Chapter Text
I.
In the end, it was the rain.
Black and gray clouds had gathered at some point during this dark, oppressing day and they had, ultimately, given way to unimaginable amounts of water that now came down pouring. A late summer storm. Heavy rain.
The water was dripping mercilessly into his armor and soaking through his cotton clothes. It was cold, he noticed as he shivered, drops gathering at the tips of his long hair and running in pathways down his face. It got to his bones - the cold, the wet. His own breath tingled on his lips and he was thinking that the middle finger of his left hand might be broken. And yet he was still gripping the katana like his life depended on it. And it did.
He was exhausted, he felt it deep down. The fight had been going on for hours, his chakra levels were depleted and he knew that he wouldn’t last much longer. The space was clear and vacant of life - the jutsus cast prior had made sure of that. His feet and ankles were sinking into the wet mud and the grip on the katana’s handle got slippery. There was blood on his hands even the heavy rain couldn’t wash away - blood under his fingernails, caked and dark. Was it his own? Was it Uchiha blood? He could smell it, the metallic, sharp scent of life on his hands: of life that he had taken. It made him nauseous.
It was getting dark, the heavy clouds accelerating the process - it shouldn’t have been this dark already, at this time of the year, but it was oddly fitting for this day. The rain made it difficult to see, white, long strands obstructing his sight like a curtain and he could only guess where the enemies were. Where the Uchiha were.
Yes, in the end, it was the rain. The rain that pushed him over the edge: as he was standing there in the cold, the water running down his body, his clothes clinging wetly to his form. Drenched, tired, defeated in spirit. Injured, likely. He always had difficulty identifying people, he wasn’t a talented sensor, unlike his brother. But Madara’s chakra he’d recognize anywhere.
He saw him, across the bare and hollow field - covered only and terribly, horribly, with the bodies of Senju, of Uchiha. Madara’s figure was as prideful and strong as it always was. A flame, a fire that never seized in its strength and might. A conflagration tearing down and burning to a crisp everything that dared to stand in its path. And for a split second Hashirama thought that perhaps he would lose this fight if it continued. That he would find his end here, on this muddy battlefield, in the heavy rain. Like many Senju had before him. Like his brothers had before him.
But this couldn’t be the present. And it certainly couldn’t be the future. He lowered his katana.
“Madara!” His yell was desperate, a plea. “ This has to end, don’t you see? All this blood! For nothing! We can end this!”
There was no answer, at least none that Hashirama could hear. The air only filled with the murmur of the resistant rain, dripping into puddles and echoing off of the armor of fallen shinobi. Crows had already gathered in the sky, greedily flying circles of death around the field - a few brave ones had already landed on the outskirts, beady eyes calculating, beaks hungry for flesh.
"Don't you see?!" His voice had lost its composure. How could he have kept it, in this field of death? He didn’t even know where his brother was, only able to trust in his skills that he should still be alive - he never saw the open battlefield anyway.
But it was never a guarantee for anything. If Tobirama died - his last and only brother - Hashirama was sure he would break. The crows cried in displeasure. The rain didn’t seize.
“And what do you suggest, Hashirama?”
Madara’s voice was steady, deep and clear: a breakthrough through the rain and the clouds of death. In a gust of wind the rain shifted and Hashirama could see him clearly in the distance, standing tall and seemingly unbothered by battle. His weapon in hand, but lowered to his side.
“Negotiations! Peace talks! Anything that won't require our weapons!” Hashirama exclaimed. Wasn’t it obvious? How could this be solved otherwise? He didn’t want to fight anymore, didn’t want to sharpen his blades and pry the blood from under his fingernails in the self-cleaning mania that often followed these battles.
“They have failed in the past.” Madara replied evenly, the tone of his voice not giving away anything. No resentment, no benevolence.
“We have to try!” Hashirama insisted, “You cannot possibly want this either, Madara. Our brothers and sisters die and I don’t see the reason anymore. All this suffering–” He threw his arms in a sweeping gesture, looking around the field, “For no reason at all.”
Deafening silence. Lack of words. Only the rain and its sounds. He looked around, but the sight of Senju symbols on backs, the faces of their owners buried in the mud and puddles, made him feel sick. He swallowed heavily on his grief and looked up, trying to see Madara clearly as he was blinking hard, heavy drops weighing on his lashes.
