Most people only see the extremes of Hashirama:
the laughing, absent-minded one, grin so childishly wide you wonder if he can sign his own name,
the ridiculously powerful one, wielding wood like a nymph, the all-or-nothing flint of his eyes as he slaughters an entire army to retrieve his father's corpse,
the charismatic one, winning peace and hearts with a tilt of his mouth, a whirlwind of speeches and handshakes.
The in-betweens are harder to spot:
the tired one, forehead lined, too worn to be diplomatic with his own children,
the pensive one, quiet, regrets scuttling close to the surface of his skin,
the sly one, all quirked lips and subtle contempt, growing his hair out inch by inch as both fashion statement and "fuck you".
And now:
the dead one, reduced to an anticlimactic pile of ashes, leaving both Konoha and Mito widowed.
Still, for all his clarity of vision, Tobirama cannot view his brother's death in any light but grief.