continues walking, not trying to get at all out of his grasp.
“I assure you that,” Hashirama insists, still close to his ear, “to me, there is no one closer to my heart than you... I thought I made it very clear by now.”
His friend takes some time to process everything.
“You hold yourself in a very high regard, Senju.”
But he doesn’t fool him. Hashirama tightens the hold on his arm and notices Madara biting his lip.
“The fact that we have coincided on our path—the Sarutobi and I—I mean, it just doesn’t really matter… He insisted me to follow them back here, you know?” Madara does not answer him, but Hashirama can see he’s holding his breath. “And yet, as always happens with each and every one of the people who have tried to separate me from you, Madara, I ignored them, because there is no treasure more tempting to me than the idea of being able to be by your side, forever.”
Now, Madara really tries to get out of his grasp; but Hashirama doesn’t plan to let him escape again. “Are you planning to go to the celebration tonight?” He tries on simpler things.
“I’m not in the mood, Senju.”
“Yeah, neither am I. We—you and I—could have our own celebration, alone, at my tent later. Just the two of us, Madara, what do you think?”
Madara ends up violently letting himself go and stands in front of Hashirama, almost on tiptoe, to be able to reach his eye-level and repeats, word by word, and with a voice full of annoyance: “I. Am. Not. In. The. Mood.”
And then he leaves Hashirama behind, disappearing through the many tents and half-built houses of the district.

* * *

Madara is frustrated beyond measure. He feels an unbearable tension in his body and is barely able to walk. That damned Senju and his embarrassing words, his smiles, and promises… his whispers and his wide, warm hands. And what is it supposed to be of them now that they’re trapped again inside those fences? Will they continue as usual, pretending that they are just friends? Or will Hashirama try to share his tent with him now, or…? It is ridiculous! He doesn’t even know where Hashirama’s tent is! The most normal thing would be for Hashirama to share his brother’s and that would leave no opportunity for them two to do anything—and it is not that he’s waiting for something to happen between him and Hashirama, it’s just that... And he doesn’t even have anything to do at Hashirama’s tent!
So, he decides to approach the crowd to look for Izuna—although—another bath with cold water would come in handy to calm his ardour. It’s just… if only he could stop thinking about him, everything would be so much easier. But now, it’s kind of impossible for him because of the little drama he made upon arrival, but what was he supposed to do, anyway? Stand there, idly, while that very handsome man continued to sneer to his face? The smile on that Sarutobi had made Madara clear that he was just trying to provoke him and yet, he was the fool who had fallen into his trap.
If he ever ran into that idiot again… it would be the end of him.
Lead by the glowing paper lanterns, Madara enters a tavern where he is greeted by a smiling man. He is a local Uchiha, and the man knows who he is; the barman recognises him as Tajima’s son and tells him that he has heard of his daring exploits and that he is proud of him. Madara answers with a forced smile and is almost tempted to believe him. He takes a seat at the bar and orders a cup of the filthiest sake he could find, handing the barman a shiny coin. Maybe this will help clear his mind... or make everything worse.
“Nii-san?” Izuna finds his brother with a cup in hand. Madara doesn’t stop and finishes it in one drink. “Are you alright?” Izuna asks as he takes a seat next to him.
Madara turns to see his little brother and discovers much to his chagrin that he is not alone. And what the hell is that Senju Tobirama doing there? Madara’s gesture speaks for itself.
“We were… searching for you,” Izuna explains. Madara almost wants to believe him. “I… I thought you hated sake.”
The barman has a lot of work, but it shows that he does not miss a detail of Tajima’s children conversation. It must be annoying for him that the newcomers are just a couple of kids.
“Even I am given to make exceptions,” Madara replies and asks the barman to fill his cup one more time. And, yet again, he rushes it like there’s no tomorrow.
“Maybe we should go for a walk around the place,” Izuna says and then corrects himself, “you and I. Would you like that, Nii-san?”
The cool night air would surely do a better job of lightening his mind than alcohol, but that would force them to be around people and he would be in dire need of talking to them—which would put him in an even worse mood.
His little brother knows him better than anyone and may have sensed his thoughts, as he says, “Or we could go back to our tent early, is that any better?”
Izuna is the best little brother in the world. So attentive and observant. It is a real disgrace that Izuna is forced to have someone like him for an older brother. Madara was used to being alone, not being invited—even being ignored—but Izuna deserved better.
So, he shakes his head and waves another signal for the barman to refill his cup again. That way, his self-destruction will only reach him, leaving his little brother untouched.
“It’s too much for you, Nii-san,” Izuna snarls as he watches the smiling man refill his brother’s cup. “You are not used to drinking this much, it can be dangerous—”
“Enough, Izuna,” Says Tobirama. “Don’t you see that what your masochistic brother wants is to lose his own consciousness?”
Madara smirks after finishing his third cup. He wipes his mouth with a hand, for he had almost forgotten that Senju Tobirama himself was there. He turns to him with cunning eyes.
“Now, look at you, Senju—our village’s leader—quarrelling with this poor drunk man; Tobirama, our commander… flesh, and bone.”
“Interim leader,” Tobirama spits out, undeterred. “And you are drunk.”
“Bet I am.” Madara nods, standing up. He places a couple of heavy, shiny coins on the bar; he thanks the smiling man and prepares to leave the fuck out of there.
He starts to walk the other way, suddenly realising that he’s not a person to attend festivities—it is still too early for the migraine to arrive. He hears some hurried footsteps behind, but does not stop, even when knowing it is Izuna.
“Our tent is on the opposite side of the village,” the little Uchiha yells, his voice agitated.
Madara waves a hand in the air.
“I’ll just go for a walk, alright?”
Izuna runs to his brother and stands before him—stopping him—his hands on Madara’s shoulders. “Come, Nii-san. I’ll go with you, aye? We’ll take a walk, away from all that crowd. I know you don’t like being at parties let alone being the centre of attention, but we can...”
His older brother stops him. “No—Izuna, this celebration is also for you. You, who, at your tender age, dared to travel halfway around the world in such uncertain times, in search of your damned Nii-san who only causes you problems...”
“You’re drunk,” Izuna replies. “I’ll take you to sleep, yes? Nii-san, all you need is to rest.”
What he really needs is something else, damn it, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t tell him.
He shakes his head and insists, “This is your night, Izuna, I don’t want you to waste it keeping me company.” He cuts him off when he sees that Izuna is about to complain. “I will deal tomorrow with this whole situation, alright? I will gather the Uchiha, Naori, the elders and everybody else, and I will tell them how things truly are; I will tell them about my decisions and all, but that will be until tomorrow, when I have a clear head, yes? Tonight—Tonight, little Izuna, I don’t feel like tolerating anyone,” he glances at Tobirama. “Much less ruining the party for my dearest little brother.”
The cold wind cuts the place in two.
“I’m your only brother, Nii-san.” His voice cracks, but he still smiles. “My duty is also to see for you; see that you don’t carry all this weight on your shoulders, alone.”
Ah, the last thing he wants is to cry. Madara catches him in an embrace and kisses his temple. “Go and have a nice night, alright?” Then he turns to his back and observes that the Senju has followed them, although he waits several meters behind. “I still don’t quite understand how you can like him…”
Izuna wipes his eyes but doesn’t comment on it.
“Will you come back later?” Izuna asks behind his back, when Madara is leaving. The answer takes too long to arrive.
“I will, Izuna.”
Although Madara is not so sure of that.

* * *

Somehow, he ends up wandering through the Senju tents. The place is almost empty, except for the sentinels who remain posted on the fences—day, and night—and who, fortunately, have not noticed his presence.
He follows a trail of chakra that floats on the air, caressing his senses and inflaming them even, exciting them. And why the hell did he come looking for him? It is useless anyway, because it was obvious that that fool would end up attending the party, to fill his belly with that sake he likes so much and to chat with his hundreds of friends, or with one of those girls…
The trail leads him to a particular tent he’s never been to. It is empty and its owner has just broken the main rule of never leaving the place unattended when there are candles burning inside. Those stupid Senju, and they boast themselves of knowing everything.
Madara enters against the command of the voice in his head. Who will dare to stop me? Inside, there is a desk, a trunk, and a Senju banner perched atop the futon—ready to be used. On the table there are a couple of lighted candles and a pile of papers which content he has no interest in knowing about. There is also an open inkwell, and the brush is… lying on the floor. Goddess, what kind of a fool lives there?
“Madara?”
Of course. Madara is about to burst out laughing. What person would be so careless to maintain a tent in such a state but Senju Hashirama himself. Of fucking course! No wonder his chakra led him there.
“I see you didn’t attend the party, after all,” Hashirama says, shutting the tent flap. “I didn’t feel like attending either.”
Hashirama is carrying a bag in his hands.
“I’m glad you did not,” Madara thinks... or did he say it out loud?
Hashirama’s smirk hints that just the latter happened. He sees him approaching and Madara leans over to pick up the brush, as an excuse to avoid looking him in the eye. He walks around the Senju and hurries to the exit.
“You’ve been drinking,” Hashirama says behind his back.
Madara has no reason to explain anything to him, but either way he does, “I have.”
He stares at Hashirama out of the corner of his eye. Much to his annoyance, the man has bathed as well and is now wearing a colourful nemaki; the hair falls clean and silky down his back.
“If I correctly recall...” Hashirama leaves the bag on the table and then, its contents are revealed: a bottle of sake and a single cup. “You owe me a drink.”
Madara raises a high eyebrow.
“I do,” he walks to the desk and sees that Hashirama has poured himself a drink. The bottle looks fresh and bright, like its fruity content. He reaches out a hand and snatches the cup from Hashirama’s hand, intending to bring it to his lips.
“I see you’ve had enough, Madara.” Hashirama points out. “You and I can share it another time, aye? When you’re sober…”
But either way, Madara downs the entire content in one gulp. The clumsiness of his senses and movements, causes some of the liquid to fall around the corner of his lips, slipping down his neck.
Fortunately, Senju Hashirama is present and quick to erase the liquid’s path with his warm tongue, ending up on Madara’s lips. The fruity sake in combination with the saline taste of his skin is enough to drive him mad. As an excuse to erase all traces of alcohol on his skin, Hashirama passes his tongue again where a path already shines. Madara tilts his head to the side so that his friend can easily act.
Hashirama’s clothes are thin and—without intending to—Madara locks his gaze on the place where a hard lump begins to appear.
“I-I have to go,” Madara whispers, his voice marked by an unusual hoarseness.
"You have not," Hashirama replies as he comes face to face with him again. Suddenly, it is impossible for Madara to look away from those dark eyes. “We haven’t been able to spend time on our own since we met again.”
Madara swallows hard. His face is too hot, and feels himself sweating, even though the wind outside has gotten very cold.
“I love you, Madara…” Hashirama growls and leans in, trying to capture his lips again. “I need you.” With one hand he pulls the piece of leather that holds Madara’s hair and lets it fall loose over his back.
Madara is always faster, although not when his senses are limited by the influence of alcohol, which causes him to end up lying on the desk, scattering the papers far and wide on the floor and sticking his fingers in the inkwell accidentally.
“You are a bloody mess, Senju; do you know that?” Madara asks, as he wipes his fingers on a piece of paper he found within reach. Hashirama takes advantage of this moment to press his lips with the Uchiha’s.
“The worst,” Hashirama replies, before kissing him again.
And Madara lets him do as he pleases, because who the hell is he trying to fool? It is obvious that Madara wants his closeness; he wants his kisses and his silly words, his promises; he wants his caresses and craves like hell for that bulge that is pressing on his hip. Madara clings with his other hand to Hashirama’s neck, to support himself or to bring him closer—maybe both—who can tell?
“You look stunning in this nemaki,” Hashirama whispers as they part to catch their breath. “Madara, you are beautiful—”
“You talk a lot of nonsense, Senju, and you haven’t had a drink from this goddamned bottle yet.”
Hashirama answers an amused 'oh,' and then grabs the bottle with the intention of pouring himself a drink. Madara is the one who passes him the cup and Hashirama rushes it with trembling hands as soon as he smells the fruity aroma filling the tent.
“It’s my turn,” Madara whispers and tries to take the bottle out of his hands.
He fails.
“You’ve had too much already,” says Hashirama, taking a sip that tastes like glory.
“Thanks, dad; give me another drink.”
Hashirama’s grip is stronger than his and the bottle just doesn’t budge. So much struggle ends up in an accident, as the content is largely spilled on the desk. Madara stops his attempts to get another drink when he sees that part of his clothes are soaked in sake. “Look what you’ve done, Senju.”
“So, now it is my fault?” Hashirama replies with half a smile, as he looks at the size of the damage.
Only a few papers lie soaked on the table, although the mess made with spilled ink is far worse. Though he has not much to worry about, either. If the papers were of any importance, Tobirama would never have left them in the care of his silly, neglected, sake aficionado, and very much in love, older brother.
Madara extinguishes the candles with his fingertips and the remains of the smoke rise until they escape through the cracks in the ceiling. “You’ll end up burning this fucking tent down with us inside,” is his poor excuse.
Hashirama doesn’t care much about the disaster, and he soon pins Madara against the table again, taking advantage of the fact that they can now move in the freedom of darkness. Now, that’s a delight: his breath tastes like sweet fruits, his favourite musk. His body is smooth under the delicate fabric of clothing, except down there, because—alike his own body—Madara is beginning to show an obvious and torturing need.
“I thought I’d go find you and share this bottle with you,” Hashirama whispers in his ear, “knowing you weren’t in the mood to go to the party, anyway.”
“Were you planning on going out like this—?” Madara says in a hoarse voice. “This cloth is too thin. Just who were you planning to meet with, huh?”
Madara’s hands grip the edge of the table tightly, in an intent on resisting the urge to draw them over the tall, tough figure of the other man. He can see a certain bare part of his chest, his skin gleaming with sweat; the necklace bright in the dim light that filters through the cracks of the tent. Hashirama’s shoulders and arms are marked under the fabric; a knot made with hasty hands is what keeps Madara from paradise.
“I already told you that you don’t have to be jealous of anyone,” Hashirama whispers to his ear. His body brazenly close to Madara’s. “I belong to you, body, and soul. Uchiha Madara, you can do me whatever you want.” Madara bites his lip and looks away. Hashirama can see the flush on his face despite the darkness. “You can use me however you want.” Madara’s bare hands still cling like sharp claws to the table. There is a certain, indescribable pleasure in seeing him so aroused, as if Madara could barely contain himself. “There is no need for us to suffer one more night in joint agony, Madara... No one will come to interrupt us, I assure you; this tent is mine alone and the order has been given that no one comes to bother me.”
Madara lets out a growl. “I won’t let you fuck me in this state, Hashirama.” He feels his body heating up, it is unbearable. “Although, you talk too much.” His voice is guttural like never before. “Y-you should use that chatty mouth of yours for better purposes.”
And in the dimness inside the tent, Madara sees his friend’s eyes glow.
“Yes—” Hashirama hisses in a hurry, lest he change his mind, “yes, Madara.”
Much of Hashirama’s body is still pinning him to the table; his need is obvious. But this is Madara’s turn; he has sure longed for it. “Kneel,” the order hits Hashirama by surprise, yet he obeys instantly.
Madara sits at the table and watches his friend on his knees before him. He has imagined this scene in the past, more times than he can remember. Hashirama reaches Madara’s waistband; his hands are a bit clumsy as he tries to untie it.
All Madara sees is Hashirama’s body outlined in the faint glow of torches outside the tent, blurred among the rest of the blackness, his lustrous hair and gleaming gaze. Hashirama does not take his eyes off him, his face is also flushed, and his lips parted—waiting.
The robe is open; his pale skin is barely seen in the dim shadows. They have seen each other naked before, but either way, Madara is sober enough to feel a slight hint of modesty as being exposed to him. Hashirama touched him in their cave days. And when they bathed in the streams, Madara would look out of the corner of his eye to enjoy a few seconds of a glimpse of Hashirama’s skin.
Madara does not have to feel that shy, yet he does, darkness and all.
Hashirama does not say a thing. He crawls on the ground to get just at the right height and finally, gobbles it up whole.
The only thing that can be heard inside the tent is a heated gasp that comes from Uchiha Madara’s lips. He holds on to the table for balance and shuts his eyes as he lets the sensations from his belly run through the rest of his body.
Madara knows what it takes to receive a whole cock inside his mouth, and he is not going to deny that he feels very pleased to see Hashirama act in such an... inexperienced way. Am I his first man? Madara is panting. Hashirama has told him before about his encounter with that Senju girl, sure, but—what if this is it the first time Hashirama finds himself in such a position? Madara spreads his legs wider, and a swift smirk is Hashirama’s answer.
Madara cannot stop watching… Hashirama uses both hands to hold him steadily before pulling it in and out of his wet mouth.
Hashirama’s mouth is warm, and moist. Madara catches sight of the outlined man kneeling before him. His eyes have become accustomed to the darkness and now see him clearly. It would be very easy for him to activate his sharingan to save that moment for the rest of his days.
“Ha-shi-ra-ma,” he hisses and by sheer instinct, he places a hand atop the Senju’s head, drawing him closer still. He buries his fingers into the silky hair, clinging to him, urging him to speed up his thrusts. Hashirama is yours, even if other smiling, cunning, and attractive men try to keep him from your side. He is totally his; the kneeling man before Madara; the strongest of all shinobi, the most capable, the one everyone wants... Senju Hashirama, at his command. “Faster,” Madara urges in another growl and Hashirama instantly obeys.
Hashirama clings to Madara’s trembling legs and soon, the candles fall off and roll off the edges of the table. The inkwell spills the rest of its content onto the papers and the bottle of sake suffers the same fate before ending up in pieces on the ground.
The aroma of sake fills the tent to the point of intoxication. Or maybe it is just Hashirama’s chakra what has him imprisoned and weakened, even though the Senju is the one kneeling at his feet.
Soon—too soon for his liking—Madara begins to feel the squeeze in his belly that lets him know that he is about to come. So, he pulls on Hashirama’s hair again, but now to force him to let him go. The first sound Hashirama’s mouth makes is a moan of annoyance. “Madara!” He growls, as he wipes the saliva from his lips.
Madara hastily knots up his clothes and tucks his hair behind his ears. Hashirama has stood up and the look on his face tells him that he is furious. Hashirama is not the only one suffering there, goddammit. Can he not remember that he is the one who was a hair’s breadth away from cumming?
Yet, he turns his back to avoid explaining, and Hashirama takes the opportunity to imprison him against the table. Madara’s clothes are soaked with the spilled sake and ink, now mixed into a huge dark stain.
“You think you’re very smart to have made me go this far and then let me wait, huh, Uchiha?” Hashirama’s voice is now hoarse as well and all Madara’s members lose their strength. “You are cruel, Uchiha Madara…” Hashirama places both hands on the table, pressing himself even closer to him, to start rubbing his swollen and so-much needed bulge on top of the soft fabric that hides his lover’s round buttocks. “Do you perhaps enjoy seeing me suffer in this agony of not being able to possess you?” His thrusts get inclement. “How can you not feel how much I want to fuck you?” The noises inside the tent are their clothes’ friction, the creaking of the table and Madara’s incessant panting.
Ah, goddess, it would be very easy for Madara to pull his clothes up and order that Senju to continue his thrusting—but now to enter and go deep, deeper—until there is not a single space between them.
The end is near, it is imminent. Madara doesn’t plan on delaying it any longer and so, he ends up letting out a loud gasp when the front of his clothes gets wet. A few thrusts later, he feels the fabric on his back moisten as well and feels himself shivering as he imagines the pale stain on his dark nemaki.
“Stay the night,” Hashirama murmurs into Madara’s hair. His voice is the same as always, now coupled with the tenderness of his plea. “Please, I promise not to force you… I just want you to sleep with me.”
Still lying on the table, Madara sends a glance to where the futon is.
“It’s small,” Madara says. Though, either way, he’s going to stay; his clothes are ruined. Anyone who sees it will know what just happened.
“We can cuddle, if you let me.”
Freaking hell, of course he’ll let himself be cuddled. Madara can’t help but smile, pleased, “You are a fool.”

Chapter 6

Notes:

I feel like this has been waiting for too long in my drafts but nooo, it's only been about three weeks.
Much of this chapter and the one that follows was written months ago, when this story was not yet in concise form. I've waited so long to get to this point aaaah T-T

He is already a big boy, so he stands with his head held high, his mouth straight and his hands at his sides, firm. He is not going to tremble, although he is a bit worried about what might happen to him: he is still a child in the end, and has been called to the hut of the highest-ranking shinobi in the entire clan, only below the leader. However, for this little one, it is enough to think of his brother and fallen companions for his spirit to afire, to fill himself with vigour again and his blood to ignite with rage. Experienced shinobi they were, the best of their rank; the best scouting group in his entire clan, and yet… they were defeated in mere seconds at the hand of a wandering shinobi who was overly confident in himself.

Uchiha Madara, that was his name.

How was he going to forget his name? It is the only thing he has been able to think about in the last few days. Uchiha Madara and his terrifying threats. His voice, his features… that pair of dark eyes. Little is known of the Uchiha among his people, and yet one small detail about them is what has caught his attention: those eyes—so the voices say—are capable of achieving wonders, of putting one into a powerful genjutsu, snatching you away any possibility of escape. They may even be able to control the bijuu, if they even exist.

Uchiha Madara’s eyes.

His older brother mentioned that bastard’s eyes that day. Those eyes see a lot, renegade shinobi. His voice was still fresh in his head.

Nii-san, the little boy thinks, had you known it was Uchiha Madara, would you still have continued speaking?

The boy’s hands are shaking; his position is both uncomfortable and infuriating. Those memories don’t help much either, as they only make him angrier. Angry at himself, for being so weak, for standing idly by, scared like a stupid child; angry at Uchiha Madara for having dared to defeat his older brother as if it had been nothing. His older brother—the best of the shinobi among his clan—defeated in a second as if he were a mere helpless child.

“Kid,” he lifts his head at being called.

It is that guy who is not a complete man yet. He has come to scold him again, as if he were already the clan head and not the leader’s lapdog.

Either way, the boy is encouraged to answer, acknowledging when called by a superior. “Yes?”

“You know why I called you.”

How is he not to know? The boy had been waiting for it as well. They had taken too long to connect the dots; he was a somewhat impatient boy and the rest too slow.

“I do,” replies the boy. “What I don’t understand is… why am I being held as if I were a mere criminal?”

The room is completely closed, except for the cracks in the ceiling, through which the smoke from the torches escape. All the rest is darkened and compressed as in a vault; it’s hard to even breathe.

He is exhausted.

“Your deed is told far and wide, here and there. Not bad for a brat. What are you—fourteen?”

Fifteen this year. The little boy smirks. The torches crack, and the wind roars ferociously outside the hut. The nights are merciless in the desert.

“And yet,” says the boy, “you have brought me here to restrain me.”

He is a very intelligent boy, despite his age. His older brother had said on multiple occasions that one day, when he grew up, he would be worthy to be the very leader of those clans that wandered the desert.

Although such omens seem to have vanished after his first trip to those faraway woods.

“These are difficult times for our people, little one,” says the young man, as if he wasn’t just seven years his senior. “Do you happen to know how difficult it is to get food these days? Animals are a scarce, as is water. When was the last time you saw a spring with your own eyes? A river, even a stream?”

The boy swallows.

“Soon,” the young man threatens, “there won’t be enough water left in your body for you to swallow. Your throat will dry like the sand around us.”

As if it were a dark omen, the sandy wind hits the hut with force. The child has no choice but to suppress a tremor.

“He was my older brother,” the boy whispers, averting his gaze. He does his best not to burst into tears. “The only family I had left…”

“He was also a braggart with a big mouth.”

The little boy looks up, furious. Anything could be said about him, but no one had the right to talk about his older brother.

“Uchiha Madara was a worse braggart still,” the boy laughs. “You think to know anything about pride?” He shakes his head. “You should had seen the bastard.”

“We had been warned to tread carefully in his presence; his power is infamous among the clans… He is a bloodthirsty monster. Reputedly, he wiped out half the Senju army himself.”

The little boy has no doubt at all. He clenches his fist tightly just by recalling it.

“He finished our men off as if they were mere toys, as if they were made of wood, like our puppets.”

The young man raises an eyebrow.

“I couldn’t just sit idly by,” the boy continues, “I had to… somehow, I had to seek revenge, it was an offense to my blood. You are yourself somebody’s older brother, you should understand.”

The eyes of that young man shine under the reflection of the torches. “Revenge is as bloodthirsty as life in the desert. The shinobi you killed were Uzumaki, not Uchiha.”

The boy already knew that. Their hair had been unmistakable, as well as their strength and jutsu applied. He admits that the old man gave him quite a fight, but in the end, he couldn’t do much against the boy’s quick and sharp threads. His older brother hadn’t been wrong at all to call him a brilliant shinobi.

“When we met Uchiha Madara, he warned us, before the slaughter, that he would never forgive anyone who tried to harm the first shinobi village.” The little boy grins again. “I suspect that he will not be pleased to know what has happened to his allies. He will surely come to us seeking revenge.”

The young man looks at him, serious. He is completely covered by white, thick cloaks, to face the cold night.

“As I told you, little one, revenge is just as bloodthirsty as life in the desert, and your stupidity has probably doomed us all equally.”

The kid smirks. He is an observant and intelligent boy; he sure deserves some credit.

The young man continues, “The lands inhabited by the Uchiha are fertile, there is plenty of food and water—”

“—They beat us because we were confident and didn’t know the terrain… next time, we’ll be better prepared.”

“Indeed,” says the young man in white. “The next time you are before Uchiha Madara and explain your motives to him, then, little one, you will be better prepared.”

“What are you talking about?”

The man in white walks towards him and plants a big, broad hand on his shoulder.

“Do you intend to send me before them to cry for mercy?” The little boy spits at his feet. “Do you see this—” he points a finger to the gelatinous mass. “It would be as if this offense fell at my brother’s grave. He wanted the best for his people, he cared about them and planned to take away those lands so that our kin could live a better life!”

The young man looks at him, intently.

“There are better ways to do achieve that miracle. I talked about it with your brother on many occasions, but he never wanted to listen. The best way to achieve a change is through dialogue… the Senju and Uchiha are also fed up with these wars; they will listen… they are young and open to dialogue.”

“Uchiha Madara was thirsty for blood—you should have seen him! Th-that idiot wasn’t looking for a dialogue but a way to boost his ego! ‘Look at me, I am the great Uchiha Madara, and I will kill this bunch of shinobi like a colony of ants!’”

The man in white understands the ferocity of his rage, for a similar flame burns within his own heart. However, it is not in his capacity to be angry, not when their whole future depends on an alliance.

“Well, you will go to them, to the shinobi village that Uchiha Madara wanted so much to protect, and you will talk to their leader about what has happened. You will give your reasons and they will listen, because they pride themselves on being open to dialogue.”

The boy is rabid.

“You will give me to the wolves, is that your plan? To hand me over on a silver platter for them to torn me to shreds at their pleasure?”

The young man in white remains serious, unperturbed by his provocations. “I trust it will not be so. I have already sent a missive to their leader. You will leave as soon as I receive an answer from them.”

The little boy can no longer hide his tears. He cries, but not because he is weak but because he feels powerless. Like any self-respecting shinobi, he wishes for a heroic death in the middle of a battle, not being delivered into the hands of those shinobi as an easy prey.

It would be disastrous for his honour. Is it that he is so little appreciated among his own clan?

Nii-san, will you forgive me if I meet you again after such a stupid and dishonourable death?

“Come, child, stop those tears. You will not go empty handed; I have a plan.”

 

* * *

 

It is a dream.

Madara knows it, because before him is the rest of his family and they are already dead.

But what if I really am dead too?

The whole place is filled with a brilliant and calming light. They are alone, and all that exists in that small space is tranquillity and silence. His siblings play as they should have done in life,  and Tajima watches them pleased and proud, oblivious to his presence.

So, the first face Madara sees, the one closest to his own, is that of his mother, sitting next to him. And she is smiling as well. Her eyes sparkle again and her dark hair dances in the wind.

She died too young. As was the custom in her clan, she was given to Tajima in marriage when she was not yet a woman. She had a great future within her clan; she was born to be a great kunoichi. It was unfortunate that she lived so short; that she would lose her life by bringing a new one into the world.

“Madara?” She asks, her voice is still as harmonious as before. “Oh, just look at yourself, how much you have grown… and look how handsome you are, my little son.”

It is impossible for Madara to hold back a sob. Why does everything feel so real? Why does it keep hurting so much? And what is he doing there? The night before—before bed—everything was idyllic. Could it be that so much pleasure ended up killing him?

“I see you’re still as quiet as before,” his mother says, still grinning. “So brooding and taciturn, always inside that head of yours, always by yourself, like when you used to escape to the forest and hide behind the leaves.” Madara doesn’t answer, not even when he feels her ghostly hand adjusting his hair. “And how is Izuna? Is my little boy alright? Oh, if only you knew, Madara, how I wish I could have been by his side, even just a little...”

What is all this? What is he doing there? He just wants to wake up and confirm that Hashirama is still lying next to him, that Izuna is fine in his own tent… H-he should never have drunk that much, and what the hell was in that sake he drank last night?

“Madara,” insists his mother. “Relax those shoulders. Sometimes you carry so much weight on them that they look like an old man’s. You still have so much time on your side, son…”

A treacherous tear escapes his eye as his mother’s ghostly hand cradles his face. Her touch is cold, but inside him he senses a faint familiar warmth.

“Mother,” he dares to say, at last.

His mother nods.

“I want you to know that you are loved, yes?” She whispers, her voice feels so real. “Tell Izuna that we are proud of what he has done—what both of you have done…”

Madara wants to wake up. He digs his fingernails into his hand to see if the applied pain serves to return him to the real plane.

“Madara? Is there someone you love?”

But he fails.

He wants to wake up. He feels that his nails have penetrated his skin, but the pain does not come, nor his blood, nor reality. He continues there, sitting next to her, unable to even rise.

“Is there someone you love with all your might?”

Unable to help it, he thinks of Hashirama. In his smiles and sparkling eyes. At his foolish words and dreams of peace... Madara doesn’t dare to think of other private matters in front of the image of his mother, whether be she real or not. And she, in all her unearthly power, smiles as if she’s read his mind.

“Be honest with him, Madara,” his mother suggests, squeezing her son’s hand for a second. He suddenly feels cold in the emptiness her hand has left in his skin. “Life is too short. Do not let him go to sleep again without knowing you love him.”

Madara feels a squeeze in the pit of his stomach. At last, another sign of life, outside the dreamlike. He feels light and his mother’s voice is heard more distant now; the laughter of his brothers can also be heard in the distance, almost imperceptible.

He suddenly doesn’t want to leave; he doesn’t know when he will have a similar dream again. His mother’s sad smile tells him that she knows his fears and encourages him not to be afraid. The Uchiha mother repeats that she will love him forever. There is something on his cheeks… tears.

When Madara opens his eyes, he is still inside Hashirama’s tent. It is daytime and on the other side of the tent walls he can hear the comings and goings of people, their voices, and footsteps. It’s quite a busy day, it seems, but days in an under-construction village sure are always like that.

Hashirama’s futon is fit for one person, but somehow, they managed to make room for both of them. In his embrace, Madara could felt Hashirama’s heartbeat in his back. First fast and then, serene. It wasn’t the only thing he could feel on his back, though.

It is then that Madara understands that something is wrong there. The futon is small, but he fits perfectly in it that morning. And where is he? Madara sweeps the tent with his eyes, but to no avail. He is alone; Hashirama disappeared from the tent without a trace.

Madara sits up and now, in broad daylight, he sees the extent of the damage from the night before. At the table’s feet, the shattered bottle is still there, and the stained papers are still scattered on the floor; the aroma of sake is still impregnated in the place. From where he is he can’t see the desk, but he is sure it’s still just as dirty as last night. Maybe Hashirama has gone to apologise to his obnoxious brother for the mess. That silly and libidinous Senju… Madara imagines the senseless excuses he must be making up and he can’t help but smile as he feels his face fill with heat.

He is caught up off guard, inside his memories, as he didn’t notice someone was approaching the tent. Madara notices the change too late when the flaps are being opened. The newcomer is a Senju, indeed, but not the one he expected.

“What the hell happened here?” Tobirama growls.

Apparently, Hashirama hadn’t gone straight to telling his little brother what had happened, yet.

Madara doesn’t feel the slightest hint of guilt or remorse about it. He flops down on the futon again and looks up at the ceiling as he says, “Blame your older brother, that drunkard out of control.”

Tobirama takes his time to process what he is seeing. The desk is a mess, the glass scattered on the floor, that horrible aroma surrounding the entire tent, a navy-blue nemaki lying at his feet… Uchiha Madara, reclining and apparently nude, on his older brother’s futon!

The youngest of the Senju tries to stay calm. His brother and that Uchiha spent a lot of time alone in the forest; it sure wasn’t the first time this has happened… he had already expected to find a confirmation that the two of them were lovers, though… ah, the image before him is quite terrifying and he wishes he hadn’t seen it at all.

“Where is my brother?” Tobirama insists. His voice is a whisper full of annoyance.

Madara continues to avoid looking at him; his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“I do not know; he is not here, as you can see.” Madara said simply. “Begone, let me sleep.”

Tobirama’s eyes get redder; his hair stands on end. Through the open tent flaps a cold and ferocious wind sneaks in, creeping into Madara’s body, immersing him in tremors. Contrary to his nakedness, that bastard wears a furry collar, very appropriate for the weather.

“It’s almost noon,” Tobirama growls, with no intention of leaving or even closing the flaps. “There is always something to do out there. One would expect that the great Uchiha Madara would be of some use instead of spending the whole morning lazy in bed.”

Madara sits on the futon and shows his bare teeth. His hair, even more dishevelled than usual, falls freely down his back. His chest rises and falls in agitation; in broad daylight, the scars on his belly shine brighter stamped on his pale skin. “Who will come to force me? Who will dare? You?”

Tobirama clenches a fist tightly. He doesn’t plan on spending the rest of the day yelling at a kid like Uchiha Madara, not when there’s so much to do in the village.

In the end, he decides to sweep the place with his eyes one last time, pausing at the desk, calculating in the damage, before turning around.

“Sooner than later, you’re going to have to explain yourself, Madara,” Tobirama says, still turning his back on him. “And you won’t be able to keep yourself hiding under my brother’s sheets, no matter how much you want to think so.”

Tobirama then pushes the flaps again and leaves them half open on purpose, to force Madara to his feet.

Fuck him, Madara thinks. Fuck Tobirama and all those who wait for his explanations.

Madara covers himself with the duvet and does his best to go back to sleep, but it is impossible: all the tiredness is gone, and he doesn’t even have the slightest hint of a hangover. He has no reason to stay in bed, yet he doesn’t do anything to get up either.

He wishes he could get up and close the flaps, but he doesn’t. Madara is sure Hashirama will be back soon. And where has the man gone to? He sure went to get their breakfast. Ah, he would like that very much, to share breakfast with him, there, inside his tent.

Madara lazily moves a hand and takes it under the covers, where he feels a pulsing need. He holds himself entirely in his hand and moves it in a familiar rhythm, not caring that someone might catch a sight of him through the cracks in the tent.

He even dares to close his eyes to allow the flow of pleasure to run through him. He thinks of the night before, after their climax—himself leaning against the desk and Hashirama pressed behind him, as soaked and limp as he was. Madara remembers that it was Hashirama who offered to change his clothes for his brother’s. “I’d rather sleep naked in the middle of winter than that,” he told him. Fortunately for Madara, it was only early autumn, so his skin didn’t suffer too much from the cold as he lay against the fabric of the futon. Their two bodies pressed against each other, solved the difficulties of the cold wind and the opportunity was given for more kisses to rain down.

Madara expected eager caresses under the covers, but that didn’t happen. He had fallen in love with a man of his word, damn it, what else was left for him but to get used to the idea that Hashirama really wasn’t planning on forcing him? He leaned back against the futon and supported Hashirama’s weight on top of him, clasping his hands behind his neck and parting his lips to let in his tongue.

Just at that moment, they heard a noise that made them both shudder. Hashirama ended up biting Madara’s lower lip. Another explosion came instantly, and another, and another.

The glow was seen through the tent walls, as well.

“Fireworks,” Hashirama whispered in his ear as Madara wiped the blood button on his lip.

If it was somehow possible, Madara pressed himself even closer to the man on top of him. His skin was so warm and firm.

Another explosion, the lights were bright blue. The following were red; Uchiha.

“Take me,” Madara whispered hoarsely. Maybe all that cheap booze in his belly was finally starting to take effect. “I want to see the lights.”

Even in the darkness inside the tent, Madara caught a glimpse of Hashirama’s bright smile. He stood up and pulled Madara up by the hand. Two barely divisible silhouettes in the shadows. Hashirama went to the trunk with the intention of making him wear some clean clothes, but Madara’s tenacity was as firm as ever: he would wear his dirty clothes, or he would come out bare. A very entertaining plan for him, perhaps, but Hashirama was not going to allow anyone else to see even a slight piece of his skin. His nudes were his and no one else’s.

In the end, they had left the tent wearing their dirty clothes. Luckily, the fabrics were thick, and every pale stain of their spirited seeds was hidden under the cloths. In any case, there was no one else there to watch them, everyone was down in the village, where the fire was seen, and the music was heard.

Madara sat right in front of the tent and Hashirama followed. They intertwined their hands and Madara leaned his head on his shoulder, and then came the fireworks in the colours of the Senju.

They raised their heads and watched as the bright dots fell into the void before disappearing. Madara had seen fireworks only once in the past, when he was a child traveling in a stagecoach with his father and brother, far away from those lands. He could barely recall it. It had never been a possibility for the Uchiha to waste supplies on something as banal as lights in the sky.

So, when Madara saw them again, now as an adult and in very different circumstances, he dared to enjoy the show without caring if someone came and saw them together.

Madara couldn’t stop smiling. He got used to the union of rumble and light and soon stopped flinching with each discharge. More lights arrived and of different colours too. The cries of the children down there brought a wistful smile to his face as he remembered that he himself had had the same reaction when he witnessed his first fireworks display. Izuna was a very small baby then, and he couldn’t remember anything, so he was probably having a great time down there, at the party.

“Have you seen them before?” Hashirama asked in his ear. Madara had been feeling his gaze on him for a long time, but he hadn’t felt sure to turn to look at him, as if suddenly, for Hashirama, the idea of having Madara in front of him was more interesting than the coloured gunpowder that permeated the air.

Madara nodded and raised his gaze to the lights to avoid falling into Hashirama’s eyes.

“Once,” he replied, “when I was very young and far from home. I don’t remember where we were going to,” he shrugged. “Perhaps on some trip to Sora-ku, I cannot remember. My father used to empty his coffers on food and weapons. Sure, they were not overflowing coffers,” Madara smiled, “but either way, it never crossed his mind to use money on coloured lights. So, all this experience is pretty much new to me.”

Hashirama smiles as well in response and tucks a lock of dark hair behind Madara’s ear. For Madara, there is no longer any way to hide himself behind his hair.

“When it’s your birthday,” Hashirama whispered, “I’ll fill the sky with coloured lights just for you.” He marked his promise with a swift kiss. “And the following year, on your next birthday, I will do the same. And so, with the next that follows and the next after that… That way, you’ll have plenty of memories—sweet memories—every time you see a firework. That way, you’ll think of me and then, you’ll have no doubts about how much I love you.”

Hashirama kissed him for as long as it took for the fireworks to rise into the sky and explode, before disappearing again.

“Are you not going to say anything?”

Madara’s skin felt numb. In the end, the inclement touch of the cold wind that came down from the snowy mountains began to take effect on his skin. Or maybe such numbness was Hashirama’s fault, who could tell?

“What is there to say?” Madara asked instead.

The smile disappeared from Hashirama’s face. His eyes had darkened, and his lips were a hard, rigid line.

“I think you’re hopelessly corny,” Madara tries in the end, “but you’ve always been that way: a big, sensitive man.”

The next fireworks were red and Madara saw them reflected in Hashirama’s serious face. He had released his grip and as a consequence, his hands now felt very cold.

“I can’t read your thoughts, Madara—though I wish I could. Sometimes I wish you would trust me enough to tell me what you’re thinking about. I wish there was more communication in our relationship…” He shakes his head. “Wh-what am I to you? Do you even love me a little or are you just tolerating my advances to keep me happy by your side?

Madara rolled his eyes. “You say you love me, but you only think about the thing you have between your legs. I ask you—what am I to you, Senju Hashirama? A mere entertainment or a poor substitute?”

Hashirama frowns. Forgotten are the fireworks.

“My devotion to you speaks for itself,” he replies. “I’ve done too much to show you that I love you and you still don’t say a thing. You only answer me with half-smiles and sometimes, you don’t answer me at all. For once in my life, I would like you to be honest and tell me that you love me without putting yourself in mortal danger.”

Madara lets out a laugh, though there isn’t a hint of comedy in it.

“I don’t understand those tears, Hashirama. I have told you how I feel about you.”

Hashirama nods. “Once, when you thought you were about to die… I have spoken about my feelings before, and I have meant it every time. Whereas you—”

Madara shakes his head. He buries his fingers in the grass that grows outside the tent.

“You know that I love you.”

“Well, I would like to hear it from time to time, alright? Your name, your manhood wouldn’t be weakened in the least if you told me for one good fucking time that you love me.”

Another firework explodes overhead, and the bright remnants disappear many meters above them, in full fall; its reflection is seen in Madara’s dark eyes.

“This all happened just because I didn’t say anything about your absurd plan to celebrate my birthday, right?” Madara clicks his tongue. “Look at you, Senju Hashirama, bawling like a little boy.” Madara intends to get to his feet, but Hashirama’s swift hand knocks him back to the grass. “And what will happen to us from now on, huh? Have you thought about it? There are some matters of greater importance than your worries, Hashirama. Are you seriously planning to go around claiming your devotion to me, like there’s no retribution at all?”

“I don’t care what they think of me or us!”

Madara nods, elated.

“Oh, I know that, Hashirama, I—already know that!”

He suddenly stands up and does it so fast that even Hashirama’s hands cannot stop him. He turns his back on him for a few moments, still trembling a little. The frown is gone from Hashirama, because he knows better than anyone how difficult all this is for Madara.

“I love you,” Madara blurts out. His hands are shaking and the bite on his lip has swollen. “I love you, Senju Hashirama. But all this is too new for me, so I ask you, I implore you… let’s go little by little.”

Hashirama nods, very pleased. Above Madara, a white firework explodes, the last, the biggest and the most impressive of them all.

After the confession and the lack of fireworks, they returned to the darkness of their tent. And they lay down without saying another word. A long kiss was the preamble to a deep sleep. Madara’s confession continued to flutter around inside the tent for quite a while afterwards, long after Hashirama started snoring. At least there would be sweet dreams for one of them.

A small head of dark hair peeks out of the tent’s flap. As the boy bends down, his ponytail reaches into the darkness: “Nii-san.”

Madara opens his eyes upon hearing Izuna. He had stopped touching himself many minutes ago, but he still had his cock clutched in his hand. He loosens it up like it’s red hot.

Izuna walks in seeing that he is awake and makes sure to close the tent flaps behind him. In his hands he carries a bundle of clothes. “I hope your shoes are in good condition,” he says, “because I forgot them in our tent.”

Madara responds with a smile and sits on the futon, making sure to cover the rest of his nudity. “You didn’t have to bother bringing me a change of clothes.”

Mere lies. At the foot of the futon lays his dirty nemaki, which he hastily removed the night before. Madara feels his face fill with heat, as it is obvious what it appears to have happened in there. It’s quite a shame that nothing actually happened.

“Tobirama told me that… my brother might need a change of proper clothes for this morning,” Izuna says, turning on his back so that Madara can get dressed safely.

“Those Senju, and their mouths.”

Izuna grins and luckily his brother cannot see him. He only turns around when he has heard Madara finish.

“I have breakfast prepared in our tent,” Izuna adds. He made sure to bring him thick clothes for this cold morning.

Breakfast? Even for Madara it was easy to tell that it must be close to noon.

“I have to clean up this mess first.”

Izuna blushes a bit. He puts his hands behind his back and insists, “But you must have breakfast first, otherwise a headache will come.”

Checkmate, Izuna. Madara sighs and straightens his hair to make it look like a normal person’s. They both leave Hashirama’s tent to head to the Uchiha district.

 

* * *

 

Although there was a celebration last night that lasted well into the crack of dawn, everyone in that village seems to be brimming with energy that morning. It seems that he is the only one who wishes to sink back into the sheets.

Madara and Izuna walk in silence, one next to the other. They politely greet everyone they meet and Madara can feel the gazes of several passers-by on his back. Sure, they were missed during the celebration. Could it be that his appearance speaks for itself? Do they know that he spent the night with Senju Hashirama? And just what do those people think they did?

People turn to whisper to each other as soon as the Uchiha brothers walk down the street. Madara feels uncomfortable and quite distressed. Izuna, who always notices everything, decides to lighten the mood, “Did you see the fireworks last night?”

Madara sighs, “They were nice. A nice gesture the colours they used. What did you think about them, did you like them, Izuna, those lights?”

Izuna smiles. “They were… interesting.” Then, he turns to his older brother. “It was a nice gathering. Everyone was there—well, almost everyone.” Izuna winks at him; Madara rolls his eyes. “Naori still likes to dance a lot and she taught Uzumaki Mito how we dance in the Uchiha clan.”

“Really?” Madara asks. His smile is accompanied by genuine interest.

“They have become good friends. Can you believe it, huh? Naori, who despised everything that wasn’t Uchiha, is suddenly teaching a bunch of strangers how to dance.”

So, it was not only an Uzumaki girl now, but a bunch of strangers. Madara was, indeed, impressed.

“Last night, Nii-san… you were so out of yourself—”

Madara clears his throat and says, “The biggest reason why I always avoid sake. I’m truly sorry, Izuna.”

His little brother is quick to lighten the matter.

“You do not have to apologise at all. After everything that’s happened, it’s… normal that you’ve been looking for a way to escape from all this,” Izuna makes a gesture with his hands, to point to the village under construction. “It’s obvious that it would end up exhausting you somehow. I just hope that last night… you and your Senju didn’t…”

“Izuna…”

The youngest of the Uchiha takes him by the hand. “What’s this, Nii-san?” The grey ghost of last night’s ink persists on his fingers; his hands are so cold, his skin so thin.

Opportunely, they arrive at the tent at that time. Inside, everything is tidy: the futons are hanging outside, basking in the sun; the desk is neat, like the rest of the place. A fun contrast to the state they left the Senju tent in. And indeed, on the table there are some bowls of broth still steaming, next to them a large kettle awaits as well.

“There is water heating for your bath,” Izuna says as they both sit down. “It should be ready by the time you finish your breakfast.”

Madara has no reason not to appear being hungry in front of his little brother. He takes a bowl and rushes its contents. It is delicious, its seasoning is perfect; the hot broth slides down his throat with delicacy and pleasure.

“You can take the rest as well; I already had breakfast,” Izuna blurts out when he sees Madara put the empty bowl aside.

“Izuna…”

“I am serious, Nii-san, I had breakfast earlier. This is all yours, Hashirama said that—”

Madara chokes while trying to swallow his tea. He wipes the remnants off his chin with the back of a hand. “Hashirama?”

Izuna nods.

“He set all this up for you. He said that—”

“So, you’ve seen him, w-where is he?”

The little Uchiha shrugs. There is the slightest blush on his pale cheeks.

“He just came to leave all this, alright? He did not tell me where he was going to, it’s not like we’re friends or anything. He just asked me to make myself sure you eat and said he’d come get you later.”

Of course, Madara thinks as he takes the second bowl. Ramen. The noodles are soft and the pieces of meat well cooked. He feels his eyes watering. All that tastes and smells like Hashirama. It feels like being at home. To keep himself from grinning like a lovesick idiot, he hurries up the plate, feeling his chest swell with warm love.

“Nii-san... how are you feeling?”

“Why do you ask?” Madara inquiries with his mouth full. “I am fine.”

The blush on Izuna’s cheeks only deepens. He twists his fingers on the table.

“Good. Do—do you not feel pain at all?” Izuna lowers his voice to mere whispers “I can get you some medicine so that you… I-I mean, if you are a bit sore—”

Madara carefully puts the bowl down on the table. He sets the chopsticks aside and wipes his lips with his wrist.

Just what the hell does Izuna think happened between him a Hashirama last night? Then, Madara remembers the look on Tobirama’s face and… Ah! Surely leaving his nemaki lying at the foot of the futon was not the best idea either. And the fact that they both—Izuna and Tobirama—found him naked on said futon… and then, the mess in the desk, and…

Madara feels his hands tremble and loses his gaze somewhere in the distance, far beyond Izuna.

“Nothing happened between us two last night, alright?”

Izuna raises his hands in surrender. But Madara is faster and denies with a finger.

“I drank some sake last night, yes, and Hashirama did too. I accidentally knocked the inkwell on his desk, and he knocked the bottle of sake on the floor.” Izuna bites his lip to keep himself from laughing. “Our nemaki… got dirty and… as a result, we had to get rid of them or else the futon would be ruined.”

“Nii-san, you don’t have to explain me anything at all.”

Madara’s finger remains up, still denying. His face is filled with a deceitful blush.

“And what happened to you lip?” But Izuna still asks.

A stream of sweat runs through Madara like a lightning. By sheer instinct, he runs his tongue over his bulging wound.

“I bit myself.”

Izuna is young, not dumb.

“We kissed too, alright?” Madara spits. He feels his stomach turns. “He kissed me; I kissed him.”

Izuna no longer tries to hide his grin. “You don’t have to explain anything at all, Nii-san,” he repeats.

“But, besides that kiss, nothing else happened, yes? We slept in the same tent. Yes. We slept. So, I don’t need medication at all because nothing happened, I am not sore. I am not—I didn’t even get a hangover.”

His little brother nods and rises. “I… I’ll go see how your water is, alright, Nii-san?”

Madara is about to add something else, but Izuna manages to slip away from the tent, leaving his older brother grumbling and blushing behind.

 

* * *

 

It’s easy for him to know where his older brother is. His chakra is concentrated in a northern area of the village, far from the centre; somewhere in the middle between the two largest clans that already inhabit there. It is of great intensity; he is using his mokuton in ill-advised measures. He is building something.

So, when he sees Hashirama walking around, drenched in sweat, exhausted and hungry, he’s not surprised at all. He knows he’s often right.

“Anija,” he calls, but without averting his searching gaze, “how are you?”

He’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

Tobirama looks for some clue in his older brother that would let him know that he is correct. However, Hashirama doesn’t hesitate one bit when he replies “Fine; and you?”

He’s going to play along, then.

“Alright. Let’s go back to your tent, shall we? There are many things I want to discuss with you.”

Hashirama stops walking at that moment. Is he worried that Madara is still asleep naked on his futon?

“He’s already on his feet,” he assures his brother and Hashirama believes him, for he keeps walking at his pace. “According to what I’ve heard, he’s even returned to the Uchiha district already, where he belongs to.”

Hashirama lets the comment waft through the air; his smile continues on his face.

They are not very far from the tent. Everyone around them is the same people they have known all their lives. Apparently, Hashirama was heading to the same place as well.

The mess is still there by the time they get back. Now that the two brothers are alone, he allows himself to walk freely through what used to be his tent before Hashirama’s arrival. He walks over to the desk, kicking the shards of glass on the floor aside with his foot.

“I’ll clean this up, Tobi,” his older brother says. “I caused all this chaos.”

Tobirama picks up a sheet of paper whose content has been obscured by ink. “Last night I saw Uchiha Madara in a state…” he shrugs, “somewhat more deplorable than usual. He cannot drink and when he does, apparently, he turns into a—”

“I drank too,” Hashirama intervenes behind him, “and a lot. It was my fault.” he swallows, “I’m sure you don’t want the details, but I am the one to blame; I'll take responsibility for whatever we’ve messed up,” he points to the papers that lie glued to the wood.

Tobirama turns to him, furious, his eyes even redder. He has also blushed a bit. It is still strange for Hashirama to see those red marks on his face.

“You cannot keep condoning everything he does.” Tobirama’s voice is hoarse. “What kind of a leader will you be if you allow your lover to do and undo as he pleases without consequences?”

“Tobirama,” Hashirama utters.

But the youngest of the Senju turns his back on him. Never in his life did he imagine that he would be able to disrespect his older brother in any way, but suddenly, he has run out of ideas.

“We are not…” Hashirama sighs. He looks exhausted, worried.

“You know our people,” Tobirama says after putting everything back on the table. He moves closer to his brother, so he doesn’t have to raise his voice too much. “They don’t miss a thing. I am sure they saw him leaving your tent late and in terrible aspect. You… Anija, do you plan to continue sharing your tent with him? What-what are they going to say?” Hashirama tries to explain himself, but his younger brother won’t let him. “You’ve never been an early riser; father used to reprimand you a lot for that. And now, you get up before the sun comes up, after you’ve been drinking the night before, and you go to I don’t know where and you make him breakfast in the Uchiha kitchens with your own hands, and then, you go and prepare water for his bath!”

Hashirama raises his hands in surrender.

“I know what all this looks like, Tobirama…” The youngest of the Senju puts a pair of fingers to the bridge of his nose. “And although what you suppose that happened didn’t actually happen, I don’t see the need to explain them my private life.” He frowned, “you are different—you are my only brother. You and Touka are the last thing left in my immediate family; I owe the rest no explanation.”

 “Izuna said that, in his clan, they don’t look favourably on Madara’s relationship with you either.”

Hashirama nods and puts a hand to his chin.

“You are also spending a lot of time in the company of Uchiha Izuna.”

“We work together, Anija, for our people, for our future as allies, because our two older brothers are still too dazed after their long honeymoon to even care.”

“Honeymoon?” Hashirama squints. “Do you even know what happened on our journey? You’d know if you’d listened to me last night, but no, you just wanted to talk about politics and—”

“This village is full of people who want stability, who want you as their leader. People who cannot wait.” Tobirama counterattacks. “They are willing to give their lives to serve you, because they trust that you would protect their families, those they love. They have crossed the world to find you.”

Hashirama draws in a long breath. He feels a twist in his stomach at what his younger brother is insinuating.

“You know me, Tobirama, you know that I am not cut out to be a leader. Father said it all the time—that I was too soft—that I always kept living inside my head, imagining.”

“Well, all of this,” Tobirama points out with his hands around them, “is thanks to the fact that you never stopped imagining. This is all your miracle, Anija… please don’t spoil it for him. Live your personal life as you wish, but just don’t let Uchiha Madara intervene in everything you do.” Tobirama is about to leave; suddenly being inside those walls is suffocating and uncomfortable. “Tomorrow we will have a council, when the Sarutobi and the rest of the Nara arrive. I want you and Uchiha Madara to be present.”

It is not a suggestion.

And without waiting for an answer, he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Madara walks absentmindedly through the district. Without a fixed course, although he feels that his feet always move in the same direction by their own. He knows where he is going to. His body, his soul cries out for him. He smiles at the thought of Hashirama. The night before, their heated argument, his hasty confession; the coloured lights, the sake, his embrace; the hardness on his crotch opposed to the softness of his hands. Madara bites the inside of his cheek to suppress a smirk.

To ward off the blush, he starts to think better about Hashirama’s delicious dishes, but that also involves thinking about the hands that make those delicacies... It's not the only skilful thing that that bastard can do with his miraculous hands.

He feels suffocate. He has just taken a bath and already feels red hot, even though it is cold that day. He swallows. The sun is up, but it barely manages to warm his cheeks.

Then he feels a gaze on him. A weight laid right at the base of his neck. He is known to be looked at by many people as he walks, but that is a different sort of weight. He shrugs uneasily before turning around. And then he sees her; both gazes collide: a pair of dark eyes, which open in surprise when seeing she was caught red handed. The young woman turns and begins to walk quickly, almost running, in the opposite direction.

Naori.

Madara could let her escape again, for he himself longs to do the same. But he does not. He is tired of running away all the time. So, he sets off in her direction. He doesn’t have to run to find out where the girl has gone to. Naori is leaving a trail of chakra behind her—perhaps the girl is hyperventilating; suffocated, even.

She is an easy prey.

 

* * *

 

Her pounding heart beats uncontrollably. She once heard a story in the clan, of a girl who ran terrified through the forest until her heart came out in parts from her mouth; they say that, if one wandered at night, it was still possible to meet her, her ghostly face covered in old and tortured blood. Just imagining the vision that impressed her as a child makes her heartbeat to increase even more, to the point that she can’t hear a thing due to the blood pressure in her ears.

Is that man gone already? It seems impossible for Madara to want to follow her, but what if it was the case? She looks at each of the walls of the tent she hides in, trying to distinguish among all those silhouettes. It is an armoury of sorts, dark and closed, full of old and broken armour and building materials.

And then, it happens, a known silhouette approaches from one of the sides; it is a figure recognisable by any soul that inhabits the Uchiha district and even more so by her, who has been secretly loving him for half her life.

When he throws open the flap with one gloved hand, he finds the girl curled up next to a handful of blunt spears. It is so dark inside that, when the light comes in from outside, the girl ends up dazzled.

“Naori,” Madara calls.

The girl jumps to her feet, careful not to drop anything which noise might alert someone else.

“Madara-sama,” she replies.

He smells like a forest. His hair falls free and wild on his back, and he is wearing a navy-blue yukata.

Her heart races as he walks in, letting the tent flap fall. Were they discovered… the situation would lend itself to gossip.

“We’ve known each other all our lives, Naori; you don’t have to call me that,” he says, as he smiles shyly. His face looks so pretty when he smiles.

Either way, the girl nods and folds her hands in front of her, restless and uncomfortable.

“It will be a misunderstood, though, if someone discovers us here,” she swallows, “Madara.”

His name feels odd coming off her lips, even though she’s been secretly naming him for years. She is also intimidated by the weight of his dark eyes on her.

He shrugs, as if such an idea hadn’t crossed his mind. “If you wish, we can go out and talk outside.”

But that seems to be an even worse idea. Tajima’s plans for the two of them are well known among the rest of the clan. Little by little, the last wishes of the former leader of the Uchiha have become of public knowledge, to the point that many see her with sadness or even pity when they see her pass.

And after last night, when everyone whispered about Madara being half drunk and getting into Senju Hashirama’s tent…

“It’ll be fine here.” The girl says at last.

Madara nods, and they both speak in unison, causing them both to smile sheepishly at once.

“You first,” Madara says, placing both hands behind his back. One can tell that he feels as restless as she does.

The girl clears her throat. She has spent several days thinking about what would she say to him when Madara came to face her, if he even dared. But suddenly, all the words seem to have slipped out of her head.

She steels herself, though. Uchiha Naori is anything but a coward.

“I don’t want to marry you, Uchiha Madara,” she says with a conviction. Her voice remains firm, like her gaze, fixed on his eyes.

Madara’s jaw drops.

The girl continues, “In fact, I don’t know if I want to get married at all. But if I must, I intend to do it answering the calls of my heart that it is the right thing to do, and not to solve the wishes of anyone.”

Not her parents’, nor the former clan head’s. Naori, just like her father, professed an unflappable fidelity towards Tajima, so all that talk is breaking her heart a bit.

But she stands firm. ‘Even so, it’s better to do it by yourself, to break your own heart, don’t you think?’ Mito had asked her during one of their training afternoons. It was easy for a couple of inexperienced girls to get strict in love situations. ‘Whatever you do, don't let him break your heart. He is just a man, those are abundant.’

Madara remains attentive. His eyes glow in the dark. It’s impossible for her not to feel unsettled having him so close, no matter how hard she’s tried to get used to the idea.

“You’re surprised,” she says, seeing that he doesn’t say a word.

“Very much indeed,” Madara answers at last. He brings a gloved hand to his chin. “I didn’t have the guts to say those words. You never cease to amaze me, Uchiha Naori.”

She frowns. He has no right to mock her to her face.

“How are you going to know?” she spits. Her chest rises and falls violently. “You never looked at me twice.”

You always had your eyes on something else, Uchiha Madara, she thinks. On a young enemy, who also couldn’t take his eyes off you.

Naori takes a deep breath.

“Since I was a child, I have always looked for the strongest around me,” Madara says, “be they small or large, anyone. And one must be blind or an idiot not to notice Uchiha Naori on the battlefield. My father held yours in high esteem, he was his greatest ally, his best companion; it would be stupid to think that his daughter would never match him.”

A tear escapes from Naori’s eyes. Fortunately, it is very dark in there.

“And you are an amazing kunoichi,” Madara continues. His bearing is the same as his father’s when speaking to their allies; there’s no way he’s faking it. “You’re fierce and brave, and no one in our clan is better than you with a sword, well, Izuna might get too close to you, but just don’t tell him I told you.”

Naori smiles upon hearing him; it is a shared jest, for he is also smiling.

“Naori, you—” Madara gives her a half smile. “You deserve much better than a pinch of my attention. Look, I could honour my father’s last wishes and marry you, and create a new life with you, but would it work? Would it be worth it?” She is going to answer, but he is faster. “Listen, I could take you to my bed right now. Lying with you would be worth the same as marriage vows, you would instantly be my wife, no one would object. We would fulfil many wishes, but either way it would end up ruining our lives. I’d end up comparing you to someone else; I’d end up...thinking about someone else and,” Madara shakes his head, his eyes sincere. “You don’t deserve that. I love and respect you too much to do something like that.”

A boy runs past the tent, laughing.

“The dead are to stay dead; they do not care whether we follow their wishes or not.” Madara says. The girl’s eyes widen in surprise and stare into his, which shine brightly. “And more than that, we are Uchiha. We do not take crumbs from anyone, you hear me? Either we eat the whole prey, or we starve.”

They both remain silent as a couple walks by the tent. When they are alone again, Madara’s voice echoes through the tent. “You are more than a bargaining chip, Naori. You are our best fighter, the best among our people. I know it, for I have seen you accompany me in each of my battles. Stay if you wish to serve our clan, not because you are forced into a role someone else chose for you. You have a lot of fire inside your heart, Uchiha Naori. That is the curse of our blood; don’t waste it on me.”

The girl looks up and dares to keep it fixed on Madara’s eyes. He can see the hurt and disappointment within her eyes. He knows that feeling better than anyone, can he blame her? He knows what it is to live hopeful to an impossible.

“Let’s make a deal,” she suggests. “Three petitions.”

He raises a high eyebrow on his forehead, “Oh?”

She numbers with her fingers: “One: stay in our clan, don’t run away anymore; two: I will follow you as my father followed yours, in a relationship based on trust and honour; three: let me train with you. Allow me to keep my word to your father’s memory that way. Only then can I be satisfied with myself.”

There is a certain peace in having said those difficult words, both for him and for her.

“Very well. Let’s start today. There’s something important I need to do, Naori.” He calls her, and she looks up, “would you come with me?”

She nods instantly. Her heart tells her that she would follow him to the end of the world. The road to letting him go is long and she will not rush, but will go step by step, to do it well, like everything worthwhile in life.

Naori follows him out of the tent, and they get lost into the crowd.

 

* * *

 

Although it is still barely in the middle of planning, the Uchiha district already has several key points in it: there is the aviary, a market of sorts, and a large building, where a shrine is planned to be built on.

They go right to that wooden building, still under construction. It is right there where they run into Izuna. He raises an eyebrow at his brother when he sees him arrive with his friend. “Nii-san?”

Madara looks agitated, even nervous. He ignores the looks of his brother regarding the kunoichi. “Is everything ready?” He asks and his brother nods.

“I’ve managed to summon most of them, but I don’t know how long they will stay.”

Madara understands. It’s a busy day and everyone has something to do. He wanted Hashirama to be present as well, but what the hell. “It will be brief.”

He has planned it to be brief and concise.

“Just do as we planned, alright?” Izuna asks. His eyebrows are curved in concern. Madara begins to climb the steps that will take him to the shrine. Izuna insists, “Will you, Nii-san?”

‘As you may remember, my name is Uchiha Madara.’ He waves vaguely a hand as a response.  ‘The eldest son of Tajima, his heir; after my father’s passing, I fell wounded and fearing a reprimand, I went to Sora-ku to heal my wounds; only now have I returned.’

How is it possible that he has accepted to tell such a big, atrocious lie? Madara thinks as he goes up the steps. Behind him, he hears more footsteps climbing silently. His Uchiha are anything but fools, don’t they deserve, at least, the truth? He takes one step and then another.

He stops when he hears the murmur that is already inside the shrine. The Uchiha talk amongst themselves, not noticing the young man waiting at the entrance. He turns around just as Izuna and Naori cross the torii. The wind blows strong up there, and its caress causes his bangs to fall into his eyes.

I cannot do it, Izuna, he thinks as he sees his little brother approaching. Izuna is intuitive, as he manages to glimpse the doubt and fear within Madara’s eyes.

“You don’t have to do this.” Izuna says, “You owe them no explanation.”

Madara averts his gaze towards the girl who is standing next to his brother. Naori seems firm and serene; she has no idea what is about to happen.

“I do have to,” Madara replies to his brother, seriously. Then corrects himself, “I want to.”

He walks in before his courage evaporates. The first drops of rain of that day begin to fall. Izuna and Naori follow him.

Inside the shrine it is warm and although it is obvious that not all the Uchiha could be present, the majority that bet on political matters are there. The remnants of his family are there too, ready for what their prodigy is about to tell.

Madara walks to the front of the place. At home, in the Uchiha encampment, they had a public square where his father used to summon his people to talk about matters of importance; Madara himself used it when he announced Tajima’s death; Izuna used it when he declared that he would go in search of his brother. Now there was not enough space within the district to place a square—that already existed in the centre of the village, and it was planned to be wide enough to accommodate its entire population. In the meantime, that shrine would do.

He gets on a dais. A small rectangular wooden platform, which is not much use, except to call the status of the speaker. His people watch him: some pleased; others—the vast majority—stern. The elders are also there and although they don’t look straight at him, Madara can feel their scrutinizing gazes above him, heavy and olden, suspicious.

“As you may remember, my name is Uchiha Madara, Tajima’s eldest son, his heir,” he starts to say. He spent much of the afternoon practicing it with Izuna. He looks at his brother out of the corner of his eye and Izuna nods discreetly. He knows by heart the speech infested with lies that his younger brother planned to save his big brother’s neck. Madara swallows and observes those present and sees in the third row the boy who served as his guide the day before; the kid still carries his toy, and he squeezes it tighter when noticing the leader’s gaze on him. Madara swallows again. He releases the breath from his chest and turns to Izuna, his eyes sad, “I’m sorry I cannot do it, Izuna.”

Izuna frowns.

“Since the day I was born, it was indicated to most of you that one day, I would be the clan head,” Madara continues, now looking at his people. “I was the grandson of the leader; my father was set to be the next… what else could be expected of me? My line goes back many centuries in the past. Years of leadership without significant change. So, it was obvious that it would remain the same with me, and then, someday, I would be succeeded by any of my future children. It was said that I would change the clan. But I never saw it like that—”

“Nii-san,” Izuna interrupts, but Madara continues, ignoring him.

“I have always been and will be loyal to the Uchiha, and for that reason I believe that you deserve a better leader than me, more suitable, more capable...”

“More suitable and capable than Uchiha Madara?” asks one of the elders, still not looking at him. “How is that possible?”

Those present nod and begin to chatter among themselves, shifting their eyes from the young man on the dais to his younger brother. Madara’s eyes are luckily fixed on those of the little boy with the toy.

“I felt oppressed by war, seeing that it did not end and that I was not able to do something about it. I was just a child, who was going to listen to me? Even my grandfather thought there was something different about me, he looked at me strangely and scolded my father for not being harsher in my upbringing.” A baby cries in the crowd. “I wanted to run away. But I was afraid of disappointing my people and Izuna. I trembled to imagine having to abandon Izuna and that some feeling of rejection towards me would be born within his heart… That terrified me like nothing in the world.”

Izuna is about to get on the dais, but Naori stops him by grabbing his arm.

“I even asked a good friend of mine to run away with me, so that the weight of the blame would not be mine alone… but he didn’t want to—he couldn’t do it. He wasn’t going to abandon his people, could I blame him?” His eyes roam the many faces there. As if that way he could apologize to everyone. “So, I decided that, if I died, I would escape without feeling all this guilt. And thus, be remembered with honour and not as a coward—”

“Nii-san,” Izuna calls again.

Madara continues. Even the baby has stopped crying.

“During my first battle as clan head, I fell wounded and was on the verge of death.” He feels the gazes of everyone above him, heavy, restless. “But I didn’t die, because someone saved me,” he nods. “And that person is a Senju.”

Some of the Uchiha gasp, suffocated. Their murmurs are louder in his ears.

“And I felt so guilty for having survived and not coming back immediately, to my people, that I had no choice but to keep running to the opposite side. Little did I know that my flight would bring so much change for both our clans. I never imagined that my brother, whom I thought of as a very small child, would pull the strings that would bring about a truce, an alliance, and now, this nameless village. Izuna is the one who caused all this transformation, who dared to change what we have been doing for centuries. It is he who should be standing here in front of you.”

Izuna shakes his head, but Madara insists. The elders don’t look very happy either, but Madara doesn’t care at all.

“Come up here, Izuna,” the young man is about to shake his head again, but Naori urges him to get up on the dais. At last, Izuna stands next to his brother. “My departure has also caused trouble for our clan and village; my duty is to resolve it and assure you peace.” Madara says, looking at the little boy with the toy, who is looking at him attentively, “and I will do so. Only then, I will give up my position as clan head.” Those present begin to speak among themselves; Madara asks them to calm down. “Izuna has been shown to be an effective leader. My father didn’t doubt his abilities and neither do I. I will be of help to him whenever I can; he is the true leader we deserve.”

Madara tried to give the gunbai to his brother the night before, moments about to head to the aviary; just before Izuna had his conversation with Hashirama. But the boy didn’t even want to touch it. “You said you would have one last battle with it, Nii-san. We are not safe yet; there are still people who want to take all this away from us; do your duty to your people, Uchiha Madara, take that gunbai one last time and be victorious; only then, will I dare to touch it.” Though Madara is not willing to tell them that. It’s a promise he made to Izuna only.

The people are excited, they cry out the names of both boys, beginning with those voices that are young and that look at the brothers as the future of the clan. Madara embraces his brother and whispers that he will keep his promise and that he is very sure of his decisions. Naori looks at them both smiling, although she feels a tightness in her chest.

“What you did is treason, Uchiha Madara,” the voice of one of the elders rises through the clamour of the crowd. Madara turns to face him. Now, the old and pale eyes of the old man are nailed to those of the young man’s. “For you to dare to come and claim that you fled with a Senju, denying your people…” The old man shakes his head. “In the times of your grandfather, not even your kinship would save you from a death sentence.”

It has happened before, as Madara can recall. His destiny would be to kneel on that very spot, to stab his guts and die by his own hand before the eyes of all the Uchiha, young and old.

The voices are silent inside the shrine as if they can remember those dark times as well. There is so much silence, that one can hear their hearts beating in unison.

Tajima’s eldest son stares back at him, chin up. He has faced and controlled the Kyuubi, he has faced entire armies since he was a child… That old man’s threats don’t scare him in the least. And perhaps the old man knows it, for his frown only deepens.

“I will do according to the will of the clan,” Madara answers, still looking at him with his deep dark eyes, his deep and determined voice, “whether they decide for me exile or death.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Izuna says quickly. His chest does rise and fall in a hurry. His fears make even his voice tremble. “No one will banish my brother,” then he adds in a growl. “No one will touch a hair of his, have you heard me?” The Uchiha nod. The atmosphere has changed inside the shrine. Even Naori feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “Uchiha Madara owes a debt to his clan, yes, and he will fulfil it as he always has. As he has always watched over us, when he went to the battlefield wearing the clothes of a child, when his armour did not even fit him yet. I am sure you have not forgotten how you all expected a child to put his life on the line to keep each and every one of you safe. What he decides to do or not do with his life is none of our business. Am I clear? The real betrayal here is talking about Uchiha Madara as if he were a mere nobody.”

The elders look at the brothers with creased foreheads, but do not add anything else. Madara clears his throat, and the meeting moves on to calmer topics to lighten the hearts of those present. Thus, the night finds them.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama heads to the Uchiha district when the sky turns dark purple, with the last drops of rain still falling. Missing Madara is not something he is little accustomed to. He used to be able to see him during battles and kiss and touch him amid the lifting of dead and wounded. Now he can see him daily; kiss him, touch him. Now his hands have become accustomed to the texture of his smooth skin—his fingers now know the shapes and places of certain scars; he caused them all.

Something catches his attention. Whole families are walking down the steps that lead to a shrine, and their conversations are so intense that they don’t even give him a couple of glances when they see him pass by. Perhaps Madara is also there. He rushes.

He is not wrong; up there is Madara, just below the torii and he is talking to a bunch of young men. Hashirama stands to one side so as not to get in their way and only looks back up when he sees that the young men who were entertaining Madara have come down. Their gazes meet when Madara is still halfway there. He comes amused, his cheeks and nose all red.

Hashirama feels a pressure in his chest. Will he never get rid of this feeling whenever he sees Uchiha Madara? “Hello.”

“Hello,” says Madara. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” says the fool. “Well, not here, but…” He shrugs. “I haven’t seen you all day.”

Madara nods. He bites his lip in a way that he usually does when he feels nervous and that Hashirama adores. “I—”

“Madara!” A girl shouts. They both look at each other when they hear her: it’s the famous Naori, who is coming down right behind him, although it’s obvious that she couldn’t have heard them. “That was a wonderful talk.” She makes a quick bow, “have a good night.”

And then, she walks away at a hurried pace, avoiding looking at the couple for longer than necessary. They see her turn a corner and are left alone. The rest of the Uchiha continue down the steps but pay no attention to them.

“It’s late,” says Hashirama after clearing his throat. “Shall we go? Dinner awaits us in our tent.”

Madara nods. He looks back to the top, where Izuna is still chatting with his friends and after waving him good night, they both walk, leaving the Uchiha district.

Neither of them says a thing, even though the distance is not short. It’s dark and there are already torches burning outside the tents and houses, so it’s quite easy to go unnoticed.

When they reach the tent, Hashirama holds the flap open for Madara to enter. It is all dark and it is the Uchiha who lights some candles inside. The entire tent smells of fried rice.

Hashirama had a pretty busy day. He got rid of the desk, since meetings would no longer be held there; he got a table and a couple of seats. He also changed the futon for one in which both could fit in. He asked Izuna to send him a trunk with his brother’s belongings, so that it would be easier for Madara to get dressed without having to walk from one point to another.

“You’ve been busy,” Madara says behind his back. Hashirama is pensive, staring absentmindedly at a dancing flame.

He smirks and nods. “I wanted everything to be perfect by the time we got back.”

Madara gives him a shy smile and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. He seems more beautiful than usual. His face is still very red—that blush hasn’t disappeared since Naori said goodbye to him. And what is that thing that Hashirama is feeling in the pit of his stomach? Jealousy?

“Did you cook this too?” Asks the blushing man, inhaling the delicious aroma that comes from the trays.

Hashirama knows Madara well. Too well to be totally sure that he’s only attracted to men, so why is he…?

“Y-yeah,” Hashirama replies, taking a seat and motioning for Madara to come with him. “I owed you an inarizushi plate a long time ago, do you remember? I longed to be able to cook for you.”

Madara takes a seat next to him. It all smells amazing. Hashirama must admit that he is a wonderful cook and is very pleased to see that Madara enjoys his food. It is—in his opinion—another way to reach out his heart.

“Your breakfast was delicious too,” Madara admits. Now Hashirama can see that the tips of his ears are flushed too, “thank you.”

Hashirama just shrugs in response. He reaches out a hand and lifts the lid off Madara’s tray. As he does so, a delicious puff of steam billows until it ends up entering the nostrils of that flushed nose. Madara’s eyes widen as he sees what is waiting for him on his plate.

Unable to help himself another second, Hashirama leans to the side to steal him a quick kiss. It is not stolen, as Madara instantly parts his lips to invite him to introduce his tongue. Hashirama also loves to kiss him like this.

Madara has been drinking green tea.

“Let’s have dinner, yes?” Madara says after finishing the kiss. He clears his throat. “I’m starving.”

Hashirama nods, since he too hasn’t eaten anything since noon. He wanted to share all his meals with him and it’s already late.

“What do you think of it?” Hashirama asks after watching him take a few bites. “I’m still not very used to that kitchen and I’m afraid it won’t turn out the way I planned.”

Madara shakes his head and licks away a grain of rice that got stuck to his lip. “It’s delicious, like everything you cook.”

Hashirama chuckles and sees him bite his lip to hide a smile.

“You can have as many as you want,” Hashirama says, as he watches him finish his plate. Hashirama places one big hand on top of Madara’s. “You’ll never have to hold back again.”

Madara nods and looks away. “Thanks, but I am full.”

Hashirama replies with an ‘oh’ and Madara adds, “Bet your brother didn’t think too well of you making all these changes in the tent.”

“Let’s just say he took it a lot better than I thought he would,” Hashirama says, squeezing Madara’s gloved hand, lacing their fingers together. “I guess he saw me acting too confident… I, setting up this tent as our temporary home, as a couple…” He shrugs. “Maybe he has gotten used to the idea that we are together and that… you are mine.”

There were many things implied in those words, but they were necessary. During their journey, they used to talk about the people of their clans, their families and friends, if they existed, but they spoke very little about the girls who waited for them back home. In fact, they avoided the subject. Hashirama is a reasonable, understandable man… He understands how easy it is for someone to be dazzled by the mere sight of Uchiha Madara. He himself had been unable to avoid looking at him on the battlefield, admiring him, desiring him…

Now it is Madara who approaches him, his lips half parted already, calling out to him. Hashirama responds to the act. His mouth is now twice as delicious.

However, having seen Madara smile at Naori, seeing his face all flushed…

Madara growls when he feels him bite his lip harder than necessary. His other wound is still not fully healed. Either way, Hashirama doesn’t stop, his lips just as hungry, insatiable.

Hashirama reaches out a hand and places it on Madara’s inner thigh. They part to take a breath. Madara’s once pale face is now scarlet red, his eyes as cloudy as pre-snow skies.

“The walls of this tent are not, what is said, very thick, Hashirama.”

Hashirama growls. He already knows that, damn it, hence his urgency to get him out of there.

“Have you talked to Naori about us yet?” Hashirama asks instead. He tightens his grip on Madara’s thigh. “She spoke to you very confidently a while ago. I thought that…”

“What, Hashirama?” Madara says, removing Hashirama’s hand from his leg. “Are you afraid that I’m suddenly attracted to women and that I’m going to go chasing her? I knew you were a fool, but I didn’t know to what degree.”

Madara rises and turns his back on him. Hashirama forms a fist so tightly that his knuckles pale. He pushes aside the remains of dinner and follows.

“It’s a surprising miracle, seeing you smile at other people,” he murmurs in his ear.

Madara doesn’t turn around but instead answers over his shoulder. “You are a fool. I’ll end this ‘relationship’ we have if you even hint again that I could cheat on you with someone else, understood? I will not play on this, Hashirama.

Hashirama clicks his tongue.

“It’s not that; I trust you.” Hashirama says.

“Well, at least act like you do.” Madara utters, turning his back on him.

Hashirama walks over to the trunk and pulls out a change of clothes. He begins to get dressed behind Madara’s back. Madara is enraged and does everything humanly possible not to look at him. “And what were all those Uchiha doing in that shrine?”

Madara takes his time answering, until he is certain that Hashirama is fully dressed.

“We don’t have a public square in the district, like the one we had at home,” Madara says. He has no reason to hide a thing from him, “so we’ve met there, albeit with a few of us.”

It is Madara turn to change his clothes, but on the contrary, Hashirama never averts his eyes.

“You’re home now,” Hashirama reminds him. Madara lets his words end up fluttering off the walls, ignored. “Anyway, why were you all gathered in there for?”

Madara shrugs. His bare skin has embraced the orange hue of the candles. He is ethereal.

“I told them that I’m going to solve that stupid problem with the sand shinobi and then, I’m going to give the title to Izuna, gunbai and all.”

Hashirama ponders on his words. “It’s not a stupid problem, because of us, Mito’s father has died.”

Madara doesn’t look at him until he has finished dressing. “Come on, Senju, accept that this is all my fault. I have accepted my guilt, and still can sleep very peacefully at night. What is one more link in my long chain of sins?”

Hashirama frowns, “That’s not what I meant.”

Madara rolls his eyes and goes to sit on the futon. “I thought you liked to hold me tightly,” he says, touching the fabric, noting that it’s a different one. “More than just liking, actually. Last night you were hard while you embraced me.”

Hashirama jumps to his side, just after blowing out all the candles. It’s easy to make out his face in the dark; the moon is up that night, and she is sparkling above their tent.

They kiss and Hashirama sees in his eyes a fierce fury that he hasn’t seen in Uchiha Madara’s gaze since their warring days. Having him so close and with so little clothing getting in the way is bad for his head.

“Anyway, is there any need for the Uchiha to keep meeting in secret?” Hashirama asks to divert his attention from Madara’s figure. “We are part of the same village now; no secrets are needed.”

“It’s no secret, since I am telling you, right?” Madara growls, clinging to his arms with his hands. “Kiss me again.”

He does just like that. He would have done it, even if he hadn’t ordered it.

“That—” Hashirama whispers after breaking the kiss, his lips barely separated from Madara’s, “could lead to misunderstandings. Madara, if it is discovered that the Uchiha are meeting in secret.”

Madara lets out a chuckle.

“Open those eyes, Senju, and you will see that we are not the only clan that has not yet made to the idea of living in community with other clans.” Hashirama says nothing. “And tell me, are you seriously worried about misunderstandings? Really, Hashirama?” Madara is grinning, although it is a cruel smile, like those of yesteryear. “This whole village knows that you share this tent with me. And they know there’s only one futon inside and they assume you’re fucking me every night… In fact, they assume you were fucking me long time before we even eloped—at least, the Uchiha does.”

Hashirama swallows. Madara watches the hypnotic movement of his Adam’s apple as he passes the saliva.

“I don’t care what they assume,” says Hashirama, but even he doesn’t believe his words.

Madara smells the lies and identifies them as the remnant smoke from the candles still floating around the tent.

“Either way, it could be misunderstood if the Uchiha are known to meet in secret,” Hashirama insists in a serious voice. “People might think that…”

“What?” Madara murmurs. “That we are planning on gain control of this village? That we plan to take your little brother’s bone away? Is it that?” Madara chuckles. “It is all the same again, Hashirama, is it not? We, the Uchiha, the same power-hungry villains as ever…”

Hashirama’s eyes have darkened. “Could you lower your voice a bit?” Hashirama asks. That night there is no party and conversations from other tents reach their ears easily; it is obvious that there are some who wait with open ears for any trace of a conversation coming from the tent shared by Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara.

Madara is teeth bare, like an angry cat.

“And besides, that’s not what I meant; I would never distrust you.”

The Uchiha clicks his tongue.

“I love you; I trust you with my life,” Hashirama assures.

Madara shies away. He sighs and lies back on his side of the futon. He talks to Hashirama with his back turned. “Well, you better not tell your brother anything, because he could ruin it all. Izuna has worked very hard to bring stability to the clan. Do you hear me, Hashirama? I won’t let the Senju ruin it.”

Hashirama also lies down next to him. Suddenly the mattress feels huge. He shortens the distance between them as necessary until sticking to Madara’s back. Hashirama brushes the hairs away from Madara’s ear and whispers, “Our days in the cave were peaceful. Why do we argue all the time now?”

“In the cave no one interfered in our affairs; it was just you, me, the Kyuubi and that icy cave… whereas here—we have to whisper to be able to communicate among each other, and we cannot even fuck because someone might notice.”

Hashirama chuckles and his smile is marked on Madara’s back. “I thought we weren’t making love because you didn’t want to.” He places a hand on Madara’s waist and slowly lowers it to his hip. “I thought you didn’t care what other people said.”

“I do not really care—at this point, everyone thinks we do it every night, anyway,” Madara hisses as he feels Hashirama’s hand on his crotch. He feels a shiver run through his entire body. “I am not in the mood,” he falters shaking Hashirama’s hand away.

Hashirama’s voice comes deep in his ear, “You are hard.”

Madara bites his lip before repeating, “I am not in the mood.”

He is getting tired of that answer. But anyway, to Madara’s dismay, Hashirama doesn’t make any other approach that night. Hashirama just stares at the dark mane in front of him. He just waits for Madara’s breathing to slow down, to the rhythmic pace he’s already used to.

The village also sleeps early that night, for very little noise is heard outside the tent. A dog barks not far away and nothing more.

Hashirama’s gaze traces the figure in front of him and clenches both fists as he feels himself hardening indeed, powerless. He sighs and accepts his defeat. He slips a hand into his clothes and begins to work.

 

* * *

 

Madara is alone the next morning.

Again, he mutters in annoyance as he kicks the covers aside. And where has he gone to this early? To the kitchens? Madara rises and makes the bed. My stomach can wait, damn it. It’s quite cold that morning. It’s the end of October, it shouldn’t be that cold yet. Instead, Madara keeps thinking, we could have stayed a little longer on bed. He proceeds to change his clothes. That day he did wake up in the mood. As he gets dressed, he remembers… He remembers Hashirama touching himself on the futon last night. Madara feels trembling. That horny idiot actually waited until he pretended to be asleep before proceeding to…

“Good morning, Nii-san,” he hears Izuna calling from the door.

Madara lets out a sigh before turning to greet his brother. It’s early but Izuna is ready for the day unlike him.

“Hello, Izuna,” Madara grins, although he looks away. “How did you sleep?”

A habit of mutual cordiality had developed between the two brothers: ‘good morning, how are you?’ ‘I am fine—thank you.’

It was like the days before, but at the same time it was all different.

Izuna is already dressed in the adult clothes that he wears every day. “Fine, Nii-san; thank you.” His bearing also looks different, his shoulders are always straight, his chin always up. A stark contrast to the tired shoulders of his older brother.

“Is there ramen for breakfast today too?” Madara asks as they both leave the tent in a different direction from the day before. “I am starving.”

The younger of the Uchiha lets out a giggle. “There is no ramen today; your Senju didn’t bring breakfast this morning. In fact, I haven’t seen him since yesterday, when you both left the shrine.”

Madara nods, trying to assimilate what he just heard and feels annoyed, not because there wasn’t any breakfast prepared for him, but because Hashirama was involved in something, and the man didn’t want to tell him about it. And yet, he had still dared to have that ridiculous fit of jealousy last night…

“Come, let’s go have some breakfast here, my treat,” says Izuna, leading him around a corner. There is a place in the middle of the street that is overflowing with guests. “It’s fine here, you know? I ate here yesterday, and it was delicious.”

Madara follows, barely listening, busy inside his head. “Did you eat in the Senju area?” He asks, frowning. He has lost his appetite.

“There is no longer a Senju or Uchiha or any other clan area, Nii-san, that’s why we formed the alliance, remember? Although, our Uchiha still have a hard time understanding what that word entails, I am afraid.”

His older brother mumbles. But either way he orders something from the menu. They eat breakfast calmly and in silence. Izuna is right, the food there is delicious.

When they get back on the road, Madara dares to ask, “And where are you taking me to?”

Izuna scratches his temple with a finger, uncomfortable. “I don’t know if they told you, but we have a council today…”

Oh, sure. Madara nods and without being able to help it, he thinks about that presumptuous Senju and his threats about him having to explain himself. Fuck him again. Madara clenches his fists, but he follows his brother anyway, because, in practical terms, he is still the rightful clan head.

He sighs and his little brother lets out a forced laugh.

“It will be quick, I assure you,” Izuna says, motioning for them to go around another corner. That village is expanding fast. “They just want to meet you and know what your plans for the village are.” He shrugs. “Some of them are not, what is said, very attentive to the Uchiha, but…”

“I don’t care,” his brother interrupts. “They are aware that this village was our idea, right? I am not afraid of them, Izuna; they cannot hurt me. Nor will I allow them to offend you in any way.”

Izuna’s cheeks are rosy tinted, like when he was a little boy and his brother promised him a thousand wonders.

“A-anyway, it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. The leadership of the Uchiha is an important issue, for they know the power that comes with it and… Nii-san, I don’t think it’s necessary for them to know what happened yesterday at the shrine.”

“I wasn’t planning to tell them.”

Izuna nods. “That’s good, neither was I. Naori will be there too, and she won’t talk about it either. And besides the three of us…”

“Hashirama knows,” Madara confesses. “I told him about it last night and warned him not to be noisy. So, no problem with that. He won’t say a thing.”

“Of course,” Izuna is the one who sighs in relief, and they stop at the foot of a large tent, similar in appearance and size to the one he shares with Hashirama. “Let’s just don't get carried away by their provocations. They know, they have heard of your temper.”

“My temper?” Madara hisses. “What’s with my temper?”

A person comes out of the tent to indicate the Uchiha that they are waiting for them. It’s Touka, Hashirama’s cousin, as Izuna whispers to him when they’re on their way. Madara nods and they enter.

A large round table welcomes them inside, and around it is a dozen hostile and suspicious faces, most of them unknown to him. In battles with other clans, Madara used to fight in the middle of the army and rarely approached the leaders, not out of fear, but because such fights were known to be boring.

So, he only recognizes some faces by sight, but nothing else. Madara sweeps the place looking for a specific face, the only one that really interests him, but he is not there. Hashirama hasn’t come to the council. He feels his stomach twists and he can’t help but get furious.

Tobirama sends him a disapproving look, perhaps after sensing the dark flow of chakra he is expelling. Tobirama’s frown deepens, to the point that Madara decides to calm down when he thinks that he might get Izuna into trouble.

Hashirama’s brother clears his throat and welcomes those present, avoiding looking at him throughout the council. Izuna is the next to speak, whose first task is to introduce his brother to them.

It’s a monotonous matter, Madara soon realises. If he used to think facing other clan heads in battle was boring, it was because he had never been in a council with them. He sighs and does his best not to roll his eyes.

When his time to speak arrives, he points out that he verified that the routes to Sora-ku are still clean of enemies and that all hostility that can be found in them comes from the difficulties of nature.

“We’ve heard about your issues with the sand shinobi, Uchiha Madara,” says a tall man of similar age to his father. Madara is instantly wary of his smiles. Beside him, Izuna whispers that he is the leader of the Shimura clan. “According to what has reached our ears, it was a battle…”

“Dull,” says Madara. He places his gloved hands on the desk and adds, “Brief and boring.”

“The survivor says that it was an atrocious carnage.” Says a tall and powerful woman; a blonde with lively eyes and intelligent smiles. Her voice lacks the malice with which the Shimura speaks. “How many shinobi did you fight against?”

Madara shrugs. “I don’t even remember, but they weren’t much, if I duelled with them at the same time and finished them off without problems.”

Across the table, a man is heard laughing. He covers his mouth with a fist, but the smile continues in his eyes: Sarutobi Sasuke.

“The problems came later, Uchiha Madara,” the Shimura continues. “Against our allies, in territory that was supposed to be safe.”

Izuna touches his brother lightly on the sleeve, but Madara decides to ignore him. “That was an act of our enemies—a badly planned reckoning; a plan so ridiculous, that I have no doubt that it was the work of the child I let live.”

“The child that murdered the Uzumaki,” the Shimura utters.

Madara clenches his fists on the table and takes a step back, trying to regain his composure.

“We already agreed that it’s unfair to blame the Uchiha for the actions of some shinobi we don’t know,” Izuna interrupts.

“I let him live out of pity,” Madara spits, crossing his arms at his chest.

That boy would have been of similar age to Izuna. It was hard for Madara not to see his own brother in that boy’s frightened eyes.

“Your pity murdered the Uzumaki,” the Shimura insists.

Oh please, Madara thinks. They don’t give a damn about the Uzumaki—they just want to turn everyone against the Uchiha, using me as an excuse.

“This is getting out of control,” Tobirama says, calling for silence. Every pair of eyes present turns to him. “We are not here today to fight against each other, but to announce that Senju Hashirama and Uchiha Madara have arrived in the village.”

