.

Next thing we're touching,
You look at me – it's like you hit me with lightning;

Oh, everybody's starry eyed,

And my body goes
Whoa-oh-oh, ah-ah.

If what had been brewing between them had been static electricity – invisible, subtle sparks they felt for fleeting moments – then this was a thunderstorm – a lightning strike, irrevocably rending the earth and sky. Its charge had short-circuited Mito's brain; her head was filled with Madara: his lips on hers, his hands on her waist, his hair twined in her fingers. Her thoughts were suspended in the realization that this was what she never even knew she was missing, never even knew she wanted, and it was astounding – because oh how she wanted.

They parted for a moment, heavy eyelids lifting at her name – breathed into her mouth in a rough whisper, "Mito, we can't." However, she was not interested in using her lips for speaking, and made that clear when she pulled him back to them, her hands anchoring more tightly in his hair. She was exploring, she was feeling, and she was not finished having her way yet. Because if she was going to be selfish, she was going to be selfish.

This was not what he had planned – his fantasies had been meant to stay under his tongue, inside his head, in undecipherable syncope disguised in the rhythm of his heart. However, having Mito in his arms, his arms... He could not resist her if he tried.

So he didn't resist. He kissed her – carefully, with feeling, savoring the way she felt, the way she tasted, putting every sense to memory. Justification was a tricky business; he told himself that this was it, that he would indulge this once and never again, and only this time because it was what she wanted. It was just a taste, not even a bite, of the forbidden fruit, and that was all he needed. Once. He would get it out of his system and move on.

As she kissed him, he noted that she made up in eagerness what she lacked in finesse, and it was not long before it evolved into something less than pure, something different. Her innocent exploration had put cracks in his resolve, chipping away the foundation of his thoughts. Madara's reaction to her fervor was not immediate, but when she slid her hands to his chest and practically hummed with pleasure, the dam broke.

She was so sweet, and yes, he had tasted, but now – he wanted to take, he wanted to be greedy. He pushed her small frame up against the railing, the hard planes of his body pressed flush against the subtle curvature of hers. Palms at her jaw and fingers in her crimson locks, Madara tilted her head back and devoured her. No longer were his kisses gentle, no longer did his hands caress – they possessed; they seized – even if only for a stolen moment – all that he knew he never should have coveted in the first place. If this was going to be the last time, the only time, then he was going to make it count.

The roughened wood of the railing was unyielding against Mito's back and sure to leave a bruise, but she could not bring herself to be bothered. She had knowingly stoked Madara into this firestorm, but she did not care – in that moment she wanted to feel the heat, wanted to be lost in it, wanted to burn with him, come what may.

Finally, he broke their kiss, moving to hold her at arm's length, hands at her elbows. She was glad for the support; her legs felt uncertain beneath her. As she inhaled unsteadily, her lips seemed to mourn the loss of his, but she did not move any closer.

"We have to stop," he warned, his breathing just as harsh as Mito's own. She closed her eyes, but not before she saw the meaning in his intense onyx gaze – they had to stop, not only for her sake, but also for his. The realization struck her like a physical blow, leaving her reeling.

Sucking in a breath, her brows dipped together as she affirmed, "I know." The flinty grey of her eyes met the soft black-grey of his – her heart burned against her ribs – "I'm sorry."

And then it was he who shut his eyes against the truth, "It's not your fault."

Her hands ached to touch him, stuttering mid-motion with the sickening comprehension that her attempt to comfort him would only exacerbate his pain. And the worst part was her now-acute awareness that she was the reason for this pain in the first place.

Still contained by Madara's arms, she turned to lean over the veranda's parapet and pulled her body into itself. The physical action felt comforting somehow, as if she could keep herself together if only she wrapped her arms around herself tightly enough. He did not say anything, and she tried to gather her thoughts in the interim.

"Madara," she whispered, "I'm sorry." This time he did not rebut her, but instead he moved behind her until his larger frame enveloped her, his action reassuring her in words that he would not speak aloud. She resisted the urge to lean back into him, to take comfort in his gesture, to take advantage of him.

"I should not have baited you," Mito admitted, "I should have known better than to push you." Her voice gained conviction, "I was being purely selfish, and I dragged you into it; I didn't care how you felt, I just wanted things to be easy, wanted to hold onto my pride. It was not fair to you… I wish I could take it back," she concluded in a forlorn murmur, staring down at the grassy knoll below.

