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It starts like this: Madara is taking on more work, and more, and more, until it seems like almost half the Village is completely run by him via sheer determination. It's too much. It's too much because Madara hardly sleeps or takes time to eat properly and is plagued by constant headaches. He doesn't tell anyone, of course not, but Hashirama can see it in the tension of Madara's jaw and the corner of his eyes and the tension in his neck and his shoulders, in the shadows blooming below his eyes like bruises, in the way Madara's blocks and attacks in their regular spars come just a hair’s breadth later and a smidgen weaker than he's used to.
It's a difference that worries Hashirama, for all that Madara, with their Village now established, is unlikely to ever face a singular opponent where such a minuscule drop in ability would matter. And yet... all Hashirama can see is his friend, his best friend—the person who comes closest to meaning as much to him as their shared dream—hurting and working himself into the ground.
Madara turns out to be a difficult man to help. Oh, it's new to both of them, the fact that with the peace treaty signed and established and well-internalized by most of their forces by now, they can now openly worry, spar, talk to each other, and Hashirama finds he doesn't quite know how to best steer interactions that aren't vicious battles or a few minutes snatched by the wayside at the tail end of overlapping missions. Formal interactions as Clan Heads and current temporary leaders of their Village taking form— those they can both do with ease. And their spars are as fun as ever, with the unspoken pressure of their Clans to deal a killing blow now finally gone. Anything beyond that…
Still, Hashirama thought they were figuring it out, step by step. A forest doesn't grow in a day, shouldn't do so even with the Mokuton—it's best to simply coax existing trees to grow more quickly, if the goal is long-lived chakra-resistant wood for building, otherwise there will be a higher risk of chakra impurities and unwanted reactions according to Tobirama—and Hashirama can be patient.
He can.
…Hashirama waits for weeks before he finally does what he’s too well experienced in, considering that Tobirama also tends to overload himself with work without noticing: carefully taking some of the burdens away.
Tobirama, incidentally, is usually rather easy to appease once he finally notices by pointing out the need for combat readiness and something about efficiency. Awe. Hashirama will never say it to his face, but his little brother is surprisingly predictable.
Madara’s reaction on the other hand is more difficult to predict—Hashirama expects at least some degree of shouting—but there’s nothing for it now, Hashirama just has to do it. He’s very careful with it; shifting tasks to other Clans where appropriate, finding smaller and easier projects once Madara has finished a large one, and even taking over some paperwork himself. He almost throws said paperwork on Tobirama’s desk because surely he could do it in half the time Hashirama needs for it, but he doesn’t want to lighten his friend’s workload by increasing his brother’s. He has no doubt that would result in quite the spectacular explosion.
Madara hasn’t aimed his killing intent at Tobirama for several weeks now, and Hashirama wants—no, needs to keep it that way.
It all comes to a head one sunny afternoon a full month after Hashirama has started to shift some of the masses of tasks and duties away from Madara. Hashirama is in his provisional office he shares with his brother when Tobirama looks up sharply from his paperwork, frowning. “Anija—”
Madara doesn’t even bother to properly kick the door open—he just storms through the door, and its charred remains happen to swing open the rest of the way, which is honestly quite impressive and certainly very intimidating, if Hashirama is honest. He can’t recreate this particular way of entry though because it makes him wince. On behalf of the door .
While Hashirama is still pondering intimidation tactics, Madara lunges halfway across the desk to grab his collar. “You,” he snarls, and oh. His Sharingan is active, which means he’s really angry. And Madara isn’t yelling, which is worse; a yelling Madara Hashirama can deal with, but—
The last time the Uchiha Clan Head was too angry for even shouting—
Hashirama calmly wraps his hands around Madara’s wrists to keep himself from choking and to be prepared if his friend decides to set him on fire instead. “My friend,” he starts, “what’s the matter?”
Madara growls again. “How dare you,” he hisses. “How dare you—cut me out like this!! ” He shakes Hashirama, who lets it happen without resisting, his thoughts racing. “You wouldn’t even tell me to my face that—that what, you don’t trust me anymore?! Instead just giving my projects to Tobirama—”
Hashirama frowns. He specifically hasn’t shifted any of the excess tasks to his brother, wanting to avoid this exact situation…
But Tobirama would have noticed that they were no longer Madara’s responsibility, and then could have taken discrete steps to ensure they ended up in his own area of responsibility.
And now Tobirama does something with his chakra that makes Hashirama flare his own chakra as well, giving his brother a warning glance. Tobirama has done enough already—
His brother narrows his eyes and is gone with a twist of his chakra.
Hashirama relaxes for a fraction, letting Madara pull him further across the desk. At least that’s one potential escalation gone. “Madara,” he says gently, smiling, “I didn’t transfer those projects and duties of yours to Tobirama, but I did transfer them away.” He takes a deep breath. “You were doing entirely too much—”
Madara lets go of him. In the corner, Tobirama’s desk abruptly bursts into flames.