Madara watches that nefarious Shimura muttering something to the ugly man standing next to him.

“And where is that brother of yours, Senju Tobirama?” The blonde woman asks with genuine interest. Madara doesn’t look up, but opens his ears attentively.

“He’s been busy, he asked me to excuse him to you, for he would arrive,” Tobirama sighs, “a bit late.”

More murmurs are heard fluttering inside the tent. Madara hated the meetings that he had to go to because he was Tajima’s son, but this circus was something else.

Fortunately, Tobirama says, “I propose we leave this meeting for today, what do you think, clan heads?”

Voices rise with responses ranging from, “Aye,” to “Finally.”

Madara is fed up too. He hadn’t been in such a terrible mood for a long time.

When the council concludes, Uchiha Madara is the first to leave the tent. Izuna runs behind him. “Nii-san, are you alright?”

His brother doesn’t stop, but still replies, “Now I pity you, Izuna, for all those meetings you had to attend on my behalf. I am very sorry.”

Izuna lightens the problem with a wave of a hand. He soon gets to his pace. It seems that Madara wishes to leave that area as soon as possible. “Luckily, this was brief. We had councils that lasted for hours.”

“Brief?” Madara asks. “Goddess, have you had to tolerate that clown for hours? I am truly sorry, Izuna.”

The youngest Uchiha laughs and looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “You did well, Nii-san.” He then asks, “do you plan to go back to the tent?”

Madara doesn’t know where he is going to.

“I guess I’ll go find Hashirama.” He sighs. “I cannot believe I’m the only one who doesn’t have a fixed task in this village.”

Izuna debates whether he should comment on that, “Well, you’re the Uchiha clan head; you could just go for a walk.” Madara nods. “But first, you should calm down a bit. You look tense—very tense, really. Did you… argued with Hashirama last night?”

Madara doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“You know what, Nii-san? Why don’t you go and take the day off?”

“My days off, Izuna, are what keep me like this.”

Izuna nods, but still insists. “Maybe you should go for a walk. You could take a tour around the village, so you can get to know it better or…”

“Izuna,” Madara says. “I appreciate it, aye? I don’t deserve a little brother as wonderful as you, but… I am a little… mortified and I do not want to take it out on you.”

“I see,” Izuna grins. “I’ll come pick you up at lunchtime, alright? We can go to another delicious place.”

Madara nods, but he doesn’t plan to keep that promise. Either way, they say their goodbyes there and he ends up going back to the tent.

The place is dark, although it is not empty. Hashirama is there, changing his clothes behind his back. Madara clenches a fist tightly. Hashirama is drenched in sweat and breathing heavily. His chakra is insane, fluctuating within the walls of the tent. The fool hasn’t even realised he is there, behind him.

“Where were you?” Madara asks. He bites his lip—there, on top of where it rests a previous bite.

Hashirama turns to look at him over his shoulder. He is smiling; what a fool.

“Ah, Madara. Let’s just say it is a secret.”

Madara fists tightens even more, until his knuckles ache.

“Has the council ended already?” Hashirama asks. “I thought I’d come change quickly and then go to… what’s wrong?”

Everything is very simple for Senju Hashirama. He believes that every issue in the world will be solved with his smiles and pretty face.

“Where were you?” Madara repeats, his dark eyes fixed on Hashirama’s. His chest rising and falling violently. “It’s been two fucking mornings that I wake up alone in this tent, and now you come back all sweaty and—”

Hashirama shrugs. “I told you it is a secret. Besides, you sleep so peacefully, Madara, that I do not have the heart to wake you up. Although,” he points out, “before I leave the tent, I lean over and steal a kiss from your lips.”

Madara bites the inside of his cheek. He is enraged.

“I’m telling you, it is a secret,” Hashirama says, when seeing that Madara’s frown hasn’t disappeared from his forehead. “I’d hate to spoil your surprise…”

“Are you… fucking someone else?” Madara growls.

Hashirama looks at him with wide eyes. “What?”

This shit is too much for him. Madara steps forward and knocks him down against the futon with more ease than expected. Hashirama is bigger and stronger, yet moving him was like throwing a straw doll.

Madara mounts him and places a hand on his throat, clearly intending to hurt him. His words are just as cruel as the crimson in his eyes. “Answer me, Hashirama.”

“No, I mean—” the Senju hesitates. “Madara, what the hell? How can you think that of me? Had we not talked last night about how unnecessary jealousy between us was?”

Hashirama not trying to break free of his grip only makes him angrier.

“Well…” Madara hisses. He frees his neck and draws both hands to Hashirama’s sternum, atop the muscled forms that lie under the fabric. Hashirama smells of sweat and his skin feels hot under his clothes. He has expelled huge amounts of chakra. “Fuck me, then. Here. Now. The gods know I want you.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen.

“I can feel how you harden little by little, underneath me, Hashirama.” Madara takes off his gloves with his teeth and brings his hands to his own clothes, with the intention of ripping them off in one motion. “Make love to me.”

“No,” Hashirama repeats. “Not this way, Madara.”

“Not this way?” The Uchiha says, mimicking his voice. “What the fuck, Hashirama!”

Hashirama lets out a laugh and Madara feels himself vibrating on top of him.

“If we made love like this—in the state you’re in—my love, you’d soon end up regretting it… and I’d feel terrible about it.” He shakes his head. “I won’t, Madara. Not yet.”

Madara hesitates. “You have such a mouth full of stupid words, Hashirama. Full of lies, of secrets…”

Hashirama raises an eyebrow.

“Secrets, maybe so, but lies?” He grins. “I am not lying, Madara. And as for my secret… do you really want to ruin it?”

Madara responds by leaning down and pressing his lips onto his. He follows the old custom of parting his lips in anticipation to receive him inside. The sensations around them, the mixture of flavours, of aromas… is intoxicating.

“I’ll show you tomorrow, alright?” Hashirama promises in the brief interval between one kiss and another. He wraps Madara in his arms, before taking away the hair that gets in his eyes. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you with me, so you could see it with your own eyes, yes, my love?”

A groan is Madara’s response; it is he who kisses him again and Hashirama takes this as a ‘yes.’

 

* * *

 

Madara goes to bed earlier than usual that night, as if he can hardly wait for dawn. Hashirama is brushing his freshly washed hair, which still smells like the fragrance of his soap. His own scent is both delicious and mortifying.

On the roof of their tent, the pattering of a light rain can be heard.

Madara lies on his back as he stares at the patterns he finds in the tent walls. Outside, he can still hear the laughter and chatter of their neighbours. It is so early that children can still be heard playing nearby, even though it is raining.

He closes his eyes hurriedly when he hears Hashirama blow out the candles and slows his breathing when feeling him lying back next to him. Madara’s heartbeat gallops uncontrollably, and he feels a lurch in the pit of his stomach.

Madara lets out a groan when he feels Hashirama stick to his back to embrace him. An eager hand slides down his belly, entering the lapels of his clothing.

He really can’t stop a second moan from escaping his mouth. “Hashirama.”

Hashirama whispers in his ear, grabbing his solid cock in a hand. “Are you in the mood tonight?”

Dammit. Madara bites his lip. This is just like their days in the cave—the soft rain, Hashirama’s playful hand. He might as well just close his eyes and imagine that nothing has changed.

“I am,” he says.

Madara feels Hashirama smiling on his shoulder.

“Last night,” Madara whispers, as Hashirama begins to stroke him, “you… ah, idiot!” Hashirama gives him a slight bite on his shoulder. “Last night, I pretended to be asleep… and I heard you. You touched yourself while you thought I was sleeping.”

Hashirama’s laugh is heard gravely, impressed on his skin.

“I knew you were pretending to be asleep.”

Madara touches a hand to his mouth, to supress another moan.

“That’s why I did it.” Hashirama continues. “I knew you were listening. I knew you would be… imagining it.” He kisses him on the shoulder, where he previously bit him. “I knew you would like it.”

Madara chuckles. This is heaven. “You—you silly Senju.”

Hashirama strokes him until relief comes.

 

* * *

 

When Madara wakes up the next morning, he finds that Hashirama is watching him.

More like, staring. “Morning,” Hashirama says when he finds himself discovered.

And Madara doesn’t answer until he stretches his limbs. “Morning.” He looks into the cracks of the tent and sees that it is still dark outside. Madara cannot help but shiver when he stands up.

“The mornings are cold, and it’s been raining all night,” Hashirama says. “You’ll need to wear something thicker than that.”

“My clothes are fine.”

Hashirama goes and looks for something in his trunk. “I won’t take you with me if you don’t dress properly for this weather. You get easily sick.”

“That’s not true,” Madara says. “And what is that you have in your hands? Oh, please tell me it’s not your brother’s.”

Hashirama laughs and shakes his head. “This haori is one of mine. I suspect it will suit you.”

Madara tries it on and it’s like being embraced by Hashirama. It is warm and spacious inside. All of this reminds him of their days in the cave. The change of season has made him nostalgic, it seems.

Hashirama is also ready and waiting for him at the entrance. Madara rushes over. Out there, it is all silence and darkness. The sentinels turn their backs on them and don’t even notice their presence. The sun is still far on the horizon. There is, at least, over an hour to go before dawn.

He takes Madara by the hand and encourages him to walk. Madara lets himself go, still too shocked at the natural way he is holding him.

They leave the area and head to the northern zone, passing by the half-built building where the future village leader will soon sit in. Madara can’t help but look at the edifice and imagine the changes its existence will bring.

It is very cold. Madara shuts his eyes and lets himself be carried away by instinct and Hashirama’s hand.

“Here we are,” Hashirama suddenly says. Madara looks around, but there is only a fence before his eyes.

Madara gasps. He doesn’t understand what’s going on there. Hashirama moves a makeshift gate and pulls them into a rain-soaked garden. In front of them, is a large, dim silhouette, barely distinguishable in the darkness that it is a house under construction. A house of delicate wood, that shines with the soft tinkling of the stars that precede the dawn.

Hashirama explains, “You once asked me what else could I use my mokuton for but to fight the Uchiha. I am not going to live with you in that tent forever, you know?” Hashirama is not looking at him—instead, he sees and gestures at what they have in front. “It will be ready soon and then, we’ll move in, yes?”

What the hell?

“I am afraid I still don’t understand.”

Hashirama lets out a laugh. Then, he does look at him. “I want to live here with you, if you want to, of course.”

Goddess.

There’s something cold run down his cheek. Madara wipes a tear away with the fabric of his glove. He feels unable to speak, as if his heart was suddenly trapped in his throat.

“Would you, Madara?” Hashirama whispers. “Would you move in with me?”

And he thought Hashirama was cheating on him, when, in fact, the man was getting up early every day, to cross that village from side to side to build him a fucking house. How is he not going to move in with him?

Madara nods, for he does not dare to utter any words. He gasps every time he tries to speak, until finally he manages a dry, “Yeah.”

Hashirama building him a house implies many things.

As if he had read his thoughts, Hashirama squeezes his hand and Madara does just the same in return.

It implies not only solidity to them as a couple, but also a lasting staying in the village.

And wonder of wonders, Uchiha Madara doesn’t see anything wrong with it.

He tightens his grip. He looks up sensing that it is starting to rain again, but it is a very light rain, and the drops are barely felt on the skin.

“I am sorry. I complained about your lack of trust in me and ended up doing the same thing.”

Hashirama pulls him in for a quick kiss. “Do not mention it.” They are getting wet. “You know, I only regret that we didn’t bring an umbrella.”

Madara lets out a laugh.

“Do you like it, love?” Hashirama asks. “I mean, it’s not done yet, but… it’ll look good in the end, of that, I am sure.”

Madara nods. “It’s beautiful, Hashirama.”

I love you, he thinks, but he cannot bring himself to say it out loud, for he doesn’t want Hashirama to think that he’s only saying it when seeing the extent of Hashirama’s love and devotion for him. So, he keeps it to himself. I love you so much.

And he smiles. Against all odds, Uchiha Madara is smiling. Hashirama notices it and tightens his grip too. Perhaps one day not too far away, he will dare to tell him face to face how much he loves him.

“Let’s go in.” Hashirama suggests. “Let’s wait inside until the rain passes.”

Madara follows him.

Why not? There is no rush at all.

Notes:

It’s independence month, so I had to give them boys some fireworks

Chapter 7

Notes:

*whispers while pressing the post button* this was supposed to be a five part fic wtf

I’ve waited a long time to get to this chapter.

*Again, thanks to the wonderful Marina, for helping me name the oc
*Greetings to the people I know irl who have found this fic thanks to my imprudence on twitter.
* Special thanks to Carlos, again, for helping me whenever I forget something of importance about canon (which is, always), especially when it has to do with the uchiha and their affairs

The shrine is overflowing with people. Yet, one by one, they keep coming. They prostrate themselves according to their turn in front of him, spoke their concerns and needs, then left to give their places to the next; some smiling, others squinting, doubting, if this frowning young man will even listen to them or if he will even be able to solve any of their needs. They never had problems with any clan leader before—at least, not that they could remember. The older ones remember the strict and stern leader who barely smiled; the younger ones, on the other hand, grew up under the care of a leader who listened to them and did his best to give them what they needed. The young man in front of them descends from both in a strange mix: with the power of the former and the character of the latter.

“I am sorry. Yes, I am aware of that, sir, but—yes,” says Izuna when he realises that more and more people are entering the room. “We will pause this assembly for a moment, as the clan head has other business to attend to.”

Madara notices that Izuna’s words are not well received by some of their clanmates. But that assembly has already lasted what? Three hours? He can barely feel his butt from all that time he’s been sitting in the same place.

“We understand, yes,” he hears Izuna say by his side, while he stretches his numb limbs. “Of course, he will listen to you.”

Madara feels a delicious pleasure when his muscles return to its original position. And when he hears his shoulder settle into his place… magnificent.

The Uchiha clan head deigns himself to bid his people farewell before leaving the shrine in the company of Izuna. As they walk out, the boy with the toy… no, what was his name? Haru. Haru raises a hand high in greeting. Madara returns the gesture and even gives him half a smile.

“Was that a greeting? I though you didn’t like being our clan head,” murmurs Izuna, amused, smirking. “It comes naturally to you, after all. As I once told you, it was just a matter of time for you to get used to—”

“—My butt, staying flattened, am I right?” Madara answers, also pleased, playing along. “Now, on the other hand, I understand our father, you know? It must have been terrible to have to listen to those problems all the time, and to try to solve them as much as possible—and still having to stop the territorial advances of the Senju…” he shakes his head. “I don’t even want to think about what the poor bastard who becomes the village leader will have to face.”

Izuna clicks his tongue.

“You have done well. It runs through your blood and is your heritage also; in addition, these changes had been good for us all, you included.” Izuna grins, “Uchiha Madara, proud and regal, pretending to listen to his people’s needs.”

Madara lets out a laugh. “What do you take me for, Izuna? Of course I’ve been listening to them!”

“You know what I meant,” Izuna defends himself and his older brother shakes his head, also grinning.

“Look there,” Madara points a discreet finger at a woman in the distance, “that’s Uchiha Kazue, and she was one of the first people to come see me this morning; her husband fought alongside our father and was seriously injured in that terrible battle in which I disappeared. He can move by himself, but he will carry a limp for the rest of his days.”

Izuna nods impressed, as such information is correct.

“Or there,” Madara points now to the opposite side of the street, “those children lost their parents in the war, and now, their aunt is the one who takes care of them. They want to become shinobi as soon as they are a bit older; or what about those other people—”

Izuna gets his point and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, Uchiha Madara hasn’t been wasting his time and instead, he has made an effort to get to know his people better.” Izuna is now convinced that his plans—and those of Senju Hashirama’s—to propose Madara to become the village leader are not erroneous.

Now all that remains is to convince his brother that he can do it, and that he is the best choice. Is it too soon to tell his brother about his friend’s ridiculous plan of carving Madara’s face on the mountain?

“Where are you going?” Izuna asks when seeing his brother is heading in the opposite direction. “I thought we were about to get something to eat.”

Madara makes some gestures with his hands, trying to explain himself.

“I’ll meet Naori outside the village, to train with her.”

Izuna answers with an eyebrow raised on the top of his forehead.

“Uzumaki Mito will be present too,” adds Madara, as if necessary.

“Yeah… I’m sure you’ll get a good surprise when you see their abilities.” Izuna says by a way of a farewell. His brother is already turning his back on him. “Come back when you’re done, will you, Nii-san? There’ll be food waiting for you!”

Madara raises a hand in the air, implying that he will do so.

 

* * *

 

The weather has changed with the arrival of November and sunny days have become increasingly scarce. It is a very cold day, but Madara is a man of his word, though he wishes he were in front of a warm hearth instead.

Hashirama spends most of his days outside. He arrives in the afternoon, exhausted and hungry, freshly bathed and eager to throw himself on the futon to sleep. For Madara it is a blessing of sorts, of course, not having to get into awkward situations with him—but at the same time, he misses the sharp tension between them as they sat before the fire while having dinner, spying on each other with furtive glances, squeezing hands and caressing themselves in the dark until they fell asleep.

How much longer will they be able to live this way? Madara lets out a sigh as he walks through the village gates. The pair of guards, already used to his lack of tact, just bow their heads as they whisper a quick and agitated ‘Madara-sama.’

He is a fucking man of his word and keeps walking, even when he’s freezing.

The grass crunches under his feet and much of the remaining leaves—many still green—end up falling over him in a multi-coloured waterfall.

When he is some distance from the gates, where he is sure no one can see him, he turns to the growing village and fixes his gaze up there on the cliff on which he used to train with Hashirama, and which now crowns the community, behind the building where their leader will prostrate. And Madara smiles, feeling his chest full of… what is that thing he’s feeling? Fear? Discomfort? Happiness?

The strangeness of the whole situation does not stop seeming alien to him. Everything has changed with an ease and speed that he never imagined and now, he doesn’t know how to feel.

Hashirama is happy there. It is his dream come true, after all. As a child he rarely had the luxury of smiling and now, he does so without hesitation or inhibition. Madara seriously doesn’t know how to explain that feeling in the pit of his stomach every time he senses Hashirama is happy. He has suddenly become addicted to hearing him laugh, what the hell.

He lets out one last breath and turns to continue walking. When he arrives at the agreed place, he discovers to his surprise that Uzumaki Mito is already there.

The Uzumaki watches him approach and although she welcomes him with a smile, Madara can feel that there is still a small halo of nonconformity surrounding her. He is not surprised or offended, for he’s in quite a similar situation. The Uchiha were never much given to fighting the Uzumaki in the past, at least not as far as he can remember, so he guesses that all that mistrust among them has another origin.

“Uchiha Madara,” it is Mito who dares to break the ice.

He won’t run away like he once did in the Kyuubi’s forest. “Uzumaki Mito,” he replies.

They both fall into a short period of silence. Just a few minutes, but they feel like an eternity. Madara is sending furtive glances into the forest looking for Naori, when he hears the Uzumaki speaking, “Naori said you talked to her.”

Madara turns to Mito, but she too is looking in the direction of the forest. He nods and clasps his gloved hands together, “A few days ago, yes.”

Now she is the one who nods. Above, they see a flock of birds heading to warmer lands, leaving the cold forests. They both get absorbed by the spectacle.

“She was…” says Mito, still staring at the birds, “a little nervous about the idea of talking to you.”

I was nervous too, Madara wants to say, but instead he listens: “It’s a fortune that the talking went well.”

It’s also no surprise that she knows so much about the matter. During the years of friendship between him and Hashirama there were no secrets either, beyond their real names. Even in the midst of the clan feuds there was room for genuine friendships. Why shouldn’t the same miracle happen between an Uchiha and an Uzumaki?

“I would never hurt her in any way,” Madara says, “at least not directly.”

“I wouldn’t have let you break her heart, anyway,” says the young Uzumaki. Up there goes the last of the birds.

The two watch the birds until they are lost in the distance, leaving them alone.

“I’m not the monster everyone says I am,” he says, turning to look at her. His eyes are serious, like the rest of his face.

A grin appears on Mito’s face as she says, “Yeah…I already know that.”

At that moment a figure appears coming out of the forest, towards the clearing, towards them. Naori carries a pair of bamboo swords slung across her back. The purple-haired girl raises a hand in the air in greeting and the redhead is the first to respond. It is a natural gesture for them, done with trust and habit. For Madara, on the contrary, such familiarity is still uncomfortable and the only thing he can manage to do is give her a sincere smile.

Naori is also smiling and even a slight pink tint has appeared on her cheeks. Again, Madara thinks, it’s a very, very cold day.

There was much more than Madara would have liked to discuss with Mito.

They don’t waste time on more conversations; they soon merge into an intense taijutsu session. Madara knows Naori’s level but is totally unaware to the one possessed by Uzumaki Mito. The only time he was able to see part of her skills was during the Kyuubi’s attack and back then, his head was full of doubts to the point of not remembering much now.

However, he is dumbfounded to see both girls duelling bare handed. He had heard that they practiced archery and he thought that this was what the training would be about… he did not expect that the girl’s skills would be such to the point of making it clear that Naori’s request to having him training with her was a mere excuse, as there was nothing in Madara’s repertoire of war skills that could add anything significant to that of the kunoichi’s.

Time passed and the day became colder. First it was taijutsu and then they took up their shinai: their skills were impeccable as well. They were fast and swift; deadly by themselves. Their clothes created a beautiful dance among all the grey. The village was well secured having inhabitants with such power to protect it.

In the end, he was more of a simple spectator, since he was never invited to participate, nor did he want to.

“What do you think, Uchiha?” It is Mito who speaks. “Quite impressive, is it not?”

Madara shrugs and adds, avoiding meeting her eyes, “Not that I’m surprised either.”

Naori lets out a laugh, which is joined by Mito.

How much things have changed. The world seems to be a different one than it was a couple of months ago.

“Do you come to practice often?” Madara asks so as not to let the peaceful thread amongst them die.

But it is Naori who answers, “Daily.”

“Lately we have had to postpone some sessions, though,” Mito points out and Naori nods. “Because we have joined the knitters.”

Madara raises an eyebrow as a question.

“It’s cold,” Naori elaborates, clasping her hands on her knees. The three of them have taken a seat on the edge of the forest. “And there are still many people working outdoors, mostly in construction. So, we use our leisure to knit for them.” Now it’s Mito who nods. “Her scarves are the best,” Naori says, pointing at her friend.

Mito’s face turns as red as her hair. “Ah, they’re just like the others.” She turns to Madara, who watches them very amused, his elbow resting on one knee, his face in a hand, “do not listen to a single word of hers.”

He soon begins to feel a squeeze in the gut. It’s past noon, and he had breakfast very early. His body has gotten accustomed to the way of living in the village, and his stomach now dares to ask for food several times a day.

The sky has turned to a dark grey. Naori rises her gaze as a light breeze begins to fall. “It’s raining.”

Mito shakes her head, still grinning. She looks up too and points a finger. “That doesn’t look like rain.”

Madara also looks up at the grey sky and notices the light breeze that falls on his messy hair and gloves and says, “It’s snow.”

The two girls raise their hands and marvel at the tiny snowflakes that land on their skins. Uchiha Madara is not exaggerating; it is really snowing.

The first snow of the season. It is a unique spectacle, since the leaves have not yet finished falling in much of the forest. The snowflakes continue to land on his gloves, but they are so small and thin that they barely touch the leather when they are already gone.

In a way, he feels a sense of longing inside his chest and the first thing he thinks of when his heart speeds up, is Senju Hashirama. He swallows and thinks how much he longs to be back to the village—to him, and the mere thought astonishes him. Is he homesick? What the hell.

It is a feeling shared by all three. They stand up and without further delay return to the village.

Mito is the first to part from the group, as her quarters are the closest to the entrance. Madara does not mention a thing, but he saw a bunch of Uzumaki arrive the day before and senses that the girl is anxious to be reunited with her family.

On the contrary, the Uchiha are stationed at the opposite end of the village, so there is still a long way to go in Naori’s company.

“Well?” Naori’s voice pulls him out of his thoughts. Madara turns to the girl and finds her smiling, “what did you think of our training session?”

Madara gives her a half-smile. “Not bad,” then he raises a dark eyebrow high on his forehead, “I’m beginning to think that inviting me was just a mere excuse to make it clear that you don’t need me at all.”

Her eyes fly to his, and they share another smile. The girl is flushed. He is sweating. The snow has stopped; a false alarm.

Not far from there, a few streets to the right, is the house that Hashirama is building for them, and Madara avoids looking in that direction with all his might.

“It’s something symbolic, I guess,” she says. “There are many in our clan who would kill to train by your side—for you to even take a few minutes to correct their mistakes.”

Madara lets out a stifled laugh. “No need to kill anyone, you know? They just have to get closer and…”

“And get close to Uchiha Madara, who always goes from here to there with a frown on his face? Easier said than done. Who would be the crazy one to dare?” She smiles shyly. He has never been attracted to girls, but he can admit that Naori is the prettiest girl in the entire village, and even he feels a slight squeeze in his tummy.

Maybe he is hungry. Maybe it’s discomfort.

Madara lets out a sigh and admits that he has been building that reputation himself and that he shouldn’t be offended for people being afraid of him, even if they are from his own clan.

“The one they should be chasing for training is you,” Madara says instead. “You don’t need me to correct you or add anything to your routine; Naori, you’re the best.” The girl’s blush only deepens. “The same goes to your friend. The village is safe with kunoichi like you to protect it.”

This clan needs me no more.

Naori doesn’t know what to answer and prefers not to say anything.

“Instead,” he says after a while. His voice is almost a whisper, “You could teach me.”

She feels his request as a mockery. She turns to look at him annoyed.

He explains, “You mentioned that you are knitting for the winter, right? I… wish I could do that. Naori, would you teach me?”

“To knit?” Naori asks, furrowing her pretty eyebrows. “Of course.”

Madara smiles pleased and now it is his cheeks that turn pink. Naori cannot read his thoughts and thank the gods, for she would be very sad to know that Madara’s head has been filled with the image of a certain young man who is dedicated to building houses with the power that flows from his body.

Naori lets out a long breath. “We could start tomorrow, what do you think?”

Madara is pensive, one gloved hand on his chin, but he nods anyway.

“We’ll skip tomorrow’s practice and I’ll teach you how to do simple stitches.”

“Do you not think Mito will care?”

Of course not, silly man, Naori thinks. “If anything, I guess she will be quite amused to see you knitting.”

In the blink of an eye, they arrive at the Uchiha district.

 

* * *

 

Madara immediately goes to the tent where Izuna used to stay but discovers that he is not there. Izuna’s belongings, the table and seats, and the trunks have also been removed.

“He hasn’t been here for days,” says a voice behind him. “You would know, if you took an interest in him from time to time.”

Madara turns to the intruder with a frown on his face. He doesn’t know what bothers him more, the fact that that bastard spends so much time roaming Izuna’s accommodations or the fact that he’s right.

Senju Tobirama is leaning against a tent wall, blocking the doorway. His arms are crossed, and he has the same grave expression as always.

Madara is willing to accept his blame for being neglectful of Izuna, but he doesn’t plan to say it out loud in front of someone like him. “This does not concern you, Senju.”

Tobirama just shrugs. Madara wastes no time and passes through the door, leaving the tent. There is a scent in the air, a luscious thread that draws him like a lover’s finger and Madara follows it. He hears Tobirama’s footsteps behind but ignores them as much as he can.

“Certainly,” says Tobirama from behind as soon as Madara enters the kitchen and taking advantage of the fact that both of them are alone, he adds, “but anyway, it’s wonderful to see on your face the confirmation that I am right. You have neglected your own family, Uchiha Madara. How do you expect to become a village leader that way?”

“I do not plan to,” Madara says, going through the various trays that are there. Each one smells better than the last.

Tobirama lets out a sort of laugh. And what the hell is that Senju doing there?

“That one is yours,” Tobirama points out a finger and to Madara’s dismay, there is a note on top of the tray, written in Izuna’s own handwriting, which confirms that, in fact, it was prepared for his older brother. “It is quite a relief,” Tobirama adds, while Madara reads the piece of paper, “that you don’t have in mind the stupid idea of fighting against my brother for the control of this village.”

Madara lowers Izuna’s note. He turns to Tobirama with a gesture that isn’t quite anger, but rather curious surprise. He has always known that Tobirama is a strategist—he is calculating and always gets the information he needs in the most disgusting ways.

The Uchiha narrows his eyes. “What?”

Tobirama’s face remains calm, his arms still crossed at chest level, “Another council is coming, where issues of great importance will be discussed. I have received a message from the sand clans and another one from the Daimyo, insisting that this village needs a name and a leader as soon as possible… My brother, he’s… the one we need. So, there is no time for more of your antics, do you hear me?”

Madara shortens the space between them. His chakra has erupted to the point that his own hair moves as in the wind and now, in his eyes, there is also his crimson sharingan.

However, to his eternal rival, such displays of power are insignificant for he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he adds, “I forbid you to tarnish my brother’s reputation any longer,” Madara is about to growl something back, but the Senju’s tongue is quicker. “He, Senju Hashirama, will be the first Hokage and neither you nor…”

“The what?” Madara spits, raising an eyebrow.

Tobirama sighs tiredly, touching a pair of fingers to the bridge of his nose, “The Hokage…the leader of this village. It was also his idea.”

Of course. Madara thinks. Who else would have come up with such a ridiculous name but Senju Hashirama?

“Well, let me tell you, Senju,” says Madara, “that you and your brother can be very calm, because I have no interest in becoming this—what did you say? The Hokage of this village. I don’t mind at all. Actually—you know what? I couldn’t give a fuck about anything to do with this village, either.” He says, pointing with his fingers, “its control, its bloody name… nothing. I don’t give half a fuck, at all.”

Madara turns his back and heads to the table.

Tobirama shakes his head and looks at him up and down, like he’s some kind of a freak.

“What are you doing here, then?” Tobirama’s voice is serious, but without the hostility he had minutes ago, as if he really is interested in knowing his reasons. “What is keeping you here? Izuna?” He shakes his head again. “No. You can’t keep telling that lie.”

Madara bites his tongue.

“Is it because of him, then.” Tobirama continues, “You’re staying because of my brother.”

Hashirama would leave all of you behind, following me again, even if he were already the leader, Madara ponders and maybe Tobirama knows it, for his face looks truly desperate.

“Does it matter, Senju?” Madara says over his shoulder. His eyes are dark again and his chakra has dropped to normal levels. He, too, has lost his instinct to attack. “Trust me, that if I could, I’d refrain from having to spend another minute surrounded by all those clowns who call themselves clan heads. So just leave me alone, alright? I’m busy.”

Madara takes his tray and heads to the entrance. He only stops upon hearing Tobirama, “My brother’s reputation is important, you know? It was left very damaged after being disinherited by my father. Much of our clan is still suspicious of him and I fear that this may interfere in his chances of gaining control of the village.”

“And why are you so interested in achieving it?” Madara asks, turning to face him, “have you even asked the man himself if he wants to? Why do you need to control his life? Why turn him into one of those clowns? To keep him within the reach of your sight?”

“That position corresponds to him,” Tobirama answers. “All this was his dream. A dream he had to give up going after you.”

The word ‘coward’ hangs in the air, even though Tobirama didn’t say it. It wouldn’t be the first time someone called Madara that. At times, he has been able to catch the word in whispers as he passes through crowds in his own clan.

“He’s old enough to make his own decisions, do you not think?” Madara mutters. “If Hashirama left his clan to go after me, it is because he wanted it that way.”

Tobirama clenches his fists at his sides and his forehead cracks with a frown.

All those words are also breaking Madara inside. He does not expiate a guilt when a new one has crept into his heart.

He turns with the intention of leaving, but Tobirama insists, “If you love him, at least half as much as you claim to, do this for him… Madara, do not sabotage this; it is what’s best for him and you know it.”

Madara tightens his hold until the metal hurts his hands. He turns over his shoulder.

“I am bound to no will but mine, Senju.”

And then he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama is not where he should be.

Madara closes the fence, so that he is inside and no one from the outside can see him. He goes and sits down on the engawa, with his legs dangling. The wood is freshly lacquered; its essence still impregnating the air. A fuurin hangs from the eaves and is tinkling with the wind. He looks far ahead at the bare rock wall on the cliff that crowns the entire village and where Hashirama and he used to sit and talk after a whole afternoon of training.

He can still feel some of the swirl in his gut when he thinks back to those days. The leaves flying towards them in the wind; the green vista that opened before them and the freedom he felt every time he spent time in Hashirama’s company. It was as if he could let go of his duties, his name, his enemies, and obligations. During those moments he ceased to be Tajima’s son and was just Madara, Hashirama’s friend—his anonymous and only friend.

“There you are,” says a distant voice. Madara smiles without looking away from the cliff. His legs still dangling and his cheeks very red, his ears burning.

He doesn’t turn to the newcomer, but Madara can hear his footsteps on the dry grass. The wind is cold, and the same light breeze is falling again, but its consistency is now more water than snow.

Hashirama takes a seat next to him and Madara only turns to look at him when he feels the pressure of a wide hand hovering his. His internal heat is such that he feels it penetrate through the leather of his glove.

“I went looking for you at Izuna’s.”

Madara replies without being able to take his eyes off Hashirama’s hand, “We agreed to meet here. Remember?”

Hashirama nods and squeezes his hand in warm tenderness. “I finished early, and I wanted to go for a walk to the Uchiha district, to see if I could find you and by the way, to invite you to eat something delicious.”

Madara looks up and meets his eyes. Then, he points to the tray that is waiting on his opposite side, “I brought something for both of us to eat.”

“Yes, Izuna told me about it. It is perfect, Madara,” says Hashirama. “I’m starving.”

The Uchiha nods, but neither makes any attempt to move. They remain there, sitting next to each other, holding hands, and eating each other’s gaze. Nothing in the world matters, really. Nothing but him.

Madara feels an enormous need to be wrapped in his arms, to be enfolded in the inner warmth that emanates from Hashirama, to feel his hands running all over him, to feel his lips against his, to feel that warm tongue…

He shivers as Hashirama leans in his direction. He is in the need of a kiss. Perhaps Hashirama read his thoughts; perhaps he saw the desire reflected in his dark eyes.

Whatever the case, Madara eagerly meets him. He tilts his face up and opens his mouth. It is curious how easily someone can get used to situations as natural as receiving sincere love.

While Madara is embraced, he closes his eyes and imagines that this is how the days will be like from now on—them, there, in the house that they will share. With Hashirama it is easy to forget about his problems, his fears… his duties. Ah, blindly he works eagerly to get rid of his gloves, which end up falling silently to the grass.

Madara brings his willing hands to Hashirama’s shoulders, wide and firm, warm like the rest of his skin. He knows that under his clothes there are whitish lines, brushstrokes from past battles and he likes to trace them with his fingertips at night. He reaches higher and threads his fingers through his silky, heavy hair like a pair of combs.

Hashirama’s hands are a little bit more curious, and they roam his back, pulling Madara closer to shorten the distance between them.

They have reclined on that hardwood floors before, especially to enjoy watching the rain fall. Madara groans at the fleeting separation it takes for Hashirama to lay on top of him. His response is a pleased purr as they continue their long-awaited kiss, now more comfortably.

They have reached a point where it is impossible for them to keep their hands to themselves. The swirl Madara feels in his stomach and the need he feels inside is unbearable. He is one breath away from giving in. Yes, Hashirama, he’s about to beg. Love me, love me, right here, right now.

But he is not as bold as he thought and says nothing. Instead, Madara runs his tongue over Hashirama’s lower lip, then catches it between his teeth.

Hunger and cold can wait. Madara now runs his hands across Hashirama’s chest. Hindered by the layers of fabric that separate them. He bites back another annoyed growl and Hashirama lets out a small laugh, as if he’s read his thoughts.

Silly Senju, what’s so funny? He wants to ask, but no need, Madara knows.

“You’re all flushed,” Hashirama says, moving himself aside.

And hard and very empty too, Madara adds in his head. The magic has faded; the long-awaited passion that consumes him has been blown away by the wind and the only thing that remains around him is an icy current.

Madara tucks his bangs behind his ear, avoiding meeting his eyes. He says, “We could eat now.” He starts to look for his gloves behind his back, as he didn’t see them fall onto the grass.

Hashirama responds with a noise of pleasure and they both proceed to eat in silence: like everything Izuna prepares, it’s delicious. Madara just regrets that he didn’t bring some hot tea. Maybe, he can prepare some and take it for their dinner at the tent…

“And where have you been?” Madara asks in a calm voice, far from the jealous fury of previous days. He seems genuinely interested. “I thought I’d find you here.”

Hashirama wipes his lip before replying, “There’s always a lot to do here,” he says, and Madara tries to suppress a flare of anger as he remembers the same words coming from Tobirama’s lips days ago. “And, since I saw that it’s almost finished here,” he shrugs, “well, I went to see how else I could be of use.”

Madara swings his legs in the air again, as he looks at the bare stone in front of them. “Sometimes when I take a break from my work here, I’ll stop by the medical pavilion, like I did today.” Hashirama continues. “There’s always a lot to do there, you know? A pavilion is not enough… a hospital has to be built.” He shakes his head. “And there aren’t many people who can use healing chakra either, which makes things even slower for everyone.”

“You could teach them,” Madara suggests, still not looking at him, but he sees Hashirama nod out of the corner of his eye.

“I could, yes. It would be very helpful because there are still many war wounded people—people who will carry their problems for life…” then, Hashirama lets out a kind of laugh and Madara immediately turns to look at him. There is a wide and beautiful smile on his face. Madara feels a shock of violent vertigo running through him from head to toe. “But not everything is bad, you know, Madara? Today I had the fortune to meet Sarutobi Sasuke’s wife.” Madara raises an eyebrow; Hashirama explains. “She is heavily pregnant; a pretty, and strong-willed woman.”

Madara is the one laughing now. He can almost imagine her.

“Her husband is madly in love with her,” says Hashirama, also looking thoughtfully at the mountain. “Just today I had the opportunity to see why.”

Madara waits for Hashirama to elaborate on his sentence, but this doesn’t happen, leaving him in some uncertainty. He swallows.

“It makes me very happy,” Hashirama adds with a sigh, his dreamy eyes still looking at their cliff, “to know that there is a future for this village.” Madara’s eyes widen. “It makes me very proud to know that there are children yet to be born, who will know no other home but this place.” With one hand he wipes a tear that hastily falls from his eye. “They will love it… they will love this village.”

Madara feels a blow to the pit of his stomach. Don’t sabotage this; it’s what’s best for him and you know it.

Madara steps onto the wet grass and walks away, leaving Hashirama still sitting behind. The wind has become very cold and as a consequence, the last leaves on the surrounding trees begin to fall on him.

“Madara?” Hashirama calls, walking behind. “Was it something I said?”

Madara shakes his head and forces a smile to try to convince him that everything is fine. But Hashirama is not the fool that everyone thinks he is.

“It’s cold,” Madara says. “Train with me, Hashirama.”

Hashirama raises an eyebrow and smiles mischievously. “If you feel cold, I have in mind another activity that could help us warm.”

His flirtations work, as Madara’s face has turned red hot. Not a bad idea, dammit. It’s not a bad idea. To try to erase that smile from Hashirama’s face, Madara is the first to attack, sending him a surprise kick, but his eternal training partner knows each of his movements and ends up avoiding each of his attacks as well. It is curious, but more than a fight, it seems that they are involved in some sort of a difficult dance. One only they know.

Madara thinks that there is nothing more beautiful in the world than seeing Hashirama involved in a fight. The shape of his body, connected to his well-structured and agile movements… goddess. He could treat himself looking at him and never tire of it.

And since he is so lost in watching him dance, he didn’t see Hashirama’s swift foot which made him fall, face down onto the wet grass.

“Madara!” the blow helped him to get out of the trance. “Are you alright?”

“It’s not a big deal, Senju,” the Uchiha assures when he sees Hashirama kneeling next to him. He has hurt him in the past with pointed weapons and creative uses of his mokuton… this is nothing.

“You are distracted,” Hashirama says. He reaches out a hand and tucks Madara’s hair behind his ear. “Was it something I said, perhaps?”

Madara shakes his head and rolls his eyes. It is no use rushing to his feet, as he is already wet on most of his body.

“Come, I’ll carry you to the edging.”

The Uchiha laughs, “This is nothing, what do you take me for? A weakling?” Hashirama is the one blushing now. Madara has to admit that the blush only makes him look even more handsome, “It’s like that day in the forest, under the mandarin tree… you could have healed me right there instead of carrying me to the cave.”

Hashirama ends up sitting next to him, smiling, perhaps remembering that day. “It was about to rain.”

Madara clicks his tongue. “You are fast, and my wound was non urgent; there was no reason to—”

“I actually wanted to carry you in my arms,” Hashirama replies, looking at him. “I could have healed you there, yes, but I wanted to carry you to the cave. That’s a good reason, do you not think?”

Madara shakes his head and is speechless. Oh, Hashirama. Hashirama. Then he lets out a kind of laugh.

A gale sweeps across the patio and they both remain motionless as it happens. At the end, it leaves behind a swirl of colours that falls above, covering them. Hashirama watches the show with a huge smile, as if he were still a very small child; Madara remains immobile and manages to catch one of the last green leaves falling from the trees. He looks at it carefully, for its colour is both rich and beautiful. He feels a pressure in his chest remembering his mother’s words in the dream and without being able to help it, he ends up whispering a word.

“What did you say?” Hashirama asks.

Madara doesn’t look away from the leaf in his hand and repeats, louder now, “hidden behind the leaves, like this village…” he tastes the word on his lips, “Konoha.”

Hashirama raises an eyebrow, still grinning. “What?”

Madara raises the leaf to Hashirama’s eyes and repeats, “There’s the name for your village, Hokage-sama… Konoha.”

“Oh, Madara, it is a very beautiful name… and appropriate too.”

Hashirama takes the leaf in his hand and feels his eyes burn as more tears form. “So he already told you his plans, huh?”

“When I went to look for Izuna, I discovered not with great pleasure, I must say, that your brother was also there… and well, he ended up telling me about his ambitious plans for his older brother.” Madara avoids mentioning the word ‘threatened’ because he does not want to spoil the moment.

Hashirama takes his time responding. When he does, his voice is serious and deep. “We had a discussion too, as he didn’t expect me to oppose his plans.”

Madara’s eyes widen. “You cannot be serious, Hashirama,” but the Senju seems very serious. Madara licks his lips before speaking. “You are the most suitable of all of us to become a leader. This was your idea… besides, you are the strongest of us all, and everyone likes you…”

“I once told you I am not fit to be a leader.”

“Nonsense,” Madara says. “And what did you say to you brother instead? Do not tell me that…”

Hashirama nods and finishes for him, “I told him that you would be a better choice to be our leader.”

Madara puts his hands to his face. How can he be such a fool? “You’re blind, Hashirama… Not everyone feels the same way about me as you do. If it wasn’t for Izuna, I would have been expelled from my own clan long ago. Or who knows… maybe something worse.”

“I will suggest you as a candidate because I trust you, Madara,” Hashirama whispers. “My love for you has nothing to do with these matters, please understand that; I will do it because I believe in you, and I know that you would do this village a lot of good.”

Madara feels restless, unable to even think. No wonder Tobirama was there, waiting for him to come straight to lecture him. Even he is mortified at Hashirama’s naivety.

“I told you once, Hashirama… you would be a great leader one day and I wasn’t lying or exaggerating… there is no one more suitable for that position than you. You caused all this…”

“No, Madara; it was you.”

Madara turns to him with a frown. “Me? Hashirama, what the fuck?”

But the Senju looks at him seriously, his dark eyes fixed on Madara’s.

“I couldn’t even protect my little brothers, Hashirama. My father died before my eyes because I was not able to get a physician to save him, having you in the reach of my hand; Hashirama, if I had asked you, if I had swallowed my own damn pride and asked you, I know you would have gone to save my father.” Hashirama just nods, not being given a chance to add anything else. “And yet, do you think that I would be fit to be the leader of this village? I, who preferred to flee rather than face my duty?”

“We all have fears, Madara. Sometimes my fears keep me up all night, so it’s obvious you feel the same way. But you also worry about things beyond your reach and think that the sky will fall because of it. ‘Will I have to marry that girl and be a father?’ ‘Will I be worthy of my title?’ ‘Will I be able to protect them?’ Guess what, Uchiha Madara? I also lost my brothers without being able to do anything to avoid it. Since I was a child wonders have been said about my power and, even so, it did not help. I was disinherited in front of hundreds of people for loving someone who carries the same blood as the murderers of my brothers, for preferring him to my own blood… do you think that doesn’t weigh on me?”

Madara is speechless. He, too, begins to feel his eyes sting with impending tears.

“One night, years ago, shortly after Kawarama’s death, I approached my father—my cheek still burning from his fist, and asked him why we were still fighting the Uchiha. What did we have to prove? Who was the clan with the last man standing? He glared at me and clutched his hands to his desk to avoid bothering to get up and walk over to slap me again. But I insisted, I stood there with my head held high, my eyes very red, tired of having to bury the people I loved. He told me I was an ungrateful little jerk. He formed a fist and dropped it to his side. He ordered me to get the hell out of there, and I never asked him about it again. It was obvious that he didn’t know the answer either. It wasn’t long after that I realised the reason: there was no reason. The answer was lost in oblivion many centuries ago.” Hashirama lets out a laugh. “You know? I’m almost sure it was something very stupid. A stupidity that lasted many generations and then I told myself ‘never again.’ And it was all because of you.”

Madara remains stunned. He whispers, “Me? Goddess, Hashirama…”

Hashirama nods. “I decided that I would find a way to end the war the same night my father ordered me to kill my only friend. And by the time you first asked me to run away with you… I knew I hadn’t been wrong, Madara—that the answer I had chosen was the correct one. I didn’t know how this pointless war started, but I did know how it was going to end: with you.”

The snowflakes are taking shape, so that the light breeze that fell lightly hours ago has turned into the real first snowfall of the season.

“And the same goes for Konoha.” Hashirama adds, “its future is also in you.”

Both have lost their minds.

“Alright,” Madara murmurs, turning to Hashirama, who watches him grinning, “it will be with me; we will do it together. Listen to me, Senju Hashirama, when the voting is over, and you are elected Hokage… you will accept it and I will be there by your side.”

“Madara…”

“Shut up,” Madara places a couple of fingers on Hashirama’s lips. “You will take the leadership of this village and I will remain by your side—as your right hand. I will stay here and give my life for this village, if necessary, as long as you are its leader. But please don’t be so foolish. You are the best of us all, even though you may have doubts within your heart. But this has always been the case when important decisions must be made. So, it will be with this challenge and with those that will follow, for that is the life of the shinobi. What matters, Hashirama,” amorphous flakes have begun to land on Hashirama’s eyelashes, “is that we’ll be together.” Madara takes Hashirama’s hand and squeezes it very hard. “Do we have a deal, Senju?”

Hashirama doesn’t know what to say. His throat burns from holding back all those tears.

“Oh, Madara…”

Yet, their handshake hints Madara that they do have a deal.

 

* * *

 

“Yes, just like that,” Naori says the next day. Her small, slender finger touching the juxtaposed path of the threads. “You learn fast. Look, what a nice stitch.”

Madara has seen better things and he’s sure she has too, but it is not that terrible for a rookie either. He raises his half-made creation with eyes shining with pride: it looks good. Indeed, the stitches appear to be flowing like warm river currents in summer.

He stays a few more seconds staring at the beige tangle in his legs, before ordering his hands to keep moving, and he is so lost inside his head, that he fails to see the two girls are looking at him surreptitiously. Perhaps they know for whom he is knitting with such care. It would be stupid to pretend they do not know. Knitting can become an activity done blindly. Once the hand gets used to the rhythm of weaving, it becomes almost automatic.

The tenderness and devotion with which his fingers move speak for themselves; the pride with which Madara looks at his creation from time to time; the love with which he caresses the plush surface he has just created; perhaps imagining what it would look like when finished, or going even further, imagining what it would look like hanging around the neck of its future owner.

He does not spend all his time lost within his thoughts. Mito and Naori talk to each other without stop moving their hands. They talk about people he doesn’t know and about situations that don’t interest him in the least. But even then, it is not awkward at all. It is a pleasant silence, where he is allowed to be himself without being questioned at all. Also, Naori is not exaggerating: his stitches are good.

He half-smiles, his chest tightening as he remembers a similar scarf, but in days gone by. The colour was not what he expected it to be, but now that his creation is taking shape, Madara realises that the dye is perfect. He dyed the yarn himself the day before and left it to dry overnight. Last night, he arrived at the tent with his hands impregnated with a pale ghost that he could not hide no matter how much he rubbed his hands. Hashirama didn’t ask many questions about it, or at least that’s what he likes to think. Both of them have been coming back to the tent so tired that there hasn’t been time for anything but rest.

Madara lets out a sigh and stops his hands. In front of him, it is Mito and her swift hands. In the time that Madara has been knitting his scarf, she has already finished a pair. She chats with Naori and laughs, her fingers always moving.

Then, he sends his eyes back to his own creation: the half-finished scarf that rests on his legs and its colour makes him lose himself in memories. He swallows and begins to move the hooks again: twist, twist, twist, insert and pull; then repeat.

When he was about thirteen years old—the first winter after meeting Hashirama—he arrived at the river later than intended. He had been suffering from an insistent cold for several days and although he could have spent that entire day in bed, he dismissed such a thought as he had waited an entire week for the day when he would meet Hashirama again. He wasn’t going to let something as ridiculous as a cold ruin his day.

He came to the river pretending to be normal, but Hashirama has always been an observer and found it out instantly. Hashirama was not surprised, though, it was winter, and he also felt a little sick. There was no strength or encouragement to train that day. Instead, they decided to sit on the riverbank to talk.

What were a couple of children forced to silence going to talk about? Madara doesn’t remember exactly what they talked about that afternoon. Of children’s things, perhaps. Of the games they played at home; what they had had for breakfast… those were the kind of things they used to talk about. Of the animals that appeared in the distance to drink from the river and in this case, of how empty the forest was with the arrival of winter.

‘Here’ Hashirama said after watching him trying to suppress a sneeze. ‘Madara, you always go scantily clad,’ added the Senju when removing his scarf. ‘It’s cold and yet your neck is all bare… look at you.’

Well, it was because, at Madara’s house, there was no one to remind him to dress in something warmer. His father was always busy away from home and Izuna was still too young to take the position of prudent brother. So, he just went out as he could, and as he wished. Who would have stopped him?

Another sneeze. ‘I won’t be able to go home in this, either way,’ Madara said, handing the garment back to Hashirama. It was soft and warm indeed, and his mouth was watering for some wild reason. The wind blew vilely there by the river.

‘You could hide it in the woods,’ Hashirama suggested, refusing to take the scarf back. ‘And then come back for it at night. Taking it to your tent. That way you wouldn’t be so cold at night.’ Madara began to feel a burning sensation in his throat, but he did everything humanly possible not to shed a tear in front of his friend.

‘What a fool you are, Senju,’ Uchiha Madara laughed, but still accepted the gift. He wore it the whole time they were there, and also on his way back home. When Madara was some distance from the Uchiha encampment, he left the scarf high up in a tree, hidden behind the yellowing leaves that were yet to fall. Later, when the fire was lit and the vast majority of people went to shelter, he left his tent with the excuse that he was going to urinate and ordered Izuna not to wait for him awake. Since it was a recurring action of his, the little Uchiha didn’t suspect at all. Madara ran to his tree, took his precious gift and by hiding it under his clothes, he put it in his tent, inside his futon. There, lying down, he wrapped it around his arms and inhaled the aroma that he swore wrapped the garment and for several months he lived with it.

Until one day, while they were away from the encampment, news reached them of a sneak attack in which the entire place suddenly burned. His people managed to escape in time, including a very small Izuna. They left everything behind to save themselves. And he didn’t know more about Hashirama’s beige scarf.

For Madara it was a real tragedy. Hashirama never found out. He sure forgot about the fucking scarf pretty soon, for the next day he was already wearing a replacement.

Madara releases another sigh, this time stronger, because inadvertently, it causes the two girls to turn to look at him. He feels his cheeks turn red and his body fills with heat. He lifts his creation into the air to lighten the matter.

“You have a natural talent for knitting, Uchiha,” Mito laughs, going back to his own weaving. “Who would have thought?”

The next day, they meet in the same empty room in the Uchiha district. The place smells of the freshly put resin on the hardwood floors, and it still sticks to their soles as they walk. Either way, it’s cold and the girls decide to start training to warm themselves up. Madara is about to finish his scarf and decides to continue knitting in the meantime.

He occasionally sneaks glances at them and smirks as he sees that, what they have in skill at weaving, they double it in combat.

By late afternoon, he stops his hands and looks up at his finished creation. It’s not the best scarf in the world, but still, it’s perfect. He’s sure Hashirama will like it. No, Madara corrects himself with pride—he is more than sure that his silly Senju will love it. He could bring him a single tangle of dyed yarn and he would still cry.

“Not bad, Uchiha,” Mito says, wiping the sweat from her forehead.

Madara thanks her. She is right: it’s not bad, at all.

 

* * *

 

The next council arrives in the blink of an eye. Hashirama is present on that occasion and that serves as a respite for Madara’s nerves, since all eyes, all ears and all attention are focused only on Hashirama.

The arrival of the Uzumaki and the distribution of homes among the clans are discussed; they distribute positions and what man adores most: ranks of power. They don’t trust the Uchiha, but still there isn't much for them to do but nod when the Senju place them in high rank.

The name ‘Konoha’ is also mentioned and is well received by the leaders, as they think it has come from Senju Hashirama’s mind. Madara doesn’t care at all. It was his plan, actually. As long as Hashirama is smiling… everything will be fine.

An upcoming date for the election of a leader is placed and on a piece of leather lay the names of various shinobi who have been of some importance in past wars. Mere procedures to make everything pass as a democratic system, since it is more than obvious that the title will fall to any of the Senju brothers.

Madara waits with Izuna as the tent empties. Both Uchiha remain distant from the rest, one next to the other while the others talk and say goodbye to Hashirama. Not that Madara is surprised of that, either; the mere figure of Hashirama gestures people to approach him like moths to a fire, for it is his charm what makes them cling to him. Can he blame them? Even for Madara it’s been impossible to restrain.

In the end, Madara bows his head in greeting as he sees Naori and Mito leaving the tent. Madara senses that Izuna wants to ask him about his rapprochement with the girls, but at that moment they are left alone with the Senju brothers. Tobirama shows them the list of prospects and Madara is both surprised and proud to see that his brother’s name is on there as well.

“You said you had received a message from the sand clans, but you didn’t mention it during the council,” Madara questions Tobirama. “I would like to know the reason.”

Tobirama looks up and locks his gaze on Madara’s questioning eyes. “I didn’t say anything, because it’s not necessary yet.”

How is that? Tobirama is not yet dressed in his Hokage attires and is already taking such liberties?

“There are no battles during the winter,” Tobirama says, “as you may well remember. So, why insert more uncertainty in our allies… many of them still distrust you and I am sure that the last thing you want is to make yourself more enemies.”

“I am not afraid of any of them, and those bastards know it; you know it.”

Hashirama calls him by his name, a mere whisper that falls heavy at his feet, for Madara doesn’t listen to him.

“Either way, it’s for the best,” Tobirama says, rolling up the piece of leather he’s holding in his hands. “If there is any confrontation, it won’t be until next year, till the grass is crisp again.”

Tobirama moves across the table to collect the rest of the important papers. Hashirama raises a concerned look to Madara, but he doesn’t even notice, as he senses that the youngest Senju is hiding something, and Madara is tired of important information being hidden from him.

He is the Uchiha clan head, is his opinion worth so little?

“Ask it,” says Tobirama, who has his back turned to Madara, but feels his gaze on him. “Whatever you’re thinking; just say it.”

Madara feels his blood burning with rage. He clenches his fists tightly. “What did the letter that came from the desert say?” He swallows. “I am to blame for such annoyances, am I not? I deserve, at least, to know what I’ve caused.”

Tobirama shoots a quick look at Izuna and then, Izuna does the same, but towards his own big brother. Both Uchiha’s gazes hold for a moment, before Izuna nods to his former enemy in affirmation.

“They want to resolve this situation through dialogue,” Tobirama says. “However, such a letter was written by a cunning hand, as they have put certain… conditions.”

Madara clicks his tongue. “I do not think they’re in a position to propose conditions.”

It’s just what Tobirama thought at the time, and Izuna too. He adds, “They are willing to send an intermediary for a parley but, wait—for they plan to send the causing of the skirmish against the Uzumaki, flesh and bone.” Tobirama raises a hand to prevent Madara from interrupting him, “but they are not as naive as we might think, for they insist that, if they’re to send the culprit, we will have to do the same, sending an intermediary of our own to them, as a preventive measure.”

Madara shows his teeth, his grin deforming into a tyrannical smile. The oldest of war strategies. “Hostages,” he says, “what they’re asking for is a hostage exchange. Tell me, Senju, how is that any different from what our parents did?”

But no one else shares Madara’s grin. Even Izuna is serious.

“I’ll go on exchange,” Izuna says in a very low voice. Or maybe it was only Madara who heard him like that, for he looks at Izuna dumbfounded, his eyes wide open. “We already talked about it.”

His older brother shakes his head. “No.” Madara places both hands on the table like fierce claws and looks at Izuna in the eyes. “You’re not going anywhere.” Then he turns to Tobirama, who is still clearing the table as if they were talking about what they are having for dinner. “Since when are decisions of such importance made without my presence?” He touches a finger to his own chest with theatrical elegance. “Am I not the Uchiha fucking clan head? Is it perhaps my damn opinion worth so little?”

Hashirama tries to pull on his beloved’s sleeve to calm him down, but it does just the opposite. “You stay out of this,” Madara growls at him, his eyes red and violent. Then he looks back at Tobirama, who is now staring at him. “I will not allow you to send my little brother to the lion’s den! You’re more of a fool than I thought, Senju, if you think they’d trade in peace. I have seen with my own eyes how the hostages died every time the truces ended. I can still remember the pleasure with which my damn grandfather left those poor bastards bleeding to their deaths in the public square before the eyes of all of us…”

“We’re not like our ancestors, Nii-san,” Izuna whispers, staring at the table so he doesn’t have to look at his brother. “The same thinks the leader of the sand clans; he has faith in a peaceful resolution… and so do I.”

Madara looks at him in disbelief. The last thing he wants is to cry before the red gaze of that Senju, but the tears in his eyes have other plans. “Izuna… you cannot be serious.” Izuna, his little brother, the last one left. “No…” Madara shakes his head. “I will not allow you to endanger yourself for this… village.”

“I’m not a child anymore.”

“You’re not a man yet either,” his older brother says. “If you don’t plan to obey me as your big brother, then you will if ordered by your leader.”

Izuna clenches his fists and awakens his own sharingan in response. His chakra increases by ravenous amounts, his big brother’s hair begins to levitate in the air.

Madara’s heart swells with pride to see his little brother act in such a way. He is an Uchiha, without a doubt. An Uchiha, from head to toe. Yet the pain is still present in Madara’s words as he declares, “That’s my last word.”

And then he turns around and leaves the tent.

 

* * *

 

That night, in the tent, an awkward silence hangs over them as the snow-laden clouds that threaten the village. The tension is sharp, and one sits across to the other, without exchanging glances or a word that is not of mortal necessity.

Within Madara’s mind arise inquisitive ideas and horrendous thoughts that he has not had since the warring days. Facing him is Senju Hashirama, his only friend, his lover; the man who left his people to follow him; the man who swears to love him above all else. But some things do not change, for he will always be a Senju, even if a thousand years pass between them. And Madara thinks that, if a hostage exchange is made, Hashirama will end up supporting his own brother with the idea of sending Izuna away.

Those damned Senju… the bile burns his oesophagus. Madara takes his cup of hot tea and brings it to his lips to suppress a curse. Hashirama is also drinking from his cup and both gazes meet over the pottery surface. You knew about this, Madara thinks without taking his eyes off Hashirama’s. And you hadn’t told me anything. Hashirama sets his cup down on the table and grabs the bowl with both hands to speed up the hot broth. We were alone in the afternoon; you had a chance to tell me… Madara feels that he has lost his appetite. He has spent many nights by this man’s side. He trusts him so much that he can sleep in the same tent as him. He has kissed his lips; he knows his skin by heart; he has tasted his flesh and revelled himself in his warm seed… but that night, he is a stranger to him. Izuna plans to sacrifice himself for your village, Madara bites his tongue to keep himself from saying those words. And you don’t object or say anything. He feels his eyes burn, his throat red hot. As long as it’s not your fucking little brother… nobody else matters, right?

Hashirama raises an eyebrow, looking at him, when he places the empty bowl next to his cup. He clears his throat and clasps his arms across his chest.

“Madara,” he says and upon hearing it, a tear falls down the Uchiha’s cheek. “You’ve barely touched your dinner.”

Hashirama prepared it for him with his own hands, but everything tastes bland to him that night. He feels empty and discouraged. His heart flutters as Hashirama speaks—not with love like it used to before, but anger.

“This hot broth will do your body good,” Hashirama says, now with a sad smile. “It’s very cold tonight.”

Madara laughs and pushes the bowls aside.

“This tent will not be enough to hold back the snow, I’m afraid,” Hashirama adds as Madara doesn’t reply. “We should move to our house. At least there, in our home, we can have a warm hearth. The cold would be felt less inside those wooden walls.”

“I’ve lived all my life in tents similar to this one,” Madara replies after letting out a tired sigh. “I survived then and will now.”

Hashirama nods and looks at the futon lying behind Madara’s back in the dark part of the tent. Madara knows that it is time for both of them to stand up to get dressed in their night clothes.

“Still, I think it’s a prudent time for us to move,” Hashirama insists. “After all, the construction is almost one hundred percent. It would do us good, Madara, to be alone, together.”

Madara feels a tightness in his chest. “Yeah,” he replies. “It will be very good to leave this tent at last.” He swallows hard and sighs again. It is decided.

Meanwhile, Hashirama stands up and clears the table. He motions for Madara’s dinner, but Madara shakes his head. It is always possible to pretend that he has a migraine to stop his advances. Maybe he’ll apply it that night too. He won’t have to pretend much.

He catches a glimpse of Hashirama taking off his clothes. Madara clenches his fists on his legs to avoid looking at him. He wishes he could hate on Hashirama for supporting his brother. Those fucking Senju.

Hashirama has lain down on the futon and Madara can feel his gaze on his back. How much longer is he going to continue feigning indifference? He’s already abandoned Izuna more times than he can remember… he’s not going to do it again, much less if there’s even a remote chance he’ll get hurt.

And if that means turning against Hashirama… so be it.

“Madara.”

Madara swallows and stands up. He walks to his trunk and proceeds to undress. The current that seeps through the cracks in the tent lacerates his skin. He knows that the cold can be mitigated by wearing warm clothes or being caressed by the person he loves, but that night he has no mood for anything.

When the bed clothes touch his skin, Madara realises that it is not enough, and his body urgently cries out for the caresses of familiar hands.

Madara proceeds to douse all the burning candles. It’s early, but a blanket of silence is already hanging over Konoha, which comes hand in hand with the snow. It’s early, yes, but everyone is already in their beds, covered up to their necks.

He barely lands his head on the pillow when Hashirama is on top of him. He could kick him out, banish him from his side—but his body asks otherwise. He opens his mouth wide in anticipation for his lover’s warm tongue. Madara barely manages to suppress a moan when he feels it inside, wet and warm. Madara senses that invisible hands open his garments and begin to touch him desperately. A deep, raspy voice whispers in his ear, “Please, let me love you tonight.”

Madara growls in response and turns his face away. A wide hand wraps around his cock in a warm embrace. “I can see you need me as much as I need you.”

“I’m not in the mood, Hashirama… not tonight.”

“Madara…”

The Uchiha sighs and sits up. His movement causes his member to be released. “How can you even think about fucking me right now?” Madara asks. His voice sounds desperate. “Of course my body reacts to you—but that doesn’t mean I want to be touched by you.”

Despite the darkness, Madara can see the extent of the damage his words have caused. Hashirama waits for him to explain, his lips hesitating, his eyes worried. “Are you upset with me because of Izuna?”

Madara really wishes he could hate him. Are you upset with me because of Izuna?

Perhaps Hashirama understands his rudeness, for he says, “Please, forgive me. You must think of me a monster.” Madara has more grotesque connotations than calling him a mere monster. “I know I’d feel the same way if it were Tobirama. A big brother will always see his little brother as a child, even if he is already a man.”

Madara cannot believe it. He takes the quilt and covers his body with it. “Izuna is fourteen. He’s a fucking child, Hashirama.”

“It was his idea to be the hostage,” says Hashirama. “I would never think of sending Izuna away knowing he could be in danger. I don’t expect you to believe me, Madara, but I’ve grown to see him like a little brother. After all, we’re kind of a family now, are we not? I mean, he is the younger brother of the man I love.”

Madara sighs, “What a subtle way your brother has found to get rid of us, the annoying Uchiha, I can see.”

“Now, that’s unfair.”

Madara clicks his tongue.

“Let’s say we play along with the sand shinobi,” Madara says, looking him in the eye and ignoring his words, “and we have to send someone as a hostage—I won’t allow Izuna to be put at risk as someone replaceable, because he is not.” Hashirama tries to reply, but Madara puts a finger to his lips to stop him. “I’ll go instead.” Hashirama’s eyes widen. “After all, this problem is my fault. I will go and intercede. They won’t try to do anything dirty; they must have heard of me.”

“You… promised that you would never leave my side again—that you would not run away again.”

Madara tilts his head, resting it on his own shoulder. “It is not the same.”

Hashirama doesn’t listen; he adds, “If you have to go, Madara, I’ll go with you.”

A minute of silence is how long it takes Madara to meditate. “By then, you will have been chosen as the leader of this village, and your main task will be to remain here, to protect your people.”

“So I just sit idly by while you go to the opposite side of the world as a hostage—is that what you are implying?”

“I am not weak; I will not be in danger.”

“We cannot know that, Madara! Our knowledge of those clans is nil. They’ve lived in the deserts for centuries, they’ll be in their element, and a forest boy like you could be an easy prey, no matter how great your power is.” Hashirama shakes his head. His voice breaks, “I am not going to lose you again.”

“So, fuck Izuna, right?”

Hashirama growls in despair. “No! That’s not what I meant! I could never live in peace again knowing that I caused you such pain. It’s just…” He puts a hand to his face, “suddenly I don’t know what to do!” He lets out a long breath and adds, his hand still covering his mouth. “I wish we hadn’t come back.”

Hashirama is crying; Madara curses himself under his breath.

He also thinks about it often. Very often. I wish we had stayed away, in our cave. You would have built a cabin in the woods with your mokuton, where we would lie very warm.

But those are just thoughts of a teenager. Distant, ancient. That is why he discards them.

“And one more thing, Senju,” Madara says to break the awkwardness among them, “on the election day, you better not waste your vote on me.” Hashirama isn’t looking at him, but his breathing’s rhythm tells Madara that he is listening. “I will also warn Izuna of the same. If you care about all these people even a little, spare them the misfortune of having me as their leader.”

Madara knots his clothes and lays back down; he turns his back on Hashirama.

“You care about this village much more than you would like to accept, Uchiha Madara.”

But there is no answer.

 

* * *

 

The move takes place in the early hours of the morning, when the winds are freezing, and the presence of passers-by is almost nil. Their feet are cushioned by the light white blanket that covers the village. A dense mist is covering everything their eyes can see.

The darkness and silence they find inside the empty house feels eerie and unnatural. They are used to living surrounded by the hustle and bustle of the people in their clans, to hear noises and breathe aromas from neighbouring tents; to hear the laughter and roars of their neighbours… they had never faced proper privacy and silence until their days in the woods, and still, they think this silence feels more abnormal, because of what it implies: now they are completely alone.

Madara works silently and barely glancing at Hashirama. He went to get charcoal and just now he’s returned with a big and heavy sack.

Hashirama sends furtive glances to Madara from time to time, only to notice with true delight that the Uchiha was already staring at him, and after finding himself discovered, he soon looks away as if nothing had happened. Madara’s face turns all red when it’s cold. Hashirama thinks it looks pretty. His pink skin seems to invite him to caress it. My dear Madara. It seems impossible that this stubborn, beautiful, red-faced young man has left so many families in mourning. My foolish and proud Madara, Hashirama thinks as he catches Madara again, watching him in the act. Hashirama gives him a sincere smile, perhaps begging him to speak, and end this argument for good.

It doesn’t happen. Minutes later, Hashirama gets distracted and loses sight of him. His heart beats in anguish. He searches the length and breadth of the house for Madara, only to discover that he is sitting in the engawa, looking out at the patio, as the snow is still falling. Hashirama can’t help but look at him hesitantly.

At that moment, as if he had read his thoughts, and perhaps it is one of the secret virtues that the sharingan hides, Madara turns and faces him. Hashirama smiles again in response and this time, reduces the distance between them and sits next to him. He takes off his haori and places it on Madara’s shoulders even though he tries to prevent it.

“You tend to suffer a lot during winter.”

Madara doesn’t respond instantly. He remains with half of his face hiding under his hair. “The winters were very hard on us,” he says in a whisper. “I do not have very good memories of snow, that’s all.”

Hashirama nods, as he doesn’t know what to answer. Instead, they watch the snow cover the grass. While he dedicated himself to building that place, he imagined how he would work the space he had. He imagined, for example, where he would place a pond. Yeah, sure Madara would love to have a pond. And more trees would yet have to be placed around the property, so that there would always be fresh air, especially so that they could both spend their afternoons out there. He could set up a birdbath as well… Madara loves birds, he sure would like to be able to take care of his falcons there at home. And Hashirama knows of his beloved’s predilection for cats. Would Madara like them to get some cats?

“My kingdom for your thoughts, Senju.” Madara whispers.

Hashirama bites his lip. He shrugs and says, “I’m just thinking about how much I will like to live here… with you.”

Madara reddens twice as much. Then, he looks away at the falling snow. “It will be a big change. For both of us.”

The other man nods, still looking at him. Madara strokes the wooden floor with the tips of his gloved fingers.

“I’ll go light the hearth,” Hashirama says, standing up, but Madara stops him by pulling on his sleeve.

“That can wait.”

“But you are cold.”

“I’ve had worse days,” Madara replies, looking at him. “Do not leave yet.”

Perfect, Hashirama thinks. An opportunity for dialogue and best of all—it was born from Madara himself.

“Hashirama,” Madara says, licking his lips, “about yesterday…”

Hashirama clears his throat. “Do you want to talk about it? Now?”

Madara nods. Hashirama can easily perceive his inner battle.

“It seems that we Uchiha will always be at a disadvantage compared to the Senju. If your brother comes to tell the other clan heads about his strategy, none will hesitate to send Izuna as a hostage, for he is not only an Uchiha, but also my younger brother. And he… Izuna won’t hesitate to go, as he’ll think it’s the right thing to do.” Madara cuts off all Hashirama’s intentions to speak. “I know how those trades work, Hashirama, and so do you. You know that if Izuna leaves, it’s unlikely that he’ll come back safely. And if something happens to Izuna, and it turns out to be your brother’s fault… listen to me, Hashirama—not even you would stop me from turning myself against everything Tobirama has created. I would not give a single fuck; do you hear me? I will burn this place to the ground if that happens.”

Hashirama feels a shiver run through his sword, as he has memory and knows that his threats are possible.

“Madara, you may not believe it, but I would never put Izuna in danger. I see in him my brothers who did not grow up… and besides, I know that he is the source of some of your goodness, and that is something I appreciate very much. Leave Tobirama to me, will you? We will talk about the matter; we will look for solutions that do not involve putting ourselves at unnecessary risk. Would you trust me, darling? What do you think about it?”

Madara lets out a long and tired sigh. He shrugs and says, “I think we should talk about other matters.”

Hashirama nods gratefully.

“I dreamt of my mother a few days ago,” Madara says, his voice hoarse, but low, as if trying to stifle a sob. “It had been a long time since I last dreamed of her,” then he turns to Hashirama, his eyes a bit red, but still beautiful. “Has it happened to you?”

Hashirama grins. “I used to dream about my mother a lot before, though… I must admit, she hasn’t visited me in a long time.”

Madara nods.

“What did she say? You talked to her?” Hashirama asks.

“She told me that she was proud of me and Izuna.”

“Of course,” Hashirama says and strokes Madara’s wet cheek. “What else did she tell you?” Hashirama asks after clearing his throat. “Is it something you can tell me?”

“She said that I had become a handsome man.”

Hashirama grins and confirms, “She… is quite right.”

Madara lets out an awkward chuckle. He feels his face burning.

“What else did she tell you, love?”

Madara licks his lips upon hearing him. He still has a hard time getting used to being called that. He shrugs. “She asked me if I loved someone.”

Hashirama’s eyes go wide, anxious. “Well, what did you tell her?”

 “I did not say anything.” Madara says and Hashirama pouts. “But I instantly thought of you, silly man. Who else was I going to think of?”

Now, Hashirama is smirking. He wastes no time and leans in at that instant and catches Madara’s lips with his words still hanging from them. Madara tilts his head and responds to his kiss as he usually does: first, brushing the soft skin of Hashirama’s lips, before parting his as an indication that he craves the intrusion of the other man’s tongue.

“I love you,” Hashirama whispers against his lips. He feels Madara shiver next to him, even though he is the one wearing the most layers of cloth. “But you already knew that, right?”

Madara swallows. He locks his dark eyes on Hashirama’s, before looking away with a hint of unease. “I know that I am a fool,” Madara answers. “And a coward. And that I do not deserve any of this.”

Hashirama frowns. He catches his face with one hand, forcing Madara to look at him. “You are none of that.”

“There are many things you don’t know about me,” Madara murmurs. “Things that would make you turn pale, that would make you walk away from me.”

“That will never happen,” Hashirama insists, his voice barely audible. “The sins that you carry on your shoulders are the same weight as mine; we are shinobi… there is no way that any aspect of your past will surprise me. I can’t judge you, nor do I intend to.”

Hashirama leans in his face again, hungry for another kiss, but it doesn’t come, as Madara turns his face away and Hashirama’s intention is lost in thin air.

“But if you’d tell me what ails your heart, Madara, I’m sure it would be of great help for our future life together.” Hashirama sees the doubt in Madara’s eyes; he sees his lips tremble, perhaps half-eager to tell him everything and half-afraid of throwing away everything they’ve accomplished in those couple of months. “I am here to listen to you. Didn’t I make that clear to you that time in the desert? Do you remember? It hurts me to think that you have forgotten, or worse, that you have not believed me.”

“It’s not that.”

“I’m here for you,” Hashirama insists. “Why do you not trust me?”

Madara shakes his head. “It’s not that,” he repeats, looking up at the cloudy sky. “It’s just… my clan has a habit of breeding only among members of our own blood. It happened with my parents and the same was expected of me. That’s why my father chose Naori.” Hashirama nods. “This is because, that way, we have a better chance of our progeny awakening their sharingan.”

That is vox populi. Hashirama has known this from the start.

“This sharingan… with its continued use, its user loses his sight. It is a great price that we pay for our power… but again, you already know all that.” Now, he turns to face him. “Did you not find it strange that my blindness suddenly disappeared after my father’s passing?”

Hashirama has no time to think. Nor is it necessary.

“Your eyes,” says Hashirama. “Those miraculous eyes you don’t want to talk about. Like many other things about you, I’ve decided it’s best to wait until you’re ready to tell me… do you want to talk about it? Your eyes, I mean.”

Madara hesitates. His lips part, but no words come out of them.

“Nothing you are about to tell me will change my perception of you, Uchiha Madara. Nor will my love and devotion for you diminish. I will listen and understand you, for you have never been simple.” Then, he smiles, “but that is how I like you—that is how I love you, with all your circumstances.”

There must be a certain sparkle in his eyes, as Madara nods. He runs his tongue over his lips once again before saying, “These eyes you admire are not mine, but my father’s.

Hashirama frowns, not quite understanding.

Madara continues, “I-In his last moments, my father told me about the possibility that his eyes would continue to be of use after his death. In him they would be useless, but in me, they would serve to bring glory back to our clan.” He swallows and avoids Hashirama’s eyes. He gazes wistfully at the white blanket that covers the lawn. “I told him it was stupid. I mean,” Madara bites his lip, “how could something like that be possible? But then I thought, how could I doubt that something like this was possible? Aren’t we the Magic Eyes Clan? To this point, any story could be possible. So, I waited. I spent the rest of the night inside his tent, which I hated for it smelled of death and disease. In the end, Tajima no longer had the strength to talk to me and I didn’t know what to talk to him about either. It was too hard. There are times when I think about what we could have talked about in those last moments, but the answer still doesn’t appear in my head…” Madara loses himself looking at the falling snow. “When his time came, I moved closer, so that I could see him clearly—and then, the bulges under his lids seemed to me like an atrocious delicacy. Doubts reappeared in my head—should I make the change? Should I dare such desecration? I wasn’t alone with Tajima in the tent and his instructions had been overheard by a third party, so I had nothing to fear in myself.” Madara turns, his dark eyes locking with his. “So, I made the change. I discarded my worn eyes and vibrated with delight when I noticed that the stories were true and that, with my new pair, I had gotten rid of my limitations… now I just needed to try them.”

And so you did, Madara. Spilling Senju blood on the battlefields. Hashirama remembered the day perfectly: the moment everything had started. The rain, the hollow, his escape… the beginning of his life with Madara.

“In the forest, when we met the Kyuubi, I was desperate to find a way for it to let you go. I feared for your life so much, Hashirama, that I decided now was the right time to test my new eyes. I wasn’t sure it would work, but you were well worth a try, and it did, I called its name and… I put the nine-tailed fox into one of my genjutsu. But everything was different, for my scope was greater. I felt it all around me, I could feel the enormous weight it took me to contain such power. I spoke to the creature and ordered it to leave the three of us alone.” Hashirama remembers that that was the first time they met Mito. “And it was wonderful to see that I had the power to control a bijuu. I warned it to stay out of our way, otherwise I’d put it into another genjutsu, and it’d stay that way forever.”

Everything made sense inside Hashirama’s head. All the silences, the secrecy of Madara during their journey… everything was clear, as if the sun was finally making its way through the snowfall clouds.

“I’m not sure if I could keep the Kyuubi in a genjutsu for that long, but it chose not to push its luck and left us alone.”

With such power in your eyes, Madara… And yet you’re so sure you don’t want to be the leader of our village? Our protector?

“You have also tried them in other situations.” Hashirama decides to remember the most benevolent use of that new pair of eyes and says, “No wonder you managed to see Tomoe from the bottom of the valley that day, do you remember, Madara?” His voice sounds distant, as if he were asleep.

He nods. “Sometimes they keep burning,” Madara comments instead, “as if my body is still resisting the idea of those alien eyes.”

“It was a gift,” Hashirama says, “the ultimate evidence of love from a father to his son. He trusted you to such a point… they look beautiful on you. I never thought they were changed… and do I think of you all the time.”

Madara shivers, but he swears it’s from the cold, which reminds Hashirama, “I’ll go light the fire, yes? And tonight, Madara, I’m going to invite you out to dinner.”

Hashirama stands up. Madara remains seated, as if the snow has crawled up his legs, freezing them. “What?”

“How about we go out for a walk around the village?” Hashirama insists, smiling as they watch the snow fall. “I’ll treat you to some hot, delicious sake… or whatever you wish, of course.”

Madara looks at him open-mouthed, incredulous. “Hashirama… I just told you my biggest secrets and you’re only thinking about drinking sake?”

“I told you that nothing you could tell me would change the perception I have of you, and I maintain it… nothing has changed. The eyes you wear on your face, the ones I love to look at so much, the ones our enemies fear… are yours, Madara.” Then he laughs out loud. “And maybe I’m just looking for an excuse to spend a night in the company of the person I love. So, you can tell me all the secrets that remain inside that head of your, so you could let your shoulders lighten. How about that?”

The one who laughs now is Madara. He sighs before standing up, holding onto Hashirama’s haori, so it wouldn’t fall over with the movement. “I do not think I have any more secrets left.”

Hashirama pouts, bringing his hand to his chin.

“I do think there’s one left,” he says and Madara answers him with a raised eyebrow. “You never told me what you actually asked for the night of the meteor shower.” Madara’s eyes widen, “what did you ask for that night, Madara?”

The Uchiha swallows and his face fills with that nice red tint again.

“I…” Madara looks away, “I wished for you to be happy forever… with me.”

Hashirama lets out a laugh and the noise echoes throughout the house, doors, and walls.

“Do not laugh, idiot,” Madara growls, but that only makes him laugh harder. “Well, I know you didn’t wish for something as ridiculous as a cup of sake either, so come on, tell me what you actually wished for that night.”

Hashirama nods and takes a long breath when the laughter stops. He’s still grinning when he answers, “‘I want him to be mine alone, forever and ever,’ I begged. And why not? A bottle of my favourite sake too.”

 

* * *

 

It has stopped snowing by the time the sun goes down. Madara hopes that Hashirama’s delusional idea of going for a walk in the village has vanished from his head with the hustle and bustle of the afternoon, but that doesn’t seem to be happening.

Hashirama has changed his clothes. He smells wonderful; he uses a soap that he makes himself from chamomile, which has made Madara lose his mind; his scent follows Madara everywhere; his hair falls glossy and free down his back. He has been working inside the house all day and as a consequence, he has been light on clothes. Madara has spent the whole day spying on some piece of his exposed skin, his strong arms, his wide hands… now he is ready to go out, he has shaved and put on thick clothes. He still smells delicious. Madara bites his lip helplessly.

As if he felt his gaze on his back, Hashirama looks away from the window and smiles at being watched.

“Are you ready?” he asks. Ah, what Madara feared the most.

He is ready; he also took his time to clean himself up during the afternoon, taking advantage of the fact that he had plenty of free time.

“It’s been snowing all day,” Madara replies. “I doubt very much that there is anything interesting to do outside?”

“There are people who live from their trade, snow, rain, or lightning. So I’m sure we’ll find somewhere open, ready to welcome us. Shall we go now?”

Hashirama is brimming with emotion. His eyes sparkle with anticipation and his face has taken on a slight blush. “Alright.” Madara says, accepting defeat. “Let’s go.”

Being away from home seems like a good idea. Hashirama put a special effort into the arrangement of the main room. Madara knows that he won’t be able to put off the act anymore and he doesn’t want to either, but he too is afraid to take the initiative.

“Here,” says Hashirama, holding a scarf alike the one Madara is knitting. Madara suddenly feels that his hands are not that skilled. The textures are so different. Maybe he is wasting his time after all. “Is something wrong? Do you not like it?”

Madara shakes his head and gives him a forced smile. “Everything is fine.” He lifts his hair so that Hashirama can put the scarf on him properly. It must be his, for it smells of Hashirama, not chamomile, but an essence that is only his.

Perhaps he should have found another, more appropriate gift. Madara knows full well that Hashirama’s trunks are full of clothes. But he has run out of ideas.

When they leave, the entire village is in darkness, the lamps shine like a hundred small motionless fireflies and only then can Madara realise the extent to which Hashirama’s childhood dream has come: Konoha is already huge.

Clouds of smoke from homes rise above the rooftops. It’s impossible for him not to remember the Uchiha encampment. The scent of fire permeates the air.

Hashirama takes him by the hand. His fingers are long and warm. Madara has left his gloves at home and Hashirama squeezes them, as if he wants to transmit a part of his warmth to him. “Are you cold?” Hashirama asks before squeezing his fingers again. Vapour emanating from his mouth.

Madara shakes his head and is not lying. If anything, he feels hot. His face and ears red hot. And now… not even his hands are cold.

“Where are you taking me to?” asks Madara, who has been walking following Hashirama’s guidance. They have spent very little time there, but that fool has already learned the whole place. They approach the area bordering the Uchiha district. From where they are at, Madara can see the shrine. It is illuminated with a dozen lamps; everything is too beautiful to believe it real.

“There is a place I’ve always wanted to visit,” Hashirama says. “But the opportunity has never been given. You tend to prefer us to dine in private.”

He likes his privacy, is it a crime? Either way, it makes Madara feel very safe to be so close to his clan. The Uchiha have always been night people; they like to talk around the campfires, sing and dance as in past generations. Of course, the streets in that area are busier, be them cold or not.

“We can have dinner there,” Hashirama adds when he doesn’t reply. “And then, if you feel like you want us to go home, well, we will, yes? It’s just that I’ve been wanting to take you out for a long time.”

Madara would roll his eyes is he wasn’t too embarrassed. His pale face is gone and now it is scarlet.

“As you wish, Senju,” Madara says in the end, for he can’t really think of anything else to say.

They finally arrive at a building among many of a similar appearance, all illuminated by red, white, and yellow lamps. Many of them, the vast majority, are old, since they only have the word ‘Uchiha’ engraved on them.

“Ah, Senju-sama, welcome!” They are greeted by a smiling and very pretty woman. “At last, you have come,” adds the very cheerful young lady. Then, she notices that behind the newcomer is another person and not just any person, for seeing him, she adds a hasty, “Madara-sama, welcome, welcome!”

Madara just nods, but Hashirama, being Hashirama, says something else, in a cheerful and effusive tone that Madara didn’t listen; his ears are pulsing. He feels his hands tingle and he lets go of Hashirama’s grip to stretch his fingers.

They are taken to a private cubicle, which has a small window, covered by a veil. They take a seat facing each other, with a small grill inserted into the table between them. “What?” Madara asks, because Hashirama is talking to him.

“I asked if you are comfortable by the window.” Hashirama takes off his haori, as it is warm in there. “Will you take off your scarf too?” he inquires, reaching out a hand to place both garments together.

Madara nods twice and doesn’t say anything else, though he feels many words clumping together on the tip of his tongue.

The smiling young woman returns and hands them the menu. Madara is hungry, but he has no desire to worry about ordering anything. So he leaves that task to Hashirama, who ends up asking for this and that. Madara gets lost in the decorations hanging on the walls. He must admit that the place is very pretty and picturesque. By the time Madara finishes reviewing the paintings for the third time, the young woman returns accompanied by other waiters and they are given some plates with meat and vegetables of all kinds. And of course… a bottle of sake.

Madara eyes the bottle with interest and Hashirama hurries over to tell him, “It’s just a fruity sake; it barely has alcohol.”

The Uchiha nods, not quite believing it. The sound of burning coals is heard under the table. Hashirama begins to place the meat on the grill, and it makes a delicious sound as the temperatures change. The aromas do not take long to appear. Madara feels so out of place. He’s not used to these things. “Mushrooms,” Hashirama grins as their gazes meet when he’s placing them on the grill, next to the beef. “I love them.”

Madara twists his fingers out of his sight. He nods when Hashirama asks if he wants him to add some chillies and onions. Then, they begin to fall into his plate.

He picks up his chopsticks and takes the first bites… delicious. He is uncapable of hiding it, as he hears Hashirama say, “Good, huh?”

Madara smirks in response and takes another bite. Hashirama bites his lip and places more ingredients on the grill. The aromas are delicious and its taste too. Madara even accepts the cup of sake that Hashirama offers him and when he tastes it, he notices that, indeed, its taste is fruitier than anything else. He will be able to drink it without suffering from side effects.

Hashirama asks him if he is cold, and Madara says no. They also talk about other matters—always avoiding mentioning their younger siblings or the political future of the village. Suddenly, everything is perfect: the food, the aromas, the noises, the company… nothing could spoil this. This could be the best night of his life.

However, a noise reaches them from the corridor. Voices. The young waitress is speaking and the voice that answers hers, makes Madara want to puke. “Here is fine; thank you.”

Hashirama turns to the door upon hearing his brother speak.

It cannot be, Madara thinks with bile rising in his throat. We are in the fucking Uchiha district, what is he doing here?

“Ah, what a delicious aroma!”

I-Izuna? Madara pours himself a cup of tea with trembling hands to pass the discomfort in his throat.

Hashirama stands up and opens the door. The neighbours in the next cubicle are numerous and all known. Not only are Tobirama and Izuna there, but they are also accompanied by the big blonde woman—head of the Yamanaka; Sarutobi Sasuke and a heavily pregnant woman who Madara muses is the latter’s wife.

“Anija.” Tobirama says as if it was quite normal to have met his brother and Uchiha Madara in that place.

Hashirama is already in the corridor, greeting the rest. Madara stays on his seat, angry and confused. Thunderstruck. He sends a furtive glance to the cubicle in front and sees that Izuna is watching him. Madara must be strong not to fall prey to the guilt he feels when looking at Izuna’s sad eyes, otherwise he will end up agreeing to the crazy things that his little brother wants to face, and he cannot allow it. Izuna is too important to him.

So, both brothers look away at the same time, in opposite directions, as if they were a pair of strangers.

Hashirama keeps talking. He laughs at something the Yamanaka woman said and Sarutobi plays along. His wife laughs too, childishly covering her mouth with one hand. Even the annoying Tobirama is smiling at his brother. Everything seems so natural, so comfortable, so perfect. Why is he even there? Hashirama is a very social person. He deserves to spend his time surrounded by people who enjoy his company. He deserves to have fun. He deserves to be himself. He deserves to be happy.

Madara lowers his eyes and removes some mushrooms that have been left in the grill, forgotten. He takes the cup of sake and drains the remaining content. It now tastes bland, without any trace of sweetness. And what the hell is he still doing there? The smiling waitress has returned with everything and her retinue, and now they come loaded with twice as many plates.

Should I stay? Several minutes have passed and they haven’t looked at him once. Not a furtive glance, not a fake smile… even Izuna is ignoring him: he listens very attentively to what Mrs. Sarutobi has to say, as does Hashirama.

They are preparing their food. Their grill doubles theirs, as does the bottle’s number. They all look so comfortable, so at ease.

It’s always been that way, hasn’t it? Uchiha Madara is nothing more than a shadow in oblivion. What did the other clans call him? A ghost?

He has nothing else to do there, but he also doesn’t want to embarrass Hashirama by making a scene. That fool has his back turned to him, gesturing with his hands about… something, it doesn’t matter. Madara stands up and walks into the corridor. The restaurant is full, there is noise everywhere— conversations, laughter, he can move without attracting any attention. Waiters and diners come and go along the corridor. Madara is nothing but an imperceptible shadow.

He will go home and wait there for Hashirama. He will light the hearth. Their house will be warm by the time Hashirama returns.

“Madara?” someone says behind his back. It’s Hashirama. Of course, who else was going to be? “Where are you going?”

Madara seriously detests such naivety. However, he turns to Hashirama seriously, remembering that he shouldn’t make a scene. “I am leaving.” Then he corrects himself, “I’ll wait for you at home.”

Hashirama pouts. They are in the corridor, out of sight of Hashirama’s comrades, but not that far for them not to be heard.

“Please, stay,” Hashirama begs, his cup still in a hand. “I was telling our friends about—”

“Our friends?” Madara interrupts him with a bad taste on his tongue, then shakes his head. I don’t have any friends, the Madara from the past would have said, but the one from that night just insists, “No, you stay. Have fun. I’ll leave now. Really, everything is alright.”

But the pout remains on Hashirama’s face. “Everything was perfect, what changed?” Hashirama asks.

Don’t sabotage this; it’s what is best for him, and you know it.

Madara looks at him in disbelief. Really? So closed and limited is the perception of Senju Hashirama? “Also, don’t even think you’re leaving without your scarf; you… you get sick too easily!”

“That again, Senju?” Madara crosses his arms over his chest, then steps aside to allow the waitress to carry more trays down the corridor. “Well, then, Hashirama… you might as well follow me, for I won’t stay no matter what you say.”

Madara turns around and walks down the corridor. He is aware that what he is doing is very childish, but all consequences have ceased to matter to him. He isn’t surprised either to hear hurried footsteps following him.

“Stay, Madara. Why can’t you do this for me?” Madara turns with a frown. Here he comes now, Hashirama the victim, the martyr. They look like a pair of spoiled kids. “I live thinking only of you, of what you need, of what you deserve… all I think about is you. It has been that way for years and I know it will be so, as long as I have breath left. But you… you cannot do something as simple for me.”

