A/N: Okay, so I actually take Hashi/Mada seriously, and my friend/partner-in-crime/grammar-Nazi-victim Googala2 wants fic, and I am a ridiculous perfectionist when it comes to pleasing other people. Go figure.
Soooo, I tried to make something UTTERLY AWESOME as my first attempt. But the stress is killing me. Brilliance and plots will come later. For now, have a oneshot full of pretty descriptions and fluffy.
Also: Oscar Wilde said that "The only thing worse than Injustice is Justice without her sword in her hand," and I stole the analogy for my own author-lulz. Enjoy.
Sunrise over Konoha.
A rambling crescent of new-grown architecture, spreading outward from the Hokage Mountain, nestled amidst a sea of trees. Rose-red light touches walls, slides over the rooftops in a slow, dusky caress. The stars fade from the sky, one by one.
There is a house on the outskirts of the village; a haphazard dwelling, nondescript. The roof slouches faintly. Nobody lives there, most of the time. The owner is an old woman who leases rooms, for a night or two, and refrains from asking questions.
A handsome man with long, chocolate colored hair watches the slow onslaught of light from a high window under the eaves of that house; a window overhung by shadows, hidden from the world. His eyes- deep as well-water, dark as the hearts of trees- are quiet, and vaguely sad.
The sun rises, set in its course, and the world changes as it always does.
His features outlined in faint gold, Hashirama Senju sits and watches through the window as the light begins, chasing away nighttime, seeping into the slumbering town. The distant forest rustles with a dawn breeze. After a time, he turns his head away from his view and looks at the man beside him in the bed.
Black, black hair lies wild across pillows, a tangled mess of ebony. White, white skin like alabaster is given the glow of day, for a while. Dark lashes curve on a pale cheek, closed for now over a murder's eyes.
Hashirama smiles faintly, and he does not turn back to watch the coming day. He will be looking at Konoha in all its moods until the day he dies, but this… This is too fragile a beauty to be wasted.
He reaches out a gentle hand, moving to stroke Madara Uchiha's midnight hair, to touch his cheek. But Hashirama stops, his face unfathomable, and refrains from the caress. His lover, his rival, his antithesis- the young man asleep in the rented bed with rumpled covers draped across his slender waist and clothes in a discarded heap upon the floor- is too easily disturbed.
And, while the sun rises in Konoha every morning, and probably always will, it is not every day that Madara is peaceful, that his blazing eyes are closed and no kaleidoscope of crimson death burns inside of them.
Hashirama's gaze traces the garments on the floor, the dent in the wall where Madara tried to hit him, last night, and finally the trail of bites and scratches across the Uchiha's lovely skin, red on white. The First Hokage knows his own body must be similarly marked.
For Madara, bloodlust and desire are only two sides of a coin, and Hashirama does not pull his punches. He never has. Not in war, and not in love. The idolizers of history got it wrong, in the end; Hashirama is not Mercy; he is Justice; for his clan, for the village, for the world. He can be kind, yes, but he is still Justice. And Justice is nothing without a sword in its hand.
He has always been fighting Madara. From the very first day, from the very first glance he knew that this man was more to him than an enemy, more to him than a friend. Maybe more to him than a lover, even; someone who he will want forever, and never really have.
Madara is a ridiculous person to fall in love with. The Uchiha is young and angry and brilliant and broken. He has seen his clan rise, his younger brother die, and his own name be discarded in favor of Hashirama's when the time came to choose a leader for this village, very recently. He has seen many things. But now he sleeps, sated and still, lying in the bed of the man he loves and loathes and lives for.
Hashirama, too, has seen many things. He is strong and wise and good at leading men; his only weakness is the lithe body beside him, the seductive whirl of a mangekyou sharingan, and that weakness will not be remembered by the children of this village. It will end here, in this room, with the sun rising and the world at rest.
Oh, yes. Hashirama has seen many things.
But the best thing he has ever seen, the best of all things, better even than sunrise over Konoha, is the sight of the proud, beautiful creature in his bed, made temperate by sleep and gilded by the growing light.
Hashirama will lose Madara, soon. In a few days, the young clan leader will flee Konoha. They will fight; a terrible battle, reopening all the wounds of their lives and making new ones. It will end with Madara dead to the world, and Hashirama going home alone. There will never be another moment, another night like this, not in both their lives.
But now, the sun rises over Konoha.
Hashirama lies back down in the bed, letting the village exist without his watchful gaze, letting the dawn come. He reaches out again, and pulls Madara close with a strong brown arm.
It is a risk, as usual. But the Uchiha does not reject the intimacy; he does not even wake up. He merely presses his face to his enemy's shoulder and is still.