The lightest crunch of footsteps against plant life blend in with the whistle of crisp, breezy air as Hashirama passes through the winding, pathless trail of the forest. Trees sway from side to side with every gust of wind and though it is not strong, it sends shivers down his spine. There is a light chill in the air, but it is warm enough to doubt that winter is actually coming.
The atmosphere is filled with murky blue grays and thin, patchy clouds that blanket the earth in light wool and allows bits of pale sunlight to shine onto a talented masterpiece of reds, oranges, and yellows which sprout from dark, deep wooden browns. Minuscule details are engraved into every brushstroke of this magnificent art, every shadow and crevice, and Hashirama cannot help but watch with calm reverence as the colorful leaves of autumn scatter away from shaking branches and flicker along with the wind that pulls at his loose, chocolate brown locks and flaps the folds of his casual wear.
He impulsively slows his steps as he nears a familiar tree, resting directly below the shadowed mass that shields him from the soft warmth of sunlight. It is thick and sturdy, towering up to the heavens, and so it barely shakes with only the slightest of vibrato. Leaves flutter down from its bough and onto him, tickling his skin one after another, and he finds himself closing his eyes and leaning into this touch, this well known caress that seeps into his memories like the very river they flow from.
Although he tries to smile, it is filled with an excruciating burn that pulls a shaky sigh from his lips. The ache in his heart clenches like a deadly intoxication, but somehow he finds the energy to brush away the leaves that entangled themselves in his tame hair. He is searching, for what he does not yet know, but fingers clasp onto one instinctively and when he pulls it into eye's view, he understands.
It is the color of rich wine, of passion, of thick velvet and ruby. It is the color of eyes that haunt him with clandestine romance and the torment of misunderstood betrayal.
It is red.
Madara.
They met by a river.
In his time of need, Hashirama met a boy. His name was Madara, and though his sincerity was covered by blatant insults, his compassion shone through and reached the other side even when his rocks could not. Hashirama had never had a friend before, but now, so it happened, they had both finally found not only that, but a confidant - each other. They were not their surname as they skipped rocks and bickered, not in this secret place of theirs. So they returned.
They met not twice, not three times, but dozens and dozens, and each time they learned something new about the other. They spoke of fears and phobias, of favorites and distastes, of hopes and dreams. They spoke of peace and happiness. When they lost a loved one, they mourned together. But mostly, as they sat on that cliff and overlooked the wonderful view of the forest, they talked about their future and of what they would carve into the landscape. They spoke of a village, an alliance, a place where children wouldn't have to fight and die a wasted death.
And Hashirama? He learned.
He learned how strongly Madara cherished his only living brother, of his hidden insecure nature, of how guilt racked up on him silently, and of an awkwardness that, although different, rivaled his own. He discovered a teasing sense of humor that peaked out whenever Madara was relaxed and, just as wonderful, a heartfelt smile that genuinely reach his deep, midnight eyes.
He learned how important this boy, Madara, was to him.
They met at an ambush.
Every private meeting, every joke and laugh, every bit of gaiety was snatched away by their fathers' duty of clan resentment and cruel, thoughtless demands that neither child could fulfill. To kill the other, to thrust hatred and anguish into a blade, to extinguish the threads of a red ribbon so tightly wound around both their hearts was not possible of the two, and so they found salvation in a sin again their brethren; they found redemption in two skipping stones.
And yet still, Hashirama was unable to stop this fight. He and Madara had family they loved, family they had to defend, and not even the strongest friendship could change that. Hashirama was helpless to watch as a sinister urge to protect clouded eyes that usually held such suppressed amusement and, although not obvious, benevolence. It morphed into something cruel, something Hashirama vowed to erase before it festered into something even worse.
They met in a dance.
There was beauty in every jab and lunge, every rush of tempo, every rhythmic step, but neither boy in the peak of their adolescence could enjoy it. Though one tried - tried with every passionate rush of chakra and expression of his talent, he could not forget. He shouted that the past was nonsense and that death was the only future. Death was all that they, as shinobi, could cling to.
Hashirama disagreed.