Wayward tendrils of hair blew across her eyes as they stood there, seeming to taint her vision with their bloody hue. Mito wanted so badly to pretend that they were just two ordinary people in a tender embrace. Instead, they were stuck – a stagnant second where they were doing their best to act as if they were not aware of the truth… despite the fact that in actuality, it had already poisoned the moment before it had even begun.

But long minutes passed, neither of them willing to relinquish their tenuous hold on peace, on this piece of thinly veiled fiction. Mito knew that she could not ignore reality forever, and that something would break the silence if she didn't, but her whispered words seemed deafening as she did, "I wish… I wish things had been different."

It was not what she had meant to say – though what exactly she had meant to say, she wasn't sure. Even so, as soon as the words left her tongue, she knew they were genuine. It was a confession – one of a secret hope that she knew she never should have voiced, but she found herself uncaring that she had. Whether it was said aloud or in some distant recess of her mind didn't matter – the fact was that it was true.

At her accidental divulgence, Madara had lowered his chin to rest on her shoulder, turning his face into the column of her neck. She could feel the tickle of his hair and the warmth of his breath against the sensitive skin there, and the movement was almost longing, as if he was saying I know.

They stayed that way for a few moments as time seemed to slow. She noticed trivial things – two starlings in a persimmon tree, a cloud that looked like a seahorse, the golden headpiece she hadn't even noticed fall out of her hair, laying where it had tumbled into the tall grass – anything to keep her focus off of what she knew she had to face. It was inevitable; her inane thoughts were the gossamer veil blocking out reality, but only just barely.

Mito sighed at the same moment that he spoke, so softly, "But it's not."

He had said it in a careful tone, akin to an apology, but it stung just the same, and the veil was rent in two.

Madara sensed it, too, for he pulled away, putting a proper distance between them. Gathering her courage, Mito turned to face him, blinking her eyes rapidly to clear away any evidence of the tears that had gathered there. "I really am sorry," she reiterated; this time her voice was unshaken, lips untrembling.

He was not a usually nervous man, but Madara found himself clenching his hands into tight fists in the long sleeves of his kimono. If only he could apologize in actions instead of phrases – his fingers longed to reach out again, longed to touch, to hold. But it was a want he could not allow himself to express, and he settled for watching her, his eyes soft and sorry in a way his words could never be.

"This doesn't change anything," he said quietly, but he knew she had heard him. Immediately, her gaze jerked away from his, and her hands went up to detangle the last remnants of her hairstyle. When the crimson tresses fell free, he saw her swallow thickly before she replied.

"I know."

The words were heavy in the air between them, meaning both everything and nothing at all.

It meant everything: that she would still marry Hashirama, that they would have to keep seeing each other, that nothing could change. It meant nothing: he would still want, she would still care, they would just have to live with it.

This knowledge was suffocating, a constriction around Madara's ribcage; it was not pain, but almost a claustrophobic reaction to being stifled this way. He forced himself to breathe deeply – it was all in his head, it was nothing, nothing, nothing.

Mito was looking at him like she wanted him to say something – how could they just leave things like this? her expression seemed to ask.

But he did not have any answers for either of them; he did not know how, he only knew what. The method with which they would deal with the situation was something beyond him, a plan that even his intelligence could not formulate yet.

"I meant what I said, you know," she said softly. "I know it doesn't change anything but I don't… I don't love him. I don't want to marry him." Left unspoken was the dark truth that she did not have to say – I want you.

"You're right, it doesn't change anything," he responded with a calm he did not feel, "Whether you want to or not, you still belong to him."

The way Madara uttered that simple phrase sparked something new in Mito, and it was with a tinge of desperation that she hissed, "I don't belong to anyone!"

"Oh, but you do," he said factually, as if he were explaining something astoundingly simple to a small child. "You said it yourself – you are still going to marry him; you have to because of your duty. So it's your precious duty that controls you, and since that duty insists you marry Hashirama, he owns you."

It was another truth that Mito did not want to hear, but one she could not deny entirely. So it was with a quiet defiance that she met his eyes and replied, "Duty may guide my actions, but it does not control my heart, Madara." Keeping her gaze on his, she bit her lip before adding, "Not even I can control that."

At length, he sighed, exasperation clear. "What good does it do to keep discussing this, Mito?"

"I just… I just wanted you to know. I still want us to be friends." Her voice and her eyes were both full of a quiet hope, "Can't we?"

The response was immediate – "No."

Her expression was hurt, but he paid it no mind. "You really think we can be friends?" He chuckled dryly, "Never."

Taken aback, she muttered, "But I–"

"But nothing. You're telling me that you think we can just be friends? Don't be so naïve! Didn't I just tell you that I want you to be mine? I can't – I won't – do 'friends'," he spat.