Madara was frowning at him, his eyes bloody red as the sharingan pierced through Hashirama. Flames and rain and blood. The silence was heavy, unbearable and then, finally:
“Send a falcon with a request.”
Hashirama was clinging to him like a man dying of thirst in the wide deserts of the nomad people, and Tobirama was the life-saving water he was drinking in with big gulps. The hug was hard and desperate and almost violent in its strength - unlike any of Hashirama's usual hugs, when he was just cuddling him up, perhaps to get a rise out of him.
Tobirama couldn't help but sway a little, his hand grasping his brothers back, gripping the cotton. He knew that he'd taken a while to get home after the battle, but that wasn't unusual. The Uchiha had talented scouts and Tobirama's first and foremost objective, like it always had been, was not to be discovered. To remain the Shadow that he was, unheard, unseen, only being the notion, the foreboding of imminent danger.
He had realized that the main battle had ended two days ago and that it had been particularly bloody. But he hadn't realized that it was this bad.
"Anija." He rasped, a whisper but loud enough for Hashirama to hear.
"Tobirama." His brother's voice was raw, "You– you have taken so long. I thought–"
What he had meant to say was left unspoken, but not unheard. Tobirama, impossibly, drew him in even harder, burying his head in his brother's neck. "Do you doubt my skills, anija?"
A deep sigh escaped his brother. "No, of course not." He said, "But I do not doubt theirs either." He added.
Ah.
They stood there, for a while, neither really willing to let go. Hashirama likely because he had thought that he lost his brother and Tobirama because he wanted to give him reassurance. I am here, anija. Alive, healthy. Do you feel the warmth in me? You haven't lost me. Not yet, not ever.
Tea was set up afterwards. Tobirama had spent days out in nature and under the skies - often without proper shelter and fire to keep him warm. Campfires risked alerting the enemy and revealing his location, so he had abstained from making any sort of fire, no matter how small. The hot liquid filling his mouth and running down his throat tasted like heaven. It was always good to come home.
“How’s Mito? Where is she?” He asked finally, when they had settled.
Hashirama turned the tea cup in circles on the floor, observing the motion with a certain distance in his eyes. It unsettled Tobirama in a way he couldn’t describe.
“She is doing well and has been a great help. She is supervising the infirmary and giving support in tending to the wounded. It is–” His gaze wandered up and it finally seemed like he was truly looking at Tobirama.
“It is really bad this time, Tobira. We’ve lost many, a couple of close cousins as well. A dozen have been gravely wounded and I don’t know how many have a chance of making it, the fever is going around in the infirmary.” He shook his head slightly, “We haven’t even been able to properly bury all of our dead yet, some bodies are still unclaimed. The Uzumaki have been sending aid, but can’t give too much themselves - I also can’t ask Mito to do more. She is already doing much more than she needs to, I–” He huffed in frustration, “It cannot go on like this.”
Tobirama inclined his head, perhaps to think, perhaps out of grief as well. He had heard the names of the cousins that had fallen, but only now got the confirmation that the whispers floating around the Senju compound were true. He remembered some of them well, memories being happy children playing together in the dense forest lands welled up. His heart hurt.
“It can’t.” He agreed, “By the sound of it, you have already thought about your next steps, anija.”
“Yes.” Hashirama confirmed, refilling his cup of tea, “Well, I have already taken these steps, if I am honest with you. I know I should’ve perhaps consulated with you first, little brother. You won’t like it.”
The tea was sweet, caressing his tongue and soothing his dry throat. Even though their resources were slim, his brother still added honey to Tobirama’s tea, just how he liked it.
“You don’t need to consult me, anija. You are the clan head.” He said, simply because it was true.
Their father had succumbed to his injuries after another particularly hard battle years ago and left Hashirama and him to fend for themselves - with Hashirama following tradition and becoming clan head himself. Tobirama still remembered sitting by his father’s side in the last days of his life: this proud, strong, powerful man lying on a futon, pale and sweaty and thin, voice faint and driven by fever. His chakra fading.
“Promise, Tobirama, promise.”
He had never told Hashirama what his father had whispered into his ear that late fall evening. He had only promised, with all his heart. Shortly after, Butsuma died.
“I am. But I still value your opinion, Tobira. You know this.” Hashirama said, his voice fond.
"No matter now." Tobirama straightened, "What have you decided to do?"
