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It was in the darkest hour of the night that Madara meant to leave. The moon and stars were obscured by heavy clouds and everything felt at a standstill. He didn’t need much. The only things he’d take from his clan would be the ancestral gunbai. Everything else, he’d provide for himself.

This was it. The tenuous thread that’d kept him attached to Konohagakure had finally snapped. There’d been no sound, no ceremony, nothing but the soft, misty descent of detachment. His body was here but everything else was long gone.

No more. By sunrise, his shadow would never touch this village again. The streets, the buildings, the hidden walkways around the mountain – they’d already forgotten him. So enough.

Let Hashirama keep the forest and the leaves. This was not his dream.

Nothing happened in Konohagakure without notice. Not the comings and goings of the growing civilian population, and not the inner workings of each clan joined into the fold.

And no clan was under more observation than the Uchiha. 

It was Tobirama’s network of informants, but they reported to Hashirama on the matter of Madara. At least, when it was urgent, like this. He’d been out of his office, working on some overdue scrolls by the solemn light of candles, the patter of rain beginning to lull him towards sleep.

Then, the informant delivered a message that Hashirama dreaded, but had come to expect, ever since that ominous conversation a few days ago. Madara’s words had been confusing, hurtful and worrying. Concern had agitated Hashirama’s mind, leading to late nights like this one. He’d promised himself to take better care of the friendship with Madara, which was balanced on a knife’s edge at best. 

Madara had threatened…no, announced that he would leave. Hashirama’s words hadn’t swayed him whatsoever, and now he was making it a reality.

One that Hashirama wasn’t prepared to accept. He took off before the informant had even left the room.

He wouldn’t let him leave. Not like this. Not alone.

He left soundlessly, the trees undisturbed by his passage. He didn’t need anything spectacular for his departure. Someone else could take his home. The clan would figure out who the new head would be eventually. They nearly already had anyway.

Behind him, he felt Hashirama’s chakra flare. Whatever. It wasn’t related to him. He was done here.

The future awaited. Madara slung his gunbai on tighter and trained his eyes on the horizon. There was a wider world out there, beyond the borders of this forest, beyond even the boundaries of the Land of Fire. Different people, different lives… maybe somewhere there, he would find the answer to his burning questions.

Hashirama was not particularly talented as a sensor. That role had always fallen to Tobirama, and Hashirama had been grateful for it. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t track another shinobi. And Madara in particular had a fiery touch about his person, his chakra, that Hashirama was dearly familiar with. 

Beyond the village. Beyond the outer boundaries of the forest that surrounded it. Hashirama sped up his pace. He couldn’t fall behind, or he risked losing Madara’s track.

He’d already prepared this particular letter for his brother. Tobirama would be displeased, but capable of handling village affairs in Hashirama’s absence. The seal poofed, and the scroll disappeared. It would await Tobirama’s eyes alone. Hashirama couldn’t afford to turn back now.

“Madara…” he whispered under his breath as he got closer and closer. There was no way that someone like his best friend would remain oblivious to his presence.

The bright sunshine flare of Hashirama’s chakra wasn’t abating. It was getting closer, getting taller, until Madara was forced to acknowledge it. He was well out of the village by then and he turned mid-jump and landed in a clearing, his shoulders squared and one hand hovering over the handle of his gunbai.

He waited until Hashirama was in earshot before he spoke.

“Go back to Konoha, Hashirama. You won’t stop me.”

Finally, Madara had stopped. Hashirama was only vaguely out of breath. Had he been a man bound to an office for so long already? No, no, this was different. He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath for as long as he had.

“Madara…” he didn’t even have a pack or bag. Nothing. He was just going to walk out of their life together, like that, as he was. As he’d promised.

But Hashirama was a stubborn sort and one conversation was not enough to convince him.

“I’m not here to stop you.”

“Then you’ll not convince me. Go back.” He turned away from him with a noise of contempt. What did he think he was doing? He’d already failed to see anything when Madara tried to make him understand. Running through the woods in his ridiculous robes wasn’t going to make him change his mind.

He turned away, dismissing him. “I’m leaving. Unless you want to fight?” He looked back, his eyes glinting dangerously. “What will it be?”

“I’m not here to fight you. Or to convince you.” Hashirama caught his breath, took a long, slow inhale. He had a choice here. The village, or his best friend. The village could survive without him. Madara, with his mad new path? He wasn’t so sure.

