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“What do you think about love?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, do you think it exists?”
“Well…” Madara traces random lines into the stone ground. “I guess it depends. I think everyone has the capacity to love, but that doesn’t mean everyone does, does it?”
Hashirama nods, looking into the river. “Yeah. My father… my father says it doesn’t exist, at least romantically. He told me that marriage is for lineage, and not love.” His rippling image stares back at him from the water.
“Well, do you think it exists?”
Hashirama turns slowly to look at Madara, mouth a bit open and eyes clouded. “I…”
For some reason, Madara feels tension build in him, a red-hot ball coiling in his chest. Ignoring it, he leans in closer and demands in a falsely annoyed tone, “Well? Come on, Hashirama, answer my question!”
Hashirama smiles awkwardly and moves his head in indecision. “I… I mean…” His cheeks are a soft shade of rose.
Madara scowls. “This is getting annoying, Hashirama.”
He pouts. “That’s mean.”
“Hey, hey, answer the question!”
“Yes.” Hashirama leans toward him, very close, with a determined look on his face. “Yes, I do think it exists.”
“Then why are you asking?”
He ignores that. “I have another question.”
Madara sighs. “Yes, what is it?”
“Do you think it’s okay to love?”
Madara’s brow curls in confusion. “Why not?” He asks bluntly, “If you love someone, then you just do.”
Hashirama pauses for a split second, looking thoughtful, before breaking into a smile. “That’s great to hear.” Then, he turns to Madara, still with that unreadable grin. “Hey, can I give you a secret?”
Madara nods, huffing, “Go on.”
Hashirama leans closer and Madara turns his ear to receive his secret, but Hashirama sweeps past it. Madara involuntarily takes a jagged breath, surprise in the back of his throat before time slows down as Hashirama plants a soft kiss
on his
cheek.
Everything comes to a screeching halt. The world stops turning. All he can hear is the pounding of his heart in his ears, his mind a useless pile of mumble jumble as everything in him implodes all at once. Hashirama’s breath is warm on his cheek, his burning skin tingling where his lips had been- a second ago? A minute?
Hashirama pulls back a tiny bit, his doey eyes wide and his face red. He searches Madara’s shocked face frantically, eyes pouring over his blank expression. “Oh,” he stutters after a seeming realization, scrambling back, “I-I should leave.” He stands up, wringing his hands as he bites his lip. “I’m so sorry.”
Madara jerks his head towards him just as he starts to walk away. “No,” he mutters, “come back.”
Hashirama pauses, face strangely pained as he turns around again. “W-what?”
Madara clambers to his feet. His legs move with the structural integrity of a brittle branch but he manages it nonetheless, rushing up to his tearful friend, grabbing his scarf, and pressing an awkward kiss to his lips. Well, it’s technically the space above Hashirama’s mouth, since Madara’s not really thinking straight and kissing is hard, but whatever.
He tingles all over as he backs away, heart swooping hopefully as he looks into Hashirama’s deep eyes. Madara can see every little eyelash quivering as Hashirama blinks slow, wide. His mouth slowly curves in a smile, a pretty crescent moon among stars.
Madara starts to wake, taking huge gulps of air as he feels someone's hand leave his shoulder. He’s bruised all over. Every inhale leaves his chest smarting, and his head feels like it’s split in half. He lifts his hand unsteadily and wipes a smudge of something wet off his lip, holding his finger up and seeing a blur of red.
“Madara.”
Madara gasps, suddenly very much awake. He clambers away from his frowning f- no, not friend - knelt in front of him. There’s a smear of dirt on his cheek, and a headband with the Senju symbol is tied on his forehead. “What are you doing?!” He yells.
“You were hurt…”
Madara pounds his fists on the ground, a hurricane of disorienting emotions flooding through him. Anger. Frustration. Happiness? “No! This is- this is wrong! We can’t do this! We can’t- we’re- I-” his voice breaks. “You’re Senju, and I’m Uchiha! Don’t you ever listen?”
