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Some days Hashirama barely saw him at all.
It would be a dark figure in the corner of his eye, gone as soon as he glanced at it. The feeling as if someone was looking over his shoulder at his desk. Someone standing next to him in his reflection on the shiny new windows the fancier civilian shops had (and wasn’t that a wonder, his village becoming so established, so steady, so peaceful that shops like these should appear?), hair untamed and kama gleaming.
It used to be when he saw Madara it was like seeing lightning strike, fear and giddiness and awe, a shot of pure adrenaline. Even after the truce, those precious months where they saw each other almost every day because nobody had ever even thought the word “Hokage” and everything had to go through both of them, he still felt that rush. It was like he was a kid again, before the fear became a part of that mix, excited just to see him again and fall back into that rapport between them that Hashirama found endlessly engaging. When he left and that feeling had been gone, the hole it left made the whole world hollow. He couldn’t decide whether or not the months after he killed him were any better, when he half thought the shadows in his periphery might be an assassin, or that he was in a genjutsu he couldn’t escape.
These days Madara’s presence in his life had become almost like a fact of life. As long as Hashirama Senju continued to walk the earth, so too would Madara Uchiha. He doesn’t know why he had expected anything less. Over the years that shot of fear had turned into an almost bittersweet pain and the jackrabbit beating of his heart had turned into something more like a twinge, something he could smile through.
He saw him mostly at night, under the cover of darkness, as eyes suspended in shadow. Madara would stand there, in the twisting streets and alleys, in the forest that still hugged his village to the west, in his office doorway when he’s stayed too late because at least there he can be useful. He’d stand there on the far side of the room from his bed, staring at him. Sometimes his eyes would drift to Mito, curled up by his side asleep, and Hashirama would feel a cool, sick guilt flood his body.
Some days, if he was especially unlucky, Madara would step out of the shadows, the sword through his back wet and glistening as he crept towards the light. At this point Hashirama would normally try a basic genjutsu release, which would never work, and would open his eyes again to see Madara approaching him still. Uncommon though they were, these were the moments that scared Hashirama the most, not because of Madara himself but because of his reaction to Madara’s presence. He had gotten pretty good at making everybody think he was fine, or at least he hoped he had. Tobirama was back to his normal argumentative self, and Mito has always handled him with kid gloves to some extent under the facade of being the quiet subservient wife she had been tasked to be by her father. She knew neither of them really wanted to be playing these roles, and she’d decided that it would be less painful if they just never talked about it. That meant when he woke up with Madara’s name in his mouth, she would ask if he was alright, and he would say he was, and she would accept his word and go back to sleep while Hashirama washed his face in the other room and got an early start to his day.
The only problem with that plan was that it meant he’d be tired that day, and taking a nap in his office meant he was opening himself up to dreaming again, only this time if he woke up crying Madara’s name, it would be some poor chuunin who would have to come check on him (Hashirama wasn’t sure having an office staffed by teenagers was really that wise, but it was probably better than having them out there in the field facing down people his age trying to kill them). Maybe he wasn’t hiding it that well, actually, but he still hated having one of these... moments in front of someone else. It made him look unwell, and he had worked so hard for this. How would it look to his citizens, his people if he was constantly growing cages around a figure only he could see? If he was running away from nothing, some imagined threat?
So on nights like these he just let it happen. He’s on an empty dirt path on his way home from a late night at the Hokage Tower when Madara steps chest to chest with him, bloody sword ghosting over his robe. He wraps his arms around him, half like an embrace and half like he’s trying to hold Hashirama still and tugs him close, the sword sinking into his chest with the same wet squelch as when it had sunk into Madara’s. His hair tickles Hashirama’s cheek as he whispers to him. That whisper he had heard so many times in the forests of their youth, the one that used to shoot him little messages under the clashing of swords when the battle was going too far and one of them would need to retreat if they wanted to spare the majority of their force, which too often consisted of kids barely their brothers’ ages. Sometimes Hashirama was so overwhelmed by these memories he barely listened to what Madara was actually saying. Tonight he tried to pay attention.
“I missed you,” He says, “It’s cruel of you to not be here with me.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashirama grunts through the pain. It always feels so real. That’s the only reason he even bothers trying the genjutsu release anymore, even when he’s beyond questioning the rest of Madara’s little appearances in his life.
“Of course you feel the same. Your life is so sad to watch. Doesn’t it feel wrong to waste away like this? What happened to the God of Shinobi? All I see is a man who cries into his cup then mistakes his tears for another round of sake.”
