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They hadn’t come up with anything this stupid since they were twelve, Madara thought as he stood across from Hashirama. Two banners, one bearing the symbol of the Senju clan and another bearing that of the Uchiha, twisted in the breeze. Hashirama’s hair was pulled and tangled by the wind, and Madara imagined that his was fairly knotted by this point as well. He and Hashirama were so similar that, even after years apart, they had essentially ended up with the same hairstyles.
Prominent members of each clan, as well as the subclans, were gathered around them. Madara could hear the harsh whispers of his clan behind him. Many of them distrusted this idea. They saw it as defeat, surrender. Based on the way Hashirama’s mouth was set into a hard line, his lips pulled tight and thin, he could hear the Senjus sharing similar ideas over his shoulder.
Nobody said that uniting two warring clans would be easy, but Madara was up to the challenge if Hashirama was. A grin crept into the corner of Madara’s mouth, and Hashirama’s face broke into a smile as well. Tobirama was glaring at Madara from over Hashirama’s shoulder, and his expression did not change despite Hashirama’s easy smile.
They clasped hands for a second, fingernails digging into each other’s palms, and then Hashirama pulled Madara into a tight hug. Nobody thought much of the fact that the alliance ceremony seemed to be a mish-mash of Uchiha and Senju wedding rituals. Everyone was too busy cheering and trying to believe that this wasn’t all some elaborate assassination scheme.
The ceremony had taken place on a small strip of unclaimed land between the Senju and Uchiha territories. Previously it was a no-man’s land, filled with blackened pits in the dirt and unclaimed/unidentified/unwanted bodies. However, the Senjus had cleaned up the area for the ceremony. Hashirama himself used his jutsu to grow some trees and flowers. They were trying to cover the scars in the land, and Madara spent a fair amount of time trying to untangle what implications sat there.
But as the sun began to set and the celebrations in this small neutral patch of dirt spilled into Senju and Uchiha territory, Madara decided that he needed to untangle implications that were significantly less grand. So, he stepped into Hashirama’s tent and let the heavy canvas flap fall back into place behind him.
Hashirama was bent over his desk, back to Madara, writing out what appeared to be letters. Tobirama was there too; Hashirama’s little shadow, still filled with that rage and distrust that his brother and Madara were trying so hard to set aside. His arms were crossed across his chest and he leaned against Hashriama’s desk. Glaring at Madara, although chances are he had been glaring before Madara even stepped into the tent.
The tent was very small, and barely had room for the three of them. The desk was opposite Madara, and yet Tobirama and Hashirama were only two paces away. This close and Madara could hear them breathing, could hear the light hitch in Hashirama’s breath.
“Tobirama, can you send these out for me? To the Umashimai, Takodoro, and Ushimizu clans.” Hashirama said quietly, “and then you should go join the festivities.”
“What about the fourth one?” Tobirama asked. He took the stack of papers from Hashriama’s hands without taking his eyes off Madara.
“Uzumaki, of course.”
“Consider it done,” Tobirama replied. He continued glaring, and Madara stared back wordlessly. “I’ll come back when I’ve sent them. I’m not much for festivities.”
“No, go have fun.” Hashriama’s voice carried a note of authority and finality that Madara couldn’t recall hearing before. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Tobirama left the tent in no hurry whatsoever, brushing past Madara with less force than a push, but his displeasure at Madara’s presence was still clear.
Hashirama stood and stretched before finally turning to face Madara. “Sorry about Tobi. He doesn’t believe us, that we can pull this off.”
Madara nodded. “I doubt Izuna would believe it either, were he here.”
They were silent for a moment. Hashirama respectfully let Madara have a second of mourning, and waited for Madara to pick up the conversation again.
Madara glanced around the tent as he chose his next words, using the opportunity to take in his surroundings with more leisure than before. There was a simple stand to his left holding a pitcher of water and a basin for washing. Against the right-hand wall of the tent lay a carefully folded bedroll. The desk behind Hashirama had the Senju clan symbol etched into the each drawer. It was clearly old, with the corners worn from years of use. Probably Hashirama’s father’s. Maybe it was used for the official business of the Senju clan head. The Uchiha had similar traditions. Large stones with carved secrets, rules for how clan meetings were conducted, ceremonies arranged as soon as a child had awoken their sharingan.
“The ceremony,” Madara finally said. He looked away from the Senju symbol on the bottom drawer of the dresser and finally met Hashirama’s dark eyes.
“The ceremony,” Hashirama repeated. There was a teasing lilt to his the words.
“The handshake. It reminded me of Senju wedding ceremonies. Based on what I’ve gathered from our intelligence on your clan. I’m sure your clansmen thought it was a coincidence, but—”
Hashirama crossed his arms over his chest and bent over, his entire body shaking with a barely contained laugh. Madara suddenly felt ice surge through his veins, and he looked away from Hashirama. He’d misinterpreted. Madara had instructed the Uchiha members of the ceremony committee to mimic the banners used in Uchiha weddings, and was surprised—relieved, even—to see that Hashirama had done nearly the same thing with his section of the ceremony. He’d thought that Hashirama had received his subtle sign and was returning it, that Hashirama was offering—
“I could say the same about those banners.” Hashirama straightened back up and wiped a tear from his eye. Once his breathing had steadied, he took a few steps forward, to the edge of Madara’s personal space. The ice in his veins was replaced with fire in only a matter of seconds. The change was jarring, and Madara squeezed his eyes shut until the moment of lightheadedness passed. They hadn’t been this close off the battlefield, free of bloodlust, in years. Not since they were teetering on the brink of adulthood. So much had changed since then.
