Madara wiped the sweat from his brow, inadvertently pouring a splash of water from his canteen onto his sunburned scalp. The sun had absolutely baked him – he could feel a fine sheen of silky sweat coating his bare chest.

"Alright, you buffoon, you can get off me now."

Hands swatted roughly at his chest, pushing Madara until he fell onto his rump beside Hashirama, who looked less than pleased to have lost their sparring match.

"You stink," Hashirama said with just the barest hint of a pout.

"That's the smell of a winner, my friend," Madara said with a wicked grin. He got up to his feet and held out his hand to Hashirama, who took it with begrudging grace.

"By my count, I've still got a sizeable lead over you, Mada-kun," Hashirama said teasingly. "Don't get all cocky just because you've won one spar."

Madara gave a sidelong glance to his childhood friend, holding back a happy, easy smile. The sun was beginning to set now. They had been out here on the cliffs all day.

It had been well over a year since Madara had unlocked his Sharingan. It had been over a year since he had decided that it would be acceptable to kill Hashirama should they meet in battle again.

Several times they had met in battle, and every time had been a victory for Hashirama. Every time Hashirama had hesitated. He just couldn't deliver that killing blow. Little did he know that a little piece of Madara died every single time he was defeated in battle, depending on his friend to stay his hand.

Should Madara ever win, he would do no such thing.

This didn't count, of course. These secret rendezvous, the illicit sparring sessions – it was all a distraction, yet practice at the same time. Even if he and Hashirama were friends, they could not live in peace together.

They were friends. That was how Madara had awakened his Sharingan, after all – a debt he would always owe Hashirama.

But the war was coming to a close soon, and neither of them could say what the result would be, whether something would change between them – or one of them ended up dead. Likely himself, Madara thought dryly.

Hashirama turned and met Madara's gaze, and for a moment, something deep inside Madara cracked, something hard yet fragile, something buried so deeply that he couldn't identify it.

"Do you think one day we'll actually do it?" he asked Hashirama.

Hashirama swiped the canteen from Madara's hand and took a long, loud, gulping swig. "Do what?" he asked, pushing it back toward Madara's chest.

"Establish peace?" Madara asked. "Create a place where children don't have to fight their parents' wars?"

A cloud passed between the sun and the earth, casting a shadow over Hashirama's face. It was a real shame, Madara thought, because Hashirama was the type of man who belonged to the sun. The shadows did him no justice.

"Of course we will," Hashirama said.

Madara frowned but Hashirama sounded so sure of himself that Madara didn't have the heart to disagree.

/

Moonlight found Madara on the same cliff later that evening. Hashirama had gone, ran off to meet his brother and the rest of his family for dinner some time ago. Madara thought of his own brother, Izuna, probably somewhere lamenting his older brother's absence. Izuna was like that – always clinging, wanting to know where Madara was.

But Madara just wasn't in the mood for that right now. Something about his sparring session with Hashirama earlier had gotten under his skin. They were enemies, except they weren't, and they were getting nowhere. The thought of having to kill Hashirama gutted him, and Madara hardened his heart around that weakness, caking bitterness and fear and shame around it until the vision of Hashirama in his head was only one of vengeance and anger.

It didn't exactly work. Madara knew Hashirama didn't want to kill him either. But what choice did they have? There was only one way to end a war once it had started.

And if Madara understood one thing about war and life and peace and friendship, it was that the only thing that truly mattered was power.

Hashirama and Madara could love each other all they wanted – and they did, Madara believed. But it didn't matter. War would claim at least one of them, and leave the other shattered. Or they'd both end up dead.

Madara reared back his fist and slammed it into a nearby tree, shattering the bark into rigid shards that exploded into the air around him. If he wanted to protect Izuna, he had to kill Hashirama. The Senju were stronger. They had more support. It didn't matter that their leader frequently snuck away to engage in friendly spars and conversation with the Uchiha leader – the enemy's leader.

If Madara wasn't careful, he would find himself defeated. Would Hashirama kill him? Or would he stay his hand for the sake of friendship like he always did?

