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It smells of ozone. A sickly scent of ozone and wet earth that makes Hashirama pause as he peers dumbly up at the sky in confusion. It's a mixture of blackened clouds and light greys intermingling, and he almost curses his famously bad luck because it had been so sunny this morning that he thought it would stay bright all the way until sunset.
(And until right now, everything had been bright and good. Love is like that. It makes grey skies seemed to be shaded with bright blue. It makes it easy to purposely misinterpret the startlingly thoughtful look in dark eyes when looking out at the world beyond Konoha's gates as nothing. Love helps to gloss over the arguments and the fact that things aren't so okay between them anymore, and that their relationship isn't what he had thought it would be. Love is what made him believe Madara when he gave a small, tired smile and told him that he'll "be back soon".)
Hashirama takes a deep breath of the humid, warm air that defies the coolness of the rain that sits above him, waiting to fall. Summer wasn't a favorable time for him because of the mixture of unreasonable droughts followed by the sticky, warm air left behind by all of the rain that came after. He steps against the dry dirt, dragging his heel down the way as he slowly lumbered down the mainroad of the village.
He knows that maybe this is a little excessive. It's almost a violation of privacy to wander into the village to search for Madara simply because he's a few minutes past the time that he told Hashirama he would come back after he volunteered to go to the grocer for the vegetables needed for dinner. (And isn't that funny? The only thing that Hashirama can't grow is the vegetables they had needed.)
But those few minutes are actually closer to two hours than Hashirama wants to acknowledge, and he doesn't know what's drawn him out of the house other than a very distinct worry. He wanders through the bustling shopping district with the screaming and laughing children, and the lovers walking through with such gleeful expressions and heavy eyelids, and the life flowing through the village that seemed to reassure him that everything would be alright. It's like a dream, he'd thought as he walked past the crying infants cradled in their exhausted mothers' arms and the shouting vendor as his customer haggled his prices. He scanned through the crowds of people, looking for familiar dark hair. It wasn't such a big deal, to be late, right?
Hashirama was late to plenty of things. He was late to battle, late to meetings and to get to work in the mornings, late to turn in paperwork, and even late to pay off the gambling houses that he owed expensive, heavy debts to. Even late to marriage, because he's pushing off his engagement to the Uzumaki daughter for years now, hoping he could drag it on so long that they break the engagement. So maybe Madara had simply been caught up in line at the market, which was a common occurrence for the Uchiha because he was so nice that he'd sometimes let the young mothers cut in the ridiculously long lines before him.
(Hashirama goes straight past the damned grocer with his overpriced vegetables and his long lines of customers, not even glancing over to check. He knows Madara isn't there.)
He smiles and waves at a few of the women that hurriedly run across his path, each one frantically getting out their umbrella. It isn't raining yet, but the air thickens and the sky rumbles in warning. One of them (an Uchiha) brightens at the sight of him, inclining her head before her friend rushes them off to wherever they were going. Hashirama keeps his smile as he glances across the booths and the vendors, at the open seating of the tea shops. Hoping maybe one of Madara's friends had pulled him aside and distracted him, or maybe a clan member needed something? Hashirama's been pulled left and right by people that want to chat or need something or have complaints.
(He very purposefully forgets that Madara has no friends. Or that his clansmen haven't needed him since he was all but forced to give control and leadership over to Uchiha Hikaku. That nobody went to Madara with complaints or suggestions or for anything at all.)
Without any luck (and isn't that the story of his life), Hashirama finally peeks into the one bar that's been finished in Konoha, glancing at the seats full of happy people and the bustling atmosphere, hoping for the Uchiha to be brooding over a bottle of sake. He isn't in there, and Hashirama loudly greets the barkeep that he's far too familiar with before he exits through the curtains by the door.
(Because Madara doesn't go alone to bars. If he wants to drink, he brings them something clear and strong that isn't sold in any shop in the village. It burns harshly going down the throat, and Hashirama is usually left a sputtering mess while his Uchiha companion laughs low and deeply at him. And when they drunkenly kiss, which takes a few tries as they sway and miss each other's lips, it even burns then too.)
