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Hashirama.
Hashiramaaa.
“Anija! Are you even listening to me?” Tobirama’s voice snaps Hashirama out of his daze. Ink has splattered all over the scroll on his desk, heavy dark splotches that bleed and rip through the paper. Hashirama tsks and sets it aside to dispose of later.
“My apologies, Tobirama, I was lost in my own thoughts. How can I help you?” He puts on his best smile, but Tobirama still narrows his eyes, suspicious.
“You’ve been zoning out a lot lately…Everything alright?” The question makes his face pinch. Hashirama struggles not to laugh.
“Yes, just busy,” Hashirama assures, “what did you need?”
“Have you looked over the team assignments for this year’s graduating class?” Tobirama gestures to one of the many scrolls piled up on the desk. One of the ones he clearly has not looked at. Hashirama chuckles nervously while Tobirama scowls.
Once Tobirama has berated him to his heart’s content and reminded him of all the upcoming deadlines Hashirama needs to meet, he storms back to his own office and leaves Hashirama alone. Hashirama works another hour or so until the sun starts to sink outside. It dips below the horizon, staining it a deep red while long shadows stretch across the Tower’s floors.
Hashirama keeps his eyes away from the window, focusing on organizing his desk for the next day. He’s not the first to leave, but he’s not the last either. The shinobis’ voices around him blur into indecipherable murmurs. He nods and smiles when they look his way, but otherwise does not engage them.
Outside, a bitter autumn wind blows through Konoha’s streets. It burrows into Hashirama’s robes, raising gooseflesh on his skin. Something warm for dinner, he decides, and stops at the first ramen stall he sees. The man has stars in his eyes as he serves Hashirama, refusing to accept his money and hovering around as he eats.
“Thank you for saving our village. If that monster had breached the walls—” There’s a high-pitched ringing in Hashirama’s ears. The shriek of metal on metal, like the battlefields of his youth.
Hashirama.
Hashiramaaa.
“Shodai-sama? Shodai-sama, are you alright?” There’s a hand on Hashirama’s shoulder. It takes every ounce of will not to surge upward, reaching for a blade he doesn’t have to cut the enemy in front of him down. He doesn’t move, but the ramen man recoils, gasping in shock.
“I apologize, sir, I got caught in a memory. The food was delicious, thank you.” Hashirama stands, lays a few ryo on the counter despite the previous protests, and abandons his half-eaten food.
The sun has vanished by the time he makes his way to his favorite gambling house. It’s tucked away in one of the poorer districts that hasn’t grown as much as other parts of Konoha. The inside is filled with smoke, worn and aged despite the youth of the village. Dice and cards are set up at low-lying tables, a bartender tucked away in the corner, pouring drinks and bringing them over to the gambling men.
No one spares Hashirama a second glance as he enters. Here, he is not the Shodai, God of Shinobi. He is nothing but the money in his pocket. With a smile on his face, he joins a dice game, betting on odds before he’s even settled. He waves over the bartender for his usual and turns to see the results.
Even.
Hashirama laughs louder than anyone else at the table and opens up his purse.
“Might as well hand it over now and save yourself some time,” the bookie, a gruff man who’s never expected Hashirama to learn his name, says.
“Ah, but it’s the time that’s most important,” Hashirama replies and the man grunts.
A jug of the cheapest, most vile sake is set on the wooden table in front of him. Hashirama thanks the bartender, tips him, and asks him to bring three more. The dice haven’t yet been rolled a second time before Hashirama starts to drink. The liquid burns going down, but most importantly, it numbs. He’s sitting in a crowded room full of men, but he’s alone. There’s conversation between the gamblers, regulars and newcomers, shouts of jubilation and cries of despair. None of it is directed at him.
Hashirama’s sole focus is on the dice.
Even. Odds.
Even. Even.
Odds. Even.
Even. Odds.
Even. Odds.
Even. Odds.
Odds. Even.
Odds. Odds.
Odds. Even.
Jugs of sake disappear as quickly as money. Hashirama has lost count. With every jar emptied, it’s taken away and replaced with a full one. There are always at least two by his side. His purse runs dry and the room spins. The muffling fades into blissful silence. There’s no sensation. Nothing.
Hashirama.
Hashiramaaa.
“Wake up, come on.” A voice manages to split through the blissful void. Hashirama groans and opens his eyes. He was face down on the table, but the men continued to play around him. They usually do. Above him is a red and white figure. Slowly, his vision sharpens and the shape becomes Mito. She’s not angry, only resigned. “It’s time to come home, Hashirama. It’s late.”
Hashirama grunts and pushes himself up with a wobble. Mito reaches out, ready to steady him, but she doesn’t touch him first. She knows. Hashirama manages to steady himself, and then he reaches out to grab her arm. He’ll be unsteady for a couple of hours yet, but the blissful fog is already receding.
It never lasts.
