Warnings: unintentional self-harm. (It's complicated.)

Paint the shining future

Madara called it conditioning. Or, that was what his father had called it.

He could punch through almost anything with hands like rocks, beaten and tempered into firmness. It had been deadly useful on a battlefield, it had saved his life as a child, and it would have continued to do so in a world of war and conflict.

The world was no longer made of war and conflict. Skirmishes broke out, true, and there were tensions across borders that were only years old, but he had not lifted his scythe and gunbai in true battle in what felt like ages. Ages were a long time for one such as himself, who was raised on conflict. It was part of his being, etched into his bones. It was the rattle of impact when he landed on the ground from a high distance, the slam of Hashirama's blade against his sword, the inhale-click-explosion of a katon jutsu.

He never stopped being a shinobi. The people in the streets, with their faces that sometimes seemed cookie-cutter and robotic, seemed to have forgotten that fact. He was loud and forceful, and they responded more often than not with annoyance. He pushed open a shop door and it slammed against the wall. The shop owner asked him politely to leave.

Homemade meals were better, he told himself, stuffing his face with fried fish after retreating home, and pretended the vegetables lived up to restaurant platters.

Madara's house was a foreboding thing. It stood apart from his clan's compound, where the Clan Head manor was nestled in the center of utilitarian structures, the place he was supposed to live. Too often had it groaned with the memory of old ghosts, best left forgotten.

Living apart from the Uchiha hadn't helped his standing with his clan, but he could only stand so much, for so long. It worked most of the time, and usually he was CONTENT, if not wholly happy, to live on his own.

That only worked for so long, when one was friends with Senju Hashirama.

"Let's get inarizushi," said Hashirama in an attempt to lure Madara out of the dark corner he'd walled himself up in, his scowl as welcoming as a gnarled spider wrapped in its web. Hashirama detangled the webs and reminded him, gently, always gently, he was no animal and the world was no battlefield.

Hashirama's smile was always welcoming, just a little too bright. A clan meeting had stretched for most of the morning, and Madara was already exhausted. It was tempting to take Hashirama up on his offer, but Madara remembered a pressing engagement with his scythe in the forest that afternoon. He carefully did not tell Hashirama he'd been blacklisted from the last restaurant selling inarizushi.

Whenever he visited the office, it was with a measure of tension. The Hokage Tower was new, creaked like the bow of a ship at night, and full of enough jumpy former-but-still-shinobi to make even Madara think twice about sudden movements.

"Oh, we're a shinobi village," Hashirama had said with a laugh, as though it was blindingly obvious, and Madara nodded along as though he understood.

He didn't. They didn't do nearly enough fighting for it to feel like a shinobi village. It felt more like a powder keg they built specifically to cause a chain-explosion spanning the globe.

Madara's personal favorite, and by favorite he meant blood-boiling, demand was that he just—stop. And really, there was no explanation what he was stopping.

Sparring? Arguing? For the longest time he thought it was from the permanent scowl etched onto his face from years of pinched hunger and shouldering far too many burdens, far too soon.

"The banging is distracting," said a Hyuuga, finally driven past the point of fear or propriety, pale eyes narrowed, a wrinkle between their brow that said very aggravated. "Paperwork is not the most riveting job and it's a thousand times harder to concentrate on when you won't sit still."

Later that day, a stiff and irate Senju Tobirama informed Madara that the Hyuuga had been chastised. Over what, Madara was not informed. It was enough to make Tobirama shuffle where he stood, a constipated look on his face, and tell Madara it wouldn't happen again.

Again, what it was, wasn't elaborated. People asked Madara to "stop" quite a lot. They never really seemed to explain what, exactly, they wanted him to stop.

Understanding dawned in the newborn hours of morning, a bloody sunrise of pink and orange piercing a dusky sky. The final stars were blotted away as Uzumaki Mito took her first steps into Konohagakure no Sato. When she walked, the crowds parted for her, and it was like watching an adult version of sharks and minnows. Her eyes were narrow and her mouth was a razor-fine line.

Her hair was the brightest thing Madara had seen in a while. The village was primarily earthen tones, green and brown and gray, and she was the walking pastel pallet of an abstract artist. Her red hair was pulled in buns on her head, senbon tagged with inked seals rustling in a weak breeze.

