Chapter Text
Hashirama will never forget the day that Madara left.
He remembers waking up to an empty bed.
A note that reads, Don’t look for me.
Not a word spoken.
They’d been having troubles in the weeks leading up to the Day, but he didn’t think it had gotten so bad—
Hashirama sends out search parties. Squads of men mobilized, all available men in Konoha working around the clock to find Madara. He says it’s a matter of national security, that Madara has been kidnapped. The village people are enthusiastic. They want to help him find Madara; they volunteer to search overtime. The searches turn up nothing, not even a trace. It’s as if Madara is gone with the wind.
A week passes, then a month. The searches continue. His advisors advise him against his searches. They say it’s a trap, it’s a trick, that it’s psychological warfare. The villagers sour; the common public sentiment views the searches as a waste of time. The months come and go, seasons bleeding into each other; the villagers say their Hokage has gone mad. But there’s no one fit to replace Hashirama except for Tobirama, and the Uchiha tell Hashirama they will leave the village if Tobirama becomes Hokage. Hashirama tunes them all out and keeps searching.
A year passes. Hashirama is the only one searching now. He goes on expeditions that last days, weeks. He is Hokage only in name, replaced by Tobirama. The Uchiha don’t leave. Apparently in his absence, there was a skirmish with Sunagakure. Tobirama and the Uchiha had to work together, Tobirama tells him in one of the few instances that Hashirama isn’t out searching and is at the village. Hashirama simply hums, plans and ideas rapidly crystallizing in his head as he plans out his next search route. Perhaps he’ll go to the Land of Wind this time, since he hasn’t ventured out of the Land of Fire. He’s confident that Madara would have taken that path, as the river leads into the border town of Nishio, known for its matcha, which Madara particularly loved. Naturally, it’s the most logical next step to take.
He tells Tobirama this, stopping him right in his tracks. Tobirama is aghast. You’ll start a world war! Tobirama yells, You’ve lost your mind!
Tobirama keeps screaming, screams at him that his search is foolish, screams that Madara is a traitor or dead or both.
I don’t know why you won’t accept that, Tobirama thunders, his voice raw.
Madara isn’t dead. He would know if Madara was dead!
He says as much to Tobirama, who stares at him in disbelief.
The brother I know is dead, Tobirama rasps.
Hashirama shakes his head. “I’m not dead,” he says. “I’m just searching for Madara,” he tries to explain. “I’m right here,” he calls out as Tobirama turns around and leaves, slamming the door behind him.
Why won’t you understand?
The next morning, Hashirama makes up his mind. He finds Tobirama downstairs in the kitchen, brewing a pot of tea. It’s rare for Tobirama to be here since he’s usually at the Hokage tower, much less to be brewing a pot of tea.
Good, Hashirama thinks. Tea will make this conversation easier.
Hashirama approaches, and Tobirama still faces the kettle, refusing to turn and look at him. Who still doesn’t look at him once as Hashirama patiently explains his plan. I’ve decided to leave, he tells him. This way, I can find Madara and bring him back to the village, he says earnestly.
Tobirama shakes his head and turns around slowly, his eyes unreadable. Say you find him, he says. Say you find him and he says he doesn’t want to come back. What will you do then?
Hashirama stares at Tobirama. I will find Madara and bring him back to the village, he repeats.
Tobirama’s eyes narrow, and he gives an agitated shake of his head. “Disgraceful,” he mutters. “War is coming, and you choose to leave.”
Hashirama winces. He supposes that Tobirama’s words are true, but he will find Madara and bring him back to the village. Why can’t he understand? Why won’t he understand?
Making a shooing motion with his hand, Tobirama spits, “The brother I know is dead. Go! ”
Hashirama sighs. It seems his brother still doesn’t understand him, even after all these years.
It’s a little bit like how Madara left, Hashirama reflects. He loves Madara, but Madara still left. He loves Tobirama, but this time, he’s the one leaving.
He promises to return with Madara.
At night, Hashirama stares at his packed belongings. He loves his brother, really, he truly does, but he needs to find Madara. He has to!
I’ll find Madara, Hashirama vows. I’ll find him and then come back to the village.
The next morning, Hashirama slips out of his house, leaving Tobirama the same note Madara left for him in the same bed that Madara left him from. He never looks back, only forward. One foot in front of the other, one step after the next. The few villagers that are awake stare at him, heads roving and turning as they gawk at his departure. His guards—Tobirama’s students—watch him with unseeing expressions, but they open the village gates for him.
“I’ll see you soon,” Hashirama says with a light laugh, hefting his pack over his back.
“Goodbye,” the chuunin echo.
Hashirama hums and doesn’t look back.
The gates close with a screeching creak.
