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The night before the funeral Madara sits up with the corpse, staring into the open coffin at his brother's face. Izuna is repulsively pale in death, his skin almost indistinguishable from his white kimono and the bandages that conceal the hollows where his eyes should be. His serene expression is at odds with the painful nature of his demise. He even appears to be smiling slightly, though Madara knows it's nothing more than decomposition at work. Masked beneath the perfume of sandalwood incense, the stench of rotting meat rises from the body, and it sickens Madara as none of the brutalities he commits in battle manage to. Bile sears his throat.
He passes the night in silence. As the sky darkens, he strains his eyes for a decent glimpse of Izuna. But his eyes fail him; his vaunted Mangekyō has robbed him of visual clarity even as it has given him power. Images that are discernible in one moment become fuzzy silhouettes and blurred colours a blink later. Perhaps it is better this way – he can clearly see Izuna alive in his mind's eye, and the desire to see his remains is nothing more than a way to remind himself of his failure to protect what's important to him.
As if he needs it.
When dawn arrives he's awake to meet it. The cheap wood of the coffin digs into his shoulder as his brother's body is borne out onto the moorland and the waiting pyre. He allows others to help only because the bulk of the coffin makes it necessary, but once everything is in place the other bearers retreat to a more respectable distance. Which in this case means nowhere in sight. A burial would be simpler—it's a simple earth jutsu to make a hole, and wood is hard to come by—but Madara was raised to tradition. His hands are deliberate and steady as he places the six coins for Izuna's passage to the afterlife and lights the pyre with a breath.
Flames rise up and the wood blackens and splits. The heat that washes over his face is searing in its intensity, but Madara does not move as Izuna becomes one with flame, not until the skies have brightened into day and darkened into night and all that remains is ashes.
Once the last grey ribbon of smoke has drifted off to the heavens, one of his many cousins deems him safe to approach. "Madara-sama, the healers are ready for you."
Izuna's face is twisted in agony, and when he coughs his lips are stained with blood. "I want you to have them Niisan. Take my eyes, and protect our clan."
Madara's hands shake as he wipes his brother's face clean. "Izuna you're still alive, I won't consider—"
Izuna grabs his hand, nails biting into the skin. "Promise me."
Madara bows his head. "Yes," he vows to the extinguished pyre.
Three nights after Madara takes his brother's eyes as his own, Hashirama comes to him. He infiltrates the camp under cover of darkness and thunder, his chakra so carefully muted that Madara hasn't an inkling of his presence until he feels the draft from the tent flap opening. He lies still in his bedroll, mimicking the steady breathing of one deeply asleep, and listens.
The healer woman who changes his bandages won't come until morning, and he knows he hasn't lain awake through the night because he would've heard the watch change over. Besides that the strides that make their way towards his bed are too long and heavy.
They are also familiar.
His breath catches when he finally feels it. That chakra. How well he knows it – warm green like sunlit leaves and so immense it's a wonder one body could contain so much life. For years he's hunted it across battlefields, excitement coursing through him at every distant flicker as he goes in pursuit of the one person in this world who makes him feel truly alive. He's shaking beneath the blankets. It isn't entirely from the urge to get up and fight – his skin prickles with the awareness that he will be much easier to kill without his eyes. Madara has never been afraid of death, but that Hashirama should come upon him like this, blind and vulnerable, it's all wrong and it enrages him.
Madara throws back the covers and gets to his feet. "Come to put me out of my misery?"
The footsteps stop. Silence stretches between them, punctuated only by the sound of driving rain against the canvas. "Your chakra is different," Hashirama says, quietly.
He doesn't see, he doesn't know yet, Madara thinks. His new eyes are still adjusting, and even the light of the dimmest candle burns them. Since the transplant he hasn't left this tent, one canvas stretched over the top of another to block out the sun. In this darkness, Hashirama is as blind as I am. "Why are you here?" he demands.
"You weren't on the battlefield," says Hashirama, as if that explains it, as if checking up on the health of your worst enemy is totally normal. "And," he hesitates slightly, "neither was Izuna."
