Disclaimer: I don't own Naruto.
The bandage wrapped around his eyes was red again. Madara moved to fetch a clean one, but Izuna's hand seized his wrist. His strength was fading, but the fluted bones and small, bird-like fingers were filled with a hideous vitality, crackling in the air.
"Madara. Niisan." Izuna's voice was reduced to a pitiable whisper, barely audible even to Madara's keen ears.
Izuna laid on the bed in the small, windowless room, where the only light on the light brown walls was a lantern hanging from the ceiling, an invalid, living, fading, and dying all at once.
Madara knew who had done this to him, and something cold and dark curled in the deepest cavity of his chest at every waking moment of knowledge.
Madara settled at the side of the bed, trying to find a way to sit comfortably when Izuna's hand was clenched so tightly around his wrist.
The younger brother turned his head towards the older, and underneath the bandages, Madara could feel Izuna turning his sightless eyes on him.
"Madara…I want something…"
.
The heat was nearly unbearable in summer, buzzing like a chorus of mosquitoes.
And if we're unlucky, we'll have those, too, in even larger droves than last year, Madara thought sourly, staring up at the pale blue, cloudy sky, wiping a hand to his brow to rid himself of the sweat gathering there. The humidity was, if possible, even harsher than the heat.
He and Izuna walked down the winding porch surrounding the portions of the barracks of the Daimyo's guards reserved for the Uchiha clan, heading for the small wooded area within the walls. There was a place in the midst of the trees, cool and mild even in the hottest dog days of summer that they both enjoyed at this time of year when Madara wasn't on duty.
Madara was fourteen, Izuna six. The two brothers were, despite their large distances in age, very close, and Izuna spent every moment that he could with Madara, in the manner of an aggravating but endearing little brother.
"How has your training been, Izuna?" Madara regretted being unable to take direct part in his brother's training, but as one of the Daimyo's soldiers, he had his duties, and they took up a large portion of his life. Izuna, he hoped, realized that.
The tall, leafy trees shimmered in the summer haze; the grasses swayed somnolently in the summer breeze. All around, the greenery was like entering a world completely alien to the realm of the soldier's post, the soldier's world.
Izuna was in the manner of his clan disinclined towards unnecessary talk, and like his brother, measured his words carefully before speaking them. His response didn't come for a few moments, the wind filling in the gaps between speech. When Madara thought about it, he supposed he should be grateful that he didn't have a brother who didn't chatter constantly.
"Well. Hyouta-itoko and Kaimu-itoko are good sparring partners."
There were times, however, when Madara wished Izuna spoke a little more than he did.
They made their way on through the undergrowth, Madara eventually picking up Izuna and putting him on his shoulders so he wouldn't get lost in the tall grass.
The two brothers stopped once they got to their place. Sitting down in the tall grasses, they said nothing, did nothing. Just relaxed, their legs curled under them like a drooping cornstalk, while Madara rubbed the aching muscles on the back of his shoulders and Izuna intently studied a large flowering plant nearby.
.
When they got back, the sunlight was starting to fade, not ruddy but merely light golden, casting a butter yellow sheen over the light-colored wood and turning the Uchiha brother's pale skin tones sallow.
Madara hopped up on to the porch, Izuna barely a step after him, his small, shrunken shadow.
Abruptly, Madara stopped, and pitched forward on the balls of his feet as Izuna knocked into him. "Oof!"
A pair of dark eyes stared back at him, and Madara frowned intently.
The boy was about his age, a tall teenager with long brown hair, darkly tanned skin and dark eyes that gleamed with bold confidence. He was dressed in the plain uniform of a low-ranking member of the Daimyo's guard.
He smiled and nodded at Madara, who cautiously nodded back; Izuna's small hand clenched the leg of his trousers.
"Hello. I was sent to deliver a message to Uchiha-taicho. Can you tell me where he is?"
Izuna's small face lit up. "Otousama? He's inside."
Madara glared down at his brother, who quailed slightly; Izuna shouldn't have spoken up or revealed that they were the clan head's sons. No one was supposed to know that except the Uchiha clan and the Daimyo.
The elder of the two Uchiha boys stood straight up, stiffening slightly, assuming the stance of the soldier. "Uchiha-taicho is inside. Please follow me." He pushed open the door, and stepped inside, the other boy following him, Izuna holding up the rear, half-running to keep up with the long-legged teenagers.