“You never minded before,” Hashirama chokes out.
“Back then you were drinking with me, crying tears of joy because you thought you had done it and we were going to be together forever.” Madara moved against him to dig the sword impossibly further in. “You always were a soft-hearted fool. But I suppose I was too, in those days.”
He felt blood clinging to his clothes, gluing his body to Madara’s. It was always like this with him, Madara pushing into him like he was going to walk right through, how a real ghost might. Sometimes he would. No matter how much Hashirama believed he knew him, Madara always proved himself opaque, and it seemed that held true even in death. Whether he was a ghost, some sort of manifestation of lingering chakra, or simply a result of Hashirama’s guilt leading him down that same path of madness, it didn’t matter. Having Madara by his side was better than living without him even if it meant nothing but pain.
Madara scoffed. He had always been able to read Hashirama with uncanny accuracy in life, but now in death it felt like he had full access to Hashirama’s every thought. “If you really meant that you would never have killed me. We could have razed this failed experiment to the ground and started over. It would have been painful for you, maybe, but you still would have had me.” He loosened his hold to run a hand down Hashirama’s side, but it only served to jostle the sword and send a fat stream of almost coagulated blood down his stomach. Hashirama shuddered as he felt it drip down further. “We could have bent the world to our will. A world without pain, without death, a world where all your fantasies come true. The shinobi way of life gone in an instant, giving way to true peace, peace that can never be broken.” Madara’s hand had found its way inside his haori and was resting on his hip, the blood-soaked layers of his kimono and nagajuban feeling negligible beneath the searing heat of Madara’s palm. “But here we are instead, in this ugly little village where you funnel your children into the same shinobi way of life that got us here. You could have had everything you ever wanted,” this he punctuated with a stroke of his thumb against the juncture where Hashirama’s leg met his hip, “Every impossible fantasy. That life you dreamed about, the one you knew you could never have. I know you, Hashirama, like no one else ever has. I know what you want. And I could have given it to you.”
Hashirama closes his eyes against the onslaught of images that seem to cloud his vision and his judgement alike. “Madara,” He gasps, not knowing what else to say, “Please...”
Madara just laughs. “Go home to your wife, Hashirama.” He pulls away, taking the sword with him. “But know that no one will ever fill the hole in your life like I could. I wonder how long it will take to swallow you whole, now that I’m gone.”
And gone he was. Hashirama opened his eyes to an unbloodied, perfectly tied haori and the throbbing pain in his chest fading to nothing. The only evidence Madara had ever been there was a wetness in his fundoshi, his robes barely hiding the tenting therein. This was not an unusual outcome for his more close-quarters interactions with Madara, even before they had taken on their current more explicit tone.
Summoning his little remaining willpower, he heeded Madara’s words and dragged himself home.
As usual, when he arrived Mito was sitting in her chair poring over a scroll. Hashirama had always preferred sitting on the ground, but in the winter he understood the appeal of the cushioned loveseat she tended to occupy, her legs propping up her reading material as she sat sideways, her tea on the low table all but forgotten. Even now, years into their marriage, walking into scenes like these made Hashirama feel like an intruder. Mito wasn’t necessarily a shy person, but as the clan head’s daughter she had been rigorously trained on how to act around other people of status, especially men. It seemed to Hashirama that these evenings with only her scrolls and seals for company were the only time she spent without those shields up, and he was loath to deprive her of them.
Of course, stealth had never been his strong suit and it seemed a bridge too far to try to hide his chakra signature to enter his own home, so as soon as he opened the door she looked up.
“I’m home,” Hashirama said. Such a stupid expression. Obviously he was home, otherwise she would have gone on reading. He smiled apologetically as he slipped off his sandals, leaning on the wall for balance, and replaced them with his house slippers. Maybe Madara was right and peacetime really was making him foolish and weak.
“I left you some soup in the kitchen,” Mito said, rolling up the scroll she had been reading. “I’ll heat it up for you.” She moved to get up but Hashirama waved his hand with another apologetic smile.
“It’s alright, I ate at the office.” She seems to accept that, but doesn’t return herself to her scroll. He hates how she feels like she has to always be attentive to him and his needs, but he supposes this is just what she’s always been taught to do. He doesn’t know how to make her comfortable around him. Even after all these years it’s like they’re still in that nervous early engagement phase where they don’t really know each other. Maybe they still don’t.