Hashirama hesitated, clearly looking for words. He sensed that his brother was tired, Tobirama noted, war had aged him and if his previous behavior hadn't been evident then his appearance was indication enough that his brother was at its last wits. What now followed was the ultimate. The only solution left worth trying.
"I have sent a falcon with a negotiation request to the Uchiha. The elders have agreed to this and are in approval for peace talks." He said quietly.
Tobirama inhaled sharply. Negotiations. He should've realized that this was what Hashirama had been aiming for. The Senju and the Uchiha had tried to create peace for generations, with each generation failing even worse than the one before. His brother had this delusional idea of the ultimate peace - a village, lived and loved by both Senju and Uchiha. A manic dream that would never bear fruits given the violent and erratic nature of the Uchiha, Tobirama had always thought, but never said. He didn't want to hurt his brother and it would kill his spirit to hear.
Negotiations. He didn't want to. Didn't want to sit in the same room as the Uchiha scum, didn't want to share a table with monsters, didn't want to sense their faces, their chakra: pale, framed by the cursed black hair. Dark eyes that had doomed many Senju - eyes that changed their color to the same damned red as blood. Tobirama was often glad he couldn't see that well, so the pain of looking into a mirror and seeing the same shade of red he was mostly spared.
No, everything in him found the idea of talking to the Uchiha with the intent of peace repulsive and unnatural. Appalling. But as he clenched his teeth in inner denial, Hashirama's hand found his.
Touch had always been important to Tobirama, given that his eyes only let him see little more than outlines, schemes and blotches of color. His brothers had done it a lot when they were smaller, taken his hand and gently rubbed their fingers over his hand's back and palm. It brought him back and without really wanting to, he thought of Kawarama and Itama. Gone too soon.
Memories of flowers, beautiful and yet terrible - an attempt to appropriately symbolize what these little souls had meant to them. Kawarama died in fall, Itama in spring. Memories of white, linen cloth over small bodies, covering faces - the schemes of a young child underneath. Tobirama, in all his grief, sometimes had wished it was him instead.
The small lights of his life that had been warming his soul - they had been snuffed, mercilessly.
Snuffed by the Uchiha.
But could it continue like this? Again and again? Brothers and sisters taken, pain and grief driving the shinobi mad? Would his brothers still be alive, had his father truly tried negotiating peace back then? Tobirama was grown now. Could there've been a chance for Kawarama and Itama to grow up as well? His chest ached terribly at the thought. It really couldn't continue like this. They had to try.
Tobirama's fingers found their way into Hashirama's. "Yes. Alright." He said quietly, "I guess it's time."
It was, undoubtedly, a Senju falcon.
Madara stared at it for a long while, watching the twitchy bird cock his head, flap his wings and push its beak into its feathers. A pouch rested on its back, snugly fit to the body. After his initial small shock, he grabbed the torso firmly and removed the paper that had been contained in the pouch.
The bird squirmed, screeching in protest in his left hand as Madara’s eyes were fixed on the glistening, green wax. In it, buried, the seal of the Senju clan. Even though the paper was light, at the same time it felt like there was a heavy weight to it. Not physically, but in meaning. The battle that had taken place in such gruesome fashion almost a week ago was naturally still lingering in his mind. They were still cremating the dead, the smoke of the funeral pyres rising every morning, hanging thickly in clouds over the Uchiha compound - it was hard not to associate the constant smell of lavender with death. Some of their own were still missing: Uchiha scouts were searching on the battle sights, but Senju encounters made it difficult to retrieve the bodies.
Dealing with the aftermath made his soul feel tired and heavy. In the late nights after the battle he had prayed feverishly, thanking Amaterasu that Izuna had still been too injured to participate in battle. When he would visit his little brother in the days following these nights he felt overbearing, gut-wrenching guilt: how could he thank Amaterasu, when his otouto was still so pale, his constitution still so weak? He had gotten better, but the vicious attack of an unknown Senju assassin had left him seriously wounded. Yet, he was smiling again. The last battle was a fight he was spared. A battle that could’ve potentially cost his life.
