When Madara woke up, there was no blood in his mouth. No iron, no smoke. No sense of degeneration, of the creeping sick of death. Instead, there was a heaviness. Body restored. Hands strong, curling together. Alive. But truly alive, alive in ways that re-animation hadn’t brought. There was his heart, beating strong. Fast. Breath escaping between a real, flesh forged mouth.
But more shocking, was that he was at the Uchiha compound. A servant announcing his presence at the shouji, stepping in soon after. Head bowed, shoulders tense. Dark eyes looking at him, tired. Afraid. “I am here to say that dinner's nearly ready, Madara-sama.”
He woke up to a battlefield.
To Uchiha and Senju soldiers all around him and his brother Izuna, blood dribbling from his mouth. Legs moving before he could truly compute. Yelling, moving away from Hashirama, staring at his brother. Putting a comforting hand on his shoulder, his arm. There was a hate in those black eyes, a hate he could sense, as he stared at Tobirama. Hashirama.
The man watching, bronze hand extended. Asking for an end. A truce.
Their eyes locking. Lingering, just thinking for a split-second if he said Yes. If he hadn't listened to Izuna then. If he had not turned away. Because those eyes, dark, more mature as the years passed, almost convinced him. But it was too late for that. So he grabbed a smoke bomb and made his move, blood on his hands as soon as he made it home.
He should have expected it.
Seeing him, then. In a body that was familiar, but far too young. Too inexperienced. Witnessing a small, depressed kid on the side of a calm river, hair in an uneven bowl cut. Bruise on his cheek, sniffling. An aura of despair. Mentioning how his brother died. Knowing, understanding that feeling all too well.
Wishing in that moment, that skipping rocks was all they had exchanged.
Maybe they should have acted on it.
After Konoha was well established, walking around town. Casting lingering glances, bare hands sometimes brushing. Watching as a mouth always curled into a pretty smile. Sometime or another. Long brown hair always catching in the breeze. A warmth to those eyes. Dark. Sometimes heating. Shocked, as strong fingers reached out to trace his cheeks. His mouth. Urging him closer. But pulling away, every time.
He falls into himself just as their mouths are a breath away. Hot breath, warm against his lips. A door opening and Tobirama just staring. Red eyes narrowed. A warning, cast his way. But locking onto Hashirama instead, as if he wasn’t there. Which, he really wasn’t. “Anija, I have some news for you. Urgent. We need to discuss this now.”
Hashirama cast a glance at him. Apologetic, angry. “Madara, you’re more then welcome to stay. Tobirama is being ridiculous —”
“No,” he ground out. He didn’t understand why he himself, was so angry. It was in the past. Everything was. “I’ll leave.”
Mito was beautiful.
And somehow, he had been brought to the first time he saw her. Hair, bright red. Thick. The color of a blood moon, one he knew all too well. Her face was pale, possibly made up. Rouge on her lips, eyes, a natural smoke. A dusk. Wearing her clan’s crest, hands dainty and soft behind a vibrant kimono.
She glanced at Hashirama first, eyes widening just a bit. And he didn’t bother to look at Hashirama’s face, liking the mystery of not knowing. Even if he knew how it’d turn out.
A low, rough voice whispered: “She’s beautiful, isn’t she Anija?”
Eyes glanced at him and his jaw tightened. Glaring at her, watching her flinch. Never too fond of women, even now.
A benevolent voice answered. Yes, yes she is.
It was strange, waking in a place he didn’t know.
Arms, tanned, muscular, around him. Pulling him to a broad chest. A smell of pine, of earth. Lips kissing at his neck, heart beginning to race. Body beginning to heat. Turning around to Hashirama and dirt brown eyes. Warm, but dark. A darkness he could tell, that he had acted on. Sometime or another. Mouth’s meeting, as if it were a dance. The way he melted in his hold, natural. Something this body knew, one he allowed. Only once.
“Can I —”
“Yes,” he breathed. Voice smoky, rasped.
Brown eyes were on his, surprised. Studying him ever so slightly, before nodding. Caging him, keeping him, taking him from above. Surprised, that it was his hands that grasped a broad back, that trembled behind a neck. Both legs raised, breath short as Hashirama left, to enter him again and again and again.
Not fighting it, not him, not this. Not this time.
As he woke up, he was on a cliff.
Overlooking trees, catching a leaf. One with a hole, right in the middle.
“I'm considering naming you to be our leader, Hokage." I want it to be you….the one who leads the village.
A bitterness, once again, rooted. Spiraling through the dirt of his heart, the pain of his soul, coming back tenfold. Especially as Tobirama showed up, eyes narrowed, suspicion in his gaze. Wholly justified. Right about him, like he tended to be. Excusing himself before too much was said.
A brother for a brother. Hashirama staring at him, like he knew him. And at the same time, not at all.
He never forgot the feeling, implanting Izuna’s eyes into where his used to be.
An access to sight, to a power he had never accomplished. But a remnant of a soul, a precious one, with him. Forever, as long as necessary. It was wonderful, having some part of someone inside of him. There to stay. There, to taste. To experience. To truly, know.
Now that he was young again, maybe he could say something else. Something different. Something other then I don’t like when people are behind me. But the words, spilled. Stayed, lasting for the rest of his life. And now, he would never take them back.
Power.
True power. That is what he desired most of all. And he got that, he understood his purpose as he stared at the tablet. Dissecting words, making sure to know them. To read them and take special care. Something curling in him. Implementing itself. Roots, born to a trunk. A tree, sturdy in its might.
He made his decision then. And it was simple, easy. For there was nothing there for him, not anymore. His clan didn’t trust him. And he could understand— for they, the fools, didn’t understand. They would never. The lengths he would go to protect them, their legacy. Knowing that compromise cost complacency. That it cost death. It cost pain. And anything to diminish that in the future, would be his end goal. It would be true benevolence.
And as he stood there, reliving that. That feeling. He knew, he would never have it any other way.
There was nothing like that first thrill.
Atop the Kyūbi, a smile stretched upon his face. Heart racing, body thrumming. Knowing that he would be stabbed. That Hashirama was aiming to kill. But not caring. Especially, knowing as he ended up. Knowing where he ended.
Remnants didn’t need more then they required.
And as he lay on that battlefield, staring up at Hashirama, he knew there was nothing he would change, nothing he would of done different.
Something tried to change that.
Blinking awake, one last time, to a different world. One with trains. With suits and suitcases and shoes, and hair braided behind his back. But still long. Hashirama, in sight. In front of him, looking around for someone. Seemingly alone. Handsome, with broad shoulders. Eyebrows furrowed.
Turning and walking away, not wanting to glance back.
For there was no need.
fin