Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The walls in this part of the Senju compound were thin.

Mito had never noticed before. Perhaps because she had never needed to. Hashirama had never given her reason to listen.

Until now.

She stood outside the door, hands steady at her sides, breath controlled, composed. Inside, the sounds were soft—muffled, careful, but not careful enough.

The creak of wood beneath shifting weight. A sharp inhale, quickly swallowed. The rustle of fabric, uneven—the slip of silk over skin.

And then—

A voice, low, restrained. Hashirama’s voice. A voice that had whispered oaths against her throat, had spoken her name as though it were sacred. A voice she was intimately familiar with in the quiet of their chambers.

Now, it was rough, quiet—frayed at the edges.

She had known. Of course, she had known.

A woman recognizes what is hers and what has begun to drift away. She had seen it in the way he hesitated before returning to their bed. In how he lingered too long when she was near. In the way his gaze caught on something—someone—when he thought no one would notice.

Mito had noticed.

She had watched it unfold, piece by piece, inevitable as all tragedies were. And yet, she had done nothing. Not out of fear. Not out of weakness.

But because she had wanted to believe he would not do this to her.

A sigh, barely there, followed by something softer—a whisper, an exhale, the hush of lips against skin.

Mito’s hands curled into fists.

She had never been a sentimental woman. She did not indulge in fantasies of love. She had married for duty, for their village, for something greater than herself. And yet—

A sharp gasp. A strangled sound, quickly muffled.

Sakura.

The girl who had been nothing. They had taken her in almost a year ago when she first appeared on the battlefield. A clanless medic, she healed their wounded with methods no one had seen before. A stray, Hashirama had brought her home like he always did with lost things.

And now, inside this room, her husband betrayed her with this no-name girl.

"Ah—" A feminine gasp, cut off almost as soon as it slipped free.

And then—Hashirama murmured, his tone thick with restraint, 

"Quiet," he commanded, voice taut, almost pained. "Mito will—" He stopped himself, exhaling sharply.

Mito went utterly still.

So he remembered her. Even now. The wood beneath her feet felt unsteady, though she did not move. 

The realization did not bring relief. If anything, it sharpened the wound. He was aware of the betrayal even as he committed it.

A breath—hitched, then swallowed. The muted press of skin against skin.

A wet sound, slick and intimate, cut through the air. A sigh dragged from his throat, rough and wanting in a way Mito had never heard before. Her throat tightened, bile rising.

He had taken her to bed dutifully, as expected. But never like this. Never with this unbridled hunger. This need.

The weight of his body sounded, shifting, settling, making Sakura’s voice teary as she gasped. He quietly shushed her between the rustles of the futon and unmistakable press of their bodies meeting, retreating, pressing again. 

Anyone passing by would know.

"So tight," Hashirama murmured, voice thick, almost reverent. “Better than I ever imagined.”

A soft sound from the girl in response. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a protest. Playful. Coy.

"H-Hashirama—" her voice wavered, breathy, barely above a whisper. There was something shy in it, something surprised by the force of his desire, as though she had not truly expected him to lose himself like this.

The futon shifted again. The slide of silk, the muffled thud of his weight adjusting. The pace changed.

Mito’s nails bit into her palms.

She had given him everything. Her lineage, her strength, the sacred power of her clan. She had given him her body, carrying his heir—and yet, he had never wanted it like this.

"Sakura—" His voice was hoarse, nearly breaking on her name. The girl cried out in pleasure. 

Another shift of weight, hard flesh meeting wet flesh. The rhythm deepened, roughened, slowed. He was savoring her.

Mito’s stomach twisted. She had treated Sakura like her own daughter, only for her to seduce her husband. She should've seen this coming, but Sakura didn't seem like the type, with her clear lack of femininity  and proper upbringing making her an unlikely threat. 

The musk of them seeped from the room, creeping into her lungs. The illicit heat of bodies pressed together, sweat and desire thick in the air. She could smell their betrayal. 

"You feel—" His voice cut off, a sharp inhale. Her gasp. A quiet plea. His breath catching, his control slipping.

A choked whimper from the girl. A shuddered groan from him.

The futon rustled, strained beneath their movements. The pace faltered, broke—grew ragged, desperate-into a frenzy of wet sounds and sharp gasps. 

A harsh, guttural moan tore from his throat.

And then—stillness.

A final tremor. A sharp inhale. Their bodies finally, finally slackening against each other.

Mito felt something crack inside her.

And still, she stayed.

Still, she listened.

The room beyond the door was quiet now, save for slow, uneven breaths. A sigh—his—deep and satisfied, the kind that came only when a man had taken everything he wanted.

A whisper, breathless, tender. Words Mito could not hear, did not want to hear. Sakura's voice, timid and tired.

Hashirama answered with a low chuckle, warm, indulgent. The sound of him pressing a faint kiss against her damp skin.

Mito’s breath stilled as she turned away.

Her steps were silent as she walked down the corridor, her posture straight, expression smooth, unshaken. If anyone saw her now, they would see only Lady Mito, the dignified wife of the First Hokage. A woman in control.

Because she was in control.

She would say nothing.