Hashirama had been serious then, Madara mused as he made his way back to the main house from the falconry. Memories playing in front of his eyes, of an exhausted and desperate Hashirama crying out for peace. Had Madara considered him seriously? Perhaps, perhaps not. He knew Hashirama for a long time now and as long as they’ve known each other the other man had insisted on peace, very enthusiastically so. But a lot had happened in the time between childhood and now adulthood. Dead brothers, sisters and cousins. His father, Tajima, had succumbed to the shaking disease a couple of years ago and Madara, way too young, had to step up as the clan head. As far as he had heard, the Senju clan head had died of battle wounds not long after his own father had passed. Leaving Hashirama to tend to the Senju clan. Making decisions for the wellbeing of a whole clan meant that you couldn’t take a childhood friendship into consideration. Especially not when that friendship was shaky at best and with the child of an enemy clan.
He wouldn’t consult the elders before opening this letter, he decided. He wanted to gather his own thoughts about it first.
In the quiet shelter of the working space in the main house he broke the seal. The paper felt odd in his hands but he knew that it was only his imagination. Madara read the first line. Stiff and formal introduction - he recognized Hashirama’s handwriting, but not Hashirama in the words. There was no aloofness, no joke. It was a serious, formal request. Full of plea and stifled hope. Madara tried to feel angry at Hashirama and the Senju. For everything they had ever done. For almost taking his brother. But at this moment, as he was staring at the dried ink on tan paper, he couldn’t.
A sigh, heavy and tired, ripped out of his throat.
The Uchiha clan elders approved the negotiation talks. Reluctantly, but they did. Their hate for the Senju was strong, but even they couldn't bear to see their children and grandchildren die anymore.
As the Senju were the pleading party it was determined that they would have to shoulder the burden of hosting the negotiation talks. And it was a burden indeed. The Uchiha wouldn't come in few, likely paranoid for the whole thing to be an elaborate trap. It was their good right to think that it was - in the decades their clans had feuded, no tactic to potentially weaken the other clan had been left unused. “Peace talks” had been one of them. So the Uchiha would arrive with twelve people in their party. A dozen additional people to the Senju compound's grounds, treated as high esteemed guests, allowed every luxury the Senju could provide with. For an indefinite amount of time. The strain on the Senju's reserves and supplies would be tremendous.
Hashirama sported a headache that wouldn't seize. Their stocks were running low and it was one of the reasons he was asking for these negotiations. A wet spring and very dry summer had reduced this season's harvest and the crop the year before hadn’t been great as well, given that one of their largest fields had been burned down by the Uchiha over a year ago. They’d be lucky if they could make it properly through winter, provided that it would be a mild one. These peace talks were not only necessary for no more deaths on the battlefield - they were also necessary for his people to not die of starvation.
Hashirama remembered famines well, as a child he had lived through two of them. His little brother, luckily, had witnessed only one of those. They both had been small children and relatively blind to the things that were going on in the world, but Hashirama remembers being hungry. A hunger that still lingered, sometimes, as a phantom pain in his stomach, even now in adulthood. And even if Butsuma never let it be noted how much it had worried him, looking back, Hashirama recalled the look of relief on his father’s face when they had been given food supplies by a friendly clan towards the end of the winter.
So yes, Hashirama worried. The guests would arrive in a month's time and until then he had to prepare. Not only in supplies or in the actual contents of the negotiations. But also for the potential that it could all end in a bloodbath.
It was easy to assume that it was all a trap. A clever and insidious ploy to eliminate the Uchiha clan head and weaken the whole family tremendously. Because why shouldn’t it be? There was so much hatred between the Uchiha and the Senju. Deep, all-consuming and at times, more than likely, irrational hatred. The result of years and years of pain and grief and suffering. Scars, running deep and agonizingly; beaten paths of earth and rotting blood, walked again and again by the countless generations before them. If their enmity was a smell, it would smell like metal, fire and decaying flesh. And now, unforgivable things should be forgiven - at least, in a way. It didn’t make sense in one way, but made every sense in the other. Because the breaking point was here and it was now.
It didn’t make things less dangerous. If anything, the newfound, delicate situation of being in a temporary ceasefire, of neutrality, made everything even more explosive.
“I should come with you!” Izuna tried to get up, but his body didn’t let him as quickly as he wanted.
“Izuna…” Madara felt defeated, it was rare that he denied his little brother anything, but this request he couldn’t grant.
“The Senju just want to stab you in the back and you know it! They’re lying, honorless bastards and I believe no second that they actually mean these ‘negotiations’!” The younger exclaimed, his pale face flushing a little with color.