Mito knew he was right; she was being unrealistic. Even if she had been able to deny her feelings to some degree before, it would be impossible now. "So… what can we do?" she asked tentatively, despite knowing there was no magic answer, no words that would suddenly rectify this.

"Nothing."

Madara's eyes were unfathomably deep, and staring into them was like falling into an abyss, the darkness compelling and frightening at the same time. "We can do nothing," he repeated. "You still have to marry Hashirama. I still have to support him."

"So… We both have to pretend," she whispered, looking down.

"Yes, we both have to pretend, Mito. We must keep …this… in check so that it does not become apparent to others."

"And what of it being apparent to the two of us?"

Charcoal eyes lifted to his again, and he shook his head, opening his mouth to speak. Before he could answer her, however, Mito burst out, "I don't want to have to pretend with you."

Madara's eyes widened and he closed his parted lips as he mentally formed a response. Thoughtful seconds passed into a minute before he spoke. "What you said before… When you said you didn't want me to have to lie to you anymore – did you mean it?"

"Yes," was her firm response, and she moved to grasp his hand. "Yes, I meant it." Her grip tightened, "I just want one thing for me; please let me be selfish, please don't lie to me."

In reality, he knew that her selfishness was a catalyst for his own – though she spoke as if it were only her wants that would be partially fulfilled, he knew that truly, he would be indulging himself as well if this were to continue. Nevertheless, there was such sincerity in her words, in her face, how could he deny her? Madara pulled her into an embrace so sudden that she stumbled right into his arms. "Okay," he said into her hair. "I won't lie to you anymore."

Pulling back just enough to look him in the eye, Mito demanded, "Promise me." When he did not do so immediately, she amended, "Please. Madara, I need this."

"I promise," he vowed, and while he meant it, he found himself thinking of all the things he hoped she would never ask; for if she did, he knew the truth would hurt her, knew it would change them, knew it would push her away. And that he could not bear.

It was not until she was alone in her bed that night that Mito allowed her thoughts to run free, reviewing all that had transpired, all that had changed. The bottom line was that there was no more lying to herself, no more going back.

After his oath, Madara had let her go, saying he needed to leave and to tell Hashirama that he would not be joining them for dinner. She had not asked him to stay, had not given any evidence of her treacherous thoughts, feeling that she had filled her self-centeredness quota for the day.

Her heart thumped with guilt – maybe it would have been better not to drag Madara into her selfish longings. However, from what he had told her it seemed as if his predicament would have been the same with or without her meddling. Sighing, Mito flopped over to lie on her side, staring out at the night sky. They were in the same boat but she, she, was the one who wouldn't leave well enough alone. Why hadn't she been able to handle it, to ignore it, to rise above it?

The truth was that she had been far too close to cracking for some time; while diplomacies and social graces were things that she was well versed in, this had been something so vastly different that she had not known how to handle it. Is that really so bad? she wondered. I can't be perfect, and I just want someone who I don't have to try to be flawless around. I've spent my whole life trying to please other people; all I want is a tiny piece of freedom.

She had told him she needed to know he would be honest with her and he had sworn to do so. As she had confessed that need, she had not been sure why it had been urgent to obtain his consent, but now Mito had time to ponder the reasons behind her request. Because you know that you and he have been and will continue to be lying to everyone else, her thoughts supplied. And did she believe him? Inexplicably, she found that the answer was instantaneous – surprising – yes. As far as she knew, Madara had never lied to her. But she was curious; he had said what he had confessed was "not even the half of it" – what was the rest? Despite what had happened between them, she was as curious about the mystery of Uchiha Madara as ever.

However, those musings could wait. At the moment, Mito would allow herself to focus instead on the intricacies of their kiss, the myriad of emotions and sensations so foreign to her. She had not had much familiarity with matters of love or lust, but what little exposure she had had was nothing compared to what she had experienced that afternoon.

Rolling back to stare up at the ceiling, she contemplated the intensity of the stolen moments they had shared.

Their kiss had been a tidal wave, sweeping away all her carefully constructed composure, all her reasoning, pulling her under until there was no 'Mito-hime' left. She had felt so acutely aware – the feeling of Madara's body against her own, the way his lips had felt against hers were like intense afterimages, branded into her nerves – it was as if she could still feel the ghost of him on her skin. Strangely though, the kiss had seemed to dull her senses at the same time – there had been no world outside of the two of them, no inkling of whatever time had passed.

Lifting slender fingers to her face, Mito touched her lips as if she would be able to feel the impression of Madara's there. Maybe it is true that forbidden fruit is the sweetest.