She would tolerate this humiliation, not out of weakness, but necessity. Because her name—her legacy—would not be tarnished by something as small, as petty as a man’s desires.

Hashirama could have his discretion.

As long as it never touched what was hers.

Chapter Text

(One year, two months earlier)

The first time Tobirama saw her, she was kneeling in the mud, hands red with his blood.

A stranger on their battlefield, dressed in a strange garb, bearing no clan’s colors, only an unrecognisable circle on her back. Instinct told him to strike first, eliminate the unknown before it became a threat. But his body betrayed him—his wounds too deep, his vision already darkening.

But then she pressed her hands to a dying man’s chest, and his wounds knitted themselves shut.

When Tobirama came to, Hashirama was already there, stepping between them—his stance open, hands raised in that same gesture of peace he always wore like armor. His voice was gentle, filled with gratitude, when he asked for the mysterious medic’s name.

She hesitated. Her gaze flickered between them—not with fear, but with careful thought. She made no effort to mask her emotions, as a proper shinobi should. Every shift in her expression was visible, unguarded—going from confusion to recognition, then resolution. She wore her heart too openly, Tobirama noted.

A lone kunoichi with no allegiances. She spoke of a faraway land, though she was not at liberty to say more—not yet. But she assured them she was no threat, her words careful, as if she knew how precarious her position was.

Only a fool would trust a stranger’s word in times of war, but Hashirama was Hashirama.

And when Tobirama staggered back to camp that evening—his own carelessness causing the wound to split open again—it was Sakura who knelt beside him, pressing steady hands to his torn flesh, mending him without hesitation.

He did not trust her. But she had saved his life, a sweet young girl alone in the world.

And for Hashirama, always the bleeding heart, that was reason enough.

When they brought her back to the Senju compound, she was cleaned up, her torn, strange cloths replaced with something plain but serviceable.

The servants whispered, wary of this nameless— indecent — outsider that was granted sanctuary within their walls. But his sister-in-law saw to her personally, ensuring warm baths and fresh robes. Whatever the others thought, whatever the rumours spun, Sakura was under the venerable Lady Mito’s watch now.

Her initial lodgings were modest—a small chamber near the outer edge of the compound. “A temporary arrangement,” Hashirama had assured him, until they knew more about her.

To Tobirama, everything about her was a red flag. But she was competent. Exceptionally so.

Her healing techniques rivaled even Hashirama’s, though where his were instinctive, hers were trained—refined through the tutelage of a great master she would not name. She knew plants Tobirama had never encountered, mixed salves with ingredients sourced far beyond the Fire Country’s borders.

She was an enigma. Yet, over time, she moved through the compound as though she had always belonged, her presence threading itself into the daily rhythm of their lives. Like it was inevitable.

The wary glances faded. The whispers quieted.

And Hashirama, Tobirama noted, was quite taken with the stray. 

At first, it was merely gratitude—of that, Tobirama was certain. His brother had always been too soft-hearted, too quick to see the good in others. Sakura had saved his beloved little brother, and for that, she had more than earned the trust and generosity of the Shodaime Hokage.

But then curiosity took root—quiet but persistent. Hashirama sought her out, questioned her methods, listened to her advice with an attentiveness Tobirama had only ever seen when he entertained one of Madara’s endless debates about the future of Konoha. 

Mito, initially guarded, took a liking to her as well. Perhaps she saw something of herself in the girl. For whatever the reason, he scoffed, considering Sakura lacked some sensibilities Tobirama expected in women. In time, Mito and Hashirama ensured Sakura’s place within the main house, subtly shifting her to a healer of the Senju, trusted and valued within one of Konoha’s most powerful clans.

Tobirama did not interfere. She had proven her worth, and though he had been cautious at first, even he could not deny her competence. Nor could he entirely ignore the way she steadily chipped away at the initial distance he had placed between them.

It was difficult not to warm to her.

Sakura’s presence was sweet without being cloying, bright without overstepping, sharp when necessary and fresh as a spring breeze.

Her reputation had spread beyond Konoha’s borders, reaching even the outskirts of neighboring villages. Beyond treating wounded shinobi, she guided mothers through safer childbirths, helped children recover from seasonal fevers with remedies unfamiliar even to the most seasoned medics, and tended to the elderly, who were so often forgotten in times of war. Even feudal lords had begun requesting her expertise, strengthening Konoha’s standing in ways that had little to do with warfare.

Even Tobirama had to admit—Sakura had become an invaluable asset to the Senju.

…

The evening air was cool, thick with the scent of damp earth and fresh blossoms, the unmistakable breath of spring settling over the village. The trees along the perimeter were in full bloom, their pale petals shifting gently in the breeze, some drifting down to rest along the worn wooden walkways.

Tobirama stood beside his brother on the veranda, arms crossed as they overlooked the quiet hum of life within the compound. The lanterns had been lit, their warm glow flickering against the wood, casting long shadows across the stone paths.

"How did your meeting with Madara go?" Tobirama asked, watching the way Hashirama leaned casually against the railing, the tension in his shoulders lighter than it had been in recent weeks.

Hashirama exhaled, his gaze drifting toward the treetops beyond the walls. "He’s as stubborn as ever. But I think he’s starting to see reason. He agreed to meet again tomorrow to discuss the guard rotations along the eastern border."