Madara moves without even thinking about it. How DARE he—
The crunch Hashirama's nose makes when his fist smashes into it is particularly satisfying because he aimed correctly based only on the sound of the Senju's voice. Wet warmth spatters across his knuckles. His free hand snatches at the damp cloth of Hashirama's shirt and he slams his fist into his face for a second time, fully intent on breaking the rest of Hashirama's bones (because how dare he mention Izuna – when he – when that brother of his –! ) but he only gets in one more hit before Hashirama fights back. The first blow catches him hard in the jaw, the second in stomach. Madara's disability works against him; it's hard to block what he can't see, and rushes of air and instinct only go so far. Soon things are too close-quarters for proper punches and they grapple, toppling onto something that collapses beneath their combined weight with a loud crack.
Splintered wood needles his back. The whispering of scattered papers informs him he will need a new map table. Snarling, he is attempting to stab Hashirama in the eyes with his thumbs when the table beneath him lurches. The woodwork turns against him, binding his arms, legs and torso hard enough to squeeze the breath from him.
Hashirama's breath is hot against his face. His blood drips onto Madara's chin. "I'm sorry."
"Fuck you and your apologies Senju," he says, hissing the name. He never calls him Senju, not even in the heat of battle. "My brother is dead, because your brother killed him!" Madara strains against his bonds and lies there trembling when they fail to break. "Get off me."
For a few moments there is nothing but the sound of his own ragged breathing. Then:
"Your eyes…" Madara flinches slightly when Hashirama's fingers brush his cheek as they touch the bandages. His voice is so quiet and mystified Madara knows he's guessed.
"He left them to me," he says, and pretends it's anger that makes his voice uneven. "They're…all that remain of him."
"They're bleeding."
Izuna's eyes have not stopped bleeding since they were put into his skull. Day and night they weep until the bandages are crusted and filthy. Now the cloth is saturated and somewhat displaced from their tussle. Streaks of wetness run down Madara's cheeks and mingle with Hashirama's blood. Madara clenches his teeth and turns away, his shoulders trembling faintly. There's a lump in his throat that's making it difficult for his breathing to return to normal.
Hashirama keeps quiet for a while, for which Madara is absurdly grateful. When he does finally speak he says, "Those dressings are disgusting. You'll get an infection."
"Why do you care?" Madara says. He stiffens when the Mokuton unwraps itself from him with a series of creaks. What is Hashirama doing now?
Hashirama acts as if he never heard the question. The heat of his body moves away. "It offends me as a medic to see you in this state. Don't move," he orders, "I'm going to change them."
The same hands which have broken his bones and torn scars into his flesh are tender as they cup the back of his skull and unwind the dirty bandages. Hashirama swabs congealed blood away from his swollen eyelids with utmost care. Madara cringes at the kindness. It confuses him, causes him to doubt himself. This kindness may have saved Izuna but for his own stubbornness. If he had ignored him and followed his own desires…
"Why do you do this?" he asks. His voice sounds weak and drained to his own ears. "Even after all these years you still…"
Cloth settles lightly over his eyelids as Hashirama begins winding the new bandages around his head. He hums slightly, as if thinking about it. "I'd like to think you understand me well, Madara."
Oh he does. And it changes nothing. All the same he gropes through air until his palm meets Hashirama's cheek with a soft pat. Hashirama's hands stop in the middle of knotting the new bandages behind his head and settle warmly at his nape. Madara maps Hashirama's face with his fingertips, tracing over the features he knows so intimately by sight: cheeks, nose (already healed), eyes (Hashirama's slight flinch doesn't escape his notice and Madara smiles wickedly), jaw, mouth… "I'm not sure that I understand much of anything anymore."
My brother is dead.
Hashirama's hands find his own and draw them away. "You will," he says, half-promise half-plea. When he feels lips press softly against his, Madara isn't startled as he ought to be. He shouldn't be doing this, yet his lips part under Hashirama's all the same. Uncertainty has him yield control of the kiss to Hashirama. Their tongues brush and there's a faint coppery taste of blood. Madara feels his way up Hashirama's arms to grip his shoulders as the other man tilts his head back to deepen the kiss. This is a betrayal of all he's been raised to believe in, and not a person apart from themselves would understand. He doesn't even understand.
But maybe he doesn't need to.