“No matter what we might think their nature is, I do think they mean it this time. Hashirama at least. And you are still too weak, otouto. There is no way I let you come with me when you can’t even stand on your own properly for more than half an hour.” Madara said evenly and patiently. He didn’t expect Izuna to understand. His brother never had the hand or feel for politics, nor what was safe or sane for his own body.
Frustrated and angry, Izuna leaned back into the bedding. “It’s only a matter of time until I regain my strength.” He bit defiantly, “And I don’t feel good knowing that you’ll be in their territory for a long time. Their clan head may be honest in his intentions, but he can never speak for the whole clan!”
There was some truth to that. The exchange of letters had lent some level of sincerity to the whole upcoming situation, but Madara was still uneasy about a multitude of things. One of them being the rest of the Senju clan. And more specifically, the one Senju that had attacked his brother a couple of weeks ago. He had to kill him, if he ever met him, Madara had sworn to himself.
Izuna’s condition had been so critical when a rescue team of Uchiha had brought him back from his solo mission, passed out and bleeding from a multitude of wounds. He had almost bled to death that night and Madara remembered clearly holding him, his younger brother that had always been so strong and proud and now suddenly so small and frail in his arms. The image of Izuna, with closed eyes and shadows of candles dancing in his face, drops of sweat from the fever of death glistening in the light, had burned into his mind. He had prayed to Amaterasu that night, and had promised her everything he had to keep Izuna alive. The fever broke the morning after: Madara knew that someday Amaterasu would come and collect the promised everything because she had performed a miracle.
Somewhere amidst the Senju was a talented and dangerous assassin that had almost taken his little brother from him. The one thing keeping his soul whole. And they would pay, negotiations and peace be damned. He’d find a way for his revenge, even if it had to be in the silent way. But he could be patient and he had to be, Madara knew. There were more important things at the moment.
“It will be fine.” Madara insisted as Izuna eyed him, “It has to.”
Senju lands.
The forest was thicker here, a lot more difficult to travel through even for shinobi. And even if their territories weren’t terribly far from each other, they’d take a while to actually reach the Senju compound. Madara felt antsy, being surrounded by so much earth and wood - out of his element, literally. The Senju were mokuton users and especially Hashirama showed incredible talent and skill for this element. Madara had seen it up close many times now and counted himself skilled enough with the additional extra bit of luck to have survived every encounter. Even if fire was able to burn down wood: there was something incredibly scary about how Hashirama’s jutsus worked, green and brown branches and tendrils, seemingly moving on their own - suffocating and strangling enemies.
Mokuton was the main reason why the Uchiha had never seriously tried to enter and invade Senju lands far enough to reach the main compound. The dense forest that surrounded the camp would’ve prevented every attempt - sometimes Madara wondered if it had a mind of its own. It was no ridiculous train of thought: the Senju had lived here for a long, long time, in between the centuries old trees with thick, strong roots that connected in between each other in an intricate network. Madara knew that the Senju buried their dead. It would not surprise him if the spirits of the dead Senju, along with their chakra, slowly infused into the trees over the hundreds of years that passed. There was a definitive mysterious and eerie feeling crawling up his spine as he eyed the sturdy tree trunks, hanging vines and restless, rustling undergrowth.
And so he was wary when they traveled. They had met a few Senju scouts two days prior, the encounter clarifying that the Senju granted them travel through their lands as they scouts just quickly had identified the party and then let them continue to go on their way. It didn’t seize Madara’s worries - one could never be careful enough.
“They are due to arrive in a day or two’s time.” His cousin’s face was stern as she reported to Hashirama and him, but it often was, “Our second scout team has encountered them near the south-eastern border and given this rough estimate.”
Hashirama nodded thoughtfully. “Alright. Thank you, Tōka.” He dismissed her.
Tōka simply nodded, the grim expression in her face not lifting for a second, before she left quickly. The inevitable arrival of the Uchiha, especially Uchiha Madara, had every single soul in the Senju compound on their last nerve. Especially those who knew enough about Uchiha Madara and had seen him first hand in battle - which, not coincidentally, were the same clan members instructed with the safety of the clan and compound while the Uchiha resided there. They had to use every advantage they could get. Tobirama still thought the best case scenario was that no one would die during these negotiation talks.
