Chapter Text
By morning, Hashirama was dressed for battle. Armed with a report, courtesy of Tobirama – and he really needed to do something to make up for everything – he walked into what would be one of the most grueling fights of his life.
“Are we going to get a full explanation for what happened?” Sarutobi Sosuke asked. His tone was respectful but the three heads of the Sarutobi retainer clans were sitting behind him so that dampened it. All of their faces were carefully neutral.
“It was a private spar,” Hashirama said. That was the explanation that he and Tobirama agreed would be best. A spar that got a little too heated, nothing to see here, let’s all calm down now, yes?
“Perhaps, but it was rather… explosive, wasn’t it? And with such important people involved too.”
Hashirama examined Sarutobi’s face and tried to imagine what he was thinking. From Tobirama’s report, the most common concern flying through the clans was that this signaled a resurgence of the age-old conflict between Senju and Uchiha. He personally thought everyone was being a little too jumpy but then again, Mito always liked to grumble that his greatest crime was optimism.
“What can I say?” Hashirama said, throwing up his hands. He shrugged a little. “Some people run a little hotter. Maybe it’s the red hair. Uzumaki have always been feisty.”
Privately, he felt a twinge of guilt for giving Mito some of the blame when she was faultless, but that was the name of the game – Fire Country mainlanders didn’t trust the Uzumaki too much. They’d be willing to believe that Mito was just another example of her countrymen, hot-tempered and twitchy-fingered. An Uzumaki hitting someone with a seal in a minor spar? Just typical.
“Uchiha-san was in the hospital for three days,” Akimichi Chouko said from behind Sarutobi, crossing her arms. The tattoos on her cheeks stretched as she frowned. “Don’t like that too much, if you’ll excuse me, Hokage-sama. Seals aren’t toys.”
“None of what we can do are toys, Akimichi-san. But it was just a spar, one between my wife and my friend on my grounds and none of us are unfamiliar with spars that get a little hairy.” Hashirama chuckled. “Didn’t you once clip poor Homura Yoki halfway across the forest?”
Yamanaka Inoma snickered from Sarutobi’s other side. “Oh. I remember that.”
“Yeah. And you, Nara-san – I think my cousin Toka’s still a little sore about the time you made her stand on her head for an hour straight.”
Nara Shikana shrugged, smirking a little. “She said she was willing to take it.”
“And so did Madara! After all, you don’t get to spar a seal user every day, he just got too curious for his own good. And besides -” Hashirama leaned in conspiratorially, “- considering how busy we all are, I think Madara was just taking an excuse to nap a little.”
Akimichi didn’t totally relax but some of her stern demeanor melted a fraction. Only Sarutobi remained stony.
“I hope an incident like this won’t happen again.”
“I’ll tell them to keep it to the training grounds next time,” Hashirama assured him. “And next time, maybe Tobirama can join in, get the kids involved.”
The mention of his son made Sarutobi soften a smidgen, which was all Hashirama could hope for. Bless Ashura for that idea about mixed squads, it was really proving to be a boon. He leaned back a little. “From what my brother tells me, everyone on his squad’s doing their families proud. Hiruzen-kun’s a chip off the old block.”
Carefully, he guided the conversation to safer waters, discussing the kids instead of Madara and Mito. This wasn’t going to be all – there were more clan heads clamoring to talk to him – but Hashirama saw the light at the end of the tunnel. With enough time, he could smooth this incident over as soon as possible.
Over the course of six hours, he saw a succession of clan heads. Some of them wanted to talk about what happened, others took the opportunity to bring up their own issues. The Aburame, in particular, were antsy about the land they’d been allotted – apparently, there was something in the soil that wasn’t friendly to their insect cultivation techniques, so they had to be rehoused elsewhere. Hashirama promised to look into it, internally dreading the inevitable shuffling that would ensue. He even received a Hyuuga, Hitomi’s son and heir, Hiroshige.
He was younger looking than Hashirama expected, but that was typical of the Hyuuga with their smooth, round faces.
“Hokage-sama,” Hiroshige murmured, dipping his head respectfully, “thank you for having me.”