Madara clenches his fists tightly but doesn’t play along. He turns around again and continues walking to the entrance.

Certainly, it is a very cold night, but going back for his scarf would prove Hashirama right. Hashirama does not stop either. He grabs Madara’s arm to stop him from walking, his fingers strong on his skin.

“Are you really planning to leave?”

“I’ll just wait for you at home, Senju,” Madara laughs. “And save all those tears. You won’t even have to worry about me, for I am not going anywhere, yes? It’s cold as hell. I hate this weather. I am just going home.”

Hashirama looks downcast indeed. Madara averts his eyes, because if he keeps looking at the sad puppy in front of him, he will end up giving in and for nothing in the world will he sit at that table to pretend that he likes the people who are there.

“Madara,” Hashirama calls. “Really, you cannot do something so simple for me?”

“Quit the drama, Hashirama.” Madara growls. He puts his hands to his arms. It really is cold as hell that night. “The best thing would be for us to go back home. We’ll dine there.”

Hashirama frowns. Madara hadn’t seen him this upset since the warring days. “No,” he whispers. His voice graver than ever, marked with decision as he decrees, “We will both stay.”

Ah, so you want to compete against me, Senju.

“We’re going home, Senju. You and me. Now.”

“You will stay here, with me, Uchiha.”

The Uchiha clicks his tongue; Hashirama snorts.

Madara takes a couple of steps towards him, until he is within whispering distance. Hashirama is very little taller than him, but that night he seems towering in comparison, which only mortifies Madara more. He shows him his teeth, a lethal smile: this Senju has lost the battle already and the fool still doesn’t know it. “We’re going home, now…” Hashirama is about to add something, but whatever he was about to say is blown away on the icy night wind, “so you can make love to me.”

A noise breaks the silence after Madara’s words. Porcelain shattering at their feet. Hashirama has dropped the cup and it has crashed to the ground.

They look at each other. Hashirama’s frown is gone, his mouth is open in disbelief. “Madara,” is all he manages to say. Maybe he is used to his denials and fears that this is just another one of his tricks to make him act according to his will, but no, Madara is very sure of his words.

“Come,” Madara whispers, offering him a hand.

The waitress goes over and asks the men if everything is alright. The damage is minuscule. A broken cup and mushrooms made charcoal. Worse things were lost in the war.

“Wait for me,” Hashirama begs, unable to look away from his eyes. “I’ll go… I’ll go get the bill, yes?” Madara nods. Despite the cold, he feels his face burning. “And for y-your scarf too. Yes?” Another nod. Hashirama swallows. “Please, Madara, wait for me.”

The waitress keeps asking Hashirama if everything is alright. But he doesn’t listen to her, for all his attention is on Madara. He waits for an answer. “Go, be quick,” Madara urges him, his voice full of something he can’t quite identify.

Hashirama nods and turns around. Madara counts the minutes it takes for him to return to his side. One. Two. Three.

 

* * *

 

Madara waits at the entrance of the restaurant. He doesn’t turn when sensing someone approaching from behind. He doesn’t say a word when Hashirama puts the scarf on him. Madara begins to walk as soon as he is covered and goes back into the street.

Bright silhouettes that come and go. If someone recognises and greets him, he does not notice; the person behind does not say a word either. He suddenly feels that he doesn’t quite identify the characters written on lamps and posters, and if he keeps walking so sure, it is because he knows the way back home by heart.

Madara looks up and sees that the moon has made her way through the clouds and is shining to show them their path. There is a pale halo surrounding her; Madara has heard that this is usually the prelude to snowfall, but whether it is true or not, he does not know. He does not care. He is dying to look at the person walking a couple of meters behind him. Yet, he doesn’t turn.

Their way back home is short and when Madara sees the dark silhouette appear between the streets, he feels his stomach knot, his hands tremble and his ears are burning.

He opens the fence, and they enter the patio, their feet cushioned by the snow that remains from that morning. He keeps walking and in one single jump, he reaches the engawa and walks to where the main room is: their bedroom.

Madara hurries to light a few candles and out of the corner of his eye he sees that Hashirama has started to light the hearth as soon as he has closed the sliding doors.

Meanwhile, Madara proceeds to remove his scarf and leaves it on a table. Hashirama spent much of the afternoon paying attention to that specific room. The tatami is new, and its aroma has impregnated the whole place. He has got a mirror and a folding screen with a beautiful painting of birds of prey… very appropriate for him. There are also more decorations in the room: more paintings of snow-capped mountains crowning an open valley, bisected by a river… Madara bites his lip as he pulls his mantle over his head. With a trembling hand he combs his already unruly hair.

Hashirama has moved away from the hearth; he has taken off his own scarf and haori, and now hang on a holder by the door. Madara feels Hashirama’s gaze on his nape, as he continues combing his hair insistently. Suddenly his hands tremble, a knob has formed in his throat and his heart is about to… “Madara?”

He swallows before replying, “Yes?”

It is a real fortune that his voice has not trembled.

“We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” Hashirama says. Madara catches sight of him through the mirror. “We’ll do something else. It’s alright if you don’t…”

“Oh no,” Madara muses. His eyes darken into Hashirama’s. “I wasn’t lying a while ago.” Then he lets out a laugh. “I want to. I am ready.”

Hashirama nods. He opens his mouth but says nothing. Madara sees the movement of his Adam’s apple bouncing with the passage of saliva.

Madara watches Hashirama look in all directions before leaving the room in a hurry; he comes back so soon that he doesn’t give Madara a chance to blink more than a few times. He has gone for more candles.

“What are you doing?” Madara asks seeing him light them up. The candles Madara lit are enough to keep the room properly illuminated.

“I don’t want to miss a thing,” Hashirama says, continuing his task. “I want to see you, Madara, in great detail.”

You are a fool. Madara blushes even more. You’ve seen me before, but then, he rethinks and adds in his head, but never like this. He lets out a sigh and walks over to the futon. Should he start undressing? He suddenly doesn’t know what to do…

“Wait,” Madara turns as he hears Hashirama speak. There are so many candles burning that his blush is impossible to hide. Hashirama walks over to where he is and grabs Madara’s hands in his, stopping him. “I want to do it myself.”

Oh.

Madara nods and brings his face closer to Hashirama’s. They are so close that it only takes one of them to make the decision to form a kiss. Madara lifts his face and the other understands; Hashirama leans his head so his lips may land on the other’s.

Hurriedly, Madara parts his lips. Now it is he who introduces his tongue first. He is hungry and very needy too. He has spent a lot of time imagining what this moment would be like and suddenly, he is eager to see how his fantasies differ from reality.

Hashirama lets go of his hands and unties Madara’s clothes. He sets them aside and continues. The rest is simple, and every garment ends up surrendering easily and quickly to his fingers. What follows is Madara falling lightly onto the futon’s soft fabric. There is no chance to hide in the candlelight and all that remains for Madara is to receive the weight of the other man’s gaze who looks at him from above. Madara knows that look; he’s spent his whole life breeding birds of prey, enough for him to know what hunger looks like in the eyes.

“Come,” Madara whispers, but even though it was said in a low volume, Hashirama obeys the act. He covers him entirely with his long body, obscuring his vision.

Hashirama places both hands on the sides of Madara’s head and then gets close enough so that he can place another swift kiss on his lips. Madara’s bangs get in the way and Hashirama moves them away with his hands, revealing his whole face. “I don’t understand why you hide your face,” Hashirama mutters in a guttural voice, as if he’s out of breath. “Your face is so beautiful.” The scarlet tint permeates Madara’s cheekbones and nose. “Very, very beautiful.” Hashirama is grinning. “You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

Madara stretches out a finger and places it on Hashirama’s lips. “Enough.” Hashirama chuckles and nods. He sends his own long hair behind his shoulder, before leaning down to kiss Madara’s eyelids, his nose, his lips. Then, he lowers his face, to Madara’s neck, and absorbs his natural scent, where he deposits quick and soft kisses; light flutters of butterflies, some here, some there. Hashirama goes down his sternum and leaves loving marks wherever his lips land: his shoulder, his sharp collarbone, a firm pectoral, the bulging shapes of his abdomen.

Voracious kisses and bites that will remain as purple portraits the next day. Madara doesn’t repress any of the moans that the passage of Hashirama’s lips leaves on his skin. Everything is too perfect, too delicious. The night belongs to them both.

Hashirama stops a second to admire the turgid member that waits for his attention. It is tense and expectant. The Senju notes with curiosity that there is something different in his beloved that night. “You shaved,” he says, raising a flirty eyebrow.

Madara snorts. His face is bright scarlet. “You do not like it?” he asks with a certain annoyed tone. But he ends up relaxing when he hears Hashirama laugh again. “I like you either way. It was just an observation.” Madara is the one laughing now. A nervous laugh. Hashirama adds, “I do like it.”

Hashirama leans down again and licks the pearl that has formed on Madara’s glans. He gives it one more lick, and then another. His excuse leads Hashirama to take Madara’s cock in one hand, and then, to slowly slide it into his warm mouth.

A slight rattle is heard against the ceiling tiles. It is snowing again.

Madara call his name in whispers, his eyes sleepy, encouraging him to take it whole in for once. Come on, Madara knows he’s not that big. At least, Hashirama shouldn’t have as much trouble gobbling it whole as Madara does with his.

His prayers take effect, for Hashirama soon manages to accommodate the entire thing inside his mouth, creating a suitable rhythm for both of them to follow. Madara clings his fingers to the quilt as if his life depended on it, as he keeps calling him insistently—and soon—without even realizing it, he begins to follow his pace, raising his hips, matching the other’s mouth’s thrusts.

He could… Madara could get used to this. He could spend the rest of his life like this. He wants to.

Naturally, Madara spreads his legs further apart, to give Hashirama room to settle in comfortably. Madara shuts his eyes and is so lost in his enjoyment, that the unexpected intrusion of an external object into his body that is not expected startles him.

“Hashirama, what the hell?” Madara groans when he recognizes that such an object is a finger, moistened with the saliva that Hashirama himself has dropped on his cock. In response, Madara’s legs spread further apart.

“You do not like it?” Hashirama asks again, dropping the wet cock onto Madara’s belly.

“Of course I like it, idiot!” Madara growls, collapsing his head against the pillow again. His frown makes him look even more beautiful. His mere sight is incredible. Madara is so beautiful. Hashirama has taken him with his mouth again. “It’s just that…” Madara whispers, “I didn’t expect you to be so… ah, bold.”

Hashirama lets go of him to laugh. “I’ve been wanting to do this to you for a long damn time,” he says, his finger still inside. His lips press against Madara’s flesh, not daring to let go of it entirely. “Can you have a second finger inside?” Hashirama asks, but his question comes too late, for he has already introduced it. “Oh yes—you can.”

Madara replies with an unintelligible murmur.

“Have you tried it before, Madara?” The Uchiha gets up holding on to his elbows. Their eyes meet, Madara doesn’t understand. “Inserting something here.”

Oh, that. Madara nods and looks away. His lips tremble as he speaks, “I have inserted three of my fingers before.”

Hashirama raises an eyebrow in response. A half smile accompanies it. “Then it won’t be a problem if I… do this,” he says as he inserts a third finger.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Madara lies back onto the futon as he feels the thickness of Hashirama’s fingers together caressing his inner walls, so that he will soon be able to receive him. He is aware that Hashirama’s cock is not the same width as his three fingers together. And either way he cannot wait. Break me. Split me in two. I do not care.

“Hashirama,” Madara calls his name, over and over. “Hashirama, I need you now.”

He can also see that the Senju is quite needy. His own flesh’s urgency becomes visible under the layers of cloth. This is like that time in the cave. Madara wants to reach out a hand, open Hashirama’s clothes and eat him whole again.

But any hunger he might store in his body dies the instant he sees Hashirama dropping his cock and drawing back his fingers out of his hole, to finish undressing himself. In the end, only the necklace remains, gleaming in candlelight. His hunger can wait. Hashirama is as hard as he is. So urgent. So needy.

Hashirama has covered him with his long body again, until their faces are mere centimetres apart. Hashirama leans in to kiss him and Madara can make out small traces of his own taste on his tongue.

Madara feels him pressing his body against his, rubbing his swollen flesh, mixing the sweat of one with the other’s.

He catches Hashirama’s face in his hands. He sees himself reflected in the darkness of his eyes, but it is Hashirama who speaks, “We can leave it at this. I mean it, Madara. It’s been wonderful. You’re wonderful.” Then, he smiles widely, “I’ll wait for you as long as it takes.”

“Now,” Madara says, his lips glued to Hashirama’s, who await mid parted. The slight sweetness of the sake Hashirama drank still permeates his mouth. “I want you to love me now.”

Hashirama grins, very pleased. He bites his lip. “Then… I should go find something.”

Madara shakes his head and tries to stop Hashirama from moving away, but to no avail. The next thing he sees is Hashirama moving around the room bare. He goes and reaches into a drawer and pulls out a bottle which he brings with him back to the futon. “I’ve been saving this bottle for this exact moment.” Lube. Goddess. As if it were possible, Madara blushes further. “But I decided to keep it out of your sight, fearing that you would feel… a little forced.”

Hashirama laughs at his own joke. Madara grumbles, “You talk too much, Senju.” With one hand he traces the sculpted and perfect forms of Hashirama’s belly, marking light traces on his skin with his fingernails. “I want you inside, now.”

“Patience, my love.”

The Uchiha shakes his head and spreads his legs wider, inviting him, enticing him.

It works, for Hashirama forgets all jokes. His eyes have darkened, his skin glows golden in candlelight.

“Madara,” Hashirama says in a serious, guttural voice, “since it’s the first time, maybe it would be best if you have me from behind.”

Madara shakes his head again. “I want it this way; I want to see you.”

“But, Madara…”

“I am not some delicate lass, Senju,” Madara insists. “And you can just heal me later.”

Uchiha Madara, an inveterate stubborn. Hashirama doubts anything but his Uchiha’s conviction. So he nods. He opens the bottle and pours some of its contents onto his fingers, before inserting it into Madara’s needy entrance.

He hisses as he feels the change in temperatures; the oil aching his already injured walls. Madara is unaccustomed to such intrusion, after all. But he’s not going to chicken out now—he’s been loving him in secret for so many years in agony. “Take me now.” Madara hears himself mutter. “I am ready.”

Hashirama places a pillow under Madara’s hips and encourages him to spread his legs further apart; later, he pours some more of the lube into his hands, and circles himself vigorously. Hashirama does not require further preparations; he is as ready, bloated, and as needy. He has waited for that very moment the same eons as Madara.

“Remember, if you feel pain or discomfort or just want me to stop—you just need to tell me, will you, Madara? I will stop instantly…”

“Just stick it in, Hashirama,” he says disconsolately. His chest rises and falls uncontrollably. “Please, just come in… I need you so much.”

Hashirama hastily nods. He licks his lips and holds his cock in the direction of Madara’s throbbing hole.

Madara trembles as he feels the tip rubbing against his entrance. He has opened himself up so that it is easier for Hashirama to enter. Madara bites his lip so hard as he feels Hashirama’s first inches going in, that he lacerates its skin. He licks up the blood instantly, but the red button reappears on his lip as Hashirama pushes in more, slowly.

“Madara,” Hashirama calls in a guttural voice. Madara replies with an ‘uh?’ as he squints at the intrusion. “Open your eyes; I want you to see me come in.”

Madara lets out a half laugh, but it dies as Hashirama goes deeper. His mouth opens in an inarticulate gasp, and although he finds it quite hard for his body to accommodate such a size, he bears it as long as necessary, for there is no burning or pain that would make him regret this.

“Hashirama,” Madara says when he is buried deep inside him. Hashirama is grabbing him by the thighs, keeping them attached to his.

They wait a few seconds in this position, motionless, while both bodies get used to the union. Madara’s head is empty. He has waited… he has dreamed, imagined this moment so many times—thinking what he would say, how he would act when Hashirama was finally inside him—but now, when the miracle actually happens… he is speechless. His eyes unable to move from their exact point of union, feeling him wholly inside.

“You are so warm, Madara. So soft and warm.”

The fearsome Uchiha Madara doesn’t know what to say, or what to do, or what to think.

“Does it feel good?” Hashirama asks, forcing Madara to meet his eyes. Small and crystalline tears have form on Madara’s pretty eyes.

Madara nods, “Move, Hashirama.”

“Are you sure?”

“Just fuck me until I pass out, will you?” Madara laughs. Hashirama grins as well, and slowly works his way out of him, only to bury himself back inside with a clean thrust. Madara sobs as he feels it crashing against his pleasure zone and Hashirama repeats the operation. “Yes.” Madara moans. “Just like that.”

Hashirama is still clinging to his thighs, his fingers digging into his sensitive skin as his thrusts go deeper and rhythmic.

“Hashirama,” Madara’s mantra continues. His cloudy gaze travels to the man atop him. He doesn’t want to miss a thing either. Not a single second. He wants to keep Hashirama’s gestures and sounds etched in his memory… Hashirama’s hands clinging to his legs; his hard cock filling him whole. Their sweats and scents, mixed together, permeating that room forever.

He is mine, Madara thinks. He opens his mouth in another soundless moan. Only mine. Forever mine. He has always marvelled at how well they fit together, despite being so different in essence. And now… feeling him inside, filling him. All mine. It just feels natural… perfect. Madara now knows that he was born with the sole intention of meeting Hashirama. To change his life and his world. To join him, body, and soul.

“Ah, my Hashirama.”

I love you, he thinks with half-closed eyes, first looking at Hashirama’s own flushed face, then down to his glistening body, to finally land at their union point. Their skins, perfectly combined. Ah, each thrust stronger and more vigorous than the previous one. It’s suffocating—but at the same time he’s never felt so free, so alive.

“Faster… Hashirama.”

Hashirama seems to have run out of breath. Yet, he obeys. His automatic motions growing stronger, faster. “You are so beautiful, Madara.”

Madara grins in response; his smile wide and sincere.

The burning has ceased; his body has grown accustomed to his size and the fierce ardour of his thrusts. It will be like this forever, as long as Hashirama wishes and allows it. Madara will always be his, there is no doubt about it.

Time stands still in that room. Minutes pass and the world ceases to exist. This is wonderful, it’s perfect… tremendously perfect. Everything—everything has been worth it. Madara has no regrets at all. He is ecstatic, euphoric… drunk as no liquor has ever been able to intoxicate him before.

He… he cannot think of anything to think about.

“Hashirama…” Madara utters as he feels himself reaching his own peak. It doesn’t take long for his own seed to end up scattered in his tummy.

Hashirama grins at what he’s accomplished and perhaps just the reminder that it is Madara’s first time is what keeps him from speeding up his thrusts, even though he wants to.

There will be plenty of time for them to do it again. To try this and that.

In the meantime, Hashirama will make love to him as it is meant to be done the first time, with care and devotion.

“Ah, Madara…” Hashirama says as he feels the other’s body falling off a cliff. He too is close to his limit. He wants to accompany him in his liberation and wants to do it within him. “Madara, do you want me to come out?”

“No,” Madara instantly says. He has both arms above his head, wrapped in his hair like thousands of vines. “Inside. Hashirama, I want it inside.”

Hashirama nods and grips his thighs more insistently. His fingers penetrating his delicate skin, marking him as much as possible. He feels that he lacks air, that his whole-body burns—but even then, he doesn’t stop. He continues, he insists… he fills him so insistently that in the end, when the release hits him, it surprises them both.

An inarticulate moan is Hashirama’s response. It is Madara’s name. He’s calling him at the same time his warm seed streams deep inside him.

Everything surrounding them turns upside down. He lands on top of Madara, who lowers his arms to embrace him, squeezing Hashirama until there isn’t a centimetre between them. Nothing but his necklace.

Two mouths seek each other urgently. They find themselves. But their owners don’t even have the strength for a kiss and they both remain like that, motionless, gasping for air.

It does not matter. Madara thinks that everything is perfect. His weight, his scent, his sweat, the great part of his cock that still remains buried inside him.

“I love you, Hashirama,” Madara says out loud. It seems that he always says it from his heart when he is close to death. “Forgive me for saying it… at this moment… but it is true. It is true. I love you.”

Hashirama raises himself on one elbow, enough to meet his eyes. He brushes away the damp strands of his own hair that get in his eyes. “Oh?”

Madara rolls his eyes. But he still smiles, for he is very happy. Over the moon. Overjoyed.

Hashirama traces small circles on Madara’s heaving chest. “I love you too, Madara.”

Madara nods, still elated. He knows it. If there’s one damn thing, he’s truly sure of, it is that the silly man on top of him loves him. “I know,” he says. Hashirama leans in and their lips touch. Alright, maybe they do have the strength to share a kiss or two. “I love you, Hashirama.” Suddenly he seems unable not to say it.

“I know, Madara.” Another kiss lands. “I’ve always known that.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

“But it’s wonderful to hear you say it.”

Chapter 8

Notes:

do not try this at home like, ever lol <3

Hashirama has a scar in the centre of his chest. Madara caused it years ago, in the midst of a fierce battle with a sharp kunai.

Madara traces the still raised surface with his fingertips. It was a deep wound, with the sole idea of ending his life. Maybe it was a mistake—bad planning, Madara muses. Hashirama would have died if he had been a normal person.

His finger vibrates as Hashirama’s chest lifts in laughter. A deep, throaty laugh… seductive.

“Madara?”

His voice has always been seductive, but now… after the act…

Madara purposely ignores him and runs his finger over the scar again. He smirks, without answering him. It is a long, pale line, and it contrasts strongly against his golden skin.

One would think that Hashirama could have dodged his attack, but he did not. Hashirama didn’t move in time in some flush of self-confidence. Perhaps thinking that he would not die from something so insignificant as a pierced heart; or perhaps, he was sure enough that Madara would never really try to kill him.

It may be true. Maybe that dance between them was a mere excuse for them to be able to look into each other’s eyes on the battlefield, pretending to hate each other and swear revenge the next day.

Bullshit, Madara thinks now as he traces the shiny and sweating surface of Hashirama’s chest, circling the gem that hangs from his neck. He swallows hard. He feels his face fill with heat.

Perhaps he never really wanted to kill him, and it is just now that he dares to accept it.

“Madara,” Hashirama insists, grinning.

Madara looks up without parting his fingertips from that hot skin, especially from that scar in the centre of his chest. Hashirama’s entire body is covered in scars, but that one has always made Madara shudder at the thought of how close he came to piercing his heart.

“What is that head of yours thinking about?”

Madara’s smile widens.

“About you,” he confesses. With his fingers he draws small circles on his skin. “As always—I’m thinking about you, you fool.”

Hashirama laughs in response.

Ah, again, his laugh…

Madara looks away from the scar that could have ended Hashirama’s life and instead, he sends his eyes up to a smiling handsome face.

“Did you like it?” Hashirama enquiries. One eyebrow raised; his smile huge.

He had already asked him that before—a while ago, actually, after their first time. Hashirama had fallen on top of him while still trembling, cloudy-eyed and panting. He had asked him that same question with barely a whisper. ‘Did you like it, Madara?’ What else was he going to answer if not the truth? ‘Of course, I liked it.’

Madara nods and says, “Yes, very much.”

Hashirama’s grin widens. Madara can’t help it and ends up grinning like a stupid fool in love, too. What the hell? The Uchiha rises on one elbow and leans in, till his lips land on Hashirama’s.

Twice they have done it. Twice the same night. What were the odds? Madara doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to think about it…in fact, he doesn’t want to think about anything or anyone other than Senju Hashirama and his hungry lips and virile body.

It is a dream, it seems.

A broad, warm hand touches his back, drawing those calloused fingertips up and down Madara’s sharp spine. He vibrates when sensing it, and the culprit grins with his lips still glued to his. You fool. Madara opens his mouth wide and the other knows what to do. Madara ends up lying on his chest again. The hand on his back has wandered down and now, it has caught a round, firm peach.

Madara stops kissing him and draws away far enough to look into his eyes. “Again?” He asks, knowing the obvious. Not even twenty minutes have passed and Hashirama’s already hard again. Not that Madara is surprised either, but still…

“Yes,” the other whispers, rising enough to give him a quick kiss. “Again.”

Madara bites his lip. He is delighted to have this handsome, vigorous man head over heels in love with him, but he is also a novice in love affairs and knows that his body deserves a break.

“Later, you lecherous fool.”

Hashirama pouts but doesn’t insist. Instead, he falls back onto the pillow and stares up at the ceiling.

The room is beginning to feel cold, even though the hearth is lit. Their skins are bare, and they need a change of sheets and a hot bath.

Madara has neither the heart nor the strength to do any of that. He lies down next to Hashirama, also staring at the ceiling. He soon feels covered—Hashirama has covered them both with a blanket, to mitigate the cold.

He closes his eyes as he feels the beginning of sleepiness in his body and hears him say, “Madara.” He replies with a ‘hmm’ without opening his eyes. He places both hands behind his head like a sort of pillow.

“Have you ever thought about what would have happened if you hadn’t gone to the river that day?”

Does he never get tired? Madara thinks, opening his eyes and lying on his side, turning his face to the young man lying next to him. He ponders his question. He doesn’t have to ask him what day he means—Madara knows.

“I’ve thought about it many times,” Madara agrees. It is an intrusive thought that has been attacking him from time to time, especially since it all started, since their days in the forest. All he had to do was to look at the young man next to him and think, ‘if I hadn’t gone to the river that day, I wouldn’t be with you right now.’ “I like silence and calm and there wasn’t much of that in the Uchiha encampment… so, the best thing for me was to find a place where I could be quiet.” He smiles shyly. “I think—if I hadn’t gone to the river that day, if something had diverted me…I would have gone to the river the next day or the next, anyway… so sooner or later I would have met you.”

Hashirama hasn’t stopped smiling all night. He licks his lips before replying, “You were looking for silence and calm in that river—and instead, you laughed and ran with me.” Madara snorts. “You are quite contradictory, Uchiha.”

Madara’s cheeks are scarlet. He would like to tell him so many things that he has inside his head, but he has suddenly become shy, as if they were not sharing a bed at that very moment. He has already stripped himself body and soul before him… why not his thoughts as well?

“I really liked the boy in the river,” Madara says, his tongue hesitant. “His company wasn’t heavy—instead, it was when I felt most at peace.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen. “The boy in the river liked you too, Madara…a lot,” he nods. “He counted the days to be by your side again. To laugh and train with you… or, in my opinion, my favourite moments—just to talk to you about our lives. Life in the encampment was very hard, especially if you were the heir, was it not? So, you were fresh air when I felt the most suffocated.”

Silly, silly Senju.

“Hashirama,” Madara growls, shifting on the bed, to look up at the ceiling again—anywhere but his face.

A few minutes pass in silence. Both meditating on the weight of past confessions. A log crackles in the hearth at that moment, its sap pouring into the fames in a hiss.

“Either way, I’ve thought about how different our lives would be if we hadn’t met. And that terrifies me, for I am elated by your side.” Hashirama insists. Madara looks instead at the interlocking mokuton branches on the ceiling. “Perhaps we would have had to obey our parents and perhaps, we would already be married and who knows? Being parents… it would have been a terrible tragedy for me to become clan head and leave home to face the Uchiha, and discover that, suddenly, I am attracted to my enemy. How would I have gotten home, to tell my wife that…”

“Just shut your mouth!” Madara grunts, sitting up and looking at him with a frown. “It would have been better if we had just fucked, had I known you would start saying all those nonsenses.”

Hashirama lets out a chuckle, but it is not shared by Madara.

“Don’t be angry, please.”

But it’s hard not to get angry when an image of Hashirama with an imaginary family has appeared in his mind.

“You’re right,” says Hashirama when he sees that Madara doesn’t say a thing. “In the end, if we hadn’t gone to the river that day, we would have ended up going the next day or the next… and either way, we would have met and fallen in love. Whether in that river, as a pair of strangers or on the battlefield, as bitter enemies. I would have ended up falling in love with the handsome leader of the Uchiha either way, because we are destined, my love—I’m sure of that.”

Madara feels a squeeze in his heart.

“I love you, Madara and always will—”

“Ah, shut your mouth, Senju.” Madara removes the blanket and climbs on top of him. Little by little, he can feel how his own body reacts to the contact with that other skin. He shudders. He places both hands on Hashirama’s warm chest, above where he feels his heart beating fast. Madara’s face is tinted in crimson as he says, “let’s do it again, now.”

Hashirama instantly nods. His tongue has knotted up, so he only manages to say “Madara.”

Madara searches for the perfect spot to ride him. He grabs Hashirama’s cock in a hand and blindly starts directing it at his entrance. “Come, help me.” All this is unknown to him, and the things he can barely remember about the forbidden books that he used to secretly read, are just ingenious positions that he has only tried in his fantasies.

“It’s amazing—” Hashirama hisses as he runs to his aid; he takes himself in a hand and begins to insert it into him inch by inch. “You’re still dilated.”

And they haven’t cleaned his previous seed either…

He enters; the talk ends. Madara frowns at the fleeting burning and clings to Hashirama’s shoulders as he sinks to the bottom, his nails penetrating his flesh. Hashirama’s hands cling to Madara’s hips, his fingers marking his skin, and Madara responds with an agitated murmur that isn’t a word at all. Nor do words are needed much; it is a natural act in the end—an ancient act they know in some way. Madara rises just a bit, before falling again. More. Then he repeats it again. More. His legs are exhausted, but he still doesn’t stop moving. The next day he won’t be able to move…and he doesn’t give a fuck.

More. He rises and falls again, impaling himself. And one more time again.

Until dawn comes.

 

* * *

 

His sleep is disturbed the next morning by noises from the kitchen. Has a pot fallen? Or some jar, perhaps? Who knows? Madara lets out a long sigh, frowning and still unable to open his eyes, as if he was so tired that he couldn’t just wake up.

Minutes pass in relative silence. It is a cold morning though there is no sound of falling snow. He misses sunny days and that delicious feeling on the skin when being kissed by the sun while doing his stretches.

Breakfast is served, or at least that’s what that wonderful aroma tells him. All right, maybe he does want to wake up. His stomach tightens: hunger.

What time is it?

Madara sits up and lets out a long yawn. He stretches his arms and legs. His hair is a mess… that is, more than usual. He puts a hand to his mouth to try to hold back another yawn, but it’s impossible.

He senses that it must already be too late. The sun appears to be very high in the sky. Hell, he had things to do that morning. A meeting at the shrine and then, a training session with the girls in the forest…

He can always claim to have had a morning migraine… and the night before, several people saw him in the restaurant, so he might as well just invent a hangover.

Out of the corner of his eye, he eyes an object shining on the tatami. His gaze flies to the side, where a crystalline bottle lies on its side, nearly empty. Some of its content has spilled out and there is already a dark stain where the tatami has been absorbing it. The tatami is going to be ruined. Madara reaches out a hand and places the bottle so that the rest of its content doesn’t spill, although it’s not quite necessary… they used almost the whole thing the night before.

He blushes by remembering it. It was not due to some uncontrolled passionate outburst, but rather because they were a couple of inexperienced young lads, and because, they were experimenting; after all, there are no instructions for love.

He clutches the sheets tightly as he remembers the night before. He can still feel the memories as raw sensations. Madara thinks that no description he ever read in the past could have prepared him for what he was going to experience the night before, just as none of his fantasies ever came close to reality.

Hashirama… Madara feels his heart beating faster. Hashirama.

He gets goosebumps just by remembering Hashirama breathing heavily into his neck as he thrusted into him.

Madara raises his hands and looks at them. Thin, pale, and cold. How much damage did those nails do to Hashirama’s skin? Madara bites the inside of his cheek as he remembers the natural reaction his hands had to clung onto Hashirama’s back with every thrust he made.

Hashirama seemed to have no self-control either. It was like when they were in the middle of a battle, wasn’t it?

But he is mistaken, for Hashirama has never done something without thinking about it before, even if it was in a half second. Hashirama was precise in battle, his mokuton shaped to the necessary extent, always with the intent to do harm. He has always been passionate—but last night, all the violence Hashirama ever fought with turned into something more—something different.

And it’s not as if Madara isn’t used to violence, or as if he himself wasn’t aroused by the prospect of getting hurt.

Perhaps it is something proper of the Uchiha—that conflicting love.

They did not fall asleep until late at night. It was a new game and suddenly they didn’t want to stop. It was obvious that he was not going to be able to get up early the next morning, what the hell was he thinking?

Madara lets out one more sigh and can’t help but look at his crotch covered by the sheets. Madara always thought there was something wrong with him, for feeling that way towards Hashirama. He was his enemy, after all. He remembers how he used to come home from the battlefield, just to run for a cold bath to help him get rid of that fever that engulfed him at the simple thought of Hashirama.

He had just killed your kin and yet, it didn’t take long for you to get hard by imagining him running at you, with that sharp look, sending his mokuton to attack you, while he bared his teeth and shouted an angry ‘Madaraaaa!’

“Madara!” His new Hashirama yells at that moment, as he opens the sliding door.

Madara barely has time to cover his crotch with the coverlet. The sun enters the room fully and he must narrow his eyes against the dazzle.

“You’re awake now,” Hashirama says, entering their room with a tray in his hands. “Good morning. How did you sleep? Do you feel good?”

Madara nods, as he hides away the memories of a very different Hashirama from the fool in front of him. He turns to him with a shy smile and replies, “Yes; good morning; fine; yes.”

Hashirama puts the tray down on the tatami while still grinning. Whatever he has in it, it smells delicious. Hashirama leans over and plants a long, loud kiss on his lips.

Madara parts his lips to deepen the kiss. And why has he become so sensitive? Didn’t the enemies of the Uchiha used to fear his sole name? Didn’t they tremble as soon as they saw him appear among the army? Madara clings to Hashirama’s neck so as not to let him get away. Hashirama doesn’t seem any interested in turning away from him either.

Madara ends up leaning back against the pillow and that big, heavy clown falls right on top of him, his lips as reluctant to part as the Uchiha’s. Madara doesn’t care much anymore if Hashirama notices the hard erection that lies hidden under the covers. What’s more, Madara rubs it against his body like the worst of scoundrels. Hashirama is already dressed for his day… it really doesn’t matter. Possess me right here, now. Hashirama smiles against his lips. Madara verified the night before the short time it took his hands to get rid of those clothes.

Unable to help it, Madara sighs as Hashirama deepens the kiss. His hands cling to his back, just like he did last night, as he thrusted into his body.

He tastes of green tea and smells of that delicious mixture of chamomile and Hashirama.

It is Hashirama who ends the kiss, as if he had read his mind. “I made you breakfast.”

Madara sends a look to the tray on the tatami. It is small, with the content for one person. He’s not going to join you for breakfast.

“Yes, thank you.” Madara says, taking a distance and tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. He avoids looking into his eyes, as his cheeks feel red hot. “You’re leaving already?” Madara asks before he can stop himself, fear seizing his heart.

Hashirama nods. “I promised Tobi that I would see him first thing in the morning today.”

Madara lets out a laugh of sorts. “It’s not like he’s going to be surprised if you are late. You are not an early riser.”

Hashirama confirms this with a nod. “I can always feign a hangover.”

Madara raises an eyebrow. “He saw you leaving the restaurant with me last night, and surely knew you weren’t drunk.”

Hashirama clicks his tongue.

“He knows that I live with you… many things can happen within these walls that have forced me to be late,” he says, his voice half turning into laughter.

Madara could play along, but suddenly he feels starving. Besides, he needs to take a bath and maybe, why not? To try some of that fruity sake that Hashirama likes so much to calm the aching in his body.

“You must go now, go on—go!” Madara tells him with false annoyance in his voice. “Hashirama-sama don’t keep your brother waiting. You know how Tobirama behaves when he’s in a bad mood.”

Hashirama nods, grinning. He stands up and adjusts his clothes. Madara can’t help but look at his bare neck. He thinks about the scarf that is waiting for him in another room, but he thinks that it is not time to give it to him yet.

“You should stay home and rest,” Hashirama suggests, snapping Madara out of his thoughts. “I’ll have your back; I will say you have a migraine.”

Madara shakes his head. He can neglect his clan no more, much less now that he’s starting to take charge of it. As tired as he feels, he will go. “I have to go to the Uchiha.”

Also, there’s his matter with Izuna. Hashirama snaps him out of that sad thought as he says, “Well, at least let me heal you up a bit before I go, aye?” Hashirama smiles. “So you don’t have trouble moving around.”

Madara had asked him that the night before, had he not? Madara’s ears feel very hot.

“There is no need for that,” Madara ends up saying. “It’s not a big deal either. Also—Hashirama, if you don’t heal me, I’ll be able to remember you for the whole day. Every movement and every jolt of pain will be a wonderful reminder of what happened last night.”

Hashirama’s smile widens. “Or—I could heal you right now and tonight, we could repeat last night’s sessions, what do you think? That way, you wouldn’t suffer needlessly.”

Madara is speechless. He has been more seriously injured in the past and has gone around without complaining one bit. He notices that he’s been grinning like a fool for quite some time and covers his mouth with one hand. He clears his throat before replying, “Uh, no.” Then, he explains, “It’s not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be.”

Hashirama raises an eyebrow, as if he doesn’t quite believe him, but doesn’t insist either.

I will wander through this village, our village, limping because of you, Senju Hashirama.

Hashirama leans in again to give him a quick kiss goodbye. Madara stares into those dark eyes he loves so much, and when he blinks, Hashirama’s gone.

 

* * *

 

Madara knows that nothing has changed. The sun is still up there, although less intense and radiant; snow continues to cover most floors, roofs, and windows; there are children playing in the streets; there is also, in the distance, the murmur of hammers hitting iron, since most of the houses in the village are the result of hard work and not simple magic.

Everything has changed, yes, but at the same time, that morning, the world turns as usual. There is nothing different whatsoever, although it feels that way inside of him.

People always stare at him in passing, but that day, Madara feels the weight of their gazes heavier. They always whisper behind his back, but now, even he tries to sharpen his ears so he can catch what they say.

Do they know? He contemplates. Do they know what I did with Hashirama?

It is unlikely. Besides, he shouldn’t care. Everyone in that village assume they know the kind of relationship he has with Hashirama. It has been like this since the day they disappeared together, and it only increased when they returned side by side, to establish themselves in the same tent, and then, in the same house.

Perhaps the change is only felt by him. Or it may be noticeable in his walk too; maybe he is limping. Fuck. It is like the days before, when he started touching himself secretly in the woods. It’s the same feeling he felt when he came back to the encampment, flushed and hurried—looking at everywhere and feeling the sharp gazes of the Uchiha above.

They know it, he thought years ago. They know where I went to and what I did, as if it wasn’t the most common thing in the world to touch oneself.

Still stuck in that uneasy thought, Madara arrives at the Uchiha district and walks straight to the shrine. He does not find it empty; it is always full of people: those who work in there and those who just go to visit… and now, those who go to find a place in the clan leader’s busy schedule.

“I attended them,” Madara hears a voice behind. He turns hurriedly recognising it is Izuna’s. “I sensed that something must had kept you at home and told them you were busy and that I would take your place for today.”

Izuna, Izuna… my little Izuna.

Madara doesn’t get a chance to reply. “Relax, aye? There is nothing else to do for today.”

He feels ashamed. “Izuna—wait,” Madara asks when he sees him heading for the exit.

But his little brother doesn’t listen and Madara has no choice but to run after him. Madara’s stomach drops and clenches his fists tightly. Izuna waits for him outside the shrine, perhaps with the intention of having a private talk with him.

Madara approaches him, his chest rising and falling with force.

“Izuna,” he calls.

The little Uchiha remains with his back turned to him, his eyes fixed on the village that grows at his feet.

“Izuna, can we talk about it?”

Izuna turns to look at him. His face is serious, his mouth a single line. It doesn’t seem to be anger in his eyes anymore, but that boy has spent so much time surrounded by strangers, that he may already know how to disguise his emotions.

“What is there to talk about, Nii-san?” The boy asks.

What is there to talk about? Really? Madara doesn’t dare to ask him directly. Around them there are people coming and going, and although no one seems to pay them the slightest attention, Madara knows how interesting the talks of Tajima’s children are to strangers. Therefore, they cannot speak freely about matters of importance.

“You know what I mean.”

“You made it very clear that other time, Madara-sama,” Izuna says. “You order me, and I obey.”

“Izuna…”

This is not the first time they have had a discussion of this sort. Izuna looks up at him one last time, with his dark, serious eyes before turning around, leaving him alone at the shrine.

He too did throw those kinds of tantrums in the past. Izuna is still a child anyway, even if he walks around that village taking on adult obligations. Madara can still remember himself running away from his father’s tent after being scolded, to go hide in the forests until someone would go looking for him in the afternoon.

Madara smiles at the memory, as he watches his brother descend—Izuna’s ponytail flying back and forth with each of his steps. He remembers his father’s poorly concealed grin when he saw little Madara returning home after not having gotten what he wanted. Madara remembers his father sitting at the desk, looking at that damn map religiously. He also remembers that he looked at him out of the corner of his eye, with his hand on his mouth so that Madara would not see his grin.

‘The world didn’t end because you didn’t get what you wanted, did it, Madara?’ Tajima asked as he watched his eldest son take a seat in the chair across the table, still pouting, his cheeks flushed and dirty. ‘You must understand that I am strict because I love you, and want the best for you.’

Madara loses sight of Izuna at that moment, when the little boy turns a corner. It takes him a little longer to move, as if being on hallowed ground had reminded him of his father. Madara turns and looks at the shrine under construction and the memory continues. He no longer remembers what he wanted that night. He was a little boy and a very silly one, too. Those were his last days as a child, before his first excursions to the battlefield began. Maybe it was something very stupid, nothing compared to what his distancing with Izuna was caused by.

“How difficult it is,” Madara says aloud, perhaps addressing his father, as if up there, he could hear him. “I have never been given to dealing with children, father. How am I to convince Izuna that I am doing this for his sake?”

No answer comes to him, of course. At least, not as he expects. The icy wind feels colder where he is, his hair dancing with it.

Madara walks down from the shrine and towards the forest, although it is more than obvious that he will not find anyone in there. The days are getting shorter, and his shadow is long as he approaches the village exit. He walks past the guards, who hardly pay any attention to him, for they are involved in a discussion about something that Madara didn’t hear.

His feet dig into the snow on the outskirts of the forest, and then, he hears the snap of a nearby branch. Madara continues without showing that he has heard it, but he does send a discreet glance to where the noise came from. There is someone hidden in the undergrowth, someone small.

Madara leaps towards that place with the agility of a cat and catches the snoop, making him scream in fright.

The boy drops the shiny object he was holding on a hand, and it falls into the snow, burying itself with a mute sound. A kunai, Madara discovers as he picks it up with his gloved hand. The snoop crawls back in the snow. A boy, there’s no doubt. A scared child.

“Come, get up already or you’ll ruin your clothes,” Madara orders.

The little boy nods and jumps to his feet. With trembling hands, he removes the snow that has stuck to his clothes and steps out of the foliage, where Madara can see him. It is Haru.

“What are you doing here, hidden in the forest?” Madara asks when the boy reaches the sunlight. “And what are you doing with this?” he says, handing him the kunai.

Haru takes it with trembling hands and Madara can’t help but let out a half-smile. He is identical to himself at his age, both physically and emotionally.

“I…” the little boy begins. “I come here sometimes, to train. I know that many people come to train in the forest, Madara-sama, so I have also come.”

Madara raises an eyebrow. “To train? What for?”

The boy gestures with his hands. “I know that the village is in danger, that there are outsiders who want to harm us. Sir, I live with my grandmother…she only has me, and only I can defend her. I am not going to sit idly by when danger is nearby.”

Madara’s eyes widen and sits on his heels, so that he can be even with the child’s eyes. “It is a noble motive,” the clan head says. “To train, so you may become stronger, to protect those you love. Well done, little Haru.”

Now it is the boy who widens his eyes and not only that, but his cheeks have also turned very red. He nods.

“But…” Madara says, “it is not necessary. I mean—you’re too young. Where did you leave your toy?”

Haru looks away. “I left it at home.”

Madara nods. “All right, and where did you get that?” He says, pointing to the kunai in the boy’s hands.

“I took it from my neighbour—please, Madara-sama, don’t scold him, for he doesn’t know I took it.”

Madara tilts his head and raises a dark eyebrow. “Child, you yourself just confessed, why should I scold your neighbour?”

The boy smiles and scratches the back of his neck, shyly.

“Either way—there’s no need for you to take up arms, Haru. Not yet. The day will come when you grow up a little more and then, if you want and only if you want to, you may become a shinobi to defend those you care about.”

“But, Madara-sama, is it true that we are in danger?”

How to explain him the current situation in the village without talking too much or scaring this little boy? Madara was not exaggerating in thinking that dealing with children is complicated.

“There is a certain situation in the village, yes, and there is also some… tension with other clans, but it is not something you need to worry about.” Madara stares into the boy’s eyes. “I won’t let anything bad happen to our clan, eh?” Then, he places a big hand on the boy’s frail shoulder. “Do you trust me?”

The boy nods without hesitation, which causes Madara to feel a pressure on his chest. “I fought the Senju since I was your age,” he says. “Did I wanted to do it? To be honest, I did not. I was worried about my clan, yes, but I also would have liked to play and laugh, make friends, or do other things children do.”

“I had a toy just like yours—a falcon too.” Madara continues. “My grandfather bred falcons,” he says with a sad smile, “and I used to ask him to give me a real one, even if it was a small one.”

“Did he give it to you?” Haru dares to ask. “Madara-sama, did you get it?”

Madara stares into the distance as if he is remembering that exact scene, and then shakes his head, turning to the boy. “Nay. He was a strict man with little tact in dealing with children. He used to say that I was too small to take on such a big responsibility and he never gave me one.” He lets out a laugh-like sound. “But my father, who overheard everything, came home days later with a small carved wooden falcon, just like yours.” Madara’s smile is huge. “Ah, how I adored that toy…I treasured it like nothing else. I remember that I even painted its feathers like those birds’ I had seen in the aviary. Until one day, I had to leave it at home to go fight the Senju. And, by being the clan head’s son, well—I was frequently required on the battlefield, and little by little I stopped paying attention to my toy, until one day I simply forgot about it.”

Haru tightens his grip on the kunai in his hand. Madara observes the gesture and adds, “That’s why I want you to play with your toy. Go home, Uchiha Haru, to your grandmother and play. I will protect our clan, and our village. You don’t need to fight yet.”

Both remain silent for a while, Madara lost in his own memories and the boy thinking about the possibilities of a future conflict and, pondering that this young man he admires so much may be right.

“I feel terrible standing by and doing nothing for our clan,” Haru says in a whisper.

Madara looks up at the little boy. He understands, he himself felt that way as a child. There are few things in the life of an Uchiha child more valuable than their pride.

He lets out a sigh and says, “Be a good boy and obey your grandmother—that’s something you can do. I am sick of seeing kids fighting, Haru. We adults cause the wars, and it is you, the children, who suffer them.” He shakes his head. “No more; this is something I can change. Trust me.”

“I do, Madara-sama.”

Madara still feels uncomfortable being called that.

“Then obey me and go home; give that kunai back to your neighbour and in a few years, when you are older and if you still want to become a shinobi, I will train you myself.” Haru’s eyes widen. Madara nods. “But for now,” he says, as he ruffles Haru’s dark hair, “be a good boy and do what boys do: play. Just don’t be so naughty nor drive your grandmother mad—”

Madara doesn’t finish speaking, for he runs out of air. Haru has released the kunai again and has ended up hugging Madara tightly instead, sending them both to the snowy ground.

The clan head doesn’t know what to do, so he just pats the boy on the back with a gloved hand.

“This…” the boy draws away from Madara realising what he is doing. Madara lets out a laugh. “Does this mean we are friends, Madara-sama?”

Madara never had any friends within his clan. Not even one. Since his childhood they were only his brothers and then, Hashirama.

He smiles as he answers, “Sure, Haru.” He stands up and a jolt of pain shakes him from head to toe, as if he’s been struck by lightning.

“Are you alright, Madara-sama?” Haru asks concerned. “A while ago, when you were coming towards the forest, I saw you limping and making some gestures of discomfort… is there something I can get you to feel better?”

Madara feels his face fill with heat. He hurriedly shakes his head and stutters until he manages to say, “N-no, everything’s fine—thank you. Maybe I am going to catch a cold, that’s all.”

The boy nods and swallows his lie as he bends down to grab back the kunai. He removes the remnants of snow on his clothes and wraps the kunai in a piece of cloth in precaution. “Then, I’ll go back home,” says the boy.

The later it gets, the colder; and since the girls are no longer there, he’d better come home, too.

Madara motions the little boy to walk back to the village with him, and Haru is dedicated to tell him about his days in the village, his toys and friends. Madara listens intently; this is all new to him. He doesn’t know what it feels like to have an Uchiha friend. Maybe it’s never too late to get the first one.

Neither of the two Uchiha realise it, but not far away, among the remnants of tents that still populate the village, is Izuna, who watches the scene attentively and with interest. And he smiles, for he understands better than anyone what a friend means to his brother and knows how important it is for Madara to know that he is loved.

 

* * *

 

Tobirama always seems to be into work. This is how Hashirama finds him that day, with his eyes on a scroll he is holding in his hands. Before him, there is a map nailed to the table and some letters and scrolls scattered everywhere. He has even left the inkwell open.

Hashirama closes the door behind him and it’s this noise what makes Tobirama look away from the scroll to his brother.

He’s fifteen, why does his face is always the same: stern and neutral—this morning even more than usual. Tobirama looks at him for a moment, before letting out an annoyed sigh and returning his attention to the paper in his hands.

Hashirama knows when his brother is angry. And Hashirama also knows that he deserves a bit of those angry stares and exaggerated sighs. He is the same as his father, although he does not like to accept it.

“Well?” Hashirama breaks the ice as he approaches the desk. There are too many letters in there…many more than he would like to deal with. No wonder his brother is always so moody.

Tobirama drops the scroll and puts a couple of fingers to the bridge of his nose.

Hashirama insists, “Are you so angry at me that you don’t want to even talk?”

Tobirama sighs.

“You acted like a lewd adolescent yesterday,” says his brother, the actual adolescent in there. “You always act like there’s not pressure on us.”

“I am no fool, either.” Hashirama defends himself. “I know we are in times of uncertainty.”

“Well, it doesn’t seem like it.”

Hashirama watches his brother tiding up the desk as he ponders what to say. He has pissed off his brother in the past, of course, but now the silence inside that room feels tense like never before.

“Well, if you don’t plan on talking to me…then, I’ll come back another time, when your anger has subsided a bit.”

Tobirama takes a long time to answer, as if he knows that Hashirama won’t leave without first putting an end to that matter. “I’ve told you before, Anija, you can’t keep excusing Uchiha Madara forever. It was fine when it was just us who witnessed your lover’s tantrums, but last night… people of importance to our village saw him behaving like a small child who has had his favourite toy taken away. He is the leader of the Uchiha and behaves like a bratty child—even Izuna thought he was out of line; even he was embarrassed to see his older brother acting like that…” Tobirama stacks the papers on the side and lets out yet another tired sigh. “Let’s make a deal, Anija, either you reprimand him, or I will. The voting day is approaching and there are still some jesters who think that he would be a proper Hokage…”

Hashirama nods. He crosses his arms at chest height. “I am one of those jesters, Tobirama. I—I still think there is no one else in this village more suitable than him to be our Hokage.”

Tobirama leans back against the chair and puts his hands to his face.

“It’s all right, calm down, Tobi—you know you’re in second place.”

“My answer is the same, Anija: either you reprimand him, or I will. He’s an adult and more than that, he’s the fucking head of the Uchiha clan…even Izuna did a better job than him—and he’s fourteen.”

A frown has appeared on Hashirama’s forehead, even though he knows that what his brother says is quite true. But who is he going to listen to, then—his head, that tells him that Tobirama is right—or his heart, that tells him that, without a doubt, Uchiha Madara has done nothing wrong in his life?

“We have no time,” Tobirama adds, still not daring to look at his brother. “The Daimyo plans to pay us a visit soon and hopes to meet the Hokage when he arrives. Therefore, it is necessary to hold another meeting to agree on a new date for the election and, speed up the entire process.”

Hashirama remains silent. Tobirama continues, “And for our sake—for your sake… you’d better hold on tight to Madara’s leash for these last few days, so he doesn’t keep going around darkening your reputation any longer than he already has. I warned him—I warned Madara not to tarnish your name and he did just the opposite. We cannot trust him.”

The older Senju feels the words clumping together on the tip of his tongue, threatening to run away to defend Madara, but he also feels them heavy in the back of his mouth, unable to say anything.

He feels powerless, helpless. Tobirama is angry, furious…even he can feel his chakra flaring up, rising in livid fumaroles around the room.

Hashirama licks his lips before speaking. “Tobirama,” his voice is calm yet strong. “You are my brother, my little brother. The only one left alive. And if you’ve made it this far alive, it’s not because I’ve done a good job protecting you, but because you’ve always been strong and independent and never seem to let your fears hold you back.” He smiles sadly. “I, on the other hand, am not that strong…Madara often says that I am a sensitive man.” He laughs. “It’s curious, is it not? It seems like I can never speak without bringing Madara into my mouth…but it’s true.”

“Madara and I are very different.” Hashirama continues. “Different, like day and night, but there is something in which we have always been alike—in fact, I think that it was the main reason we became friends from day one: our unconditional love for our younger brothers.”

“You are my brother, Tobirama—my little brother. The strongest, the smartest…few things can really hurt you, but I am sure that if something were to happen to you…if someday you stumbled or were distracted for a mere instant, and something happened to you, I—” Hashirama shakes his head. “I would definitely go crazy. I would destroy everything that has life and colour in the world; I would extinguish the last tree and even the last flower. So,” Hashirama raises a hand in the air as his brother tries to interrupt him, “let me defend Madara, for the same fear that consumes him right now, since our last council—since the moment Izuna raised his hand to sacrifice himself in the name of this village called Konoha, is consuming me as well.” Hashirama smiles again. “Konoha—did you know that Madara thought of that name as he watched the leaves fall in our patio?” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know how no-one realised that name was his idea…he’s always been creative.”

Tobirama frowns, ignoring a big part of his brother’s discourse.

“So this is your excuse?” Tobirama asks. “Last night he acted like a jerk because he’s afraid of losing Izuna? Does he have so little faith in his own brother?”

“It’s not that simple, Tobi.”

“Oh, it is, Anija. I know folk like him. I know he’s doing all this—this martyr role to win sympathy, either from a clan that can barely stand him or from you. Yeah, he’s always been like this. He knows you’re indeed a sensitive person and knows how to control you at his whim.”

His brother says, “I’m going to defend Uchiha Madara, not with sentimentality for I know that it doesn’t work with you, but with reason, with the truth—I defend him, because I know I’d be just as desperate as he is if you were in trouble. He pretends not to be interested in this village, but I—who do know him so well—know that he does. He cares about its people to the point that he will go to negotiate while I am left here with my hands tied. He will go to an unknown place, and I will stay here, wondering if he is well, if he is cold or hungry… and I cannot do anything about it, except supporting him in his decision. Yes, that’s how he felt when he knew that there was a possibility of losing his little brother. And I just stared, without doing or saying anything, because I didn’t think that Izuna could be in any danger, but now—”

“Anija, enough.”

Hashirama shakes his head. A tear escapes from his eye. Senju Hashirama is indeed a big, sensitive man.

“Now, he’s going to leave, and I cannot think…I don’t want to. I don’t want him to leave just when I’ve finally got him.”

“He caused all of this,” Tobirama says. Hashirama wipes his cheek before facing him. “It’s only fair that he is the one to settle the matter.”

Hashirama frowns.

“Oh, get rid of that disinterested face you put on when it comes to the Uchiha, Tobirama.” The big brother is furious. “Perhaps you hated them one day, when you were forced to follow our father’s orders, but with his death, that hatred may had also dwindled to the point that—”

 “Anija…”

“You hurt Izuna!” Hashirama insists. “I saw his wound; I have treated many of those in my life to be able to recognise when a wound is made with the intention of killing—like that one. You wanted to kill him, you almost did, you could have—why didn’t you? Why is Izuna still alive? You hurt and healed him, but never finished that work—I did it, days ago. Why is he still alive? For this alliance? Oh, come, brother. So, I cannot conceive the idea of you still arguing that you don’t trust the Uchiha.”

“I mistrust Uchiha Madara, that’s all. I have no problem with the rest of his clan. At our next meeting, I will tell the rest of our allies about the letter that came from the desert, as well as the one from the Daimyo—and there, in front of everyone, Madara will be able to suggest himself to be the intermediary for the village’s sake. And then, he could go prove himself as a worthy ally.” Hashirama clenches his fists at his sides. “Come in, Izuna—I know you’re there,” Tobirama says loudly. Hashirama turns to the door and through it enters the youngest of the Uchiha brothers.

Hashirama doesn’t take his eyes off him until he reaches the desk, where the little boy leaves even more scrolls.

“Where is your brother?” Hashirama asks the boy.

Izuna replies without parting his eyes from the desk, “The last time I saw him, he was going to the aviary.”

Hashirama nods and before leaving, he sends Tobirama one last look.

 

* * *

 

All the ardour that flamed inside his chest was not consumed when he saw Madara in the middle of a snow-clad field, but quite the opposite, for it ended up burning everything around them, until they were covered in cinders.

It is sunset; the sun is half-hidden behind the trees. Uchiha Madara, is wrapped in the last rays of the sun, blurring his shadow into a long smudge that reaches where Hashirama is standing.

And as if he had sensed him coming, and he sure did, Madara turns the instant Hashirama’s feet reach the clearing. A figure walks silently towards him; his feet burying themselves silently in the snow.

“What are you doing here, so far from civilization?” Hashirama asks from a distance.

Madara smiles but doesn’t answer. He is not alone and the creature that accompanies him is the one who welcomes him. Not far from them, up in the air, there is the tinkling of bells and then, a call to Hashirama, for the bird can easily recognise him from above.

After some more somersaults, the bird swoops down towards the hand that is already waiting for her. Upon landing, she sends a new call to Hashirama, as if she is encouraging him to come sooner, to encounter her master.

“Nice bells, little bird,” says Hashirama.

“They put them on when someone other than Izuna or me flies her, and I forgot to take them off,” Madara explains, proud of his bird. “She’s beautiful, is she not?”

“Very.” Hashirama says and is not lying. “I went looking for you at the aviary, and they told me that Madara-sama had gone out with Tomoe for a walk, and that I could find them around here.”

Madara gives him a half smile. “My, my, Senju—can’t you go for a while without seeing me?”

Hashirama scratches the back of his neck, his cheeks flushed. “Apparently not.”

His answer pleases Madara more than Hashirama could imagine. The bird moves anxiously in the gauntlet, wishing perhaps to return to the skies to stretch her wings?

The young Uchiha understands her request and raises his arm in the air, so that the pilgrim opens again in flight. They both look at her dumbfounded from the land.

Hashirama clears his throat and asks, “How’s her wing?”

Madara bites his lip before replying. “Good—perfect.”

It seems so, Hashirama muses as he watches the bird flying again with agility and speed.

Hashirama turns to his side, to the pleased young man who stares at the sky. “What’s wrong?” Madara asks when feeling Hashirama’s gaze on him. But Hashirama doesn’t know what to say. He had planned to tell him about his recent altercation with Tobirama, but the grin on Madara’s face is too big and precious, and Hashirama fears that he will ruin it just by bringing it up.

And he is speechless. “It is nothing,” he says at last.

With Madara it has never been easy to be a liar. Those Uchiha seem to smell lies from a distance.

Madara raises an eyebrow. “Nothing, huh?” he says, as if he had read his mind. Then, he sends another look at the bird in the sky, “Do you want me to teach you? How to call her to come to you, I mean.”

This is a relief, a respite after that little storm. Hashirama nods. A quick lesson would help him get rid of the awful vertigo he feels in the gut. “Sure.”

Madara unties his gauntlet and adjusts it on Hashirama’s hand, his fingers purposely brushing against his skin with each movement. Hashirama shivers, but not just from Madara’s touch, but from some other dark premonition.

“It’s not the only thing you should learn,” Madara says, his fingers still stroking Hashirama’s skin in small circles. The other man searches for his eyes and when meeting them, Madara adds, “I mean—I do not know how long I’ll be away from home. And I’d like you to take her out once in a while—of course, as long as it’s not too cold.”

“Madara…” The Uchiha’s dark eyes bore into the depths of his own. “There is nothing stipulated yet. We need another council where everything is settled before we make plans. Something will occur us, let’s wait.”

Madara shifts his gaze to the bird in the sky, his safe place. Looks like she’s having a lot of fun up there.

“That doesn’t change the fact that negotiations have to be done and that I’ll have to go.”

Hashirama really wished they didn’t have to discuss these situations in there. “I just had another discussion with Tobirama about it, Madara. I wish I didn’t have to talk about this right now.”

Madara says, “You brother is still angry about me being impolite last night, isn’t he? I bothered your friends, perhaps? Or maybe they think of me a hopelessly, immature madman?” He lets out a forced laugh, but his grin doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s not that I care much what your little brother thinks, but he’s not wrong about this—we need to get things settled once and for all. Hostage exchanges are a slow thing and negotiations on a new truce take even longer. The sooner it all happens,” he lets out a sigh, “the better it will be.”

Hashirama bites his lip. The bird calls to them from the air.

“Also…” Hashirama turns to Madara upon hearing him. Their eyes meet. “You also need to learn the secret code of the Uchiha.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen. “I thought…Madara, that’s a tradition from generations ago. This crosses the boundaries between clans and alliances. These kinds of situations are reasonable only in…” he looks up into Madara’s dark eyes. Then, he clears his throat and adds, “in marriage. Between spouses is something…”

“Common,” Madara nods, averting Hashirama’s gaze, back to the bird. “Yes, quite common.”

But even so, Madara…

“A war strategy, Madara. You plan to give me the secret key to your clan.”

The Uchiha shrugs and says, “Will I break a centuries-old tradition just so I can send secret messages with you when far? Yes, I will. We Uchiha use it as a mean of security.” His eyes fly back to Hashirama’s. “We are taught as children as soon as we master the common language. My ancestors won’t be pleased with me, but…” He shrugs and chuckles, “It’s not like they’ll be too surprised at me, right? Am I not the black sheep of the Uchiha since I was a child? What difference does one more sin resting on my shoulders?”

Madara calls out to the bird and then, shows Hashirama how he should position his arm to facilitate Tomoe’s arrival. It would be an almost impossible task if his falcon wasn’t so smart and if Hashirama were a stranger to her.

The bird lands smoothly on Hashirama’s arm, as if she hadn’t noticed the slightest change between the falconers.

They both smile at the bird and then at each other. Before he can stop himself, Hashirama leans in just a bit and catches Madara’s lips without the Uchiha being able to do anything about it. His skin is cold. The sun has already hidden behind the trees and only a few rays can penetrate the thickness of the forest.

Marriage, the word keeps bouncing around inside Hashirama’s head. A secret, unique code to that powerful clan—worthy of being shared with non-Uchiha people only through marriage.

And Madara wants you to learn it. He wants you to learn their secret.

“So, what do you think?” Madara asks as he prepares Tomoe to go back to the village, in his arm again.

Hashirama can barely concentrate. The shock of his innuendo is still too strong to let it pass so easily.

“About the Uchiha code?” Hashirama asks. Madara nods. “It would be an honour for me, if you would teach me.” Madara’s face is flushed. “But are you sure? As I understand it, you are going to break a tradition that goes back to the beginning of the conflict between clans. That means you are confident that there will be no more wars between Uchiha and Senju in the future.”

It means that you consider me more than just your lover…

Hashirama doesn’t know what to think.

Madara points with his free arm to the village that grows below the clearing. “I like to think that this—that Konoha will last a long time.” Both are smiling now, giving each other a slight respite from all those past tensions. “And, as long as she doesn’t fall—no more wars between us will be necessary. For that reason, I am very confident in my decision.”

The falcon makes a noise at that moment, as if she too agrees with him. Madara’s smile widens. “I had been thinking all day about how I would propose this to you, and whether you would accept it.”

Propose? Hashirama shivers. He licks his lips before saying, “Like I already said, it will be my honour if you teach me. I will use it with extreme caution.”

“Only with me,” Madara conditions; the motionless falcon in his hand chirps. “Hashirama, this is something you would only use with just me.”

Hashirama grins, blushing. “Of course, of course.”

Madara also smiles, very pleased.

When they arrive at the village, the torches are being lit.

 

* * *

 

Tobirama rolls the scroll across the table, and it ends up reaching almost to the opposite side, where the leader of the Shimura clan is. The man tries to read some of the characters written there, but in that moment, Tobirama regains the attention of all the attendees and his sight is lost in the scarlet eyes that he has in front.

“In a little less than a month, the Daimyo plans to pay us a visit, to see how we have been building the village.” Tobirama says. “To see how we’ve used the capital he sent and see what’s missing…” he lets out a weary sigh. “You know, routine stuff.”

Those present nod and murmur among themselves.

Madara feels a bit out of place. They ignore him, even though he’s standing all the way to the front, on the opposite side from Hashirama, who’s standing to the right of his brother—both at the head of the table. It is the first time this has happened, Madara notes, as if little by little, Tobirama is seeking to be supplanted on purpose by the natural brilliance of his older brother.

“In the letter he indicated that he hopes to have an assembly, where he can converse with the Hokage and the other clan heads.” This has made them all fall silent. “As you may recall, our plans for the Hokage election were agreed upon for the beginning of the year—however, this letter changes our plans. We—my brother and I— have a suspicion that the Daimyo has received word from prying voices about our issues with the sand clans. He plans to meet with their own Daimyo soon. Perhaps he is doing so as we speak, to seek an early solution, which, as you can imagine, may be detrimental to us, as we are a growing village and need the capital for Konoha to continue to prosper…”

Inside the room whispers are heard and now, Madara can feel all eyes on him. On the other side of the table, on Tobirama’s left side is Izuna, whose dark eyes have locked on those of his older brother’s—serious, but without the sharpen of days ago.

Beside Madara, Naori fidgets. She tucks her hair behind her ear on repeat and when she doesn’t, she twists her fingers. All the Uchiha present there carry an invisible guilt for the sole fact of having that blood running through their veins. All reproachful glances fall on them.

Come on, Madara thinks. Say it, you cowards. Point those fingers at me if you dare.

No clan should suffer for the actions of a single individual.

No verbal accusation happens, of course. They are not as idiotic as Madara might expect. They do not like the Uchiha, but recognise that they are a powerful clan, and that their shinobi form a difficult army to defeat. A new war between clans is not convenient when their armies are so decimated, and they know it.

“We could make them come,” the Yamanaka leader suggests. “Let them come and talk…they are the ones who need Konoha’s fertile surroundings, not the other way around.”

“Yes,” comments the ever-smiling Sarutobi. “Why should we bother fighting clans that live in the desert? We have lived all our lives without needing them…nothing has changed—we do not need them at all.”

More heads nod. The murmurs inside the room agglomerate till grade of suffocation.

Madara sends Tobirama a look, but the youngest of the Senju brothers has a habit of ignoring him during councils. Instead, he feels a brown gaze on him which weight he recognises, and he ends up staring into that pair of eyes. Hashirama shrugs. Madara doesn’t know what to do.

When? When are you going to mention the hostages? Madara is dying to see the faces of those present when they see that Uchiha Madara, whom they detest so much, is about to leave the village as a fucking scapegoat for the sake of all those ungrateful bastards.

“It’s not that simple,” Tobirama says, pointing to the scroll he unrolled on the table earlier. “Their leader has put some conditions on us.”

“Conditions?” Sasuke asks with an amused air. There is no concern in him, but it seems that he is always ready to turn everything into a jest. “I don’t think they can condition us at all. They should be thankful that we haven’t go to destroy their huts because of what they did to the Uzumaki.”

“He’s right, there are things that simply cannot be resolved through dialogue,” says one of the clan heads, whose name Madara has forgotten. “We should have taken justice by our own hand a long time ago. By hesitating this much, they have taken us for fragile, to the extent that now they come to impose conditions on us.”

The leaders nod to each other.

“Yes…how many heads of those shinobi would it take for them to pay off that debt to the Uzumaki?” It is the leader of the Shimura who speaks, and points with both hands to the small group of Uzumaki standing behind Mito’s back. “This village has failed you—you were supposed to be safe here. Many clans have travelled from far, carrying nothing but the clothes they wore, for they thought they would be safe here. If we let this go unpunished, then any of us could suffer a similar fate. Any other village could come to attack us knowing that we do nothing against those who offend us.”

The clan heads nod to each other. Madara can hardly distinguish between all that jumble of voices.

“My family came a long and dangerous way here, because you assured us that we would be safe…I didn’t bring them to put them in danger, within the reach of a new enemy…” says Sarutobi Sasuke, for the first time annoyed, next to the Shimura.

Tobirama tries to bring order to the voices. He raises his hands high, in vain.

“We’re not going to lower ourselves to their level,” Hashirama says, hands steady on the desk. His voice is not very strong, but still, he manages to make himself heard in the crowd. They all turn to him. “We will not attack if we can dialogue through peace. Or tell me, Shimura-sama, for you are older and lived through a much different war than me—tell me, what good did blood feuds do the clans? Did they end the war?” Hashirama shakes his head. “On the contrary, they made it bloodier and deadlier. As far as I can remember, entire villages were wiped out, reducing old clans to a few members who now wander in the shadows, forced to hide their names…”

“This will be done through dialogue and if, even so, the time to fight comes, we will do it in unity. Not as a dozen clans united by alliances, but as a single army, whose sole purpose will be to protect Konoha and its inhabitants.”

Half a dozen heads nod at the young shinobi as they murmur to each other. In front of Hashirama are the Uzumaki and their leader, Mito, smiles at him proudly. Hashirama’s face grows hot.

“That’s quite a beautiful speech, Hashirama,” Sasuke points out. “But we are already fleeing a war, our armies are decimated and tired—our people are terrified. We are not prepared for one more war… we would not endure it.”

“That is why I advocate dialogue, so that we can resolve this as soon as possible and under a white flag. I was in that war too, Sarutobi Sasuke, and I understand the tiredness in the armies. I would not start a new war, not if it can be avoided with astuteness.”

“How?” Asks the Shimura. “Explain yourself, Senju.”

Hashirama nods. “They are asking for an exchange of hostages, to ensure that the dialogue will be done in a fair way.”

A laugh is heard across the table. Of course, it’s that Shimura. “And who will be the poor bastard to be sent on that suicide mission? Will we have to vote on this too, Senju?”

Now the voices sound worried. They want peace, but none of them seem to be willing to make the least of the sacrifices to achieve it.

The cowardice of those bootlickers encourages him to speak.

“I will go,” Madara says out loud. For the first time that evening, eyes turn to him with interest. Everyone waits in silence. “They plan to send the boy who defeated the Uzumaki—the same boy I left alive after defeating his comrades. They call it an exchange, but I call it an ‘eye for an eye.’”

“Madara,” Hashirama calls.

But Madara does not stop, “We can choose this Hokage, and after the Daimyo comes, we could exchange hostages to carry out the negotiations…it is the most sensible thing that comes to my mind.”

Izuna is now looking at his brother. He has discreetly moved and is now circling the room to reach Madara.

“Since when do we have to listen to what Uchiha Madara order us?” The Shimura says. “Aren’t we in this situation because of you?”

Madara places his gloved hands on the table, to get closer to that other man.

“You, the Shimura and all the other clans inside this room, whether you like it or not—need the Uchiha.”

The Shimura makes an ugly gesture. “Is this a threat?”

Madara grins. “It’s not a threat at all—I’m just stating the obvious. Whether you all like it or not,” he repeats, pointing a finger to all clan heads, “you need us.”

He can feel Tobirama’s angry gaze on him and, by the corner of his eye, he sees that Izuna is getting closer to him. And above all things, he avoids eyeing Hashirama.

“You better leash your pet, Senju,” the Shimura sneers, unfazed by Madara’s sharp canines and scarlet eyes. “Or he will end up causing us more trouble.”

“What did you call my brother?” growls Izuna. Madara stretches out an arm to prevent his little brother from launching into an attack.

Hashirama doesn’t fall for his taunts either, but still points out, “The desert clans intended to fight us long before the attack on the Uzumaki happened.” Again, all attention is on him, even Madara’s. “When Madara and I met them in the forest, they already had the intention of attacking both the Senju and Uchiha, knowing that the two of us had disappeared.”

“I was unaware you were present there, Senju,” the Shimura points out.

A woman is heard laughing.

“The minstrels tend to ignore your presence in the story, to give the Uchiha an antagonistic role, I guess,” says the Yamanaka leader, always diverted.

Hashirama nods and adds, “Madara defended this village when it didn’t yet exist, when it was nothing more than a group of tents populated by disgraced, tired, and impoverished clans—you owe him respect and thankfulness at the very least, for he is not to blame here—Madara is just the one our enemies recognised.” Then, he sweeps the entire place with a serious look. “I will not allow him to be disrespected in my presence.”

“Order here!” Tobirama growls and all eyes turn to the boy. For the first time his voice is trembling, as if he wanted to eliminate those last words said by his brother. “We are all adults here—I trust that we will know how to behave as such.”

The Shimura clears his throat. His ugly grin still hanging on his lips.

Tobirama continues, “Let’s have the vote by the end of this week and then we’ll have time to plan the Daimyo’s visit. Later, we’ll do the hostage exchange, so we can have a truce by the beginning of the year. What do you think, clan heads?”

The leaders meditate in silence, though there is a lot of whispering, too.

In the end, the Shimura is encouraged to comment, “And if this doesn’t end on good terms, we’ll have the first battles by spring, right?”

Madara does everything humanly possible not to roll his eyes.

“I hope this situation won’t escalate into a new war,” Tobirama replies. “I am confident that we will be able to achieve a new alliance that covers the interests of all…in peace.”

“You haven’t said, though,” Sasuke says, raising a hand to speak, “if Uchiha Madara is truly going on exchange. I mean, I don’t want to go—I know what tend to happen to hostages when negotiations fail. I’ve seen this before and it never ends well. I am about to be a father… the last thing I want is to leave those I love unprotected.”

“We all have loved ones,” Izuna says dismissively. “No one wants this sacrifice.”

“As I said,” says the Shimura, “we should have attacked them long ago. A quick revenge would have kept them away from here, for their own good.”

People keep chattering. Tobirama asks for order in the room again.

Madara is fed up. This has already taken too long; his stomach growls with hunger. He craves a hot bath, delicious food, and Hashirama.

“I started this, didn’t I? I will go on exchange.” Madara insists. “As simple as that. You can sleep easy tonight, Sarutobi.”

Sasuke frowns at the Uchiha, his face redden in anger.

“The most sensible thing to do would be to wait for the Hokage’s selection before deciding who will go to the desert as hostage, Madara—” Hashirama says.

“And I’ll go with him,” Mito offers herself, taking a step forward, surprising everyone, Madara included. All eyes are fixed on the redhead. “They owe me a blood debt; it is my family that they offended. It is me that they must give explanations to—I will also go.”

What? Madara frowns and the redhead holds his gaze as if she’s saying, you’re not going to change my mind, Uchiha.

This changes all his plans. This changes everything.

“We’ll discuss this as soon as the Hokage is chosen,” Tobirama says, rolling up the scroll again. “Go home and ponder, who among us is the most suitable for that position?” There are serious faces everywhere; some are suspicious, others annoyed. “See you in a few days.”

 

* * *

 

Mito has a sharp eye.

Sometimes she tends to wander in the northern reaches, where the Uchiha settle in. And it seems to be a joke that her steps always lead her to meet, even from afar, with Uchiha Madara.

One could think it’d be hard for the redhead to go unnoticed among the dark-haired clan, but every so often it is easy for her, and it is then that she notices the changes that the stability in that village and his settling in the company of Senju Hashirama have caused in the young man. He’s still stern, of course, but now he tends to wave back to whatever Uchiha greets him—which, are quite a few. She knows little about him—nothing, more like. Everything she knows about Madara is what she has heard from Naori’s memories or from Izuna.

She knows that he goes to see his clan every day, always punctual. He listens to their needs, he cares about them—and Mito is aware that he doesn’t do it with the intention of winning votes, but because it’s in his blood to keep an eye on his people.

“He’s a good man,” an Uchiha woman tells her, seeing that the redhead is showing an interest in Madara. She may be believed to be one of his many admirers.

Mito nods and listens. “We may not have had much faith in him at first, as we were a bit shocked when he left the clan, but he has returned with every readiness to fulfil his duty. His father would be very proud of him.”

Mito doesn’t know what to answer, so she just smiles, without taking her eyes off the young leader, who is coming down from the shrine.

“He’s quite strange,” Mito finally answers. “Grumpy and thoughtful.” Madara is talking to an Uchiha boy, who keeps showing him insistently something. What will it be? A toy perhaps? “But a good person, in the end.”

Other times, she doesn’t have to go far from home and ends up meeting the Senju brothers or even, more frequently, their cousin Touka, who usually invites her to eat dango, in the centre of the village.

Mito loves dango. They didn’t have those in her old home and since she settled in Konoha she has been able to realise how much she likes sweet dishes. Maybe one day they should invite Naori to eat with them.

Then something, or rather someone, catches her eye as they eat. It is Hashirama and he’s talking to his brother. It hasn’t been a long time and sometimes, her gaze still flies against her will, towards her former intended when he walks by.

Mito takes another bite of her dango. Fortunately, the Senju brothers cannot see them, as the two girls are covered by the restaurant banner.

Hashirama is gesturing with his hands, here and there—always grinning—to Tobirama and both pass down the street, unaware of their presence. However, they never walk alone, it seems. Behind them follows their entourage and among them is Izuna, the only one to notice their presence.

Izuna greets them with a wave and a smile. Mito wipes her lips before waving back. She feels herself blushing, and hears Touka giggle, perhaps having seen her.

“Something’s off in that group,” Touka says. “Where is the infamous Uchiha Madara?”

In the Uchiha district, Mito thinks, helping to get cats down from trees, helping old women to cross the streets.

“I didn’t know you liked him,” says Mito. “Perhaps a marriage between you and an Uchiha would have ended the wars much sooner.”

Touka lets out a laugh.

“Not at all—I am afraid he’s not my type, just as I am not his.”

Mito doesn’t really know what to say. She sends her gaze to the delicious dango in her hand, instead.

“It’s been a crazy week.” Touka says as the founders move out of their sight. Her cheek in one hand, her shining eyes on the Uzumaki girl.

Mito nods, as it indeed has been.

“As it was to be expected,” Mito says, taking a last bite of her dango. “We are about to choose the first Hokage.”

Tomorrow is the voting day, and they will be in charge of giving transparency to the entire event. It will be a very exhausting day.

But, nevertheless, she feels her chest swelling with pride for a fertile land so far and different from the place where her was born.

A home is where what makes us happy is found, it seems.

“I’ll go order more,” says Touka when she’s finishes her own dango.

Mito makes an attempt to stop her. “Do not even think about it.”

“Uzumaki—sometimes, you have to know when to break the rules a bit,” the Senju girl says, winking, getting up to go order again.

And sometimes, happiness comes in the form of dango.

 

* * *

 

“Like this?” Hashirama asks.

Madara leans forward, to the half-filled piece of scroll resting at Hashirama’s feet. His Senju is a fast learner.

“Yes, just like that,” Madara grins as Hashirama leans in at once, but to reach his teacher’s lips.

“Now, this is cheating,” Madara says, but without taking his lips from Hashirama’s. “The condition was…”

“No kisses, no hugs, no caresses, no nothing…” Hashirama nods, still giving him light, soft kisses between each of his words, “until I learn the basics of the Uchiha code, am I right?”

Madara responds with one more kiss, barely a touch. All right, he’s also breaking the rules he himself set, dammit. But it really doesn’t matter…one more kiss won’t hurt anyone.

“Either way, you’re doing fine,” Madara says, sitting down in a flawless seiza, regaining his composure, and keeping a safe distance from him. He tucks an unruly strand of hair behind his ear, exposing his right eye. Why does he suddenly want to please him? Why does he expose his eye when he is alone with him? Just because Hashirama has repeatedly told him, especially when they make love, how much he likes to look him in the eyes? “Actually,” Madara clears his throat, “I think you’ll be able to master it completely before the month is out.”

Hashirama bites his lip. He picks up the brush again and dips it into the ink, before continuing to write. Then, Hashirama turns the scroll in Madara’s direction. Madara can’t help but smirk like a fool when he sees what he has written.

‘Thank you, my teacher.’

Madara feels his ears grow hot. He picks up another scroll, the one Hashirama used on his first day of class, and reluctantly throws it at him. “Enough; now, rewrite this whole row—look at this, I can hardly recognise what you wrote there. Go on, go on—do it again!”

Hashirama smiles mischievously, but he still complies. He picks up a clean piece of scroll and dips the brush back into the ink before starting on his new task.

Madara notices that Hashirama has improved very quickly with his strokes. It’s been, what? About five days since he started teaching him? And yet, Hashirama already knows to write basic stuff. He will be about the level of a small school-age child soon. Madara bites his lip to hide a grin; he’s quite surprised—he’s not exaggerating when he says that Hashirama will master the code very soon.

“Tell me more about your childhood,” Hashirama says, still writing. His eyes attentive to what he is doing. His strokes don’t falter a bit. “Madara, tell me how you learned to write in this code.”

Madara often ignores his childhood memories. Not many of them are prosperous, and he has forgotten the unimportant ones. So, he feels that he has been left with nothing interesting to tell him.

“Like I told you before, I hated wasting my free time staying inside the tent, writing.” Madara says with a sad smile on his face. “I especially hated when they castigated me, and I had to copy entire volumes… I mean, I could have spent those entire afternoons playing in the forest.” Hashirama smiles as he continues to write, as if he is imagining it. “But I really liked spending time with the books that had belonged to mother, you know? It was as if that way, she would be there, with me, teaching me. I did not mind spending a lot of time alone, then.” Madara is silent for a long time and Hashirama sends furtive glances at him, using the excuse of taking the brush to the inkwell. “Tajima used to insist that it was very important for me to learn about all kinds of things. He said that an ignorant leader would not be of much use, no matter how strong he was. So, knowing that I was given to running away from my lessons when alone, he would send me to my grandfather’s tent, where I would not dare to run away.” Madara winces in pain. “That damn old man didn’t hesitate to beat me up when he suspected that I had misbehaved. Heh, I guess I ended up inheriting his unbearable charisma.”

Hashirama laughs and their gazes meet for a few seconds.

“I do not think you’re unbearable at all, Madara.”

Well, that’s because you’re fucking me, he thinks.

“I liked to write, you know?” Madara goes on to say, as if he is talking to himself, his voice low and sleepy. “I used to take clean pieces of paper and write down stories that came to my mind, adventures I wish I had had, of creatures I wish I met in the forest—an evil ogre who ate Uchiha children who were bad-mannered, and a ferocious tengu who wandered the woods, protecting me.”

“A tengu that protected you?” Hashirama asks, stopping the brush halfway to the paper. A dark drop crashes on the paper, on top of a character that has not yet dried. “Isn’t that a bit contradictory?”

Madara shrugs. “I was a boy, Hashirama. Never ask a child for logic—write.”

Hashirama chuckles and continues writing.

“It was fun anyway, being a child, I mean—having no worries other than playing in the woods late at night, fearing some monster would eat me.” Madara smiles wistfully. “Now everything is very different…”

The fuurin ring in the patio as they are moved by the wind, and one of the candles ends up consumed in a snap.

“Being an adult has its perks, Madara,” Hashirama says, setting the brush aside. He blows on the freshly applied ink and then turns the scroll over, proudly displaying it to him. “Look, in record time.”

Madara smirks and takes the scroll in his hands. The new strokes are clean and clear—despite the ink stain. His sentences are becoming more understandable, better structured.

He’s so proud of him, and it probably shows in his face.

“‘The cold winds that come down from the mountain are cruel to the people,’” Madara reads aloud. His voice echoes in the room. “Very well done, Senju.”

Hashirama smiles pleased. He tucks a strand of hair behind his own ear and says, “So what’s my prize?”

Madara raises an eyebrow and utters, “A kiss.”

“Only a kiss?” Hashirama complains.

“All right, three.” Madara says, holding up three slender fingers in the air. Hashirama pouts. “You have practiced very little today and it’s almost midnight, Hashirama, how can you even wish for more? We agreed that the prizes would grow as you got better at your writing.”

Hashirama lies down on the futon and stares up at the ceiling. The room is very warm that night. So much so, that both wear only their yukata.

“I had a very busy day today, that’s all,” Hashirama murmurs and yawns. “I met one of your cousins, you know? Well, at least she assured me that you were her cousin—she’s with child, and according to my calculations, she’s due at the beginning of the year. Can you imagine the first baby born in Konoha being an Uchiha?”

Madara has many cousins, so it’s hard for him to think who they could be. “Konoha’s first baby, an Uchiha? Hmm, just don’t you dare tell your brother,” he says, jokingly.

Hashirama chuckles and continues, “But you know? Not everything I checked today was pregnancies. There were also patients with permanent ailments. I have told Tobirama about the need for a hospital. We already have the space to build it, now we just lack the means and time to do it, hence the importance of our meeting with the Daimyo being fruitful. But in the meantime—there are many sick people and very few hands. Forgive me, darling; tomorrow I’ll practice twice as much, yes? I am tired.”

Madara puts aside the used papers and replaces them with new ones. He rises and walks over to the futon and falls next to Hashirama. He leans in, his hair falling thickly over, covering them both like a jet-black waterfall, as he presses his lips against Hashirama’s. His hard work and good effort would be worth a few more kisses and why not? Perhaps, a curious hand too.

That’s why he doesn’t flinch when Hashirama’s hand enter his clothes, much less when he catches something stiff inside.

Madara lets out a whimper.

“You could have told me sooner, you f-fool,” he says, stuttering. “You could have skipped practice tonight.”

Hashirama plants a kiss on his shoulder and shakes his head. “Coming home to you, Madara, is the best part of my day. And spending time with you, practicing, makes me very happy.” Hashirama squeezes his erection hard. Madara gasps. “Hand me more paper now, darling; I want to keep practicing—I am dying to fuck you.”

Madara laughs nervously. Hashirama’s eyes have darken, so there is no doubt in Madara that he means it.

“We can leave it at that for today—your practice, I mean.”

But Hashirama insists, “I’m a man of my word; I will practice, and I will win my prize. I want to enter you; I want to cum inside you.”

Madara licks his lip. He wants it too, goddess.

“I got another bottle today,” Hashirama whispers, his voice deep and scratchy. “I noticed that last night we finished the previous one and I didn’t want to be left with nothing…”

Madara doesn’t know what to do.

“I’ll go get more logs,” he says. “In the meantime, clean all this up, will you?”

But Hashirama doesn’t listen, what’s more, he ends up climbing on top of him, ending any escape attempt by the Uchiha. Those are just lies; no more logs are needed. “I’ll make sure you don’t feel cold, love.” He leans in and forces him to part his lips. “Hand me that brush.”

Madara reaches out a hand and obeys.

Hashirama also reaches out a hand to catch the inkwell and dips the brush in it.

“I cannot reach the paper,” Madara says, perhaps in an attempt for Hashirama to let him go.

“Never mind—I’ve already found a perfect canvas,” Hashirama whispers as he opens Madara’s yukata, and touches a hand to his chest and belly to the valley of sprouting hair at his crotch. “Let’s see,” he says, putting a hand to his chin, “what am I to write?”

Madara swallows expectantly. The fuurin continue ringing outside, like falling stars. He shudders as the brush tip touches his skin—the cool ink marking him.

“Done,” says Hashirama, proud.

Madara holds onto his elbows to read the characters on his chest. ‘Mine,’ it reads.

A ‘mine’ above his beating heart.

“What a fool, Hashirama.” Says Madara with fake anger.

But actually, he is very, very flushed and apparently very pleased too. This encourages Hashirama to put the brush back into the inkwell. He bites his lip, so his smile doesn’t look too obvious.

This time, Madara is ready to feel the cold surface and although he shivers when the brush touches his skin, he’s sure it is not because of the ink, but something else…Hashirama’s erection is also noticeable under the cloth.

“I hadn’t thought of it before, Madara, but there is something tremendously arousing about thinking of you, smeared in ink.”

Madara doesn’t reply. Instead, he bites his tongue hard.

The brush keeps rolling on his skin. Madara watches Hashirama write—his eyes narrowed, clouded by the pressure in his belly, by the need of being filled by him again.

“Hashirama,” he calls in a whisper.

But the scribe continues moving the brush, attentive to his work.

“Hashirama, please…”

“Wait,” he says, still not looking at him. “I’m trying to remember what the character I need was like…”

“That doesn’t matter, dammit!”

Hashirama lets out a laugh that makes him snap out of his role. His eyes fly to Madara’s and his free hand, to the stiff erection growing before him. “You are scorching, Uchiha. You will set the room on fire if you continue like this.”

“Drop that damn brush and enter me—I know you’re ready too.”

Hashirama grins. He leaves the brush on the coverlet without caring if it ends up stained with ink. “Patience, patience.” He stands up, leaving Madara on the futon, powerless.

Madara lets out an exasperated growl. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Hashirama pace back and forth across the room, bringing with him a shiny new bottle, bigger than the previous one.

He shudders in anticipation as he sees him sitting again. And to Madara’s dismay, Hashirama takes that fucking brush back in his hand.

“I told you to drop that thing once and for all.”

Hashirama chuckles again. “On certain occasions I have fantasized about using my mokuton in bed with you.” Madara’s eyes widen. “I have already verified its use in war and also building houses… so, I wonder, can I also use it for less rough uses too, like to tie you up or something else…?”

Madara shudders again, even though Hashirama isn’t touching him.

“Will I be able to penetrate you with it, perhaps? How would your body receive my wood?”

Madara’s pale face has been tinted a passionate crimson.

“However, I don’t want to use it here, inside the house…lest I lose control of it and end up hurting you.” Hashirama shakes his head, “I’d hate to hurt you.”

“Hashirama.”

“Wait, my love, I’m still trying to remember that character I’m missing…” Madara lets out one more groan, causing another grin from Hashirama. “Maybe you could help me?”

“Anything, for you to fuck me sooner.”

Hashirama’s grin widens. “I need you to read what I have written, Madara-sensei, so that you can help me with what is missing.”

Madara is smiling but rolls his eyes anyway. He sits on the futon and tries to read the characters on his skin, but it’s quite hard from that position.

“I’ll help you, alright?” The student offers himself. “It says, more or less, ‘Madara-sensei is sweet and gentle and likes to be’ space ‘face-to-face.’” Hashirama’s eyes are dark and cruel, deadly as his voice. “How do I write ‘fucked’ in code?”

“You’re an Idiot!” Madara growls and reaches out a hand to try to snatch the brush from him, but to no avail—Hashirama has it securely in a hand that Madara cannot reach. “Fuck me, right now!”

Hashirama shakes a finger. “You’re not ready yet.”

“Never mind, really, Hashirama…you can heal me later.”

The finger denies again. “Last time you said that, you didn’t let me heal you—I don’t trust your word anymore, Uchiha Madara.”

Madara grumbles, unable to move. Hashirama reaches his free hand to the lube and Madara leans back in delicious anticipation, not seeing what he’s doing. He spreads his own legs wide, to give him a quick access. He is so needy; he shuts his eyes as he waits for Hashirama to open him with his fingers.

“I’m going to prepare you, yes?” Hashirama warns him with a hoarse voice.

Madara just nods, still grinning. “Do as you please with me, Hashirama.” And then he feels a cold and wet tip at his entrance. Madara licks his lips and waits.

The object begins to penetrate little by little inside him and by noticing its size, Madara opens his eyes and looks at Hashirama’s hand, which holds the brush half buried up his hole. “What the hell are you doing, Hashirama?”