Madara shot a surreptitious look at the other boy; he hadn't caught his name. They were both in the awkward, gangly stage of adolescence, long and skinny in the arms and legs, moving with the economical movements of a soldier but impeded by their fluted bones.
The Uchiha clan barracks was a large open space with dozens of tatami mats for the soldiers and their families, separated only by shoji screens. Soldiers sat on the mats, talking, playing shogi, smoking their pipes. The women soldiers were most commonly congregated at one section; Madara could see the young and older women chattering away through an open shoji screen. Over to one side, two civilian women in dull blue kimonos were bent over gas stoves, stirring bowls of rice. The sounds in the air were purely of conversing.
He realized that the boy's gaze had changed. The brown-haired boy was no longer staring straight ahead as he had been; his eyes were on Izuna, who had broken off from them to join a gaggle of young children about the same age as the small boy.
"Little brothers, huh?" The teenager entertained a sympathetic, amused smile on his face. "They're always getting into something."
Madara frowned slightly. "Mine doesn't." He wasn't trying to be impolite, but realized that his tone probably came across as frigid and unfriendly. He didn't really care.
The boy remained unperturbed. "Really? I've got a brother maybe a little older than yours, and he's always getting into trouble with the officers."
Madara nodded slightly, remembering an incident when Izuna had been set up by his friends to play a prank that ended in him being beaten over the back with a bamboo rod. "Come to think of it," Madara murmured, "I can remember Izuna getting into trouble on more than one occasion."
The other boy grinned at him ("See what I mean?") and, with decided reluctance, Madara smiled back.
The boy's name was Senju Hashirama.
.
Red light stained the stone pathways like paint dripping from a brush as the sun faded beneath the horizon in the distance. Madara frowned as he braced a hand against one of the narrow wood columns holding up the roof of the porch.
Across the criss-crossing paths, to where the other barracks were, Madara saw someone pounding against a wooden training post with the sort of ferocity that was expected to be poured into a battle for one's life.
It was Hashirama.
Madara sighed and rolled his eyes. He was afraid Hashirama was going to be one of those fighters, who never stopped training even when the light got too dim out to even see where he was aiming those fists of his. And sure enough, the idiot had gone and confirmed every suspicion he had about him.
Well, there was no reason to let Hashirama kill himself; he was a fellow soldier after all.
The young Uchiha marched over towards the maelstrom flurry of kicks and hits being delivered. "Senju-san."
Hashirama didn't hear him.
Madara rubbed his forehead. "Senju-san." His voice was a little louder this time.
Again, nothing.
His temper bubbled over. Madara delivered a short slap to the back of Hashirama's head. "SENJU!"
That got a reaction. Hashirama stopped mid-kick, tottering on his feet and rubbing the back of his head. "What'd you do that for?" he half-shouted, shooting an indignant look at Madara.
Madara folded his arms across his chest and gave Hashirama a "You idiot" look. "Senju-san, have you even noticed that the sun is going down?"
Hashirama stared out at the sky, and did indeed seem somewhat surprised to see the streaks of red ochre across the sky. His expression grew rueful. "I guess I hadn't. I train alone, so I tend to lose track of time."
Madara stepped forward and gripped his contemporary's shoulder in a way that was meant to get his attention. "Okay, Senju-san, listen up. I'm going to be your new training partner. This way, you won't be bloodying up that post into the night."
Hashirama smirked. Madara returned the gesture.
.
Hashirama frowned as they passed the two giggling girls down the corridor. "I don't get how you manage to attract all the attention, Madara." His voice was genuinely curious, neither envious nor surly.
Madara smiled wickedly, not looking at his friend; he retained the habit of always looking straight in front of him as he walked. "That's because I'm better-looking than you."
His companion laughed. "Do you ever take advantage of that, Madara?"
This provoked a gloomy reply. "I have three sisters, Hashirama," Madara muttered. "That's more exposure to the female species than I ever wanted."
As far as Hashirama could tell, the only way to react was to laugh harder.
.
Madara gaped down at the small boy. He looked up at Hashirama, a genuinely aghast look on his face. "Who are you trying to fool, Hashirama?" he gasped.
"There is no way this child can be your brother!"