"That’s progress, at least," Tobirama muttered. He had never shared his brother’s unwavering faith in the Uchiha leader, but he could admit that peace—fragile as it was—had settled over the village more easily than he had once predicted.

Hashirama chuckled. "It’s slow, but it’s happening. One day, he might even stop glaring at you every time you enter the same room."

"Unlikely," Tobirama deadpanned, though a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know how hot-headed he is, you both fuel each other’s fires and get carried away whenever there are matters with the village council."

He let his gaze drift beyond the courtyard. In the quiet clearing, was the pond—its surface smooth, untouched, reflecting the pale blossoms still clinging to the branches above.

Their conversation lapsed into comfortable silence, the low hum of voices below filling the space between them.

The medics were finishing their rounds, tending to the last of the wounded returning from a border skirmish earlier that day. It had not been a large conflict—nothing compared to the wars they had fought before—but even in times of supposed peace, there were always remnants of old grudges.

And in the middle of it all was her.

Sakura moved between the crowd, her hair stood out against the muted colors of the courtyard, like the petals drifting down from the trees. Despite the long day, she hadn’t stopped, always pulled toward wherever she was needed.

A child tugged at the hem of her sleeve, a small interruption. She turned, brushing his hair back from his face, saying something that made him giggle before nudging him toward his mother. She didn’t linger on the moment, already shifting back to her work with another patient, but something about this interaction settled into the atmosphere.

Shifting his weight slightly, Tobirama glanced back toward his brother.

His expression was neutral, but there was something—quietly, lingering. His fingers—resting idly against the railing—curled, just slightly.

Tobirama said nothing, exhaling slowly.

Turning his gaze back to the courtyard, he watched as Sakura rose to her feet, brushing dust from her robes before making her way toward another shinobi in need of healing.

"Don’t get too carried away." he said, tone casual.

There was a pause, just a breath too long. Then Hashirama blinked, shoulders shifting slightly as though shaking off a thought.

“What, with Madara?” He huffed a quiet laugh. "Have some faith in your anija, Tobi."

Tobirama smirked but did not argue.

And though the conversation moved on, though the night settled into its usual rhythm, one thing remained in the back of his mind.

It was Hashirama’s nature to be guided by compassion, even when it was unwise. His brother was kind, trusting, loving.

And above all, he was a man of honor.

Tobirama’s instincts urged him to analyze, to anticipate—to act before patterns fully formed.

But this time, he chose not to dwell.

Instead, he turned his attention back to the pond.

The waters remained still, tranquil as ever.

A single cherry blossom petal broke free, caught in the evening breeze before drifting down, kissing the water’s surface in the lightest touch.

The ripples followed, inevitable.

Chapter Text

(Two months later)

Darkness.

That was all Izuna had known for weeks.

The fever struck without warning, burning through him like wildfire. His limbs grew heavy, sluggish, until movement became impossible. Then came the bloody coughing fits.

The Uchiha healers had tried everything. He couldn’t keep food down, barely managed sips of water. His body wasted away. And then—his sight vanished.

For an Uchiha, nothing was more valuable than their eyes.

At first, there had been blinding lights—too sharp, too painful. Then shadows, stretching long and uncertain. And now, nothing.

The dark had swallowed everything.

Izuna had long since stopped tracking time. Day and night blurred into the same heavy stillness, broken only by the quiet shuffle of movement in his room—the medics checking his pulse, the careful steps of Madara pacing when he thought Izuna was asleep.

But today, something was different.

Muffled voices drifted from beyond the screen door.

He recognized his brother—low, rough with exhaustion. Not from sickness, but from worry.

Then another—deeper, familiar. Hashirama.

The third—whose chakra signature he couldn’t identify— was soft, reassuring. Feminine.

The door slid open.

“Izuna.” Madara’s voice was even, but Izuna could detect the uncertainty in his tone.

“I brought someone to see you.”

His throat was too parched for words. He turned his head toward the approaching footsteps, weak but listening.

A pause. Then, the unfamiliar female voice spoke.

“Hello, Izuna-sama. I am Haruno Sakura. I’m here to help.”

His throat was raw, lips cracked from fever. He tried to speak, but all that came was a harsh, dry cough.

“It’s okay,” she said gently, settling beside his futon. “Don’t strain yourself.”

Madara shifted, the air around him taut. Even without sight, Izuna felt his brother’s unease.

“This better work, girl.”

A sigh—likely Hashirama. “Give her space.”

Madara’s reply was clipped. “I expect results.”

Sakura, however, remained unfazed.

“Madara-sama, Hashirama-sama.” Her tone was steady, unwavering. “Please wait outside while I tend to Izuna-sama. I need to concentrate to accurately diagnose him.”

Izuna could feel his brother bristle, chakra flaring with irritation.

“I assure you,” she continued, unyielding, “your brother will be fine.”

Another pause. Then, Hashirama exhaled, voice light yet resolute.

“Best let the doctor work.”

The words were final. Madara didn’t argue, but Izuna could feel his hesitation. A moment later, the quiet scuff of retreating steps signaled their departure.

The fever still clung to Izuna, anchoring him to the futon. But even through the haze, one thing was certain.