He joined his friend in a dance during every battle, but his weapon reached out with sincerity. His stance was firm, but it was not threatening, and though his voice shouted, it was not harsh. Hashirama saw the flickering hope and anguish each time, saw the smoldering despair in those sharingan, and saw the way they bled with the agony of dying children suffering the bloodshed of war. He noticed that Madara was forcing his heart to harden, pessimism taking over his being, but Hashirama also noticed a glimmer of recognition in every weary expression, saw it in every breath of jaded lips, and Hashirama saw that even he, even Madara Uchiha, grew tired of war.
But the moment Madara's little brother, his cherished little brother, his last little brother who was dying in his arms, had spoken against peace, Hashirama noticed him push his own wants away, instead following the words of the little brother he must have loved dearly.
The next time they fought, Madara's sharingan had changed and he fought with incredible vengeance and determination, because the Senju had taken away Izuna. It wasn't until Hashirama had shown that he would die for not only their dream, but Madara's happiness, that he had hesitantly given in.
The next day, they reached an agreement.
Hashirama clutches the leaf in sudden desperation as he drowns in repressed nostalgia, gasping for things that will not return. It is suffocating, these memories, and they scorch him dry until there is nothing left but stale air. But then, with another gust of fresh wind, he breathes. He has no choice, because this is his fate.
He clenches the leaf, but it does not crumble.
Then, he cradles it like a precious jewel, clings to it, and leans closer until he is pressed against the tree. His forehead digs into rough bark, but he does not feel it. He is too lost in what once was, too strangled by the tightness in his chest. He is too bruised and battered on the inside to feel the small stream of crimson blood dribble down his cheek.
This is self torture, he realizes, but it is impossible to forget.
They met on a cliff.
It was a hot, midsummer day, yet both stood there and bared through it. Eyes bore into a canvas they decorated together, but their dream was no longer just an image in their heads. It was living, breathing, and it was peace. It was real. People walked amongst the newly built pathways and talked of things once considered so trivial. They spoke of family, of children, of gatherings, and most importantly... happiness. And their village had homes; not houses, but homes. And this, in and of itself, was amazing.
They could barely tear their eyes away from such beauty, but if they did it was to look at the other. The line between friend and enemy has been blurred for far too long, but now it was as clear as the afternoon sky. Though boundaries needed to be recrossed and conversation familiarized, Hashirama found that his words strung along effortlessly. They talked of nothing and everything, of honors and duties that would befall them as founders of the village hidden in leaves, and they rejoiced together.
They met at an inauguration.
The entire village had eyes on Hashirama. As decided by these villagers of Konohagakure, today was the day that he would be given the title of hokage. To them, he was the bringer of peace, their savior, and he was their protector. He was captivating and amazing, and he was a natural born leader. He was this, and he was that and then some. But he was also just Hashirama - one man, one shinobi, one friend. These compliments and flattery flew over his head, though he smiled and appreciated them, and instead he found himself scanning the entire area for that one familiar face, that one man, one shinobi, one friend he longed to see. The person who had shared his dream ever since they were children.
Their eyes connected, though Madara's was laced with scorn and resentment. It took him a moment to realize that it was not directed at Hashirama, but the people who had denied Madara the one chance of Hokage that he deserved. And Hashirama knew, knew with all his heart and through all his confusion, that Madara wanted to be known as someone other than the names he had been wrongfully given.
Immediately after he was blessed with his hat, robes, and the title of Shodaime Hokage, he raced after those eyes that trickled despair and once again swore that he would rid Madara of that pain.
They met with a smile.
It was autumn as they walked through the forest, trees quivering with the sweetness of cool air. They were alone, blessed with a bit of peace neither had the opportunity to enjoy in weeks, and they took this opportunity to venture into the depths of the forest. Hashirama had learned long ago that the sweet, earthy scent always calmed Madara, and this applied especially during the spring. Though he may have scowled and avoided Hashirama's gaze, he knew just how tranquil these moments were.