The air was thick with terror when Madara stepped into the administrative office. Hashirama had sat down and stood up again three times within the space of five minutes, talking loudly and animatedly. He knocked over an inkwell and cursed profoundly.

He had faced terrors on the battlefield, taken on entire armies by himself, and paved forward a new system of government that would change the world forever; the talks of bethrothals had terrified him in a way Madara had never seen before.

Hashirama, inevitably, met Uzumaki Mito.

The good news was that she found him incredibly amusing. The bad news was that she was far, far fonder of Madara's brother.

It was bad news because it was Izuna and he was Madara's little brother and Mito was abjectly a living, breathing human body formed of terror. The Uchiha Clan heard tales of the Uzumaki Clan, back before Konoha was even a dream, and they all started and ended with, "It was a bloody and frightening day—"

Suffice it to say, Madara did not approve.

Izuna did not particularly care whether or not Madara approved.

The world upended and tilted three degrees to the right when Madara actually spoke to Mito for the first time. It never went back to its original axis, either.

As stated before, understanding dawned with Mito.

"That's very bad for your hands," she said.

Madara paused halfway through flicking the handle of a kunai against his palm.

"What?"

With a juxtaposition of boldness that bordered on brash and gentleness that only Mito could manage, she pried the kunai out of Madara's hand.

"You'll cause yourself more damage than good. Have you been doing that your whole life? You ought to have Hashirama look at your joints."

Madara stared at the kunai in Mito hands, and then at his own hands, which were smarting and bruised, and wondered when he'd started. It was a conditioning technique. He used to slam his hands against doorframes and the ground and training dummies alike. His father had smiled, proud in a way he rarely ever was, when Madara trained his body to breaking.

Little pieces started to slot into place after that incident. Mito had joined him that afternoon for tea ("It's only right I meet my new extended family.") and never seemed to leave. She became a new shadow at his shoulder, eyes gleaming behind a fan—not the weapon kind, but the sort that was painted with hummingbirds and bluebells—with something like concern and amusement rolled into one.

He thought he'd hate it, when Izuna casually dropped the news he would be marrying the Uzumaki princess.

(Madara would have protested, had Izuna not stared at her as though she was the answer to all the riddles of life, a light like the sun shining from his face. She reflected him, in a way, not unlike the moon. Calmer and cooler, smiles that were like well-tempered blades; words that cut straight to the point. There was equal respect and growing fondness and it worked.)

Hating her turned out to be something impossible, like hating a cup for holding water, or ink for writing words. She was a map, a guidepost to a world that he previously navigated with silhouettes and landmarks. He felt as though he was understanding the world in a way, for the first time, like everyone else did. He hadn't even known he'd needed that map, nor had he noticed the way everyone else already seemed to possess one.

The next thing he felt was a rush of embarrassment. Madara, historically, didn't respond to embarrassment well. He was no different in that regard.

It was Hashirama who dragged him out of his house, yet again. It was also Hashirama who talked to the restaurant owner who used to sell Madara inarizushi.

Madara was mulish and absolutely refused to look at Hashirama, arms crossed over his chest. The inarizushi smelled like deep fried heaven.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said. "It was unnecessary."

Hashirama hummed faintly. "Flower gardens are also unnecessary, but we enjoy them."

"Don't flowers have a multitude of—"

"Yes, yes," said Hashirama, shoulders drooping. "It was a bad analogy. Life doesn't have to be… miserable. We can have things that are unnecessary, but make us happy—or make life easier."

There was an unspoken, Do you understand? tacked onto the end. Madara was pleased to find that he—well, maybe he didn't fully grasp the necessity, but he understood.

"Why don't you try picking up a hobby?" said Hashirama, and then scurried to add on, when Madara opened his mouth, "Besides sparring. And sharpening your weapons. Those don't count."

Madara didn't have hobbies. That wasn't a fact he realized until after he tried to figure out his hobbies. He tried many things, from collecting pins to post stamps, and even colorful rocks. While he was actually fond of the small, decorative rocks sold for banquets and the like, Madara wasn't about to start a hobby out of them. That was something children did as a pass time. And no matter how often Hashirama and Mito said it was perfectly okay, Madara had some dignity, dammit.

