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Hashirama is well aware that he probably shouldn’t be wandering around in the forest so late at night.
He’s not half the fool his clan—and even Tobirama, at times—seem to believe him to be, after all. He’s a shinobi by birth and by right; self-preservation runs through his veins, hyperawareness rings through his senses and he’s in no hurry to get himself killed when there’s still so much to do.
So he knows he shouldn’t be wandering, knows it isn’t safe. Knows that he’s treading on what’s technically Uchiha territory by now, that there will be a swarm of angry and powerful shinobi descending upon him within minutes should be spotted.
He knows he’s being foolish, sentimental, careless.
But he’s also standing at the very edge of sobriety, enjoying the sweet haziness only drunkenness can bring and the gentle cold only pre-dawn can provide. Consequences are the last thing on his mind when the day is dawning so gently all around him, when the forest is starting to wake up and when everything around him fills his already bleeding heart with some nameless yearning, an undefined longing for calm, for peace, for—
Hashirama hastens his step.
Most of his clan won't be expecting him to be up for quite some time, not when festivities last night ran so late, but he's never been one for patience. He's lighter on his feet without his armour and most of his weaponry, so there's no need to worry about making too much noise, at least.
He still travels with caution, of course, making the best of his limited sensor skills to feel for anyone that may intrude upon his journey, though he has a feeling the Uchiha may have gone even further with festivities than his own clan did if the lack of scouts scattered around the edges of their territory is anything to go back. Hashirama doesn't think much of it beyond sending a thank you to the gods for this one stroke of luck as he runs through the trees and tries to keep his drunkenness at bay.
A rustle of movement nearly has him lose his footing, but he recovers without a hitch, snapping back from his meaningless wonderings to watch as a snake curls itself around the prey it just caught.
At last, he's arrived.
The sound of the river seems softer than he remembers, but it still fills him with such intense longing that his legs nearly falter.
He must be drunker than he thought, Hashirama muses, taking off his sandals and letting his feet sink into the softness of the earth below as he jumps to the ground. From where he's standing, he can catch glimpses of the outline of the riverbank and the calm and steady flow of the river itself, though most of it remains blocked by a line of trees.
He's so close to where he wants to be, now. Close enough that if he shuts his eyes he'll be thrust back into the past with the help of the sounds and smells of his surroundings alone.
Hashirama takes a deep breath—and freezes.
There's something dizzying around him, something painfully familiar.
A chakra.
He breathes in again, and breathes out.
Opens his eyes, tries to control his impulses.
Pinches his own hand.
The feeling doesn't vanish.
The same chakra, still present, still strong. Overwhelming, almost. Sweet and sour at once, laced with enough spice to hurt those unused to it's flavour, those too weak to withstand it. He's felt it frequently, of course, but usually as a swirling concoction of emotion, bursting with adrenaline, with anger, with excitement and everything else the powerful feel mid-battle.
Right now, however. Right now all he feels is tenderness, a soothing calmness and—an achingly familiar yearning that his own chakra would echo were it free to spread and wreak havoc on all around it.
Hashirama feels as if time has stopped.
He does his best to keep his breathing paced, to keep his heart from beating too frantic a drum and slowly lifts a hand to his chest, feeling for the seal glued tight to the skin under his clothes. It's still there, of course, still keeping him from being discovered through anything but his own possible carelessness or impulsivity, but the knowledge doesn't soothe the fevered panic he seems to have worked himself into.
It's Madara.
Madara is there, somewhere beyond the line of trees ahead of him.
Closer than he's ever been without the excuse of a battle.
Hashirama exhales, harsh but quiet.
Part of him, and not an insignificant part, wants to run over. Wants to see him and touch him and pretend nothing ever changed, that they never aged past thirteen, that they are not enemies and never were. Part of him wants to feel the weight of heavy, sweet-smelling fabric upon his shoulders after he complains about the chill of the wind, wants to laugh and tease and feel the grip of a calloused hand against his own.
Wants—everything, wants so much.
He can't have everything, he knows that. He can't do any of those things, can't act upon any of his desperate desires. Such knowledge has been etched onto his bones, painful and real, a constant reminder whenever his agonising loneliness threatens to overtake his senses.
At least for now, he can't.
He won't.
But still, Hashirama thinks. He has to see him.