Together, Mito and Hashirama make their way home. The streets are deserted except for the shinobi on nightwatch. A rattle of dead leaves blows in front of them, and Hashirama can’t help but shiver. Mito pats his hand and they continue on their way. Hashirama loses time as he walks. One blink, one step. One blink, one street. The sky is still dark when they reach the gate of their house. Dawn is hours off.
Mito leads him inside, careful not to disturb their son sleeping in his room. “Do you want me to get you something to eat or drink?” She asks, standing by his side as Hashirama fights to remove his shoes and haori.
“No…no, I’m good.” Hashirama knows he should, but that doesn’t mean he will.
“Do you need any help getting into your futon?” The same two questions every night. Little bits of care Hashirama appreciates but can’t bring himself to accept.
“No, I can make it on my own. Thank you for fetching me, Mito. Have a good night.” Hashirama smiles at her, but she doesn’t smile back. Instead, she nods once, gaze lingering on him before she turns and makes her way to her own room.
When the world settles into something a little more stable, Hashirama stumbles his way to his own room. It’s at the very back of the house, detached from the main building but connected by a covered hall. Plants cover the smaller building, the garden spiraling out around it, wild and untamed.
The room itself is small, only meant for sleep. A door on one end of the room, a closed circular window on the other. Besides his futon in the middle, there is only one other object. A small ink painting of a bird flying over a tree. It’s amateur, the lines shaky and uneven. Hashirama stops in front of it and stares. Stares so long he almost falls asleep on his feet and topples over.
With a full body shake, he turns and does his best to lower himself to the floor. Why bother changing his clothes? He’ll just have to change them again in a few hours. Hashirama topples down with a grunt and manages to crawl his way into bed. He heaves out a shuddering sigh of relief and pulls the blanket up and over him.
Maybe he’s tired enough to sleep through the rest of the night…
Hashirama closes his eyes. This, unfortunately, is not a true drunken stupor.
Hashirama.
Hashiramaaa.
Maybe if he just keeps his eyes closed…
Something warm drips onto Hashirama’s face. Plink. It rolls down his cheek, burning. The heavy tang of iron fills the air. It’s suffocating, so disgusting it makes Hashirama want to turn over and retch.
Now you’re ignoring me? Just like old times, eh Hashirama? Never your fault, always someone else’s.
It’s not real. Hashirama knows it’s not real. There’s a thump next to him and then footsteps. They’re loud, uneven. Unmistakably a man’s and so, so familiar.
Why won’t you look, Hashirama? Can’t you face what you’ve done? The hero of the village…what a joke. You were never a hero. Just a weak man, too afraid to make real change.
The footsteps echo around the perimeter of the room. Every once in a while, there’s a shriek of metal, a scythe scraping against the wooden floor.
You were happy to see me gone, weren’t you? Then you could bury any uncomfortable feelings and accept everyone’s praise. No one left to challenge, to complain, to point out the flaws in your imperfect dream.
There’s a shuffle and the creak of a window. From outside, the splatter of falling rain fills the room. It does nothing to dispel the smell of blood.
You never wanted me here in the first place, did you? Every sweet word, every nighttime promise about our dream was all lies. You never meant a word. You never loved—
“That’s not true!” Hashirama yells and opens his eyes. He expects the spectre to be by the window but—
It’s on top of him. Rotting face inches away from his own.
Hashirama gasps and tries to flinch away, but its claws are on his arms, pinning him down. It’s not Madara, it’s not. Madara’s body never decayed like this—peeling and bloated with hollow, empty eye sockets. Hashirama brought him home and burned his body as Uchiha tradition demanded.
But it looks so much like him.
Beyond the wounds, it's Madara’s hair, Madara’s face, Madara’s body.
It’s not? Then why did you stab me in the back? At the whispered hiss, bright red blood begins to spill from the wound over the spectre’s heart. Hashirama knows what a blade to the chest looks like, but this isn’t it. There’s a gaping hole instead, so large he can see the wall of flesh and ligaments inside the creature’s chest.
“You gave me no choice! What was I supposed to do? Let you destroy the village? Kill everyone we worked so hard to save?! I wanted you here, I begged you to stay. It was you who left me!” Hashirama screams, tears leaking from his eyes.
The spectre only laughs. Raucous and loud, it throws its head back. Then, in an instant, it's back in Hashirama’s face, so close he’d feel its breath on his lips if it could breathe. Blood is still pouring from its chest to stain Hashirama’s futon, and now smaller trails of blood leak from its vacant eye sockets. It stops laughing and just stares at Hashirama.
Hashirama sobs, still unable to move from his bed.
He wants the monster to disappear. If he could, he’d rise and throw it off him. Scream and cry for daring to deface Madara’s memory.
He wants the monster to stay forever. This is as close to Madara as he’ll ever be again. Madara’s never coming back.
Hashirama gasps and jolts up in bed. His heart is clawing its way out of his chest, the sheets absolutely soaked with sweat. He whips his head around, searching for the creature in the empty room. It’s gone. The sun is rising outside, the first rays of dawn spilling across the land, through the open window.
Hashirama lies back down and shudders.