Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Footsteps alert his sharp ears to his aniue’s presence long before he’s found. He’s discovered a good spot this time, far better than his cramped nook between the old, retired tatami mats stuffed deep in the dojo’s closet. 

Between all the suffocating dust motes, the damp air, and the black mold creeping up the walls, it wasn’t exactly ideal, but it had been small and secluded and that’s what had mattered. Regardless, his aniue found that one, so now any time he disappears that’s the first place they check. 

This time, though, he’s found a small cupboard just large enough for him to sit upright inside of, tucked away in an abandoned store house on the edge of their village. There’s more bugs here ( eight hundred and forty three spiders in this room alone ), but they’re more like a soft, effervescent glow on the edges of his consciousness. Nothing to hide from.

And he does that a lot- hiding, that is. His brain is so loud all the time, and with the bright, passionate, fiery chakra burning around him from all sides, it’s all he can do to keep from going insane. It’s starting to become unbearable, but he thinks his aniue has figured it out. Let it not be said that his aniue was anything less than perceptive when it came to his younger brothers.

His aniue is brighter than most of the people who surround him, and sometimes he’s not sure if it’s a blessing or a curse. 

On one hand, it gives him something to focus on; a way to block out the constant assault on his senses with reliability. On the other, his aniue is absolutely blinding. He has more chakra than most of the active shinobi combined, and he’s not even started puberty yet. Chichi-ue is terribly proud - in his own twisted way - and beats that pride into his aniue until he’s painted in galaxies of purples, blacks and blues. 

His small, slight fingers twist worn fibers of an empty flour bag cushioning his bony backside from the splintered wood beneath him. There’s a small pile of broken strings by the door, leaning precariously to one side, a single disturbance away from collapsing under their own ill-aligned weight. He doesn’t remember doing that. 

Footsteps stop directly in front of his hidden nook, and he hears light shuffling as his aniue hesitates.

“Kakashi?” comes a soft voice, the speaker bending down and brushing his fingers against the door. “What are you doing all the way out here, sweetheart?”

Kakashi doesn’t respond, but he knows it’s not exactly surprising. He hasn’t spoken a single word since he woke up here, after all.

“Come on, sweetie. Ryouta hasn’t seen you all day. Have you at least eaten?” his aniue asks, slowly prying the broken door open.

His pile collapses. Kakashi frowns, brow furrowing.

“Oh, um, sorry about that,” his aniue says, startlingly sincere in all that it’s awkward. “We can make a new one?”

Kakashi blinks slowly, shaking his head after a few moments of silence. It’s… not important. 

His aniue sighs. “So you haven’t eaten, then. Kakashi, sweetie, you know you can’t be doing that. You make me worry.”

Kakashi isn’t sure what that has to do with anything, but slowly raises his arms in the universal signal of ‘pick me up, now,’ and watches as his aniue’s face crumbles.

“Alright, alright. Come on, let’s go,” his aniue says. “You know I can’t stay mad at you when you look like that.”

He shifts forward, tucking his hands underneath Kakashi’s armpits and hauling him out, pressing the younger boy against his chest. Kakashi tucks his head underneath his aniue’s chin, clenching his hands into fists and squeezing his eyes shut. He doesn’t even realize he’s faintly trembling until his aniue starts gently hushing him, brushing a hand through his tangled hair and pressing him even further against his collarbone.

“Figures you would be a sensor to put even me to shame,” his aniue sighs. “I’m sorry I can’t make it better, Kakashi.”

Kakashi just shakes his head, bunching some of his aniue’s haori in his hands to pull himself even closer. He understands why his aniue can’t help. If he asked around, chances were news would get back to Chichi-ue, and with all the trouble his aniue goes through to protect Kakashi and his siblings, all it would do is make things worse. Kakashi knows this - Ryouta and Izuna too - so he stays quiet and stationary, meditating the way Naruto used to talk about in an attempt to make it better.

Sometimes it works. Sometimes his tiny, useless body gives out on him halfway through and he’s left dazed and exhausted in any number of hidden cracks and crannies around the village. That’s usually how his aniue finds him, weekly outings turning into biweekly, then daily. His brain just can’t handle the constant influx of information, and when he finally shuts it down, he’s stuck inside his head reliving memories of a Konohagakure not yet built, his fist smashing through chest after chest, a bloody chipped mask dangling from limp fingers. 

It seems, in any life, he just cannot win. His aniue has taken to coddling him, carrying him from place to place and handling him delicately, like uncured leather. His clan thinks he’s sickly. His chichi-ue thinks he’s useless. His Kyoudai know differently.

Too much chakra, constantly leaking around the edges and following along behind him like a bad omen. According to his aniue, he shines like a beacon to anyone with even a whisper of sensing capabilities, which is a massive security risk. His aniue sleeps with Kakashi tucked underneath his arm, pressed so tightly against the rhythmic movement of his chest that sometimes, Kakashi forgets to breathe. 

When Kakashi sleeps, it’s short and sporadic, often abruptly interrupted by either Izuna’s rowdy chakra bouncing off the walls or his own twisted night terrors. His aniue never asks, but Kakashi knows it eats at him.

The closer they drift towards the village center, the more chakra signatures begin to assault him from every angle. Kakashi squeezes his eyes shut hard enough that colors dance off his eyelids, but it doesn’t do him any good. The world is agonizing in its vivid splashes of color, so bright it scorches whatever senses he has left intact by the end of the day. Meaningless words wash over him as various members of their clan bow and offer respectful greetings to their heir, his aniue’s chin brushing his head as he nods in return.

“Ah, Madara-nii-sama!” comes a bright voice, a body only slightly smaller than his aniue’s running up from behind and skidding to a stop in a sloppy bow across from them. Kakashi can feel as his aniue shifts in surprise at the out of character display, stopping and settling into a wider stance.

