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The night breeze was letting its way through the parted window, barely allowing fresh air in. It was another sleepless night in the newly established home for Madara, unsurprising to him. He couldn’t sleep without the window open, not letting the air in, even in the coldest of Konoha’s nights, suffocated him. His bed was getting warmer by the minute, tossing and turning around in the sheets, uncomfortable. Flipping the pillow didn’t help, the cool side went warm in mere minutes, his untamed mane both providing him a comfortable shield and an unbearably overwhelming experience. Sleep didn’t come no matter what for hours, the bed only seemed to pull him further in, suffocating. He cursed the upbringing that led to the unrest of his heart. He was used to staying up and keeping watch, he was used to light-sleep and always keeping one eye open. He was used to not even trusting his biology to rest easy. It was supposed to be the middle of the winter, he was sleeping half clothed and nothing helped. No techniques that would ease his heart or mind, put him to his rest. Not that he needed to be up and early, but this was ridiculously hard. He was tired, exhausted even, and no sleep came. Infuriating.
Madara got up unwillingly, sighed into his hands as he rubbed his face. Like that would help. He slid the door to his porch, not even bothering to slip into his slippers as he stepped outside barefooted. It was a peaceful past midnight, the sky still fully dark, at least. He could keep watch maybe, but as he stood for what felt to him like hours, no one came and went. Not even a rustle of the bushes past the short wall, not even the footsteps of a small animal. Everything was quiet. He stretched his back, interrupting the silence of the night with the crack of his spine.
Madara considered going back inside to pick up his pipe for a smoke, but even the thought of it didn’t entice him in the least. He scoffed. He knew the real reason behind his troubles, but he didn’t have it in him to stroll down that road now. Madara knew it was easier to sleep with Hashirama around, be it his chakra, or whatever he chose to kid himself with at the time; but he knew absolutely, he had gained an infuriating new habit of being unable to sleep without the presence of Hashirama.
To his dismay, he had tried. He had tried to imagine Hashirama next to him to lull himself to sleep. Hell, he had even tried to fantasize about things way more enticing than just the image of him, but not even the thought of his dear friend and rival pinned underneath him, his silky hair sprawled over Madara’s sheets, his eyebrows raised from pleasure, sweat beading up in his forehead and neck as Madara would lean down to lick it off him, teasing with little bites as he trails over to his handsome chest, the warmth of his sun-kissed skin against Madara’s hands and mouth, how Hashirama would say call his name like worship dripping from his tongue… couldn’t possibly turn him on enough to touch himself to sleep. Sure, the thoughts he would gather deep into the night aroused him always, like it did now, but it wasn’t enough for Lady Sleep it seemed. He cursed under his breath. No one was here to hear him, but he didn’t have it in him to be loud anyway. He stepped back inside in disappointment. His limbs were now cold, yet not cold enough to energize him, or for him to miss the warmth of his bed yet. He had missed the warmth of Hashirama’s bed for sure. Now, his warmth, was not something he would’ve opposed to.
He stared inside, to his house slightly lit by the moonlight. Drawn to his small desk with a drawer where he kept his secret stash, he walked over, lighting a single candle. He picked up the brush and ink on top of the desk, pulling a few papers from the stash in his drawer, he settled on the ground next to his bed. He always enjoyed writing on the ground, leaning over one leg, whether it was letters, official documents, his journal entries or…as he was attempting now, poems. For Madara, poems were a silly little past time he kept to, or so he would tell himself. In truth, it was yet another secret to his pile of skeletons in the closet.
It was long ago, Madara reminisced. Another day, by the side of the same river, they met up. It was a day like any other for them, Hashirama had showed up with yet another new thing for them to share. However instead of a new technique to show, or a ridiculously intrusive question to ask, it was a small book with a few pages. The book was worn down, yellowed and missing some of its content. Madara had raised an eyebrow in interest, but had let Hashirama explain instead. A book of poetry, it was. It was the collected poems of an author he hadn’t heard of before, all about the beauty of nature. Some were odes to the seasons change, comparing natural phenomenons to the self, the ever-changing nature of humanity. At the time, of course, Madara had missed the meanings despite the pull of the words. As time went by, the words that stuck with him had gained meaning. All things aside, back then Madara had made fun of Hashirama for this interest, in a time of war, of all things. He was well aware of Hashirama’s romantic sensibilities, and despite his willingness to admit, he secretly admired his eye for the beautiful. At first, with the lines stuck in his head, he would turn them in his head over and over trying to understand. At first it was a past-time he had picked up to understand Hashirama. A gateway to the inner workings of his one and only friend maybe. Later it had surely turned into a way to understand himself, express what he couldn’t. First he had tried to write about similar short lines to the ones he had read, of nature and fleeting moments; he had then learned his interests lied in different places, as the subjects of his poems, unlike the ones he had read before, would all come back to the same point: Hashirama.
Hashirama was in the center of everything for Madara, that much he was aware of. The life they had built, the life he had built up to until now, was one unlike anything he had known or grown up to have known. Everything Madara thought he knew of life and what he would get to know, was changed since the moment he had met Hashirama. A gateway had opened to possibilities he couldn’t even fathom to consider before, and even after their youth, even with every loss that shaped him to be who he is today, his clansmen, his family, his siblings, especially Izuna; every single thing in his life that proved to him again and again that it couldn’t be… He was doomed to this life, yet here he was. Here Hashirama had actually proven himself right. The stubbornness on him, Madara laughed internally to himself.
The words floated on the paper without Madara having to try too hard. The effort being private to him helped of course, but there were other reasons too. For instance, he had been with Hashirama every day of that winter week, and surprisingly not just for work either. They were taking walks together around the town, enjoying themselves to whatever extent. New shops had opened up, with people finally settling enough to open their long-term businesses. Hashirama had been personally invited to almost all, and for some reason he had picked Madara as his plus one. Madara had wondered why he didn’t just invite his brother instead, but had decided not to dwell on it. Madara also wondered why they were so surprised to see the Hokage in their restaurants and shops, since they always invited the Hokage’s right hand man, but apparently they hadn’t expected him to follow? These days winter had surely eased his heart a bit too much, as he truly didn’t care to dwell.
As he took a breather to find the words, and let his mind wander, it landed on a not so recent memory. He carefully crafted the image in his mind, closing his eyes and immersing himself in it. It was months ago yet he could see it as clear as day, Hashirama against a cherry blossom tree, the pink petals under his feet. His eyes were closed yet his head was tilted up, almost like he was trying to smell something. The scent in his memory hit his nose for a second, the smell of fresh cherry blossoms, so faint with a slight earthy grass. Madara smiled. Hashirama’s hair was flowing in the wind, sometimes getting all over his face. Must’ve been uncomfortable, he had thought, but Hashirama hadn’t seem to pay it any mind. Madara realized he’d been longing for spring, to his surprise.
He opened his eyes again, looking over the lines he’d written. The ink was starting to dry on the paper, turning ever slightly matte.
Madara left everything on the ground and tossed himself down on his bed. It had cooled down again. He was weary and somewhat satisfaction had rolled over him. He rotated the Hashirama in his mind, with that warm smile he always bared at Madara. Sleep finally came, better late than never.