He was in capable hands.

Izuna stirred, fingers shifting against the sheets as the weight of sleep loosened its grip. The deep ache in his body had faded, his breathing was steady, and the heaviness in his chest had lessened.

And yet, the world remained black.

His hand drifted to his face, fingertips feeling cloth.

It had been a miracle—or at least, that’s how the others saw it. But Sakura had not relied on miracles. From the moment she began examining him, she understood that his condition wasn’t the result of a single cause, but a tangled mess of complications feeding into each other.

The strain of the Sharingan had done more than damage his vision, overflowing chakra into delicate channels near his brain, disrupting more than just his sight.

But that alone hadn’t explained the fever, the exhaustion that clung to him like a weight, or the coughing fits that had left him struggling to breathe.

Sakura had tried to explain it in words he barely understood—something called an auto-immune disorder—that his body had turned against itself, attacking from within like soldiers mistaking their own for the enemy. It was a recessive, inherited disease, appearing once every few generation in the Uchiha, exacerbated by overuse of Sharingan.

With meticulous skill, she had severed the damaged pathways in his eyes, redirecting the chakra flow away from his brain. His lungs had required even greater care. He couldn’t see what she had done, but he felt it—the lingering warmth in his chest, the quiet hum of her chakra still working beneath his skin, coaxing his body to restore rather than tear itself apart.

”Just encouraging your antibodies to not attack you,” she had simply said. Izuna did not know what an antibody was, but he trusted her skill.

It took a week to stabilise him, but the worst had passed.

Once the blindfold was removed, he would see again—but Sakura wanted the swelling to go down first.

“You’re better,” Madara said, settling beside the futon, visibly relieved when Izuna first started regaining strength.

Smiling at his brother, the younger Uchiha slowly sat up. The movement felt natural again, no longer an effort. His limbs were his own once more. Sakura had done good work.

“I definitely feel a lot better,” he beamed, stretching his arms in a yawn. “How long until I can take off the blindfold?”

“In a few days,” Sakura answered, clutter of metal and glass reached his ears as she packed away her tools and vials.

“Wait until sunset, then keep to the shadows for a few days. Your eyes will be sensitive at first.”

“I see.” A smile tugged at his lips, the optimism bubbling in his chest. “Thank you for everything, Sakura.”

“It was nothing,” she said modestly.

Madara let out a quiet huff. “It was not nothing,” he muttered. “You saved his life.”

“I only did what I could.” Sakura answered, a smile in her tone.

“Which is more than anyone else could have done.” His brother’s words were blunt, but there was no mistaking the gratitude behind them.

Hashirama chuckled from across the room. “Your brother has been fretting like a mother hen,” he teased. “He was very concerned for his baby brother.”

Even half-asleep from the treatment, Izuna had felt it all week—the way Madara hovered, scrutinized, questioned, wary of a stranger near his vulnerable brother. At first, Sakura had tolerated it, but eventually, she had kicked him out of the room entirely to finish her work. Hashirama had been the one to keep him occupied, easing his concerns with tea and conversation.

“Don’t you have a village to run?” Madara snapped.

Sakura giggled softly, clearly used to his brother’s prickly personality by now.

“Tobi is handling things,” Hashirama said, unconcerned.

For all his complaints, Izuna knew his brother had appreciated Hashirama’s presence this past week. Their friendship had always been complicated, but when it truly mattered, Madara trusted him like no other—not just to watch over Izuna, but to keep an eye on Sakura as well. And though unspoken, Izuna suspected Hashirama had no intention of leaving Sakura alone in the Uchiha compound for too long, either.

And Sakura… she had been nothing short of a delight. He imagined she was warm, kind, with a soothing presence. Even Madara, who rarely placed his faith in anyone, had come to respect her. That alone spoke volumes.

He couldn’t wait to see her for himself.

Still, one question lingered.

“How did you know what was wrong with me?” Izuna finally asked, turning toward where he sensed Sakura’s presence.

A brief pause. The soft click of a medicine bag echoed through the quiet as she finished tidying up.

“Like I explained, I’ve seen it before.”

Izuna tilted his head slightly, frowning “You’ve treated Sharingan-induced illness before? And this… genetic disorder?”

Sakura didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The finality behind that single word settled over the room.

Izuna heard the subtle shift of fabric—Madara crossing his arms, muscles tensing. Hashirama remained still, but Izuna could sense the man glancing at Sakura.

He had overheard their hushed conversations when fever dragged him in and out of sleep.

“That’s impossible. This affliction isn’t even recorded in our clan’s history, let alone its cure.” Madara’s tone was sharp, directed at Sakura.

Hashirama sighed, a quiet attempt to rein in his brother’s temper, but Madara wasn’t so easily pacified.

“How could some we—” he caught himself, voice darkening, ”—how would an outsider know about the Uchiha bloodline to this extent?”

It was a fair question.

There had always been strange, inexplicable ailments in their clan’s history—brushed off as pneumonia or lingering battle wounds.

Clearly, Sakura wasn’t just a skilled healer; she was intimately familiar with the secrets of the Uchiha in a way no outsider should be, which greatly unsettled the elder Uchiha.

