Work Text:
“What are you doing?”
Hashirama looks up at the teen standing across the river. He grins, flicking his hair and rubbing his hand against his face to wipe off the raindrops collecting on his eyebrows. There’s a fog accompanying the spring rain, and it feels like the world has condensed into just the two of them and the rushing rapids of the swollen bank.
“Dancing!” he calls over before shutting his eyes again and shaking his body to the melody he feels in his bones.
“There’s no music,” Madara jumps the river and stands beside him. “Also, that’s not how you dance.”
Hashirama pouts, shoulder bumping his friend. “Is too.”
Madara raises an eyebrow and puffs out his chest. “You don’t have to be shy and keep flailing like a fish on shore. I’m one of the best dancers in the clan. I’ll teach you, and then you can impress whichever unlucky girl’s caught your eye.”
Hashirama bites his lip. There’s no girl.
“Teach me how to dance like an Uchiha,” he agrees easily.
Madara snorts, but grabs Hashirama’s wrists and pulls them closer, positioning one leg lightly between his thighs. Hashirama’s thankful that Madara had his growth spurt a bit before him because he can duck and hide his strawberry-red cheeks.
There’s a pause when neither of them move.
“Madara?”
“Hn.”
Hashirama risks a quick look up, gaze questioning.
“...I only know the lead’s role. You’ll have to learn the other part.”
“The part your partner would need to know? Not yours?”
Madara bristles, but the rain stops his hair from floating in the angry-cat way it usually does. Despite his embarrassment after his bragging, his voice is still soft. “Do you still want to learn?”
“Yes,” he blurts. Definitely, absolutely, please keep me this close until the end of forever runs through his head, but he’s able to keep his verbal response simple. “Yes, please, Madara.”
“Step to the left. Move your hips.”
Hashirama steps, but Madara moves at the exact same time, and well, Hashirama isn’t too sure what happens, but they end up in a crumpled heap. Madara’s hair is in his mouth.
“Ah, sorry.”
Madara lifts him off by his waist, and Hashirama prays that Tobirama doesn’t come to find him because his chakra was fluctuating ‘wildly.’ He stands frozen a second too long, because Madara flashes him a mildly concerned look and says, “Again.”
Hashirama stands a bit closer, spreading his legs a bit, this time anticipating how close Madara crowds in.
“When you move, take one step to the left, with your left foot , and then move the right foot to where your left foot originally was. Don’t worry about anything else yet.”
“Okay,” Hashirama takes a deep breath, staring down at his feet.
“One–”
They tumble to the ground.
“Are you purposely trying to foot sweep me? And why did you move on one ?”
“Everyone moves on one!”
“Uchiha move on three,” Madara argues, then freezes. “Forget that.”
Duh. Hashirama kicks him in the shin.
This time, he’s landed on top of Madara, his back to his chest. His skull aches where it made contact with Madara’s chin. They let them warm water to run over their exposed skin.
“I didn’t know if you’d come today,” Hashirama admits. “It’s raining.”
“I know,” Madara says sourly. “But I could sense you waiting. So I came.”
Hashirama can’t stop the wide smile that stretches from his face to his toes. He turns his head and tilts his chin so he can see Madara’s face. He’s already looking.
“Thanks for coming,” he murmurs. “I like seeing you.”
Then he jumps up dramatically, even adding a swinging arm movement and a heave ho , and studiously faces away from Madara while he lets the rain cool his face. Today is going to keep him awake for days .
“Hey,” he says abruptly, staring into the forest. “Can I show you how the Senju dance?”
Madara grunts. “Next time. First, learn the Uchiha way.”
Hashirama presses his nails into his hands. He’d do anything– including inducing some pain– to keep Madara from noticing his blush, but then he turns around and knows he’s fighting a losing battle. Madara is surrounded by a fog that has only intensified. Their bubble has shrunk to the two of them, and maybe two feet in any direction. Regardless of their surroundings, Hashirama only has eyes for Madara.
The rain somehow made his dark hair even darker, and it cups his face the way Hashirama really, really wants to. His features are open and his eyelashes are clumping and his lips seem even pinker and all his features are just so clear –
Madara steps closer, and Hashirama can really only think about how if the only thing I can see in this fog is him, then the only thing he can see is me.
Madara’s hand reaches towards him, and his hand is pale, but his fingers are strong and calloused even though his wrists are narrow and can twist like dancers in the daimyo's palace. It lands on his waist, large and warm, and Hashirama's brain stutters.
“Again. One.”
This time, only Madara moves on one, and they teeter dangerously before righting themselves.
“I thought we were doing this the Uchiha way?” Hashirama teases.
“Fine,” Madara’s ears are a soft pink. “On three.”
