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The first thing Madara felt was pain. A deep, dull ache radiated through his body, his limbs heavy with exhaustion. 

The first reaction the Uchiha had was to recall his chakra. His brain called for the impulse, something natural as moving a limb or making a sound. Yet, something was wrong, off.

Madara’s breath hitched as he tried to reach for it, but it was gone, as if it was blocked away like a whisper snuffed out by the wind. His fingers twitched against the bedding beneath him, silk and unfamiliar. The air smelled of fresh wood, incense, and something softer, unnervingly familiar.

Hashirama.

Madara’s eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the shoji screen. The ceiling above him was polished wood, its grain twisting like rivers carved into stone. He tried to sit up, but a wave of exhaustion and pain forced him back down. That was when he noticed the warm glow of green chakra enveloping his body.

And the man kneeling beside him.

Hashirama’s hands hovered over Madara’s chest, his Mokuton-infused healing jutsu knitting flesh and muscle back together with meticulous care. His face, as calm as still water, barely flickered with emotion as he worked.

“You’re awake,” Hashirama said softly. His voice was warm—warm like spring, warm like a hearth on a cold night. Warm in a way that made Madara’s stomach churn.

Madara tried to push himself up again, but Hashirama placed a hand on his chest, firm yet gentle, pushing him back down.

“Don’t strain yourself. You were badly injured.”

A silence stretched between them, thick like mist clinging to the valley floor. Madara clenched his jaw, his throat dry as sandpaper.

“…Where am I?”

Hashirama didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his fingers ghosted over the last of the wounds, sealing the final remnants of damage. When he was satisfied, he withdrew his hands, putting new bandages with extreme precision, before folding them in his lap.

“You’re home,” he finally said.

Madara stiffened.

Home.

Home?

His mind raced back to the last thing he remembered—the battle at the Valley of the End, the clash of their ideals, the raw fury in his veins. His Mangekyō spinning, the wrath burning in his chest, his blade cutting through the air—

Then pain. Then darkness. Hashirama stabbing him in the back.

Madara’s lips parted, his voice a low snarl. “You should have killed me.”

Hashirama exhaled through his nose, as if weary of this conversation before it had even begun. “No.”

“No?” Madara’s fingers curled into fists against the sheets. His body was too weak to act, but his mind burned with rage. “Then why? Why am I here?”

“Because... I love you, Madara. And I couldn't let you go away like this. Even after everything."

The words struck Madara like a blow to the chest.

He laughed. A sharp, hollow sound that made Hashirama’s expression flicker—was that pain? No, Madara refused to believe it.

“Love?” Madara hissed. “This isn’t love anymore, Hashirama. You lost. I walked away. Because of your stupid fucking ideals. Your fucking brother. All those stupid promises you kept making me. You didn't want to accept the truth. And yet—” He gestured weakly at his body. “You still don’t. Since I am here.”

Hashirama did not flinch, did not waver. “I knew you would leave. I knew you would seek war, allies, destruction. I knew you would throw yourself against Konoha until there was nothing left of you.”

His voice, steady, quiet, felt like a lullaby meant to soothe a caged beast.

“So I stopped you, before it was too late.”

Madara’s breath stilled.

“You stopped me?”

“I saved you. I did what was the best for the village. For the both of us."

Madara tried to call his chakra again. Nothing. And it was in that moment that his mind, still foggy from the recent awakening, realized what the issue was. His stomach turned.

"You sealed my chakra.”

Hashirama’s gaze didn’t leave his. “Yes.”

Madara tried to move again, but it was useless. Every inch of him was bound, his strength cut off at the root. He could feel the seals branded into his very skin, powerful, intricate, permanent. His pride, burning and hurt, was like a flame unleashing inside him.

His breath came faster. “You think—” he inhaled sharply, shaking, crumbling—“you think this is love?”

Hashirama reached out, and for a moment, Madara thought he would cup his cheek, maybe brush away the strands of raven hair falling into his eyes—but he didn’t.

Instead, he traced the Mokuton seals inscribed over Madara’s wrist, his touch featherlight.

