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Madara keeps coughing out daisies and pushes Hashirama’s hands away. “I, love, you,” he chokes out.
Hashirama’s body shakes and heaves from the force of his sobs, the tears streaming from his cheeks to form two rivers on his face. His hands grow an even brighter green from where they’re placed on Madara’s chest. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”
Hashirama wakes up gasping.
“What’s wrong?” comes a familiar voice.
Madara.
Confusion seizes him as he takes in Madara’s figure standing over him, his eyes filled with concern and his hands gripping Hashirama’s chest.
How are you here? You’ve been dead for a year now—
“Are you alright?” Madara sounds more worried now. His eyes are so tender; Hashirama almost can’t bear to meet his gaze. Madara lifts a hand and places it on Hashirama’s forehead. “Did I get you sick?”
Hashirama clears his throat. “A nightmare,” he rasps, gently pushing off Madara’s hands. “I think I’ll make myself a cup of tea.”
“Let me,” Madara orders.
Hashirama gives him a tremulous smile.
Sitting together in the kitchen, Hashirama blows on his teacup, watching the steam rise into the air. A quick glance at the pile of documents stacked on the table shows that the village has just been founded.
Somehow, I’ve been transported into the past. Or an alternate reality.
Another set of documents indicate that the townspeople had held a festival celebrating the village’s existence a week ago.
That means we’re approaching the date your Hanahaki manifested…
“You haven’t had a nightmare for a while now,” Madara says quietly.
“I had a dream that you died because of me,” Hashirama admits.
My old reality. I’ll do anything to prevent that from happening again.
Madara raises an eyebrow. “We were fighting?”
Hashirama hesitates. “Not quite. But we didn’t see eye to eye.”
Madara snorts. “If you say so.” Then, he lets out a cough, which rapidly becomes a coughing fit. He thumps his chest. “Gods, I don’t know what overcame me.”
Hashirama comes closer. “Let me take a look,” he urges.
With a nod from Madara, Hashirama comes closer and gently presses his fingers on the lymph nodes in Madara’s neck. He can’t stop the dread that coils in his stomach, making him tense up; he’s sure his fingers are cold and clammy.
“Are you alright?” Madara asks. “Your chakra is spiking erratically.”
“I can’t stop thinking about the nightmare,” Hashirama lies.
Madara lets out a soft sigh. “It must have been an especially bad one then.”
Hashirama gives a slight nod.
Madara coughs again, and this time, he can’t seem to stop coughing. Finally, as he finishes retching, a petal flutters into Hashirama’s hand. It’s the same white, slender petal that haunts Hashirama’s every waking moment.
Hashirama’s heart plummets. As his eyes meet Madara’s eyes, he gathers all of his chakra reserves to the forefront of his mind.
Madara’s eyes turn from black to red. Hashirama forgets what he was doing.
What just happened? I was…
Hashirama blinks, wondering why Madara is staring at him like that.
I was checking your lymph nodes.
“Are you alright?” Hashirama asks.
His mind whispers, wrong wrong wrongwrongwrong—
Madara waves his hand dismissively. “Why wouldn’t I be? It was just a bad cough. I’m sure I’ll be back to normal next week.”
WRONG WRONG WRONGWRONGWRONGWRONG—
With the gathered chakra reserves, Hashirama reaches out in his mind and pushes.
He remembers everything. Hashirama flattens down the panic that wants to escape. The crushing misery is also annihilated, pulverized under the weight of his will. If he messes up now, Madara will notice and inevitably strengthen his genjutsu.
Hashirama smiles. “I’ll make you a nice cup of shogayu. How does that sound?”
Madara hesitates before giving a slight nod. “I’d like that.”
What am I going to do? Hashirama thinks, willing himself not to despair.
That night in bed, Hashirama stares at the ceiling, listening to Madara’s steady inhales and exhales.
I have to make him believe that I love him. But how?
He doesn’t sleep that night. Instead, he plans.
It starts with gifts at work. They include the nicest hair brushes, elegant tea sets, and ornate decorations by Uchiha artisans. Madara accepts them with a strangely polite demeanor, enough to make Hashirama’s heart sink. It’s very hard for Hashirama to maintain direct eye contact with Madara and smile as he spots flower petals falling out of his mouth from the corner of his eye.
He then tries taking Madara on impromptu dates that lead nowhere. Each time Madara seems to close off a bit more, giving him less and less to work with.
Anything I do only seems to makes it worse.
