Weeds sprout through the rich soil of Hashirama's garden, crowding around creamy camellia and patches of vibrant-red amaryllis. Crouched like a warrior in waiting, Hashirama pulls and tugs at the defiant, ghastly things, mouth set in a firm line, and hefts one up and up until it pop, pop, pops out of the ground.
The thin, pinkish callous across the palm of his hand ruptures.
He yelps, the sound akin to a startled, white-chested bear, and falls off his heels, landing head-first into a muddy puddle. The sky above is a whirling movement of light blues and cloudy grays, and Hashirama remains in his awkward position, limbs sprawled and chocolate hair decorated with dripping, mucky brown goo.
His head rolls to the side with a great, big sigh. Then, a chuckle. A laugh. Soon enough, Hashirama Senju is cackling like a giddy hyena; he ends up with mud in his mouth, spits it out, and laughs some more.
It's some time later, once rediscovering what air is, that he notes in his far off perception a puny little snowball trotting around his bonsai. The thing measures to his thumb from where he lays, and he supposes that up close, the creature mustn't be bigger than the size of two hand. So he sits up, speckles of mud splattering against his bare shoulders, and squints.
So much fluff covers the animal, and it is a long time before Hashirama discerns it cannot be a rabbit: it's walking on four legs too gracefully, and there is no hop in its step. Instead, it springs up on its hind legs, batting at a hanging leaf, and then gives his plant a stare.
Hashirama leaps onto his feet, approaching. There was a time prior when he'd helped an injured bird, and another when a racoons nest was invaded by hawks and he had successfully urged the birds away with the help of his Mokuton. Most animals tolerated his presence.
This one, however, hisses. And no wonder…
It's a cat.
A cat.
Ever since the invasion of Konoha by way of these creatures, Hashirama has nearly lived to see them — and he does, every day. They crowd around the Uchiha quarters especially, and this is a wonder to the likes of a Senju, who grew up as if cats were little more than myth. The only cats Hashirama knew of before now were Ninneko, and none of these experiences were especially pleasant.
He has scars to prove it.
But normal cats should adore him. He is ever-willing to grant them the attention they seek, and if he were to be completely honest, they hold a grace he admires and a playfulness unknown to most other animals. They are soft and warm. He could pet them all day, curl up in bed beside one, and cuddle.
When he reaches to pick this one up, however, it swipes at him, and in the moment just before claws mar his cheek, he drops it — her. At least he was able to discern her gender. She does not run away. Instead, he receives a stare.
"That's a good kitty," he murmurs, ducking low. His lengthy hair swings to the side, splashing a drop of mud directly between her eyes, and there is a long silence as her ear twitches, until she finally prances away in the opposite direction.
The opposite direction being the back entrance of his house.
He follows her again, of course, and finds her on his counter, lapping up the leftovers of Miso soup. She doesn't even spare him a look, content on finishing his breakfast, and Hashirama shrugs, headed towards the faucet of his sink. There's no use in shooing her away; it wasn't as if he was going to finish eating, and he might as well let her enjoy it.
