18.
It's a gradual thing, Madara thinks as he sheds his armor and wraps himself in a haori, but he notices in distinct increments. He can no longer see his ribs, even after a week away from the village. He steps silently across the cold room, shivering.
Hashirama is a motionless dark-haired lump in the bed, his wide back barely visible in the dimness. Madara lifts the corner of the sheets and slides into bed next to him. His bare feet, aching from the cold, instantly feel better. Warm relief seeps into his body. His adrenaline is fading, giving way to utter exhaustion.
Hashirama's chakra is subdued somewhat—it's the dead of winter, and most of it is lying dormant for now—but it's gentle and warm and soothing and powerful nonetheless, and Madara scoots closer to him, feeling dizzy with relief. Hashirama is naked, and his hair flutters as he breathes. Madara missed this: the intense closeness, the feeling of Hashirama's chakra burning against his chest, the solid heat of Hashirama's body pressed against his own. He's tired, and his joints are aching. He lets his eyes slide closed.
It is Izuna's birthday tomorrow. Not that the date matters anymore, with just Madara alive to remember it. Besides, Izuna has honeycombed and crumbled by now, in that familiar quiet way that dead things collapse into soft earth over time. Hashirama would have something poetic to say about it, how when the snow finally melts there will be wildflowers blooming over his body. He breathes so slowly when he's asleep, Madara thinks. He's still for a very long time in between each breath. Madara watches the curve of his back rise and fall and he runs his fingers through Hashirama's hair, slowly, marveling at its silky warmth. Hashirama is exhausted and sluggish in the winter; Madara knows he aches when the trees turn bare and the flowers shrivel and summer's vitality ebbs away. Madara is used to hating winter on his own, too. He remembers sickness and starvation and hidden rivers with too-thin ice, how even as a child he'd have to go out and search for scavengers who had left the compound and never returned.
There are the nightmares, too. Easy to think about now in the pale morning sunlight—Izuna is usually there, of course, his eye sockets black and empty; other nights he dreams of the Senju. Sometimes he doesn't stop Hashirama's blade in time, and blood bursts from his slit stomach in gurgling streams. He wakes up and his hands are still slick with it.
Hashirama stirs and shifts and Madara immediately draws closer to him, wraps his arms around Hashirama's neck and curls up in the warm spot he's left open. Hashirama makes a soft sound in his throat at the contact. One eye blinks slowly open.
"You're back early," Hashirama says, his voice low and rough from tiredness. The eye slides closed. "I was going to meet you by the gates…"
"I didn't want to wake you," Madara says.
Hashirama hums quietly. "What time is it?"
"Just after six." He kisses Hashirama's forehead. "Go back to sleep."
Hashirama is not going back to sleep. He laughs, hooking a leg around Madara's knee. "You're freezing," he says.
Madara smiles against Hashirama's chest. "And you," he says, "are very, very warm." He concentrates, flicks his fingers. Heat surges through his hands. Hashirama sighs contentedly and folds one arm around Madara's back, nestles his head deeper into the pillows.
"How was it?" says Hashirama presently. He's nearly asleep again; his voice is getting weaker with every word.
"Fine," Madara says. "Remind me to tell you when we're both properly awake."
"Any problems?"
"Hardly," Madara yawns. "A bit of trouble last night by the northern border. Nothing too terrible."
"I can," Hashirama mumbles tiredly, "infuse some healing chakra for you, if you need…"
"It's all right," Madara gets out. He can hardly keep his eyes open. It's still faintly surreal, sharing a bed with someone. If it was anyone but Hashirama, Madara doesn't think he would be able to do it. And yet, he feels more comfortable now than he has ever felt sleeping alone. He also has the faint suspicion that Hashirama is surreptitiously healing him, or maybe he's doing it unconsciously, and he holds him a bit tighter until he passes out.
The sun is up fully when Madara wakes again. Hashirama stirs next to him, groaning, a great mass of warmth and power. He stretches lazily, joints creaking, back popping, his shining hair strewn over three pillows. Madara tosses one leg over Hashirama's thighs, cups his cheek with one hand, and kisses the corner of his lips. It has been a week since they last saw each other—touched each other.