Perhaps the worst punishment is the nights they spend together. Each night, Hashirama has to listen to Madara cough out flower petals, his voice growing raspy and hoarse. Each night, Madara’s condition grows worse—the coughing fits grow longer, and there are more and more petals. He hates pretending that he doesn’t notice. He practices chakra control like he hasn’t for many years now, holding his inner feelings tighter and tighter to his chest.
For if Madara were to find out that he’s broken the genjutsu…
The bags under Hashirama’s eyes grow into two large shadows that follow him. The Hokage’s clothes grow baggier and baggier. His face grows thinner. His skin loses some of its natural flush.
It’s eating away at him, and Madara finally comes to him, demanding to know what’s wrong with him. He needs something believable, so he tells Madara that Tobirama and the Senju elder’s demands have gotten to the point that they’re forcing him to marry Uzumaki Mito. However, he hastily adds that he’s trying his hardest to renegotiate the betrothal contract.
He pretends not to see the cascade of flower petals that fall from Madara’s lips.
After two years, Hashirama reaches his breaking point. When he sees a fully formed Nippon daisy, complete with its stem and leaves, Hashirama decides that enough is enough.
I watched you die in my arms once before. I won’t let it happen again.
Anything is better than reliving that.
That night, after they’ve cleaned up from dinner, Hashirama clears his throat. “I have something to tell you,” he says.
Madara raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
Hashirama gets on his knees then performs dogeza. “Please forgive me, Madara. I know you have had Hanahaki disease for the past two years. I have known from the very start. I am sorry that I cannot make you believe that I love you. Please, tell me what to do instead.”
Madara’s breathes grow shallow and hurried, and his voice is panicked as he exclaims, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
Hashirama meets Madara’s gaze, and his eyes, ever so predictably, whirl from black to red.
Sadness spreads through Hashirama as he breaks it easily, and he gives Madara a melancholy smile. “That won’t work on me again. That hasn’t worked on me since my first life.”
Madara breathes heavily, his hands gripping the counter. “You—”
Hashirama comes closer, reaching out so gently and taking Madara’s hand into his own. “May I explain my story? I’m sorry I’ve lied to you all this time.”
Madara gives a shaky nod, and he coughs, a daisy falling from his lips.
Hashirama watches it land in his palm, and he twirls it around as he begins, “This is my second life with you. In my first life, you developed Hanahaki disease. You successfully put me in a genjutsu the first time, and you fooled me and all of Konoha that you didn’t have Hanahaki disease until the day you died.”
Madara stares at him, shock and a tinge of fear in his eyes.
Hashirama’s smile grows even more melancholy. “The day that your Hanahaki manifested in this lifetime, you asked me about my nightmare. I told you that ‘I had a dream that you died because of me.’ Because we didn’t see eye to eye.”
Hashirama feels his gaze grow faraway as he remembers that fateful day. “I watched you die violently in my arms,” he whispers. “You told me you loved me. How could you put me through that if you loved me?”
You’ve done this to me twice now.
“Because the alternative would have been much, much worse,” Madara says, his voice clear and filled with conviction. “I did it because I loved you. If I hadn’t, you would have lost faith in the village. I would have jeopardized the future of the village, and I couldn’t bear to tear away the one good thing left in your life.”
Hashirama shakes his head. “I would choose you over the village any day,” he says with certainty.
Madara snorts, then breaks into a coughing fit. Another daisy escapes from his mouth. Wiping his mouth, Madara says dully, “And that’s where you’re still a fool. Two lifetimes, it seems, and you haven’t changed a bit.” He leans in. “Let me tell you a secret: I gave up on the village long ago. I only remained here for your sake. Because I love you. So I think you’d better let me cast the genjutsu over you again.”
Hashirama slumps back in his chair, Madara’s hand falling from his grip. “I can’t live out that future again,” he says miserably. “Anything would be better than that.”
Madara sneers, and the cruelty that Hashirama hasn’t seen since their battle-years creeps back in. “I suppose you can heal me when I have my bouts. At least I won’t have to suffer miserably until I die.”
Tears gather in Hashirama’s eyes. “Why is it impossible for you to believe that I love you? I tried everything I could to prove it to you.”
Shaking his head, Madara’s lips twist bitterly. “And that’s enough for me to see that you haven’t changed a bit in either lifetime. Do I really have to spell it out for you? Are you that simple?”
The tears overflow and begin trickling down Hashirama’s cheeks.
