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Summary
Hashirama twined a cuff of mokuton around each wrist before battle, discreet under Tobirama’s armor. It was casual, the way he’d drape the mantle about his brother’s neck, but his touch lingered and the funeral rains were still dampening the earth, soaking their tread. They left into the gray-early morning before the light could be anything more than water, transient and cold. Hashirama walked with a swaying stride, his brother trailing close behind. He lingered the way that Hashirama’s fingers lingered on his wrists.