The Senju Clan was tucked away in the forest, clad in an armor of wood with all the compact sturdiness of an iron giant. However, even the sturdiest iron giant had a mortal weakness, and the Senju Clan was no exception to the rule. It killed not to be cautious.
As such, Hashirama's story went as followed:
He kept close tabs on all of the high risk clans. High risk clans, obviously, were categorized as clans that posed a risk to the security of the Senju Clan as being the indisputable iron giant of the Fire Country forests. There weren't many clans that qualified for the list, all things considered, especially as Hashirama grew older and stronger and his name was spread outside Fire Country like some kind of god or demon, depending on who was talking.
Luckily, if the Senju Clan was good at anything, it was keeping tabs on what the neighbors were doing. They were nosy, even so far as shinobi clans went. They had a spy in every corner of the world and Hashirama had spores on all those spies.
"Never," said Kawarama, face buried in his hands, "and I truly mean never, ever, say that again. I don't want to think about your spores."
"It wasn't weird until you made it weird," said Tobirama.
Itama grimaced. "No, it was weird."
The recent years had been witness to his brothers' growth spurts. In particular, Kawarama had shot up like poplar trees in monsoon season, nearly head level with Hashirama. He had tried to measure Tobirama, but Tobirama threatened to raise the dead on Hashirama—coming from anyone else, the threat was baselessly dramatic. Coming from Tobirama, it was a terrifying possibility that Hashirama was not willing to tempt. Tobirama had been dropping hints about reviving corpses like too much foreshadowing in a bad book. Hashirama was not going to give him a reason to actually raise the dead.
Opposite to his more boisterous brothers, Itama quietly studied and practiced his jutsu. Specifically, he had taken an interest in genjutsu. He was often too busy being curled over a scroll, or into a fighting stance, for Hashirama to get a good gauge for how much he had grown. It made him sad to see them leaving behind their childhood, but at the same time he was so very proud of them.
Small disputes over height aside, they were the three most reliable people in his life. He would have liked them to be in control of the information circulating about the Uchiha Clan, but Senju Butsuma had put them—in his opinion—to "better use."
Kawarama charmed his way through joint missions with other clans. Itama was kept researching new jutsu with Tobirama, and occasionally sent out on minor scuffles with warring clans approaching too close to the border. However, Tobirama was more than capable of micromanaging several operations at once. Even if he didn't start out micromanaging a situation, he had a habit of somehow ending up in control anyway.
It could have been because of his position as the son of the Clan Leader. It could also have been the fact he'd created several useful jutsu before the age of fifteen. More than likely, though, it was the way his glare sculpted into a person's will to live and left them with little in way of words.
Hashirama always trusted information that came from Tobirama. Once that information came in, he gave his own, slightly edited, version of what he'd learned to Butsuma. He wasn't outright lying, just omitting certain details.
It wasn't in Hashirama's nature to lie to people, shinobi or not. There was a reason he charged onto battlefields with all his strength, and it wasn't because he wanted people to whisper 'force of nature' behind his back. It was an honest way of fighting. "Person A" had a kunai, some trip wire, and a slip of explosive paper; Hashirama turned the very ground they stepped on against them. Fair and even.
Maybe not so even—but the battlefield was fair play. Try to stab him, and he'd stab back.
He also considered himself laidback. As laidback as a shinobi could be, at least. As always, there were exceptions, and Butsuma had a talent for stomping all over Hashirama's every exception.
"Hashirama, do you have something to add?" said Butsuma at one meeting, when Hashirama couldn't muster a neutral expression fast enough.
The incense the Elders liked to burn during meetings to keep the air calm only served to make Hashirama's head pound. It wasn't the only thing giving him a headache. However, since Butsuma had so kindly called him out—
"Our missions involving other clans is looking… thin," said Hashirama, with as much delicacy as he could manage. Delicacy wasn't really his strong suit. He liked big statements and promises, with the strength and resources to back them up. "There are no shortage of assassinations and bandits on the highway to clear out, for sure, but it isn't prudent to focus entirely on one side of our operations."
Get your act together, Hashirama wouldn't say aloud. The Uzumaki Clan are drawing away from our alliance.
The Elders grumbled faintly in agreement, but Butsuma cut in.
"And who are you getting these opinions from? Kawarama?" said Butsuma, scoffing. "The boy delights in having fun. Missions aren't fun. As for the focus of our operations, am I to presume you have a better idea?"
Before Hashirama could reply, Butsuma was talking again.
"Hashirama, your power is impressive, truly worthy of praise and respect," said Butsuma, "however, there is more to leading a clan than uprooting a battlefield."
With that, he directed the topic of the meeting elsewhere, leaving Hashirama steaming silently. He was probably leaking chakra, going off the way a few of his clanmates kept throwing him nervous sideways glances.
