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Hashirama crunches through the snow, booted feet sinking to mid-calf in the cold flakes. He shudders and pulls his furs tighter around him, absently wiping his dripping nose on one of two wooly scarves wrapped tightly around his neck.
He’s moving slowly through the banks, squinting in the blindingly white world that makes his eyes water and ache. Part of him wants to turn around and go home, but it’s a small part. The last two times he went to the river Madara never showed up, but he left charred palmprints on the tree bark to signal he had been there. Despite the awful cold, Hashirama misses his friend more than he hates the weather.
So, sniffling and shivering, he carries on through the silent forest until the trees part and he can see the river ahead. Better yet, he can see Madara, a dark blob against the white, pacing up and down the bank. Hashirama’s heart thuds in his chest, taunting him, and he tries to move quicker, despite his body’s protest and pleas for sleep.
“Madara!” He calls as he breaks from the tree line. Hashirama raises one mittened hand and watches, elated, as Madara waves back. He makes his way carefully across the frozen river, using chakra to stick to the ice. This winter, so much colder than others, has frozen the water completely through. The ice doesn’t even crack under his feet.
“It’s about time! I thought you were never gonna show up!” Madara grins at him, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Hashirama barely notices, staring at his body in horror.
“W-what are you wearing? ” He asks, though the better question would be–why aren’t you wearing anything? Madara is not appropriately dressed for the weather. He wears his usual oversized yukata with a thin cloth coat over his shoulders. Only boots, a scarf, and gloves have been added to protect him from the cold and they all look unusually light, nothing like Hashirama’s mountains of fur piled on his back, heavy hat, doubled scarfs, mittens, and no less than three pairs of knitted socks. He wears as much as he can without restricting his movement, meanwhile Madara is dressed for a nippy fall day.
“I could ask the same of you. Why are you bundled up like a baby?” Madara reaches out to poke him and Hashirama shies away.
“B-because it’s f-freezing! The elders s-say this is the c-coldest winter in an entire g-generation!”
“Really?” Madara blinks then sticks out his tongue, as if that’ll give him some great insight into the weather.
“I guess it’s a little colder than usual.” He shrugs.
Hashirama is proud of how quickly he reaches down, packing a fine, if lopsided, snowball and hurling it in Madara’s face. It’s satisfying until Madara squawks and tackles him. Hashirama’s back hits the snow and he feels the cold seep through his layers like creeping, icy fingers.
“I’m gonna make you pay, Hashirama,” Madara growls, but his lips curl into a playful smile. He grips Hashirama’s coat and starts to roll. A low moan slips from Hashirama’s mouth as he starts to shiver harder, teeth clacking together. “Wait, are you actually cold-cold?” Madara peers down at him, his breath a warm cloud against Hashirama’s cheek.
“ Yes , I h-hate this weather!” Ever since the mokuton awakened, winter has been the most miserable season for him. Hashirama has no energy, all he wants to do is sleep. It’s lucky that the fighting slows in the winter as the daimyo are preoccupied with their own territories rather than waging war to expand and wrest away more power. Winter is an anxiety-inducing time for all, each bit of food and medicine carefully rationed as hunger and disease creep in. If Hashirama had his way, he’d do nothing but sleep until spring but Butsuma was relentless with their training.
“...oh.” Madara gets off of him and reaches down to help him up. After a second, Hashirama grabs his hand and Madara tugs him to his feet. “I thought it was a joke. I’ve only seen babies who can’t regulate their heat bundled up like you.”
Because you’re a–
Hashirama shies away from the thought, worried even naming Madara in his mind will somehow draw the wrong sort of attention. They’ve never said it outloud but, well, Madara has a distinctive look to him. Pale skin, spiky hair, pure bottomless black eyes. The Senju are more varied in looks but they’ve exchanged enough stories, little comments between games, and showing up battered and bruised after battles that it’s rather obvious. Madara is too clever, too observant not to have put it together. But he, like Hashirama, chooses to ignore the obvious, to not think the thoughts so they can continue on like they do. It’s little comments like these though that excite Hashirama, remind him of how different and yet similar they are, how despite those differences there’s still a chance that their clans can make peace because they can.
If only it was warmer so he could appreciate it, instead of staring at Madara, nothing more than a cold, damp miserable little thing.
“I c-cannot do that. Not l-like you.”
“Well then are your clothes keeping you warm enough?” Madara tilts his head to the side, eyeing Hashirama’s outfit critically.
“B-barely.” Hashirama wraps his arms tight around his middle, squeezing to try and warm himself up and stop his chattering teeth. It’s not even snowing or windy today, it’s comparatively mild and he still feels awful.
“I can help you, if you want. You might not like it,” Madara says the last part under his breath.