“Everyone in the village is always welcome,” Hashirama said, smiling. “Would you like tea?”
“That would be welcome, yes.” Hiroshige accepted the cup, though it seemed to be more out of politeness than an actual desire to wet his tongue. “I won’t take up too much of your time today. I just came here to tell you that my mother passed and I will be representing my clan from now on.”
Hashirama paused, blinking. “Hitomi-san’s passed? When?”
“Only last night. It’s custom in our clan to have a period of private mourning before we tell anyone. I wanted to inform you first.”
“Thank you. And I’m sorry for your loss. Hitomi-san was a great woman and I respected her deeply.” Her death was unexpected. Last he’d seen her, she’d been unwell, sure, but not on the edge of death. To pass suddenly like this – it was just… odd.
“We’ll be holding her funeral soon and all the clan heads will be invited to it, and to the ceremony to honor her. I hope you will come.”
“Of course. If you need anything…”
“You’ve been more than generous to us,” Hiroshige said. Now that Hashirama was getting a good look at him, he really didn’t look a lot like his mother or his sister. The Hyuuga shared a lot of features, courtesy of being a bloodline clan, but where Hitomi and Hisae were both slender and fine-boned, he was stocky, with solid shoulders and hair so light that it could’ve passed for blond.
“Will this affect the wedding, do you think?” Hashirama asked, trying not to sound too interested.
To his curiosity, Hiroshige almost scowled. “The wedding will be as planned,” he said shortly. “I would not want this sad occasion to darken such a… happy… event for my sister.”
Now that was intriguing. Hashirama didn’t want to get too involved in inter-clan affairs but he’d admit to being more invested than usual in this particular matter. “I’m sure Madara will understand if you and Hisae-san need time.”
“No. The wedding will be going forward. My sister would not have it any other way, but -” Hiroshige stopped himself. “I mean. I apologize, I just meant to say that things will be… as ordered. My mother’s passing has just been difficult.”
Hashirama wanted to pry but he doubted it’d work. So he tamped down on his curiosity and nodded. “No, it’s alright. I’ll be sure to bring anything I have to you from now on, Hiroshige-san.”
The meeting didn’t last long after that, Hiroshige clearing out as soon as he could. Hashirama watched him go, itching with questions. Why did Hitomi die so soon? Why hadn’t the Hyuuga tried to reach out to him if she was so unwell? And, most importantly, why would they, a clan so taken with propriety, let a wedding take place so soon after her funeral? Hashirama wasn’t deeply versed in tradition but even he could tell that something like that was cutting it a little close to the edge.
Still, Hiroshige was new and he couldn’t afford to grill him now. He’d just have to stay curious for a little longer. He didn’t even have that long to linger on the matter anyway because the next person after Hiroshige made him straighten up quickly. It was Uchiha Hikaku.
“Hokage-sama.” Hikaku bowed deeply. “I came to tell you that Madara-sama has left the hospital and will be continuing the rest of his recovery in his home.”
What? “Did he get the seal removed?”
“That’s not for me to say,” Hikaku said, shifting a little. “He requested that I pass this along to you.”
“Nothing else?”
“No.”
“Alright. Then you’re free to leave, unless you have more.”
Hikaku departed. Hashirama clutched his cup, his thoughts whirling. He’d thought that Madara would want his seal off before he went back to his clan. He’d even been planning on finding Mito to talk about that, except it seemed that Madara had something else in mind. But why? It didn’t feel right at all. Madara, of all people, being content to have such a harsh seal on him without a clear method of removal – and, once again, slipping around while Hashirama was distracted. He didn’t want to say it but it was just like him.
He was still pondering that when someone tapped on his window. Looking up, he saw Toka peering at him upside down. At his nod, she opened the window and elegantly dropped down into his office. “Hey, cuz.”
“Please tell me our clan isn’t rioting,” he said wearily, massaging his temple. His brain felt mulchy after spending all day in so many consecutive meetings. If Toka was here to bring him bad news, he had half a mind to tell her to wait a half-hour before breaking it to him.
“Oh, no, that’s next week. Though Mina-chan did accidentally almost set Nodoka-sama on fire.”
