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Imagine if Madara were on his deathbed with Hashirama by his side, but before he can die himself, Hashirama becomes a wooden statue decorated in stunning foliage with his hand forever in Madara’s. Madara sheds a tear and curses him for dying on him like that, but he’s smiling, and he breathes his final breath. At least he’s not leaving alone.

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hashirama doesn’t look any older, but madara can tell. his chakra is wilder, harder to tame. it feels less and less human, and more and more…something else. his limbs are stiff and they creak like old wood, and sometimes when he sits very still for a long time (as he tends to do more and more often now) madara is afraid he’ll never move again. he creates plants more, without meaning to, and more than once madara has gone out to the garden and found him covered in creeping tendrils of moss, or had to push back layers of layers of ferns just to find his face and cradle it in his hands. it feels like the forest is slowly—but with steadily increasing urgency—calling him back.

not yet, madara thinks, clasping hashirama’s rough-hewn hand in his own. not yet.