He peered up into the moon's face, ignoring the blood dripping from his knuckles. He barely felt it. All he felt was the moon's righteousness, the way it seemed to caress his skin like satin and ink and milky tea.

Something about the moon was different, he thought, vaguely aware of something amiss. Was that Hashirama's face he was seeing in the moon? No, Hashirama belonged as much to the sun as any other creature of light did. Madara mused for a moment that it was his own face in the moon, and he cocked his head to the side, peering at it with curiosity.

There was a face there, alright – one that seemed garishly cartoonish and ugly. He wondered briefly if he had been captured in some sort of genjutsu, something he hadn't immediately noticed.

He rubbed at his eyes with sweaty palms, wincing as they began to sting under his less than gentle ministrations. His vision blurred. When his sight returned, the moon's face had tilted on an axis, facing farther away from him now.

He was hardly sure that it was a face at all anymore. He felt rather silly for thinking there was a face there at all. This was the moon, after all, and the moon was Madara's in the same way that the sun was Hashirama's. He couldn't explain what he meant by that, only that it was unerringly true. The moon was his.

Said moon still harbored a face somewhere in its rocky craters, and Madara squinted his eyes to see it better, filled with a sudden and unwelcome confusion. He had seen the moon a million times, and never had there ever been a face on it.

As he continued to stare at it, he felt a sort of drowsiness – the kind that naturally followed a day of heavy sparring (and perhaps some angry tree punching). Madara could think of nothing unnatural about being sleep at a time like this, so it was with what he presumed was common sense that he sat down beneath the tree he had just punched, and settled against the moss that had grown up from its trunk.

The moon was cheeky and bright tonight, and there was a bit of a chill in the air – a bit unusual for this time of year, Madara noted.

But then his eyes were closing. His lids felt far to heavy to hold open for much longer, and looking at the moon hurt now on account of its insane brightness. Madara just wanted to sleep, just for a second.

If only, he thought, he could harness the power of the moon like this and make people sleepy, like a genjutsu. If he could, then maybe he wouldn't have to be at war with the Senju. Maybe he could create a place with no war, and no moon or sun at all. Just peace.

The thought made a smile tug at the corner of his lips. It stayed there as he fell asleep with only the half face on the moon there to see it.

/

Madara's eyes had been welded shut. With the pads of his fingers, her rubbed at the sharp crust in the corners of his eyes, trying to hold back a wave of nausea. The earth seemed to tilt precariously beneath him and when he was finally able to tear his eyes open, the sun burned them.

He hissed as he carefully made his way to his feet, bracing his hand against the mossy trunk beside him.

Blearily, he surveyed the cliffside. The sun was high overhead now, at least noon, Madara gauged. Had he really slept for so long? Madara couldn't ever remember oversleeping. In fact, insomnia prevented him from sleeping at all most nights.

In spite of the fact that he hadn't slept well in some time, the long nap had not been so kind to him. His body still ached, his bones creaked and popped with every move he made. He felt as though he'd just been beaten to a pulp, but other than the friendly spar with Hashirama, he could think of nothing that would have left him in such condition.

Still a little confused, Madara began to amble back toward home when a peal of laughter rang out in the woods behind him.

It was definitely girlish, and definitely didn't belong up here on the cliffside. This was too far from any camps for children to be wandering, and with the ongoing war it was a dangerous place to be.

Merely curious, Madara scanned the woods with his Sharingan, masking his chakra quickly in case something more sinister was lurking out there.

He spotted her nestled in the complex curves of some tree roots, reclined back against them with casual leisure. In one hand she held a book, tittering at something on the pages. The other hand cradled the back of her head.

There was something unexpected about her that caught Madara off guard. He held his breath as he watched her. It wasn't the clothing, the likes of which he had never seen before. It wasn't even the pink hair, which, even though Madara would never have admitted to finding it aesthetically pleasing aloud, suited her well.

It must have been the weapons pouch hanging from her hip, the shin and wrist guards that denoted a more lethal woman than the pink hair would have him believe. She was a kunoichi.

