2.5k word Hashimada fanfic taking place immediately after Izuna’s death (first part) and in the early phases of the development of the Hidden Leaf (second part). An exploration of Madara’s grief and how he and Hashirama have recovered differently.
warningfor canonical character death (Izuna), heavy angst associated with grieving a family member, dissociation (emotional numbness), self-harm, blood, gore (maybe not but just in case), and suicide mention.
The room was dark and Izuna was dead. These were the only things that Madara could perceive. Yes, the curtains were drawn between the shining light of the moon and this room’s coldness, just like the cloth over Izuna’s face shielded his big brother’s bright-eyed memory of him from the lifelessness that now lay just an arm’s reach away.
Some kind of strange relief stirred amidst Madara’s numbness. The night had been so long. Izuna was shuddering, always wincing and writhing weakly against the mat. It was true that some men suffered for weeks battling for their lives against wounds far unhealable. But Izuna’s fight, though it had taken only one afternoon and evening, was the longest Madara thought he would ever endure again. Of this, he could be sure; Izuna was his last brother. There was nothing, no one, left to lose. And even then, sitting alone, Madara could feel the tension in his shoulders begin to slowly unfurl. It was a blessing in some way, he thought. If there was a god in this insufferable warscape, it had taken pity on his very last brother. Madara’s first little brother.
He sat in silence for an hour, then two. Madara stared into the darkness and felt nothing at all but that quiet relief and this emotional deadness. It’s over, he thought. Izuna would not suffer any longer. He would not have to wake up to war again and again as they had since they were children. Now he could find rest after so many sleeplessness years living the life of the shinobi. It is finally over, Madara told himself, but still the body lay there in front of him… so how could it be?
He saw himself protecting each one of his brothers. He saw them die as children, die within his reach, die in his arms. Choking on blood, clutching at his clothes, rasping last words, urging Madara forward to vengeance, he saw them die. His gaze floated down to Izuna’s body. He had been here four times now, and he would not be here again. He had been given four chances, and he had squandered them all. Madara felt his failures crawling up his throat.
Again, he said to himself, it is over.
But in Madara’s memories, Izuna still lived. The next day, he knew he would wake and expect that Izuna should too. He would eat breakfast alone and be swallowed by the stillness of the empty seat across from him. Izuna would live in the space now left at Madara’s side. He would live in the quiet of the evenings they had once spent together. Izuna would come alive every time Madara’s loneliness crept up to claim him. It could not truly be over until Madara forgot him, and he knew well that that would never happen. And so Izuna would never be dead. He would never stop dying, not truly. While Madara put his room to rights, Izuna would be dying. And when Madara stood in the new silence of his house, Izuna would be dying. As he remembered every heartbreak he and Izuna had leaned on eachother while enduring, as he turned to share a thought with someone no longer there- yes, Madara would come back to this very moment. It would never be over.
It overcame him.
Madara felt the tears well. He felt the numbness he was so accustomed to being bathed in finally, finally recede. The pain he wasn’t sure he could feel any longer bloomed furiously inside him like a wild fire. He gritted his teeth, quieting himself habitually before remembering there was no longer anyone who existed for him to hide his emotions from. Madara threw his head back, beginning to grasp at his hair. In the darkness, he grappled with a thousand urges, every impulse seeming stronger than the last. Weep, weep until you are undone. Destroy everything you have made here. Kill the Senju so that Izuna is avenged, then kill yourself so that you may be free.
Madara set his head against the floor as if to pray. Clenching his fists, he pounded the hardwood weakly. Hearing his own sobs was another defeat. If shinobi did not cry, if they had no emotions, then truly, Madara was just a man. He had no right to cry when it was his brothers who had suffered the most and paid with their lives. Izuna was the one who had died for this futile war while Madara had been able only to sit and watch. It was enough to make him sick.
In grief, he tore his robe and pulled out his hair. He screamed into the empty room and felt the absence left when no one came to comfort him. The darkness of that room pushed down on him until he felt only despair. Madara cursed himself for his helplessness. He cursed the endless war forever between the clans. He cursed the world for knowing only callousness and sacrifice- none better than someone else’s. He cursed shinobi for making his brother into a weapon. For making him into a weapon.
And feeling utterly embittered, Madara removed the object of his resentment.
The pain in its sharpness made his breath catch, but it was nothing compared to the bereavement of that night. Madara’s breaths punctuated the silence. The drip of his blood on the hardwood, the smell of it like every battlefield, the taste of copper running past his lips, filled up his senses. Relief. Finally, relief, if only an inkling. Madara relished in his blindness. He held his eyes in his hands and savored in morbidity the absurd horror of it all.