Madara sighs. “I gave up on the village because Tobirama killed Izuna,” he says, his voice monotone. “And then you became Hokage. Tobirama will be the Hokage after you. From the time of the village’s founding, the Uchiha will never be equal to the Senju because of those three facts.”
Hashirama falters. “I…”
Madara shakes his head again. “I thought about leaving the village, you know. But I never did. Because I loved you too much to leave. I couldn’t bear to think about the look on your face if I’d left for good. Now that you know, can’t you just let me die a peaceful death? It’s the least you can do for me.”
Hashirama is paralyzed to the spot.
With a contemplative look, Madara stands up, then walks away to their shared bed.
When Hashirama manages to gather his thoughts that night, all he can think is, I won’t let you die in my arms again. No matter what it takes.
A day later, Hashirama stands in Tobirama’s laboratory, ever the uninvited guest.
“I need your help,” he says plainly.
Tobirama doesn’t turn around from where he’s tinkering on a piece of equipment. “I told you not to disturb me here.”
“It’s about Madara,” Hashirama says.
Tobirama places his wrench down. “What about him?”
Hashirama swallows. “Madara has Hanahaki disease. He’s cast a genjutsu over the village for two years now, and I’ve recently broken it,” he lies.
This catches Tobirama off-kilter. “I see,” he manages to make out, his voice quieter than usual. There's a momentary hesitation before his eyes meet Hashirama’s.
Betrayal blooms quick and sharp in Hashirama’s chest. Violent, all-consuming rage envelops him.
You knew.
“You knew,” Hashirama accuses, stepping forward until his face is practically in Tobirama’s face. He jabs his finger into Tobirama’s chest. “You knew all this time, and you didn’t tell me.”
Traitor.
“I’ve only known for the past half year,” Tobirama admits. “I broke the genjutsu last fall and confronted him about it. I offered to perform the surgery. He refused. So, I offered to help him instead. Respecting his wishes is the least I could do after I killed Izuna.”
Hashirama feels his expression grow eerily empty as fury simmers in his chest. He stares intensely at Tobirama, and he knows there’s a vast nothingness behind his eyes. “You should have told me. Prioritizing Uchiha Madara over your own brother now, is it?”
Tobirama steadily holds his gaze. “I chose to prioritize the village,” he says, undeterred. “I believed that if you found out, you would do something drastic. You would endanger the village. Even if that didn’t come to pass, you would never be the same after finding out.” Case in point, he doesn’t say.
A wide smile stretches across Hashirama’s face; Hashirama knows it highlights the emptiness in his eyes. “This is my second life,” he says affably. “In my first life, I watched Madara violently die in my arms from Hanahaki. I was sent to this lifetime a year after he died.”
He watches Tobirama swallow. Hashirama places a gentle hand on Tobirama’s shoulder and leans in until his mouth is at Tobirama’s ear. “Now I know that you worked with Madara in both lifetimes. Do you know how much suffering you have caused me?” He leans back and lets the smile evaporate from his face. “So I would perform the surgery tonight on Madara, if I were you.”
Tobirama swallows. “Yes, Hashirama,” he whispers. “It will be done.”
Hashirama claps his hands together and gives a cheery smile. “Wonderful. I’ll help you with transporting him to your laboratory.”
Tobirama hesitates before finally blurting out, “Madara will despise you. He’ll leave the village as soon as he wakes up from the surgery.”
“So be it.”
“He’ll vow to kill you.”
Hashirama’s smile widens. “I’d like to see him try.”
Seemingly struck mute, Tobirama shakes his head.
That night, Hashirama catches Madara at the front door of their house, his hands clutching two large bags.
You were going to leave the village.
“I see you’re trying to leave me,” Hashirama says with a pout.
Madara sighs. “You don’t leave me with any other choice,” he mutters, his gaze focused on the bags as he puts them down.
Neither do you.
Madara never sees it coming when Hashirama throws two specially formulated sleeping pods at him, courtesy of Tobirama’s ingenious skills.
As he carries an unconscious Madara, Hashirama likes to think he’s a gentleman for also carrying Madara’s bags to Tobirama’s laboratory.
That night, Hashirama assists Tobirama as he performs the surgery on an unconscious Madara. It’s a delicate affair—each petal, stem, and leaf has to be carefully extracted using forceps without damaging tissue. The roots are even harder to remove, as they must be precisely incinerated with direct strands of chakra.
After six hours, the operation is complete. The operating table is littered with petals, stems, and leaves. Tobirama stitches Madara’s chest back together, and Hashirama heals the incision until Madara’s chest is flawless. Then, they move him upstairs to the living room and sit him down in the chair.