“I think,” Hashirama murmured, “that this was the only way to save you from yourself. I'm sorry Madara. You gave me no choice.”

Madara trembled.

The only way.

The horror settled deep in his bones.

“You—” his voice cracked, raw, bitter, so very tired—“you’re insane.”

Hashirama smiled, but it was not the smile of the man he once knew.

“You once told me I was too soft,” Hashirama said. “That I let my ideals blind me. Perhaps you were right. You made me change my mind on many things."

He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching Madara’s, his voice nothing more than a whisper.

“And that's I will not let you leave me ever again, Madara.”

Madara closed his eyes. His mind, his body, every little piece of him was too worn out for really processing whatever was happening in front of him right now. He was sure Hashirama gave him the final blow at the Valley of the End, when he felt the cold, merciless sword on his chest, where his heart was supposed to be.

The ultimate betrayal. 

This is what it was. Stabbed in the back by his childhood best friend, his ally, his lover. The person he trusted the most. The only one left after his beloved brother Izuna reached the afterlife, as all his brothers did before him. 

Kami, why didn't you let me join them?

The stream of thoughts was abruptly interrupted by the gentle, yet burning, touch of Hashirama on his cheek.

“You need to rest Mada. You’re in very bad conditions.”

Madara opened his eyes a bit, his sight blurry because of the strain. All he saw was a faint, worried smile on Hashirama's face. No sound came from his lips, and he closed his eyes again. He hadn’t the strength for talking anymore and, even if he wanted, the man in front of him didn’t deserve an instant more of his attention. Hashirama didn’t push and he just rested his hand for some seconds on the face of the Uchiha, before eventually slowly pulling it away. 

Madara felt the other putting a warm cover on him, before hearing the Senju standing up. 

As for Hashirama, he didn’t need an answer. Having Madara at his side was enough.

-------

Time passed. Days. Weeks. Madara stopped keeping track.

At first, he had tried. Had tried to mark the passage of time by the flickering of the lantern at night, by the way the light shifted behind the shoji screens, by the meals Hashirama brought him, by the visits that never stopped.

But eventually, everything blurred together.

He didn’t ask about the world outside. He refused to.

Because the answer was already clear. It didn’t exist. Not for him. Not anymore.

Madara lay on his side, curled beneath the thick covers, staring at nothing.

He wasn’t sure if it was morning or evening anymore, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

The door slid open with a quiet scrape. He heard Hashirama’s familiar footsteps before the scent of warm rice and miso filled the room. A tray was set beside him, and the floor creaked as Hashirama knelt beside the futon.

A warm hand brushed against his temple, fingers gentle against his hairline.

“You should eat, Madara,” Hashirama said softly.

Madara said nothing. He didn’t move.

A sigh. Not frustrated, not angry. Simply patient.

The fingers ghosted over his temple once more before retreating. “It’s fresh. It’ll make you feel better.”

The floor creaked again, Hashirama shifting away. For a moment, Madara thought he was leaving, but instead, he heard the rustling of fabric—Hashirama had settled beside him, clearly intent on staying.

A quiet filled the room, too heavy, too suffocating.

Then, Hashirama spoke.

“I used to think peace would be easier than this,” he murmured. “That all we needed was an agreement, a village, a place where our people could live without fear.”

Madara’s fingers twitched against the sheets. He didn’t reply.

“I thought Konoha would be enough.” A pause. Then, softer, “I thought we would be enough.”

Madara’s breath felt too shallow in his chest.

“I was wrong,” Hashirama admitted. “Peace isn’t something you build once. It’s something you have to hold onto, even when it fights you. Even when the people you love try to tear it apart.”

Now Madara moved—just slightly, just enough to turn his head and glare at him.

Hashirama’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes…

His eyes were the same. Steady. Deep as the earth itself.

“I didn’t tear anything apart,” Madara muttered. His voice was rough from disuse. “You did.”

Hashirama’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I know that’s how you see it. But with time… I’m sure you will understand me. I couldn’t let you destroy everything we built together. ”

Madara turned away again, closing his eyes, refusing to engage.

Hashirama didn’t push. He never pushed.

