Chapter Text
The day had started off far worse than Hashirama could have ever expected, but that's fine.
Or that would have been fine, had the current situation not escalated to the point it was so unbearably irritating.
Ever since the village had been properly established, there was the unfortunate event of having an unpatched Tobirama and unpatch Madara in the same building, but especially in the same room.
He honestly should have expected it, knowing his Omegan little brother and his Alphan co-kage as well as he did.
Though somehow he still found himself blind sided by the damn pure pheromones aggression the two had towards each other. Always on edge around each other, unable to agree out of pure spite, the scent of the other causes fits of silent (or unsilent in Madara's case) rage to stink up the poor tower.
Hashirama was thankful for Izuna's presence in those moments, the other Beta was the only help he had whenever their brothers decided that they wouldn't be rational shinobi but rather their base instincts and feed into the needs they each had.
Particularly violent needs.
(Him and Izuna can't decide if it's worse or better than the alternative, even if Hashirama himself leaned towards better for... reasons.)
Nonetheless, that had been semi-solved by having their offices be separate from each other - all of their offices, sadly enough. (Tobirama needed his space, Izuna would cause trouble otherwise; Both of them decided Madara couldn't be left alone in the same room as Hashirama and the Betan Senju just wanted peace of mind) Though Hashirama did question if it really was completely separated, sure: Madara and Tobirama were on opposite sides and different floors but Izuna was on the same floor as him.
Though, for convenience sake, he guessed it was for the best considering how the paperwork and responsibilities had been divided. (He didn't mind Izuna coming to his or him going to Izuna's on a whim, which made the mountains of paperwork more bearable if he's honest.)
Though he should have known absolutely nothing came 'easy' to him in this life, much less when it involves Madara of all people.
As he should have expected - with all the pheromones aggression these two have had between each other (Madara had started posturing of all things, POSTURING, against Tobirama) and with Tobirama having agreed to unpatching for the sake of properly scenting the area - it was bound to happen.
His little brother (smart, impatient, introverted and down right idiotic at times, Omegan Brother that he loved so dearly) had gone into heat earlier than had been expected - one early morning after a heated argument with the only Alpha amongst them.
As a healer, Hashirama should have known that the increased amount of aggressive encounters, the stress from posturing and the rather territorial scenting of the tower would eventually set him off - yet somehow he had still been horrified to smell the shift in his brother's scent.
And now, here he was later that day; His jaw was aching, his eyes burning, his nose couldn't handle anything, his skin felt both tight and sensitive against everything - he was too hot, but then when he took off the robes, the tower felt damn freezing - so now here he is in a cold sweat unable to decide if he's freezing his ass off or about to melt into a chakra puddle at this point.
As much as the natural reaction of a Beta (such like himself) to his kin going into their cycle should have been like a second skin in terms of physical changes - it was never not uncomfortable to feel his canines extended for an unnecessary amount of times, to feel his chakra become even more unhinged under his skin, for everything to rub against his skin in the wrong way; for the damn near torture that it was to feel his body tense up against his will, adrenaline rushing through his veins at every minor emotion, for his senses to become so hyper-aware it was unhealthy for a shinobi even.
His eyes would follow every shadow, the light shaking of the leaves of his office plants, of the dust floating through the air as bright (blinding) light filtered in though the (too wide) windows.
His skin felt sticky and wrong - every brush against his clothes were like sandpaper on his skin, the wood under his fingers was about to give him frostbite, the searing of his own sweat by the blazing sun against his back and the slowly heating up migrain by how his hair could now burn his hand by how warm it was.
Even as he tried to focus on the papers before him, his ears picked up everything around him. The sound of Izuna pacing in his own office, the gentle muttering of conversation at the end of the halls, the opening or closing of the windows as shinobi went in and out of the tower, the imperceivable shushing sound of papers shuffling together and the impatient tapping of a door being forced open repeatedly.
Swallowing was a chore, there was a tanginess on his tongue that made him regret his choice of breakfast - the bitterness of morning tea that still clung to the back of his throat. A salty taste mixed in there that made him feel thirsty yet mildly uncomfortable with opening his mouth at all - which it was currently forced open either way.