Hashirama sighs and taps his fingers against his own desk. His Mokuton coaxes sprouts out of the surrounding wooden floor, smothering the fire before anything else can start to burn as well. He could instantly rebuild the desk, too, but... well, setting things on fire helps with the Uchiha temper, and it's not quite as satisfying when there's no evidence of what they've burned. Probably.
Madara usually looks more relaxed when he's looking at burned things.
Right now however he looks incredulous. “Too much?!” he demands. "Who are you to just decide that—”
“I'm trying to help you!”
“Help me by treating me like a child?!” Madara scoffs. “Instead of your friend?!!” He looks back at Hashirama, his face gone pale and still with fury, which looks wrong since it's usually so animated.
Hashirama straightens up, feeling uneasy. “I’m treating you like a friend—who I don’t want to run himself into the ground!”
Madara sneers before shaking his head. “Really, Hashirama?” he asks, and his voice has gone so deadly quiet that all of Hashirama’s instincts start yelling at him. “You make decisions requiring my input without me, you give my work to other people, to Tobirama, you stop trusting me—you—you start taking my Village away from me—and then you have the gall to stand there and tell me you’re doing all that as my friend?! ”
Hashirama takes a step towards him, his heart sinking. No. No, that’s all wrong. “No, that’s not all—”
Madara doesn’t let him finish. “You know what? I should have expected this. Izuna was right,” he spits. His eyes are still red red red. “Fuck you, Hashirama.” And he turns around and storms out of the office.
Hashirama is left staring at the charred remnants of the door and one desk, feeling like something in his chest just got burned as well.
Then he jolts up and jumps into a Shunshin towards the Senju Compound, bursting right into his brother’s second office that starts looking more like a laboratory every day. He’s pretty sure it recently gained a basement even though that wasn’t in the original plans. But that doesn’t matter right now. “Is Madara still in the Village?!” he demands from Tobirama.
His brother frowns, annoyed and troubled. “What did he do now—”
“Where is he?!”
The wood all around them is creaking alarmingly enough that Tobirama shuts up and tilts his head. “He is. In the Uchiha Compound, one of their training fields,” he says after a single moment, which means he must have already been kneading chakra and focusing on Madara from a distance.
Hashirama staggers. Madara is still here.
He is.
Ah.
Alright.
As long as Madara is still here, Hashirama can fix this.
He can.
First, though, he spends the next week moping. Most of his Mokuton jutsu he attempts result in weak, wilting, useless plants anyway. One time, one even catches fire, which is so unexpected that he wildly glances around to see if Madara is hiding in a bush somewhere and it’s just a prank; but the plant turns out to be a new kind, one that can set itself on fire. Hashirama spends too-long minutes staring at it before undoing it with a flicker of chakra and quietly vowing to never summon one of these again.
So, he keeps moping. He’s well aware—Father’s voice still ringing in his ears after all these years—that it’s not a coping mechanism befitting a shinobi of his calibre, especially not now when some have taken to calling him the God of Shinobi. Hah.
But Hashirama feels everything so strongly, and if he doesn’t let out those feelings in some way , regardless of whether it’s the most whimsical, pathetic, unbefitting way of doing it—his feelings get weird. His Mokuton gets weird. He gets weird. That’s when Hashirama usually envies the Uchiha, because setting something or someone on fire truly sounds like an efficient coping technique to him. Quick, instant, and then everyone can go right to dealing with the aftermath. If he were to allow himself that loss of control though… so much is made out of wood. Everything in their fucking Village is made out of wood.
Hashirama never wants to find out what would happen if he lost his temper in the middle of it. That happening should stay safely in his nightmares only, and therefore he inflicts bouts of exuberant depression on everyone around him instead, and refuses to use his Mokuton for anything important.
Once he feels a bit more like a person again and less likely to lose control in any way that matters, he sits down to think. About Madara and their argument, the things that were said and the ones that weren’t. He’s—he’s good with people, with emotions, but he also knows that ironically, the closer he is to someone, the more incomprehensible their feelings and actions can sometimes become to him. Blind to faults of family and friends, Tobirama always says with a shake of his head. Maybe he’s right, but for Hashirama there has always been something quietly and deeply unsettling about people stopping to make sense to him when they get close to him, like he can only understand someone properly if he doesn’t truly care.
And with Madara… he groans and drags a hand down his face. He might have fucked up a little. Or more than a little. Madara is…
Madara is.
Madara.
He then spends the next month—an entire month—trying to finally corner Madara into talking about this properly, just the two of them. Well, he's not really trying to corner his friend, not at first, no; he doesn't want to make Madara feel like that, not in their own Village.
But then Madara willingly agrees to assist Tobirama with a project, at which point Hashirama has to admit the Uchiha must be doing it solely to avoid having to spend time with Hashirama alone instead. Which is an astoundingly petty move, all things considered—and one that won't endear Madara or Hashirama to Tobirama. His little brother has narrowed his eyes at him in that particular way that tells Hashirama he has a headache, is blaming it entirely on Hashirama, and is potentially plotting murder.
Well then.
