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Madara ducked his head to sneeze into his sleeve again. Izuna continued to shovel ochazuke into his mouth next to him, stray grains of rice clinging to his chubby face.
Kurohime, the eldest, cocked her head. Tajima put down his chopsticks as Madara sniffed, scrunching his nose absently. The Uchiha patriarch narrowed his dark eyes at his eldest son, studying him. He didn’t notice as their attention shifted from the meal to him. He picked at his own bowl distractedly, squirming in his seat and itching at his neck.
Madara’s mind was still by the river, swimming in the cold water of the Naka with his friend. Replaying the events of that day, his heart still pounding.
The cacophonous drone of the cicadas and the rush of the river had been the soundtrack of the afternoon, the boys having had nearly to shout to make themselves heard.
Madara liked to fight with Hashirama. Just usually, when they were together, Hashirama liked to do things he didn’t have the chance to do at home.
Though sometimes he felt embarrassed and silly, Madara liked to do kid stuff with his friend, swimming and running, skipping stones, climbing the cliffs and trees, playing carefree together the way neither of them had been able to in years. He can be kind of a baby sometimes, but Madara’s never held it against him. When they were together, just the two of them, there was no pressure to act like grown ups all the time.
He hadn’t made fun of Hashirama when they’d met originally, tears covering his cheeks and nose running, and the two of them mourned the deaths of their baby brothers together. Madara had relented then, to his own grief, and Hashirama had just held out a stained handkerchief to him without a word.
Since then, there was hardly a thing they kept from one another. Well, except the obvious. It was always on the tip of Madara’s tongue, a brag about the sharingan his sister had recently developed or about a battle they’d just won. But something always held him back. He didn’t want to taint this place, their friendship with the war. Hashirama was loud and expressive, bright and warm like the sun. He was unable to hide his distaste for the violence that fueled the shinobi world and the way it disquieted him. Madara felt the same unease, and relished this place where he could be a normal kid, with someone who didn’t know who he was, and didn’t care. Someone who just wanted to be around him because he liked him, liked Madara. So Madara kept news of his shinobi life private, and usually the two boys didn’t spar.
That afternoon had been different. Though the midsummer sun was making the sweat pearl at Madara’s brow even before his friend m joined him on the river banks in the early afternoon, Hashirama had been brimming with unusual energy and seemed desperate to work it off. His brown hair had been sticking to the back of his neck, and he kept adjusting his scarf to wipe at drops of perspiration that trickled from his hairline. He’d had been restless as the two skipped stones, and had beaten Madara in several races before Madara, red faced and panting, had tapped out, blaming the heat and the sticky fire country humidity. He’d been about to suggest shucking off their clothes, already sweat sticky, to take a dip in the cool water of the Naka, when Hashirama had suggested they spar.
He’d had a gleam in his brown eyes when he said it, a kind of eagerness that Madara had never seen from him before. Madara had agreed, drawn in indelibly by Hashirama’s energy despite the oppressive heat.
They had to set ground rules, everytime they sparred because Hashirama was a cheater. It was something he’d denied over and over, but everytime Madara gave him a chance, a sneaky grin would eclipse Hashirama’s face and he’d do something underhanded, like blow in his ear or lick his hand. It always made Hashirama erupt in boisterous laughter that filled the trees and made Madara’s heart stutter.
Madara tried to suppress the heat that rose to his cheeks at the thought of the other boy. At his big, kind brown eyes and his joyful laugh. Above his head, his sister and father exchanged a look at the blush on his face. Madara scratched absently at the side of his neck.
After Hashirama and Madara had laid out the rules, (no groin shots, no jutsu, no weapons, no licking, biting or pulling of hair- all things Hashirama had pulled on Madara before), the boys squared up. As the sun beat down on them, they gave the signal and began the fight. Madara dropped into the ready stance that had become instructive at this point, Hashirama mirroring him. They circled one another, grinning, still panting faintly from their previous exertion. Madara held Hashirama’s intense, familiar gaze, never once taking his eyes off the other boy.
In his chest, his heart pounded, having little to do with the heat of the day. Madara loved this, being the sole focus of Hashirama, the only thing in his gaze. He basked in the other man’s attention, growing towards it like a sunflower, and today it was particularly bright and warm. It buzzed pleasantly across Madara’s skin and made his cheeks and ears hot. Madara wasn’t stupid, he knew what the soft, staticky sensation in his gut when he was around his friend meant. But even very young Uchiha are aware of powerful nature of their emotions, and so Madara had been cautious, staying firmly in the shallows of his affection toward his friend, wary of the raging currents contained within, liable to sweep them both away. Madara had barely had friends before, much less something more. His relationship with Hashirama was so precious to him, he dared not act on the emotions that were developing within him.