But she was also reading, her guard completely down as Madara slunk into the shadows to observe her some more. What was she doing here? Was she a Senju?

She laughed again as she turned the page of her book. She crossed and uncrossed her legs while Madara watched. There was something pleasurable about watching her, and Madara understood his innate desire to, well, mate with her to put it simply. He was a man, after all – a man who had no sisters, whose mother had passed away some time ago. Rarely had he encountered women on the battlefield, and even when he had, he'd never quite admired them like this.

Suddenly she sat up, snapping her book shut. She let out an expletive, which made Madara's brow rise with amusement.

The girl stood and began to make her way out of the woods, stepping dangerously close to the tree Madara had been perched in. He shook his head, less than impressed by her perception.

His gaze followed her through the trees, and when she had emerged, he crept closer to the edge of the woods. Instead of taking the dirt path—

Madara blinked, realizing that there was no dirt path. Just the day before, he had used it to climb up to the cliffside to meet with Hashirama, and now it was gone.

He had hardly a moment to think about that as the pink haired girl made straight for the cliff's edge.

"Stop!" he yelled, just as she appeared to be jumping over the edge of it. The girl froze, and Madara froze, too, surprised at himself for the outburst. Stopping a girl from committing suicide was really more of a Hashirama kind of thing, but he wasn't here right now and Madara could at least try.

He stepped out from the woods, revealing himself to her in the full light of day.

"Are you trying to get yourself killed?" he asked, sounding more irritable than he would have liked. "Kunoichi or not, a fall from this height will kill you."

The girl's eyes – a wide, oceanic green, teeming with all kids of life, Madara's heart made quick, sharp note of – snapped to his. She immediately recognized his kekkei genkai and her gaze dropped to his feet. So maybe she wasn't as stupid as he may have thought.

"Sasuke?" she said, and her voice trembled.

"Who is Sasuke?" he asked with confusion. "He has these eyes, too?" Mentally, he checked off all the members of his clan who had awakened their Sharingan. None of them were named Sasuke, as far as he knew.

Her eyes drifted upwards, slowly and with sharp scrutiny. She wisely avoided his eyes, but her appraisal of him sent something sharp skittering down his spine. He watched with rapt attention as her feet slid into a fighting stance and her hand hovered over her weapons pouch.

It then occurred to him that she was likely here for the same reason he was – an illicit meeting with the enemy. So she had some sort of sordid romance with another Uchiha? Wise of him to have given her a fake name. Still, he would have to make sure to find out who was out here with her. They could pose a liability.

And then his heart ached, which was not a common feeling for him. Had she come here to fling herself off the cliff from sadness? The war was brutal, and if it stood between her and her lover, he could understand that kind of desperation. Madara often thought of the lengths to which he would go to save his brother.

But she had been laughing before, and that didn't seem like something a suicidal, war torn lover would do.

"You're Madara Uchiha," she breathed, her gaze dropped infuriatingly low at his collarbone. He longed for her to meet his gaze with those beautiful eyes of hers, but he couldn't blame her. "How is that possible?" she asked. "You should be long dead."

"I beg your pardon?"

This made her eyes dart up to his. They were confused and curious, and definitely afraid, but they still locked him into place. He was certain he wasn't in any kind of genjutsu, but something about her captivated him, and something close to a smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

A part of him was thrilled that she seemed afraid of him, and that she knew his name and recognized his face.

The girl remained frozen, and with his Sharingan he could see the faint tremble of her fingers, the way her chakra was racing through its pathways, even the pounding pulse that beat in her neck. She wasn't just afraid; she was terrified.

"I see my reputation precedes me," he said, not without a touch of arrogance. There was something very satisfying about seeing the pretty kunoichi squirm before him. "Are you a Senju?" he asked. "I know it must be hard to believe, but I mean you no harm."

"You don't?" she asked dryly. He wanted to laugh at her, but that would probably make her angry, and that was counterproductive to gaining intel from her – though he did wish to see her fight, as she looked prepared to do. He watched the muscles in her arms flex beneath her skin, likening her to a cat preparing to pounce – a lioness.