Madara’s body grew stronger. The ache faded. The bruises disappeared. His wounds closed under Hashirama’s endless care. Now, he could breathe properly, stand up, walk on his own without support.

But his power—his chakra, his very essence—was gone. What used to be his greatest pride was just becoming a blurred, scattered memory in some dark corner of his mind.

It didn’t matter how many times he reached for it. The seals remained. Unyielding. Silent. Absolute. The unyielding cruelty of Hashirama’s love, of his will, was carved into his skin, sealing him away more thoroughly than any prison ever could.

He tried not to think about it.

He tried not to let the walls of the room feel like they were shrinking.

Hashirama never locked the door.

Madara knew he could step outside if he wanted to. Knew he could walk out into the gardens, past the trees, under the open sky.

But what was the point?

Beyond this room, there was nothing left for him.

No war. No clan. No future. No power.

And Hashirama knew it.

That was the cruelty of it. The door was open, but the world had already been taken from him.

He was a prisoner without chains.

One evening, Hashirama found him sitting by the opened sliding door, staring out at the trees within the compound’s courtyard. Madara looked handsome, his diaphanous skin illuminated by the soft light of the spring sun. His black, thick long hair always looking fluffy as a cloud. His eyes, gloomier than the night itself, were lost, his gaze far far away from the harsh reality he was condemned in. 

The sun was setting, gold bleeding into the dark horizon.

Hashirama settled beside him, their shoulders nearly brushing. “It’s a beautiful view.”

Madara didn’t answer.

But he didn’t look away either.

For a moment, they simply sat there, watching the sky shift, the shadows lengthen.

Then, Hashirama spoke again.

“You used to love spring the most,” he murmured. “You said it reminded you of rebirth. Of second chances.”

Madara’s fingers tightened, curling against the thin fabric of his yukata. His right hand, still grabbing the fabric firmly, was gently taken by Hashirama’s one, who put it on his lap and embracing it with both hands. A part of him wanted to jerk it away violently, but there was a lingering feeling in his mind that prevented him to move.

Resignation. 

Hashirama turned to him, his voice barely above a whisper. “This can be your second chance too.”

Madara didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

The warmth of the setting sun felt like an unbearable weight on his skin.

“I’ll make you believe in our dreams again, Mada. Trust me.” 

It wasn’t important how many times Hashirama tries to engage in a conversation with Madara receiving back only a deafening, heavy silence, the Senju kept taking care of Madara as if the Uchiha was simply ill. As if whatever happened before never existed. As if Hashirama didn’t stripaway the essence, the last bit of meaning in Madara’s life. 

But the world outside didn’t come. The sun would rise and set everyday, new leaves on trees’ branches would grow, new delicate flowers would blossom and their petals eventually fall. 

Sometimes, Madara asked himself, in rare yet persistent moments of true lucidity, if someone in his clan was looking for him. If his very existence was still meaningful for someone but for the twisted mind of Hashirama. The answer to this question came out one night, mercilessly. 

He recognized two distinct voices discussing in the courtyard. The tiny shojis allowed him to distinguish two figures, thanks to the weak light of a lantern put beside them. 

“We’re finally over with this issue. The Uchiha clan appointed a new leader. The power void left by Madara has been hard to fill, but they eventually made it.”

“Anija, I don’t think they’ll ever have someone who could ever match even partly the power of Madara, but at least we won’t have to deal with that rabid dog anymore.” 

“Don’t call him like that ever again, Tobirama! Madara — Madara just tried to do what was best for his clan…”

“Yeah. And you can clearly see the consequences of it.” Tobirama asserted, with his usual cold tone. 

There was a moment of silence between the two, before the younger Senju brother spoke again. 

“You knew what was the best thing to do. For the village; for everyone. And yet, you let your blind optimism control you again. You should have killed him that night.”

For the first time in his life,Madara found himself agreeing with Tobirama Senju, the murder of his brother. 

A sigh followed, escaping from Hashirama’s lips.