“I’m coming with you.”

That startled Madara out of his belligerence. He blinked, stopping in his tracks. “You’re what?” he demanded disbelievingly. “No – no, you’re not. You’re staying in the village, you’re the Hokage. That is your duty.”

Hashirama coming with him? What the hell did he think this was, some sabbatical for his health? The mere suggestion was outrageous. Madara clenched his fists, incensed. It began to lightly drizzle.

“You’re not changing my mind. Just give it up and go home before you embarrass yourself.”

“I’m not changing your mind. The village will be fine without me. I’m coming with you. Show me this new path of yours.”

Hashirama had made up his mind, made his choice. Madara was too important to walk out of his life. Their dream meant nothing without him, and Hashirama was the only one who could do something for him now. Madara had been on edge for a long time, and too distant for Hashirama’s liking. It was up to him now to be there for Madara, as Madara would be there for him if their situations were reversed. If there was one thing he was sure about, it was their friendship.

“Abandoning the village so quickly? What happened to your determination?” Madara glared at him, then scoffed and turned around. He didn’t intend to wait around so Hashirama could work his silver tongue and somehow persuade him to come back. No, the only way he was turning back now was if Hashirama broke both his legs and dragged him to Konoha.

“This isn’t a dream to share. You showed me that. I won’t waste my words on someone who will not understand.”

“The village isn’t my only dream.”

Hashirama took another step towards Madara, determined. He was going through with this, whatever the cost. Tobirama had every capability of running the newly founded village. He’d already been pulling Hashirama’s strings anyway. He’d understand. Actually, no, he would probably be too angry. But right now, Hashirama couldn’t care.

“Without you there, it means nothing at all. So let me understand what you mean. Please.”

Why was he still here? What was he doing? Why did he persist? Madara considered just attacking him outright to prove that he was serious. He’d left precisely to avoid Hashirama’s constant questioning but now he was here and apparently willing to follow him out of misguided loyalty for a dead friendship…

Madara’s hands began to sweat like they hadn’t in years, something strange flowering inside his throat. He swallowed, just in case. Foolish. He was being foolish. This was all pointless, Hashirama would eventually get tired and he would go back to Konoha. That was how it would go, he was sure of it. All roads led back there in his heart.

…without you there, it means nothing at all…

He scowled so he didn’t smile.

“It’s your choice,” he said gruffly. The back of his neck felt warm. Madara concentrated on the coldness of the rain to distract himself. “Just. Just stay out of my way.”

“Fine.” Hashirama had won by a small margin. Madara wouldn’t fight his presence. That was a small step in the right direction, at least. Maybe not all was lost. He almost smiled, but thought better of it. The mood was still tense and serious, and Madara hadn’t exactly invited him along.

He gathered his robes up a little, heavy and sodden with rain. It was uncomfortable, but not a hindrance.

“So where are we going?”

“…Land of Tea,” he said. “There is a revolution supposed to be brewing there. I intend to watch.”

Somewhere in this world, there had to be someone who figured out if peace was possible. He would find the answer to that before he fell back on the final plan. That would be his last resort. And then, if all else failed…

He glanced back at Hashirama. His once-friend. His always-enemy. He was the only man he respected, the only man who could defeat him. It made sense that he would find his true power inside of Hashirama, taken from his body and flesh. The perfect union of Uchiha and Senju. Their perfect union.

“It’s a big world. I want to see all of it now that I have the chance.” Sooner or later, Hashirama would leave him again. He was sure of it. Once that happened, Madara would harden his heart and take what he needed to complete the plan.

“I see. It makes sense. You want to see if any sort of peace is better than what you previously believed.” Hashirama should probably keep his thoughts to himself, but that wasn’t his nature. Not here. Not now. It was just him and Madara, and if he was hoping to regain their friendship, then he had to be open, just like when they were children. He would share everything with Madara, and see if he could regain the trust and faith they used to have.

He wanted it, dearly.

“I know now that peace isn’t possible. Or, at least, not for us. But maybe the problem is because we are shinobi.” He caught some of the rain in his hands, watching the drops become a small puddle that trickled between his fingers. “We grew up on war. What do we know of peace outside of children’s imaginations?”

He shook the water away.

“The only thing that I do know is that what we made is not peace. But… I’m not ready to say peace is impossible.” He followed the silvery pale line of the horizon. “I’ll find it.”