With time, their conversation faded into comfortable silence. Neither of them attempted to break it. In a moment of compulsion, Hashirama turned to look at his friend, only to be unexpectedly blessed with one of the most alluring, delicate smiles that just barely pulled at Madara's lips.
Sunlight graced his expression as soft gold caught in every patch of pale skin, and Hashirama could not help but wonder what he had been thinking. What was making Madara smile? Was it the weather, or the silence, or perhaps even the company? He wished he had asked, so that maybe he could have given him that happiness whenever he needed it.
His stomach tightened as Madara looked back at him and that elegant smile disappeared, replaced by wide eyes, before darting away and choosing to return to the scenery in front of him. But even if that impassive look returned, Hashirama could still feel that warmth in his heart, that little flutter, and would probably feel it for the rest of his life. That smile had been different than the ones of their childhood, instead gentle and soft, and it spoke of the peace that must have been inside Madara's heart. And that - that was beautiful.
They met with a kiss.
That feeling was in his stomach again, fluttering like the wings of a thousand butterflies, and once their gazes connected it was nearly impossible to look away. Negotiations could wait. Their jobs, their duty, their responsibilities, this meeting, even this entire village - everything could wait.
Hashirama moved closer, slowly at first, until recognition and denial flickered in deep gray eyes. His steps quickened then, hurrying to separate the distance between them with desperate desire. This time, he would not let Madara slip through his fingers so easily. He reached for his neck with one hand and, grasping a fistful of hair, hungrily leaned down to capture Madara's parted lips with his own.
At first, Madara was unresponsive, every muscle completely stiff. But then a sudden eruption of raw emotion took over as fingers clenched the fabric of his hokage robes, demanding his full attention as if possessively claiming his very being. The friction of their lips spoke more than any words could, and Hashirama fervently caught his bottom lip between his own, tugging and sucking hard enough to leave a kiss-swollen look.
But then, as if realization finally settled in, Madara suddenly pushed away, escaping his grasp.
For a moment, all that could be heard was the panting of their breaths. The feelings in his heart began to consume his entire existence, suffocating him with pleasantry despite the dismay that tore at his confidence. Then Madara parted his lips once more, this time with a piercing glare, and yet those expressive eyes told him all he needed to know - at the time.
They met by a tree.
The seasons were changing, the wind whispering that autumn would soon blend into the beginning of winter. The forest of Konoha was as beautiful as ever, perhaps even more so as the sunlight graced the colorful leaves, and both men found themselves enclosed by the trees and entangled with one another in a sporadic fit of passion.
No amount of pertinacious will could suppress the inferno blazing inside of Madara, he supposed, as nails marked and clung to him with red-hot fervor despite the many times he'd pushed away and denied Hashirama, demanding that these feelings were nothing more than absurd lechery. And yet, here he was, back arched against an aged oak tree, and he tried to snarl, tried to glare, but it blended into raspy gasps and breathy moans. Half lidded eyes tried to appear fierce, only to shut tightly under Hashirama's gaze, and his head tilted back without a second thought.
Hashirama drank him in: his breaths, his sounds, his convulsions, his entirety. Then eyes bore into close ones, shifting back and forth, fixated on the way his features tightened with every thrust, and pale hips followed his every movement as legs tightened around the warmth of his waist. Too lost in pleasure and long awaited relief, Madara must have been, to allow this. In these moments, he seemed to be unable to find it in his heart to complain.
The shuddering of skin and a last, broken sigh signaled the electricity that shot through Madara, and the sight of tense muscles and shaking limbs sent Hashirama over the edge in that moment, soaring, falling, tumbling, and dizziness blended with the wonderful burn of his climax.
Hashirama smiled afterwards. It faltered slightly as he was met with a blank look, but after a shaky breath the ghost of a smile appeared on the other as well. At the time, he was too oblivious to also notice the glimmer of regret, or rather, turmoil, haunt Madara even in this intimacy.
They met in an argument.
Back and forth, words spouted from tired lips; Words of pent up anger, of demands and pleas, because Hashirama had no doubts. He was sure, so sure, that this could work out. This thing they shared, this amazing feeling that had swept him away bit by bit since they were kids, did not deserve to be tossed aside. Madara was trying to lock his own heart away and harden himself to the outside world - to Hashirama - and even push him aside as if he were nothing.