“This isn’t about that, though, is it?” Hashirama whispers.
“What?”
“This is about…” He grasps a handful of grass, crumpling the crisp green stalks in his grip. “What happened. You know.”
“What? No!”
“What about what you said about love?” Hashirama plows on. “Is that all irrelevant?”
“No! I’ll- I’ll prove it!” Madara shouts, suddenly very determined to prove that of course not, Madara isn’t forsaking him because of their kiss, it’s because they can never be together! Before he thinks about anything, his body moves on its own, hand reaching to tilt Hashirama’s chin, and he leans in to firmly press another kiss to his lips.
Hashirama smells like sweat and blood and he’s sure he does too, but it doesn’t matter at all , because he’s so warm . His chakra thrums radiating and glowing under his skin, a veritable symphony of sensation for a sensor like Madara, even when his senses are dulled from the fighting as they are now. He feels like melting into him, feels like drowning in a sea of the feeling that he receives when he wraps his arm around Hashirama’s back. But even when time slows down and the seconds stretch like tree sap, it’s over too soon.
Hashirama pulls away slowly, leaving him wanting and wondering. “Okay, I believe you,” He says quietly.
Madara stays sitting there, lifting a finger to his numb lip as he realizes Hashirama healed its injuries.
“We should go.” Hashirama tells him.
“Y-yeah,” Madara agrees, standing up with him.
Hashirama waves. “Well, see you.”
“Bye.”
Springtime has arrived, heralding the return of conflict. The Senju have been wintering in the mountains, but with the return of the birds and blossoming trees, it’s only a matter of time before the battle returns. Madara touches the ends of his hair. It’s gotten wild and long, grown brambly and untamable without the care of gentle, calloused fingers. He wonders how Hashirama has changed over the few seasons of temporary peace. He wonders if he’s grown his hair out a bit; he’d said the last time they met up that he was considering letting it “be free”.
Part of Madara knows what he and Hashirama do isn’t right. They both have obligations to their respective clans, and if they’re caught, they could be exiled or killed. Madara doesn’t want that for Hashirama, but he’s selfish.
It’s been three years since he renounced his friend, yet the yearning still clings to him like a grudge. Maybe he just wants to keep that little taste of freedom to himself.
The two cautiously approach each other in the forest clearing, the sun shining dappled yellow-greens through the canopy and onto the crisp grass. Through the shadows, Hashirama’s form appears, partly obscured by branches and brush.
“Hashirama.” He calls.
The man turns toward Madara suddenly, a smile spreading wide across his face as he runs forward. “Madara! Oh, I missed you!”
“Whoa!” Madara exclaims softly as Hashirama rams into him. “Careful!” His fingers dig into shoulder-length hair. It’s cool and silky, sliding along his digits with all the smoothness of a piece of ice. “You did grow out your hair, eh?” Madara remarks.
“Yeah!” Hashirama makes eye contact with him, eyes widening curiously. “So, what do you think?”
“It’s nice,” he whispers, burying his face into Hashirama’s warm shoulder. Massaging his bottom lip with his teeth, he’s suddenly overwhelmed with an uncomfortable rush of emotion. “It’s just been so hard without you,” he chokes out.
“I’m sorry,” Hashirama answers, digging his smooth fingers through Madara’s bushy mane. “...But it doesn’t have to be this way.”
Madara sighs exasperatedly. “Not this again, Hashirama, we can’t-”
“Not now, we can’t, but in the future, when we’re clan heads, we’ll have the power to change things!” He clasps Madara’s shoulders, looking intently at him. “It’s like you said! If we’re powerful, we can come together, unite our clans, make a place where children don’t have to fight!”
Madara knows. Madara knows he’s the one of strongest of the Uchiha and that he’ll become head very soon. He knows that their little escapades can’t last forever, that their juvenile habits will be obsolete in the long run. He knows, and he wants to have this all the time- a way of life instead of a morsel of something empty. Some days he looks at himself in the reflection of his blood-stained sword and feels detached from the endless fighting, and thinks about Hashirama’s crazy talks of peace.
