AN: Hello guys! I just wanted to mention there is hinted shota at the very beginning (only touching) & rating is for later sexual content and language. If you leave me a review I will love you forever!
Special thanks to rabid behemoth for showing me some major beta loving!
They were just boys experimenting.
Hashirama untied his robes and made Madara do the same. This contest was held along the riverbanks; riverbanks that would eventually become the cornerstone of their relationship.
"It's what boys do," Hashirama said, smiling comfortably.
"Tsk," was Madara's skeptical reply, but he did what he was told.
Once the robes were laid at their feet, they each looked at one another, revealing their most intimate parts to the others inspecting eyes.
"Mine's bigger," Madara had announced, almost defensively.
Hashirama was a doctor in the way he exuded an objective and professional air, his pointer finger and thumb creating a ruler to measure their lengths. Hashirama moved towards Madara, kneeling down to place his finger against the base of Madara's cock.
"Hey!" Madara was quick to jerk away from Hashirama's probing fingers.
When Madara was younger, his brothers would play this game of "Who has the longer stick?" and the judgement he felt from his brothers for not having the an impressive "stick" had stung a certain part somewhere inside of his chest. It was the certain part that hurt when he thought of his father's disapproving glare, the low and behold "lesser than" child. He hid that certain part away. He didn't want Hashirama to see that vulnerability.
Hashirama continued to touch him anyway.
Madara shoved him away, but he became entangled in the robes pooled at his feet. Madara let out a gasp when he hitched backwards, falling onto the rocks, still naked as the day he was born and clothes tangled around his feet in an embarrassing display of his body. Madara's cheeks flushed.
"But it's the rules! Madara, please?" Hashirama asked endearingly. He knelt, creeping forward to where Madara now lay, acting as if nothing had happened.
There were times when Madara complied with Hashirama's every wish because of Hashirama's dejected expressions. His face was vulnerable and sad and Madara loved the idea that he can affect Hashirama in this way. Madara complied for the simple reason that this boy wanted to pay attention to him; not because he was an Uchiha, but because he was a boy and his friend and that was enough.
"Fine, I don't mind," Madara grumbled, twisting his pouting face away from Hashirama's penetrating gaze.
Hashirama's fingers lightly touched the head and the base, and Madara's cock twitched in response. All too soon the heat flushed back to his face.
"Okay, that's enough," Madara pulled himself up off the bank of the river to wrap his robes around his body, a little too hastily.
"Hmm." Hashirama's outstretched fingers measured his own flaccid penis, confirming that he beat his rival by at least a thumbnail and a half.
Madara looked away dejectedly, but Hashirama didn't announce his triumph. He treated the results of the examination as an interesting discovery, not a glorified victory.
"It gets bigger sometimes, you know, when… oh, nevermind," Madara grumbled, the second time today that he had managed to embarrass himself.
Hashirama fixed an amused look on his face at Madara's attempts to make excuses, and the Uchiha boy didn't like this one bit.
"Quit looking so smug, Hashirama!" Madara yelled. "Anyways, I bet I can beat you at something that really matters."
Hashirama remembered his younger brother, and imagined what his scared face might've looked like seconds before his death. There was a black circular substance that rubbed against his heart when he thought of this. Had his brother been relieved that death was upon him? Had he been full of hate, angry? Terrified of what was to come? The black ball pushed further against the blood pumping organ in his chest. It hurt. His brother had been strewn haphazardly against a rock, blood greeting the points of impact along his knife-skewered chest. If his brother gave him anything to take away from the horrific sight, it was that Hashirama wished death on no one. Yet, death was unavoidable. So Hashirama wished for the next possible thing. He wished for people to be happy and love themselves because life was shorter than the kunai twisted into Kawarama's chest.
Hashirama just smiled. "Your penis is fine, Madara. Don't be insecure about it." The comment was meant to put Madara at ease.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean? Don't go dreaming about my dick, Hashirama." But Madara couldn't help a small smile as he turned away from Hashirama's gaze. Maybe he is different, Madara thought. "Put your clothes on. Then we can have a real race."
They are just men experimenting.
"Madara, take your pants off, please," Hashirama's husky whispers greet his ear all too quickly. Their sense of touch, taste, smell and sound are growing now because the forest night has robbed them of their sight.