“Tobirama. You—you don’t understand. You won’t ever understand.” He paused, as if he had a lump in his throat. “Now… everything will be ok, I promise you. I did all I could. Madara won’t be a threat anymore. Because of this, I forbid everyone— everyone,to ever think to hurt him or to talk ill about him.”

“Anija—”

Tobirama was silenced straight away by his brother.

“Including you, Aniki. No one touches Madara Uchiha.” 

The words cut the air like a blade. There was something in those words showing that something had permanently shifted in Hashirama. Even if their disagreements weren’t something new, especially when it came to Madara, Hashirama always listened to his younger brother, aware that he exceeded him in intelligence and rationality. However, when it was about the Uchiha, rationality didn’t make sense anymore in Hashirama’s mind. His feelings for Madara were far beyond that. And even if the others couldn’t see him the way he did , he didn’t care. Because Madara, despite everything, was his precious gift of the divine. And he—he was the God of Shinobi. Thus, no matter what, who, even his only living brother, no one could lay a finger on the Uchiha, if this was his will.

And Madara was becoming more and more aware that he couldn’t escape from the wish of the God of Shinobi either.

__

Despite the time kept passing, despite Hashirama’s tenderness and care, there was still something deeply hidden in Madara’s heart that whispered to him there was still some sense in this world. A tiny, feeble little flame that, even in the face of what gave the impression that everything was utterly doomed, kept telling him to react. To move. To escape . Because, even if he had loved Hashirama as his life itself, what was there right now was a pale, blatant illusion of something that shattered into pieces a long time ago, after his lover stripped away from him his greatest pride. His honor. His power.

That’s why, even if he lingered for a while, Madara took his decision: there was nothing left there for him. He had to escape.

___

It was a summer night. The pale rays of the light coming from an almost full moon faintly illuminated the woods surrounding the Senju’s compound. The chirping of crickets was the only sound that could be heard in the calmness of the darkness.

Madara closed the sliding door behind him with extreme precision. He wanted to avoid even the smallest possibility that someone could acknowledge his attempt to escape. 

It was almost ironic, the Uchiha thought, to think about all of this as a breakout. Hashirama never locked the door, put him under surveillance or whatever. He has always been physically free. However, he knew that this freedom was totally artificial. A big,evident lie that the Senju tried to sell him. 

He was aware that, in the exact moment he would have tried to break free, Hashirama wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second, doing whatever in his powers to bring him back. And Madara was sure that if Hashirama succeeded, he wouldn't have gone so soft anymore. 

That’s why Madara had to be quick, resolute. Without any hesitation, he started to run toward the deep of the wood, with the sound of his fast steps crushing the leaves and the grass on the ground. 

For a second, he considered the possibility that Tobirama, being a sensitive ninja, could have perceived him going away straight away. However, there was something inside himself that kept telling him that what he was doing was exactly what Tobirama wanted. 

Madara’s dark eyes looked attentively at the surroundings as he kept running. Out of habit, he unconsciously tried to activate his sharingan.

So naive . 

As he kept moving away further and further from the Senju’s compound, he started to feel a tiny hint of hope, telling him that maybe—maybe there was a way to remove those chakra seals. To get his strength back. His sharingan. To be Madara Uchiha again. The unstoppable fire. A force of nature. 

But then—

He felt it. Something coiling around his calves, moving toward his knees in a snake-like movement. He moved his gaze downward. He already knew what he was about to see. But still, he wanted to have the visual proof of it.

Vines . 

He froze. 

How stupid, how naive he was . 

He felt a hand tightening the grip around his wrist. The hold wasn’t harsh, yet firm. 

He didn’t want to turn his head. To face reality. To whatever would have happened next. Because he knew it. It was the end.

“Madara…”

Hashirama’s voice was barely more than a whisper. As if he felt he lost a battle, as if some sort of unwanted realization slapped him straight in the face. 

Madara didn’t try to break free from the hand holding his wrist. He didn’t even blink. 

The vines uncoiled, leaving his legs free. 

Hashirama said nothing more. He just started to walk back to his house, pulling Madara with him; a resigned sigh escaped his lips.

