I just wanted you to know that, baby, you're the best

A masterpiece

The first time Madara had seen Hashirama in a formal suit he had barely managed to avoid falling on his knees in worship. Hashirama had always been the jeans and sweatshirt kind of guy, more comfortable in slightly baggy clothes than anything else. Madara knew it had more to do with the other's dysphoria than with some real issue with formal wears.

Hashirama had been breathtakingly beautiful that first time: the rich blue of the suit hugging his frame perfectly and the light blue of the shirt making his tanned skin stand out even more, the jacket showing his back and shoulders and Madara had been almost drooling at the sight of Hashirama's ass.

Hashirama had always been a work of art, a masterpiece. But in formal wear he was something else. Madara would always savor the memory of Hashirama tentatively asking if he was alright, scared and hopeful at the same time.

Every time Hashirama wore a suit, still a special occasion, Madara made sure to let him know, in minute details and clear explanations, of how fucking beautiful he was and how much he loved him.