Madara had always said that they could never truly know each other, that nobody could. As the years went by, the cracks in Hashirama’s belief that he truly knew anyone had grown into deep fissures, the ever present dripping of doubt and fear and regret only further eroding his surety. He wondered if Madara thought it was impossible even to know yourself. The idea of Hashirama Senju, God of Shinobi, Founder of Konoha, First Hokage and Protector of the Village seemed almost as foreign to him, as far away from himself as the idea of that boy with the bowlcut who played by the riverbank.
He realized his smile had warped into what was probably a rather off putting pained look. Mito was looking at him in mild concern.
“Sorry,” He said, “Long day.”
“Let me make you some tea,” She suggested.
“No, please, I’m fine. Really,” He said, inching his way towards the hall leading to their rooms. “I just need some sleep.”
“If you’re sure,” She said, and at his nod she dropped her eyes back to her scroll.
He makes his way to the bedroom, where he slips off his haori and kimono, leaving only his nagajuban. It was getting colder, and the tailor he had commissioned for a thicker, winter set of Hokage robes still wasn’t done, so he had taken to wearing some of his personal clothes under the red outer robe. This and the hat he left at the office, preferring to walk the streets without the equivalent of a giant flashing sign telling people to bow to him on their way to the grocer’s. He laid out a heavy quilt on his side of the bed.
Sometimes, in the dead of winter, he wishes he had been born an Uchiha, their fire natures keeping them hot year round. Madara had complained about it in the summer, but when winter rolled around and Hashirama was shivering and they couldn’t skip stones because the river was frozen over, he would roll his eyes and let him huddle under his cloak to share his natural heat. One time Hashirama’s fingers had gone numb from the cold and Madara had held Hashirama’s hands in his for what felt like hours. Bloodflow had returned to them in less than a minute, but Hashirama couldn’t bring himself to pry his hands out of Madara’s grip. He had stared at the other boy’s profile as Madara staunchly looked away, mesmerized by the way the wind whipped through his hair (so short back then, only a shadow of the unruly mane he had come to favor in his later years,) and the red of the tips of his ears. He hadn’t known what it had meant back then, though Madara probably had. He always had been the smarter of the two of them, quicker to see signs of upcoming trouble.
Mito’s side of the bed had fewer sheets but many more pillows. Perhaps that was the benefit of not having to travel outside her island growing up, never having to consider whether four pillows were a worthwhile use of space in her travel pack. The trade-off was that with the Nine Tails sealed inside her, its fire nature chakra was constantly bubbling under the surface keeping her warm. They slept in the same bed out of convenience more than anything, though Mito had her own study that had a smaller bed she’d sometimes sleep in instead. Hashirama had grown up sleeping in the same bed as his brothers, and had shared a room with Tobirama well into his teenage years, so he supposed he’d just become accustomed to having someone nearby when he slept. It was also beneficial in the event of any kind of attack on himself or Mito, since neutralizing both of them at once seemed nearly impossible and they were both competent enough to defend the other against an assassin or kidnapper.
He changed his underclothes and lay down in bed. He really did like Mito, was the thing. Not in a husband and wife way, maybe, but she was a good shinobi and she was clearly doing the best she could given the situation. He knew she didn’t really want to marry him in the first place and to resent her for it would be obviously hypocritical. Still, she was a kind and intelligent young woman, and her sealing was only getting better and better. Being confined to the village had to be tough for her, but Tobirama had made it abundantly clear that under no circumstance would their jinchuuriki be leaving the safety of Konoha without a massive contingency of Anbu to protect her, nevermind that she was at least jounin level before even gaining access to the Nine Tails’ chakra. The Nine Tails itself was also evidently a source of strife for her. Sometimes she would freeze up in the middle of a conversation only to say that it had been talking to her, and on the rare occasion she would tell Hashirama what it had actually said, it was never particularly nice. It hated him especially, she had admitted once, and it would scream and snarl and gnash its teeth on the bars of its cage whenever she saw him. Hashirama had started spending a lot more time out of the house after that.
He sighed and folded himself further under the quilt. Mito would come to bed in an hour or so and he would let himself sleep through it. Hopefully tonight’s dreams would be peaceful.
His dreams had always been weird. That was the consequence of living in a strange world, he supposed, having strange dreams. He often dreamed about being immaterial, his soul travelling through the growing roots of a tree, tangling and merging until he was a great system of connections that made up the entire forest. He would spy on the squirrels that made their homes in his hollows, watching as giant centipedes dug tunnel systems that wove between his roots, cradling birds’ nests in his limbs and observing the ugly little hatchlings scream for their dinner. He loved these dreams. He thought that perhaps one day when he had grown too old to be of use to anyone anymore he might wander deep into the forest and see if he couldn’t make it real, let himself melt away into the side of a tree and feel that network like a thousand fingertips reaching out into the soil and sky.