The time through the way back stretched. Madara had the impression it took them an eternity. The crickets’ chirping, that used to look like a hymn to freedom, now it was just a dull, distant and irrelevant noise. 

For the whole journey, Hashirama never turned his head toward Madara, who kept being dragged behind him.

When they finally reached their destination, Madara noticed that the Senju didn’t head toward what used to be Madara’s room during the last months. He felt his stomach churning: this failed attempt at escaping unleashed something inside him that he thought to be dead long time ago: emotions. Not that sense of void, dullness devouring him from inside. Anger, rage, then determination, even hope at some point. 

And now—fear. Pure, blatant fear of the unknown. Of the man that used to be the center of his world, his everything and that right now, in his eyes, was just an unpredictable stranger. 

As they entered into a room, Madara recognized it straight away, despite the darkness. It was Hashirama’s room, where they spent thousands of nights holding each other in affectionate embraces, making love over and over again. 

Madara didn’t have the time to realize the unfolding of events. With one, firm move, Hashirama pushed the Uchiha against the wall, locking him with his bigger, stronger body and a hand against the wall, leaving Madara no space for moving. 

“Madara, my love.” He said looking him straight in the eyes. His deep, dark gaze was full of a mix of desperation, sadness and maybe—resignation. 

“I did my best. I spared your life, despite everyone, even my own conscience told me it wasn’t the right thing to do. But, I—I couldn’t. Because you’re everything to me. Everything . I can’t think of a second of my whole existence where you’re not here, at my side. And, because of this, I took  care of you, protected you from the evilness of this world.” His eyes moved toward the chakra seals. “You gave me the impression that you seemed to be starting to understand. But… apparently, with this night, you demonstrated to me that you didn’t. At least, not enough.” 

Madara heard these words, as well as the broken, yet firm voice that spoke them. He didn’t say anything, moving his face downward, refusing to look Hashirama in the eyes. The desolation, the pain, the defeat he felt in his heart were too much to handle. 

There was silence. Maybe for some seconds only, maybe minutes. Madara didn’t know. 

And then—

He felt Hashirama’s jaw tightening, as if he was lingering regarding a somewhat hard choice to make. 

“Look at me in the eyes, Madara.” The tone was low… and disturbingly dangerous. 

“If you’ll ever try ever again to run away like this, to run away from me —” He stopped, his eyebrows furrowing as if he was fighting to retain himself. He slowly moved one hand and he brushed his fingers on Madara’s cheekbones, his touch featherlight. 

“I’ll take your eyes away. Because they’re just a curse. To you. To us.”

“You don’t want me to do that, don’t you my love?” 

The moment the words left Hashirama’s lips, the room seemed to close in.

The walls, once wide and open, now pressed in on Madara like a coffin, the air thick, suffocating. His breath stilled, the sharp pull of terror curling up his spine, locking his muscles in place.

Because Hashirama meant it.

This was not an empty threat. Not a warning spoken in desperation. This was a promise.

And Madara knew.

Knew that if he ever tried again—if he ever so much as thought about running—Hashirama would do it.

He would take the last thing Madara had left.

His pride. His legacy. His sight. His very soul.

Madara’s fingers twitched at his sides. His lips parted, a whisper of breath leaving them, but no words came.

Because what was there left to say?

What argument could be made against a god’s will?

He had lost.

Completely. Finally. Irrevocably.

A quiet sigh left Hashirama’s lips, as if something inside him had just snapped into place, like this was the answer he had been waiting for all along.

Before Madara could react, Hashirama grabbed him, his hands locking around his arms, fingers digging deep into his flesh as he wrenched him away from the wall and threw him onto the futon.

The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain through Madara’s spine, the cover doing nothing to soften the weight of what was happening. This was not the same bed where they had once whispered secrets into each other’s skin. Not the same bed where Hashirama had once held him with reverence, where his lips had once mapped out devotion over every inch of Madara’s body.

No.

That bed no longer existed.

Because this place—this prison, this room, this world—was no longer about love.

It was about power: Hashirama’s power. And Madara would never forget that again.

A hand gripped his jaw, fingers pressing into the hollows of his cheeks, forcing his gaze upward.