Butsuma hadn't always been like this. Hashirama knew nearly five decades of life and loss changed him. Yet, when a golden horizon seemed as easy as laying down planks for a leaking roof, Hashirama found it hard to muster pity.
He was a believer in making change. If the world was so terrible, change it. He could do it. They could do it.
Nakano River had glimmered as golden as that sunset he dreamed of in the morning. Early mornings spent waiting for Madara were remembered with a wistful warmth in his chest. He took that warmth and bubbled it for the moments he went to collect a mission that would take him close to the desert regions—the areas he knew the Uchiha Clan had settled in recent months. It was as close as he could get to the Uchiha Clan, because Butsuma had blocked off every avenue to them after that disastrous meeting years ago.
Another day, another meeting, and more buttons pushed. Hashirama suspected Butsuma enjoyed watching his temper unravel.
Hashirama thought he was subtle mentioning a clan to the north. They were an isolationist clan that had sent down a couple shinobi recently as a traditional rite of passage—a year in the world outside their clan. The shinobi in question happened to be passing close the desert where the Uchiha Clan lived.
"I imagine Tajima's spawn has grown," said Butsuma, although Hashirama hadn't mentioned Madara by design. Doubtless it was alert him he wasn't nearly as subtle as he hoped. "Touka was sent to greet them. She reports a success, though they aren't open to talking."
Butsuma wasn't subtle, either. Then again, he wasn't trying to be. Sometimes it felt like they were slinging petty, passive aggressive blows at each other.
"I noticed the farmlands tripled their original size," said Butsuma.
"There's a few clans who would benefit from sharing extra reserves," said Hashirama without preamble. "A few connections I made during a previous mission to Grass Country could be useful, too."
"I would prefer stocks are kept within the clan for an extended period," said Butsuma, waving away Hashirama's suggestion with a sheaf of papers. "Last winter was harsh and the Elders are predicting the next one to be just as difficult."
"Our greatest strength has always been in our close relationships with other clans," said Hashirama, strangling down the thread of iron in his voice, so he didn't sound too authoritative. Butsuma never took well to people sounding as though they knew better.
"We've hardly cut ties," said Butsuma. "Is there anything else you would like to bring to my attention?"
There was plenty Hashirama would have liked to bring up, but nothing he could, unless he wanted an argument on his hands. If there was a chance to change his father's mind, he would take it. However, he had spent five years trying and failing, and the uphill battle was losing its appeal.
The Senju Clan was not invulnerable and people were not so good-willed to take being ignored too many times. Distance meant relying on words, carefully articulated and chosen, to portray intentions. Long periods of silence allowed for those words to be questioned, second guessed, and thought over time and again. Old grudges had a way of flaring to life in the coldest months, when stomachs went hungry and old war wounds ached with vengeance.
While clans like the Kaguya rampaged at their borders, the Hyuuga retreating into the mountains further towards Cloud Country, and Hagaromo withdrew all their scouting regiments without warning, the Senju Clan became secluded.
"Would you prefer we stormed the world?" said Butsuma during a meeting of the Elders, when Hashirama brought up the topic of the other clans. "We lose too many people in clashes with other clans."
Irritation lashed inside him. That wasn't what he'd implied at all.
Outside, summer was in full swing, the chime of insects rising over the treetops. The humidity was making the tips of Itama's hair curl—though, that wasn't the only thing making his hair curl. The likely cause was Kawarama, who was doing that eyebrow thing he always did to get everyone's attention. He'd also positioned himself behind Butsuma, which was never a good sign.
Itama's face was doing some complicated expressions, trying to silently communicate with Kawarama without alerting anyone—especially Butsuma—that anything was happening.
Hashirama, distracted by Kawarama, almost didn't notice Butsuma's steadily growing impatience. Even when he did notice, the threads of the point he'd been about to make—he was sure it was a killer one, too—were completely lost.
"Keeping contact with allies is not taking the world by storm," said Hashirama, and then, because he wasn't leaving empty air between his words for people to interpret them wrong, he added, "It's paranoid to hole ourselves up and rely on our own forces—that's what people outside the clan will say. Short-term, perhaps, but what if there is an emergency? And what if we need to—stop—"
Hashirama almost cracked halfway through, biting his teeth in a grin when Kawarama started doing odd dance. He was so taking advantage of the fact the Elders weren't attending the meeting.
"—stop relying on our forces, if we need aid from an outside clan—will they trust us enough to listen to the advice."
Kawarama was on the verge of tears, shoulders shaking in mirth. Hashirama, on the other hand, thought he had a death wish. Jokes were fun and great when the person they played jokes on wasn't inclined to swing a fist. And then Hashirama would have to intervene—hell would freeze over before he watched someone, even family, especially family, hurt his brothers—and the past few weeks had been straining enough without adding to the tension between himself and his father.
