Title: "Pari Passu" (1/3)
Author: Shaitanah
Rating: NC-17 (angst, yaoi, violence)
Summary[Uchiha Madara/Shodai Hokage Years of solitude, denial and mutual attraction – that's what keeps them together. The rise and fall of Uchiha Madara. Please R&R!
Disclaimer: Naruto belongs to Kishimoto Masashi and whoever else that is not me… Some facts from Madara's past were taken from the famous Uchiha Clan's Dark Destiny theory, but most part of the background story is mine.
A/N: Mostly my own ideas of what the pre-Naruto Konoha could be like. Kishimoto-san would probably ruin my plotline should he delve into Madara's past, but so far I tried to keep things as "canon" as possible. Pari passu is a Latin expression that means "hand-in-hand", "at the same time".
A/N2: Years ago the head of the Hyuuga clan had a fight with the Daimyō and joined the rebellion organized by a powerful warrior known as the General. The rebellion was crushed, and the small army led by the General fled the country and knocked about the world in search of a peaceful place to found their own settlement. With them went the two sons of the General and an illegitimate son of the Hyuuga known by the name Madara.
PARI PASSU
In this tainted soul
In this weak young heart
Am I too much for you?
Skunk Anansie. 'Weak'
Part 1
This Is Where It Starts…
White moon glowing softly above them, the boys ran through the forest, farther and farther away from the camp. Tearing through the thicket, they laughed at the screeching of the night birds frightened by the noise. Wings rustled as they flew up. High grass whipped at the boys' faces, only causing them to laugh gleefully once more.
They came to a halt by the river where the brittle stems were not as tall and crept over the ground like a carpet.
Clad in light summer kimonos, the boys took up fighting positions and sparred, laughing and throwing humorous insults at each other.
"This time, Madara-kun, I'm going to prove myself to you!" one of the boys chirped gleefully.
"Less talk, more action, you clumsy idiot," his comrade teased.
He moved speedily towards his opponent, light breeze ruffling his thick ebony hair that stuck up in the back a little. The other boy squatted and formed a few seals, spitting, "Mokuton no Jutsu!" almost angrily. Madara turned a somersault in the air; a thick branch tore through the ground and aimed to grab him. The youth rode it, trying to keep his balance. He hopped off, copying the move his opponent had executed previously.
The branch coiled like a snake and suddenly punched him in the face. By all standards, it was an unjust blow. Madara scowled at the laughing boy.
"Is it true that your father was a demon king?" the youth asked.
Madara wiped his bloodied lip on the sleeve of his kimono and skewed his eyes up on his partner. Usually such questions made his blood boil with cold rage. As any man of dark past, he loathed the kind of attention he got. However, something in the way his friend looked at him made him change his mind. Something close to mischief flashed instantly in his dark eyes.
"Do you really want to know?"
"Are you going to tell me?" The youth knitted his eyebrows and gave him a typical "as if" glare. Madara smirked.
"Come here. I'll tell you a secret."
His voice, heavy and strangely seductive, ran in shivers down the young shinobi's spine. He gulped down nervously and walked up cautiously. His eyes never left Madara's face. In a blur of speed he lunged at his opponent, his blade sliding rapidly over Madara's blade. Within an instant he had Madara pinned against the massive trunk of a tree, his hand locked tightly over his friend's throat.
"Heh! Beat you!"
Madara's voice came in a short breathless gasp: "Oh really?"
The youth felt the edge of the other katana slide between his legs. Before Madara could drive it upwards, he pulled away with a startled cry. His opponent chuckled triumphantly.
"Laugh all you like!" the youth spat vehemently. "Someday I'm going to be great. They will call me First–."
"First what? Loser?"
The remark earned Madara another spiteful glare. He coughed; blood trickled down the bruised lip again. He disrobed quickly and walked into the river. Water flowing gently around his heated body, he took a few small steps, his feet grinding the fragments of broken shells into the soft silt. A few paces away from him there stood his friend, his long sleek hair hanging in heavy wet strands over his shoulders. Deep furrows ran down his stomach and disappeared below the water. Madara couldn't bring himself to remember those scars.
The young shinobi shuddered when Madara's hand came down on his shoulder and slid down gently. His fingers flitted over the scars as if he were afraid to actually touch them. 'First…' he thought with a darkly humorous smile. 'So be it, then.'
"Where are those from? I can't recall you having them."
The First shrugged. "We are at war."
"This is a man's body," Madara commented. The First gasped softly as the youth's fingertips brushed his spine.