The brush is thicker than Hashirama’s thumb, but thinner than his cock—and is covered in lubricant all but its bristles, which is where he holds it from. Made of a fine and delicate bamboo. Even Madara could see that it must have cost Hashirama dearly. Perfectly moulded to be smooth in contact with the scribe’s hand. Although of course, it is more than obvious that it was not designed for such bedroom purposes.

Unable to help himself, Madara ends up groaning as Hashirama inserts the object another centimetre in. Then, he holds his hand still and says, “If you don’t like it, just tell me and I’ll get it out right away.”

Madara licks his lips again before replying, “More.”

Hashirama instantly complies. Bit by bit, he introduces it further into his hole.

Madara flinches again. When he reaches the end of the wooden area, Hashirama carefully begins to take it out, just to put it back in.

The Uchiha lets out another whimper with the constant movement. There is a watery sound in the room; his cheeks turn scarlet by hearing it. Madara feels a slight burning, but nothing unbearable—nothing he hasn’t experienced before. He licks his lips again, as they seem to dry instantly.

He reaches out a hand and catches Hashirama’s wrist tightly, when the brush is half buried inside. “It’s enough; now I need you.”

Hashirama nods. He carefully takes out the brush and sets it aside on the tatami.

Meanwhile, with trembling hands, Madara begins to untie Hashirama’s yukata. Hashirama reopens the bottle and fills his hand with its content; he pours more into Madara’s throbbing, aching hole and then in his own cock.

The brush served its purpose; penetrating him is quite easy.

“Madara,” Hashirama hisses as he enters in a single thrust. The fingers that held the brush are still inked and they have finally soaked into Madara’s pale hips as Hashirama clings to him with every thrust.

Madara clings, to Hashirama’s tense and strong shoulders. Muscle taut and stiff like a bowstring, running down his arms to his hands. For sheer comfort, he ends up placing his legs behind Hashirama’s hips, moving closer to him with each thrust. Receiving him deep inside.

And, ah, how he loves having him inside,

“More,” he encourages himself to ask. “Hashirama, more.”

The Senju obeys, his thrusts growing faster, almost violent. His fingers digging into his skin and the burning Madara feels is too delicious for him to even think.

He doesn’t need to think about anything, either.

He’s mine like I never thought possible, he ponders. Just like the characters written on his chest say. Mine. Madara grins. I am yours, just as you are mine.

He is about to finish. It’s no use holding himself back, so he breaks free with a loud cry, that fills the whole house. Hashirama replies in the same way, without stop moving.

Madara’s arms lie limply at his sides. He has run out of strength.

But Hashirama keeps moving. May he never stop, goddess, may he never stop.

“Hashirama,” Madara whispers as he feels him come inside him. He forces his arms to embrace him, even though they are exhausted. “My Hashirama.”

They spend some time in silence together. The room smells of their coupling, of melted wax and sweat.

“Did you like it?” the Senju asks as he buries his face in his neck, causing Madara to chuckle.

Madara manages to nod. “Very much indeed.” Then he smiles, touching Hashirama’s damp back. “We won’t be able to use that brush anymore, I am afraid.”

Hashirama twitches, to look him in the eye. “Are you kidding? It will be my favourite from now on.”

Madara snorts and then, they remain in another silence, still joined, until their bodies start to cool down.

Even the fuurin in the patio have stopped jingling. It seems that everything—everyone has fallen silent that night, eager to listen to this pair of lovers. Madara continues to run a hand down Hashirama’s back, in a customary motion, tracing the path and join of his muscles.

“Madara? Are you ready for tomorrow?” Hashirama asks in his ear. His voice very low and tender, just a whisper.

Madara feels a squeeze in his stomach. His hand stops. He licks his lips before answering. “Yes,” he lies. “What about you?”

Hashirama takes his time responding.

“I’m not going to lie to you: I am a little nervous.”

Me too, Madara thinks. “You will do well—we will do well,” he ends up saying, as if that would give them both courage. “It will be a very important day.” His voice sounds as sure as possible. Hashirama’s body on top of him starts to get heavy. It must be too late now, they’re both exhausted. “Let’s sleep, aye?”

Hashirama nods and gets out of him, then crawls across the room to douse the three candles that remain lit.

 

* * *

 

“Remember to come in one at a time and put only one name on the paper, to make the whole process faster,” it is Senju Touka who is giving the instructions, in front of the makeshift tent where the voting will take place. “Please, let’s make a queue on this side.” She says, waving her hand to the left.

Madara was hoping that by going earlier he would avoid being in the crowd, but it seems he’s not the only one who thought so.

And apparently, he draws attention against his will.

“Ah, Madara, you are the first of the clan heads to come—good morning, good morning,” the young woman greets him. “I see you didn’t bring my cousin with you.”

Madara sighs. “Hashirama is not, what is said, a morning person.”

Touka lets out a giggle. Madara notices that the glances turn to them without the slightest dissimulation.

“Let’s get this over with soon,” Madara says, his tone a bit harsher than he would have liked.

But this young Senju is undeterred. What’s more, she seems to be enjoying this whole scene, and motions with a hand for him to follow.

Madara does so and is soon led into the tent. Touka is still next to him, as if she is his conscience. “I think you know what the process is like.”

“I was present at the last council,” he replies.

“Of course,” Touka says, still grinning, leaving him alone.

Everything happens in less than a second. He hasn’t had to think about it once. His left hand takes the paintbrush and clears his throat to ward off some intrusive memories. He looks at the white paper and without hesitation writes down Senju Hashirama’s name in a perfect calligraphy.

It is done.

Madara walks out of the tent without looking at the Senju girl, but she does watch him leave.

“Tell Hashirama not to take too long to come, will you, Madara?”

Madara is terrified with the naturalness with which that bold Senju addresses him, as if just a few months ago they hadn’t been sworn enemies. He raises a hand in the air in response and doesn’t turn around, terrified of seeing more of her smiles.

Dammit. Why does he feel so nervous? And where the hell is he going? Madara has no idea. Maybe he’ll go to the cliff… yeah, that’s a good idea. He will go to the cliff and from there, he will observe that circus; maybe Hashirama will figure out where he’s hiding at and, end up going to meet him.

People in Konoha walk in the opposite direction from him, in groups made up of several people. Most have the decency to ignore him as they pass, but he is a popular person as much as he would like to deny it, and many of the passers-by stare at him curiously as they walk past him.

Madara is not well versed in numbers, but he is sure of the possibilities. He knows that there are three strong candidates for the Hokage position: Hashirama, Tobirama and himself. And, although he is not so vain as to think that he could be chosen, even so he cannot help feeling uneasy.

He climbs the hill carefully, his feet digging into the snow that fell the night before. The forest is empty and silent, covered in white. It is like in the warring days, during that little winter respite in which each clan dedicated themselves to preparing to survive till spring. Madara has vivid memories of himself going to the forest with his father in search of firewood and charcoal; when he used to help him with the hunt, to end up coming home late at night, tired and in a mood to do nothing but taste the remains of some cheap sake.

He shudders as he reaches the top of the cliff and looks down at the sprawling white-clad village below. Konoha. That’s what it’s called; that’s how he named it. What the fuck? He came up with that silly name and Hashirama just adopted it like Madara’s word was law.

The wind is blowing hard up there. It is still very early; the sun is barely coming out of the forests, barely touching the roofs of the houses on the east corner. At his feet he finds a branch broken in half. Madara bends down and takes it in one gloved hand, before start tracing patterns in the snow. Patterns that come to him out of the blue—some are interesting, but others are nothing but amorphous scribbles. He doesn’t know why he’s doing this; it just doesn’t matter.

He keeps drawing.

 

* * *

 

“There you are,” a voice says from behind him.

Madara turns over his shoulder and greets him with a smile. The newcomer walks towards him, also smiling. Hashirama is dressed too lightly, with much of his sternum is showing.

He…wishes he had brought the scarf with him. That would have been a good time to give it to him, wouldn’t it? The two of them, up on that cliff, alone, together.

“How come you found me?” Madara asks rising. He carefully removes the snow that has stuck to his clothes.

“You weren’t home when I woke up, but your side in bed was still warm, so I assumed you must not have been gone long. I got dressed and ran to find you. Touka told me that you had just left, and I once warned you that I would find you anywhere,” the Senju replies. His grin grows, his cheeks redden like a mischievous child. “I also bumped into Izuna, and he told me that he saw you leaving the village, on the way to the forest…the rest, I sensed. Somehow, I knew you’d be here.”

Hashirama walks to the edge of the cliff, where they both used to sit.

Madara has stayed behind him and therefore cannot see his face, but he imagines how it must look like—how bright his eyes must be, how huge his smile is.

Look at you; you’re beaming, Madara thinks. Every day—but today, you could outshine the sun.

Hashirama turns to him at that precise moment, as if he had read his mind. He bites his lip in amusement while Madara feels his poor heart fluttering inside his ribcage like a captive bird.

“How do you feel?” Hashirama asks, walking back to him. His hands clasped behind his back.

“Good.”

“I thought…” Hashirama shrugs. “That we would go together to vote.”

Madara takes a few steps back. “I needed to think about a lot of things,” he says by way of excuse.

Hashirama nods thoughtfully as he avoids stepping on Madara’s drawings in the snow. Something catches his eye and stops to take a closer look.

“What are you staring at?” Madara asks, suddenly exasperated.

The Madara from before would have run to erase all those drawings with his feet, but the Madara from that morning just walks towards Hashirama. “I’m hungry; let’s go back and get something to eat,” he urges, to see if this can get his attention away from those stupid drawings.

“This one here—,” Hashirama points with his finger. “This is interesting.”

Madara’s eyes widen, and he walks to where his finger is pointing. “Oh, that.”

Hashirama turns to look at him, pleased, “I’ve always thought you’re very creative, Madara.”

The Uchiha shrugs, feigning disinterest, but the blush on his cheeks doesn’t fool the Senju.

“What is it?” Hashirama insists with interest.

“We Uchiha usually wear our clan crest woven into our backs,” says Madara, turning his back on him. “The colour of the fabric may vary, but our crest will always be there. The same goes for the Senju—those pretentious shinobi who boasted off their wealth by carving their clan crest on their fucking armour…”

Hashirama lets out a laugh.

“Now, it’s different.” Madara’s gaze flies to the village, “As you said in the last council, we are no longer a group of clans united through an alliance, but a village…and as a village, we need something that identifies us, something we can mark on our clothes or, shall we say, armour. Something that tells everyone, ‘I am from Konoha.’”

Out of the corner of his eye Madara sees Hashirama wiping his cheek. “I just thought…” he shakes his head, “just forget it; I was waiting, thinking how long it would take you to find me—”

His words are lost in the air, for he has run out of breath. Hashirama embraces him from behind, squeezing him very tight. Madara raises his hands and covers Hashirama’s with them.

“I wasn’t wrong a while ago,” Hashirama whispers in his ear. Madara’s eyes still fixed on the snowy village at his feet. “Uchiha Madara is the leader Konoha needs. In my fantasies, when we were younger, I used to imagine a village like Konoha, its people swearing honour to its leader: Uchiha Madara. I was there, looking at you with pride, boasting that I was the first to follow in your footsteps…” His embrace tightens. “Love you.” Madara feels numb. “I love you, Madara.”

Madara swallows. How can Hashirama be so naïve? Does he have no idea how small a chance he has of being chosen Hokage?

“You are a fool, Hashirama. A foolish dreamer.”

“Your foolish dreamer,” Hashirama says. “Whatever happens today—nothing will change between us. I will be by your side always, just like you will be by my side forever, right?”

Madara manages to nod.

“And we will wear that symbol with honour,” he says, pointing to the drawing in the snow. “The symbol of Konoha.”

Madara is not surprised, as he also chose that design as his favourite. He lets out a sort of laugh. “Do you plan to engrave it on a band, and knot it to your forehead like you used to do before with the Senju crest?”

“Yes,” Hashirama’s voice is serious. His chest is warm and Madara notices that Hashirama has been transmitting small and almost imperceptible amounts of chakra to his body for a while now. “That’s a great idea, Madara.”

It is a dream, Madara thinks. A miraculous dream. But the embrace is real; Hashirama’s strong arms are real, as is his warm breath, his fast heartbeat, and the power of his voice.

 

* * *

 

By the time it’s getting dark, the entire village gathers at the main square, near to the place where they’re building an academy. Uchiha Naori, Senju Touka, and Uzumaki Mito lead and watch over the vote count. They have been working hard all day so that the entire process is legal and visible to the inhabitants.

This is the third round that they give to the counting and there have been no significant changes. The cold wind has returned to the village, and yet, everyone waits expectantly, curious, and attentive, eager to know the result—eager to taste in their mouths the name of the one who will be their first Hokage.

Madara feels a chill run through him from head to toe. Hashirama notices, as he is standing to his right, their hands touching surreptitiously. Izuna stands to Madara’s left, attentive to the counting, his hands clasped and biting his lip anxiously.

It is impossible for Madara to know, but the little Uchiha is himself repeating inside his head a mantra that prays, ‘Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Madara, Uchiha Madara…’

Izuna is not the only one who thinks so. Not far from there, on the side where the Uchiha are waiting, is Haru, who has gone to the square in the company of his grandmother. The boy has spent the whole day telling her how important and fantastic it would be if his friend, Uchiha Madara, became the Hokage. And he has told it with such zeal and devotion that the grandmother believes it too.

Madara flinches. Hashirama turns to him and asks with his eyes ‘are you alright?’ For some reason Madara understands and nods, then gives him a forced smile.

Izuna also notices his brother’s nervousness. He reaches out a hand with the idea of touching Madara’s gloved hand, but as he does, a shriek makes him stagger in his place.

“579 for Uchiha Madara,” Touka yells at the town. The Uchiha clap proudly at their leader’s name.

Haru shouts in ecstasy and some adults turn to the boy and laugh.

Madara’s jaw drops as he realises that he outscored Tobirama by about thirty votes. He, who thought no one would write his name, takes some pride in knowing that, at least, the vast majority of his clan voted for him. Naori remains silent up in the platform, even though she wants to scream with joy; Hashirama, on the other hand, whispers softly congratulations in his ear and takes his hand without hesitation, intertwining his fingers with his.

Beside him, Madara also feels someone else taking his other hand; he turns and looks at Izuna, who smiles and says quietly, “Congratulations, Nii-san.”

It still remains to finish Hashirama’s counting. It is too early to claim victory.

“I thought I told you not to waste your vote on me, Izuna,” he whispers.

Izuna blushes. “You wouldn’t think I’d listen to you, would you?”

Hashirama laughs quietly and Madara rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, I see you’re not the only one to have ignored my suggestion,” Madara whispers, looking at Hashirama and he, to get off the subject, says, “Look, Touka is about to speak again.”

The three of them turn their attention to the platform from where the three girls and the people in charge of the counting wait. The Senju girl licks her lips before turning to the audience, with a smile so big that it can barely fit on her face.

Madara feels like he is going to pass out right there. Hashirama notices his discomfort and tightens the grip on his hand, to reassure him.

‘Whatever happens today—nothing will change between us. I will always be by your side, just as you will be by my side forever.’ Madara has not been able to forget Hashirama’s words that morning.

Why is he so anxious? He feels as if he wants to run away from that place, never to be seen again.

All the people are silent when they see that the Senju opens her mouth. “583 for Senju Hashirama.”

Madara widens his eyes. He turns to his right and sees that the Senju has gone pale, his mouth open in a surprised, huge O.

A wave of applause begins to rise from the opposite side of the square, from where the Senju are.

“Congratulations, Senju Hashirama!” Touka adds in another loud cry, that travels the length and breadth of that square.

Uchiha Madara lets out a long sigh of relief before turning to his side and pulling Hashirama into a tight hug. It takes a few seconds for him to understand what has happened before drawing himself away. Tobirama is rushing closer, among the crowd.

“Senju Hashirama, the first Hokage of Konoha!” says the ecstatic Senju on the platform. “Now, come up here. Come, Hashirama. Let him pass, people. Let him come!”

Madara is not the only one who turns to congratulate the Hokage. The entire population has turned in his direction, raising their fists in the air as they chant his name, in unison: Senju Hashirama! Senju Hashirama! Senju Hashirama!

A path grows through the people and as Hashirama begins to walk, he turns to Madara and whispers “Come with me.” Tobirama has reached them and now leads him to the platform.

Hashirama turns to look over his shoulder and heaves a sigh of relief when he sees that Madara is following them.

Both his brother and his lover wait under the platform when he is forced to go up alone. The view up there is impressive. Some watch the scene from above the roofs. The whole village is there. No one wanted to miss this event.

He feels a chill as his name springs from their mouths again, rising into the air, wholly filling the village and the forest alike.

Hashirama feels his heart stuck in his throat. He looks down and watches Madara looking at him with pride, and then—the greatest of miracles: the Uchiha raises a fist in the air and begins to sing his name alongside with the rest of those present, as a single voice:

Senju Hashirama! Senju Hashirama! Senju Hashirama!

Chapter 9

Notes:

Ok, this chapter got out of my hand and ended up being huge, so I decided to cut it in two, and just in time for my son's birthday. The other part of the chapter is already written, it just needs time and editing, so it'll be up sooner, i hope so.
Still, I want to say 'thank you' now because you guys have been great this year. The best, without a doubt--helping me to lose my fear of publishing (which there is still a bit of, obviously) with your kind words aww <3
So, I look forward to sharing more of these crazy stories that pop into my head with you next year.
I'm terrible at this kind of things lol
But know that I love you <3 *kisses you on the forehead*
btw this part of the chapter has too many things taken from reality haha especially when you have to endure meetings with people you can't stand...very appropriate for the occasion, I guess
Anyway, I'm off to sleep <3 <3

 

and it's fucking freezing ah help!

The view from the Hokage’s office is prodigious.

That is what it is about, after all, that the leader’s gaze reaches the entire width and length of the village, and not just a symbolic idea of it.

Sometimes, Madara cannot believe how much their lives have changed in such a short time. A few months ago, goddess, just a few damn months ago, the Uchiha were still at war with the Senju—not knowing if there would be a tomorrow, and himself, not being certain whether he would get to celebrate a new birthday—and now…

“Madara.”

Everything’s changed. It’s suffocating at times. Madara has been feeling a strange pressure in his chest for several days now—a jumble in the guts, especially when he walks next to Senju Hashirama.

“Madara.”

Also, when Madara wakes up at midnight, agitated and heavy breathing, just to find Hashirama lying next to him; his arm around him, protective; snoring and muttering nonsense.

“Madara.”

In the afternoons too, when Madara’s feet move on their own and take him to the house that he shares with Senju Hashirama. A house where they live together, where they sleep together, where…

“Uchiha Madara.”

“What?” Madara inquires at last, looking away from the sprawling village at his feet, and turning to face him.

Hashirama has changed his outfit again. This is the…fourth? Madara cannot remember. It’s not his fault either, they’ve all looked the same, barely changing in size and colour, but the same in essence. Damn, this outfit is even more ridiculous than the last.

The Hokage didn’t even think of a design himself. Madara suspects that Tobirama is the one at fault in there. That seems to be something he would wear.

“Well, tell me, what do you think?” Hashirama asks, that goofy grin hanging on his lips. He’s turned around a whole way, so Madara can judge from all angles.

Madara can’t help but smile looking at him, although, it’s not a mocking smile, but something else.

“This is the appropriate one, do you not think?” Hashirama insists. “I like it.”

Like something that oppresses Madara’s insides and turns his stomach.

Madara nods, putting a hand to his chin. “Yeah, not bad; this is the one.”

He is not lying; of all the other options that Hashirama has tried that day, this is the one that suits him best. Hashirama looks good in it, though…Madara thinks that, maybe it’s a little old fashioned, sure. It covers him up too much and…white? Really? Shit. Does he always have to wear pale colours?

At least, red contrasts well. Madara likes how his skin contrasts with other colours. For instance, Madara loves to see him wearing dark colours.

“This cloth is very heavy, you know? I like it.”

In green he also looks good. In fact, Madara thinks that’s the colour that suits him best.

“And the hat. Madara, could you pass it to me, please?”

Yeah, Hashirama looks very, very handsome in green…

“Madara—”

“Yeah, yeah…shut up!” Madara grunts as he hands him that heavy and ridiculous hat.

Before Madara gets to him, Hashirama asks, “Do you think I should tie my hair up?”

Madara shakes his head as he helps him adjust that stupid hat. “You look good with your hair down. You know what, Senju? Even that band on your head suits you today.”

The Hokage has the decency to blush. Now that Madara looks at him with his outfit on, he looks…ah—Hashirama looks so handsome. More than usual. Madara could get easily used to seeing him dressed like this on a daily basis.

Madara feels that squeeze in his guts again. He bites his lip as he tries to think of other things, though it’s no use, as he can feel his own face filling with heat already.

Hashirama thanks him and steps aside, back to the full-length mirror that has been placed in the office with the sole intention of letting the Hokage try on his new outfit. Hashirama turns around again, to look at himself from all angles.

Madara sits at the desk as he watches him. He is stunned. He forms a pair of fists. Ah, there’s that sting in the guts again.

It is early. There are still many hours left until the Hokage is free and they can return home, where they can be alone, away from that busy village, away from…

“Anija.”

Dammit.

Hashirama turns grinning at the door. “Hello, Tobi.”

“Everything’s fine?” It is the answer of his younger brother.

Hashirama turns another full circle, so his brother can look properly at him. “I think this is the one, what do you think?”

Tobirama nods pleased. He even manages to force a half smile. “I like it.”

Hashirama breathes a sigh of relief, as if Tobirama’s opinion is final. What the fuck?

“Madara also thinks this outfit is the right one,” says Hashirama.

But instead, Tobirama rolls his eyes and ignores this last comment. In fact, he’s been ignoring everything Madara-related for a week—more that usual, if that’s humanly possible—from the moment he found out that this Uchiha beat him in the votes.

“Anija, the clan heads want a new meeting before the Daimyo arrives.”

Madara bites his lip so hard that he has injured himself. And no matter how much he licks the blood button, it just won’t stop flowing.

“Again?” Hashirama frowns. He can’t stop annoyance from permeating his words. “But we had one right after the vote.”

Tobirama shrugs. “They want everything to be well planned for when our visit arrives; they know how important it is for all of us that your meeting with the Daimyo results fruitful.”

We all know that, dammit.

“A single mistake on our part,” Tobirama says, glancing sideways in Madara’s direction, “would be fatal for Konoha and its people.”

Hashirama sighs, before removing his hat. His hair has messed up. He walks over to the desk, strategically positioning himself between the other pair of shinobi, placing his hat next to a gloved fist.

“Let it be tomorrow, yes?” Hashirama says, looking at his brother. “Today has been too…”

He has spent the whole blessed morning trying on clothes, shoes, and hats. And he’s already hungry—he knows it because of the growling in his stomach.

However, Hashirama should know by now that something like that won’t convince someone like his brother.

“It will be tonight, yes, Anija? It will be short and concise. And tomorrow morning, you will be officially appointed as our Hokage. After that, you will be busy all day. So, go back home and get some rest while you can. Have something to eat and then, later, we’ll meet in the rooms downstairs for the meeting.” Tobirama turns towards the door.

Madara remains silent, but he is sure that Tobirama can feel his chakra vibrating with anger, floating throughout the office.

Tobirama places his hand on the doorknob and says, turning to his brother, “Relax, Anija; you look tense.” Hashirama says nothing. “If they see that our leader is so easy to scare, they will take advantage of you, especially that Shimura…he perceives everything.”

And then he leaves.

Madara snorts as soon as the door closes, continuing to lick his wound.

Hashirama places one hand on top of a gloved fist. Madara remains motionless, trying his best not to look at him.

“You look tense too, Madara.”

Madara pulls his hand away from is touch, away from his grasp. Hashirama frowns.

“You’re the fucking Hokage, why do you let him keep making decisions for you.”

“He just wants to help, Madara—”

“Help, my ass.” Hashirama says nothing. “He’s a busybody and you know it. And listen to me, Hashirama: first, it’s just him, but you will see that soon, it will be the other clan heads or worse, some group of elders. Suddenly, everyone will want to give their fucking opinion, no matter if our Hokage wants it that way.”

“Madara, I will also take your opinion into account.” Now, Hashirama’s hand flies to Madara’s face, cradling his cheek. Madara now allows the caress. Hashirama’s hand is warm in contrast to the cool skin of his cheek. “You are my right hand, after all. Have you forgotten it?”

Madara doesn’t know what to answer.

“Are you cold?” Hashirama asks.

Madara shakes his head, but he’s lying. That has been a cold day and he forgot his scarf at home.

“Your skin is very cold, Madara.”

Madara does not answer. Hashirama leans over the desk and his lips land on Madara’s. He allows it, for the gods know that he has been yearning all day long for his kisses, his taste, the softness of his tongue.

The clash of lips has opened his wound, the metallic taste pervading both of them. “You’re bleeding,” Hashirama says. “Madara, did you bite yourself on purpose?”

Madara, again, does not answer him. Instead, he gets off the desk, away from Hashirama.

“Madara?”

The Uchiha looks over his shoulder in response.

“It’s good that you are by my side, in these moments when I feel most alone and insecure.”

Madara might roll his eyes, but he’s really pleased to hear Hashirama saying that. Suddenly, his cheeks aren’t so cold anymore. He is sure his skin must be all red.

Hashirama comes walking towards him, he opens his arms and Madara allows himself to be caught. A pair of strong arms support him from behind. “Kiss me again,” Madara requests in a whisper, raising his face.

The Hokage complies immediately.

 

* * *

 

Madara goes to the meeting too, even though he didn’t want to.

He meditated at home, thinking about the matter, hoping that Hashirama would notice his silence, understand, and say, ‘it’s alright, honey, wait for me at home; I’ll be right back.’

But Madara knew that this had little chance of happening. Hashirama was as anxious as he was, even more so, since Madara was used to being ignored and overlooked during meetings, but Hashirama did not.

Hashirama always brought attention to wherever he went. Now that he was the Hokage, Hashirama’s light was more intense, his voice more seductive and his figure more striking.

They had been together for a relatively short time. But in the time that had passed, they had done things that once would have been enough to unite them for life. So, it was his duty to be there for Hashirama, even if he didn’t feel confident by doing so.

His mother always stood to the right of Tajima, why would anyone expect anything different from their son?

So, he had gone.

The faces of those present are serious and although they argue among themselves, Madara has no desire to listen to what they are saying. His eyes always end up flickering to nothing, losing himself.

Then, Hashirama speaks, and Madara does pay attention: “I want to thank the effort that each clan has put in preparing Konoha for the Daimyo’s visit. Action was taken promptly with the little time we had, and everything seems to be ready for his arrival.” Hashirama smiles at the people around the room. “This is something that could only have been accomplished as a team and I am…I am very grateful for that.”

A round of loud applause fills the room. They all smile pleased at their Hokage. Hashirama’s smile only grows wider as he hears the roar of their applause; Madara can’t help but feel sick to his stomach: Hashirama is dressed in the garb of his clan, but somehow there’s something different about him that night, something Madara can’t put a name to. A strange sensation that has made a vortex in his guts and his heart race without control.

He stops clapping and puts a hand to his hair uncomfortably, afraid that the heat he feels inside him will start to show in some blush to others.

As the applause dies down, Madara still feels uneasy, his hands numb.

“We received a message from the Daimyo, and he told us that, indeed, he is on his way to Konoha.” It is Tobirama who speaks. “He will arrive at the week’s end, around noon. Everything is ready. Is there any doubt about it?”

Those present shake their heads. Some murmur a ‘no.’

Sarutobi Sasuke says, “As long as we all stay in our lanes, I don’t think there will be a problem.”

Hashirama nods.

And then Sasuke adds, “After all, we’re adults. One would think that we would know how to behave as such.”

Madara lets the punch go, but Hashirama does clench a fist.

“Then,” Tobirama says, “we’d better go home and get some rest. Tomorrow will be an important day.”

They all nod and thus, the meeting is over.

 

* * *

 

Madara waits for the room to empty, intending to leave with Hashirama, but Tobirama seems to be very insistent on talking to him alone, so he decides to wait outside the room. Izuna follows. The Uchiha brothers decide to wait outside and as Madara leaves the building, they see that there is someone waiting for them in the dead of night.

Madara would recognise that silhouette anywhere. It’s Uzumaki Mito.

His stomach twists against his will.

“Hello,” she greets them, even though she was also at the meeting.

The Uchiha brothers, in unison, return her greeting.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Izuna asks her, quite familiarly. “Only the Senju remain inside.”

Mito nods. “I’d like to have a talk with the Hokage,” she says. “Alone.”

That horrible feeling reappears in Madara’s guts. He raises a hand and points behind himself, his voice even and without a hint of the nervousness he feels, “He’s still inside the building; go and look for him.”

Izuna looks at his brother out of the corner of his eye. Mito nods.

“I will; thank you,” her voice sounds full of surprise, as if the farmer had opened his chicken pen for the fox to enter and choose the one it likes most. “Good night, Uchiha.”

When Mito loses inside the building, his younger brother says, “Nii-san?”

Madara pretends not to hear him and instead, he tells him, “Let’s go find a place for dinner, aye?”

Since the day of the vote, the relationship between the brothers has gradually returned to the way it was before their argument, so Izuna hurries to play along and agrees to get away from there, looking for somewhere to have dinner together.

Izuna senses that his older brother is uneasy. There’s something around him that makes his hairs stand on end, even though he can’t feel chakra fluctuations like his brother. If only… if only Madara was a bit more open to Izuna, like when they were younger, everything would be much better; Izuna would know how to treat his brother’s fears, how to help him.

In the past, they used to talk about any topic and spend whole hours chatting on the edge of the Uchiha encampment. They used to sit side by side and watch in amazement at the changing colours in the sky and the dance and murmur of the birds as they searched for some space in the trees. They used to chat about all kinds of things and be amazed when the full moon came out from behind the mountains to hide among the clouds.

But now…

They arrive at a restaurant that they visit frequently and order what they usually order each time. His brother has always been serious and taciturn, but that night…

“Are you nervous about tomorrow?” Izuna dares to ask, and his words have brought Madara out of the dark confines of his thoughts. “He’ll be fine, you know it.” His older brother turns to him and manages to form a smile.

Ah, Izuna admits that he missed his brother’s smiles during the time they were apart. Some things are impossible to change, for instance, his love for his older brother.

“Or is it about the Daimyo, perhaps? You’ll do fine, yes?” Izuna says. “Father used to have encounters with the Daimyo too, have you forgotten? I remember that he used to leave home for days and I used to stay just with you.” Madara gets lost in the distance again, as if he was also remembering those days. “I remember that you prevented me from staying up all night during those days. You used to not be very funny back then, you know, Nii-san? I thought it’d be funnier without father, but it turned out that you used to be just as stricter than him.”

Madara chuckles and that eases Izuna’s heart.

“My duty as a big brother is to make sure you’re safe,” Madara replies and it’s the most words put together that he’s said that night. Then he turns to face him and adds, “And that includes ruining your fun.”

Izuna answers with a smile. He can also feel his face getting very hot. He looks down at his steaming plate and eats the rest of his noodles while they’re still hot.

Through the steam he manages to observe the melancholic gaze of his brother and notices that he has barely tasted his noodles.

Senju Hashirama, Izuna thinks. The culprit for his brother’s state is Senju Hashirama or rather, the fears that his brother harbours towards the Senju.

It seems incredible to him that they are so tied to those damn Senju. Izuna feels his face getting hotter. What would father think have had he known about it? He doesn’t even want to think about it. Dinner is delicious; the broth is perfect for that cold night.

His brother’s eyes are still sad. Izuna feels powerless.

“He loves you; you know?” he says, and this causes Madara to turn to him. His older brother raises an eyebrow and Izuna continues, “You don’t have to worry about a thing. He’s not going to change you that easily. A few days ago, I overheard him arguing with Tobirama.” Izuna pauses to put more noodles in his mouth. Madara’s eyes widen, eager for him to continue soon, “And he stood up for you. He said that he understood why you had acted like a spoiled brat a few days ago and that it was because you were afraid of losing your little brother.” Izuna shrugged. “Hashirama left the room very upset.” Izuna laughs, putting a hand to his lips to hide his grin, “And then, Tobirama was furious when he realised that you had beaten him in the vote count.” Izuna lets out a long laugh and says, “You should have seen him, Nii-san…it was very satisfying to see him so upset about being beaten by an Uchiha.”

Madara doesn’t share his laughter and instead, remains looking at him in silence, quite worried by the blush that has appeared on his little brother’s cheeks. He looks down at his plate still laden with lukewarm noodles, not knowing what to say.

“He’s the Hokage now,” Izuna says before lifting the bowl to his lips to finish the broth. “He’s going to be pretty busy henceforth; everyone will want to talk to him, to ask him for this and that. It will be like being the leader of a clan, but with a larger number of people to take care of…”

Madara nods and lets out a tired sigh. Perhaps he’s a bit mortified that his little brother is giving him such a speech. It seems that the child in there is him.

“So, lighten that gesture,” Izuna commands. “Your face will wrinkle more otherwise.”

His older brother snorts and offers him his bowl of noodles.

“You need to eat something,” Izuna says, but still accepts them.

The noodles at that place are legendary. They are not the only customers who are there that night, but Madara is the only one who has not had the desire to eat. Their words are lost in between the conversations of the owner of the place with his other clients.

It is a very joyful night. They’re appointing the Hokage next morning, after all. Izuna wishes he could infect his brother with something of that vivacity and alleviate his fears, but he’s ran out of ideas.

“I’m tired,” Madara finally says, bringing his hands to his mouth to suppress a yawn. “I’ll go home, to get a couple more hours of sleep.”

Izuna nods and stops his brother from paying for his dinner.

As the two stand up and prepare to leave, they hear footsteps on the gravel behind. They both turn instantly: it is Tobirama.

Izuna greets him, “Senju, where did you leave that brother of yours?”

Madara turns his back on him, feigning indifference, but he still sharpens his ears, eager for his response.

“I don’t know,” Tobirama replies, looking at the restaurant’s menu, his voice expressionless. It doesn’t make sense for him to look at that menu so much; he always ends up ordering the same thing. “The last time I saw him, he was chatting with Mito in the meeting room.”

His words sounded indifferent, but Izuna sensed that they were said with the intention of causing some suspicion in Uchiha Madara.

Madara clenches a fist hard and Izuna notices it.

“See you tomorrow, Izuna,” his brother says, walking in the direction of the house he shares with Senju Hashirama. “Take a rest.”

Izuna says goodbye to his brother with a wave of his hand. “Sleep well too, Nii-san,” he says, before turning angrily to Tobirama.

Madara does not see any of this; his feet move by themselves, toward his home.

 

* * *

 

That same cold night, later and in the middle of the darkness, two people speak through whispers.

“You did well tonight,” Hashirama says. He is exhausted, breathing heavily. He is always the one who takes the longest to recover from the two. “In the meeting, I mean,” he corrects himself, after letting out a chuckle. “As for this…of course you always do well.”

Madara would roll his eyes if it wasn’t for the fact that he too is out of breath.

“You are amazing,” Hashirama adds in his ear. “The best.”

He’s exaggerating in regards of the love affairs, but Madara gives him the credit.

As for political affairs, Madara acknowledges that his skills in dealing with the other leaders are still lacking and, in a way, he doesn’t give a damn if he doesn’t get along with the rest. But still…

He doesn’t say anything, even though his breathing is back to normal now.

The noise of Hashirama’s hungry guts breaks the silence.

“I thought…” Madara begins, licking his lips. “I thought you would go for dinner after your talking with Mito.”

Madara came home quite annoyed—not with Hashirama, but himself. They had already talked in the past about how ridiculous it was for either of them to be jealous of the other, but it was still difficult for him anyway.

“It was a short talk; she had business to attend to, and I thought you would wait for me to go dinner somewhere.” Hashirama’s voice is calmer too. “Since I didn’t see you, I thought, maybe you’d gone ahead and would be waiting for me with a steaming bowl of noodles.”

Madara had come home upset, with the intention of not giving in to his wants and needs that night, to force the Hokage to spend the night in a cold bed. Madara barely manages to suppress a laugh. How silly, how ridiculous. It was impossible for him to stay away from Hashirama no matter how much he would like to be able to, and a short time later, after seeing him enter the house, it was he himself who ran to find him in the doorframe, to hang from his neck, to kiss him and ask him to take him to bed.

“Since that wasn’t the case either, at last, I figured I’d find you here, at home.” Madara knows that he is smiling, his smile is evident in his words, even though Madara is not looking at him. “By seeing your effusive welcome, my hunger disappeared for the moment.”

Madara seriously doesn’t know what to answer. He swallows and stares at the dancing silhouettes reflected on the walls.

“What’s going on?” Hashirama asks.

Madara turns his face and stares into his dark eyes. There is only one candle burning in the entire room, the only one that has not been extinguished and, as a consequence, he can only see silhouettes.

“What’s wrong?” Hashirama insists, a genuine worried frown now darkening his face. “Did I hurt you?”

The other man shakes his head. “You did not, Hashirama,” Madara says firmly. “I’m just thinking.”

Hashirama’s eyes take on a familiar sparkle and he says, “What are you thinking about, if I may know?”

Perhaps Hashirama expects another outburst of tenderness from his part, for Madara to respond with, ‘About you; always about you.’ But Madara doesn’t feel like it. And asking Hashirama to tell him what the hell he talked about with Uzumaki Mito would only bring them another round of endless arguments. So, in the end, he decides to lie and says, “I am thinking about the mission.”

This does indeed change Hashirama’s face and Madara realises that, maybe, his answer isn’t as much of a lie as it seemed.

“We must wait for the Daimyo,” Hashirama says. His voice is strong and not so much a whisper. It ends up filling the entire room. “Who knows? Maybe we won’t have to do this; maybe you won’t have to leave.”

Madara knows that this is unlikely, because, although he is aware that the Daimyo that Tajima had contact with is not the same one they will have to deal with, he still thinks that the result of his visit to Konoha will bring no real improvements at all. ‘His only interests are that his clothes are clean and comfortable, and that he has good company and the best sake available,’ he heard his father say once. ‘Ordinary people and their problems…they don’t give a damn about that.’

And he suspects that those things do not change. It is a vicious circle.

Hashirama insists, “Madara, you have to be a little patient.”

Madara doesn’t want to add fuel to the fire and cause a new argument between them. He would like to silence Hashirama’s chattering lips with a new kiss and climb on top of him, to ride him again, until the last candle dies. But instead, he says, “Your allies are very attracted to the idea of me going away and, incidentally, something preventing me from coming back.”

Despite the darkness, Madara can see Hashirama’s frown. “That’s not true,” he says. He shakes his head, stubborn. “They are a bit hostile, yes, but not to that degree. You must understand that we come from a war that lasted generations, and for most, that war instinct was instilled in them since they were children. It will be a long time before they can trust the clans they fought with for centuries. Everything takes its time…”

This is more than Madara can bear. “Open those eyes, you fool,” he snarls, but fortunately, Hashirama receives his words with a smile.

“I have them wide open, Madara. I see you.”

“You can’t see past your nose.”

Hashirama reaches out a hand and cups his face.

Madara insists, even though his gesture has made him tremble. “This is necessary, and I will do it. I’ll do my part, but even so, I can’t help but feel uneasy about it, and this isn’t the most dangerous mission I’ve ever been on, not even close.”

With his warm thumb, Hashirama caresses Madara’s cold cheek. “I would go with you, if you’d let me.”

Madara lets out a nervous laugh, making Hashirama let go. “What would you do, leave a clone in your office and think no one would notice?”

Hashirama smiles sadly and casts a sideways glance at the Hokage’s outfit waiting ominous on a hanger. A silent and baleful shadow.

Another growl comes from Hashirama’s stomach, breaking the tension that was beginning to encircle them.

“Maybe you could take one of my clones with you, instead. Though I ignore how far I could make it go.”

Madara clicks his tongue. “I don’t want any of your clones.” He averts his gaze before adding, his face red hot, “I will have the real Hashirama, or I will have none.”

Before Madara can stop the man, Hashirama covers him with his weight, pinning him to the futon. He drowns out all the words Madara was going to say with a kiss. “I wish you didn’t have to go. I wish you would drop that damn pride of yours for once and stay by my side, to solve this together.”

The candle dies in a hiss; the scent of wax permeates the entire room.

Hashirama’s voice breaks and he bites his lip to keep himself from sobbing. “You didn’t cum.”

Madara’s eyes quickly get used to the dark and with the lunar rays penetrating into the room, he manages to see that Hashirama is pouting.

“You don’t like me anymore, do you?” Hashirama whispers. “Or maybe I should try harder?”

“You are a fool.”

Madara manages to perceive his smile in the dark. He locks his eyes with Hashirama’s. Hashirama begins to place small, light kisses on his neck, moving down his clavicle. Madara swallows, helpless, as he feels him lower to his chest and belly. He hasn’t forgotten that the Hokage has gone hungry to bed.

He bites his lip and growls in a whisper, “I am not doing this out of pride.” Hashirama has reached the triangle of hair and takes Madara with a firm and warm hand. Madara gasps as he feels his flesh being engulfed by Hashirama’s wet mouth. “I am doing it because I love you.”

 

* * *

 

The next day, the village takes a short break and all its inhabitants head around the main square again.

One would think that the ceremony in which the first Hokage would be appointed would be a little more sumptuous than a simple gathering in the square, but they were short on time and Hashirama preferred for all the splendours be used in the Daimyo’s visit.

Clan crest banners flutter in the wind; the sun is at its zenith; there is nothing to indicate that that morning is different from the rest, but it is.

After a while, with the people already crowded around the square, a loud whisper begins to be heard, growing bigger as more people turn to look. ‘Here he comes, there he comes.’ It is a sensation that few of them know. For most of them, the highest-ranking person they know was their clan head and never, none, had a ceremony as such.

As Hashirama takes the stage, people start chanting his name. And even though he was thinking about it the previous days, he still isn’t used to all the people treating him that way. He can’t help but let a trickle of sweat drench his spine and as a natural response, he discreetly turns to the side, where his right hand is standing.

He is wearing his new suit. He practiced all morning how he would walk to avoid tripping and making a fool of himself on his big day. Now, facing his people, Hashirama takes the heavy hat in one hand and puts it on, drawing another wave of cheers.

From childhood he grew up with the idea that one day he would take his father’s place as clan head, that he would take a wife and then, years later, cede his title to one of his sons. However, things never turn out the way one actually thinks, and his current life situation is totally different from how he had imagined it.

“I am Senju Hashirama,” he says, his voice sincere and calm, but still, it reaches the ears of everyone present. “From this day on, I will be the protector of Konoha, as the first Hokage!”

Touka, who is standing a few meters behind him, calls out, “Senju Hashirama, the first Hokage!”

The villagers instantly follow her, and soon, a new cloud of shouts engulfs the village. There are also applauses and Hashirama looks around the people who have gathered despite the cold, with the intention of being part of that historical event. He feels his chest tighten, his eyes filling with tears and a burning in his throat.

The people waiting near him also chant his name. Hashirama glances sideways and notices that while Madara isn’t yelling his name, his gloved hands are clapping effusively. When Madara notices his gaze, he responds with a grin.

Hashirama blinks and a tear escapes his eye.

He looks back at the village, at Konoha, and thinks of his thirteen-year-old self—the boy who ran to the river searching for a safe place to mourn his siblings in peace. He thinks about the battles and the discussions with his father; about all the uncertainty and fear; he thinks of his family and friends; he thinks of Madara.

Everything changed the moment they met; on the day they skipped stones to the river.

He blinks a little more, so that the tears leave his eyes, to allow him to look at the image in front of him: Konoha.

Hashirama wasn’t lying when he said that he would protect the village.

 

* * *

 

In a week, that fledgling village, ruled by a young man who barely grew a beard, managed to become a showy and beautiful place, worthy of receiving a visit from the Daimyo. The streets were clean, and most of the houses looked finished and homely. It was a picturesque postcard, though, with all the leafless trees and the blanket of snow covering it.

The days passed and Hashirama learned not to flinch every time someone stopped him in the middle of the street to greet him with, “Good morning, Hokage-sama.”

He also learned to get used to being referred to as if he were already part of the council of elders and not the nineteen-year-old man he was.

Little by little, he became aware of the enormous responsibility that he had taken on his shoulders, and on more than one occasion he thought, with a certain comedy, how angry his father would be if he could see him.

“You look pretty happy to be about to meet a Daimyo,” Madara points out as he takes the seat next to him.

Hashirama raises a cup to his eye level in response, smiling.

“Enough, you said you would face this sober.”

“Oh, I am sober,” Hashirama replies, still smiling. He lifts the cup to his lips and empties the contents in one gulp.

Madara feels like his mouth is watering just by looking at him. Hashirama wipes his chin with the back of a hand. “It will only be this cup, yes?” Hashirama says. “I would also be a total madman, if I faced the Daimyo without a bit of sake in my body.”

The Uchiha snorts at this.

“What? You do not believe me?” Hashirama inquires, amused.

Madara stands up and brings his face closer to the Hokage’s. He places a couple of fingers in the collar of his ugly outfit and brings him to his lips.

That quick kiss uncovers him. “You taste of sake,” Madara says, turning away and tossing his hair over his shoulder. “A single cup is not enough for that; Hashirama, you have been drinking too much.”

Hashirama chuckles and leaves the cup on the table. He follows and stands up as well, smoothing wrinkles out of his clothing.

“Not that I blame you,” Madara says, turning his back to him, looking out the window, at the village. “I wouldn’t want to face this sober either.”

Hashirama starts walking in his direction. He catches him in his arms and places his chin on the Uchiha’s shoulder. They both look at Konoha, painted in white. December has come in a blink.

Madara covers Hashirama’s hands with his.

“You know,” Madara says. Hashirama tightens his hug and looks at him without moving. “I…” Madara licks his lips, never taking his eyes off the village. “I am very proud of you.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen.

“I know you’ll do well and soon, this will all be over and…” Madara shakes his head. He is not used to expressing with such warmth what he feels within his heart. “And we will live well here too, yes? We will be happy here. Together.”

“Oh, Madara.”

Hashirama lets go and spins him around in his arms. The Uchiha is ready to receive him, his lips already parted, and his eyes squeezed shut.

Then, they collapse. The taste of sake permeates both and ends up evaporating into the air.

The door opens. “Please, Anija, not today.”

The Hokage turns to his brother, his face reddened from being caught red-handed. “Has he arrived yet?” Hashirama asks, after clearing his throat. Madara steps aside, hastily approaching the door. “Madara, where are you going?”

Tobirama evades him in the doorframe, moving into his brother’s immediate field of vision. “His carriage is on the outskirts of the village; yet, he will be here soon, and I would like—no, I would love, for once, for our Hokage to be there to receive him properly.”

Hashirama nods and as he sends his eyes back to the door, he catches a glimpse of Madara’s hair disappearing down the corridor. His eyebrows curl in discontent and his younger brother scolds him again, “Anija, the Daimyo’s visit will be brief, or at least, we hope so. So, it would be best if you, uh, drop that melancholy face and focus on what’s important.”

“I know how important this visit is for all of us, Tobirama, I really do.”

Tobirama nods and steps aside, letting him pass. “I don’t doubt it, but I just wanted to remind you just in case.” They both leave the office and as they enter the corridor, Tobirama orders a young man who is walking by, to be in charge of cleaning the Hokage’s office while they’re out. Reaching out to his older brother, he says, “Look, I don’t know exactly what he’s going to talk about at the meeting, but I have a few ideas about it—Anija, are you listening to me?”

He is, vaguely. Hashirama nods.

“Good.” Tobirama continues. “Now, I want you to know that, since the time when our father was still clan head, we Senju have been in communication with the Daimyo.”

Hashirama frowns as they leave the building, noting that Uchiha Madara is nowhere to be seen.

“And therefore, it is possible for the Daimyo to make small references to the matters of which we wrote to him of your old self. I am warning you, so you won’t be too surprised in his eyes.”

Both brothers enter the main street, which leads to the village gates. “Our father used to keep me up to date on all these kinds of things, in case you don’t remember,” says Hashirama.

Now it is his brother who nods. “Correct, but sometimes, father used to overlook certain important matters with you, even though you were his heir. He used to say that you were too…dreamy.”

“He said I was a softie,” Hashirama laughs, looking at his little brother. “That I was not made to be a leader. Don’t hide that part of our past Tobi; he hurt me back then, but now, he cannot anymore.”

Tobirama is speechless. A young shinobi arrives at them and gives the Hokage his hat. Hashirama thanks him and accepts his fate with a smile.

However, Tobirama doesn’t smile. In fact, he seems to be quite concerned.

They have reached the entrance, and he notices that the rest of the clan heads are already there. Hashirama’s heart skips a beat when he sees Madara standing with his arms folded across his chest, stationed next to his Uchiha. Hashirama squeezes his hat tightly to avoid calling out to him.

He doesn’t have time to even think about it. At that moment, they hear a shout from the lookout at the entrance, who orders the gates to be opened. Tobirama nudges Hashirama and he immediately puts his hat on. He also adapts a serious bearing, alike his brother’s. His back straight. He suddenly looks older than he really is.

The procession is large, although only the first of the carriages enters the village, stopping next to the Hokage. Servants rush to open the carriage doors for him, and through it emerges a short man twice Hashirama’s age.

Hashirama understands what he must do instantly and after bowing, he says, “Daimyo-sama, welcome to Konoha.”

 

* * *

 

Hashirama never had to come face to face with aristocrats before. That task had always belonged to his father, and he had never wished to instruct his heir, thinking that such tasks were better suited to someone like Tobirama.

What would Butsuma think when he saw that the one in charge of entertaining the Daimyo—the one of his children who had all that weight on his shoulders, was Hashirama?

Hashirama would have laughed at the mere thought, if it weren’t for the fact that he was feeling restless and a little nervous.

After the paraphernalia and the excess of verbiage dedicated to introductions, at the end, after having taken an appropriate seat in the meeting room, the assembly began. The first topics to discuss were the most pleasant and which were easier to talk about. This and that have been built; this and this have not yet. Fortunately for Hashirama, such issues were explained by his younger brother, who had full knowledge about it, since it was Tobirama himself who took care of everything related to the construction.

Tobirama is not the only advisor of Konoha on that occasion. Just as the Daimyo brought his advisors, Hashirama did the same with a handful of people he considered trustworthy.

On Konoha’s side, sitting on one side of the Hokage were: Senju Tobirama, Uchiha Izuna, Senju Touka, Uzumaki Mito, Sarutobi Sasuke, and of course, on the opposite side of the row, the furthest from him, Uchiha Madara.

It didn’t surprise anyone that the one in charge of planning the choice of seats was Tobirama.

“And now, concerning the sand clans,” Hashirama called once a poorly concealed chuckle from the Daimyo was shared by the rest.

By hearing him, the gestures of those present changed. The Daimyo’s face didn’t look upset or angry at all, rather he was fed up with dealing with war issues.

“Yes, yes,” the Daimyo replies, dully. With a wave of his hand, he orders one of his subordinates to present the Hokage with a scroll. Hashirama accepts it and reads as the Daimyo continues. “I must say that my talk with the Daimyo of the Land of Wind was a bit…how to call it? Fruitful?” He questions one of his subordinates and the man nods. “Although, there were issues concerning some agreement which, I heard, you have already been discussing with those other clans…oh, I almost forgot!”

Another subordinate of the Daimyo immediately stands up and runs towards his lord, to hand him another scroll, which he also ends up handing to Hashirama. Since the Hokage isn’t finished with the first scroll yet, he passes the second to Tobirama.

“It seems that the Senju brothers’ idea of creating a village has been well received by the rest of the nations, to the extent that it has been already imitated in other lands.”

Hashirama cannot hide his surprise at hearing it; his smile is huge and beautiful., “I like to believe that the idea of creating a village was devised jointly with other clans and not just planned by the Senju.”

The Daimyo lets out a laugh.

“The Hokage is noble in sharing credit with the rest,” the Daimyo points out, “but, if I remember correctly, the idea of forming an alliance with the rest of the clans and thus ending the war, was something that struck me when I heard about it years ago. Clearly it must have been the idea of someone young and visionary. It was indicated so to me, since I shared letters with the illustrious brother of the Hokage.”

Tobirama inclines his head in his direction, accepting the compliment.

Hashirama sees out of the corner of his eye that Madara has rolled his eyes. His heart leaps at his mere silhouette and he is grateful that they are sitting apart, otherwise he could barely concentrate.

“It’s not the only thing I remember from my correspondence with the Senju, either.” The Daimyo adds, a mischievous smile on his face. “Tell me, Hokage-sama, where is that wife of yours?”

Hashirama feels a chill run through his entire body, as if he had been struck by lightning there in his chair. Next to him, his brother twists uncomfortably and, although he doesn’t look anywhere else, he suspects that the eyes of the inhabitants of Konoha fly from him to Madara.

“As I can recall, the plans were to marry the eldest of the Senju to an Uzumaki heiress,” the Daimyo says. “Or at least, that’s what I remember from the conversations I had with your father.”

“Yeah, about that…” Hashirama says, but his brother intercedes for him. “What my lord discussed with our father, I am afraid, were war strategies, which would be used with the idea of joining forces with other powerful clans and thus defeating the Uchiha.”

The Daimyo is really surprised.

Hashirama nods, doing his best not to wipe the stream of sweat running down his neck. “Correct; with the cessation of the war, such plans changed.”

“But Hokage-sama, you are still very young, and I am sure you think such matters are old-fashioned, but tell me, if you have no wife, how do you expect to produce heirs? From what I have seen, the life of a shinobi is sometimes short-lived. Who will inherit you?”

Hashirama doesn’t know where to turn. He clears his throat and says, “Of course, but, my lord, with all due respect, I must tell you that it is not necessary for me to engage in such an archaic practice as a marriage of convenience.” Beside him, he can hear Tobirama let out a slight growl. “That is, now that we are a village, the clans live in union and peace; the Uzumaki—especially their leader, that young woman over there,” Hashirama points to Mito with both hands and the girl gives a quick curtsy. “She already inhabits Konoha, and she is one of my closest allies—just as she was expected to be after our,” Hashirama clears his throat again, “marriage.”

The Daimyo’s mouth opens wide, and he nods slowly, as if it were hard for him to understand.

“I like to think that, both Mito and I, understand that we don’t have to stick to a forced marriage to be allies.” The Daimyo’s subordinates start whispering amongst themselves and Hashirama notices Tobirama forcefully forming a fist.

“You speak with much conviction, Hokage-sama, but what does the head of the Uzumaki clan think?”

Mito stands up upon being called and makes another quick curtsey. She takes her seat again and says, in a clear and beautiful voice, “The Hokage and I have already talked about it.” She turns to Hashirama, and he nods, smiling. The girl’s pale cheeks are tinted pink by feeling all eyes on her. “There is already a mutual agreement between us.”

The Daimyo nods to something the subordinate next to him is telling him.

Hashirama seizes the moment to add, “As for the heirs…I was disinherited by my father at the end of the war, as my lord was surely informed at the time.” The Daimyo nods and waits for Hashirama to continue. “Therefore, I am not clan head and I do not have much to inherit either.”

The Daimyo says, “You are the Hokage. Isn’t that title something worthy of inheriting?”

Hashirama is quick to nod. “It is worthy, of course. But—”

Tobirama opens his mouth intending to answer for him again, but this time, Hashirama doesn’t allow it and continues, his voice strong and clear, his eyes fixed on the Daimyo, “But it’s not a title that should be inherited by blood, as it is, say, the leadership of a clan.” The Daimyo’s subordinates again advise each other in a low voice, still looking at him. “Leading a village requires certain characteristics.” The Daimyo nods curiously. “What I want to say is that Konoha requires a shinobi who is willing and able to protect her from any risk. What I mean is that, in the future, when I can’t stay in the lead—for whatever reason—I’d like to know that a shinobi who is fit and willing to follow in my footsteps will sit in my place. And sometimes, abilities can’t be inherited by blood.”

“What the Hokage wants to say is that,” Tobirama points out hastily, “we plan to create an academy where we can instruct young people to become shinobi capable of protecting the village in the future.”

“An army is important, my lord,” a subordinate whispers the Daimyo. “The fittest might even serve in the Daimyo’s guard.”

Sarutobi Sasuke says, “Yeah, who knows? Perhaps the next Hokage of Konoha has not been born yet—but with proper training, surely, in the future, any child from any clan will be able to become a worthy leader.”

Hashirama looks sideways at Madara, uneasy, for every time he has thought of a replacement, the first to appear in his mind, has always been Uchiha Madara. He can see from a distance, that Madara doesn’t seem to be too pleased with the idea of a Sarutobi as Hokage.

It is not surprising either. Hashirama thinks that in the future, parents will instruct their children with the idea that they aspire to become Hokage.

“Of course,” Hashirama says. “As long as they are some worthy shinobi, capable of protecting the village, it doesn’t matter much what clan they come from—or if they even come from a clan at all.”

“This is a bit…out of the ordinary,” the Daimyo says, and his minions are quick to nod.

“It is,” Hashirama replies. “But I see a bright future in this village, and that encourages me to take the risk. The archaic methods only brought us wars, death, and despair. I like to think that by moving away from what is known to us, we can achieve great things.”

A subordinate of the Daimyo rises a hand and says, “Well, it seems that this modernity has also brought you new problems with other clans, Hokage-sama. There may be a relative peace within the Land of Fire, but now, a possible war with the sand clans seems imminent.”

“We have seen to it that the dialogue with them is conducted through peace,” Tobirama says.

As a natural response, Hashirama glances at Madara and notes, with great pleasure, that the Uchiha was already staring at him. In his eyes, he loses track of space and time. A deadly spell.

“Yes, something like that I heard when I had my meeting with the Daimyo of the Land of Wind,” the Daimyo says. “I would like to think that you will avoid a new and unnecessary war with those other clans, right? You know, Hokage-sama, using all those modern measures you youngsters flaunt about.”

Hashirama nods and feels his face all red. “Of course, my lord.”

“Wars are expensive, too.” Another advisor points out. Hashirama doesn’t like the sharp glint in his eyes or the harshness of his words. “Alike growing villages. If so, you will have to choose where the money will go to. Here you must choose, what is more important? A village or bathe the desert in blood?”

A chuckle is heard from the back of the room, sardonically.

“The last thing we want in Konoha is to be in the middle of another war, I assure you that.” Hashirama hurriedly tries to divert the attention from Madara. “Indeed, the final costs of wars are sometimes incalculable and…”

But without success; the attention of all the Daimyo’s men has been diverted, indeed, but towards the young man with dark, dishevelled hair who is sitting on the opposite edge of the table.

“You have been quite still throughout the meeting, Uchiha-sama.” One of those subordinates says, the one who is to the right of the Daimyo—the one who’s looking in Madara’s direction.

Hashirama feels a chill run through his entire body; out of the corner of his eye he watches Tobirama’s fist clench again; his knuckles paler than usual.

The Hokage looks up at the Uchiha. Madara is not a shy man at all; he enjoys being the centre of attention, it is just that his social skills are far from Hashirama’s.

“I didn’t feel it necessary for me to intervene, that’s all,” Madara replies. A devilish smile hangs on his lips; his eyes are wide open, his brows tranquil. His face shines with a calm he hadn’t felt before. He feels safe; he knows that a bunch of bootlickers will do him no more harm than the clan heads have, no matter how outlandish their outfits are. He’s so calm, that he hasn’t even felt the need to turn on his sharingan. “As we have seen, our Hokage has been doing very well himself.”

Tobirama doesn’t say a thing, but his face turns to the Uchiha, furious. His scarlet eyes glowing like red-hot coals.

And he’s not the only one—all eyes on the room are looking in his direction.

“Then, could Uchiha-sama give us his opinion on the matter,” the same subordinate replies with more of that false courtesy. “We have heard that you are the Hokage’s closest associate.”

Madara’s face changes for the first time in the entire meeting, though if anyone really noticed it, it was only those who know him well.

The Daimyo gestures to his subordinate and then to Hashirama, “Oh, is that true?”

Hashirama turns to the Daimyo and nods. He manages to form a smile and says, “Uchiha Madara is the Hokage’s right hand. My greatest ally.”

Tobirama steps into the rescue and points out, in his most cordial voice, “If my lord has no other urgent matter to discuss with the Hokage, I would like to invite you to join us at the feast that Konoha has prepared for you and your companions.”

The Daimyo’s face lights up and he immediately rises. His men instantly follow, but not before sending one last look at Uchiha Madara, while they share more of their poisonous whispers with each other.

Tobirama acts as the host, discreetly pushing his brother to leave at the same time as the Daimyo, leaving the rest behind and preventing him from interceding in any way, for Madara.

Yet, the Hokage does send him one last look before leaving the room. Hashirama’s jovial voice can be heard from the corridor. In the end, only the youngsters from Konoha remain in the room, and most of them send disapproving glances at the Uchiha clan leader.

“Y-you should go too,” Izuna tells him with a scowl as he approaches his side. “Nii-san, it’s a feast where the rest of the clan heads will be. Your duty is to—”

“Oh, come, Izuna. It’ll be better if I send a mediator in my place,” Madara says aloud, still from his chair, looking at the rest of the youths as they rise to their feet. “What if my presence ruins the conversation again?”

“You!” Tobirama turns, walking towards him, furious, pointing a finger at him. “You—Uchiha Madara—rejoice every time you can turn the situation in your favour. And it seems that the more humiliating it is for my brother, the more you seem to enjoy it.”

Madara looks askance at the rest of those present and bites his tongue. His eyes have turned red indeed for the first time that morning, though Tobirama is so close to his face that only he can see it.

The situation has escalated to an uncomfortable degree, both for those involved and for those who have only lingered as spectators.

Touka whispers something to Mito and she nods immediately. The two girls leave the room in whispers and Mito’s eyes land on Madara’s for a moment before going out into the corridor; Sasuke leaves the room with that devilish smile hanging from his lips, so that only the pair of Uchiha and Tobirama and his sharp finger remain inside.

Tobirama speaks as if he had been holding his breath. “This is important for everyone, but especially for him.” His words fluttered through the emptiness of the room, as if in a single and poor attempt not to embarrass Hashirama anymore, his brother had waited until they were alone before continuing. “You already heard the mutterings of the Daimyo’s subordinates—they, they know…”

“Nii-san, you really should go now too,” Izuna’s voice is agitated. “They will notice your absence.”

“Yes,” Tobirama nods, his sharp scarlet eyes peering toward the door for prying ears. Then he faces Madara again. “Yes, Izuna, if they notice that the Hokage’s lover is not present, they will surely get suspicious—”

“Tobirama!” Izuna calls.

To no avail.

Madara laughs and leans towards the Senju. He bares his teeth like some bloodthirsty animal. “Tell me—do you think I give a damn what the Daimyo and those bootlickers think of me?”

Tobirama looks him, up and down, before answering. “I’d be lying if I said that I care a little about you…but as far as my brother is concerned, that’s another matter.” His voice is unforgiving, his eyes expressionless. “He has sacrificed too much for you, and you still don’t care one bit for him in return? And you claim to love him? Really? Now, imagine what they must think of him abroad… think about what they must already say about him. Seeing those evil grins on the Daimyo’s men—I am terrified to even think what they must already assume of him. And now that they saw that he has no interest in taking a wife…” Tobirama shakes his head. “A female wife, at least,” he adds in a whisper.

Madara’s grin has disappeared. Instead, his frown has pronounced, and his chakra has begun to circle across the room to a toxic degree. Izuna shifts uncomfortably behind Tobirama, too anxious and worried to say anything. He doesn’t even dare to defend his own brother against the indefensible.

Tobirama turns his back on Madara, “I was silently fearing that my brother would point you out to the room as such. This village knows well that that title is already yours. It has been yours since the night you broke into his tent and decided that you would live by his side, no matter the consequences.”

Madara clenches a fist. Tobirama’s cruel words continue, “But soon I was able to breathe easy. You know? You were far away, and you probably couldn’t see him, but…do you happen to know how nervous my brother was? He was trembling at his site, looking sideways in your direction, fearing you were going to say some of your nonsense…it was a relief that you didn’t, of course.” Then, he turns to look over his shoulder. “The Daimyo will be in the village for a few more days…a week at the most. I am sure you’ll find something interesting to entertain yourself in the meantime.”

Tobirama walks towards the door and when he reaches the entrance, he hears a murmur come from Madara’s lips. He stops and asks, “Did you say something, Uchiha?”

Unbeknownst to him, Madara is smirking again. His canines sharp and shiny as he loudly says, “Yes. I said: fuck you, Senju.”

Tobirama snorts and leaves the room.

 

* * *

 

The Uchiha are the last to arrive at the feast.

Hashirama has been watching the door carefully, observing every time it opens, eager to see Madara finally enter.

When he does, the Uchiha doesn’t send him a single glance. He walks with the representatives of his clan who accompany him; the group walks over to where the Daimyo is sitting at, to make a forced bow in his honour. The man is stunned by the gesture and begins to clap as if he were a small child. Hashirama is sitting next to him and stares at the clan leader, waiting for Madara to take the seat the Hokage’s been saving for him all along.

However, the Uchiha comes and goes to sit at the opposite end of the room, right under Hashirama’s gaze. So close and yet so far. Tobirama who watched everything from his seat, stands up and takes the empty place next to his brother, where no one else is going to sit in, anyway.

The room where the feast is taking place is spacious. There are several long and wide tables with their respective benches placed on each side; they are made from the wood of the trees that surround the village and were recently painted. In certain parts, the resin is still palpable, and the aroma is still easy to feel in the environment. This room has not been built for long and therefore, it is still not decorated. Hashirama thought that he would like to adorn the walls with the clan crests hanging on them…

The Daimyo is speaking to him. Hashirama does his best to answer him politely. Always trying to remember what they were talking about, before he went off on a tangent.

He replies complacently, as the Daimyo lets out another laugh. Tobirama is very pleased too, or at least, that’s what can be seen from his gestures; he is even drinking sake. Goddess. In response, Hashirama takes the cup in his hands and sees himself reflected in the dark liquid. That sake isn’t the fruity one he’s used to; it is stronger and Hashirama must be careful not to drink too much. Madara doesn’t like sake…

Madara. Hashirama sends his eyes to the opposite side of the room and sees that, again, Madara is staring at him at the same time. The Uchiha looks away instantly, but it’s too late to feign indifference—Hashirama caught him red-handed.

Surprise of surprises, Madara is drinking sake that day. He brings the cup to his lips at that moment, his eyes, once again fixed on the Hokage’s. They are in an open room, and they are two of the people who cause the most interest among diners; surely anyone can look at them and there they are both, without even flinching at the thought, openly flirting with each other.

Hashirama takes his cup again and directs it to his lips at the same time, his eyes meeting the Uchiha’s as well. He drinks its contents in one gulp, alike Madara. Hashirama licks his lips, the sweetness of the drink still permeating his tongue. Madara mimics. He is sure of what Madara’s mouth tastes like at that moment, like that sake: sweet and intoxicating…

“She is indeed a beautiful lady,” the Daimyo murmurs at that moment.

Hashirama barely has a chance to understand what is happening. He turns to his left and notices that the Daimyo is watching the diners, talking to his counsellor. Following the direction of his gaze, Hashirama notices that he is looking towards the table where the Uchiha are.

Naori and Izuna had risen. Hashirama gulps.

The Daimyo gestures and points with a discreet finger. “That girl over there—the one who has stood up.” Hashirama searches for the chosen girl and feels a chill in response. A subordinate asks something that Hashirama can’t hear due to himself being numb. The Daimyo continues, “Yes, her; the woman who walks next to that child who was in the meeting with us.”

Sasuke, who’s also in the table with the Hokage, enjoys the show and mentions to the Daimyo in a low voice, “Her name is Naori. Uchiha Naori.”

Hashirama brings the cup to his lips, so he doesn’t have to comment, but he notes with regret that it is empty. With trembling hands, he takes the bottle and pours himself some more. He sends a furtive glance ahead, but Madara isn’t looking at him now, he’s busy talking to a young Uchiha by his side.

Meanwhile, one of the Daimyo’s counsellors explains to the Hokage, also discreetly, “My lord the Daimyo is in search of a new wife.”

Hashirama looks at the Daimyo and he nods. He says, in a wistful voice, “I was widowed a couple of years ago,” Hashirama doesn’t know what to say. “But I think it’s been long enough for me to remarry. A man should put the past behind and move on, do you not think, Hokage-sama?” He asks, raising his own cup to the Hokage’s eyes in a toast.

He nods in response and gives him a fake smile, before raising his cup—full again—to his lips.

“Anyway, my lord, I’m afraid she is not available at all,” it is Sarutobi Sasuke who speaks again. He is sitting on the opposite side of the table, but he has been very aware of the whole conversation.

The Daimyo and his men turn to the nice man in front of them. Sasuke’s wife, sitting next to him, follows the conversation in silence, smiling discreetly.

“Please enlighten us, Sarutobi-sama,” the Daimyo requests.

And the dashing Sasuke complies with pleasure and explains, “Last I heard, she was engaged to Uchiha Madara.”

The Daimyo nods and his men chat among themselves, whispering. Hashirama was about to spit out the sake he had in his mouth. What the hell is Sasuke doing? Even Tobirama is speechless and instead, he pours himself more sake, so he doesn’t have to comment either.

Hashirama sends his gaze to the Daimyo. He doesn’t seem to be concerned at all, as if beautiful girls are presented to him daily to choose from as his wife.

“It is a real shame,” the Daimyo replies. His men nod. “Uchiha Madara is a truly lucky man. I should go congratulate them in person, don’t you think?” His subordinates nod again. “When it’s wedding day, I’d like to send the happy couple a personal gift,” he says in Hashirama’s direction. “You’re their closest friend, or so I’ve heard, Hokage-sama. Just don’t go ruining the surprise for them, will you?”

The diners at the table laugh in unison.

Madara hears the noise and sends his gaze to the Hokage’s table, one dark brow arched curiously.

The Hokage notices his gesture and feels his chest swell with the vilest envy. He clenches his fists and forces another smile. He raises his cup in honour of the Daimyo. “Of course, my lord,” he says and sends the rest of the sake down his throat.

The Daimio stands up as he sees Naori walking back to her table. She looks truly surprised not knowing what the hell is going on. The man mutters something that only the girl can hear. Her pretty face turns red in an instant.

Hashirama is discreetly watching everything, waiting for the girl to deny the gossip and explain the Daimio that he’s mistaken, just like he and Mito did recently, but that doesn’t happen.

She bows to him and together with Izuna, they return to take a seat at the opposite end of the room.

Hashirama’s eyes fall back on Madara’s, who doesn’t understand anything either. His brows are now furrowed. And as Naori takes her seat, Madara turns to her.

Hashirama wants to break something. He hears Tobirama clear his throat, and only then does he start to calm down. He reaches out a hand and pours himself some more of that awful sake.

Madara and he ignore each other for the rest of the feast. No more awkward conversations occur. The music becomes intense, and the sake bottles continue to run between the tables, like rough waters in turbulent rivers.

 

* * *

 

“Wait—” Madara whispers in his ear that night. “Stop!”

As if Madara had asked him just the opposite, Hashirama’s thrusts become faster and ferocious.

Madara digs his nails into the skin on Hashirama’s back, making him bleed.

“Ah—fuck, you drunkard—I asked you to stop!”

Hashirama stops for an instant. He is just as agitated as Madara; his chest rising and falling rapidly, his bangs sticking to his forehead with sweat, getting in the way of his eyes.

“Damn it, Hashirama,” Madara blurts out panting, and falls back on the pillow.

“Have I hurt you?” Hashirama asks. The fire in his eyes has disappeared and now, there is genuine concern in them. “Madara, please answer me, did I hurt you?”

Madara shakes his head. Hashirama tries to get out from his body, embarrassed, but Madara entangles his legs behind Hashirama’s back, preventing him from escaping. They face each other again, once Hashirama sends his wet locks behind his ears. “But you seemed to be lost, far from here,” Madara mumbles.

Hashirama arches his eyebrows sadly and averts his gaze.

Madara, on the other hand, smiles. “I like it rough, though, but you overstated yourself.” Hashirama dares to look into his eyes, shyly. “I notice you worried.” Hashirama doesn’t answer. Madara reaches out a hand and cups his damp cheek; his skin is hot with sweat. “What’s going on, Hashirama?”

Hashirama licks his lips and catches Madara’s hand in his own and plants a kiss on his palm. He leans into Madara and as he does so, the movement causes him to go deeper into him.

In response, Madara groans and narrows his eyes.

“It is nothing,” Hashirama whispers against his lips. He kisses him. Madara’s mouth is wide open, panting already. “I just don’t want this night to end yet.”

Madara smiles pleased and wraps his arms around Hashirama’s neck. The wounds on his back heal with an ease that never fails to amaze Madara.

“Love me again,” the Uchiha commands in his ear. “Slower this time.”

The Hokage obeys.

Chapter 10

Notes:

i'm just gonna post this in case anything else happens t_t

The Daimyo spends a week in Konoha, walking its streets and learning about the different customs that converge within its stockades. He monopolizes the Hokage’s attention from sunrise to sunset, leaving him only his nights free.

It is during that time that he manages to live with Madara. And among whispers and in the middle of the dark—in those periods between one coupling and another—it is that they take the opportunity to tell how their respective days were. To laugh and discuss. To talk, until an ember ignites another, and together, they revive the rest of their flames.

One of those nights, after his last dinner with the Daimyo, Hashirama excuses himself to leave the room earlier. Madara did not attend dinner that night—in fact, only Naori and some of her close friends did, so that the table belonging to the Uchiha would not remain empty.

Hashirama claimed indigestion and he wasn’t lying. Although of course, his discomfort didn’t come from some food in bad state, but from the distance that the state visit had forced him to maintain with Uchiha Madara.

He deviates from his usual path, as he is certain that Madara won’t be waiting for him at home for another couple of hours. He has a little gift prepared for him—a surprise of sorts—and he wants Madara to be the first to try it, even though Hashirama hopes with all his heart that Madara won’t have to wear it anytime soon.

But he is intuitive and has an ominous feeling that neither of them will be able to escape that fate.

“Hokage-sama, good night, I…”

Hashirama looks up at the blacksmith and sees that he has already removed his apron. “Good night—oh, are you leaving already?”

The blacksmith has all his tools placed in their place, and the forge doesn’t feel hot either, as if fire had been off for a long time.

The state diners often last well into the night. On that occasion, the yellow moon is already over the mountains and a pale and threatening halo surrounds her with jealousy. How did he not think of leaving the feast earlier?

“I’m leaving, indeed, but your order has been ready for a couple of days. Wait here and I’ll bring it to you right away.”

“Seriously, it’s not that urgent; I can come back tomorrow.”

The blacksmith wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve and smiles. “No, no—I’ll be right back. Please wait, Hokage-sama.” The man passes through a heavy and dirty curtain that acts as a door and heads to the next room, leaving Hashirama alone.

His solitude is ephemeral, for behind him, he hears some hasty footsteps walking across the gravel. It’s not so late at night that there aren’t people walking the streets, but that blacksmith’s forge isn’t the most in-demand in Konoha.

Hashirama is surprised to see that it is Izuna. The boy did not go to the feast, so he is wearing his common clothes. He walks pensively and doesn’t see Hashirama until he’s in front of him.

“What are you doing here?” The little Uchiha says before Hashirama can ask him the same thing.

Hashirama shrugs, wondering if he could trust Izuna to keep his secret.

“I’ve had a gift made,” Hashirama replies, and the darkness of the place prevents his blush from being visible.

“For my brother?” Izuna rolls his eyes when he sees that Hashirama was taken aback by his response. “It is obvious that it is a gift for him; his birthday is in a few days.”

Hashirama nods. Madara’s birthday is in a few days, yes, but he has a bad feeling that he won’t have to wait that long to give it to him, and that they might not be able to spend that special day together.

The blacksmith walks back through the door at that instant and stops dead when he sees Uchiha Izuna there. “Izuna,” he calls. In his hands he brings an object wrapped in a dark-coloured cloth. “I also have your order ready, just allow me to deliver this to the Hokage first.”

Hashirama opens his hands and takes it. When he notes the weight inside the cloth, his heart leaps. He is tempted to open it to look, but he wants Madara to be the first—besides him—to see it.

The blacksmith says, “I hope the Hokage likes it. It’s a peculiar piece of clothing, you know? We Uchiha don’t usually use such items and therefore the result may not be how you imagined it.”

Hashirama squeezes the object with both hands and places it against his belly for protection. “I’m sure it’s perfect. Thank you.”

The blacksmith takes a bow, before turning to Izuna. “Yours is inside; come, follow me.”

Izuna shoots Hashirama a quick look before following the blacksmith into the other room, leaving him alone on the opposite side of the curtain again.

Hashirama squeezes the object in his hand again and looks up at the sky, at the huge, round, bright yellow moon, which is already closer to him. The best thing would be to go home soon and take advantage of the extra time he can share with Madara.

He turns around, heading towards the street. Hashirama remembers that Madara didn’t go to the feast that night and that it’s very likely that he hasn’t had dinner yet. Surely, he has been entertaining himself with anything and has put his stomach aside. Maybe he could buy some ingredients before getting home and cook him something; or maybe, instead, he could go home and invite him out to dinner. The other night, he really wanted to have a nice and steaming bowl of noodles with him for dinner…

Hashirama spent so much time thinking about it, that he has forgotten to move from the blacksmith’s door. The voices of both Uchiha are heard from inside the smithy and Hashirama finds himself unable to move. It all happens to soon. What if they think that he has been eavesdropping them?

A figure appears through the door. “Senju, still here?”

It’s Izuna’s voice. Hashirama shrugs and stuffs the cloth-wrapped item into one of his pockets. “I was thinking.”

Izuna nods, as if he believed him. The Uchiha also has something in his hands and that object is not so easy to hide. Hashirama’s stomach drops as he recognises Madara’s armour.

“What…? That is Madara’s armour.”

The boy snorts in response. Unlike him, Izuna doesn’t seem to be very willing to remain thoughtfully in the middle of the street, let alone on a night as cold as that one.

Hashirama recognises the direction of his footsteps and follows him, as he senses that he is heading to the house he shares with Madara.

They walk in silence for a couple of blocks until Izuna dares to break the ice. “Come on, Senju, ask whatever you’re thinking.”

Hashirama smiles helplessly.

“Tell me,” Hashirama says, “did your brother ask you to send his armour to be repaired?”

Izuna thinks how to answer. Never had Hashirama wished more to be a telepath.

“He said that it would be convenient for it to be repaired, yes, but I was the one who offered to send it to the blacksmith.” Izuna looks up at Hashirama. “Our family has entrusted their armour to those smiths for generations. That man made my brother’s first armour,” he shrugs, “it was obvious he would be trusted with such a task.” Hashirama says nothing. “You seem surprised; for your sake, get used to the idea that he’s getting ready to leave—his kama got a new blade too.” Some people passing by on the opposite side of the street greet Hashirama warmly; he returns the gesture with a smile. When they are alone again, Izuna turns to him and asks, “You also have your secrets, Senju, as I can see.”

Hashirama squeezes the item in his pocket in response. He looks ahead as he replies, “I have a feeling that I won’t be around Madara by the time it’s his birthday. I thought maybe this would be a good gift for him, but the more I think about it, the more I feel like it’s more of an emblem to my self-image than a gift he’d like to receive. It’s just…I wish I had a head so I could think properly.”

Izuna nods and meditates silently. The armour clinks with each step the boy takes, even though when it is covering Madara’s body, it’s light and unobtrusive.

“I think you think too much, Senju.” The boy’s voice is calm. “You could give my brother a leaf from some tree as a gift and he would cherish it like the brightest of jewels. You could just spend that day by his side, and he would treasure it as the best of gifts.”

Yes, but he won’t be here that day.

Hashirama smiles, knowing that it is true. “What would they think of the Hokage if they knew that he has given a simple tree leaf or his company to the person he loves most in the world?”

Izuna blushes a bit, Hashirama can tell even though the street is dark.

“Let them think what they want, Senju.” The boy’s bright eyes lock on his. “Let them think what they want.”

Fortunately, they arrive home at that moment. The lamps are lit inside, and the scent of firewood in the hearth greets them as soon as they cross the threshold.

Uchiha Madara is sitting in the garden, his feet dangling in the dark and he is not alone, for he has a large object next to him. He strokes its surface religiously as he moves aside the pieces of cloth that were covering it until a moment ago.

Hashirama freezes at the sight of the object in Madara’s hands. The Uchiha gunbai, the highest symbol of the Uchiha clan leader. The memories begin to plague him against his will: suddenly, he is not standing in the courtyard, but he is once again covered in blood and surrounded by smoke from Madara’s katon. The gunbai has been lost in the middle of the battle and Uchiha Madara is found bleeding to death at his sight.

At that moment, Madara looks up and his eyes fix on Hashirama’s, as if he too had witnessed the same memory. If there’s a telepath, it’s him.

He knows that the gunbai was recovered by Izuna and repaired, only to return to its owner after the brothers’ meeting in Sora-ku; Madara travelled back home with the gunbai slung across his back, and still, to Hashirama it seems it’s been years since he last saw Madara using it.

It is the ultimate symbol of Madara and his power; The pride of the Uchiha represented in the form of a wooden war fan. How Hashirama wished that Madara would forget about it, and not have to take on that responsibility again.

“Thank you, Izuna,” Madara says as his little brother shows him the armour, but his gaze is still locked on Hashirama’s.

Izuna understands and says, as he goes inside the house, “I’ll hang it inside.” The boy does not wait for an answer and disappears, sensing that the couple needs to talk about it.

Hashirama has been getting closer to the edge, not knowing how his feet have managed to move on their own. Madara’s gaze has remained static on him.

“How was the feast?” He asks after clearing his throat. He sets the gunbai aside and looks away, to the darkness in the patio.

“Same as always,” Hashirama replies. Madara nods, still not looking at him. “Boring and uncomfortable.”

Madara chuckles and stares back at him. He knows what Hashirama means as far as discomfort goes, so regarding the other adjective, he asks, “Boring without me?”

Hashirama has no intention of lying. “Of course.”

Madara’s cheeks flush a little. Hashirama adds, “Why didn’t you go? The Daimyo asked for you.”

“I had business to attend to.”

“Like sending your gunbai to be repaired, for instance?”

Madara frowns. “I took it in for repair days ago; today it was only ready, and I didn’t trust anyone else to go pick it up.”

Hashirama’s blood begins to boil.

“We said that we would wait until the Daimyo left to have another meeting with the clan heads and ponder what measures to take with our problem.”

“Our problem,” Madara mimics. “You insist that we should wait, Hashirama, but I have always been the more realistic of the two and thank the gods. If I had waited for a new meeting like you suggested, neither my armour nor my fucking gunbai would be ready in time for my departure. Do you think that I would be able to leave that way? Not even you would allow me to leave without being ready, and we have no time; you are only delaying this to your benefit—”

“Again with the same, Madara, you—”

Hashirama falls silent when he sees Izuna’s shadow appear at the door. He puts a hand to his mouth and glares back to Madara, noting that he too is uncomfortable that Izuna overheard them arguing.

“Stay the night, Izuna. It’s too late for you to wander on your own,” Madara says in a deep voice to the boy behind.

“It’s not the first time I’ve wandered the streets of Konoha at night, Nii-san.” Izuna walks past him and jumps to land his feet on the grass, right next to where Hashirama is standing. “Besides, the last thing I want is to spend the rest of the night listening to you both yelling—and, of course, I don’t want to be present when you two decide to reconcile, either.” A smile hangs on his lips when he looks back at his older brother’s pink face. “Sleep well; see you tomorrow, aye?”

Izuna doesn’t wait for an answer and simply leaves.

Neither of them speaks for a while after Izuna’s departure, till they are sure that he is already far away to listen.

“I don’t want to spend these last few days arguing with you,” Madara is the first to speak.

Hashirama shortens the space between them and rests his hands on the wood where Madara is sitting, holding his face a few centimetres from his.

“‘These last few days,’ you sound as if we are never going to see each other again.” Hashirama’s eyebrows are furrowed, his eyes as sad as his voice. “This exchange will be brief and soon, I will have you within my grasp again.”

Madara leans forward, until his lips brush Hashirama’s in response.

A simple touch is not enough for either of them, so it is the Hokage who deepens the kiss. The world seems to stop until Madara shivers. The moon is already at its zenith, cold and unreachable, alike Madara.

“You must be hungry,” Hashirama whispers against his lips, seeing himself reflected in that pair of dark mirrors.

Madara nods. Hashirama catches a pale hand in his; he is not wearing gloves that night and consequently, his skin is very cold.

“Let’s go inside,” Hashirama says. He licks his lips. “I’ll cook you something delicious.”

 

* * *

 

Madara is very pleased when they bid the Daimyo farewell at the village gates.

“It has been a wonderful experience, spending quality time in such a picturesque place and surrounded by such lovely people,” the Daimyo says with a smile.

Hashirama smiles warmly too and takes a bow.

“I look forward to hearing more good news from this village, from its young leader, and his curious modern ideas that are helping us to shape a new world.”

Hashirama beams and says, “I speak for all the inhabitants of Konoha, my lord, when I say that it too has been a wonderful experience for us to have you. Please, visit us again soon.”

The Daimyo smiles pleased and nods. He gets into his ostentatious carriage in the company of his men and soon, they are lost in the surroundings of the forest, until the noise of the horses’ hooves is no longer audible.

Just two days later, the inevitable happens and Tobirama calls a meeting of clan heads. This time, Tobirama does not allow his brother to intercede at all, and for most of the evening, he is the one who does the talking.

“The falcon we sent into the desert returned a few hours ago with a message.” The attendees wait for him to continue. “They are willing to make an exchange, and it seems to them only fair that we send two of our most important allies as a sign of trust.”

All eyes in the room are focused on two people: Madara and Mito.

The Uzumaki girl looks up, serious and tranquil. Madara’s isn’t much different either.

“We will leave shortly, in two days,” Tobirama says.

Madara is enraged seeing the state the Hokage has been reduced to. His face is pale, and his eyebrows curved like a scolded puppy’s.

“The Hokage and I will travel with Mito and Madara to the edge of the forest, where we will await the envoys from the desert. We will bring them to Konoha and here, will be given the best treatment, with the cordiality that is necessary in these cases.” The clan heads whisper among themselves and half a dozen pairs of eyes fix back on Uchiha Madara. “We hope it’s quick. Anyone present is invited to witness this affair, as a further act of trust, but I am confident enough that it will not be necessary to turn this discreet exchange into a circus.”

Tobirama turns to the lambs and says, “Do you have anything else to add?”

Madara glances sideways at Mito. More than one of those present hope for the girl to finally see how unnecessary her departure is. But Mito’s eyes are bright and sure, as much or more than the day she offered herself.

“Nothing at all,” Mito says, and now, she’s the one who looks at Madara for a second, before turning to Tobirama and replying, “I’m ready.”

Tobirama nods. He turns his head to the opposite side of the table, where Madara is. “Same question, Uchiha.”

At that moment and for the first time in their entire lives, there seems to be no hostility between them, as if Tobirama himself wanted to get out of there as soon as possible.

“Same answer, Senju.”

Tobirama says, “Well, this session is over for today. Rest everyone.” Then he turns to the two who will leave. “We will meet again the day after tomorrow, first thing in the morning, at the gates of Konoha.”

Mito nods one last time before leaving the room. Madara follows.

 

* * *

 

Later, Madara lies on the futon, staring thoughtfully at the ceiling.

After the meeting with the clan heads, he went with Izuna to a hot spring, so he hasn’t talked to Hashirama for hours.

His armour and gunbai wait for him in a separate room to ease the heavy tension that has settled between them.

Hashirama paces around without doing anything in particular, delaying the inevitable moment of going to bed.

“What are you doing?” Madara inquires in a snarl. “Come to me while there is time.”

The Senju turns to him. He still looks terrible. Distraught and fatigued and upset.

“Change that face, Senju, I have not died yet.”

This does indeed change his face. “Do not play with that!”

Madara widens his eyes with interest. He sits on the futon and looks at him on the door, as if Hashirama himself refused to enter that room.

His eyebrows are still furrowed, and his chakra emanates from his body with an intensity not seen since the end of the war.

“Oh, that’s so much better; it turns me on when you’re furious.”

Hashirama storms into the room and heads towards him, his teeth sharp and, indeed, furious. “You are still looking at this whole matter too calmly, Uchiha Madara.”

Madara doesn’t say anything, he just grins. A cruel grin. He seems to be enjoying all of this.

“Do you think this is a fucking game?” Hashirama insists. “Are you are having fun?”

The Uchiha leans forward and kisses him. Hashirama is so distressed that not even the intention of a kiss from his lover can beat his anger. He pushes him aside and stands up, putting a safe distance between them.

“Oh, come,” Madara tells him, “can’t you take on a simple jest?”

Hashirama turns to him, still scowling.

Madara calls out to him with a wave of a hand, ordering him come back to his side.

“You know what, Senju? Maybe I wasn’t joking at all,” Madara insists when he sees that Hashirama hesitates.

“You tend to view this whole matter too lightly,” Hashirama says.

“You used to be like that, too, right? Do you remember when we were kids? How you hated that I was always so bitter and serious?”

“I never hated it,” Hashirama replies. “I’ve never hated anything about you.”

Madara bites his lip. “Still.”

“Let’s just don’t joke on this. You are a magnificent shinobi, Madara, the best of all of us, but even you cannot know what awaits you in the desert, and the fact that you see everything so lightly makes me furious.”

Madara takes time to process his words, for even though he hasn’t said anything he didn’t already know, when Hashirama speaks so frankly, it always leaves him speechless.

By his silence and the true extent of his speech, Hashirama finally approaches him. He kneels next to him.

“We—” Madara says without looking him in the eye, “we cannot know what will happen in the desert, right, but there’s no use in worrying about things that get out of our hands either.” Now they do look into each other’s eyes. “You do your part, as the Hokage and I will do mine, as Uchiha Madara.”

Hashirama leans towards him.

Madara likes it when Hashirama takes the initiative for a kiss, because it is always well received, even though the things that have been said before are terrible.

“If you don’t take advantage of having me now that I’m within your reach, you’ll regret it when I’m far away, in the desert and you can only relieve…” Madara whispers, putting a hand on Hashirama’s chest, “your needs with the cold strokes of your hand.” He reaches into the folds of his clothing, and in there, he catches something.

They both stand still for a moment, while Madara continues to move his hand under the cloth.

Hashirama lets out a groan and manages to mouth Madara’s name in a silent scream.

Madara licks his lips as he watches his face contort. The incomparable fascination with which a single hand can control such a strong shinobi at his pleasure.

“Unless you decide to find someone else to relieve your needs while I’m away.”

Hashirama opens his eyes, they are dark and outraged. He leans down and silences Madara’s lips, forcing him to lean back against the pillow. His voice is a whisper when he says, “Why do you say that? You don’t trust me, do you?”

Madara doesn’t get a chance to answer. “Or perhaps, it’s you who plan to do just that.” Hashirama spats. “Who will possess you in my place, Uchiha Madara? Some beautiful young man who crosses your sight and reminds you of me? Maybe you’ll try to seduce the leader of the desert clans and end this mess that way. The whole world knows well that the war between the Senju and the Uchiha ended just because I couldn’t keep my hands off you…”

Madara places a hand on the Senju’s neck and reverses places, pinning him against the futon, trapped with the massive force of his hand.

“For less than what you just said I have blinded countless lives in the past, Senju,” Madara snarls, his lips a mere distance from Hashirama’s.

All attempted jests have vanished from his body; he’s on fire, his dark chakra makes Hashirama flinch. Madara’s voice, and his violent and bloodthirsty scarlet eyes.

So deadly, yet so beautiful.

“I could finish you off right now,” Madara says.

“Do it, I won’t move.”

“You are an idiot!” the Uchiha blurts out, then lets him go as if Hashirama’s skin is on fire.

“You started it,” Hashirama says seriously, as he covers his hurt skin with one hand.