This is when Hashirama starts being a bit more active in, yes, trying to corner Madara into a talk. Most of the Village is built out of wood he has grown with his Mokuton, so if he happens to listen a bit more closely to what that wood is telling him... about where certain people are... well, that's not his fault, is it? Everyone knows that he can talk to trees even though they mostly don't have such interesting things to say, he has to admit. But now, the wood is telling him Madara's location, so he vows to be a bit more nice to any of the more talkative trees in the future.
Madara, however, proves to be surprisingly elusive for someone who likes yelling almost as much as Hashirama himself. It takes Hashirama an embarrassingly long time to remember Madara is a sensor and therefore can sense him coming as long as he's kneading chakra. Which he apparently is, or Hashirama would have managed to corner him into a talk already.
“He probably hates me now,” he whispers glumly to the cat that has come to check out where he has dramatically sprawled into a dejected heap on one of the new training fields. The cat doesn't answer, of course, but decides it wants to walk around on him.
Hashirama blinks as the cat curls up on his chest and very obviously goes to sleep.
Hm. There's an idea. Cats don't like being chased after, do they? Maybe he should try a different strategy with Madara, then, even if the thought of not talking to him for an even longer time makes something in his chest hurt.
His new plan takes a while to work. He’s actually left wondering if it will work at all: for weeks, he and Madara basically ignore each other outside formal meetings. Hashirama has regular bouts of panic that it will stay that way now because if it does, he—
He—
It’s a relief when he notices that Madara actually gets a little angrier every time Hashirama doesn’t try to take an obvious chance to talk to him, the familiar irritated twitch of his eyes getting more pronounced every day until it becomes a scowl.
When a gloved hand grabs Hashirama’s collar and slams him into the training ground he has just passed, he smiles. The next punch Madara throws he lets connect too—he probably deserves it—but then the gunbai comes at his head next, and Hashirama summons a zanbatō from the storage scroll at his belt to meet the strike.
“You’re an idiot!” Madara yells at him while he tries to bash his head in again.
Hashirama laughs, bright and happy, because Madara is talking to him again and most importantly yelling. “I know!” he yells in answer. Everything is fine! Madara is looking like his usual handsome self! The training ground is rapidly being destroyed! Every possible witness has long fled!
Madara growls. His kama slashes at Hashirama’s throat. “Hashirama!! Stand still so I can kill you!”
Awe. It really is like old times! Hashirma can’t help the laughter escaping his throat.
His friend keeps yelling right through the giant Katon he breathes at Hashirama. “Die!! And then we should talk—”
Hashirama grins and flips out of the way in the nick of time. This is finally exciting in the good way again. “I think we should kiss!”
Madara—Madara stops, his gunbai crashing into the ground when he stops mid-swing. “I—what?!”
Hashirama keeps smiling. “I think we should kiss,” he repeats because he has never been a coward and he won’t start now. “Can I…?”
“Can you… kiss me…?” Madara repeats slowly. His pupils are blown wide, Sharingan reduced to a thin red ring.
Hashirama knows because he’s looking directly into Madara’s eyes. He tries not to let his smile fall too much the longer the other man doesn’t answer. “Unless you don’t want me to, of course—”
Madara slaps a gloved hand across his mouth, “Shut up,” Madara hisses. “Just—shut up for a moment, you idiot.” He takes a few deep breaths while Hashirama obediently keeps still and quiet, attempting to not get his hopes up. “What’s wrong with you, why would you… ugh.”
They stand there for a few moments, both unmoving.
“Alright,” Madara then says, voice quieter than usual. “You listen now: I do not appreciate being treated like a child who can’t make his own decisions by my friend.” He scoffs. “And before you say anything. I don’t care that what you did usually is the only thing that works on your rat bastard of a brother—I have eyes and ears, and I do talk to people—don’t look so surprised—but for me?! No. Don’t. It was insulting, and I felt like—like you were cutting me out—”
Hashirama frantically shakes his head.
“I know, idiot,” Madara says, rolling his eyes. “I know you… you meant well. But you don’t do something like this to me. Not for something like our Village. Not for this, Hashirama.” He drops his gaze and shrugs with one shoulder. “But perhaps… I also responded rather too strongly.”
Hashirama flicks his gaze down to the hand still covering his mouth. When Madara reluctantly takes his hand back, Hashirama shakes his head again. “I’m sorry, Madara. It’s—I thought… I only wanted you to be happier,” he solemnly admits, words tripping over themselves in their haste to get out. “You were doing so much work that you weren’t sleeping well, you’ve lost some muscle, you looked so patently unhappy—I just wanted…” He smiles ruefully. “I just wanted to help you.”
Madara shakes his head with a huff. “If you want to help me, talk to me like a normal fucking person.”
…yeah. That sounds reasonable. Hashirama nods, still solemn. “I will, I promise.” Then he smiles again. “...so, is that kiss still out of the question—”
Madara scoffs and interrupts him again, but this time it’s not his hand against Hashirama’s lips.
Oh.