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The next time Madara opens his eyes, he’s lying on damp dirt, a chill seeping into his skin. Amidst the chirping of night-time insects, there’s a faint rustling in the wind. Swaying leaves frame the sky, and within its cradle, a slice of the silver-bright moon shines through the haze of parting clouds.
Madara turns his head to the side, squinting. “... Is this hell?”
He’s not alone. A small fire has been built beside him for warmth. In the light of its flickering flames, a pout forms on Hashirama’s dumb face. “What, that’s the first place you think of after seeing me?”
Madara ignores him. “Where are we?”
Hashirama offers no explanation. He simply lifts a brow. The look on his face clearly says, you should know.
Madara does know.
After all, this forest is just like how he remembers it. The very same as in his memories. Tree leaves dance in the wind; thoughtlessly, Madara reaches out to pluck one drifting towards him. When he catches the soft, distant babbling of rushing waters, he can almost feel the phantom sensation of holding a perfect stone for skipping, cool and smooth against the palm of his hand.
Madara had already cast out his senses. His first instinct was to suspect a genjutsu—if it was indeed a genjutsu, then it’s good enough to fool an Uchiha. But Hashirama’s strengths never lay in the art of deception; he wouldn’t be able to create an illusion in such realistic detail.
Madara’s second thought is that if not Hashirama, then he himself must be responsible. This must be the kind of delusion that people see in their last moments, and thus he must be simply reliving a jumble of his own fragmented memories.
Except that Madara has had many close brushes with death before, and it was never like this.
In most of them, he’d been delirious with fever, lying in a tent with infected wounds caused by Hashirama. He dreamt about stabbing Hashirama and about being stabbed by him. About Hashirama’s voice, Hashirama’s hands, Hashirama’s lips. About things that never happened.
Years later, he spent most of his time buried underground, barely kept alive by the chakra rods impaling him. He had become a skeleton of himself, sallow skin stretched thinly over bone, and even then, all Madara remembered whenever he occasionally awoke was the stench of blood, the weight of armor and the reflection of Hashirama’s deep brown eyes in the glint of a kunai.
If this is only a dream, it’s a rather tame one Madara’s mind has conjured up.
He examines himself more closely, flexing his fingers before attempting to sit up. To his surprise, truly nothing hurts. His wounds from the previous battle have completely disappeared, leaving behind only a dull ache, the sort of bone-deep tiredness that naturally follows the use of healing chakra. The only remnants of war left on him is the filth and dust and grime of the battlefield.
Once a tailed beast is extracted from a Jinchuuriki, they will most certainly die. There are no exceptions.
And yet.
Madara feels his lips pull wryly. “Creating miracles again,” he wonders, “Hashirama?”
The man beside him continues to tend to the fire. It’s an incredibly stupid thing to do. Even when they were kids, they’d known better than to build one out in the open like this. The smoke spiraling into the sky would practically be an invitation for any enemies out to get them.
But Hashirama does not seem concerned in the least. He smiles a little. “Actually, that would be a miracle that you created.” His gaze noticeably falls on Madara’s bare chest, lingering on the space above his heart, where Madara had once transplanted his cells.
The scrutiny makes his skin burn. Madara scowls and the flames in front of him crackle, before swelling up and bursting like a bubble, leaping to the sky.
“Hey!” Hashirama jerks back. He directs a wounded look at Madara. “And here I thought you finally mellowed out a bit!”
Still, Madara does not detect anything amiss. The chakra circulating through his body continues to flow smooth and unhindered, and despite attempting to intervene, he cannot sense any distortion in their surroundings. If he hadn’t woken to such a strange situation, especially after being so sure that he’d died back there, he wouldn’t have doubted this was the real world.
Seeing his furrowed brow, Hashirama lets out a fond chuckle. His countenance remains relaxed; a warm, almost tender amusement seems to fill his eyes. It is trick of the firelight, perhaps, but Madara’s attention is ensnared by it, and suddenly he finds himself sorely tempted to touch Hashirama—if only to check whether Hashirama really is as solid as he looks.
He watches as Hashirama produces a bottle of sake out of nowhere. Not minding Madara’s suspicion, Hashirama grins sheepishly and tells him, “I forgot the cups, but I’m sure you don’t mind!”
Madara decides not to mind.
Who cares if this is heaven or hell or the earth in between? There’s good alcohol and company here. It seems like he’ll be able to fulfill his last promise to Hashirama at least—to share a drink as war buddies.
There are no cups, so Hashirama takes a large swig straight from the bottle, before holding it out to Madara. For a moment, a scathing remark sits at the tip of Madara’s tongue, but ultimately he finds himself reaching out, his fingertips brushing against Hashirama’s when he accepts the sake.
Hashirama’s face brightens when Madara brings the bottle to his lips, and he makes a small, pleased sound as Madara drinks. His animated joy reminds Madara of the boy with the ugly bowl-cut hair, and a curl of warmth wraps around his heart. But then Hashirama proceeds to put his foot into his mouth.
“So,” he says without preamble, “did you have any other regrets?”
Regrets. Madara’s mind automatically goes to their last battle. About this world, he muses, he naturally has plenty. But Hashirama probably means, About our dreams?
