Chapter Text
The world is white.
Startlingly white. Utterly blank. Empty.
Devoid.
A void.
It is nothing until it is something.
It filters in darkly, at first. Shades of blacks and browns. Slowly, Madara becomes aware.
It wasn’t the world that was dark, but the sky instead. A deep night.
Stars shine, the moon glows, and below, a compound.
Unfamiliar, Madara’s obsidian gaze shifts to and fro, searching for something recognizable.
Buildings stand tall. Foreign and new. Recently constructed, it appears, with the clean panels and pristine markings.
“Where are we?” Hashirama murmurs from his right, and the swath of relief is instantaneous.
He hadn’t realized how anxious he was until it was soothed. A brief fear of separation eased by one man. It will never not be shocking, the hold Hashirama has over him, yet it should be quite obvious by now.
They wedded, after all.
Him. Uchiha Madara. Tamed.
Pushing the reprieve from his mind, his eyes continue to survey at an inhuman speed.
He feels it the same moment his eyes catch an eerie, startling sight.
An uchiwa fan, crumbling from a hole in the middle, painted large and wide across the concrete fence.
And killing intent, subtle to the average shinobi, but they were well experienced. It cascades down his spine like water, his instincts rising to the surface.
Two spots on opposite sides.
His eyes trail back to that broken, painted uchiwa and something in his stomach sinks.
He knows where this is. Of course he does. How could he not? They were speaking of it only moments ago before that god-forsaken turtle heard them and planted them here.
It has to be that.
“Hashirama,” he snaps, a newfound adrenaline pumping through his veins. This won’t happen again. Not now that he is here to stop it. “You take the one on the right.”
As seasoned a shinobi as his husband is, Hashirama makes no protest. Instead, nodding and flashes away.
Madara heads for his own, flitting through the foreign buildings and down empty streets.
It’s silent, he realizes after a moment. Eerily quiet. The calm before a storm.
Another flash of the killing intent he’s heading toward, and his heart drops.
He’ll make it before the child takes a life. He will. So, he does as any stubborn Uchiha would do and uses speeds unique to them.
He stops the sword inches from a screaming youth.
Breathing heavily, he stares in disbelief as his own reflection stares back at him from the shiny blade. Crimson, so stark against the onyx of night it practically glows.
The child—a little girl scrambles back, broken sobs falling from her lips as she pleads with fractured words. She can’t be any older than five as she holds a stuffed bear in her grasp. Her nightgown is dirtied, most likely rumpled in her flight to escape death.
It’s a cruel, unrelenting sight. The truth of this boy’s reality and what he’s been made to do.
Something within his chest aches.
Two adults, the child’s parents, rush into the doorway looking frazzled. Their eyes widen with minute horror as they take in the sight before them.
“Go,” he tells the little girl, and she scrambles away.
They take her, the father scooping her up as soon as she’s in arm’s reach before the three of them flee.
It’s silent for a stretch before Madara turns his head and his ruby gaze meets the boy’s mirroring one.
Astonishment coats delicate features. Thin lips part with an inaudible gasp, and Sharingan eyes are rounded and open wide. He is in uniform, signaling Konoha’s betrayal to one of its founding peoples, and a porcelain mask is hanging limply in one hand.
There are many things that cross Madara’s mind in this instance. Words, phrases. All rehearsed during a time when daydreaming was his solace. What he would have done, what he would have changed.
All of it is irrelevant in the face of reality.
“Do not…”
He can’t fathom anything else, tongue moving, yet syllables failing as his grip on the sword tightens until it creaks.
“Don’t… just… don’t…”
The words trail off, and he straightens, pulling the weapon with him until it slips free with little resistance. He holds it low by his side.
The boy’s crimson has faded to onyx, but not his. Black eyes stare up at him, and he can see how young this adolescent is. This child.
Fury sparks like a hot coal within his chest, but he tempers it the best he can. He cannot explode here. Not when there is nothing and no one to receive his blows or his anger.