The first few days are filled with an anxious, agitated energy, thrumming and humming under his skin. Hashirama looks, and looks, and looks. The trees shake as he walks past them, their branches trembling and leaves vibrating, only to fall to the ground in droves. Two lines of barren trees trail behind him. Squirrels scurry out of his way. The area is utterly silent; the birds fled long ago. He can’t be bothered to regrow the foliage.
He reaches Nishio and buys a tin of matcha, a beautiful vibrant green with a smooth taste. Wherever Madara is, Hashirama hopes that Madara has the required chaki.
Then, Hashirama continues onwards. The days fade into weeks, then months. The pleasant foliage of autumn accompanies him as he searches. Fall is always the best time to search. Cool and not unbearably hot like the summer, yet neither too cold to endure comfortably. Better to search in fall than in spring, where the fresh new shoots are too tender, the flowers too hopeful. Better a season that understands that change is inevitable.
He gets ambushed several times by different mercenaries. He almost dies once. But he promised to find Madara.
He quite enjoys being alone like this, he thinks. No one bothers me about Madara, at least. The crunching of leaves underneath his feet soothes his agitated mind, calms his racing thoughts.
Ten years after he left the village, his brother’s students find him. He recognizes Hiruzen, Homura, and Koharu. Loyal and faithful Konoha soldiers. The iron of their hitai-ate gleams brightly in the sunlight. He supposes they can’t be much older than when he founded the village.
He smiles at them. “Hello, old friends,” he says cheerily.
“Hashirama-san,” they say warily.
Hashirama smiles again and claps his hands together, ensnaring them with his vines before they can even blink. They break out with deft slices of their kunai and regroup together, their eyes blank.
Hashirama sighs. He claps his hands together again and enters Sage Mode.
It’s over quickly from there. He places seals on his targets, binding them in place. He watches them curiously as he slides his kunai across their throats.
“Not. A friend,” Hiruzen gargles.
Their faces are frozen in betrayal and disbelief.
“Sorry,” Hashirama apologizes as he stares at their lifeless bodies. “I told him not to look for me,” he mutters.
They most likely found him because he used chakra. Hashirama vows to be more careful and not use chakra again.
Seven years later, Tobirama sends another group of messengers. A whole squad of Uchiha, including Kagami. When Hashirama saw Kagami last, he was just a small child. This time, they don’t welcome him with open arms; they attack first.
Hashirama kills them, too.
His brother gets the message this time. Hashirama is sure Tobirama can feel his Chakra signature. But Tobirama doesn’t come.
I’ll come home when I find Madara.
Sometimes, he wonders if Konoha still exists. He wonders if there’s anything left. If the village he and Madara built sways steady in the wind, or if it crumbled to dust. If it imploded in a great fiery spark, if it fought against its invaders.
He goes into the nearest town in the Land of Water and asks. The vendors tell him about how Konohagakure and Sunagakure destroyed each other. They boast to him about the Mizukage’s great skill, about how he rules them both now. He can’t find himself to feel much about it at all.
He supposes that’s another reason Tobirama has stopped sending messengers after him.
I guess I won’t be coming home, then.
Hashirama often contemplates what it would be like to be a tree. He spends a lot of time with trees. Walking beside them with them as his only companion has taught him what walking beside shinobi cannot. He hums as he strolls leisurely in the woods, the sunlight falling through the leaves and leaving spots and dots on the ground. The trees stand tall and proud as always, their leaves rustling and swaying in the wind. Placing a hand on the oak, he feels the life in it thrumming slowly and richly.
A simpler life, indeed.
Sometimes he thinks about turning himself into a tree. He is certain he could find a way to locate Madara as a tree.
But then he wouldn’t see Madara. He discards the idea.
Just a little longer.
He doesn’t like when he dreams of Madara. It upsets him. He always wakes up with cold, clammy sweat sticking to his skin. He hopes these dreams of Madara will end when he finds Madara.
Twenty-five years after he initially left, Hashirama returns to the Land of Fire. Or what was once known as the Land of Fire. He finds Madara in a tiny hut on the outskirts of a very small civilian village.
It’s a hot summer day with a brilliant cloudless sky. He squints as he walks along the path, a little dirt thing, with stalks of corn lining each side. At the end of the path is a small hut, crudely but painstakingly constructed.
A small patch with vegetables and fruits sits to either side of the hut.
The man is hunched over, gently watering the plants. He wears a simple noragi jacket and a straw hat, his spiky black hair spilling from underneath his hat.
Hashirama would recognize him anywhere. He smiles.
The man raises his head and meets his eyes. He motions at the door. “Tea?”
Hashirama digs into his bag and pulls out his tin of matcha. “For you.”