If Mito was the guidebook to how to interact with people, and Hashirama his reason for being a sociable person at all, then it was only fitting Izuna was the one to strike the nail on the head.

Evening had long worn into night, a plethora of stars winking down at them, while Madara and Izuna reclined on the front porch. A long-since abandoned shogi board sat between them. Madara's pipe was also forgotten, though tendrils of smoke still drifted in the utterly still air.

Izuna sounded almost longsuffering about the issue. "You need something more substantial than collections, aniki. You need something that engages your mind a little."

Madara's eyes shifted down to the shogi board, unable to hide a slight curl of his lip. While he didn't dislike shogi, it was hardly his favorite. It was also what a Nara said would "engage his mind" in a "helpful way."

"Have you tried art?" said Izuna, and then added, "I see that look—don't scoff at me. Have you tried painting at all? Mito-chan loves to paint, she might be willing to give you some ideas."

In lieu of a reply, Madara shrugged. He also didn't tell Izuna that saying Mito-chan was something like calling the Kyuubi no Kitsune an "adorable fur ball."

There was a sigh from Izuna, his green tea breath overpowering, and Madara gave his face a push that sparked a scuffle. The shogi board was upended, Izuna's tea spilled into the floorboards, and all conversation on arts brought to an abrupt end.

Still, with nothing else to occupy his mind in the following days, other than the giant face of Hashirama being carved into the mountainside, which was more of a source of annoyance than a distraction, Madara turned to Mito. She met his curiosity with an enthusiasm that was nothing short of terrifying.

A canvas and several pots of paint were set up in her open courtyard, around a zen garden. Madara thought it was a bit pointed, but paid it no comment. With several quick, confident brushstrokes, Mito had what looked like a cozy pond in shades of lavender and pale blue. She did outlines of mountains, shaded the undersides of heavy clouds. All with only two colors.

It sparked like a wildfire and spread just as quickly. Madara wanted—he needed to try it for himself.

His hands shook around the paintbrush. The day was a bit nippy, so his knuckles ached. Smears of dark indigo and a marbleized robin egg blue were shaky. He wanted to form the world in his head, so badly it almost outweighed the creeping frustration in his gut, the whispered question that maybe he couldn't do this. Shinobi were broken things made for death, and this—this was creation.

"Did you see Hashirama for your hands?" said Mito.

Madara didn't. His lips were sealed shut, but the screaming silence was answer enough.

"Oh, Madara."

It wasn't pity or disappointment, but it still made him want to fling the brush down and run. He didn't, because he was no coward, but he couldn't stop the hot rush of shame that crawled up his neck.

Mito painted like she did everything else, with surety and grace and skill.

Madara painted like he was, battered and shaking, cracked around the edges.

When she insisted they see Hashirama that instant, he didn't bother to deny her. One didn't simply refuse Uzumaki Mito, after all, and the sheer potency of the passive aggressive energy she was capable of projecting didn't make it worth the hassle.

Thankfully, when they approached Hashirama with the request, it was met without questions. That might have had to do with the piles of paperwork on Hashirama's desk. It also could have been the unholy glare with which Tobirama was trying to murder his brother. The irony of Hashirama winning the Hokage vote was that he was not a paper pusher kind of person, and being Hokage meant more paper-pushing than anyone else in the village.

Madara dodged a kunai with that one. That was what he told himself, over and over again, to make himself feel better. For the most part, it worked.

Abandoning the paperwork without a second thought—Tobirama shouted something at Hashirama's back as they went—and cheerfully greeting them, Hashirama corralled Madara into one of the jounin stand-by rooms. It was empty for the most part and one look from Mito was all it took for it to become completely empty. The little Yamanaka jounin tripped over herself fleeing.

"The joints, hmm?" said Hashirama, despite Madara having not said a thing about what needed healing. He suspected Hashirama had wanted to mention it for awhile. He took Madara's hands without preamble, holding them in his larger ones.