“Look at me,” Hashirama commanded, voice low, dark, curling around Madara like chains.

Madara refused.

Even now. Even when there was nothing left to fight for.

His lips pressed into a thin line, his gaze burning into the ceiling, his body still as stone beneath him.

But Hashirama was not patient tonight. Not anymore.

A sharp slap cracked through the air.

Madara’s head snapped to the side, the taste of copper flooding his tongue, his cheek stinging, heat blooming where the blow had landed.

Shock numbed him for a moment, the silence in the room pressing deafeningly loud against his skull.

Hashirama had never hit him before. Not like this. Never like this.

A trembling breath escaped his lips, but still, he did not turn back.

Another slap. Harder.

His vision blurred, his body recoiling, but Hashirama’s grip was unyielding, forcing him to stay in place, to take it.

A sharp inhale. A quiet, pained exhale. And then—a third.

Hard enough to break something inside him.

Hard enough that his head lolled to the side, his breath uneven, his mind caught in the slow, shattering realization of what was happening.

Of what had already happened.

There was nothing left.

Nothing left to protect. Nothing left to fight for. Nothing left but this.

And when Hashirama’s fingers tilted his chin back up, when that voice, that voice he had once loved more than anything in this world—spoke again, low and dangerous and certain—

Madara finally obeyed. Finally looked at him.

And that—that was the moment it happened.

The final break.

The crack that split through his soul, through his will, through whatever remnants of himself he had been clinging to.

Because when Madara met Hashirama’s gaze, there was no more anger, no more hatred, no more resistance.

Just acceptance and submission.

And Hashirama saw it. He saw everything. And he smiled.

Madara didn’t fight.

Not when Hashirama moved over him, pressing him down into the bed with the full weight of who he was. Not when fingers traced his skin, not with love, but with ownership. Not when Hashirama took him, slow and deliberate, each movement meant to remind him, to teach him, to solidify what had already been decided.

This was not about pleasure.

This was about power and possession .

And Madara—Madara understood now. Understood what Hashirama had been trying to tell him all along. He was not going anywhere: not today, not tomorrow. Not ever.

–

The room was silent again.

Not the suffocating silence of before. Not the silence of war, of defiance, of resistance.

No—the silence was softer now, settled, at peace.

Hashirama exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing through Madara’s hair, his touch once again gentle, reverent, as if what had just happened had never been a cruelty, but a necessity.

An inevitability.

Madara did not move. Did not speak. Did not flinch when Hashirama pressed a kiss to his temple, slow and deliberate, lingering like a whisper against his skin.

Hashirama smiled, his arms wrapping around Madara’s form, pulling him close, as if Madara belonged there, in his embrace, and nowhere else. Because now, he truly did.

“That’s it, my love,” Hashirama murmured, lips brushing against his forehead. “No more running.”

Madara’s breath was quiet, even. There was nothing left at all.

—

Madara was perfect now. Hashirama had always believed him to be beautiful, he had always been drawn to him, to his fire, to his defiance, to the sharp angles of his rage, the way his presence had always burned so brightly, demanding to be seen. But this—this was more beautiful than anything before.

Madara lay still beneath the soft cover of their bed, his body completely relaxed, his breath even, his eyes half-lidded as he stared at nothing at all. The tension was gone from his limbs, the defiance no longer flickering in his gaze. No more rebellion. No more anger. No more war between them.

Just peace.

Just Madara exactly as Hashirama wanted him to be.

Hashirama reached out, letting his fingers trace over the curve of his cheek, the sharp line of his jaw, the faint imprint of fading bruises against pale skin.

Madara did not flinch. Instead, he simply existed beneath his hands, his body warm, compliant, soft in a way that made something deep in Hashirama’s chest settle.

This was what he had been waiting for. This was what he had fought for. And now, it was finally his.

The days passed in a quiet rhythm, one that felt more natural than it ever had before.

Madara no longer ignored his presence.

No longer turned away when Hashirama sat beside him.

No longer refused the food he brought, the clothes he laid out, the gifts he left by his side.