It's been so, so long since he was able to just look upon Madara without being forced to engage in combat, without being forced to fight. He knows the trouble it will bring should he be spotted, he knows now more than ever that he's yielding to his love against his wisdom, but—
Hashirama steps back and looks around.
He knows these woods, knows its paths too well for time to take them away from him.
It takes him some effort to manoeuvre through the trees without giving away his presence, but Hashirama is, at least, a capable shinobi if not a sensible one. He moves as silently as the world allows him to, leaping around with utmost care lest he disturbs the peace of someone he knows to rarely have any.
In the end, it takes him a little longer than he would have liked, but Hashirama finds what he's been looking for without much difficulty.
A branch of mid-height, itself empty of leaves but hidden by the thicket of surrounding trees and with a clear line of sight to the river and its margins.
On the curve of where the branch meets the trunk, the letters H and M are carved deep, one jagged and awkward, the other sharp and practised. Hashirama grazes his fingers over them, allowing himself a moment to remember before smiling and turning his gaze towards the riverbank.
It's weird, he thinks. How one doesn't notice how much they truly miss someone until they see them again, how much one buries to keep from hurting and how it feels to be reminded.
Hashirama has missed Madara dearly, this he knows, always knew.
Being separated, having their rare peaceful mornings and afternoons taken from him had felt like the end of the world at the time. Being forced to give up on the only person in the world who ever understood him, who felt the same way he did—it was hell.
But time had passed and little by little, it became more manageable to exist in a world where he was forced to fight Madara every other month. At least, Hashirama had once rationalised, he still got to see him, to hear his manic laughter across a battlefield, to dance with him in combat, to hear him talk even if only to taunt him.
It wasn't the same, but it felt like enough.
But seeing Madara like this makes him realise the true depth of how much he missed him.
It's staggering.
He feels his breath catch at the sight, hears the hammering beat of his own heart and can only imagine what type of disaster his chakra would be causing were it free to cause it.
There's nothing particular about the sight, really, but it's such a dreadfully missed type of mundane that it sets his blood alight.
Madara is sitting at the very edge of the riverbank, not far from where Hashirama is hiding. His feet are soaking in the water and his eyes are closed, face turned towards the still-rising sun as to soak in its gentle light as well. Something about him looks soft, softer than Hashirama has ever seen him look, and he wonders for a moment if Madara is drunk as well, if he felt the same burning longing as he had and drowned it in the same way he did.
He wonders if Madara came here because he had missed him as well, if he sought to find solace for the hole their bond left behind in the same way Hashirama did: by visiting the site of its inception, the place where it all began.
If he had closed his eyes to think back to the past as well, to pretend nothing ever changed.
Hashirama's breath stutters in tandem to his heartbeat at the thought, and he never wished to be a decent sensor more than now just so he could feel Madara's emotions more accurately, so he could wrap himself in the familiar warmth of his chakra, even if from afar.
Alas.
He’ll have to settle for watching from a distance, unable to touch, to hold, to—
Hashirama settles for watching, drinking in the sight of his dearest friend as a thirsty man would drink a glass of water.
Stupidly enough, his immediate thought is how long Madara's hair has gotten. How wild and untamed its curls seem, how much it reflects his personality and how dearly he wishes he could once again run his fingers through it as Madara sleeps and Hashirama neglects his duty of keeping watch in order to feel the beat of his friend's heart.
At times he feels as if he must have created these memories from thin air—surely, he thinks, a moment as perfect as that couldn't have existed, couldn't be real. Such a precious thing couldn't exist in a life of tragedy and war.
But when he closes his eyes, he can feel the texture of Madara’s hair between his calloused fingers, can smell the faint smokiness and fainter still sweetness that always seemed to cling to him. Can even feel the weight of Madara’s head on his thighs if he tries hard enough, hear the gentle sound of his breathing, the exhaling of warm breath against the fabric of his pants.
How dear those memories are to him, how deeply he wishes to be able to jump down and create new ones.
Hashirama suppresses a sigh and refocuses just as Madara moves to lie on his elbows as if to better take in the sun, exposing the arch of his throat and dip of his collarbones where his haori is parted. The warm brown of his skin looks golden under the softness of the morning sun and Hashirama feels as if the ground has vanished from under his feet as he takes in the thickness of Madara’s eyelashes, the curve of his cupid’s bow, the hint of toned muscle peeking from under his clothes.