“Hikaku-kun,” His aniue murmurs, lightly transferring Kakashi to his hip. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, Madara-nii-sama, I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if I could come and train with Izuna tonight?” Hikaku inquires politely, rising out of his bow to show off a flushed face and a shy grin.

Kakashi feels his aniue take a step forward, settling his now free hand into Hikaku’s tangled hair, ruffling slightly.

“You know you’re always welcome at the main house, Hikaku-kun,” His aniue admonishes lightly, allowing his hand to trail off the boy’s head as he steps past and continues on his way.

“Ah, thank you so much Madara-nii-sama!” Hikaku whoops before slapping a hand over his mouth, blushing.

His aniue just chuckles softly, gesturing over his shoulder for the wayward Uchiha to follow. Kakashi feels as the boy springs forward, hesitating only a moment before lightly grabbing his aniue’s sleeve and following along diligently. Kakashi stirs slightly as he senses Hikaku’s attention turn to him.

“Hello, Kakashi-kun,” he says softly, in the same tone nearly everyone has adopted when talking to him now-a-days. It’s entirely his aniue’s fault, but he can’t say anything when it does, actually, aggravate his senses less. “Another bad day today?”

Kakashi actually manages to pry his face away from his aniue’s neck for a moment, blinking blearily at Hikaku before swaying his head side to side. Exhausting his social battery for the day, he slumps back into his aniue’s neck and sighs soundlessly.

“Was that a no?” Hikaku asks, not quite sure what to make of the interaction.

“More of a so-so, I believe,” His aniue replies, nuzzling the top of Kakashi’s head now that both hands are preoccupied.

Hikaku frowns and pulls his aniue’s sleeve a bit, pulling his attention back to him. “Is that normal? I feel like he’s been having more than-“

“Hikaku-kun,” His aniue cuts the boy off sharply.

Hikaku glances around and takes in the faces of his clan, pointedly looking away with their ears conveniently directed towards them.

“Sorry Madara-nii-sama,” Hikaku mumbles, staring down at his feet.

“Don’t worry too much, Hikaku-kun,” His aniue says, face soft as he looks down at the chastised boy. “Just remember there is a time and place for every conversation, yes?”

“Yes, Madara-nii-sama,” Hikaku mumbles even softer this time, sticking himself closer to his arm.

His aniue gives Hikaku a pitying look, tucking him against his side. He really is much too soft on the boys, Kakashi thinks, but he would never express such a thing. He hasn’t had to walk anywhere he hasn’t wanted to in months, and who is Kakashi to ruin the only good thing he has going for him? 

After several more minutes of walking, they cross through the gates marking the main house of Taijima’s children; separate from his own dwellings. His chichi-ue couldn’t be bothered to raise his own heirs, and had often foisted them off onto clan elders or, more commonly, Hikaku’s haha-ue until his aniue was old enough to take care of them all himself. 

Kakashi wasn’t sure if eleven years on this planet was old and worldly enough to be raising children, but he himself had been cooking in an apartment on his own by the time he was five at one point in time. It was probably fine. Izuna seems mostly normal, and Ryouta does a good job of pretending, at least.

His aniue had older brothers himself previously, Kakashi knows, but he doesn’t talk about them much. It makes Kakashi wonder, sometimes, with just how overprotective his aniue is, exactly how they treated him. It also makes him cling just that much tighter to his aniue on dark evenings.

There’s clattering on the engawa as another blindingly bright chakra signature bursts through the door, flinging itself at his aniue.

“Madara-nii!” Izuna cries, crashing into his side.

“Ah, Izuna, watch it!” His aniue yelps, pulling Kakashi up higher and inadvertently jostling him harder than Izuna ever would have managed to. “You’re going to squish Kakashi! And greet our guest first, you brat!”

“Maa, but it’s just Hikaku-nii,” Izuna whines, ignoring the flat look the boy in question shoots his younger cousin.

His aniue just sighs as Izuna detaches his pudgy limbs and flings himself at Hikaku instead, the two boys breaking into squabbling almost immediately. 

“For such a polite boy, he sure is a terror when it comes to Izuna,” his aniue says into Kakashi’s hair as Hikaku uses his ever-so-slight height advantage to lift one of Izuna’s sandals he’d somehow managed to wrestle off the boy above his head. Izuna shrieks like a banshee, hopping around on one foot while swinging his fists at the opposing boy. Hikaku just smirks. “I swear Izuna brings out the worst in him.”

Kakashi can’t help himself but nod against his aniue’s collarbone, still struggling to connect the shy, well mannered boy he knows Hikaku as to the borderline sadistic terror he becomes around Izuna. Perhaps it’s his aniue’s influence. Sage only knows the family carries a strong dose of the maniacally crazy gene.

His aniue hums, brushing his now free hand up Kakashi’s back and stepping across the doorframe, deigning to ignore the chaos behind him. “Tadaima Kaerimashita,” he calls, just loud enough to carry.

“Okairinasai, Onii-sama!” comes a faint, if excited reply. Fast footstep approach before another, smaller body appears from around the corner, trotting up to his aniue. “You found our wandering Otouto, then?”

“So I did, Ryou. He’s found a new hiding place, it would seem,” his aniue agrees, rubbing circles now on Kakashi’s back. He shivers, pressing closer. “At least this one isn’t infested with termites, even if it is a bit out of the way.”

Ryouta wrinkles his nose, reaching over to gently pat Kakashi’s ankle in reassurance. “I suppose that’s better. I’m still concerned about all the mold spores he probably inhaled in the last place. I’m telling you, we need to just burn those stupid mats.”

His aniue just sighs and shakes his head, ushering his younger brother further into the house. “I wouldn’t worry about it so much. That cloth he keeps tied around his face all the time probably filtered a majority of it out, anyway.” 

His aniue tugs at the (functional, albeit improvised) mask on Kakashi’s face, resulting in a weak slap on his wrist. Chuckling, his aniue drops the hand and mercilessly ruffles Kakashi’s hair.