A quick flare in the distance before that other killing intent disappears, and finally, his tension eases.
“I have to.”
The words, spoken so quietly, so brokenly, shatter something within. That ache in his chest explodes, and suddenly he wants to slay the hands that have dealt this boy this duty himself.
“You do not,” he replies, voice steady.
The boy’s lips press thin. “I have to. For—” He cuts himself off, but Madara is not unaware. He remembers enough despite how long it’s been. It is still very clear, the boy’s proposition in order to make him complacent.
This child.
“I am sorry.”
The words fall from his mouth before he can help it, but once they do, he can’t find himself to regret them.
The boy glances up, his eyes widening further.
These words that he has not spoken more than once in his life do not come lightly. It takes time to coax them into speech.
“For the adults in your life who let you down. For the choices you have been burdened to bear. None of this should have happened. They failed you. I failed you, and for that, I am truly sorry, child.”
“I—I’m not—” the boy stutters breathlessly, and Madara briefly thinks that this must be the first time he is truly acting his age. This naivety only youths are capable of.
“But it is over now. I will not fail you again. I’ll fix this. Your clan—our clan does not have to die. That was never a solution or resolution. It was prejudice and fear. It is time for you to be the child you are and let the adults fix what they have started.”
A dazed expression.
It’s as if no one’s ever said as such to this boy. Never took the burdens from him instead of piling more on. It sends another spiral of ache within, but Madara tampers it down once more.
“What is your name?”
It takes a long moment for the boy to respond.
“Itachi.”
He nods. “Well, Itachi—”
His voice falters when Hashirama’s chakra sparks slightly in the distance, signaling his approach alongside an unfamiliar one.
It doesn’t take long before his husband is poking his head in through the open window; they were still in the little girl’s room, after all, and looking around curiously.
“Why are you in a girl’s room?”
The boy, Itachi, grimaces, and Madara ignores the question as he approaches.
There’s a man behind Hashirama. Orange and black, the mask over his face reminds Madara of a tiger, and the long, unruly hair reminds him of, well, himself, actually. He’s bound by wooden cuffs that he is struggling uselessly against with a foreign frustration comparable to that of a wild cat locked within a trap: they know it’s useless, but it’s instinct.
Glancing at his husband, he raises a brow.
A ruddy flush crosses tan cheeks as Hashirama sheepishly rubs the bridge of his nose, eyes downcast.
“I—it—he was slippery, okay! It’s like—he has some kind of teleportation ability, and I kept phasing through every time I hit him, so I remembered how I subdued Kurama and thought I’d give it a try. Who knew it would work right?”
There’s a hint of pride in that brown gaze, and Madara can’t find himself to say anything to refute it.
It’s amazing what his lover could do. The raw power he held, inhibited in its glory.
Truly, if Hashirama had even the slightest inclination toward evil, the world would be razed.
Goosebumps rise along his arms, and he disregards the thought, inconceivable as it is.
Turning toward Itachi, he finds the child’s onyx gaze already glued to the masked man. There’s an imperceptible furrow between his brows, the barest hints of emotion, and Madara’s gaze flits between the two.
“Who is he?”
Tired eyes, much like his own, glance his way then off. The boy frowns.
Madara has a feeling that he doesn’t do that often.
“Uchiha Madara,” Itachi says evenly.
The two eldest freeze while the masked man—Uchiha Madara—struggles harder against his bindings.
Hashirama falls into snickers before they evolve into raucous laughter.
Madara scowls, glaring, and the masked man stops abruptly. Tensing beneath Madara’s stare, he looks on edge.
Huh.
“You’re accomplices?” He prods when Hashirama can’t seem to catch his breath.
Itachi’s fingers twitch at his sides, but his face remains impassive.
“Of sorts,” the boy eventually struggles out.
