The first step he takes into the measly Senju camp Hashirama excitedly proclaims will be the roots that their village will be grown from, Madara very nearly spins on his heel and stalks back the way he came, peace treaty be damned. It's just a damned piece of paper covered in meaningless ink, little more than fire kindling; symbolic of nothing more than the wavering words of traitorous thieving murderers, with absolutely no connection to the thousands of shinobi who had lived and bled and died to keep these two families separate and safe from each other.

But Hashirama, of course, notices his stiffening posture, has been keeping an eye on him since the moment their hands had met at the signing, expression shifting between wondrous disbelief and wary hope, clearly expecting such a reaction at some point.

Sure enough, as Madara prepares to turn around and bowl right through the group of delegates the Uchiha had sent along with him, an arm comes slithering around his shoulders and traps him against his self-proclaimed oldest friend's side. The steely glare he levels at the dimwit seems to have no effect at all on the sunny smile stretching across Hashirama's face; in fact, he seems downright delighted by such a hostile reaction.

"Come on, I'll show you around!" the taller man exclaims, quickly sweeping the Uchiha along with him before a word of protest can be offered. Madara can see many of his clansmen sharing rather flabbergasted looks when he doesn't immediately incinerate the fool, but he's too busy trying to keep his feet under him to really try asserting any authority here.

He's not in charge here, not even of the Uchiha; they haven't listened to him in ages, but they aren't blind. They know how much Hashirama respects and cares for him, so he's still in a position of power, if only in name. They likely won't oust him from the clan hierarchy until the village is well and truly settled, and Madara can't blame them after the utter disaster he was after his brother's death.

But apparently he isn't allowed to brood over his inevitable fall from grace, because Hashirama starts talking animatedly right in his ear. "I'm thinking of setting a market around here because of the central location, and perhaps we can start building the homes just outside there. I'm not sure how many farms we could actually keep inside of the village, so maybe they could be on the outskirts? I mean they'd still be within our protection but there'd be enough space for them to-"

It's kind of surprising how easy it is to tune him out after how difficult it had been for the last decade, but Madara accomplishes it with little difficulty.

They'd dreamed and planned for this village in all hours of the day and night, at the river together or alone in their respective clan's camps, all throughout that long summer they'd befriended each other, but Madara hadn't bothered to keep track of those fleeting plans after they'd been so harshly torn apart, and he can't bring himself to jump right back into it here, now, even though that dream is about to start coming true.

He honestly doesn't care which stores go where and how each clan's compound will be built and maintained.

Long term plans won't mean much when they'll be ripping each other's throats out within the year.

Because call it his more pessimistic side rearing its ugly head, but he's positive this won't last longer than a month, perhaps two at the most. They probably won't even manage to complete any of the buildings before this all falls apart.

That's just the way they are, in the end. They've always been this way, and they always will be. This flimsy peace is just a variation in the equation, soon to be set back into the status quo.

… however, he amends at the sight of Hashirama's beaming grin and the relaxed air of even the most serious Senju and Uchiha warriors he's seen on the battlefield, that isn't necessarily true, not this time.

Changing fate is exactly why they're here in the first place, isn't it? Even if he couldn't change Izuna's… well. It's worth the effort to at least try, he can admit that, even if he doesn't completely believe it will work.

So he sets his mouth in a line, bites his tongue, and follows along with his enthusiastic escort, even though the futility of the entire venture is flatly evident to him.

Somehow, someway, this will all come crashing down on them; only question is, who will the survivors amidst the rubble be?


A/N: I had like no motivation for the prompt today, sorry if it got all ramble-y in there.
~Persephone