Unaware of the commotion behind him, and the conflict it was giving Hashirama, Butsuma mulled over Hashirama's words. He had aged a lot in the past few years, gray streaking his dark hair, crow's feet deepening around his eyes. "Frail" was not a word Hashirama had ever applied to his father, nor did he think he ever would, but sometimes Butsuma reminded him of an old oak. It had grown tall and proud, so tall the roots in the ground no longer could support it in the high winds.
Butsuma, unlike that tree, couldn't be fixed with a couple hand signs from Hashirama. Diplomacy more often than not fell on deaf ears. Shows of force only proved his point: the clan was fine on its own. People were complicated and stubborn, and while Hashirama would never change that, sometimes he wished changing things was as simple as raising a finger and throwing around some killing intent.
"I see where your concerns are originating," said Butsuma, "but our clans' greatest strength has always come from—"
"The clan being united and believing in each other, and love, yes," said Hashirama hurriedly, "but trading with other clans for supplies and offering trade in return does not compromise those ideals. If anything it—it might encourage them to stop behavior that might be construed as distracting—"
Butsuma gave him an odd look, before turning. Kawarama shoved his hands behind his back, coughing.
"Stubbed my toe," he said. "Nothing like a little pain to clear the mind."
"Was it clouded beforehand?" said Butsuma, unamused.
"Not at all," said Kawarama. "Unlike other people, I'm following Hashirama perfectly fine without needing hand-holding."
Standing right next to Hashirama, having listened wordlessly the whole time, Tobirama let out a faint sigh.
"Well, that was the only point I wanted to make with this little meeting!" said Hashirama with a loud laugh, clapping his hands and taking a large, sweeping step towards the door. "I will let you think on everything and come to a decision—Kawarama, Itama, Tobirama, why don't we just let—"
"You are clever, but not that clever," said Butsuma dryly. "I've lived long enough to know when there are troublemakers in the room."
"So you admit you're old—" Kawarama's voice strangled off.
Itama's arm wrapped strategically around Kawarama's shoulders forearm squeezing his throat just a little too tightly to be comfortable or natural.
"Father certainly has experience and wisdom," said Hashirama cheerfully, "which means our ideas are in good hands, so we will take our leave now. There are plants to be planted."
"I have a few projects that need revision," grumbled Tobirama, who had been dragged the meeting halfway through one of those revisions.
Itama pulled Kawarama bodily from the office ("Why are you like this? Why are you like this?!"; "Well, pardon me, I think I'm hilarious."), with Tobirama bringing up the rear. Hashirama went to follow them, but was called back by Butsuma to answer a few questions he expected to be difficult, but ended up revolving, strangely enough, around crops. Or perhaps not so strange, since Hashirama cultivated most of the crops with his own power.
Everything was going fine with that—Hashirama was more than happy to refill the supplies as much as he could with the mokuton, spending less money and manpower than Butsuma. He'd also refreshed the flowers around the Elders' houses and taken the time to help the healers with their medicines that morning.
You're welcome, Hashirama's smile didn't quite say.
Butsuma's gruffly spoken "You did good," probably meant something more along the lines of, "I know what you're doing."
And really, Hashirama had no idea what he was doing. He was just taking care of the clan. And doing a better job than his father.
Later that day, Hashirama and his brothers congregated in the same area they'd been meeting in for years. They had all grown significantly since they were children, so the nook in the walls around the Senju Compound had gotten cramped.
They had all finished their duties and beelined for the place. Or, in the case of Tobirama, was pulled from his revisions again. Hashirama secretly thought he wanted to evaluate every jutsu he knew and find a way to improve them all.
Itama had gotten off a patrol the day before, after a close call with the Hagoromo Clan. They had stumbled across the shinobi unexpectedly, who attacked with all fangs and no regard for their own lives.
One of the shinobi with Itama—a boy not much older than he'd been on his first patrol—had been killed in the crossfires. Itama retired to bed early upon returning from the mission. Going off the deep shadows under his eyes, and the way the slightest bit of tension seemed to make him snap, he wasn't handling it well.
Any number of reasons to strengthen ties with allies sprang to Hashirama's head at any given moment, but it was that patrol that had him marching into Butsuma's free time earlier. It was unannounced, there were no Elders to "distract" Butsuma, and there were no excuses to ignore Hashirama.
Years ago, Hashirama almost lost his brothers on a patrol. Never again, he'd promised himself. He didn't know the name of the boy lost on Itama's patrol, but he knew someone had lost a friend, a sibling, a son. Never again. There would be no more lonely patrols, no more deaths or near-misses—
That was what he would like to say. Until the changes could be put into place to actually ensure that, there would always be lost children.
"Hashirama, hey, are you listening?"
Hashirama was snapped back to the little nook with a start. "Of course."