Being a shinobi, he also often dreamt of war. Distorted scenes re-remembered a thousand times over until he didn’t know what was real and what was twisted fantasy invented only to make himself feel worse. A lot of this was the deaths of his brothers, though he had been present for neither incident. Often these were rolled up into grander scenes of battle from his later years, time and place becoming irrelevant in a never ending whirlwind of blood and clashing metal.
Then there were Madara dreams. He had started taking note of them sometime early on in their friendship, before he had even found out he was an Uchiha. Madara had always tugged at him, somehow. In the early days of the village when they had first been making the first steps to integration, he had gone to a play put on by some of the Uchiha artist types involving shadow puppets. Though the greater plot of the story had been lost on him, he understood that it involved the idea of a twin flame, two people almost inexplicably drawn together as if their souls were calling out to each other. The story ended with the two characters, represented for some reason by a hawk and a salamander, wandering too close to the flame that was projecting their shadows and burning up. Hashirama had been confused, but his fellow spectators had simply nodded and clapped. Though the deeper meaning was clearly lost on him, he had still felt like that was the closest thing he’d ever seen to a description of his relationship with Madara. It felt like all roads led back to him. Even when they were separated as children, he felt that pull. It only made sense that he would feature prominently in his dreams as well.
In his youth, the dreams had been innocent enough. They would play together, Hashirama growing him entire fields of wildflowers, using the Mokuton freely as he never did in reality. Sometimes he would have nightmares where he would arrive at the riverbank as usual and Madara would be lying on the grass, only when Hashirama called out to him he didn’t reply, and suddenly he would spot a dried, crusted stain on Madara’s dark clothes and realize he was looking at corpse. He had seen combat before, he knew what fresh bodies looked like, but it was the older ones that frightened him more. It meant there was truly nothing to be done, no hope for last words gurgled through punctured throats, no final touch of a warm hand, and no chance to find who had done this and dispatch them without mercy. He was left cradling Madara’s cold body with no one to tell and nothing to offer him but ugly, choking sobs. He knew Madara was an Uchiha, he wasn’t entirely stupid, and he knew the Uchiha burned their dead so no one would take their eyes, but he hadn’t learned fire release yet and carried no flint or steel. He had this dream even more after they had been separated, only now he would find Madara lying among the corpses on a battlefield or just among the trees of their contested territories. In these dreams, if he was brave enough, he would sometimes force himself to take a knife to Madara’s eyes or pluck them out and crush them. He had considered on occasion taking them for himself if only as a memento, so he might keep some part of Madara with him always and show him the new world Hashirama would build for them, but he was still too squeamish to pluck out his own eyes.
As he got older the dreams changed with whatever his latest concern or fantasy was. The summer of his nineteenth year, Madara had pinned him to the ground in serious battle for the first time. Hashirama had escaped his grip easily enough, but it had fueled his dreams for years. When his father took him to meet the daughter of an allied clan head for the first time with the intent of forming a marriage pact, it spawned a series of dreams where on the night of their wedding, he would find Madara in her clothing on their marriage bed. For some reason Hashirama never stopped to think if he should report this intrusion to the guards, and would stumble forwards in wonder as Madara beckoned to him to come consummate their marriage. He had come to accept having this kind of dream about Madara. There was nothing he could do to control them, no matter what he tried. He had wanted to deny it at first, of course, because he was the heir to the Senju, and he would have to produce his own heirs at some point. Having an unnatural sexual fixation on another man, not to mention an Uchiha, was something that would likely become a hindrance later in life. Still, it seemed to be out of his hands. No matter how much he meditated, the dreams didn’t stop.
That wasn’t to say he didn’t still have happier Madara dreams. In fact, this one was the dream that he loved the most. He was strolling home from an autumn walk in the forest, the leaves newly shed and making a carpet over the dirt roads that wandered through their village. It was evening, and the glow of the lamps outside the restaurants danced around him as he snaked his way to the Hokage residence in the center of the village. There was a warm glow in the window, and his heart swelled at the sight.
Madara glanced up at him from the low table where he was poring over paperwork as he entered, but said nothing in greeting. His hat was tossed aside and Hashirama moved to pick it up.