Hashirama pins the Uchiha against the trunk of one of the many large oaks that litter the forest like casualties of a war.
"Just like that time when we were boys," Madara says the words with a nostalgic smile on his lips.
"Huh?" Hashirama sighs into the crease of Madara's neck; his breath heavy with intention.
"Nothing," Madara says. He is unfixing the clasp at his waist. The heavy pants make a thud when they touch ground.
There is an urgency about Hashirama, but he is still slow. He has always been slow, careful, gentle. When they were just children, Hashirama would bring two rice balls, both carefully wrapped in green leaves. During the war, rations were scarce. Still, he always returned to the riverbanks with rice inside of leaves to feed his friend. Each time, Hashirama would place the bundle- so tenderly, tenderly- into Madara's outstretched palms. When they would sit to eat, Madara watched Hashirama unfold the leaves like they were delicate folds of gold. He held the tiny ball of rice on the tips of his fingers, leaves placed gently by his side, and indulged in the sweet rice ball. Something about the ritual left Madara hypnotized.
Tonight, in the secret rendezvous point underneath the trees, Madara is for Hashirama's consumption and he unfolds the leaves of Madara's clothes ever so delicately. He slowly peels the layers away from Madara's body to reveal the white flesh beneath. And again, the same child that had watched Hashirama eat his rice ball is left hypnotized now.
"Madara," Hashi hums into the juncture between neck and chest. He has left his little rice ball stripped bare of all his leaves. Madara's clothing is cold beneath their feet. Strip me of my identity, Madara's eyes had beckoned, rid me of everything that separates us. And Hashirama had. He had taken off the Uchiha clan symbol shirt, the armor, the weapons; until there was nothing but a man and nothing to separate them but skin.
Madara does the same for Hashirama. But he is not a patient man and Madara greedily tears at Hashi's clothes with the same intensity in which he had eaten his rice ball so many years ago.
Hashirama pushes Madara against the trunk, letting their skin meet for the first time in such a long time. Their naked bodies churn together like the warm wind of summer through the valley.
Madara can feel the delicious poke of Hashirama's length against his stomach. He tries to still his own body to feel Hashirama's involuntary quivers as they press together in an effort to mold. Their breaths are both heavy now.
"You're bigger than when we were kids," Madara jokes and tilts his head towards his lover. Their faces are close, so close. Hashirama doesn't give him what he wants though, not yet.
The Senju washes his fingers over Madara's stomach to below his groin and finally to grip him, watching Madara squirm and wince at the sudden contact.
"Please, don't tease me like last time. We have to go fast." It is not a rebuke, but a plea.
Hashirama nods a confirmation.
Do you remember? Madara thinks behind hazy eyes, his thoughts fading to the memory of when Hashirama first touched him so long ago; gentle, exploring fingers. This thought leads Madara down a road he knows he can't return from.
Hashi lets a thumb massage and press against Madara's tip. He knows he has won when Madara's eye roll slightly back, lids fighting to close against the pressure of pleasure.
"Don't tease," Madara commands, but all conviction has left him. Hashirama's length convulses against the Uchiha's stomach. Hashi is enjoying this game he plays.
But even the Senju has only so much restraint. The moon isn't particularly bright, but it does reveal Madara's writhing, pleasurably pained expression. Hashi finally touches his lips to Madara's.
Two hardened shinobi killers cannot make sense of the gentle action, but it leaves both breathless. The kiss itself becomes a being in its own right, thriving through the sensation of touch between the two. Madara's panting breaks the bond, because Hashirama hasn't let go of his grip and Madara can feel himself reaching a peak.
"Stop, s-stop, Hh…" Madara's prayer falls on deaf ears.
Hashirama lifts his spare hand to grab the man's jaw, cradling it in his palm, angling their faces to meet like puzzle pieces. Madara's lips separate, welcoming the slide of wetness that enters his mouth. Two tongues touch tips in a strange and eager exploration of senses.
Madara pulls back to beg him to stop. He no longer knows what he is saying.
Hashirama kneels into the dirt and looks up at Madara's dark glossy eyes before gripping him and licking his tip in the most tender of gestures.
Madara is angry now. He needs relief, not kindness. His hands weave through the Senju's thick hair, forcing his head forward to feel the all-encompassing heat of this mouth. This mouth which belongs to a man that he has spent a decade of listening to, a decade of watching, a decade of waiting.