This time, they count together, breath mingling as they stare at each other.
“One, two, three.” They move. They dance.
Hashirama cheers, and Madara grins back.
“Again.”
___
Just as Madara begins to learn Senju style dance, it all comes crashing down.
__
They haven’t been a month apart when they meet again; on the battlefield. Madara fights more viciously than ever before, and Hashirama feels his heart splinter.
He traps them in a wood dome, away from sight. Away from those whose hatred may have taken the one person Hashirama wants more than anyone.
“Madara please, why are you acting this way? What’s wrong?”
What’s changed?
Madara bares his teeth and the response that comes from his mouth is literal fire. Hashirama’s forced to remove the dome.
Hashirama has never truly fought Madara, and he has always been appropriately grateful for that. He knows how differently everything could’ve gone; he could’ve battled Madara before they met at the river, he could have lost one of his brothers before meeting Madara at the steam, he could’ve never manifested Mokuton and allowed his mortality to fester into fear.
Madara, for a seasons upon seasons, has been his best friend. They’ve sparred, they’ve tumbled on the ground, and somewhere along the way Hashirama has fallen. Just a little bit.
So, for various reasons, seeing Madara actually battle him– with all the crafty cruelness he would against an enemy – hurts. Hurts so bad it starts at his feet instead of his stomach, hurts so bad it feels like a scarlet, hurts so bad he can’t focus on the threat to his life.
Madara stabs him in the heart.
Time stops, and Hashirama can feel Madara’s breath puff against his face. His face is stoic.
“You didn’t fight.”
Hashirama can feel Madara’s hand tremble against the kunai handle. It jostles the wound.
He coughs, and the blood splashes against his own chest and Madara’s hand. He slowly brings up his hand and covers Madara’s bloody digits.
“I could never fight you.”
He leans forward, thumping their hitai ai together, and watches as Madara’s eye changes into an entirely new shape from less than an inch away.
“Beautiful,” Hashirama whispers, in awe.
Then his eyes shut, and he collapses.
___
When Hashirama comes to; he is in his room, he is alone, and he is fully mended by his Mokuton.
But, well.
His chest still aches; even he rubs at it tenderly, or sends healing chakra. The pain refuses to leave, and in the same manner, thoughts of his Uchiha never stray too far from his mind.
—-
Years pass.
—-
Their encounters after that, while on the battlefield, are not battles.
Madara does not bring his real killing intent or the murderous rage in his eyes; simply fighting Hashirama with a shielded hollowness that might be worse.
It feels like he looks right through Hashirama, even as he sets a pace that no one around them could keep up with. It’s not so fast that they couldn’t exchange a few words, but Hashirama doesn’t know what to say. How to say it.
Somehow, in knowing what it feels like to be nothing to Madara, he’s learned a few things. He finally understands that illusive line from his clan heir training: apathy stings worse than hatred; where hatred is strong, apathy is empty and–
Without attachment.
(Hashirama lives in a state worse than death. He is only partially, tangentially aware of why.)
—
Their justu collide harshly, and Hashirama dodges with a sidestep. It’s a step to the left, with his left foot, and his right foot ends up where his left had begun.
On instinct, he looks to Madara, a did you see that? written all over his face. It would baffle an outsider, his behavior, his dedication to holding a flame for someone who has clearly tossed him aside, but Hashirama is a Senju. And Senju are support partners; they like to help with their loved ones goals, will stop at nothing to see them safe and happy, and will unhesitantly steamroll themselves in the process.
And Hashirama, while aware of his childhood crush, hadn’t realized Madara was his Hearth. The one who’s flames he would tend with joy and care, the one who will always be home. The one who, when dim, would also assure a decline in Hashirama’s health.
No– Hashirama didn’t realize until last night when Tobirama found him with his notes for their joint village, and he flew into a rage when his brother tried to touch them. When Hashirama looked at the neat ink and realized those plans were the most precious things he owned.
Now– he knows. He recognizes how he dodged that way because he practiced the Uchiha style of dancing every night for years , and it’s muscle memory.
He watches how Madara flips through hand signs, unresponsive to the look Hashirama had shot him. Probably because he wasn’t even looking at him. Probably because Madara was acting like he was the one fighting an Uchiha with dangerous eyes.
No , part of him cries. No!
Going against everything that’s ever been conditioned into him, Hashirama’s eyes meet Madara’s lovely red eyes. It feels natural.
“Look at me,” he shouts, and huge Mokuton walls emerge from the ground, climbing so high they touch the clouds. A vague memory of “...then I’m the only thing you can see” flashes in his mind, and he grits his teeth in determination. This ends today.
Even if it ends with him dead.
There’s a pause; no wind to rustle their hair, no sound from the fighting on the outside, no escape.