“He was assisting you tonight. In killing,” Hashirama finally manages through ragged breaths.
A begrudging nod.
Madara sighs, his temple throbbing. He can already feel the headache coming on, and it’s going to be a bad one.
“Okay, we’ll get to the masked man in a second. There’s one thing that takes priority, and it’s not like he’ll be escaping before we can get to him.”
That renews the struggles, but Madara pays it no mind as he turns toward Itachi. Placing a hand on his shoulder, he waits until onyx meets onyx before he states, "Take me to your clan head. It’s time we have a talk.”
* * *
The path to the Uchiha compound main house is unfamiliar.
All of it is unfamiliar, actually.
The buildings, the roads, the scenery. He knows that time has passed, but even still, the location was different. They’re on the outskirts of the village now. Definitely not the spot he chose within the heart of Konoha, the village he named.
His jaw flexes and he picks up his pace.
The door opens softly, and he notes that Itachi doesn’t announce his arrival, but he does slip off his shoes as he enters. Familiar with this place, the boy is.
They clamber in after him, not nearly as polite, but the boy doesn’t protest as he leads them in deeper.
A woman stands in front of a sink. She wears a frilly pink apron as she meticulously dries dishes, humming softly to herself. She turns as if sensing them, smile faltering on her expression when she takes in the boy and the adults lingering.
“Itachi, what—” she cuts herself off, dish in her hand falling to the floor with a shatter as her eyes fall on him. “Madara-Sama,” she breathes.
Madara deigns her a glance before his onyx gaze is once again surveying the area, locating blind spots and suspicion.
Footsteps ring out before anyone can take a breath, a masculine voice calling, “Mikoto? What’s wrong?”
A man enters them. He wears a uniform as well, but different than Itachi’s. He visibly tenses upon seeing them, his eyes widening as they find Hashirama before they practically fall from his skull as they come across Madara.
“Madara-Sama,” he breathes, much like his wife. “What’s—how is this possible?”
“You are the current clan head, I presume,” Madara starts, flicking his gaze between the three Uchiha. It’s obvious this is a family. He can see the woman’s features in Itachi’s face, and it turns his tongue sour.
The clan heir was the one to kill them all.
Ironic.
“I—Well, yes, but—”
“Good. We need to talk.”
He brushes past, delving further into the residence. He makes his way to the living area where he plops down as if this were his compound and not his descendants’.
“About what?” the man asks, following closely behind. He takes a seat directly across from Madara while Hashirama clambers up beside him.
The masked nin is pushed into a corner and told sternly to stay.
Mikoto makes herself busy in the kitchen, dishes clanking as she cleans up hurriedly.
Itachi takes a seat beside his father, posture picture perfect.
Madara is not one to mince his words, so he cuts to the chase.
“Are you aware that had I not interfered tonight, everyone within this compound would have died by your son’s hand?”
The man freezes and Itachi’s head hangs.
Madara has the brief urge to reach out and comfort the child. He should not be made to feel bad about decisions of adults forced onto him.
He halts the urge as fast as it comes. Regardless of what he might say, things will change tonight and that child will not bear this burden. Now or ever.
The man’s eyes flick to his son, shuddering briefly as his jaw clenches.
“No… I was not aware.” He takes a visible breath. “I see you made your choice, Itachi.”
The boy flinches and Madara’s eyes narrow.
“And what, per se, was the choice given?”
The other Uchiha’s lips thin as his dark gaze flicks toward Madara, then toward Hashirama.
“It is—”
“Because, you see,” Madara cuts off, shifting from his open, relaxed posture to something more dominating and assertive. “From what I’ve seen is that this child was drug into a squirmish between adults and was forced to bear the weight of it all. Am I incorrect?”
The first signs of displeasure flits across the man’s features as his nostrils flare.
“Forgive me, Madara-Sama, but the Konoha you defected from is not the same as the one today.”
