Warning: Yaoi and language

Disclaimer: Naruto and its character belong to Masashi Kishimoto.

Updated.


When his brother Izuna died, Madara thought that he had hit his limit. Izuna's existence was Madara's greatest and most likely his only driving force and consequently his greatest weakness as well. He was so confident that as his protective older brother he'd be the first to leave this world that the thought of being left alone without Izuna never crossed his mind.

Was it possible that the death of his little brother left him in such a state of vulnerability that love took its opportunity to infect him? Or did it happen long before and only became so conspicuous now at this time of peace?

Madara had never been ready for love or anything remotely close to that emotion, but just like an illness love doesn't care for one's state of readiness, it happens whether permitted or not. Perhaps that the beauty and the tragedy of it.

At first Madara was convinced that it wouldn't bother him much, but he could not will his desire away no matter how hard he tried. Like quicksand it sucked him in and trapped him in this inescapable and constricting cell of emotion that he had no defense against.

The little pangs of his heart turned into an all out discomfort that left him aching in the worst way. Aching for contact, aching to break free, aching for this to stop.

It wasn't long before this persistent discomfort started to gnaw at Madara's sanity.

The briefest glance from those warm, brown pair of eyes, the slightest contact was enough to cause his heart to beat dangerously out of rhythm.

These reaction, however, were not the ones driving him insane, it was the realization that he has to hide them, prevent them from surfacing, keep them painfully locked up forever that pained him because there was no hope that this love would ever be requited.

This was the first time in a long time Hashirama and Madara had not felt mutually about something and perhaps was the start of a string of disagreements between the two clan leaders, something that will eventually lead to a lot of unnecessary chaos in the future.

Madara was quick to find Hashirama guilty for putting him in this condition. His increasing agitation made him become cynical and bitter about the people surrounding him, yet when he tried focusing this bitterness towards Hashirama, who was the most deserving of it all, he fell short.

A warm aching feeling always settled in him at the thought of the Senju that overrode those bitter sentiment.

Did he die and go to hell? It wouldn't be surprising since Madara himself knew he didn't quite qualify as a candidate for heaven. But the pain he associated with hell was always a physical one, not this psychological torture that was corroding him from inside out.

His pain took the eventual path down to anger and his inability to take it out on the one causing it made things worse. Uncomfortably pent up, Madara's aggression began to affect his health. Sleeplessness and weightloss were things he could deal with, but when tears got involved was when he reached his limit.

Madara Uchiha was not crying, he was not abusing, disrespecting Izuna's eyes like this.

The familiar baritone voice of Hashirama disrupted Madara's thoughts as it always did. The interruption caused him to become bitterly aware of his surroundings.

He was stuck with in the small room for God knows how many hours, with the worst company imaginable and if that wasn't enough, Hashirama Senju was sitting mere inches away from him.

The Uchihas did not have a family history of hypertension, but from the way this situation was affecting his heart, Madara believed he might be the first one to develop it.

As the newly elected Hokage, Hashirama was quickly making adjustments and additions to the village. Madara didn't understand why the man being hailed as the God of Shinobi needed approval from his comparatively incompetent fellow shinobi.

It was completely unnecessary, he could do whatever the hell he wants, no one is going to disagree with Hashirama Senju. No one except for Madara.

However, at the moment the Uchiha was a little more perplexed by the unwelcomed pairof eyes on him than he was by anything else.

Taking his eyes off the older Senju, Madara switched his gaze towards the younger one in front of him.

He had felt the white-haired Senju's eyes on him for a while but disregarded it thinking the bastard would cut it out soon, but this did not seem to be the case which forced Madara to turn his gaze towards the insignificant Senju.

The said Senju seemed almost entranced by the Uchiha and it took him a suspiciously long time to shift his gaze from Madara and towards the older Senju.

To Madara's surprise the younger Senju was visibly embarrassed by his actions, almost like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. He blinked multiple times and seemed flustered as he quickly turned his head away from Madara.

'What the hell?' Was the Uchiha's only thought as he tried to comprehend why Tobirama had decided to act like some infatuated pubescent girl in the middle of a meeting that was already quite uncomfortable to begin with.

Tobirama hated it, that penetrating gaze and those red eyes, but it was necessary, all for the sake of the future, for the sake of peace.

With these calming thoughts, he eased up and ignored the fiery gaze of the Uchiha.

Because of his stoic decorum Tobirama was mistaken for a hateful person by some. But he wasn't, he truly wasn't. Strict yes, imperative definitely, but not hateful.

However, as a human he possessed the capability of both hating and loving and every ounce of his capability to hate was exacted towards Madara.

God he hated that man and he wished other people hated him the same and by other people he really meant Hashirama because other than his clueless older brother everyone hated Madara more or less.

The younger Senju finally felt Madara shift his eyes away from him and took a mental sigh of relief.

Every time he got close to the Uchiha he lost enough determination to not go along with the plan. Initiating such a task seemed impossible when the mere thought of it was so repulsive and cringe worthy.

To stoop this low, to use his body like that It felt like suicide, a self inflicted would that will create a permanent scar on his conscience from which he could never recover.

However, a distraction was needed and in this unfamiliar battlefield the use of unfamiliar methods and slightly different weaponry was required.