Rating: T

Warnings: Copious fluff, extra banter, pre-slash, more pre-evil Madara and his FEELINGS, some Tobirama-feels for contrast, and a conniving Hashirama.

Word Count: ~2800 (complete)

Pairings: Pre-Madara/Tobirama, past one-sided Hashirama/Madara, vague Hashirama/Mito.

Notes: First birthday present down! Hah, and I'm even early. I was going to wait and post this on our actual birthday, but my brother has no understanding of delayed gratification and demanded I cough it up pretty much the minute I got done writing.

So here, brother dearest, oh blood-bonded and twin-souled pain my rear. All suckiness is your own fault, capisce? (I totally love you, never forget that bit.)

Now everybody brace yourselves. It's either Utakata or Shisui and Itachi up next.

dive for dreams

epilogue: if the seas catch fire

Madara turns seventeen during a lull in the fighting, on a cold December day when it's just about cold enough to snow. Snow in Fire Country is rare, but Madara loves it, the cold, crisp cleanness of the world once it starts to fall. There's a celebration happening, large and loud, because he's the Clan Head's son and it's expected, but he sneaks out as soon as he can be sure he won't be missed. Izuna watches him go with a smile, knowing his fascination with snow, and Madara waves his thanks as he ducks out of the main house and heads for the river.

Night is falling, making it colder still, and Madara's breath clouds in gusts of white as he hurries through the darkened trees. When he lands on the bank of the river, Hashirama is already there and waiting, shivering inside a good number of layers and blowing on his hands for warmth. Upon seeing Madara, he brightens like a light going on beneath his skin, and grins. "Happy birthday!" he crows, bouncing closer. The awful bowl-cut is gone, thankfully, and in its place his hair brushes his shoulders, straight and dark. He's finally growing into his looks, and Madara thinks vaguely that Mito is probably lucky, given most arranged marriages.

He's still an idiot with no fashion sense, though.

"We're finally the same age again," he agree with a sniff. "No more holding two extra months over my head, bastard."

Hashirama just laughs, because at twelve or seventeen, he's always irrepressible, and thrusts a cloth-wrapped package into Madara's hands. "A good thing I've still got those four inches to hold over your head, then," he counters cheerfully.

"Idiot!" Madara glares at him, and gets big pouty eyes and a trembling lip in answer as Hashirama crumples.

"I'm sorry…I didn't mean it. You know I didn't mean it, right? I'm sorry I'm this tall, I really am."

Madara rolls his eyes in exasperation and leaves Hashirama to his melancholy, carefully unwrapping his gift. He folds the bright red silk, then opens the box, and smiles at the sight of a full set of inks and brushes, finely made and beautiful.

"Thank you," he says, tugging his scarf up a little higher as the wind gusts past them. Hashirama is looking at him with wide, hopeful eyes, and Madara reaches over and punches him gently in the shoulder. "Thank you. I love them."

Hashirama beams, wide and silly, and bounces on his toes. "Wonderful!" he declares brightly, and then glances back towards his side of the river, expression taking on a guilty cast. "Ah…I'm supposed to be meeting with some other clan heirs right now. I should probably go. But I wanted to make sure to wish you a happy birthday."

"Idiot," Madara says again, but it's not nearly as biting as it should be. Closer to fond, but after five years of these meetings Hashirama is his best friend, and Madara can't even pretend otherwise at this point. "You already said that. And you're going to get in trouble again. Get lost, you hear me?"

For a long moment, Hashirama stares at him. Then, before Madara can even begin to defend himself, he lunges forward, wraps Madara in a tight, bone-breaking hug that literally lifts him off his feet, and then releases him and darts back towards the other shore. "Bye!" he shouts as he goes. "See you next week!"

Madara growls impotently at his retreating back, entirely fed up with oversized idiots using their extra inches and pounds to take advantage of normal, non-giant people. But he looks down at the writing set and can't help but smile as he lifts the lid again. It's…nice, having a best friend. One who understands his dreams, and doesn't gift him with weapons.

Footsteps crunch across the stones, a clearly deliberate tell of the person's presence, and Madara doesn't have to look to know who it is.

"Still stalking your brother?" he taunts, though that's a little fond, too. He likes to think he hides it better than with Hashirama, though, given their more abrasive relationship.