But he can’t do it.
“No…” Madara plucks Hashirama’s hands off his shoulders. “I’m sorry, I’m not ready.”
Hashirama looks at him disappointedly. “Alright.”
Madara raises a hand to his mouth, taking a great inhale before spewing a plume of fire in Hashirama’s direction. The man smiles, leaping over it and landing with a clang as his sword meets Madara’s gunbai. The two weapons shake under exertion, Hashirama’s face inches from Madara’s as his eyes glint slyly, Madara’s chest filling with excitement.
Then, dread wraps its clammy fingers around Madara’s throat. He whips around, squinting through smoke and scarlet flames just in time to see Tobirama run his brother through with a sword. Everything seems to be in slow motion; he can’t move fast enough, can’t do anything, can’t-
“ IZUNA!”
Madara rushes through the nameless village, its residents unusually busy for this time of night. The cacophonous clamour of voices pings around his brain, a migraine sharp and throbbing as he flings his face around in panic. “Healer!” He half-yells, half-sobs, “I need a healer!” People murmur and shuffle away, put off by his deplorable state or his burning red eyes.
And suddenly, he realizes. He’s alone.
Alone with the silence of the stars and the flicker of a lamp to guide him.
Because those people huddling behind those dingy stands cast in that amber light don’t hold an ounce of sympathy for him, a warmongering demon. They see his raised collar and his frantic ruby eyes and whisper Uchiha, Uchiha, danger, danger, and why wouldn’t they? Towns regularly are destroyed in the conflicts between clans, and they are bitter for it. All fingers are pointed at him, all blame piled on his shoulders.
He eventually wanders to the end of the lane. There, in the alley between two run-down buildings, is a familiar presence. Madara bites the inside of his mouth hard enough to taste iron and walks up slowly, nighttime noise muddling in his mind like blood in water. The man has removed his armor, wearing only a plain, dark undershirt and pants. He looks up upon Madara’s approach and goes to smile, eyes already wrinkling at the edges, when Madara’s hand comes up and clamps hard around his neck, pressing him back violently into the wall of the alley.
“ How dare,” he seethes, glaring up into Hashirama’s measured face, “ you come after what you did.”
“I’m sorry about the actions of my brother.”
Madara scowls, heartache welling up behind his eyes. He stares into Hashirama’s dark ones and growls, tightening his despicable claws around Hashirama’s neck. “I could kill you, you know,”
“Yes, of course,” he frowns. “How is Izuna?”
Madara jolts. “Don’t say his- don’t say-” he stops, taking an angry breath. “He’s dying,” he finally answers. “He’s dying and dying and I am doing nothing to help him!”
“You could help him,” Hashirama tells him quietly. “I could heal him- our clans could join together, stop the war, create peace-”
Madara slaps him.
Hashirama‘s head slams the other way with a loud bump on the wall, and, after a sickly moment, slowly turns to look back at Madara. For a split second, his face seems to display genuine pain, his mouth open slightly and his eyes gleaming wet. Then it’s gone.
Hashirama places a gentle hand on Madara’s. Madara tries not to twitch. He can feel the topography of Hashirama’s palm on the back of his hand. “Sorry,” Hashirama says, slowly removing his hand from Madara’s loosening one and pushing away from the wall. “I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
Madara’s hand slips from his neck to hang limply by his side, and he can only watch as Hashirama disappears into the crowded night, something in his heart flitting away after him.
“Aniki,” Izuna rasps. “Do me… one last favor.”
“No,” Madara yells desperately. “Don’t talk like that! You’ll be fine!”
He chuckles blearily, a dribble of blood sliding down his chin. “Aniki…”
Madara collapses next to Izuna and buries himself in his hair. “I-I’m sorry. I’ll fix this.”
It’s not too late to find Hashirama, something in him whispers.
“When I’m gone, I want you to take my eyes.”
“What?!”