“If that’s truly how you feel, that is all the more reason for me to come with you.” There was no need to give up on his dream. Hashirama knew, believed, that peace among people was possible. He and Madara made peace with each other once, before tragedy struck, and it had been true. Just because they’d been children didn’t mean that they didn’t understand how the world worked.

But if Madara needed further convincing, and a new perspective, Hashirama would follow along and see it too. Perhaps they’d both learn something.

“I want to understand what you were trying to tell me. That’s what’s most important to me, Madara. I won’t lose you because of my ignorance.”

The warmth that’d been prickling his neck surged to his face. Madara stopped in his tracks. Hashirama and his goddamn mouth… what kind of confession was that? He wanted to take his words and throw them back in his face and he would have if he wasn’t choking on his spit.

“…don’t talk like that,” he muttered. There wasn’t any losing or having here. They didn’t associate like that. Madara bent his head so that his hair fell over his face, reminding himself of that fact. This was just Hashirama being careless with what he said as usual. Whatever. Whatever. It didn’t matter. He didn’t mean it any other way.

“I’m just telling you the truth. I haven’t done enough of that lately.”

Hashirama couldn’t keep the hint of petulance out of his voice. Madara had accused him so vividly of shutting him out, and yet, he was the one who didn’t seem to want to talk. 

But fine. They could make the long journey to the Land of Tea in silence. Madara could have things his way, this time. 

They traveled together. It was almost like a dream. Madara kept waiting to wake up and see that he was alone again but Hashirama persisted, dumb robes and all. Eventually, he begrudgingly ended up walking shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

It took three days for them to reach the border of the Land of Fire. The peninsula that Tea was on grew progressively warmer, the greenery growing thicker as the air became wetter. Madara shed his layers, sweating lightly.

“You’ve been gone for a week now,” he asked one evening. He’d surrendered his mantle and sat shirtless in the heat, eyeing the fire he built. “Your brother might start looking for you, Hokage-sama.”

Hashirama had lost a few layers too. The Hokage robes didn’t lend themselves to rough travel like this. They certainly didn’t look dignified anymore, what with pieces ripped off and shortened to a shorter length around Hashirama’s thighs, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. At least he’d worn pants beneath them, or else he’d look quite bare by now.

The severed pieces of cloth had been fashioned into other, more useful things, wrapped around Hashirama’s wrists and one serving as a tie for his hair. He’d left in a hurry and there’d been no time to grab any essentials, but when the forest obeyed your commands, survival on the road became much easier.

He plucked the pigeon he’d speared on a branch clean, considering Madara’s words. They were a dig, probably.

“I sent Tobirama a message. He’ll know I’m not missing.”

Madara snorted. “We’ll see if he’s feeling respectful or not.”

They were seeing more farmers as they got further into Tea. The muddy roads occasionally had caravans of them going up north to Noodle or fleeing over the water to the islands. Occasionally, fires burned in the distance. They hadn’t come across fighting yet but it would come sooner or later.

“This country’s weakness is its wealth,” Madara muttered as he gnawed his fish. “Everyone wants a piece and no one can share. But the tea farmers had enough, apparently.” He sniffed the air. Burning tea. It was from far away but the scent was distinct. “What do you think? Will these people, who know how much injustice from above hurts, stay good when they suddenly rise?”

“Not immediately. They’re probably angry after suffering for so long. People don’t change overnight.” Hashirama wrangled the pigeon onto a stick and held it into the fire. Madara’s observations weren’t wrong, but they were short-sighted. Just because Hashirama had faith in people didn’t mean he didn’t see them for what they were.

“There’s always hope for a few good seeds. Even if you burn the entire field down beforehand.”

“If those seeds survive,” Madara replied darkly. “Even if their revolution succeeds, only time will tell if they fall back on their old habits once again. People are cyclical things. What ends comes back.”

He ate slowly, glaring into the fire, smelling the burning tea fields. The revolution was getting nearer. Someone would bleed and someone would win. How long it’d last, he mused, was anyone’s guess.

They found their first sacked village two days in. The fires had gone out already but the bodies were fresh. “Recent kill,” he murmured, touching one of the bodies. “Not shinobi. But they had weapons… maybe a civilian militia?”

Madara straightened, his eyes dark. There was blood on the walls, in the streets… his nose stung from the acrid smoke. “Even these people, who weren’t born to be soldiers… even they will kill each other. And for what?”

He trudged down the small road through the village. “For a few fields?”