“H-how? You can’t make it s-summer.” He could probably melt a patch of snow, Madara had never directly said he had an affinity for fire but, like the name thing, it’s rather obvious. It’d make a nice gust of steam but then it’d leave the ground muddy and wet which was hardly a real improvement.
“I’d just treat you like a baby.” Madara sees his half hidden scowl of displeasure and hurries to add. “I meant I’d warm you up like I would a baby or a little kid who can’t regulate their temperature.”
“H-how?” It’d be a bad idea to build a fire, the smoke could draw any number of unwanted eyes in the washed out white world.
Madara doesn’t say anything, but pulls off one of his gloves and holds his hand out to Hashirama. He shudders, staring at Madara’s bare fingers and feeling his own ache in his mittens.
Hashirama hesitates, steeling himself a bit, and reaching out to grip Madara’s hand. He almost drops it again in shock. His hand is hot like the stones Hashirama would take from the irori when Butsuma had retired for the night in the hopes of them warming him enough so he could fall asleep easier.
Hashirama closes both of his hands around Madara’s, letting the heat seep through his snow-stained mittens and melt the ice in his blood. He almost cries when Madara tugs and pulls his hand free. Hashirama takes a half step forward following the heat.
“You’re fine with it?” Madara asks slowly, watching his expression.
“Yeah,” Hashirama licks his frozen lips, “yeah, f-for now.”
Madara beams at him and Hashirama feels his heart thud unsteadily against his chest again.
“Great! Let’s find shelter in case the wind picks up.” He turns away and Hashirama follows him, wobbling through the snow as Madara searches.
Eventually they come across a little cave buried in the white and Madara starts to clear it out. He hasn’t put on his glove and the snow hisses and melts as it touches his bare skin. Water drips between his fingers to splatter on the ground and freeze. Once the entrance is clear, he ducks inside beckoning Hashirama to follow him.
The cave smells musty, like rotting fall leaves and an animal lived here long ago. It’s not big, just enough for him and Madara to sit close together, protected from the wind, and not knock their heads on the rock above.
Hashirama settles by Madara and bites down on the trepidation and excitement that bubbles up in his stomach when Madara removes his other glove and scooches even closer until they’re pressed thigh to thigh. Even through his thin pants and Hashirama’s heavy furs, he can feel the heat pouring off from Madara’s skin.
“Tell me if it’s too much, yeah? I know how you get.” Madara puts his hand on Hashirama’s back, slowly dragging it up and down as warmth seeps through the furs and into Hashirama. It’s so nice he could cry. All winter he feels so cold, no matter how many blankets he piles on his futon. If he crawls as close to the fire the chill starts to dissipate, but the lungfuls of smoke and freezing side not facing the fire makes it a bittersweet victory, one that never lasts long before Butsuma berates him for keeping the fire strong and roaring using up their charcoal and wood. He banks it soon after and Hashirama cries as the winter chill creeps back in.
Here with Madara…
He shudders and presses hard against his friend’s hand.
“Ok?” Madara asks again, black eyes watching, unblinking.
“Ok,” Hashirama says and closes his eyes to better enjoy the heat.
From there a new habit is formed. Every day of the agonizingly long winter, Hashirama tries to think of any excuse, any cause that’d let him slip away from the Senju compound. He needs to be more careful, he knows he does, but the promise of heat, of true warmth in this freezing nightmare is too great a temptation to resist. It doesn’t help that he feels closer than ever to Madara. Before their day in the cave Hashirama knew Madara was a tactile person. He instinctively reached out to Hashirama, to poke and prod him, grappling him to the ground during sparring, then helping him up, leaning against him while they set together, that sort of thing.
When Hashirama flinched away not feeling his friend’s friendly touch but Butsuma’s strikes and threatening hands Madara tried to stop. He wasn’t completely successful, the desire for contact so clearly expectant and comfortable to him, but he tried. He kept Hashirama’s comfort in mind and held himself back. It was a kind gesture, perfectly Madara. But until now, Hashirama hadn’t realized exactly how much Madara held himself back.
In their cave his hands are constantly on Hashirama, an arm wrapped around his waist, his shoulders, cradling his cheeks, casual on his knee. Madara’s favorite, with the regularity he does it, is smushing his face into Hashirama’s shoulder as he complains about training or insists he’s not napping when he actually is. And in the cold of winter, Hashirama feels the heat before the touch and he likes when Madara easily reaches out to him. He wants to like it in every other season too, when the world thaws and the unyielding summer sun shines down, Hashirama is surprised to find in himself a fierce, desperate desire to hold onto his comfort, hold onto Madara.