The citizens, the elders and children, were talking. Fearful whispers behind raised hands, widened eyes in which the white almost swallowed the small irises - old, horrific stories, whether true or false or maybe a little bit true and a little bit false, retold after lying dormant for years, wandered through the Senju households. Stories of the fire demons. No one would feel safe while these monsters were here, not the citizens, not the shinobi. Not Tobirama.
“The most has been prepared.” Hashirama mused as he refilled tea, “Mito has worked out a list for our negotiations. What we demand and what we are willing to supply. You have read it already, I take it?”
Tobirama simply nodded. He had a jutsu that helped him read which his father had taught him as soon as he had realized that his second son had terrible eyesight. And due to the whole situation being highly uncomfortable to Tobirama, he had thrown himself into the preparations of the peace talks. Maybe to regain confidence, security. He didn’t want to admit it, but he feared. Perhaps not particularly for any lives, but for what these negotiations could possibly change.
What would his position be, should these negotiations succeed? Would he still do the same tasks he had done before? What was expected of him then? There was doubt gnawing at him - most of his missions had involved the Uchiha. Should these missions seize… would he even be useful anymore? He was almost blind, a cripple. The Senju had no use for cripples. He didn’t even know anything else in his life, but to be a Shadow. Tobirama knew that Hashirama would never leave him behind, yet these thoughts still had haunted his mind the past nights.
“Good. I would’ve never expected anything else, diligent as you are!” Hashirama said cheerfully, but an unnatural silence followed. Tobirama frowned as he felt his brother’s chakra grow unsettled. “Tobira…” He said, his voice careful.
“Yes?” He answered softly, a strange knot forming in his stomach.
“In my exchange of letters with Madara we promised to each other that if we want these negotiations to succeed, both parties have to play with open cards.” Hashirama explained, “With… every card laid open, Tobira.”
His brother’s hand threaded into his right that had rested upon his thigh. And Tobirama knew. He knew what his brother meant. It was like his world was swinging upside down - he actually felt physically dizzy for a couple of seconds as he tried to collect his thoughts.
“You want…” He began, but had to stop to take a breath, “You want me present?”
“Yes, Tobira. I want you to be present during the negotiations. As my brother and as the Senju heir that you are. My heir.” Hashirama squeezed his hand ever so slightly.
Tobirama stayed silent as he heard his own heartbeat hammer in his ears, the loud noise penetrating his brain as if someone played drums in his mind. He couldn’t comprehend, not really, not right now. He was twenty-two years old, ever since he was a small child–
“Do you– I have never been present, anija. All my life I have been a Shadow.” He whispered, trying to control the panic that he felt.
“I know. And I want that to end. You aren’t a literal shadow, Tobira. You are my little brother and I love you very much. I don’t want to hide you anymore, you deserve more than that. I should’ve lifted you from the Shadows years ago already, when father died. I know he only gave you this position to protect you, but he never truly saw how strong you are. That you can walk in the light like the rest of us can. So I ask you to be at my side when the negotiations start.” Hashirama said softly, but determinedly. His chakra had calmed a little, but it did nothing to Tobirama’s inner turmoil.
He took a shaky breath in and out. Out of all things he’d expected would come with these negotiations, being freed from the responsibilities of being a Shadow wasn’t one of them. He had simply assumed he'd continue to be one.
The Senju Shadows: assassins, scouts, thiefs. Invisible to everyone but very few of their clan. Nobody outside of the Senju even knew they existed in the way that they did. In this separate category, as an elite group of shinobi that had been willing to go the extra step for their clan. Even if Tobirama hadn't chosen it, he took his role as a Shadow very seriously. Almost two decades he had been the best of them and now he suddenly shouldn’t be anymore? Was this the loss of purpose he feared? He had no skills besides the ones he had as a Shadow, he thought bitterly, what use would Hashirama have of him at the negotiation table? Naturally he had often dreamed of walking in the light, like Hashirama did. Especially when he was younger. Had never quite understood why his father had punished him into this existence in the dark while his older brother could walk carefree in this world, brightly, happily.
But things had changed. He had arranged himself with being a Shadow, grown comfortable in the dark. And now… Could it be a new chance? Or his demise as a person? Tobirama didn’t know. He only feared. But he couldn’t deny Hashirama anything, he never could. He’d die for his brother, even if Hashirama wouldn’t believe it. And for him he'd be brave in the face of his fear.
“Alright, anija.” He whispered, “Anything for you.”