“About us?”
It startles Madara, both the question itself and the quiet weight behind it. His eyes snap to Hashirama, only to meet the other man’s solemn gaze. “... Says the person who married someone else?”
“For the stability of the village,” Hashirama agrees, steadfast. Careful. He does not point fingers at Madara, adding, after you left, but there is a hint of warning in his tone.
The meaning behind that warning is, he won’t have Uzumaki Mito disrespected.
Madara’s lip twists into something cynical. That is already part of the distant past, from years, decades, a whole lifetime ago. The thought of the Hokage taking in a wife can no longer move Madara the way it once did.
Yet Madara cannot help himself.
“Did you love her too?” he asks, sudden and rushed, before he can catch himself. Too? Like he’s inadvertently included himself in the group of people that Hashirama presumably loved.
Before he can stew in that misstep, Hashirama has already responded. “I did.”
Just two words, spoken calmly.
Once upon a time, Hashirama would have flustered, sputtered and gone bright red to the tips of his ears. Once upon a time, Madara had been special to him, even if they never found themselves in a position where they could acknowledge such a thing.
But he’d learned to love her.
Of course he did.
Otherwise, Hashirama wouldn’t be Hashirama. He loved the village and all of its people, and would certainly have loved his wife and children and grandchildren. So he would have loved, and become a stronger person for it.
Madara hadn’t learned to love. Instead, he took that devastating, maddening thing in his chest, along with all of its ‘buts’ and ‘what-ifs’, and used it to nurture seeds of discord—in there, Madara found strength.
Now, a lifetime later, only a heavy silence is left.
Hashirama is the first to break it, with an audible, deep breath, like he’s bracing himself. What comes out is pitched barely above a whisper, even though it’s just the two of them here.
“But, Madara,” Hashirama says quietly, his gaze growing distant. “You were— You have always been—” He breaks off, voice hoarse. “Madara, there are no words that could—”
He starts and stops a few times. It’s faintly reminiscent of all their sudden meetings and partings, those fleeting moments they spent skipping stones across the river, sparring by the cliffs, sitting under a sunny spot in the forest far from their clan camps; all of it that ended before anything could truly begin.
Staring at the complicated emotions flitting across Hashirama’s face, the way his eyes soften with affection one moment and harden with resolve the next, an unnameable feeling quietly rekindles in Madara’s chest.
It can’t be called regret, for even if there were a chance to redo the past, knowing what they had at the time, they would have surely, surely made the same choices again. Unable to bloom into pure emnity or love, the bonds of friendship, rivalry and brotherhood between them had become twisted and warped as they eventually picked paths that went in opposite directions—and at the end, they’ve somehow managed to meet each other at a crossroads again.
Except that this time, the responsibilities and burdens that governed their choices back then are shouldered by the new generation.
This time, Madara chooses to make a concession. He reaches for the bottle again and lets the alcohol burn a path down his throat. Swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he wordlessly offers the sake to Hashirama.
As if such a small gesture could paint over years of wars waged and lost love. As if it could return them to their past selves in one leap. As if it could be that easy.
Hashirama’s hand hovers in the air for a beat, before he decisively reaches past the bottle to grasp Madara’s chin with calloused fingers.
Madara’s breath catches in his throat. He instinctively wants to look away, but the gentle pressure, coupled with Hashirama’s gaze up close, is more arresting than any restraining jutsu.
In the dancing firelight, Hashirama’s eyes sparkle beautifully, like stars on a clear night. A light flush has crept up his neck, barely perceptible on his tanned skin. A flicker of nervousness crosses his features as he bends forward.
Madara knows this expression; it does not belong to Hashirama the Senju’s leader, or Hashirama the First Hokage. This is—
Like a traitor, the long-dead thing in Madara’s chest stirs to life. It starts to beat again, frantically.
Along with his first kiss, Hashirama steals a soft gasp and a realization—that whether they were fighting against each other or simply existing together, Madara has never felt more alive than when Hashirama was by his side.
Seemingly emboldened by the way Madara is gripping his arms tightly enough to bruise, Hashirama leans in again, pressing their mouths together more insistently. Again and again, each time with less reservation, like he just can’t help himself, until Madara has been half-dragged into his lap and they are kissing with more teeth than lips.
“You really will be the death of me.” Madara huffs out a laugh.
Only then does Hashirama pull away slightly to look at him, gaze warm and heavy and rather indignant. “Must you speak of such ominous things at a time like this!”
And so they don’t talk about such things, because Hashirama has always been an idealistic idiot, his brain filled with nothing but images of a better world. He’s got it all figured out; where they’ll go, what places they’ll see, how they’ll spend their time. He’s always been interested in the medicinal plants that grow on Kumogakure’s mountainous terrain, y’know? And he’s never got the chance to visit Sunagakure for a leisure trip.
Just like when they were kids, Hashirama happily uses his silver tongue to paint out a future for them in brilliant colors. Left helpless to protest against the tide, Madara can only settle in more comfortably as Hashirama continues to prattle on.
“Madara!” Hashirama whines, tugging at him. “Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah,” Madara sighs, “I’m listening.”
Lowering his eyelids, he allows Hashirama’s lofty dreams to wash over him once more.