They’re closer now, literally and metaphorically, than ever. When Madara wraps his arm around Hashirama, Hashirama can feel the thinness of it, his sharp cheekbones, and bony ribs. He asks Madara to start bringing bentos so they can eat together and packs twice as much to give to his friend. Madara hesitates, pride in his eyes and anger in the curl of his lip, so Hashirama shuffles and says it’s a thank-you for keeping him warm. He’s in Madara’s debt, it’s his repayment.
They both know the truth, but it doesn’t matter because Madara takes the food and savors every bite. He starts bringing gifts for Hashirama too. Not food, but little things he finds in the snowy forest. The first is a green leaf with a perfect circle through the middle.
“Where’d you find a green leaf in winter?” Hashirama asks, taking it from Madara, voice filled with wonder. It feels so good to hold, to twirl between his fingers as a memory of spring and summer.
“Just did.” Madara shrugs but there’s a pleased look in his eye as he pulls Hashirama closer to him in their cave. “I’ll bring you more.”
It’s a promise, one he makes good on. Soon, not a meeting goes by that Madara doesn’t bring him some little trinket, and he always makes sure to shove it at Hashirama before they eat. More leaves, a few berries, cracked fossils, chips of woods with interesting patterns. The one he’s proudest of is a rock he insists is the perfect shape of Hashirama’s head. It’s rather lumpy and lopsided. Hashirama doesn’t know whether or not to be offended but Madara looks so earnest and he’s never been as good at tricks and pranks as Hashirama.
“Thanks, Madara.” The words come out heartfelt and, lumpy or not, Hashirama shoves the rock into his hakama, under all his layers and the rock remains there for the entire winter. It’s all in his head, but when Hashirama is away from Madara he likes to take it out and run his fingers over its porous surface, imagining he can still feel the heat of Madara’s fingers against his.
Stories accompany the gifts too. Sometimes they’re related, sometimes not. On one of the worst winter days with a blizzard that caught them both by surprise raging outside, Madara and Hashirama huddle up tight in their cave, Hashirama practically in his friend’s lap as he shudders and tries not to be dragged down by the cold.
“It’ll warm up again, you know,” Madara says, tightening his arms around Hashirama’s waist.
“D-doesn’t h-help me much t-today,” Hashirama’s teeth chatter, his voice muffled in Madara’s warm neck.
“You wanna hear a story?”
What Hashirama wants is for it to be any other season or at least without a blizzard swirling outside, but Madara takes his low grumbles and whines as agreement.
“You know why we have winter? It’s because the Sun goes deep down into a cave,” Madara starts. He’s trying to do a proper storytelling voice, Hashirama does it with the littler Senju children, but though Madara doesn’t hesitate to start, he still sounds a bit stilted and awkward.
“That makes no sense, the sun is still here , it doesn’t disappear for the entire winter.” Hashirama has heard rumors that it does disappear if you go all the way to the very northern tip of Kumo to the vast eternal icy wasteland beyond, but the merchant who told him that also tried to convince him that there weren’t giant sea monsters lurking off the north-eastern coast and Mito was all too fond of telling him there were and he’d chosen to trust his cousin. Even if the man had been right, it still doesn’t mean the sun disappeared into a cave all the time when he could see it everyday.
“I’m the one telling the story, Hashirama, not you! It’s a real one too so shut it and listen.” Madara tries to pinch Hashirama’s skin but he’s wearing so many layers he hardly feels it at all. “The Sun went into the same cave once so long ago–”
“Why?”
“I dunno, to prepare for battle or something? That part isn’t really recorded well...but it’s for a cool important reason I’m sure! So She went went into the cave once and now every year She returns to it. Not as long as the first time–the first time She was there for years , years of endless winter–but as a reminder.”
“A reminder to what?” Hashirama asks, but his mind is caught on years of endless winter. He feels sick even imagining it.
“A reminder for balance, I think. Amaterasu goes to check the cave and gathers her strength for the next year. If She didn’t we wouldn’t have winter, but the other seasons wouldn’t exist either and you couldn’t count on being able to grow crops or travel like you do now. Amaterasu goes into the cave and Her people prepare. When she reemerges it’s spring and we celebrate,” Madara finishes and immediately launches into another story.
The pattern quickly becomes clear–Amaterasu’s birth, Amaterasu ascending to rule the heavens, Amaterasu with her legendary blade.
“Are all your stories about the sun?” Hashirama asks when the next story–the reason eclipses exist, Amaterasu conferring with her sister the moon–ends and Madara spares a single second to breathe.
“No, but those are the best ones!” Madara huffs. “I was named after her, you know, it’s only natural I pay respect.”
“You were?” Hashirama tries to see the connection between the names and can’t find any.