His nose was the worst victim by far - every minor scent was forced into the forefront of his brain. The hint of pine that Izuna had, while a suspicious amount of orchid present from his office while the constant smell of a near odourless soap seemed to cover up an undercoat of... something, Hashirama couldn't quite capture.
(At least, not long enough to register.)
There was that oak wood and cut grass smell of the Naras mixing in with the more food-oriented smell of those they liked to keep around. There was the dark chocolate smell that made a terrible combination with the overpowering berries of the Hyuuga's - the smell of old ink, new paper and dirt that the shinobi would track in from outside.
And what should have been his saving grace, his beloved plants, instead betrayed him. Their barely perceptible smell mingled in an abomination of an inharmonious life.
It all was too much at times, which is why he opted for a cloth - just to hopefully save himself from some of the agony.
He should have known better.
His body tensed up all of a sudden, shoulders stiffening as his back forced him to finally sit up properly - hands clutching at the items in his hands as his breath caught in his throat.
His hand twitched yet refused to fully move, his heart beat in near his ears while he was like stone; a statue that wouldn't yield to the thundering rain.
He waited a moment, forcing a breath into his lungs - though it turned into a quick inhale as he felt it. Alongside the stinging hiss of his back being cooked by the unforgiving sun.
There, the light truming running through the wooden structure, the lightest shake he could capture off of his desk. A vibration that slowly built in tempo, escalating slowly yet efficiently - a threat.
He ended up biting his lip, the tinge of metallic essence not doing him much of a favour (with the unholy pain that came with it and thus, having to reopen his mouth), trying to quell the sudden need to spring up - to figure out what it is, as there was no alarm going off.
No Shinobi flying about, no swelling of chakra, no pressure on the wood to make it snap, no sudden rain of water or disheveling of the ground - nothing.
Just the silent shuffling of shinobi getting out of the way, of light footsteps cutting through the sudden silence - opening a window, letting the breeze in, opening the door to leave down the opposite staircase, the bleep of a sudden swell in energy and then lack there of in a second.
The brush of leaves settling on the ground, as the only other companion on this floor.
So, with his veins thumping in a raging symphony that was complemented by twitching muscle and the near soundless friction between his skin and the wrinkled papers - he forced himself to settle back down, forced his back into the chair behind him; Legs locked, feet planted, hands flat on the cold (so cold) desk as he bowed his head forward.
(There was a distinct little trickle of honey still present on the surface)
He took a deep breath, giving his body the sign that it needed to relax - let his heart rate slow.
(Audible, violent, stomps - a squeak, a shriek)
Curling his fingers, taking a deep breath (Honey, gentle sweetness, oak) while he rolled his shoulders back. Once, twice-
(Vibrations, running up his spine - too thick smoke, rich black tea - a deep and brash drone)
He nearly bit himself a second time in response to the overwhelming input, the air leaving him in a harsh squeeze of his chest - though his shoulders fell, a numb buzzing coming from his muscles that was overpowered by the drum in his ear.
His still healing lip was a light sting he tried to focus on. Trying to quell the over active part of his mind that tries and tries to actively analyse every ounce of stimulus he received by the minute. Restraining that oh so inherent need to react and move any shinobi developed for the sake of survival.
Though the stinging couldn't exactly distract him from the now very audible footsteps coming from the hallway on his floor - the desk shook the slightest bit, making some of the items on it roll an inch or two.
(An inch or two, too much for the Senju)
Madara…
The name reverberates in the brunet's mind, the smell of smoke, soot, dirt and something burning coming to the forefront - the blurry image of a figure he could recognize in a heartbeat forming. Dark, silent at times, the smell of black tea, the maniatic smile and wild hair. A figure he had taken to calling his only equal.
Though, that didn't mean the medic currently wanted to see his co-kage, not after that morning - which had spiralled into his current state of being.
Hashirama could clearly envision the entire situation that had transpired this morning - from the grumpy and tired faces of the only non-betas, from the slow and frankly unnecessarily aggravating meeting, to the yelling match and then, Madara storming off with a slam of the door. Needing to go do something or another to keep the village running.
(Tobirama's growls turning to a choked off cough was still running to his mind, as a look of pure horror overcame the albino - and by extension, his older brother.)
Hashirama could still faintly recall how the smell of sap and metal had shifted to a more sweetened hint of honey. Oh so deceiving in its true intention, of its true meaning and the horrors it could produce.