Then once again, he sat in quiet and in numbness. He waited for the sun to rise, put off thinking of all the things he had still to do. In the morning, he thought. In the morning, I will decide.
…
Hashirama got up late on his day off. This wasn’t like him, but things had been especially busy lately. Being hokage was more responsibility than he had even imagined; he was thankful he had Madara and Tobirama to aid him in the affairs he couldn’t handle by himself. And of course, when he finally got some time to rest and relax, it was much-needed.
He got up and brushed his hair, hurriedly getting dressed as a smile began to set on his face. It looked beautiful outside; a walk might be nice. And to go with him… Hashirama smiled more. Perhaps Madara was free. He grabbed his jacket and raced down the hall, quickly getting some breakfast and glancing at the clock while he shoveled rice into his mouth. It was almost noon; Madara would be at home surely. He was a bit of a homebody since everyone began to settle into the village. When he wasn’t helping Hashirama or out on a mission, he was reading on his porch or napping. There wasn’t anything wrong with a little relaxation, of course, but certainly, Hashirama thought, they could do so together.
He finished eating before heading for the door. There, he was met promptly by Tobirama.
“Anija, where are you going?” he asked. “You are in quite the hurry. Is everything alright?”
Hashirama smiled goodnaturedly.
“Of course! I’m just off to see Madara.”
He was prepared for the contempt that showed then in Tobirama’s face. His brother sighed and rolled his eyes briefly,
“Wouldn’t your day off be better spent with your children or… I don’t know. You could catch up on the paperwork you’re always putting off.”
Hashirama pouted and sagged where he was standing.
“You know they’re grown now. They don’t have time for their old dad… Besides, it’s so nice out- it would be such a waste to stay inside sorting documents. And on my day off…”
His dejected look seemed to soften Tobirama somewhat. He kept at it, and his brother rubbed the back of his neck, glancing to one side uncomfortably.
“You’re not old, Anija,” he muttered, touching his shoulder. “Fine then. Go for a walk. Hopefully the fresh air will help your work ethic in the coming week.”
Hashirama tried not to look too happy.
“I’ll be back later,” he told his brother before slipping out the door and down the path.
As soon as he was out of eyeshot, he broke into a run and his wide smile returned. He couldn’t believe his luck; that trick didn’t usually work on Tobirama. He made his way excitedly down a narrow, hidden path through the woods. It went right from his house to Madara’s. Funny thing was, it hadn’t always been there. They’d simply walked through so many times that they’d worn a trail there themselves. Hashirama fancied it, lining the edge of their path with flowers as he made his way. He admired the view, and he knew Madara did as well. Beech, maple, cedar, pine, and many other trees grew there. Flowers of all kinds: wisteria, bluebells, buttercups. The bramble in the underbrush, the ivy overhead, Hashirama knew all of their names. There was nowhere he felt more at home than in the midst of nature.
Well, that wasn’t completely true.
“Madara!”
Madara woke with a start where he sat dozing on his back porch. The book he was reading, which had come to rest on his stomach when he’d fallen asleep, clunked at Hashirama’s feet. He looked angrily up at his friend who was clearly happy to see him.
“Are you trying to give me a heart attack?!” he barked.
Hashirama laughed cheerfully and sat next to him.
“Quit acting like an old man! Let’s go for a walk!”
Hashirama peered at the book Madara had been reading while his friend grumbled to himself. Madara got up and straightened his kimono. Hashirama looked up at him and smiled teasingly.
“It’s the middle of the day, and you’re still in your pajamas~” he giggled.
Madara gave him a scoff and went inside.
“And what wereyou doing before you came over here?”
Hashirama followed him inside with a snicker. They went to Madara’s room, and Hashirama waited while he changed his clothes. He could see Madara glance over every now and again.
“What is it, old friend?” he asked finally. Madara shrugged, pulling his turtleneck on.
“Don’t you have things you’d rather be doing on your day off?”
This was a curious question to Hashirama. He cocked his head to one side, making Madara smile to himself.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What would I rather do than spend time with my dearest friend?”
His voice was genuine. Madara’s smile made it to his eyes. He tossed his kimono at Hashirama with a laugh.
“What about Mito? Surely she would like your time.”
Hashirama giggled, bundling the kimono before throwing it back.
“She is away on a mission. Besides, talking to Mito is nice, but it isn’t the same as talking to you.”