"Sure you were," said Itama, cracking a smile. "Anyway, as I was saying, you—what were you thinking?"
Kawarama, leaning against a wall, fiddling with a contraption that was made of spinning wheels and maneuverable pieces, gave a shameless grin. "Hey, it was getting dreary. I don't like dreary. And if you disguised me—"
"I am not using genjutsu to disguise you," said Itama.
Kawarama pointed the fiddle toy at Hashirama. "Anyway, why're you looking at me when we've got Mr. Passive Aggressive over there? 'Father has experience and wisdom, now let me go and take care of the clan better, quicker, and more conveniently than you could ever.'"
"I didn't say that," said Hashirama. "And Father does have wisdom, in places."
"Father's wisdom is 'Uchiha bad, Senju good—'"
"Anyway, it's a good thing Hashirama's poker face is good," said Itama, "otherwise Father would have punched you with his 'wisdom.'"
"Maybe I should get into gambling," said Hashirama. "Never hurts to have a little extra cushion in the pockets, right?"
"No," said Tobirama.
Kawarama, who had perked up at the mention of gambling, deflated. "You're no fun."
Tobirama glared at them from over his fur-covered shoulder. The fur was a recent addition to his assemble.
"No."
His voice echoed off the safety of the walls. Hashirama had expected someone to discover their nook before now, but he seemed to have really outdone himself.
"We're getting off topic," said Hashirama.
Kawarama gaped, aghast. "We're going off topic? Who's the one who barreled in here with something important about the Uchiha? And what are we talking about now? Not Uchiha."
"No, that was you," said Itama, taking a seat on the same stump he always claimed. If anyone else ever tried to sit there, he'd stare them down ominously until they moved. "You mentioned that mockingbird running into the windows the other day, because you wanted to talk about what you were doing behind Father's back today."
"Yeah, well—it was hilarious."
"If Father saw you—"
"He didn't, though," said Kawarama. "And that's the point. If he turned, I'd have stopped before he could see me!"
"Dangerous gamble," said Itama.
Tobirama sighed. "I don't like how the both of you keep looping back to gambling. It's a bad habit."
Hashirama reminded himself to hide his cards and poker chips in a more secure place than the underside of his bed.
"We're not actually gambling," said Kawarama.
"Anyway," Itama interrupted, "Hashirama, you did want to say something about the Uchiha, but you never said what."
There was a lot Hashirama could say about the Uchiha, but most of it wasn't the sort of things one said to their brothers.
He had received word a small group of Uchiha had moved from their new encampment in the northern desert, towards a small town in Snow Country. Normally, that wouldn't have warranted much concern, but there was also the news of a famous noble having some sort of display in that same town. The man—a Professor Yurimoto—was one of the few potential allies Hashirama had swayed Butsuma to considering. The man had no ties to shinobi clans—so there was little chances of him being a spy of an enemy clan—and he was rich. (Very rich—the kind of rich that sort of made Hashirama, who definitely wasn't hurting for money, dislike him a bit on default.) Enough said.
While he would defend the Uchiha tooth and nail if need be, for the future alliance he had planned out, there was no ignoring the fact they weren't exactly known for diplomacy. He didn't know why the Uchiha were taking an interest with that particular town and that auspicious time, but he needed to ensure they didn't do anything embarrassing, like stealing from a potential ally. Getting allies to work with allies was just another one of the big hurtles for which Hashirama desperately needed a plan. (Or a lot of money.)
After explaining all of that, he anticipated understanding nods—maybe a couple grim exchanges. What he wasn't expecting was their shared smirk.
"Tell Madara I said 'Hi,'" said Kawarama.
"Now, wait a second—"
Tobirama chipped in, "And tell him to tell Izuna that he'd better be keeping up with the reading, because I have a lot to talk about with him and he needs to keep up."
"I never said anything about—"
"Make sure you two are not completely obvious," said Itama. "People are always watching and we don't want the wrong kinds of words making it to Father's ears."
The injustice made Hashirama's denial rise and fall like a tsunami. A tsunami that wasn't actually a tsunami, but a large wave, and he was the person on the beach panicking over nothing. Nothing at all, because he had no reason to be embarrassed.
"There isn't even solid sources of who is going," said Hashirama. "Madara might not be involved. He's been confined to their encampments."
"Starts with a path," said Itama, flicking invisible dirt from his fingernails.
"Stop," Hashirama moaned, utterly gutted, as usual, by his brothers' brutality.
"There's an tic in there," said Kawarama.
"The word you're looking for is pathetic," said Tobirama, crossing his arms, sliding a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.
"Coward. Send a letter," said Kawarama.
"He can't send a letter," said Itama. "He could get himself and Madara in trouble."
"As I said: coward, send a letter."
"Do you want Madara to get booted out of his clan?"
"If it gives Hashirama a chance to sweep him up and end all our misery? Abso-fucking-lutely."
