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“Its about damn time, I’ve been waiting for you, Hashirama!” Madara bellowed, his eyes fixing on the diminutive form of Hashirama. Even from a distance the sight of him makes Madara’s heartbeat speed up. His chest ached just like it had so long ago, on the banks of the Naka, when they were just boys. Their bondmark, long faded to a scar on Madara’s shoulder, twinged with sharp pain, making him hiss. He resisted the urge to grab for it, tightening his grip on his gunbai.
The tiny forms of the previous Kage freeze, and Hashirama puts his hands on his hips, scowling up at him. Madara can just make out his disapproving frown, and he lets a wild grin cross his face. His heart thuds in his chest, feeling slightly giddy at the prospect of facing Hashirama again. It had been so long since he’d seen the other man, so long since he’d smelled him. Even as a corpse his mouth waters, and he ached to get a whiff of his mates pheromones, not just the green, faintly fungal scent of the Zetsu, but the full bodied, musky cedar and sandalwood scent of his old friend.
It’d been so long since he’d had a real fight
He’s baring his teeth at his alpha in a savage, snarling grin. Every molecule of Madara is itching to clash with the other man again, aching to be near him. It’s all he has in him not to tap his foot with impatience, but all Hashirama does is scowl at him, familiar brown eyes edo tensei black.
“I’ll deal with you, later,” He chides Madara, his tone wiping the smile from the other man’s face. Hashirama’s is stern and intimate, like any other alpha just reprimanding their disobedient omega. Like he was going to take him by the scruff of his neck and make Madara submit. He’s speaking to him like a naughty pup. Scolding him like he’s some errant housewife, not at the head of an army aiming to destroy the shinobi world as they knew it! It’s embarrassing.
Madara growled, decades of rage and frustration surging within him. This was always the issue with Hashirama, he was always so certain he knew best. So certain that he could fix it, that he really was, as people called him, Madara raged, leaping down the cliff, a furious howl on his lips, the God of Shinobi. He was condescending and short sighted and way too self assured. Hashirama was incapable of swing the flaws of people close to him, or of standing up to them when he needed to.
A million moments of their previous life together flew across Madara’s memories. A skinny, bowl cut wearing Hashirama, clasping his hands, eyes shining and professing that together, he knew they could change the ninja world. Years of indealistic dreams screamed at him across the battlefield, Hashirama not understanding the true strength of some people’s hatred. Izuna’s death and Hashirama's conviction to end his own life, kneeling in submission at Madara’s feet. The empty promise of the future of a village of peace, as they smiled, shaking hands in front of their clans, Hashirama’s bright laugh. Their wedding night, the feeling of Hashirama’s teeth sinking into his neck, promising that he loved Madara. The months of peace, when Madara was happier than he’d ever been. Even then he’d seen the fractures beginning to form in their village. The beginnings of the factions and fear mongering. The seperation of Hashirama the man, and Hashirama the myth. His hypocrisy. His cowardice.
Nearly a physical sensation, rage overcoming him. The meaningless pawns of the allied ninja were swept aside as he charged. He felt the bond burn like a brand on his shoulder, flaring to life again in their deceased bodies. Hashirama’s face didn’t move an inch. He just stared at Madara, authoritative and calm, infuriating.
Madara felt his scent sour, becoming acrid and burning even his own lungs. The soldiers started coughing, some wrenching and gagging. Their eyes watered as he raced through the crowd.
The legions of zetsu rallied, throwing themselves against the disoriented lines of shinobi. Hashirama, absorbed in wiping out line after lone of them, growled in frustration, and dispatched a couple of clones to occupy Madara, only making his rage burn hotter.
“I won’t settle for some cheap copy!” He snarled, cutting through the wood clones like tissue paper, undeterred and charging towards Hashirama.
The other deceased kage readied themselves to intercept Madara as he raced. He watched as their faces screwed up in disgust.
“Ack!” The fourth hokage coughed. Tobirama scowled.
“Anija!” Tobirama barked, “Madara’s gone feral!”
Hashirama whipped his head around. There’s a complicated expression on his face, one that does not slow Madara’s assault. Grief and exasperation, tinged with fear. A smirk of satisfaction crossed Madara’s face. So he can still raise these kinds of feelings in Hashirama.
“Madaraaaa,” He groans, smashing a flank of Zetsu with Mokuton roots, and all of Madara’s satisfaction evaporating. Still underestimating Madara, still patronizing. Madara raged. Susano’o began to assemble itself, bright blue bones burning.
“Lord First!” The third Hokage warned. He smashed back a couple of Zetsu and cast a look back at Madara. Madara sent a burning hand to smash the Allied Shinobi.
“Hashirama!” Tobirama says again. “Get a handle on your omega!” His voice is a frustrated growl.
Madara snarled, a furious roar.