“My, my. Does she know you feel that way?” Madara teased him. “Does she know that you watch me dress?”
Hashirama wheezed, laughing loudly. Madara joined him. They pushed playfully as they went back into the hall and outside. Hashirama beckoned him, taking his hand and pulling him down the path they’d made over many afternoons just like this one. Many impromptu breaks from the workday. Many late visits on sleepless nights.
About halfway to Hashirama’s house, they broke from the footpath, walking instead through the trees. They came to a spot they both liked to sit. The grass was soft there, and the trees leaned apart so the sun could bend and touch the earth. Madara remembered Hashirama drawing flowers out of the ground there many times. Hashirama sat in a sunbeam and patted the grass beside. Madara joined him, of course. He took a deep breath, smiling easily and closing his eyes.
“I am certain now,” he said.
“What’s that, Hashi?”
“There is nowhere I would rather be than right here.”
Hashirama opened his eyes and looked up into the canopy, all painted with vibrant greens and golds. He could feel the energy moving around him, within him. He meant what he said; this was what peace was to him. He was sure this was how it felt. Surrounded by life… Madara sitting beside him. Within arm’s reach just as he should be. There was no life, after all, that was more precious than Madara’s. This is what Hashirama thought as he watched the leaves dance on the wind, admiring the beauty of the village they had come together and created. It was enough to make his heart swell. He hoped Madara felt the same.
But when Hashirama looked at him, Madara was not gazing at the flora or the sky; Madara was watching him.
“Something is on your mind today,” Hashirama said, leaning closer to Madara.
He shook his head, looking up at the trees like he had seen Hashirama do before.
“No, I was just thinking. I agree with you.”
Hashirama’s expression softened with subtle endearment. He watched Madara’s dark eyes follow a leaf blowing on the breeze. Their shoulders touched, though he hadn’t meant to get any closer. But Madara didn’t seem to mind, so he stayed where he was.
They settled into silence, resting there against each other. Madara regarded the trees as they bent gently with the wind, and Hashirama watched how the sun made the rich brown in Madara’s eyes come out. He watched the shapes the shadows of the leaves made on Madara’s face. He thought of things to say but decided the quiet would suit them better. He wondered what Madara was thinking of, wished that he could know without asking. Hashirama watched the thin lines here and there, above and below Madara’s eyes glint in the oscillating sunlight. Scars, almost invisible even so close as they sat to each other. He wondered where they had come from. Madara had not had them before.
“Do you mean what you said?” Hashirama asked finally, voice barely audible above the breeze. “You are… happy here?”
A pause.
Madara took a moment, feeling his breath come and go in the calm, gazing at the flowers that had bloomed in the grass since they’d begun sitting there. He knew these; Hashirama had spoken of them. They were called Viola mandshurica, the northeastern violet. Slight and soft, easy to overlook, they delighted him in a way not many flowers did. Perhaps it was because Hashirama had grown them; he didn’t know.
“It is true that I am unhappy at times,” Madara murmured. “But I feel fortunate still that we made it here. This was your dream and mine. I find joy in it… that I am able still to sit next to you and talk after everything we’ve endured. I am happy that our suffering has not been in vain.”
With this, he looked to Hashirama, hoping to find that this answer pleased him. Hashirama gazed back at him intently, eyes like amber in the sun. He was truly the beauty in this landscape, Madara thought. His friend then nodded, and Madara could see that he understood.
“Thank you for being here with me, Madara. Without you, I would be lost.”
I love an Izuna lives au where Hashirama reasons that since Izuna is his best friend’s little brother and his own little brother’s “rival”, that makes him friend shape. So he’s just overly casual with him and Izuna detests it. So every interaction is like-
and because Hashirama is so use to Madara’s outbursts and Tobirama’s sharp tongue, he’s just like “this is what friendship is”.
Thank you all for your contributions! It was such a joy to see all your art and read your Fanfics ❤️ The event will return next year at the same time. Until then I’ve planed a little birthday special for our cute little murder beans. That means, if you create anything for Izuna’s and/or Tobirama’s birthday, you can tag me. Same rules apply as for the event, and prompt (if you wanna call it that) is of course their birthday. Beyond that you’re free to do whatever you like.
Late contributions are always welcome! I’ll add them to this list and of course reblog your post. If you post your work on ao3, you can add it to the collection.
A little self advertising: check out @polyam-naruto, if you’re interested in any polyamorous relationship in Naruto. One prompt per month and a whole week in March.