Madara came closer, so close that he could feel the heat that the First's skin radiated. The faint aroma of sweat mixed with the scent of the river mud and fresh water made him feel a little dizzy. He bit his lower lip, enjoying the texture of his friend's skin, light bronze, kissed by sunlight after so many weeks of travel. The only thing that ruined its smoothness were the rough patches of the scars. Madara grazed one of the scars with his nail. The youth inhaled sharply.
"At first I thought it looked nice," he murmured vaguely. "More mature, you know. But we're too young to rush our years."
"You really are afraid to lose, aren't you?" Madara whispered in his ear. A damp lock of the First's hair ran over his shoulder. Madara lowered his head and brushed his lips against the soft skin, and flicked his tongue over that lock too, sucking in the tasteless moisture. "Don't be. Our losses make us stronger."
The First turned to face him. His lips half-parted, the haze of excitement in his eyes, he still managed to keep his countenance as he said gravely:
"No, they don't. To think I might lose someone precious to me… my little brother, or even you–."
Madara chuckled. "Then I'd say it's the fear of losing that keeps us going."
He strode back to the bank leisurely.
"Always so cold, Madara-kun, huh?"
The youth compressed his lips bitterly and gave no reply.
Despite the hardships of the field life, Madara liked traveling. Shinobis of many noble clans had united to fight for the liberation of the country that had been devastated by never-ending wars. Another battle against the avid Daimyō lost, they had fled the country, seeking peace. Madara who was a natural son of the ancient Hyuuga clan had joined the voyage. The warriors marched across the land searching for a place to establish their settlement, engaged in ferocious battles and taken over with elegant ease.
Power was something to be admired. Madara watched and learnt, and soon everyone had come to think of him as an arrogant loner, talented and self-absorbed. Madara lived up to his aristocratic heritage: proud and reserved, he strove to prove himself not only as one of the shinobi, but as the best one. It wasn't that hard when he had only one true rival – his closest comrade.
In time they had ceased to view him as "that Hyuuga bastard". The Hyuuga never officially accepted him into the family. He was nobody, and he bore a different name. In the aftermath of a certain event the youth had sworn to glorify the name Uchiha and make it known worldwide.
It happened during the mountain crossing. The group got attacked by the hostile shinobi at a small frozen lake. Red-tinted snow-flakes fell solemnly upon the ice cover. Screams echoed through the mountain range, floating heavily in the air.
Madara never ran away from war. He embraced it as one would embrace the daily routine, no more troublesome or dangerous than an importunate insect. The clanking of blades never haunted him in his sleep. Blood and gore never petrified him. The wheezing sound torn out of a dying man's throat never made his heart ache. To him, war was a winding path he had to walk in order to excel.
His eyes felt strange in their sockets, somewhat unfamiliar. He saw three man assaulting the group commander. They moved at full speed, faster than a human eye could detect, yet Madara was able to read their actions clearly.
One of the reasons the Hyuuga had rejected him was that he possessed no Byakugan, the crucial point to being part of the clan. His eyes were midnight black instead of the usual white. He had developed a habit of casting them downward when talking to a Hyuuga.
These eyes that possessed no special powers, if only sharp eyesight, commanded him to move. As though a drop of thick blood dissolved in a bowl of milk, and a red film covered everything. He was consumed by it. Madara flung himself in front of their General, shielding him, and slashed at the attackers ruthlessly. He knew, he could predict their every move. The pulsation in his eyes grew stronger.
They fell on their knees before him. He smiled coldly. He wanted them to look into his new murderous eyes before he would have claimed their lives.
Blood rained down on the snow. Madara lowered his head and saw his reflection in the shimmering ice. His eyes were blood-red and cloudy, strange black drops floating around his pupils. The eyes that personified his power. Mesmerized, he failed to notice a treacherous blow of the katana directed towards him. The blade hit the ice, producing a deep crack. Madara hissed viciously and leapt aside. His head imploded with sudden pain that rushed along his neurons like a lightening bolt. His eyes began to sting. The next thing he knew he was dangling in the dark water closing in on him. Panic-stricken, he forgot how to move.
It seemed ridiculous to discover the power of such potential and die the next instant. Madara struggled to swim, but the heavy armour was tugging him down.
Someone grabbed him by the hand. He kicked hard and pushed up, trying to get free of the breastplate. Finally, he succeeded. His saviour helped him climb a thick floating piece of ice. Madara coughed, spitting water. He was shaking violently. His eyes hurt no more, but he felt like his chakra was completely drained. And he hadn't even performed any complicated ninjutsu!
Brushing the heavy fringe off his face, he looked up at his saviour. The son of the shinobi he'd protected. The boy with sleek dark hair and kind eyes. The one who called himself Madara's friend.
Madara compressed his lips tightly. He would have preferred to owe his life to somebody else.
The boy smiled warmly. Madara snorted in appreciation of the favour and looked away.