“It’ll get dirty if you just leave it on the floor,” He said, hanging it up on a hook by the door.
“It’s your fault for making this whole outfit red and white. You can see every speck of dirt on these stupid robes.” Madara looked up from his paperwork to give him an incredulous look. “I don’t know why I ever let you be in charge of the clothes I wear. Your sense of style has always been... lacking.”
“I like you in red,” Hashirama said, sitting down beside him to look over his shoulder. Madara flipped the papers over before he could read them.
“These are classified documents. Hokage’s eyes only,” He said, and Hashirama readied his sad puppy act. Madara tsked and pushed his shoulder. “Don’t give me that look. Since when have you wanted to do paperwork?”
“I’m still your co-founder, you know,” Hashirama pouted. “Shouldn’t we be on equal standing?”
Madara scoffed and carefully slid the documents into a folder that he tucked into his robe. “Sure. Come by the office tomorrow morning and I’ll let you deal with the Hyūga. I’m sure they’d react better to you than to me.”
Hashirama laughed. “They probably would.” He pushed his shoulder against Madara’s. “Wanna go sit on the roof and drink to their joining?”
Madara shook his head but started to rise. “You’re just looking for an excuse to get drunk and stick your cold hands under my robes.”
Hashirama hung his head in mock desolation, but Madara ignored him. He fell dramatically onto his side, hand over his forehead in woe. While he continued to sigh and roll around pitifully, Madara walked into the kitchen, fetching a flask of sake and two sakazuki. He kicked Hashirama, who immediately sat up with a grin.
Together they climbed the stairs, and at last came out onto the flat, circular roof of the Hokage residence. A rough sketch of Madara’s face had been etched into the cliff above them, and while it could never compare to the real thing beside him it was still a pretty stunning sight. Madara sat cross-legged facing their village, and Hashirama joined him after another second admiring the sculptors’ handiwork. The lights below flickered in the wind and the shine of the moon was reflected in Madara’s eyes, both briefly visible as it blew the hair out of his face. He really was strikingly beautiful.
He shook his bang back into place, and poured Hashirama a drink. Hashirama returned the gesture, and they clinked their shallow glasses together. The sake burned his throat on the way down. He had always wondered if that was what it felt like when the Uchiha used their signature fireball technique, only in reverse.
This part was his favourite. Just sitting next to Madara in companionable silence, watching their village below them.
As the night dragged on, he would inch closer and closer to Madara, until they were pressed against each other with Hashirama’s arm slung around his shoulders.
“It’s cold,” He muttered to Madara, “Let’s go inside.”
“You’re the one that wanted to go to the roof.” Hashirama shrugged and grinned. “Fine. Though I didn’t expect the legendary God of Shinobi to be so weak to a little chill.” Madara took their empty cups in hand and tucked them away in a hidden pocket as he stood.
“You’ll stink of sake if you keep those in your robes,” Hashirama said, smiling, as he jumped to his feet. “Not a good look for the Hokage, you know.”
Madara scoffed. “I’ll tell them it’s all your bad influence.”
Hashirama pouted but followed him inside. Together they carefully made their way down the stairs to the main floor, where Madara split off to go to the kitchen for a cup of water. Hashirama entered the bedroom, unfastening his haori and folding it sloppily. The hakama he was more careful with even though they were his less formal pair, and he was left standing in only his juban.
The Hokage mansion was ridiculously big, so they usually just left their futons out. He shoved his a little to the left until they were perfectly flush, his comforter spilling onto Madara’s more lightly made bed. The moon was shining through the window, the scene only disturbed by the swaying of a branch casting shadows on the tatami. Hashirama shed his juban, barely folding it and setting it on top of his haori and hakama. All of them could probably do with a wash, considering the amount of time he’d been spending out in the forest and the fields. He untied his fundoshi and changed into a jinbei, deciding it was too cold to sleep entirely naked. Last off were the tabi, which got thrown vaguely towards the pile as he slipped under the covers. Madara, earthenware cup in hand, slid the door open to a sock limply hitting him in the shin.
“You have terrible aim for a shinobi,” He said lowly, and threw it back at Hashirama. Hashirama made a face at him and tried again, this time landing it with the rest of his day clothes. Madara huffed a small laugh at him as he set his cup down by the futon.