(There's a reason Tobirama can't leave his room during this.)
Though the familiar scent had vanished as an audible slam pierced his ears, causing a near pounding sensation to rear its ugly head. Only mixing in with the feeling of being burnt alive that his backside had been dealing with for kami knows how long.
It all felt too much as is - though it seems mercy was nowhere in sight. He was acutely aware of the shiver that ransacked his body with every tremor he felt from the floor. Every uneasy breath that fanned back at him not only the humidity of his own creation but the gross mixture of the very environment around him.
Then, just like how he entered his life, Madara came in like a storm in the cold sea. Fast, harsh and downright brutal with his wild mane for hair framed his figure as much bigger - dark eyes (well eye) piercing as the howling winds and a scowl that could match the tormenting eye of a storm; where'd you'd never know what could happen in the span of a couple of seconds.
"Hashirama!"
Much like you'd expect, the Alpha was agitated. The silent humming of churning chakra was made much louder than it usually was to the medic - only being intensified by a tensed body, all coiled up and ready to spring at a moment's notice. Tone grave and as acidic as a lemon, face portraying not only the epitome of exhaustion but the very real shadow of the pure burning rage the man could be on the battlefield.
(Or the courtroom, as that morning had proved to him.)
The rhythmic pounding at the back of his head had yet to cease, same with the contrast between the burning sun at his back and the cold breeze flowing through an open door. Really it was a wonder he hadn't destabilised the building by then.
"Hashirama, we have to talk." Madara's gruff voice was both a blessing and a curse in the worst ways possible. The vibrations of which his brain ignored just about anything for, yet also always riled up the warlord that had fought one too many battles to be subdued in such an office.
"About what, Madara?" His voice sounded foreign to even him, not the proper pitch - not deep enough, too quick in speech, and not at all like how he felt. His vocal chords felt like they rasped at the insides of his throat, dry and sand-like as he was made away yet again of the slightest lisp due.
"That infuriating brother of yours, that's what." Madara started, a scowl marinating his face as a flame of a verbal war only seemed to beat in sync with the pulsing chakra that ran like a rampant fire underneath the others skin. "What was he thinking with these policy changes?"
It was nearly enough to make the Senju flinch, had it not been for the near urgency his own chakra pulsed at - with a need , with a desire . A call to the burning of trees, the uprooting of ground, to the spiralling of roots and the smell of soot with a tilt of iron everywhere he went.
(He was just like his brother.)
Though the God of Shinobi was many things, just like he wasn't multiple things - though patience was a virtue he indeed possessed and control was a right he did exert over his very being.
A breath, filled with all of the intoxicating cider that permeated the scene, was all it took - all too used to the fierce and near volatile force in which his own chakra encapsulated the untamed nature around him, as it called to him - but he shall not answer this time.
Though, as the thrashing sensation stopped and his blood didn't boil at the mere thought of porcelain skin growing red then purple as painful shivers racked his body with each exchange of blows. Rather, it brought in a whiff of a sweetened musk, something akin to vanilla.
(A small boy with white hair, curled up against him)
(A high pitched voice, two toned hair and bright eyes jumped towards him.)
(Light brown hair and a soft voice asking a how on something)
(A warm smile as praise rung in his ear from clear amber eyes)
(His mother holding up a lovely orchid for him to grab)
It brought back blurs of a childhood he barely remembered, of times that were simple in the eyes of a child but far more complex than he could ever explain.
(The smell of sweet sap and rusting metal coming from a small hole amongst roots)
(Wet hair becoming grey as a small redhead splashed water onto them)
(Twin amber eyes shining with mirth at his attempt at something)
(A spicy smell mixed with rotting mush as light sobs came from closed doors)
(Two toned hair being proudly presented to the clan as light brown hid behind the healers)
So many memories, too blurred and smudged, but the smell of some were still imprinted into his brain. Permanently seared into some integral part of his soul he'd never let go.
(An oak box being lowered into the ground, the spice gone with it)
(Two toned never popping around the corner as expected)
(A missing sword where the smell of camomile lingered)
(Silver hair stained the wrong shade of red)
(Short brown hair peeking from muddled water, amber eyes forever closed)
(Dirty blond nearly charred beyond recognition)
So many smudges assorted because of the crunching of wet steps, the smell of iron and death, the cold feeling of rain or the slipping of mud - all dirtied by the pounding of his own life fluid as everything rung till he couldn't remember much besides the feeling of his body being numb to everything but the aching sorrow in his chest.