“I have treated it before,” Sakura replied, patience thinning in her voice.

“You have treated another Uchiha?”

Barely a breath of a pause, but Izuna caught it. She was nervous, hesitating.

“Yes.”

“Who?” The air shifted, tension rising like a drawn bowstring.

“That’s not something I can tell you at this time.”

The silence that followed was colder than the night air.

Madara’s chakra flared, sharp and crackling like a live wire. “Not something—who do you think you’re talking to, girl?” His voice dropped, dangerously low, stepping closer to the medic nin, “Explain yourself—”

Then, a pressure settled over the room.

Deep, heavy, immovable.

Hashirama’s chakra rolled out—not in aggression, but as a quiet, undeniable warning. Like roots digging into stone, reminding them of the force behind his presence.

“Madara.” His voice was calm, but the weight behind it was absolute. “Enough.”

The air thickened, the scent of earth and rain pressing down, as if the very foundation of the room recognized its master.

“Your brother’s life is at stake. I assure you, she is here not as an enemy. If you cannot trust her, then trust me, friend.”

A long pause. The tension lingered—coiled, waiting—but then Madara huffed sharply, jaw tight.

Without another word, he turned and stormed out, leaving Sakura to finish her work.

Izuna’s fingers curled slightly against the blanket, grounding himself in the present.

The conversation had run its course. Sakura wouldn’t elaborate, and neither Hashirama nor Madara would press further—at least, not now. The weight of unspoken questions lingered, but there was an unspoken understanding between them.

For now, they would let it rest.

“It’s time.”

The warmth of the afternoon had long faded, replaced by the cool stillness of evening.

Sakura’s fingers brushed against the knot at the back of his head, untying it with delicate care. The fabric loosened, slipping away, and for the first time in weeks, Izuna opened his eyes.

The world returned in fragments.

Blurry shapes bled into one another, indistinct and formless. Then, as he blinked, the haze thinned—details emerging like ink seeping across a page. The wooden beams overhead, dark and sturdy. The flicker of candlelight glinting off lacquered surfaces.

Figures took shape.

Hashirama stood a short distance away, his broad frame and towering figure impossible to mistake.

Madara loomed closer, the stark angles of his hair and body coming into focus—arms crossed, his posture tense.

Then, his eyes found her.

His breath hitched, seeing the appearance of his doctor, fully, clearly, for the first time. And she was—

Just a girl.

A young, pretty girl with brilliant green eyes—so striking that for a moment, he wondered if the world had always been this vivid. Her short hair, neatly tucked behind her ear, slipped free as she leaned in, framing her face in soft waves, the color reminded him of spring.

“How do your eyes feel?” Sakura asked, concern evident in her voice, unaware of the way Izuna momentarily stunned at the sight of her.

Izuna forced himself to refocus. “Still… adjusting,” he admitted. “But… better.”

She nodded, relief softening the tension in her shoulders. “Your chakra pathways are still delicate. It’ll take time for them to stabilize.”

Her hands were fussing over him, fingers brushing lightly against his temple in a dim green glow as she checked him over one last time.

Seemingly satisfied, she straightened her back and added firmly, “No Sharingan for a month.”

Hashirama chuckled. “You might as well tell an Uchiha not to breathe.”

Madara shot him a sharp look but didn’t argue as he stepped forward.

For the first time in weeks, Izuna truly saw him.

Madara looked worn—his sharp features dulled by exhaustion, dark circles heavy beneath his eyes, the toll of too many sleepless nights carved into his face.

Guilt twisted in Izuna’s chest.

“Nii-san.”

Madara looked like a ghost, hollowed out by worry, his presence stripped down to the barest form of himself.

Before Izuna could find the words, Madara knelt beside him and pulled him into a firm embrace. The gesture was wordless but heavy with meaning.

Izuna stiffened for only a moment before returning it, pressing his forehead against his brother’s shoulder. He could feel the tension in Madara’s frame, the silent relief bleeding into the moment.

He felt movement—Sakura stepping back, retreating quietly to give them space.

Izuna held on for just a moment longer before pulling away.

His gaze lifted, flickering past Madara—back to the girl who saved his life.

She had stopped beside Hashirama, her back partially turned to him, her figure smaller in comparison to the broad-shouldered Senju. Though she spoke in hushed tones, there was something softer in her voice.

Looking up, she offered him a small, tired smile.

His hand came to rest on her head and shoulder—his dark eyes warm with quiet pride.

If not for his newly sharpened vision, Izuna might have missed it.

The way Sakura tilted her head, just slightly, as if unconsciously leaning into his touch.

The soft, barely-there hesitation before she averted her gaze.

The unmistakable flush on her cheeks.

Oh.

Chapter Text

(3 months later)

Madara’s Sharingan flickered across the grand hall.

Silk banners hung from polished beams, nobles murmured behind ceramic cups, their whispers mixing with the clink of porcelain and distant lute music.

Lavish. Opulent. Tacky.

Samurai stood stationed at every entryway—decorative, mostly. Their hands hovered near their weapons, their posture was too relaxed to be on guard.