"Language," said Hashirama weakly. He was ignored, which was fine, because he wasn't really trying to scold them. He didn't have room for argument in the first place. It was plainly obvious what his intentions were for showing up, what he needed and when and why.
As stated previously, Hashirama had to clear missions through with Butsuma. Butsuma wasn't keen on letting Hashirama anywhere near the Uchiha Clan.
However, Hashirama always knew who to rely on in a pinch.
"So we have a meltdown on the side—" said Tobirama.
"False alarm from the east—" added Kawarama.
"—and I'll deal with Rikuo's files," said Itama succinctly. "Tobirama, can you-?"
"Already have talismans in place," said Tobirama, arms crossed and looking slightly pleased with himself. "Non-lethal distraction. I've asked Touka to direct people."
"Does Touka know how to direct non-pragmatically?" said Kawarama. "I've never seen her do wasteful and we need wasteful directions."
Itama waved that away. "I gave her some specific instructions for impromptu bad decisions."
A few minutes later, as per The Plan™, the Senju Clan was in an uproar, people running for cover and armor, and Hashirama accepted and reported his mission to Butsuma's turned back.
"Very good," said Butsuma distractedly, knowing Kawarama had something to do with the tables being lodged in trees but unsure how and why. He didn't realize he hadn't heard a word of Hashirama's statements until it was too late.
Hashirama was halfway to Snow Country when he realized it was probably wise to have a plan of approach. He paced three circles around a random tree, before impatience set in and he was running again. Improvising had worked for him in the past.
Throughout the duration of the travel, he kept a steady reminder that none of the reports had confirmed the identities of the Uchiha. Yet, while nothing confirmed who was in the group, a bird had taken flight in his chest. He was already soaring, certain he was about to meet his old friend after years of being apart.
Scenery turned from green to silvery and white as he left Fire Country and pushed into Snow Country. He had to stop once to rest, but ended up cutting the rest time in half when he found himself pacing around, counting down the seconds. He remembered to drink the water Tobirama had packed and ate the food Itama and Kawarama shoved at him, so he gave himself a pat on the back for that, at least. He needed the extra food as the temperature plummeted, his breath fogging in the air.
As someone decidedly unused to cold weather outside of winter, experiencing snow in the middle of summer was an interesting experience. The air was thinner in Snow Country, the altitude much higher than the rest of the world. The town was set in the middle of deep valley between the mountains.
He wondered if Madara—if Madara was part of the mission—had stopped at all to appreciate the scenery. Somehow, he doubted it. Madara had never been one to pause long enough to smell the flowers, as opposed to Hashirama, who named every flower pot in the Senju Compound and cried when Elder Rikuo's sunflower died. (He was four years old—give him a break.)
Before tracking down the Uchiha, Hashirama scouted out the town. It was a large one, made of a fairly wealthy crowd. The farmers had compensated for the eternally cold weather with greenhouses, which Hashirama couldn't help inspecting a little. He could pick out a few ways they could be improved, and was tempted to hunt someone down for it.
The tallest building appeared to be the town hall, followed by an impressive library. He blended into a crowd of people congregated around another building—a house, by the looks of it. The windows had been smashed out and people were whispering about thieves.
"I don't know what he was expecting," said a person, though Hashirama couldn't locate who, "putting all that wealth on display."
"Stealing is still wrong."
"Well, sure, but at least they stole from the right person."
"I don't know, I think the professor's more of a bumbling idiot than the asshole some people are making him out to be."
There seemed to be a serious discussion about Professor Yurimoto going on in the town at the moment. Some people liked him, others didn't, more still just didn't care. In other words, it was nothing new at all.
No one seemed to have any clues towards the identities of the thieves, leaving Hashirama to figure it out himself. Deep in his heart, he clapped his hands in prayer that Madara had nothing to do with the stealing part. He clearly remembered Madara getting a little possessive over items—he'd outright hissed when Hashirama tried to touch one of his kunai—and once he got an idea in his head, it wouldn't be so easy to dissuade him. Still, Hashirama had faith, for the sake of the future, Madara would listen.
Tracking, for other shinobi, was an involved process that required summons, or the ability to actually pick out tracks. There was definitely a trail left by the thieves, meaning they probably hadn't expected anyone to stop them, but a good deal of the trail had been trampled over by curious onlookers.
Hashirama invited himself into the house, ignoring the calls of the onlookers, to inspect the place. There was an impressively large hall. A few pedestals were on fire, vases were broken. The walls were painted and the center of the house opened to a large garden. Very pleasant to look at—not so pleasant to feel through the "eyes" of a sensor. He stopped by one of the pedestals, made of fine jade and etched with images of monsters and beasts. Whoever designed the house really went all out.
Find Madara warred with How the HELL did this get here?