Madara sits next to him, preventing their bodies from touching. After a while in silence in which only their breaths can be heard, Madara dares to ask, “Is that what your friends think of me?” Madara doesn’t take his finger off the line. “Tell me, Hashirama, is that what they say about me? Will Uchiha Madara, the Hokage’s pet, go to the desert and seduce the leader with the same ease with which he controls Senju Hashirama? Is it that?”

Hashirama doesn’t play along. He keeps looking away, everywhere but Madara’s eyes, which are dark again.

“I, controlling the Hokage like he’s a sweet little pup, is that what they think? I’m sure it’s that idiot Sarutobi who started the rumour. It’s something that bloody bastard would say.”

Hashirama waits for a while before replying.

“I don’t know; I don’t care what they think.”

Madara lets out a laugh. “Oh, Goddess, Hashirama… please listen to yourself!” The laughter continues. “You cannot lie, Hashirama.” Madara forces him to look at him by turning his face with his cold fingers. “I can see in your eyes that you do care, and that you listen to what they say as if it were the truth.” Madara sees himself reflected in those black eyes. He whispers, “Are you seriously doubting me now? What does that head of yours think, Hashirama? That I will really go to the desert and let myself be seduced by the village leader who gives me the best gifts, or the one who fucks me the best—do you really think so low of me?”

Madara is so enraged that his voice and whole body are shaking.

Hashirama is furious too. His skin burns even though he’s still dressed, and the night is so cold. He rips off Madara’s clothes with ease. He throws him against the futon again, spreads his legs and places them against his heaving chest, spreading him open.

Hashirama also opens his garments but doesn’t take them off. Either way, this is enough for Madara to see the state he’s put him in.

The lube is within his reach, but Hashirama makes no attempt to take it. Madara doesn’t remind him either, instead, he waits to see what he does first.

He has always adored him, but his adoration for Hashirama knows no bounds when he is so out of himself. To have him like this—rampant and emanating unheard-of amounts of raging chakra. He had never looked so attractive. Madara is very ready.

Hashirama leans over and places the tip of his erection to his entrance. Madara bites his lip in anticipation and then, out of revenge, Hashirama pulls himself away and closes his clothes. He lets go of Madara’s legs as well, and they fall limp on the futon.

Madara stands still, staring at the ceiling. The Senju lies down next to him.

“I will not take anyone in your absence.” Hashirama says. Madara is astounded. That bastard is really not going to fuck him that night.

Madara opens his mouth to curse out loud, but the words just don’t come out.

“As I also know that you will not sleep with anyone else,” Hashirama adds.

It’s ridiculous. Madara can see Hashirama’s raging erection underneath the cloth.

“I don’t want to argue anymore tonight,” he continues. Madara turns and sees that the reddish mark left by his hand on Hashirama’s neck has disappeared. “I don’t want us to part like this.” A dog from a neighbouring house begins to bark insistently at that moment. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Madara cannot articulate a single word. What the hell?

“Hashirama,” he calls him at the end, after thinking about it for a long time.

Hashirama does not intend to fall for more provocations. He gets up to blow out the tapers and returns to his side in silence. He lies down next to him again, crossing one arm over Madara’s belly.

What the fuck?

Madara can feel him hard.

And shortly after, he hears him snoring.

 

* * *

 

Madara’s bare feet slide silently across the wooden floors the next morning. There’s a delicious scent caressing his nose, tantalizing his senses, leading him around the entire house towards the kitchen.

He expects to find it empty as always: steaming bowls and a half-prepared tray, for surely the Hokage is long gone to his office.

“Oh, you’re here,” he says, seeing Hashirama sitting at the table, staring at an open book.

Hashirama looks up. The cruel words they spat at each other the night before, have vanished like fresh snow after being touched by the sun.

“Here I am,” Hashirama replies. He closes the book and places it to the side, to make room on the table for breakfast. Hashirama stands up and goes and finds some bowls for both of them to eat. There is an implicit question on Madara’s face, as if he didn’t dare to ask it; maybe all the bravery in him had gone with the moon. “I decided to take the day off, to focus on preparing your baggage.”

Madara sits on the opposite side of the table. Baggage? What the hell is he talking about? Madara plans to travel with the clothes he is wearing, his armour, his pouch and gunbai. He doesn’t need anything else.

Hashirama returns with a bowl which he places in front of the Uchiha. The aroma of that broth enters his nose, seducing him. His mouth is watering.

“Thanks,” Madara says.

They eat breakfast in silence. Food is delicious. How is it that he has gotten used to the little pleasures of a life shared with someone else so quickly? Suddenly, he doesn’t want to sleep alone or taste tasteless food ever again.

“Madara.”

He looks up in response, noodles dangling from his lips. That morning there is a tender smile on the Senju’s features.

Say it, Senju. Go on, say it.

“What’s going on?”

He says, “Tobirama plans to have one last meeting before your departure, just us, the trusted ones, to see—”

“No.”

Hashirama frowns. “Madara, you haven’t even let me explain.”

Madara pushes the empty bowl aside. He wipes his lips with a napkin. “There is no need for him to tell me what to do. I am the Uchiha clan head. Excuse me, but I don’t have to ask your little brother for advice.”

“But—”

“You don’t trust me, do you?” Madara is the one who frowns now.

Hashirama shakes his head. He places both hands on the table. “Of course I do; I trust you with my life.”

Madara feels a squeeze in his belly. “Well, trust me then. I’m the Hokage’s right-hand man, am I not? Or are you just going around lying to everyone about it?”

“You know I don’t lie with that.”

“Right,” Madara stands up and takes the dirty dishes into the kitchen to wash them. “I won’t waste my last day in Konoha looking at your brother’s face.”

Madara knows what he wants to do, how he wants to spend those last few hours in that house made of mokuton. So he doesn’t take offense when Hashirama leaves to meet his brother. He will attend the meeting and tell the important details to Madara later.

Either way, this gives Madara a chance to plan everything more freely. He spends much of the day gazing absently at the trees that surround the house. Then, a familiar chakra leaps silently over the fence. Madara doesn’t look up to greet his brother, instead he asks, “What did I miss?”

Izuna grins and sits next to his brother. The boy lets out a sigh, his feet also dangling. “Let’s just say he didn’t like you not attending.”

Madara chuckles and it is contagious. “Anything I have to worry about?”

His little brother shakes his head, still grinning. “Same as always, you didn’t miss anything important. It’s just that Tobirama sometimes likes to be the one to say the last word.”

Do you already call him so familiarly? Madara thinks. Instead, he says, “It’s a good thing I didn’t go, then.”

Now, Izuna just smiles and turns to look at him, “I’m going to miss you so much, Nii-san.”

Madara looks him in the eye. “You’ll have me back before you even think about it.”

At least, that’s what Madara likes to think. But he tries not to think too much about it either; getting sad will only make things worse.

Izuna nods and swallows, an audible sound. “I miss you already.”

 

* * *

 

After Izuna’s departure, Madara begins to walk around the house in the dark, like a baleful and melancholic shadow. Is this how Hashirama will wander at night in his absence? Or will he spend as much time outside as possible, so he doesn’t have to be in an empty house? Madara doesn’t know what to think. Any scenario he envisions turns out to be less hopeful than the last.

The sun has long since set when Hashirama returns home. When he shuts the door, its noise flutters throughout the house, like a lone tree falling in the middle of the forest.

He finds Madara staring absently to the snow falling through the open doors. Hashirama takes a few steps towards him. Madara allows himself to be trapped in his arms, because the gods know that he wants to spend the rest of the night only by his company.

Hashirama is thankful that Madara is wearing his hair in a high ponytail, exposing a vast and appetizing portion of bare skin. He leaves several love marks on the sensitive skin of his neck and sternum.

“Wait, not yet.” Madara whispers as Hashirama’s hands cling to his waistband.

The Senju looks at him with cloudy eyes, as if he doesn’t understand what he means.

“This morning, Madara, at the meeting…” Hashirama begins to say.

Madara places a slender finger to his lips, shutting them up. “I don’t want to talk about it either.” Hashirama’s hands drop to his sides. “Come.”

He spent the entire afternoon making sure this all went perfectly. Madara makes him take a seat on the tatami as he goes and disappears into an adjoining room. The doors remain open, so they can see the snow fall. The front view is the patio inked in a December blue, that moment that is neither day nor night. The hearth lit behind his back helps make the cold bearable.

“I promised you a long time ago that I would get you a bottle of sake,” Madara explains when returning. Showing him the bottle. “Sorry it took me this long.”

Hashirama smiles and puts a hand to his chin. Madara takes a seat next to him. “We’ve already drunk sake together before.”

Oh, he remembers. Madara is still a little ashamed of that night, of his lack of modesty and the little fight they had inside the tent: the mess—the spilled ink, the pieces of glass from the bottle…

Damn, it is winter, he shouldn’t be feeling this hot.

“Yes, but not as it should have been.” Madara puts a couple of cups between them. “Besides, look, I had a bit of a hard time getting this kind of sake—it’s just the kind you like.”

Hashirama is smiling, his eyes very bright.

“So, you’ll drink it, and you’ll like it.”

“Sure I will, Madara.”

Madara feels very embarrassed. “Well,” he says, handing the bottle to Hashirama. Turning his face away so he doesn’t see him blushing. “Pour some yourself first.”

Hashirama takes the cup, but not the bottle. Instead, he says, “You are inviting me; you serve me, and I will serve you. How about that?”

Madara sighs, pretending to be very mortified, but he’s not fooling anyone. Hashirama is very pleased to see him in that state. He holds the cup up as Madara pours some sake into it, its sweet scent filling the room.

“We shouldn’t drink too much, though,” Hashirama says, taking his cup in one hand. “You need to be in top condition to travel tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to drink much,” Madara defends himself. He drains the contents of his cup and reaches out a hand towards Hashirama, asking for the bottle. Hashirama instantly complies. “It’s just, this is an important moment…and we deserve this.”

The firewood cracks in the hearth and outside, the wind blows softly, making the little bells tinkle. The blue has gone quickly from the sky; now is all dark.

“We do,” Hashirama whispers as he takes the cup to his mouth.

Hashirama smiles, for, indeed, this is just the sake he likes. It’s just like the one he used to drink at the Senju encampment.

He reaches out for more.

“Wait, Hashirama, before you get inebriated, there’s something I need to tell you first.” Hashirama stops his hand just before the ceramic brushes against his lips. He sends a look at Madara. “I…” Suddenly, he seems to have run out of words. He licks his lips. “We two are young. So much so, that we’ve spent more time being enemies than friends or allies or…” Lovers. “Or anything else. So, it’s understandable that there’s still some mistrust between us and—”

“I don’t mistrust you,” Hashirama interrupts. He catches a hand in his. His skin is always so warm.

“I know,” Madara muses. “I know that. But…it’s not just about what you think anymore. Hashirama, you are the leader of a village and not a small one, but one that is home to hundreds and hundreds of people from different clans, and I think that you still haven’t come to understand the extent of your responsibilities.”

“Today, at the meeting…” Madara breaks out laughing. “It’s ridiculous, is it not? I was the one who said we wouldn’t talk about that damn meeting, but…what I’m trying to tell you, Hashirama, is that you can trust me. I mean, I know my reputation isn’t the best and though it is true that within my own clan there is still discontent and distrust towards me, but that does not mean that I am going to tarnish your name—as your brother likes so much to say. I don’t plan on causing you any more trouble.”

“Madara.”

“No—wait. I want to make this very clear while we’re still sober, so you know that it’s not an effect of the sake on me. What I mean is that you can rest assured that I’ll do my part well. I think it was important that I make it clear to you and for that, it was not necessary for me to be in another meeting. I only care about what few people think of me, and you are one of them. Izuna, Naori…they know me, and I don’t need to explain my reasons to them—but you, Hashirama…”

“Even if the rest speak ill of me… just don’t listen to them, alright? And, if you do, just know that what they say is not true. I do care about this village. Konoha. You live here—Izuna lives here. Lots of people I care about live here. And taking care of those I love has always been my main reason for being. So, don’t be afraid, Hokage-sama, you can trust me on this.”

Hashirama chuckles and wipes his cheek with the back of his hand.

“And I love you. It has been like this for five years and I am sure it will be just so until the moment I breathe my last.” Hashirama’s eyes widen. “And therefore,” Madara continues. “You can be sure that there will be no one else in your absence, just as I know that there will be no one else in my place. When I return…” he swallows. “I want everything, Hashirama. If you want it that way too, I do want it all. The good and bad; the awkward and the fun; the sad and the joyful. Today, tomorrow, forever, and all that shit.” He’s only had a couple of cups and already senses that his tongue has turned against him. “That way, for as long as you want it; as long as you let me.”

After this shameful speech, he rushes to take his drink to his mouth.

Hashirama is the one who is speechless now.

In the end, he manages to say, “I have never distrusted you. I have always known that my friend from the river is not the type of man who abandons those he loves, even though you have had many opportunities to do so.”

Madara looks at the glittering liquid in his cup, not wanting to meet his eyes.

Hashirama adds, “But of course it’s very satisfying to hear you say all those things.”

Madara snorts.

“I also want everything, Madara, but I have certain flaws that make me a bad match, though, like, for instance—” he stammers until he manages to come up with a few words, “I’m a sake enthusiast, terrible at gambling. I do not like getting up early either.”

“Are those supposed to be flaws?” Madara chuckles and shrugs. “Listen to this—I have a bad temper and I don’t like being around people, just as people don’t like to be around me.”

“Hmm, I like that, Uchiha. I love you just the way you are. I wouldn’t change you one bit.”

The young man in front of him blushes a bit more, but still doesn’t look away. Perhaps the sake has helped loosen their tongues that night.

“I wouldn’t trade you either,” Madara whispers. “No matter how much I pretend to be annoyed with you sometimes…you know I don’t mean it. I do not, Hashirama.” Hashirama laughs. “Shut up, I’m trying to be honest with you, dammit.”

Madara also breaks out laughing. He feels his throat burning and his ears very hot. “And…I forgot what else I was going to tell you.”

Hashirama leans forward, taking the bottle away with one hand, to plant a kiss on his chattering lips. Hashirama’s lips are warm as always.

“I know,” Hashirama says. “Whatever it was—I know.”

He looks up to see that Hashirama has imitated him and brought his own cup to his lips. “This is delicious, Madara,” he says. “I love it. Sweet at a perfect point.”

Madara grabs the bottle from his hand and pours himself some more. Hashirama ponders, “Soon, we could make our own sake, don’t you think?”

Madara drinks his cup before replying, “Thinking big, Senju.”

The moon has already appeared above the fence, hiding among the branches of the surrounding trees; her light has filtered onto the tatami at their feet. There are no other lights on in the room besides the one that comes from the hearth.

Hashirama dries up his cup before continuing, “We could put a legend on the label that says: ‘approved by the first Hokage,’ do you not think?”

Madara rolls his eyes. What a fool, what a fool. “Give me that bottle.”

“You’ve had enough,” Hashirama says, but either way he complies and passes it to him. “Easy, I want you sober.”

“Oh, you’ll have me sober,” Madara says after draining his cup. “Do you want some more?”

Hashirama covers a hiccup with his arm. “No, thanks.”

Madara frowns. “Ah, come on, have one last at least. You promised me that we would drink sake together.”

“Not when you’re about to leave on an important trip tomorrow morning.”

Hashirama notes that this is important to Madara, so he helps himself to some more, not wanting to upset him just as he is about to leave. “Just this, aye?” Madara nods, pleased. “I’ll save the rest for when you get back.”

Madara stares as he finishes his drink. Hashirama’s cheeks have also turned very red, but the Uchiha senses that it’s not a consequence of alcohol, but rather, because they have run out of excuses not to go to their room.

Hashirama puts the bottle and everything else away. He crawls across the tatami until he reaches Madara’s side. His breath is warm with a musk of fruity rice. “Let me make love to you,” he says, having heard his thoughts.

“Not yet.”

A flash illuminates Hashirama’s face for a brief moment, a smile.

“You won’t be able to use that excuse all night, Uchiha.”

Hashirama catches him in his arms and together they end up on the ground. The hearth’s flames casting dancing shadows on the walls. They take advantage of the darkness to share a kiss or two. It is still early, but the night has covered the entire room equally. It is not easy for Madara to avoid the pleasure of going with him to bed, nor does he want to.

“I still have something to give you, first.” Madara whispers as he feels a curious hand exploring his body through the clothing.

“Funny, I too have something to give you,” Hashirama says, turning away from him, to leave the room in a hurry. “I’ll be back, don’t you even think about getting up, Madara!”

Suddenly, everything feels cold without him; those walls are huge and empty.

Hashirama returns soon, hiding something behind his back.

Madara has not had to move from his place; he has had his gift all the time there in that room, hidden in half shadows. Hashirama drops down on the tatami next to him again.

“I first,” Madara requests. Hashirama nods.

From his back he takes out a neatly folded object.

Hashirama’s eyes widen in surprise, and he abandons his own gift to accept the one Madara is offering. As he does so, his hands sink into the soft surface and as Hashirama brings the object close to his eyes to look at it more precisely, he sees the stitches and dexterity of the hand that shaped it. He lifts it to his nose, to check whether it is filled with the scent of the person who has worked so painstakingly on it.

“Well, what do you think?” Madara asks before he can stop himself. “Come, say something.”

The Senju still has his face buried in the scarf. He nods, not looking up.

“It is…” Madara explains. He licks his lips to give himself courage. “Do you remember—Hashirama, do you remember that scarf you gave me when we were little?”

Hashirama then looks up and watches him. His eyes and entire face are red, and since words don’t come out, he just nods again.

“I took care of it like the most valuable of my possessions, because it was yours,” he says. “I lost it in a fire at the Uchiha encampment…and I never knew how I would pay you back. We stopped being friends and I never got a chance to tell you about it. So, I decided to knit you a new one to make up for it.” Madara chuckles. “Sorry it took me so long to do it. And you should know that this is my first-time knitting, so forgive me that it’s not of the same quality as the previous one, but—”

Madara is left speechless and breathless. There is a tall, heavy young man on top of him, pressing him to the ground. Hashirama has inserted his face into his neck and Madara can hear him sob.

Only Senju Hashirama would have a similar answer at a time like that. The scarf and a cloth-wrapped object lie at his side, his hands too busy embracing him to hold anything else.

“I wondered many times,” Hashirama whispers into his ear, after sniffling, “whether something as insignificant as my scarf would have meant anything to you.”

Madara stands still—even his heart seems to have stopped. Hashirama moves, to face him. “It makes me very happy that it was indeed important to you.”

“I,” Madara replies in another whisper, “I used to hug that stupid scarf at night, telling myself it had your scent.”

Hashirama laughs, but he’s not making fun of it because he thinks what Madara just said is ridiculous, but because he admits that he’s done similar things not too long ago. “Thank you. It’s perfect; better than the original.” He grins, seeing that something has changed in the Uchiha’s eyes. “

He has managed to ignite something inside Madara with all those smiles. He looks so handsome that night, far from the white and red of his Hokage garments.

Madara clears his throat. “Now it’s your turn,” he urges.

“Oh, right.” Hashirama reaches out for his gift and hands it over. “Now that I have seen what you have given me, I am sure that my choice was not the right one.”

Madara stops his hands upon hearing him. “Oh?”

“I mean,” Hashirama says. “You have given me this magnificent hand-crafted gift, whereas I cannot claim the same.”

Madara smirks. “I don’t care about that, and you know it. You didn’t have to give me any gifts at all.”

“I wanted…well, you know what?” Hashirama tries. Madara raises an eyebrow in response. “For your birthday I will make you a more suitable gift. Hand-crafted as well.”

Madara’s smile turns sad. You won’t be around to do it, he thinks. But since he doesn’t want to bring him down, he just says, “Yeah.”

He sends a look at Hashirama as he raises the gift to his eye level, “May I?”

Hashirama sighs and nods.

“It’s…now that I think about it. You know what, Madara? I do not think it is appropriate—”

He falls silent as Madara removes the cloth that wraps his gift. Madara remains motionless too, looking at the shiny object in his hands. His eyes widen.

Hashirama swallows and looks away.

It is a headband, with the emblem that Madara traced in the snow, etched now into the iron.

“A part of me always knew that you would end up leaving on this mission, as much as I wanted to prevent it. So, I had this made for you, so that…somehow, you might take Konoha with you.”

“Konoha?” Madara asks, looking at him, frowning.

“Me,” Hashirama hastily corrects himself. “So that you feel as if I were with you, so that you…”

Madara leans in and kisses him on the cheek. No further words are needed. “It is a very appropriate gift from Hashirama. I like it. Thank you.”

“It’s a terrible gift, isn’t it?”

Madara chuckles. “It’s perfect, Hashirama.” Madara stretches out the hand that he is holding the band with, and hands it over to him. Hashirama doesn’t know what he means, so Madara elaborates, “Do the honours, will you?”

“Oh—right,” Hashirama takes it, and positions himself behind Madara, while he gathers up his ponytail to make room. Then, he places the band on his bare forehead, below his bangs.

Madara lets his hair fall free when the band is tightly knotted, and when he looks up for Hashirama to see him, Hashirama can’t help but let out another sigh.

“How does it look like?” Madara asks.

Hashirama smirks. He has his back to the hearth, but even so, Madara can see that Hashirama is blushing. “How do you think?” He inquires instead.

“Would I be too conceited if I said that I am sure that it looks great on me?”

The Senju lets out another chuckle. “Darling, that is not conceit, but the truth. It looks great on you.”

Madara clears his throat and tries to pretend that he didn’t hear the hoarseness in Hashirama’s voice when he uttered those last words. “Tell me, Senju, do you seriously plan for everyone in the village to wear this? On a daily basis?”

Hashirama scratches the back of his neck. “We wear our clan crest every day, what harm would one more symbol do?”

Madara smiles shyly. “Mito will also travel with me. She’ll need one too.”

“This is just a prototype. It still needs to be presented to the rest of the clan heads and accepted. That is why very few people know of the existence of such a headband. I haven’t even mentioned it to my brother. I knew I had little time; you were stubborn, and I didn’t want you to leave without a little piece of me.” Hashirama reaches out a hand and catches one of Madara’s, thin and cool as always. “I think it’s wise that you don’t wear it on your forehead yet. You know, so that my preference for the leader of the Uchiha doesn’t seem too obvious.” Hashirama squeezes his hand. “But take it close to you, so that when you feel that you miss me, you would look at it and think that—”

“Take me to bed,” Madara interrupts him mid-speech, when he feels like he cannot take it any longer, right after giving him a quick kiss on his lips.

Hashirama feels his tongue tie in a knot, until at last, he manages to blurt out a hasty “Yes.” He nods and repeats, afraid the word hasn’t come out audibly. “Yes, Madara.”

He stands up without letting go of that cold hand and yanks him to his feet.

“I’ll go ahead,” Madara whispers. He breaks free of his grasp and begins to take steps backwards, until he hits a wall. “You—t-take care of this room, will you?”

There isn’t much that Hashirama can object to; Madara runs down the corridor before the Senju can give an answer.

 

* * *

 

The candlelight casts diffuse shadows of his silhouette all over the walls.

Madara is on his knees, staring in silence into his reflection. There is a small, polished mirror in the room. Hashirama got it from gods-knows-where and uses it daily while shaving. Madara did not keep any items from his former life in the Uchiha encampment. Not even his clothes survived the war. He had come into this new life empty-handed.

He moves the mirror up, and as he does so, the dim candlelight catches the reflection of the metal band on his forehead.

That Senju took certain liberties with the design. Although Madara cannot remember it properly. He had no intention of creating anything—he was just passing the time. Therefore, he doesn’t know where his original design ends and where Hashirama’s starts. It doesn’t matter either. It is a meaningful and beautiful garment. He likes it, though. With time and continued use, he may get used to wearing it too.

Should…? Should he take it off already? Or should he spend the whole act with it on? Maybe Hashirama would like to see me wearing his gift, right?

His hands are still clinging to the bronze surface of the mirror. Yeah, he will stay wearing it for a while. His eyes remain fixed on his own reflection, dim with the low visibility in the room.

Madara doesn’t know what time it is. And looking outside doesn’t help either; it is just dark.

He will leave the next morning. Winter mornings are dark and just thinking about traveling in such weather makes him lose his mind…

The door opens at that moment and in it, a dark figure appears. Madara sees everything through the reflection in the mirror. From the opening and closing of the sliding door, to that figure entering the room and approaching towards where he is.

Madara shudders as he feels the figure getting closer. Hashirama kneels as well—a pair of strong arms reach out from under his arms and catch him in a tight embrace. The man in the back lays his head on Madara’s neck.

“You smell of warm timber,” Hashirama says. “Of forest, of fire.”

His voice is deeper than it was a while ago.

Madara swallows. “I am an Uchiha,” he says, as if that explains the whole thing.

The weight of the mirror is breaking down his strength and it’s not even that heavy. He lowers his arms and places it on the tatami. The man on his back continues to sniff his hair. Madara fears that the sake has been too much for his body.

“Madara…”

But he is Senju Hashirama, and that magnificent body has been used to sake since he was just a boy. Three cups of sake won’t make him lose his mind; there, the danger lay only in Madara and his inability to resist alcohol. However, that night he also seems to be surrounded by surprises, since he is sober.

Watchful and expectant. Nervous.

Not even on their first night had he been this nervous.

The hands that embrace him press hard to his belly, gropingly searching for his waistband.

Madara lets him be. He swallows again, uneasy.

He has said what had to be said and has delivered what had to be delivered; there is no need to hold this back anymore. He doesn’t plan to. Time is slipping through his fingers, and he still doesn’t feel ready to leave.

“Hashirama.”

His call causes Hashirama to move away from him, releasing the waistband, leaving it intact. Madara is afraid to see him walk away, just now that he feels so hungry for his hands.

But Hashirama doesn’t back off entirely; instead, he brings his hands to the leather strap holding Madara’s hair in his ponytail, letting it fall on his back. Hashirama inserts his fingers into those strands of hair to help spread them free. Madara flinches lightly with each brush of Hashirama’s fingertips on his scalp. Barely perceptible movements. A whirlpool in his stomach.

His hands return to the waistband. It seems that he has no intention of removing the headband whatsoever. Madara waits motionless while he works to his liking. The waistband ends up thrown to the side, and still from behind, Hashirama manages to remove Madara’s clothes, without even needing to look. The only thing Madara can see is his own reflection appearing nude in the mirror—the paleness of his image, the hardness of his chest and the firmness of his belly.

He should…ah, he should have gotten rid of that mirror while he still had the chance.

Hashirama places his face on Madara’s shoulder. The Uchiha stares blankly at the reflection, meeting Hashirama’s eyes through the mirror. He doesn’t flinch, not even when he feels Hashirama’s hand catch the erection that is still hidden under his cloth.

“Now that I think about it,” Hashirama whispers, “I have never taken you in this position.”

Madara’s dark eyes are still locked on his. “You have not.”

He watches Hashirama smirking. His even more guttural voice says, “Would you like us to try it like this? I promise to stop if you don’t like it—I swear it on my life, Madara, now I will.”

Instead of answering him, Madara turns his face, his eyes looking at the real Hashirama. He tilts his head and then, looks down at the Senju’s parted lips, full and soft. “Yes,” he mutters. “Yes, Hashirama.”

The night is young, but they feel they can’t move any faster, afraid that just after the blink of an eye, the sun will appear over the horizon. The kiss they share is fleeting and only serves to sign the pact between them.

Hashirama’s skilful hand loosens Madara’s flesh to proceed to remove his own clothes completely. There is fear in those hands. Panic, even. For many years, they used the war as an excuse to see each other every day. The separation after the battle was bittersweet, but there would always be a tomorrow. Even if they did not see each other during winter, the following year, with the blooming of the new flowers, the image of the sworn enemies would always return, cloaked in bruised armours and carrying some edged weapons.

Now…it was different. How long would it be before they saw each other again? How long would it be before those hands caressed his skin again? How long would it be before he felt his lips on his skin again? When would he feel those fingers tracing the pattern of an old scar? When would he taste his lips again? How long till he would listen to his hurried, airless breath again?

Suddenly, Madara is not that strong. He is afraid and the mask that he had used to hide it has vanished into thin air. He is afraid that Hashirama would notice his silence—that he would suspect the unusual rigidity of his body—the lack of the hoarseness of his once chattering tongue, for he was always the one who provoked him in some way.

Everything is silence. It is so quiet that night that they can hear the hiss of the wax sliding down to the taper’s base. The falling snow and the incessant tinkling in the patio are also audible.

“Madara,” Hashirama calls out after planting a kiss on his shoulder, just after his hands run all over him for the second time.

Ask me to stay, Madara thinks. He sends his gaze to his own reflection in the mirror and swallows. Ask me to stay and I’ll stay. I will break the deal your brother made with that sand man. I’ll have him come in person and I’ll figure this out myself, right here, by your side.

But Hashirama says none of those words, and the thoughts disappear from Madara’s head as he hears him whisper, “Kneel.”

He instantly complies and even though this is something he’s read endlessly, he doesn’t want to search through his memories for any little detail, thinking that nothing will be more fantastic than experiencing it first-hand.

After being dipped in lube, a pair of fingers skilfully trail up his spine, leaving a glistening road behind in their wake. Every last one of Madara’s hairs stands on end with the fleeting and cold contact of his fingertips.

Madara hisses as those cold phalanges end up deeply buried in him. Hashirama grins and proceeds to open him from the inside at a familiar rhythm, in periodic thrusts. Madara is amazed at the ease with which he has entered his body. He bites his lip and inadvertently, his eyes crash into themselves, but through his reflection.

This is a shameful thing; not the act itself, but the fact that he is seeing himself doing it. He reaches out a shaky hand with the idea of placing the mirror against the mat, but a voice stops him. “Do not, Madara.”

The hand stops mid-air.

Madara turns to look over his shoulder, frowning.

Hashirama also has a straight face and Madara’s heart skips a beat upon seeing him. His fingers continue moving in and out. Madara’s face have turn very, very red.

“Leave it—it’s…an interesting addition, don’t you think?”

The Uchiha looks ahead at that fucking mirror. Hashirama places his face on one of Madara’s shoulders and watches in delight the changes in his face as he inserts a third finger.

Madara winces with a gasp. His fingers are still merciless and expert.

“Do you feel the ease with which I entered?” Madara can only nod. “Look at my hand, Madara; look how it moves—can you feel me inside?” Madara opens his mouth, desperately searching for air. “Do you think you could receive a fourth finger?”

Madara just trembles thinking about it. Yes, Madara thinks, closing his eyes, imagining, wishing.

“Or maybe, it’s time for me to enter you?”

Madara moans. Hashirama seems to always hear his thoughts, anyway.

Hashirama sees Madara’s expression through the reflection and knows the answer. He pulls his fingers away, leaving him empty and needy. The seconds that pass in preparing himself are a few, but to Madara they always seem like a whole eternity.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Hashirama take an oiled hand to his own erection, then placing a little more at his entrance.

Madara bites his lip as he feels the temperature changes in his tender flesh. He faces himself in the mirror, patiently waiting for him to enter in a clean thrust.

“Ah—”

Hashirama enters easily, there is no doubt about that. Normally, Madara likes to see him throughout the whole process: his preparation, his initial thrust, the changes in his face and the rest. But now, with his back turned…

“You do not like?” Hashirama asks. He buries himself to the bottom as he leans forward, to rest his face on Madara’s shoulder, to look up at him in reflection.

Madara is feeling too many sensations together to be able to see that Hashirama is smiling, his hands fixed and pressed on his belly, helping him to support himself, as if he can see that Madara is already running out of strength.

“Why would I not like it?” Madara says, his voice breathy, his eyes narrowed and fixed on the man behind him, but through reflection. “You fool—move.”

Hashirama’s smile widens; they are barely visible in the dim light in the room.

Yet, he obeys.

For a brief time, in the whole world there is no noise beyond that of those two people hidden inside that room; the tinkling in the patio adds to it and the snow accumulating on the roofs too; the flames hissing upon contact with the wax and the latter spilling onto the ground, creating snowy amorphous rivers around the tapers.

Madara has lost his strength and ends up leaning his face against the tatami, his hands thrown to the sides, motionless. Sometimes, Hashirama’s thrusts are so intense that he digs his fingers into the mats, his nails tearing at its fibres. The scent of grass fills his senses, arousing them. It is much easier to receive him from that angle. And more delightful too.

He mutters his name between the rest of the gasps as if it were a prayer, placing his lips against the mat.

He sends his watery gaze to the reflection in that damn mirror. He blinks and his eyes clear, and he does not only look at himself, as he can also get to see Hashirama from another interesting perspective. He watches as Hashirama’s fingers dig into the skin of his hips—as the muscles in his body tense with each thrust; he can also see how his skin glistens with sweat rolling down his body; the bouncing of the necklace that hangs from his neck; the changes in his face, his silent prayers, and their point of union, where all these wonders are born from.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

Everything is peaceful. Everything is perfect.

It doesn’t seem like a farewell either. Madara had expected some last showdown with him that night; some chatter that would include their brothers or some other clan head. He thought that maybe, he would tell him more about the meeting he had with his brother hours ago, and that it would lead them to go to bed in silence.

But there has been none of that on that night, for neither of them wants anyone else to meddle in their affairs.

The one on Madara’s back—the one who’s loving him—is not the Hokage of Konoha, but Senju Hashirama—the man the boy from the river became into. His first and only friend, the one who he later lost when he found out he was his enemy. The one who he later loved when circumstances changed. The one who followed him around the world.

“Hashi…rama.”

His relationship with Hashirama is as changing as the faces of the moon and as unceasing as the tides.

Those strong, calloused fingers dig into his skin upon listening to him. That brings a smile to Madara’s face, and his mouth opens wide as he feels his own premature release.

He lies limp, motionless. The headband is soaked in sweat. His hair has completely covered the nosy vision of the crystal and the only thing that helps him to know Hashirama’s status is the strength of his hands on his skin, and the increase in speed of his thrusts.

Hashirama’s is also on the edge of his limits. At least, that’s what the unsteady sound of his breathing and the incomprehensible gasps that accompany every thrust tell him.

Not long after that, Hashirama ends up falling on top of him, and they both roll across the floor. The mirror has fallen when one of them has knocked it over. Hashirama has come off him and Madara can feel a dampness seeping down between his legs.

He turns on the floor and after taking the hair out of his gaze, he stares at the ceiling. He squeezes his legs tightly, so that his seed doesn’t seep out any further. He imagines the winter patio: the darkness covering where the moon does not reach, the cold wind, the silent house, and the light fall of snow above the ceilings.

A dark hand rests on his belly, searching for one of his. Madara raises a hand and meets the other. They join, interlacing their fingers and remain so until they can breathe back normally.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama cannot sleep.

He has waited in silence, with his eyes shut, pretending to be sleeping till long after Madara had fallen asleep.

He opens his eyes and looks at the figure lying next to him, and his eyes adjust to darkness. Then, he can make out his features in the shades. The blackness of his hair and the glow of his skin. His dark eyebrows, and his long lashes shadowing his cheeks. His parted lips. And the hand facing up that lies between them.

Hashirama is afraid that touching his hand will cause him to wake up. For the Hokage there is not much problem with having a sleepless night, but Madara must be rested for the next day.

In the end, he doesn’t touch it, even though he’s dying to. Madara’s soft breath caresses his face. Now, even the sake will remind him of Madara.

He can’t help but smile looking at him. His heart swells with the vision he catches a glimpse of in the shadows.

How…how much he is going to miss him.

It seems like an unfair jest that they should part just now that they have found each other. Just now that Madara has agreed to stay by his side, sharing his days and life.

It is unfair, and that simple thought makes his smile fade. The sadness has also slowed his heart, plunging him into melancholy.

It is unfair, but it’s not something he’s surprised of. Madara is a proud man. To him, his pride is the most important thing in the world. It has been that way since the day they met. Maybe…that’s why he felt in love with him.

But still, he wishes he didn’t have to leave.

This is too childish of a thought. He is the older of the two. Also, there are now a huge number of people who are depending on him to stay strong. How would the inhabitants of Konoha feel if they knew that their leader feels so discouraged and heartbroken at the thought of his beloved going on a mission?

He sighs and watches Madara’s parted lips. His beauty is impossible. Sometimes Hashirama cannot believe that all this is true and not just a figment of his cruel imagination.

He spent a good part of the night showing him how much he loved him, adoring his body and whispering muffled words to his ear. But this house is going to be huge and lonely without him. Silent. Boring. Sad. What can he do about it?

“Madara,” he whispers and waits for the Uchiha to show any sign of having heard him, but he hasn’t, for Madara continues to sleep peacefully as always. It is a blessing that he can sleep peacefully, at last, after so many sleepless nights and uncertainty in the war.

“How I’m going to miss you,” he adds in another whisper. Again, Madara gives no sign of having heard him. His breathing is just as calm, his body just as still. “I love you.”

The hours pass, and the room turns dark in the course of the night to the day.

His thoughts have not allowed him to close his eyes for a moment. Some thoughts are devious and others hopeful. In the end, melancholy has overcome him, and he is dying to touch the tender skin on Madara’s lips.

He leans forward and dares to put his lips against Madara’s, remembering that, on their nights together in the tent, he used to kiss him in his sleep without waking him up.

But those nights were left behind, and the sense of duty has changed the Uchiha’s sleeping habits. Madara’s eyes open instantly at the touch of his lips. Hashirama’s hand has also dared to intertwine his fingers with those of the sleeper’s.

“Forgive me,” Hashirama whispers as he sees his reflection in Madara’s black eyes. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Madara props himself up on one elbow and shakes his head. With his free hand he rubs his eye. Then, he covers a yawn with it.

Hashirama looks at his helplessly, still lying on the pillow.

“You woke me up just in time.” He covers another yawn. “Last night, we stayed up late.”

Hashirama smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I wish we had more time.”

Madara looks at him seriously and falls back on the pillow. He whispers, “You talk like it’s the end of time, like we’ll never see each other again. You look like a widow and I’m still here, very much alive.” He takes Hashirama’s hand and touches it to his bare chest, where his heart is beating fast. “See?”

Hashirama bites his lip and says nothing.

“Besides, it will only be a month—two, at most.”

Madara doesn’t know what else to say. He keeps Hashirama’s hand, warm as always, pressed against his skin; he caresses it with his thumb, sleepily. “But if I’m being realistic…these things tend to take time. If it was going to be quick, we wouldn’t go into such trouble.”

“For our brothers it was easy,” says Hashirama. “Perhaps we should follow their example; you would be back home soon.”

Madara forces a smile. “Yeah.”

Hashirama moves closer to him and presses his lips against his. Madara deepens the kiss, eager.

“Do you want to do it again?” Hashirama muses, his lips pressed against his. “It is still early.”

Madara ponders his question for a while and then shakes his head. “No.” His dark eyes lock onto Hashirama’s. It is Sunrising; the first light of the day is seen drawn through the doors. “I am not in the mood.” Hashirama gets closer to him, so that he can feel that, despite the fact that it is early, he has a lover ready for him. But the Uchiha insists. “Hold me tight instead.” Hashirama catches him in his arms, until Madara’s face is pressed against his chest; now he is the one who can feel the accelerated leaps of the Senju’s heart.

“I love you,” Hashirama tells him out loud, as he tightens his embrace.

Madara presses his hands into Hashirama’s warm chest. He doesn’t meet his eyes, but says, very sure, “You know I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

Later, when the room lightens, they finally stand up in silence. Madara dresses in the classic attire of his clan. He disappears through the door without saying a word. Hashirama finds him a while later, preparing his pouch and looking at his armour.

Hashirama helps him arm himself without exchanging words. Before, during the war, it used to be Izuna who came to his tent very early to help him with that task. He is due to arrive at any moment, however, Madara wants that day to be Hashirama who helps him.

It will help them both to occupy themselves with something.

As he finishes tying the armour on, Hashirama catches his face, surprising him, and plants a long, loud kiss on his lips. Hashirama squeezes his eyes shut, but Madara watches the entire exchange with wide eyes.

Izuna calls his brother from the patio and the kiss ends. Madara shouts for him to come in. Trees and ground are covered in their entirety with the snowfall of the previous night. The three of them have a light breakfast, and chat about trivial things that have nothing to do with the mission or hostages.

The time has come. Madara takes everything he needs to travel with him. Hashirama is wearing a traveling outfit—entirely in black—and not his heavy Hokage outfit.

They don’t say much in these stolen minutes and it’s not necessary either. When the sun has risen behind the mountains, covering a large part of the roofs of the village, the three head to the gates, where a small group of people are already waiting for them.

All of this has been a private affair, a luxury hardly fit for clan heads and those close to them; the rest of the villagers continue to sleep without problems. They know nothing. A normal day.

In the lead is Tobirama and he frowns at his older brother, until he reaches his side.

Some clan heads are there. Mito is already there, of course. Uzumaki Mito, who will be his companion during these days. She is ready. Dressed for her journey, with a thick woollen hood covering her head. She raises an eyebrow, and the ghost of a smile hangs on her face, as if to ask, ‘Ready, Uchiha?’

Naori is also there, along with a handful of Uchiha. But neither she nor the rest, not even Izuna, will accompany them, since it is a silly idea to leave the village unprotected. Madara trembles at the thought of what would happen to Konoha if that horrible Shimura or that presumptuous Sarutobi were left in charge.

Only the two travellers and the two Senju brothers will leave.

At the Hokage’s signal, the gates open before them. Mito says goodbye to the rest, and everyone gives her good wishes. Madara hugs his little brother one last time and says goodbye to the members of his clan, who have come to say farewell to him.

When the snowy forest appears before them, his feet begin to move quickly and without looking back.

The Hokage leads the group, with the three shinobi hot on his heels.

The wind cuts cold their faces, but no one complains at any time. Their feet burying in the fresh snow. Morning birds that have stayed over the winter fly after the passing shinobi.

Much later, when they reach the territorial limits of the forest that surrounds Konoha, the Hokage stops and raises a hand in the air. He looks ahead, straining his eye, searching for any perceptible change among the trees. Everything feels different there. During the warring periods, no clan got any close to those places, so the whole land there looks wild and inhospitable.

But not by much. On the other side there is movement. Hashirama’s would recognise those figures anywhere. Only a shinobi moves that way—at that speed.

Those of Konoha wait for them to arrive. The outsiders wear desert cloaks, covered entirely in white, except for the hem of their clothing, which is still red from their passage through the sand.

Hashirama’s throat goes dry.

When the leader of the outsiders reaches his height, he removes the hood that covers his head. He is an attractive man, bright-eyed and apparently cunning. Those eyes stray from the Hokage and reach past him. The outlander’s eyes widen as if hunger; Hashirama intuits that he has seen Madara, surely recognising him with the descriptions that have come to his ears.

When finishing looking at the rest, the outlander’s eyes return to Hashirama. His comrades have also arrived and are waiting several meters behind him. Among them there is one in particular that catches his attention. Hashirama’s eyes fix on the boy’s—now with the bearing and appearance of a man—and he recognises Hashirama too from that other time in the forest, because he grins. The desert sun has dried his tears and the smile that hangs on his lips is tainted with his desire for revenge.

“I’ll guess—Konoha’s Hokage, right?” Says the leader of the outsiders. His voice is serious, but not severe. He will be around just a few years older than Hashirama. “Senju Hashirama.”

Hashirama takes a bow, befitting of a peer.

“I am pleased to know that my name has reached so far from my home.” He looks ahead and notices that the other man is now smiling. “So much so, for the leader of the desert, the lord who has united the rebellious clans of the sand, to have taken the trouble to come meet us.”

“I am pleased as well, Hokage-sama.”

“As I have heard,” says Hashirama, “your people have already found a safe place to build a village.”

The other man nods and puts a hand to his chin, perhaps surprised by how much is known about them in those corners of the world. He says, “We have, indeed.”

Hashirama raises an eyebrow.

“We have taken Konoha for example, to unite the clans in the desert. The Hokage can rest easy knowing that we will host his allies in a dignified and comfortable place,” he points out, looking at the only two shinobi carrying baggage. His eyes look curiously at Madara, dressed in his armour and gunbai; he eyes Mito with interest.

Then his eyes fly back to the Hokage’s. His smile widens. “I truly hope this will be fast, Hokage-sama, and soon we will be able to call each other allies.”

Hashirama doesn’t get carried away with such a smile.

“I hope the same. Wars are unfortunate.”

“And a bummer too, Hokage-sama. Our peoples are decimated already by wars, what we need is this to be brief.” The desert leader raises a hand in the air and there is movement behind him.

His entourage is bigger than Hashirama’s. He knows that Madara and Tobirama have been alert so that no ambush was waiting for them and if there were any danger, they would have let him know by then.

At the signal, a couple of people walk towards—a young man of a similar age to his own, and the boy who fought the Uzumaki.

The outlander says, “In the name of my deep conviction that the Hokage isn’t up to anything dirty, I have decided to offer my own little brother as part of the trade.” Hashirama’s eyes flick to the young hostage. “The Hokage doesn’t know, but my little brother is very dear to me, for he is the only family I have left. In times like these, nothing is more important to a shinobi than his family, don’t you think?” He doesn’t give him time to respond. “And also—for your delight—I offer the little one whose cause has us gathered here today. Although, of course,” the man smirks. “You cannot blame everything on this little boy, can you? Behind you, Hokage-sama, I can see your own culprit.” His yellow eyes flick behind Hashirama, back to Madara.

Hashirama remains calm and serious. He raises a hand and instantly, Madara and Mito take a few steps forward. Madara stands next to Hashirama, looking instead at the man who came from the desert.

“In the name of my confidence in this treaty,” Hashirama says, “I offer my two greatest allies as part of the exchange: Uchiha Madara, the leader of the Uchiha clan; and Uzumaki Mito, leader of the Uzumaki clan, whom, I suspect, the leader of the desert has already recognised.”

The stranger looks at her with shining eyes.

“You owe her a debt,” Hashirama adds.

“Yeah, I’m aware of that,” the other man replies, still looking at her.

The hostages cross an invisible line that has been created between the two parties and when Madara is on the other side, Hashirama feels a stab in his stomach that is somewhat difficult to hide.

Madara frowns at him, angry.

Hashirama clears his throat. “So be it. Let’s take our guests to Konoha and agree on a place and time for negotiations. They will be treated well, so we will not expect any more attacks in the meantime.”

“The Hokage will know that we men of the desert are people of our word. You can be calm, inhabitants of Konoha, for yours will be safe. We expect the same from you.”

Hashirama nods and takes a bow again, this time as a farewell.

Nothing more is said. Hashirama doesn’t even know his name.

Farewells are held, and then the leader of the outsiders turns and takes the front position in his entourage. They have brought a significant number of shinobi to the exchange; a dozen in total: half will watch the leader’s back, and the rest will travel taking care of the hostages.

This is ridiculous, Hashirama thinks when he sees them. If Madara and Mito wanted to escape, a hundred of you could do nothing about it to prevent it.

Madara sends him one last look before turning around. Afterwards, he begins to run with the rest to the opposite side.

Hashirama feels his chest sink as he watches him go.

‘Always check your bed before sleeping and your clothes before getting dressed; I’ve heard that vermin hide in those places and attack when you least expect it,’ Hashirama told him that morning before leaving, when he held Madara’s face in his hands, before planting a kiss on his lips. ‘And wear your hood; the desert sun is ruthless and although it is snowing here, the same is not expected on that side of the world.’

Madara nodded upon hearing this, rolling his eyes. ‘Sure, Dad.’

‘Write to me,’ Hashirama whispered against his lips, still holding his beautiful face in his hands, his thumbs brushing his cheeks. ‘Write to me whenever you can and see it necessary.’

Madara nodded again, lightly.

‘Write me two letters: one in the common language, where you relate everyday affairs, and another in the secret code of the Uchiha.’

‘I will have to find a way to get those letters to you, though; they will read them and mistrust those they cannot understand.’

Hashirama had smiled. ‘I am sure you’ll find a way to get them to me.’

Madara smiled and raised his face, demanding another kiss. This one was deep and long. The Uchiha’s hands gripping tightly to Hashirama’s back.

‘Take care,’ Hashirama muttered hoarsely. ‘Trust nobody.’

‘I am an Uchiha; I am distrustful by nature.’

Hashirama smiled. ‘And please take care of Mito, for we both know how dangerous it is when the desire for revenge consumes our hearts.’

Madara nodded, as he knew it was true; he had felt it before. ‘I will,’ he promised.

In the end, they sealed their pact with one last kiss.

The memory dies at that moment, while his eyes fix on the Uchiha crest that can be seen on Madara’s back when the wind blows his hair through the air.

“It is time,” Tobirama says. “Anija.”

Hashirama nods and reluctantly averts his eyes from Madara’s back. He turns to his own hostages who are watching him both intently and curiously.

His voice is deep when he commands, “Let’s go back.”

Chapter 11

Notes:

wow, I can't believe it's been almost a year since I posted the first chapter of this story. I am very grateful to everyone who is still here, ahhh <3

again, infinite thanks to the wonderful Marina--who is already watching naruto to understand this fic, btw--who helps me name the oc

Day one

 

There’s something missing. At least Hashirama notices.

It’s not that he’s some sort of a fool; it is obvious that Uchiha Madara is not there, but he is not referring to that, but something else. Something that had remained intrinsically hidden within himself and of which he had not noticed before. He does now. Something is missing and it’s driving him crazy.

He puts a hand to his chin. He looks behind him and tries to notice that gap in what is visible. The office is taking shape. The furniture is beginning to appear, the floors are freshly waxed.

Everything in that place is so different from the tent his father gave orders and strategized from. Hashirama sometimes thinks that he even misses the scent of the burning torches and the wax applied to the scrolls before they were shipped.

He closes his eyes to try to stop thinking about those days gone by. There’s a lot to think about other than his past in the Senju encampment.

He looks out the window again. Outside there are also significant changes. The smoke continues to hover over the village, enveloping it in a pale blanket. It is cold. It has been one of the coldest days in a long time. The wind lacerates his skin as if it were a fierce blade.

It is early, but the streets are already overflowing with people. The laughter of one of those children ends up becoming an ear-piercing yell. The screaming creature is laughing again, now being chased by a small group of children of similar ages—they are playing together. Children being children.

Hashirama smiles. He never had a chance to play at that age. By then, he already had to go off to practice his mokuton alone in the forest. Butsuma would wait for him at his tent at the end of the day, since Hashirama had to go report to his father before he could even go to dinner or wash. His father would wait for him with crossed arms and a frown, just to bluntly ask him what he had accomplished that day.

He scowls at the memory. The mokuton was his gift—his birth gift—couldn’t he use it for whatever he wanted? Why should he use it just to kill the Uchiha?

His heart races at that thought.

More laughter comes from the street. Hashirama clings to them and meditates. They are happy, despite the problems that hang over the village. They don’t know a thing about the sand shinobi. It is a normal day for them.

He lets out a snort. Have they really not noticed? Hashirama crosses his arms. Seriously, hasn’t anyone noticed yet, dammit? It’s a normal day in Konoha. Uchiha Madara is not in the village, but nobody notices it. Is his presence so insignificant that no one outside of them—their inner circle—has noticed his absence? No one has gone to ask the Hokage what happened to his peculiar and sombre Uchiha companion.

Nobody. Not even a single one of them.

That is not the case with Uzumaki Mito, because during his way to the office that morning, a few people asked him in the nicest way if the Hokage had seen the sweet and helpful redhead somewhere.

This makes Hashirama’s scowl even more pronounced. Uchiha Madara has done too much for Konoha, but they have never noticed it. As the days and months go by, Madara will continue to be a shadow, a ghost…

“Ah, come on, Anija—change that face,” Tobirama says from behind.

Curious, Hashirama didn’t hear his brother enter. He’s been so distracted.

Hashirama sighs and turns to face him. He manages to give his brother a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Hello, Tobi.”

The other Senju sighs in response. He places a couple of fingers on the bridge of his nose. Hashirama worries. “You look like a heartbroken widow. The man left on a mission, and he will return as soon as he completes it. That simple.”

Simple? How is it any simple? Hashirama thinks that if Tobirama harboured a similar feeling for someone with the same intensity, maybe he could understand him.

Hashirama prepares to answer, but Tobirama isn’t done. His little brother woke up sharp that morning. “Besides, this won’t be the last time.” Hashirama frowns. “Konoha is a growing village, and the missions are vital. Now they are the desert clans, but, Anija, they are not the only shinobi in the world and the time will soon come when this whole situation reaches their ears—if it hasn’t already happened.”

The Hokage grins.

“I thought Senju Butsuma was no longer with us,” says Hashirama, amused.

His younger brother frowns. “I told you not to compare me to him!”

Hashirama chuckles.

“What I was going with all this, is that this will not be the last mission that Uchiha Madara will have to take—at least, well, not in the case that you want to be that kind of leader who gives favouritism to those close to him.”

“You know I am not like that.”

Tobirama gestures as if he isn’t entirely sure. “There will be times when the rest of us have to go on missions too, while you command us from this place.”

“I’m not the dreamy, ignorant fool that other people think I am.”

Tobirama smiles and says, “I know, but my job is to remind you. As much as it hurts, that’s the way it is. He…” he gestures. “He is far away, yes, but he has done this for the village. Well…maybe not just because of the village. Anyway, whatever his reason was…what I am trying to say, is that you should remove that gesture from your face. The man has only been away for a few hours. Uchiha Madara is alive and kicking, and quite possibly, bothering someone.”

Hashirama laughs and approaches his brother. He places a hand on his shoulder and nods. “Yeah, thank you. I am sorry, Tobi.”

Tobirama’s smile turns warm. “Have you eaten yet?”

Right at that moment, Hashirama’s stomach makes a noise.

“Perhaps much of all that melancholy is caused by hunger,” Tobirama suggests.

Hashirama knows that isn’t the case, but he doesn’t object when Tobirama leads him out of the office. Hunger may not be the cause, but it won’t hurt to eat properly.

They walk down the corridor. If Madara could see the state he’s in, he’d surely be quite angry. He’s good at noticing that kinds of things. Hashirama can still remember his last scowl before he left.

“Anija.”

Ah, this lad next to him is perhaps just as perceptive.

“Calm down, will you? It would do you good to think of other things. You still have to face your guests.”

Hashirama frowns and pushes away the melancholy. Guests. Even the word sounds ridiculous.

“Let’s go eat first and pay them a proper visit later. You will relax and we will begin to see how to resolve this matter.”

 

* * *

 

What little he knows of the desert clans comes from the stories the Uchiha used to tell at night before the fire. About the animals that inhabited those lands, and about how difficult it was to survive sandstorms. He always believed that those were mere legends. To him, the world did not exist beyond the forest, the Kyuubi and the Senju.

Madara also came to hear legends about a gigantic and powerful creature that inhabited the desert, terrifying its inhabitants, just as the Kyuubi was feared and respected in its forests. The Ichibi.

The firewood crackles at that moment and in the distance, a night bird sings in a fatal omen. Its flapping is heard getting lost in the distance. The firelight gives Madara’s face a special and different appearance, plunging much of his visible face into shadows.

His mind does not stop. It works out of control, even more so now that he is away from home. If the Kyuubi is real, Madara thinks, staring into the fire before him. The Ichibi must be too.

He rubs his hands in the heat of the fire, the fabric of his gloves promptly absorbing its warmth. His eyes shine just by imagining it. Another tailed beast. And not only that—a daring thought comes to his mind loaded with a petulance he didn’t know he possessed. And if I meet the Ichibi, will I be able to tame it too? His fingers sting greedily, as if he already had it in his hands. Will I be able to reduce it to the same state as the Kyuubi? Will this new sharingan be capable of such feats? If he reduced the Kyuubi to a pup, why not get the one-tailed one too? If caught, then, he would be completely invincible—Konoha would become an invincible village. They would never have to worry about sneak attacks or more false camaraderie. Or what appeals to him the most—how grateful would the Hokage be if Madara came home with such a gift!

If only he could find a way to become stronger. Then, he would get the name of Uchiha Madara to be feared by its own force and not just due to gossip.

Flames rise in front of him, as if his mere presence served as a spur to the fire. It is a very lively night, despite the fact that only the group of travellers are in that area. They’re still in those unending forests. They spotted a fox not long ago and when the sun barely began to set behind the trees, Madara could feel a pack of wolves following their trail.

The shadows have also gotten darker. Everything around him has turned into darkness.

His thoughts continue, fuelled by greed: if he could just practice with his sharingan and take it to a higher level—maybe, he could find a way to become stronger and—”

“Here,” Mito whispers from beside him.

Madara blinks a few times before coming back to the real world. He turns to the side and observes that the young redhead offers him a cup with a liquid in it.

“It’s sake,” she explains, seeing his scowl. “We are not in the desert yet.”

That night is still cold, even though there is no longer any trace of snow there. He took off his armour for the night, though everyone, him included, is still wearing their coats. However, the winds are brisk and cold out there in the open. It is noticeable in the swing of the fire and in the noise it makes when hitting the trees, driving the animals away towards their burrows.

Madara accepts the sake that Mito offers. “Thank you,” he says. He brings it to his lips without delay. It is not at all like the one that Hashirama usually drinks, but it serves to take away the cold and its taste is good. Much better than what he had to drink at the Uchiha encampment, at least.

The clouds move rapidly, passing over the moon, shadowing their little camp at moments on changing intervals.

That night only supports his thoughts of how different the people of the desert are from the Uchiha. If that were a bonfire in his encampment, there would be laughter and dancing—just using the howling of the wind or some animal’s. They even danced as the funeral pyres burned around them, draped in a cloak of mourning that preceded them by generations.

However, there were no dances after Tajima’s death, since there was not even time for that. Madara manages to remember other times, his brother dancing around the bonfire—with Naori next to him, of course—their dark clothing fluttering in the wind, and some kitsune and tengu masks hiding their faces. Dancing until dawn, until everything was consumed…

In the distance, he can hear the long howl of a wolf. Another ominous omen, perhaps? Madara cannot tell; what he does know is counting the distance at which the animal is from them. When he went on trips with Tajima, the measurement of things as simple as a wolf’s howl was the difference between those who survived and those who would become their dinner.

Two kilometres, more or less. Perhaps it has been drawn to the glow of the fire or the smoke from dinner. Another howl is heard, now closer. A different howl—the wolf, like them, does not travel on its own. The travellers look at each other; all remain calm, silent. No one is surprised by the dangers of sleeping outdoors. A sand man will be the first to take guard that night, but for his and Mito’s sake, he’ll keep an eye out, too.

A laugh is heard in front of the bonfire. Madara’s eyes fly through the flames, and he meets the leader of the desert clans. Hibiki, that’s his name, or at least, that’s what he remembers. It doesn’t matter much really. That man’s head is so inflated that he does not allow anyone—except perhaps his little brother—to call him anything other than ‘My lord.’

That idiot already feels a Kage’s hat on top of his head. A man who didn’t care about the dangers of sending his younger brother as a hostage to a faraway land.

Madara frowns. How can he trust someone like him? He suddenly reminds him too much of those bastards he had to share a table with during councils.

That man hasn’t taken his eyes off them, especially Mito. Madara can feel Mito restless next to him. Her chakra rises in barely concealed ripples.

For some reason, Hibiki’s eyes brighten as his smile widens.

“Wolves,” Hibiki says. “Do wolves scare you, sweet lady?” His words are directed at Mito, but the entire entourage turns to see him. Madara continues to drink his sake, his gaze back into the flames.

Mito lets out a low grunt, that only Madara can hear. She’s fed up. That bastard has been leering at her throughout the entire trip and Madara had been wondering all day when the time would come for her to put him in his place. He smiles against the cup, thinking it’s just the right time.

But Hashirama wouldn’t send just any shinobi on a political campaign if he wasn’t sure they were trustworthy. So, she says, her voice ever so courteous, “I do not fear them, my lord.”

Madara’s smile grows bigger. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hibiki’s reaction. His smile only widens when he hears her.

“Of course, it was my mistake to have implied that you were some kind of frail maiden, when in reality you are an elite shinobi.”

The desert leader’s men whisper amongst themselves, sending furtive glances towards the pair of outsiders.

“The Hokage wouldn’t have allowed himself to let you go otherwise,” Hibiki’s words are as sharp as his eyes. Madara stares at the rest of the sake in his cup, and this prevents him from noticing that he is being watched by Hibiki. “One wouldn’t send what is precious to them to a foreign land, right?”

Mito finishes her own cup of sake before answering. “I have come of my own free will, as there are matters that only I must resolve. I think it is inappropriate to discuss such sensitive topics in the middle of nowhere, my lord.”

Hibiki lets out another laugh and nods. “Of course, I beg your pardon. It’s just that it will take us three days to reach our settlement…in the meantime, we must find some way to break the ice and get to know each other somehow.”

What are you? Five? Madara thinks, mortified.

“It took us two days to reach your lands, since we are fast travellers. Although this does not mean that we should rush more than necessary. After all, the Hokage doesn’t expect to hear from us until after three days. If we travel at the common people speed, it will be fine too. Two more days and then we will reach our destination,” Hibiki says thoughtfully, playing with an empty cup in his hands. “Can you withstand them, fair lady?”

Mito, Madara thinks, shooting a sharp glare at the talking man. Her name is Uzumaki Mito.

“I travelled half the world known to myself when I left my birthplace to go join Konoha. And, my lord, it took me much longer than just three days; I’ll be fine.”

Madara gives her a half smile, before finishing with the remnants of his sake. The hot liquid feels like a treat as it caresses down his throat.

“Fair lady, please remind me to thank the Hokage in a letter for sending such an entertaining kunoichi like you!”

Madara is tempted to roll his eyes, but just then, a noise is heard in the distance. Light and far away, but it is just this distance that makes Madara wary—if the noise reached them despite the distance, then what would have caused it?

Mito has also slowed down her breathing, as if she was reliving some bittersweet memory. All the travellers around the fire are silent, listening until the noise fades. Madara’s gaze is lost in the long, dark forest that opens around him.

All is silence and darkness. Even the crickets have ceased their song.

“They say there are creatures around these places,” Hibiki says after a long time. “Creatures that escape our comprehension and from which it is much better to escape, for we will never be able to stand against them.”

Madara glances at Mito, only to realise that the redhead was already looking at him.

Hibiki continues, “Have you, friends from Konoha, come across anything like this in the past?”

Words sure travel fast with the wind, back in the desert.

“Genji told us that, when he and the scouting team wandered through the woods, searching for the place that would be Konoha, never a night passed without them hearing the silent roaming of the Kyuubi.” Hibiki throws another log to feed the fire. “We in the desert have our own monsters, you know?”

Mito’s demeanour is serious and elegant, her straight back. She politely asks, “Monsters?”

“Yes of course.” He answers. “You see, the clans in the desert are all very different from each other, but if there is one thing they all agree on, it is that you must teach your children about Shukaku from a young age…”

“Shukaku?” Madara inquires, raising an eyebrow.

Hibiki grins. “The Ichibi, my dear Uchiha. That’s its name.”

Shukaku. Madara ponders his words. He had no idea that a bijuu could have a name.

“This world is big and mysterious,” Mito says to the man on the other side of the bonfire. All of their gazes are focused on her, as if the Uzumaki herself outshines the fire that stands between them. “It would be ridiculous to think that we are the only ones inhabiting it. Everything has an order, and it is obvious that there must be something that keeps men at bay—no matter how much we brag about our abilities.”

Hibiki gives her a wide smile.

“I would like to ask you a question, Lady Mito, although I am afraid I already know the answer by now.” The girl tilts her face ever so delicately in response. “Tell me, are you afraid of monsters?”

Uzumaki Mito is a young woman who has faced different kinds of monsters. Of course, she is not afraid of them. She’s only focused on getting stronger to face them, but she doesn’t plan on hiding under her bed.

“It is not fear, but respect,” she says. “The bijuu are ancient beings and have been here much longer than we have. I respect them for that.”

The log just thrown into the fire begins to crack. The moon is hidden behind a thick cloud, plunging them into darkness.

“I am very glad to hear that,” Hibiki says, “because where we’re headed to is a land of monsters.” They all remain silent. Madara does not take his eyes off him, as that man does not take his eyes off Mito. “Let’s go rest. Tomorrow we will advance a great territory and we will finally leave the Land of Fire.”

After dinner, Madara loses sight of Mito for a moment and although he is calm, since no man from the desert is missing around the fire, he still goes looking for her. He finds her behind some nearby bushes, on the bank of a stream that runs silently through the valley. She has taken the opportunity to wash herself a little. Her red hair falls loose on her back. She knows that the newcomer is Madara, for she continues unfazed by his arrival.

“I came to wash,” she says, turning to look at him over her shoulder. “It is already too hard to travel with a dozen men with little taste for water.”

Madara tries to suppress a smile, but fails.

“Come on, we’re allies, right?” He says, pulling his mantle off, stripping himself from the waist up. “You just had to say it.”

There is no hostile tone in his words. In fact, this is the most intimate he’s ever gotten with any woman, Naori included. Mito looks away instantly to not see his bare skin, for which he thanks in silence. Madara takes off his gloves and puts his hands to the water, to cool off his face and try to unravel his hair a bit.

The moon is barely visible. All around there are a great number of fireflies hovering over the stream, from one side to the other. Some cicadas are heard singing too, and many shy and bright pairs of eyes spy on them from a distance.

Although Mito has remained by his side during that brief time, the redhead’s eyes have not left the sand men.

“I’ll watch tonight, aye?” He says, and Mito instantly turns to look at him. His hair is still dripping, and some shiny drops trickle down his chin. Perfect; she had to start finding him handsome now. Just that night she begins to understand why Naori is still so foolishly enamoured with him. “You can sleep peacefully tonight; I will take care of your dream.”

She feels an unwelcome stomach clench by looking at him, but she bites the bullet and says, her pretty brows furrowed, “One of them will keep watch at night.”

Madara uses his fingers as a brush. It looks like he hasn’t brushed that mane in years. “Yes, but…” his voice is a whisper. “Tell me, can we trust them?”

Mito wrinkles her brow in concern. She meets his eyes, afraid to look elsewhere in his anatomy. “Alright, but you also have to rest.” Madara’s chest shines clean under the pale moon. His hair stands on end with cold. “Or perhaps another of your Uchiha powers is being able to live without sleep?”

He responds with a gravelly laugh before getting back into his clothes. He shakes his head and says, “Not at all; actually, I do enjoy sleeping.” He smiles sadly. “I’ll keep watch for the first part of the night, and you can take care of me before dawn, aye?”

They both remain looking at each other for a long time. Mito doesn’t consider him a friend—in fact, she hasn’t even dared to call him by his name yet.

But these are uncertain times and even if she does not travel with a friend, there is an ally by her side.

She nods and in that, she hears a noise behind the bushes. They both go on alert, but it’s just a man from the desert coming to look for them. They both follow him without delay. They have stopped at the limits of the Land of Fire, still in a forest. There are few places to shelter from the cold wind, so all travellers will sleep under the stars.

After a while and when the sentry absentmindedly begins to move the gravel with his feet, Madara lies on his back, looking at the stars.

It is a very cloudy night, so there is not much to see. Mito sleeps next to him. Her sleep is deep and serene, she doesn’t snore one bit, unlike many around them.

Before he can stop himself, he feels a stroke of longing and even though he was trying not to think about Hashirama—it was obvious that Hashirama would reach his mind when the night came.

He swallows hard and keeps himself from saying his name out loud, his throat burning. Instead, he discreetly searches his pouch for the headband that Hashirama gave him the night before he left. He lies on his side, facing away from the sentry and the bonfire, facing Mito’s back. Only then does he raise the band and like the fool he is, he brings it to his nose. It smells of cloth and iron—not Hashirama.

Of fucking course it wasn’t going to smell of Hashirama. He would bring the metal plate to his lips, but he doesn’t want to take away its initial shine. So, he just tucks it under his clothes and presses it tight against his skin, as if that way he could feel him there at his side, like when they were together at home.

Just look at yourself, the voice in his head says. Homesick, like a little brat who misses his mother.

He knows about it. It is almost the same feeling, the same longing.

Madara lets out a long sigh and lies back on his back; his hand continues to press the metal plate to his chest, just above where the heart is beating.

And then, he thinks of words that he never thought he would say: I want to go home.

 

* * *

 

“Well, Anija, you should consider that they are prepared to read your every move, to know what to use against you. If they see that you miss Uchiha Madara too much, they will end up using him against you, to force you to do according to their will. Calm down. Think not like Senju Hashirama, but like the Hokage of Konoha.”

Sure, but it was easier said than done.

However, Hashirama knows that his brother is right and that he, unlike himself, only thinks about what is best for the village.

Ah, this is complicated. At times like these, he sometimes thinks that everything would have been easier if Tobirama had been chosen as the Hokage.

Their desert guests are not treated as prisoners and instead have been given the freedom to explore the village—of course, always under the watchful eye of guards posted nearby, ready to know if they stray too far from the permitted limits.

Therefore, it seems curious to Hashirama that they haven’t decided to leave their rooms yet and instead spend the whole day enjoying the snowy scenery that falls in the residence’s courtyard.

The guards greet the Senju brothers as soon as they see them arrive, alerting their guests that visitors have arrived.

The brother of the leader of the desert, that bright-eyed youth is the first to greet them. “We were wondering when we would see the Hokage again.” A mischievous smile adorns his face.

Hashirama also smiles in response. “I am sorry for the delay. I hope our guests are having a good time.”

The desert man nods. “Just as expected, Hokage-sama.” He bows and then adds an honest, “Thank you.”

Hashirama gestures to the guards to leave them alone. The Senju are able to keep that pair at bay in the face of any attempted skirmish.

The four of them remain seated outside, covered by the eaves, looking at the pale and shining cloak on the garden.

It is that same desert man who says, “I never thought I would see snow falling.”

Hashirama turns to look at him with interest. “Well, it seems to me a bit strange to imagine a winter without snow.”

The other man laughs, “Someday I hope I can invite the Hokage to see the desert—that is, under different circumstances, of course.”

At this exchange of laughter and smiles, Hashirama sees it as the right time for introductions. “By the way, I am afraid there hasn’t been time for proper introductions.” The sand man’s smile fades and nods in affirmation. “I am sure you are already aware of my brother, Senju Tobirama.”

“I have written him beforehand. I am the one who wrote the letters sent to Konoha.” He elaborates, “My older brother is the clan head, and the one who has united the rest of the desert clans with the intention of forming a village. But the tensions between the clans are still strong—it is not easy to change habits and they refuse to hand over power to a specific man. You must understand this, Hokage-sama, for surely you also found himself in the same predicaments in the past.” Hashirama nods. “While he was away, taking care of those issues, I took care of Konoha’s matters.”

Hashirama asks, “Do you have any other brothers besides the man my allies left with?”

The other man licks his lips before saying, “There are three of us in the family. I am the middle child and have a sister a couple of years my junior—she is close to your age.”

The Senju brothers look at each other before turning back to the man from the desert.

“I want to see her grow up and have a life away from so many battles in the desert,” the man adds. “For this reason, I have faith that good things will come from this situation. I, myself, offered my brother to come here, and talk with the Hokage, because I know that…well, let’s say that he doesn’t do very well with other leaders.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen. The other man throws up his hands, hurriedly, “Of course this doesn’t mean your allies are in any danger. We desert people are principled and hospitable to our guests; they will be just fine.”

“I’m really glad to hear that,” says Hashirama.

The sun has moved, and its shine no longer reaches the snow in that garden. The wind is stronger and colder now, it will be unbearable as soon as sunset arrives.

“Now that I think about it,” Hashirama says, staring at a dancing tree in front of him, “I do not know your names.”

The other man looks at his young companion before returning his eyes to the Hokage. “This boy next to me, is Genji.” The boy snorts when he hears him saying his name, “And me—my name is Reto.”

Hashirama bows slightly, “Nice to meet you. Both of you.”

They remain silent for a while longer. Outside the house, in the street, some children are heard laughing. Konoha completely unaware of those two outsiders inside and what their mere presence in the village means.

For those children and their future, Hashirama dares to say, “I would like this exchange to be brief.”

The boy, Genji, twists uncomfortably next to his companion.

At least he behaves in the presence of this man, this Reto, Hashirama thinks, looking at the boy on the corner of the eye. At least, he respects him.

“Oh, I hope so too, Hokage-sama,” Reto replies. “I long to return to my hot desert sun and sandy winds soon.”

Hashirama knows he means it, for there’s a certain nostalgic tinge to his voice and by the way he looks at the snow-covered garden.

“You miss your land,” the Hokage points out.

Reto nods and looks back at him. “Konoha is a different world entirely. It’s amazing how much things can change three days away.” He takes a breath and says, “I like to think that my brother will communicate with the Hokage soon. I trust him, entirely, despite everything.”

Hashirama waits for Reto to elaborate on that, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “Who knows, Hokage-sama? Maybe one day, my older brother and you can sit together, as comrades.”

“I hope that as well,” the Hokage says sincerely.

Tobirama makes a discreet sign to Hashirama, indicating that it is time for them to go home. Hashirama understands, turns to the guests, and says, in the same gentle voice as always, “If you’ll excuse us, we must go.”

Reto smirks and says, “Sure, we know the Hokage is a busy man.”

 

* * *

 

“Anija, what the hell were you doing?”

The Senju brothers walk back to the Hokage’s office. The sun is already below the mountains, casting long shadows of them on the ground.

Hashirama sighs and says, “I was trying to start our relationship off as less hostile as possible.” Tobirama growls in response. Hashirama smiles sadly. “Maybe not in the way you would have, but—”

“They are not your allies, much less your friends.”

Hashirama frowns. “Well, at least we could try not to continue to be even worse enemies.”

Tobirama shakes his head and forms two fists. He is upset, a lot. It can be felt just by walking next to him.

Hashirama tries again, as he hates going home upset with his brother, especially now that the atmosphere in his home will be so dismal and empty.

“You know, I’m doing this to the best of my ability. I don’t want more arguments or attacks, much less another war. I am sick of it.”

“Well, then, we should talk to our hostages to try to get valuable information from them, so we know how to counterattack. You must know that the leader of the desert clans is surely doing just that with his own hostages. If you don’t play along, Anija, you’ll be left behind.”

Hashirama is now the one who shakes his head. Again, as much as Tobirama hates to hear him say this: he sounds just like their father.

“If we planned to do this exchange the old way, why do we boast about being modern and different?”

Tobirama sends his sharp scarlet gaze to his older brother. “Konoha is our priority.”

Hashirama stops to a halt. Tobirama turns around to face him.

The street is not yet crowded with people, but wherever the Hokage goes, he attracts them like a magnet. The last thing Hashirama wants is to make a scene.

As if he had read his mind, Tobirama says, “We’ll talk about this in private, in your office.”

But Senju Hashirama has always been stubborn, and his younger brother knows it.

“Madara and Mito were taken hostage to a strange and hostile place—they are our priority.” Then he rectifies, “Their safe return and Konoha are our priorities.”

Tobirama opens his mouth in disbelief. He looks at his older brother as if he’s lost his mind. Perhaps he has, Tobirama ponders. He walks a couple of steps towards Hashirama, so that only he can hear his words, “You were chosen by this community to be their leader, to watch over them—and the only thing that big head of yours can think about is Uchiha Fucking Madara.” Then he pulls away enough to meet his eyes, “What kind of genjutsu has he gotten you into?”

Hashirama frowns. “There is no genjutsu,” he whispers. “Who better than you to know that?”

A vein in Tobirama’s temple begins to swell.

“Konoha—or at least, the place we chose to build it in—was also a hostile place for Mito, and she was able to adapt well to change. So much so, that many of her clanmates have settled here already. So, I don’t doubt that Uchiha Madara—who is so powerful and capable, as all of you say—can also adapt to the change and do his fucking job while he’s there. Also, he is very much at fault about this matter.”

“I thought we’d already talked about that last little detail, Tobirama.”

Although the two brothers are, for the most part, whispering, that doesn’t stop them from attracting the attention of passers-by and those who pretend to walk down that street just to catch a glimpse of their conversation.

Tobirama clicks his tongue. “Come on now, the least we need is for our hostages to think that you are a very sensitive man. If they do, they will end up asking you for half of our territory and you will just accept it in order to get Madara back in your hands as soon as possible.”

“You say that, because you don’t understand what’s going on between us—because you don’t love anyone! All you ever care about is work, work, work—meetings here, allies there, scrolls and cards.” Tobirama’s eyes widen. “And this thing isn’t just about him; I also care about Mito, she is my ally and my friend, too. And you should also care about the welfare of our allies. Konoha would not have been founded without them.”

Tobirama is speechless. He shakes his head and says in a small voice, “You…Anija—Hokage-sama. We’ve spent our whole lives together, and yet I feel like you don’t know me at all.”

Hashirama is the one who opens his mouth now. But it’s late, Tobirama has turned his back on him.

“Tobi,” he calls.

Tobirama raises a hand in the air. “See you at dinner, unless you want to spend it alone, sobbing in that big house of yours.”

“Tobi, wait.”

Tobirama turns to look at him over his shoulder. “Go and take a walk. Maybe that will help clear your head.” Then he turns his back on him again and starts walking. “I’ll wait for you at my place, aye? I trust you will know how to get there.”

 

* * *

 

Hashirama leaves the village, heading towards the forest—to the river that splits Konoha in two.

The entire forest is covered in snow, and there is a group of marked footprints of different sizes that catch his attention. This doesn’t throw him off course, but rather encourages him to see what it’s all about.

At least, it’s better than thinking about his recent argument with Tobirama.

He doesn’t have to walk far to realise it. There’s a scent of fire and smoke in the air, which instead of lightening his head, helps make the pain in his chest stronger.

Forest and fire, that’s what the Uchiha smell like. That’s what Madara smells like.

Maybe Tobirama is right; maybe he just exaggerates.

Hashirama likes to think that it’s just the latter and that he’s perfectly fine.

Laughter soon reaches his ears and a female voice echoes through the forest. The few remaining birds are just fighting for their places in the trees. They appear to be dark and fast clouds, like the omen of a storm.

Hashirama peeks from behind a tree and the first thing he sees is a huge firebal rising towards the river. He opens his eyes, shocked. And he is even more impressed to see that it was Naori who produced it.

She is not alone, though: she seems to have taken a pupil. A little boy with unruly hair and Uchiha clothes.

“Come on, now you do it. No, uh—the hands, yes, like that. Try again.”

Hashirama waits, not taking his eyes off the boy, and notes in shock that even though the ball of fire the boy makes is small, he is still too young to have accomplished such a thing.

He can’t help wondering if Madara will have achieved such an achievement at that age or even before. He wonders at the same time, who taught him or if, like all good child prodigies, he had learned it himself. If he thinks about it, he knows very little about Madara’s childhood. They haven’t started chatting about such mundane things.

“Look, Haru, we have a visitor.”

Hashirama is so deep in his thoughts that he hadn’t realised that they already know he is there. He smiles and comes out from hiding, towards the Uchiha pair. He was always the worst at playing hide and seek.

The boy runs towards him and bows as he greets, “Hokage-sama!”

Hashirama blushes at all the pomp. Ten years will pass, and he will still feel restless about it. “Hello,” he says finally. “Practicing? In such weather?”

“It was during the winter ceasefire that our clan used to practice,” Naori replies, putting her hands on her hips. “Our encampment used to smell of forest and fire at the same time that the snow fell.”

The Hokage places a large hand on the boy’s dark hair, ruffling it even further. This makes Hashirama feel a clench in his stomach. The boy’s dishevelled hair, the nervous smile, his dark eyes…if he had arrived at that place after many years of absence, nothing would have prevented him from thinking that this child is the son of Uchiha Madara.

Hashirama sends a look at Naori, the girl who watches the whole scene smiling and his stomach drops. Is this what their son would have looked like? He licks his lips. If nothing had happened between Madara and him, without a doubt, this is how their son would have looked like.

“Of course,” Hashirama says, removing his hand from the boy’s hair. “I don’t know much about the matter, but I suspect that the sooner an Uchiha learns to fireball, the better, isn’t it?”

Naori nods and asks the boy, “Come on, Haru, go show the Hokage how far you’ve come today.”

The boy—Haru, nods and dashes back to the riverbank.

“What? He just started today?” asks Hashirama surprised.

Naori affirms without taking her proud gaze from the little boy. Haru gets into position, forms his hand seals, and suddenly, a small but significant glowing orb burst out of his mouth.

Now it was bigger than before. Hashirama can’t help but open his mouth in surprise.

Naori giggles when she sees him. She crosses her arms over her chest and says, “Yeah, it’s his first day of training.” She shrugs. “Madara has been sponsoring this little boy. Before leaving, he asked me to take care of him.”

Hashirama, still smiling, feels a chill upon hearing her. There comes the boy again, shouting with joy.

“You saw it?! Did you see it? Naori, did you see that size! I’m getting better every time!”

Naori laughs and squats down to be at the boy’s level. She places her hands on his shoulders and says, “I saw it, you’re doing great! Madara will be so proud of you when he comes back and sees you.”

Hashirama’s smile slowly fades as he listens to them.

“You think so?” asks the boy blushing and the kunoichi nods, still smiling.

Haru lets out a happy breath. Naori stands up and says, “I’ll have a little chat with the Hokage, aye? Why don’t you go and rest for a while? It’s almost time to go home.”

“Please, Naori, could I practice with the kunai at least a bit?”

“Haru, I promised Madara that I wouldn’t let you use the kunai, at least not so soon.”

The boy’s face flushes even more. “I’ll be careful, I promise. Just one, yes?”

Hashirama remembers very little about his mother. But he can recall little memories of himself asking his mother not for a kunai, but for something else, the same way that little Uchiha boy who looks almost identical to Madara asks Uchiha Naori.

“Do not stop for me, I was just passing the time before dinner,” Hashirama assures them, with his hands up.

Both Uchiha turn to look at him at the same time. Naori takes a small kunai out of her pouch and hands it over to the boy. “Practice hitting the bull’s-eye,” she points to a nearby tree. “And please be careful.” The boy screams with joy and runs out of there. Naori cups her hands and yells, “I’ll be watching you from here!”

The boy raises a hand in response and soon, he begins throwing the kunai with such inexperience that it misses the tree.

Naori calmly walks to where Hashirama is, who is watching the boy’s every move. “You used to be always busy with everything, Hokage-sama. Tell me, now that he isn’t around, do you feel like everything is suddenly falling apart around you?”

Hashirama shrugs. “Don’t you feel the same?” he asks her, though he fears the answer.

The kunoichi nods silently. Haru screams as the kunai he threw finally grazes the tree.

“This kid…who is he?” Hashirama asks.

Naori answers without taking her eyes off the little boy. “His parents died during the war and his grandmother takes care of him. At some point he began to idolize Madara, like many other children in our clan, and this child was lucky enough that Madara noticed him.” She sighs. “Who knows, maybe he saw himself reflected in the child or maybe he has always had a natural instinct to care and protect, though he didn’t even know it himself.”

Hashirama looks at Naori’s face and identifies the same symptoms of longing as his own. He better averts his gaze to the boy with the kunai. It is the fate of every child of shinobi, it seems. He also used to practice in the same way, although he was always fortunate to be surrounded by brothers.

Maybe it was the same with Madara. How can he know? He sighs. This has only made things worse.

Naori hears him and asks, “How was the exchange?”

“It was fast and somewhat peaceful. Although, I feel like this won’t be easy.”

“Well, if it was easy, we wouldn’t have gone to such trouble.”

Hashirama had already heard those words. Madara is everywhere. In the air and on the ground, in his thoughts and in everyone he has influenced.

“Yeah,” the Hokage agrees. “He told me the same.”

Naori looks at him sympathetically, though Hashirama is looking at the boy with the kunai.

“They are able to protect themselves.” She says. “They will make a good team. I assure you that they will return as good friends, even.”

Hashirama looks at her sideways.

She continues. “Soon, we will overcome the bitterness of the past and we will get used to the idea of a better future, together.”

“I made it!” Haru yells, galloping off in search of the kunai in the tree. “Naori, I did it! You saw it?”

Naori applauds her little apprentice and yells, “I saw it, Haru!” The boy comes running to her with a flushed face. She says, “It is getting dark, let’s go home. I promised your grandmother that I would take you to dinner.”

Haru hands over the kunai and becomes shy before the Hokage.

Hashirama sincerely tells him, “I am very proud of your quick learning, little Haru.”

The boy opens his mouth huge, unable to believe it.

Naori tells them both, “Let’s go back.”

Haru nods and says, “Naori, stay with us for dinner. My grandmother says that you are a very sweet and cute girl.” Naori feels her face grow hot. Haru adds, “My grandmother will be delighted to have you with us as well, Hokage-sama.”

The three of them head back to Konoha.

“I’d love to visit your home any of these days, Haru, but tonight, my brother is waiting for me at his house.”

“Oh, I understand.” Haru says. “It may be when Madara returns, then. We could all have dinner together.” Hashirama smiles in response. The boy insists, “He’s my friend, you know, Hokage-sama? Madara is my friend.”

Madara, you are everywhere.

 

Day two

 

Madara opens his eyes upon hearing an incessant noise. A hammering on repeat. Nothing like what had surrounded him the night before. The fear of having fallen asleep when he should have been taking care of Mito’s sleep makes him sit up suddenly.

Before him is a landscape very different from where he is in reality. A green scenery, skies of blue, and the noise of a mighty river that rushes down the mountain.

He frowns and rubs his temples in a gesture made out of habit, since he doesn’t really feel pain. In fact, everything there feels so good…so calm, so peaceful, that it can only mean that this scene is a dream.

Madara looks to the side and sees a tall man naked from the waist up. His hair is long and dark… Madara feels that his chest is filled with a sensation of pain, indeed, for that man who is turning his back on him is Hashirama.

Hashirama turns to look over his shoulder; he is smiling, of course. How could he not remember him with a smile?

‘Ah, I woke you up,’ says Hashirama, dropping the tools he was working with until recently. They fall on the grass with a silent noise. Hashirama reaches where he is and falls on Madara, beaming, covering him with his weight, hiding the sun.

Madara smiles.

That dream feels so real, that Madara doesn’t close his eyes when he feels Hashirama’s lips on his. He doesn’t want to miss anything. Also, his lips feel real. They taste of him. Everything seems perfect, but where are they? Madara knows that this scene never happened in real life, because he would never have forgotten it if it were.

As if the Hashirama from that dream were a telepath, he ends the kiss and sits to his side. With one hand he proudly points to his half-finished work: a pile of logs worked as they join to form a wall.

Madara raises an eyebrow. He looks down at Hashirama’s hands. Red and calloused from the hard work.

‘What are you doing?’ asks Madara.

Hashirama bites his lip before replying, eager to tell him, ‘I am building our house before winter comes.’

Madara lets out a laugh. It feels so wonderful to be able to laugh again. ‘You could have built me a house with your mokuton.’

Hashirama tilts his head like a puppy. Madara feels his heart skip a beat at his sight. ‘If I had built it with my mokuton, by then, the Kyuubi would already be here, with us, facing us.’

Madara’s eyes widen. Hashirama turns to him. His smile is huge and beautiful.

‘So, I prefer to make it with my own hands.’

Hashirama makes a move to stand up, and Madara feels that he doesn’t want to leave all the fun to him, even if it’s a dream.

‘Well then, you foolish man.’ Madara says. ‘Let me help you.’

Madara tries to stand up, but Hashirama stops him, placing a hand on his chest. ‘No way,’ says the Senju. With a slight push he sends him on his back. This time, Madara lands on something soft; a tangle of fabrics rolled up as a pillow: it is Hashirama’s haori.

He pulls Hashirama closer, and it is now Madara who has the initiative for a kiss. He is hungry and even if it is just a mere dream, he will cling to it and enjoy it while it last.

Not only do his lips feel real, so does the heat exhuming his skin and the scent of sweat covering him. It feels like being at home.

‘You’re home,’ Hashirama tells him between kisses. Madara’s vision is cloudy.

Hashirama’s chest is bare, but nothing hangs from his neck. We never went to Sora-ku. We stayed in that cave; we send everything to hell. Nothing else mattered to us.

It would have been so if we had stayed in that forest. You and me, and this infinite and wondrous solitude.

Madara grins. ‘I love you.’

Hashirama lets out a laugh. ‘I know. I love you too.’

Ah.

‘Where else should we be but here, huh?’ asks Hashirama, sitting back down. ‘You and I belong here. This huge forest is our home.’

Then, this man is not you, Hashirama. What a silly and unrealistic dream.

No, Madara thinks. Because in reality, you are the leader of a village—which you always dreamed of—and I am far away, on a mission. I shouldn’t even have fallen asleep. I promised you that I would take care of Mito. Or maybe I’m already dead and you, for obvious reasons, are my last thought.

‘Let me help you, at least,’ insists Madara. Hashirama shakes his head again.

‘You have to rest.’ Hashirama is looking ahead of them, at the valley. His voice is solemn. “There ahead, difficult challenges will come. You can do it, but you have to believe in yourself. I do.’

Then he turns to Madara, he smiles again.

‘I miss you. Come home soon.’

Madara jerks awake, agitated. Mito is still sleeping next to him. It is still dark. The fire is still burning. The first magenta tints of dawn begin to pierce in the distance throughout the trees. And no matter how much he looks around—there is no sunny valley, no half-built house, much less Hashirama.

Madara squeezes the metal headband that rests on his chest, and it works, for his heart calms down a bit, and suddenly, he no longer feels so alone. This works. He remains reclining, his gaze fixed on the changing sky, until the minutes pass and become an hour.

Soon there is movement in the camp, and one awakens another and so on, until the silence of dawn leaves with the night.

The travellers stand up when the sun has not yet fully risen. The forest is still mostly in shadow. If they sharpen their ears, they can hear the water of the stream flowing through the forest. The morning birds take flight, and the curious animals break the brittle grass under their feet.

Mito gazes pensively into the undergrowth while to her side, the men of the desert prepare to leave. Behind her is Uchiha Madara, trying to tie up his armour with some difficulty.

She gives him an empathetic look and says in a low voice that only he can hear, “Do you need a hand?”

Madara tilts his head, blushing. “It’s easier to remove it.”

Mito smiles and stands up. She walks over to him and silently helps adjust his armour. It is heavy. He is stronger than he appears to be able to travel so fast without complaining of exhaustion. Not even the men of the desert come so heavily armed.

When his armour is tightly adjusted, he answers with a whisper. “Hmm, thanks.”

“Do not mention it, Uchiha.”

He turns to continue preparing for his journey. Mito gives him some space and when she turns around, she is surprised to see that this man…what was his name? The leader of that entourage is watching them—watching her—carefully.

Their gazes hold for a brief moment, until he averts his when Madara reaches Mito’s side.

Those Uchiha eyes seriously see too much.

“Is something wrong with that guy?” he asks her in a murmur. When the desert man sees that Madara has arrived with the Uzumaki, he grins before turning around to continue dressing.

Mito shakes her head, but Madara can see that she remains uneasy. “Let’s just keep our eyes open.”

“That guy looks at you quite a lot. I’ve seen him do it when he thinks you’re not looking.” But you have, she thinks. He says in a deep voice, “I don’t like men who smile all the time, much less in situations like these.”

Mito lets out a small laugh. They both walk towards the stream to fill their waterskins. If they continue at that pace, they will come out of the forest that very day and they don’t know how long they can last in the desert.

“Funny, you know? Hashirama is a very smiling man,” Mito reminds him.

Madara doesn’t respond instantly, instead he first squats down to reach the water level. He washes his face. “Yes, but…they’re not the same kind of smiles. That is to say…”

She imitates him and discreetly grins. “Calm down, I understand you, Uchiha.”

He blushes and prefers to splash water on his face again. The water runs fast and fresh that morning. It is almost icy to the touch.

Madara dries off and rises. He waits by Mito’s side, guarding her from the prying eyes the men of the desert send her way.

They don’t stop for breakfast. If they linger any longer at that site, it will take them another day to get there.

“Are we all ready?” the leader calls out loud when he sees that everyone returns to the point where the fire was burning until a while ago. “Friends from Konoha?”

They all nod. They are eager to leave.

