一个徘徊于文于画之间的初中生。
最近忙于学业,貌似转载比较多。
为了梦想,为了我的故事。
活着?活着。

用绳命诠释薛定谔的更新
入坑慎重
追更更加

但还是小迷妹。

没事作个死,神清又气爽

脑子有那么一点毛病的我(望天/)

来呀造作啊不怕啊!

@幽 吹爆她(づ′▽`)づ
不接受任何反驳

人好求勾搭,已有专属文手and画手。

但你还是可以勾搭我,随便来聊聊天呗~

有人吗?

病态之爱 2〔原文〕

The distance between them was rapidly decreasing mostly to Madara's long springy steps, his form shaking in some sort of hidden laughter, nothing too new for Hashirama, yet strangely unnerving – Madara never dropped his scythe before willingly, especially on his own volition.


That bravado was just ridiculous.


Though, come to think of it; everything about Madara was.


- You don't want to fight, hah? Do you realize it's not normal for a shinobi; the oh so legendary warrior you claim to be? – Madara seemed weirdly ecstatic with the assumption as he was all but running in order to advance on Hashirama.


Still, the Hokage couldn't sense any weapons and neither was his intuition alerting him of any concealed trick Madara could have prepared for this queer encounter.


.


- You're sick! – as much as Madara wanted to spit into that calm face of the Hokage, he had better ideas. Which however were soon replaced with the thoughts uncalled for, stunning in their bitterness.


"I am sick" - he thought simultaneously with accusing Hashirama, realizing all too well how he was yelling out everything that bothered him for ages.


Everything he was struggling against, initially, and everything that enslaved his mind afterwards, in his quest for justice and peace; it only brought him malice that slowly but inevitably invaded his conscious with sick paranoia.


Oh, he knew he was sick. Yet it wasn't in his powers to fight this disease. He could only abide and keep on serving its demands.


May be his personality was split but he didn't feel that proverbial pain between the good and the bad parts of him – there was a strangely soothing yet encouraging unity of virtuous dreams and sanguinary desires instead, sometimes interrupted with the absolutely irrelevant acknowledgement of this distortion that was once Madara's mind.


That's why he could only continue with spitting out the sick part.


- You're so sick, Hashirama, you can't be cured! You don't want to fight! Do you even realize how morbid this is?


"Do you even realize how morbid my own condition is? Have you ever thought of what you do to me?"


The thoughts were beginning to mingle with reality. But apparently this could not be helped. Not in Madara's state. Not anymore.


.


Hashirama didn't want to waste his time reassuring Madara of his sickness. Let alone he was beginning to doubt his sanity as well as the nature of his latest actions.


They haven't been this close since Kami remembers when, and even then they were constantly fighting.


But at the moment the verbal assault seemed to have taken over Madara's strategy, yet it was doing just great to affect Hashirama as well.


"What if he's right? In his own, twisted way, of course, but what if..? If it's me who's really sick, and he just points out the truth? What if I should have killed him long ago, so that today should have never happened?


What if our friendship only existed in my mind? What if it all was just another genjutsu?


But why did he cease the battle? He never agreed to my conditions before… So why now?" - it was all too confusing for Hashirama to process in the matter of seconds.


And no, he did not realize what his mere presence did to Madara. What immense killing intent he awoke by his very being and how this feeling was sublimed and corrupted to the demands of this once bright and now dangerously brilliant murderer's mind.


.


Madara wasn't in the mood to spare his rival some time to muse over their condition.


He was fairly sure they both were sick, but Hashirama; of course, was the most helpless and incurable of the two; and if the fool did not want to fight (and even dared to think this was because of his non-existent nobility issues of honour and duty to his damned village) – Madara would be the one to confer on him this privilege of not fighting.


For Hashirama had to know who was the real leader, who could grant permissions and install prohibitions. The Hokage was probably lost in his own ideas of power, enjoying every bit of it and pretending to serve the people instead of his selfish desires.