Hashirama isn't sure exactly where he's going, but he keeps walking. He doesn't stop until he's nearing the outskirts of the village, in the complete opposite direction of his home, where the wall and gate that his brother wants built hasn't been finished yet so it's mostly construction out here. Just a handful of bare wooden structures and empty space that's been cleared of the large trees and rocks that were once there, that leads out into old trails used by the Nara clan when the area had been theirs.
There's no reason to be out here, Hashirama reasons. It's going to rain soon, and he doesn't have an umbrella because he hadn't thought to bring one. It's empty out here except for a half-built gate. It isn't anything like what was just down the road, this area didn't have blushing ladies and their smiling husbands and the squealing children.
He probably just missed Madara on his way through the crowded marketplace and main road, or he'd left right around when the Uchiha was coming back to their shared house. Hashirama should turn back. He should go back through the residential district towards his house, and be tripped up by balls rolling in front of his path as kids played. Hashirama should bask in the good mood everybody was in despite the poor weather, because it was everything he had everything wanted. It was the happy place he grew up dreaming of, the one good thing he had ever wanted in his entire life. Except sometimes it was too much and not enough.
It didn't seem nearly so bright and happy and nice and dreamy without Madara to walk through it with right now. Hashirama goes forward, trying to think of a thousand places he hadn't searched. Maybe he should have gone to the hospital instead of out here, because Madara was known for involving himself in fights that most certainly weren't his , especially if it affected his clansmen. Or maybe he'd crossed paths with Tobirama again, which sent them into another screaming match that could have turned into flying fists.
(He doesn't consider the fact that there wasn't a single person in the entire village, no matter their clan or prestige, that could handle a fight with Uchiha Madara. And nobody that could ever hurt him, especially to the point of seeking medical attention.)
It starts to rain right before Hashirama makes it to the unfinished, unwatched gates. Not even a light sprinkle that slowly grows more and more pronounced. It just pours , the clouds dropping down every cold rain drop they contained in one tsunami of wet. His hair sticks to his face, and everything blurs around him. It smells like wet grass, and his cheeks are wet, and the air tastes like salt on his tongue. Hashirama fumbles forward through the onslaught, glancing at something in front of him. He uses a wet hand to try and shield his face, except all it does is worsen the droplets in his eyes, and Hashirama frantically blinks away the wet.
Something's on the ground. He stumbled forward, crouching down on the hard wet ground where the dust turned into a light mud, and outstretched a hand to grab onto whatever was out there. He bent his neck down low, awkwardly using his shoulders and hair to shield his face so he could look at whatever he's found.
It's a plain shopping bag, just an old worn out thing, heavy whatever's inside of it. There's a smashed tomato beside it, smeared into the ground, and a few eggplant that have rolled out, and it's sprawled like it was thrown hastily. Hashirama stares at it, and for a moment, he wonders who had a shopping bag that looked so much like the one that Madara had left with earlier and why they left it.
(He's aware that it's Madara's bag, thrown aside in his haste to leave, as if he had to go quickly before his mind could be changed or because the village was so overwhelming to him that he absolutely had to escape. Deep down, Hashirama knows. He's always known that it was only a matter of time before something like this happened. He'd just thought maybe it wouldn't.)
He laughs. Almost. What comes out is strangled and painful, coming from deep in his chest, like drinking whatever liquor Madara brought back to their house (but not their home, apparently) that burned. Hashirama gathers up the bag, and he squints out into the rain-shifted view of the dense forestry and old trails like maybe he might be able to see Madara in the distance.
He doesn't see anything.
Hashirama doesn't move a single muscle though. He stays crouched there, wiping his face uselessly, like it would help him dry off. He would wait, just for a while, in case Madara came back. He probably just ran off for something simpler for a while, maybe he just needed a break from a village that was mockingly happy, and a dream that didn't quite fit right anymore for anyone, and he would be back soon. Madara was always that sort of person, the kind that needed time away and that was a little too hasty. A little erratic recently, even if Hashirama hadn't acknowledged it. Madara would come back. It was raining anyway, and it wasn't the kind of weather to stay out in, so if Hashirama just stayed right here for a bit, he could greet him and they could walk right back through the village together.
That was probably right, wasn't it?
He'd probably be back soon.
(He didn't come back.)