Tobirama huffs disgustedly at him, a pale wraith in the night. His hair is longer too (because apparently the Senju don't believe in trims, not that Madara is really one to talk), falling in a shaggy mane around his face, and he's added a happuri faceguard and a jacket with a white fur collar. At fourteen, almost fifteen, he's still kind of skinny and angular, but he moves like someone four times his age, all grace and deadly silence. They've faced each other on the battlefield—albeit halfheartedly, and pretty much putting on a show for anyone watching—and he might not have Hashirama's mokuton, but he's still dangerous.

If Hashirama is the dragon, standing tall and wise and honorable, Tobirama is the silver lion crouched at his feet, swift and merciless and proud.

But he's also not a threat, not to their dream and not to Madara or his brother. Twice now, Tobirama had the chance to kill Izuna on the battlefield, because for all that Izuna is brilliant Tobirama is better, but Tobirama turned aside, struck with the flat of his blade no matter what punishment it earned him from his father, and Madara appreciates it more than he will ever say. The younger boy is standoffish and arrogant and logical to an actual fault, but he's utterly unwavering in his devotion to Hashirama, to the idea of a peaceful village, and that's something to admire.

"Here," Tobirama says, and Madara barely has time to catch the package that's thrown at him before it smacks him in the face. He blinks at it, then at the other boy, and Tobirama rolls his eyes. "Happy birthday," he growls, like it's deeply offensive to even say it.

"You're really not good at this human interaction stuff, are you?" Madara needles, because that's what they do. It's an easy enough pattern to fall into, these days.

Tobirama crosses his arms over his chest with a scowl. "Brother insisted," he bites out. "Since he seems to be under the mistaken impression that we're friends."

Madara rolls his eyes right back. "You're such a brat." But he pulls away the cloth to find several long strips of leather, carefully cut, a pair of silver bells, and a tiny leather hood. He blinks in shock, staring down at the falconry equipment he's absolutely certain he never mentioned wanting.

"If you don't want people to know that you like falcons, you should pick the feathers out of your hair before going out in public," Tobirama says dryly. He's once again carefully not looking at Madara, and it's too dark to see if he's flushing, but Madara kind of suspects he is. "I simply extrapolated."

"I…thank you, Tobirama," Madara says softly, surprising himself with the honesty of it. He'd thought his interest in falconry was a secret, something frivolous and not worth noticing, but apparently Tobirama noticed.

It begs the question of why.

"You're welcome." Tobirama nods, sharp and decisive, and then turns on his heel, takes a step, and seems to vanish into thin air.

Even after five years, his speed still manages to be truly impressive.

But Madara has more to think on than just that right now. He stares down at the package in his hand, thinks of Tobirama watching him closely enough to notice a stray feather in his hair—he knows it hasn't happened more than once; he's more careful than that—his stubborn insistence that they're not friends, the way he never looks Madara in the eyes longer than he has to. And…wonders.

The touch of something cold and wet on his cheek makes him look up. There are snowflakes drifting in the air, just starting to descend, and Madara can't help but smile. The year's first snowfall, and on his birthday—surely he can take that as a good omen. After all, he's seventeen, has survived this long already. Izuna is still alive, still the same as ever, and his best friend is a Senju who's more than willing to work towards peace with him. Their fathers are still alive, yes, still at war, but…they can wait. And once they're in control of their clans, they can start on their dream. It won't be that much longer now.

"Aniki?" Izuna calls softly from the trees, and Madara turns to look at him, tucking the Senju brothers' gifts out of sight in his robes.

"Here, Izuna," he answers. "I'm just watching the snow."

"I don't understand your fascination with this stuff," Izuna complains, huddling deeper into his scarf. "It's cold."

Madara snorts in amusement, and then blinks as an idea comes to him. Maybe not the best one, but—Izuna is good with people, good at picking out their motivations and goals. It's worth a try, at least.

"Hey, Izuna," he ventures carefully. "Can I get some advice?"

Izuna makes a surprised noise behind the collar of his jacket, though he doesn't let more than his eyes show. "About what?"

"Someone gave me a gift," he says. "One that I didn't tell anyone I wanted. They're always watching me, but they say we're not friends and get irritated with me easily, and… Izuna. Why are you laughing at me?"

"Sorry, sorry!" Izuna gasps out, though he doesn't sound sorry at all, pressing his hands over his mouth to keep in his snickers. "Just—I knew you'd start noticing girls one day, aniki. She obviously has a crush on you—that's why it irritates her when you say you're friends. Tell me, is she pretty?"

