Hashirama:

During the coming weeks, Madara worked intently on his painting. I had never seen him so concentrated before. His brows were furrowed and he forgot to drink, causing him to chug down huge amounts of water at the end of the day. Wow...

He came every day I was there, but he always stayed after I left as well. Sometimes he stayed alone, sometimes Eric stayed with him. I couldn't help but hate that boy a little. They seemed so close, almost a couple... I wondered if they were now. And I hated that it made me feel so possessive regarding Madara. I was the one who had broken it off with him. I knew it was the right thing.

Or was it...

I felt much better regarding my cancer. I'd regained the weight I'd lost, and the doctors said the cancer that was still in my body wasn't growing. I wasn't going to be cured, but for now, I had been given the gift of life for a little bit longer.

Madara kept painting in his corner. I let him be, because it was clear he didn't want anyone interrupting him. He seemed to be painting something really advanced, seeing how long time it took and that he was adding details with paintbrushes that were almost only a hair broad.

One day, after I left the studio when Madara was there, I went to my office to paint a little myself. I lost track of time, so I didn't finish until right before midnight. I realised I'd forgotten my car keys in the studio, and went up to get them.

To my great surprise, Madara was still there.

Alone.

"Who is it?" he snapped when he heard someone enter. I could hear the worry in his voice, probably an effect of the rape.

"It's me", I said softly. "I forgot my car keys."

"Oh", he said, his snappiness receding as it did when he talked to me.

He didn't say anything more, but had stopped painting. I stood in the doorway.

"How are you coming along?" I asked, the first small-talk I'd dared with him since we broke it off.

"I think I'm done", he said, sounding a little surprised, almost a little melancholic.

"What made you able to paint again?" I asked.

Madara became quiet for a moment, thinking, brows furrowed.

"I realised what I wanted to see", he then said. "I realised what I wanted to see if I could open my eyes again."

He didn't invite my to see it, but I took a tentative step towards him, then another. If he doesn't want me to see, he'll stop me.

But he didn't stop me.

And before I knew it, I came to stand behind him, facing his canvas.

And my jaw dropped.

Before me was the most exquisite portrait I had ever seen. It was photorealism, so well-made it was as if he'd glued a photograph to the front of his canvas. But there was a softness to the painting added by the background of autumn leaves, framing the person portrayed that was shown from the waist up, wearing an autumn coat.

And that person was me.

How anyone could make such a realistic portrait was beyond me. But Madara... not only was his usual painting style abstract, but he was blind, Goddamn it. Yet, he had depicted me perfectly. My cheekbones, my hair, even the line of my stubble; everything was perfectly right.

I think that was when I realised, when it well and truly dawned on me, exactly how good Madara really was. I'd taught students who would become world-class painters, but Madara was possibly one of the best painters alive in the world today.

I was speechless.

"Do you like it?" he asked, sounding nervous.

I stood quiet for a while, just looking at the painting. It was as if I was looking right into his soul. Then I turned to him carefully.

I took one stride towards him, pressed him up against the wall with my groin and kissed him.

Madara's hands flew to either side of his head, pinning himself up to the wall. He dropped his paintbrush and it rolled away over the floor. I grabbed the wall for support, and in doing so caused a tube of paint to drop to the floor, splashing its contents all over.

"Mmm..." Madara moaned, his lips massaging mine. I could feel his erection through his trousers.

And he could feel mine.

I dragged him down on the floor, taking down a few canvas stands with me. My hair was smeared in the oil paint, but I didn't care. I pulled him on top of me and kissed him, pulling his hair, using my tongue to fight his. He wrapped his legs around my waist from his position on top of me, and that sensation was deliciously familiar. We desperately tore each other's clothes off, and before we understood what was happening we were a tumbling mess on the floor, dragging down paint and brushes and canvas stands, our hair and skin smearing out the paint on the floorboards.

And we fucked each other mindlessly, Madara on his stomach, me behind him, thrusting, causing him to scream on the floorboards. But I didn't want to come quickly; I wanted to drag it out, to feel his insides around me for longer. So I stopped just when I was about to come, over and over, causing Madara to beg for more.

I didn't give it to him.

Instead, each time me and him were just on the edge, I used all my willpower to slow down, to kiss him deeply and passionately while he mewled of pleasure and despair, before I once again increased my pace, moving harshly inside him, almost throwing us both over the edge before pulling us up again, just in time.

I have no memory of how, but I found I had him pressed up against the wall, jumping on my dick and this time, there was no stopping as he was in charge and I came down, spilling myself inside him, my seeds blending with the paint on Madara's soft thighs and I captured his lips, kissing him madly until he spilled himself over me, too.

We stayed there, him with his legs wrapped around me, me with my hands on his thighs to hold him up, still inside him, dripping with sweat and semen and love for each other.

The clock on the wall showed 1:15 AM, meaning we had had sex for over an hour.

I leaned my forehead to his.

"Madara..." I murmured.

"Oh, please", he wailed. "I can't! I can't take it! I can't take hearing you're rejecting me. Please, just let me-" he swallowed. My heart broke. "Please just let me enjoy this and pretend."

I looked at him.

Then I took him down with me to the floor, where I lay and held him close to me.

I'm not pretending, Madara...