Notes: I usually don't post fic that show how criminally insane I am, or how much of a wangsty teenager, but I suddenly had enough reasons to post one of them (foremost – to try breaking out of the mold; least – to see how many flames this garners).
Madara/Hidan except it's not. OOC – I'm still getting to know Uchiha Madara. Non-canon compliant. (Non-lyrical! ^^)
Warnings: Dark, seriously. Experimental (meaning, it's rushed and only has the bare bones of a story).
Revelation
Hidan is at his least when Jashin comes.
Hidan wakes up in the morning thinking that life is good – wonderful even – because he's young and in service of He who made every day and every sunrise and every star.
It is many years since he left his kunais and his village, for the sake of a very different, but greater calling, and he did not expect his past and his bloodline – the rare ability to withstand massive physical trauma – to catch up with him in the form of a wild-haired outcast.
Beneath the affable face and light-hearted grins the townspeople love him for, Hidan remains shinobi-sharp and he notices this: the man stays a little longer after every sermon. He desperately wants to demand what the heck the man is doing in the temple, for certainly he is not listening nor worshipping – disinterest always shines through – but watching, waiting.
Hidan confronts him – jovially, though his jaw is set and back tense and temper brittle – and he doesn't like the way the man smiles in satisfaction as though Hidan had acted exactly as expected.
"Madara," the man introduces himself, his tones silky and serpentine – it sets Hidan's teeth on edge for a reason unknown to him.
Madara – a sliver of memory attaches to it – a new village, it had been whispered. Hidan thinks he knows the man is, the reknown symbol burns bright at his shoulders, on his scythe, and is reluctantly surprised.
"The most formidable in several generations, and you are not even shinobi," This Madara observes disdainfully, but there is an appreciative tinge to his eyes. "No matter, no matter, we can help each other, Hidan – your bloodline is certainly intriguing – and you yourself –"
The sharingan swirls.
"Go to hell," Hidan snarls, snapping out of the genjutsu by sheer will and indignance. Madara's lips curl in a complacent smile, and he calmly takes his leave.
Madara is relentless and charismatic, a man worthy of his legend, and for several days, he comes back. He fills the silence of the temple ground with the stark words of a visionary, words with enough weight and conviction to scorch the air and mark the earth.
Hidan listens, first in increments, then in handfuls, then entirely, clutching the pendant, his badge of faith, and makes himself think of the small town where he shepherds the people in faith, a decent population, he has done good here, he has –
"Are you satisfied here? Do you think what you're doing is enough? You can change the world. Come with me, and you will. I can show you."
But sometimes Hidan is discontent – a cold burning within him – and doubts and wonders if when time comes he will stand before Judgement, he had done right, doing all these small things, that sometimes seem to not matter at all. People speak of revelation, of faith in the face of the unknown, but Hidan himself had never been so sure.
To change the world, however –
The beginning of all damnations is temptation, and a small, cautious, whispered "yes".
Hidan hesitates – makes himself remember all the good things he had done here and ideals and whatever – and Madara is dangerous, a man given to power and ambition and rottenness – but if his God is truly, eternally with him, then what harm can be done, what can Hidan not conquer – and finally nods. He feels Madara's hot breath on his cheek, the calculating light in his eyes, and shivers.
The experiments leave him disoriented enough to barely remember the violations being laid against his body in the mechanical cage of Madara's genjutsu, where everything – blood, flesh, spirit and ether – were drawn from him, quartered and studied.
But his mind is clear on the different types of violations afterward. The cold wind of the graveyards behind the temple; the epitaphs at his back, imprinting birthdates and deathdates and RIP's on his skin as he arches against them; his hands grasping at funeral wreath as they curl in the poisonous swell of orgasm. Even as he is shot to the peak, Hidan quietly despairs, because men were wrong, his God never appeared at those moments.
Night after starless night, the scene replays, and he is drawn more intimately, more steeply in into the downward spiral.
It's not love, because Hidan had known love – pure, deep, selfless and utterly forgettable in the wake of a heated, sultry glance – it is lust, wicked, terrible, fucking evil, and he needs it more than he does air.