Nodoka was one of the most crotchety elders in the clan, infamous for a notoriously bad temper and a hard slap for anyone who met her ire. Poor Mina-chan. At least it was ‘almost’ and not ‘definitely’.
“So what’re you here for, or is this social?”
“Can’t I come to check up on my favorite Hokage?”
“I’m your only Hokage.”
“That’s why you’re the favorite,” Toka said, winking. She sat on the edge of his desk, tilting her head. Her dark eyes examined Hashirama from top to bottom and seemed to find him wanting. “You look pretty wilted.”
“I have to rearrange land because of soil incompatibility.”
“Ouch. Well, I won’t bother you too long – I just came here to pass on a message. Did you know Mito’s been staying with me?”
He’d suspected it. If Mito wasn’t at home or with Tobirama, then it made sense that she’d find her closest friend for a break from the action. “Yeah.”
“Mm, well, she wanted me to ask and I quote – ‘has my damn husband finally done something to deal with his problems’ – and also that she tried to talk to Madara but he was and I quote again – ‘squatting in that house of his, the bastard, he won’t talk to me’. She’s really angry, actually.”
Ah. Hashirama gave up hope on a better evening than his morning. “You two are talking?”
“Sort of? As in, she tells me things but not enough for me to actually really understand.” Toka shrugged offhandedly. “The only thing I did understand is that your marriage seems to be a little. Uh. Not good.”
“She’s not wrong.”
She gave him a pitying look. “She brought over her calligraphy set.”
That was new. Mito hardly ever let anyone touch her calligraphy set and she never, ever moved it unless it was strictly necessary. For her to do something like that was pretty – drastic, to say the least. Possibly even permanent. An Uzumaki changing where they put their brushes was basically a declaration of intent for them.
“Not trying to imply anything here. Just that. You two should sort this out, maybe. That’s all. And my lips are sealed.” Toka mimed a zipper. “Mito hasn’t told me anything actually concrete either, just so you know. And I don’t wanna get involved, just speaking cousin to cousin.”
First Madara, now Mito. They truly were the principal movers and shakers of his life, weren’t they? If only they had villages of their own, then maybe they wouldn’t be moving around so fast. Hashirama felt a little bit like he was playing perpetual catch-up and he tried not to resent that too much.
“Thanks. And forget this ever happened.”
“I have no idea why I’m even here,” Toka replied, patting him commiseratingly on the shoulder before walking towards the door. “Presumably I came by to just stare at you for five minutes.”
“And what a lovely staring session it was,” Hashirama muttered, glaring at the wood grain of his desk.
Hitomi dead, a restless village, and his friend and wife both speeding off in their own directions–it was a lot for one man.
Hashirama sat down on the highest point of the Hokage mountain. The autumn sky was the purest blue that he’d seen in a while, sprawling above like a gate to the divine, laced with silver wisps. He set down his bonsai tree with a determined huff and pulled out small trimming shears from his pocket. Holding it up, he stared at the little tree with enough intensity to make its tiny leaves quiver.
Hashirama first picked up bonsai when he was learning the art of Sage techniques. When he had to sit down and weigh all the elements of something so small, he could shut out the external world and think unhindered. Tobirama meditated. Hashirama pruned.
After a full minute of consideration, he snipped a twig off its canopy.
So. The truth that’d taken him so long to understand was now staring him right in the face. The Madara problem, as Tobirama put it, wasn’t going to resolve itself. The longer he let it sit, the worse it was going to get. To be honest with himself, Hashirama didn’t want to let it sit anymore either. He’d been married to Mito for ten years and while that decade was filled with good memories, they were not the kind that made a good marriage. He loved her and she loved him but not as husband and wife.
Hashirama snipped two branches off consecutively, measured the bonsai with a finger, then snipped away a leaf. The bonsai, considerably lightened, straightened up to impress him.
“I need to talk to him,” he said. “We stopped talking when we shouldn’t have, I let myself get distracted by other things, and this is all happening because of that.”