"Well, if you really are a Senju—" He watched her bristle, "Then I suppose I can understand your disbelief. I can assure you, though, this cliffside is no battleground. I don't think you'd consider it such, either, so if you must attack me, then let's go somewhere else."

Her eyes had long abandoned his, and she took a step backward, her heel coming dangerously close to the cliff's edge.

Madara wondered now if this girl actually did know what she was doing. She didn't seem suicidal – not even a little. And since he didn't peg her a stupid just yet, he glanced toward the expanse beyond the cliff with curiosity.

It was different now, though he couldn't say exactly why. The trees were fewer, but the ones still there were taller, thicker. It was as if he were looking at an image of the scene he knew so well instead of the real thing.

He took a few steps closer to the edge of the cliff, flicking his gaze to the girl, who appropriately cowered at his impending nearness.

"Where do you think you're going?" she asked with far more spice and sass than was expected from a trembling, frightened girl. He paused and turned to look at her, more than a little curious about that sharpness in her voice.

Up a little closer, he could see now that he had been terribly wrong about her eyes. They were hardly oceanic – no, they were as vibrant as the auroras he looked up at in the evenings, the ones he burned into his memory because they were easily the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, and even a war hero like Madara needed some serenity and beauty once in a while.

The color of her eyes brought the night sky to shame. There were extraordinary depths there, intelligence lurking beyond that fear. He could feel that the tomoe of his Sharingan were spinning now – naturally he needed to commit that face to memory. He didn't think he could forget if he tried, but now at least he knew for certain he would always be able to see this pretty face if he wanted to.

Said pretty face was contorted with fear, but the girl it belonged to manage to hold her ground in spite of it. He admired the little fool for that.

"You were waiting here for Sasuke, weren't you?" he asked accusingly, suddenly remembering that she was not his to admire. "Tell me about this Sasuke fellow. What does he look like?"

The girl's brows knit together in skeptical confusion. Madara was certain that she had been thrown for a loop as much as he had been. There was something about this chance encounter that was wrong. Everything was so close to how it was supposed to be, but just slightly off. The sky was the wrong shade of blue, and the sun wasn't beaming down as hotly as he remembered.

"Come now," Madara said impatiently, as she girl stared at some fixed point on his neck. "I've already established I have no intentions of hurting you. If you're here to meet with someone from my clan, I should like to know who it is."

Her fingers slipped into the weapons pouch at her hip and removed a kunai. She twirled it around her fingers, testing the weight he knew she was already familiar with. It was far from a threatening gesture – as if Madara Uchiha could be taken down with a simple kunai. Still, her message was clear.

"I won't hurt him either," he said. "I could hardly blame a healthy man for sneaking away to see such a beautiful girl."

The attempt at flattery succeeded. He watched some of the anger melt from her face, though confusion and fear were still there.

"At least tell me your name," he said as her fingers tightened around the kunai's handle.

She glanced over her shoulder at the drop behind her. If she intended to jump, he would have no choice but to stop her. There was no way he would let her die here – not without getting some information first.

The moment her foot began to inch further back toward the cliff, Madara launched himself forward and grabbed her wrist. He pulled her close to his chest, clinging onto her so that she could not wrest herself away and throw herself off the cliff.

But now he saw what she had intended to do. His mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened as he looked down below at the flourishing village that had definitely not been there yesterday. Colorful buildings sprawled before him, stretching out for miles. He could see a marketplace, bustling with people carrying baskets of food and linens, streets lines with restaurants and general stores and little cafes. His mind blanked as he gaped at it all – the sheer idea of a village so large, and so, so…

He glanced down at the cliff's edge, noticing the intricately carved… things in its side. They would provide nice footholds for the girl to jump down, he realized, if she were on her way back to that… that village.

"Let go of me," said a muffled voice in his chest, and he remembered that he still held her cradled against him as if he had just saved her from imminent death.