Most importantly, he no longer spoke of leaving. In fact, he barely spoke at all. And that, more than anything, was proof. Because Madara’s silence was not resistance, but acceptance.

Hashirama sat beside him one evening, watching as Madara quietly sipped his tea, the steam curling into the dim glow of candlelight.

The world beyond their walls felt distant, irrelevant. This room was the only world that mattered. Hashirama shifted closer, reaching out, running his fingers through the long strands of dark hair that spilled over Madara’s shoulders. The texture was the same—thick, soft, familiar. And Madara let him. Did not tense, did not resist, did not move away.

Hashirama smiled.

“You seem peaceful tonight,” he murmured.

The Senju cupped the back of his head, pressed a slow, lingering kiss to his temple.

Madara’s breath did not change.

Hashirama exhaled softly, his lips brushing against his skin.

"See?" he whispered, his voice warm, filled with something like relief, something like triumph.

"I told you I would make you understand."

Madara blinked slowly, his gaze still unfocused, lost somewhere Hashirama could not reach.

“You’re finally mine, Madara,” he whispered. “And you always will be.”

Madara did not reply.

But he did not need to. Because Hashirama had already won.

—-

Spring had always suited Madara best.

Hashirama had known this since they were children—since the first time he saw Madara standing beneath the branches of a cherry blossom tree, petals caught in his hair, a quiet sort of beauty wrapped in fleeting moments of peace.

He had always wanted to preserve that moment. And now, he finally had.

The village had gathered in the center of Konoha, the sun casting golden light over the ceremonial hall, over the banners swaying gently in the wind, over the delicate blossoms drifting through the air like whispered blessings from the gods.

It was perfect. Everything was perfect.

Hashirama stood at the front of the gathering, his Hokage robes immaculate, the weight of his title sitting comfortably on his shoulders.

And beside him—

Beside him, Madara stood dressed in silk and elegance, his long hair cascading over his back, the rich fabric of his robes flowing with every movement, the deep red embroidery glinting under the light.

He looked beautiful.

Hashirama could feel his heart swell at the sight of him, at the realization that this moment had finally come.

That Madara was his, in every way that mattered.

That Madara had chosen to stand beside him.

That they were finally here, together, as they were always meant to be.

As the ceremony continued, as the elders spoke of unity, of the binding of souls, of the future they would build together, Hashirama barely heard them.

His attention was solely on Madara—on the way the wind tugged at the edges of his robes, on the soft glow of his skin beneath the spring light, on the way he held himself, poised, composed, silent. So still. So perfect.

And when the final words were spoken, when the bond was sealed, when the village erupted into cheers of celebration, Hashirama turned to him, a soft, triumphant smile touching his lips.

"We did it," he whispered, his voice warm, filled with something like relief, something like victory.

Madara’s gaze lifted to meet his.

And for the briefest moment, Hashirama thought he saw something there.

Something not quite right.

A flicker, too quick to catch, too faint to name.

But before he could think on it, before the thought could even settle, Madara smiled.

A small, soft curve of his lips. A smile that should have felt real.

That should have been proof of everything Hashirama had fought for. And yet, it felt hollow. Like something rehearsed. Like something given, not because it was felt, but because it was expected.

Hashirama’s fingers twitched at his side. But then Madara’s hand slipped into his—warm, steady, accepting. Just like that, the doubt was gone.

Because Madara was here and his.

Because this was their true peace.

Hashirama exhaled, his grip tightening around Madara’s hand.

Everything was perfect.

And if there was something lurking beneath Madara’s smile—if there was something missing in the way his fingers curled against Hashirama’s palm, something absent in the warmth of his touch, Hashirama chose not to see it.

Because this was how it was meant to be.

As the village celebrated around them, as spring blossoms drifted through the air, as children laughed and played beneath the banners of Konoha, the world stood in perfect harmony.

The God of Shinobi had ensured it. And at his side, dressed in the finest silks, bathed in golden sunlight, was the gift the gods had given him.

Madara.

His love, his peace, his forever.

The smile never faded from Hashirama’s lips.

And Madara’s never quite reached his eyes.