All characters belong to Masashi Kishimoto.
….
His hair was soft.
That was what crossed Madara's mind when he accidentally grabbed a fistful of Hashirama's hair in an attempt to block the latter's attack. It was during one of the last battles leading to the formation of Konoha. He could still vividly recall the look in Hashirama's eyes when his hand entangled itself in the long, brown hair.
Startled.
Maybe he did not expect that, and despite the direness of the situation, he was, after all ,going against the man revered as the god of shinobi, he was struggling to stop the ghost of a playful smirk at bay.
So, there was something that could catch Hashirama off guard in a battle. He would remember that for future references.
…..
His hair was silky.
They were rolling on top of each other down a small hill just outside of Konoha. Drunk as much as one could be, the undignified display was initiated by a childish banter fuelled by immature resentment towards his counterpart's slightly superior skills in skipping stones. Or his ability to charm everybody he met. Or at being a leader. Or at being a person in general.
He could no longer think of whose idea it was to enjoy sake while gazing at the sunset after Senju-Uchiha alliance was finalised, or why in seven heavens he agreed to the idea but he would never forget, despite the sake induced haziness, the feeling of Hashirama's hair occasionally caressing his cheeks. Or the feeling he refused to name in his warm, brown eyes. Or those pink tinted high cheekbones, sprinkled with orange from the setting sun.
Yes, he would never stop thinking of them, although if you ask him, he would probably shrug it off, while staring menacingly at you with his Eternal Mangekyou Sharingan spinning wildly.
"See? I told you. You can never surpass me, Madara." The smugness in Hashirama's voice was very uncharacteristic of the humble shinobi, but he probably was not thinking straight. Madara surprisingly did not mind the fact that he was pinned down by Hashirama on the ground. No, he was far more interested in his new found interest in Hashirama's hair.
He raised his right hand. The strands felt heavenly, slipping through his ungloved fingers. Perhaps it was the alcohol but he did not feel the usual urge to argue any longer. "If you say so, Hashirama." He tugged suddenly, so harshly that the Senju could not resist the force, which caused his lips to crash with the Uchiha's.
Even though alcohol may have clouded his judgement, it was perhaps not enough for Hashirama to keep going on with Madara's flow. He pulled back the instance his lips touched Madara's. "What are you doing?!"
Madara ignored him, pulling him down for a proper kiss, but it was stopped by a rough, calloused hand on his pale wrist. "Madara.." He could hear a slight tremble in Hashirama's voice. From what, he decided not to ponder.
Instead, he snorted. "Oh come on, Senju, don't pretend you don't want this." He wedged his knee between Hashirama's leg, brushing against the latter's evident arousal. Thinking back, he must have been possessed by some sort of sex crazed spirit,for ,him, the stoic, apathetic, calm and composed Uchiha Madara-sama, to initiate the brazen act. Why the hell was he horny again? Oh right. He wanted to see if Hashirama's hair would feel nice against the other parts of his body. Particularly the part just below his abdomen that was painfully erect and hard.
"You are not in your right mind Madara. You will definitely regret this." But he could feel the grip at his wrist loosen anyway so he proceeded with his intention, sealing their lips together.
Through the bites, scratches and strong fingers burying themselves in the other's flesh, Madara confirmed that any part of his body that came in contact with Hashirama's hair was indeed covered in delightfulness.
…..
His hair was ridiculously long.
Madara was feeling annoyed. He stared at his rival cum somehow lover who was diligently brushing his hair in front of the dressing mirror in their shared bedroom.
"Hashirama! We are going to be late. Will you hasten with your endless combing?!" He uncrossed his arms, before crossing them back for the umpteenth time. He stared hard at the mirror as Hashirama met his gaze through their reflection. The Hokage pouted (which was unsightly for a man almost thirty of age) while continuing with his endeavour.
"Hashirama!" He was losing his patience, fast. The daimyo would be arriving to the village soon, and it would certainly not do for the Hokage to be late, because uh-apparently his hair was not free of knots, and yeah, of course having a perfectly smooth hair was far more important than attending to the Lord of Fire Country on time.
A cloud of depression hung over Hashirama's stature. "You don't have to shout at me.." Oh kami, he did not have to deal with this right now! Madara covered the distance between them in a few long strides. He roughly jerked the hairbrush from Hashirama, brushing his hair in several quick motions,freeing the hair of any knot.
Hashirama immediately beamed with happiness, it almost pained Madara to watch him, the esteemed God of Shinobi act like a five year old. Madara glanced at his own reflection in the mirror. His thick mane framed his pale face as usual, unruly and free. Seriously, he would never understand Hashirama's perfectionism with his hair.
Madara walked with Hashirama side by side to their destination; the hall where Tobirama and Mito would hold their wedding reception. Just before entering said hall, Hashirama put on his ugly, unfashionable Hokage hat. Silently Madara thanked the heavens for not choosing him to be the Hokage, for he would never put on such hideous accessory on top of his head. He would however always regret not scrutinising what the official Hokage attire would be for such disagreeable could never compliment Hashirama's resplendent, long hair.
….
His hair was beautiful.
Madara glanced at the man laying on the bed next to him. His slow, steady breathing indicated that he was fast asleep, if his loud snoring did not. Madara allowed a smile to grace his features, a rare occurrence to those who knew him, for the Uchiha patriarch was more known for his permanent frown.
Hashirama was aging, although not ungracefully, with signs of age beginning to appear on his features. His once thick, silky brown hair now had a few strands of silver. His laughing lines were more prominent. A few almost unnoticeable lines began to appear on his forehead.
Madara reached to stroke his lover's hair. He could feel Hashirama stir under his ministrations, and sure enough Hashirama's eyelids fluttered open to reveal a pair of the most mesmerising brown eyes Madara had ever known.
"What's wrong Madara?" Instead of answering, Madara craned his neck to plant a soft peck on Hashirama's parted lips. He wounded his arms around the familiar nape, before his kisses travelled to the other part of Hashirama's face. Such gentleness was uncommon, but not unappreciated, for he could feel Hashirama snaking his arms around his waist, before those rough hands made their way under his shirt eliciting muffled moans from the raven.
In the afterglow of their unusually slow love making, Madara allowed himself to be pillowed by Hashirama's strong arm. It was a little out of character for him, but perhaps almost two decades with Hashirama had soften him a little. He watched as Hashirama's breathing gradually even out, before a soft snore intruded his ears. The moonlight poured upon them through the partition of their bedroom curtain, permitting Madara to silently observe the man who he had been held by, and sometimes held, without restrain.
He observed the rhythmic rise and fall of Hashirama's chest. His hair was spread on the pillow under him. The occasional silver strands were made more obvious by the moonlight, nevertheless Hashirama's hair was still as breathtaking as when he first laid his eyes on it.
His Hashirama may no longer had the same youthful qualities to him, but he was no less attractive in Madara's eyes. He almost snorted at the thought, for he did not know since when Hashirama as a whole became appealing to him. However, nearing fifty as he was, he learnt not to fret at every single abnormality in his trains of thoughts.
He snuggled deeper into Hashirama's embrace. Hashirama was beautiful, his hair most of all but somehow every part of him was beautiful to Madara. The Uchiha slowly allowed sleep to lull him with the thought.
…
I don't know if I should write a Hashirama's POV as well. Thoughts? Thank you very much for sparing your time to read this.