At the head of the room, the feudal lord raised his drink, his chubby face ruddy from wine and joy, as he gushed over his daughter. The young princess—a frail, mousy child— had hovered at death’s edge for weeks, until a certain Konoha medic-nin arrived.

Sakura, as guest of honour, was the evening’s centerpiece. For the occasion, the court attendants had dressed her in a luxurious kimono—a soft rose silk embroidered with pale chrysanthemums—that looked almost too heavy on her small frame.

Seated to Madara’s right, she received the lord’s overflowing gratitude with a modest smile and half-raised sake cup. The corners of her mouth lifted out of courtesy, but Madara could see the strain behind her eyes. All those late hours at the princess’s bedside had carved hollows into the kunoichi's face, though she tried to smooth them with ceremony.

To her left sat Hashirama, eyes warm as he regarded her with open pride. He wore his formal Senju garb with dark green accents and a white crest, while Madara matched in crimson Uchiha regalia, having left their armor behind in the quarters provided by the lord.

Madara’s gaze drifted back over the hall as the events that led them to the feudal lord’s castle stirred in his mind.

An emissary from the feudal court had been dispatched to Konoha to request aid for the ailing princess. Having heard of Sakura’s talents, the lord had requested her by name—a rare honor, and one Konoha couldn’t afford to turn down. The village was still young, still proving itself, gathering funds, securing influence. 

As head of the police force, Madara had been assigned as Sakura’s security escort, and Hashirama had invited himself along. Nonetheless, the political weight of the mission warranted the Hokage’s presence, leaving Tobirama to run things while they were gone. 

Despite his buffoonery, Madara had to admit—he appreciated Hashirama’s presence in these affairs. He had an affinity with the nobles (and generally people) that Madara simply didn’t, and it made these events far less tedious than they might’ve been otherwise.

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Madara sipped his drink, eyes narrowing slightly as Hashirama laughed heartily at something a pudgy, big-nosed noble had said. A few words from the Hokage, and the man had puffed out his chest like a rooster in court robes.

The hall was alive with celebration. Plates of seasonal delicacies were replenished before they could empty, musicians played soft strings behind paper screens, and noblemen leaned forward in conversation, their curious eyes peeked past lacquered fans.

The interest directed at Sakura hadn’t gone unnoticed by either of the men accompanying her.

Just at the edge of his vision, Madara registers Hashirama’s hand resting casually at the small of Sakura’s back. They had been inseparable the entire mission, but Madara didn’t care to examine it too closely.

The soft giggles beside him drew a sigh from his chest. The night had gone on long enough. Hashirama could handle the remaining pleasantries, and Sakura was clearly in good hands.

He turned toward the feudal lord and gave a nod as a silent gesture of departure— to which the lord, tipsy and happily, waved his fan in acknowledgment. His daughter sat beside him, still wan but recovering, no longer the ghost of herself Madara had seen weeks ago.

By morning, Konoha would be thanked—lavishly, he had no doubt.

Madara set his cup down and rose to his feet. Hashirama glanced up, eyes sharp, voice slightly slurred. “Turning in early, old friend?”

“Nothing else requires my presence.”

Madara inclined his head, barely sparing Sakura a glance. She didn’t look up either, though he didn’t miss the way she shifted—just slightly—beneath Hashirama’s hand.

Hn.

“Rest well,” Hashirama said, tone mild.

Madara offered no reply, just turned and walked. But as he reached the edge of the hall, instinct—or habit—turned his eyes back one last time.

Hashirama had leaned in, murmuring something low against the hum of the room. Sakura didn’t answer, but her lips curved faintly behind the rim of her cup, a flush rising at her cheeks—soft, and almost imperceptible in the golden light.

Whether it was the sake or something else, Madara didn’t care to know. He stepped into the corridor, the quiet pressing in like a sheath—cool, still, and mercifully empty.

Not many people knew, but Uchiha Madara valued his sleep.

Deep when undisturbed, light when away from home—and always interrupted by a bladder the size of a grape.

Somewhere past midnight, long after the noise of the festivities had faded, he stirred again. With a stretch and a yawn, he stepped into the open-air corridor. The polished wood was cool beneath his feet as he padded toward the lavatories.

A breeze tugged at the edge of Madara’s night robe. Moonlight spilled through the beams overhead, carving pale, slanted lines across the floorboards. The air was crisp, edged with the scent of damp pine and earth. Somewhere behind him, a wind bell chimed softly.

He turned a corner—and stilled.

Across the courtyard, just beyond a low terrace, two familiar silhouettes stood framed by an open shoji door.

Madara narrowed his gaze. The Sharingan flared, sharpening his focus.

Hashirama and Sakura stood together on the veranda, in deep discussion, silver-lit by the narrow slice of moon behind them. From this distance, he couldn’t make out their faces or words—but the body language said enough.

Hashirama’s hand grabbed to Sakura’s wrist, firm but not forceful. She was angled away, half turned as if caught mid-step, yet she didn’t move under his towering form. The breeze stirred, lifting strands of pink hair that shimmered in the moonlight like loose silk.

Without hesitation, Madara cloaked his chakra and moved, lithe as a cat, until he slipped behind a wooden beam—close enough to glimpse their faces, far enough to remain unseen.