So Madara would prove him to be the ugliest of liars, who couldn't even confess the horrible truth to himself.


Oh, Madara would make him realize that truth, at whatever cost; would make Hashirama come to an understanding of real power, to which Madara was the living embodiment.


Or so he believed; sick or not, he had to prove his rightness.


- And by the way, if you don't want to fight so ardently, what if I destroy your village and let you watch your forests wither? I'm sure you'll love the sight!


.


Enough was said to be enough; and now Hashirama could feel it.


There was nothing but the village left among the values he would willingly kill for, and Madara was clearly asking for it.


Yet; he was not fighting. Was. Not. Fighting. Madara.


- I'll never let you lay your finger upon my village. Madara. – Emphasizing on the name that was once so dear to him, Hashirama shuddered at the malicious sound of his own voice.


- Oh, don't tell me someone is angry here? – the madman was snickering viciously, licking his lips in some wicked anticipation that made the air thick and electrifying with nearly palpable insanity – just take only one breath to be cursed for the end of times.


Yet Hashirama dared to inhale. There was nothing to be afraid of; they were well past the point of fear – and their own demons were way more dangerous than anything the other could provide.


True, he was angry. Enraged, actually. But he could still process that arguing with Madara was just as productive as talking to his trees. Yet there wasn't any visible way for him to calm down this hatred Hashirama didn't even know he was harbouring for so long inside him.


.


Madara enjoyed the sight of conflicting emotions marring Hashirama's typically serene face, twisting it into various masks of disgust and detestation – not with the Uchiha but rather with his own self.


Madara loved what he saw. The Senju was on his way to enlightenment, and Madara was sure to guide him right.


He felt smug but execrable, yet so incredibly full of himself. He wouldn't even need his scythe to bring Hashirama to his knees. It was just going to be a matter of few words.


.


But Hashirama was still resisting the poison of Madara's carefully thought out compliments.


It was making the both of them impatient – while the Hokage just wished for this argument to come to an end, Madara was itching to witness the submission of the mighty Senju.


And truth to be told, patience had never been his virtue.


- I hate you! – This however wasn't planned. Really, it was not. At first, Madara didn't even realize he pointed this at Hashirama, while originally this was all meant for himself.


All the hatred, the irritability, the insomnia – they replaced everything that was Madara; so he was gladly speaking them out to Hashirama, tricking the latter to believe Madara really intended to hurt him.


In fact, Madara was succeeding in this endeavour – and the great amount of self-doubt effortlessly added itself to the anger Hashirama was all but seeping into the air. True-true, Madara had his reasons; but so did Hashirama, when it came to judging his own actions.


No witty reply could eliminate this simple fact – that Madara was absolutely, divinely right for hating him.


.


- I hate you so much. Bastard. Sick immoral bastard! – this was close to exposing his own soul, Madara reminded himself.


Hashirama only fumed and chafed, his temper on the verge of… What?



.


Sick? Yes. Immoral? Yes. But bastard? Hell, no. He was Madara Uchiha, the Madara.


This was the perfect insult to his ego, and it took Hashirama zero effort to land this final blow on him – the Madara did all the work himself.


And damn, he felt offended.


- Your kin be damned! – there went the slap in that arrogant face – so simple yet so effective.


It brought Hashirama out of the mental argument with himself so quickly it hurt, hurt so badly maybe because of the sheer simplicity of the offence.


Madara could have broken all of his ribs and it wouldn't have felt half as humiliating as this.


- You don't dare! – the move Hashirama prepared for an answer was rapidly intercepted with Madara's expert hands, that seemed to burn his wrists even through the thick material of those gloves.


- And what would you do to ensure it? – sarcastic, irritated – and right to the very core. What would Hashirama do?


Madara's erratic breath was perhaps too close to his liking, and his words – too much to let it go without an answer. His hands captured in those of Madara's, his legs strangely weak as if in the afterthought of all the self-despite…

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