Hashirama lets the Uchiha's shivering hands guide his head into a back and forth rhythm, a rhythm that becomes the culmination of Madara's desires. Madara's breath is thick now, and at the sound of his moans, Hashirama slides his own hand to massage his growing lust.
They are a heartbeat rhythm the way Hashi pumps himself in time with the push and pulls of Madara's desperate hands. They are a pulse that breathes in and out with the passing of Hashirama's tongue against Madara's hardened member.
"Hashi, Ha...H-," He cannot finish the word. As soon as the gasps of syllables leave his parted lips, Madara forgets they were even spoken. But the words make Hashirama pleasurably twitch.
Madara is here in a place he didn't know exists. It is coming in one last wave, and all too soon Madara is grabbing fists of Hashirama's hair, letting out a slur of curse words, his whole body jerking in a desperate attempt to mold himself into the man beneath him.
Madara folds forward, the sporadic jerking subsiding, and gifts Hashirama with the brush of his hand against Hashirama's cheeks. Hashi smiles into the hand, and Madara's face is stained pink because he has just come and because he is slightly embarrassed.
Hashirama lifts his body up, and Madara makes a motion like he is going to kiss the man, but Hashirama is impatient. He has waited long enough and the heat coming from his swollen groin is unbearable. He grabs Madara's wrists, twisting the Uchiha until he is facing the trunk of the tree, his back to the Senju.
"We have to be quick," Hashirama whispers, disregarding his need for a kiss.
Madara complies with the Senju's wishes, but he feels a distinct absence of heat against his lips where Hashirama's should be.
Hashi is pressed against his back, and Madara can feel the culmination of his desire, searing against his lower waist. Heavy breaths wash over Madara's back.
Madara is caught in a post orgasmic fog; he is on a different wavelength than the urgent Senju. This experiment is no longer a game. The feeling of release that clings to Madara is different from the normal squeeze and jerk. It is a paralyzing feeling of wholeness that surrounds him only when he is with this Senju. This feeling of warmth spreads like an electric current beckoning to be noticed. He has never felt it before, but it tastes like bliss and Hashirama's saliva and vulnerable acceptance. Madara's brain cannot fit it into words, but he says, "I love you," anyway.
Hashirama's body goes still. "What?"
"F-fuck, it's nothing. Just hurry, baka!" Madara turns his face to glare sideways at him.
Madara's only warning is a quick breath against his back before Hashirama pushes to connect the two.
Hashirama's lips are right next to Madara's ear now. Their bodies are slick with borrowed sweat.
"I love you too, baka," Hashirama hums into Madara's ear.
"Hashirama!"
The sound of Tobirama's voice cutting through the forest startles the two lovers.
The two shinobi had failed to hide their chakra signature.
"Fuck!" Hashirama hisses, disconnecting their bodies.
"Does he know where we are?" Madara breathes, shivering from the lack of contact.
"Madara, you have to run! If he catches you- if he catches me- he'll kill us both!"
Madara makes a "tsk" sound, leisurely dipping down to collect small pools of clothes. He begins to slip his pants on when Hashirama's angry hands jerk him up to within inches of his seething face.
"Get the fuck out of here!" Hashirama hisses through a clenched jaw. But Madara does not hear. He is staring at his lover's parted mouth. Their faces are close, so close. Madara leans forward to taste Hashirama's wetted lips one last time, as tender as Hashirama was on that day so long ago when they were just boys.
A gentle moan solidifies the parting of their mouths, and he is gone before Hashirama can tear his heavy eyelids open.
Madara is sucked into the forest's abyss as Tobirama yells something that sounds an awful lot like "Why the fuck are you naked?!", but Madara has succumbed to the bliss of his thoughts and the words do not register. His legs pump through the pressure of still air and feet land heavy against the floor of the forest. Madara is as naked as the day he was born, clothes clutched haphazardly to his chest. He is smiling as the darkness of night cloaks him, running as fast as his shinobi legs dare to carry him.
The memory of Hashirama's touch burns his lower extremities like the sweetest poison he will ever taste, and this moment of fleeing leaves him feeling free. It is a freedom he has never known.
Madara hasn't smiled like this since before Izuna had died. He doesn't stop smiling for the rest of the night.