It is impossible to imagine nothing, unless you are Madara Uchiha. He has not had the time or pleasure to imagine how he will die, but he's sure if he hadn't been as busy as he'd been, he would've come up with no less than a billion scenarios.
What he has imagined is this:
He breathes his last upon a battle field of fire and ruin, which he himself has wrought. He dies. There is no peace—not yet. He imagines no one mourns him; he is wrong, of course. He is mourned by ghosts of past and friends he has forsaken. Friends like Hashirama, whose heart is so big and so full of space. It's no wonder he remained good to the very end.
In spite of the prominent expectations, Madara Uchiha leaves the realm of men not as a man despised by all, but as a remembrance. He hopes desperately that he at least touched someone's heart, if not with his stubbornness then with his choices.
Death is a mercy.
It is cruel. Sometimes it is just, and although he overcame it twice, Madara has found himself lacking where he is required to befriend Him. Perhaps it is because of his refusal to submit. Perhaps that is merely the way of passage.
Death does not greet him like an old friend, and neither does He sneer at him as He should, as the beings of absolute fate have tended to look down on Madara more often than he can count. His stubbornness is a result of Their mistreatment of him, and he will remember until his soul scatters across the ether. It is a blatant "fuck you" to the universe which has refused, again and again, to kneel at his feet. (If Madara were any less exhausted of pettiness and the nuances of it, he'd hold up his middle finger as the Shinigami escorts him to the After)
Maybe in another life, he thinks and then pauses. For one reason, Madara does not wish to live another life. In fact, if the Shinigami is leading him to his embodiment, he will kill himself the moment he gains awareness in this next world.
For another reason, Madara has spotted a figure in the distance, wide and familiar in the same complex way that it had been when he'd been alive. The figure is now turning. If it were possible, he would have lost a precious heartbeat.
...Hashirama is here. Hashirama is here and he is familiar to Madara. In the most luminous way, he brightens upon setting his sights upon Madara.
That's his cue then; Madara goes to him, biting his tremulous lip to stave off the traitorous tears that have been balancing upon his eyelids until now by sheer force of will. The journey is long and slow, and by the time they are standing before one another, Madara is certain he has spent an eternity walking to him.
Hashirama does not grab him, and neither does Madara, though both their fists are clenched by their sides. The urge to look away is there like usual, but Madara is a man now hardened and exhausted by war and countless betrayals, and he holds his chin high and hopes to all the dastardly gods that it does not tremble.
"...Madara," says Hashirama, cautious and quiet, as though—even in Death—he is afraid to scare him away. Madara would curse himself if he cared. Here in this place that is slowly transmogrifying into something other than emptiness—there is no space for lies between them. Madara tiers of them; he tiers of the fear that is constantly plaguing them. He wishes to rest, he realises. He thinks that maybe just this once, he is allowed to rest. Abruptly, he sags forward into Hashirama's space, laying his head gently against his barrel of a chest.
Hashirama remains immobile for an infuriatingly long time, and Madara bristles. Hold me, you mad sod, he pleads. The words never get a voice, but Hashirama proves—once again—the complexities of the connection that they share. He puts his arms around Madara delicately, softly, slowly, and holds him there. It is not as tense as it should be; Madara quietly rejoices the absence of circulatory systems that comes with dying.
There are no words lovely enough to describe this feeling, no emotions worthy enough to explain the solidity upon which Madara finds himself. It feels as though they are the only souls in the ether, the only ones who deserve this small amenity. And gods know Hashirama deserves it. To a point, Madara has enough leniency left in him to admit that he too has suffered too much.
He looks up and finds The River over Hashirama's shoulder. As his life flashes before his eyes once more, he wonders if this is something that happens to all who die or if his is a special case. Logic suggests that yes, this ghost-like state of remembrance is a mandatory occurance after death. His heart denies it. His mind sues him for wanting to view himself and Hashirama as anything other than allowed to transcend rules and formulae.