He released her, though he sorely missed the heat of her, even in the midday sun.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, now so far beyond confused that it looked like he would be needing her help rather than offering some to her.

She, too, seemed to be trying hard to reign in her confusion. Her eyes were unabashedly on his now, and the feeling of direct eye contact with her seemed to pull taut some string inside him that stretched from his chest all the way down to his feet.

"You look so young," she said almost reverently. "So much like…"

Her pale fingers reached up to touch his face. Madara felt a magnetic pull draw him toward her – and they were already standing so close. The more rational part of his brain told him not to let her touch him. Who knew what poisonous fingertips she might have had.

But she seemed to catch herself, and pulled her hand away before skin could contact skin.

"If you don't want to hurt me, then what are you doing here?" she demanded, and he was delighted to see that her cheeks were pink. "And, like…" she trailed away, and he felt a pang of sympathy for her, and then a pang for himself as well, because they were both very confused. "How are you here? I thought they buried your body."

At this, Madara narrowed his eyes. "My body?" he asked. "Oh god, am I dead?"

"Is it some sort of jutsu?" she asked, her eyes roving over him in a less than pleasurable way now. "You really are a thing to be admired, aren't you?" she asked quietly, more to herself than to him, though he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit to the way those words made his heart soar. "So goddamn smart and powerful, although…" Her eyes flicked up to his. "You seem different than I expected."

He gave her a dry look, unimpressed with her tone. He opened his mouth to speak to her, but she began to walk in a circle around him, eying him with the same kind of interest she might observe a particularly odd animal with.

"This age thing – you should be well into your, what, sixties, seventies by now?" she mused. Madara blinked at this as something close to understanding began to dawn over him. "Your Sharingan aren't the Mangekyou, so you must not have taken your brother's eyes yet."

"What?" he snapped. "I would never do such a thing," he said, pushing down any thoughts he might have entertained about his brother's safety and whereabouts. He needed to be focused on the present, on this mysterious kunoichi who was currently appraising him with languid scrutiny.

She raised her brows, "oh?" she asked. "That's the way it was always told in the history books. I imagine something must have changed, because you definitely had – or will have – the Mangekyou Sharingan."

His mind reeled over her words, and it seemed that she might have put it together far faster than he did.

"What is that place?" he asked, pointing down the side of the cliff toward the village below.

"It's Konoha," she explained, and she seemed less afraid now, though she still clung tightly onto the kunai in her fist, and held her guard up appropriately high. She looked far more like a kunoichi now. "The Leaf Village. My home." She paused for a moment, and then decided that she could ask some questions of her own, too.

"How old are you?" she asked, and he wasn't sure he wanted to tell her that, but something compelled him to, and he desperately latched onto the idea that it was certainly not those mesmerizing eyes.

"Twenty."

"Why were you up here on the cliffside?" she asked.

He considered lying to her, but he couldn't come up with any real reason for that. Whether she was Senju or not, he had already decided he couldn't kill her. It would be a real tragedy to rob the world of her kind of beauty. Peering at her now, he could swear he saw a bit of Hashirama in her. And what would Hashirama think of this pretty little thing? Did he actually know her?

"I met a friend here," he said vaguely, but honestly. "And then I fell asleep against that tree." He pointed to the tree. "When I woke up, I heard you laughing and I…"

The rest didn't need to be said. He watched her frown and shake her head. "I would have seen you," she said. "There's no way. I passed that tree on my way up here and you were not there."

He shrugged. "I sparred on this cliff yesterday, and that village was not there."

They shared a glance between them, and with a slow cresting sort of clarity, they both realized that Madara had somehow been propelled fifty-odd years into the future.

/

AN: I know this isn't a KisaSaku or a KakaSaku like I promised, but the idea just came to me, and idk, I liked the way this chapter came out. I've got another chapter already written that I will post tomorrow. I'll gauge interest in this fic over the weekend, and if y'all like it I'll keep writing. If not, I'll scrap the whole thing and probably work on a KisaSaku instead. Let me know what you guys want. AND THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!