"Who says?" It was the child who piped up. His eyes, as red as the Sharingan ablaze, glowered fiercely up at the teenager.
The boy Tobirama was probably a year older than Izuna; Madara found that he much preferred the company of his brother over Hashirama's so-called sibling.
Madara shot a reproving glare at Tobirama. "You look nothing alike."
"Niisan adopted me!"
Madara's eyebrows shot up into his hair; he hadn't thought of that.
"Oh."
.
Blood soaked the battlefield; the grass was ruddy copper red.
Birds of prey, massive, hideous carrion birds, ripped viciously into the flesh of the enemy dead, depriving them of peace even after death as their souls writhed in pain, the poor wretches.
The two boys sat with their backs leaning against the other's, panting like dogs as they strove to catch their breath.
Madara turned his head around, caught Hashirama's bold dark eyes. Blood trickled down from the Mokuton user's hair, making it stick to his face. They grinned.
Together, Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama had just defeated and killed two and a half dozen enemy soldiers by themselves.
.
There were things Hashirama had been saying lately, things that…worried Madara.
They sat on the roof of the Uchiha barracks. They were skipping out on training; they were nineteen and getting to the point that they were men and not obedient little boys anymore. Their long legs dangled off the edge of the slanted roof.
"Do you ever feel…trapped, Madara?" Hashirama's eyes were uncommonly serious as he stared at Madara; they were also a little downcast.
Madara frowned; it was a common facial expression of his, but this time he had a reason for assuming such a stormy air. It wasn't like Hashirama to be so subdued; normally, the boy was a font of enthusiasm and—recently—charisma as well. He wasn't the quiet one, like Madara.
"What do you mean by that, Hashirama?" Madara didn't dare look at him these days. He was terrified of what he saw creeping over Hashirama's face; shadows, with lives of their own that hissed and snarled at him. It was dangerous, so very dangerous.
Hashirama's long hair dipped over his shoulder as his hooded eyes looked at him. There was a strange heaviness about him, almost like depression but not quite. "I feel like I'm in a cage, Madara, and it's getting smaller. There's no freedom in this place, none at all. We're just cannon food for the Fire Daimyo. Can't you feel it?"
Madara shook his head and snarled. "You're talking nonsense, Hashirama." It didn't once occur to him that by not acknowledging that Hashirama was troubled, he was just pushing his friend further away.
He was still worried though.
.
The crickets hummed and strummed their strings lazily in the background. The paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling of the porch didn't swing because there was no breeze in the sultry, humid air. Outside, all was pitch black.
"I heard you're thinking of deserting."
They stood beside each other, not looking at each other. They faced opposite directions; Madara, facing inward, Hashirama, towards the gates.
Hashirama said nothing. He tipped his head upwards.
Madara knew of his dream. Knew of the village he dreamt of, and knew it was nothing but an idle, hopeless, impossible dream. There could never be goodwill on earth, and he could not understand how Hashirama didn't see that.
Madara squeezed his eyes tightly shut as a spasm ripped through him, as gentle as a hurricane and as forgiving as a sharp swing from his father. It would just have to be his only friend besides Izuna who wanted to go out and betray everything Madara had ever believed in.
Why, Hashirama? Why?
"If you leave, I will fight you."
His voice lowered as he cast his eyes downward. A severe, astringent bitterness played on his tongue and made his eyes burn.
"If you leave, I will never forgive you."
Madara didn't turn around as Hashirama disappeared into the night.
.
It was war, Madara knew that. His hurt had quickly turned to hatred, and all he ever thought about was getting strong enough to beat Hashirama.
Nothing seemed to work.
Madara laid face down in the mud as the rain pounded on his aching, broken back and blood trickled down his entire form.
Some instinct was forcing him to lift his head. Madara obeyed the urgings of his subconscious, and caught sight of Hashirama and his forces retreating from the battlefield.
Madara wasn't even able to keep the mud from leaking into his mouth or keep the broken teeth from spilling out as his lips moved. "Stop smiling, you bastard."
Everything was going black.
"Stop smiling."
.
He had to get stronger. It was the only way to defeat Hashirama. Strength had become nothing short of an obsession to Madara.
Madara said nothing as he stared into the dying man's desperate Sharingan eyes. He twitched and fluttered, amazingly still hanging on to life after being pierced no less than thirty bone-crushing times. Madara had to admire the man's strength, but it was hopeless.