Madara, through conscious effort, did not wax poetic about the color of coffee and creamer, but it was tempting. It was very tempting. He was pale, standing next to Hashirama, like a walking corpse with a hedge of black hair.

He was pulled from self-disparaging thoughts by Hashirama, as his thumbs rubbed circles into Madara's knuckles. They were always a little swollen and red.

"I'll leave you two to it," said Mito, something foxlike in her grin, before it disappeared behind her fan. She gave a wink and whirled out of the door, closing it behind her.

There was nothing but a ringing void of noise where there should have been comfortable companionship, because this was Hashirama, so Madara blurted the first thing on his mind.

"She's up to something."

"I think that's Mito's MO," said Hashirama, though his tone was absent.

Madara cleared his throat—and then did it again, three times, after he failed to pull his hands away. Hashirama seemed to have glued himself on. He was just weighing Tobirama's level of unhappiness with Hashirama, and how likely he was to be punished if he was found punting the Hokage out a window, when a frown creased Hashirama's brows.

There was something uncommonly sad in warm, hazel-brown eyes. Hashirama didn't do sad. He was always eternally, aggravatingly optimistic.

Sometimes, it was easy to forget Hashirama was a shinobi, same as Madara. That he had fought in battles just as bloody and had cracks that ran just as deep. Madara's sympathy was a subterranean thing, almost as fathomless as his relief and the guilt from it. It wasn't that he wanted Hashirama to feel that way, because he didn't—he didn't, in any form of reality—but it was good to know he wasn't alone.

A glow of green filled Hashirama's hands. He was soft, as ever, no matter how hard Madara pushed him in their spars to remind him that Madara wasn't fragile, that he wasn't a ephemeral thing that would dissipate like so much smoke in the wind.

"You have years of damage," said Hashirama. "There's only so much I can do for the old injuries, but I can alleviate the pain. You'll have to come in for repeated treatments for the older injuries."

"That won't be necessary," said Madara, on impulse. He was not about to submit himself to Hashirama's doting. Not that he wouldn't enjoy it—because he would, and that was the issue. He would soak it up like a sunflower and Madara was anything but subtle in his affection.

Hashirama laughed, loud and free. "I remember us having a word about necessity and personal comforts."

"I'm not uncomfortable," said Madara, and for the most part that was true. When it wasn't cold, or raining, or too hot, and the weather didn't shift too suddenly, he was alright. On those days, he could ignore the twinges in his wrists and the groans of his shoulders. The fingers in his joints caught and locked on some mornings, and it was like nails on chalkboard to navigate around the wrongness of the feeling, but he could endure. "I'm not, you imbecile, stop—"

The healing glow paused, but only so that Hashirama could fix him with a very pointed, arched eyebrow. Madara, to his horror, recognized the look. It was one of Mito's no-nonsense, "You're being ridiculous, and I love you, but you need to stop," kind of looks. She was spreading.

A snarl caught in Madara's throat. "So help me, Hashirama—"

"I'm almost done," Hashirama murmured soothingly, and Madara stood there, radiating waves of killing intent, ready to burst at the seams. It was all lies, and Hashirama was a traitor, because he didn't stop at Madara's hands. He moved glowing hands to Madara's shoulders, a warmth steeping into them that eased the agony Madara hadn't realized he was in, relaxing muscles that had been coiled up for months. He would have protested again, but— "I'd say it's a surprise you've been living like this, but really…"

Hashirama seemed to have slipped into his role as a medic, and Madara was too out of it to push him away—because that was how it felt like to have good shoulders. Who'd have known? Not Madara, that was for sure.

"Sit down," said Hashirama.

Madara was halfway through settling onto one of the sofas—Hashirama was holding his hands again—when he managed to scrape together his braincells.

"No—"

"You've got a bad knee!"

"I refuse—"

"Just let me take a look, just a look—"

"That's even worse, you idiot!"

Madara slipped on his back, keeping Hashirama prodded away by shoving his sandal in the man's face. Hashirama gave an exaggerated gag.

"I don't want to eat your shoes!"

"Then stop being obnoxious and contain your—your—whatever this healing obsession is!"

"It's not a healing obsession!" Hashirama cried indignantly. "It's common decency!"