“For their own freedom.” Hashirama muttered, glancing around. He knew war, no matter what shape it took. It always smelled of fire, rotting flesh and death. It was the stench that lingered the longest and accompanied the memories.

“Shinobi were just like these people once.” And had they become something better? Or worse? Hashirama didn’t feel like the latter could be true. Shinobi were people that saw beyond the hardships and found a cause. It was the cause that made the difference.

“Freedom that doesn’t last.” They slunk through the ruin like two ghosts, smoke trails twisting through the air like black ribbons. Madara didn’t speak until they came across the body of a dead child, at which point he turned away with a pained sound. It wasn’t his first time seeing something like it but its effect never changed. It was hideous. It was one of the worst crimes humanity could commit on the weakest of them.

“The Land of Tea is supposed to be peaceful,” he said once they passed it. “There’re no warring clans here. The few shinobi that do live here are small in number and they usually band together with the tea nobles. The only reason why no one’s taken over is because disease keeps killing anyone who tries.”

Unbidden, he touched Hashirama’s arm as they came out the other side. He’d come here to find elusive peace but instead only war revealed itself. Madara closed his eyes, disturbed and unhappy.

“It’s moments like these that I wish more people were like you.”

“I’ve killed too. Don’t pretend that I do not have blood on my hands.” Hashirama appreciated that Madara saw something other in him, something that didn’t quite match up with the rest of his picture of the world, but he was wrong. It was exactly because the world was cruel and violent that Hashirama became what he was. Because he didn’t want to be the same.

“I have the luxury of power to change how people live. To give them the chance to see what I see. But I am no better than anyone else.”

Madara gave him a hard look. Then he glanced away.

“I don’t mean faultless,” he said, “I know better than anyone else how many faults you have.” He’d listed them too. Multiple times. Often to Hashirama’s face. No, make no mistake, he knew where Hashirama faltered. He made it his business to know. And yet…

“But I look at this and I only see the end. The constant cycle of violence. The futility of it all.” Madara kicked aside a bit of wood in his path, revealing the glowing embers under it. “Man is the only creature that can go to war in the name of peace. What a joke.”

“When did you get so bleak?”

Madara had always been a realist, a little low on the hopeful optimism, even in their youth, but he’d never been such a fatalist before. Or had he, and it was just another secret kept from Hashirama? It would disappoint him to know that was the truth. They used to tell each other…

No, no, he couldn’t bring up their childhood again. Madara would merely denounce it as childish. Strange, how he’d seen the world much clearer then.

“A cycle doesn’t have an end, Madara. Violence trades places with peace, then returns once more. True tranquility, among all mankind? That’s a dream not even I would reach for.”

“It’s not enough.” He scowled. He disliked the impermanent, the dissolute, and the fleeting. It struck him as profoundly dissatisfying to work so hard for something and then have time wipe it away like footprints on sand. What was the value of their blood and tears if it didn’t make lasting change?

No, he was not satisfied with that answer. He refused to be.

“I am bleak because the world is bleak. I am bleak because I see failure everywhere I go. I am bleak because we walked past a dead child. Take your pick.” Madara turned his back on the burnt out village. It wasn’t the worst he’d ever seen but something about it turned his stomach. Maybe it was the disappointment.

“It’s like I keep trying and everything else tells me that it’s useless to. How can I even wake up every morning when it feels like there isn’t any progress being made? We’re just running in circles and calling it moving forward.”

“That’s a deep hole you’ve fallen into,” Hashirama frowned, trying to discern when exactly Madara had taken on this bitterness. It was pitiful as it was ugly, both in concept and in execution. Madara’s thoughts must span further. He’d never been this hopeless before.

“The world isn’t just bleak. This,” he indicated the destruction around them, “Is just a part of it. Because people don’t know any better, and no one has shown them.”

Like we will. 

Hashirama didn’t say it, but it hung in the air anyway, his hopeful tone betraying his lack of words.

Madara couldn’t understand Hashirama’s stubborn hope. He didn’t know how he could hold onto it so stubbornly even after everything they saw. After everything they continued to see. Madara just felt like he was being crushed under the burden of his revelation. He was always exhausted now, his strength sapped by the endless pain that this world had to offer.

“I don’t have your faith,” he finally said. “I don’t trust like you do. I don’t believe like you do. For me, the more I see, the less there is.”