Tobirama turns to Hashirama. “I’ll wake him now.”
Hashirama nods.
With a flash of his chakra, Madara sputters awake, his hands instantly coming to inspect his chest. He looks around wildly before his gaze settles on Hashirama.
There’s a burning hatred in his eyes, stronger than the hatred he had for Tobirama when Tobirama struck Izuna on the battlefield.
Hashirama shivers.
“You,” Madara spits, his hands curling into fists.
“I couldn’t let you die again,” Hashirama says softly. “So I did the only thing that would guarantee that as an outcome.”
“I can’t believe I ever loved you,” he whispers, fury filling his voice. Madara turns his vengeful gaze to Tobirama, and his lip curls into a sneer. “And I was a fool to ever trust you.”
Hashirama’s heart falls, but he steels himself for the fallout. “I did what I had to do.”
Madara picks up his bags, then shoots Hashirama a glare of absolute wrath. “The next time I will see you, it will be when I drive my blade through your chest.”
Hashirama nods. “So be it.”
Madara doesn’t look back as he exits Tobirama’s house.
—
A decade passes. True to his word, Madara attacks the village over and over, usually once every two years. Each time, their fight grows more ferocious, destroying more and more of the surrounding forest around Konoha. After their latest fight, Hashirama spends three hours regrowing the forest.
Hashirama finds that his life in the village is somewhat similar to the era in his first life after Madara died. Without Madara, everything feels emptier. There’s less purpose to his steps, less cheer in his demeanor. He tries to enjoy the village, as it’s what Madara and Tobirama wanted him to do, but he finds it a useless endeavor. His wife Mito and their four children are but a mere afterthought to him.
It isn’t the same without Madara.
Seven years after Madara initially left the village, the new Hokage elections occurred. To no one’s surprise, Tobirama was elected Hokage.
Three years later, Hashirama finds that he’s slipped into a quasi-retirement, content to leave the village’s maintenance and growth to Tobirama and his other trusted advisors. He only provides advice when asked. Most of the time, he sits in his house and gardens, preferring to leave all the childrearing to Mito. He sips his tea and waits for Madara’s next attack. He thinks about Madara all the time and wonders if this was a better outcome than his first life.
Either I kill you, or you kill me. Just like the old days.
—
On a cool autumn night, the full moon shining overhead, Tobirama comes to Hashirama’s study.
“I felt his chakra earlier.” Tobirama says evenly. “He’ll be here within the hour.”
Hashirama nods, then dons his battle armor.
At the Valley of the End, Hashirama stares at the giant Kyuubi, outlined by Madara’s characteristic glowing blue Susanoo. In the mouth of the beast lies Madara, who radiates killer intent.
Hashirama gives a half smile, then claps his hands together and enters Sage mode.
And so, they fight, the thousand fists of Hashirama’s Kan’on beating against the innumerable projectiles fired from Madara’s Susanoo. It’s relentless and messy, urgent, desperate. Even when Hashirama manages to strike decisively enough to peel back the Susanoo lining the Kyuubi, Madara doesn’t falter. Even when Hashirama puts the Kyuubi to sleep, Madara still refuses to turn away.
Hashirama releases the Kan’on and approaches Madara, whose Sharingan still swirls.
Madara never sees it coming. After Madara strikes his wood clone, Hashirama thrusts his katana forward, piercing Madara through the chest. Madara’s arms go slack, and the gunbai clatters from his hand. Hashirama withdraws the blade and throws it aside.
“I suppose my dream was never possible,” Hashirama murmurs into Madara’s ear as the man wheezes. He wishes he could see the expression on Madara’s face.
As Madara’s breaths grow more erratic, Hashirama gently lays Madara down on the ground. The Sharingan fades, and black eyes swivel to Hashirama. Half his face is covered in blood.
Getting on his knees, Hashirama reaches forward and carefully tucks a lock of hair behind Madara’s ear, uncaring of how the blood smudges on his fingers.
“You know, I never stopped loving you,” Hashirama says tenderly. “I really should have killed myself when you asked me to, I think.”
Madara manages a wheezing laugh.
Hashirama smiles.
Madara’s chest stops moving. He gazes listlessly at the stars. Hashirama watches as the blood steadily trickles down his armor. Reaching out, Hashirama closes Madara’s eyes.
Hashirama grabs his fallen katana, grips it tightly, then plunges the blade through his own chest.