Tossing and turning that night, her thoughts turned to the repercussions of her indiscretion – she could never let anyone find out, especially not Hashirama. It was a fine line she would have to walk, but Mito decided that she was more than willing to walk it. Madara was the first person, the first man, to make her feel so alive, to set her heart aflame, to light up her nerves with a million tiny explosions. Though it was clear to her that no matter what she did, she would be betraying someone, at this point, she told herself that she would only allow this tiny betrayal of Hashirama. She would still marry him at the end of the week, and she would be loyal to him in all ways but this. She had been betraying herself all her life, but this time, she could not do it – she could not break her own heart.

As he strode out his front door the next morning, Madara was in a foul mood. Though he had slept through the night, his dreams had been more like nightmares, and he found himself ill-rested. This was unfortunate for the man who approached him, calling out to him with an abrasively loud "Madara-kun!"

Although it was beneath him to sigh at such an annoyance, he did take a moment to inhale deeply before responding. "Yes, Tetsuya-ojii-san, how can I help you this morning?"

The older man just leaned heavily on his cane and smiled, his one good eye disappearing into a mass of wrinkles. "You know, Madara-kun, it would really help me and the rest of the clan out if you would hurry up and choose a wife. Then you can get to having some Uchiha heirs for us," he finished in a teasing tone, taking a seat on the porch.

However, Madara knew that he was serious behind his casual demeanor. Although they were not immediately related, Tetsuya had practically raised him after a war injury had forced him to retire from battle, and Madara knew him the way he had known his own father, maybe even better. The elderly man had taught him much of what he knew, and he held a great amount of respect for him.

"I'm working on it, Ojii-san," he replied, forcing his lips into a smile of their own and sitting down beside him.

"Oh don't give me that, kid," Tetsuya retorted, face turning serious. "I heard you kicked out sweet Midori-chan last week. Tell me you had a good reason," he warned.

It was now that Madara allowed himself a sigh. "I just didn't find her to be wife material."

"Nonsense. She did all the housework adequately, she's pretty, she's a pure-blooded Uchiha, she's of age to bear children, she adores… well, adored you, she was practically throwing herself at your feet!"

"Maybe that's the problem," Madara said under his breath. "She was easy… stupid."

Tetsuya stroked his graying beard for a moment before responding. "Well, we are going to be hard-pressed to find a woman who won't throw herself at your feet, Madara-kun."

Silence passed between them for a few moments before the older man spoke again, "So, tell me, what do you want?"

Madara turned his face up to the sky and lied, "I don't know."

Sighing, Tetsuya painstakingly got to his feet. "Look, Madara-kun, if you don't know what you want, I can't help you much." Waiting until Madara turned his attention back to him, he continued, "I don't think I've ever steered you wrong, and I'm telling you, you need to get married and have an heir to solidify your position as clan head. Now that we are in peacetime, your battle prowess is not enough. You've trusted me all your life – trust me now, Madara-kun."

Suddenly rapping him on the head with his cane, Tetsuya grinned again. "I'll do my job and try to find someone intelligent enough for you, Madara-kun, and I will have her start working for you by the end of the week. You do your job and marry her!"

Before Madara could even respond, the older man had disappeared with a laugh. He shook his head, partly in amazement that the old man could still move like that and partly in resignation. Tetsuya had been right. He would have to find a wife eventually, sooner rather than later. He didn't doubt Tetsuya's choices, but his question had made him think… what did he want? He did not care much about housework and such things; he wanted someone beautiful, smart, honest, kind, and strong.

As he contemplated the qualities he desired in a wife, in the person who he wanted to be the mother of his children, he made his way to the Hokage tower. Strolling leisurely through the dusty roads, he was unaware that his expression was very close to a scowl, and several villagers stopped mid-greeting.

But Madara was too consumed with his own thoughts to note something so trivial, and when he arrived at the Hokage tower, he simply grunted a greeting and made his way inside.

The stairs to the uppermost floor were winding, the journey giving him almost too much time to ponder. As he pushed open the heavy set of doors, he schooled his features into something more appropriate and kept a grumble under his breath. He knew very well that the man in front of him, the man he considered his best friend by circumstance if not by choice, had what he wanted.

Because it was so simple; the answer was both glaringly obvious and absolutely impossible – what he wanted, who he wanted… was Mito.

A/N: Hi there! Sorry for the small delay, my laptop is on the fritz. I've gotten the blue screen of death three times now, and I'm trying to figure out what the problem is but it's slow going.

Opening lyrics belong to the always gorgeous Ellie Goulding.