There was more to see but he had to bring himself to do it. The more he lingered, the more tempting the plan became. It would be an end to it all. It would be peace like none of them had ever known. Perfect, complete… and lasting.

“Is there anything better? I can’t even answer that question anymore.”

Hashirama fought down the impulse to take Madara by the shoulders and shake sense into him. It certainly felt like he was speaking with a brick wall right now, a brick wall that refused all manner of happiness.

He kept himself from that thought by remembering what Madara had been through. The loss of Izuna had changed him, deeply. And while their friendship had seen a little upshot after their initial agreement for peace, Hashirama had never recovered the true Madara.

It was disheartening to hear him speak his feelings on the world. It was heart-breaking to know it was true for him.

“You say these things like they are true for anyone else. But they are not, Madara. If you want to see the world, you need to stop looking only inside yourself. Otherwise, what is the point of this journey?”

He was quiet for a long moment, his face shadowed. “I am exhausted,” he admitted after the silence grew too long. “I feel weary when I wake up but I can’t sleep when it’s night. I can’t seem to find peace anywhere anymore and where I can’t find peace, there’s no home for me.”

It was the closest he ever came to confessing his true feelings. Madara finally looked at Hashirama, willing him to understand. His strength had always come from love and from protecting what he loved. Where did that leave him when he lost everything he wanted to protect? He was the last living member of his family, an outcast of his clan, and the pariah of the village he dreamed of – there was nothing in the world to soothe him anymore. Even now, with the one man he called a friend, the only man he’d ever held in such high esteem, he felt profoundly lonely.

“Maybe I’m losing myself. I can’t tell.”

Hashirama softened, outside and inside. Madara’s dour approach to life, his bleak comments and the strange notions that spilled from his mouth, they all made sense now. He was losing himself, and even he knew that. Perhaps this distance to the village could be something positive. Something personal that Hashirama could help Madara with, the way Madara helped him understand things about the world when they were children.

“Madara…” he should have better control of his impulses at his age, but reason always left Hashirama when it came to this man. He folded him into his arms, accepting no resistance. If Madara struggled, he’d only tighten his grip.

“I never wanted you to feel like that. I am sorry that it’s come so far. But I won’t let you forget who you are…even if I have to follow you all around the world. You’re still my friend.”

Of course, squeezing Madara like this against his will was probably not the right approach, but Hashirama’s heart ached for his friend’s pain. And he ached to take it away from him, bear it for him, anything to lift Madara out of the pit he seemed caught in.

He stiffened. The urge to shove him away roared inside his bones but he held out stonily. Hashirama was comfortable, a solid weight of muscle that promised to hold all of him if just he leaned into him. The temptation was there. It would be frighteningly easy to just let go. To just fall and trust him to catch him.

Madara clenched his fists. He was being childish.

“I am just a friend,” he said. Hashirama’s heartbeat thumped against his ear. Madara wondered how it might feel without any clothes in the way. “The Hokage doesn’t have time for just friends.”

“If you believe that, you’re not half as smart as I thought you to be.” Hashirama didn’t let go. If he did, Madara would walk away and end this conversation and they’d take three steps back in the process of reconnecting their fragile friendship.

“But I won’t make excuses. I have been too occupied with the logistics of building a village.”

“Among other things.” Second best and second cherished. It whirled through his brain viciously, nipping at all the ugly corners of his anger. Madara felt unhappier the longer he hugged him because the proximity just rubbed in everything he could not have. Despite himself, he still reluctantly wrapped his arms around his waist.

If he closed his eyes, he could pretend they were back in Konoha. He could pretend the acrid smell was incense and that they were sharing a different kind of embrace.

He breathed him in. It was too much. He still wanted more.

“I’m tired of just being your friend.”

“Are you tired of me then?” It was a question Hashirama would never have thought to ask on his own. He thought that a few things in this world were destined for longevity. His and Madara’s restored friendship should have been one of them. 

Were they truly that far apart now? It ached, like a twin set of daggers sinking into his chest. Maybe that was a truth he needed to accept.

“I’m tired of what you don’t understand.” How was he supposed to say this? To explain this? He wanted him, all of him, every hair and muscle and breathe, until there was no separation between them, until they were one. He wanted everything and the secrecy strangled him.

He looked up at Hashirama’s beautiful and tragically uncomprehending face. His hand twitched. He didn’t know if he wanted to stroke his cheek or break his nose.

“Isn’t what I want obvious?”