All of a sudden, Hashirama leapt forward, and their fight began. Though neither boy was a true taijutsu specialist, Madara usually pulled through as the victor of their spars. As they traded blows that day, however, Madara noticed again the unusual, nearly manic enthusiasm in Hashirama. He dodged a kick, retaliating with one of his own. Something about the ferocity glinting in Hashirama’s brown eyes had his blood surging, heart battering wildly in his ribcage. Madara ducked under a wild swing, landing a punch to Hashirama’s gut that didn’t even slow him down. Sweat dripped down the back of Madara’s shirt and stuck his hair to his face. Hashirama’s eyes blazed bright, and Madara met him with a wild grin.
They went back and forth for what felt like hours, Hashirama’s inhuman tenacity never waning. Madara was feeling the effects of the fight, of his opponents physical strength and how well matched they were, in tune with one another’s bodies, as well as the sweltering midday heat. His shirt was visibly wet and clinging to him. Madara could feel the ticklish slide of sweat down his back. His body was beginning to get sore, and respond more slowly to his instructions. There was a faint ache in his neck, even though he couldn’t remember Hashirama landing a hit there.
Finally, Hashirama found a gap and struck ruthlessly. He swiped Madara’s feet out from underneath him, making the other boy hit the ground, hard, following him down. Gasping from lack of breath, Madara lay dazed under his friend, wheezing. A long, tanned limb secured itself around Madara’s neck. He froze, instantly off guard at their contact. Hashirama’s head was right by his ear, his whole body pressing him down into the dirt. The other boy was hot and heavy above him, and it seemed like Madara’s body sparked alight wherever their damp flesh slid together. He struggled to catch his breath in Hashirama’s hold. He could feel his friend’s knees on either side of his, Hashirama’s pelvis was crushing his. His breath was sweeping in hot pants against Madara’s sticky neck. They were close, so close, and with Madara pinned on his stomach under Hashirama like this.
Something tickled his nose, and Madara turned his head like he was about to sneeze. He succeeded in bringing his face close to Hashirama’s both of their exhausted breathing loud in his ears. There, he could smell it. A scent he had never smelled before, dark and earthy, cedar and fresh dirt, and wormwood, like in the medics tent. Madara breathed the smell in deep, and it felt like something unknotted in his gut. A trickle of tension unwound from his body and he sagged in his friend’s hold. It smelled so good. Madara took another long pull, allowing it to diffuse through his body. It was heavenly. He pressed his face into his friend’s skin, chasing the scent, a gasp coming from Hashirama. Madara felt something weird and warm in his stomach, and his groin, and he shifted uncomfortably under his friend.
In an instant, Hashirama was up and red faced, apologizing. Madara was still breathless and dazed from his defeat and let him off easier than normal. He’d waved off Hashirama’s apology and mumbled some lame excuse about dinner. Hashirama had made him promise he wasn’t mad, and Madara had left, his senses still swimming from what he’d since realized had been Hashirama’s pheromones.
Tajima reached across the table to press a scarred hand to Madara’s forehead, jolting his son out of his thoughts. Kurohime sniffed the air subtly, then immediately wrinkled her nose. Izuna glanced between the two of them, now that his bowl was empty, his ponytail whipping back and forth with the movement.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, his voice high with fear. Madara looked up at his father with confusion.
“What’s wrong father?” Madara echoed. Tajima has his dark eyes fixed on Madara. He leans subtly, across the table, to sniff at Madara. He gives a firm nod, retracting his hand.
“Madara, did you see anyone different today than usual? Did you meet someone?” Tajima asks, and his voice is softer than usual, the comforting note unintentionally raising his children’s hackles.
“Why, what’s wrong with Madara?!” Izuna cries, gripping onto his elder brother’s arm. Madara is frozen stock still, his heard pounding- how could his father know about Hashirama?
“No,” He answered, proud of his ability to speak confidently, without waver in his tone, even as his pulse raced out of control. “Is something amiss?”
Tajima held up his hands reassuringly.
“Nothing is wrong. I think you may have started your presentation.”
He hadn’t known it was possible for his gut to get colder with fear. Presentation. That had been what he’d been feeling all day, since his fight with Hashirama. The persistent body ache, even though he hadn’t been beaten that hard. His bond site and glands had been itchy ever since then. Mindlessly, Madara scratched the one in his left wrist, freezing as he noticed Tajima watching him meaningfully.
“So- who were you with today? I didn’t see you in camp,” His sister asked, a dark eyebrow quirked tone so laden with suggestion that made his face pinken.
“Nobody! I was training by myself!” Madara insisted. Kurohime gave a disbelieving hum, a smile playing on her lips, despite what Madara believed had been a convincingly innocent tone.
“We just want to know if someone could have triggered it for you,” Tajima explained, his voice still so gentle it made Madara uneasy. Logically he knew his father was just trying to help, but a clammy fear had settled over him at the thought of his family knowing about Hashirama. He was Madara’s friend, Madara’s secret. Madara’s. A unfamiliar sensation rose in his chest, possessive and defensive, and to his suprise, a sound guttered out of Madara’s chest, one he’d never made before. It took him a moment, but when he recognized it, he clapped a hand over his mouth in mortification. Tajima and Kurohime stared at him in shock, before his sister burst into laughter. A bemused smile settled across his father’s lined face, his eyebrows raised.