Tobirama had called it his self-sacrificing streak. Hashirama didn’t quite agree with him completely–but he wasn’t dumb enough to deny that there was a kernel of truth to his words. In focusing so closely on the village, he’d ended up neglecting his personal life and now here were all the bugbears of that mistake come to bite him in the ass. Mito deserved more than a husband with a wandering eye and Madara–well, Madara deserved the real truth.
Something tickled his finger. Hashirama startled and looked down to see a flower blossoming in the boughs of his bonsai. Long yellow filaments curled out from its flushed golden center, nestled among white-ivory petals, dusting filmy thick pollen on his hands. He chuckled.
“I’m going to do something. Don’t you start doing something on your own too.” Patting the blossom with one finger, Hashirama got up and leapt off the Hokage mountain into the embrace of that blue sky. Let his tree soak up the sunlight for a little bit. He had someone to visit.
It wasn’t the first time that Hashirama came here. Now, though, he looked at Madara’s home with fresh eyes and tried to see more than just the building.
It was on the outskirts of the village and closely nestled to where the Uchiha clan chose as the center of their now semi-permanent camp. It was perched on a low, grassy mound that had a little path on its right side. Stones had been pounded into the path to provide a foothold, though a few enterprising weeds were already trying to wriggle out. Hashirama nudged a pebble out of the way of a daisy and took a deep breath to fortify himself.
“Madara? Are you home?” he called. There was no answer. Hashirama got to the porch and knocked but no reply came. His hopes sinking, he concentrated and looked for his signature. It wasn’t in the house but behind it, in the garden.
He circled around. “Madara?”
Over the garden wall, he could spy Madara slouched on the porch, pipe in mouth. He made no indication that he noticed him but Hashirama felt a dip in his chakra, like a nod. So he jumped the wall.
“Hey.”
Instead of replying, Madara stared into space. Hashirama followed his gaze to the corner of the garden. A small bush was growing there–too small to be seasonal, probably roses or camellia.
“What’re you doing?” he asked, probing for a response. He didn’t want to push if Madara was in a poor mood, but it was hard to judge when he wouldn’t even look at him.
“That shouldn’t be there.”
Hashirama blinked. “What?”
“That bush. It shouldn’t be there.”
“Why not?” he asked, sitting on the porch.
“It’s too late for it to be growing now. Winter’s coming, its roots are too shallow to survive the frost.”
Madara never showed this much interest in botany before. Hashirama nudged the plant with his Mokuton just in case–it was nothing special. Just a camellia bush that must’ve sprouted during the last warm spell of fall. It was a weedy little thing. Madara was right. It’d die as soon as the frost hit.
He molded his chakra. It wouldn’t take much to poke it in the right direction. Its topmost parts would still snap off in the cold but its roots would survive and that was what mattered. Just as he was about to do it, however, Madara’s head snapped to him.
“Stop.”
Hashirama did, puzzled. “You said it wouldn’t survive.”
“If it dies, it dies,” Madara said. He looked at the camellias again, brows creased. “There’s no point in changing that.”
Hashirama thought of all the plants he’d guided in the past; most of it on a whim, done because he wanted to preserve a particularly pretty tree, or because he was in a good mood, or because he just felt like it. He’d never put deeper thought into why, nor had he cared about inevitability. “It’s not that big a deal.”
“I said leave it, didn’t I?”
“But I can do something about it.”
Hashirama’s hands itched. He didn’t understand Madara’s temper, but he knew enough to tell that there was something deeper. But why the camellias?
He tried to change the subject. “Hikaku told me you left the hospital. I wanted to check up on you.”
“Not necessary.” Madara leaned against a porch post. “I’m fine.”
He looked ragged and still smelled a little medicinal. He didn’t look like he bathed at all. It wasn’t like him–he was usually so meticulous. “I just wanted to see you.”
“You have. You can go.”
Hashirama bit the inside of his cheek to restrain his retort. He wasn’t usually this hostile. Surly, yes, but not callous. Not like before. He’d thought they overcame that. He was wrong. “You’re still angry.”
“I’m not.”
“Is this because I married Mito?”
A bird screeched as it fled the trees. Its scream lingered. The air was suddenly hot, so hot that the grass yellowed, and Madara abruptly stood up, snarling. “No.”