“Such an adorable little face, and yet you insist on covering it all the time. I’ll never understand that,” he teases, playing with the tied end of the mask on the back of Kakashi’s head.

He swings blind, again, and squirms in dissatisfaction as his aniue just laughs while Ryouta radiates amusement from his side. Menaces, the both of them.

“Why don’t you take him into the Ima while I make something for us to eat. We have an extra mouth tonight, so I’ll need more rice than normal,” his aniue says, carefully transferring Kakashi’s small frame into Ryouta’s outstretched arms.

“Is that what all that commotion outside was?” Ryouta asks, adjusting Kakashi over his hip so he doesn’t drop him. “I heard Izu-nii shrieking about a shoe or something, but I just assumed he’d fallen in the pond again.”

His aniue snorts and rolls his eyes, sending a baleful look towards the door. “No, he’s just polluting Hikaku’s mind, like always.”

“Ah, Hikaku-nii is here?” Ryouta asks, eyes lighting up. “Maybe Izu-nii will be too tired to be an idiot tonight, then.”

His aniue huffs out another laugh, patting Ryouta on the head. “Try to get him to sleep, yeah?”

“Yes, Onii-sama.”

“Oi, it’s just Hikaku here tonight. No need for the stuffy formalities,” Madara grumbles as Ryouta sways towards the Ima, using chakra to balance his uneven weight.

Kakashi squirms at the flare of light scorching his senses, squeezing Ryouta’s arm when he apologizes for it.

Not like it’s his fault Kakashi is more than half his size. His brother is only seven, after all. They stagger into the room, the tatami mats under Ryouta’s feet making light thwaps! with every uneven step before he pauses at the corner, lowering Kakashi gently onto the pile of blankets and cushions they’ve amassed.

“You’re almost getting too big for me to carry anymore, Kakashi-kun! You need to stop growing so fast,” Ryouta complains with a wry grin, fluffing his Otouto’s wild hair. His smile intensifies at the aggravated puff of air he gets in return, the equivalent of a groan in ‘Kakashi language.’ “Ah, but I’m sure I’ll always be taller than you. You’re so slight an oddly placed sneeze could blow you over.”

Kakashi actually opens his eyes and glares at Ryouta, the tiny sadist taking far too much after his aniue for Kakashi to be anything less than suspicious.

“Alright, alright,” he placates, not dropping the grin. “But you really do need to sleep more. Anija is worrying himself sick over you, you know.” Plopping down next to Kakashi, he pulls the younger boy into his lap and threads his fingers through silky black hair. “I never will understand why you hate sleeping so much. It’s my favorite part of the day.”

Kakashi just sighs, burrowing his face into Ryouta’s lap to block out the physical light. It does nothing for the chakra signatures all around him, pulsating as life itself moves on its way just outside their room. The family of eight field mice making themselves at home in their pantry is something he should definitely tell his aniue about. There’s a snake in the tree just outside their window, devouring her fill of eggs as an upset shrike watches on, defenseless. On the east end of the village a young shinobi has just cut himself with a sloppily thrown shuriken, while to the north a young couple hurriedly mashes their chakra together for the first time as they hide behind a storehouse. There’s a young man watching them from the inside of the building, but he doesn’t seem too inclined to stop them. Kakashi pointedly directs his focus elsewhere.

When Ryouta feels him shift uncomfortably, he places a hand over Kakashi’s nape and begins to hum. It’s an old tune that Kakashi is fairly certain his Haha-ue used to hum when she was alive, for the sparse handful of minutes she was ever allowed to spend with him. He’d been whisked away to live with his Kyoudai the second he was weaned, and an infection had taken her and his two younger siblings before they’d ever opened their eyes.

Kakashi doesn’t really remember her, doesn’t grieve her. He’d lost far too many precious people before to spare even a single thought for her soul. He wonders now, though, if she was ever properly put to rest. If anyone ever comes and speaks to her. 

He certainly won’t be the one to start such a tradition. He’d done enough of that before.

Ryouta does manage to be somewhat successful in quieting Kakashi’s constantly overwhelmed senses, however. The hand rubbing his back is a good thing to focus on, and he lets his thoughts drift, directionless. It doesn’t take too terribly much longer before his brain follows suit, succumbing to days worth of exhaustion and sleepless nights. He’s going to miss dinner, now, but he’s sure his aniue will stuff more food than his tiny body can handle down his throat tomorrow. He's good like that.

Chapter Text

Madara is scared. He’s not a coward, neither is he a fool. He’s only been on this earth for eleven short years, but he knows better than to pretend like nothing bothers him. They do, and it’s pushing past that fear that gives him his strength. His courage. It’s saved his life on the dozens of missions he’s been sent on in the last handful of years; imagining the faces of his younger brothers being viciously beaten in the name of training the same way he was causing bile to rise in his throat as he tears out the ones adjacent. He loves his family. They’re the reason he wakes up, and the reason he keeps fighting, no matter what the odds.

He and his chichi-ue don’t interact much. There’s training, of course. His chichi-ue seems to take a sadistic sort of pleasure in beating his chakunan black and blue; sending Madara home covered in a myriad of bruises and blistering burns. Outside of training, the only speaking they do revolves around his brothers, and how their training is going. 

Or, more recently, the lack thereof. 

The primary point of contention between the two of them currently is Kakashi. When he was younger, Madara didn’t have to worry about his chichi-ue taking interest in a toddling child who wasn’t yet old enough to handle a kunai, let alone begin seriously training. Now, though, Kakashi is four - almost five, actually - and in the eyes of his feuding clan, plenty old enough to begin taking missions.

So Madara is scared.

His chichi-ue knows something is wrong with his youngest, and for the third time this year has attempted to remove him from Madara’s care. He calls him ‘too soft,’ and ‘unwilling to push his kyoudai.’ That’s far from the truth, though, and the fact that both Izuna and Ryouta are still alive despite the courier missions having been shoved on them should be proof enough. They haven’t been sent to the front lines yet, thank the Sage, but it’s only a matter of time before his chichi-ue won’t let him stall any longer.