Madara blinks, slightly poleaxed. "Yes," his mouth says automatically, without any input from his brain—though, in retrospect, he supposes it's true enough. Tobirama certainly isn't classically handsome like his brother, but he's still appealing.

…And that is absolutely as far as Madara is planning to go, thinking of Hashirama's little brother that way.

But…could it be true?

It certainly fits more than any of the other theories Madara has come up with by himself.

"Do you…really think so?" he asks, still vaguely bewildered.

Izuna chuckles, throwing an arm over Madara's shoulders and tugging him along as he turns to head home. "I really do," he affirms. "So? Do I get to meet her?"

"No," Madara says immediately—mostly for the sake of his sanity—and then glares at his little brother when Izuna starts snickering again. "Oh, shut up. I'm still working it all out in my head."

"Don't take too long," Izuna advises cheerfully. "If she's a kunoichi, you're liable to get stabbed if you make her wait."

With Tobirama, he's liable to get stabbed either way.

"Don't worry, aniki. If she's watching you closely enough to figure out what you like without any hints, she's either got the world's biggest crush on you or she secretly thinks you're a mass murderer, I promise."

Knowing his luck, it's the latter. Madara sighs and resigns himself to a lot of covert observation—and possibly the world's most awkward conversation—in his near future.

At his side, Izuna glances up into the softly falling snow and smiles. "Still dreaming of a peaceful world?" he asks. "It might be nice to raise a family like that, don't you think?"

Madara thinks of their village, still nothing more than a handful of plans and sketches and dreams. Thinks of Hashirama and his driving will, so well hidden behind his cheery, ditzy façade. Thinks of Tobirama with his sharp red eyes and impermeable logic and dream to build a school for all the children who want to be shinobi. And it's…good. So good. Maybe they haven't made it yet, maybe their dreams still have a ways to go before they're realized, but they've set their feet firmly on the path and that's a good enough start.

At one point, this entire forest was just empty ground, and I think peace is the same. Once the seeds are planted, the roots will reach deep, and then the tree can grow.

Tobirama's words, but they make him smile. Make him wonder, because if anyone beside Hashirama understands it's Tobirama, and that's as good a bond to start with as any.

"I think," he tells his little brother, "that there's absolutely nothing I want more."

(Somewhere very far away, Tobirama sneezes hard, almost stumbling from the force of it. With a laugh, Hashirama catches him by the elbow, and says knowingly, "Hey, Madara must be talking about you! Maybe he returns your feelings!"

Tobirama stares at his brother for a long moment, then pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a slow, careful breath in an attempt to control his temper. It isn't the first time they've had this conversation, and Tobirama's luck is dismal enough that it probably won't be the last.

"I," he says deliberately and clearly, as though talking to a child, "do not have a crush on Madara."

Certainly, Tobirama can admit he's handsome, but—

No. No, actually, never mind. He isn't willing to admit that at all.

Hashirama opens his mouth to protest, but Tobirama already feels unsettled enough by the whole scene on the riverbank (Madara, that grateful expression, feelings—it's all enough to give him hives) and has absolutely no patience for this romance kick his brother seems to be stuck on. Mito's influence, without a doubt. He ducks into his room, slides the door closed with enough force to let Hashirama know he's not welcome, and latches it securely.

He spares one more moment to consider the ridiculous idea of Madara having feelings for him, then snorts and shakes his head.

And then, somewhere in the back of his mind, a presence he's all too familiar with finally stirs after years of silence.

'Well,' the voice says, warm and eminently satisfied, and this time there's only light accompanying it. 'That's certainly a path you haven't tried before. Have you thought that maybe that's the answer?'

Tobirama growls and contemplates strangling himself with his sash.

But—

Maybe he was smiling, just a little, when Madara stared down at his gift in awe. That was just—

The Sage laughs at him before all sense of his presence vanishes like a stray bit of breeze, and Tobirama is alone again with several new thoughts to contemplate.

With a sigh, he throws himself down on his futon and closes his eyes. Remembers Naruto and Sasuke, back in the future that isn't any more, children who should have had a far better life than they did but made the best of what they were given regardless.

This is their dream, as much as it is Hashirama's. The dream of future generations, as well as those present. This Madara, who knows loss but hasn't been broken by it, who strives for peace side by side with Hashirama, seems to understand that.

And…maybe that's as good a bond to start with as any.)