Hashirama watched him with rapt attention as he unfastened the outer robes of his Hokage’s garb, letting it fall to the floor in a pile. Untying his kimono, he folded the uwagi much more carefully. While there was no love lost between him and the garish (his word) solid red cover, he clearly had real respect for the intricately woven kimono, with its patterns of uchiwa and twisting vines. It was a clan treasure from a time when the Uchiha had been more prosperous, although compared to some of the treasures of the Senju it almost seemed plain. With his kimono untied, the two inner layers hung loosely around his shoulders. He glanced over at Hashirama, who looked away like he had been caught before quickly turning his head back to keep watching. Madara simply closed his eyes and exhaled shortly, slipping these too off and folding them beside his other clothes. Now all that was left was the juban, which Madara tied separately. This he seemed to slip off even slower, revealing his knotted back, a few faded scars coming into view. Every scar on his body, more and more becoming visible as he finally dropped the juban to the floor, was from Hashirama. Teasingly, he bent to pick the juban up to fold it, staring at Hashirama through the bend in his knee. He watched the gentle shifting movements of Madara’s muscles as he folded this final piece of clothing and set it on top of the rest.
As he turned to face their beds and the window, Hashirama caught a gleam in Madara’s eye of almost sadistic pleasure. He was in only his fundoshi now, and Hashirama found himself staring at the dark hair creeping down his stomach. He had seen Madara naked a thousand times by now, but it still felt like he was sneaking a peek at something he shouldn’t be seeing. Madara seemed his most assured when in his armor, or better yet inside his Susano’o. To see him stripped almost bare was a sight that Hashirama was sure only a select few people had ever been privy to.
Madara caught his eye and tugged at the knot on the side of his fundoshi, unfurling it into a loose piece of fabric again. Hashirama averted his eyes as Madara took his time folding this too.
“Why so shy all of a sudden?” Madara said, dropping it to the ground and stepping closer, standing on top of his futon. He dropped to one knee, leaning over Hashirama, his hair brushing the covers with strands going everywhere. “It’s not like you’re seeing anything new.”
Hashirama swallowed and looked over at Madara again. He flipped the covers off of himself.
Madara scoffed at the jinbei. “Always making things hard for me.” At that, Hashirama gave an immature chuckle which earned him another eyeroll.
“Sorry, sorry! It’s just, considering the situation we’re in...” Hashirama smiled and tilted his head towards Madara’s nakedness.
Madara’s eyebrow twitched and he turned on his knees. “If you think it’s so funny then I’ll just deal with it myself.”
At that, Hashirama felt a cloud descend on him and he twisted on his side to clutch at Madara’s waist. “Wait, Madara, I didn’t mean it, come on...” Summoning his best forlorn expression, he gazed up at Madara until he turned around again.
“Fine.” Hashirama’s expression immediately returned to glee. “Untie your stupid pyjamas.”
“Right away, oh great lord first,” Hashirama said, smiling at the expression Madara shot him. He untied both sides of his jinbei, shrugging it off. The shorts he left on until Madara shot him another glare and he squirmed out of them too.
Hashirama knew that, objectively speaking, he had a pretty nice body. It wasn’t unusual for a shinobi of his skill level to sport fewer scars than the average warrior, but his unnaturally spotless body had come to bother him over the years. While the mokuton’s regenerative abilities weren’t good enough to protect him from serious mortal danger, it stitched up most of his injuries quickly enough that he didn’t develop scar tissue except in the case of a truly severe injury. He had a scar like that on his thigh from when Madara had first brought out the kama and had hooked it through his leg like a fish to pull him closer. Compared to Madara, he felt like he had the body of a lord’s son, some coddled member of the daimyo’s court who’s never seen pain. Madara’s body spells his suffering out quite clearly, every blemish pointing the finger back at Hashirama and his carelessness.
Madara interrupted his thoughts by sitting on top of him and sticking a finger in his mouth. He ducked his head to press dry kisses to Hashirama’s neck, opening his mouth only to let his teeth graze over the skin. That certainly brought him back to the present. The finger he tongues at and sucks until Madara adds a second one. He licked the sensitive skin where the two meet and Madara moved his other hand up to squeeze Hashirama’s chest. Madara repositioned himself to sit on his legs so he can keep his fingers in his mouth and move his mouth down to lap at Hashirama’s nipples. His dick, interested but not yet fully hard, rubbed against Madara’s chest as he alternated between teasing Hashirama’s nipples with his teeth and rasping at it with the flat of his tongue.
After Madara’s fingers were sufficiently covered in spit (which takes much longer than Hashirama thinks is probably strictly necessary), he slipped them out of Hashirama’s mouth and sat up on his knees. Hashirama’s hips twitched pathetically.