And with Kakashi, he’s hit the end of that rope. His chichi-ue thinks Kakashi is sickly and underdeveloped, but he couldn’t be further from the truth. Kakashi is stronger than even Madara can hope to be someday, and he’s less than half his age. His otouto’s chakra pours out from his soul uncontrollably, brushing over everything in the vicinity and giving him an acute picture of his surroundings. Madara had known that Kakashi was a sensor to some degree - the constant head shaking and reluctance to open his eyes a dead giveaway - but as he’s gotten older Madara can tell it’s getting worse.

He doesn’t sleep anymore. Barely eats. Only interacts with his direct family and Hikaku, if they’re lucky. Kakashi is in pain daily, his chichi-ue believes the best way to remedy that is by beating him until he drops, and Madara has no way to fix it.

He’s the worst Anija on the planet. Of this, he’s certain.

So maybe it’s the stress of the situation that drives him out. Maybe it’s the fear of waking up one morning and finding his precious otouto gone from his arms, locked away in the Clan Head’s quarters with his chichi-ue. Maybe it’s the fact that, no matter what he does, he knows he will never truly be able to truly protect Kakashi, especially from himself.

He stands in front of a racing river, and tries to skip a stone across the surface. It jumps pathetically a few times before plunking straight down with a pathetic splash. He glares murder at the ripples left over from his stone, grumbling as he bends down to grab a new one.

“This time,” he mutters, “I’ll make it to the other side.”

Just as he’s winding up to throw it, a chakra signature pings in the back of Madara’s mind and he jerks to the side, snatching the projectile aimed for the back of his head out of mid air. With a snarl, he falls into a ready stance, ready to beat the absolute living shit out of the idiot that would dare try to ambush him from behind, only to be met with… sniveling? 

Madara stares in silent disbelief at a boy about his age, curled into his knees with what looks like a literal dark cloud hanging above his head as he rolls a pebble back and forth in front of him. Madara can faintly hear him mumbling something about how he ‘only wanted to show him how to do it,’ and ‘wasn’t trying to upset him.’ Madara blinks, unclenching his fist to reveal a perfectly smooth skipping stone instead of the spool of ninja-wire he originally thought he was dealing with.

Blinking in utter confusion, Madara casts a subtle Kai, but nothing changes. He’s still standing here, staring at the downtrodden boy poking at rocks on the shore.

What the actual-

“Who the hell are you?” Madara snaps, incredulous.

The boy pauses and gazes up at him, still looking absolutely gutted. “My name’s Hashirama, but I can’t tell you my first name,” he says, eyes falling back to the ground.

“Okay Hashirama,” he sneers, still thrown by… whatever the hell is happening here, “why the fuck are you throwing rocks at my head? Do you have a death wish? ”

“I wasn’t throwing it at your head! I just wanted to be your rival!” Hashirama wails, snatching up another stone and hurling it at the river.

Madara watches in a detached sort of shock as it skips across the river and lands on the opposite bank effortlessly. Clutching the rock in his hand even tighter his gaze snaps back to the other boy.

“So you just came to show off then?” Madara scoffs. “Fuck off, asshole.”

“No!” Hashirama shrieks, waving his hands wildly in front of his face. “You just- you gotta throw it higher than you would expect is all. You’re so vulgar…”

Madara chooses to ignore the muttered slight of the extremely odd boy, instead turning to the river and brushing his thumb over the smooth stone still in his palm. Drawing his arm back, he hesitates before throwing it like he normally does, remembering the strange hold this Hashirama kid had kept on his own. Readjusting, he leads with his index finger instead, hurling the rock at the water. The angle seems right, and he’d aimed higher than last time, so maybe-

The rock hits the water with a flat slap and sinks immediately.

Madara stares in shocked outrage for a moment before laughter erupts from behind him, the sound of a hand slapping over a mouth followed directly thereafter.

“Sh-shut up, idiot!” Madara yells, whirling back to face the other boy. “I only messed up because you were watching me, and that was way too much pressure! I bet if you weren’t here I wouldn’t have even-“

Madara cuts himself off as Hashirama deflates again; curling into himself and allowing his eyes to mist over in despair. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had performance anxiety, or I would have looked away I promise,” he whimpers, poking at the ground again.

“I- just- whatever,” Madara finally settles on, shaking his head at the overly dramatic boy. “My four year old otouto is more mature than you are.”

And well, maybe that’s not a fair comparison because Kakashi never makes any noise, therefore no dramatics or tantrums, but…

“You have an otouto too?” Hashirama exclaims, leaping back up to his feet. “I have three absolutely adorable kyoudai, but they’re all boys . I want an imouto to spoil too.”

Madara knows he’s staring, but honestly, he can’t help it. This is… too much.

“I… don’t have any shimai either?” Madara adds, not even kind of sure what’s happening anymore. 

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Hashirama replies, slinging his hands behind his head and smiling at Madara. “I have a shomei who’s adorable, but she’s so violent already at this age. She won’t let me snuggle her at all!”

Madara watches as Hashirama wraps his arms around himself, spinning in place and sighing mournfully.

“More like she won’t let you smother her, I bet,” Madara mutters under his breath. When Hashirama shoots him a confused look, he decides not to stir trouble. “My otouto practically lives attached to my arm. I carry him almost everywhere.”

He pointedly doesn’t mention that it’s entirely Madara’s decision to carry Kakashi around like a sack of potatoes most days. Hashirama gasps and lunges forward, grabbing Madara by the shoulders and shaking him lightly.

“Your otouto lets you do that?” he shrieks.

“L-let me go dumbass!” Madara yelps, swinging a fist at Hashirama’s face. “Who the hell do you think you are!?”

“I’m sorry!” Hashirama sobs, dropping him immediately, sinking to the ground. “I’m just so jealous-“

“No, shut up, we are not doing this again,” Madara snaps, hauling him back to his feet. “If you’re going to be my rival, you can’t just keel over every time I insult you. You’d never get anywhere.”