“Alright, alright, no need to growl!” Kurohime giggled. “We’re not coming for your alpha!”
Madara thought it must impossible for him to blush more. He buried his face in his hands, utterly embarrassed. Izuna’s gaze jumped between his family members, trying to understand. Kurohime tittered.
“Shut up!” Madara barked at her.
“It’s alright, it’s alright.” Tajima soothed. Madara’s shoulders were around his ears.
“There’s no alpha!” He bites out, crossing his arms.
“There’s no need to be embarassed,” His father said, little smile still curving up his lips. It only humiliated Madara further.
Internally, his emotions were in tumult. From one side, he did not relish this sign of maturation. Just one more thing to worry about, on top of the battles and missions, now this. Life would only continue to get harder for him as he aged, he knew, but sometimes Madara just wanted to be a kid. He wanted to be able to play with his friend by the river and not have to worry about what clan he was from, or if his little brother would survive the next conflict.
A part of him was also thrilled. He’d presented because of Hashirama, his best friend, the one who truly knew him, even if he was a loser and a crybaby. It was auspicious to say the least. Maybe his juvenile crush was reciprocated. Madara’s heart pounded at the thought, and he buried his head in his hands again.
And how embarassing! To have growled at his family over Hashirama. He could only imagine how smug the other boy would be if he found out. Madara could practically hear his crowing now. It almost brought a smile to his lips, his face heating up with fondness. The tender feeling quickly curdled in his gut. Surely they’d find out about Hashirama now, and then the boys furtive meetings would come to an end.
“Have a little bit more dinner, and then we can bring you some nesting materials and get you set up for the next couple of days.” His father says, collecting Izuna’s empty bowl. He smiles down at Madara. “I’m happy for you. You’re growing up.”
Madara ducks his head and nods. Kurohime stands as well.
“Congrats.” She says, and scrubs a hand through his untidy hair, a mirror image of her own. Madara pushes her off, scowling. She leans over to sniff loudly at him. “Eugh, yeah, that’s what that is.” He bats her away, slapping an ineffective hand over his bond mark.
“Shut up!” He growls. Kurohime retreats behind their father, barking with laughter, leaving just Izuna and Madara at the table. Izuna gazes up at his brother with big, dark eyes, and Madara loses some of his irritation. He sighs and forces a smile to Izuna, exhausted.
Now that his father had pointed it out, it was like Madara was feeling every symptom of presentation at once. His glands were swollen and itchy under his skin, and he’d become aware of how warm he was. His nose was irritated and dry, and a headache had began to throb at the base of his skull. Madara groaned internally. If he really was presenting, that means he wouldn’t be able to meet Hashirama tomorrow, and he’d be laid up all week as his hormones raged. He was disappointed sure, but there was some deeper, primal sadness at their seperation.
Madara wasn’t sure if it was just his settling hormones, but right now, Madara ached for Hashirama. He missed him. He wanted to tell Hashirama off for prompting his presentation. He wanted to smell the scent of his pheromones again, green and woody and earthy, pressing his face into the other boy’s neck. He wanted to bring him back to the compound, to cuddle up together and nap in a nest of blankets with him like he had done with his siblings when they were younger. And part of Madara, a part that was making his glands ache and his stomach warm, and his face hot, wanted to press his body against the other boys like they had earlier that day.
Just thinking about it had his gut clenching. Madara’s body, already fever-hot with the start of his presentation, heated even further. There was a curious sensation, like he’d felt earlier, in his groin, and he shifted uncomfortably. Madara bit back a grimace. He was not looking forward for the physicality of his heats. The headache that had lingered in the periphery of his notice, intensified suddenly.
Izuna leaned his head against Madara’s shoulder reassuringly, misreading his discomfort for distresss. Madara smiled again, softer and easier this time, and laid his head on Izuna’s. For the first time, Madara was able to smell Izuna’s pheromones, weak and unpresented as they were.
His brother’s scent was like cardamom and black pepper, cut by the milky baby powdery musk that designated him as an unpresented child. Madara inhaled it. It was familiar and calming, despite the fact that he knew he’d never smelled it before. It smelled right, like home.
Hashirama’s pheromones had been like too, when he’d gotten the wave of it earlier. It had washed over Madara like sunlight, warming his skin and filling his lungs. He’d been sweaty and panting, his dorky haircut clinging to his face with sweat, but the musk had only served to stand the hairs on his arms in satisfaction, adding to his fragrance. Hashirama smelled like Cedar and Fir, medicinal like wormwood, and like dark earth. The scent had been so immediately recognizable as Hashirama, familiar and delicious. It was invigorating, and it had been soothing. The response of Madara’s body had been instinctual, his hormones aligning with Hashirama’s own. They fit together perfectly, like a puzzle. Hashirama’s alpha had drawn out his own dormant omega. His body had shaped Madara’s to fit his own.
Something in Madara thrilled at that.