"I've dealt with this since I was sixteen—I can continue to deal with it—"

"Number one," said Hashirama, holding up an appropriate finger, "that's sad. Number two," his second finger went up and Madara's eye started to twitch, "it literally will get worse—don't you dare—"

Madara made a flying leap for the window. Chances were, he couldn't really punt Hashirama out of it, since the man was taller and broader and built like an ox—one day, he was going to ask what plant Hashirama ate to transform himself from the beanstalk he was at thirteen years old, into what he was now—so hurtling himself to freedom was the next best thing.

He never made it to the window frame. A quick hand lashed out and grabbed his ankle, yanking him forcibly back into the sofa, and then there was a weight on his waist and hands on his wrists and Madara's brain leaked out his ears. Everything turned blurred and sharp at all once, his sharingan active, and he couldn't tell if he was excited or terrified or embarrassed, but it was something and it was powerful.

As soon as it happened, it ended. Hashirama pulled back, holding his palms out.

"Breathe—it's alright, just breathe—"

And really, he wasn't panicking. Hashirama just couldn't seem to understand why straddling Madara's waist was something he might find disconcerting. Hashirama was strong, unbelievably so, and there was a untapped part of that strength that Madara suspected even Hashirama didn't explore. Something old and primordial, godlike, and the people who gave Hashirama that moniker, the God of Shinobi, had no idea how close to right they were.

The weight was gone and Madara wasn't disappointed. He wasn't. He couldn't seem to force himself to move, either, so there was that.

"Er—Madara, your sharingan—"

Oh, right. Conveniently, the sharingan had memorized the past minute in perfect detail. Madara's brain would helpfully replay that incident, most likely for the rest of his life, because the universe loved to hate him. And because the sharingan was so efficient, he would remember everything from the roughness of Hashirama's calloused his wrists, where his skin was more sensitive, and the brush of Hashirama's long, dark hair against his face.

Madara was going to chuck himself off the Hokage Monument before the end of the year.

Neither of them moved. Hashirama had the impulse control of an intoxicated squirrel, so it shouldn't have been a surprise when he clamped a warm, glowing hand on Madara's knee.

He drew a sharp breath, an insult, or maybe a katon jutsu, on the tip of his tongue—Hashirama readjusted himself slightly, eyes narrowed, waiting to tackle him again.

The door opened.

"Aniki, Hokage-sama, I—"

Madara's head whipped around, imploring his brother with a glare. Izuna took one look at them: Madara sprawled back, Hashirama hovering over him, a hand on his knee, and somersaulted to an obvious conclusion. It was the wrong one.

"I'll leave you two alone."

"Wait—don't you dare shut that door—"

Izuna raised his eyebrows and, as deliberately as one could manage, shut the door.

"That weasel," Madara spluttered, three octaves higher than normal, feeling deeply betrayed.

His attention was drawn back to Hashirama, as he settled back on his haunches. Madara scrambled to sit up, hair more flyaway than ever. When Hashirama reached out to smooth an errant raven curl from his temple, he—well, it wasn't hesitation, nor did he outright freeze, but his heart did a sideways stutter.

There was a look of contemplation on Hashirama's face. Madara didn't know what it was for, and he wasn't willing to hope—think about it, so he pretended not to notice. He gathered himself, his scowl and general unwelcoming energy, like wrapping a shawl around his shoulders.

However, in the end, Madara was weak and fond of Hashirama in a way he could never temper, never bend, and looked back to the man. Only, Hashirama had scooted even closer and leaned in, as though to get a better look at him. Through blurred, degrading vision, Madara could make out freckles and the small flecks of gold around Hashirama's pupils.

"I think we should talk."

It was odd to see Hashirama so serious. Odd, and fascinating, because it did amazing things to his jawline and the furrow of his eyebrows. He almost resembled the ridiculous face being carved into the mountainside.

"About?" said Madara, using every ounce of control culminated from over two decades as a shinobi to not subtlety push away from Hashirama's sudden close proximity. Hashirama would notice and either pout, or want to know why. Madara was not prepared for that conversation.

"You know," said Hashirama, despite the fact Madara very much did not know, "the thing."