The term defected causes Hashirama to flinch and his gaze to narrow, but he puts a pin in that in favor of more important discussions.
“We are being secluded. Segregated. We’re being pushed out of the very village we help found and this is how they treat us?”
A deep, aged anger swells within the man’s voice. Years of pain and persecution. Madara sighs internally because he can tell by that tone alone there will be many things that he will need to fix.
“I understand,” he states because he does. He’s already seen somethings. Already knows what lies ahead and yet— “However, that does not make it okay for you to allow a child to be thrown into the middle of it.”
“Itachi has graduated from the Academy. He’s an adult, in ANBU too. He’s a prodigy.”
Kagami briefly flashes across Madara’s gaze. A smiling, innocent child, but a genius one at that. One that the elders were so feral to get their claws into so the could mold him to perfection.
Itachi looks up at that moment, his tired, old eyes finding Madara’s and, briefly, the two boys’ faces intertwine. Become one.
Madara bites back this sudden surge of anger.
“That is not what we wanted Konoha for.”
The interruption comes not from Madara, but Hashirama instead.
He turns his gaze to find Hashirama’s inscrutable expression. His eyes are hard and his face, unreadable, but the tone of voice implies how much he doesn’t like this man’s view of his child.
“Konoha was founded on the theory of peace. A place where children were allowed to be children without fear of war or chaos. We settled the age limit of fifteen before a child could graduate the Academy.”
“Itachi is a genius; he graduated at seven, became a captain recently. This doesn’t—”
Madara places one hand on his husband’s knee and holds the other up, quieting the man. Priorities first, he turns to Hashirama.
“This is not our timeline, remember? What we’ve done doesn’t reflect here. Our future is certain to be much different than this. The things we’ve done… I don’t see a massacre happening against my people any time soon.”
Hashirama deflates a little at that, but he nods his acknowledgement regardless.
Turning to the other, Madara allows his soft expression to harden as he gazes at the current clan head.
“As for you, a child is a child no matter how intelligent or bright they may be. It was your error that put your own son in the midst of something he never should have had to think of, let alone decide. You should have been the one to fix—”
“I am trying!”
Madara doesn’t startle, but his mouth shuts, and his eyes narrow.
The man takes a breath, eyes falling shut before opening with a newfound determination.
“I am trying,” he repeats, calmer this time. “But there is no rectifying this. Ever since the Kyuubi attack seven years ago, our clan has been pushed out. No, it goes back even further. Ever since the second Hokage’s reign, we’ve been isolated and secluded. This is not some petty disagreement between us and the village. This is prejudice. The village does not view us as equals, but as something lower. This was the only choice.”
“What was this choice?”
The man’s jaw clenches, and Madara knows the words before they even leave the man’s mouth, an echo of a memory.
“Coup d’État.”
Itachi flinches subtly, fingers tightening around his knees. His head remains hanging, however, and he avoids everyone’s gazes.
Madara lets the words linger in the air as he leans back and runs a hand down his face. Now how does he go about this? There are so many things to tackle and nowhere to start. The fact that the Uchiha were going to revolt, or the fact that the clan heir was sent out on official orders to slaughter every Uchiha.
Glancing up at the ceiling, he decides to start with the first when a flare of chakra in the far distance has him tensing.
Hashirama tenses, too.
That blaze, it was far too obvious to be an accident and way too familiar to be brushed off.
Turning his head in that direction, not even a second passes before there’s a flash of black and a body stumbles into the wall at a bone-crushing pace. A miscalculation, surely. There’s a loud crash, and the body falls back onto the ground before a loud groan echoes.
“Fuck me, I missed!”
Madara stares, utterly dumbfounded, as Uchiha Izuna rolls over and crawls to his hands and knees. His face is red, his nose is bleeding, but otherwise he looks fine. That bleary, obsidian gaze surveys the area before they land on him and Hashirama.
“Aniki!” comes the excited, relieved yell. “I need your help!”