“You want to find yourself again. You want to find some hope in this world, something worth…fighting for?” Hashirama was trying his best, but Madara never made anything easy. It was one of his inherent characteristics, and it was difficult to see positively even for someone as optimistic as Hashirama.

Madara’s self-contained way was a poor match for the depth and intensity of his own emotions, which lead to the kind of unpredictable explosions of temper that worried sensible people. Or really, just anyone without the means of containing a possibly rampant Madara.

“You want a new path for yourself.”

For the first time since coming here, Madara’s dour face lightened up a little. “You’re hopeless,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Sometimes, you really just amaze me.”

He had no words for what he wanted to say. If he tried to speak, he would ruin it somehow – speak too roughly or too vaguely, and just stumble all over his words until something went wrong. He couldn’t control how tongue-tied he got when it came to this.

He grabbed Hashirama’s hair to tug his face down. The kiss was brief, close-mouthed, and Madara stepped away just as quickly when he had to stop. He pushed Hashirama’s hands away.

The world just refused to make sense today. Hashirama had been sure, very sure, that he was right in his assessment. That Madara was feeling lost in the world and would prefer to wander.

Technically, he may even still be right, because Madara had given him a kiss instead of an answer. Curse this man and his lack of communication, Hashirama couldn’t make heads or tails of him sometimes.

“So…uh…Is that a yes to what I said, or am I just that wrong that you give up?”

It felt like he was missing some vital clue. The only reason he wasn’t more concerned about that was Madara’s affection, which meant he’d not lost him entirely yet after all. Odd that the kiss had been so firmly on his mouth, but now wasn’t the time to question it.

Madara gaped at him. He… what? Did he not understand that? How did anyone misunderstand that?

“Forget hopeless. You’re impossible.” He snapped around, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard that his nails dug into his skin. He wanted to snap at Hashirama but his bewildered expression robbed him of his cruelty. He was both frustrated and exhilarated. Hashirama really was just the worst.

“You’re not right at all. You’re –” Madara clenched his fists, suddenly combative. He tilted his chin up like he was sizing him up for a fight. “I want to be more than your friend.”

Hashirama wished Madara could tell him what that meant. More than a friend. Best friend? They’d been best friends before, and Madara had been the one to put a stop to it, so it probably wasn’t that.

A brother? Hashirama had offered those words to Madara many, many times, and yet, each time he did, Madara persisted that it was not the same. And he was right. There was no replacing Tobirama’s importance and proximity to Hashirama’s heart, but Madara was only losing by a razor-thin margin.

That only left one option, but it seemed wildly out of place and time. They’d just been discussing politics, then philosophy, then Madara’s bleak outlook on the rest of the world.

Love was a fickle, fragile thing. It didn’t suit them. It would break the last bonds they had, wouldn’t it?

Hashirama was rarely afraid, but the thought of giving in to this, for Madara’s sake, it was frightening. Frightening how willing he was, if it meant remaining on one side.

And then, his brain continued to work over Madara’s words, not just in this conversation, but many, many before. And Hashirama began to see something that was intimidating in an entirely different way.

“You’re in love with me.”

Ice clamped over his heart. Hashirama sounded shocked. Baffled. It was a hair better than disgusted but it was enough to punch him in the gut. A greasy chill puddled inside his belly.

“… I don’t want your pity,” he croaked. He felt hyper aware of his body, shifting his weight, breathing too hard, and his eyes aching from not blinking enough. He felt like an ant that was caught in a puddle, desperately kicking and making no headway, just prolonging his drowning death. Don’t look at me. Forget it. Forget it all.

Madara wet his dry lips. “Don’t ask me why either.” Humiliation slithered through him but he didn’t want to flee. But he didn’t want to fight either. His feet were rooted in place. He fiercely wished he had a way to make Hashirama forget everything that just happened.

Maybe he’ll leave, suggested an insidious whisper inside him. Despair washed over him at the thought. What if he did? He should’ve stayed silent. He should’ve just let it fester inside him like it always did instead of making a gamble like this. He managed to stay silent since they were children, why did he have to give in this one time? Foolish. He’d been foolish. Hashirama wasn’t interested, he knew that. He didn’t like men or he didn’t like Madara and he’d made his peace with it, so why did he do that?

Madara was embarrassed, defensive, immediately on the retreat. It was, for once, not an exaggerated response. What he’d revealed to Hashirama weighed as heavily on his mind as his lack of faith in the world.