He couldn't understand why Madara was distancing himself, purposely sucking every bit of their euphoria dry. He was slowly slipping through his fingers, throwing himself into the heart wrenching despair that Hashirama had sworn to save him from.
How could they be arguing about something so simple, so pure, so radiant and stunning and awe inspiring? How could Madara manage to scowl at him with those angry sharingan that burned through his soul, as if they had been nothing more than a secret affair to be ashamed of? How could Madara speak so coldly about their village, their dream?
How could this be happening?
They met by the gate.
Madara was leaving.
He had hinted as much, but Hashirama had refused to listen... until now. Until he was left with no choice but to believe because the kisses had faded, the touches all but forgotten, the nights they spent with one another purposefully erased. The warmth that once lived so strongly in Hashirama's heart now flickered as a dying flame, and yet it still flickered so because he willed it to - as his will of fire should. But for now he was cold, as cold as this winter night, and no amount of willpower could change that.
He was no sensor, yet his intuition told his feet where to go.
The gate was a sight to behold, a sign of their succession, but tonight is was painful for him to look at it, even from a distance. As he followed the clean, winding pathway, he allowed his thoughts to flitter around hopefully, because maybe he was wrong, or maybe Madara would turn back.
When he reached the gate, he also wondered for a moment if he had been too late, but then he saw that graceful figure walking out in the distance, dressed up as if he were ready to fight the entire world, and any bit of hope crashed from within his chest, the flame combusting suddenly before nearly dying out.
Hashirama shouted his name, and when no response was given, started to chase after him.
Madara disappeared then, not looking back even once.
They met in a last dance.
Their was a sort of undying beauty in every graceful step on this battlefield as they mirrored the other with near perfect precision, but while one laughed and flitted around with a devilish glee, the other's lips were pressed sternly, eyes devoid of both the tenderness and despair that still seeped into his heart.
It had been a year and a half - a year and a half spent half drunk, half dead, and clinging to one of the only things that kept him going; the will of fire that flickered in his soul as strongly as he could manage, slowly melting the coldness in his heart. This encounter, however, burned it too quickly, scorching him with a bombardment of emotions so strong, so real, that he could feel himself die a little inside. Hashirama could not forget. He shouted out, one last time, asking if this is what it had come to, if death was Madara's only future.
Madara did not respond.
Hashirama had no choice but to join his lover in a last dance. For his friends, for his family, for his dream, for Konoha, he would fight. But his weapon lashed out with a desperate kindness despite the power behind it, and his very presence screamed killing intent that was forced, broken, pained. A dim hope returned, one last time, a plea for Madara to stop this, but it was pointless. The sharingan spun with pertinacious will, and this time, it was all consuming. Madara must have hardened his heart to the point where this was all a plaything, a source of amusement. To Madara, this battle was a dance between the two strongest shinobi; nothing more, nothing less.
One final clash, one fatal mistake of his exhausted sharingan, and Hashirama forced himself to take that opening. But as he felt his blade - every split second of it - tear through flesh he had once caressed so desperately, clung to with a fiery passion, he felt his entire heart shatter as all of the weight of his responsibility crashed down on what had, over time, become so fragile.
Madara fell to the ground in a heap, but gave Hashirama one final look, as if he was trying to tell him something, but Hashirama could not see well enough through his blurred eyes and instead collapsed to his knees, looking to the earth and allowing tears to finally, finally fall, after so long.
Hashirama leans closer to the tree that had once held such happy memories, now twisted bitter by the torment that had come afterwards, but the leaves are still just as vivid as they were back then. He can't help but think that Madara would have loved the sight. He always had.
He opens the palm of his hand as another gust of wind blows by, closing his eyes as it picks up and carries the red leaf into the stream of other bleeding colors dancing in the breeze.
A single tear slides down his cheek then, falling to the earth, but a genuinely soft smile accompanies it as he whispers:
"We'll meet in the afterlife, one day, and we'll be together again."