Behold, Senju Hashirama, the God of Shinobi, the Shodaime Hokage, Founder of Konohagakure no Sato, only user of the legendary Mokuton Kekkei Genkai: "You know, the thing."

Madara let out a sound of wordless frustration and shoved at him. His chest, Madara noted in dismay, was solid as ever. The only thing shoving him succeeded in was making him swing closer—and as it turned out, he smelled like pine sap and crushed wildflowers.

"I," Madara growled behind gritted teeth, seething, "do not know what the hell you're talking about."

It wouldn't be so terrible, but Hashirama knew that the finer details of human interaction were confusing to him. He knew that and still had the nerve to dance around subjects and play a guessing game that left Madara both exhausted and feeling horribly stupid.

Hashirama was laughing, which did little for Madara's mood. He waved his hands in a universal calm down, calm down gesture that did nothing for Madara's temperament.

"Sorry, sorry," he said. "The unspoken thing between us, as your brother calls it?"

Madara's scowl vanished. So did his ability to formulate sentences.

Unaware of his dilemma, Hashirama soldiered on. "I know that's—er—very forward, but I really feel like it's time we discuss it."

It was currently lodged in Madara's throat. He wasn't in the mood for emotional conversations. He wasn't in the mood for emotions in general, actually. A good shunshin could get him away, though he wasn't sure where he'd escape. There would be no mercy from Izuna, it seemed, and Mito was the last person in the world who'd have pity on him. Especially for that particular conundrum.

Madara broke into a nervous sweat.

"We do everything together," said Hashirama, which was maybe an overstatement, because they didn't do everything together. They didn't sleep together, for one. They only shared breakfast three times a week. "You're like my other half—"

If Hashirama wasn't absolutely beautiful, Madara would gag.

"—whenever I imagined the future, back then, before and after fights," said Hashirama, before he paused and added with a sheepish grin, "sometimes during fights, too, I always pictured it with both of us. Side by side, always. It wasn't really… real if you weren't here."

At some point, Hashirama had taken his hands again. They weren't aching anymore. Hashirama gave out a heat that was like the sun, but more. It was softer, potent, like concentrated warmth, that swept Madara over and made it feel as though all his ailments were gone. Perhaps it was Hashirama healing him without even realizing. Maybe it was just that Madara really, really loved his best friend.

Hashirama had stopped talking, looking at him in a way that familiar. Madara was stuck on it, because that was how Izuna looked at Mito when he thought no one noticed. And Madara—he wasn't good at those kinds of things. He was a killer, he thrived in the frenetic chaos of battle, as blood flew and screams rent the air. He was not good at heart to hearts. He'd told Hashirama, once, in a fit of fury and black despair that they could no longer see eye to eye—that their dream had changed and they could never know each other's hearts truly.

(Maybe they couldn't have, but Hashirama was a shinobi and clever and just that little bit of deceitful enough to slither into the Uchiha stronghold himself. It was the height of stupidity and recklessness, and Madara hadn't hesitated to try and kill him.

Hashirama was strong. He'd always been strong, never really showed off what he could do, but in that moment he hadn't held back. Most likely because he'd known what would happen if Izuna died, what it would do to Madara.

He'd pushed Madara to the floor with tendrils of wood like the hardest iron and stepped around him, soft and apologetic, to where Izuna lay dying.

"We may go back to battling tomorrow," said Hashirama, once he was finished, and Izuna was sleeping fitfully, alive and healed and healthy. He knelt by Madara, eyes dark in the night. "But I won't be responsible for your brother's death. We still have the same dream—I know we do."

Madara managed to squirm and writhe out of the mokuton's bindings as the first rays of dawn appeared in the horizon. He turned over as Izuna stirred, eyes opening, and looked at Madara with nothing short of bewilderment.

Alive.

Madara accepted the peace offering. There wasn't much else he could do, after that.)

The truth was that they never really stopped reading each other. Madara, of course, had no idea how to stay that. For lack of anything better to say, he pieced together the scraps of words left in his brain. Even something stupid was better than nothing at all.

"You're too sappy."

Actually, in hindsight, silence was better.

Hashirama blinked, once. Slowly. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Was that a pun?"