“Flip yourself over,” He said, and Hashirama obeyed. With his head between his arms and facing the wrong way, he won’t be able to see Madara, but if anything the darkness of his face pressed into the futon heightens the tactility of the experience.
Madara lifted his hips up off the bed and stuck both fingers in.
“You could have at least done one at a time,” Hashirama gasped. He could feel Madara’s gaze on his bent back as his fingers stretched him open.
“I didn’t need to.” Madara curled a finger inside. “You’re getting loose, Hashirama. To think this is what would come of a truce between us...”
Hashirama’s hips bucked, trying to force the fingers deeper, and Madara let him fuck himself on his fingers for a while as he watched. After a bit, he slipped the fingers out, snorting as Hashirama let out a whine. He could imagine the grin on Madara’s face as he began rubbing his dick slowly over Hashirama’s entrance. He could hear him spitting into his hand and adding that to the mix of liquids that was just barely making the friction tolerable. After what felt like minutes, Madara finally lined his cock up like he was going to push in, using his thumb to stretch the opening further. Hashirama could feel his own cock hard and heavy, moving as he pushed his hips upward seeking further contact.
“Please,” He said, muffled by the futon, “Madara...”
Without having to look he knew that Madara had on that twisted smile of his as he pushed in. Madara was right, he really had been loose and waiting, because with only minimal thrust he had taken the entire thing. Madara wasn’t unusually large, but he was big enough that usually it required a little more than spit and some half-hearted fingering.
They sat there for a second, Madara pressed up against his legs, filling him nicely. He squeezed around the heat inside him and Madara grunted, gripping his hips even harder. He began to move, punishingly slow, in and out of Hashirama, leaving only the tip each time he pulled out. Hashirama’s hips twitched and bucked, seeking more, but Madara kept a tight grip on him, moving at his own pace. Slowly but steadily, that pace increased, and his thrusts began to move them both.
As Madara’s pace quickened, Hashirama felt himself pushed further and further into the futon, Madara’s hands the only thing keeping him up. Madara hammered into him, the wet sound of their coupling mixing with breathy rhythmic noises he only then realized were coming from him. Madara pulled back and readjusted himself, Hashirama’s thighs closing in on him, trying to keep their bodies flush. Madara huffed a small laugh and grabbed the curve of his hips again.
This time, when he pushed back in, it was at a different angle, and it was clear by the way he was hammering into Hashirama’s prostate that he intended on making him finish first. Hashirama had no problem being on the receiving end, if anything he preferred it, but in a way this too was an extension of their battles, and at some point Madara had gotten it into his head that if he could make Hashirama come untouched before he himself had finished it was somehow a victory for him. This was something of an unfair metric since when it came to self control and denying himself fleeting pleasures Hashirama was much more out of practice than Madara. That wasn’t to say Madara didn’t have his vices (it was him who had made a show of undressing, after all), but more that Madara had learned how to wait. That’s what he was doing now, pressed deep into Hashirama, having come to a complete stop in the middle of his otherwise punishing pace. Hashirama felt himself clench and unclench around Madara’s length, his own cock throbbing and leaking onto the futon. He would have to wash it again. He let out a whimper, only partially at the prospect of having to get up after this and change his bedding.
“I’m sorry,” Madara said breathily against his back, his unruly hair tickling Hashirama’s shoulders. “I didn’t catch that. Is there something you wanted to say?”
Hashirama smiled despite himself. “I just thought about-” Madara started moving in him again, “Ah, about how you, hah, you tricked me into only getting my-” Another thrust in, barely missing his prostate, “Unh, my futon dirty.”
“So I did,” Madara said, sounding similarly out of breath. He rolled his hips, once again hitting Hashirama’s prostate and sending that spark of heat through him again. His cock was dragging on the bedding with each thrust and he pushed himself up on his elbows to try and relieve the friction. Madara let go of one of his hips and wrapped it around his chest, lifting them both up so that Hashirama was kneeling unsteadily.
Madara held him firm as he began rutting into him again, Hashirama gasping as he was filled even further. Madara had his nose pressed between his shoulders, and the arm around his chest keeping him up twisted to grasp at his nipple, rubbing until it was somehow even firmer than before. Hashirama’s cock was bouncing freely, throbbing and full, but he refused to touch it. This was his game too, after all.
Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy himself. Remembering his hands were now free, he covered Madara’s hand on his chest with his own, guiding him to pinch and pull at the buds of his nipples in time with his thrusts. He mimicked the motion on the other side, the wet sounds of Madara pumping into him and his own staccato moans a soundtrack to the feeling of pain and pleasure as Madara thumbed at his nipples and filled him up with every thrust. He was close.
Madara clearly was too, if the stuttering of his hips was any indicator. His thrusts became irregular, until one hit Hashirama’s prostate square on in time with a viscous tug at his nipple and he was right over the edge, moaning as his neglected cock twitched and his release spattered onto his chest and the bedding. Madara for his part continued to slam deep into him, no longer able to suppress his gasps of pleasure.
As Hashirama’s cock returned to softness, the hand on his chest retreated and Madara let him fall forwards, pushing his chest down into the wetness he had left.
“Just-” Madara grunted, “Nh... Just a bit more...”
“Go ahead,” Hashirama replied in a breath, his head fuzzy with his release and the rubbing of his still sensitive nipples against the rough cotton of the wet futon. Madara could have kept fucking him for hours if he wanted. Hashirama loved being the one he went to for this, that he trusted Hashirama with his most vulnerable self. Well, most vulnerable to potential attacks, at least.
Madara fucked him hard and fast into the futon, wrapping himself around Hashirama and rutting into him with an almost inexplicable urgency. At last, he shoved them both hard into the bedding, buried deep in Hashirama, and groaned as his seed filled Hashirama even further. He could feel it inside, even more when Madara pulled out and the cold air hit the wetness dripping slowly from his hole. Madara rolled over onto his futon, panting.
Hashirama lay there, not wanting to sit up and spill anything further onto his poor futon, as Madara slowly got up and grabbed a towel. He cleaned himself briskly before throwing it to Hashirama, who tried to wipe off at least some of the seed from his futon before giving up and simply using it to catch the rest of Madara’s cum as he finally lifted himself upright. He felt sore in some of his joints and knew it would probably be worse in the morning. He twisted his spine and shoulders, stretching a little. Something made a popping noise and Madara smirked at him.
“Getting old?”
“No older than you. Don’t think I haven’t noticed those grey spots growing in at your temples.”
Madara scoffed. “Well, maybe if I had no responsibilities like you I wouldn’t be going grey with stress, but somebody has to take care of your damnable village...”
“Our damnable village,” Hashirama corrected. He lifted himself up and grabbed his wrinkled fundoshi to tuck between his legs as he walked unsteadily to the bathroom.
Hashirama sat down in the tub and used a modified water style to fill the basin beside him with lukewarm water. This he poured over himself, washing off the sweat and seed stuck to him. Madara was probably filthy out there, but he was talking about a man who didn’t brush his hair more than twice a month. The only reason he didn’t have blood and dirt permanently encrusted under his fingernails is because he spent most of his time wearing gloves.
Madara was by no means a perfect partner. He was still the same easily annoyed, overly stubborn, endlessly competitive boy Hashirama had met all those years ago. He was always seeing the negative in things, looking for weak spots and poking them. Still, he balanced out Hashirama pretty well. And the truth of the matter was that no matter how much they could wind each other up, no matter how much he sometimes wished Madara would see the good in other people, Hashirama loved him.
He went to scoop out another cup of water from the basin and realized that he had done his entire routine by muscle memory while he was thinking. It was pleasantly warm in the bathroom, and he dreaded having to walk back into the cold bedroom.
He bravely made the journey back in his towel to find Madara laying on his futon with his eyes closed. Hashirama realized that with his futon out of commission (he wasn’t sleeping on his own drying ejaculate if he had any say in the matter), he would have every right to invade Madara’s space and force him to be his personal heater. Madara opened his left eye just in time to see a grinning Hashirama collapse beside him on the futon. Hashirama pushed his own futon away with his foot and tugged the heavy blanket over both of them. Madara gave him a flat look as Hashirama wrapped an arm around his stomach.
“This is your own doing, you know,” Hashirama said with a smile as he tucked his face into Madara’s shoulder. Madara sighed but Hashirama could see the quirk to his mouth that meant his annoyance was feigned. He stank of sweat and sex and smoke. Hashirama was definitely going to make him take a bath in the morning.
The moon shone through the window onto their entwined forms buried under the blanket. Madara was looking out towards it, his face like porcelain in the white light as Hashirama stared at him.
“I love you,” He whispered, and Madara turned to look back at him.
His eye flashed red, and Hashirama woke up.