Hashirama leaned down, speaking low. Whatever he said made Sakura glance up, lips parting—startled, conflicted—before her head dipped again, shaking faintly.

“…not supposed to be here,” she whispered, voice shaking and barely audible over the breeze. “…another time—”

Hashirama didn’t move. His face was half-shadowed, eyes veiled by his hair, but the rigid line of his jaw was clear.

“…cursed seal…”

A stronger gust swept through the eaves, scattering her voice. Only disjointed fragments reached Madara:

“…order of things…”

“…future of Konoha…”

"...Tsunade..."

What followed was lost in the wind.

Without another word, Sakura turned and walked away, disappearing down the hall.

Hashirama remained where he was, still as stone. Whatever she’d said seemed to have struck something deep.

One hand rose slowly to rake through his hair, fingers pausing at his temple, as if trying to hold something in place. Then, with a quiet breath, he turned in the opposite direction and left.

Madara exhaled soundlessly.

He remained still for a moment longer, absorbing the silence they’d left behind. He hadn’t caught enough to understand what had passed between them, but it felt weighty.

Pushing curiosity aside, he pivoted and made his way back, slipping into the hall’s depths and leaving the wind and shadows behind.

The journey back to Konoha would take three days.

As expected, the feudal lord had offered generous compensation for his daughter’s recovery—more gold than any of them could carry without drawing attention. Hashirama sealed the gold into a scroll, offering a formal bow as they bid their farewell.

Whatever happened last night, Madara sensed the heart tension before they’d even cleared the gates.

Sakura kept her distance as they moved between the trees—either a step ahead or a pace behind, never quite alongside. Anxiously fiddling with her reins, she responded when spoken to, but her voice was subdued, as if each word passed through a layer of wool.

Hashirama wasn’t much better, always turned slightly away while throwing her the occasional glance that didn’t go unnoticed.

Madara said nothing, but the air between them was starting to wear on his patience.

Dusk was falling by the time they arrived at a small village, and they decided to settle in for the night. With the day behind them, they agreed to a drink at the tavern before parting for the night.

Sakura declined.

“Think I’ll just head to bed,” she said, brushing a hand over her eyes. Her voice was light, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She offered a small nod and slipped upstairs without waiting for a reply.

Hashirama’s gaze followed her the entire way, even after she’d gone.

Madara clamped a hand on his arm. “Come on, you need it.” he said, steering him toward the tavern.

The space was warm with lanternlight and noise, a steady hum of conversation and clatter. Madara found a table tucked away near the door that led back to the inn—far enough from the crowd to hold a quiet drink, close enough to leave easily.

Hashirama sat across from him, looking more tired than Madara had seen him in years. He held his drink with the careful grip of a man trying not to think too loudly.

Madara sipped his own, regarding him over the rim of his cup before deciding to break the silence.

“You’ve been quiet.”

Hashirama blinked. “Have I?”

Madara snorted but press. Hashirama had been distracted for most of the journey—present in body, but clearly elsewhere. Madara didn’t usually bother with small talk, but tonight, he figured he’d try.

“How’s Mito?” he asked, lightly, like a stone skimming across water.

Hashirama glanced up, caught off guard for a beat before his face smoothed.

“She’s well. Thank you for asking.” Madara let it stretch for a moment, his gaze drifting across the crowded room, then back to his companion.

“Still with your son?” Another pause. Madara could feel the hook land. He didn’t tug—just waited.

“Yes.” Hashirama’s mouth curved faintly. “He and his wife are expecting. Mito’s with them now—helping out where she can.”

Madara nodded slowly.

He remembered the boy—an awkward little runt, sporting the same unfortunate haircut his father had in his youth. Never entered shinobi life, the brat had married a civilian and settled in the deep parts of the old Senju forests. Madara had never bothered to learn his name.

“You’re going to be a grandfather,” he said after a moment. “Strange thought.”

“It is.” He chuckled, though the sound was soft, distant. “Part of me is happy, and the other is realising just how old we have become.”

Madara smirked. “Speak for yourself. I remain as youthful as ever.” 

Hashirama laughed under his breath, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes.

“I suppose that’s the reward for eternal bachelorhood.”

Madara took another sip. “Marriage doesn’t suit me,” he said flatly—not for the first time.

“Tobirama says the same.” Hashirama grinned at the mildly offended look that earned. “It’s not for everyone, I know. But having a family… someone to come home too, it’s meaningful. It gives back in ways that matter.”

“I see nothing but liabilities—and premature aging.”

Truth be told, Madara couldn’t imagine settling down. The Uchiha elders had tried, of course—talking of heirs, legacy, cementing alliances like the one between the Senju and Uzumaki. That it was his duty as the leader of the clan.

But the Uchiha didn’t need another clan to strengthen their blood or influence. And despite their otherwise rigid customs, the Uchiha valued love over political arrangement.

Not that it mattered. The thought of marriage had never tempted Madara. Especially after seeing what it had carved out of his friend.

Observing Hashirama now—at the far-off glint that had settled behind his eyes over the years, hidden under his dutiful nature and warm charisma.

But never when Sakura was in the room.

He nudged the conversation again, gently.

“You married young,” he said, lips curling in dry amusement. “Didn’t give yourself much time to enjoy being reckless and untethered after your voice dropped.”