The thing about obtaining the Mangekyo that only Madara realized, was that the person an Uchiha killed to obtain it didn't have to be the very closest person to them in the world. It could merely be someone who was close to the person who wanted to obtain the Mangekyo Sharingan, as Madara's brother-in-law had found to his cost.
Madara's eyes shifted as he looked to the hard-packed earth beneath his feet. If it had had to be the very closest person to me, than the person lying at my feet right now would be Izuna…
…Or Hashirama.
Madara sighed and recollected his thoughts. His eyes burned, but not with tears. It was the pain of the Mangekyo, and he embraced it.
Though many would question how Madara had attained the Mangekyo Sharingan in the first place, no one would ever find Mineto's body.
.
It was time to test it out. There could be no more waiting.
Madara smiled coldly at Hashirama across the night-darkened battlefield. Out of all of the enemies, they were the only ones whose eyes met.
Hashirama smiled back, though it was in the most obnoxiously challenging way. He had no idea what was about to come to pass.
All of Madara's hopes were pinned on this moment. It would be like a giant stepping on an ant.
Madara did not shout as the first user of the technique had. Instead, he whispered, his voice curling sibilantly around the single word.
"Amaterasu."
It still wasn't enough.
.
"Why, Izuna?" Madara pleaded with his brother to explain things to him, genuinely anguished. "Why?"
His brother smiled at him, a soft, gentle smile so like him, the sort of smile only a sixteen-year-old could give. "Your eyesight has been fading, niisan."
Madara shot a sharp look to the wall, gritting his teeth. It was true. Everything was blurred, fading. Nothing seemed as sharp in the outline or definition as before. But he had thought he was hiding it so well.
Izuna, my little brother…You noticed?
Izuna went on, his soft voice coaxing him to look at him; Madara wondered who had died for Izuna's eyes. "Take my eyes, Madara. You need them, more than I do."
Madara bowed his head, thinking hard. If this isn't what it takes…to beat Hashirama…
…Then may my soul rot in hell for blinding my little brother.
.
Izuna was beginning to believe that insisting he could still fight even after his eyes were removed may have been a decision made in haste.
His sensory perceptions removed at one point, he relied more strongly than ever on his hearing, and in the thick of battle, his hearing sometimes failed him.
The younger Uchiha wasn't sure who he was fighting. He just knew that he and his forces had to hold off the enemy long enough for Madara and his men to get there.
Everything will be alright when niisan—
A sharp pain shot through his abdomen, combined with light-headedness, and it was at that moment that Izuna realized that he had been stabbed.
.
Hashirama tried not to listen as, while he, his brother and their forces scattered into the trees, a violent, earth-shaking scream erupted behind him.
Madara, it seemed, had arrived.
.
Izuna was not dead, though he might as well have been. At that rate, he was simply dying a slow, painful death, starving, succumbing, yet somehow lingering on.
He laid motionless on the bed in the windowless room, so still that Madara almost believed that he was dead.
Tears poured from his wide-open eyes, as he clenched his hair with one hand and gripped his knee with the other.
Why couldn't I stop this? Why, why?
Hashirama…
…I will never forgive you.
For the first time, Madara meant the words he had spoken to his foe so many years ago.
He looked up, his raw eyes staring ponderously at Izuna. The bandage over Izuna's eyeholes was staining crimson instead of its pristine snowy white.
Quietly, Madara leaned over his brother's still frame to gently remove the soiled bandages and retrieve new ones.
Just as he started to move away, Izuna's hand caught his wrist, holding it fast with that hideous strength Madara had come to know so well.
"Madara. Niisan." A choked whisper reverberated off of the tomb-like walls, off of the room that had become a mausoleum for the living.
Madara knelt by the low bed, gently stroking the top of his brother's hand.
Izuna turned his sightless eyes to him, and Madara struggled not to shudder away from the gory sight, of the dark, hollow depressions with veins and nerve endings still visible where the eyes should have been.
"Madara…I want something."
Madara swallowed, gulping hard to knock down the lump in his throat. "Anything, Izuna."
"…I want…peace, with the Senju."
Dark eyes widened, startled for a moment. Then Madara settled down. "Of course, Izuna." He was lying, but for Izuna, he was willing to tell a lie to give him comfort. "Of course."