Hashirama tensed to jump away if Madara lunged, but it wasn’t at him. He stalked across the garden towards the camellias, grabbed one long stem, and tore it out roots and all. It was so unexpected that Hashirama could only stare at him as he dropped to his knees and began to rip apart the rest. Dirt sprayed as he threw away the flowers.
“Madara, what..?”
“I can’t stand it,” he hissed. He dug deeper, yanked out more roots. “This thing. There’s no point. I can’t stand it.”
Unease pulsed inside him. The shredded pieces of the camellias were limp, the petals broken. More of it followed. The leaves and stems of it were nothing against Madara’s strength.
Without knowing why, Hashirama grabbed Madara’s shoulders and shoved him away from it. “Leave it be.”
“It’s going to die anyway,” he snapped.
“That doesn’t matter. Maybe it won’t.”
“‘Maybe’? ‘Maybe’ isn’t good enough. What’s the point? It’s too weak–”
“It’s a camellia!” Hashirama said. “It’s just–it’s just a plant, Madara! It might live, it might die, why does it matter?”
“It does!” he yelled. “It’s going to die anyway, so why not just end it? It’s too weak! It’s pointless!”
A light glittered inside his eyes. It was imbalanced, unstable. It was a dangerous light. It made him look cruel.
Hashirama looked away. The camellias were destroyed. The roots were exposed and broken, the leaves mulched up, and the flowers were all gone. Madara had been thorough.
“It doesn’t have to be this way anymore,” he said, quiet.
Madara stilled. A brief, tense silence ruled the air for a split-second. The air was still thick with heat. “What she said about me. She was right.”
Abrupt. Coarse. Streams of smoke snaked from underneath his sandals. His hair waved restlessly even though there was no wind. Madara’s Sharingan spun from his bloodless face. He was both unreadable and unknowable. “I wanted to leave.”
Ice dripped down Hashirama’s back. “What?”
“She was right,” he repeated. “I break everything. You don’t need me anyway.”
Hashirama stared at him. Nothing he said made sense.
Madara didn’t look away. “What’s the point? I can’t blame you. I can’t blame her. It was me. I did this.” The black bars of Mito’s seal crawled on his arms as his chakra dimmed. The heat stayed–a reminder. Hashirama grabbed his wrist but Madara twisted free. “I can’t be here.”
“But–your marriage. Hisae–”
Anger flashed across his face. “I can’t stand her,” he hissed.
“Then why would you…?”
“She begged me. It was the only way she could escape. And I hated her. How pathetic do you have to be? How weak?”
“But you still did it. You said it yourself. You’ll marry her.” He didn’t understand. All of it, he didn’t understand. Why? When had he stopped making sense to him?
Madara’s Sharingan slowly ebbed into black. He lunged and this time Hashirama was unprepared for it. His nails dug into his wrist as he dragged him until they were too close, until only words separated their mouths.
“We’re the same,” Madara said. “She and I. Who am I, looking down on her? Thinking we’re different? She’s better than me. She’s honest.”
Hashirama’s hand ached–Madara’s grip was too tight.. He didn’t dare pull away. It was the first time ever that Madara was so painfully honest with him. His face was frozen between a snarl and something else, something much sadder, and it had never been a choice, not for him. He grabbed his shoulders.
“I don’t understand you,” Hashirama said. Saying it made him realize it was true. And that made him want to weep. They used to understand each other. “I’m sorry, I don’t. But I want to. Please, Madara. Please help me.”
Everything was going right, except it wasn’t. His brother was alive and well, his clan was safe. The village was growing every day. And yet, Hashirama felt like he was losing it all bit by bit, starting with Madara. No matter what he did, he just couldn’t anchor him.
Madara stared at him. The longer Hashirama looked, the more he saw. The black of his eyes was not a true black. It was the last aftermath of red. It forced him to think: where have you been? Where have I been?
How could he have forgotten so much that he forgot this?
“Why am I here? What for?” Madara’s grip relaxed. Blood rushed back into his hand. He leaned into him. Collapsed. Hashirama caught him, just barely. Always, just barely.
“I don’t know.” It was the worst answer. It was the only answer.