“Yes! My name means spots as in the sunspots you see when you look at the sun with the sha–” Madara stops himself so abruptly he chokes on his own spit and starts coughing. The unfinished words shivers over Hashirama’s skin, the danger it represents coming so close to them both. Hashirama buries closer and runs his hand through Madara’s hair, trying to make the word dissipate faster. “Erm sometimes when you look at the sun there are certain patterns–”
“You know anyone who looks at the sun can see the sunspots,” Hashirama interrupts, trying to emphasize their similarities, not their differences. Madara scoffs and pinches him again.
“Yes but sometimes there are very specific patterns and it’s those that I’m named after,” Madara says, the pride ringing clear like a bell in his voice. Hashirama wants to ask more, what makes the sunspots different, what patterns he’s talking about, if Madara can see them, if he has the sharingan or if he relies on his family to describe his namesake to him.
Instead, Hashirama says nothing, too worried his questions will upset their balance. It answers another question he had as well, Madara might like stories of Amaterasu the most, but others would probably be too recognizable of his clan. Not that the sun worship didn’t already tip the scales but it’s still one of those things Hashirama could lie through his teeth about technically not knowing if confronted.
“Can I tell you a story too?” Hashirama whispers, rubbing his cold nose against Madara’s throat. He feels sappy, recognizing the gift of Madara’s stories. Another way to understand him, another thing to bring them closer together and it makes him feel a bit stupid, a bit brave. Madara shivers but doesn’t hesitate to grunt out an agreement. Hashirama searches for a story, one he could tell that’s meaningful like Madara’s but nothing that’d obviously reveal he’s a Senju. “I don’t actually like too many of my clan’s stories. Most are boring and are all about listening to your parents or the elders and the dangers of not doing so.” Hashirama chuckles and Madara snorts.
“But there is one...it’s about a woman who fell in love with a man from another clan. She wasn’t a great shinobi, but a simple peasant girl. Every day she’d go to the river to wash laundry and she’d see him there upriver, fishing. Neither wanted to find a new spot, so they pretended they were alone but once the man lost his pole and the current carried it down to her. When she returned it to him, he thanked her and from there...every day they met, they moved closer together until they could talk. The man didn’t catch many fish and the woman’s laundry wasn’t washed but they talked and laughed until they fell in love. They faced impossible odds but soon they started to bring each other gifts. The woman had knowledge of healing herbs and the man of storage seals. Eventually a plague came to the man’s clan and locusts onto the woman’s crops. Only their gifts to each other, the herbs, the seals, saved their clans. When the crises passed the leaders asked how mere peasants had the tools to save them. Their love was discovered but instead of punishment, their leaders met and a great alliance was formed between their clans and the man and woman were married and lived a life of bliss together…” Hashirama trails off and feels a second of horrible, aching vulnerability that has adrenaline surging through him, his heart pounding so hard against his chest he can feel it physically reverberate in his ears.
Did he say too much? Was it too weird? Did Madara recognize it as the start of the Senju-Uzumaki alliance to the point he can’t overlook it? Is Hashirama about to lose him? About to lose everything–
“Hashirama…” There’s a tight note in Madara’s voice that Hashirama can’t place. Madara clutches his waist and turns his head. Hashirama squeezes his eyes shut, pushing his face harder into Madara’s neck. He can’t pretend the world away, but he can try. “Hashirama, come on.” There’s the slightest hint of irritation in Madara’s voice now and the familiarity settles Hashirama’s rolling nerves. He takes a deep breath and pulls back to look at Madara’s face. “It’s a good story.”
Then Madara flushes, a deep, ruddy red and leans even closer toward him. It takes Hashirama’s frazzled brain too long to figure out what he’s doing. It takes until Madara’s warm, chapped lips are pressed against his. He ducks away as fast as he moved in. His blush has spread up to the tips of his ears and down to the skin of his neck and chest.
Hashirama exhales loudly and slumps boneless against Madara. Madara sucks in a breath and tightens his hands in Hashirama’s furs.
“I liked your stories too. Even if they were all about the same goddess,” Hashirama says and kisses Madara’s cheek, lingering a bit longer than he should.
Madara huffs but all of the sudden tension after his kiss melts away. “You think those are all the Amaterasu stories I know? That’s just the start, Hashirama. She has a long, glorious history that stretches hours, days, weeks long to orally chronicle all of it…” Madara continues on, working himself up more and more. Hashirama is listening to him, but he’s more focused on staring. Madara’s long tapered eyelashes, the deep purple bruises under his eyes, his small chin that’s only starting to square like it will in proper adulthood.
Madara turns to face him directly, puffing up again but Hashirama leans forward to kiss him. Madara freezes in place and somehow flushes even redder than when he kissed Hashirama first.
“This isn’t over, Hashirama,” Madara mutters.
Hashirama settles against Madara again, tucking his nose back into Madara’s neck.
“I hope not.” And for the first time all winter, Hashirama feels truly, completely warm from head to toe.