Madara’s eyes finally lock on his, and they spin into that shape he had only seen once. A shape that, deep in his heart, Hashirama considers his own.
“You don’t usually set the pace for our dances,” Madara says, like “dance” and “fight" are interchangeable, and Hashirama spits.
“This isn’t a dance , ” he growls. “This is hell .”
The anger drains out of him, and all he’s left with are his true feelings; devastation, yearning, hope. Love.
“I love you,” his voice cracks, and he forces himself to swallow back his tears.
Madara’s eyes spin.
“You do lead us, when we dance, and I love that too. But what we’ve been doing isn’t a dance, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”
Madara’s silent, but he isn’t as guarded as he has been, and Hashirama waits as millions of emotions and thoughts cross his features. He knows that Madara is processing and his seed of hope tastes water for the first time in so, so long.
“I still want the village,” it’s spoken softly, quieter than the rest, but still carries easily in their chamber. It doesn’t have a ceiling, but the walls reach so high that the ground they stand on is draped in shadows of varying darkness. “I want to live beside you and share your burdens, not be one of them. I want to know what changed. To understand.”
“Why are you confessing?” Madara eventually says, voice rough and frustrated. “Why don’t you hate me?”
“I’m never going to hate you,” Hashirama laughs, so tender and fine, it’s more of a pleased hum. “And I’m always going to love you. Just how I’m made.”
“Why don’t you blame me?” Madara amends, catching onto Hashirama’s implication. They had spent an entire night at the river once, watching the stars, and explaining how their clans loved. They called it different things, celebrated differently, but at the end of the day they agreed that the Senju and Uchiha were far more similar than different.
Madara understands that he’s Hashirama’s Hearth, but Hashirama has no idea if he’s Madara’s Chosen. If he’s his anything.
“You hurt me,” Hashirama admits easily. “More in your detachment than your kunai, but I can’t assign blame until I understand what changed .”
He takes a step forward. “Please, Madara. Explain it to me.”
Spiky black hair shifts and sways as Madara gives himself a rough shake. Hashirama doesn’t tense, prepared for anything, and beyond sick of fighting. Gently, Madara sets down his gunbai before striding closer.
When he reaches Hashirama, he sits down in front of him and pats the grass beside him. Hashirama plops down, close enough that their shoulders brush.
“When I was born, I was one of seven. Akihito and Tenji died before I could tree walk. Then I was the oldest.”
Hashirama feels dread squirm in his gut, scratching at his spine.
“I had four younger siblings to take care of. Then I had three. Then I only had two, and I swore I would die before I lost another.”
Madara’s eyes are still red, except now they are accompanied by wide tear tracks and a thick voice. Trembling hands.
Hashirama scoops so close he’s almost in Madara’s lap, and tucks his head on the underside of Madara’s jaw. Madara’s arms wrap themselves around him.
“Two days before I saw you again on the battlefield, Himiko was murdered by Senju. I was consumed by grief, and my mind became weak. I blamed the Senju– every last one of them, including you. Especially you, because with you I had a name, a face, a connection. I had everything with you, when anything felt like too much. It felt like I killed her myself.
“Then you died in my arms, on my blade, and I knew I had just made the greatest mistake imaginable. I remember thinking, ‘Now, all I have Izuna.’ I was undeservingly heartbroken, and I hadn’t even realized I started counting you as mine.”
Hashirama is shaking. His mind feels a bit detached from his body; an anchor thrown overboard, but hung on rope too short to travel the depth of the water.
“I dislodged my blade, and used my Mangekyou to rewind time on your body. Your Mokuton did the rest. I know that we’re shinobi, and that we are mortal, and that I am terrified of losing you,” Madara slumps down so their faces are pressed against each other. “I know that I am sorry, and that I could spend the rest of my life repenting for the pain I’ve caused you.”
Hashirama taps his forehead against Madara’s, and Madara flinches at the memories invoked.
“Am I your Chosen?” Am I your match the way you are mine?
“Yes,” Madara breathes. The will of it ignites a flame that has been gone since their days by the river. “You are.”
“Is that enough?” Hashirama isn’t above begging.
“For me,” Madara’s grip tightens until his knuckles are white, but still so cautious that Hashirama knows he will not bruise. “That is more than enough.”
“Me too,” Hashirama smiles. Then he leans forward, and gently presses his lips against Madara’s.
Their first kiss is full of promises and relief and determination. It’s their resolution to each other, and it will last long past their final breaths.
The wood and grass clap to a melody and Hashirama sways to it, Madara matching without a hitch. He pulls away the barest amount, and when he speaks, his lips brush against Hashirama’s.
“I hear it. The music you dance to.”