Sex with Hashirama in the winter is very slow and subdued and intense, and Hashirama almost always falls fast asleep right afterwards. It usually starts like this—soft hands moving lower, sleepy kisses deepening. Madara straddles Hashirama's waist, runs his hands down his chest. He is so warm, so beautiful. Hashirama's eyes slowly open and he gives Madara a look of sheer bliss and slides one broad thumb down the side of Madara's face, tucking his hair back behind his ear.
A while later Hashirama is still flat on his back and Madara is riding him, still breathing somewhat steadily, and Hashirama puts his hands on Madara's sides and Madara hisses and rolls his hips, adjusts the angle of their contact. He sinks down until he's touching Hashirama's waist and Hashirama leans in to kiss his neck, slow and lazy and tender. He trails his fingers down Madara's chest, pauses at his clenched midriff, traces small circles into his pelvis. Madara gasps as Hashirama strokes his dick with maddening gentleness—Hashirama's eyes slide closed and he smiles; he makes a small satisfied sound against Madara's skin.
"Don't fall asleep," Madara warns.
Hashirama pouts. "You wound me."
They're both grinning as Madara tilts his head down to kiss him again. Without warning, Hashirama frowns, squints, takes a short breath, and then gives a violent sneeze.
With near-godly restraint, Madara only laughs at him a little bit. He tucks his fingers into his sleeve and wipes both their faces clean. Within moments they are quaking with silent laughter, still joined at the hips.
"For a moment," Madara says, "I thought you had finished already."
"Your hair," Hashirama wheezes, by way of explanation. "Tickling me…"
Madara pointedly leans down close to Hashirama's face, holding fistfuls of his own hair, and trails the tangled ends slowly across Hashirama's nose and lips. "Take this, fiend," he says, grinning devilishly, but Hashirama seems to genuinely enjoy the sensation, if the way he bucks his hips is any indication, and Madara is no longer laughing because Hashirama has hit his prostate. Madara's mouth falls open. "Do that again," he gasps. Hashirama sneezes two more times.
"Sorry," Hashirama says with difficulty, dissolving into fits of laughter. "Your hair grew so much this past week! There's so much more of it than usual, don't you think? How did you do that?"
Madara kisses him to shut him up. His haori is up somewhere around his navel and the pleasant friction of fabric on skin draws a soft moan from him as he moves. Hashirama is still laughing silently against his mouth. Madara bends so that he's nearly flat against Hashirama's chest, and he deepens the kiss and sinks his fingers into Hashirama's sweet-smelling hair.
"Mmmm," Hashirama groans, and his hands find Madara's shoulders, his back, his waist. They are breathing in tandem now, Madara moving a bit faster on top of him, his hair hanging in his face like a snarled black curtain. He's sure it's still teeming with leaves and twigs from his journey back through the forest, but none of that really matters, because Hashirama is whispering softly against his skin, and they are together and warm and laughing and alive.
"I love you," Hashirama murmurs tiredly as they both surface from the kiss. His breath is warm. "I love you, Madara."
Madara gives a low moan and presses himself closer to Hashirama's body. They both come like that, together, Madara's hands in Hashirama's hair and Hashirama gasping and amorous beneath him. Neither wants to come apart yet. Madara lies on top of him and feels his chest rising and falling and he closes his eyes and hooks a finger around Hashirama's necklace, sleepy again.
"We should clean up," Madara says halfheartedly, some time later.
Hashirama kisses his nose. "Yes."
"Got to do my mission report. And the Akimichis are sending a representative tomorrow morning."
Neither of them moves.
"Take the day off, Madara," Hashirama mumbles against his throat at last, "I'll go into the office."
Madara hums. "Or," he says innocently, "we could both stay here."
Hashirama's shoulders begin to shake and he gives a subdued version of his great booming laugh. "Was that real, honest flirting?" he says, sounding completely incredulous. "Did you just flirt with me?"
"Perhaps," Madara says. "Or maybe I'm just looking for someone to wash my hair for me."
"I could certainly do that. You know I love your hair."
Madara can feel himself blushing. Hashirama's warm fingers rub circles into his scalp. He's fading fast; going by Madara's usual estimates he'll be completely asleep within the next two minutes. Hashirama's exhaustion is infectious, and Madara sighs and curls up on top of him and closes his eyes and thinks how very, very good it is to be back home.