Hashirama gasps, lighting up faster than an explosion tag and springing up to full height. 

“You really mean that?” he whimpers, eyes fully leaking now.

“Yes, you big idiot, now stop crying all over everything!” Madara hisses, flushing and looking away. 

“You’re the best- uh…” Hashirama trails off awkwardly, blinking.”

“Madara,” he offers, holding out a hand.

“Madara,” Hashirama repeats, accepting his hand. “You’re the best, Madara.”

Before he can respond, Madara’s gaze catches on something floating in the river behind the taller boy. Wrenching his hand free, he takes several staggered steps towards the water.

“Madara, what…” Hashirama trails off, his eyes catching on the body as well. Eyes shuttering, he takes several quick steps towards the water, racing across its surface to reach the cadaver.

He’s a shinobi, Madara realizes, eyes widening. That could have been bad.

Hashirama checks the man’s pulse, shaking his head before springing to the opposite bank. 

“You’re a shinobi too,” he calls, smirking slightly. “You were throwing your rock like a shuriken.”

“Sh-shut up!” Madara yells, flushing and kicking the rocks on the bank. “Next time we meet, I’m going to kick your ass in a spar, you hear?”

Hashirama laughs, holding a hand up high. “See you around, Madara.”

“Whatever,” he grumbles, storming back towards home. “Don’t get yourself killed, idiot!”

He thinks he hears laughter, but Madara doesn’t turn to check. Just continues on his way home, anxiety stirring in his gut. Maybe this was a bad idea.

It was definitely a bad idea. When he gets back, Ryouta can’t find their otouto anywhere, and it takes Madara more than three hours to track him down. He’s not hidden in the dojo - his favorite spot - among the worn tatami mats, he’s not down the back of Mitsuki-obasan’s house petting the stray dogs, he’s not curled up in Madara’s futon, he’s not anywhere. The ringing alarm in Madara’s brain goes from a light tingle to a dull roar by the end of hour two, and he’s about ready to throw himself prostrate at his chichi-ue’s feet to get his otouto back because where else could he be?

It’s not until he’s rounding back towards the clan head’s house that familiar chakra pings on his radar, freezing him in his tracks. It takes another thirty minutes after that to figure out how Kakashi had gotten into the damn decrepit storehouse, finally finding a hole big enough for a small human to squeeze in around the back, and he’s just barely still slight enough to fit through himself. 

Really, it’s a great spot; somewhere no one would think to check, and certainly far enough from the epicenter of the Uchiha settlement to be less overwhelming. Madara would be proud of his otouto’s discovery if he hadn’t been having a heart attack for the last three hours. As it stands, he’s just about ready to swaddle the boy in blankets and never let him leave his sight again.

And maybe that’s a little excessive, but let it never be said that an Uchiha would stop at anything less for the protection of his family. As it stands now, though, there’s not much he can do at all. His otouto is in constant pain, no matter how many things he’s tried. Chakra exercises, meditation, even herbs to help his otouto sleep, and as deep in denial as he’s been, Madara knows it’s getting worse. This isn’t an issue he’s going to grow out of. In fact, it seems to be getting stronger all the time, and if he doesn’t figure out something soon, his otouto is going to- well. He doesn’t entirely know, but he knows it’s going to hurt, and that Kakashi is going to suffer.

And he can’t allow that. So he trains and he studies; reading every book on chakra he can get his hands on, as few and far in between as they are. He speaks with the clan elders, and with as many experienced shinobi as possible. He knows he’s building considerable rapport with his clan this way - far more than his chichi-ue’s ever had - but that’s just a secondary benefit. He’s been learning, but it hasn’t helped.

And maybe that’s what drives him back to the riverbank. The stress, the helplessness, the fear, all of it seems to dissolve the second Madara meets Hashirama’s eyes, and by some unspoken force, they spring into their first official spar. It should probably shock Madara more that the other boy can keep up so well, but it doesn’t. When his fist collides with a solid block that transitions into a toss, Madara can almost say he knows what it feels like to meet your soulmate. 

They’re practically extinct, as far as Madara understands. Hikaru-ojiisan is the only Uchiha with a soulmate left in their clan, and he’s in his sixties. His soulmate - Mayu-obaasan - had passed away from an illness nearly five years ago, so Madara barely remembers the woman. What he does know is that her elegant sloping handwriting spells her name out across Hikaru-ojiisan’s clavicle, and any time he thinks of her his hand tends to wander across it. 

Madara is almost surprised he’d been taught about soulmates at all, but he thinks maybe his chichi-ue had hoped he’d find his own among the Uchiha clan somewhere. No dice, though. Hikaru-ojiisan had described it as a merging of chakra; Mayu-obaasan’s carving itself into his skin forever. He called the sensation unforgettable, but indescribable. Very helpful. But he’d said Madara would know with unshakable certainty when it happened, if it happened, and not to worry. 

To say he’s written it off as a lost cause in an understatement. Maybe, if they’re super lucky, one of his little kyoudai or itoko would have the honor, instead. ‘Once in a generation,’ they used to say. Now it’s once in a lifetime.

Regardless, firm blows glancing off steady blocks while chakra burns underneath their skin is all Madara needs to feel satisfied. Fulfilled, even. Despite their refusal to exchange first names, Madara knows in the depths of his heart who exactly Hashirama is. He’s fought far too many Senju and survived far too many of their Doton for Madara to possibly ignore Hashirama’s similarities. There’s a niggling feeling somewhere deep in his heart, and Madara knows this will bring nothing but trouble.

But he stifles that part of his intuition, pushes past it and meets Hashirama time and time again until his stone hits the opposite bank and Hashirama creates life in defense of his head for the first time. Mokuton, he calls it, and Madara can’t help but agree. They spend the rest of the day playing with it, Madara insisting Hashirama grow tree after tree in increasingly odd shapes until the Senju collapses in a heap on the ground, spent.

