(Interlude)
Madara skids to a halt and crouches by the edge of the water, panting. He has never been challenged before. Not playfully, anyway. No one has ever taken him on like this; no one has been able to keep up with him so effortlessly. Or, at least, Hashirama makes it look effortless.
Madara had not expected Hashirama's combat skills to even come close to his own. But here they are, both out of breath, both grimy and sweat-drenched and sore, and Hashirama is about to call another draw. (He has the feeling that Hashirama is holding back something, but he's not sure, because Hashirama seems just as tired as he is, and he asked Hashirama to go all out this time, just—Hashirama is different. He always has been.) Even aside from their sparring matches, Madara can barely keep up with Hashirama's words. He talks so fast, and so well. It's frustrating, it's confounding—it's invigorating.
"That's a draw!" Hashirama says, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Madara takes a bit longer to catch his breath. "Right," he says. (Yes—frustrating.) "Let's eat."
Hashirama has brought the mushroom soup that he likes, and they both sit drinking it in silence for a while. The mist is burning off the river; it's getting close to afternoon. They're probably going to have to say goodbye to each other soon, and it'll be another week of agony, not knowing whether the other is alive or dead. Not that they mention this, of course. It's always the same exchange—"Until next time," then "Don't die," and they'll both disappear into the trees, back to their real lives.
"What happened to your cut?" Madara says, catching Hashirama's wrist as he moves to pick up his scarf from the riverbank. Hashirama looks confused for a second, and a line appears between his eyebrows. Madara examines his spotless forearm, bewildered.
"What cut?" Hashirama says, frowning harder.
Madara lets him go with a scowl. "I thought—I could have sworn you were bleeding earlier."
Hashirama's eyes widen. "Oh," he says, in a very different voice. "Oh. It must have been—I mean—it was probably nothing. Just a scrape."
Madara isn't entirely convinced, but he's also pretty sure that this conversation is beginning to tread into dangerous, revealing territory, and he's far too fond of Hashirama to learn details about him that would force them to fight for real. The Uchiha clan has made many, many enemies under Tajima's direction.
"You know healing jutsu?" Madara says tentatively, half afraid to learn the answer, but unable to stop himself from asking. He's genuinely curious. He wishes he could have met Hashirama under any other circumstances, so that they could learn about each other properly, with no clan warfare in the way. Off the top of his head, he can think of a few enemy clans who specialize in healing techniques. Just as long as he's not—
"Well, yeah!" Hashirama says. "I'm a medic. You know, back—back home."
Madara rests his hands on his hips. "Hmph. I never get hurt." He's secretly impressed.
"Oh?" Hashirama says, eyes twinkling. "I can tell that you hyperextended your right knee not more than a week ago, and you've got limited range of motion in your left shoulder—could be a damaged tendon that's healing badly—you should rest it as soon as you can; overexertion will only make it worse."
Madara snorts, because the prospect of Tajima letting him rest is about as likely as a blizzard in the middle of July. He tells Hashirama this, who goes very quiet and nods slowly and says "I understand" while staring down at the water.
Madara leans back and stretches out luxuriously on the stones, crossing his legs and putting his arms up behind his head. Never mind his knee, never mind his shoulder; Hashirama cares about him, Hashirama is worried about him! Madara fantasizes briefly about accidentally showing him the formidable bruise on his ribcage from earlier in the week, but decides against it. He wants Hashirama to think he's strong and capable and clever and collected.
"We should get back," Madara says, and doesn't move.
Hashirama still looks gloomy. "We should."
"Thank you for the food," Madara says. (Right—another thing they don't speak about. Whatever clan he's from, Hashirama definitely has enough to eat.)
Hashirama smiles at that. "Thanks for eating it with me."
They really do stand up then, in one simultaneous, fluid movement, as if they are just dancers in an arena, about to step off the stage and rejoin reality. And then comes the last, vital segment of the ritual: "Until next time," Hashirama says, to which Madara says "don't die", like always. The dance is over. Madara retreats into the forest, pressing one hand to his chest. This is not part of their dance. For some strange reason he feels like he's about to cry.