At a single glance, it was a normal pedestal, intended only to show off fancy items. Undoubtedly, Professor Yurimoto was planning to throw a party to show them all off; gain clout, respect, and the world's attention. However, if one looked closely—as the good explorer obviously had not—they would spot an odd series of flaws in the not-so-fine jade pedestal.
Hashirama formed a hand sign and a few thin vines crawled up the pedestal. Feeling around awhile, he found what was some kind of hidden compartment inside the pedestal. Hard as iron and thin as thread, the vines pushed through the cracks in the jade. He forced it open, to find most of the inside of the pedestal was hollow, with only a socle about the size of his hand inside. There was a clear indent in the socle, where something was supposed to sit.
He pulled the socle out, wrapped in vines, and inspected it. A deep, foul energy radiated from it, so potent it was nauseating. The feeling of wrongness didn't leave until the socle was safely sealed away in a scroll, tucked into his packs.
Unnerving as it was to discover such an awful energy signature, it made tracking down the thieves a lot easier. The energy was all over the building, steeped into the floor and walls, and the thieves had dragged it off with them like the stench of death.
He followed the trail into the forest. And felt a familiar chakra signature, burning bright and starlike within the forest.
Despite having wanted to chance across Madara, he felt it would have been better that Madara was nowhere near the energy he felt in that house. Madara was more of an unconsciously natural sensor than Hashirama, as discovered by Kawarama in their childhood. Kawarama used to channel random spikes of emotive chakra at Madara, just to watch him twitch and scowl at his surroundings suspiciously. There was a chance Madara would notice something was wrong, or worse—that he wouldn't and it would dampen his senses regardless. Truly, Hashirama had never sensed anything like this, and he didn't know what it could do to a sensor.
Arriving at the scene in the forest, Hashirama had to take a moment to watch before acting.
It wasn't anything strategic, though if anyone asked, it definitely was a tactical decision to survey the area.
He'd imagined for a long time the day he met Uchiha Madara again, known there was a chance it would happen with this mission, and somehow it never dawned on him that it would really happen. Part of him kept waiting for the figure below to wink out of existence.
Madara had grown taller, though he was still a good head shorter than Hashirama—which was something that struck him with, frankly, an inappropriate amount of glee. His hair was wild as ever, straggling freely to his waist. He didn't even use a headband to push it back—Hashirama was both impressed and baffled at how he survived with all those hairs tickling his face. (Everyone in his family had some manner of holding their hair back—Tobirama's happuri, Kawarama braided the top half of hair, and Itama kept his hair up in a bun lately.)
Fire curled up the forest as Madara let loose a fire jutsu—the tree branch below Hashirama was suddenly occupied by a shinobi with a squirming child under his arm. They were arguing loudly, and Hashirama gathered the boy had a kekkei genkai that left him weak to wind and fire.
Madara sent the man with pearls in his hair—Hashirama was sure he'd seen that person somewhere before—flying into the boy. While the redheaded woman shot away into the trees, the others regrouped. Madara stood tall as the obvious victor, but Hashirama found himself suddenly tense. He knew every one of Madara's micromovements in battle and outside of it—he knew from a single glance that not much about him had changed. He also noticed without fail the slightly weakened way he took a half-step backwards.
"NOW!" shouted the man.
Madara's back leg gave out.
Hashirama leaped into action without further hesitation. Mokuton was as much a tool as an extension of his body, branches wrapping the enemy shinobi and pinning them to the ground. The Inuzuka—as he could only be an Inuzuka, with those telltale facial markings and fangs—barked such foul language that Hashirama took extra care to gag him. The vines were mostly nontoxic.
A droplet of blood rolled down Madara's neck.
Every fantasized reunion Hashirama had concocted over the years, where he was cooler and much more suave than he was in reality, flew out the door.
"Are you injured?" he asked, thinking that, shinobi or not, it was unfair that most of the times he met Madara found him hurt in some way.
"Hashirama," said Madara, instead of answering, scrutinizing him closely. Hashirama wondered what Madara saw in him—what had changed, what was the same, maybe even things he liked. "You lost that stupid haircut."
Hashirama laughed, fondness flooding him. He strode to give Madara a solid pat on the shoulder. He had missed that frank and blunt way of speaking.
"And you're still mean!"
"I'm honest," said Madara. "It was stupid."
Hashirama would have made a comment about Madara's wild nest of hair, but couldn't really find anything to insult about it. True, it looked like a porcupine might have built a home in it, but it was charming in its way.
There was a bellowing sigh from the ground. The redheaded woman tilted her chin up off the ground.
"Are you two going to finish us off, or…?"
The Izuzuka gave a renewed round of shouting, thrashing in his bindings.
Madara's narrowed eyes gave off every impression that he wanted to finish them off, but instead he said, very coldly, "That isn't necessary. I only need the cargo you stole."