“So you do have a limit on all that endless stamina,” Madara ribs, ruffling Hashirama’s hair like he would Izuna’s, smirking at the answering groan. 

“You’ve had me using chakra for hours now, Madara! Have mercy,” he sobs, throwing himself at Madara’s waist and clinging on like a limpet.

“Ack, get off of me you leech!” Madara shrieks, hands pinwheeling as Hashirama manages to unintentionally drag him to the ground. 

“No,” he moans, nuzzling into Madara’s chest. “‘M tired.”

Madara lets out a long sigh, but concedes to allow Hashirama his rest. They had been going for nearly three hours, and he wasn’t entirely sure exactly how much chakra it took for Hashirama to make one of those trees. After several minutes, though, he can feel the river stones starting to stab uncomfortably into his spine and tailbone.

“Alright you big idiot,” Madara grumbles, squirming his way out from under the protesting Senju. “If you’re that tired, you need to go home. I’m not here to babysit, and I’m certainly not here to be a mattress.”

Madara manages to usher the exhausted boy back over to the other side of the river, shoving Hashirama in the vague direction of his village before trudging back to his own. He drags his feet; can’t help it. Staying here with Hashirama is undoubtedly the best part of his day, and for all he loves his kyoudai, he’s been too stressed recently to really enjoy their company. Here with Hashirama, though… Well, life’s not perfect, but he can’t think of anywhere else he’d rather be.

When he gets home, Ryouta is crying. Panic is already setting in before he drags Madara to his own room where Kakashi is shaking, silent sobs wracking his tiny frame as hands clench over his ears. Madara swears, something he never does in front of his family before lunging to the floor and tugging Kakashi to him. When an honest to Sage whimper falls out of Kakashi’s lips, Madara feels gutted.

He can count on one hand the number of times he’s heard Kakashi make any noise beyond little sighs and sniffles in his sleep, so Madara knows his otouto is suffering. He rubs a hand on his back, tucking Kakashi’s head into his neck making as many soothing hands as he can. It feels like it takes hours for Kakashi to stop shaking; even longer for his breathing to steady out and allow him to drift off into utterly exhausted sleep. 

Madara doesn’t bother trying to steady himself, instead gesturing for Ryouta whose eyes are still wet, hovering by the entrance of the room. He moves, painfully cautious as he creeps across the room, settling down on the opposite side of Kakashi before Madara can pull him in and lay his forehead against Ryouta’s own. 

“It’s okay,” he breathes. “He’s okay.”

Madara’s already braced for it when Ryouta shatters, a wail tearing itself from his chest as he clings to Madara’s haori.

“I-I t-t-tried, but h-he wouldn’t s-stop crying,” Ryouta gasps between sobs, ignoring Madara’s attempts to guide his breathing. “H-he was h-hurting so b-bad, Onii-san.”

“I know, I know,” Madara murmurs, guilt stabbing him through the heart like a kunai.

“I s-sent Izu-nii to find y-you, b-b-but h-he c-couldn’t-“

“I know,” Madara cuts him off, brushing a hand through Ryouta’s hair.

“It’s getting worse,” Ryouta whispers, finally looking up at Madara’s eyes.

“I know,” Madara replies, wincing as his voice cracks. Damnit, Ryouta does not need to be worrying about him as well. “I know, sweetie.”

Ryouta shudders, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing himself further against both of his kyoudai. 

“We’ll figure this out. Kakashi’s going to be okay,” Madara whispers.

As Ryouta drifts off, Madara turns his head to face the ceiling and wishes he could believe it himself.

The next time Madara meets with Hashirama, the other boy looks about as bad as Madara feels. 

“Oi, Hashirama,” Madara grunts, far less aggressive than usual. “What’s going on?”

“Oh, Madara,” Hashirama responds, distant. “I didn’t realize you were there. Sorry.” He stands slowly, turning to face Madara. “What did you say?”

“I said, what’s going on?”

“Oh, it’s nothing, Madara. I’m just being dumb like always,” Hashirama smiles at him, but it’s empty.

“Oi, who said anything about you being dumb?” Madara growls. Sure, Hashirama was an over-dramatic idiot most days but there’s no way he could have possibly kept up with Madara if he wasn’t thinking, adapting and learning from each of these encounters. “You’re a shinobi. Stupid ones don’t survive this long. So I’ll ask again: what’s going on?”

Hashirama lets out a bitter laugh, gaze falling to the ground. “You’re too much sometimes, you know that? But I really am being dumb. I shouldn’t even be upset about it, I should be grateful.”

“Hashirama,” he pushes, tired of his friend’s obfuscating.

“My otouto almost died yesterday. I should be grateful, because everyone else in his party was killed, but…”

Madara nods. “It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

Hashirama blinks, wide, astonished eyes snapping to Madara’s own.

“It’s ridiculous. They’re sending children to their death like sheep to slaughter all to avenge some slight that none of us are even old enough to remember anymore.” Madara scoffs at Hashirama’s slack jaw, rolling his eyes. “You forget I have younger kyoudai as well. My youngest is… sick. Badly. But my chichi-ue wants to send him out on courier missions anyway. He turns five next week! I can’t stand it.”

Hashirama looks at Madara like he had just dumped in the creek behind him before frying his ass with a Raiton, jaw moving but no sound coming out for a moment. Finally, he manages, “You want to end the fighting too?”

“That would be literally exactly what I just said, yes,” Madara snarks, fearing for Hashirama’s upper processing skills.

“Uh, me. I mean, um, me too- that is, I’d like to stop the fighting.”

“I desperately hope your future children take after your wife,” Madara deadpans, ignoring Hashirama’s flushed face as he splutters away with some excuse or another. “But, I also hope your future children can grow up in a time where they don’t have to kill other kids just to survive.”

Hashirama stills for a moment, staring blankly at Madara’s face. Just before he can ask what the hell are you looking at? Hashirama’s hand darts out and latches around his wrist, promptly turning to drag the boy with him.