And now, that irrational anger, the constant accusations of being chosen last…a grim picture was painted for Hashirama’s eyes. How long had Madara been holding onto these emotions? How long had jealousy whipped him into fury and despair?

How long had Hashirama been the unknowing architect of the destruction of their trust by taking no notice of Madara’s heart?

His lungs ached and he exhaled, not remembering when he’d started holding his breath in the first place. The tension escaped him, his shoulders as he watched Madara brace himself for something, anything.

“…And here I thought myself wise to give up on you like that when you cut me out of your heart at the river that day.”

I regret that. I still regret that. Madara opened his mouth to say something but he didn’t know what. Where was Hashirama going with this? He wasn’t foolish enough to hope that reciprocation was on the horizon. Pre-emptive anger battled mounting misery.

What have you done? What will you do?

“I am… still… sorry for that.” At least that was true. Madara didn’t know if there was a friendship left to be salvaged after this – didn’t even know if he had the heart to. This was why he’d needed to leave Hashirama behind. He made him feel raw and tender, so tender that it was agony. 

“Don’t be. We can’t live our entire lives with regrets. That’s what I know about the world, Madara.”

This was it. This was how he could rekindle faith in Madara. It was an avenue that Hashirama would never have considered taking, not without prompting, and not without doubt. But now, he’d seen it. He’d seen how raw and miserable his ignorance made Madara.

Finally, he saw sense in the madness that had dripped from Madara’s lips. Desperation, pain and loneliness. Hashirama wanted to take it away from Madara, whatever it took.

His hands returned to Madara, but this time, they framed his face as Hashirama brought them in close proximity of each other.

“I do love you, Madara. I never stopped loving you.” Now they were close enough for Hashirama to rest his forehead against Madara’s, “And that won’t change.”

Madara heard him but he didn’t understand. He didn’t, he couldn’t, he didn’t dare to. If he let himself understand, he would be torn open, he was sure of it. He would bleed and he would die.

He went hot, then cold, then back again. It felt like all his life narrowed down to this single brilliant point. He felt sharper than light, thinner than ice, impossibly hopeful.

“No, you’re not – what? You can’t be serious, you – wait. Wait.” He pinched his mouth shut to stop babbling and looked down so he wouldn’t have to look into his eyes. He would shatter if he looked into his eyes.

He was on fire, or he was drowning, or he was dreaming. Maybe all three. If his emotions were jagged peaks, then this moment would be the highest mountain of them all. The expanse of beyond sang to him.

“Is this… is this pity? I told you, I don’t want your pity –”

“I would follow you to the ends of this earth, to any hell you can imagine.” Hashirama cut him off, one hand in his hair, gripping tight enough to keep Madara from escaping, the other on his face to keep him close.

“Madara…” 

No, his words were not enough. Madara needed to feel to understand, and he needed to do so right now, or he’d be in full flight mode, running away from Hashirama and his feelings. So he returned the favour, spoke the one language apart from violence that Madara understood.

Kissing him felt weird, but entirely better than trying to explain why Madara should continue to have faith in him.

He had been ready for disgust. He had been ready for anger. He had even been ready for rejection. He hadn’t been ready for this.

Madara froze when he felt Hashirama pull him. The kiss made electricity scorch his veins. A beat passed. Hashirama was still here. This was happening.

His walls came down like meteors. He flung his arms around Hashirama. He grabbed his hair and his clothes and he kissed him back so ferociously that he felt dizzy. He was hungry, thirsty, on the edge of death from deprivation, and now he got to receive, to eat, to drink, to have.

He never wanted to let go. He couldn’t. He pressed himself closer to Hashirama until there was no space left between them and moaned into his mouth, too ecstatic to be composed.

Madara kissed him breathless, and didn’t let up. Hashirama couldn’t have pulled away, even if he wanted to. He didn’t. Mostly because the depth of Madara’s sheer desperation was a telltale sign that this had been what stood between the resurrection of their close relationship.

Now, it was presented with a different approach, and Hashirama took it gratefully. He’d do anything to keep Madara close to him, he was selfish like that.

In the few seconds Madara wasn’t gnawing his lips bloody and Hashirama got to breathe, he found time to speak.

“I choose you,” he whispered it fervently into Madara’s mouth, eyes closed, hands full of coarse hair, Madara’s taste on his tongue.

Madara clung to him, shivering with delight. He hardly dared to believe that this was truly happening but he didn’t want to stop. His knees were jelly – they would’ve buckled if he wasn’t holding onto his neck.