(An orchid pin settled into his hands, as white curled around light brown - Two tone at his side as all he could feel was the prickling edges)
(Amber eyes without their twin holding him close)
(White with the smell of rust curled around an item)
(Two toned heavy in his arms)
Only one never seemed to pulse like the rest, rather it seemed to scratch some dark pit of his mind in just the right way.
(Choppy brown hair with a white cloth falling to the floor, cold.)
Though it was as blurred with the clashing of swords, the slipping of mud and the wind in his ears like any other. White noise amongst whispers of nothing as nature screamed everything. All and nothing, too much yet too little, everything and anything just like nothing and none.
(Stinging at his back and chest, such carefully crafted lines)
(White with blue armour, always feeling much more than what the eye can perceive)
(Large piles of letters weight down by scrolls that never resisted water)
(Musky yet sweet vanilla always present in a tiny vase)
Orchids, such a pungent smell, that could both lull him to a deep sleep just like it could ruin his very mind and soul - such harsh shades of ivory, such a spectacle of bright sun, such a mixture between gentle pink with a deeper violet to create such a tone.
Their presence nearly precedes the dark clouds that usually tried to suffocate him on the battlefield field, stinging his nose and erupting his nerves due to the heat in which they were born. Such to have its duality, that of a light that brings life and of a inferno that drags the dead with it.
Oh how he wished he could describe the man who smelled like the dense smog in such a manner - as it was hard to compare him to either, one requires a type of self appraisal that isn't needed; the other requires such a necessary gentleness that does not fit the man.
If anything, he was much like the intensely flavoured leaves that were boiled for what was needed of them. Hot headed, intense and present - no wonder he smelled of black tea and the residue of a fading ember.
Though his voice resembled the thunderous storms which sparks of self set such fires amongst the greenage it watches over - all consuming, deep and sounding out of nowhere.
"-e area to the southeast looks the least promising for new establishments, which is why I say we move west-"
Much like now.
Though now there was now a question stirring in the back of his tongue. As much as his muddled mind had gone far from the physical manifestations before him, he was sure he hadn't been so preoccupied that they'd changed subjects. The smell of orchid was still present, the honey had yet to fade and the pulsing he felt hadn't subsided at all - hadn't Madara come to protest about some policy alterations?
Probably one relating to a training policy, as Tobirama had been put in charge of such things when it was about safety measures - his brother was paranoid enough for everyone's sake.
Though by the rather blatant bartering now standing before him, with each step the Uchiha took reverberating in his ears as black tea invaded his nose - keeping his eyes pinned on the darker figure as he went on and on about expansion.
"-he problem is the uneven terrain, which we'll need to level for civilian safety and build stairs for traversal-"
His eyes hurt every single time he blinked, feeling dry as his mind could barely keep up with the words - his senses still sharp but finally taking their toll on the medic who was still lost in the memories that resurfaces every once in a while.
(Scars at his shoulders covered by red ink)
He was unsure about what the Uchiha was speaking, as all he could capture was the rapid sounds of churned out words with every double take of steps - smokey concentration seemingly trying to choke him out as a light burning sensation made itself known in his chest.
The blazing heat at his back, the cold sweat slickening his skin and sticking the rough cloths to his skin - the desert that his mouth has become plus the ragged metal his throat felt like. All just to burn his lungs, burn into his very soul, a cocktail of too many smells that shouldn't even exist amongst the same plane of existence.
(Black at the edges, the cold pelting of a crying sky and a sound too inhuman to be identified as a howl of sorrow)
The ache in his jaw only seemed to intensify the longer it was held open - completely distracting him from the 'would be' and 'could be' of possibly expanding to the… west? He's sure Madara stated they'd expand west to create more space for the people, he thinks.
"-though roads will need to be pre-planned completely, the area has too many unstable places that could lead to collapses if too much weight are put on them-"
Now talking about roads, right - Hashirama knew he should pay attention, it was only fair if Madara was giving his two cents about a village he helped create, yet all his mind wanted to focus on was the shivers running through his body at the baritone voice and how concentrated black tea seemed to cut though everything else in sharp intervals.