The pearly man gave a cruel laugh. "Don't joke with us. Uchiha don't show mercy."
The Inuzuka's muffled cries had taken a pleading edge, so Hashirama loosened the gag. Immediately, he started talking.
"Do whatever you want to us, but let the kid go. He's young, he hasn't been in this business long. I'm sure if you reach down somewhere really far—really, really far, probably almost nonexistence you coldhearted, selfish, bastard—"
The vined gag silenced him again.
"No need to be rude!" said Hashirama with a hint of force. "You'll find Madara is very merciful, indeed."
"The cargo?" Madara repeated, not one to be derailed from his mission.
The woman gave up with an audible groan. "Fine, whatever. It's in a sealing scroll. As if we're going to carry all the junk ourselves."
The man with pearls in his hair angled his head to her. "That junk was worth a small fortune, Anke."
"We can live to make another small fortune another day," she said.
Hashirama cheered for them from the sidelines ("A wise sentiment! Very good!") while Madara rummaged through the shinobi's supplies for their—apparently stolen—cargo.
The four shinobi were glaring daggers at him and spitting vitriol, but with the exception of the (gagged) Inuzuka, none of it could get to him. He kept getting renewed bubbles of excitement every time Madara so much as breathed in his direction. They had a lot to catch up on.
Madara, who still stubbornly insisted he wasn't merciful, opted to leave the shinobi to their own devices. Hashirama kept them bound by the vines and roots, knowing they'd be able to break free later. They walked deeper into the forest, away from the town and anyone who might see or overhear. Everything seemed fine, and Hashirama was about to launch into long-awaited greetings, until Madara stumbled. Hashirama remembered the moment of weakness earlier, too.
Without prompting, he put a hand on Madara's forehead. It wasn't necessary, technically, but he considered it a formality, and polite, to check over someone's health in an obvious way.
"A mild poison," he concluded, taking out a medicinal pill. He always came prepared. "Take this."
Madara eyed the pill.
"How mild?" he asked.
"Madara," Hashirama chastised lightly, with the same look he gave unruly patients. It always worked, and Madara was no exception.
He scoffed, but snatched the pill anyway. "Fine."
Hashirama gave his proudest grin before he could stop himself. It wasn't his fault that his "unruly patients" were often children, and that smiling encouragingly was habitual.
"It's been years," said Hashirama, when Madara didn't immediately speak. They were looping around in the forest now, feet subconsciously carrying them back to the town. Soon, he'd be able to hear the evening hustle and bustle of carts and people. "How have you been?"
"The Clan has moved around frequently, but we're in a better position now than we were in years past," said Madara—which was something Hashirama already happened to know. He wanted to know how Madara in particular spent the past few years.
They exchanged a few lines of small talk, Hashirama even mentioning the naturally cold weather of Snow Country, before he broke.
"We should arrange another meeting—"
"You should go before Naka finds out you're here," said Madara at the same time.
They stared at each other. Madara seemed to process what he'd said.
"What?! No, that's absurd."
Hashirama might have refrained from touching too much, but Madara had taken the pill without too much protest and didn't mind the shoulder pat. He leaned into Madara's shoulder, putting on his best pout. Madara looked immediately disgusted, but he wasn't put off.
"I know it's a risk—"
"Would you stop being so dramatic, for the love of—"
"—but what's life without a couple risks?" said Hashirama, thinking of every scene from every dramatic forbidden love novel he'd never read once in his life at all, whatsoever. (Itama was a liar.) He slung an arm around Madara's shoulder. It had been so long since they last spoke, Madara had to be swayed a little by begging.
"Don't joke around," snapped Madara. "Our clans literally will kill each other. Go away."
"But I just saved you, and we have so much to talk about," said Hashirama.
"And I haven't thrown you all the way back to Fire Country even once, so let's call it even."
Hashirama really did have serious things he wanted to talk about, but it had been so long, and he didn't know where to start, so he indulged himself just awhile longer.
"Aren't you a little happy to see me?"
Madara's tolerance reached its end, and he started pushing at Hashirama's face. "Get off me!"
"You're still so mean—"
"You're an idiot!"
After a moment of scuffling, Hashirama finally pulled away. The light flush on Madara's cheeks brought him indescribable joy, despite the fact he knew it was probably due to the poison more than anything else.
"What do you think of your client?" said Hashirama, thinking of the small, huffing nobleman he'd seen perusing the streets.
"He's an idiot."
Hashirama nodded sagely, slinking close again. "Is he the kind of idiot we don't talk about, or the idiot who really forgets to pay his bodyguards?"
Madara's turned his head so fast a lock of black hair smacked Hashirama in the face. "You knew that?"
"There's really only so many ways someone like him could make enemies," said Hashirama, biting back a grin as Madara shoved at him. "And going off the skill level of the shinobi sent after him, it was a common offence. Money or something?"