Such was the day when "that Hyuuga bastard" was officially acknowledged as Uchiha Madara. There was no visible change in the way he was treated by his comrades: the Hyuuga still shunned him and the others didn't pay him much heed. However, something was different. And Madara didn't mind the change at all.
He lay quietly next to the First. The sky above them was dark blue, stained with occasional scattering of silvery stars. Shreds of greyish clouds flowed by.
The ground still treasured the touch of summer sun. Madara accommodated himself on the warm bedding of leaves and wrapped his cloak around him. The night fell upon him like a soft blanket. Surrounded by the chirping of crickets, the heavy scent of dry roots and fusty leaves, and the sleepy breathing of his friend, Madara was at peace.
"How come you have no scars?" the youth had asked him earlier that day.
Madara had merely shrugged. "I guess I'm lucky."
He recollected the taste of the First's skin and the heavy lock of his hair trapped between Madara's lips. He looked away from the dormant youth, back at the sky again.
Scars were the mark of loss, and Madara had lost nothing at these eternal wars. He had always only gained.
The day the General was killed the makeshift council of the grey-haired warriors proclaimed the First should lead the group on. The youth answered in grateful and respectful words that he accepted the duty. Enclosed in the ring of the enemy lines, they had to be extra careful; yet the quest should have gone on.
The next day, just after the funeral, Madara found him alone on the edge of a grove far away from the camping site. He didn't cry. He had never cried in Madara's memory. His back unnaturally rigid, he watched the stars, motionless and beautiful like a statue of a great warrior. It was then that Madara realized the wisdom of the old ones: this one should have rightfully succeeded his father.
"I can command no army," the First murmured as though having read his thoughts. "A small three-man squad or so would be all right with me, but the responsibility for so many lives, and the women, and the children too, is just so much bigger than me! A person like you would cope with it much better. But this kind of power if of no concern to you, isn't it?"
Madara folded his hands over his chest. The fading starlight bled white over the First's face. The handsome face obscured by the mask of grief fascinated Madara. He wanted to lick the moonlight icing off his skin.
"Would you like to know what I think? I think you're a whiny little mama's boy and you're not worth a shit without your father's guidance. I'll pray to gods to put you out of your despicable misery."
The youth span around, his form completely swallowed by shadows. The whites of his eyes gleamed ferociously in the dark. The vein on his temple was pulsing with rage. Madara's tone was disgustingly even.
Suddenly the First's face broke into a grin. "Oh really?"
Madara snorted and lowered himself beneath the tree. Things were always so easy with the First.
The late commander's junior son was a handsome lad with unruly fair hair and daring honey-brown eyes. He never held back in argument, especially with someone he strongly disliked. Someone like Madara. Madara treated him like a nuisance until the young one finally challenged him in the open.
"I advise you to withdraw," Madara replied calmly. "I'm in no mood for games, boy."
"I'll teach you manners, you demon's spawn!"
He rushed at Madara, fingers flitting in a wild dance. A high wall of water rose around the two of them and spilled against Madara. He called upon the force of fire and made the water run dry before the whirlpool engulfed him. The kunai flew at random in his direction. None hit the target. The boy was simply showing off his power.
That angered Madara. He despised foolish games. He intercepted one of the kunai and tossed it back at its owner; the sharp tip passed the youth's eye by a hair's breadth. Madara's eyes awakened to power once again. His cold gaze was fixed on the boy's face. He knew by the other's vacant expressions that the youth was trapped in his intricately woven genjustu.
"Weak little one," Madara laughed quietly to himself. To cast genjutsu without seals was not unheard of but still uncommon. Like a hawk that had finally learnt to fly, Madara spread his wings and was about to reach the unthinkable heights.
The boy moaned plaintively. He couldn't move; the air itself shackled him and held him in place.
"Your brother may call himself the First," Madara whispered maliciously. "But you shall never be more than the Second."
A powerful voice cut through the veil of illusion, thundered in Uchiha's ears.
"What is the meaning of this? Madara-kun! Release him!"
The genjutsu dispelled. His legs wobbling, the boy sank on the ground. The men eyed him in mute astonishment.
Madara snorted. "He will not always have you under his wing, nestling. When you're a man, come seek me out; we'll settle our scores."
He walked past his fallen opponent and turned away, avoiding the First's inquiring gaze. His eyes felt heavy and watery, as if filled with blood to the brim. His heartbeat out of control, he started off and soon reached the dark edge of the field. From the hilltop he could see the campfires flare one by one in the twilight. He paced by a branchy tree like a caged animal. Anxiety gripped him.
That breathtaking power was a double-edged sword. Each time his eyes grew stronger even if the new jutsu drained his chakra mercilessly and left him with occasional headaches to battle.