I choose you. I choose you. I choose you. It spun round and round in his head, a love-crazy mantra that didn’t stop or relent. It coiled around his heart and strangled him beautifully, the words so simple and yet so big that Madara felt like he was collapsing inward-out.

He leaped up and wrapped his legs around his waist. It was a shockingly intimate position. They had never been this close before, not even as boys. Madara grabbed Hashirama’s face and made him look at him.

“I love you,” he said forcefully. “I always have. I always will. Even when I didn’t want to, I loved you. You… you make me insane.”

Before, it felt like trying to swim against the tide to express himself. Now, the words came as easily as fire. They were true, they were real, they were everything he’d hidden until now. Love me. Accept me. Have me, Hashirama, or I will destroy myself.

For a moment, Hashirama couldn’t believe that this was all inside of Madara. That he wasn’t an empty, bitter shell of a man, but a breathing, burning heart that was, even after all of his losses and hardship, alive with love. For him. It was overwhelming in the most sincerely flattering form. Madara had thrown himself at Hashirama, body, heart and soul, and it was up to him to receive, to embrace, to accept. 

And what else could he have done? He did love Madara, in whatever way he could. And if that meant all of this, he could handle it. There was nothing to be afraid of, if he knew the depth of Madara’s emotions. His innermost thoughts and desires.

Hashirama held him up, weathered the storm of Madara’s words, smiled against his mouth because it felt good.

“I’m sorry. You don’t have to hide it anymore. You will always have me.”

“Good.” For the first time in years, someone else held his weight. Madara stared at him until his eyes watered, as if he would fade if he blinked. Then, finally, he relaxed his vice grip. “Good.”

The outer edge of the hurricane eased. Everything was windswept fresh in its wake, slick and glittery with new possibilities. He smoothed his hands around the back of his neck, cherishing the knobbly swells of his spine just under his collar. It was trust. Intimacy. It was so many words that his life had lost the definition to.

This won’t solve everything, muttered the baleful voice of his doubts. Sooner or later, something has to give.

Maybe it was right. Maybe tomorrow would not be as bright, maybe he would wake up with a new heaviness in his heart. But right now, Madara skimmed closer to the sun than ever before and he wanted to throw himself into it while he could. Let it last. Let it be good. He wanted to live.

“You might be making a mistake,” he said, giddily brushing Hashirama’s hair back over his shoulders. “I won’t let you go. Not even if you ask.”

“You’re never a mistake.” Hashirama could muse on the strangeness of this new adventure at another time. Madara was in love with him. That meant there were entirely new horizons before them, and it would be up to the two of them to navigate through.

Hashirama didn’t know if he was in love with Madara. But he did know that being without him was misery, and letting him disappear was impossible.

“I stand by my word. To the ends of this world and the next, Madara.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

Madara shouldn’t have trusted him so quickly. He shouldn’t be so besotted so quickly. But god, he was hungry, so hungry that he couldn’t bring himself to care. The yearning that’d tormented him whenever he looked at Hashirama could finally be put to rest. That, beyond anything else, soothed the tempest in him. His brother was gone, his clan drove him out, and the village had forgotten him, but Hashirama’s hands still reached through the darkness.

He would catch him. He promised.

Madara closed his eyes and leaned his head against the side of Hashirama’s face. For the first time in years, it felt like he wasn’t fighting a losing battle just to stay awake.

“… I’m not going to go back,” he said quietly. “But… I want to learn how to see the world the way you do.”

It wasn’t quite what Hashirama had set out to do. He just wanted to keep Madara from doing something irrational and terrible. He just wanted to understand the mind of his best friend. 

Now, he knew more than that. He had Madara’s mind, and his heart. It was a chance he didn’t know he could have hoped for. He wouldn’t let it slip through his fingers.

“We…we can travel. All I need is for you not to give up, Madara. Not on me, not on you, not on us, and not on the world,” he pressed a kiss into Madara’s hair, ignoring the way it stung his skin.

He leaned into his kiss, idly scratching his nails over the back of his shoulders. He thrilled in the feeling, in the freedom, just as much as he craved his affection. “As long as you’re with me,” he murmured as he kissed him again, “then I can do anything.”

How weak, sneered that inner voice. Madara brushed it aside easily. Alone, it was the loudest thing in his head. With Hashirama, it was barely more than a mouse.