“Oi, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Madara yelps, trying fruitlessly to pull his trapped limb back.

“We’re doing a challenge, today,” Hashirama says, yanking his trapped companion along until they hit the base of a sheer cliff. “First to the top wins!”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me. We went through all of that heart to heart bullshit just for you to drag me away to some stupid challenge the second you get bored?” Madara puffs up, preparing for the rant of a lifetime. “Just because you don’t know what to say doesn’t mean you can just-“

Madara cuts himself off with a grimace, eye twitching as he takes in Hashirama’s depressed slouch. 

“Stop getting all depressed all the time! How are you supposed to win at anything when you’re constantly moping? Honestly, Hashirama.”

“I’m just getting you psyched out,” Hashirama mumbles, Madara leaning over so he can hear him better, “before beating you at cliff climbing!” He shoots to his feet, rocketing up the wall with a whoop as Madara whirls around.

“Hey! That’s cheating!” he yells, but can’t help the pulse of fondness that runs through his chest.

“See you at the top!” Hashirama yells in response, laughing.

They both crash to the top within moments of each other, chests heaving as they lay in collapsed heaps on the hard rock.

“I win,” Hashirama pants after a few moments, sitting up.

“Obviously,” Madara snaps back, taking another few seconds to catch his breath before sitting up himself. “You cheated and started before me.”

“Yeah yeah, I’m the worst,” Hashirama mediates, sounding… shockingly sincere as he scoots closer to the other boy. “Here, take a look. That’s why I brought you up here, after all.”

Madara raises an eyebrow, turning to look at the forest below them, eyes scanning the horizon. He sees… trees. The edge of a river. A small flock of birds taking flight from the top of a tree. Madara purses his lips, shooting a glance at Hashirama and blinking at his expectant face.

“Um, what exactly am I looking at? My eyesight is even better than yours, and I still don’t see anything all that amazing.”

“This is the spot, obviously!” Hashirama says, shoving Madara’s shoulder. “If we’re going to make peace, this is the place we’re going to put our village!”

Madara stares in silence for a solid minute, watching as Hashirama’s expression slowly folds in on itself.

“You want to put a village on top of a giant rock?” Madara finally says, feeling a sadistic amount of satisfaction at the tearfully relieved expression Hashirama cracks.

“Not on top of the cliff, Madara. Down there! The cliff gives us a huge natural defense point, and it’s right next to a major water source! Plus, it’s right on the border of our two-“ Hashirama makes a face as Madara shoots him a glare, cutting himself off with a guilty laugh. “A-ha, right. Anyways.”

Madara sighs, shaking his head. “Alright, so we have our prime real estate picked out, but how do we go about creating said peace?”

“We’re already doing it, aren’t we?” Hashirama asks, brows furrowing. “I mean, if you think about it, the best way is to get stronger. Strong enough that they all have to listen, and they can’t just throw our opinion out for being too young.”

Madara frowns. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

Hashirama shakes his head, looking at the ground. “My chichi-ue is strong, so everyone in the clan listens to him without fail. Last time I tried to speak up, to get him to see reason, he hit me in front of my kyoudai.”

Madara grimaces, patting Hashirama’s thigh. “I know you don’t want to hear it, but you really do need to pick your battles.”

Hashirama breathes out a rough sigh, flopping backwards. “I know. My otouto said the same thing.”

“Sounds like a smart kid,” Madara says with a snort, laying back himself.

“Incredibly so. I don’t understand anything he says half the time, and he’s always berating me for one reason or another.”

“Sounds like a younger version of myself,” Madara says thoughtfully. “Wonder if we’d get along.”

“Not a chance. You’re too vulgar,” Hashirama ribs, flopping his head to the side and grinning at Madara.

“Oh, go to hell!” He snarls, sitting up definitely not pouting. 

Hashirama just chuckles, pulling himself upright and turning his whole body to face the other boy. “Hey, Madara?” he starts, hesitant.

“What’s up?” He responds, turning to face Hashirama as well.

Hashirama wrings his hands together before speaking again. “Your otouto, the four year old. What’s um, what’s wrong with him? I-if you don’t mind me asking.”

Madara is shocked, at first. By some unspoken rule, neither boy has ever breached the topic of the other’s family before; not without permission. This is uncharted territory, and every instinct in Madara’s mind is screaming at him to lie. 

“I shouldn’t tell you,” he mutters, chewing his lip. “No one in my clan other than my kyoudai know, and I can’t risk the information being leaked. If our rivals were to hear, if my chichi-ue did…”

“I’m sorry, I overstepped,” Hashirama offers immediately, holding both hands up. “I won’t bring it up again, I promi-“

“But,” Madara interrupts before the other boy can finish. “But, if we want this peace to work, and if I want my otouto to ever get better, I can’t do this by myself.”

Hashirama slowly lowers his arms, staying silent but paying rapt attention to his friend.

“I’ve talked to every clan elder, every senior shinobi we have. I’ve spent hours reading every scroll we have in the compound - even started studying sealing - but we don’t have the know-how or connections to fix this. Not by ourselves.” Madara sits up straight, meeting Hashirama’s eyes. “My otouto is a sensor the likes of which our clan has never seen before. He can see everything, all the time, without putting any kind of effort into it. Scratch that, he can’t turn it off, and it’s slowly killing him. 

“He can’t sleep because of all the chakra signatures constantly moving around the village, which makes him feel like shit all the time. Because of that, he won’t eat, and when he does he eats like a bird. Then, on top of all of that, he has the most chakra of any of us, so his sensory range is absolutely fucking gargantuan. Not to mention the fact that he can’t - or won’t, we still haven’t figured that one out - talk. How am I supposed to fix anything when I don’t even know what hurts half the time!?”