They run.

 

* * *

 

Hashirama and Reto are playing a game of shogi in the yard.

Genji is sitting on the extreme side of the edging, looking at the snowy landscape, observing the mountains that surround the village.

“The journey back to my home takes approximately three days for travellers by common means,” Reto says, holding three fingers up as Hashirama thinks of his next move. “It took us two days—I suppose now that my people are traveling with your allies, it shouldn’t take too much trouble for them to get there in the same number of days.”

Hashirama makes a move on the board. His eyes twitching upward to his game opponent. “Madara and Mito are fast travellers. Two or three days of travel will be nothing to them.”

Reto ponders his next move, a hand to his chin.

“The Hokage holds them in very high esteem, I see,” Reto points out.

That morning, Hashirama has gone to visit his guests without telling Tobirama, so that he can start a calmer conversation with Reto. Of course, Hashirama knows that these are stolen moments and that Tobirama will come looking for him as soon as he notices his absence.

“With Mito, it has been easy, even though I have known her for a short time. We have become good friends. I trust her.”

A curious sparkle appears in Reto’s eyes for a brief moment—so brief, Hashirama doesn’t notice it. “I once heard that you were thinking of making her your wife,” he says.

It is Hashirama’s turn, and he uses the time to think of an appropriate response to his comment, pretending instead to think of his next move.

“Those were my father’s plans,” Hashirama says after making a move. Reto frowns seeing that Hashirama has gained ground on him. “But when he passed away, those plans were lost and instead, she became just a good friend of mine.”

Reto nods thoughtfully and looks across the edging at his compatriot. The boy is still lost in his own thoughts, ignoring that pair.

“Marriages are necessary for alliances, especially in small nations,” says Reto. “My brother, has taken special interest in finding a suitable woman for himself.”

Hashirama makes his next move before saying, “Well, marriages help build larger armies, indeed, but the same goes for alliances between clans.”

Reto makes his next move without thinking. “Like the Senju with the Uchiha.”

Tobirama’s warnings echo inside Hashirama’s head, but, either way, he answers, “Yes. Like us with the Uchiha.”

Hashirama’s guest remains thoughtful as he waits for the Hokage to make his next movement. “Even so, arranged marriages also help shorten the time for negotiations in forming alliances, as well as prevent wars.” Hashirama raises his head, and looks at Reto with a frown, not quite understanding why this strange man insists on the subject so much. “From what I’ve heard, that’s how it happened with my parents and their parents. I do not doubt that the same thing has happened in the Land of Fire before, with its numerous clans. At the end of the day, Hokage-sama, marriages of convenience prove very fruitful in times of war.”

Hashirama crosses his arms across his chest. “I am afraid I don’t understand.”

Reto shrugs. “I mean, the Hokage has sent his closest allies to my lands, both unmarried. And since Lady Uzumaki is needed in Konoha, not as a wife, but as an ally to the Hokage for she is the head of her clan, the same does not happen with Uchiha Madara.”

Neither of the two players realises it, but at that instant, Genji looks at them out of the corner of his eye, snapping out of his thoughts upon hearing the name of Uchiha Madara.

“Why don’t you give your Uchiha ally in marriage to some member of my clan?” Reto’s eyes shine with cunning. “As I told the Hokage yesterday, I have a younger sister. She would not object to an arranged marriage, as she has always known that this is her future.” Hashirama feels his throat go dry. “She is a pretty girl; she would give good children to your friend. Think about it, Hokage-sama, I am sure Uchiha Madara wouldn’t object if you put your mind to it.”

Hashirama lets out a chuckle. “I highly doubt something like this will ever work, I am afraid. Madara has never been one to blindly obey me, much less in something as important as a marriage.” Hashirama clears his throat, “Besides, he’s very close to his clan—to his little brother. He…just wouldn’t leave them alone. And until recently, the Senju and Uchiha were in a continuous war—if their leader goes far…well, I don’t know. I trust with all my might in the Uchiha, but I don’t know what could happen within his clan if its leader suddenly goes to a place so far away.”

Reto nods and smiles. “I understand. It is well known that the Hokage is very close to Uchiha Madara. I heard it at a meeting with the Daimyos, back at home.” His grin widens. “I knew it would be very difficult for you to let him go—I just wanted to hear it from your own words.”

Hashirama lets out an uneasy laugh. “Is there anything strange about that? Did you not have a close friend in the infancy? Madara and I have known each other for years and were even good friends for a long time, before we had to face each other in the war.”

No piece has moved on the board for quite some time, and the garden that until a while ago had been silent—except for the words of the players and the wind—is suddenly filled with noise as a pair of ravens that arrive to perch on a roof nearby.

“I had friends in my own clan, of course, but few reached adulthood. Life in the desert is very difficult.”

Hashirama remains silent, worried that he has said too much. But his game opponent doesn’t seem to have noticed any exaggerated attachment between the Hokage and his Uchiha friend. He allows himself to let out a breath.

Reto is studying the board.

“It is your turn,” Hashirama tells him, already planning his next move.

Reto places a hesitant hand on top of the board, until at last, he makes his move.

No one speaks for the next turn, until the sand man says, “You’ve been lucky, then. We never had such familiarity with another clan. I guess it’s because my older brother hasn’t been very nice to the rest of the clan heads, and now that we seek an alliance, few are interested in joining his cause—much less obeying him.”

Hashirama places both hands on his knees, relieved to finally be able to change the subject. “You could do like we did in Konoha.”

Reto looks at him, carefully. He raises an eyebrow in question.

“Let the people decide.”

His game opponent lets out a laugh.

Hashirama stands his ground. He reaches out a hand and makes a movement. He hasn’t played shogi in years and is a bit rusty. Or maybe he’s just nervous.

“If we did that, my brother would not become the leader, as he has not only been hostile to other clan heads, but also to the common people.” Reto smiles sadly. “He is a good man, deep down. At the end of the day, I am sure he wants the best for his people, but the outcome would be different anyway. If we did that…I don’t know, maybe they would end up choosing me instead, and it would upset Hibiki a lot.”

Hashirama smiles calmly and says, “The people would choose whoever they think is best to protect them. And if your older brother’s intentions are sincere as you say, he would also be happy with the result, whoever is chosen.”

Reto extends his hand and makes his next move. He seems to have some skill in the game. “I’ll ask the Hokage, was there ever a chance that Konoha chose someone other than you?”

Hashirama blows all the air that was inside his chest. “Oh, sure. The voting in Konoha was very close, but we knew from the beginning that, of all the candidates, there were only three possible winners.” Hashirama counts on his fingers, “Madara, Tobirama and me. In fact…you know? I thought the results would end up in just that order.”

Another sparkle appears in Reto’s eyes. “Did you think you would be beaten by Uchiha Madara? Oh, really? Despite everything that’s happened around him?”

Hashirama nods. “The Hokage had to be the strongest of all of us, so that our village could be safe from future threats. That’s why we form villages, to keep people safe. I always dreamed of forming a village so that people would be safe, my dream was never to be their leader. So, I always thought that Madara would be an excellent leader, I still do, actually.”

“But, even though the Hokage holds him in such high esteem, that doesn’t mean he was the most popular among the common people.”

The Hokage rubs his chin. “That’s because Madara is usually too sombre and reserved, and not everyone has access to the real himself.”

Reto gives him a half smile. “But you do?”

Hashirama feels a blow to his chest. A sense of warning. A chill runs through him when he now realises the sparkle in his opponent’s eyes. “Yes of course. He is my best friend.”

Reto makes his next move, the last one in the game. He raises his eyebrows in surprise and says, “My, look at this. I think I’ve won, Hokage-sama.”

Hashirama looks down and checks his movements. He scratches his nape with one hand and says, smiling embarrassed, “I would excuse myself by saying that I haven’t played shogi in many years, but in truth, your strategy has been impeccable. Congratulations.” Hashirama bows, prompting another laugh from his guest.

Senju Hashirama has always been terrible at all kinds of games. It is a true fortune that the fate of a couple of nations cannot be resolved with a game of shogi.

 

* * *

 

Around noon, the leader of the group goes back a few steps, so that he can catch up with Madara.

Madara eyes him sideways, not missing a step.

“We will stop about a kilometre ahead.” His voice is loud and understandable to everyone, although it is addressed to his hostages. “We will feed and rest there for a while. Soon we will leave these woods behind, at last.”

At last. Madara can’t help but feel uneasy. He nods and says nothing.

He watches as the leader regains his position at the head of the group. Madara turns to the side and notices Mito looking at him. Their gazes hold for an instant. No one says anything, but they make themselves understood somehow.

“We’re going at a good pace,” Hibiki says once everyone settles around a small fire to eat. “Our destination is not far from here. If the desert allows us, we will arrive before nightfall.”

“If the desert allows us?” Madara inquires curiously, as he wipes his lips with a cloth.

Hibiki answers without meeting his eyes, playing with the stick he ate with. “Even the most experienced and strong shinobi can become easy prey in a desert. I knew people who underestimated it—people who were born in the desert, who knew its dangers.”

A little silence.

“What happened to them?” Madara asks, though he already knows the answer.

Hibiki now does look at him with a mocking smile on his features.

“They got lost, my Uchiha friend. They got lost—they condemned themselves to wander aimlessly in those endless dunes, until thirst and fatigue, or—who knows? —Until madness killed them…they were never found. Whoever dies in the desert becomes a part of it. Here, we honour our dead in different ways than yours.”

Everyone around the fire falls silent again. The shinobi that travel with the leader look at each other with gestures that Madara can’t distinguish. Is it fear? Or maybe it is that feeling of knowing you’re close to home and can’t wait to get there?

Maybe he’s tired and can only think about nonsense.

There’s no more talking after that and they don’t linger there any longer either. They set off as soon as they put out the embers.

The change of terrain is interesting. The sand feels different when running. It is unstable; it takes more strength to slide over that land.

They run for a couple of hours without anyone saying a word.

Madara begins to feel as if they were inside a mirage, where no matter how much they move their feet, they end up always staying in the same place.

Perhaps it is because of the strangeness of that territory. He didn’t even have that kind of trouble when heading to Sora-ku.

He frowns and puts a hand to his chest, where the headband is. Feeling the cool metal against his skin helps bring him back to reality.

The sun is scorching, and he is the only one who doesn’t have his head covered—Mito has put on the hood with which she left Konoha. It would do little good for him to cover his head, though. His body is wholly bathed in sweat and only now is he beginning to feel a certain amount of tiredness in his legs.

“Are you alright?” Mito asks as she approaches.

Madara nods. His eyes still on the road. But he’s lying—he’s not used to such temperatures; his body needs to hydrate, and his vision is obstructed in parts by the sandy wind.

“All right,” he says, looking at her sideways.

She raises an eyebrow. Madara is untranquil. Either that Uzumaki girl is too good at deciphering him or he’s just a lousy liar.

Hibiki raises a hand in the air. “Halt!” He says, and instantly the entire group stops.

Everyone takes advantage of that break to hydrate. But they must be careful—no one can tell them how long they will spend in that desert.

“Konoha shinobi,” says Hibiki and both Madara and Mito glance at him. “I know you may be tired, but we must hurry to get there today. The nights in the desert are cold and even crueller than this sun.”

“We’re good, Hibiki,” Madara says, wiping his lips with the back of a gloved hand and pocketing his waterskin. Then, he looks at Mito, and says, “The sooner we get there, the better.”

She says, “He’s right; we are ready.”

“Good. I just hope we don’t get caught up in some sandstorm,” adds Hibiki, taking his place at the head of the group. “If so, we will not be able to advance until the next day.”

They continue for a few more hours.

The terrain remains unchanged around them and only the pacing of the sun helps them count the passage of time. A kilometre later or so, appear strong sandy winds that somewhat complicate his vision.

The shinobi of the desert continue without any problem, for they are dressed for the occasion. Mito covers most of her face with her cloak, but Madara is the only one who seems to have trouble following. His hair gets in the way of his field of vision and although the collar of his clothing is high, it still doesn’t keep his face from getting covered in sand.

He didn’t want to do this, but special times call for special measures. He shuts his eyes for an instant and by the time his eyelids lift, his sharingan is spinning in his eyes.

Mito notices it and looks at him out of the corner of her eye, not missing a detail.

With his new vision, sand is no more an issue, though he still feels some discomfort using a skill he has little experience with. His father’s eyes still feel strange on his body, but at least the burning is almost completely gone.

His eyes reach the leading shinobi and leave them behind, his vision traveling far ahead of them. There is some movement in the distance. People…no—shinobi. Only shinobi move like that. Should he…? Madara frowns and bites his lip. Should he tell Hibiki?

No. They were born and raised on those lands. They know that terrain like the back of their hands. They know how to read the sand with the ease with which he recognises one tree from another in the forest.

He must wait; he must be patient.

Yet he remains uneasy at the movement in front of them, ignored by those who doesn’t have eyes like his.

Should he alert Mito at least? She turns to look at him as if she had heard him. He doesn’t look at her this time.

No, what use would it do to worry her when he himself doesn’t know if those shinobi are anything to worry about?

He will be prepared to take care of her if necessary. His eyes travel in front of them again and then, he notices another significant change: sand. A sandstorm, fast and violent, approaching them.

A sandstorm is a phenomenon that no one can control. This is a latent danger.

Madara raises his voice and says, “Hibiki, up ahead…”

“Indeed, my dear Uchiha!” He answers without slowing down. “There’s a change in the winds up ahead, but be calm, it is nothing to worry about! Not far from here, there are some caves where we can take shelter in case there is a real storm—but for now, we’ll continue!”

Madara doesn’t believe it not to be a sandstorm, but what else can he do?

His instincts alert him to imminent dangers; his hands are tied.

“Those eyes indeed see too much, Uchiha!” Hibiki laughs from the front, turning for a mere moment to look at him. “Trust me—I too have a lot to lose if something ever happens to you.”

Madara doesn’t share his laughter, nor does Mito. She knows her companion is a bit disturbed and that disturbs her as well.

They continue running in a straight line for a few more minutes, until, on the horizon in front of them, the abnormal sand clouds begin to become visible and apparently come towards them at an impressive speed.

Hibiki raises a hand, and they all stop. Even he frowns in disbelief. The wind currents approaching them at full speed, causing the lapels of their clothes to fly uncontrollably.

“Everyone, in formation!” The leader calls his subordinates.

They nod instantly and change their position, so that the two Konoha shinobi end up in the middle, shielded by them. The sand shinobi make hand seals and soon each one begins to manipulate the sand at their feet so that it changes its shape and forms a dome around them, covering them from the strong winds.

Just in time. The wind rushes into the group, causing even the shinobi keeping the sand walls in shape to lose stability for half a second. The violent howling of the wind is heard from within. Everything has gone dark inside the dome. It is even hotter in there. The entire group is trapped in a sandy maelstrom of dire odds.

Madara and Mito stick to each other, back-to-back. His eyes are alert, as are his senses. Each one puts a hand on the hilt of their weapons, preparing for a planned attack that will breach the walls of sand at any moment.

That fucking wind isn’t normal. A mist of chakra surrounds them, spreading several meters around the dome. Madara frowns. This is an ambush, though nothing seems to make sense. The fact that the Konoha hostages suffer some mishap would not bring any benefit to the already decimated clans of the desert. And why would they ambush the company where the leader of the desert clans is traveling?

“I thought you were pretty sure no sandstorm was coming,” Madara says quietly, testing the leader.

Hibiki stands to his side, busy, his hands still forming a seal. He is serious, and his smiles have faded to give way to a scowl.

“This is not a natural sandstorm,” Hibiki replies, “although, I suspect you already knew that.”

The wind continues to whistle around the dome. There is a massive force that is sucking up the sand they are standing on, collecting it to add it to their attack. Madara hadn’t been in a situation like that, but he suspects what the wind controllers are planning: they plan to destroy the dome with the force of that wind.

Hibiki says, as if reading his mind. “My men are the best at handling sand in this desert, Konoha friends. We’ll be fine, we just have to resist.”

That may be so, but what if they take too long to move from there and suddenly a real storm comes? If so, even those experimented shinobi won’t be able to do anything about it. In addition, they still have to wait to see how the place is outside the dome.

A trickle of cold sweat falls down Madara’s face. This is taking too long. They should get out of the dome and face their attackers!

“We are trapped in a vortex. If we got out right now, it would be like running straight to our deaths,” Hibiki explains—again, reading his mind.

Madara growls by hearing their leader. Their hands are tied. Condemned to wait, like a tiny mouse, praying for the falcon to get tired of waiting and go find another prey.

“They are a few,” Mito says suddenly. “The chakra of four shinobi is nearby.”

“Impressive, Miss Uzumaki.”

Madara was just about to say the same thing. Certainly, the flow of four fixed points of chakra at a distance keeps them trapped in that vortex.

This is too humiliating. They must act—Madara yearns to go face their attackers.

“Tell one of your men to open a hole in the dome, I’ll go face them.”

Hibiki sighs. “Your taste for battle is well known in these lands, Uchiha, but even with those magical eyes of yours, you won’t be able to see in that sandstorm. We just have to wait.”

Madara clenches a fist tightly. “It will be just as dangerous to wait for a real sandstorm to come after us, and in that case, we won’t be able to get out of it alive!”

The wind howls around them, a terrifying cacophony.

“He’s right,” Mito says, her hand still touching the hilt of her sword. “It won’t do us any good to keep waiting here. They won’t stop.”

Hibiki bares his teeth—desperate, powerless. Streams of sweat dripping down his temples…the effort they are making is too much, even for them. “It is a trap.”

Madara clicks his tongue. “Of course it is a fucking trap, but we have no other choice! If we delay any further, the sun will go down before we reach our destination, didn’t you say that—?”

“Oh, alright! Alright!” Hibiki grumbles. He sucks in air to fill his lungs, but it proves impossible. Inside that dome of sand there is no light, no air, nothing…only despair. “Pay attention; I will open my side, understood?” The order goes to his men, who shout a loud “Aye!”

Hibiki continues yelling orders, without undoing his hand seal. “I want half of you holding the dome. The rest will come with me.” His men nod. Hibiki then turns to the Konoha shinobi. “You will remain in here; I cannot let anything happen to any of you.”

If so, Madara thinks. The same will happen to your younger brother; no matter how pious Hashirama is, not even he would let such an offense pass.

Hibiki lowers his hands and as he does so, the wall of sand in front of him loses its shape, eventually becoming ordinary sand, falling back to the ground. When this happens, there is a change on the outside. The winds continue to surround the dome, but they drop in intensity, as if waiting to see who will be sent to counterattack.

As Hibiki and his men come out of the dome, Madara walks towards the opening. Mito grabs his arm as he walks past her. “What are you doing? You heard him!”

Madara brushes her hand away with a wave of his arm. “I am not going to stay in here, waiting like a little child for someone to come and rescue me!”

“I don’t like the idea either, but in this case it is necessary. We don’t know the desert or its people, we don’t know what awaits us out there.”

“Ah, so should we just wait for the adults to finish talking? I have never needed someone to take care of me and that is not going to start today—”

Mito lets out a growl. “You, Uchiha, are so stubborn…he warned me that you might be difficult to deal with, but I never thought I would battle your foolishness this soon.” Madara chuckles and she adds, “Do it for him at least, will you? Do you know how Hashirama would feel if something happened to you?!”

Madara turns to look at her over his shoulder. His forehead is wrinkled. “He also asked me to take care of you.” Mito’s eyes widen. “If something happened to you, how could I return to Konoha?” She is speechless. “I will go out. You stay here.” The Uchiha’s eyes are still red—his sharingan…that same sharingan that Mito saw him use on the Kyuubi is still there, in his pupils, spinning and scaring her just by seeing it.

As Madara exits the dome, he is met by Hibiki and his men, stationed several meters from each other, all facing different directions, prepared to attack.

The wind has somewhat ceased in its force, but it continues to surround them, making it impossible to see more than a few meters away. Unless you have a sharingan, of course.

“I also heard that you were obstinate,” says Hibiki when he feels Madara arrive to his side, without taking his eyes off the distance.

“I have never been very obedient to say.” Madara lets out a tired sigh. “Who are they?”

“There are many shinobi who specialize in wind release. It could be anyone.”

“What I don’t understand is why would they ambush their leader?”

Hibiki shrugs. “Not all the desert clans have agreed to the formation of a village. I lack your Hokage’s temperament, I am afraid.”

And his power, Madara thinks. He turns his face when he senses movement out of the corner of his eye. “There they are,” Madara says and Hibiki nods. “I know.”

This is a waste of time. How long have they been at that same point?

Hibiki is also losing patience and yells, “Sand shinobi, I order you to stop this attack as soon as possible! We have not come here looking for a fight, we are heading to the settlement of the clans!”

In response, there is a change in the wind current. It seems as if…they were trying to deceive them. Hibiki’s men look everywhere, suddenly losing track of where they are and then, more movement. A speedy figure is approaching them at ridiculous velocity, breaking through the wind while remaining a shadow.

Madara sees everything with precision of detail, and yet the all-seeing young man is not fast enough to be able to do anything about it.

The shinobi in the shadows holds in their hand an object that glows in the brief darkness and ends up cutting the bodies of the disoriented men of the desert, making them groan in pain before falling inert on the sand. One, two, three…six shinobi fall prey to that shadow.

Hibiki lets out an angry wail, but there is nothing to be done for those poor souls. “This is treason! We belong to the same desert! The clan wars have already ended!”

There is no response to his complaints. They only hear the whistling of the wind and the noise of blood rushing in their ears.

Madara prepares to thwart any attack. He carries his kama in hand and looks around for any movement that is out of the ordinary.

The winds change again—now, coming in his direction. And then, there in front, more movement. Madara grins like a madman. His body trembles and suddenly, through his blood, that delight that only fills him when he finds himself on a battlefield flows again.

There he comes.

The shinobi attacking them moves at incredible speed, but it is easy for Madara to see their every move. By the time the assassin catches up with him, he’s already prepared.

The clash between the sharp blades breaks the silence in the desert. His enemy has their face covered, but it is easy to see in his eyes that they are surprised.

If they came hoping to slit more throats that day, they won’t get it with Madara.

By the time the next strike comes, he’s ready too. Madara takes his enemy to a place away from the dome entrance. And although his enemy is a shinobi well trained for battle, it is not a problem for someone like him.

Soon another body falls into the arena—that of Madara’s opponent.

This is revitalizing. He feels so alive. With his other hand he takes his gunbai. His gloves adjusting to the grip of his weapons. How, how much he missed this feeling.

He turns his head to the direction of where he feels another rising force of chakra. He raises the gunbai and points at that spot and says, “Your genjutsu are useless on me!” Then, he points to the fallen shinobi at his feet. “Ask them!”

“Uchiha, put an end to this—we don’t know who they are, and we must solve all of this by other means!”

Madara turns to Hibiki and tilts his head, in disbelief. “Your men were slain in cold blood before your very eyes—and you still claim that this must be resolved by other means?!” Hibiki growls, for he knows this irritating outlander is right. “There’s no way we’re going to shake hands after talking about it, I—” Madara cuts off his speech when he feels a cold caress on his cheek. A swift movement, a deep wound. Warm blood begins to drip from his cheek, and it crashes onto his sandy breastplate. His chest begins to rise and fall in anger. This was a taunt, a spit in his face.

Goddess.

He doesn’t have to wait long for another attack, but this one ends up being deflected by a swift kunai next to him—Mito. Madara prepares to take another hit. He frowns and grumbles. “I told you to wait inside the dome.”

“You’re welcome, Uchiha,” is Mito’s reply. She gets into attack position, covering Madara’s back. “I cannot see anything in this gale—you’ll have to be my eyes.”

Madara bites his lip and reluctantly informs her. “To your right, about half a kilometre away, is one of the shinobi that is causing this whirlwind. Can you feel them?” Mito nods. “Good. That one is busy controlling the winds, they have no chance to defend themselves without leaving their hand seals. I’ll go that way.” Madara turns to Hibiki and says, “Undo the dome—we’ll need more help. There are only three of them, they won’t be able to beat us.”

“I already told you that I cannot keep attacking my own people!”

Madara mutters an “Idiot,” before heading at high speed to where the shinobi that produces the tornadoes is. The closer he gets, the clearer everything becomes: all the assassins come dressed the same way, in shades of brown to make them invisible in the sand.

The Uchiha prepares his weapon as he is about to arrive. His mouth waters and to his nose reaches the scent of blood not yet spilled. He licks his lips, and when he sees the shinobi with their hands occupied with a seal, he raises his kama and prepares to land a clean blow…

That does not arrive, for another assassin from the desert arrives there to cover his strike.

Madara curses under his breath and engages in another silent battle. This shinobi is more experienced than the previous one and gives him more trouble. Their attacks are swift and precise—they are used to killing in a clean and stealthy manner.

They are a lot like him. Madara can’t help but smile with pleasure, when facing a worthy combatant.

The winds die down and the air that reaches his nostrils is heavy with the scent of blood. He feels a squeeze in his stomach. Mito, he thinks. He could turn to verify that the kunoichi is still standing, but his opponent doesn’t give him the chance. The other shinobi’s eyes narrow into a smile as if to say, ‘Turn around and you’re dead.’

Madara bites his lip and with a yell of fury, ends up launching one last fierce attack, sending his opponent to the ground, lifeless by the time the body touches the sand.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead with his arm and, still breathing hard, turns around. He calmly releases the little air his lungs catch when he sees that Uzumaki Mito is still alive, and that she is fighting another shinobi.

The sand dome has disappeared and around Mito is a large number of bodies scattered, all motionless.

The one who also remains immobile, though still very alive, is Hibiki.

Madara lets out a growl. What a leader you plan to be! The situation has gotten worse than he imagined. Do something, dammit!

Madara speeds off in search of the fourth shinobi—the one he was about to fight with moments ago, but he’s run while Madara was busy.

He just has to focus…where does the wind come from? From what direction?

The wound on his cheek—now covered in sand—by being open, feels the change in air more accurately than the rest of his body. Madara dares to close his eyes for a second, to sense the direction…there they are, to his left!

When he turns his face to the indicated side, his eyes end up meeting those of his last opponent. Both gazes meet and hold for a brief moment. I see you.

Madara is about to go towards them, but in that instant, more blood begins to soar in the air. Mito.

The kunoichi is injured, but her opponent has fallen to the ground. The sand at Mito’s feet and much of her cloak is covered in blood. It is not hers; he notices. She will be fine.

Madara curses again, now out loud and runs in the direction of his last enemy, the one who keeps the winds turning. He catches up with them in a couple of seconds. He braces himself for a clean strike, licks his lips, preparing to taste their blood. The shinobi sees the approach of that outlander and lowers their hands to reach for a weapon, but everything happens too fast for them.

Madara’s blade pierces the flesh of his opponent before the other shinobi can do anything about it. The violent currents of sand and air disappear as quickly as the limp body hits the ground. The sand that they had recently controlled covers their lifeless body, doomed to be lost forever.

Madara returns to Mito’s side without delay. His chest rises and falls rapidly, choking him. It is not the hardest battle he’s ever had—with Hashirama he used to spend hours fighting a much tougher duel without him breaking a sweat—but these circumstances are totally different. The weather is extreme, and he is still not used to those eyes, which consume too much chakra and at ridiculous speed.

“I am fine, it was just a touch,” Mito assures him when she sees him approaching worriedly.

She is not lying. The wound on her arm is long but not deep. She will be alright.

“What about you, Uchiha?” she asks, looking him up and down.

The light has covered them again, barely. The sun is already near the horizon, casting long shadows on the sand.

Madara looks around. They have too many casualties. Everyone except Mito, Hibiki, and himself have perished.

He turns on Hibiki in a rage—baring his teeth in anger. He growls, “This happened because you didn’t want to act!”

Hibiki looks at him with a frown. “Sometimes, casualties are necessary.”

Madara growls again. “They were your people! You were supposed to protect them!”

“Besides, this was just a warning,” says Hibiki. “My people have the power to tear bodies apart by creating blades in the wind,” he shakes his head. “If they have wanted to, they would have finished you two off, no matter how much your twirling eyes see, Uchiha.”

“Leave him,” Mito begs, holding the Uchiha by the arm again.

On this occasion, Madara does not remove his arm from Mito’s grasp.

He has his back to the sun, facing Hibiki. He tells him, “You said there were some caves near. Take us to them. We won’t be able to get to the settlement before the night overtakes us.”

Hibiki looks at him with disdain, but he nods. He takes a last look at his companions and throws a silent prayer—most of them were too young, not much older than their Konoha companions.

“Let’s keep going—” Hibiki says, but they stop when they hear the noise of a new whirlwind approaching them.

They turn instantly and observe with disgust that, far away, on the horizon, there is a solitary figure highlighted by the dying sun. In their hands is a pair of long, sharp blades. Their edges filled with chakra, making them glow like lightning.

Madara watches the whole procedure and, as fed up as he is, prepares his weapons and approaches the figure.

Mito calls out to him behind his back, asking him to stop, but he ignores her words. He is tired. Sick of this shit. Do you not plan to stop? And if they’re not looking to kill them—then, what?!

Madara runs in their direction, ignoring the exhaustion and pain that envelops his body.

He bares his teeth and as he runs towards the figure, he lets out a guttural and baleful war cry. In response, the figure swings their blade a few times, missing where Madara has jumped or veered, anticipating their movements.

Madara smirks. This is so easy. Everything is the same as always. He is invisible, untouchable. A ghost.

In one village or another; from here or there. No one can…Madara falls frozen when the figure wields their blades again, though this time, they do manage to touch him.

The blows are so strong and deadly, that they end up splitting his armour into small pieces—the iron taking most of the damage.

Mito shouts a concerned “Madara!” and desperately runs towards him with a velocity she didn’t know she possessed.

Hibiki has no choice but to follow the kunoichi, knowing that losing one of his hostages would be bad—but losing both would be catastrophic!

Mito arrives just in time to catch the Uchiha in her arms. Both fall to the sand in a thud.

The silhouette of the blades is marked on Madara’s clothes, and soon they begin to moisten from the inside. Mito touches one of them and raises her fingers to her eyes, her skin tinted a faint red.

“What’s that?” Mito asks when Hibiki catches up with them. “What kind of weapon is that?”

Madara tries to get to his feet, but the force of the attack has knocked him out. He snarls and spits out a mouthful of blood before saying, “Leave; they’re doing it again.”

Mito looks at where the outlined figure is and notices that, indeed, that shinobi has refilled their chakra blades, making them shine like shooting stars again.

The figure makes a few movements, preparing to strike again.

Madara tries to push the kunoichi away, but she stubbornly clings to him. If the attack comes, she too will be hurt or worse…!

“We have to get away from here,” says Hibiki behind their backs. His voice sounds truly worried. “Come, you fools!”

“Not while we’ve got that guy hot on our heels!” screams Mito, hysterical.

Madara breaks free of her grasp, leaving her on the sand and takes a few steps before falling back on his face. Their enemy has launched their attack; Mito has no chance to stop Madara and no way to deflect the hit…if the wind blades hit Madara again, it will be the end of him.

Mito helplessly shuts her eyes, not wanting to witness that.

She lets out a curse under her breath. Hashirama appears in her head, but also Naori and Izuna…

Her eyes moisten. She shakes her head. This is too unfair!

“What…what the fuck is that?!” Hibiki cries and falls to his knees next to Mito.

Mito’s eyes snap open. She brushes her tears away with the back of one hand. She opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. There are no words to describe this phenomenon.

The enemy has fled, perhaps intrigued too.

Madara is still lying on the sand, face down. There is no sign that the enemy’s blades have touched him again. He doesn’t move a bit—in fact…there’s no way to tell if he’s still alive or not, or if he’s just vanished.

His inert body is enveloped by a bright blue figure. A shiny shapeless shield.

“Ma…Madara!” Mito calls out to him again. Her voice barely a thread.

He is moving. He is alive. He’s on his knees now, and turns to look at her over his shoulder upon hearing her calling him by his name. He opens his mouth, but says nothing.

Madara falls back limply, and as he does so, the glowing blue shield disappears into thin air.

 

Day Four

 

Hashirama looks patiently at the skies, waiting for the arrival of a message bird from the desert.

The sky is clear that day, but, although the sun hits his skin directly, he doesn’t feel any heat.

He is empty. Barely alive.

A bird appears in his field of vision. He rises his head up, eager to finally see some foreign bird, but it’s just another raven. It croaks to Hashirama, as if it wants to answer some question the Hokage doesn’t dare to ask out loud.

Is he all right? Are they safe?

He frowns. He doesn’t like to think about omens. He prefers to believe that this feeling of discomfort in his stomach is due to his lack of food.

“Sometimes sandstorms interfere with our plans,” says Reto, who is sitting next to him, as he sees the raven as well. The bird croaks a bit more before disappearing over the roofs. The sun is hiding behind the mountains.

Hashirama is agitated, restless.

Reto insists, “Sometimes, we have been trapped in a cave in the middle of the desert for days on end.”

The shogi board lies ignored between them. Reto won in the first three games they had that day, the fourth one was simply forgotten.

Hashirama has no head for anything else. All he wants is to receive a message, some sign that makes him understand that his friends arrived safely at their destination.

But that day—to his misfortune—no letter arrives either.

The Hokage sighs.

None of them see that this young sand brat—Genji—is smiling very pleased. His sharp eyes sparkling with evil.

Hashirama doesn’t say a thing.

Reto finally says, “Believe me, Hokage-sama: they are well.”

Notes:

tbh I don't quite remember how the susanoo actually works, let's pretend it's like that, ok?--but I'm very happy that it finally made its appearance hehe

Chapter 12

Notes:

I wonder how many liters of coffee I have consumed up to this point just for this fic, hmm

The sky was dark blue by the time they reached the caves. The winds are cold now, almost as cold as the ones in Konoha.

Carrying Madara wasn’t as difficult as they thought it’d be. Mito slung Madara’s weapons on her back; then, each one carried him by his arms. The storm had left with the attackers and without further ado, they made their way across the desert, dusk close on their heels.

The first thing Mito does when they arrive at the cave is to check the state of the wound on her arm. It is superficial, and just a small infusion of chakra into the wound will suffice for it to heal completely. Maybe she won’t get such a big scar…

“I’ll go hunting,” Hibiki says reluctantly. He is tired and they lost everything during the fight in the desert. Although it is late, they both feel the hunger strike already.

Mito nods silently and turns to look at Madara, who is lying next to her, still unconscious. His face is pale, and his hair a tangle. When she sends her gaze back to the cave entrance, Hibiki is gone.

The Uchiha has been this way since he fell injured in the sand. By then a couple of hours have passed; now the firmament is a dark blue…

Blue. Bright blue, like the flames that surrounded Madara during the attack. That blue glow that covered him, which scared away the attacker. A shield, could it be? She has no idea. As much as she has been searching through her memories, she can’t find anything that resembles what she saw in the desert. Most of what she knows about the Uchiha comes from gossip.

Mito sighs. Maybe it was something the Uchiha usually do—a jutsu of sorts, and so she has no idea what it could be. Maybe Naori will know something about it—or maybe it’s a secret among their clan and they’re forbidden to tell. How can she know? Although her father did face the Uchiha in battle, she never had that fortune, so she can’t remember seeing anything like it.

The winds cry out an eerie song, taking her thoughts with them. Mito takes the Uchiha by the arms and drags him away from the entrance.

The cave is small and somewhat clean—at least, enough to give her the hint that it was used by another human not too long ago. According to what Hibiki told her on their way to the cave, the people of his clan usually use them on their trips, and among themselves keep it well cared.

She can see little traces of human use there. On the ground there are still remnants of the logs that its former user left. Mito uses them to start a new fire. She warms her hands in the light flame, protecting it with her body, so that the wind that slides through the entrance does not extinguish it.

Mito goes back to Madara’s side. His breathing is calmer now, his chest no longer moves with the speed of a while ago. His eyelids are immobile again. It seems that his body is tranquil, knowing that he is safe.

She puts a hand to Madara’s chest, the place that took the most damage, and as she does so, he winces. Mito doesn’t completely remove her hand—she keeps it suspended in mid-air. The old firewood produces a little hiss, and then, silence again.

Only then, she dares to touch the fabric of his chest. The blood has dried and now only a small scab remains under the cloth. They lost everything except what they are wearing. They will have to ask for more at home…no. Mito hadn’t had time to think about that. After the ambush, what will happen to Konoha’s treaties with the desert clans? Will they call…gods, will they call a new war? Or would it be appropriate for them to keep the ambush a secret? Wouldn’t that in itself be a betrayal?

She sighs again.

As if he had heard her thoughts, Madara shudders in his sleep. She looks down and watches him. His face is still pale, and his lips cracked, the wound on his cheek is dirty. His hair and clothes are full of sand.

The flamelight is very dim, barely allowing her to look at him, even though he is right in front of her. Mito knows that it is her duty to take care of his traveling companion, just as he spent the whole way watching her back.

What the fuck? She doesn’t even like him. She has known him for too little time to be able to see a friend in him. And it’s not just because Hashirama has chosen him, or at least, that’s the lie she likes to repeat to herself.

She smiles sadly and reaches out a hand to brush Madara’s bangs away from his eyes. It’s quite curious. Until a couple of months ago, she lived knowing that she should be wary of the Uchiha—that she should hate them for no reason. Her father was an ally of the Senju and, therefore, she heard nothing but unfortunate rumours about the Uchiha. That they were violent, irascible, hostile, bloodthirsty…it was her duty to help the Senju to finish them off.

However, circumstances have led her to see another side of those rumours. Uchiha Madara, the Ghost of the Uchiha, lies at her feet, unprotected and looking oh so fragile. “You don’t seem so tough now, Uchiha,” she tells him, knowing he won’t listen.

How would her father feel if he had met Madara? Well, it was obvious that her father knew about him, but…how would he actually feel if he had really met him? Had he known that under that legend was only a young man who did everything possible to protect those he loved?

She lets out a breath. She doesn’t want to keep thinking about those things.

Mito has a few notions about the healing chakra. Maybe if she gives him chakra infusions, he’ll wake up. She noted how much of it Madara used in battle. In the end, he was exhausted. What knocked him down was not the attacker’s blow but his colossal and imprudent use of chakra.

Mito makes up her mind at the end and lifts his mantle. She pulls it over his head, leaving his torso bare.

Her eyes widen. There are only faint red marks on his skin, barely shallow cuts. They no longer bleed. It seems that the chakra control in the blades was so great that they were released with the simple intention of destroying the metal that wrapped him, but not to do any real damage to his body.

They were playing with them. Mito bites her lip angrily. Too many people died for that child’s game. What did they expect to do with all that skirmish? What did they want to prove?

Idiots.

Mito raises her hands and places them above Madara’s belly. Her hands light up as she focuses her chakra on them. She begins to work, concentred. The girl does everything humanly possible to pretend that she hasn’t seen any abnormal marks on the Uchiha’s pale skin, though.

Come on…she’s young and has never slept with anyone yet, but she’s not stupid or innocent. After a war like the one they lived through, there is no room for innocence. She knows what the marks on Madara’s skin mean.

She bites her lip again—she’s opened a small wound, the metallic taste of blood palpable on her tongue.

She keeps working, the cave illuminated with the glow of her chakra. It was much easier to hate Uchiha Madara. Mito can still remember how glad she felt when she watched him walk away from Hashirama, leaving them behind in the forest.

There was a slight sensation of happiness that was born in her chest, believing that he would really leave and that she would never see him face to face again.

By then, nothing bad had happened yet. She planned to travel to the settlement where the village would be established; she would see her father again, and he would agree with the Senju on a way to unite one clan with another. Winter would pass and she…

A tear slides down her cheek and it ends up falling on Madara’s skin. The glow in her hands disappear; darkness engulfs them again. The Uchiha’s breathing has become more rhythmic. Everything seems to be returning to normal.

She doesn’t want to keep seeing him so intimately. She suddenly feels that it’s not right; she has done what she could for him. She reaches out a hand and catches Madara’s mantle. She checks it out—none of the blades did much damage to it. Everything will be fine with a wash. Maybe when they get to the settlement, they can…

Her thoughts evaporate into thin air, for a noise is heard on the stone floor. She looks down and sees a small metal plate attached to a cloth band. A headband or something like that. This item did take significant damage when grazed by one of the blades.

Mito wipes her cheek with the back of a hand. She raises an eyebrow in disbelief. There is an emblem engraved into the metal. Her gaze flies from the headband to the man lying limp on the ground. It is not the emblem of the Uchiha or the Senju, or any other clan that she knows.

He has his secrets. He’s not your friend, why would he tell you everything about him? Even though they’ve spent those last days together, they’re still just a pair of strangers.

She places the headband on Madara’s chest, where it surely belongs to.

Mito manages to put the mantle on him again, although with some problem. After finishing her task, she leans against the stone wall. She takes her waterskin and cautiously drinks a couple of gulps. Her throat burns when the liquid reaches it. Hibiki assures that it won’t be long until they arrive at the settlement, but she is unable to believe him in anything now.

Madara moves his lips. Mito looks at him out of the corner of her eye, watching the changes in his breathing.

“Still asleep, huh?” Hibiki says from behind her.

She shudders and turns to see what he has come with. He comes empty-handed.

“It was all covered up with the sandstorm,” he says, explaining. “We will have to spend the night without food. Either way, it won’t be long before—”

“No—please, do not say it,” Mito whispers, looking at the small fire she created. “Please, do not finish that sentence.”

Hibiki remains a bit brooding, but after a while, he bursts out laughing.

Mito can barely take it. She can barely stay still so as not to forcefully erase his smirk.

She’s already shed too much blood that day. Her chest is sore—there’s this horrible sobbing feeling held inside of her.

She had never felt so alone, and she is used to loneliness. It has always been that way.

She lets the air out of her chest, little by little.

He says, anyway, “Believe me or not, it won’t be long. We’re near.”

Mito remains silent, her eyes still on the fire. They, too, survived the storm damaged; both are covered in sand and dried blood on their clothes, their faces and hair.

“Although, of course, it would be much easier if our friend woke up soon.” He has sat on the opposite side of Mito and his gaze, instead, is towards the entrance of the cave. “If we must carry him to the settlement, it will take us the whole day to get there.”

Mito muses that perhaps what Madara needs is one more infusion of chakra. She places her gaze on the man lying a metre from her.

Hibiki is apparently not that interested in guarding the entrance, as he says, “I—I know it’s a bit awkward to talk about these topics right now, but…” Mito can feel his gaze on her. Every last one of her hairs stand on end. “Perhaps we can find a faster way to solve this whole dilemma, lady Mito.” When she doesn’t say anything, he continues, “People look for suitable people to rule them. Maybe, if they see that I’m a family man, they’ll—”

“Enough,” Mito’s voice is barely a whisper. An angry whisper. “We were ambushed—you lost all your men. How can you be so calm about it, like nothing happened?” Mito turns to look at him, after leaning back against the stone wall. She shakes her head. “How do you intend to tell the relatives of those shinobi that their loved ones perished in the desert? How are you going to tell them that they will never see them again?”

Hibiki lets out a sigh. He leans his head against the stone wall, imitating her, and gazes thoughtfully at the starry sky outside the cave.

“We are shinobi. This is daily bread for us. I’m surprised you’re so sensitive, for I sense you were raised the same way as I did.”

“In my clan, we do not see death with such indifference. We honour the fallen and appreciate their sacrifice, but here you are—just sitting there, all quiet while thinking with your crotch.”

Hibiki chuckles.

Mito is furious and continues, “Don’t think I haven’t noticed your stares!”

“You are a beautiful lady.”

His words only make her angrier.

“Also, from what I’ve heard,” he continues, “you no longer have any suitors left. The Hokage wasn’t very interested on espousing you, was he? Why do I have to commit that same stupid mistake? I do like women.”

Mito wishes she could get up and erase all those smiles at once. But she would hate to be trapped in the middle of that desert with Uchiha Madara forever. So, she just bares her teeth at him, furious.

“I could never marry the people who murdered my loved ones.”

Hibiki smiles discreetly.

“We are shinobi,” the man repeats. “Tell me, has an Uchiha ever killed an Uzumaki?”

Mito is tired. What she least wants is to continue arguing with that idiot.

“And, still,” Hibiki insists, seeing that she isn’t going to answer. “There you are, the Uzumaki clan head, watching over the health of an Uchiha who has caused too much trouble. Do you have any fucking idea how many people he’s killed?” She remains silent. “Rejecting my proposal based on that reason is hypocritical, if I may say so, my lady. This man—this Uchiha—has killed too many Senju in his life and it hasn’t stopped him from being the Hokage’s favourite.”

“Enough,” she begs. “Please, stop.”

Hibiki nods and looks back to the entrance of the cave, to the dark landscape that stretches out eternally before them.

And for a long time, there is no noise around them, beyond the noise of the thin flames or the cold wind.

“That’s not why I came here,” Mito whispers after thinking it over. Her eyes are fixed on the fire, but she can feel Hibiki’s gaze on her. “I have not come looking for husbands…I have come looking for revenge.”

Hibiki moves the gravel on the cave floor with one foot. “Revenge, my lady? I’m afraid you won’t find it in the settlement. The brat who killed your father went to Konoha with my brother—if you wanted to break his neck, you should have stayed home. It would have been fair, you know? No one would have done anything to stop your hand. What’s more, several people would have applauded you—I included.”

Mito doesn’t know what to say.

“Genji lost his older brother, and it wiped out all the goodness that had ever been inside his heart.” Hibiki continues, his words lengthening with fatigue. “Your Uchiha friend killed him. He wiped the smirk off that idiot. He was a fucking bastard with a big mouth and no brains—heh, you know? The only thing I envy about Madara was that he took away my chance of killing Genji’s brother myself.”

The girl remains silent. On several occasions she has heard Naori speak wonders about her clan head. Mito is also aware of Izuna’s adoration for his older brother, and, above all, she knows of Hashirama’s remarkable affection for Madara.

Was it his arrogance that caused all this? Or is Madara just a shinobi who has acted like many others, but he has the misfortune that his tarnished name precedes him wherever he goes, and that causes him to be hated by those who survived.

Maybe he’s just unlucky.

Who knows.

 

* * *

 

When he wakes up, he is surrounded by darkness, and air is scarce. There is a fire nearby—a small fire about to die.

Madara reaches out a hand and with his gloved fingertips fans the dying flames, giving it strength again.

He is exhausted. He has no fucking idea where he is.

Madara groans in pain and sits up, looking for Mito in fright. Fortunately, the kunoichi is leaning against the wall not far from him. She’s sleeping, her long lashes shadowing her dirty cheeks.

They are not alone. Madara frowns as he remembers that Hibiki is also there and alike Mito, he sleeps leaning against the wall. It is he who is closest to the entrance, as a lookout.

Three surviving people from the entire entourage.

He bites his lip to keep from letting out a growl. So many lives lost because of the faltering of a man who is not cut out for leadership.

The movement causes him a slight pain in the chest. Madara remembers certain aspects of the situation from the battle in the desert. He unconsciously puts a hand to his chest, and as he touches against the wounded skin, a new tug of pain envelops his body.

The breathing of the other two shinobi tells him that they are fast asleep. Madara reaches under his mantle and catches Hashirama’s headband. He holds it in his hand. It did take damage in the attack, damn it. He frowns. A long and thin line pierced it, nearly splitting it in two.

“How are you feeling?”

Madara rushes to tuck the headband under his clothes in the blink of an eye. It is Mito who speaks to him. “Much better,” he replies, his voice shaking. His gaze travels to the gunbai and kama posted against a nearby wall and he says, “Thanks for carrying them too.”

Mito smiles in response. “I know they are important to you. And what is the Uchiha clan head without his infamous gunbai?”

He lets out a shy smile. “Anyway, thank you. How about you? How is the wound on your arm?”

Mito yawns, “It was barely a scratch; I am fine too.” She stretches her limbs and then asks, “You were hurt, why are you thanking me? I couldn’t do anything to help you. I just stood there crying and waiting for the worst to happen.”

Madara dares to look into her eyes. “I was afraid too.” They are both whispering. She gives him a half smile. He continues, “I used up all my chakra reserves out there, like I was a fucking novice. If it hadn’t been for you, Mito, I wouldn’t have gotten here on my own. That would have been my end. For that, I thank you.”

She smiles shyly too and looks away. “He helped too,” she says, gesturing at Hibiki—still sleeping—with her chin.

“Yeah.” Madara shrugs. “But after what happened, I’m not going to thank him.”

Mito understands, so she doesn’t plan to delve into the matter. Outside, the sky begins to change its colours—dawn is coming. It is very cold.

“We should continue as soon as possible, to seize the day,” says Madara.

“Sudden chakra fluctuations are dangerous. Even if you feel fine already, it will be better to wait, at least, until the sun starts to warm up.”

Madara is sick of waiting. He is fed up with the sandy winds and unstable ground. He had never wanted more to take a bath and lie down in a comfortable bed.

They spend a while in silence, each inside their own thoughts, and when a distant glow finally appears on the horizon, Hibiki wakes up, as if he had felt the sun rise.

“You’re awake, Uchiha,” the sand man points out, as he sees Madara leaning against the cave wall. “You have survived your first sandstorm, Konoha friends. Not many outsiders can boast of such a thing.”

Madara doesn’t answer anything, he doesn’t plan to play along with him. Mito also remains silent.

“Do you think you can go on your own? I would like to get home as soon as possible; we’ve gone on too long already.”

“This is only the third day of the trip,” Mito blurts out from the other side of the cave. “And he shouldn’t overdo it while being hurt.”

“I am fine; I can move on my own,” says Madara. “I also want to reach the settlement as soon as possible.”

Mito lets out a small grunt, turning to his traveling companion. “I want to get there soon too, but I know it’s stupid to rush if you’re not feeling well at all.”

Hibiki stands up and brushes the dirt off his clothes. “Lass, the desert is not like one of your forests, where you can live off nature for as long as you need. The desert is cruel, and you must respect it—if for some reason we can reach our destination today, we will do everything possible to arrive today. Unless you’re not hungry or your waterskin is full of water.”

Mito bites her tongue so as not to drop in his face everything that she has been keeping inside her chest.

Madara feels her restless next to him and repeats, “I am fine now.” He sighs and stands up too, trying to suppress a wince. “The sooner we get to civilization, the better.”

The kunoichi blurts out a few silent curses and stands up as well.

Hibiki remains at the entrance of the cave, giving them privacy to prepare while he watches the changes in the desert.

They wait for the first rays of sun to caress the sand, gaining ground on the cold night wind. They put out the almost extinguished fire and approach the entrance. They take what survived the storm and prepare to leave.

They run slower now, ever attentive this way and that—watching for the slightest change in the sand—spotting for the slightest animal movement, or the furthest wind. It is a sunny day without the presence of clouds. Soon it’s hot again. The winds are calmer.

Before noon, when hunger begins to attack them violently, they see a mountain in the distance—no, not a mountain, but something different. A stone fortress that covers the settlement of all those clans in the desert. An impenetrable fortress to any outsider shinobi who don’t know its secrets.

Madara doesn’t remember much about the final moments of their battle, so he doesn’t think of any blue armour, at least not yet.

 

* * *

 

Izuna is intrigued.

“Well? How was it?”

Tobirama doesn’t answer him; he is busy reading a scroll. The young Uchiha drums his fingers impatiently on the table. Tobirama puts a hand to his temples, where an annoying sting emerges behind his eyes.

Izuna lets out a small grunt in response to his silence.

Yet, Tobirama doesn’t answer. The other person insists. “Senju, how will I know my culinary progress if you don’t give me reviews about it?”

Tobirama rolls his eyes and blurts out a rude “It was good.”

Izuna’s eyes widen, and he places his hands on his hips. “It was good,” he repeats, incredulous. “You know, this is why you came third in the voting for Hokage—your temper is so…rude and surly. Who would want to spend time with you?”

Mortified, Tobirama looks at the little Uchiha out of the corner of his eye.

“So…exasperating,” Izuna adds.

Tobirama lets out a tired sigh. He says, “Your brother is absent; you are—again—the leader of your clan, don’t you have anything to do over there?”

Izuna hisses in annoyance. Those Senju think they are so special. They think that everyone is going to be around them, ready to lick their feet.

“I am, Senju, a practical and fast man, and I finish my work with an unheard-of speed. We Uchiha get up early and finish everything early. I have already taken care of my clan and in my spare time, I usually practice, looking for ways to poison the Senju.”

Tobirama releases the air that he had accumulated in his chest. He rolls up the scroll and sets it aside. He touches his temples with one hand and covers the inkwell with the other.

“Right, so tell me, what are you doing here?”

Izuna frowns and places his hands behind his back. “I came to look for your brother—the Hokage—and since you’re the one in his office instead, I’ve come to ask you about dinner the other day, while I wait for him to arrive.”

Tobirama stands up and mumbles something that Izuna can’t hear. The Uchiha boy keeps his gaze fixed on the opposite wall, pretending that he isn’t following Tobirama out of the corner of his eye.

“What were you looking for my brother for?” Tobirama inquires, turning away.

Izuna was so lost in his thoughts that Tobirama’s voice makes him shudder. The boy turns to look at him and says, “I haven’t heard from my brother in five days. He should have reached the settlement long ago.” Izuna shrugs. “Hashirama is the Hokage. If there is news, he will be the first to be notified. That’s why I came looking for him.”

Tobirama nods. He sits on the edge of the table, dangerously close to where Izuna is. He looks the other way, out the window.

It is early. The sun is barely breaking through the roofs. The birds from the trees surrounding the building are singing.

The boy looks away, but he can see Tobirama’s figure out of the corner of his eye. He swallows hard and balls a fist. He feels… what is he feeling? Izuna doesn’t know what to name it. Maybe it’s because he is lonely, for he misses his older brother too much.

He is already a big boy, almost a man; he shouldn’t feel so heartbroken in Madara’s absence as a small child. Although it is normal for him to be so worried about the whereabouts of his brother, in any case, Izuna has been involved in a peculiar melancholy for quite some time, since long before Madara even left.

“He’s been impatient, as well,” Tobirama says after a while. Still looking out the window.

His voice comes too close to him, once again making Izuna startle.

Tobirama adds in a tired voice, “He wanders around, barely eating, barely sleeping. He has been spending the nights at my place.” He lets out a snort. Izuna turns to look at him upon hearing this. “I’d be lying if I said I’m worried about Madara at all, but for my brother’s sake…I want us to have good news from him soon. It’s tiring to see him so desperate.”

Izuna is a bit surprised. Tobirama is speaking to him with a certain…familiarity? What the fuck?

When Tobirama feels his gaze on him, he turns his face to Izuna to face him. The young Uchiha feels an irritating jump in his stomach.

He is early and has not had breakfast yet. It’s obvious that he feels so sick.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he stays silent.

It is the Senju who speaks, now in a sincere way, “It was good, aye, Uchiha? That cuisine of yours. Who would have said that you have a talent for something? At least I didn’t die with the tray you sent. You’re losing touch, I guess.”

Izuna’s ears grow hot. This is maddening.

“The detail is in the amount of poison, Izuna; that’s what kills.”

Izuna is at a loss for words. He opens his mouth, preparing some mocking response as a counterattack, but he doesn’t have to, luckily, for someone opens the door at that moment.

Both instantly turn to the newcomer.

“They have arrived!” It is the Hokage. He has one hand raised in the air and is grabbing a small piece of paper. His smile is enormous, his eyes bright. “At last, they have arrived!”

Izuna knows that this can only mean good news.

He walks to where that tall and smiling Senju is, and Hashirama is so pleased and distracted that the boy easily takes the letter from him.

Izuna reads silently. A few lines are the message:

 

“Senju Hashirama, Hokage of Konoha, we have arrived safely at the settlement. We were delayed by a sandstorm. Soon, we will send a more detailed report.”

 

A seal verifies its veracity. The paper is different from the one they use there in Konoha.

And though Hashirama is overjoyed, still, a strange feeling lingers in Izuna’s chest.

“Five days?” Tobirama taunts his brother, who has come to his side. “The magnificent and powerful Uchiha Madara, took five days to reach the settlement—a destination that people of ordinary means make in three?”

Hashirama proceeds to explain to Tobirama about the sandstorm that delayed their journey. Since Reto told him about it, the Hokage already sees himself as an expert in sandstorms. He explains to his brother that no one, not even the magnificent Uchiha Madara, can stand up against a sandstorm.

“Even sand shinobi are not capable of traveling when a sandstorm crosses their path, Tobi,” the Hokage explains. “Besides, it’s obvious that the most important thing for Hibiki was the well-being of our friends, and he preferred to wait.”

Izuna tries to find in that letter some vestige, anything, that will let him know that his brother is really fine. He rests uneasy, but none of the Senju brothers notice him. They are talking next to him, but Izuna doesn’t understand anything they say. He looks at them askance. The Hokage looks happy, that’s good, isn’t it?

So why does he feel this way?

 

* * *

 

“We spent a large part of our stay in the desert sheltered in a cave, for we didn’t want to run into another sandstorm. The one that attacked us was terrible.” Hibiki takes his time telling lies to the men who greet them at the entrance of the settlement. “We lost all our comrades in it.”

Madara’s blood boils when he hears it. Hibiki may have been born an unsuccessful leader, but he is the best liar Madara has ever heard.

“Send a message to the Hokage of Konoha saying that our entourage has finally reached its destination.”

Madara and Mito share a gaze upon hearing this.

“Avoid mentioning our casualties, but do announce that our delay was due to a sandstorm.”

The man in charge of receiving Hibiki’s orders nods before hastily walking away from there. People have begun to gather at the entrance of the fortress, knowing that their leader has returned with some strangers accompanying him.

Suddenly, there is movement among the observers; a girl makes her way through the crowd. Her eyes widen and she runs to where Hibiki is. She slips into his arms, which are already open to receive her.

“You’re back, at last!” She says in a voice full of glee.

Hibiki lets out a laugh and kisses her forehead before letting go. She is a young, small woman, barely reaching his shoulders. Her clothes are those of a kunoichi used to wander the desert. She is pretty and her hair and eyes are the same colour as sand.

“We were delayed by a storm. You know what it’s like; we had to make a long layover,” he explains and the girl nods.

“I have heard that. I am glad you’re all right,” she replies, before glancing at the rest of the newcomers out of the corner of her eye.

Hibiki follows the path of her gaze and says, “They are our guests from Konoha: Uzumaki Mito and Uchiha Madara.” Mito and Madara bow to the girl. “She’s my sister, Sora.”

She gives them a scrutinizing glance, before walking away from her brother in their direction. She first addresses Mito, to whom she greets with a wide smile. She says, “Uzumaki-sama, I’ve heard a lot about you; be welcome.”

Mito smiles and nods in response.

Sora then turns to Mito’s fellow traveller, to that tall and grim man standing in silence. She bows in splendour.

Madara swallows hard, not knowing what to do.

She says, her cheeks tinting red, “I’ve also heard a lot from you, Uchiha-sama.” He slightly raises a dark brow. This causes her blush to deepen. “Please, be very welcome!”

What the fuck?

The girl tucks a lock behind her ear that fell out of place when she curtsied. She suddenly seems to remember that her older brother is still there, so she says, “You must be tired after that long trip. Your rooms are ready.” Sora rises her eyes to Madara and says, “Please follow me and I’ll show you the way.” Her voice is directed at both strangers, but her yellow eyes don’t leave Madara’s.

Madara shudders and turns to look at Mito, who has been following the whole interaction with interest.

He steps away from both girls and walks to safe ground, where Hibiki is. He asks him in an angry whisper, “Why did you lie to him?”

Hibiki answers him in another whisper, not disturbed by Madara’s words, since he knows that they are being watched by onlookers. “I would prefer, Uchiha Madara, not to talk about these matters in such a public place.”

Madara bares his teeth, not caring if there is an audience or not.

Hibiki’s sister intervenes and says, “If you want a place to speak privately with my brother, Uchiha-sama, we have a suitable place for it, far from here.”

Madara lets out a growl. Hibiki responds with a smile and then says to her sister, “Sora, show our guests the way.”

Mito approaches Madara and grabs him by the arm, forcing him to follow her. They both follow Sora and get lost in the crowd.

 

* * *

 

“How about thirty percent?”

The assembly attendees look at each other and whisper with the Hokage’s suggestion.

Tobirama looks at them and listens but remains silent, waiting for the right moment to jump to his brother’s aid.

One of the attendees says, “Thirty percent? Why don’t we just give them the whole forest at once?”

Izuna rolls his eyes and Naori, noticing it, hits him in the gut with her elbow. The Uchiha boy suppresses a groan of pain.

Hashirama frowns and puts a fist to his lips. “Thirty percent is not equivalent to the entire forest. Our territories are very extensive.”

“Precisely, Hokage-sama,” Sasuke speaks, very comfortable from the seat across the table. “Our territories are extensive, but thirty percent? Isn’t that a bit excessive? If we come to them offering them that much, they will end up haggling over the offer and taking more than necessary.”

The men next to him nod and murmur some more.

“That is,” Sasuke adds, “they are the ones who need us, not the other way around. We have lived well without them. They need our green forests, our fertile lands, our mighty rivers.”

Hashirama says, “They need an alliance with us because of our resources, yes—and we need an alliance with them to keep Konoha safe.” More murmurs are heard in the room. He swallows. “Let’s say that in the future we have disagreements with other villages. It would be beneficial for us to have allies.”

Sarutobi Sasuke raises an eyebrow and crosses his arms across his chest.

Hashirama adds, “The shinobi of the sand need our lands, and we would do well to be their allies.”

The Shimura clan head says, his voice irritating, “To my mind, this is all a game with no true benefit to us. As Sarutobi says, we don’t even need them as allies. Within our village there are clans that alone could defeat the desert clans, do you not think?”

Several heads nod but remain silent. This makes the Shimura’s smile grow big and confident.

Tobirama chooses this moment to speak. “The Hokage is looking to the future; his strategy is rational. The last thing we need is to isolate ourselves. Even during wartime, it was not advisable to remain isolated. Alliances are necessary—for shinobi they will always be necessary.”

The Yamanaka clan head nods and says, “I agree with you, Senju, although I do think the Hokage’s idea of giving them thirty percent of our territory is too much.”

Most of those present agree with what the woman said.

Hashirama sighs and says, “Of course, the number is only tentative—that’s why I’ve convened this council, as it’s necessary for me to know the opinion of all of you before I send a message out into the desert. I would never make such an important decision without consulting you all first.”

This causes more whispers to be heard inside the room.

Naori and Izuna look at each other sideways. This meeting has been going on for too long now, those present are getting impatient and so is the Hokage.

Tobirama notices this and calls for it to be the end of that council, and for them to think about it until the next meeting. It is a relief for everyone, and little by little they are leaving the meeting room. Except for those close to the Hokage, of course.

“I thought you had something you wanted to show us,” Naori says as she approaches Hashirama.

He wearily turns to her and glances sideways at his brother, who is quietly holding up all of his scrolls. “Yeah, but I preferred to leave it for later.” Tobirama continues to collect his belongings as if he was the only one inside the room. “We are already too tense, and I don’t want that to have a negative result to what I want to show you—Tobirama, where are you going? I thought we would go together to…?”

“Not today; I am busy,” the younger Senju replies.

Hashirama frowns and clicks his tongue. He wants to tell his brother too much, but he doesn’t want to until they’re alone.

So, he lets him go and he stands there, helplessly.

He sighs and collects his belongings. He looks up and sees that Izuna has been staring at the door long after Tobirama has left.

Naori distracts him from that thought. “Your brother has been in a terrible mood…I mean, more than usual.”

Hashirama gives her a sad smile and the three leave the room. “The situation in Konoha has changed all of us,” the Hokage says as they walk down the empty corridor. “For example, Touka has been focusing on her investigations and I rarely see her anymore.” Naori lets out a “Hmm” and Hashirama continues, “Some clan heads have become a bit more apprehensive about a possible new war.”

Naori nods and says, “But that doesn’t explain why your brother is more annoying than usual.”

Hashirama chuckles, but it’s Izuna who points out, “He’s always been insufferable.”

They both turn to the little Uchiha, who doesn’t look at them, but continues with his gaze straight ahead. “Although…” he shrugs. “I guess now you have something of blame this time, Hokage-sama.”

Hashirama no longer smiles. “Yeah; I am afraid I caused this. We argued a few days ago and although we’ve talked about it—we’ve talked too much these past few days, especially about our childhood and life together. But this time, my words were too hurtful, and I think I hurt him deeply.”

The three stop in the middle of the street, at an intersection that joins it to three others. It’s too early to go to Tobirama’s house, but he doesn’t want to go to his either.

“What are you going to do? Dango?” Hashirama asks.

But Izuna shakes his head. “We have a meeting in the shrine. One of the elders died this morning and we need to do the mourning rituals. And since in the absence of my brother I am in charge of the clan, well…”

Hashirama understands. “I see. Then, I’ll see you both later.”

Both Uchiha say goodbye to the Hokage and just as they turn their backs on him, Naori remembers something, “Shit—It can’t be—Haru. I promised him that I would help him train after the council, but I haven’t had a chance to explain…”

“I’ll go find him,” Hashirama offers.

Izuna and Naori share a glance before looking at the Hokage.

“I will go to the forest and take him to the Uchiha district. Either way, I don’t have much to do until the sun goes down. Go ahead; I will accompany the child home.”

Naori sighs and puts a hand to her chin. “Well, he’d love to spend some time with the Hokage, I guess. He hasn’t stopped bragging to his friends that he’s your friend, Hashirama.”

Hashirama smiles and walks over to put a heavy hand on the kunoichi’s shoulder. “Come on. Those issues are complicated and require planning.”

Naori sighs, and pulls on Izuna’s hand, taking him with her. “Thank you! Please, excuse me with the little one in advance!” She asks the Hokage.

“I will,” Hashirama promises.

And without much haste, he leaves the village.

 

* * *

 

The previous day a heavy snowstorm fell, so the entire forest is covered in a perfect white blanket, brilliant with the orange lights of sunset. And although it’s been cold, for the Hokage this has not been an issue, since he usually goes everywhere with a new scarf wrapped around his neck.

Long before he reaches the river, a scent of fire and ashes begins to float through the trees—an unmistakable sign that the little Uchiha is training.

His fireballs are getting voluminous and longer lasting, though such exertion continues to leave him limp with each discharge.

Hashirama finds him by the river, sitting on dirty snow. His chest heaves rapidly, and he is so tired that when he hears nearby footsteps, all he manages to do is take a kunai into the air in defence action.

Haru lowers his blade when he sees that it is the Hokage. The kunai falls into the dark snow.

Hashirama sits next to him and concentrates his chakra into his hands, before placing them on top of the boy’s body. Haru’s eyes widen as he sees the Hokage’s hands light up.

“This…is…” the boy mutters.

Hashirama smiles and explains. “Chakra condensed in my hands and applied to heal your body.”

The child opens his mouth into a huge o. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Chakra can be used in many different ways,” Hashirama explains, standing up just as he notices the boy is better. “I could teach you how to do it, maybe in a few years, when you’re older.”

The boy is quick to nod. He accepts Hashirama’s offered hand and gets to his feet.

As Haru brushes the snow off his clothes, the Hokage asks, “Were you planning on training this afternoon?”

“Naori said that she would train with me after an important meeting she was having with you, Hokage-sama. Although, to be honest, she didn’t seem too eager to attend it. She has been sad ever since Madara-sama went on a trip.”

The Hokage lets out a “Hmm,” for he doesn’t know what else to answer.

The boy insists, “You have also looked sad since Madara-sama left. And with Izuna the same thing happens.”

Hashirama nods and says, “He is loved by many people; it is normal that we miss him. Or tell me, do you not miss him?”

“Of course, I do; he is my friend,” says the boy. “He is also your friend, isn’t he, Hokage-sama? After all, you two live together—I dare say, if there’s anyone who misses him dearly, it’s you.”

What is it about the children of this generation that has made them so perceptive? At his age, Hashirama only thought about playing with his siblings in the forest. He could never notice the melancholy in other people. He didn’t care about that.

“Yes Haru. I do miss him a lot,” the Hokage confesses. Then, Hashirama sends a look at the snowy mountains and before thinking twice, he tells him, “You know, in a few days it’s his birthday.”

Haru’s eyes widen, and he listens intently. “He’s turning nineteen, can you believe it?” The Hokage says, with a smile hanging on his face. “And he won’t be around for me to give him a hug.”

Hashirama’s throat closes, and he must let out another sigh.

That boy is perceptive and suggests, “You may not be able to give him a hug, but…Hokage-sama, if you allow me to say, you could send him a gift.” Hashirama looks at the boy with interest. “If you can’t be with Madara-sama on that special day, why don’t you send him a gift? He would like that very much and you will make him happy.”

Hashirama smiles. His ears are hot, and he asks the boy, “Do you think he would like me to send him a gift?” The little boy nods and Hashirama adds, “In your experience as his good friend, tell me Haru, what do you think he would like to receive? What could I get Madara as a gift?”

The boy puts a little hand to his chin in a manner identical to Naori and says, “Um…”

Hashirama finds it very funny to see the boy, and this makes him lighten his shoulders. Birds are returning to the trees in large numbers. There is a lot of noise in the forest.

The Hokage tells him, “Before he left, he knitted me this scarf, knowing that very cold days would come.” Haru looks at the garment wrapped around the Hokage’s neck with half-envy and half-wonder. Hashirama’s face is flushed, and he tucks a strand of his hair behind his ear. “But I’m afraid my knitting skills are nil, besides, it’s not cold where he is, so I cannot knit for him.”

Hashirama crosses his arms across his chest.

The boy suggests, “You know, Hokage-sama? You don’t need to knit him anything—you could just buy him a nice expensive gift.”

Hashirama grins. “I gave him a gift before he left, but it wasn’t something I made with my own hands. I would like…” he bites his lip. “I would like to be able to give him something I have made with my own hands.”

The boy says, “Well then, tell me Hokage-sama, do you have any talents?”

The first thought that comes to Hashirama is his mokuton and everything he has been able to build with it, but it still seems unthinkable anyway. He wants to make a gift with his own hands, without the help of anyone or anything, much less his mokuton.

Haru notices this and as if he has read his thoughts, he says, “You know what? He once told me that…” the boy shakes his head and says, “forget it, Hokage-sama, it doesn’t matter.”

But Hashirama is genuinely interested and asks, “Please, Haru, do tell me what he told you.”

The boy chuckles and says, “Okay, but I’m sorry this isn’t of much interest to the Hokage’s concerns.” Since Hashirama doesn’t answer anything, the boy tells him, “Originally, Madara-sama didn’t want me to train to become a shinobi, because he wanted me to have the chance to play like a normal kid should.” Hashirama raises his eyebrows in shock. “I have a falcon carved out of wood and it is my favourite toy. Before, I used to take it everywhere and when I met Madara-sama, he told me that he once had a similar toy, for his grandfather never wanted to give him a real falcon, so his father got him a toy falcon. So, he adored that toy, but since he had to go off to battle against…” the boy chuckles, “the Senju, well, he had to leave his toy at home, until he simply lost it. You would have seen Madara-sama’s face when he told me that story, Hokage-sama. It is obvious that he missed that toy. So, since you ask me about what you could give Madara-sama for his birthday, and that you can do with your own hands: well, a toy! And not just any toy: a carved wooden falcon!”

Hashirama chuckles and sits on his heels until he is level with the boy. He says, “I am afraid I’m not good at carving figures out of wood.”

“Naori told me that you have abilities with the wood element.”

Hashirama nods. “Yes, but I’ve never used it to perform such…precise tasks. Also, I would like to craft it with my own hands.”

The boy makes a mortified sound. “Ah, Hokage-sama, don’t be stubborn! Take a piece of wood and carve a falcon out of it for you to send it to Madara-sama for his birthday. I assure you that it will make him very, very happy.”

A lump has settled in the Hokage’s throat. “Do you think he will like my gift, even if it doesn’t have the desired shape?”

Haru chuckles and says, “I’m sure he’ll love your gift, as long as you craft it yourself, Hokage-sama.”

The noise of the birds is ceasing; the flapping of their wings is already heard very far away. The orange tints have turned purple, and the sun has hidden at the opposite end of the forest.

Hashirama stands up. “Good; I will do that. I will carve a wooden figure for him. But you must supervise my work and be honest, understood?”

The boy nods hastily. “Yes, Hokage-sama!”

This is a deal. It is getting dark, and it has taken too long to bring the boy to the Uchiha district. If they take longer, his grandmother might worry.

“We’ll start tomorrow, aye?” says the Hokage. “Now, it’s time for us to go home.”

“But Hokage-sama, I have barely practiced today!”

The wind begins to come down cold from the mountains. It will be a very cold night.

“It’s already getting dark, and I only came looking for you to take you home. An important situation has happened in your clan, and Naori took care of it unexpectedly. I will accompany you to the Uchiha district today, aye?”

“Very good, Hokage-sama,” the boy says, smiling.

This is more complicated than Hashirama thought. Children are complicated.

“Also, where did you get that kunai? I thought Naori didn’t allow you to use them yet.”

They both walk away from the river. The boy bites his lip, not knowing how to respond to that. He says, his voice heavy with guilt. “I borrowed it from my neighbour, please Hokage-sama, don’t tell Naori or else she won’t let me try again! I’ll return it tonight, I promise!”

Complicated; how complicated.

When they see the entrance to the village in the distance, the Hokage sentences, “Fine, but you must promise me that you will never take a kunai that is not yours again.” The boy nods, but Hashirama was once a boy like him, so he adds, “And I mean it, Haru.”

“Yes, Hokage-sama.”

 

* * *

 

The nights are very silent in the desert. At least in the forest, its animals never let you go to sleep in total silence—but out there in the desert, all in the dark is quiet and still. It seems to be a completely different world.

From his window there is no other landscape except some adobe houses and the many clan tents, and the tall walls of the fortress, dark in the absence of the sun. That night is less cold than the previous one they spent in the desert cave.

Hibiki’s clan has been living in that place for longer, according to what he has been able to hear, and thanks to that, his family lives in houses and not in tents like the rest. It’s fine for them, though. The rooms are prepared to avoid the presence of vermin.

He sighs and goes back to his bed. He leans back into it, and puts a hand to his belly, to his growling stomach. He frowns.

Someone knocks on his door.

“It’s open,” he yells from the bed. For some reason, he knew it was Mito.

The girl closes the door behind her and lies back there, as if she didn’t dare go too far into his territory.

“According to what Hibiki told me, we will dine with him tonight.”

Madara is still lying down, but he looks at her out of the corner of his eye. He sighs and says, “Fine.”

“Do you mind if I wait with you? That guy has been hanging around my rooms with any excuse. It is irritating.”

Madara sits on the bed and motions for her to sit next to him. Mito hesitates a bit, but in the end, she comes over anyway. She sits on the opposite end of the bed.

Those are small rooms: there is a bed, a desk with its chair and a night table. At least it’s much better than sleeping on a cave floor or forest grass.

“You can spend the night here, if you like. You can use this bed.”

“Your reputation does not call you a gentleman, Uchiha Madara,” the girl says.

Madara laugh nervously, but he doesn’t delve into the subject.

Instead, she says, “Thanks, but I’ll be fine in my own room. It’s just that I’m having a hard time getting used to the idea that I’m going to have to put up with that idiot for the duration of this exchange.”

“I thought you would give him what he deserves during the trip. I hoped you would, at least.”

She smiles without encouragement. She doesn’t tell him about the little argument they had in the cave while he was unconscious. “Do not tempt me, Uchiha, we still have a long way to go.”

Madara lets out another laugh, reluctant this time.

“There are some baths near,” Mito says, trying to change the subject. Madara turns to see her, and their eyes meet. “I saw them on the way here. We could go after dinner.”

Madara suspects that she is not inviting him because she likes to spend time with him, but because she feels safe with him. So, he nods. “Sure. I wish I could get all this sand out of my hair.”

Mito smiles and says, “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible even if you spent a whole week washing your hair, Madara.”

His stomach drops when she says his name. Instantly and as if his name had opened a memory, in his head the images of the battle in the desert return, the sandstorms, the sharp leaves, his armour being destroyed and that blue glow…

Madara frowns and turns to Mito, who has stood up to look out the window.

“I…” he says, and Mito turns around.

But Madara can’t say anything, because at that moment someone calls them from the corridor. It is a young woman, who tells them in a polite voice, “Dinner is served. Please follow me.”

Mito looks at him and says, “Let’s have dinner first, shall we?”

They follow the serving girl and enter that labyrinthine chain of corridors, all made of the same adobe. The corridors are wide and well lit. Konoha’s guests stand out from the crowd, for they are the only ones not wearing robes the colour of sand.

The dining room is large, its open windows allowing them to see more of the rock walls that encircle the settlement. And although there are many tables and benches to choose from—a sign that many people dine together with their leader—they walk following the girl who leads them to the only table with served trays—where Hibiki, the ever smiling and his sister are; she too has changed her clothes and let her hair down.

“I hope you find your rooms comfortable,” is what the leader greets them with.

Madara and Mito sit on the same bench and wait to be served. Such sumptuousness is annoying for someone who has hunted all their life to bring food to the table. Mito allows her sake cup to be filled, but Madara indicates that he only wants a bit. When they have been served, the servants leave them alone with the leader.

“They’re comfortable, thank you,” Mito replies, seeing that her fellow traveller companion has no interest in answering. “This is a nice dining room as well.”

“Thank you,” Sora answers for his brother. “Our clan has not enjoyed facilities. Hibiki inherited command at a very young age and this is what he has fought so hard for.” She proudly looks at her brother, “We still can’t call ourselves a village, but I know we’re not far from it.” Then, he looks at the guests, “That is why it is a pleasure for us that you are here and that you find our humble facilities comfortable.”

Mito smiles and says, “It’s a very nice place.”

“Thank you,” repeats the desert girl. “I hope you two have a good stay here.”

Everyone is focused on eating and nobody says anything else for a while. It is good, of course, but nothing like what they usually eat in Konoha.

Madara eats in silence, but sending glances to all sides, observing his surroundings. The sand siblings notice this and Hibiki says, “The letter bound for Konoha will be sent tomorrow.”

Mito and Madara stop their cutlery and look at the host.

“I thought the letter would be sent without delay, for the Hokage is surely waiting to hear from us,” Madara points out.

Hibiki clears his throat and says, “I am sure my brother will have informed the Hokage by now how common and inopportune sandstorms are. I assure you, Uchiha, your Hokage will patiently wait for our letter.” Madara frowns, so Hibiki purposely adds, “If there is a good wind, he will soon know that his friends have arrived safely.”

Madara lets go of the spoon and says, “It’s pretty bold of you to lie from day one.”

Sora looks at Madara and then at her brother out of the corner of her eye, waiting to see what kind of response he will have. But Hibiki smiles and replies, “Omitting information doesn’t count as telling lies, my dear Uchiha.”

If you say so…

“Besides, it would be unwise to tell the Hokage information that doesn’t concern him. It was I who lost my men, not him. Why would I tell him something like that?”

“Because you didn’t lose your men in some sandstorm as you said, but because of an ambush,” Madara blurts out. “Is an ambush not important? We are in a critical situation, where something as insignificant as a lie could cause yet another war!”

Mito wipes her lips with a napkin and raises the cup to her lips. Hibiki’s sister does something similar, but without taking her eyes off the Uchiha, who is sitting across from her.

“It remains to be investigated,” Hibiki says, his voice calm, after letting out a sigh. “We don’t know yet if the ambush was because they knew we were coming with you. How could I tell? There are still many who refuse to join us.”

“That’s the most logical thing, isn’t it? Otherwise, why leave us alive, but not your men?”

Hibiki sighs and pushes the empty plate away. His gaze turned to the other side of the table, to Madara. “What matters for now is that you two arrived in safety. This is a safe place; nothing and no one will attack you within those walls,” he says, pointing to the dark, tall shadows on the other side of the windows. “Leave the rest to me. I have already started my investigations.”

Madara also pushes the empty plate away. Mito hasn’t finished her portion yet.

“Soon, we will be able to start talks with Konoha and everything will return to normal.” Sora says, sending her gaze to Madara over her cup.

Madara doesn’t notice any of this, so he says, “I wish I could communicate with the Hokage soon. I am sure he would be calmer if Mito and I wrote him.”

“We also need to communicate with our families,” adds Mito.

Sora puts her cup down on the table with more force than necessary. Hibiki puts a hand to his chin and says, “Sure. Tomorrow you can write to your loved ones in Konoha.” Then he smiles. “It’s been a long journey,” he says when Mito has finished her dinner. “I suspect you want to go and rest.”

Without asking any more questions, Madara and Mito get up and after thanking them for dinner, they leave the dining room.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Madara accompanies Mito to a public bath near Hibiki’s home. Unlike their peers in Konoha, they do leave their rooms knowing that everything will be fine, as long as they keep their senses alert.

They are a team after all, aren’t they?

The place is empty when they arrive and each one approaches a different bath, separated by a wooden barrier.

When Madara finishes bathing, he looks up at the starry sky. It had been a long time since he had seen such tinkling dots. The moon is just a visible strip in the firmament. And while it’s ridiculous to feel nostalgic under the same sky as Hashirama’s, Madara does.

“Not bad, huh, Uchiha?” a voice comes from the other side of the wooden barrier.

Madara smirks as he hears Mito refer to him by his clan’s name again.

“Not bad,” Madara says.

There is a silence after this brief conversation. Madara can hear the faint noise of water on the other side of the barrier. For now, he sends his vision back to the starry sky, as if he would feel closer to home that way.

Mito calls him by his name.

Madara frowns—or maybe he just misheard.

Still, he responds with a “Yes?”

The answer comes to him in an instant, “I was wondering how your injuries are.”

Oh that. Madara looks down at his belly, which received the biggest hit. He can remember the feeling of the blades breaking through his armour and penetrating his skin. He remembers the pain that came right away, and if he now sees only a few red marks where there was dried blood the day before, that is surely because Mito had something to do with it.

For this reason, he responds, “Better. Thank you.”

This takes Mito by surprise. She says, “What are you thanking me for?”

It’s all right—not just the Uchiha are proud. It seems that being proud comes hand in hand with being a shinobi.

“Because I don’t know how, but you had something to do with my recovery. Healing chakra, perhaps?” Madara’s voice hints that he is smiling. “I didn’t know you could heal.”

Mito feels a squeeze in her stomach.

She replies, “I know little notions about it. We Uzumaki have been taught chakra control since we were little. It’s easy for me to use it to heal wounds, although it’s obvious that I don’t have the experience of someone like Hashirama, but anyway, my ability isn’t bad at all.”

Not bad, at all.

Madara smiles and leans against a large rock behind him. The steam around him has risen to the point that he can barely see around him. Everything has gone quiet again. Even the water on the other side of the barrier has ceased to fall.

“Thank you, then,” Madara says to break the silence, as he gazes up at the twinkling stars in the sky. “It would have been quite painful for me to have made the rest of the trip injured.”

She doesn’t know what to answer.

Therefore, it is Madara who says, “It would have taken us longer.”

It took them three days. Three days away from home, from Izuna, from Hashirama.

“Madara,” Mito calls out to him again.

This time he did hear her, so he responds with a “What is it?”

Now it is Mito who takes her time to speak. At the end she says, “You…do you remember anything about our ambush?”

The injuries he received were not deep enough to make him lose his memory. So, he says, “Of course I remember.”

He has already bathed and still feels covered in sand and blood. It is a feeling that he has not been able to get rid of, despite all the years he has been a shinobi. It has nothing to do with the ambush.

Mito chuckles. “I think I expressed myself badly; I mean, do you remember anything after the ambush, when that lone figure attacked us—when it attacked you?”

Madara lets out a long breath.

“I guess you’ll have to be a little more specific. Mito, you can ask me anything.”

“I don’t like talking about this kind of thing in such a…public place, but I feel like if I don’t know, I won’t be able to sleep.” Madara smiles. They are so tired after that trip, that even curiosity could not keep someone awake. “What I mean is…” she sighs. “When you fell…I got really scared, for I thought that it would seriously be the end of you, no matter how much Hibiki assured us that we would be fine. For some reason I couldn’t believe him, and I thought I would see you die before my eyes.”

Madara now lets out a laugh, and it is contagious because Mito also ends up laughing.

“Enough, don’t make fun of me, Uchiha—I was truly scared! I wouldn’t want your death to start another war.”

Madara puts a hand to his lips, to wipe away his smile. “I apologise.”

But there is no anger in Mito’s voice. She doesn’t even have the strength for that. She continues, “What I’m trying to say is, you survived and received no further injuries. When we got to the cave, the wound on my arm was in worse shape than yours, and you took more damage than I. Now…when you fell…” Mito bites her tongue, not knowing how to bring up the idea.

Madara helps her and says, “Blue. A brilliant blue gleam.”

Mito leans against a rock behind her, surprised that he remembers so much. “Yeah.”

“A shiny blue shield that drained all my chakra in a flash.” Madara shakes his head. “I don’t understand a damn what, or how it happened, either. But thanks to that I survived.”

“Thanks to ‘that’ our attacker fled. Thanks to that we are here, in these warm waters tonight.”

If Hashirama were there, he would call it a miracle.

But Madara knows that it was no miracle—rather, it was something only someone of his blood can tell him about.

He needs to communicate with the Uchiha.

“I’ll go to sleep,” Madara says, standing up. He wraps himself in a yukata and approaches the wooden barrier. “Mito, do you need me to walk you to your room?”

By the time he asks her that, she’s already getting dressed. “Yes,” she replies. “Yes, please.”

Both return together to their rooms. Madara leaves Mito at her door, before continuing down the corridor until reaching his own room. He lights some candles upon locking himself in, and lies down on the bed, staring distracted and nostalgic at the ceiling. From his pocket he pulls out his headband and presses it against his racing heart, trying to let the cold metal brush against his hot skin.

The other hand slowly drifts to his crotch, but he refuses to touch himself there, even though he really wants to. He sighs. He rises the metal plate to be even with his eyes. The attacker’s blade nearly split it in two. He brings it to his lips and kisses it.

Someone knocks on the door.

Madara sighs again, this time with some annoyance and says, “Yes?”

Those are not hours to have any state visits, and it is obvious that Mito is not going to be wandering those corridors at night, so he cannot know who it can be.

A low voice answers, “Uchiha-sama?”

Madara raises an eyebrow and stands up. He slips the headband under his pillow and walks to the door. In the corridor is that girl—Hibiki’s sister, whose name he has forgotten.

The girl blushes and says, “I—I’ve come to see if you need anything, Uchiha-sama.”

Madara’s eyebrow continues to rise on his forehead. “Hibiki sent his own sister for such purposes?”

She giggles and tucks a strand behind her ear. “Hibiki doesn’t know I’m here, of course; I have come on my own.”

Madara nods slowly. He knows what that girl is up to. Those red cheeks and stutters give her away.

He clears his throat and says, “I am fine, thanks. I do not need anything else—”

“I can bring you some paper for you to write home, Uchiha-sama!”

Alright, this sure gets his attention. The girl notices this and smiles slyly. She takes a few steps forward and in just a whisper she tells him, “I won’t be long; just wait for me.”

Madara’s eyes widen as he watches the girl hurrying down the corridor. He shuts the door but remains there. His heart is beating fast for some reason. Maybe he can find a way for his letter to reach Hashirama without it having to go through Hibiki’s filters.

He’s just thinking about this when there’s another knock on the door. Madara immediately opens it and the young woman hands him a few blank sheets of paper.

A genuine smile appears on Madara as he accepts her gift, even though he is aware that she has only done so with sly intentions. “Thank you.”

She tucks—again—a lock of hair back behind her ear. “There should be plenty of ink in the desk drawers. As for the letter, I will come for it tomorrow, Uchiha-sama, and I will try to send it without my brother noticing, although I cannot assure you I will succeed, since this is a serious matter, and the falcons are protected.”

“I understand,” Madara replies. “Thanks anyway.” He places a hand on the doorknob and says, “It is late.”

The young woman nods. She says, “Good night, Uchiha-sama.”

He responds with a “Mn” and closes the door.

He grabs a tallow candle and walks over to the desk. Indeed, in the drawer there is ink and brushes of different sizes. He takes a blank sheet and thinks about how to properly use the paper. His hand shakes as he picks up the brush to dip it into the ink.

He swallows hard as a couple of intrusive memories creep through his thoughts. He bites his tongue and begins:

“Hashira—” he spells out in whispers as he writes, “—ma.”

He blows on the newly painted characters.

He spent the whole trip talking inside his thoughts, rehearsing what he would write to him when he had the chance, and right now that he has it, he has gone blank. Writing an ‘I miss you’ would be redundant; it’s obvious that he misses him. And he also has no intention of wasting time on telling him about political stuff—this letter will be just the two of them.

He will use the code. He stretches out his hand and keeps writing:

 

‘I don’t know when you’ll get this letter—or even if you’ll ever get this letter, for I am afraid everything will have to go through a filter. I like to think that I have found a way to communicate with you, although I have a feeling that the ways in which I intend to do so will not be very to your liking. Do not get me wrong, I know you always take the right side, but oh my Hashirama, I am not like that.’

 

Madara smiles at the piece of paper, but it’s a sad smile. He sighs and places the brush on top of the paper, but without writing. He whispers, “I miss you.”

Just look at yourself, it seems that your husband has gone to war.

So, it seems.

He clears his throat and dips the brush into the inkwell before continuing,

 

‘It’s nothing you should worry about, of course. I will use this little letter as a test.’

 

Madara stops when a slight rumble shakes the ground. He watches the inkwell clink and then sends a glance out the window. A drop of ink has fallen on the paper.

This is too similar to what they heard in the forest. Hibiki said that his home was a land of monsters. Madara wonders to what degree.

He could tell Hashirama about the noises in the night, but he doesn’t want to worry the fool waiting for him at home. Madara prefers to focus on Hashirama and conjures up his image within his thoughts.

There’s some hardening in the lower part of his body.

 

‘So far, we’ve been doing well, you know? The journey was tiring, but nothing that I have not faced in the past.’

 

He bites his tongue not to tell him about the ambush.

 

‘I would love to hear from you, if you would write to me, but I don’t feel like it’s safe for you to reply to this letter, at least not yet. When it gets to you—if it gets to you at all—you can reply to me in an official letter. I would like you to write to me often. I want to read you very often.

I am out of words, and this is so ridiculous, for all the way I didn’t stop thinking about what I would say to you and now, I am speechless.’

 

Another drop stains the paper.

 

“Therefore, I’ll just end this short letter by saying that I miss you and that I am happy to be able to help you as the Hokage’s right-hand man, even though it means being a bit far from you. I do not regret it Hashirama, I hope you don’t either.

I am fine; besides, I am not alone. Mito and I are a team now. Maybe one day—when we put all this behind us—we can become good friends and we can all be happy.

This doesn't sound like anything said by me, right? I suppose that being so close to you has made me get rid of all this pessimism in me. But trust me, Hashirama, I am not lying—I really do believe this.’

 

Madara is smiling and wiping his cheek with his free hand.

 

‘For now, this is it. I hope you won’t have too much trouble deciphering this letter. Either way, you know that Izuna can help you if you have any difficulties. Just don’t give him the whole letter to read, aye? I’ll write one for him soon.

Take care of yourself. Take care of them.

I hope I can read you soon.

You know I love you.

Madara.’

 

He puts all his instruments back in the drawer. He folds the letter when the ink dries and blows out the candles, leaving himself in darkness.

He closes the window. There is another rumble as he reaches the bed. Just as he promised Hashirama, he checks the bed and sheets for any vermin, but everything is in order that night—of course, except for the noises outside. But the calm that reigns in the settlement is such that it makes him understand that these sounds must be common, for no one else is disturbed. Everything continues as normal. It is a very quiet night.

Madara covers himself with the blanket. He stares at the ceiling and grabs the headband from under the pillow. He presses the metal surface to his chest and in the dark, his other hand wanders down his body, catching himself whole, hard, and hot. He shuts his eyes and evokes Hashirama again in front of him. The image is so accurate, so perfect. It is quite easy.

He opens his mouth to let out a silent murmur, calling his name.