It hadn't been a pun, not intentionally, but it worked. Hashirama had poured his heart and soul into those words, and Madara responded with a joke.

True to his nature, Hashirama dissolved into helpless laughter, as though Madara hadn't deflected his speech with a pun. It made Madara's heart soar. Hashirama's joy was a contagious thing, and he had put it there. Everything felt golden, warm as the sunlight pouring in through an open window. It was one of those moments Madara would keep tucked away, safe and secure, to pull out every now and again, and relive that feeling.

Hashirama had rocked back into the sofa in his mirth. He leaned forward now, hair sweeping over his shoulders, to press a kiss to Madara's forehead. It was soft and searing, and left his skin buzzing from the contact.

"Right, so why did you decide to come to me for healing today, anyway?"

Warmth had coated Madara head to toe like a blanket, and he was feeling slow and sluggish, so he didn't respond quite as quick, or waspish, as he would have otherwise. Still, it was Mito who dragged him there, and Mito who'd put the brush in his hands, though it was Izuna who gave him the idea—and Hashirama's attention span broke off halfway through his story.

"You paint?"

"No," he said, then, "Maybe. I would like to."

"Mito paints," said Hashirama, lighting up.

"I said that already."

"Oh, right."

"Stop sulking—you're being ridiculous."

There was no stopping Hashirama once he got into one of his moods, unless one was willing to do something he wanted. Really, that was how Hashirama got Madara to do half the sociable things he did, and it was a pattern he probably should have picked up on sooner. He decided it didn't matter that time, because his hands, while they still trembled, weren't uncontrollable anymore. There were aches and deep thrums through his body, his body's old war song, but he could ignore it.

It didn't take much convincing to get supplies from Mito. They had showed up at her door and she'd thrown everything at them, in a moment of severely lacking propriety. Her hair was mussed and Madara smelled his brother's favorite incense. He didn't want to think about what they were getting up to, so he'd nodded and snatched the scroll of sealed art supplies and ran.

His hands were still shaky. There were nights when his shoulders made it impossible to find a comfortable position, or his knees ached and burned and haunted his sleep.

And there was Hashirama, with his healing touch and gentle kindness. If, within the first three days of Madara surreptitiously moving in with Hashirama, most of Hashirama's loose change was put under lock and key out of concern of his rising gambling addiction, Madara could forgive the need. Hashirama assuredly put up with a lot more from his end.

The canvas they set up outside Hashirama's house, with a clear view of the entire village, was already taking shape. He'd painted familiar blue and lavender silhouettes of buildings. A ruby tower that represented the Hokage Tower, filling out shadows in a peculiar sort of way that made Madara deeply satisfied. The mountain was all grays and greens and browns, a finished bust of Hashirama's face on it.

"The future looks nice," said Hashirama, one arm leaned around Madara's waist. His rested his chin on Madara's shoulder. A crooked grin lit up his face. "You know? Because you're painting—"

"Yes, yes," said Madara, rolling his eyes, though there was no real irritation.

It was good having Hashirama in his life, so close all the time. Falling into the old habit of conditioning his hands, of injuring his already battered joints more, was impossible. Hashirama would slip his arms around Madara's waist, stealing kisses—and a part of Madara had worried. He'd worried the physical aspect would be too much, after a lifetime of associating touch with pain and fighting for survival. The fears were unwarranted. Hashirama was, as ever, good with people. He understood and that in and of itself was more mindboggling than it probably should have been.

Hashirama hummed against his throat. His voice was a rumble against Madara's back. "This is nice."

He was talking about more than the village. So much more.

Madara entwined one scarred, shaking hand in Hashirama's. And then went on to paint the shining future.

Notes: Crossposted from AO3. This is supposed to be for whumptober, but the whump is sort of weak... I mean, as an artist, writing the part where he was struggling to paint was like. so excruciatingly painful that i ended up shortening it.

Also, what Madara is going with his hands is a form of stimming. It's a bad form that his father encouraged when he was younger. Normally, for normal people with normal strength, who aren't shinobi, it probably wouldn't be QUITE as damaging, but would eventually start to affect the joints. THIS IS AN EXTREME CASE. Most stimming is completely harmless, so please continue to stim, those who do!