"That's right," said Madara, grudgingly impressed. "Pretty typical stuff."
Hashirama knew, from the extensive spying he'd done on the Uchiha Clan, that this was Madara's first mission away from the clan in a long time. Touka, in her blunt and straightforward way, called him overly scrutinizing—she also reassured him that the Senju Clan was more than strong enough to defend against the Uchiha, in the case of an attack. He couldn't exactly tell her that wasn't the reason he was spying, so his vague response was left to interpretation to the rest of the Senju Clan. Which just meant the Elders were even more paranoid that normal.
The Uchiha were a clan full of powerhouses. Even the small children seemed gifted. Paired with their kekkei genkai, they were a force to be reckoned with, and the way that force was used largely varied depending on the person. Madara, for example, had burnt down half a forest on his first outing. Yet, he'd been very efficient—maybe a little too efficient—killing the bandit groups that had been ambushing people on the roads, so reception was mostly positive. Still, bodyguarding wasn't quite what Hashirama had expected someone to hire someone like Madara for. Search and destroy, definitely—but not defending fragile, old, priceless artifacts. Highly flammable artifacts.
More importantly, artifacts that emanated energy dark enough to put his teeth on edge.
You are growing paranoid, Hashirama, scolded a voice that sounded like Kawarama's.
"You are being remarkably quiet," Madara commented gruffly, arms crossed. "Is something bothering you?"
"Observant as ever," said Hashirama.
He was overjoyed to find his grin mirrored by Madara, with a spark of that familiar pride in the tilt of his chin.
"My eyes are still the best part of me," said Madara.
"Not just your eyes," said Hashirama, before he could think better of it, and got shoved—yet again—on the arm for it. He was going to have a bruise there. He didn't regret it at all, because the growing flush on Madara's face told him two things: One, Madara wasn't unaffected; Two, Hashirama absolutely had a chance. Now, if only he didn't feel like a puppy that had made its first catch, and didn't know what to do with it.
"Don't avoid the question," said Madara, before an odd look crossed his face. "Also, did you roll in something? You stink."
Ouch, thought Hashirama, moping. He just complimented Madara and got insulted in return.
"It's your client," said Hashirama, pulling the socle out of scroll he'd sealed it in. It appeared with a tiny puff of smoke on the palm of his hand. "I found this in his house."
Madara, without even reacting to the part where Hashirama went snooping in his client's house, took the socle from him. He turned it around, wrinkling his nose—an expression that left Hashirama feeling punched in the chest—and formed his hand in a seal. Madara flinched back from the socle so badly he almost dropped it.
"What is it?" he asked, horrified. "It feels—"
"Evil," Hashirama finished for him.
Madara turned it around a few more times, and then returned it to Hashirama. He didn't relax until it was sealed back in the scroll.
"I'll ask Yurimoto," he said. "Most of those things were supposed to be found in the northern mountains. Wipe that look off your face—I know things."
Hashirama hadn't had any kind of look on his face, other than impressed. Anyway, he wasn't going to leave all the research to Madara. Hashirama had friends everything—one of them was bound to know something about the socle's origins. Power that dark was never left sitting for long.
He had so much he wanted to talk about, but Madara brought it to a close all too quickly.
"I can't be gone for long," he said. "My clanmate will assume something is wrong. Goodbye, Hashirama."
Dismay struck Hashirama. That hadn't been nearly enough time.
He was tempted to follow him anyway, as Madara hadn't really told him to leave, despite his actions—but, no, now that he thought about it, he'd told Hashirama to "go away" earlier. Sort of. And he looked so annoyed—it was as though Madara really hadn't missed him at all. The ground could swallow him up, and it wouldn't be as crushing as his disappointment.
Madara hesitated, grimacing at him. "Wipe that look off your face, why are you so—ugh!" He broke off with a disgusted sound, but still didn't leave right away. He seemed to wage a great inner battle, before bursting out with, "Fine!"
"What?" asked Hashirama, wondering if he'd somehow missed a monologue. He tended to tune out people who talked for too long.
"Where?" said Madara sharply, looking stubbornly at the town instead of Hashirama, eyebrows furrowed. "I'm not making any promises. I still think it's stupid and dangerous, but I will think about it—so, where?"
Hashirama's breath caught. "Anywhere that's easy for you."
"I'm asking you," said Madara. "You had a plan, didn't you?"
The thing was, Hashirama was certain he'd had a plan, but now that he was put on the spot, his mind seemed to have gone on vacation. Luckily, geography was one of those things he could study for hours for leisure, and he could pick out a spot that wasn't too near any threatening clans quickly.
Madara had heard of the place, but reminded him again not to get his hopes up. Hashirama, already forming scenarios in his head, knew it was a lost cause. They both knew.