Madara looked back up. Hashirama was no longer smiling, and his lips were pulled thin like they had been at the ceremony. Displeasure? Fear?
“Now that we’re alone,” Hashirama began, “I suppose we can talk about the more… personal aspects of this alliance. No need for veiled wedding references.” Hashirama took another step forward. That hard edge his eyes had in battle and around Tobirama was gone. His eyes softened back to the ones Madara recognized from years prior. Hashirama took a deep breath and Madara forgot to breathe. “I wanted to make sure we’re on the same page. It’s okay, Madara, if you don’t want the same thing I do.”
“I do want it,” Madara whispered, and then Hashirama had closed the space between them and wrapped his arms around Madara’s torso, his face pressed into the space between Madara’s shoulder and jaw. This close, Madara could feel Hashirama’s fluttering, unsteady heartbeat. Madara hugged Hashirama back, fingertips pressing into ribs. Instead of lingering in the hug for seconds as they had at the ceremony, they stood in silence in the tent for what felt like long-awaited hours, body heat seeping between them.
When Hashirama finally pulled away, he took a single step back and draped his hands on Madara’s shoulders. As if he was scared to break physical contact. Madara didn’t want to break contact either. Didn’t want to impede this strange momentum.
So, Madara closed his eyes and leaned forward to press his lips against Hashirama’s.
Truth be told, Madara had no clue what he was doing. It was embarrassing to be at his age, to be so well-versed in matters of war and violence and death, and yet know nothing about how to do… this. But Hashirama knew. Madara had trusted that he would.
After a few moments of Madara pressing his unmoving and closed lips against Hashriama’s, Hashirama took control. His hand slid up Madara’s shoulder and came to rest at the base of his neck, fingers tangled in his mess of hair and bare palm against Madara’s clammy skin. The kiss became wetter and messier and Madara didn’t care. He just leaned into Hashirama’s warmth and rested his hands on Hashirama’s hips.
Without breaking the kiss, Hashirama began pulling Madara backwards, moving with blind sure steps that Madara trusted and followed. Something solid pressed into Madara’s thigh, and he took the opportunity to break the kiss for a few breaths. Hashirama clearly knew how to coordinate kissing and breathing, but Madara had no clue.
They had moved to the back of the tent and somehow turned around so Madara’s back was to the desk; one of the drawer handles was digging into his leg.
Hashirama gave Madara the time to catch his breath, but didn’t move away. He stayed pressed against Madara, resting their foreheads together and calmly breathing in the same air.
When Madara placed his hand against Hashirama’s jaw, Hashirama kissed him. It was a slower kiss than the first, and Hashirama’s hands didn’t stay still. They slid down Madara’s chest and slipped into the opening of his robe. Madara jumped when Hashirama’s fingers grazed the flat of his stomach, but then pressed into the warm touch.
“We don’t have to,” Hashirama said. “I’m sure you haven’t done anything like this.” His hand started to retreat. Hashirama started to retreat. “It’s okay.”
Madara grabbed Hashirama’s wrist and kept him from pulling away. Hashirama grinned at Madara, eyes bright and playful. Despite all the years, they were both still fluent in this unspoken language. Madara moved forward for a third kiss, and Hashirama met him halfway.
Madara let Hashirama’s wrist go, and he immediately began fumbling around in Madara’s clothes again, deft fingers sorting through layers of cloth until he found Madara’s cock. He was already hard, and between gasping and pressing his hips forward Madara did not have time to think about how embarrassing or compromising this situation was.
Hashirama’s mouth made its way along Madara’s jawline as he stroked Madara’s cock. It only took a minute or two before Madara was growling into Hashirama’s ear and cumming into the palm of his hand.
The warm buzzing of afterglow tingled beneath Madara’s skin as he sat back on the desk, crinkling and folding papers and upsetting the inkstone under his ass. He pulled Hashirama forward and dug through his robe and underclothes until he found Hashirama’s cock. The angle was different but Madara had plenty of experience masturbating and was confident in his ability to get Hashirama off.
Madara breathed in the smell and sweat of the crook of Hashirama’s neck and adjusted his grip and speed until he found something that made Hashirama’s hips jerk and his breath hitch. He lasted longer than Madara had but only by a minute, and came with a loud groan and nails digging into the backs of Madara’s arms.
Madara knew he should go back to his tent. Various prominent and drunk Uchihas would be looking for him, potentially even finding his absence as a sign of treason. But when Hashirama laid out his bed rolls as Madara wiped himself clean in the water basin, he decided that he had spent long enough sleeping alone.