Want and wanton desire, they snakes themselves around him, caressing his skin and fogging his breath, until he is a shuddering ball of need, and sin.
In the mornings, he goes back to his robes and to his pulpit, and wonders if the multitude before him could smell the stench of sex and depravity and thought him despicable in their minds.
Hidan tries to hang himself when he finds he cannot look at himself anymore, he is a pig in a pigsty, slick with sin and already fornicating with every damn thing just simply by being in its presence, like an infection.
He hangs himself, and the noose threaded by self-hatred and shame and the unholy need to go back and ask for Madara's favor once more. The experiments had fallen on the wrong side of chance – his bloodline cannot be cultivated – Madara is gearing to leave, somewhere in his baggage is Hidan's dignity and self-regard, and Hidan would rather die than live without it.
His jaw breaks upon meeting the floor, dislocations and shattered teeth and snapped spine, and he's still alive. The experiments – no. No! No!
It doesn't work, he's breathing, hurting, hating, committing himself to sin, dragged farther into the abyss where he can longer feel the warm hand of his God upon his beaing, and there's no escape.
When Madara finds out about the attempt, his only reaction is contempt. He doesn't care to be gentle when trailing his blazing tongue over Hidan's broken neck.
"Immortality," Madara whispers angrily, tapered fingers digging into bruised skin. "But it's yours, only yours. How can you be of use to me now?"
Three days after, Madara vanishes, and Hidan wakes up in a trench by the roadside, rain painting everything around him a dirty brown, naked and dirty and forsaken. He vomits food and pride and self-respect until his body is as hollow as his soul.
As night falls around him, Hidan recalls gathering with a small group of devotees and talking with them of the glorious day when they might see their creator.
Imagine it, he had said. What do you see?
Some had said, with pious tears trailing down their bony cheeks, I see him in a beautiful garden, everything is so bright.
I see him in the sky, the sun shines, and there is music everywhere.
In a cave. On the riverbanks. Atop a mountain.
Well, he had smiled. How nice for you.
Hidan laughs, high and hysterical and painfully loud.
How nice for you, fucking hags. Guess what, he's not in any of those goddamn places, you don't find him in your fucking church either. I feel him for the first time in this ditch, while I'm gorging on the mud, legs splayed out like a goddamn whore, hating the entire damn universe and hating myself. Self-destructing and cursing every damn star in the sky,
I see him right now.
This is how it is when he is completely broken, dashed to the earth in a piteous pile of unworthiness, losing sense of self, not a single scrap left, and begging, begging, begging like an aching hole that needed to be filled. Anything, anything!
The moment when he is at his least, Hidan knows Jashin comes, in his graciousness and mercy, and rebuilds him, flaying away the cracks in his being, fills him with a new life and a new purpose.
Redemption, sacrifice, salvation, and Hidan's vision clears with revelation.
"Jashin! Jashin!" He thrusts a dagger to his chest and kneels on the soaked earth, pulling the blade down savagely, cracking ribs and muscle and it fucking hurts, but pleasure greater than any other runs through him, electrifying, sizzling through his toes to his cock to his head.
Jashin had spoken to him. Jashin, and that is all that matters now.
Hidan rises from the mess of innards and blood and cum, feeling cleansed, reborn, finally on the right path, and more devoted than he'd ever felt in his lifetime of serving.
Joining the Akatsuki wasn't anything of great significance to Hidan, merely the most convenient means of spreading the slaughter Jashin dictated, and for two months, he served with the bastard Kakuzu and other damned heathens who didn't comprehend the greatness of his faith, of Jashin, appalled by their lack of sense and direction.
Then Hidan meets Tobi, and he knows who the motherfucker – except it's not your mother he fucked, is it? – is.
He stares for a moment and –
Because Jashin is with him, Hidan is able to look at the man who murdered him in the eye, and throw his head back, and laugh.
End.
Notes: I usually ignore flames. But this piece probably deserves every single one it gets.