The passion in which the Alpha always spoke was one of his most admirable traits, but even that admiration seems to not even stump the medic in him - always analysing people and always too attentive to everything else but what it classified as second priority chatter.
(Red eyes puffy with tears)
(Black eyes shining with laughter)
Yet again, some type of pain erupted from his chest. Striking when he least expects it, making each beat ring out a smidget of agony as it kept going at its usual pace. His lungs slowly started to ache, a burning sensation resetting with a bigger ferociousness that they had originally. Causing his breath to stutter due to the unexpected ache.
It was sudden, not a lot of reason for it to be there - Madara may smell like smoke, but it's not that concentrated. The honey'd hints of his desk are still bothering him, honestly, they may be enough to make him hungry at this point; but his appetite had been ruined enough by the constant food scents he had been forced to endure.
Despite the small voice of logic, his lungs still burned more and more as the seconds went on. It ached with every beat of his blood, his skin was being scorched from the inside by his ever burning Chakra, his head was like the drums of War while his body suffered from an ailment his own system couldn't seem to cure this time.
The fire that settled in his lungs only grew, worsening the shivers of contrasting temperatures that dominated his body. His face felt like the worst victim, as the own putrid smell of his dehydrated breath suddenly seemed like too much for his sweat riddled face.
A tremor, one he was meant to be trained out of, had seemingly taken hold of his body as the cold grew too much - that of which he only registered for a split second as he suddenly pulled the dampened cloth on his face down in an unmoderated manner, his own strength eluding him. Though the numbness taking over half of his hand indicated that he had banged his own hand into the desk below.
What was wrong with him?
(Rotten spice intoxicated the air, with wailing despair coming from them)
(A sweetened smell of Almonds with a hint of fruit sent a shiver down his spine)
(Orchids being planted by a hidden area of a river bank)
He could feel his own chest heave with every intake, yet his lungs still burned - still waged war against his own body, seemingly trying to bring him down when everything else could not. The weight of everything, every noise registered, every smell that concocted the very environment he's in, the texture of the cold wood or the sandpaper that are his clothes, hit him all at once.
(Pupils blown wide, staring at him)
So much worse than anything else he's experienced.
(Pure agony and pain, all sweetened over by smell)
There was a new sound yet again, one that cut through the creaking of the wood, of light footsteps and his own harsh breathing. Booming and swift, it registered by whatever it said did not - the intonation got a bit higher, adopting a tilt of frown, creasing of the brows and a tint of surprise?
It was hard to discern, for all the unique qualities his mind did assign to it.
(A blur of metal, the shine of the sun)
There was a sudden movement, black suddenly registering in the major part of his vision. It was a shock to his system, as no buzz had overtaken his ears, his head was out of the blue depths that tormented him and his senses were as keen as ever.
The black spot moved closer, slowly taking form as the blazing sun casted its shadow down on it - single digits being distinguished as he realised it was a hand reaching towards him. Open and close to him, getting closer to his shoulders by the second.
(Two tones slumped against grey, too much red)
The volcano underneath his very skin reawakened in a single moment - blazing hell fires simmering under the surface as the large trees responded with their own gentle embers. The black smoke, not of his own making captured all of his sight, darkening it till only smoke and its concentration for what's all that stood before him.
(Red, orange and white, all too bright)
Many things tried to register through the thick smog - A sudden breeze, a thud, rotting wood and a musk.
Yet it all fell silent to the overpowering smell of concentrated death. His vision taken away from him, his ears ringing with his own essence running through his veins, his body felt stiff and gravelly sand settled on his tongue.
Yet again, thundering lightning overthrew the light quivers over taking his chest - his throat burned up and his face ached .
The smoke was still there.
In front of him.
Right there.
His chest burned as his throat seemed to get torn in seconds with his own breath.
All he could focus on was on the manifestation of their shared fate - dark and cold like the battlefield.
(Amber eyes handing him steal)
His jaw ached, his teeth singing in agonising pain as the volcano started to eat him alive from the inside - his body quivered as he went light headed.
Death could come for him.
Would come for him.
(Cold eyes barely regarded the aok box in the ground)
And he'd go down fighting.
"Anija!"