Madara growls and shakes his head, gritting his teeth. “When I went home after our last spar, my kyoudai were panicking. My otouto was curled up in my bed, the same place I’d left him nearly ten hours ago just… shaking. And crying. Inconsolable, basically. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him cry, and I’ve helped raise him from an infant. I just had to sit there and rock him, absolutely bathing him in my chakra which is arguably worse , because it’s like shining a bright light directly in his eyes except it’s all of his senses, and it’s just- Bad. It’s bad.”

Madara pinches his lips together as he feels frustration burning through his veins and into his eyes, furiously blinking back hot tears.

Sage does it feel good to finally get this off his chest, though. He cannot speak to his kyoudai about it without causing them extreme anxiety, and he could never mention this to one of their healers without it immediately getting back to his chichi-ue. There's just… so much he can't do.

Hashirama clears his throat, leaning forward. “So, he’s not sick?” he asks, voice sounding disgustingly placid for everything Madara had just said. “It’s just a sensory issue?”

“It is not just a sensory issue. Did you not hear a word I just said-“

“Wait wait wait no!” Hashirama shrieks as Madara jumps to his feet, fist pulled back. “I’m being serious! He’s not chronically ill except for the issues that the sensory overload is causing, right?”

“ Yes, Hashirama,” Madara gripes, still not totally sure if he wants to put his fist away yet. “It’s burning him inside out.”

“That’s great!” Hashirama chirps, springing to his feet, yelping as he dodges the blow thrown his way. “Ack, wait, I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant- stop trying to hit me, I'm trying to help!”

“What you’re doing is pissing me off!” Madara spits, slamming his foot into Hashirama’s exposed abdomen and feeling vindictively satisfied as the other boy collapses with a groan.

“What I’m trying to say,” Hashirama gasps, desperately trying to get air back in his lungs, “is that Tobi had the same issues.”

“Tobi?” Madara asks, drawing up short at the unfamiliar name.

“Yes, my oldest otouto,” he wheezes. “He had all sorts of issues when he was younger, but not as bad as your otouto, it sounds like. My chichi-ue had the Uzumaki make him a thingy to help him control it until he could do it himself.”

“A… thingy,” Madara echoes, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it’s like a necklace medallion thingy with a seal carved into it. He wears to to bed so he doesn’t have to concentrate on keeping his chakra contained when he sleeps, but he used to wear it almost all the time when he was younger,” Hashirama explains, slowly sitting up with a wince. “Did you have to kick me that hard?” He whines.

“Yes. Now tell me more about this seal,” Madara snaps, plopping back down in front of the pained boy.

“I really don’t know anything about it,” he says, looking thoughtful, “but if I brought Tobi with me next time, maybe he could-“

“No.” Madara snaps, cutting him off. “You know what happens the second anyone hears about this. Not happening.”

“But Madara, he could help! Even if he can’t recreate the seal, maybe he can teach your otouto how to-“

“ No, Hashirama. Not happening. We risk too much by allowing even a single other person to know about this,” Madara interrupts once again, shaking his head. “Nothing good will come of this.”

“ Please, Madara. He’s my otouto. There’s no one in the world I trust more than him,” he pleads, grabbing Madara’s hand.

“And what of your chichi-ue? Is your otouto’s loyalty to you so great that he would defy the orders of someone more senior than yourself?” Madara glares, daring Hashirama to try.

“Yes,” he answers unflinchingly. “I trust Tobi with my life. If I ask it of him, he would take the secret to the grave.”

“I’m not asking if you trust him with your life, I’m not even asking if you trust him with mine,” Madara pushes, Sharingan spinning to life. “I’m asking if you trust him with my otouto. I would paint the world red for him, for any of my kyoudai, Hashirama. You need to understand what you’re saying.”

Hashirama meets his swirling crimson gaze fearlessly, squeezing Madara’s hand tighter. “I do.”

“And you understand that if he were to double-cross you, I would stop at nothing to see his head removed from his shoulder by my own hand?”

“I do.”

Madara stares for a moment longer, allowing the reality of what Hashirama is saying to sink into the boy’s thick skull before releasing his hand and sitting back, deactivating his Sharingan. “I can’t meet again this week. Chichi-ue would get suspicious.”

Hashirama’s eyes widen, a grin splitting across his face. “That’s fine! That just gives Tobi and I more time to prepare. Maybe I can send a letter to the Uzumaki and see if they’d be willing to make another necklace?”

“And you send a lot of those, do you?” Madara questions, a skeptical expression on his face. “If you send them something when you’ve never had interest in it before, you’re bound to raise suspicion.”

“Er, well, see, there’s this thing that I don’t really know if I should…” he trails off at the flat expression on Madara’s face. “Never mind. You’re right.”

Madara just sighs and shakes his head for what feels like the thousandth theme that day. “I’ll meet you in the normal spot one week from now?”

“Sure thing!” Hashirama replies, beaming. “I can’t wait to meet… what did you say your otouto’s name was again?”

“I didn’t,” Madara responds sharply, mouth twisting down into a frown.

“Yeesh, you’re so overprotective. I get it, I get it.”

No, I really don’t think you do, Madara thinks, turning back towards his small village. “Until next time, Hashirama.”

“See you in a week!” he responds before leaping down the sheer cliff face, taking off towards home.

Madara waits until he can’t hear footsteps anymore before sighing and crouching down, burying his face in his hands. He’d told Hashirama about Kakashi. He’d agreed to meet his otouto. He’d stared him down with his Sharingan active.

What was he thinking? Hashirama’s sheer stupidity must be rubbing off on him, because there’s no other way he ever would have even humored the other boy. And taking Kakashi out of the village? He’d have to have Izuna run interference with chichi-ue and Ryouta keep the house on lockdown. On the bright side, if he told his brothers he found a way to help Kakashi they’d do whatever he asked to make it possible, but on the downside…

There will be questions. Lots of them. Bracing himself for a few days worth of interrogation, Madara slowly straightens out and stands up, brushing his knees off. “Alright Kakashi,” he mutters to himself. “Let’s get you fixed up, huh?”