"There was a war, Madara."

"When isn't there? Men have needs."

His eyes swept lazily to the bar, where a pair of young women—voluptuous, lips painted red—met his gaze with coy, inviting smiles.

Hashirama didn’t answer, his fingers traced the rim of his cup, slow and absent.

The women passed by their table. Their eyes skimmed both men with the temptation of seasoned courtesans. One let her fingers trail lightly across Hashirama’s shoulder, her perfume hanging soft and sweet in the thick tavern air.

“Care if we join you, shinobi-sama?” she purred, leaning her bosom against him.

Hashirama declined courteously, while Madara barely spared them a glance, swatting them off like smoke.

The women moved on without pause, unfazed.

“Not straying even for a little bit?” Madara said with a teasing lilt. “How noble.”

Hashirama gave a quiet laugh and waved the comment away. “I’ve been married for 20 years.”

Madara’s reply came dry as ash. “And I’ve been your friend for 30. I wouldn’t judge. Or tell.”

“You dog,” Hashirama muttered fondly, taking a sip. “And you? You're 'untethered', no need to unwind recklessly?”

Madara shrugged. “Just not in the mood tonight.”

Hashirama raised an eyebrow, tone edging into a smirk. “What, your libido finally caught up with your age?”

Madara snorted. “Hardly. I just don’t make a habit of bedding random women who reek of cheap sake.”

Hashirama barked a laugh, tipping his cup. “This is exactly why you’re still single.”

“It’s called having standards.” Madara said dryly.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence. Hashirama’s dark eyes drifted—past the tables, past the noise, toward someonenot in the room.

Madara followed his gaze for a beat. He leaned back, letting the sake settle at the base of his throat. It was clear that she still weighted his mind.

Then, casually, as if they weren’t dancing around the obvious:

“How do you think she’s doing?”

“Hm?”

“Sakura.”

The name landed like a pebble in still water. Hashirama stiffened.

“What do you mean?”

“She’s been quiet since the mission.”

"Oh."

Hashirama poured himself another cup, the motion mechanically awkward. “She’s just tired. Her chakra reserves were nearly depleted, makes sense she wants to take it easy.”

“Hn.” Madara watched him sidelong, letting the sound sit between them.

Then he pressed, carefully.

“You planning to check on her? As a fellow medic-nin, of course,” he added, all innocence.

“I thought I’d give her some space,” Hashirama said, eyes still fixed on the cup between his hands. “She’s been under a lot of pressure, she doesn’t need anyone hovering.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t mind you,” Madara said mildly. “She’s been here nearly a year now.”

A pause.

“You must know her fairly well by now,” Madara continued. “You’ve been… very close.”

“I wouldn’t say that—” Hashirama shifted. For a legendary shinobi, he was terrible at hiding his discomfort.

"Living under your roof, no less. A constant presence."

No point in needling further or distracting with cheap humor—not when Hashirama was already doing such a poor job pretending nothing was wrong.

“I don’t blame you,” Madara murmured, “if the scent of a nearby flower proved… enticing.”

Hashirama’s hand stilled around his cup.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense—expectant, unspoken things pressing in from all sides.

“…Nothing escapes your Sharingan,” Hashirama said at last.

Madara didn’t say anything at first—just let the quiet sit between them while the murmur of the tavern filled the room.

"Some things aren't meant to be." Hashirama said finally.

Madara arched a brow. 

“There are consequences,” Hashirama said, more to himself than to Madara. “…There’s a way things are meant to go. One step out of place and the ripple could… distort more than we can see.”

Madara narrowed his eyes. “You sound constipated with guilt. Or regret. Whatever it is - it’s irritating.”

A dry chuckle escaped Hashirama before it disappeared into the rim of his cup. “I don’t know if what I want… is necessary.”

Madara leaned in, resting an elbow on the table. “Hashirama, you’re not going to unravel the fabric of reality by… wanting something.”

A flicker of something passed behind Hashirama’s eyes.

“Consequence is part of life. It’s what makes choice meaningful.”

“It’s not that simple,” he said quietly. “There’s more at stake than just me.”

Madara let out a quiet breath. 

“Think of a river,” he said, recalling a metaphor his father once used. “You can dam it, divert it, drag stones into the current to slow it down—but it doesn’t stop. The water always finds a way. It seeps through cracks, carves new paths… floods what wasn’t ready.”

Hashirama’s fingers drifted along the rim of his cup, slow and distracted, as if the motion might keep him grounded.

“As long as there’s rain, there’s runoff. And when it spills over—well, the land reshapes. Eventually, it settles again.”

Hashirama inhaled like something had just hit him—not hard, but deep. 

“My point is,” Madara leaned in, voice low now, stripped of its usual edge, “if something truly wasn’t meant to happen, it wouldn’t find a way through.”

A breath caught in Hashirama’s throat. A spark lit behind his eyes—quiet, sudden, undeniable.

Without a word, he stood, startling Madara.

“I… I need to go,” he said, and like the wind, he swept out the door.

Madara didn’t follow. He sat in silence, eyes resting on the untouched sake cup.

The spark had caught. The fire would follow.