 

Chapter 13

Notes:

*in the tune of Elton John's 'The Bitch Is Back'* This fic is back!!!

For two whole days he tried to create something that didn’t involve his mokuton. By the third, tired of failing irremediably since none of his previous works were ever up to his expectations, Hashirama decided that it was time to go do some field work. His imagination was fruitless; maybe he needed to go see the real birds.

He was quite uneasy at the idea of taking Madara’s favourite peregrine out by his own, so he decided that bringing Izuna with them would be the closest thing the bird would get to having Madara near her.

“This way, you see?” Hashirama says as he strokes the bird’s neck with a pair of fingers, just as he saw Madara do. “She likes this.”

Haru had also come to keep him company, of course. In fact, the Uchiha boy had been present for a large part of his project, just as he had promised days ago—always ready to give the Hokage ideas or to tell him with the utmost sincerity if the piece of wood that Hashirama was working on looked minimally falcon-like.

It hadn’t snowed in a couple of days, but everything around them—be it the village, the forest, or the mountains, were still covered in a thick layer of snow, just as if it had just snowed the day before.

Haru smiles as he sees Tomoe closing her eyes every time Hashirama’s fingers touch her. “She’s pretty,” he says.

Hashirama nods, unable to stop grinning like a fool at the image of the falcon.

“Funny,” Izuna says off to the side, not taking his gaze from the tall, snowy pines in the forest. “Tomoe isn’t given to being this calm in someone else’s hands.”

That is, Hashirama thinks, hands that are not Uchiha. At the hands of a Senju.

“Madara told me that she might be wary of my closeness, but…” Hashirama continues to smile as he looks at the beautiful bird on his gauntlet. “I like to think that she likes me already.”

Izuna rolls his eyes, but neither Hashirama nor Haru notice it. It seems that it is impossible for them not to stare at that tiny bird as she closes her eyes in delight.

Haru suggests, “Maybe she knows you’re Madara-sama’s friend, and that’s why she’s so calm.”

This comment makes Hashirama’s smile falter a bit. It is not easy for him to think about Madara’s absence, no matter how few days he has been away from home. Will the bird recognise the tremors of his hand? Will it infect her? He ignores if birds can even get sad.

“Well, since you know her best,” Hashirama says, walking over to Izuna, to hand him the bird. “I’d like to get down to business.”

Izuna puts on the gauntlet. “Do you need her to be in flight?”

This is an important question. Hashirama doesn’t have much progress in his attempt that day. For now, it’s still a piece of wood, barely marked, but he likes to think this one is the final. Unlike the many other incomplete pieces he has at home, this time, he has some sort of good feeling that this piece of wood will be the one that’ll travel to the desert as a gift to Madara.

Hashirama turns to the Uchiha boy, who is still mesmerized by the beauty of the bird. “What do you think, Haru? How do you think it would be better? How do you think Madara would like it better? As you said, he told you about his childhood toy.”

The boy puts a hand to his chin, while he visualizes the falcon. He spends a while thinking about it, maybe recalling his conversation with Madara or maybe just thinking of his own toy. He then turns to the Hokage and says, “In flight; with its wings open.” The boy grins as if he already imagined how Hashirama’s toy will turn out in the end. He stands up and opens his little arms, as if to explain. “A bird searching for its prey.”

Hashirama has imagined it so, and likes how it looks in his head. Precisely for this reason, he feels a little nervous, for things never usually turn out as we imagined in the first instance.

But he’s never been a coward, no matter how many different battles he’s had at his young age. And though he knows that his task will not be an easy one, either because of his inability or the enormity of his expectations…he will do his best.

Hashirama sits on a nearby log and the boy takes a seat next to him, trying to act as supervisor, but at the same time unable to take his eyes off Tomoe, which is once again in the air.

It has been one of the warmest days in recent weeks. It seems that the weather was on the Hokage’s side that day.

The tools that Hashirama uses are not appropriate for that type of mission, for although he has always been skilled with blades, using an old weapon of war to create art…just suddenly makes everything complicated.

Not even ten minutes have passed since Hashirama got down to work, when he stops his hand and raises his face to one side, to the path that leads to the village. He’s not the only one—Izuna also has the same sharp instinct to know when someone else is approaching at high speed.

It is one of their own, a young messenger who coordinate the aviary. Hashirama awaits still for the newcomer to approach them. When he does, and after bowing, he says in an agitated voice, “Hokage-sama, a letter has arrived, er…” the messenger hesitates and looks at Hashirama’s side, at those Uchiha.

Hashirama states, “You may speak freely.”

The messenger is not from the Uchiha clan, so it is a bit painful for Hashirama to see how mistrust towards Madara’s clan still lingers on the rest of the villagers.

The young man complies, “A message has arrived for you.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen, as he was already suspicious that the sand men hadn’t sent any other messages yet, even though they already sent a full and detailed report on the situation in Konoha—they even allowed their hostages to communicate with their loved ones at home—so why hadn’t it been the same for Madara and Mito?

“Well?” Hashirama says, trying not to let his eagerness to be too obvious in his words.

The messenger explains, “It is actually a secret message, Hokage-sama.” He hesitates a bit, and it can be seen that he is doing everything possible not to look askance at the Uchiha guys. “It arrived hidden inside a package containing cloth from the Land of Rivers, and it was only found thanks to the fact that every product that enters Konoha is meticulously checked…otherwise, we would not have found it. It was sent, hidden—”

“Wilfully,” Hashirama finishes for him.

The messenger nods. “That’s right, Hokage-sama.”

From above, Tomoe lets out a chirp, as if she could sense the distrust the people of the Uchiha clan generate in the messenger. And as much as Hashirama tries to restrain a smile from appearing on his face, it turns out to be impossible and it ends up lighting up the Hokage’s face.

A hidden message… whose else could it be from but his Madara’s?

Hell, he was hoping Madara would find some way to send him a message soon, but this surprised him anyway. He can hardly imagine all the trouble he had to go through to be able to send him that hidden message.

Madara, how clever.

“Where…?” asks the Hokage, more anxious than ever. “Where is the message?”

The messenger takes a small scroll out of his pouch and, after looking around for a peeper, hands it over.

Izuna intends to make a move to approach Hashirama to peek over his shoulder, but he stops, clenching his fists tightly against his knees, perhaps thinking that something like this would make his clan worse.

When the scroll is in the Hokage’s hands, knowing that he no longer has anything to do there, the young man turns around.

Hashirama tells him, without taking his eyes off the piece of paper, “This message…”

The messenger understands and says, “I know, Hokage-sama; it will not leave my lips.”

Hashirama nods. “Well done; thank you.”

After this, the young man takes his leave with the same speed and stealth with which he arrived, getting lost in an instant among the trees, disappearing in the blink of an eye.

Hashirama unfolds the message with trembling hands, eager and nervous alike, for what that piece of paper might tell him.

When Izuna is certain that only those he trusts remain, he jumps to his feet and approaches the Hokage. “Hashirama… er, what does it say? It’s my brother’s, is it not?”

Hashirama takes a quick look at the message and notices that it is written in the Uchiha code. Reading it will take its time, for, although he feels safe enough to decipher it, reading an entire letter without his teacher near him will undoubtedly be an arduous task.

“It is your brother’s, no doubt,” the Hokage replies. He licks his lips and says in a whisper, “It’s his brushstrokes.”

Unable to help his curiosity any longer, Izuna looks over Hashirama’s shoulder and frowns and says reproachfully, “This is…” he swallows and finishes his sentence, “this is written in my clan’s coding!”

Haru stares at Izuna, gaping, when he hears him say this. His grandmother used to tell him that a good boy wouldn’t meddle in other people’s business, but…after hearing this last detail, what sane boy wouldn’t be even a little tempted to take a single look? Regardless of what his grandmother might think of him, Haru stands up and walks over to them.

Izuna continues, “He…did he teach you our code?!”

Hashirama didn’t like the way Izuna spoke at all. He explains, “He did, but there’s a reason for it. He was leaving and this way, we would communicate while he was away.”

But Izuna wasn’t going to let that offence go so easily, so he cuts him off, “Our biggest secret! I bet even Haru doesn’t know it yet!”

He doesn’t, certainly. Haru looks from one to the other, listening with concern. He had never heard of any code, and he takes classes with many other children his age.

Hashirama raises a hand to Izuna, seeking to calm him down. Even the falcon seems uneasy by hearing them speak, suddenly, in such a loud voice. “Izuna, these are formalities of war, pure diplomacy—a tool with which we ensure a secure communication over a distance. Do not forget that your brother, a clan head, travelled to that inhospitable and faraway land, with the intention of facilitating our negotiations with the sand men and avoiding a new war!”

He hated having to talk about all this with an innocent child nearby, but he had no choice.

In Izuna’s mind this had a different weight. It had taken him a while to get used to the idea that his older brother had, not only run off with that Senju once, but had come back to the village with the idea of following Hashirama, willing to be his lap dog as long as he was by his side. Izuna clenches his fists in anger.

Shit—he’d even come to terms with his brother becoming Hashirama’s…lover, but this was nonsense! If their own code wasn’t out of Hashirama’s reach, what else would Madara be willing to give him?

“Yeah, fine, but why would he bother showing it to you, you’re not even from our clan. Also, to top it off, you’re a Senju! I…I could understand in any other circumstances, but… how can I conceive that my brother, not only broke an ancient tradition, but also handed over our clan’s most valuable secret to our greatest enemy?”

Behind them, Haru waits uneasy, as if he didn’t know what to do to escape from such an uncomfortable situation. In barely a thread of voice, he mutters, “Our biggest enemy? The Hokage?!”

Hashirama notices this and raises a hand as he says to Izuna, “I understand you, Izuna. But come, please let’s go talk about this somewhere else; we’ll scare Haru.”

However, Izuna takes a few steps back, away from his touch.

Hashirama insists, “Izuna!” He stretches out his hand with the letter, intending to give it to the boy. “Take the letter; read it first, if that makes you feel any better. The last thing I want is to create a new gap between the two of us. Madara said—”

The mere mention of his brother serves to break Izuna’s entire facade of restraint. The boy turns his back on them, so that no one sees him in that state, but it is too late. Hashirama understands; despite Izuna’s attempts to be strong, one cannot forget that he is a child still, who has not yet reached fifteen years of age.

Izuna sighs and replies, “No… if my brother went to such trouble to secretly send you a letter, it must be because he has something important to tell you. You are the Hokage, after all.”

Hashirama is at a loss for words.

“And I… I cannot and shouldn’t continue to act like a spoiled child, not when I’m in charge of an entire clan in my brother’s absence! How am I going to—? Izuna stifles a sob and raises his face to the sky, trying to calm down. “How can I expect to become a clan head one day, if I keep thinking this way? Mistrusting our leader—my brother’s biggest friend?!”

“The last thing I want is to cause you any more pain, Izuna,” Hashirama says. “Madara is away from home, on a dangerous mission for he wants the best for the people he loves. I would like that, in his absence, you would see in me someone you can trust.”

That, in itself, is something foolish, Izuna ponders. You were our greatest enemy.

A lot has changed in such a short time, after this pair of youngsters, Madara and Hashirama, decided to start breaking old rules at their convenience.

How can he behave like a spoiled brat? He’s supposed to be the Uchiha clan head while his brother isn’t around, so what kind of example is he setting for the next generation? Haru’s eyes are wide; his brows knitted with concern, as he looks from one to the other, with doubts about where he should place his allegiance: to a member of his clan, with whom he shares some of his blood; or with this man everyone calls Hokage, and who has shown him kindness?

Izuna shakes his head. He calls out to Tomoe, and she instantly complies. The boy raises the hand that has the gauntlet. “Yeah, anyway, it’s already too late. I need to take Haru home.” He turns to the boy and Haru immediately approaches him, his cheeks flushed. “On top of that, you are our leader now.” Hashirama makes a move to speak, but the Uchiha is faster. “If my brother saw fit to teach you our secret code, so be it. Who am I to oppose him?”

Hashirama sighs, rubbing his temple. “It was never my intention to take something that was so precious to you, Izuna.”

You took my brother already—what the fuck are you talking about?!

Uchiha shakes his head again. He sighs and glances Hashirama with determined eyes, “You don’t need to explain anything to me, Hokage-sama.” The falcon makes a noise, as if urging the young Uchiha to return to the village. “Come on, Haru, let’s go home.”

 

* * *

 

For two days, the people of the desert showed this pair of outsiders what it meant to give a proper welcome.

On the first day, there was a parade inside the settlement, made up of children, adults, the elderly…everyone who survived the warring days. Music and songs so different from those that these strangers had heard, and at the same time, tinged with the same magic that reminded them of their home.

At night, sake flowed in large quantities, so different from the one they drank in their lands, strong and with flavours of fruits that were unknown to them—the same delicacies they tasted at their first dinner in the settlement.

On the second day, the festivities took place in private, inside a large room that competed in size and splendour with the dining room and which presence had escaped them. Everywhere they looked, the desert clan’s settling—the place where they planned to create their village—had many more secrets yet to be revealed.

Inside, they were received with high honours, dozens of hands clapping as soon as their names were mentioned. Not only were Hibiki and his sister present, sitting on a dais from which they could see all the guests, but now they also managed to get the presence of other clan heads that Madara had no knowledge of.

Madara and Mito took a seat in the privileged place next to their hosts, with a direct view of the musicians. They accepted the traditional food offered and raised their cups in gratitude, and finally ate and drank under the watchful eye of the rest of the diners.

Madara had no illusions at such a reception and suspected that Mito thought the same.

This whole party had been planned with the simple intention of sending a strong message beyond the stone walls that surrounded them: while the Hokage of Konoha kept his hostages cloistered in a house with twenty-four-hour surveillance—in the desert, things were done differently. Their hostages were treated as guests—honoured as such, and free to come and go without the slightest escort.

After all, Madara and Mito were strong, the range of their abilities was known—Hibiki had seen it firsthand, so how could his inexperienced young shinobi do anything to stop them? Madara himself had been enough to deal with a scouting group, what could a decimated army made up of wounded shinobi, old people, and children, do against them? If the Uchiha and Uzumaki clan leaders stayed within those walls, it was because they were willing to, and the rest knew it.

After an hour or so, a group of dancers entered the room and, taking place on the improvised dance floor, began to dance following the rhythm of a typical song.

The clothes were pretty, Madara supposed. The young dancers wore their hair tied with coloured garlands and with each step their clothes turned as if they had a life of their own. It was a show made to impress, though the person it was addressed to seemed to have little interest in it.

Suddenly, and as if he had noticed his boredom, just when Madara was about to take another drink from his cup, Mito discreetly nudges him. Madara turns to the side and raises an eyebrow in response.

To his left was Hibiki, so they couldn’t talk without him catching a piece of their conversation.

Knowing this, Mito points to the dance floor with a twitch of her eyebrow. Madara understands and looks ahead, but it’s useless. What is he supposed to notice? In his eyes they are just a group of girls dancing in a cloud of rustling and colours.

Hibiki says at that moment, as if he had read his thoughts. “My sister has danced since she was a little girl.”

Madara puts his cup down on the table and turns slightly to the host with a serious face.

The sand man adds, without taking his eyes off the dancers, “Sora has always been stubborn, and on many occasions, she begged me to let her be a shinobi.”

Sora, Madara thinks. Ah, his sister—the letter girl.

“Well,” Madara says, “as I recall, when we arrived at the settling, your sister was dressed in clothes suitable for crossing the desert—a shinobi’s garments.”

The hem of her clothes had been stained with sand, Madara could remember; although it could also mean that this was something common to the people who lived in that place. How could he know?

Madara is busy chatting with Hibiki, but Mito doesn’t take her eyes off the dancers and notices that one of them—the one in the front, leading the others, wearing a tiara that crowns her sandy hair—is looking at the Uchiha with peculiar interest. From the dais, Mito can almost see the glint in the girl’s eyes.

Mito can also admit that Madara’s attractiveness might be out of the ordinary, so for a moment she thinks that this interest does not go beyond that of an innocent crush.

Hibiki chuckles. “Yes, my Uchiha friend, you are observant! Despite the numerous efforts I have taken to prevent her from taking up arms, I have been unable to do anything against her willful nature. She comes and goes through the desert, sometimes without my noticing.” He looks at her with a grin. “That’s why I enjoy seeing her dancing, for that way, I forget that I have failed in my attempts to protect her.” He sighs. “That way, I feel like she can be happy in her own way.”

Madara raises an eyebrow, as if he doesn’t understand.

Hibiki takes the cup in his hands, now full again. “Sora is dancing right now, my good friend Uchiha. Over there, the one with the tiara—inherited from our parents.”

Madara nods. “I see,” he says, trying not to sound too disinterested. He then turns his attention back to Hibiki. “I’d like to have a conversation with the rest of the clan heads, if possible.”

His host does not take his eyes off the group of dancers. “Working so soon, Uchiha? I see that you are homesick.”

Or, perhaps, you just miss the Hokage, Hibiki could have added, but luckily for him, he bit his tongue.

“We have come as emissaries as well, to ensure that peace is signed soon,” Madara notes. “I seem to remember that you yearn for peace as strongly as we do.” Madara turns to see Mito and she nods lightly. “We have as little desire for another war as you.”

Hibiki remains unmoved. Then, he finishes the contents of his cup.

“I’ll set up a meeting where you can be present,” says the host. “Although… it cannot be tomorrow. Any problem with that, guests from Konoha?”

If they wanted to avoid a major conflict, they had to act with cordiality. They were at his mercy; how could they dare to complain about anything?

“No problem at all,” Mito says, hinting that she’s been in on the conversation the whole time.

Hearing her, Hibiki’s eyes gleam with a peculiar and cunning shine. “Good. By the way, a letter came from Konoha this morning.” Madara’s heart skips a beat, but he manages to stay calm. “They are pleased for our safe arrival, and I was also able to read about my brother and that little brat who has got us into this predicament.” Hibiki chuckles. “I will see that you communicate with your loved ones tomorrow. But for now… why don’t we enjoy the party?”

Hibiki stands up, interrupting the dance, and raises his cup—full again—into the air. In a loud voice he cries out, “Let’s toast to our guests from Konoha!”

His guests chant in unison, “To our guests from Konoha!”

After this, a new round of applause comes, its noise completely enveloping the room and everything around it.

Madara tolerates the party and the fake smiles for a while longer. When the dance is over and the guests pretend to stop paying attention to him, he goes outside, desperately seeking fresh air. Yet, the nights are cold in the desert, and its wind is so full of sand, still suffocating even after leaving the ballroom.

Tomorrow he will be able to write his first official letter. Madara walks through the balcony that overlooks the rest of the settling and looks ahead, at the dark corridor amid the stony walls, that leads to the desert—the path that leads to Hashirama.

He had tried not to think about him all this time, but in the end, it’s always impossible. He also cannot help wondering if his secret letter had even reached Hashirama’s hands, and if the letter Hashirama sent to Hibiki had something to do with it.

Madara cannot tell, he doesn’t even know if said letter exists. Hibiki keeps everything a secret and Madara’s hands are tied, bound to accept whatever crumbs his host wishes to share.

Madara leans against the railing and lets out a long breath. Everything there is so boring, so silent and different… and he suddenly feels trapped, like when he had to stay inside his tent like a good boy for the snowstorm to pass.

He smiles at this memory. He spent many years fearing the snowstorms that would arrive on his birthday and that year, he will have to spend it in such a different place.

“So here you are,” Mito says from behind, and with that, thankfully, that last thought fades.

Madara turns to look at her. Uzumaki Mito, with her long red hair tied up and wearing—just like him—the clothes typical of the people of the desert. She walks over to him, the same disgust and tedium on her face.

“The people of this place don’t seem to feel suffocated inside that hall.” Her skin shines with sweat. “A cool bath would do us good.”

He nods, for he thinks the same. “This fabric is made to be cool in this weather.”

“It works,” Mito replies, walking to his side. “Plus, it’s pretty. Actually, I don’t have many real reasons to be so upset, well, other than, heh, you know what I am talking about.” She sighs. “I would feel quite comfortable, weren’t it because…”

Because the people who killed your kinfolk gave it to you. Yes, Madara knows about that ugly feeling. They are so young, yet they suffer from such an ancient hatred.

Madara is about to comment on this, when at that moment a slight rumble is heard. The earth vibrates for just a few seconds, as if it were a slight tremor. They look at each other in silence, perhaps expecting a growl to be heard at any moment like the one from previous nights, but on this occasion, apart from the tremor, nothing is heard.

Behind them, at the party, the music continues to play and below, in the rest of the settlement, the people continue to live as if nothing had happened, as if there were not a couple of outsiders with dubious intentions within their domain, and as if they were already used to the idea that there, at night, the earth shakes and a mysterious creature roars.

Madara hasn’t had a chance to talk about it with Mito, as they haven’t had a chance to be alone until now.

On the contrary, the Uzumaki girl wastes no time asking, “You…?” However, she is interrupted when a person appears on the landing of the door that leads to the terrace. Mito turns to see who it is and instead whispers, “We’ll talk later, shall we, Uchiha?”

He responds with a raised eyebrow and Mito adds, still whispering, “Looks like someone’s come looking for you.”

Madara doesn’t understand what is happening. He looks at the door and frowns as he recognises the figure of Hibiki’s sister, Sora, outlined against the illuminated room behind.

He doesn’t have a chance to reply to anything, nor to ask Mito not to leave him alone with the girl. In a blink, Mito is already crossing through the door, back into the ballroom, after saying a few incomprehensible words to the newly arrived lady.

Uchiha Madara has been in numerous battles and fought against fierce enemies, and yet, seeing that girl approaching puts him on a very peculiar state of alert. She walks to him without hesitation, almost as confidently as she approached his door on his first night there. She now wears her distinctive and expensive clothes, an unmistakable sign that she is the leader’s sister. Far away are her dirty hems with sand or her messy hair; she has completely changed.

“Uchiha-sama,” she says upon arrival and after a slight courtesy. She looks so small and harmless that he makes the terrible mistake of ignoring the fluctuations in her chakra.

Madara remains unresponsive. He’s not nervous, just uncomfortable, like all he can think of is finding an excuse to get the fuck out of there.

“Is… this evening being to your liking?” she inquires in a small voice.

What the fuck? He swallows and says, “Yeah, it’s been…to my liking. Thank you.”

Hearing this, the girl’s cheeks stains in red again. Well, damn it, it’s never been his strength to speak to shy girls—he’s always done better being avoided because they’re afraid of him.

“I am very pleased to hear that, Uchiha-sama.”

He doesn’t know what to say. The safest thing he can think of to answer is, “So, your brother has sent a spy?”

The girl laughs and shakes her head. As she does so, her bangs slip out of place and her hair dances with the breeze. “He doesn’t know I’ve come. Besides, are there reasons for him to post spies around his guests?”

Madara shrugs. “It would be the most sensible thing to do.”

She tilts her head ever so coquettishly, and without taking her eyes off him, she says, “Things are different in these lands, Uchiha-sama. But you have misunderstood me, for I just wanted you to know that your letter reached its destination safely. I personally took care of asking the right people to see to it that your letter arrived promptly and discreetly.”

Madara didn’t know about this. Perhaps his happiness is reflected in his face, as the girl lets out a nervous giggle.

“You put yourself in danger by volunteering for such a feat,” he says, ignoring her flustered response. “You could have gotten into real trouble with your brother.”

Sora smiles and leans over the railing, next to him. She shrugs. “It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve played a prank on my brother.”

Madara raises an eyebrow. “I am an envoy of the Hokage; I have come here to prevent another war from breaking out—this is more than just a prank. Where I come from, it would be called treason.”

The girl sighs and looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “You underestimate me too much, Uchiha-sama.”

Madara frowns. “No need for so much pomp.” If there was one thing he hated most, it was false courtesy.

The young woman turns to face him, and the movement is such that her shoulder is exposed. Tilting her head again, she says, “Oh? Would it be appropriate for me to call you by your name, Uchiha Madara?”

“I do not tolerate hypocrisy.”

The girl smirks and sends her gaze to the silent settling. “I see; so be it, then, Uchiha Madara.” He doesn’t say anything about it. She tries, “Um…you claimed to be having a good time at the party, yet you just walked out without saying goodbye? After all, you are our main guest.”

“I’m not very given to attending parties.”

She smiles again. “I see, I see. Hibiki probably hasn’t told you, but our parents had a reputation for being great hosts. He inherited it from them, no doubt. But it’s a relief that this was your reason for leaving the party, I thought that perhaps some wound had opened—I could help you if necessary.”

Madara looks at her sideways. “I’m not hurt.”

Sora nods. “I see, it was a well-made armour, then?”

Madara’s armour shattered after the ambush in the desert. So much so, that he arrived at the settling without it. How could someone like the leader’s little sister know something like that?

Sora shrugs as if she heard this thought. “Hibiki told me, of course. He usually tells me everything.”

“Even secrets that would threaten your nation?” It wasn’t strange, though; he would keep no secrets from Izuna either, but he was just testing her.

“Everything, Uchiha Madara.”

A sand-flavoured breeze hits their faces, which is troublesome for him, but not for her. The moon is already far below, far from his sight, and the only thing that illuminates them are the torches posted in the streets.

“Then, since we’re being honest, you might as well stop pretending to care about my safety as well. I am your enemy, after all; If my brother found out, would it bother you in the slightest?” She shakes her head. “If something happened to me, it would be of greater joy to you.”

Madara also leans against the railing and sighs tiredly. “I don’t know what things you have heard of me, but I have never cried out for the blood of innocents. If you come at me brandishing a weapon, then I will have no mercy, but if not…”

Sora lets out a chuckle, interrupting him. “Uchiha Madara, you are wrong to consider me innocent.”

Maybe, Madara thinks. “We are shinobi, after all, can there be innocents among us?” he says, like it means something. “Besides, I highly doubt your brother would punish you. I don’t know him, but I do know what it’s like to be an older brother.”

“Oh? Is there a little brother of yours, perhaps?” Sora asks, smiling. “Is he just as attractive as you?”

Madara didn’t know how to respond to that kind of jest, so he attacks with the truth, “My brother is still too young to be interested in anyone. And I would never force him to marry someone against his will, no matter how many benefits it may bring to our clan or village.”

She looks him up and down and smiling, says, “You are different from how I thought you would be, Uchiha Madara.”

He has already heard that phrase on a large number of occasions. It is now he who shrugs, without adding anything else.

Sora leans into him—maybe a little too much—and Madara barely has a chance to dodge her advances. When he is safely away from her lips, he feels his heart pounding so hard it is about to break out of his chest.

She responds with a laugh. “I beg your pardon,” she tells him, placing a hand over her lips. “Maybe I was a bit daring.”

A bit? Madara still has trouble catching his breath.

“Tell me, Uchiha Madara, am I not beautiful enough for you?” she asks, brushing her hair over her shoulder, exposing her smooth neck. “We are in the middle of negotiations to avoid a war, as you have rightly said—I wouldn’t mind joining your cause and speeding up the negotiations by joining your clan.” Madara definitely wasn’t ready for such a direct talk. “My brother would accept it without hesitation. We would form a strong alliance, which would benefit both villages. Our marriage would form deep and stable roots—we would be at peace.”

“No.”

Sora lets out a laugh of sorts and spares a glance at him sideways, almost as if she had been expecting that answer.

He explains, “There is someone waiting for me in Konoha.”

“I expected it, in a way.” She sighs and nods. “Is that who you wrote to, maybe?”

Madara doesn’t have to answer that.

“Yeah.” However, he does. “I wrote that letter for that person.”

“This is quite awkward, you know? My brother was seriously hoping to form an alliance with you through marriage.” The girl’s eyes are bright and attentive, she drinks from Madara’s face in search of answers. “He told me so the very day he returned.”

Another sandy breeze plays with Madara’s bangs, ruffling them. “I am sorry it won’t be that way.”

There are no cicadas there and in a certain way, the silence that is heard there is almost unbearable. It feels like being in the middle of a deep void.

Sora takes a while to answer. “That person is fortunate, you know? They hold in their hands the heart of the person who could put an end to all these problems in a blink.”

I am the person who caused all this—it’s me who’s fortunate, Madara thinks, but he has no intention of telling that to a complete stranger.

“And yet,” Madara points out, “you don’t look sad about my answer. It’s almost like you expected it.”

She smirks. “The woman you are traveling with… Mito—she is very pretty, and you hardly seem to notice her presence. I thought that if someone like her cannot steal your attention, it must be because your heart already belongs to someone else.”

Madara looks at her sideways. He doesn’t know how to comforts someone, and by being them a couple of complete strangers, he feels that it isn’t appropriate either. “I’m sure someone who is right for you will come someday.”

There is a change in the girl. Madara feels a slight change around him, like a sudden fluctuation of chakra, which disappears as quickly as it appeared.

“Oh, I… I came to love someone indeed,” Sora nods, refusing to look at him. “Although... it wasn’t possible either. Being Hibiki’s younger sister, means having a huge weight on my shoulders.”

Madara raises an eyebrow in response.

Sora shrugs. “Many people in this place tend to underestimate me, you know? People think that just because I’m young and the leader’s little sister, that makes me incapable of being cunning.” Madara raises an eyebrow. “But I can be cunning, even if my brother has doubts about it.”

“Then why did you come to my door that other night?” he asks, half smiling. “You knew I couldn’t resist using you to send a letter home.” He shakes his head. “It was also reckless of me. I was the one who confided in a girl that came to my door pretending to be in love with me, offering me an easy way out. Had it been a trap, it would have put at risk this entire trip, Mito, the Hokage’s plans, and my own kin; so, believe me, I don’t doubt your cunning.”

She laughs one more and says, “I didn’t pretend to be in love.”

This erases Madara’s smile and for a long moment they are silent.

She says in the end, “It really hurt me a lot to know that you’re not free… although I was not surprised either.” Madara doesn’t know what to say. “But at least, we could get along during your stay, right? I mean, I look forward to another war as little as you do—these wars had made me lose many people I loved.”

Madara nods, sending his gaze to the rock walls that keep him locked in there.

“Let’s do our best to get this over with soon,” Sora adds. “This way, I will be able to recover my brother and you will be able to return home, with your loved ones.”

Madara isn’t given to trusting strangers, but he misses home so much that, for the first time, it makes sense to do so. Helplessly, he looks up at the starry sky and thinks of Hashirama. There, as he pictures his face and kind smile, Madara wonders, what would he do in his place?

 

* * *

 

(Senju Hashirama’s letter to Uchiha Madara and Uzumaki Mito, accompanied by a heavy package)

 

“My friends,

We received Hibiki’s letter this morning, in which he told us the reasons for your delay. I was sure that this trip would be no problem for you, but even so, I was quite worried that you were taking so long to arrive. After all, you were heading to distant lands and no scenario could be foreseen.

I am glad to know that you two have arrived safely. I ignore the state of your clothes, so I took the liberty of sending you more, so that you can feel a little piece of Konoha with you. I asked Hibiki to please allow you to write home, and although I have not received an answer yet, I know from his brother Reto that Hibiki is a kind man, and I hope that soon we will be able to read about you.

I also hope that negotiations can start soon. We are about to have our first official meeting with our guests. All this is expected to be quick.

The snowfall has ceased a bit, but we know it’s a short-lived lull—we plan to have a party to celebrate the change of season this week; we will keep you two in our thoughts and drink to your honour.

Without more to add, I say goodbye.

Senju Hashirama, Hokage of Konoha.”

 

* * *

 

The cold wind made the bells that hung from the eaves tinkle.

Hashirama places his knife on the tatami upon hearing them and sends his gaze to the dark courtyard. Gone are the days without snow and that night, barely visible thanks to the torchlight, the first snowflakes can be seen falling—by the next morning the lawn will be completely covered in white, and the cold days will return. At the same time, the arrival of the snow is a relief for it makes him feel, somehow, less alone.

He swallows to suppress the urge to cry. No more. He is running out of time, and no matter how hard he works on his gift—he always feels that his skills are just not enough.

He raises one hand and silently counts the days it would take his gift to reach the desert, even with light-footed messengers. And he doesn’t have the heart to send an Uchiha bird on such a mission, so…

Sighing, he reasons that if he wants his gift to arrive in time for Madara’s birthday, he’ll have to have it ready, at best, for the next day.

It wasn’t that the wooden falcon he’s been working on that day wasn’t to his liking. So far, it was the one he’s liked the most, if he’s being honest with himself—even Haru gave him a thumbs up when he saw it earlier that day.

This thought makes him smile, since he senses that Madara will not receive a mediocre gift. Ah, he suddenly feels inspired to continue, but he must suppress this urge, for it is late and the light is poor. What he least of all should do is keep working, for fear of making a wrong move.

Hashirama sighs. These have been very difficult days, with his meetings with the clan heads and then, Reto, plus the enormous paperwork that never ends in the office. With so many things to do, he has barely had a chance to work on Madara’s gift, which sometimes causes him to stay up late, until his eyes close on their own.

He sets the wooden falcon down and decides that’s all he’ll do for the night. He sets aside his tools and automatically his hand flies to his heart. When his hand touches the fabric it creaks underneath—that’s where he’s kept the letter that Madara had secretly sent him. A secret so well kept, that he has not even told Tobirama of its existence. They’ve already argued too much these past few days either way; the last thing Hashirama wants is to ignite that fire again.

Then, unable to help it, Hashirama pulls the letter out from under his clothes and unfolds it to read it under the light of a nearby torch. He smiles as he reads it over, stopping to observe the strokes that Madara’s brush made on the piece of paper, at the ink stains that surely fell on the sheet while the scribe was pondering what else to write.

It is impossible not to feel nostalgic when seeing those brushstrokes, when reading these words with Madara’s voice, as if he had him still, there over his shoulder, looking at his writings and explaining and correcting his mistakes during their night lessons. Sometimes, he feels that reading that letter is a backfire. Having Madara so far away, and at the same time so close, is tormenting and cruel. He spent many years seeing Madara as a fierce enemy who could chain him in illusions just by laying eyes on him; forcing himself to feel some sense of hatred towards Madara to no avail. And now, that he was just beginning to get used to having him at his fingertips—suddenly, he was no longer available. Suddenly, he had nothing left but memories.

Tormenting and cruel, indeed, it was his absence—like this winter, like this loneliness.

Hashirama glances sideways at the futon that awaits him on the other side of the room, surrounded by shadows—he’s slept on it every day ever since. He shakes his head; it is… still too early to go to bed. He often spends his nights in the dark, staring at the ceiling in silence, watching the hours go by without him being able to do anything about it.

Sighing, he stands up and goes to put on a thick haori and wraps his scarf around his neck; he goes out. When his feet touch the ground, his soles end up falling on wet, shapeless grass. It is not the first time that the Hokage has been seen walking through the deserted streets in the middle of the night, and there are not many fools who would prefer the snow to a warm bed, so he does not run into anyone on his way.

He suspects that he is not the only one suffering from insomnia in Konoha, and he is almost certain that another insomniac is his brother. His feet carry him safely to Tobirama’s house and he rejoices when seeing that he was right—Tobirama’s lights are on.

However, his brother’s presence is felt outside the house, not inside. There’s no way he can certainly tell, for he’s no sensor, but he just knows it anyway. He heads to the backyard.

“Higher, higher!” Tobirama is heard saying, his voice agitated. “Now on your left flank! Higher!”

Hashirama frowns upon hearing all this, but his steps remain determined.

A hard thud reaches his ears—like something or someone falling to the ground—and then a long, pained groan. Someone.

“You still lack quickness, Uchiha!”

Uchiha? Hashirama thinks before entering the door, and he does it so quickly, that his head doesn’t have time to think about Madara.

Tobirama stands in the centre of his courtyard in his sparring clothes, his sleeves rolled up above his elbows. A white band is tied to his forehead to dry his sweat, and his chest rises and falls, heaving. In his hands he carries a pair of wooden swords and looks at a figure on the ground, frowning.

They are surrounded by darkness, barely lit with the torches posted in the streets and those that hang from the eaves, but still, Hashirama manages to visualize the person on the lawn. An Uchiha, without a doubt, for it is Izuna.

The boy is also breathing heavily and next to him, being covered by the falling snow, are his own training swords. What is this? The Hokage thinks, A night sparring? In this weather?!

“Anija.” Hashirama raises his eyes looking for his brother’s, pushing those last thoughts away.

Hashirama approaches them smiling, although he feels frustrated. He sighs and as he does, steam rises from his lips. “It’s quite an odd time for a spar,” he says.

Izuna jumps to his feet, preoccupied with cleaning his clothes from the snow and mud. “Not for us,” the boy replies without looking at him. “Us Uchiha trained in worse situations since we were little, to get used to the climate of war.”

Aye, but there is no war anymore, Hashirama thinks. At least not as we knew it.

“Your brother did not believe me, Hokage-sama, so I thought I would do well to show him how we Uchiha train.”

Tobirama snorts and replies, looking at the Uchiha, “And yet, I sent you flying into the mud!”

Izuna rolls his eyes and smiles, but it could also be that Hashirama had poor vision due to the dim lighting in the courtyard.

“Anyway, it’s late and surely you two need to chat,” Izuna points out, picking up his belongings from the ground. He goes to the edge and from there, takes his own haori and after taking one last fleeting look at Hashirama’s scarf, he leaves from there where Hashirama entered a moment ago.

His steps are soon lost in the night, his feet ever so stealthy.

“Come, I have the perfect sake for a night like this,” Tobirama says from behind.

Hashirama doesn’t have time to refuse and follows him without saying anything else. It is warm inside, for the hearth has apparently been burning for a long time. He takes a seat to the side, while his little brother goes and looks for a bottle in an adjoining room.

Perhaps it’s because Hashirama has been too busy being the Hokage, that he hasn’t properly observed his brother until now, that he has nothing else to think about. Tobirama has grown, and in those few weeks he has taken on an adult bearing that he hadn’t noticed. His body has thickened, sure, as if training at night were frequent for him. Tobirama comes back too soon to keep thinking about it.

“You didn’t offer Izuna sake,” Hashirama points out as he accepts a cup. “I bet he was cold. His cheeks were flushed—his nose was a red sphere.”

Tobirama sits across from his brother, his own cup in one hand and the bottle in the other. Hashirama is the first to serve himself. His mouth waters as soon as he sees the warm liquid filling his cup.

“Of course not,” Tobirama replies after taking a taste of his own cup. “Izuna is still a child.”

Hashirama raises an eyebrow and thinks, Isn’t Uchiha Izuna just a bit younger than you?

Tobirama looks at his gesture and smirks, as if he had heard him. Hashirama doesn’t says anything until he empties his cup. Its taste is exquisite and when the liquor goes down his throat, it fills him with a very pleasant sensation of heat. All of this—the darkness, and the shared sake, help Hashirama to go back in time to some very distant years, when he used to stay up late in the company of his brother after a hard battle.

The battles may continue inside his head, but now, at least they’re old enough to handle them with alcohol.

“You did well today in the meeting, you know?” Tobirama says suddenly, perhaps to cheer him up a bit. “It’s a bit risky to think of including Reto in any of our upcoming meetings, but I suspect our envoys will do the same in the desert.”

Our envoys—not Mito, not Madara.

“It’s bad enough that they’ve written in their letters that the Hokage keeps an eye on them day and night.” Tobirama sighs. “At least, inviting Reto will lighten your image. Let no one say that the Hokage is a monster.”

Hashirama frowns and nods when Tobirama offers to refill his cup. He remains meditative for a moment.

“You read their letters,” Hashirama says, not a question.

Tobirama nods, taking the cup to his lips, “Of course, are you surprised?” Acting of his own free will in something as serious as that? Without the Hokage’s approval? Hashirama is well used to it. “It is obvious that they will do the same with any letter our envoys send us, so why not us do it too? Besides, it’s a war procedure, isn’t it? As a child, I watched father do it over and over again.”

Hashirama places the cup on the tatami, and asks seriously, “What else did you read?”

Tobirama shrugs. “Nothing of importance, or at least that’s what they wanted us to see. The brat wrote to a friend, in the absence of his brother, apparently—he wrote her that the cold is unbearable and things like that—complaints, complaints and complaints…” Hashirama looks at him with a raised eyebrow, serious. “Reto, instead, wrote to his brother asking him not to do anything stupid and warning him, heh—” Tobirama smiles, “that it’s very likely that we were going to read his letter, so he didn’t delve into anything too much. He complained about the weather too, and asked him to take care of some ‘Sora.’”

Hashirama nods. “He mentioned that he had a little sister, do you forget? Maybe it’s her.”

Tobirama yawns and shrugs. “I don’t know, what does it matter?”

Hashirama reminds him, “We are trying to avoid a war. Everything is of importance; surely, he wouldn’t waste the opportunity to write home on something unimportant.”

Tobirama nods and sighs, setting the cup down on the ground. “Well, what did you write?”

Sometimes Tobirama tends to forget that he himself is just a boy, and that too much sake is not good for his head.

However, Hashirama asks him, “Didn’t you read my letter?”

His younger brother gives a half smile. “No, Anija, I did not read your letter.” Hashirama raises an eyebrow. “I suspected that, you, being our Hokage, the head of the village, wouldn’t waste paper by writing a honeyed letter to Uchiha Madara, right? As you rightly said, we are trying to avoid a war, and doing so, would be not only risky but also irresponsible on your part.”

Hashirama frowns, “Madara is an emissary of the Hokage, did you really think I wouldn’t write to him?”

Tobirama looks at him sideways. “I never said that; it is obvious that you were going to write to him. I just hoped you weren’t going to act irresponsibly. You know what, Anija? I was about to recommend you write to Mito instead—at least, that way, we’d be sure someone would be doing their proper job there, but—”

“Uchiha Madara is loyal to Konoha as well,” Hashirama reminds his younger brother. “How can you think that he’s gone all the way, through such trouble just not to do his job?”

Tobirama sends his scarlet eyes to his brother. “He is loyal to you, not Konoha.”

“What ultimately is the same. His brother lives here—Madara has important reasons for all this to be resolved as soon as possible. How can you say that he is not loyal to Konoha? We…we dreamed for this village; we built this place so that our little brothers could be safe.”

Tobirama puts a couple of fingers to the bridge of his nose. “His brother, you—at the end of the day, it’s the same. He doesn’t give a damn about Konoha, he’s just went there, going to so much trouble, because he knows that this way, he’ll end up looking good in your eyes. He knows that you are sensitive, and you tend to get caught up in his webs too easily. Believe me, Anija, I know his ilk; I know his plans, so you will excuse me if I mistrust him still.”

Hashirama remembers his last talks with Madara and his insistence on how much he cared for Konoha, even though on the outside he didn’t know how—nor did he want—to show it. He clenches his fists, knowing that no matter how much he explains it to Tobirama, the prejudices he has for the Uchiha clan are buried deep, and will never let him see beyond his nose.

He sighs, tired. He doesn’t know what time it is, but when he left his home, it was past midnight.

They both need to rest.

“You spend too much time with Izuna,” Hashirama points out, looking at his brother sideways. Refusing to leave again being upset. He is sick of always arguing with Tobirama. “He’s an Uchiha too. Why distrust the older brother but not the younger?”

Tobirama looks thoughtfully at the flames in the hearth. His eyes look tired and distant. “I don’t know.”

Hashirama makes a noise in his throat. That answer is not enough.

“I guess I kind of like him, maybe?”

Hashirama’s eyes widen; his brother continues to avoid his gaze.

“Not ‘like’ in the way you’re thinking, of course.” Tobirama corrects himself. “But I have been able to see the kindness with which he looks out for his loved ones, the way in which he seeks solutions so that his clan is safe—and despite everything that has happened between our two clans, with our own parents… I feel that he is the closest thing to a friend for me, and that’s enough.”

“Enough for what, Tobirama?” Hashirama asks.

His younger brother shrugs. “I don’t know, Anija. Enough.”

You can’t leave me with these unknowns! But Hashirama doesn’t feel encouraged to insist, besides, it’s too late.

“It is late,” Tobirama says aloud, sounding wide awake, hinting that he wishes to be alone. “Are you planning to stay the night here?”

Hashirama shakes his head and stands up, knowing that nothing he does will make that stubborn boy speak. Besides, he also needs to be alone.

“No. I’ll go home.”

 

* * *

 

(Uchiha Madara’s letter to Uchiha Izuna, written in common language)

 

“Izuna, I hope you can forgive me for taking so long to write to you, but these have been hectic days. I know the face you must be making: a raised eyebrow, like you don’t believe me. Imagining all this only makes me yearn for home more.

I miss you and I hate that at your young age, you have to take care of so many people, but I know that you do it with pleasure, since it is in your nature to always look out for our clan. Our father never failed to repeat how proud he was to have had a son like you—in the same way that I boast of having you as a brother.

Surely, you’re frowning at such empty babble, but can you blame me? I am your older brother, and it was a tiring journey. By the way, thanks for sending me sweets—I shared them with Mito, and she liked them. She likes sweet things, as far as I’ve been able to learn.

Now, how is Naori? I hope she’s well. You and her, have always made a good team and I know that, thanks to you two, our clan is safe as well.

And what about Haru? Today, Mito and I went for a walk around the settlement, and I got a present that the brat will surely like—just don’t tell him anything, for I want it to be a surprise.

Now, Izuna, how are you? Don’t work so hard, will you? Don’t stay up for no reason either, and try not to spend as much time with you-know-who. When in doubt, do not hesitate to go to Hashirama.

By the way, Hashirama wrote us that you are planning to throw a festival for the change of season. Izuna, please remember that you’re not old enough to drink sake yet—even if you’re currently in charge of a clan.

Writing to you makes me miss our home very much. I miss you and I promise to bring gifts to all of you.

Take care of yourself and don’t do reckless things.

Your brother, who loves you.”

 

* * *

 

(Uchiha Madara’s letter to the Hokage of Konoha)

 

“Senju Hashirama, Hokage of Konoha,

I’m sorry it took so long for my words to reach your eyes, but as you’ve probably already been told, we were caught in a sandstorm that made our way impossible.

Here it is fine, of course. Our rooms are comfortable, clean and we lack nothing. The settlement is protected by high rock walls, appropriate to keep us safe from the sandstorms that always abound. Even so, at night you can hear the murmur of the wind hitting the rock hard, much like the murmur in the forest—I suspect you’d like to witness it.

Thank you, by the way, for sending us clean changes of clothes, as the ones we were wearing could not withstand the harshness of the desert, and although the clothing provided here is comfortable and appropriate, nothing will ever match my clan’s clothing. I thank you very much that you have foreseen all this.

The food here is also good, although I must confess that it has been a bit difficult for me to adapt to the taste that the people of this place have for spicy dishes. Sometimes, I suffer at night because of this, but when I look out the window, all this evaporates when I see the landscape. The skies are clear and clean day and night—permanently starry and unlike Konoha’s winter nights. It is a nice place.

Since our arrival we have had nothing but good attention, of course. Hibiki, the leader of the men of the desert, declared that our arrival would bring a week of celebration, a promise that he has fulfilled in every sense of the word. I’ve even drank desert sake, can you believe it? It is strong, but it is not intoxicating, or at least, I have not felt like it—please, ignore any funny aspect that Mito may tell you about it, for surely, she exaggerates. I promise I have been prudent!

Hibiki also assured me that he would soon invite us to participate in an audience with the rest of the clan heads. I look forward to starting the negotiations, so surely by my next letter, I will already have news to send you.

For now, I can only ask you to take care of Izuna, especially during the winter festival. As much as he believes that he is already an adult man, you know that he is not yet; please remind him when he wants to overdo the sake. I wrote him a letter telling him to be careful, but you know him.

I look forward to hearing from Konoha soon.

Uchiha Madara.”

 

* * *

 

(Uchiha Madara’s letter to Senju Hashirama, encoded)

 

“I don’t know if I should write your name, for this time, I will send this letter along with the others—the leader has assured us that no one will read them, but obviously neither my companion nor I believed him. Therefore, I want this to seem as indecipherable as possible, so I will refrain from writing your name, even though the gods know how much I long to do so. Actually, I’ll avoid writing any names while we’re at it.

We received your official letter the day after I sent you the other letter, so it’s obvious that by then you still hadn’t read what I wrote—if it reached you at all. You got it? I would like you to tell me if you received it, please. Although, of course, I know you won’t be dumb enough to write some reference in a letter that someone in the desert is obviously going to read.

Anyway, in case you didn’t receive it, I’ll summarize it for you: I wrote in different ways that I love and miss you. Does it surprise you? Heh, surely not. Being by your side has made me hopelessly cheesy and silly.

By the time you receive this letter—unless the messengers are extremely fast—my birthday will already be past—er, excuse me, the winter festival. It was a nice way to reference it, I applaud you for it. Who would say that our leader was so smart?

It’s funny, you know? I spend a lot of the day thinking about you, thinking about the things I’ll write to you when I get the chance, and just as I’m provided with paper, all the things I was going to tell you vanish from my head and I have no choice but to fill the space reminding you that I love you and that I miss you. So please, refrain to tell anyone of this new side of me. I have a reputation to uphold, you know? What would they say of me if they knew that I spend the hours longing for you like a young maiden?

Although…actually, none of that matters. If it weren’t for the fact that I could damage your name, nothing would stop me from shouting from the rooftops that I love you. In that, I agree with your brother: to take care of you, I am capable of doing anything.

Now, I have something important to tell you. I know that my travel companion will not write to you about it, due to the possibility that our letters will be read, but I will take advantage of the fact that we have this secret medium to tell you. I showed you our code to tell you what had to be kept secret, after all, right?

This has to do with our arrival in the desert. On our way, we were ambushed. Don’t be alarmed, we’re both fine—even that fool of a leader is fine. Unfortunately, we lost all the men who accompanied us. Can you believe it, killed by their own countrymen?

It was a tough battle because everything we’d heard of the desert came from legends and did not know what to do. It is indeed a cruel terrain for those unfamiliar with it! Sand people have very peculiar ways of attacking and my armour was shattered. I repeat, we are fine—I am fine, except for some new scars my body got, but I doubt that’s a problem for you, right?

We finished off the warriors who ambushed us, of course, well, except for one person who escaped after, but the truth is that I don’t even know what happened myself. I’ll tell you another time—what matters is knowing the reason why someone would ambush the leader of the desert and kill his countrymen. None of it makes sense to me. Could you try to talk about it with the leader’s brother? Please, it would be of vital importance.

Now, also not—

Sorry for the mess in this letter. A few moments ago, there was a loud noise and the foundations trembled. This is a very common thing here, by the way. Our host came to see how I was doing and assured me that tremors are common here, but he is not fooling me. The earth trembles, yes, but at the same time, ridiculous and exorbitant amounts of chakra flood my senses. Only you generate such an amount of pure chakra and besides you, there was no—well, you know what? Yes, I have felt such a strong and wild chakra in another place… do you remember our nights in the forest, when we thought of sending the whole world to hell to live just you and me? Well, so it feels here. It’s not tremors—it’s a bijuu. I’ll investigate and tell you what I find.

I’ll have to think of a credible excuse in case they ever ask me about the encrypted letters, especially since they are so extensive. But I cannot help it, I miss talking to you and this is the closest thing I have to those nights.

Through the window I see my messenger approaching the building, so I will leave this letter up to here. Do not worry, my love, I am not stupid enough to believe that I might have an accomplice in this place, but for now, I’ll make the most of it. Trust me.

I love you.”

 

* * *

 

“You are wise not to write our names, so I will try to do the same.

Just a while ago, one of the messengers came to deliver your letters to me, so I could only skim-read them, and I am afraid I can only answer you based on the first one you sent me. I have asked the messenger to wait for me to write these words to you, so that they come out right now and thus, you can receive them on your birthday.

Your brother was very happy to receive a letter from you, but surely, he will reply to you later. As for the first letter, I must admit that it took me a couple of days to fully decipher it—thank you, my love, it’s beautiful! I reread it from time to time, especially on nights when I’m tired and home alone—that way, it makes me feel like I have a little piece of you close to me.

Ah, I’m afraid I cannot write everything I need to. It was my mistake, not having written it previously, but I have been very busy with a thousand things that you will surely hear of soon. I’ll tell you a little about what happened here: a few days ago, I took your favourite falcon to fly—taking advantage of the fact that it wasn’t so cold and with due caution, of course—and I dare to presume that I think she already likes me; more clans have approached with the intention of joining us; also, my brother has come up with a crazy idea to chisel my face into the mountain, can you believe it? I hope it doesn’t get enough votes at the next assembly.

But I digress—this letter should be only about us, and your birthday. I hope it’s understandable, as I told you, I don’t have much time and it’s still hard for me to write this fast, even though I assure you I’ve been practicing a lot. It’s not the same without my personal professor, though.

Going back to your first letter, you sly fox, who are you taking advantage of? I hope you’re not too naughty, although knowing you, I don’t know if it’s possible. Just be careful, will you? I wish you would write to me more often, although I know it would look a bit suspicious, don’t you think?

Ah, again, I digress. Honey, everything is ready for the party we’re having in your honour in a couple of days—even if it’s snowing, as your clan’s tradition dictates. The child you’ve sponsored has organized a lot of it—he’s so excited about everything to do with your birthday—with the festivities, with your gift! I can’t help but see your reflection in that little boy and by doing so, it makes me miss you so much more. How I wish you were here! This was supposed to be our first year together, right? My last birthday was great thanks to you; I would have loved to be able to pass yours by your side…”

 

Hashirama bites his lip. How many more times is he going to keep complaining about it in his letters?

 

“I imagine you know whose idea the toy was.”

 

Hashirama smiles, perhaps figuring that Madara will understand and upon reading this, he’ll smile back.

 

“He is such a good boy. A few days ago, I had the pleasure of meeting his grandmother—a good woman too, I suspect he inherited it from her!

One day, as the little boy was playing in the snow, I talked to him about what would be appropriate to give you on your birthday.

He’s a smart kid, you know? Despite our discretion, I suspect that throughout the village, people know what’s between us—so much so, that the boy suggested me to create something special for you as a birthday present. (If you can, one of these days, write him a few words—I’m sure he’ll lose his mind!)

A handmade gift. Not something that money could buy—but something that, however poor my talents may be, will serve to show you my affection.

For this reason, I ask you not to look too much into its details, but to see it for what it is, a gift made with all my love. A birthday present for you.”

 

Sighing and after looking out the window at the poor messenger waiting patiently outside the building, he is encouraged to continue.

 

“That day, I will drink in your honour; I hope you too can drink some of that sake you wrote me about. I, here, will see the dances and the bonfire, and I will look at the sky, looking for the stars, looking at the bright, big moon, knowing that, somewhere else in this wide world, you will find yourself looking at it at the same time. It will be like giving you a big hug, like giving you a long kiss or like sharing my warm bed with you…just as I would have done if I was by your side that night.

I’ll write to you soon, I promise. In a couple of days, we will have an assembly, and I’ll tell you about it. In the meantime, I’ll reread your first letter and decipher the one you just sent.

We miss you so much, honey. You are more loved than you can imagine, and I hope that one day soon, you can find it out for yourself.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

I miss you and I wish you a wonderful birthday.”

 

Hashirama sighs again, exhausted as if he had been sparring. He lacks the habit and ability to write everything he wants to tell him in what a short message should be.

Without dwelling any longer, he goes to prepare the package in which his gift—previously wrapped—will travel to the desert. The messengers are swift; without a doubt, it will reach Madara’s birthday.

When he finishes, he takes his package and after going around the desk full of paperwork yet to review, he leaves the office, heading for the messenger. It is very early in the morning, so there are not many people on the street yet.

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” Hashirama says to the young messenger as soon as he arrives, his brows quirking in genuine concern. “But I’ve been so busy lately and I—”

The messenger gives him a shy smile; he opens his backpack and puts inside the Hokage’s package. “This is my duty, Hokage-sama, please do not apologise.”

Still… Hashirama thinks.

The sun is about to rise over the rooftops, and a gust of cold wind blows his hair through the air. Seeing the inclement weather ahead, he can’t help but feel worried about this young messenger.

“Will you travel alone to the desert?” asks the Hokage.

The young man shakes his head, focused on the package. “My companions and I will take the packages to the border—from there, we will deliver them to couriers who know how to cross the desert; thus, we have done it until now.”

Hashirama nods in relief. Tobirama had told him about some messaging system that was to operate between the different nations, but he had no idea that it was already in action.

“Well, then… I’d better get going, Hokage-sama,” the young man tells him as soon as he adjusts his backpack. “Snow is a somewhat annoying obstacle.”

“And dangerous too, please be careful,” the Hokage adds. “I am pleased to know that you do not have to make that long journey by yourself.”

The messenger bows slightly and says, “It is an honour to serve the Hokage.”

Hashirama smiles and his chest fills with pride.

“Wait!” shouts a person behind him. Hashirama turns around and is surprised to see that it is Izuna, Naori and Haru, running towards him, each carrying packets of different sizes in their hands. The one who yells is Izuna, “We also need to send something!”

Hashirama laughs. “The messenger was about to leave; had you told me you had gifts to send, we would have done this at a… more prudent hour.”

The three new arrivals hand the packets to the messenger, and in the meantime, Haru drops to the ground to catch his breath.

“The truth is…we didn’t know…either…Hokage-sama,” Haru says, breathing hard. “…We met just…ah, just now, this morning.”

The two older Uchiha nod in response. They, being shinobi who grew up and lived through a war, instead, wait to the side in silence, carefully watching their gifts being properly stored.

Hashirama places a hand on the Uchiha boy’s dark, tousled hair. Sensing it, the boy raises his head and sends his big, glowing eyes at the Hokage.

“Well, if there are no more to be delivered, I will take my leave, Hokage-sama,” the messenger announces.

Hashirama gestures in response. The messenger turns, and in an instant, is out of sight.

 

* * *

 

Madara handed three letters to Sora. Three letters wrapped in the same envelope, passing it off as one. Closed with wax, without seal; wrapped at the same time with several turns of thread that the girl provided him. On the envelope, only two words are written in a clear calligraphy, ‘To Konoha.’

Simple as that. Still, Madara highly doubts that the envelope will reach Hashirama’s hands intact.

“You wrote a big letter this time, Madara,” Sora says, as she tucks his precious envelope into her pouch.

He shrugs. They are in Madara’s room, door, and windows open. It’s noon and there are people everywhere. “Now that it’s official, I am afraid I didn’t skimp on the paper,” he says.

Sora smiles—her lips are pale pink. She is wearing her hair in a high ponytail, her cheeks flushed.

“Oh, you can use all the paper you want,” she replies. “If you ever run out of materials, just ask me for more—when it comes to you, there’s no problem at all.”

Madara raises an eyebrow.

“I mean,” she corrects, “when it comes to our guests, there are no problems at all.”

That day is his birthday, but he has been careful enough so that no one finds out. He suspects that even Mito is unaware.

He hasn’t seen her all day, at least not since breakfast, when the Uzumaki girl claimed that she had something to do and that she would see him later. They have made it a habit to walk in the afternoons getting to know the settlement, talking about this and that with the villagers, trying to extract truth from harmless talks.

Inadvertently, Madara ends up smiling as he looks out the window.

Sora slightly clears her throat and makes him turn to look at her. “This… Madara, I—”

Well, maybe it was his mistake to allow her to call him by his name. When she pronounces it, it sounds so…how to describe it? Madara is hated by many people and feared by an even greater number… so much so, that he has grown accustomed to having his name mentioned as if it were a curse. And suddenly, this girl who came out of some hole in the sand, comes to call his name with such familiarity that he cannot help but feel uneasy.

Madara sighs.

Sora misinterprets this. “Oh, am I annoying you?” she sadly asks.

That lovesick girl has been doing him a favour by putting herself at risk, shouldn’t he at least put up with her a little? Were Hashirama there, he would have already scolded him for being so rude.

“You have not—it’s just that…” he sighs again.

Sora cocks his head, “My brother told me that your kin is having a big celebration in Konoha today. Could it be that Madara-sama wishes he could be there to celebrate, and by being so far from home has made him sad?”

Clever girl. Madara gives her credit for it.

She doesn’t give him a chance to speak, “We could…I don’t know, maybe my brother would allow me to offer you our best sake for us to celebrate tonight—that is, with Miss Mito present too, of course!” Madara cannot believe his eyes, this cunning lass is blushing again. “As poor as this is in comparison, that way…you wouldn’t feel so nostalgic.”

 

* * *

 

Mito was observant. She could easily tell that Sora’s attitudes were directed only towards her fellow traveller, although, whether they were good or malicious, that remained to be seen. Sora was a cute girl and she smiled at everyone, always greeting everyone she met and so on—but it was also very evident how much she invested her time in serving Uchiha Madara.

For every smile she gave a person, two were directed at Madara. When she smiled, moreover, a pair of dimples formed on her flushed cheeks and her eyes shone as bright as if they were the sun itself. And when she called him by his name—damn her, how dare she call him by his name so soon? Could it be a custom of the sand people? Or was she just desperate to get her hands on this quirky, handsome stranger? Even Mito, who had known him for weeks, still had trouble calling him by his name without it feeling forced.

Come on, she could understand her, Mito thinks with annoyance. Sora is the younger sister of the leader and most likely she was constantly pampered by Hibiki, which, perhaps, would have helped the girl to be this confident on whether she would get what she wanted without obstructions. Mito herself has been a recent victim of what it meant to be dazed by Uchiha Madara, however dark and sinister his name may have been.

During her preparation as a kunoichi in her homeland, Mito always heard that she should be careful and wary with the Uchiha, especially with him. Yet, reality turned out to be very different… how could she not be surprised?

“Here,” Madara tells her, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Mito accepts the cup that Madara offers her. In it comes a dark sake with a strong scent, just like the one she tasted at the party the other night.

“You’re going to get used to filling your belly with sake,” Mito points out, looking at him sideways. “When we come home, they will blame me for this.”

Madara laughs and finishes the contents of his cup. The liquor is pleasant, but not enough to give it more than a few tastes. She definitely prefers the one they use in Konoha for dinner.

Either way, she can feel how her cheeks—her whole body, in fact—grows in heat, little by little.

Taking advantage of the fact that they have been left alone while Sora has gone to bring another tray with the gods-knows-what, Madara turns to the Uzumaki and whispers, “It is my birthday.”

Mito widens her eyes. They spent the whole day as normal, going here and there around the settlement, meeting people, and admiring the small landscape; and he had acted so normally that she would never have guessed that it was a special day for him.

As if he’s read her mind, he says, with a shrug, “I’ve never been interested in celebrating my birthday, that’s all. At home, when I was a kid and my parents were still alive, sure, it used to be a holiday in the entire Uchiha encampment. The heir’s party was an occasion that could not go without celebration, I guess. They used to give me gifts and sweets, and at the end, during the night, a bonfire was lit, and we would dance around it until dawn.”

Mito raises an eyebrow, curious, “We?” Madara smiles and looks away. As he does so, a lock of hair covers his eye, leaving it out of her sight. “Do not run away now that you’ve blurted this out—Uchiha Madara, did you dance too?! It suddenly seems difficult for me to see you in such a situation.”

He grins and nods. “I danced, sometimes, only when it was necessary, and only if I wanted to.” He shrugs. “Most of the times, I just had to pretend to have a migraine and with that, I would get out of the mess, but still—”

Madara stops talking when he sees that Sora has reappeared through the door. They are sitting on the floor of a balcony that is on top of the building where they are staying. From there, they can see much of the settlement, who’s going in and who’s going out—everything is in their unrestricted view.

What did Hibiki want to do by giving them so many privileges? Make the Hokage of Konoha look like an insensitive brat?

Mito notes that Madara’s words died as soon as the sand girl appeared, so she understands that the subject of the dance—and his birthday—should remain in secret.

“I’ve brought some more snacks,” Sora says as she takes a seat across from them. She sits down using an exquisite manner that surprises Mito, but still doesn’t get even half a look from Madara.

Sora will have to try much harder, it seems.

“Thank you,” Mito says, seeing that Madara hasn’t said anything. “This is all very delicious, isn’t it, Madara?”

He, who was looking pensively at the bright moon, nods and accepts what Mito hands him. Her countenance and manners remind him, without being able to avoid it, of his mother.

“It’s very good, indeed,” Madara says sincerely.

Sora smiles pleased to see this. “There’s no reason to hold back—there are plenty more where these came from. Please, enjoy.”

Well, since there isn’t much chance to talk—Madara will eat.

 

* * *

 

Laughing. Music. And a lot of dancing.

Hashirama feels a pressure in his chest when he sees the party that the Uchiha clan has organized to celebrate their leader’s birthday, despite the fact that he is far away from there.

Some look at him with suspicion and frowns, but the vast majority seem pleased to have the Hokage there. At last, this outsider who until a few weeks ago used to be their most feared enemy, now dressed like them and attended their festivities, drinking their sake and enjoying their food.

He can’t help but think of Madara. You, who thought you were alone in your clan, that no one cared about you… what would you think if you saw all this?

It was Madara’s first birthday as the clan head; the first without the presence of his father. One would think that after everything they had to live through in the last few months, the shortcomings, the losses, and pain, the Uchiha would have no mood or wish to celebrate, but oh, was he so wrong. Hashirama thinks it’s a pleasure to see he was wrong. All this is perfect and beautiful. The music is so vivid, and when the Uchiha dance around the bonfire, the fire grows as well, as if these peculiar humans endowed it alive.

The flames are high above the tallest man in there. Hashirama suspects that the fire may even be visible from the opposite end of the village, but perhaps he’s just exaggerating by the novelty. Yet he wonders if Tobirama is watching it from his window.

As much as Hashirama insisted, Tobirama refused to go to the festivities, claiming that he was tired after his long week of work and that he would rather stay the night at home, resting.

It had been a long week indeed, but Hashirama doesn’t feel tired at all. He has sat in a luxurious position, among the youngest of the clan, near the musicians, right in front of the bonfire, in the centre of the party. The food has been enough and the sake perfect for the occasion. He has dressed in dark motives so as not to contrast with the rest, and has not stopped smiling once since he arrived.

Just at that moment, Haru—who is also dancing for the first time—greets the Hokage vigorously upon seeing him watching him, and Hashirama raises his free hand in response. The boy turns and with his feet kicks the snow on the ground, smiling before returning to take his place behind Izuna’s back, who is leading that dance.

Someone sits next to him. Hashirama glances sideways and sighs in relief to see that it’s just Naori.

“Is the Hokage enjoying the ceremony?” she asks, smiling as well.

Naori is wearing a dark and warm haori. She has put on her makeup and has her hair tied up with a pretty comb—she looks beautiful. Without a doubt, she is the prettiest girl in her entire clan. Hashirama now remembers how jealous he used to be of Naori before he even met her, and how much he suffered when he realised that Madara’s bride-to-be was such a beautiful girl.

“It has been quite entertaining so far,” he says. “Believe me, we Senju might be good at many things, but our parties have always been boring and highly formal.” Naori smiles. “We need to drop our poise for a while, I guess. Not bad for my first experience among the Uchiha.”

The dancers gesticulate with their hands raised in the air. Haru lets out a loud cry and Hashirama smiles at the boy, like a proud father.

Naori watches this interesting scene. And since it’s Madara’s birthday, they’ll definitely be talking about him. “Madara sent a letter to Izuna.”

This is Izuna’s turn to raise his hands in the air, directing the rest to follow suit. And though both Hashirama and Naori are watching the show, his entire attention is on the girl’s words.

She sighs. “You should have seen how happy Izuna was to see his brother had written to him.” Hashirama looks at her sideways. “As I learned, Madara managed to secretly write to you and that, in a way, made Izuna somewhat annoyed.” Hashirama’s eyes drift back to the bonfire. “Izuna threw a small tantrum that same night, after a clan meeting. I let it pass, though, for I was the same at his age.” Naori shrugs. “I didn’t make an attempt to scold him by remembering that he’s still so young…of course he’s going to get upset over something like that.”

He knows that the main reason for Uchiha Izuna’s anger was not just because his older brother had sent a letter to the Hokage, but rather, because said older brother had dared to teach a stranger—his oldest enemy, no more and no less—something as secret and valuable as his clan’s secret code.

But…did she know this too? Was she testing him, to see how far his lies would go?

Hashirama licks his lips and seeing that she doesn’t add anything else, he asks, “Did he tell you exactly why he was so upset?”

Naori sighs and turns to look at him, “He was upset that his brother had written to someone else first, though he soon realised that said friend was the Hokage, our leader. Of course, he would write to you first.” She lets out a chuckle. “Izuna must understand that this was not a pleasure trip, and that if Madara went to such trouble to go there, it was because he is a great leader and wants the best for us.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen, and little by little, a smile begins to hang from his lips.

“Madara grew up knowing that he would be our leader one day, and so he trained himself to be the best,” says Naori. Hashirama feels a squeeze on his chest. “If there’s anyone who can solve this problem, it’s definitely him.”

Hashirama has fallen short of words.

“Besides,” Naori adds, smiling, “please, don’t forget who accompanied him.” Hashirama nods, now smiling too. “If Madara stumbles, Mito will help him get back on track.”

All of that seemed like a dream. Hashirama never had friends—he never believed he could have a team like that. When he was chosen as Hokage, he had so many fears and insecurities that he forgot that he was surrounded by people as incredible as them, who would never let him do this alone.

Without a doubt, his life was so different from what he imagined it would be, and he had no regrets at all.

In that instant, Izuna’s dance stops and he and everyone who followed him around the bonfire go and sit down to rest for a while. The music doesn’t stop, it just changes a bit, so different people start getting up from their seats to take advantage of it. Now it is a freer dance and in which, apparently, it is not necessary to follow a leader.

Hashirama has been thinking, imagining, what Madara would have done had he been there that night. Would he have danced with his brother’s group? Would he have danced by himself? Or if he had dared to go further, to teach the Hokage to dance around a fire?

There’s no way to know, but either way, his heart is fluttering. It jumps just thinking about Madara. If only… if only he were there.

“I… I told them the truth this very morning.”

Hashirama frowns, not understanding. It’s as if Naori’s voice came from far away, barely being understandable.

He turns to look at her and she shrugs. “I finally told my clan the truth about Madara and I, or at least, the terms we came to.”

Oh that, Hashirama thinks. He nods very slowly, not knowing what to expect.

She continues, “I told them that there is indeed a great camaraderie between the two of us, and that…it will continue this way in the future.” Hashirama shifts uncomfortably in his place. “It’s not like they didn’t know, though, and my father didn’t really like hearing me say it, of course. After all, he and Tajima were good friends, and planned to unite our lives since we were little. He obviously wouldn’t be happy with these changes.”

That explains the frowns, Hashirama ponders. “Why did you decide to do it?”

Naori sighs, still watching the dancers twirling around the fire. “Was it necessary to continue pretending? These people are not stupid—they had been suspicious for a long time and by you coming here tonight, it only served to confirm their suspicions.”

Hashirama remembers the first days after their arrival in Konoha, and how upset Tobirama was after seeing that Uchiha Madara had settled in his brother’s tent from the first moment, and that he did not seem to be thinking of leaving.

He can also remember how worried Tobirama was that his closeness with Madara would cause a further rift between he and the Senju. In all that time, he hadn’t thought about the consequences that his closeness with Madara must have caused to the Uchiha. All those doubts and uncertainties—yet Madara never told him anything. It was obvious that he was conscious of this, but he simply decided not to say anything.

Madara.

“I am so sorry,” Hashirama whispers back.

Naori wipes her cheek with the back of a hand. She laughs nervously and asks, “You fool, why are you apologising?”

Perhaps the fact that Madara preferred a male partner reached the ears of the rest of their clan, and that helped to break her heart? Had Hashirama not existed—if his path had never crossed Madara’s, if he had obeyed his father and gotten a wife and heirs…who would Madara have chosen?

He knows it. Naori and her clan know it as well.

If Hashirama didn’t exist, still, Madara wouldn’t have chosen her.

Suddenly, Hashirama senses like he doesn’t belong there. He abruptly longs to go to his house, however empty he was to find it.

Hashirama glances sideways at Naori. This is a night for the Uchiha—there should be no tears.

“It was for the best,” Naori adds, her face still looking at the dancers. Hashirama wishes he could believe her. “It was for the best,” she repeats, as if to convince herself.

Hesitating feet walk in their direction—his shoes half buried in the snow, stopping a short distance away. Hashirama looks up and sees that it is a young Uchiha man. He knows him by sight; on a few occasions he has seen him slip away in councils, standing next to Izuna, whispering in his ear while looking suspiciously at the rest. Hikaku is his name, if he can remember well.

He stands still before them, not moving or saying anything, outlined by the bonfire glow behind. He reaches out a hand to the girl, in an offering—an invitation.

Naori looks him up and down as if he had lost his mind. “Hikaku, have you had too much sake?!”

He doesn’t seem to be drunk and confirms it by shaking his head. “Come,” he says suddenly, his voice loud, his eyes still on the girl. “I have never danced, could you teach me? Izuna said you could teach me.”

Hashirama looks to the side, to the other end of the square, behind the bonfire, to where Izuna is—looking carefully at the whole scene. And little by little, Hashirama understands. He smirks and can almost swear Izuna smirked back. A clever boy; out of the corner of his eye, Hashirama looks at the hesitant girl and the emboldened young man who, after learning the truth, probably has come with the hope of dancing for a while, with whom he until recently believed was out of reach.

Nor is youthful love surprising. None of them are over twenty, how could he have forgotten? At that age, everything is intense, everything seems to be so easy.

Naori’s cheeks are flushed and though she is frowning, she reaches out for the offered hand and takes it, allowing Hikaku to pull her up.

Without saying anything else, they both walk away from the Hokage, approaching the fire, which is now burning vigorously, many meters up. And is snowing again.

Hashirama looks up, at the sky, at the bright moon, at the snowflakes falling on them. Small flakes of snow extinguishing as soon as they get close to the bonfire. He remembers again that he has a cup half full of sake in his hand. With trembling hands, he takes it to his lips and as he tastes it, the liquid burns his throat in a way the previous cup hadn’t.

He thinks about what he wrote in Madara’s letter and wonders if his gift will have reached his hands in time. His fantasies go further, and wonders if it is possible that Madara is looking at the moon at that very moment. He somehow can hear him, as if this frigid wind came from the desert carrying his name.

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Madara, why that frown?” asks Sora, who hasn’t been careful with the sake she puts into her mouth. Her entire face is flushed, and her hairstyle has lost shape. “Isn’t this sake to your liking?”

Mito looks at the girl first, and then his eyes fly to Madara, waiting for his answer.

“I tend to be cautious with sake, that’s all,” he says.

Sora smiles. A light and genuine smile. “You’re safe here—you both are, so why hold back tonight? Isn’t it an important date for those from Konoha?”

Mito looks at Madara out of the corner of her eye; he remains calm, looking into Sora’s eyes. He nods and is about to answer, when suddenly the foundations of the building shake and the torches tinkle with the movement.

Sora laughs and the other two look at each other, somewhat amused. If the girl was a spy and approached them with the intention of extracting significant information, would she have ended up drunk on the spot?

“This place tremors a lot,” Mito comments as soon as the movements stop. “I thought that the desert did not allow such problems.”

The desert girl raises a finger and shakes it. “Aye, but they are not earthquakes at all. As you say, it is quite safe here in that regard.”

Mito raises an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest.

“What happens,” Sora continues, “is…well, I don’t know if I should tell you about this, but—ah, Shukaku’s been a bit…er, how to explain it? Restless lately—it often tries to…you know, run away and—ah, it’s indeed a bummer!”

Shukaku, Madara thinks, rubbing his chin. Out of the corner of his eye he can see that Mito seems to be remembering where they heard that name before.

Mito says, as if the existence of a bijuu is unimportant, “The one-tailed beast?”

Sora smiles and nods in response. With one hand, she brushes her bangs back and tucks them behind one ear, as always flirting with Madara openly. “Have you heard of the sand monster, perhaps?”

“On our way here, we heard roars in the distance—your brother told us about a creature hiding in the desert,” he replies, ignoring her fluttering eyelashes.

The desert girl tilts her head ever so sweetly and replies, “Oh, but the one you heard on the way wasn’t Shukaku, of course!” Her words turn into a laugh and Madara raises an eyebrow.

“How so?” he inquires, feigning ignorance. “Is there more than one monster?”

Mito does everything humanly possible not to grin.

Sora nods and answers, without taking her gaze from him, “Sure, Uchiha Madara—yet the vast majority remain a mystery to us!”

Madara nods and raises his eyebrows in false surprise. “Oh, interesting.”

The girl laughs. “Would you like to meet it, Madara? About twenty minutes behind this settlement, there is a temple where Bunpuku—”

“Sora.”

The girl raises her face, and her cloudy eyes widen when seeing that her brother has come out the door. And although he appears to be calm as ever, Madara doesn’t trust his smiles.

“Sora, darling, you’ve drink too much—what did I tell you about drinking this kind of sake?” Hibiki turns to his guests with a smile, to explain, “My sister often gets into this kind of trouble—I hope it wasn’t too heavy a sake for you.”

Mito replies, “Not at all—in Konoha we know how to drink.”

Madara nods as Hibiki’s eyes land on his, “Just like she said.”

Whether he believed them or not, Madara cannot tell.

Hibiki takes his sister into his arms, despite her jokes, and says, “In that case, I’ll stay calm. It is late and Sora should be sleeping by now. Enjoy the rest of the night my friends.”

They lean their heads lightly in gratitude. Mito waits until the sand siblings are far enough to hear, and asks, “Bunpuku?”

Madara shrugs. “I too ignore what that means.”

Mito clicks her tongue and lets out a laugh. “You know what, Uchiha? You could take advantage of the fact that that girl is crazy in love with you to unravel some mysteries.”

He widens his eyes, surprised. Mito raises an eyebrow and adds, “It’s not like you haven’t taken advantage of this before, huh? I was able to see that she is your personal messenger already.”

Madara lets out a laugh of sorts, almost as if he’s embarrassed. “They say my eyes see too much—but that’s because they’ve never met an Uzumaki.”

“Ah,” Mito nods, smiling. “It’s not that I don’t trust your methods, nor am I going to give you honesty lessons—I like you for being a scoundrel, too. It would have been a nuisance if so many legends about your dark ways weren’t true.”

They both laugh in unison. It is a good night out there in the desert. The pale, bright moon is their only companion, and now that they can talk freely, everything feels lighter.

“I want to go home as soon as possible,” Madara admits. “And if that requires this…so be it. I’ve done far worse things—this is nothing. In any case, it’s his fault for allowing his sister to go around getting drunk with strangers and telling their secrets.”

Mito looks at him and feeling her gaze, Madara’s eyes fly to her.

“I’m just asking you to be careful,” she says. Madara smiles and Mito insists, “I am serious. I mean, you’re a man, you’re even older than me—but, just don’t forget that there are people waiting for you in Konoha.” Madara’s heart skips a beat. “You could be more cautious, at least for them.”

Madara sighs and leans back against the wall. He puts a hand to his eyes. “Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to go to sleep now,” he says, thinking aloud.

The snacks have run out and they have no further interest in the sake. It is late and the people in the settlement are silent at night. There’s no reason not to go get some sleep.

“Yeah; that’s a good idea,” Mito replies, glancing around the quiet, dark settlement.

“Let’s go, then—I’ll walk you,” Madara says, and just as he’s about to get to his feet, a figure appears at the door. He frowns and waits.

The newcomer speaks, “This package is for Uchiha Madara.”

Both Madara and Mito frown and look at each other. It is quite an inconvenient time for someone to receive a package, isn’t it?

“Hibiki-sama has approved it,” the messenger adds. “It is legit.”

None of this makes sense anyway.

Madara gestures for him to come closer and as he does so, various bursts of residual chakra enveloping the package leave him speechless. If Mito recognised any, she didn’t tell. The messenger went out to the balcony and delivered the package; then, without further ado, he left.

“Well?” Mito insists. “What are you waiting for? Open it—it’s your birthday!”

He also thought about this, but it seemed unlikely to him. Yet when he opened it, he found that the gift genuinely came from Konoha and that some residual chakra from Izuna, Naori, and of course, from Hashirama, flowed out of it.

Four letters and a wrapped package. Heavy—this did not travel by air, but through forests and desert. What could be so important as to go to all this trouble?

He begins with the letter that is written in more amorphous characters. A young hand wrote it, for sure—Haru’s. Madara can’t help but smile when he sees that little brat sent him a letter.

Mito sees him and says, “Your Uchiha didn’t forget the date, it seems.”

Madara bites his lip and shakes his head. He opens another letter, Naori’s and then Izuna’s, skimming, leaving them to read quietly in his room.

“To be honest, I am not used to receiving so much attention, to the point that I don’t know what to say.”

Mito chuckles.

“But it feels good, I guess,” Madara adds.

The Uzumaki lady stands up when seeing that only one letter remains attached to the wrapped package. Maybe it’s too much for her still, or maybe she wants to leave him alone for a while. Mito places a hand on his shoulder and says, “I’ll go ahead.”

Madara makes to stand up, but she pushes him back to the ground. “I’ll be fine, Uchiha, stay a while longer. It is your birthday, you should spend it with those you love, even if it is through this way.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He hesitates for a while and when he looks up, Mito is gone.

His chest heaves up and down, and with trembling fingers he opens the last letter—ciphered and written in Hashirama’s own handwriting. He…Madara would recognise those brushstrokes anywhere.

Madara smirks at how much—and how quickly—Hashirama has improved at his writing. It’s only been a short time since he taught him how to form short sentences and now…can he write him a whole letter? Madara is skilled at reading in this code—he’s been doing it since he’s an infant and finishes reading in a flash.

Madara leans his head against the wall again, and shuts his eyes, pressing the letter against his pounding heart. Unable to help himself, he looks at the moon and thinks of that very loving and silly man waiting for him back in Konoha, that man who has gone to so much trouble for him, that has so much blind faith in him.

“Hashirama,” he mumbles as if his tongue has a life of its own.

Then he remembers the mention of the wrapped present that he hasn’t opened yet. His hands take it and open the paper that wraps it. It is light but resistant. Madara has no idea what the fuck it could be. With Hashirama, anything could be possible.

When unwrapping the gift, a huge smile appears. “Ah, what a fool you are!” he mutters and bites his lip. With one hand he grabs the toy and raises it to his eye level. It is pretty and its shape is engraved faithfully to that of a real bird. “So, this is why you took Tomoe out, huh?”

That brat…Haru. He’s to blame for this, he… Madara cannot believe how much things have changed since Hashirama and he gave up the idea of escaping, like the responsible adults they are. Suddenly, the members of both clans, once enemies, now lived together as if there were no centuries of hatred behind them.

All of that was still…hard to believe.

Something has entered his eye. Sand, perhaps? Madara wipes his eye with the back of his hand.  Or maybe he’s just moved by the gift of that huge, silly man he loves.

The chakra remnants left in the figure are barely noticeable, just those that remain after handling an object, which means that Hashirama fashioned it undoubtedly, with his bare hands. The rough, jagged lines on certain edges and curves give it away…and yet, there couldn’t be a more wonderful gift for him—this is, without a doubt, the best birthday present anyone has ever given him.

“Hashirama,” he whispers again, as if thirsty for him, eager to call his name.

Madara has no sake within reach and no doubt, he will go to an empty bed, but at least he can look at the moon, just as Hashirama suggested. He looks up. He squeezes the toy in his arms and looks sadly up at the clear firmament, at the watchful and bright moon.

Somehow, he can see him, or at least, to his sleepy eyes it seems so. There he is—the man reflected in the moon, his Hashirama. Aye, there he is.

“Hashirama,” he repeats for the third time, sending his words on the wind. He likes to imagine that, somehow, they’ll reach out to him.

Chapter 14

Summary:

A hard day for our boys.

He came suddenly, as if coming from the courtyard.  

Hashirama turns around upon hearing his footsteps, recognising them. He heard his voice before he saw him. “Hashirama.”  

His voice sounded so normal, so realistic and close. How could Hashirama hesitate when seeing the object of his desires suddenly appearing before his eyes?  

His body felt real too. Hashirama squeezed him tightly and placed his face in the crook of his neck. He even smelled like Madara! How could his imagination create such a realistic and perfect image of Uchiha Madara? There he was, flesh and blood.  

“Madara,” Hashirama whispers in his ear.  

His voice comes out so hoarse that Madara shivers.  

Not that it’s surprising—he needed him with all his might, too. He longed to feel the warmth of his body again; he missed the taste of his lips and his warmth when they made love.  

“Have I lost my mind?” Hashirama whispers. “I don’t know why, but I feel like having you in my arms is forbidden. Hadn’t we changed it all already?”  

The war had ended a long time ago, even the Hashirama of the dream was aware of it.  

“To me, you’re still the same you,” Madara says in response and Hashirama pulls away just enough to see the expression on his face. That mocking and haughty grin, characteristic of him. Hashirama feels his heart skipping a beat. He will never get tired of this. Madara adds, looking into his dark eyes, “So mawkish.”  

Despite his words, Hashirama smiles in response. Without a doubt, it is really you.  

Hashirama clears his throat and says in his same hoarse voice, “You, uh, are cold.”  

Outside, as far as Hashirama could see behind Madara, was snowing. It was a serene night, its silence barely broken by the arrival of a new snowfall and their heavy breathing.  

“A little, yes,” Madara replies, nodding. He reaches out and places a hand on Hashirama’s chest, where the lapels of his half-open robes reveal a piece of bare skin. In contrast, his skin is hot, its heat transferring quickly to Madara’s gloveless hand. “But I know how to raise my temperature.”  

Hashirama feels his ears growing hot. Little by little, the rest of his body begins to change, to adapt to whatever Uchiha Madara’s presence brings with it.  

He needs him so much it hurts.  

Hashirama gasps and takes Madara’s curious hand in his. He clears his throat again and says, “Come with me, then. Let me be of help.”  

There is no time to lose. Hashirama doesn’t know how long that dream will last or when he will have it again. He’s been so busy lately, so worried about the situation in the village and the absence of his friends, that he hasn’t had a full night’s rest in days.  

So now, finally having a dream where there is no war or death, is paradise.  

Hashirama leads him through long, dark hallways—somewhat different from what their house is actually like. But it doesn’t matter, because in the end the result is idyllic: the room they arrive at is the same one in which they have spent those short but heated nights together—where he hopes to spend the rest of his days in his company.  

The futon is prepared and there are numerous candles illuminating the place.  

Madara releases his grip upon arriving and turning around to face him, he places both hands on the lapels of his own robes and begins to open them.  

Then...Hashirama frowns when he sees Madara’s robes change colour from the inside, as if soaked in blood.  

“Madara!”  

Hashirama barely has a chance to catch him in his arms before Madara’s legs lose strength. “What’s wrong?! Madara, are you—?!”  

Please no—not again!  

He was hurt and a lot.  

With great care, Hashirama lays Madara down on the futon and with trembling hands, opens his robes. What he sees inside makes him shake from head to toe.  

“Madara! Madara, do you hear me?! Madara, please answer me!”  

Hashirama looks up, and notices that Madara has closed his eyes and that only a light groan comes from his parted lips.  

This is too painful for him—this cruel illusion; this awful memory!  

Without wasting any more time, Hashirama brings both hands to his chest, where he finds a tangle of open and bloody wounds. And even though his healing chakra is working, there doesn’t seem to be any noticeable change in Madara’s body. The wounds remain open and worrying amounts of blood gushes from them.  

“No…no, please, Madara, don’t—” Hashirama whispers as he continues working, tears streaming down his cheeks, landing on his tired hands. “Please, Madara, don’t—!” His voice breaks when he notices that the body under his hands has stopped moving. He wipes away the tears with his hands and catches Madara in his arms again, but now, he is completely still.  

Hashirama cries his name numerous times, each one more heartbreaking than the last.  

He presses Madara’s still body against his, supporting his head with one hand.  

“Madara, you can’t do this to me—you promised you would come back to me! You promised we’d be happy, together!”  

He searches Madara’s horribly pale face for an answer, to no avail.  

Madara , Hashirama thinks painfully. No, please, anything but this—who dared take him from me?!  

“Ah!”  

Hashirama suddenly wakes up in the middle of the night. He looks around, searching for some trace of his chilling nightmare—the futon, the burning candles, Madara slowly bleeding to death before his eyes...  

Hashirama puts his hands on his face and notices that he is sweating. He lowers a hand to his chest, to his racing heart, and realises that he is drenched in sweat, even though the snow is still falling outside.  

It was just a bad dream—a nightmare.  

A very realistic nightmare. Hashirama pushes back the covers and stands up. He walks in the dark and slides the door open, to see the landscape, to feel the change in temperature. It works.  

He looks up at the night sky covered by white and threatening clouds.  

Why did he have a dream like that? It had been quite some time since his last nightmare. The sad thing was realising that whenever he had a nightmare like that, it was always because of Uchiha Madara.  

That’s it , he thinks and quickly goes back inside the room after closing the door. Next to the futon he was sleeping on are Madara’s possessions that he sleeps with to feel less alone. And also, of course, there are the letters that he has written to him, especially that last one, which Hashirama has just deciphered after more than a week of hard work!  

It had taken him so long, but he had also been so busy with everything in the village and thinking about how to carry out a peace treaty and... suddenly everything was too much for a single man.  

Maybe what they said about him was true, maybe it had been a risky move to put such a heavy weight on such young shoulders.  

Madara and Mito fell into an ambush.  

Hashirama frowns and lights a candle so he can read that part of the letter again, where Madara told him about the ambush.  

Hashirama couldn’t help but feel a little annoyed at the simplicity with which Madara told him about it. Maybe it was because Madara knew he was too strong, but an ambush in a place unknown was not simple or something to laugh at.  

Hashirama moves the letter out of his sight, for it has only managed to worry him again. He folds it and places it under the rest. Then he puts a hand to his chin and frowns as he thinks, Hibiki hasn’t told him anything about it. That fucking bastard. If it weren’t for the fact that that man had Madara and Mito in his power, he would do something about it for skipping the tiny detail of them suffering an ambush.  

But he must calm down. Good terms have never been reached with hot heads.  

As this concerns his allies and therefore, Konoha and its safety, it would be appropriate for Hashirama to burst into the tranquillity of Tobirama’s home to tell him about this situation—in fact, it would be expected of him.  

But Hashirama does not move an inch. He remains sitting and meditating.  

He should go tell him and Izuna too, but he won’t, at least not yet.  

He will wait until dawn. After all, Madara’s letter arrived over a week ago, which meant he had written it a day or two before. There was no real rush in waking up his brother or Izuna; they wouldn’t make any immediate change.  

This could wait, Hashirama decides and sighs tiredly. He blows out the candle and lies back down on the futon.  

However, this time it takes him longer to get back to sleep. His body feels tired in impossible ways. His anguish has him on edge—he cannot stop thinking about the last letter he sent to Madara and how very different it would have been, if he had waited to first decipher the last one Madara sent him.  

Hashirama senses he’s not doing his job right. Maybe this was all a bad idea? He sits up on the futon and stares at the darkness, like he did when he was a little boy.  

 

* * *  

 

“...And then, when night came, the Uchiha lit a large bonfire, which flames surpassed some of the surrounding buildings. It was very cold night, but even then, the celebrations did not stop. Izuna danced all night and so did Haru, until his grandmother went to take him to sleep almost by force. You should have seen him—so small and throwing such a huge tantrum! It was a lot of fun to see! It was a great celebration; we would have loved for the party man to be present, too!”  

Madara takes a moment to stop reading. He smiles, imagining as if he had been there: Izuna dancing, Haru crying—Hashirama by his side.  

He reads again.  

“You’ve been away for so long. So long away from your brother, your clan, Konoha—from me.  

And although I’ve been learning to get used to the idea that sometimes things must be that way, at the end of the day, when I come home—our home—I can’t help but think about how much I’d like to have you here, with me.  

I’ve done my part well, you know? Even Tobirama told me that he was proud of how well I was handling all of this. Can you believe it? I was very surprised when he said it. We had an ugly argument a few days ago—nothing to worry about; you know him, you know the type of discussions we usually have. So, I became emotional and couldn’t help but burst out crying in front of him. I think you can imagine that scene, and if you do, it might just make you smile. I’m imagining you grinning as I write this.”  