“They’ll be more useful to you than they ever were for me,” He grasps Madara’s hand, the weakness with which he does it sending a fresh wave of misery down Madara’s spine. “Protect our clan with my eyes. Stop the Senju, and…” his eyes gleam. He knows. “Don’t trust them.” Then, all at once, the light escapes his eyes. All the tension leaves his fingers and his hand slides, slow and final, from Madara’s. It hits the ground with a heart-rending thump.
“Izuna…” shakily, tears start to slide down his cheeks. He raises a quivering hand and slides Izuna’s empty eyes shut. “No…”
I’ll avenge them.
Madara stares at the sapphire sky, lungs dripping with molten crystal and daggers. It wasn’t enough. He failed them all.
“Madara,” He barely registers the sword positioned above him. “It’s over.”
“No!” Hashirama’s voice sounds distantly in the back of his mind. “ No one touches him.”
Madara sighs. “Just end it, Hashirama. It’d be an honor to die by your hand.”
He shakes his head. “No! I haven’t given up on you, Madara!”
“I made a promise. I just… can’t trust you.”
“What,” Hashirama stares at him desperately, awakening melancholic memories of their rare little meetups, each one a gem in his mind, “do I have to do to let you trust me?”
Madara remains silent. For a second, he considers offering for Hashirama to kill Tobirama or himself to even the odds, but really just giving him no other choice but to kill him. Knowing Hashirama though, he’d actually try one of the two, and Madara couldn’t put him through that. Anything that could dampen his light had to be snuffed out, and perhaps in the end, Madara counted as one of those things. No, he would just wait for him to come to his senses.
Hashirama frowns contemplatively at Madara’s lack of response.
“See?!” Tobirama waves incredulously at him. “He doesn’t have an answer to give you, Anija! You just need to get rid of this ridiculous notion that our clans could unite! Most of the Uchiha have already defected, anyway!” He pauses, staring at his unresponsive brother. Finally, he grasps his sword, grumbling under his breath, “ You want something done, you have to do it yourself.”
Hashirama whips around. “ Tobirama-”
He drives the weapon deep into Madara’s chest.
Ah, Madara thinks, there we go.
There’s a spike of pain, then everything goes numb and blurry. Madara can feel his breathing slowing down. His heart is having trouble beating around the blade, it seems. Blood pools warm and sticky and hazy sound drips sparingly into his ears, only mere snippets of panicked shouting and angry yelling echoing in the back of his head.
A blurry face comes closer and he registers it as Hashirama, some of his lengthy hairs tickling his nose. His voice cracks. “Madara, please, let me heal you.”
“Come close,” He whispers.
Hashirama leans in, Madara’s overworked eyes finally allowing his face to sharpen with clarity that makes what’s left of his heart jolt with want. He wants to memorize every curve of Hashirama’s face, every sharp edge and every amber bend and keep them locked up in a box in his chest to remind him of better times, because he’s definitely not going the same place Hashirama is. He wearily slides a crimson hand over Hashirama’s cheek, vision fading in and out.
“ Madara, let me heal you,” It’s too late for healing, and Hashirama knows it. Madara swats his glowing green hand away and guides his face down, trails of blood smearing on his skin. People are starting to whisper, but it doesn’t matter. On his deathbed, he doesn’t want any regrets. With a great effort, his heart desperately eking out one last little burst of energy, he lifts his head, barely pressing his iron-stained lips into Hashirama’s gently parted ones. No more secrets.
His head drops, bumping limply in the dirt. He blinks once, twice, and doesn’t see anything at all.
It’s dark.
Hashirama looks blankly at Madara, carelessly pressing a shaky hand to his bloodied lips. “Madara?...” he whispers.
Hold it together, some angry, logical voice screams in the back of his mind, they’re all still watching you. You can’t be weak. You can’t be weak. YOU CAN’T-
Hashirama breathes out slowly. He pulls the sword out of Madara’s chest, sets it aside, and gently begins to card through his blood-encrusted hair.
That night, he realizes.
He never told Madara he loved him.