Come nightfall, the First sought him out. He probably expected apologies. Madara turned his back on him and said nothing. He only minded his aggressive mood swings in the First's company but he paid no heed to the rest of the group.
Madara could sense his presence acutely. The First spoke; the sound of his voice, ever so gentle and mild, annoyed Madara.
He wanted his young General subdued, destroyed by the power of his feelings towards him, as volatile and ferocious as the forces of nature.
"Shut up!" he uttered in a low growl. The First paused and narrowed his eyes. Madara closed the distance between them rapidly, and shoved his fingers into the First's hair, and pulled his head back. The First gasped in protest. Towering over him, Madara leaned into him and clamped his lips roughly over the First's lips. Fire spread through his body. How long had he wanted this?
He forced the youth down on his knees and followed him slowly. He tugged at the belt of his kimono impatiently. He unlaced it and slid his hand in the creases of the rough material. His fingers grazed the First's ribcage; he brushed them gently over his spine and touched the scars again. The First moaned into his mouth.
Madara ripped the kimono open and lavished the youth's chest with greedy open-mouthed kisses, savouring the feel of his flesh against his lips. He kisses, and licked, and nipped; he locked his teeth around the skin over the First's rib, and it drew a harsh moan out of the young man's throat.
Madara positioned his knee between the First's legs and pushed it upwards. The youth growled through gritted teeth. That guttural, almost bestial sound thundered in Madara's ears, destroying the rest of his reserve. He loved the First's voice at that moment: strained, passionate, pleading.
He failed to notice when the First had gone from limp stillness to feverish resistance. He bucked, writhed, struggled with every muscle of his body. Madara's body pressed hard against his rocked in tune. He pinned the other's wrists to the ground, his hips pressed down, his legs wider apart, and fought to keep things that way. He jerked the remaining clothes off and struggled to dispose of his.
The First managed to free one hand and grabbed the front of Madara's kimono. Madara peeled his fingers off ever so gently though in his current state he would have rather broken them. He twirled his tongue between the First's fingers; he closed his eyes and felt the First rub against him almost incoherently.
Madara clenched his teeth. He wanted to explore every inch of his body with his hands and lips and tongue. He wanted fall himself into the First, to bury himself within his body. He pressed his lips hard against the First's muscular belly and wrote, "mine" with his tongue over and over again until they both believed it. He took the First into his mouth, played his tongue over him, enjoying the taste and the unfamiliar feeling and the music of the First's outcries.
He drew back, panting, vermilion haze before his eyes, and he was aware that somehow his Sharingan had flared back to life again. The First propped up on his elbows and sat, breathing heavily. Their eyes met. The First drew forward and planted a quick shy kiss upon Madara's lips. Madara grasped a fistful of his hair and jerked hard enough that it tore a scream out of the young man's throat. He covered his neck with kisses, nipping at the skin crudely, growling with desire against it.
He was free of his own clothes. He noticed it only when he felt the First's fingers dance over the low of his abdomen. The First ground his hips against Madara, looking almost desperate. Madara laughed throatily. It was a rich, masculine sound that he knew his friend had always loved.
For a moment he thought he could hear two hearts beat in perfect unison. He drove himself inside the First, harder, deeper; withdrew and plunged back in frantically. The youth threw his arms around Madara, pressing their bodies together, caught Madara's lower lip between his lips and sucked on it, and drove his teeth into the fullness of it.
Madara broke the kiss off with a start. Their bodies seemed to melt one into another, in the grip of fever. Their thoughts unclear, they strove to keep the pounding rhythm; the First groaned and attempted to muffle the sound, burying his face on Madara's shoulder.
"Oh please," Madara said breathlessly, "do scream."
A low harsh cry spilled out of the First's mouth. He raked his nails down Madara's back and screamed his name. They writhed on the soft ground as Madara thrust harder and harder into him, his rhythm unsteady, brutal, hasty, and then they both climaxed, groaning as if the sound itself hurt their throats.
Madara froze and then withdrew slowly. He lay panting, one arm thrown possessively over his friend's chest. Scratched, bruised, covered in sweat, they were still shaking, their breathing uneven.
Madara swallowed forcefully and turned to regard his friend. Damp locks of hair stuck to the First's face like streaks of wet paint to a silken canvas.
"If you tell anyone, I'll kill you!"
They eyed each other in a brief moment of shock, having realized they'd said the same thing at the same time. The First broke down laughing then and Madara joined; he pressed his forehead against the First's one and reveled in the warmth of his embrace. Their limbs intertwined, they lay on the grass, drunk on ecstasy. They fell asleep at dawn, blissfully exhausted.