Madara lets out a small laugh and nods, as if Hashirama could see him from a distance.  

“But to keep myself busy—busier, that is—I’ve been working a lot. I like to think that I have made good progress with the rest of the clan heads, even though it is difficult at times. I feel that some of them still distrust me, not because they doubt my power, but because I am way too attached to you.  

I don’t regret that, of course. If they want to remain distrustful, that’s fine, I guess. But I like to know that, as the days go by, fewer people think that way.  

Our union as allies has been mostly beneficial—now, as for our other type of union...well, that’s something that only you and I know.  

I know what you’re thinking, I’m going off topic again. Can you blame me?  

I have had so much work, that I have barely been able to decipher a little of the last letter you sent me—oh, please, do not stop writing to me because of this! Deciphering your letters is my greatest entertainment when I return home, no matter how demanding it might be!  

Meanwhile I have been talking with our guests—at least with the eldest, since the child is still reluctant to spend much time near me.  

But Reto is interesting. He’s too cunning for my taste, but I don’t feel like he’s plotting some dark plan against us. I feel like he’s not like that. Under other circumstances, I like to think he would have been a good friend of ours.  

I know what you’re thinking, honey, but I haven’t let my guard down. What’s more, I dare say that when I’m with him is when my senses are most attentive, the sharpest.  

I have followed the example of your host, and given them the freedom to roam freely around the village—always under discreet supervision, obviously. This meant that a lot of people were upset with me, high-ranking people, clan heads, and the like, but I did it because it was the best for our situation. Do we want our guests to trust us and open their mouths? Well, maybe we’ll have to stop treating them like hostages first. It has been a good change; even Tobirama admitted it. Thanks to this, I have been able to learn a lot from them.  

And together, we have been able to talk about how fruitful the relations between both villages could be. By solving this problem, we could permanently send an emissary from Konoha, someone very trustworthy—not you, obviously.”  

Madara smiles when he remembers that Hibiki’s plans involved marrying him to his sister to unite both villages. He sends that thought away with a wave of a hand.  

The letter continues,  

“I want you for me. Only for me.”  

Madara gulps and clears his throat, remembering that it’s noon.  

Hashirama’s letter is about to conclude.  

“And, since it is not wise for me to think about you, while I am ‘working’ in the office... I will change the subject a little.  

Although I’m afraid that no matter how hard I try, I can never stop thinking about you, for everything around me reminds me of you.  

For instance, a few days ago, the first baby was born in Konoha—a healthy boy! And I want you to guess which clan does he belong to, before you continue reading.”  

Madara raises an eyebrow. He loves it when Hashirama acts like this.  

Madara whispers to the letter, “Uchiha?”  

Then, still smiling from ear to ear, he continues reading.  

“That’s right...Uchiha! Your cousin arrived a few days ago in labour. Do you remember who I’m talking about? Well, she has delivered a little boy, with plenty of inky hair. He was so small, Madara—a small miracle. Kagami, he has been named. Uchiha Kagami.”  

“Madara?”  

Someone has opened the door behind him. Madara turns to see who it is and presses the letter to his chest.  

“Ah, hello.”  

It was that girl, Sora. Had she been knocking on the door? I heard nothing.  

She smiles, her cheeks as flushed as ever, and she says, “I came to look for you, since I didn’t see you at breakfast this morning. Mito said that... you probably weren’t feeling well and I wanted to... well, I came to check on you.”  

Madara forces a smile. He folds and keeps Hashirama’s letter inside the folds of his robes. He rises and walks towards her. “I woke up earlier today, before it was even fully dawn and... I ate something then. That’s why.”  

Sora widens his eyes and nods. “Oh, I see.”  

A new awkward silence.  

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I also came to see if you had finished writing your letters. Do you remember? We agreed that I would come early to take them.”  

“Ah, right,” Madara answers before going to look for them in the drawer. This time he will not only ask for her help to send his secret letter to Hashirama, but also some for Izuna and Naori. He hands them to her. “I feel like I’m abusing your hospitality.”  

She shakes her head and puts the three cards inside her pouch. “Do not mention it. I do it with great pleasure.”  

Still , Madara thinks, pursing his lips.  

“Um... it’s a wonderful day out there, are you sure you don’t want to go enjoy the sun for a while?”  

Madara feels that he has already enjoyed the sun too much for his liking, but she has been helping him too much, so why not humour her a bit?  

“Sure,” he says and follows her out of the building.  

One might think that days in the desert were always the same—hot and humid during the days, cold at nights. And while that was largely true, there were times when Madara could walk the local streets without suffocating or having to cover his head.  

Maybe he was slowly getting used to the climate there? Was his body really that easy to adjust to? He was not surprised, for he was a child who grew up in the midst of deprivation. If there was one thing Uchiha Madara could do well, it was adapting.  

When they go to the middle of the street, a ball rolls towards them. Madara looks up—children playing at the end of the street. He would have expected those kids to run away out of fear of him, as children in Konoha used to do, but there was the miracle of that place: no one knew him. Madara kicks the ball and it flies back to them. They raise a hand in the air, in gratitude before continue.  

He smiles upon seeing this and then, remembers who he is with and follows Sora.  

She has not missed a moment of this interaction. “The people of this place have adapted quite well to your presence.”  

He responds with a “Mn”, not knowing what to say.  

“Wouldn’t this be a sign that it would do you good to stay here for a while?”  

In spite of himself, Madara was shocked.  

She registers this too and laughs. “Just joking, of course! Although, now you seem used to this place; even your body has been adopting that interesting tan and—”  

Madara makes a noise in his throat. “Interesting tan?”  

The girl looks away and shrugs. “It was just a joke, Madara.”  

He had only been there for a very short time, after all. Maybe that’s why it seemed so difficult for him to get used to her ‘jokes’. Maybe he never could, nor would he want to, either.  

Without being able to help it, he puts a hand on his chest, where he has kept the letter. The closest to holding Hashirama’s hand.  

They continue walking. Where were they going to?  

“The letter you were reading a while ago,” she says, “was it from your special person, maybe? You were all blushing.”  

Madara lets out a long sigh. So much false closeness made him restless.  

“Aye,” he answers, looking ahead.  

She nods and doesn’t take her finger off the line. “You must miss them a lot,” she says. “After all, Konoha is very far from here... three days away.” Madara looks up at the cloudless sky. Sora adds, “Almost on the other side of the world.”  

They both stop when they reach the square. There are many people gathered there that day. A small market has been built and children play with colourful kites that fly through the sky.  

Normally it is there where he meets Mito in the mornings, on the way to breakfast, or to go somewhere else to chat.  

However, this morning seems to be different. He looks around with a frown, making a visor with his hand. And his gaze involuntarily strays to the kites in the air, to one shaped like a dragon.  

“It’s almost completely gone,” Sora whispers next to him.  

Madara turns his attention away from the kites and back to her. She hasn’t looked away from him; she almost never can.  

“Oh?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.  

She puts a fist to her lips, nervous, and her face turns red again.  

And he thought the girls in his clan were... awkward. That was because he didn’t know this lass.  

“I mean your scar, the one on your cheek.”  

Madara feels a shiver run through him from head to toe as he remembers how he got it. The sandstorm in the desert, the ambush—the scent of blood in the air, Mito wounded, and the uncertainty of whether they would survive the attack or not.  

The half smile that had appeared on his face with the kites, disappears.  

He’s taking everything for granted. He frowns slightly again and feels a punch in his stomach.  

He went there with a mission, which he has not fully fulfilled yet. He has gone to a couple of state diners together with Mito, yes, but they have not been able to come to anything concrete. He’s been wasting too much time playing the longing lover, that he’s been neglecting the real reason he was there for.  

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t been able to see Mito that morning, because she’s doing her part of the job.  

The threat of a war between those two villages still was very plausible. And there he was, enjoying the day, walking with that pretty girl, looking at the kites in the air while pondering about whether he should buy one for Izuna or not.  

He gulps.  

“I guess it helps a lot that you wield such large amounts of chakra,” she comments. “You’ve been working hard on it, I can see.”  

So, she has noticed it? Madara thinks. She has noticed how much he has been training in chakra control with Mito. Cunning girl.  

If this curious girl noticed, who else?  

She says, grinning, “It will look good on you. It will make you look tougher and so handsome.”  

He chuckles in response. He wouldn’t be Uchiha Madara if he let himself be scared by those flirtatious words. He was smarter than that.  

“I highly doubt your special someone would mind a new scar on your face, right?”  

Madara smiles as he thinks about Hashirama, and the fact that the vast majority of the scars he had on his body were his fault.  

“No,” Madara says. “They won’t mind.”  

She averts her gaze.  

“We are shinobi,” he adds, “what harm does one more scar, one less? What matters is that we survived.”  

An interesting gleam appears in the girl’s eyes.  

She nods. “Of course.”  

Madara sighs and casts a look around her, again searching for Mito in the crowd. “By the way, Sora —”  

She gasps. It worked.  

Madara notices the weight that this simple action has on the girl. “A long time ago—when we drank together...”  

Sora composes herself. She clenches her fists tightly and nods. “Ah, yes, I remember.”  

He crosses his arms and looks away, as if they were talking about the weather. “That night you mentioned the Ichibi and a person who was related to it.”  

The girl blinks in disbelief and asks, “Did I do that?”  

Madara nods. “You did, yes. At that moment your brother showed up and you couldn’t tell us about it anymore.”  

Sora puts a hand on the back of her neck. Her face flushes red as she remembers how drunk she was that night. “I’m afraid I got very ill that night and can barely remember it. Madara-sama perhaps misinterpreted my words?”  

Madara chuckles and looks at her, lost in thought. “Maybe I remembered it wrong. Do not worry.”  

She places her hands on Madara’s arms, startling him. She stands on tiptoe, too close to his face, brushing her nose with his, locking her eyes with the Uchiha’s and whispers, “Tonight.”  

He widens his eyes, uncomprehending.  

Sora looks away, shy. “Look for me in my room tonight, before dinner.”  

Madara raises an eyebrow.  

She adds, “Knock twice, but do not speak; I will know it is you.”  

Madara nods and she concludes in his ear, tightening her grip on his strong arms, her nails lightly digging into his clothes. “I will tell you everything; I will take you to him, if you want.”  

Madara sensed that this task would be easier if he became closer to the girl, but this... wasn’t this being too easy?  

She seems to notice his hesitancy. “I don’t plan on taking advantage of you, Uchiha Madara.” She tucks another strand of hair behind her ear and takes a decent distance from him. After all, they are in plain sight and it is broad daylight. “But my rooms are right on the opposite side of my brother’s dining room and out of his entire entourage sight, so, it should be easy for us to sneak away.”  

Madara makes a noise in his throat—almost nowhere near bursting into laughter. Should he...trust her? Wasn’t he being too naive?  

Sora tilts his head. “If you want to know more about the Ichibi, you will have to leave this place and it will not be easy—all the doors are guarded and there are lookouts everywhere. You’ll need someone who knows this place like the back of their hand.”  

Whom , he thinks, I assume, is you?  

She grins as if she had read his mind.  

Madara sighs. He doesn’t like this girl enough to want to spend so much time with her, but he understands that if he wants to advance with this investigation, he will have to trust her. At least a little.  

“And your brother will be so easy to deceive? How will I go unnoticed? I usually have dinner in the same room as him every night, right under his nose.”  

Sora looks around, looking for anyone eavesdropping.  

“That’s why we have Mito.”  

He frowns. “Mito? What does Mito have to do with this?”  

Sora shrugs. “My brother likes her; you surely have noticed.”  

Madara can barely stop himself from rolling his eyes. He snorts and says, “We travelled with him. Of course I have noticed.”  

Sora says, “See? There is your answer. Ask Mito to dine with my brother tonight and excuse you, telling him that you are going out for a walk with me. He knows I like you a lot and he won’t see anything suspicious in your absence.”  

Madara rises an eyebrow. He’s not so sure about it. His closeness to Hashirama is well known in that place—even that damned Hibiki has made comments about it.  

He won’t buy it!  

Sora laughs again. “My, Madara, look at your face!”  

He doesn’t share her comedy. “You will put yourself in great danger by doing that. You would be betraying your own brother,” Madara feels very disgusted. “And what for? What benefit do you get from this?”  

Sora raises her hands and places them on his shoulders, with great confidence, knowing that he is the one who needs her. “Let’s just say I’ll get my pay in due course.”  

Madara’s eyebrow keeps rising in response.  

Sora bites her lip, as if she were jesting. “At most, I’ll ask you for a kiss and that’s it—or I don’t know, maybe I’ll ask you to take me to Konoha after all this is over. I have spent my entire life in this sandy desert and the descriptions of your land have captivated me.” She shrugs. “If the opportunity presents itself, I would go with you without hesitation.”  

The sun had passed its zenith; there was no time to lose. Besides, he was getting tired of that girl.  

Remembering the letter he carried hidden in his clothes, he nods. He had done worse things during the war to ensure the well-being of his people. Playing with this girl wouldn’t be difficult. In the end, even Hashirama would understand.  

“I must tell Mito first,” he says. “I won’t make her do it.”  

Madara remembered how much Mito disgusted their clingy host. He wouldn’t blame her if she refused.  

“Of course, of course,” Sora says.  

Madara lets out another sigh and looks around, searching for Mito in the crowd.  

 

* * *  

 

The snow stopped falling with the first rays of sun. Hashirama watched everything from his room. After the nightmare, he had felt unable to fall asleep again.  

Instead, he had preferred to stay inside his room, working.  

Madara had not only told him about the ambush, but also about the “tremors” they felt at night.  

Hashirama soon came to the same conclusion as him, as he was aware that the Kyuubi was not the only creature of its kind to inhabit the world.  

He hadn’t managed to save much of his personal library from the Senju encampment, but as those weeks passed, he had amassed a new collection that included knowledge from other clans as well.  

Now he had more possibilities to learn and know things that had previously escaped his control. Now , he could help Madara somehow.  

However, both his clan and the rest thought of those monsters as mere creatures of legend, so there wasn’t much information that was truly useful.  

Maybe , he thinks, if I ask Reto directly, he’ll surely know.  

Although, Hashirama ponders, putting a hand to his chin, wouldn’t he find it suspicious? He frowns. How to explain this sudden interest in sand folk legends? He can’t just go, claiming that he is interested in them, right?  

He sighs. He hates not being helpful to Madara in the way he would like.  

Hashirama spends some time silently meditating on what he should do and so, the first rays of the sun arrive, breaking through the heavy winter clouds.  

After putting on clean clothes and styling his hair, he goes to have a light snack. They have a very important council that day, where he will finally tell the clan heads about the crest that would unite them as a village.  

This is, of course, if the vast majority agrees with him.  

Hashirama brings the cup to his lips and finishes the rest of his tea.  

He suddenly feels like he has too much burden on his shoulders. He spent his entire life preparing to become a clan head, but this... this was not what he had expected. He had watched his father work for years and he now was sure that the work of a clan head was nothing compared to that of a village leader.  

But why was he complaining now? There was nothing else to do but keep going.  

Hashirama leaves home early with the intention of going to Tobirama first, so he can have a private talk with him.  

He senses that the weight of that secret is too heavy for him alone—besides, his little brother is known to have good tact when it comes to this kind of matter, so...  

“Hashirama,” someone calls behind him.  

He turns to see who called him. Touka.  

“Hi, sorry, I didn’t see you!”  

It was true, he had been so immersed in his thoughts that he had walked next to his cousin without realising it.  

She understands and says, “It’s early, were you looking for Tobirama?”  

He moves closer to her so he doesn’t have to raise his voice too much. “The truth is that I have something important to tell you all.”  

Touka widens her eyes. You all , that is, the Hokage’s small trusted group in which she, Tobirama, Izuna and Naori were.  

This had to be important if the Hokage was taking it so seriously.  

Hashirama says, “I’ll tell you everything as soon as everyone is present.”  

Touka chuckles and places a hand on his shoulder. She is almost as tall as him. “Hey, calm down, will you? Whatever is going on in your head, you will be able to solve it. If there is anyone who can do wonders, isn’t it you?”  

Hashirama forces a smile and nods.  

Touka sighs and crosses her arms. “Okay, now...uh, you better go entertain yourself somewhere else, because you won’t find your little brother at home. I saw him with Izuna and Naori a while ago. They were going to have breakfast somewhere before the council.”  

Hashirama can’t help but look surprised upon hearing this. Why does he suddenly feel like his brother had pushed him aside?  

Was Tobirama’s grudge towards Madara so great? He wouldn’t want to—oh, he couldn’t ever choose between them.  

“Or maybe you could come with me,” Touka suggests. Hashirama looks up. “I was on my way to check if the food supplies were enough for us Senju to get through the winter. It will help you to use that head of yours for things that don’t have to do with hostages.”  

She was right and he didn’t want to think about Madara or his brother until it was time for the council.  

Hashirama follows her and as they walk in an awkward silence, Touka says, “I know we said we wouldn’t talk about hostages, but what have you thought about them? Mito has told me that she and Madara have already been at least introduced to the sand leaders, but they have not gone beyond mere state dinners and uncomfortable situations. This is why I ask you, what have you thought about them? Do you plan to take them to any of our meetings—the eldest one, at least. The little one...” Touka pretends to shudder. “That little guy gives me a bad feeling.”  

Hashirama chuckles. “He is a victim of war. Weren’t we like that as well?”  

“I never had that... dark and lost gaze, even though I also suffered losses in the war. Nor you.”  

We all lost something in the war , Hashirama thinks. But each one found their own way of dealing with it.  

“So Mito has written to you?” he asks, interested. Happy that his cousin has made friends.  

Touka shrugs. “We’ve exchanged a couple of letters, that’s all. But yeah, I’ve made a friend in her, I guess.” Then she turns to look at him. “You don’t mind, do you? That is, you and her—”  

Hashirama shakes his head, grinning. “Of course I don’t mind, Touka. Everything is fine between us. We are good friends.”  

Touka chuckles. “Good!”  

And to answer her first question—and to change the subject—he says, “Now, back to our guests, I was thinking of taking them to one council soon, but after what I’ve learned... I’d rather wait.”  

Touka raises an eyebrow, “This thing you urgently need to tell us has to do with what’s happening in the desert?”  

Hashirama nods and together, they greet a group of people passing by.  

When they are alone on the street again, Hashirama adds, “I feel like it would be wise to wait and see what everyone else thinks. Only then, will I feel safe to discuss it with the rest of the clan heads.”  

Touka stops dead and asks quietly, “You don’t think there’s a spy among us, do you?”  

Hashirama hadn’t thought about that. Not until he heard it from Touka’s lips, at least.  

“I hope not,” he says.  

But then, how come they were ambushed? Hibiki’s men had no real reason to attack them, right? Why leave only those outlanders alive?  

“Let’s continue, shall we?” Hashirama asks. “I will tell you the details after the council.”  

Touka releases the breath she was carrying in her chest and continues walking next to him, leaving those discussions aside and instead, they start chatting about the weather.  

 

* * *  

 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, Hokage-sama,” Sasuke says, putting a hand to his chin.  

Hashirama sighs and places both hands on the desk. “What part of this you don’t understand, Sarutobi?”  

The rest of the attendees turn to talk among themselves in low voices, without taking their eyes off Hashirama, some with fear and others with distrust.  

Sasuke says, “Each of our clans has their own crest already, why would we change them for a new one?”  

Hashirama tries his best not to roll his eyes. Instead, he half-smiles at the other man. “It’s not about changing our clan crests for a new one, but... we could start using this new one, as well.”  

Hashirama has brought a prototype to the council, a work done by his trusted Uchiha blacksmith himself, and has placed it in the centre of the desk, so that the rest can see it.  

Those present whisper among themselves again, as if all this were too difficult to understand.  

One of them raises his hand, asking to speak. The Hokage bows his head, granting it.  

“And why is this necessary?”  

The people next to him nod, following the game.  

Hashirama explains, “This would help all the inhabitants of Konoha see themselves as members of the same village; it would help them feel part of Konoha, like a village, as their home, and not just like the place where we have all decided to live in.”  

“Does this mean there will be a new war after all? Are you preparing our military uniforms already, Hokage-sama?” the Shimura clan head asks. “Then we have we sent Uchiha Madara to the other side of the world for nothing!”  

His comment generates conflict in the rest of the attendees. Everyone starts looking at each other, frowning, worried and upset with this.  

Tobirama calls for order, “The Hokage has not finished speaking.”  

It works.  

“Thank you, Tobirama,” the Hokage says. Then he clears his throat and explains, “Negotiations have not concluded—they have not even officially begun, actually. And although I would like to tell you that this is soon over, unfortunately, that is not the case.” Hashirama frowns. “But it also doesn’t mean that there is going to be a new war nearby. If I have suggested that the inhabitants of Konoha accept this new badge as a symbol of our unity, it was because I hope that soon we can all get along, despite the fact that our clans have had their differences in the past. If we, Senju, have been able to put aside our differences with the Uchiha—and our common hatred had very deep roots—then I have faith that the same can happen with the rest of the village.”  

Izuna smiles and says, “I support the Hokage’s initiative.” Naori nods and Izuna adds, “We Uchiha will accept the new crest with pride. It will look good attached to ours.”  

All eyes turn to the young Uchiha. Many of them are incredulous that this brat is here, making such decisions on his behalf, without even discussing it with the elders of his clan.  

The leader of the Yamanaka clan is the next to express her support for the Hokage’s proposal, perhaps excited by those young Uchiha. “The Yamanaka will also embrace it with pride!”  

And Mito’s cousin, the person in charge of the Uzumaki in his absence, says, “I will discuss it with my clan as soon as possible.”  

Little by little, the other clan heads express their support, although it is clear that many of them do so out of pressure.  

In the end, when only the Sarutobi and the Shimura are left behind, both end up expressing their support for the young leader, though it seems to be lip service.  

It doesn’t matter , Hashirama thinks. It is progress still, even if it is this way.  

The council concludes after this and the attendees leave the meeting room.  

When they are finally alone, Hashirama asks his brother, “Do you want to go get something to eat?”  

Hashirama was looking to somehow regain the closeness that he had had with his brother in the past.  

Tobirama shrugs and looks away. “Maybe later.”  

Again? Hashirama sighs.  

“Okay, I’ll be direct, seeing as you’re still resisting. This is urgent,” he tells him. “There is a situation in the desert and—”  

“You figure it out,” Tobirama replies. “You’re our leader, I’m sure you’re capable of solving whatever trouble your Madara is causing.”  

Izuna, who had been talking to Naori to give them privacy, turns around with a frown. “Is my brother in trouble?”  

Naori also approaches with a worried look on her face.  

Hashirama shakes his head. “No, it’s just—”  

“Hush,” Touka whispers beside him. Hashirama bites his tongue. “There is someone nearby.”  

Hashirama turns to look at his brother and after a couple of seconds, Tobirama nods. “There is a trace of chakra, not far away. Barely noticeable, but there it is.”  

Hashirama lets out a tired sigh.  

Izuna tells them, “Tonight.” Everyone turns to look at him. “Let’s meet somewhere far from here and discuss what you have to tell us.”  

“It could be in the Uchiha district,” Naori suggests. “We will be able to talk calmly there.”  

Izuna nods. “Yeah, besides, if you say my brother is fine, I don’t see why this cannot wait.”  

Tobirama puts a couple of fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Well, we’ll meet at Izuna’s at, say, ten?”  

Touka nods and Naori says, “That sounds good to me.”  

Now is the Hokage’s turn. All eyes fly to him.  

He forces a smile. Little by little, he is filled with confidence again; he knows he can trust them. “Mn. I’ll see you there.”  

 

* * *  

 

Madara is looking out the window, his gaze directed at the enormous wall separating him from the world.  

Behind him, the scraping of knuckles on his door is heard. “Get in.”  

Mito quickly enters the room and closes the door behind, careful not to make any noise.  

Madara turns to face her and approaches her, so as not to have to speak too loudly.  

She is dressed in her best clothes already, in clothing her relatives in Konoha sent her. She looks beautiful, even he can admit this.  

“You know you don’t have to do this,” he tells her.  

Mito takes a deep breath and walks to sit on the edge of the bed. “I must admit that I am a little... uneasy about it.”  

Sure, Madara knew what it felt like to have to sit at a table next to a jerk while pretend to be interested in what he’s telling you.  

“He may be an idiot,” he says, taking a seat next to her, “but above all, he is a leader, and knows that offending you would cause him problems.”  

Mito nods, she had thought about that too.  

“If he wants to benefit from this, he must treat his guests well. He wouldn’t want the Hokage to find out that he had offended you.”  

Mito looks at him, “I am not afraid of him, it’s just...” she snorts. “It’s not like I hasn’t been alone with him before. In the desert, when you were—I’ll be fine. Trust me.”  

Madara half smiles. “I trust you.”  

She bites the inside of her cheek and looks away. To put a safe distance between them, Mito stands up. “Besides, this will help our mission, won’t it?”  

She looks at him over her shoulder and Madara nods. “I came here to be of help, so I will do whatever it takes.”  

Madara stands up too, but gives her space.  

She adds, “And it’s not like I’m the only one who has to spend time with some pedantic foreigner, right?”  

Madara chuckles. “The Hokage better erect a statue of us for our sacrifices.”  

Mito also laughs. “Well, shall we go?”  

Madara takes one last look at his room and then says, “Aye.”  

They both go out into the corridor and walk together until they reach the intersection where they must part. She will dine with Hibiki and he will sneak to the opposite side of the building, where Sora’s room is located.  

They exchange a nod as farewell.  

Madara wastes no time. He knows that Hibiki won’t buy the lie and will somehow send some spy after them—so, if he can take advantage of those minutes to sneak out of the settlement, he will.  

Upon reaching the room, he knocks twice on the door and waits. The response is immediate and the door opens when he has not yet removed his hand.  

Sora wears dark clothes, like his. If they want to hide in the shadows, they’d better look like them.  

Sora grabs his hand and gets him into the room. She locks the door from the inside and before Madara can process anything, she opens the window. “Here.”  

He’s quick to follow.  

“There is no way we can escape down the street; my brother has guards everywhere.” Sora stands on her windowsill and reaches the roof in an agile leap. Madara imitates her.  

It’s very windy that night and Sora puts on a hood to hide her hair, to avoid attracting unwanted attention.  

“Suppress your chakra first,” she says. “It will be more difficult for them to find us that way. Are you ready?”  

He’s ready.  

Madara puts on his own hood and comes to her side. “After you.”  

 

* * *  

 

Hikaku thinks Naori has been ignoring him. That afternoon, during the council, it seemed as if he wasn’t present for her, as if her duties as second-in-command of the Uchiha were more important than the one guy who had been her friend for years.  

She had been affectionate with him until...what happened the night of Madara’s birthday. Sure, Naori used to lecture and tease him all the time, but now, it was like he didn’t exist anymore. She barely dared to greet him when she saw him on the street or at the shrine.  

Naori remained silent for much of the council, and the only time she opened her mouth was to give her opinion on the Hokage’s idea of everyone accepting his new crest.  

It was all quite strange, if he thought about it. What was going through her mind? What was it that had her so... distracted?  

A while ago, he saw her chatting with Izuna at the shrine and just when they both noticed his presence, they parted ways, arguing some poor excuse before walking away.  

Strange. This was extremely strange.  

Hikaku walks straight to Naori’s house and sneaks into her room with utmost discretion.  

He doesn’t have to worry much. Hikaku knows the house is empty; he saw Naori’s parents leave shortly before, when he was walking down the street, so he knows that he will be able to talk with her, at last.  

Well, maybe it is not that empty: Naori is home, taking a bath. There are lights on inside and steam is coming out of the bathroom skylight.  

Hikaku waits in the lamplit girl’s room meanwhile. The candle in the desk casts a tinkling light that creates dancing shadows in the room. Hikaku heads there, to the desk. There are many documents scattered on it. Maps, books and letters, some in common language and many others encrypted. He learned the code when he was a child, but he hasn’t used it in a long time, so he has some trouble deciphering the letter he has in his hand.  

There are descriptions of the desert on it, so Hikaku instantly concludes that this letter was written by Madara himself. He raises an eyebrow at his brush strokes, neat and elegant—made by a hand trained for this type of art. This makes his stomach turn.  

It’s a damn long letter and it would take an inexperienced person like him all night to decipher it entirely.  

He frowns, feeling a sting in the pit of his stomach.  

Jealousy is such a horrible feeling. Hikaku sworn that he had long ago stopped feeling jealous of Uchiha Madara, but that wasn’t true. Maybe that feeling would never go away, now that he was honest with himself. Well, how could he not be envious of the Uchiha prodigy?  

Hikaku continues reading, even though he doesn’t really like the fact that this letter was written by Madara. That is, the clan head in his absence is Izuna. If Madara had any requiring or had something important to say, wouldn’t it be wise to consult it with Izuna? Why write to Naori then? She assured him that she and Madara weren’t that close, so...?  

Now that the entire clan was aware that there would be no wedding between the two of them, shouldn’t they keep their distance? If someone found out that Naori and Madara were secretly corresponding, wouldn’t it spark new rumours about their non-existent relationship? Hikaku senses that the Hokage wouldn’t be too happy to know that his favourite person was writing to his former betrothed, would he?  

Hikaku feels restless and although he tries his best to read the rest of the letter, there are many words that he doesn’t understand and he can barely finish deciphering a single paragraph. Annoyed, he tosses the letter back on the desk just as Naori enters the room.  

“What are you doing here?” she asks in a serious voice.  

Hikaku turns to her with a fake smile and shrugs. “I saw you were alone and I came in to say hello.”  

Naori raises an eyebrow, as if she doesn’t quite buy it. She is wearing only a robe, so she tells him, “Well, go wait outside. I need to get dressed.”  

Hikaku grins and says, “Why don’t you just get dressed in front of me? It’s not like I haven’t seen you—”  

“Go wait outside!” Naori insists, and her voice suggests that she will not repeat it again.  

He raises his hands in defeat. “All right, I’ll go wait outside!”  

Naori shakes her head and waits until he leaves the room. “And do not even think about activating that sharingan of yours—I’ll know if you use it!” she warns him.  

He responds from behind the door, “Do you remember what happened that night, after the celebration? Do you still feel shy about this?”  

Hikaku refers to Madara’s birthday celebration. And, yes, Naori remembers it too well, unfortunately.  

She had been drinking some of that sweet sake and soon, her judgment became a bit clouded. She was sad about Madara’s absence and the Hokage’s presence hadn’t helped much either. In the end, one thing had led to another and before she knew it, they had walked away from the celebration. She kissed him and whispered in his ear, asking him to fuck her right there in the alley. He reminded her that someone like her deserved better and Naori grinned and asked him to take her to his bed, instead. He didn’t refuse, even though his mouth smelled as much of sake as hers. She had stripped and thrown herself onto his futon. Then, she spent the next twenty minutes trying not to think too much about the tiny detail that the young man thrusting clumsily into her wasn’t Uchiha Madara—that it would never be Uchiha Madara, no matter how much she wished him to.  

She gets dressed soon and brushes her hair absentmindedly. She cannot linger long; she must find a way to get rid of Hikaku soon.  

“Are you dressed already?” Hikaku asks, sensing that Naori has taken too long to get dressed. “Naori, can I—?”  

Naori feels uneasy and sighs. “Come in,” she says.  

Hikaku enters as soon as she gives him permission and asks, “What’s wrong?”  

Naori shrugs. “Nothing.”  

Sure .  

Hikaku does not buy that lie and approaches her, placing his lips on her bare neck.  

She grants him permission for a while, until she shudders and elbows him away.  

He frowns and says, “What’s wrong with you?! Bet you wouldn’t push me away if I were Madara!”  

Naori turns to look at him with a frown. “Go away, I’m busy!”  

Naori goes back to work. Indeed, that desk looks like that of a busy person.  

“After what has happened between us, you’re throwing me out so easily?”  

Naori answers without looking at him, her eyes fixed on the letter in her hands, “Many people in this village have sex.”  

Hikaku gasps and asks her with genuine pain in his voice, “Wasn’t it important to you?”  

Naori sighs and turns to look at him. “Aye, I admit, my words were... insensitive.”  

Your words aren’t the only insensitive thing in this room , he thinks with disdain.  

“But I really have a lot to do tonight and it’s private matters, so—”  

Hikaku rolls his eyes and says, “What? Did Madara leave you homework?”  

What Hikaku was doing might be called immature, but in a way, it was understandable. After all, he had spent his entire life under the enormous shadow of that boy called Uchiha Madara. They were the same age, but what Madara had managed to do in that short time was enough to cover the entire lives of two ordinary Uchiha, so he was obviously going to be jealous.  

It was the only thing he knew to do, after all. He was young and careless and had not yet discovered any ability that would distinguish him from the rest.  

But Naori still being so attentive to Madara, despite knowing that she wouldn’t have a chance with him, didn’t help. Hikaku couldn’t do against the real man, much less his shadow.  

Naori lets go of the letter and picks up a book that was on her side. It looks very old; its covers are made of old leather and its pages are yellowed and appear to be extremely fragile.  

“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asks, desperate. “I know how to read and your parents don’t seem to be coming back anytime soon, so...”  

Naori looks at him out of the corner of her eye and shakes her head.  

“I know it may seem like I’m insensitive or that I don’t want to spend time with you, but that’s not the case—I mean...” she sighs. “This is of the utmost importance and has to do with the future of the village. If our clan head himself has asked me to investigate these important matters...couldn’t you help me a little by simply—I don’t know, not thinking stupid things?!”  

He gives an unamused chuckle. “So, according to our most illustrious clan head, I cannot help you, not even keeping you company?”  

She looks at him and shrugs. “I’m afraid not. Madara expressed the importance that the fewer people who knew about this, the better.”  

Hikaku raises an eyebrow and scoffs. “Oh, why does he have to hide it from his own clan? I’m an Uchiha as well! What kind of leader would do that?”  

He doesn’t even know you exist, she thinks. Why are you taking it so personally?!  

Naori says, “Hikaku, I’m really busy. Come on, I’ll make it up to you another day. Tomorrow, by instance—let’s go out for a drink tomorrow night. My treat.”  

She really wanted to do that for him. She kind of liked Hikaku and deep down, he wasn’t as unbearable as he seemed. In fact, if Naori started to see him a certain way, she might even find him handsome.  

Oblivious to these thoughts, he says, “In my opinion, he takes his position as clan head too lightly.”  

Naori frowns, but says nothing.  

He shrugs. “I accompanied Izuna to Sora-ku. We made that long trip, to give him his gunbai and practically beg him to return, so that he could fulfil his duty as clan head.”  

“Hikaku—”  

He raises his hands. “Wait at least, I bet you’d like to hear what he did when he met Hashirama again.”  

Naori purses her lips into a firm line. She’s heard that damn story before!  

“The whole trip was too emotional for everyone, I guess,” Hikaku adds. “I mean, there we were, his clan—his own blood, but he could barely look away from that Senju.”  

“Hikaku—”  

“He will never notice you; why are you still trying so hard to please him?!” Hikaku shakes his head. “He will never leave the Hokage. He is obsessed with him and you know it! Madara would send this entire clan to hell in the blink of an eye if Hashirama asked! Wasn’t that the first thing he did when he returned? Going to his tent, neglecting us?!”  

“Hikaku!”  

He lets out an exasperated growl. “I do not know how to make you notice me! Despite everything that has happened these last few months, you still believe that he will come one day and notice you! Naori, look at you, wasting time, hoping that he will somehow forget the Hokage and realise he has always loved you, but that’s not going to happen!”  

Naori slams a fist on the desk. “I am busy! I don’t have time to entertain you!”  

Hikaku lets out a sigh, trying to calm himself down. He walks to the window and, looking up at the moon, says, “I’m not the only one who thinks he’s ill-suited for the position of leader.”  

Her heart hurts a little, perhaps because of the harshness of his words. Either way, she tries to concentrate on her work. Naori doesn’t look up from the book she has in front, but she strains her hearing.  

“Many people in the clan think the same. They just stay quiet when you or Izuna are around.”  

Naori turns to him and says, “That’s treason.”  

Hikaku shakes his head. “Wanting the best for our clan is not treason.”  

Naori lets out a disbelieving laugh. “Yes, but you don’t do it for our clan’s sake; you are jealous of him.”  

Hikaku sighs and watches the nearest tree move in the cold night breeze. He wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it snowed again.  

“I’m not jealous of him,” Hikaku lies. “I accept my position. Nobody denies that he is the strongest. There is no doubt about that. He’s a prodigy...none of us could have lasted five minutes against Senju Hashirama on the battlefield, and Madara could even afford to play with him for days without getting a single scratch.” Hikaku shakes his head. “I know that even if he were not Tajima’s heir, he would still have ended up being our leader. It’s just... there’s something about him that doesn’t inspire trust among the Uchiha.” Naori says nothing. “I accompanied Izuna to those distant lands, because I trust him. We all did it for that reason—we didn’t go to rescue Madara; it was obvious that he did not want to be rescued.”  

Hikaku turns, back at Naori. “We need Izuna to take control of the clan as soon as this is all over.”  

Naori closes her book. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and asks, “Is that what the others say? Are there people in our clan planning on taking Madara’s position?”  

Hikaku shakes his head. “Of course not! We simply thought that the most sensible thing would be to put Izuna as leader, since he is Madara’s only heir. Our clan would not rise up against him—we would have no chance!” He shrugs. “Also, Tajima’s passing is still fresh and we appreciated him much. Out of respect for him, we wouldn’t never do that.”  

Naori chuckles and says, “Respect? None of you have one bit of respect to Tajima-sama’s memory. If you tolerate Madara, it’s because you fear him.”  

Hikaku walks up to the desk and says, “We need a leader who is powerful, but at the same time, we need someone with determination in his soul. That person should want the best for our clan, like our ancestors did in the past.”  

Naori stares at a nearby wall, pensive.  

He continues, “When I was a kid, my parents used to tell me stories about the Uchiha of old. Fierce shinobi who teamed up with fantastic creatures to protect our clan. Powerful creatures, controlled by the power of our sharingan, and—”  

Naori gasps.  

Hikaku raises an eyebrow, “What’s wrong?”  

Naori is speechless. She searches the desk for a specific book, one that is under the rest. She gasps again when she finds it and begins to quickly flip through it.  

“What are you looking for?” he tries again.  

Naori says, “It is nothing,” but her eyes have widened and the insistence with which she searches through those pages says otherwise. She reaches a specific page and whispers, “Susanoo.”  

Hikaku narrows his eyes and asks, “What did you say?”  

Naori gets up and takes the book with her. She puts on a heavy haori and blows out the candles. She circles around Hikaku and upon reaching the door, she tells him, “Leave before my parents come back; I’ll tell them about us, but not tonight.”  

Hikaku frowns and walks up to her, demanding, “What happened? What did you find? Are you not going to tell me?!”  

She shakes her head and clutches the book to her chest. “There’s no time; I need to go find Izuna.”  

Hikaku clicks his tongue. “Izuna? What the hell does Izuna have to do with this?”  

“Begone. We’ll talk later!”  

Hikaku watches in disbelief as Naori runs away, leaving him behind. Again.  

Chapter 15

There were too many stars in the sky. A snowless night, the first in a long time.  

Izuna was lying at the top of the stairs leading to the shrine. He was the one who lived closest to the place, so he had arrived first. He had walked in the darkness, covered by his heavy cloak, always averting his gaze.  

It was said that most Uchiha looked alike, so he could use that quality that night. The interim clan head, hidden in the shadows.  

It was necessary that no one recognized him, after all. Izuna couldn’t know what Hashirama was so desperate to tell them, but he sensed it must be something about Madara, or else he wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.  

If it had to do with politics, he would have mentioned it during the council; and if it were some relationship issue, he wouldn’t tell the rest. So this must be important—about Madara, yes, but something Hashirama could tell those closest to him.  

Izuna grimaces. He had spent the entire day shrouded in uncertainty because of this.  

What could it be? What if Hashirama had told Madara about the little tantrum he’d thrown when he found out his dear older brother had taught a stranger their secret code?  

A stranger? Why did he keep thinking and acting like a child?  

“No,” Izuna whispers to himself. “Not everything revolves around you. This isn’t about you.”  

Izuna sighs. He had to stop thinking about those childish things now that he was in charge of the clan, again. His brother loved him—he trusted him. So much so that he had decided to relinquish control of the clan not just once, but twice. Madara saw him as a successor, an heir.  

His brother loved him. Madara might now have a new loved one—this old enemy—but that didn’t mean his heart couldn’t held love for Izuna anymore.  

But it was still difficult to understand. Madara was all Izuna knew as family, even before their father died. Izuna had always lived in the shadows, listening to his older brother while cleaning his armour or sparring in the Uchiha camp. Silent, but always thinking of his Senju counterpart.  

Izuna wishes he could tell the time. He tilts his head and looks at the nascent village before him—Konoha, with its dark buildings under construction and all the torches illuminating its streets.  

A smile appears in his mouth, and he closes his eyes. Then, a feeling of relief rises in his chest. Things had changed radically in those last few months, but at least now he could take some liberties. Now he could allow himself to close his eyes without fearing an enemy would suddenly attack him.  

He could also allow himself to lounge around, while he waited for his allies— his friends —to arrive. He could think about things that had nothing to do with his clan, or the village, or the Senju... Senju .  

Izuna’s eyes snap open as he felt a blow to his chest. The sky looked bright, vast, and so beautiful that night. It seemed as if all those stars were about to fall on him at once.  

His heart skips a beat, and reaches a hand toward the sky, as if to catch a star.  

And as strange as it may seem, it is not his brother he’s thinking about tonight.  

The clouds that threatened to drop more snow were still there, too—crossing the sky at high speeds, obscuring the moon and stars from time to time.  

Izuna sighs, and to push away the intrusive thoughts, he wonders instead if his older brother could be stargazing in the desert at that time. He could be, perhaps. Izuna knew little about life in the desert, so he couldn’t know if this kind of spectacle was common there.  

Despite his important role in the village, Izuna wasn’t allowed—or at least he hadn’t been invited yet—to converse with the hostages. Only the Hokage and his brother had that privilege. He, like the rest of the clan heads, had to settle for what he could glean at the councils.  

He tries to turn his thoughts away from the white snow on the roofs, to think instead of the jet black of his brother’s hair. It works somewhat. That’s how it had been in years past, when it was just the two of them, stargazing.  

Two brothers in the middle of a war, in a camp hidden in the woods.  

So much had happened since then.  

White snow— Tobirama .  

Izuna swallows.  

He could barely recognise himself. It was ridiculous! The previous winter had been so different—how could he have thought so many abrupt changes would happen in such a short time?  

It was in moments like these that he missed his brother so much. More than he liked to admit.  

He was just a boy, after all.  

Yes, his brother had faced more demanding challenges at a younger age than Izuna had been at the time, but still. It was to be expected that Madara could solve every problem thrown his way—he had always been a prodigy, the best since he was little, but Izuna wasn’t Madara.  

Izuna sighs again and decides to think about something else.  

But it was hard, and the letters his brother sent him didn’t help either. If anything, they made him feel more restless than usual. Melancholic and worried.  

He frowned. He hated the thought of Madara having trouble in the desert. A part of Izuna—his more childish side, perhaps—liked to think that his brother was the strongest shinobi in the world and that he could handle any problem that came his way.  

That’s how it had been before. That’s how he had grown up, watching his older brother being the best at everything.  

Gods, he couldn’t stop worrying. Two people flashed through his head, causing two very different feelings.  

It was much easier to think of his brother, even if it would bring him pain. At least the pain was familiar, but those other sensations... they terrified him.  

Why was his heart beating so hard?  

Izuna knew deep down that his brother was hiding the truth about what was happening in the desert, not in bad faith, but to keep him from worrying.  

He smiles slightly. A nervous smile.  

Izuna watches a falling star and his eyes widen. What was this? Some sign from the gods, from his father?  

Still, what pops into Izuna’s head has nothing to do with the gods or his family.  

The last time Izuna saw a star fall like that was a few days ago, during one of his nighttime sparring sessions with Tobirama, in his courtyard.  

There it was again, that feeling. His smile froze until it slowly disappeared.  

That other night had been very different from that one. Izuna could recall the snow falling lightly and the steam pouring from their mouths. A nighttime sparring match, like many others. And yet, it had felt different.  

Izuna had noticed that being the Hokage’s brother certainly had its benefits: Tobirama changed his clothes more often than the rest, and whenever a sword started to chip, he would get a new one.  

Not that Izuna looked at Tobirama often enough to notice these subtle changes, but...  

‘Oh, again?’ Tobirama had growled when he saw that it had been too easy to knock him down again. ‘Izuna, Izuna, Izuna, what the hell are you thinking?’  

Izuna had gasped in surprise, his eyes widening.  

Obviously, he wouldn’t admit—not even to himself—that he had gotten distracted by how well that new hanten looked on Tobirama.  

‘I...’ the boy had managed. ‘I got distracted, that’s all.’  

Tobirama had sneered, as was his custom. He dropped his sword, and it fell with a thud into the snow. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, and that was the end of Izuna.  

He had looked away as he listened to Tobirama slowly approach him.  

‘I think the cold is getting to you,’ Tobirama had said, stretching out his hand for Izuna to pull himself up. ‘I refuse to think that my bitterest rival has become so weak.’  

Izuna was left speechless, debating whether he should accept his hand, as he always did. That night he didn’t feel well—he couldn’t stop thinking about... nonsense.  

‘Come on, stand up now. You know I’m joking, right?’ Tobirama had been agitated, which had caused his voice to sound—how could Izuna describe it? ‘ Take my hand now! What do you want? To be carried in my arms?’  

Izuna shook his head in response and blushed a little.  

He knew a thing or two about hiding his feelings. He had grown up watching an expert doing it, and in the end, he had accepted his hand. Izuna pushed himself to his feet, very close to Tobirama.  

‘Look at that, your face is all red,’ Tobirama had said. He let go of his hand and turned to walk in the direction of his house. ‘Come, you’re the leader of the Uchiha in Madara’s absence, and your health is important.’  

Izuna felt the rush of his blood in his ears and could barely hear him.  

‘As second in command, it is almost my duty to make sure everyone is all right,’ Tobirama had said, but Izuna was too stunned to understand the meaning of those words.  

Why had he felt this way that night? It wasn’t the first time Izuna had felt so absurdly attracted to him. This happened far too often, to his misfortune, and even though it was true that he was growing up and no longer a child, it still all felt ridiculous.  

Maybe it had to do with the fact that Madara was far away, and therefore Izuna wasn’t forbidden from staring at his eternal enemy.  

Or maybe the reason for this was that, now that it was known that the Hokage himself loved another man quite openly, then, it was much easier for Izuna to understand that there was nothing wrong with him feeling so... enraptured with another boy.  

It all happened too fast to be able to do anything about it. His brother would be deeply upset if he found out, but Izuna knew it was highly unlikely Tobirama would ever reciprocate his feelings, so they could be kept safe and secret within his heart.  

No one would ever know, not even Naori, the one he most often confided in about these things.  

Izuna would suffer, but that was the price to pay to spend time with Tobirama, and he gladly accepted it that way.  

Izuna had squeezed his eyes shut and said in his head, Calm down now! It’s just sweat! You spar with other boys, and this doesn’t happen to you with them!  

‘Come, some sake will do you good,’ had said Tobirama. ‘What the hell are you doing standing there in the snow?’  

It is safer here, Izuna wanted to tell him . Maybe the cold will help me cool down.  

Izuna took a step and then another, feeling like everything was spinning—like all that snow and stars would eventually fall on him, killing him.  

He barely made it to the engawa without falling. Tobirama was still talking inside, but Izuna couldn’t hear him. He sat down and waited.  

Sparring on a night like this? What had they been thinking?  

Maybe that was the real problem: they weren’t thinking.  

They were a pair of stubborn kids. It was late, and it would probably snow for the rest of the night. There was no real reason for them to be doing this. Izuna was sure no one would attack Konoha that night.  

Yet there they had been, dancing in the dark, under the snowfall.  

‘Look, my brother has reminded me endlessly that I should not give you sake, at least not this kind.’ Tobirama had returned and taken a seat next to him. He showed him a bottle. ‘But you seem to need it. Besides, it’ll be our secret, aye?’  

His voice sounded shaky from the exertion and his hair was still shiny with sweat. Izuna could see the sweat trickling down his neck before dying in his clothes. He looked older that night, and very handsome.  

Izuna looked away and stood still, trying to decide what to do. He had finally nodded, but Tobirama wasn’t looking at him—he had been too busy pouring some sake for both of them.  

Izuna was breathing heavily, and discreetly, he glanced at him.  

Tobirama had sent his gaze skyward, to the threatening snow-laden clouds. ‘It looks like it will snow all night,’ he had said, more to break the awkward tension that had surrounded them, stating the obvious. He took the cup of sake to his mouth.  

This had made Izuna half-smile. His stupid, young heart had skipped a beat again, and Tobirama had turned to him as if he had heard it. ‘Come on, drink. Your brother is far away, and I won’t say a thing.’  

Izuna had then noticed the small cup of sake he had next to his hand. He took it and held it to his nose, sniffing it.  

This had always been a custom of Madara, and Izuna hadn’t realized how much he had inadvertently adopted from him.  

‘It smells good,’ Izuna had admitted.  

‘And it tastes even better,’ Tobirama had added, after finishing the remainder of his own cup. ‘Try it. It will be our secret.’  

There it was again, that stupid phrase. Izuna frowned and brought the cup to his lips, tasting its contents.  

Izuna had gestured as he passed the liquor. ‘Disgusting! And some people go to war over this?’  

A hint of a smile had appeared on Tobirama’s face. ‘Call it an acquired taste, Izuna, like the food you cook, for instance.’  

Izuna had responded with the maturity expected of a boy his age and punched him in his arm.  

Tobirama had grinned, though he kept his laughter to himself.  

Izuna had friends—he had many of them, in fact, but he had never felt this way about anyone before.  

Friends? Was Tobirama his friend now? So easily, so soon?  

Tobirama was the cause of his father’s death, after all. Little time had passed since then and Izuna could still remember the tent where his father lay dying—its terrible scent, his long agony.  

Tobirama’s cheeks had also turned red from the sake, and his bangs were too long to slightly obscure his gaze. Oh , it would be so easy for Izuna to reach out and brush those white hairs aside, so he could fully see his eyes.  

His heart skipped a beat, yet again.  

And Izuna himself had finished off Butsuma with his own hands. How had everything changed so quickly? How come he was now sitting there, next to Tobirama, stargazing while sharing his sake?  

Izuna puts a hand to his chest.  

What would Madara think if he saw him like this? If he knew what was inside Izuna’s head, inside his heart.  

Well, Madara had fallen in love with his enemy too, hadn’t he? He had planned to leave everything behind, to be by his side.  

Izuna looked down and saw himself reflected in the remaining contents of his cup. He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped down the last of the sake. The liquid burned as it went down his throat, and that uncomfortable feeling replaced the ache in his chest.  

‘Come on, it’s not that bad!’ Tobirama had pointed out, approaching him mockingly, thankfully unable to hear Izuna’s thoughts. ‘You’ll survive.’  

It was now or never.  

Izuna had leaned toward him, his clumsy lips brushing Tobirama’s cheek, right in the middle of one of his signature red stripes.  

A cup had fallen to the floor—Tobirama’s, presumably—in response.  

Izuna’s ears were ringing. He hurried to his feet and almost fell.  

‘Izuna,’ he heard Tobirama’s voice call to him in the distance. ‘ Wait.’  

He turned back to the snow, which fall had increased. Run .  

‘Izuna, wait.’  

But his feet couldn’t stop. His heart was caught in his throat, and he could barely breathe. It was as if Tobirama’s cold, sharp blade had mercilessly sliced him open again.  

“Izuna.”  

Izuna’s eyes snapped open at the sound of Tobirama’s voice, outside his memories, back in real life.  

Tobirama was standing beside him, looking at him with a serious expression. “I thought you were sleeping.”  

Lies , Izuna thinks as he sits up, sensing that a shinobi like Tobirama could easily tell when he was asleep or awake.  

But he would give him the benefit of the doubt, for he wasn’t ready to talk to him—he needed to buy some time. “H-hey,” Izuna replies.  

Tobirama looks away. “The others are taking their time, huh?”  

What the hell was going on? Was he going to ignore that all of that had happened? The smiles, the sake—his clumsy imitation of a kiss?  

They had seen each other before, after the incident, because their jobs required it. Facing him hadn’t been difficult with Naori by his side, but now that they were finally alone...  

“I thought you would arrive with the Hokage,” Izuna casually says, looking at the stars again.  

If Tobirama was planning to pretend nothing had happened that other night, then Izuna would do the same.  

Tobirama shakes his head. “He’s too busy suffering from Madara’s absence to even notice my existence. I haven’t seen my brother since this morning when—”  

“T-Tobirama,” he tries. This game was driving him mad. He had to do something about it. “Tobirama, about the other night...”  

Tobirama was also wearing his hood, so it was difficult for Izuna to notice the changes in his face.  

“Can we... can we talk about it?”  

“We’ll talk about that later,” Tobirama says, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. “Someone’s coming.”  

Izuna nods but can’t stop remembering. His clumsy, childlike lips brushing against Tobirama’s cheek. What had he thought would happen that night? That he could kiss his lips?  

He was just a child. He didn’t even know what he wanted.  

Izuna barely has time to shake off that memory before Naori appears at the foot of the stairs. She reaches them in half a second, also shrouded in shadows. “Sorry I’m late. I had to circle the village several times to lose somebody.”  

Izuna takes advantage of this to take his thoughts off Tobirama. “What, someone followed you?”  

Naori sighs. “Hikaku came to my house a little while ago and wouldn’t leave no matter how much I insisted.”  

Izuna frowns. “Why would he do that?”  

Naori looks away, uncomfortable, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. And perhaps the young Uchiha couldn’t understand the girl’s discomfort, but Tobirama could. “What matters is that you lost him.”  

She nods in his direction. “Yeah.”  

Izuna was still thinking about this when a pair of shinobi arrived.  

“My apologies, but the Hokage wanted to get dinner before this secret meeting,” Touka says.  

The Hokage snorts. “Uh, is it my fault now? I wasn’t the one who asked for our bowls to be refilled!”  

Touka smirks. “Oh, you did, Hashirama, and twice!”  

Hashirama shrugs, and this helps to dispel, for the moment, all the discomfort Izuna was feeling. “Anyway, what are we doing here? We need a safe place to talk in secret.”  

“I know just the place,” Izuna says, looking at Naori. When she nods, he adds, “Follow me.”  

Now, he could forget about clumsy, dry kisses.  

 

* * *  

 

Mito took about ten steps forward and then stopped dead, as if she had had a premonition. A shiver ran through her, and she turned around.  

She concluded that if she saw Madara in the hallway, she would have caught up with him and asked to accompany him instead. He had said he wouldn’t force her to do this, after all.  

But when Mito turned around, there was nothing in the hallway but silence and darkness, and what the distant torches could show her. He was gone.  

She looks down at her hands. She never hesitated. She was usually tactical and direct; fear would get her nowhere.  

And there she was that night, fearful in that hallway when all she had to do was entertain their host until Madara returned.  

This was for the mission—this was for Konoha.  

And this should be easy. She had faced many pedantic leaders before, long before becoming the leader of her clan.  

But there was something in her gut that night, a premonition of sorts.  

“You’re here to serve Konoha,” she whispers to herself. “But above all, to get your revenge.”  

Mito takes a deep breath before moving forward. She could do this. Besides, as Madara had said a moment ago, Hibiki couldn’t afford to offend her if he wanted to end on good terms with the Hokage. He had his own brother in Konoha waiting for him; no one could make a false move. There was too much to lose.  

Mito raises her head and straightens her back as she is about to reach the hall where the banquets were usually held. And it was already full, as expected. The dais in front, where the main table was located with the leader and his closest allies—and a couple of empty seats near him, where his guests usually sat.  

Musicians were already livening up the evening, and dancers twirled in the centre to the rhythm of the song, causing most eyes to be fixed on them.  

Except for one man, of course.  

Mito skirts the tables to make her way unnoticed to the dais, but she could still feel a heavy, fixed gaze upon her as she walked.  

Hibiki stands and bows. “My dear Mito, the way you look tonight—how shall I describe it?”  

She smiles and notices his entourage watching everything out of the corner of their eyes, ears wide open.  

“Always so gallant, my lord,” she replies, lowering her gaze with apparent shyness.  

This seemed to please him. He touches the chair that’s always reserved for Madara—the one on his left—and then gestures for her to sit in it.  

“Please, take this place. I suspect Madara won’t mind if you two swap seats tonight.”  

But they had already come so far. How could she just throw it all away?  

“Sure,” she replies with a smile, sitting down in the chair.  

“By the way,” Hibiki says in her ear, a little too close to her skin for her liking. “Where is he?”  

Mito tries to hide the discomfort his proximity causes in her. She forces another smile and turns to him. “He won’t be long. In fact, we were coming together, but as we were about to reach this room, your sister stopped us and asked Madara if he could accompany her outside for a while.”  

Hibiki chuckles. His warm breath reeked of sake—a lot of it.  

“My little sister has gotten braver as the days have gone by, hasn’t she?”  

Mito tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Well, it is not like she’s trying to keep her crush on Madara a secret.”  

The leader nods and brings his sake cup to his mouth, finishing it in one gulp. “That’s something my sister and I have in common, I think.”  

Mito’s eyes widen, but she tries to remain composed. “Oh?”  

He licks his lips, and just as he’s about to speak again in her ear, the other diners applaud the dancers as they finish their dance.  

Saved, again. Mito forces her hands to clap like the rest, and he has no choice but to do the same.  

A group of people enter through the doors, carrying trays.  

Mito knew that those people lived within certain limitations, but during her stay at the encampment, she had only witnessed extravagance and grand feasts. She quietly thanks when the waiters serve her.  

Hibiki looks at her intently, as if trying to decipher her thoughts based on the expressions on her face. “Like my sister, I would like to spend this evening urging you, my fair lady, that you reconsider your idea of returning to Konoha.”  

She, who had been staring at her plate, looks up at him. “I thought we had talked about this already.”  

Hibiki chuckles and picks up his cup again—now refilled with more sake. “Yes, but on all the other occasions, Madara had always been nearby to intervene as soon as I get too close to you.”  

Mito raises an eyebrow.  

“And, let’s face it, you came here tonight like a cute little lure, didn’t you?”  

Mito’s face was serious, her gaze sharp. The lights dimmed slightly as the next musical number began.  

“It is impossible to fool you, Hibiki of the Sand,” Mito notes softly.  

He shrugs and sips a sip of sake. “I’ve been the leader of these people for a long time. It wouldn’t have been like this if I were so absent-minded.”  

It is Mito who laughs now. The food on her plate looked truly appetizing that evening. And as long as her stay helped Madara learn more about the secrets of these shinobi, then she’d do her part.  

Mito brings a bite of food to her mouth. Her movements were delicate and ladylike. Everything stayed inside her mouth, nothing ever staining her lips.  

He stared at her. This would be simple.  

“This is very good,” she says. “I’d like to congratulate the cook.”  

Hibiki smiles. “I’ll make sure he knows.”  

She lets out another forced chuckle.  

“You’re not eating,” she says, seeing Hibiki’s plate untouched. He hasn’t even glanced at what they’ve brought him.  

“I am not that hungry,” he says, setting his plate aside.  

But you have certainly downed your sake, she thinks.  

“When you’re done, I would like to take you somewhere else, so we can talk.”  

Mito feels a shudder again. Madara’s voice rings in her head, assuring her that everything will be fine because Hibiki needs them.  

“Talk?” she asks. “We could—”  

“I am afraid there are too many people here to be able to talk properly.” Even though they had been exchanging all these words in low voices, she could tell that those close to Hibiki would attentively listen to whatever she would say.  

In this case, he was right. It would be better to go somewhere else. She forces another smile and pushes her plate away. “Let’s go then. I am not that hungry either.”  

There was a lot of truth in this. She even felt a little disgusted.  

“No, no—I’d hate to ruin your...” He stops talking when he sees Mito’s hand over his. He remains motionless for a moment; his gaze ever fixed on her hand.  

“Please,” she insists. “I am suffocating in here.”  

It was certainly hot inside that room.  

But the girl’s hesitation had disappeared, and a genuine warmth flowed from her hand. Besides, it was dark in there, and the dancers were so beautiful, so much so that no one could take their eyes off the dance floor; they could disappear for a while without anyone noticing.  

He stands up first and offers his hand. Following decorum, Mito accepts it and allows him to guide her around the tables and into the hallway.  

The rest happens easily: he pulls her hand—which he hasn’t let go of—and leads her down the path toward the exit of that building.  

Mito’s first thought at this is that they might stumble upon some chakra remnant that could alert Hibiki of his most famous hostage’s absence.  

Without realizing what she’s doing, Mito stops abruptly, causing him to turn to look at her. Hibiki finds her worried, staring at the door.  

“Is everything alright, Mito?”  

She looks down at his hand holding hers. “I... think it would be best if we stayed inside.”  

He raises an eyebrow.  

Mito shrugs. “We might... interrupt something—I mean, your sister and Madara are out there, taking a walk. W-what would you do if you suddenly saw one of your hostages trying to kiss your little sister?”  

Hibiki chuckles and let go of her hand. “Fine. If you want us to stay inside, so be it. We could go instead to... my armory, for instance.” She raises both eyebrows in surprise. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”  

Was he willing to take this stranger to his armory? To the place where she could see the... level of power they possessed?  

And she wonders, wouldn’t Hashirama be grateful to learn that information from her? Oh, why the hell did she feel that turmoil again at the thought of Hashirama being pleased with her?  

“So, are you coming or not?” he asks, seeing that she has taken too long to answer.  

To rid herself of the image of Hashirama smiling, she nods hastily. “Sure, I would love to!”  

And just like that, she follows him through those dark corridors.  

Mito knew little about the layout of the buildings in that encampment. All she knew was what she had learned herself, or from the information she had gleaned from her talks with Madara, so she didn’t know if the armory was nearby or if they’d end up leaving the building anyway.  

But that wasn’t the case. Hibiki leads her through those winding paths, but without having to leave the building.  

They soon reach an unmarked door. He opens it with a key he, by chance, had with him that night. Before entering, he takes a torch from the wall and uses it to light the ones inside, illuminating the room.  

It was a large room, filled with swords of all kinds and sharp weapons that were unfamiliar to her. This didn’t seem to surprise her at all, as she had witnessed firsthand how deadly and strange the shinobi’s weapons were in this place.  

As she scans the room, he sneaks behind her to close the door. The sound it makes repeats itself several times before dying away seconds later.  

“As you can see, this place is small, but what is inside, is of unparalleled value.”  

Mito walks around the room silently, stopping to look closely at some sharp blades that looked remarkably similar to those used by the mysterious shinobi in the desert.  

She thinks helplessly about the blue glow that emanated from Madara’s chakra. “These blades...” she says softly.  

She hears Hibiki’s footsteps approaching her. “Oh, yes,” he says, his voice too close to her ear. “Would you like to see them up close?”  

Mito tries to hold on a little longer before sending him flying across the room. She was tired of having to resolve everything through violence. For once, she wanted to do things peacefully.  

“Our shinobi are trained from early childhood,” he says. “Every child in this encampment must know how to wield one by the age of ten.”  

She nods slowly, as she sends one of her hands to her hip, where she had hidden a kunai, just in case.  

Unbeknownst to this, he continues, “They’re usually lethal on their own, but when we combine them with our wind release...”  

But this was hard. His face was now closer to the crook of her neck; his intoxicating, alcoholic breath churning her stomach.  

“I still cannot understand how the Hokage overlooked your beauty and preferred an Uchiha instead.”  

Mito lets out a laugh-like noise. “I thought we were talking about these blades—”  

“And,” he adds, ignoring her words. “I think the most incredible thing of all is that he chose another man over you.”  

She feels disgusted by his mere voice. “You have very good spies under your command, I can see.”  

He shrugs. “Well, it’s not as if the Hokage was very discreet either. When he said goodbye to his friend , gods, it seemed as if I were taking away one of his limbs.”  

Mito turns to face him, placing a hand between them. She could use the hidden kunai or some other method to render him unconscious, but if she were to directly attack her host when she was there as a hostage, it would be like throwing their entire plan away.  

However, before she can even continue thinking, she is back under his control.  

Hibiki’s strength was obviously far greater than hers, and he soon manages to trap her in a forced embrace, taking advantage of the kunoichi’s seemingly distracted state.  

“Stay. I’ll make sure you’re treated the way you deserve.” He grins. “Your father would be proud to see his daughter treated like a queen.”  

“Don’t you dare mention my father!” she snarls. “You, of all people!”  

Hibiki lets out a hearty laugh. “What happened was unfortunate, I agree, and I assure you I will find a way to make it up to you. Tell me, my dear, how would you like your revenge to be carried out? Should I hang the boy before you, or perhaps we could force him to commit seppuku? Tell me how you want it, and I will please you.”  

Mito lets out a growl when he sticks too close to her.  

I will finish you off. I swear upon my name! Revenge would be too sweet, too wonderful. I am so sorry, Hashirama, but I will finish this man off!  

As if hearing this last train of thought, Hibiki whispers in her ear, “Senju Hashirama.”  

The kunoichi’s eyes widen.  

“What do you owe him? Hmm? That man who crossed the Land of Fire from one end to the other, chasing a bloodthirsty shinobi who had killed half his people. Tell me, darling, what do you owe him? Absolutely nothing.”  

She looks straight into his eyes.  

“As I heard, he arrived at the village his brother founded dressed as an Uchiha.”  

Mito remembers it precisely—she was there—there was no need for that swine to remind her.  

“They said he avoided the celebration held in his honour and went to lock himself in his tent with Uchiha Madara instead.”  

She lets out a grunt, though she doesn’t know if it’s because of the pressure that horrible man was putting on her or some painful memory.  

He continues, seeing that his horrible words are working on her, “Some of my informants mention that the Hokage’s brother found Hashirama in a pitiful state, sharing his futon with Madara.”  

Mito forces a smile. “I can see that your informants have been very attentive to every detail.”  

Hibiki shrugs. “What can I say? The people of Konoha, no matter how much they go around kissing the Hokage’s feet, will always serve those who pay them the most.”  

The mere idea of having a traitor among Konoha’s clan heads was unthinkable. But at the same time, it seemed almost too believable. After all, they had only been living together for a short time since all the clan wars ended, and many, if not most, still regarded the Uchiha with suspicion.  

She knew how little the Uzumaki trusted them; on many occasions, she had had to step forward to defend Madara, urging her fellow clan mates to trust him.  

And she had noticed that, despite Hashirama’s power, some clan heads were still suspicious of him because of his friendship with Uchiha Madara.  

“Now then, my fair lady, what do you think of my proposal, after reminding you that you mean nothing to the Hokage?”  

“That... is not true,” she says, trying to convince him or herself.  

He raises an eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate, but that’s not going to happen.  

Instead, Mito remembers one of her last conversations with Hashirama, ‘It took me a long time to find out that my father wanted me to marry you. He would only tell Tobirama, perhaps knowing he was the strategist and I, simply his heir.’  

She had forced a smile, trying not to show Hashirama how much those words had hurt her.  

But he had noticed. He saw the pain on her face, as if he had felt it himself before. He had reached out a hand and cradled her face. ‘But remember, Mito, that if my heart did not already belong to Uchiha Madara, I would have definitely given it to you.’  

Recalling that sad moment at this inopportune moment makes her eyes water. Mito bites her lip and takes a deep breath, preventing the tears from escaping her eyes, her throat burning.  

She gathers all her strength in her arm and manages to pull that disgusting man away from her.  

Hibiki ends up being thrown a few meters away.  

He recovers, bursting into laughter. “There’s no doubt about it, Uzumaki Mito, you must stay here, to serve as my wife!”  

Mito prepares to defend herself. She keeps one of her hands near the kunai on her hip, but has no intention of actually using it, knowing that threatening him with any weapon would break the peace treaty between the two villages.  

Then, it would all have been for nothing. That whole trip, her friendship with Uchiha Madara...  

“Say yes, and I’ll send a falcon to Konoha right now,” he says. “The negotiations will end—we won’t ask for anything else in return—there will be no more arguments or unnecessary battles, and I’ll return the Hokage his most beloved person. We will all end up winning. Now, what is your answer?”  

“I am here for a reason that doesn’t concern the Hokage,” Mito hisses, staring him straight in the eyes.  

Hibiki raises an eyebrow, amused.  

“And my place is in Konoha, with my clan. I am their leader and won’t leave them!”  

“Sure. And I suppose Senju Hashirama being there has nothing to do with your noble mission, huh?”  

She narrows her eyes. “I see you haven’t understood anything, my good host.”  

Hibiki’s smile widens. “On the contrary, it is you who haven’t understood a thing.”  

Mito lets out a forced chuckle. “I know where Hashirama’s heart is, this isn’t—”  

“Oh, of course it is, Mito. What you’re doing, every step you take, is because of Hashirama. Because you want to look good in his eyes; because you want him to welcome you back to Konoha with a smile on his face and the promise of his love.”  

Her eyes widen.  

“A kunoichi’s heart is an interesting thing. Let’s take my little sister as an example, shall we?” Hibiki gestures with his hands, as if he were talking about the weather. “Look at all the trouble she’s gone to obtain her revenge.”  

Mito shakes her head, not understanding. And she’s so distracted that she doesn’t notice Hibiki quickly approaching her, pinning her against the wall.  

By the time she realizes what’s happened, it is too late.  

“R-revenge?” Mito asks, turning her face to prevent him from touching her lips.  

His mouth, however, ends up pressed against her ear. His alcoholic breath envelops her again. “Yeah.”  

“She has chosen to betray her own brother over a strange man who has captivated her,” Mito sneers, trying to hurt Hibiki this way. “Sora has previously expressed interest in following us to Konoha once this is all over, and—”  

Hibiki bursts out laughing, and Mito takes the opportunity to slip out of his grasp. Or at least that’s what she tries to do.  

He grabs her wrist applying some force, stopping her. The smile remains on his face, but his voice has become threatening again. “Oh, not so fast, darling.”  

Mito looks at his hand stopping her and then, raises her gaze to his.  

“I must admit I am surprised at how easily a shinobi of Uchiha Madara’s renown has been outsmarted,” he tells her, without taking his eyes off her. “Fooled by such a pretty girl, especially when he doesn’t even like them.”  

Mito bares her teeth, enraged.  

“Hush, darling,” he teases her. “ Oh— what a wonderful and impressive display of chakra.”  

She had tried to stay on the path of peace, but this was too much. He was annoying her, and she’s lost her patience.  

These negotiations wouldn’t go smoothly anyway. And if more blood was to be shed to achieve peace, so be it. The Uzumaki were ready; they would answer to the Hokage in this new war.  

“You should hate him. Why are you acting like this? Why are you defending him?”  

“He is my friend,” she blurts out, speaking slowly because of the anger that enveloped her.  

Hibiki’s smile was huge. “Ah, I see. He’s your friend.”  

“And right now, he—”  

“Right now, he’s being manipulated by my little sister.”  

What he was saying didn’t make sense, but again, she had that dark, nauseating feeling that told her the man was speaking the truth.  

Hibiki pulls her back, pressing her against the wall. “I do not know what that girl is up to, I admit it. But she is my little sister, and I know she’s too much like me to have good intentions with Uchiha Madara. He, after all, destroyed the thing she loved most.”  

“What?!” she snarls when she feels Hibiki’s mouth on her neck. Mito pours more chakra into her hands, trying to throw him away from her, but soon realises it’s useless.  

Her eyes dart around, searching for answers.  

“This room has seals around it, and they’re suppressing your chakra.”  

Mito grunts something incomprehensible as she writhes in his arms.  

“These seals are enough to keep a normal shinobi subdued. You, on the other hand, can continue using your chakra thanks to the enormous amounts you have within you. Oh, my dear, that ability would be very useful here. We’ve used a vessel like you before, but there is always a need for more.”  

Mito eventually tires and is powerless against her captor. He sniffs the fine line of her neck up to her ear, making her shudder in disgust.  

“When Madara finds out what you’re doing, he’ll—”  

Hibiki smiles against her skin. “I do not know what Sora plans to do with him, but I know Madara won’t be back in very good condition to save you.”  

She grunts as she feels his lips kiss her neck.  

“You haven’t asked me about Sora’s reasons for getting rid of Madara yet,” he reminds her, speaking in her ear. “Come on, darling, I will tell you anything you ask.”  

Mito shudders and says through gritted teeth, “I don’t give a damn. If she betrays us, we’ll finish her—Madara will finish her. Few things can stop Uchiha Madara when he’s controlled by blood or war.” She grins. “If you do not believe me, ask the desert men he met in the forest.”  

Hibiki’s smile disappears, but she can’t see it. Mito’s eyes are scanning the room, searching for the seals that suppressed her chakra.  

“Wow, you’ve hit the nail on the head,” he says earnestly. He’s looking at her almost with disgust. “You’re not only beautiful, but brilliant as well.”  

Mito presses her lips together.  

“You would certainly make a great wife for me. Imagine the power our children would have.”  

The mere thought of joining him filled her with disgust.  

“But yes, that’s the reason for all this, at least from my sister’s point of view, of course.” Mito listens intently. “Among the men Uchiha Madara killed was the one Sora loved deeply.”  

Mito’s eyes widen.  

“I must admit I should thank him—I didn’t know how to get rid of that jerk without hurting my little sister. But you must understand, he was unworthy of Sora. But hey, I guess we cannot do anything about our hearts’ desires, right?”  

Mito could not speak.  

“Or perhaps we should ask the Hokage of Konoha about that.”  

“It was the leader of the group, was it not?” Mito says, finally realising everything. “She loved that loudmouth.”  

How had she missed it before? How had they been so easily fooled?  

She had to find some way to alert Madara and get him to send a coded message to Konoha as soon as possible.  

But first, she had to continue taking advantage of the fact that this clan leader was foolish enough to tell his captive the whole truth.  

Hibiki shrugs. “Yeah. I guess there’s no reason to keep it a secret now. You know, I asked Sora not to take revenge on Madara until after the negotiations, for I would like to keep the Hokage happy, but ah, I’ve never been able to control that girl in the past. She has always been so disobedient.”  

The truth hits Mito all at once, and it’s so obvious she can barely stop herself from bursting out laughing.  

Hibiki chuckles. “I admit that the fact that Hashirama allowed you to come in person surprised me a little. I mean, you are young, and at your age, emotions run rampant. Or maybe you wanted to stay away from the boy who caused you all that pain. What would Hashirama have to do to keep you from killing him prematurely?”  

Mito snarls and reaches for the kunai at her hip with her free hand. She draws it straight to Hibiki's neck, its sharp point flirting with his jugular.  

This ends Hibiki’s smile. He looks at her coldly and whispers, “You are really fierce.”  

Mito feels a trickle of sweat running down her neck.  

“Guards, inside!” he calls, and this surprises Mito so much that her hand falters. She presses down, and a trickle of dark blood runs down the kunai’s blade and into her hand.  

The sight of scarlet against her pale hand numbs her. It takes her too long to decide whether or not to kill the leader of the desert clans. The doors open behind her, and a dozen shinobi appear, ready to restrain her. They gather around her and manage to seal her away before she can make another move. The metallic sound of her kunai falling to the ground snaps her out of her trance, but it is too late to do anything about it.  

“We know about the ridiculous amounts of chakra residing within your body, and we were prepared to restrain you in case the room seals weren’t enough. As I said a while ago, we have dealt with someone like you in the past, so do not try any more, sweetheart.”  

The seals may prevent her from using her chakra, but there are many ways to fight. Just as she’s escorted away by Hibiki’s guards, she throws a spit at him, landing on his cheek.  

He chuckles, feeling safe again. “Perfect aim, my beautiful kunoichi. As my guest, you will be treated as such, but for now, you will be taken to some quarters where we can keep an eye on you while I figure out what to do.” Hibiki wipes the spit and warns him, “Oh, and the Hokage will find out about this, by the way.”  

Hibiki turns to one of his subordinates, the one who wasn’t restraining Mito, and whispers something that appears to be, “Go and bring the Uchiha back.”  

 

* * *  

 

The wind was inclement in the desert. Its touch hit his skin like a dozen sharp blades.  

But he continues despite this. Madara was used to fighting in adverse weather, and a little cold wouldn’t stop him.  

“We are now out of the sentries’ range,” Sora suddenly says. “Do you want us to stop for a while?”  

Without stopping running, Madara casts his gaze up at the starry sky, at the bright moon. He smiles and looks at the girl beside him, who also doesn’t seem tired at all. “No.”  

She smiles back and nods. “Good, we’re almost there anyway!”  

Sora casts her gaze forward, and her feet pick up speed.  

This causes Madara to raise an eyebrow high on his forehead. Well, this girl wasn’t ordinary at all; only a well-trained shinobi could endure this journey without apparent fatigue.  

And he had been running slowly so she wouldn’t tire. In half a second, he accelerates and catches up with her.  

She’s grinning when he arrives. “Tell me,” she says, “are all Konoha shinobi like you?”  

Shinobi with his might and ability, only one, but he didn’t want to talk about Hashirama with her. “Aye, a few.”  

“Ah,” she says, still smiling. “That’s interesting.”  

For the rest of the journey—which was about twenty minutes, according to his calculations—neither of them says anything else. They just travel in silence, staring into the darkness before them.  

And what absolute darkness there was in the desert. He was used to wandering through forests and clearings, and feeling watched by the endless nocturnal life those valleys harbored.  

But in the desert, there was none of that. Only the eternal darkness that enveloped them, and all that silence. The stars and the moon as their only company.  

Eventually, something began to appear in front of them.  

Madara squinted, stopping himself from using his sharingan with Sora. But his vision wasn’t much use. Ahead of them was a dark spot that grew larger the further they travelled into the desert. It was a temple—as tall as the rock pillars themselves, and shrouded in darkness to go unnoticed, except to those who knew of its existence.  

Sora seems to hear the questions in his head, for she explains, “Few know of this place.”  

Madara looks away from the stone structure to look at her.  

“My family, for instance.”  

He makes a noise in his throat. “You must be protecting something very valuable to go to all this trouble.”  

“Of course, and you already know that. That’s why we came.”  

He half smiles and shifts his gaze to the temple again.  

“Now, listen,” she says. Madara listens without taking his gaze from the temple. “An ordinary person isn’t allowed in here, so you’ll have to play along.”  

“Oh?”  

A smile appears on the girl’s face. “Preferably, do not mention your name and let me do the talking.”  

Now, she wanted him to pretend to be a normal shinobi?  

“And above all, Uchiha Madara, do not use your sharingan inside,” she adds. “Any of them could recognise you and immediately go tell my brother.”  

Madara clicks his tongue. “All right, all right.”  

Another chuckle. “Well then, let’s stop here.”  

He complies and takes the moment to catch his breath. She also seemed a little tired now.  

The consistency of the ground wasn’t the same as in the Land of Fire, and his inexperienced feet were still unfamiliar with it.  

This was still, without a doubt, a disadvantage.  

He casually asks her, “If we were discovered by one of these sentries, how much time would we have before your brother came for us?”  

It seemed like an innocent question, but it takes the girl a few seconds to answer, as if she were doing a mental calculation. “About fifteen minutes, maybe.”  

Madara snorts, “So little? It took us longer to get here.” He takes off his hood.  

“Oh, of course, but we also have our methods of communication, Madara. This temple should not be left unprotected under any circumstances. So,” she shrugs. “I suppose they would communicate with my brother, and he would send reinforcements.”  

He stretches his limbs and, when he is ready, walks up to her. “It is interesting to see how much the shinobi of the desert resemble us, despite being so far apart.”  

Sora nods, without taking his gaze from him. “Shall we continue?”  

“Sure,” he says, walking beside her, adjusting his hood back on his head.  

In the distance, the glimmer of the sentries’ torches outside the temple could already be seen.  

“Relax,” she whispers. “And remember—”  

“—To follow you and let you do the talking, yeah .”  

She grins from ear to ear. “Correct!”  

The temple grows in size as they approach. Madara couldn’t help but be impressed by the idea of Sora’s clan building a temple in the middle of the desert and hoping no one would see it as they passed by.  

In front of them was an entrance: two large, dark wooden doors guarded by a pair of shinobi. They blocked the path with a pair of long spears.  

Sora takes two steps ahead of Madara and removes her hood, revealing her identity.  

The guards say in unison, “Miss Sora,” without moving their spears.  

“Good evening, we are here to see Bunpuku.”  

The guards exchanged a glance. “Hibiki-sama did not warn us of any sudden visitors.”  

The girl nods. “I am aware of that; right now, my brother is having a banquet with a special guest, and perhaps that’s why he forgot to do so.”  

The guards turn to look at each other.  

“I have never come here with ill intentions before,” she insists. “Why do you think tonight is any different?”  

One of the guards points at Madara, “Because of that young man.”  

Madara looks at Sora, waiting for her instructions.  

The other guard says, “We can let you in, but not that stranger.”  

She chuckles and turns to Madara. “Oh, him? He’s harmless! My brother has arranged a marriage for me and I’m about to leave, and... I don’t want to do it without first introducing Bunpuku to my betrothed .”  

Madara’s eyes widen, and he feels like he’s been hit in the chest.  

Her... betrothed?! What the hell was that lass thinking?!  

Run , the voice inside his head urges him. Get out of there before this charade grows bigger!  

But at the same time, he thinks about Hashirama and how much it would help them to know what’s inside this temple—that Bunpuku guy. If he was some kind of secret weapon and he could somehow tell Hashirama...  

Wouldn’t it all be worth it?  

Madara regulates his breathing, and Sora’s gaze reminds him to play along.  

So he gives a well-practiced bow, and as he straightens again, he gallantly removes his hood. “Good evening,” he greets.  

His appearance would be unmistakable to anyone who has lived in the Land of Fire their entire life, but these sentinels were practically his age and apparently had never left this desert. His appearance tells them nothing, except that he is a stranger.  

The guards glance at each other once more before putting away their spears. From inside, the sound of gears slowly opening the large, dark wooden blades can be heard.  

“All right; we will take your word for it, Miss Sora,” one of them says.  

She smiles flirtatiously at them before turning to approach Madara. She takes his hand familiarly and, startling him, pulls him through the doorway.  

They walk into a long, dark hallway, deserted except for the torches on the walls. As the doors close behind them, Sora lets go of Madara’s hand.  

“Come on, we don’t have much time,” she whispers, stepping into the hallway.  

Madara says, “About fifteen minutes, isn’t it?”  

“Yeah, maybe I exaggerated a bit about that.”  

He frowns and she answers as if she had seen him. “My brother is busy tonight; maybe it will be harder for them to find him.”  

Was she implying something about Mito? That wipes his smile off his face. “Mito wouldn’t go that far, even for this mission.”  

“ Oh , I never meant to insinuate anything like that about her. After all, doing so would also make my own brother look bad. He would never force himself on her, but...”  

Madara doesn’t reply, but clenches his jaw.  

“Or tell me, Madara, what’s the most extreme thing you’ve done to succeed on a mission?”  

Many memories come flooding back, to his misfortune—all with Hashirama at his side. Stealthily retreating from the encampment on his father’s orders, only to meet with Hashirama for a while, and then returning pretending to have found nothing.  

The same story repeating itself for years.  

“Trusting a stranger,” he replies after a while. The girl was several steps ahead of him but still looking at him. “A chatty stranger who brought me to this secret place, defying her own brother with the promise of something as insignificant as a kiss.”  

Sora’s eyes widen. “Oh, so you have agreed to the kiss?”  

Madara looks away and points with his chin to a fork in the path. “Where do we go now?”  

She chuckles and points to the path to her left. “This way.” Her voice rang with cunning. She wasn’t a naïve lass easily fooled by the promise of a kiss, and he knew it.  

If the girl wanted something from him, it would surely be something of value.  

But for the moment, that didn’t concern him. Instead, there was something shattering the peace in that hallway as they walked—noise, voices. Laughter.  

Sora notices it at the same time, and the smile disappears from her face. Her voice also changes when she speaks again. “You two—stop it now!”  

The two guards at the door instantly fall silent, turning to her. “Miss Sora!”  

She frowns. “Come on, get out of here! We’re her to see the priest.”  

Only then do the guards notice the young man behind the girl. They look at him with interest, but they’re as young as the guards at the entrance, and it is obvious they don’t recognize him.  

Instead, they look him up and down, even with a hint of disdain. “Fine, we’ll be right outside, in case you need—”  

“I will be fine. Leave.”  

The guards nod and leave, but not before giving Madara one last searching glance. When they are alone, she whispers, “Come, we’re almost there.”  

So much time has passed that Madara thinks it will be a miracle if he can even see the reason for such security with his own eyes. This priest must be extremely important or extremely dangerous to go to all this trouble with him.  

And as he passes through a door, Madara understands why. That place wasn’t a temple—it was a prison.  

His eyes widen at the sight of a man sitting in sukhasana.  

He greets her without even opening his eyes. “Sora.”  

She bows. “Bunpuku-sama.”  

Madara hesitates over whether to introduce himself or wait for Sora to do it, but it is the priest himself who asks, “And... this young man, what is he doing here?”  

Madara opens his mouth to answer, but the priest adds, in a very hoarse voice, “His chakra...” He shakes his head. “He is agitated.”  

Madara frowns and looks at the girl, who is looking back at him. “He means Shukaku,” she says in a small voice. Then she turns to the priest and says, “He has come in peace. You may tell him, great priest.”  

“What?” Madara finally asks. “You mean the one-tailed beast? Is it here?”  

“ He is indeed here, young stranger, and is somewhat uneasy with your presence.”  

Madara raises an eyebrow and addresses the priest. “Bunpuku-sama, please—”  

“He says that... you possess a peculiar weapon,” says the priest.  

Sora glances at Madara, but he is too busy observing to the other side of the bars to notice.  

“Your eyes... and that shiny blue shell protecting you...”  

Madara’s lips discreetly curved into a smile. How could he know all that if he wasn’t using any of his chakra at the time? It was interesting that the beast hidden within the priest could know about this human’s past with another, much stronger beast.  

Madara had realised two things during this brief visit: one, bijuu could be sealed within people and used as a weapon, like the Ichibi with this priest; and two, if he had managed to tame the nine-tailed beast—even for a brief moment—then the one-tailed beast would not be difficult for him.  

If only he could remove the beast from its current vessel and bring it home—or better yet, take this old man to Konoha and give him to the Hokage himself.  

Madara shudders, and every hair on his body stands on end in excitement.  

“Madara?” Sora calls from his side, noticing his eyes begin to light up. She takes his arm, trying to bring him back to his senses. “Madara?!”  

His smile was widening. No —why worry about a creature as weak as the Ichibi when he could take on the Kyuubi himself if he wanted to?  

The power they could possess would be unthinkable. If he and Hashirama had been able to subdue the Kyuubi, even for an instant, and even though they were so young—together, if they worked together, they could take on the rest of the bijuu in the world, and then Konoha would be impenetrable. They would be the strongest village in all the Land of Fire and could very easily expand their dominion—Hashirama would dethrone the Daimyo, and at his side, they would control all the surrounding territories. They wouldn’t have to make alliances with clans they hated, and nothing and no one could stand against them. They would be together and at peace, and finally, he could ensure that no one would ever hurt Izuna again.  

“The visions you have seen are merely a response of greed, son, and nothing good comes from them.”  

Madara’s eyes glow red in the priest’s direction.  

Sora lets go of his arm and takes a few steps back, not frightened, but ready to defend herself if necessary.  

“Wise priest, have you seen what I thought?” Madara asks in a deep voice. Suddenly, he is back on the battlefield.  

Bunpuku remains unfazed. “I have not, but Shukaku once offered me a lifetime of wonders to convince me to free him.”  

Madara chuckles. “Well, you can tell... Shukaku , to rest easy. The creature I thought of was... quite different.”  

The priest’s voice is as hard as his own. “You are too young to think with such greed—”  

“Is it greed to think of seeking safety for the people I love?” Madara asks, taking a step forward.  

“Greed can take many forms, and they all begin with the desire for power.”  

“I encountered another bijuu not long ago,” Madara replies, running away from the priest’s words and looking toward him—toward the creature seated behind him. Madara’s eyes widen. “It was just as big, but much fiercer.”  

Madara’s eyes allow him to see the Ichibi shifting uncomfortably behind the priest, but the creature can’t do anything about it, as if he’s somehow tied down.  

He shudders all over. That feeling again—the sudden arouse upon reaching the battlefield. Bloodlust. His hands were trembling.  

“Shukaku wishes to know who was the other bijuu you encountered,” Bunpuku asks.  

And Madara has no reason not to tell them, “The Kyuubi.”  

Sora gasps beside him and reaches for the kunai she carries beneath her cloak.  

“Your eyes...” the priest says, “can they control a bijuu?”  

“Briefly,” Madara admits, bringing a hand to his chest. “But if I could practice it, if I could—”  

“You would end up losing yourself,” the priest warns him. “There would be no honour in having such a weapon.”  

Madara takes another step forward. “And yet, Hibiki has you, safely tucked away here in case the need arises.”  

“Shukaku was inserted into me at birth, as a desperate measure to prevent him from further harming these people.”  

Madara makes a noise in his throat. “That is certainly a very noble sacrifice, esteemed priest. However, if my people were to come rescue me, who assures me that Hibiki wouldn’t find it necessary to use you against us?”  

“What? Are you captive as well?” The priest’s voice is thick with suffering. “Is there another war going on again?”  

Madara shakes his head. “I am captive to prevent another war.” His eyes dim, turning black again. His chest heaves, and he must grasp the bars to keep from falling.  

Sora hesitates whether she should go over to help him or keep her distance.  

“He is fine now, child,” Bunpuku assures her. “It is all over now.”  

Madara looks up at the priest, intrigued. Bunpuku was a prisoner and didn’t have any magical eyes to help him see beyond, and yet he saw as much, if not more, than his sharingan.  

“Hold on to that goodness you carry within you, son. It is not wrong to want to protect those you love, but there are many ways to achieve it through the means of peace.”  

Madara finally slumps to the ground, exhausted.  

“But... this, my son, this is no life. Do not tie anyone you know to this.”  

The first person he thinks of with the amount of chakra needed for something like this is Mito, and then, against his wishes, Hashirama.  

He shakes his head.  

“But if the Ichibi is sealed within you, then what have I been hearing lately at night?”  

Sora looks back at Bunpuku, unsure if she should tell him.  

“Is that what you came here to ask?” the priest asks.  

Madara nods in response.  

“Well, what you have heard at night is—”  

In the hallway behind them, voices and footsteps hurrying closer are heard again.  

Madara turns to the priest, waiting for his answer. Shit, were they so quick to notice their absence?  

“You are not the only one who has thought of using a bijuu as a weapon, son,” Bunpuku tells him. “Shukaku is inside me, but there are more beasts out there in this world, and many have been attempted to be captured.”  

Sora approaches Madara and pulls on his arm, forcing him to stand. “It is time to go.”  

He rises, but looks closely at the priest, knowing he’s not finished.  

“Keep your blessed ability a secret,” the priest advises. “If any of them find out you possess such power, then—”  

“Miss Sora,” a man in the doorway says. “Your brother instructed me to escort you back home.”  

She forces a smile at the newcomer. “But we’ve only just arrived!”  

“And we have received the same instructions for Uchiha-sama.”  

Bunpuku raises his face, as if the mention of the Uchiha has spoken to him.  

However, there is no time to say more. Madara bows to the priest. “Thank you for your wise words.”  

Bunpuku frowns slightly and adds, “Good fortune.”  

Sora also bows to the wise priest before pulling Madara by the hand to the door. “Tell me, is my brother very upset about this?” she asks this new guard quite familiarly.  

He glances at Madara, but answers her, “Let’s just say that tonight he has found many reasons to distrust these outsiders.”

Notes:

I've been waiting since chapter two to add the tobiizu tag, so you can imagine how excited I was in this chapter!!