He is crying, he realises, but before he can begin to panic, Hashirama leads him beneath a tree at the riverbank, where they sit side by side. Minutes go by—or not, since Madara is pretty sure that time as a concept does not exist in this place. The day is bright, the water streaming before them is brighter still, but it is all an illusion. A visual memory of a valueless treasure, long lost to the wind now. One that he battered so carelessly, so traitorously. He wonders if these are Deaths games or if he truly cemented this display of beauty into his memory so long ago. If he did, he must be mad. No wonder he ended up the way he did.
"You cheated," Hashirama says apropos of nothing.
Madara blinks to bring himself from his thoughts. He hums questioningly, watching as the water ripples alluringly. Here on the bank, there are no disturbances. No wind through his hair, no crickets and rodents in the trees, no leaves whooshing aimlessly. Madara hasn't heard a single bird sing through the silence. Just them and the shine of the river. Maybe he would love to feel it once more—the enormity of being alive. Maybe he would not. Terrible time to be having an internal conflict.
"You cheated on every game. When we skipped rocks right here." Hashirama gives him a meaningful look.
Indignant, Madara draws back, though he can't help the smirk playing at his lips. "I did not," he chuffs. "It's not my fault a capybara could throw better than you at the time. Admit it Senju, I've always been better than you."
Hashirama's shoulders tremble with laughter. He shuts his eyes, and Madara watches him serenely. Hashirama doesn't reply, because of course he doesn't, the petty bastard. Still, Madara feels a satisfaction settle deep in his bones, chasing the restlessness from him until he is left leaning against the tree in relief. With the sun high in the sky, a vague sort of dread is prompted within the broken, overly-careful parts of him, the kind that he accepts long before even his mind registers it. Subconsciously, he folds his legs upward to escape the heat of the sun. As though coincidentally, a leaf sways to the ground by his toes, and he remembers suddenly that he is underneath the shade. The sun will never be able to touch him.
He will never burn again, he recalls, smiling softly as he curls tighter to keep in his perverse excitement. Very carefully, he draws courage from this peculiar realisation and calls, "Hashirama."
Hashirama turns to give him his full attention. Madara's smile widens. He asks slowly, "Who do you think you would be, if we hadn't—had we been born into a different world?"
Hashirama turns his gaze to the sky. He murmurs, "I don't know how to imagine anything other than this world." He looks momentarily startled before he continues, "I think... I would've loved to be normal—like a civilian." He looks at Madara for a long time, contemplating. Madara holds his silence and lets him think.
Finally, Hashirama smiles. Not his beaming, million-wart grin but a gentler, softer kind. His eyes crinkle slightly, and Madara is damned with the knowledge that the fool has a nevus, right there in the white of his right eye. It's fascinating to think that he is only now seeing it, when he has looked into those eyes so many times that it has become a thing of nature. A need.
"I think—if you were with me—I would've liked to build a house by this river. And maybe a garden?" Hums Hashirama. His eyes continue to gleam softly.
Madara is the first to look away. He swallows thickly, overcome with emotion, and agrees, "That would be nice." And the garden.
Of course they would have had a garden. There would have been so many flowers and trees and vegetables, because Madara is through with denying that he is not a hopeless, corny romantic because he is, and he himself would've planted peonies for them both and a million marigolds for Hashirama, because Hashirama is everything and the ground he walks upon deserves to be worshiped if not adored. There would have also been violets for Izuna, because he was and will always be the fiercest of the fierce. And maybe—just maybe, some for Tobirama.
"I would have liked that," Madara murmurs. Instead of chasing it away, he allows the giddiness to wash over him. He breathes, and he is okay. The world does not shake or tilt sideways. He does not melt into a puddle of evil. Madara sits still and allows himself to feel happy.
Though he does not glance at him, he feels the shift when it happens in Hashirama. Hashirama widens his stance on the ground, sits instead with his arms planted on the ground behind himself. Fearlessly, Madara scoots closer to him and rests his head upon that steady shoulder. He thinks that like this, there is nothing bigger than them. This small moment, with the sun over their tree and the unbearable heat away from him, there is nothing to fear.
At long last, here is peace.
Madara is home.