His fingers tingle and he feels so much that he cannot discern what is it he's feeling at all.
He always knew that Madara was beautiful, of course. It’s impossible not to know with the way Madara flaunts it around in the battlefield, laughing wildly and as he swings his hair and his weapons around, but seeing him like this—it changes something. It makes Hashirama feel drunker than he felt before, makes him feel tender to the touch, tightens a crown of thorns around his heart.
Now more than ever he wants nothing but to run forward, to meet Madara’s confused gaze, drop to his knees and beg—for what he doesn’t know. An alliance, his forgiveness, his time and attention, his heart.
He forces himself to take a step back just as Madara yawns and opens his eyes, leaving them half-lidded as he stares into the other margin of the river with familiar sorrow. The bags under his eyes are heavier now than Hashirama remembers seeing them last time they met upon the battlefield, and he burns with the need to go over and ask are you okay, have you been getting enough sleep, are you treating yourself kindly?
It hurts—not knowing these things about someone so dear, not being able to ask, to help. Madara has always been a sensitive soul, always too reactive, willing to put the wellbeing of those he cherishes above his own and feeling each and every one of their sorrows in their stead. His brother, his clan, his people, it all takes priority over himself and Hashirama wishes oh so deeply that he could lighten the burden on his shoulders, even if it meant taking it into his own.
There’s something to be said about the extent of his devotion to this one man, a word that would describe what it means for him to feel this way, but Hashirama would dare not speak its name, should he know it. He has never been the kind to bother unravelling his own feelings, after all; he always found that the consequences of understanding are too heavy a burden to bear.
Hashirama shakes his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts and sharpens his focus back on the scene before him again.
Madara has moved while he was lost in his own head. He’s sitting up now, back straight and arms raised in a stretch; the cracking on his spine can be heard from afar and the moan of relief he lets out at the feeling makes Hashirama want to both look away and move closer so he can hear it better.
He does neither, keeping his eyes on Madara and taking in even the slightest of his movements.
At the very back of his mind, he’s well aware that he probably shouldn’t be watching Madara like this, that it can be perceived as somewhat—uncouth of him to spy on someone this way. These are clearly private moments, a small window of time where no one would miss him that Madara decided to dedicate to indulging in old fantasies. To honouring a lost past, a future taken away from him, from them.
But it’s another one of those things that Hashirama knows, but deigns not to act upon. Can’t act upon. It’s been too long since he was free to look upon Madara at peace, to watch him without care. To just see him outside of battle, being normal, being human.
To have found him here, now of all times, when Hashirama himself dared to make the crossing into enemy territory for the simple sake of indulging in nostalgia is nothing short of a miracle, a blessing, an apology from fate and the gods themselves. And for all his power, Hashirama is a weak, weak man—this, he has never denied, though none but Madara have ever accused him of such a thing—, he could and would never waste such a chance.
So he stays and watches as Madara does nothing but exist, and feels a little more complete with every breath he takes, with each minute that passes.
He’ll have to go back eventually, of course. They both will.
Hashirama will have to make his way back as fast as he can, but with twice as much caution as before. He’ll slip back into his house, and make up some excuse when Tobirama inevitably asks where he had been. He’ll ignore the suspicious look on his brother’s eyes.
He might take a short nap, but he’ll have to wake up before the sun is at its peak so he can be at luncheon and assure all his clansmen that things will be better during his new year. Then he’ll spend the afternoon holding hearings, dealing with complaints, settling arguments. At dusk, he’ll check provisions, inspect the armours, help the injured.
Hashirama will go back to his own life, away from the river, from Madara, from his dreams of a better world.
And Madara will do the same.
He’ll get up, wipe the sand from his clothes and run back home. He’ll have a warmer reception than Hashirama will, but will deal with the exact same things in slightly different order, perhaps. He’ll never know how close they’d been, will never realise Hashirama had been there during his little reprieve, wishing for nothing but to be near him again. He’ll never realise how in sync they had been, to come here on the same day, at the same hour, sharing the same intentions and heartbreaks.
But for now, at least, Madara will sit on the riverbank and sunbathe, and Hashirama will sit on his tree branch, run his fingers through the initials carved on the wood and he’ll watch.
And if he closes his eyes for a second too long and misses a sharp red gaze thrown his way, he’ll never know.